Ambition Killer

yeah..... see what work does to you... it even kills all ambition for us to post complaints, rants and thoughts

sigh....

Monday morning...... and I'd like to be anywhere but here..... ::sigh::


















well... preferably, I'd rather be here

The Innocence Of Inspiration Lost

Inspiration for the creative, is like the lifeblood of their existence. To lose touch with such a gift, is like going deaf or blind, and endless hollow feeling in the deepest parts of one's essence. No one seems to know why inspiration ebbs and flows, but it seems at least possible, to find it once it's lost.

For me, I always wanted to be an artist, to create amazing beauty with nothing more then my own imagination. I guess that's what made it so easy for my teachers to push me so hard in public school, down that path that I seemed almost destined to travel. I wanted to make that passion for color and shape a career, making it a very easy choice to pursue a degree in the Fine Arts.

College however did little to encourage that inspiration. My art became work, it became a constant series of trials designed to prepare me for a life of artistic compromise at the hands of corporate executives and fickle clients. Although I finished school with pride in my heart and the drive to succeed at that which I always strived to become, I had lost my innocence. Art was no longer my escape from reality, it was the bane of that reality. No longer was playing with color and shape a chance to express myself, it was a job, that although it paid the bills, it did little to help me find the quiet inside my mind.

I'd like to tell you that there's an easy fix, that a single event can simply open the flood gates, and all those unique thoughts that once motivated your creativity will come cascading back into your consciousness, but that would be a lie. I can tell you, that it will return, even if in short bursts, it will come to you, especially when you least expect it to. After all, it never really left, it only went on holiday. I've found that events in your life will trigger the ebbs and flows, while an illness can sap it from you, the trials of that experience can just as easily return them to you when it's over. The loss of a loved one can make a soul go numb with pain, but those memories you shared can bring forth new ideas and renewed motivation.

My advice, never give up on what inspires you to be creative. It was always there for you, be there for "it" when the inspiration returns to your veins. Sometimes it can be a struggle, almost like your forcing it, that's just the habit forming, tomorrow it could be second nature again.

For me, I tend to find my inspiration not in a crowded Art Department, developing next year's hot selling product, but in painting and drawing for others. This past Christmas, I did a piece for my unofficial brother-in-law as a gift. I took a few days of well deserve peace, and I was happier for it. I found my REAL imagination that week, not the formally educated and corporate influenced nonsense I'm forced to tap each and every day.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: Don't give up on it, it will be there when it's time.

I wouldn't know what to do with myself!?!

Only in my dreams.....

Ode to Multilingual

Oda a multilingüe / Ode à multilingue


Multilingual isn't great,
Multilingual I hate, hate, hate.
I thought I was hired as an artist?
Right now that seems the farthest.

Sure foreign languages are fun to learn
But in school, which I'm not about to return.
Staring at my screen my creativity slowly drains,
but why wouldn't it? I'm barely using my brain.

So unless the foreign words I'm reading are Tequila or Coronita,
I'm not interested.. so bring on the Margaritas!

Viva Las Coronitas!!!

Beware...the kidnappings will soon begin...





















p.s. Pudding still reins supreme

Imagination runs rampant in chat rooms!

Don't question the story behind it... just be amused.

"IT came from inside the walls"

"I have come to feast on your lung tissue and brain cells"

MOTIVATION WHERE ARE YOU????

Here I sit with non-crappy work in front of me, yet my motivation eludes me to no end. I think (know) it's this place, this place that doubles as a sponge, absorbing all waves of ambient sanity, inspiration and motivation. If people out there have the impression that graphic designers get to wind down and retreat to a spot (usually on site) that is meant to help conjure up some inspiration (i.e. a lounge with pool tables, video games, ping-pong tables...) think again. The only place that we have here is this prison of a room (actually scratch that, at least prisons have windows in some cells), managed by a dark overlord that has just as much of a "sponge" effect on the aforementioned mental components. ~sigh~.......it just makes me wanna shove an icicle through my neck.......

Introducing....the Art Room Enemy!

So folks... here is what our enemy looks like... some nasty little form of mold/fungus with an evil grin.
So far today I've heard about 4 different people sneeze or cough... and in the words of Sea Turtle "we're all gonna die in here..... a slow..horrible..sneezy death"

Monday Morning

Listen to the quiet buzzing of the server computer in the distant corner of the room,
How it’s constant drone somehow creates a feeling of comfort in a room all too familiar to the senses.
The subtle startups of each machine, as they begin their work day in the service of our fingertips.

