You'll notice two additions to my blogroll - both exhibit the works of people from my Syracuse University days.
The first is a political website, composed of people I half-knew and at times half-got-along-with. The captain-on-deck is, at least as I remember him, a smart-mouthed fellow from Boston who framed a sarcastic rejection letter from Kurt Vonnegut and wrote one of the most enjoyably gritty stories about rejection from writing for Maxim. In one of his more stroppy moments, he verbally rabbit-punched a caricature I'd drawn of him for a comic strip. "But hey," said a friend of his, desperately trying to salvage the deck as it listed terribly to awkward, "look at the way Mike drew your hair. It looks just like you!"
"Yep," he spat. "He nailed that."
Several words into reading the site, you'll discover not only that this group of writers and pundits are distinctly liberal but that they're bright, nascent graduates in New York City trying to make something of living in one of the most media-competitive environments on the planet. For all his barbs, the editor-in-chief offers a long look into his purpose. Not too often do we get a glimpse at something as tightly guarded as that.
I appreciate enterprise, so they receive some of my apparent 1,000-a-week audience*.
I endorse for my readers the second because of the author's, er, irrepressibility and heart-of-gold charm. He was my freshman roommate; miraculously, an art major like myself, though what I'd consider a real artist. Drawing came quite naturally to him, and he took to the intellectual rogue's lifestyle like redheads wear freckles. In terms of personality, we were complete opposites - especially with the sort of emotional countenance I felt it necessary to possess at the time. He was outgoing, lavish, enjoyably sly and carefree; I was brooding, a bit of a loner, far more overserious than I am now, abstruse in my language and mannerisms, endlessly moody. I once accidentally - and stupidly - smashed his finger in a door.
His response, jackknifing, as he held his finger in agony? "You owe me a new finger!" he chuckled between winces.
We got along well in our split double, as long as neither my Depeche Mode nor his ska/Tom Waits/Trainspotting soundtrack overpowered the other. Come to think of it, he actually had DM's Violator; I'm sure my continual rotation ruined the album for him for years afterward.
Above all, he was a complete character - even without expressions or visual aids - and without a shred of malice, incredibly fun to be around at any given point in time. I never saw him angry. Ever.
Like I said, he's a real artist. How does he speak? With images.
Enjoy. I have. And I may be adding some more in-kind links for newly backlinked blogs in the next couple of days.
* Yes, I'm serious. This takes into account my own visits for maintenance and reviewing the front page to proofread (and preen, I'll admit it), not to mention the legions of Googlebots establishing the pipeline shuttling people to my site with the search string "pictures senator ted kennedy red nose." No lie there, either.