GraphicGumbo3

Let the Countdown Begin, 5...4...3...2...One...

2011-12-31T20:08:00.000-06:00

I Hope He Doesn't Age Too Soon!
I don't think I know anyone who will hate to see the year 2011 go.

Now that I live in rural Louisiana, I don't do much to ring in the new year, but when I lived in SoCal, my wife and I would visit the South Pasadena Rose Parade site where, each year, the city struggles to present it's entry on time. We would then spend the rest of the year, what's left of it, at a friend's home, the Villa Sabotella in South Pasadena, where wonderful Italian food and libations were enjoyed along with that crazy family's love of the good life. They were our "family"and our home away from home during the holidays. After a toast to bring in the new year, we would get a few hours of sleep and then walk the Rose Parade route with some other friends in the early morning hours as artists, musicians and float designers scramble to meet their personal deadlines before the parade starts.

Returning to our friend's home for a great breakfast complete with Ramos fizzes while watching the parade in the comfort and warmth of their hospitality, was always a treat. Because not many were as fanatical as I was about the bowl games, we seldom spent the afternoon together there, which was just as well, since all of us by game time, were pretty much spent.

It was always a great event to say goodbye to the old year and ring in the new with all our South Pass friends!

In the last few years, I have taken to quiet evenings with a glass of champagne and my Daily Reminder datebook where I sit and reflect on the old year complete with my disappointments and my successes. I like to focus on and write down all of the accomplishments of the past year even the silly ones like repairing the toilet or oiling the door hinges. Anything that makes me feel positive about leaving the old year behind, I write down onto the last few pages of the datebook.

Then, I say goodbye!

This holiday season I've been so incognito fighting a cold... for the last week. Disgusted with myself, I went in for a diagnosis yesterday, and found out that I've got the flu... Duh! Looks like orange juice, the Christmas tree, and football to ring in the New Year.

Maybe, that's not so bad... ha! Geaux Saints, Geaux Tigers!

And, Happy New Years, y'all!

Made In The USA...

2011-12-21T12:38:00.000-06:00


Buzzed Off... This is the pic of the actual toothless blade!

What an idiot!

I haven't really used my circular saw in quite some time, so I don't remember when I did use it, how it performed. All I know is that the saw was smoking more and more with each cut. I could sympathize with a saw struggling to cut a large three by six piece of wood, but it seemed the more I used it, the worst the saw performed.

I've been a Milwaukee Tool fan ever since I can remember. The jigsaw is about twelve years old and was bought to replace my grandfather's all-metal Craftsman, which still works quite well, but is a bit rough and rather heavy when compared to the newer models. Heck, that Craftsman has to be over sixty years old.

I also own a Milwaukee 3/8 inch drill that I purchased to replace a Rockwell drill which Consumer Reports recommended as the best tool for the money, oh, way back in the late seventies. Since replacing it with the Milwaukee, the new drill has been everywhere, doing all sorts of duties and surviving all sorts of misuse, intentional and unintentional.

I've dropped it more than once off my roof unto the pavement. It's got more nicks and cuts and dents than Mean Joe Greene's helmet. I love that tool and I love Milwaukee Tool Company for making such great products... and to my knowledge are still made in the USA.

That's why it bothered me to see this circ-saw, not performing up to snuff. I was changing my garage into a artist's studio and to do so was incorporating the saw to cut framing 2x4's and sheathing for the new wall that was replacing the original garage door. But with each passing use, the animal would smoke and kick back worse than before. I have a penchant for using tools not designed to perform the task I demand of them, but it got to the point that the kick back was getting so violent, that I feared I'd have to go out and buy a new saw, which presented another problem I had no time for... researching another tool to purchase.

I could not believe Milwaukee would "do me like 'dat"! Now, what do I do?

I did what most do-it-yourselfers do. Find an easy solution. I took off the blade to find a replacement. It was the next best thing short of disassembling the entire tool, piece by piece. The blade seemed to be the biggest part to replace and probably the easiest. So, I looked in the tool case that houses the saw to search for a newer, or even older blade that might cut better and there was none to be found.

Begrudgingly, mumbling obscenities all the way, I took the saw and the unattached blade with me to the local hardware store about six miles into town. I only brought in the blade and plopped it on the counter. Steve, the store owner, picked up the blade, focused his bi-focals carefully on the part, combing every tooth, back and front, inside and out all along in a circular route. He then looked up, rather glumly, above his glasses, which were perched at the tip of his nose, and sighed before giving me the verdict.

"Please tell me, Steve, that there's something wrong with this blade because I don't want to have to research and buy another circular saw... ever!"

I, emphasized the word,"ever", insinuating that if it wasn't the blade, it must be the saw, and I didn't want to lose my faith in the great American Milwaukee Tool Company.

Steve put the blade back down and calmly, but sternly said, "There's nothing wrong with this blade if you got some big slabs of butter or cheese you want to cut!"

"Otherwise, this is no good to no one," he said.

Okay, so I'm an idiot. I bought a new blade for twice what I'd pay for at the home centers, but it was worth every inflated dime when I loaded that puppy onto the saw and began cutting two by fours like it was cutting into butter.

And, best of all, my faith in America was again restored, this time, by the great Milwaukee Tool Company... God Bless Made in the USA!

"Don't Touch That Dial... It's Pre-Programmed!"

2011-12-16T20:52:00.002-06:00


This is not an endorsement, ha!

For the last couple of months or so, I've been renovating the garage, turning it into my art studio. Without going through all the horrible details of demolishing perfectly good walls to add fiberglass insulation, I have been having good and bad visions of how this project will look when finished. In the process of renovation, many large materials have to be incorporated and large materials like four by eight sheets of anything is impossible to jam into the trunk of a four door sedan.

Nor can it be tied to the roof of a four door sedan. I know. I've tried. On many cars!

I thought about asking some friends at the local coffee shop if they could help me out. In Folsom, everybody's second car is a sedan. Their first vehicle is a big, honking four by truck with a trailer hitch, a tool box and some mud boots turned upside down between the tool box and the cab. I thought about asking them for assistance, but the return favor might be more than I bargained for, like gutting a deer, or scaling an ice chest full of speckled trout! Besides, I really don't have any close friends here in Folsom... acquaintances, yes, close friends willing to haul sheets of plywood, insulation, sheet rock and such... nah!

Although it says that you can rent this wonderful van for only $19.00, it actually cost $25.00 excluding gasoline refills. I know. I've driven this exact vehicle thirty-five miles to and from Folsom, LA hauling stuff I can't take in my car five times already. I will probably have to use it once or twice more before this project is complete.

But the really cool thing is that using the van as much as I have, I have all the buttons on the radio pre-programmed for the channels that I love. Not that I really love radio. To me, it is a vast wasteland, but when you are out and about doing things that are not the norm, it is always good to have something familiar...like every sports talk radio channel available, NPR, The Think Tank, and the local college rock stations. Whenever there's a commercial on air, I just hit the old button and "BINGO'.

The first time I used the van, I programmed the buttons so I wouldn't have to be preached to, or screamed at, forced to cry in my beer or sold one political bag of nonsense or another, but I never expected the channels to stay the way I set them up.

Either this poor van is seldom used or someone out there has the same "musical tastes" I have. What a coincidence.

"It's Like Sittng at a Stop Light and Feeling Someone Else's Music!

2011-10-24T22:15:00.001-05:00

Feel the Music...

Lately, I have been spending more time at coffee houses like Starbucks, PJ's and CC's here on the northshore for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, just to get away from the house... and myself. I understand that these shoppes are meeting places for people to converse about anything. Many times, it is used as a convenient, non-threatening venue for business. Heck, I've utilized these places for just such reasons, but it really bothers me when people sell their religious views, loud and clear, to everyone whether they care to hear it or not.

I'm not very good with zealots especially of the religious kind!

I realize how naive I have been most of my life about the things that motivate people. Being raised in a city where, as repugnant as it can sometimes be, "Laissez les bon temp roulet" ( French for "Let the Good Times Roll! ) is the main battle cry. I've seldom been exposed to such proselytizing. Being raised French and Catholic, I had to ask a Jewish friend what was that little beanie on his head was all about having moved from New Orleans to Los Angeles. As I recall, in the fifties and early sixties, we Catholics were threatened to burn in hell forever if we attended and participated in a Mass or services at any other church that wasn't Catholic,, so it is no wonder it took me leaving the comfort and protection of Catholicism in a provincial city like New Orleans, to learn about other cultures. And as a kid I never was really exposed to the "Bible Belt." But today, here on the northshore, it abounds.

It is not my style to talk about the after life, religion or the various "end of the world" scenarios, at least, not without a tongue planted firmly in my cheek. It is equally hard for me to intelligently speak or listen, for that matter, on the subject of politics. I'd rather sit on the fence. Of course, having to listen to others speak loud enough for almost all booths to hear on any subject is rude, boring and preachy.

To me, it's kinda like sitting at a stop light and feeling someone else's music!

"Good Things Come In Small Packages"...Number Six!

2011-10-14T09:53:00.000-05:00

Brian's First and Only Entry Into a Modeling Contest...

In a way, this was my son's coup de grace. After about three years of making planes under my "tutelage" I suggested he try entering one of his creations at a local hobby shop that was having a model making contest. He decided instead to completely build a model from beginning to end and the plane he chose for the competition was the P-40B Tiger Shark of the famous Flying Tigers.

I shot this photo of the model and sent it in with the aircraft for judging. We both were pretty happy with the effort and I can remember, looking back, that the only assistance I gave him was aligning the yellow stripe decal behind the number fourteen. I remember discussing whether or not to glue the pilot in the cockpit, but Brian was happy with his detailing of the pilot and wanted him in it. Sometimes, in fact, most times, model makers are better off showing the interior of the cockpit without the pilot because they over render the features of the pilot and it makes the rest of the effort look unprofessional.

For what ever reason, even though, his entry was displayed in a glass case with other entries at the hobby shop in Pasadena, it didn't win anything. I can't say Brian was heart broken because he always was to cool to let anything like losing upset him, but I still felt bad for him. I told him that maybe it was something I did, like displaying the plane on top of the illustrated history book in the photo, that might have, somehow, disqualified him. But my kid had no opinion on that. I sensed he felt it was time to move on to other things and even though we made a few more memorable moments building models, I slowly backed away from participating and he slowly stopped being interested. It was kinda a sad day, but he gained so many unique experiences both mechanical and creative from that time that I could only see his participation as a positive force.

It's one of those gifts Dads can do... impart a love for the things that you loved as a child and see where your kids take it!

"Good Things Come In Small Packages"... Number Four!

2011-10-03T12:07:00.001-05:00

Going Navy with 'Da Blues...

Well, try as I may, I cannot find the layout that this picture of Brian inspired. Years ago, I got a call to create visuals for eight spread ads for an art director, Tony Halstead, who was freelancing for McCann Erickson. The client was Hamilton Avnet and wouldn't you know it, I've found six of the eight color xeroxes of my work, but not the one of a kid making a model airplane. In the above photo composite I designed for Brian's college graduation diary, the background pic of him making a model is one I shot for the Hamilton Avnet comp.

Anyway, my son had a great time building a series of naval aircraft complete with the early WWII tri-colored camouflage of dark sea blue, sky blue and white. By this time, he was fairly good at airbrushing this paint scheme though he never did get the concept of taping off the greenhouse canopies that were used at this time during the war.

What I used to do as a kid in the early sixties, was to paint the greenhouse frames by hand carefully lining in between the pre-grooved frames on the clear plastic canopy with turpentine or Testor's Thinner and then immediately add a line of dark blue using capillary action to do the rest of the work. If I wasn't satisfied with the line I would carefully erase the line trying to not disturb the many other frames I had created. It was quite tedious, but then, I was a kid and had plenty of patience especially on a rainy day when I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

My first airbrush was a Paasche "V" I received as a graduation gift in college. Within months it had paid for itself painting airbrush illustrations for the oil trade industry, but I didn't incorporate the tool on any model building projects until I attempted to use it in Jack Leynnwood's illustration class. It was then that I learned to use clear cellophane tape to mask off the frames of the greenhouse canopy and then spray color on with the airbrush. It was a technique my son never acquired mainly because I didn't trust him with an X-acto knife... at any age!

His inspiration for the TBF Avenger, which was another Lindbergh reissue and built completely by Brian except the greenhouse canopy, was at an airshow at Burbank where he saw a tri-colored SBD Dauntless and a year or two later, the TBF, at the then, annual Confederate Air Force Show at Chino.

Gary Hoover... He Will Surely Be Missed!

2011-09-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

I received some sad news. I received an email from Bill Robles, the talented court reporting illustrator for CBS, telling me that an old friend and SILA member, Gary Hoover had died. Apparently, Gary had called Bill a little over a week ago, and had a long conversation about the good old days. He was, according to Bill, his usual very funny self.

Gary had a stroke last year, and was not the same guy after that. He had chosen not to speak to any of his friends for over a year, including Bill, who he was close friends with. I'm sure you all remember the great times we all had with that very talented Gary Hoover, especially, for me, at the many Air Force trips during the 1980's and '90's. I knew him when he was connected with the Group West Bunch and was doing a lot of paper sculpture like Leo Monahan, Jeff Nishakawa and Chris Butler.
He was a talented artist and a friend, and will surely be missed.

"Thoughts About a Great Art Store That... "Aint 'Dere No More!"

2011-09-29T12:06:00.001-05:00

Look what I found!

I found this tag on a sketchbook from long ago. It sent me back to a time that now seems so foreign in so many ways. To all my Los Angeles friends, this can bring back some incredible memories though people in LA are accustomed to change with buildings torn down, businesses bellying up, and cultures and traditions uprooted. It is, sort of, the price one pays for all that "upward mobility.

No looking back!

But to me, 1850 miles away and ten years gone from my SoCal life, finding this sent me back to that other world, in another life, so far away, like it was all a dream. But living in Louisiana, I felt no guilt wasting time and ruminating the past in all its "sunny SoCal glory!"

I also found, while attempting to clear a path in the attic for the electrician to rewire my garage, in a box of some hard as a rock Windsor Newton goauche tubes that I had purchased at Clinton Art Supply on LaBrea in Hollywood, and again, a flood of memories came bursting forth like the jazz music that mellowed out from the store radio. Though I don't remember his name, the mustachioed attendant behind the Letraset counter would ask if you needed any assistance. Can you imagine what a business press type was back then? Clinton devoted a whole wall to the product, at one time! Always hassled, and aggravated trying to find a parking spot on LaBrea, the store had a calming effect even though it was usually against my best interests to chill out there.

I also included in that "stash from the past" was a box of about a dozen or so of "Daily Reminders" that I am just dying to page through. But that's another subject from another time, for another time!

In retrospect, it was always "Daniels" where I spent a whole lotta hours and also, a whole lotta money. The building seemed to beckon one like a great big invitation to explore. Besides having a knowledge- able and helpful staff, they had just about everything a professional artist could ask for including art and design books and magazines. I once asked one of the regular salesman if I could order the then out of print book,"Creative Illustration" by Andrew Loomis and he was kind enough to send me to the Hollywood Bookstore where I might find a used copy. I used to huddle back in the stacks sifting through CA's to steal an idea or just get inspired. I'd spend hour upon hour there sometimes meeting colleagues and artist friends that I hadn't seen in years.

To me, it was like a great Parthenon of art where new things could be discussed or discovered and the "latest" seemed to appear only moments away, just around the corner! I loved it.

Many times, when working in the Mid Wilshire or MacAtthur Park agencies, one could phone in a order of supplies and get it delivered, or you could run in and purchase some markers and get out in time to have a burger and a large lemonade at Casey's on Sixth Street. In the seventies and early eighties, H.G. Daniels served not only the major ad agencies and design studios, but also Otis and Art Center schools.

I guess there are many reasons why a scene like Daniels ceased to exist. There was talk in the ad community that some people were being mugged late in the evening as they left work. I actually had my Honda Accord broken into after hours while working at Ketchum in the Mid Wilshire area. It didn't take long for trendy agencies to move further west towards the Miracle Mile, Santa Monica or even, Orange County. Vagrants, bums, and people of questionable integrity roamed the neighborhood surrounding Daniels. The parking lots now had to be lit and security guards escorted patrons in and out of the store. It got to be a little bit scary to go there late in the evening, but I suspect the big killer of Daniels was the coming of computers. Who needs to learn how to use a ruling pen, or paint a straight line, or draw with an ellipse guide, much less have to purchase these tools? I'm not sure exactly when H.G. Daniels closed its doors forever, but I am sure its closing negatively affected not only the art community of downtown LA, but entire neighborhood surrounding it.

There's a song created and made even more popular here in New Orleans by a musician who lost everything except his bass guitar in Hurricane Katrina. The song is bittersweet tune entitled, "Aint Dere No More!" where the locals all lament the loss of stores, restaurants, businesses, neighborhoods and, to an extent, a culture that once was such a part of our lives as New Orleanians.

Accidentally seeing the price tag on an old sketchbook reminds me that the Daniels I knew and loved ain't 'dere no more! Like so many things in our lives, nothing more needs to be said.

"Good Things Come In Small Packages"... Nummer Fünf!

2011-09-21T13:48:00.001-05:00

Some of Brian's German Models made over the years!

As you can tell from the picture, Brian and I started making models around the time he was eight years old or so. Over time, we built just about every German aircraft except the FW190 and as of today, we still have three or four models stored away in the attic... never opened. The Focke Wulf "Condor", the He-111, the Dornier Do-215, JU-87, Me-109 in the many variants, the Me-110, the Me-210, the Me-163 Komet, the Dornier Do-335 (push/pull design), and even the Blohm-Voss "Sea Dragon were the many planes that built or bought and never finished. "All of these models, except the Me-262, pictured in the upper right hand corner, Me-163 Komet, and the Dornier Do-335 were built mostly, by me and then airbrushed to the little art director's wishes. He'd pull out a picture from my files or from one of my aviation art books and tell me how he wanted it to look.

The Me-262, a reissued kit from Lindberg, was built and painted completely by Brian about four or five years later.

A Cub Scout friend of his was really enamored with all things German from bratwurst and sauerkraut to BMW's and warplanes of WWII. Tim and Brian would construct these outlandish, unaerodynamic aircraft out of Construx pieces where everything that wasn't the fuselage or wings was a bomb, a rocket or a machine gun.

I used to tease them both about their designs and both of them would beam that childish smirk of, "Yeh, we know, but it's still loads of fun" as they attacked and crashed into one another with Construx pieces flying apart.

After a fierce battle in the skies of South Pasadena, the plane that most resembled a plane, won!

Not wanting to have Brian get the wrong message about the Germans and the Nazis, I introduced him to some German culture and history through books and television in hopes that he, as an eight or nine year old, could understand the difference. Naturally, taking care to not present a thorough history lesson to a child, complete with all the horrors and atrocities, it didn't happen over night, but eventually, he did have better grasp of the war and its many complications. I probably was a bit too zealous, for after a while, it was like trying to speak to him about the birds and the bees. He'd listen to me preach and respond by giving me, with all the worldliness of a twelve year old, a roll of his eyes and a smirk, replying in exasperation...

"I know Dad, I know. I just like this airplane, that's all... And, the cool way we can make it look with those paint schemes and your airbrush !"

Ah yes, flattery will get you everywhere, kid!

Bernie... You're the Best!

2011-09-08T14:26:00.000-05:00

Sketches from pics of Bernie

If Bernie could play the horn, I am sure he'd still be reticent to toot it but...

"Today I am gifting..."

"Going to play musique for a friend of mines Momma.. She is way into her 80's.. She got married at 14 and stayed with the same man till he passed away... She used to come and listen to my musique in Folsom... I always asked for a 14 year old to stand up so people could realize how it was... She can't get out and so I am going to her house and play for her today. Her birthday."

I stole this post from a friend of mine I met a few years ago at Gus's. I hope he doesn't mind! His name is Bernie David (pronounced,"Da-veed"). Bernie's a retired oil man that lives on a large farm north of Folsom and has many stories to tell, but the best thing about Bernie is his musicianship. He plays accordion and sings, in Cajun French or English, all kinds of tunes... Maybe even, "Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida!" At the drop of a hat... spare change is greatly appreciated, but not necessary!

I suspect there are many people today that are retired and, like Bernie, want to be a contributing part of someone's life and make the world a better place. The deal is, Bern does it every time he pulls out that "squeezebox" and hollers a Cajun, "Ah-eeeeeeeee!" What a great gift God has bestowed on him... the power to make people, old and young, smile, and maybe, kick up their heels a bit...joints willin'.

Yes, Bernie... today, you are gifting!

Copyright 2011/Ben Bensen III

"Good Things Come In Small Packages"... Number Three

2011-08-25T16:27:00.007-05:00

Brian and "The Spirit of Atlantic City"...

Brian's interpretation!

This is my son's effort on his inspirational, brown Thunderbolt. At the time, the Monogram 1/48 scale Thunderbolt created a conversion kit that once was introduced by the Hawk company, I believe. You could choose whether to make the plane with a razorback fuselage or without the green house canopy and make the "D" version with the bubble canopy. Only a skilled modeler could, with patience and the right tools, make these "B" conversions without any seams showing. With detailing an aircraft, it was always fun to check out the real thing at an airshow, though these planes are the ultimate investment for those who own them and therefore, well protected, they show little signs of weathering or wear. Old photos and history books including aviation books for modelers were a great source. Sometimes, the research is the most interesting part of the process and like most children that age, Brian was always curious and inquisitive.

