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.

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.

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.

As always, thanks for reading. If you want more, check out the blog entry for the 2013 drawing.

Coming out of summer 2017, I was in bad shape. The stories I could tell about overdosing, trying to kill myself, getting arrested, running from cops, hospitalizations, scamming money, getting robbed, stealing, and just all kinds of sad, desperate shit. If I told you how many roaches had infested my house and what I was doing to “deal” with them, you might not believe me. One day, I got across town to buy drugs and have no memory of how I even got there. After I copped—without a way back home—I just walked into a house that looked abandoned. I shut the front door behind me, sat on the floor of the living room, and shot up. When I woke hours later, my pockets were empty. Someone had come in and stolen my phone and whatever else I had on me. (Probably not much at that point). I mention this specific incident not because it was extraordinary but because it exemplifies a typical day back then. It was one of the less notable things to happen around that time.

I had warrants, and the police were banging on our door often enough that I couldn’t stay there anymore without risking arrest. Wallis and I took just a few things and went over to Steph’s for the next month or so. We were there for Hurricane Irma. My only memory of it is being dopesick, laying in Steph’s bathtub, waiting for what seemed like forever for a dealer to show up despite the storm.

I don’t remember the final straw, but I’d had enough. I got the money together for a four-hour Uber ride out of Jacksonville to Bradenton – to stay with my “adoptive family.” I had the driver meet us back at our house, where we frantically packed, hoping the cops wouldn’t show up before we could get what we needed and on the road. Most of our possessions were left to rot. This would begin the period I now call Round 2: Eight months of clean time – my first since the relapse that put my art career on an extended hiatus.

The detox wasn’t too bad and I was fairly happy just to be somewhere safe and not on drugs. Wallis had a harder time adjusting. She replaced shooting up with drinking and – IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT – started losing control. One night, especially drunk, we had one of our worst fights ever. She kept threatening to call the police to tell them where I was, get me picked up for one of my warrants. She did this as she was repeatedly punching me in the face. I picked her up, carried her to the front door, tossed her out, and locked the door. When she finally calmed down, I let her back in, but told her we were going to have to call it for a while. The next day, I put her back on a bus to Jacksonville to do whatever it was that she was gonna do.

I started painting again. It was tough starting from scratch after a couple years away from art, but I was enjoying it. The first painting I made was “Mental Health Services Available to Strippers, Junkies, Cutters, and Other SICK GIRLS.” It was, essentially, just about being lonely. Wondering if I wanted Wallis back or just someone. The title was a joke about the kind of girls that I attract. As it also says on that painting, “we are attracted (and attractive) to those with similar levels of mental health.”

“Chemicool” was painting #2. The text up top explains itself: “I HAVE ELEVEN WEEKS CLEAN OFF HEROIN AND NOTHING ELSE.”

But things were picking up. I’d sold some prints. I had a couple offers  for new originals. (“Enjoy Me While You Can” and “Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds” were both sold before I’d even started them). And “Chemicool,” once finished, was scheduled to be in a group exhibit at a local gallery.

I’d been talking to Wallis about bringing her back down once we’d both leveled out a bit. That would mean getting our own place though. It was too much for both of us (and Lukah) to be living with my fake family. And then, one night, as I journaled:

Oh great. And I just got word that she’s BACK on heroin and back on the street. I’m about to have art money again. Do I spend that to get her here and rent an apartment that I really don’t need? So much for waiting ’til we’re both stable. That day’s never coming. But hey - THESE COLORS LOOK NEAT.

(I do love me some bright, neon colors. It is some consolation when everything else is wrong).

I added sardonically, “I think I’ll kill myself now.” I didn’t mean it; it was just frustrating that Wallis was fucking up so badly.

“Chemicool” went into the group exhibit and sold on the opening night. And I did bring Wallis back to Sarasota. (And was able to get her clean again). But a few months later, just after signing the lease for the apartment we’d found, I got it into my head to use again. On my own. Didn’t even tell her. She’d found a job and I did it one day while she was working. 

And everything, of course, fell apart again. And it would stay that way for more than a year before I finally called Brandon to ask him, “If I go to detox, can I stay with you for a while when I get out?” He said yes. I told Wallis he’d be picking me up in the morning. Our electricity had already been cut and the rent was overdue. We hadn’t even really been staying there the last month, but – with me out of the picture – it was clear that the power wasn’t coming back on and she’d need to find somewhere else to go. It was almost certainly the end of our five years together.

Brandon did not pick me up the next morning. Because I was in jail. Arrested just a few hours after calling him. The cops didn’t seem to care that I had plans to go to detox in the morning. They, of course, brought me in. In my possession were enough drugs to warrant more than ninety felony charges. But that’s another story.

