Here you go Tanya, My Birthday Cake Extravaganza...

A good friend and a really good artist told me to celebrate my birthday by painting something. Tanya is always hounding me to stop complaining and paint. So, early this morning I suggested painting me a birthday cake.

She responded," All right, a birthday cake... and post it when you are finished!"

So, instead of pulling out all my paints and busting it to meet a deadline of today for completion, I decided to cheat and use one of my marker comps that I did for Baskin and Robbins years ago. The headline could have said, "61 Flavors" if I wanted to keep the script logo and tag line from the original layout! But originally, I was gonna let Tanya think that I actually did this in five or six hours...  just for my birthday. Never mind that the original was done in about that time frame as part of a four comp presentation.

Even though today is my birthday and I feel like I could whatever I want to, I feared some of my fellow artists who might have seen this comp before, would snitch! Call it Catholic Voodoo Guilt! 

Chronic Lower Back Pain and a Chiropractor's Advice... or "Are you one of those all or nothing kind of guys?

After thirty plus years of ignorance, I finally came to grips with my mortality and I don't like it one damn bit. It's not so much about the aging process, living with pain, being a tough guy or even the thought of what becomes of a person's heart, mind or soul once we pass on... to whatever or wherever.

I've been the recipient of a "tweek" or three doing, sometimes, the most simplest things.

Though baseball players come up with some of the most ridiculously lame excuses for contract violations or their on the field performance, I can really sympathize with Cubs great, Sammy Sosa, when he said he hurt his back sneezing! I have actually done that and it put me out of commission for days. Since that time I have had situations where I am about to blow my brains out with a back breaking sneeze but my brain somehow, I don't know how brains perform this feat, says,"Oh know you don't, nose. Not now, maybe later... I tell you when!"

The anticipation that your big sneeze buildup creates has men diving for cover as women and children run to any escape route. Then, all of a sudden, your sneeze turns into nothing or, at the very least, one of those little, dainty Betty Boop type disturbances like AAAAAH-AH-AH-AH...chu! If you are in public and you pull one of those unmanly, falsetto bloopers someone is bound to tell you later that you can explode your eardrum to bits and pieces by holding back your sneeze.

"Just let 'er rip, dude! Better than splattering bloody ear drum parts all over the walls... dude!' It is easier to just thank them for their concern of my welfare, than to use the Sammy Sosa card.

Nevertheless, I've hurt my back peeling potatoes, chopping onions, pouring oil into the car's engine block, vacuuming, making the bed, unplugging a lamp, popping off a bottle cap, putting on underwear, pulling off underwear, which is a real "right moment" killer, let me tell you! It never happens when you are in the gym trying to impress the guys with your strength ( nowadays, I don't know why you would want to do such a thing! ) or picking up fifty pound sack of live crawfish or pulling your 900 pound lawn tractor out of a ditch that'll hurt your back. It is the little things.

Well, then again, it is the little things after one has a real BIG little thing.

See, I hurt my back, big time, playing flag football in 1976. I know what'cha saying, 1976? And you suffered all this time, never once seeing a specialist or even your son's pediatrician? "What's the matter, no health insurance? Self employed, huh? Man, that's a drag!"

"Well, uh, actually no... and yes!" ( I'll let you figure the correct answer to the appropriate questions, it isn't hard. )

Shall I explain to you how it was the waning minutes of a six point game, with us in the lead, third and about five or six yards to go and I just knew the quarterback was gonna try something underneath in my zone, probably a crossing pattern and how I avoided that offensive guard pulling out, and, and sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, here comes the tight end, zooming across and the ball is thrown and I knew it , I knew it, and I jump up high and ...Crash!

I was the momentary hero because I intercepted the pass, but when I got up, I looked like a pretzel. Felt like one too! Fast forward to the last conversation I had with my chiropractor and new found friend, Fred Miller.

Fred has his practice on the Northshore in Mandeville, LA and was recommended to me by my wife who had injuries sustained in a car accident. He was recommended to Therese by my brother, who is a pain management physician and had been administering prolo-therapy to me and Therese for years. Fred is an athletic style chiropractor having run track and field and cross country in college and keeps himself in shape today playing tennis, mountain biking and running. 

The fibrosis or scar tissue ( http://www.spineuniverse.com/conditions/back-pain/chiropractic-care-back-pain ) surrounding my back that was really starting to affect my mobility and flexibility was being broken up allowing me freer movement.

"Ben, we've been working on you for the last two months, three times a week and I can't believe it, but your body has responded admirably... and after all these years,"

"I know, thank you. I plan to take this body with me when I die," I said. " I know what all the knowledgeable theologian's say, but I don't care, heaven or hell, it is coming with me... or I ain't going!"

