Post #49 (0110001)

Cigar Box Guitars…  :). Happy New Year. 

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Post #48 (0110000)

Testing some media…  most notably using rubber cement as a masking fluid which worked pretty well…  spritzer bottles with cyan, magenta and yellow inks.  Fountain pen with Noodlers ‘heart of darkness’, Pentel brush pen, white gel pen, various brush pens with j.herbin inks, and some isopropyl alcohol washes in spots…  

Post 44 (0101100)


I rarely read the news, mostly just a quick skim over it. I found this today; ‘scromiting’.  

I’m having a hard time believing this is completely true for only one reason; when I draw, I ‘become’ what I draw as I’m drawing it – I scrunch up my face and feel what muscles and things are doing – a sort of recording of myself acting it out, my own internal model…  That said; I just don’t think it is physically possible to simultaneously vomit and scream.  I could be wrong but I’m still trying to picture how that could possibly work.  Perhaps, screaming between vomiting.  But even then, just gasping for air is kind of a gift…

It is believable in another sense, though, and there is a small bit of schadenfreude with the thought of this being real; the small handful of pot-smokers I know are all complete chronics; the sort who are stoned 24/7 and who swear that it is THE BEST and MOST MAGICAL thing on earth, with no risk whatsoever.

Maybe it is.  I only know that both times in my entire life where I wound up in the emergency room, smoking pot was a direct contribution to how I wound up there.  It doesn’t mix with my body chemistry.

This isn’t meant to be anti-pot; I smoke cigarettes and cigars and drink beer, and occasionally whiskey- and coffee.  I love them all for different reasons, and how they make me function at different points in the day.  I get it; we all have things that feel amazing to us.  I never criticize, and am happy to count the virtues of my favorite things.

But the few I know who smoke pot always seem to criticize anything that isn’t pot.  I don’t think I have ever seen any of them not stoned.  And despite it’s magical qualities and ability to heal pretty much every known malady and have no risk whatsoever, they all, without exception, suffer from the most crippling anxiety I’ve ever seen, to the point that functioning in certain social situations reduces them to vomiting; sometimes for days…  

Post 43 (0101011)

Montecore.  Photoshop color over pen sketch.  I named him Montecore after the white tiger that mauled Roy Horn.  Monte (as I call him), showed up on my back deck in the summer of 2009.  Earlier that same year I was invited to a wedding for a former client (who also happened to be my Veterinarian), in Las Vegas.  It was planned down to the minute for pictures and activities.  One of them was to visit Sigfried and Roy’s magic garden (i.e. – a small courtyard with white tigers in cages that smelled fantastically of ammoniating cat piss….). 

I’d seen him (the cat) for about a month prior – on walks with my dog along a 1/2 mile long stretch of greenbelt – darting across the street and disappearing into the woods.  Every day he appeared sooner and sooner in the walk.  Then one day I didn’t see him on the walk – but later discovered him asleep atop my barbecue, basking in the sun.  After 3 days of a strange solitaire, me trying to pretend he wasn’t there, I managed to get him into a carrier and took him to the vet.  By that time, of course, he’d coaxed his way onto my lap and was the most affectionate little thing I’d ever had – aside from random bites while I petted him…  

Steve checked him over, guessed he was about a year old, a male, neutered but no microchip…  He enlightened me about the biting.

“Love Bites”, he said with a grin – apparently it’s a sign of extreme affection (wait…  what the hell!?!). Then he told me the options; that few people adopt male cats that are a year old from shelters.  He told me I could keep him, but that he’d need to be an indoor cat – eagles, coyotes and racoons, all which lived in my backyard (along with cars that drove up and down the street) would pretty much limit his lifespan to a year if he was lucky.

So he moved in, and I – allergic and never particularly fond of cats – suddenly owned one.  

He’s been a joy and I love him.  I’m glad he adopted me, and that he’s fat and lazy and content to sit in the window and watch birds…  and that he’s fun to watch and draw little comical versions of…