Ten

At the time of this writing, we are a handful of days removed from a once inconceivable anniversary. Scarcely shy of one decade ago, my friend Dana Flax was killed crossing the street. I clearly remember being in Madison Square Park, between Broadway and Fifth avenue, observing a number of missed calls from friends over the space of a short time. Keith Mayerson, the professor in this life-drawing class, had his attention focussed elsewhere when I finally answered one. It was my sister, and I recall very little of the setup to what she ultimately called to tell me. In long, measured tone, "Dana Flax died."

 

 A few months from that day was my twentieth birthday, just as today I am within spitting distance of my thirtieth. My hair was long and unruly, uniformly unwashed, and I sometimes wore a tuxedo jacket which slimmed my formless profile, at least from a distance. I had made the leap from Djarum Black clove cigarettes to Drum hand-rolled tobacco. I had recently read Mason and Dixon for the first time, and I took pride in having finished the thing, my lack of anything more than a superficial understanding of it be damned. I had a girlfriend with whom frightful new emotional muscles had been flexed for the very first time, a relationship doomed to the fast-approaching and inevitable implosion of relationships between children. The cell phone I answered that day was of roughly the same density and durability as the hull of an aircraft carrier, and was capable of no more than making or receiving calls and texts. The internet was something which was in your home or your dorm room, the library, and a small handful of other select places, and nowhere else. This was soon to be changed, of course, as the iPhone made its debut somewhere in the miasmic smear of my recollections shortly thereafter. I thought it was the stupidest bit of conspicuous consumption I'd ever seen, as a few of my wealthy NYU friends slowly began acquiring them. Credit me with the strength of my convictions: For the five years since I began using a smartphone, I have had an Android.

 

George W. Bush was in the White House. I believe at that point, I had only recently heard of a young Illinois Senator named Barack Obama. There had still only been one actor playing Spider Man. My anatomy and perspective skills in drawing left a great deal to be desired, and by some measure, they still do. I had recently discovered the work of Karl Wirsum, Victor Moscoso, Fletcher Hanks, Oyvind Fahlstrom and Charles Burchfield, between thirty and ninety years after they had made their most recognizable pieces. Well, today it's forty to one hundred years later, and I still think they're great. Creatively, to paraphrase Thomas Pynchon, I had the idea that in order for work to be any good, it had to be artsy; useless advice I solemnly made up and then took. The various bell tones of association ringing notes I knew best a decade past could go on forever, but suffice it to say, it has been a uniquely eventful ten years.

 

My friends then are my friends now, with rare exception. Late last year, I was married here in Oregon, to the love of my life, surrounded by nearly everyone who has ever meant anything to me. Some absences were a financial necessity, others, a gulf of time and silence, and I carry no resentment for either. In gathering the slapdash memories of the day together, I find joyful, shimmering visual and emotional mosaic tiles of a piece. Grand and perfect. I admittedly find also a mimetic shiver, that of a life lived, since the death of my friend. Having these people I love, together again for the first time in years, briefly reawakens the guilt of carrying on with my life after a tragedy.

 

As much as this writing is about my friend, it is also about my life then and since, and the function of memory. I am by no means old, but it bears remarking that in being by no means old and reaching a milestone like the ten year anniversary of a friend's death feels significant. It places in perspective the ways in which the world has changed, the ways I have changed, the events since which might have once seemed improbable or unthinkable. I feel more or less the same today as I ever have. I doubt that I'm much smarter than I was as a nineteen year old, although I'm perhaps more judicious in the presentation of my thoughts and their relative volume. When I was a child, my parents were in their twenties and thirties. They seemed about a thousand years old to me then. I can distinctly remember them being the age that I am now. I wonder if they, too, considered that they were not terribly different than they had been as teenagers.

 

 In characteristic fashion, I have written the first several hundred words of my friend's remembrance about myself. Old habits die hard. At least I finally quit smoking.

