I share a LOT of my life through my art and through social media (which – whether art-related or not) I consider to be for the purposes of promoting my art. There’s one part of my life that I rarely, if ever, touch upon and it’s a pretty big part of my life. It’s the reason I’m still in Sarasota.
My grandparents moved to Sarasota to be closer to their eldest child, my dad. And then, shortly thereafter, my dad suddenly died. That left me as their only relative in the area. I’d never been particularly close with my grandparents (I’ve not even been particularly close with my parents) but when my dad died, I decided that I should try to be closer with my grandparents. So I started seeing them every week. Then twice a week. And – in times when something was wrong – everyday.
Maybe I haven’t shared that because it conflicts with the ORPHAN IMAGE / ABANDONED BY WOLVES narrative that I’ve clung to my whole life. Maybe it just felt uncomfortable to include them in my story and my work when they aren’t of an age where they’d even be aware of it or know how to feel about/comprehend it, even if I tried to explain it to them. To this day, I’m still not sure they really understand my life.
You guys remember when I made a series of vague posts about being overwhelmed and “the world beating the shit out of me” last month? (The first video was the one where I noted that a HAMMER had even hit me in the head?) Well those were really about shit going in with my grandparents. I had to continually postpone my outta state trip, cutting down 5 weeks to just 17 days by the time I actually left – at which point things seemed mostly okay.
When I got back last week, things were less okay. And today, my grandpa died. I was prepared for it. I knew it was coming. But not now. Not today. I thought he still had a couple weeks in him. And, honestly, I thought he’d likely hang on even past that – past the point when it made any sense. That did not happen.
I think I’m dealing with it pretty well. Not well enough to make a video without crying but – Y’KNOW – I’m not in PERPETUAL anguish. I am only INTERMITTENTLY crying.
I wanna say a few things about my grandpa in recognition and appreciation of the life he lived.
He spent his life as a criminal defense attorney and he FUCKING LOVED IT. His idea of fun was to go sit in courtrooms and just watch the mundane/daily courtroom shit that happened.
I didn’t go to law school to make him proud. I didn’t give my family a single thought when I made that decision. But he WAS proud. And when I graduated by the skin of my teeth, strung out on heroin – taking my exams at the absolute last minute long after everyone else (thanks to special arrangements made by the school registrar who was sympathetic to my addiction) I didn’t find out I’d passed my exams until about 36 hours before the ceremony. He was on a plane as soon as he found out. I didn’t walk high school or college graduations but I did that one for him.
I don’t remember if he even knew yet that I was a drug addict. My dad might have given him some other reason why we didn’t know about my grades or whether I’d be graduating until the last minute. But he knew by the end of that same year. And he paid to put me in one of the best inpatient dual diagnosis/rehab facilities in the country.
The painting I’m working on right now is called POOR FOREVER. And it’s not about being poor forever, it’s about the attitude I have about money and how frugal I am because I don’t want to be POOR FOREVER. I don’t often spend money lightly. That comes from him by way of my dad. My dad kinda was poor forever. But my grandpa made a good living but still chose to live as if he didn’t. But when it came to getting treatment for his shitty drug addict grandson who hardly ever called, that all went out the window. He SPENT THE MONEY.
And then five weeks later I got kicked out of treatment. And two days later, he paid ANOTHER (expensive) facility to take me. And then five weeks later, that one kicked me out too. And then I ran the streets for a few months, being a drug-addled, dishonest fuck up until I broke down crying, on a bench, on the side of the road, in the rain. And then he paid a THIRD rehab to take me.
Seven weeks later, can you guess what happened? I GOT KICKED OUT. But this time, something in me was a little different. And I worked to convince them to take me back. And when they agreed to it two weeks later, my grandpa dropped thousands of dollars AGAIN to get me readmitted. He spent thousands of dollars to get me checked in FOR THE FOURTH TIME. I stayed for 8 months. And while I can’t say that I’ve stayed clean ever since, it was what I learned in that last stint of treatment that’s the reason for the clean time that I got upon leaving and any/all of the clean stints I’ve had since, including these last 17 months.
As WE ALL KNOW – I am IMPERVIOUS TO DEATH/CANNOT BE KILLED, but (dropping my shtick for a minute) it’s super unlikely that I’d still be breathing if not for him.
These last few years, his Parkinson’s has fucked up his brain and dementia has taken over. A lot of my time with him has not been of a super high quality. I didn’t really get to know him and he didn’t really get to know me as much as I’d have liked. But – if nothing else – I know he appreciated the way I’ve shown up for him and my grandma (to whom he was married for SEVENTY FIVE YEARS). And I know he loved me.
One last thing about my grandpa. It’s a story I only heard recently. One year, he had a client who was sitting in jail simply because he couldn’t afford the bail. It wasn’t a major crime or an expensive bail but it was still more than this guy could swing. This was right before Christmas and – though my grandpa was Jewish – that still didn’t sit right with him. It’s illegal for lawyers to pay for their clients’ bail (for a number of reasons I won’t get into) so there was nothing he could do about it himself. So he went into every synagogue in the area and told them, “Hey – please post bail for this guy and I will make a donation to your synagogue for the amount of the bail and then some. And then when he shows up to his court date, you’ll even get that money back.” None of the synagogues would do it. So he went around to all of the churches in the area until he finally found one that took him up on his offer. All so this random low-paying (possibly never-paying) client wouldn’t be locked up over the holidays. That’s the kind of person he was.
