bitch and moan

today, i got called "a fucking asshole" by a parent of an opposing team after the game. the coach came up to me and said that i displayed unsportmanlike conduct because we crushed their monkey asses 21-2. shit, it could have easily been 50-2.

it took me 5 years to build this team which i inherited with 0-12 record. i've suffered terrible, crushing defeats. my team and i have been humiliated at games. and i never said shit. i didn't complain about how well the other team played. i just got back on the fucking horse and stuck to it.

this is the second time this season a team has complained about the score because their team sucks. and it's troubling to think that the natural reaction of some people is to whine and complain when taking an ass kicking. i coach to win. i know it's some trivial ass bullshit. a game played by high school kids. but life's going to dish out a lot more hurt than just some bad losses at a water polo game.

so i'm sorry cap coach. maybe, it's time for you to think about building a better team or quitting your job.

13-0.

one more game for all the cookies.

happy mother fuckin birthday

first off, i just want to thank everyone for the birthday wishes, it's great feeling super awesome for one day out of the year.

i've had a spectacularly good week. my water polo team is 5-0 and tied for first in our division. my advisor likes my new work and told me that it seemed like i liked expressing anger and that i should do it more often. (consequently, i've been taking his advice and have been giving quite a few middle fingers during traffic hours.) i sold a painting at a bar without a mother fucker haggling for price. the girl i'm talking to doesn't think i'm a piece of shit. i won three out of 4 bets on sunday. mother fuckers who owe me money be paying me back. my therapist hasn't recommended me to take any more drugs. my mom has been visiting and making the house not feel like a piece of shit frat house. zilla hasn't bitten anyone else.

overall. it's been quite a successful september and start to my graduate career. but waves don't ride out forever. i told my therapist that i still have a lot of hate and violence to dish out and she said that aggression wasn't a bad thing.

it's the first time really that people have told me to indulge in my rage. and it feels good. and thank you really for all the texts and calls and facebook messages. it means a lot to a lonely, angry, mother fucker. and i'm hoping one day i'll change. at least for my therapists sake.

Things aren't always so bad

I've been drinking a lot of wine recently, I think I've been doing so because I'm pretty tired of having whiskey shits. I've been pretty nervous about going back to school. For one entire year I got to do anything that I wanted. No schedule, no one to tell me when to wake up, being my own boss, and painting whatever the hell I wanted, although really I would do so anyhow. On one of these wine benders I got into a conversation with a friend about how I'm totally shitty at talking to people in social interactions.

"You're just bad at talking to people."

"What do you mean?"

"You just get really aggressive and most people don't know how to respond to that."

"I just cannot stand the notion of small talk."

"Yeah, but it's not even that. It seems like you're attacking all the time."

"I don't mean to do so, I guess I'm just to the point."

"Not everyone will talk to you the way you want to talk."

"I understand that."

"You've got to work with people."

"Well, I just don't really care for the most part about weather or sports of that type of shit. I've got time with writing. I get to bend the truth. I get to think through situations present and past and analyze. I get to trim the fat and get to the good stuff."

 "Articulate," he said, "You're articulate in your writing, but you just diarrhea out of your mouth in person."

I didn't disagree.

I'm horrible at social interactions. So unless we have the same vices or you're an artist, I'll be really bad about talking to you. I'm really trying to work on it, but I just don't really like meeting new people or being placed in new situations besides when i'm traveling or on the lam. I like my inner circle close and familiar, for the most part, sometimes I don't even trust myself so it's not saying much for other people. If I could, I would just buy a big piece of property and me and Zilla would never see anyone unless we wanted to.

I like being left alone to myself and my own vices. I know I have issues I'm trying to work through personally, and it's just the way things are. And people don't understand that. My family doesn't understand. My ex girlfriends didn't understand. I just like not talking to anyone for long periods of time. I just like time to reflect.

I've been talking to this girl over the summer, let's call her Carrie, and she's beautiful and young. I've never even really tried to talk to anyone who lived more than 20 minutes away from me and she lives down all the way in San Diego. The only way to keep in touch with Carrie is through the phone and it's been quite good until about earlier this week when she said she didn't think it was a good idea we keep it up because of the age difference, and the distance, and other such trivial problems.

"Maybe it's just better if we don't talk for a few days."

"If that's what you want."

"You know things will never work out."

"I never think such things, I'm just afraid of them."

"Maybe it's just better if we're friends."

Those dreaded words. I suppose before I would have reacted with a bit more resistance, but after all this time, I don't know if having a woman in my life is really the solution.

New chapters are exciting. And I'm feeling like I've got a good shot again.

