14. Bohemia - July 2013 by Bohemia

BOHEMIA July 2013

A Central Texas Art & Literary Journal

The

CARTOONS

issue

Meet Madisons

A Band From Austin That Wants to make new fans

Frances Wosmek

Iconic Children’s Author & Illustrator Honored

HUMAN CANVAS 1 • bohemia • July 2013

NIcK IN THE 90s Cartoons can be soup for the soul

sLUMBER PARTy

Jump on the bed & sing into your hairbrush

ANImATION Mel Blanc, Fantasia,

becoming an Animator & More

AmERICANVolkswagons, SPIrIT

old Glory &Bohemians

14 18

Human Canvas by Cecy Ayala

Albinoni’s Adagio by Ilya Prints

Shadow 44 by Gary Lee Webb

24 My 90s Nicktoon Secret by Whitney Van Laningham

Party

American Spirit by Bonnie Neagle

Pony Girls by Jon Goddi VC

64 36 58 of life and art: Frances Wosmek by Susan Duty

Up All Night by Meg Miller

Animated Fantasy by Gary Lee Webb Sara Smallvoice by Frances Wosmek Madisons by Caleb Farmer 2 • bohemia • July 2013

The Perv by Caleb Farmer

Saturday Morning Cartoons poetry

14 song

by Rick Allen

by Pete Able

by Cynthia Wheeler

Donnie 40

The Man of a Thousand Voices Mel Blanc

26 Slumber

How to Become an Animator by Susan Duty

Editor’s Note

It has been a whole year or so since I wrote a letter from the editor, but I thought a note was perhaps in order since the pub64 lication is hitting the two year mark. Yahoo 68 Central Texans and bohemian friends of the world. Thanks for everything. Bleed it, you guys. Bleed art. & life. & love. & making it until tomorrow. It’s July & we’re Texas & we’re floating and soaking and eating crawfish. How about you?

Amanda <3

Bohemia July 2013 Volume 3, Number 6 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor in Chief: Amanda Hixson Assistant Editor: Stephanie Rystrom Fashion intern: Brittany Amara Lilljedahl Writers: Pete Able, Katie Croft, Susan Duty, Caleb Farmer, Jim McKeown, Meg Miller, Jessica Purser, Whitney Van Laningham, Missy Von Parlo, Gary Lee Webb Photographers: Cecy Ayala, David Irvin, Pat Jones, Bonnie Neagle, Belladonna Treason, Genna Ware, Cynthia Wheeler Thank you to the Boho Model Crew located in Waco, TX! Yes, these girls are Waco, TX. Also, Bohemia wouldn’t exist without the regular contributors and friends who lend their talents frequently. Cover credits: Models Brenda Flores & Mason McLain Photographer Cecy Ayala Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX and represents a Central Texas perspective. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information is available at www.bohemia-journal.com

CARTOONS. July 2013• bohemia • 3

experience art in downtown Waco at the Croft Art Gallery

libby rowe

handcock bros

712 Austin Ave, Waco, Texas Open Monday thru Friday 8:30 AM to 8 PM Dichotomy Coffee & Spirits coffee bar Every first Fridays from 6 to 9 is opening receptions Studio loft office space available/ $1 per square foot The Word Gallery open mic every Monday night 8 PM to 10 PM More croftartgallery.com 4 • bohemia • July 2013

johanna mueller

HUMAN CANVAS Photos by Cecy Ayala

I FOUND I COULD SAY THINGS WITH COLOR AND SHAPES THAT I COULDNT SAY ANY OTHER WAY THINGS I HAD NO WORDS FOR

GEORGIA OKEEFE

Model (this page) Brenda Flores Brenda is in the band Beautiful Disturbance facebook.com/BeautifulDisturbanceMusic

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ART WASHES AWAY FROM TH

Models (this page) Ta’Coya Cotton Paul Mabbitt (far page) Mason McLain 6 • bohemia • July 2013

HE SOUL THE DUST OF EVERYDAY LIFE

PABLO PI

CASSO

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EVERY GOOD PAINTER PAINTS WHAT HE IS

JACKSON POLLOCK

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Models (from left) Taylor Rhodes Dustin Liendo & Stephanie Rystrom July 2013â&#x20AC;˘ bohemia â&#x20AC;˘ 9

“If you hear a voice within you say, ‘You cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced” – Vincent Van Gogh

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Frances Wosmek by Susan Duty

With creativity, you can think a lot of things you can’t say… Some people live it.”

“With creativity, you can think a lot of things you can’t say…Some people live it.”

othing could be truer about artist, writer and poet Frances Wosmek, who has been gracious enough to lend several creative surprises for publication in Bohemia including an excerpt from Sarah Smallvoice this month (see page 36), as well as excerpts from Under the Evil Hand and Wolf Child for some of our future themes (all previously unpublished). July 2013• bohemia • 11

rances’s career began in the stillness of the Minnesota countryside in the town Duluth. She submitted work to the children’s page of the Duluth Herald every week, then spent Saturdays faithfully awaiting the postman with the hope she might have been published. Humble beginnings. After decades of work, Frances’s art, manuscripts, poetry and essays have made their way into the archives of the Cape Ann Museum in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Claiming children and nature as her ever present inspiration, Frances began writing children’s stories and illustrating for other authors in 1949. A focus on young adult and children’s literature spanned over four decades. In 1988, she published Acknowledge the Wonder: Harmony with the Natural, a collection of thoughts on science, creativity, life and the living earth. Thus far, she’s responsible for publishing well over a dozen books for children and adults. At 95, Frances is still brimming with ideas. Living while maintaining an active cultivation of the resources the great, wide world has to offer has proved a prosperous philosophy, culminating in a life well 12 • bohemia • July 2013

lived. We can all, creative or other- children have limitless potential in wise, take a lesson from Frances’s what they can contribute through artistic vision. And the more this tenets. Happily for the world and hu- free plane of creative movement manity, she believes every one, can work in conjunction with the every place and everything holds natural world surrounding us, the the genesis of something remark- more adults and children alike can ably wonderful, awaiting to be unlock a bottomless chest of unimanifested in the universe. “I think verse-inspired imagination. The thematic thread throughhumanity is a creative bunch of out her life, from her beginnings people,” she says. Her belief is that this innate capacity for imagina- in snow dusted Duluth to her most tion and creativity lies in the hearts recent activities near the ocean in and minds of all children, and ul- Massachusetts, has been stillness timately what makes the difference and clarity. The soothing atmobetween a creative and an analyti- sphere of the natural world is her cal adult is the extent at which the starting place. “There’s harmony child’s parents encouraged this fun- every place. The water is harmonidamental gift. Her Irish mother, a ous. The trees are harmonious. And delightfully imaginative woman in every flower is a part of it. If we just her own right, allowed her daughter open our mind completely and take to think her own thoughts and can in this thing which creates every be credited as one of the leading place, it does the same thing to our inspirations of Frances’s ideolo- minds,” she says. Stop, look, and gies today. More than the roles of listen. Up until now I believed the parents, society as a whole does too best path to a genuine, completed much damage to the innocence of piece of work was simply a frantic children by rushing them into the process of picking out the coherent, adult world too quickly. Our “stiff, cohesive ideas swimming around fast” culture impresses upon them, in my head as fast as possible, lest either directly or indirectly, an in- they escape into the abyss of forhibiting set of commercial and ma- gotten thought. This overly excited together of tiny, inspired terialistic ideals; but, when “given sewing See an unpublished story and illustrations by Frances on pg 36. permission” in thought and action, patches to make something much

At left, book and illustrations by Frances Wosmek. At right, photos of Frances throughout the years.

bigger often feels like an arduous process. Thank God for Frances. “I used to go to the beach and sit and watch the waves come in… where all of your thoughts are still, and then ideas come to you. I think creativity is out there; it’s part of reality and you have to open your mind to it.” So maybe the key is not speeding up, but slowing down. This idea of becoming mentally quiet is a new and daunting concept for me (those thoughts move pretty fast up there). But since I’m not the one getting my work archived in a museum, perhaps it is best I take this suggestion. “When I create poetry and other things it comes to me in bits and pieces. It doesn’t come whole. You just open your mind and things come to you,” she said. It dawned on me the more I learned about Frances and her philosophy on life and creativity, the more I realized the two were inexplicably intertwined. Her story was the universe’s story. Frances herself – all the days that she has lived, all the places she has been and all the things she has put into the world that originated in her mind and the green spaces of the earth – is the story. We and all that we make are the story.

