Sammy thrashLife Goes to Springfield

November 19, 2024

“Sammy thrashLife Goes to Springfield.” 1/15/15. Acrylic and spray paints. 12×12″.

You’ve likely seen this before. I even made a video about it last month. But I’d never written out a statement to go along with the prints I sell so… HERE YOU GO:

I started dating Heather as I was preparing to “graduate” from Tranquil Shores, re-enter the world, and take a stab at making a living as an artist. Before she’d met me, she’d already made plans to move to Jacksonville. So that’s what I did. And that’s why Jacksonville was the first city I tried to market myself in.

I had no idea where to even start but “traditional advertising” was never gonna be part of my playbook. The first thing I did was to make stickers out of the drawing that I’d eventually use as my sorta default insignia. Apart from that, they said something about BPD, not being on heroin, and making art. I put them on payphones (because those were still a thing that just barely existed then), telephone poles, and anyplace else I figured they’d get noticed.

One of the first people to contact me after seeing one of those stickers was a local artist named Mike Kelly (later “Mikey twoHands”). I don’t think he was really trying to be a professional artist but he really loved making art and he’d occasionally try to sell stuff locally at DIY art fairs and swaps. He reached out to tell me he liked the sticker and – as we got to know each other – it turned out that he really loved my dedication to making art around the clock and spending any other time trying to market or sell it. We became really close and started hanging out all the time. And through him, I met a lot of other locals in the arts community.

For a regular job, he ran sound at a bar/small venue called Rain Dogs. So even when he had to go into work, I’d go with him and set up a display to sell my prints to whoever turned out to see whichever bands were playing that night.

Some of my best memories are of running around Jacksonville with Mike, making and selling art. It was the time period in which I really figured out how to successfully market myself as an artist on a daily basis and make a living. He was so inspired by my drive and I was in turn inspired by his excitement.

After a while, I became too ambitious for Jacksonville alone and decided to try to conquer as many cities as I could. I got myself a van and TOOK MY SHOW ON THE ROAD. But I’d still come back to Jacksonville every so often, whenever there’d be a big event at which I knew I could make money. The city’s (now defunct) One Spark festival still holds the record as my most profitable event ever for selling prints.

On one of those return trips to Jacksonville, Mike got the idea of wanting to make a painting in my style and pitched me on making one in his. I knew it wouldn’t fit in with my other work and wouldn’t really be something I could sell in a gallery, kinda wanted to only focus on art like that, but agreed ‘cause of FRIENDSHIP.

Mike’s art back then, like mine, pretty much followed a formula. He’d use spraypaint to make a backdrop, each piece would feature a cartoon character (sometimes one of his own creation but usually something taken from pop culture), and then there’d be a quote from the character or some other funny caption he came up with.

If I was gonna pull from pop culture, the only show that’d ever even occur to me is The Simpsons. I didn’t like the idea of directly copying someone else’s art though, so I decided to just paint myself in the style of The Simpsons’ animators. And then I’d need a quote to go with it.

As deeply as I’ve always related to Bart Simpson, the first quote that came to mind was from Moe the Bartender: “I’ve done stuff I ain’t proud of – and the stuff I am proud of is disgusting.” Not the most sincere or profound words to ever be found in my art, but funny. And this project was just for fun anyway. It made me smile, it make Mike happy – that’s good enough for me!

Admittedly, at the time, the quote was intended to be a reference to the outrageous sex stuff I’d often written about in my blog but a later event makes that topic less fun to get into these days. I hope, one day, I’ll be able to be my full authentic self again and not feel like I can’t write about everything in my life with honesty and humor. CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME.

“…Springfield” is now available in the webstore. And if you’re reading this before November 30th, you can use the promo code LIVE to get 20% off your entire order.

Sorry for Overdosing in Your Bathroom

October 16, 2024

“Sorry For Overdosing in Your Bathroom” 3/8/19. Acrylic paint. 20×20″.

Wallis and I both wanted to get clean. To get myself through the worst of the withdrawals, I took a fair bit [okay, a SHIT TON] of Xanax to keep myself as close to unconscious as possible. The next morning I woke up and Wallis was gone. She’d decided to go for inpatient detox but I was too out of it for her to communicate that to me. Being the loving and thoughtful person that she is, she’d arranged for a friend of ours (Whitney) to be there when I finally came to, to explain everything to me. But when I first regained consciousness, I was so out of it that I thought Whitney was Wallis. For a while. It really had to be explained to me. Several times. 