Looking rather stunned, he continued,"It is a testament to the body's ability to heal itself and your dedication to stay in shape in spite of the damage you've done to it." ( Doc always has a subtle way of getting his point across! ) He continued, "I'd give us all a B+... but... "Ben, you're not getting any younger and you can't expect your body to do what you use to. For your back and the rest of your body, motion is lotion. I want you to keep on moving, but just try to do it with a little more moderation," he said. "If you don't learn how to tell you body when, your body eventually will!"

And then, he said,"I probably already know the answer to this, but let me ask you anyway, are you a all or nuthin' kinda guy?"

Well, gee, doc, I thought to myself, quickly, how am I supposed to answer that? Should I say no, being as succinct and "nuthin" as I could be. Or should I say, well doc, it all started when I was a little guy and my momma fixed me a pizza, and uh, I went ahead and ate the whole thing in one sitting and from that time on, I never could just, uh... And go on and on, ad infinitum!

I must admit I am as flexible as I can ever recall. I still awaken with dull back pain, but it quickly goes away as I continue moving in the morning. The prospect looks and feels great. I should have listened to my loving wife years ago to go ahead an get it all checked out. I really don't understand why I was so stubborn about something that has been so positive for me. All those years of pain and stiffness and... attitude!

But, I have learned my lesson. No more power sets of fifteen with the dumbbells or impromptu forty mile bike excursions. It will now be just twelve power sets and a "planned" forty mile bike ride instead!

What?

Flyin' High on Aviation Art...

I have just returned from the Air Force Art Program presentation of paintings, held Oct 20-24 at the National Museum of the USAF, Wright Patterson AFB, Dayton, OH. Seven artists from our group with their guests presented paintings, though only four artists from the membership attended the gala, by my count. Still, it was a pretty darn good turn out considering the change of venue. I have to admit, I never had any doubts about not visiting DC which has been the venue since I have been part of the program. Wright-Patterson, AFB? Dayton? No more DC Mall crawling, no more Virginia, no Brandywine, no more Georgetown?

Yes, but no more one night stands either. At the museum, our paintings will be on display at the Museum in Dayton until the eleventh of January. No more 24 hour shows at Bolling AFB which no one can see! Thousands can now see our artwork!

The proceedings this year were without incident. It began with a tour of the restoration hangar, just chocked full of airplane bits and pieces, all with a history attached. It is like a giant hobby store with models that are at a 1/1 scale. We then were given a tour of the presidential hangar, where there are many historical aircraft used by various presidents throughout twentieth century. The Museum complex itself is beyond any military museum I have ever seen anywhere. There was really not enough time to see everything in the entire museum, and I had over three days to see it. But, what I saw was grand.

At the invite of Mickey Harris, an artist that I have known for years but spent six days with at Barksdale, I received a special second tour of the restoration hangar to investigate further the restoration of the famous "Memphis Belle", B-17. Mickey, being from Tennessee, was instrumental in having the Belle sent to the museum for complete restoration and display. Our tour guide was Retired General Metcalf, ( the guiding force of the museum and the main man overseeing the restorations. ) who gave Mick and I the special treatment. His unique insights into the many projects and his own dynamic personality was well worth it.

This is the sixtieth anniversary of the Air Force Art Program. The presentation dinner was held Friday, October 22, in one of the main halls of the museum. A formal affair, we were seated under the wings of a B-52 and a C-124, where we given a very spirited and beautiful rendition of the National Anthem.  We were entertained with chamber music while we dined by Huffman Prairie Winds, which is a local group and a nice change from the U.S. Air Force Strolling Strings. The menu included seared Beef Loin in a Sherry sauce paired with a goat cheese stuffed Chicken Breast with a herb glaze over a a Potato Zucchini Cake. A mixed green salad with almonds, blue berries. strawberries and cherries mixed in a raspberry vinaigrette. For desert with coffee or tea, we had an assortment of tortes, mousse, white chocolate strawberries and such.

As mentioned in my personal blog, http://graphicgumboben.blogspot.com/, the five hour ceremony ended all too soon and, in spite of my every effort to hold on to the good times, great art and good friends, we reluctantly left the museum with our plaques, seat favors and, soon to be, memories of a great night.

Of the many galas I have been a part of over the last thirty years, this one was my very own personal favorite.

