250 Words on Skydiving

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]

I parachuted out of a plane three times, which I am proud of because most people quit after one. 

I was in college. The jump school at the tiny airport—so tiny I once I drove my car onto the runway thinking it was a road—was operated out of a ramshackle hut by a grizzled Korean War paratrooper, George, who warmed his classes with an oil drum fire he fueled by squirting gasoline into it.

These days, I understand novice skydivers jump from 10,000 feet in tandem, an instructor strapped to their backs. Back then we jumped solo from 3,000 feet, using a static line that opened our chutes for us. Over time, you’d demonstrate the form and skill needed to jump from higher altitudes and pull your own ripcord. 

I didn’t advance that far. 

A year or two after my third jump, when I still hadn’t entirely retired the idea of jumping again someday, George died in a skydiving accident. He’d been sitting near the open door of the plane when the emergency chute on his chest popped open and caught the wind. In jump school he’d taught us that, if that happens, you immediately leap out the door after it. George didn’t, his chute tangled in the tail, and he fell to his death.

I figured that if my jumpmaster sensei could go out like that, I wouldn’t have stood a chance, and that was the end of my skydiving adventure. It was glorious while it lasted. 

All Done Painting the Roses Red

Before and After: a few days ago, I posted some studies I did in preparation for doing a painting I promised Karen for our living room (you may recall that her only requirements were "big" and "red"). I also promised to share the results. Well, now it's done. Pic 1 above the blank sheet of watercolor paper I gave her for her birthday two months ago. Pic 2 below is the finished art. It'll do.

The Dog That Didn't Bark

I rarely post about current events for two reasons: nobody cares what I think, nor should they, and; I've never seen a Facebook post change anyone's mind. Still, I have two unrelated observations with a common thread:

1. Watching the Democratic National Convention, I've seen Barack and Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, Jimmy Carter's grandson, JFK's grandson, and all sorts of governors, senators and representatives. More are forthcoming.

In contrast, where were George W. and Laura Bush at the Republican Convention? Where were Dick Cheney and Dan Quayle? Descendants of Ford, Reagan, Bush or Bush? Where was Mike Pence--oh yeah, his former boss tried to murder him. 

It's a very stark contrast between a political party and a former political party that's become a one-man cult of personality. I think the list of people who DON'T show up is as interesting as the list of those who do.

2. Similarly, I'm fascinated by what ISN'T happening in the Middle East, namely that Iran hasn't carried out its promised retribution against Israel for the death of Hamas leader Ismail Haniyeh in Tehran. Like Sherlock Holmes in the story "Silver Blaze," I am struck by the silence of the dog that didn't bark. 

Although this thought could be rendered obsolete at any second, it seems to me that there must be frantic diplomacy happening behind the scenes, probably involving the U.S. and several other countries, scrambling hard to keep the lid on this mess. Somebody's been talking to Iran and making it very clear to them where their larger interests lie.

In art it's called "negative space," the shape of the nothing around something you're drawing. Your geopolitical thought of the day: "nothing" can be as revealing as "something."

250 Words on the Odds

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]

Studying quantum physics* taught me that reality is a crapshoot.

Electrons, protons, neutrons, etc. aren’t tiny marbles that orbit and ricochet off each other. That old Bohr atomic model was obsolete a century ago. Instead, each is a nebulous cloud of space that has an extremely high probability of behaving like an electron, proton or neutron. It could also behave like a donut. The odds are never 100 percent, and whenever you try to pin one down it squirms away.

Einstein said, “God does not play dice with the universe,” but the science says She does. We are all the consequence of trillions of individual subatomic dice throws happening every picosecond of our lives. 

Those probabilities can be expressed as a wave function, like an enormous squiggly curve, just as throwing two dice produces a bell curve that peaks on the number seven. Electrons, protons and neutrons are all wave functions and we are the sum—the superposition—of all the probability waves that comprise us. I’m a wave, you’re a wave. Hello, my wave is waving to your wave.

In 1763, writer, editor, and lexicographer Samuel Johnson answered a philosophical argument that nothing truly exists by kicking a large stone as hard as he could and declaring, “I refute it thus!”

All Johnson proved was that the odds of his and the stone’s wave functions occupying the same space at the same time were vanishingly small. Whether that says anything about the reality of their mutual existence is debatable. 

* I don't assume that all my friends and readers know I got my bachelor's degree in physics, so I have actually studied quantum mechanics. I did some time in Hilbert Space. That in no way makes me an expert—mostly it taught me exactly how ignorant I was—but I think it does make me better informed than most. Also, this footnote does not count against my 250-word limit, a loophole I may exploit in the future!

I'm Painting the Roses Red...

Having finished work on what I hope will be my fifth graphic novel (the Magic 8 Ball says "Cannot predict now"), I'm taking a moment between gigs to make some art. Self-indulgent, not-meant-for-publication, just-for-fun art. 

I've never displayed my own artwork around the house, but since we moved into our rebuilt home Karen has wanted a piece for our living room that meets two criteria: 1. Big. 2. Red. We looked at paintings and prints but couldn't find one we both liked enough. Finally, for her birthday a couple of months ago, I bought her a large blank sheet of 300-lb cold-press watercolor paper and promised to put a painting on it.

