Long, long ago, I wanted to be a comic book artist.
Seriously. I know I make my living in probably the most left-brained field you can think of but, back then, all I wanted to do was crank out monthlies for Marvel or DC. Sadly, we don't always get what we want. This is the story of how that dream died.
Being an artist of almost any kind entails low levels of prestige, financial suffering, and countless other bits of angst which must be tolerated in pursuit of one's craft. Indeed, talented people spend years honing their skills trying to reach their full potential. Many of them simply never make it, and burn out after various periods of thrashing about. Logically, I suppose it's best to fail at something immediately, rather than wasting years with only marginal talent. Perhaps in this regard I was lucky, because I failed almost before I even began.
My problem wasn't one of lacking ambition or tenacity. No, my issue was far worse, for you see I AM THE WORST GODDAMN ARTIST ON THE PLANET. Seriously. Rarely have I met another human being with less natural artistic skills. I was reading books, practicing, doing drills, and I was still dogshit compared to the kid at next desk drawing idle doodles during third period english.
Like some folks, I had a knack for realizing that my shit indeed had the potential to stink, and it was pretty clear that I was destined for other paths. However, one incident in particular ground this realization into my face with a finality. In fifth grade I was stuck in St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School, one of the worst schools in one of the worst districts in one of the worst states in one of the worst countries for childhood education. One of my teachers was an unpleasant lady named Mrs. Cribbs. Cribbs was pudgy-on-the-way-to-matronly and narrow minded in the God-is-great way North Carolina conservatives favor. Above all, she was insecure enough to be legitimately threatened when a free-thinking ten-year-old questioned the profit-making motives of the religious institution that cut her a check every two weeks.
Suffice to say, we did not get along too well.
With both Cribbs and I lacking the maturity to agree to disagree and move on, a passive-aggressive game of attack and retreat played out on a daily basis. One day, I had poured a great deal of effort into a drawing depicting my teacher as a bloated Godzilla on a rampage through downtown Jacksonville, North Carolina, all the while sporting an XXXL Sweatshirt with the logo "No Eat, No Gain." Being the idiot fifth-grader that I was, I lost the drawing somewhere in the classroom.
Guess who found it?
During a class break, Cribbs, carrying a piece of paper to the chalkboard, announced to the class that she'd like to draw a picture for us. She then began sketching a scene eerily familiar to the one I'd sketched, down the finest details. She finished by labeling the sweatshirt of the marauding woman with a flourish: No Eat, No Gain. She spun on her heel and addressed me: "Noah, the next time you draw a picture that makes fun of someone's weight, just think of their feelings first."
She began erasing the drawing and I realized that that was it; she had no idea that the drawing was of her. I'd escaped punishment, but not the sad realization that maybe, just maybe drawing people for a living wasn't in the cards for me.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Local Theater Rant
Several years ago, I briefly dated a girl whose "job" was in the local theater. Chicago, somewhat surprisingly, has a fairly well-developed local theater scene. Her job was stage managing. And acting (no one ever just stage manages; everyone's a star, right?). She lived paycheck-to-sporadic-paycheck, lived in a shitty $350-dollar-a-month apartment. She had, as far as I could tell, no reason to live. While I was in her sphere, I learned quite a bit about local theater. Horrible, awful things.
The theater crowd aren't my type of people. Remember the "theater girl" or "theater guy" from high school. Well, after they graduate from a shitty arts college with a major in sociology/english/theater, they find each other in big cities and live in lousy, interbred communes. Far from the precision and majesty of Broadway, local theater is where people who don't have an A game come to eek out an existence.
Here's the problem with local theater: the bang for the buck just isn't there. Ten bucks to go to the movies and see a polished project made by James Cameron, or twice amount to sit in an unairconditioned warehouse-cum-theater to watch a bunch of third rate daytime baristas flew their atrophied acting chops. The saddest part is how they're all so dedicated to what should be a casual hobby. Their passion has blinded them to just how shitty their game is in the big scheme of things, making it all the more ridiculous. Like this guy.