For pictures, please go to: http://flickr.com/photos/grgumbo2/sets/72157625137158071/
These pics are personal property of mine, Elsy and Andy Moratoya, Norm Siegel, or the United States Air Force. All artwork was shot or scanned at 72 dpi and no larger than eight inches wide or tall and is the property and copyright of all artists involved or the property of the U.S. Air Force Art Collection. All rights reserved.

Knowing Full Well That These Moments Are Fleeting...

Knowing full well that these moments are fleeting, I tried to savor every moment. From left to right, Schmoe ( aka real name Norm "Gawd Forbid" Siegel ), Captain Mike Gregston, me ( code name: Curly ) and Larry ( he's got the curly hair ) Mickey Harris. Schmoe, Curly and Larry are three of the six artist team that invaded Barksdale, AFB in Shreveport, LA. The Stooges spent most of the trip learning how many ways there are to die, "Gawd Forbid" in a B-52 before taking off for a five hour tour over the Midwest, which included a simulated bomb run and a actual mid air refueling. All went well and we took some really incredible photos from the flight... And we didn't die!

Captain Mike Gregston was, for most of our stay at Barksdale, our host. He also helped me set up the photo shoot for one of my paintings entitled, "The Global Force Strike Command"and posed as the central figure in it. He also posed with my finished painting... without me!

Thanks Mike for all your help and to all the great folks at Barksdale, AFB including the crew: Zach "Samson" Miller and Mehul "Verde" Brahmbhatt, Schera "Charly" Bowden, Scotty"Shadow'' Sproles, Chris "Skype" Gregory and last but not least, PR man, Captain Tim Miller for your hospitality as well as protecting our right to be liberals, conservatives, independents and uh... Artists!

On to the Air Force Museum... SPIT, SPOT!

Well, my hair is cut and groomed, my face is shaven. I've a crease on my pants leg, my shirt is crisply starched. My shoes are tied and polished and match the color of my belt. My colors are cool and coordinated. My tie is straight and correctly fits my collar. My bags are packed and ready for flight. My briefcase has my orders as well as my formal invite.

SPIT SPOT, I'm ready for flight... AND BOY, DO I EVER LOOK OUT OF PLACE ON THIS PLANE.

I'm Not Sure I Know How to be a Friend...

I haven't heard from this friend of mine since I last visited Los Angeles in November of 2008.
I was there a week for the SILA/Air Force event at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood and coincidence being so"happenstancicle," he had just recently landed a job that was in a building directly across the street from the Renaissance Hotel, where I was staying.

Though we haven't worked together in years, whenever I get in town, I immediately try to get in touch with him to catch up on the biz, LA, our families and, of course, the Dodgers. It always made me feel good to hear his voice with a distinctive accent that sends me back to simpler time and to hear him say so genuinely, "Ben, how ya doin? What are you doin' back here in LA?"

The nature of what I do for a living makes sincere friendship, the kind I wish I had more of at this point in my life, nearly impossible. Whenever I am with a "client," I am not relating to them as a friend, but as a business associate. Most of my friends are just that and yet, it is so much more. This particular art director has kept me busy enough over the years to provide me with a pretty good income and, in turn, I'd like to think I helped him sell his ideas which kept his boss and clients happy and him, employed. This symbiosis is not unique to our relationship, the advertising business or any business. It happens all the time all over the world.

Still, Mike is one of the many clients that I have worked with together all day and throughout the night, seeing sunsets from large picture windows that overlook the expansive LA basin, sharing coffee and cold pizza on the roof top of a building as the sun rises, meeting crazy deadlines and sharing similar goals. Like the long lost uncle that one sees only at Christmas or when there's a death in the family, when the job is complete, I am gone and not seen until the "next debacle." It was so rare to set up and keep a lunch or dinner date with my art director and writer friends because we were always too busy or distracted. Therefore, I never got to know them well enough to really be able to call them friends. Sometimes, I felt I spent more time trying to set up a dinner date than the time I spent actually having dinner with that friend.

The big difference between Mike and all my other business acquaintance friends is that he is, like me, the ultimate New Orleans Saints fan. A tried and true"Who Dat," who was born and reared in New Orleans. He moved to Glendora, CA after high school and has spent most of his adult life in LA. Mike was constantly bemoaning the state of the Who Dat Nation long before that term was popularized. We would run down Wilshire Blvd. and catch a quick lunch at Sizzler or McDonald's and in horror, dissect the latest Saints lost and plan celebrations for the upcoming win... whenever that was. For over twelve years, we have spent countless hours wondering how great it would be to just get passed the "49ers and win just one playoff game. We conjured up all kinds of conspiracy theories which would explain our hometown team's inadequacies including everything from Mafiosos infiltrating the NFL to voodoo and
God 's Wrath. Certainly, it would have been blasphemous for us to even try to form the word, "Super" from our lips. Other creative colleagues at the agency would just shake their heads and laugh at our loser antics.

