Otherworld Caricatures Stories!

True customer encounter today.

She kept asking "what character are you gonna make me?"

So I explained that it is a "caricature" like a cartoon depiction of you."

She says "I think I'll get head and shoulders so you can get more of me."

I draw it. I show her.

"I thought you were gonna make me a character, that's not a character."

I say, "no, ma'am, it's a CARICATURE of you."

She points at the theme examples.

"But all those there are characters, there's a princess"

I tell her, "those are theme drawings. You read the sign and said you'd rather have head and shoulders in color."

She says, "the sign says characters."

"It says caricatures, ma'am."

“Well, what’s a caricarter?”

“Caricature, ma’am. It’s what I do.” ;-)

She gives me a drawing and says, "well I wanted a character."

News (March 9)

March has been good for me. Was struggling to find a some gigs out here in this cold season. We stumbled upon this company that brought us to a lot in Florida that appeared frighteningly penurious. But the weekend came and it was a blessing. We are making lots of money drawing caricatures which will help me to invest in my business, and my love: writing fiction. The new story is a possession. I plan to share it on my blog as soon as possible. A nice, sexy, scary, cool, and just plain fun horror series. I’m building a world strictly for my blog, and to explore strange demensions in my morbid fantasy. My goal is to break all of the rules. The project is inspired by all the things I loved about 90’s action, suspense, horror growing up. If you are a movie goer, you will enjoy what I’m making here. The project is a direct sequel to my short, Bassy’s Basilica, so be sure to check out that piece when you can, though you won’t need to in the long run. More details coming soon. 

A funny story from the Carnival

OtherWorld Caricatures

I hit the ground running, but kept tripping...

I started my own business in my fashion of “just do it already!” I spent almost all of my money on equipment, and then lost my car, and then lost my beloved computer. On top of all that it rained here in the north east and did not stop for months. We went from winter, to spring, to 

“Well what about second spring?”,

and then we jumped over Summer and landed on early Fall. Strange times. 

Being that I am a caricature artist who depends on good weather to make a profit, that hurt. But it only took a few good shows to get from a grueling 0 to a happy 78%. My set up looks better now, and I’m learning from experience what I need next to succeed in this buisness. Also started making more pet caricatures on display as I have discovered that pet events are big up north during the death-trap winter season. Got new banners, and got some great new appreciation for what I do for a living. And since this blog is primary meant to share details about my writing, I am also developing an anthology of short stories that will tie into my adventures as a carnival caricature artist some. Until next time! Take care friends.

Jurassic Caricature (a fanfiction)

(((The following is a fanfiction not meant for reproduction. It is simply made as to honor a franchise that I love very much, and for free fanboy entertainment. The story features mention of iconic characters created by Michael Crichton, Rick Jaffa, Amanda Silver, and brought to life by legendary directors Stephen Spielberg, Colin Trevorrow, and J.A. Bayona. Enjoy!)))

#fanfic

#dinosaurs

#raptor

Even the helicopter ride there felt exotic to Jared.

Since the spectral silhouette of the island began to materialize across the hazy horizon he had his face pressed eagerly against the passenger window and never dared to miss a single moment of this very special moment. The dense forest that threaded over the island came to him like the opening of clouds toward the gates of heaven. He always dreamed of having the chance to work there. As a kid, paleontology was an obsession for him. He drank up every book he could on the subject, especially the ones that focused on the Cretaceous period, but he never dreamt in sixty five million years that he might actually get paid to perform only moments away from any of those ethereal creatures. 

Jared was an artist with big dreams. Those thirsty ambitions led him to a comfortable career drawing as a caricature artist in the carnival circuit. For years he has spread his talent across the country, earning for himself quite a respectable reputation along the way. But OtherWorld caricatures... they say OtherWorld caricatures was impossible to break into. They were the leading contracting company in his profession, serving the art Shoppes at some of the most high profile locations across the planet for many years. And though they began as a small seed, pushing their roots in the same industry that Jared had come up in, they have grown prominent to enjoy such a powerful position in the industry that he just knew applying for this particular park, with his meager status was a dreamers fantasy. But apparently it was enough.

He got the return letter in the mail in surprisingly expedient timing. Seeing the celebrated logo of OtherWorld, and the ever more iconic brand of the most famous Park in the universe emblazoned on the heading of the letter, he was certain it would be a rejection. But it was not. He unfolded the letter and read. It simply asked: “Is this your work?” And then there was a photograph of an artfully exaggerated caricature drawing. He was pretty proud of that one and knew it well. Indeed it was his: a Cartoon illustration of the late and great John Hammond. So he wrote back simply, “Yes it is.”

His invitation came with an emphatic phone call from the manager of operations at the OtherWorld Art Shoppes, who asked him quite dramatically, “we like your stuff, and we are very interested in having your talent with our team. So this said, I must ask you: How soon can we welcome you to Jurassic World?”

The answer was “Immediately!” And the flight was the next day, all expenses paid. 

Jared wasn’t really sure what he was getting himself into. All he knew for certain was the acclaim OtherWorld got in his line of work, and that the park was the notorious home of living, breathing dinosaurs. That was all he needed to know. 

He never flew in a helicopter before, but it was no more dangerous of an experience than half of the things he naturally ran into in his business as a transient artist. OtherWorld was offering gracious accommodations. They provided him fancy dining and housing for free just to have his slightly famous sketch at their park, and he was quite flattered by their generosity. They did let him know that it would only be for a few weeks until he was on his feet without assistance, but it was all so much more than he could have dreamed to ask for. 