Do I think I'm better than these people? Yes, and if you actually had to ask that question you are, deep down, a theater person. But in one key way, I'm worse. Here's what made me realize it:
I think I went out with this girl a total of five or six times. At least three of our dates were to see productions that she was either involved with or knew people producing. One of the most memorable was this godawful affair called Pandora, where a woman finds Pandora's box in her attic and opens it. Instead of Pandora escaping, the woman somehow falls into the box and has a two-hour conversation about what it's like to live in the box.
That was act one. In act two, Pandora (shocker) leaves the box. Somehow, this turned into an assassination plot(!), where Pandora had to prevent the murder of an important politician. It was better than the first act, I'll give it that, but only because it was a straight up rip off of The Dead Zone. In the climactic scene, I was laughing as quietly as I could into my fist, much to the chagrin of my date. "Jesus Noah, it's not a comedy," she said with concern laced with a touch of indignation. This made me laugh even harder.
At this point, I realized that I was putting money into this farce, knowing full well how terrible it was. Worse still, I was one of only a few outsiders who had been suckered in. At intermission, my female friend pointed out the people she knew in the audience. Basically, the entire audience was composed of other theater geeks. Let me say that again: THE CAST MEMBERS KNEW EVERY DAMN PERSON WHO CAME TO SEE THE SHOW. Except me. Thus the revelation: The income these people drew came from their actor friends who came to see their show... which they would then spend to see their friends' shows. The only source for fresh money to enter into this financial loop of Henley came from morons like me.
Afterword: The story of this relationship was fairly interesting in an after-the-fact way. Obviously I wanted to dump her after all the theater bullshit, as she was not near hot enough to continue dating*. Ironically, I dumped her after receiving a frantic mid-day phone call in which she revealed to me that (a) she was having a major flare-up of bipolar disorder and (b) she was really freaking out about whether she could take care of the infant child she was babysitting that day. I lost her number pretty quick after that one.
*Side Note: I've noticed that almost everyone who does theater as an adult is on the chubby side. Rarely ever outright obese, but almost always doughy. I call it "theater fitness." I have no idea why this is.
The theater crowd aren't my type of people. Remember the "theater girl" or "theater guy" from high school. Well, after they graduate from a shitty arts college with a major in sociology/english/theater, they find each other in big cities and live in lousy, interbred communes. Far from the precision and majesty of Broadway, local theater is where people who don't have an A game come to eek out an existence.
Here's the problem with local theater: the bang for the buck just isn't there. Ten bucks to go to the movies and see a polished project made by James Cameron, or twice amount to sit in an unairconditioned warehouse-cum-theater to watch a bunch of third rate daytime baristas flew their atrophied acting chops. The saddest part is how they're all so dedicated to what should be a casual hobby. Their passion has blinded them to just how shitty their game is in the big scheme of things, making it all the more ridiculous. Like this guy.
Do I think I'm better than these people? Yes, and if you actually had to ask that question you are, deep down, a theater person. But in one key way, I'm worse. Here's what made me realize it:
I think I went out with this girl a total of five or six times. At least three of our dates were to see productions that she was either involved with or knew people producing. One of the most memorable was this godawful affair called Pandora, where a woman finds Pandora's box in her attic and opens it. Instead of Pandora escaping, the woman somehow falls into the box and has a two-hour conversation about what it's like to live in the box.
That was act one. In act two, Pandora (shocker) leaves the box. Somehow, this turned into an assassination plot(!), where Pandora had to prevent the murder of an important politician. It was better than the first act, I'll give it that, but only because it was a straight up rip off of The Dead Zone. In the climactic scene, I was laughing as quietly as I could into my fist, much to the chagrin of my date. "Jesus Noah, it's not a comedy," she said with concern laced with a touch of indignation. This made me laugh even harder.
