Exhibit A

Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I don’t have a good reason for not writing on here as much as I did in, say, the 6 months in which I constantly posted on here.

Great. Now that I’ve given the typical disclaimer, here are some of my more recent thoughts:

I still never really post anything on facebook. Why? Not sure. Just not feeling it. I have a lot of things to say in general but not to an audience as fickle as the forgotten faces and half-recognized names of my past. I feel much more comfortable on here, writing to the cloud and a dozen followers including, but not limited to, my mom, cousin, and aunt (hi).

The thing about wordpress is I don’t anticipate comments or “likes” and that frees me from some nibbling quandary that facebook presents on the daily. We all use social sites to express ourselves but more than that, to shape peoples ideas of who we are and how we do. WordPress doesn’t feel like that to me as much as the book. Here I feel free to write whatever the hell it is I damn-well please without trying to mold the worlds opinion of who I might or might not be.

Exhibit A:

The other night I was pretending to sleep, because that’s normally a pretty trustworthy way to induce actual rest, and I had one of those over-thinking situations where my head was cruising through a thousand possibilities for my late-twenties when I realized I felt really stressed. I can normally just breathe and picture nothing, not even a picture; just turn off the brain, relax the eyes, unclench the sphincter and be on my way to peace and REM, but this time I couldn’t let go. So I did what anyone would do: count sheep. Except I didn’t count sheep, I visualized the word “ANXIETY” made out of thick slabs of granite, just floating in ethereal space. Then I visualized my hands with hammer and chisel, breaking each letter down into knockable bits. I chiseled and sledged each letter down to rubble and then swung the hammer up for the big finish. When it dropped down on the nearly disintegrated pile, a piece came flying up and hit me between the eyes.


Please Lord have mercy, I’m a burst away from hurting all of the bumps. No curtsy.  It’s for real now. You’re thirsty?

Your appeal is worth a squeeze and worse- these. No heal, just itch and squeal feel-good sensation of a blood-fucking mother-of-all-that-is-good, no patience.

My insane asylum rides on your wings.  The pain on my dry skin hides in the sin of all of creations worst inventions: the frequency that you sing. No, drill. No, pinch, no frill, all bad, must kill, gone mad from the liquid that you steal.

Don’t feed or I’ll squish your needle, you maggot.

Still, you’re important to the natural order and blast if I want my karma distorted but ask and you shall receive you thief!

You took from me and it’s something I need.

I’m pleased to discuss the itchyew further but the way I see it the logic is:

I’m waging war the minute you try to store up my O+.

Garden Passion

I was recently blessed with the opportunity to travel very, very far East to a hippy-type town where Marijuana is “highly” regarded as a way of life. This trip brought me closer to an understanding of weed and it’s consequences while getting to see the positive effects of an economy driven by agriculture and counter-culture. I will now share how this experience changed my paradigms in regards to potency, garden-passion, weed-security, and financial success.

Look! That;s the sun and I can tell, even though I am very stoned right now!

First and foremost, pot can fuck you up. Seriously. I didn’t know the extent of potency that organic farmers can accomplish with tender love and care for their crop.  I hadn’t yet seen the farm before I was offered a joint and then another, which I assumed would be bad form to turn down. Now that I think about it, it may have been volume not potency that knocked me on my ass.

Strength leads me to my second observation that there is more knowledge about growing Ganja then I thought possible. When I saw workbenches riddled with pH testers and soil composition sheets I knew these people weren’t messing around. Tending to plants doesn’t seem that hard, because it grows like a weed, but I could feel the passion the farmers felt toward their crop, like a parent-child bond.

Another insane revelation came when I discovered the extent of the culture. Mary Jane has her tendrils wrapped around every fence post and closet in the town I visited, and you bet your sober ass that there’s a gate at the end of every driveway. It was rumored that people even grew their crops at the top of a nearby mountain which was guarded by a religious cult whose sole faith was in Marijuana. I can neither confirm or deny this last part.

