|The Orange, 12" X 12", 1981, inquire here for print.|
Think of it. Don fricken Martin and me within a hundred yards, cowering in the shadows, pretending to be a professional, before the commissars of the land, shaking in my boots. Probably 400 other concerned activist right brainers in the room--lawyers, cameras. What a mess.
Anyway, I used to buy all of his books, and spent countless hours laughing my self silly, and marveling at the shear expressive quality and genius of his characters. To me he was God.
The whole thing lasted an hour or so, and then there was a flurry of the exiting mob, and the invitation open, some of us were headed down to the congressional cafeteria to have lunch and rub elbows with the hoi-paloi.
I don't know how it happened, but there I was actually dropping thirteen stories in the elevator with Mr. Martin himself. OK it was three stories. I thought, "say something intelligent, it's now or never." All that came out was, "uh, Mr. Martin, I am your biggest fan. dah, You're why I ended up an artist in the first place". He smiled at me, recognizing the situation, and duly prepared, reached into his pocket and, 'thoont', whipped out a Daisey Mae print, autographed it, and gave it to me. I melted inside. This is my most prized possession in this world here below (can't find it--put it somewhere safe).
I then had lunch with him and about a dozen other artists and attorneys. Everything was so serious and sombre, though--not at all what you'd expect. What a group. Weird day all in all. But I didn't care.
Schtoink, I'm done.