Another Year of Low Level Animosity Directed at My Best Friends

Let us begin with a picture.

It is a deceptive picture. What appears to be a happy, heart-warming scene of Christmas gift giving joy is actually the opening salvo in this year's annual Gift Swap of Horror.

It would be smart to include a brief history lesson at this point; but I did that last year and I'm not going to rewrite the whole thing. You should click here to read about the history of the Gift Swap of Horror.

Be sure to come back here though, because otherwise you'll miss out on how this year's swap included gunfire and 7 layer Mexican dip that may have only had 6 layers.

Tim and Katie, pictured above in the scant few seconds before the enormity of their fate was made clear to them, have long held an annual Laser Tag game in the week between Christmas and New Year. The invitations always point to the fact that you will have the opportunity to shoot your loved ones in a festive, jolly fashion without all the messy legal wrangling that holiday family shootings usually involve. It also gives everyone an opportunity to run around in a dark arena and work up a healthy holiday sweat while mindlessly shooting at children. It is incredibly enticing immediately after the holidays.

This year, the Laser Tag shootout was postponed a bit. Through serendipitous happenstance, we were able to shamelessly piggyback the Gift Swap of Horror on to the same day as the Laser Tag. We played Laser Tag, then we gathered for The Swap.

My wish, in retrospect, is that the order of events could have been reversed. After the Gift Swap, there was much more animosity stewing within us that could have used venting. And more importantly, after the Laser Tag, there was much more locker room aroma clinging to us that could have used venting. We masked the odor of our stinky selves with 6 or 7 Layer Mexican Dip (I couldn't get a clear layer count) and soldiered on with The Swap, however.

We are seasoned Gift Swappers, battle hardened from 13 years of bestowing unimaginable eyesores on one another. After what seemed to be a sufficient time milling around the kitchen, grazing on snacks and slurping brain-lubricating liquids, we all trudged warily into the living room where the gifts waited.

The gifts almost looked welcoming and enticing in their festive wrappings. We drew names with the solemnity due to the occasion and then the horror began in full.

First up were Tim and Katie. If you visit them at any point in the next twelve months, be sure to take a tour of their bedroom and look for this treat, which we predict will look amazing over their bed.

In fact, there is some speculation that the couple in the picture is actually Tim & Katie on their recent honeymoon.
You decide.

Ben was delighted that his gift included a convenient, beat-up carrying case so he can bring his gift with him wherever he goes.

And he most certainly WILL bring it with him wherever he goes, as soon as he figures out what the heck it is.

Not clearly visible in the picture are the three-inch, lethal steel spikes protruding at random angles from this thing. Those spikes made it clear to Ben that he had been given a most rare treat in The Swap. A wearable piece of art. He doesn't even need that carrying case.

The age of this crumbing beauty pretty much guarantees that the glittery white filaments raining down on Ben's head are asbestos.
Or lead.
Or both.


Julie and Scott were amazed and awed by the surreal beauty and transcendent, sublime loveliness of the art which will be blessing their home for the next year.

A genuine, rapturous glow shone in through the windows as they bathed in the splendor of their gift.

If they ever find the mental patient who glued all those individual beads down to create this masterpiece, I'm certain that they will prostrate themselves at his feet, thanking him endlessly for the joy he brought into their lives.

Kerri and I had the terrible misfortune of drawing Ben's name this year. Ben's wife, Ann was unable to attend this year's swap. Ben claims that it was a sinus infection, but I am of the opinion that she simply didn't want to have to face whichever friend was saddled with this for the next year.

If I could offer a good description of it, I would. It is giant. It is made of some sort of cast material; possibly the same crushed asbestos that Ben's gift is made from. It weighs at least 50 pounds.
 You can see for yourself how delighted I was when I unwrapped it and herniated myself lifting it.

Ben offered the suggestion that I might want to sink a giant lag bolt into a stud behind the wall for hanging. "Make sure you get it on a stud," he warned.

I'm considering hanging it outside. I may be able to turn my yard into a sort of Magellan Museum, complete with a hideous cast bust of Magellan and nothing more.

I'm certain my neighbors will love it as much as I do.

What Would You Do For $112.50?

