adaptation

Remember my visit to Omro Elementary a few weeks ago? Well, Mrs. Butkiewicz's second grade class wrote and illustrated some neat stories inspired by the "art on demand" portion of my presentation (featuring a dog in a t-shirt eating a pickle), all of which I'll be posting in the coming weeks.

First up is a thought-provoking tale exploring the power of creation...and the nature of sacrifice. I give you Cody's "Blazor the Dog".

fox

one wish

With my birthday less than a month away, you're probably racking your brain trying to figure out what to get me. After all, I already have a lovely wife-to-be, a roof over my head, and some shirts. What else do I need?

How about laser eye beams to disintegrate my enemies? It's just a thought.

You see, I've been asking for laser eye beams since I was six. Although my mother assured me that she'd "work on it" for my seventh birthday, I did not receive them. It was because of her negligence that I was unable to vaporize Chris Doyle when he took off with one of my Gobots during a botched toy exchange a few months later. On my eighth birthday, I was denied laser eye beams, again. Shortly thereafter, I participated in a four-legged race at my elementary school. Had I been capable of shooting white hot fire from my cornias, I could have burned a trench in the soccer field, over which my opponents would have stumbled, and ensured myself a first place finish. Instead, I came in second place, and Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, precipitating the Persian Gulf War.

I am now on the verge of turning thirty-one years old. My dearth of laser eye beams has seriously hampered my attempts at incinerating all who oppose me. I do not possess the power to turn flesh into ash, ergo, I do not yet rule the Earth from a mountain of skulls, as is my right and priveledge. And I'm not getting any younger.

So, on June fifteenth, if someone were to, I don't know, buy me laser eye beams or something, I may decide to spare his life when I bring the Age of Man to its knees.

tuesdays with june 2

The following is a transcript of the second in a series of interviews with my cat, in which she reminisces about her pre-adoptive life. We call it "Tuesdays with June".

NEWMANPICTURESBLOG: Okay, here we are, the second part of our interview...

JUNE: That's correct.

NPB: ...and we're going to discuss your parents. Your biological parents.

JUNE: Yes.



NPB: Now, what were they like?

JUNE: Brown.

NPB: Anything else?

JUNE: Yes...

NPB: Anything else that isn't also the description of characters from a classic novel?

JUNE: ...

NPB: ...

JUNE: (coughs)

NPB: ...

JUNE: ...Thank you for having me.



Join us next time for the third part of the "Tuesdays with June" series, when we discuss my cat's formative years, and she admits to a celebrity crush (spoiler alert: it's Joshua Jackson!).

a very special blog post: the reckoning

While I was on vacation (by the way, I was on vacation), Nicole, from an undisclosed region of Canada, and Kyle, a local boy from Wisconsin, mixed it up over The Great Shroogly-Dunk Giveaway. As y'all are no doubt aware, the friction created by their competing entries, sent to my inbox at the exact same instant, tore a hole in the fabric of reality at approximately 12:32 PM on May 18, 2007, the fallout from which is still being assessed. So far, we know that in the Alterverse, the South won the Civil War, faucets pour Ecto-Cooler instead of water, and Shrinky-Dinks are now called Shroogly-Dunks.

In doing my part to prevent further damage to the timestream, and put an end to this here destructive conflict, I'm fixing to award Shroogly-Dunks to both parties. Well played, Nicole and Kyle. Or, as we say in the North...well played.

bride of the great shrinky dink giveaway

The Great Shrink-Dink Giveaway is this deal where I give away Shrinky-Dink art to people that email me. I know, it's crazy.

Well, I'm doing it again, and it really couldn't be any easier to win. I mean that. I literally can not make this contest any less difficult. To even call it a contest is bordering on fraud. There is no skill involved, whatsoever. All you need is a pokey thing to type with, the eye of the tiger, and a valid mailing address. You can even use someone else's address, if you don't have one of your own. But it should probably belong to someone you know. It can get a little awkward if you're caught trying to collect your prize from a stranger's mailbox. Believe me. One minute, you're rooting through some schmuck's bills, and the next you're in Cell Block 8, training a mouse to do your bidding.

Okay, so you've got a pokey thing, the will to survive, and someone's mailing address. Now, what? Simple. Open up an email, type the word "dink" in the subject line, send it to jeff@newmanpictures.com, and swear eternal allegiance to whichever dark master you serve in exchange for victory in The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway Mach III. If you're the first person to follow this procedure correctly, you'll know it because A) I'll tell you so, and B) you'll feel a persistent chill indicating you no longer have a soul. Congratulations! I hope it was worth it.

Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shrinky-Dinks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and will not be held accountable for car accidents linked to Shrinky-Dink slippage. Or herpes.

