Animating for users

It was a few years into my video editing career that I discovered “Motion Graphics.” Wanting to make my work stand out, I downloaded After Effects and stumbled into an obsession. My videos went from “iMovie” to “Cinemaaaaa” with just a handful of keyframes, and I would spend the next few years dedicating my keyboard to motion design.

The timing was perfect. Social media was betting on video content, and I was eager to create. Instagram stories, Facebook videos, and YouTube became the kings of video content (and ads). Competing with each other and the wider world, these videos were short, saturated, and attention gripping. I spent my first five years animating for these kings, but, after the 500th meeting of: “how we can grab the users attention faster/longer/moreoften” — I was hungry for something new.

I was fortunate enough to join the growing Customer Experience team at General Motors. These extremely smart folks, with a midwestern drive and Michigan charm, introduced me to the world of User Experience.

Conversations that once asked how we could nip at a user’s attention were replaced with thoughtful questions about a user’s happiness. Animation, a luxury inside a product design team, was to be used purposefully. How can we press a button to reflect reality? If a user gets lost, can we shake an icon to help them along their way?

As I developed a UX approach to animation, my role as “Motion Designer” — for maybe the first time — felt important. Inside the world of advertising, animation was the frosting on a cake. Within UI/UX, motion became a key ingredient; without it, the cake was stale.

Motion can show you that a page is loading with delightful animation. Motion can teach you how to send an emoji or swipe through a carousel. Motion can nag you to fill a low tire, or schedule an oil change. Motion can save lives.

Of course, the opposite is also true. Motion can distract; it can frustrate those with motion sensitivities; motion can be annoying as hell. Thankfully, unlike my past experiences inside advertising, my colleagues understood that “motion design” might mean no motion at all.

Today, beginning my second year with General Motors, it’s seems only appropriate that my approach to motion design now is: How can I get you to where you’re going? (And hopefully the ride there ain’t boring!)

A Bookmark.

There is no resolution here. This is not an after-thought or educational click-bait. I am directly in the middle of it, and I wanted to make note of it now. As a reminder maybe. As a bookmark.

Change is an odd and unexpected thing. There are many stories written about the blossoming of the true person, but I don’t know many that suit me, that tell of a garden inside a person. Shifting many seasons; planting many seeds.

And like the current fall, change is the often met with loss. What becomes tricky, as a man in his new 30s, is how to decide: which leaves must burn away for the season to shift?

I’m speaking a bit poetic, but, again, it’s because I have no answers. I’m in the middle.

Monday Motivated | Vol. 1

ZACH MILLER | ALL IN.
Even after 48.8 miles, there’s still room to try hard; try very hard.

Happy Monday, friends.

A few years back in Panama

I followed a boy to Panama. Well, when I was offered a chance to travel, I did it just to hear him say, “Oh fuck cool!”  I got lost in his thick forearms and woke up in Panama, in the center of America. I was 18, sweating, and far from the comforts of the midwest.

I assumed naively that--certainly--there would be English somewhere (everywhere), only to exit the plane in a panic. 18, sweating, penniless--having lost my wallet somewhere between my seat and the humidity. Not an American in sight and the only spanish I knew was, “Hello please!”

Thankfully, a glowing, olive skinned man approached me and spoke the most beautiful string of english words: “My car broke down. I’ll have to give you money for a taxi.” Uneasy that my college would send a 19-year-old to fetch stumbling young Americans, as soon as he touched my shoulder I didn’t care (I honestly might have blacked out. Love? Heat? Fatique? Who cares).

The Florida State campus in Panama was an old, abandoned army base at the edge of the Canal. The school was English-speaking, but most of the students were Panamanians hoping to finish their education in Florida. I had three roommates: a surfer dude from Texas, a quiet Costa Rican, and a very proud Israeli who talked about bombs more than I was comfortable with. In two weeks we all stopped talking entirely. I quickly discovered Tequila and was alive and free and still very sweaty.

Panama, I would learn, was not altogether gay friendly. The tempo of the country was a bit too slow to outright hate anything, but the gay scene was certainly an underground one. And quite literally: every bar began at the bottom of some staircase. This was my first taste of gay freedom, and I’m grateful for it. The community was small and welcoming and the drag queens were feisty and fast-talking. I learned to appreciate the progress we had made in the States, and formulated one of my best friendships from college with a kid from vermont.

Justin was a junior who lived a few houses down from me. He was a tall, bear of a dude who seemed shy in his own language but loved speaking others. It was the first time I could joke freely about wanting to nap in Jake Gyllenhaal’s nipple and I put a lot of my growing up into his hands that semester. With his unabashed desire for adventure and my virginal liver, we managed to really see some fucking shit.

We missed our opportunity to hitch a bus to Costa Rica by 15 minutes one weekend, and decided to dry our tears on new plans. Our neighbors had talked up a beach a few hours away called, “Playa el Palmar.”
“It’s super easy to get to!” they lied.
“You don’t even have to say anything--they know where to drop you off!” they laughed.

Buses out of the city ranged from a couple dollars to a quarter depending on the destination. From what I was remember, someone told me that Panama bought cheap school buses out of Miami, had them graffitied wildly, and used them until they collapsed. The interior was iconic 6th grade, and I’m not entirely sure if there were rules. They must have, but I sat next to 12 chickens in a cage once, and no one seemed to mind.

At some sudden point along the freeway, the bus pulled over and everyone got off.  “Overheated” I remember hearing. We stood there, on the center of the earth, waiting for the next sign of a bus. We traveled another hour over misty hills when the bus pulled over again. Our driver smiled--the whole country smiled all the time--and Justin and I figured: this must be it?

With the help of some feverish pointing, we began walking towards the ocean on a dirt road, surrounded by swaying palm trees and not much else. Just as the panic began to boil my blood, we had arrived (Adventure!).

