And so it goes.

I have successfully maintained very few things in my life. Blogs are never them. I always get lazy, slip up, fall off the blog wagon. I have little time in the day lately. I have just enough time to work, eat, spend time with my wife, and think up excuses not to write or draw or do anything creative. Days off involve more of the last bit. The excuses. And a lot of Netflix documentaries. Did you know that Thomas Jefferson helped introduce the tomato plant to America?

In the first three weeks of having this blog, I posted 50 entries. In the past month, maybe five or six. It happens. I will do some drawing today, if I get in the mood. I will try to post more. See if anyone starts reading again.

Here's an old picture, redone.

The staidest generation

New iphone camera app. It's pretty sweet. Just a bunch of filters, but nice ones, to add to photos. It's called photosuite. I'll posts some previous doodles that I ran through the app.

More importantly, I have been totally obsessed with High Noon. Non-iphone-users, well, go eat your own vaginas. But if you do have an iphone (or comprable device, I don't know if it crosses platforms), get this game! It's a simple multiplayer old west duel. Here's the hook. You are dueling with real people, in real time, and your digital bullets are traveling through space! Isn't that just incredible? Fucking space! Instant!


Words with Friends has a couple second delay for some reason. But, be honest, you usually only play that game sitting across the dinner table with your spouse/friend. You are your grandparents; you just haven't invested in a real scrabble board. Likely, you haven't invested in the IRA that they use to fund their trips to Gettysburg either. You have no tangible games to play, nor tangible assets to divest. You write blogs about cool new apps. You are at least two generations away from noble, interesting, even respectable people.

Anyway, here are my cool filtered pictures.

Netflix!

Did you know that The Twilight Zone is the greatest black & white show besides I Love Lucy? It's true. Indisputable. And, yes, it is on Netflix, the greatest invention ever. The reason why Colleen and I won't be paying another cable bill for a good long while, maybe forever. Well, that and bittorrent.

Other shows worth mentioning on Netflix are MST3K, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Stand (miniseries), Dark Shadows, The Tick, every Futurama incarnation imaginable, and my new obsession, Sports Night! It stars Peter Krause before Six Feet Under, and it has Bill Macy! Plus, it was created and written by Aaron Sorkin.

Speaking of Aaron Sorkin, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is also on Netflix. It only ran for a season, and it was crushed by the fact that it had a similar premise to 30 Rock. It stars Matthew Perry in his greatest role since Fools Rush In. It was a tremendous show. It is worth checking out, and it's definitely one of those shows where you will be hooked after the first episode.

I have nothing more to say. I could go on about the glory of Netflix, but I sense this is incredibly boring.

Something needs to be said.

Male nudity in front of someone new is marked by one universal, superbly dumb-looking behavior. If only we were as aware of ourselves as we tend to think we are at that moment--which tends to bring our bodies into the forefront of our focus in a hyper way, the sensuous equivalent to a cheesy movie camera’s frantic zoom-in-from-a-great-distance move--if only we were truly aware and not just self-conscious, we might behave in a much more suitable way, if at least more flattering.

Let me describe a scene. A man and a woman who have been flirting with the idea of becoming nude in the same room together, for whatever reason, though the reason is usually quite clear, however coyly they have avoided discussing it expressly. It may be less than 24 hours since they have met, or it may be on their wedding night. No matter how close they are socially, the ritual that occurs seems, to me, to be quite common, with few variants. Though, I must state that popular dramatic media such as literature and movies have trodden over this occasion with such banal generalness, and at such a high rate of repetition, that when we think of this moment, we might play a clip from Top Gun in our heads instead of a real memory.

An aside. I am tempted to write an entire essay on this subject (media‘s effect on reality with regard to human interaction), but I am afraid it must have been written already, over and over, with equivalent banal repetition as the subject itself. I am still tempted to clarify my point as briefly as possible. It is a simple and obvious point, so it requires little explanation. Human interaction in real life is, mostly, quite boring and awkward. We say the right things at the right time very infrequently. Most of our time is spent silently with each other. We stutter and fumble. Movies, literature, and other forms of entertainment do not contain these characteristics, unless they are trying at some sort of irony. And so, if entertainment mirrored reality in a precise way, why on earth would we bother with it instead of just going on with our lives? It must dramatize real life to be called entertainment at all. It does have an unintended effect, though, which I feel silly even mentioning. It causes us, as humans in real life, to expect real life to be as exciting as what we see in movies or read in books. I feel silly saying this because I feel silly for behaving this way. But I do. We all do, to some degree. We seek entertainment (in the form of movies and books and so on) in some way to supplement the lack of interesting shit in our lives that we expect because of entertainment. It’s a big, moronic cycle, but so sadly true.