One those detailing tricks of the trade was to scape paint off with an x-acto knife or pocket knife on certain parts of the aircraft that were prone to wear and tear like the port side of the fuselage and wing where the pilot and his mechanic/flight engineer were always walking and climbing into the cockpit. Other spots that showed wear was the leading edges of any surface especially the wing. In the photo of Brian's P-47, you can plainly see the wing surfaces exposed. ( Brian got a little carried away with this wing, but you get the idea! ) Prop blades scraped on the leading edge also produced that well worn look.

Being a kid, Brian had a penchant for losing parts and pieces critical to the completion, so even though he wanted to be historically correct, having lost the razorback piece, Bri decided to make his "Spirit" a "D" model. I am sure the pilot, Bud Mahurin, of Zemke's Wolfpack, with 21 kills, would have understood.

Sadly, for the photo opps, I couldn't spin the propeller on his "Spirit" because he applied too much of that Testors glue which clogged up the prop shaft and the engine. It did turn, but no amount of pressure through the airbrush would make it spin.

I'm sure Bud Mahurin and the rest of the "Wolfpack" would understand!

"Good Things Come In Small Packages"...Number Two

2011-08-25T14:56:00.000-05:00

Just trying to "Keep It Real!"

Well, I searched all my files because I know I have seen this bottom pic somewhere in my Thunderbolt file. Seems I managed to make a mess of that file, but to all those aviation art freaks, you know which photo I speak of. The photo of the real "Bolt" is a "N" version and had five inch wing rockets attached.

Anyway, my son was only about ten or eleven when we built this silver "D" model, but I didn't photograph them till many years later. In the background, you see Brian's own "D" model, which he pretty much made himself. I thought he did a pretty good job on his especially after he witnessed my finished Thunderbolt. "The Turtle" was the first plane I introduced the airbrush and all it's capabilities to Brian. He got pretty good at airbrushing D-Day stripes on planes. He really seemed to enjoy that aspect of model making. He was perfectly willing to brush them on every plane he built including the German ones.

We were gonna make six versions of the WWII bird, Robert Johnson's, Hub Zemke's, Bud Mahurin's, Gabby Gabreski's, Glenn Eagleston's and a few other planes and pilots who's names escape me. We did purchase four more 1/48 scale models, investigated the many different paint schemes and appropriate decals to each aircraft, but, in time, I realized it might have been a little too ambitious for a twelve or thirteen year old kid and as the years went by, his enthusiasm diminished.

Of course, what's old again can easily become new. Those models, and a dozen others, are packed away carefully and stored in the attic... for just such an occasion.

Good Things Come In Small Packages! ( One in a Series! )

2011-08-23T14:20:00.003-05:00

I love it when it almost looks "REAL."

A friend of mine, through the Air Force Art Group on Facebook, sent me and the rest of the gang there this wonderful site at: http://www.freewebs.com/aeroscale/ and I spent most of the afternoon there yesterday. Okay, it was raining and I wasn't gonna complete any of the yard work, but surely, I had many other indoor jobs to tackle that were more important than reliving my youth, for the umpteenth time. Still, I couldn't pull myself away from the miniature world of modeling. More specifically, modeling aircraft at scales of 1/72, 1/48, 1/32 and 1/25 of the original size. It is amazing how real and almost true to life some of these models and dioramas are... mini-sized!

This morning, while looking through my "morgue" for instructions on cleaning and maintaining my chainsaw, I ran across this misplaced photo of a P-47D, shown above, and remembered all the fun I had as a kid building models and how much fun I had building this plane with my son, Brian. Even though I knew that I would get distracted, once again, if I returned the photo to its rightful folder, I went into my Aircraft/WWII/Thunderbolt file and noticed all the other photos I took that day with my Nikon.

"Wow, this is cool," I said to myself as I wandered and wondered about the whereabouts of a Monogram 1/48 scale P-51B model I also photographed with spinning propellers.

And so, I went digging and found all kinds of photos of planes that Brian and I assembled over a period of about five or six years. Some planes my son built with help from me and some, in later years, he built totally by himself. I suddenly decided it would be fun for me to share our model making story with some of those guys from the Air Force Art Group. I hope they don't mind...

So here we go, into the wild glue yonder of yesteryear!

Snakes Alive...A Story!

2011-07-25T16:54:00.000-05:00

A Show of Strength!

Pierre le Pooch, our sassy, cocker spaniel with a Napoleonic complex, found a four foot cottonmouth coiled under a tree near our front pond. In the eleven years we have been on this property, I have never seen a venomous snake. Therese, my law abiding and always cautious wife, called animal control, but it was after hours when the dog located the snake. I thought animal control could capture the cantankerous creature and milk it to create anti-venom serum, but since they weren't going to show up until tomorrow, I decided to kill it with a shovel. Of course, Therese thought I should call the Sheriff and let them handle it, which I reluctantly did.

What a joke that was.

Two patrol cars and one local police car drove up. With their billie clubs and pistols, walkie talkies, stun guns and all, all three of them, once they confirmed that it was a cottonmouth water moccasin, kept their distance as they discussed for about ten minutes which "implement of destruction" should be used. No one wanted to shoot it with their pistols or with their shot guns. They asked me if I had a gun and when I told them that I didn't, they all looked at me in astonishment.

"You don't own a rifle or shot gun?" Not even a twenty-two?"

"No, I said... I'm from the city! I really don't have a need to own a gun!" They now looked at me even more confused than before. I later found out that it was not in the best interest of law enforcement to have one of their patrolman discharge a weapon on someone's property unless it was really necessary. Still, the scene seemed written for,"The Andy Griffith Show!"

"Well, what'cha need is a ten or twelve gauge shotgun... That would take care of this snake!"

"Yep, that's what'cha need!"

It was getting late as they continued to share"snake stories". Ten foot rattlers, dueling vipers, a fight to the finish, alligators attacked by pythons, deadly baby reptiles killing cattle, you name it, they discussed it. Tiring of all this, and coming to the realization that the heavy armament they brought with them was not going to be deployed, I asked them if a shovel might be the preferred implement for dispatching 'da critter. They agreed. So I quickly ran to the shed and picked out the perfect shovel for the job. Impatient with all of this talk and wanting some action before it got dark, I presented the shovel to the officers, who, I assumed, specialize in such work. Of course, not one of them wanted to do the ugly deed though they all had their suggestions as to how I should do it.

"Gotta get 'em with the first swing else it'll come out and attack you!" Rattlesnakes won't do that, no sir. Neither would a copperhead, but moccasins are mean sonofabitches, man... they'll chase you down!"

"Oh boy, I thought. I better choked up on this handle to be sure I make good contact!" Thoughts of coming up to bat with the game on the line and with men in scoring position just trying to make contact, suddenly came to mind. "Just a clean, quick, short stroke... no home run swing. Just a clean, quick, short stroke!"

"After you kill it, don't touch it!" "Cut off the head and it will still bite you, so be careful!"

I finally bashed it with the edge of the shovel head a couple of times, cut off its head and dropped it into a large black, garbage bag. The snake, even without its head, was heavier than I thought it would be! Tying up the bag, one of the local cops told me about an old wife's tale suggesting that one should, after killing it, completely douse the nasty creature with lighter fluid and set it ablaze. Somehow, it creates a hex which would keep all other snakes away from the property... for good! It must be one of those voodoo kind of snake phobias, I thought.

"They hate the smell of burnt scales... in the morning!"

Geez.

Naturally, after making jokes about snakes tasting just like chicken, they drove off saying, "Be careful around the pond... you see one snake, you'll see more, especially if you ain't gonna take the advice and burn it."

Well, it has been over a year, and even though I have seen other snakes on the property, I haven't seen any more vipers. Still, I tread lightly whenever I go for walks with my trusty Pierre in the lead.

And I thought poison ivy was the only thing I needed to fear in my own back yard! C'est la vie!

When a Cajun Recommends It...

2011-07-21T09:47:00.000-05:00

My seafood platter didn't last long enough to photograph!

My accordion playing buddy knew we were gonna go visit our son in and around Lafayette, LA and suggested three or four restaurants owned and operated by local Cajuns. One of those was Soop's in the town of Maurice just north of the city of Abbeville near the Vermillion River. Bernie suggested a big bowl of gumbo. He didn't say which kind of gumbo, but said,"Dose folks sure know how to make 'dat gumbo... So, get 'da big bowl!"

We both knew mom and pop restaurants like Landry's and Don's Seafood and Piccadilly were excellent, authentic Cajun fare that was very affordable back when, even for someone like me and Bernie. But those venues became so popular that they had to lose something when something gained was so big. They all hit the corporate big time, which I applaud, but over time those restaurants changed.

I remember working for the university food service to pay my way through school basically washing dishes at lunch and dinner, five days a week. Because I worked there, I could eat all I wanted regardless of my meal ticket restrictions. Getting and eating great "coonass" food wasn't the problem. It was keeping my weight in check and my body physically fit.

I use to go to the local hospital and give blood at least once a month to have the bread needed to take out my girl friend or to eat out with the guys. One of those restaurants was "supposedly" the original Piccadilly in the Oil Center section of Lafayette which was within walking distance from the campus. Their crawfish etouffee was incredible. Roux based and patiently cooked to a rich, beautiful dark brown, it was not just mushroom gravy spiced with peppers. The portions were huge, the crawfish were plentiful... and the plates were very affordable. One of the black guys I worked with at the university restaurant was a cook, who also worked at the Piccadilly and turned me on to it, though he never gave me any culinary lagniappe.

I always found it interesting being from New Orleans, where everyone wrecks the English language, to hear African Americans speaking in Cajun French. Even when they spoke English, you could barely understand them because they seemed to accent all the wrong syllables! It was something to behold.

Occasionally, I would walked in the opposite direction of the campus, into downtown Lafayette and dine at "supposedly" the original Don's. When I did, I had trout or stuffed flounder with an etouffee crab or crawfish sauce. The restaurant was a bit more "expensive" than Landry's or Piccadilly, so I didn't go often.

Many times, you can't tell a good restaurant from the looks of it on the outside. I used to tell my California friends, when they visited New Orleans, to look for the venues that had clam or oyster shell parking lots. It's a sure bet the food is authentically local. But, no more. Katrina pretty much put an end to that concept.

Anyway, Soop's a great find and we highly recommend it. And, not only the gumbo. Thanks Bernie!

Thoughts About Pies... Immoriarum.

2011-07-15T07:06:00.000-05:00


Don't Miss Your Pies... Until...

When I was young, practically no one in our entire family made pies until the holiday season and then, my maternal grandmother would make wonderful pies. Her specialty was mince meat and meat pies. They were delicious. But if we had any fruit pies, it was probably store bought. I don't recall any one in the family making fruit or nut pies.

I really don't know why my wife started this trend, but, early in our marriage, she made two of the best pies I believe I ever ate. One was an apple pie and the other was a lemon pie. Oh, my goodness! Since then, those two pies are, in my mind, the pinnacle of how all pies must be judged... even the ones that Tee or I now make, during the holidays, can ever beat those two original. I could really expound on the concept of deserts and what our minds conjure up about them as time and taste buds fade away. For example, Therese's entire family could not live without "Mrs. Jo Lou's" cinnamon rolls and when she passed away, Mrs. Jo Lou created a legend by which all other cinnamon rolls are judged. On a scale of ten, according to my wife, no bakery or baker has even approached a "7."

So, when a friend or relative makes a claim about "pie stardom", well, every self-proclaimed pie lover has to travel to taste test and have their say.

Four years or so ago, my brother told us about a small town restaurant that made the best pies in the world. Going to school at LSU in Shreveport, every time he came home to visit, Bob would stop and have some pie at Lea's Restaurant, in LeCompte, LA , off Hwy#1. Every time we visited it, it was closed. But one day, we actually, almost serendipitously, moseyed off Interstate #49 to find Lea's getting ready to close for the day. Therese walked in with her check book and walked out with two whole pies... one for us and one for my brother, who seldom eats deserts, but makes an exception with Lea's.

He never received his pie!

It was so good that we just couldn't help ourselves. And, there was no guilt involved, whatsoever! We figured that what he and his family didn't know, wouldn't hurt them. Inside of a long weekend, both pies were obliterated! I think it was one apple and one cherry pie... I think!

Since that time we've passed by Lea's several times only to have arrived too late to have dinner or pie. No pie for desert and no pie to take home. And no pie for, hopefully, my dear brother and his pie starved family. But just a few days ago, all the gods came down to help us find our way to pie-dom! It was open and full with the after church services crowd of locals and a smattering of un-locals looking for pie rapture.

Sadly, it was not to be. All that anguish, the frustration of years of untimely closures, the miles and fuel spent in vain. The desperation in the hopes of, once again, reaching that pie in the sky high. It all, was not to be!

The meal was country fare and certainly edible. Therese had a turkey dinner that wasn't so filling to not have room for pie. The turkey stuffing was good and the turkey was real, not that pressed turkey product you get this time of year. The veggies were the frozen kind, but again, not unacceptable. I had fried chicken which was reminiscent of Knott's Berry Farm fare. The portion, for me, was rather skimpy, but it was all good as long as the pie was good.

Let me just take a moment to say that one of my pet peeves is service that's too damn efficient. Being from the south and, worse yet, a New Orleanian who likes to linger and chat after a meal, I hate it when the server rushes you and your meal under the guise of being efficient. It especially aggravates me when there are other tables available for customers to be served. Dining should be an event and not just a way to appease one's tummy grumbles.

But, this time, we applauded her speed.

Having not quite finished our meal, we happily ordered pie and coffee. Since it is blueberry season, as well as blackberry, we were disappointed to hear the waitress tell us both kinds were freshly made that day and were already sold out. So, Therese ordered a slice of cherry pie and I had apple, but when the pie arrived we both could tell it wasn't what we had a few years back. The crust wasn't as brown and flaky as it should be and appeared rather soggy with no crumbly crust, per se! The fruit was hidden in between gelatin fill and Therese said she counted only four cherries in her entire slice.

Mine had more fruit than filler, and the apples did have a slight snap to them when you took a bite, but it didn't really have a taste to it. It was like any other product you'd get at any other restaurant or frozen food section... like blandsville! In fact, Mrs. Smith's Apple Pie, that you buy at the frozen food counter, is better than what I had. Sadly, we left with no pies to take home.

As we were walking out the door, a close friend of my sister, who now lives on the east coast, spotted me and Therese leaving and called out to us. They decided to go for a drive from their homes, south of Baton Rouge, to stop at Lea's... for pie! Dopey me would have walked right by her and her riding companion, had she not noticed us. Guess I was still wallowing in my pie-dom. They asked us our opinion and in hushed tones, we spoke of our disappointment.

"It's a long way to drive to have mediocre grub,"I said.

Later that night, having returned from their Sunday excursion, Audrey expressed her disillusionment in an email she sent to me. She said it this way," The pecan pie was bland! How do you make pecan pie bland?" She also mentioned in the email that the owner of Lea's, just a year ago or so, had passed away. What a shame! It's funny in a sad way, how one person can, solely, make such a difference in the world and... in the world of pies!

Obviously, like Mrs. Jo Lou, the recipe died with Mr. Lea and the memory of their gustatory delights is all we have left. It's what legends are all about, for sure, but maybe... just maybe...

We should have just held out for the blueberry pie!

Maybe Just Another Static Display To Most...

2011-07-13T12:43:00.000-05:00

On returning from my Barksdale extravaganza for the Air Force Art Program in 2010, I passed through what used to be the home of the 23rd Tactical Fighter Command ( Flying Tigers) at England, AFB just outside of Alexandria, LA. Though he was born in Texas of French descent, Claire Chennault was the pride of Louisiana, an LSU graduate and leader of the original and volunteer force called the Flying Tigers, which is why this display stands at the entrance to what is now known as the England AirPark.
Included in the display, are jet aircraft used to protect air space around the south and most especially the SAC facility at Barksdale in Shreveport, LA especially in the sixties. The display is comprised of a F-7U Corsair II, an A-10 Warthog, and F-86 Sabre, which is painted in the colors of the namesake's aircraft, Major John England, an Vietnam era F-105 Thunderchief and this F-84F Thunderstreak.

The Thunderstreak originally caught my eye because I have never seen a static display with the undercarriage half retracted. I found it intriguing. At that time though, I couldn't take any pictures having used up my entire digicard at Barksdale. But, just this weekend, while visiting our son, I returned to shoot the entire static display.

The other reason this display caught my eye was because of an illustration I donated to the Air Force highlighting the "E" model of the fighter/bomber. Although the experimental XF-85 Goblin proved to be a failure, USAF believed that the bomber-borne fighter concept was still a good idea. But instead of escorting the big bomber, the focus shifted to a strike role with a Convair B-36 Peacemaker carrying a Republic F-84 Thunderjet. The plan was for the heavy bomber with superior range to arrive in the vicinity of the target and deploy a faster, more maneuverable F-84 to deliver the tactical nuclear bomb. The F-84 would then return to the ‘mother ship’ and be carried home.

Though quite primitive by today's technology, in the late fifties, it seemed a realistic possibility. A B-36 Peacemaker, designated GRB-36F carried a mechanism in its bomb bay, that would hold a production F-84E Thunderstreak (serial number 49-2115) fitted with a retractable hook in the nose in front of the cockpit. The hook would link the fighter to the trapeze mechanism which would hold the aircraft in the bomb bay during flight, lower it for deployment, and raise it back in after the mission. Due to the size of the fighter, only the cockpit, the fuselage spine, and the tail fin actually fit inside the bomber.

The illustration I painted of the F-84E Thunderstreak (serial number 49-2115) can be seen at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/grgumbo2/5460615451/in/photostream

"When I Grow Up To Be A Man"...

2011-06-30T09:06:00.000-05:00


"Will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid?"

Anyone who knows me knows I am a Beach Boys fan. When you grow up in a musical town like New Orleans, you hear and are influenced by so many great sounds. Obviously, this gumbo was greatly influenced by Dixieland Jazz, NOR&B, Motown and Stax soul and later the Neville funk. At sock hops, until the British Invasion, we danced slowly to Smokey, and Otis and Bobby"Blue"Bland. Our fast sets were to the likes of James Brown, Sam and Dave and the "Wicked Pickett!"

As a eight year old, I remember my mom and dad dancing amongst the mosquitoes at company picnics till long after dark. They danced to Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman, but they also boogied to songs like "You Rascal You," "Caledonia," "Muskat Ramble," and local tunes by Fats, Little Richard, and Louie Prima. Boy, they sure were great dancers especially my dad, who had other ladies waiting in line to dance with him... whenever mom had to stop to catch her breath.

My father always had a song to sing. When we were real young, Adele was ten, I was seven and my little sister, Rebecca, was five, dad would sing us at least one tune before turning out the light. We all slept in one bed, so when he sang, he sang to we three. "Tennessee Waltz," "How Much Is That Doggy in the Window," "Peg of My Heart," "Sunny Side of the Street," "Bye Bye Blackbird," "I'm in Love With You, Honey!" "High Hopes" were all tunes he would mangled lyrically, but sing ever so sweetly, musically.

After my dad lost his job with the phone company, things went to hell pretty quickly, but we shared baseball and listening to popular tunes on the car radio from the radio station, WSMB. For some reason, I gravitated to the instrumentals like Stranger on the Shore, Alley Cat, That Happy Feeling, Honky Tonk, Yakety-Sax, Whipped Cream and many others. Lyrics were silly, mushy or incoherent, but the melodies always stuck with me. Doo Wop songs that mimicked instruments were also big and I loved the harmonies and the cross melodies. The Ink Spots, The Mills Brothers, The Ames Brothers, The Robins, The Crows, The Flamingoes, The Platters were mostly black and super smooth. But, when I heard the Four Freshman, the Four Aces, the Limelighters, and the early college folk music stuff, I heard a different kind of doo wop sound. And many of my favorite instrumentals were on that new fangled, twangy instrument played by the likes of Duane Eddy, Santo and Johnny, and Tom and Jerry. I was hooked and beg mom to purchase me a guitar... any kind of guitar, even pedal steel, which I knew nothing about!

Well, everyone knows the explosion that happened mid-fifties with Elvis, Fats, Little Richard and all those great rockers including Chuck Berry, who, one could argue did more for the guitar and rock 'n roll than anyone until Jimi Hendrix exploded on the scene. There's nothing here I can add to all the great essays and books out there on rock 'n roll, but for a kid at fourteen or so, looking to replace all that black and rockabilly music with something else and not having my dad around to sing with, I bumped into the perfect combination when I first heard Jan and Dean's,"Baby Talk", Dick Dale's, "Let's Go Trippin" and the Beach Boys,"Surfin' USA".

As our family grew, so did my responsibilities and so did the arguments between my mom and dad. With the anxieties, the tension and strife that, to this day, defines our family psyche, I'd go to bed listening to those beautiful melodies, cross harmonies and hauntingly painful wails of my new hero, Brian Wilson and find solace.