The helicopter ride was long and grueling at times, but the reward was far too big to pass. There was so much to earn and nothing to lose. He bragged about the opportunity with his peers, and knew with an ounce of over-confident certainty that none of it would ever turn around to bite him in the ass. At least he hoped for that. God forbid if any of those things stepped out from their cage to run amuck. 

He was settled in to his suite quickly. Every day between the hours of 9:am and 7:pm was prime time at Jurassic World, and they rushed him to work almost instantly. It was strange how easily Jared had slipped back into his work mode. He was in a foreign, unforgivingly oppressive climate, drawing in harsh, humid weather, on an island housing genetically reproduced extinct creatures as it’s primary attraction, yet he drew his guests as deftly, and comfortably as if he was back home in his own preferred environment. Everyone loved his work. His superiors loved having him. However, all that Jared could focus on was: just get through the day, and soon you’ll get paid, and you’ll get to see these things you’ve read in wonder about all through childhood. 

The Jurassic Park fiasco was an infamous story that began as an urban legend, which turned out to be a horrible truth. InGen had tried to cover it up, and that only made things worse for them. The mad-scientist genetics Mega Corporation would have since fell into darker works, focusing mostly on weaponry and other controversial intrigues. But as a bright shining star in the future of science, turned super evil villain deserving public scorn, they at least knew how to accept their new role with pride and success. The Ill-fated story of the fall of Jurassic Park was soon promulgated as a way to deter further advancements in the fertile field of genetics; also to keep people away from the islands. But instead, it only proved the opposite: genetic science boomed more fiercely than life had sprung from the Cambrian Explosion, and rambunctious paleontologists, and would-be explorers seeking a precipitous new high sought out the forsaken island resorts. After some time, and passionately fought legal wars, the corner stones for Jurassic World were at last set again, and the greatest enigma on earth was finally opened to the public. It has become the most profitable amusement part on the planet since those archaic days before, and now Jared has become a part of their growing legacy, even in his very small capacity. He was excited. 

His first shift went fast, but it felt like an eternity, anxiously waiting to reap the spectacular benefits. He must have drawn a hundred guests. The register read two thousand, fifty-three dollars in sales on his behalf, and his manager was quite pleased with his outstanding performance. Jared clocked out at 3:30 and saw that the market circle where his caricature station was located was still packed with giggling, querulous children wanting their cartoon image riding the backs of their favorite dinosaurs. Jared felt a pang of guilt he would leave all that potential money to his colleagues, but that was just hard-woven into his nature from years in the carnival business. Besides, he had monsters to see.

There was some wild rumor going around of a potential new dinosaur attraction being conjured up in the laboratories. Signs were plastered everywhere hinting at some clandestine beast that Verizon Wireless would soon unleash upon the world. “Something Is Coming,” the advertisement read, red demon eyes smoldering in the dark womb of a gripping green forest. “Something Of Nightmares will be unleashed from Verizon Wireless...” Everyone was wowing over its mystery on the monorail into the heart of the resort. He didn’t care, he was slipping his way through the crowded car to get to the nearest window so he could catch a glimpse at the most iconic gates built by modern Man. The massive doors were painted to look like weathered, and splintered wood. They flung open with a fabricated clamor. The soundtrack clashed from the speakers inside the train, imitating farcically the crash of castle doors banging open. Than an orchestra ran their intense strings, and a tribal drum line enraptured its new guests. 

One animal was on his mind most prominently: their genetically enhanced Velociraptors! As a kid he had fallen in love with the creature’s more famous fossil, as it was forever captured ensnared in battle with the horned Protoceratops. That was before anybody really knew much about what happened at the Jurassic Park facility. Then, the Raptor was known only to be about the size of a turkey, and experts were only beginning to suspect it to have been covered with feathers. But the geneticists at InGen changed all that. Their obnoxious DNA mascot at the visitors’ center claimed that the absence of some well established characteristics was the unfortunate side effect of splicing genomes in order to thread the missing parts in their genetic code. But that would soon be revealed as an embellished lie. They did not like the feathers, and their size didn’t seem menacing enough. They were looking to attract a new audience to dinosaurs, and so, they only wanted the biggest and the baddest, but the Raptor was too well loved to ignore. Some speculation arose to argue that the animal’s fossils were incomplete, and perhaps these creatures were in fact more robust in their size. Jared read an article adding fire to this debate, using the famed paleontologist Dr. Grant’s earth shattering discovery of a velociraptor skeleton that was almost eight feet in length to support their argument. But after careful scrutiny even this would be debugged, as the species he had discovered turned out to be some new beast more closely related to the Tyrannosaur than the Raptor. With a hefty reign of near two hundred million years, the genus of Tyrannosaurids was a big family that varied in size, shape, and weight. The bottom line was, Dr. Grant did not find evidence of a freakishly large Raptor, and the Jurassic World creatures were just man-made monsters with synthetic DNA flowing in their veins. Still, Jared wanted to see them. 

His illustrated map was hard to follow, but he found a tour guide that was leading the way he wanted to go, so Jared jumped in with her group. She was pretty, tall, smart, and a loquacious docent. She didn’t just know her Park, she knew dinosaurs, and she adored her raptors. Her eyes were a deep green, and her hair was thick, brown, and turning goldenrod along the edges from the sun. She spoke perfect English, sweetened with only a touch of her native Spanish accent. Jared was in love, but he kept that to himself. As a nomad artist he has lost his touch for social engagement. Outside of his comfort zone behind his easel he was shy and taciturn, fearing saying the wrong thing and making a fool of himself. But she saw it; he could tell by the way flush colored her cheeks ever darker. She flashed him a flattered grin, but continued their tour. He had questions about the animals, but locked them up behind tight lips, waiting for her to answer them naturally as she went on with her routine presentation. Most all answers will unveil themselves to those who are patient, and paying close attention. 

