Thank God.

It's such a dark period between October and March, when we lose that hour and its black outside at 5 and snowing sadness and there's no baseball. Now, i'm beginning to see the light.



Spring training is officially underway. Go Royals.

Only Halfway Home

Besides eating life-sized chocolate penguins, few things make me happier than the idea of airing something like this short film about Levon Helm on MTV in primetime, preferably in between episodes of "True Life: I'm a 16 year old pregnant basehead with a million dollars" and "like, watch me barf or whatevs." Levon Helm must have had millions of dollars at multiple points in his career, which may or may not have all been spent on treatment for his throat cancer, which almost cost him his voice entirely- but is Levon tooting pounds of flour up his nose with Robbie Robertson and sleeping in an inflatable pool of mardi gras beads and big, american breasts? Maybe. But i see him up on the tractor and saying things like "where'd you bring that buick in from, buddy" and i'm in it 100%.



This is the man that brought you The Last Waltz, the undisputed greatest single rock movie/concert in the universe. And he's harvesting grain. He's having a can of coke. He wants to.

As a side note, i don't know when or if i'm coming back to this blog, but do check in once a week or month for project updates from the flight deck, if you're so inclined. I'll do my best to see that there's at least a howdy-doo for you until i've settled on the next big thing. Until then, hang tight. Keep the faith. Gracias.

Sir Couchalot

Well, school's back in session these days, and where am i? Well, couchside watching the history channel, of course. Indeed, the graduate has arrived at last. And just how long can his silence and abstinence from all mediums of written word outside of the tv guide go on? Well, according to "Byron," the greatest sharpshooting archer in the world, who i just saw shoot an aspirin out of the air with a bow and frickin' arrow, i think my break from writing could last between 2 and 2,435 weeks. That sounds about right. Fear not though, faithful weston-ites and queen elizabeths. While my online interests may be waning, a full-scale music project is in the works, and i'm considering a mandatory-writing project, perhaps a series of album reviews, to debut as soon as i think about it longer than thirty seconds just now.



Until then, why don't you do what i've been doing, and watch videos of Bobby McFerrin on youtube until your brain turns into a geoduck and the chinese food delivery guy starts asking if you're going to be okay. Why do you have to be good at math to run a baseball team, anyway? What is that guy talking about?

I'll be back. Someday soon. Probably.

I'll Have What He's Having

Tall order, sir.

Tony Stamolis

Tony Stamolis is a California-born photographer turned New Yorker, earning some pics in the New York Times, Rolling Stone, Maxim, and a million other, artsier magazines that i'll never hear of again. His recent book, Frezno, highlights some of the seedier images of his hometown, now the sixth-largest city in the Golden State. From nude portraits to bushes full of upside-down shopping carts, he's hot on the trail of contemporary suburban Americana.

Check out his portfolio here. Or read about his new(ish)book here for more.