In our 2008 luncheon visit, which included subjects I have little interest in... politics and religion, we shared a glimmer of hope that the team would bounce back from its Katrina soaked losing ways and rebuild. Or, just give it all up and move to San Antonio or LA. In the following year, the Saints started to put it all together and with each passing nail biter, I hoped Mike would call me instead of the other way around.

I never received one call.

It got to the point where I surmised, that like me, he didn't want to put a hex on the team by changing anything, like calling his "best Who Dat friend" and boasting. I could not believe how great our season was going and as we got into the playoffs and I could no longer excuse Mike from sharing the joy.  Surely, if we win the Super Bowl, he will call me, but I got nothing so far, so why should I expect anything more? BECAUSE IT IS THE SUPER BOWL, MAN!

Maybe he is going through the same hard times I am and doesn't care to talk about it. Cool, I got it!
Well, damn if we didn't take it all and actually win the Super Bowl. The black and gold win the Super Bowl. Whoa!

I was on a trip for the Air Force in the sports bar of the Shreveport Hilton Hotel watching the game with fellow illustrators when I thought of Mike. Although my friends here at the hotel bar were mostly pulling for the underdog Saints, they really had no idea what we southern Louisianians have gone through the pass 43 years. But Mike would. He probably would have understood the strange schism between northern LOU-si-anians and the southern LOUIE-si-anians which is not unlike the NoCal and SoCal rivalries that include not only athletic, but social, political and religious differences. So, I shared with my friends and bar mates the shear elation of our victory and later that night celebrated over the phone with family and friends. I even got congratulatory calls from some of my SoCal friends... but no Mike.

It is now a new NFL season with a whole new excitement brewing as we try for the first ever "Two Dat". I will be there, but will Mike? Does it matter? Do I need his continued friendship after all these years? Are we too far away, now? Is all this concern too wussy? As one man to another, maybe I should tell him to "eff off" and just move on. Turn the page, it's a new chapter. It's not that important, is it?

One night, years ago while I laid in bed trying to either wake up enough to get up out of the darkness and do something productive or try to go back asleep, I got an idea. I get so creative when there are no distractions and no light, but like those floaters that bounce inside of one's closed eyes, ideas are all ever so fleeting.

Catch 'em while you can...just don't turn on the light.

Because of my strange AADD, which stands for, ARTIST ATTENTION DEFICIT DISORDER, I've gotten pretty good at writing and scribbling in the dark. Well enough to be able to read it the next morning. I had a thought for a painting so personal it would have little meaning to anyone but me, which, for a change, was perfectly okay. It was a very large canvas just full of colored and overlapping names in various styles and sizes acknowledging the people I love, of friends I needed, of teachers who inspired me, coaches who encouraged me and taught me value losing as well as winning, of the heroes and villains in my life, of people, who in some large or small way, affected me. If they come to mind, they are valuable to my life and therefore, valuable to this painting.

It would probably be a very large painting.

Well, even if I only produce the painting in my mind and whether or not I ever make the call to, once again, together cheer on the Saints... or tell him where to shove his fleur di lis, Mike's name will always be a part of my life and therefore, a part of who I am. In the end, it does really matter to me if for no other reasons than the selfish ones. Besides, it is probably as much my problem as anyone's because I find it hard to have people come into and out of my life. I expect more from me and my friendships than is ever possible here on earth. Maybe, most of my acquaintances don't feel the need to validate a friendship as often I might. It could also be that my definition of what a friend is, is too narrow. Maybe it's time to redefine the meaning and give it some space to grow. It's not like I am collecting friends like some do on social web sites though those sites do make it nice to reconnect with old friends and buddies. Maybe, after all these years, I just don't know what to expect from a friendship anymore. Or maybe, I just don't know how to be a friend.

Then again, maybe it's just time to put on a game face and say, "Geaux Saints"... Two Dat!

Hey Buddy, You're OKAY?

Two weeks ago, I went on a bike ride trying to get myself back to form. Originally, I was kinda training for a Muscular Dystrophy fund raiser, where you spend two days completing a seventy-five mile per day route for sponsors, complete with an overnight stay, free food and medics just in case you have any problems. My best distance, never mind the time it takes, was forty-five miles. I felt pretty good about my chances of participating... two months ago!

