artsHMusicHculture

JULY 2010Volume Two | Issue Six

FH i d eOu t . o r g

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letter From the editors

Dear Reader,

It is greatly inspiring to encounter individuals who have chosen to take a leap of faith, who have jumped into the abyss feet first and come up like a superhero saving a baby from a crashing go-cart.

F Magazine has had the wonderful pleasure of getting to feature such people over the past year, people who have swan dived into life without any promise of a specific outcome: Jim Kloss of Whole Wheat Radio; artists Erin Pollock and Steph Kese; Jeremy Pataky of Still North; artist and innovator J’sun; business owner Mary Jane Lastufska and so many others. It takes bravery, passion, ingenuity, luck and perhaps a little insanity to cut from the pack and strike out on your own.

In June, Anchorage Daily News did a great spread on F Magazine – making us look a lot like superheroes too. We are honored, but in essence, we’re just Peter Parker: here to take pictures and write stories about those who are saving our city from being void of artistic pleasures.

This month we feature a truly talented Anchoragite, Ted Kim. Artist, skateboarder and videographer, Kim has several times taken a leap into the unknown and surfaced with amazing results.

We dedicate this issue to fallen superhero, Zak Kaercher, a skateboarder too, who boldly created a forum for his community. Owner of zAK’s Boardroom and Fhaze One Skate Park, Kaercher was killed in a skateboarding accident last June.

It should be noted, the theme for the fiction/non-fiction open submissions to F Magazine this month was: Anniversary - A Reminiscence of Dates – fitting, as we celebrated our One Year Anniversary on June 25 (like the Queen of England, we celebrated a month late). Many thanks to all whom volunteered and came out in support of Anchorage arts.

Viva Las Artes!the editors

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table of contents | July 2010 | Volume two | issue six

Brian adams

George Gee

rebecca a. Goodrich

Will ingram

avril Johannes

ted Kim

riza Parsons

andi Powers

j.t. shedaker

Matt sullivan

elizabeth l. thompson

Jesus landin-torrez iii

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tributo

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B oardarama Artist on Wheels

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John “Zak ” K aercher A Dedication

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A year in Review Interactive

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What Time is i t?Good News First

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F Magazine fhideOut.org

artzineF@gmail.com206.651.5324

Cover art by Ted KimBack cover/inside cover by Gretchen Weiss

teeka a. Ballasexecutive content editor

Gretchen Weissexecutive design editor

Cosmic Numbers By Andi Powers

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That New Year ’s Eve By Elizabeth L. Thompson

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O ver the Nor th Pole Remembering Her Flight

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M rs. Jenson Wins Again By j.t. Shedaker

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Dear YouBy Me

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W.A.T.T. Art and Death

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ted Kim: Part i – the skater

“Ted will get all stoked on some crazy gap and just try to throw some epic melon grab off of it or something, and you gotta remember the dude is in his 30s and a father of two!”

- Will Ingrim, a skateboarder and employee at Zak’s Boardroom, took the time to tell me a little bit about his friend, Ted Kim.

Ted walked into Modern Dwellers Chocolate Lounge wearing a black Thrasher hoodie and looking, well, studious and very young. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had walked up to the counter, ordered a skinny half-caf cappuccino and sat down to study for a final.

Since I had done my research prior to this interview (read: some light Facebook photo stalking and YouTube browsing) I knew I was meeting a

WHeels & WillpoWerOne man defies with bOard and ink

Illustrations by Ted KimStory by Riza ParsonsPhotos by Brian Adams

Right: Ted Kim on a handrail. {RAILSLIDE}

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Right: Ted Kim on a handrail. {RAILSLIDE}

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pioneer of Anchorage’s skateboarding scene and producer of local skate videos. Beneath his calm demeanor lies a frenzied passion for all aspects of skating, which he considers an art rather than a sport. Conversely, his actual art looks like it takes the indefatigable will of an Olympic athlete; the intricacy and detail are astounding.

I shook his hand and introduced myself, aligning the person I had imagined with the Ted Kim in front of me. There is something contradictory about a responsible family man who dedicates himself to what is often viewed as the pastime of adolescents and dilettantes. Somehow, he has discovered a way of preserving his youthful enthusiasm against the inevitable march of time. I wanted his secret.