Dark masters do not guarantee Shrinky-Dinks in return for eternal allegiance.

pigeon

the dark is rising again

Months ago, I expressed my concerns over the upcoming film adaptation of The Dark is Rising. My beef was specifically with Ian McShane's un-Merriman like appearance (the character in the books is an older, lanky, white-haired magician of sorts, a contemporary version of Merlin). Well, my fears have been realized. The first set photos have been released, and Ian McShane looks like...Ian McShane. On the up side, Christopher Eccleston seems a suitable Rider, and the last image of what I presume is the Old Ones' temple, is spot on, atmospherically. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

the animation podcasts

If you, like me, are a fan of animation, then you really should check out Clay Kaytis's The Animation Podcast. Clay is a supervising animator at Walt Disney Animation Studios, and he's scored several enlightening interviews with fellow staff members from the past and present (including John Musker and Ron Clements of The Little Mermaid and Aladdin fame). There are only a handful of episodes available, but you can supplement your aural tour through the history of Disney animation with the even more infrequently produced Spline Cast. Both shows are available via iTunes.

dinner

ross zellman's counterpoint: love you forever

Are we talking about the same book, here? Because the Love You Forever that I know is a fudging masterpiece. You should get down on your knees and thank God that it exists, Mr. Filthbottom. Perhaps then you'll be spared from burning in the hell reserved for murderers and those who insult the works of Robert Munsch. But I doubt it. In conclusion, you smell.

professor filthbottom's ugly book review

I don't know if you've noticed, but there have been a lot of ugly picture books released throughout the long and storied history of children's bookdom. A lot of beautiful ones, sure, but a lot of unintentionally (or intentionally), disturbingly illustrated ones, too (see "What's Drunk, Mama?"). And some of these books have gone on to become bestsellers. I'm thinking of one, in particular, which I call Abomination from Beyond the Stars. You may know it as Love You Forever. If you haven't encountered this book, and apparently a lot of you have (it's currently number 1,370 in the Amazon.com sales rankings, and it was first published in 1986), you should make a point of seeking it out, if only to see what a very eerie, literal interpretation of a mother's eternal love for her child looks like. But I'll save you some time: it looks weird. There may be a better way to illustrate the book's central theme than to depict an old woman climbing a ladder into her forty year old son's bedroom to cradle him in the middle of the night, but I'm pretty sure no one could come up with a more terrifying way, short of giving the old woman clown makeup and fangs. Anyway, you can pick it up at your local Target (it's the one with a bathroom-wrecking gnome on the cover) along with The Giving Tree, Where the Sidewalk Ends, and...well, that's it, really. Maybe some Dora the Explorer crap. I don't know.

tuesdays with june

The following is a transcript of the first in a series of interviews with my cat, in which she reminisces about her pre-adoptive life. We call it "Tuesdays with June".

NEWMANPICTURESBLOG: Okay...here we...all set? Yes, all set...June.

JUNE: Yes.

NPB: June, how are you tonight?

JUNE: I'm fine.

NPB: Maybe you can tell the people where you are right now?

JUNE: In my apartment.

NPB: (laughs) But where, specifically?

JUNE: In the bathroom sink.



NPB: And why are you in the bathroom sink?

JUNE: I think the question is, why are you not in the bathroom sink?

NPB: (laughs) Okay...so, your life...We've been living together for, what, almost two years, now?

JUNE: Yes.

NPB: And life's pretty good, huh?

JUNE: I'm fine. A little thirsty, maybe.

NPB: Oh. Well, here, just...let me turn on the faucet. Just...can you just shift over a little bit?

JUNE: Don't touch me.



NPB: Sorry, sorry...there...okay, there.

(lapping noises)

NPB: How's that? Better?

JUNE: I'm fine. A little tired, maybe.

At this point, June requested we move the interview to a pile of dirty clothes in the closet.

NPB: All settled in?

JUNE: Yes.

NPB: Great. Um, maybe we should start with where you were born?

JUNE: Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then...

NPB: I-I'm sorry. Um...I don't want to interrupt, but...

JUNE: It's fine.

NPB: Isn't that, uh, from To Kill a Mockingbird?

JUNE: I don't believe so, no.



NPB: Oh, okay...but I thought, maybe...

JUNE: This interview is over.

Join us next time for the second part of the "Tuesdays with June" series, when we discuss my cat's biological family, and she shares her recipe for fish tarts.

book sale

I went to a used book sale on Saturday, and picked up a lot of great stuff: three Madeline books (I now have the entire series, except, strangely, the original), a George and Martha compilation, Baba Yaga, illustrated by the extraordinary Blair Lent (whom I met in college, but sadly didn't appreciate at the time), Crictor, by Tomi Ungerer, and an assortment of others.

One of the "others" is called Joseph's Yard, and it includes some of the most hallucinatory imagery I've seen in any media, let alone a children's picture book. I'm not even sure I like it, but I certainly admire the technique (courtesy of author and illustrator Charles Keeping). Here are a few groovy samples:







Welcome back. The year is 2007. We missed you.

I also bought a book based solely on the cover, which is a poignant reminder of the dangers of relying too heavily on photo reference when creating an illustration, especially when that reference includes models of both genders:

room for improvement

Yesterday, at work (no, not the good writing/drawing/painting work, the bad work that I haven't mentioned here before; the one that involves spreadsheets, meetings, and me sighing every half hour) we received a Business Reply envelope full of rocks. I mean, really full, like I can't believe the US Postal Service would deliver it, full. And included with the rocks was a customer satisfaction card. It was not filled out.

volcano

row house of the dead

So, Jodi and I (but mostly Jodi) finally came to the end of a very lengthy apartment search Monday night, and I have to say, for someone that despises the prospect of moving, I'm almost excited to settle into our new digs. Yes, almost. That's because, for all it's charms, I'm fairly certain the apartment is haunted.

