Writing comedy and being funny are two separate things. I’m now officially spending several evenings each week working on the spec pilot I’ve been wanting to write for over a year and it’s very clear that writing is hard enough on its own – writing something truly funny is feeling impossible.

But that’s “feelings”. I’m a man. I don’t need soft, warm, nourishing “feelings” to make it through life. Just success. Hard, cold, empty “success”.

The video above (which I stumbled upon a few weeks ago) is “inspiring” me to find more comedy in the everyday. Maybe I’m trying too hard? Maybe the real humor will come from the honest, raw depths of my own self. I think I need to be open to sharing and baring myself for funny bits. Baring my funny bits to the world and making the laughter wash all over me.

In a given year, I might hope to have maybe one magical moment during which I can step outside myself long enough to see myself – see what’s REALLY real.  I might catch a glimpse of what’s behind what’s going on with me – and hopefully, in that instant, even re-see the whole world with pristine eyes.

Apparently, any epiphany I think I might have had seems to revolve around a recurring theme: I uncover that the streaming feed of chatter in my head actually has nothing to do with anything important to me or anything true.  In a brief flash of clarity, I suddenly see that what’s driving my inner monologue is actually some old, outdated logic that, once extracted from my cluttered mind and glimpsed on its own, reveals itself: crystal clear bullshit.  Once seen for what it is, it can (hopefully) never again be unseen.  A filter is recognized as a filter, and is then removed for cleaning or disposal – shifting the way I process the data with more clarity and honesty.

It’s always good news to discover you’re stupid, I feel.  Being smart about the areas you’re stupid must be the best you can do.  Knowing really is half the battle.

Here is what I learned about me this week…  First, let me explain that I’ve been working really hard at work, lately.  It’s been an extraordinarily, challengingly, busy six months.  My list of projects at work feels like it might actually truly be exactly infinite.  It feels as if I’m juggling knives but each knife is actually a Rubik’s Knife®: its own obtuse puzzle that I suck at and only have a moment to focus on before I have to toss it up and catch the next one so I don’t slice my wrists.  Yes, okay – I make cartoons mostly, but this is by far the most anythings I’ve been responsible for producing, with the most money at stake, for the most people.  Apparently, I’m a responsible adult since I find I have a deep drive to actually deliver these things on time and to the quality they deserve, which is probably why any of this manifests as stressy pressure (or as everyone never calls it “stressure”).

My reaction to these stressurized circumstances has been, I think, unremarkable:  I have been freaking out.  I’ve been frantic, harried and weird (in a reasonably graceful way) as I run from meeting to conference call to review to pitch to kickoff to email to meeting to conference call to meeting review to pitch to meeting to kickoff to email.  I’d say I have a generally easy and playful personality, so I’m sure some people I deal with hadn’t noticed – but as the projects piled on each other and my days became more uncomfortably intense, my inner voice was getting sassier.  Like a subliminal tape, it bitched forth a nearly inaudible loop of grumbling against my workload: “this shit is bullshit”.

So, on Wednesday (not sure why Wednesday did it), I finally realized – to my surprise – WAIT.  ALL OF THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I’VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF.

I’ll concede there may be more to simultaneously track in my brain than I’d prefer, but if all my dreams of writing, directing and producing came true to their most unbelievably Hollywoody happy endings, I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing now (but likely, actually, MORE).

Humbling and lame, but also awesome and a massive relief, I think.  I’m always trying to imagine what it’ll be like – once my “real” professional life begins, someday…  I’ve been struggling to picture that kind of success and freedom in my head so that maybe I might summon it into the physical plane just by the sheer knowing of it.  So, if all my dreams had come true a month ago – if I’d sold my dream TV show, or been in the middle of the directing gig of my boldest, most egomaniacal fantasies, I would’ve been a stressed out dick about it??  I’d have been a fucking victim to it???!?!??!?!?

This realization was fast-acting brain relief.

The circumstances of my work only intensified as the week progressed, but the panic disappeared.  I had fun in the face of it all.  I had the emotional space to be playful and open-minded and friendly.  I actually felt more focused and willing to face the challenges with the seriousness they deserved, without the filter of drama and anxiety.  I’m scared to think how much more effective I’d have been if the veil had been lifted months ago – but I’m glad it’s gone.  I feel at peace and at home in the chaos.  All this high stakes insanity isn’t just okay, it’s awesome and exactly where I should be.

The wife is sick with a fever – in bed since before I got home at 4 today.

