The Big Meh

The clearest visual representation I can give you of my life at the moment.

I am at once a skeptic and a soft touch.

It's all fake.

I am a skeptic in that it is very, very difficult to truly convince me of something. I am deeply wary of virtually everything -- every person I meet, every philosophy I encounter, every emotion I experience. 

When faced with a new concept or ideology, I'm always suspicious there's a catch to it or that the whole thing is merely a false front, like those sets built for movies or plays. From the front, a structure may look like an authentic Old West saloon. But if you simply walk around to the back, you see it's just a two-dimensional facade being propped up by wooden beams. That's how I approach life -- always looking for the seams along the edges, always scanning for the fine print. So there is very little in which I truly believe. I have the information relayed to me by my senses, and I have no guarantee that this information is truly accurate. It is only "meaningful" if I choose to assign it meaning.

On the other hand, I am a soft touch, an easy mark, a pushover. I fear and dread confrontation, and I long for the approval of others. Because of these tendencies, I am usually complacent and compliant. I am almost always the first to surrender. I am accommodating past the point of all reason. I will go out of my way to do something for someone else, but I will feel awful about doing it. I am far too nice, and I let other people take advantage of that fact. I find myself frequently apologizing to others, even when there is no need to do so. Sometimes, I feel I was put on this earth to absorb the negativity of my fellow human beings. I figure, all that negative energy has to go somewhere, right? Why not into me? Let me take one for the team, humanity!

Even though I am on "happy pills" now and attending therapy weekly, I am far from sold on the inherent worth of human existence. I am not angry, nor am I particularly sad. Currently, there is little in my life to anger or sadden me. My days tend to be gray and interchangeable, marked by dull routine and dominated by trivia. I suppose most people's days are like this... if they're lucky. We must never forget that many people live in absolute misery (due to illness, poverty, or political injustice) and do not even have the luxury of leading a boring, repetitive life like mine. They might well envy my monotony. What right do I have to yearn for more when others have less than nothing?

A metaphor approved by the ADA

Today, readers, was not a great day. Nor was it a particularly bad one. It was a day. Oh, I suppose work went fine, though I had to make more of an effort than usual to cope with the stress and to suppress the anger and resentment which I often feel inside when haggling with coworkers over topics which ultimately do not matter. Sometimes, when I am especially weary, I feel like a tube of toothpaste which has been flattened and spindled to the point that it has nothing left within it. But somehow, through a combination of stubbornness and medication, I am functioning and functional. Is that enough? I don't know. I sometimes feel like life is one great big exhibit at a museum. There comes a point at which the spectator has seen all he or she cares to see. Why can't I simply say that I am finished, that my curiosity has run its natural course? What is immoral about that?

This has not been a very inspiring post, and I am fine with that. Who says that the narrative of my recovery has to be an infinite incline or a never-ending crescendo? There are bound to be plateaus along the way. Today was one of them. That's all.

Goddamnit, I just want to go out and have a little fun. Maybe that's all I need. But I don't know how to do that. I'm 37 years old, and I don't know how to have fun. I don't know what fun even is. I don't have a concept for fun. Maybe I should get out to a public place. But I'd have to do so alone, and there is no experience quite so lonely as being unaccompanied in a crowd of strangers.

Right now, there is an episode of Glee in my DVR, waiting to be watched and reviewed. Based on past experience, I am fairly certain it will be mediocre-to-terrible, like most recent episodes of that ironically-named series. In all likelihood, my Friday night will consist of watching that episode, composing some e-mail feedback about it, and then going to bed. I have been awake for a long, long time now.

Tomorrow, I will rise again and confront the Big Meh. Wish me luck. Or don't. I don't believe in luck. The confrontation will happen tomorrow -- and every subsequent day of my life -- no matter what.

Let's all wallow in my sub-mediocrity, shall we?

A more-or-less typical episode of Trolleytown Frolics

The Toonerville Trolley

In yesterday's post about my fear of mediocrity, I mentioned that for a while in the mid-2000s, I drew a crude homemade comic strip called Trolleytown Frolics. Going through the images on my computer, I managed to find at least one strip that I'd bothered to scan. It's pretty representative of what Trolleytown was like. 

If you're wondering about the name, by the way, it came from my interest in comic strips of the past. There was a famous one called Toonerville Folks by Fontaine Fox which ran from 1908 to 1955, and it featured a vehicle called the Toonerville Trolley. The "frolics" part also comes from old movies and cartoons. The IMDb has listings for Frisky Frolics (1932), Frozen Frolics (1933), Barnyard Frolics (1917), Vitaphone Frolics (1937), and many others. It seems like a lot of these titles are from the 1930s, and at the time I was sort of "into" '30s culture. I still like the music of that era very much.