At this point, I realized that I was putting money into this farce, knowing full well how terrible it was. Worse still, I was one of only a few outsiders who had been suckered in. At intermission, my female friend pointed out the people she knew in the audience. Basically, the entire audience was composed of other theater geeks. Let me say that again: THE CAST MEMBERS KNEW EVERY DAMN PERSON WHO CAME TO SEE THE SHOW. Except me. Thus the revelation: The income these people drew came from their actor friends who came to see their show... which they would then spend to see their friends' shows. The only source for fresh money to enter into this financial loop of Henley came from morons like me.
Afterword: The story of this relationship was fairly interesting in an after-the-fact way. Obviously I wanted to dump her after all the theater bullshit, as she was not near hot enough to continue dating*. Ironically, I dumped her after receiving a frantic mid-day phone call in which she revealed to me that (a) she was having a major flare-up of bipolar disorder and (b) she was really freaking out about whether she could take care of the infant child she was babysitting that day. I lost her number pretty quick after that one.
*Side Note: I've noticed that almost everyone who does theater as an adult is on the chubby side. Rarely ever outright obese, but almost always doughy. I call it "theater fitness." I have no idea why this is.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A Bad Idea
So I'm walking through Lincoln Park with Susan, and I pass this sign:
Upon closer inspection, it's a poster for the special olympics. THIS is the person they chose to put on the sign:
OK, I get that it's important for the group to emphasize that they're involved with the special olympics. HOWEVER, this poster strongly implies that a retarded person is finishing the Chicago Marathon. I doubt this. Once, I watched a 100m dash at the special olympics, and only five out of the eight competitors finished the race.
Second point: For an organization that supposedly promotes the welfare of retarded folks, is this really the face you want to put on the organization? Note the snot bubbles:
What. The. Fuck?
I am honestly wondering whether it is possible to make mentally challenged individuals look any worse.
To further cast doubt on the competence of the signs creators, I should mention that I've seen this sign before. Last year, an even bigger, printed version of this was piece of crap was plastered all over Castaways on the lakefront. I'd meant to take a picture of it back then, but by the time I brought a camera by, someone had cut out the head of the dude, so people could put their head through and take a picture. Apparently, the fact that this thing was a total joke to 99.9% of the population wasn't enough to convince the leaders of the special olympics that their "Marathon 'Tard" fundraiser theme wasn't the best look.
To be clear, I support retards. No, literally, my tax dollars support them. But I cannot support an organization whose goal seems to make retardation not look so bad by being even dumber.
Upon closer inspection, it's a poster for the special olympics. THIS is the person they chose to put on the sign:
OK, I get that it's important for the group to emphasize that they're involved with the special olympics. HOWEVER, this poster strongly implies that a retarded person is finishing the Chicago Marathon. I doubt this. Once, I watched a 100m dash at the special olympics, and only five out of the eight competitors finished the race.
Second point: For an organization that supposedly promotes the welfare of retarded folks, is this really the face you want to put on the organization? Note the snot bubbles:
What. The. Fuck?
I am honestly wondering whether it is possible to make mentally challenged individuals look any worse.
To further cast doubt on the competence of the signs creators, I should mention that I've seen this sign before. Last year, an even bigger, printed version of this was piece of crap was plastered all over Castaways on the lakefront. I'd meant to take a picture of it back then, but by the time I brought a camera by, someone had cut out the head of the dude, so people could put their head through and take a picture. Apparently, the fact that this thing was a total joke to 99.9% of the population wasn't enough to convince the leaders of the special olympics that their "Marathon 'Tard" fundraiser theme wasn't the best look.
To be clear, I support retards. No, literally, my tax dollars support them. But I cannot support an organization whose goal seems to make retardation not look so bad by being even dumber.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
My three suggestions
When I was a saucy young undergrad at Duke, we had a suggestion box. This appearance of feedback attentiveness was possibly the most obvious concession of University officials to the fact that students were customers paying upwards of $40,000 a year for a piece of paper*. According to a plaque by the box, any suggestion we dropped in the box would be read by the University president. In three years as an undergrad, I made three suggestions, one per year.
