Not Fade Away

I was 16 years old when I saw my first Dead show, maybe 15. It was either 1989 or ‘90, or maybe time doesn’t exist at all? 

I’m not sure if that McNichnols show was the one that changed my life, but I do know it brought me back. And by the time I came back, I was ready for acid. And that first acid show definitely changed everything. Well, that series of three acid shows really: in Bonner Springs, Kansas; outside in the parking lot the next night; then back home in Denver a few days later, at Mile High Stadium. How appropriate.

I realize there is no way to tell my Grateful Dead story without getting deeply personal. That’s the nature of my relation to this music… it’s inside me now. And I believe I’m better for it. Am I the most motivated or successful person? No way. And I may be a borderline hedonist and 100% absurdist, but I don’t think anyone has very much bad to say about me? Which is a pretty good starting point for goodness, i think.

Anyways, Bobby died on Saturday, at 78, and he was full of goodness. That I know. 

I think I was still expecting to see him again before he died. So that hurt even more than just losing an artist who means so much to me. It was an irrational expectation, of course, as I haven’t seen any iterations of the Dead for many years, unlike so many new fans climbing on the VW microbus every day (there’s plenty of room, hop on!). 

I saw a couple of those early post-Jerry shows, and it never really drew me back for some reason. I think it made me really miss Jerry, to whom I became spiritually devoted when he beatifically saved me from the satanic shadows enveloping Mile High after that double-dose kicked in savagely. Ever since, he was kind of more real to me than God. 

And the guy gloriously singing praises and strumming far out chords alongside him seemed great, Daisy Dukes and all, but perhaps he was more of an angel.

Did I ascribe to the narrative Bobby was somehow the butt of a joke, probably not, though the Bobby talk was loud and I was easily influenced back then. But I think it just enforced my feeling that Jerry was the real power source. What I didn’t get till much later, though, and this is why I still thought I’d see Bobby and give him his proper due, was that when Jerry died, he had filled a lot of batteries with his power, and none filled so powerfully as Bobby.

Thanks to Bobby, and the rest of the band who played on, the Grateful Dead Movement is as vitally energetic as it was in 1989… or ’90. Peace and love and fucking grooving finds a way. It’s one of the few movements i don’t fear.

The reason I went back to see the Dead after that first show at Big Mac… it’s not that I was roped immediately, in fact, I basically napped the entire second set, after smoking the entirety of Liza’s parents’ bag of weed (we stole it, and didn’t realize you weren’t supposed to smoke it all at once). When I woke up, the entire arena was visible, house lights blaring upon long closed eyes. Every smiling face swayed, and clapped, and chanted along, “Love is real, not fade away… love is real, not fade away… love is real, not fade away”… and something inside me dreamed they were right.

I Was There

Photo & poem by AdPock

A shadow on the cloud
Though I hear it’s there
Pulling hundreds of souls
Away on the air.

Wasn’t I once a part of that sky?
Dreaming of adventure,
Through fear-clenched eyes…
Am I still traveling?
Homeward ever bound?

There it is!
Through that hole in the clouds,
Sunshine glistening
Upon sturdy wings
There it is…
I was there.

Infinite

 

Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

By A. Freeman Pockross

Pigs on the Wind

Dark clouds loom large over Harmonyville. Two pigs fly across the darkening night.

Or do they?

Either way, something symbolic disappears into the darkness.

The wind howls. Rain pours sideways.

An almost middle-aged boy runs through the rain, covering his precious rock-star locks with a newspaper. You know, THE rockstar cut. Rod. Ronnie. Late ‘60s Keef.

The boy’s obviously not prepared for the weather.

Who’s this boy, you ask?

Curtis, the mysterious narrator answers.

Shift

Feels like a shift

Perhaps that’s always been

Time keeps on shifting

And getting stuck in gear.

We’re always here

Whether we fear what’s to come

Or wax for what was

Here we are. 

We are here.