 

Dana was, and remains, one of the funniest people I have ever met. Her laugh was infectious and dynamic, sometimes rolling, sometimes barking. I don't remember if I met her in art class, but that is where my first clear memories of her surface. She had braces and played a game with the rest of the table where you tried your best to make your straight-faced friend laugh. Nearly everyone that I can remember partook in the game where one would gently poke her in the side, eliciting a round and uniformly noisy squeal. It was around that age when kids start having serious discussions about their feelings, and the consequences of their actions, whether they were liked or not, by whom, ad infinitum. All of us, all through class and often late into the night.

 

I remember large group walks near her mother's house, stopping at the ice cream shop across the road from her cul de sac, the name of which presently escapes me. Driving around Columbia County, friends in tow, because what else was there to do in rural upstate New York? Not a thing better, I thought then, and maintain thinking now. Talking about everything and nothing, sunsets and sunrises on the Catskills and the Hudson River, spending menial job wages at the Denny's in East Greenbush, or the Riverside Cafe, or the movies. Every memory kissed with a Norman Rockwell glow, imperial orange and violet. Indistinct banalities glossed over, the sum total of memories warmly nestled in spring's transition to summer and the brisk air of early autumnal twilight. 

 

Houses and churches older than the idea of the United States, cemeteries leaning with age. Hills and valleys. Green and then dead, buried beneath snow. Robins and possums, coyote and deer. 

 

The memories of Dana's death are more fragmented, but to this day certain amongst those shards remain clear. I called our friend Rachel immediately after my sister told me Dana had been killed. I don't remember whether I even told the professor that i was leaving. Feebly, in terror, I asked the stupidest question I could, but one that seemed and remains logical in considering it today: Was it true? Rachel sobbed and perhaps my heart stopped. I don't know. I don't remember. I was alone that night, I remember that. Alone at my own request. I do not remember sleeping. I called other friends. All reactions were the same. Tears and stunned, pitiful silence. 

 

I suppose I must have told my parents what had happened. I remember being back upstate with them. I do not remember the train ride, nor arriving at their house. I remember Andrew and I going to Rachel's house. I remember Rachel's big father giving me a hug, our first, trembling in the way powerful men do. I remember being upstairs at her house, having privately moved mentally backwards from the fact of my being there for this reason, to a lack of comprehension. It would not be the last time. Crying anew.

 

My friend Mike and I on one of those days went to the movies. We saw the movie Grindhouse, half of which was taken up by a Quentin Tarantino film wherein a stunt driver attempts to kill women with a car. I can't conceive of what we were thinking in so doing, and can only surmise we were not thinking at all. I barely recall the movie. I have made no effort to view it since.

 

I remember the memorial service, Dana's mother Carol and father Steve, her grandmother, her sister, all of our friends. Weeping brokenly, seated beside Mike, hiccuping dry, no tears left. A Jeff Buckley song played. A short montage of photos and movies in remembrance. Downstairs in the church, no appetite.

 

Somehow I made it from there back to Rachel's house. Everyone did. I drank and drank and drank. I don't recall if anyone joined me. I remember walking with Tristan and throwing a glass bottle onto the road which exploded into a million glittering stars before collapsing in his arms to cry like a kid. I can't altogether pick distinct memories from the rest of that night. Just pieces. 

 

The remainder of my sophomore year in college stands out almost solely for its misery. There's little to remark upon there, though truly, great humanity was shown me by friends, family and professors, one of whom is very famous and spoke to me privately at the end of the term about how hard it was to lose a friend. I was struck by his understanding. He had lost a number of friends down the years to HIV, heroin, suicide and madness. The life of a real artist. 