It has to be. First of all, it's an old row house. You can't spit in an old row house and not have it pass through the ghost of a burly, axe-wielding gentleman with a large mustache and a vendetta against his adulterous wife. Those suckers are drawn to brick like bees to honey.

Then, there's the backyard, the only patch of land within a quarter mile covered by grass instead of cement. Now, what's the more likely explanation: that the neighborhood is in the process of being converted from an industrial district into a residential zone, or that our future home is built on an Indian burial ground that can bring pets and humans back to life, but at a terrible price? That's a rhetorical question.

The most damning evidence of all is the fact that we're getting three floors, three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, central air, a dish washer, a refrigerator with an ice maker, and a washing machine and dryer for just over one thousand dollars a month. How can the property owners charge so little for so much?

How, indeed?

good show

Here's something weird: Hippo! No, Rhino is listed as a Best New Summer Book (specifically, the best book "for little zoologists") over at Scholastic.com. The thing is, it came out last summer, and was published by Little, Brown and Company. Not that I'm complaining. That's just awfully sporting of them.

stalactites

good news

I'm still rich. Very rich. Children's book author rich. And it's fantastic. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and no one can stop me. Johnny Depp can't stop me. Matt Damon can't stop me. Johnny Damon can't even stop me. Last week I parachuted a snapping turtle into Yankee Stadium. Why? I don't care.

But what I do care about are the kids. Those precious little faces mean everything to me. That's why I do what I do. That's why I collect one zillion dollars, before taxes, to write and illustrate picture books that carry a message of hope, friendship, and understanding. So, when someone accuses me of doing this for the money, it really makes me want to sick my goons on them. All the money in the world (of which I own four sixteenths) wouldn't mean a thing if I didn't feel like I was making a difference in the life of a child.

All you doubting thomases will think what you will, but remember this: I'm only a man. An extremely wealthy man with a moon base and feelings. And while my adamantium battle armor may be able to repel a direct ballistic missile attack, it's no protection against unkind words.

jazz pills

hydrant

six votes

You know what's worse than being entered into a competition without your knowledge? Losing that competition; getting served, if you will. That's what happened today over at A Fuse #8 Production, where Scott Magoon, illustrator of Ugly Fish, was crowned the 37th, uh, member of the Hot Men of Children's Literature, and I was crowned the first Ugliest Hot Man of Children's Literature.

Scott pulled down 84 reader votes, closely followed by David Ezra Stein, author and illustrator of Cowboy Ned & Andy. Had I known this was going to be the case, I could have taken David out months ago, at the Original Art show, with a well-executed Back Brain Kick. If I ever finish my time machine, that dude better wear a helmet. Even though the only way he'll be able to get a helmet is to ask me to send a helmet back in time for him, and I will say no. Unless he has his own time machine. If he does, he can be wearing a helmet when he goes back in time. And there's no guarantee he won't arrive a minute before I do and hit me with a lead pipe. I do not want to get hit with a lead pipe, so just forget it. I've got better things to do than wage war through time against David Ezra Stein. What's it going to accomplish, in the end? No matter who wins, we all lose.

So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Six votes. I got six measly votes. That's six more than nobody. I lost more than everybody. And I didn't even know my name was being considered until today.

entitled

At my reading on Friday, I announced the title of my new book (which finally has a firm release date in the Spring of 2009):



The boys liked it, the girls, not so much.

chicken

I took a bite and chewed it. It didn’t taste like chicken. It was chicken, though, the waiter insisted. I would not call the man a liar.

I had eaten chicken for breakfast and lunch, and lunch and dinner the day before. Chicken was all there was. And so it was chicken on the plate that night. It had to be chicken. It didn’t taste like it, though. But it was, according to the waiter, and I would not call the man a liar.

I had only been eating chicken for nine years. The waiter had been serving, and most likely partaking of, chicken for several more years than that. His skin had the greenish hue that one has come to associate with an individual who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of poultrification.

This man knew chicken, the essence of what chicken is, the secret knowledge that one can acquire only through a life of painstaking study and sacrifice. I could not question his expertise. He assured me that it was a breast of chicken on my plate. I had to believe him.

But I chewed the chicken. I chewed it fifty-three times, and flavorful juice burst forth from the white meat with every snap of my jaws.

And I am sorry.

I apologize to the waiter.

In my humble opinion, that was not chicken.

a rollerskating rabbit holding a piece of birthday cake

hippo in omro

Well, I'm back from yesterday's reading of Hippo! No, Rhino at Omro Elementary School, and, although I was prepared to return with a great fiasco story for you (which are the most entertaining stories to read, as far as I'm concerned), the whole event went off without a hitch. Even my oft-alluded to stage fright took the day off. In fact, the only thing that didn't go as planned was my attempt at making drawings based on audience suggestions (an activity inspired by Anna Alter's knitting monkey). Don't get me wrong, the kids seemed to love it. But they couldn't see the flop sweat on my brow as I struggled to make a credible drawing of a rollerskating rabbit holding a piece of birthday cake. If anyone tells you that drawing a rollerskating rabbit holding a piece of birthday cake is easy, they are lying. And they are probably a vampire.



