Sometimes when I’m not having profound thoughts which need to be expressed to the world without delay, my drawing gets ahead of me and I have more illustrations than I do witty narrative to go along with them. That’s when I review my handiwork and see if they inspire anything. Most of the time my stuff is ripe for fantasy, [You should see my stats, there’s tons of perverts out there Googling all manor of raunchy filth who are automatically directed to my website] but for the life of me, I can’t come up with anything for this one. I’m drawing a mental blank. And having learned from Blogging 101: When you have nothing to blog about, blog about having nothing to blog about. At least that way you’re still blogging, and blogging is the most important thing in the world, being connected via social media (does blogging count?). Gotta stay connected.
Archive for the ‘What a Wanker’ Category
Some of you that have been following this blog, or have accidentally browsed my Archives may have wondered: “Hansi, Do you smoke pot?” And I’d have to truthfully say, rarely…. I prefer to use a vaporizer when I inhale cannabis, but what I really like is drinking it. “Drink it?” You may be thinking, “now we know you’re a stoner; ya can’t Drink marijuana”. Oh yes you can! All ya have to do is grind-up about three grams of your favorite herb (‘White Widow’ is mine and, something The Wife claims I’m turning her into by enjoying weed) place it into a double boiler with a 32 ounce box of Coconut beverage heat it up to 180 degrees for an hour and Wowie Zowie you have your own homemade “edible”, or should I say drinkable. In India it’s a wedding day favorite, they call it Bhang.
Using cannabis in old age is great. Ya feel good, all those aches and pain are gone (or forgotten) and ya don’t wake-up the next day feelin’ like shit with a red wine headache – just a good nights sleep. “Hey Hansi…That sounds pretty good but aren’t you afraid you’ll get addicted and have your life go down the tubes?” HELL NO! It’s not a ‘gateway drug’ which leads to harder drug use. That’s like saying pizza is a gateway food to obesity. Hmm. It’s pretty hard to have just ‘one slice’: usually it’s so good I end up polishing off the whole box (wonder if that’s why I’m getting fat?). But that’s totally different and a ridiculous comparison.
I’m not advocating drug use for seniors, although feeling mellow, relatively pain-free and happy is not a bad thing when you’re in your 70’s. I do add a disclaimer: If you have an addictive personality or are working a recovery program, Don’t use mind altering substances. Everything in this country is going straight down the shitter and you don’t need to spiral down with it.
So…What’s it like drinking pot? Well, there’s no coughing and sore irritated throat. It usually takes about an hour for your system to digest it and your liver (versus lungs) to get it into your blood stream. Then it just creeps up on ya. One might find themselves in their recliner listening to oldies then find yourself singing along and tapping your feet euphorically. There’s a wave of relaxation that travels down your body topped-off with a general feeling of well-being. Some times I wander into the computer room where The Wife is playing Spider Solitaire, and comment on something outta the blue. She often asks, “Have you been smoking pot?” Whereupon I respond, “Why no Sweetheart”. “I drank it,” I say to myself as I leave the room and put the headphones back on.
Hoping and coping, avoiding the downward sloping. No time for groping, hey, what have you been smoking? One thing is for sure. If ya wanna survive in the plague ridden Trumpian dystopia we’ve been forced to live in, ya gotta improve your coping skills. That doesn’t mean buying the best booze available or the most potent weed at your local dispensary to get by. Nope. Alcohol can work its magic temporarily, as will cannabis, but in the end I only feel shitty after drinking, and weed makes me paranoid, which is a Major side-effect in this scary-ass world we live in.
I thing coping entails dealing with change. Accepting change, not resisting change and letting go of the things that have been changed. I can’t go to the gym anymore: too risky, and it’s closed anyway. Can’t have friends over for a dinner party: also risky. Can’t travel; way too risky. Can’t go to bars and hear live music: that’s a petri-dish of infection just waiting to happen. But…there’s a lot of things I can do. I can ride an actual bicycle on actual streets and not remain stationary. I can have friends over, just outside, weather permitting. And if I wanna hear some music, I can pick out one of my live albums (Big brother and the Holding Companies’ “Cheap Thrills” will do it). Don’t have to be in a crowded smoke-filled room with a bunch of obnoxious drunks to have some fun. I can get drunk and be obnoxious in my own living room, and maybe even have a toke or two. Life is still good.
