from my sketchbook: jeffrey dampier

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'cause when I win the lottery, the righteous will shake their heads and say that God is good but surely works in mysterious ways
Jeffrey Dampier Jr. won a $20-million Illinois Lotto jackpot in 1996. He bought houses and cars for his siblings and parents. In 2001, he bought a half-million dollar home near Tampa, Florida. He also purchased a townhouse for his parents close by. Several family members followed Jeffrey to the Florida Gulf Coast because he liked to be surrounded by family. He arranged for monthly family dinners at area restaurants. He opened a gourmet popcorn store and named it for his grand-daughter and his mother and brother helped run it. For Christmas, Jeffrey treated 38 members of his family to a seven-day Caribbean cruise. He was the family member everyone could count on for business advice, auto repair, even babysitting.

In July 2005, Victoria Jackson called her brother-in-law Jeffrey from her apartment and told him she was having car trouble. Jeffrey told her he’d be right over. When he arrived he was greeted by Victoria and her boyfriend Nathaniel Jackson (no relation to Victoria). And they greeted him with a gun. Victoria and Nathaniel forced Jeffrey into his van and bound his hands and feet. Even though Jeffrey had been extremely generous with his lottery winnings, Victoria and Nathaniel wanted more. Nathaniel handed the gun to his girlfriend and said, “Shoot him or I’ll shoot you.” Victoria squeezed the trigger, firing once in the back of Jeffrey’s head. After robbing him of several thousand dollars, they abandoned the van with Jeffrey’s body at an intersection and fled on foot. They were apprehended by police two days later. Although he had spent a large portion of the stolen money, Nathaniel was picked up with an amount of blood-stained bills.

At the trial, it was revealed that Jeffrey had made sexual advances towards Victoria years earlier. It was also alleged that Jeffrey had controlling grasp on Victoria’s life. Nathaniel was doubly jealous of Jeffrey’s good fortune and his relationship with his girlfriend. After two hours of deliberation, Victoria was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences for the charges of carjacking, kidnapping and first-degree murder. In a separate trial, Nathaniel received the same sentence.

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IF: strong

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This week’s challenge word on the Illustration Friday website is “strong”.
Fiddle-dee-dee. War, war, war; this war talk's spoiling all the fun at every party this spring.
“Of the four wars in my lifetime, none came about because the U.S. was too strong.”
— Ronald Reagan

On a recent trip to Walt Disney World, my wife and I witnessed something we found very unsettling. To alleviate the effects of the central Florida humidity, we ducked into The Hall of Presidents. Walt Disney World’s Hall of Presidents is an impressive expansion of Disneyland’s Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln attraction. The Disneyland version features a single, multi-articulated, Audio-Animatronic figure of the sixteenth president, similar to the original attraction that appeared at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York.

For those not familiar with the attraction, after a stirring and patriotic film offering a very brief history of our country, the heavy curtain is raised to reveal a darkened stage and the full-size figures of the Commanders-in-Chief. As each one is spotlighted and introduced by a disembodied voice, the other presidents shift and fidget eerily in the background. Mr. Lincoln then rises from his seat and delivers a sort of “medley” of his speeches. (Since 1993, Lincoln’s speech has been trimmed down to allow for a few words from the current president.) Although my wife and I have seen this presentation countless times over the years, we still marvel at the overwhelming and pride-producing (if not campy) spectacle.

On this particular day, we watched as the film played as usual and the curtain rose as always. However, this time, as the presidents were identified, each was greeted by a small smattering of applause. (May I remind you that, as remarkable as these figures are, they are just a few steps above a department store mannequin.) When Lincoln was introduced, the cheers increased slightly and reduced again at the mention of Andrew Johnson and the twenty-one presidents that followed him. When they reached Ronald Reagan, the fortieth president, the crowd erupted in a wild and frenzied ovation. Hoots and whistles filled the darkened theater. The applause carried into George Bush’s introduction and then audibly escalated again at the mention of George W. Bush’s name. My wife and I turned to each other. In the darkness, we could see that we each had the same dumbfounded look on our faces.

Ronald Reagan was one of the most beloved presidents in this country’s history — and I can’t figure out why. As president of the Screen Actors Guild, Reagan provided the FBI with names of suspects whom he believed to be communist sympathizers within the motion picture industry, stating, “I never, as a citizen, want to see our country become urged, by either fear or resentment of this group, that we ever compromise with any of our democratic principles through that fear or resentment.”