“Landing on the bolts is always the best part about it. It’s something that can’t really be described with words, that feeling you get from stomping a trick - it always feels amazing. It’s something that has to be experienced in order to understand, but once it happens, you’re hooked for life.” – Will Ingrim

The first thing I said to Ted was, “I know nothing about skateboarding. I tried it once, fell into a prickly bush, and that was that. You’re going to be speaking a foreign language so help me to translate.”

Turns out, Ted’s love of life needs no translation. Any reader can replace the word “skating” with his or her favorite activity and know exactly what Ted is talking about. Passion is universal: Ted’s passion is skateboarding and he chose to do it in possibly one of the most inhospitable places known to man.

“Anchorage is the worst place in the U.S. to be hungry to skate. A lot of my friends have tried to pursue the professional side of it and had to move to Portland or San

Francisco. I don’t snowboard; I just keep trying to skate throughout the winter with four layers on. The older I get, the colder it is. I tried to leave when I was younger so I could skate. I just ended up traveling and the more I traveled, the more I realized how much I love Alaska. It’s unique and different. People here are more real.”

I could tell that this is important to Ted. He is himself a genuine person, with no agenda and a straightforward approach. He doesn’t have time for games. A central theme emerged during our interview: The skating community here is close-knit and skaters feed off of one other. Ted’s group of friends is diverse, but single-minded.

“Every inspiring thing that ever truly happens in skateboarding comes from the people I hang out with. The ones I’m tight with and the ones I just meet for a day. I remember everything that happens and it really inspires me. These kids are at a level that is just amazing. So much more advanced than when I was growing up. I think it’s from so much exposure to it. I had one skate video growing up and I watched it every day.”

“I just love the vibe of the crew we roll with. We’re like a family and Ted stokes us all out, motivates us to come out and get stuff done. These guys I go out and film with are like my brothers. And because of that feeling, we shred ten times harder when we’re together. You’ll definitely see that in the video.” – Will Ingrim

Ted’s fourth video is tentatively scheduled to come out this fall. He’s all about the local scene and local talent. And he doesn’t really care what you think about it.

“For us, it’s totally based on self-satisfaction and doing it for ourselves. The biggest turn-off in the industry is the lack of soul and the driving force of money. There’s no pressure in making local videos. I sell them as cheaply as possible because I want people to see what we’re doing. I want an accurate representation of the skater and their moves. You don’t have to be super-skilled. Someone who comes up with a creative trick and isn’t

Brent Tumbleson in a construction zone doing a WALLIE into the street

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“I just want to give a huge shout-out to Zak Kaercher, the man with the plan. For a long time, there was a void in this town for the skate community. The only place we had to get a board were the mall shops like Zumiez and there wasn’t that local shop feel anymore. There was no love in this town. Zak brought that feeling back to Anchorage. He created something epic, something that will live on for a long time coming if I have anything to do with it. Zak recently passed away in a freak skateboarding accident. I’m grateful that if he had to go, at least he went out doing what he loved. He will be remembered forever in this town.”

- Will Ingram

John “Zak” Kaercher, 29, was the owner of z AK’s Boardroom and Phaze One Skate Park. A skateboarding accident claimed his life, June 2, 2010. He is survived by his fiancé, Caroline Menendez; parents, Dale and Patty Kaercher; and sister, Faith Kaercher.

Illustration by George Gee

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very good is just as much fun to watch as someone who does a death-defying trick.”

I could attest to this. I had a lot of skater friends growing up and watching them wipe out was also just as entertaining as watching them land a trick. Fortunately for him, Ted and his friends are way more advanced. The videos I saw were polished, professional and really, really awesome. The music (some of which is also created by Ted and his crew) accompanies skating that even I can recognize takes a lot of balls and a lot of talent.

The videos themselves have a flowing, dream-like sequence, with your eyes constantly moving, following the action. I can see how your head starts to get filled with ideas, with inspiration.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve been told by people to get a real job and grow up, but they just don’t get it and I feel sorry for those people. We’re out every day getting kids stoked on skating, making videos, taking photos, having fun and isn’t that what life is all about?” – Will Ingrim

It started for Ted when his mom bought him his first board at the age of nine. It consumed him from the get-go. His first injury was at 12 years old, when he cracked his hip. Then he had another bad injury when he was 19.

“Since then, my mom has been battling with me all the time about skateboarding, but there’s no way I can stop. It’s in my programming. It’s in my head, my heart.” Ted is 35 now and has been skating for 26 years. He is married to Meghan Kim and has a daughter, Kisun. At the time we spoke, Ted was on pins and needles waiting for another baby, this one a few days overdue.