Some readers and friends like seeing my process. Here's how I'm making something that's not a comic.

I thought I'd do roses since they come in red and our living room window looks out onto our rose garden. I've spent some time doing studies to try out a variety of styles, compositions, colors, etc. The thing about studies is that they're not meant to be finished pieces. Rather, they're a way of testing different ideas to see which ones work. Risk is the point. Some earlier studies were failures but I think this one is heading in the right direction. 

For this piece, I outlined the roses with a loosely brushed ink line. I wanted it to look like something within my stylistic wheelhouse without being outright cartoony, and also be graphically bold rather than photorealistic (which I'm not sure I could pull off anyway). It's not obvious in the scan, but the roses are painted in three subtly different shades of red.

Pencil.

Ink.

First Layer of Watercolor.

More Layers of Watercolor.

This study is 11x15 inches. Once I get approval from my discerning client, Karen, I'll scale it up to about 22x30. With luck, the final piece will be 1. Big, 2. Red, and 3. Not an embarrassment. I'll let you know how it goes.

250 Words on The Circle of Life

[I try to start my day writing a 250-word piece on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]

I was born in 1960. When I was young, I knew old folks born in the 1800s. Today, many of the children I know will see the 2100s. 

How extraordinary that my life can dip one toe into the 19th century and another into the 22nd! It’s a reminder of how short history really is. An old person holds a baby who grows into an old person who holds a baby; stretch that chain a mere couple dozen times and you’re back to the days of ancient Rome. 

My daughters, who were born in the late 20th century, pointed out that bartenders hardly need to do math anymore. All they have to see on your ID is the “19” starting your birth year to know you’re old enough to drink. My girls already anticipate a day when awestruck youngsters ask them, “What were the 1900s like?” They think of their cohort as the last to remember a world with no Internet.

I once asked my mother what it was like being a teen in the 1950s, expecting colorful tales of soda fountains, drive-in movies, sock hops, and Elvis. “Pretty much like now,” she shrugged. “With better music and cars.”

I was dumbfounded until I realized I’d say the same about the 1970s. Our clothes and hair were over the top and no one had a computer-camera-phone in their pocket, but I think the experience of being a teen was pretty much the same as now. 

With better music and cars.

Tim Walz Fixed Your Bicycle

I'm really enjoying the ton of Tim Walz memes zipping around. America's Foster Dad. This is my favorite so far, although I'm peeved that Walz stole the stud-finder move that I, personally, invented. 

Related, I've read more serious articles talking about how he embodies what real masculinity is about: not the strutting, domineering, macho bully sort, but the secure, caring, quiet sort. As they say, a real man doesn't need to tell you what a real man he is. In contrast to "toxic masculinity," I saw it called "tonic masculinity," and like that a lot. 

Politics is gonna get real, there will be disappointments, and we have difficult and even dangerous days ahead, but what a relief it is to let it be FUN for a bit. 

I found this meme at https://timwalzfixedyourbicycle.com . Refresh the page repeatedly for more.

250 Words On Anachronistic Voyages

[For a while, I’ve started most days writing 250 words about random topics just to prime the creativity pump. I have a big backlog, and will post a piece every Monday until I run out of good ones.]

In Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, 19th-century industrialist Hank Morgan awakens in 6th-century Britain, where his engineering knowledge makes him a rival to Merlin. He avoids execution because he knows a solar eclipse is coming, and threatens to extinguish the Sun. Morgan then “invents” gunpowder, firearms, landmines, lightning rods and such that make him the most powerful man in the realm.

It's a swell fantasy. Travel to yesterday and be hailed as a god!  However, I don’t think it would go so well for those of us who haven’t memorized old eclipse almanacs or how to forge steel. We’re too stupid. 

Even a smart phone would be mostly useless. The music, photo, and video apps would be marvels—until the battery died. Assuming you could convince anyone that someday Columbus would stumble onto the Americas or men would walk on the Moon, what value would that information have? You’d be thought mad, babbling in a strange tongue, possessed by demons.

Yes, I have overthought this. 

If I had a modest blacksmith shop at my disposal, I think I could build a pendulum clock from scratch. Possibly a doorbell or telegraph (they work the same). Maybe a steam engine, if I didn’t blow myself up.

Probably the biggest bang for my future-knowledge buck would be in medicine. Simply understanding the Germ Theory of disease and the importance of sanitation would do a lot to improve ancient healthcare outcomes. I’d be a saint. Or a witch. Either way.

Comic-Con Commission Sketch

I'm working on the commissions I got through the Cartoon Art Museum's "Sketch-a-Thon at Home" Comic-Con fundraiser. This request was for the Mechanical Monster, one of the robots Superman fought in his 1941 cartoon and also the star of my most recent graphic novel. This requester paid a premium price, which implies some extra characters and color, so I hope they don't mind that I threw in Superman. 

This is my interpretation of how Superman looked in those Fleischer cartoons, so his costume is a little different. His build is stocky, like a circus strong man, more Charles Atlas than Schwarzenegger, so I didn't over-define his muscles. 

Ink and color pencil on cardstock. I'm embarrassed to admit how much time I spend on these; let's just say that CAM is getting a substantial donation of my time as well as the commissioner's cash.