DR Venus : Color version

venus

Again –  a color version of a drawing that I’ve shown here in the past as a  black & white image:   My version of Venus from FIREBALL XL5 with some “tweaking” in both appearance and ability.

 (It occurs to me that in our current socio-political environment someone could assume some sort  of sordid intent with my use of the word “tweak” but please be reassured there is no ulterior motive.)

There’s a bit of challenge in maintaining uniformity in the XL5 crew (especially after you’ve seen color photos) so I kept the good doctor’s green jumpsuit but gave her a pointy-shouldered jacket to match Steve Zodiac’s uniform.

stevevenusjetbike

It also seemed a perfect situation for my beloved Trap-Jaw palette comprised of the tropical magentas/oranges and turquoises of that particular He-Man adversary. However,  I was putting this together it occurred to me that those colors just a matter of horking from Filmation’ s color choice – some of those colors can be found in  vivid sunsets of both dawn and dusk in Alaska.

trap-jaw

…and there’s yet another influence, one that  I thought I’d imagined for years – a toy set called Hamilton’s Invaders that was on the market for the blink-of-an-eye in 1964. It also used colors like chartreuse and turquoise found in my “Trap-jaw Palette” and while print advertisements were the only presence Hamilton Invaders had in the Last Frontier, what I saw was intriguing enough to have a permanent  aesthetic influence on me.

 

Tuesday’s Reflection on Monday’s Isolation

As much as I hoped otherwise there was a price to be paid for the work we did around the house this past weekend. I woke up Sunday feeling as though an icepick had been shoved through my right knee, and by Monday morning I was wondering if I would ever walk unassisted again in this life (which was a kind of “d’oh!” moment inasmuch as I have been using a cane for well over a decade now). I’ve made a habit of keeping a work-satchel handy but neither the sketch pads or laptops seemed to hold my attention while I forced myself to sit still and heal a bit.

I spent the time thinking.

One of my older friends insists  that I was born out of my time, that I’d be happier in Ancient Greece when ) “people just sat around and thought all the time”. I am partial to things like indoor plumbing, cushioned seating and heavier-than-air flight so I doubt I’d take a trip back in time were it possible, but there is something to be said about living a less-cluttered, less cacophonous life.

At this point I’d settle for just being able to go the corner store and buy a packet of Necco wafers.

 

1971: Subterranean Plantation

There was no end to the surprises that came with a definitive diagnosis of ankylosing spondylitis. I was fully aware of the chronic pain part and the chronic, progressive, irreversible parts weren’t all that surprising, but I was taken aback with the genetic aspects of the disease – that  over 90% of the people with A/S have the HLAB27 chromosome with evidence that the  condition dates back several thousand years. It was first described in the 1600’s but we know that a good number of the folks pushing stone blocks for the Pyramids also had the inflamed joints and fused vertebrae of the disease known as Bekhterev Disease, Bechterew’s Disease, or Marie–Strümpell Disease before the medical world settled on ankylosing spondylitis.

In addition to the physical discomfort another source of stress connected with A/S has been the large number of people anxious to share a ‘silver bullet’ for my condition; said silver bullets being one of any number of naturopathic remedies that would completely cure me and eliminate all my symptoms just as soon as I signed up as a distributor and joined someone’s ‘downline’ in one of many multilevel marketing plans. Unfortunately what most of these folks can’t seem to grasp is that with just two exceptions I have little use for alternative medicine, and that antipathy dates back over 50 years when my parents would regularly bypass needed medical solutions for alternative (read cheaper) cures.

I don’t think  mom totally distrusted modern medicine – she had been a U.S. Army nursing corps cadet during World War ll and missed deployment to the Pacific Theater only after the war was cut short after Little Boy and Fat Boy permanently altered the Japanese landscape. She worked as a registered nurse in a public hospital for ten years after the war and continued to stay certified through continuing education clear up into the late 1970s, but when we moved to Alaska she somehow became convinced that between the lack of sunlight, and the amount of preservatives in our food, her children were nutritionally short changed.

