"Aah, whaddya gonna do?"

We've heard a lot about James Gandolfini recently; since his passing. Everyone seemed to have thoughts. And I understand that because while I didn't know James at all, Tony Soprano spent many hours in my living room. We were close.

I wasn't invited to the funeral Thursday. I'm sure it was an oversight. I understand. No disrespect intended. Things get crazy when someone dies, especially in a foreign country. What with the arrangements and all.

But I heard about it. News gets around. I read David Chases' eulogy. Nice one. And I read a piece that Rob Sheffield wrote in Rolling Stone earlier in the week. And then in Hollywood Reporter his dialogue coach Susan Aston said "one has to remain vulnerable, and to be willing to be seen as human" to be a great actor. She might as well said "artist" there. I'm sure she meant artist.

He sure made that show as Tony Soprano, didn't he? Six seasons. Sheesh. James Gandolfini made Tony Soprano come alive. And while James may have died of a heart attack while on holiday in Rome, I like to think that Tony got wacked in "the old country." (Heart attack, shmart attack. They got ways of making it look natural.) Just tidying up a bit of old family business.

It's the way Tony woulda wanted to go out.

Whaddya gonna do?

How Not To Get Tired Of Your Brand ID

Seeing as how I don't do posts about other people's creative work and since some folks continue against all logic to see me as one of those weirdos, I figured I'd better take a stab at a post that takes a look at some concept exploration, rather than just prattle on about life and stuff.

So gird your loins. Here it comes.

Let me preface this by explaining that Rand Brand Consultants is a fictional personal project. It's an exercise in development of a new brand name and identity. Projects like this generally happen whenever there's a spare moment and perhaps a few brain cells left over to ravage. And it's always good practice to keep the gears turning.

So. You'll see here a series of graphics that incorporates a retro look and feel; relevant to this exercise because I'm pretty retro and (if I can get all Harlequin Romance on you) it harkens back to a more innocent time, when things were simpler. And it may be distinctively apropos in this day and age because it's just now gradually dawning on folks after a wild ride over the past ten years that the dazzle of technology isn't the be-all-and-end-all of everything. Whatever sizzle a business employs to sell its steak, its flame must be fed by good old fashioned Grade "A" values and ingenuity. Because consumers and clients are savvy and overloaded with messages. And new ways of breaking through is a constant challenge. So the retro thing seemed like a good approach to explore in principium.

We won't revert here to a list of dos and don'ts about brand design simply because: 1) dos and don'ts are rules, 2) I don't particularly like rules, and 3) conceptual thinking is all about looking beyond the rules (an act which helps to differentiate a brand). So, while the rules are there I try not to think about them. If I'm working on a piece and it doesn't look right I probably broke a rule and then I think about rules.

It is typical that great corporate material is used across all applications consistently. It's called adhering to brand standards. But can those standards be pushed at the planning stage? Can one of the brand standards be not to be strictly standardized? It's certainly within our rights to ask the question anyway.

So, it's probably not a new concept – the idea of a consistent wordmark with changing icons and matching "qualifiers" (those words under the wordmark), placed to coincide with subject matter, but it's a fun one to play with. Wait. It's actually called a "Variable Icon Corporate Identity" and was invented by a remarkably astute person. A leader in his field.

Yes, I just made that term up. And yes, you can use it.

The integrity of this exploration is in its format, style, font and color use. The intriguing thing is that it's enhanced by a variety of icons that highlight various aspects of the brand.

It did occur to me that something like this might not be for all executives. Because if you don't want people constantly asking you, "What logo do we use with this one, boss?" it could prove to be something of a bother to have like – seventeen of them. The two good things about a plethora of IDs are: 1) you're less likely to get tired of your own brand, and 2) if you find you don't like one of them anymore you can just throw it out and not be faced with a complete multi-kazillion dollar corporate identity redesign.

Then again, I may be totally wacked. Let me know what you think of the idea. As they say in the business, be brutal.

Or maybe you'll just look at these and get a wonderful but completely different concept in mind – a better one – and you'll do your own thing and become very rich and famous. That would be good too.

You can ungird your loins now...

Artifacts From The Past

While excavating an ancient burial ground (read closet) the other day, I inadvertently unearthed what appears to be a many centuries old treasure trove of artifacts from another time. Relics of tools from the Pre-Computer Age, (which comes just after the Neolithic, or New Stone Age). Unlike the Paleolithic, when more than one human species existed, only one human species (Homo pasteupius) reached the Pre-Computer Age.

Tools were all hand-held then, and amazingly crude, forcing the users to work at a larger size than the finished product. When finished the final artwork would be reduced, thereby creating more of a polished image. Above, this is what they called a "Reducing Glass," the opposite to the magnifying glass, which allowed the graphic artist of old to view his work at a smaller size while working; thus perceiving their work at the size it would be published.

While mathematics may not have been among the designer's strengths, this quaint disc allowed the user to align the original measure of a piece along the outside wheel with the desired length on the inside wheel and magically the percentage needed to move the piece from one measure to another would be revealed in the window. Pieces were commonly worked on at 125% so dialing in this percentage in the magic window would allow the designer to look along the measurements on the wheels to find the working sizes for all components of the artwork. Crude and time consuming but less so than doing the math in one's head. Which could have been dangerous.