The coolest part about growing weed is definitely the lifestyle (the amount of money that can be made). Our economy is shit and there are a lot of sick people. I learned that herb not only stimulates the local economy, it cures cancer. I suppose it seems too obvious to say, but I think weed is awesome and I hope you do too.

Home Run

Update: I ended my career at Home Runners in August of ’13 but am now publishing my terminus reportus. Enjoy, and if you’re ever obliterated in Portland, ME definitely call this fantastic company. They should be millionaires by now.

I drive people home in their own cars. It is a prerequisite of the customer that they be drunk, high, or both. When they have sufficiently incapacitated themselves, they find the contact in their phone labeled Home Runners and my pocket sings the ring-tone song of the lost and over-indulged. A coworker picks me up once I have delivered the car and the drunk home safely and we head back into town for the next ride, wash, rinse, repeat.

This service has been around for 8 years now in Portland, Maine, and was started by an energetic German-American named Dan. He came from California to taxi the gluttonous to their doorsteps in the most efficient way possible, making a living off of the (ir)responsible habits of others.

I have been employed by Dan for about 8 months now, sometimes driving late into the night behind the wheel of dozens of automobiles, with now-hundreds of different drunks and their accompanying stories. My time here at Home Runners has ended, so in typical Diggins fashion, I relay a few of the best and worst tales of my designated-driving career.

Mary and Paula were around 50 years old. Paula declared loudly from the back seat that she thought mary was my soulmate. When we arrived at their apartment they slurrily invited me in to have some drinks and enjoy the warmth of their wasted company. I politely declined out of professionalism and thanked the work-gods that I had a good reason to run away from two prowling cougars whose words slid incoherently after a night of complete intoxication and horny advancements on what I assume was everyone in downtown Portland, including the statues of Longfellow and Ford. Once again, the two errr…lovely ladies had been denied. Sorry Mary, it wasn’t meant to be.

Cliff was a little bit older than me and extremely successful in the boat building industry. My follow driver got lost and was trying to find Cliff’s home after following the wrong car for a while, and as I waited in Cliff’s kitchen for my coworker, he told me about his recent trip to Hawaii where he had scored some of the best green “coffee” he had ever had. I politely nodded in acceptance of his odd enthusiasm and pretended to enjoy the Cola he had poured over ice for me, while he rummaged through his cupboards and produced a Mason Jar full of weed, a bag of store-bought coffee, and a few plastic baggies. He put a fistful of weed into the first bag, sealed it, then put it into another bag with a bunch of coffee beans. He then put these into a third bag with even more coffee so that the weed was sealed and smell-proof for the remainder of my night. What a considerate coffee-enthusiast. All the while, Cliff rehearsed his success story; his longing for a better relationship with his father and his distaste for all of the stainless-steel kitchen appliances he had stocked his high-end kitchen with. Sliding the bag across the counter and offering another glass of Cola, he looked me in the eye and said “This is really good coffee. Enjoy.” Not once did he mention what he was doing, act awkwardly, or interrupt his story to joke about the secret drug deal. When my ride finally came to bring me back into town for the next ride, I thanked him for the coffee and shook his hand. It was a good night.