She started out modestly with bean sprouts and sun-lamps but by the time I hit high school she was in full alternative mode with a daily regime of “additions” to our diet that seemed to exceed our intake of regular food…but of all the additions she tried three stood head and shoulders about the rest:

  • Nutritional supplements in pill and capsule form
  • Vitamin B-rich yeast mixed with orange juice referred to as “dirt”
  • Almonds

The pills and capsules started out with just a One-A-Day® multiple vitamin but as time went by Mom followed classic addict behavior and began to increase our dosages by the odd pill or capsule, until  my third year in high school saw me knocking back  a small shot glass full of assorted pills, capsules and gel caps containing every vitamin in the alphabet.

‘Dirt’ was our term for a tumbler full of orange juice mixed with a powdered Vitamin B/ yeast compound. I had very serious issues with ‘dirt’ from the very beginning :

  1. The powder wasn’t mixed with real orange juice – it was mixed with Tang, and no matter how you mixed it or how many astronaut jingles  played on TV, Tang was just water flavored with equal parts Orange Pixie Stix and Alka-Seltzer.
  2. If you entertained any hopes for a social life you really, really did not want that stuff in your system as the day progressed. As a bullet-proof seventeen-year-old I could care less about any heretofore undetected problems with my nutrition, but I was extremely concerned with the rotten-egg burp and room-clearing killer farts the yeast brought on in a healthy digestive tract.

Almonds entered the equation at roughly the same point the pill count got out of hand. I never really knew why we were taking the almonds – something about cancer, but as a dyed in the wool cashew man the almonds grew old on the second day Mom dropped them in the shot glass. My normal response would have been to chuck it all in the trash, but Mom was as vigilant about monitoring our intake as she was in providing the stuff. Inmates entering prison for the first time were under a fraction of the surveillance Mom exercised when she issued the pills and dirt. She stopped short of a full body cavity search but once that stuff was ingested there was no opportunity for ejection short of an alien abduction.

It was a no-win situation until my senior year of high school when my mom cajoled the school board into allowing my younger sister to attend eighth grade at school in town. My sister was not a morning person and the resultant turbulence while loading up the car meant I now had time for diversion. Disposing of the dirt was easy enough – I’d grab the tumbler and mumble something about drinking it on the way out to the car when in fact I’d dump it as soon as I got out of the door, a scheme that worked until snowfall when the brown splotches that started to appear between the front door of the house jump-started maternal suspicion1..

The shot glass full of pills, capsules and almonds remained a problem – mom still shook us down before we left in the morning, so I finally came up with an avoidance method that relied on the location of my bedroom. Access to my attic was by a ladder through a hatch in the closet at the end of the hall – which was kind of cool because of the secret aspect of it all. In addition to the water heater the area behind the ladder served as a closet of sorts for clothing and other items I was unable to stow in the scant storage spaces in the loft itself. The space was a mixed blessing because in addition to providing access to the attic, the hall closet provided our only route to the crawl space under the house, and while the ladder was securely fastened in place I was none too sure about the trap door over the hole leading to the depths below.

As we bounced around the house early each morning I made sure to make one additional pass by the door to my ladder  where I’d empty the shot glass between the boxes on the closet floor. Each evening I would take a broom and sweep away the pills I tossed there earlier, either hiding them in the bottom of the kitchen trash or sweeping them through the gaps around the hatch to the crawlspace.

