Crunk & White’s Elements of Smile

HT to my witty boyfriend for coming up with the perfect editorial in-joke to accompany this Facebook post commemorating a super-fun bloggers reunion I just attended in Portland, Oregon:

Editors Extraordinaire

Celeste, Becky, and I met a couple years ago writing for the blog Idealists in Action (here are some of my clips).

Today, Celeste is a mom to two beautiful girls and still manages to write her face off (and spearhead the occasional amazebees cash mob for a beloved neighbor that turns into viral video). Becky is a writer and marketing diva at Portland Community College, and I think she’s taking a woodworking class. And I, well, you know what I do.

The three of us had a ball writing, editing, and generally klatching together, and I’m so glad I got to see them for approximately 2.5 more seconds while briefly visiting the west coast.

Onward and upward, ladies! With any luck, life will see us crunk and smiling again before too long.

Sines in the ‘hood

I’m super myopic, and I only moved to Williamsburg a couple of months ago, so I might have just been missing this awesome Frank Ape by the artist Sines on Lorimer and Meserole Streets… until today.


Yeah, Frank!

I’m a fan, both of Brandon Sines and of what I take to be Frank’s life philosophy, so I was cheered to see it.

It also reminded me that I accompanied my Polaroid-snapping friend Crazy Nick to an art battle in Dumbo last year and we tried to get an article published about the experience. I don’t think anyone bit, so I’m happy to publish it here, six months after the fact, for whoever might still get a thrill:

Dumbo Arts Festival Art Battle Intense, Danceable
Funny that one of the stipulations of the Secret Walls art battle at Dynomighty Design last Saturday [September 27, 2014] was that the competing illustrators use only black ink on white canvasses, because the color in the room was off the chart. At least 50 many-splendored folks showed up to watch Abe Lincoln Jr. and Brandon Sines square off with markers and paint for 90 minutes.
As I wandered the gallery floor, the rainbow unfurled: a curly-haired baby with gold earrings bopped between big Keith Haring-esque paintings, strapped to a mom in a black sleeveless pantsuit with a red bra visible underneath. A tall black dude in a bright yellow “No Money, No Honey” t-shirt danced to the DJ’s Paula Abdul and Toto tracks. The emcee grew a waxed mustache, the ladies wore red lipstick, and the ratio of tie-dye shirts to spiderweb elbow tattoos throughout the crowd was probably one to one.
Meanwhile, Sanford King Sizes flew like inky stick insects and wet paintbrushes cried grayscale across the canvasses as the artists sweated ’til the timer dinged: the judging hour. A pale bald guy and a guy in hot pink glasses (both art world hot shots) were called upon to deliver their critiques and rulings, and the crowd listened before getting their own votes measured by a decibel meter. As is often the case, minds were split: the critics went for Abe Lincoln, and the people sided with Sines.
Sadly, there can be only one. But the guys took it like pros, and everyone still danced afterward, before tripping back out into the afternoon sun.

I actually had to look up “epistolary”

Shame on me!

A new client mentioned to me yesterday that she enjoyed my story on Huffington Post about my mom’s decades-long commitment to writing letters to me and my brother. I’m always glad when this piece gets love because it’s such an unusual story… Or so I thought.

April Greene + mom

Me and Mom in Colorado a couple of years ago

The client went on to say, “My mom and grandmother carried on the same tradition and I’m in possession of about 10 years of their correspondence. I hear constantly from my mom about my failures to live up to her expectations on the epistolary front.”

Well, shut me up! Go moms and grandmas everywhere.

Also shut me up because I had to look up “epistolary” and I’m a writer. I will say the definition looked familiar.

Who else out there is carrying on a fabulous family writing tradition?