The Ballad of BILLY BOB QUIBBLE

Billy Bob Quibble was a boy of an unusual sort.
Unlike the other tikes, he ate sweet n spicy sauce fer sport.

He downed a bottle of rib sauce faster than a bullet.
Mama said it was cuz' of his aerodynamic mullet.

Legend says when he were born he didn't drink milk while wearing a bib.
But instead, jumped on the table and ate papa's baby-back ribs!

You'd think with liquid smoke being his only nutrition
He'd be sicker than a hound dog with one heck-of-a-condition!

But the opposite was true! The kid had enrgey n' zing.
Probably due to the gas produced inside the lil' redneck thing.

What in the world could a kid like that do
when all he done did was eat n' drink the delicious confederate juice?

I'll tell you what n' I'll swear it's true
the day Billy Bob Quibble saved the lives of more than a few!

It happened at the local sauce factory.
They was working on inventing a unique daiquiri.

The workers got bored n started experimentin'.
Mixin', stirrin', but not being cautious wit' their testin'.

They shouldn't have added the Mustard sauce with the Piedmont dip
It got all crazy real quick n' they had to abandon ship.

The sauces fused, stewed n' then suddenly blew!
It grew into a delicious monster blocking the workers' way though.

Billy Bob Quibble was called to the disaster
Simply because he was the true southern sauce master.

He crawled into the warehouse and made his way to the place
where the trapped workers were fending off the monster's finger-lickin' good embrace.

He gave the Sauce Monster no sign or warning
for Billy Bob quibble hadn't eatin' since mornin'

He dove right into the mutated goo.
He got stuck halfway then started to chew.

The creature tried to grab and pull him away
but was so distracted the corned workers got away.

But Billy Bob Quibble couldn't stop even tho' he should.
Even as a toddler he knew this monster was good.

he ate the legs and next the torso.
he never paused to savor a single morsel.

The arms were next n' then the head.
As you are right to expect the monster was done dead.

Afterwards, Billy Bob Quibble lay worse for wear.
His stomach was full and looked like a brown bear.

He smiled at ma n' pop then closed his eyes
looking forward to his special place in the skies.

He became legend. The factory took on his name.
N' now the sauce has received international fame.

Billy Bob Quibble this one's for you
That's how all we alls came to call it BBQ.

Never Judge a Hutt Until You've Slimed a Mile in His Shoes

I have come to terms with the fact I am ornery in the morning. I can stand in front of my Mornings Anonymous group and admit with confidence that I hate the hours that exist before noon. I have, however, married into a world where everyone else in the house seems to live in another time zone about three hours ahead of my world.

I find little peace in the mornings with the excitement of a three year old thumping around the house shouting, "I love monkeys" while the puppy chases behind him. While it sounds cute and constitutes a moment worthy of Kodak, I tend to hiss and cower to my sanctuary...the bathtub.

Here is my dark corner of Tatooine. My lair of solitude. I can now say I relate to the creature known as Jabba the Hutt.

I, Jabba's Doppleganger, am living happily in my world of gluttony. Reading the biography of Walt Disney, drinking delicious ice water, and wandering through the tangents of my imagination. All of a sudden, my world was interrupted by a blonde intruder resembling the young Skywalker. As I sat on my makeshift watery platform, he proceeded to make demands and threaten me as though he had the ability to use his mind tricks against me. It was then I really understood the intergalactic crime boss. All I wanted was a trap door right where my son was standing. Not because I wanted him to be eaten by a Rancoor...I just wanted my peace returned.

So now I watch The Return of the Jedi with more perspective and realize that there are no bad guys in the world...just grown-ups who need a break.

"You can do whatever you want!" and other swear words

   If you want an artist or anyone creative to implode, curl up into the fetal position, or collapse like a myotonic goat just tell them they can do WHATEVER they want. Artist NEED a little direction in order to have something to fight against. We need order to break the bonds and let our free minds run in the muck that is creative chaos. If we start off in chaos we simply freeze since it is the only response to chaos...to stop.
  So today I decided to intentionally collide my love of fine art and comic books. I was lucky as a child to have parents who supported my love of drawing and encouraged me to open my eyes to all art...including those silly comic books.
  I found myself in an artistic slump so I was flipping through a book showing the symbolism of the Sistine Chapel searching for anything to practice on. I love Michelangelo's style and his ability to accentuate the human musculature. As I came across the classic painting of the creation of Adam I realized I had never seen the special opportunity to modernize the scene.
  The above picture is my homage to the artist who changed the world and the artist who made me even want to draw int he first place, Jim Lee.
   It was a simple practice piece to force myself to homogenize two very different styles.
Enjoy and know that tomorrow may bring the creative bounty for which I desire or it will render me incapacitated and I'll just stiffen and fall over

Where in the World Does the Odd Sock Go?