Let me continue with the scenario. The precise moment when our fantasy comes to a halt is the moment of first nudity. This is a moment when we are brought away from the drama of flirting or dating or behaving like those people in movies, and back to fumbling reality. The ritual. For women, the thought process is similar to men to the extent that both parties are wholly focused on themselves. They have little to no awareness of the other naked person in the room. But I must remove the variants before I continue this discussion.

One main variant to this scenario involves a man who will not allow himself to be seen naked until he is fully ready. The term ‘ready’ here refers to the readiness of his penis. There are such men who will go to great lengths to never allow their partners to see their flaccid penises, even in long-term relationships. This appears to be more common than I had realized before discussing this subject with others (women, specifically). How this sort of secrecy can be maintained over the course of years baffles me, and the psychological implications are just too shallow and base to warrant discussion here. The female equivalent to this behavior would be the lights-off-during-sex type of woman. Another variant, though much less common, I am sure, involves men whose penises are about the same size when flaccid and erect. There is a colloquial term for this, usually expressed inversely as an excuse for men who insist their penises change form and size quite a bit from one state to the other. We all know the saying, and I frankly don’t care to type it out here, but I will remind you that it rhymes, in case we are on different pages.

With those exceptions removed, I must now discuss the difference between men and women, for interests of clarity and fairness. Women, in the moment of first nudity, can and generally do experience the same anxiety and self-consciousness as men. This is obvious and, in our society, well-established: women are expected to be insecure about their bodies. Men are expected to be less aware. And, to the point, men can be very unaware of their entire bodies at this moment of nudity. They tend to me more focused on a single body part. And finally, the argument I have been trying to get to, through all of this digression and rambling, is that men have a distinct, hilarious reaction to their self-consciousness at this very moment, which is quite different to women. Women, as a reaction to the feeling of self-consciousness and acute awareness of their bodies, tend to do their best to appear attractive. This might have been practiced in early puberty, and onward, in front of a mirror.

The woman in the moment of first nudity will try to strike what she has determined to be an attractive pose. Whether it involves arching the back, or making sure never to bend forward, for fear of allowing the belly to show any miniscule sign of a roll of fat (no matter how skinny she is, mind you), she will find some position that she has determined flattering. If only she knew that the man in the room with her has close to zero percent of his attention placed on her. He may be looking right at her, even speaking to her about her appearance, but let me assure you that he has only the smallest bit of his awareness focused on her, if any at all.

The man, in this instance, feels all of that self-consciousness and hyper-awareness that is usually reserved for the fragile woman and not the strong, dumb, loping man, but which occurs in all of us, at I assume a similar frequency across the sexes, with the only difference being the way we react to this feeling. And this is my point. This is, finally, where I get to discuss a very bizarre behavior exhibited by men in reaction to this universal feeling of self-consciousness. Instead of trying to strike an attractive pose or act naturally and confident, men tend to swat at their penises.

Yes.

Swat may be too violent of a verb. Call it juggling or bobbling or batting. The point is that the man immediately and quite frantically touches his flaccid penis in an attempt to grow it. This must be, I am sure, some sort of subconscious reflex. If the man knew what he looked like when batting at his penis, if he was even slightly aware of his appearance and how bizarre it looks, he might decide that the softness of his penis is a much lesser worry. The fact that he is juggling his genitalia like so many baboons at the zoo is much more embarrassing than the natural state of said battered genitalia.

This behavior baffles me. As a result of our alertness of our bodies as something to be seen and evaluated, we choose the most unflattering action possible. Truly, like a monkey. And the whole tableaux is more than just a little funny. The woman is arching quite uncomfortably and artificially on one side of the room, wondering what the man thinks about each self-perceived imperfection on her body. The man, on the other side of the room, is frantically bobbling his junk (or variably tugging on it like taffy), completely unaware of anything but the thoughts in his head, which usually include the paradox of trying to will his penis to a larger state while knowing all the while that the more he thinks about it, the more difficult it will be to achieve erection (note that I chose the word ‘difficult’ instead of ‘hard’ to avoid confusion). There could be a home invader in between the two, or a giant, ferocious grizzly, or zombie Hitler, and neither the man nor the woman would have a clue.

Pointing out the ludicrousness of this scenario would be redundant, but it’s still fun. This is a moment where connection tends to jump to a whole new level. Sex bonds people in a rapid way, whether they just met or are long-time friends. But at this moment just before the bond occurs, there is absolutely zero connection, except for the rare occasion where both people become simultaneously aware of how self-conscious they both are, and a moment of eye-contact and psychic connection causes instant laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole thing, which (the laughter) can create an even more powerful bond than the sex to follow, because it is a moment of unspoken but real honesty.

