The Cellar Door Mystery/Investigation

Here’s a bad scan of the illustration recently stolen from the Cellar Door in Port Townsend.  Bad because, even on the third attempt to properly crop and square the drawing on my printer/scanner, I couldn’t get it quite right.

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AND YET, another copy of the original, a gift to Cellar Door owners, Stephen and Oceanna (last names on next post down), was deemed worthy of theft.

ALTHOUGH I told Steve I could get them another copy, he told me that Oceanna is very  determined to get that one, with date, authentication signature, and some sort of personalized ‘good luck’ message on the back, back.

SO, when Trish told me I’m sort of a sensation on Facebook, I was surprised that people are liking and commenting and doing whatever it is when one person spreads it to other groups- not quite viral, and not actually tracking all the subsequent hits back to realsurfers.net, but it is impressive that Oceanna is so concerned.

I decided to look through some of my scans, just to see if I had any other pieces that might fit in the underground location, theft-worthy or not.

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Excuse me; but is this the window to the CELLAR DOOR? So tantalizing and intriguing!

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Door frame, again, not crooked in the original.

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Meanwhile, here’s an update I did on the “Keep on Trucking” drawing, submitted to and rejected by the “New Yorker,” used with permission (and so stoked about that) of R. Crumb; who wrote that the “New Yorker” wouldn’t use it.  You might notice there’s some client’s phone number or something at the top.  Cropping.

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Since every drawing comes with a story; here’s the story on this one: Also not scanned until today; and then I had to up the resolution or whatever to 300 and use the ‘grayscale’ feature.  It was drawn as a submission to the “New Yorker” (or is it “The New Yorker”?). I spilled something on it (not unusual, my originals often have coffee cup rings, little dots of coffee shot from my mustache in bouts of mouth breathing, and such things- look closely).  My late sister, Melissa Lynch, way more talented an artist than I even dream of being, loved it.  I didn’t like the roughness/incompleteness of the door, and redrew it.  “No,” she said, “I want the other one’ the good one.”  The original caption was: “It was the suit, wasn’t it?”  It could just as well be, “This is the Cellar Door, I presume.”

Here’s three more of mine, just to be a little naughty.  They are from silkscreens done in the 1980s, found in my attic.  They do include windows if not doors.  The Cellar Door is more a nightclub than a restaurant, and has already featured live bands, karaoke nights, private functions, and Vaudeville (not sure what all that includes, but it sounds just a little naughty).

I should include a couple of paintings by Stephen R. Davis himself.  If the Cellar Door is going to be known as a place to see and/or steal artsy stuff, Steve’s stuff should be included.  They have their own stories.  If Oceanna gets the Cellar Door drawing back; yeah, another story; and a mystery, possibly, solved.

Black and White and Psychedelic, Plus Polar Bear Wetsuits Flyer

Though I’m quite focused on finishing my novel, “SWAMIS,” surviving Winter and its lack of real revenue, and keeping my heart healthy enough to survive at least one more SEAHAWKS game; I have taken a little time to work on artsy stuff.

AND, partially due to a recent event in which I selfishly burned (as in took off on a wave next to but down the line from) a well known local surfer… Here’s the rule on that: Burn someone who is equally aggressive (and transgressive, etiquette-wise), or burn someone who is a relatively close friend; and you might be forgiven (plus, you have given that surfer the right to burn you on one [only] equally or better wave); but take off on someone who seems to follow all the rules (that is, is patient, passes up incredibly seductive set waves without whining, as in saying ‘wave of the day’ in the most sarcastic way, or splashing water); and, even if this surfer doesn’t instantly (and rightly) call you out for the callous, childish, greedy wave hog that you are; anyone else who witnesses your selfish move (and there’s always a witness) will; and if you cemented your own reputation for ruthless surf crimes, years ago, for burning, among others, this very same individual (even though you apologized and he said, “It’s all good.”  It’s never all good.  No one ever means this); and, even though you did, indeed, apologize for your most recent lineup infraction (this time he said, “You don’t really mean it,” and you- I mean me, of course- kind of lost the first person/second person narrative for a second- said, “No, I do,” and you meant that- mostly due to now realizing you’ve sentenced yourself to another seven years or so of bad karma and mandatory niceness/deference toward that individual any time you/I and he are in the same lineup); and partially due to my telling another local surfer (and witness) about how Trish, not surprised at my criminal behavior, would call this incident ‘just another greedy fat boy trick;’ and then I had to explain the history of that phrase; and partially due to Trish getting all excited (not about the incident) and suggesting I might write a series, possibly for future publication, entitled, “Erwin and His Greedy Fat Boy Tricks;” because of all this; I’m thinking about it.

