by David F Walker | Aug 16, 2026 | News & Updates
1975 director: Paul Bogart; starring Dean Martin, Thalmus Rasulala, Denise Nicholas
Okay, in all fairness, I’ve got to tell you all that this is what we in the business like to refer to as NQB — Not Quite Blaxploitation. This is one of those ‘70s films that has a lot of the trappings of blaxploitation, and even takes many of its cues from the beloved genre, including characters, themes, and music score. But when push comes to shove, no matter how much I may want to call this spade a spade, Mr. Ricco just ain’t an official, 100% blaxploitation film, placing it in the company of films like Report to the Commissioner and Man Friday. But since I paid hard-earned cash to buy a copy of this sumbitch, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t review it as if it were a balls-to-the-wall cinematic exploration of getting revenge against evil honkies.
Dean Martin stars as Joe Ricco, a hard-boiled, liberal defense lawyer who, when the movie starts off, has just successfully gotten his client Frankie Steele (Thalmus Rasulala) acquitted of murder charges. Steele is a leader of the Black Serpents, a controversial group of black militants, and no sooner is he back on the streets, than two cops are murdered in cold blood. Of course, Steele is the prime suspect. But Ricco isn’t convinced his former client is guilty of the murders, so he begins to investigate the case. The problem is that whoever filled the cops fulla lead also wants to unload some buckshot in Ricco’s ass, and it’s only a matter of time before our hero contracts a deadly case of hot lead poisoning.
Mr. Ricco is one of those films that wouldn’t exist as it does if it weren’t for the black action films of the era. The advertising campaign, which bares a resemblance to Greydon Clark’s craptacular Ni@@er Lover, makes the film out to be more blaxploitation that it really is, because the fact of the matter is that Mr. Ricco has more in common with gritty crime films like Dirty Harry than it does blaxploitation films like Trouble Man. One of the film’s biggest problems is that the black characters are all secondary, taking a backseat to Dean Martin’s somewhat miscast hero. Thalmus Rasulala (Cool Breeze) gives a solid performance as Steele, who is easily the most interesting character in the movie, in a role that was clearly inspired by Black Panther Party co-founder Huey P. Newton. But ultimately, Rasulala isn’t given much to do. He only has one scene that has any real weight, and that doesn’t come until the film is well into the second act.
Despite the fact that Mr. Ricco doesn’t officially qualify as a blaxploitation flick, it still works as a midly entertaining crime drama. While Martin wouldn’t be my first choice to play Ricco, he isn’t as terrible in the role as you would expect him to be. Mostly he just seems out of place, occasionally stumbling around as if wandered into this film after a long weekend of heavy drinking, unaware of where he is, or what he’s doing. But as the case continues, and Ricco becomes more conflicted over his role in the proceedings, Martin manages to act with some semblance of conviction.
Director Paul Bogart’s main claim to fame was as a director on television’s All in the Family, but he also directed such films as Halls of Anger, starring Calvin Lockhart. Bogart manages to maintain tension, and the solid script doesn’t chicken out in the final reel, leaving the film with a grim, cynical end, and a cool twist.
by David F Walker | Aug 14, 2026 | News & Updates
DJANGO – 1966 director: Sergio Corbucci; starring: Franco Nero
As far as the uninformed and uninitiated are concerned, when it comes to spaghetti westerns, only one director made films of merit. That director, of course, was Sergio Leone, who made five westerns—four of which deserve their reputations of being among the best westerns of all time. Leone was head and shoulders the best of the filmmakers cranking out spaghetti westerns, but he was not alone (there were, after all, over 600 Eurowesterns produced), but within the rank and file of journeyman directors churning out largely forgettable crap, there were some talented filmmakers. Arguably the best of the spaghetti western directors who was not Sergio Leone was the other Sergio—Corbucci. Once Leone and his films are removed from the equation, a different stick must be used for measuring the spaghetti western. Director Sergio Corbucci’s Django is that stick.
Not as well known or respected by the mainstream as Leone (or perhaps I should say “uniformed American audiences who think they know something about film, but don’t really know jack or shit”), Corbucci was responsible for an incredible list of westerns. Corbucci directed fifteen westerns—some of which rank as the best of the genre—making him responsible for more great westerns than even Leone. In fact, one of his films is considered by some to be the greatest spaghetti western of all time (which I’ll get to later).