 

It truly felt to me at the time like nothing would ever be truly all right again. Given that mentality, I found it very easy to frame every unrelated misstep and failure in this context. I treated it like nuclear fallout. Every fight with the girlfriend, every drunk, sleepless night, was, to me, another radioactive crop growing in my personal Chernobyl. I do not have the notebook to hand in which I first wrote that, nearly a decade ago, but it's a thought I remember having. It's a comparison a kid would make, as much to show himself that he could appropriately filter the information he had about Chernobyl as to illustrate in stark and simplistic terms the ways in which the event felt like it would poison every event in his life, forever.

 

As the years went on, I began to feel guilty for simply not thinking of her death every single day. It had become such a thoroughly imbedded pattern in my life up to that point, the simple fact of moving on with my life, letting my thoughts wander to other things, felt like a betrayal of her memory. Who was I to get on with the business of living? How was that anything but an indictment of my own shallow mentality? I recognize now that one can only exist in a state of exclusive mourning for so long before, consciously or otherwise, time moves that which of the greatest significance elsewhere on your list of mental priorities. I felt horrible for this, despite several years being spent with it near the fore of my thoughts. It's difficult to say what happens internally as you move past something. There remains a greedy need to access that place in my mind, to travel back there and be reminded. It's not hard, even ten years later. The common refrain amongst those addressing a mourner is that he/she would not want it this way, with the mourner's entire life being defined by this one event. Who's to say? 

 

 I could, then as now, be struck by it at times. There are songs and locations which snap me right back to that time. There is a cover of the Modest Mouse song Ocean Breathes Salty by an artist called Sun Kil Moon, which I will never truly dissociate from the time and event of her death. The indignant anger, the sadness you carry with you, at losing a friend too early, is better expressed in this iteration of a song he did not write than I have managed in the likely several thousand words I have now written on the topic. It's my personal take on it, of course. The song was written about a friend spiraling towards death, or perhaps committing suicide. Dana did not waste life, nor did she waste death. I was angry at the fact of her death, not at her for dying. It's less about the lyrics of the song than it is about the atmosphere it brings with it; it evokes traveling alone, days turning into nights and into days again, of leaving something behind for which you can never go back. The song is my madeline cookie, a remembrance of things past. If you can't make it good, make it artsy.

 

It's been ten years now. I remember at the time commenting that her death had thrown a hand grenade into our circle of friends. Ten years later, surrounded by those same friendsat my wedding, I am happy and grateful to report that I was wrong. It was a day of wild happiness, simultaneously taking an important step into adulthood and keeping one foot planted firmly in the friendships I've had for ten, fifteen, twenty years. Family, friends old and new, and that perfect sunset silhouetting Mount Hood, that familiar autumn twilight.

 

I have a few more memories to share, insofar as closing a piece about death and memory is possible. The first memory is of a dream I had, less than a year after Dana died. My friends and I, seated on a raised wooden platform in a field unmistakably in the assembled dream terrain of upstate New York. In the middle distance, a ferris wheel, the tops of circus tents, striped and tipped like Russian spinnerets. The hazy timeless dreamtime of neither day-nor-night. Dana is then there, on the platform with the rest of us, and we embrace. I ask her if there is an afterlife. She responds by asking, What do you think?

 

I still don't have an answer to that question. The dream was ham-fistedly literal, by the senseless standards of my typical night fare. To what degree a dream will manifest to offer comfort or solace, I simply don't know. I doubt my own cosmic significance to the point that one reaching across the divide to tell me what I need to hear seems unlikely, with the chilly and logical lens through which I view the world. But I couldn't say. I take some small comfort in not having a concrete answer. 

 

The second memory took place when Dana was still alive. She was a year younger than I was, and I went to a party wishing her well as she left for college in Baltimore. At a point in the night, I had to leave, and she burst into tears, hugging me good bye. She would no longer be local, we would not see one another with the regularity we had when she was upstate and I was in the city. I don't recall what I said, but I had no reason to believe this was a good-bye of any more significance than when I had left for college the year before. It was the end of summer, and I was touched by the simple fact that my friend would miss me, and I would miss her. I am certain I saw her again after that, but I filed none of those meetings away, not knowing that there would be a Last Time I Would Ever See Her amongst those get-togethers. I remember instead her crying, surely struck by the enormity of moving away from friends and family for the first time. I have since retroactively framed that tearful embrace as the good-bye neither I nor anyone else were ever given the chance for; I couldn't say whether or not this is a responsible use of the memory, but it's mine. 

