I believe in finding a new God when the one you have isn’t working for you. It’s entirely possible to outgrow your God, and when that day comes, it’s important to let that God go and find a new one.

J went off to find a new God. We didn’t speak for about a year after the band broke up, and though I’d planned to hold the grudge as long as I could, when I heard he was working as a line cook at a restaurant in the city, the realization that he had not only left me, but music entirely, suddenly made me aware that it wasn’t about me, or any of the grievances aired in those final days when we sat across a patio table, ripping through packs of cigarettes and deliberating how to sell the van and close a business that felt more like an eight-year-long road trip.

I don’t know who reached out to whom, but we made plans, and I took the train from Long Island to Penn Station. I walked to his restaurant because years on the road had erased whatever minimal knowledge I once had of the subway lines. I texted, and he clocked out and met me out front.

We embraced.

I missed him.

Back when we were touring, J had been my cultural ambassador. I’ve always been the type to keep my headphones on and dodge my own family at the supermarket, whereas J could hold a two-hour conversation with everyone from the unhoused man in the alley behind the club to the lead singer of the headlining band five minutes after arriving on day one. As a result, he knew where to eat in each city, what to see, and what records we needed to be up on. I was a ball of anxiety, unsure of who I was, and he was a lighthouse for all things good, a calm in my storm.

J’s friends met us outside the restaurant. They chain-smoked cigarettes as they plotted the night. Names of places were thrown out and options deliberated, all of which was Hebrew to a suburb dweller like me. Once the very loose plan was set, we ventured back to J’s apartment.

It was a new building, and a fairly nice one at that, which I didn’t expect for someone who had just started over. J told me to follow him as he went to grab a change of clothes, and I made my way through the large living area, enamored by the tall windows and ceilings. Just around the bend from the impressive kitchen, he pulled back a curtain, revealing a space not large enough for a twin bed. There was a cot on the floor and scattered clothes strewn about. This was his room, a small subdivision separated by nothing but a long piece of cloth in an apartment that likely had other segmentations I’d yet to discover.

I walked toward the couch while J changed his shirt. On the television was an older white man with salt-and-pepper hair tossing back beers with a group of people who looked like natives of the clearly foreign land he was visiting. He was friendly and intelligent, asking questions and eager to learn, with a big, beaming smile. I was drawn to it immediately.

“What is this?” I asked one of J’s friends.

“You don’t know Bourdain?”

I did not, in fact, know Bourdain. And judging by the way it was asked, I felt like I was supposed to be ashamed that I didn’t. I don’t know if I got an answer or if I just blacked out from embarrassment, but it was clear that this man was their messiah. He was the prototype. J emerged from behind the curtain and rattled off the episodes I needed to see, and it was inspiring to watch him glow again. This time, not because of some record he’d dug out of a crate in a random record store in the Midwest, but because of this stranger who loved food and people. This was his new North Star.

In the night that followed, we visited more places than I usually go to in a whole month, eating and drinking well into the early hours of the morning. It was one of the best nights of my life, and I told J that the next day, accompanied by an apology for my part in the demise of our prior life. He reciprocated, and thus began a beautiful chapter where I visited him, and we ate and went to shows and lived life in a way we couldn’t when we slept beside each other in sleeping bags on the floor of the van in Walmart parking lots.

There’s a clip of Will Poulter reflecting on his experience working on The Bear, where he claims that food is the most complete human art form—how acting appeals to sight and sound, but cooking gives you access to sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch.

And so this week, I’ll go see Tony. I know his fans say he would’ve hated it. I know his own brother hasn’t watched it and is unsure he ever will. But I want to see it because last week I made Sunday gravy, and as I leaned over the pot, I breathed in an entire childhood. I set aside some jars for Tanika next door, who lit up when I knocked on her door and told me my timing was perfect, as she was planning to make manicotti that week. I’ll go see Tony because it will remind me of the day my friend introduced me to his new God.

The first route to take is to surrender fully to the feeling and fall victim to the temptation to bottle its magic. In the moment, it will seem like a great idea, and the chase may be fun, and you may learn something along the way, but the result will always be lukewarm. I’ve never left a session that started with, “Let’s write a song like ———,” and felt it was a day well spent.