Corbucci had already made three other westerns when he directed Django, a film that on the surface was little more than a rip-off of Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars. And yet Django manages to stand on its own merits as a classic, emerging as a more pure representation of the genre. From the opening scene, with Django (Franco Nero) dragging a coffin behind him through the mud, you know you’re in for something special. Mere moments after our hero wanders into town, he’s forced to massacre the local scumbags, with the aid of the Gatling gun he carries in his coffin, and it isn’t long before more hot lead starts flying, and the bodies start piling up in one of the greatest GGM (Gatling Gun Massacres) of the genre. As it turns out, Django is in town to avenge the murder of his wife—a mission that finds him caught in the middle of bloody feud between two gangs, one of which is a bizarre KKK-type group, decked out in red hoods. There are more shoot outs, more bodies piling up, a double-cross or two, and in the end, Django must face an army—with both of his hands smashed to bloody pulps.
Although not his first western, and arguably not his best, Django is the film that established Corbucci as a force to be reckoned with in the genre. Ultimately, this lead the director down a path that resulted in some of the best westerns to come out of Europe. Where Leone’s first two films were revisionist explorations of the American western, Corbucci’s Django was a revisionist exploration of Leone’s revisionist exploration. It almost plays as if the only westerns Corbucci had ever seen were A Fistful of Dollars and For a Few Dollars More. The result is a film brimming with graphic violence, and a stylized sensibility that seems to have sprung from the pages of a comic book.
Part of what makes Django such and incredible film is the star-making performance of 25-year-old Italian actor Francesco Sparanero, better known as Franco Nero. The actor’s first spaghetti western was Albert Band’s Tramplers, and he would go on to appear in films like Camelot, and director John Huston’s The Bible…In the Beginning. But it’s Django that catapulted him to super stardom. Like so many of the other gunslingers to appear in the Eurowesterns of the 1960s, Nero was little more than an imitation of Clint Eastwood, meant to cash in on the popularity of the American actor that had quickly come to define the anti-hero of the spaghetti western. But just as Django proved to be a worthy film in and of itself, Nero proved himself to be far more than an Eastwood imitator. Eastwood’s characters were tame by comparison to Nero’s coffin-dragging gunslinger, who was unlike any hero found in American westerns. Django would become the archetype gunslinger of the Eurowestern, brought to life by the raw charisma of Nero, which cannot be diminished, even when his voice is terribly dubbed by an American actor (seriously, the dubbing in this movie is pretty bad, and if you can find a version with the original Italian dialog and English subtitles, watch that one instead).
Django would prove to be one of the most popular spaghetti westerns of all time, giving birth to a sub-genre of over thirty other films, all with the name Django in the title, including Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained (which features Franco Nero in a brief cameo). But don’t be fooled, ’cause damn near all of the other Django films out there have nothing to do with this film, or this character. These other Django films merely bear the name in an attempt to cash in on the popularity of this movie—the originator—and serve as an example of how bad the Italian film industry was when it came to the art of the rip-off. And it wasn’t just the Italians. In Germany, the film The Shark Hunter (a.k.a. Il cacciatore di squali), starring Nero—which isn’t even a western—was released under the title Django and the Sharks.
I have long held the belief that while there were over 600 spaghetti westerns produced, less than ten percent of them are worth watching. And of those, even fewer are truly great. Django is one of the great ones.
by David F Walker | Aug 11, 2026 | News & Updates
by David F Walker | Aug 10, 2026 | News & Updates
Mention “spaghetti western” to most people—at least in America—and three things come to mind: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
Sergio Leone’s epic western The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly, starring Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, and Eli Wallach, has become the seminal example of the spaghetti western (or the Eurowestern—for those looking to be more politically correct). For many people this is all they know of a genre that barely existed in the United States, and to these uniformed audiences, spaghetti westerns consist of Leone’s The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, its two predecessors—A Fistful of Dollars and For a Few Dollars More—and not much else.
The reality is that spaghetti westerns were an incredibly popular genre of film that spanned more than two decades and spawned more than 600 films. These films redefined the traditional westerns genre, and ultimately impacted cinema in ways that transcended the American cowboy movie, effecting cinema on a global level. European-westerns would transform American television stars and character actors into worldwide superstars, and would bolster the careers of Italian artists like composer Ennio Morricone, director Sergio Corbucci, cinematographer Enzo Barboni, and actor Franco Nero, to name a few. For more than ten years, European casts and crews—mostly, but not exclusively Italian—would crank out the larger-than-life adventures of gunslingers like Django, Sartana, Trinity, and Sabata, which would go on to thrill audiences in Europe and all over the world.