Of course, the beach was a hollywood fantsay. This is the “Y Tu Mama, Tambian” fantasy I came for! Black and white sand danced around each other. Ghost crabs glided from one point to the next. Hardly another person in sight, besides a few beach bums sipping beers under a palmed roof. We banged up our knees on sharp caves and looked out onto the empty world. Well, nearly empty. We caught a man prancing on the beach next to us, fully nude and fully blissed out.

I had felt completely lost for the first time in my life. The land, the language, the location--I felt lost.

Unfortunately, What joy! had quickly turned into What Now?! Panicked, I sprinted to a couple in a cabana, only to hear, “Oh, the last bus is in 30 minutes.” Justin, ever chill, didn’t want to rush the experience. Thankfully, I convinced him to finish this journey my way, with anxiety induced constipation.

As soon as we headed toward the highway, an SUV scraped by and offered us a ride back to the city. Suppressing (quite vivid) flashes of being shanked, I turned to Justin and said: Adventure?

We sat in the back of Elvis’ car. Rudely, I couldn’t stop questioning his name. “Elvis? Like Presley? Really? Is this a nickname? Your parents gave you that name? Did they like Elvis Presley?” The name is popular, it’s not pronounced the way you think, and I suck.

Thankfully, Elvis and his wife were nice. Actually, they were maybe too nice? Chatty, loose, and apparently, drunk. On the middle of a busy highway, Elvis slams his breaks and pulls a brown bottle from between his legs, shakes it, and laughs.

“I’m… drunk!”

Justin, ever optimistic, hops out and makes a brave attempt at driving a stick. We don’t make it more than a few meters before being cursed at by passer-bys. Elvis, still drinking, decides he’s “probably fine to get us home.”

An hour later, ungripping my hands from armrest, we arrived safely back to Panama City as happy survivors.

Urban Adventures #1

I left the bus-and-truck lifestyle of performing 2 years ago, hungry for stability and "Friday Nights." It didn't take long for my legs to grow restless, and took a better part of a year before I learned how to soak up the weekend. New York can be a deceptive city if you're looking for an inexpensive adventure. But, with 40 hours at a desk you too can learn: Adventure. Is. Out. There.

A simple guide for a simple escape.

1. Find a Town that Sounds Kinda Familiar?

Just 24 miles from my apartment in Harlem is a little town named "Sleepy Hollow" - which has... The Headless Horseman, and, well, that's as far as I got.  All I knew is that Harlem does not, and I should go. Every city has its Sleepy Hollow, and even if you don't, throw a dart at your computer and go with it.

2. Fantasize About The Beer

By the 945th email on Wednesday, it's time to dive into the deep end of your fantasy. Soon you'll raise a glass with a bar full of headless men: Adventure. Is. Out. There.

3. Wake Up Very Early

I don't think you can call it an adventure if you've slept in. I didn't make this rule, but I believe in it. BONUS: The earlier you leave, the more breaks you can take.

4. Hop on your bike - head north.

Heading out of Manhattan can be a moderate pain. I'll say though, when cars aren't double parked and the rush hour commuters aren't bopping about, New York City has some excellent bike paths. And, at 6am, the city is quiet and the roads are free.

As soon as you reach Van Cortland Park in the Bronx, the bike path expands into the most incredible urban trail I've ever been on: South/North County Trailway. It seems to span 30-40 miles north of Manhattan, sprinkled with a variety of views and smooth - possibly very new? - cement. 

5. Drink a Beer

This should be the next step, but because of Step 3, you might land at little early. I arrived in Sleepy Hollow at 10am and apparently, bars in the Westchester do not open this early (not sure why...?) Thankfully, taking in the smells of a small town so quickly after leaving Harlem was intoxicating enough.

Tarrytown, New York.

5. Chug a Beer

Surprisingly, Sleepy Hollow was a bit uneventful. There's a statue of the headless horsemen somewhere, but I truly could not find it. Thankfully, Tarrytown is an easy 5 minute walk from downtown Sleepy Hollow, and it delivered on all the small town charm this suburban kid (I'm 30) could ask for, including a very talkative stranger and a Farmer's Market with a live folk band. 

And finally, the bars have opened! Chug away!

Sweet Grass Grill

5. Take Your Time

The best part of any bike tour is the freedom of travel. You may feel anxious getting to a destination, but the stroll home can and should be a leisurely one. I packed this hammock from amazon, and set up shop in the trees somewhere between Tarrytown and Harlem. Nothing takes the city out of your sights like swinging between two trees. And it was only 26 bucks!

6. Dream Up The Next One

Thankfully, Saturdays happen every week. Go find yours.

The Weekend Warrior

I've lived in New York a lot longer than I ever planned to. Really... I never planned it. Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this city was a fantasy.

Don't get me wrong -- I was addicted to New York. When I was 8, I obsessed over Ellis Island creating (and sleeping with) a Harry Houdini doll made of a recycled Coke bottle. My first password was "JonathanLarson!" I stole a Party Monster DVD from the library and fantasized about doing lines of cocaine as a pimpled troll (don't worry I'm clean). I've read four biographies of Frank Sinatra's Jersey youth and by my final years of high school, I was doodling like Keith Haring. 

But, to me, New York was fiction. 

As the story goes, now that I'm in New York, I have a found nostalgia for Midwest life. The long and short of it is: a queer kid needs New York. As religion needs its mecca, queer people need theirs. New York was mine, and even now I'm grateful for her. 

Thankfully, I've grown up, found comfort in my skin, and have been given the gift to ask myself: What else are you? Once you've planted your flag, what's next?

This blog is my attempt to have my New York and my midwest too. I'm 30, you know? Let's get after it.

Coming soon...

28 and living in Manhattan. Something's bound to come up.