hung up on you

Praise the Lord. My most recent contribution to Seed gave me an excuse to sketch out two of my favorite things to draw: monkeys and Jesus.

In truth, I haven't included our Savior in too many previous works, though he did show up in one particularly fraught Blotter doodle from a couple of years back. (See the original, unfinished draft of that here.) Jesus, what a headache!

I guess I should consider myself lucky that I can even attempt such a sacrilege, given the worldwide controversy over the recent Mohammed cartoons. Christians have also been known to get pissy about irreverent images of the Carpenter King, but it usually doesn't end in bloodshed. (Chimps, however, don't appreciate the centuries of mockery they've endured ever since drawing was invented, and will one day rise up to tell us about it.)

In other news, and speaking of Blotter, here's an angry horse. Enjoy.

rainbow coalition

A couple of years ago, my dear friend Sean remarked about my artwork, "Why do you always draw crazy people as black?"
I was aghast.
Not too long after, another friend made the opposite comment: "How come you never include any racial diversity in your drawings?"
It just proved to me that no matter how hard I might try to avoid any race baiting, someone's going to be upset.
I therefore find myself doing a lot of drawings like this one, where the people are blue and purple. It lets the viewer then project whatever racial notions they want onto the image.

The Blot: A 19-year-old man was watching TV ...

bored of the ring

Much to the chagrin of every roommate and BF I've ever had, I'm a huge Johnny Cash fan. The number of songs from the Man in Black exceeds almost any other performer in my music collection (oddly enough, Annie Lennox clocks in first; Aretha lands at third). I never got around to seeing Walk the Line, partly out of fear that it would tarnish the legend, and also because that Joaquin guy really creeps me out.

Tonight, however, I did see Ring of Fire, the new "jukebox musical" of J.C.'s life.
Jesus H. Christ: What a disaster! I realize I'm probably extra sensitive, playing the fan card and all, but I can't imagine even a casual aquaintance of Cash's work enjoying this show. For those who don't know "Hey Porter" from "Hey Jude," well, that might be for the best. It's hard enough to sit through the show's cornier moments; doubly difficult if you know and love the material it's mauling.
It's funny: Halfway through the first act, I was reminded of a musical revue I caught in Atlanta a few years back called Ain't Misbehavin', which celebrated the songs of Fats Waller. Turns out Ring creator Richard Maltby conceived of that show, too, and he's largely credited/blamed for the jukebox trend that now clogs Broadway.

And I'm not squarely choosing sides on that particular battle. I realize that there will always be shows like Mamma Mia!, theatrical cotton candy that exist solely to put smiles on the faces of Times Square tourists. Which is fine. It's hard to leave a production like that and not be humming along. No one goes to Mamma Mia! looking for a new lease on life, or wanting to gaze deeply into the twisted paradox of the human condition. It's fucking Abba. Let your hair down and go with it.

Alas, my man Johnny Cash just doesn't fit into such a happy little Prozac capsule, even if Ring avoids the annoyance of plot contrivances and wisely resists becoming a straightforward biopic. What emerges is an oddly chosen playlist of songs Johnny recorded at one point or another, less enjoyable than a greatest hits disc and too often tedious to see reenacted on stage. That said, the show does feature some genuine talent: I couldn't take my eyes off Jarrod Emick, the "younger" male lead, and all three women wowed me at one point or another.

I'm just terrified to see what comes next. We've been through shows based upon the Beach Boys, Elvis, Frankie Valli, even Billy Joel. Whither the Helen Reddy retrospective? How about Meatloaf? Bring on some Tony Orlando and Dawn!
This could go on for years. When the time comes to write the book for the Annie Lennox jukebox musical, somebody better give me a crack at it. Sweet Dreams are Made of This, Baby. Who am I to disagree?

skipping science

I'm loving the illustration assignments from Seed magazine: They tend to be on topics absolutely beyond the realm of my mundane daily life.

Last week I received a story about the trend of researchers who bypass the peer-review process and take their findings immediately to the press. It's fascinating stuff, and no, I'm actually not being sarcastic (for once). I loved science all the way through high school, even though our affair ended in tears come college biology. I'm still scarred.

Anyway, the doodle I eventually arrived at only incororated about 70 percent of my original drawing. It's been a learning process for me lately on what to leave out.

