Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

I Don't Do Celebrity Obits

I really don't measure my life in relationship to celebrity. There was a time in my life when I actually knew a lot of celebrities... musicians and media people. None of them were really close friends, just business acquaintances. So, Muhammad Ali died at the age of 74. What's that got to do with me?

I found the rather clever cartoon above at this website.

I certainly look at the celebrity obits. How can you help that? My Facebook page already sports dozens of references to Ali's death, with each friend relating their bit about how and when he affected their lives.

My main interest in the celebrity obit nowadays is... How old was the deceased? This gives me an opportunity to revise my guess-ti-mate of just how long I have left before I croak.

Ali croaked at age 74... an average age for a man. 82 seems to be the favorite age for male dying.

How did the great fighter affect my life?

Back in the day, let's say around 1968, he was an anti-war icon with his "No Vietcong ever called me nigger" quote. This seemed incredibly brilliant to me at the age of 18, although it now seems like incoherent nonsense.

I chased around celebrity musicians in Woodstock way way back in the late 70s and 80s in the hope that they could do something to help me in my ambitions. Quite a few of those musicians have since kicked the bucket, and none of them did me a bit of good. Some of them did thoroughly enjoy playing the S&M game of pissing on me for chasing after them. A few of them asked me to work for them for free.

I did not attend the funerals of any of these musician celebrities. Many of the supporting cast musicians in Woodstock did in the forlorn hope that this would be a last chance for some of the sheen of celebrity to rub off on them.

Celebrity is so cheap nowadays. Back in the 60s and 70s, celebrity was a rare thing because media was limited. So, the celebrity figures of the 60s and 70s seemed bigger than life.

No more.

In the era of super mass media on the internet, Warhol's "Everybody will be famous for 15 minutes" maxim is literally true. Celebrities abound. I no longer even make the attempt to keep up. 

I am content now to face the future of dying in anonymity. We all die alone.

When Myrna was dying in the hospital, I tried at first to rally all her friends and associates to visit her at the hospital. But, I quickly observed that neither she nor they really wanted that. Death is an intensely private and not very pretty thing. Myrna wanted to be left alone with me holding her hand in her last moments.

Only a handful of people really care for us during our lives. This is not a negative reflection on people. Intimacy is difficult and time consuming. We don't have the ability to care for a broad swath of humanity.

I will also die alone, with maybe my daughter at my bedside. Nobody will notice much that I am gone, and that's fine, too.

My Version... R. Crumb Self-Portrait...

I've always loved R. Crumb's cartoon style. His characters are so crappy and funky... just as all humans are! Almost every line in a Crumb cartoon is fuzzed up or hairy or just plain funky. Here's my attempt to cop the cartoonist's style:

Drugs, particularly acid and weed, obviously drove Crumb's vision. The hippie era in the Bay Area was his great subject. That tripped out feeling of the body dissolving is conveyed somehow in the master's off kilter style.

Here's Crumb's original:

What a disgusting, perverted old man, huh?

An interesting exercise, but I don't think I really understand Crumb's style... yet!

My White Privilege!

Here it is... my dad, Melvin Thomas. He invested everything he possessed in the education, development, happiness and nurturing of his children. This is my big secret!

Dad was born into poverty... a family of 11. His mother died when he was still a child. His nickname was "Spic." He was called this because, in his childhood, he was the only one of his siblings who didn't show up at school a dirty mess. Even in the middle of frigid Illinois winters, he ventured down to the river to wash himself. He was, thus, "Spic and Span," like the old fashioned all purpose soap.

WWII destroyed many men... physically, morally, spiritually and psychologically... but not Dad. Enlisting in the army pulled him out of the pessimism of the Depression. He shrugged off the alcoholism that had plagued men in his family for generations. He earned the rank of 2nd Looie in Army Artillery. He returned home a confident and sober man.

If every man loved and nurtured his children the way Dad did, the world would be a very different place indeed. It's surprising how many men like my father lived in my teeny-tiny hometown of Watseka, IL back in the 50s and 60s.

Not all of my cousins were blessed by having a father like mine. The curse of alcoholism and abuse afflicted many. Dad reached out to every one he could, playing the role of surrogate father and healing their wounds as best he could, without ever revealing his good works or expecting praise or reward.

When I say the Lord's Prayer, oh so many years after Dad's departure from this Vale of Tears, I feel as if I am speaking directly to my father who art in heaven.

God bless you, Dad. I'll be with you again soon. Take good care of Myrna until I get there. I know that you will.

All Kinds of Moms

My mother was not cuddly. Hard assed Old World German would be a better description. She's mellowed (as they say) quite a bit in her late 80s. She's 87! She always did her duty, although she would not hesitate to tell you that she'd like to tear your head off in the process.

Mom worked in factories most of her life. For the first couple of decades, she worked in a non-union factory in my teeny-tiny hometown of Watseka, Illinois. Then she defied Dad, landed a union factory job in Kankakee, and commuted 35 miles each direction. Our family finally became middle class.