We were just sitting down to a delicious dinner (homemade soup with crunchy homemade sourdough bread, should you be curious) when the phone rang.
"Let the machine get it," I mumbled, soup dribbling down my chin and on to my lap.
Conversation ceased at the table as we listened to the answering machine, curious about who would be so bold as to interrupt our tasty dinner.
"Hey Marty. It's Steve. So, I'm wondering... What would you be willing to do for $112.50?"
I excused myself from the table, soup still dribbling from my lips, and raced to the phone.
The question really is, "What would I NOT do for $112.50?"
It was actually the precise amount, including that provocative fifty cents that intrigued me so much.
If Steve had asked "What would you do for a hundred bucks?" I probably would have finished my soup before returning his call.
But $112.50?
An amount like that warrants immediate and undivided attention.
As it turned out, Steve was inviting me to participate in a performance he had booked.
For the following afternoon.
My buddy Steve is very kind and generous about inviting me to some of the many musical extravaganzas he regularly performs. My suspicion is that he enjoys watching me squirm when, mid-performance, he turns to me and whispers, "You haven't heard this next song before because I just wrote it this morning. I haven't got all the words or the structure of the song totally worked out yet, but just play along. It'll be fine."
Steve is a hardened, grizzled veteran musician who can easily and competently operate under such conditions. I, by contrast, am a hack who occasionally plays the drums for my own personal satisfaction or to annoy my neighbors.
The gut-wrenching panic I feel during these moments on stage with Steve is generally its own reward.
But now he was offering $112.50!
With only one song in the entire set that I had never played before, the performance was much easier and less stressful than normal.
But that's because Steve was using the performance as a clever ploy.
He had asked me to arrive at his house a few hours before the performance because he had a new song that he was working on and wanted me to play the drums for him.
At the recording studio.
In two days.
A song I've never heard before? At the studio? In two days?
No problem.
We sat in Steve's living room and he went over the song, stressing the fact that it was going to have a sort of Bo Diddly kind of feel to it. Rock and roll with a chunky sort of back-beat.
No problem.
We practiced it a few times and it seemed to go well, which really should have served as a sort of early warning to me.
I dutifully arrived at the studio at the appointed hour, expecting a fun-filled afternoon of pain, suffering, and humiliation.
Possibly followed by pizza.
As it turns out, there was no pizza, but the pain, suffering, and humiliation I had expected were nothing compared to what I actually experienced.
Steve breezed into the studio and cheerily announced, "So, I've been rethinking this song and I think it may be better if we forget about the Bo Diddly thing and go with a reggae sort of feel. What do you think?"
"Did you bring Jamaican rum?" I asked.
Steve chuckled warmly and ignored my plea, evidently imagining that I was joking.
Steve played his new reggae version of the song and I tried valiantly to think of WWBMD?
What Would Bob Marley Do?
Of course, the answer to that is obvious, but was entirely out of the question.
I've never been particularly proficient at playing island beats on the drum set.
I trudged into the recording room and spent the entire afternoon proving that fact to everyone at the studio including the unprecedented tour group that wandered through the studio at the very apex of my suffering.
Seriously.
A tour group.
"What's that whimpering heap over there in the corner?" asked one of the people.
"Oh, that? That's just a drummer. He'll be fine." came the answer before the tour wandered away.
Six and a half hours after we had arrived, my 3 minutes and 30 seconds of drumming was all recorded.
I woke Steve up from where he was having a restful nap on the studio's luxurious leather couch, and we made our way homeward.
Next time, I'll think very carefully about what I might be willing to do for $112.50.
And then I'll pick up the phone anyway.

(The video is actually from a previous recording session with Steve. I couldn't bear to share the pain of this most recent one.)

Cute Little Crabs

So, here's a problem.
Crabs are not cute.

See?
Not cute at all.
They are not cuddly and, frankly, unless they were incorporated into the delicious splendor of Crab Rangoon, I never gave crabs much thought.
Until a few weeks ago when I was approached by an editor at Islandport Press. She was looking for an illustrator for a book about a family of crabs who go on vacation to the beach.
Because seriously, where else would crabs go? Out for Chinese food? Not likely.
My friend, Lita Judge,  passed my name along to Melissa, the editor at Islandport, suggesting, I suppose, that I seemed like the kind of guy who ate a lot of Crab Rangoon and, as a result, might be able to draw crabs very well.
The logic of it is lost on me, but somehow, my preoccupation with greasy Chinese appetizers won over the heart and mind of Melissa and I got the job.
So now I am faced with the daunting challenge of spending the next year in my studio, trying to make crabs look cute and lovable. My frequent research trips to the local Chinese food joint for Crab Rangoon have yielded little in the way of practical help in drawing crabs, but I will keep trying.
And now those snacks are tax-deductible.
My first challenge was not actually making the crabs look cute, but making the crabs work like humans. In the story, the crabs have all sorts of wacky adventures that require more of them than might be expected of your average crab. I needed to make them able to move like humans. To that end, I made the executive decision to play Darwin and evolve one set of legs off of them.
Quick marine biology lesson:
In addition to their claws, crabs have 4 sets of legs. I learned this, not from my extensive Chinese food research, but from looking at actual, unprocessed-for-consumption, crabs.
It occurred to me that eight legs would be getting in the way all the time, so I opted to create a family of rare six-legged crabs for the book.
The other immediate problem I faced–and I know this is a very species-ist, politically incorrect comment for me to make–is that crabs all look alike to me. Especially when they are looking like appetizers.
Maybe I haven't spent enough time really looking at crabs, but, if faced with a family of crabs, I would have a difficult time telling one from the other.
I assumed, perhaps rashly and selfishly, that other people might have this same trouble.
I opted to put clothes on the crabs to help readers identify which crab is which. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to make a really nice bathing suit for a crab.

I sent these initial sketches to Melissa at Islandport and her first comment was, "You know that crabs have four sets of legs, right?"
I explained that I did know that. My response, that crabs also do not typically dress up like tourists and go on family vacations, was accurate, but held no sway with her.
The crabs could wear clothes, they could use cameras, they could purchase tacky souvenirs, but they could not have only three sets of legs. In her defense, Melissa saw the humor in this, but still did not relent.
I have since come to terms with the crabs' eight-leggedness. I still haven't been able to whole-heartedly embrace them as cute and cuddly, however.
Tasty? Yes.
Cute? Not really.
Perhaps one more tax-deductable trip to the Chinese restaurant will convince me.

My Boogers and Farts Got Censored. But Not My Underpants.

I was recently asked if I'd be willing to submit myself to the grueling ordeal of answering 5 questions for a regular weekly newspaper column called...
Are you ready?

5 Questions!

Of course, I was delighted to have the opportunity to expose myself (figuratively) to the many thousands of people who read the New Hampshire Sunday News. 

Nancy, the reporter who writes the column, further delighted me by letting me know that she had actually read about the tattoo contest I'm running here on my blog. While she wasn't actually ready to have me inked into her skin permanently, she did tell me that an ex-boyfriend of hers has a tattoo of her, complete with horns, tail, and––most alarmingly–skis. I am still waiting for someone to get a Marty Kelley tattoo, but I have faith that it will happen some day. If not, I'll check in with Nancy's ex.

