No Gods. No Creamer.
Chicago, IL


In Fitting

In the past four years, I’ve slept intermittently on a twin sized mattress that belongs to my best friend. Sometimes consecutively for a years lease and sometimes just for the night. I’ve shared it with others, I’ve cried into it, I’ve had conversations that sung the moon to sleep and shook the sun awake on top of its thread and springs. Sheeted or not, it has provided a sturdy surface for me to lay on when I needed rest. Tonight, as I squint into my computer screens endlessness in search of excuses not to live my actual life, I have realized that it is entirely too small for me. As I stretch my legs and crane my neck to their furthest extent, my ankles lay tired over the edge and my head smashes the pillow into the wall above me.

I pay close attention to my height and weight fairly, noticing minimal gains. My routines of sleep are fetal- usually on my back with my heads crossed on my chest and knees bent beneath me, or on my side, curled up. I realize now, that not once have I laid flat to gain this perspective. I can’t sleep on a surface that cannot contain me. This mattress is too small.

I wonder if the same is true about other things in our lives. Not just our mattresses and our shoes and shirts, but our houses. Our cities. Our friendships. I wonder if I have spent such a long time being curled up and comfortable, with my knees tucked beneath me and my head rested close, that I haven’t stretched myself to my greatest height to see that I, as I suspected all along, do not fit.

Flyer I illustrated for a show I’m playing later next month! Gonna be a gooood one. Come hear new songs, old songs!

Quencher’s Saloon - July 19, 2014
Typesetter, Private Parts, Rapids, The Howl, DRLR
9PM | $5 | 21+

My best friend @deadskin finished this piece on me three hours before his flight took off to California. If you are in the Long Beach, CA look him up! Dude cares about his work and his clients, so much love for him. ❤️💀

111:50AM, 9,000 Ft.

Mid-way up a mountain this afternoon, I met a pancreatic surgeon from Japan. It was particularly fortuitous that our paths should cross, given his occupation and my medical history. Needless to say, we got to talking about our walks of life. He was in Salt Lake City for a surgical conference and had decided to come a few days early and go skiing. He asked me about illustration and music and asked if I had ever designed anything for a surgeon before. I shook my head and laughed. He explained to me the likelihood of getting a pancreatic transplant in Japan, he told me that there are very few donors annually, maybe only 20-30. I asked him how much anti-rejection medication you would have to take in order to have someone else’s body parts work with your own (lots) and picked his brain about the future of artificial organs. We shouted over groaning winds about stem cells and auto-immunity, our heavy boots dangling far above the snow.

To my surprise, I could actually keep up with everything that he was saying, even with his acrobatic surgical vocabulary and broken english. He began to explain to me how exhausting and how long it can take to make advancements in the medical world, when he paused somewhat abruptly.

“The only thing that matters in all of this, is that you keep dreaming. If you do not, there will never be actualization.”

Through cultural, lingual, occupational and professional barriers, many truths remain entirely universal.

Adventures in Inflatable Erotica

January 30th, 2014:

I just had a very interesting experience.

I’ve been on the job hunt since I’ve been back from tour. Money is tight, so I’ve been applying for just about anything that I’ve come across. Scouring craigslist for odd jobs and not-so-odd jobs, I found a post looking for someone to pop balloons for a film in return for a good chunk of money. I e-mailed immediately with the subject being “Your Balloon Poppin’ Dude” thinking it was probably some art school student making a dumb video. Plus, how rad would it be to make money destroying colorful objects? I do that for free, regularly.

We set up a place and time, and I showed up feeling a mixture of jazzed, skeptical, afraid and caffeinated. I entered his (we’ll refer to him as Bryan)- I entered Bryan’s apartment with forensic eyes. Surveying everything irrationally, looking for spots of blood, a collection of knives, cattle-prods, whatever might be used to dismember my body the second I look away. Bryan was a pretty nice dude. He was shorter than me, round, flamboyant and jolly. He led me into a room filled with a bunch of colorful balloons. I began politely interrogating him. He made it pretty obvious to me that balloon popping was a fetish of his that began as a fear and blossomed into something he found particularly exciting. I chimed in, saying that that was usually how those things go, fearing things that are very much a part of who you are. (see: homophobia)

While uneasy and still skeptical (not of his orientation, but rather because I was doing something bizarre on camera in a strangers tiny apartment.) I let him know what I was and was not comfortable with. He turned on a camcorder and I began popping balloons with my hands, feet, and blowing them up until they explode. I have to admit I was having a totally great time, despite how uncomfortably aroused Bryan was getting. He was asking me to look into the camera, say some questionable things, and act menacing. I figured it was all in good fun as long as there was nothing sexual going on. I was verbally firm in my platonic intentions and continued to pop balloons by sitting on them, even racing with Bryan to see who could pop them first. In about a half hours time, I was out of breath and sitting on the floor with the remnants of about 50 latex balloon casualties scattered around me. 

The entire duration of the popping, my mind raced. “When is he going to hit me with that tiny souvenir cubs bat?” and “Maybe he’s getting me light-headed by blowing up all of these balloons so he can attack me!” or “maybe the balloons are filled with some noxious gas that will knock me out!” Again, not fearing him because of his orientation, but rather an unfair and irrational fear of him because I didn’t know him. I know I’m paranoid, whatever.

After we finished, he paid me and I began conversing with him about the fetish, because i’m super interested in that sort of thing. I asked him when it began and how long it took him to realize that his fears were actually just things that he was afraid to enjoy. He told me when he was young, he remembers a lot of the older guys that were around liked to pop balloons, and when the balloons popped it was scary, but then fun and exciting. We talked about how a lot of homophobia can spawn out of internal conflict with yourself and your own fears. We talked about fetishes, books, rubber, leather and latex. He said it was hard to find other people who shared his fetish and explained to me that it was not the balloon, nor the man, but a mixture of the two.

I shook his hand, we laughed and I left. It turns out Bryan is just a really nice dude that likes other dudes that like to pop balloons.

So if a video of me popping a ton of balloons with a punk-ass grin on my face ever surfaces, now you know why.


We call them ‘the one that got away’

as if there was something that we could have done

to keep them here.

And I will be forever haunted

not by the person that she becomes

but the fragmented memory of who she once was.

Like pieces to a puzzle that will never match.

Like keys to a house, now fallen boards and broken glass.

Greetings from southern England! Cool blog, arrived via your photo of tea brewing in a bottle. Out of curiosity, what's the brand of the bottle? I'd like to pick one up myself. Thanks!

A question by tzb33

It’s Bigelow Constant Comment. My Grandma used to make this for me all the time when I was sick.