In more global terms, Frances holds the conviction that there is an unending collective song of creation, always regenerating. Each person on the planet views the world from a different angle – figuratively and literally. No creator is, after all, an island unto herself (or himself). Moreover, no piece of individual work can be separated from the fabric of inspired consciousness. Life and the creation of art are forever joined. The story of Frances’s life has come one day at a time, one bright spark and lightning flash at a time – just like her ideas and collective creative works. So it is for us all. For Frances, it means opening yourself up, matching the stillness of the mind with the tranquility of the natural world. There, one can find a wellspring of delightful dreams to cast out on the Earth, in the same way humans have done for thousands of years. It is the blessed charge of the creatively inclined. And Frances has surely upheld her charge well. For that we thank her. Special thanks goes to Project Consultant, Peggy Cahill, and Robin Brailsford for their invaluable help in facilitating this interview. July 2013• bohemia • 13

WHATs UP DOC wHATS Up DOC Wh ATS UP DOC wHATs Up

by Pete Able

THE MAN OF ONE THOUSAND VOICES 14 • bohemia • July 2013

“Bugs Bunny Is Dead!”

o lamented the Honolulu Herald on January 24, 1961. We can forgive them the rash speculation. After all, this was Dead Man’s Curve. That notorious stretch of asphalt on Sunset Boulevard near Bel Air estates. Head on collision. Most on scene felt survival implausible. Indeed, even Dr. Louis Conway, the ER resident physician who greeted Bugs at UCLA medical center, knew the situation grave. “Hardly recognizable.” Family arrived at the hospital amidst flashing bulbs and endless media questions. This was Bugs Bunny, and somehow “What’s up, Doc?” had found its humor fading into a sad state of irony. Tireless doctors saved the patient, but salvation came with a heavy price tag. A broken pelvis. Legs? Both broken. What most concerned physicians and family, however, was that Bugs had entered into a coma thanks to a triple skull fracture. Three weeks passed. No response. Each day Dr. Conway would attempt to break through the fog and illicit some sort of response. A smile, a murmur. Something. Anything. But there was nothing. Not even a fluttering eyelid. Finally, one February morning, he entered the hospital room, drew back the curtain, and greeted his patient as he did each and every morning, with one slight modification. “How we doin’ today, Bugs?”

And Bugs Bunny responded – “Eh, what’s up doc?” So shocking was the sound of the beloved character’s voice, it prompted Dr. Conway to ask again as family gathered around in astonished joy. Only this time with a new name. “Porky? You there?” The familiar stuttering, stammering voice of Porky the Pig replies, “Eh-be-dee Eh-be-dee yeah I can eh-be-dee hear ya.” More characters. More responses.

Foghorn Leghorn. Tweety Bird. Sylvester the Cat. Daffy Duck. And finally, the man himself.

elvin Jerome Blank was born in San Francisco on May 30, 1908. A high school drop-out in the 9th grade, he changed the spelling of his name to Blanc when a teacher informed him he would amount to nothing with a name like Blank. He earned money leading an orchestra and performing in vaudeville shows. He started his first radio-

MEL BLAN

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gig in 1927 as a voice actor on the KGW radio program Hoot Owls. His characterizations won him mild notoriety. A move to Los Angeles was in order. The Jack Benny Show called. The Jack Benny. Jack famously drove a 1916 Model 25 Maxwell Touring Car, the running joke being that he was too stingy to buy a new vehicle no matter how poorly his Maxwell performed. The Maxwell sound-effects were used to great effect on the radio program, until one day the recorded sounds missed the cue. Mel Blanc picked up the microphone and improvised the sounds himself. He won the audience, and Benny, too. For the next ten years Mel would land supporting roles on many radio programs, including The Abbott and Costello Show. In the midst of these successes, he joined a production company that made animated cartoons for Warner Bros. His first major role? “Porky’s Duck Hunt” – where the pig’s now familiar utterances gained new life, and where Daffy Duck was born. Others soon followed. Tweety Bird. Bugs Bunny. Pepe Le Pew. These and many more became regulars for increasingly popular Looney Tune programs. The carrots Bugs ate? Mel bit into a carrot, crunched, and spit into a spittoon. Mel wasn’t just a voice man. He created entire personalities. His face and body would transform. “I could turn the sound off in the booth and watch him and know exactly what character he was performing,” Mel’s son Noel recalls. By 1960, Mel’s exclusive contract with Warner Bros expired and he began voice work with a relatively new company – MGM owned Hanna-Barbera. The show idea? A working-class Stone Age man’s life 16 • bohemia • July 2013

with family and his best friend. The Flintstones. And Mel? Barney Rubble.

t the hospital, recovery began slowly. Mel lived in an era when television was much more spontaneous. Often producers handed him a script and he would go straight to the studio and perform the voices. Rinse, repeat. Quite the task when you are flat on your back. Literally. Hanna-Barbera producers set up recording equipment in Mel’s hospital room and later at his home. In fact, for the first 65 episodes of The Flintstones, Mel lay in a full body cast as the other voice actors gathered around him. Yabba Dabba Doo, indeed. But the show must go on. As the years passed, more and more characters evolved into the American conscience thanks to one man – the Man of One Thousand Voices. Mr. Spacely from The Jetsons? Mel Blanc. Yosemite Sam and Speedy Gonzales? Mel Blanc. The list goes on. Dino the Dinosaur, Speed Buggy, Tasmanian Devil, Woody Woodpecker, vocal effects for Tom and Jerry cartoons, and a personal favorite, Captain Caveman. He even hit primetime TV for two seasons as the voice of Twiki the robot on Buck Rogers. His last original animated character? Heathcliff. Mel not only changed the landscape of animated characters in the lexicon of Saturday Morning Cartoons, he changed the landscape of TV and film for all voice actors. Mel Blanc was aware of his talents and he protected their rights legally. Voice actors typically received

no screen credit, but in 1944 Mel Blanc insisted that his contract stipulate “Voice characterizations by Mel Blanc” on all future endeavors. He even changed a road. In the wake of his tragic car accident at Dead Man’s Curve, Mel sued the city of Los Angeles for half a million dollars. The city restructured the curves soon after. Through his later career, Mel spoke in a series of lectures for college campuses, filmed several commercials using his characters, though he increasingly left the louder characters such as Yosemite Sam and Foghorn Leghorn for others to tackle. They proved too hard on his throat. In 1986, at the ripe but lively age of 78, the king of all animation - Disney - called upon his talents when they needed him to voice some of the Looney Tune characters for a special live action/animated film. A film that went on to win four Academy Awards. Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

ugs Bunny is not dead. Bugs Bunny saved Mel Blanc’s life. The brain is the central component of our nervous system. It is made up of billions of neurons, connected by synapses, communicating with each other via long protoplasmic fibers called axons. Sound complicated? Now consider that the mind, even for present-day neuroscientists, represents something different altogether from the brain. The idea that brain activity gives rise to consciousness and thought, and from these joy, grief, laughter and sorrow, remains a challenge to understand. Damage to this biological computer can cause a temporary shut-

down – a coma. There are many causes, including the physical trauma Mel Blanc experienced after his crash on Dead Man’s Curve. But though the brain is impaired, to what degree is the mind still capable of storing and re-calling memories. Are their pockets of consciousness that are so much a part of our being, that all it takes is the right cues to bring them to the surface? Dr. Orrin Devinsky, a NYU Medical Center brain scientist, believes it possible that when Mel Blanc entered that deep oblivion of unconsciousness in the UCLA medical center, his “cues” for performance acting were actually quite ready and available to respond. When the higher functions of the brain shut down for repair, the lower functions may be more accessible. Mel had rehearsed his Looney Tunes characterizations thousands of times, ready to be on-call at a moment’s notice. When Dr. Conway asked, “How we doin’ today, Bugs,” it was as if he had pointed a finger at Mel, hit the record button, and said “You’re on.”