Usually I prefer to fill this blog with witty rants from a slightly over medicated point of view about how America is going to hell in a hand-basket. But I wanted to forgo a diatribe about cities burning because yet another black man has died at the hands of the police, looters ransacking already struggling business, while the incapable and incompetent leadership at the very top of government wants to get our minds off of the Corona pandemic and only speaks to the needs of his ever shrinking political base. Instead, I’d like to focus on my drawing, which is increasingly becoming a refuge and “place of safety”
during these end times during these chaotic times which is not yet approaching the shit that went down in the 60’s but is getting pretty damn close. Oh well…gotta take solace in the fact that some things never change, and hop into my own little world where everything is fair, everyone is safe from harm and nothing is scary unless ya take a little bit too much medication – but that goes away fast, and it’s totally worth it.
So…this is a page in one of my smaller sketchbooks (brown paper). Can’t have too many sketchbooks and different sizes. Never can tell when ya might wanna draw the same ol’ crap you’ve been doing for years in a bigger size. My bigger sketch books look pretty much like the smaller ones. They are just filled with more small sketches because their pages are bigger.
My apologies to Albert King for butchering the lyrics to his song Born Under A Bad Sign wherein he laments that “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all”. How true! The Wife went out of town with a girl friend (not like in a gay girl-friend, just one of her female friends; of course if ya watch enough Project Runway you’ll find that term can easily apply to both men and women). So, I was left home alone for three days, and because all her friends knew she was going somewhere, We didn’t get a bunch of phone calls that weekend. Except…for Robo calls (guess they didn’t know). I did get one actual call, from a telemarketer. Who I asked, “Are you a Robo call?” When she replied, “Do I sound like a Robo call?”, I said “Yeah”, whereupon she hung up.
Being home alone when you’re 72 isn’t like “It’s party time!” And it’s definitely not like the movie about the kid who’s parents forgot about him and left him behind alone to fend off burglars (although if too much herbal medication is consumed paranoia can creep in and make ya wonder if every strange noise ya hear is a home invasion and all I’m stuck with to fight them off is my measly cane). I do get to play my music as loud as I want, and watch watch whatever ‘evil’ (meaning not a Hallmark Christmas movie) television show that I want. Big problem is, after two nights all the left-overs are gone and the carton of ice cream was nearly empty. That means cooking, and with cooking comes dish washing, and I like to keep my dish washing down to one utensil, a coffee cup, and maybe a bowl if I can’t microwave the container of leftovers.
Being home alone is okay once in a while, but I wouldn’t wanna do it all the time. It could get lonely. But at least I’d have Robo calls.
When I was a little kid, it was common knowledge that the three most strongest people in the world were God, Jesus and Superman. God of course had to be number one, He was God after all and created everything. Jesus was God’s son, so he had to be number two. Having grown up in the fifties, and having watched every episode broadcast weekly on TV, Superman was the obvious third. He didn’t have any supernatural powers like God and Jesus, but he could leap tall buildings at a single bound, was faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive. Best of all, he was American, and fought for truth, justice, and the American Way (which was the best way goin’ on back then, but not so much anymore, Some are trying to make it great again, but actually turning it into a shit-hole).
Superman was real! Sure God and Jesus are real, but in a pretend kinda way. They were too far away, up there in Heaven where they couldn’t be seen. Superman was real, you could see him every week. [ Do you ever wonder what God and Jesus talk about up there in Heaven? I bet not much. With all those prayers they gotta answer, it must get pretty noisy, what with millions of people asking for all kinda stuff; think celestial Amazon fulfillment center. That would drive me nuts! I would also wager, that Jesus is getting pretty antsy and more anxious to return to earth and clean things up. They see global warming and climate change coming, and know that if things continue along this path, there won’t be any people left to worship and pray to them. Then what? Are they just gonna hang it all up and write-off earth as an experiment gone bad, or will They just start all over again. If They do, I’d suggest they make all people the same color, and forego the foreskins this time around.]
These objects aren’t what you think they are, and if you do think they are, then you’ve got a dirty mind. Some people think I have a dirty mind, especially those that stop by this blog and look at my drawings. They may be right. The Wife definitely thinks I have a dirty mind, as did a lot of the girls I dated in High School.
Ever since I was a little kid, anything involving flatulence, self-defecation and barfing always tickled my funny bone. The really funny shit usually always centered around a rip-roaring fart. If there was sexual innuendo, all the better. Guess I was just an all American boy.
