Some cartoonists draw simple shapes as a frame to support the finished drawing. Few take the time to draw an actual skeleton.

I've spent this week with science cartoons; the writing of them, the re-writing of them, and the re-re-writing of them.

Here's a fitting example of this literary evolution:

I have a joke in mind, a pun — The Origami of Species. I'm picturing Darwin making origami animals that display evolution. But there are several ways to show this.

• I could draw a young Darwin, idly folding origami finches, before the publication of his book.
• I could show a middle-aged Darwin, making the same finches, or making a fish, then an amphibian, reptile, and so on.
• I could show an old Darwin, the image most familiar to the casual reader, with his long beard. The main advantage is that Darwin will be quickly recognizable. But why would he be making origami species, long after the publication of his book? Maybe the punchline could read, "Darwin's Little-Known Sequel, The Origami of Species."

I'll post the result when it mutates into something I can draw.

(In the meanwhile, here's a Darwin cartoon I managed to finish. Be sure to pass it on.)

I'm late in announcing this, but anniversaries are forgiving things, encompassing years with the promise of more.

Mike Lynch,  bon vivant and scholar of cartooning, celebrated the fourth anniversary of his blog on February 9.

It doesn't feel like four years. There's a timeless quality to Mike's blog because his posts aren't grounded to any year. They're generally not a measure of his day. His calendar is more vast than any one cartoonist. His timeline is marked on an epic scale.

If a prehistoric stick figure on a cave wall got a laugh, he'll talk about it as if the ink/berry juice is still wet.

If a cartoonist in 1923 found fleeting success, he'll vivify the lost memory and restore it to life; not in the manner of Mary Shelley's monster, but in the style of Peter Boyle in top hat and tails.

Though he routinely exhumes old books and magazines and newspaper clippings in search of cartoons, his blog is never dusty.  His stage is clean and well-lit, with new shows daily.

He's also an intermittent classroom on cartooning as a profession. His desk may be cluttered, but his lessons are clear: work hard, don't give up, know your markets, know your self.

And in Mike's case, know your blog.

An odd thing was pointed out to me the other day. It might be valid for many, or a quirk.

When you consider the order form on the home page, is it confusing? Is it clear that $30 is the cost to license a cartoon for a powerpoint presentation, and that $75 is the licensing cost for an in-house newsletter?

If you could click the Contact link on the notepad and drop me a yes or no, you have my thanks.

Update: I went with number 7.

For your consideration, an anti-Rorschach.

It's not missing a caption. It has a surplus of captions.

This is typical of most of my cartoons. The captions that occur to me are like the tangled roots beneath a plant. I need a few days to tease them apart; decide which ones to toss.  Right now I'm inclined to break the plant into two, saving the third and fifth caption.

(though I'm now considering a number six: "I'll do it. I'll quit. Starting this spring.")

Another dozen or so cartoons uploaded, if you're in the mood to verify it.

This cartoon was originally about scrapbooking unpaid bills from past vacations. Mary asked why they would paste away bills that still had to be paid. And wasn't that kind of depressing? So I turned the premise around for a better caption. Mary doesn't usually write finished captions, but she often steers mine around until they're out of the ditch and back on the road.

A new cartoon is on the hook at American Scientist.

I've revamped the shopping cart. You can now download your cartoon without the bother of a credit card. I'll send along an invoice.

Everyone likes to get mail.

I mentioned a few posts back that I was diagnosed with ADHD. This shouldn't startle anyone who knows me.

• I promised something and didn't finish it? 
• I repeatedly ask for an address you've provided a dozen times before? 
• I forget appointments? 
• I spout dreams like a fish on top of a fountain, only to have them fall back into the pool, unrealized?

My latest public display of ADD was my plan to rerun a Christmas Spot the Frog story from 2004. I think I got as far as posting six, maybe seven strips, out of twenty-eight. That's six or seven strips better than my usual record — running none of the strips, while flogging myself because I couldn't complete this simple thing; letting my disgust cascade into memories of other failures; every failure leading to the same conclusion: I'm a failure as well.

I'll try not to talk about my ADD too much here (since I'm already talking about it here.) But it's amazing how much of my career finally makes sense. The lack of follow-through, the abundance of laziness*, the mind as composed as a dandelion in the wind. The self-loathing, the crippling perfectionism, the familiar weight of inertia as I contemplate everything that needs to be done, unable to find the strength to bull through it.

There's a slogan that finds its way into many offices: you don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps.

After 49 years of employing my share of crazy, I can report that it doesn't.

*That is, the perception of laziness — if you can't fight the ennui and inertia that results from a distracted mind, you're not getting things done — de facto laziness. 

I loved the ending of this episode. After 20 years of character development and family dynamics, the writers create something new out of something old — in a way familiar to most families. 

Homer and Grandpa have always been the same person in my eyes.* With this episode, Homer becomes more so. 

*Are Homer's adventures more outlandish than the tales Grandpa tells? The only difference is that we know Homer's stories are true, as improbable as they are. And since Homer is Grandpa, Q.E.D.