martinimade

Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.

Why are there not more novels set in airports? Just in Newark - perhaps the most Lynchian of airports - there’s a shaggy young dude with an oxygen tank slouched at a deserted gate. He keeps mumbling and laughing. He’s alone, without even a cell phone for cover. I imagine he’s just back from climbing K2, if only because he has that athletic-but-depleted look.

He could, however, just be crazy. Which makes for drama.

Hook him up with the studiously upright blond European guy on my left, whose studiously coloring-in all of the o’s on his box of “Coldicilium,” whatever that is, with a blue ball-point pen.  Maybe he could try to buy a hit off of K2’s O2 tank. Fight breaks out. Turns out they’re brothers, separated at birth because their mom was part yeti (the other part was Tibetan) but identifiable by matching tattoos shaped like the common Herpes virus. 

That third cup of coffee may have been a mistake. Still. Airports are rife with drama, is what I’m saying. 

Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.