All of us think we’re unique. And we are — at least when it comes to our DNA.

But no matter how you cut it, we have a lot more in common with the mass of humankind than we don’t. On humanity’s bell-shaped curve, if Grantland Rice’s One Great Scorer did the calculations, I’m sure most of us would be jam-packed in the middle.

But that’s fine with me. OK, so I won’t ever be behind the lectern about to give my Nobel Prize acceptance speech. On the other hand, I’m not gonna be chillin’ in a Supermax lookin’ at Life plus 350 years.

All in all and by any measure, I’m just an average Dope. I’ve had my successes, I’ve had my failures. I have my friends, and while I don’t like to think about it, I’m sure I have my enemies. But when it comes to enemies, my worst one is me, myself.

My inner enemy almost always manifests the same way, which is by telling me, over and over, “You can’t.” As near as I can figure, this started in second grade, when it told me I couldn’t draw.

That inner voice had help from an outer voice, namely, the art teacher. She didn’t say that word-for-word, nor did she have to. I could deduce it from her grading, body language and lack of attention. The good news is I wasn’t alone, since almost all my classmates were failed artists too. The bad news is it never needed to happen.

My mother was a fiend when it came to making sure we were always mentally stimulated. As a result, almost from the get-go I was surrounded by crayons, pencils and paper, harmonicas and whistles, puzzles, finger paints, books, coloring books, kinetic toys — you name it. So in my idyllic pre-school days, when not hanging out with my pals or rolling around on the sod, I could most often be found at my easel, adorning reams of paper with post-impressionist landscapes, neo-classical buildings, fantastic creatures, even a cubist portrait here and there.

How good were my drawings? Excellent — as far as I was concerned. But that’s only because I had so much fun doing them. Little kids live in The Now. Critics, on the other hand, have no lives of their own. Instead, they focus and crap on everyone else’s, like the yentas they are.

Both I and my art did fine in my darling Mrs. Eldrett’s kindergarten. But once I sailed out of that safe harbor, I found myself tossed about on the treacherous seas and shoals of the Petrova school’s first grade. And there I found that art, as I defined it, was NOT for fun, but for approval from the powers that be.

As I said, by second grade I had as much chance of my drawings being approved as I did of getting a pony for my birthday. So I did the only thing I thought I could — I quit drawing for my own amusement. Of course I still drew for assignments, but without any care, commitment or improvement. Since I knew it was something I couldn’t do, why bother? Instead, I put my energies into the things I Could do — read, wander around for no reason whatsoever and eat astounding amounts of candy when I could get my grubby little hands on it. As far as my innocent mind could figure, it was a fair trade.

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When “You can’t” becomes I can

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A bunch of years ago, I was talking to Tim Fortune, owner, CEO and resident artist of The Small Fortune gallery. He told me he’d once run a beginners drawing class for adults and at the start, almost all the people drew on a second-grade level. I’d like to say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. Those peeps were my fellow failures who, for reasons known only to them, had finally ignored their inner “you can’t draw” voice and were gutsy enough to give it the good ole college try. Luckily, I finally shut up my inner “you can’t draw” voice, but in a different way.

As long as I can remember, I loved comic books. You know the lot — Batman, Superman, Green Arrow, Green Hornet, Caspar the Friendly Ghost and so on. In my mid-20’s I got introduced to “underground” comics, also known as head comics. They were a whole new world. The comics of my childhood adhered to a comic book code, which prohibited any examples or swearing, sex, graphic violence, drugs, evil triumphing over good and subversive thought of any kind. The underground comics, started and headquartered in San Francisco (where else but?), were the exact opposite.

But not only was their content radically different from the comic code ones, their art was as well. In my not-so-humble opinion, some of the underground comic artists were as skilled pen and ink artists as any of the world’s greatest. My favorite one is Robert Crumb, best known for his sardonic guru character, Mr. Natural (he of the “keep on trucking” fame). His stuff ran the gamut from deadly serious to grotesquely hilarious, but no matter what his subject or theme, his technique was astounding. He also is responsible for one of my greatest epiphanies and subsequent life changes.

On the back cover of one of his comics, Despair, he had a heading that read “Drawing Cartoons Is Fun!” with a sub-head, “Anyone can be a cartoonist. It’s so simple even a child can do it!” Then the rest of the cover had drawings and script that further reinforced those ideas. At one place in the text he’d written that people always say they wish they could draw, but they can’t even draw a straight line. To which he retorted, “NOBODY can draw a straight line and any person who tells you he can is a liar, a cheat and a fraud!!”

That cover and that line about no one being able to draw a straight line hit me like a direct hit amidships. It was perhaps THE essential truth of drawing, one that had eluded me for the last 20 years and played a big role in my knowing I couldn’t draw.

But that cover did more than just enlighten me about drawing — it made me decide to give drawing one more try.

And so I forced myself to draw every day, for at least a half hour. I wish I could tell you how I rediscovered the joy I’d had drawing as a little kid, but I can’t. The fact is the process was tedious, disappointing and often downright painful. Nothing I did turned out. Or more exactly, everything I did turned out lousy. Because I had no confidence, my lines were short and weak, and nothing looked like I wanted it to. But I didn’t quit. And much to my amazement, after a while my stuff improved to the point that even if it was no good, it was at least recognizable.

Against all odds, I kept drawing, and while I tapered off after a while, I still draw. As a result, while my skill level is still so-so at best, something happened that I never thought possible: Once again, drawing became FUN! And since I mostly draw cartoons for other people, I think they have fun with them as well. If there’s anything more I could want from my drawing, I can’t think what it might be.

Today we seem surrounded, if not suffocated, by advisers of every sort, and as a people have lost our ability to think for ourselves. There are psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors, talk show hosts, religious somethings-or-other, cult leaders, healers and motivational speakers. All of them have their fans and acolytes, all of them have their shticks.

They have books, pamphlets, tapes, lectures — every way of getting their priceless message to the masses … of course for a price. While I’m sure some are sincere, I think most are the 21st century equivalent of the snake oil salesmen, and probably have the same record of success.

Anyhow, a recurrent message from these “experts” is trust your intuition. In other words, listen to your inner voices. They seem not to be able to repeat enough, “Always follow your inner voice.”

Based on my experience from Way Back When, I say be careful which inner voice you listen to, since just because it’s an inner voice, it doesn’t mean it knows what it’s talking about.

Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, Be a whole lot more careful which EXPERTS you listen to.