To many, Brian's falsetto singing was considered too girlie or fake like Frankie Valli's helium highs, but what I heard was his expression of pain, a pain I felt I shared with him. I found some kind of release as I hit the high notes. It was so soothing and cleansing to do so, like a blues singer or chain gang prisoner sang to help ease their sorrow. It was something to me so primal, so mournful and yet soulful enough to stir the heart of every wolf to ever throw back their head and howl on a moon lit night. Within my room, whether it was a slow song or a fast one, his voice sent me away to the nearest faraway place I could find just as fast as I could find it. In so many ways, he helped me get through the night and in so many ways, he helped me survive the sixties and early seventies.

Thanks Brian, thanks Beach Boys!

P.S. Notice there's no mention of surf, sand, boobs and babes, polka-dot bikinis or beach blanket bingos. That never was the Beach Boys to me!

My Problem Always Has Been That I Can See Both Sides...

2011-06-27T10:15:00.000-05:00

"We Win!" is a painting I did in school illustrating a story I read in a magazine.

The other day I found a gaggle of buzzards hanging around another armadillo carcass. It's the second time in about a month that an animal was decomposing in the culvert at that corner. One of my next door neighbors is almost never there at his home since his wife passed away about four years ago, so I know it doesn't really matter to him.

Armadillos are all over the countryside this time of year either narrowly escaping a collision or upside down with stiff little legs pointed skyward on the side of the road. Three or four months ago, I wouldn't have known how so many 'dillas were done in at that crossroad, but it was clear to me my other neighbor had taken out another of the armored criminals with his flashlight and "elephant gun".

Mr. Jordan, after once again, helping me extract my nine hundred pound lawn tractor out of the muddy culvert, told about his late night hunts to keep the varmints off his property. Armadillos tear up his front lawn. Possums are eying his two peach trees. Raccoons are eating his pond fish. "I used to hunt and fish, but now, I just fish. Hunting is getting too political", he says. Mr. Jordan and his wife moved from Baton Rouge, where they are originally from, to Folsom after the riff raff from New Orleans evacuated north post Katrina. I knew exactly what he meant by that statement, but also wondered why he moved to the country if what he wants is to make Merrywood just another urban subdivision. I always felt these animals gave the area a unique charm.

"I don't shoot no birds or squirrels and I don't need any more deer, 'cuz I got a 12 point buck on my wall... It don't get no better than that!" I nodded in affirmation.

With the three month drought we've been having here in Southeast Louisiana, animals are moving from their normal habitat to find water. Sighted within the last couple of weeks are predators like bobcat, coyotes and, within our own community, a cougar. The cougar seems to have put a scare in everyone and a dent in our ever burgeoning rabbit population, which I think is a good thing for both animals. How nature planned it!

Of course, in subdivisions of New Orleans like River Ridge, cats and small dogs have been reported missing. Someone caught a mutilated cat and the predators on video and aired it on You Tube, exhorting neighbors to get their guns and hunt down these roving band of coyotes before children get hurt. My first thought was that this sounded like that scene in the movie, "Jaws", when the mayor put a bounty on great white sharks to save the business community from losing their summertime revenue thus creating a shark killing frenzy amongst the local fisherman.

But this was different. People should know that they are cavorting in the shark's element and are at its mercy. To date, no fish has come out of the water to attack a human out on the street. But people have been attacked by cougars, wolves, coyotes, and in these parts, 'gators... though those cases are quite rare. Here in Louisiana, a beaver sized rodent called a nutria is doing great damage to our levees and our wetland vegetation and with no known predators to control their population, all we have as a defense is a gun enthusiast with a .22 rifle and a scope. Still, that doesn't seem to be working.

Something seems out of whack.

Of course, then you have those damn tree hugging liberals who don't believe in hunting or even eating meat! "How can anyone justify killing another one of God's creatures?"

"Well, animals kill other animals to survive," I say. "My cocker spaniel will kill and eat grasshoppers, roaches, spiders, crickets, lizards, frogs, squirrels, if he ever catches one, turtles, if he could ever bit through the shell and has also chased down a rabbit, I mean, an innocent bunny, and taken a chomp out of its right hind quarter."

"That's different! They're animals and can't reason as humans can! We should know better! Oh, look at those soft, brown eyes with those adorable eye lashes... Deer are so beautiful!"

"Yes, they are beautiful, but if we kill the predators 'cuz they have to prey on "Fifi" occasionally or a lamb or calf out west 'cuz they mistake it for deer or elk, then, someone's gonna have to "control" that population. Who or what's it gonna be?"

The strange irony of all of this is that the horrid hunter who stalks and kills his prey, I find, having lived in a rural community now for over ten years, is the most knowledgeable and the most respectful of nature's animals than the city folk. They understand the ways of the predator, accepting and respecting them, but never fearing them. They not only understand the delicate balance, but they contribute more to saving and conserving that balance than non hunters and those "fru-fru's" from LaLa Land or the Rotten Apple!

Although I do not own a firearm, I do find their stories intriguing whether it is tracking prey on foot or taking it down from a blind or a stand as well as stories about the ones that get away. Stories where a hunter has a clean shot on a legal buck only to put his rifle down saying the animal isn't old enough or not a prize animal to take down. This, after waiting all weekend for the right moment.

I see the argument about the human killing machine that we all have deep inside and indiscriminate, blood thirsty blasting for nothing more than the high one gets. I also understand the beauty of nature and of all of its creatures and yet, believe hunters have the right to experience nature in the way generations before them have done. For my sake, I have no problem hunting my prey with binoculars. And, that's always been my problem...

I can see both sides of every story.

Courtroom Reporter Flies Right...

2011-06-11T13:29:00.000-05:00

One of Bill's promo pieces...

I haven't seen this commercial, but it stars my good friend and SILA buddy, Bill Robles' courtroom art. Bill's a courtroom illustrator for CBS for years and who's portfolio includes all the high profile trials including, Patty Hearst, Robert Blake, OJ Simpson, Charlie Manson, Lee Marvin, The Menedez Brothers and just recently, Jared Loughner. Incredible!

Now, he is on television in a commercial way. Check out this commercial at: Bill Robles Illustrates in Southwest Airlines Courtroom...

"Well, That's A Heavy Price To Pay, I Said, For A Vinyl Cooler!"

2011-06-09T13:08:00.000-05:00


Mr. Junior Martin talking that accordion talk...

At the Louisiana Folk Art Tent, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Clarence"Junior" Martin, who for over thirty years has created accordions for all those who want to "play a harmonica with your fingers." I stood there incredulous listening to the man speak about Cajun music, accordion building and his wife's obsession with all things Coca-Cola.

The sketch I drew is a pretty good likeness of Junior and I am quite satisfied with the overall sketch except it doesn't begin to show all the many kinds of instruments he had available to purchase or just peruse. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Lawrence Welk owned a few of these babies. While standing around looking at his instruments and listening to him speak, his lovely wife came over to me and asked me if I was interested in selling my red vinyl cooler that housed nothing but a six pack of Dasani water.

"Why would you want to buy this silly thing?", I asked.

"Because, she replied, I collect Coke memorabilia and I have never seen one like the one you have with you!" Would you be willing to sell it to me?"

She then proceeded to tell me how she lost all of her Coca-Cola memorabilia in a fire years ago and has, once again, started up a new collection. I jokingly told her that I'd offer Junior a trade of one of his squeeze boxes for this wonderful red Coke cooler with a picture of polar bears drinking Coke on an iceberg. She said that he might just take me up on that trade knowing how much it would mean to her. She said it, of course, with a wink of her eye.

I proceeded over to Junior's work bench where he went back to work on his next Cajun concoction, drilling, hot gluing and screwing pieces of wood that resembled a clarinet reed.

"So, Mister Martin, your lovely wife wants you to make a trade of one of your accordions for this Coke Six Pack vinyl cooler." For a moment there, I felt like some European trader trying to buy Wisconsin or Indiana from native Indians for some trinkets or beads.

"Oh yeh?" he said inquisitively. "And which accordion would you like to trade for?"

Before I could point to any one of the lovely instruments, he said with a smirk and in his Cajun accent," I tell you what... you can have any of 'deese you desire, but 'da wife comes with part of 'da deal, eh?

"Well, that's a heavy price to pay, I said, for a vinyl cooler!" Do you make any harmonicas?"

Just a Little Simple Twist of Fate...

2011-06-02T12:03:00.004-05:00

Fujita Scale No. One through Five

The dog barked incessantly for over a minute. I had just put Pierre, our three year old cocker spaniel, in the garage to dry off after having taken a little swim in our back paddock. It was a warm, muggy, but breezy evening in late May and I was surfing the channels for some baseball on television. Pierre rarely barks at nothing, but when I got up to see who might be driving up for a visit, I didn't see anything. So, I walked around the house looking out every window available to give the dog the benefit of the doubt, but saw nothing. No visitors, no kids walking passed our property to visit our neighbor's pool, no mailman, or garbage men, no squirrels, herons, rabbits, turtles or toads could be seen to validate the barking.

"Pierre, I said in an aggravated tone as I walked outside to get a better look, "Shut up!"

I did a perfunctory perusal around the house and when I arrived at the garage door, I stopped to notice some clouds slowly billowing from the south that seemed possibly able to provide some relief from the forty-plus day drought we had been suffering. The weathermen on the tube said our chances of any precip was less than ten percent and they repeated it not more than a few minutes before Pierre starting barking. I stood out there for about five minutes watching as a "squall line" appeared. It had been windy all day, but it was a very humid breeze that now was becoming cooler. Off in the distance, I could hear what seemed to be rain hitting the trees and drenching the parched ground. Living out in the country in rural Louisiana is a treat for the senses in so many ways, but out here, you can hear things that you wouldn't hear in the city. I was amazed when I first encountered Canadian geese formation flying over our house. Not only could you hear their honking, you could actually hear the beating of their large wings as they cruised by. Amazing!

With this storm, there was no lightning or thunder, which is unusual this time of year, just the sound of the rain growing louder. A darker gray cloud came into view moving diagonally across the light gray squall line. Because the clouds bringing the rain was coming directly from the south toward me, it was hard to calculate its speed, but the clouds that came across from the southwest moving northeast was moving at a pretty good clip. Slowly, as big, wet raindrops hit me and the ground, I decided to quickly run over to the small metal shed that houses my lawn tractor and garden tools, to close the doors, but before I got there, I was intercepted by a large gust of wind growing ever more powerful. With the raindrops hitting me ever so fiercely, I decided to head for the safety and shelter of the back kitchen door.

Behind the now closed and locked door, I saw our colorful garden pin wheel turn white as it seem to struggle to stay earthbound. The tall pine trees swayed in all directions as the rains now came hard and heavy and for a brief ten seconds or so, small branches and leaves started flying in, what I'd calculate as easily, a sixty-plus mile per hour gust.

As quickly as it all came, it was gone. The rain lasted for another couple of minutes, but the wind was now non-existent. My staring out the kitchen windows that over looks our back paddock was shattered by a weather alert on the television.

A video view of the tornado that hit Bush...

"A tornado was sighted a few miles west of the town of Bush off of Highway 40 and Lee Road," said the reporter as a picture of a gray funnel was shown. Apparently, an eyewitness took a shot of the almost indistinguishable twister with his cellphone and sent it to the TV station.

"Geez, I told my wife, that can't be more than few miles from here!"

Later that evening, we saw the destruction and heard the frightening eyewitness accounts of the aerial attack. Just about everyone said that it happened so quickly, they had little time to react. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt, but the 150 yard wide funnel landed around Five Lakes Road, which is actually about twenty miles from where we live. It destroyed a trailer park, a Cub Scout campground and damaged about 30 or 40 homes within a ten or twelve mile radius.

Naturally, incredible stories abound. A seventy year old woman grabbed her husband and grandson and told them," Hold on, we're going for a ride" as they took shelter in the bathroom. "Thirty seconds, and it took everything," she said. A female Jack Russell/Chihuahua mix was returned to the happy owners after being found a few hundred yards from what was their home. The dog was found huddled in her carrying case where she retreated to at the height of the storm. The move probably saved her life.

My silly little story was, I had divulged a day earlier on Facebook in a lighthearted discussion about dreams, that ever since I was a child, I have had tornadoes in my dreams. In dreams, I am always running or hiding from them or trying to save someone from total destruction. A few caring friends helped me decipher my dreams or recommended a few websites for my night time affliction. It was all good natured fun, but...

The next day, investigators reported the twister to be an EF-3 with winds up to 140 mph. Whoa!

The Dailey Series... Rosarita Beans and Enchilada Sauce!

2011-05-20T10:07:00.000-05:00

Rosarita Beans and Enchilada Sauce! What was I thinking? Although the prints are over saturated with red, if you look closely you'll notice that just about every can of sauce and beans is rendered... even in the wide shots! I must have been crazy! The set was an old western general store which was fun to draw and render, but sadly somehow I've managed to misplace those scenes. Also, notice the tag line in the fourth frame was rendered by hand in reversed type. Whoa!

I remember working with an art director at Young and Rubicam/ Los Angeles, when it was located in Mid Wilshire. Her name was Nancy SomethingOrOther and she worked on the Gallo account with people like Bud Robbins, Len Freas, and comp artists like Doug Morris, Mike Barry, Mike Sell, Kathy Coutts and a host of other talented artists and creatives. But Nancy noticed I had a penchant for doing type and, as illustrated in this storyboard for beans, I could be pretty intense about getting it right! I guess she saw me as an asset to her and the myriad of labels we had to draw from the bottles of wine put before us. And, Gallo made a plethora of varietals, so there was always work to be done. Nancy, very patiently, taught me how to do reverse type with gouache and soap on acetate. Eventually, companies like Dr. Martin, produced white outs that were chemically mixed to stick to any surface, but that was after I learned to the art of mixing just the right amount of paint with soap and water to produce the right consistency for stroking it without it curdling or cracking.

Mixing the concoction was the easy part. Doing particular typefaces with minimum brush strokes was the difficult part. The art director had a mesmerizing effect on me every time I watched her brush twist and glide across the overlay so effortlessly. Nancy had a technique for painting serifs that I never did perfect and she could render sentences cleanly in no time at all. After a while, and lots of practice, I got good at it and could do a sentence pretty quickly... like twice the time it took her! I also learned a lot a more about type than I ever received in any school.

Unfortunately, all those skills were short lived. One doesn't lose skills attained from those long, hard lessons... ever, but I can't say that after PMT's arrived, I was ever asked to paint reverse type on acetate again.

It does make one wonder about the term, "Something's Gained When Something's Lost!"

Time to Gloat... My Nephew's the Best.

2011-05-17T11:27:00.000-05:00

My nephew, Tony Fortier-Bensen batted .478 this season

I have one more post from my "Dailey Series," but this past weekend belongs to high school playoffs and my middle brother's son, Tony Fortier-Bensen, who has excelled in his senior year in baseball as well as academically. Tony batted .478 this season and actually went seven for seven and then, ten for ten during the regular season while anchoring the defense at shortstop.

Saturday afternoon, after winning their first playoff game against Barbe, H.S. by one run, Jesuit beat interstate rival Catholic High 3 to 2 and went on to beat the Lafayette Lions later that evening 5 to 4 to win the state 5AAA State Championship. It really was a thrilling series with a great team effort at the new Tulane stadium on a cool, breezy night. The Blue Jays won all their playoff games by only one run.

In my opinion, Tony Jr. should be voted Best High School Baseball Player in the New Orleans area, if not the entire state. Of course, having spent quite a few afternoons working with him on his skills and then, watching him play for over ten years, I guess I'm a touch bias.

Congrats, kid!

The Dailey Series...Hunt's Barbecue Sauce/The Coupon...

2011-05-16T11:15:00.000-05:00

In my long career, I can honestly say that I was never "stiffed" for a job. I always got paid, but there are many other ways to screw illustrators besides not compensating them for a job well done... or a job poorly done. Here's one example...

My wife, the coupon expert, actually found the above coupon in the food section of the LA Times. My first reaction was, wow, I've got a nationally printed piece, but my elation lasted about all of a minute or two. I quickly realized I was taken advantage of. I was angry as well as disappointed that my comp work was doubling as illustration.

In the beginning, I naively rendered tight comps to impress art directors that would surely see my talent and offer me real live illustrative jobs. I was angry because they used one of my pieces without paying me another nickel for it, but I was also disheartened that the agency used a comp that was not only one of my lesser pieces, but that it was being used as an illustration. Although I didn't complain to anyone at that time, I was livid. At that time, I didn't understand why they couldn't see this was not my best work and why they would not give me the opportunity to redo the comp as an illustration. For the record, I probably would have done the illustration gratis just to say, proudly, that I created artwork for a national client. On the flip side of the coupon, there was an altered portrait of Dick Van Dyke that I did for the storyboard. It too was poorly illustrated to imitate my comp style. In a strange way, I was glad that the agency didn't use my signature for this or any other promo that I illustrated without my knowledge. The irony of it all was more than I could handle as a rookie!

It was a lesson well-learned...

The Dailey Series...Hunt's Barbecue Sauce!

2011-05-13T13:14:00.000-05:00

Back in the days when thicker was better, everyone seem to explore the standing knife trick. So, this concept had more than just four frames to prove this point and get the actor the most exposure possible.

The reproduction of these frames is pretty poor only because the original art was color xeroxed from prints. This board was approved and a series of commercials was shot with Dick Van Dyke as the spokes person. Notice that type on the product and in the last frame was, at this time, still done by hand.

The Dailey Series...Hunt's and Dick Van Dyke!

2011-05-10T08:02:00.000-05:00

Key Frame Art that bled into the plastic protective sheet.

I don't remember who I did this work for but I did get to take home the product to draw from. At Dailey, the head man, who shall go unnamed, always had to approve the sketches for anything that was created and presented. It drove me crazy because I had to go to the agency, pick up the job, get briefed, and then go home and do a tight sketch for approval. Before I went to final coloring, I had to drive back to the agency, drop off the sketch and wait for the boss man to see it and approve. Sometimes, it sat on his desk for hours before I got the go ahead and naturally, they would need the finish frames the very next day!

The Illustrators Partnership Orphan Works Blog

2011-05-03T20:31:00.000-05:00

The Illustrators Partnership Orphan Works Blog

The Dailey Series/ The McCullogh Chainsaw Storyboard...

2011-04-30T12:39:00.002-05:00


Double click to see closer...

This is a closeup of one of the frames I did for Mike Rydel at Dailey and Associates. The original size was 5"x7" with about a half inch bleed all around. The reproduction here looks a little too magenta, but I want the viewer to see how over the top I could get and how caught up I could get in the middle of the night with an early morning deadline. Check out the skin pores and the rain drops, but don't ask me why because I really don't know. I have always had a penchant for pushing myself / the envelope doing things that didn't always needed to be done... especially in a sales tool like a storyboard. I feel that I am not at all an abstractionist, but when you look close at some of my stuff, there's a lot more abstraction within the real. And, I like that!

Analyzing the overall piece, there are a few places that needed to be addressed in this wet environment and I would have taken it to completion, but I had ten other frames to complete for presentation. The brim of the cap underneath would be darker as well as below the chin and I could have accentuated the left side of his face by darkening the inside of his collar. Also, his left eye should not be so highlighted, but still, I love this piece for what it conveys, that is, a determined, against all odds guy who's gonna get the job done no matter what Mother Nature sends his way. I love the blues, the transparency of the raindrops rolling down his cap and his face. Also, I believe this was the first time I used a blender with a fine tip to get the driving rain instead of over painting with gouache.

Oh, if only I had had another hour to spend!

"And We Won't Stop Tryin' Till We Create a Disturbance in Your Mind...

2011-04-29T09:35:00.001-05:00

Just decided to use this sketch of a old friend and bassist for the Radiators, Reginald "Van" Scanlan, to announce my attending the Jazz Fest with another music lover and good friend here in New Orleans from Idaho. A friend I haven't seen in about ten years or so! This is supposed to be the last hurrah for the Rads, though even they have mixed feelings about giving up the show. We'll see about all of that later, but starting today, it's time to create a "disturbance" in my mind and just let the good times roll.

See ya there, Reg!

The Dailey Series, Honda Generators and Such...

2011-04-28T11:44:00.000-05:00


Never thought one day I'd have to own one!

One thing I know for sure, I did this ad and a bunch more for Don Gilles to present to Honda for print advertising. I did comps for brochures, spread and letter size magazine ads, flyers and you name it. I liked this rendering so much that I used it as a printed sample. I was given a picture of this generator and was instructed, by Don, to put it in an environment that was rural, moody with evening lighting. It had to have a nouveau styled camp condo look. Like a ski lodge, but in the summer and it had to be more vertical than the standard letter size ad.
This is what I came up with. Don loved it and so did Honda because it was printed. I thought the reflected light off of the generator top was an effective device to separate the foreground from the background and add more light to an already dark layout. No offense to the photographer who shot this scene, but my illustration was better. Stupid me never asked for a copy. Smart me because I liked it enough to shoot some slides of the piece before letting it go!

The Dailey Series...A Storyboard With Dennis Weaver.

2011-04-26T11:34:00.000-05:00

Dennis Weaver Replaced John Wayne as GW Bank spokesperson

This was one of a series of storyboards featuring Dennis Weaver who spoke of the greatness of Southern California and Great Western Bank. Of course, this was a long time ago when all the frames were done in markers and paint. Guess you can say I had a style of rendering that eventually was banned by OSHA. I know you think that that sounds silly or nearly impossible, the details of which I can discuss later in this blog, but it was true... In a roundabout way!