              WHERE IN THE WORLD DOES THE ODD SOCK GOES?


                                          It happened on a Saturday, like any other.
                                     Sebastian had a list of chores from his mother.

                                                   It had been her only desire
                   For Sebastian to retrieve the clothes from out of the dryer.

                                        Sebastian had done this a few times before
                                   He hopped down the stairs and opened the door.

                                    He finally grabbed the last sock from the back
                                      But he couldn't match the sock in the stack.

                             He looked in the basket, searched under the bed.
                         Sebastian thought, "Maybe, it's lost, stolen, or dead!"

                                    "How could this be?" His little mind inquired.
             "What happened to the sock during its trip through the dryer?"

                                Sebastian closed his eyes and imagined the end
                                      Of his fuzzy, striped, hole-y little friend.

                                                   Does anyone know
                                       Where in the world the odd socks go?

                                 Possibly, the dryer was a time traveling machine
         Sending socks back to dinosaur days or somewhere in between.

                                 Or maybe, there's a great sock magician
                             But he messed up a trick and it went missin'.

                 It could be a six-legged monster with four eyes and no nose
                    Puts the socks on and performs fantastic puppet shows.

                                      The sock could've snuck out of the dryer
                                   To see the socker game go down to the wire.

                               It was probably just aliens that abducted the sock
                                And carried it away from his fellow sock flock.

                                      Whatever the reason, whatever the cause
                               Sebastian never discovered the laundry room laws.

                                 The question still remains we may never know
                                       Where in the world the odd sock goes.

I love my sick child

In every parent's life one must admit a hint of evil in our selfish thoughts and wishes. Today I realized mine. I wish my son was always sick!

Now some of you are immediately shouting "Off with his head!" But before you roll out the Guillotine and start passing out the cake let me explain my madness.

I don't wish for any debilitating illness or disease or any lifelong curse. I am simply enjoying the child who currently is laid out with a flu who is soft spoken and gentle. The usual tornado is now saying "thank you" over and over and cuddles better than the best stuffed animal. 

I told you it was selfish. I am enjoying the lull in the chaos that is stuffed into an abnormally tall and energetic 3 year old. 

I promise I won't take him to playgrounds when I hear of a cold or flu outbreak. I am just relishing the moment.

In publishing news...I have received the second rejection notice from an agent who let me know she couldn't connect with my characters. At least she wrote back...

Shadow mountain publishing sent a note saying they get a lot of queries and would need time before they would respond. Thanks?

It felt a lot like asking a girl to the prom. I even told them I had my own car and enough money for a nice meal at Denny's. I know how publishers are short on nice meals...I'm hoping my high school charm is still in effect.

Meanwhile back at the Batcave...

I moved my studio down to the basement where i can work and lurk in the shadows. I was "organizing" my old crap and stumbled upon this priceless gem. My 1st grade interpretation of Star Wars (circa 1980) From Luke's outfit it's from Empire Strikes Back. Needless to say, I have come a long way although I still draw Chewbacca the same say. Why mess with perfection.

I have also resurrected an old children's story I was working on several years ago to keep my brain occupied while i wait for agent responses. So until then it's off to discover where in the world the odd sock goes!

Black Friday Hides From No Man

 This is what I saw in the hotel lobby. I thought Black Friday was a vacation day to relax. This kid was merging companies and negotiating Christmas bids between grandparents. He was intense and quite the cut-throat. The server cut off his espresso after the 5th cup. I did learn a lesson from the Scrooge Mc-pull-ups. And that was that I have to suck the life out of every minute. No rest for the weary, wicked, or the toddler.

"Let's see how my TOYS R US stocks are doing..."

So it begins...I am pleased to announce that I have received my first rejection email for my most recent attempt to pose as a writer. I have already made my way through four of the seven stages of grief. Since this is MY blog and however you decided to get here you are now along for the ride and have the opportunity to feel my pains.

STEP 1: Denial- This was actually an easy one to get through. I am the definition of Amateur. I have only used writing for silly things like mailing letters, labeling personal property and constructing dirty poetry. 

STEP 2: Pain & Guilt- This is where the $#*! hit the *&#! I didn't realize my heart had slowly snuck onto my sleeve as I read the rejection letter from an agent. The worst part was that it was well written! Jerk.

STEP 3: Anger & Bargaining- Who does she think she is? What could she possibly know about writing anyway? I wrote the agents name on a list of people who wouldn't get any holiday cheer from me and began telling myself she must not have read my well crafted and original synopsis in the proper lighting, or maybe her coffee was cold. yeah, that HAD to be it...poopface.