The paddock was a fortress, and perhaps the most uninviting exhibit in the whole park. But these animals were dangerous, intelligent, and required the highest security money could buy to contain them.  Watchtowers guarded all corners of the walled facility, and the personnel mounting those stations were armed with high-powered tranquilizer rifles. It seemed more of a maximum-security state prison than a tourist attraction. Jared was impressed. 

In the guest lobby, Laura—the pretty tour guide—first introduced them to the brave team that helped to keep the raptors healthy and happy throughout their young lives. The top man on the acknowledgment board was a rugged, handsome gentleman named Owen Grady. In his photo he had this kind of amused Mona-Lisa-knowing grin turning at the corner of his mouth; it somehow alluded to a potent charm rather than haughty arrogance, though Jared suspected he had some of that in him too. But what grabbed his attention was the man’s job title: Chief Specialist/Raptor Trainer.

They have a raptor trainer? He couldn’t help but to wonder what that could entail. Fetch, heel, don’t claw my guts out? Seemed a bit brazen to think a human could tame a quintessential killing machine. But of course anything was possible when animals that have been dead for sixty five million years walked the earth again. 

Laura brought them next to the nursery where the infant raptors had been raised to trust their captivity. All of them have been moved to the maturing stable, and all that was left there was some scattered straws of hay, and gnawed dog toys behind very thick viewing glass. There were pictures of the baby dinosaurs. They had big heads, bright and wide snake-like yellow eyes, and tiny, agile serpent bodies. They were strangely adorable, and hauntingly terrible at the same time. 

The primal stink of rotting decay was strong, venting through the walls to pervade their senses. It made all of them in attendance to wrinkle their noses. But that was a small price to pay to see the master-class of flesh-eaters in true beautifully brutal reality. 

Jared thought it odd how many kids were surrounding him at the exhibit. There were warning signs posted everywhere about what horrible things they might witness, but somehow when it came to animals, the imminent carnage waiting on the horizon was made a surreal experience, and parents practically pushed their kids in to learn a cruel lesson about humility. But these kids were smiling, and anxious to see, with a sort of sickening bloodlust. They were like snot-nosed pro-wrestling fans, cheering, and hooting for violence. No matter how civilized we think we are, Ancient Rome was never too far from our hardwired instincts. Jared couldn’t help them though, he was just as sick with gleeful anticipation. 

Genetic manipulation in some small way was sort of like caricaturing. An artist had to think fast to solve big problems. He has to capture very complicated shapes in a matter of only seconds, in order to finish a face in fewer than five minutes. The Cartoon is supposed to be exaggerated, but it also has to resemble his subject in some recognizable way. Jurassic World scientists with their gene splicing, and biology mashing have worked that same concept in to creating their prized beasts. But their raptors were something of a masterpiece, outshining what God had originally made in a few bold strokes that could melt Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. The revered chaos theorist Dr. Ian Malcolm would probably designate it as the art of forcing order from entropy, and then he would go on to argue how such an approach is destined to collapse in extraordinary fashion. But that guy was a nihilist in Jared’s opinion: a rotten egg who just like to role in to spoil everyone’s fun. 

Laura’s voice was suddenly drowned out by his elevated heartbeat. He had expected the pack to tool with the guest some as they entered the main viewing chamber. But they didn’t. They weren’t hiding, or sneaking. They were right there in plain sight, waiting for them. They lined up, stalking the glass. Laura assured her group that they could not see them. But Jared could tell that they knew. The one with the blue stripes marking her hide crept in, sniffing with a wet snout, her sharp tail erect in attention. Flies buzzed over and around it’s blood stained jaws. Its serrated razor teeth curved inward, designed to hook in deep into leathery flesh so she could easily tear away at her meat. Her signature curled foot claw twitched, and she held low to the ground, like a wrestler coming in for a clinch. She slunk in, and bobbed her head. The others flanked her dutifully. The audience gasped. The palm trees and dense foliage swayed, and sang under a gentle breeze behind them. The group was mesmerizing. The way their tendons stretched and tightened in their long necks, the way their sinuous muscles moved beneath tough tubercle spotted skin, they were poetically graceful and brimming with alacrity. Their eyes shifted, inquisitively, calculating. It challenged the human spirit. Nature grew their roots, and stemmed their powerful brains, but human hands planted the seed. This intelligent monster understood more than we can possibly comprehend, and they were with a mind that was weighing its place in the world. Jared could see it thinking. It was painting a picture of her own what the creature she smelled through the glass was thinking. She could taste his fear. Slaver fell from her lips as she rolled them back to show those feral teeth again. As though entranced Jared drifted closer, staring wide-eyed. Perhaps it was their dangerous beauty that killed their prey. The Raptor suddenly lashed at the glass, snapping its teeth, smearing the transparent barrier with slaver. He jumped back. The kids erupted with laughter, and the beast’s dinosaur companions began bobbing up and down, trilling excitedly, like birds jeering at him. Jared got the impression they were toying with him after all.

Laura smiled ruefully at Jared and said, “ I think Blue likes you.” She winked at him, playfully. 

He blushed, and tried on a frantic smile even though his heart was screaming in his chest. 

Still, it was the most exhilarating thing he had ever experienced. The raptors went about their tribal animal business, hunting and coordinating. 

In private hearing with Laura, Jared remarked, “They need feathers.”

Laura fell in close beside him. She showed him an all-knowing grin and whispered, “yes, and they should be smaller... I know... you can ask me any time now.”

The group sprawled out to study some of the pieces of information hanging on the walls everywhere. 

Jared was nervous. “Ask what?”

