Mannie Gentile: Art Imitates life

How to Not Get Killed: A Sea Story

2012-01-26T21:46:00.000-05:00

How can you tell when an old sailor is lying?

his lips are moving.

Sometimes that's true but here's a tale from the high-seas that happened to me when I was a young sailor-boy on the USS Dehaven back in 1972.

Here I am on the good old Dehaven (DD-727) a Sumner class destroyer from World War Two. It was a fine old ship with quite a remarkable combat record.

Be patient, this will get more interesting as you go along.

The Dehaven

What a beautiful ship. Note the gun-mounts forward (toward the pointy part) each contains two five-inch guns. They can hurl a 55-lb projectile up to ten miles or so with great accuracy. You can imagine that to achieve such a feat the gun must be complicated, well-engineered, and HEAVY

Here, Charlie Boothroyd stands at the rear of one of the guns, the sliding breach-block. It weighs a couple of tons, and when the breech "clicks" shut the gun fires and the block instantly (instantly) recoils about three feet rearward as the empty shell casing is ejected. So you certainly would not want to be standing behind it when it fires, right?

Although I was a Radioman on the Dehaven, I found myself working in the forward five inch gun mount for a couple of weeks. It was normally the battle station of the lowest ranking radioman on the ship. Unfortunately he, and the next lowest guy were both on leave, so I was called down to fill in.

At first I was down in the handling room sending projectiles and powder casings up into the mount. The handling room is a small piece of hell on earth, where you try to keep your balance on a greasy, moving deck, trying to not get your fingers crushed as you manhandle heavy projectiles from the magazine elevator into the ready racks and chain hoists which run them to the gun above.

Sounds like fun, right? Right.

As we were firing, from the small hatch above, appeared the grimy face of one of the gunner's mates up in the mount. While he was shouting the type of ammo to send up he spotted me, or actually, the petty officer insignia on my sleeve (the "crow") and inquired

"Hey a**hole, what the f@#k are you doing down there!? You're a godd%##ed petty officer, get up here with us."

Seeing this as a welcome reprieve I gratefully scrambled up the narrow ladder through the scuttle above and emerged into the ear-splitting, bone shuddering, deafening, reeling and jolting world of the gun house.

My gunner's mate deliverer, realizing I'd never been in a mount before, gave me the simplest possible job - that of the "hot shell man". Handing me one asbestos glove (instead of the required two) a glove, may I add, that had a large hole burned through the palm, and instructed me on my new job.

As the hot empty shell casings were ejected from the breach I was to grab them and toss them out a little scuttle that got them outside, out our way and out from underfoot.

They would pile up on the deck outside the gun mount. Sometimes, after a sustained period of firing, there would be hundreds of them out there, rolling back and forth with the motion of the ship

About ten guys worked the mount. It was so noisy that the only communication was done with hand signals; hand signals like the one I gave to the guy indicating that a casing had been lodged below the mount, impeding the elevation. I gave him the "finger across the throat" signal and indicated the jammed casing. He grinned, nodded, and gave me the "thumbs-up". The fact that he'd been toking reefer all morning had some bearing on what happened next.

As I bent down, head behind the giant breech block, remember? the breech block that instantly hurtles rearward the moment the breach "clicks" shut and the gun automatically fires? Yeah, that breech block.

Despite the smoky assurance of my shipmate of the "thumbs-up" signal, I heard that most frightening sound:

You know what happens at the click.

Instantly I felt myself flying backward; two huge, powerful, hands at my belt providing a jarring jerk clear of the breech block.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. I watched as the breech block rocketed before my eyes, filling the space where my head had been an instant before.

The guy who insured my continued future was a gunner's mate who I only ever knew as "Cracker". A greasy, portly, and altogether unkempt sailor who was, for me, the man of the moment.

As I thanked him profusely, he shrugged it off with " Yer lucky that was the last shot or I'da been too busy to bother"

The guy with the bowl haircut: "Cracker"

And that's how I helped to defeat the commies.

Mannie

Wild Ride

2011-11-24T22:42:00.000-05:00

.

Not quite three years ago, when I was feeling very low, some of the best friends a guy could have - John Laura, Holly, Maura, Chris, Susann, Christie and Rory took me out to the local carnival.

It was three hours of delightful diversion.

Now years, later (and happy as a clam, thank you) I edited together stills and footage that I shot on that evening and put together a very silly and, I think, fun, send-up of a suspense/horror movie trailer from the 1980's Death Carnival of Fun Fun

You can enjoy it (or not) here.

Art continues to imitate Life

Mannie

.

2011-10-29T22:16:00.002-05:00

goodbye Linda

A sad loss...

2011-10-21T21:21:00.000-05:00

of a true heart. Linda Sweigart.

Remember her here

Other art

2011-10-12T16:06:00.000-05:00

You may wish to go here to see some other stuff that I do.

.

Making a connection

2011-10-12T15:41:00.000-05:00

From the house...

to the studio...

with rocks, bricks, and pea gravel.

of valentines, tattoos, and furniture

2011-08-26T21:08:00.003-05:00

No sooner had I finished my Burnside Bridge bookcase than my wife Susan asked me if I'd make her a small bookshelf, very small in fact, something for bedside use. I was happy to comply. I chose to make her a bookcase and a valentine all in one. This was on Tuesday.

By Wednesday morning I had the carcass glued up. Made in select pine with no blemishes, the cutting, and assembley went like a dream. As usual the screws were hidden with pegs and a cherry stain was applied overall.

As with all of the smaller bookcases I'm making this one has ergonomic hand-holds cut into the sides for ease in moving it about.

To personalize it I designed an old-school Sailor Jerry-style tattoo on the top surface.