There's always stories that accompany these concepts since so many people are involved in the production of a commercial. I really don't recall who the art director was on this piece. It might have been Don Gilles because he later told me a story about the location. Or it could have been Victoria Aenlle or Mike Faulkner. I really don't remember, though I must have worked on about a dozen full blown storyboards similar to this one over the period of a year or so. Usually, storyboards like this were either six, eight or ten frame concepts with the last frame being a logo or logo type frame. I do remember that there was more to this board then I have here. This concept was one that got bought and produced and aired in SoCal.

But, it almost didn't happen because the original concept, which I did draw up, was to have Mr. Weaver on top a noble SoCal steed. Dennis Weaver, being a horseman of some statue, did not want to sit atop a real horse on the roof of a twenty story building overlooking Wilshire Blvd. Horses do have a penchant for getting spooked and the thought of one "going lemming" with a Hollywood actor atop it, would be horrifying, as well as, being not good publicity. Eventually, I was told, in other commercials, he was put on a stuffed horse, shot wide and then, cut to a closeup of him in the saddle.

Regardless, it was a pretty impressively photographed commercial, and I feel, I had a large part in selling the concept. It was always exciting to see a commercial I worked on on television.

My Dad Loved to Dance...

2011-04-22T09:12:00.001-05:00

Dad and my cousin, Patricia Fortier, hoofing it...

My Dad loved to dance. I once asked him, feeling that he and my mom were so incompatible when I was a teenager, what made them decide to spend their lives together. I never could understand what they had in common, except arguing. Well, truth be told, my mom was always the one yelling and carrying on. Nevertheless, his answer was, "Your mother is an excellent dancer and that is how we met!"

Three weeks ago, I took my mom over to a fancy party on the lakefront where she shared old times with "that old gang of mine" ( the TOGOMS social group ) and every woman who knew mom would pull me over to the side to tell me what a GREAT COUPLE they were!

"Oh, you mean, on the dance floor," I replied.

"Son, could your father ever cover the entire floor! I don't know how your mother could keep up with him!" "It is only because so many other ladies wanted to dance with him that your mother ever got a breather," one well kept octogenarian said. I was a bit taken back, when she asked me,"Do you dance?"

Well, here are some pictures from 1996 of my father enjoying a dance or two with my cousin, Patricia, who is a professional trainer and Zumba instructor. Dad and mom were celebrating their 50th Wedding Anniversary at that time. Dad did dance often with mom, but I swear, I still don't know how the hell they made it that long together... I guess it must have been... all that dancing!

Until Now...

2011-04-20T08:42:00.000-05:00


A sketch assemblage of one of Folsom's many Cowgirls...

This is a cut and paste study of a woman I have tried to sketch, in bits and pieces, over the past few months. Actually longer than that...

I first met Jenny years before Katrina and naturally, I met her at Gus's restaurant in the village of Folsom. I was taken back by her gruff manners, loud voice and the fact that she walked right in and made a fresh pot of coffee as if she owned the place. The adage about "book covers" resonated in my mind which made me feel guilty for prejudging her. Unfortunately, the cover was all that was needed to entertain myself wondering how she'd look dressed to the nines, with makeup on, in high heels and a slinky black strapless evening gown. I wondered what hairstyle would she wear? I don't think I have ever seen her without a horse themed baseball cap on her head. Her scruffy, blonde white hair, crooked spectacles, missing tooth and leathery, sun bleached skin was, at first, a sight to behold and quite frankly, still is.

Now, when I was young, after having fallen off a horse twice in one day, I was consoled by a Texas cowboy that told me it takes at least ten times falling off before you can be called a true cowboy. If that is truly the case, then John Wayne's got nothing on me. For I have fallen off more horses in more states to qualify me as cowboy extraordinaire ten times ten. But that's a story for another time. Suffice to say, a horse is one of God's most eloquent designs especially when, for no reason or for the pure joy of it all, they just take off and run. Over time, I became fascinated by the many urban cowboys and true country cowpokes that daily drop by the restaurant for a cup of coffee and a bit of conversation about their favorite subject, horses. The restaurant is always full of horse people, cowboys and plowboys, rednecks and rejects, winners and losers, those that ride and those that own, barrel racers, jumpers, rounders and recreationals, all talking that talk.

Jenny is one of about five women I have befriended over the years that are professional riders or caretakers of the equine. And it comes as no surprise that Jenny is the most eccentric.

"I've been around animals all of my life. In the old country, ( Holland ) my daddy taught me how to ride bareback at the age of three," she said. By the time I was ten, I was trained to be a jumper. Daddy would put a coin between my knees as I sat atop the saddle and told me to make sure it was still there after the horse made the jump! He'd pay me double if I was successful, but owned him double if I let the coin fall to the ground!"

She said with a nod of her head and a toothy smirk, "He was tough on me! I was the youngest of twelve brothers and sisters and I had to prove myself worthy of their respect every day... and of the horses."

"You have to earn the respect of the horse as well," I inquired.

"Of course, she said, that's the trouble with the horse industry...it's about winnings. They don't respect animals, they don't care about the horses. They're not there for them. They don't understand 'em. You see this year's prize, Zendatta?"

And so for the next half hour or so, just enough time to finish another cup of coffee, Jenny went on and on about Zendatta's training regiment, and how the jockey misunderstood the horse's style of running and what he'd do over to win the race if he had a second chance. She went on about breeding and maintenance, about the financial state of racing, about calcium in the soil and how horses get nourish- ment and the nutritional differences of thoroughbreds and other breeds... and on and on.

Seems like few people have the hands on knowledge as someone like Jenny. It's not just her job, it is her entire life. All seventy years of dedication.

I always knew horse racing was an expensive sport, but I never realized that there was so much involved in the details of owning and caring for horses till I met Jenny. But then, until now, I never really saw past the cover.

What A Great Tribute And Why Didn't I Think Of That?

2011-04-11T11:34:00.000-05:00

A preliminary sketch...

A few years back my high school baseball coach passed away. Wilfred "Skeeter" Theard coached many kids over his long and illustrious career. Anyone in New Orleans who was casually or intensely involved in baseball for the last four or five decades knew, revered and loved the irascible coach. I played for him for three years as did my more talented brother, Tony. My father, who played ball with Skeets when they were in the Evangeline League, told me that Skeeter got his moniker by being real good ball player for his age and, for being so small... small and pesky, like a mosquito.

At his funeral, half the local baseball world was there. Former ballplayers, professional and amateur, sportscasters, journalists, coaches, nuns, teachers, colleagues and old friends all came to show their respect and share stories about the coach that are only half truths; the stuff that makes ordinary people legendary. For sure, Skeets was a legend even as he lived. Busted bats repaired with brads and tape, restitched covers on baseballs, recycled uniforms, having the team search the entire field to find one lost baseball were only the beginning of the many stories that abound!

My two brothers came to pay their respects while my younger brother, now a physician, came with an used baseball. It was one of those grass stained balls that had seen better days with scratch marks, cuts and scuffs, but was still in great "Skeeter-Shape". I was surprised to see it in his hands because Bob never ever played a sport that involved a ball. At an early age, Bob was myopic and I think it bothered him most of his life that of a family of eight, he was the only one who didn't play the game. Yet, there he was, dressed in a suit with that baseball in his hand. He came up to me and asked me to sign the it. I was as flattered as I was confused. When I looked at the ball, I noticed that it had other signatures on it. Other signatures that I recognized and some that I didn't. In my best Mickey Mantle imitation, I had scribbled my autograph on the ball. Bob smiled and then passed the ball around for others to sign. Soon, the ball was almost completely black and blue with signatures as he invited me and my brother to walk up to the casket and join him along with his two sons to respectfully set the baseball next to Skeet's rosary draped hands.

"The Egyptians used to leave their loved ones, as well as Pharaohs, with gifts for the afterlife," he said. "I thought this would be a appropriate gift for Skeeter." I was blown away. What an incredible thing to do, I thought. A baseball signed by many of the ball players he either played against, played with or coached and taught the love of the game. Bob never even played the sport and nor did his children, but he hit a home run on that day.

"Bob, I said, as my eyes started to well up,"That's such an incredible idea. With all these ballplayers here, why didn't any of them think of that?" What a great tribute!

And... come to think it, why didn't I?

Opening Day Thoughts...

2011-03-31T14:49:00.002-05:00

Three Generations of Baseball

Every spring, Opening Day of Baseball brings with it a flood of memories, good, and sometimes, not so good. Many books have been written by journalists, sportcasters, fans and sports aficionados, waxing eloquent about the rites of spring, renewal, the natural cycle of life and the many comparisons of life to baseball. Some parallel the absurd, some can put a lump in one's throat or make a grown man misty eyed. Comedian, George Carlin, had a funny take comparing the pastoral nature of baseball to the aggressive attitude of football. It is the first day of baseball and with 181 more games to go, every player on every team, today, is batting a thousand. For me, I celebrate the event with Chablis, sushi and scorecards. Three or four games are scheduled on television, and I plan to watch all of them, even if, by the end of the third game, the wine will make a mess of my score keeping.

I come from a baseball family, but so far, only my dad was able to make it to minor leagues with high hopes of a major league career before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Four years of jungle warfare, where Dad contracted malaria, stole his baseball prime right from under his four fingered glove. He grew up in the depression and corroborates hard time stories with many of his friends about playing ball with taped string, rocks, bottle caps and anything one could throw or catch. Stickball was all they had and if you had your own sawed off broom handle as a bat, you cherished it. My grandfather started a club for kids, like my Dad, to help them compete in a healthy and supervised way. TOGOMS was the name of the club which stood for That Ole Gang Of Mine and apparently is still a viable get together for many of the older folks. Then, before it was printed "ad nauseum" on tee shirts, baseball really was life!

My uncle also played ball most of his life and only stopped when, at thirty-six, he broke his ankle sliding into third base in a company softball tournament. My Dad's dad always had a quarter or two for batting five hundred in a game. Gramps was pretty much a miser, but loved his beer, his cee-gars and to sit behind those chicken wire fenced ballparks on wooden bleachers and aggravate the umps. The smell of freshly cut grass, of leather, of beer, cigars, popcorn, and hotdogs wafting in the air was a smell I can never forget. Man, so many memories to look back on and such a rich heritage even just within our own family.

I never felt good about under achieving in the field of play. I wasn't a poor player. I was quite good, but I never consistently excelled falling victim to those late season slumps which always seemed let Dad down. Being consistent in baseball is very much valued in the game and is a continuing process of learning, coping with failure, over coming frustration, and eventually finding success through repetition and practice. When I was a teenager, he'd occasionally pass by my room, see my glove on the bed post, and see me with my guitar learning some new riff or chord progression and mumble while shaking his head for effect, " Not an athlete in the family... not a one!" Although the word, "mantra" was never a part of our family's vocabulary, my father always said to me, whenever he felt it was somehow appropriate,"Ben, every time you pick up a baseball, you learn something new!"

When our son, Brian, was a baby, I struggled with how to be a better baseball dad. My temporary solution was to ignore it. This father is an artist and that's that! Of course, as Brian grew up and started to play ball games with his friends, his talent became almost impossible to ignore. Our friends would come over and tell us about our kid's single mindedness. Even at an early age, Brian was so intense about ball games. At that time, Brian's opinion of dad was that he was an artist who occasionally strummed the guitar and ran around an oval track for some unknown reason. Eventually, I felt it was hypocritical and very selfish of me to deny him of the same heritage I had been so exposed to. I guess I just didn't want to fail. The question of conscience was definitively decided when, at nine years of age, Brian's "coach" was sitting in the stands, sucking on a chili dog and hitting on a little leaguer's divorced mom.

I got involved. And, on this Opening Day of Baseball, I can look back and honestly say that not one day went by that I did not totally enjoy my time playing and coaching baseball with Brian and all of the other great, Little Leaguers I had the privilege to coach and be a part of their lives. I can only hope that my son doesn't think less of himself because he did not "fulfill" his dad's hopes and dreams for him. I did not want this "goes around, to come back around."

Most of us, including me and my son, had baseball dreams that never got passed high school or junior college. Still, baseball has such a way of magnetizing one to the game forever. It is a game to be savored, slowly. If you so choose, you can blithely stare at the tv till you pass out, or you can intensely analyze each and every pitch, even three pitches ahead. You know, the what if's! I guarantee that if you are knowledgeable enough to be really into the game with a scorecard, you'll be exhausted by the fifth and longing for the seventh inning stretch. It is that kinda game!

Later in life, I am sure, while playing catch with his grandchildren, fingering those 108 stitches on the ball, in time, taught Dad a thing or two about the game of life and about himself. He never mentioned his attitude toward me about my baseball shortcomings. He never apologized though I came to realize an apology wasn't necessary. I know he thought a lot about it but felt it too awkward to address. For years, I kept a major league baseball in the car to occasionally pick up, toss up in the air or spin, handling it as a curve, slider, two or four seam fastball. Rub it against my face and smell the game and reflect back. For many very personal reasons, I stopped the tradition. Life can make you a bitter sonofabitch which makes it hard to see the good. Maybe that's what Dad was intimating. The ball was a gentle reminder that you never stop learning... if not the game, at least, about yourself.

Opening day, 2011. A new season and another shot at the pennant. Today, everybody's a winner. Maybe, I'll find that ragged, old baseball, dirty and worn out, and put it back in the car. Or maybe, I'll start anew with a bright, shiny, white one and set it on the dashboard. You know, you can never stop learning!

Copyright Ben Bensen III/ 2011

Well, It's Certainly Cheaper 'den Golf...

2011-03-30T12:43:00.001-05:00


Jury Duty Sketch on 3/14/2011

As mentioned in an earlier blog post, I was cordially invited under pain of death, to participate in one of everyone's favorite civic responsibilities, Jury Duty. I really don't mind doing it, but in eleven summons to appear, I have been accepted as a juror only once and that was in a divorce case that never really got to trial. Seems the young couple decided to try to work it out on their own, hugging and sobbing on their way out of the courtroom door. The romantic in me thought their efforts to kiss and make up it quite beautiful, but the cynic in me says they probably reconciled their differences when they realized the financial implications of a separation or a divorce.

I wonder if, after two years, they are still married!

Nevertheless, this is one of the few good drawings I have to show from the first and only day in the waiting room. An elderly man was explaining, to another potential juror, all about his backyard garden experiences and what he had harvested so far this year and what he has growing now. Fertilizer organics, soil amendments, rotating crops, controlling critters and something about irrigation arrived at my seriously inexperienced eavesdropping abilities in audio bits and pieces. I was seated two rows behind this verbose plow boy and could hear his conversation but couldn't quite decipher what was being said. American English with a Cajun twist is an acquired taste that takes a period of time to adjust to and... a six pack of Tabasco. So, since I couldn't understand him very well, I decided to just sketch him. I think I caught his "cajun-ess" pretty well.

I did hear, as he got up to shuffle to one of the courtrooms, his parting comment,"Aaaay, it's certainly cheaper 'den golf, I tell you 'dat!

What is a King Cake and Who Swallowed the Baby Jesus... A Poll.

2011-03-23T23:19:00.000-05:00

"Baby Jesus" doll revealed in a slice of King Cake.

Well, I have had such an overwhelming response to my "Baby Jesus" Mardi Gras post, I felt I owed it to my friends, far and wide, to complete the story even though some may be giving up the tasty treat for Lent. Sorry, I have no Beelzebubian motives to entice one from their commitment forty days from Easter Sunday, but I have been walking around with this scrap of paper in my vest pocket from the New Orleans Times/Picayune's Inside Lagniappe section for almost a month.

In that section, an unofficial poll was taken. The question asked was, "Have you ever hid the baby in your napkin, so you didn't have to bring the king cake to the next party? ( and I swear this is actually printed in the paper...dated March 4, 2011 )

23% of those questioned said, "Yes, I admit it"... while 60% said," No, I would never do that" and 17% had "No comment" or pleaded the fifth amendment. I was amazed, but I would have been even more amazed if the pollsters inquired...

"Have you ever or will you ever have cause to "Swallow 'da Baby Jesus?"

A Different Ashes to Ashes Kinda Story...

2011-03-09T08:28:00.001-06:00

A few days ago, as my aged mom was getting ready to go see another doctor for yet another test, I walked just four doors down the block to 5115 Music Street and snapped these photos. Yes, if you ask, was this damage caused by Katrina and subsequent flood of 2005, but to me, it represents so much more.

For this was a house that was once the home to one of my childhood friends whose husband just recently passed away after fighting a lifetime of physical ailments. It also was a place I spent many a summer day learning how to hold a hammer, screw in a screw by hand and tighten a bolt with the right wrench. I learned how to handle a variety of hand saws, correctly measure lengths, shop for the right kind of lumber, hang drywall, plaster and putty and paint and plumb and tons of other skills that have come in handy over my adult life. But most of all, it is where I earned my weekly allowance.

I came early over to this house, in order to have some breakfast including the obligatory cooked prunes and if you were late, you were just out of luck. My chores were sweeping up leaves and debris, cutting and edging lawns, trimming box woods, hydrangeas, legustrums and other assorted bushes, flowers and plants as well as, annually touch up the bird bath with acrylic paint. For my services, I received just enough money to get on my bike and ride a couple of miles to the hobby shop where I would completely blow the mornings wages on paint, glue and the latest model airplane kit. At that age, my hero artists were John Steel, Bill Campbell, Jo Kotula, Jack Leynnwood and Tom Morgan because they were the ones who painted those gorgeous model box covers for companies like Revell, Aurora, Monogram, Airfix, Bachmann, Lindbergh, Hawk, and RenWal. Besides the John Nagy, "Learn to Draw" set, I learned much from building and especially painting the models to look as close as I could to what I saw on the boxtop.

This house also doubled as a garage studio where four teenagers would listen to records, record the lyrics and practice our chops when my dad had enough of us practicing in his garage. It is also, at the age of sixteen, where I had an appendicitis attack under the house tightening a water pipes in the dead of summer.

Although I know I have photos, it would take me a month of Sundays to find a picture of how this house once looked in its prime around 1965. It would be decades before I would ever see the inside of the house I spent so much of my youth living and learning in, helping fix up and sharing the good and the bad times. They say you should never go back and memories are better left in black and white, and I concur, but it is really hard to see this house this way, this house, a home once owned by my maternal grandparents, Pops and Cecilia Fortier. And in many ways, as they say, it is indeed, hard to grow old!

You Are Cordially Invited Under Penalty of Contempt of Court to...

2011-02-25T13:33:00.000-06:00

Well, well, well, just like the federal government sends you their New Year's greetings in the form of income tax forms, anything coming from the state has got to be equally not welcomed. And, as you know, they do invite you in such a loving, caring way it kinda chokes you up inside to be a citizen of these YOU-nited States. You can RSVP if you'd like, but the state is really expecting you to come. As a matter of fact, excuses for not attending your civic duty will only be accepted by a written note from your doctor, your lawyer, your travel agent, or... your Momma!

Oh and please try to remember to get to the courthouse on time or a little bit early to get the better parking "options." There will be no tolerance for parking violations which are strictly enforced by our fine police department. There can be no parking on paved surfaces, even partially, and no double parking or parking against traffic. All cars parked on our lawn will immediately towed away at the jurors' expense.

We shouldn't have to remind y'all about our dress code. No shorts or tank tops, flip flops or peddle pushers, no bikinis, g-string underwear, untied shoes and certainly no pierced body jewelry. And since Jeremy Shockey has been released from the Saints roster, please refrain from wearing anything with an "88" on it.

As for what you can bring into our highly secured lobby, there's no guns, knives, billy clubs, tazers, sharp objects, hair pins, hair picks, bobby pins, church veils, doilies as hats, nail files, nail clippers, suspenders, garter belts, pointed black brassieres, ( also covered under the dress code! ) brass knuckles, stiletto heals or blue suede shoes. No scissors, rocks or paper heavy enough to be used as a paper cutting device.

All of these rules and regulations makes you wonder exactly what kind of party is being thrown and whose attending. I don't know. It makes you wonder who needs to be told to dress appropriately, to not park on the lawn and leave your weapon of choice at home. How more obvious can this be? It's a Courthouse, for heavens sake!

It just seems we all might take some sort of pride in participating if it all wasn't presented in such a punitive way. It should be a privilege to be a part of our legal system ensuring equal justice with equal representation under the law. To be there deciding a person's innocence until proven guilty. It is our democratic way of life. It is what soldiers have fought and died for to protect. That's really special and a big responsibility as an American. Somehow it all has been turned into a burdensome drudgery everyone tries like hell to avoid including me. Instead of being a positive force, it kinda puts a sour taste in everyone's mouth.

Of course, since I have to be there, I might as well make it work for me. So, I called the courthouse to ask them if I could bring some pencils and a sketchbook to draw in. Lord knows there will be a wide range of "subject matter" to chose from. The official statement was that it was acceptable... but only if I draw quietly and not disturb my fellow jurors.

See, a positive approach to the problem. There is, still, after all these years, a Santa Claus, a Jiminy Cricket, a Tinkerbell, an Easter Bunny and a Loop Garoo!

Now, what is it they say about lemons?

Five and Twenty Blackbirds...

