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| CRUSHED: DONNIE L'ORANGE AND HIS REPUBLICANS *(NOTICE QUEEN ELIZABETH 11 RIDING IN THE BACKGROUND) |
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| CANADIANS |
HALLOWE’EN.
Originating from a mix of Celtic and Middle Ages traditions, Hallowe’en used
to be called, All Hallows' Eve (“Hallow” meaning “holy”), but
nowadays has become a custom of scary movies, ugly costumes, and clowns! Our
current Hallowe’en has evolved to become the one day of the year when kids (and
even adults) from all socio-political backgrounds dress up in costume and
trick-or-treat or party in their neighborhoods, neighborhoods that are rife
with ghouls and ghosts, witches and warlocks, bats and black cats, spiders and
skeletons, zombies and werewolves, cauldrons and jack-o-lanterns and CANDY!
And
for this creepy and comical day of the quick and the dead, dear reader,
I am presenting this very short blog entry, complete with my typical snappy
title and filled with my customarily driest of wit and humor, solely designed to
make just one last point before the United States midterm election!
Here
are some traditional Hallowe’eners, some monsters and clowns as represented in
movies and costume, who are purportedly spooky, and yet still offer us sidesplitting
laughs for this one day.
HALLOWE’ENERS!
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| FRANKENSTEIN |
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| DRACULA |
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| FREDDY |
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| SCARY MOVIE |
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| THE INVISIBLE MAN |
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| IT |
HELLO,
WIENERS!
And last dear readers, is the UGLIEST and the SCARIEST of them all, yet THE ONE MOST LAUGHED AT EVERY DAY!
DO I HAVE A PERFERVID IMAGINATION?!
OR WHAT?!
(HAVE
A HAPPY HALLOWE’EN, folks, just four days to the MIDTERMS!)
VOTE
BLUE!
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| AUTUMN IN WASCANA |
AUTUMN. All the leaves are brown now and my caricature busking in Wascana is finis. Wintertime is on my mind, and I am already dreaming of a white Christmas … and skiing.
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| ELWATER SKI RESORT, ALBERTA |
1972. My first time ever on downhill skis was at WHITE TRACK SKI RESORT, just north of Moose Jaw, SK, in BUFFALO POUND PROVINCIAL PARK. Later in the ‘70s I moved to Kamloops, BC where I skied TOD MOUNTAIN (now called “SUNPEAKS”), and HARPER MOUNTAIN, both within an hour of the city, and also the ski resorts of SILVER STAR near Vernon, and BIG WHITE near Kelowna. Those British Columbia years, I skied lots. And then I moved back to Regina. But there is an old adage in the skier world, Where you are is where it’s at, that I hadn’t really grasped when I moved.
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| WHITE TRACK IN THE '70S |
Residing in Regina later in the ‘70s, I would board the Canadian Pacific Railway, being served by uniformed conductor in a brass buttoned dark three-piece suit, complete with a pocket watch and a ticket-punch, every Christmas season to ski at Tod Mountain. (In fact, on one of those trips, I had the rarest pleasure of dining with Canadian author, RUDY WEIBE, and his family! I was a university student, English Literature major at the time What are the odds of sharing stories and time over Christmas dinner with Rudy Weibe! But I digress …)
And
then came VIA RAIL replacing the old way, but not in a good way with no more
conductors, so I quit the train, and dabbled a bit on the local ski hill, the MISSION
RIDGE SKI RESORT, situated just one hour east of Regina. Mission Ridge which
was, and still is, the Qu’Appelle Valley escarpment falling toward Mission Lake.
There I skied for just one season until I arrogantly assumed that “Mission” was
beneath me (pun intended) and decided instead to travel west and ski the Rockies.
Not surprisingly, such ski dreams proved to be a lofty and delusional
enterprise, being severely limited due to time and even more so for money.
Then
fast forward to the ‘80s and ‘90s when my kids were in their pre-adolescent and
adolescent years. The Mission Ridge Ski Resort, being just an hour away at a
very affordable cost, became the ski resort of choice. Where we were was
where it was at, and this lasted until my kids grew into adults and
left to live elsewhere.
As
an adult skier, I learned that being present, learning to appreciate
where I was at, was an acquired skillset. In my early adulthood during the ‘60s
and ‘70s, I worked mainly on land surveys with the likes of the Department
of Highways out of Swift Current and Regina, Saskatchewan, and McWilliam,
Whyte, Gobel, and Associates out of Kamloops, British Columbia.