Ida and Mae are asleep in their new bunkbed – complete with kitten stickers from its previous little girls.  Mine somehow didn’t notice the stickers until I pointed them out when I got home today.  I could see their little wheels turning – fun.

Charlotte, with a crusty runny nose and a light fever herself, just fell asleep in my arms watching loud standup clips on YouTube.

Tomorrow, I will know what’s happening tomorrow – whether Jo will be napping and nursing through Thanksgiving while I make food (?!) or if she will have triumphed against her body’s enemies and my belly.

For now, I’m going to relax.  Alone-ish.

This guy.  You know – that character actor who always plays the heavy.  In my head.

I should finish an image one of these days.  Seriously.  All of these could be real drawings, but they’re not really – they’re kind of like sketches of drawings instead.  What the hell.

I like this guy’s face.  It got pretty sculptural for me.  I wanna touch his nose.

And… Oh shit – this guy?  I fuckun love this guy!  Blobby muthafucka!  Shit.

I like drawing weird little dudes.  Nothing is new.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Writing these posts, I’ve decided on the need for two simultaneous sketchbooks: a hardbound book  for “free” drawing; experimental stuff to keep my brain and hand loose and amuse myself – and another spiralbound book for “assignments”; goal-oriented drawing, like character designs.

I’ve decided this because in the middle of my purple book (and peppered throughout, really) there are a ton of decent and shitty drawings for some of my development projects.  Most of them are attempts at heroic poses for the pitch bible for an action series I’ve been working on for nearly a decade.  These kinds of drawings need their own place of utility and revision.

I’m sure this is important information for you too!  I’m actually very happy to have finally figured out how to organize these things!

Of course, if I ever get the Wacom Inkling, none of this will matter.

Here are the drawings:

I can’t not draw strange creaturepeople.  Not sure what else is inside my brainhand.

Okay, the above and below were drawn while I was working on an idea for a show about a manipulative downtown hipster weirdo who lives in the fantasy world of his past successes.  I now think it’d be better live action.  Or documentary!  Hoooo!

The below dude would be a secondary character: the young aggro friend.

I was trying to find a fun and simple 2D style that could work for a world of hip artsy people.  I was going to center it around a music scene – young and hungry creative people hanging out in bars, meeting the phony impresario character and falling for it.  I didn’t take any of the drawings very far – just trying to find a simple style I might be able to do a quick short with.

Feels odd posting some of these half-baked things.  Then again, feels odd posting anything!  I’m an under-sharer by nature.

But with you… with you, it’s different somehow.  You make me feel… beautiful again.
Love you, bye!

The year after I graduated from college, I started a company with friends, started calling myself a “Creative Director” and all drawing became a thing of urgent task/assignment/utility.  A useful means to ends I didn’t even care about.

I get to draw a lot these days, but I’m still far away from the frequency and variety of yesteryear – but I’m working on it.

Recently, I discovered that at home I’m still drawing in a sketchbook I started over 5 years ago.  I’m relieved that it’s almost full and I can start again.  I can recommit to taking drawing seriously and put a finished composition of some kind on every page.  Until then, here are some of my (few) favorites from the book I’m still on:

These first couple were at the beginning of the sketchbook.  I could draw like this forever.  It uses the same fake anatomy part of my brain that drawing superheroes required in Junior High.  Molten voluminous flesh.

This next guy… he ain’t hearing your bullcrap.

I drew this cat from something on TV.  I paused some old cartoon and drew the cat – not sure what it and I don’t remember if I took any liberties with it or wanted to just capture the thing from my DVR.  I will never know, I’m sure.

I’ll post more soon.

I don’t have time to read them, but I deeply enjoy holding their shiny little booklet pages, looking at the big pictures, the advertisements.  Since I skip most TV commercials, seeing magazine ads are sometimes the only way I can keep tabs on what’s being dumped on consumers at any given moment.

This year I’ve had four magazine subscriptions: National Geographic, Smithsonian, Wired, and The (new) Hollywood Reporter.  I let The Hollywood Reporter lapse a couple months ago and I feel like I let Wired lapse two years ago, but it keeps coming.  I really don’t think I pay for this – knowing that they don’t make profits from subscriptions, I’m guessing they just keep sending me (and others) issues to keep their circulation stats healthy.

National Geographic and Smithsonian are both great publications that I can’t possibly keep up with.  They become occasional bathroom reading.  I have stacks of National Geographics STILL IN THEIR PLASTIC in my office and home.  I want to read them – there’s always something amazing going on in there – but I just don’t have the time.  Both of these were thoughtful gifts from my dear mother, but I will ask her to let them lapse now as a new present.  Having unread magazines presents a similar stress to having unwatched episodes on the DVR.  We’re constantly between 85% and 95% full on our DVR that needs cleaning out.  We choose what to watch often based on an algorithm which calculates what will be erased against what we’re in the mood for.  It’s not an algorithm, it’s a subtle emotional response to seeing the queue.  If we watched a lot of CurrentTV, we’d really need an Al-Gore-rhythm.