It being my recalcitrant behavior, and, just to throw in another word I looked up just to make sure I spelled it correctly, yes, I must be, might just be, despite repeated claims to be changing my ways, a recidivist wave hog.

Again, trying to change.

The first and defining ‘greedy fat boy’ story would be this: Second eldest of seven children, with both parents working, I, partially because I seemed to be the one who got up earliest, made sack lunches for the nine of us from the age of twelve or so, about the time, coincidentally, that I started board surfing. Sandwiches.  Lots of peanut butter and jelly or lunchmeat, about a loaf a day.  My parents would bring home a bag of cookies each night, and it was my job to dispense them.  Evenly.  “Okay, eight cookies each.”  Crunch, crunch.  “Seven each.”  More crunching. I once did get down to three and a half each, but it might have been a smaller bag.

Greedy fat boy.

Other stories would have to include my insistence that I developed my bad (O could say unpopular but effective) surf techniques and (oh, I want to say skills- that would be wrong) skills, my ‘ghetto mentality,’ surfing in crowded city lineups.

“But you’re not in the city now,” you might counter. Hmmm.

“And then,” Trish said, “You can go with the greedy fat man.”  “Hey.” “It’d be all right; you’re only being self-deprecating.”  “Oh; okay then.”

Still love cookies.  Too many fucking cookies.

Okay, so here’s my latest illustration.  Yes, it’s all out black and white psychedelia.  Yes, I have told those who I’ve shown it to that, yes, I want people to wonder what kind of drugs the person who drew this is on.

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Here’s my fake flyer for fake wetsuit company, Polar Bear Wetsuits.  “Maximum stretch, minimum shrink.”

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MEANWHILE… Good etiquette has its rewards (or so they tell me).

Stuck in the Suck… One Rib Too Far

It’s not, really, that the waves were all that dangerous or scary; it’s just that they were breaking too close to the beach.

Beach break.  Shore break.

I can’t say I’m not spoiled by reef and point breaks, waves that seem a bit more, um, polite, reasonable, more consistent.  On the Olympic Peninsula, the prevailing condition being flat or flat with winds blowing so frequently (and often briskly, gales from south to east to north to west, sometimes in one day) against any swell direction that might bring some sign of swell to the Strait, and even with buoy readings that suggest, almost guarantee rideable waves, the prevailing condition can win.

SKUNKED.

What is worse, figuring I’d figured it correctly, that I just might score, seeing even the super weak wavelets coming out of the dark and (despite the forecast) wind-torn deeper water, die among (as opposed to lined-up bombs sliding over) the rocks of a reef; a dark squall bringing a downpour; I discovered I might have been almost the only one dumb enough to believe the odds and the gods favored surf.

WAITING. Maybe it’s the tide; maybe it’s just…. a 47 (or so) minute nap, the downpour now the heaviest sort of drizzle, the windows now as fogged inside as they are wet outside; wet; that kind of wetness where they’re just covered in vertical rows of tiny drops, hanging there; one drop in each row gaining enough weight to fall down onto the next; but, and I would have awakened, no one else has even pulled in to see if there are waves.