A sincere thank you to Krista Ledbetter, who chronicled the day's events at thenorthwestern.com, Mrs. Butkiewicz, Mrs. Sphatt, Mrs. Schiessel, Mrs. Babcock, Kathy Wirth, and all the fantastic second graders of Omro Elementary, including Ciera, Amber, Taylor (my self-proclaimed biggest fan), and Logan, who was a little bummed that I was not Ryan Newman, the NASCAR driver, but wanted my autograph just the same, for making it such a rewarding experience. There isn't a bad apple in that bunch.

I did, however, run afoul of some third grade toughs that tried to shake me down for my lunch money. Karate ensued.

If only they'd followed the rules.

jump

i also breathe air

I ate Chinese food for lunch today. When I was finished, I cracked open my fortune cookie, and pulled out the enclosed slip of paper. It read:

You love Chinese food.

And it was right. I don't know how, but it was right.

another very special blog post

You don't always lose when you snooze, especially when it comes to the The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway. Take winner and fellow author/illustrator Erik Brooks of Winthrop, Washington, for instance. He sent me an email just this morning, with the subject line "dink", despite believing he'd already lost. Bless his heart. You'll have to do better than that to not win this contest, my friend.

Congratulations, Erik! My fragile ego thanks you for playing.

bath

the boid

He might have been a long-lost member of the Gambino crime family; tall and broad-shouldered, tan, gaunt, with hair like an oil slick, and shifty eyes that promised a curb-stomping to the first person that gave him any guff. In his white linen shirt, tight chinos, and loafers, he leaned, arms crossed, against the railing of the queue, while his beleaguered-looking wife and three daughters stared in opposite directions, markedly avoiding his gaze.

When the conductor, a bespectacled boy no older than nineteen, approached the man, and politely asked if he'd fold up his unoccupied stroller, the man replied, in a thick New York accent, and loud enough for everyone in line to hear:

"You don't tell me what to do, Chaalee."

The crowd shifted, uneasily. The man's wife touched his arm and whispered in his ear.

"What", he continued, "I'm gonna come here and have this guy tell me what to do? I'll fold it up when I'm ready. 'Fold it up', get a load of this guy. I'll fold you up, Chaalee."

Defeated, the conductor slunk away down the platform.

Moments later, a small, faux steam engine pulled in to the station. The man and his family moved to the front of the line, but were held back just short of boarding. As the train departed Mickey's Toontown for Frontierland, the man's youngest daughter waved goodbye to the passengers. She was smiling, sweetly.

Her father was smiling, too.

"Are you flippin' them the boid, honey?" he asked. "Ha, ha, look, she's flippin' them the boid."

skull

dear jellybeans

I'm sorry I ate a whole bag of you last night. You just looked so good, I couldn't resist. I was only going to eat one of you, maybe two; a couple of orange and black ones. But things got out of hand. The next thing I knew, I was eating pink ones of you, and purple ones of you, red ones...my god, I ate the white ones. I don't even know what flavor of you that is, but I didn't care. Once I got a taste, I lost all control. All that mattered was my own gratification. I was a pig, and it has cost me the only candy I've ever loved.

Farewell, my sweet.

natalie dee

I can't believe I've gone nearly three months without mentioning the awesome Natalie Dee, whose daily cartoons I read...daily. They're not exactly family-friendly, though, so proceed with caution, unless your family swears a lot.

psych

I went into Einstein Bros. Bagels this morning, and ordered an Everything Bagel with Chive Cream Cheese.

"Do you want it toasted?" asked the counter associate.

"Yeah," I replied, "toasted would be great."

"Okay, well our toaster isn't working right now, so..."

Wait, what?

return of the great shrinky-dink giveaway

So, a few weeks back, I started this thing called The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway. Was it great? No, not really, but I did give away some Shrinky-Dinks. And if you were one of the every person in the world besides Colleen of San Diego, California, chances are, you didn't get any. Well, your luck's about to change.

That's right, you, yes you (no, not you friends and relatives), are getting a second chance to become the proud owner of indestructible*, plastic art. You want it. You deserve it. You need it more than Wimpy needs a hamburger. And all you have to do get it is send an email, with the subject line "dink", to jeff@newmanpictures.com. If you're the first to follow these instructions, and are in possession of a valid mailing address, in 10-14 days, you'll be rolling in Shrinky-Dinks! If that's your thing. Some people like to display them, but far be it from me to judge.

Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shrinky-Dinks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and does not accept responsibility for death or dismemberment due to Shrinky-Dink misuse.

*destructible

the portrait party

Drawn! strikes again; this time, it's led me to The Portrait Party, a blog created by Rama Hughes, where folks trade photographs of one another to create...well, you know. The portrait directly below is me, pre-haircut, by the talented Switchsky, the second is Switchsky, by me. Sigh...I miss my lustrous mullet, already.

out to pasture

To conclude this week of unexpectedly Reginald-centric posts, here's a cool drawing of the jungle-dwelling bovine, himself, by one of the book's earliest supporters, Madelyn:



No more talk of cows tomorrow, I swear.

too much blood

There's a passage in Reginald that introduces the title character's unfriendly neighbors, including an old frog, a hungry jaguar, a crazy ape, and a family of vampire bats. The bats are described as being particularly loud and unruly when they've drunk an excess of blood.

