During the late 60’s The Wife (then Girl Friend ) and I were art majors at a small liberal arts college in Thousand Oaks California. Two years ago someone decided to have an Alumni art show so all us Art majors who went on to work in totally different fields because we didn’t like the starving part of life as an artist, could exhibit our most recent works. Having not done anything “serious” in decades, I decided to show-off this sketchbook.
It was a real treat to have actual real live people look at it in person. Before the show, I only got to exhibit my work in the blog-0-sphere, which is virtually like real life, but doesn’t count. If ya wanna be an exhibitionist, you gotta do it in person.
I sure hope all you folks who stop by here for a hallucination are real people, and not Russian bots (whatever that is) tryin’ to influence me politically. If I wanna be influenced, I’LL chose what I’m under the influence of. That’s because Hansi is an all-American boy. I only eat hamburgers, drink Coca-Cola, and have a slice of apple pie every day. I don’t like Vodka or the Russian version of roulette!
Wouldn’t it be weird if we could just walk around and change colors at whim. I’m not talking about me turning from an old white man into an old black man. But what if ya wanted to, based on the environment, you had the ability to turn orange, or maybe even have blue dots all over ya. Should, of course the situation warrant. You’ve heard of being ‘green with envy’. Well, if that manifested itself in diamonds, you’d know it was a bad case.
Emotions have colors. Depression is blue. Rage and anger is red Cowardice is yellow, and white is pure, black evil. The Wife often asks me why I show all my “pornographic” drawings all over the internet, “Aren’t you embarrassed?”. Turning pink, I respond, “why no sweetheart, it’s not ‘porn’, it’s art. And all my Internet friends say they really like it”. Wonder what color you turn when you’re lying’ your ass off? May be orange with yellow hair?
Lapidation is another word for stoning, like when convicted law violators were stoned as punishment (usually for adultery). Today, getting stoned has a totally different meaning. [I love finding new obscure words, so when I’m sitting in my recliner listening to music with headphones on (no ear-buds for me), drawing in a sketchbook and writing blog posts, and The Wife asks me, “Are you stoned again?” I can reply, “Why no sweetheart, just a little lapidated”.]
Stoning was a pretty harsh punishment, especially for one who was a probation officer for thirty years; we only got to throw ‘the book’ at people. Stoning was a community event. Everybody got to participate. That way no one individual took the blame for the killing. “Hey, I only threw a rock”, was a common rejoinder. Jesus allowed only those who were without blame to throw the first stone. Guess ya had to be someone very special to go to the front of the line. Being first isn’t that big a deal anyway. it’s the last guy (or gal) who casts the final stone that really counts. Kinda like being the straw that broke the camel’s back except a lot heavier. The first ‘caster’ probably isn’t gonna do much damage, unless he’s a good shot. It’s the last guy who gets to teach the adulterer a lesson they’ll never forget. The first shall be last, and the last shall be first!
Should be May June, July. It’s more orderly, sequential, and they follow each other on the calendar. There’s a seven month gap in there when I didn’t visit my sketchbook. Maybe I take my sketchbook for granted, it’ll be there, waiting for me. Wonder if it gets pissed at me for not paying enough attention?
There is, after all, a whole world in there with a life of its own. When my sketchbook is closed, all the drawings start movin’ around, and sometimes even go to other pages (but that rarely happens as they are usually to busy defiling one another to go anywhere else). When I open my book, they all immediately freeze and try to pass themselves off as the real deal, but sometimes they’re just a little too slow.
I wonder if we’re ever gonna build a wall between the U.S. and Mexico. If we do, and that could sure take a long time cause Mexico has to save up a lot of pesos to pay for it, I sure hope it looks like the one in my drawing. This is how it would look from the Mexican side. A lot of enticements to come on over. Hot Dog Man has a lot to offer, but only if ya come legally. So ya better watch-out or ya might end up behind bars.
What if this is how the wall would look like from the American side, like somewhere in Texas. Senior Hot Dog Mon unleashing all these foreign objects over the wall. Pretty scary! And…What if the wall wasn’t meant to keep them out , but to keep us in?
This one really doesn’t need any explanation. Sometimes I like to work on a theme, and the theme for mid August last year was women on fish hooks. Women often times fix themselves up in order to be more attractive to men: earrings, eye shadow, jewelry, a little cleavage, all man-attracting items. This is not unlike when I go trout fishing in the Sierras. If I wanna catch a fish, I gotta put something on my hook that they like. What they see in a sparkly pink globule of freshly out of the jar Power Bait is beyond me. But it works every time – stupid fish.
I think these drawings would have worked out better if I had a model to draw from. Sadly, The Wife refused, and I only had my imagination, and warped sense of anatomy to go on. Image yourself in your living room, sitting in your favorite recliner, feet up, eyes closed blissfully listening to the Doors “Light My Fire”, when all of a sudden women on fish hooks start descending from the ceiling. Would you snap at one like a fresh out of the hatchery trout, or, would you think twice? I’d like to think that I’m a better man than that. I’d also like to think that I’m still 18 years old, and a lot of other things that ain’t never gonna happen.