Thursday, October 29, 2026

HALLOWE'ENERS AND HELLO, WIENERS: HALLOWE'EN AND THE UNITED STATES MIDTERM ELECTION

 


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!

FRANKENSTEIN


DRACULA


FREDDY

SCARY MOVIE

THE INVISIBLE MAN

IT

Not-so-strangely, I am now going to present some present-day real-life characters whom I abhor and who do NOT dress up in costume. These are just some eerie wieners and suppurate clowns who have managed to trick-or-treat us, and entertain or frighten us, practically all year long!

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!

 

 

 

 



Tuesday, October 27, 2026

WHERE YOU ARE IS WHERE IT'S AT

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.


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.

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!

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!

VOTE BLUE


  

 

 

 

 

Saturday, September 19, 2026

AN AMERICAN POP CULTURE VS AN AMERICAN CULT: THE BATMAN'S ENEMIES COULD VERY WELL HAVE BEEN THE PRESIDENT'S FRIENDS.

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!

THE BATMAN

THE JOKER

THE PENGUIN

THE RIDDLER

CATWOMAN

EGGHEAD

COLONEL GUMM

SHAME

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!

THE PRESIDENT

THE KASH
THE BONDI

THE CHEUNG


THE NOEM
THE LUTNICK

THE MILLER


THE JONG

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! 

THE RUDY

THE LOOMER

THE HUCKABEE

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!

BUSKING AT COMIC READERS

Notez bien: Busking out front ComicReaders the other night in Regina, SK CANADA, a teenage Goth girl brushed by me as she departed the shop, having the latest BATMAN comic book in her hand. This instance immediately flooded my mind with memories of Adam West, the pop culture icon of the '60s television series, hence the idea for this particular blog entry!

 

 





Tuesday, September 15, 2026

SOME PARTICULARS OF MY CARICATURES

ROCKGLEN MOTEL MANAGER

ROCKGLEN MOTEL MANAGER


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.









When my mood is right I quite like retreating to a local park and drawing anyone who wants to be drawn. In such circumstances, rather than charge my usual ten dollars per caricature, I charge zeroth dollars in the rationalization that I am just practicing my speed with the minimum drop in quality. When actually caricature busking, I always tend to sacrifice quality for speed, taking a maximum of ten minutes to draw anyone's caricature. Yes. Ten dollars for ten minutes. 

In other words, when I am on a caricature busk, 
my fee is a buck a minute!