But what about them?

I fear they’re coming.

For me.

My joy.

My Love.

They can’t have have my love

Though it be for All.

 

My Good Good Boy

My Good Boy.

My good good boy.

Bubba.

Bubba Big Dick Pockross

Or just…

BDP.

Bubbakins. 

The BubblyWubbly

The Bubz.

Mr. BubblyBoo.

Mr. Magoo.

My good boy. My good good boy.

What can you say about something you love?

Love is real, not fade away?

May his memory be a blessing?

I’m so very sorry.

It’s all welcome.

It’s never enough.

My good good boy,

We didn’t have enough.

No Peace

 When the act of putting pen to page feels like a shirk,

When you know in your heart it’ll take much harder work,

When the gifts that you've offered aren’t doing enough,

It’s time to work on your ways.

If your world has remained peaceful, 

Because you’ve managed to sidestep the man, 

That doesn’t mean there’s peace.

Believe

Believe, 

If you can,

In energy,

In healing,

In peace.

Even if that's hard,

I'll believe in you.

Don't Dawdle

Lost my buddy yesterday,
Today is quite a day,
Happy to see it,
Wish he could too.

But now…

Immediately so,

He’s just a memory.

If a man leaves a mark, though,

Deep down in my being,

A change upon my soul,

Then his mark beats on,

With me as I go. 

So today, I’ll gaze upon this day with some of his perspective, too.

I’ll be brave enough for two.

Do my best to stir another buddy’s soul anew.

Evermore

Beneath the droning planes,

Beached before the tides,

A lone perhaps lonely drummer,

Keeps time,

As the ancient ones before her,

Mallet after mallet,

Skin upon skin,

Beats on into the noise.

Why, the wonders wonder,

Does she beat on just for her?

To keep her heart pounding forward,

Her movement time may cure?

Or does she hammer on for the rest of us,

Without mastery of time,

For whom the ocean keeps,

A lone steady beat,

Ancient evermore?  

Analyst Alan

Garbonzo Ron

Garbonzo Ron, 

Tried to keep it turned on,

But sometimes he had trouble seeing the light.

Thankfully, glory was but a spark away.

 

Bad Day Bob

 

No-Longer-Stuck Steve

That Funky Stuff...

 

Six Labs Admiring Picasso in Daley Center

This museum-quality print was created from a 60” x 40” acrylic on canvas commissioned by my dear friend Jay, to honor his gone-too-soon brother, Stevie, a lover of Chicago, City Hall, and Jay’s six faithful labs, specifically painted for the walls at the Ronald McDonald House in Los Angeles. 

For those of you familiar with Chicago, you probably recognize most of the landmarks within, including the centerpiece of the painting, The Picasso sculpture prominently situated in the middle of Daley Plaza, where City Hall is located. As a kid born and reared in Chicago (we soon moved to Colorado when I was 6), one of my first memories is of playing on Picasso’s giant sculpture. 

I dreamily recall being enamored with not just its seemingly familiar alieness, but also its massive slide, which made that spectacular form awesomely functional as well. As such, it was a welcoming early entry into the world of art that I now try to spend most of my time in. Hopefully that spirit of whimsical accessibility is conveyed in my own homage; certainly the labs surrounding the statue are filled with amused enchantment. 

Granted, I couldn’t figure out how to extend a functional slide out of the painting, but hopefully it will help to extend a little moment of joy to anyone staying at the  Ronald McDonald House in L.A., a brief respite from the most difficult of fights. To be sure, it’s a small respite, but it’s something, and that’s something. And with every print sold, that something grows. So head to adpock.shop to help spread a little joy, and hopefully receive some too! 

If Pigs Can Fly

The piece above was made with love and healing vibes for the kids and families that stay at the Ronald McDonald House in Los Angeles, so they can have something joyful to look at, and hopefully be inspired to believe that if pigs can fly, then they can get better.