When Whitney did finally manage to get through to my drug-addled brain, I flipped out. I felt totally abandoned and upset and hopeless and – honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I was so fucked up on Xanax that I wasn’t myself anyway.

For those that don’t have experience overdosing on Xanax, it’s not the kind of drug that will kill you on its own. So you can take dozens of pills but – unless you introduce alcohol or another drug into the mix – you’re not going to die. At insanely high doses though, you will begin to behave like a RAGING lunatic. (Particular emphasis on “raging”).

What I did next is unlike anything I’d ever before done in my life. I took a knife and slashed through all of my paintings. And my biggest painting – the mammoth 12×8-foot piece hanging across the entirety of the living room wall – well, I set that one on fire. And then for good measure, I took our 50-inch TV and threw it through the closed living room window into the front yard. So Whitney now had glass and fire and a lunatic to contend with. Well, glass and fire; I jumped on my motorcycle and sped off.

Darting all over town in my drug-addled haze, it’s a miracle I didn’t crash that bike and lose a limb (or worse). I had a SHOPPING LIST to quietly, painlessly end my life. An overdose quantity of heroin should get the job done on its own; added to all the Xanax in my system would make it a sure thing. And just for good measure, I’d also chug as much alcohol as I could stomach (just before shooting up – and in the time before I lost consciousness). Having thrown all my syringes away in preparation for the detox/getting clean, I’d also need to find one of those.

Once I had all of my supplies, I needed someplace that I could actually do this. My house likely had a police presence following the fire and chaos. Or – at the very least – a Whitney. I needed somewhere that no one would try to stop me or find me soon enough afterward that my life could be saved. Where does that leave? You can’t go to a friends’ house. They’re not going to let you overdose and die. You can’t go really anyplace public; someone’s liable to see you and call 911.

Sun-Ray Cinema. Any other business, I’d be found, but Sun-Ray had a screening room with an entrance right by their front door. I could slip in without anyone even realizing I’d entered the building. And – in the back of that screening room – a bathroom that had only recently been renovated. This meant none of the customers even knew it was there. The only way anyone would find me in time is if an employee just happened to decide to use it in the short window that it would take me to do my shot and stop breathing. How many people were even on staff that day? Two? Three? And they’d almost certainly use the bathrooms in the main lobby or theater.

As recently as a few months prior, I’d considered Sun-Ray’s owner and proprietor one of my best friends. We’d had a falling out but – even still – I felt guilty pulling him, his wife/Sun-Ray partner, and their staff (some of whom I also considered friends) into my death. But it was the only viable option I could think of.

I got to the theater and snuck inside without issue. Once in the bathroom, I realized that my plan wasn’t quite as solid as I’d thought. The bathroom, of course, had a light. But unlike the lights in the main bathrooms, this one was kept off unless someone was using it. Even with the door shut, in the dark hall, it was clear when the light in the bathroom was on. Still, it was rare for anyone to come back there at all. It was in a hallway behind a curtain in the back of the screening room. The only other thing off the hall was a small office that only needed to be accessed briefly when a movie was set to begin. I hoped that the next showing was still a ways off or that – even if it weren’t – that no one would think anything of the bathroom light being left on.

I gulped down as much alcohol as I could stand. (Turns out it was a Sunday and the liquor stores were closed, so I’d had to settle for the highest ABV thing I could find: a bottle of wine). Even still, with the amount of Xanax in my system, I figured even wine should be enough to kill me. (Alcohol and Xanax are a surprisingly lethal combination). Next, I prepped my shot with enough heroin (actually, fentanyl) to kill god-knows-how-many regular people (and still ten times even my regular dose). I found a vein and pushed the plunger down the barrel. I picked the bottle back up and started chugging as the dope made its way through my bloodstream.

It was only a matter of seconds before I’d lose consciousness and it seemed no one had noticed the light being on yet. Certainly no one had knocked. I was set. Even if someone came along now, it was doubtful they’d act with any sense of urgency. By the time they realized the door was locked from the inside, found the key, and come back, I’d be dead.

