Shoplifting for Santa

An excerpt from my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

I stopped believing in Santa at a young age - I believe it was the Christmas when I was four. I remember I'd been questioning the logistics of the whole delivery system, like lots of kids, and I was feeling some doubt. But then my sister made a comment one night when she walked in the door - she said she'd just seen a sleigh on a nearby rooftop as she was getting out of her car. Then she cupped her hand to her ear and looked around excitedly asking, "Are those sleighbells I hear?!"

My sister then suggested I look out the nearby window, which I almost gave me a head injury. I pulled back the curtain, but the only sight that met me was the blackness of the night sky. She was really trying to sell the story, though, and she said, "Ohh... we must have just missed him!" Our parents were in the room, and they chuckled at her comment. There was something in my sister's voice and expression then that got me thinking "something ain't quite right here." It was all just too convenient, and the conspiratorial tone ("Maybe you'll see him next year!") in the room sickened me. I decided right then and there that Santa was a sham, and I wasn't having any more of that particular myth.

I was forthright with my parents and told them that I didn't believe, but they must have felt some guilt because they tried to push Santa down my throat even harder. That Christmas I merely endured the concept of Santa, feeling somewhat more enlightened than my peers - how gullible they were. But it wasn't until a year later that I really made an issue out of it.

My father was the Electronics Department Manager of a regional department store, and it fell upon him to book their location's Santa every year. I overheard my mother saying to one of her friends that my father had prepped this year's Santa, telling him I was a non-believer. "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?" I thought. Not really - I was only five. But now alerted to the situation that awaited me, I set about forming a plan.

On our way into the store, my parents were attempting to subtly manipulate my brain into being more receptive, telling me, "We know you don't believe in Santa, but you're going to meet him today, and since he knows everything, wouldn't he be upset to hear that a good little boy like you doesn't have any of the Christmas Spirit in him?" and other similar propaganda. I was strong and did not relent. I nodded, sure in the knowledge of what I was about to do.

As we entered the store, I noticed my father's co-workers and employees paying special attention to me - this is always more obvious to a child than adults allow themselves to believe. "So are you excited to meet Santa, Stevie?!" one giddy woman asked.

Oh yeah - bring him on. The line for Santa was long, so my parents let me walk through the toy section to kill some time. Big mistake. Since my father was a manager there, I was allowed to roam relatively freely. I knew what I had to do - I'd been pre-visualizing it for days. I selected some of the low-hanging blister packs of action figures. "Yes, these will do nicely," I thought. By and large, there were few security cameras, even in big department stores, during this time - so after a quick over-the-shoulder check, I ripped open four or five of the action figures, removed their heads with a quick plucking motion (I'd practiced) and stuffed the decapitated doll parts into my coat pocket. I sure was pretty devious little brat when I felt I'd been wronged.

With a cautious look, my parents brought through the line to see Santa. Within half an hour, I stood before, then sat on, "Santa" himself. Pity this poor man, hired to portray Santa for just a short span of time each year. He had a lot of patience - I'll give him that. But he was trying to take me on a trip that I just didn't want to be on. I didn't despise him - I despised what he stood for.

He did a bit of ho-hoing and got down to business:

"So, Stevie - I hear that you don't believe in me!" The condescension was oozing out of him.

"That's right, Santa," I replied, trying not to sound too snide.

"That's a real shame. Can I ask why you don't believe?" He was really laying it on thick.

"Well, is it true that you know if I've been good or bad?" I asked.

"Oh, yes - yes it is!"

"So - have I been a good boy or a bad boy?"

"I've been keeping my eye on you, Stevie, and I know that even though you don't believe in me, you've been a very good boy this year!"

The setup complete, I removed the action figure heads from my coat pocket and held them to his overly roughed cheeks.

"Then why did I just steal these?!" I asked nice and loud, for all to hear.

The proceedings came to a screeching halt. My father's employees suddenly had to be in another location of the store. Santa, as far as my brain can recall, did not respond verbally. He may have stammered a bit, but his rhetoric had been stifled. A red and green-clad worker ushered me off the platform.

My father was at a loss for words as well. My mother may have managed a shameful, "Oh, Stevie!" but there was no lecture as we made our way out of the store, moving through throngs of other parents actively shunning us. Nor was there any discussion on the drive home. Only years later did they discuss the event, and even then it was in hushed, halting tones. I have to say, I believe a lesson was learned that day, and I made sure it wasn't learned by me.

Jabloo - An Introduction

Jabloo is the biggest project I've ever undertaken, and for that reason, I'll be breaking it down into a bunch of different entries, each focusing on different aspects of the project (which is still far from fully launching).

