Gilbert Gott-Socks

Here’s an anecdote that amused me, and apparently few others. I recently sent this video to family and co-workers, telling them it was one of the funniest things I ever heard, and none of them got it. In fact, most of them seemed to think I was strange for enjoying it.

Sorry for not embedding the damn thing, by the way. For some reason YouTube doesn’t feel like sharing.

Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m so isolated in my opinion. I mean, think about it: the good people of New York, still black-eyed from 9/11, gratefully donate essentials to the heroic fire fighters of Manhattan. The fire fighters don’t want or even need them, though. That’s pretty funny on its own, but here comes Gilbert Gottfried, probably the only comedian cheaper than Jack Benny, who, with no ounce of shame, says, “Hell, I’ll take ’em for ya!”

And off trots Gottfried with the kindness of so many 9/11 victims. These people essentially donated to Mr. Peabody. That’s pretty freakin’ hilarious. I just wish my friends felt the same way.

Maybe I’m being insensitive about the situation. Is it still too soon for jokes like this? I mean, I have co-workers who weren’t even alive in 2001; I figured the embargo on humor was lifted by now. Besides, the story doesn’t make light of the 9/11 attacks, but of misguided gifts and Gottfried’s tight wallet.

It could be that Gottfried himself is the problem here. Crazy as it sounds, the guy just doesn’t appeal to everyone! I think he’s hilarious. He’s cracked me up since I was a kid in the 80s. With a lengthy career like that, surely he has more fans than just myself. Sure would be nice to share videos with one someday!

My Turn, Murakami

Seven years ago, I went through a tough time. Work stressed me out to the point that I felt very unfulfilled and depressed. I stopped exercising, ate nothing but Little Caesar’s pizzas, and shaved my head like Britney Spears on extra-fruitcake mode. It kinda sucked.

Something I found that helped, however, was walking. There was a bike trail near my apartment complex that stretched halfway across town. I would go there on weekends and just walk that trail back and forth for hours. Sometimes I would read while I went, other times I would listen to music, and still other times I would do nothing else at all but feel my body move. I had always hated exercise, but I was beginning to understand why people did it, aside from trying to prolong their lives and look nice.

“God, Kathy, your ass looks so good! How do you do it?”

One of the many things Alan Watts taught me was the concept of “walking meditation.” Apparently it’s a big thing among monks throughout the ages. Before Watts mentioned it in his lecture, I had thought of meditation as sitting, lotus-style, on a mountaintop with one’s elbows on the knees. That, of course, is one manner of meditating, but walking is apparently just as good. The point of meditation has nothing to do with what one does with the body, but what one does with the mind. Or, rather, what one’s not doing with the mind.

Of course, this isn’t news to those who take walks to relieve stress. To me, a person who has serious trouble controlling his thoughts, it’s quite a revelation. Unfortunately, I’ve found that it still takes some serious practice to get right.

I don’t live by that bike trail anymore, and walking my dog is usually more stressful than anything else, so I have to make do with my treadmill. You see, when my life crashed in 2014, I gained a lot of weight. I went from one-hundred and thirty-nine pounds to one-hundred and ninety-seven. My belly protruded, my thighs rubbed, and my neck swelled until it was as wide as my jawline. I told myself that I might be a loser, but I’m not going to be a fat loser, and I started making changes.

So now I run thirty minutes a day on the treadmill, sweating my ass — and hopefully my paunch — off in gushing streams. It’s hard sometimes, and I still have days when I’m tempted to skip it.

I know I can’t though. Not only do I feel guilty and worried about gaining weight back, I get physically tense. I’ve been working the mill for so long now that my body has gotten used to it, and complains to me when it can’t get its fix. I had heard of people getting addicted to exercise, but I never thought that I’d experience it myself. I’d always thought of exercise as a miserable chore. I know that exercise helps me to feel better: it relieves my anxiety and makes me feel accomplished. Still, I have that feeling that it’s a just a dumb necessity that I have to force myself through each day.

I’m searching for ways to change that idea as I run. The method that seems to work best is to stop thinking of myself as a pilot, sitting in the skull and operating a pair of legs, but as a pair of legs working on their own. No joke: I close my eyes, and try to “push” my consciousness down into my legs and feet. I try to let them take charge for a while. It sounds weird, I know, but it actually helps.

