This monday, my drug and alcohol counselor ‘graduated’ me from treatment. We’d each separately brought the idea up several times in the past but it never seemed like quite the right time. But I brought it up to him about a month ago and we both agreed to think on it before meeting up again.
When I walked into his office on Monday, he greeted me with a copy of the NYTimes I was recently in, the first time I’d seen it in the flesh (they recently printed the covers of two of my Kindle Singles on the front page of the Arts section). It was a cool surprise for both of us as I hadn’t given him a heads up about it– he had been surprised to find it, much as I was surprised to find out he knew about it. I like my counselor a lot and I like to think that it was a rewarding moment for him as a therapist to be kicking back after work with his paper and stumble upon the work of a client who had come to him an anonymous drunk getting the nod from the Old Gray Lady. It was also the sign we had both been waiting for.
We had a great last talk. I gave him a big awkward hug–the first in our career– and gave him my solemn promise that before I took another drink, I’d call him. I’m going to miss him: as a tireless listener, as a fount of solid advice, and as a really excellent human being.
I met vegan Ironman legend (and fellow alcoholic) Rich Roll a couple of weeks ago when we did a really intense podcast together. He asked me a lot of tough questions, some of which are still rolling around in my head, unanswered. He made a couple of assertions that I wasn’t ready for and that I’m primed to react negatively to… but when you’re hanging out with a guy who has trod the same darkness you have, done even harder work than you have to pull out of it, and then has gone on to do some really un-fucking-believable things, well, it’s in bad faith to do anything other than hem and haw and think hard about it and then respond with total honesty.
When I mentioned to Rich that I had graduated from treatment, he responded simply with “Are you cured?” Apparently, ballbusting is the fourth sport triathletes engage in… (keep it up, Rich, and I am going to give you that Charlie Horse I promised you when we last met). As usual, he’s got a incontrovertible point. The sidelines are littered with alcoholics who mastered sobriety so completely that they felt comfortable going right back to drinking. It’s good to have a friend to nudge me on that point. In the words of Ida B. Wells, “eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”
Drinking or not, I know I’ll always be an alcoholic. Just as I tired of the cult of alcohol, I have no interest in joining a cult of no alcohol so I’m going to continue to work hard in my life to just make alcohol irrelevant in my life, a minor footnote in my past, and make sobriety my natural state. Pretty revolutionary thinking there, huh? Making your natural state your natural state? Thanks, it feels good to be a hero.
I will never make alcohol irrelevant in my life. Sobriety will never be effortless for me. I will asymptotically approach these two ideals, but I will never reach them. That’s okay. I will get closer to them than I am now. That’s good enough.
On the subject of addiction, here are a few words from my failed book proposal. May they help you on your way:
The scorpion is asleep. Life is pretty sweet right now. When I run under the blazing hot sun until I’m exhausted or find a smelly dog on the street in Mexico and scratch that tickle spot that makes its leg skitter and it sheds all over the clean shirt I just put on or when I make my sister’s kids laugh in the back seat of the car by singing bathroom songs, good, healthy blood runs over this sleeping scorpion, softening its armor, turning its thick black shell walnut brown, then rich, racehorse brown, then liver and finally pink, slowly eroding it and dissolving it, absorbing its minerals and proteins back into my body.
But when I get a whiff of Jameson or take certain types of cold medicine or get too angry or tired or depressed, it twitches uneasily in its slumber, its tail writhing minutely, its pincers digging ever-so-slightly into my spinal cord. I live in fear of what will happen if that evil little fucker ever wakes up.
The Jameson thing, I get. I’m an alcoholic. I have been for a long time and the common wisdom is that I will be one for the rest of my life. The scorpion stirring in its arachnid dreams when alcohol vapor hits my sinuses is a purely chemical reaction. But this vile crustacean/ arthropod/ dinosaur/ demon wakes for other things, too: pornography, video games, Ebay, Facebook… even a fucking Snickers bar. Crack, methamphetamine, heroin—they’re huge. Ounce for ounce, each of them is more destructive than enriched uranium. You can’t ridicule someone crushed under that avalanche of pleasure. But a fucking candy bar? The smaller the thing that diminishes one, the smaller one is by comparison. A woolly mule of a man, 6’5”, 215 pounds, a man who has broken bones by accident and on purpose… laid low by a piece of candy? You gotta be kidding me. It’s too pathetic to even be a punchline.
