2020-01-12 - And the Answer Is...

Grant is kinda insanely curious having met him dream side as the Vicar and also being a friend of Corey hearig and seeing contrasting things. But now? On a work night with a project the man too busy for the world is here of all places. in spite of his many responsibilities? His hand gestures the sign for Why? and the curiosity hold long enough for both an answer and their drinks to come. The answer does come and the bit of a grin with is. he violet haired menace to pavement tries to come up wit an answer.

The grin widens with a laugh, "What do I do?" His fingers itch behind his ear and pop the volume up one on his appliances. "That's a good question. I skate and run the pro-shop, and I um, I paint. Usually. Technically I'm a painter. Mixed medium mostly. IT was chalk and pastels for a while buuuuut the ground's wet so... Krylon when it's not cold as balls out. Right now I'm kinda in an acrylic phase. Sort of working on seeing what the fuck I want to do with it. " He lists up the drink in that gesture of You do art. You get that I assume He pauses though drinking the drink. "Damn... that is pretty good." Eyebrow number two joins number one. "Working on a sort of... project. I like it. Might become a business but there's always teh hazard of doin what you love for work? Like is it still art or am I creating for all teh wrong reasons. Can lose yourself fast."

Sometimes the responsible thing is to go and have a drink. Or three.

Sometimes it isn't but you want to anyway, and adults get to do that shit even if they might intend to work the next day. Vyv has faith that whatever he's set on doing tomorrow, he'll still be able to do. Who knows, maybe this is why he'd be so annoyed if Corey got himself killed by now: the need for someone he considers competent enough to take particular tasks off his hands in the morning. Planning ahead! That's back to responsible, right there.

The skate-related answers get a faint smirk behind the glass; this is not entirely shocking based on self-presentation. 'Technically I'm a painter' gets an arched brow, though. Quiet interest in that. "Experimenting," he agrees with seeing-what-one-wants-to-do-with-it, a small nod. "You mainly work outside, then." It's half a question, half not. There's a another quick half-smile for the approval of the drink, even if he didn't make it himself, there and gone as the younger man goes on.

"Is your motivation the work, or the money? Would you do it anyway? Are you right, or is the customer?" Vyv asks, the eyebrow up again. "As long as it's the work, you would, and you are, it's still art. If you're saying what you wish to say through it, it's art. What one does for oneself is art, paid or not. What one does for a client is more usually craft. But one can be both artist and artisan." One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Granted, most are neither. But one can be both."

A sip of the drink. "Tell me about your sort-of-project."

Grant dips a nod. Experimenting. He takes a drink of the Mai Tai and folds his arms on the edge of the counter. Both eyebrows arch up considering, "Well that's the question isn't it? Maybe most are neither. Maybe they're not done yet. It takes people some time to figure themselves out." The question of his art and his project has him fishing his phone from the side pocket of his jeans, unlocking it with his thumb and swipes to a folder with some of the gratffiti pieces. A few of them that were downtown. Mostly in washable materials. He says pointing it out several 3d pieces, mostly surreal landscape or crumbling edifice with things behind.

"I kinda got into working in chalk and pastel because it's harder to get arrested for it which is, ya know, a total weekend bummer, and also makes people want to go be part of like...right now. I want... I want people to put down the Pokemon Go and see the spaces in between the worlds for themselves. Time's like watercolour. It's really vibrant when it happens but fades over time. But some... some need the incentive I guess."

He pauses and reasons; his hand moving to translate and express the thought as he answers., "Your medium is no different man. You let that sit too long the desired outcome is noooooot getting achieved. " He looks to Vyv and curiously muses, "That's gotta be hard." He sort of project makes his stop. Full stop. His eyes squint and look back answering honestly, "Started painting custom skateboards. It's like small canvas on wheels. But I know how to build a board well and I got a supplier for the pieces but I'm ... hopeing anyways to get into some other skate shops. Etsy thing going. I dunno. I can make em for me and if they find a good home and I can afford lunch? Cool."