Sam was a sad man. The wrinkles around his mouth gave away his helpless sorrow. The constantly furrowed brow spoke volumes about the tragedy in his life. The jagged, overthrown steps that his legs made revealed his excessive tendencies toward booze. The dead battery in his car shined light on his reckless abandon, and the fact that the bartender called Home Runners for him showed that he was shit-faced.  After jumping his car with the follow-driver’s cables and pouring him into his passenger seat, we were off to his home. His old Pontiac stunk of b.o. and skunked budweiser. As soon as we left the pub parking lot, he started sniffling and trying to hold back tears. Through his mumblings I interpreted that his lover had recently passed away. Sam gargled that she had left three cockatiels behind in his care and he loved those birds as he had loved her. “Chirp chirp squawk!” he mimicked their sadness through his own bird-cries. “Squawk chirp, burp, chirp chirp” he sang. I know it’s not nice to laugh about a loss, especially a fresh one, but Sam was drunk as drunk can be, like roll-over-in-your-own-shit kinda drunk (we’ll get to that part) and I couldn’t help but laugh. It was at this point that I noticed my butt was feeling a little wet from his driver’s seat. He said he had to stop at a gas station to use the ATM and get smokes. Standard procedure, a $5 fee for stops, so I said it wasn’t a problem but asked that he hurry as we had other rides waiting. I watched as he stumbled through the doors, stood in front of the cash machine for a while, then disappeared into the restroom for a few minutes before returning to the car. When he opened the door it smelled like he had found an old diaper and was bringing it home with him. Did he forget to pull his pants down in the men’s room? Was it early onset beer-diarrhea? Either way he crapped his pants; fully shit himself. The rest of the ride home was torture. I was sitting in a beer-soaked drivers seat, presumably from his spilled road soda on the way to the bar earlier. Sam continued to hum, chirp, cry, squawk, blubber incoherently, and stink like shit. When I rolled all the windows down he cried a little more and the bird-calls came less often. We pulled up to his trailer and I told him the price. He paid in cash and left a generous $1 tip, but more importantly a priceless story. I got into the follow drivers car and as we drove away they asked why I smelled so much like beer. It was only my ass.

Thank you Home Runners for offering me employment and a fantastic source of entertainment. All of the names have been changed and Home Runners takes no responsibility for my actions or story-telling.


“Dr. Natural”


I started two weeks ago. My life hasn’t been the same since. I’d like to start this story from a later point, when I’ve already become “brainwashed” but I’m afraid that I will forget to pen anything at all and be cast into the sales world to forget who I truly am. Read this when you can, make sure to read this and learn from my lessons, just please read this so you don’t have to go through what I am going through.

A cautionary tale of lies and deception as told by a liar and deceiver.

So glad the fat lady can still sing

Spoiler Alert: The fat lady will sing…

The ad was on Craigslist and JobsinME, so frequently posted that even the newest of web job-surfers were getting sick of looking at the dumb graphics and annoying mainstream-green header, the color of an unentertaining cartoon frog. The job title was either “outbound sales” or “inbound sales”, the gamblers choice.  Not knowing dick about the sales world, I chose to subscribe my email to the outbound demon, trying to find twelve other jobs and feeling assured that this one would be like the others, just another application to be left dusty on the internet windowsill, never loved, never returned, never cared for.

I had to get a goddamn job. I wasn’t piss-broke but I was breaking, and not only was the entire money situation getting too tight to rent in Portland, but it was breaking the relationship that I came up here to nourish in the first place…


Update: It’s been three weeks since I have had a chance to pen anything about the new job. Let me take you back.

My resume which accompanied the application email must have been received, processed, folded, unfolded, and approved within a day by HR because Dr. Natural called requesting an in-person interview a few days later. When I arrived at the office, I was greeted by a friendly receptionist sitting behind a pod of a desk, only the top half of her face showing over the high front as I took my first steps into the dungeon. Signing in and waiting, I took in the initial hum of the florescent lighting like high school, college, and the dentist. A drop ceiling, of course, short wall to wall carpet, the just-noticeable voice of a talk-radio personality somewhere above.  I waited for Andrea, apparently, who would be interviewing me in a few moments.

She stood short and plump, a happy older woman whom I would be glad to talk with and laugh next to any day, which is exactly what we did. After she unfolded my resume to ask about each job and my qualifications, she then handed me a pen and asked me to sell it to her.  I improvised high-tech names for the features (stainless, shatter resistant, polyurethane coated, gravity loaded, spring action released), she was happy to buy it back, but mentioned that I never asked why she would even want a pen in the first place.

I was now here at Dr. Naturals to sell vitamins and supplements, and shouldn’t I know why people would like to purchase our products? Shouldn’t I ask them what the main health concern in their life is? Wouldn’t it be great if they didn’t have to deal with that sore shoulder anymore? Wouldn’t it be nice to get outside and play with their grandchildren again, and not have to worry about getting out of bed the next day because of that bad back? (yes, Yes, YES, YESS!!!)