Adjusting our chairs, somehow seeking some ideal comfort that could never come while at work.
Find yourself struggling with simple levers, to locate any degree of satisfaction in your seating.
It seems to change it’s position every few hours as you wiggle in it’s confines all day.

Clearing and cleaning our desks, as we remove the unnecessary components of the previous weeks dealings.
Tossing away the empty coffee cups, and crumpling up a large pile of yellow Post-Its and reports.
Then we ponder the inevitable workload that is sure to drain our minds throughout the work week.

Recall the weekends events, reliving the highlights of your free time, enjoying your memories of the past.
Debate the issues and problems that have risen from personal shortcomings, taking them to work with you,
Because the weekend simply wasn’t long enough to work our all your life’s problems.

Attempt to begin your week with greetings to your coworkers, and dark coffee by your side.
Trying to make light of the situation you all share confined within these walls for five more days before another break.
Note how your character changes as certain ingrained routines at work begin to take effect on your actions.

Turn the radio on, and feed your ears with the same overplayed music that you subject them to each day,
Allowing the atmosphere of your work day universe to evolve back into it’s typical manifestation.
Grant yourself the cold comfort found in a room that you subject your senses to by choice, but not desire.

A Monday like any other Monday, different from all the others you’ve lived, only by it’s place in time.
Find solitude in the company of coworkers that perhaps would never have made friends outside these walls.
Be thankful, that things could be worse, and somehow find the inspiration to excel where others would fail.

Lesson of the Day

Pudding makes everything better.

R.I.P. Smarties

This farewell shout-out is to commemorate the wonderful life and death of the gigantor bag of Smarties who resided in Sleepy Ferret’s desk. You were practically indestructible and we will look back on all of our times together, fondly. The way you helped us curb our appetites, fed our sugar rush, and added joy to any drab day, kept us in good spirits. You will leave quite a gap here. We will always remember you for your quantity and generosity, and how much you hurt when you were chucked across that room and hit someone on the back of the head. And although you may be replaced with lifesavers or airheads, you will always have a special place in our hearts.

Ladies and Gentleman - A Moment of Silence...

They've been with us for so long now that I feel a huge sense of loss at their seemingly sudden disappearance. They brought such light and joy to all of us artists in our times of helplessness...and low blood sugar...

So I ask for a moment of silence to remember the reds, yellows, blues (and many others) of our beloved friends...

For today...

The smarties have seen their last art room appearance.

::silence::

::sniffle::

Welcome to Poetry Corner

It's Friday and as I sit here and reflect on the week I begin to think of a few things that have inspired me along the way.
So I leave you with this... a little source of inspiration for when you hit the wall and need a little extra boost.


I like big butts and I can not lie.
You other brothers can't deny.
That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung.
Wanna pull out your tough cause you notice that butt was stuffed.
Deep in the jeans she's wearing,
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring.
Oh baby, I wanna get wit'cha and take your picture.
My homeboys tried to warn me,
but with that butt you got makes me feel so horny.

Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin
You say you wanna get in my Benz?
Well, use me, use me
'Cause you ain't that average groupy.
I've seen them dancin'. The hell with romancin'.
She's sweat, wet, got it going like a turbo 'Vette.
I'm tired of magazines saying flat butts are the thing.
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back
So, fellas! (Yeah!) Fellas! (Yeah!)
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (Hell yeah.)
Tell 'em to shake it. (Shake it.) Shake it. (Shake it.)
Shake that healthy butt.
Baby got back.

Sometimes 'au natural' is not a fun thing.

So there used to be a guy named Donald. Donald posed nude. For art. Donald was a little creepy. He wasn't the best male model, but he wasn't the worst (thats another story, for another time.) While drawing him, he would often stare at the unfortunate student facing his front. Making the whole experience quite uncomfortable. His stare was almost that of a serial killer or an axe murderer--trying to read the eyes of their next victim; inflicting panic and uneasiness when eye contact connected. It was only when he was nude and vulnerable that the class received this creepy vibe, for when he had a robe on during breaks, his demeanor was pleasant and sociable. No one blamed him for this. But then again, no one knew his deep dark horrible secret. During the winter months all the students would draw Donald and not complain so much because we understood that it was cold and he was quite a brave soul for exposing himself in such conditions. In the summer, however things changed. The rooms, being on the third floor, became hot and uncomfortable, with no ventilation except for a few operational windows located nowhere near the model stands. It was sometime in my sophomore spring semester that we students discovered the dark dark truth about Donald.