And why not? My legs are me, after all. They have just as much right to be called me as my mind does. Who says my mind is the boss, anyway? The heart is pretty damn important. If it goes, everything goes. The stomach has a lot of sway, I’d say. Even the spleen has its own say-so. This ain’t a solo, it’s a harmony.

Believing that my mind runs the show creates all kinds of tension. All my mind wants to do is bounce around from one artificial worry to another. It thinks on how much time I have left before work, how tired I am, how sweaty I’m getting, how many calories I’m burning, oh God how much longer do I have to keep doing this, and so on. It drapes a filter of definitions over the experience and separates from it completely. No wonder it gets exhausting.

Thinking of myself as legs removes all that. As legs, I’m doing what I was made for. I’m moving, I’m gliding, I’m shining onstage. I’m a stallion on the plains, galloping, grunting, sweating, and loving every minute of it. The rhythm of my breathing, the stretch of my muscles, the push off the earth beneath me — they’re all glorious sensations to relish, to soak up, to be glad for.

I can’t say if this is the legendary “runner’s high” that I’ve heard tales about, but it might be close. I can say that it’s a kind of meditation, though. It gets me out of my head and in touch with reality, which can’t be broken down into alphanumerics, no matter how hard we wish that it could.

Final: John Goodman as Roland Turner

“Why is nothing going right for me? My life is a big bowl of shit.”

Here’s another certainty for you: If John Goodman is in a Coen brothers movie, he’s going to be a monster.

No exceptions. Consider Gale Snoats in Raising Arizona. Consider Karl Mundt in Barton Fink. Consider Walter Sobchak in The Big Lebowski. Consider Big Dan Teague in O Brother, Where Art Thou?, and then consider this: Roland Turner, the junkie jazzman of Inside Llewyn Davis. It’s Goodman’s best role yet, in the best Coen brothers movie yet.

Inside Llewyn Davis is a masterpiece of all things film. It reminds me of Barton Fink, in that it’s about an idealistic New York artist whose life enters progressive collapse, but its ambition is restrained. Llewyn’s purpose is small and specific: it means only to explain how its title character winds up beaten in a back alley. It walks to that line and then stops, and this frustrates people, because the story leading to the event is so captivating.

Llewyn Davis is an aspiring folk singer in the 60s, and a mess of contradictions. He has an image in his mind of what a musician should be, and he feels that uncompromising adherence to this image should be enough for him to find financial success. Of course, this attitude gets him nowhere: he surfs couches, eludes pregnancies, judges his peers, and generally bums off everyone he knows.

When a fellow musician offers a car seat for a trip to Chicago, Llewyn sees a real opportunity to break into the business and turn his life around. Maybe, once he gets there, Llewyn can get face-time with club owner Bud Grossman, and land himself a serious gig. It’s during this surreal sojourn that he becomes trapped with the grumbling beatnik Johnny Five, and the ultra-hip Turner.

Turner reminds me of Barton Fink’s W.P. Mayhew, in that he’s also an older, more successful version of his film’s protagonist, but who is also broken down, washed up, and chemically dependent. Worst of all, Turner is unlikeable in the worst possible way: he’s a complete and irredeemable egotist. Like the know-it-all at your office, Turner has an opinion on everything, and he’s happy to let you know about it. To him, folk songs are a joke, and only jazz counts as true music. He considers himself a master pool player, and a worldly connoisseur of food, though some of it makes him shit himself.

Turner occasionally shows interest in Llewyn’s life, but it’s only so he can find a platform to spring into stories about himself. Aside from that, Turner peppers Llewyn with insults, jabs him with his cane, and requires frequent stops for “bathroom breaks.” The only peace Llewyn gets on the trip are during the long periods when Turner’s zonked out on smack.

In time, Turner waddles into dangerous territory when he asks about Llewyn’s former singing partner, who committed suicide. This is a subject that, for Llewyn, is still fresh and painful, and even touching on it causes him to lash out in anger. Of course, Turner doesn’t touch on it, but stomps on it like a child on an anthill, and so Llewyn quietly threatens him.

In response, Turner explains that he’s a practitioner of Santeria and other strange arts. He tells Llewyn that he’s above the folderol of fist fighting; he has the power to curse people. At first, this bluster sounds like the “Real mature, guys” thing that nerds use on bullies, but one must wonder, in light of the events that follow, whether there’s something to it after all.