The world is worse off for having lost him, but it’s much better for having him. The positive impact he had will carry on in more ways than I will ever even know. He was 96 years old.
This 2025 painting is from an old joke that started on a dry-erase board. Then I drew it up as a t-shirt for the band, Turkish Techno. They never used it because, apparently, one of the members thought it was too close to another shirt I’d recently designed for Rational Anthem. THEIR LOSS. This would’ve sold super well as a t-shirt at punk shows. In any event, since that never happened, I decided to redo it as a painting, thereby finally giving it its due.
2013 drawing/shirt design
Anyone who knows me, knows just how gigantic punk’s presence is in my life. It’s probably more important to me than art. It’s probably more important to me than anything. I’ve been a fan since I was eight years old and I’ve never had much interest in any other type of music. It just resonates with me on a level that can hardly be described. I don’t have to be listening to it all the time but I certainly don’t like to be out in public or in social situations without it. It’s my EMOTIONAL SUPPORT BLANKET. If I’m going out with friends, I like to have a little speaker clipped to my belt loop or (at the very least) one earbud in, so that I can be present but still have the music as well. And when it comes to all those events I do, whether or not I can listen to my music is literally the difference between whether I’m going to have a good time or not. When I’m painting and selling at an event where the organizers have their own music playing so loudly that I can’t hear my own in my tent, it’s real easy for me to very quickly fall into a pretty lousy mood.
the Rational Anthem shirt that was “too similar” (also 2013)
I had an experience like that recently. Some boomer cover band was playing Eagles songs outta full stacks all night and I couldn’t have been more miserable. But when I thought “fuck it,” strapped my little speaker to the crossbar of my tent (the one right next to my ear), it transformed my night. I stood up on my barstools, painting the canvas hanging from the roof of my tent, and sang along as loud as I could, looking nuts, but totally inaudible because of how loud that boring band was. And I had a blast and felt great.
And that’s kinda what punk rock means to me (in the most basic sense). Not caring about what else is going on or what other people think and just doing what works for you. There’s more to it of course but that’s the crux.
Forgetting conceptuality for a moment, just in regard to the songs, the punk rock that I love is pretty specific. Sonically, it’s usually kinda grimy, kinda gruff, scrappy, fast, catchy, and upbeat. Lyrically, it’s misery with a smile. “Three to the Beach” by Dear Landlord maybe nails it best. The lyrics of that song convey that the world is fucked, life is fucked, but whatever – we’re gonna do what we can to get by all the same. (Dear Landlord’s Dream Homes is probably the best album ever made, by the way. Go listen to it). If I can excerpt the second verse and chorus of that song…
We’re both sort of right; I don’t have much to show I’ll die penniless, alone I’ll do what I like and you’ll do what you know Never hungry, broke, or cold; that’s the weight of things I suppose It’s really just the passing of these days that’s gonna leave us all set in our ways We don’t have to take that lying down And I’d be lying if I didn’t say, it’s been getting harder to relate To keep myself from drowning in the crowd But I still believe that: We’re not that hopeless, we’re not as fucked as you think In short lived moments, we can do anything The fucking joke is we’re winning when you blink In short lived moments: lousy with victory
Dear Landlord was the band formed by Zack (singer, guitarist, songwriter) and Brad (drummer, lyricist) of Rivethead when that band broke up. You can read more about Rivethead in my statement for “Stand Up and Say No.” I haven’t read it myself in years, but I imagine it’s a solid companion statement to this one.
Speaking of Zack, he once told me that when he was in the studio, recording with Off With Their Heads (for whom he played guitar for a while), their producer Bill Stevenson (of Descendants and Black Flag) prodded them with the description of their music as “Disney punk with ‘I wanna kill myself’ lyrics.” “Disney punk” isn’t quite accurate since that’d probably be something shinier, glossier, and less rough around the edges (like blink-182) but he got the gist. The punk rock I love is musically happy and lyrically dark. (Although – like in the referenced Dear Landlord song – the lyrics can also be kinda hopeful and, other times, (especially in the songs of another band I absolutely adore, The Brokedowns) darkly funny. I mention this because people ask me about my artistic influences all the time. And none of them are visual artists. It’s all punk rock. And it happened without my even realizing it initially. But my style of painting is very much the visual equivalent of my kinda punk rock. It’s full of bright colors and funny faces – but with grim, funny, depressed, and hopeful text. And that alone makes me very happy: not only how naturally I found and developed my artistic style/voice, but how much it’s very clearly influenced by (and reminiscent of) what I love most in the world.
One last thing. The national/US punk scene was itself a huge part of my life (as a fan, an occasional musician/performer, through Traffic Street Records, and then through tagging along/touring with bands to sell art at punk shows). Since 2015 though, I’m not really comfortable in that world anymore. That falling out had a huge part in the relapse that took me away from art for so many years. All I’ll say about that for now is that the scene is made of people. And people will (often) disappoint. People will let you down. But punk rock never will. No one controls it, no one owns it, and it keeps going no matter what. There’s been as much or more great new punk rock in the last year as any other. And even the songs made by the same people who broke my little punk rock heart – it doesn’t matter. The music exists on its own.
It’s kinda perfect. It’s kinda the best fucking thing in the world.
And as for staying punk – I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
Here are four outstanding songs by the bands I mentioned in this statement:
The original 2×2-foot “Stay Punk” painting is still available for purchase at the time of this writing. Contact me if you’d like to change that. I also have 12-inch prints available in the webstore.
“The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way)” 4/27/25. acrylic on canvas. 30×24″.
