It was the night of the Old Folks’ party, a muggy evening in late August, the perfect opportunity to drape ourselves with way too much clothing, holding on to the misguided sartorial belief that no amount of money was too much to spend on a night of novelty. Around eleven that night, just as things were starting to loosen up from one too many highballs, I decided to throw caution to the wind and punch the oldest man in the garden square in the nose.

It was a good punch, too. I got the entirety of my weight behind it and harnessed my sudden impulsive rage to clench my fist with the steadfastness of a steel trap. Some who were standing nearby have since told me I flailed my back leg in an effeminate fashion, and this gave them the impression that it was “a sissy little slug,” as they later called it. Don’t believe them, I’m not likely to ever hit anyone harder than I hit the near-elderly gentleman in the three-piece brown suit at that moment.

As to why it would suddenly occur to me to be reduced to fisticuffs in what would otherwise be a pleasant affair, he knows why. I think I caught his name about twenty minutes before said episode; it sounded something like Claude. I could’ve sworn that was it. Truth be told, I was a few steps ahead in the inebriation sprint than anyone else in the vicinity. So I like to tear loose once in a while, and pocket watches put me in that sort of mood. Sue me.

Claude knew why I, without warning, flew at him with my singular fist of fury. He knew he was running the risk of just such a happenstance when he decided to pretend he wasn’t the closest to the grave of all of us by at least a good twenty years. You don’t simply waltz into a soiree of my friends and ply your elderly trade on my girl. Anyone with half a brain could tell you this. Claude had half a brain, or so I concluded through the thickening fog of manhattans. His hands are not clean in this matter. He deliberately provoked the response he had to have predicted from me.

So we reach the point when the unstoppable force known as my right fist meets with Claude’s distinguished, wrinkling proboscis. What I hadn’t been properly informed of that night, what no one could have guessed, is the Claude happened to possess the toughest nose in the known world. I’ve tried to rack my brain in the weeks since, to find some answer as to how one goes about exercising their nose. I can’t for the life of me ascertain how a nose can turn itself into hardened concrete without the aid of (seemingly unnecessary) surgery.

The upshot of this story is that you never know whom you’re punching in the face. You can go about your business, throwing jabs at whomever you like, but sooner or later you will land hard. Sooner or later you will ruin an Old Folks’ party.


Writing and such.

They say a writer writes, always. Sure, it was an actor who most famously said that (Billy Crystal in the monumentally funny Throw Momma From the Train), but that doesn’t make it any less true. A thousand words a day appears to be a very difficult task at first, but here’s hoping it gets easier over time.

Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m a writer now. I’m a writer who illustrates. Or an illustrator who writes, I can’t remember. It turns out that when I recently said I had one singular dream to be an illustrator, I lied. I have two dreams; writing is the other. Fortunately, I started reading the “Writing Great Fiction” series of books, getting Plot and Structure from my local library yesterday. That book suggested the thousand-words-a-day thing. We’ll see how it goes. But Nick, you’re thinking, you suck at writing! So?! Maybe it’s not so hard, you don’t know.

I haven’t gotten to the part of the book where I can actually put any tools to use or practice an exercise in constructing a dynamite plot. Pretty much the whole book has been about the necessity of plot, regardless of genre or intention of the writer’s novel. That’s handy and encouraging, because I’ve yet to find a genre or intention in any of my writing.

This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamed of writing the Great American Novel. If you scour the archives enough (or if you’re one of two people I can think of who frequented this site back then), you can find previous attempts at writing. Not unsuccessful attempts, too, if I may be so bold to say. I can write a few paragraphs with relative ease. That’s never been the problem.

The problem is that I can’t write an entire book. I got about 15,000 words in to my grandest attempt and discovered that my plot was stinking like so much mold gathered on the studs of the walls in my basement. I wanted to join up with National Novel Writing Month this year, but was cut short by so much mold gathered on the studs of the walls in my basement. It’s been that kind of autumn. It’s probably for the best that I spared the world from that kind of literary monkey dance.

One thing I was able to recently do that’s not really related to writing—-at all—-is free up some time last Friday for illustrating practice. Now, don’t be harsh, but this is one of the three things I made.

You may be a kind person who has something nice to say about this, but please don’t. I think it’s terrible, and I won’t be talked out of it. This is not a ploy to gain sympathy of any kind, it’s just I think it’s terrible. And the reason I think it’s so terrible is because it came close to my objective before going horribly awry.