el Blanc is dead. He died July 10, 1989. Complaining of flu symptoms, he visited his doctor who checked him into a hospital, where later he fell out of the hospital bed and broke his femur. This led to the infection that ultimately caused his demise. Unbelievably, or perhaps providentially, his final performance was an Oldsmobile commercial with his son, Noel. In it, Mel’s final words – Porky Pig’s stammering, iconic “That all folks!” These words are also on his tombstone. Before he died, Mel stayed in varying stages of consciousness. Noel recalls that his father’s final words to him came in the voice of

Yosemite Sam. “I love you, Noel.” Perhaps we see this phenomenon as strange or even tragic. Couldn’t Mel, even in his final hours, simply be himself? Weren’t these voices once again merely cues out of joint with time and space? Or could we instead embrace the idea that Mel brought life to these characters – that he was their creator, and they in some respect, his children. Noel breathes new life into these eternal eccentrics – voicing Elmer Fudd, Porky Pig, Barney Rubble and many others. In fact, he’d been training with his father for most of his life, ready to carry on the legacy. When Yosemite Sam told Noel he loved him, he wasn’t a stranger. He was family.

Special thanks to radiolab.org. Some details of this article are found in the following podcast, “What’s Up Doc?.”

I THOUGHT I SAW A PUTTY CAT I DID I DID I DID SEE A PUTTY CAT July 2013• bohemia • 17

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Saturday Morning Cartoons Poetry from the flipside

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Beep Beep by A.J. Huffman

squeals this feathered fury of a dream as it leaves me in the dust of my latest failure. I am emaciated, starving in this desert where I should be king. Animal instincts flame inside inadequate body. I stare down the path before me: prey’s elicited departure runway, already erased by wind and tumbleweed. Lightbulb pops into frame, above my head. I know hopeless, even before it lands, an ACME anvil, smashing me flat.

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t What We Dont See Coming by Ann Howells Peripheral vision catches something dark, impending. One look and it’s gone, but we feel it, massive, ponderous, an ACME safe in Saturday cartoons. The scrawny coyote puts his back into it, sweats, huffs, shoves it to the very edge of the precipice. It whistles down, Whzzzzzzzzzzzzz, straight for that nervy little bird who Beep Beeps and slips a trampoline into place. The safe rockets, SPROING, right back up. %EXPLOSION% *Stars* ^Sparks^ @Sspirals@. Next time we see coyote he’s limping, bandaged, head pounding—watch it swell/shrink/swell. It’s like times when the phone rings before dawn, a cousin chokes out, Vergie’s dead. Later we find it was a washed out bridge or drunk driver— something dark, impending. Something ponderous. And it’s always decorated heroes, summa cum laudes, young mothers. Unlike that clever bird, they don’t happen upon a handy trampoline, idle catapult. Nope. They, like us, are flattened, stagger off on two-dimensional legs. Trickster is not coyote but that hyper-active little bird who twists plans inside out. We raise a fork, tie napkin at our necks, tip the safe carefully over the edge, and suddenly we’re crimped, blackened, flying like a moon-rocket, Xs in our eyes, puzzlement on our big, dumb faces.

Peanaughts by Devin Stroud

mice frolic in

of charm and plenty

He called everyone over to escape downtown in a particularly well built mood.

just behind our walls.

The swineherd Pigpen brought an airtight lunch pail full of green plastic army men all in the crouching position gripping eternally their M1 Garands. The prophet Linus came shrouded in mist from the Pallas Athena he had a kind word for everyone.

In a sudden gust of dead wind appeared Lucy raven haired cold from her catacombs.

by Matt Dennison

the cartoon world

Having had the perfect dream the night before Charlie had become Moses.

5 was there he just was a kind of dream.

Musculus

Schroeder showed up too with Beethoven’s tenth symphony given to him in a dream scribbled in a cold sweat with a shaky hand clutched firmly to his chest.

The whole time Snoopy quietly listens to the symphony of distant wind chimes and thinks about Woodstock and how he knows that it was his time to go and continues daydreaming about dogfights with the Red Baron and makes sure you know that the cat next door still looms in the shadows.

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Explorer by April Salzano

I am talking to my backpack, begging for some object to help me get past the morning detour of flat tire on train tracks, looking it dead in blinking eyes, but nothing happens. I chant the magic words, backpack, backpack… the flap does not flip to reveal answers. When tools do not float forth and dance in the air, I try something else. Who do we ask when we need help? Right, the map! But no singing scroll of direction appears. I pepper my language with Spanish to no avail. No rubber-boot-wearing monkey shows up to be my sidekick. My jack and spare tire are intricately locked in some secret compartment I cannot open. Unless they’ve been stolen. Swiper, no swiping! A fox should be appearing any time now, standing on his hind legs, defeated. Oh, maaaannn! he’ll say, and give back my shit so I can get to work on time, rapido . 22 • bohemia • July 2013

[frogs have feelings]

by Dargan Dodd

My Grownup Boyfriend by Sarah Yasin

In childhood I wasn’t permitted to look at cartoons. Saturday mornings I knew they were on but there was no allowance made for me. It was a wise move on the part of authority, but at the time I felt it cruel. Socrates said we love what we lack: now I’m a grownup and I meet a boy once a week who I kiss and who kisses me back. He’s got a red and black tattoo on his arm in the shape of the logo of the Thundercats.

Kermit told me every week when I was 3 that “it ain’t easy being green.” And I believed him because he liked to laugh and sometimes wore a bowtie. Kermit was confident and affable & it was OK that I never really grasped what he meant until that morning in 3rd grade when I was waiting in line for the school playground slide and a fifth-grader told me that Kermit was a muppet and that muppets aren’t real & everyone pointed at my face and laughed. So I stood up for myself & ended up with a bloody nose that dripped onto my “I <3 Kermit” shirt, staining his right shoulder. And as I sat in a wooden chair in the principal’s office, waiting for my mom to pick me up, I started to think that he’s just a frog, & that Kermit might be wrong.

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My 90’s Nicktoon Secret by Whitney Van Laningham

“Don’t tell your Mom,” my grandmother would say, handing me a cup of hot chocolate that was more marshmallows than milk. I would swear my allegiance to her, wrapping myself in the orange and navy afghan that she knitted for these special occasions, and begin offering ideas for which pre-taped cartoons to watch on VHS. “Can we watch the one where Chucky grows a watermelon plant in his stomach?” I would plead. She would smile and start rifling through the 40-something videocassettes we stored in what used to be my dad’s old bedroom growing up. Each one held about 7 hours of 90’s Nicktoons, including Rugrats, Hey Arnold, and Rocket Power. Cartoons were more inventive in the 90’s. They weren’t the manic, rainbow-colored headaches that hypnotize today’s kids. They were funny and original with relatable, meaningful plotlines and witty dialogue that I wouldn’t learn to appreciate until I was much older. Cartoons and junk food were banned at my house growing up. My parents were the organic, nosugar, no-processed-food kind of adults that raised me to love broccoli and get lost in a good mystery novel. I didn’t drink soda for the first time until I was a teenager, and 24 • bohemia • July 2013

by the time I was 9, I had already read The Great Gatsby twice. Candy was out of the question. Every Halloween I would have to surrender my pillowcase full of treats to my father, who would let me pick out five of my favorite chocolate bars and sour gummies to last me until next year. With the obesity rates being what they are in 2013, and the zombie generation of young people raised by MTV, their decisions make sense to me now. But at age 6, I was a rebel. I would sneak a phone call to my grandmother every night at 8pm to make sure that she was taping Rugrats when it came on at 8:30. I’d call her again at 9 just to make absolute certain that the tape had worked right. The next day, I’d beg my parents to let her pick me up in her old silver Thunderbird from Kindergarten so that I could secretly binge-eat See’s Candies and watch cartoons with her. After school, I would run into my grandmother’s arms, and she would carry me to the car. “Can we make s’mores today?” I would ask, and she would spoil me. We would snuggle down

on the couch together and watch Looney Tunes, Silvester & Tweety, and Eureeka’s Castle. I would fall asleep listening to the opening credits of The Wild Thornberries, the corners of my mouth caked in dribbled Rocky Road. The videocassettes are all still there, stacked in order of appearance in my dad’s old bedroom. And even though I’m way beyond the target age of the average Rugrats viewer, my favorite thing to do when I go home is to sneak over to my grandmother’s house and watch cartoons with her. I don’t think she minds. After all these years, it’s still our little secret.