So then one, meaning me, feels dumb for even trying.

BRIEF INTERMISSION- Here’s the negative, black light ready, version of the Soul Rebel illustration:

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OKAY.  There might be some options.  This is how I ended up hiking to a spot that offered three foot plus waves, still not clean, not friendly, ribs in the swell caused by sidewinds; breaking along (more like on) a steep beach where, eight feet from shore, the water’s eight feet deep.  Overhead.

SO, yeah; look for a corner, take off, drive hard, pull out before it all crashes.  There’s no channel to ease into.  There are sections, sort of separated by those sideways ribs.  A bigger wave should break farther off the shelf that is the shore.  Two successful-if-short rides are followed by one on which I went a rib too far.  Oops.

Stuck in the Suck, I was down in the trench, my board skittering up the beach with each wave, each wave rag-dolling me as I attempted to crawl up and onto the shelf.

OKAY, now I’m determined.  Drop, turn, burn, pullout. Repeat.  Not super thrilling.  BUT THEN, again, going for another section, an extra little chunk of water… Suck, stuck, rag-doll, crawl, try again.  After somewhere around fifteen waves, having ridden one three ribs and a ways down the beach, I got out without suffering a third knockdown. Enough.

FUN.  So, here’s my takeaway, based, largely on something I learned in Psychology 101, Palomar Junior College, 1969:  All passion (read froth or stoke or lust or hunger) seeks to eliminate itself; to diminish that desire that so often overrides logic and morals and common sense.  This lust/froth/stoke/hunger, extended by the ‘one more wave’ syndrome, can be more quickly diminished in sketchy, ‘one section too far’ conditions.

THEN, as passion does, passion returns.  NEXT TIME…

 

 

 

T Shirt Ready… Or Not?

That is the question I ask every time I finish an illustration.  And, here’s my technique, mostly based on what I’ve learned, and what I’ve yet to learn about attempting to draw something as a negative image so it will transfer onto a dark shirt: Now, even if I’m drawing the black lines meant to be black, I get a negative print of that, go in and refine the image.  It’s kind of like erasing.  Then, back to black being black.

Oh, and I’m also not using really fine pens, just in case I get lucky and the result is worth spending the money to get some shirts printed.  I should say ‘investing’ the money; but, as much as I love the whole thing of going to D & L Logos (slight pimping here), the investment is all in one chunk, the return is spread out.

And, again, it’s a learning process; and I have learned a few things.  A few.

Mostly I’m trying to improve at the artsy part while, definitely, getting a bit pickier, a bit more selective as to what’s good, what’s not quite good enough.  As a painter for over fifty years, I have learned that the client has every right to be picky, and, if you’re going to be the one asking to be paid, you have to make sure you’re not apologizing for something that isn’t quite right.

And, again, again, I love the whole process from seeing an image I can get excited about, trying to represent what I was excited about, and then the print shop, screen shop part, and then, the sales part.  Parts of the sales part.

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So, let’s discuss. The problem with fully wetsuited surfers is everything is so dark.  Trish thinks the surfer looks scary.  “Yeah, well…” I did add some white lines in the negative-to-positive process, but, maybe, he may be a tad scary.  Probably not a t-shirt; and, if it was, it would be dark on light.  Or, wait, maybe… not black on not white.  Hmmmm.

And again again again, I never really think anything is done.  A little touchup on the face and…

Okay, there’s the story on this one, taken from (with every attempt to do justice to) a photo of Keith Darrock at a far-too-easily recognized spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  Keith told me once, while we were bobbing around waiting for any sign of a rideable wave, that often, when he’s surfing, the Bob Marley song, “Soul Rebel” is playing in his head.  Now, Keith is known for charging, with style, close to the pocket, and he may have been more inspired on the occasion of the original photo, he the only one out, ‘gorging’ (his word), his wife and daughter looking on.

