My Fun Life

This post is just to gloat about how cool my life is.

March is typically my busiest month visiting schools. Last week, I logged in almost a thousand miles of driving to and fro, hither and yon from southern Massachusetts to waaaaay up in Maine. On the same day!

I am incredibly fortunate to be able to do what I do for a living. I'm thankful for it every day (except when I'm sitting in traffic on my way to a school - then my thankfulness is sorely tested, I admit).

Here is a photographic essay of some of my thrilling adventures in the past few weeks.

Authorfest 2013 at Greenwood Elementary. I'm in good company at this cool event!

Some awesome stories created by Mr. Cormier's class at Sanbornton Elementary. Mr. Cormier was even working on a sweet blues version of this book.

And the kindergarten classes at Sanbornton Elementary made the cool trees based on Fall Is Not Easy.
And, if that weren't enough, the principal made me a delicious lunch.Yup.

The librarian at Sanbornton Elementary made a great looking bulletin board with a familiar face on it...

I rocked the house at Tupelo Music Hall in White River Junction, VT with Steve Blunt and Joe Pierog. And a stuffed dinosaur. We also rocked out at Tupelo in Londonderry, NH (sold out show!) and at Oyster River High School in Durham, NH. We're planning our world domination tour soon. Be warned.

My space at the Massachusetts State Librarian Association conference in Sturbridge, MA. It looked good for a few minutes.

Then this guy showed up. This is Jef Czekaj (pronounced "Jeff") a hilarious author and illustrator who may have the most amazing sweater in the universe.

Seriously. That is not normal. It was a fun morning hanging out with him.

Next week is another full week of visits and I couldn't be happier.

Parking Lot Pizza and Rock Opera Lessons

I don't know about you, but I am unable to resist a sign like this.

I'm not talking about the delightfully juxtaposed signs indicating the location of water.

Extra confusing when it is raining, as the water is also coming from above.

I'm talking about the signs beckoning all who pass into an empty parking lot with the promise of a tasty pizza.

Who can possibly resist so tempting an offer? Not me.

I parked there in that empty parking lot in downtown Colrain, Massachusetts and waited for quite some time.

My hope, of course, was that as I sat there, a swarm of olive-skinned attendants would emerge from the mysterious pyramid thingy in the background and deliver a non-stop stream of pizza to me as I sat in my car, listening to the cool, mellow sounds of Lamb of God thundering through my car's stereo.

I waited and waited, but there was no pizza.


Because, it was Wednesday and the pizza isn't available until Thursday at 5 p.m. But I wouldn't become aware of that fact for quite some time.

It could have been a long, cold night sitting there, awaiting my pizza, but even the siren song of parking lot pizza could not lure me to sleep there. I had things to do and schools to visit.

I was in Colrain for more than the mysterious pizza lot. I was there as the Artist in Residence at Colrain Central School.

So, as chagrined as I was about it, I made the difficult decision to abandon my parking lot vigil and head to the hotel so I could get a good night's sleep before embarking on my residency.  While in residence at a school,  I strut around wearing a crown and a sparkly cape, barking orders and acting all artistic. It's loads of fun, but requires a certain amount of mental alertness; alertness I would not have if I sat in a parking lot all night, eying the mystery pyramid and waiting for pizza.

I returned to my hotel and passed an idle evening using Skype to communicate with my loving family. The communication mostly consisted of watching Alex and Victoria make faces into the computer's camera, and, as diverting and entertaining as that is, it could not make me completely forget about the pizza.

I passed a troubled night, tossing and turning and dreaming vivid, garlic-scented dreams. When I arrived at the school the next day, Mrs. Looman, the principal, greeted me and welcomed me warmly.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, still clutched in the fevered grip of the mysterious pizza lot and unable to even converse politely, "What's with that pizza sign out there in the middle of town? Why was I not given pizza when I parked there?"

Mrs. Looman explained that the sign did not actually offer the promise of free pizza for any who parked there. It was indicating where one might park if one wanted to walk across the street to Mike and Tony's Pizza.

Mike and Tony's Pizza. They will not serve you in the parking lot, despite what the sign may imply.

