I think it’s safe to say that the entire Photoshop for Morons journey has been a bit of a cursed endeavor. While the first installment had its share of disasters, this sequel somehow managed to outdo it with an even grander dose of chaos—and yes, more unintentional comedic relief than I ever imagined possible.
One might assume that recording a sequel would be easier: familiar workflows, fewer unknowns. Instead, each day felt like a fresh installment in a slapstick sitcom with me as the unlucky lead.
Why Did It Have to Be the Heat?
I honestly can’t fully explain the logic—if there was any—to filming tutorials during the peak of an East Coast summer heatwave, and with absolutely zero air conditioning. Picture this: oppressive heat, humidity thick enough to swim through, and a perspiration level rivaling a LeBron James jump shot workout. My face looked like a doomed wax statue destined for a horror museum exhibit.
I had only a tiny window—from 3 AM to 5 AM—when temperatures were marginally tolerable. This meant whispering through lessons, keeping my voice low to avoid waking my partner. Ironically, those hushed tones added a sort of hushed theatricality, as if I were narrating a noir film in my pajamas, under dim lights. If accidental ambiance had a poster-child, it would probably feature bleary-eyed me, drenched in sweat, whispering about layers and masking.
Humidity, as any photographer or videographer knows, is a silent adversary. It greases lenses, winds lashers, and makes electronics less-than-reliable. My camera lens fogged up at least half a dozen times mid-shoot, forcing sweaty intermissions in my undergarments to wipe down equipment and reclaim my composure.
Despite it all, though, I found a strange camaraderie with the process. There’s something intoxicating about making art in the small hours of the morning, when the rest of the world sleeps, and it’s just you, the glow of the screen, and the ghost of a breeze through an open window.
When the Cough Hits Hard
As if battling heat and humidity weren’t enough, both Amanda and I were struck by what I’ll politely euphemize as the “spicy cough.” You know the one. I won’t name it, for fear of summoning dreaded SEO filters or those robotic algorithm guardians. But trust me, it was the kind of cough that makes you question your alignment with the human experience.
The effect on our schedules was immediate: recording was impossible. Any attempt to speak sounded like gravel tumbling through a blender. Throat resembled sandpaper. Each inhale felt like passing razor blades across my vocal cords. We were feverish, delirious, and unfit for even the simplest tasks, let alone teaching Photoshop intricacies.
Somehow, I soldiered on. I would whisper through layers and masks while fighting off coughing fits, voice warbling in and out of focus. Amanda, similarly compromised, provided moral support, tissues, and occasional protocol reminders like: “Don’t cough into the mic!” or “Cover your beard in honey.” The last of those was a joke, but honestly, by day seven of hacking phlegm, I’d have considered it.
The Renovation Gauntlet: Turning Chaos Into Creativity
Relocating into a century-old church might sound like a romantic notion straight out of a storybook, but in practice, it became an ongoing odyssey of madness. With every creaking floorboard and particle of airborne sawdust, our dream of creating a peaceful, inspiring creative workspace slipped further from reach. This place, while drenched in architectural charm and historical gravitas, quickly revealed its incompatibility with sensitive tech equipment and high-quality content production.
From the very beginning, the house-renovation project came bundled with sensory overload: power tools whirring, nails pinging across ancient beams, and fine clouds of renovation dust infiltrating every nook and cranny. For anyone dealing with high-end gear—like microphones, cameras, computers, and lighting setups—dust is the enemy. It shortens lifespans, compromises performance, and ruins recordings.
The Temporary Office Experiment
With our primary environment rendered uninhabitable for work, we attempted a workaround: temporary office rentals. The idea was simple in theory. We’d rent short-term stays that offered clean, quiet, presentable rooms where recording tutorials could resume without interruption. For a moment, it seemed genius. We managed to snag a few quaint spaces—bright windows, neutral walls, no jackhammers or hammer drills in earshot. Everything aligned. Tutorials resumed.