 I repainted my room and did some decorating. Ian Francis is the man.

 I moved into my brand new studio at the CCA grad complex. Come by and say hello.

I moved out of my old studio.

Things aren't always so bad.

brokefaceasshole

I took this picture about 5 years ago for a photo shoot. Most people don't like it, they think is perturbing. When they ask, I usually just say I got in a bar fight so I don't have to really explain.

I called my mom a few days ago and she asked why I put this picture up. She said she hates it and wonders why I don't put up something nice.

"What happened? Why do you put up pictures like this?"

"I dunno mom. It was a photoshoot from a few years ago. I like it."

"Is it real?"

"No, it's just all fake. Don't worry mom."

"Are you okay, how have you been?"

"I'm at the studio now, but I'm about to have some beers with a friend. I'm doing okay."

"Okay, remember to stop smoking cigarettes and don't drink so much."

"Ok mom, tell dad I say hi."

I guess it really started after watching the movie fight club in high school. A few friends and I decided it would be a good idea to meet once a week and kick the living shit out of each other for fun. At first it was just the three of us at first, then it was 5, and then it was 10 and it kind of grew and grew into this thing.

I wasn't the nicest person growing up. I've dished out my fair share of punishment. I'm not saying I've never been put in my place, but never enough so for me to feel like I've ever learned a lesson. And maybe I felt like I needed to teach myself a lesson.

I had to do a profile photoshoot at the time anways, so I decided i would up the ante and give myself a black eye. To see what it would feel like. Some modern day self-flagellation.

I spent two days punching myself in the left eye. My friends thought it was pretty stupid, but they still offered to help. I politely declined and administered mostly small rabbit punches the first day as I was still a bit hesitant with the entire project. My main concern wasn't about actually having a black eye, but whether or not I was causing some long term damage to my vision. I pushed forward.

The second day I took more drastic measure. The rabbit punches weren't doing any good at all. It took a few quarts of whiskey, but I really took the mission with a bit more emboldened passion. By the end of the night I had a pretty good shiner going. It was partially swollen and red and I was pretty proud of myself.

The blood is completely fake. It's a mixture of flour, food coloring, cornstarch and water. After the black eye, I really didn't have the heart to break my nose. After two days of punching myself in the face, the shot took about 5 minutes to capture. And that was it.

So really, I didn't get a black eye from a bar fight. I gave it to myself. Because I'm an idiot. And because sometimes I really don't have better things to do. So stop asking.

i do what i want

I've definitely been told by older artists that my career and life should be about doing whatever I want. It's very easy for a young man to take that type of advice and totally head down the wrong path. I definitely have Peter Pan Syndrome. I've almost always done about anything that I've ever wanted. And I thought that it would never end. Except the fact that my bodies finally starting to work against me.

About the only responsibility I have right now is the dog. I can't be away from him for longer than 6 hours at a stretch which I think in the end is a good thing. If I didn't have Zilla I wouldn't really care where I slept or what hours I kept. So at least having one thing to take care of really isn't so bad.

My pet sitter Bonnie recently moved to Tennessee with her boyfriend so it's really thrown a wrench in my vacation plans. I originally wanted to go to Hawaii to lay in the sand and drink fruity cocktails and say sexy things to sexy girls, but it was never meant to happen. I could never find a replacement sitter, I am still actively on the search. There is no way I was just gonna leave the big, dumb thing at a boarding shelter.

So instead, I just took Zilla on a California staycation. First, we went out to Lake Millerton where he took his first splash in the water.

I went out with some high school friends and drank and ate too much in 90 degree heat.

I basically spent 4 days without changing my clothes, underwear included.













After that I drove me and Zilla down to sunny La with my friend Hazel and her dog, they were horrible copilots.
To be fair, it was nice to have someone in the car with me even if all the passengers spent most of the the time sleeping, Hazel included.

It was the first time I took a road trip with pets, or a girl. Suffice to say, we made it out alive with no incidents.












Once we got there Zilla made friends with Jolie and Hunter and everything was alright.

I crashed out in Pasadena at my Hazel's house where Jolie and Hunter kept Zilla at bay.

I tied him up to a tree outside for a bit and he got raped by a gang of fleas. His belly looked like raw dick cheese. He was not happy.













The Kim sisters took me out to eat, drink, and party like it was the end of days.

I have never really liked LA, but it's a little different when you aren't just going it by your lonesome.

The girls are a lot prettier and if it's not me drinking and driving, it's all right.














I had about the sexiest couch surfing experience of my life.

Most times, I'm sleeping at some shitty ratholes. Drinking my way into forced slumber. But I've upgraded a bit in life, and it's nice.

















