You would not guess from his small frame that this is one of the living legends of the graphic medium. While his hair has gone almost white, it only takes a moment for you to notice the twinkle in his eye. Best of all he was really engaging and honestly interested in the works of other artists trying to get a start.

It was close to five when I approached his table, and they were obviously packing up to leave. One of the guys with him told me they were done for the day, but another one must have seen my disappointment.

“Hey Jim, do you mind dong one more?” I heard him ask. Mr. Steranko looked over and said okay. Then I stood there for fifteen minutes seeing something wonderful. The man who introduced pop art and op art into comics was talking to a pair of budding artists. Not feigned, obligated and stiff but rather really offering comment on just what he like about each piece. Mentoring.

This is a role model for all creators out there, no matter their medium of choice. An open hand extended to the next generation to give them a hand up on their dreams. I must confess it made my afternoon.

I spent a sizable part of the day connecting with some of the amazing talent that was there from the local area and have an extensive array of profiles and interviews set up for future posts. Additionally I’ll be interviewing Andrew Satterfield and Matt Bredestege, the super heroes behind the Expo once they’ve had a chance to recover.

In the meantime here is a slideshow of pics I shot while I was there. The kid in the Nightcrawler costume is my favorite, what’s yours?

I inadvertently had one of those instances today. I saw a fantastic tweet run across my dashboard:

The true tragedy about SCOTUS blocking California’s violent video game law is now parents will have to pay attention to what their kids buy.

This was tweeted by @ChooChooBear who writes the wonderfully demented Something Positive web Comic. Being fully in agreement I retweeted it. Now you might notice that the tweet was exactly 140 characters long, which did not leave me room for the obligatory “RT @ChooChooBear.”

So I retweeted it without attribution so as not edit it and weaken the comment. Just as I was typing a “The prior was an RT from @ChooChooBear” I lost electricity for about twenty minutes. When the lights and Internet came back up I found a wave of justifiable outrage. I quickly tweeted apologies and credit to the originator of the tweet and we ironed things out rapidly. Once I explained he was really great about it and actively used his tweet stream to call off the dogs.

There are LOTS of nimrods out there passing off the content of others as their own. If I had not been dogpiled about this I would have been shocked. As a content creator myself I consider plagiarists to be parasitic scum. Even thought the situation was caused by something out of my control it still calls for more lengthy apology as it was my account.

I’d also like to actually thank those on twitter who leaped into the fray when they saw someone else’s work seemingly plagiarized. You are some of the good ones! No offense at all taken on my part, you did the right thing under the circumstances. Huge kudos to @PopeRichardCory @Radelin @DUSTINFRIEL @devlogic @jer_ @muymanwell @lisafunone1 @scorpstar77 @sonochamp @RunsLikeBadger for stepping up! While the circumstances could be better I’m always happy to cross paths with people of integrity.

Take note people, if you screw up online take ownership and make it right. It really is that simple.

Now, go and embrace some twisted humor over on Something Positive!

For a minute I can’t see, because the sweat from my forehead has run into my eyes again. I shift my camera to my other arm so I can blot my face with my sleeve. Strangely, there are no flying bugs surrounding me. I walk back towards the white Land Cruiser we drove in with, parked by the unfinished cinderblock and rebar house at the bottom of the hill. Next to them, a row of dried, cracking mud and straw roof huts that look like they would collapse if I leaned too heavily on one of them. One of the Haitian couples from the village is there with Rev. Pierre. I think they’re talking about one of the wells by the mission’s schoolhouse. There are no trees, even on the rolling mountains surrounding us, speckled brown, gray, with the occasional dull green from the dry brush that did manage to grow between the cracked earth and rock. The sky above is an endlessly blue, save for a few clouds and the random trail of smoke rising from a shelter in the distance. The sun is agonizingly bright, white hot. It’s about 11:30 in the afternoon, and it’s already 99 degrees out. I’ve just finished filming some b-roll of the construction work on the houses financed by the La Croix mission… when I say construction work, I mean about twelve guys carrying cinderblocks by hand up the side of this small, rocky mountain. The last hurricane season blew away most of the weak huts the people had previously built. Several of them drowned in the flooding, or died of a resulting condition. Walking over, Pierre and Pastor Mike say there is another group of villagers about three miles from here. We needed to head back to finish up the second part of the interviews for the documentary, not to mention I’m already exhausted from the heat, but this is the only opportunity to get the footage so I want to go.

