The illustrationfriday.com challenge this week is “repair”.
This guy is one of the coolest guys I know. And I’ve known him for a very long time. Twenty-one years, as a matter of fact.
He began to read at three. He recognized Beatles songs and sang Grateful Dead songs at four. He began to master Hebrew by second grade. He gained a vast musical knowledge that stretched across many genres and reached far beyond his years. He is as smart as a whip, having made dean’s list in four consecutive college semesters. He hosts a weekly four-hour internet radio show (that is also broadcast on local HD radio here in Philadelphia), where he manages to sneak in some selections from his own eclectic musical tastes among the regular alternative rock programming. He assists in production on a popular long-time folk music radio show. He plays guitar, bass, ukelele and digeridoo. He’s a vegetarian. He doesn’t drive (by choice). He has given me inspiration for many of my illustrations. And he can really make me laugh.
Early one August morning in 1987, several hours after Joan River’s husband commited suicide in a Philadelphia hotel room, this cool guy was born. He weighed nine pounds and six ounces. He measured twenty-four inches long. I told his mother, “At that size, when he’s sick, aren’t you glad he doen’t have to go back in for repairs?”
I watched this cool guy come into the world.
This story continues to be written.
The challenge word on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “nice”.
Syd Barrett was a founding member of Pink Floyd. He provided the musical direction and psychedelic influence in the band’s early work. He recorded two albums with Pink Floyd and two solo releases before mental illness and heavy drug use put him into a self-imposed seclusion lasting more than thirty years.
Due to his abundant use of LSD, Barrett’s behavior on stage was unpredictable. He would strum on one chord through the entire concert. Sometimes he would not play at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation. Before a performance in late 1967, Barrett apparently crushed Mandrax and an entire tube of Brylcreem into his hair, which subsequently melted down his face under the heat of the stage lighting, making him look like “a guttered candle”.
Following a disastrous abridged tour of the United States, David Gilmour, a school friend of Barrett’s, was asked to join the band as a second guitarist to cover for Barrett as Barrett’s erratic behaviour prevented him from performing. For a handful of shows David played and sang while Barrett wandered around on stage, occasionally playing. The other band members soon tired of Barrett’s antics and, in January 1968, on the way to a show at Southampton University, the band elected not to pick Barrett up: One person in the car said, “Shall we pick Syd up?” and another person said, “Let’s not bother”.
Years later, in 1975 during the recording sessions for the “Wish You Were Here” album, Barrett showed up at the session unannounced, and watched the band record “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” — a song, coincidentally, about Barrett. By that time, Barrett had become quite overweight, had shaved off all of his hair, including his eyebrows, and his ex-bandmates did not at first recognize him. Eventually, they realized who he was and Roger Waters was so distressed that he was reduced to tears.
Barrett died in July 2006 of pancreatic cancer. The occupation on his death certificate was given as “retired musician.”
In 2006, his home in Cambridge, England, was placed on the market and attracted considerable interest. After over 100 viewings, many by fans, his house was sold to a French couple who bought the house simply because they liked it—reportedly they knew nothing about Barrett.
Syd Barrett once said, “Fairy tales are nice.” In his mind, he likely experienced a bunch of fairy tales.
This week’s challenge word on Monday Artday is “zombies”.
A zombie is a reanimated human corpse. Stories of zombies originated in the Afro-Caribbean spiritual belief system of Vodou.
One origin of the word “zombie” is “jumbie”, the West Indian term for “ghost”. Another is “nzambi”, the Kongo word meaning “spirit of a dead person.” According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the origin is from the Louisiana Creole or Haitian Creole “zonbi”, and is derived from Bantu. A zonbiis a person who is believed to have died and been brought back to life without speech or free will. It is similar to the Kimbundu nzúmbe ghost.
But, zombies were brought into popular culture by director George A. Romero in his shoestring budget film “Night of the Living Dead”. Originally conceived as an allegory for the dire times of late-1960s society, “Night of the Living Dead” emerged as a cult classic. A film historian described it as “subversive on many levels”. Although it is not the first zombie film, “Night of the Living Dead” is the forefather of the contemporary “zombie apocalypse” genre of horror film, and it became original model of all zombie films that followed.