As governor of California, Reagan was involved in high-profile conflicts with the protest movements. On May 15, 1969, during protests at UC Berkeley, Reagan sent the California Highway Patrol and other officers to quell the protests, in an incident that became known as “Bloody Thursday.” Reagan then called out the National Guard to occupy the city of Berkeley for two weeks in order to crack down on the protesters.

As President, he proliferated the frightened paranoia that began with Richard Nixon. He sold arms to Iran to fund the Contras in Nicaragua, then lied (or conveniently forgot) about his involvement. He spent his first term ordering a massive military buildup in an arms race with the USSR. In the early 1980s,  he supplied weapons to groups of “freedom fighters” in Afghanistan — led by a young Osama Bin-Laden — citing their common cause against Communist Russia. Those weapons would later be used against the US in their efforts in Afghanistan in 2001. He stood for the arrogance and elitism that has ruled the Republican Party — a mindset that has carried through every Republican administration since.

Bill Clinton was impeached for lying in court about his extramarital affair, an infraction that, while I do not condone it, essentially only affected President Clinton and his wife. Ronald Reagan sold arms to an enemy of the United States (the definition of treason) and his effigy receives wild praise at a theme park attraction.

Can someone offer a reasonable explanation? But don’t bother me calling from Walmart.

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IMT: chair

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This week’s inspirational word on Inspire Me Thursday is “chair”.
I suck, I suck/I move the big chair in the little truck/My luck has gone away/Big chair and little truck

My brother was born in 1957. The Pincus family was a nice, sweet, calm family for four and a half years. Then little Josh was born and all hell broke loose.

It began when I was brought home from the hospital. My parents thought it would be nice if the baby brought a present for his big brother. They stopped at a toy store on the way home from the hospital. My father ran in and, being 1961, had no problem purchasing a wood and metal rifle for his older son as a gift from his infant. My mother and father arrived home with brand new baby Josh. At first, my brother expressed disappointment at the sight of a baby. When my mom had explained that a “new playmate” would be coming, he expected one of his own age immediately ready to play. He never imagined it would come in the form of a whining and crying poop machine. The gift of the rifle softened his initial reaction — until years later, after mastering walking and hand-eye coordination, I broke that rifle.

The family home, in a budding Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood, was a great place. My brother had a huge backyard in which to romp and play and develop his eventual athletic ability. Access to the large front lawn was unobstructed and it offered a comparable open space. When I gained confidence in my walking skills, my parents were forced to construct a chain-link fence around the perimeter of their property, complete with a hinged gate with a large steel padlock. My mother often told of the endless hours I would spend trying to pick that lock and plotting my escape.

I started kindergarten at Stephen Decatur Elementary School in 1966. My mom began a small business of transporting my classmates from the neighborhood to kindergarten. She drove a station wagon that featured a large flat area behind the front seats when the rear seats were folded down. Approximately fifteen tykes were sloshed around the back of that car unencumbered by seatbelts or any sort of safety restraints. After all, this was the freewheeling 60s and child safety was not a concern. My classmates’ parents were happy not to be burdened with driving their kids to school themselves, so, for this service, my mom received a small weekly fee. My mom kept that service up for thirteen years, with the fee escalating only slightly.

My parents were a bit apprehensive about the start of my school career. They were very familiar with my out-of-control behavior, but few people outside of the family were. Once I entered the classroom and was introduced to my classmates, things were pretty uneventful. I listened to my teacher and did as I was instructed. I happily and complacently participated in playtime, storytime and whatever-else “time” that was part of the curriculum. One day, I witnessed a fellow kindergartner push another student. In full view of the entire class of wide-eyed, innocent pupils, the offending five-year old was led to a large wooden chair situated in a corner of the room. He was reprimanded by the teacher and made to sit in “The Big Chair” and think about what he had done. He sat as if in the pillory in a colonial townsquare, on public display, open to the class to bestow their silent mockery upon him. After a period of time, his sentence was served and he was free to rejoin the class activities. I, however, was intrigued by the Chair. It was so big and ominous, sitting at the far end of the classroom in a veritable “no man’s land”. During regular classtime, no one played near it. The teacher read stories far away from it. When we rested on our mats for naptime, the Chair stood silent and menacing in that dimly-lit room. As the days and weeks went on, several more of my classmates committed offenses worthy of a stretch in The Big Chair. As I observed them in their dire, sometimes tearful state, suddenly, it occured to me — I needed to sit in that chair. I thought about what horrible act, what heinous deed I could perform to get to sit in that Chair. I was determined.

Honestly, I don’t remember what I did. After all, it was 43 years ago. But, it was something. Something so awful that my teacher had no choice but to make me sit in that Chair. I was elated. I was led to the Chair as a death row inmate is led to his final destination. I climbed up the wooden rungs of its thick legs and planted my butt on its huge flat seat. The view from up there was not as rewarding as I had imagined. The feeling that those staring tiny and forlorn faces gave me was not what I had hoped for.