He takes another drink. Grant. is. a. talker. Turning sideways he leans elbow to bad, knuckles pressed to temple, "What makes you love what you do enough to go like...brick and mortar, dude? Other than being a fellow carbivore." Eyes follow the lines down and back. That was a good trip and time well spent, but the eyebrow goes up glibly adding, "I can think of thirty things you could be doing in that suit. Why desserts?"

"Most are neither." It may have been somewhat flippant the first time, but Vyv's a bit more serious about it now. "Perhaps some might be one or both when they've figured things out, if they're willing to put in the time and effort. Most are neither, now, and likely most will be neither forever." A tiny pause, and he allows, "But most isn't all."

The phone is coming out, and that's interesting. Another sip as he leans in a bit to look at the works in question, gaze critical. The 3D ones -- the ones, in general, that engage more with their specific surroundings, that couldn't rightfully be anywhere but the spot chosen -- those are the ones that seem to spark the clearest interest. That, and the reasons for working chalk and pastel. 'Harder to be arrested' just gets a mild smirk, but the emphasis on using it for pulling people into the here and now, and particularly the remark that time's like watercolour, those hit a stronger chord, and for all that he's not exactly what one would call demonstrative about that, it's not hidden, either. "It's similar, yes," he agrees of his medium. "Ephemeral. But time is an aspect, not an enemy."

That, plus the questions, have him holding back on any thoughts on the Project, initially. Okay, it's not enough to prevent his first reply to that glib addition being an equally glib, "Only thirty?" but those are questions he cares about. "Patisserie is..." A sip again, as he considers how to put it. "Food touches every sense. Sight and taste, obviously. Scent. Touch, the weight and shape of it in your fingers or the textures against your tongue. Even sound, a crisp crack or more lingering crunch or the soft slide of cream. The potential palette is immense. There's room for fresh ideas, combinations and methods that are truly new, and for... perfection, finesse in execution that makes the difference between, oh, someone's third grade drawing of his mother and the Mona Lisa." A finger taps lightly against the rim of his glass, and he gives a faint shrug, "And there's more room for precision and delicacy in confections than main courses. Baking is more exact than cooking. And I like detail. I like the ephemerality; it can reference the past or speak to the future but it's always essentially and immutably now. A memory can be retained, the anticipation can be savoured, but the experience is the moment. A tiny anchor to a reality that's never existed before and never will again in quite the same way."

"Now," he says, lifting the glass again, "...why skateboards?" There may be a subtle touch of humour in it, essentially turning the question back, but it's genuine as well. Is there more to the choice than simply liking skateboarding or seeing a niche?

Grant pauses drinking and cracks back, "Eighty-three but I parsed down for quality." There's a pause and an easy shrug, "Shiiiit, if the conversation and the drinks stay this good I'll let you parse the list down to final five." See that's fair. He might be serious. Then again this guy could be telling the truth and still not be serious at all. with the sharpness on that grin.

The story though is one that someone (if they are smart) rides out. Eyes, mostly here, and partly focused away i the descriptions stare back at him; curious hazelnut letting the chef talk of art over consumption. He's quiet when he finished talking of taste and texture, temperature and time, "You sound like this poem this guy I know wrote,." There is definitely tangential lucid thinking happening. "Take a ride on the vanilla extract and surf the existential bop." He pauses and looks up at the glasses hung upside down overhead. "I think it means, sometimes you have to be there with the moment or you're gonna miss it."