Being
on survey crews out of Swift Current and Regina became a rather perfunctory
experience. I would hold the rod, hold the tape, dig out the benchmark, run
along the ditch and atop the surface of the road, and hold the rod, hold the
tape, dig out the benchmark and run along the ditch and atop the surface of the
road.
And
being on survey crews out of Kamloops, too, became rather perfunctory. In the
forests I would chainsaw the line, hold the tape, hold the rod, scramble up the
mountainside, chainsaw the line, hold the tape, hold the rode, then scramble
down the mountainside.
And
when I say perfunctory, I mean after hundreds same ol’ same ol’ times, any
Zen moments, if ever there were, had faded. Working on the Saskatchewan road
tops at that time, I did not realize that the prairies were much more than
golden wheat fields. Never did I really soak in the unexpected landscapes, working
among the rattlesnakes and the prairie dogs in the Grasslands National Park, the
wild horses and eagles in the Cypress Hills, or the gulls and grebes in the
Thunder Creek Heritage Marshes. In such rich places, regretfully, my work performance
was but in cursory and mechanical fashion, a state of recklessness and
reactivity, and never like I said, a state of Zen.
And
when I was scrambling on the many mountainsides in British Columbia, including
the Noranda Mines near the Icefields along Columbia River north of Revelstoke, or
trekking among the berries and bears in the Coquihalla Valley near Hope, or stretching
a multiple survey shots along the golden shores of Shuswap Lake, I was not
emotionally mature enough to grab any Zen moments there either. Introspectively
speaking, I missed out on lots!
(Fortunately,
though, as the years swept by, while on vacation by locale and design, I did
get second and third chances to return and hike most of these places. Being
present now at such landscapes pays off emotionally, staving most of
the regrets of my not being present in the past.)
Finally
at 75 years of age, I awoke to the tintinnabulation of the bells, at long last realizing
that I need not the apex of any rocky mountain to arrive at any apex in my
life.
Factoid: Presently, I am a ski instructor Mission Ridge and loving it.
Another factoid: Being bound in golden handcuffs (so to speak), as a paid ski instructor seems the perfect drift into my old age. And it seems
rather fitting that in the summer of my adulthood I was a professional
swimming instructor, and now in the winter of my adulthood I am a professional downhill ski instructor!
WHERE YOU ARE IS WHERE IT’S AT!
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| MISSION RIDGE SKI RESORT, SASKATCHEWAN |
I know now that ATTITUDE BEATS ALTITUDE EVERY TIME!
*GRAB-BAG
CONCLUSION
Dear reader,
Where you are is where it’s at is a rather macro-Zen descriptor to
an appreciation one’s life, an expanse of certain Zen moments as experienced in
the art of mindfulness combined with psychology and philosophy and phenomenology.
For example, my philosophy of skiing, as expressed in this blog entry, could
indeed lend itself to be a kind of universal truth, a metaphor for the
appreciation of surroundings for one residing anywhere.
Saying this however, there are EXCEPTIONS to this ski adage.
Sometimes where you are is not the best place be. I know the difficulty of adjusting
one’s personal credentials (academic and social and vocational). I know the difficulty
of having to endure a place of employ (it’s practically impossible to appreciate
a crappy work experience, and that combined with the pragmatics of actually
resigning and moving to work and train elsewhere). I recognize the difficulty of
personal relationships (sometimes having to endure because of parental duties
and/or economics). And I know too, the difficulty of having to stay put and endure certain politics delivered by a certain government. But at the same time you must know that you’ve the power to exercise your right to vote and the power of just that one vote can help change your world!
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| VOTE BLUE |
Today I am going to present two batches of ROGUE GALLERIES, one from our pop culture past and the other from our fanatical present. I shall begin with THE BATMAN'S ENEMIES (from the zany zeitgeist 1966 - 1968).
HOLY CAMPY, BATMAN!
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| THE BATMAN |
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| THE JOKER |
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| THE PENGUIN |
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| THE RIDDLER |
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| CATWOMAN |
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| EGGHEAD |
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| COLONEL GUMM |
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| SHAME |
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| MA PARKER |
For sure THE BATMAN'S ENEMIES in the '60s were hammy, but here are some of THE PRESIDENT'S KITSCHY FRIENDS in the present.
HOLY BONKERS, BATMAN!