It was three or four days later when I woke up in the hospital with no memory of what had happened after I’d injected in the Sun-Ray bathroom. (To this day, I don’t know). In any case, it must be that I didn’t write a suicide note, because there was no psychiatric hold on me. I was treated like just another accidental overdose patient. As soon as I was able to stand, they were processing my discharge. I made some phone calls from the hospital phone. Wallis, Whitney – and I think Tim and Shana at Sun-Ray. I don’t really remember. Within the hour though, I was back out on the street, borrowing a stranger’s phone, and calling my dealer.

This painting was started after I got clean, interrupted by my second relapse, and then finished in Round 3 (2019). The overdose which inspired its title, however, happened all the way back in 2016. I’ve not been excited to tell the story – hence the delay.

Several small-print journals in the painting don’t strike me as terribly important or interesting at this point in time. In the bottom left though, it says: “Sometimes I bumout about being such a fuck-up, but – if I weren’t – I wouldn’t be able to make (authentic) rad shit like this painting.”

I’m not sure that that quite balances out but – I am who I am. My history is just that – it’s happened. Nothing will change what I’ve put myself, or anyone else, through.

Though in case it doesn’t go without saying – intentionally ridiculous title aside – I really am, genuinely, very SORRY FOR OVERDOSING IN YOUR BATHROOM. I imagine, at the time, it came across as an act of spite, but it really was merely an act of desperation. It had nothing to do with you; yours was just the place where I felt I had the best chance. And probably, in some twisted sense, where I felt safest. I’m sorry that I, very selfishly, let that outweigh what should have been my consideration for your welfare.

And the same goes to anyone else I’ve ever put in a similar position, only to then mine that trauma for humor or insight, for the sake of art. I work with a LIMITED PALETTE, trying to make the most of what I’ve got and spin it into something better.

It’s kind of all I know how to do.

I hope you (still) like it.

This painting was sold years ago but there are 12×12-inch prints on sale in the webstore while supplies last. Buy one and you’ll be funding my continued existence, artwork, and writing for at least two more days!

Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams

September 23, 2024

The painting, “Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” is about two friends throwing caution to the wind and making the most of life by focusing on what really matters to them. The story of the painting – as a physical object – takes a darker turn, rife with petty, interpersonal drama. If you’re not interested in that and just want the good stuff, I’ve rigged this page to let you skip past the behind-the-scenes hurt feelings and just get to the painting and its positive message.

Origin

One of my (oldest and very best) friend’s girlfriend hit me up to commission a painting. The two of them were moving in together and she wanted to give it to him as a surprise housewarming gift. She paid for it, I set to work, and – before I finished – he dumped her because he’s afraid of commitment. I asked her what I should do with the painting once finished. She said to just go ahead and give it to him anyway.

Before that would happen, he tried to get her to take him back (even though this was the second time he’d dumped her for no good reason). This time she said no. He was devastated even though – again – HE WAS THE ONE WHO DUMPED HER.

His ex had chosen this gift because of how much he loved my art. Seeing as it no longer needed to be a surprise, I figured I could cheer him up a little by telling him about it.

And he said that he was too heartbroken to want to hang it on his wall because it would remind him of her and upset him.

That hurt my feelings pretty badly. He’d bought some of my prints before and some of my less expensive drawings, but now he was finally going to have his own original Sammy thrashLife PAINTING (for free!) and he… didn’t want it?

Abandonment

“Dude – how about instead of thinking of her when you look at it, you think of ME, YOUR BEST FRIEND. WHO PAINTED THIS ESPECIALLY FOR YOU.”

“No” he told me. “It’s too painful; it’ll just remind me of her.”

I tried to talk sense to him. Reminded him that, in a few months, he wouldn’t give a shit about this girl anymore – that there’d be another girl for him to take for granted – BUT THAT THIS PAINTING WOULD BE HIS FOREVER. Not only as something to enjoy on the wall (simply because he likes my artwork) but as a reminder of our decades-long friendship.

Nope. Unconvinced. He didn’t want it. And, again, I can’t stress how much this hurt my feelings. But I stopped arguing and just accepted it. And then was in no rush to finish it because… well, why would I be now? And then I relapsed and stopped painting for a long time anyway.

Time passes

A year or so later, I got clean for a minute and finally finished. He was still living on the other side of the country (as he had been for many years) but was in town visiting so I brought it up with him again and – yes – now he did want it. But he was moving back here soon so – rather than take it back across the country with him, only to have to move it down with the rest of his stuff in a month, he’d just get it from me once he returned.

