Friday, June 17, 2016

After, against, along, among, around, at. Before, behind, below, beneath, between, but, by...Have I got a preposition for you?

1917.  The year of my birth.  Or so it feels.  Like the city.  Downtown L.A.  It's me.  I know it.  Knew it.  But now it's different.  It was once familiar.  But now it's changed.  I love that building.  The Million Dollar Movie Theater (like on Channel 9 during the late '50s and early '60s).  The theatre across from the Bradbury Building on Broadway.  Seeing those buildings is like looking in the mirror every day.  The structure is familiar, sort of.  But not so erect these days (*giggles*).  Possibly a needed retro fit.

How about that title, hey?  Reminds me of the days('60s & '70s) when film titles thought it was cool to be sort of endless.  DOCTOR STRANGELOVE, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb.  CAN HEIRONYMOUS MERKIN EVER FORGET MERCY HUMPPE AND FIND TRUE HAPPINESS?  OH DAD, POOR DAD, MOMMA"S HUNG YOU IN THE CLOSET AND I'M FEELIN' SO SAD.  WHO IS HARRY KELLERMAN AND WHY IS HE SAYING THOSE THINGS ABOUT ME?  My favourite is THE PERSECUTION AND ASSASSINATION OF JEAN-PAUL MARAT AS PERFORMED BY THE INMATES OF THE ASYLUM OF CHARENTON UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE MARQUIS DE SADE.  Of course, this one gets off the hook by simply being referred as MARAT/SADE.  The title itself?  It's one of those early childhood memories that refuse to dislodge from the cranial caverns, while more pressing current information is instantly forgotten.  It reminds me of a delightful CALVIN & HOBBES cartoon strip, where Calvin's father gets up from the chair and sez, "Why is it I can remember a jingle from an old '50s cigarette commercial, but I can't remember why I got out of my chair?"


The title ends with one of my earliest puns.  I can't recall anything else from letter C to Z.

This childhood flashback recalls another moment of madness in the First Grade Finger Painting Class.  Raymond Elementary School, Fullerton, California.  Our finger painted efforts are hanging on the chalkboard.  Every student is asked by the teacher to describe their efforts.  Each youngster points out their horse on the farm, skyscraper, jet flying in clouds, etc.  My work is nothing but colourful swirls.  The teacher asks, "So Guy, what is your drawing of?"  And swear to Dios, I replied, "It's my forged Picasso."  More proof, that I was not of this planet.

I leave you with an early version of SPACE PIRATE RADIO art for local press done by Mike Merenbach.  The final version as printed is on an earlier entry.  On this one, which is totally different from the published version, Mike did not finish the head.  Somehow, in my present state of decay, it seems appropriate.  Hasta lumbago, everyone!