Adam and I have completed the newest chapter for Play the Next Track, based on the song “Devil Got My Woman” by the amazing Skip James.
Illustration
Play the Next Track
My frequent artistic collaborator, Adam Morse, and I have finally launched a project we’ve been cooking up for some time now. Play the Next Track is a back-and-forth collaborative creation of digital pieces based on a particular song. We’ll be updating it with a new chapter on the tenth, twentieth, and thirtieth of every month.
The Ghost Inside Our House
Just a simple piece today, based on Cloud Cult’s “The Ghost Inside Our House.”
Notes from the Meeting II
During the meeting, I was thinking of Matthew Perry’s impression of Michael Keaton on SNL‘s Celebrity Jeopardy.
I need to stop drawing in meetings.
Breakfast Will Never be the Same
While spending far too much time on illustrating this obvious joke, I realized there are an inordinate amount of slang terms on the effects of pot related to bread. “Toasted“, “baked“, and even “lit” or “stoned” to a point.
I wonder if there was some stoner convention where they all agreed that being high can most closely be associated with making crispy and delicious bread.
On the Naming of Sports Teams
First, the ridiculous graphic for today. Then I’ll explain myself.
I’ve found that the recipe for naming a sports team is very similar to that of naming a band; pull a random pop culture reference out of a hat, spice with some in-your-face attitude, and finish strong with an over-the-top, probably offensive graphic.
The reason I say this is because I was trying to Photoshop up an accompaniment to a classic story of mine, but ended up with a potential jersey for my next tryst in sports teams.
While visiting my parents in Cambridge, England, my mother, brother and I took a break from a bike ride to grab tea outside of town. After a few minutes, a curious expression came across both their faces as they looked past me. I heard a faint buzzing sound, and turned around to see Professor/Demigod Stephen Hawking whirring our direction with a trio of ladies following along. They settled into the table next to us and one of the ladies ran to fetch some tea.
For the length of time that they sat there, an uncomfortable silence came over my family and I. Not only because we were in the presence of awkwardly-positioned greatness, but because for the entire time that they sat there, he spoke only in beeps.
Beep beep, motherfucker.
Hope Wears a Mustache
And this, my friends, is why the Mustache needs to be reintroduced into American politics. Because who wants to fuck with that?
The Long-Lost Past of Mr. Eastwood
It’s best not to ask how I came up with this one, but just accept that my mind tends to wander and oftentimes ends up in a very bizarre nook.
I’ll Kill Her
I was browsing Deezer and came across the artist SoKo. Although the lyrics of the song were a bit off-putting, I dug the energy of SoKo’s “I’ll Kill Her”.
Some quick doodles
Having been swamped lately, I’ve neglected posting some new things I’ve been working on. Fear not, for my ADD at work forced me to take 15 minutes away and doodle. It’s an old man. And Barack Obama. If one were to read into it (and I don’t suggest it, as I haven’t taken the time to do such), they could assume it was the average old coot who just doesn’t understand the vibrant, youthful energy of Barack Obama’s teeth.