Where did it go so wrong? you ask. Well, the ink, in short. My proposed sequence for media on this one went: pencil, watercolor wash, watercolor crayons, watercolor accents, ink, acrylics, ink, and crayon. It was the second ink application where I went from areas of ink to lines of ink, and that was where I failed. I tried a couple other processes later in the day (while waiting for the mold remediators to not show up) and I’ll post those results another time. They were also unsuccessful, for other reasons.

I’m doomed to partial failure in all my creative endeavors until I decide to stick it out and really learn the craft. For illustration, that seems impossible without going back to school. For writing, luckily and hopefully, there will be the possibility of improving with practice and library books. Here’s hoping.

Six hundred thirty-one? Whatever. I’m through.


Start today.

At 2:52 AM last night I was staring at myself in the mirror.

I was up at that hour because I couldn't resume sleep without going to the bathroom. After washing my hands I looked up at my reflection. I had heavy bags under my eyes, and my hair was all matted, and I looked compeltely... old.

It occurred to me that I was up at that hour because I was old, and I looked old, and I felt old. I have a mortgage and home repair worries and a retirement plan. If my life were a movie, I'd be in the middle of a montage spanning my time between 24-year-old newlywed Nick and 40-year-old jaded Nick. Time is running short. Tomorrow I'll be stuck.

So I need to reach for my dreams now. My singular dream, actually: to be a freelance illustrator. I'll expound on why in a future post, but for now suffice it to say that it's my dream job. And as I looked into the tired eyes gazing back at me, I resolved that it's time to get started.

I'm giving myself eighteen months. On June 1, 2010 I need to decide if this is worth pursuing. I'll use the interim to develop my chances. I'll need to:

1. Create a style,
2. Refine a process,
3. Construct a portfolio, and
4. Find a way to get paid.

If I'm well on my way to this eighteen months from now, I would consider myself ready. Join me for the journey.

Foux da fa fa!


A little time off.

Hello friends, well-wishers, and voyeurs. I wanted to update you on what the deal is with this blog.

I've been forced into making some major repairs to my basement, which has raided my calendar and checkbook to an extensive degree. This also involved taking down my studio area for the time being. We've passed the rock bottom point of the crisis, and we're on our way back up now, thank God. There is still a lot of work to do, however. It's all up in the air right now, but I'm hoping that we'll be back on track by Thanksgiving. So...

You won't be hearing from me until then on this blog. If you really get a jones (which I highly doubt), you can look at my flickr photostream. That will keep you sated in the off chance that you actually track my stuff.

When this blog relaunches after Thanksgiving (let's call it December 1st unless something changes), it will be all about illustration. And by that I mean that it will be all about developing as an illustrator in an attempt to one day be a full-time illustrator. Maybe there will be links to other illo blogs, maybe other fun and fancy blog trickery, who knows. But I feel like I have been treading water lately and it's time to max out and GO FOR IT!!! YEEEAAAAHHHH!!!!!

So yeah. Come back on December 1st.

Foux da fa fa,


Ruch Holley Branch

The Pikes Peak Library District ranks 9th among those serving a population over 500,000. I'd say that ranking is well deserved. Their facilities and resources are well above average. Not above average is the Jeep that pulled into this picture halfway through. I learned a tough lesson about urban sketching. (Move faster.)

I use the library mostly for movies, I'm afraid. That's not for lack of reading. Anyone who's seen my stack of books at home knows I read plenty. I just happen to own a lot of books that I have yet to read, and so I don't much need the library for that purpose. Also, reading thick books in three weeks can turn it into a chore rather than a pleasure.



I'm fighting a battle with fussiness. Apparently the black ink on a twig won't be part of the forces next time.

Two things I do better when I abandon:

1. Realistic depth, and
2. Attempts at funky line quality.

Sorry for the massive layoff, I had a lag in inspiration, followed by a homeowner crisis, followed by a "vacation". But now I'm back, and although not quite inspired, I can at least trudge along until my homeowner crisis is resolved and things return to normal.

A couple new links on the right: Urban Sketchers is a new blog from Gabi Campanario (aka Seattle Sketcher) that's basically a collection of, you guessed it, urban sketches from contributors around the world. Good viewing. One of the contributors is Olha Pryymak, who aside from being a good sketcher in my favorite city in the world, seems to be an informal student of the old masters. Also perhaps the only contributor to regularly use oils, which I find intimidating and admirable.