I was told, recently, that one young reader of Reginald, upon hearing her baby sister's wails, turned to her dad and said, "I think she's had too much blood to drink."

trunk

fruit

i'm here to amuse you

In two weeks, I'll be reading Hippo! No, Rhino to four second grade classes at Omro Elementary School in Omro, Wisconsin. My palms are sweating just thinking about it.

If you've read this blog in its entirety, you know that I've got a slight case of stage fright. Since posting that entry, I've done some thinking about the causes behind it, and I've come to the conclusion that, rather than being frightened of being the center of attention, I'm scared of being myself. See, in high school, I was in bunch of musicals and plays, and never once felt nervous going onstage. Actually, it was quite the opposite: I felt, to use the parlance of Metrowest Massachusetts circa early 1990's, "psyched" to stand in front of a full house and blow the roof of the cafetorium with a rousing rendition of "Miracle of Miracles" from Fiddler on the Roof. Those were heady days, indeed, as evidenced by this recently uncovered photo from the Ashland Youth Theater production of Once Upon a Mattress. That's me, as Sir Harry, in the purple, velour frock:



As comfortable as I was playing a part, however, I dreaded, and continue to dread, public speaking. And a children's book reading is just public speaking with a shorter audience. I don't have lines, or a wacky persona, or a folk guitar, or any other kind of prop or costume to lean on. It's me as me, standing in front of a group of eager faces, answering questions, sincerely, and trying not to sound like an idiot.

What I wouldn't give for a plastic sword and a pound of Pancake.

just one more book

There's a great interview over at Just One More Book with the editor of Hippo! No, Rhino, Alvina Ling. Give it a listen!

reginald lives

My first picture book, Reginald, never made it past its first print run, and about a year ago, I received a notice informing me that the publisher's stock was going to be sold off to god knows where for two bits and a bushel of figs. I figured it would never be seen again, except, maybe, being poured into a landfill.

Well, a few weeks ago, my brother was vacationing with his girlfriend on Sanibel Island, Florida. They stopped into a gift shop along the beach, where there was a small display of picture books, including Reginald (that's it on the right hand side of the top shelf):



After lunch, they stopped into another store, and lo and behold:



Now, there could be several explanations for this phenomenon. It's possible that both stores are owned by the same person. Maybe the airplane that was carrying my book off for incineration lost a crate en route, and it was recovered by a salvage crew. But I prefer the last one, personally:

I'm huge on Sanibel Island, baby.

cornial spyder

ring bearer

Hey, I got engaged today! No, seriously, I'm engaged. Really.

Okay, this probably wasn't the best day to announce this, and an even worse day to ask someone to spend the rest of their life with me. I've inadvertently opened my fiancée Jodi and myself up to barrage of April Fools' jokes regarding the legitimacy of our engagement. It wasn't supposed to go this way, though. I intended to propose last night, but my plans were foiled by my freeloading cat, June.

I charged her with two simple tasks: wearing the ring on a flea collar and not acting like a spaz. I pictured her trotting to the door to greet Jodi, at which point Jodi would discover the surprise, laugh, cry and, against all odds, say yes. But June has never worn a collar before, much less one that smells like mosquito repellent, so she started acting all squirrely when I (loosely) clasped it around her neck. And while I was trying to distract her from her imminent panic attack by waving around a feather on a string, one of her rabbit feet somehow got caught in the collar. She flipped out, sending both collar and ring flying. A minute later, Jodi knocked on the door. I put the ring away, and shared a meaningful glance with June that silently promised retribution.

But at five-thirty this morning, I let go of both pretense and my thirst for vengeance. I brought the ring back to bed, tapped Jodi on the back, and asked her to be my wife.

I think you know the rest.

the legend of the subway cowboy

Ten years ago—so the legend says—
The Cowboy came.
At first, he lived above ground with us.
But soon enough he found
There are no cows allowed
Within the city limits.
Restless,
Penniless and
Homeless,
He took up his lasso,
Which had grown dusty with disuse,
And descended into the
Underground,
Where he could
Die a dismal death.

Once, when someone passed him,
They said,
“Are you planning on roping a train?” and
Pointed at the Cowboy’s lasso.
The Cowboy picked himself off
The sticky concrete and said,
“Yes.”
The idea seemed sound to him.

He waited and
Waited and
Waited and
At last, he heard the thundering of the train
Coming
Closer
From down the dark depths
Which he had begun to think of as home.
He waited
With his muscles tense, and
His lasso ready, and
BOOM!
It burst forth from the tunnel like
A bullet
Fired from the barrel of a gun, and
The Cowboy hurled his lasso into the air, and
It caught on the train
Somewhere and
With a great YANK!
The Cowboy was
Pulled into the air and
Away into the night and
Before anyone knew exactly
What had happened, he was
Gone.

