A new puppy, droopy-eyed figurines, and the looming collapse of the world… we’re starting there. Then we spiral: tech bros and golden shit emojis, digital fingers, the slippery fate of my auto-fiction, and the unstoppable velocity of words as tubes through the multiverse.

Sex-positive confessions from 1991, hardened resolves jerking intentions around coffeehouses, blow-up co-pilots, and black holes in love and sobriety collide with Harry Hay’s radical histories, AIDS, Elizabeth Taylor, and Jesse Jackson’s California campaign. Are you here? Did you drink last week? Here and now.

Crying over a new puppy, suburbs, and a generation mostly gone. Dancing on dresses, winking at delivery, and inviting you into the tube of my velocity: D.V.D. at test tube baby dot C.A.

Music beds, instrumentals, high-concept auto-fiction, and everything in between. Full-time work, full-time chaos, full-time me. Step in. Step close. Or don’t. Just try to keep up. You're already behind.