Getting chauffeured in a Range by sexy women isn't fucking horrible either.

All I had to do was not be smelly and brush my teeth, both things I would tend not to do on vacation.

After LA, I drove down to SD to meet some old college buddies.









First I met up with Robin and met Pequena a umbrella cockatoo. I'm sure like with most women, she could not get enough of me.

After that I met up with Nate and bummed it a few days at his pad with his family. He's got a baby and all and if my parent's knew him, they would be like, "Daniel it sure would be nice if you were more like Nate." It's kind of why I've never introduced them.

I'm really thankful that I have friends that not only put up with my bullshit and put me up, but are also willing to take in my 120lb dog also.

It's not everyday that regular, people let a filthy artist into their homes.














After my trip, I got a call from my mom and she told me she was disappointed in the way I handled the situation with my previous gallery. She told me that she was embarrassed and that I have to learn to handle my shit without flipping my lid. Shames not the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. She made me feel bad a bit, but only while we were on the phone.

Am I embarrassed about how I acted? No.

Do I think I overreacted? Yes, a bit.

Would I do it again? Yes, but with more punching.

And finally, here are some ill guided and drunken thoughts on traveling and friends.

Til next time,

xox,

d

a day in the life

When I tell people I'm an artist, they usually look at the tattoos, and the shitty clothes, and just think i'm some lazy, loser stoner, who's just basically slumming it through life. And they'd be right, except about the lazy part. I know I didn't turn out to be the prince charming my parent's wanted me to be, but they raised me to be pretty decent, at least when i'm not on a bender. I work hard and I'm good at what I do. 

People always ask what I do everyday, them imagining me stoned out of my mind sitting on the couch watching ren and stimpy. My life is pretty routine. It's like going to the office, but instead i'm painting pictures of naked girls. I suppose there are some perks to the job.  I had my friend Hugo follow me around for an entire day to shoot my shenanigans. Hugo's in the banking industry, one of the big banks, with a very nice cushy job, a nice condo, and a penchant for boats. Suffice to say, we come from very different worlds. 

Honestly I was a bit surprised that he was willing to give me a hand with the project. He took a thursday off of work and we just hung and while he dragged around his camera and took photographs. It was like we were a gay couple for a day.

I wanted Hugo's side of the story, so here's a short transcript of our day's adventure from his point of view:

"We meet that morning by Caltrain and stop in at the local pancake house for coffee and conversation. Daniel and I scheme over the day’s events while cutting our pancakes into delicious little geometries. There is much to do and we eat with haste. The waitress unnecessarily tops us off - unaware of our greater ambitions - before we settle and make our departure.

Back at Daniel’s a monster waits to ambush us, his italian mastiff, Godzilla. We open the door to its lair and are soon confronted. The joyful beast embraces Daniel and is seemingly appreciative of the human chew-toy that he came home bearing. I humbly introduce myself and the creature spares my life with a Caesar-like nobility. We all pal around for a bit before making our way to Daniel’s workshop downstairs. The room is busy, engulfed in artistic creations of past, present and future. Daniel tries to explain the madness but it is lost on me. He takes a quick moment to address something on the computer and then we move to the patio for a smoke. Miles away a jumbo touches down at SFO like a butterfly with sore feet. I consider what time it is and what I would be doing if I had not chosen to play hookie on this particular day. I smile. 

We swing by the BART station to grab Paul, his tattoo artist, and the three of us make our way to San Carlos. In back of the tattoo shop we chat up and light up a few cigarettes. Daniel is no stranger to ink but I still get the sense that he’s mentally preparing himself for what’s coming - or maybe just taking a solemn moment to say goodbye to another little blank patch of skin-canvas. Paul traces and refines. He sterilizes and lubricates and calibrates. Moments later, after only a few painful winces, what only existed as a few insignificant lines, curves, and a tear of trace paper is now a piece of Daniel forever. They bandage him up and send him on his way like some kind of outpatient soul-surgery. 

We drop off some mail and it's off to being a role model.A sweater and he is transformed into Coach Chen. We drop in to check on the troops at the pool. Daniel coaches high school swimming and water polo. The athletes all hustling to set up for their meet - but they have done this before. No need for us to stay long.  We have mail to play with and dogs to send out. And art. We have to art.

His upstairs private studio is peaceful. Rows of cubicles but no computers. Stools but few chairs. 3rd floor with a view. A girl with her headphones on is scribbling away on something; she is the only other person here. It’s as if all the workers are out on a lunch break that they won’t be returning from. Daniel takes a seat at his workstation in the corner by the window and surveys a scattering of works in progress - perhaps wondering where to even start. Outside I notice a man in a pink shirt loitering about like he doesn't know where he’s supposed to be. He’s rummaging through his pockets. Daniel is already mixing paint having decided his next move. We put on some music to break the silence. Daniel puts his brush to canvas and I crack the tab on a beer. We both get to work.