When I compare the representation to the original, Keith’s board was, perhaps, flatter, his arch, um, archier.

Scan_20191202 (2)What happened here is, when I got back home with the prints, Trish said she ‘really’ liked the negative version.  “Yeah, I do, too.”  Unfortunately, I only got it in full size (11″ by 17″), and can’t show you.  Later.  I may or may not add color to the drawing, but, at the counter, ready to pay, I asked if they could, ‘real quick’, turn the image the other way, put it on one side of the page, thus making a version of a holiday card Keith might use to… “No, not today. That would require scanning, and centering and…”

“Yeah, okay; another time.”  I might be less thrilled with print places than I once was.

Incidentally, there are a couple of dots on this image that are not on the actual drawing.  They’re on the glass on my quite inadequate scanner.  Jeez, if I worked at a print shop, I’d…

Learning.  Process.

MEANWHILE, I do have some prints and some t-shirts available at Tyler Meeks’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.  I was just in there the other day, hanging out.  It should be a required stop on the way home from one’s latest Strait surf adventure.  “Keith and (Cougar) Keith stopped in here the other evening.  They were… (gestures to indicate exhaustion)”  Hmmm. “Wonder where they surfed.”  “They didn’t say.”

“Perfect.”

Soul Rebel Underground Art

I’m working on this drawing based on a photo of Keith Darrock at a way-too-identifiable spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.  I am thinking of making it a label for some fictitious rub on, locally sourced, marijuana-based, artisan snake oil.  Maybe.

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The other drawing is one that I did to make up for doing the lettering for my friend Stephen Davis’s new restaurant, named “Cellar Door,” not “Underground,” though it, mostly, is.

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Meanwhile, because one of my clients, heading for Hawaii, texted me something that included, “hang loose,” I got to thinking.  Yeah, yeah.  In the cold waters of the northwest, we don’t tend to hang loose, we hand tight.  More thinking.  If there is a wetsuit company that needs a new tagline, how about some variation on “Polar Bare Wetsuits- maximum stretch, minimum shrink.”

Meanwhile, Clint Thompson, pretty much a surf fixture on the Olympic Peninsula for a while, has sold his house in PA, most of his 50 or so board collection, and is headed back to Florida.  His going away party was last night, possibly still going.

 

Trisha’s Birthday and Light; bending slightly

FIRST tomorrow is my wife’s birthday, the 51st since I attended the party for her 16th (I had been 17 for 2 1/2 months).  It didn’t go all that well, the party and my attempts to woo her.  No, nobody under 50 actually said things like ‘woo’ in 1968, but, before I gave up in the jockeying for Trisha’s attention against one very pushy asshole (not really subjective; there’s proof), before I went home; I did ask her if she wanted to go to the beach the next morning.

I was pretty sure she’d said yes as I, alone in kitchen in the house where I was raised,   contemplated love and life and feint hearts and such while eating a peanut butter and butter sandwich; slicing a hunk of cheese off a giant round (like 10 pounds or more) in the refrigerator (from Story’s Dairy, a knife kept on the top- one would re-wrap after slicing);  washing down my teenage angst with milk from a ‘cow-tainer’ (probably two gallons, plastic in a box, plastic spigot moved to new box when emptied).

On Sundays I would, frequently drive my father to his part-time job (he had several of these, and a full time job- 7 children will do that to a person) as a mechanic in Oceanside, drop him off and go surfing.  Frequently because whichever car my father had allowed me to drive, usually purchased on a mechanic’s lien, would frequently break down.

“Do you like her?” my father asked before we showed up at Trisha’s parent’s rented house (her father was in Vietnam) at 7:30 or so.  Her mom came to the door. Trish wasn’t ready, but, from somewhere behind her mother, Trish said, “Just a minute.”