First, I inked it in with a Rapidiograph pen,

the ink flows nicely even on the stained surface.

Then I added color, as usual using Prismacolor pencils which are always a pleasure to use, the colow seems to flow on, is very controllable, it saturates and blends like a dream.

The results were very gratifying, this is the valentine part I was referring to.

As usual, the unit was glued, clamped and screwed with pegs flush-cut to cover the screws.

I cut the hand-holds in more of a novel shape this time.

Three coats of Spar varnish and it was ready for delivery.

Two and a half days from concept to finished product,
The customer was very pleased!

Staying handy,

Mannie

Arsenal of Democracy

2011-08-10T21:56:00.000-05:00

Those who know me are never surprised to learn of my ordnance collection; my artillery shells.

I've been collecting projectiles and shell casings since 1972 when I acquired my first one, a brass shell casing for a Naval 3" gun. I got it while it, and I, were still in the U.S. Navy. It's one of those things that "came home with me".

Shell casings and inert projectiles just seemed to gravitate toward me over the years, though more casings than projectiles. A few years ago, upon learning to operate a woodlathe, I began making the projectiles to go along with the empty casings.

Of my collection of twelve modern artillery shells (WWI to present) all of them are inert painted to appear active, and five of them are entirely made of wood.

Recently friends gave me a second empty three-inch shell casing. Last night I glued up five 5x14x5/8 inch boards as turning stock, and this morning I turned my latest projectile.

Here's my glued-up stock this morning. I've just taken a mallet and driven in the headstock of my lathe into the center of the piece. You can see that its just a big sandwich of glued and clamped boards.

I powered up my lathe and got to work making the chips fly...

and fly...

and fly.

I was using a profile that I had taken from an actual photograph of a 3" armor-piercing shell.

This profile served as my template for all measurements.

With my parting tool I dug down to a true 3-inch thickness as measured by calipers.

Working from left to right, I turned the driving bands and, here, I'm roughing out the windshield - the lightweight steel cone that covers the nose of the armor-piercing projectile within.

Finish sanding as I went along, the piece is nearing completion.

Here is the blank, this morning at 8:00 a.m.

Primed, at 10:00 a.m.

Painted at 5:30 p.m.

And with it's shipmates this evening.

Can you guess which ones are wood?

Staying busy,

Mannie

So far, so good.

2011-03-14T14:07:00.000-05:00

From this:

to this:

The world just got a little less sultry

2011-03-03T22:06:00.000-05:00

RIP Jane Russell

1921 - 2011

Welcome!

2011-03-01T15:05:00.000-05:00

March 1, 2011. Spring comes to my side of South Mountain.

Celebrate!

Mannie

Waiting for my Ship to come in.

2011-02-25T18:46:00.007-05:00

There’s a port on a western bay

and serves a hundred ships a day

Lonely sailors pass the time away

And talk about their homes

And there’s a girl, in this harbor town,

And she…

That was as far as the song got before a sailor laid aside his pool cue, strode over to the communal radio, and disgustedly snapped it off. Romanticized versions of Navy life as envisioned by hippie musicians do not play well in a building filled with bored and irritable sailors.

It was my second day at the transit barracks. I’d just come off of 30 day leave following a 15-month deployment to the Naval Communication Station at Finegayen Guam in the Marianas Islands. It was great to be stateside again and it was with some anticipation that I awaited the arrival of my first ship, the destroyer U.S.S. Dehaven. I was literally “waiting for my ship to come in”.

The Dehaven was out on a two-week reserve training cruise and I had arrived at the Naval Station Long Beach, the Dehaven’s homeport, midway through that cruise. Upon reporting for duty at the Naval Station I was apprised of the situation and assigned a bunk in the transient barracks to await the return of my new ship.

A transit barracks is an earthly manifestation of limbo, or perhaps more like a very pleasant jailhouse, a jailhouse where the inmates can come and go as they please and order in pizza. A sailor in transit, if clever, has no duties while in that status, unless, of course, that sailor carelessly announces his presence to the notice of the Master-at-Arms (MAA) the arbiter of law and order in a division or transit barracks setting. The plan of the canny sailor is to evade being placed upon the MAA’s watch bill, that roster of unfortunates which assigns specific duties to those enrolled upon it. Generally, a clever sailor can avoid the shackles of the watch bill by spreading the word that he is scheduled for oral surgery. When morning roll is called and the MAA enquires “Where’s Smith?” more than one witness will attest to Smitty’s preexisting medical/dental commitment, and generally the matter will be dropped until the following morning. Usually, after two or three days of this, the elusive Smiths’ ship has come in and he affects his escape from the domain of the MAA, however, such evasion grows increasingly difficult with the length of incarceration in the transit barracks.

(embiggen through clickage)

Characteristically, it behooves shirkers to stay away from the barracks during working hours, say eight in the morning to four in the afternoon. Beyond four-thirty the coast is clear and all the prodigals return; swelling the ranks of the barracks residents considerably. The evening is consumed going to and returning from the mess hall, watching television, drinking ripple, or smoking tobacco or weed; sleeping the hours away like stateless nomads, refugees in flight, orphans with nasty habits.

The very transient nature of the denizens of the transit barracks is not conducive to forming friendships, or in tipping one’s hand to any great degree regarding personal status or situation. That’s sort of the jailhouse mentality part of the transit barracks. However, if you run across another sailor who’s reporting to the same ship as you, that’s an entirely different story. The two of you, now shipmates, instantly bond into an unbreakable alliance against all “those other assholes”. Find a shipmate in transit and it can be very “smooth sailing” indeed.