Going over this, I’m not really sure why I find Roland Turner so fascinating. Maybe it’s because I feel for his rap, as it were. He’s a terrific asshole, forever in the process of salving his own ego. He is proud to be so many miles above the rest of the world, and yet he’s bitter that the world doesn’t understand his greatness. His character is a sad warning to Llewyn, who is similarly deluded. The fact is that Llewyn may not be suited for the life of a professional musician, but to him, anything else is mere “existence.” He doesn’t see that living in his own head and craving superiority over others only results in hateful isolation.

John Goodman, for all his charm, has always had a bit of menace about him: there’s a well of rage beneath his skin that you don’t want to poke into. He doesn’t unleash that beast in this movie, though. Instead, he affects a distant haughtiness that’s perfect for the role. Some viewers might be confused at his inclusion in the story, as it seems ornamental, but the performance is too tremendous to leave out. I also think that his presence facilitates a certain decision for Llewyn, one that will devastate most audiences. God bless Mr. Goodman for making it unforgettable, and God bless the Coens for bringing us one of the best movies ever made.

Winning! Internet Arguments

As many of you know, internet assholes are everywhere, and they exist in many different varieties. From the dopey douche-bro who can reach no higher than schoolyard insults, to the smug pseudo-intellectual who insists that scolding and belittling amounts to a “discussion,” you’ve got quite a motley crew out there, just waiting for the opportunity to feel superior to you. Once you let them in, there’s no escaping: you’re locked in an exhausting battle of wills that will only end when one of you gets bored. There’s no face-saving in a situation like this, and even though nobody cares but you and the person you’re dueling, odds are that you’ll end up feeling pretty bummed and strung out when it’s all over.

Well, folks, I have good news for you. I have solved this problem. Next time someone comes at you with cocky, smirking arrogance, wave them away with a tactic they can’t possibly get past: the Fortune Cookie Defense.

Yes, the Fortune Cookie Defense. It’s a surefire way to frustrate and annoy your opponent, while making you look transcendent and unflappable. Please observe the following example:

• Random Asshole: What a mindless and vacuous comment.
• Me: Your high-minded principles spell success.
• Random Asshole: lol your videos are stupid and nobody likes you
• Me: If you refuse to accept anything other than the best, you very often get it.
• Random Asshole: btw is that you in your picture? ugly fuck
• Me: Your shoes will make you happy today.
• Random Asshole: wtf is that all you can say.
• Me: People enjoy having you around. Appreciate this.
• Random Asshole: whatever

No asshole can puncture your ego if you just read him his fortune. If he replies, just give him another one. Repeat until he stops. Acknowledging an asshole without really acknowledging him shuts him down very quickly. The beauty of the Fortune Cookie Defense is not only its impenetrability, but its effectiveness as a reversal move. It makes you into the troll, while turning your enemy into an increasingly ineffectual, yapping chihuahua. The angrier he gets, the stupider he looks. Your internet pride is invincible with the Fortune Cookie Defense, so get out there and start trolling, folks!

The “Culture War” Is Really Humans Vs. Culture

Make America Angry Again! It seems like everyday now, there’s some TV show or public event aimed at upsetting the president, followed by a Trump Tweet that fires everyone else up. Everywhere you look, you see angry racists, angry anti-fascists, angry feminists, angry football players, and angry celebrities screaming, waving their arms, and killing each other with cars over something Trump said or something Trump did.

Come on people. Look at this guy. Does he really deserve this level of validation?

Now, I realize that the issues that have Americans so enraged these days aren’t entirely the president’s fault. These are old fires being stoked, but we’re not going to douse by throwing tantrums or going out of one’s way to piss people off.

Yeah, I’m talking to you, interchangeable NFL protesters. Now, I don’t care about the National Anthem or all this disrespecting the flag one way or the other. To me, those as symbols, and I leave symbols to the same people that George Carlin does. The way I see it, you’re just exercising a right that this great country is based on. I’m proud to live in a place where you needn’t worry about getting lynched, stoned, or even fired for your actions. Whether I agree with you or not, however, I still think you could find a better venue to share your viewpoint.

Let’s be honest: Monday Night Football is not the place for you to speak your minds. In fact, you’re not hired to speak at all: you are modern-day gladiators, paid to beat the shit out of each other in an arena for the pacification of the public. That’s all you are, and that’s all anyone cares about. As for me, I don’t care one whit. If you want ruin your careers and damage the reputation of the company you work for, then go right ahead. Maybe it’ll get Americans to stop thinking about football and start thinking about real issues. I just think you’d do better to speak at a college, publish an essay, or even write a letter to the editor, for crying out loud. You’ll have a smaller audience than when you’re on your precious tee-vee, but at least you’ll know that the people you do reach will actually give a shit.