Downstairs is much less tranquil. It's a artist collective that Daniel hangs out with. A dozen people buzz about the workshop with an emphasis on production. There is a timeline and an agenda. A feeling that some business element has taken over. In the back an argument flares up about money and someone presumably getting fucked by it. The atmosphere is almost overwhelming but I am relieved as the busyness eventually dissipates.

It's an intense community. An array of different projects all being worked on in little teams I

don't really understand. We take someone's dog for a walk and grab some sandwiches.

People come and go - so does a spliff. The few of us left hang out by a Mac and talk

shop for a bit.

We take a break from the studio and meet up with Jasmine for a couple Old Fashions at Trick Dog. The plastic bandaging on Daniel’s newest tattoo is falling off - unable to maintain adhesiveness in the wake of today’s events. With a tasty drink in hand I again take reflect on how un-Thursday-like the day has felt. It is pleasant but still feels so foreign to a person like me. I will have another Old Fashion, though. 

There is a struggle happening here. A world behind you (the "real world", it likes

to be called) measuring up your life investment versus success, time versus

money, lifestyle versus livelihood. I get the feeling Daniel may be at a crossroads -

painting paychecks or expiring aspirations. However it turns out at least he gave it a shot."

Thanks Hugo I couldn't have written it better myself.

And here are some pretty pictures for those of you who dont read good.

Usually I don't eat breakfast, but since it was gonna be a pretty crazy one, I decided to take Hugo out to my favorite local breakfast joint.

 I wake up around 7:30-8 everyday. I wish I could sleep in nowadays, but it just really doesn't happen.

8-9 After I wake up I take Zilla out for a couple of miles, shit, piss, and feed him. I'll hit the bag or do some pull ups, but nothing too crazy, just to keep the hands fast.

Godzilla is about a year and a half now and to be honest he has been quite a handful. He's my best friend though and best friends gotta help each other out when the cards are down.

10-11 I'll spend a few hours checking email, updating bullshit, keeping my shit straight. Usually I throw in a quick jerk session, but Hugo was there and it would have gotten awkward real fucking fast.

We pick up Paul around 11 so I can get some ink. I know some people have a negative perception on tattoos. They can go fuck themselves.

It's not like I get tattoos everyday, but I've wanted this one for a long time and when I get preoccupied or obsessed about something, I have to do it right away or I'll tend to lose it.

I met Paul through art school, besides being a full time tattoo artist, he's quite a fantastic oil painter, and not too shabby with a can.

 Getting tattoos for me is like going to the therapist. We get to talk shop, life, love, and everything inbetween. You can find Paul at Belmont Tattoo and piercing. You can find them at the link below: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Belmont-Tattoo-and-Body-Piercing/161078723918488

 We finish up around 1 and I drop off some personalized postcards I've made for my clients and personal fans. I'm pretty sure they usually end up in the trash.

I've been coaching high school kids for 4 years now. I know i'm far from the perfect role model, but I love coaching and I love watching kids achieve things they never thought were possible. Practice happens 3:30-5:30 everyday, sometimes with those sweet two a days.

 Sometimes I wonder when some parents gonna see my art work or blog and realize what a shitty asshole I am and get my ass fired. I really hope it doesn't happen.

 For the past six months I've been going to the studio nearly everyday. Weekends included. Sometimes I'll stop in the morning before practice, sometimes after, sometimes both. It's always different.

It's a pretty grimey neighborhood, but I'm just glad I haven't been mugged yet.

 Before this studio I was working out of my house in the basement. And at the time I thought I would never leave, but getting this new work space in the mission saved my career.

 It's small, but I have a window. And it's quiet and there's really usually no one here. And I get to just work and paint.

 Can't complain about the view. I had been looking at a few other locations and when I saw that window I signed the papers on the spot.

 And it's just usually me. For hours. Alone. I tend to lose track of time. I hardly know what day of the week it is sometimes. I don't think about time through days, I think about time through projects and drying time. It's weird.

 I usually don't drink while I'm working. I'll smoke all the spliffs in the world but I don't paint drunk.

My friend Jasmine stops by around 4 and we talk some shop. She's curated before and is currently working on a project at the de Young. I'm really hoping she sneaks me into a museum someday. we start having a few beers and once I get started on the sauce, it's kind of hard for me to stop. What can I say, I like to party.