This is the thought that pops into my head when EVERYTHING’S GOING MY WAY. “The whole wide world can SUCK MY DICK!” It’s joyful. It’s a celebration. It’s definitely not an angry thing. Hence my qualifier “but, like, in a fun way.” I’d fucking hate it if someone looked at this painting and thought it was some kind of angry, pouty harumph… “suck my dick!”-kinda thing. That shit’s NOT ME. It’s some dumb expression of dumb masculinity and I hate it. But this – the JOYFUL version. That makes me smile.
I wrote a bit about that on the canvas, along with:
“My stupid punk songs, singing along and moving around like no one can see or hear me, painting ILL SHIT like this, making lots of money OR NONE – I like my life. Losing money stings but when I’ve got everything I need, it’s just a number and I’ll get it back.”
The backstory on all of this is that when I started this painting, SHIT WAS GOING MY WAY. I made a LOT OF MONEY selling art in March. When I finished the painting before this one, it was already sold and I was in the middle of a particularly profitable day of selling prints. I felt energized and validated and LIFE WAS COOL. By the time I was wrapping this painting up, the TIDE HAD TURNED A BIT. I was at some three-day festival I’d signed up to be a vendor at, and it was NOT GOING WELL. It had nothing to do with me, it was just a shit event. No one made any money. It was just so badly organized and promoted. But sitting there in my tent that first day FOR THIRTEEN HOURS, I was working on this painting and kinda depressed. There was NO ONE AROUND. It was the first time I’d done an event and sold NOTHING. Not only that, I didn’t even get a single person stop to look at my art. And I couldn’t even listen to music because there was some DJ just BLARING the worst music in the world. Without punk rock, I struggle. But when I have it, it doesn’t really matter what else is going on; it has SUCH A HUGE impact on my mood.
So that was Day 1 of this particular shitshow. On Day 2, it was still a disaster of an event, but I set-up much, much further from the DJ and his speakers so that I was able to hear my own speaker and listen to the songs I LIKE TO LISTEN TO. And, consequently, I was having fun, painting, and not worrying anymore about the fact that these fucks got $200 out of me and I’d driven from outta town to attend this waste-of-my-time. After all, it didn’t matter how bad the weekend was; it’s just one weekend. I know my art’s got value, I know people wanna (and do) buy it. I know things are gonna work out for me if I keep making good choices.
And that’s pretty much what happened (pretty much immediately). I realized I didn’t owe these flakes anything, so I lined up a couple other opportunities for that night and the next day, and then I bailed when necessary to make it to that night’s Plan B. And it went great. I had fun, I made money, I met people I liked. ALL WAS RIGHT IN THE WORLD (a world that I was once again happy to invite to suck my dick).
I finished the painting the next day – at another event where I had fun all day, painting, listening to punk rock, and getting paid for it.
I’m not gonna pretend like my “job” is all fun and no work, but it’s pretty fucking great overall. I mostly do whatever the fuck I want. Sometimes it almost does feel like the world is sucking my dick. It’s NOT ENTIRELY UNCOOL.
Prints of this painting are now available in the webstore. For the next week, you can use the promo code WWWCSMD for 20% of that print or any others. The original is also still available for purchase. Shoot me a message if you’d like to be its one and only owner.
In other news, things are generally going pretty well lately. I’ve been doing a ton of work on my bus (I basically taught myself how to be an electrician) and I’m gearing up for my first trip outta state since I started being a person again last year. (The last time I left Florida for work/art was before the relapse, wayyyyyy back in 2015). I’ve also finished another two paintings since “Whole Wide World” so I’m hoping to share those with you soon as well. And I started another this past weekend that I’m especially excited about so keep an eye on my socials to keep up with my progress on that.
As always, check the Events page to see where you can find me in the coming weeks and months.
Thanks as always to everyone who supports what I do. None of this art would exist without you.
Some days, I feel like I have such a grip on my emotional well-being, that it’s maybe a little disingenuous to still promote my artwork as I do – like it’s the product of mental illness. Earlier today though, after becoming upset, hitting myself in the head twice, committing an act of vandalism, undoing it before anyone would notice, running off, pulling off the road to get out of my bus and journal on the side of the road, and then starting to cry… well – it just might be possible that I CONTINUE TO EARN the right to market myself as a fucking basketcase. There’s a lot more I could say about all that but I think it’s better left ’til it’s not so fresh.
I finished my newest painting on Sunday but, for today’s blog entry, I’m reaching WAY BACK to finally tell the story of one that I finished a decade ago. It’s one of those classic feel-good stories of self-destructive behavior, self-harm, compulsive sex, substance abuse, and criminal charges. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
“The World Revolves Around Me.” 8/21/15. Acrylic paint. 4×4′.
There are two blocks of text in this painting. One written before Wallis and I split up, one after. The first reads:
When I finished writing and crawled into bed with her, the bad feelings melted away in an instant. I had to wake her to tell her how much I loved her. She was sweet and affectionate and cuddly – nothing like the girl that had fallen asleep in that bed an hour prior. In the morning, she’d remember none of it. Turns out she’d stolen more Seroquel than I’d found. (Which explains how fucked up she was). I found a second razor on the floor, mangled. “What’s the story here?,” I asked as I displayed it. “Oh – I must have chewed it up, trying to get the blade out.” I guess that explains the blood in her mouth.