It’s the egotism that bothers me more than anything. What kind of self-absorbed douche gets on a soapbox in the middle of work? If some dude at my office decided to interrupt every workday with a political message, the rest of us would throw our staplers at him. And don’t give me that shit about free speech. The First Amendment only protects you legally. It doesn’t mean that your friends, family, employers, or sponsors will like what you have to say. There are consequences for saying the wrong thing, so suck it up, buttercup.

Then you’ve got the people who love to say that the president has emboldened racism and hate groups. Once again, I think those people are giving Trump a little too much credit. These organizations have existed, and will continue to exist, for years and years. You can’t blame Trump, a professional narcissist, for these violent rallies that are going on. Have we forgotten that the president works for the citizenry, and not the other way around? We hired him. Trump became president because we voted for him, not because he reached into his bag of racists and Russians and pulled them all out to vote. He is a reflection of us. Cruelty and ignorance are All-American home goodies, baked at three-hundred and fifty degrees for over two-hundred years.

Why do we keep blaming the president for all our problems anyway? He wields no real power. Sure, he puts his name on the bills, but his position only exists for one purpose: to provide “good feelin’s.”

Let’s be honest again: for all his impressive oratory skill, what did Barack Obama really change? I mean, really, as in the quality of our daily lives? Any changes in my life during his presidency were brought on by my own efforts. He certainly didn’t turn the country into some femi-homo-disarmed-Euro-paradise like conservatives feared. All he did was send warm, liberal fuzzies through the television while business, war, and politics went on as usual. In 2017, we just exchanged one talking head for another, one that says what the other side likes to hear. And still, nothing is changing. Do you have more money in your pocket than you did before Trump became president? Do you feel better protected from terrorists and scumbags? Is the nation a warmer, happier place than it was last year? Nah, but at least you have your alpha-male role model shouting down those pussy libtard snowflakes, and that’s all these people need.

Therein lies the trouble we face: mindless tribalism, or as the magazines are calling it, the “culture war.” People are trading their individuality for groupthink and entering into twisted crusades against each other. You can’t say it’s only happening on one side, either, or else you wouldn’t see the childish clashes we’re getting. Those militant morons out there chanting and whining don’t care about making life better for anyone, they just want to feel morally superior to those they disagree with, by shouting them down and belittling them. When they vote, they don’t consider which candidate will improve the nation, but the one that will run their enemies out on a rail and silence them for good.

Now here’s the truth: if that’s the way you think when you vote, then you’re admitting that you don’t want a president, you want a king. That makes you a defector from democracy, and a supporter of despotism. You are precisely what Benjamin Franklin warned us about, and precisely what the Revolutionary War was fought to tear us from. In a democracy, everyone gets to speak, and in a society as diverse as ours, a tug of war must exist in perpetuity.

So what’s the answer? I don’t know how to calm these nutballs we see on TV every night, but I do see the difference between them and the regular people that surround me in real life.

The fact is that regular people don’t get so worked up over these things. They’re too busy trying to survive. They have households to manage, families to raise, budgets to balance, jobs to attend to. They stay informed of policy and vote, but they don’t allow their identities to be so wrapped up in gang mentality that they want to kill the opposition. They are decent, reasonable folk who want to live in peace, not to create trouble where it needn’t exist.

It’s time we started taking responsibility for ourselves. We have to stop surrendering to the waves of manufactured consensus, and start owning up to our actions. Terence McKenna once said that “Culture is not your friend.” It aims to control you, to categorize you, to paint you as something you might not want to be. In fuming over the latest stupid tweet Trump made, you are playing straight into culture’s hands. Focus on your life, your reality, your people, your God. Consider how to improve your world practically, and don’t let anyone else, especially some nimrod on television, tell you how you should do it.

The President We Earned

All hail President Trump! That’s right folks, you’d better prep your palates for crow, because you’re going to live to see the first term of President Reality TV!

Yeah, I think it’s going to happen. I really do. While Dems are getting all pissy and sensitive about the differences between Clinton and Sanders, and pledging to stay home on Election Day if their guy or gal isn’t nominated, Trump is cleaning up. With his no-nonsense, no-prisoners, no-knowledge strategy, this guy is a freaking freight train headed straight for the White House.