The one exception is when it’s used as a matchstick — an initial flame to light a bigger fire. If in attempting to recreate someone else’s magic, an accident happens that takes you down another path, you must obey that path. The diversion is the destination. A moment of true inspiration born out of admiration for someone else’s witchcraft. If you take that road, you will be okay. If you ignore it, and you stay the course trying to master someone else’s sorcery, you’ll find yourself cursed.

The second option is to ignore it. Love the hell out of that song, but disregard the temptations to poach from it. What will happen is that it’ll come out of you anyway, through your own twisted filter, and you won’t even know it. You’ll play your song for a friend and maybe they’ll say, “kind of reminds me of a weird version of ——“ and you’ll laugh, thinking to yourself of course it does. But it’ll be out of your system, and you can go on living your life.

The last option is to bow at the alter of that song and pay tribute. To acknowledge you can’t improve upon it, and accept that the best you could possibly do in thieving its ingredients would result in something boring and watered down.

So you leave it as is, and you treat it like a prayer to be recited, word for word.

And you do the only thing you can….

You cover it.

Waxahatchee’s “Right Back To It” has had its grip on me for years now. The song is medicine to me. I can feel my brain and body shift from the very first chord. My take on it is not needed. I did not attempt to reinvent it or expand upon it. I simply needed to have some fun and get it out of my system.

enjoy.

Right Back To It (Waxahatchee Cover)

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My algorithm has been on a tear lately. I’m getting served a daily snapshot of cultures colliding in small, ordinary moments that feel enormous against the backdrop of global affairs. But it’s not just my algorithm, which is customizable and tuned to my taste, but also the news, which is fixed and optimized for whatever will sell ad space that day.

Outside of something like the World Cup, that cycle tends to default into a carousel of doom, posing as a cross-section of the world. It distills the arguments of the powerful men meant to represent us but often far removed from lived reality. It sharpens every division, every line in the sand, and loops a steady feed of bombs and blood.

But this World Cup feels like a loud rebuttal to that story. It keeps calling bullshit on the narrative, pointing at the constant shitstorm and suggesting it’s only one slice of a much larger whole. One small voice we’ve mistaken as the entire choir.

You don’t need to know the rules of the game to appreciate the note Iran left in their locker room, thanking Los Angeles for its hospitality and wishing peace to all. Moments like that have surfaced again and again throughout the tournament: reminders that empathy and humanity aren’t rare exceptions, but the dominant current.

Maybe I’m stating the obvious in writing about this, but it hasn’t felt obvious to me. I’ve felt division buzzing in the background for the last decade. A low, constant hum that seeps into conversations even when it isn’t the subject, draining rooms of energy without anyone naming it.

So I’ve been watching every game I can and doomscrolling without guilt, at ease while doing it.

I don’t know about you, but I needed this.

I recall having conversations with a few people after one of the shows and folks expressing gratitude for me finally getting back on stage, as it had been years since I’d performed. I remember vowing not to disappear again, and them responding, “Yeah, you always say that.”

And so there’s guilt there.

I wish there were an easy and concise way to explain the conundrums that get in the way of keeping that promise. How creating new things (my favorite aspect of being a creative) and preparing for a show are two entirely different practices with their own demands. How I got off the full-time touring train over 15 years ago, and how even committing to a single show presents a huge challenge for me.

If you’re in it, you can’t afford to stop. To stop is to not eat. I’ve watched so many friends try to find other income streams outside touring because their bodies and minds are weary and they miss sleeping in their own bed. But it’s a hard world to break out of. You get a few months off after a run, and you work your ass off to find something new. To carve out a different path. But eventually, the number in your bank account dwindles and the phone rings. The money is good, the bills must be paid, and so you pack your bags.

Oddly enough, once you’ve finally broken out, dipping a toe back in, even in the shallowest waters, becomes an incredibly consuming process. Essentially, the amount of work required to play two shows, two weeks of shows, or two months of shows is largely the same, at least as far as the musical undertaking goes. And then building the infrastructure to support that endeavor is a whole other thing.

And so I have my days when it calls to me, and I put in the effort to get back, and then life consumes me in one way or another. So consider this my apology for not keeping my word.

That said, the goal is always to make something that burns so deeply in me that I must throw all rationality out the window and just figure it out. Find extra hours outside the 24 we’re given and make it happen. Find those hours, in early mornings and late nights at home, in transit, or in hotel rooms.

