Contribution to online fairy tale project: http://fairy-tale.tumblr.com/
As I was going to St. Ives booklet (wip’s)
“Each wife had 7 sacks”
The man with 7 wives
Frida Jorgen wrote a piece about rogue shamans, and how they manipulate weather to destroy villages. These are 3 of the 5 images published.
Ask anyone of my friends about me, and they will most likely warn you about my unbiased temper, how I spend my free time re-arranging the pages of my Moms treasured Danielle Steele book collection to mimick the muses of the Milan-Meme-Diaries, and that my favorite sport is Hockey. Since I was little my father would put skates on my feet as I slept, believing this to be a catalyst for sports talent. On Saturdays, he would fashion himself a papoose, slip my body inside, and transport me to the pond out back. Once there, he would prop me up in the goal and start firing pucks (I’d usually wake up after the third or fourth shot, as it took him a few minutes to get warmed up). I know all this because he would make my Mother film the whole, with her crying in the background.
The band who’s concerns were about to be greater than out-of-tune-instruments.
Here at the Strange Brew, Where the people are half as hilarious as the decorated walls themselves. One finds himself at the center of the universe. It is possible that if you add up all the streets and intersections in Manchester, the average coordinate is the exact point of this particular bar. This, of course, had nothing to do with the stabbing Wednesday night. I was watching this band, and the lyrics seemed a bit too offensive, even for my tastes. As the set went on, a hot air balloon came crashing down through the one huge skylight in the main pavilion. Everyone gasped as the sight of two limp bodies hung in balance, their balloon caught on the shards of glass. I don’t know what idiots would be in a hot air balloon at 11pm, but it had these huge letters on it that spelled “S-E-A-C-R-E-A-S-T” and something else. I was too distracted by the mayhem to be concerned with titles at this point.
I drew this guy before the band started playing, and believe that in his depression he wished for an accident like this to occur.
I heard a woman scream “THE BASSISTS HAS BEEN STABBED‘”. Apparently a shard of glass came down as debris, knocked over a vase from the booskehelf behind him, broke his glasses, and the shards from his lense shot right into his eyes. I think blind musician’s easy market, so who knows, maybe this was a blessing.
Kristina waiting for her Spokers-famous-special-signature
I knew today was going to end horribly when we decided to skip out on watching Everyone Loves Raymond and embark on a quest for Spokers-famous-special-signature. Its not a signature dish, but a gaint, hollowed out french fry that is stuffed with onions drenched in olive oil. Digesting that before noon is usually reserved for the Russian Knights of Columbus members. A group of people with an entirely different genetic makeup, one that is forged with the exact opposite of what Kristina and I posses(probably similar to that of a bear). But once the ipod shuffled to Boys Boys Boys, we considered ourselves invincible and stayed the course.
The bill came, it was over 25 dollars, we had played with fire.
Back home, the ‘Everyone Loves Raymond’ season 13 title menu looped in the background. Kristina tried to hit play all, but ended up throwing up. I watched this happen, and did nothing but lie motionless, mouth open, like a heroin addict.
We pushed boundaries today. When you push boundaries, sometimes they push back. It is why motorcyclists where leather, or why you dont see people with the title “bear handler”. Which is why I am starting my low carb diet, and why Kristina takes the long way to work.
crayon + ebony pencil / 15 x 17 / indigo (?) sketchbook
Sam Johnson posed for me a couple of weeks ago while I was stationed under the Williamsburg bridge.
“Haywood, here’s a nickel, draw me.”
Laughing, I quipped, “Sure Sammy, right after I dress in 90% business casual attire, aquire a 136lb striper-fish, and beat the Huffington’s out of your Grande Larmarge.”
He sat down, popped a lozenge, and proceeded to tell me how some softy-bakers-date decided to give him attitude after he repeatedly asked her to shut the other side of his car door. She shouted about his bandanna, and how she would never give a guy of his mediocre appearance a chance at courtship. Now, apparently Sammy has a weak bladder, and I do not hold it against him or remark about it in a sardonic way. But he piddled right in front of this girl. In fact, the stain was still there when he sat for me.
“Sammy, I’m sure she didn’t notice, I can barely see it.”
“That’s because you’re glasses are broken, and why are using crayons? What happened to the oils my uncle bought you?”
I pretended not to hear, because the truth is I re-gifted the oils to my Native American nephew for his 13th birthday. Sensing this, Sammy jolted forward, slapped me in the face, and yelled, “You son of a bitch! See this lock of hair? This is your Mothers, I am using it as a good luck charm!”
My Mother was formerly known as, ‘The Village Shaman’, and she had made a successful life for herself convincing podunk villagers that locks of her hair brought good fortune. Knowing the con, I was surprised when our village caught fire the day of my mothers death, destroying everything but the bakery.
“Sammy, there hasn’t been an authentic Mothers-Lock since 1877, and from the day you’re having I think that lock belongs in the rubbish.”
He looked up to make eye contact with me, I was not used to seeing him cry but I could tell that him posing for me helped. He sniffled, punched my arm, told me the drawing sucked, and scampered away.
Mountain Top (1) // crayons / ebony pencil + love
After the TAJ (un-related trip) // crayons / ebony pencil
Hill (221) // crayons / ebony pencil
Portrait of Gilford, the office hero
Dear Diary:
When I arose from my dreams this morning, even after I began the brew that was to be my morning coffee, I wrinkled my clothes for the day. I wrinkled them like a woman with a gun was threatening me, saying things like “Wrinkle those clothes or I’ll blow your head off, Please..” She was very polite, but that did not mean I slacked on the task at hand. At work my coworkers made “witty” remarks like “What did you do to piss the misses off this time?” and “Must have been really bad if he had to sleep out side!” Jesus Christ, I’m not even married. Do these people have any idea who I am? Screw the wrinkle monger and her gun, I’m glad I did this. I want everyone to laugh at me, because laughter is the key to happiness. If wearing clown shoes on Wednesdays doesn’t, well gosh darnit, I’ll make them all happy at my ego’s expense. I’m in dire straits with my mission, and this was a last resort. But it’s working, the wrinkles are reuniting my fellow paper pushers by forcing them to work together to top the last insult. Inside I’m smiling along with them, but they won’t know that.
b. 1986 (New Hampshire)
Illustrates freelance - available for commission
Recognition:
India is just one of those places Rob had to take me. I have to say though, when it was all said and done my body adjusted to the local flora way worst than expected. But because I was there on business, no matter how sick, I was still expected to give hot-air-balloon tours over Amritapuri. Boy, were my passengers hurting. I wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that I was crapping myself, I looked into their eyes, telegraphing my pain. One man finally said, “Enough aleady! Jesus Christ man, take the day off. This is brutal.” I passed out and awoke in the arms of my former-college-roomate. He had organized an air evacuation to Sri-Lanka where doctors tended to my recovery. I did however get my $1300 Andy Warhol inspired Berluti loafers back from the punk who stole them at the Taj. Thank God for my friend and his military’s gun allowance, so I could threaten the young boys life in front of his family.