Here we see a container for a roll of registration marks. Long before layers in Adobe Creative Suite existed, artwork was prepared on thick white boards. Spot colors were indicated by using hand-cut shapes on labeled acetate overlays (using rubi or amberlith). In order for printers to align the overlays properly, these registration marks were applied to all surfaces, one on top of each other. The production tradespeople simply lined up the registration marks by eye (at least three outside of the artwork crop marks) to position the spot colors amazingly accurately.

These are but three examples of the ancient tools used back in another time and place. When drafting tables, steel rulers, parallel rules, set squares, X-Acto knives and Rapidograph pens were the instruments of great (and not-so-great) designers.

Of course I'm much too young to remember these times...

Join us next week when we further examine a world miraculously without modern computers scanners and photoshop. When large room-sized "copy cameras" shot artwork in the dark. When halftone screens were actual screens placed between camera lenses and photosensitive PMT paper to convert consistent tones into dots at different resolutions. A world in which plastic bezel templates and french curves were used to manually guide pens to create smooth lines in an age without vector art. Where "FPO" meant "for position only" and "FL, RR and RL" were instructions to typesetters and things were stuck to things with a thin layer of melted wax.

An ancient, amazing age before modern conveniences...

Why Kids Let Parents Read Children's Books

Who doesn't love stories about funny beings doing improbable things? They somehow allow our imagination run away for a little vacation. Away from serious adult stuff like wars, hurricanes and heartbreak – not to mention the Kardashians, Duck Dynasty (no, not Donald) and Honey Boo Boo...

Improbably silly lives facing scary things... well, scary to them anyway. They might leave us thinking in the back of our minds what our foibles would look like if they were put into a book for the creature's young 'uns. 

As an exercise, it's fun, and a bit silly, to enter into the world these guys live in and tie into a logic and grammar that is as colorful as the characters.

When I was young(er) I thought it might be an idea to do children's books just for adults. After all, why should kids get all the good stuff? But maybe that would be crossing a line. Besides, it wouldn't be so weird to discover that parents who read stories to their kids enjoy the books just as much (or more) than their kids do. Maybe there are kids everywhere who are letting their moms and dads and caregivers continue to read the same bedtime stories over and over again to them night after night because the kids realize that their parents are just having a little fun. So kids, being the nice little animals they are, humor them and let them go on while they snuggle into their blankets and doze off.

Perhaps it's a secret that only kids know about their adults.

Perhaps it's best left that way. Sh-h-h.

(The above experiments in words and vector art illustrations are offered with apologies to Dr. Seuss, Margaret Wise Brown, Shel Silverstein, Maurice Sendak, Robert Munsch, and all the other authors and illustrators of fantastic children's books.)

Poo-Pooing The Pocket

Ah, it's tough time for us all. Not only is it evidently a crime to call 999 in England when a prostitute is not as attractive as she was advertised to be, not only is it considered inappropriate to sell 'midget' themed products, not only are two parking spaces in Boston reportedly worth $560,000, but evidently cargo shorts are no longer "in" and haven't been for quite a while. The fashion-makers, willing to humor the trend for a while, have admitted their disdain for the shorts (just as they have done for other articles of clothing that were practical). Why? They have too many pockets. Simple as that.

Pockets inhibit the sleek and tailored look that we seek as fashion-savvy consumers. Pockets commit the crime of interrupting the flow of the image sensitive eye with unsightly bulges. Because, while not evil in themselves, people tend to put things in them. How gauche.

Now that my entire summer wardrobe (from the waist down anyway) has been trashed, it seems to me (and then I'll leave it alone) that if your body is not sleek and tailored to begin with, one should be exempt from the sleek and tailored rule of dressing. Because, and I only say this because I have proven it to be true, if you attempt to place a sleek and tailored item of clothing on a unsleek and untailored body, one is apt to have stuff popping out. Displaced. In fact, there is some spandex out there that, if in close proximity, could theoretically put one's eye out. And I'm not talking about so-called "fat" people per se, although this whole thing about how the fashion industry and certain retail outlets (who will remain nameless) cater to the credo that in order to be cool and beautiful one has to be skinny is pretty ridiculous. I'm talking about people whose only "fault" is that their shape may not conform to other people's idea of ideal. That's where this all stems from, isn't it? I could go on about how large people are taught to dress so that they appear less bulgy but I won't, except to say it will be a champion moment when the stigma of not being the "perfect" body shape was erased from our consciousness and folks were accepted for and allowed to celebrate whatever shape they are. Why, we might see an end to businesses that prey on people's feelings of inadequacy. And that would be a shame, wouldn't it?

But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

Pockets. An illustrious invention that appears in Middle English and is taken from a Norman diminutive of Old French poke, or pouque. Historically, the term "pocket" referred to a pouch worn around the waist by women in the 17th C. They were so convenient they eventually migrated, as do all good things, to men's fashion (Scottish men are well known for their sporrans). They were more convenient than carrying around a sack (which one had to put down in the mud in order, for instance, to scratch two itchy places at once). Eventually though, as with all things that dangle, the strap on model became a nuisance and a temptation for young thieves running by with sharp knives. Luckily, absent-minded husbands who were forever forgetting to strap on their dangling pockets finally asked for them to be sewn directly into pieces of clothing. Practical. If it's sewn into your pants, chances are you won't forget it, unless of course you forget your pants. In which case you probably shouldn't be leaving the house anyway.

