In the weeks since I last posted:

Leslie taught me to sew, and I sewed not one, not two, but SEVEN pillowcases. It was Neat. (Yes, I do own seven pillows. And Yes, I use them all. At once.)

I have fully established my status as capable odd-job handler. There was a week or two there where I went to the hardware store EVERY SINGLE DAY. I bought a wireless drill and proceeded to use the SHIT out of it. Hooks were installed, curtain rods were put up, furniture was assembled. I wired a vintage phone, armed with nothing but a pair of scissors, a tiny screwdriver, and my catlike instincts. I stenciled an entire paragraph from Confederacy of Dunces onto the wall of my bedroom using a laser level, a LOT of blue tape, and two cans of white spray paint. I ran speakerwire all along the molding of the purple room (yes, we have a purple room), and then I taped that shit down with colored tape to make it essentially invisible. I cannot even begin to estimate the number of nails I have hammered or frames I have hung. I painted countless walls (most of them with my roommates) and one goddamn ceiling (alone). Speaking of which, because we have such ridiculously high ceilings, many of these home improvement activities entailed my spending hours, and I really mean HOURS, atop The Big Ladder. (Can I just point out here how pleasing I find it that I have somehow gotten to a point in my life where I own multiple ladders and must therefore refer to one as “The Big One”? Because I really do.) I now have complete faith in my balancing/perching abilities and feel capable of almost anything home-related. Bring it ON.

We had an honest-to-goodness housewarming party, with real live guests, lots of pizza, good music, much hobnobbing, several inappropriate come-ons, a modicum of zaniness, and even… wait for it… A Keg Stand. Courtesy of BT. It went very well, all in all, the only real downside being my realization that I am basically an old woman. Starting around one, one thirty, I kept thinking, Man, this sure is nice, but I kinda wish everyone would go home so I could clean up a little and go to bed. WHO AM I? WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE THESE?

Marina came for a visit. Her flight from London to San Francisco was dramatically delayed — they began to lose fuel and had to turn around for an emergency landing in Ireland — crash positions were assumed, etc. etc., and she ended up sharing a hotel room for the night with a SF-based American heavy metal band. Because she is made of sugar and spice and ludicrous mishaps. She made it, safely, to SF, and then a week later here, to Portland, where we met her with an armful of yellow roses and proceeded to do many, many things. Snow was driven through, concerts were attended, carpenters were picked up, wineries were visited, and the Pacific Ocean was not only seen but walked along, despite the fact that it was FUCKING freezing. We were almost killed (read: shat on) by a flock of fifty seagulls (each the size of a smallish terrier) in an incident now known as “SEAGULL ATTACK 2008: It’s The Bread, The Bread, In The Name Of God, Put The Fucking Bread Back In The Car.” It was good to see her.

I kept forgetting to wear socks. I don’t know what this is about, but it needs to stop. It makes my feet feel less-than-fresh.

The Stumptown Comics Fest came and went. The book we frantically put together at the last minute sold almost not at all, but we didn’t even have a proper table this time around, so this was to be expected. In happier news, while making the rounds as a part of the crowd, I fell in love. Granted, it is a theoretical love, directed at someone who knows me as faceless/nameless fan #289, but it is love nonetheless. Or, perhaps more accurately, attraction. Which is, you know, still a step in the right direction, I think, considering that the last human towards whom I felt even this glimmer is a man I have not seen since, oh, 2005. (Brilliant comedians I know only through the medium of DVD are not included in this list.) Besides, when all is said and done, my most meaningful, formative relationships to date have all been completely unilateral (read: imaginary). The actual relationships, the ones that the partner in question actually knew about and participated in — they just sort of happened, and inevitably ended up being more irritating than anything else. These menfolk, they tend to insist on being who they are rather than who you imagine them to be — which is, you know. Inconsiderate. Anyway, this one, this latest one, I’m not even sure what city he lives in, let alone what he’s actually like, so we’re off to a swimmingly good start. I’ve decided we’re going to get married and have strange but humorous children together. I’ll keep everyone posted on how this goes.

I got bit by a dog. For real.