She nudged him, that smile of hers never fading. “How about what time I get off tonight.”

He definitely wanted to ask just that, but his inquiry broke apart in his throat, “I...I”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m off at the end of this last tour. Meet me an hour after. Be dressed nice.” 

Then she went back to treat her guests. 

The tour moved on. Jared met with Laura for lunch and made a new friend. He was having the night of his life. He couldn’t wait to see the T.Rex after his shift tomorrow. 

At World’s End

Decided to make a stop for a much needed getaway from the World, so I chose At World’s End State Park in rural Pennsylvania. Got lost on a trail, got caught in a storm, and lost all cell phone service. It was exactly what I needed to do. Found a couple cairns and deep wooded shrines. I have lost myself in the modern world, becoming as dead as the concrete and manmade structures that surround me, and all their tribal, political drama on both sides of the fight, and I desperately needed to shut it off. And that I did, without even knowing I would, here at world’s end. With comfortably affordable camping, and a wide option in trails that stretch to lengths that even an experience hiker would be made satisfied, this was the respite I desperately needed to experience. 

She Figured Me Out

It’s late...

It’s October...

It’s Halloween and I’m stuck here...

We were pushing toward the home stretch on a day that I hold very dear to my heart. Unfortunately I was stuck at work, drawing caricatures for the good’ol Alabama Peanut Festival! Don’t get me wrong, I love that carnival, and I mostly enjoy my guests there... Mostly... Alright, that is my last Aliens throwback joke this week. Anyhow, I’m out there working with Flash Cartoon Fan and V-Blog legend Ashley The Man with the master draw Hand Ro**** (name edit for privacy, but this man is an ol G, just don’t ever say the phrase book-on-tape around him) occupying the candyland stand (the kiddy area stand) on the last painfully slow hour of the day. 

Look, I have ADD, and I LOVE Halloween. So when things get slow at a time like this, it gets me pacing, it gets me facebooking, and it gets me jabbering about off-the-rail nonsense. I just want to get the heck out of there! But darn it, I’m committed! And I’m suppose to be the manager, so I have to stay, tuck in my shirt, thumbs up, smile, quietly hate myself, and count the minutes of my life ticking away waiting for someone bold enough to bail on Trick-or-treating to ride some sick carnival rides and buy an awesome cartoon face of themself. But sadly, what happens is not really that. The trick-or-treaters are in bed, high on sugar, and dreading the school day waiting for them in the morning. And then the ones who do come out—there is no safe way to say this, so I’ll just go ahead and call them the late-hour-carnival patrons. 

So we are hanging out up front. The carnival is dead, at least our end of it is. The midway circle where all the rides are always appears busy, but its wristband holders, it’s teenagers abandoned by their moms, and it’s a bunch of kids with not much else on them then what little can keep them from dying of hunger or dehydration. We are back in the dark, hanging out next to candy castle. I’m staring at it debating going on a diabetic run, but then a Mom approaches with her children. She wants a caricature. She sits them down. I’m a little bit annoyed, a little bit relieved that I got guests to draw. But somehow—call it intuition—I get this feeling that no matter how I draw her kids she is going to hate it. She took two seconds of deciding before she put her kids in my chair. I never saw her so much as glance at our displays, or ask even what the price was before she got the impulse. My strategy in this situation is to succinctly explain our pricing so she can understand that we have to charge per person. And yes that means every face we have to draw. Never quite understood why people think their babies would be cheaper or even free sometimes. They don’t cooperate, (though sometimes they are better than their adults) their heads are about the size of yours, and they are mostly crying... mostly!! Damn it, I did it again. Get out of my head, Newt.

So, my strategy didn’t work. But never fear, they are still going to reject it. So I sit at the board and I start drawing. Ash is watching. I feel the mom’s eyes burning into me, scrutinizing every line. She doesn’t say a thing for a time. She just gets lost in the magic of it. Suddenly, Mom gets flummoxed. She starts scoffing my work. I get flustered. I turned around to try and explain what a caricature is. But before I could Mom gives me a I-got-your-hustle-figured-out side-ways glance. She says to her children, “naw, come on now. He got a trick marker.”

That left me nonplussed, and Ashley laughing his ass off. 

I could do nothing but watch, dumbfounded as they scurried off as though I was some sort of scam plague they might catch before they spend all their money trying to win an on the brink of death Carny fish. 

That day I knew I should have just went trick-or-treating... or at least just stayed out in the woods to get drunk with some Dead family members by the fire. 

Driving Revelations

“Why do you embrace your blindfold, you fool?”

-“ why do you want to see what cannot be stopped?”

Home Alone: Drunk In New York

(((Disclaimer: always drink responsibly! Be safe out there, kids)))

One Dollar Pizza, Up in this BEATCH!

I didn’t so much exclaim it, as I was far too busy veraciously gorging myself, slamming that juicy, lushes piece of heaven on bread down the ol’ gullet. But somewhere my inner voice found a party horn and a disco ball, getting the house jump’n on the happy-train that was rolling blissfully across my pleasure sensors. Look, I’m not Michael Crichton; I don’t know all that fancy science jargon to tie your brain up with how it all works. I just know that pizza was damned good! It was a small Italian restaurant just around the bend from Washington Square. I spent a day bathing in the summer’s heat, watching this rich-kid, transient—who probably got tired of his dad telling him to put grandma’s oxy back in the cabinet and get a real job already—break dance around the central fountain. There were pot heads blithely sparking up in the open, there were homeless people, and there were art students pretending they were homeless people, panhandling the even richer students leaving NYU. It was wonderful! And then there I was, clad in a knock-off Insane Clown Posse concert t-shirt, threadbare Walmart purchased shorts, dirty old off-brand kicks, and probably brooding with resting fuck-off face trying to hustle street caricature draws for tips. I didn’t know my ass, from my easel back then, but I knew where the good Dollar Pizza was, and I knew where the beer was. When you are a working street artist in New York, that’s pretty much all you need to know. 