Relaxing his posture Bax admits, maybe too honest, "I love food man, but as I've also eaten a quarter I don't know my opinion gets to overly count, but I appreciate ... art. A lot." He makes a mental reminder also to label his cup for which is coffee and which is his paint water. Again. The question of why skateboards? "I mean I think you figured out why boards man. I mean do what you love. One day fixing them there was the gnarly scrape through the paint through one of mine and I had to re-kit the wheels and swap out some bearings and then I thought... fuck it. I'll strip it down, refinish the board. By then it was this blank canvas and... that wasn't inspiring me to do shit so... yeah." Fingers push back through faded violet hair considering the other sides of that, "I mean that aside? I want... people to love what I love. They're going to do it their way, but it's kinda alike taking that journey with them. On one hand just because something's disposable doesn't mean it can't be beautiful. On the other? If you're going to invest? Fucking... have something worth investing in. Have a statement. Personalize it."

He looks up to Vyv and lifts the half-glass he's still got. "Sometimes you just have to choose to own right now and see what happens with it. Might look like driftwood, or it might be the start of changing something that inspires someone to get outta their head man and see something new... or cause a traffic accident. I mean, it's Gray Harbor."

"Well, one does appreciate an eye for quality," Vyv says, his own flickering down over the t-shirt and jeans again, pausing briefly at the boots and slightly less briefly along the found-object bracelets. And the grin. The subtle amusement gains a note of what may be genuine curiosity in the otherwise casual, "I think I'm intrigued to see your list."

A brow arches at the poem remark, over another sip of the drink. "'Surf the existential bop'," he echoes, accent crisp enough that the last word comes out sounding inherently funny, vowel and plosives working together for maximum levels of deadpan ridiculous. "No... fairly sure I don't sound like that." It's only then there's a tiny upward twitch at one corner of his mouth, just visible. "But that seems like a reasonable interpretation. And-- yes. The future and past do matter, quite a bit. But the present is the only place one ever really is. And yet we so often aren't." Is he included in that? Probably, yes. It has him pausing, head slightly tilted as he opens his senses further to the bar around them, all the various goings on, before his focus narrows down again to his drink and his interlocutor.

It's partly the mention of eating a quarter that does it, of course. "As in the coin? On purpose? I'm fairly sure that doesn't even count as a reasonable source of iron." The fact is likely not what the dubious look is about. "What happened after it was inserted? I have visions of internal organ pinball or possibly some sort of slot machine paying out." He shifts position, a slightly more relaxed lean against the bar from his stool. Still perfectly good posture, but the drinks and conversation are having a quiet effect. He listens to the actual answer, weighing it, and there's a hint of a nod here and there, particularly both those hands. He would feel something being temporary doesn't mean it can't be beautiful, after all. "I don't see why anything oughtn't be beautiful if it can be," he says, afterward. "And very few things can't. If people are willing to do more than settle for the laziest bare minimum. If they'll do them right."

The final addition gets a faint smile, mostly hidden behind another sip, and he studies the skater. "I suppose driftwood or a traffic accident could also inspire someone to something new. Hadn't thought about it this way before, but I suppose that's one thing this place does do in a way few others can: periodically absolutely demands we focus on here, now, precisely what our immediate reality appears to be. It may not be... the one we expect. But it certainly isn't inclined to be ignored."

Grant has a lawyer for a father. Enduring judgement is not at all new and he lets it happen; the amusement holds. He really is put together of found objects and scratches and traces of paint, and a life of adventure lived...and those damn sparkly rainbow Doc Martens. His fingers float fluidly with, alright that's a nod of agreement. About to comment on that the grin pulls ear to ear in amusement, "Well you didn't really read the rest of the damn poem did you?" There's a satisfaction when Vyv relents the reasonableness of it.

The curiosity about the quarter and what happens? The effect is two-fold with a laugh that screws his expression down to the size of a dime, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and the other hand gesturing Yes, probably! Taking a breath he considers the possibility. Eyes drifting back he agrees, "I'm going to think pinball because I felt some rattling and a bell go off."