In the years since he’d moved away, every time he came to visit, we’d met up as soon as his plane landed and only split back up when he was on his way back to the airport.

But when he moved back, I barely heard from him. We kept sort of making plans but it just kept not happening. Considering how much time we’d spent together and how well we’d gotten along every time he’d visited (most recently, just a month prior) it was pretty strange.

A few years have passed now and I could probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve hung out since then. Even though we live five minutes away from each other.

Two sides to every story (this is my side)

I don’t wanna talk shit but the simple truth is we’re not really friends anymore and he’s not really the same person any more. His priorities have changed, his taste in music has changed, his politics have changed, his whole worldview and ideology have changed. We don’t really have anything in common anymore. Just one example: those “stupid dreams” of ours that this painting is about? He gave up on his. Which – as I acknowledge in the text on the canvas – is fine in/of itself. It’s the reasons he gave up on it – which are also pretty emblematic of why we don’t get along anymore.

Initially, I thought maybe he’d come around some day. After all, we went through something similar twenty years ago when he had an identity crisis at the end of our teenage years and decided that he no longer liked everything he’d loved and identified with (and shared in common with me). But a couple years later, his crisis ended and he was himself again. I thought maybe this was just  “round 2” of that – a mid-life crisis of sorts. But it’s been four years and it’s starting to seem like less of an identity crisis than maybe just that he never really had an identity to begin with.

Rant

Call me crazy but I feel like there are core elements of who each of us is as a person that shouldn’t really change. Or maybe I’m just a “stupid kid” who never grew up. I’m pretty sure that’s how he would describe me at this point. But you know what? I’d rather be a stupid kid with a stupid dream, scrappin’ my way through life, doing what I love than [allow me to role play for a moment] an “adult” working a shit job and making monthly payments on my status symbol car – that I only have so I can condescend to people about “work ethic,” “growing up,” and how anyone living in poverty “just isn’t trying hard enough” (while seemingly overlooking the fact that even I’m selling coke on the side just to afford my performative lifestyle – totally oblivious to what would happen if I got arrested and how much that would complicate everything – and how that’s exactly what’s happened to thousands before me – people with far fewer options than my privileged ass had (and how maybe poverty isn’t just a question of effort)).

I’m getting a little bogged down in the minutiae of what I don’t love about this guy’s transformation… What I’m saying is he’s not someone I relate to anymore. I don’t understand him anymore. I miss my friend. The one who teared up when he finally did see this painting for the first time because it expressed a sentiment he still understood then.

The actual text in the painting

Trying to make it in/as a pop punk band in 2019, as an artist at any time, or even just trying to forge a REAL, EMOTIONAL CONNECTION WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING (okay, I’m only half-joking about that last one) – it wouldn’t be unfair to say that you’d have to be pretty dumb to (1) believe that any of these were even potentially worthwhile endeavors or (2) to shape your life toward the achievement of such a goal. After all…

Q: What’re the odds that any of these things could possibly pan out at all, let alone in any lasting, long-term sense?

A: NOT GOOD.

But here we are, at it all the same. IT’S PROBABLY NOT GOING TO WORK OUT. There may well come a day when we’re forced to accept that it’s just not gonna happen for us. A day when we have to give up, scrap the dream, and just move on. And you know what? That’s okay. ‘Cause – in the meantime – here we are: taking aim, firing shots, and doing the shit we love. We deal with rejection, frustration, doubt, and more. But we also have fun. We get the highs and the lows. We’ve had more wild experiences and adventures than most people will ever even read about. And our shit’s real and it’s ours. We did it. Whatever happens, we’ve ALREADY WON. You can put that shit on my tombstone ‘cause, even if I die tonight, I’ll know I made it count.

“Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” 6/27/20. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.

Reflecting

I don’t feel great about the blog entry for this (one of my more positive paintings) being so focused on something negative – especially considering that quite a bit of my recent work has at least partly been in a similar vein. But life can’t always be rainbows and puppy dogs. Still,I know that I need to watch myself because it’s not a great sign for my mental health that I’ve been uncharacteristically preoccupied with interpersonal strife. Anger, spite, resentment – these things aren’t good for me. And (if I can be psychologically vain for a moment) they don’t look good on me either. This turmoil and drama isn’t reflective of the person I see myself as or want to be seen as.

