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 “demos,” all recorded with the intention of 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 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
In which Luna and I ponder the state of New York City over a purple 1978 Chevy Impala parked in the same spot on our block for a year… https://t.co/O8bg4a84u5
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?”
“Yes.”
“Bird?”
“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.
Disposable flossers underfoot everywhere in every neighborhood say, “Litter free? Please. Tartar-free is where it’s at!” #TartarFreeNYC
December 03, 2018 at 02:04PM via instagram
Luna paused over breakfast, perched over this city of faded mythology, and asked, “Does ‘fast food’ mean you have to run faster to catch it?”
November 05, 2018 at 05:58PM via instagram
“My name is Talky Tina, and you better be nice to me.” // Twilight Zone, “Living Doll,” Ep. 506, aired: 11/01/1963
October 29, 2018 at 06:01PM via instagram
Appeared overnight in our lobby. Lieutenant Luna’s initial investigation turned up that Dawn Forgottomanni in Apt 1L spotted Mrs. Karpchuk from Apt 3R getting into an Uber today wearing a Havapoo ushanka. Developing…
October 18, 2018 at 06:27PM via instagram
“No Dog’s Poop” was the beta version of “No Man’s Sky,” but the gaming world wasn’t ready for a Massive Multiplayer First Person Sh*tter.
October 10, 2018 at 12:49PM via instagram