“I do,” I said.  “Well, then…”

Yeah; pretty romantic.  Trish got to watch me surf at one spot, then got to hang out on the bluff at Grandview while I surfed some more.  She now says a couple of surfers tried to hit on her, asked what she was doing there.  She made some possibly vague reference to being there with (pointing) that guy.

We do count November 10 as the day we started ‘going together’ (probably an antiquated term itself), the deal cemented when, back at her parents’ place, lingering in the driveway, I asked if we should, maybe, kiss or something.

Logistics.  These things had to be worked out.  Bobbing and weaving, who goes in, which way do I turn my head (hey, I wasn’t a total novice to this)?  It finally came down to “One, two, three…”  Kiss.

A while later, Trisha’s mom broke it up.

This year, Trish will be hanging out at a ghost conference in Kingston, Washington, with our daughter Dru, ex-daughter-in-law, Karrie, grandson Nate; the folks who chase (they would say investigate) hauntings and such, and, of course, the ghosts.

If I think about the most frequent thing Trish and I say to each other; on my end, live and on the cell phone (while working, going to or from surfing, moving from the fruit to the meat section while shopping), it would probably be (yeah, even in the bread aisle, even with others listening) “Love you, bye.”  For Trish it would have to be, in an endless variety of situations, “Just a minute.”

“One, two, three… love you.”

Trish, 1969

Trish, circa 1968. Note, one, she’s wearing a wetsuit; two, those tires on my Morris Minor look pretty darn bald; three, check out the fin on that, probably homemade board.

Sorry; I got waylaid here a bit.  I have some tags put together for my t-shirts, available now at Tyler Meeks’ DISCOVERY BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.

AND, here’s my latest drawing:

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“Light, bending slightly.”  As always, I asked Trish what she thinks about it.  “You just can’t get away from that psychedelic stuff.”

Probably not.

Happy Halloween

Greetings from Doctor Pervertius Speculus and his dear woman… well, actually I forgot Oceanna’s stage name, and I’m not actually sure of Stephen’s stage name.  Oh, and I’m also not sure if Oceanna is spelled with one n or two.

However, I do have a photograph of the couple from last weekend.

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According to Steve, a woman came up to him at one of the (at least) two events the couple participated in, first saying his teeth were disgusting (rude), and then asking him what he was supposed to be.  Rather than giving a sarcastic answer such as, “I was supposed to be a rude and judgmental elitist snob,” Stephen claims he said, “I’m a per-vert!”

I’m a little disappointed that you can’t get the full effect of this with my mere extending of the word.  Steve would have, no doubt, delivered it with a bit of salacious eye-rolling, perhaps an in-character ogling of the woman who made the comment.

Hey, I wasn’t there.

ANYWAY, Stephen and Ocean(n)a are now partners and owners of THE CELLAR DOOR, an already-established nightspot in (under, actually) Port Townsend.  Steve, with years of experience as a restaurant owner and chef, has been sorting through ideas for the menu. Oceanna has experience in the bar/restaurant trade (evidently selling liquor is kind of important, revenue-wise), and has many contacts among local entertainers.

THE CELLAR DOOR has been a top venue for live performances in the city for quite some time, and will be reopened as soon as all the liquor license paperwork gets done.  Again, important).

The effect on Steve’s surfing might not be too detrimental.  Most of the surfing in these parts is done in daylight.  WE’LL SEE.  I’ll keep you posted.

MEANWHILE, I did have a bit of an issue with my latest ORIGINAL ERWIN T-SHIRTS.  I had twenty shirts, various sizes, ready for screening.  After screening the graphics on the back, it was discovered, while doing the logo on the front, that the image was, OOPS, upside down.  ERRRRRRR!

SO, I’m holding on to a couple, handed out some more, and took the four rightside-up shirts  to TYLER MEEKS’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.  I (we) have a bunch of shirts at the screen shop, and, hopefully, today or tomorrow, I can pick them up, ready for sale for the weekend.