Training started immediately and for two weeks I learned about tie-downs (see previous paragraph), cross-sells, greetings, messages, products, and the sales process, including but not limited to disputing rebuttals, omitting unnecessary details, pretending to care, showing enthusiasm, and eventually becoming a believer.

After the two weeks, one of which included the great blizzard of 2013, Nemo, I was given a desk, a chair, a headset, and an inch thick stack of phone numbers. They told me to dial and dial I did. I think the initial week I was averaging about 35 dials an hour, then they told me to talk more, so talk more I did. It all became so serious and absorbing in such a short time. With metrics and new policies came more paperwork and meetings, through which I surfaced, finally on the other side of my first sale.  It was for a three-month supply of a top-selling oil capsule, a body lube of sorts that makes burps taste like the fish market. I had fallen into rank and I didn’t blink.  The rush of the sale is something I’ve felt a few times since, and it always mixes with adrenalin and embarrassment. I know I can be a good salesman but the environment is so sticky with greed and dream-bubbles of commission that my conscience questions my motives, if you know what I mean.

Sparing the details, I am still working here and do not rely on commission just yet.  The first three months after training is a trial period with an hourly wage and a little hazing from the management. I suppose I am nearing the end of month one and feel no strong pull towards telesales. The secret now is to build a client base and sell them only three-month supplies as to have another sale in three months, because now they’re hooked. Then the next time they buy their favorite product, you sell a different one too, and now they love two products. Then the cars, the parties, the nice shoes, and the will of man will all be within reach.

I make the difference

So glad to know I made a difference.

It’s really not a big deal. It’s just another job, though i’m not sure I always felt this way. I remember at the beginning feeling odd and rebellious, wanting to infiltrate and spy on the hot shits who ripped off the elderly, stripping the social security check from their decrepit claw before it could start to get oily (the check).

The break room is a depressing pit; no windows, long, thin in shape and desirability. When they gave us our first tour, the woman made sure to point out a Wii. Haven’t seen it since. In the later part of the evenings, when one or two managers have left for the night, we like to sneak in there anyways, me and the other greenhorns, eyes glistening with computer screen torture. We crack jokes and try to squeeze one last little bit of enjoyment and relaxation into the slaved-away day.

K-Cups are only seventy-five cents, there’s a continual supply of coffee cups, creamer, and sugar, and I’ve hung up photos of waves that a coworker gave me…


I’ve been on commission for a couple weeks now.  Health insurance is about to kick in. I still just sit in the cubicle all day, calling and selling, sitting and dialing, typing and staring, screaming and soothing, crying and dying. Well, I’m not dying, but some people on the other end of the line have passed away. It makes for awkward conversation when you ask a grieving man or woman if the deceased parent is available to chat about their health.

The turn-over rate of employees isn’t surprising. There are a few veterans and even a relatively new hire who are just built for sales. Built like brick shit-houses. They toil with the lives of others; innocent-elderly and enthusiastic-youth. A new drink came out of Silicon Valley called soylent. It has everything you need to survive and your farts won’t smell anymore.  Some customers of mine would jump at the idea of a fully supplemented diet. A sleek-slick lifestyle fully optimized for efficiency. I also know some people against supplements in general, believing in and practicing local sustainable nutrition. Farm-to-table people are awesome, nutritionists are awesome, supplement-hounds are great, skeptics are awesome, and to each his own.

This job sucks toast.  The atmosphere is bleak and full of hot air. The computer screen is burning my brain and the chair is bending my back but it’s putting food on my table. It’s about to be less lousy because with time comes one of two things: power or weakness. I choose power. I’m going to quit! I just need to get a physical and visit the dentist with my new insurance plan first.

Working Hard

Tricking customers from the shadows.