I remember I had just finished the day making $100 On tips. I was pretty excited, and the blistering sun was waning on its final hours, so I called it a day. Trucked my easel and chairs on a collapsible hand cart to the pizza shop. Hadn’t eaten all day so I had me about four slices. For a dollar a hit, that shit was a drug. Then I went a little further on my way to this quaint little bar, you had to go down into a sub level entry, kind of like where everyone got killed in Inglorious Bastards. They had sports on the tube, and they had live entertainment in the back room. It was an Irish pub so I thought I’d get started with a double shot of whiskey. That night was featuring stand up comedians. The one guy was pretty entertaining. I drew a quick cartoon of him while he was working the crowd. He told me it looked like a Jewish Obama. It always looks like Obama. I wonder if Obama ever got a caricature and said, “ha! It look like Obama!”

Anyway, I got another shot. Then another, and another. Putting them down harder than Blodeuwedd and Gronw Pebr... that was a Celtic joke... you see, because I was in an Irish Bar... forget it; you’ll laugh later after you google it.

So after wandering off on a reverie about something I couldn’t begin to tell you what, I was suddenly waking up on my friend’s couch. The world was gone in a snap, and a new one had fallen hard on my head. I sat up feeling like a sack of sand and horse shit. What the hell happened last night?

Like a smart detective I referred to my phone, to hunt for clues. My screen saver had a picture of a smiling turd I must have left somewhere languishing at the bottom of a stagnant toilet bowl. I winced and recoiled. Then I laughed. Poop is funny, whatever! Sometimes I like to play pranks with myself when I get wasted like that. 

I unlocked the screen and went to my photos. I catalogued it all in my photo album. Took the subway home: “A”train to Brooklyn. There I am with a crooked grin snapping selfies as a ninja turtle rat scurried on by in the background. 

Then I was at my friends apartment; they left it to me for the weekend and I must have been bored after drawing. I was taking shots from on top the roof where you can see the shimmering skyline of the city. It was pretty cool. What was not cool is that I was standing near the edge brandishing a bottle of sickness. Who ever decided time travel wasn’t possible never knocked back a full bottle of Evan Williams on the roof of a friend’s apartment in Bed Stuy Brooklyn—all theses ingredients are necessary to bend space and time. Take heed, scientists, so you can act all omniscient about it later on your Facebook page.

I kept flicking the screen to see what all came next. I left the apartment! It must have been like 1 am. Not a good idea. There was another snapshot of me on the subway again. Then there was the Empire State Building. Did you know there is an excellent comic book store there? I do now! Then I was at the shoreline near the new World Trade Center. Then I was at the World Trade Center. A gloomily nimbus fog snaked around the then not yet finished shinny new tower. Had to photograph it. I also took notice to how dark and very much Alone I was. Not smart. 

Then I was at a bar, remembering the abundant craft selection of beers they had. Then I was stumbling out again and on the subway. Brooklyn at that hour was not a safe place. But no one bothered me. No one hectored me, or even asked for money. 

My head hurt trying to figure out how I managed my field trip unscathed. I then noticed that I was still wearing my raggedy ICP shirt, with the two infamous painted rap villains smiling crazily on the front. I wondered maybe if everyone just thought I was the psycho homeless person who needed to be avoided. That’s called a revelation!

Never drinking again...

That’s called a lie. 

Carny Cartoonist: Weather

It was that raucous alarm they used in all the video games and techno horror movies when a contagion was released that jolted me like a bolt of electricity through my senses. I sat up; my bearings whirling wildly off track. The dream I was having melted away from my eyes and my memory. It was a weird thing because I remembered it having been a pleasant one. Somehow none of it could stuck to the front of my brain. Like the callous pull of temporal gravity it yanked down the veil of fantasy to let the burning light come pouring in. I winced, and blinked, and caught my breath. My muscles were tight all around, they hurt. That was the first thing that came back to me. Then I heard the blaring tv right in front of the bed before I even saw the picture. It was Game of Thrones. I left it on before I fell asleep. That’s right! I’m in a hotel... this isn’t home... but where’s home... where am I? Oh yeah, I’m nowhere. In the middle of it to be precise.

It took me awhile to get the gunk out the gears. 

I drove six hours to get there. Deep Texas, and most of Stephen King worthy Middle of Nowhere America was like that. You know where you are going until you get there. And then you dream of somewhere better. I remembered setting up my tent before checking into my hotel. I draw caricatures for a traveling carnival company. This episode in my life was spent with an unbridled lot that operates in the wilderness. Tornado Valley, oil country: where the nearest big city is always a hundred miles away, and the featured corporation that feeds the town grows their employees. Seriously! I had one memorable encounter with a guest some time ago who was stunned that I had once drawn in New York City.

“Oh, I wish we could go there,” the 24 year old husband and father of SIX said dreamily to me. 

I asked, “why not take a vacation and go.”

He laughed it off as if the suggestion was just otherworldly absurd. He said, “we can’t leave, we’ll lose our jobs at the meat factory.”

Come to learn in that said town you had three options as a youth coming into adulthood: study for a better position at the slaughter house, study to aspire for bigger and move out of town almost like an exile, or get a job at Walmart. Before I left that town I drove along a road overlooking the holocaust fields of cows with a grim sickness stirring in my stomach.