It sucked being in The Big Chair.

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from my sketchbook: oliver sipple

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I want to be alone
Oliver Sipple stood in the crowd. He was no different from the other 3,000 people gathered outside San Francisco’s St. Francis Hotel hoping to catch a glimpse of President Ford. As the President emerged from the building, Oliver looked and saw the woman next to him pull out a .38-caliber pistol and aim it at Ford as he headed to his limousine. Oliver lunged at the woman, Sara Jane Moore, just as her finger squeezed the trigger. The deflected bullet hit cab driver John Ludwig (who would survive). The police and the Secret Service immediately commended Oliver for his action and bravery. President Ford thanked him with a letter. The news media praised him as a hero. Oliver felt the praise and attention was unwarranted and shyed away. He was a former US Marine and Viet Nam veteran and instinctively did what anyone with his training would have done. The press hounded him. He pleaded to be left alone.

Oliver was gay and, although he participated in Gay Pride events, this was 1975 and his sexual orientation was a secret from his family. He begged the press to keep his sexuality off the record, making it clear that neither his mother nor his employer had knowledge of his orientation. The media ignored his request. San Francisco City Councilman Harvey Milk contacted the newspapers and proudly proclaimed Oliver’s status as a hero and role model for the gay community — all against Oliver’s wishes. Oliver was besieged by more reporters, as was his family. His mother, a staunch Baptist in Detroit, refused to speak to him. Milk publicly suggested that Oliver’s sexual orientation was the reason he received only a note from the President, rather than an invitation to the White House.

Oliver filed a $15 million invasion of privacy suit against seven newspapers, and a number of unnamed publishers. The Superior Court in San Francisco dismissed the suit, and Oliver continued his legal battle until May 1984, when a state court of appeals held that Oliver had indeed become news, and that his sexual orientation was part of the story.

Oliver’s mental and physical health sharply declined over the years. He drank heavily and his weight ballooned to 300 pounds. He was fitted with a pacemaker. He became paranoid and suicidal. On February 2, 1989, he was found dead in his bed at his $334 per month apartment, at the age of forty-seven. Earlier, Oliver had visited a friend and said he had been turned away by the Veterans Administration hospital where he went concerning his difficulty in breathing due to pneumonia. Friends going through his affects in his apartment came across his most prized possession — the framed letter from the White House.

Shortly before he died, Oliver expressed, to friends, his regrets toward grabbing Sara Jane Moore’s gun.

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from my sketchbook: donnie moore

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we're talkin' baseball...

In his thirteen season career, Donnie Moore posted a 43-40 record and a 3.67 ERA. He was even selected to the All-Star team in 1985.

Donnie’s downfall came on October 12, 1986. He was pitching for the Angels in Game 5 of the 1986 American League Championship Series in Anaheim. The Angels held a 3-1 lead in the best-of-seven series against the Boston Red Sox. The Angels held a 5-2 lead in Game 5 going into the ninth inning. Boston rallied and put two more on the scoreboard on a home run by Don Baylor, closing the gap to 5-4.

Donnie came in to shut down the Red Sox and win the series and the first-ever pennant for the Angels. There were two outs and a runner on first. Boston’s Dave Henderson ran a count of  2-2. The Angels were one strike away from advancing to the World Series. Henderson stood in and took Donnie’s next pitch out of the park, giving the Red Sox a 6-5 lead. The Angels scored in the bottom of the ninth, forcing the game into extra innings.

Donnie remained in the game for the tenth and, after a double play, Donnie got the Angels out of the inning. Unable to score in the bottom of the tenth, the Angels sent Donnie back to the mound in the top of the eleventh inning. Donnie put Don Baylor on base and, again, he faced Dave Henderson. Henderson belted a sacrifice fly to the outfield, scoring Baylor. The Angels could not score in the bottom of the 11th, and lost the game 7-6. The Angels lost the remaining games at Boston’s Fenway Park and lost the series. Donnie became indelibly associated with the Angels’ loss of the pennant and it haunted him for the rest of his days. Donnie was released by the Angels at the end of the season. He signed a minor league contract with the Kansas City Royals. He appeared in a few games in the Kansas City farm system and was released from his contract.

On July 18, 1989, during an argument with his wife Tonya, Donnie shot her three times, in full view of their three children. Tonya and their 17-year old daughter Demetria fled from the house. Demetria drove her mother to the hospital. Both survived the shooting.