We “drive” for a bit; it’s more like stumbling. Some places there’s actually a road, but mostly it’s just gravel roads littered with craters. Mikes hands slide over the steering wheel, whipping around a pothole the size of a Volkswagen. It’s like an SUV full of bobbleheads. He mentions something about them going through a set of tires about every five hundred miles or so. They get them from the church in Pennsylvania, and I know they have to bribe customs to actually get them. I’m not too crazy about this truck, remembering the jostling six hour drive in last night from PAP Airport, only sixty-five miles away. I grab hold of the handrail as the truck bobs and rolls and turns off into another village, kicking up an inertial cloud of gray and tan dust. A few women are washing clothes and dishes in a barely soapy tin tub. Most of the teenagers have regular looking clothes on: jean skirts, faded t-shirts, khakis… although pretty much every toddler I’ve seen has been running around naked. One of the younger girls recognizes Pastor Mike and immediately runs up to him when we get out. There’s actually trees here, I noticed. I found out later this was one of the places Pierre planted them years ago. He told us that he would probably be killed over them if gangs came up this way, who would certainly cut them down for charcoal. Filming goes slowly, because I have to stop about every five minutes to wipe dust off the lens of the camera, which feels a lot heavier than when I started this morning. I get some good footage of the kids, the pressed, swept dirt floors of most of their shelters, the animals roaming freely. There’s a bit of universal movement towards a hut where an elderly woman is standing, hands on her hips, talking to Mike. Feeling obligated and hearing low murmurs, I head that way. Inside, lying shaking on a thin white blanket, is an old man, probably in his seventies. His jet-black skin is pocked with large, openly infected sores, a stomach-churning combination of puffy white and pinkish red, probably staph. I definitely did not expect that, but reality hit me right where I was. Clumsily, I mutter a “mesi” or “thank you”, the only kreyòl I know, and move on to try and film a mud wall or something, anything else. Dr. Tyger tells us the next morning that the man had died.

———————————————–

I still can’t believe how crowded it is in this place. I can’t walk a few feet without having to re-navigate around somebody huddling around an iPhone. The store is brightly lit, everything pristine white or lacquered hardwood, save for the occasional glass and metal. Enormous, panoramic banners are plastered behind every glittering, shiny gadget. As soon as one person walks away from a computer, two people waiting behind them jump right in their place, clicking incessantly, Facebooking, taking unflattering pictures. I turn to barely miss running into some guy’s enormous Banana Republic bag, not that it would be anywhere near as disastrous as knocking the giant coffee out of his other hand. I try to apologize, but he keeps walking, unfazed. There’s a line of people waiting to put their name on a list at the front of the store, I assume to buy a phone. There’s a startling amount of people working today too, yet they’re effortlessly outnumbered.  It’s so loud I can barely hear the muzak, just the relentless drone of conversation. Every few minutes a group of people walk into the store, look around at the crowd, and then almost immediately retreat the way they came in. Ha, I don’t blame them. It’s constantly busy here, so jam packed full of people that the store had to convert to a system where literally every employee has can make credit card purchases. I just read the other day how the manufacturers can’t even keep up. At least Channel 9 isn’t here today, I think to myself.

