Art Is Inherently Pointless. I Invest So Much Into It Because I'm Inherently Stupid.

I was about 5 or 6 years old when the "punk rock" episode of Quincy came on, and I just knew that was some action I wanted in on. However, they didn't exactly have punk rock clothes available on the blue light rolling rack at the K-Mart in Killeen, Tx, so I had to improvise. I spent the rest of the night doodling skeletons on one of my good Sunday vests, just absolutely sure I was gonna blow everyone's mind when I showed up in it.

I stroll in the next day wearing this hideous fucking thing, and of course everyone made fun of me and made me feel like a turd. At that moment, at 5 years old, that awkward little ragamuffin very likely turned into the pretentious shithead I am today.

I had myself convinced I had made something out of complete face-melting awesome, and couldn't comprehend why people weren't absolutely tripping over themselves to tell me the same. But to everyone else, I was just a snot-nosed little dumb-ass in a ruined vest still sticky from cheap fabric paint. I probably smelled funny too, because fuck it why not.

If I was still the kind of person that gets drunk, here would be the part where I would make a big retarded stink about what the fuck did those kids know because I really did turn out to be some sort of fancy-pants punk rock fringe artist. It's obviously just a coincidental twist of fate, somehow not my fault at all, that this "fringe artist" seems pretty much indistinguishable from a self-absorbed, career-impaired recovering alcoholic with a headful of useless trivia and terrible ideas and attitudes regarding how I conduct myself doing the things I love the most, just drifting between temp agency contracts and only picking up freelance work when it "inspires" me.

When it comes down to it, I'm still that stinky little dickweed in his stupid vest.

I've changed my religion and underlying philosophy more often than I change my underwear. I've experimented with black magic and viral marketing. I drank like I was entering a contest. All I've learned was that my art would have been my art anyway, and that I should have done even more of it, regardless of "inspiration".

I'm a weird guy, I like weird stuff and I make weird stuff. Over the years I've discovered more than a few people that like the weird stuff I make. That's fine and all, but it doesn't make me somehow superior than, say, the guy who draws Garfield gushing about lasagna over and over and over, steady as the drone of a Buddhist meditation bell. At least he's drawing a paycheck for his, um, drawings. All this poncing around like I'm a goddamn savant hasn't done me a damn bit of good.

Because really, it doesn't mean a rat's ass in the long run. I've been just as successful with projects I agonized over as ones I just let happen the way they were meant to. And realistically, the chance of me making a connection to the fraction of a percent of the population that even give art a second thought drops to zero when it's all trapped in my head. I have no excuse.

Time to put that fucking vest back on. Maybe I've gained a little better sense of humor since the last time.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's finally in style this year.