Like most people, I initially thought Trump was a joke. I had no idea that he’d make it this far. Then he hit the debates, and dick-slapped his opponents with nothing but his massive ego. As a Democrat, I found this highly entertaining. I loved seeing the likes of Chris Christie, Carly Fiorino, and especially Jeb Bush, looking flustered, confused, and seconds from crying. They weren’t ready for this, not in this seemingly easy election that was a presumed gimme for the Republican establishment. But Trump blustered, bullied, and bothered, and he revealed those empty suits for what they were: bought-off puppets with no voices, no ideas, and no solutions. All these dopes thought they had to do was throw out facts that no voters would check, spout off figures no voters would look up, and make fun of Hillary every now and then. Caught off-guard by ad hominem attacks from a blowhard no lobbyist had reached, they had no answers. They turned into cattle, and now they’re getting slaughtered, one by one.

Over here on the left, we’ve got Sanders and Clinton picking on each other’s records. Clinton does have a lot to answer for, having bent to the wills of her donors a few too many times. Sanders talks a big game, but even I’m getting tired of his spiel. He just keeps saying the same things over and over again. Yes, evil corporations, yes, outsourcing, yes, the shrinking middle class, but this shit has been going on for nearly forty years — how in the hell do you plan on fighting it now?

Not that any concrete plan of Sanders will matter if and when he goes up against Trump. Nobody on the Trump train cares about how he actually plans to accomplish anything, and I don’t think Trump does either! He doesn’t see American issues as challenges to face, he sees them as obstructions to step around, and let’s face it: in a campaign, that attitude works.

I used to think that George W. Bush was a stupid man. That’s right: I used to think that. The more I read about the guy, though, the more I realize that he wasn’t really stupid. He was just lazy. He had every advantage a young white man could have in this country, and he took them, even if he didn’t really make the most of them. He coasted through Yale and got a C, but hell, even I’d be proud to get a C at Yale without really trying! He was given a couple of oil companies, but his heart really wasn’t in it and he let some family friends buy them up before they collapsed. He ran for governor of Texas and lost because he presented himself as the smart guy, well-versed on state issues. But here’s the pivot point: Bush learned something from this. He discovered that voters don’t care for smart guys. They find them cold and unapproachable. So he tried a new angle. He decided to be the easygoing, fun guy with a relaxed approach to being the boss. The kind of guy who lets the subordinates handle the real work, and bring the answers to him to choose from. Of course, this worked, and we had eight years of the Connecticut Cowboy making our nation’s most important choices. What’s funny is that when the press conferences went down, and Bush was faced with the idea that people were actually unhappy with him, he was flabbergasted, and that’s why we got that smirk. He simply couldn’t fathom that anyone could have a problem with the golden ideas he was presenting us with. Or at least, the ideas that Cheney and his yes-men told him would work out so beautifully.

The results of Bush’s presidency aren’t the point here, though. The point is that Bush made it to the White House almost solely on personality. You can say family ties and the Supreme Court if you want, but family ties are always involved in such matters, and I have to be honest: the Supreme Court didn’t really give him the presidency. I’m sorry, but it’s true: the SCOTUS only deemed the Florida recounts unconstitutional. Fine line, perhaps, but we have to get over that sooner or later.

Now Trump’s following Bush’s lead, ignoring the details and riding on style. Our leaders are stupid! Everything’s busted and only I can fix it! People like that shit. It’s what they want to hear, especially if you’re a white person who feels persecuted and disenfranchised. And hey, I can understand where they’re coming from. Politics needs some serious disruption. For the last several decades, politics as usual have thrust us into wasteful wars and super recessions. Regular, hard-working, good-hearted people have been fucked over so many times that they’re finally demoralized and worn down. They’ve accepted that anyone who sweet-talks them for their votes will simply bend over for his real masters when he gets into office. They know that the table is tilted, and that things will never improve for them.

So Trump steps in and shouts these puppets down. He wrecks the game and scatters the pieces. Matt Taibbi said that the Republican Party doesn’t hate Trump for his message, they hate him for his autonomy. I think he’s right, and I have to admit, I kinda like that about Trump. After years and years of the same old dopes taking office and then doing nothing to help us, it feels real good to see someone come in from nowhere and humiliate them. I think it makes a lot of other people feel real good too. It doesn’t make the masters of this country feel good, though. No, the big money interests who have this country rolling toward disaster don’t like it one bit, but they’ve been too stunned to react in time, so they scramble the media and their most “trustworthy” personalities to try and discredit the man.