Nancy went on delighting me by sending me 5 questions which went far beyond the normal "Where do you get your ideas?" sort of interrogation that I am frequently subjected to. She wanted to get to the very heart of what I do. She understood the essence of my work. The first 4 questions were fine and entertaining and well thought out, but it was question 5 that really got me.

"Why do kids find boogers so funny?"

 I've spent years picking my nose, searching for an answer to this question, waiting and waiting for some brave soul to ask. I was ready. I answered:

"It’s not just kids. I still think boogers are hilarious. I’m also a huge fan of farts and underpants. I think for kids, they get a sort of subversive thrill out of reading about things that are generally not mentioned in polite conversation. I have run into lots of people who frown on this idea of employing crude humor in children’s books. The fact is, kids love it. The books are for the kids. If they love it, they will read it. Everyone needs to read and if all it takes is a booger to get a kid to enjoy reading, I’m happy to oblige.
And, really, let’s face it; boogers are funny."

I'm sure you'll agree that I was absolutely brilliant there. Well thought out, eloquent, intelligent, and crammed with gratuitous uses of the word "booger".

I sent it off to her, she thanked me, and we both went about our business, satisfied with a job well done.

Several weeks later, I actually saw the article, thanks to alert parents who regularly scan the police blotter looking for any mention of me. I glanced at the article and realized immediately that something was wrong.

No, it's not the picture. that's what I really look like, smart-guy. Look at the last question.
Carefully.

Do you see a problem?
No. Not the weird punctuation around the words crude humor in the question.
The boogers?
Where are the boogers?
One measly booger? Where are the farts?

And why in the world did they change my sentence to read, "I'm also a huge fan of underpants."? Without the booger/fart context, it makes me look like some kind of weirdo who gets his jollies with undies. Like I have a collection of underpants or some strange fascination with boxers or something.

I mentioned this to Nancy in an email and she explained that it was her editor's heavy hand that made me look like an underpants freak, not hers. The NH Sunday News is known for having a rather strong right-wing bias, but I strongly suspect that Republicans wear underpants, too. Sensible, navy blue ones, no doubt.

If I ever do find out who her editor is, I'll march right into his office and tell him a thing or two.

As soon as I finish arranging, dusting, and waxing my underpants collection.

Lego Marty!

My son, Alex is a confirmed Lego-maniac, often disappearing for hours on end in his room to create some elaborate masterpiece of engineering.
But now he has outdone himself. The other night I was slaving away in my studio when he came in with his hands behind his back. Instinctively, I sprang from my seat, executed a perfect ninja-like dive and roll, and hid behind my trash can. He smiled and brought his hands from behind his back to reveal the most exquisite, beautiful creation I have ever witnessed.

It was me.
Made out of Legos.
He managed to capture not only my rugged good looks and outstanding sense of fashion, but the arm is fully articulated and allows the Lego-Marty to move its hand in delicate, graceful arcs, as if drawing.

It was like watching a movie of myself. Except the Lego-Marty uses its left hand to hold the pencil, a feat I have yet to master.
While Alex was sadly unable to make the Lego-Marty actually draw without some sort of manual intervention, he did have the foresight to include an easel with an attached piece of drawing paper.

I've had the Lego-Me in my studio for several days, and while it does add a certain visual charm to the ambiance of my studio, I am sad to report that it has yet to begin actually doing my work for me.
I had secretly hoped that the Lego-Me would magically come to life at night and illustrate books for me.
At the very least, I had entertained the wish that I might be able to send it to schools to do author visits for me while I lounged around in bed, sipping coffee and reading. It's not that I don't like doing school visits. I do.
I just like lounging around in bed even more.
Alex is currently hard at work on the new, improved, school-visiting, book-illustrating Lego-Marty and I'll let him out of his bedroom as soon as it's finished.

Good News; Bad News

Let me tell you a story about a story.
It's a sad story about a funny story.
Kind of.
I think.
But, I'm not positive.
A long, long time ago, I wrote a book called Childhood Trauma #4, Give Auntie Lulu A Kiss. I sent it out to a few publishers and nobody was too interested.
Until I sent it to Tricycle Press.
An editor named Abi got back to me and told me that Tricycle wasn't interested, either.
"BUT!", she said, "How would you like to do an entire book of childhood traumas?"
Who could possibly say no to an offer like that?
I spent the next year and a half of my life creating the artwork for my book, Twelve Terrible Things.
This is actually the introduction to the story I wanted to tell you. Please stay tuned, here. The introduction is important.
Over the years, I have continued to send Abi my work and she has always been happy to reject it for one reason or another. That's okay. That's the way this business goes.
Eventually I sent her a book called Albert's Almost Adequate Adventure and Abi got back to me and told me that Tricycle wasn't interested.
"BUT!" she said, [do you see a theme developing here?] "How would you like to take the character of Albert and use him in a chapter book?"
Who could possibly say no to an offer like that?
I spent the next several months writing, rewriting, and rewriting again, not one, but three chapter books about a boy named Simon and his pals, Munch and Ralph.

I really enjoyed writing it and Abi seemed to enjoy reading it. I sent the first book to her almost two years ago. She made some suggestions for revisions about the characters, the plot, the excessive use of boogers and puking I had employed, and I dutifully revised.
I continued working on stories about Simon because I really, really enjoyed writing them.
While they were under consideration by Tricycle, Random House bought Tricycle.
"This will be great!" everyone suggested, "Random House has much bigger distribution!"
I waited and waited to hear back from Abi about the fate of Simon, Munch, and Ralph.
There were big changes at Tricycle but things were moving slowly for my poor book.
Abi had suggested the book to me in the first place and I really liked working with her, so I was patient.

