A collection of stupid drawings about sex, music, and pop culture.

As an only child to a mother who worked most nights, I spent a lot of time alone watching tv, sometimes watching things that were far too old for me. It was one of those all-alone nights, at about 2 am when I was 5, when I caught a documentary about Tex Avery and some early Disney animators — a light bulb went off in my head that said, “that’s what I should do when I grow up.”

It was like a get-out of this life card; if I could learn to draw, I could animate my own stories and create my own characters — for a lonely only child that seemed ideal, escaping into fantasy. I did draw, usually myself as a cartoon character over and over again. Still, I never got any good at it.

To get good at art, you usually need a supportive family, and my family wasn’t. They weren’t against me becoming artistic. It was just that they just didn’t get it. For “them,” art was something rich people did. I think I was 17 when I went to my first art museum. I continued to draw cartoons of myself through my 20s and 30s. I even became a full-blown low-brow surrealist art collector.

At 37, with a 5-year-old daughter who was being encouraged to draw, I started drawing again. This time the people around me supported this new passion.

These are some of my drawings.