My shipmate, Rick, was just as glad to find me as I him. Seems he had broken his glasses, quite severely, one lens was missing and the other was haphazardly held together with a band-aid. He was a steward, essentially an officer’s valet and cook “I think I’m the only white steward in the fleet” was his bewildered self assessment. I think he may have been quite right.

Rick and I joined forces on that second day and managed to form a fine alliance to get us through the remaining two days of our incarceration. We’d watch each other’s belongings when one or the other had to leave the building, we’d take turns making frequent calls to the harbor master’s shack inquiring as to the status or imminent arrival of the Dehaven, and we’d take turns providing each other with plausible alibi’s to explain each other’s absence at morning muster. We were a working model of how to successfully navigate the rocks and shoals of the transit barracks milieu, a living embodiment of the phrase “shipmates stand together”. A lone wolf in a transit barracks, a county lock-up, or a family reunion is the picture of vulnerability, easy pickings for the sharks and maiden aunts that patrol such places, shipmates, however are invincible in their unity.

On the fourth day, our deliverance, like Ricks new lenses, was at hand and we were summoned to the MAA’s office with the news that the Dehaven was clearing the breakwater and would be tying up at piers 17 and 18. After delivering this welcome news, the MAA surveyed both of our faces and enquired, “How long have you two jokers been aboard my barracks?” Rick swiftly replied for both of us;

“Just got in last night chief”.

Shipmates, stand together!

p.s.
For a really accurate depiction of the transit barracks lifestyle, check out the outstanding Jack Nicholson film, "The Last Detail".

Something I've been working on

2011-02-22T20:37:00.002-05:00

I took delivery on a new mortising machine two weeks ago. This may be the last major piece of machinery that will come through the front door of Victory Wood Working. With this powerful tool I can drill square holes.

How 'bout them apples? The magic is done by driving a hollow square chisel containing a rotating auger into a piece of wood. It's pretty cool and will allow me to quickly and accurately make mortise and tenon joinery in my furniture projects.

Every large tool such as this needs a bench or stand to anchor it on for stability. What I've been using are these machinery stands which I get from Sears:

They work just fine, though they aren't particularly attractive and certainly add nothing to the 1942 theme of my shop. So I decided to use this opportunity to start making my own machinery stands with a period look.

Two-by-fours, sheet MDF, and 5/8" plywood, mostly on-hand, were dragooned to get the project underway. For stability I filled the base with several pounds of ceramic tile that I've had lying around waiting for something to do.

Here's the stand carcass with the mortiser in place. Generally, I make wooden tool lockers for all of my major machines, this time, however, I used the opportunity to build one right into the pedestal itself. The pedestal is also the same size as my shop trolleys which can act as "wings" for this stand.

So, here comes the "design-ey" part...

Chevrons and stacked vertical buttresses provide classic art deco lines. Here, primed and ready to paint in a two-tone green scheme (like the rest of the shop).

I installed the door with classic (and simple) kitchen cabinet hinges with a little wooden ball as an elegant little pull.

The chisels, attachments, and tools have plenty of breathing room. This is also a perfect place to store the operating manual.

All I need now is a little King Kong clutching a diminutive Fay Wray scrambling to the top.

Making the chips fly,

Mannie

Demon Rum

2011-01-05T11:04:00.003-05:00

I used to really enjoy drinking, starting with my years Rat-packing in Vegas under the stage name of Tony Volare. (Yeah, you've got the album)

(how you doin'?)

As the years went by and the booze kept flowing I began to see double, or maybe I was just spending too much time with Jerry Garcia.

(which twin has the Tony?)

The wake-up call came when I found myself at the stick of a Navy fighter on a champagne-induced joyride above Miramar Naval Air Station. Fortunately in those pre-nine eleven days I got off with a slap on the wrist.

But still, enough was enough. I got off the sauce.

And I'm living happily ever after.

M.

Back to the Drawing Board

2010-12-16T10:36:00.002-05:00

These long winter evenings find me making another series of Maps for the new book on the Battle of South Mountain by my friend, Civil War historian, John Hoptak.

The maps are coming along swimmingly, and its always fun to render in two dimension that which John does so well in three dimension.

Though John, is tiny in stature, (only eight inches tall) he looms as an authority on the Battle of South Mountain and I always enjoy working with him.

Like a bad penny

2010-12-14T19:28:00.000-05:00

I'm again being visited by a recent acquaintance, for the last time, I'm hoping.

Getting Organized...

2010-12-01T20:25:00.001-05:00

is the theme of this winter. Now, happily, I'm in a two-person household so I'm looking to reduce clutter and maximize sensible storage space. This weekend (my weekends are Tuesdays and Wednesdays) I started to tackle my studio/study room.

A cast-off metal locker was crammed with lots of miscellaneous stuff. The shelves really didn't lend themselves to efficient use as a storage asset. I decided to make it my art supplies cabinet and set about making uniform and sturdy containers that would fit nicely into the locker.

Add to the mix was an old file cabinet that good friends gave me earlier in the year. This pre-war beauty had seen too much time in barns and other non-climate controlled spaces over the years. As a result it was filthy, dry-rotted in places, warped, and de-laminating.

I disassembled the entire thing and found some useable lumber including the sides of the drawers, which although very grimy, were still useable pieces of oak.

There was also some interesting hardware.

Utilizing these salvaged materials I set to work with a plan to make an initial four storage boxes.

The first has stepped compartments to hold the tubes of liquid acrylic paint I frequently use.

The second got a lid for taller things.

The last two got sliding lids...

this one has an upper-storey tray that lifts out.

I think I'm off to a good start for this winter of getting organized. Recycling sure is a lot more satisfying when you can immediately turn junk into useable materials...

that also look so interesting.