But here’s the question: how in hell do you discredit someone who’s spent the last few decades publicly airing his dirty laundry? What kind of scandal do you throw at a man who thrives on it? And how do you slow him down when he’s already nearing escape velocity?

I don’t think they can. But here’s the next question: what the hell is Trump going to do when he wins?

If the last few administrations have taught me anything, it’s that if rich people don’t want it, it ain’t gonna happen. And it doesn’t matter what party’s in control. Bush I may have helped draft NAFTA, but Clinton ratified it. Bush II may have started a pointless war, but Obama still hasn’t stopped it. No matter what we say or do, or what suit we vote for, this shit just keeps happening. Our true masters have got this country on a rail leading precisely where they want it to go, and if anyone is going to stop them, it’s sure as hell NOT going to be the guy who’s making enemies on both sides of the aisle! Just look at how much trouble Obama had getting anything done, and that was with ONE side against him!

Sooner or later, Trump himself will have to genuflect. Some great force is going to step in front of him and say, “Toe the line, asshole,” and he’ll have to. He’ll simply have to, and all these great promises he’s making right now, that’ve got all these rednecks screamin’ and yellin’ and wrasslin’ with each other? He’ll whiz ’em down his leg. I guarantee you.

I admit that I might be wrong about Trump becoming prez, but I am dead fucking certain that no matter who gets into the Oval Office, nothing, but nothing is going to change. The schools will continue to flounder, abortions and guns will stay legal, the jobs will remain overseas, and the money will keep flowing upward. And the sad part is, those hotheads at the rallies will be too cooled down after Inauguration Day to care. When Trump becomes a lame duck, they’ll just blame the other guys.

Nice try, America. You nearly showed ’em, but you didn’t look at the real problem. You thought that big balls would fix everything, but you forgot that television is an illusion, and that the people on it are just actors. Television has turned politics into a big traveling circus tent, brought to you by Pizza Hut and Coca-Cola, and it’s already too late for you, because you bought lifetime tickets a long time ago.

The Internet Critic Conversation

Okay, here’s the premise: Daniel (D) submits image/story/cartoon to website. Random site user (C) decides to leave a comment on it. Here’s how it invariably falls out. Keep in mind that this has happened to me many times, with many different people.

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C: This is bad. Just bad. Idea has been done a million times. Obviously you don’t know what you’re doing.

D: That’s a little rude, not to mention unhelpful. You’re giving me no ideas on what to improve. Every idea has been done a million times, so you might as well say this about every bit of art on the site. Finally, if I don’t know what I’m doing, perhaps you could be kind enough to enlighten me? If this is all you have to say, then just leave it alone.

C: Well, this being an ART/LITERATURE/PORTAL SITE, I don’t feel I have to hold back on what I say. You need a thick skin around here, so don’t get so butthurt. GOOD DAY SIR

I then discover that C has blocked me from further contact.

---

Now, I really don’t care what people like this think of my work. Obviously they don’t have any real opinion; they just want to break stuff down and feel superior to someone. As you probably already know, I get like that myself.

No, what pisses me off is the childishness of it, the lack of self-awareness. Don’t they realize that I too, am allowed to say what I want on these particular sites? Don’t they realize that just because they can say what they want, it doesn’t mean it’s going to go over well? And don’t they realize that blocking me because I called them out on their shoddy critique shows a pretty damn bad case of butthurt on their part?

I know, I know. “Just ignore them,” you say. Normally I do. The last time this happened, though, the criticism was leveled at the concept of the work, which I did not create. The idea belonged to the man who hired me for the commission. I wasn’t personally offended, but I felt compelled to stand up for my collaborator. Bear in mind that I did not use any offensive language. I simply said that it was rude to slam the idea without offering any positives. The “critic” then whipped out the tired old speech about their right to say whatever they want, and added that my art wasn’t even that good anyway (no details of course). Then I got blocked. It all fell out exactly as it did above.

The only analogy I can think of for it is that it’s like watching a grown man stick his tongue out at you and mean it. All you can do is squint incredulously.

You’d think I’d be used to this sort of behavior by now, but I’m not. My attitude toward humanity is like that toward a bad movie: I keep hoping that it’ll get better somewhere. It never does, though, and my mind is continually boggled. I mean, they can’t all be this stupid, can they? Can they??