However, like most band-aid fixes, it wasn’t sustainable. These short-term bookings came with strict checkout dates, often set in stone. And fate, with its sharp sense of irony, decided to remind us of that fact right in the middle of our recovery from a brutal respiratory illness. On day five of hacking, sneezing, and sipping lukewarm lemon tea, we were reminded that it was time to move again.
The Great Gear Migration
The logistics of moving a full video and editing setup while being half-conscious was nothing short of Herculean. Packing monitors, tripods, softboxes, microphones, drives, and cables into the camper—while battling dizziness and mosquito swarms—became its own cinematic event. It wasn’t glamorous. It was primal.
Try setting up a studio in a new space with a fever running high, sweat streaming into your eyes, your arms itching from bug bites, and your patience hanging by a single, fraying thread. I dropped things. I tripped. I swatted blindly at black flies that seemed biologically engineered for torment. The LED panels lit the room like an interrogation scene, but the real enemy wasn’t discomfort—it was the ticking clock.
Every piece of gear had to be calibrated again. Levels reset. Focus readjusted. Backgrounds optimized. It was déjà vu in a fever dream, looping over and over with each new rental. Recording became a ritual of endurance, adaptation, and muted swearing.
The War on Distractions
In an attempt to distract myself from the physical misery, I briefly entertained the idea of narrating my suffering in song. But my voice, a worn-out raspy whisper by that point, could barely string together a sentence, let alone a bard-worthy lament.
I fantasized about more absurd solutions—taping Polysporin to my bug-bitten neck like armor, lighting cinnamon sticks to mask the stale air in our makeshift studio, or wielding bug-zapper rackets like flaming swords at the entrance to repel invaders. It was madness, but within that madness, a strange kind of humor bloomed. Laughter became our survival tool, our only source of sanity as we pressed on toward course completion.
The madness of it all somehow became part of the experience. It wasn’t just about teaching how to use Photoshop; it was about surviving the unexpected and turning those hurdles into creative fuel.
Creative Genius or Glorified Masochist?
As I sat on a stack of storage bins doubling as a desk, coughing into my elbow while editing adjustment layer demonstrations, I found myself deep in existential reflection: “Is this the behavior of an inspired creator or a total lunatic?”
Honestly, it’s both. There’s a fine line between passionate commitment and creative masochism, and I probably sprinted past it somewhere between packing gear at 4 AM and sneezing mid-take for the fifth time that hour.
But creativity isn’t born from convenience—it flourishes in challenge. Whether you’re editing landscape composites or masking out fine hair strands in portraits, real growth happens when you persist through frustration. Every interruption I faced while recording became a metaphor for how editing itself can feel—tedious, sometimes maddening, but ultimately rewarding if you endure.
Lessons in Improvisation and Resilience
The experience forced me to become even more resourceful. I constructed sound-dampening panels from pillows and duct tape. I used black-out curtains as makeshift backdrops and tuned ambient lighting using kitchen lamps. I rebuilt my editing station multiple times, learning how to optimize each new environment on the fly.
All of these challenges deepened my understanding—not just of the technical side of production, but of the core resilience that content creators need to thrive. Whether you're designing dynamic posters in Photoshop or learning compositing techniques for digital art, your physical environment matters—but your mindset matters more.
This process reaffirmed a truth I’ve always believed: that limitations often push you to be more inventive. I would’ve never discovered certain workflows or filming tricks if I hadn’t been forced into those situations. And now, those same improvisational skills are baked into the tutorials themselves.
A Studio Is More Than a Room
People often imagine a perfect home studio as a physical space: pristine lighting, whisper-quiet air, spotless walls. But I’ve come to realize that a true studio isn’t just a room—it’s a mindset. It’s the space you carve out amid the madness. It’s being able to focus when flies buzz past your mic, or when the cat jumps on your keyboard mid-demo.
Yes, a well-equipped studio helps—but adaptability is far more important. You could have the best rig in the world, but if you can’t pivot under pressure, your gear won’t save you.