STEP 4: Depression- Ahh, my favorite. As an artist and, more recently, a self proclaimed writer, I spend a lot of my creative time here. As more artist will agree we find our solace here and as we dredge along the bottom of the seemingly endless bottom of despair we find a sludgy layer of inspiration.  

STEP 5: The Upward Turn- This took longer simply because I tend to enjoy the comfort of the depression zone. I read the rejection letter again and realized I was not gonna give up just because the first person rejected me...I had to get married THREE times before I found the right match. This old bag of an agent didn't know what she was passing up. Suess, Disney, Rowling, Lincoln...They all failed before they succeeded...or were shot in the head. I can't give up!

STEP 6: Reconstruction- Simple...screw the agent...

STEP 7: Acceptance & hope- This is the step I am still working on. And by "working on", I mean waiting for a refill of my Prozac...ha, just kidding I don't take Prozac...Why would I when Peyote is so much more fun?

This film had to be slowed down 90% to capture simon sitting still

 NOW BACK TO THE HOLIDAY...

   On the same morning I witnessed the little reincarnation of Steve Jobs, we had decided to go with my aunt and uncle to Zions National Park. we tucked Simon between my wife and I in the back seat of my uncle's Tundra and we were off. The drive was quick and before we knew it we had traveled through two magical gateways called Hurricane (Hur-kin) and Laverkin and arrived in Zions. Instead of the hustle and bustle of crowds and stores we chose to wander the easy path to the mouth of the Narrows. Simon was soo excited to see lots Indians on the path traveling in bright colors. That is not the  politically correct way to identify Native Americans, you say. And I simply respond they were Indians from India dressed in full hiking suits for the hike up the river. Simon doesn't need to know the difference yet. The weather, hike, and company were perfect. Thank God for nature. (My non-religious friends are mad now)
He loved the outdoors and was truly happy until we had to intervene and tell him he couldn't take the giant stick home. "It belongs to everyone, Simon. It has to stay here."
Simon: "No, everyone can live without it."
...so, we ALMOST avoided the craziness of Black Friday



Don't worry when we returned to civilization we did it in style. The 2 story Hammacher Schlemmer reindeer was the first of many obnoxious odes to tradition and the never ending search for nostalgia. So the 4yr old CEO I saw is probably giggling while sipping on the nipple of his third eggnog, because he had just purchased Hammacher Schlemmer in a merger deal and I helped him buy a new convertible big wheel. Oh well, at least Simon now knows who the Indians are when he calls the computer support line. (Yes, that was an insensitive stereotype)

Eat your heart out Griswalds

Finding Inspiration

 

   I continually read books and comics, watch TV and almost absorb film through osmosis searching for that next hit of inspiration. Yet, the most inspiration I find is when I put all that away and hang out with my son.

   Cliche', I know. Yet those cliches exist simply because there is truth hiding in their dark crevices. I am and always will be a self diagnosed sufferer of the dreaded Peter Pan syndrome and will always pride myself on my ability to be a "Jack of all trades, Master of none", but I realized the most important part of the diagnoses...the "WHY"...

  Whether he is performing impromptu Gangnam style dances for party guests, climbing the landscape as though he scaled a sacred castle to fight ninjas, or simply leadinging a serious conversation between Batman and a stuffed duck on the importance of not pooping in pants, my son is constantly talking.
   I crave his ability to constantly allow ALL impossibilities to exist simultaneously. Nothing is impossible and as Addidas say "Impossible is nothing."

  So, after all the artist and/or writer's workshops I have attended where speakers and presenters verbally vomit ways to crack the wall separating me from inspiration, I wish they would've just stood up after their lengthy introductions, grabbed the microphone and said, "Hang out with your kid.! Peace!" then drop in the mic on the ground.
   So...thank you Simon for your skills at helping your father visit worlds you have been visiting for a long time.

Original Imajiination sketches

sketches from 2005-present

Sketches for the Imajiination trilogy: The Last Strand

Imajiination Rambling

Tis finished! That's right, folks, I have finished the 7 years journey of completing the story that began with a midnight sketch on a nightshift college job.

I am completely satisfied with the end result. I had the obligatory 1 minute celebration in my head with a verbal "woohoo" before I realized writing the adventure was the easy part. Now begins the torment of publishing and ignoring the internal voices of wanting to write another. That's right, I said it. I want to write more! Masochistic you say? yes, but doesn't every form of artistic expression fall under this category? Oddly enough, I found a quiet peace through my written therapy.

This blog will be where I can track my own success and frustrations as an amateur writer and illustrator. Join me, won't you?