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| THE PRESIDENT |
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| THE KASH |
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| THE BONDI |
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| THE CHEUNG |
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| THE NOEM |
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| THE LUTNICK |
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| THE MILLER |
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| THE JONG |
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| THE PUTIN |
And for more laughs (or frowns) as I intertwine the these two galleries of rogues, here are more of the president’s friends. Just a reminder, dear reader, that all of the BATMAN'S ENEMIES are fictional television villains, whereas all of the PRESIDENT'S FRIENDS are real, having television roles only to enhance the president's agenda. Though I cannot resist to suggest that the quiddity of both galleries are the same, I should mention that some of the president's friends had rather regular lives until they transmogrified into such lickspittle bootlicker knaves for this top-of-the-ticket Republican.
HOLY FIRST AMENDMENT, BATMAN!
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| THE RUDY |
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| THE LOOMER |
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| THE HUCKABEE |
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| THE VANCE |
HOLY CREEP SHOW, BATMAN!
While re-reading this blog post I must confess, dear readers,
I LAUGHED SO HARD ...
THAT I FORGOT TO FEED THE CAT!
ZAP! BAM! KAPOW!
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| BUSKING AT COMIC READERS |
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| ROCKGLEN MOTEL MANAGER |
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| ROCKGLEN MOTEL MANAGER |
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| COMMISSIONED DOG CARICATURE |
The two caricatures atop this blog entry are the motel managers in ROCKGLEN, SK CANADA. I stayed in the Rockglen Motel while on a diving adventure in nearby Fife Lake. These two motel managers were brand new to the business and in three words were AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME! And the pooch pic below them was actually commissioned by a past client, a client for whom I drew a pet caricature a few years ago!
Anyone
who knows me knows that I can draw. But I must confess, dear reader, that most
of these people who know I can draw, do not know that I cannot draw a house or
a horse, a tree or a tomato, a bug or a bird. Faces. That’s it. That’s all I
can draw.
And
anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE BUSKING. There is nothing, NOTHING, more
fun than slinging my guitar and harp on some business corner or street and
busking for an hour. Busking in my home city has always been simple and easy
(“simple” and “easy” not being synonyms). But when I left my city to go busking
elsewhere, elsewhere in Canada and even across the pond, my busking became even
more fun, more adventurous, but not that simple.
In
my home city I simply meander down the lane, just a five-minute walk to my
favorite buskspot, SHOPPERS DRUG MART, and strum my twelve-string while blowing
my harp. Or sometimes I take a little bit longer and saunter up the main
street, a 20-minute scramble to my second favorite buskspot, VALUE VILLAGE, to
frail on my banjo while blowing and bending my harp.
But
busking in Regina got a bit boring. This same ol’ guitar hammering and harp huffing,
prompted me to head as far west as possible in Canada, to busk in Victoria, B.C.
And what a rush that was! So much so, that I decided I to busk in Europe and
even Africa.
Over
the years I have busked in The Netherlands, in Ireland, and in Morocco. And
because I have busked in these foreign (to me) countries, I have oftentimes dubbed
myself as a PLANETARY BUSKER.
Also
in these same countries, I have busked with my pencil and sketchbook. And
because I have double-busked, so-to-speak, in these places, I have referenced
myself as a planetary busker in both regards. But in these past few years, I
have tended to caricature busk more than guitar busk.
I
have preferred drawing with my Sharpie over that of picking strings on my
Seagull for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it’s easier to pack along a pencil
than a guitar. And secondly, I fancy sketching peoples’ faces to be a little
more highbrow than strumming and puffing with my guitar and harmonica.
This
fancy may be delusional but is based upon numbers. Guitar buskers in any city
I’ve been, seem to outnumber caricaturists according to my count, somewhere in
the neighborhood (pun intended) of around one hundred to one!
These
unscientifically researched numbers that I am presenting are qualitative rather
than quantitative, because they are based on my personal acquaintances. In my
city alone, I know, a hundred or so other guitar players. But in real time,
like right now, I know only two other caricaturists on the planet, never mind
in my city. I know my friend, Dustin, who is an excellent caricaturist and who
also happens to be a guitar busker. And I know Erin, a professional charcoal
portrait artist in a nearby town. Erin does not play guitar.
Also,
in a qualitative fashion, the numbers speak for themselves. If drawing
caricatures were easy to do, then more people would be doing it. The numbers
seem to dictate that it is easier to thrum a guitar than it is to draw
someone’s likeness. Factoid: Even when I am addlepated, I can still
strum my guitar. But if I’ve any angst whatsoever, I cannot draw.
Such
logic presenting my hoity-toity action caricaturing over thrumming is
admittedly ex parte. It is just my personal opinion, and that’s all
that it is.
Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week are some random folks I drew (for free, not busking) when hanging around CENTRAL PARK, REGINA, SK CANADA.