The shoes that have taken me through all this mess.

Around 5 I take Hugo and Jas over to an artist collective downstairs I've been hanging out with. It's just a weird assortment of painters, woodworkers, designers, screen printers, and all this other crazy shit and I love it. All the boys smoke spliffs and do work. And it's like for the first time I have something of a crew.

Dan is a zine and print maker and I'm really hoping to collaborate on a short graphic novel this summer. You can check out his stuff here: palmpublications.blogspot.com, palmcults.org, and palmzines.com.

Jeff is a internationally renowned graffiti writer and creative director at derbysf. You can check out his stuff here:

http://www.sleazymccheesy.com/,

http://www.derbysf.com/

After I'm done with the day, I usually end up at www.trickdogbar.com. I have a few cocktails, ogle pretty girls, and sometimes I even get to talk to a few of them. 

I tend to wrap things up around 7. We stop by my friend Hana's place and she feeds us pizza and beers. That's Jolie, she's a sweet heart.

Not every day like this, but the coaching and painting and drinking are just routine now. I like to work hard. I've worked really hard. And I'm really hoping this'll really be alright, because I need it to be. 

I drop Hugo back off at his place and all I really want to do is go out and trick women into sleeping with me. But I've got to work tomorrow.

So there it is, this is about what I do everyday, please don't ask me what I do anymore. I hate talking about it.

fantasy island

I'm almost there. My job is almost done. I've just got two paintings left, a sculpture, and just some minor touch up shit. I told my gallery owner that I was gonna take a fat vacation after all this mess ends. That I wanted to just fly to Hawaii, sit on the beach, gawk at the beautiful women, drown myself in sugary cocktails, and fall in love for a few days. His reply:

"if all goes according, you wont have time for a vacation home boy, it will be on to the next show!"

I know I can't complain. This is what I've slaved for. This is the time to put in work. Grind it out. Make a name for myself. Things are finally turning around. It's like catching cards after being short stacked at the poker table. I finally have an art crew. My friends are doing well. My family is doing well. Zilla is finally behaving. And I just beat my first lawsuit.

During the last couple of months I've been experiencing some breakdowns. I'll usually be doing some routine shit where I can let my mind wander: walking the dog, driving to the studio, paying the bills. I'll just break down and bawl like a baby. I'll cry like a little girl, and really I won't be thinking about anything in particular. Usually it's just an overwhelming sense of sadness and grief. The episodes don't really last more than a minute or two tops, but it's been really worrying me lately. It can't be normal, right?

I just want to go far away, to a nice private beach, turn off my cell phone, have no schedule, and just not care. About anything. At least for a little bit. A few days. Just something for myself. Figure out what's wrong. Rehab.

Things are so good right now. I have good, solid projects lined up. Women think I am worth their time again. Things are on the up and up. But we'll see how things go.

Things have been a little bit crazy

I went out to these Vietnamese coffee shops in San Jose with a few friends today. It was a poor excuse just to ogle women in skimpy outfits while we sipped on overpriced iced coffees. The first two places were pretty miserable. The overall vibe was pretty creepy. All the other customers were in the late 30s or 40s and by customers I mean creepy old dudes. None of the waitresses would even make eye contact or say hi. They merely took our orders and sashayed away, the flaws on their skin covered by the neon lights and blaring music.

It was okay I suppose, I definitely got quite a bit done. Things have been a little bit crazy. Just in the past week I've gotten my postcards, framed my paintings, had them shot. And here I was in the dingy Vietnamese coffee shops drawing little personalized doodles on my postcards for clients and fans. It's been really busy and I haven't really been able to sleep much lately. Women are starting to warm up to me again and it's nice to revel myself a little bit in that attention.

I'm starting to get pretty burnt out. I called Jode earlier to just talk about things and she told me to take a few days off. My life's been pretty crazy lately and I kind of like it this way. I don't think I'll be taking any days off. I'd be all anxious just being away from the studio.

I went out to an art show on Friday which featured typewriter inspired art with a live set from the artist made of sounds from a typewriter. I wanted to throw up thirty times in my mouth. 

 After the shitty art show I met up with some friends at a lounge downtown which a buddy co owns. We hung out down in the basement and I felt like a goddamn gangster.

 Saturday morning I went to go pick up ammunition at the gun show at the cow palace since there's a massive shortage. It was a nightmare. The line for wholesale ammunition was 5 hours long. I just went and bought retail like a chump.














I also got Zilla some new bandanas from the gun show. He is one handsome mother fucker














Whenever I post pictures of Zilla on Instagram or Twittter of Zilla, he'll always get way more attention than for any other shit I do.

