4/3/13 Better Days

* Cole was stoked that Apple Miner Colony had just been written about in the Guardian.
Of my trumpet solo they said: “the mourning Last Postish trumpet solo on Cerrilos, an album highlight, has more than a shade of Neutral Milk Hotel about it. “
* Ran into everyone, namely Chris, and he bought coffee for us when I discovered I had left my wallet in my jacket.
* Cole and I wrote him a poem and made him some minimalist art.
* Took Cole back to Corvas’ they were going to the mountains to do mushrooms, and giggle for days about how Skippio (sic) had beaten Hannibal and then been told he was the world 2nd greatest general. (You can write sic in your own diary if you don’t know the  spelling of some antiquated Roman name).
* Teresa came over and we
went to the 70’s time-capsule house.
* We got caught and left. Later I got a voicemail that she had gone to Gerald’s house (the guy that caught us) to apologize and ended up watching American Idol with him and his son.




My mom gave birth to me illegally. She trusted herself over the hospital so I was born in a small rental in Ventura, the placenta buried under an orange tree in the backyard. When I went to California for college we stopped by the house and the tree had doubled in size.I was raised to trust myself, with no limitation on who I might become. My mom has said that the day before I was born she felt a presence and after I was born she realized that presence was me. She has always been a great listener and her psychic ties to my sibling and I have only deepened in the absence of umbilical chords.

I have a lot of reasons to brag about having a cool mom. She was a punk who ran “The Hungry Parasite” cafe and was a budding classic film scholar. My sibling and I recently found out that she used to longboard everywhere, adding to her history of cool points.

When she was younger my mom would cook and clean for her little sister and my grandma who was a working single parent. My mom has always been a nurturing force, taking in many of mine and my sibling’s friends. Recently, one supremely cool homeless musician kid has been staying with us. My mom says: “I wish that I had enough energy and money to take in all of the homeless kids, give them beds and dinner, and then breakfast in the morning.” She wants to create a program for homeless teens that is partially run by the kids themselves.

Every day around 4:00PM my mom has a guttural instinct to ponder dinner. In a recent facebook post she mentioned her favorite cooking blog: “This is my favorite blog. I don’t need his fucking recipes, because I fucking cook like this every fucking night. I just thought I’d share this shit with you.”

One of the recent badass things my mom has done is to write “Fuck the Police” in a fancy script over our fireplace.

My mom lives her life as art, and is also an artist by trade. Dropping out of high school and then Jr. College because it was so moronic, my mom later built her business with the fearlessness, and nurturing creativity that define her.


For mother’s day my mom made my grandma a mix saying: “Her mind will be blown, if she can stand to listen to it. The title is: ARTMOM. It’s her job to swallow quietly, smile sweetly, and tell me how much she enjoyed all the weird shit that I love so much and tried to share.”

Lucky for me my mom is the ARTMOM.