 

Life goes on. I feel that in this writing, I have at best nibbled around the edges of loss and tragedy, ten years on. I dislike essayists ending their essays with apologies for what they have written, but I recognize its necessity with something as immovable and nebulous as losing your friend and continuing to live your life. It's perhaps too big, or just too close, for me to meaningfully capitulate or make manifest. I chose not to look closely at the work I was producing at the time of her death, instead relying on my memories of it and the way it felt to be the person creating it. Successful or not, I felt that I couldn't permit the decade anniversary of this event to pass without at least attempting to say SOMETHING. As usual, it couches itself heavily in my life and my perceptions. I'm as self-absorbed now as I was when I was nineteen. But I'm married now, my life is very, very different from the way it was then. I suck on nicotine lozenges instead of cigarettes. I drink perhaps once a month. I live in the west, which at the time she died was still a place I had only seen in movies. The decade anniversary weighs heavy. It places in perspective how much has changed, and how much hasn't. If nothing else, this once-unimaginable marker sends me back, to the time of New York's valleys and skyscrapers, to late nights and setting sun, to a period in my life when the nights always felt warm and my friends were all there was.

An object lesson in the importance of peaceful protest

You always hope that you'll make the front page of the New York Times. Ideally, in this case, it would have been due to record numbers, or comment from the governor. No such luck.

I should say from the outset that I took absolutely no part whatsoever in any destruction, vandalism, hostility towards the police or violence. I condemn it in no uncertain terms.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/12/us/trump-protests-election-portland.html?rref=collection%2Fsectioncollection%2Fus&action=click&contentCollection=us&region=rank&module=package&version=highlights&contentPlacement=7&pgtype=sectionfront

I joined up with the protest near Halliday park in northeast Portland last night, around eight o'clock. The inverted American flag hung from handheld poles, signs clutched above shoulders reading "fuck trump," guerilla half facemasks from the bridge of the nose down, desperado train robber-style. Someone launched fireworks into the air from a slowly moving car before we turned left onto broadway, right near the Toyota dealership. Before my portion of the crowd turned, several people had already grabbed something heavy and shattered the windshields of brand new Camrys.

 

There were enormous collective cries of "peaceful protest!" Immediately following each window smashed, each blaring car alarm. The workers at the dealership hung back inside, taking videos on their phones of the protestors. What could they do? We marched along. A middle aged gentleman with one of the black lives matter contingents (easily the oldest person other than myself in my line of sight partaking in the protest) called "mic check! MIC CHECK!" Halting the protest around him. He roared that this is not how we protest. We are not trying to give the police reason to harm us, he yelled. This is not how we protest. Seemingly right on cue, we came upon our first line of cops in riot gear, near Williams street. They'd set up flares, squad cars behind them with lights flashing, blocking our entrance to the freeway. No interest in a repeat of the previous night, when protestors overtook I-5. 

 

I did not get the middle aged gentleman's name, though we were beside one another for a good portion of the night. He wore a suit that looked natural on him. I wore the suit I'd gotten married in. We seemed to have had the same idea about making it apparent that adults were protesting. He led many of the chants and single-handedly stopped the march on several occasions. A man with presence. Someone that people feel that they should be listening to. Hopefully we'll be seeing more of him, in a role of importance. 

 

This is not how we protest. The media is watching us, they're reporting on the protests around the nation. The one in Portland made the front page a continent away because it devolved into a riot. A shirtless young man, with his t-shirt tied around the lower half of his face, yelled "don't shame my activism!" As people all around him booed and shouted. "You don't want to break anything, then don't, but don't shame MY activism!" A fair point. But the eyes of the country are on us as we come together to do this. Our chants of "say it loud, say it clear, immigrants are welcome here!" don't make the news, broken windows do. 