I asked him how he juggles his family life with the time-consuming task of producing skate videos. He also provides the financial backing for his films and sells them at a reasonable price; he is not trying to make a profit.

“Well, I work as a caretaker at night, which gives me a lot of the day to accomplish other things. I try to skate every day, but I’ve definitely slowed down. Especially with this new video

coming up, I’m not out there as much as I used to be. Which is fine, because I have a great crew and this one is going to be shorter than the others, just half an hour long. You watch it, then get super stoked to go skating, not marinate for an hour watching the film.”

It hasn’t occurred to Ted that he should stop skating. He knows someday he will have to, but he has prepared for this by becoming a videographer.

“I can’t skate the way I did 10 years ago, but it’s cool because it makes me chill out and focus more on why I love it. I want to say that it makes me appreciate it more, but the old me would be like, ‘Yeah, whatever,’” he laughed. “These days I’m filming a lot more than I’m skating. These kids have so much energy that I have this need to document it. Even if I can’t actually do it, just being a part of it makes me happy.”

ted Kim: Part ii – the artistTed’s art is crazy good. And I’m putting equal emphasis on the

words ‘crazy’ and ‘good.’ It takes a kind of maniacal precision to fill whole canvases with thousands of tiny circles or row upon row of microscopic blades of grass. What got me were the piles of spaghetti-like strands he would draw, the seemingly millions of strands tangled up together. I would go cross-eyed trying to follow the loops as they coiled and raveled in a perfect storm of noodle-ness.

“How do you do this?” I asked in wonderment. It is doodling taken to its nth power, to stratospheric proportions. “Why this particular style of art?”

Ted views his art with a sense of surprise that people take the time to look at it at all. His art began as a parachute.

“I was 25 and I had just torn my ACL. I went into a super-depression because it meant no more skateboarding. And I was totally broke and living on my brother’s couch. I’d always drawn, all my life, just doodles on napkins and stuff like that. When I got stuck at home, I started drawing all the time. I stopped hanging out with my friends and I was pumping out three drawings a day, starting when I woke up in the morning to when I went to sleep at night. I had so much stuff that a friend asked me to do an art show at Snow City Café. I put up 187 pictures and it covered the walls.”

One hundred and eighty seven pictures! I had to stop him and ask him if I had heard correctly. I had.

“Then the Daily News did a story on it and it got a really good reception. I sold about a dozen, but I drew my ass off for about a year. I got turned off on art shows because something always seemed to go wrong, so I stopped until the Middleway Café show. What always shocked me is people always seemed to buy the pieces that I thought were hideous. My art in the past year has come to a point where I’ve figured out what I like to draw and it’s more for myself. I always get turned on by the intricacy, and the more I worked on that, the more effortless it became and now I have methods that make it easier. The more you do it, the easier it gets.” Ted is clearly an advocate for practice makes perfect. No matter how much it hurts, whether in skateboarding or in drawing.

Ted developed carpal tunnel and had to chill out for a while. “It’s ironic; I love skateboarding and it’s destroyed my body. Here I am doing something I thought would never hurt me and it took me out again. Is there anything I can do that won’t cause me bodily harm?”

I don’t think so. Love hurts, and Ted has a love for life that surpasses the ordinary. He wants to share it and he does so successfully in a variety of ways. You can see it in his art, in his videos and in the people who look up to him and speak so highly of him.

His fountain of youth? Do what you love, with who you love and time will turn a blind eye.

Will Ingram doing a SHIFTY OLLIE off the stairs.

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May 2009

Art Impermanent By Teeka A. Ballas Art, by definition is subjective. Whether it’s the geometric configurations of Kandinsky or the spontaneous liquid drips and splashes of Pollock, there is a beholder who will revel in its existence. Then there are those whose every aspect of their life, not just the manipulated canvas, but the space in which they dwell that defines them as artists. Local Artists to Gather in Street: By Lindsay Johnson Watch out Portland, Anchorage is making moves to hang on to its talent! This city’s art scene is busting to get outside the box, and instead of encouraging the exodus to artsy towns of the Lower 48, a group of downtown merchants have come together with a way to retain and refresh local artistry. plain brown wrapper “I was livin’ in a warehouse off Arctic in the depths of Spenard. It was an artist studio I had come to share with my friend Alisha’s brother, Zak… The times were blurred and debaucherous with a tendency to fuel our most eccentric nature. I lived off canned soup, day old bread, microwave burritos, cheap beer and Stoli…. The warehouse wasn’t zoned for livin’ in, so I had to sneak out early in the morning and come home after business hours so I wouldn’t get caught.”