This spiny black abomination, it’s not some rare tropical parasite that wormed its way inside me. It’s not a hive of nanobots implanted by an elite squadron of secret UN commandos, it’s not a malign interplanetary virus injected into me by some universe-hopping alien scientist. Cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom, I built this monstrosity, one miniscule bad decision after another. It’s a devil of my own creation, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, my mistakes incarnate. Now I have to live with it as it lives within me and try to slowly wear it down before it wears me down. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets. [end]
(a little rant I wrote on Wednesday about Boston)
Yesterday, looking at pictures of the aftermath of the terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon made me cry. Today, it’s making me angry.
No matter how hard you train, no matter how experienced you are, no matter how many marathons you’ve run, the easiest a marathon ever gets is “really difficult.” On a bad day, it’s a long, painful, demoralizing nightmare.
For me, the attack on the Boston Marathon is a dark inversion of the attack on Newtown. We found that act of terrorism so horrifying because Adam Lanza attacked children — the nascent beginning of humanity with nearly infinite potential. The bombing of Boston is horrifying because someone attacked the complete opposite end of the spectrum — the human spirit at its furthest extension, humanity at its most hopeful and evolved, its acme.
A marathon is competition at its best, at once both a very scientific and a very primal contest. Beneath the finicky laboratory calculations of VO2 max and lactate threshold, beneath the calorie-rich superfuels that seem to have nothing in common with real food, beneath the futuristic and flashy footwear, a marathon is based on a concept we understand on a cellular level. The fundamental question is the same now as it was when we fled predators and pursued our prey on the open plains: Who can run the fastest?
Maybe I’m biased, but I think this first sport is also the best one. It’s the most democratic as it requires no license or dedicated field or club membership. It requires no special equipment, no trained pony or parachute. It requires no training– you just run and that’s it, you’re doing it. If you do it enough, it can transform your life.
I ran my first NY marathon in 2010, a year and a half after getting sober. I was injured and could barely run so I was in the back with an Asian man with a white beard down to his chest and a man with one leg. We all finished and we all felt like heroes. Why wouldn’t we? We ran the same course that the world record holder, Haile Gebrselassie, had run earlier. It just took us a little longer.
If you’re lucky enough to run a marathon, you will gain intimate, firsthand knowledge that 26.2 miles tests the very limits of what the human body can do.
At the starting gun, you look around, sizing up the competition: I can beat them. By mile 22, you are united in your suffering. Competition against other runners went out the window long ago — you’re now banding together just to beat the marathon.
In that brief moment between when you first glimpse the finish line and when you finally throw yourself across, you realize that you are about to complete something you swore you couldn’t do. Time doesn’t slow down as much as it stretches like taffy. In those few seconds, suddenly, the potential to be superhuman becomes real. We realize that if we can do this– something which we were previously sure was impossible– then surely we can be a little more patient, a little more forgiving, a little bit nicer.
It seems that desire to do more, to be better is what those bombs were intended to destroy.
Those bombs failed. Hope will always triumph over fear, over despair. Just as New York came roaring back after 9/11, this vile, cowardly act won’t break the city of Boston or the human spirit of competition.
As a friend of mine who ran a personal record at Boston this year put it: “My marathoning days are not over. Far from it. I feel like running every marathon I can find with two middle fingers in the air.”
I’m going out on Saturday to run a Boston Marathon through my town, New York City. I’ll run with anyone who wants to join me or I’ll run it alone. I’ll be running for Lu Lingzi, Martin Richard, Krystle Campbell and their familes. I’ll be running for the other victims injured by the bombs, the first responders, and the everyday heroes who ran towards the blast and not away from it. But I’ll also be running a marathon for the marathon itself.
Cowards tried to destroy this gathering of the globe’s best athletes, a race runners just call “Boston.” Those cowards failed. This year’s Boston Marathon may be the biggest and best ever because it won’t have just taken place on April 15 in Boston. We will be running it all year long, all over the world, to show them that they never got us down, that people who care about people outnumber the cowards, and that we will never give up.
I GOT A HUGE LUCRATIVE BOOK DEAL WITH A GREAT PUBLISHING HOUSE! WOOHOO!
No, I didn’t. April Fool’s. Arrrgh.
