workin' man

Weird Charlotte: Are you originally from Charlotte, or did you come here from somewhere else? If you came here from somewhere else, where was that, when did you land here, and why?

Russ: I'm a refugee from work as a technician in the oil fields of Texas.

WC: Of all you've contributed to the cultural fabric of Charlotte, what are some of your personal favorites?

Russ: For good or ill, I named 23 Studio. 23 is much ballyhooed in the Illuminatus Trilogy, and my thought was that in a banking town, a good art conspiracy theory was needed. I contributed to Z-Axis. A hell of a lot of dynamite TV was slipped in there when no one was paying attention. And I've contributed to QZ since the beginning, under various pseudonyms.

WC: What strengthens your dedication to do what you do, in spite of the fact that Charlotte has not yet developed a critical mass of creatively-attuned people?

Russ: Usually I hold back all my frustrations about the official somnabulence of public life and media until I just start screaming. Then I calm down and try to do some art. Lately I send out Fractured Funnies on the internet.

WC: What sometimes discourages you about Charlotte and makes you dream of living somewhere else? And where would that somewhere else be?

Russ: I've found that it's up to the individual to create his own interest or desired level of life intensity and engagement wherever he is. I think I might like Saskatchewan just for the power of radical change on my own psyche. Or India.

WC: What would help make Charlotte a more vibrant cultural city?

Russ: More intelligence. More future. More laughs.

WC: What can we do right now to make Charlotte a more vibrant cultural city?

Russ: Make friends with the people from the farthest away.

WC: Let's say there's some creative person out there who's considering moving to Charlotte. If you could say one thing to them, what would it be?

Russ: Steampunk, baby!

3/20/06

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Who remembers Gatorman? I do.

by Russ Newsom

Gatorman walked around the UF campus wearing a hardhat that said "Gatorman" on it. He was a nice guy, though a bit odd. When lonely, he would go down to the lake on campus where Albert the Alligator lived, and ride him. Picture it: a moonlit night, a man with a hardhat approaches the water's edge, bearing a bag of marshmallows. He tosses a few in the water. All is quiet. Then, sudden activity! The surface is split, the reflected moonlight explodes in fragments with a splash, and Albert, the semi-official mascot of the University, breaches and chomps and scores the marshmallows. Gatorman speaks softly and, every nerve in his body alive, enters the water. He tosses a few marshmallows behind Albert, who turns around, and Gatorman makes his move: with a leap, he's astride the 18-foot-long beast, who although by now experienced with this strange human, still bursts into furious activity and like lightning heads for the deeper water, with Gatorman astride him like a swampy Pecos Bill, a figure out of myth, yet with no witnesses. Far, far away across campus, dorm residents who are studying into the night with their windows open hear a faint "Waaaahooo!"

I don't remember how many years Gatorman attended the University. He had trouble passing some classes. I guess he wanted to major in alligators and the authorities were just not prepared to let him do that. One night, Gatorman is worried. He and his curious adventures with Albert have been covered in the local press, and the general public have become aware of the gators' curious love of marshmallows. Gatorman, although careful to never litter, has noticed empty marshmallow bags near the lakeshore. Tonight, Albert will not feed. The alligator scorns Gatorman's offerings and seems curiously listless. Gatorman is worried; a frightening idea has occurred to him. He gathers up the empty bags, goes home, and next day alerts the press. It's extremely dangerous to risk an alligator swallowing a plastic bag, he says. Do not feed the gators whole bags of marshmallows!

Ten days go by. Gatorman spends more and more time at the water, worried. Still, Albert will take no food. So sluggish and sapped of energy he seems. Gatorman sees his friend's life slipping away, and finally he acts: to the University large animal veterinarians he goes, convinced that Albert is dying from swallowing a plastic marshmallow bag, blocking his digestive tract.

Over a period of days, Gatorman haunts the department heads, making his case, and sometimes raising his voice. Finally he succeeds. An exploratory operation is performed with Gatorman, in a role somewhat like next-of-kin, observing in the operating room.

Opened, prodded, reamed, examined, and x-rayed, no blockage, bags, or obstructions are found. The surgical team stitches Albert back together, and shortly thereafter, he dies. Not from a misinformed public, not from plastic bags. Albert is done in, in the end, by Gatorman, whose love for him was too much, whose understanding was not enough, whose heart surely broke.

After that? I never saw Gatorman again.

1/9/07