I went to the doctor and got my physical three days ago and went to the dentist for my initial visit today. The blood work cam back from my physical and I’m clean as a whistle, the dentist scheduled my cleaning for this Monday coming up. Seeing how everything is well with my body I see no need to keep this job for the insurance.  For this most recent week I have only tricked a few helpless elders in re-upping their supplies. My apologies, unless the supplements I sold you are actually working to your benefit. I hope they are.

Since my appointments with the doc and dentist I have really been slacking off and looking for a reason to quit. There isn’t much else to do for me seeing how I’ve already made the conscious decision to move on. I asked HR about the insurance policies and, through subtle hinting and ambiguous wording, found out that insurance will last until the end of the month in which I quit. That puts my two week notice at next wednesday to get the full free month of benefits. It feels weird to have a death date on my present paycheck, especially since I don’t have another job lined up, but that proves how much I really can’t stand this place. I’ll be ending my employment on July 1st and moving back in to the world of uncertainties which thrills me to no end. I haven’t spied, I haven’t found anything out about myself that I didn’t already know, and I haven’t accomplished anything except paying the rent.

Important, but not what I seek. Not even close. Next time we talk I may have already put in the notice.


I put in my two week notice two weeks ago tomorrow, that it to say, tomorrow is my last day. Time really slowed down at the old phone-trough. It really surprised me how much I hated dragging my ass there Monday through Friday. I was working for the weekend. I lost sight of the assignment.

When the alarm goes off at noon and you don’t want to wake up yet, that’s a low point. When you think of an excuse to leave early, then make a checklist of excuses so you don’t use the same one twice, that’s a low point also. As frivolous as our life becomes, our life becomes, our life becomes, be comes, B. Combs. The list of funny names I walked away with is priceless. People payed with a credit card bearing names so unfathomably disrespectful for the bearer that it requires questioning the sanity of the parent. I’ll say no more.

List 1

List 2


One week later, full freedom, not a weak week, not an indoor communication hub where you never see the eyes of the sucker on the other line, not a prison, not a hard week. The easiest stretch of the year. 8 days of freedom to be exact and on every one I have gone swimming. Beat that, office job!

This past week I worked outside and I played outside. Reading back on my journey through Dr. Naturals made me realize how much I learned “inside”. Mostly that I prefer outside. That sales job really ate me up. It changed me in a negative way with little positive outcome. Inspiration for writing can come in an uncountable number of ways. I heard that thousands of years ago humans attributed creativity to a spirit that passes through the creator and hands off an idea. This time I forced it and used writing as medicine to get me through the journey. Writing, beer, coffee, weed, and even a little tobacco. Not to mention the…

Anyway, I am so much happier now. I picked the hottest week in a Maine summer to start working outside, doing my landscaping thing. A seasonal gig, no doubt, but I have enough money to hold me over through the summer on top of a designated driver job that I may have to write about as well. There’s a book’s worth of stories when you drive drunk people home in their own car. The point is that I’m happier now. Here’s to that. Here’s to writing and going to the beach to drink beers! Here’s to cheer’s-ing through the internet!

This drink goes out to all the suckers and the sucked. The world wouldn’t be what it is without you. Sláinte!

This one

Today like a grey Jay grown great and big brained but hazed by mist. Missed.
The best kind of weather, or not. I’m inside looking through a stained plastic window in my pained plastic chair wondering where that grey Jay is headed.
Off in the distance I hear music; “Down by the boardwalk, we’ll be having fun” and I sing along. Nobody else hears it, but they hear me singing. They don’t see the great grey Jay out in my missed mist either. These things are for me and you reading.
Ready to head home and finish Reservation Blues by Sherman Alexie, crank Dose One on the drive.

Summer Starts with Skateboards

It’s the best feeling getting back into skating. I didn’t have health insurance for a while, a vague amount of time somewhere around the oneyearthreemonthfiveday mark, but who’s counting? Inspired by a thrift shop complete that ran me $3.99, I still waited patiently for the day (which one was it now? I can hardly recall…) that my benefits kicked in. Then they did. One week after I took a trip to the ER, unrelated, I went Westbrook Skatepark to relight the fire.