As a middle aged man, I wouldn’t want to jinx my future self by saying the painting this print is based on is my masterpiece, but it’s certainly the best I’ve done yet. Granted, with all the time, energy, and love I put into it, I’d be pretty upset if it wasn’t.

The funny thing is, the painting wasn’t even my idea in the first place. My dear friend Kerri was talking with her rad Uncle Jay about what to do for his amazing wife Melanie’s big birthday, and they came up with the idea to create some art for the newly remodeled Ronald McDonald House, which Jay and Melanie hugely support. And since there wasn’t enough art on the walls, that seemed like a good place to start.

Not sure if I’m Kerri’s only artist friend, but I’m definitely her oldest, so she convinced Jay I was the man for the job. Now she just had to convince me I was capable of taking all the animals I’d been creating separately and putting them together into one big piece. 

Which now seems like a great idea -- with sea creatures, land creatures, and sky creatures (including one soaring pig) all taking their proper places in the 6’ x 6’ triptych -- but at first I was quite daunted by the prospect. See, I’m not a trained painter, and had never worked on anything so big. Heck, I still feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants everytime I start a project (though I do have some weird innate confidence in the fanciness of said pants). 

So flying was apparently always a theme. And I have drawn a lot of birds in my life. And pigs flying are on the first and last page of my MFA thesis script (which has since morphed into a novella, if you’re interested in publishing it). So perhaps this piece was waiting for me to paint it all along?

However it unfolded, I’m extraordinarily grateful for the opportunity, and for the faith that Kerri and Jay had in me to see it through, especially since I had so many doubts myself. In the end though, it was thinking of those kids that forced me to overcome those doubts. Every step of the way I was motivated by them, fighting for their lives, while hoping that my spirit could help in the smallest way to aid them in that fight. That’s why I’m sure it’s the best thing I’ve done yet, because I didn’t do it alone. 

With Kerri and Jay's prodding and help, I had a run of 20 beautiful prints made from the piece, the first professional prints made from my work (which was a whole ‘nother learning curve). If you'd like one, you could also aid in that fight, as a portion of each print sold at adpock.shop goes to the Ronald McDonald House Charities. 

Anchored Alan

Would that he could, but Alan could not. The world just felt too heavy to move. An anchor. A man of the world, perhaps once, now sunken by it.

Would that he could get up, but Alan had enough of rising. Enough fighting. Enough difficulty. And now the path of least resistance led nowhere.

Was it just laziness? To believe nowhere and everywhere are the same place?

If he couldn’t positively imagine himself rising from the couch, how could he put such an optimistic spin on his current, nowhere yet everywhere state? Who did he think he was? Buddha? 

Even Buddha created his own happiness, his own rationalizations. Nirvana is but a state of mind after all.

But how practical is nirvana, given his current state of blasé? He really just wants to have fun. Which can only be done if everyone around him is having fun. Can fun even be if no one's around to have it? 

Not like that. Would that Alan could live in that moment…

But it doesn’t last. It never has. A necessary law of nature?

Alan supposed nirvana superseded that law.

So maybe that’s what he’s really seeking after all?

But to find as much, he’s probably going to have to rise.

Don't Mess With Moms, Be They Humpback or Jewish

Since Mother's Day, I've been drawing and redrawing the above image. I was initially trying to think of a card to create for my most fierce and loving of mothers — as I've done mama-duck-and-duckling and mama-bear-and-cub cards in the past. In trying to dream up a new mother/baby animal image, I first and foremost recalled the incredible display of mothering I witnessed a few weeks back in the Dolphin Reef movie on Disney+ (which is about so much more than dolphins). 

In particular, there's a scene where a mama humpback whale and her calf are attacked by a pod of orcas in the open ocean. To stave off the assailants from eating her calf, Mama throws her baby on her back as she battles multiple attackers, all while crying out across the depths of the ocean for help.