Illustration by

July 2013• bohemia • 25 Graphic illustration on pg 23 & 25 by Jason Smith

SLUMBER PARTY by Cynthia Wheeler

Photos by Cynthia Wheeler Featuring (from top, CW) Serena Teakell (braid) Abby Eades (pigtails) Rebecca Shoultz (bangs) Stephanie Rystrom (curls)

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SlumberParty Songs by Audrey Johnson “It’s My Party.” Despite the song’s sad theme, it’s nevertheless very much loved. The fun beat and relatable lyrics make this a great slumber party song. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” With this hit Cyndi Lauper created perhaps the best slumber party song of all time. This one is certain to induce dancing and laughter. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is one of the ten best slumber party songs. “I Want Candy.” No listener can avoid singing along and dancing to this song, making it a great one to play at a slumber party. Bow Wow Wow, thank you for your contribution to the slumber party music world. “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Tiffany’s song has well-withstood the test of time. This classic slumber party song is fun, energetic and dance-inducing. “Oops! I Did it Again.” Britney Spears’ hit is a classic funtime song, but it’s even more perfect for slumber parties. Don’t be surprised if someone suggests choreographing a dance. “Supermodel.” Jill Sobule’s song from Clueless is so ridiculously fun but often overlooked. However, chances are quite good that almost all slumber party attendees know the song’s lyrics and won’t hesitate to shout them out. “Our Lips are Sealed.” The Go Gos song is great for slumber parties because it touches on a topic sure to arise at some point during the night: boys. “Our Lips are Sealed” is a great slumber party song. “Holiday.” No slumber party would be complete without at least one song from Madonna. This upbeat, fun and girly song is perfect for a slumber party. Of course, some dress-up is also called for when this song blasts through the speakers. “Leader of the Pack.” The Shangri-Las’ song is a bit silly, but quite truthful in its assertion that most girls seek out the bad boys. “Leader of the Pack” is a fun slumber party song. “Then He Kissed Me.” This song from The Crystals is barely innocent, but that’s what makes it so much fun. Pop Adventures in Babysitting into the DVD player and watch as slumber party guests dance along to this song when it comes on. July 2013• bohemia • 33

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Up All Night by Megan Miller

y first experience staying up all night was at a slumber party when I was 12. I grew up in “The O.C.” – Orange County, California - though we never called it that. My friends and I all lived within blocks of the Pacific Ocean. We were beach urchins and surfer wanna-be’s. We made sport of the tourists who came every summer, and had no idea that the rest of the country wanted to live there. The night in question was a birthday party at my friend Terri’s apartment. There were six of us – Terri, Lisa, Tracy, Charisse, Carmen, and me. A birthday was an excuse for a party, but so was Saturday, or someone getting an A in History, or rain. The festivities started early, with food: first we made a cake with chocolate frosting that looked perfectly innocent until you cut into it and discovered the interior, which was the color of Wisk laundry detergent. We made California dip, the exotic combination of Lipton’s Onion Soup mix and sour cream that would become the staple of many, many more parties in the future. There was a giant bowl of M&Ms. And of course, soda. Clearly our tolerance for sugar hadn’t diminished as we headed pell-mell into puberty. We consumed these delicacies while watching one of our favorite TV programs, “Here Come the Brides.” We debated whether Bobby Sherman , one of the show’s actors, really was hot. Lisa was very taken with Bobby Sherman, the Justin Bieber of the time. Having discovered in “Teen” magazine what

his favorite color was (purple), she wore purple socks in his honor for the rest of the school year, regardless of the rest of her outfit. Her cousin Terri on the other hand was an avid reader of “Seventeen” magazine. I tried to share her interest, but never saw myself in its pages. It seemed to be all about social engineering – how to become someone you were not, and sell that image to others, especially the friends which some articles even taught you how to choose. It seemed at odds with the zeitgeist in many ways, which was toward doing your own thing and different strokes for different folks. But at the bottom I knew even then that there wasn’t enough Cover Girl, Yardley or Bonne Bell in the world to make me look like the models in Seventeen. By the time “Here Come the Brides” and “The Brady Bunch” were over, the real party began. We traded confessions about which boys we liked. We exchanged information on the compatibility of respective astrological signs. We did some fortune-telling and held a séance, taking turns to go into the dark bathroom with a flashlight under our chins so we could scare ourselves in the mirror. We lifted Charisse (the smallest of us) with two fingers. Around four a.m., we trouped down to the beach in our pajamas on a mission which I’ve now long forgotten. I think it had something to do with the moon, which as it happened had long since set. I do remember that the legs of my pajamas got wet in the surf, and that sand clung to them. We raced up and down the deserted beach, but

bereft of a real purpose for being there, soon went back to the apartment. We tried to be quiet as we got as much sand off of each other as we could before entering. A side note: I wouldn’t let my 12 year old daughter go frolicking down on the beach at 4 a.m. in her p.j.’s today, but it may or may not have been a different world then. Terri’s parents were away, and we were under the aegis of her older brother, “Doc.” Doc was a nickname given to him by his friends, having something to do with pharmaceuticals. He once described an acid trip to me as “hundreds of little ‘Eat At Joe’s’ signs. Everywhere I looked!” The sky started to lighten. We congratulated ourselves for having stayed up, and one by one we fell asleep in a heap of sleeping bags, blankets and pillows on the floor of the living room. The night wasn’t completely over, however. The ones who fell asleep first were prey. We smeared a little bit of toothpaste on Carmen’s nose, and suppressed fits of giggles when she smeared it across her face in her sleep. We tried putting Tracy’s hand in warm water, but it didn’t work. I woke up to discover that my (training) bra was in the freezer, a tangled frozen mass. In years to come, Terri would flee an abusive relationship. Tracy would have a one-night stand with my husband. Everyone else would scatter to the winds, god speed, god speed, god speed us safely home. But for right now, it had been a killer party.

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Sara Smallvoice S

excerpt by Frances Wosmek

ara Smallvoice squirmed in her seat, waiting for school to be over. She watched a fat bumblebee outside the window. It landed on the sill. She smiled when it buzzed a dizzy path into the schoolroom. Sara’s black hair was pulled into a tight pony-tail. Her face was the color of ripe chestnuts. Her eyes, like brown velvet, had a far-away look. Miss Tippet opened the map case. She rolled down the United States. She picked up a long, sharp pointer and flicked it over the map. “What did the Indians trade with the early settlers?” she asked with a loud, sharp voice. She aimed the pointer directly at Sara and waited. “Bees.” Sara replied absentmindedly. Miss Tippet leaned forward. “I didn’t hear you,” she said. “You will have to speak up. No one can hear such a small voice as that.” Sara lifted her eyes. “Beads,” she corrected herself, straining her small voice to its very limit. Miss Tippet nodded sharply, turning back to the map. Sara sighed

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and hung her head. She watched the fat bumblebee light on her desk. She watched it explore the outer edge of her geography book. She poked her pencil across its path. The bee walked up the pencil and onto her finger. Sara drew back. “Don’t sting me,” she murmured in her smallest voice, The bumblebee stopped. “I don’t go around just stinging!” it snapped. “No bee ever stings without a perfectly good reason.!” “Oh, I’m sure one doesn’t,” Sara replied quickly. “I’m terribly sorry if I was rude.” “You should be!” replied the bee, settling onto her knuckle. “You might as well call me Bumbleton ... Bumbleton Buzzbee, that’s my name!” Sara glanced quickly out of the side of her eye. Miss Tippet was writing on the blackboard. The sound of squeaking and sliding chalk filled the room. Just the same, Sara lowered her voice even more. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “I can hear you plain as day. I’m quite sure no one else has ever spoken with a bee.”