The union milked the factory dry with incessant demands for higher pay, more benefits and less work. So, the parent company moved the factory to Taiwan. 

Mom's response? At the age of 59, she returned to school, first to earn her GRE and then to tackle the LPN certification course at Kankakee Community College. Took her a couple of tries to pass the clinical side and, I believe, three tries to pass her certification exams. She became an LPN when she was 63, and she worked at this profession until she was involuntarily retired when she turned 83.

She was so very proud of her nursing uniform... the scrubs, hat and pin.

In the midst of her career as an LPN, Mom nursed Dad through an horrific decade long struggle with Alzheimer's, honoring his fearful wish to never be institutionalized in a nursing home. Dad was the sweetest, quietest guy you'd ever hope to meet before the dementia took him. He turned angry and confrontational as Alzheimer's destroyed his mind. I cannot say how Mom managed him, but she did, and he died as he wished at home.

Mom was, and is, in short, a tough old coot. Somebody you can always rely on. Not for soft words or hugs, but for the hard ass necessities of life. Mom and Myrna, my late wife, were cut from the same cloth. Tough, relentless, unyielding warriors. So, of course, they couldn't stand one another. I didn't even try to patch things over.

Mom was relentlessly critical of me. No mercy. If I batted 4-5 in a Babe Ruth League baseball game, she would demand to know why I flied out in one plate appearance, and why I was so damned slow getting out of the batter's box in another. There was a time when I felt pretty sorry for myself over this, but Myrna shamed me out of it.

"The commandment says: 'Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother'," Myrna would say. "Not 'Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother when you like what they do',"

As always, my brilliant wife was right.

I'm tough and mean and determined to win, just like Mom. No apologies. I was born into poverty in small town Illinois. Hell, I was born, literally, on the wrong side of the tracks in that small town. Mom was determined that her kids would beat the rap, become educated and successful, and she didn't give a damn how that was accomplished.

Mom succeeded in everything she set out to do in this world. I love her, but she's still not the kind of person who cares a lot about being told such things. Nor did she ever offer much of that verbal cossetting.

Do it! Get your friggin' act together and succeed! Stop your damned whining!

I am very much like her.

God bless Mom on this Mother's Day.

In the Spirit of Ernie: Let's Play Two!

Yes, I am still contemplating the passing of the incomparable Ernie Banks. He led such a happy, productive life and he apparently savored every breath. Here's a YouTube video of the first 20 seconds of Ernie's Hall of Fame induction speech.

What a lovely poem, huh?
                    We got the setting
                    Sunshine fresh air
                    We got the team behind us
                    So, let's play two!

Ernie was a Chicago everyman, the great blue collar hero of a long gone city once populated by factory workers and tough guys. The fact that Ernie was ultimately a loser, because he was cursed to be a Cub, only made the great slugger more appealing.

He never expressed a wish, so far as I know, to play for any team other than the Cubs. Of course, his career was mostly over when the free agency era was just beginning. Who knows what he might have done if he had been eligible for free agency during his prime?

Players in Ernie's era didn't get the huge lottery type payouts today's stars receive. In comparison to the average working Joe, however, a star baseball player still made a lot of dough. I've read estimates that Banks' salary at the apex of his career was only $450,000 in terms of today's dollars. That's a lot of money, especially in Chicago. 

Did you know that Ernie did a stint in the military and that he also played for the Harlem Globetrotters? I really enjoyed his Wikipedia bio. Ernie was also a bit of a playboy. He was married 5 or 6 times. Not only that... he was also an ordained minister (of what denomination, I don't know). Mr. Banks was playing the field!

I'll look for a full bio. Might be worth reading.

Sketch of Woman from Picasso Sketch!

I'm in my Picasso period. I always loved his style and, of course, I loved the style of the era in Paris that he represented. Henry Miller was his contemporary. I'm studying the masters.

I added the light green wash in Photoshop.

"Why am I doing this?" is a question I often ask myself. That's a dilemma of retirement.

I can do things now simply because I enjoy doing them. Whether I will ever make any cash or get any attention for what I am doing is unimportant. I retired to my house in Woodstock to contemplate my relationship with God and to practice my art.

Below, a scan of my sketch before I added the green wash in Photoshop.

I'm moving slowly toward character animation in 3D. Yes, that's the goal. I felt as though I needed to understand the basics of illustration before I moved fully into animation.

I'm trying to quiet my mind. Create the day according to my own rhythm and liking. Not so easy to do after a lifetime of sitting in a cube and doing as you're told. 

How to Love Your Enemies?

The massacre in Paris strikes close to home for me. I wasn't that far from the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. Through the windows of my office on 14^th Street, I watched 3,000 of my fellow New Yorkers die. I've been pretty pissed and ready to go to war over the last few days. I don't like to be pushed around and I don't do turn the other cheek well.

Yeah, Jesus said that! Matthew 5:44. The full text from the King James Bible:

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you...

The psychology of Christianity is so profound. Freeing yourself from hatred and vendettas is the path to a productive, successful and happy life. Forgiveness is almost the entire message of Christ. Forgiveness for sinners. Forgiveness for yourself. Even forgiveness for your enemies.