I passed a lovely day at the school, relieved that the mystery of the Pizza Lot had been settled. After school, I drove back to Greenfield, MA, where my hotel was, in order to pass the time until I could return to Colrain when Mike & Tony's opened at 5 p.m.

I wandered around Greenfield, past the Academy of Rock, where I was barely able to resist the urge to rush in and sign up for their PhD program in Rock Awesomeness. I didn't see any classes on how to deal with unruly groupies, so I decided against enrolling.

I found a tantalizing old book store where the winding, serpentine piles of books formed teetering, precarious aisles that led into the spiraling bowels of the very earth itself. I could have spent many hours in the store and, indeed, at a few points in my visit, feared that I would spend the rest of my life there if unable to find the exit.

When I finally found my way out, a freezing spittle had started falling, making the roads slippery and treacherous, but even the unbridled fury of nature could not deter me from my return trip to Colrain.

I braved the elements, skidding and sliding around hairpin curves and perilous drops from thousand foot cliffs. My white knuckles clenched the steering wheel as I forged onward into the stormy night and toward pizza.

And the next thing I knew, I was at Tony & Mike's. It seems that only the regulars were willing to brave the mad tempest raging outside, for there were very few people there, and all of them were clustered around the bar watching the less than subtle fight underway between the teenage kid cooking the pizzas and one of the owners - Mike or Tony. I didn't buy a program so I don't know who was who.

The dinner theater was fraught with intrigue as the cook was evidently convinced that MikeorTony had lied to him about something.

Dialog such as this ensued:

MikeorTony: You want me to call him and he can tell you for himself?
Kid cooking my pizza: Yeah. I do.
MikeorTony: Fine. I will.

(Telephone call is made)

MikeorTony (into phone): Will you tell [kid making pizza] that you are [mumble, mumble, mumble]

(Hands phone to kid making pizza)

[More mumbling and angry mutterings.]

It had all the making of a brilliant Italian opera. An interesting cast of characters. Incomprehensible dialog. An eager audience. Except for the fact that nobody was singing.

My pizza finally arrived and I was delighted that it was, in fact, some of the tastiest pizza that I have ever had.

I lingered over it, casually watching the continuing drama in the restaurant as it unfolded.

Although I was disappointed not to see how the scene ended, I was eventually able to break the spell and, with my leftover pizza clutched tightly in my hands, headed back out into the storm to try to return to my hotel.

"At least I'll have something to eat if I careen off the road and go over a cliff," I thought.

The next day of my residency, although lots of fun, was somewhat anti-climactic. It did not feature death-defying rides, muttered threats of mild violence, or delicious, cheesy pizza. It was just me, visiting classes and giving an afternoon workshop to a room full of teachers who were eager to be set free so they could go to Mike & Tony's.

I'd like to know how everything worked out in the opera there. I'll have to go back and see what happened when I finally enroll in that PhD. program at the Rock College.

Learning How To Draw - Week One

This is the way it was supposed to go:
The kids go camping with Kerri's parents for the week.
I take a Master's Class in portrait drawing with Tony Ryder for the week.
Kerri spends the week floating around in the pool, sipping drinks with little umbrellas in them.
I come home from class each night and join Kerri briefly in the pool before we cook a delicious meal, eat leisurely on the porch as we chat of this and that, and then spend the evening doing a bit of work in the garden, going for a walk, and updating my daily blog with all my wacky, zany adventures in Tony’s class. Then we would settle down for the night with a good book and a restful night's sleep.


But then:
Small bathroom repair job from a couple weeks ago exploded into horrifying total bathroom gut job.
Muffler dropped off my car.
My car began making a non-muffler-related strange noise and, in the course of removing a tire to look at the brakes, I sheared off one of the lug bolts that hold the tires on and noticed that my brake pads were weirdly corroded necessitating a multi-day series of repairs for me to perform in the driveway.

So, this is the way it actually went:

I went to class each day and suffered at the hands of Tony Ryder, a cruel, tyrannical artist who seeks only to emotionally abuse his students and cripple their wills to create art, thus leaving him the only artist on the planet and, therefor, in complete control of all the art in the world.
Kerri spent each day in our hot, poorly ventilated bathroom huffing paint fumes and regretting the dreadful purple paint she picked out.
We staggered into each other's presence in the evenings, gagged down some form of sustenance, flopped on the couch for an hour or two, staring off into the distance, and then dragged ourselves to bed so we could each spend the night privately contemplating the horrors that awaited us upon awakening.