No one ever heard from him again.
But his story lives on, and
Today,
The Subway Cowboy is famous,
Which is what he really wanted
Anyway,
But he was too ashamed
To admit it.

two

the bitterest pill

Please check out my newest diversion, The Bitterest Pill, a podcast out of Los Angeles, which I found through a mention on Hometown Tales (would this blog be this blog without a weekly mention of HT?). Host Dan Klass is a funny man, and that can't be said of a lot of us, especially if we're women.

amy's dream

My friend, Amy, sent this email to me yesterday morning:

I had a dream that you had a new clothing line. you came up [with] a shiny fabric and were making vests with it....for guys and girls. you were really trying to get us all pumped...(it was me, my cousin Tom and my mom)...Tom and my mom thought they were soooooo cool. I really felt their judgement was clouded.

ed

southleft

Every so often, but more often than I wish I would, I go through a period of flux, in which my Internal Creative Compass no longer points in a recognizable direction. And it's happening right now. Yay.

The symptoms of Flux are as follows:

1) a lack of interest in making things (drawings, stories, your bed, what have you), and an inability to appreciate things that you make.

2) eating a whole Pizza Hut pizza for dinner and a bag of SweeTarts for desert every night for a week.

3) a prevailing belief that your life might have been better spent pursuing a career as an E! News host, and that you would almost certainly be less annoying than Sal Masekela.

4) unfavorably comparing your new work to your old work.

5) unfavorably comparing your new work to everything else that can be seen by the naked eye.

6) making sad faces.

7) breaking stuff.

Stop laughing. Flux ain't no joke. It can make you feel like the universe is spinning off its axle, and every time you sit down at your drafting table, you're straining to pull it back into alignment, again. It's never easy to fill up a blank piece of paper, but the journey from A to B, with all it's detours and scenic roads, is the usually the most thrilling part of making art. You're always a little unsure what the results will be, but that's okay, because, at the very least, you know when you draw a line you like. If you keep drawing lines you like, how bad can the picture be? When Flux is involved, it will possess your compass, and no matter what kind of line you draw, it will inevitably tell you that line sucks. Then, it will tell you to draw another line, and tell you that one sucks, too. Flux, with its cruel, shrill, spastic voice, will convince you to ride a rickety rollercoaster and laugh hysterically when your car flies off the track into a rabbit warren, setting it ablaze.

Yet, despite its sadistic and unpleasant nature, Flux is a necessary part of the creative process, because you'll keep beating your head against the wall looking for a cure, until you get so used to the frustration you transcend it. It's like saying the word "milk" over and over. Eventually, it loses all meaning, and you wonder why it was ever called that in the first place. Art is like that, too. There's no right way to do anything, just a set of rules you construct in order for you to classify your work and categorize yourself, for yourself. And every once in a while, you've got to clear the decks and rebuild from the ground up.

Hold on.

What's that, Internal Creative Compass?

Okay, what the hell is a Southleft?

the blockbuster psychic

A few weeks ago, I went into a Blockbuster to rent some videos, and left with Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl, Home on the Range, and a belief in the sixth sense.

Here's what happened: I was in the middle of checking out, when the cashier, a guy in his mid-twenties, said, "Can I ask you a weird question?" (in itself a weird question). I replied "okay," and braced myself for something along the lines of "Do you like to eat keys?".

But what he said was, "Did you have anything to do with 9/11? I mean, were you there?".

I was stunned. I was there. I worked in Manhattan, a mile from the World Trade Center, in 2001, the only year I have ever lived in New York City. I told him as much.

"Yeah," he said, "I got an image of you sitting on a curb, or something." I had sat on a curb that day. Several, in fact.

The cashier's co-worker stood there frozen and slack-jawed. "Dude," he muttered. "Dude, that's crazy."

"Are you serious?" the cashier asked me.

"Are you?" I said.

When he didn't budge, I told the cashier, with a completely straight face, that he had super powers. Then I left the store, unsure of how to continue the conversation.

And I still don't know what to make of it. No one who's heard the story has offered an alternative to paranormality except my friend Steve, who proposed that, although my rental card listed my previous address in Madison, Wisconsin, my entire history as a Blockbuster customer might have popped up on the cashier's screen. Did this supposed psychic see that I registered for my first card in Brooklyn in 2001? Or did he read my mind?

Spooky.

puppet

slow news day

I ripped this out of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinal several months ago, intending to start a scrapbook of boring headlines, but none have topped this, yet:



I mean, come on.

why i smell

According to the website the best stuff in the world, which lets visitors cast their vote for...the best stuff in the world, the smell of second-hand books is the eighteenth most popular odor (out of a listed sixty-three), barely edging out mint, and falling just below bonfires. Discounting the fact that a) the results are based on an internet poll, and b) the number two most popular smell is "boobs," this is very encouraging news to me, an admitted book sniffer.

Now, before you picture me holed up in a library bathroom with my nose pressed in the spine of Moby Dick (not the whale, itself), recognize that there are many different levels of obsession in all things, including book-sniffing. Take J.D. Roth (sadly, not the host of Fun House), who described his compulsion on his personal blog, Foldedspace.org, thusly:

The first thing I do when I get a book, or when I pick one up in a store, or at a friend's house, is to sniff it...I have an unwritten, unordered classification for types of smells. If I wanted to, I could write down an entire taxonomy of book smells. There are general categories, of course — musty, smoky, newsprinty, new-y, etc. — but there are also minute gradations — like a late-seventies Harvey comic, like a Del Rey sci-fi paperback, like a grade school library book, like a European food magazine.