The mythology of the old west and the folklore of the cowboy are among the few things that are uniquely American. Likewise, as an art form, the western is considered by some to be the only genre of film that was totally American, portraying a life style completely foreign to anyone outside North America. Perhaps this is why Europeans became so taken by the adventures of the old west, first in the form the written word, and then in the form of the moving picture. Just as Americans thrilled to the adventures of Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid, so did Europeans.
European filmmakers had tried their hand in crafting westerns as early as the silent era of film. One of the first true spaghetti westerns was The Girl of the Golden West, produced in 1911, and based on Giacommo Puccini’s opera, La fanciulla del West. Joë Hamman, using the name Arizona Bill made several French-produced westerns between 1907 and 1913, including the 1910 film Pendaison à Jefferson City. Yet by and large, the western remained a predominantly American produced film genre for practically sixty years; despite the fact that influential western directors like John Ford and Fritz Lang were actually Europeans.
American films, including westerns, went unseen in Italy under the fascist rule of Benito Mussolini, who was keenly aware of the power of film as propaganda. After Italy’s defeat in World War II, the floodgates opened for American movies. Westerns proved especially popular with Italian audiences, while in America the genre was losing popularity by the mid-1950s, having been replaced by the adventures of cowboys playing out on popular television shows like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. The television western had effectively killed off its older cinematic brother, and by the early 1960s, after thriving for nearly six decades, the western was essentially a dead genre.
Despite the declining popularity of the western in the United States, the genre remained popular in Europe. European producers took it upon themselves to give audiences what was in demand, making their own westerns and Spanish-produced Zorro films. Throughout the mid 1950s and early 60s Spanish, German and Italian filmmakers produced several dozen Eurowesterns, including Savage Guns (1961), The Treasure of Silver Lake (1962), and Gunfight at Red Sands (1963).
Everything changed drastically in 1964, when director Sergio Leone made A Fistful of Dollars, a low budget, re-make of Akira Kurosawa’s samurai film Yojimbo. Leone cast the lead actor of television’s Rawhide, Clint Eastwood, as a mysterious stranger who takes advantage of two feuding families, creating a template for dozens of other films that would soon follow. A Fistful of Dollars was a grim, dirty, violent, and unglamorous look at western mythology, and as such, it was totally revisionary. European audiences responded with favor to this new look at an age-old genre, which for the first time in sixty years seemed completely new. Critics were quick to blast Leone’s twisted view of the traditionally American art form; at best it was an oddity, a cinematic joke, at worst it was blasphemy. And because Leone and many of his partners in cinematic crime were Italian, his film, and those like it were soon labeled “spaghetti westerns,” a derisive term that would eventually be embraced by fans of the stylish genre.
A glimpse at the origin of A Fistful of Dollars also offers a glimpse at the complex origins of the spaghetti western. This is a genre that has roots in two nations that had been at war with the United States during World War II, and in the years following the conflict would embrace the cultural mythology of the American western, reconfiguring that mythology to suit their own cultural needs. In the case of Japan, the American western was adapted and incorporated into the samurai films by Kurosawa, which in turn helped to place Japanese cinema into the global cinematic landscape. In Italy, both the Japanese samurai movie and the American western were then adapted into the new mythology of the spaghetti western, which was less reflective of culture—as was the case with the samurai film—and more reflective of socio-political leanings. As the samurai film used the template of the American western to craft tales of Japanese warriors, the spaghetti western used the template of the American western to craft tales of outlaws and gunslingers that were often infused with leftist, populist, and Marxist ideologies.
The spaghetti western genre was made up largely of low budget films—most shot in a matter of weeks—that catered to working class Italian audiences. These audiences loved plenty of action and violence, were legendary for talking through boring parts of the movie, and known to walk out before a film was over. But despite a target audience that was easy to please and not all that critical, the filmmakers responsible for spaghetti westerns were often working their own socio-political viewpoints into many of these movies. The result would be a genre that was influenced by a generation of writers and directors very critical of oppressive government forces, colonialism, and corrupt law enforcement that were part of the global socio-political revolution that was taking place in the 1960s.