As some of you may know, I’ve been laboring on a book proposal for about the last eight months. It was a huge project for me and I put everything else in my life on hold. There was interest from several big publishing houses so it was a pretty exciting time. We sent it out for auction in February. I was looking forward to being romanced by the editors from the various publishers: you know, the steak dinners, the sunset massages on a helicopter, being bathed in cocaine in the VIP room of the best strip clubs in New York City, etc.
I got word back from my agent a couple of weeks ago that no one was interested. I didn’t even get one crappy, lowball offer. My old pal Zack happened to be over. I flung myself dramatically down on my bed—“I can’t go on!” Zack poked me a couple of times and then said “Mishka, I still have the same amount of pity for you that I’ve always had. Which is to say, very little.” What a jerk.
And he’s right. It’s been an amazing couple of years. Nearly everything I’ve done has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. It may be the right time for me to encounter a little adversity just to keep my feet on the ground and my head small enough to fit in my hat that is so old that it’s starting to smell like an old shoe.
What went wrong? Well, I’m my worst critic so when I got the news, I just said to myself “People are finally waking up to the fact that the Emperor has no clothes, that I can’t write at all, that I’m a talentless hack who should have stuck to pouring drinks and checking IDs. I’ll call Beauty Bar and see if I can get my old job back.” My friends, being my friends, said “Fuck the entire publishing industry, they don’t know anything about writing, they’re relics from a bygone era, you’re unstoppable, you’re the future, no wonder they didn’t get it!”
Having had a little time to think about it, I think the truth lies somewhere in the middle. I do think that the paper publishing industry may perceive me as exclusively an Internet phenom and they’re unsure of how my success via Amazon will translate to sales of paper books. I think that’s dumb. I think they’re showing the same insight, perception and creativity that the record industry displayed thirteen years ago when music started going digital, which is why a lot of folks who used to work in the music industry are living in their Moms’ basements and walking dogs for a living now. And also: you don’t get to be an editor at a big publisher without knowing your shit. I strongly believe that the editors who read my proposal passed on it because they saw something I missed. If they passed on it, it’s because the proposal is flawed. So I need to go back and take another good hard look at the proposal—over two hundred pages, the longest thing I’ve ever written, ever!—and fix it.
It sucks. It’s embarrassing and it’s a well-placed kick in the balls of my confidence. But hey, it ain’t cancer. I think I’m gonna leave it alone for six months and then return to it with fresh eyes. In the meantime, I wrote words and tracked vocals for a song composed and arranged by the super-talented Erik Nickerson, I’m working on some new music with fellow violence enthusiast Ben Lebovitz, I wrote a little vignette for a horror movie for Damien Paris, I’m doing a comic book with Jed Collins and another with the guy who had the misfortune to live with me when I was twenty, I’m working to get audio versions of my Kindle Singles up for sale, I’m working on a couple of pieces of short fiction… and I’m starting work on another Kindle Single for Amazon. Huh, maybe it’s good that no one wanted the book…
Lots of folks have been incredibly supportive both while I’ve been blowing off personal engagements while I was writing long hours and in the last couple of weeks when I’ve been depressed about not getting a Benz. 1) THANK YOU and 2) enough is enough. Time for me to get back to work. Please forgive me again as I resume failing to respond to your emails/ texts/ calls, etc.
To purse employment in a creative field is to sign up for a life as a professional failure. As writers, actors, painters, musicians and so on, we fail more often than we succeed. It only makes the success that much sweeter when it comes. So I accept this unsold book proposal as a necessary step in writing a good book. Onward!
Yesterday, a couple of old friends and I drove up to Great Barrington, MA for the 20th anniversary of a shooting at our college campus that claimed two lives and touched countless others. We got the news from Sandy Hook in bits and pieces throughout the day, before and after our own memorial. We felt shock and horror and also cruel irony– this bizarre terror was unfolding again, today, on the very day of the 20th anniversary of a much smaller, much less horrifying horror that we were still trying to get over, twenty years later?
I took shit for talking about gun control on December 15th, 1992 and I’ll take more shit on that subject today, 20 years later. Evil has existed as long as humanity has existed. Bad, senseless things happened long before a sensationalist media made celebrities and sex symbols out of murderers, long before violent movies and video games, long before guns existed, long before the Bible existed. I don’t understand killing strangers and children and I can’t imagine that I will ever be able to understand it. I don’t think that we have to understand it. But we do have to understand that evil exists and do what we can to prevent it and to limit its destruction.