I got a haircut, largely out of solidarity, while accompanying a friend going through a bad breakup. The very tiny woman who cut it was a bit of a chatterbox, so I got to flex my small-talk muscles for the first time in a while. The conclusion? They need some work. My awkward-pause tendons, on the other hand, are ready for olympic-level competition.

It is late now, so that is all. More soon.

4:30 am. In an hour I’m driving someone to the airport. About fourteen hours ago, I picked up someone else at the airport. Several days ago, I myself flew into this same airport and made my way home. Tomorrow night, I will be picking up person #1. The day after that, I may or may not be dropping off two wholly different people. Then the week after that, another potential pickup.

Essentially, I have voluntarily, if inadvertently, become a glorified airport chauffeur. Me and Portland International? We’re like THISSSSSSSSS.

Which is, you know. Not exactly a bad thing. Someday I shall make the rounds and collect on all these airport-ride debts. When all this fancy writing/drawing/returning-to-school stuff implodes and I find myself wandering the streets, I’ll be able to knock on door after door, bedraggled, disheveled, shopping cart in tow, and announce Hey. Hey YOU. Remember that time I gave you that ride to the airport? Yeah? Me too. Now give me some soup and let me live in your garage.

For the first time since… I don’t know. The end of February, maybe? I feel like myself again. In a good way.

I’m giving myself the weekend to finish getting things in order, finally organize all my crap, put my books away, get my room into a state where I actually want to be in it — a couple days to do all the stuff I’ve put off in the face of more pressing issues — and starting Monday, my life can ease back into gear and hopefully regain some semblance of forward motion.

Which is good, because the sooner I can get this show on the road, the sooner I can collect my soup and shelter.

Right. I am definitely still alive. Over the last couple days the “wtf are you dead” emails have started trickling in, and no, no. Not dead, not yet. In fact, quite the opposite. Things are kiiiiiiiinda awesome.

After months and months and months of my tireless campaigning, Leslie is finally here in Portland. I plan to do whatever it takes to keep her here, up to and including hobbling her. So that’s been good. I’ve been squiring her about town, trying to show her all that Portland has to offer to a young, crafty, sassy, indie lass such as herself. And also making her watch a lot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the evenings.

The other big thing that’s been going on is all the prepress crap I’ve had to do for the second anthology we’re putting out at Puddleville, the graphic novel/comics group I help run. It turned into a biiiit of a shitstorm, but the more ridiculous grunt work is now complete; all I have left are the covers and a couple last minute finicky touch-ups and hopefully by next week it will all be DONE. DONE DONE DONE DONE DONE. And even though all this stuff is kind of a pain, I do enjoy it — tooling around on photoshop for hours on end, making obsessive, minute changes really appeals to the crazy in me — and I think the final product is gonna be worth it. I’ll put up a link to it in a month or so when we finally set up our online store, etc.

In the coming weeks I need to 1) move, 2) whip up a submission for another anthology, 3) finish up my own minicomic(s), 4) put together a for-real website/online portfolio, 5) continue to be reasonably physically active, and 6) make some money. Not in that order. My offline existence is taking over — and I know that’s supposed to be a good thing, and yeah, it is, it’s fun, it’s good, I’m enjoying myself — but I’d like to figure out a way to work some more good ‘ol fashioned youtubin and stumblin back into it. I don’t want my ash-covered computer to get too lonely.

ALSO. I finally put the license plates on my car today, a mere three and a half months after the date of purchase. New leaf? Consider yourself TURNED OVER.
[Image Source: Portfolio of photographer Benjamin Krain.]

To listen to McFeelyFact Number Two, click below (if you have no idea what the hell is going on, feel free to click here and read my explanation):

Follow along with the transcript below:
DAVID: Have you heard of phreaking before?

MAYA: Nooo.

DAVID: P-H-R-E-A-K. It’s, it was a thing where, uh, in
like, the early day–in like, I think it was the sixties or,
I dunno — people like, would like, trick the phone companies
and use like sounds and tricks to get free phone calls and all
kinds of things.

JON: Uh.

DAVID: I just, I can’t remember the guy’s name, but there was a
guy — I think he was blind, who could WHISTLE.

<laughter>

I can’t remember his name, but — you can check it on
the internet in a second, but — he trained himself to
whistle the perfect tone to reset the phone’s
automated system and get free telephone calls.