Staying green(ish)

Mannie

When Art and Life Intersect

2010-11-20T20:14:00.004-05:00

(photo by Marleen Brooks)

Susan, Rev. John Schildt, Mannie

(photo by Marleen Brooks)

11-20-2010

Dunker Church

Antietam National Battlefield

Adventures in mrsa land

2010-11-01T06:17:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the cure can feel nearly as bad as the cause.

Tales of the unexpected:part two

2010-10-30T14:04:00.000-05:00

Ended up spending a week in Washington County Hospital (yuk) Got home two days ago. Needless to say our wedding is rescheduled. The happy event will now be on November 20th.

I got health insurance (through my employer) last January, imagine if this had all happened prior to then...

and this is just for the prescription.

Recovering,

Mannie

Tales of the unexpected

2010-10-25T20:35:00.001-05:00

Hospitals are filled with people who didn't expect to be there. For the past four days, I've been one of them.

Staying optimistic (with a nasty knee infection)

This Sunday's bridegroom-to-be

Mannie

Speaking of Lucky...

2010-10-13T08:12:00.002-05:00

Ran across this 2009 cartoon in the search for something else.

(click on it)

One Lucky Cartoonist

2010-10-05T09:52:00.000-05:00

Art + maple = flaky crust

2010-10-02T18:54:00.002-05:00

Here's a humbling reminder from the shop that wood does, in fact, grow on trees.

Early this spring my brother gave me an assortment of two-inch limbs he'd trimmed from a maple tree. I cut them into usable lengths, waxed the ends (to prevent checking), stored them in a dry place to wait until the moisture left them.

Along comes my friend Alann who asked me to make a rolling pin for his mother's birthday, and out came the maple, off came the wax, and into the lathe went this nice 18-incher.

This piece locked up really nicely. It was a really clean piece that turned like a dream.

Maple has a distinctively sweet smell as you turn it.

Starting at a 60 grit and ending up at a 220 grit, it sanded up nicely.

Dowels await the turning of a pair of cherry handles.

Finished, with an "old school" tattoo design, this rolling pin is destined for a collection rather than a kitchen drawer. I'm still hoping though, for a slice of apple pie.

And life is good.

2010-09-22T21:12:00.000-05:00

Those benches

2010-09-03T12:10:00.000-05:00

The bench-building continues at a brisk pace. I'm taking advantage of my last free week before returning to taking classes to knock out some knockout projects.

After recently seeing a delightful documentary on old-school tattoo artist Norman Collins, better known as "Sailor Jerry" I was inspired to bring a little more color to my bench project.

I've already made five of these classic American benches, the first batch finished very plainly and the second (gifts for my sweetie) were decorated with routing, woodburning, and color.

I wanted to bring a little more design to the five-board benches I'd been making.

On this latest batch of four the relief cuts on the legs are valentine hearts rather than simple holes. I used a hole saw on my drill press followed by a band saw operation to make these little hearts.

The second variation was the brace between the legs, what I'm calling the 1/2 board in my "five and a half board benches". These are the fully assembled benches awaiting staining, decoration, and varnishing.

This bench is a gift for two very good friends who raise chickens - as pets, so I thought I'd start with a very generic hen outline and then spruce it up a little.

Using a wide range of Prismacolor pencils I came up with this fanciful creation which I call...

the Chilean Goldenback. Needless to say, It was very well received by my friends this afternoon.

Then next one was for me, very much a tattoo and very much a nod to my time (tattooless time) in the U.S. Navy.

This is a faithful copy of a classic Sailor Jerry design.

The Prismacolors are remarkably vivid on wood and I'm really pleased with the result.

The next bench, or "tattoo bench" as I'm calling them, is also based upon a Sailor Jerry design though with my own variations. That's my little mountain home in the center of the valentine with the Cumberland Valley in the background. Sunset around these parts looks remarkably like the drawing.

I think the bench reflects the happiness of the couple who live in that little house.

After two coats of spar varnish the image is locked in and smudge proof. Again, I'm really pleased with the effect of the colored pencils on stained wood.

What a satisfying way to close out the summer. Now I have all winter to plan new projects for the springtime.

Check in again,

Mannie

Old School Ink

2010-08-31T07:31:00.000-05:00

For my latest run of five-board benches I'm using some classic Sailor Jerry tattoo flash for the design work. I render them in color pencil and seal them in with spar varnish.

I was in the Navy so don't bust my chops about the design.

Staying humble

2010-08-10T05:29:00.000-05:00

I'm a Ranger at a National Park, and I give tours and talks explaining the historic event that occurred here and why it remains significant to us nearly a century and a half later.

I really enjoy what I do and I'm good at it; though I find it never pays to take yourself too seriously.

One afternoon, a couple of years ago I was giving the two-hour battlefield tour and everything was really clicking. The weather was beautiful, I had a big energetic crowd, they were asking great questions and I was really on a roll.

As their enthusiasm and interest continued to increase, my energy level also began to build, before you knew it, I was giving one of the best talks of that summer.

And man-oh-man did my audience respond.

They were getting more into it and excited by the minute.

It seemed that everyone was taking pictures of me...

lots of enthusiastic pointing...

and smiles all around. People were really, really, into what I was telling them.

As I wrapped up that part of the tour and headed back to my van to lead them to the next stop, one of the visitors tapped me on the shoulder and asked...

"Did you know that there was a butterfly on your hat for much of the time you were talking to us?"

Humility is a lesson learned daily at your National Parks.

Cheers!

Mannie

Wipeout! my Guamanian bicycle adventure

2010-08-08T06:18:00.001-05:00

Bicycling on Guam in 1971 was one of the many pleasures of being stationed on that beautiful island.