F’n Recaprevisiting OUr f’n Past

June 2009

MTS Gallery By Suzanna Caldwell Imagine a community art center where everyone knows your name – or where at least you are welcome, even if no one knows your name... MTS Gallery Continues to expand to meet the unforeseen needs of a blossoming community. Masked collaborators By Teeka A. Ballas Artist collaboration is not a profoundly unique idea. From the genius of cubism designed by Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, to the popular art phenomenon of Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquet, artists have been bringing their talents together to create what they otherwise would not do alone. Wolfblitzer Interview By Andrew DeLoose “In the 1950’s, Batman traveled to the mysterious Planet X, where he encountered the Batman of Zur-En-Arrh. He was garbed in a red, yellow and purple version of the dark knight’s costume and was pretty ridiculous … The Moon Knights are Batman. The Wolfblitzer is the Batman of Zur-En-Arrh.” “Oh… I’m an artist” By Liz Shine I explain to passersby that I’m only digging through the trash for the pull tabs of cans for my art.

February 2010

W.A.T.T. By Theodore Kincaid “There is a problem in our microcosm of the Anchorage art scene with how artists are handled … There seems to be a trend: those who sell Alaskan images generally do not receive grant money and those who do receive said moneys sell contemporary art. Rawlins By Peter Bradley Rawlins, Wyoming is a shitty place. It’s the kind of place that sucks dreams in and spits out depressed 30-somethings with 2 kids and a guitar they don’t play anymore. I’m sure there are some lovely people in Rawlins, but you get the impression that a lot of them are stuck in some dead end job, in a town they don’t like, living from day to day because it’s the only alternative to dying. 80 proof By Riza Parsons Rob Woolsey’s addiction to music began like most addictions do: He saw someone else doing it and knew he wouldn’t be happy until he had tried it himself. His father was the main pusher. As a child, Rob’s parents owned a music store in Wasilla. It was only a matter of picking his poison.

by Gretchen Weiss

by Gretchen Weiss

by Teeka A. Ballas

by Serine Halverson

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JuNe 2010

Across the Bay Tent & Breakfast By Gretchen Weiss Anchorage slipped away in the rearview mirror and the trusty Subaru sporting a kayak cap sailed along the inlet highway… It is the third weekend in May, the leaves in Anchorage have just blushed and everyone is sniffling into a coat of birch pollen. Traveling through Girdwood, the mercury stretches to a balmy 55 degrees in the sun. Climbing the pass, the leaves shrink and disappear, leaving sleeping sticks that as we continue, are still wrapped in snow. North of Southern Rock By Matt Sulivan While Southern Rock-inspired guitar solos have done plenty of evil (people yelling, “Freebird!” for instance), Last Train’s Steve Padrick expertly straddles the line between self-indulgence and tasteful restraint.

April 2010

Poem By Jimmi Ware I think poetry is somewhere \ Under the rainbow \ Beyond the storm \ In the warm rays of sun \ Shining on all nations \ It is the reuniting of friendships \ On much needed vacations \ Poetry is absorbing jazz when \ Loneliness sets in… Letter to Erica Jong By Jesus Landin-Torrez III Dear Ms. Jong \ the mother of my hunger \ I feel \ the essence \ of your \ dripping pen \ like liquid desire \ I suckle it \ From \ Your cerebral membrane W.A.T.T. : Art for Fatheads By Theodore Kincaid I once paid UAA 500 bucks to define what art is. Four moths later the class was left flat; the question of “What is art?” left even vaguer. Ask anybody, “What is art?” and they will lay down in no uncertain terms what art is, what it’s not, what art does for society and how it defines the culture – too bad nobody can agree.