I will get some more of this batch of ORIGINAL ERWIN shirts, and, since they are, by design, all limited editions… I don’t know; I’m hoping that means something.

The DISCO BAY shirts will have the shop logo I designed on the front, with one of two images on the back.  There are a range of sizes and colors.

 

If I get the shirts I will immediately post this on this site, right on top of Steve and Ocean(n)a.  No offense.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Illustrations for “Swamis,” the Novel

The manuscript for “Swamis” is up to, and slightly over 70,000 words.  That doesn’t mean it’s nearly complete.  I just looked at a painting project with a client whose background is in teaching and a knowledge of writing and writers.  When I mentioned the word count, adding I never thought I’d get to 60,000, and now I probably need another 30,000; and that, every time I take the time to work on the novel, I end up tightening up rather than adding onto the story.

“Well,” she said, I tell my students writing is never done, it’s merely due.”

Without going into any particular neurosis, I have similar issues with drawing.  I’ve been concentrating on pen and ink, and only occasionally risk pencil or watercolors.  BUT, for the novel, I want some of the illustrations to convey that soft, backlit look that John Severson accomplished in the early “Surfer” magazines.

Yeah, well; this is easier said than accomplished.

Incidentally, since, in “Swamis,” ostensibly a memoir, I steal stories and experiences from myself (and others), give them to the narrator, Joseph DeFreines, Jr.; and because I want people to know Joseph is not me; I have included, along with fictionalized versions of real people from my life, a character named Erwin.

So, that Erwin is the illustrator.

I think he is, also, a bit neurotic, unable to decide on his own when something is truly complete.  SO:

 

The first illustration, above, is the pencil drawing scanned in black and white, the second was scanned in grayscale, the third, after I (I mean Erwin) went back in with ink.

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I do kind of like the underlying white lines from laying it out with a very hard pencil, as I was taught in art classes at Palomar Jr. College, back in 1969.  Maybe…

Should I add that, now that I’m getting closer to the end of the story, I’m getting a little bit paranoid, a little less willing to share the various storylines?  NO, probably not, but I could tell you that I know who killed Chulo, not sure who killed Joseph DeFreines, Sr.

Stay tuned.

Time- Warped, Wasted, Spent

To quote; or, possibly, mis-quote Miki Dora; “Life’s pretty much a waste of time. Surfing’s as good as any way to waste it.”  I’d spend some time trying to look it up if I felt like I had the time.

TIME.  So, recently, headed back along the Strait of Juan de Fuca (SoJdF) and into the zone between the Northwest’s Pacific Coast where cell phone reception becomes merely spotty (Joyce for most of us), I gave Adam Wipeout a call (one of the few surfers on my short list of people- and I’ve explained this to death already- I share session reports with).  WHAT? It turns out he had tried to sneak in an (another) stealth surf at an undisclosed location and was forced to now make up for all the things he was supposed to do.

“I feel like I was in some sort of time warp,” he said.  “I can’t believe it’s one o’clock.”

“Well, it is.”  It was, and it wasn’t even raining.  I should have been painting.  Adam should have been… something, something with his family or for HAMAHAMA SEAFOOD; something else; not sliding and barrel-dodging and getting praised by onlookers for better-than-proficient rides.  That was Adam’s recap. He hadn’t invited me, probably wouldn’t have told me about this until days later.

AND, I was elsewhere, allegedly (someone willing to pay roaming rates called someone he knows, he called another surfer from my short list, and that guy called me and left a voice mail I couldn’t listen to until I reached Joyce, and, as happens, restarted my phone) catching more (somewhere between slightly and considerably more) than my allotment of waves.

Well.  I hate to waste time.  Not an excuse.

OKAY; that’s out of the way. I’ve been working on a series of NORTHWEST SPIRIT ANIMALS. My latest was the eagle.  Now, the national bird has been done from so many angles.  I wanted to go for a new one.  I spent some time on the first version of this; but it just didn’t work.  I must have some fear of using large patches of black, but… not an excuse.