That was awhile ago... well, maybe it was a week ago. Can’t tell anymore. When you are in a new place surrounded by a new corporate agenda driven ideology every ten days the weeks and days sort of blur together. When I was a kid there was this show called the Twilight Zone—this rout was an episode of that. These days I guess people would liken it to American Horror Story. I don’t know. Don’t have Netflix. 

Anyway, I’m sitting in bed. My body hurts from traveling all night, working all morning, and now the plague timer went off meaning it was 4 o’clock. Time to get my ass to the fair. 

In small towns like Canadian Texas (don’t ask, all these places got weird names) the annual rodeo and fest was their backyard theme park and swapmeet. The locals saved up their money all year to splurge on the carnival, and therefore it was often good business for me. “Ain’t never seen no one doing them funny face drawings around here before!” 

The hotel I was staying at looked like a shit-bomb waiting to give me an excuse to buy a new wardrobe when I checked it out on the internet. This meant that I could afford it. In Oil-Vile the hotel jockeys jack up their prices knowing their visitors would pay it, having no other option. So it wasn’t too uncommon for me to have to fork out  six or seven hundred dollars a week to work a show in town. This one was only 400 so I was relieved. Beats waking up in your tent to find that your air mattress was floating from the silent deluge had filled your campsite while you were past out drunk. Don’t ask me how I know that. But I got to the hotel and it was like a mansion. I couldn’t believe it. Newly renovated, new hd TVs, a pool, a gym, the works. Bad weather leveled the place not so long ago and they have been trying to Phoenix the hell out of it ever since. So I was spoiled that week. 

Now keep in mind, at this time I was traveling alone, and thousands of miles from my closest lifeline. Some real gypsy shit. So now and then I have some crazy moments where I just don’t know how to proceed, and get a little panicky. That day, that fucking Day was one of them goddamn days.

I noticed nervous commotion in the lobby. But I figured something new and horrible was going on in the news and I did not want to stop and see. Going outside I am greeted to the cry of an alarm that put my heart into my throat. There, before me, was a group of oil workers crowding around drinking beer, laughing, and pointing up. I looked and saw the tornado terrorizing a vacant, flat horizon, swaying blithely like a dancer on ice skates. The alarm was defining, and disorienting. But the oil guys, fresh off their shift were eating sandwiches, pounding brews, and taking fucking selfies in front of the thing.

“Umm should we be worried,” I asked the lady at the desk. She just shrugged. “What do we do if it hits this place?”

“Pray?”

It was the best disaster plan an atheist could hope for. Just then an ambulance came blazing down the street to the hospital that neighbored our hotel. 

I went outside and did the only thing I could do, watch as the fat black funnel sashayed around the Ferris wheel there in the distance, and called my mom. Then, as I was on the phone, the temperature went from hot to freezing in an instant. I turned my head up and saw the skated skies churning. The air around me went still. The party of drunken oil guys got excited. I got scared. A funnel started to form directly above me, where the heavens were turning. But it stopped and it dissipated.

Later we learned that the ambulance was carrying back an oil worker who died when the tornado touched down moments from where he was working. Nine twisters came down that night. But they never hit the carnival. I got to my stand knowing it would have been toppled by the winds. Instead I found it sucked into the ground somehow. I needed a couple of carnies to help me dig it back out. We opened the fair. Nobody came. 

That was a night I had in Canadian Texas. 

Cartoons at the Junk Convention

Tink! Tink! Tink

Oh there he goes again!

His lap-bowl of belly moving like a mold of jello to every click and clack of his ancient mower engine tractor. The tired machine cranked its soul out carrying years of making America Great Again with a beer in one fist, and a Big Gulp gas station bargain soda, with whatever superhero is selling movie tickets this week slapped on the label to pinch out every last drip of novelty from the age-of-heros dead brand in the other. He scowled hard ahead with the look of a man whom has grown fat and comfortable in his overalls, assuming everyone around him owes him something. America, home of the free... free from English and Roman Tyranny at the cost of mowing down an indigenous people, though, to many here it meant: entitlement, Freedom, for me, myself, and I. Everyone paints the picture of theirselves as God when they are led to believe that is what they mean by being made in His image. But who am I to judge. His old iron mechanism clicked along, trudging him through the aisle. At one point he just stopped and died. The sun finally showing the old man the way to the light. It’s about time that thing did more than show us the cloy taste of humility; Trump needs to do something about that smug yellow bastard in the sky. The traffic stopped in the narrow alley. I watched from my stand, eating my fifteenth goddamn oatmeal bar hoping it wouldn’t taste so bad this time. For a moment everyone just waited. Flywheelers in Fort Meade Fl was a big swapmeet and tractor show that draws in hundreds of old timers from all over to trade their junk, and show off their turn of the century touching Tonka Toys... wait, nobody has those anymore? Well then good. I guess I belong here too, at the old man convention, the land of misfit toys, the can of cream corn nobody ever remembers buying. Anyway, out here it isn’t unusual to find a human stick in the spokes. Funny thing is the place is so big that almost nobody walks. It’s quite the site to see everyone riding on their merry shopping spree in their suped up golf carts, tractors, bath tub on wheels (this is based on a true story) and Triassic era machinery. All that was missing is someone using their cats to pull a sleigh. Though if it happened at Flywheelers I’d probably just wince for a fast moment before grabbing another damn oatmeal bar wishing it was a pint of whiskey. The old man was fine, by the way. He woke, rebooted, remembered where he was, and obnoxious clock ticked his old ass on to another lane, ssssslowly. 