Donald did not believe.. in deodorant.

If anyone out there is looking for a good way to end a murder mystery novel--this sad unfortunate situation would be a perfect candidate ending. The room is enclosed and about 90º. No ventilation, no movement of the air whatsoever. Until Donald walks into the room, gets undressed and poses. Each and every student at that time sensed the disturbance of the air in the room, but all too late. The wall of smell hit their nostrils like a brick wall. Yes, unpleasant. But unavoidable? No.

Funny as I recalled this story, I couldn't help but think of how our little room here is scarily similar to that cubicle of a nude drawing room; no windows and no access to outside air. Sometimes stifling with all the heat produced by the computers running 24/7. So, listen friends.. be kind. Wear deodorant. Death-by-intoxication is not fun.

My kingdom for some fresh air!

So every day, between Monday and Friday, I sit here for 7 .5 hours and stare at a screen.. all the while, an enemy sits above me. I call him Lord Vent of Bacteria (a.k.a. an air vent). Sounds ridiculous doesn't it? That a vent that seems to blow innocently on me should be such an enemy. Well it would be any ones, especially when you sit in a small room with no windows and no way to get any kind of fresh air. The only air that circulates in here comes from the air conditioner.. but really.. its only blowing out the air it takes in from here.

So what do we know about what these vents are pumping into this room.. Fungus?... maybe. Espestis?...a possibility. Bacteria?....most likely. Mold?..oh most definitely. Any time now I could suddenly keel over from the Black Lung. You start to notice things, people start sneezing more, a cold seems to last a month longer than normal, headaches occur more often..... not good signs. And it slowly dawns on me... I don't remember having allergies growing up or through high school or college.. and somehow within the first 6 months of working here.. I find myself allergy ridden. Bastards. Gotta love knowing that work makes you sick...literally.

WHY do we put up with the mess?

"Traffic"

The word sends shivers down my spine. Just the thought of wasting away my time stuck on the interstate, staring blankly into the rear end of the SUV in front of me, sometimes staring through that car into the endless row of ruby red break lights beyond...it's enough to ruin any day, suddenly and absolutely.

Have the construction contractors just not figured that working on the middle of the road during rush hour creates just a few problems? Are people THAT eager to get to work, to sit at that desk and drain their souls into meaningless work, that they really feel the need to drive 95mph down the highway, just to save 5 minutes on the highway to hell? Do we all REALLY all need to stare at the damaged vehicles on the side of the road, what do we expect...to suddenly see some form of physically damage we haven't seen the previous 100 times we were stuck in such a situation on the road?

Instead, we are forced by the need to travel to work, to join in a symphony of idling vehicles, talk radio and squeaking brakes. We sit like lemmings, in columns down the interstate, quietly waiting for our turn to move 5 feet further towards a job we’ve been contemplating quitting for 2 years, but haven’t found the motivation to rebuild our portfolios and retype our resumes. Pushing and shoving in a line of gasoline driven plastic and metal, to our inevitable mental demise at the hands of capitalism. We endure it all, simply because our culture suggests it as the means of happiness, of uniformity, the path to the American Dream.

In the beginning, God created work?

Today was the day, the day I truly lost my mind to this place. How can I possibly continue to consider myself sane in this crazy place. I feel institutionalized. Shouldn't they hand out straight jackets with these I.D. badges they hand out to us at the time of our hiring? What type of company do you work for when you have to warn the new employees to "Leave logic at the door"?

Ok... a little back story:

The authors of this page all work for a medium sized family owned company somewhere in America. We make up the entirety of the company's art department...and this is the result of placing all the company's creative individuals in one room. A room with contrasting multi-colored walls, a radio with no censorship, and a computer every eight feet. Based on the culture of the company, we tend to find ourselves on the outside looking into the insanity of this capitalist experiment, and all the personalities, bizarre corporate traditions, and illogical mental decisions that help to somehow ultimately make this company money by the end of the 4th quarter of each year (I haven't figured out quite how we do that part yet).

We all hail from college, each ingrained by professors with a vision of a fictional reality of the corporate world we were all destined to enter upon graduation. We all awoke on the day of our hire to the truly psychotic universe that is white collar America. As our mind's melt away under the strain of the work week, we seek vengeance on the hell we are forced to endure each weekday within these walls. This is our story, our dairy... our own personal reality TV show.