Eventually, I decided that something needed to happen with Simon. Abi was trying to get it published, but I was tired of waiting. I told her that I was going to start sending it out to other publishers and Abi said that I had been more than fair, letting them have it exclusively for so long. She said that she was still very hopeful that it would happen soon, though.

I sent Simon out to another publisher and heard back from them after about two weeks. The editor thought it was very funny and suggested some revisions that she would like to see.

I was debating about whether this was a development I needed to tell Abi about, when she sent me an email.

Random House is shutting down Tricycle.

I was terribly disappointed to hear that. I enjoyed working with Abi and I had been waiting over two years to find out about Simon. Just as it seemed to be happening, they are being shut down by the company that just bought them. If Tricycle had bought the book, it could have just been orphaned there, I suppose. It happens.
Abi has very kindly offered to pass the manuscript on to an editor at a different imprint at Random House.

Presumably, one that isn't being shut down.

So, in spite of all the anxious waiting and the disappointment, the bright side is that the book got written and now there is a publisher interested in seeing some revisions.

Maybe they'll publish it before they go out of business, too.

Another New Portrait

And, it seems I've already used this title for a post. It's a good thing that Google is here looking out for me.
This is a pencil drawing I did as a demonstration for a portrait class I'm teaching. This one took a couple of weeks. I'm still not totally convinced that it's finished, but it's pretty darned close...

And Another New One

I just started this portrait of my little niece, Sarah.

My little niece who now towers over me by several inches.

This is a necessary step in my artistic development.

Many years ago, Sarah's parents, Shelly and Greg, were kind enough to let Kerri and me live with them for a few months.

In thanks, I thoughtfully bequeathed unto them a watercolor portrait of their two adorable children. It was my first watercolor portrait ever and looking at it now, I reel in the stark horror of its total awfulness.

I can only hope that this one will be much, much, much, much, much, much, much better.

We shall see.

Another New Portrait

Here is a recent (like finished 2 hours ago) pencil portrait of Alex. This one took about a week and a half.

I tried a few new things here, all of which failed miserably, I'm afraid. The paper is too rough, I couldn't get nearly enough fine detail, I tried toning the paper with watercolor which, in theory, I like, but it looks a little wonky. I also tried adding white highlights and I'm not so happy with those either.

In spite of all that, it still looks like him, which is a good thing.

Keene was Keen & A Possible Tattoo

First, let me apologize for that weak and fairly lame title to this post. It's early and my coffee has yet to fully kick in.

And, I'm still recovering from this past weekend at the Keene State Children's Literature Festival. It was an amazing experience being a speaker at such a prestigious event. And I'm sure that my presentation, full of references to farts and boogers, did much to enhance the overall tone of the festival.

Certainly my failed attempt at putting bunny ears on David White during a picture taking moment added to the elegant glamour of the final dinner.

Pictured above are: Me (dressed in my finest formal jeans and t-shirt), David White (The festival organizer, whose hand is prepared to give me a Vulcan Death Grip should I try one more time to give him bunny ears), Paul Janeczko (A wonderful poet and very cool guy from Maine whose last name appears to be missing some vowels or something), Jeanette Winters (who had the coolest glasses I have ever seen - I suspect that they gave her x-ray vision, but she wouldn't let me try them), Chris Raschka (A Caldecott winning illustrator from New York) and Susan Cooper (author of The Dark Is Rising Series and a very funny lady).

David works hard at organizing this Festival lining up some of the biggest names in Children's Literature to speak every year.

I still cannot fathom why he asked me to participate.

My guess is that one of his festival advisers jokingly said, "You know what this festival needs? More booger jokes. And fart jokes." And David, perhaps in a weakened condition from correcting his ten thousandth term paper, agreed and emailed me, asking me to participate.

When I did get that email from David, over a year ago, I was so excited that I did a little happy dance around my house. It is fortunate for all of us that no video footage is available of that dance. Particularly because I got the email early one morning, and was still in my Homer Simpson jammies with the big rip in the seat.

I did however, post a short video of part of my presentation. See it over there on the right side of the page? I was trying to read some of my more serious poetry about wedgies and farts and the whole darned audience kept interrupting me with raucous laughter.

The entire festival weekend was a whirlwind of dinners, socials, gallery tours, lunches, and fun. David and his husband, Ken hosted a terrific party at the Irish Cottage that they built on their property. The whiskey flowed like wine. The Guinness flowed like whiskey.

It was an amazing experience and it would have been impossible to pick out one favorite part of the weekend if it weren't for a young lady named Rachel.

Despite all the terrific things that happened and the incredible honor of being asked to speak at the festival, the greatest moment of the weekend (and possibly my entire life) happened at lunch the day of the festival.

I had mentioned during my presentation that I am offering free books for life for anyone who is willing to get a Marty Kelley tattoo (see previous posts). I suspected that if there was ever a crowd where someone might take me up on this offer, a room full of teachers, college students, and librarians would be it.

Those people know how to party.

At lunch, Rachel - dear, sweet, wonderful Rachel - eclipsed all my previous earthly delights by saying, "$40 for a tattoo in exchange for all those books? Heck Yeah! I'm in! Do I have to get it in a certain spot?"

I explained that I did want to post pictures of her tattoo on this blog, so she might consider keeping it in a PG location, though, should she decide otherwise, I may start a different blog just to share it.

Perhaps she will attend next year's conference and you will get a chance to see it for yourself.