And so that’s what I’ve been doing.

There are projects in the works. To speak any more about them is to risk speaking them to death, so you’ll just have to trust me.

In the meantime, for the paid subscribers here, I leave you with a B-side from a body of work I never released. And just so you know, I miss it too, and I’m trying to get back.

As always, thanks for listening.

enjoy.

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Chuy’s is a chain of restaurants that originated in Austin in 1982. But the Chuy’s in Van Horn had nothing to do with that chain because the Chuy’s in Van Horn was a unicorn. A dining experience that felt like a fever dream before the food even fully digested.

I found myself at Chuy’s about 20 years ago, back before iPhones and Google Maps. Back then you either read maps, printed directions, or had a Garmin GPS. I was in a band touring the country in a Ford fifteen-passenger van with four other guys who possessed absolutely no navigational skills, so the GPS was crucial.

The Garmin was simple. You plugged in your destination and you were on your way via 8-bit graphics and a robotic, shy version of Siri who had yet to develop a full vocabulary. There were buttons for gas, hospitals, and food. That was it. Hit the respective button and a list populated with nearby options and their distances.

Most of the time, the food button gave you the same lineup. McDonald’s. Burger King. Taco Bell. Pizza Hut. They appeared in order of distance with the mileage next to each. Because they were usually clustered around the same highway exit or tiny town, the numbers were nearly identical. McDonald’s, 6.2 miles. Burger King, 6.2 miles. Pizza Hut, 6.4 miles.

Sometimes your oasis was farther away. Maybe 16.7 miles. Maybe 26.3 if you were cutting through farmland. If you were really unlucky, like when we forgot just how empty the Pacific Northwest could be, it would say something like 45.4 miles away. Brutal.

But on this particular night, none of the familiar chains appeared.

We hit back. Pressed “food” again.

Nothing.

Only one name populated the list.

Chuy’s. 215 miles away.

The only sign of life in the next two hundred miles of highway was a place we had never heard of. The choice was simple. Either we starve to death or we go to Chuy’s.

I’m going to skip the flowery language and buildup and just tell you that if Chuy’s were still standing today, the first thing you would see upon entering would be a gigantic mural taking up most of one of the dining room walls. The mural depicted the restaurant itself and the lonely stretch of road it sat on, watched over by an enormous Jesus Christ towering above the building.

Jesus and Mexican restaurants are not exactly an unusual pairing, but the more important detail in the mural was parked directly in front of the restaurant. The tour bus of the late, great sports announcer John Madden.

And if you think that was just some random detail tucked into the artwork, you would be mistaken.

There was John Madden memorabilia everywhere. Photos, signs, bobbleheads, pendants, banners, and much more. One of the dining rooms seemed to exist entirely under the assumption that Madden might walk through the doors at any moment. A permanent table waited for him there, complete with a director’s chair bearing his literal name, positioned in front of a giant television and surrounded by even more Madden relics. Even the menu told the story, the story emblazoned on the back beginning with the line, “By the grace of God, John Madden visited our restaurant.”

Madden famously suffered from claustrophobia and a severe fear of flying, so he traveled the country in a bus known as the “Madden Cruiser.” The story goes that, much like us, he once found himself stranded along that desolate stretch of I-10 and wandered into Chuy’s hungry. He loved the food and atmosphere so much that weeks later he mentioned it in an interview, calling it one of the best meals he had ever had.

From that moment on, Chuy’s awaited the return of its savior.

Not Jesus.

John Madden.

And while they waited, they prepared diligently for his homecoming, slowly transforming their family restaurant into a shrine devoted entirely to him.

Chuy’s is gone now. And honestly, the final reviews left online are kind of heartbreaking. The place seemed to slowly disintegrate once times got hard. Google Maps now shows a whole cluster of restaurants in the Van Horn area, so maybe competition finally caught up to them. Or maybe the death of their king in 2021 was simply too much to survive.

I think about Chuy’s a lot. Mostly when I want too much. When I think about dreams that never materialized, or when I wish for more square footage, more money, or more hours in the day.

I think about Chuy’s anytime I start convincing myself that happiness exists one rung higher on the ladder.

Because inside the walls of Chuy’s, there was only Mexican food, Jesus, and John Madden.

And until it wasn’t, that was enough.

