It only took 20 years, but we finally have a book to offer for sale. 

Click the link below to order a dirty dozen or so for your friends. Or enemies.

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In autumn of 2005, while in L.A., I had an opportunity presented to me that blew my mind. I’d been invited to meet with Joaquin Phoenix and Michael Muller at Joaq’s house. The reason was I had begun writing again after a ten year layoff and through sharing my poems with friends had captured their attention. Why we were meeting was a mystery to me, but Joaquin told me to bring all my poems, so I dusted off the manila envelope I’d been dragging around the state, and off I went with the roughly twenty poems I felt were worthy. What grew out of my reading to them in his living room was an idea I’d secretly wished for, as artists do. Something more powerful than just the printed word, which when written well is powerful enough.

Something visceral. Strong. Somewhat original. And yes, organic.

Immediately Joaquin and Michael started capturing visually what I’d described in spur of the moment photo shoots. Eventually we enlisted others who graciously gave their time to further the project. Robert Downey Jr. in particular. We had a gallery show. We had press. We sold some prints. Then waited for the book deal that almost a decade later has never materialized. So pushing fifty, tired of sitting back watching our baby die, I took matters into my own hands and created a series of prints to be put out to the public.

Rather than bore you with all the details you can read about in this L.A. Times article I will only say that I have the utmost respect for my former collaborators and hope that if they become aware of our idea’s latest incarnation they appreciate the effort I put into keeping it alive.

Leaving one less line on the bucket list.

To view the images available click here: A Colorful Life In Black & White

If interested in more information on how to acquire one of these limited edition creations contact:

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On my mother’s birthday, one of my favorite players decided to die.

She, who hated football because of how it transformed the men in her life come Sundays, didn’t seem terribly interested as I relayed the news, for lack of much else to talk about, after wishing her a happy birthday. More than thirty years his senior at his time of death, she will never know what Junior Seau meant to me. She will never comprehend the screaming that emanated from in front of the TV after another of his monster hits against opponents who until then had fed on my team the way the bullies do in grade school.

I never knew him.

In some ways I will never know her.

Nor will we really know why he chose his end unless we attend his afterlife presser.

What truly means something are the memories, and that she’s still alive.

If we finally win I wonder if she’ll be watching as I shed tears of joy.

When it happens, wherever she is, I hold out hope.

We’ll understand.

At last.

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It may not have been the big one, but Mexico’s winning the Under 17 World Cup for the second time merits major celebrating. Which in this case means shutting up and letting the imagery tell the story way better than we could.

Viva Mejico!!!

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In another, more innocent era, an abortion was born by accident.

On a school day we decided to do something worthwhile with our nowhere lives instead of working on graduating into the workforce. By forming a band. At the time there was only a guitar, a bong, and our raspy vocals which we were trying to meld in the backyard of the brick house around the bend from William Street Park. The song was called “School Sucks”. The son of the prominent attorney who owned the mansion was the guitar player, I was the screamer, and our eventual drummers were out of Spinal Tap, but the real gem was Jamie. When he walked up out of the ether, interrupting our “rehearsal” we were as spellbound as if Joey Ramone had dropped in for a jam session. With a touch of Jaco Pastorious. Tanning on the grass by the old oak tree we treasure he’d heard something so unattractive it caught his fancy. Whatever it was about our noise is now irrelevant, but that moment will always be indelibly imprinted in our archive of meaningful memories.

As often occurs he was appropriated by a band with more talent we’ve posted below. For a while he banged the bass for both of us until we went back to the boring life we’d had before we’d met him. Bidding goodbye to punk rock we hit the beach and didn’t see him much. Then one day while still a working stiff we spied a familar gait gathering steam as it approached us near the train station. His hair had gone gray, but he’d stayed true to the pegged jeans and boots now so popular with the poseur set. We exchanged greetings, numbers, long forgotten anectodes, and went our way.

Promising to hook up.

It took a while but finally we reached out to the other and honored our word.

And as usually happens when we see him we never say what is really in our soul until we’ve hit the computer keyboard with the vigor of his bass playing.

Which will never be topped.

No matter who Ribzy replaced him with.

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Ever since we caught futbol fever back in ’98 while under the bridge with the homies we’ve come to live for the emnity that is a Mexico match against the U.S. Rivaling Chargers-raiders we approach it as if we were playing, though we’ve never set foot on a soccer pitch.

Yesterday we kicked off the proceedings with a belly full of fire courtesy of an unnamed beverage. Ten hours before game time. Cranking Cielito Lindo and the Chicharito song until it annoyed the only neighbors who like us we were in top form when minutes into it disaster struck, with not one, but two enemy goals. This would have in the past decade caused Mexico to disintegrate. But not last night. What unfolded afterwards was out of a dream that has the Golden Generation hoisting the cup in 2014.

Every glorious goal brought with it a measure of redemption. Somewhat soothing the sting of South Korea in ’02. Especially Gio’s, a masterpiece that had Tim Howard groveling on the ground. Every green jersey in the stands containing in it the underdog spirit that exemplifies what this is really about. And every “Puto Chant” adding an exclamation mark.

Many of you might wonder why a pocho would give a shit about being proud to be “brown”. Here’s your answer. As half a middle aged white man feeling the pinch of our economy, but more importantly not forgetting having the other half being called a beaner, I relish this slightest measure of revenge. May Mejico for now be something other than Uncle Sam’s little sister. May it be known to be the best at something besides supplying its big brother’s drug consumption. But most of all know this, whatever was gained from a silly ball sailing in front of 90,000 fans who spent their hard earned pesos earned as gardeners, sending them into a frenzy, means something more than all the money in America.

Wherever that is.

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  We’ve said it before. There ain’t no snow in San Jo.

But there’s plenty of rain in store for the parade of pretenders that show up Sharks clad to a “pavilion” named after two old dudes who tinkered with computer parts, which sounds more exciting than watching the most boring sport ever invented.

May the Red Wings send the Thornton jerseys back into the closet for summer, and may they ship the remainder of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the Versus crew, and Drew Remenda’s dome to some other city, far from here.

That doesn’t know shit about soccer.

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