The event was great though. I made beginners money drawing cartoons, everyone was pleasant, my neighbors were great, and I got me a lot of exercise. They have this fantastic old times village there. It’s really fun  riding around that area, and visiting the old chapel where you can still smell the acrid stench of burnt heretics from the weekend before. I’m just kidding, everyone was nice, and there was hardly no public executions. Surprisingly enough there was a lot of diversity. Everyone coming together for the love of combustion engines, unhealthy food, junk, and one guy looking for the Dunking Clown that was never there, god help us all. I saw a Trump/Pence flag waving over a sign that said “American Made Junk” and I half chortled, half cried, and all put in on this gas powered generator someone was selling for $150. I cannot say no to a deal. I had a fantastic time and drew some funny faces. Here are a few of those sketches. 

A tale about a fabled GMC

I want to tell you a story about a mechanical companion I like to call The War Machine. I want to tell you about my GMC Sierra. 

I met her a time ago, when all hope was lost. I travel the country, traveling far, to treacherous lands, braving great tempests, and wild suburbs, dangerous drug infested middle of no where counties, and borderline bubble communities so distant from civilization their ideology about the world around them expands only as far as the college they are made to pursue for a path toward a better position in the meat factory that owns the town, to the other option which is working at the local Walmart. I draw caricatures in the carnival circuit, which is live cartoon portraits of patrons. And boy do I have some stories to tell about such a career, but those are not stories for now. This one is about a machine that had once seen better days before she met my lifestyle. 

Somewhere in Tornado Alley, in back country, in oil vile, where the population of cities and towns stays in the thousands, I had brought my $2000 beat’em up Volkswagen Jetta to meet the task of carrying my equipment with me as I followed a small carnival company across a no-man’s land that Stephen King would have killed Mad Max in. The car was only meant to take me from A to B, however at some point the alphabet was ate up by a vortex to another demension between those two letters, and B just kept getting further from my reach. 

One day, one fate-filled morning on a July 4th, on an early busy work day where I was suppose to get from my overpriced roach motel to my fair three miles away the car stopped working. And we were forced to walk. Some time ago before hand my laser cut key just kind of... fell apart, but I discovered that I could start the car by cranking the laser cut part in the ignition with a wrench. Anyhow, fast forward to the story, the car stopped fucking working on the worst day it could. We had to walk to work with our easels in 110 degree weather. That’s what it felt like at least. 

The problem could have been a million things, and I’m not all that mechanical savvy so I decided I’ll need help figuring out the mystery when the fair was done. Problem is nobody in this part of human civilization ever seen a Jetta, and this current predicament was met after having already dumped thousands of dollars for repairs into the damned thing. Basically, I was stuck with the great debate of Einstein’s Relativity because the fucking thing was quickly becoming a black hole for my bank account. I let my partner hitch a ride with the carnival unit we were working with to meet our next show on time, leaving me in the middle of nowhere with all the money I had in the world and no clue what I was going to do next. 

After having it towed and feeling like a stupid ass when the dumbstruck mechanic I sought out for help showed me that the problem was simply that the laser cut key couldn’t communicate to the severed computer chip inside, I got the thing running and drove 90 miles to get a new key made at the nearest Volkswagen dealership. It cost me $200 for the new key and it took them an hour to make. At this point I have officially spent over $7000 in repairs to keep this hunk of ticking time bomb from clocking out on me and leaving me stranded thousands of miles from my closest life line. I decided to go look at their used car lot whilst I wait. And there she was.

I saw a big ass dent in the side of it and I knew it was love at first sight. I bought that bitch, and headed back to town to get my shit. A deluge struck but it was no thang G, cause the beast was high off the ground: unlike the Jetta that has already left me stuck on a hill to wait for a flood to pass a time or two. 

When she was still pretty and clean, my partner in crime took her to pick up a blind date and had a nice time. When I got her back, I made a sharp turn and a box of supplies punched through the back window like paper. Me being cheap I taped up that shit with good ol gorilla tape. A year or so later, I came back to my car after watching one of the new Star Wars in theaters to find that someone knocked off my side mirror: it gets the gorilla tape. Another year, got into an argument with a dude over a parking space, he kicked in my turn light while I was working: it gets the gorilla tape, and still works. A year after that I come out after a grueling gig in Memphis Tennessee to discover that some crackhead had chosen my messy vehicle as his own personal treasure chest... too bad he didn’t have the right tools for the job: that’s what she said. I go to the driver side with a lingering headache, from my leisure drinking the night before, that morning I saw there was no keyhole, there was only... well there was only a hole. I paused, trying to retrace my steps from last night. “Did I really slam my door that hard?” Couldn’t remember. Fuck it! Went to try the other side. That’s when I saw what appeared as a bullet hole, this time underneath the handle. That’s when it hit me: it was about damn time. Someone tried to use the ol key to the city (crowbar) to get in. I was on the cusp of being enraged when I stepped back to find that it was in the passenger side door where the back window I literally had TAPED THE FUCK ON! So apparently gorilla tape is Crackhead proof. I started cracking up laughing. The cops thought I was insane. 

The door still worked so I never reported it to my insurance. But then, one year later, just last night, after completing a weekend gig in Lakeland Fl and wanting only to get a snack at Wendy’s and get the fuck on out of there before the city consumes my soul like that ship tried to do to Johnny Depp in Pirates of the What-ever-the-fuck my door closed for the last time. The latch just stopped latching. I was forced to ratchet strap the driver door to the passenger door to get to my next destination. And now, I’m just waiting for the next adventure with War Machine, the truck of Legends and Broken Dreams: get the gorilla tape!

