Weird Kids by the Dumpster
The Teenage Wasteland of Sacramento in the 90's
Coco's Fantabulous Afro
memoirs about the theater of the absurd.
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Depraved Brunch at the Waffle House
We’re at the Waffle House and Luke is wearing sunglasses indoors, which is either incredibly affected or simply necessary because he’s that hungover.
Cold Beer and Flat Spots
The local skate rats wanted to go downtown and bomb the parking garages and Manny said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, a lesson plan on gravity and broken bones.
Genetic Traits of the Recently Spaced Out
We are laying on her bed, which is really more of a mattress than a bed, the kind of mattress that exists in apartments where nobody has quite given up but nobody is trying too hard either.
When Something Finds You
The bookmark was a piece of recycled cardstock, some dead independent bookstore's name on it in a sans-serif that had briefly been fashionable, and I kept it not from sentimentality, but from the specific inertia of a person who has decided to let objects make their choices for him.
Broken Cigarettes
I walked into the dual Tower Records/Books with the specific intention of stealing a copy of Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller and the fluorescent lights were humming this low frequency that made feel annoyed and there were these college kids browsing the literature section wearing vintage band t-shirts that probably cost more than the actual vinyl.
Kooks Go Home
A Venice Beach Tale
The Persistence of Her Things
The morning light came through the blinds in thin, institutional strips. Arlo had been talking for seven minutes about Charlotte’s hair. I knew it was seven minutes because I had been watching the clock above his refrigerator with the focused detachment I usually reserved for wage slavery or sitting in a waiting room listening to muzak.
Skincare Routines and the Key to My Bullshit
I’m at the usual Saturday night blowout.
A Love Story Footnote
“What is left of a man and all his pride but bones.” —Jack Kerouac