“It’s very simple,” Bumbleton replied. “Small speakers are small listeners. You speak softly. Is it surprising you HEAR softly as well?” “No,” Sara agreed thoughtfully, bobbing her ponytail just once. “... In fact, it makes a lot of sense.” “Look,” said Bumbleton, “...I’m leaving. It’s hot and stuffy in this awful place. Why don’t you just come along with me to the clover patch?” Sara was startled. “Oh, I couldn’t!” she said, glancing toward Miss Tippet “SHE would never let me go.” “She won’t notice if you leave by the window with me.” Sara giggled a small, careful giggle. “I’m not a bee,” she said. “I could NEVER leave by the window!” “You have a point,” Bumbleton admitted. “What a pity you’re not as small as your voice. Then it would be easy as pie!” “But I’m not,” Sara said with a sigh. “I’m much too big to pass for a bee.” “Not so fast ... Where there’s a will, there must be a way.” Bumbleton paused thoughtfully, “I think I have it! Our queen always says ‘As you think, so you are’. Why don’t you try that?” “Try what?” Sara asked, looking puzzled. Bumbleton buzzed his wings impatiently. “Try THINKING small!” he cried, “...small, small, SMALL! JUST THINK SMALL!” “Do you really think I could?” asked Sara, hesitating. Bumbleton shrugged, “What can you lose? ... Just place in this stuffy old room, that’s all!” “You’re right,” Sara agreed, with her eyes already closed. “Well,” bumbled Bumbleton, “... begin!” “I am, I AM thinking small!”

“That’s not NEARLY small enough,” scoffed Bumbleton. “You will have to think small as a BEE!” Sara squeezed her eyes shut. “Like this?” she asked, shrinking her thought smaller and smaller. “Keep going!” Bumbleton urged. “More ... more ... STOP!” he said at the very moment she reached bee size. He buzzed the faint sigh of a bumble. “Whew! I’m glad I was able to stop you in time. You might have disappeared altogether!” Sara opened her eyes. “Oh!” she shrieked in a smaller-than-small voice, clapping her hands over he mouth. “Oh! Oh! OH!” Don’t be frightened. It’s only me,” Bumbleton said gently. “Being the size of a bee is new to you, of course. Everything is sure to seem a lot bigger from now on.” Sara leaned back against the geography book. She stared at Bumbleton. “You have the BIGGEST eyes I have ever seen!” she said trembling. “Now that you are our size, a great many things are sure to look different,” Bumbleton said, spreading his wings. “Let’s hurry. Let’s leave before we’re swatted. Let’s buzz off ... make a bee-line out the window, so to speak.” Sara glanced toward the front of the room. Miss Tippet twirled on one heel and started down the aisle. Sara hopped on Bumbleton’s back in a hurry. But Miss Tippet was not looking. Others in the class were bent over their books. Bumbleton lifted into the air. Sara hung on with all her might. Up... up... UP... they buzzed, higher than Miss Tippet’s head. Sara held her breath, feeling herself soar through the open window into the wide-open air and sunshine. >.<

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Albinoni’s Adagio by Ilya Prints

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h, how to express my feelings of this truly divine music in terrestrial words! These magical sounds are pouring as though from somewhere in the heavens. You listen to them, and as if immersed in waves of air and sunlight, soar high above. Your heart becomes easy, then sad, then happy, and you want to run somewhere and do something… But suddenly comes a tension in the music. Notes sound anxiously. And before your eyes, black figures of evil appear - many of them, and they surround a white figure of good, and suppress it, and abuse it, and it seems the evil is invincible. Power chords of the organ seemingly break in on the listeners and abruptly subside, and you hear only trembling violins, and you feel that light and good are alive! The light and good penetrate the world, and the darkness recedes. Goodness rises! And black crooked figures of evil cannot even straighten up. The organ picks up the melody and powerful sounds fill all around, rise up in the air, linger, and die away. Singing violins quiet down. The figures disappear. And you, excited and agitated, go back to your ordinary world where light and shadow are inseparable, where the line between good and evil is blurred, and where you face the unpaid bills, half-empty fridge, and eternal questions of life’s meaning.

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Donnie by Rick Allen

he music was spot-on 1980s. He could hear it blasting from his neighbor’s computer. 25 years ago it would have been blasting from a “boombox”. Guys singing in perfect four part harmony. It was some boy band…what was their name? It was catchy… with a nice hook…but he didn’t remember the song. God, he missed the 80’s and the 90’s. The 2000s were a blur. A big, fat, alcohol induced blur and after 9-11 nothing seemed the same… the clubhouse was gone with most of what he had called home for 20 + years…. He wondered if most folks got nostalgic in their 40s. What drove him to keep going back to his teen years? Were they really that much fun? Was he really that famous or was he just imagining all that bull? Even in boy bands there was always one guy who had to go solo and screwed it for the rest of the guys. That f…in’ Leo… he had to go solo. He himself had never been able to carry a solo act. Even when showing up at Comicon, he couldn’t handle all those screamers… everyone asking for an autograph… getting mad when he asked for $25 an autograph…a fellow had to make a living. When they surrounded him he would have flashbacks. He always just pulled back in his shell, when that didn’t work…the whiskey bottle gave him a place to hide. The docs had called it PTSD. He called it TMNT.

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y The Perv

by Caleb Farmer

alking into a new job you’re always looking for someone who can help you get your bearings, someone who will help you understand the nuances of the place. When I started working for the newspaper in Marion, Indiana, the person who best fit this description was the man I would come to know as the Perv. When you hear that a friend scored a job at a newspaper, you assume they are meeting deadlines while punctuating the last few lines of a breaking story. For this job, however, it wasn’t even necessary to be able to read your product. I fed pages of advertisements into a loud cachunking machine that jammed every ten minutes, stopping the entire assembly line and gluing every eye on you because you let the right corner of a glossy page slip into a machine a millisecond sooner than the right side. The first night I was feeding alluring pages of slips and panty liners on sale into the machine, I started a conversation with Brandon. “People call me the Perv.” “Why is that?” I asked pensively. “Whatever it is you are into, man, I can get it for you….Powerpuff Girls, Superwoman, Batgirl. You name it, I can get it….” He winked and nudged me, and the nudge was of such a quality that the very contact made me feel like I should take a shower or at least find some hand sanitizer to smear all over my side where we’d made contact. Trying to shake off the Perv’s offer, I noticed his attire (which, allowing for very slight variations, summed up his entire wardrobe): an Hawaiian shirt, brown steel-toed utility boots that were probably a Taiwanese version of Brahma’ s, mid-knee white socks, and the same pair of washed out jean shorts the likes of which I hadn’t 42 • bohemia • July 2013

seen since stone washing was the rage. Neither warehouses or human purpose could achieve a color like that of the Perv’s shorts. Most astounding of all was his haircut, which most closely resembled a Siamese Fighting fish: a ponytail swinging back and forth like a fin draped over long, flowing, greasy hair. Though the Perv always wore thick glasses and had a slight squint, he was still able to be very expressive. Of course, in some sense, he was a scripted creature of his culture: only the King of Beers was good enough for the Perv’s discerning palate, though God knows he would never say no to sitting on a cube of Stones during a game of Need for Speed or Grand Theft Auto. And the Perv only knew how to drive fast, whether that was inside a video game and in his mind on the roads of Marion, Indiana, riding around in his favorite car. “No foreign shit for me, man,” he would say. “Trans Am is where it’s fucking at.” He was equally discerning in his food choices, beef jerky and Hardees, which kept his shirt buttons stretching almost taut over his jeans shorts night after night. The Perv was tolerable and predictable and occasionally good for a laugh, which came in handy in an otherwise mundane job. “You showed up in a tie for your interview?” He asked my first night on the job. “Shit, I came in wearing this exact thing…jean shorts and a tuxedo t-shirt, and I got the job!” Things changed the night that we started partnering with the local jail to bring in women for work detail. The Perv immediately called dibs on a forty-five year old blonde woman, with a “solid build” and two children in junior high. She has been thrown into the slammer as a DUI collector. Why the Perv felt that a woman twice his age