Prior to the emergence of the low-brow westerns coming out of southern Italy, Italian cinema was known for the high-brow contributions of northern Italian filmmakers to the global film market. The political leanings of Marxists filmmakers like Pier Paolo Pasolini and Gillo Pontecorvo, or pioneers of the Italian neorealist movement like Vittorio De Sica and Cesare Zavattini committed to capturing life as it was on film, and not some fantasy of the exceptional, resulted in a powerful cinematic revolution in Italy during the late 1940s and into the 1960s. These filmmakers and their films—who were oppressed under the rule of fascism—went on to define Italian cinema, but were not the exclusive of Italian cinema. Likewise, the same socio-political and creative realities that informed the most revered and well-known Italian directors also impacted Sergio Leone and his spaghetti western brethren—filmmakers like Sergio Corbucci, Sergio Sollima, and Damiano Damiani. Working within a genre already dismissed as lowbrow and working class, and even more derided for not being American, these filmmakers and many others turned out politically-charged tales of outlaw gunslingers that at times were riddled with Marxist influences.
The success and popularity of A Fistful of Dollars led to the production of hundreds of Eurowesterns. Production money came primarily from Italy, Germany, and Spain—where many of the films were shot. The casts were an international ensemble of actors selected to draw in audiences from various countries. American actors in a cast gave a film credibility, while a Polish actor like Klaus Kinski guaranteed audiences in Eastern European counties—leading to Kinski starring in more than twenty films. Casts and crews struggled to communicate with each other over language barriers, and frequently two actors in a scene wouldn’t even know what they were saying to each other, because neither spoke the same language. No dialog was recorded on set, with everything being recorded in postproduction, often times with American voice actors dubbing in new dialog for Italian, German, or Spanish actors—which explains why spaghetti westerns are notorious for their horrible dubbing. As this assembly-line filmmaking process cranked out new movies all the time, the films were released all over the world, in various languages, under as many as ten different titles. Yet despite the global popularity of the genre, only a select few spaghetti westerns made it to America during their heyday.
The era of the spaghetti western would prove to be a prolific time, especially for Italian cinema, as the Eurowestern allowed directors, writers, producers, actors, cinematographers and composers the chance to practice their craft; and expand the boundaries of filmmaking itself. The exciting creative experimentation that was going on under the auspices of the genre are evident in the way many of the films were shot and edited, and especially in the way music was composed and used as accompaniment to the action on screen. This is never more apparent than magical scores of Ennio Morricone, set to the action of some of the genre’s most important films, and the works of some of its most important directors.
Despite all the creative experimentation that was going on under the guise of making westerns, there was also a startling lack of originality. Italian exploitation cinema and its filmmakers have long been known for cannibalizing other films, including their own. The spaghetti western was no different. At times it almost seems as if there was only two or three plot lines making up the majority of all Eurowesterns. Hundreds of variations of the MSSVF (Mysterious Stranger Seeking Vengeance Films) sprang up, all of which were merely re-interpretations of A Fistful of Dollars (which of course was Yojimbo). Sergio Corbucci’s Django alone inspired over 30 “sequels.” Countless other films exploited the HGSPV (Hired Guns Saving Poor Villagers) theme (borrowed from Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai); which gave way to the politically charged leftist messages of the ZRF (Zappata-esque Revolution Film). Characters like the Evil Homosexual In White (EHIW), and the BTR (Bandito Turned Revolutionary) and scenarios like the Gatling Gun Massacre (GGM) became so common place, it’s a wonder audiences didn’t grow weary of seeing the same things done over and over again.
The spaghetti western audience, however, remained faithful, and the genre as a whole grew in popularity. The lack of originality was forgiven by the predominantly working class audience that was looking for escapist entertainment, punctuated with action and violence. And as the popularity of spaghetti westerns grew, so did their influence on American movies. The once uniquely American genre was re-invented by European filmmakers, and the influences soon became increasingly evident. American westerns became more gritty and violent, infused with a moral ambiguity, while the anti-hero replaced the hero. Films like The Professionals, The Wild Bunch, and High Plains Drifter bare so many spaghetti influences that some have mistaken them for actual Eurowesterns. Even non-westerns like Bonnie & Clyde and Easy Rider share similarities with films like Django and The Great Silence, and reflect the growing anti-establishment sentiments of 1960s youth culture.
Today, the legacy of the spaghetti western lives on, not just in the films themselves, but also in the movies that have been influenced by the bombastic exploits of Django, Sartana, Ringo, Trinity, and all the other gunslingers that populated the gritty world of the Eurowestern. Every action film you can think of has either been directly or indirectly influenced by the spaghetti western. And with the release of Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained in 2012, the spaghetti western will enjoy renewed interest that will only ensure the continued survival and impact of the genre.
by David F Walker | Aug 9, 2026 | News & Updates
Shaft had no idea how many women he’d been with. Sometimes, usually when he was with one of them, he’d try to figure out how many there had been. That’s often what he thought about when he was with a woman—her legs open, him deep inside, his mind trying to recall all the others that had come before her.