2011-02-20T01:55:00.002-06:00

Yeh, I almost forgot about the Great Backyard Bird Count that began yesterday. I've been doing this annual weekend count since I lived in California. Just 12 left hours to go! I suppose there's been a flurry of activity in Cornell Lab's Johnson Center for Birds and Biodiversity as the staff makes sure every technical detail is in place to begin accepting and displaying data from what they hope will be more than 100,000 checklists during the count. They're ready to start receiving everyone's backyard count! Tally birds for at least 15 minutes starting tomorrow and enter your checklist at www.birdcount.org. Tell at least 10 friends or family members so we can make history with the most comprehensive count in our 14-year history! For me, here's this weekend's take:

2 Great Blue Herons ( I rarely see two at one time! )
46 Robins ( they always return each November and around this time return north! )
7 House Finches ( love their song... it says,"Spring." )
15 Brown Nuthatches ( our fearless staple that will feed from your hand if have the patience to invite them. )
16 Carolina Chickadees ( our regular staple )
7 Crows ( only see them at harvest time and winter, rarely after that! )
10 Eastern Blue Jays ( Smart, but aggravating bird because they have many calls and one imitates a hawk perfectly which scatters all the smaller birds from the feeder. )
15 Tufted Titmouse ( our regular staple )
64 Goldfinch ( they always hit the feeder around November and unfortunately leave just as the males complete their mating colors. )
23 Northern Cardinals ( We have about a dozen paired off and one female always sets up shop in our hydrangea plant. )
5 Juncos ( Visitors every winter scratching away at the fallen leaves. )
10 Bluebirds ( We already have three pair setting up shop in the houses and it is still February! )
5 Mockingbirds ( our regular staple )
8 English sparrows ( They kill bluebirds in the nest and take over the box. Not a native! )
2 Pine Warblers
7 Red Breasted Woodpeckers ( our regular staple )
2 Eastern flycatchers ( They're many species, but you can tell a flycatcher because of the tail bobbing up and down. They're visitors each winter.)
25 Red-winged Blackbirds ( They like swampy areas, but I only see them in the late winter at the feeder )
4 Brown-headed Cowbirds
1 Snowy Egret ( Pierre, our cocker spaniel likes to chase them off from the back pond! )
6 Yellow-rumped Warbler
14 Mourning doves ( our regular staple )
Two Turkey Vultures
1 Rufous-Sided Towhee
4 Carolina Wren
a bunch of some kind of ground hugging sparrow( unofficial count since I don't recognize the species. )

Whew, that's a pretty diverse count but nothing new flew in this year. Louisiana has a diverse crowd because it is a major stopping point, coming and going, along the Mississippi flyway. Every early spring, I get a visit from a Rose-Breasted Grosbeak couple. The female arrives a day behind the male and they only stay for a few days and then, they are gone till next year. This has happened every year except 2005 because of Katrina.
--

Okay, What Is A King Cake and who swallowed the baby Jesus?

2011-02-12T20:56:00.004-06:00

In New Orleans and southern Louisiana, the tradition of the King Cake was brought to the area by colonists from Spain and France and is mostly connected with Carnival, which is also celebrated in the Gulf Coast area, especially in Mobile where Mardi Gras is celebrated on Fat Tuesday in the same manner as in New Orleans. King cake parties go back to around the eighteenth century. Basically, it is called a King Cake because the tradition of baking and eating them begins on the twelfth night of Christmas, which is, January the 6th.
The king cake comes in a number of styles. The most simple, said to be the most traditional, and the one I am enjoying right now, is a ring of twisted bread similar to that used in brioche topped with colored icing or sugar, usually colored purple to symbolize justice, green to symbolize faith, and gold to symbolize power. Some king cakes are traditionally deep-fat-fried like a doughnut, and there are many variants and many shapes and sizes and some come with a cream cheese, or raspberry jelly or praline filling. These kind are really great but chocked full of calories. Once in a Mardi Gras season should be enough with these kinds. Like beignets, king cakes are great with coffee in the morning.

Earlier baby dolls as trinkets are documented in New Orleans back to the 1930s and were mostly made of china or porcelain. Today, the plastic baby is more common place and usually colored pink, brown, white or gold.

To be politically correct, for a while, 'cuz no one in New Orleans cares about being politically correct, and because some bakeries were shipping cakes out of state and didn't want a lawsuit, they included the baby doll separately from the cake to be embedded just before cutting and serving. "Foreigners" were concerned children could choke on the trinket while eating the cake though no kid I ever knew, and I knew a lot of them, ever choked on the baby Jesus. Some adults, I was told, would swallow the baby rather than admit they got it biting into their slice of cake. Those adults must have really not wanted to give the next party or buy the next king cake to resort to such drastic measures as swallowing the baby Jesus!

Most kids back then, in the fifties and sixties, got their cotillion lessons from parents having king cake parties. In my neighborhood, right after New Years day through to Mardi Gras day, all us kids from sixth grade through eight grade, had weekend parties. The girls got all dressed up and the guys had to wear a suit. We played the standard party games, maybe have a dance or two, to Fats Domino or Louie Prima and try to conduct ourselves politely as little gentleman and ladies... until the king cake was cut. Therese tells me that they never had king cake parties when she was that age. "That was for all those "suburban kids,"she asserts.

Anyway, the tradition at these parties was the same as for the adult participants celebrating in their own adult and scandalous way, which is, that the person who gets the baby doll is declared the King or Queen of the day and obligated to provide the next king cake or host the next party or both.

Enclosed is a few local bakeries that have been making King Cakes forever. Check 'em out at: http://www.kingcakes.com/, http://www.haydelbakery.com/, http://www.gambinos.com/shop/default.php

Please note: No king cakes or bakeries were hurt in being displayed on my blog and no one person or bakery reimbursed me for my wonderful endorsement... but it would be nice!

A Roopa Airaree Oppa ... Ahhhh!

2011-02-05T16:24:00.000-06:00

Funny... I've been a member of a local gym here on the Northshore for about eight years now. When you belong to anything for length of time you learn to love all the crazy characters that hang around. From the gym rats to the beautiful ladies socializing on the tennis court to the senior citizens playing cards resplendent in their blue or gray or strangely blonde hair, it is all a part of the whole experience. And of course, the men's locker room is like most men's locker rooms any where in the world, though it is the personalities that enhance the environment and enrich one's life. You get so familiar with the guys that, after a while, you can tell who's talking to whom even if you are seated in the stalls while taking another lesson on constitutional rights! I can understand why when professional athletes retire, the thing they all seem to miss is the "camaraderie."

In the weight room, most men lift a little weight, stare out the windows, chew the fat and do another set. Most come in to pump up, burn a few calories and release, in a socially acceptable way, their aggressions. I know I do. Some workout in plain clothes, gym shorts, sweats, muscle shirts and such. Some, like doctors, workout between shifts in their scrubs, and some who do wear them, aren't even doctors. And some just look like a "dirty laundry basket." But, almost all are there do their body some good and that can't be bad.

Three times a week, every week around midday and for about three hours, one man comes to the gym to really bust it. He is, besides Jack LaLane, the best looking and best in shape seventy year old I've ever met. He's about 5'9" and a very buff 175. Salt and pepper colored hair, sometimes with a goatee and sometimes not, he wears long jogger's pant with a tank top or shirt and always in black and almost always dripping in sweat. He is a model specimen that all men should aspire to be now and into their golden years.

And, boy does he know it!

Now, I'm not the kind of guy to rip anyone who has the discipline and dedication to look that good at his age or any age, but I was curious about his motivation. When, after many years of seeing him at the gym working his insane routine, I had to inquire about what drove him. He spoke, with all the drama and animation of a Richard Simmoms, of his misspent youth which led to his mid age crisis and his ill health which, according to him, had him on his death bed at 55 years of age. The drama was a bit over the top, but I later found out his other motivation was to make all those younger than him wonder in awe at his physical prowess doing things many twice as young as him could not. It is not enough that the dude looks great in his outfit, but he has another device to attract all those who are a bit blind. He grunts when he lifts the weights or does isometrics, or even sit ups.

Now, as guys pushing iron around, we all have made our fair share of intended and unintended "noises", but this guy beats all. "HerRump," "Aiyh-YAH-hoo," "Argh-ROPE-pa," and the ubiquitous, "Whoaaa-UP-ah." But, that's not all. If you hang around long enough, say, into his third hour, the grunts seem to send strange, cosmic messages. Or, at least, that's how I hear it! Loud and clear on the up take and kinda mumbly on the down take and with many variations on a theme.

"HerRuuumPAH's gotta-fiddle-di-do"! "Whoaaa-UP-ah inna GumboPot,""Argh-ROPE-pa 4she gos'cuz" and an occasional raspberry like,"FIB-bermagee-gu-GU-roo" or something similar. Every now and then, I can't help but hear soft-core invitational mumblins' between the clink and clunk of weights. It's funny because sometimes I will stop mid rep just waiting to verify what I thought I heard... or worse!

"She-ROPah-soreass-pleeze."

"What is the meaning of all this, I ask you?" What ever it is, it works for him... and in so many ways!

Here you go Tanya, My Birthday Cake Extravaganza...

2011-01-13T15:37:00.000-06:00

A good friend and a really good artist told me to celebrate my birthday by painting something. Tanya is always hounding me to stop complaining and paint. So, early this morning I suggested painting me a birthday cake.

She responded," All right, a birthday cake... and post it when you are finished!"

So, instead of pulling out all my paints and busting it to meet a deadline of today for completion, I decided to cheat and use one of my marker comps that I did for Baskin and Robbins years ago. The headline could have said, "61 Flavors" if I wanted to keep the script logo and tag line from the original layout! But originally, I was gonna let Tanya think that I actually did this in five or six hours... just for my birthday. Never mind that the original was done in about that time frame as part of a four comp presentation.

Even though today is my birthday and I feel like I could whatever I want to, I feared some of my fellow artists who might have seen this comp before, would snitch! Call it Catholic Voodoo Guilt!

Chronic Lower Back Pain and a Chiropractor's Advice... or "Are you one of those all or nothing kind of guys?

2010-12-08T23:04:00.037-06:00

After thirty plus years of ignorance, I finally came to grips with my mortality and I don't like it one damn bit. It's not so much about the aging process, living with pain, being a tough guy or even the thought of what becomes of a person's heart, mind or soul once we pass on... to whatever or wherever.

I've been the recipient of a "tweek" or three doing, sometimes, the most simplest things.

Though baseball players come up with some of the most ridiculously lame excuses for contract violations or their on the field performance, I can really sympathize with Cubs great, Sammy Sosa, when he said he hurt his back sneezing! I have actually done that and it put me out of commission for days. Since that time I have had situations where I am about to blow my brains out with a back breaking sneeze but my brain somehow, I don't know how brains perform this feat, says,"Oh know you don't, nose. Not now, maybe later... I tell you when!"

The anticipation that your big sneeze buildup creates has men diving for cover as women and children run to any escape route. Then, all of a sudden, your sneeze turns into nothing or, at the very least, one of those little, dainty Betty Boop type disturbances like AAAAAH-AH-AH-AH...chu! If you are in public and you pull one of those unmanly, falsetto bloopers someone is bound to tell you later that you can explode your eardrum to bits and pieces by holding back your sneeze.

"Just let 'er rip, dude! Better than splattering bloody ear drum parts all over the walls... dude!' It is easier to just thank them for their concern of my welfare, than to use the Sammy Sosa card.

Nevertheless, I've hurt my back peeling potatoes, chopping onions, pouring oil into the car's engine block, vacuuming, making the bed, unplugging a lamp, popping off a bottle cap, putting on underwear, pulling off underwear, which is a real "right moment" killer, let me tell you! It never happens when you are in the gym trying to impress the guys with your strength ( nowadays, I don't know why you would want to do such a thing! ) or picking up fifty pound sack of live crawfish or pulling your 900 pound lawn tractor out of a ditch that'll hurt your back. It is the little things.

Well, then again, it is the little things after one has a real BIG little thing.

See, I hurt my back, big time, playing flag football in 1976. I know what'cha saying, 1976? And you suffered all this time, never once seeing a specialist or even your son's pediatrician? "What's the matter, no health insurance? Self employed, huh? Man, that's a drag!"

"Well, uh, actually no... and yes!" ( I'll let you figure the correct answer to the appropriate questions, it isn't hard. )

Shall I explain to you how it was the waning minutes of a six point game, with us in the lead, third and about five or six yards to go and I just knew the quarterback was gonna try something underneath in my zone, probably a crossing pattern and how I avoided that offensive guard pulling out, and, and sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, here comes the tight end, zooming across and the ball is thrown and I knew it , I knew it, and I jump up high and ...Crash!

I was the momentary hero because I intercepted the pass, but when I got up, I looked like a pretzel. Felt like one too! Fast forward to the last conversation I had with my chiropractor and new found friend, Fred Miller.

Fred has his practice on the Northshore in Mandeville, LA and was recommended to me by my wife who had injuries sustained in a car accident. He was recommended to Therese by my brother, who is a pain management physician and had been administering prolo-therapy to me and Therese for years. Fred is an athletic style chiropractor having run track and field and cross country in college and keeps himself in shape today playing tennis, mountain biking and running.

The fibrosis or scar tissue ( http://www.spineuniverse.com/conditions/back-pain/chiropractic-care-back-pain ) surrounding my back that was really starting to affect my mobility and flexibility was being broken up allowing me freer movement.

"Ben, we've been working on you for the last two months, three times a week and I can't believe it, but your body has responded admirably... and after all these years,"

"I know, thank you. I plan to take this body with me when I die," I said. " I know what all the knowledgeable theologian's say, but I don't care, heaven or hell, it is coming with me... or I ain't going!"

Looking rather stunned, he continued,"It is a testament to the body's ability to heal itself and your dedication to stay in shape in spite of the damage you've done to it." ( Doc always has a subtle way of getting his point across! ) He continued, "I'd give us all a B+... but... "Ben, you're not getting any younger and you can't expect your body to do what you use to. For your back and the rest of your body, motion is lotion. I want you to keep on moving, but just try to do it with a little more moderation," he said. "If you don't learn how to tell you body when, your body eventually will!"

And then, he said,"I probably already know the answer to this, but let me ask you anyway, are you a all or nuthin' kinda guy?"

Well, gee, doc, I thought to myself, quickly, how am I supposed to answer that? Should I say no, being as succinct and "nuthin" as I could be. Or should I say, well doc, it all started when I was a little guy and my momma fixed me a pizza, and uh, I went ahead and ate the whole thing in one sitting and from that time on, I never could just, uh... And go on and on, ad infinitum!

I must admit I am as flexible as I can ever recall. I still awaken with dull back pain, but it quickly goes away as I continue moving in the morning. The prospect looks and feels great. I should have listened to my loving wife years ago to go ahead an get it all checked out. I really don't understand why I was so stubborn about something that has been so positive for me. All those years of pain and stiffness and... attitude!

But, I have learned my lesson. No more power sets of fifteen with the dumbbells or impromptu forty mile bike excursions. It will now be just twelve power sets and a "planned" forty mile bike ride instead!

What?

Flyin' High on Aviation Art...

2010-10-30T15:53:00.002-05:00

I have just returned from the Air Force Art Program presentation of paintings, held Oct 20-24 at the National Museum of the USAF, Wright Patterson AFB, Dayton, OH. Seven artists from our group with their guests presented paintings, though only four artists from the membership attended the gala, by my count. Still, it was a pretty darn good turn out considering the change of venue. I have to admit, I never had any doubts about not visiting DC which has been the venue since I have been part of the program. Wright-Patterson, AFB? Dayton? No more DC Mall crawling, no more Virginia, no Brandywine, no more Georgetown?

Yes, but no more one night stands either. At the museum, our paintings will be on display at the Museum in Dayton until the eleventh of January. No more 24 hour shows at Bolling AFB which no one can see! Thousands can now see our artwork!

The proceedings this year were without incident. It began with a tour of the restoration hangar, just chocked full of airplane bits and pieces, all with a history attached. It is like a giant hobby store with models that are at a 1/1 scale. We then were given a tour of the presidential hangar, where there are many historical aircraft used by various presidents throughout twentieth century. The Museum complex itself is beyond any military museum I have ever seen anywhere. There was really not enough time to see everything in the entire museum, and I had over three days to see it. But, what I saw was grand.

At the invite of Mickey Harris, an artist that I have known for years but spent six days with at Barksdale, I received a special second tour of the restoration hangar to investigate further the restoration of the famous "Memphis Belle", B-17. Mickey, being from Tennessee, was instrumental in having the Belle sent to the museum for complete restoration and display. Our tour guide was Retired General Metcalf, ( the guiding force of the museum and the main man overseeing the restorations. ) who gave Mick and I the special treatment. His unique insights into the many projects and his own dynamic personality was well worth it.

This is the sixtieth anniversary of the Air Force Art Program. The presentation dinner was held Friday, October 22, in one of the main halls of the museum. A formal affair, we were seated under the wings of a B-52 and a C-124, where we given a very spirited and beautiful rendition of the National Anthem. We were entertained with chamber music while we dined by Huffman Prairie Winds, which is a local group and a nice change from the U.S. Air Force Strolling Strings. The menu included seared Beef Loin in a Sherry sauce paired with a goat cheese stuffed Chicken Breast with a herb glaze over a a Potato Zucchini Cake. A mixed green salad with almonds, blue berries. strawberries and cherries mixed in a raspberry vinaigrette. For desert with coffee or tea, we had an assortment of tortes, mousse, white chocolate strawberries and such.

As mentioned in my personal blog, http://graphicgumboben.blogspot.com/, the five hour ceremony ended all too soon and, in spite of my every effort to hold on to the good times, great art and good friends, we reluctantly left the museum with our plaques, seat favors and, soon to be, memories of a great night.

Of the many galas I have been a part of over the last thirty years, this one was my very own personal favorite.

For pictures, please go to: http://flickr.com/photos/grgumbo2/sets/72157625137158071/
These pics are personal property of mine, Elsy and Andy Moratoya, Norm Siegel, or the United States Air Force. All artwork was shot or scanned at 72 dpi and no larger than eight inches wide or tall and is the property and copyright of all artists involved or the property of the U.S. Air Force Art Collection. All rights reserved.

Knowing Full Well That These Moments Are Fleeting...

2010-10-27T12:24:00.000-05:00

Knowing full well that these moments are fleeting, I tried to savor every moment. From left to right, Schmoe ( aka real name Norm "Gawd Forbid" Siegel ), Captain Mike Gregston, me ( code name: Curly ) and Larry ( he's got the curly hair ) Mickey Harris. Schmoe, Curly and Larry are three of the six artist team that invaded Barksdale, AFB in Shreveport, LA. The Stooges spent most of the trip learning how many ways there are to die, "Gawd Forbid" in a B-52 before taking off for a five hour tour over the Midwest, which included a simulated bomb run and a actual mid air refueling. All went well and we took some really incredible photos from the flight... And we didn't die!

Captain Mike Gregston was, for most of our stay at Barksdale, our host. He also helped me set up the photo shoot for one of my paintings entitled, "The Global Force Strike Command"and posed as the central figure in it. He also posed with my finished painting... without me!

Thanks Mike for all your help and to all the great folks at Barksdale, AFB including the crew: Zach "Samson" Miller and Mehul "Verde" Brahmbhatt, Schera "Charly" Bowden, Scotty"Shadow'' Sproles, Chris "Skype" Gregory and last but not least, PR man, Captain Tim Miller for your hospitality as well as protecting our right to be liberals, conservatives, independents and uh... Artists!

On to the Air Force Museum... SPIT, SPOT!

2010-10-20T15:43:00.000-05:00

Well, my hair is cut and groomed, my face is shaven. I've a crease on my pants leg, my shirt is crisply starched. My shoes are tied and polished and match the color of my belt. My colors are cool and coordinated. My tie is straight and correctly fits my collar. My bags are packed and ready for flight. My briefcase has my orders as well as my formal invite.

SPIT SPOT, I'm ready for flight... AND BOY, DO I EVER LOOK OUT OF PLACE ON THIS PLANE.

I'm Not Sure I Know How to be a Friend...

2010-10-15T16:33:00.000-05:00

I haven't heard from this friend of mine since I last visited Los Angeles in November of 2008.
I was there a week for the SILA/Air Force event at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood and coincidence being so"happenstancicle," he had just recently landed a job that was in a building directly across the street from the Renaissance Hotel, where I was staying.

Though we haven't worked together in years, whenever I get in town, I immediately try to get in touch with him to catch up on the biz, LA, our families and, of course, the Dodgers. It always made me feel good to hear his voice with a distinctive accent that sends me back to simpler time and to hear him say so genuinely, "Ben, how ya doin? What are you doin' back here in LA?"

The nature of what I do for a living makes sincere friendship, the kind I wish I had more of at this point in my life, nearly impossible. Whenever I am with a "client," I am not relating to them as a friend, but as a business associate. Most of my friends are just that and yet, it is so much more. This particular art director has kept me busy enough over the years to provide me with a pretty good income and, in turn, I'd like to think I helped him sell his ideas which kept his boss and clients happy and him, employed. This symbiosis is not unique to our relationship, the advertising business or any business. It happens all the time all over the world.