A big thank you to my friend Andrew who inspired me to write this story and reminded me that we returned to the holy land that was Chuy’s one last time in 2018 before they closed their doors. R.I.P.

He gave me a long explanation for his reasoning, but all I remember him saying was, “Covers are for cover bands. That shit is corny.” He was in a very hip hardcore band, and to his credit, they don’t really do covers in that world. But despite his advice usually being sound, I knew he was wrong about that one.

The first cover I ever heard was “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston, originally written and performed by the legendary Dolly Parton. My dad must’ve played The Bodyguard soundtrack 500 times that year, so I got very familiar with Whitney’s iconic rendition. Eventually, I heard the original version on the radio, and I had a visceral reaction. My six-year-old ears had yet to develop a taste for country music, and I couldn’t sink my teeth into Dolly’s more subdued delivery after growing accustomed to Whitney’s powerhouse of a voice.

Then there was Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” which I loved, as my first guitar was a white Stratocaster because of Jimi. I read somewhere that he was obsessed with Bob Dylan and carried around a book of his lyrics, and I eventually stumbled upon Dylan’s original rendition of the song, but had a similar experience to the Whitney and Dolly dilemma. Dylan’s voice would grow to become one of my favorites of all time, but in my teenage years, it sounded absolutely ridiculous.

In time, my tastes matured, and I began to appreciate both the cover and the original. I cried watching the music video for Johnny Cash’s rendition of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt.” I’d go back to back, cueing up Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” right after hearing the Fugees version. I found Lars Frederiksen and the Bastards’ cover of “To Have and To Have Not” and subsequently became a Billy Bragg fan.

As far as covering songs myself, it’s a beautiful meditation. It’s like taking something apart and then putting it back together, except you’ve lost half the parts, and now you have to rebuild it with whatever’s lying around your house. You’ll never replicate it, but that’s the point. That’s the fun.

I used to cover songs on tour all the time, often choosing them based on things I wanted to say but hadn’t found the words for. Someone else had said it already, and it was cathartic to borrow their words each night. I launched into an impromptu version of Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” at my old band’s farewell show at Irving Plaza. We were a mess—barely talking to each other—and I was filled with anger and bitterness. I didn’t have the words, so I borrowed them.

Now you don’t talk so loud
Now you don’t seem so proud
About having to be scrounging your next meal
How does it feel to be on your own?
To be without a home?
Like a complete unknown?

Covering songs forces me out of my own melodic inclinations and vocabulary. It rewires my brain and takes me down new roads. And more often than not, covers remind me that the most beautiful songs are simple, but brilliant. The easiest stuff is the hardest to make.

I did a few shows with a band called Eisley many years ago. They were oddballs within our music scene, just like my band. I kept up with them, and one day stumbled upon Stacy Dupree covering Fleetwood Mac’s “Silver Springs,” with some help from her husband, Darren King from the band Mutemath. I became obsessed with their rendition and love it just as much as the original.

I think my cover borrows from both Stacy’s version and the original, as I’ve been playing this song for so many years to an audience of my dogs on the couch that I’ve lost sight of which parts I took from each.

You can listen below. I hope you enjoy.

Silver Springs (Fleetwood Mac cover)

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It’s weird to state such a simple fact and expect contempt, but I’m aware of the increasing impossibility of millennial home ownership, so I anticipate the resentment. Just know there was a mix of struggle, failure, loss, and one rare moment where timing, luck, and planning aligned and resulted in this American accomplishment.

In true millennial fashion, we don’t live in the home we own. Adriana and I rent in LA, where we live, and bought a place in Portland back when it was still affordable, unlike LA, where our budget would have gotten us something closer to a decaying shoebox.

When we met, Adriana had just moved to Portland, and since I couldn’t leave LA, we compromised by building a life here while planting roots there, with the intention of eventually heading north for cleaner air and a slower tempo. Friends of friends lived in the house until recently, and after they moved out, we went up to handle painting, repairs, and all the other fun stuff.

We had a small window of time and a long to-do list, so we were pulling 12 to 14 hour days and living off PB&Js. But that got old, and on the third night, after visiting every Home Depot, Lowe’s, and Ace Hardware within a 30-mile radius of our home, we decided it was time for some real food.