This mindset is something I’ve tried to pass on in Photoshop for Morons 2. I didn’t just want to share editing skills. I wanted to model resilience—how to keep learning, how to keep creating, even when the world seems determined to make you stop. That’s a far more powerful lesson than any tutorial on curves or masking.
The Cat Chronicles: Midnight Mayhem in the Makeshift Studio
There’s something poetic about chaos arriving right when you believe everything is finally under control. And in my life, that chaos has four paws, sharp claws, and a meow that could curdle paint. Enter: my cats. These nocturnal anarchists seem to possess an uncanny ability to detect the precise moment I’m about to begin a Photoshop tutorial recording. Lights are glowing, the microphone is hot, my underpants are just out of frame, and then—boom—feline pandemonium.
It usually begins subtly. A twitch of a tail. A low growl. But within seconds, the living room transforms into a full-blown arena where fur flies, claws clash, and dignity goes to die. One moment I’m explaining layer masks, the next I’m diving to save my lighting rig from being toppled by a high-speed chase across the furniture. This isn’t just inconvenient—it’s cinematic sabotage delivered nightly by creatures who share my Wi-Fi and act like they pay rent.
Indoor Predators with a Flair for Drama
Since moving to a rural area infested with coyotes, our once-roaming feline companions are now confined to the indoors after sundown. At first, they tolerated the arrangement. But over time, their nightly instincts—honed from years of pouncing on shadows and silently stalking moths—had nowhere to go. Their hunting energy became tightly coiled, ready to spring at the most inopportune moment: 3 AM.
To an outsider, it might seem like they’re just being cats. But to a content creator trying to teach Photoshop techniques like non-destructive editing, precise selection, and tonal grading, these uninvited performances become both obstacle and absurd theatre. I’ve had to stop takes mid-sentence to break up tail-thrashing battles. One particular session featured a wrestling match under my desk that caused my camera to wobble so violently it looked like I was trying to film during an earthquake.
Unscripted Guests in a Carefully Scripted World
You could say they added character. My tutorials, which were originally supposed to focus on clean demonstrations of blending modes and adjustment layers, quickly evolved into a strange hybrid of digital education and unscripted cat reality TV. In the beginning, I tried to edit out every interruption. But soon, I realized that these moments were doing something unexpected: they were making the content feel real.
For viewers, these brief glimpses into domestic disorder were oddly comforting. It humanized the experience. People commented not on the interruptions themselves, but on the sincerity they brought. In a digital learning world often filled with pristine, sterile productions, a tutorial interrupted by a meowing cat or a tail slapping a light reflector suddenly felt more relatable—and therefore, more memorable.
The Struggle of Maintaining Creative Flow
Working on Photoshop tutorials requires a certain mental state: focused, fluid, and uninterrupted. The techniques often involve layered decisions—opacity adjustments, subtle masking, dodge and burn precision—all of which need full cognitive attention. Now try achieving that while two cats are in beast mode behind your monitor.
Just when you’re adjusting hue/saturation to highlight subject separation, you hear the unmistakable sound of a plastic object being swatted across the room. Or worse, you see your external hard drive being used as a launching platform for a flying pounce. The tension between maintaining professionalism and dealing with furry interruptions creates a weird emotional whiplash—part frustration, part hilarity.
From Frustration to Acceptance: A Creative Pivot
Eventually, I stopped fighting it. The interruptions weren’t going to end, and in some twisted way, I’d begun to anticipate them. So instead of dreading the next pounce or cry, I leaned into it. I made peace with the chaos. If a tutorial got interrupted, I’d laugh, pause, and carry on. If my voice was suddenly drowned out by a howling duet of hungry meows, I acknowledged it in the recording.
That shift in mindset had an interesting effect—it made me enjoy the recording process more. No longer trying to force perfection, I allowed spontaneity to shape the narrative. And in doing so, the tutorials gained a new dimension. They became less about flawless delivery and more about a genuine creative journey—complete with all the messy, noisy, joyful distractions that come with sharing your workspace with energetic pets.
