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NEWS FLASH!!!
Please feel free to e-mail me any hate mail, death threats, proposals of undying love, laundry lists, fan mail, questions, curiosities or reviews at:

[email protected]



This, as you might infer, is my portfolio, and as such it contains my works.
This is fairly self explanitory.
In any case, I'm an American writer, based in Carson City Nevada, a very small town butted up against the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
It's very hot here, and thats about all I can say.

(Fingers Counting)
1..2..3..4..5
Ah!
May 5, 2204 (I'm fairly sure that should be 2004..f-ing un-coordinated fingers...)
In any case, a new entry to this damned 'MY PORTFOLIO' thing. If it's just going to sit there and be useless, always the same. Like some goddamned Bob Hope or Casey Casum clone (for those of you in the UK, perhaps we'll use the IRA/Brit war as an apt example of 'always the same') clone, then I'll make it change.
'Cause I can do that. It's MINE
I sit again writing, a boring day at work. Driving from this end of the desert to that end of the desert.
Dropping off blueprints of houses to be built upon the desert.
Making my job that much harder because, no longer can I recognize the desert.
(Footnote: I'm not spellchecking or ReVising This ent;rY, so don't G3et all C@(RI(*TY"P:I@CAL)))))))
I'm very drunk, from 6 or so CROWN CZAR 1 half Vodka, 1 half Sunny Delight!
The best imitation, synthetic, completely unrealistic-
-like the current administrations outlook-
- of Orange Juice Concentrate there is!
And I'd like to tell you all that...
nothing makes sense, I've had a bad day.
inebriated as I am,
it still blows

November 21, 2004
It's funny how you return to things, you know? You'll be walking down your hall one day, and you'll pass a picture on the wall.
Now, you've seen this picture a hundred times, you've passed it at the same time, every day, for uncountable months and years.
And yet, on that PARTICULAR day, you find yourself stopping and looking at it again.
Did something change about it?
Is there something new?
Or did you notice something you hand't before?
No.
You simply stopped and looked at it. It's familiarity seemed refreshing.
It's consistency a sudden surprise. As if you're brain shouted to you as you sauntered by, "Hey man, look! That picture is STILL there! Isn't that f@cking amazing!"
And you stopped, and you looked. And you found yourself agreeing.
So now, I walk by my computer every morning. And depending on how the hangovers taken me for the day, I'll sit down and plod around the keys, trying to find the combinations my mind wants to hear. And I'll forget about the regularity of it.
Then all of a sudden I'll read something, right? It's been there all along, I may have even read it before. But it just, it strikes me. Like a bullet between the eyes it strikes me, and I'm shocked, y'know?
I just can't believe I didn't study this before, that I didn't devote a day to just UNDERSTANDING it.
I read some work today, by a few of the talented authors that this Purple Park is lucky to have. And I found, well, I guess I found that I don't need to be quite AS cynical as I often am.
I probably still will be, but I don't HAVE to be. The art form is not dead, there are those that will carry the torch and keep it lit. Those that will flee from book tours and signings should they recieve that highest honor of publishing.
There are some of us still, that right out of love for the form, without need for change or vitality.
I do not need to chase a fad, I do not need to become one.
I only need to share my words, and expose in stark reality the way some of us still live. Shut in, away, or dancing in the sun, we print our little thoughts and desires here for some to read.
And the world is so lucky that we do, all of us. Even those untalented hacks I spit derision on. I hate them for their lack of creativity, their unfortunate absence of a spark of talent.
But I love them, truly, for their attempts. Would that my drunken hateful body could embrace those that still climb a mountain they will never ascend. I would, and carry them, at the least, to a vantage where they might view such beautiful creations, if not help in shaping them.
The world still needs this art, it needs a warped mind, or one filled with natural splendor. It needs us to flare the flame of passionate thought, of love and hate and curiosity. Without writers, we only have pictures.
Paint and color sprawled on a page, worth a thousand words they say. But its only worth a thousand, and we have infinite to give.

Cheers to all the scribes, penners, writers, wannabes, screw-ups, hacks, and souless money-grubbers. In your true art forms, and your lacadasical attempts, and even your disgusting races for the almighty dollar, do you do a service still.
We write, because the world needs more than a thousand words to understand itself.
It needs all you can give it.

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