Today I spent the whole day in Vietnamese coffee shops. I drew on my postcards and am shipping them out to fans and clients.

My friend Jenny is trying to launch a company that sells rolling papers which will allows you to custom print images. She told me to shoot her some drawings of dogs and bunnies.

We went to three cafes today and at the last one I made some pretty bad sketches of the waitress and she came by and said "you made my butt look cute."

Personally I just enjoyed the free modeling session.

I left the sketch with my website on the table.

I get a message on my website about 20 minutes after I leave.

She left her number.


My first solo show open May 4th from 6-11 at Book and Job Gallery on 838 Geary Street.

I hope to see all your beautiful faces there.

love,

d

lost cause

I remember the first time I went into my new gallery to meet the owner and curator. I was a nervous wreck. I had to stop by Whiskey Thieves which is this real shit hole dive in the Tenderloin before the meeting.

I liked Carson and Jode and I liked the gallery and it was probably one of the biggest milestones in my career.

"There's only one thing I don't like about your gallery though."

"What's that?" Carson asked.

"It's directly across the street from my ex girlfriends place" I said pointing out the second story window across the street to the apartment complex.

I guess that's when it all really started. We had a few beers and I was having an alright time just bullshitting and getting to know new friends. Around my 6th beer I went out to have a cigarette and I couldn't help it, but I stared up at her window. My success marred by this memory from the past. The light was on.

I wondered if she still lived there. I imagined her making dinner. I wondered if she was still painting. I imagined her looking as pretty as ever.  It took a bit of a discipline not to call her at that moment. And ask how she was doing. Maybe she would like to come down and say hi to Zilla. But I didn't. And I haven't been able to get her out of my mind lately. And I thought I was doing so well.

I was down in San Diego this past weekend. The last time I was there was with Sue about a year ago. She met all my friends and they loved her. So much so that they told me that I had made a mistake. That I should get her back. That I was a real asshole. That she was the best thing I ever had. That I should just call her. And I don't disagree.

But I know she'll never pick up the phone. We've moved way past that point. That this is just the way things are.  And that I've just got to be a big boy about it. Maybe all this sentimentality is just the withdrawals from extended consumption or maybe this is just karma getting her licks in.

I just hope that everythings okay. And that she's happy. And smiling her smile, even if it'll never be at me again.

bad habits

I've been on a terrible bender lately. It started about two weeks ago when my curator and gallery owner came in for my midpoint review. It went well and a little after that, I found out that I got into my top choice for grad school. It's probably the worst time to start relaxing and taking things easy. I've been falling back into my old vices a bit hard and going out and meeting women. And it's really been nice, knowing that I'm not some old, over the hill loser. When I really count it down, I've only got a solid month left of painting left and I'm starting to worry that if I keep up all this carousing I won't be able to finish up quite in time.

I want to be off in a far off remote island. With white sand and warm waters. Drowning myself in rum and exotic women. Waking up and not caring about the day or time. Simply just giving into every whim and fleeting fancy. Sometimes I think that maybe that I'm meant to be alone forever. That it's better for everyone that way. I still want a kid though, shit maybe two. But I don't think I can be with anyone forever. It's just not possible. I want adventure. I want new beginnings. And maybe that's all there will ever be.

Letters of Rec

During the fall of last year I was in a pretty bad spot in my life. I needed direction or at least some sort of safety net to fall back on in my career path. I went to go look at a few schools and decided on two that I would apply to for a Master's program. It's kind of the "oh shit" plan if I don't somehow start selling paintings by the truckloads. My mom was all for it, she wanted me to apply to more schools, but I had my heart set on the two and I started preparing back in November.

As December rolled around, I started contacting possible teachers and associates who would be able to write me a recommendation. Things were rolling along. One of my favorite teachers going through art school was J_______. I took two of her classes. I liked her quite a bit, she was in her mid to late 30s and still pretty cool. She challenged me often and always pushed my buttons. It also helped that she wasn't too bad to look at. She was one of those rare teachers that takes your work to the next level because she had the innate ability to read people and to push them.

Everything was lined up. I polished up my statement, sent in my images, and filled out the applications. It felt like I was in high school again. The recommendation letters had to be submitted electronically so all I really had to do was wait until the end of January deadline.

February 1st rolled around and everyone submitted a letter besides J_______.  At first I was pretty upset. I phoned the enrollment department and assured me it was one of the least important aspects of the application process. I still felt slighted.

I got another professor to help me submit and that was that. I'd like to call a cunt a cunt, but those times are behind me. I hope all her hair turns grey.

It was a mistake

It was a mistake. We had been seeing each other on and off for about 2 months.