Lessons in Patience, Timing, and Adaptation
Dealing with nightly feline escapades taught me more than how to dodge flying fur while explaining clone stamp tools. It taught me patience. It made me more attuned to timing—not just in video production, but in life. I learned to spot the signs of an impending cat brawl and preemptively adjust my schedule. I became more flexible with my takes, more forgiving of small mistakes, and ultimately, more connected with my audience.
It also made me appreciate the quiet moments. That brief window between midnight madness and dawn, when the house falls silent, became sacred. In that stillness, I found a deeper flow, one where the creativity felt natural, unforced. It’s where I rediscovered the joy of editing—something that can get lost when the process becomes too mechanical or rigid.
A New Kind of Studio Etiquette
My cats inadvertently taught me a lesson in work-life balance. They reminded me, with every leap onto my keyboard or vocal interruption, that life isn’t lived in pristine silence. Creativity doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Whether it’s the sound of paws on laminate floors or the sudden crash of a knocked-over diffuser, these interruptions are part of the environment I create in.
Rather than striving for an artificial version of productivity, I embraced a more holistic approach. Yes, I still strive for excellence in teaching Photoshop skills—smart object usage, layer hierarchy, blending workflows—but I now do it with an understanding that authenticity matters just as much as accuracy.
The Relentless Clash Between Gear and the Elements
Balancing the precision of technology with the unpredictability of nature is a challenge few anticipate until they’re in the thick of it. Creating a high-quality Photoshop course while navigating the raw, untamed forces of the East Coast proved to be an extended masterclass in adaptation, resourcefulness, and grit. The environment here doesn’t just whisper resistance—it shouts. From ocean-fed humidity to dust-choked corners and creature invasions, each recording session became a battle between high-tech tools and Mother Nature’s mischievous side.
When your workspace shifts between a 100-year-old church and a camper in the wilderness, your technology must endure more than just routine usage. It faces heatwaves, condensation, pollen storms, and sometimes the wrath of curious wildlife. In my case, it was often cat hair and sea air forming a formidable alliance against my camera lenses, keyboards, and even the light stands. It felt like trying to maintain a sterile lab in the middle of a rainforest.
Humidity and Havoc: The Invisible Saboteur
Humidity is one of the silent killers of technology. You don’t see it, you barely feel it creeping in, but it seeps into your equipment and wreaks havoc quietly. My camera gear constantly fogged up before a shoot. Moisture clung to lenses and internal components, which isn’t ideal when you’re trying to demonstrate precision retouching, sharp masking, or color grading techniques.
Even the tripod legs felt stickier than usual, coated in an invisible layer of damp. Light stands refused to stay balanced. HDMI cables suffered intermittent failures. On more than one occasion, I had to stop mid-take, tear apart the setup, dry each piece meticulously with microfiber cloths, and reboot everything, hoping the glitch hadn’t corrupted files.
Humidity also mixed unpleasantly with dust. Renovation debris floated invisibly into every frame and device, like passive-aggressive glitter that never truly left. I tried taping filters over vents and placing silica gel around every surface. It helped slightly, but the feeling of losing control lingered—technology wasn’t the problem; the environment was.
Micro-Disasters, Macro-Lessons
Every technical failure taught me something—about patience, backup strategies, and personal limits. One day, I discovered fine dust—part cat hair, part drywall, part unidentified fluff—had worked its way into the camera’s ports. It took almost an hour to clean everything thoroughly. Another time, the power cut out mid-recording due to an overloaded inverter, and the segment I’d just filmed had to be scrapped.
Then there were the insects. Recording in the camper meant constant contact with the bug population. Tiny midges somehow managed to appear inside sealed light fixtures. At one point, a moth landed directly on my lens mid-recording and sat there like it was demanding a cameo. Editing out wings in post-production? Not part of the plan.
These moments weren’t just nuisances. They disrupted momentum and drained time. But, more importantly, they reminded me how fragile a recording setup really is—especially when balanced on the unpredictable back of a rural lifestyle.
