Frogs of Might and Voracity

Big Willy isn't the only animal out there with food on the brain. Well, food is a primary concern for most animals (including humans), but some critters, like Big Willy and Bud take 'living to eat' to a higher level.

Bud, my pac-man frog, whom I have had for 15 years, has been the inspiration for many pictures and stories. He sits motionless in a hole in the mud for days. Then, when a live earthworm or insect is offered, he launches the attack. Snatches the victim in his jaws and devours it. Onlookers are always surprised--to see the amphibian transform so suddenly from statue to pouncing tiger. And Bud will attack anything that moves (including your hand), will eat any animal he can swallow, and has no taboos on cannibalism, if given the opportunity. Some of his wild relatives die by choking, when they try to swallow prey that is too large. All this makes for a character as fantastic as those dreamed up by Jack Kirby or Steve Ditko! Although I cannot claim their level of skill at rendering such a character on the comics page, I try my best. As such, I recently completed my second Bud-inspired comic story, which is titled "The Threat of Big Bad Bo." It is a sort of parody of the Marvel monster comics of the 1950s, with a pac-man frog as the monster. On display above is the opening splash-page, which is followed by four more pages, dense with action in a nine-panel grid. (My first Bud-inspired comic "Song for a Hungry Horned Frog"--which takes a more contemporary dramatic approach--is available on iknowjoekimpel.com.) Soon, I will collect these and other stories into a comic book of "Frog Stories." Watch for it in the coming year, true believers.

In a recent visit to my parents' house, I uncovered this colored pencil drawing from my high school days. It depicts a giant Bud, hidden among the swamp-plants. A nice reminder that I have been drawing the ol' frog for many years. (And was drawing him impressively well when I was a teenager.) In my visit, I have not had the opportunity to greet the real Bud, for he is buried under mud for his winter sleep. He sleeps for many months out of the year; and the duration of the long nap has increased with each passing year. However, when he does emerge, he is as vivacious as ever. His appetite is not quite as great as in his younger days, but he is still a horrifying predator, to any animal small enough to be engulfed in his jaws. We keep wondering how long the amphibian can live, and thinking that every winter will be his last. And then he surprises us again when he emerges, late in the spring. Whenever he does go to the great mud-hole in the sky, he will be remembered, in pencil and ink.

Porcupine

Being overdue for a blog post, I looked through my archive of drawings—and found this porcupine on scratchboard. Evidently, the animal and the medium complement each other well. I seem to have captured its handsome but deadly coat of quills. The peaceful forager, who is armed like a battle tank. The cute mammal who can make an impaled corpse of any predator who dares to attack him. Few will take the chance. The assailant must target porky's achilles heel—his unprotected head. A single mistake can spell the end.

Speaking of “the end”, we have had some intense events at Rock Bottom Ranch, and some fine animals have met their end. I will post about these events soon—I am still gathering my thoughts.

Good fortune, my viewers!

The Mind of Big Willy

Naturally, posted both here and the Rock Bottom Ranch blog....

As we hear reiterated at many a ranch educational program, fall is a time of harvest. (We are now nearing the end of this harvest-season, as winter weather starts to arrive.) We collect apples from trees, pumpkins from the vine, dig potatoes and carrots, slaughter a pig or two, and so forth. On our field programs, students join in for cider pressing. They take turns spinning the crank of the apple-crusher, and all sing the song: “This the way we crush our apples, on an autumn day.” Next we turn the topmost crank, and the press mashes the fruits.. “This is the way we press our apples...” And the sweet cider oozes out.

Meanwhile, a 600-pound beast watches. Big Willy stands right behind the fence at the edge of his pasture. He pants and grunts, and shakes with excitement. Drools streams from his open mouth, with tusks on full display. (Don't be afraid; Big Willy uses his tusks ONLY for display.)

A singular obsession has entered his mind. The apple-chunks that remain after cider pressing. Sweet and delicious. To be eaten with speed and gusto. Big Willy has apples on his mind. And in a short time, his desire is satisfied. Apples. They please the tongue, and fill the gullet.

Long have humans contemplated the mind of the beasts. Biologists, psychologists, philosophers, and lay-people all have their own explanations for what goes on in animal minds. But in the case of Big Willy, animal thoughts are not hard to deduce. His sole preoccupation in life is food. Being a large black pig, his primary diet is grass, supplemented with a bit of grain. But he'll take any food he can get. When a human comes before him, he approaches and pants and looks and sniffs, hopeful for the goodness of grain. Or eggs or milk. Big Willy's great bulk is a heavy burden on his thin legs. Nonetheless, he will run from the far side of the pasture if he thinks the gift of grain is waiting. He will interrupt intimate love with the sow Laura Jean, if grain is offered.

On countless farm tours, I have reassured children that Big Willy may look scary, but is totally nice, harmless. But when I have a bucket of grain in my hand, a spark in Big Willy ignites. 600 pounds of hunger barrels toward me, as fast as those twig legs can run. His interest is entirely in the grain, but he may incidentally bowl over me along the way. And when Big Willy escapes his pasture or goes wandering into the chicken-enclosure... a scoop of grain may be the only way to lure him back to his proper spot. And so the rancher must run, with the giant hog in hot pursuit, grunting and salivating.