I try to focus, and head towards the accessories aisle, which is hopelessly crowded. It’s a little warm in here, probably 75, 76. I need a case, but I think they’re sold out. I’ve already scratched my phone once. Finally, I spot a friend of mine who works here, back at the tech support desk. I momentarily quicken my pace to greet him, but quickly change my mind as I get closer. Despite the surrounding droves of people waiting, laptops and phones at their sides, his unusually confused expression is fixed directly on the woman standing about a foot in front of him, her jaw squared in a noticeably cross demeanor. She looks like she just came from work, fairly dressed up.

“I don’t understand why this is so complicated. I already made an appointment to get support!” As she spoke, she jams her pointed finger on the table top beside them in an annunciated fashion. I eavesdrop from a safe distance as my friend answers: “I know, but your appointment was for half an hour ago and we had to move on to the next person. I can still fit you in tonight, it will just be a little while until someone’s available.”

“No, I can’t -” she stops, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Is this your idea of customer service?” she asks, laughing angrily. She’s hardly demonstrative, but it’s definitely capturing the attention of those around. I notice a security badge hanging from the keys in her left hand. “I just drove twenty minutes to get here. It’s completely out of my way.” I smirk to myself; my friend lives in Kentucky, a good 50 minutes from his here.

He doesn’t seem to take issue though. “I know, and I want to help you. I’ve just got to find someone. Gimme a minute.” He calmly steps away to talk into a radio. The woman motions her hands, as if hopeless. “God,” I hear her mutter as she walks to the side, looking down to rummage through her black purse for her phone. My phone dings in my pocket. It’s a text from Anna. Figuring this is obviously not the best time to catch up, and noticing the empty space on the wall where cases usually are anyway, I turn and make my way through the endless sea of people towards the exit, the light reflecting off the glass.

———————————————–

Blinded again. It’s almost 2pm. I crouch down, propping my camera against an unoccupied table to escape the beams of sunlight refracting off the metal window frame. The rows of roughly-carved wooden benches are lined with kids, each one wearing pale red shorts and a checkered shirt. A few have shoes on. A musty aroma blows by every few seconds from the steaming vat of rice, beans and tiny bits of fish at the end of one table. Pierre and another Haitian are spooning portions onto tin plates, passing them down the lined-up rows of boisterous, hungry children still waiting. Behind me, a women sifts rice, tossing it in the air. Several kneel on the dirty floor behind a crumbling concrete divide, amongst bubbling pots and vegetable husks, straining boiled things through a weaved basket. We’re under the tin roof of a large, open hall. It’s not as hot here, thanks to the towering ficus trees looming around us, but I’m still sweating hard. Birds squawk noisily from the tops of the trees at the woman sweeping the dry courtyard outside with a straw broom. The sound of tap-taps (an over-crowded taxi of sorts) occasionally sputter by outside the large red iron gates of Pierre’s compound, workers clink shovels and pickaxes on the foundation of a new church building being built. All constant reminders of my uncomfortable distance from home.

I’m struggling to pull off a tight shot of the kids, as they’re either moving around or staring right at me and the camera. I reposition around the hall until I feel at least decently satisfied with the shots. Moving past my producer, I can hear her talking to Pierre about the children.

“Say that again, Gone-ay-eve?” she asks, leaning in as if to hear the pronunciation better.

“Yes Gonaives, some from Saint-Marc, which is a very long way to walk,” he says, motioning towards the children. “Some, it takes a whole day to get here.”

Her eyes widen. “A Day? An entire 24 hours walk?”

“Yes,” he smiles, “… and only several even have shoes. We give them clothes, but cannot yet afford all shoes.” I pass by, listening in a bit more intently. Pierre goes on to mention that this meal is the only one most of the kids get all day. A lot of them have chronic diarrhea or some sort of gastric problems from the water they drink at home, which is the same stream that garbage gets thrown in and the animals drink from typically. Pierre and the mission build wells, but some of them still have to carry the water for miles, and all of them are used to the woods to being the bathroom.