We need pockets. We line our pockets, attempt to have someone in our pocket, have out-of-pocket expenses, look for someone with deep ones and have money burn holes in them. We put hands into them to keep warm and to jingle pocket change while thinking. Pockets are an integral part of our cultural identity. They should be made bigger. We should be wearing pockets that happen to have shorts and pants attached. People would say, "Hey, sharp pockets you have there! Where can I buy pockets like that?"

But no. The fashion police are attempting to banish them because they cause unsightly bulges when people erroneously put stuff into them. And what do they offer in return?

Dangling things?

Thought we learned that lesson about 400 years ago.

I Think I'm Coming Down With Something...

A wrapper rapping. Oh gawd, please tell me I didn't just draw that. Someone take my temperature...

Oh no. Chair hair. Somebody do something. Next I'll be drawing...

That does it. I've lost it. I'm checking myself in...

Let Us Celebrate Our Nuts

(No nuts were harmed during the making of the above photo.)

What kind of friend would allow their good name to be used just so anyone in a tight spot would have a easy way to describe how they feel? Take the phrase, "Got my nuts in a vise." People use this expression and everyone instantly makes a face and goes "Ouch!" But it's not like they really mean "nuts", of course. Nuts just allow their moniker to be used. Because they're tough, unlike the body part that they're subbing for. Because, that's just the type of giving personalities they are.

Not in the entire history of mankind has there been a more magnanimous edible than the nut. They physically give of themselves at their moment of ripetitude (new word) for the benefit of humanity – giving up any chance at a higher education, long life and easy retirement to a long term care facility next to a 9-hole mini-putt (with prunes for breakfast and weekly trips to the casino). But that's not all. Nothing is more ounce-for-ounce as accommodating as our nuts.

This feisty seed-fruit does not hesitate to sacrifice its dignity to allow us to label our unfortunately foolish, eccentric, crazy or otherwise sanity-challenged people "nuts", "nutty", "nut bars" or "nut jobs". To be "off your nut" is seen as a temporary thing because evidently you can get back on when you're done being a bit crazy.

What do we affectionately call those silly geeks, info junkies and rabid enthusiasts who spend an inordinate amount of time and energy focused on a particular activity? We call them nuts (with a qualifier) of course; as in sports nut or car nut or those-things-that-people-collect-and-we-don't-know-why nut.

And what is a difficult person to get through to but a tough nut to crack. Why, some folks even yell, "Aw, NUTS!" in times of extreme frustration. Do we yell, "Aw, BEEFSTEAKS" or "Aw POMEGRANATES"? No-o-o-o.

Nuts have a distinguished history. South American gods invented peanuts 3,500 years ago deep in the Brazilian Amazon Rainforest (where they had like a secret laboratory). The Incans of Peru in 1500 B.C. used virgin peanuts as sacrificial offerings and entombed them with their mummies to give them something nutritious to snack on in their spirit life. P.T. Barnum himself made fresh roasted nuts famous throughout America. Today, they're revered by many in various ways: raw, sprouted, roasted and in satay sauce. Their oil is used for cooking and even made into cosmetics (to outwardly preserve, in a way, our present day mummies). And as long as you're not deathly allergic, people that eat nuts are said to live years longer than those who don't.

Nuts come prepackaged in natural crash-proof containers. Even some animals who own nutcrackers like them; particularly jays and squirrels – who without acorns would all do the crash diet thing every winter.

And when we yell the celebratory "Nuts to you!" the nuts all cheer. Not only do they have a sense of humor, they're just happy to be included in the conversation, especially liking it when someone informs another, "If they made hats the size of your brain you'd be wearing a peanut shell." And they're proud to be included in the Shakespearean declarations including, "A fusty nut with no kernel" (Troilus and Cressida). Fusty nut. That's just so classy.

These are great little guys, well deserving of our respect.

Let us show our nuts they are loved.

Let's have a declaration and an outpouring of nut love. And a letter from the queen. We'll have a nut party. With nut fudge sundaes. Yeah, that's it... with sprinkles.

"Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing." ~ Redd Foxx

The Secret Of "The Look"

It's called the one-raised-eyebrow look, or simply the look for short. And it has been a classified privilege for generations of high-placed powerful business leaders. One that was handed down with password and secret handshake.

Now, this mystery of the ancient societies can be yours after centuries of hiddendom. In short order you too can maximize its miraculous powers with a little practice. And when you get it right, when you find yourself talking with someone who has "issues", you will be able to just give them the look and they will turn into a quivering mass of jello right before your eyes. All without you having to say a word.

The look is not like "staring daggers" or the much maligned "evil eye". It's not meant to be mean nor hurtful; just informative.

The look is so effective and effortless, it may seem like magic. In some ways it's like having an unfair advantage. But hey, life isn't supposed to be fair. And if the look can help save some critical time for yourself and send a message to the person you're giving it to, why, you might just be doing both of you a service.

