(painting,animation) Astar: Return to Planet Danger

I had this class last year in which we had to pretty much do 1 project but with extra prep work. It started with 2 weeks of daily drawings. From those 14 sketches a trend should appear to show you what sort of thing you would be interested in doing. I had sketches of cartoon characters like Spider-man and the Ninja Turtles being bastardized by time. They had been remade over and over again so many times that they lost sight of who they once were. "So we've had the Ninja Turtles travel through time what should we do next? I know lets have them download themselves onto the internet to fight an internet Shredder while looking for broken bits of data that make up Splinter." and that's just what they did.
But anyway after all the sketches had been made and looked through I decided to bring back the War Amps CHAMP robot/mascot Astar. You may remember him from the late 80's to the mid-late 90's. For the halfway mark of the semester i created these 3 acrylic paintings on wood.





For the rest of the semester the professor tried to Show me how to use an animation program but I could easily tell she was just staying one lesson a head of me. She would say things like "This version is on a PC I usually use a Mac." But in my experience there really isn't that much of a difference between the Mac or PC version of an Adobe program. So instead of using any sort of animation software I brought digital animation into the past and made the animation one cell at a time using Photoshop.
Again this animation is very choppy, and has only one level of sound forcing the noise to take turns. Enjoy

(painting) Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

I know what your thinking, "What makes this guy so cocky that he can do ANYTHING better than me? I do stuff pretty good sometimes." Fret not, it is merely the title of a series of paintings. These paintings were created for a show called Damaged Goods put on at Rolly's Garage presented by Artclub INTL.
Good show. Great show. We served BBQ corn, so good. The space was large and the art put into the show was an amazing assortment of styles that although they differed from one person to the next, together they coexisted in the space creating a rhythmic harmony.
The following artist statement was not put up in the show, the paintings stood alone.

Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

I am an amputee and have been all my life. In the past I have used various crutches call prosthetics. These were usually bulky, unsightly devices that created more problems than solutions. At a young age I cast away the crutches realizing that not only could I do things just as well as my peers but some things I could do better, if not a little different.

The purpose of this series of paintings is to deconstruct societies views of the amputee by constructing a diptych comparison between how a “normal” person and an amputee (myself) would complete what would be considered simple tasks; operating a can opener, tying a shoe lace, and rolling a joint. I have filmed these tasks being completed by both myself and friends of mine, and then selected single frames from those videos to paint from. For the panels dealing with my version I have painted using my “normal” right hand, but for the “normal” persons view I have painted with my amputated left hand. This shows how there is little disadvantage to being an amputee in today’s society.

Can Opener Painted Left Hand & Right Hand
32 x 20 (16 x 20 each)
Acrylic on canvas

Tie Shoe Painted Left Hand & Right Hand

32 x 20 (16 x 20 each)

Acrylic on canvas

Roll Joint Painted Left Hand & Right Hand
32 x 20 (16 x 20 each)
Acrylic on canvas