I had the idea for the then-unnamed project in 2006, after reading Seth Godin's Free Prize Inside (more on that book later). I started thinking, in a purely analytical way, that I'd benefit from creating a project that exploited what I believe to be my strongest skills - vector character design, animation and Flash programming.

A lot of graphic designers don't have strong Flash skills, and even if they do their programming abilities are often limited. Something about the freedom of art, and the unforgiving nature of code, don't seem to mix often or well. But I was a Commodore 64 programmer in middle and high school (a badge of honor forever, even though I never got past BASIC back then) and entered college as a Computer Science major, with the plan to develop my own video games. Not a good idea, as I quickly realized the video game industry had already begun moving away from the lone programmer/graphics/animator/music guys I admired from the Atari 2600 and Commodore 64 realms, and each separate discipline was being broken down to different people with different (very different) skills. I found myself sitting in classes with high-functioning science and math guys with an understanding of the deeper aspects of computing that I knew I'd never approach (I'm still not clear on stacks and heaps), so I moved on over to the Graphic Design major, which was a much better fit. Still, though, I had the foundation of programming in me, and it only took another ten years to actually be able to use that skill set again - in Flash.

Back to 2006: I started to think about the different things that were inspiring me at that time. I'd recently read an interview with the Homestar Runner guys, detailing how their fun little project had moved from a diversion they worked on in their spare time to a full-time business that sustained them and a couple employees, all based on the products from their growing product line. That's very impressive in the online world - unprecedented, maybe, at least in this area (an original animated series). They even turned down opportunities for a Homestar Runner television series because they didn't feel they'd have the ability to control the quality of the website's content and a TV series at the same time. I'd have loved to see a Homestar show, and I admired their integrity, but I was especially impressed that they had the focus to foresee where their primary efforts should go - into their online presence, which they could completely control. They really were truly living off their creation - which is about as silly as it gets, by the way. Awesome.

And as this nebulous idea for some kind of interactive, animation-centered project continued forming, I thought of the things that inspired me from childhood as well. My wife Sharon had recently bought me a Captain Zoom CD because I'd told her about the Captain Zoom flexi-disc I had as a kid. These cheaply-made records contained the same fun little song that was made special by the fact that the fictional Captain would sing your name several times throughout the tune. That personalized quality was impressive - they had a library of hundreds of names, and in pre-digital days, that must have been an incredibly labor-intensive process. But the benefit was, kids got to hear their very own name in their birthday song, and they loved it (check out some of the fond memories this site has collected). So that was swirling around now, too - "individual name spoken by a character". Remember that.

I also kept thinking about a personalized children's book my aunt had ordered for me when I was about six or seven. The way it worked was, you ordered this book and sent in your child's first name, age, and a few other facts about them, and in a month or two, you had (from what I recall) a fairly nicely printed, bound book, with the child's name inserted throughout. The story also contained other facts ("Steve went into the jungle with his favorite toy - his Pet Rock!"). I know the book my aunt choose for me featured me, Steve, following my new friend "Evets" through a jungle environment, to get to a birthday party. Get it? They flipped the name around. But that means, I would guess, some kind of primitive computer was involved.

As a pre-teen (the last time I can remember still having that book), I decided they must have printed the pages blank, with no text, first - the final text had an almost typewriter quality. The text was clear, but left very slight indentations in the page. I'm sure that's the best they could do in that decade. The problem with these "personalized" books, though, was the fact that they could never show you, the actual kid, in the illustrations. You were always a hand or leg peeking out from behind a bush or rock or something - colored a brownish-peach (they didn't want to betray race by showing a specific skin color), not looking fat, thin, feminine, masculine, toddlerish, older or anything else specific. So the fun was limited. I don't even remember if they had a variable for the gender - I think the book may have avoided personal pronouns completely - "Steve ate Steve's favorite food in Steve's back yard!" - or maybe not. Either way, you really had to use your imagination in the 70's. I began looking around online for some of these bits of 70's ephemera, but I was never able to find one of those original books (though there are, of course, plenty of modern versions). Still, that concept was swirling too - another instance of "child's name in the story", like the Captain Zoom song.

Another favorite memory from childhood was the Choose Your Own Adventure book series. If you're not familiar with them, they were very popular Young Adult books that had stories whose plots you could vary by making a choice at the end of each section. You'd read about how you, maybe as a knight or space explorer or just a regular kid in way over your head in some nutty situation, were stuck in some situation, and then at the bottom of the page would be at least two options: "If you want to betray your friends and run into the cave, go to page 31. If you'd rather not be such a jerk, go to page 37." Not really like that, but hey - you had options.