I met her at a college bar, she was with her friend Clare. I remember I had broken my arm a week prior.  She saw my cast and immediately felt bad for me. Her name was Betty and we danced a few numbers and had some drinks and really hit it off. She was slight and had her hair pinned up. She had a terrific laugh and kept on giving me these real coy looks. She could really move on the dance floor.

Her friend dropped us off back at my place and I poured some vodka sodas and we chatted til the break of dawn. I started kissing her and things progressed a bit, but then she stopped me. She looked at me and got very grave and told me that she had a boyfriend. 

"Like you just broke up with him?"

"No, we're still together."

"At this very moment?"

"Yes'' she said hesitantly, "Does this change things?"

Well fuck yes it certainly changed things. I remember the first time I had ever messed with a girl with a boyfriend. It was back in high school. This girl was on the outs with her boyfriend and she decided to hook up with me to get back at him. I eventually felt so bad about it I straight up told him when I was drunk at a party. He didn't really mind that much. 

"No, not really. It's not like he'll ever know right?"

I knew it was the wrong answer to give, but she was there and looked very pretty.

I kissed her hard. 

We saw each other regularly after that. I took her out and she would sleep over. We never talked about her relationship. I never stayed at her place. When her boyfriend was in town, I wouldn't see her. I don't know why I kept up the charade.

"You haven't told any of your friends about me, have you?" she asked one night laying in my bed.

"No" I lied.

"What are we?" she asked.

I didn't know how to answer, I thought it was pretty clear. I was just the guy she was fucking her on the side. To her, I thought I was nothing more than a slab of meat.

"I dunno. I thought we were just hooking up. Just friends."

She seemed disappointed, but accepted it in the end.

"Just don't tell your friends about us."

"Okay." 

"You promise."

"Okay." I had my fingers crossed.

As things went on, she began to become more and more demanding of me. Nagging me about the food I ate, my study habits, the hours I kept, things of this nature.

"I'm not your boyfriend."

The statement upset her.

"I just broke up with him."

The statement upset me.

I knew how the conversation would go before it even began. 

"I'm not going to be your boyfriend."

"But I broke up with him for you."

"No, you didnt."

"I broke up with him because I thought we had something going."

"You broke up with him because you didn't want to be with him anymore. I'm just your excuse. You just used me so you wouldn't feel bad about leaving your boyfriend."

"Fuck you Elliot."

She had never cursed at me before. She wasn't really the type to curse so I knew she was real upset. 

"I thought we were just having fun. I know things shouldn't have gone as long as they have, but what did you expect? I told you from the start that I didn't want anything."

"You don't understand anything."

"I'm sorry Betty."

"Stop."

"I'm sorry" I said while trying to put my arm around her shoulder.

"I said stop."

She got up and went to the bathroom. We didn't see each other for awhile after that. Through the grapevine I heard she got back with her boyfriend. She started calling me again and things kept on going back and forth like that for a little bit. But in the end, I should've never really messed around with her in the first place.

fact or fiction

I don't really know why I write. It's therapeutic, like going in for confession. I've certainly gotten my fair share of concerns from family members and friends. But it is what it is.

For the most part, it's fiction. All the people and names mentioned are made up and just figments of my imagination. I know sometimes I bring up or write some shit that people think is too personal or too depressing or too much and that's fine. You can just stop reading my shit. Understandable.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I write because I have to. It's just something I do, in my diary, journal, blog, whatever you want to call it. It brings me peace. So don't worry. I haven't blown off my face yet. Really start to worry when I stop writing. Because I'll have given up by then.

On the Lam - Vancouver

We had been on a bender for a few days and I wasn't necessarily feeling all too good. We were sitting at a bar, the Cambie, in Gastown and watching the Canucks game. We tried to scalp tickets earlier during the night, but the idea of spending $100 plus on some game I could give less of a shit about was outrageous. We had an entire pitcher of Granville Pale Ale in front of us. I was feeling a little depressed and my stomach felt like shit, but I put on a good face. I was traveling with a mate in Vancouver for the holidays and didn't want to spoil the weekend.

The crowd was young and lively and I scanned the room from one pretty face to another, but all I could think about was my ex girlfriend. My mind wandered and I thought about her with another man and I tried to take a sip of beer, but was afraid it might make me sick. Our waitress came over and asked if we wanted to order anything from the kitchen. She was slim with a tan complexion. She wore a black tshirt and jeans, and had eyes like a cat.

She took our orders and left.

"What do you think she is?" Benson asked.

"I was thinking hapa of some sort."

"She looks almost Indian."