Pizza was the logical choice. Adriana was driving, and she asked me to look up something that took us out of our immediate surroundings, as the Home Depot we had just left was in a very sketchy industrial area surrounded by vacant lots, decaying homes, an impressive number of strip clubs, and an unsightly, endless web of power lines hovering above.

I found a pizza spot eight minutes away. It seemed far enough outside of the darkness we were in, and the reviews were solid. Not a ton of them, but enough to legitimize the choice. I ordered our pizza via their website, and we headed to pick it up.

I noticed that after about five minutes of driving, the scenery was only getting worse, and I was a bit concerned that our pizza was actually eight minutes further into the darkness. But we persisted, eventually pulling into a dark parking lot, staring up at a big roasted red awning with faded letters reading “Bliss” in a seedy, script-like font, which was not the name of the pizza place I ordered from.

Adriana was sketched out, but I was hungry and therefore needed to stay optimistic. I told her to stay in the car, and I went out to find our pizza. I walked the perimeter but found no door in the back, so I walked into the nondescript entrance of “Bliss” to get some help.

In a dark, closet-like lobby with nothing but a counter and a cash register, I found a very large, jovial man standing in front of a jet black door. He was smiling like he had a joke he wanted to tell me.

I asked, “I’m looking for the pizza place around here?”

He smiled even bigger.

“You’re picking up a pizza? Let me check on that for you.”

He pulled open the door and disappeared to the sound of SZA’s chorus on Kendrick’s “luther.” The subs shook the floor.

I waited for a minute or two, then cracked open the door and peeked in. I locked eyes with a skinny twenty-something sliding backward down a pole. There was no one watching her dance. Just a bartender at a long bar situated at the other end of the room, a few guys casually gambling at digital slot machines, and multicolored LED lights ricocheting off the mirrored walls. It was calm. Even meditative. But my trance was broken by the door opening behind me.

“Hey!!”

A young woman in a long trench coat and flip flops stared at me for a response, but I had none. Luckily, the large man returned.

“Hey!!!” He was still brimming with smiles.

“Sorry, it’s my first day. I don’t know what to do!” She giggled.

“Oh, no sweat! It’s mine too. I’m Jake.” He opened the door for her. They were both so happy as he ushered her into the serene temple.

He then returned to me. “That pizza’s just going to be a few more minutes!”

“No problem,” I said.

At that moment, Adriana texted me. The exchange looked like this:

She pictured the darkness, but she had no idea of the light, the positivity just pouring out of this place. She didn’t know about Jake. I wasn’t leaving without this pizza.

A few minutes passed, and another burly, tall man appeared holding my pizza. He handed it to me with a sense of pride. He didn’t have to tell me, but I knew he made this pizza. I knew this was his hustle. I knew the whole story without him saying a word. How he and the owners were boys and definitely went to high school together. And how he was finally done getting high and messing around and was going to put his skills to use, and got permission from his homie to make pizzas in the back of the strip club. I was so proud of him.

I took the pizza back to the car and hopped in.

“We can get you something else if you want, but I’m eating this pizza,” I said to Adriana.

She admitted that it smelled good. We pulled out of “Bliss” and found a church parking lot across from what seemed like an abandoned house, save for the clothes draped over the front porch, like a flag squatters raised to say, “We’re in here.”

I cracked open the pizza box, releasing a glow that filled the car. We took a slice and looked at each other after the first bite. It was, without a doubt, a great slice of pizza. Possibly even the best pizza in Portland.

We housed that whole damn pizza and went home tired and full.

The next day, the schedule was the same. Up at dawn, on our feet all day, barely hanging by a thread by the time dinner rolled around. Another day of PB&Js and another day of stomachs growling and begging for something more substantial. I stood on top of a ladder, edging the walls with a final coat of paint.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” I asked Adriana.

She smiled and asked, “Strip club pizza?”

I appreciate the extra light in the evenings. I had one brief chapter as a teenager when I was a night owl, but outside of that period, I’ve always preferred the day to the night. The problem with daylight saving time is that you don’t really gain anything. It’s just borrowing light from the other side of the day, which is unf…

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More often than I’d like to admit, I find myself spiraling in a doom scroll, entertaining every possibility. The towns in Italy that will pay you to restore their historic homes. Architectural gems in the middle of Pennsylvania that can still be had for a relative steal—so long as you’re willing to turn your entire personality into “home restorer” in a town with nothing but a Pizza Hut and a Walmart. I’ve seen sprinter vans with more amenities than my house in LA, and mansions in the Midwest for less than the cost of the van—provided you don’t mind driving seven hours to the grocery store and contending with racist neighbors.