I’d better just relax. Anyone have any Oxycontin?

:O :\ :(

Chased the muse yesterday until the wee hours. Felt great. Why did I avoid it for so long? The Muse has only ever energized and fulfilled me. Why did I feel scared before? It’s not Writer’s (or Animator’s) Block; I know exactly what I want to express. It’s just that when I look at my projects sometimes, I freeze. Where is this coming from?

I have a feeling that I’m digging into something very important here. I need to find out what’s getting in the way and root it out.

We Gotta Soften the Software

Picture this: I’m fourteen, and I’m in my bedroom waiting for my brother to get off the Super Nintendo. He’s playing Madden (yes, it was around back then), and I’m getting impatient.

“Hey, when are you going to be done?” I ask.

“Why?” my brother says. “What do you want to play?”

“I want to play Mario Paint,” I say.

My brother scoffs and points at the new PC at the other side of the room.

“Hey!” he says, “you’ve got a freakin’ two-thousand-dollar Mario Paint right there!”

I didn’t admit it at the time, but he was right. Courtesy of my friends at the Modesto High School computer lab, I had Autodesk Animator and Adobe Photoshop for Windows on my 486. A professional creative suite, one far more robust than Mario Paint, was at my disposal.

So why in the hell was I jonesing for a sit-down with Nintendo’s chintzy pretender?

Well, aside from the fact that my Super Nintendo was practically my best friend at the time, Mario Paint was just so much more approachable than anything Adobe or Autodesk have ever made. It had style and showmanship. The title screen was interactive. The menus were colorful. There was punchy, catchy music to listen to. Every tool made a sound: paintbrushes pecked at the screen, the Undo button barked, and the navigation buttons all made little clicks and clunks. And when you were ready to wipe up your mess and start making a new one, the game offered an array of screen-clearing tools that the did the job with unique 16-bit effects.

Since this was a cartridge on a relatively feeble chunk of hardware, Mario Paint was extremely limited. You could only really paint with sixteen colors, the music composer allowed no sharps or flats, and the animation program only allowed the production of nine frames. I never made anything worth keeping on Mario Paint, but I didn’t care, because I always enjoyed using it.

It reminds me of how I feel when I mess around with Maxis’s hyper-criticized classic Spore. Maxis knew that the heart of the game was its personal connection with the player; the idea that the player’s characters and stories would always be more interesting than something a studio could present. So they poured their efforts into these delightful creation programs and built them into the game.

Players — myself included — ate this up, and they cranked out millions upon millions of creatures even before the game was released. I can understand that! Spore’s creation tools are so intuitive and so much fun that an artist can move from vision to finished product in minutes, all the while watching it spring to life bit by bit. The creatures move and react to every adjustment the player makes to them, providing a powerful, and continuous, feeling of creative gratification.

It’s a hell of a lot more fun than the God-damned Maya tutorial I fumbled through recently. I spent hours making an un-textured butterfly-thing and then struggled just to make its wings flap. I remember nearly tearing my hair out because I couldn’t find the “edit curves” menu option, even though I had just used it minutes earlier. That tutorial was a joyless slog, and it made me depressed that I needed to learn so much confusing bullshit just to express an idea in my head. I realize that 3D computer modeling isn’t supposed to be simple, but who said it has to be so fucking intimidating?

I remember reading that people often used the Sims games as rudimentary home design tools. I can understand that! The Sims 4 is a hell of a lot more fun to use than most of these advanced 3D modeling programs, and I’m saying that as someone who usually hates building homes in The Sims.

It’s very, very easy to forget that art is supposed to be fun. There are so many outside factors that can sap the joy of creating: deadlines, marketability, ambition, impossible standards…any one of these is enough to constipate an artist. The message becomes one of work, “MAKE THIS.” What we need are tools that feel like toys, or that at least have toy-like options, which will remind us of the Muse’s true message, which is “START WITH THIS, AND SEE WHERE IT TAKES YOU.”

I can only hope that companies like Nintendo and Maxis, who are enjoying phenomenal success with games like The Sims 4 and Super Mario Maker, will share a little of their magic, and teach creativity and productivity designers how to give their products some much-needed creative heart. Sure, it’s important to be proud of the work you create, but I’d much prefer to have a great time making it.

Wake Up, Mr. Nibbles

Kitties on parade