First thoughts? It’s hard to remember what exactly I was thinking, but I’d only seen the mini-ramp from afar and I do recall it thinking it seemed smaller. The chunky transitions were spent, no cheap gasket to keep cinderblocks of quarter-pipes together. Patrick was there with his camera so the pressure was high. The sun was setting after a cloudless day, a big front rolling in from the west to disrupt the color-changing canopy. I dripped sweat after dropping in and my fifty-fifties were shaky quake cakes. Time to get air for the camera so I pull out an old school stand-by, the frontside fast-plant, bringing my feet to the board the first time but bailing. Patrick had the timing down so the second try I had to stomp it. I wasn’t leaning back in to the tranny enough on the last one and would’ve slipped out onto my ass, so what do you think I did on the next one? The same thing. I really committed to rolling away and the board did just that, only I wasn’t on it. I took a little chunk out of my hand and elbows and sprained my wrist. The photo is worth it.

Seconds before impact.

Seconds before impact.

Then I went to R.I. and hit up OMF. Sunday afternoon solo sesh. The park got a new flow. The custom floated craftsmanship made it a memorable skate just because it was basicaly a virgin session at a new park, only I learned to skate there pre-Jus, when the men were men and the graffiti was penises. Now the hubba and the corner bowls, like we dreamed of on hot summer days, looking out over the rink, past the field and the court, across the street and the parking lot at the bowling alley. Knowing Benny’s and the Heritage Mall were close by.

We were so young when we put our first set of trucks on triple-layered risers, squishing the hardware tight so the screw-head pierces the grip tape. The rails were 4×4’s with PVC screwed down, get good and slide some bricks under that sonofabitch. Who can boardslide the whole thing now?

I dropped in on the customary entrance qp, over the spine and funbox, around the corner bowl to the smaller funbox, over that one to the smaller corner pit-of-a-bowl, zzooomm over the gap behind the wallride and boom, I was back at the entrance quarter-pipe. Got my first good flips on the bank ramp, kick and heel. The miniramp session was the best, always my go-to; long gliding 50-50’s and blunt-rocks, one blunt-fakie on the minimini, ten good laps around the park and I was back in the game.

Now I’m hooked again. Feels good. Always miss it. Adrenalin. Fast-plants and pre-grabs. Smiths and feebles. Nose stalls, cab blunts, the coveted 5-0.

Today I went to the Portland park and got some speed in the peanut bowl, over head high in the deep end. A smooth 5-0 grind around a corner in a well-shaped pool is soul food.

Stamps From the Market

It’s been pretty quiet around here lately.  Seems like a huge chunk of my life is missing.  I published a self help book but it turns out I’m the one who needs to read it. I can’t seem to get past chapter one: “Get off the Internet”. 

The best part of today was going to the market for stamps.  I got a book of the liberty persuasion; the kind that lasts forever or until the post succumbs to the fate of the obsolete which should have been last year.  

There are always other things happening in the customer service line at the market.  

I just wanted stamps but it seemed like the people in front of me wanted much more important things.  I’m not sure what, but it was important enough that they completely disrespected the cashier when she apologized for not being able to provide said mystery. The young couple turned their backs on the woman behind the counter when she was still apologizing to them, at which point they both brushed past me with scowls on their icy faces and mumbles squeezing through clenched teeth.  This left me with the illusion that they were mumbling to me, whispering some secret code of distaste and unhappiness into my ignorantly happy ears.  At the same time, it seemed that the cashier was now apologizing to me. For what I do not know, but she didn’t seem sincere.



How to make a Jacob’s Ladder in less than 100 confusing steps

Where there is a will, there is a toy to be made.  If you have never heard of a Jacob’s Ladder, you suck.  If you had one as a child, you should have one again.  The only difference this time around will be that you might come close to understanding how it works because, that’s right, you’re making this thing.


Step 1: Gather yourself.