Here were my suggestions, loosely verbatim:
First Year: 'I would like for all classrooms equipped with audio equipment allowing for a steady backbeat. This way, professors could literally "rap out the lecture" if they so choose.'
University Response: Deafening silence. Literally.
Second Year: 'I think we should change the name of the women's sports teams from "Lady Blue Devils" to "Devilettes"'
University Response: None.
Third Year: 'I officially nominate Robert van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, for our commencement speaker. Barring this, one of the winners from Survivor would be nice.
University Response: Tom Wolfe spoke at commencement. Tom Fuckin' Wolfe.
So there it is. Duke, you know what to do if you ever want a donation from this alumnus.
*As an aside, I believe you that you can be successful coming from ANY school... provided you're good enough. Top universities, however, tend to be stocked by individuals who are both talented and motivated. In other words, the advantage of attending a top college isn't necessarily the people teaching you, but rather the people living in your dorm.
Here were my suggestions, loosely verbatim:
First Year: 'I would like for all classrooms equipped with audio equipment allowing for a steady backbeat. This way, professors could literally "rap out the lecture" if they so choose.'
University Response: Deafening silence. Literally.
Second Year: 'I think we should change the name of the women's sports teams from "Lady Blue Devils" to "Devilettes"'
University Response: None.
Third Year: 'I officially nominate Robert van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, for our commencement speaker. Barring this, one of the winners from Survivor would be nice.
University Response: Tom Wolfe spoke at commencement. Tom Fuckin' Wolfe.
So there it is. Duke, you know what to do if you ever want a donation from this alumnus.
*As an aside, I believe you that you can be successful coming from ANY school... provided you're good enough. Top universities, however, tend to be stocked by individuals who are both talented and motivated. In other words, the advantage of attending a top college isn't necessarily the people teaching you, but rather the people living in your dorm.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Smorgasbord
So, the last month or so:
I've been enamored with this video.
Also, if you haven't seen it, I recommend this one too. There's a whole series of this kid freaking out.
Maybe some of you remember this video that I became enamored with some years back. Now there's a sequel! The music in both videos kick ass too.
And now a story from the gritty streets of Chicago:
It's the day after the massive winter thundersnow. Three feet of snow has fallen on the streets, and more is piled up on the sidewalks where it's been plowed and shoveled. Thousands of pedestrians have transformed this fluffy white powder into a dirty, hard-packed slush. I am rocking and rolling down the sidewalk, heading for the brown line, when I become aware of a presence coming up behind me. I turn to see a nappy-looking guy riding a Rascal (a motorized wheelchair) down the wrong side of the street. The dude is in his 50s and smoking a clove cigarette. On the back of his wheelchair is a sign that says "THIS is my UFO".
In front of us, a US Postal Minivan traveling the same direction makes an illegal U-turn towards us. With the narrow, snow-lined streets, the minivan is unable to complete the turn and screeches to a halt inches from the man, whom I will refer to as "wheelchair guy." Wheelchair guy and minivan guy are now nose to nose. Both are angry. They begin to fight. I stop to watch.
Clearly, both of them are in the wrong, but neither is willing to admit it. The yelling begins. The USPS guy is actually leaning out of his window to yell out insults. Things escalate quickly to violence. I could only really make out wheelchair guy's side of the conversation.
Wheelchair guy: Back off, muthafucka!
[Minivan guy yells something back about being able to walk]
WG: Oh, you wanna dance?
[Reply unintelligible]
WG: Fine then. Let's do this! LET'S GO!!!
