​     90% of the time, public school meant, for me, a teacher at one end of a classroom facing thirty students sitting at desks designed for that purpose and no other. These desks all looked exactly alike, were all basically made of metal with wooden seats and wooden desktops lacquered for easy clean up. I never did this myself, but, over those long, dreary lectures from our instructor, I remember that more than one of my fellow students, a guy always, never a girl, would kill time by drawing on those lacquered desktops with what pencils were issued. Simple drawings usually, doodled out on a corner of the desk, easily erased as the lecture came to a close. Sometimes, though, these guys would just go nuts. They'd take up the whole desktop to render, nothing sexual, that might get him suspended, but scenes of souped-up racing cars or battles involving dozens of solders utterly obliterating their enemies in battle in lurid and melodramatic detail. I'm certain these guys did not consider themselves "artists", not in those moments, although they most certainly were, but as people so bored they had to doodle to keep from dropping into a coma, but what they almost mindlessly created throbbed with life and vigor, a lot of times. That's how I thought of myself over the last twelve years while I worked on Adam Forwarder, as a kid doodling on a school desk while life thudded annoyingly by. There is a jazz improvisational rawness to Adam Forwarder that would feel out of place in the new project I'm doing, and I will miss it. Say what you want about my vulgar crap, it throbs, it's alive.

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