…and then suddenly it was the end of the semester, academic year, and high school. Work schedules didn’t mesh quite as smoothly as school schedules did and Mom’s program of vitamins and supplements dropped by the wayside. As I came and went on my travels as a student, missionary and soldier I eventually forgot about pills, “dirt” and almonds until one summer day several years later when my folks discovered a  noticeable dip that had developed in the middle of the house. My parents asked me to check on the cement  footings under the middle of the main floor, which would take me down into the crawlspace. No one had been down that closet hatchway in years and even though various sisters, nieces and nephews had used my old loft at one time or other, no one had settled in for the long haul, so my collection of stuff was still there.2

There were no permanent lights rigged behind the closet ladder so I had to work by touch, and after cleaning my stuff up it still took some time to clear out the old sheets of cardboard and scraps of carpet that insulated the hatchway. The cloud of musty mildew odor the “poofed” into existence after thirty  minutes of mucking about let me know when I’d made it to the dimly-lit crawlspace, and I was surprised to find that it was dimly lit as fingers of daylight pushed through the random gaps between cement block, poured cement footings, and leafy stalks.

Leafy stalks?

Years earlier in an effort to provide better access as well as elbow room, the area just below the hatch had been excavated an additional three feet. Growing out of the dirt just to the side of this excavation were a half-dozen twisting stalks, each with just a leave or two and looking like something grown in a zero-gravity environment. The leaves were not the healthiest looking I’d ever seen, their color that of Thanksgiving  found in the back of the oven a week after the event but  they were vaguely lanceolate in shape like those of a willow tree. I would have never suspected anything would sprout in the crawlspace but given the plants’ location between the hot-water line to the bathtub and one of the only places that sunlight reached into the crawlspace I wasn’t totally surprised.

…no, the surprise didn’t happen until several years later and several thousand miles away as I was preparing an assignment for a graphic design class I was teaching. The project entailed designing snack-sized packaging for various types of nuts, and as I was assembling reference materials and imagery I was stopped cold by the photos of almonds and almond trees.

Slender branches with long oval leaves that looked like the head of a lance? I shook my head – the time frame between ditching the almonds and finding the plants was much too long for any germination to be possible…but at the same time I remembered that it had been raw unprocessed uncooked almonds Mom had us gagging down. I’d also just read about a research project in the United Kingdom sprouting grain seeds found in one of the pyramids.

The clatter of pots and pans startled me back into coherent thought as my Beautiful Saxon Princess began preparing dinner, and as I gathered up my papers and gradebook I thought of  mom’s nutritional efforts all those years ago, I had cheekily dismissed all her efforts to improve my health with her pills and supplements …and almonds. There never seemed to be any connection, any measurable benefit to the stuff she had us choking down but here I was staring at a plant that was healthy enough to thrive in such adverse conditions – a plant displaying the rigorous health mom had sought for her children.

Clattering pans brought my attention back to dinner and when I confessed ignorance of the aroma my Beautiful Saxon Princess said: “It’s a vegetarian garlic almond quiche”

She went on breezily. “As I recall it’s not exactly your favorite, but it was one of your mom’s favorite recipes.”

“Dish me up a double helping….”

———————————————————————————————————————–



  1. I eventually convinced her the “splotches” were the result of an intestinal disease affecting peninsula moose that I’d heard about on the radio
  2. The stuff ranged from corduroy bell bottom pants to the missing lid of my FIREBALL XL5 lunchbox among other things, and most of the detritus that had to be cleaned up before opening the hatch dated from my tenure,

 

 

 

 

 

 

It All Works Out…

It’s been a good news/bad news type of situation the last couple of days. Good in that I’ve gone almost five months without an upper respiratory infection, bad in that I’ve finally come down with some kind of bug but good (?) in that it is some sort of stomach virus and I’m still able to breathe. I’m not getting as much done as I’d like but I’m grateful to be able to work.

My Star Pupil and his father helped me with installing a shelf in my Beautiful Saxon Princess’ part of the closet. In these types of situations BSP just laughs at me “at the five minute mark I hear you voice slip into that measured cadence and I know at that point you’re in teacher mode again. “

Dog King John & the Stolen Syrup Page 5

Latest installment – but lacking captions, logo etc. I don’t have a 11″X17″ printer/copier so I had to tile the image from multiple smaller prints – hence the  are also some obvious mismatched areas  I’m also trying to brainstorm a way to enhance the  aerial perspective as seen  out the window without the linework washing out completely in some places.