MAY 2010

Pulse Dance Company By Riza Parsons Language is an inadequate means to describe dance. It is a poor substitute for the ethos of the limbs, the struggle of muscles, the blood coursing to supply energy to the expression. A thousand different things are happening in one sweeping movement. Even the dancers themselves can’t properly articulate what they are doing as they do it. Sol’s Hands By Teeka A. Ballas Sol’s poetry is sort of reminiscent of Mason Williams’, the writer for the Smothers Brothers’ Comedy Hour. With derision and scorn, he quips and cracks witty, insightful one-liners not only about society, but also about himself. Mt View Street Art By Jessica Bowman From the Glenn Highway turnoff to the new Credit Union 1 building, Mountain View will soon have a definite claim as one of Anchorage’s most artistic, if not gorgeous streets. Only Shades of Gray By Rebecca Goodrich I bring this up to encourage those writers among us to research, experiment, and use some of the amazing words our language has bequeathed us … So perhaps, at times, neither bone nor white should be used. Neither charcoal nor black, but rather albescent or niveous; tar or sloe.

by Jesus Landin-Torrez III

by Serine Halverson

by Teeka A. Ballas

by Gretchen Weiss

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It’s hard to say just what the 11:20s are getting at with a name like that. The Anchorage-based band could be referencing a time of day, but is it closer to midday or midnight? Is it some sort of police officer lingo, like 187 or 311 or maybe a 10-4 good buddy? Either way, Good News First, the name of the 11:20s debut album released early last year, is a reference that’s maybe a bit more immediate. When given the option of good news vs. bad news, a lot of people would probably choose to hear the good news first.

The photograph on the cover of Good News First depicts some surfers riding out a low, rolling wave, and, try as hard as one might, imagining a bummed out surfer is difficult—at least not one in the act of surfing. But that sort of counterintuitive thinking is what kick-starts Good News First. The four-piece rolls out “Why (Bang Bang),” an upbeat and fun lead track with a sound akin to early Wilco. It hints

toward Being There’s rusticness and leans on Summerteeth’s idiosyncrasies, creating a wave of mild psychedelic, synthesized quirkiness, and a pinch of heartland twang. But instead of riding along and enjoying the sounds of the good times, vocalist Chad Reynvaan croons about being bummed out and doesn’t understand why his girl left him.

All those conflicting styles are what keep things fresh on Good News First. It happens first within the instruments themselves, with guitars that at times verge on Americana, matched up against keyboards that occasionally get spacey. Then there are instances like the one with the opening track, where the music and lyrics don’t always seem to fit in any sort of obvious way. Those are the moments when the 11:20s are at their best, but, perhaps befitting the album’s title, those ideas are freshest during the record’s first half.

There are a few times I found 11:20s could benefit from a bit more self-editing. “Fourth Eyes,” the fourth track on the

album, probably doesn’t need to venture that far past the five minute mark. Elsewhere they grab for heartstrings on the acoustic “OK Day,” with images of buckets filling with rain and explaining how over-thinking can make things worse. Maybe it’s a result of over-thinking, but “OK Day” is just an ok song.

Luckily, the 11:20s seem pretty aware of their strong suits and don’t often stray far from them. Concision, hooks, and quirky arrangements all come together nicely on “Two Angels of the Night,” and songs like that are what set this local release apart from the rest. It’s a mesh of styles stitched together into a single patchwork, kind of like the band’s interesting composition of players. With a combination of tastes and styles originating from New York, Minnesota, Washington, and Alabama, the Alaskan transplants weave those separate experiences into one of those melting pots that people like to champion. And while the surfers on the cover of the CD may not have strong associations with this state, transplants do.

What time is it?the 11:20s choose Bad News last

By Matt Sullivan

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Photo courtesy of 11:20s

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cosm

ic Numbers

By A

ndi P

owers

Just remember,not everythingyou do willbe right(so, learn)The things that happenwill not always be good(so, endure)And we will all die(so, live)It’s just math(probably probability)

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ew Year’s eve

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h L. Thompson

That New Years Eve,I wept night-longIn a yurt on East-End Road;I cursed through grinding teethFireworks pop-pop-popping,

Unaware Great Aunt MargaretWas slipping throughDeath’s awesome gateway, Grappling with knobs unturnableAfter the door’s been closed.

She’d claimed her sister beat her,As dementia kidnapped clarityAnd graying eyes sought color.She was broken-hipped and Bruised from constant falling.

“Make sure I’m deadBefore they cremate me,”She’d instructed Grandma—Her erratic pulse told herCrossover was imminent.

I knew not my relentless sobbingWas for her phoenix spiritHovering above me in mercy,As I lay tangled in illness and injury,That dreadful New Year’s Eve.

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By Avril Johannes

In a few months it will be the anniversary of an historical event I was privileged to be a small part of forty years ago. The lady who was the central figure still remains clear in my mind. Her name was Sheila Scott.