Grandma Bonnie

An enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a lifeless, tiny Minnesota town.


Uncle Don

He was the mayor of Grenada, MN for a long time. He was widowed by Aunt Shirley last December. It's easy to like the guy, but only in small doses. After a while your eyes glaze over.

With my basement torn up and no space to paint, I figured it's time to get back to drawing. I'm a little rusty.


Jealousy and fatalism

I've been reading War and Peace for what seems like an eternity. One of the things I've noticed (because it'd be impossible not to) is Tolstoy's insistence that "great men" of history haven't really controlled the course of history. He says it's the collective spirit of many that controls things. And while I think he may go a little overboard with his historic fatalism, it's interesting to view this year's presidential election in such a light. The more I think about it, the less power I think the president has. We can all blame Bush for the war in Iraq, sure. That's the exception. But this current financial crisis wasn't his doing. It was the collective will of Wall Street execs, legislators, and homeowners that did it.

Likewise, how much difference (apart from declaring another unilateral war on Iran) could the next president make? Aren't we, the collective masses, the real holders of power? Shouldn't we affect the zeitgeist to some degree? I think so. So while Obama is sliding away from his policy of change, while I don't trust McCain now that he's so obviously in the neocons' pocket, while Palin is leading by several lengths in the People Who Should Never Have Power Derby, I don't think the world will fall apart on November 5th. It's a nice feeling.


Ten years ago

This Saturday is my 10-year high school reunion, which I will not attend. But it did get me thinking about ten years ago. In September 1998:

1. I was just starting college.
2. I had an 8-o'clock anthropology class.
3. I thought I would be a statistician.
4. I was seeing Amanda every weekend.
5. I watched Sifl & Olly religiously.
6. I was on the bowling team.
7. I discovered mp3's.
8. I was electrified as a Vikings fan by some kid named Randy Moss.
9. I thought drinking was the most fun thing ever.
10. Almost nothing was the same.


Amen, Gregg. - III

From this week's Tuesday Morning Quarterback:

"It took the United States 209 years, from the founding of the republic till 1998, to compile the first $5 trillion in national debt. In the decade since, $6 trillion in debt has been added. This means the United States has borrowed more money in the past decade than in all our previous history combined. Almost all the borrowing has been under the direction of George W. Bush -- at this point Bush makes Kenneth Lay seem like a paragon of fiscal caution. Democrats deserve ample blame, too. Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi, Democratic leaders of the Senate and House, have never met a bailout they didn't like: Harry and Nancy just can't wait to spend your children's money. Six trillion dollars borrowed in a single decade and $1.5 trillion borrowed in 2008 alone. Charles Ponzi would be embarrassed.

"If you borrowed, borrowed, borrowed, you could afford to live high for a while -- then there would be a reckoning. Hmmm … that sounds a little like what many Americans did with gimmick mortgages in 2005 and 2006. They were only imitating their political leadership! Why is it both parties in Washington think the United States can borrow, borrow, borrow without a reckoning ever coming? Bush, Reid and Pelosi seem poised to transfer hundreds of billions of dollars of borrowed public money to political insiders on Wall Street and in banking, whose bonuses will now be tax-subsidized. The capitalist maxim is, 'She who reaps the gains also bears the losses.' Now Washington wants those who reaped the gains to shift the losses to those who lived humbly. The young will pay and pay for these cynical ploys to insure the luxury of the powerful old. Why aren't the young outraged?"

I, for one, am. Read the item entitled "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" (1/3 of the way down) and you will be, too. Any suggestions on what we personally could do to vent anger and affect change, let me know.



The CEO of United Healthcare makes more in an hour than most Americans make in a year. Think about that. Do you think this comes into consideration when they ponder whether or not to raise premiums?

The CEOs of major investment banks get millions on top of their ludicrous salaries when their company gets bought out by taxpayers. Somewhere to the tune of several hundred years' worth of my salary. What's the difference? I haven't endangered the economy.

Crooks and swindlers. I'd say it's time to get our pitchforks and torches, but we'd never get inside their gated communities.


I am lost.