One day, after watch, I set out for the beach that was near the Naval Communications Station. It was at the foot of a long and winding steep road. It was fun to coast down that road, gaining great speed only to plunge into the surf at road's end. I'd done this once before.

Guam is rich in culture and history,

whether

A. the mysterious latte stones, left from earlier cultures on the island, or

B. The remaining Japanese holdout who wasn't captured until 1972, the island was, and remains, one of wonder.

C. I was pedaling, then coasting, then careening down the coral-surfaced road toward...

D. NCS Beach.

E. Needless to say I was making great headway. According to the cigar I was using as an air-speed indicator I was going about thirty-five miles per hour, when, quite unexpectedly, I hit...

F. some minuscule discontinuity in the road surface which turned the bike into a catapult, sending me hurtling over the handlebars and onto the abrasive coral road surface still at a great rate of speed as the bicycle crashed, rolled, bumped, and clattered down hill with me.

I ended up heaped in a ditch as the bike landed on top of me. I've no idea how long I was in that position, when I heard an approaching car.

A very nice Chamorro lady, driving by, stopped to give me some water and to summon an ambulance from the base. Within thirty minutes I was at the base dispensary, quite dazed, having a hospital corpsman removing the coral particles from my bleeding road-rashed arms with a laundry scrub brush.

Although the bike was totaled, I was back to work at my regularly scheduled time, arm in a sling for about three weeks.

And that's what I did in the war children.

Mannie

Have I ever told you about the time I got hit by a car?

2010-08-05T18:35:00.000-05:00

It was 1974, I'd been out of the US Navy a scant three months and I was happily enrolled at Delta College outside of Bay City Michigan, collecting my GI Bill college education and having a blast finally being a college kid (after a four-year delay).

I was the head cartoonist on the student newspaper the Delta Collegiate and everything was going swimmingly. I was the sage veteran, finally out of the disciplined life of the military and enjoying the company of many fun people, including some really cute girls.

One October night the Collegiate crew decided to head out to a nearby pizza and beer joint for an evening of fun. What a treat! The evening was to take quite an unexpected turn however.

(The staff of the Collegiate. That's my sister Francie at left with her feet up on the desk. The beautiful Marsha Ross is at top third from right - I had a crush on her. I'm represented by a sketch, at right, that was done from my hospital bed. Hmmmm. Finally that's me a few months later, lower left, wearing my "spare" glasses.)

This tribe of nearly twenty jolly jokers had just begun the evening, parking across a busy street from the pizza-joint in question. It was dark, and had been raining. As we crossed the rain-slicked pavement in a pack little did we, or I, know that a motorist was about to intersect our path.

The motorist in question was a young guy with a clean driving record, and was completely sober. As he rounded the bend of the blind curve he was presented with the sight of a gaggle of collegians mere feet from his front bumper. With fate casting its ironic smile upon me, I was the one selected for stardom that memorable evening.

I lost consciousness seconds prior to becoming this airborne.

Later, the police report revealed some fascinating details:

[official photo, Bay County Sheriff's Department]

My glasses and boot were found two days later in a cornfield and returned to the custody of my mother.

From the point of impact, I was able to actually fly, if only for a moment, a distance of 37 feet. Considering I was unaided by wings, I think that my flight compares very favorably with the 1903 maiden flight of the Wright Flyer which stayed airborne for 120 feet.

My sister got her wrist broken in that same accident, not by being hit by the car, but by the impact of me as I collided with her upon my takeoff to the stars.

Mercifully, I was never able to recall any of this event. Its all a total blank, save for the vague memory of a very deep pain and someone resting my head upon a spare tire or something.

The result? A broken pelvis, a broken collarbone, a severe laceration to my left upper thigh (still somewhat misshapen), a concussion, and abrasions too numerous to remember, let alone mention.

I was in the hospital for seventeen days learning about numbness, anxiety, and boredom.

Eventually, I healed, unlike my poor glasses.

A month later, I limped back in to the office of the Collegiate, too behind in my classwork to continue on that session. As years went by I finally stopped freezing up at the thought crossing busy streets, I graduated from college, and I became the superhero that that guards over all of you today.

Sleep well...

and look both ways before crossing streets.

Mannie

Have I ever told you about my cat?

2010-08-04T16:34:00.001-05:00

Actually, it's not my cat. It's a feral cat that cruises the neighborhood and usually stops by my place a couple times a week and stares at me through my French doors.

It's a prostitute feral cat. On its first visit, two years ago, it let me pet it in exchange for a piece of salmon patty. Over the months I've developed a good enough of a relationship to get "freebies" though an occasional slice of pepperoni helps to keep things on a business standing.

I'm also good friends with a catbird...do you see the conflict coming?

The catbird has its own view of how I should be interacting with the cat.

And the cat has it's own unique perspective -

I'm just the poor guy in the middle trying to get everyone to get along.

The baseball bat's not real, by the way. It exists in the bird's imagination. What I'm actually holding is an umbrella, a la Neville Chamberlain.

Still hoping to achieve "peace in our time",

Mannie

Is "Love" too strong...

2010-07-11T12:17:00.005-05:00

a word to describe the place, the immediate place, that one lives?

A cozy little house, a cottage really, nestled (such a "cozy" word) on the shoulder of a mountain overlooking one of America's most beautiful and history-rich valleys; the Cumberland Valley?

That valley, the width of which, can be seen with a sweep of the eyes from my mailbox, North Mountain twenty miles distant, to the west...

and historic South Mountain looming immediately above me to the east...

a valley that is a riot of colors, both contrasting and complimentary...

in which even in times of drought, beautiful color can spring from otherwise browned turf...

and unexpected rains can leave behind odd little floating, aquatic worlds...

cooled and saturated dirt,

and quenched fruits?