More Art!

Yay.
Very little to read here.
This is my latest portrait. It's all pencil. It's my daughter, Tori, assuming a sickeningly dreamy pose.

I was pretty happy with the drawing, though.

New York, NEW YORK!

The first thing that you need to know about Corning, New York, where I am currently sitting in a hotel room, is that it is a 500 bazillion hour drive* from my home in New Hampshire.

(*estimated drive time)

You may also be interested to hear that there is an entire museum here dedicated to glass (yes, as in Corningware, Corning, NY - get it?) and there is a lovely downtown area with coffee shops, art galleries and at least a dozen stores that purport to sell "Country Crafts" or some variant thereof.

The most important thing to know about the town of Corning is that the Vegetable Samosas and the Palak Paneer at the Thali of India Restaurant are unimaginable delicious and palate damagingly spicy. I've no doubt that the lingering scent of my dinner will remain in my hotel room long after I have departed. As will the echos of my screams from its spicy deliciousness.

I was invited to Corning by The Alternative School for Math and Science, which, you may be interested to know, is an alternative school that focuses on math and science. I waltzed in and gave a few quick, snappy lessons on advanced particle physics and really wowed them.

The school is a small private middle school with a fun staff and a bunch of very nice kids. I don't often have an opportunity to visit middle school, but when I do, I mention it to friends who invariably say, "You're going to a MIDDLE SCHOOL?" as if I had just informed them that I was planning on taking a long, splashy swim through shark infested waters wearing a bacon bathing suit.

(Note: I do not own a bacon bathing suit.)

It seems that middle school kids in general scare the pants off of most adults. If they knew how much they frightened most adults, they would take over the world and probably force us all to get our hair cut like Justin Bieber or something.

In my personal experience, I have found middle school kids to be funny and very pleasant. Sure they dress weird and have bad hair and smell kind of funny, but so do I.
Especially since my pungent Indian dinner.
Did I mention already how delicious that was?

So, as expected, my time at this middle school today was delightful. And the kids–those terrifying, monstrous middle school kids–sat patiently when, about 2 seconds before my presentation, the bulb burned out in my LCD projector. They sat patiently as several staff members scrambled to find a replacement projector for me. They sat patiently as the 8 month pregnant tech-teacher quickly and efficiently switched projectors and got me up and running again.

Then, they sat patiently when, 4 minutes later, the second projector failed and we had to try yet again.

The kids didn't hoot and holler and try to steal my soul through a hole they chewed in my chest as so many of my peers seem to think middle school kids would do. They sat and chatted quietly with their friends and occasionally offered helpful advice like, "Try wiggling the cord thingie."

I assumed that they had covered electrical engineering in their science classes already, so I took their advice.

It worked.

I'm looking forward to my day at the school tomorrow, knowing that if I do have any technical problems, the kids can tell me which cord thingie I should be wiggling.

Death Defying, Spine Tingling Children's Literature Festival!!!

So, as you are no doubt aware, the posts you read on this blog are listed from newest to oldest. The oldest, by the way, being a fascinating expose of me installing a new floor in the library of my old home. As an odd coincidence, I have just spent the last few days stripping and refinishing that same floor.

Coincidence?

Yeah. I suppose.

Coincidences abound today, however. Earlier this morning, I was slaving over my blog, basically groveling for people to:

1. Get a tattoo of me in order to win free books for life (mine, not yours).

2. Go to the Children's Literature Festival in Keene, NH on October 30th (plenty of free parking!).

In my post, I may have casually mentioned the indoor fireworks display I was developing as part of my presentation.

Within hours of posting that, I received a fairly ominous email attachment from someone at Keene State College.

Coincidence this time?
I'm not so sure.

The attachment on the email was called "Hold Harmless Form" and contained, among many others, the following clause:

2. FULLY UNDERSTAND that:

(a.) Participating in the Children’s Literature Festival activities involve risks and dangers of serious bodily injury, including permanent disability, paralysis and death (“Risks”);

I don't know about you, but I am simply tingling with anticipation to see what's in store for us at the festival this year. All the Festivals I have attended in the past were fun, but I can't remember a single one where I was in fear for my life.
Seriously, if I had to sign a waiver like that, you don't want to miss this festival.
Register.
Come to the festival.

Bring a helmet.

FREE BOOKS!!

Yes. I'm trying this again.

It's contest time.

This picture is here to help you with the contest. Pay attention, now...


You see, there is this wonderful Children's Literature Festival coming up in Keene, NH at the end of the month. I have mentioned this before, but I'm guessing that with your hectic life, it may have slipped from the forefront of your consciousness.

I don't want that to happen again, because, while all the Keene State festivals are cool, this year's will be Extra-Super-Cool based solely on the fact that I will be one of the speakers at it. I've been working hard on my presentation and, despite a few unfortunate setbacks with the planned indoor fireworks display, it should be a presentation that I will never be allowed to repeat anywhere, at any time, for any reason.

You really should make plans to be there. Which brings me, however circuitously, to the contest that I am trying to resuscitate from the decaying, dusty pile of "older posts" where it has been languishing.

This will help you keep me foremost in your mind.
At all times.
Forever.
As it should be.

I know, that these trying economic times can be–well–trying. In an effort to help you stock your book shelves and, at the same time, beautify the world, I am once again offering my "Get A Marty Kelley Tattoo And Win Free Books For Life Contest" or, "GAMKTAWFBFLC" for short.

I'll be working on a catchier acronym, I guess.