 

Know who your enemies are. The broken windows of the Bank of America, the FedEx, the restaurants and businesses downtown, these bottom-rung employees are not who we're supposed to be protesting. They're just regular people like us, people who have these jobs to pay their rent and their student loans, people who are having a harder time working today because instead of their typical daily jobs, they're sweeping up glass, calling their bosses and managers to replace damaged displays, trying to assure their customers that everything will be fine, unsure of what's coming down the street again tonight. 

The police are not our enemies. They gave us every opportunity to proceed to the permitted protest areas, and some people who came to this protest spoiling for a fight rushed them anyway, in spite of the flash grenades, the threats of tear gas, the line of riot cops. The police are doing what taxpayers expect them to do when four thousand people storm the downtown area, breaking windows and setting dumpsters on fire. If there is a credible public threat, it is the police's obligation to respond. It is our obligation not to be a credible threat. The police are not a federalized National Guard. Were it to get to the point that they were, we would have no one to blame but ourselves for allowing a peaceful protest to get out of hand.

Not reported in the New York Times article: The cries of "When they go low, we go high!" as we collectively condemned the violent protestors. The member of the Black Lives Matter contingent who climbed a street sign with a megaphone and insisted that if you wanted to destroy and vandalize, you should go your own way, while the rest of us protesting peacefully would go another. The chants of "My body, my choice!" "Protect our Mother Earth!" "We're here, we're queer, we're fabulous, don't fuck with us!" "Abolish the Electoral College!" The people cheering us on in their work uniforms from restaurants we passed. The truck driver blowing his horn as we passed in front of him, leaning out his door with his fist in the air, chanting along with us. 

All of this is personally validating, highly encouraging, but it's not news. News is broken windows, spraypainted vandalism and injury. News is how most people are even aware that protests are occurring, long after they've dispersed. There were protests in New York, California, Illinois, Massachusetts, practically every state which voted blue and has a big city in it and not one of them made the New York Times this morning. Oregon got the headlines today because there were a very few people who, consciously or not, use the size of a protest as a smokescreen of anonymity, and committed the senseless acts of destruction that they were looking for any excuse to commit anyway. This is more than counterproductive. It's craven and cowardly. 

We have the opportunity here to control the narrative with how the media covers us. We can either be first-amendment activists, voicing our discontent and anger in a peaceful fashion and reminding the nation's victors that we're here and unwilling to give up the fight, or we're rioters. I refuse to be a rioter. Rioters get locked up or killed, and we have too much to do to allow that to happen this time. 

We've all come together here to say with one voice that the threats made by the incoming Trump administration will not stand. We came together to protest that the candidate who won the popular vote did not win the White House. That we do not believe that a sexual predator should hold the highest office in the land. But that's it. We did not come together to destroy a city which overwhelmingly agrees with us, to antagonize cops who would likely be on the line beside us if they were not in uniform, to punish those who happen to be nearby with disrespect and destruction for the sole reason that their businesses and property were close to us. No collateral damage. No senseless vandalism. It undermines everything that we are trying to say and all that the media will report is the destruction and the arrests. That is not their fault. It is not the job of a protest to make the news by force. It is the job of a protest, and all protestors, to be in a place together and collectively say "No."

Already, signs point to our protest's broader agreement on these points. The Portland Mercury today reported that, at the time of publication, over ten thousand dollars has been raised by the Portland Resistance to fund repairs for the damage that was done last night. This is our civic responsibility. The link to donate is in the article, incidentally.

http://www.portlandmercury.com/blogtown/2016/11/11/18689344/portland-activists-have-raised-more-than-9000-to-pay-for-last-nights-vandalism

This is work that needs doing. We need to organize, and focus, on what we actually want. Our right to free speech and organization will, perhaps undoubtedly, not look the same this time next year as it does today. We here have chosen a side, and we can't be worried about what lists we're going to be put on for having done so. This is, of course, a worst case, alarmist scenario, and perhaps one bearing little resemblance to what we can actually expect in the future. I'm cautious but making a game attempt to be optimistic, essentially. We have to be. 