Eventually help comes, as her new boyfriend/champion leads a pod of male humpbacks to her side, and the orcas are forcefully compelled to swim away. And both mama and calf live to tell the tale, with Disney's storytelling help, no less. 

In a way, it reminds me of that time in 7th grade when my mom tore Chad's mom, Brett's mom, and Todd's mom a new one when they tried to pin the hot tub party/spin-the-bottle game on me. I mean, sure it was my idea, but it happened at Brett's house, so wtf? Well, those ladies had no response.

Point being, don't mess with moms! Especially not mine, nor any humpback calves'.

Go for a Swim

Medicinal Mike

Mike actively convinced himself of his own happiness.

Say 'Der'

Passover is not nearly as much fun in isolation. I heard people are doing virtual seders, but honestly, I'm just barely hanging onto being a Jew when it's convenient, so that seems like a big ask.

No, we'll just skip it this year I guess, and look forward to going over to our lovely, generous friends Kerri and John's place, like we always do, as was this year's initial plan; indeed, the matzoh ball soup above was meant to be the evite art for the affair.

Yes, our friends put on quite the fiesta... for a seder. We say a few prayers, tell old stories, and celebrate life with a ton of delicious food and amazing wines — at least four glasses worth, as the good book commands.

Really though, without friends and family, the story's kind of stale, and its lessons seem pretty damn harsh. And the prayers are all nebulously connected to this God character I don't have a great relationship with at the moment. Okay, it was fading long ago, but still, my gentile wife and I didn't make last night in quarantine any different than the rest.

Today, instead of feeling hungover and desperately in need of leavened greasy bread, I just viscerally feel that lack of different, as though something fundamentally the same is missing. Without those times to look forward to, without loved ones to surround ourselves with and recount the stories that got us around the table in the first place... well, it almost makes me lose my appetite.

But we Jews know a thing or two about maintaining an appetite, and surviving plagues, as the Passover story reminds us. Thank God, as of this writing, my friends and family are still eating. Still drinking. Still sending and receiving love.

I know that not everyone can say the same, so I'll do my best to remain grateful, and realize I'm not exactly skipping any meals in isolation. That with distance, our bond shall grow stronger. And hopefully, if God and COVID-19 should see fit, we'll all celebrate together again next year, in Jerusalem, no doubt. 

Coyotes on the Wind

Heartline Like a Wolf

Look closely, and you can see the feint makings of a heartline on that there wolf above, howling away at the cycles of the moon. 

I'd forgotten all about the decorative lines adorning the Zuni fetishes that populated every corner of my mom's Southwestern art gallery, and thus our home; until my nephew and buddy both told me that the wolf is their favorite animal, when I prodded for birthday drawing inspiration. 

So I drew this guy, and as I started blowing him out in post, it just dawned on me: he may not be a fetish per se, but he definitely need's that arrow. 

Though I could surprisingly remember what the inlaid line was called, the heartline, I couldn't even vaguely recall why it adorned the Native American stone-carved animal amulets that I loved so much. I just knew it was important, particularly to the Zuni tribe.

So I googled... heartline fetish, and found this at Antique American Indian Art, llc, a gallery that's apparently been around for some 50 years:

"This arrow is called a lifeline or heartline. It begins at the mouth where breath gives life and points to the soul (spirit) where faith and inner strength preside."

Cool, right? They also have a simple yet deep primer on Zuni fetish carvings in general:

"A fetish is an object believed to have magical powers. Fetishes may be of any form or material, however, a fetish has one paramount purpose: to assist man against any real or potential problems. The problems can be those of the mind, body, or universe."

Which could pertain to times like these, when our bodies and the universe are seemingly at odds, which is certainly messing with our minds. 

I suppose we could all use a magical assist right now. So if you're reading this, I'd like to offer up the virtual fetish above as a gift to you. I hope he helps you to remember where your faith and inner strength preside, and to keep any real or potential problems at bay, at least for the duration of a smile. 