JON: Wow.

DAVID: Type in phreaking. Type in phreaking in wikipedia.

MAYA: I like “there’s this guy, I think he was blind, and he could whistle.”

DAVID: He could whistle the EXACT note to make the computer –
to make the telephone exchange reset itself.

MAYA: What do you mean ‘telephone exchange’?

DAVID: It was all based on sounds. Yeah, yeah. Joybubbles.

MAYA: Wha — that’s the guy’s NAME? JOYBUBBLES?

DAVID: Yeah. That’s his nickname. Joybubbles.

JON: I wish MY name was Joybubbles.

MAYA: I wish your name was Joybubbles, Jon.

DAVID: There you go. ‘Joybubbles was an early phone phreak.
Born blind, he became interested in telephones at age four…
gifted with perfect pitch… able to whistle 2600 Hz into a telephone.’

MAYA: How do you know this?

DAVID: I dunno.

JON: Cuz he’s been on that PAGE.

DAVID: I dunno! I dunno how I discovered that! I dunno how I
discovered — no, it wasn’t through wikipedia, it was
through a big article about phreaking somewhere.

MAYA: Oh my God! He was ‘sexually abused as a child by one of
his teachers, a nun.’

DAVID: Yeah. If you dedicate your life to whistling into phones
you’re gonna be slightly odd.

MAYA: Listen to this, listen to this. ‘Joybubbles reverted to his
childhood in May of 1988, and has remained there ever
since, insisting that he is five years old.’

JON: Wow.

MAYA: ‘He legally changed his name to Joybubbles in 1991
claiming he wanted to put his past, specifically the
abuse, behind him.’ …whaaaat.

JON: JOYBUBBLES?

MAYA: ‘He’s an ordained minister of his own church of Eternal
Childhood, and runs a one-man nonprofit support
organization for people rediscovering and re-
experiencing childhood — ’

DAVID: Wait, Wait. Can I –

JON: That’s really sad.

MAYA: ‘– called We Won’t Grow Up.’

. . .

[New(ish) McFeelyFacts will be uploaded periodically.]

I’ve been in Portland eleven months now. While I miss London, both in terms of the city itself and the ridiculously gorgeous human beings I met, coming here was definitely a good move. It needed to happen, and it really has turned out swimmingly. My time here has been nothing if not illuminating. I’ve never spent so much time truly alone before, and finding that I don’t mind it, that, in fact, I quite enjoy it, was a welcome discovery.

That said, changes are afoot.

Tomorrow I’m going to give my thirty days’ notice; I’m moving. It’s not much of a move — just three blocks down, one block over — but I will be living with other people again. And you know, I’ll be sad to leave this apartment. It’s been good to me, even though most of the time, I haven’t been very good to it. This was my first real go at making a home just for myself — and it feels like that. Like home.

My fondness for this space, though, the slight twinge I feel at the thought of leaving this too-expensive apartment on this too-loud corner of this too-yuppie section of Portland — it is completely, absolutely, and oh-so-easily trumped by the prospect of getting another chance to live with one of my best friends. As for the opportunity to get to know a relatively new friend even better — well, that’s just icing on the cake.

OH, and the silver lining? (Yes, this situation comes with both icing and silver lining. Just GO with it.) I totally found the most awesome apartment on the face of the planet. And NOT ONLY did I totally find the most awesome apartment on the face of the planet, I used my scintillating feminine wiles (read: polite, businesslike manner) to cast a spell on our soon-to-be-landlord, who was so blown away that he offered me the place DURING OUR FIRST PHONE CALL. Truly, I am made of magic.

I made a fantabulous (oh MAN, I really am all over the place tonight. ‘fantabulous‘??) online gallery of the 40 or so pictures I took when I actually went to check it out, just so my future roommates and I could gush over them at our leisure. The following are some choice selections to illustrate the conversational gems that occurred as said gushing took place:

The mysterious little structure that borders the backyard.

“I’m telling you. That’s where the hunchback lives.”
“Yeah. Probably. I really like the Virgin Mary by the window.”

The fenced-in basement ’storage area.’

“And this is where we can stage the cock-fights.”
“If by ‘cock-fight’ you mean ‘make David sleep here,’ then yes. Definitely.”