Over at the Tribe Booklover’s forum, Mark posted the question, “Do you smell books?”, to which Susie responded:

OK, I'll admit it. I smell books. It all started in junior high. We would order books for english class and when I'd get mine I'd open them and smell them. There's just nothin like the smell of a fresh new paperback straight out of the box.

You said it, Susie. Here’s Ms. Smart, same forum, clearly disgusted:

no.

And then, there's Steve:

My copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell smells like tar.

Neither a confirmation nor a denial, Steve's response is chilling in its ambiguity.

I'm not quite Susie, but I'm no Ms. Smart, either; I have purposely engaged in the act. I don’t do this often, but it happens sometimes when I’m flipping through old picture books. I have no reason for doing this other than my apparent attraction to the weird tang of mildew. It reminds me of being in my elementary school library, where I read, for the first time, books that I still love. I hope that my books smell like that, someday.

supergirl

a very special blog post

In a competition that separated the men from the boys, and the people who can email from those who either can't, were freaked out by sending a complete stranger their address, thought the prize was crappy, or were completely apathetic over the whole shebang, Colleen of San Diego, California, using her formidable typing skills, has become the winner of The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway! To celebrate this momentous occasion, I sat at my computer and typed what you're reading while eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Huzzah!

Congratulations, Colleen! Thank you for bringing an end to this clearly premature attempt at a contest.

a confession

I was driving down County Highway JJ at midnight. The radio was on and playing a heartbreaking tune by Vince Gill that I just had to sing along with because I love Vince Gill. The song is about a man and woman who fall in love, have fights, and fall in love again.

Then, I came upon a lonely tree on the side of the road doing 85, and that’s when this alien came running out. I mean, what a stupid alien! Why did he wait until then to cross the road? Perhaps we’ll never know.

Anyway, I smashed into him, because I didn’t have time to swerve out of the way, and he just blew up.

Well, that was scary!

I stopped the car with a screeching halt right after, and checked out the damage to the bumper and hood. It wasn’t too bad. The chrome was chipped, but a little half-test seal mount would cure that.

Right then, I didn’t know it was a alien. But then I saw this alien head wiggling around like a giant avocado, and I realized that it was a alien. I fell on my knees, and prayed to God that I hadn’t killed the only alien I ever saw. Unfortunately, I did.

Sometimes, I lie awake late at night and think about that alien. Did I do the right thing by killing that alien? I just don’t know.

If you killed a alien, what would you do?

whale

dylan

miscellany

A few news items and updates:

First of all, The Great Shrinky-Dink Giveaway is still in progress! Send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com, and you could be the owner of an original piece of shriveled, plastic art!

Secondly, check out Hometown Tales podcast #145 to hear the spooky story of the "Twin Beds", read by Bryan Minogue.

Last but not least, I received my plaque from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators for Hippo! No, Rhino, a 2006 Golden Kite Award Honor Book, in addition to some neat stickers which I slapped on all of my copies. Here's what they look like:

i'm rich

Recently, I've been reading a lot about the harsh realities of being a published children's author; the low pay, the long nights, and the empty stomachs. And frankly, I don't know what these people are talking about. I'm rich.

Some of these complainers would have you believe that they've never burned a million dollar bill in a crystal urn just to know what it smells like, or fed their dog bald eagle wings. I'm not like that. I'll tell you the truth, because I believe what they don't: you can fly to Jakarta to party with Diddy on Saturday and be back in time to read at a children's hospital on Monday. Being a good person and role model to today's youth and owning a gold hovercraft are not mutually exclusive.

A life of luxury is nothing to be ashamed of, so, dear colleagues, I urge you to lift the veil. Keep making books that inspire, but don't pretend you clip your own toenails when your robot servants do it for you. It's insulting.

v

water pot

the great shrinky-dink giveaway

In an effort to promote readership (and viewership) of this blog, I've decided to periodically sponsor a contest in which one lucky patron will receive an original piece of Shrinky-Dink art, created by yours truly.

To claim this first stunning example of hand-crafted finery, you must:

A) Not know me (in the biblical sense, or through familial/friend relationships).

B) Be the first to send an email with the subject line "dink", and your name and mailing address to jeff@newmanpictures.com.

C) That's it.

The winner will receive his or her prize within 10-14 days from the date of contest end (which will be celebrated with a very special blog post). Winners outside of the United States can expect to wait...longer.

Newmanpicturesblog is in no way affiliated with Shrinky-Dinks or K & B Innovations, Inc., and does not accept responsibility for injuries related to Shrinky-Dink mishandling.

cloud

astronaut

how to fight an alligator

Last week, my mother sent my brother and I the following email. The subject line was “Seriously guys”:

“If an alligator ever grabs you, do you know what to do to get him to let go before he eats you?? TAKE YOUR THUMB AND POKE HIM RIGHT IN THE EYE. It was on the news the other day!! XXOOO”

I wrote back: “Where was this email yesterday, when I really needed it?”

Minutes later, my brother responded:

“Seriously, i'm emailing you from the alligator injury ward at st. mary's hospital in hoboken...”

