It’s official. Photoshop 7 is my new favorite toy.
I spent a good chunk of the afternoon playing with it off and on. A few weeks ago, my former high school journalism teacher asked me to do cartoon art for her wedding invitations. I had been the cartoonist for the school newspaper in high school.
It was a fun gig.
So I did the invitation art and she had it scanned so I could add color to it. You can view the images by clicking here, here, and here.
The resolution is a little low on the pictures as I had to turn them into JPEGS so no one would have to download them. The final ones are TIFF. I don’t know why I felt telling you that was relevant.
The original artwork was black and white and done with pencils and ink.
Soon, I’ll get some of the other stuff I’ve drawn lately scanned. I’m just a combination of lazy and busy and they mix kind of funny.
I had a really weird dream after I went back to bed.
I was driving my car on the interstate when all of a sudden, on it’s own, it accelerated to over 100 mph. I kept trying to brake and I removed my foot from the gas pedal, but it kept going faster.
There were lots of hills on the interstate and my car kept flying over them, much like that chase scene in the movie Bullitt.
Finally it was too much. My car was going up a very tall hill and at the last moment, I dove out the door and rolled onto the interstate before landing on my feet. Apparently in my dreams I have ninja-like reflexes.
I watched my car crash at the bottom of the hill in a smoldering wreck.
It was then that it turned into a fifty foot tall, sphinx-like, marble statue of my car. There were State Troopers flocking all around it (I wonder how they ended up in my dream? Ha ha.). Then I had to call my dad and tell him what happened.
“I crashed the car and it turned into a 50 foot tall statue.” I said.
He hung up on me.
That dream was awesome.
Jillian and I got pulled over by a State Trooper last night when we were drunk.
We were on foot.
We were walking around a lake.
He told us that we had to go move my car because the park was closed.
“How long could we maintain?” I wondered. How long until one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family; will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car?
If so, well, we’ll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere, ’cause it goes without saying that we can’t turn him loose. He’d report us at once to some kind of outback Nazi law enforcement agency and they’ll run us down like dogs.
Jesus, did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me?
-Hunter S. Thompson