The heinous shower stall that will be replaced before we move in.

“Thank God they’re replacing that. It’s fucking hideous.”
“You’re insane. It’s aMAzing. It’s so seventies — it looks like
the kind of shower Mariel Hemingway would use.”

When all is said and done, there are aspects of living alone that I’m going to miss. For example, the ability to not turn on the heat. Ever. Because I am an alien, and like to keep my windows open even in the dead of winter. And also? Peeing with the bathroom door open. I’m going to miss that. (Don’t judge me. You know you do it, too.)

Still, those things shouldn’t be too hard to get over. Not when I’m gonna get to live with people who say things like “You know, I’m not sure. I actually haven’t done a lot of research into the chihuahua,” and “I sort of secretly enjoy throwing away pastel post-its and rewriting the memo on a neon one. There is an art to a good post-it.”

It’s gonna be AWEsome.

This is what happens when you fill out your college transfer application in between loads of laundry, from 3 to 5 a.m., while on your third pack of cigarettes and FOURTH consecutive liter of diet coke. Of the day.

…

SHORT ANSWER | PLEASE BRIEFLY ELABORATE (150 WORDS OR FEWER) ON ONE OF YOUR ACTIVITIES (EXTRACURRICULAR, PERSONAL, OR WORK EXPERIENCE):

I consider myself extremely lucky. Being raised bilingual and therefore being able to work as a translator has had a huge effect on the way I live my life. Because I can do it from anywhere, this ‘job’ has afforded me the freedom to live where I please, to travel, and to manage my own time. The only downside, really, is that the process of translation itself, especially to and from two languages (and cultures) that are so incredibly different, has a tendency to suck all the moisture out of one’s brain. At least, that’s how it feels; what, if any, physiological changes actually occur in the brain of a working translator remains a mystery.

…

You can bet your ass this is the only application they’re gonna get that so bravely and candidly addresses the issue of brain moisture. (Or so aptly illustrates the applicant’s general lack thereof.)

It remains to be seen whether that’s a good thing or just really, really, really not at all good in any way, shape, or form.

I’m not going to inflict my actual ‘personal statement’ on the world at large. I will, however, say this — it carries on in a similar vein, it is 1250 words over the required minimum, and while I did not revisit the potentially controversial but undeniably fertile topic of brain moisture, I did use the term “super-strength” and invent the phrase “priority-panic.” At one point, even as I physically shook with the horror of it, I watched myself type: “It was a complicated time.”

Yeeeep.

So.

Who wants to put money down that the admissions committee falls all over itself come spring to make me a shiny happy new member of the Reed student body? Anyone?

Anyone?

No? Not so much?

Probably a wise choice.

…

Man. I wish my laundry would just DRY already.

In which we discuss David’s revolutionary pamphlets, his visions of Mouse Utopia, and his painstaking attempts to reach his blind compatriots.

Click the play button below to listen.
(Follow along with the transcript if necessary. WARNING: Some very, very foul language is bandied about. If this bothers you, I would recommend leaving this page now. If, on the other hand, you’re fine with swearing but don’t know what the hell is going on, feel free to click here for some background on the origins of MousePower.)

M: What is up with these fucking pamphlets? They’re everywhere!

D: They’re filled with interesting facts about the LIE that has been
propagated about mousekind.

J: So you just read your own pamphlets.

D: Well I try to make you read them, but you know, you didn’t
train – teach yourself to read, because you’re too hung up on the
idea of what it means to be a mouse – You’re stuck on the old ways.

J: They’re written in your own fucking language.

D: I know! The future language of the revolution!

J: Yeah, I know, why don’t you talk normal mouse? Then I could read it.

D: Because normal mouse has been thrust upon us by our oppressors.

J: Your pamphlet has no circulation.

D: Slave! You don’t know what’s going on. You don’t know the score.

J: I know exactly what’s going on –

D: — you don’t know the TRUTH. Slaaaave.

J: You don’t know the truth!

D: I do! I know what’s going on! I know the score!

M: What IS going on?

D: The lies! The lies that you’ve all bought into! The lies of
the fake mouse culture!

M: What’s fake about it?