Adrift, suspended in a primordial soup of stylistic globules. Forced by my own ambition to strain away what disappoints and unwaveringly accept what remains. Running dangerously low on coffee.

Now playing: Mogwai - Kids Will Be Skeletons



I anticipate winter unlike anyone I know. At the first sign of fall I rejoice. Even this week, in the midst of summer-like weather, I sun myself in the glorious light from the newborn football season. All is magnificence for the next few months.

I also feel like I should start doing things from imagination if I'm ever going to get anywhere as an illustrator. This is a lot less terrible than I thought it would be, frankly. I find that I'm afraid of painting from imagination not because I think I lack the skill, but because I'm worried my imagination might be stupid and boring. Pondering greatly helps the process and decreases the stress.

I need to make some stylistic changes, methinks. Pen instead of ink and twig, more painterliness on foreground figures, and stop making the clothing look so dang poofy. These are tangible steps I can take.



What I may or may not have resembled on the day I turned twenty. The photograph has the right date on it, only some of the details don't line up with my memory. To be fair, though, my memory wasn't in top gear in those days. I remember it was also Easter Sunday, and I skipped out of family stuff early to catch "The Matrix" for a second time before I drove back to St. Cloud in the Geo. I had just been given the Geo and I listened to Blur. It was sort of the start of clawing my way out of the hole into which I had put myself. Sort of.

Now playing: The Get Up Kids - Out Of Reach


Sea of Leaves

The thing about living in Colorado is that the leaves don't quite gain the same spectrum of colors in the fall here. I miss seeing oranges, reds, and browns. Here, it's all yellow. Darn aspens. Last year I raked the leaves in my lawn for the first time since I was a little kid. I wanted to jump into the pile, but my neighbor was watching from across the street. I should've done it anyway. Maybe I will this year.


An open letter

To the members of mainstream American media, including but not limited to:

NBC, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, CNN, Fox News, their local affiliate stations,

and to the presidential candidates of both major parties and all members of their respective staffs, every concerned citizen who finds it necessary to pass on hateful email forwards to everyone they can, Focus on the Family, political bloggers, and anyone else I may have missed:

We need to talk about the issues, and nothing but. We need to realize we all love this country and want what's best for it. We need responsibility, courtesy, and respect for each other. Stop feeding me with rhetoric and spin. Stop the tantrums, stop the hackery, stop the name-calling. If we don't work the actual issues out in an adult way, nothing is going to get better. You're all acting like a bunch of children.

That is all.


Amen, Gregg. - II

From this week's Tuesday Morning Quarterback:

For cars, SUVs and light trucks, there are two forces at play in oil-addiction trends, but only one is generally recognized. Everybody knows the fad of big vehicles increases petroleum needs -- according to the EPA, the average weight of passenger vehicles has risen 30 percent since 1988, while average MPG is down. The other factor, little acknowledged, is horsepower, which has risen even more sharply than weight. Twenty years ago, the average new passenger vehicle sold in the United States had 120 horsepower. For this model year the figure is 230, almost double. There will be no fundamental change in oil import levels until horsepower numbers change.

Like weight, horsepower depresses fuel economy. Simply knocking a third off the horsepower of new U.S. passenger vehicles would, in about a decade -- as efficient new vehicles replace wasteful old ones -- eliminate approximately the amount of oil the United States imports from the Middle East. Yes, it's that simple. Race cars need lots of horsepower; suburban family cars do not. Excessive horsepower causes the United States to be dependent on Middle East dictatorships, engages military commitments to those dictatorships, drives up the price of oil and pushes down the value of the dollar. Horsepower is also the enabler of road rage -- rapid acceleration allows cutting off, drag racing and sudden lane changes. Road rage entered national consciousness as a problem in the mid-1990s, exactly when the horsepower ratings of new vehicles began to spike.


Parisian Coffee

I was about to ask for the check when suddenly my coffee exploded!!! Whoa!

Otherwise it was a pleasant meal.

Everything is pleasant in the fall. I even love the warm days, when they have that undertone of the coming coolness. I love doing laundry on Sundays in front of a non-stop barrage of football. Soon it will all be falling leaves and pumpkin pie and fires in the fireplace. Summer can suck it.



Another Rion photo turned into something else.



Rion Nakaya is a fantastic photographer. You really need to check her stuff out. I've never wanted to live in Paris more, and that's really saying something. Also, Sigur Rós is unbelievable painting music.