Wallis was a cutter. The worst I’ve ever known. If she drank too much, she’d get depressed, find a razor blade, and fuck her shit up. And not that straight across shit; I’m talking up-and-down vertical cuts on the wrists and arms. After one of those incidents, she’d agreed to quit drinking. Shortly thereafter, we were in Miami and I dropped her off to spend the day with her mom. I knew her mom liked to drink so I called ahead and told her: “Wallis isn’t drinking right now. It’s been causing her serious problems. Please don’t encourage her to drink with you.” When I picked her up that night, she was drunk, which frustrated me but – she seemed okay, so I didn’t make a big thing out of it. I drove, she sat in the passenger seat and told me about her day. And then (I forget why, but) I turned on the dome light for a moment. I looked over and found that as she’d been casually telling me about her (admittedly, not wonderful) visit with her mom, Wallis was sitting there, blade in hand, quietly cutting away and fucking COVERED in her own blood. It was fucking brutal. Like, over-the-top horror movies levels of blood.
Even years later, I’ve heard Wallis describe the time we spent on the road together as the best part of her life and the most fun she ever had. I’d helped her get off hard drugs so she was clean for the first time in her adult life and we were traveling the country, chasing my art dreams, doing whatever the fuck we wanted. In spite of what I’ve just told you, it really was great a lot of the time. Just not all the time. In addition to the on/off drinking, she’d sometimes steal my psych meds for an extra buzz. I think there were two main issues that contributed to our problems.
(1) Our everyday lives revolved entirely around what was happening with me.1 It was all about where I had exhibits and opportunities and making my career happen. We had a lot of fun but – a lot of the time – I was working/painting and she was just left to read or play on her phone or whatever she could do to occupy her time. We were constantly on the move so she couldn’t exactly get a job and, any place that we went, if she had friends, they were my friends first. It wasn’t really possible for her to have her own life. I think she needed more. She needed something to give her her own sense of purpose and fulfillment.
(2) We were wildly in love with one another but that didn’t solve my self-esteem issues. When I met her, I was in a pretty wild phase of promiscuity. I’d always gone from one long term relationship to the next, but I’d broken up with Heather when I decided to “take my show on the road.” When I met Wally, I was single, doing really well with art, and was meeting a lot of girls who (at the risk of sounding arrogant) really were throwing themselves at me. A few times, I had girls (that I’d never met before) walk up to me at an event and directly tell me that they wanted to fuck me. Like, right then if I’d be so kind. I’d always done alright with girls but this was new. It was not in line with my PREVIOUS EXPERIENCES. It went to my head. It fucked with my ego. I don’t think it was good for me.
I definitely grew up in a culture and a scene where my value was measured by how many girls I’d slept with and which girls I’d slept with. That’s been a hard thing to shake over the years. It took me a while to get to a high enough number that the number didn’t seem to matter anymore but, still, I had this feeling like, “If I sleep with this girl, then I’ll be good enough.” But that was, of course, not true. It didn’t matter if I’d slept with [insert hot girl here] if I wasn’t still regularly sleeping with other hot girls. And that’s SO FUCKING STUPID. It’s embarrassing. Wallis had been one of the girls that I saw that way. Before I fell in love with her, I was SUPER EXCITED TO FUCK HER. And I still really liked fucking her. The sex was great. AND I WAS IN LOVE WITH HER. Deeply in love with her. That should have been enough but it wasn’t. So I was still on Tinder, still flirting with other girls, and still sleeping with other girls. My philosophy had been, “So long as she doesn’t know, it doesn’t hurt her, so there’s no harm.”
But she fucking knew. She knew everything. She was regularly reading EVERYTHING ON MY PHONE. And it deeply hurt her.
To my credit, when she finally told me that she’d known all along – and I finally understood just how much it was hurting her – I did stop. I stopped cheating. And I haven’t cheated on anyone else since. (And to her discredit, she fucked one of my best friends while I was working one day. But (1) that’s a whole other story, (2) I didn’t find out ’til years later, and (3) can I really blame her when she knew that (often enough) when I was out “working,” I was also sometimes out fucking? No, I don’t think I can).
In any event, we eventually decided to split up, at least temporarily. She’d go back to Jacksonville, I’d continue on as I had been and the tentative plan was that we’d give our relationship a second shot down the line (ideally, once I was established/successful enough that I wasn’t living on the road, traveling the country and scouting new galleries to show my work).
Switching gears/elsewhere in my life, ever since I’d started my whole touring-the-country to build my art career plan, it’d become really tough to get my Adderall prescription every month. At the time, monthly in-person visits were required for an Adderall ‘scrip, so – in every new city, I had to find a new doctor. I’d call every doctor I could find and it was a regular issue that the soonest anyone could book an appointment for a new patient was weeks away – often further away in time that I even planned to stay in that city.
On one of my stops back in Sarasota, I’d filed a Marchman Act in an effort to get Chris Spillane off drugs. Afterward, my friend Abby asked if I’d do the same for her, which I did. When I dropped her off at the treatment facility, she handed me a bottle of Adderall. “Do you want these? I know you take it too and it’s not like they’re going to let me bring it with me.” Yeah, sure – of course. It’d help cover any gaps between getting my own prescriptions refilled each month.
A few months later, Spillane (who I’d brought on the road with me in my effort to keep him clean) and I were in Chicago. Mike and Dave (of Like Bats) invited us to form a new band with them. We called it Shitty Children and were soon invited to play Awesome Fest in San Diego. After the fest, on the 20+ hour drive back to Chicago, we got pulled over just outside of Normal, Illinois. Mike had been drinking beers. He wasn’t driving but there were empty cans on the floor by his feet. The police separated and questioned all of us. Spillane (GOD BLESS HIM) apparently consented to a search. I wasn’t worried though. I was off drugs and living a good, clean life. I was a positive anti-drug role model. I didn’t have anything to hide.