I read a synopsis of Islamic theology suggested to me by a Facebook friend. If that synopsis is accurate, then Islamic theology is a Dark Brothers porn movie.

Who would have thought that, in the 21^st century, the world would be engulfed in a religious war... in fact... a re-enactment of the Crusades? The Christian and Muslim worlds at war with one another, with the Jews caught in the middle.

The problem with Islam isn't that it needs a Reformation. Islam desparately needs a New Testament with the message of forgiveness. Revenge and vendettas... well, who wants to live that way?

My great artistic hero has long been Henry Miller. Yeah, I like all the sex stuff. That was great. He also refused to be dragged into the bitter revenge and vendetta act of the 20^th century. He sat out all the war and atrocities as far away from the conflict as he could get and indulged himself in wine, women and song. That is also my plan.

I don't have any advice for the rest of you. The world has, amazingly, been divided between a culture that prizes hyper-masculinity (Islam) and a culture that now prizes hyper-feminism (the Christian West). And, the Jews are still stuck in the middle.

Ray Manzarek Rides Out of the Storm

I’ve played all the great Doors’ songs hundreds of times. At one time, I could even reproduce somewhat faithfully the entire two minute piano solo from Riders on the Storm. Ray Manzarek was a virtuouso keyboard player.

Manzarek's ability to cover left hand bass while he laid out those beautiful comps and melodies with his right hand was amazing. Try it. I dare you. It’s damned difficult to play either line solo. The guy played both lines in unison in live performance!

The Doors started life as a blues band. They covered quite a few Chicago blues standards, including Back Door Man. Ah, for the days when blues based rock and roll ruled the world!

Manzarek died at the age of 74. Just about in the age range in which you expect men to die. Most men are gone by the time they hit their early 80s. So, expect a deluge of departures by the 60s rock heroes over the next few years. That era is about to become a distant memory.

Without really meaning to do so, I’ve been studying Manzarek’s work for decades. All those bands that I played in had to have one or two Door’s songs in their repertoire. For good reason! (The Pup and I have been trying to convince the Old Dawgz to cover Riders on the Storm, but Big Joe has an inexplicable aversion to the song.)

RIP, Ray Manzarek.

My Musician Heroes… Elmore James

Elmore James was one of the giants of the blues. To understand just how influential he was, read his Wikipedia entry. Every great blues guitar player has studied James closely. Less well know is that James was one of the great blues songwriters, with three of the greatest blues tunes of all times to his credit. His greatest was, in my opinion, The Sky is Crying.

I studied James’ style very closely when I was in college. I bought many of his LPs more than once, because I wore them out on my turntable. His slide guitar style influenced every guitarist who every bought a bottle neck slide, including Muddy Waters and Hound Dog Taylor.

I love everything about Elmore James’ style, from his adaptation of church hymn vocal stylings to the incredible pastoral story telling style of his songwriting. Here’s another fantastic James’ tune, It Hurts Me Too. This is the first song I ever played for my late wife, Myrna. She, too, fell in love with the tune.

Everybody has covered an Elmore James' tune, from The Allman Brothers to Stevie Ray Vaughan to Eric Clapton. James' influence cannot be overestimated.

If James had only written The Sky is Crying and It Hurts Me Too, he would have secured legendary status as a songwriter. He also wrote the legendary rocker, Shake Your Money Maker, also covered by every serious blues musician.

Elmore James was, truly, a giant figure in the history of the blues. If you don’t know his music and his legacy, go listen to him now. He was fantastic. Unfortunately, he was a little before my time in the Chicago blues scene. I wish I could say that I caught his live show, but I can’t. What a pity!

My Musician Heroes… Tennessee Ernie Ford

Back in the 50s and 60s, my family gathered around the TV every week to watch the Ford Show, hosted by Tenneesee Ernie Ford, on NBC.  My dad had erected a TV antennae on the roof, with a rotor attached so that we could receive Chicago and Champaign channels. Every week, Ford sang a Gospel song. Seems impossible by today’s standards, eh?

Hillbilly shows were popular in those days. The Beverly Hillibillies enjoyed a long run. So did Green Acres, Hee Haw and The Andy Griffith Show. We hillbillies were just scratching our way up from poverty into the middle class. The down home values of country folks were thought to be admirable. It was assumed that everybody went to church on Sunday.

Ford became one of my earliest musician heroes. He was one of the great Gospel singers of all time. Big, deep bass voice that made his vocal statements seem profound and decisive.

Before he became a great TV star, Ford was already a country music star. My favorite Ford song of all time is the hilarious Shotgun Boogie. If you actually take some time to listen to the lyrics, it’s quite a ribald tune. #1 country hit in 1951! In the style of the time, the funky subject of the tune is cleverly hidden.

”No brush hunter’s gonna get my daughter,” indeed!

As I return to singing Gospel in church, I think I’ll study Ford’s style closely. I’m struggling a bit with conveying the sense of ease and assurance that Ford conveys.