Yes, the secrets of ancient societies like the Illuminati, The Group of Seven and The Mickey Mouse Club are now yours to use. Think of the time you'll save and the money you will earn.

Versatile, subversive and politically correct, the look is a tool that should grace your leadership toolbox. It is corrective, yet constructive and not nearly as potentially devastating as those messy words can be.

For those of you who have difficulty mastering having one eyebrow raise while the other descends, it can take a bit to perfect. When in training, use a mirror but don't look directly into your own eyes or you might accidentally cause your bowels to weaken. I'm planning a two-day workshop next month. It will cover the various uses and accessory mouth and eye positions for extra ommph.

Let me know if you would like to attend and I'll put you on the list.

Taking A Break...

Gather 'Round And Sit A Spell

Sittin' and talkin'. Chairs are wonderful contrivances. They allow a measure of relaxation that stops short of unconsciousness and provide relief from the awkward act of shifting from foot to foot (or the urge to lean on things that might tip over). Plus, there is no greater place for the imagination to roam. Folks have told stories and listened to them from chairs long before the days of high technology made communication easier and faster and almost completely void of character.

Back in the day, being invited to "sit a spell" around the General Store potbellied stove was a sign of respect, belonging and acceptance; an invitation made not to prompt the shoveling of hype down people's throats nor to subject listeners to boast after boast. Folks who insisted on doing so were politely thanked and subsequently ignored... or quietly asked to move along. Long silences were common and to be expected; where everyone just stared into the distance watching pipe smoke drift into the rafters and listened to flies buzzing at the windowpanes. Trade was conducted almost as an afterthought and people would come and go as news was shared about families or poly-tishuns. Problems were solved and help was pledged through the dusty light without the need for contracts or handshakes. And as the afternoon pushed on stories were told of days gone by... sometimes time and time again. Either there was a point to the story or there wasn't. Everyone listened just the same. Results were never measured by the number of reposts, shares or likes but with the nod of the head, a simple "Ayuh" or a chuckle and a "reminded-me-of" story of their own.

-------------------- 

The time-out chair. As a kid in grade school I had a teacher called Mr. Pickles. He was a cool guy but one day I yelped loudly after he asked the class to feel the end of a Jack Pine needle in a science lesson, and for some reason he had me sit in a chair in the corner as punishment. This was only the second time I was made to sit facing the corner in my life, seeing as how my parents either didn't believe in "time outs" or didn't have an empty corner that I would fit into. The first time happened years earlier when, as a small fry, I was visiting the elderly neighbors next door. The Simpsons (no, not those Simpsons) had a swinging door between their kitchen and dining room – a remarkable invention to a young, red-blooded tyke and, I was told, one that came with a do-not-swing order that defied the logic of having a swinging door in the first place. After all, why else would it exist? I don't think they were accustomed to having young, energetic children around. As I remember I was never invited back. Perhaps they learned their lesson. They can have their dumb ol' swinging door anyhow.

--------------------

Chairs in a circle. I began my career working for an animation company as part of a large crew (large because at that time everything was all hand-drawn and painted on acetate cells, which were laid over watercolor backgrounds and shot one frame at a time). The final production crunch involved extra shifts and hastily assembled desks in a previously empty basement next door for extra painters. One night the power went out during a storm and while everyone waited for it to be restored they gathered their chairs around the light of a single flashlight – found in someone's car. Ultimately, the ghost stories began. Lee, friend and the son of the owner, told the story of waking up one night when he was a kid and seeing the image of a woman from the waist up, dressed in what he could tell was a flowing gown, hovering over the foot of his younger brother's bed. She wasn't doing anything, just floating there quietly gazing down at his brother. This appearance was repeated on subsequent nights. Always the same woman, always the same benevolent gaze. After a period of very little sleep and not sure whether to be scared or not, Lee finally shared the experience with his family who, being a family who was quite open about these things, decided that this woman was his brother's guardian angel – watching over him. Reassured, Lee lost little sleep after that. It freaked out his little brother for a while though.

--------------------

Gather 'round. Storytelling is an ancient craft, used for passing along tales, history, culture and information from generation to generation long before the written word existed. It is said that the craft is the most powerful communication tool still today. A story engages us, increases our ability to remember facts and makes it easier to think things through. Plus, it's great fun watching people sit on the edge of their chairs waiting for the story to unfold.

Find yourself politely thanked and subsequently ignored? Perhaps if we're looking for ways of being more effective when we take our chairs around the potbellied stove of the modern world, it might be an idea to take some pointers from days gone by.

How's Your Battery?

Yes – my modelling days are not over.

Doing these made me wonder: what if technology allowed all these messages to be incorporated onto just one shirt that read your energy level and changed as you gained or lost energy during the day? (Sorta like how mood rings worked.) You'd be going along a bit drowsy, showing the "runnin' low" message and then you'd launch into a double espresso or start getting excited about something and your shirt would change to the "soakin' up the juice" message, and so on. It would provide people fair warning of things like when to let you have a nap.