(digital illustration) OTIS or The Dead Rat in my Freezer

A few years ago, not to long but definitely in the past, a Humber Comedy Student moved in with a few of my friends. With her she brought an evil, scabby, crusty, angry, rat named Otis with the biggest set of balls I've ever seen. At first Otis would nip and bite anything that entered his cage.
His cage sat at the top of the stairs after you walk into the apartment making him unavoidable. He caused a few drunken friends to bleed from their finger tips and even a nose. I would wrap my hand in my sweater and attempt to pet him; once he figured out he was unable to bite through the sweater her stopped trying to bite me all together. At the same time my friend was picking him up while wearing oven mitts to get him used to being held without biting.
Eventually his scabs disappeared and he stopped biting people. He would come out during small parties and climb across people. Those who passed out were tea bagged using Otis' giant nut sack.
His cage was moved to the kitchen right next to the couch that I slept on after becoming to intoxicated to make it home. Otis would tell me stories that i can only assume (because i don't speak rat) were about his life before moving to the grange house, or how all four of the cats in the house had been sitting on the outside of his cage trying to find a way in.
The original owner moved out leaving Otis in the care of my friend who had grown quite attached to the little guy. I moved in for the last two months of the lease and brought Otis in to see my new room. He quickly looked around then crawled up my sleeve and sat in between my shirt and lower back. I watched a movie waiting for him to come out but instead he chilled inside my shirt making happy rat sounds ignoring me constantly saying "shhhh i can't hear what George Carlin is saying to the time traveling duo of Bill and Ted."
The Grange house was good times, but all good things must come to an end and we eventually moved. After the move Otis seemed to crank up the volume of his rat sounds and he also added another wheezy one to his repertoire. His cage now sat in our new living room which gave him the opportunity to watch more movies and get more people food (popcorn, french fries, cheese, you name it) from those in the room.
The wheezing became more frequent, his nose would bleed, his energy was low, his sight was fading, but worst of all he stopped eating people food. For weeks we watched as The Otis we knew and loved changed into some unknown animal. Finally one day while refilling my coffee he passed away on the ramp to the upper level of his cage.
After the tears were shed we had to figure out what to do with him. We couldn't just toss him out with the trash. We discussed it and decided to get him stuffed, harder to do than it sounds. We wrapped him in a plastic back and set the bag in a box and set the box in the freezer to keep him fresh. Taxidermist, for the most part wont stuff pets or rodents and after a few weeks of trying to find someone to do it we gave up on the idea.
It was decided that we would give Otis a viking funeral, setting him ablaze and then pushing him out to sea (well out to lake but you use what you can). A day was picked so that morning i take him out to thaw. Two hours before the funeral it is canceled because key members in the life of Otis are unavailable. I stick him back in the freezer. Another day is set but before I can tell my roommate that I got called into work she tells me again the funeral is canceled.
Otis the dead rat has been freezing in my freezer for months now keeping him from returning to the halls of Valhalla where there would be much drinking and rejoicing as the stories of Otis' life echo off the walls. But for the time being he is sitting there in my freezer keeping me from grabbing ice or having frozen veggies with my meals.

(animation) God vs Gingers

So on day not too long ago I was sent a link to a video on Youtube called GINGERS DO HAVE SOULS!! by CopperCab, maybe you have seen it. This poor, angry ginger kid is so upset about South Park's portrayal of gingers. His videos have opened the floodgates for people to make fun of ginger kids. Sure South Park ripped on gingers and filled the world in on the fact that they are soulless cretures wanted neither by God nor the Devil but is that really any reason to get so upset. People have added their own rants about "Ginger Pride" as responces while others chose to mock gingers and their new spokes person.
He rants about how he is a Christian and how we don't know who has a soul. "You don't know me. Your not God. AH oh BURURURURUR. Your not God, you don't know who has a soul and who duddint, alright?"
That line sparked the idea for this choppy, soundless, annimation.

I cant wait to see what CopperCab has to say next now that South Park has brought the gingers back for their 200th episode.

(digital illustration) I Wonder What They'll Come Up With Next

What’s up with all these flavored versions of cereals popping up everywhere? In less time than it takes to watch an episode of Lost I saw commercials for Blueberry Special K, Vanilla Rice Crispies, and Diamond Shreddies. I don’t want to know what diamonds taste like but the people at Post think I do.
I swear its all Honey Nut Cheerios fault. If only they called them Bumble Bee Rings.

(digital illustration,ramble) Welcome One and All

So now it seems the computer illiterate are catching up on the rest of the world and hopping on the blog band wagon. That's me, one of the most technologically impaired people on this small blue and green space ball we call Earth. Hell my dead grandmother is better with computers than I am. It's so bad, I still call her for help with photoshop, and the worst part about that is instead of being able to just say "Well thanks Grandma, i was really stuck there for a second." i have to blow her head off with a shotgun... Zombie Grandma and all.
That brings me to point of this whole blog experiment, humor. Sure you might not find something I toss up here funny. Hell I might not find it funny either. But you never know what your going to find.
Oh Zombie Grandma.
Speaking of zombies, here is a nice little story I wrote Shortly after Micheal Jackson died. In my mind i like to think that this story is the reason they preformed the second autopsy on his body.
Enjoy!

Attack of the Thriller Zombies

There were seven of us in the house when shit hit the fan. Gunshots filled the air but couldn’t drown out the screams of terror. We were in a panic, all of us except for John who seemed perfectly calm, almost happy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a well read book. In his hands was The Zombie Survival Guide.