Not everybody will recognize her name, but if you are a woman pilot you will, especially if you belong to the Ninety-Nines, an international organization of licensed women pilots. Amelia Earhart was its first American president. Sheila Scott was the governor of the British Association.

Born, Sheila Christine Hopkins, in Worcestershire, England on April 27, 1927, she grew to be a woman of outstanding accomplishments. She flew solo flights in small planes around the world, and was the first woman to fly over the North Pole.

During WW11, Sheila was a trainee nurse at Haslar Naval Hospital in England, where she helped tend the wounded. Later, through marriage, her name changed to Sheila Scott. Earlier in her life it was her dream to become a pilot. She accomplished that dream, and one of her favorite things to do was fly barefoot.

Every plane she flew had the name, “Myth” attached to it. Sheila purchased a Piper Comanche, which she named “MythToo.” At age thirty-nine, in MythToo, Sheila was the first British pilot to fly around the world. She flew in an easterly direction, leaving London on May 19th, 1996, and returned there on June 20, 1966, setting a new world record.

Between the years 1965 and 1972, Sheila broke in excess of 100 light-aircraft records.

In 1969/1970, she flew around the world for the second time in MythToo. That time she was in a race, which she did not win due to getting lost. However, she did come in fourth for her class.

In 1971, flying her new Piper Aztec, “Mythre,” she flew around the world for the third time. That 34,000-mile trip included her historical flight over the North Pole. Mythre was outfitted with special navigational instruments in order for NASA, using the satellite, Nimbus, to guide and verify her flight.

Being the first woman to fly a single engine plane over the North Pole was an exceptional fete. After landing in Barrow, Alaska, she flew on to Fairbanks. At that time, I was employed at the NASA Station, and had listened to her communications from the time she left England until she landed in Alaska. We spoke by phone and arranged to meet.

After work, on the day she arrived in Fairbanks, we met at a motel in town. How I loved that visit. It was interesting, exhilarating, and an exciting experience for me.

Both from England, we had much to talk about. We enjoyed many laughs over how various common expressions and hand signals used by the English can mean something completely different in other countries. We had both suffered embarrassing moments.

There was one thing she mentioned that evening that has stuck in my mind. “It’s funny,” she said as she looked out the motel window into the forget-me-not blue sky, “I never feel alone up there.” Then she added, “Actually, I am often alone in life, but seldom lonely.”

I wanted to know her impression of the landscape as she flew over the North Pole. She told me, “Miles and miles of desolate snow and ice pack. It seemed as though everybody else on the planet had disappeared. And,” she added, “it looked frigid.”

From Fairbanks, Sheila flew to Anchorage, then on to San Francisco. I kept track of my newfound friend’s trip around the world until she arrived back in London on August 4, 1971. A couple of months later I received a long letter telling about the remainder of her flight home, of her reception back in England, and how much she savored our time together. As I read her words, I thought, “What an amazing woman. What an inspiration.”

Having lived so many of her dreams, Sheila passed away on October 20, 1988. Sadness filled my mind when I received the news. Sheila was a kind, full-of-life, entertaining, and comfortable lady to spend time with. I will always remember the time we spent together.

over the north Pole

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By j.t. Shedaker

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment – that moment when time began to look like the stale end of a cigarette butt. It might have been when she surreptitiously opened the letter addressed to her maiden name – an identity sealed and stored away more than 60 years prior.

“Dear Mrs. Boseman,” it started. Boseman was her maiden name, and Missus Maiden Name had never been her identity so she hesitated before reading further.

At nearly 90 years of age, the subtlest of things seemed to discombobulate her. She was easily distracted. The letter, temporarily forgotten fell to her lap. She remembered her first wedding dress –traditional white, layers of lace and silk. She had looked like royalty, felt like a fairytale princess. Subsequent wedding dresses had not compared. Nor had the kiss: “You may kiss the bride.” No kiss to

follow would have the sweetness or promise as that one. “Do you, Miss Boseman …”

She looked at you, sitting quietly beside her. “What does it say?” she asked you.

“I don’t know, ma, read it to me.” You were ever so patient with her.

She looked down and saw she was still holding the letter in her lap. “Congratulations,” she read. “Your name was drawn from the annual Norman K. Folly raffle. You have won a free cremation …” She looked up at you. “That’s rather macabre, don’t you think?”

You chuckled, deflating any chance the moment had at being somber. “Even in death you’ll be a winner, ma.” Where she’d struck out in life, she’d championed in every game, every raffle and mail-in contest since she was a child.