As far as I know the science doesn't exist. A good thing, I suppose, for people who don't consider themselves ruled by either fashion or technology. Although I hear on the news that the Japanese have invented robot dogs that can smell your feet and tell you if you have foot odor. So maybe the know-how to express personal energy levels dynamically on t-shirts is not that far away.

And I got to thinking about how we have grown up in a pop culture where moveable billboards on our chest reveal a bit about who we are, how we think, how we want to think, how with it we are, what team we're rooting for, what beer we drink, what band we'd die for and in some instances how weird we want to be.

It's somewhat remarkable that we human beings would allow our tastes and desires to be defined by what's on our chests. A personal statement born of the "me" generation, I suppose. Perhaps it's an apt form of expression in a world where we sometimes feel we have to hide what's underneath; in our hearts.

Have to go change my socks. Cheers.

Made You Look

Insight is a funny thing. I'm talking about life's truths. Like how to broach the subject of your white shirt tail poking out through your undone pant zipper. Or how you also have a booger hanging down from your left nostril. You can't just come out and say stuff like that. Even in private. That would be... so gauche.

Like how the pattern of your Spider Man pajama top shows through your artistically wrinkled dress shirt; the one with the strategically placed armpit stains. There's your possible feelings of embarrassment over having really bad fish breath to consider. One never knows. Maybe it's not rotten fish at all but you may have a very serious disease. That would explain the green bits in your teeth, wouldn't it? It's not yesterday's spinach after all! And maybe you intended for those cowlicks to stand up like that just on the right side your head. After all, maybe it's none of my business if you're trailing toilet paper out the back of your pants.

Personally I think it's extremely clever how you arranged for half your breakfast to be left in your beard. You're obviously saving it in case you get peckish mid-morning. How very frugal of you! Something to be enlivened with the condiments splattered on your tie (a great collection of ketchup, mustard and hot sauce BTW). I have to remind myself that maybe your wife was up all night with a sick child and was grabbing a much needed few minutes of sleep when you got up this morning and you had to get dressed in the dark so that would explain your mismatched socks; one of which is inside out.

You might assume that because I've already mentioned a few things to you in the past, (like maybe how the wet spot in your pants might be solved with the insertion of a simple adult diaper) that I should speak out again. But then again, maybe you won't take it as well this time. Maybe you'll be shattered. Maybe you'll fall to pieces, your family will disown you and you'll end up in the gutter with a friendly chap named Slime sitting beside you, gazing lovingly at the leftover cheese-flavored doodle snacks in your pant cuffs with his one good eye.

But if I do mention something that leads to me saving you, should you need to be saved, maybe I will have finally found a purpose in life. And I'd have you to thank for that. And you can have a new purpose too, if you want. A rejuvenation. People will go, "Wow, you look great! Here's a bunch of money." And then you'll save the world and win the Pulitzer Peace Prize. And I'll be stuck here wondering about the rightfulness of my actions because you've now become an INSUFFERABLE, POMPOUS GIT.

No, I can't do that to you. I like you too much as you are now.

Ode To A Hippie, Butt Cheek Pocket

"...I got a freaky old lady
Named Cocaine Katy
Who embroiders all my jeans..."
~ Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show

I don't know why I do things sometimes. Nearly forty years ago I threw out an old pair of jeans but before I did I cut off the right butt cheek pocket and I have carted that damned thing around with me ever since. I don't tell you this to infer that when your jeans are dead it's only proper that you should remove its pocket and hold a memorial service where you bow your head and say somber stuff like "It was a good pair of jeans" and sing a hymn or two. I do so as a testament to the fact that I was once as close to being a hippie as you can get without actually being one.

You see, hand embroidery of a butterfly done by a woman on the butt of your jeans is a very hippie-like thing to have happen to you and means you might be very close to actual hippiedom. And back then everyone wanted to be a hippie. 'Cause it was cool. And you got to put two fingers in the air and say "Peace, man" and grow your hair long and get discriminated against because you had long hair and you could sing "Alice's Restaurant" in four part harmony on a city bus without getting busted and scribble peace signs on your jean jacket and stuff like that. And if you were in the right place at the right time there was a period where you got free love. Before that evidently you had to pay for it and after that it became kinda dangerous.

You had your city hippies and you had your country hippies. The city kind went to coffee houses had pictures of Che Guevara on their walls, wore bell bottoms, sandals and tie dye shirts with love beads and patchouli oil, maybe worked at record stores where they were cooler than their customers and said "far out" a lot. And the country hippies maybe were originally from the city but left and went to the country in their VW vans where they joined communes, played Dylan songs around wood stoves, did farming, talked to animals, wrote poetry about deep and meaningful things like the evils of society, made tea out of strange plants and maps for the county where they left off their location so others couldn't find them. But that's another story.

I don't mean to make fun of the hippie culture. Well, okay, I do. But in fact; it introduced a lot of good things to a lot of good people. People who still get a pang when they hear Scott McKenzie's "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair..." or the Beatles' "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band..." If you look past the heavily hyped psychedelic, drug-taking, foul-languaged surface that the media would have you see, you'll find the basic precepts of love, peace and brotherhood. The questioning of traditional middle-class values and the embracing of aspects of eastern philosophies prompted a different way of looking at life. One that said it was okay to be the you that you were meant to be and it was okay to be poor and not have a two car garage and it was also okay to love who you love and one that, I'm sure, would be tickled day-glo pink to have a little fun poked at it.

