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Description
If you haven't guessed by now. I'm not really an artist (nawh, really....). I'm actually a writer, a serious writer. I have two advanced degrees in creative writing and have written papers with self important titles like "The Buddhist Prayer Cycle in the works of Joseph Conrad." Then I graduated college to find that it all didn't amount to the proverbial hill of beans. Last Sunday, at the Barnes and Noble, I couldn't help but notice that the periodicals which publish fiction were outcounted by nearly every other form of magazine there. Knitting. Bass Fishing. Cat Fancying. The whole rack had barely seven literary titles hidden in the shadow of a whole wall of car mags. On the covers they had the same thing over and over - hot rod / bikini girl / hot rod / bikini girl/ hot rod. It was almost like a morse code of mediocrity reminding me of just how obsolete I have become. The world hates words and has moved on to be as imagistic as possible. Muscle and mammaries that's what makes the world go round. Conformity, not ingenuity. Who am I to fight it? It's all quite delightful just so long you don't stop to think about it. I like drawing. I can do it with the music blaring, sanding down my brain waves so I don't have to think about everything that is wrong.

Still....

Envy. Jealousy. Literary Zulu war cry. I found myself thinking, I hope those girls steal those cars. Then an image popped into my head. Two bikini girls trying to break into a hot rod with a bent coat hanger and getting caught. Quickly I scooted home, turned on some Anthrax and started to draw. It's not as good as it could be (is it ever?) but the expressions on the girl's faces are priceless.

Time: 7 hours.

Description
If you haven't guessed by now. I'm not really an artist (nawh, really....). I'm actually a writer, a serious writer. I have two advanced degrees in creative writing and have written papers with self important titles like "The Buddhist Prayer Cycle in the works of Joseph Conrad." Then I graduated college to find that it all didn't amount to the proverbial hill of beans. Last Sunday, at the Barnes and Noble, I couldn't help but notice that the periodicals which publish fiction were outcounted by nearly every other form of magazine there. Knitting. Bass Fishing. Cat Fancying. The whole rack had barely seven literary titles hidden in the shadow of a whole wall of car mags. On the covers they had the same thing over and over - hot rod / bikini girl / hot rod / bikini girl/ hot rod. It was almost like a morse code of mediocrity reminding me of just how obsolete I have become. The world hates words and has moved on to be as imagistic as possible. Muscle and mammaries that's what makes the world go round. Conformity, not ingenuity. Who am I to fight it? It's all quite delightful just so long you don't stop to think about it. I like drawing. I can do it with the music blaring, sanding down my brain waves so I don't have to think about everything that is wrong.

Still....

Envy. Jealousy. Literary Zulu war cry. I found myself thinking, I hope those girls steal those cars. Then an image popped into my head. Two bikini girls trying to break into a hot rod with a bent coat hanger and getting caught. Quickly I scooted home, turned on some Anthrax and started to draw. It's not as good as it could be (is it ever?) but the expressions on the girl's faces are priceless.

Time: 7 hours.