with nothing good going on was worth being pursued by such a high roller as himself was unknown. His tactics were even more interesting. The first night she came in, he launched himself high-jump style onto a pallet of ads hoping for a little attention. He became more aggressive with me and the two other college guys who were summer help, punching people in the arms and inventing other feats of strength to make up for the fact that he walked 5 blocks to work every night at midnight and back at 4:30am. All this became even more astonishing a few nights later when the blond (Loretta), the Perv, the foreman (Steve) and I were outside on a smoke break later that week. A large, very fat man went by on a Goldwing, catching Loretta’s attention. “If I were riding on that motorcycle, I would be smilin’ real big, so big I would get a bunch of bugs in my teeth. It’d be like fly tape!” “Damn lady,” Steve said. “I’m trying to smoke a cigarette over here.” Conversations like this, however, didn’t deter the Perv one iota, in fact I think it only added to the allure for him. It was undeniable that the Perv saw a rare flower where the rest of us saw only a weed. And, after a while, I realized that he had gotten something right. The Perv liked his job, he was enamored with the women he worked with, and he was, in many ways, a king of his domain. He enjoyed his beef jerky and hoped for Budweiser, while not being at all disappointed with a dirty thirty. He appreciated a beauty he could pursue, tastes he could afford, and dreams he could hope for. What the Perv offered was cartoon pornography, but what others got was a demonstration in appreciating the simple life.

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Shadow by Gary Lee Webb

t began when her parents were killed. The screaming as the murderer first killed her father and then slowly mutilated and tortured her mother to death was horrible … and the little girl tried to vanish. She willed herself invisible, wished everyone would forget her. It was three days before anyone thought to look for the child or her dead parents. By that point she was starving, willing to be found. The stench of three-day old blood and feces was terrible. The police never could understand how the murderer missed the crib during his rampage, nor how they had missed the crib and the little girl. But they never found the murderer, and they quickly forgot about the little girl after CPS took her. Somehow, the murderer had made his escape, and no-one could remember a thing. t the orphanage, the girl was quickly forgotten, only remembered at meal times. She had a bed, and she ate – that was enough – and was happy that people seemed to ignore her. Even the bullies who normally terrified anyone new, usually forgot about her. Moreover, the few who were able to remember her and persisted in trying to bother her, started to have trouble. They forgot caution. In the past, when they were doing their evil deeds, they were careful not to get caught at it. But suddenly they would be seen doing things they should not

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and then disappearing … and noone noticed the little girl sneaking off. No-one could figure out why the bullies were now being “caught in the act”, but those in charge were happy to punish them for their misdeeds. The miscreant’s protestations that they were not guilty fell on deaf ears. Over time, most of the bullies learned that their usual habits now had negative consequences (and the few that did not went elsewhere). Rumors began to fly that the orphanage was haunted, that there was an avenging ghost. For if someone developed a reputation for bullying the other orphans, they soon learned that they had been seen in places they had not been, doing things they did not remember doing. Eventually, the orphanage became a relatively nice place to live (for an orphanage). One of the few joys at the orphanage was television. It had been the case that the biggest and toughest bully dictated what was watched. But here too, the ghost had an impact, and eventually what to watch was determined by consent, not decree. Saturday morning cartoons were a big hit, of course, and the TV room would fill with children. The girl watched avidly as cartoon heroes defeated villains and fought for truth, justice, and the American way. Even when she grew too big for such, nobody noticed her, qui-

etly watching. As the girl grew older, she became more and more discontented. The Saturday morning cartoons made it look so easy. Biff-bamboom; the villains were defeated, and the cops hauled them off to jail. Yet the evening news kept showing horrid thing after horrid thing. The world outside the orphanage walls was *not* nice … or it was not even getting better. There had to be a way. She did not have the ability to throw webs like Spider Man, the ability to just clobber the bad guys like Superman or the Thing. She could not even control weather like Storm of the X-men. But while she would never have the strength of a Batman or Iron Man, many of the others were just very dexterous. She liked the original Batman and Robin: Batgirl was cool, and Catwoman! Eartha Kitt as Catwoman was pur-rrfect. And while she could never have Batman’s strength, she had his creative genius. She loved putting things together, and she was good at it. As the Joker said: “The toys, where does he get the toys?” She resolved to work on her strength and dexterity. The orphanage had a gym. Anyone who laughed at her would forget why they were there. And she too, could have a beltfull of gadgets.

y the time she was 18, she was a lean, mean, fighting machine. Over the years she had known too many people who had been mugged, raped, or killed outside the orphanage. She was determined it would not happen to her. While her strength was limited by her small size, she had worked at being as strong as her frame would allow, quick as a viper, and as dexterous as an Olympic gymnast. Dressed in non-descript clothing, she would be quite a surprise for anyone who tried to get the better of her. The outside world awaited hungrily for those forced from the safe confines of the orphanage, but she would not be a willing meal. She loved to read, and so the bookshop was the perfect place for her. Since she did not mind late

hours, she was able to get the job no-one else wanted. She loved the tales of ninjas and assassins, heroes using garrotes, shirukin, and other silent weapons. When there were no clients, she could read to her heart’s content. But a single clerk, late at night, should have been an easy target for the two thugs that tried to rob the store. How the thugs managed to mistake each other for the clerk, nobody could figure out. But all agreed that shooting each other instead of the store clerk was a great result. Notoriety was not what the girl wanted … that would just lead to trouble hunting her. But if evil was going to enter her life, then she needed to hunt it before it hurt her. All of the costumed crime fighters wore masks to hide their iden-

tity. She could do the same … a black veil hiding the face other than the eyes. If the last thing they remembered was her eyes, so much the better. At night, when her prey would not be missed, she would hunt down evil and eliminate it first. And if they did not deserve to die, she could leave them tied up, hanging from a eyebolt in the ceiling and lifted with a small, powered pulley. It was good to have toys. It was a dangerous, dark world, but she could brighten the lives of those who feared, by destroying the evil that haunted the City. The Shadow was born. Perhaps she could find her parents’ killers.

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american spirit

Photos by Bonnie Neagle

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Models (l) Belladonna Treason & Amora Love

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American

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firecrackers

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American

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bombshells

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s n o s i d Ma by Caleb Farmer

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Austin, T

Madisons

A band making fans into friends

hen you see Madisons perform live, you don’t just become a fan. You become a friend. If you’re fortunate, you might become family. This band, which is currently a seven-piece set, already has plenty of friends, but they’re always open to adding more. Every show they play has the mood of a party where new friends are talking about substantive topics and getting to know each other while having a great time. Madisons is led by frontman Dominic, who loves the idea of being in a large band.“I like having a lot of people together,” Dominic said. “The house is always full of friends.” This is one of the major themes of the band: people making great music and having a great time together. It only took five minutes of sitting down with the band at the Dancing Bear Pub to see that Madisons genuinely enjoy spending time together. Even though Dominic is the front man and, in a lot of ways, the driving force, that doesn’t make it all about him, as

is evidenced in this comment: “I like bands like Phosphorescent that use a moniker. It’s bigger than a person: this is a collaborative effort between a bunch of friends making great music together.” “Our goal is to make genuine music that’s about what is really going on in life,” says the band’s drummer Cassie, the Wacoan in the group, “and when you write music that’s genuine, you write something that is relatable to a lot of people.” “A friend of mine came to one of our shows, and as she was standing in the crowd, she just started crying as she heard the line, ‘What am I going to do when I can’t smell her anymore,’ from the song El Paso.” It was a line that a fan was able to relate to in a very personal way even though the lines were written about an unique experience in Dominic’s life. Madisons aren’t afraid of their lyrics giving you a view into their soul. They don’t mind deeply personal stories and even hope that someone out there will

be able to respond to what they write. Repeated lines like “How am I going to pay for the wrong I’ve done...to everyone” show a self-awareness, even a mourning, but also a willingness to engage the audience in a way that’s deeper than the usual method of writing stories about fictitious characters avoiding turning the spotlight on their own hurt and bruises. It gets to the root of who this band is. These are real people, just trying to do life, but willing to admit that they make mistakes in the midst of it all. That their desire to create great art supersedes their desire to make money is evidenced by the way they handle money. No one gets paid when Madisons plays. It all just goes into a….. might I call it a“slush fund”? But seriously, they use all their payments to invest in the band and spread their music. They are so committed to spreading their sound that you can download their album for free at: http://www. madisonsatx.com/ July 2013• bohemia • 59

Special thanks to Jason Turner of Candy Man Waco for gifting us with Candy Man bling. See Mario, Pac-Man & Angry Bird on next page.