I have said in the past to friends that peaceful protest accomplishes nothing, disillusioned as I was by the pointed but rudderless efforts of Occupy Wall Street. Occupy, in the very few times I was there, at no point devolved into rioting. It was a sit-in, and of course it accomplished nothing. We were criticizing the business practices of an industry which only does what we tell it when we force our representatives to see things our way. It was catharsis by protest, with no clear path to our myriad goals in sight. This doesn't give me cause to question the nobility of the broader endeavor of civilian protest, only the efficacy of that specific one. This is different. We are protesting what's coming, what's already happened, and we have a clear goal in sight. Stymie the efforts of the far-right at every turn, make evident that we want nothing to do with legislated bigotry and will not permit it to occur. We don't want a civil war. That is why our protests must, absolutely MUST, remain peaceful at all times. We have to be the adults in the room.

In the next two to four years, I would like to see people my age unseating the old guard in the House of Representatives and the Senate. I would like to see a unified progressive agenda, one that benefits everyone. I would like to see legislation that acknowledges how far we've come and moves forward, not backward. I think that needs to start now. President-Elect Trump might be the fire everyone needs set under their ass to start moving, because barring a stunning reversal of their duties when the Electoral College comes to vote on December 19th, or January 6th, 2017, when Congress comes together to count the Electoral votes, that is who we've got sitting in the White House. Honestly, even if they do alter their votes for the greater good, I'd like to see this happen anyway. We're all grown-ups now, and it's time we started acting like it.

I left the protests from near Pioneer square last night, the area we were last permitted to be. Most of us peeled off in small, tight groups once we'd reached the end. I and several others quietly walked past a line of riot police blocking access to Naito Parkway and the waterfront, faceless, shifting weight, clutching batons to their chests. No one shouted "Fuck the Police" this time, the security of the four thousand person mass gone. Sirens blared near and distantly. We had all clearly been part of the protest, and we were going home. The police made no move towards us. They will not antagonize you if you do not antagonize them.

Two young women walked nearby as I was leaving. One of them commented that this had been scary, that she hadn't expected it to be like this. Her friend agreed. Said this was not what she had signed up for. My voice was hoarse from yelling and it was plainly a private conversation. I did not tell them how much I agreed.

I finally made my way back to my car, which I'd parked at my in-laws house, shaken. Adrenaline still pumped through me, this long walk home notwithstanding, mixed with disappointment. The second time in two days that I thought I knew my countrymen better than this. But no, I think, this protest was overwhelmingly peaceful. Those who did not conduct themselves in a manner befitting the gravity of the situation were targeted, shamed and removed. I have to believe that we are the most inclusive, open-minded and forward-thinking generation yet to cast votes in the United States, and we protested in the most granola, progressive and borderline hippie-ish city anywhere in the nation. Our goal was set back last night, though. We came together to make our voices heard and this morning the only sounds heard by the rest of our county were glass shattering, the piercing cry of car alarms and sirens, and the police shouting that if we did not proceed to the permitted area of protest they would be forced to engage.

Holy Terror! Seven Soldiers of Victory! Nemo! Mixed feelings!

