“Jolts” are another good word for them that aren’t entirely accurate. Those shocks of fuschia and yellow that grip me, putting every pore on needles and pins, making the air electric, sucking all sound into one all consuming sine wave . It’s horrible. It’s agitating. My body jerks and writhes trying to shake these attacks off. Sometimes I think only water will disperse them. Sometimes I think only dirt and nighttime will bury them.



Secret Comics On Patreon

Sneak peek panel of a secret comic over on my Patreon:


What does that much cartoon vomit mean? Unlock it and find out. Or read some older stuff that I’ve made public. Stuff’s gonna be going through Patreon first.

Today I’ve been mostly immobilized by migraines however. Still, Blessed Nuit/93



When I was a bit younger more uncertain and naive, there were women who came to the city and were my contemporaries or a little older who maneuvered the nighttime scenes with metaphoric knives out. Not everyone was this way, thankfully, but it was definitely a human trope. This type of person invariably fancied herself some newfangled combination of Dorothy Parker, Holly Golightly, and Edie Sedgwick.

Time marched on and began to bring a new kind of transplant with it, a bit more affluent but with the same type of attitude, only now they were fancying themselves, some newfangled combination of Carrie, Samantha, Sarah Jessica Parker, and hell-I-forget-the-other-one. But anyway, did I get less uncertain? Or did people’s New York City delusions just get less impressive?



…is nothing in our lives right now.

Everything is at last not stored and in Abuelita’s humble railroad apartment, haphazardly wedged wherever it would fit.

At least we beat the snowstorms getting it over here, but not the NYPD pulling over our Jamaican “man-with-a-van” for being a Jamaican “man-with-a-van” because, you know, everything is terrible.

It got resolved but our railroad still isn’t.

So we went to see Sunn O))) because we were going to anyway.





The boiler room a coat of dull red paint blanketed in another coat of thick dirt and grime.

A penitent filled with self-hatred hunched over swimming in vodka amphetamine and depressed psychosis takes the butterfly knife out from a plush leopard print handbag and rests it against the smooth skin of the wrist.

Somewhere under the surface a vein is translucent blue. Then powder-purple-under-candy-orange as a neon sign somewhere at the top of the stairs switches on changing the hue of everything. Blinking on and off, gas filled tubes probably bent into the shape of the logo of some god-awful cheap domestic hog swill that gets sold as beer. With eyes in the throes of a psychotic break, the blue and purple veins become roads, trails along a beach where the blade is a docked boat waiting to sail…anyplace. The grimy walls and banging boiler dissolve into orange, pink and salmon colored sands.

The penitent and the butterfly knife ruminate on the sandy trails for almost and hour. That’s how long it takes before it occurs to anyone to look for them and tell them(well, one of them) to get on stage.