Over-Sanitizing and the Illusion of Control
As the challenges mounted, I found myself obsessing over cleanliness and precision. I sanitized my surfaces so frequently the camper began to reek of antiseptic mixed with lavender spray, an oddly comforting scent cocktail designed to mask everything from fruit fly decay to the after-effects of spicy cough-induced sweats.
I treated every piece of gear like a medical instrument. Microfiber cloths were washed and rotated. Light diffusers were scrubbed with diluted vinegar. Even keyboard keys were picked at with cotton swabs. I started logging the days between full gear cleanings. Did it help? Marginally. But it created a routine that felt like control—even if it was only an illusion.
Despite the layers of precaution, entropy always found a way. A rogue droplet here, a dust mote there, an unexpected sneeze while adjusting exposure. The war was unwinnable—but the small victories made it worth continuing.
Teaching Photoshop Under Pressure
Recording a Photoshop course while dealing with such disruptions forced me to simplify and streamline my workflow. Tutorials had to be tight, focused, and resilient to interruptions. I couldn’t afford to re-record every take affected by a cough or background noise. Instead, I developed new approaches to deliver Photoshop concepts like tonal correction, frequency separation, and advanced masking while minimizing the risk of chaos sneaking into every frame.
This resulted in tutorials that were not just technically rich but also more human. If a tool glitch occurred during a screen share, I explained why and used it as a learning moment. When a subtle audio hiccup surfaced, I acknowledged it. I wasn’t striving for perfection—I was demonstrating problem-solving, live, in real conditions.
Students noticed and appreciated the honesty. They saw what real-world editing looks like—not just idealized workflows but adaptive thinking and resilience under pressure. That experience is more educational than a flawlessly edited video because it prepares them for real challenges in their creative journeys.
A Dance Between Nature and Innovation
The interaction between the natural environment and technology is a constant dance. You don’t always lead. Sometimes nature takes the wheel and your role becomes reactive. Whether it’s the wind rattling the camper, raccoons sniffing near the equipment trailer, or condensation dripping inside an electrical outlet, every detail added unpredictability.
Instead of resisting these forces, I gradually learned to build them into my planning. Recording schedules were set by the wind forecast. Equipment was wrapped in padded cases even inside. I began preheating gear slightly to match ambient temperature and prevent lens fog. These were not overreactions; they were survival strategies.
Nature reminded me that digital creation doesn’t happen in isolation. Even as I taught how to use Photoshop to refine and elevate imagery, I was living inside a narrative that was messy, unfiltered, and governed by forces beyond control. That tension enriched the course’s energy—it gave it authenticity.
The Gift of Unpredictability
What began as frustration eventually became a form of inspiration. The unpredictable settings, the battle against nature, the countless minor setbacks—they all infused the course with a kind of emotional realism that’s hard to script.
Instead of cutting around all the imperfections, I embraced them. A cough stayed in. The sound of rain hitting the camper roof made the background feel warmer, more real. The occasional cat bellow, the distant rustle of leaves, or the ambient hum of an overworked power converter—all of it became the subtle soundtrack of the experience.
Creativity, after all, doesn’t bloom in perfect conditions. It thrives in adaptation. It shines when someone decides to continue despite everything going wrong. This tug-of-war between technology and the natural world didn’t just shape my content—it sharpened my resolve and deepened the meaning of the tutorials.
Creativity Amidst Adversity
Despite the exhaustion, the sweat, the coughing, and the dust, I found surprising moments of delight. Filming in makeshift offices forced creative problem-solving. I rigged curtains for better lighting diffusion. I built cardboard sound panels. I improvised Photoshop training aids because I forgot props.
The result was a course that feels alive. When I talk about color correction, it's in a room lit by actual sunrise through dusty panes. When I demonstrate layer blending, my backdrop includes a half-painted beam from our renovation. It’s not polished. It’s distinct, accidental, and grounded.
At certain points, I paused to capture time-lapse footage of the sunrise through the church windows. I filmed macro shots of black-fly battles on window sills. I even inserted a short “day in the life” clip where I tackle cables tangled like spaghetti while coughing my lungs out. Teaching Photoshop became teaching resilience—and adding personality and context makes lessons more memorable and relatable.