As the evening wears on, the Dominican Republic cuts the power in the area, as they commonly do. Pierre switches on a generator for an hour or two so we have light. A gallon of diesel here costs more than most Haitians make in several months, but they get it donated from the church. There’s a toilet and, Thank God, toilet paper. You have to use a bucket of water every time to make the pump flush, but no one cares. We shake the dead gnats and bugs off the sheets before bedtime as the room cools down from a single AC unit. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time, the little Airplane Mode icon in the opposite corner a taunting memento to my seemingly never-ending remoteness.

———————————————–

“Guess they didn’t want to wait either.”

I look up from my phone. “Huh?”

The barista nods in my direction as she pulls a shot from the espresso machine. I turn to look behind me at the front of the packed store I was just in, people still milling about, crowded around smart phones and laptops, the employees desperately trying to give everyone personal attention, a seemingly inhuman accomplishment. The entire mall’s busy today. It’s loud… but not nearly as loud as it was and still is in that place.

As I look into the mass of bodies, my eyes fall on a blonde girl and an older guy, probably her dad, walking more quickly than others out of the front of the store.”I can’t believe I can’t just go in and buy a computer. Why is that so difficult?” I overhear the man say as they pass to my right. The girl is practically jogging to keep up with him. “I waited for at least forty minutes and no one helped me. They’re not getting my business,” he huffs loudly. The girl grumbles something under her breath, visibly embarrassed at his vexation and trying to ignore everyone’s stares.

“You want room for cream?” the barista says. Regaining my attention to the task at hand I hand her my credit card. “Yeah, just a little,” only to inevitably glance back down at my phone. The background picture is of Anna, from our vacation last year. She’s sitting on a window ledge of our 15th floor hotel room, looking out at the sea of cars on Michigan Ave. It’s one of my favorite pictures. The afternoon sky’s rays are blooming through the open window, a bright hazy white that ended in a perfectly clear blue sky. I remember that moment, the feel of it, standing there looking at her. The cool AC in the dark room, the energy of the sun, the effervescent flicks of dust in the beams of light through the glass. We had worked a long time to take that vacation, and seeing her so happy was…  a blessing, a few seconds instantly immortalized in my memory. Anna’s text is in an overlaying pop-up on my screen: “wanna do sushi for dinner? ” it says. For a minute I stand there, thinking. Then I type:

“sushi sounds great”

Flash forward 12 years later and I sat in the back of a classroom at Morehead State looking at the score to Mozart’s The Magic Flute my mother’s words echoing in my mind.  My peers were engaged in a lively discussion regarding the piece and I sat frantically trying to write down every word feeling like a spy in a dark alley peering into a lighted window.

This past April I walked into the Fine Art’s Fund BOARDway Bound program these thoughts again flittered just behind my pupils; I was once more crashing the party.  Earlier that month, I had written in my journal all the reasons why I shouldn’t apply for the program: I wasn’t traveled enough, networked enough, rich enough, connected enough, skilled enough…simply not enough.  Who did I think I was doing something like this-me? On an art board?  I put down my pen, wrote a Letter of Intent, updated my resume, filled out the application and dashed off an email.  My justification: I simply wanted to learn something new.

The program consisted of 3 meetings with 8-12 hours of online work between each meeting.  We covered Board Member Responsibilities, Financial Management and Staff Responsibilities, and Fundraising and an Overview of Engagement.  The meetings were informative and focused on application of what we learned on the website.  We heard from various Directors from Clifton Cultural Arts Center, Ensemble Theatre of Cincinnati, and The Carnegie. The idea behind this program is to put together a Board Bank or a collection of individuals who are interested in participating on an art board within the smaller arts organizations in Cincinnati and the surrounding communities.  The Fine Arts Fund appears to be taking more of a community development direction with this program and The Arts Ripple Effect - billed as a “Research-Based Strategy to Build Shared Responsibility for the Arts.”

I learned much from this program; how an art board functions, the mission of an art organization and the how that mission effects financial decision-making.  However, the best was a new defintion of art and how art fits into my own life.