Amen, Gregg. - I

From this week's Tuesday Morning Quarterback:

It is Congress, after all, that from 1988 to 2007 repeatedly refused to raise fuel economy standards for cars, trucks and SUVs, thus guaranteeing U.S. oil imports would rise, and helping push up global oil demand, increase the price of oil and channel more dollars, euros and yen to the Persian Gulf dictatorships that support anti-Western and anti-Israel terrorism. Under Republican and Democratic leadership alike, for 20 years Congress was warned and warned and warned again regarding trends in U.S. petroleum use, and for 20 years did nothing. With an election coming, how about we throw these unctuous rascals out, and to play on a suggestion by the late William F. Buckley, replace them with 535 names chosen at random from the nation's telephone books?


Middle Relief!

Kung fu yells lose a lot in translation.



There's nothing about 1910s baseball that has anything to do with ABBA. Nonetheless, "Take a Chance on Me" will forever be linked in my mind with this picture. It's been in my head for days. I can't get it out. I keep walking around with a really cheesy grin on my face, talking with a vaguely European accent. It's terrible. These pictures, however, not so terrible. Part of my "do it again until you get it right" scheme.


Batter 1

I'm going to keep at this one picture until I get it to the style I'm happy with. Maybe I won't do the next one so late at night.

Sepia and crimson inks with watercolor.


Thrower and Portrait

More old baseball photos turned illo.

Of somebody very sad. Maybe I'm working out a subconscious fear of blindness. Who knows.


Return of Inkies

This time with a twig.

I found a workaround to get (lesser quality) scans of my stuff, so I'm going to ration out maybe one a day until the big scanner at work gets back up and running. I've been plenty busy, too.



Here's a wallpaper I invented for use on my futuristic new Apple Cinema Display monitor. Shiny.

Ups and downs

The bad news is that our scanner at work has no lightbulb. Yikes. So until I come up with a feasible workaround, there will be no viewing my most recent painting of a Russian guy in a very expressionistic state. It's good, too. Furthermore, no yet-to-be-invented paintings will be shown either. I'll try to remedy this as soon as possible so as to spare you from my words.

The good news is that I LOVE AUGUST! Contrary to previous statements, August can be pretty okay if the weather does most of the work. It can start to feel like the start of the start of fall, and that's a very good thing. Observe, the forecast from the National Weather Service (the most reliable forecast in these parts by far):

In a week or two when I get to start the Benadryl fog, this will all be gravy. Let's hear it for redemption!


Pitcher 2

That's it, I'm enhancing my illos in Photoshop from now on.


Dry Season

In the course of creating, there was a sudden downpour outside followed by a steady rain. This hasn't happened in many moons, and thus I declared it the end of our record dry season. The timing of this work coincided with the beginning of the school year here. Being married to a teacher, I declare this time as the beginning of another dry season of a different kind. Thus I stood at a crossroads, playing my artistic guitar, celebrating beginnings and endings. And celebrating the rain, in accordance with local statutes.

Watercolor, ink, and acrylics on paper.



1. I confess to you that I've done most of my work on Moleskines because I like the ego stroking that comes with extra views, comments, and favorites on flickr.

2. Baseball as a subject pulls me into itself. I can't and won't stop with baseball illos.

3. It's about time for Ashton Kutcher to stop popping up on my screen all the time.

4. I'm so done with record heat and driest months on record. Bring on the fall.



Let's hear it for platitudes! As the good book says, who needs originality when you've got a puppy? This is the third of three.

Happy end of July! Let's all just survive the next 31 days.

Now playing: Clem Snide - Exercise


That's enough.

You know how it goes. You take a trip somewhere cool, figure fall is just around the bend, and get back home only to find out that you still have the whole month of August to go. And then you cry, or despair in whatever manner seems fitting to you. We've all been there, right?

I'm beginning to think my drawing skills are becoming stodgy. I feel like I hit on a lyrical style in a couple ink and watercolor paintings a few months back, but haven't had much success lately. I am improving with the watercolors, but it seems the compositions lack the vitality I'm striving for. I think I might try ink one more time, and try to remember to focus on shapes rather than lines. I don't know. Maybe I need to bring back cross-hatching. I feel so stagnant. Stupid summer.