Fate had it that I was too young for Woodstock and too far away from the whole Haight-Ashbury thing so I missed being a real hippie. But this pocket and the fact that a nice woman did it for me says that maybe there was a little hippie thing in that moment. The good kind.

Sometimes The Muse Shows Up

“There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.”
~ Sappho

This pic, taken at a summer concert (year unknown but most likely sometime in the mid-70's and probably at Camp Fortune) that I hand tinted in the old fashioned way, is of Jesse Winchester, a song writer and singer and conscientious objector back in the days when people found it necessary to come up to Canada from the States to avoid conscription into the U.S. military. Memphis born and raised, Jimmy Carter gave him a pass in the late seventies and sometime later he moved back home. He's an amazingly modest, plain-spoken man. And during an interview when asked about whether he had any success collaborating on songwriting, he said he spends most of his time writing mistakes before anything good happens and it's hard to share that process with others. His workday begins and sometimes the Muse shows up and sometimes it doesn't.

Which, of course, got me started thinking about Muses. Wikipedia gives this information regarding the phenomenon: The Muses are nine goddesses in Greek mythology who control and symbolize nine types of art known to Ancient Greece, and are associated with artistic inspiration. This is not to be confused with other meanings for MUSE (one of which is an English rock band and another is a brand name for Prostaglandin E1, an erectile dysfunction treatment... which I suppose is yet another incarnation of inspiration).

Ray Bradbury once wrote, “To feed your Muse, then, you should always have been hungry about life since you were a child. If not, it is a little late to start.” Which sort of puts the kibosh on the assortment of "How to Summon Your Inner Muse" coaching sites out there. The writers and artists who have an inkling of what creative inspiration is all about, all seem to agree that you can't summon a Muse. You just have to be there when it decides to show up. And she is a fickle character who will grace one person and then leave without warning to favor another. Author John Updike once wrote, “I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.” 

If you recognize the role or the influence of the Muse in creative work, or if you've ever been lucky enough to have the magic happen to you... after hours, even years... for no special rhyme or reason – you're apt to give the creative Muse her due. There is no formula, no spell to recite to elicit the adornment of her powers. But once she arrives the effect is remarkable. And the memory of her grace is electric. It's a moment that makes time stand still. Where those who witness the inspiration will forget to breathe for a split second. Or a minute. Or more.

Mother's Day

Give a guy a digital version of old home movies, access to iMovie and some time to play and this is what happens... my apologies to Capra, Kazan, Scorsese, Coppola and Lucas. (And yes, the little guy getting his new slippers put on is yours truly.)

My Feet Were Here

I shouldn't read people's reasons about why other people shouldn't bother to write blogs. Because it can be disheartening. Some call it narcissistic clap trap. They say the only reason people have a blog is because they love themselves so much that even their crap is gold. Or they say people write blogs just for self aggrandizing purposes. To prove their superiority. Or they write just to bitch and vent at an unfair world. Or to prove their astounding leadership capabilities.

And some people do that. They repeat stuff they hear from other sources, reinforce their importance through recognizing the words of others as their own. These are people who figure they should be greater than they really are. But like everything in life, these would be the minority.

Then there are people who write blogs to keep the wheels turning, to push themselves to learn, to explore, to share something they feel of worth (and not necessarily of monetary value). These are the blogs that don't have advertising, whose content doesn't try to promote their services or those of others, who don't set out to prove how great they are. It isn't their intent to impress. These are the ones you find that try to make a little sense, to share a small thought. These people tell stories, make you laugh, attempt to find some reason in what can be a very unreasonable world at times. Or to poke some fun at the stupid stuff around us.

Google Analytics - Rand's Place visits to date for the year 2013

If we figure our net worth by how much of an impression we make on the world around us, our true imprint (when we're standing anyway) is the area the bottom of our shoes block from the sun. But in this day of internet communications, to a guy that grew up with dinky toys and a sandbox, it's amazing that something that I do or draw or think can be shared with people in every continent in the world. From Beirut to Kuala Lumpur. Copenhagen and London to San Antonio to Sao Paulo. Syndey. Cape Town. Aukland. Ho Chi Minh City. Some places I've never heard of (where the heck is Toronto?) and people I would never hope to share anything with in pre-internet times. How wild is that?

So thanks for visiting. And rest assured, the posts here are not meant to prove I'm anything other than what I am, warts and all. I try to throw around no more weight than can be stuffed into my size tens. Know of other sites that do the same? Feel free to share!

Everything Is Tragic, And Nothing Is.

It was the most important date in Pam's entire life. John was supposed to pick up Pam for their date at seven, but it was going on seven-fifteen and he wasn't there yet. He was never late, she thought. This proved he was secretly seeing Jessica, Pam thought, otherwise why else would he be so late? She paced the floor of her bedroom in her nicest flowered dress, the one with the lace. The one he liked. They had been going to the malt shop and then to the Lakeview Drive-In to see the new Elvis movie, Girls Girls Girls.

