My Brief, Imaginary Career as the O.J. Simpson Courtroom Sketch Artist

 

Apparently, I was the courtroom sketch artist for the O.J. Simpson trial. I say "apparently" because I only found this out last week—when Dervish gave an unsolicited interview to a New York Times reporter who had called to ask about Sea Horses in the Olive Jar. Instead of discussing the book, Dervish launched into an elaborate story about how I sat in the courtroom for months, diligently drawing scenes from the trial, only to have all of my work rejected because, and I quote, “her sketches looked like raccoons caught in a wind tunnel.”

When the reporter asked if any of these alleged sketches still existed, Dervish waved the question off and said, “They were classified. National embarrassment. Marcia Clark sent a cease and desist letter written entirely in highlighter.”

I wasn’t mad. This is just Dervish doing Dervish—deflecting, spinning, and somehow promoting the book in the most counterintuitive way possible. And now that he’s planted this false memory in my head, I’ve decided to draw Marcia Clark anyway. For closure. Or maybe because I finally want credit for something I never did.

The Feral Cat Rehydration Program

 

What do wet cats and graffiti in the park have in common?

Well, for starters… Dervish.

The cats didn’t run, and the crow had a hose. I wish I could say this was an isolated event, but it wasn’t even the strangest thing that happened that week.

Chapter 27 of Sea Horses in the Olive Jar finally explains why a bunch of scraggly feral cats were willingly lining up to be hosed down by a crow who thinks rules are for birds who don’t know how to hold a Sharpie.

All of it is connected.

Read the chapter. Then maybe you’ll understand why the crows are always watching.

Dervish and the Dozen Declarations: Egg Carton Anarchy

 

I had been playing a lot of Santana CDs when I heard Dervish singing, “I got a Black Magic Marker,” and I knew—deep down—I should’ve been more concerned.

But I was preoccupied with the basement flooding. Dervish had opened the door to let a few of his squirrel friends ride out the storm indoors. I was too busy mopping up after them to notice he’d slipped out.

Unfortunately, by the time I caught up with him, he’d already been thrown out of the grocery store. Again.

This time, for writing phrases of anarchy on the eggs. Some of his egg-inspired manifestos included:

                                                                Bite the Power

                                                                Make Cake, Not War 

                                                                Poach the Rich

 

Whistler the Budgie and His Imaginary Horse Named Nelly

 

A little throwback to Whistler the budgie, who once perfected his cowboy routine. He’d say “Giddyup, horsie,” make his own clip-clop sound effects, then throw in a “Whoa, Nelly!” before galloping off again. 

If he’d ever had a horse, we definitely would’ve named it Nelly—though of course, I wouldn’t have let him ride it in the house. And yes, that clip-clop sound? All him. He was quite the performer.

More Talking Budgies (Home) 

Wrestling with the Muse (and Dervish)

 

Okay, let me wrestle the spotlight away from all these jokesters—and king jokester himself, Dervish—to say something for a minute. I know Dervish believes he could exist without me, and it’s hard for him to realize I created him.

Which brings me to how stories and characters come to life in the first place. I never set out to do this—it just happens. A small snippet of a possible story will pop into my head while I’m walking, driving, or even doing the dishes. Then I have to figure out how to shape it: What kind of vehicle will carry the idea? How do I resolve it, twist it, make it funny, or make it real?

Sometimes, you have to leap into the abyss and see what comes out. You shut off the logical part of your brain and just surf the wave, letting go of the usual locked gates that hold you back. I think they call it flow. You can’t force it. That’s why my first stabs at writing are messy—I don’t worry about grammar, just the thoughts.

As for characters, they come from a place called “ation”—exaggeration, extrapolation, imagination, amalgamation. They’re tiny pieces of things you’ve heard, things you’ve felt, people you’ve known, something someone once said. But they’re never just one thing. It’s like making a stew—if you get it right, it tastes good. And if you get characters right, they feel real.

Writers, artists, musicians—we do what we do even if no one ever sees, hears, or reads it. It’s a force that feels like magic, and that’s why I keep doing it. Maybe it’s like a runner’s high, but I’m too lazy to find that out. I’ll just walk and look at the trees, thanks.

All those years in the corporate world, dreaming of getting home to do the things I actually wanted to do—only to be too tired to do them. And yet, somehow, I still did them. Because of that force.

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Chef Boy R.C. Regrets Everything: A Shamazon Book Review

 

When Chef Boy R.C. picked up my book he wasn't expecting this!

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