But I was reminded recently how powerful print media can be, while holding the Spirit Bear issue of National Geographic in my tiny hands (I’m roughly the size of a stick of butter).  Look at this beautiful photography.  The cover looks like a Renaissance painting – like it was staged for the glory of God and exaggerated to enhance His magick powers.  Maybe Early Renaissance since there isn’t much realistic depth.

I thought this would delight you, since you probably don’t have a subscription to this magazine.  I also thought I could finish this post easily since the other ones I’ve been working on for the past month (I literally have 14 ‘Drafts’ of posts I’ve started) are much harder to write since they’re more personal and meaningful.  One is about juggling.  Proof.

Look at this amazing bear, though!

Here’s the original photo without the gross drop shadow text all over it.

Supernatural forces exist in some forms, for sure.  I don’t know if there are aliens or ghosts or psychic things, but I know there’s more to it all than what I perceive with my eyes and can manipulate in my physical world.

How do I know this to be true?

I once summoned a dragon into this plane.  Years ago.  An amazing magical dragon.  She shifts shape just to hide in this place, but she’s still a magical dragon.

Bringing her here took some pretty elaborate spell-casting on my part.

The steps and ingredients needed to summon a magic love dragon are simple and few, but each one is an ontological hero’s quest unto itself.  I was studying with powerful sorcerers, so it only took four months!

No, I haven’t gone crazy.  Unless you count crazy in love!  Then, I’m crazy.

Here’s a picture from our fourth date:

I’m not kidding about any of this except for the intro to the image.

Sorcery!  Use it!

Sometimes I complain (in my head) when I’m designing something.  The truth is – if I’m the one doing it, it’s probably not getting the attention it needs at any given moment.  But then in those other moments, when I’m lost in the layout – thinking and looking and pushing things here and there and just zoning out in the zone… it is magical and satisfying when it’s really working.

Well it’s satisfying when it’s done.  Up until then it’s a lot of frowning and tweaking and tossing things out that aren’t working.  I’m lucky in so many ways that I’ve been able to step back from these two projects, work on other kinds of things (storyboarding, writing) and then returning with fresh eyes.  It’s a rare luxury for sure to have this kind of slow cooking on design assignments.

I realize too that I go through phases with what I’m liking, visually – much in the same way I do with what I wear.  It changes year to year.  I might be liking a kind of font pairing more these days in the same way I might be liking a certain cut of pants more these days (or whatever).  I don’t look at my contemporaries’ work very often (or fashion things ever), but I do live a life which is packed with inspiration and visual stimulation and I work really hard at maintaining that as much as anything.

Awesome.

I’m not going to include an image in the body of this post so you can relax and enjoy the lovely design of this free WordPress theme my site uses: “Sight” by Wpshower.  It’s really nice.  I will inevitably get bored with it sometime in the immediate future.

That strange little girl was me at 13.  I was more happy-go-lucky and social, but I was weird.  I went weird at 11.  I left for Summer camp that year a normal kid and came back a weirdo, hungry for music nobody had heard of.  I remember telling my big brother about some band I’d heard called Depeche Mode.  The counselors had played some shit that was nothing like the music we had on the radio.  It changed my life.

Before that, I remember Adam and I owned a few tapes: the Ghostbusters soundtrack, Footloose soundtrack, and the Beat Street soundtrack.  Don’t know why it was only soundtracks.  I’m sure our parents (who likely co-selected these) had something in mind – or at least were just riding the culture wave of the day.  The radio of the day played a steady mix of Van Halen and dance pop.  Only.

What started as curiosity and discovery became rebellion: towards popular music, popular clothes, popular people.  I wonder what was so attractive about it all, back then?  Did I think it made me cool?  Eventually, totally.  I spent decades making decisions that were governed (and hampered) by whether or not something was cool enough or different enough.

No.  As I look back, thinking about what did it for me that first weird year – listening to New Order, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Ramones, The Smiths.  I was attracted by its sheer otherness – but it was also some really amazing shit.  It surprised me.  I felt smarter after listening.  And I felt for the first time I could be anybody I wanted.  I didn’t have to appeal to the anointed few at school who seemed to already have everything.  Something inside me already knew I didn’t belong in their world, and that that was okay.