Back inside the house, still in the presence of one of his sons, Donnie fatally shot himself.

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IMT: pear

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The word of inspiration on the Inspire Me Thursday illustration blog is “pear”.
When it's Apple Blossom time in Orange, New Jersey, we'd make a peach of a ...
The poor pear. The pear has always gotten a raw deal. It’s been treated as a second-class fruit — the red-headed stepchild of the produce world.

New York City is “The Big Apple”, not the “Big Pear”.  An endearing term for a loved one is “the apple of my eye”. The noble apple stands for heart-stirring patriotism. It’s as “American as apple pie”, for goodness sake! Car enthusiasts long to paint their ride “candy apple red”, ’cause that would make it cherry. Apple sauce and apple juice are always at the forefront of baby’s first foods. As kids get older, Kellogg’s offers them Apple Jacks and McDonald’s offers apple slices as an alternative for french fries.

Apples even have enticing names like “Granny Smith” (how warm and homey!), “Red Delicious” and “Golden Delicious”. Do you think Steve Jobs just arbitrarily chose “Apple” for the name of his company? He didn’t go with “Pear” for a reason. Pears have stupid, almost unpronounceable names, like Bosc or D’anjou. And I don’t even know if I spelled those correctly. Sure, there’s Bartlett, too. Ever know anyone named “Bartlet”? He was that fat kid in elementary school. You know, the bookworm that everyone made fun of. And, of course, no one wants to be referred to as “pear-shaped”.

And it’s not just apples that overshadow pears. There are grapes with their tag as “Nature’s Candy”. The sour lemon is renowned for its deliciously refreshing summertime beverage. The mysterious pomegranate is also known as a Chinese apple to add to its appeal. There’s the sensuous strawberry, favored by candy-makers to dip into chocolate. There are bananas, with their splits and cream pies and their comedic notoriety from their peels. Slip on a banana peel and it’s funny. Slip on a pear peel and you’ll break your fucking neck. Even the exotic kiwi is chosen from a fruit basket before the lowly pear.

So, give a little support to the poor genus Pyrus L in the class of Maloideae in the subfamily Rosaceae.

And pass me an apple.

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IMT: cupcake

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The word of inspiration on Inspire Me Thursday is “cupcake”.
You've gotta take tea, won't you take it with me? What a gay time it will be.
As mentioned many, many times on this blog, I love going to Disney theme parks. I went to Walt Disney World for the first time when I was nineteen. My wife and I went to Walt Disney World on our honeymoon. We took our son to Walt Disney World many times on family vacations. In 2004, we decided to stray from our usual pilgrimage to Walt’s Florida amusement enterprise in favor of a more adult experience. We planned a trip to Las Vegas. Our plans included a room at Excalibur, The Strip’s version of Camelot with slot machines. We took in a kitschy show called “The Rat Pack Returns”, a tribute to the heyday of 1960s-era Las Vegas. Longing for the familiarity of a Disney theme park, we planned to rent a car and drive four hours through the Mojave to Anaheim, California, the home of Disneyland, Walt Disney’s original park.

Everyone told us we’d be greatly disappointed in Disneyland. After years of extended visits to the sprawling mecca that is Walt Disney World, Disneyland would seem like a shopping-center parking lot carnival. We were warned of its puny size, its lack of atmosphere and its ancient and dated rides. Defying all warnings, we went ahead with our plans. We enjoyed three days in Nevada’s Sin City and, with our rental car loaded with suitcases and snacks, headed across the desert.

We came off of Interstate 91 at the Harbor Boulevard exit. My wife maneuvered our rental left onto Harbor Boulevard, past a post office, several fast food restaurants, a few unfamiliar West Coast gas stations and many hotels varying in degrees of luxury. Just ahead, a familiar sight emerged from unfamiliar surroundings. The unmistakable retro-future shape of Space Mountain sprang up from behind some trees, just a few feet from midday traffic. Just beyond that, the ominous Hollywood Tower Hotel, home of Disney’s signature Tower of Terror ride, loomed above the pedestrians waiting for the green light signaling a safe crosswalk. Jesus Christ! Disneyland is right THERE!  Right there on the fucking street! Disneyland, for crissakes!