Still, Mike is one of the many clients that I have worked with together all day and throughout the night, seeing sunsets from large picture windows that overlook the expansive LA basin, sharing coffee and cold pizza on the roof top of a building as the sun rises, meeting crazy deadlines and sharing similar goals. Like the long lost uncle that one sees only at Christmas or when there's a death in the family, when the job is complete, I am gone and not seen until the "next debacle." It was so rare to set up and keep a lunch or dinner date with my art director and writer friends because we were always too busy or distracted. Therefore, I never got to know them well enough to really be able to call them friends. Sometimes, I felt I spent more time trying to set up a dinner date than the time I spent actually having dinner with that friend.

The big difference between Mike and all my other business acquaintance friends is that he is, like me, the ultimate New Orleans Saints fan. A tried and true"Who Dat," who was born and reared in New Orleans. He moved to Glendora, CA after high school and has spent most of his adult life in LA. Mike was constantly bemoaning the state of the Who Dat Nation long before that term was popularized. We would run down Wilshire Blvd. and catch a quick lunch at Sizzler or McDonald's and in horror, dissect the latest Saints lost and plan celebrations for the upcoming win... whenever that was. For over twelve years, we have spent countless hours wondering how great it would be to just get passed the "49ers and win just one playoff game. We conjured up all kinds of conspiracy theories which would explain our hometown team's inadequacies including everything from Mafiosos infiltrating the NFL to voodoo and
God 's Wrath. Certainly, it would have been blasphemous for us to even try to form the word, "Super" from our lips. Other creative colleagues at the agency would just shake their heads and laugh at our loser antics.

In our 2008 luncheon visit, which included subjects I have little interest in... politics and religion, we shared a glimmer of hope that the team would bounce back from its Katrina soaked losing ways and rebuild. Or, just give it all up and move to San Antonio or LA. In the following year, the Saints started to put it all together and with each passing nail biter, I hoped Mike would call me instead of the other way around.

I never received one call.

It got to the point where I surmised, that like me, he didn't want to put a hex on the team by changing anything, like calling his "best Who Dat friend" and boasting. I could not believe how great our season was going and as we got into the playoffs and I could no longer excuse Mike from sharing the joy. Surely, if we win the Super Bowl, he will call me, but I got nothing so far, so why should I expect anything more? BECAUSE IT IS THE SUPER BOWL, MAN!

Maybe he is going through the same hard times I am and doesn't care to talk about it. Cool, I got it!
Well, damn if we didn't take it all and actually win the Super Bowl. The black and gold win the Super Bowl. Whoa!

I was on a trip for the Air Force in the sports bar of the Shreveport Hilton Hotel watching the game with fellow illustrators when I thought of Mike. Although my friends here at the hotel bar were mostly pulling for the underdog Saints, they really had no idea what we southern Louisianians have gone through the pass 43 years. But Mike would. He probably would have understood the strange schism between northern LOU-si-anians and the southern LOUIE-si-anians which is not unlike the NoCal and SoCal rivalries that include not only athletic, but social, political and religious differences. So, I shared with my friends and bar mates the shear elation of our victory and later that night celebrated over the phone with family and friends. I even got congratulatory calls from some of my SoCal friends... but no Mike.

It is now a new NFL season with a whole new excitement brewing as we try for the first ever "Two Dat". I will be there, but will Mike? Does it matter? Do I need his continued friendship after all these years? Are we too far away, now? Is all this concern too wussy? As one man to another, maybe I should tell him to "eff off" and just move on. Turn the page, it's a new chapter. It's not that important, is it?

One night, years ago while I laid in bed trying to either wake up enough to get up out of the darkness and do something productive or try to go back asleep, I got an idea. I get so creative when there are no distractions and no light, but like those floaters that bounce inside of one's closed eyes, ideas are all ever so fleeting.

Catch 'em while you can...just don't turn on the light.

Because of my strange AADD, which stands for, ARTIST ATTENTION DEFICIT DISORDER, I've gotten pretty good at writing and scribbling in the dark. Well enough to be able to read it the next morning. I had a thought for a painting so personal it would have little meaning to anyone but me, which, for a change, was perfectly okay. It was a very large canvas just full of colored and overlapping names in various styles and sizes acknowledging the people I love, of friends I needed, of teachers who inspired me, coaches who encouraged me and taught me value losing as well as winning, of the heroes and villains in my life, of people, who in some large or small way, affected me. If they come to mind, they are valuable to my life and therefore, valuable to this painting.

It would probably be a very large painting.

Well, even if I only produce the painting in my mind and whether or not I ever make the call to, once again, together cheer on the Saints... or tell him where to shove his fleur di lis, Mike's name will always be a part of my life and therefore, a part of who I am. In the end, it does really matter to me if for no other reasons than the selfish ones. Besides, it is probably as much my problem as anyone's because I find it hard to have people come into and out of my life. I expect more from me and my friendships than is ever possible here on earth. Maybe, most of my acquaintances don't feel the need to validate a friendship as often I might. It could also be that my definition of what a friend is, is too narrow. Maybe it's time to redefine the meaning and give it some space to grow. It's not like I am collecting friends like some do on social web sites though those sites do make it nice to reconnect with old friends and buddies. Maybe, after all these years, I just don't know what to expect from a friendship anymore. Or maybe, I just don't know how to be a friend.

Then again, maybe it's just time to put on a game face and say, "Geaux Saints"... Two Dat!

Hey Buddy, You're OKAY?

2010-10-10T11:32:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago, I went on a bike ride trying to get myself back to form. Originally, I was kinda training for a Muscular Dystrophy fund raiser, where you spend two days completing a seventy-five mile per day route for sponsors, complete with an overnight stay, free food and medics just in case you have any problems. My best distance, never mind the time it takes, was forty-five miles. I felt pretty good about my chances of participating... two months ago!

Well, on that day, I completed a thirty-four mile ride but not without some problems. Besides the normal dogs chasing me until I zap 'em with my trusty, never fails, sonic Dazor zapper, I ran into a pretty stiff north wind that brought a welcome cold front to the region. It gave the countryside a beautiful morning, but made my biking harder since, at least, half of this adjusted route ran north/south. Two and a half hours into the ride, my shoulders started to really ache and I could not sit up straight on the bike to relieve the pain because the wind was forcing me to continually pedal... or stop. So, I stopped for a five minute break, not once, not twice, but three times. Somewhere between stop two and three, my left quad cramped up. I had plenty of water, so I knew I was well hydrated, but nevertheless, the next two or three miles were no fun at all and I started to cuss myself and everything else I could damn praying it was only a cramp and not a pulled muscle.

Ben, it seems, no matter what you do, you always turn it into a job. This is supposed to be fun, I thought to myself. It didn't take too much longer before I was actually vocalizing my frustration to myself and anyone within hearing range as I continued to peddle. I also noticed my heart monitor registering a constant 148 bpm, but I only now had about eight or ten miles left to go. "What an ass!" Once again, you are turning this into another famous Ben Bensen slog!"

Slogging through this bike ride seemed a complete metaphor for my life. Slogging is what I define as doing something, anything with a negative attitude. You know, doing things that need to be done, but you just do it 'cuz you have to. You could put on a happy face and maybe it would make it better, but instead, you bitch, you moan, you acquiesce, you reluctantly get the job done. That's slogging!

As I continue peddling closer to the finish, I am now verbally abusing myself. " You shouldn't have taken such a long route... What made you think this was a good idea? Why do you continue to set such stupid, unrealistic goals? A true Capricorn. Butting my head up against anything just because it is there. It is not necessarily in the way. It is just there, so why do I feel he need to bust through it. What's on the other side making it all worth while? You're an idiot. No one cares whether you win or lose. Why do you turn everything into a competition... especially with yourself. "What a maroon, just get your cell phone, make the call and have Therese come pick you up," I said to no one, but me.

Slogging through a few more miles I finally make a decision."Okay, okay, I give up. I can't go on. But I am not calling for a ride home. I need to stop for a while... just a while. As I parked the bike along the side of the road, I started to feel nauseated. "Great, just what I now need... Upchuck City...Great!"

I found a shady area next the culvert, sat down and took the last couple of gulps from my second water bottle hoping it would help me not lose my breakfast. I then worked on my gimpy quad trying to unknot the damn thing and in the process ended up laying down on a bed of pine needles and pine cones. Once I dislodged the prickly cones from my back, I looked up to the beautiful fall sky and heard that breeze ( it was now not a wind but a beautiful breeze, at least, in my mind ) wafting through the pines. I laid there for about a minute watching a red-tailed hawk couple dancing high above me in the breeze and realized how strange it was that they were flying above me on a street named Hawk Road.

After five minutes or so, I remembered how once I hit the wall twenty-four and half miles out during my first marathon in Scottsdale, Arizona. I remembered how my gait turned into a walk, then a stop and start for another few hundred feet and then, I sat down resolving to return back on track to finish the last mile and a half to finish the race.

A car passed by and I waved him on by, and then another and then another. "Hey man, ready to give it up, you look spent!" " No, I replied, I'll be fine, thanks!" But, I wasn't fine. I literally hit the wall... Big Time! I remembered that try as I may, I could not get up. My entire body just seized up into one big knot and I wasn't gonna finish this race...

Just then, an old Chevy pickup circa 1970's drives by and stops at the stop sign. A man with a red cap, brim turn up and a cheek full of possibly chaw says, "Hey Buddy, you okay?" Everything's all right?" I quickly sit up and tell him that I was fine and that I just needed to take a break. As he drove by, I laid back down because it made me feel less nauseous, but a minute later a woman in a blue compact stopped at the stop sign, turned left, and then, backed up to inquire about my condition. After the third car, not wanting to concern any more drivers stopping at that corner and fearing that, once again, as it did in my first failed marathon, my body would seize up, I decided to sit up.

A black lady in an Explorer inquired, a man in a pork pie hat driving a Jag, stopped to ask. Some mexicans ( or hispanics, from one country or another, ) stopped with a truck bed full of compadres to ask if I was okay. All in all, within twenty minutes, eight cars of completely different ages, styles and makes, with people from all walks of life, showed their concern for a total stranger's well being at the side of the road.

Rejuvenated by the rest and not wanting anyone else to show concern for my welfare, I got back in the saddle and slowly peddled off. With less than a half mile or so to return to Gus's in Folsom, where my car was parked, I thought, "Is this still a great country or what!

Global Strike Command final... Finally!

2010-09-19T12:16:00.001-05:00

Here is the final illustration for the Global Strike Command, the command which replaces SAC at Barksdale, AFB in Shreveport, LA. My hope is that it will be housed at the command headquarters' lobby there on base. It was shipped along with another large painting just a few days ago and its placement is now in the hands of the Air Force brass. Closeups of the unfinished portraits are included in an early post entitled, Barksdale Painting/ On the up side of downhill...

This piece has gone through many conceptual sketches, adjustments, photo shoots and soul searching. I have only included three conceptual adjustments for this blog. In the original Photoshop design, an airman mentioned that the cloud which holds the airbase's logo, the fleur de lis, looked like a mushroom cloud. I nearly fainted! Another concern, was the glow emanating from the globe cast a ominous shadow onto the main character's face even further highlighting an aggressive, "don't tread on me" stance. Again, not exactly what I wanted to convey. In a beginning home photo shoot, I posed myself in various illuminated stances, looking up as I am bent over the "world" in a protective posture. With a football helmet on, that pose would have made it impossible to even see the pilot's eyes.

Take the symmetry out, create an edge with only one or no bombers, include all the patches of the support groups floating in the clouds or show only four to represent the main ones. How to pose the hands to say what I wanted to say but avoid the insurance company's "good hands" idea. How many women to display and ethnic groups to use to represent which support groups. Political overtones I never envisioned started to pop up everywhere. Someone else mentioned that the design had a heroic, movie poster look, which I hadn't anticipated either, but didn't object to. In the end, after about eighty plus hours of planning and painting, I feel quite happy with the results. What do you think?

A final pencil sketch from the fourth concept, me as bad ass protector, and a photoshop follow up.

Here is a picture of one of the crew members and an excerpt from an email reassuring me that my illustrative interpretation of what these brave men and women do for a living protecting us met with their approval. ( Curly was my code name for the flight and briefings! ) Here's her comment...

Curly!!

Funny Zach "Samson" Miller and Mehul "Verde" Brahmbhatt and I were talking today about how we haven't heard anything in forever from y'all. We know that the big hoorah is in Dayton sometime in October and we were thinking we might be able to swing a trip up there. Can you email me the dates, events, etc. so we can start working that? Its so cool to see the finished product, I mean I was so amazed by your original sketches, but now after seeing your final piece I'm speechless. You have a phenomenal talent! Thank you so much for sharing it with us. I look forward to hearing from you in the future.

Charlie

"Doin' the Bottom" and other topics...

2010-09-17T13:33:00.000-05:00

A few months ago I painted a picture of little girl with a straw hat, referenced http://graphicgumboben.blogspot.com/2010/07/so-whats-all-fuss-about-day-in-life-of.html for the Junior League's October fund raiser, which auctions off paintings at the annual Harvest Cup Polo Fest. I asked my wife, Therese, if she wanted to attend again this year or not. If she wanted to go again this year, I had just three days to do a painting to qualify for free admission to the festival. Tee said she loved the festival last year and since we only live across the highway from the polo grounds, it would be a nice way to spend a weekend. So, I gave myself four hours to complete a painting not counting the search for something interesting to paint and the time it would take to frame it. Four hours complete!

Well, it took me five hours to paint the little girl and another hour to frame it. All tolled, I spent about six or so hours on the entire project. The artist in me abhors that approach to my art, but the businessman in me and the many years of deadline training demands it. It is a match that is made in hell, but it has served me well in my career.

Strangely enough, the mother of the little girl that I used for the painting, saw the picture in an insert bio, along with other artists who donate a picture, in the local magazine that promotes the event. She wanted to know if I was willing to sell that painting instead of auctioning it off at the festival. After reassuring the mother that I was not sure I could get the painting back to sell, we settled on a price. I asked the event coordinator, Shawna Hunt, if I could trade that painting for another because I had a buyer for the donated painting. She said, "Of course, what ever we can do to help local artists... that's great, you can just trade one for another and still qualify to get free admission to the polo event."

I thanked Shawna for being so flexible and told her I would pick up the "little girl with the straw hat" painting and bring another painting to the "Meet the Artists" event. Only problem was, I didn't have another painting I felt worthy of donating to the cause, so once again, I had three days to complete another painting. Actually, I had as much time as I needed up until the festival auction in October, but I wanted the chance to have art patrons see both paintings at one time. So, I made a pot of CDM coffee, rolled up my sleeves and dove in for two days.

This painting entitled, "Doin' the Bottom" was done in acrylics on a 16x20 canvas from a photo I took about three years ago while having beignets and coffee at Cafe Du Monde in the French Quarter. The businessman in me told me to tell everyone that the unframed painting was completed in 16 hours.

The artist in me just hopes you like it, ha!

"The Heart, Mind and Soul of an Arctic Warrior"

2010-09-07T18:40:00.002-05:00

Here's some closeups of the Tuskegee B-25 crew which I drew and painted from a picture I took in the lobby of the 477th Squadron building at Elmendorf. It was a strange combination of sepia and aged yellow paper which kind of inspired me to paint with this palette.

Center image here depicts best the title of the painting, that is, the heart, mind and soul of the Arctic Warrior. There wasn't much Inuit displays or monuments in Elmendorf, AFB or the city of Anchorage, but the Anchorage airport had a wonderful and educational gallery of images that inspired my use of totem pole images to quickly say Alaska. We did attempt to visit the local native museum just full of displays, but the day we had some time of our own, the museum was closed.

Sketches for the final "approved" in my head after five or six tries. It would be a sign of real dedication to say that I sketched out a bunch of ideas on the plane, but these sketches are the ones I centered on for the final and they were done while waiting to give blood at a local blood bank.

And here is the final piece completed over the Labor Day weekend and first started sometime in early May. It turned out to be almost exactly what I wanted it to be which is very rare for me. I was constantly trying to not pull out the airbrush to create a more ethereal, airy feel. I wanted the painting to be a bit more graphic and yet gritty. The spray painted "477th" logo to left was originally painted but because I wanted to stay true to how it might have looked in World War II, I actually cut a stencil and then used an old spray can of white.

For those that care,
This is the painting I have started that represents all that my visit to Elmendorf, AFB entails. In a way, it is the culmination of our trip, that is, to take the information and pics of the 477th Fighter Group and depict what the Air Reserve Unit at the base is all about. For further information and actual pics, you can go to: http://www.gumboben-elmendorf.blogspot.com You can read an article about our trip to Alaska at: http://www.jber.army.mil/aw/2010/100416/Story8.htm

The painting depicts the old WWII world of the 302nd and the 477th on the left and the new, high tech world of today's warrior. A laser beam runs from the heart of the airmen to the black bomber crew of the Tuskegee group. Included with the six crew members are the five aircraft the group used for training and battle. The large red empennage (the stabilizing surfaces at the tail of an aircraft. ) represents the squadron's painted red tail so the American bomber crews would recognize them as "little friends" in their P-51 fighters. In front of the red tail is an angel's wing with a white glow that surrounds the wing, the pilot and the totem pole wing of Elmendorf. I am hoping this will read as the soul of the warrior.

To the right of the pilot, is a greenish yellow laser beam running from the top of the helmet, housing the human and eskimo eagle head, through and around the totem pole wing, the F-22 empennage with the new squad numbers down and across to the mountainous background of Elmendorf's main runway. The beam stops and sort of surrounds the aircraft as it takes off, representing the mind, human and computerized, needed to perform the task of defending our nation's interest.

The Heart, Mind and Soul of an Arctic Warrior!

Hey Reggie, Where the Hell Are You?

2010-08-28T00:02:00.000-05:00

Well, it has been a while since I have posted something on this blog and I was trolling around for inspiration when I ran across a website called Reggie Scanlan Photography and sure enough it was the
Reggie I know and played with in the early years of the seventies. We were just a garage band struggling to find our musical ways. When he joined up with our band, he was gonna be our bass guitarist but had to borrow my cousin's Fender bass and amp to play it. And, he refused to sing... not even harmonies. To my knowledge, I believe he hasn't sung a note all these great years with the Rads. Thirty plus years later Reg is still making a living as the bass guitarist for the New Orleans band, "The Radiators".

Reg has played with some of the real legends of New Orleans music like Fess, 'Saint, Booker, Dr. John, Spencer Bohren and many others. We'd get together whenever the Radiators came to San Francisco or Los Angeles. It was always a treat to see him and the guys in the band. Most of the time when I would come home to New Orleans to visit, we'd get together at the "Dream Palace", "Tips" or the "Maple Leaf Bar."

Nowadays, now that I actually live near New Orleans, I never see him mainly because my bar hopping and musical forays have flown away on the wings of a bird especially since Katrina. This is a sketch I did of him in his and my "Maple Leaf" days. The pics I found on the internet all show him in quite the same bass guitar pose. Funny... and I wonder if he still has that hat, ha! Hey Reggie, where the hell are you?

Barksdale Painting: On the upside of downhill!

2010-08-09T13:34:00.000-05:00

These are portrait closeups of a painting for the United States Air Force. The painting is something I have been working on off and on since April. It has been a while since I painted portraits in oil like this. I am about three quarter finish with the entire piece which needs to be at the Pentagon by the end of August. What'dya think?

So What's All the Fuss About... A Day in the Life of an Illustrator!

2010-07-14T00:29:00.000-05:00

I've just been informed by the Junior League that I have three days to do a painting to donate for charity... if I wanna get in free to the Polo Festival in October! I know I can do it, but do I really wanna?
So here's what I wanna do.

I really don't have anything to make a giclee from that I think is worthy of my signature, though I agree with Laurie that Sonya's idea is the best. My answer is that I have given myself four hours to paint a picture while my two air force paintings are drying. 4 hours starting from what is now 12:15 pm. CST. Then, I will photograph it for the magazine and post the painting on Facebook... And, that's what 'dey git! So, let's get it on!

Well, it took me five and a half hours, instead of just four, but now all I have to do is pop it in a frame on Friday and drop it off. Therese and I enjoyed the polo festival so much last year, that I decided I'd do a quick painting to get in free this coming October and get a write up in the local magazine.

GraphicGumbo3: Kinda freaks me out...

2010-07-10T22:06:00.000-05:00

GraphicGumbo3: Kinda freaks me out...

Kinda freaks me out...

2010-07-10T22:05:00.000-05:00

I sent this email to my good friend and great paper sculptor, Leo Monahan. Here's what I sent to him:

I am sitting in a local library and found two wonderful posters for a client, BWI booksellers. The one poster is of a knight in shining armor with his jousting lance atop a armored steed all in aluminum foiled paper and set atop a black background. It must be yours. Then, as I crane my neck around the door I see another beautiful paper sculpture set atop a black background. Same client in a similar frame, but this one has a fiery yet very colorful dragon complete with mouth breathing flames and gorgeously set with with that splat technique of yours on the colored scales. It all was so beautifully crafted and probably designed to be a companion piece. Was it?

