The Joy of Coldworking (book)
June 27, 2009
The Joy of Coldworking
A guide to grinding, smoothing and polishing blown and fused glass
Johnathan Schmuck
$49.95
Available through warmglass.com or the Bullseye Resource Center (although as of 6/27/09 it wasn’t listed in their online store)
No, the book’s title is not an oxymoron, at least not for author Johnathan Schmuck. The dude actually likes to grind and polish glass, and since his writing gives no sign of mental deficiencies I must conclude he knows what he’s talking about.
David
June 26, 2009
“That’s a gorgeous sweatshirt,” I said admiringly.
David smiled, wide and delighted with lots of teeth. “Thank you very much,” he said, and stopped to chat, “I’m David.” A frail-looking man in his 60s, he was wearing a black pinstriped fedora with fashionable glasses, neat brown oxfords, highly polished, and worsted brown slacks with the creases carefully pressed in. And the sweatshirt made the outfit.
Uhm…North Carolina is not a hick state
June 10, 2009
Mom read my post on BooneOakley and asked, sweetly, “Where did you get the idea that North Carolina is full of hicks?” (Mom being from North Carolina, she didn’t take kindly to being called a hick by her daughter.)
Oh, no! I protested, I didn’t say North Carolina was full of HICKS. I said if you were looking for an advertising agency, North Carolina–being hundreds of miles away from Madison Avenue–would be considered in the STICKS.
Same thing, according to Mom. Ooops.
And so to all those North Carolineans out there, my profound apologies and no, I don’t think that you’re all a bunch of hicks.
Or sticks.
Jim and Bing
May 28, 2009
The cat rode Jim’s shoulder like a mahout, warily eyeing glassland as it crashed around them.
I’d thought at first that the work-worn man in the tan leather vest sported a coonskin cap; its lushly banded chestnut and sable tail dangled down his back almost to his waist. Then the cap moved, the man turned…and there was a cat on board.
They were peering through the window of Fireborne, my friend Becky’s downtown glass gallery. It was my afternoon to mind the store–a bunch of us pooled our free time this week to babysit the gallery and give Becky and her hubby a much-needed vacation–and part of the fun is watching the slice of Portland that strolls past that window.
Rose
May 25, 2009
Rose growled. I’d been aiming for a nice angled shot down the tracks and unwittingly stepped into her personal space.
We were waiting on the platform for MAX, the Portland city train. It was raining, and we were the only ones not under the crowded canopy. My hooded raincoat kept most of the water off me, but this lady perched hatless on a metal bench, out in the rain, clutching a soggy MAX pass. The notice said we had 15 minutes before the next train, and I figured it was even money whether she’d jump the tracks and flee before it arrived, or drown.
When automation don’t work so good…
May 24, 2009
Yesterday I got a corporate credit card statement from American Express. Problem is, I haven’t had an Amex card for three years. The company listed was my old employer, it showed a zero balance and then told me payment was due immediately or I’d have to pay a penalty.
Huh?
Everything new is old again
May 23, 2009
Every time I think I’ve invented a startling, refreshingly innovative glass technique, I thumb through one of my art books and…there it is. The pate de verre sculpture technique I’m playing with right now, for example, was old hat to the ancient Egyptians. And don’t even get me started on fusing and slumping glass.
Jasmine
May 16, 2009
The girl on the platform caught my eye because she didn’t fit.
Waiting for the train with a dozen Portlanders, blinking at the bright spring sunshine, she was as sharply, carefully dressed as they were not.
Rajah ends with the cat food
May 12, 2009
The Furry Red Menace died this afternoon. Or rather, I approved his euthanasia. And of all the goofy things to think about at such a time, the thing that kept running through my mind was that Rajah hung on until we ran out of cat food.
He just wasn’t going to leave until he’d gotten every last bite out of life. Or at least out of the pantry.
Making the train late
May 9, 2009
“Frank” nodded hello at me as I sat down. “I sure hope,” he said anxiously, “that the train doesn’t get hung up today too. I’m already late.”
Usually the strangers on glassland’s MAX train smile politely or nod without saying much when I sit down; it takes a couple of verbal sallies and a stop or two before they’re comfortable chatting. But Frank dove in without hesitation, before I’d so much as set my purse down.