Is it too strong a term for this little house that contains my library, with its familiar volumes and seductive proximity to my garden...

a library frequented by the woman I cherish...

Is it any wonder that I don't travel (as friends insist I should) to Europe, the ocean shore, or even, merely, the great Chesapeake Bay,

but am quite content to merely travel my garden path,

surrounded by friends, both trusted,

and trusting?

Is love too strong a word?

Not from where I sit.

Feathered Friends

2010-05-03T15:43:00.001-05:00

They showed up exactly a year ago, just when I needed them most.

Now that I'm a happy-go-lucky guy again, no sign of them.

I guess they go where the need is.

click here

Things are lookin' up.

Mannie

Another three-dimensional cartoon

2010-03-31T22:16:00.001-05:00

Many years ago I ran across a sculptor in Gettysburg, Charlie Caldwell, who worked exclusively in Sculpey, a wonderful polyform plastic modeling clay. His figures were whimsical and quite delightful and prompted me to get some Sculpey and get to work. That was 23 years ago and although Mr. Caldwell's Gettysburg shop is shuttered, I still fondly recall my conversations with him every time I break out the Sculpey.

These sailors and Marines of the "golden era" of the U.S. Navy, made of Sculpey, represent my memories of the years I served with the U.S. Fleet as a young 3rd class petty officer on the island of Guam and aboard Destroyers.

These figures all average about six inches in height and though they have a lot of detail they're not intended to be photorealistic but rather, three-dimensional cartoons of the guys I remember serving with back in my version of "the old Navy".

Unlike todays military, three fundamental components of Navy life were: smoking bushels of cigarettes, consuming gallons of bear, and frequenting entire populations of whores. Throw classic tattoos in the mix and you pretty much have the delights available to sailors in the old days.

This sculpture represents one of those greatest of pleasures, the mass consumption of cold beer at what were termed "Beach Parties".

Held as morale-boosters, a beach-party would be proclaimed by a division officer or a skipper in recognition of a period of hard work, a successful operation, or as a general "well-done" to the crew. This celebration of a cohesive crew, the beach-party, would usually occur during regular working hours and might comprise an entire afternoon of baseball, burgers, steaks, swimming, and the ubiquitous swilling of a designated number of beers per man.

Warm beer of a local or otherwise cheap pedigree would be tumbled into a GI can and several large CO2 fire extinguishers would be expended to hose down the brewskis and get them serviceably chilled. Then the drinking could begin in earnest. This was back in the days when alcoholism was fairly common, especially among the career sailors, and a stumble-down drunk was tolerated as long as he was sober by his trick on watch.

At a beach party, sailors who didn't drink plied a lucrative business selling their alloted four beers for whatever price the market would bear. As a result a good time would be had by all!

A picture of hard-earned satisfaction as this first-class petty officer draws deep the sweet elixir of life.

San Miguel was a staple in the Philippines and on the Islands of Guam and Midway.

Back in the "Old Navy" every lifer had a church-key on his key ring for just such eventualities.

Sculpted by yours truly, this is the first of a few of my old shipmates...

that may appear on this blog from time to time.

Art imitates life, and this was a part of my life so many years ago.

Mannie

An Allegory in Two Frames

2010-03-01T18:14:00.001-05:00

This morning I took these two pictures, one within five hundred yards of the other. Polar opposites in tone but emblematic for me:

Last year

My hopes for this year.

Here's hoping!

Mannie

Refuge

2010-02-24T23:14:00.002-05:00

Though good friends are what got me through this dreadful year just past, I also found a great deal of solace in two areas of refuge that I created from what had been my garage and my garden shed.

If you like, you can follow the trail here. (it's my other semi-secret blog).

shhhh,

Mannie

Oh Skylark.

2010-02-23T11:19:00.000-05:00

Oh skylark
Have you seen a valley green with spring?
Where my heart can go a journeying
Over the shadows and the rain
To a blossom covered lane

And in your lonely flight
Haven't you heard the music in the night?
Wonderful music
Faint as a will o' the wisp
Crazy as a loon
Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon

Oh skylark
I don't know if you can find these things
But my heart is riding on your wings
So if you see them anywhere
Won't you lead me there
Oh skylark
Won't you lead me there?

Johnny Mercer

Please Stand-by

2010-02-16T09:41:00.002-05:00

This blog, such as it is, evolved, or devolved, from a happy-go-lucky journal of cartooning to a distress flare sent up to alert friends near and far that I needed them to be thinking of me.

I have a lot of friends, and they were very helpful. So its time for this blog to change course, simmer, or pull the plug.

After some reflection I took down the dozen or so posts from this past year, figuring that the best way to get happy may to simply be to not dwell in the sadness. I'm going to try "acting happy" until the real article kicks in.

Many thanks to supportive friends whom I look forward to seeing on my deck, overlooking the beautiful Cumberland Valley, in the brighter, warmer, more festive days of spring and summer enjoying home made pizza.

Think positive,

Mannie

Living with Isabella...

2010-02-03T12:27:00.002-05:00

means a pleasant surprise every time I round this corner.

I have to wonder why things didn't work out between her and Scorsese.

Santa's favorite helper

2008-12-13T22:41:00.004-05:00

The world just got a little less sexy.

Bettie Page 1923 - 2008

The only thing I liked about...

2008-11-20T19:31:00.003-05:00

the sixties:

click here

Meet the folks

2008-09-22T17:40:00.005-05:00

Frank and Helen (c.1941).

Is it any wonder they had such good looking kids?