And then they found that bottle of Adderall in my backpack and arrested me because I didn’t have proof of my own prescription with me. Despite the longstanding prescription, despite all the positive press I was able to produce to demonstrate that I was a literal poster child for recovery from drug addiction, the prosecutor was determined to charge and convict me. My public defender was useless and, in hindsight, I think if I’d hired my own attorney, I could have gotten it tossed out. But that’s not what happened. I was convinced that, according to the strict letter-of-the-law, I was technically guilty of illicit possession of a controlled substance which meant, if I went to trial, my only hope was a jury ignoring the technical facts of the case and bucking the law to, sympathetically, find me “not guilty.” If that didn’t happen, a conviction carried the risk of a serious sentence. So I wound up accepting a terrible plea deal, wherein I’d be branded a felon for the rest of my life and either serve 30 days in jail or else 2 years of probation.
But it’d be a while before that happened. Even though the arrest was months before I even met Wallis, the case was still dragging out at the time we split.
The second block of text in the painting begins with a vast oversimplification (if not an outright misrepresentation) of why I bought Wallis a ticket back to Jacksonville:
Is it because I gave up on my girlfriend and put her on a plane back to Florida? (A trade-off for new/casual sex). Is it because I’ve felt discouraged and unable to do anything productive or profitable? Is it because I feel crippled by my ongoing legal battle and the likelihood that I’ll be getting a jail sentence this week (or delaying that and continuing on in uncertainty)? This last week, I’ve acted less like I’m self-employed and more like I’m unemployed. I have the evidence to prove I’m successful but I don’t feel that way. I’ve been resting on my laurels (and my bank account) so hard that they both seem to be wearing out. I don’t like this painting but I can’t figure out why. I think it’s because the thought of the immediate future makes me sad. And maybe because I wish I had someone to tell me “it’s gonna be okay.”
When am I gonna win?
Because of my NINE YEAR relapse, it’s taken me a long time to finally get around to writing the statement/story of this piece, so I can only guess at what was on my mind back then that sparked the sentiment behind the title (“The world revolves around me. My world. The only world that matters (to me).” The biggest hint though is the figure with a confederate flag for an eye and rainbow-colored teeth. Confederate flags and monuments were BIG in the news when I was painting this – whether they should still be up at state capitols or whatever. (Which, of course, no – fuck off – they shouldn’t). But I couldn’t help but watch some of the reactions on both sides and just shake my head. YOU ARE GETTING WAY TOO EMOTIONAL ABOUT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T WARRANT THAT LEVEL OF EMOTION. As much as I think anything confederacy-related is stupid as fuck, I’m not gonna pretend that the little shit-eater in me didn’t also like the idea of super sensitive white people2 being bothered by its presence in my painting. I also just like the contrast of the red and blue with the white stars. (When they’re outlined in black anyway; without the outline (like it is on the actual flag) it’s not even aesthetically cool). But I juxtaposed it with rainbow teeth because (1) I really like rainbow-colored anything and (2) I wanted to balance the conservative thing with a progressive thing. If that bothered anyone on the political-right – well – even better.
More to the point, what I’m saying with this piece is that (without religion) life has no objective meaning. Nothing matters. Or everything matters. Or, more accurately, each thing matters only to the extent that each of us decides. And that value doesn’t transfer between people. I decide what matters to me; you decide what matters to you. The world 100% revolves around me. That’s a fact. But only for me. For you, the world does not revolve around Sam. I hope it revolves around you. You’re the main character in your story. It’s your world to conquer or surrender to.
I don’t ultimately care about confederate flags and monuments because they’re almost certainly totally out of my control unless i decide to become an anti-confederacy activist, which is not something I’m particularly interested in. I’ve got my opinions on the matter but they’re not important enough to me for me to invest that much of my time or emotional energy. The Sammy thrashLife News Network IN MY HEAD has 24/7 coverage on the real issues. Issues like my friends, Chris and Abby, falling hopelessly back into addiction and darkness. My efforts to help them get clean.3 Meeting a beautiful, wonderful, funny, fun girl named Wallis and helping her get clean, falling in love with her, and traveling the country. Playing music with my friends in Shitty Children and performing on stage again for the first time in years – a stage that I shared with some of my favorite bands in the world, at one of my favorite fests in the history of punk rock. Making art that I’m FUCKING STOKED on, that helps me work through my issues, makes me happy (USUALLY), frees me from having to work a regular JOB, and gives me a sense of fulfillment and the only kind of genuine self-esteem and confidence that I’ve probably ever known. And then all the other shit – whether monumental or petty, positive or devastating that is worth investing my emotional energy into. AT LEAST ACCORDING TO ME.
That’s my world. Everything else – that shit’s happening in another universe. As much as I’d like to SOLVE WORLD HUNGER or BRING PEACE TO THE MIDDLE EAST, I’ve got one life to live and it takes a lot for me to not fuck it up. I don’t lack empathy, I’m not self-absorbed (okay, that second part might not be ENTIRELY true), but if I’m gonna do any good in this world, I’ve gotta PRIORITIZE, keep focus, and do it where I can have the most impact. A big part of that is this kinda thing right here – what you just read.