And, much like the sex to follow, this essay ends abruptly, with little satisfaction to likely be derived.

Osama Bin Laden

Now that Osama Bin Laden is dead, I am preparing myself to find out who at work is going to make an overtly racist comment to me. This is one fringe benefit of Bin Laden's death. Easy discovery of racism.

Words on the back of sweatpants that didn't sell

SOGGY
STINKY
DROOPY
POOPY
LEAKY
FARTY
DIMPLY
PIMPLY
NAZI
COCKY
HERPY
CHUNKY
DUMPY
FRUMPY
LUMPY
FAT

Process post: face

I decided to take a few pictures while I draw my face. I intended to take a bunch, but I ended up getting too involved in the drawing. So, here are a few pictures. The first is just outlines of features. I always start with eyes, work down to the mouth, then decide what facial outline would fit those features.

The next picture is just facial detail. If I took more pictures, you would see that I start by adding detail to the eyes and nose, then the rest. I add facial hair after the face is shaded. It's usually an afterthought, and sometimes not included.

I save the hair for the end because it's a pain in the ass. The hair is what causes me to replace my pens so often.

The eyes I usually leave blank, but for the sake of having another photo to post, I added them. Better with or without eyes? Tough call.

I Love Lucy

Here I am, curled in a ball. Snot is in various places on my body and the bed. She is rubbing my back between my shoulder blades. She is saying "it's okay." My legs are jerking. One has a quick, stilted shudder. The other swirls, as if riding an invisible bike. I haven't thought about this in years. I feel like I am going to vomit.

He was my mother's boyfriend. His name was Bob. He taught me how to draw and introduced me to the Three Stooges. He once made my mom really angry, I remember, when he brought home a carton of mushrooms, of which my mom is allergic. He said, "You don't have to eat them." She didn't want them in her house, and she was very particular about this. They screamed at each other about this in the kitchen while I sat at the table. The big mushroom fight. Looking back, I wonder what they were fighting about.

She says, "Don't worry baby. I'm in my pajamas, so it's okay if you throw up."

I remember other things. Not many. I remember that my dog ran away. I remember a yellow upholstered stool that I used to climb onto so that I could achieve a higher vantage when the grown-ups were in the kitchen. I remember the royal blue shag carpet in my bedroom. I remember hiding in my toy chest. I would crouch down and stay there until someone noticed I was gone and started looking for me. I remember hiding in that toy chest for very long periods of time and eventually crawling out by myself. I would run into the living room, where my mom and Bob would be on the couch, and I would shout, "Here I am!" I don't say this to sound like I was a victim of neglect. I don't know why I say this. It's just a memory. One of a few from that age.

I am on the bed, in a ball, and I keep saying that I'm sorry. I don't know why. Neither does she. I just keep saying it. I flinch when she touches my shoulders. "It's okay," she says. I flinch.

I have one funny story from back then. I was five, or maybe four. I only remember bits of it, and it's one of those you-had-to-be-there stories, so you might not find it very funny at all. My mom was at work, and my brother must have been at school. I suppose I was too young for school yet, so I was probably four. I was sitting on Bob's lap and we were watching black and white TV. I remember that image, anyway. Sitting on his lap, black and white TV. I don't remember the whole setup. I remember that his face was always stubbly. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my cheek. I remember how that sandpaper skin felt on my neck. I remember that his hand was almost the size of my entire back. His breath was warm and stale and smoky. I remember trying to bury my body, head first, as deep into the couch as possible. I remember trying to sink and disappear between the couch cushions. His monster hand rubbed my back, and his breath was warm and stale and smoky. "It's okay," he said. The punchline. "It's okay."

I am sobbing on the bed. I am in my mid-twenties and I feel like I am five, maybe four. There is a distinct feeling of childhood. It can't be described. I am telling her to stop rubbing my back, but it is such a natural reflex when trying to comfort. She holds me tight, trying to stop the shaking. I am repeating my apologies. She says it's okay. I mostly believe her.

When I was seventeen, my mom confessed that Bob sold the dog. It never did run away. I like cats anyway.

Beastie Boys: Fight for your Right Revisited (in three parts)

An Open Letter to Nicolas Cage

Dear Nicolas Cage,

Do you remember young Nic Cage, Nic Cage? Remember that movie where you thought you were a vampire? That was awesome. Remember 90s Nic Cage? Remember your where-the-fuck-are-you-from accent that dipped in and out in Con-Air? Remember friggin Face-Off? The Rock? Do you remember when your hairline stayed in the same spot on your head? Remember pre-weave Nic Cage?