Which isn’t to say that anything I’ve written isn’t true. But the fact that I’m focusing my energy on those things instead of something more positive – that’s the problem. Everyone has bad experiences; everyone has friendships that fall apart. Writing about those things isn’t bad in itself; I just know that if I were happier, I would be less inclined to write about them and – even when I did – I’d filter them through a more constructive lens and finish with a more uplifting conclusion. But even that awareness is a good sign. I’m grateful that I’m still well enough to at least recognize what’s going on. And these kinds of acknowledgments are good first steps in a better direction.

Anyway – about the painting (WHICH IS ITSELF VERY POSITIVE AND UPLIFTING AND FULL OF LIGHT), unclaimed as it is – I’ve got it on my wall until I find a buyer that’ll appreciate it. LET ME KNOW IF THAT’S YOU! I’ve also got 12×12-inch prints of it (as always, hand-numbered and signed by yours truly). Pick one up if you wanna support a stupid kid with a stupid dream.

Common Denominator

September 18, 2024

“Common Denominator.” 8/12/24. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 8×10″.

We all know people who refuse to take responsibility for their problems. Anything wrong is always someone else’s fault. I don’t think I’m guilty of this, but a recent set of incidents gave me cause to reflect. 

Two spats with friends but, in both cases, I was confident I’d done nothing wrong. When CONFLICT #3 happened though, I knew I needed to examine my part in it. After all, I’m the COMMON DENOMINATOR. It must be my fault, right?

And, generally speaking – usually – I think that’s true. If a person is repeatedly having the same issue with different people, it’d be pretty unbelievable if they weren’t responsible for those issues. So I set my hurt feelings and anger aside for a moment and went back over everything that had happened. But I couldn’t get there. I genuinely didn’t believe that my actions were the root cause of the problem. “Y’know what the real common denominator is here?” I thought to myself, “It’s that these people are immature, insecure fucking diaper babies, incapable of having a conversation about their feelings and actually working through (something that shouldn’t even be) a problem.”

That felt pretty shallow though (TRUE AS IT MAY BE) – to be placing the blame in that way. It also wasn’t lost on me that if my friends suck, that definitely says something about me as much as it does them.

It’s long been a point of pride that I have so many, decades-long friendships. I felt it spoke to my character that I maintained so many relationships for so long. But there’s a reason that’s uncommon. Human beings aren’t really capable of maintaining deep, meaningful relationships with too many people. We’re lucky if we can manage as much with our family, a partner, and maybe a friend or two. No matter what Facebook tells you, no one has hundreds or even a dozen friends. What we actually have is friendly acquaintances. People we have affection for but aren’t consistently, intimately involved with. We might be there for one another when needed, but until those moments happen, we’re just hanging out. It’s not very deep.

My problem was that I’d confused acquaintances for friends. We’ve been on good terms for decades but we don’t really know each other. We’re not committed to one another’s well-being in any serious way. I’d presumed an understanding of one another, thought we had shared values, and expected them to behave consistently with those values. I treated these people as I would treat actual friends and made the mistake of expecting that they would do the same. That’s on me.

Real friendships aren’t unlike marriages; they’re tested by conflict and are only as meaningful as their commitment to finding solutions. If someone doesn’t care enough to resolve a problem (or doesn’t have the emotional maturity to) that makes for a weak relationship and not much of a friendship.

Friendly acquaintances can be fun, rewarding, and even ultimately become real friendships. But unless one does, I need to keep it in the proper perspective and not be emotionally invested in something shallow. I’m grateful for the meaningful relationships I do have – which are more than enough to occupy my attention and energy.

Hey, YOU! I count on your support! The original “Common Denominator” painting has already been sold but limited-edition 8×10” prints are available for purchase. As always, each one is beautifully-packaged, hand-numbered, and personally signed by YOURS TRULY. Buy one and help KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE.

If you haven’t yet read my SALACIOUS prose poem from a week or so ago (OR EVEN IF YOU HAVE), because it wasn’t already embarrassing enough, I made it into a video. And because THAT’s not embarrassing enough, I specifically made it into a TIK TOK video. Go watch it. And follow me on there. My understanding is that that’s where all the KIDS AND MONEY are these days, so I need to build a FOLLOWING.

https://www.tiktok.com/@sammythrashlife/video/7416041826924170542

(We Are All) Shitty Children

August 26, 2014

"(We Are All) Shitty Children." 7/24/14. Acrylic paint. 60x40".
“(We Are All) Shitty Children.” 7/24/14. Acrylic paint. 60×40″.