Before I'd even played Zork or any other text or graphical adventure on a computer, I loved the story possibilities the Choose Your Own Adventure books gave you. In fact, the only thing I ever "stole" (from a library, though) was one of these books. Shame. It's not that I just wanted to have the book - I wanted to possess the story possibilities it contained (if that makes sense). So that added one more swirling childhood memory as I worked on my "big idea" - it's nothing new in the online world these days, but the idea of a story that a child could control, and explore, making each visit slightly different - I wanted that to be part of whatever it is I was planning.

In the midst of all this thinking, Sharon and I went to Grounds For Sculpture in Hamilton, NJ. It wasn't my first trip there, or even the first time we went together, but being in this creatively-inspiring place - specifically, hanging out in their water garden on a cool summer day, being spritzed from a fountain when the wind pushed a little harder, let my brain really open up, locking in on the overall tone I wanted for my project - that warm childhood feeling of friendship, adventure, exploring, creativity - and having unbounded fun.

And I'll leave it there for now. Lots of ideas swirling, looking for a home - a home which would eventually have a very silly name: Jabloo (rhymes with "canoe", by the way).

Inspiration Source: Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit

Yesterday, illustrator Mark Zingarelli posted a few photos and memories on Facebook about Jon Gnagy, and his famous (to me, anyway) "Learn to Draw Kit". Now, I'm one of those people who's saved as much as possible from childhood, but even though I was a proud owner of The Kit from a young age, I can't remember having it in my possession past my early twenties. I'd nearly forgotten it - or at least, I haven't thought about it in many years, and that's a shame because it really was a big part of my youthful desire to be an artist.

My grandfather gave me the Learn to Draw Kit sometime in the mid-70's, when I was around five or six. He was an artist (and a barber, and an amateur inventor), and as the only real-life artist I knew at that age, he was my idol. My grandparents lived with us, so there was rarely I day when I wouldn't run downstairs and beg my grandfather to draw and paint for me. Usually I'd succeed - I was a pretty cute kid, plus I threw a mean temper tantrum when I didn't get my way. Having been formally trained as an artist, I'm sure my grandfather wasn't enthralled at the prospect of recreating a certain Spider-Man image from one of my comics, for example - but, following the rule of grandparents spoiling their grandchildren, he gave in every time.

My memories of the actual kit (which contained drawing tools plus a lesson book) are a little vague, though the more I read and see about Jon Gnagy now, the more memories come flooding back. I do remember his lesson on drawing the core shapes (shown on the kit's box cover - cone, sphere, cube and cylinder) and how he claimed they were the foundation for all real-world objects, though I think I doubted this fact - or, at least, sought out exceptions ("What about The Blob, Jon, huh?! Didn't think of that one, did you?!")


The Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw Kit, in one of its many incarnations.

I don't think I actually gave much of a shot to the lessons themselves - I enjoyed reading the book and experimenting with the pencils, charcoals, erasers and blending stumps (what a term) on my own, but from what I recall I was too stubborn to go through Jon's step-by-step process to create a scene. I was probably too easily discouraged when my pieces didn't turn out exactly like the final results in the book. I remember the writing having a simple, straightforward style that I liked. Jon's targeted audience was broad - he wasn't aiming at artists, or even just people who'd considered being an artist. Jon seemed to be reaching out to people who simply believed, "I can't draw", giving them the opportunity to push themselves and to enjoy the activity of art.

And this open attitude comes across in all his television art lessons. You know, it probably said something about Jon having a TV show on the box, but I was oblivious to that fact until yesterday. Silly me. That's how his drawing kit became so popular - it was an offshoot of his successful show. Since the show began in the 50's (and was shot in black and white), I doubt it aired much when I was a kid in the 70's, but it's great to be able to check it out now. I can easily see the appeal - Jon's voice was not what I imagined; he was casual and yet authoritative. I should have expected as much, based on the stylish portrait of Jon that adorned the kit's cover:


Gnagy the badass.

Now that I have more perspective on the man, he seems like the Jack London of art teachers. I wish I could have watched Jon's show back when I was starting to draw - besides the benefit of the actual lessons, it would have been nice just to see and hear this guy who was a working artist. Hmmm... I wonder if that would have conflicted with my image of my grandfather - maybe I'd have invited Jon over and had them both battle on paper in an intense "draw-out". Or maybe they'd have just punched each other around a little.

Check out Jon's Seaport Village lesson.