Shaft knew that he couldn’t remember all of them. He remembered faces. He remembered names. He remembered bodies, and smells, and tastes, and the way one had moaned, or how another had gasped for breath at the moment of climax, but for the most part John Shaft couldn’t remember most women as an entire being. Instead, they were each like a puzzle with too many pieces missing to know what they really looked like.
Sometimes it bothered him, this fact that he had screwed so many broads, and he couldn’t even recall most of them. Hell, he knew the exact number of people he’d killed. But he didn’t know the number of women he’d balled.
To be sure, there were a few that he remembered. They were the ones that made an impression on him. The ones that were important enough in his life that he made room for them in his memories. There’d been the girl he lost his virginity to—Wonder Wanda. He’d been fourteen, and she’d been older, though he never knew for sure how much older. Two years? Maybe as many as five?
Shaft knew plenty of guys that had lost their virginity to Wonder Wanda. That was her specialty—her hustle—she was a cherry popper. She’d given plenty of boys in West Harlem their first taste, but as far as Shaft knew, no one got a second. And no one got it for free. Like so many others in the neighborhood, she’d figured out a way to get by. She wasn’t a trick, or anything like that—at least not like some of the other ladies that sold their bodies. No, Wonder Wanda was different.
He’d never admitted it to anyone, but he’d been in love with Wonder Wanda since the moment he’d first seen her. Shaft tried to make time with other chicks, but he wanted Wanda bad enough, and to lose his virginity bad enough that he did what a lot of other guys he knew had done—stolen a bunch of food from the local grocer, and traded it for some pussy. That was her thing—Wanda traded what she had for the food she needed to feed her younger siblings. Anyone who tried to pay her in cash got turned away. And anyone who was suspected of not being a virgin didn’t get any. Wonder Wanda liked them inexperienced and awkward, fumbling around her body, coming too quickly, and appreciative that she’d help them get past one of the inconveniences of adolescence.
Shaft had stolen an entire pot roast, some vegetables, and a loaf of bread. “No one’s ever traded this much,” Wanda told him.
Maybe that’s why she gave him a second taste for free, when she never gave anyone a second taste, let alone of a third or a fourth. She told him once that she’d never been with anyone as much as she’d been with him, and that he’d been the only one to get some without offering something in return. Not that he didn’t have anything to give. Shaft was too young to realize it at the time, but he’d been the closest thing to a real lover Wonder Wanda had ever had. Everyone else just fucked her.
Wonder Wanda moved away while Shaft had been locked up in juvenile detention for the first time. He never saw her again.
Shaft could still see her face in his mind as if he’d just seen her an hour earlier. And yet he couldn’t remember the names or faces of so many of the others. He couldn’t even remember the name of the woman lying beneath him at that moment, her legs wrapped around his waist. His mind was clouded by too much Johnny Walker Black Label, not that his poison of choice was what kept him from knowing the name of the woman whose hips thrust in unison to his.
Shaft liked to get laid, but for the most part, with a few exceptions, that’s all he liked. Conversations bored him. Museums and art galleries held no interest. Going to the movies was something you did by yourself. Most important, he didn’t like getting to know new people—especially women. Getting to know someone meant getting invested in them, and he couldn’t do that ever again. Not after the last time.
So, he just got laid, and tried to avoid all the bullshit that came with sex, like caring and remembering. Fucking felt good. Caring and remembering led to pain. He’d endured enough pain.
He wondered what “the shrink” would say about that. She was one of the few he remembered. Dr. Monica LaSalle, a high profile psychiatrist that had been one of his clients.
Monica had hired Shaft to get the dirt on her husband, whom she suspected had been having an affair. Cases like this were no-brainers for Shaft, and he’d earned a reputation amongst Park Avenue white women whose husbands had developed a taste for something darker. These women would hire Shaft to get the proof they needed to divorce their husbands, and then some of them ended up in bed with him. Shaft figured it was their idea of revenge, inspired by their husbands dabbling on the dark side, and maybe even that movie Behind the Green Door.
Shaft could tell whenever he bedded a white woman that had been adventurous enough to watch the porn flick where skinny Marylyn Chambers had taken in every inch of Johnnie Keyes. All that hippie, free-love bullshit had provided a lot of white women the excuse to experiment sexually in the late 1960s, but Behind the Green Door had changed the game—even more so than Deep Throat. It made big black studs the fantasy du jour of white women who either wanted to feel something of substance between their legs, or had deep-seeded issues involving slavery.