News February 9

Here in Lakeland Florida to draw live caricatures at a small church carnival. So far its been an up hill struggle. Was banking on landing a campsite at this park only 37 minutes away, but it is first come first serve, and haven't had any luck catching them with vacancy just yet. So first night I worked out at the gym until 1 am, and then I tried sleeping in the back of my truck at the walmart parking lot. Ended up sitting up all night watching some dude get his car ripped apart after the police were called on suspicion of drug abuse. They pulled an OD from the vehicle, and quite a hefty find of meth, and a bunch of other shit. I got a front row seat to an episode of Cops sipping on some juice and wondering how the fuck I always end up in these weird situations.  "I picked a hell of a day to quite drinking..." Actually I've been one month completely sober on that note.

Anyhow, I'm doing this gig Raw-dick style, because I'm low on funds, and it is a rung to a major festival that I can't wait to get to. Ill be busy working my way to that, and finishing up a couple of mixed media commissions I started for a few close clients. Got me back in love with Adobe Photoshop and everything I can do now in the digital art world. Will be doing much, MUCH more digital drawing once I get some new equipment, and some money to buy what I need. In the coming weeks ill share some of what I have been working on in that department.

The new story I am writing is taking on a life of its own. Every new piece I drop into the universe begins a seed and grows into something big all on its own. Drawing up the characters, and finishing up the rough draft of the first section of the project. I want to complete the first quarter before the end of the year at least. Would be awesome If I could have a nice scary excerpt for y'all to read by Halloween, but I'm not yet holding my breath on that. What I have learned about writing is that it is an art that changes fast, and is as complicated sometimes as the human genome—thats an inside joke that only I really get, my bad. I have also began putting together a treatment for my historical fiction, and I am planning on going back and perhaps rebuilding that one. The original draft just got way too complex for the sort of story I had initially wanted to tell. I basically just have to rewrite it more simply, and more focused on the core characters and their emotional trials.

Ill be keeping the old blog regularly updated where ever I can catch a breath to spare on it, so hopefully I will have more material to throw up on here very soon. Take care, and stay Artsy, and Stop Hating, And... Pretend I wrote a clever revelation here at the end.

News (Jan 29 2018)

Today I spent some time working on an untitled science fiction/fantasy project. Put in about 1000 words covering a suspencful sequence that I am quite proud of. With my busy schedule traveling and drawing, it’s hard to squeeze in the time for my writing, so I’m very thankful I stole a moment to sacrifice on my new story. Wasted five years on a previous project that just slumped into a boggy, dark forest of complexity, and I’m trying very hard not to make the same mistakes this time through. As I said before, I have gone back to my original love which is science fiction/fantasy, and for the moment I’m just having fun. If anything will come of it in the end only time will tell. I am currently at a word count of 21000 and I’m only maybe a third of the way through my core idea, so I’m going to have to take care not to over do it as I continue into this world. All of this is a learning process, and I am a slow learner. My end goal is to create the foundation for an episodic like story where we can explore as much of as we want in the future, but first I’ve got to lay down the floor plans for a sellable base. It’s harder than it may seem when we get lost in our romantic perceptions about what crafting an original story means. The basics always turn out to be your best course in action to begin with. Pave a pretty path with guide posts here and there  to set a reader on a familiar path so not to lose them, but then, after they are at last committed to the adventure unleash the dangerous, exciting, and new wild twists, making it all the more fun. That’s what I’m doing. The beginning of the adventure is always the hardest part. I will share more as I can. Hope you all love what I am building so far. 

News (Jan 13 2018

Back in Florida again. Had one day in the sun before the cold found where I was hiding. Now it’s been slated skies, and fuck-your-comfort kind of weather since. So my 2018 has become a positive set of goals thus far. Been working out every day, even in this 9th circle of hell winter blast sent by someone dead that hates me climate endeavor. Also focused on writing a book; praying I can get something finished before the end of the year, but that is a up-hill battle through a jersey rush hour traffic kinda venture... in short: writing is hard as fuck. Out here drawing caricatures with icescicles hanging like polar bear Jack, but I’m enjoying life. Going to be sharing some new art soon and hopefully some more writing shorts, and essays. Take care, y’all 

News (Oct 10 2017)

I had wanted to publish one story per week for the month of October, but my working schedule interfered with those plans, sadly. however, I have finished one hell of a solid short story that I will be sharing before halloween. It is a 4,300 word story in the horror/suspense category, but I added a few elements of fantasy because that is truly my genre by nature. I don't want to give away too much about it, but it will be fun, sexy, and dark. I wanted to step away from my very serious Historical Fiction to write something completely different,  something with fewer restrictions—I really needed the break. So I went and created a world that we could explore ever deeper should we be interested in such a journey in the future. Short stories are exciting for me, but my demanding lifestyle and all-consuming primary projects make it a difficult task to complete, and to polish a single story in a short window of free-time. As some of you may know (those of you who are probably actually taking the time to read this, and I thank you for it) I travel the country for a living. My big road trips are a full-time job all on their own, but then I spend much of my life on this planet sitting at an easel drawing caricatures, and however I do love the job, between it and travel, and writing, and studying, I get a tad bit inundated. My ambitions are hungrier than I can even handle half the time, but I will keep trying to produce and share new work wherever I can break away from my life to do so. My next live drawing event will be in Georgia, and then I get to go back home to finish some drawing commissions, and polish up some stories. After, I will finish my work season in Jacksonville Florida, and begin a grueling month of writing in November: attempting to complete the first draft of a new novel in thirty days. This Halloween I will be sharing my last short story until I finish all of that. If you guys like it, give me some feedback and perhaps we will develop that universe further. Some interesting side facts about the upcoming short: it was inspired by a song by one of my favorite rock bands, In This Moment, and the book by Laurell K. Hamilton Guilty Pleasures. Hope you all enjoy it. Thanks again, Blessed Be!

Sincerely:
Jarce ArtThor (author)
Jeffrey Arce