We located our hotel, checked in, hurriedly dumped our luggage and rushed across the street to Disneyland. Disneyland! Right across the street from our hotel!  It was a mere minute and a half walk to the entrance gate. Just beyond the gate was the familiar elevated railroad platform, although this one was emblazoned “Disneyland” instead of “Walt Disney World.” We walked through the tunnel underpass and were greeted by another familiar, yet slightly unfamiliar sight. Main Street USA looked like an old friend, yet also like a stranger. The turn-of-the-century buildings were slightly rearranged from our memory. The Camera Shop was at the end of the street. There was a magic shop on the corner instead of a candy store. And the candy store was in the middle of the block, across the street. It was like Twilight Zone Disney. And that’s how the rest of the park presented itself, as a slightly skewed version of our beloved Florida Magic Kingdom. However, the more time we spent exploring and experiencing Walt Disney’s original dream, the more endearing and charming it became. There were rides (like Pinocchio’s Daring Journey) that were exclusive to Disneyland and old favorites (like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride) long removed from its Florida counterpart. We fell in love with Disneyland and enjoyed it so much, we returned for four consecutive summers.

In the early summer of 2008, my wife returned to Walt Disney World for a two-week trip with her family — a trip on which my son and I were not invited. While I went to work, I kept in regular cellphone contact with my wife. She told of new attractions, new additions and reminded me of Disney World favorites almost brushed from my memory. She also reminded me of those cupcakes. The Walt Disney World bakeries offer an over-sized, butter cream frosting-topped, parchment cup full of heaven. And they are everywhere! In every park. In every hotel. At every restaurant. I had forgotten about them until I was reminded of their deliciousness. When she finally returned home, along with more stories of Walt Disney World adventures, I began to think about making another visit to the park I thought I’d never visit again.

Last week, my family and I returned from a week at Walt Disney World. I can honestly say, I was a little disappointed. Walt Disney World caters to the masses. It has become the destination for the lowest common denominator. Don’t get me wrong — the place is magnificent. The detail and theming of the resort hotels is beautiful. The staff throughout Disney property is wonderful and will bend over backwards to make sure their guests are exceptionally happy. The problem is the tourists. Walt Disney World draws a noticeably different clientele from Disneyland. Disneyland is a quaint, yet overly clever, amusement park in the middle of a major city suburb. Southern California residents can wake up in the morning and say “Hey! Let’s go to Disneyland!” A trip to Walt Disney World, however, is as involved as plotting a military coup. Our hotel in Anaheim was — no exaggeration — a few steps from the Magic Kingdom. Our accommodations in Walt Disney World, because of the massive size of the Disney-owned property, was a long walk to a bus stop followed by a fifteen minute bus ride, followed by another long walk to the front gate of a theme park. All in 95% humidity or sporadic thunderstorms. At the end of a grueling thirteen hour day of tiring fun, the process of returning to our hotel was an additional and unwelcome nearly sixty minutes.

Sure, there is plenty of ingenious design in Walt Disney World, but the majority of it is lost on the screaming kids in their Bibbity-Bobbity-Boutique makeovers, the angry dads in their horrific Hawaiian shirts and Bluetooth headsets and the preoccupied moms in their Kate Gosselin haircuts, methodically marking off each conquered attraction on their park guide map. Walt Disney World is the perfect vacation objective for the WalMart-shopping, Larry the Cable Guy-watching, Hannah Montana-buying nuclear family. And Disney knows it.

While we did have a good time in Walt Disney World, seeing new attractions and experiencing new sights, I don’t see myself returning any time soon. I look forward to a trip to Disneyland next year. Although, Disneyland doesn’t have those damn cupcakes.

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IF: caution

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The Illustration Friday challenge word this week is “caution”.
vagabonds and troubadours and chimbley sweeps
A Cautionary Song by The Decemberists

There’s a place your mother goes when everybody else is soundly sleeping
Through the lights of beacon street
And if you listen you can hear her weeping,
She’s weeping, cause the gentlemen are calling
And the snow is softly falling on her petticoats.
And she’s standing in the harbour
And she’s waiting for the sailors in the jolly boat.
See how they approach

With dirty hands and trousers torn they grapple ’til she’s safe within their keeping
A gag is placed between her lips to keep her sorry tongue from any speaking, or screaming
And they row her out to packets where the sailor’s sorry racket calls for maidenhead
And she’s scarce above the gunwales when her clothes fall to a bundle and she’s laid in bed on the upper deck

And so she goes from ship to ship, her ankles clasped, her arms so rudely pinioned
‘Til at last she’s satisfied the lot of the marina’s teeming minions, and their opinions

And they tell her not to say a thing to cousin, kindred, kith or kin or she’ll end up dead
And they throw her thirty dollars and return her to the harbour where she goes to bed, and this is how you’re fed

So be kind to your mother, though she may seem an awful bother,
and the next time she tries to feed you collard greens,
Remember what she does when you’re asleep

Click HERE to hear the Decemberists’ “A Cautionary Song“.

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