Hunter W. Clawson
Balistic mental red shell smoothly gliding your way.
Hope you have a banana.
Here’s a question. What am I?
I pretty sure I’m science. A chemical equation in unequilibrium. I’m fairly certain I’m a product of evolution and growth - both in the human way that you can identify with and in a more interpersonal way that you couldn’t even begin know anything about. For those of you lucky enough to know me (and from the bottom of my ego, I hope you consider me a net-postive in this ride called life) – I know more about dinosaurs than anyone you know. I’m an daydreamer – I rarely dream at night. And for the last 3 years I’ve been a child married to the game we call creative advertising. But let’s examine deeper than the facts - a story 25 years in the making.
What is a Hunter W. Clawson?
A ClawDaddy?
A Hunnobeaw?
A Jonteaur LeCluse?
A Hojo?
These are among the many questions I’ve grappled with over the years from dawn ‘til dusk in my free time… And I can’t even begin to pretend to know. But one thing’s for sure – We can all agree that It takes a hyper-curious specimen to experiment with such an autobigraphical question.
So let’s start there and take the question to a koopa-beach-easy-level shall we? Something realistic.
What did I Iearn this week?
For one - I’m an Outkast.
But first some ketchup on the ever-interesting life and times of Hunter W. Clawson Jr.
It was a challenging week to say the least. If you’ve ever spent 73 hours sitting in the same chair grinding out creative for one of the world’s biggest brands over the course of five days, you know what I’m talking about. And I don’t exactly twiddle my thumbs either. Far too much “fear” for that kind of wasted time.
The Fear of failure.The Fear of losing.
It’s been described as one my most valuable assets up there with my Fearless Creative – “My Signature Fear.”
It’s why I get up at the ass-crack of dawn and why I grind ‘til the orange filtered street lights blanket the dark concrete during the rare moments of “quiet time” on the Westside of Downtown Greenville, driving home humming a self-portrait tune with the windows down dreaming of sleep. I’m married to the game.
BUT I’m not an Ad-Man. I’m an artist, an anthropologist, a writer, a daydreamer, a gamecock, a boyfriend, a stubbornly curious redhead that’s horrid at math and a pinball wizard creative.
But telling my clients stories through creative communication certainly pays the bills, and probably will forever. And I’m getting better at an exponential level. For once I can seriously feel it. And it feels addicting.
Sometimes it’s the small things – getting a little quicker, designing a little cleaner, or thinking a little smarter. Then sometimes it’s the big things – powering through a campaign in an hour, “smelling” an error on a final proof or taking ten minuites to do a little freewriting (that’s right – no back only forward and the sound of keys furiously hitting the keyboard…)
Or maybe that’s all a part of just growing up?
Me?
Anything’s possible right?
But on the real, I think this week taught me that I’m fine. I’m starting to see myself as the creative director of myself. I’ve begun seeing that I’ve got a lot to learn, but plenty of time to do it. And that I’m dearly loved by my family, co-workers, friends and girlfriend. I’ve realized that I’m pretty damn lucky.
AND, that I’m an Outkast. And that if I can’t understand me, I’ll probably be an enigma to you my whole life. So I’m going to let my freak flag fly.
To help you understand through your etic perspective, I’ll call on the assistance of my brother from another mother Big Rube –
”
Operatin’ under the crooked American system too long OutKast, pronounced outcast
Adjective meaning homeless, or unaccepted in society
But let’s look deeper than that
Are you an OutKast?
If you understand and feel the basic principles and Fundamental truths contained within this muzik, you probably are
If you think it’s all about pimpin hoes and slammin cadillac doors…
You probably a cracker, or a person that thinks he a cracker
Or maybe just don’t understand
An OutKast is someone who is not considered to be part of the normal world
He’s looked at differently
He’s not accepted because of his clothes, his hair
His occupation, his beliefs or his skin color
Now look at yourself,
Are you an OutKast?
I know I am.
As a matter of fact, fuck being anythang else.
There’s only so much time left in this crazy world
Wake up people and realize what’s goin on around you.
Take back your existence or die like a punk.
Right on to the real, and death to the fakers
Peace out
”
Enough freewriting - I went longboarding this afternoon and now want spaghetti.
-HWC