This particular Trolleytown Frolics features the luckless antihero, Thirsty Lad (my cartoon avatar), locked in a debate with a disembodied narrator. Don't judge the artwork too harshly. I can draw better than this, but it was scribbled in a tiny notebook while riding a commuter train. The handwriting can be tough to read, so here's a transcription:

NARRATOR: How ya doin', Thirsty?

THIRSTY: Me? Swell! Perfect!

NARRATOR: Perfect? 

THIRSTY: Well, uh, maybe not "perfect" exactly, but...

NARRATOR: So what's wrong? 

THIRSTY: Nothing's wrong!

NARRATOR: If nothing were wrong, you'd be perfect!

THIRSTY: Then I guess I am perfect! La-di-da! I'm perfect!

NARRATOR: You seem upset. I'll go.

THIRSTY: I am not upset! Please stay so that we can continue this delightful chat!

NARRATOR: Yeah. I'm gonna go now.

THIRSTY: seriously i'm fine... great, in fact.

{END}

 As you can see, I had a panel left over, so I filled it with "Random Evil Guys." This would have been written on the way home from work on an average weekday, so you gain some idea of my mindset in that situation. In this scenario, both the Narrator and Thirsty are manifestations of me. So now you have an even better idea of how my mind works. You can also see how influenced I was by the psychodrama of the '90s Nickelodeon cartoon The Ren & Stimpy Show. Thirsty's pose in the fourth panel is taken directly from an R&S episode called "Space Madness."

A comparison: Stimpy in "Space Madness" vs. Thirsty in Trolleytown Frolics

I cannot let this topic of mediocrity pass without mentioning a great skit from Mr. Show with Bob and David, a parody of Amadeus set in turn-of-the-century America and centered around marching band music.  You're not meant to identify with David Cross' character, frustrated would-be march composer Salini, but I do anyway. And then there's Jay Johnston's legitimately disturbing "Mediocrity" character. I'm so glad my specter of adequacy looks like the cartoon character Gossamer and not this ghoulish monstrosity. Both Bob and David are great in this sketch. The emotional burden here is on David, but Bob gives such great, off-kilter line readings to dialogue like: "For I have work to do!" As a former marching band member myself, I love the way he wears the hat everywhere and chews on the chinstrap occasionally.

HEALTH NEWS 'N' NOTES: Still feeling fine. The demonic-possession-like fear I once experienced has been replaced with just plain old ordinary "jitters." The appetite continues to improve, though the libido remains dormant. I realize now that my exercise routine revolves around walking, which takes place outdoors. That's going to be a problem as the temperatures drop. I'll have to find another solution. 

True story: during my last full year as a teacher, I lived in a very small, isolated town in an apartment that was actually part of a roadside motel. The place was tiny, as you might guess, but the rent was so cheap! Best of all, I had access to the motel's indoor swimming pool and spent hours swimming laps. I mean, I'm no Mark Spitz, but I got pretty good... for me. When I left my job at that high school, I stayed on in the motel for a few more months while I planned my next move and used the pool more than ever. 

My current apartment complex used to have a pool, a rather nasty outdoor one which was home to ducks and geese, but the owners filled it in several years ago. Today, you'd never know there was a pool there except for the lonely changing room which still stands as a sad monument to its former existence. Anyway, I realize how important exercise is to maintaining good emotional health, so I'll have to figure something else out. So far, though, the meds are robbing me of my ambition. (Damn. That's a paraphrase of something Samuel L. Jackson said in Jackie Brown. Can't I get away from pop culture references? I read books. Honestly, I do.)

My horror

Speaking of which, I somehow got into a position in which my MD appointment and therapist appointment were scheduled for the same day. Now there are going to be phone calls and me writing down numbers on pieces of paper while I sort this out. Meanwhile, I've neglected to schedule a dental checkup or an oil change for an embarrassingly long time. How I wish I had someone who'd sort out all these practicalities for me so that I could just focus on getting better. 

My MD's office is in someplace called "Elgin," which I've heard of but have never visited. If I were to list my Top 5 phobias, "driving to someplace new" would be right up there, perhaps #1. I hate driving. I hate cars. I hate the whole thing. I didn't choose this doctor, by the way. He was assigned to me in the behavioral health center, and I said something pithy and intelligent like, "Duhhhhh, okay." I don't want to cancel this appointment, though, because there are some side effects which I want to address ASAP. The libido thing is becoming a problem, especially. I want to be a lustful, chauvinist, patriarchal pig again. Kidding, of course. But I do want to be interested again.