Do you remember when you didn't make terrible movie after terrible movie to get out of debt? Do you remember that, Nicolas Cage? Do you remember when you didn't beat your wife, get arrested, and get bailed out by Dog the Bounty Hunter? I remember that Nic Cage.

The you I remember was H.I. McDunnough, baby-thief. You had a receding hairline. In the 80s. Your hair wasn't jet-black. Your face wasn't freakishly pulled back. You won a fucking Academy Award! I even liked your marble-mouthed, sad-sack performance in City of Angels. I liked that move, Nicolas. I liked you!

And I trusted you, God damn it! I saw Lord of War in the theater!

Now, I just don't know what to do with you. I miss you. I miss the days where I could call you ugly because of your dumb cow eyes, not your wigs and plastic surgery disasters. I miss your stoic performances sprinkled with bouts of batshit flailing. I miss Castor fucking Troy! Where the hell did he go?

What happened, Nicolas Cage? Where did things go wrong? You were such a good actor in a couple of your movies. You picked decent scripts. You worked with Martin Scorsese. You certainly did not star in 3-D knockoffs of shitty movies you made ten years ago. And you didn't beat your wife. You used to go to jail for defending your wife's honor. Remember? Yeah, that was in the movie Con-Air, not your real life, but I had no idea what was going on in your real life back then. This is probably because you weren't fucking insane back then.

Maybe you were, I don't know. But if you were insane even back then, in the 90s, I had no idea. You know why? Because all I paid attention to was your movies, which were good enough to overshadow your possible insanity. Now, I have the choice between watching Bankok Dangerous or watching your face melt like a nazi at the opening of the Ark of the Covenant.

Thanks, Nic Cage. You are such an asshole.

Sincerely,

Kevin Lester

P.S. You suck.

Scientific Observation

Failed Cosmetic Procedures

Some old new thing.

Here is another drawing of my face. This time, it has a neck. I will be working all evening, and you will have the pleasure of looking at a picture of my face in the meanwhile. You're welcome.

On my face.

I am off my game today with regard to drawing famous people. As usual, when I am having trouble with whatever it is I want to work on, I take a break and draw self-portraits. I don't know precisely why always do this, but I do. When I try to write and the words come out clunkily or not at all, I take a break and draw a picture ofmy face. Same with drawing and painting.

I used to just draw pictures of my face exclusively. It was at a time when I lacked any confidence, I realize as I now reflect. I wasn't brave enough to try things outside of my comfort zone. All shit stems from some fear of failure. It used to keep me wrapped in a ball, constantly anxious, muscles sore from nervous shaking. And somewhere in that ball I had a pen and some paper, and I compulsively scribbled pictures of my face, most of them ugly and distorted.

Nowadays, I suppose I use the self-portrait as some bizarre form of therapy. It's similar to masturbation releiving sexual frustration. A quick jerky sketch relieves the artistic flow that occasionally gets blocked.

So, here is today's ugly, distorted picture of my face:

Haley Joel Osment

The first in my series of celebrities who look like Matt Rowan is Haley Joel Osment. It's hard to draw soft faces with ink. The gentle curves of Mr. Osment's cheeks and nose beg for the soft touch of a pencil. I have the exact same issue when trying to draw women. Ink does not work, especially not with my hand. I need more rugged faces with which to work.

The Des Plaines Theatre

I have not updated in a while. I am more busy lately, having a job and all, so the time I spend considering writing in this blog lasts just the moment it takes to say to myself, "I should post something." Today is a day off, so I have some time.
Last night, I was reminded of the benefit of actually having friends. I don't have many friends. What I do have is a charming, witty, affable wife. Consequently, I get the opportunity to hang out with her friends. Yesterday, a few of them went to see her play, and we had dinner after. Fortunately, one of the dinner guests was the infamous Brian Wolf.

For those who don't know, Brian Wolf is a fellow WMTH alumnus and a super-awesome historian. A great fringe benefit of being Brian Wolf's friend is that he has keys to the Des Plaines Theatre. If you grew up in Des Plaines, you remember the shit pile that was the Des Plaines Theatre. Very few people know the tremendous history and beauty that has been buried under black curtains, ugly carpeting, and bollywood movies.

Now, the theatre is undergoing some incredible restoration. The two screening rooms were opened back up to one, and the old stage that was used for vaudeville was revealed anew. Right now, in the middle of its restoration, the Des Plaines Theatre looks beautiful. I cannot wait until it opens up. I hope they put on live shows and stuff.

Anyway, last night, we walked around, went into the old projection rooms, and went on the roof. I took pictures.