Sometimes, people ask if hogs are really as smart as reputed. I don't know for sure, but I do know that Big Willy can be quite clever, when there is an opportunity for food. If his gate is left open, just enough for a huge hog to slip through, he'll go out. Not for fresh air or social life, but because our only way to lure him back in is with food. When we move chickens and their pens and fence to new pasture, Big Willy is close behind. He'll scarf any chicken feed left on the ground, and slurp all grain spills. If we leave a barrel of grain unprotected, Big Willy will knock it over. The resultant pile of culinary goodness is his version of heaven.

When the butcher shot Big Willy's offspring for pork, the boar did not seem concerned. Instead, he walked over and sniffed their blood, to see if any food might be there.

Fat Freddy is an amateur next to Big Willy. In his voracity and scope of appetite, the hog is just below “The Pet” (of a 1921 Winsor McCay theatrical cartoon.) Although he may not have grown skyscraper-size, he used to be quite overweight. Until put on a diet, to reach a slim 600.

Even the slimmer Big Willy, at the age of two-and-a-half, has developed some joint issues in his front legs. We monitor him now. Our hogs have short lives, but they live a version of the American dream. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”. And for Big Willy, happiness is something that you chew.

Studlar's Nightmare

Halloween is a special holiday for fans of the strange and terrifying, like yours truly, and probably most students and alumni of The Center for Cartoon Studies.

Hence, I'll share a special drawing.

"Studlar's nightmare." Based on a true story.

It was a windy night in July, on Galveston Island, Texas. My parents were visiting from West Virginia. We were on a much needed vacation. For our first night out, we camped at Galveston Island State Park. We did not anticipate the extent of wind. On the sandy beach, on a barrier island, with ocean waves rumbling. With no trees to guard us, the wind blew full-force. Sleeping in a tent was a difficult endeavor. The whole structure shook and rocked, nonstop through the night. The fabric whipped and slapped about. Sleep could happen only in short doses. Finally, I went to sleep solidly. And then awoke. A huge, wolf-like dog had my hand in its jaws. It felt like a solid clamp, a vice grip. But it wasn't cutting my flesh, yet. I wanted to pull away, wanted to make noise, to escape. But I couldn't move. I tried very hard, but my body didn't quite respond. Like I was made of led. As I gradually came to, I could move my limbs slightly. Gradually, I came to realize that there was no dog. My hand was only clamped in place with one of my knees on either side. I regained control, and pulled my hand free. Evidently, I had experienced sleep paralysis. I had read about the phenomenon before, as a possible skeptic's explanation for reports of alien abductions, and visits from angels and demons. I thought it would be a frightening thing to experience. And indeed it was.

Happy Halloween, one and all!

Small and Savage

Once again, I'm posting this one both here and on the Rock Bottom Ranch blog. Same entry, two addresses.

Among the egg-laying hens, there lives a one-pound rooster with 100 pounds of testosterone. He has become known as Napoleon, for want of a better name. Rarely does five minutes pass without the little bantam unleashing his high and squawking crow. The full-size chickens, turkeys, and peacock are like giants next to him. Nonetheless, Napoleon walks with the pride of a king. And the audacity of a wolverine; he has no fear of larger opponents. With spurred feet blazing, he challenged a freedom ranger—but was pecked into retreat. With a piercing stare in his eyes and flailing rage in his wings, he leaps at humans—but cannot touch the wearer of boots, for his striking range barely reaches above the ankle. I have used my oversize feet to guard youngsters from his attack. He will retreat from me; even Napoleon gives pause for my size. If Napoleon were the size of an ordinary rooster, he would be the terror of the ranch. At present, he is too small and awkward. There is more entertainment than danger in his aggression. Even so, we are wise to give him space. He is content to crow to the air, and assert himself to the world. And in the small world of a chicken yard, Napoleon is ruler. Until he is bested by a larger bird … but after a short retreat, he’ll declare himself king again!

(Napoleon is also known as Stewart.)

Fear in Pictures

It being the Halloween season, it seems a fitting time to share a few more metal-inspired drawings. The stuff of nightmares.



Yes, I know that the Fortune Teller made an appearance last year, but I am fond of her, so I brought her back.




October is also the harvest season. For tales of our harvest at Rock Bottom Ranch, and my recent artistic-educational creation featuring Apollo the goat, consult the ranch blog.

Metal in a Dark Place

I am a longtime fan of heavy metal music, and often draw to the sound of Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, or Metallica. Many people are surprised that the quiet, nature-loving Ross Wood Studlar listens to music of such volume and intensity. However, I find metal the best music to draw to, for it keeps the pen or brush MOVING. I also deeply appreciate the multi-layered, symphonic song patterns and the 'heavy' lyrical themes—war, drug addiction, insanity, monsters, death, power, corruption—and much that is pertinent to the dark world we live in.

When my friend Raven became the lead singer of a heavy metal band called Vendetta, I had to nominate myself to draw the cover of their first album. For this image, I took some influence from Derek Riggs' cover art for Iron Maiden, particularly the first two albums. I had planned to add color, and maybe I shall at a later time. Unfortunately, Vendetta has disbanded. And so my cover art has no home—save this blog.