Alright, the whole thing about the Iran War…no one wants to think about that, right? Like I said, I am going into political issues very rarely. This time I’m going to share something more peaceful, more calming, okay? A tranquil place out in nature. Ready? I sometimes imagine myself like I am watching a Super 8 film. Me, after letting my hair grow out (what’s left of it!) and pulling it into a long, white ponytail with a matching, full white beard. Flat cap and prescription s

I am putting out an EP in the near future. Five songs, right under twenty minutes. This is ridiculous; why would someone in their fifties put out an album? I’m not accusing you of saying that, it’s more something I toss back at myself. Why? Because I have entered the “Ah, fuck it” years. I am getting naked— No…you don’t need to run off in horror, I am speaking metaphorically (or is it figuratively?). I do what I am inspired to do…there is the necessary evil that is a straight

What is it you want? Is it something I can give you? Is either question even relevant? I read yesterday that some Nascar driver died at 41, an illness equally sudden and effective… Like a tsunami. I am two years younger than my grandfather when he died…suddenly. I am not supposed to be contemplating the mysteries of life, though, I’m supposed to be reinforcing a brand: I write books. There’s one of sale. Here’s the link. This is America, everyone likes a winner, do you enjoy

We are the same creatures as five hundred years ago. The clothes are different, how we get from place to place has changed, but we are the same animals. The pace of life has accelerated: It started with automobiles and then computers and now with A.I. The amount of content available to us has gone from a teaspoon to a tsunami— But we are the same creatures we were when the Pilgrims landed in the New World. Or, for that matter, when the Roman Empire faded into the past. How ar

Every day, I contemplate quitting my job and my apartment. I’d sell my car, buy a van for a few thousand less, and just…travel. I think about it every day. And every day I talk myself down—remind myself how it ends: out of money by late summer, back to another job, another lease, another reset. Maybe worse than this one. I know the downside. That’s the problem. It’s not a fantasy—I’ve already stepped outside once. Six years ago, I removed myself from this modern world and saw

Every morning I get up and work on the second memoir. Even work days; the moment I am semi coherent I’m editing. Part of me is proud of my diligence, part of me wonders if it’s wasted effort— What’s the point in turning out the second memoir when you’re not promoting the first one? I should be marketing, making connections, winning people over…I understand that. So, I feel accomplished and a failure at the same time. I’m sure many of you writers out there understand. Perhaps

I have moved many times in my life. The process appeals to my systematic mind: Acquiring boxes and tape. Plotting out what to pack when. Mentally determining how to arrange the boxes in the van. The process appeals to my mind, the execution is what I could do without. Three more moves, that is the goal: From my new place to the interim place. From the interim place into storage. And, finally, from storage to the last place I will live. That is the goal, at least. When my ti

I write books as well as songs. I play the word processor, I play the guitar. I’ve been doing what I call “art shit” since I was a teenager— (This story will be told in the second memoir, which comes out in late June). Cleaning out an external drive, I came upon songs I recorded when I was 19. What I lacked in skill, I made up for in pretentiousness: I took myself far too seriously back then. Honestly, I cringed as I listened to those old recordings. I was an insecure child p

The Hill I grew up around sociopaths and low rent conmen. I grew up around wealthy people in the third richest county in the United States. The house I lived in recently sold for two million dollars. If you saw it you’d think I grew up with money and privilege. No, we had old cars, normal clothes, struggled to pay bills. The house on the Hill was an illusion. My father lived in Sausalito on a houseboat. His neighbors were genuinely wealthy, had nice cars and clothes— They we

I had car keys for the first time in my life. I kept taking them out of my pocket, jingling them in my hand, running my fingers over the metal. The ignition key had six sharp points. I knew it by touch already. I wasn’t trapped at my grandmother's, wasn’t marooned as I had been in high school. The house I grew up in was three miles from the nearest bus stop. You needed a car to get to a job and a job to get a car. For four years I’d been stuck inside that loop. Not anymore. I

This is an outtake from my memoir The Bad Kids. I couldn’t find a good place for it in the book and wasn’t completely happy with the ending. It was a disappointment; I really wanted this chapter to be included, I just couldn’t make it work. Hope you enjoy it. IDD. TEXAS By the time I got to Holly Heights, my shirt was sticking to my back. How was it so hot in April? Even the birds seemed to be hiding from the heat. A car came up behind me as I trudged up the street; it was No

"Time, memory, and the long consequences of living." I do not speak with an English accent because I am pretentious or a pretentious Anglophile. I speak this way because I smoked too much weed when I was a kid. Let me explain. In my memoir The Bad Kids , I tell stories about the misadventures of my friends and me—misadventures fueled by copious amounts of marijuana. By the time I graduated eighth grade, I had stopped smoking. Before starting high school, I reinvented myself a

Dear Monica, I write. This is my calling. If a good story insinuates its way in my head I feel obligated to follow it wherever it leads. My father had a stroke a year ago. Thankfully, he had a nearly full recovery but it got me thinking about the past, about things I’d mostly forgotten, people and events I’d blocked out because the memories were impossible to face. Not because they are awful memories, but because they were beautiful and beauty is fleeting. We touch beauty whe

Time, Memory, and the Long Consequences of Living…. I’ve had people explain to me how allowing Jesus Christ into their lives opened the world up for them. Other friends have attempted to elucidate how becoming parents caused them to look at the world in a completely different way. I have had neither experience, but still I understood. I’ve explained how the art stuff I do makes me aware of a connection to something much larger than myself— This is not about that; that is a c

My father had a stroke in early 2025. Luckily, he made a nearly complete recovery but the event caused me to think about the past and our relationship over the years. Memories returned of my childhood, the person I had been and the things I had done. These recollections reminded me of a few rough chapters I had written two years earlier about a boy and the misdeeds he committed with three friends. I had typed those chapters and forgotten about them—until Dad had his stroke. L