From Frank I got my cartooning technique. From Helen I got the zany ideas and punch-lines.

I wish they could have been around longer.

Mannie

Happy Easter (Islanders)

2008-03-23T17:45:00.001-05:00

It's another Easter miracle! I think this blog is being resurrected, maybe.

Here are two of my takes on Easter.

This first one is from the student newspaper of Delta College near Bay City Michigan. I was a cartoonist for the Delta Collegiate.

This dates from March of 1975. At that time I'd been out of the Navy for less than a year and was totally enjoying the commuter college scene. Delta was a delightful little community College that whet my appetite for doing the whole college thing and getting some very groovy adulation for my cartooning skills...all this and the G.I. bill too!

That year at Delta could be entitled "Girls, Girls,Girls", though, hasn't Elvis already claimed that one?

I was happy to be a civilian getting a whopping $270.00 a month from Uncle Sam to go to college. I made a bee-line to the student newspaper with my portfolio and secured a job as the staff cartoonist knocking down five bucks per!

This offering for Easter is one that I thought was totally funny. On reflection, I still think it works but where in the heck is that hunter's other leg? And why is that rabbit's weenie smoking?

This little 3-D cartoon I did around 1987. I enrolled in an adult ed ceramics class through Grand Rapids Public Schools. There was a group of about 18 wannabe potters and me. The instructor was an ancient and tiny art teacher named Alice. She was initially upset that I didn't want to throw pots or use glazes. She kept trying to coax me away from the 3-D cartoon idea.

Well, here we are twenty years later, she's dead but my sculpture is still pretty vivid.

I was so taken with this Easter Island gag that I did a second one that was three times the size...and not nearly as good as this original.

Happy Easter to all you islanders out there!

Mannie

When smoking was fab.

2007-03-14T14:58:00.001-05:00

When I was working a Acraforms back in the early and mid 1980s, it seemed like all of us smoked, or at least bummed smokes while trying to convince ourselves that we didn't really smoke anymore. This was also reflected in my cartoons of the era.

Here's about half of the Acraforms slide department:
Nancy, Chuck, me, and Pete. Chuck was the only nonsmoker. In the background is that famous photo of Jack Ruby killing Lee Harvey Oswald as Willard Scott looks on.

My version of Jack Ruby's mechanic (drawn about the same time as the group shot above) was also a smoker.

Another mechanic from the late 1970s. He looks alot like one of the characters on "King of the Hill" (also named "Dale", I believe).

Similarly, I think I did the original "Bad Santa" twenty five years prior to his arrival in theaters.

The human zippo has an FDR sophistication.

Some guys can make smoking look pretty glamorous.

A cartoon drawn for On-the-Town.

A large-format shriner who also looks quite a bit like...

this three-dimensional cartoon I did in Clay, called "Corporate Structure 1"

After years of normalizing smoking through my cartoons the big irony came along when I found myself doing gratis work for the American Lung Association. Like second-hand smoke; what goes around, comes around.

I've been smoke free for over twenty years now, nary a puff. I made a deal with a gal I was dating back then: I'd quit smoking if she'd start using her seatbelt. Twenty-some years later, I don't know if she stuck her end of the deal, I'm just glad that I stuck to mine.

By the way, for me, it was like throwing a switch. One moment I smoked, the next I didn't.

Here's this week's installment of Pembroke. This one's really dated. Tony Randall the actor had an equally high profile as an anti-smoking crusader. I guess you had to be there.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, just not upwind of me, thanks.

Mannie

Learning along the way

2007-02-14T13:47:00.003-05:00

More than once (read all too often) I'll do a cartoon that I think is really funny, but the humor is apparently lost on many others. Sometimes it's because the gag is way too obscure (like the visualization of my childhood imaginary friend...man, did that one fall flat). Sometimes the cartoon's just not drawn right.

When I started with "Downtown" (later On-the -Town) I was really thrilled to be an actual cartoonist for an actual publication that was being seen by actual viewers. And I was still very naive and also a little too full of myself. Somehow, it seemed to me that every idea that flowed from my pen was a gift to mankind. My editor, Roger Bruinkool, quickly set about to knock that post-adolescent notion right out of my head.

The reality-check began with a simple little gag I drew as a reflection on a heat wave that was ongoing.

Now, I knew that the ice cream guy was inside of his refrigerated pushcart. Roger insisted that it looked as if he was simply standing behind it. Doh! Unlike everyone else in the world, I often don't take criticism very well, and what really torqued me off was that my editor was himself a visual artist. He was often critical of my execution, and I was just as often annoyed with his lack of perception...though he was just about always right...which in itself was pretty annoying too. Well, when you're at press time with a hole to fill, the cartoon generally runs weather the boss "gets it" or not, as in the case of Elmo the ice cream man.

It was not so with this next example. Later in 1982 Roger asked me to do the cover for the December issue with a downtown Christmas theme. THE COVER!!! Man, I was thrilled. So I came up with an idea of an army of identical happy Santas as holiday shoppers in the downtown business district (back when Grand Rapids still had a downtown business district). Strung above them appearing as garland were continuous strings of Hs (as in aitches) and Os (ohs). The effect was a continuous line of ho ho hos going across the top third of the panel. Again, it was a sight gag, which I'm some times a little too enthralled with. It was great and I was eager to bring it in to the office and bask in the glow of praise and approval.

I laid it out in front of Roger. He adjusted his glasses and without any expression examined the piece.

"Well this won't work at all"

I was stunned and insulted, and began a lame argument. Before I was able to make a complete ass of myself, Roger pointed out the obvious:

"This 'hohohoho' stuff becomes meaningless. All of the action [the Santas] is below the fold".