It's the small amusements noted; the read on his body language, the closed off nature that shifts over time. He looks at his glass: his first, Vyv's second... or so. He inquires, "You down for another round, want me to get out of here," He pauses and shrugs, "Or want to get out of here?" All options on the table. His eyes shift to the dance floor keeping tabs on Sparrow, and to a lesser degree the people who greeted him as his unique, if not curiously crass moniker, and then back to Vyv for the answer. "Whichever, man, but I agree, right now's a hell of a thing. Maybe the town doesn't want us to miss out and is really really bad at using its words. Most people are though."

"I didn't even read that part." Vyv's own amusement remains quiet but clear, and if the visual assessment surely can't be wholly positive... it doesn't seem entirely negative either. Hard to say why, precisely. The chef seems to find him interesting, and maybe the conversation creates context for some of the sartorial choices? Maybe there are some aspects he actually likes. ...probably not the t-shirt, though.

The reasoning for 'probably pinball' gets a laugh from him in return, a quick and quiet thing, but there. "Coin-operated boy, sitting on the shelf," he says, enough rhythm to suggest lyrics but not actually sung. Third drink of the evening, second Mai Tai; maybe not enough to be drunk, but tipsy? Well, that points quietly toward 'yes'. It also gets the glass a thoughtful look at the proposal of another, and Grant himself a thoughtful look at the third option mooted. "Mm. Most people aren't particularly good at listening to the ones that are used, either," he says, studying the younger man with a faint smile again.

"I think," he decides, lifting his glass slightly, "I've just enough left here for the story of why you get greeted with bellows of 'Crotchbiter' across a crowded bar. And then," one half of the little smile ticks up a fraction, "I might need another." A glance across the ersatz dance floor, and back to Bax, "Or not." Neither of these outcomes appear to translate to 'go away'.

Grant looks up, a light and a spark ignited as of all things Dresden Dolls quote comes out of the bespoke Brit. Smug as hell he drinks to the bottom of his glass and muses, "What you wanna drag me around everywhere? 'All the other real ones that I destroy'?" He considers this with a wry, easy smile holding with a shrug amicable and easy going as anything, "Yeah, alright." His eyes go from his glance To Vyv and arches an eyebrow considering, "I'd take that dare, but..." He nudges the glass over asking, signing with 'one more, thanks.' to the bartender who looks at the companion glass and he lets Vyv answer for himself. "I had to help my friend pack up and that, calls for a second drink if anything to make this morning go away.

He follows the look and leans forward and grins, "You ever get so into creating... anything you go into a fugue state and that takes on a life of its own?" Those nut brown eyes curious, and so wide awake with their own energy. He pauses and holds up a finger to belay that drink order actually. "It's Halloween and I'm out in teh Gardens kinda trippin, communing out with the world and turning life into art and back again and next thing I know there's... those two guys," he points to Ruiz and Itzhak, "The gal named Rebecca, and this other bird there and we are trying to run like the wind. Dunno what the hell was in the punch but it was faaaaaaantastic and we were all animals."

Pointing to Itzhak and then Ruiz respectively he says, "He was this huge black stab you in the face unicorn...pretty much as you'rd expect boychik to be, that guy was there hiding out from someone but he was this big fuckin wold with jaws that bite and claws that catch. Rebecca was like... a Puma. The ones I painted those walls to get them out of my head." He pauses shaking his head squinting to Vyv, still mostly sober enough. His night's just kicking off. "I was one of them lil snowball sized fennic foxes and we had to stop this hunter from killin this stag dude cause he was like totally boss and really groovy and the hunter was... well... hunty." Not with the disgust Vegetarians might have for them but the hunter frosted his flakes. "But I was like bite sized and so I did the only thing I could think of doing." He shrugs simply put, "Snuck around and ran up their leg and bit them in the junk."

He blinks and presses his lips together like yup, that's a thing. "Apparently it was one of those shared dream things you hear about. Hunter hit me so hard I went flying into a tree and cracked my head into it. Worth it. Kept some people alive though. If we play by everyone else's rules we'll never be happy with the outcome. Besides, where's the surprise in that?"

