Brunch in Manhattan

New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

4. Everyone Else

It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.

So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.

And so the dance goes on.



And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.

But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.

burn bright

burn bright



Long story: I wrote this while listening to Bon Iver’s “Holocene,” of which provoked an overwhelming sense of fear. My heart raced out of my mouth and something flashed before my eyes that appeared to be a road coated in the vibrancy of night. This isn’t a new thing for me, simply a symptom of my self-obsession. Or just obsession; the subject doesn’t matter. {the following statements may contain each of the following: incoherence, confusion, redundancy, hypocrisy, redundancy, redundancy, overuse of punctuation/parentheses/slashes, and/or pitiful attempts at comedy. You have been warned} The point is that I have no point; I’m tired of saying “I” all the time; I need something more than “I.” It’s these kinds of thoughts that haunt me in a vicious cycle, 24/7 (well, my vivid dreams give me a break… I think). I’m losing focus (again) for this visceral moment as I descend back down into the clouds around my toes, so I (again… Maybe?) will say that my confusion may be confusing, but this moment of clarity (of which is clearing out like a man who accidentally walked into a dyke bar due to the purposely wrong directions given by his cheeky bugger of a friend) is true. So what’s true to you?

Short story: fuck.

To Whom It May Concern…

I wrote this “Artist Statement” for a digital photography class in my school.  This is the last time I will be in this class, so I went all out on it and threw as much donkey shit as Mr. Tickles could muster at the screen.  Enjoy.

    Art has no functional purpose in society. Any civilization could survive without art, and may actually could progress further without it. The only purpose I find in art is a human purpose. Art can connect a million minds to one and spur new ideas, new perspectives, and even revolutions. It is an unspoken communication of emotions that just might make the world join hands and sing Kum-Bay-Yah. There is a certain power within art and all of its apostles. I find this power to be my intrinsic motivation in life– an eternal flame. To create, no matter what form, keeps my mind open and my heart singing. I do not need art to live, but in need it to be happy. I believe art can change the world. Everyday we hear about who killed who, what country has collapsed, how many people are kidnapped, how many people are sick– we are all dying. This mortality we must live hangs over my head like cloud of soot and empty lightning. I have had thoughts of suicide because of this. For a while I had lost all hope, and the only thing I could think of was dying. Eventually I had to make a choice: die or push on. Seeing that you’re reading this means I chose the latter, and I must say I am much glad I did. When we lose hope, then all is lost. Death is everywhere. It can only be dissipated by one emotion: love. Now when I say love, I mean all forms of love: romantic, plutonic, family, internal, external, whatever. Life’s entire purpose is to feel. What are dollar signs, trophies, conquered lands, or any achievements without feeling happy– without feeling the hearts of the species we all belong to? That’s why I live– to feel the love. If I can feel the love from others and from myself, I can find the will to live– the will to create a better day– the will to hope. Love is what inspires me. My photography, in this class, is not at all serious. Most of it I can hardly understand myself. It simply makes me feel good, and even laugh a little. I only hope that when I put Ellen Degeneres’s head on a hippo with a dancing pickle riding a rainbow in the background that someone may feel a little better, and even laugh a little. I honestly couldn’t tell you how I come up with my shizznit photos. I can only guess that I pick out objects in my mind that are the most attractive visually, comedically, or conceptually. The art I make is simply an expression of my emotions towards what I desire. The one thing I desire most is to feel good. Seeing a T-Rex ride a flying unicycle into a piranha hurricane whilst singing “Come On, Eileen” gives me a tingly feeling inside that I call “good.” And since I burn only for that good feeling, I can say that my art means everything to me.



Champion Finalists

freaking horse heads don’t get it when a gorilla hawk tries to rip his future husband from the clutches of a vivacious sloth whom has just become Nevada’s new governor and is on a trip to the edge of Hong Kong’s lemon expressway where the sun doth shine the moon doth grow into a giant green crab-wolf that can spit fire that smells like melted cheese sticks slipping down peanut-brittle slides built on candy corn playgrounds that attract only the ugliest of shooting-star babies (although their comet streams streak the longest across the sky) that were clubbed by leopard seals with cricket bats forged from the eternal flames of Love.