By golly, he was right, and that's when I learned what "below the fold" meant in designing a cover for a tabloid-style paper. What the viewer sees is the top half of the paper as it sits in the display rack. If the gag is dependent upon the imagery in the lower half it ain't going to work. I was getting educated in the ways of real cartooning.

Roger had me fix it by simply losing the hohohoho and spreading out the Santa action. Its a much better cover his way (dammit).

Here's another sight gag. From the feedback I received, it seems that most readers got it.

Live and learn.

Here's a Pembroke strip. First published in 1985, I run it here to commemorate the current spate of weather that grips this neck of the woods.

Staying warm, and humble, on South Mountain.

Mannie

Baldness, Old frends, baldness, batchelor life

2007-02-11T18:58:00.006-05:00

Hi, welcome back. Here's the second Pembroke strip published in OTT (On-The-Town) in 1984. I pretty much had Art Pembroke's look nailed down, but Angela was still elusive. I wanted her to look pretty glamorous and cool, but drawing cheekbones and boobies still intimidated me somewhat.

This strip is noteworthy as I drew it in my new bachelor pad apartment where I had just had cable installed by my landlord Melvin. I'd never had cable before. This was way back when MTV still played music videos.

The cable was hot (as in bootleg) as was Melvin (as in totally horny). It seems that Melvin was known by half the female population in Grand Rapids, and they either loved him or hated him...often both at the same time. He was a real character. I was cautioned by my sister to keep Melvin "out of the loop" regarding my social life as he was a guy to whom discretion was an unknown virtue. That turned out to be some very good advice.

Life as a newly single guy was always interesting and usually fun.I was setting the agenda in my new Genessee Street "Batch pad" and it was all about high adventure (and, apparently, not wearing tee-shirts).

Around this time, I had just been canned (a recurring theme) from my job at "Acraforms" a graphic arts house in Grand Rapids Michigan. By the way the "Acra" in Acraforms stood for "accuracy"...wait...what the... shouldn't that be "Accuforms"?. Well, whatever, I was working at Acraforms as a graphic arts grunt.

The boss and I just rubbed each other the wrong way. The immediate result of my firing became a piece of corporate folklore...still told around campfires by the elders.

These are the groovy cats and chicks that I worked with at Acraforms, as Pembroke was coming together. L to R: Kevin, the beautiful Margaret, Schmedly, Me (with the hand o' death hovering above me), the lovely Bonnie, Good pal Pete Taylor, and good old Ken.

My firing from Acraforms lasted exactly one weekend as a popular rebellion unfolded at the shop headed by Ken and the above mentioned folks. The boss (George) hired me back as a supervisor on second shift, That way he'd never have to see me and I'd never have to see him...pretty cozy huh? Anyhow this was my first inkling that I was leading a charmed life.

During this period I started working for "Downtown" (later "On-The-Town"). This was a wonderful experience. I was meeting all sorts of delightful people, including these two:
New York cartoonist Art Melendez and O-T-T editor/publisher Julie Christiansen.

Every day was a holiday and every meal a banquet in those days.

Suddenly, and without warning, the boom is lowered. Baldness!!!!

And no, I never resorted to the "comb over ploy", except in jest as you can see here.

Thanks for tuning in. I can't wait to see how it all develops (even though I was there at the time).

Stay warm,

Mannie

Math as torture, torture as math

2007-02-04T21:11:00.000-05:00

Get used to this one as I'll probably foist it on you again. It's sort of like my cartoon anthem. Mathematics and I parted company in the fourth grade. I think that I can trace my unfocused anger to that period. Since then I've been faking it as far as arithmetic is concerned.

One of my greatest triumphs in college was to use the words "albeit" and "moreover" in the same sentence. A triumph of this particular strip was to have Art doing the rubber pencil trick and walking like an Egyptian in almost adjacent panels.

Here Art is tutoring some young miscreant (who we'll see again much later) in Algebra. I took algebra at Birch Run High School in Birch Run Michigan... now there was a little slice of hell on earth.

...and chemistry, again with Mr. Frank, was yet another unflushable toilet of mounting despair.

I'll let Arthur do the speaking here for me and countless others.

Remember, none of you are safe.

cartoons as alter ego

2007-02-01T11:08:00.006-05:00

Hello,

I'm Mannie Gentile. In addition to many other things, I'm a cartoonist.

I've been cartooning, on and off, for over forty years. During that period it was my good luck to latch on to a brand new arts and culture magazine in Grand Rapids Michigan (not necessarily known for either) entitled "Downtown".

Launched in 1984 by a groovy cat named Roger Bruinkool (a local artist) "Downtown" appeared monthly on the streets of Grand Rapids (GR). Noted for smart, diverse writers, and a very hip style, "Downtown was a very new thing for the area, and it took right off. (This original, showing the photo-safe blue lines as well as the original "cut and paste" appeared in 1984)

I drew cartoons for "Downtown" from its first issue, and stayed with it for about eight years (long after it had changed its name to "On-the-Town" to be more inclusive of the advertising dollars from outlying communities). After a long absence I returned very briefly a couple of years ago to do a few final cartoons and reviews for them.

Although a cultural history educator by training, and a park ranger by good fortune, I continue to occasionally do illustration work and cartoons, most recently for the Park Service.

Through this blog I'd like to resurrect some of my older work to give it new legs in this electronic media that didn't even exist at the time the ink was still drying on my drawings.

I did a comic strip "Pembroke" that ran for five years. Little did I know it at the time, but Arthur C. Pembroke was a foreshadowing of Mannie Gentile 15 years into the future, sans ponytail. I was the last one to see the obvious. More on that next time.

Mannie