In her reply to our replies, my mother tried to achieve some relevance:

“ I'M TALKING ABOUT IF YOU ARE EVER IN FLA OR THE BAYOU AND YOU WERE, WEREN'T YOU??????? MICHAEL'S BEEN IN FLA -- MAYBE EVEN THE BAYOU. THE OTHER DAY A GUY IN FLA WAS STANDING BY THE WATERWAY OR WHEREEVER AND THE GATOR JUST APPEARED FROM NOWWHERE AND GRABBED HIS FOOT AND DRAGGED HIM INTO THE WATER. THAT'S WHEN HE EYEBALLED HIM WITH HIS THUMB, AND HE LET GO!

I'M NICE AND COOL AT THE LIBRARY TYPING AND READING. HOPE YOU'RE BOTH COOL TOO. LOVE, MUM

P.S. DID YOU KNOW THAT IT WAS JUST REPORTED SPOTTINGS OF GATORS IN WISCONSIN AND NEWARK, NEW JERSEY ON THE WATERWAY??”

I was not aware of this, nor did I believe it. So, when I stepped outside that afternoon to get some coffee, I was completely unprepared to see an alligator gnawing on the head of an elderly man right there on the sidewalk.

“T-take your thumb, and poke him in the eye!” I shouted, pantomiming the action.

The old man silently reached a hand out to me. Three of his fingers were missing.

“Jesus," I said, and went back inside.

* * *

Last week, you could walk outside your door and take a walk without being eaten. You could eat a sandwich without being eaten. You could even eat alligator without being eaten by an alligator. Last week, the irrational fear of being eaten by an alligator was still irrational.

Today, I got a call from the recently erected Alligator Injury Ward at St. Mary’s Hospital in Hoboken.
“It’s more of a MASH unit in an abandoned parking lot next to the hospital than an actual ward,” my brother was saying. “It’s not abandoned anymore, but you know what I mean.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I grunted, crunching a carrot stick. Outside my windows, the streets were rolling green. “So...everything’s okay there, then. I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine. Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s healing. I think it’s going to...”
On the other end of the line, a siren flared, drowing out the rest of my brother’s response.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I said.

ford

twin beds

It's no secret that I love Hometown Tales, having mentioned the podcast several times in a blog that's ostensibly about illustrating for children. They're just that good. Today, I wrote in with another story, but in case it doesn't get on the air, I'm including it here. Credit should go to Mr. A.J. Belmont, who either experienced something exceptionally freaky, or told me the most convincing campfire story I've ever heard.

About 10 years ago, when a friend of mine was living in an apartment building in Boston, one of his next-door neighbor’s was an elderly man. They ignored each other, for the most part, except to occasionally say hello.

At one point during his occupancy, my friend noticed a faint but terrible odor in the hallway. Over the next few days, the smell worsened. Some of the residents complained to the landlord. One evening, my friend came home from work to find the paramedics and police outside his apartment building. When he asked what had happened he was told that the elderly man had been found dead in bed. What’s more, he had been dead for at least two weeks.

After my friend was allowed to enter the premises again (presumably after the body had been taken away and the building fumigated), he had the opportunity to look inside the dead man’s apartment. Most of his furniture and possessions had yet to be removed, including the man’s bed, the headboard of which was pushed up against the wall. When my friend returned to his apartment he realized that the headboard of his bed was pushed up against the opposite side of the same wall. He had been sleeping head to head with a dead man for two weeks.

killing time

Living in the serial killer capital of the United States (unverified) can really make you blue, sometimes. Not that I blame flesh eating psychopaths for my mood, lately. But there is something desolate about Milwaukee. When I first visited here, about 5 years ago, I said "it looks like the city was attacked by zombies." Then, in the 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead, it was, confirming that if it wasn't already ruled by the zombies, its seeming lack of human population would make it a prime candidate for takeover.

It hasn't happened, yet, which is a shame, really. I could use a distraction about now, and plowing through an army of the undead with a Humvee sounds like a decent way to kill a few hours.

doughnut 2

the waiting game

I used to think of myself as a patient person, but it's impossible to pretend that I am, anymore. Instant (or at least, consistent) gratification seems scarily vital to me, now, and I'm not sure I like it (on the other hand, I don't know how to fight it). I think part of the reason why I started this blog is because it satisfies that ever-growing part of me that needs to see results yesterday.

Right now is a particularly frustrating time for me, as I wait for my editor's comments on my developing picture book that I alluded to way back when. There's nothing to do but wait until he's finished, and even when the waiting's done, there may be more revisions, which will be sent back to my editor to await, possibly, more comments. Additionally, the book is being brought to another imprint. That means that a new art director (hopefully, someone who doesn't think the book is junk) has to be appointed. At present, I'm approximating a release date sometime in early 2032.

I'm down about it, but I shouldn't be, especially with all the great things happening lately. In some way, though, it's those very things that are making me anxious to get moving. I've written a book that folks have actually read (and some of them even liked it). I've got a good head a steam built up, but what good is that when you've got nowhere to go?

car

golden kite

Okay, now I'm really freaked out: I just got a call from the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators informing me that Hippo! No, Rhino is a Golden Kite Award Honor Book. The Golden Kite is awarded to only eight books (including both an award and honor recipient in each of the four categories) out of over one thousand submissions each year. Moreover, the winners are chosen by fellow authors and illustrators! I'm too bewildered to comment, at the moment, but I would like to thank the two rhinoceroses and all of the confused patrons at Henry Vilas Zoo who made this book possible. This one's for you!

shirt