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pony Girls

Photos by Jon Goddi VC

Pony boy, pony boy Won’t you be my pony boy? Here we go Don’t say No Off across the plain Marry my, carry me Home again with you Ada James, 1909

Shoot features models: Aly Edelmann Elissa Omberg & Chelsea Maybin Special thanks to Anahi’s: Disenos y Arreglos at 906 N. 25th St in Waco, TX for providing pinatas

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t e e r t S h t 25

Chelsea

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Elissa

Aly

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Animated Fantasy by Gary Lee Webb

antasy has always been part of cinematography, and it has been a major part of animation. Some of the earliest films were clearly fantasybased: what else can you call “El Espectro Rojo” [the red ghost], produced in 1907? As a life member of the Phoenix Fantasy Film Society (PFFS), I have seen many fantasy films, most animated. These are my top ten favorites.

My all time favorite is the 19 40 version of Fantasia. It was actually Disney’s As my friends know, I have bee third feature-length an- fan n a Tolkein for 40 years, and Rankin and imation, following Snow Wh Ba ss made an excelite and the Seven Dwarfs lent animated version of The and Pinocchio, but holds a mo Hobbit in 1977. While re dear spot in my heart. I am looking forward to see Why? To begin with, I love ing the trilogy by Peter classical music and LeoJackson; my guess is that I wi pold Stokowski did a wonderf ll continue to favor the ul job. More important Rankin/Bass cartoon. is that my children, both huma n and avian love it. At 6 months, it was my oldest daughter ’s first movie, and she was mesmerized. Ma During college, one of my fav ny years later, our oldorite films was est cockatiel happened to be Ra lph Bakshi’s 1977 version of in the room when we put Wizards, and it reit on video; she demanded mains so today. For anyone wh to have it replayed three o has not seen it, it featimes before she was satisfied. tures a conflict between two twins, one good and one evil, with very different approa ches to life. The film is extremely rich with content, well worth viewing.

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Another Bakshi film from my college days was the 1972 cartoon, Fritz the Cat. This animated feature film was a much grittier and satirical version of Robert Crumb’s Head Comix. I originally saw the R –rated version, but quickly realized the X-rated version was better. It was certainly not a typical Disney G-rated cartoon ! Apparently the world agrees: Fritz the Cat was extremely successful after a slow start, grossing over $100 million worldwide.

PFFS introduced me to many films, including the 1973 French/ Czech film, Fantastic Planet (La Planète Sauvage). It was distributed in the US by Roger Corman, who was responsible for many of the best fantasy and horror films since 1954 (he is still active today!). It is a 72 minute film about sentient pets (humans) achieving their freedom from effective slavery, and very different peoples learning to live in harmony. But what makes it notably is the truly alien wildlife and ecology of the Fantastic Planet – the author’s imagination was working overtime!

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Much less serious, but still high on my list of great animation is the 2-minute film, Bambi Meets Godzilla, by Marv Newland. It came out in 1969 and has been included in the film program of most of the science fiction conventions I have been to … always great for a laugh.

I was always fond of the Dungeons and Dragons Saturday morning cartoon, which ran three seasons on CBS, 1983 through 1985 (28 episodes made, 27 aired, 24 minutes each). The game’s designers had a strong hand in the production, keeping it a reasonable interpretation of the game – even to the point where it was nearly canceled for violence. The Dungeons and Dragons series was definitely *not* a child’s cartoon, despite the fact that I was happy to let my children watch it (my daughters have been playing the game since pre-kindergarten !). But then again, my children have grown up seeing animals slaughtered for the table, or hanging in the butcher’s shop, waiting to be sliced into steaks.

Another animated film including death and violence is the 82-minute Secret of NIMH, released in 1982. It is based on a 1971 children’s novel, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, but adds such adult themes as betrayal and leaders who are more interested in acquiring power for 66 • bohemia • July 2013

themselves than the good of those who serve them. Once again, I did not object to my children watching it … they need to learn that not everyone is nice – some are real rats.

Considerably lighter in heart is the 1988 film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, 104 minutes. It could be argued that it does not belong on this list since it is a mix of animation and live-action, but in my estimation it is still one of the best animated fantasy films.

10.

Last on my list is another Ralph Bakshi film: The Lord of the Rings. Bakshi only completed half of the story: his goal was to have a sequel for the second half. Even so, his rendition of the first half of the Lord of the Rings trilogy was a great piece of animation. Cartoons. This list would not be complete without mention of the large number of cartoons, over the years. While they cannot individually compete with the movies, they are very good. Personally I was always a fan of the Pink Panther cartoons, made 1964 – 1980. Everyone loves Micky Mouse, beginning in the release of Steamboat Willie in 1928 and the earlier made Plane Crazy. And Looney Toons was active for four decades beginning in 1929. After all, without the cartoons, none of the longer animations would have ever been made !

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ricks, Tips, & Secrets on ow to become...

An Animator! By Susan “The Sooz” Duty

Bohemia Interviews the Folks at Powerhouse Animation

he new heights that cinema can soar to are made all the more magical when it involves adorable monsters. Am I right, or am I right? But how did we move from hand operated toys displaying only seconds of animation to entirely computer generated films like Monsters University? Further, how can you, should your inescapable passion be to generate entirely new worlds by hand and computer, be a part of creations like these? Let’s not get bored reading this and find out. A history of animation in seven sentences: As was already mentioned, hand operated toys like the Zoetrope relied on the Phi phenomenon (the brain’s capability to perceive an image continuously) and provided brief, single viewer “entertainment.” The early twentieth century brought ground breaking developments in animation, and short films like Winsor McCay’s Gertie the Dinosaur began to emerge. The first animated feature film, El Apóstol, was produced in 1917 by Quirino Cristiani, but sadly, it’s now considered lost. Walt Disney, if you can believe this, was owner of a studio called Laugh-OGrams that went bankrupt in 1923 (tough break), so he hopped on

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over to Los Angeles and built himself a new studio (responsible for projects like the Alice Comedies Series, Steamboat Willie and films starring some rat named Mickey). In 1930, Warner Brothers Cartoons was founded and brought the Looney Tunes gang to America’s slapstick hungry audiences. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs came out in 1937, produced by Walt and his buddies, and thus began Disney’s long career of traditional animation features, leaving Warner Brothers to focus continuously on shorts. Several decades later, PIXAR, the heavy bat swingin’, mouse clickin’, rag tag team of computer animators burst on the scene to change the animated feature as we know it. And boom goes the dynamite. Here we are.

