You ampersand me

Most times, when I get stuck creatively, I’ll play music and get inspired by the lyrics or the mood of certain songs. I’ve worked this way for years. So, as I was thinking about the trouble I have maintaining this blog, creating new pieces regularly and consistently, I decided to try and have some fun with that formula.

Here’s where you come in (dear, glorious reader). If you currently have a favorite lyric or song, please drop me a note and share it with me (you’ll get credit of course). I’d like to use your song as a springboard for a visual interpretation. If/when I use your submission, I’ll send you a high-res scan for you to print out. Send me anything, whether it’s Color Me Badd or Sunny Day Real Estate or… wait, send me MOST anything. Don’t Rick Roll me or send me Dave Matthews. I’m serious on the Dave Matthews. I will kill you until you are dead. Submit as many times as you want!

Aside from the obvious, that this blog gets updated a lot more, I’m pretty excited at the prospect of discovering new music, of connecting with people and their tastes, and that I’ll get to exercise some storytelling skills.

I have a playlist of favorites and, after hitting random, Bon Iver‘s “Skinny Love” from the For Emma, Forever Ago album started playing. I didn’t spend too long on this (i.e. no narrative elements, etc.), but the following drawing is what materialized.

Skinny Love

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P.S. Special thanks to my buddy Tim (of StreetLocal404 fame) for calling me out as a slacker punk.



You can see my daughter’s contribution in the top right corner. Upon my discovering it, she said “Sorry, Daddy. I thought it was my drawing.”


I’ve got a deck in the SK8 or DIE show opening this Saturday (May 2) at Young Blood Gallery. For more info, go over yonder.

Gleam the Cube, beeeches!

Pants on fire.

Man, do I know how to lie. I’m working, folks… just not on weekly pieces. I’ve got two shows to create art for and then I’ve got a list of projects (that I’m extremely excited about) to attack. You’ll see stuff when I finish it. I promise.

Day of the Dead : November 1 : Young Blood Gallery

Next Saturday, my friends at Tweet Design will be hosting an art show featuring custom works on miniature coffins. I’ll have two pieces in the show.

You know I don’t go out much anymore… and you and I haven’t seen each other in a looong time… so come out and say hello. :D

NOVEMBER 1 – 30, 2008

Young Blood Gallery
636 N. Highland Ave
Atlanta, GA 30306
Sun-Thu 12-8pm
Fri-Sat 12-9pm

map and directions

Additional show info

Day of the Dead info

Day of the Dead


I have a board in the SK8OLOGY show opening tomorrow. All proceeds go to charity. Find your favorite and please bid high.

Contributing artists and professional skaters are donating their creative deck canvases to raise awareness and resources in an effort to support Now That You Know, a non-profit organization that helps to provide ambitious girls from developing countries a secure environment for learning and growth. Proceeds will also contribute to benefiting the youth of our society through the artistic enrichment of our community.

Soul Meets Body

There are some people who you look at… and you marvel at how well they’re put together… how creative, intelligent, and humorous they are… how much they’re loved… you admire them… envy them to an extent… and then God decides to call them home… before their time should be up… it’s shocking… it makes you re-evaluate and re-prioritize… you take stock for the millionth time… make resolutions for the millionth time… and you hope pray that you’re finally ready to live your life. God doesn’t wait for anyone; tomorrow is not promised.

Thank you, EMZ, for becoming my inspiration. You have moved me more than you will ever know.


I’ve always wanted your love, but I couldn’t help but push you away. I was taught to hate him with every fiber of my being… with my whole heart… and you were a product of that man. You were an extension of him, something to be loathed, and I distrusted you from the very beginning. I’m so sorry for how things turned out. I’m so sorry for everything.

Eighteen Autumns And Nineteen Winters

The truck idles, and the sound of the parking brake reminds me why we’re here. His house sits in the fading sun, anonymous amongst its sisters, each sibling side by side, sharing the same suburban genetics. The lawn has just been mowed and the stray grass lies in the driveway. Gasoline hangs faintly in the summer air. I love these smells combined.

Up the steps, my brother stands with his usual pompous air, his legs an upside-down “V.” The nicotine on his finger has rubbed off on the doorbell. I can see myself in the glass of the door. She waits behind me, always supportive, even in reflections. The door opens and I am genuinely surprised. Black, dead eyes do not gaze into my soul. A crooked, evil smile does not mock my existence. The dark crimson blood of children does not drip from his walls. I am genuinely surprised. When I cross the threshold, he appears by my side. We hug. I am taller than him. Awkward and unsure, the pressure of his arms around my body feels genuine. I am still uneasy.

In the house, the surroundings are plain. Picture frames seem lonely, isolated from each other by huge spans of wall. We sit on the couch and a large television set spits out the news. Images flicker on and off while he tries to talk to me. I don’t know what to concentrate on. My sentences are short, full of caution and distrust; his are imploring and inquisitive, full of hope and desire. His eyes sparkle when he speaks to me and I sense his happiness. I can also sense my brother’s jealousy. When the conversation turns to his family, I find myself being the jealous one. Strange. For the first time in my life, I begin to question the truth, who I am, and who I thought these people were.

Before long, the time has come for us to leave. As we rise from the couch, my girlfriend’s hand, delicate and reassuring, pauses on the small of my back. He walks us to the door, stopping to embrace me one last time. The pressure from this hug feels like apologies and longing. Anger becomes shame. Hatred becomes sympathy. I can feel the sun comforting me, rays of light patting my back, stroking my neck, reaching around me. The light envelops me. And there, at that moment, he was no longer a specter. My father stood before me, finally in my shadow.

Just As Soon As My Feet Touch Zion

This past Friday, I went and saw the Modern Skirts boys at the Loft. I had an opportunity to hang out with them before their set, which I normally don’t have time to do, but that meant that I had to miss the second act. I did NOT, however, miss the opening act. And, holy crap, I am so grateful that I didn’t.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Miss Cary Ann Hearst.

The first thing you’ll notice about her is her voice, a syrupy Southern drawl with whiskey consonants, and, at that point, it’s over. It doesn’t matter that she and her band play the most perfect blend of country, honky-tonk, and Southern rock. You’ve already been hooked by her charm. Alright, alright, I won’t gush anymore about her music. So, go here to pick up a hard copy of her CD or here to sample a few songs.