At this point, wheelchair guy starts doing karate chops on the hood of the van. In between blows, he takes puffs of his cigarette. He is doing - by my estimation - no damage whatsoever. Minivan guy is honking every time he strikes the hood. While this is happening, an irate queue of motorists have traffic backed up. Everyone is now pissed off. Finally, wheelchair man is dragged out of the way by two peeved bystanders. He doesn't resist this; in fact, he openly celebrates his victory. As the USPS minivan rolls by, wheelchair guy yells out "Yeah, bitch, you got your ass whupped by a pimp on disability!"
I've been enamored with this video.
Also, if you haven't seen it, I recommend this one too. There's a whole series of this kid freaking out.
Maybe some of you remember this video that I became enamored with some years back. Now there's a sequel! The music in both videos kick ass too.
And now a story from the gritty streets of Chicago:
It's the day after the massive winter thundersnow. Three feet of snow has fallen on the streets, and more is piled up on the sidewalks where it's been plowed and shoveled. Thousands of pedestrians have transformed this fluffy white powder into a dirty, hard-packed slush. I am rocking and rolling down the sidewalk, heading for the brown line, when I become aware of a presence coming up behind me. I turn to see a nappy-looking guy riding a Rascal (a motorized wheelchair) down the wrong side of the street. The dude is in his 50s and smoking a clove cigarette. On the back of his wheelchair is a sign that says "THIS is my UFO".
In front of us, a US Postal Minivan traveling the same direction makes an illegal U-turn towards us. With the narrow, snow-lined streets, the minivan is unable to complete the turn and screeches to a halt inches from the man, whom I will refer to as "wheelchair guy." Wheelchair guy and minivan guy are now nose to nose. Both are angry. They begin to fight. I stop to watch.
Clearly, both of them are in the wrong, but neither is willing to admit it. The yelling begins. The USPS guy is actually leaning out of his window to yell out insults. Things escalate quickly to violence. I could only really make out wheelchair guy's side of the conversation.
Wheelchair guy: Back off, muthafucka!
[Minivan guy yells something back about being able to walk]
WG: Oh, you wanna dance?
[Reply unintelligible]
WG: Fine then. Let's do this! LET'S GO!!!
At this point, wheelchair guy starts doing karate chops on the hood of the van. In between blows, he takes puffs of his cigarette. He is doing - by my estimation - no damage whatsoever. Minivan guy is honking every time he strikes the hood. While this is happening, an irate queue of motorists have traffic backed up. Everyone is now pissed off. Finally, wheelchair man is dragged out of the way by two peeved bystanders. He doesn't resist this; in fact, he openly celebrates his victory. As the USPS minivan rolls by, wheelchair guy yells out "Yeah, bitch, you got your ass whupped by a pimp on disability!"
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Year-end movie review
Happy New Year!
Last year, I started a new tradition of ranking every film I saw from best to worst. I only rank films I saw, no explanations, no equivocation, other than a delineation between what I consider good and bad.
Let's begin:
The Fighter
Kick-Ass
Inception
Black Swan
Machete
The Girl Who Played With Fire (the Swedish one)
Shutter Island
True Grit
Get Him to the Greek
Iron Man 2
The Ghost Writer
Piranha 3D
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1
Mao's Last Dancer
Paranormal Activity 2
Dinner for Schmucks
127 Hours
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse
Fini.
Last year, I started a new tradition of ranking every film I saw from best to worst. I only rank films I saw, no explanations, no equivocation, other than a delineation between what I consider good and bad.
Let's begin:
The Fighter
Kick-Ass
Inception
Black Swan
Machete
The Girl Who Played With Fire (the Swedish one)
Shutter Island
True Grit
Get Him to the Greek
Iron Man 2
The Ghost Writer
Piranha 3D
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1
Mao's Last Dancer
Paranormal Activity 2
Dinner for Schmucks
127 Hours
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse
Fini.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
This is what happens when you don't get to a domain name first. In other news, my website is down at the moment. I'll fix it when I get around to it. That, however, could take awhile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
