Bajemas Scriptorium

Myke revamped his Secret Adventure Mission Generator the other night. Go give it a try and please share your results and the link. : )

“The red dragon’s native tongue was fire and for every soft and seductive word he spoke to his concubines each carried a small burn. His poetry had stripped the supple skin from the first lover’s lower back, all along the line where he whispered his thoughtful words. His quiet love songs sung for the benefit of the moonlight left rippling scars along the neckline of his second lover. Each concubine over looked the pain and abuse their skin suffered, a small sacrifice each was willing to make to allow their dragon his seduction.” –The Red Dragon, (c)Bethalynne Bajema, all rights reserved.

I’m a huge hockey fan. I’m an insane hockey fan. I’m the type of hockey fan who can claim to have seen at least one game played by every single Michigan hockey team from the pros, to college, right down to the UHL, which is like a toss above a bar league. During the height of my uber love, when I could be found traveling every other night to see a game with my best hockey buddy Tina, I had a hockey comic strip I published. Mind you, the humor was very dark, my fictional hockey team was seriously awful and wonky… my world cup team were cannibals. It was twisted enough that my friends (mostly non-fans of any sport let alone hockey) didn’t give me too much grief about it. But I loved that comic. From my demented ex-race car driver zamboni driver to the mental character modeled after myself who kidnapped goalies.

While cleaning through some of my storage stuff, Myke actually came across my box of Foxglove t-shirts. These are completely rare items as far as anything you could get from me. While I sit here being sick to my stomach watching my game seven of the Wings, I think I’m going to offer a few of these to anyone who’d like an atypical item of mine. Foxglove Hockey Comics T-Shirt, 16.00 plus shipping. I only have a few. Eep! My team is losing. Uh!!!

June sale for our etsy shop is $10 Gift Wrapped 5×7 Prints and Mini-Print Collections

The Cult of the Doom and the Gloom… something that is very hard to explain and/or describe to parents and fans of pastels. By the time I was eleven I knew that I was drawn to autumn and all the things that seem to fit so well into autumn. I liked the autumn rainbow where all the colors were darker and more pronounced… like red. I don’t care for the simple color red. But a red that has dried, darkened, become more deeply pronounced with age is an exquisite color. The same can be said for all colors. And the smell of burning leaves… the taste of warm cider… walking around at night with Halloween decorations spicing up the world… this warms me. By the time I was twelve I didn’t care if anything other than black clothed me. The music I listened to was mopey and seemingly dreary, but it reminded me of my autumn and I felt so happy when I listened to it. To the outside viewer the 80s goth was a gloomy little blight on the otherwise bright landscape and it was assumed we were always ready for a funeral or good old fashioned weeping session. The very opposite is true. Being so acutely aware of death made me appreciate the beauty of living. The majority of people will make fun of you or pull a face if you tell them you’re a “goth” and that’s fine. I’d make the same face if you said you were a “jock” or “preppy” because as a teenager I saw those types as living the most boring and artificial lives on the planet. It’s all about personal preference and perspective.

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Artist’s Log: Took the Hunter monster for a walk.
Saw the most peculiar thing in the back yard…

[linkie: The Zombie Debate] You know, I’m a NCIS junkie. And every time I see the episode where they spend a few moments on Halloween debating the finer points of zombie code of conduct in the movies, I always find myself wanting to yell at the tv when McGee points out something about the 28 Days Later zombies because clearly!! CLEARLY! They are not zombies! Or else they wouldn’t starve to death. It’s in those moments where I look at myself and shake my head in sad disappointment and look at my remote and realize that I really, REALLY, need to get out of the house more.

I like to look at individuals as human autos. We each come off the assembly line with our own style, designs, perks, flare, and warranty. Well the auto-bajema had a very short warranty that ended somewhere in the late seventies. I seem to attract gremlins too. At this point in my life the auto that is me is held together with duct tape and twine. I’ve grown used to seeing the occasional gear or spring go flying when I least expect it. And when I roll her into the shop the mechanics just sort of cluck their tongues and figure out ways to keep the auto running without my muffler or brake pads falling off. As I mentioned in my fire sale notes, I spent a week in the hospital a few weeks back. This past weekend the auto-bajema decided it was in need of an encore, plus there seemed to be a fresh gremlin infestation. On the bright side I was able to get some newer, more flashy duct tape to hold my belts on. On the not so bright side it put me out of commission for half of a week and I’ve gotten quite behind on my email and online store activities. So this is just a quick note to apologize for delays and to assure you that I’m getting caught up as quickly as possible. I thank you for your patience with me and this junker I call a body and the inconveniences it can create at times. And on that note, I need to whip out the gremlin-be-gone spray and hose down some gremlins trying to sneak under the hood of my auto by climbing up my spine. Maybe my gremlins are from the kremlin…

I believe “Festival” is taking place downtown GR as I write this. It’s a three day arts and culture festival in downtown Grand Rapids that has been going for… at least as long as I’ve been alive. There’s an obnoxious time line of photos my mother took of me each year. They’re always the same. Me in a new Festival tee shirt with some freaky face painting going on. The only difference is in most of them my hair is so short I look like the third son in the family, but towards the end you could see me fighting against my mother’s will to keep my hair short. The last photo ever taken shows how she thwarted me on that challenge. She let me grow my hair out and then proceeded to give me a perm. So my hair still looked short because of the curl, but now I looked like I had a little Dutch girl afro. Good times.

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