I’m gonna have to take that “no more than 12 emails per month” thing off of my mailing list sign-up sheet. It was true when I made it but, AS I GET MORE PRODUCTIVE, these updates become more frequent. It’s totally possible I’ll have another one within a week for that new painting I mentioned (it’s called “The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way”). I’m excited to share it with you guys, so keep an eye out.
In the meantime, prints of “The World Revolves Around Me” are now for sale in the webstore. This is also one of the few originals I’ve got that’s not yet sold, so shoot me a message if you’re interested. Or go see it in person. I’m happy to report it’s been accepted for a gallery exhibition that opens next month.
This is totally unrelated to the actual, intended message of this painting. I didn’t even pick up on the coincidence until writing this statement. [go back]
In my experience, it’s only those who like to be offended on behalf of others, that ever seem to take offense at my art. Anyone who would actually have cause to be personally offended tends to be thoughtful enough to recognize my intent – or at least ask about my intent before they let something bother them. [go back]
Those plans succeeded by the way. Chris is still clean, happy, and healthy to this day. Abby got clean too. Until last year, when she died. The story I’ve been told is that she was still clean but, one night, slipped up and allowed herself to do a line of cocaine at a party. Cocaine allegedly cut with fentanyl. And then she went home, went to sleep, and never woke up. That doesn’t quite make sense to me but I suppose it’s not terribly important. The world’s a little darker without her, regardless of how or why it happened. [go back]
‘Tis a sad, sad day for Sammy thrashLife collectors. The original “I’m a Fucking Artist, Guys” drawing is officially OFF THE MARKET.
I’ll confess that I did come down from the $1,000 asking price but I assure you it still sold for enough to enrage anyone upset by outlandish prices for scribbles on scrap paper. 😝
THAT SAID, this is the drawing featured on all my cards and fliers (arguably my TRADEMARK DOODLE), it was one of the very first things I ever made on my own (as opposed to – at gunpoint – in expressive art therapy group), and I think it’s as close to a HISTORICAL ARTIFACT as anything I’ve ever made so… I’m both happy that it’s found a home and a little sad to see it go.
Also sold this weekend: another piece that means a whole, whole lot to me (and had actually been sold once before but came back to me through A SERIES OF WACKY CIRCUMSTANCES): “Have Sex with and/or Buy Art from Me” – arguably the best/most accurate piece I ever made about my self-esteem and the subject of VALIDATION.
The last couple months have been especially great and I just wanna, again, thank everyone that’s been so supportive. It was exactly one year and one week ago that I tried to kill myself because I couldn’t imagine my life ever getting back to (essentially) where I am today. I’ve still not proved myself wrong on my 2016/2017 theory that my life peaked in 2013-15 and I’d never again be that happy or successful, but I certainly seem to be ON THE PATH and, for the first time in years, I think it might be possible.
my current work-in-progress – not done yet but getting CLOSE
Small aside: I recently got pro panels/pop-up walls so that I could show at art festivals (and use them at my little weekend/pop-up events) but I’ve already put them in storage because I only currently have three unsold originals that aren’t currently up on display somewhere (I’ve got nothing to hang on my walls!) It’s not a bad problem to have.
And if you’d like to exacerbate that problem by purchasing one of them, you know how to reach me.
“Peeing in the Pool (of Tears (You’re Drowning In))” 1/4/25. Acrylic paint. 18×24″“”Christian Love (The Grace of a Mountain Goat)” 10/22/24. Pigment and alcohol inks. 8½x11″.“The World Revolves Around Me.” 8/21/15. Acrylic paint. 4×4′.
And just ’cause, let’s say $20 off in the webstore this week when you spend $50 or more. Use promo code STLapril.
Thanks as always for your time and attention. You guys are the best.
Even as a late addition (mere days before opening), I was HONORED to be invited to exhibit my work at THE RINGLING MUSEUM.
And then – two days later (and just one day before my art needed to be delivered and hung on the walls) – I was told that I’d been added TOO LATE for any of my art to be LABELED.
I understand that an institution like the Ringling is BOGGED DOWN IN BUREAUCRACY but I would also think that meeting the highest standards of presentation is a priority. (But maybe not so much when it comes to the Community Gallery?)
I’m deeply hopeful that there’s been a misunderstanding. Maybe labels just couldn’t be ready for the opening but they’ll be added shortly thereafter. The exhibit runs for FOUR MONTHS so there’s certainly no shortage of time. But tonight (Thursday, April 3rd) – the night before I deliver my artwork – I can’t count on that. Tonight, I don’t know if they’ll resolve the issue themselves or even if they’ll allow me to pay to have my own labels made (and put up). Tonight, I need a CREATIVE SOLUTION. And this is what I came up with:
It may be too late for them to print labels – and I’m not allowed to put up any signs or leave any fliers, but I do have the ability to include among my pieces something that I just created tonight – something with the express purpose of EXPLAINING WHO I AM and WHICH ART BELONGS TO ME.
“Creative Solution.” 4/3/25. Alcohol and pigment inks. 7×5″.
So if you’re reading this, you either follow my blog already or YOU’VE JUST SEEN MY LATEST DRAWING (“Creative Solution”) at the Ringling and entertained your curiosity by scanning the QR code that I drew into it. And (for the sake of the latter group), please allow me to INTRODUCE MYSELF.
My name is Sammy thrashLife. I have borderline personality disorder. I used to manage with heroin. Now I make art instead.