( I had the good fortune to spend some time with Leo years ago when he had a design studio that, for a time, created ads for the NBC nightly news and the local affiliate, KNBC. The place was a buzz with activity all geared to meet one deadline after another. Messengers came in, messengers went out and it seemed Leo was always on the phone. I assume he made his "fortune" doing the ad designer thing, but I was amazed at how, amongst all that hustle and bustle, he was deftly cutting one ply Strath with an X-Acto knife and shaping the form to depict whatever it was in his mind. Amongst the phone calls and press checks and what not! "Leo, you ever cut yourself with that blade?", I asked. "Only occasionally," he replied. I told him a story about how I had a habit of sliding pencils atop my ears for later use, but had to force myself not to do that anymore when I once, it only takes once, absentmindedly slide an XActo knife between my ear and scalp. It wasn't a nice feeling, but now I completely understood Cezanne's madness after that experience. Those were my airbrush/retouch days. )

I am amazed and a little freaked out as I say to myself, "Wow, that's a Leo Monahan!" And I know him. He is a dear and close friend and colleague. It must be nice to be nationwide with your work. To me, there is always something weird when you see something that is viewed in another context. Like, seeing your first, real up close and personal aircraft that you built from a kit or drew many times as a kid. There's a childlike exuberance that overcomes one no matter what the age. "Wow, that's the real thing, whoa!" Can I touch it? Can I get closer? Another example would be fans actually meeting a famous actor or sports hero, live and in the flesh.

Anyway, feeling vulnerable and disconnected from all I knew in my thirty years as a Los Angeleno, I took special pleasure in seeing the printed version of something created by an artist that I knew! A chill races up arm as I sat and stared at the poster. I think to myself, man, I will never get to that pinnacle of success. Thirty-five years in this business and nothing that will outlive me, I say, as I get up from the my seat, pull up my slacks and flush the toilet. "I can't even make it on the walls of a Louisiana library men's room!." C’est la vie!

You Idiot... You're on Vacation...

2010-06-30T20:55:00.000-05:00

The other morning, while returning from the local cafe, a dually, Ford 250, was hauling up my back, then passed me at about the speed of sound on little state highway 40. I chuckled to myself, "He must be in a hurry!" It reminded me of a time when I was visiting friends in Los Angeles sitting in traffic on the 405 freeway. After living in LA for almost thirty years, one understands that there is no good time to take that freeway. Leaving one friend's home in West LA for a two o'clock luncheon at Van Nuys airport with an aviation bud of mine, Mike Machat, I left in what I remembered to be plenty enough time. But, I sat in traffic to get to the freeway and then, crawled up the hill and slogged my way back down into the valley.

I was gonna be late. I didn't even have an recollection of how to get the restaurant. Now, I'll have to call Mike and beg his forgiveness, geez! Five lanes going downhill to the north, everyone jockeying for position, cutting in front of me, cutting in front of anyone, just to sit and slog. At least, I'm driving a rental car with an automatic transmission, I thought impatiently to myself. I finally get off the freeway with five minutes to spare only to sit in another traffic jam on the boulevard. When I discovered the traffic light was out, I lost it!

I JUST LOST IT..."What the f*&@!!k", I yelled, "Let's get going... What IS the ^%^&$# problem?, I said, foaming at the mouth, veins busting out of my head, eyes bulging, pounding on the steering wheel. After about thirty seconds into choking the life out of my steering wheel, I realized, "Wait, wait, I don't live here anymore... I'm on vacation!" There's no deadline, there's no, "You'll never work in this town again". I don't have to dive into an ad agency just in the nick of time, worrying that they just might not like it!"

You idiot! You're on vacation!

"C'est la vie," say the old folks,"Goes to Show, You Never Can Tell."

2010-06-21T10:06:00.000-05:00

Well, it all started in October, 2008 when I decided to rearrange my studio to make it more efficient. Like everything else in this world, things must be adjusted to accommodate new ways of thinking, working, and living. Without realizing the implications of my actions, I pulled the plug on my four month old 20"Mac monitor while the Mac G5 was asleep. At the time, I was more involved in placing it in its new environment to see how ergonomically it would meet my needs... and my aching back! Two days later, when I had everything in its place right down to the sharpened pencils, I turned on the computer and there was no picture. What! What's gone wrong now? Hey man, this thing is brand new... hardly used... touted by the trades as one of the five best monitors of 2008. What duh, uh!

You'd think the obvious solution would be to bring the monitor back while it was still under the one year warranty, but that would have been way too easy. I replaced the new monitor with the old monitor that was supposed to be replaced... by the new kid on the block.

The Ilyama 1600 was the pride of the class of 1995 and I loved that monitor. It just continuously performed, seldom needed color correction, and had survived the move from South Pasadena to Folsom in 2001. It was the old cathode ray style monitor that actually dared you to pick it up and move it. It weighed a ton, so until the final move to Louisiana, that puppy stayed right where I originally put it... for years! If you were gonna rearrange the studio, you adjusted everything around the position of the Ilyama. Now, with the new monitor disabled, I dragged the behemoth back into place in front of the Mac monitor and hooked it up once again to the computer. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, the Sugar Bowl, the Super Bowl, King's Day, St. Joseph's Day, St. Patrick's, Fat Tuesday, all partied down in a town that can find any reason to party. Heck, New Orleanians would party about there being no reason to party. Oh, the concept of it all!

Anyway, it was that time of the season, here in south Louisiana, where the cold air meets the warm, moist, spring time breeze wafting through from the Gulf of Mexico and "BAM" without a warning all your peripherals are fried! Amongst the smelly debris, which phone men and insurance investigators swear they can detect permanent damage with their nose, was my "double monitors." Phones, modems, three printers, one UPS unit that didn't work and a Wacom tablet, a keyboard, and a host of USB hubs, were all fried including our $500.00 Australian Fisher/Pickel washing machine. The lightning strike, which was made worse by the disconnection of our house ground plug outside near the utility box, also fried the computer motherboard inside the washer. Luckily, the insurance plan covered just about everything including the Mac monitor, which the investigator assured me, was a victim.

Well, who am I to tell him any different?

Nine months later, an associate to the investigator, dropped off equipment I had long written off as junk including the Mac monitor. It was discovered that the Mac still didn't work, but was not destroyed by the lightning strike, so they returned it to me packed like it was brand new. Oh boy!

Fast forward to just a month ago, when I decided to clean the garage in preparation for two large 3"x4" paneled canvases I was gonna paint for a client, and in the process, throw away a lot of stuff that we no longer needed or was in disrepair. On a whim, I decided to check out the monitor, just to see if it worked. It didn't... dead, gone, kaput! Good riddance!

Only, it sat in the car for two weeks... aggravating me, eating at my guilt, Catholic and otherwise, a brushed aluminum albatross creating drag from the trunk of my car as well as my psyche. Okay, okay, there's probably a million Chinese starving to have a chance to just see if it was repairable. So, I made a reservation at the local Genius Bar last Saturday just to ease my mind. Whatever it is, if it cost me money to fix, well then, the Chinese can have it.

I told the Apple rep my whole story, much to his displeasure and then told me it would cost $300.00 just for the labor. I winced and whined and tried to cajole him into, at least, looking to see if he could make it work first before I committed it to the junk pile. So, he opened the box that it originally came in and saw the monitor just as beautiful and pristine as ever, lovingly repackaged with even the original tape that held the white cover sheet over the "glass". "Wow," he said, "It really looks like you barely used it! When was the purchase date?" I rolled the box over to show him the shipping date of 8/22/08.

He walked back behind the big, white door and returned to hook up the monitor to see if indeed it could be fixed or not. As he wiggled and swiggled and USB'ed his way into the connections, he told me to hope that the monitor would not fire up. With restless anticipation, we both waited for the little white MacBook to boot up and switch the monitor on. Thirty seconds after the Apple chime, which always sounded to me like the opening chord of the Beatles' "A Hard Days Night", the monitor sat quiet, motionless, and dark.

"Mr. Bensen, my manager said we will fix the monitor free of charge since it is obvious to us that it was barely used and would ordinarily have been covered for one year after purchase." "How does that sound?" Smiling, while trying to hold back the tears of joy, I replied that that,"sounds fair!" "Sir, please fill out this form and we will deliver the monitor to your studio in seven to ten days." I thanked him as calmly as I could as he walked off with my monitor and I, with my empty, well kept and original box.

It just goes to show you that sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger and sometimes you're the ball and as the old folks say,"You never can tell!"

Ain't It Always the Way...

2010-06-14T20:29:00.000-05:00

What is it about life that just when you find the right bolt to fit, you can't find the nut. Or, you got the left shoe, but the right shoe is under the bed just far enough away from your reach that you can't get to it even though you can clearly see it. Hollywood has made these "Murphy's Law" exasperations a staple in those horror films, where the monster is coming to do you some serious hurt and you can't get to the gun just out of reach...until the last moment. And, how many times does the car not start when some ghoulie is trying to rearrange your vin number. Yes, we've all suffered through this kind of thing from time to time. Sometimes, you can deal with it and sometimes... well, you make a spectacle of yourself.

In my effort to save money, be "green" and make the best use of my trips into town, I loaded newspapers and plastic bags in the trunk of the car, took my dry cleaning with me to drop off and then, went to a chamber of commerce meeting, where I was to report on the local "artist at events" agenda. After the meeting was over and everyone completed their parking lot conversations and drove off, I remembered that I had, the other day, purchased two Dole pineapples at the grocery store with one gone horribly "wrong." If I could find the receipt, well, then I would be able to return it, exchange it or get reimbursed for wayward fruit and really win the "Green Award" for the day. It all felt so right, so I opened the trunk and dove into the myriad of plastic bags, hoping to find the receipt.

I found receipts for the laundry, receipts for other groceries, receipts for fast food, receipts for hardware, receipts for office supplies, receipts for this, receipts for that, but no pineapple receipts for $2.89. Of course, by now, I have plundered, ripped and trashed what seemed to be scores of plastic bags and they are starting to scatter all around my car and with a little breeeze, all over the Chamber's parking lot. "Come on Ben, this just isn't worth the price of admission," I said to myself, but I just couldn't stop now after having gone through, at least, a hundred plastic bags. Well, damn! Now, it is about the principle of the thing. I just knew that pineapple receipt was in one of those bags somewhere in this car and I was not going to let these plastic bags "rip me off", or deter me.

Just then, the president of the chamber drives up in her very uptown wheels, gets out of the car and asks,"Ben, are you okay?" Sweaty, red faced and flustered, I replied, not wanting to let on that this plastic bag massacre was about saving $2.89,"Oh, I am fine... How's it going at the chamber?" Grateful that she didn't ask me if I was gonna clean up the parking lot, she turned toward the front door, and continued walking and mumbling.

Well, now you've done it. You've embarrassed yourself, made a mess of the car and the parking lot and you have only one more plastic bag stuffed with more plastic bags to search. "Gawd, what an idiot you are!" This is ridiculous. Yeh? "Well, guess what?" I said to myself," I'm gonna continue this foray until I am totally satisfied that it is not here and never ever was." No, you're not, I thought to myself. Oh yes, I am! C'mon Ben, give it up, man! You are... not... gonna....... find........ it...

HERE IT IS! I told you. I told you I'd find it. You see, persistence pays off, I told you. Two pineapples at $2.89 a piece. Yes!

Vindicated at last and feeling quite the hero, I cleaned up the parking lot, stuffed all the plastic bags back into the trunk and drove off victorious. It was only when I stopped at the first traffic light did it all dawn on me. "Damn, Murphy wins again!" Why did it have to be in the very last bundle of plastic bags? The very last. Hundreds of bags. It could have been in the first bag or the thirtieth bag or surely in the seventy-fifth bag, but no. No, no it had to be in the very last one. Geez, what a loser!

Come Uppance...Is that one word or two?

2010-06-11T08:15:00.001-05:00

Well, you just knew it was gonna happen. Late last week, in the early morning dew, while I am putting out garbage for a pick up, I heard very familiar and intense barking. First thing I thought was, there goes Pierre harassing those box turtles as they try to mosey their way into the morning sun. The walk from the front of the house to the back is about 75 or 80 yards, so there was a lot of barking going on before I got back to the house. Suddenly, the next sound I hear is a yelp and then silence. I had a private chuckle and walked over to see what was the matter. Pierre kinda pawed the front of his face and sneezed a time or two. Ten feet behind him, scrape ploppin' its way toward the front pond was a rather large turtle. I could tell from the shape of its shell Pierre tangled with a "snapper". I got closer to check the turtle out and it gave me a big hiss!

"Well, okay, be like that," I said and turned back to see if any real harm came to the pup! Though I saw no sign of nasal damage, Therese later said she saw a little chunk taken out from Pierre's sniffer. A couple of days later, I took the dog for a "pull" following him following his nose, when he came to a stop. Now, with slack in the leash, I notice Pierre was very cautiously sniffing at a small granite rock that was just the size and shape of that green attacker. He never got really close to what he obviously perceived to be another snapper and I think for the first time ever, doubted the effectiveness of the nose. "Hey Pierre," I laughed, "It's just a rock, dude. Guess you got your comeuppance!"

Dawg the bounty hunter

2010-05-30T16:31:00.001-05:00

Check out this SlideShare Presentation:

Dawg the bounty hunter

View more presentations from Ben Bensen.

Have a great Memorial Day weekend, but also remember...

2010-05-28T19:52:00.000-05:00

On our way back from Barksdale to enjoy the Memorial Day festivities with our Merrywood gang in Folsom. Please, while partying down, remember who gives us our freedoms. It is not the preacher man, or the media, nor the politicians or lawyers, but the vets who protect our speech, religion, press, due process, the right to assembly and many, many more! So, hoist a cold one in their honor!

TJ... A chip off the ole' Chumps!

2010-05-24T15:18:00.002-05:00

Congrats to my nephew, TJ, for making the 2010 All-District AllStars in his junior year. Tony worked hard to accomplish this. He began the baseball season on an off note, when the previous coach placed him in left field and wouldn't let him bat. His dad finally persuaded Tony to ask the coach if he could sit and talk w...ith him. When he coach obliged, Tony asked him if he could have a shot at playing his usual and best position of shortstop. The coach said no at first but then let him play for one game. He did so well, really showed the coach what he can do as a shortstop, so much so, that he switched the players for the rest of the season! He let Tony play his shortstop position and the sophomore that was playing shortstop played left field for the rest of the season! Tony also excelled throughout the season in his batting and has really grown as a player throughout the past year, so congratulations, dude!

The Tortoise and the Hairy...

2010-05-24T14:35:00.003-05:00

The last time Pierre, our three year old cocker spaniel, barked continuously for over ten minutes, it was because he had found a large water moccasin hidden in the big leaves of our magnolia tree near the front pond. But that's a story for another time.

So, I left the studio to see what was the matter this time and found Pierre just confounded by a box turtle that entered the garden to munch on some clover. He was so put off by the turtle and wanted me to come by to see and explain to him why this rock smells different and moves. I never saw the turtle's head come out of its shell in all of the twenty minutes I was there laughing at Pierre's antics and clicking away at his frustration. It was hilarious watching him try to figure out this whole scene. Every now and then, he'd raise his head to look at me with a puzzled stare as if to say, "What's up wit dis! though he wouldn't let me get close enough to it to give the turtle a breather.

I guess the dog figured a bird in hand is better than one in the bush because there was no hesitation when I said the magic word,"Treat"? Once indoors, I escorted the turtle back to the pond where it could escape to should Pierre sniff him out again!

Feeding the bass...

2010-05-06T11:23:00.000-05:00

It is that time of the year, where it seems I am the caretaker of many of the animals that grace our home. The hummers need to be fed once or twice a week. The cocker spaniel, Pierre, gets his medicine in the morning, fed twice a day and he lets me know if I am late. Then, there's the bird feeder, where it seems, every other day, a four or five cup serving of seeds and peanuts keep the birds happy as they feed their new families. Titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, house finches, jays, cardinals, sparrows, and woodpeckers all await my visit around 8 am.

But the strangest recipients of nature's bounty, with a little help from me, is our bass and perch. This time of year, japanese beetles attack the yard and porch lights with an insane vengence. They hit the windows, bounce off of flood lights and if you allow it, will practically fly into your hair, shirt and pants. The beetles are very destructive to pine trees, so instead of spraying to control them, I capture twenty or so of the insects, put them in a glass container with holes punched into the top, and feed them the following morning to the fish. This will continue throughout the month of April into May.The fish follow me all around the perimeter of the back paddock pond joistling for position and chasing each other out of their territory. They practically jump out of the water as if begging for a bug or two. Wild!

By Request/ Charlie Brown's JukeBox Discography

2010-04-27T12:03:00.000-05:00

1. I Can’t Stop Loving You / Ray Charles
2. Georgia on My Mind / Ray Charles
3. Detroit City / Bobby Bare
4. Wolverton Mountain / Claude King
5. Only Make Believe / Conway Twitty
6. Young Love / Sonny James
7. Last Date / Floyd Cramer
8. He’ll Have to Go / Jim Reevess
9. Stranger On the Shore / Acker Bilk
10. Born to Lose / Ray Charles
11. Still / Bill Anderson
12. Moody River / Johnny Burnette
13. Abilene / George Hamilton IV
14. Liberty Valance / George Pitney
15. El Paso / Marty Robbins
16. Your Cheating Heart / Ray Charles
17. Crazy Arms / Ray Price
18. Oh Lonesome Me / Don Gibson
19. Faded Love / Bob Wills
20. I Can’t Help It / Hank Williams
21. Cold, Cold Heart / Hank Williams
22. I’m So Lonesome… / Hank Williams
23. I’m Sorry / Brenda Lee
24. Hello Walls / Faron Young
25. Crazy / Patsy Cline
26. I Fall to Pieces / Patsy Cline
27. Sweet Dreams / Patsy Cline
28. She’s Got You / Patsy Cline
29. Funny, How Time Slips Away /
Willie Nelson
30. Only Love Can Break a Heart / Gene Pitney
31. All Alone Am I / Brenda Lee
32. Sixteen Tons / Tennessee Ernie Ford
33. Strange / Patsy Cline
34. Stronger Than Me / Patsy Cline
35. Think It Over / Patsy Cline
36. Together Again / Ray Charles
37. Your Cheating Heart / Ray Charles
38. You Don’t Know Me / Ray Charles
39. Tip of My Fingers / Bill Anderson
40. The Night Life / Willie Nelson
41. King of the Road / Roger Miller
42. Dang Me / Roger Miller
43. Dixie Fried / Carl Perkins
44. Memphis / Carl Perkins
45. Memphis / Chuck Berry
46. I’ve Been Everywhere / Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys
47. Take Me Back to Tulsa / Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys
48. In the Summertime / Roger Miller
49. Engine, Engine No. 9 / Roger Miller
50. Chug-A-Lug / Roger Miller
51. Honky Tonking / Mel Tillis
52. That Little Ole Winemaker Me / Mel Tillis
53. Honky Tonk Blues / Hank Williams
54. Wasted Days and Wasted Nights / Freddie Fender
55. Before You Stopped Loving Me / Asleep at the Wheel
56. All Alone Am I / Brenda Lee
57. Wichita Lineman / Glenn Campbell
58. 500 Miles / Bobby Bare
59. A White Sport Coat / Sonny James
60. Only Love Can Break A Heart / Gene Pitney
61. Live Fast, Love Hard, Die Young / Faron Young
62. One Dying and a Burying / Roger Miller
63. San Antonio Rose / Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys
64. Kansas City Star / Roger Miller
65. Do-Wacka-Do / Roger Miller
66. Make the World Go Away / Eddie Arnold
67. She Thinks I Still Care / George Jones
68. Cattle Call / Eddie Arnold
69. Alley Cat / Brent Fabric
70. Ghost Riders in the Sky / Vaughn Monroe
71. Together Again / Buck Owens
72. The Mule, Old Rivers and Me / Walter Brennan
73. I Really Don’t Want to Know / Eddie Arnold
74. North to Alaska / Johnny Horton
75. If You’ve Got the Money… Lefty Frizzell
76. Raunchy / Bill Justis
77. The Battle of New Orleans / Johnny Horton

Ron Boyd and some friends wanted me to post the discography of Charlie Brown's JukeBox and because I've done it so many times and then, like a goofus, I trash it... for one reason or another. So, for all those who care here's a quick solution to the problem. I hope this suffices!

Once again, the Weather Channel predicts the end of the world.

2010-04-24T10:34:00.000-05:00

Yes, it is tornado time in the south when the cold westerlies slam into the warm, humid, air streaming north from the Gulf of Mexico. Most of the time, it is the heart of the midwest, that bears the brunt of Mother Nature. But the Weather Channel takes it to new heights. Chicken Little has nothing on these "professionals."

I know it sounds funny because most people like Southern California weather. I lived there for thirty years and never got use to the "perfect" weather. There are between my son, my wife and I, many reasons for having left LA, but one of my many reasons was that it never rained enough. I missed the drama of a coming storm, the details of which I will leave for another blog at another time. It far outweighs anything silly hollywood can concoct, but unfortunately, hollywood lives at the Weather Channel.

When I moved back to the bayou, I was impressed, at first, by their timing. It is cool to track a coming storm on the radar... it kinda adds to the drama. But one too many times I took them at heart and really "battened down the hatches" for nothing. Gusting winds 25 to 59 mph, golf ball size hail, heavy rain, two to three inches with localized flooding and lightning. Don't stand next to the windows, turn off all electrical appliances, except the television, including computers and their peripherals, phones, cellphones, battery operated devices! Uh oh, this is the big one!...........................................