Every time she heard a car she raced to her window to see if his red car, the one he loved so much, was coming down Apple Blossom Avenue. The way he always came....

Unbeknownst to Pam, John had been was on his way to Pam's house but nineteen minutes ago, at six-fifty-three, he swerved to avoid hitting a kitten owned by the widow Mrs. Abernathy, who ran the local Welcome Wagon and sang in the church choir beside the hunchbacked Julie Forsythe, whom she'd been secretly in love with since grade school. John's '57 Chevy had left the road, smashed through a wooden barrier and dove over a cliff.

Pam, thinking of John in Jessica's arms, threw herself on her bed and sobbed into her pillow. She was sure her life was over.

Meanwhile, the cold river water at the bottom of the cliff swirled into the car's interior through the broken windshield, rousing John from his unconsciousness. Still in a stupor, he fumbled with the door latch, but the door was jammed. The water rose quickly to his chin and as he took what might be his last breath, he thought of Pam's smile, her warm embrace and of the engagement ring from Liecherstein Jewelers in the pocket of his jacket.

The fins of his beloved Chevy disappeared below the dark, inky waves.

----------------------------------------

About the visuals: Glass slide mounts provide frames for small, hand-drawn retro romance comic art. Pins glued to the back make them wearable... an old project.

Outdoor Playtime...

If you've been wondering where I've been, I was working on a post about political attack ads. It took me three days of fighting with it to realize I hated it. No matter what I did, how I revised the visual or reworked the copy, it didn't seem to help.

It reminded me of a time a few years ago when a partner in crime and I spent two weeks working on a concept for a full-blown integrated campaign, a direction that was prompted by initial talks we both thought had potential. During the initial stages we both still thought the idea was neat, but the further we got into development the more it became a struggle. Finally we sat across the table, with the pile of mockups spread out on the table in front of us. In almost the same breath we looked at each other and said, "You know what? I don't like this anymore." Turns out we were both sticking with the concept because we both thought the other still loved it. But it became evident to both of us that it didn't work, for much the same reasons. We both sighed in relief and threw everything in the trash. In a few days we had something we both loved. The client loved it too. 

So about what I was originally going to post. Sorry. Suffice to say I had nothing good to say about attack ads, and there appears to be no way for me to say that in a way that satisfies me right now. They say that the difference between a good piece and a bad one is that the good one looks like it belongs on the page. And my attack ad piece just didn't. So I chucked the whole thing. Sometimes you have to do that. So in a few hours I put together these playtime billboards for you. They just sort of flowed out.

Now I feel better. 

Hope you like 'em.

~ Rand

Multiple Personalitudes

"So that's what you think eh oh geez okay go 'head great great go on you'll see okay okay go 'head you'll see you'll see."

"Come on-n-n you want me doncha looking good honey feelin' all juicy for you oh yeah baby want a taste of me come on that's right..."

"Look the fug out comin' through get the frick outta the way stoked here gonna do it do it getter done big fella that's right hoo-hah!"

------------------------

Thoughts and ideas, like blessings, come at us in all sorts of ways and with different kinds of attitudes. Some days you get a crowd and you have to feed and entertain them all; even when they don't agree with each other and you have to jump in to referee. Others come slinking in hoping they won't be noticed. Those we just smile at and let them sulk in the corner. Others are great right off the bat and we celebrate. With balloons. And cake. They like cake. Chocolate. With icing.

Sketchbook Dangerous

Stretching the ol' brain cells in the old fashioned way – via the sketch book – is... well... um...

Let me just say this: if you have been spending thousands of dollars on therapy in order to find out more about your inner self, you may want to consider spending a few bucks on a book of blank pages and a pen that fits easily in your hand instead. Giving yourself some time to play and letting thoughts be transported from one's brain directly through one's hand onto paper can lead to surprising and highly entertaining things. 

But beware. There is a dark side. In fact, doing this can be a dangerous road to travel. Often things will reveal themselves. Things you didn't know existed within you – scary things...

So a word of warning. Before you begin, know that what you are about to reveal about your innermost being may not be something you want to share with young or impressionable members of your family – lest they develop horrible nightmares and/or facial ticks and/or a compulsion to stomp out the alphabet with their left foot. Of course, it would be safer for all concerned if you could stick to drawing unicorns, pictures of dancing fruits and kitties saying hello, but really, what would that say about you? That may be more revealing than you'd care to admit. No, you may be best letting your mind wander onto paper unencumbered in a locked, private room; away from others.

But, of course, I jest. Pick up a pen. Any old paper will do. Loosen those creative spirits within you and let them flow onto the paper. Do it often. You'll feel amazingly refreshed when you're done... and the evidence has been destroyed.

Why are there nice men in white coats at my door?

Let The Begatting Begin

"In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours."
~ Mark Twain 

My mother used to say, "Enough is enough." She used to say a lot of things actually; some of which I can't include here. But I clearly remember her using the idiom for the same reason I'm thinking of it today. The weather. To be specific – the crappy weather. Of course, it's all part of the natural process of things. Like day becomes night becomes day. I know how things work. Summer begats fall and that begats winter which begats spring and spring begats summer. But I'm thinking we're missing a pretty big begat just about now. Anyone seen the spring into summer thing yet? Because I'm really into begatting that. I'm looking out my window and all I'm seeing is stuff like cold, sideways rain. Squirrels, robins, outdoor patios and crocuses alike are all looking around going, "What's with this pissy weather?"