What makes a person rich? seeing a mural on a wall; teaching a child the art of clowning; painting a street; hearing original, independent music on Fountain Square; or seeing an original, contemporary play.  That which makes an individual rich is what makes a community rich.

Last weekend I saw my first Cincinnati opera, La Boheme courtesy of tickets from Enjoy the Arts. 

Hey mom, I’m one of the rich people now.

BOARDway Bound Video

*All photos courtesy of Fine Arts Fund

Well yes in fact. He talked the whole time, and man was Cincinnati captivated.

I enjoy his writing, especially in his newest book Medium Raw which I started recently, but I couldn’t agree more with Wine Me Dine Me on this one: he excels as an orator. He filled the entire segment with his raw perception of reality, family, opinionated anecdotes of other celebrity chefs and their often asinine TV shows, plenty of literal F-this’ and F-that’s (at least 94), and some rather hilarious one-liners, my favorites being the comparative “Sandra Lee’s Kwanzaa cake video makes Two Girls, One Cup look like Dora the Explorer” and the oh-so-wrong “we should tell our children that eating McDonald’s food makes you a retard.” He even took time away from the verbal ego-massage that was the crowd’s response to every zinger to deliver a brilliantly well-placed jab to our hometown’s most nostalgic of food items: on Bobby Flay, he made the statement that he could cook anyone under the table when it comes to chili… (pause)… “especially here.” Cue. Largest. Crowd moan. EVER. The whole evening ended with some great Q & A, and then he was gone stage left… but I am so flabbergasted at what I consider a glaring oversight on our part: not a single person, myself among the guilty party, asked him when he would be bringing the show to Cincinnati. So here, to relive the moment that could’ve and almost certainly would’ve been, are some words:

(brave man, possibly me, approaches mic): *ahem* Hey Tony?

(Bourdain): Why yes, local fan?

(man): Can you bring the show to Cincinnati?

(Bourdain): Ok, sound good! Let’s all go to Nada! Drinks are on me!

(Delightful Applause)

Aaaand scene.

I feel most disappointed with myself. I mean, I was saying it loudly… in my mind. But I let the chance go by. I honestly have no real expectations for what I’m sure would be an awesome moment for this “sleepy little Germantown”, getting to host such an awesome show. I have no doubts it would be the more surprising episode of the season to viewers, to Anthony himself and even most Cincinnatians, because contrary to some over publicized weirdoes’ perceptions, this city is very much alive and has a lot to offer, like award winning restaurants and culinary educators, some of the best breweries in the country, an unbelievably rich architectural history, and one hell of a baseball team (or so I’m told). Just so you know I can help with all that food and beer stuff, and I know a lot of people who would like to as well. Believe me, we’ve got a lot more than cheap watery chili and that not-a-museum across the river.

To coin a phrase used on your show often, Cincinnati definitely doesn’t suck. Hope you got my calls, Tony.

(Have an itinerary planned for a No Reservations: Cincinnati show? Couldn’t care less? Let it be know in the comments.)

The idea that one can be a part of a community by overlooking that community’s flaws is complete BS. If you care about your neighborhood/city/area then you should get off your behind and get involved. Be part of the solution, not part of the problem. (Whatever those problems may be.) If you simply sit and parrot the stories of the positive then you are doing a disservice to yourself and those around you.

Think about it. What truly kills corruption? What reveals issues that need to be addressed? What generates dialogue? People who are not afraid to face the ills of their community and talk about them, that’s what.

Cincinnati is my home now, and I intend to be a good member of the community here. That means that I will not hold my tongue as I discover negatives. Doing so would only enable their persistence.  This is our home, let us all have the courage to keep trying to better it.

So what do you think? Should Cincy Bloggers only focus on the positive, and if so why? For myself I cannot see anything good coming of willfully ignoring the negative. Self Deception is never a good thing IMHO..

-Loki, CincyVoices Founder

Additional: I hope to be blogging on a more regular basis now that I cam starting to recover. I got pneumonia during our trip to New Orleans and have been fairly beat down for the past few weeks