My greatest challenge: Battling the mediocrity monster

Bill Murray and Chevy Chase in Caddyshack

One of the most infamous anecdotes in Saturday Night Live's turbulent history occurred during the 1977-1978 season when the notoriously-contentious Chevy Chase returned to host the program after bailing on the series early in its run to pursue a movie career. Bill Murray had replaced Chevy in the cast by that point, and the two comedians did not get along well during a stormy week of rehearsal. In fact, they came to blows backstage. During that altercation, Murray made one of show business' all-time great retorts to his cleft-chinned rival: "Medium talent!"

Ouch, Bill. That stings.

Gossamer a.k.a. Mediocrity

Mediocrity is the fate which ultimately frightens me the most. I realize that only a tiny fraction of the world can truly be "great" and that there are only so many "geniuses" out there, but I don't know how the rest of the population deals with that fact. It scares the hell out of me. In fact, I think of Mediocrity as being a big, hairy monster following me around. If you want to picture him (yes, Mediocrity is male), imagine the character of Gossamer from the old Looney Tunes. That's the creature hovering over me every time I try to create something or accomplish something of significance, constantly reminding me that I simply do not have the talent, the drive, or the ambition to be included among the greats. 

It's a fear which I have already discussed indirectly on this blog, incidentally in a way which also referenced SNL. Check out this November 2011 post in which I discuss the relationship between Eddie Murphy and Joe Piscopo and compare it to that of Mozart and Salieri in Amadeus. What I didn't say at the time was that those stories resonated with me because I'm secretly worried I'm the Salieri/Piscopo to someone else's Mozart/Murphy. Even my spellchecker agrees here, because it recognizes the words "Amadeus," "Mozart," and "Murphy" but not "Salieri" or "Piscopo." Sorry, Salieri and Piscopo, you lose.

My one anthology appearance.

I have been a musician (my instrument, the euphonium, was chosen for me in elementary school) for two-thirds of my life, and yet I don't have to look beyond my own section of the community band to find people younger than I am who play better than I do or ever will. I've done sketches and cartoons since childhood, and I have a big portfolio of work in a drawer of my bureau, but there are literally small children who can out-draw me. 

As a blogger, I have amassed over 800,000 page views, but most of that is random Google traffic rather than people specifically visiting this blog for me and my work. 

As a writer, I have produced reviews, scripts, plays, essays, and stories for the Internet since the mid-1990s. I even have one terrible, unreadable novel to my credit. (And when I say it is "unreadable," I mean that I myself cannot make it past the first chapter.) I felt for a while that my niche might be in creating short stories. To date, I have exactly one such story in a published anthology, the rather obscure and disreputable collection entitled First Time Dead 2. I contributed a few short stories to the now-dormant Unloosen website a few years ago and generated a smattering of interest there, but when I re-edited and repurposed those stories as entries on this blog, the silence with which they were greeted was deafening. To date, they're among the least-viewed articles in this blog's history. If you'd like to read them, I will add a "short stories" tag to the bottom of this article. Just click on it, and you'll find them all.

Thirsty Lad

Incidentally, I made my own crude stab at doing a wholly-original comic strip a few years ago, just ball point pen on notebook paper and strictly for the amusement of my coworkers. It was called Trolleytown Frolics, and the original main characters were two talking animals: the hard-partying, often-crude Rabbit Sam and the eerily calm and evil Uncle Penguin. 

The basic idea was that Rabbit Sam would come to Uncle Penguin for advice, and the nefarious penguin would intentionally steer the rabbit's life in the wrong direction. My initial concept was to draw it once and then just change the dialogue each time, but I wound up abandoning that plan very quickly. The cast soon grew to include a number of human characters, largely based on my own coworkers at the time. There was Rabbit Sam's impatient girlfriend, Maxine, and her best friend, Sadie Nightingale (who moonlighted as a super-heroine called The Sylph), officious wunderkind Skippy, and Thirsty Lad, a hapless mascot for a line of off-brand paper towels. Thirsty was my surrogate in the strip. 

Ultimately, Skippy and Thirsty took over Trolleytown Frolics, forming a kind of Bert & Ernie comedy team. By then, though, most of the people on whom the strip was based had either transferred to other departments or left the company entirely, so the strip came to an end. Like everything else I've done, it fell well short of greatness. I still have a big folder of loose notebook pages with old strips on them, and it dwells in the same bureau as my portfolio of sketches. The one lasting legacy of the strip is that I've used "Rabbit Sam" and "Thirsty Lad" as aliases at a few online forums.

Maybe I have not found my calling yet. Maybe I never will. The work should be and often has been its own reward, but I cannot help but want to make some kind of permanent mark on this world I inhabit. I want something which will say, "JOE WAS HERE!" Who knows when I'll find it?

P.S. - I was supposed to "get out there" and experience some of that famous "fresh air" and "exercise" today, but instead I spent nearly the entire day in bed. Whoops!