We brought the neighbors into our second floor apartment and took an axe to the stairs. John had a fine art collection of which we had spent many hours in front of them having superficial artistic debates. Not a single one of us could believe what was hiding behind those frames; hand guns, shot guns, rifles, samurai swords, flash lights, crowbars, army style rations, and so many bullets it makes my brain hurt thinking about it.

John gave us all jobs to do; mine was to fill everything I could with water. Douglas had to climb down a rope ladder and chop up the porch stairs. John says that it could but us precious time needed to escape. Everyone did what they were told and john assured us that everything would be fine in a few days. He said the book explains that the outbreak shouldn’t last long. John was an ass. He placed so much faith in that damn book it nearly killed us all countless times.

We had spent three days and four nights sharing our three room apartment between seven people taking shifts on lookout duty. Douglas remembered that he had some canned goods hidden from his roommates in his kitchen so he and John climbed down to get them. On their last trip (it took three) the door swung open revealing the reanimated corpse on the other side. It didn’t run at them like in those 28 Days or Weeks Later movies. It didn’t shuffle at them like in the classic zombie movies either. Instead it danced towards them like a dancer from Micheal Jackson’s Thriller video.

As John climber the rope ladder the zombie grabbed hold of his pants. John quickly undid his belt buckle and the zombie fell backwards allowing Douglas and John to make it up the ladder safely. That’s we noticed that John wasn’t wearing underwear, he was wearing a diaper. In fact he always wore a diaper. During the attacks that lasted days he would discard his pants willingly saying “how funny would it be to come across a ghoul wearing one of these?”

Three months later john fulfilled that prophecy, and like the respectable people we were, we waited a solid half hour before raiding his room for “supplies.” That’s where I found his journal; no it was more like a diary. I spent weeks reading it before falling asleep. One night I discovered the true reason John wore the diaper; he couldn’t control his bladder during normal circumstances let alone while under attack.

“I hate it!” he wrote, “The simplest task and it’s as if Niagara Falls is in my pants. Using an ATM, doing my dishes, waiting for the bus all send the same signal to my brain… GO PEE NOW! Sometimes it can’t wait. I’ve taken to wearing adult diapers whenever I leave the house. My roommates don’t seem to notice, but I think my coworkers are starting to suspect something.”

That entry was dated three months before all this horse shit. I told Steve and Sally about it one day to lift up their spirits; their dog ran off the day before. They found John’s problem humorous.

Even with all the bullshit and death, I’m going to miss this place with its slanted floors and smashed up staircase. As the days pass there are less and less gunshots in the air and more and more of the dancing undead. Our supplies are running low and our moral is even lower. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out before someone does something stupid. I think our best bet is to pick a new location, somewhere out of the city, out of the madness. It will be our new home. We can gather what supplies we can carry then get on our bikes and ride away from this mess. That’s just crazy talk. I know I’m going to die in this house, no one gets out alive.

I was bitten during our last skirmish. The bastard moon walked right up to me and I didn’t see it coming. If I tell Steve what happened to me he would blow my head clean off just like he had done to Sally. Poor girl wasn’t even bitten and he splattered her brains all over the kitchen window. Ruffus, her dog, brought home a hand, then when it was happy to see her it jumped up and licked all over her face. The blood from the hand got into her mouth and within an hour she was tapping her foot. That’s the first sign you know. Steve whispered his goodbye then KLABAMO, no more Sally.

Don’t worry about Ruffus, he is still around. My guess is that the virus turning everyone into cannibalistic, dancing dead won’t work on dogs because as everyone knows; dogs are such horrible dancers, they have no rhythm. To be on the safe side we tied him to the bathtub. Douglas hasn’t left his side. “Someone would need to protect Ruffus, he can’t shoot a gun by himself.” That’s all he would say when we tried to get him to join us in the communal rooms. Soon he is going to be running from that room as my reanimated corpse dances towards him making that high pitched “he he hoo” death moan.

I feel is building up in me now. The urge to dance is rising while my strength weakens. Holding this pen is becoming difficult. For what I am about to do, I am truly and honestly sorry.