Maybe it meant there was no normal.  There were just things that a lot of people decided to agree about – but that didn’t mean they were right.

I was lucky though.  I didn’t have to really rebel to get there.  I was slick enough never to fully be an outcast.  I adapted and survived pretty painlessly.  It wasn’t a reaction to being somehow broken.  I wore black on the outside, but I didn’t feel like it inside.  Not totally.

This wasn’t me, but I wore this shirt.  This is a hasty Photoshop someone did for The Onion.

I put the song above into my annual anniversary mixtape for wifey.  She’s exactly weird enough for me.

I take that back.  I actually have ALWAYS had it easy.  Easier than almost everyone ever.  I’ve been spared nearly all imaginable traumas, I have marketable talents, my parents are alive, people enjoy my company, I’m deeply in love with a beautiful wife and I have healthy children who seem to be genuinely nice people so far.  I have a great job that pays me enough to keep it all together and I am generally safe from physical harm.  In my relationships with people I have won more than lost.

But inside my brain…  I do have struggles in there.  I can doubt my every move, trash talk myself to myself (I’m a good listener), wince and say shitty things when I look at pictures of me or see my reflection.

I don’t know if I always have had these inner struggles (I can’t remember that much before age 14, frankly) but I do know that during my time on Earth, my brain will be the main battleground of a bitter and senseless war with my self on infinite fronts.  It would be as dramatic as it sounds if it wasn’t (apparently) the basic stipulation of the human condition.

So, I’m not special.  Also, my “problems” are silly.

This is what I most complain about:  wanting to increase my feelings of satisfaction through personal accomplishment.  I have “white person problems” – though that’s not even really a “person” problem.  That’s not even a fucking problem.

Yet when I said, “I haven’t always had it easy. Who has?” – I actually meant that.  That feeling is true for me too.  Buddha said, “Nobody said it was going to be EASY.”  He didn’t say that but he said shit like that I think – and that’s a profound lesson for me.  I capitalized ‘easy’ for emphasis.  My Buddha character isn’t saying you won’t or shouldn’t or can’t, it’s just that we should all acknowledge a basic fundamental truth:  life is a struggle not a snuggle.  Or that there is a balance between the forces of struggles and those of snuggles… a delicate balance that has always been and always will be – and you alone can restore the balance at any given moment because you and you alone… are the golden child!  What?!  Nice!  You did it!  Congrats!  Me too!

I guess what I’m really saying is that we all struggle.  Even my heroes fail sometimes.  It’s a relief to see, in a way.  I don’t get much freude from other people’s schaden, but it relieves the pressure I put on myself when the people I look up to can’t pull it off either sometimes – reminds me I should be more comfortable with failing.  I will certainly fail many more times if I play my cards right – I’ve failed plenty before – so I might as well factor it in as part of the creative process.  I will again be guilty of poor execution.  Jokes that aren’t funny.  Missed opportunities and bad decisions.  In almost every way, but especially in the realm of writing – I’m a novice.  I’m learning my way around.  I don’t know shit.

In the moments when I find myself able to empathize with one of the emotional roller coasters a given daughter is experiencing on a given day, I might say to myself “it’s tough being a kid” and I can list decent reasons.  The biggest is that when you’re little, you have no sense of scale – of proportion.  How can a 4-year-old possibly yet know that it’s not the end of the world that they can’t find the other stuffed bunny?  To them it feels like it.  To them it makes sense to literally fall to your knees, sob uncontrollably – even scream out in anguish with all you’ve got.

When the battles rage in my brain, I am certainly thankful that I have trained myself  for some inner peace – some sense of scale.  I’m very lucky I’m not a 4-year-old girl – I have some tools to put out fires in my head.  Sometimes I can even quash the brain beef before it comes to brain fists at all.  Am I using too many metaphors yet?  No.  Am I better at defusing negative inner dialogue than writing good character dialogue?  Probably, actually.  So I should be thankful, actually.  Always, anyways.

I could probably keep writing about this crap for days – I feel like I’m not fully getting to the point.  Maybe I don’t have a point.

But I like to have pictures, so I will somewhat arbitrarily include the following…

Let this picture from my journey to Queens this Summer be a constant reminder to not sweat failure.  I think that’s what this post ended up being about.  To me, C-Town is a horrible place to buy groceries (or do anything else really), but on the other hand it’s a brightly-lit place filled with nourishment, delicious treats and fresh fruit and vegetables.  It’s struggles and snuggles in one.

There, I figured out why the picture isn’t arbitrary!  I solve problems.