I let the couch swallow me as I imagine the different versions of myself. The tradeoffs. I could have an ocean view if I work myself into burnout. Or 3,500 square feet atop a mountain if I’m willing to handle power outages and weeks without hearing another human voice.

Last night’s trip around the world was interrupted by the realization that I had tickets to a show. I launched from my coma and rushed out. The air outside felt clean after the recent onslaught of rain. That’s a strange feeling—the sudden awareness that you can breathe better, having grown accustomed to the daily blanket of smog. If I had one of those sprinter vans, I could be breathing easy somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Or down in Baja.

I started my car and, in under two minutes, found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. No accident—just too many people. There’s probably no traffic in those Italian towns. Probably no cars either. How would I get supplies? How far is the nearest hardware store?

Twenty-five minutes later, I was in Pasadena, parked a few blocks from the former South Pasadena Elementary School—now a 500-capacity independent music venue called Sid the Cat Auditorium.

A couple of guys who’ve shaped culture in LA for over a decade decided to sink their savings into an independent venue with no outside financial backing, simply for the love of it. You feel it the minute you walk in. The bar is an old classroom. The stained glass lamps and shelves of liquor tell you it’s a bar, but otherwise you half expect arithmetic to resume on Monday morning. The auditorium still feels like a school gym, speakers mounted to the original wooden rafters, a sound engineer at the console. Without those details, you’d be waiting for a gym teacher to tell you to sit cross-legged on the floor.

All of this is a compliment. These are the marks of something independent. If anyone else were involved, the history would be erased and the soul eradicated.

This is a big deal as Pasadena is adjacent to Altadena, which had areas that were all but erased by the fires approximately a year ago. In a post-disaster landscape, it says something of the identity of the city to allow a music venue to be built in an old elementary school. It’s an indication of priorities. Back when I was living in Long Beach, New York, the town had a clean slate after Hurricane Sandy decimated it. There were still four feet of sand and debris piled in front of my apartment when the rebuild began. The first thing that was constructed? A Dunkin’ Donuts.

The other indication of priorities comes from the type of acts booked in the space. I was there to see JJerome87, the new solo project of Joe Newman of Alt-J. There was an energy in the crowd of people feeling privileged to be there, which was only echoed back by Newman once he took the stage. The show was great, and his solo music sounds like nothing I can quite compare to. After his final note rang out, while the front rows were still cheering and the back began to thin, my friend turned to me and said, “There’s only one of him,” and I’d say that accurately summed up the evening.

I headed back toward home, first driving my friend back to his apartment as he told me we’d have to avoid one of the narrow streets leading to his building because the unmanned Waymo cars keep getting stuck there and causing traffic jams. After dropping him off, I drove in silence, thinking about the show, about the old auditorium, and about this city that I’ve called home for 10 years. It’s a pain in the ass, but there’s only one.

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The soup shouldn’t cost $34
but I don’t usually shop here
so I don’t know
I was only here cause I was sick and didn’t want to cook for myself

After filling it to the brim
I weighed the container at self checkout
‘Cause I thought that’s what you do

When the screen read $34
I didn’t even question it
just sighed and reached for my wallet
as if a cop handed me a speeding ticket
but I didn’t disobey the law
and the soup shouldn’t cost $34

I flagged down a cashier
Just to be sure

She punched some buttons
then giggled at me
the screen now reading $10.99 
“we don’t do soups by weight”
she said, pitying me,
but I didn’t feel dumb

‘Cause this morning I wondered if I might get shot walking my dog
and tomorrow, I fear I may wake to a world war
and when your brain adapts to living in a state of constant disbelief
the soup might cost $34

For those that like pictures with their words…

I hope you have a great year.

I started 2026 the way I’ve begun every year for as long as I can remember: by driving to the ocean at dawn.

I visit the same Malibu bluff each year. It’s 55 minutes from my front door—more than enough time to listen to a full record. This morning, I chose The Rat Pack: Live at the Sands.

