It’s a cold and rainy day here at Davidlee’s ranch abode. Raindrops hammering on the tin roof causing the doggies to lie around in a lazy stupor all day, constantly fading from sleeping and staring around blankly. Davidlee is not around. He is gone for the week on a business trip, one that does not pertain to the show. Apparently, he thinks he needs this thing called “money“ to survive and still works a job instead of focusing all of his time on this cartoon dream he and Cody have.
He’s an idiot.
There is a lack of chaos with him being gone. His desk is not covered in sheets of paper – though his hotel room currently is. No aroma of dark coffee fills the room and the constant gurgling of it brewing is nowhere to be heard. Random containers of dip-spit – a habit he is trying to break and failing miserably – do not lurk around the corners of his desk, or kitchen counter, or coffee table, or shower, or the back of the toilet, or the anywhere-he-can-find-to-set-a-cup. All that is here is his lazy Aussies and me, though he doesn’t know I am here, but that’s okay. I hide in the attic when his friend comes over to hang out with the dogs.
With Davidlee gone it feels more like a home and less like an office, which I suppose in this state would feel nothing like home to him. If he had to suffer through it being like this for more than a day he would probably be bashing his head against the wall within the first hour.
As I sit here at his desk, with my feet propped up on it cause I know it would piss him off, I felt the urge to write about him. I felt the urge to write about that mother fucker and talk all about his eccentric ass. Watching him work on the show is like watching someone slowly slip into the dark depths of madness. Walking in on Davidlee choking himself with a belt while masturbating with a raw piece of chicken, would be less shocking than walking in on him in the midst of working on the show.
I would know, as I have walked in on him doing both.
“It looks like a serial killer lives here or something,“ he once said to me, looking over his shoulder as he pointed at his wall. The wall was covered in concept art for the show and the original beat-board for the pilot episode which may as well be lost forever now, as they actually submitted it to a place that we will not name. He was also wearing a pair of old, black shorts, no shirt, and a suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up. Oh, and there was also a strip of floor moulding leaned up against the wall that had all the characters drawn on it as if they were falling – he recently broke that over his knee.
“Why are you dressed like that,“ I asked him, only for him to shrug and walk to the coffee pot and offer me a cup. I said no, but he poured me one anyway. Black, just like he drinks it. And he drinks some dark shit. It tastes like fucking diesel, or something really fucking bitter and strong. I don’t know what diesel taste like. And he drinks this shit all day. All. Day. I don’t just say that in a manner of “he drinks a lot of coffee.“ I say that in a manner of “this mother fucker drinks coffee ALL GOD DAMN DAY!“ The title of this article is an understatement.
When he writes the scripts, he drinks a beer – usually an IPA – and coffee. Alternating between sipping the two. He will also change clothes, two or three times, while writing the scripts. He will talk to himself. At random moments he will abruptly stand, walk away from the desk, stop and think for a minute, and then walk right back. The only thing he pays attention to while working is his dogs. If they change position on the couch or sneeze, or anything, he will notice. He will acknowledge them. He may get up and love on them for a minute, or speak to them in a voice of sweetness very few people ever hear come from him. All else goes unnoticed.
I could set myself on fire and proceed to destroy everything in his house, but as long as the dogs don’t do a damn thing, he wouldn’t pay me any attention.
And when he is working on the frames? Oh my god. Holy shit. That is another level altogether. One of his last stints the only breaks he took were to feed his dogs and take them outside. I visited on one of those three days. I walked in and he glanced up at me from his desk, I think he muttered a greeting to me and instantly went back to work on the onion-skinned frames before him. On his desk was his usual cup of coffee, a beer, and in his mouth was such an enormous amount of saliva-filled-with-cancer because he wouldn’t take the two seconds to spit in the large Styrofoam cup next to him. Said cup was already filled over the halfway mark with cancer-filled goodness.
I spoke with him the following day.
“I woke up today with a bloated stomach. I realized that I hadn’t eaten in two days. Wanna get sushi?“
I sighed and said yes.
Throughout dinner, he talked about the show, sprinkled with a little chitter-chatter about Persona 5. Yes, surprisingly, he does do other things besides work a normal job and work on a cartoon. Hell, when I spoke to him earlier he was sitting on his hotel balcony reading an Aresne Lupin book.
“I like making people happy,“ he said to me once when I brought up how much he slaves over the show. “Cody and I like making people laugh. If we put the show out there and it gets big, that’s great. If we put it out there and ten people like it, that’s great. If one person likes it, I’ll be happy. At least someone was given some joy from it.“
I just think he is fucking insane. He has a bed that can comfortably fit four people, but he sleeps on his fucking couch.
P.S. Character pages and promo artwork will be getting released next week. This website is actually turning into a website of some sorts. All thanks to me.