You may not know that yesterday, not one but two schools of small children were attacked. In Sandy Hook, 28 people died, including 20 small children. In Chengping, 22 children were injured. No one died. Nine children were admitted to the hospital. Only two of them had serious injuries. In China, the disturbed man had a knife. In Sandy Hook, the disturbed man had an arsenal. I can’t think of a simpler or more obvious argument for gun control.
Below is what I read at Simon’s Rock yesterday. Re-reading it, it seems woefully inadequate to deal with the sadness and grief we all feel about Sandy Hook. Words– that’s what we’re left with? But that’s all I have to contribute. I can only hope they bring some small measure of comfort:
We’re here because, twenty years ago, something happened here, something that touched us and left its mark on us and we’re here because, twenty years later, we still haven’t been able to understand it. Yes, we are here to celebrate and mourn the lives of Galen and Nacunan. We are here to cherish the lives of Tom and Matt and Josh and Theresa, respect the hardships their injuries brought on them and give thanks that their lives were spared. Our grief may have dulled but there is lasting, vexing puzzlement. For all our precocious smarts, we’re perplexed, even now, twenty years later. It doesn’t make sense and we don’t understand and we can’t make it make sense that we don’t understand.
When I was invited to say something at this memorial, I felt both honored and grossly unqualified. I didn’t know Nacunan at all. Though Galen and I both lived in Kendrick, I didn’t know Galen well and I’m fairly sure he didn’t think much of me. At fifteen, I was kind of a lout and Galen had a low tolerance for bullshit. I recall one night when I came home drunk and was locked out, he showed me how to pop the lock on my door with my student ID so I could get in, a skill that has proved useful over the years. Another time, he helped me with a physics question. God, I was totally hopeless in Physics. I remember him taking a minute to help me when I was studying in the Kendrick kitchen even though we weren’t in Physics together, didn’t live on the same hall, didn’t hang out, really had no connection. I remember my surprise that he was helping me and I remember the ease with which he grasped the nature of the problem and I remember my surprise when he explained it so I could understand it. But, of course, I can’t remember what the problem was. I really, really wish that I could.
The semester after the shooting, I asked my roommate about Galen, because I felt like I hadn’t known him at all and I wanted to. My roommate told me that Galen was smart, which further intimidated me as I was already wondering how and why I had slipped through the administration’s careful screening process and made it in despite being about as smart as a pair of ice skates. January of ’93 was a great time to question everything: why had we come to Simon’s Rock in the first place? Why did Simon’s Rock exist? Did Simon’s Rock deserve to continue to exist? My roommate shared with me a gem of theoretical physics that Galen had explained to him, the concept of a supersphere.
Close your eyes. No, seriously, close your eyes. You are sitting in a dark room. It is January of 1993 and you are fifteen years old, sitting in a cheap plastic chair in the northwestern-most room on the second floor of Kendrick dormitory. You are sitting in the dark, looking at the crack between your door and its frame where they join each other on a vertical axis. A hollow, illuminated circle passes slowly from left to right on the other side of the closed door. What do you see through the crack? Well, it’s a hollow circle so you would see one point of light that becomes two points of light that evenly diverge, rapidly at first, then slower, then they appear to hesitate for a split second at the apogee of their arcs before slowly and then rapidly returning to their place of origin, becoming one again, and then disappearing. So that’s a circle: two moving points. Keep your eyes closed.
Now an illuminated sphere is going to pass by the crack in your door. What will you see? You will see a point that evenly extends itself both up and down, rapidly at first, then slower. The line hesitates at its full extension before slowly and then rapidly shrinking to a single point and then disappearing. Still with me? Keep your eyes closed.
When an illuminated circle passed by the door of your Simon’s Rock dorm room in the nadir of the winter in January of ‘93, you saw two moving points. The crack between your door and the doorframe reduced the circle to two points. When a sphere passed by your Simon’s Rock dorm room door, you saw a line that grew and then receded. The crack reduced the sphere to a line. I hope you can see where I am going with this.
Now, if an illuminated supersphere were to pass by your Simon’s Rock dorm room door while you happened to be there, sitting, watching, waiting with the lights out… you would see a point become a line and then a circle and then, magically, a three dimensional sphere. Imagine it, hovering there in the darkness of your room, shivering with Brownian motion and looking very much alive. Let’s leave it there for a second. Open your eyes.