Wait. Maybe that's it. Maybe there's a significant call of nature thing going on. I'm serious. Like, what could hold anything that important from happening? A sudden urge of the bodily kind, right? Maybe whoever is in control of the warm weather switch was going to make it warm, like it was on their to-do list, but then they had to pee really bad. That would certainly explain all this rain. It's entirely understandable if that's the case. You can't really put off an urge like that, especially if you have an issue with tinkling excessively, which I don't – since I gave up beer – but some people must because adult diapers are flying off the shelves in Japan (according to Bloomberg, they topped the sale of baby diapers last year). And as we all know, along with a fascination with flower arrangements, Karaoke, total quality management, horror films, smartphones, motorcars and non-stick cookware; Japan always leads the pack when it comes to trendsetting. Maybe adult diapers are the coming thing. Maybe Japan knows something that we don't. Maybe people wear them not because they're incontinent but for the convenience: because they prefer going when and where they need to without either interrupting their duties or worrying about filling their shoes. Maybe the stigma is disappearing. This development would surely help if that's what is holding us back from getting some nice, warm, summer-like weather here.

So. Excuses and crossed legs be damned. Whoever is in charge of nice weather has kept everyone waiting long enough. We need some warm weather begatting done here and if Depends are the answer then I say, take the money from petty cash, get a quicky courier going and tell this whoever they are to get on with their job.

I've got some serious vitamin D soaking up to do.

The Beat

                  

            we have a here (now)
                 where
                 what
                 wait

where we pulse
          spreading magic for
               flesh and bones
                        where we cry
   where we laugh
           where we sigh

           fed by the heat
                   below     it
         tip-tops our
     my-mys

           it feeds
                 the new
     --- in you (too)
a place here                    now
    where          the thing is

                        the beat beat beat

Scientific Sh*t

The world of science has given us so much. The thing I enjoy the most is how science has devised ways of defining things like conditions in both a quantitative and a qualitative fashion. Visually. Like charts, graphs and such. They're just so... analytical.

This is an official chart, devised from decades of experience and unbiased clinical observation, that portrays both the quality of shittiness and its severity. Position 1 is where you're at if you're lucky. This is a best case scenario where you are experiencing a mere hint of shitty. Position 2 is where you don't want to be. This is a worse case scenario, possibly the result of a series of events. Anywhere else on the spectrum of things you are able to say, "Well, things could be worse."

It's easy to get confused because there are different varieties of shit:
Nasty Shit is the type that seems to be out for you. Either because you've been a dick (karma's revenge) or someone has decided to put a kibosh on your life. Examples: getting thrown in jail for something you didn't do, throwing up that Chablis on your shoes, anything to do with the Kardashians, getting the bird flu when you're allergic to feathers.  
Normal Shit is stuff that is basically environmental. It comes with life and is the reason you don't drink the water in Mexico. It's an equal opportunity shit; waiting for you, or the next guy or the one after that; it doesn't care. And you don't have to actually do anything in particular to qualify. Examples: sitting in a highway parking lots, holes in condoms, a booger hanging out of someone's nose, some expert trying to tell you how to run your life uninvited.  
Stupid Shit is just the stuff that you know you shouldn't have done, or stuff that someone else should have known better but is done anyway and you have to deal with it. Examples: speeding tickets for anything less than 5 mph over the limit, saying yes when you know you should have said no the moment it comes out of your mouth, someone being lousy to someone, yet another article about that Zuckerberg guy, having to eat brussels sprouts.
Oops Shit has its basis in plain old human fallibility. Mostly harmless, there's still no escaping this type of shit. If you think you're immune, look up "in denial" in the dictionary (or look for your name in the obituaries). Examples: moving a chair and then 5 minutes later stubbing your toe on it, dissing the boss when he or she is within earshot, wearing white after Labor Day, bed head, mismatched socks, food stuck in your teeth, peeing yourself when laughing.

And, of course, there are different levels of severity for each classification. Where an incident falls on the scale is sometimes dependent on how much you're paying attention. For instance, one can be in deep do-do and not know it.

You'll notice there is no place for the lack of shit on this chart. Let us not fool ourselves into thinking this is a possibility. This is science we're talking about. And science doesn't deal in fantasy.

All to say it's not a complete downer thing. After all, even the hardiest of garden flourishes with a bit of fertilizer.


 

His Wife Wanted Him To Win A Wristwatch...

An interstice is a small opening between things. And if we were to look in the space between funny and unbelievable, we'd see a gentleman named Jonathan standing there...

Very few times in your life you might meet someone whose genius takes your face prisoner and to your delight, you find you just can't turn away. Jonathan Winters was such a person: grandmaster of the improv, inspiration to young comedians like Robin Williams and recipient of the 1999 Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, and sadly gone this week at age 87.

How did it all begin? A few months into his marriage he lost his wristwatch and the couple couldn't afford to get him a new one. His wife, hearing of a local talent show where the first prize was a watch, told him to go down and win it.

He did.