Here's the deal: Go out and find a competent tattoo artist and get a tattoo of me.
It can be a picture or a delightful message like "Marty Kelley Rocks" or a big heart with my name in it, or whatever else strikes your fancy. I do ask, for your sake, that you take the time to find a tattoo artist with some actual drawing skills. You don't want to wind up with one of these disasters smeared across your skin:

 

 

Remember that picture at the top of the post? Go ahead and use it!

And please take the time to make sure that you spell my name correctly. It's Marty Kelley. You might consider administering a spelling test to the artist before any needles start buzzing.

So, that's about it.  Get a tattoo of me, send me a picture, and I'll send you a copy of each of my books and a copy of all my future books. 

And, it has to be a real tattoo, don't go scrawling all over yourself with magic marker. Seriously.

that's cheating.

I'd prefer not to have my name and/or likeness inked all over your rear-end or armpit or something. This is me we're talking about.

Let's keep it tasteful, people.

It's Finished!

This is quite possibly my favorite portrait yet. This one was a big challenge for many reasons.

Sit back, relax, and listen to my litany of woes:

• Reflections in the sunglasses
• Dark skin with a rainbow of colors reflected in it
• Beard with white hairs

Okay. I'm done whining. This one was on the board for almost two months. I'm still not 100% convinced that it's finished, but it's pretty close...

It was a big challenge, but I'm happy with the results.

Welcome to New Hampshire. Please Try Not To Die on Our Mountains.

If you are a regular reader of my blog, firstly, you deserve great rewards and riches. I will not be providing them, of course, but you most certainly deserve them.

Secondly, you may remember a recent post about a car ride up the treacherous, tortuous slopes of Mount Washington. If you need a moment to scroll down and refresh your memory, please, feel free.

Ever since our drive up Mount Washington, my daughter Tori has been aching (a verb that soon proved to be aptly chosen) to climb up Mount Washington, the highest peak in New England and home of the world's worst weather. She chose her hiking outfit carefully. Her zip-up monkey pajamas are designed to keep her snuggly and warm, even in the face of all of nature's fury.

Nature's fury proved to be 70 degrees and cloudless, however, rendering the high-tech monkey pajamas entirely unnecessary, but still extremely fashionable.

We drove to The Cog Railway base station where the hiker parking lot is located. The parking lot, at 8:30 a.m. was already crowded, promising a busy day on the trails. 

And it was. 

I have done a bit of hiking with my good friend Julie over the last couple of years and, until last Saturday, Mt. Monadnock held the title of being the most crowded hike I have had the misfortune of taking. Now, Mount Washington is clearly the winner. There was a steady stream of hikers all the way up the mountain. And all the way down. Our planned hike would take us up Mt. Monroe, over to Mt. Washington, then down Mt. Clay. Three mountains, but only one actual "summiting experience" which is the moment you get to touch the metal geological survey tag marking the summit and then trudge off back down the mountain in search of the nearest ice cream shop.

We began up the Ammonoosuk Ravine Trail, which, believe it or not, is actually spelled correctly. It was a beautiful hike, following along the Ammonoosuk River and affording excellent views of waterfalls and sweaty hikers gasping for breath and chatting away on their cell phones.

We neared the Lake in the Clouds hut and were rewarded with a view of the summit of Mt. Washington that seemed tangibly close.

You will notice the joy on our faces at seeing the distant peak of Mt. Washington. We rested briefly at the Lake in the Clouds hut. Tori was understandably chagrined to find that the Lake in the Clouds is more like a large puddle on a hill, but seriously, who'd climb three and a half hours over treacherous terrain to see a puddle on a hill?

We headed off toward the summit and were met with this helpful, encouraging sign along the trail.

In case you can't make it out, it tells the eager traveler to STOP. The area ahead has the worst weather in America. Many have died from exposure, even in the summer. Turn back now if the weather is bad. Our spirits soared with the welcoming hospitality of the Forest Service and we skipped along the 1.4 miles separating us from our destination.

An hour or so later, we trudged on to the summit where hordes of tourists milled about, snapping pictures of each other against the fairly spectacular background scenery and at the summit marker. There were so many people, in fact, that we actually had to stand in line to pose at the summit.
Seriously.

You can see the majestic beauty of the White Mountains spread out behind us. You cannot see the majestic beauty of the through-hikers who are stopping at the summit on their way along the Appalachian Trail. Neither can you smell the majestic odors which the through-hikers trail behind them like an olfactory tail.

We chose to lunch on the observation deck, where the odors were quickly dispelled and then began our descent toward the car, which by that time, seemed dispiritingly far away. We could, of course, have cheated and bought a couple of the $47 one-way tickets on the Cog Railroad, but we are made of sterner stuff than that.

Besides, then we would have been deprived of the joy and beauty of the hike back down, which crosses the Cog Railway tracks and affords hikers the opportunity to moon the passengers on the train.
Of course, Tori and I were aghast at this appalling tradition, but we do ask that if you were on the 2:10 train going down the hill and you had your camera out, that you do not show your pictures to my wife.

The trip down the hill was more difficult than the trip up had been, but the scenery, including the gentleman hiking down the mountain clad only in a tasteful pair of boxer shorts and some sturdy hiking boots, made it an interesting trek.

Tori was very eager to get back to the parking lot because I had brought along a tiny camping stove and some leftover dinner from the night before so we could have a warm meal in the parking lot after the hike. She explained to me, as we walked down the hill, that cooking on the little burner in the parking lot was the part of the hike that she was most excited about.

"We could have just gone out in the back yard and cooked dinner there," I suggested.
"Oh, yeah," she said, "I never thought of that."

By the time we reached the car, nine hours and fifteen minutes after we had left it, we were both tired and sore and hungry.