No Ears Oscar

This is Oscar, he gets a lot of crap from octopuses for being part ostrich, and a lot of crap from ostriches for being part octopus. 

But Oscar doesn't listen to 'em, because he has no ears.

Peanuts

Gene and Gertrude reflected,

on this wacky thing called life;

Acted as if rejected,

though truth ejected strife;

When the most that they could want for,

was one or two peanuts more.

Storyteller Doll

When I was like 10 or so, my mom opened a Southwestern Art gallery in Cherry Creek, an up and coming suburb of late '80s Denver. I like to kid with my mother, who doesn't really appreciate it, that as soon as she opened the gallery, that's when I stopped getting parented. 

The truth is probably closer to Mom just being ready to do something big, having parented the shit out of two boys to the point where they could be trusted to be alone... though perhaps she shouldn't have trusted us with HBO. 

Regardless, freedom was a boon for me, and it turned out my older brother and I could take care of ourselves. But while Mom frequently let us stay at home to explore the wide world of Huntington Estates, she did make us hang out at her gallery, Canyon Road, quite a bit, too — which is where arguably some of her longest lasting parenting lessons took root.

But at first, that's exactly what it felt like: being made to do something. That probably stems from the fact that the first time my brother and I were put to work it was underneath her office desk in the back, so no customers would see her 10- and 12-year-old boys licking stamps and applying them to her thousands of newsletters. Not because people would object to seeing such nice boys subjected to such arduous child labor, no, it just wouldn't be proper to have children in the gallery. (Proper being a parenting concept we'd revisit regularly.)

Not sure how long after that it was until my mom fired me for the first time. Or the second. Or the third. But she really liked to fire me. And I really liked to argue with my boss, apparently. And that was seemingly the way we conducted business all through high school. 

Looking back though, from the perspective of who I am now, particularly what kind of artist I seem to be, it's clear that mom's store had quite an effect on me. Perhaps I wasn't particularly suited to the business side of the gallery, but I had an eye from an early age, which my mom nurtured, and would learn to trust. As would I, somewhere along the way.

And of course being surrounded by all that stunning art, not just at the gallery but at my home (since my dad was Mom's best customer). Perhaps even more inspiring were all the artists we'd visit on buying trips to New Mexico, some of whom would come stay at our Huntington estate when they had shows at Canyon Road (mom's gallery, named for the famous street in Santa Fe). I learned to revere the artists — some of the warmest, wisest, most in-tune, gracious, respect-commanding people I ever met. 

Like Stella Teller, a master maker of Storyteller Dolls — traditional Pueblo ceramic dolls, usually of a maternal figurine with any number of babies on her lap. As the whole family made these dolls, Stella brought two of her daughters to the show — Robin, I believe was one of them, and Mona, judging by the name signed on the doll my mom gave me for working the show, which I still have on my desk to this day...

I guess that experience stuck, because the picture up top is of a painting I did for my mother for her 75th birthday, with a little photoshop magic thrown in for prints (email me if you're interested!). Where you think I lifted that idea from? 

It just made sense, of course, given the symbolism of the Storyteller Doll, and my nostalgia for Ma's life and art lessons. But I remain daily inspired by Stella and her family, and all the artists I grew up absorbing. I'm sure some people will cry cultural appropriation, but Southwestern Art is what I know in my bones, because of the Tellers and so many others, and because of my mother. So why would I ignore sweet inspiration where I can get it? 

Free Art

My life as an artist, and as a human I suppose, has been to overthink. In an effort to not overthink the pretty pictures I've been making for the last few years whilst putting off writing, I'm going to attempt to not feel so burdened trying to add words to all my posts here. At least not today.

So, here's some of the images I've been creating in lieu of using my actual words. I know a true writer worth his salt would have had a field day during the Trump years, but I've found myself wanting to say less and less, perhaps because of how much stale prattle has filled the air.

Or maybe this is just my way of not overthinking it.