Well, on that day, I completed a thirty-four mile ride but not without some problems. Besides the normal dogs chasing me until I zap 'em with my trusty, never fails, sonic Dazor zapper, I ran into a pretty stiff north wind that brought a welcome cold front to the region. It gave the countryside a beautiful morning, but made my biking harder since, at least, half of this adjusted route ran north/south. Two and a half hours into the ride, my shoulders started to really ache and I could not sit up straight on the bike to relieve the pain because the wind was forcing me to continually pedal... or stop. So, I stopped for a five minute break, not once, not twice, but three times. Somewhere between stop two and three, my left quad cramped up. I had plenty of water, so I knew I was well hydrated, but nevertheless, the next two or three miles were no fun at all and I started to cuss myself and everything else I could damn praying it was only a cramp and not a pulled muscle.

Ben, it seems, no matter what you do, you always turn it into a job. This is supposed to be fun, I thought to myself. It didn't take too much longer before I was actually vocalizing my frustration to myself and anyone within hearing range as I continued to peddle. I also noticed my heart monitor registering a constant 148 bpm, but I only now had about eight or ten miles left to go. "What an ass!" Once again, you are turning this into another famous Ben Bensen slog!"

Slogging through this bike ride seemed a complete metaphor for my life. Slogging is what I define as doing something, anything with a negative attitude. You know, doing things that need to be done, but you just do it 'cuz you have to. You could put on a happy face and maybe it would make it better, but instead, you bitch, you moan, you acquiesce, you reluctantly get the job done. That's slogging!

As I continue peddling closer to the finish, I am now verbally abusing myself. " You shouldn't have taken such a long route... What made you think this was a good idea? Why do you continue to set such stupid, unrealistic goals? A true Capricorn. Butting my head up against anything just because it is there. It is not necessarily in the way. It is just there, so why do I feel he need to bust through it. What's on the other side making it all worth while? You're an idiot. No one cares whether you win or lose. Why do you turn everything into a competition... especially with yourself. "What a maroon, just get your cell phone, make the call and have Therese come pick you up," I said to no one, but me.

Slogging through a few more miles I finally make a decision."Okay, okay, I give up. I can't go on. But I am not calling for a ride home. I need to stop for a while... just a while. As I parked the bike along the side of the road, I started to feel nauseated. "Great, just what I now need... Upchuck City...Great!"

I found a shady area next the culvert, sat down and took the last couple of gulps from my second water bottle hoping it would help me not lose my breakfast. I then worked on my gimpy quad trying to unknot the damn thing and in the process ended up laying down on a bed of pine needles and pine cones. Once I dislodged the prickly cones from my back, I looked up to the beautiful fall sky and heard that breeze ( it was now not a wind but a beautiful breeze, at least, in my mind ) wafting through the pines. I laid there for about a minute watching a red-tailed hawk couple dancing high above me in the breeze and realized how strange it was that they were flying above me on a street named Hawk Road.

After five minutes or so, I remembered how once I hit the wall twenty-four and half miles out during my first marathon in Scottsdale, Arizona. I remembered how my gait turned into a walk, then a stop and start for another few hundred feet and then, I sat down resolving to return back on track to finish the last mile and a half to finish the race.

A car passed by and I waved him on by, and then another and then another. "Hey man, ready to give it up, you look spent!" " No, I replied, I'll be fine, thanks!" But, I wasn't fine. I literally hit the wall... Big Time! I remembered that try as I may, I could not get up. My entire body just seized up into one big knot and I wasn't gonna finish this race...

Just then, an old Chevy pickup circa 1970's drives by and stops at the stop sign.   A man with a red cap, brim turn up and a cheek full of possibly chaw says, "Hey Buddy, you okay?" Everything's all right?" I quickly sit up and tell him that I was fine and that I just needed to take a break. As he drove by, I laid back down because it made me feel less nauseous, but a minute later a woman in a blue compact stopped at the stop sign, turned left, and then, backed up to inquire about my condition. After the third car, not wanting to concern any more drivers stopping at that corner and fearing that, once again, as it did in my first failed marathon, my body would seize up, I decided to sit up.

A black lady in an Explorer inquired, a man in a pork pie hat driving a Jag, stopped to ask. Some mexicans ( or hispanics, from one country or another, ) stopped with a truck bed full of compadres to ask if I was okay. All in all, within twenty minutes, eight cars of completely different ages, styles and makes, with people from all walks of life, showed their concern for a total stranger's well being at the side of the road.

Rejuvenated by the rest and not wanting anyone else to show concern for my welfare, I got back in the saddle and slowly peddled off. With less than a half mile or so to return to Gus's in Folsom, where my car was parked, I thought, "Is this still a great country or what!