Free Lunch Studios

Tom Gordon

Tom Gordon's Blother

May 29, 2006

Abyssal Layer #002 (and counting)
Oh, the angst. NOW I fargin' remember precisely why I'd kept away from wielding colored pencils for so long. Because it would mean I'd have to examine -- close-up -- any older artwork I'd accomplished in the past with that particular method, in order to refresh the ol' deteriorating brainpan. And then (of course) their related sketchbooks, chock full of that reckless artistic experimentation so typical of youth. Scanners? We don't need no stinkin' scanners!

But noooo; that still isn't enough for you, art-twerp. Through an arcane process of subconscious association, for some imbecilic reason you also need to peruse THEIR accompanying notebooks, and inhale deeply -- yet again! -- the thick, heady vapors of micro-handwritten Byronic pining towards long-estranged let's-just-be-friends (but not really,)...

And then, the hole in the dike is unplugged. Everything comes back with near-photographic clarity. It's not just mere sensory data, though that stuff is surely powerful enough. Mundane household furnishings framing a transcendent smile upon a porcelain face. Winter's icy kiss, descending from a spiderweb of naked branches. The scent of hot glue and sandalwood, and the taste of scotch mingling with orange juice. But what is all that trifle, compared to the long-suppressed tsunami of emotion crashing down? Just memories --


And so it goes. But eventually, you find your way back from the tragic rage/love/hope of that... place. Pulled out of the sweet mire by a newfangled bit of music, or perhaps just the mere spectacle of a wondrous gadget sitting upon your desk; something that defied imagining in earlier times. And if you're really, really lucky, you even have the good sense to steal and carry forward a useful bright, fiery piece of that Lost World along with you, to illuminate and set ablaze its present-day, paler facsimile:

(Not colored pencil, obviously.)

Back to Mama Terra (and less pain-soiled concerns): I viddy'd "Spaceballs!" last week; the Mel Brooks controlled-demolition of George "Wattle Man" Lucas' seemingly endlessly repackagable space opera (along with a few other SF franchises for dessert). T'wasn't quite as spit-take-inducing as I'd originally remembered -- but please recall the audience back then was also an entirely different ball o'wax, and MUCH less versed in all the obscure PopCult minutia that gets regularly deconstructified liberal arts jargon made fun of by the likes of "South Park" and "The Simpsons" today. IAE, Rick Moranis' over-the-top antics as an uber-fanboi villain have aged very, very well. If I had a motto, it'd be "ah, buckle THIS!" (Or maybe even "keep firing, assholes!")

And lest y'all think I've been slipping in my post-graduate Advanced Dorkiness studies -- sneaking out at night to write tormented poetry at the nearby cemetary, etc. -- here's something else I immediately gleaned from the spoofy film:

Yes, yes, I know. Brown coats, floppy hairdos and somewhat blinkered rugg'individualism do not a shared genetic heritage make. But I venture they probably wouldn't beat each other entirely senseless at the nearest interdimensional-crossover saloon, there.
Blogger Scott LeMien babbled...

hey Tom,

I can make a donation to your pencil art fund any time you want. I have some letters that might be something you would enjoy, seeing your own thoughts and drawings together. Lemme know.

5/31/2006 8:45 AM  

Blogger Tom Gordon babbled...

Thanks Scott. But in fact, you already loaned me some of your Berol Prismacolor letters a couple years ago, back when I still had voluntary control over bodily functions. They now safely dwell like flies in amber upon a couple redundant CD-Rs, shoehorned between the usual massive collections of purloined MP3 files and pr0n -- er, I mean useful data.

However, unlike the blood-drenched excesses of cowboy-hatted psychopaths, or thinly veiled gothfemme renderings, that stuff just isn't for mass consumption. Hey, I may be a whore -- but I ain't no crack whore! (Or something.)

And the later, brown-Pilot-penned screeds from Pratt? Gah. They are teh suxX0r... save Meteor Dog's database card with the Joe Team, of course. (What was his Secondary Military Specialty again -- 'philosophical belittlement', or some such? Heh.)

5/31/2006 3:59 PM  

Blogger Scott LeMien babbled...

Yes, well, we can see now that I have changed specialties and no longer retain sufficient proficiency there, I specialize now in vague hostility and crying jags.

6/01/2006 2:30 PM  

Blogger Tom Gordon babbled...

Eh? I can understand the hostility well enough, but what're you bawling about? Ah well. At least you're still Fully Qualified With All NATO And Warsaw Pact Small Arms -- and have no involvement whatsoever in a site like this.

(AIEE! My eyes! My EYES!)

6/02/2006 3:11 PM  

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