It's Wear a Plunger On Your Head Day!

oil on canvas, 2007

December 18th is traditionally Wear a Plunger On Your Head Day, a day that ex-bounty hunter Vern Halsey and his beloved Komodo Dragon, Felix, continue to celebrate almost entirely by themselves.
I've looked high and low, and while I've found several sources of documentation confirming this holiday's existence, nowhere have I found any explanation—and I'd settle for an implausible one—for said existence.

Nonetheless, there really is something inherently funny about plungers, something that goes beyond pure potty humor, something about their clumsy shape and vaguely onomatopoetic appellation, coupled with the lack of romance to be found in their one true function.

For all the unsavory qualities of their calling, there is something friendly or at least nonthreatening enough about a plunger that some ninny out there would not only suction one of those terra cotta hued babies to his noggin, but declare a day of solidarity with all other such ninnies.

Smoothies!

Technically speaking... ahem...

A fruitful collaboration with St. John & Partners, a Jacksonville, FL, design firm, led to the creation of several full color illustrations for national nutritional product franchise Smoothie King’s 4th quarter promotional materials.

Owing to a new diet heavy on all natural fruit smoothies, holiday perennials Santa Claus, the Gingerbread Man, and a carrot-nosed snowman show off their virile new figures in an assortment of on-site banners, menus, and posters.

The final images were rendered in oils at various sizes, and delivered digitally for placement in their respective layouts.

The turnaround, from sketch to finish, was one week.

It's National Scrapple Day!

oil on paper, 13" x 22".
brush, pen and ink, 7" x 5"

"Leo 'Pops' Spirodopolous, proprietor and short order cook of the Possum Poke Diner, prides himself on shaping his scrapple into reconstituted animal shapes, which are rendered nearly unrecognizable once cooked. This, however, no one ever mentions to him."

For those of you too far west to have enjoyed this mid-Atlantic treat, scrapple is a yummy gray loaf of finely ground, boiled pork scraps mixed with cornmeal, salt, and pepper. It is best served sliced and fried, and tastes like, well, scrapple. Not sausage, not bacon, not even chicken, but its own unique oeuvre of olfactory stimulation, an achievement not often attained by offal-based processed breakfast side orders. While not quite a delicacy, this oft-maligned regional artery stopper is lauded fervently by its many flanneled defenders, and its mention in even passing conversation is met consistently with fanatical praise or unbridled nose-crinkling disgust.

Even among its supporters, the dish is frequently described as an acquired taste. The chilly Saturday morning my dad first tried to acquaint his young children with it, none of us could be sure what to make of it, for its texture and flavor defied even our most imaginative expectations. It should be noted, too, that in spite of its seeming malleability, it does not take well to being modeled into cool shapes before frying, and believe me, we tried.

Three new paintings.

Boxing Day, 2007. oil on paper, 10"x10"

Dog on the ice, 2007. oil on paper, 22"x22"

The blushing bride, 2007. oil on paper, 10"x10"

You are certainly not my neighbor's cat.

pen and ink, 5in. x 7 in.

That is, the skittish gray tabby we set the trap for
whose green eyes glared out at me
from beneath my shamefully uncool minivan.
You are not that cat.
Yet you return again and again,
drawn by a fly specked can of sun-warmed tuna
and hunkering silently in the corner of the cage
chagrined by your greed and gullibility perhaps.
Your gray coat reminds me of the wily mane
donned by an old writing professor of mine,
while your tail at a glance
resembles some ancient, exotic root vegetable.
And finally my friend,
if it must be pointed out,
your smell—
your smell is not spectacular.

Flat File Fridays!

various sizes, gouache on paper

I think it was January of 2006. My brother was ice fishing with a mug of Irish whiskey, a little snowman at his feet, courtesy of his soon-to-be-wife, Erika. It was cold and gray out, and the ice on the lake, solid since Thanksgiving, was blanketed in crusty snow.

I had to keep taking my gloves on and off in the course of these two studies, and at some point concluded that getting the face to look like his would take more time than my bared digits could handle. The sky was getting dark fast. I'm pretty sure I had my own coffee mug of whiskey too, poured over two rocks that over the course of an hour never got any smaller.

January of 2006 sounds about right. Anyway, it was cold.

National Collect Rocks Day

Really, it is. You should all head on out and celebrate.