I don’t think about the shooting every day. Far from it. I’ve moved on, as have we all. Very occasionally, I think about Nacunan, someone I know only as a photograph, a face smiling brightly in black and white, just a concept of a human being and I wonder what the world lost, what I lost by never knowing him. I think of Theresa and Thom and Matt and Josh, all of whom I knew but none of whom I was particularly close to, and I wonder how they are getting on with their lives, my classmates all grown up now, as I am. Yes, occasionally, I think about Wayne Lo, mostly with pity and disgust and a little morbid curiosity but nothing remotely approaching fear, like a piece of roadkill. As threatening as he appeared twenty years ago, he’s now just a small man with a bad haircut, mentally and physically divorced from the world and its living, moving reality, harmless and irrelevant and only becoming more so each day.
I think about Galen the least of all because, twenty years later, I still can’t bear to. When people die, their absence at first seems unreal, as present as they are in your mind. You literally cannot believe they are gone. As time wears on, that last image you have of them clouds a little, like a Polaroid fading with age. My friend Jacob was 28 when he died and I was 24. He has stayed 28 in my mind and I have grown past him; now some of his seriousness and some of his concerns feel dated, even petty compared to my own 35 year old concerns, very much those of a 28 year old. Of the people I’ve lost, Galen alone appears to have aged with me. Whenever I cannot prevent myself from thinking about him, he always seems a little older than me, a little more experienced, a little smarter and definitely a bit of a wiseass for it. I can see him helping me with something, his eyes twinkling, a kind smile on his face but really only a hair away from rolling his eyes at my hopelessness.
Yes, I am here because the shooting still bothers me and it bothers me that it bothers me. Once I left Simon’s Rock, I had the good fortune to meet people who had survived far worse tragedies, or a comparable tragedy at a younger age, or a series of worse tragedies at a younger age and still make it through as whole, good people. It compelled me get on with my life and it also made me feel bad for feeling so bad each December.
Then this summer, I was visiting Jay Sauerbrei in London, a trip I had been promising to make for seventeen years. He looked exactly the same as he had twenty years ago when I first met him, wearing a baseball hat and driving a little red Ford Escort, sneaking us in to the gym for middle of the night murderball games, the coolest RA—he used his hall money to throw a big drunken party for the kids he was “supervising.” While I was in London, we both read Sarah Tomlinson’s piece about the shooting, to my mind the first piece published about the shooting by a Simon’s Rocker. I confessed to Jay that I felt guilty about still feeling sad about the shooting.
Jay grinned at me. “Mishka,” he said, “I was supposed to go on a road trip with Galen that winter break. A couple of days after the shooting, I was in touch with Galen’s parents. With their permission, Galen’s friend Justin and I went into Galen’s room. Justin took a Swiss Army knife that had belonged to Galen. I took a T-shirt. I still have it.”
“Jesus, you still have it?” I said.
“I wear it a couple times a year,” Jay said. “It still fits me perfectly.”
The illuminated supersphere is still hovering in the hallway outside a Simon’s Rock dorm room in that darkest winter of 1993. A young man and a boy smile forever in black and white photographs, forever a teacher and a student. A T-shirt still fits a young man perfectly, as it fit his dead friend perfectly twenty years ago. The events of December 14th, 1992 are as resolutely perplexing now as they were then, an unsolvable equation. The meaning of that loss we endured is the supersphere on the other side of the door. We are unable to parse it directly because it is too powerful, too strange. To glimpse just the slightest aspect of it—anger, fear, sadness, rage, love, regret, pain—uses up all the powers of perception we have.
Wish though we might, that night can’t be undone. Its unknowability has persisted for twenty years and will go on, dwindling in importance only minutely each year as the cycle completes each December, like the half-life of a radioactive particle. I take a weird kind of comfort in the fact that something still stumps me, still grieves me this much, twenty years in. If you think about it, there is something deeply valuable in knowing that we will not be able to comprehend everything in this universe with our intellects or these measly five senses that we’ve been given. It means that the universe is still full of mystery and of magic.