Inverted Ziggy Stardust

In lieu of producing new work, I played around on photoshop today. You may notice the jarring nature of the background on this here blog. Here's an inverted and color-altered version of the Ziggy stencils I did a couple weeks ago. See earlier posts for originals.

Rick Moranis

Last night, Colleen and I watched the musical classic, Little Shop of Horrors. The 80s version. It left me thinking, why did Rick Moranis not have an immense career? He was/is so talented, although I imagine he's all old and fat now, so the boyish charm he had in the 80s has likely faded. Then again, Bill Murray has yet to lose his charm, no matter how old and fat he gets.

Speaking of Bill Murray, Colleen suggested that Bill Murray's best comedic performance may have been the single scene he had in Little Shop of Horrors. It is an amazing scene. Hard to argue. Steve Martin, however, steals the whole movie. He is incredible. If you haven't seen the movie, check it out if only for Steve Martin as a would-be serial killer who became a dentist to satisfy his sadistic tendencies.

I do love Rick Moranis, though. That is the point. He shrank [sic] the kids, he was the keymaster, and he was Lord Dark Helmet. I am hoping for a Rick Moranathon. We'll see if my giving, selfless, generous, amazing wife will agree. I know she will. She loves me.

Here's Rick Moranis, sketched in pen.

Charcoal with glasses and mustache.

Charcoal and grammar.

Got my charcoal from my dad's house, so i decided I'd give it a whirl tonight. I haven't worked with charcoal in very very long, so I started with a plain old self-portrait. Stay tuned for more, maybe.

An aside. Dear place where I work, there is a difference between acronyms and initialisms. Please learn the difference and stop calling plain old initialisms acronyms. The rule is simple. If you pronounce it as a word (SCUBA or FUBAR), it is an acronym. If it's just a bunch of letters to initialize a phrase (FTD, DTF), then it is a simple initialism. Seriously, I don't want to have to correct my bosses about this, but I may be forced to, lest I explode.

Haz Basement Cat Finally Found Love? (Page 1)

Excerpt from Henry’s semi-private blog, “Strike Force 4: The Rise and Fall of Basement Cat: A Lonely, Unwitnessed Exploration, or How to Whine to Friends under the Influence, People.”

4 Aug. 2010, 01:33 A.M.

wondedays imma get me a girlfriend. wondedays imma own that bank, then we’ll see who’s loanin what to whom, fucker. my aunt was just diagnosed with stage four wondedays. when are you going to finally toss out that old piece of trash and get you a wondedays? it looks like i picked the wrong day to start huffing wondedays. are you going to wondedays this year? i hear they’re doing face painting! hey, i’m just talkin bout wondedays. he’s a bad mother-won-de-days.

it’s a great word. i’m trying to get it to meme or turn it into a meme or something. i’m not really sure what meme means. like signifying. someone give me a concise, meaningful definition of the word “signifying” and i will give you a million wondedays.

anyway, wondedays. it’s my new word. it’s like “one of these days.” but it can mean absolutely anything. it’s versatile, much like me, sexually. top, bottom, wondedays, whatever.

no, i’m not gay, but i have dabbled in wondedays. once or twice. hey, it was college. who hasn’t succumbed to wondedays at least once in his life? let he without wondedays throw the first wondedays.                    so yeah. wondedays. pass it on. it’s going to be big.

Henry has a few blogs. This one is read by subscribers only, so four people: his older brother, two friends from his lolcatz forum, and one stranger with a female name, Jules, but the picture of a black man as an avatar.

This blog is used primarily for random thoughts and occasional hyper-personal revelations, which means he writes in it when he is drunk and lonely at night. His main blog is "Sanctuaris Felidae": a public blog where he maintains a steady stream of homemade lolcatz pictures, using his three cats. He also features particularly poignant or hilarious pictures from bigger lolcatz sites, or whatever he finds and likes on forums.

The last blog is a secret blog. He writes posts on occasion, but every entry is set to private. There are no subscribers. It's like a real diary, but he can make it public any time, which he has vague intentions of doing at some point, maybe, but who knows.

The "wondedays" entry is of particular interest tonight (August 6th, 2010) because Henry just noticed a comment. It was from Jules, the black guy. "Wondedays, you'll realize how much I love you."

It's a girl. It's Samuel L. Jackson in the picture. It must be a girl named Jules. Henry reads the comment, and the voice that plays in his head is soft and sultry. Something warm, some voice from a bygone age, is in that voice he imagines. He pictures a curly bob haircut and heavy eye makeup. He doesn't know why.

Please let it be a girl, he thinks. Who do I know named Jules, he thinks.

Libya Fist Pump

This is my wife's and my intro into posting videos on youtube. Hopefully, it will be the last.