I hid the cover of Frank Miller's "HOLY TERROR" as I left Powell's (a fine establishment where doubtless volumes of racist and insensitive literature are available, as a bookstore's guiding principle should theoretically be that regardless of ethical and moral value all words are essentially created equal). This is the kind of book one hides. If you know what it is, it's well-regarded as a dirty, grimy thing to be caught with. Ownership thereof bespeaks at best a genuine interest in the deevolution of one of the form's formerly great American practitioners and at worst a casual, playful flirtation with racism and wish-fulfillment Duke-Nukem bigoted fantasizing. Point being: I hid the cover. I got home and read it. It's about the most beautiful thing Frank Miller has ever drawn. It is also just about as grubby as one is led to believe. I finished it and I have not picked it up since. I will reread it, and share my thoughts anew with you, my eager and awaiting public.

Nemo: The Rose of Berlin. Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill releasing a book almost annually would have been cause for genuine celebration a few years back. Now? Eeehhhh. You'd think a guy who gets to make his own schedule and publishes through his own firm (via Top Shelf in the US, beautiful packaging as always) might not produce so many works in a row which feel like bloated rush jobs. Even the barely-three-page intro the story's events gives us no sense of how much time has passed, or what is actually at stake for these characters. Not that I am entirely at liberty to criticize the author of From Hell, but From Hell this ain't. And Kevin appears to be getting lazy. This story in particular needed a Moebius on pen duties! Death be damned. Of course, I have also read this only once as well, and I will also devote an entry to this book.

I don't exactly know why the Comics Journal turned on old Grant Morrison with such disdain, other than his obstreperous self-promotion and aggrandizing ways. With his obnoxious manner of selling himself aside, however, Seven Soldiers of Victory is a very fine book with highly uneven art, a customarily initially confusing plotline and a few moments of such joyful superhero abandon and genuinely touching emotion that it wound up being worth well over the price of admission. To say nothing of the fact that writing seven books a month for even ONE month is impressive, but I digress. Morrison seems to thrive by putting himself above the fray as the guy who writes twenty books at a time and monopolizes the story of a universe, a'la Chris Claremont once upon a time, or ostensibly Mark Waid. I truly enjoyed this book, ten years late to the party though I am, and I'll comment more at length upon this as well.

Portland is wonderful and oh how it rains. I am trying to find a job and accepting funny gigs left and right to make ends meet. It feels right somehow. 

 

On the map, ma!

As my friends and family, who will doubtless be the first readers of this blog, will know, I have been unconscionably neglectful in building my own website these past several years. It would appear that the joke was on me all along, this was infrequently frustrating and overall incredibly easy. Ah, practiced, deft prose style, how unacquainted we've become! "Why use ONE adjective, Stephen, when you can so easily use THREE?" Hopefully regular posting will send this horrid florid forehead-slapping horseshit back to the dormroom where it belongs.

I'm upstate at my parents house, pulling feverishly on an e-cigarette in the (likely vain) hopes that its meager nicotine vapors will be enough to replace the painful, lung-puncturing joy of smoking an actual cigarette, given the unsubstantiated liberal media rumors that cigarettes can kill you. Pshaw, I say! But they sure do smell and running the morning after smoking is hell on earth so for the umpteenth time, here we go on the quitting train, be nice about the inevitable weight gain the next time you see me, I'm working on it and it's ostensibly better to spend a short time plump than an even shorter time rotting your insides with the smoke of a plant which manages to poison you no matter how you put it in your body. How is tobacco legal?

It crossed my mind momentarily to discuss the gentle storming outside of my window, the delicate ballet of rain's beatific fall upon the driveway I remember so many times running upon in my youth, but it then occurred to me that literally anything else I could write would be a better use of my time and yours and I farted. 

I'm grateful in advance to anyone who makes their way here. Enjoy looking around, I'm still working on getting some more scans of artwork both new and old to flesh out the page some, but being stranded up here with most of my portfolio hopefully not falling off of the back of a train at the moment, I had to work with what I had. Suffice it to say, there is more to come, more announcements and previews of upcoming projects, pictures from our road trip in the next few days, more borderline unreadable blog posts... More of everything that makes hanging out with me such an unpleasant and obstreperous endeavor.

So yes. More to come. Enjoy, direct your friends here, and have fun.