Step 2: Gather all this stuff:

(The wood is balsa. It’s easy to cut, non-toxic, and available at your nearest rain forest.  These pieces are 12″ x 2″ x 3/16″)Image

Step 3: Mark off 2″ sections. I marked off both sides of the wood so I could cut from each side and come close to meeting up in the middle like Malcom. You will need 12 of these to beat this level and carry on with your life.Image

Step 4: Cut them with your razor blade.  Keep your blood out of it.  Bloody toys are for freaks and aliens. And the English.


Step 5: Make em curved.  Just two sides on each.  A mellow curve from the top on down to the bottom, like so.Image

Going with the grain when you’re shaping them makes way more sense than anything else, so that’s how I recommend you do it.Image

You may make a mess.  That’s awesome. I love a good mess.


You may get a little tired. Don’t.  This will definitely be worth it, I bet.


Congratulations! You have completed the first hard part of creating a Jacob’s Ladder! Go outside for a while, have a smoke or a martini.  We aren’t kids anymore so why not?

Step 6: Paint them. Or don’t. I did. It was pretty fun.  The balsa wood absorbed the acrylic paint I used very quickly so i wasn’t waiting around for them to dry.  That was a cool thing, though you may not mind waiting in which case you should consider planting grass upon each piece and letting it grow a little before moving forward with the project. Or just paint them.ImageImage

Step 7: Learn about color theory while painting.


Everything’s better in color!

Step 8: Cut a bunch of strips of ribbon in 7″ pieces and get your glue out.  This is the hardest part to translate with photos but try your best not to fuck it up dude. I’m not going to put into words what I did here, just to make you try harder. Go get ’em tiger(ess)


Step 9:


Step 10: Run to the store and get some clothes pins.  It makes not being an elf a lot easier.

Step 11:Image

Step 12: Fold that green one under (or whatever color ribbon you used, dummy)


Step 13:Image

Step 14:Image

Step 15: Clothes Pins!!!!!!Image

Step 16:


Step 17:Image

Step 18: Holy shit! This is nuts!


Step 19:Image

Step 20:


Step 21:


Step 22:


Step 22 1/2:


Step 33 1/3:


Step 88: Stick that last piece on there and hope to god or ABBA that you didn’t glue your goddamn finger to your head while scratching and thinking.

Oh shit:

photo 4

Well, I suppose you did it.  Now play with it, share it with your enemies, make it for your friends, throw it at the wall and see if it breaks.  Don’t use it to climb up things unless you’re ascending the tower of pride.

An Insight towards growth

Working on a new portfolio is something that I have found goes on forever. Literally. I have met some amazing people recently that have helped me realize this. At one point when we first moved to Portland I thought my portfolio was awesome. I really thought the mediocre writing and the half-assed graphic design would land me a job. This was not the case. It turns out that I wasn’t really in love with the work that I had produced.
This is the next step for me. For something to be up on my site, created to represent me, it must be something that I actually love. This seems like something I should have thought about and realized before, but I just wasn’t playing the right game. I was actually just writing what I thought prospective employers would want to see. So wrong. If they want to hire me and look at my face on a daily basis, I should probably show them how I really think, and more importantly-most importantly, how I really feel. That way they know what they are getting themselves in to.
For now, there are some place-holders on my site, but with a little more time and passion, there will be place keepers. I’m not saying the work won’t change because I know I will constantly have to improve but I’m saying that the writing will be something I love. Like a dog. Or ninja turtles. I’ll link it when I love it.

On The Cover

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of things I want to be when I finally figure out where I am and what I can do. I used to think the sky was the limit and then I learned from my family that the limit was even further away than that.
I know I like to think, I’m definitely a thinker. They may or may not be profound thoughts, but they are thoughts and I mostly enjoy them. I am really into fixing things as well. I like to think about different ways that the thing could be broken, then find the most efficient way to fix it, so I’m thinking as I’m working.
I like surfing, skateboarding, and snowboarding but those aren’t things I can actively partake in on a regular basis because of the ol’ body.
I would love to be a ninja turtle, but not nowadays. I’m more into the radical and witty sarcasm of the 90’s half-shell, not the intensely violent and soulless modern warrior-turtle.
I know that writing is really something I can do for hours and still be forced to think about.













not these!