Vyv looks quite pleased at the recognition himself -- perhaps a bit of surprise from that direction as well -- and the counter-quote draws a little smirk that meshes well with Grant's smug-as-hell moment. He can't currently resist, or just doesn't feel inclined to: "But can one even take you in the bath?" Some impressively arch innocence in that delivery; plausible deniability for almost any given interpretation, and yet...

Sympathy is not the chef's natural realm, so the "Mn," regarding the morning's events is about par for the course. On the other hand, when the bartender gives that questioning look, the answer he gets is a slight headshake and a gesture toward the soon to be replaced glass, "But I'll cover that one," and that might be related.

Following his stated plan, he sips what remains of his drink lightly as the story's told. A small nod regarding a creative 'fugue state', and drink-belaying is clearly Grant's own business, but at the mention of Rebecca his brows lift. "Blonde, stylish, about so tall?" he asks, lifting a hand to, indeed, very close to Rebecca's height. Surely there are other Rebeccas in this town, but, "That would be my assistant," if she matches the description. And that adds something to the story, for him. Itzhak the stabby black unicorn is the most amusing of the animal options, though the one for Ruiz gets a flicker of a look that probably falls in the 'sounds about right' category. Puma-Rebecca perhaps less so, though the note that it's what got them on the walls is interesting. And -- a fennec fox. With the ears. That thought's given away by a fleeting glance toward Grant's, as though they might be somewhat oversized and he might not have noticed. But they seem fine!

All right, hunty hunters seem reasonable enough. And then the specific explanation comes, and-- he laughs. It's still a tiny and quiet thing, as much a sharp breath out the nose as anything else, but it makes his eyes light up, the smile clear around them if not actually taking over his lips. Another sip as the story goes on, and a little shake of his own head at the head injury, and he's successfully managed to be finishing the drink off just about as Grant reaches the end. "I guessed it might be," he says just a little bit dryly; a bit over half a year in this town is plenty to get the hang of how those things go, if one glimmers, after all. "Good thinking. Clever. Horrifying, but clever." He cracks another slight smile, there, setting the now empty glass aside. "Seems the sort of thing one aims not to become a habit. From either side."

Grant pauses turning to Vyv, the amusement holding and what started as an uncertain effort of a trip all the way across town turning out to be pretty worthwhile. "Can one? Doooooooes one have a quarter and want to find out?" That is slid right out there onto the table. Leave it to G-Bax to call a bluff. What's he got to lose?

There's a proud, but modest shrug at the compliment for clever and horrifying plans done up well. He admits, "I think I want to get Lexi to do up a lil fox tattoo. Maybe a little seahorse." he pauses and waves a hand, "Cool dream. Long story. I might..." He pauses and reconsiders, "I might actually do that up as a mural." And by that faint look of inspiration seeing it snap together i his head possibly rightthehellnow. He doesn't budge though and looks back to Vyv and after a moment's consideration he adds, "Thirty-five." He's up to thirty-five things now. Fingers push his hair back from his face and- well hell he's awaiting an answer to see what direction the ship is headed.

Does Vyv bluff? ...well, he hasn't actually stabbed anyone to death yet, so arguably yes. Is he now, though...? The corner of his mouth and opposite eyebrow both quirk up a touch at the question, gaze level and amusement mirrored right back, but the reply doesn't come immediately.

Instead, there's an understated but unhidden slide of his visual focus down and back up at the talk of potential tattoos, and a faint tilt of the head. "Do you have many?" he asks, presumably tattoos and not murals, though he does recognize that look of inspiration hitting, and it keeps his attention for the moment he's being considered in return.

The number interrupts whatever he might have been thinking about it, and between that and the tipsiness, there's a blink before the reference arranges itself in his mind and brings another hint of a smile with it. "Thirty-five," he echoes, drawing the second number out a fraction, "well." His chin lifts subtly. "As a rule, I say give no quarter. But I might be willing to make an exception. Fairly sure I've got one somewhere at home."