The genesis of this video involves me hearing this absolutely terrible song on the Howard Stern show and playing it for Colleen. It is the sort of song that will never ever ever leave your head once you hear it. You will catch yourself in front of the microwave, days later, and it will be whirling in your head "I do my fist pump pump pump pump pump pump," and you will hate yourself.

So, a few nights ago, while watching CNN, Colleen pointed out that the Libyan protestors were fist pumping, and we considered what hilarity might occur with this awful song playing in the background. Only after it was made did we consider whether it might be offensive. We're still not sure.

Comics

You know you have no life if your main goal of the day is to get retweeted by Michael Ian Black.

In other news, I have nothing new to show. I did find some old comic strips that I made, though. They were stored in a box with art supplies so they are wrinkled and filthy, but here they are:

Algae and The Little Prince

I have nothing to post this morning. Tune in later for something new and original, hopefully. For now, here is an image I took when I went to visit my friend David at Cornell College, in Iowa. There was a man-made pond that washed up onto a concrete shore, which is interesting. The whole pond was covered in this neon green algae, so I photographed it.

That seemed a million years ago. The same day I found a pair of underwear growing next to a marijuana plant, feet from some dorm building. It was a good photo day. During that four or five day trip, I also stayed up and read "The Little Prince" for the first time.

If you haven't read that book, do it. It takes about two hours to get through, and it just may change your life. It is the book I have given away more than any other. I have replaced it too many times to count. So, get it. Go to Borders if there's still one open, go to the Children's book section, and get it for five bucks. Do it!

Old self-portrait, new self-congratulation

I went over to my dad's place today, so that means I smell like stale cigarettes. It also means I snagged a picture of an old piece of work I did in high school. This sucker got chosen for an art show my junior year, which means it got framed for free. It's a monster of a piece, so the framing would have been quite pricey. My dad got dibs on this one as soon as he saw it. I thought it was interesting because, while he has always been supportive of my creative side, he never really expressed interest in it until then.

Another story behind this. By junior year in high school, I fancied myself a full-on artist, and my portfolio was growing. Most of the work I did in high school was done that year, in room E-105, when I should have been doing class work. So, for the "Great Frame-Up" art show, I had quite a stack of stuff to submit.

On the last day of submission, I stood next to the pile that was collecting and I drew this on a piece of butcher paper in less than five minutes. It might have taken three minutes. I quickly sprayed it with fixative so it wouldn't get charcoal all over the other people's work, set it right on top to dry, and left for the next class.

In that submission stack, I had paintings that I had spent days on, various prints and drawings that I had worked on for weeks. I had my favorite self-portrait in that stack. The blue guy with the purple background. You've seen it a thousand times if you know me. They passed on that one. They chose this sketch. There's no accounting for taste. Still, though, it felt good to be selected.

Josh Homme

Boring day. Here is Josh Homme from the Queens of the Stone Age. He is much better looking than the sketch reveals. Looks like Craig Ferguson if Craig Ferguson could kick your ass.

A Very Open Letter to Anderson Cooper

Dear Anderson Cooper:

Please stop going to dangerous places. Please? There are so many other journalists who are less beautiful and talented than you. There's no reason for you to go. Come on, Anderson, just stay behind the desk and send Sanjay Gupta and Ben Wedeman. Nobody even knows who Ben Wedeman is! Frankly, I am not sure if I'm spelling his name right, and I'm too lazy to check! Because I don't care about him, Anderson. Not like I care about you.

I know you like excitement, Anderson. I can tell that about you. You're dangerous, and I won't pretend that doesn't make you like a hundred times more sexy, but please! Stay home. You don't get attacked at home in New York. Well, you might, but that would be totally random. You are going places where people hate you! They want to smash your face!

Your face, Anderson. Okay, maybe we can compromise. If you're going to go to some dangerous place where people want to hurt you, can you wear some sort of old diver's helmet or a welding mask or something? Maybe CNN can design some sort of Pope-mobile thing that just sits on your shoulders, so we can still see you, but no one can scar that incredible face...

Sorry, I lost concentration for a second, Anderson. Is it okay that I call you Anderson? Mr. Cooper seems so formal, and I don't see you as a formal guy. I imagine you relaxing at home in your v-neck cashmere sweater, maybe some boot-fit corduroys. Do you like oolong tea, Anderson? I bet you do. I like it with some high-quality Tupelo honey. I bet someone like you has the best honey in the world sitting in your cupboard. You probably collected it yourself, and without a beekeeper's suit. You are so brave.

But that is exactly what I am talking about, Anderson. You live too dangerously! Come on home, Anderson. Stay away from radiation. Avoid the Arab nations. Just get a flight straight home. I'll have some tea ready for you.