6×8-inch “Chemicool” prints (AND LOTS MORE) are on sale in the webstore now!

I have a friend that keeps overdosing on the smallest shots. This puts me in the position of regularly having to either revive her myself or (when it’s especially bad) call 911 to get professionals to revive her. It’s really frustrating because she’s only injecting a small fraction of what I’m using and it’s stopping her breathing and (at least once) her heart when all she’s trying to do is get high. Meanwhile, I don’t give a shit about getting high; I’m just trying to kill myself. So I’m using exponentially larger amounts than she is but can’t even catch a nod, let alone stop my heart. I’ve even tried combining the heroin with alcohol and other drugs (all of which I hate using) and I just cannot seem to kill myself.

Is it just me or does heroin only seem to kill people that still have reasons to live?

Life isn’t fair. And apparently neither is death.

I didn’t do this. The truth will come out. Thank you to those who continue to support me. As per advice of counsel, I am unable to make any further statements at this time.

I love you guys, I appreciate your support but – seriously – I’m going to be just fine. I’m going to be great. I’m not going to use again and I’m going to continue conquering the universe. (If you don’t believe me, I’ll be happy to accept bets and collect your money when I prove you wrong).

Now, I know it might seem like a “cry for help” or something because I posted from the hospital but that was not my intent at all. My intent in “coming clean” immediately after fucking up is twofold: (1) When I tell someone I’m clean, I want them to believe me and the best way to accomplish that is to be perfectly honest and forthcoming anytime that I’m NOT clean. If everyone sees that I volunteer that information freely when I could have just as easily kept it private and secret, then they have no reason to doubt me when I tell them that I am, in fact, clean. (2) My story and my recovery are a huge part of my art, career, and income. It would be disingenuous to tell my story and sell my art without telling the *whole* story. That’s not who I am and that’s not what I’m about. I believe in rigorous honesty and total transparency.
So… with that said, I’m gonna sleep this shit off ’til tomorrow at which point I’m gonna buy a playstation controller and destroy Kyle at NHL 2001. On Thursday, I’ll be bouncing around Brooklyn, harassing art galleries and, on Friday, I’ll be back on the streets of Manhattan, painting funny faces, peddling art to strangers, and trying to charm Tinder girls into sleeping with me. Cool? Cool.

Here’s a picture (from Friday night) that I found on Instagram yesterday.

Fuck. I just OD’d. I woke up in an ambulance. Cardiac arrest. I’m embarrassed. “I don’t shoot heroin anymore” – that’s, like, half my schtick as an artist. It’s kinda false advertising if I am, in fact, shooting heroin. But I’m not. Not regularly anyway. The last time I used was seven and a half months ago and I owned up to it (through my blog) the very same day that it happened. I mean – that’s kinda why I overdosed: ’cause I got no tolerance. Two bags. Two! That’s it. That’s what almost killed me. Fuck… thank God I’m not fucking brain damaged or nothin’. My heart stopped. There was no breath. If [my friend who I’m not gonna name] hadn’t acted as quick as he had, I could be brain dead or just plain dead. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know if I’m ashamed. Honestly, I don’t really know how to feel. I mean, all this shit… I’m still just kind of coming to. I’m writing this from a hospital gurney. I feel relatively coherent but I’m still a little disoriented. I guess that makes sense, seein’ as how my heart just resumed beating within the last half hour. Ugh. This whole incident isn’t especially compatible with my narrative. It makes me feel weak. What’s the opposite of integrity? That’s the feeling I’ve got. I guess I’m done writing for now. My heart monitor’s beeping a lot and I guess the narcan’s wearing off ’cause I’m feeling kinda sleepy. I wish I could get outta here and smoke a cigarette. I’m not looking forward to having to explain this incident in any detail. How/why it happened. I’m glad I’m okay though. It’s good that I’m not dead. I’m such an idiot sometimes. Can you imagine if I HAD died tonight? From heroin – at THIS point in my life/journey? I know I don’t owe anybody my “sobriety” (or whatever) but I still feel like I’ve somehow betrayed people’s trust by using tonight. And I don’t really have an excuse. I just did it. Okay – now I’m really done writing (for now). I’m so hesitant to post this online while I’m still in the hospital. So soon after it’s happened. But I don’t wanna keep this a secret – not even for a minute. I don’t wanna lose anyone’s trust and (I know I already will have inevitably lost some, just by using tonight but) I feel like coming clean about this incident – immediately / as soon as possible is the best way to prove that I’m not someone that hides things. I might fuck up sometimes but if I say something (like, for example, “I’m clean”) I want people to know that they can take that to the bank. So – yeah – I fucked up tonight. It’s not a regular thing. I hope you’re not too disappointed in me.