We made small trivial talk and watched the girls sipping their beers.

The waitress came back and I asked where she was from.  Her parents were both Turkish, but she had travelled quite a bit growing up and spoke damn near perfect Mandarin and French. She smiled and was very charming and I was wondering what she was doing waiting tables at a shitty bar like that. We made some more small talk, but I knew she had to get back to work. I asked her name and she said it was Kathy and gave me her hand and I damn near told her I loved her on the spot.

After that I didn't feel so bad anymore so we ordered some shots. I went outside for a smoke and got a tip from a bum that a man in a black hoodie was selling bud if I was interested.

"Yeah, how will I know who he is?"

"You'll see him dealing to the kids."

"Aright, thanks man appreciate it."

"How about a few bucks?" I handed him a $2 coin, I tend to get pretty loose with foreign currency.

"You can't spare some more? Don't you have a five?"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me" I replied while walking away, looking for a man in a black hoodie. They were everywhere. I finally found him palming off dime sacks to hostel kids. He was about 40, well built and looked like he had been in a few scraps in his day. I bought an eighth.

I went back inside the Cambie and shared the good news. We stayed around a bit longer, but it felt like it I was at a college bar. We left abrubtly and I never got to say goodbye to Kathy properly, but she'll always have a place in my heart.

We took a cab over to Yaletown to find out what it was like partying with the rich kids. We went to a few bars, but really they were forgettable. We were throwing back whiskey sodas like our lives depended on it. I had a nice buzz going but felt underdressed and under classed everywhere I went.

The posh bars were littered with beautiful girls who's daddies had deep pockets or beautiful girls who were looking for a daddy with deep pockets. I could support neither and my paint splattered clothes were not really doing me any favors. They took took one look at me and assumed I was from the working class. They were wrong, I made less money.

Benson made friends with the bartenders and we got a few rounds on the house. I walked into the bathroom and rolled a few pinners. I went outside for a smoke and watched the couples walk by huddled together to fight the cold. The bud was pretty good and not very expensive like everything else in Vancouver.

I went back inside and Benson was best friends with everyone. The bartender poured us another round and took one with us. Two guys sitting next to Benson  invited us to a club down the street. I looked at my watch and it read 1am.

"Isn't closing time at 2am?" I asked.

"Yeah," one of them replied, "but this place is open til 4 and there's beautiful women.

No need for further elaboration.

We walked and bullshitted and I tried not to throw up. One of the two guys, Raymond, was a big, portly fellow and knew everyone at the door. They let us in without checking IDs.

Raymond ordered us another round and I just held it for awhile.

Raymond saw some more of his friends and introduced me and Benson to two Indian girls. One was short with curly hair and the other was tall with her haired pinned up, they both had on black cocktail dresses.

I didn't remember their names. I bought them some drinks, they bought us drinks, Raymond bought some more drinks. A lot of the in-between is blurred. We left a little after that. I don't remember what happened with Raymond and his friend. We walked down with the two girls and were gonna go grab a bite. The Short curly haired girl was talkative and funny. The Tall girl was a bit shy and started to lag behind, further and further until she was nearly a block away from us.

The curly haired girl looked back and was annoyed.

"What are you doing?" she shouted at the Tall girl. There was no reply. The Tall girl was standing there a block up with her  arms crossed and held her left hand to her face.

The curly haired girl shouted "What are you doing bitch? Let's go!" She turned to me and Benson and said "She always fucking does this. Drama queen."

"Fuck You!" Tall girl shouted.

They went back and forth for a little bit and I decided to walk back to Tall girl to see what the problem was. I walked up and could see that she was sobbing.

"Hey what's wrong?"

"I hate her." She sobbed some more. "You wouldn't understand." She said between sobs. She said some more shit but she both she and I were incoherent so I just shook my head and said that it was going to be okay.

I didn't really know what to do. I didn't even know her name. I looked back at Benson a block away and motioned my hand back and forth across my neck indicating that we were done, I watched him walk across the street to grab a cab.

"Hey listen, I don't know what's wrong, but I hope you guys really work it out."

As I jogged across the street I could still hear them shouting up and down the street. I looked at my watch and it was nearly 4:30.

I hopped in the cab Benson had hailed and we asked if there were any spots that were still open where we could grab a bite. The driver replied in the negative and some words were exchanged and we got kicked out of the cab. We had only gone two blocks, but found another cab quickly.

It was 5 by the time we made it back to the hotel. We polished off the rest of the fifth of Jim Beam we started the night with and toasted the Vancouver sunrise. We were trying to get back home to the states by 1 to watch the niners in the NFC championship. It was going to be a long drive back.