I think everybody has a bit of a dirty mind. And that’s not a bad thing… getting connected to your inner-filth can be very enlightening, when not scaring ya to death. All stuff forbidden is worthy of a snicker. If it’s frowned upon it’s worth investigating. If it’s illegal… I’ll pass. Don’t wanna break the law, cause that stuff goes on your permanent record. [I won’t even go on about that pedophile Jeffrey Epstien and how for once money was not able to save the rich and powerful when caught with their pants down. May he find eternal rest in a moderately low realm in Hell.]
Well. I better go and wash my mouth (and mind) out with soap.
I don’t know what it is, but I can’t seem to stop drawing sausage shapes. That’s about all I’ve been drawing lately, and I fear people with their filthy minds in the gutter, may think me to be some kinda pervert fixated on phallic symbols. Nothing could be further from the truth! I draw sausage shapes cause: they’re easy, familiar, and fun to draw and decorate with all sorts of costumes. Folks with a clean mind will think: Weiners, as in Oscar Mayer, not a bunch of floating Johnsons.
Recently I’ve come to realize that life is short, and forever closer than ya might think. At anytime, the Sweet Lord Jesus could swoop down from Heaven in His chariot of fire, scoop up my ancient ass and take me away to my eternal reward.
The first thing I’d say to Him , besides “Thank you Jesus” is: “Hey Lord, don’t forget my buddy Jock”.
A lot was going on in July of 2017. Unfortunately, this is just about all of it I can remember – and only because of thorough documentation,. I’m finding that if I don’t write it down , I’m not gonna remember it. [I haven’t found out yet that prioritizing things in order of importance is of any substantial value].
Although I’m glad that I did document these images, the downside of featuring the date so prominently, kinda sucks the possibility of other titles out of consideration. “Love Is In The Air” could have been a good one; “Hanging Loose In the Heavens” another. “No Time For Romance” is a hot one. “More Strange Shit” overstates the obvious. You can call it anything you want.
Here’s one I did two years ago way back in the good ol’ days of 2016. I was on a roll back then, just grinding out images based on a theme. I know….A lot of these things look like giant bratwursts afflicted with rare diseases. What can I say?
When I was in Germany visiting some relatives I’d never seen before, they decided to go all out and treat me to a German breakfast treat: Weiss-wurst. Weiss-
worst wurst are small white sausages, that are boiled, and to make them totally un-appetizing, usually served on a white plate. It’s made of veal (baby cows) and other assorted pork products. I think sausages, or other meat products encased in animal intestines, are gross, and nothing more than a way to recycle every part of the pig except the ‘oink’. [I think God intended us to eat our food from the outside in, Not inside out]. Who knows what you’re getting or where it came from? Although I may be a little fuzzy as to where bacon comes from, I sure knew which part of Porky Pig our Christmas hams came from.
Be sure to check-out this video for the fine art of eating Weisswurst.
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.
This past Christmas The wife hung these pine scented candles on our Xmas tree because the tree had no pine smell to it. How a pine tree doesn’t have a scent is beyond me. Maybe Monsanto has even genetically modified Xmas trees not to smell so they can sell us pine scented products (same division that makes the herbicide Round-Up) on the side. The problem was, to me, these scented candles smelled like the cakes they throw in urinals to keep the stink down. Kinda spoils the Yuletide festivities when your front room smells like a gas station restroom. Every time I stood next to our beautifully decorated tree to admire all the ornaments, I found myself unzipping my pants and wanting to take a whizz on it.
For any of you who remember Hot Dog Man…He’s back! This is what Hot Dog Man looks like when he’s had too much medication. Not that there’s anything wrong with too much medication; I do believe that everybody functions at their best when properly medicated. It’s that sometimes, too much is just…too much. But then again there’s a certain compelling logic to the “if a little is good, a lot is better” school of thought.
Despite the fact that I’m blurting this stuff out to the whole worldwide web (half a dozen followers for this blog) my drawings are not for general consumption. Hot Dog Man is kinda like an alter-ego for me. I get to act out through him, what The Wife never allows me to do when she’s home. I rarely show my sketchbooks to her friends. They’ll politely look through them, but are mostly aghast, and later question her about any obsessive-compulsive behaviors I might have. All a total embarrassment, which I happily post for your edification.