The draw for me into advertising is weird because of the commercial nature of the industry. I used to be more nature nature.
The challenge that writing poses is infinite, which is cool and also daunting. I may really need to grab the turtle by the nuts and start writing ad copy like it’s my potential career.

Life Is Life, The Rest Is Just Details.

“We are only human” is an incorrect summation of our problem.  As far as I can tell (not very far), we do have problems.  Us homowhatevers have tons of issues ranging from blind faith and stagnation to the most extreme selfishness and overzealous greed, but being human is not the problem.

Only human

I think (seldom, really) almost all problems are self-centered.  Each one of us is the center of the universe.  You reading this believe, in some rarely-considered part of your brain, that you are the most important thing to ever read, think, or act.  You may not believe you’re the smartest or the fastest, but you know that when the singularity comes, or aliens invade our planet, or doomsday arrives in some manner, that you will be saved. You will be the hero who gets to punch King Kong in the face and start the clock spinning again.  Call it survival instincts or pre-programming or fantasy, but it’s there.

I’m not quiet sure if that’s the problem though.  I could probably start a community-list of all the problems that each individual may incur through his/her lifetime starting with:


Banana Peel accidents

Cauliflower Ear



Foot fungus




Joint pain

Ketamine addiction






Questionable judgment


Sexual anxiety


Ugg boots

Venereal disease

Wet socks


Yankee candle allergies


Zebra stampedes

but none of those are even a problem in the grand scheme either.

The problem is that we don’t even know if there is a grand scheme so we pretend to know.  We replace the unknown with images of the known because we are terrified of mystery.  We argue with other humans even though we are not willing to change our minds, and neither are they.  We think the world spins for us and we speak for the world, so it doesn’t matter what all the other idiots think.  We are really scared and never content.  We hope and dream and honor and believe and pray, only to never know until the final-kick what really happens. Even then, we can’t warn our family or friends, because we are dead. We deny death in our lives like it’s not staring us in the face every day, from every paved road and skyscraper.  We still, as a human race, cannot embrace death.  That will have to change when each of us dies though, won’t it?

We all have our own time here to decide what we like to eat and what kind of music is our favorite.  We all get to change our minds if we want and we all get to learn, one way or another, about different things.  Then we get to decide whether or not to retain that knowledge or let it seep out of our heads.

We all get to smoke if we want.

We all get to sleep and eat and go to the bathroom.  We all get to be born. We all get to die.  We can make our own choices about the clothes that we put on our bodies.  We decide what kind of entertainment we want, and we pay for it.  Every one of us has to work.  Maybe not for money, but for goals.  We know that the words “health” and “age” are both relative.  We all have a voice and a mind’s eye and a beating heart inside of our chest which pumps our very own blood through our very own veins.  We all get to breathe, because we all have lungs and ribcages and brains.  We all have brains. Each one of us has their own brain that powers every sense and thought and action.

It must be how we feel, think, and act that makes up our life then.  Maybe the rest is just details.












I wasn’t going to make a toast. I swear. I didn’t plan on this many people showing up but I’m glad you all made it.  I have gathered you all here today to make a very special announcement. No, I’m not pregnant and no, I’m not moving to Zimbabwe despite the rumors. What I have to say to all of you is something that I thought would never happen, not in a million years.

It is something that my immediate family may have foreseen, but something that strangers would never be able to guess.

The big announcement is…



Have a new website to showcase my advertising work.

That’s right. From now on this WordPress will be strictly creative writing, poetry, ambiguous prose, nonsense, giraffes, and lyrics. Maybe just one giraffe, probably not though. Sorry to get your hopes up about the giraffes.

So visit my new site here, and pay me millions to think of crazy ideas to sell your custom giraffe hats. Not hats with giraffes on them, but hats for giraffes to wear.

Thank you for your attentiveness and willingness . Stay dope.