Filming took place between June and December 1967. Props and special effects were fairly simple and limited by the budget. The blood, for example, was Bosco Chocolate Syrup drizzled over cast members’ bodies. Roasted ham was used for consumed flesh. Costumes were purchased at second-hand clothing shops, and mortician’s wax served as zombie makeup.
Romero produced the film for $114,000, and after a decade of cinematic re-releases, it grossed some $12 million domestically and $30 million internationally. On its release in 1968, “Night of the Living Dead” was strongly criticized for its explicit content. In 1999, the Library of Congress included it in the National Film Registry as a film deemed “historically, culturally or aesthetically important”.
And in the course of the entire 96 minutes that the movie runs, the word “zombie” is never spoken.
The illustrationfriday.com challange this week is “late”.
Roger was about to become “the late” Roger.
The Monday Artday challenge word this week is “robot”.
In the Oz books by L. Frank Baum, the origins of the character are rather gruesome. Originally, he was an ordinary man named Nick Chopper. Nick made his living chopping down trees in the forests of Oz. The Wicked Witch of the East cast a spell on his axe to prevent his marriage to the girl he loved. The cursed axe chopped off his limbs, one by one. Each time he lost a limb, Nick replaced it with a prosthetic limb made of tin. Finally, nothing was left of him but tin. The tinsmith who helped him, neglected to replace his heart.
SO ― He was eventually made entirely of metal, he had moving parts and he performed a designated task. Technically, each physical body part was replaced by a mechanical prosthetic appendage.
SO ― technically, he was a robot.
That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
With The 2008 Philadelphia Phillies headed to their first World Series in fifteen years, I can only think of my father. My father died the day The Phillies won the 1993 National League pennant. This would be the Phillies’ first trip to the World Series since their loss to The Baltimore Orioles ten years earlier. He didn’t live to see the team that went “from worst to first” — his team— go on to play their hearts out against The Toronto Blue Jays. He didn’t get to see the longest game in World Series history, most total runs scored in a single World Series game, and most runs scored by a losing team in a World Series game. He didn’t get to hear about the death threats made to Phillies closer Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams. He especially didn’t get to see Joe Carter’s walk-off home run. I believe that had my father lived, that would have killed him.
My father was the typical Phillies fan. He loved them when they were winning. After a Phillies win, he would smile and pump his fist, proclaiming “All the way, baby! All the way to the World Series.” When they were losing, he would snap the TV off in the fifth inning and grumble “Bums! They’re bums!”
My father was a simple guy who led a simple life. He was born in 1926 and was raised by his father, a bigot in the truest sense of the word, who my mother called “the dumbest man ever to walk this planet”. And by his mother, a stubborn, die-hard, Nixon-loving Republican, who my mother said “was too mean to die”. Unfortunately, my mother was right. My grandmother outlived my mother by four years and my father by two. My father’s simple pleasure was watching his Phillies. He grew up following and loving the Phillies. He loved to tell the story about how he cut school to go to a Phillies game. He saw a no-hitter and, because he was supposed to be in school, couldn’t tell anyone that he was there. Well, my father also liked to make shit up. It’s a great story, but Chick Fraser pitched a no-hitter for the Phillies in 1903 and they didn’t have another until Jim Bunning’s gem on Father’s Day 1964.
My father took my brother to Phillies games at Connie Mack Stadium. My mom and I would stay home and listen to the game on the radio. When I was old enough, my father took all of us to beautiful new Veterans Stadium. My father worked for local supermarket chain Pantry Pride and would get free tickets from his suppliers. My family would usually sit in the Oscar Mayer field box — about ten feet from first base. I remember during one game against The San Francisco Giants, shortstop Chris Spier threw a ball to first about twelve feet over the head of Giants’ 6-foot 4-inch firstbaseman Willie McCovey. McCovey looked at Spier in disbelief and my father said to me “He was throwing that ball to you!”
My father cheerfully related stories about Richie Ashburn and the “Whiz Kids” (the 1950 Phillies). He remembered with contempt the Phillies’ infamous 1964 ten-game season-ending collapse. Of course, he beamed when Tug McGraw struck out Kansas City’s Willie Wilson to win their one and only World Series in 1980.