Love Always,

Kevin Lester

P.S.  Stay away from bees.

Bob Dylan

Here's a sketch of young Bob Dylan, before he died in that car crash and was replaced with Paul McCartney:

Paul McCartney

This is a quick sketch of Paul McCartney of Beatles fame. I'm not sure if this is the real Paul or the one they got to replace him after he died in that car crash. It's tough to remember the exact timeline on that whole thing. Anyway, ladies and germs, here he is, the best Beatle, Paul McCartney:

10 St. Patrick's Day Tips

Saint Patrick was an Englishman who, in his youth, was kidnapped and taken to Ireland, where he lived as a slave for about six years before escaping back to England. After joining the Church, he went back to Ireland as a bishop, where he is rumored to do a few great things.

Most notably, he chased the snakes out of Ireland, though, sadly, there is zero evidence of snakes ever existing in Ireland. He was also big on visual aids in his preaching. He is said to have used the shamrock as a tool for teaching the Irish about the Holy Trinity, which begs the question, "How many fingers did he have?"

He is also famous for his Shellelagh, pronounced racistly, "she-laaaay-lee." It's a walking stick. Rumor has it that when he would go up on a hill and evangelize to all the Irish folks, he'd jam that sucker into the ground. The story goes that one day, he had a whole hell of a lot of shit to say, just wouldn't stop yapping, and the stick was in the ground for so long that it took root and grew into a tree. So that's cool.

Now, the Englishman, patron saint of Ireland, is celebrated on the rumored day of his death. I can't speak for Ireland, but in America, it is quite the festival. So, here are a few tips for how to properly celebrate St. Patrick's day.

1. Bring a bag. A backpack works well, but a Camelbak is even better. If you don't know, a Camelbak is basically a backpack with a rubber bladder and a tube. Like a beer helmet for your back. You can fill it with whatever beverage you prefer, but might I recommend skipping beer. First of all, it usually only fits 100ml or so, and if it's sitting on your back all day, it will be warm and flat by the time it gets into your mouth. What I do recommend filling it with is tip number two.

2. Bring a lot of caffeine! I recommend red bull, but 5-hour energy is a more portable product, I suppose. You'll be hitting a bit of a slump in the early afternoon. It happens to the best of us. Starting the party too early inevitably leads to an earlier than expected crash. This leads to my next helpful tip.

3. Start drinking early. It's a weekday! You have work tomorrow, so If you're going to drink, you had better time it so you pass out at your usual bedtime.

4. Two words: piss jug.

5. Stay in highly populated areas. This makes all the difference. If you are going to bump into people and shout sexist, racist, and generally stupid shit throughout the day, you had better do it with a bunch of other people doing the same. It's the difference between being a publicly drunken asshole and an arrested drunken asshole. Also, when you are that drunk, you want to stay in the arena of mob rule.

6. Wear a shirt that is green, says something sexist, and has an arrow pointing toward your crotch. How else will the ladies be able to determine your intentions?

7. Do not puke into your piss jug. Splash back is a serious concern.

8. Fuck Lent. This is a feast day. Smoke your cigarettes, eat your chocolate, masturbate. No matter what you've given up until Easter, go balls out today.

9. Don't literally go balls out. The police are lenient on public drinking today, but not indecent exposure. It may be tempting, downright irresistible, I know. But fight the urge! Do not, under any circumstances, show your balls in public. Well, unless your male friends are standing around you in a circle, chanting and egging you on. Then, go for it. Otherwise, you're a fag.

10. Please don't pee on the side of my home.

Distorted features.

Some old hat. A regular sketch, much like what I have always done. A man's face with features that are vaguely similar to mine but distorted enough to be called something different. I have done hundreds of these in notebooks in class or on the bus or sitting around listening to Stern. I don't ever do anything with them. I could probably find quite a few that look not dissimilar to this one.

I enjoy working in a hasty way with pens. I have little patience for works that I can't finish in one day, in a few hours. The best situation is being able to create something in a couple of minutes.  

Thom Yorke

In honor of The Strokes coming out with an extraordinary album, I've scribbled a picture of Radiohead's lead singer, Thom Yorke. Radiohead just came out with an album that could have been a single with no b-sides. The Strokes, however, have an album coming out in a week that is just so damn good.

I choose not to bastardize Julian Casablancas' face with my pen, so I figured I'd do Thom Yorke's freak face. Bad, Radiohead! Listening to King of Limbs was like watching Matrix Revolutions. Disappointing. It was like every Kings of Leon album after Aha Shake Heartbreak. It was like listening to The Strokes' previous album! Nice recovery, by the way, Strokes. I was losing hope.