I was unknown to this exhibit’s curators when the show was initially booked. (In fact, I was likely not even back to making art yet; that’s a fairly recent development). But when another artist dropped out, I was brought in. If my understanding is correct, I have more work in this exhibit than any other artist. In any case, I’ve submitted nine pieces, including what I believe will be the two largest in the gallery. Hopefully, they all made it up onto the walls. They are:
and, of course, the piece that led you here: CREATIVE SOLUTION
Each of the above links will take you to a blog post in which you can read the full story of that painting (or drawing). Here’s an image gallery to help you identify all of my work in the show:
“The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl” 7/26/24. Acrylic paint. 36×36″.“Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should (is Something I’ve Been Trying to Get Myself to Believe Again)” 3/16/25. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 40×40″.“I Look Cool Doing It.” 2/21/14. Acrylic paint. 18×24″.“She’s Cut with Xylazine” 9/29/2024. Acrylic paint. 24×20″.“Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” 6/27/20. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.“Peeing in the Pool (of Tears (You’re Drowning In))” 1/4/25. Acrylic paint. 18×24″“I’m Sorry.” 12/26/13. Pen and markers. 6½x9½”.“Common Denominator.” 8/12/24. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 8×10″.“Creative Solution.” 4/3/25. Alcohol and pigment inks. 7×5″.
Thanks so much for your time and attention. I hope you enjoy my work. You can read more of my story here or just PERUSE THE SITE TO YOUR HEART’S CONTENT. Any questions, feel free to contact me.
And if anyone from the Ringling is reading this, PLEASE DON’T BE MAD at my innovative work-around. As I’ve said many times, “I’m an emotional basketcase. Paints and pens are the tools I use to balance myself out.” It was so exciting to learn that my work would be going up in the Ringling. I’m sure you can imagine how upsetting it was to learn, just two days later, that none of it would have my name on it. I was anxious, I was crawling out of my skin; “Creative Solution” is how I made myself feel better. If that’s not exactly what art should be (in addition to – y’know – visually pleasing and EMOTIONALLY RESONANT, insightful, or otherwise profound) then… we’re just at odds fundamentally and … fuck ME. But hopefully we’re ALL IN AGREEMENT, in which case I thank you for including me and thank you for including CREATIVE SOLUTION.
I wrote this blog entry earlier tonight and just finished up the drawing around 1am. For those of you who are reading this because you follow me and NOT because you stumbled onto my work at the Ringling. I guess this is as a good a time as any to announce that – HEY, I GOT BOOKED AT THE RINGLING MUSEUM. The opening reception is going to be next Thursday, April 10th. All the details are on the Events page. You’ll also find that I’ve added a bunch of other events for April so COME OUT AND CATCH ME. Cool?
I’ve been seriously killing it this month and I’m super excited. I finished My “Everything 2.0” painting, got it photographed, sold, made prints (including a huge 3×3′ giclée on canvas), sold a bunch, and am really excited about the new painting I started on Saturday. I have lots of events coming up that I’m looking forward to and this last month’s events have all gone really well. (Not to be CRASS but – if I did as well every month as I’ve done in March, I’d be SET).
Anyway, the statement for this painting is literally just a transcript of the text that’s scattered across the canvas. I’m a little embarrassed to post it because the person that I wrote about may very well read it but hopefully she’ll not be too weirded out and know that it’s not a big deal.
More importantly, there’s something that I allude to several times and dance around before finally just OUTRIGHT saying what it is. It’s the thing that’s had the biggest impact on my adult life and the thing that I’m most scared to ever acknowledge. But it influences just about EVERY THING THAT I DO and – for that reason – I’m proud of myself for making art that does explicitly acknowledge it. In a sense, any time I make something that doesn’t reference that event, it’s a little bit dishonest. Because it’s always on my mind. It seeps into everything. So while it’s totally possible that someone reading this will be learning about it for the first time and will consequently make negative judgments about me, I feel like I’m doing the right thing by talking about it. My art’s always been all about honesty and vulnerability. If I want to stay true to that, I can’t be constantly leaving out of my work this thing that has so much power over me. I need to be transparent and just hope that I’ve shown the world enough of my heart for people to know that I am not someone who hurts people. I’m a sensitive little diaper baby who worries about even annoying other people. (In that spirit, let me also throw out a TRIGGER WARNING right up front). But the last thing I would ever do is anything to intentionally and seriously harm another human being.
With that said, here’s my newest painting and the text written into it…
“Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should (is Something I’ve Been Trying to Get Myself to Believe Again)” 3/16/25. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 40×40″.
This is the longest I’ve ever gone without falling in love. I think it’s probably because I’m old and NOT CUTE ANYMORE (so there are fewer girls interested-in-me for me to fall in love with). I’m also definitely not as BOLD as I once was though. A big part of that is the TRAUMA of what happened in summer 2015. But I DIGRESS…
It could also be that – I’ve convinced myself my next girlfriend needs to be someone who does things (like me). Someone actively creative and inspiring, with things in her life that she’s passionate about. And then of course – because I’m broken – she also has to look a certain way. Because I need people to see me as someone who gets the girl everyone else wants. That NARROWS THE POOL.
But last month, I met such a girl. I was impressed, (I think) genuinely interested, and it seemed like maybe she might kinda like me too. (She gave me her phone number (unprompted) when she had no reason to give me her phone number). For a minute, it seemed like it might-maybe, could-potentially be a thing, but I never tested it. I never said anything direct or even flirty enough to get a response that I could gauge. And then I stopped interacting ‘cause my feelings were hurt by something that probably shouldn’t have hurt my feelings in the first place. But I figured if there were anything there, she’d find a way to let me know. But she didn’t.