Nothing! Nothing close to the Nostradomus's Armageddon they were predicting! Geez, and here we go again tonight! Hide your women and children!

No gaps in our conversation... incredible!

2010-04-23T23:10:00.001-05:00

So, we hadn't spoken in twelve years, and after the initial LinkedIn and Facebook pleasantries, we got on the phone to talk some trash, catching up on who is where, what is what and why come? I believe we spoke about forty-five minutes or so. We talked about the internet, Google, web design, growing old, and not wanting to hang up our rock'n roll shoes. We used to send each other cassette tapes of songs that we pertinent to our world at the time. Other than the fact that he liked Frank Sinatra, I felt Ron gave good tape. I still own and play his. That's right. I like tapes, but suffice it to say I have many albums in as many "formats" as you can imagine. 45's, albums, 8-track, cassettes, cd's, dvd's, iTunes, ipods, earpods, nosepods, throatpods... you name it, I've probably got it five times over.

But, I kinda lost my enthusiasm when Katrina flooded my mom's home with eight feet of water and she lost everything including all her photo albums and momentos. After that, collecting anything just seemed stupid!

A week later, Ron sent me an email saying he was sending me two cd's of current music and mentioned that he read somewhere that it was a sign of great friendship when there are no gaps in a conversation. You know, no idle or awkward moments where two people run out of things to say and struggle to avoid the embarrassment! How could there be any lulls in our conversation? Besides not seeing each other for so many years, we are both blessed with the "gift of gab".

My Country Music Education... Charlie Brown's Jukebox.

2010-04-23T18:08:00.002-05:00

A few years after I made the original Charley Brown's Jukebox, I had a few "fans" ask me to do a
"CBJ" 2. Technically, there are some songs in number 2 that I had acquired since the first tape or just couldn't fit on the original discography, so it didn't harm the "concept" of the original tape. The "juke box" now has 79 country tunes in it, which would amount to three cassette tapes.

Charley Brown's Jukebox was about living in the home of jazz and R&B and being exposed to country music only through this bar that I visited as a twelve and thirteen year old kid ordering lunch for my dad and his two other "employees". The food was always good, but the service was slow, so I got to hear lots of tunes.

As you remember, programming the tape was a pain. It was the research and juxtaposition of songs in a mini concept that was so much fun. The physical act of placing it on tape was tedious and too much like what I do for a living. Many of those songs were of the "crying in your beer type". After all, Charlie Brown's bar was barroom that was dark, moody and kinda smelly with lots of patrons leaning over their beer as they confide with the bartender, who very well could have been Charlie Brown, himself. To a teenager, the smell of red beans and rice or poor boys and stale beer, the sad songs, mostly in minor keys, and the sights of people, who became a fixture there everyday, made those songs all the more intriguing and added a little something to it that many people today just don't think much about. Ron, it's guys like you that understand and appreciate those times so well, that make life so rich... thanks!

Air Force artists document Reserve fighter group in Alaska...

2010-04-16T21:08:00.000-05:00

Well yes, Steven Walker and I had a ball. Neither of us have ever been to Alaska. Our Air Force guide, Major Lisa Reaver was great and showed us all around Elmendorf, AFB and Anchorage. Eventually, Steve and I are gonna post our pics though many of them will be aircraft or airmen working on the base. One evening, after we put in a good days work, Lisa took us to meet some of her friends at a place called Humpy's in downtown Anchorage, where they play this trivia game amongst the restaurant customers. Ten rounds of 8 or more trivia questions between about twenty different teams ( tables ). The game, the food (lots of salmon) the microbreweries and the Air Force camaraderie were all there to make a great "end of the day" party.

The weather wasn't bad for Alaska. It snowed just about every day and it was naturally cold especially on the flight line and tarmac. BRRRRR!

David Bedard, the writer (in the picture is just right of me!) who interviewed us for an article he was writing about our mission, always wanted to be an artist or illustrator, so Steven and I got to answer a lot questions about the biz of commercial art. He was an excellent interviewer and really did his research before interviewing us. It's a shame that he could not expatiate further in the paper on what it is like being an artist, but the story was written to, naturally, highlight their mission. Now, I've kinda called myself out and am really gonna have to give the 477th squadron of the Air Reserve a nice painting.

You can read his article about our mission in the "Last Frontier"at: http://www.jber.army.mil/aw/2010/100416/Story8.htm

On the last day of our stay, Lisa somehow found out that I still make model aircraft ( we spent some time in the interview talking with David about our influences and naturally I mentioned Jack Leynnwood ) so as a going away present the commander of the squadron presented us with a F-22 Raptor kit to take home. Whoa!

Are you drawing me? Yes, but you moved!

2010-04-10T01:06:00.000-05:00

One of the few successful sketches to come out of our trip to Alaska. There was a contingent of reserve servicemen on a weekend training session serving the native indian population in rural Alaska. They're training for when disasters strike like the recent earthquakes, the tsunami and hurricanes like Katrina. While they were waiting for the C-17's to load, our group was waiting for transportation back to 477th headquarters. After wasting thirty minutes, it dawned on me that this would be a great time to pull out the sketch pad. I spotted this female sergeant lugging a sixty pound pack looking for a place to "hurry up and wait". After ten minutes of me staring at her, she politely inquired,"Are you drawing me?" Minutes later, our van came to pick us up and as I quickly gathered my belongings and sketch pad, she came over and asked me, if, when I finished with the sketch, if I could email her a copy. Flattered, I replied, "Absolutely!"

This is the tightened version of the two field sketches!

GraphicGumbo3: Thoughts about a friend and teacher...

2010-04-09T22:55:00.000-05:00

GraphicGumbo3: Thoughts about a friend and teacher...

The T-38 Talon...

2010-04-09T22:54:00.000-05:00

Last, but not least, is this beautifully rendered trainer circling to land somewhere along the SoCal coast in the evening light. I asked the owner of this print if he knew whether or not this was done in color. Can you imagine how nice that would have been. Just recently, I was on an Air Force trip to document an Air Reserve fighter squadron receiving the amazing F-22. The guide and liason, Major Lisa Reaver, knew that I was a model maker and that I still enjoyed that hobby. As a going away present, she and the acting 477th commander presented me with a 1/72 scale model of the F-22 Raptor, a kit moulded outside the U.S. but sporting the classic "Revell" logo in the upper left corner of the boxtop. I can think of no better way of saying thanks and goodbye than that!

Another "Snark" illustration

2010-04-09T22:39:00.000-05:00

The illustrator that gave me this photo of Jack's work thought this was for a aerospace company, but I remember it in one of the many brochures advertising Revell's models. It is amazing to me how big that industry was back in the fifties and sixties. Note the basic and very large computer chip!

Snark missile...

2010-04-09T22:35:00.000-05:00

I am not sure this is a Revell boxtop that Jack painted, but I have never seen this piece and I remember making this model when I was a kid in the early sixties! Maybe it was for the aerospace industry!

More about Jack Leynnwood...

2010-04-09T22:29:00.005-05:00

I was born in New Orleans the eldest son of six siblings. I came out the chute with a baseball glove in my hand though I was not as good as my father, who could have had a career if not for the war. I lived between two airfields, one civil and one military. It was a big influence on me. I learned to paint trying to make my model airplanes to look like they did on the boxtops. I went to high school on an athletic scholarship and met my wife to be there. As most kids of the sixties, I was in love with rock 'n roll and played guitar in a garage band for about 4 years. It was, and still is, my first love. I married my high school sweetheart in 1972, graduated from USL in advertising in "73 and starved in New Orleans as a freelance illustrator.

Therese and I left home in 1974, to attend the Art Center College of Design, where I met one of heroes, Jack Leynnwood who made a name for himself painting model boxtops for Revell, Aurora and other model companies. Jack was a real renaissance man. He was a professional jazz musician, pilot, and WWII vet, fighting what he called "the Desert War"... in Arizona! He was a big influence on me and I took every class he taught. As a teacher, he demonstrated every day how to paint the things you needed to learn to paint in order to make a living in the crazy world of illustration. He was not against theory of art or the history of art and commercial art, and was willing to expound on those subjects, but in the cafeteria, at lunch or during breaks... not in class. Jack got me hooked up with an aerospace company for my first job out of Art Center. I worked there for three years while working on my freelance career. I left to concentrate on my freelance career as a storyboard illustrator, art director and designer. The four photos of Jack's art were given to me while I was employed at General Dynamics by a colleague who worked with Jack at Northrup!

In 2001, we decided to cash out of LA and move back to Louisiana. We now live in a small town north of New Orleans on a 5 acre ranch still serving the ad community not only in California, but nationwide. Please check my website and LinkedIn for further details on my client list. I worked on a variety of clients from entertainment and automotive, to consumer products and sports. You name it and I have probably done it! You can see my work at: graphicgumbo.com and the various links therein.

Thoughts about a friend and teacher...

2010-04-09T21:51:00.000-05:00

The main reason I stayed at Art Center...

Some former students from ACCD and I got into a discussion about teachers on Facebook when I mentioned how Jack helped get me a job at General Dynamics in Pomona one year out of school. There is so much to tell, I don't think there is enough room here to tell it. I own a Jack Leynnwood and though I never had the guts to ask him to sign it, you'd know immediately that it was his! Once, he conducted another class in between his daytime and evening class to correct one of my original paintings for an assignment. He asked me if I was interested in bringing back to class the model F6F I had built especially for the assignment and asked the ten or so students if they would like to return after his dinner break to see him "fix" my illustration. He said that if Ben doesn't mind me painting over the original as an added lesson, we can extend the class.

As you might have guessed, everyone showed up one hour later to see Jack completely change my piece. When it was finished, ( it took all of about two hours, maybe less ) we all stood there agape! Jack profusely apologized for making so many adjustments. I can honestly say that for once in my life, I was totally speechless! I had the painting framed as soon as I could afford to do so and the 12x12 painting hangs proudly in my living room wall.

That is just one of many stories I can share with you about Jack. He was never afraid to expose his artistic flaws to anyone because he knew pulling out the paints and demonstrating was the best way to teach visual learners like us. More than likely, there weren't too many flaws to begin with. Jack was the best.

"Ay, Dios Mio! Donde esta???"

2010-03-23T17:13:00.000-05:00

Ruby-throated hummingbirds travel hundreds of miles to vacation in Mexico and Central America for the winter. Around this time of the year, late March or so, a partied out hummer scout will arrive at my garden where it expects to see nectar hanging from the same place that they left in early autumn. It never happens! The feeder is never ready for the scout who somehow reconnoiters with the incoming pack of hummers and sends them elsewhere to feed leaving me high and dry until sometimes early summer. Will I get it right this year? Dios mio!

Only in New Orleans...

2010-03-19T15:08:00.000-05:00

I read the other day in the local newspaper that a rare blue crawfish was found in the wild and brought to the Audubon Insectorium for display. The chances of finding one in the wild are 1 in every 10,000 crawfish. When visitors come to see the rare mudbug the question they ask the most is,"Does it taste any different than the red ones?"

A whole new twist to the term, "Cabbage Ball"

2010-03-17T11:59:00.001-05:00

How many cabbages are we gonna get from the St. Patricks Day Parade? I wonder if any other city throws vegetables off of a moving float to celebrate a saint's holiday? And how many people are gonna actually wear green at Parasol's? And, of course, how many non Irish will call in sick on Thursday? The mind reels!
The first question is very valid. Almost a year after Hurricane Katrina, my mom garnered an entire plastic clothes basket full of cabbage. At the time, she was 81 years old. My brother also received his share of the leafy green projectile. Never tired of eating my mom's cabbage cuisine, but... Anyway, have a Happy and safe St. Paddie's Day, y'all!

Always later than I think...

2010-03-16T10:42:00.001-05:00

Well, it is now a couple of days into daylight saving time and I still haven't made the adjustment. It's not so much trying to get back that lost hour of sleep, it's just that I always feel it is later than I think. Now, it is... one hour!

A different kind of guitar hero #2

2010-03-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

Well, I started to tell a wonderful tale revolving around my relationship between comp art, art directors, expectations, deadlines and getting to take actual guitars home to draw from. Unfortunately, after more than a hour, the browser crashed and well, it is a sad, frustrating story that I don't wanna write about any more than you wanna read about it. But it does say how much fun an artist can have, no matter the situation, when they are inspired. Oh those happy, happy accidents! This guitar was as much fun to play as it was to design and render.

My next door neighbor!

2010-03-06T21:49:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you find the most interesting things lost in a flash drive. My next door neighbor has a horse that she rehabilitated and his name is "Lightning." Though I've have never seen him run, he sure is fast with the ladies. Occasionally, he comes by, unannounced, to visit the two thoroughbred mares next door to our property. Our cocker spaniel is always intrigued by the "big dawgs!" What a beautiful animal Lighning is ... you should have seen him a year ago. Congrats Debra ... Just shows you a little love goes along way!

Just what are we teaching the children?!?

2010-03-05T09:43:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, my wife, Therese asked me to help her first grade class put together a booklet that celebrates "Artists Week." The idea was to allow the students to write about their hopes and dreams, which is an awesome task for a first grader, but then, the assignment was to illustrate what they wrote. Well, confusion reigned, and boy, did we get wet!!! As you can imagine, no one knew what draw or how to draw it. The little boys were the worse, because I mentioned drawing ball games for things they like to do. Naturally, football and the Saints became the premier image to draw. Most of the girls in the class drew and colored birds, butterflies, flowers, houses, and self portraits with little help. But a couple of the guys just couldn't or wouldn't draw anything. I had to show some of them how to draw a football spinning, a football player and the Saint's logo, which is a fleur-de-lis. Well, we started to see some strange looking fleur-de-lis, so I attempted to help out one of the guys and as I lightly sketched the logo, I told the student that the word "fleur" was french for flower and that the image is of three lilies tied together. Then he asked me, "Mr. Bensen, what's a lis?" I had to come up with a real, believable answer so I said with much conviction, "It means life. Fleur-de-lis means flower of life!" "Yeh, that's it," I told myself.

Indeed, just what are we teaching the children!

The Alphabet Tree

2010-02-28T22:01:00.000-06:00

My wife, Therese, brought home these foam alphabets from her first grade class to wash and disinfect and then hung up to dry. When I walked outside late this evening, I found our maple tree has sprouted an almost new spring look.

An addendum...

2010-02-26T18:45:00.000-06:00

As I left the cemetery, I noticed many other Saints fans wanted to share the big victory with their deceased loved ones. It seems like every other plot had a black and gold weath, or fake flowers, or deflated balloons and half deflated footballs sharing in the victory the way only New Orleanians do. Everyone celebrate... including those who never lived to see the day!

For all those who didn't live to see the day!

2010-02-26T17:56:00.000-06:00

Last Friday, my younger brother, his family and Therese and I went to visit our father's grave and put flowers there on his 10th anniversary. Once we found his site, we noticed a homemade fleur-de-lis spray painted gold and trimmed in black with the words,"Who Dat" and the score printed on the front with the words, "Enjoy it" and a love note. Underneath the sign was some Brach's mints, and Mardi Gras beads. We knew immediately that our other brother, Tony, made a visit early that morning before he went to work and in classic Tony fashion, the craftsmanship and the sentiment was right on.

Dad wasn't a big Saints fan. Baseball was what he grew up with and loved. But Dad was a big supporter of anything New Orleans, so I am sure he did enjoy the win. Our father did love Mardi Gras unless it came early and he had to celebrate it freezing in the cold. I don't think he ever recovered from those four years in the Pacific war. Just couldn't handle the cold.

The mints represent his sometimes dry sense of humor. When I was a kid ballplayer, I always played first base and every year would get my glove hand bent back, smashed or stepped on. He'd always tell me to soak it in Epson salt. He'd always prescribe soaking it no matter what the problem was. As I got older and tired of this prescription, I asked him to suggest something different in his sarcasm. He suggested I, "Take a Mint". I forgot my anger and cracked up laughing. From that point on, it was, "Take a Mint" for everything. You got a headache? "Take a Mint." You got cramps? "Take a Mint." Can't find your keys? "Take a Mint." Whining about the bills you have to pay, "Take a Mint." To this day, it is our family running joke now starting in a third generation. Got something that ails you? Well...

"Mud Buff"

2010-02-26T17:31:00.001-06:00

I liked the roundness of the angle, but it falls short of what I had in my dome at the time. Still, it is a pretty good likeness... don't you think?

2010-02-26T17:27:00.000-06:00

Inanimate objects may be boring to most... people are much more interesting, but they move. B-52 don't. At least, not as much. I liked the triangular hangar tops behind the plane with its tail high above it all.

Waiting for a flight...

2010-02-26T17:23:00.000-06:00

While waiting for a bus, I started this sketch of a crew waiting for their plane. I started the drawing on notebook paper so I figured I'd continue it on the final.

Crew sketch #3

2010-02-26T17:12:00.001-06:00

Here's a cleaned up sketch done, off and on, in our pre-flight meetings. "Skype" was the co-pilot and "Verde" was the ops officer, I think, because he informed everyone in the post flight meeting that he was kind of a plant to try and trick the rest of the crew. I can't say I captured their likeness all that well, but I really like what I did with Major Mike Gregston. I'm pretty happy with that one! Somehow, I never even attempted "Shadow" except in a real quick sketch that only represents him because he has no hair on his head! Sorry 'bout that!

Crew sketch #2

2010-02-26T17:01:00.001-06:00

This was our "mother" helping us get in and out of seat belts, parachute straps, oxygen mask setups and prevented one "Schmoe" from releasing the "T" ring on his parachute, which for all practical purposes would have opened his chute in the plane. She also picked out some tunes for all too hear in our intercom, after our mission was completed and headed back to base. I don't think I will ever hear Don McClen's, "American Pie" the same way ever again. She was great. Her real name is Schera Bowden, but we knew her as "Charlie". She normally is the electronic warfare officer on board... when not catering to our "comforts!"By the way, Schera, pink is a nice color when juxtaposed to camo!

Crew sketch #1

2010-02-26T16:52:00.000-06:00

Here's a cleaned up sketch of our refueling flight B-52 commandant, Major Zack "Samson" Miller. He was awesome on our 5 hour flight, answered all our inane questions at the pre and post flight briefings. If memory serves me correctly, he's only 28 or 30 years old, as is most of the crew. The grey tone is a marker mess up... my bad!

Checkout photos of our Barksdale, AFB tour.

2010-02-26T16:37:00.000-06:00

This is a B-52 Stratafortress. It is affectionately known as "BUFF" which stands for Big, Ugly, Fat, F%@3r?+... or you can clean it up call it the Big, Ugly, Fat, Fella. The Air Force considers it a flying icon representing all that is good and simultaneously all that is bad in our world. Know doubt about it, it is an icon of deterrence. We spent 6 days at Barksdale and shot collectively more than 2000 photos. I picked through a bunch of them, and came up with about fifty or so that tells the story of our stay and you can see them at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/grgumbo2/

"Gawd Forbid!'

2010-02-26T09:48:00.000-06:00

Hypoxia, hyperthermia, hyperventilation, spatial disorientation, trapped gas bubbles, valsalva techniques, parachute maneuvers, how to fall, tuck and roll, power lines, trees, water landing egress maneuvers, ejection seat concerns, O2 safety, g-forces, what to pull, what not to pull, and tons of what ifs... Finally, in the middle of our second day of orientation, Norm said, in his best Jewish mother imitation,"From now on, could you please preface any more possible catastrophes with a "God Forbid!"

Where's da Monkee!

2010-02-26T08:48:00.000-06:00

As part of our B-52 passenger training, we were given a six hour briefing on all the horrible things that could happen while on this mission. One of the tests to illustrate situational awareness was a video where we were given a task to concentrate on and report on what we saw. Norm, Mickey and I were expected to count how many times two teams of ball players passed the ball over to each other. I counted 15 passes for the black team, Mickey counted 17 passes for the white team and Norm said about 12 or 13. But Norm said what about the monkey? "Monkey?" I said, "What monkey?" Mickey inquired, totally confused, "I never saw a monkey... what are you talkin' about?"

On playback, plan as can be, a man in a gorilla suit walked across the screen, stopped, waved to camera and exited. It took about 10 seconds of a one minute video but Mick and I never saw him. Only Norm with that Bronx street cred, saw it. So, all through the 6 day tour, whenever I screwed up, he brought up "da Monkee".

No Time to Gloat...

2010-02-26T08:30:00.000-06:00

Wearing my Saints cap was about all the time I had to gloat about our Super Bowl victory. We artists took the back seats in the briefing room the second morning of our tour. Up front were seated about thirty B-52 crew members. Pictured here are: Norm Siegel (next to me), Major Tim Miller( our esteemed guide ), an unidentified crew member, Teresa Palmer ( alert with the camera ) and airbrush genius, Mickey Harris ( a bit sleepy eyed! )

Seal the Deal...

2010-02-26T00:12:00.001-06:00

Classic, nervous Saint fan that I am, I jumped up for joy, screamed and pounded the mahogany bar table in affirmation. One would think that would "seal the deal" but not so, if you are an long time fan and especially with Mr. Manning's reputation for comebacks. No, as long as I can remember, whenever the Saints scored, in any game of the franchise's forty-three year old history, I would mumble, "It ain't enough!"