Here's the finished product:
Skipping Peer Review

21 things about a 67-degree day

1. new Diesel sunglasses
2. blue Banana summer sweater, unzipped
3. an actual banana: extra long, extra fresh
4. iPod on shuffle
5. an old man scratching off lottery tickets on 14th Street, singing hymns
6. Dusty Springfield, “Brand New Me”
7. avocado turkey wrap, juicy
8. Italian greyhound not wearing a sweater
9. grande coffee frappuccino
10. blue and yellow Pumas
11. the Apple Store
12. unintentially hilarious signage in SoHo
13. paperback books on a table on Prince
14. KFC? tempted, but no
15. seen on 7th Avenue: pink knee shorts
16. new video from Goldfrapp, “Ooh La La”
17. who is the loser who keeps playing Roxette in my office?
18. Buck Angel
19. Neko Case tickets!
20. sleeveless? casual Friday casualty!
21. Peter Rauhofer’s new I Love New York

(Me too, Pete. Me too.)

plant life

After almost five years of illustrating crime reports on a weekly basis, I sometimes find it challenging to come up with anything new to draw. It's a great exercise, I suppose, in creativity: How to ferret an original idea out of a familiar scenario. This week was no exception. I've included renderings of the lady Mary Jane in previous creations, but never quite like this before.

The Blotter: A man was at a gas station ...

head over feet

Miami and me, we got a love-hate-love thing going on. This weekend was my third trip to Winter Party, the super-sized homo fest that storms South Beach every March, and I'll have to say this was my best trip yet — even if the weekend ended with my head in a trash can. (Long story. Next topic?)

I've been to South Beach four times in the past decade, and I've definitely watched the area go through a downturn. In 1996, I was floored by how queer it was — we're talking guys in speedos on rollerblades, rainbow flags on the volley ball nets. It was like I'd walked onto the set of The Birdcage, but thankfully lacking Robin Williams.

In 2003, my next trip to Ocean Drive, the 'hood had lost some of its luster. This time I actually stayed at the Surfcomber, WP's host hotel, and I remember being wowed by the gorgeous art deco architecture, even if some of the streetlife seemed less fashionista and more Florida — which is not a compliment.

The BF and I ventured down together in '04, which was an off year all around. South Beach felt downright threatening in places, with thugs on several corners and a certain something missing from the events.
It rained at the end of the Sunday beach party, which was a bummer, and the closing at Crobar left us both feeling cold. Of course, we were staying in the scuzzy Island House that year, a bathhouse with none of the sex, or better yet a dorm with none of the cute college guys. Vote me off that Island, because I'd never stay there again.

This year's Winter Party made more sense — partly because we're now New Yorkers. Leaving blowing snow and landing in 70 degrees and sun has a way of altering your mind set.
Plus, the trip turned into a sort of reunion for us, a rare chance to catch up with friends from Atlanta, D.C., S.F., Austin, Montreal and god knows where else. I can see now why some people do WP year after year. It's really not about the parties at all: It's a homo homecoming.

For me, the highlight of the weekend was Saturday night, when I actually stayed in the hotel room, ordered pizza and just hung out with my core group of friends. The beach party on Sunday certainly didn't suck, and Saturday's poolside soiree remains a favorite. But nothing can touch nights like that, when you've got nowhere to be and can giggle for hours at the most ludicrous moments that you know no one else in the world would get.

As for South Beach, I'm happy to report that the old girl seems to be coming back around. It looked 10 or 20 percent less rundown than two years ago, even if some of the sparkle has faded. Said one local, the difference now is that South Beach isn't as much of a gay destination: It's just a gay-friendly vacation spot. I see what he means, and I wonder if several of the old stand-by destinations aren't starting to experience the same trend. P-Town, anyone?

Today I'm pretty down, bummed that the weekend went by so quickly and more than a little ashamed that I played the part of Patty Pukes-a-lot at the closing party (see earlier comment about my good friend, the trash can). At the same time, I feel fortunate to have such good friends, the kind of guys who'll hold your hair back when you're spitting up your spleen, and stick around to make of you for it later. Bring it on, boys; I know I deserve it. Next year, maybe I'll get Miami right.

gold flap

It's Oscar weekend, and I'm sadly not going to be able to catch the show live for the first time in nearly a decade. The BF and I arrived in Miami late Thursday and we return to NYC Monday afternoon.
Thanks to the Nikman, I was still able to get into the Oscar spirit (sort of); he commissioned an Oscar-themed illustration for Seed. Here's the link:

The Seed Oscars

And speaking of illustrations, here's the latest crime scene.
Trivia: The bricks I used for the lady's apartment building are actually a photo of a subway station I snapped in Montreal. Crazy, eh?

Blotter: A woman was walking to the front door of her apartment building ...