But it was time for DINNER IN THE PARKING LOT!!!!

By the time I had assembled the burner and got everything ready, Tori decided that cooking in the parking lot was not as spectacular or thrilling as she had thought it might be.

"I thought there'd be a lot of flames and sparks; like when you weld stuff," she explained.

We ate our disappointing, flame and spark free dinner and headed back home where Tori asked that I please post a picture of her blister here to serve as a sort of warning to others who may want to hike the mighty Mount Washington.

Consider yourself warned.

A New Pencil Portrait

This is a pencil portrait I've been working on for about a week now. I loved this girl's hair. This was a quick sketch that spiraled out of control and wound up being a big project. I'm sad to report that about half way through the drawing, I was working outside, taking advantage of the beautiful weather and the entire board fell off my easel, so the paper got rather wrinkled. It's sort of like an unwanted age-progression process on the drawing.

I was happy with it, though, wrinkles and all.

On the Easel Right Now

I've been spending a lot more time daydreaming about the life of a reclusive artist, painting away in a filthy garret studio, sipping red wine and acting all sensitive and stuff.

Frankly, it's an unappealing sounding life.
Except for the painting part.
And the wine, I guess.

I've been doing a lot more portrait work lately and this is my latest venture. I found the photo online and absolutely loved the colors on this guy's face. Dark skin has always been a challenge for me to paint in watercolor because so many of the brown pigments lift right off the paper if you paint over them again.

So for this one, I tried something new - no browns. This is painted entirely (so far) from 5 paints: 2 blues, 2 reds, and a yellow. I also wound up using a very small amount of white in his beard (for the fine hairs on his cheeks), something I rarely use.

There's still a lot more work do do on his face before I even get to the rest of it. His lips aren't finished and I suspect there will be more work to do on the reflections in the glasses.

I have no idea how many hours I've put into this one so far, but I suspect I'm due for a few hundred more before it's finished.

Please pass the wine.



As a ridiculous side note, I really enjoy the contrast between this and the sketch I did in my sketchbook last night.

Celebrating the End of Summer by Sitting in the Car.

A few days ago, Kerri and I realized that summer is rapidly drawing to a close and we had not once heard the plaintive cries of "Are we there yet?" drifting up from the back seat of our car.

We chastised ourselves for our appalling lack of concern for our children and promptly packed them into the back seat for a long drive up to Mount Washington where we would celebrate the end of the long car ride by driving up the mountain.

Then driving back down the mountain.

Then driving home.

I have hiked up many mountains in the White Mountain region (see previous posts to read about all my exciting adventures with Julie of the Wild).  On those hikes with Julie of the Wild, I have had ample opportunity to view the splendor and beauty of the roiling miasma of clouds that perpetually enshroud the summit of Mount Washington.

Mount Washington is known for having some of the worst weather on the planet, so we prepared for our expedition the same way the original explorers did. By tossing some sweatshirts in the back of the car.

After a long ride northward, during which the kids had ample opportunity to whine about how long the ride was, we arrived at the base of the mountain and delighted the children by telling them that, not only did we have more driving to do, but the drive will be terrifying, as indicated by the helpful, reassuring sign posted at the bottom of the auto road.

The dark and threatening clouds crowding the horizon provided that added level of comfort that made the journey one that will long be carved into our collective memories.

We started up the road, listening to to the CD provided by the helpful folks who collect the small fortune you must fork over before risking your life on their road. The CD's narrator has a smooth, friendly voice that provides a brilliant distraction from the bladder-emptying terror of the drive up this winding, tortuous road.

Throughout the soothing CD, the narrator reminds you to stop frequently to cool your brakes and to reassure you that, despite having points along the drive with names like "Oh My God Curve", there have been surprisingly few fatalities along the Auto Road (There have been three. I checked.)

While my knuckles were welded to the steering wheel, Kerri was kind enough to take a few pictures so I could enjoy the scenery that I was missing by trying not to plummet off the crumbling edge of the road.

We did arrive safely at the top and were richly rewarded with 45 mph winds and 50 foot visibility.
And rain.
If you are interested in what the summit actually looks like, I can only suggest that you have a look for yourself because I have no idea. The dense fog made any long distance sight-seeing somewhat difficult.

I understand that there are alleged to be some buildings up there and I suspect that this may be them, but it still looks something like a scene out of Star Wars to me. We did manage to find the building that has been chained to the ground to prevent it from being blown away. (Absolutely true.)

Sadly, I was not chained to the ground and blew away just as this picture was snapped of my family at the summit.

At least, I think that's my family. It was a little hard to see up there.

A New Video For Your Entertainment, Enlightenment, and Edification

Oh yeah.
It finally happened.
The long awaited (by me) video for Summer Stinks - The Super Cool Punk Rock Version is now available for the world to see.

I spent Tuesday afternoon up at Rockinghorse Studios with my family and Steve Blunt and his daughter, Mary and my good friends Julie and Scott.

We ran around and acted like goons and filmed ourselves. The result, I am happy to report, looks like a bunch of goons running around and filming themselves.

At least, I look like that. My friends all look very cool and suave and sophisticated.

It was a lot of fun and you should watch the video a bazillion times so I become a YouTube sensation and am rocketed to fame like all those other YouTube sensations like... uh... you know... um... uhhhhhh...

Rock on.

Slacker, you say? Oh, no.

So, you may have noticed that I haven't been updating my blog as much as I possibly could. That is true, but there are reasons.
No. It's not that I'm a slacker.
I've actually been writing some longer chapter books and for some odd reason, taking a break from writing a book by writing a blog does not seem like enough of a change on some days.