Here's an ugly face:

Rob Delaney and a stranger

More sketches. The first is comedian Rob Delaney with a mustache. It looks like a police sketch. Wanted for rugged good looks. I drew him in honor of the fact that he is one of the best twitter writers out there. He's probably funny as a comedian too. Not quite sure. Chest hair popping out of the crew neck tee is always a good look.

Next is just a random sketch of nobody, but he does look vaguely like Rob Riggle, if he were to replace his muscularity with alcoholism, a few divorces, and a beard.

Sketching in a moving car

Continuing and tweaking what I was doing last night, I'm doing some quick five-minute sketches of people. I like doing things quickly and sloppily because then they can look shitty and I can say, "I did it in 90 seconds in the dark with my dog licking the ticklish spot on my ribcage, just below the armpit." Then, it's impressive.

No, basically, I am having fun trying to make a quick sketch and seeing if it's recognizable as the person I am sketching. It's usually the eyes and mouth that need some similarity. Everything else can be squiggles. Today, I used mugshots I decided not to make into stencils for the other thing. Both are very talented people who have had crazy private lives. Charlie Sheen is not in the group. (Duh, untalented.)

Here's Robert Downey Jr. if he were a serial killer.
Here's Mel Gibson if he were a sleazy comic-book character.
More later.

A comment on comments

Frankly, I would love some feedback. I am obviously desperate for some attention. If you check this blog out, let me know what you think. Pretty please. I'm so lonely. I need your comments.

On another note, thanks Mom for the encouragement.

Here's a picture of my dad, brother, and me when we were all younger. I'm the blond one.

A new series

This series is called "pictures I draw in the dark while my wife sleeps off a migraine."

First in the series, we have Ludwig Wittgenstein. Look at him, being all like: "Uh, they're just words, man," or something like that in his stupid German accent. The semantic bastard.
Next, we have Steve Martin, being all like: "My face has ink all over it! I'm all cerebral, man," or something like that, the lateral-thinking bastard.
What jerks.

Converting the heathen

I've been thinking entirely too much about David Bowie for the past few days. I have done nothing but listen to him today. Low is playing right now. Specifically, "Always Crashing in the Same Car" is playing. But anyway, it gets me thinking about biases.

For the longest time, I rejected Bowie simply on principle. I had drawn a line in the sand in my ears, and that freak-eyed bastard would not cross. I do not know why. For some reason, on the Glam Rock front, I sided with America. Lou Reed's Transformer was enough. It wasn't until much later that I realized Bowie did back-up vocals on that album. Beside the point. I had a strong, completely unwarranted bias against David Bowie.

And we need that sometimes, I think. Sometimes we need to just reject things based on nothing. What, are we going to accept things based on their merits? Are we expected to give things a chance before we accept them? That is a ridiculous notion. If that happened, we wouldn't have any prejudices. It would be bleeding chaos!

The list of things I initially rejected for no reason but now love is pretty long. Musically, I didn't fully accept The Beatles until I was about 19. One of the biggest rejection-to-love transitions for me was the show Six Feet Under. The greatest drama series ever to air, by the way. It took me a while to accept Kurt Vonnegut. Also, I watch The Jersey Shore religiously. Judge me. I don't care. You're lame anyway.

Colleen, my wonderful wife, is also a participant in this process. I am happy to say I have converted her from blind hatred to total adoration on a couple fronts. She now likes Daniel Day-Lewis. She's turning the corner on topping food with fried eggs, as well. Howard Stern is a battle for another day. Never, probably.

But this is where I come to my point. If not for my wife, I would have lived a life without David Bowie. This is because of the simple law that governs the whole blind-hatred-to-wholehearted-love line. You cannot cross it by yourself. There is no going in to see a movie starring someone you hate and having any prejudice. You hate that person, and the movie fucking sucks going in. You need a vehicle, and that vehicle has to be someone you love and/or respect. Mostly, you need someone who you respect. They can show you the way.

And this is a very delicate process. There is no thrusting something upon someone if they have built up a wall. You must attack when the guard is asleep. This usually occurs after you have had sex with them. No, kidding. This usually occurs after you have accepted something of theirs. For instance, it is much easier to casually coerce my wife into watching a movie she will maybe hate but hopefully loves after we've watched a movie she wants. For every Raging Bull, you must sacrifice a Labyrinth. It's a matter of compromise, you see.

So, at some point, when my guard was asleep, the wall unprotected, my wife managed to give me a proper inroduction to David Bowie. She gave me Hunky Dory. And my life is forever changed. If you are not converted, if you have a wall built up against the thin white duke, Hunky Dory is a pretty heavy-duty wall smasher. Thank you, wife.



On our wedding day