And apparently the kits are still being produced - a full sixty years after their inception. What a testament to the man. Looks like it's time for me to take another trip down childhood memory lane via eBay. With that and the lessons on YouTube, I'll be set.

Breeding Pet Rocks for Fun and Humiliation

An excerpt from my book, "It Must Be Me", coming in Fall 2009.

My parents liked to mess with me, and in retrospect, I was asking for it. I was a know-it-all little kid in a lot of ways, yet I was still wide-eyed and trusting in others. I wanted to believe... in aliens and U.F.O.'s, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, ghosts, magic, and the other cool, fantastical stuff kids are into (except, of course, Santa - the one they WANTED me to buy into). And believe I did.

Thus, with the Pet Rock craze of the mid 1970's, my burgeoning critical thinking skills were on a collision course with my desire to accept the existence of something otherworldly.

For those who don't remember or don't know, the Pet Rock was a windfall for its inventor. Nothing more than a real stone of a certain variety, the novelty and its clever packaging earned its creator mucho dollars during this fad-crazed decade. The product's success was mostly attributable to its tongue-in-cheek instruction book, which gave you tips on how to teach your Pet Rock how to "Roll Over", "Play Dead", and even "Sit" - things all rocks were capable of with a little bit of help.

I begged and got my own Pet Rock and had all kinds of fun for the better part of a week, taking it through its paces with my father, who was enjoying (and laughing at) my fervor. And after its initial run, it quickly became a fixture on my dresser, along with other toys and items that fell victim to my too-short attention span.

Though it was completely unaware, my Pet Rock was about to receive what manufacturing companies call a "Mid-Life Kicker". My Uncle Eddie, while traveling around the world with the U.S. Navy, had somehow learned of my Pet Rock (maybe via telegram?), and decided that it was lonely, and should have a partner. So, he shipped a slightly larger, rounder rock to our house and enclosed a letter for me, telling me that it should be the "mate" for my Pet Rock. I really liked that idea - once he suggested this, it hit me just how lonely my Pet Rock must have been up until now. It needed another of its own kind. Shame.

But my mother and father one-upped me - they suggested I put this inanimate couple into the dark recesses of our hallway closet and leave them there overnight "to see what happens". Even that last phrase didn't alert me - hey, I was a little kid - so I took their advice. I'm sure my parents were cackling in the background that night, while I naively set up a cute little area for the rock couple on the floor, behind our winter boots. I put both rocks in place before bedtime, anxious to see what the morning would bring.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but I awoke, and - still in my bleary-eyed state - walked across the hall in my little footie pajamas to check on my project. There they sat - the original Pet Rock and his new partner (I never thought to name her - let's call her "Louise"), exactly where I'd left them. However, the two were surrounded by seven little grayish pebbles, neatly encircling them like a litter of sedimentary puppies.

For once, I thought, "magic is real - and I have proof!" In reality, the only proof that morning was for my parents' theorem that I was willing to believe rocks could bear children. My mother, with my father's encouragement and approval, had planted the pebbles after I'd gone off to bed. I went buck wild, calling my closest three friends to tell them the incredible news. They accepted my story with a reasonable amount of skepticism, but the physical evidence combined with the fact that my parents were supporting my story won them over in the end.

My brain couldn't hold back a flood of images - reporters hounding me for interviews, famous scientists consulting with me on matters of great importance, potential toy endorsements. My mother told me years later how excited she and my father were to see my reaction that morning. I'm sure it was very entertaining from an adult point of view. From my own perspective, I was in the throes of ignorance's bliss.

Private humiliation did not quite satiate my parents, so they were forced to move on to public mockery by gently putting forth the idea that I should tell my first grade class about the big event. I was all for that idea, and brought the whole rock family into school in a delicately folded piece of felt inside a small chest. I couldn't wait to show these kids the wonders I'd been given. That was not smart to do.

I foolishly anticipated only support from the other First Graders, and was not at all prepared for their laughter, jibes, and a few quickly-concocted nicknames ("Rock Boy" was one). Kids can be cruel for sure, but they can also be pretty creative when there's a commonly agreed-upon target for their attacks. I made myself into that target. Fortunately, we moved that year, and my past as a charlatan did not follow me to our new location.

As the fog of youth lifted over the next year or two, the plates in my skull continued to solidify and it became slightly more clear to me each time I recalled the Pet Rock Incident that I'd been duped. Eventually I confronted my parents. Years later, they were still milking laughs out of their prank, and revealed to me they'd even prepped my teacher before I'd gone into school that fateful day. I asked my mother why she did it, but she wasn't able to give me any more substantial a reason than "We loved laughing at you, Stevie!" Hey, at least she was honest.