2019-01-01 dkj page 5 draft

The Rekindle School

I don’t know how many of my readers live in Seattle, but if you do live in the Emerald City, work in a creative field  and are interested in professional development I would recommend enrolling in The Rekindle School (https://www.classesandworkshops.com/). Rekindle is an independent education program  loosely affiliated with the  Seattle Experimental College and features classes in traditional art, cartooning, writing and film-making.

Nils Osmar is the writer, director, producer, principal and chief cook/bottlewasher of this program and every semester he puts together an entire academic program from scratch. Even if his former  students didn’t sing his praises as a teacher and creative professional I would still recommend him highly, if nothing else but for the firm shove he gave me towards professionalism when I was taking baby steps towards a creative career 40 years ago.

nils

Nils is one of those rarest of animals – an established creative professional who is also a decent teacher. Not only can he walk the walk, he can talk the talk….and you’ll understand him when he does.

XL5 Rework…with color added

xl5colorrework

I ran the black-and-white version of this drawing in 2016 but never got around to adding color. I’ve yet to decide if it was artistic vision that prompted a white fuselage or if I was just to lazy to work up all the reflections and shadows in a metallic look. I’m also not totally sold on the inset Gemini-style windows in Fireball Jr. Even as a ten year old I had a hard time buying off on a big bubble canopy but this configuration seems awfully cramped.

2261 – Blade

I just found out about this! I think it is so incredibly cool to see someone take an idea of mine and run with it…but still stay faithful to my intent and design parameters.

Vintage Starships

The Blade class entered service in 2261 addressing concerns around the Signal intelligence (SIGINT) capabilities of the fleet, the name derived from the bladeship nickname that the design earned.

Bladeships are fully equipped with sensors and receivers for use in reconnaissance and surveillance, the huge blade housing massive arrays for monitoring communications and providing SIGINT.

Although the Bladeship design had some weaponry, the design as drafted was meant to fight running away (unusually it had two torpedo tubes firing aft but only one firing forward).

The designer of the bladeship, Commander Deitrick (unusually an operational intelligence office) based the design on his own experience of what was required in the role. After submitting the design to his superiors as part of a post mission debrief he was soon informed that a prototype would be built.

The first ship, USS Dagger, was built by Chandley…

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1974: Spring Camp

I was so damn tired.

I was the only man in a two-man foxhole, my buddy long gone to a squad leader’s meeting at the command post leaving me to pull guard duty alone through the night to the next morning. I had never been so sleep-deprived in my life – several times I had to hold back from sounding the alarm after seeing what I thought were giant Neanderthal aliens.1

Welcome to ROTC Spring Camp.

The BYU ROTC program in 1974 was much more rigorous than I’d expected, with a strict discipline that lingered from an earlier time when the looming specter of conscription put teeth into the threat of being ‘dropped from the program’. The abrupt change from the more easy-going first-names-only program at Ricks College threw me off but I quickly got up to speed with spit-shined boots, starched fatigues and an ego surrounded by mental sandbags.

Truth be told I needed something to throw myself into, and the French Foreign Legion was not recruiting at the time. I had been riding high during my last semester in Rexburg, but then in a twist that would make any soap opera proud I went through a broken engagement, a missed application deadline and an equally disastrous rebound relationship that left me marooned in Provo for a semester, living in a dank basement apartment with five strangers and a totally useless line-up of classes at a university that I never, ever wanted to attend.

Looking back it should have been no surprise that I got heavily involved in the ROTC program. It was the one place at BYU that I was able to make friends, it provided my shattered pride with positive reinforcement through the butt-load of merits I earned during tactical lab exercises, and it generally formed a band-aid over the gaping emotional wound left from the break-up. If there was a downside it was the manner in which my overly gung-ho attitude generated antipathy in some of my less motivated squad-mates. I was so caught up in the program that it surprised no one that I volunteered for Spring Camp even though attendance was optional for second year cadets, but to be honest there was little military zeal in my decision. I could see no sense in spending the four days of Spring Break watching the paint dry on the wall of my crappy little apartment.

