I'm sitting in the Manhattan studio of Farley Katz, who at 25 years old is one of the youngest cartoonists ever hired by The New Yorker.
In just under two years, he's published 30 cartoons in the literary magazine's hallowed pages.
He looks exactly what you'd expect a cartoonist to look like: a cross between Willy Wonka and Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Be Blood.
He's wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses and a black handlebar mustache takes up most of his face. His plaid flannel shirt is certainly authentic.
"You know that cartoon trope of the guy marooned on a desert island?" Farley asks me. "That's a lot what being a cartoonist is like. You live a solitary existence in tattered underpants, you can grow a giant beard and no one will care, you sleep in the sand and spend your spare time converting urine to potable water."
One of those cheesy inspirational posters of a kitten playing with its yarn ball hangs above his desk next to his diploma from Harvard, where he majored in Environmental Arts.
Colored pencils and what appear to be unopened utility bills are strewn across his desk. I suddenly realize that his "studio" doubles as his bedroom. A Murphy bed is clumsily stashed into a wall.
Farley grew up in San Antonio, Tex. He tells me, "As a kid, I wanted to grow up to do something that genuinely helped people. I dreamed of being a doctor or a teacher or social worker, but when I got older, I realized those are all difficult, labor-intensive career choices. That's when I decided to spend my life drawing silly doodles of talking dogs."
He tells me his strongest artistic inspirations are Edward Gorey, Dr. Seuss, George Herriman, Gary Larson and The Simpsons.
"I started drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil in my hand," he says.
I ask him if getting a cartoon printed in The New Yorker is like winning the Superbowl for a cartoonist.
"Selling my first cartoon to The New Yorker was an amazing feeling," he answers. "It wasn't quite the Super Bowl, but to use a sports metaphor, I'd describe it as slam-dunking in a basketball game against a team of crying children."
You'd think he was joking or being facetious with every answer, but he speaks in an almost unsettlingly nonchalant monotone. I stop questioning it in my mind - I'm far out of my element.
Farley's cartoons are what one might categorize as absurdist. They feature impossible situations tinted with a child's naive and hyper-imaginative perspective on life. His characters include talking animals, clowns, mobsters and motorcycle gangs.
"My cartoons are largely autobiographical," he explains. "I spent my youth in a circus, raised by hyper-intelligent talking bears. At the age of 10 I was kidnapped by a mobster and sold to a motorcycle gang. Now I live on the couch in a psychiatrist's office."
Looking around the office, I ask him how he draws.
"I'm most productive in the mornings. I prefer a cool environment, usually 63-64.5 degrees Fahrenheit, and I can only really work if [The Beatles'] 'Helter Skelter' is on repeat."
He continues, "I submit ten to fifteen cartoons a week. The New Yorker has somewhere around thirty cartoonists on staff. They are funny, wacky, loveable people, but if you get more than two of us in a room at a time, expect a Mexican standoff."
Besides drawing cartoons, Farley writes a blog for the New Yorker website entitled "The Cartoon Lounge." A recurring post has Farley challenging celebrities to drawing competitions called "Cartoon-offs."
"The internet is amazing," he says. "You can trick celebrities into thinking you are a journalist simply by signing your email 'the REAL Brian Williams.'"
I ask him what famous person, living or dead, he would challenge to one of his "Cartoon-offs."
"Hitler," he responds without even thinking about it. "The guy was a failed artist, and I think if I had only been able to challenge him to a cartoon-off and take a dive, it would have boosted his self-confidence and he would have continued to pursue a career in the arts instead of doing that other stuff he did."
In addition to his duties for the New Yorker, Farley is constantly at work on a diverse range of art projects.
This past summer, he partnered with Saturday Night Live writer Simon Rich to produce trading cards cataloging the "Superheroes of New York City." These include: The Unemployed Banker, The Fat Rich Girl, and Paul Giamatti.
While these cards were positively reviewed in Vanity Fair, the bulk of his projects never make it out of the box he keeps under his bed.
The interview is ending, so I ask him for any advice he would give to aspiring cartoonists.
"Go into banking! You can print your own money," he says frantically.
On my way out, I introduce myself to his stunningly attractive girlfriend, Rebecca, who is sitting on a futon situated halfway out of the apartment's kitchenette.
I make small talk with her. She has just quit her job at Conde Nast to pursue a degree in fashion. She seems as normal as Farley is abnormal.
When Farley disappears into the bathroom, I ask Rebecca what drew her to him. "He had a crazy look in his eye. And he's Jewish, so that's a plus."