I wrote two journals on this canvas that I later painted over.

Saturday, July 19th:
I don’t know where to start so I’m just gonna let my pen not stop. Chris was being an asshole and maybe I played a part but I don’t think so. So I went into emotional shut down mode and locked everyone out and dropped all my plans for the night. I hid from my friends and slept in the van and wrote a letter to a stranger and now I’m on the street, painting and journaling about some shit that no one will find interesting. When I got up this morning, I went inside, woke him up, drove us downtown, got out  with my canvas, and sent him off with the van. He probably went back to Kendra’s, where the two of them can talk about how unbalanced I am. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m not the center of the universe. (Yeah, right).

Sunday, July 20th:
Chris has been traveling with me for almost three months now. He’s got three months clean that he wouldn’t have without me. We got into an argument the other night. He thinks I boss him around. I think he takes all that I do for him for granted and that he doesn’t pitch in enough. We’ve basically not spoken for two days now. He’s off doing his own thing for once. Didn’t call or “come home” last night, which is more than okay with me. It’s what I was hoping for. I think his stint traveling with me is over. Actually, no. He’ll come back around as soon as he needs something. Money. Cigarettes. A place to sleep. Nevermind that I could use his help in the meantime. But I don’t need it. I get by fine without him. Maybe better. I’m more productive. Don’t need to spend as much money. Maybe I take him for granted but I’m ready to cut him loose. He likes the lifestyle my art’s provided, traveling, but he hasn’t taken to being an assistant or manager of any kind. I can’t protect him from needles and drug-addled girls forever. It’s time for him to find his own thing or fuck up trying. The only person I’m responsible for is me. Anyone that’d fault me for whatever might happen to him can fuck off. It’s no stretch to say that I saved his life and I absolutely gave him the reprieve he needed to start fresh and make another kind of life for himself. And – fuck it – I’ll say it: he has a good heart and all that shit but he’s selfish and lazy. And maybe that’s ’cause he doesn’t care about *this* like I do but all the more reason for him to find his own thing and make his own way.

Kendra had gone downtown with me that afternoon and when we got back to her apartment that night, Chris was sitting outside waiting for us. I went out to get dinner and bought food for him too but still chose not to speak to him anymore than was totally necessary. I was being a shitty child and was totally okay with it for the time being. I was still mad. Because he was being a shitty child too. It didn’t matter in that moment that he was my best friend. For all I cared, he could fuck right the fuck off. I didn’t pull it together until the next afternoon. I didn’t want to be an asshole but I also didn’t really care whether or not he stuck around and didn’t feel that I should be making any concessions. The work that I ask Chris to do (mostly errands and driving) isn’t as fun as a lot of the “work” that I do (painting, drawing, writing) but I also spend a lot of time on more tedious chores like color-correcting photographs and formatting images for prints. And my work is the stuff that pays for all the pizzas we eat, cigarettes we smoke, and the cool shit we get to do traveling around the U.S. If there’s stuff he can do to help, he should do it. It’ll still leave him with at least 22 hours each day to do whatever the fuck he wants. I have a hard enough time having to ask Chris, my friend, to do things, like he’s an employee, and it only makes it that much worse when we have to argue about it.  When Chris pitches in without having to be asked, everything runs really smoothly. When he doesn’t, I feel like I can’t ask him unless I’m using 100% of my time super productively. I feel guilty if I watch The Simpsons or spend time with whatever girl I’m seeing.

“If you want to keep traveling with me,” I told him, “you’ve got to pitch in more and, if I ask you to help with something, just do it.” He agreed that it was fair, acknowledged that he had been slacking a little bit, and everything’s been cool since then.

