Not really, but I may have less clutter in the home office soon. I did my sketches completely on the iPad today, cutting the “draw on paper, go to a computer, scan sketches and email” stages down to “email sketches from same box they were drawn on from the comfort of McDonald’s.” The process will take some getting used to, and there were some snags today (the wifi was out at my usual McDonald’s, so I ended up driving around to send the sketches anyway) but I think eventually it will be more beneficial than “embracing technology simply for the sake of embracing technology.” Meanwhile, here is one of today’s rejects.

In celebration of the 7th anniversary of the Bearded Odyssey, I am re-running the series throughout the summer. This chapter was originally published in The Daily Nebraskan on July 13, 2003.

Of all my friends who might accidentally shoot me, it’d probably be Brian.

I was going to be passing through Eugene, Ore., on my way up to Portland and I wanted to visit the guy. Problem was, he had canceled his phone service, so I had no way of contacting him to tell him I was coming or to find out where he lived.

I called our mutual friend Matt, who had just moved to Nebraska from Eugene. I explained the situation to him and asked him if he knew any solutions.

He told me the directions to Brian’s house and a little secret: Brian leaves his window open a crack, so you can slide it open, reach in, and unlock the door. I could sneak into Brian’s apartment and he would have no idea I was going to be there.

I was a little nervous about this. If I came home to find someone in my apartment, I would be freaked out. And Brian has a history of displaying a bit of a temper on occasion. He grew up with his dad out in the country. They had rifles. So I asked Matt, “Does he have a gun?”

“I don’t think so,” was his offering of assurance.

Matt told me Brian gets off work about 4:30 p.m., so I timed my arrival to Eugene so I could find Brian’s place and get inside by about 4. I parked my car a few blocks away to prevent my cover from being blown, found the apartment with the open window, and easily made my way inside.

Matt had this great idea for me to stop by a thrift store and buy a cheerleader’s outfit, so Brian could find me sitting there in costume. That seemed nice and funny and all, but in the event that I was going to be shot and killed, I didn’t want my dear mom to hear I was found dead dressed as a cheerleader. That would just take too much explaining, and the person who would need to do the explaining would be dead. In a cheerleader’s outfit.
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Brett Waldon, former Daily Nebraskan cartoonist, as well as thespian, comedian and super cool guy, designed today’s shirt on woot. You can check it out (and purchase one) at shirt.woot.com. If I remember right, it’s going to be $10 today, but then they’ll still be available on other days for $15.

UPDATE!! The shirts are now sold out!

I promised I’d be on time this month.

10.

9.

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I’m glad that I can start filing these in my new FAST FOOD category. I only had my tiny pocket notebook with me tonight, and I think the guy on the right was wise to me sneaking peeks in order to doodle him and his dining room neighbors.

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In celebration of the 7th anniversary of the Bearded Odyssey, I am re-running the series throughout the summer. This chapter was originally published in The Daily Nebraskan on July 6, 2003.

A wise man named Aaron Shigley once told me, “The monuments and lakes and rivers — and everything else you think would be the focus of your learning — end up taking a backseat to the people you meet and the stories they have to tell.”

There’s a woman, sort of, named Rachel who works at a gas station in Pacific Beach. With all due respect, Rachel is a man doing a bad job at being a woman. He has long, stringy blonde hair and very bad makeup, consisting of a thick layer of pinkish foundation.

Every time I see him/her, he is wearing a similar, if not identical, long-sleeved button-up shirt with a knee-length skirt. To make it all the more awkward, he still has the body and the voice of a man.

Some people can pull off the transvestite thing quite convincingly; Rachel is the polar opposite.
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A reader writes:

Mr. Obermyer -

I’m always happy to see your zany perspective in the Journal Star. Your willing to confront the people in power in Nebraska in ways others are not. But we don’t always line up on the issues, but I’m still so inspired to see a young man with such imagination. As I know you like to post your rejected cartoons,, here’s one I recently submitted to a newsletter I subscribe to, which was unfortunately also rejected. Hope you enjoy it, and maybe it adds a little balance for us right wingers!

- David M. Flanagan III

Thanks, David! If you have a drawing you’d like to share, send it to nealo@nealo.com.

I promise next month’s will be (closer to being) on time. As a bonus, don’t forget I already revealed two rejects from May. So you really get twelve.