D: Aaagh! We’ve been forced into this role through centuries
of oppression! Forced to eat only cheese, denied the precious meats,
kept away from the kitchen table!

J: You threw up for four days when you found that little morsel of meat.

D: That’s cuz we’ve been trained for centuries not to eat it! We should
be able to eat it by nature, but we’ve been trained off it by the bastards,
the BASTARDS that live above us! In their BEDrooms while we live
in squalor under the floorboards!

J: All I remember is that —

D: Those FUCKERS!

M: So, in your utopia, we’ll have little mice bedrooms?

D: YES! And they’ll be better than those goddamn human bedrooms.

J: All I remember is this place stinking of vomit and meat the last
time you had it. That’s what I remember.

D: Shut up HOUSE MOUSE! Fucking Christ. I’m sick of you sometimes,
you know? Why don’t you go run up some guy’s trouser leg, eh? Fulfill
the stereotype roles they’ve laid down.

J: You used to do that back in the day.

D: Back in the day before I learned the TRUTH. When I was a blind fool like you.

J: Most of the mice we know are blind.

D: I know!

J: No, they’re actually blind.

D: Blinded by poison, laid out to KILL us! By our oppressors! They tried
to KILL us! And you just sit there and eat THEIR CHEESE! You FUCK, you
TRAITOR! You’re a traitor to your mouse—you’re a traitor to mousekind!
You should be SHOT! Put in a CAMP!

J: What was the point of giving them the pamphlets?

D: So they can be EDUCATED!

J: No one can read them! They were blind!

D: There’s a Braille version…

laughter

D: Don’t laugh at my Braille pamphlets! It took me a week to make
those… do you know how hard it is to make Braille with only three fingers? Jesus Christ.

…

New (well, not really, but still) episodes will be uploaded periodically. Til I run out of them.

My audio mainstay for the last several weeks has been the radio/podcast work of Ricky Gervais and Steve Merchant (and, of course, Karl Pilkington). Tonight I was listening to the very first season they ever did together, back in 2002, for London’s then-fledgling XFM digital radio station. There’s a bit in episode eight where Steve Merchant talks about getting locked in a bathroom and struggling to get out. Like everything these geniuses have EVER produced, it is hilarious — and while the specifics don’t have much to do with the rest of this entry, I’ve extracted just that five minute portion of the show and uploaded it for your listening pleasure — click below if you are so inclined. You won’t regret it.

So, anyway, I was listening to this as I moved the final handful of old posts over from my old blog to this one (speaking of which, I am FINALLY DONE! Thank JEbus!) and suddenly, out of nowhere, a long-forgotten memory came back to me.

When I was in second grade or so, living in Korea with my mom and dad, we lived in a small apartment by the Han river. This apartment had two bathrooms — one main one by the entryway and another one kind of tucked away, leading off the master bedroom. For some reason (in retrospect, I have no clue whatsoever as to WHY), my mom had decreed that the main bathroom was for pee and only pee. All non-pee bodily functions were relegated to the small second bathroom. (She is an interesting woman.)

So I’m in second grade. Just for reference, I found a photo. This is what I looked like (in my sweet-ass-sweet tri-color windbreaker and headband):

It was the middle of the day — it must have been a weekend — and I went to this second bathroom to see to my needs. My mom was in the kitchen with a couple of guests, just chatting and hanging out. There were two doors, a hallway, and a lot of concrete walls between the kitchen and this bathroom. (This will shortly become relevant.) I finished up, washed my hands, and reached for the door to go back to my room and resume doing whatever extremely important, secret, second-grade things I’d been amusing myself with. The door wouldn’t open. I tried again. And again. I yanked, I pulled. No luck.

“MOM!” I yelled.

Nothing. I tried banging on the door and yelling at the same time.

“MOOOOOOOM!”

Nothing.

I yelled and banged and yelled some more. Still, nothing. I was starting to feel a little panicky, so I quit freaking out, put the toilet lid down, and took a seat to try and decide what to do.

I got up and went back to the door, standing right up against it, my cheek pressed to the wood, and drew in a deep breath. (I should mention that almost as soon as I implemented this genius plan, it struck me how absolutely ridiculous this situation was, so, in spite of the panic, I started dissolving into gales of laughter in between yells.)