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Rather than tear up the whole thing, I doubled-down (I know, you’re thinking Trump backing up ridiculous claims with more ridiculousness) and added the checkerboard stuff.  Ewww. Well, maybe, in color…

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Not thrilled.  Not my favorite.  Next time…

MEANWHILE; and for quite a while, TYLER MEEKS, the owner, and I have been discussing using the logo I came up with for the DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE on t-shirts.  There are some very small decals available, but the problem is, and has been, that the design isn’t ‘tight’ enough to be instantly recognizable from a distance.  And I agree.

SO, I spent some time drawing, and several trips to various printers, trying to get it tight enough to print as white-on-colored (or black) t-shirts, possibly with ORIGINAL ERWIN designs on the back.

NOW this presents an additional problem/mind game, at least for me.  The design was drawn to be black on white (or light), and too much thinking is required to make the switch.  OKAY, here’s how it goes:

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This is the black-on version.  The black outside the drawing (including the points of light) would be cut out.  White mountains and clouds.

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Here’s the white-on version (there are some outside-the-image things to be eliminated). SO, everything black on this would become white on the shirts Tyler and I have gathered (various colors and sizes), but I have some amount of trouble making the switch from what I see (black clouds and mountains) to what will show up.

ANYWAY, the plan is to have some shirts available soon at a reasonable price.  I’ll let you know.  OR, maybe one of your friends will call someone else with the news; something like, “Got skunked, but, whoa; they have some awesomely cool new t-shirts at Disco Bay, Bro.” Then that person might call you.

Meanwhile; I have been working on my novel, “Swamis,” making it te-ight!

 

 

Cougar- Northwest Spirit Animal, plus…

…a potential t-shirt design.

I may have over-amped the color on the cougar drawing.  When I showed the original to Trish, she said she couldn’t concentrate on the cougar, it was just too skitzy on the page. That was fine, I intended to have the cougar sort of, um, non-obvious.

Anyway, here are the two versions:

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Yeah, yeah; looks different in person.  Not necessarily better.  Oranger.  I have more copies; I’ll see what I can do.

MEANWHILE: Here’s a drawing I’ve been working on; possibly for a t-shirt design.  I wanted it to look kind of northwest-native-artsy; and, no, it really doesn’t; BUT I do want to claim some ownership of the potential phrase, “NORTHWEST SURFERS, NATURALLY COOLER.”  Again, yeah; surfers in Alaska and the Great Lakes and elsewhere might disagree.  Certainly.  It’s what people do.  Here’s the drawing:

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SPEAKING OF WHICH, if you cruise down on the site, you’ll find some commentary on several recent posts.  SO, let me give my rebuttal(s):

NO, I hold no animosity toward, nor do I think I’m cooler than P.A. ripper Scott Sullivan (just) because I wear a leash, I’m older, and I don’t grease up my mustache.  We all have our own criteria for determining coolness, and I’m really concentrating on being in some category of Hipster; mostly because no one else seems to, despite appearances, want to be identified as a Hipster, despite my use of the word being in no way derogatory.

EQUALLY, I have no problem with the Surf Shop owner, AL PURLEE, who is about my age; despite having had him tell me, probably ten years ago, that I didn’t want a shorter board. “You’re too old, too fat, and you don’t surf enough.”  AL was RIGHT.  Al was, and is cool; and not just in that automatic coolness one has by owning (or even, by extension, working at) a surf shop; which comes with the added benefit of being able to think anyone who enters your establishment is a kook unless and until proven otherwise.  We all have that privilege.

PHOTOS might prove something, but, when I was asked if I have photos of epic waves and empty lineups on the ‘northern coast of Washington State,’ I had to decline.  Self-centered?  Yes.  I do, however, have some awesome shots of frozen peelers on the Great Lakes.  NOW, those surfers are (even) cooler.  Naturally.