Happy Father’s Day

I wish all the dads out in the world a super happy father’s day. Thanks for being great and raising most of us to be decent human beings. That takes a lot, and I think I speak for many in saying that not being a degenerate is pretty nice.

My dad is pretty awesome. And really strange. Mostly strange. Like so weird, my goodness.

My dad used to walk into my room all the time and start speaking gibberish. I’d ask what he said, and he’d just yell, “THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!’ And walk out, leaving me completely lost. Back in high school, which I talk about as if I didn’t graduate a mere three years ago. But back in high school, I told my dad that I registered for Geometry class for my Sophmore yeaer. He got excited, because he’s a math geek. He spent the whole summer randomly telling me, “Side angle side! Angle side angle.” Never gave me an explanation. He only said I would understand eventually. So then class happened. And we get to the proofs and the theorems and the shapes I never cared about. My teacher sure enough said side-angle-side and angle-side-angle, and I exploded in laughter. I couldn’t stop, and it was completely unprovoked from everyone else’s perspective. I was sent out of class to get some water and compose myself because I just could not get it together. Such a mess.

Despite my dad’s weird antics, he’s given me some good advice throughout the years. It was always something simple to the point of being near offensive, but also something you didn’t truly understand until you saw an example. Or a couple examples, because I was hardheaded sometimes. My personal favorites had to be when my dad told me to shut up and listen.

Like any guy, I’m sure my dad hoped he ended up with a son to teach sports and stuff, or at least a daughter with an interest. But I’m awesome in other ways so he deals. It didn’t stop him from at least trying to make me athletic, though. My dad tried teaching me basketball, tennis, racquetball, volleyball, and soccer. I wish now that I had tried a bit harder in playing, because I probably could have been a decent athlete in at least one of those sports. But what I did take away from it was how to shut up and listen. Whenever my dad was teaching me a sport, and telling me to stop doing whatever I was doing wrong, I would try to explain why I made the mistake. After a couple times of making excuses, he called me over and said, “I do not care. You screwed up. It doesn’t matter how you screwed up. Just do it right.” He went on to explain that a lot of people get in their own way by not knowing when to shut up, and listen. If someone is trying to coach you, just listen. Nobody cares to hear you talk about messing up and how. They know you messed up. They’re trying to help you fix it. So stop. Period. He strongly advised I learn that lesson as early as possible.

It made me mad at first, because I didn’t much appreciate being told that, but I started to see. Now I can’t stop seeing. Instances where people just won’t stop talking, and they end up causing more trouble or just making the same mistakes. As if they literally talked themselves into perpetual failure. They never learned to shut up and listen. They were never informed of how little they truly know. I never realized how important being good at taking directions was until I saw so many who were poor at taking direction, and saw where it lead. And I think what some people might perceive that as not thinking for oneself, and being a blind follower of authority. But I never specified where I was “taking” the directions. You can take directions from an underqualified moronic authority, and put them right on the curb, just to continue doing what you know works. If the job is getting done, and getting done well, then you aren’t going to be bothered. It’s only until you open your mouth or try to pick a fight that you get unwanted attention, and increased stipulations.

It’s always the most basic concepts that we all fail at the most. I was lucky to have a father that had a very low BS tolerance, and taught me basic self improvement skills and how to make people not hate you. As well has an appreciation for jazz, some mean swing dance moves, and a love for math and science, and education in general, which has since decreased drastically, but still counts for something. So here’s to my dad. And dad’s all around the globe, with all of their life lessons and quirky personalities.

I’m An Artist, That’s Why

Hiya guys! Check out my face, located below! You’re welcome, in advance ;)

heh heh, kidding..

white hair

That would be what I look like today(meaning yesterday, because I was writing this, got distracted, and then took a nap into the next day). Why white hair? Well, because I’m Storm dammit, and I do what I want!

Truth of the matter, though, is that my hair underneath that wig is a serious force to be reckoned with. And I had no energy to do any reckoning this morning. I really dig my hair, don’t get me wrong. But I never knew it was such an awesome, curly, explosion of HELL YEAH until a year ago. And I’m learning more things about how to take care of it every single day. Today’s lesson: Stop being lazy and put it up before bed, you know better.

But anyways, what I’ve learned from wearing this thing, as well as wearing some other wigs I have in public, is that there is a lot one can get away with when claiming to be an artist.

I really like the arts, even though I’m not as immersed in the world of art as much as I’d wish. I just severely lack the skill and innovation. I knit and crochet a bit, so I have an ‘in,’ I’m a fiber artist, if you will. And I milk that for seriously all it’s worth.

I enjoy the louder things in life. I’m way too weird to hide it, but I’m allowed to be, because I’m an ARTIST. As an artist, you can do, say, wear anything you want, act any way you’d like, be all the crazy you can, and provide no answers for your behavior. It’s fabulous, because I hate answering questions. Plus, the reasoning behind my actions are usually much less interesting than the answers people provide for themselves. And the best part, is that as an artist, your weirdness creativity isn’t just accepted, it’s encouraged. You are all of the strange your normie friends are afraid to be. You’re kinda like a hero, taking on crazy so everyone else can be sane. Now I don’t much understand sanity’s appeal, but to each his own. I guess that’s what makes me an artist.

I remember back in high school, I decided to actually make an effort to look kinda okay sometimes. For some reason, in my mind that meant nail polish. I have some perfectionist tendencies though, and I would get so frustrated trying to paint my dominant hand, that I just wouldn’t. I’d rather it be barren than look stupid and messed up. So only my left hand would ever have color. When people asked me why, it was around the time Michael Jackson passed away, and I told people that I was in mourning, showing my support, but it was too hot to wear a glove.

SUPPORT! But really, rip, MJ.

Oh man, I was sooooo DEEP. I accidentally started a small trend for a week or so. Based on a bunch of bull. But I’m an artist, so it made all the sense in the world, you just don’t get it. After a while, I couldn’t keep using that excuse. But I still use the guise of being an artist to do what I want. Nail polish isn’t fashion for me, it functions for protection against my split nails snagging my yarn. I only need one hand painted for that. And behold, I fascinate people, as I changed the entire purpose of nail polish for the sake of art.

It makes you think… How much power do artists have in doing things that aren’t normal and not being questioned? They, we, have all the power. We make culture. We make nonsense make sense. And then make it nonsensical all over again. It’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. And I like it. I went to the Philadelphia Art Museum recently, and making silly commentary with my mother about the artwork made me ask some interesting questions. But I think I’ll cover those in another post. Until later, everyone.