Everywhere he went, Shaft seemed to meet some white chicks who had seen Behind the Green Door, and was looking to get screwed by some gangly spade with cheap-ass jungle make-up on. Shaft had no desire to don a loincloth or warrior paint on his face, but he could screw them just fine because he liked to screw.
The problem became the fact that he’d taken a few too many of these easy divorce cases, become the revenge fuck of vindictive white women, and started to feel more like a gigolo than a private detective.
Monica LaSalle had been one of those vindictive women. She also happened to be a psychiatrist. Most of his clients had been her clients. After several rounds of revenge against her husband, she had started talking to Shaft. At first it was pillow talk, but at some point it felt less like he was laying in bed next to a naked woman, and more like he was on some shrink’s couch.
He wondered how he’d gone from getting laid to getting his head shrunk, and it didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t want anyone telling him that his sexual desires were really a cry for help, or whatever the fuck it was she’d said to him, between talking about abandonment issues and arrested development. Shaft sent her a bill for his services, stopped fucking her, stopped fucking the other angry Park Avenue wives, and went back to doing whatever it was he did by screwing so many women he didn’t remember—including this most recent one.
Soon enough she would climax, or he would, and then they could both roll over and go to sleep. He wouldn’t even have to forget her name, because he’d already forgotten.
by David F Walker | Jul 20, 2026 | News & Updates
I’m heading back to Kickstarter to help cover the cost of a second printing of my graphic novella The Death of Bobby Hart. In addition to the book that I published last year, this time around, I’m also offering The Death of Bobby Hart – Compact Edition. This shorter version of the book features just the main story (68 pages) and three pin-ups — none of the other back matter is in this edition. The size dimensions are a bit smaller than a standard comic, the binding is saddle-stitch (stapled and folded), and it features an all-new cover by Dietrich O. Smith. Two versions of the same book — the Deluxe Edition, packed full of bonus material and a cover by Canaan White, and the Compact Edition with a cover by Dietrich O. Smith.
Sign up to be notified when the Kickstarter launches later this month. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dfwalker/the-death-of-bobby-hart-second-printing
by David F Walker | Jul 13, 2026 | News & Updates
A lot of my Insomnia Doodles are done digitally on my tablet, but every now and then I go old school and bust out paper and pen (and on rare occasions I’ll use a pencil). Here’s a character that came to me at around 2am the other day. I couldn’t sleep, and my mind was racing, thinking about how the lack of accountability and honesty on the part of other people can impact our lives. I thought to myself, “It’s like other people’s shit is a monster that can attack at any time.” And that’s when this character appeared in my mind — a monster that represents the nonsense, dishonesty, and bullshit of other people.
I then did some more doodles of this particular monster…
And finally, I did a digital drawing on my tablet…
I still don’t have a name for this character. Here are some potential names…
Turdemon (or Turddemon)
Dookie Demon,
Dookie Devil
Phart Phantom
Crappa-Dappa-Doo-Doo
MonDookie
Any of those names stand out to you?
by David F Walker | Jul 11, 2026 | News & Updates
This is the final of four insomnia doodles that I started all in the same night late last week. This is the last one that I started to work on, and the only one that began with an idea in mind. The other three started as random shapes and lines that I built on until they had some semblance of character, but this one started with the concept of “an explorer wearing a helmet.” The first shape I drew was a circle — the helmet — and then I followed with shapes, lines, and patterns…all with the intention of creating some kind of explorer wearing a helmet. At some point I will try coloring all of these, and maybe I’ll even write stories about all of them.
by David F Walker | Jul 10, 2026 | News & Updates
It started as one random doodle during a night of insomnia, but before I finally was able to get to sleep I had started working on four different drawings. Over the course of the next few nights I worked on each of the drawings, adding lines and shapes to each until they felt complete. This is the third drawing that I started on the first night. Tell me if you see something other than a series of random shapes and patterns.
by David F Walker | Jul 10, 2026 | News & Updates
Another night of not being able to fall asleep… actually, it was multiple nights of not being able to fall asleep in which this particular insomnia doodle came into being. I wanted to try something very different than what I normally do when I do one of these Sugar Skulls. And while this one is clearly different from all of the others, I’m not really sure how I feel about it. Still, I figured I’d share it with everyone. I mean…what’s the point of making some kind of art while sleep deprived if you aren’t going to show it off to everyone?
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