Your mother shook her head. She folded the letter carefully and with old hands stuffed it

back into the envelope before handing it back to you. “How about some good mail. Isn’t there something else?” She asked, her voice brittle as the pages of Gideon’s Bible. There were only bills, magazine subscriptions, a great granddaughter’s wedding invitation, a great nephew’s graduation notice, and a letter from an old friend written by her daughter.

After your mother went to sleep – the animals were fed, the dishes washed, the laundry folded – you went to bed and lay there atop your Egyptian cotton sheets staring at the ceiling fan as it made its slow rotation. You lay there and let the tears silently drop from your cheeks to the pillow. It was the first time you began to feel the end of things as you knew them. Your fulltime job as caretaker was nearing an end and your future looked as certain as your mother’s, as devastatingly hollow as a wedding day kiss promising a forever it cannot deliver, a lottery prize signifying the end of winning.

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One of my favorite places to visit when I arrive in a new town is the cemetery (plural if I am lucky). It is not so much out of a morbid curiosity or a romance with death, but the tenderness associated with the loved one as well as a desire to commemorate those who are forgotten. The sad part is most tombstones are as personal as the diet cola they once drank: mass produced with predictable verbiage. In a way you could argue that is what sums a person up in their base components. But let us pretend for a few minutes that there is more to a person than the sperm and egg that they came from, the diet cola they drank and the regurgitated phrases they pass. What about an individual’s legacy? More importantly how can you and I help?

Most of us will probably never be remembered for a pioneering exploit or a great act of heroism, but rather we will be remembered by our good friends or offspring who are obligated to remember us. That might be okay for some, but this is the last chance to really immortalize the loved one and create a long lasting legacy.

Usually it is kind of pathetic: “beloved wife and mother,” “loving son, may he rest in peace.” Or my favorite: “John Doe, Fire Island” (okay, that was a cheap shot, he really was a “John Doe”). What the hell does any of that mean really? How many tombstones bless their mom, or son or whatever? How does that somehow get me into this person’s world value? Something like 49 percent of Americans are sons (52 percent of Alaskans are sons) and I am willing to bet that if you bothered to pay the Masons, or the Catholic Church some cash to bury the

bloke instead of tossing his corpse to the medical market, the “son” was loved. You may as well have said “to our dead son who had hair…” But then again that would have been more information about this guy’s legacy than “beloved son” as not all sons have hair.

One of my favorite gravestones was in Portland where a guy had a stone covered in one inch ceramic tiles to simulate a Scrabble board with words describing the person. It was ugly as sin, but probably the most personal tombstone on the face of the planet. Sarcasm aside; a lot could be determined by that low-budget stone.

On the other hand it is just nice to go look at pretty tombstones!

The cheapest tombstone I could find was $195, but that is a bargain basement block with an etched name and dates. Otherwise you are looking at a thousand bucks and up for assembly line “character.”

One of the biggest slaps in the face that really illustrated the commoditization of the death industry and how little care goes into the stones, was to see a slab a few years old that still had the warehouse barcode sticker on the side of the granite. There was so little care of this guy’s life that they just left it on. A mass-produced life and a wholesale death complete with barcode. What if artists get involved? Instead of having a quarry in Montana slicing up rock for the Alaskan dead, we start giving people personalized headstones? I would be willing to throw in and learn stone cutting or bronze working just to help our graveyards garner a personal touch that helps us get to know our kin.

What say a few sculptors head over to

Scott at Evergreen Memorial, or Don down at the Bagoy Memorial downtown and offer our services to these grieving families? How awesome would that be to get a chance to sit down with a sobbing mess of humans and listen to them recount the majesty of their departed as you sketch out a monument that would truly bring to life this person in a way that is telling of their character? It would be tough, as a lot of families are generally so shattered and inundated with the formalities that they cannot think straight, but I am sure they would be delighted to take a moment with someone who is not entrenched in the death industry and who is moved by their tale in a way that is indicative to the artist nature. It could be one of the few chances any of us really have to affect somebody’s life in a real and positive way. And better yet, you would be making the graveyards just that much more interesting for my son and me to visit!

Send hate mail to: HookHandMonkeyAss@yahoo.com

Kincaid is an artist, architect in training and a part-time ghoul with a sickening love of The Muppets movies.

w.A.t.t. : YouR Final RequestBy Theodore Kincaid

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