“Welcome to Los Angeles.”, I’ve been welcomed to Los Angeles 37 times and counting; each time in the deadpan robotic voice of a weary flight attendant after a 5 or 6 hour sky ride between coasts.   I spend a lot of time looking out of airplane windows wondering what those body scanners are doing to my insides.  I eat a lot of junk food, drink tiny bottles of liquor, read magazines cover to cover, and eventually I’m pushing my way up the cabin to be the first one to wait for my bags.

I carry a camera everywhere, but I’m not a photographer, I’m just too lazy to describe shit.  I also write, on the side, but not too much.  I’m an incompletionist, a pseudo-iconoclast, and most of the time, an idiot.   I used to enjoy going out, drinking, partying, meeting strangers, making an ass of myself; now I just paint tiny cities on the insides of my eyelids.

There’s no reason to contact me, but if you want to: might find me eventually. If you’re bored and worried about the apocalypse, check out

(note the tasteful pocket square)

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