10. Man, arena jokes sure seem old by now.

9. So do jokes about the Treasurer’s race.

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In celebration of the 7th anniversary of the Bearded Odyssey, I am re-running the series throughout the summer. This chapter was originally published in The Daily Nebraskan on June 22, 2003.

I’d been walking along the coast of Pacific Beach in San Diego when it was time to go meet my friends at The Tavern. I started up the hill to head down Garnet Avenue when a fluffy-bearded man in a leather jacket muttered something to me from the shadows.

He started on an intimidating combination of scripture and marijuana-induced rambling, burning his fingers trying to light his quarter-inch joint, before formally introducing himself: “Behold, the hand of God! I am Gonzo Yhvh, ben Olam Haba Ebets Yhvh, the archangel of God.”

This was Gonzo — a balding, red-bearded man of probably about 50, although the elements undoubtedly added a few unfair lines to his face. He gave me a brief history of his previous lives on Earth, and how he was reborn into this life in Phoenix, Ariz., (”Get it?” he asked. “I was reborn in Phoenix!” He told me God has a sense of humor that way.) and had just moved to San Diego.

I politely listened to what he had to say, but I explained people were waiting for me at the bar, so I needed to get going. I told him that I’d come find him later.

Now, when I said later, I meant when I someday returned to San Diego, but he called out that when I saw him later, he would come sliding across the floor. “I have my own special door in the back — you’ll see it,” he said. At this point, I figured he was just speaking nonsense about having some door at the bar. But he continued:

“At the bottom of the door is a self-illuminated crystal. Above that is dark red garnet. You walk in the door and everything lights up. You’ll know it’s my door because there’s an eight-sided fountain outside with nothing in it. I asked God if I could put a statue of me in it. You know what he said to me?”

I didn’t, so Gonzo got right in my face for his God impersonation: “Don’t even think about it!” He laughed and took a seat back on the bench.

“Maybe I could put some fish in it. You know…I don’t know if we even have fish in Heaven.” Then he remembered he was talking to me. “So yeah, when you get to Heaven, look me up.”

This was a little too cool to walk away from, so I asked him if he’s always been called Gonzo. My guess was that he had a “normal” name, like Brian or Tom or Chester. Sure enough, he used to have a different name: Onzo.

After explaining the alphanumeric significance of the name Onzo and its relation to Jesus, he told me that the change to Gonzo had less to do with the numerology than it did with his new arch-angelic role: “I was just Onzo,” he said, “but then everything changed. They changed the job description on me.”
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In celebration of the 7th anniversary of the Bearded Odyssey, I am re-running the series throughout the summer. This chapter was originally published in The Daily Nebraskan on June 15, 2003.

Just a kid without a beard.

Obermeyer family lore has it that Buffalo Bill Cody’s favorite niece married into my Grandma’s family long ago. My own travel lore has it that, since I was in Huntington Beach on Memorial Day, I didn’t have an opportunity to visit any departed relatives.

Driving out of Denver on I-70, I saw an exit that said “Buffalo Bill’s Grave.” So here was a chance to make up for the missed holiday and visit an honorary Obermeyer.

There had been signs for the Mother Cabrini shrine grouped with the signs for Buffalo Bill’s Grave, and I was only seeing signs for Mother Cabrini, so I kept going with those. I took a horrible winding road up the side of a mountain and cursed Buffalo Bill for getting buried in such a hard-to-reach place — I fear winding roads, particularly those that cling to sides of mountains.

Off in the distance …
it’s a giant white statue.

I finally arrived at a nun convent on the top of a mountain far above Denver. There was a little chapel at the base of the peak where, in the early 1900s, Mother Cabrini supposedly struck a stone with her cane and water sprung forth that still flows to this day. Up on the peak was a big white statue of what I presumed to be Mother Cabrini. Thinking maybe there was a cemetery up there where Buffalo Bill was buried, I started up the steps.

Now it did occur to me that it would be rather strange that this army scout-turned-showman would be buried at a convent, but here I was, so up I’d go.

It was a creepy walk up, to say the least. Beyond the monuments and decorations along the trail, there were also a lot of signs saying “Beware of dangerous snakes.” To prove my fearlessness (please note sarcasm), I took a picture of one of the signs. I did see one crude, handmade sign that said “Beware of the snake,” so I took a picture of that too.
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