And that, in a nutshell, is why we came to Simon’s Rock in the first place, and Simon’s Rock needs to continue existing, why the goofy, oversmart misfit kids need to keep coming here. We came here for the supersphere, for Kendrick, for midnight games of murderball in the gym, to make friends that will last a lifetime, to learn how to break in to your dorm room, to break the fucking rules, man, and usually get away with it, to read a book or two, to learn that you can read every single book in the library, mine the brains of every brilliant academic on staff and that there will still be some shit you just cannot figure out.
I choose to frame the existence of the unknowable– that meaning we know exists but are unable to observe directly– as a net positive. I like to think that the people we lost twenty years ago tonight, Galen Gibson and Nacunan Saez, the student and the teacher, as they will each be forever frozen in time, could get behind this vision: a universe that, even now, overflows with mystery and with magic. To wonder why is a state of grace. It means we’re alive and it’s why we are here.
rare West Coast tour coming up with solo shows in Olympia & Seattle, a weeklong residency in Portland, OR and a reading in LA! Details are below.
Fri, Nov. 2nd at Comet Tavern
922 East Pike Street
Seattle, WA 98122
unhappy hour! 6pm only $5
Sat, Nov. 3rd at 4th Avenue Tavern
210 East 4th Avenue
Olympia, WA 98501
w/ Sasparilla Only $5! I play at 9:30
RESIDENCY AT CRYSTAL HOTEL in PORTLAND, OR!!!
Sun, Nov. 4th – Sat, Nov. 10th **FREE**
303 S.W. 12th Street, Portland, OR 97205
every night at 7pm with special guests:
11/4 Angels & Airwaves
11/5 Lincoln’s Beard
11/6 Roots Vein
11/7 Henry Kammerer (Hillstomp)
11/8 Michael Dean Damron
11/9 Vinny D.
In case I haven’t inundated you with this already… I was the subject of a very in-depth, deeply cool Huffington Post piece. The writer, Cynthia Ellis, was very cool, even inquiring if Freshkills was one word or two. I got to do a fancy schmancy photoshoot with super talented photographer Leslie Hassler, who has also shot Ice Cube, Sasha Grey and Han Solo I mean Harrison Ford. I’d like to think that the influence of all three of those compelling actors is evident in my writing…
The profile is here
Read more by Cynthia Ellis here
See more of Leslie Hassler’s images here
Mock ‘Bukowski with a bass guitar’ in the comments below…
I played a coupla unreleased songs and got into a spirited debate with hosts Judy McGuire and Mike Edison and guest Mike Albo (also a Kindle Singles author/ performer/ freakshow like me) about digital publishing, the effects of e-readers on hardbacks, reality TV and how stupid the Olympics are. For my troubles, I got a ginger ale and some pizza. This is my second time on their show and I’m always stunned by how topical, articulate, well-informed and funny they are. I was a stuttering ape, as usual. I did get off one good big-boob analogy though…
You can download the entire show here
So we just uploaded a bunch of my old jams to the website today, songs that I haven’t listened to in a long time, songs that I’ll have to relearn for an upcoming residency in Portland. Am I conflicted about ‘em? Hell yeah– it’s hard to find a song on How To Make A Bad Situation Worse that doesn’t explicitly praise alcohol. But… I think they’re good songs. And though I’m glad that I’ve moved on, to pretend that my wasted years didn’t happen would be erasing most of my life. So here they are– enjoy ‘em, with a grain of salt. It’s not who I am, it’s who I was. And for God’s sake, they’re songs, not an instruction manual. Okay? Okay.
I first met Jed in Athens, Ohio when I blacked out at his house. Like most of my favorite folks, we didn’t immediately hit it off. I thought he was just a weird bird of a guy. After a while, he ended up being one of the people I sought out when I went to Athens. I remember sharing a nice bottle of Cold Duck with Jed on the street one night after he had gotten kicked out of The Union.
Flash forward a coupla years. Jed moves to Queens and happens to be looking for a new place to live when the apartment below me opens up. So he and then his excellent girlfriend Marseilles move in downstairs. Turns out Jed is a pretty awesome cartoonist. Here’s a coupla images he illustrated for a comic version of Are You Lonesome Tonight? that we ended up abandoning. I hope to collaborate with him on a comic book version of one of my unpublished story if he ever gets his shit together. Jed, get your shit together! And get mine together while you’re at it…
Added on 15 July 2012
© 2013 Mishka Shubaly