About the bathroom and the car, I will likely have more to say at some distant point in time, after the paint and brake cleaner fumes have cleared from my head. Possibly sometime in the next decade.

About the class I am taking, I have much to say. First, and most importantly, I was totally lying about the teacher being a tyrannical artist, etc., etc. I only said that to Kerri, so she would feel that we had suffered equally throughout the day.

We had not.

Tony Ryder is, in addition to being one of the most amazingly talented artists alive, a really, really, really nice guy.

This is how Tony's drawings start out.

When I first saw this class advertised, I squealed with joy and did a very macho Tippy-Toe Dance of Exceeding Joy about my house. Even the price of the class (roughly the equivalent of the GNP of a mid-sized European country) did little to dampen my joy.

I spent many idle moments in the months leading up to the class imagining what a class with Tony might be like. I assumed, naturally, that he would swoop into the room wearing a cape and calf-high black boots. In his gloved hands, I imagined a riding crop, used to redirect students whose line quality may be sub-standard.

Frankly, this was not a situation I was looking forward to, but there is no personal growth without some suffering. Minor suffering, of course.

On the first day of class, I wandered into the small art supply store housed on the ground floor of the building where class was to be held. I asked the mild-mannered clerk where the classrooms were. He lead me through a rear door and was even kind enough to push the elevator button for me, lest I strain my finger before class.

This is the result, 9 seconds later. Kidding. This is a 5 day demo.

I thanked him and soon found the classroom. I was milling around with the other students awaiting Tony's imminent arrival when the clerk from the art store quietly slipped into the room and introduced himself as Tony Ryder.

Tony did not, as he might have been entitled to do, wear a cape. He did not require us to refer to him as: The Great and Powerful Anthony Ryder, Lord Over All He Surveys. We were not required to genuflect or even avert our gaze from his.

He began class by announcing, “Okay. It’s 9:30 and 45 seconds. Let’s get going.”

Every minute of this class costs me just over 36 cents, so I appreciate his punctuality.  I’m still debating whether I should approach the registrar’s office for a refund for that missing 45 seconds.

Each day was structured so that Tony would do a demonstration in the morning, allowing us to witness the graceful perfection of every mark he puts on the paper, and giving each of the students the opportunity to silently reconsider alternate careers that do not, in any way, involve art.

He is soft-spoken and extremely self-deprecating, most likely so that students, upon witnessing his mad, crazy ninja drawing skills, do not hurl themselves out the nearest window in a fit of overwhelming, jealousy-driven despair.

He is quick to offer compliments and has yet to bring forth the riding crop.

I asked him if I might be able to bring in some of my work to have him cast his learned eye over it. He deigned that I may.

I was so nervous that I lost sleep the night before bringing my work in to show him.

Because I am a dork.

Then, I made a tragic mistake. About 20 minutes before he was going to check out my work, I slid up next to him and began some idle chatter about my long distant art school days. I mentioned the first drawing teacher I ever had and referred to him, if I recall correctly, as “a vicious bastard”. This teacher seemed to get his twisted jollies by eviscerating students during class critiques. Helpful comments like, “Whose piece of crap drawing is this?” and “This sucks because…” did little to help my already fragile artistic self-confidence.

I realized as soon as this amusing anecdote was out of my mouth that I had done myself in as far as an honest critique from Tony was concerned. I had just whined and moaned about a vicious art teacher from 20 years ago and now I was asking Tony to please give me his honest opinion. Tony probably thought I’d crumple up in a ball and wet myself if he said anything bad.

“”I’m much tougher now,” I promised, “Please. Give it to me straight. What do you think?”

He looked at the pieces I had brought in and contemplated them for a moment. Time stopped briefly as he opened his moth to deliver his verdict. My heart pounded. My face sweat. I think my lips even sweat. My hands shook and trembled. And then he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Your work sucks because…”

Not really, of course.

He said he thought my work was great and that he really liked the way I draw hair.

I offered to give him lessons on drawing hair for 36 cents per minute. He politely declined.

Maybe I’ll try dropping my price next week.