From January to June 2018, my wife Cat costume designed the Amazon series adaptation of the podcast Homecoming that shot in L.A., so we decamped Brooklyn for a 1930s cottage aerie perched halfway up Laurel Canyon. I bought a knock around Seagull guitar at the perfect scaled All-In-One guitar shop in Koreatown, and recorded a couple dozen tracks in our Gould Avenue house. My Gentleman of the Canyon adventure took me to a songwriting time zero, stripped down and raw, to that place where I just sat and thought and wrote and strummed. And listened. And learned.
These tracks are destined for evolution. But for now, they float the aether in a simplest, stripped state, kicking up some glorious west coast dust for me. Who knows where we’ll meet again. Hopefully, in The Canyon.
“But I want to go to mud school, too!” Luna insisted. Downhill, a 1st grade class explored a water patch that failed to drain after a rainstorm 3 weeks ago.
“No way,” I said. “Like I need more bacteria in my life.”
“Shut up! You’re the vector!” she cried, and skulked off.
January 10, 2019 at 02:06PM via instagram
“Hey!” Luna piped. “This’s the one where DeNiro beat up litterbugs, yes?”
“No, that’s Clean Streets,” I said. “In Green Streets, DeNiro’s Johnny loses bets over climate change, and gets buried under a pedestrian triangle.”
“Oh, right! ‘Where’s ya footprint now, Sal?!’ So good!”
January 08, 2019 at 04:31PM via instagram
“But why? You guys never have to wear one!” Luna protested.
“Evolution,” I replied, “left us no ability to lick, you know, down there.”
“Really?” she chuckled. “That’s so sad.”
December 08, 2018 at 12:00PM via instagram
An InnerHome C-quence22 door chime floated through Aracelle Freer and Karl Mercer’s white-walled, spare three-bedroom townhouse on a far-western block of Jane Street in the Lower High Line district of Manhattan, New York City. At the sound, Aracelle looked up from the kitchen sink, and Karl rose from a couch in the adjacent, sunken open living area.
Eighteen months earlier in 2078, Aracelle and Karl met on a New York City Metropolitan Transit Authority downtown Q Train, hurtling underneath the technopolis of 28 million flapjack-stacked residents. Entering car 3699, second from the front, heading home through a typical Friday evening underground salmon-and-sardine-spawning midnight crush hour, Karl and Aracelle both angled to sit in a rare, just-vacated open seat, and bumped into each other.
Karl relented. “No, you, please. You’ve got your hands full with, what…” he noticed her carrying a covered object, and made out outlines of bars in the cloth. “Is that a cage under that curtain?”
“Nope. Frog,” she said.
“Oh, what a shock,” deadpanned Karl.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. ‘Frogs everywhere.’” Aracelle scare-quote countered, and waved her hand around as the train lurched forward.
Approximately three-dozen frogs hopped lazily around the car floor, their ceaseless croaking and constant movements unheeded by commuters whose gazes remained fixed around 12 inches in front of their right eyes, on infolayers in their corneal overlays, lost in dreams of dinner and solvency.