Also, I have been doing more hiking with my pal Julie.

In fact, we were supposed to go for a hike tomorrow, but she flaked out at the last minute citing some weak reason. "Oh," she said, "I just got back from a two day trip to Pittsburgh [or Detroit or somewhere, I wasn't really paying attention] and my plane was delayed and then I had to go up north for a party or something [I still wasn't really paying attention] and now I'm at a bridal shower [or a baby shower or something] and I'm just mentally exhausted."

She did say that she was mentally exhausted. That much I heard for sure. I helpfully pointed out that hiking doesn't actually require enormous amounts of mental stamina.

You see a mountain, you walk up it.   

It's basically that easy. Sure, you have to figure out how to turn around 180 degrees and return to you car, but still, the real heavy thinking revolves around what kind of ice cream you get after the hike.

But still, she was unapologetic about wimping out.

Our last hike was not a 4,000 footer. We climbed Mount Chocorua (pronounced: Mount Chocorua) and my brave and intrepid daughter came along on this one. My brave and intrepid son opted to stay home and do yardwork with my wife, something that I would climb a dozen mountains in succession to avoid.

I put this picture in at this point because I know you crazy kids with your clicky fingers. Confronted with several unbroken paragraphs of text, you begin to get antsy and you go clicking away, searching for something more visually stimulating and shiny. So, to keep you here a moment longer, that is a picture of my daughter, after the hike, indicating the mountain that she had just climbed.
The photo is not actual size, the mountain is much bigger in person.
If you don't believe me, go hike it yourself. It seems that about a million other people do each day.

I was recently at the top of tiny Mount Monadonock (pronounced: Mount Chocorua). It is reputed to be the most climbed mountain in the world. Judging by the swarming packs of people on cell phones cluttering the summit, I can well believe it.

Mount Chocorua is likely the second most climbed mountain in the world, as the population of the summit was close to that of Beijing.

Here are some more pictures so you can see the amazing view of other people you get when you climb a mountain.

This one is Julie being swept away in a crowd of people. The hand in the foreground belongs to an unlucky traveler who was run down in a stampede of LL Bean clad hiker wannabees.

Here is one final picture. This one is of Victoria and me making the universal hiking hand signal for "I made it up to the top of the mountain without plummeting down any sheer walls of slippery granite." We were using the binoculars to try to read the sign at the ice cream stand, but it didn't work out that well. There were too many people in the way.

In the immediate foreground, you can see a sliver of the lady who, for some inexplicable reason, chose the summit marker as a place to practice her yoga poses.Many people like to touch summit markers or take their pictures at them. It was entertaining watching people try to slip their hands under her as she was doing her downward facing dog move or whatever it was.

We made it down safely and did get ice cream. I got Raspberry White Chocolate (pronounced: Mount Chocorua) and it was tasty.

Tomorrow, however, as Julie is so mentally tired, there will be no ice cream for me.

I'll probably be doing yard work.

Not So Action Packed

I may have to downgrade the title of my blog to something like "Marty's Static Blog: Now With 28% Less Action."

It's not that I have been less active, simply that I have not shared my dozens of thrilling adventures with the world at large.  If anything, I have been more active than normal, traipsing through the woods after my good friend Julie who insists upon dragging me up towering mountains in her wake.

I suspect that she enjoys my sparkling company and ready wit. I took the liberty of recording this recent exchange we had at the summit of Mount Monroe:

Julie: Isn't this an amazing view?
Me: Huhhhhhh... wheeeeeezzzzzzze... phnuuuuuuufffffff...

You can see why dragging me along would do much to lift anyone's spirits. She was right, of course. The view was stupendous. At least the view that wasn't obscured by wavy, heat-generated haze.

This summer's intense heat and 200% humidity added to the festive atmosphere of our hike, giving it a feel reminiscent of the Bataan Death March. It made reaching the summit seem like even more of an achievement.

The view was also obscured by me celebrating the fact that I had not sweat to death on the hike. Yet.

If this were one of those new, fancy scratch-n-sniff blogs, you could truly savor the full experience of my sweaty machismo.

Our trip up the mountain followed a beautiful waterfall that beckoned to us, promising cool refreshment, salvation from the heat, and soul-shattering headaches from the frigid waters. Julie was actually tough enough to dive into one of these arctic pools during our descent. I was banned, under penalty of a protracted and unpleasant death from photographing her daring aquatic exploits. I will, instead, show you a picture of Julie sweating and a picture of the beautiful waterfall and allow you to mentally combine the two.

She was brave and tough and completely numb from head to toe after a few seconds in its heart-stoppingly cold depths. I had failed to bring a change of clothes and saw no joy slogging down the mountain in soggy, steamy cotton.

I steadfastly refuse to give into the ridiculous concept of hiking in any of those fancy sweat-wicking, high-tech clothes.
I prefer my clothes to be sweat-enhancing and low-tech
One of the high points about hiking in The White Mountains, especially along the grueling trails that Julie seems to favor, is that relatively few people are willing to spend their precious time on the earth hauling themselves up a hill like this. Thus, the hikes are generally full of solitude and quiet, allowing you to view wildlife in its natural habitat, uninfluenced by man.

On this hike, for example, we spotted the rare and elusive High Mountain Bean Squirrel.

We were first alerted to its presence by its haunting, fart-like call. We tracked it to its lair, a completely natural den that the High Mountain Bean Squirrel makes from locally mined steel and a secret blend of herbs and spices.

Julie has other hikes planned already. Since this coming Friday is predicted to be 4,000 degrees, she has decided that it will be a good day to do an even longer hike.

This time, I'm bringing my bathing suit.