I’m uncomfortable writing about any of this and would have much rather just told the story of how our band, Shitty Children, came to fruition but that story’s already been told and this is what was on my mind at the “emotional peak” of the time I spent on this painting so…

Chris, Mike, and I are leaving for California tonight – for Awesome Fest in San Diego and for Shitty Children’s second (ever) show, in Pomona. Dave can’t come so Andy from Turkish Techno will be filling in on guitar. We’ll get to practice with him on Thursday, a few hours before the show but – in order to do so – we’ve got to drive all thirty hours, straight through in one shot without stopping to sleep. If you see me on Thursday, I might be just a little sleepy. I’m really excited and if you live anywhere near Pomona, you should definitely come out to the show.

Here’s a video of us playing “Rumbleseats and Running Boards” by Cleveland Bound Death Sentence. We played it worse than any of our own songs but – for that reason – it’s one of my favorite videos from that first set. I like watching Chris and me laugh it off each time one of us makes a mistake.

http://youtu.be/xDqlDq0A3l8

So Badly

March 9, 2014

"So Badly." 1/14/14. Ink. 3 ½x5".
“So Badly.” 1/11/14. Ink. 3 ½x5″.

Statement written March 6th, 2014:

In early January, I went to a reception/get-to-know-each-other kinda thing for the artists participating in Wunderground’s quarterly “Look! Listen! Buy!” event. At one point, I was telling another artist about my tendency to isolate – staying home and spending all of my time painting and writing. “Do you get social anxiety?” she asked. For whatever reason, I wasn’t totally honest. I told her that I didn’t. Which – OBVIOUSLY – is slightly less than the truth. I think it’s because I didn’t feel anxious in that moment. Either way, before long, I was proving the falsity of my claim. I tried to keep myself moderately engaged in and attentive to the conversations around me but I was primarily focused on scratching out some artwork in the tiny notepad I kept in my backpack. Eventually, I put it away and got involved in the slightly more socially appropriate activity of doing the exact same thing, only with the pretext of “entertaining a child.”

Seven days later, I was at “Look! Listen! Buy!,” sitting at my table, not enjoying myself. The music was too loud to really talk to anyone and – having just faced the consequences of some bad weather and an outdoor set-up – I wasn’t in the best mood. Things didn’t seem to be going especially well and I found myself back at work on the drawing I had started the night of the reception. I didn’t like the band that was playing. I had my headphones in. This was antisocial as fuck and I didn’t care. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” I thought. “All I want is to go back home and eat my leftover pizza. More than anything. SO BADLY.” (Not super-poetic but – when I’m falling apart emotionally – it’s not unusual for me to look to pizza to make everything okay again).

Which isn’t to say that I’m not grateful for the opportunity or that I don’t love the fuck out of Wunderground (because I really fucking do). I’m so happy to be a part of that group (though that doesn’t really have anything to do with Wunderground as much as it does the people behind it). Which kinda goes to show that (1) I don’t know shit about shit, (2) I’m a crybaby, and (3) everything works out exactly as it should / everything’s got a silver lining. I don’t make “friends” outside of punk rock (or treatment) – or so I thought. And I definitely didn’t think I’d make friends in Jacksonville. I’m not sure why that is… I get along with just about everyone I meet. I like just about everyone that I meet. But I just don’t usually feel connected to anyone. I was thinking about it recently though and (especially) last night. I’m kinda, sorta actually a part of a little crew of friends / artists here now. They like me and I like them. They invite me to do stuff with them. That feels nice. It makes me feel good. I’m grateful for it (and for them).

I’d Kill Your Family If I Thought You’d Notice, But You Wouldn’t, So Fuck It, I’ll Just Smoke Cigarettes and Light My T-Shirts On Fire

December 2, 2013

"I'd Kill Your Family If I Thought You'd Notice, But You Wouldn't, So Fuck It, I'll Just Smoke Cigarettes and Light My T-Shirts On Fire." 2/1/13. Tempera. 2/1/13.
2/1/13. Tempera. 12×18″.

It’s such an unbelievable coincidence that – if I were someone else, reading this – I’d probably call me a liar but… this is a painting inspired by Donnie (my roommate for five of my months at Tranquil Shores) and I was all set to feature it in my blog entry for last night when – at the last minute – I decided the image was too blurry and that I should write-up a different piece instead. As I found out within seconds of opening my eyes this morning, Donnie is dead.

