Fatale Abstraction

And now, without further ado, it's been simply too long since I treated you all to my mad digital arts skills. Try not to be jealous. Yeah, I did this with exactly zero art school learnin'. Try not to be hatin' on me just because I'm so naturally gifted.

There's a store in town which sells the kind of supplies i need for my stuff that I make and sell. I don't go there often, though, because they charge even wholesale customers like me a ghastly price above what I'd pay to order the same stuff from New Mexico or at a gem show.

Anyhoo, like I said, the prices are exorbitant, but a trip there at least affords the perverse pleasure of getting to stare at the proprietor, who is an older, very tall man with Gandalf-style hair treatments on chin and head, except all around his mouth is an aureole of nicotine stain, starting with twin jets of nico-skid below the nostrils and flaring out into a gently burnished rust color around the mouth. His index and middle finger are both amber-color with same.

He is rude and gruff and has the warmth and people skills of a road grader, so I don't feel so bad writing this post about him.

If he ever runs out of cigs, he could just suck on his facial hair and fingers for a nicotine fix. Nice to have a backup, I suppose.