“MOOOOOOOOOM!!! THIS IS YOUR DAUGHTER!! *HAHAHA* THIS IS MAYA, THIS IS YOUR DAUGHTER MAYA WEST!!!!!!! *HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA* I AM IN THE BATHROOM. MOOOOOM!!! THIS IS MAYA, AND I AM IN THE BATHROOM!!! *HAHAHAAHAHA* I CAN’T GET OUT!!!!! KYUUUNGJAAAA!!!! YOUR DAUGHTER IS STUCK IN THE BATHROOOOOOM!!!!!”

She came. She eventually managed to force the door open. By the time we were reunited, we were both laughing so hard that we were in tears. Apparently she HAD heard me yelling earlier on, and it hadn’t occurred to her that it might be me — she thought it was some child elsewhere in the complex, outside, yelling for her mother. So when the faraway, frantic child’s voice started to laugh and identify itself, she was well and truly startled. As were her guests.

Good times. Good times.

[Image Source: Portfolio of illustrator Simon Wild.]

As I have (somewhat damningly) mentioned before, there was a period of time in my life back in London when I obsessively recorded nearly every conversation that took place between myself and two of my closest friends, David McFeely and Jonathan Gaydon. From that era, ‘MousePower’ was born. But that’s not all.

I have hours — literally HOURS — of meandering conversations on my hard drive. The one constant in all these hours is this: David knows a looot of strange, mind-bogglingly random facts, and he can be fairly easily coaxed into sharing them. Jon and I made a habit of this.

In celebration of David’s strangeness, in November 2006 I created a podcast called “McFeelyFacts.” When I first told the infamous McFeels that I was going to do this, he exclaimed: “I SHALL NOT BE TURNED INTO A FIGURE OF INTERNET MOCKERY!”

Which is where he was mistaken. I mean, mockery may not be the right word, but if I get my way, he most definitely shall be turned into a figure of note on this, the world wide web. Today, I am resurrecting the old collection of McFeelyFacts here, hopefully making it available for consumption by a slightly wider audience, in both mp3 and transcript form. If and when the mood so strikes, I will return to our old, raw recordings and create some new facts, too.

So yes. To listen to the first McFeelyFact ever recorded, click below:

Follow along with the transcript below:
DAVID: You know George Washington was a hemp farmer?

MAYA: What?

JON: WhAT?

DAVID: He farmed hemp.

MAYA: I wanna know like, how you make these leaps.

JON: What do you mean he farmed hemp?

MAYA: Like marijuana?

DAVID: No, just hemp.

MAYA: Isn’t that the same plant?

DAVID: I know, it’s the same plant, but he didn’t actually farm
the marijuana, he farmed the seeds. And the constitution is
written on hemp paper.

MAYA: Are you on some sort of email list or something?

JON: Weird shit. 801.

DAVID: I read a big thing in the paper today about the history
of hemp.

JON: As you do. So what did he do with his hemp?

DAVID: You can make fabrics out of it and rope out of it.

JON: Nice.

KATIE: And the oil is good for you.***

DAVID: And you can eat it and…

MAYA: That’s the first thing Katie’s said in like, half an hour.

KATIE: My dad rubs it on his bald spot and his nails.

MAYA: WHAT?

DAVID: WHAT?

KATIE: Cuz it’s good for them.

JON: What do you mean it’s good for them? It keeps it shiny?

DAVID: It keeps it strong and shiny. It’s one of those –
it’s meant to be –

JON: I didn’t know hemp was so useful.

DAVID: It’s meant to be, no it’s meant to be –

KATIE: You eat it on Wheatabix.

DAVID: It has like, 250 thousand uses or something like that.

JON: So it like, it grows marijuana and then what, you discard
that part?

DAVID: No, you can grow brands of — it’s the same plant but you can
grow brands of it that doesn’t have any of that stuff — it’s the chemical
that causes highness. And since they can grow it now without that, it
means they can grow it legally. It grows really really well, and it can
replace cotton and all manner of things and create useful industrial oils
and ropes and all manner of shite.

JON: That’s a good tidbit.

*** DISCLAIMER: Katie doesn’t normally sound like this.
She’d fallen asleep in my bed and we woke her up with our chatter.