The first three minutes might be my favorite opening scene in cinema.
A 77-minute sequence of grainy loops and phantom Americana built for a late-night drive.
I want to press this book into the hands of every artist, writer, and seeker I know.
Seven years ago, C. and I debated how the world would end.
“Convulsive beauty will be veiled-erotic, fixed-explosive, magic-circumstantial or not at all.”
A rant in this Terrible Year of 2023 when algorithms are chewing through the scenery.
Killing time at the Vegas airport.
The desert silence baffles my Midwestern mind.
Limbering up to flee an algorithmic hallucination while finding solace in a French future from ’82.
If starvation was on the table, would you rather eat your own finger or a stranger’s?
I had no idea there was so much weather in the desert. By now, I thought I’d be begging for a cloud.
My office has three little whiteboards that tell me what to do, and I rely upon them entirely because I’m a nitwit in the morning.
I told myself it was a trick of the light rather than the result of the grey in my beard.
I pondered the idea of a Vegas-themed casino until I gave myself a headache.
These are days of shooting down unidentifiable objects in the sky.
Ten years sober today. Proof there’s such a thing as grace.
I don’t mind feeling older. It brings a liberating sense of honesty.
Here in Las Vegas, we’re catching the faintest edge of the atmospheric river, a weather event that sounds like something from a fantasy novel.
In the grip of my delirium, I half-watched a lousy Netflix series that can be viewed in any order, which seems like a trial balloon for AI-generated entertainment.
C. and I rang in the new year at the top of Route 93.