The prints I sell of my drawing “Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should” are – I don’t want to sell them anymore. The photograph from which they’re made is no good because I took it before I knew what I was doing. But that print sells a lot so I wanted a replacement.
I started a new drawing based on the original but wasn’t happy. I changed the caption to “Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should – EXCEPT FOR THIS.” That didn’t make it feel any better.
The night I met the girl, I’d just finished the RV and was really proud of it. I had the notion in my head that I wanted to show it to her, but it’d have been weird to ask this girl I’d just met to (1) leave an event, (2) walk down the dark street, and (3) follow me into my vehicle/home. But then, at the end of the night, just as I finished packing up and was prepared to drive off, there she was on the sidewalk, gesturing at me like, “hey – what’s this?” I asked her if she wanted to come in and see, she did, and she wound up hanging out/talking for at least 30 minutes (even though it was 1am and we both needed to get going).
She told me she believes everything works out exactly as it should, even when she can’t see how. When she can’t see “the full picture” yet, she said that’s okay because she will eventually – so she just has faith in the meantime.
I’ve been reminding myself of that lately but it’s a challenge. When I first got out of rehab, started as an artist, and drew the original “EWOEaIS,” I was in a wild place spiritually. I’d finally let go of my DOGMATIC NIHILISM and “nothing fucking matters” attitude and was in the unfamiliar territory of gratitude and faith – not [faith] in anything specific but just generally. My hostility toward religion was even gone and I had this kinda hippy-dippy, go-with-the-flow, everything-is-cool-for-everyone sorta mentality.
That faded over time (especially after summer 2015) and my old “nothing matters”/“I don’t believe in anything” mindset returned to fill the gap.
As that girl and I texted over the next week or so, I had a thought: “Fuck that drawing; I should make my big work-in-progress painting into my new ‘Everything Works Out’ [and incorporate the conversation we’d had].” That was a game changer. The painting needed direction, this felt like the right one, and I figured Rick (to whom it was pre-sold) would like it. But it needed an update to be real and honest because I no longer believe everything works out exactly as it should.
“Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should (is Something I’ve Been Trying to Get Myself to Believe Again).”
Which is absolutely, painfully true.
It’s really, really hard for me to imagine what good could ever come from that incident in summer 2015. (And let’s just say it: I was accused of a rape that I didn’t do).
Nothing’s been the same since. It’s been much worse. It took 9 years for me to work up the courage to even try to have a life again. In those years, I thoroughly believed I’d never again be as happy or successful as I had been before the accusation. And I’m still not sure that’s wrong. But I’m trying very hard to believe (and prove) otherwise. I’m working to rebuild my art career and livelihood and – ever since my last relationship fell apart and I got clean – I’m trying to find love again.
So far, the first part’s going better than the second. Not well enough that I’m satisfied but well enough that I probably should be. (At least considering how little time I’ve been back at it). With regard to both though, I’m hopeful. I don’t believe they’ll work out, but I’m pretty sure they won’t if I’m not giving it my all. So that’s what I’ve been doing.
Maybe that’s why I met that girl: just to hear her tell me that just because I can’t SEE how everything will work out – that doesn’t mean that it won’t.
Maybe the partnership and career I’ll have someday will only be possible because of what I went through ten years ago. It’s tough to envision, but I’d like to believe it.
That’s where the painting’s text ends. For anyone that’s just now learning about what I went through ten years ago, I hope you don’t now think I’m A VIOLENT SCUMBAG and do, in fact, believe me when I say that (as rare as they may be) false accusations do happen. I obviously wasn’t convicted of anything but it was still enough to shatter me. Maybe that’s because I’m so sensitive and maybe I let it effect me more than I should have, but… it really has taken all the strength I can muster to even be writing something like this right now. To even be going out in public like I have been. I’m pretty terrified to even be typing these words right now. It’s not something I want to publicize because I still worry that there are people out there who know nothing about what really happened but will still try to use it to hurt me.
I could probably ramble on about this forever, so I’m gonna cut myself off here. On a more positive note, I’ve got a handful of events scheduled in the Sarasota and Tampa areas (and one in Lakeland this weekend) and I’ll be regularly adding more, so be sure to keep an eye on the Events page.
And (of course) if you’d like to buy a print of this painting, you can find it in my webstore. The original painting is already sold but (like I said) I do have a 3×3′ giclée on canvas for sale, so reach out if you’re interested in that. It’s NINE TIMES BIGGER than the 12×12″ prints and looks AWESOME.
Thank you for your time, attention, and consideration. I know what it’s like to have lost everything, I’m so grateful for what I’ve been able to get back so far, and I know that none it would be possible without your support. It really does mean the world to me.
If you’re not already, follow me on TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook for more regular updates! And if you missed it, check out the entry I just posted YESTERDAY for my other new painting: “Motivation (Will Work for Food (maybe) / Will Beat Off on Live Webfeed For Perfect Love and Acceptance).”
![Apparently Proverbs 5:19 says: “Like a loving doe and a graceful mountain goat, Let her breasts satisfy you at all times; Be exhilarated always with her love.” So… Christianity is fucking weird, you guys. Then again, I sure could go for a nice girl with ]THE GRACE OF A MOUNTAIN GOAT and, like, really cool tits. Anyone know how I’d go about getting baptized?](https://sammythrashlife.com/wp-content/uploads/Grace-of-a-Mountain-Goat-751x1024.jpg)