My five days off last week were the most legit vacation I've had in at least four years. It felt great to get into the October-like weather of the mountains, and lay around at home for a couple days to boot. I read a lot, painted a lot, basically enjoyed the heck out of life. I don't know if a vacation has ever recharged my batteries quite like this one.

Now playing: NPR - SXSW: Shout Out Louds


Two for the show

My wife needs three 8x8 frames filled for her classroom. Inspirational canines will be the theme. The other two will read, "Listen up, you little turds," and "You're not as special as your mom says you are." It's going to be so great.

It's a little fun, no? (You know, aside from looking a little too much like Danny Gregory's work.)

Unrelatedly, I really really hate summer. When you break into a sweat while eating, that's too hot. When your neighbors all have loud motorcycles and like to drive away at 1 am, that's not cool. When the crazies and the yellers and the fireworks come out into the street at all hours, I start to twitch. I'm hating summer more and more each day. And we're about to plunge headlong into August. Guh.



It was only eleven days, but it felt like forever. There were a couple points where I just plain forgot what my process normally was. I think the work benefited from this, however. It feels really good to get back to what I love to do.


Bigger v. smaller

I've been hearing a lot lately, from different sources, about having a vision for your life. When I get the same message from several directions, it usually means that I need to pay attention. So I have been trying to come up with a big vision.

My wife thinks I should think smaller. I can have a vision for our family, for my street, for my department at work. Whatever. And I'm not discounting the validity of what she's saying, but I feel like I need to start or be part of something BIG. Heck, somebody has to think big. Maybe it's time to spark a Christian art revolution. Maybe it's time to write a book. Who knows?

The point is, when I listen to visionaries talk (or more often read what they said), I get the itch again. In the words of Dane Cook, "I want that. Why not me?"


Vic Ruggiero

I got a few minutes on Thursday to rock this out.

4th of July weekend with a D300

My long weekend in a nutshell:


D300 Glory

Us designers are going on a photo crawl this afternoon, and since my personal camera has about a 30 second battery life, I get to use the company's D300. (Yussssssss...) But first I have to get the hang of such a fancy camera. So here are some practice shots:

More to come, either later today or on Monday.

Butt Fart

Take a good look at him.

This guy is a d-bag. I'm talkin' straight up fiduciary. As a person I wish him nothing but the best, but as a football fan I hope he burns in the unquenchable fires of hell. When he retired, I didn't buy it for a second. Now come the reports that with training camp approaching, he wants back in.

If you were the Packers, that'd be the dumbest move in history. You'd be slapping your presumptive quarterback in the face, bringing back a guy who you can't quite be sure is giving it his all and chucks up far too many bad interceptions, like the one that kept you out of the Super Bowl last year. (Note: I will never stop being happy about that.)

So if he doesn't come back with the Pack, then who? If you'll turn your attention to this article, you'll see that Minnesota comes up on the list.


Sorry, I just vomited a little in my mouth.

First, Tarvaris Jackson is going to be a good quarterback this year. Second, I would be so sick if I one day saw Favre in purple and gold. It would be just wrong on such a deep level. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that if Favre were to lead the Vikings to a Super Bowl (that's a big if for a franchise that hasn't seen the big game in my lifetime), it would tear the hearts out of every football fan in the state of Wisconsin. That makes me smile, and that's putting it mildly.

So for now the saga continues. Stay tuned and try to keep your breakfast down.



I've decided I want to try to hand write a page in my notebook every day (or as many days as I can) leading up to National Novel Writing Month in November. I need to practice fictional narrative, and small snippets seem to suit me well. Today's:

The angle with which the aluminum bat flew at my leg left a nasty bruise just above the back of my right knee. At the moment of impact the only thing I could think of was whether or not I was tough enough to stand in the batter's box long enough to walk in the winning run. I didn't dare inspect the injury for fear of discovering a protruding bone or some other ghastly, disfiguring deformity. It was all I could do to hobble up to the plate and hold the bat up, desperate to keep from shaking. Four pitches, maybe five at most. This pitcher couldn't strike me out to save his life. Visions of bravely stumbling my way down the first base line while my fat teammate trudged home filled my head as the ball came whizzing toward me.


View from my desk

It's been a slow day. But on the bright side, I got to use my $2 letter stamps, which I bought on Friday night. Important to note is the box of Twins tissues, with many fewer of them used than I thought I would use.