Sure, the Phils made it to post-season a few more times in the early 80s, but they ultimately suffered some lean years. My father suffered right along with them, cursing them all they way.
I can still picture my father settling down in his chair to watch a Phillies game. He had a Tastykake Chocolate Junior and the biggest fucking glass of chocolate milk you ever saw. To one side there were a few packs of Viceroy cigarettes, which he would run through by the bottom of the third inning. He’d fall asleep by the fifth and wake up in the bottom of the ninth, in time to catch my mom attempting to change the channel. “I was watching that!” he would state indignantly.
Last night, as my wife, my son and I watched the Fightin’ Phils stomp the Los Angeles Dodgers right into the ground of Dodgers Stadium, I couldn’t help but think of my father. I think my son was channeling my father when he said “I can’t believe those bastards are going to the World Series!”
Well, Dad, it’s been fifteen years coming.
The current challenge on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “scary”.
Paul Goresh was a New Jersey college student and amateur photographer. He met John Lennon on two occasions by posing as a VCR repairman. He hung around outside of The Dakota with his camera hoping to get some pictures of Lennon. Paul was just a fan, but Lennon thought he was working for the press. Lennon didn’t want his picture taken and he felt Paul was harassing him. Paul just wanted to take candid photos of the ex-Beatle.
Paul explained to Lennon’s assistant that he didn’t work for the press and he was just a fan. Paul encountered Lennon several more times and Lennon eventually warmed up to Paul, sometimes inviting him on walks through upper Manhattan.
Around 4:15 PM on December 8, 1980, Lennon was met by Paul on the sidewalk in front of The Dakota. Paul raised his camera and began snapping pictures. He photographed Lennon signing a copy of Double Fantasy for another fan that Paul had met earlier. In approximately seven hours, that other fan, Mark David Chapman, would fire four bullets into Lennon and kill him.
The illustrationfriday.com challenge word this week is “strings”. This is the second of two illustrations I did for the subject. The first can be seen HERE.
I found two great (and unrelated) quotes for “strings”, so I decided to illustrate both.
“Most men, no matter how well or badly dressed, carry overstuffed, beat up wallets that should have been replaced years ago. Why is that every time I see a guy take out a wallet anywhere, it looks like a piece of old melted chocolate cake-with strings.”
— Jonathan Carroll, author
The illustrationfriday.com challenge word this week is “strings”.
“All gods are homemade, and it is we who pull their strings, and so, give them the power to pull ours.”
— Aldous Huxley
This is the first of two illustrations for this topic. HERE is the second.
The challenge this week on Monday Artday is “mad scientist”.
No doubt Nikola Tesla was a brilliant man. He was one of the world’s greatest electrical engineers. Aside from his work on electromagnetism and electromechanical engineering, Tesla contributed to the establishment of robotics, remote control, radar and computer science, and to the expansion of ballistics, nuclear physics, and theoretical physics. In 1943, the Supreme Court of the United States credited him as being the inventor of the radio. (Take that, Marconi!) And he spoke eight languages. But…
Tesla suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and had many unusual quirks and phobias. He did things in threes. He was adamant about staying in a hotel room with a number divisible by three. Tesla was physically revolted by jewelry, notably pearl earrings. He was fastidious about cleanliness and hygiene, and was by all accounts germophobic. He greatly disliked touching human hair other than his own. He disliked touching round objects.
He was obsessed with pigeons, ordering special seeds for the pigeons he fed in Central Park and even bringing some into his hotel room with him. Tesla was an animal-lover, often reflecting contentedly about a childhood cat.
Tesla was a loner and was soft-spoken. However, he displayed the occasional cruel streak. He openly expressed his disgust for overweight people, once firing a secretary because of her weight. He was quick to criticize others’ clothing as well, demanding a subordinate to go home and change her dress on several occasions.
Tesla died of heart failure alone in room 3327 of the New Yorker Hotel, some time between the evening of January 5 and the morning of January 8, 1943, at the age of 86. Despite having sold his AC electricity patents, Tesla was destitute and died with significant debts.
Mad scientist?
How about “Bat-shit whack-o”?