TNT!

o maybe you want to get a job as an animator, or maybe you just care about the career track of animators for some totally unexplainable reason. Whatever the case may be, Brad Graeber, CEO and co-founder of Powerhouse An-

imation Studios in fabulous Austin, Texas, has a couple of things to say about this. He started the company in 2001 with his partners Bruce Tinnin and Frank Gabriel, and it operates to this very day as a small, independently contracted animation studio. They’ve done work for Kevin Smith, Sony, Disney and are responsible for a Lilo and Stitch short that played before feature films in years past. “This is a talent based profession,” he says, so a college degree isn’t necessarily required. A portfolio, however, is and he mentioned college being a great place to amass this very type of thing. And because the studio is working on anywhere between ten to twelve projects at a time as opposed to one big project for an extended period of time, it’s important that those seeking a job with his company are able to draw very well and cover a broad range of styles. If you’re into anime and can only draw anime, you best get on down the road and look for another place to work. Because of the company’s size (only thirty employees), there is no internship program. The ages of these quirky folks can be divided into two groups. There’s the “Old Timers” who came from

larger studios with traditional animation backgrounds, and the “New Bloods” who are mostly in their early twenties and experts with computer software. The two groups help each other; the old pros offering sage advice to the younger generation, and the younger folks teaching the pros how to use the computers. I can imagine there’s a coming-of-age movie idea happening in real time somewhere in that office on a daily basis. Mammoth studios like Pixar are another story. When the company started in 1982 they had forty employees; now they employ well over a thousand people. Internships are available, and better yet, PAID. There are, however, only 60 to 80 positions open at any given time. Considering how many might apply out of the throngs of animation students in the nation and around the world, you had better bring your A game. Applications for said internships can be found at Pixar. com. Responsible for fourteen feature films and half a dozen Oscar wins, Pixar operated at one time similar to Powerhouse Animation. They were contracted to do small pieces of animation for live action movies and progressed from there. July 2013• bohemia • 69

Enchanted ce Open Thurs - Friday 2 PM to 8 PM & Special Events

A Store That Celebrates Natural Beauty in a Warm Relaxing Environment

t the Enchanted Cedar store in Lorena, Texas, Brooke Hamton and her family celebrate the natural beauty and bounty that surrounds us everyday-while strengthening the connections people have between each other and the world. The tight-knit family shares what they can with the members of their community, as well as “visitors from beyond our forests.” Since 70 • bohemia • July 2013 it began, the Enchanted Cedar has

sprouted and grown into a healthy and magical place, which will only continue to thrive thanks to their many friends. They offer a warm relaxing environment, magical activities for both children and adults and a wide variety of raw, organic & vegan snack options.

Enchanted Cedar -- the book! Above, page depicting the characters in Brooke Hampton’s children’s book Enchanted Cedar: A Journey Home, illustrated by Vicky Bowes.

edar edar 100 N Oak St Lorena, TX 254-857-3463 Coffee, chaga tea, raw chocolate Open mic, drum circle, bohemian gifts & yoga www.enchantedcedar.com

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kwb

keep waco beautiful Organization provides volunteer oppurtunities for people who want to make a difference! What does Keep Waco Beautiful do for Waco? Keep Waco Beautiful is an organization in Waco, TX with over 13,000 volunteers and 400 members. Their mission is to make Waco cleaner, safer, healthier, and more beautiful. KWB sponsors clean-ups at the lake, river, and in Waco’s neighborhoods. The organization goes to the schools to educate children with hands-on projects that teach litter control and community pride. KWB raised 200,000 to build Indian Spring Park, lighted the Suspension Bridge, and assisted Waco in developing Miss Nellie’s Pretty Place. KWB raised over 2 million to build Heritage Square in downtown Waco. In order to make sure these projects continue, join and get involved today. An individual membership is 35 dollars. A family membership is 50. Businesses may partner as well. Your tax deductable membership donation will get you an auto decal, a t-shirt, and more. Find out how to volunteer, donate, or join at www.keepwacobeautiful.com

keep waco beautiful Making Waco a Beautiful Place to Live, Work & Play!

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contributors

PETER ABLE has been writing fiction and poetry since high school. His screenplays have beeen finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway with his family. He is currently the director of Financial and HR systems for Baylor University. RICK ALLEN is a cooperator, problem solver, facilitator and entrepreneur. He loves reading books and mags printed on paper. He loves gardening and growing new life in his yard. He has loved working in mental health and education. He has been married 30 years and has lived in Waco 30 years. Coincidence? He is happy to be alive. After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans (street musician, psych tech, riverboat something-or-other, door-to-door poetry peddler, etc.), MATT DENNISON finished his undergraduate degree at Mississippi State University before attending UT Austin for one year. He currently lives in a 107-year-old house with “lots of potential” and can be reached at columbusmatt@ cableone.net. 76 • bohemia • July 2013

DARGAN DODD once gave birth to a manatee. He named it Jon. Dodd grew fond of Jon. One day, Dodd grew hungry. So he cooked Jon. Jon tasted like old applesauce. Upon finishing, Dodd cried until he fell asleep in his backyard, waking up when the rain hit his face. A lover of light rain and remixes, SUSAN DUTY, known affectionately as “The Sooz”, is a self-proclaimed screenwriter and essayist. Slated to graduate from “Bear School” with a degree in Film and Digital Media in December, the Sooz has lofty goals that include obtaining health insurance and a living wage. JON GODDI says, “Photography is my calling, my profession, and the thing that will undoubtedly drive me insane someday. I don’t photograph subjects. I photograph the way they make me feel. I’m very raw, bold and edgy with my style. Admittedly, it’s a bit of a strange concept. But it’s honest – and it’s the best way to describe my approach to the craft. If that’s all you ever know about me, it’s enough to say you know me very, very well.”

ANN HOWELL’s poetry has recently appeared in Borderlands, Calyx, Crannog, Free State Review, RiverSedge, and Third Wednesday. She serves on the board of Dallas Poets Community, and has edited its journal, Illya’s Honey, since 1999. Her chapbook, Black Crow in Flight, was published by Main Street Rag Publishing. Another chapbook, the Rosebud Diaries, was published by Willet Press. She has been nominated twice for both the Pushcart and Best of the Net. A.J. HUFFMAN is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has published six collections of poetry, available on Amazon.com. She has published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals. kindofahurricanepress.com Central Texan MEGAN MILLER gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool and finishing up a tour of the country, she is intent to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town with her husband.

BONNIE NEAGLE is a native Texan who is married with 3 children; Alley, Isaac and Parker. Her love for photography started during middle school and has grown ever since. She was recently featured on Senior Style Guide’s blog. She also co-owns First Sight Photography with Marcel van Es. ILYA PRINTS lives in Lynn, MA. Some of his other works, poems and flash fictions, have been published in several literary magazines, “Calliope”, “Exercise Bowler”, “Dance Macabre”, “Fine Line”, and others. APRIL SALZANO teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. Her work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg, Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Rainbow Rose, The Camel Saloon, The Applicant, The Mindful Word, Windmills, and is forthcoming in Inclement, Poetry Quarterly, Decompression, Work to a Calm, Bluestem, and The Centrifugal Eye. The author also serves as co-editor for several online journals at Kind of a Hurricane Press.

JASON SMITH is a graphic designer located in Nashville, Tennessee. He is a 90s kid and enjoys designing retro artwork in addition to brand identity and also dabbles in web design. Specialties include typography and photo manipulation. Visit JasonLeeSmith.com to learn more about his work and for freelance information

GARY LEE WEBB is a 15-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages ... badly. His credits include over 180 public speeches, four decades of confer- ences and contests, and both non- fiction and fictional publications. He is 57, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters.

DEVIN STROUD was carved from pine on a vacant Mississippi night. He was raised by Dionysian ninja turtles and mentored by gloomy Apollonian grunge bands.

CYNTHIA WHEELER is a Waco native and mother of three She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer for Waco Center For Youth for six years.

As native to Los Angeles, California for WHITNEY VAN LANINGHAM, the adjustment to Waco and Texas life in general was quite an adventure. A Communication Specialist major with a minor in Creative Writing at Baylor University, she has moved on to New York City in order to intern at the David Letterman Show. She contnues to love puppies, rock n’ roll, yoga, the 1920’s, and anything covered in teriyaki sauce.

Originally from the coast of Maine, SARAH YASIN studied Latin and Literature in New Hampshire and found her way back to vacationland where she currently teaches at a private high school. She has poems in Glass, South85, and the Rorschach Occasional.

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10TH ANNUAL

FEATURES: POETRY SLAM, AUTHORS, POETS, BLOGGERS, SCIENCE FICTION/FANTASY OPEN MICS, AUTHORS’ PANELS SEPT 28 & 29, 2013 INDIAN SPRING PARK WACO, TX wacoculturalartsfest.org/wordfest 78 • bohemia • July 2013

Greater Waco Chamber of Commerce