The camp was held in the desert adjacent to Dugway Proving Grounds and was designed to prepare third year cadets for advanced training at FT Lewis (WA) the following summer. We would participate in a series of tactical problems and training exercises with third year cadets in rotating leadership positions  – and though as a second-year cadet my mission was to simply be someone to give orders to, I surprised evaluators when I proved to be much more than just a body to command. Growing up in rural Alaska had given me an excellent set of fieldcraft skills, and I was also more accustomed to rustic living conditions than my proto-yuppie cadet companions.

The training schedule included seventy hours of various exercises leading to a 24-hour long-range patrol designed to be the capstone of the spring camp experience. For me the patrol was anticlimactic as my peak came the previous morning during a squad exercise involving a hasty attack. As mentioned I was slated to be a redshirt2  during the exercise, so I had slipped my mental gear selector into neutral and let my mind wander while we were double-timing to the training site, only to be startled back to life with:

“DEITRICK! SQUAD LEADER!”

“Huh?” (my snappy come-back!)

A squad-mate hissed “You’re the squad leader for this problem!”

Few things in life have terrified me as much as those seven words did. Lack of experience coupled with complete inattention up to that point started my knees knocking and my internal Stukas dive-bombing. After receiving my assignment I stepped aside to devise a plan and write an order but all I could think of was:

  • Imminent failure and resultant humiliation
  • Swift expulsion from the program
  • Prompt transportation to a military prison or penal colony in South America

I was totally >bleeping<  lost…and found that coherent speech was not my friend as I began to brief my squad mates, but when I opened the session to questions I inexplicably became more articulate. I was momentarily bewildered at my sudden expertise until I realized what was really happening: I was being indirectly coached by my squad-mates, all third-year cadets (some veterans) who knew their stuff and knew that I didn’t. Rather than belittle me they were subtly carrying me; when I opened the briefing up for questions they’d each ask very detailed leading questions which verbally pulled me into devising a good, professional operation order.

I remember one in particular – a third year cadet with prior service named Don Card. I can visualize every detail of his face picked out in sharp detail by the morning sun to one side with a complex expression on his face that was brave, benign and several other “B’s” all at the same time. I was dumbfounded –  competitive grading meant there was no benefit to helping me, yet there he stood,  gently nudging me into competence with his leading questions.

I managed to implement the order and lead the squad in a textbook hasty attack that earned me  an outstanding spot report, but I had little time to bask in my tactical glory – as soon as we took the objective we were hustled back to our bivouac area to prepare for the aforementioned long-range patrol of which I remember very little. Neither do I remember much about breaking camp or the trip back to campus. Oh, I did get some John Wayne points for carrying the radio for the entire 25 kilometers despite twisting my knee early in the exercisebut all these years later the one moment I remember the best was the earlier exercise when the other guys elbowed me towards excellence. That little bit of compassion that in turn led to a little bit of positive reinforcement was just enough to push me through an emotional quagmire that could have easily diverted me down a very bad path.

Any study of military science will almost immediately reveal that there is a minimum level of transpersonal commitment an army must have in order to function or even exist, that without a willingness to forego personal comfort and safety for the collective good any group of soldiers can easily devolve into glorified gang members. At the same time products of popular media like Combat, The Sands of Iwo Jima, and Band of Brothers would have us assume such selflessness would always entail dramatic measures like jumping on a hand grenade to save the rest of the squad or something equally extreme in nature. That sunlit morning in the spring of 1974 taught me that sometimes selflessness measured in very small doses can do just as much good as the grand gestures.


  1. …from the first season Star Trek TOS Episode “The Galileo Seven”
  2. Star Trek term for an expendable crew member
  3. While attending the basic course as a second lieutenant five years later I ran into our cadet lane grader (now an active duty captain) attending the advanced course. He still remembered the incident and my rather coarse response when he asked if I wanted a medivac after the injury. He laughed and said, “Right there I knew you were going to make through the program!”