The Unexpected Benefit of Vulnerability
Vulnerability has tremendous power. If my voice cracked mid-lesson, I let it. If I coughed through a sentence, I didn’t pause to re-record. Those breaks suspended the lecture in realness. My students responded positively to it—commenting they appreciated seeing the real struggle behind the lessons.
It reminded me that teaching is about connection. You can show perfectly calibrated histograms, but the moment someone sees you wrestling cats or wiping sweat off your face, suddenly the software lesson means more. It becomes personal, relatable. And trust me, guides who seem invincible are harder to connect with.
Tools, Tips, and Takeaways
— Time your sessions not just based on ideal recording conditions, but on practical constraints (temperature, noise, pets).
— Embrace imperfections—each disruption can be a teaching moment.
— Use simple gear hacks (like DIY light panels) to combat poor environments.
— Prioritize health—even a whispery voice can teach effectively.
— Let personality shine: explain, laugh, cough, and breathe—students will empathize.
In the End, Totally Worth It
Was it a nightmare? Absolutely. Did it require layers of resilience, quick improvisation, and stiff upper lip? You bet. But was it also one of the most creative, rewarding experiences I’ve had as an instructor? Without question.
Creating “Photoshop for Morons 2” amidst heatwaves, monsoon-like humidity, mid-course illnesses, cat brawls, and dust-pocked offices was absurd—and often exhausting beyond reason. Yet the final product feels alive. It has spontaneity, warmth, and raw humor woven into its fabric.
The course covers advanced trickery in layer masks, blend modes, tonal contrast, blending HDR effects, masking hair, compositing elements, non-destructive editing, brushes for digital painting—you name it. But beyond that, it’s a snapshot of real life, of creativity forged under quixotic conditions. I hope every Photoshop enthusiast who dives into it not only learns new techniques—but also sees the art in adapting, laughing at misfortune, and powering through the imperfect.
If you stick with the lessons, absorb the sprinkled gems, and realize that post-processing can be playful and deeply rewarding, you’ll not only elevate your skills—you’ll expand as an artist. And perhaps, like me, you’ll giggle remembering the time you recorded an entire Photoshop course in your underpants, fighting off cats at 3 AM, while delivering a tutorial on dodge and burn.
Final Thoughts:
Looking back on the making of Photoshop for Morons 2, I can confidently say it was one of the most unpredictable, chaotic, and oddly rewarding projects I’ve ever tackled. It tested every ounce of my patience, adaptability, and creative endurance. But, in a strange twist of fate, it also helped me embrace imperfection—not just in production, but in the very nature of the creative process itself.
This course wasn’t filmed in a pristine studio with a controlled environment and perfect acoustics. It came together through heat waves, late-night whisper sessions, persistent illness, renovations, black flies, and feline melees. It was forged in the kind of adversity that would make most people throw in the towel and try again next year. But what emerged wasn’t just a collection of video tutorials—it was a chronicle of resilience, fueled by sheer determination and an unwillingness to give up.
More than just a Photoshop course, this became a reflection of real life—messy, unpredictable, and full of lessons that go beyond just blend modes and adjustment layers. It taught me to laugh in the face of discomfort, to keep rolling when the mic picks up a cat fight, and to trust that authenticity sometimes matters more than technical perfection. The behind-the-scenes chaos infused the tutorials with personality, with real moments that students could relate to, and maybe even find comforting.
What I hope students take from this is more than just improved photo editing skills. I want people to understand that creativity doesn’t require ideal conditions. You don’t need the perfect studio setup to start growing your abilities. You just need a willingness to show up, learn, and embrace the process—warts, coughs, cat claws and all. That mindset, more than any technique, is what allows you to grow as a digital artist.
So whether you’re learning Photoshop for fun, for work, or for the sheer joy of making beautiful things, remember this: it’s okay to make mistakes. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. And it’s more than okay to laugh at your own chaos. In fact, that might just be the best part of the journey.