It’s against the rules but I (very sneakily) recorded my coin-out [the ceremony to honor completion of a treatment plan]. And I’m really glad I did it because it’s nice to listen to every once in a while. I just listened to Donnie’s segment and it made me smile pretty big. The first words out of his mouth were “You know how to push my buttons better than anyone I’ve ever known in my life.” And the reverse was true too. I don’t know that I’ve ever been angrier with anyone than I was with him just one week prior (the day that I painted this). But as he went on to say, “We have some things in common. We’re both drug addicts, we both hate each other, and we both love each other.” Which kind of hits the nail right on the head. Back when he said it, I was a little disappointed ’cause – as much as I had an equal part in our conflicts – I always just wanted us to be friends. I was a little sad that he chose to acknowledge the darker part of our relationship in that moment. But – looking back – he was doing exactly what I always say is so important: he painted the full, honest picture. And I’m really grateful for that.

The title of this painting is mean as fuck. Donnie had a family up north that, in his addiction, he had almost completely lost touch with. It hurt him so much that – before I had met him – he did a six month stint of inpatient treatment in which he kept his kids a secret. The day that I made this, I said a lot of fucked up shit to him but I didn’t ever say anything about that. As mad as I was, I didn’t want to take it that far so I used the painting to get my meanest thoughts out of my head. The first sentence of the caption, “the world’s not black and white,” is an allusion to a conversation I had earlier in the day, when I asked Tracy under what circumstances it would be okay to burn a person alive. When she told me it’s not ever okay to set another human being on fire, I said “that sounds like the kind of black-and-white-thinking characteristic of mental illness, Tracy. In this world, there exist shades of grey.”

donnie's shirtThe night before, I had taken a shirt that Donnie had given me and went out to a parking lot at the end of the block. [I was allowed by this point to go on short walks if I signed in and out]. I set it on fire, let it burn for a minute, stomped it out, and then took it back to my room to paint some text on the back: “WHAT I LACK IN EMOTIONAL MATURITY, INTELLIGENCE, AND LIFE SKILLS, I MAKE UP FOR IN PUSH-UPS!!!” That, I figured I could get away with – especially since I had been working out a lot too around that time so (while it was definitely my “Donnie shirt”) the statement could have easily been applied to me as well. After things cooled off and we weren’t mad at each other anymore, I showed it to him and he agreed that it was pretty funny.

Someone once told me that real friends fight. That if you’ve never gotten into an argument with a friend, you must be bullshitting each other an awful lot. And that’s what it was always like with Donnie. We didn’t argue about nonsense. It was always about real, serious shit. We’d call each other out when one of us was fucking up. And (naturally) – since we were both smarter than everyone – I’d constantly have to tell him when he was wrong about me and he’d constantly have to tell me when I was wrong about him. But we always seemed to work it out and get back to a good spot. Probably because each of us was always right about the other (and wrong about ourselves), even if it took us a minute or two to realize it. We were pretty good at keeping each other in line.

Which isn’t to say that we were constantly at each other’s throats. After we both moved into the real world and weren’t roommates anymore, we didn’t get into it like we used to. I even stayed with him in his new apartment when I came down to visit once. But even before that, as roommates, we got along more often than we actually fought. I can’t even count how many nights we sat up in our apartment talking out everything going on in our lives. There were days when I felt like I’d accomplished nothing or had no meaningful interpersonal connection with anyone – until just before bed when Donnie and I would have one of those conversations. And I know I helped him too ’cause he’d tell me so. Shit – for his first two months, I talked him down from his constant “I’m leaving THIS Friday” every week! We got our sponsors together. Did our fourth steps together. We were never “best friends,” hanging out all day; we didn’t like any of the same shit. I liked drawing and punk rock; he liked football and Hoobastank. But we were close. There was one week when I was overwhelmed with thoughts of self-harm. “Is there someone you can reach out to before you do anything to hurt yourself?” Tracy asked me. “Yeah,” I told her. “Donnie.”

Last year, when I wrote all those Christmas cards, I had the foresight to snap photos of some of them before I handed or mailed them off (for posterity or [whatever]). I just checked and – sure enough – I have a picture of Donnie’s. I’m struggling to admit it, but the tears are welling up. I wrote something in his card about faith, which reminds me of something I used to say back then: that I had more faith in Donnie than anyone. I really thought he was gonna “make it.” The last words in the card reflect that too…

I’d say “do good” but I know you will anyway.
Love you, buddy.
– Sam

It feels like a goofy thing to say but … all things considered, he did do good. He did a lot of good. And I’ll miss him. I already do.

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