I’ve never voluntarily listened to Frank Sinatra. I say voluntarily because I was subjected to an onslaught of Sinatra in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Any time I had to visit the nearby outdoor mall to buy gifts, Sinatra was cranking. It’s non-stop Sinatra over there. There are luxury apartments above the stores, so if you can afford it, you can have Sinatra all day and night.

Maybe that’s why I chose the Rat Pack this morning. Maybe Frank got a hold of me. Or maybe it had something to do with the unfulfilled experience I thought I was going to have last night.

Last year, Adriana and I spent New Year’s Eve at Musso and Frank’s, the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, and it was perfect. The red leather booths were filled with a largely over-60 crowd—people who seemed to be carrying on a tradition that began in the golden days of Hollywood. It was somewhat magical, and the perfect way to end the year.

I tried to replicate that feeling this year by booking a reservation at a different restaurant in Hollywood that aimed to capture the same magic. It wasn’t an actual old Hollywood staple, but rather a tribute to the 50s and 60s, with a menu that paid homage to the era. There was a non-refundable deposit to secure a table, since there would also be some kind of entertainment. I assumed period-specific music—swing, maybe big band.

A few hours before leaving for dinner, I realized that when I’d booked the reservation weeks prior, I’d never actually checked the website to see what the entertainment was, so I took a look.

It was Wiz Khalifa.

No disrespect to Wiz, as this is a matter of mismatched expectations, but they could’ve resurrected Biggie and I still would’ve questioned the decision. There’s just something weird about a waiter screaming, “WOULD YOU LIKE MORE BREAD AND BUTTER?” over raps about taking molly. So we bailed and visited a sleepy oyster bar instead. There was no one there. It was perfect.

This is likely the true inspiration for my decision to spin some Sinatra before the sun was up. I was still longing for Frank.

The decision was great in how little sense it made. The rain was heavier than I anticipated, and with the sun still asleep, the low visibility while sitting in accident traffic in the downpour made it feel like I could be anywhere. Not just anywhere, though. With Frank singing to me, I was in the heart of New York City, and that felt good.

As I made my way from the 101 to the canyon road, the illusion disappeared. I swerved around chunks of rock that had fallen from the mountains above, briefly wondering if it was too dangerous to be on this road in a storm, but the thought passed quickly, as I was distracted by Dean Martin warming up the crowd with jokes I didn’t understand, but which were probably offensive.

I pulled over at a scenic overlook just before the canyon road pours out to the Pacific Coast Highway. I left the car running and stared out at the fog as it settled into the stillness of the mountain valley. Behind me, Sammy Davis Jr. was walking onstage.

Frank, Dean, and Sammy moved through the classics as I cruised PCH. It made for a strange soundtrack against the post-fire Malibu landscape—multimillion-dollar homes wedged between vacant lots that looked like the bottom of a barbecue on the Fourth of July.

I parked at the sign at Broad Beach and gave the guys a rest. They were in the middle of a raucous exchange, trading jokes as the crowd howled. I had no idea what the hell they were talking about, but people were loving it.

I looked out at the water and spoke to my dog, Forrest. He’d done this drive with me every New Year’s Day for the previous seven years. I always talked to Forrest while driving. I can’t really explain how this is different from talking to myself, but it is. Since he passed in November, I needed to find a new way to speak to him. The ocean has always felt to me like all things living and dead, so it felt right.

I told him I loved him. That I missed him. That I was sorry I couldn’t do more. I told him we decided to keep the dog Adriana had rescued off the street, and that I felt guilty about it, as I’m not ready for another dog, but I know it’s helping Adriana. We’re calling him Alfie. He’s a good boy.

I think Forrest understands. He always did.

I got back in the car and opened the sunroof, hoping the fog might find its way inside so I could take some of it home with me. I texted Adriana to tell her I was on my way. Before pulling off, I thought about 2025. Like many years that came before it, there weren’t many in-betweens—mostly highs and lows. I’ve never been good at finding the middle. I’ve always searched for peaks, and where there are peaks, there are valleys.

I’m okay with that.

I started the car, and Frank and the boys jumped right back in.

What a world. What a life. I’m in love.

Last weekend, I happened to stumble upon an old Google Drive folder that contained all the best-laid plans for the project.

In that folder, I found iPhone screens…

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I’m sure the video still exists somewhere on the internet, but it’s been at least a decade since I’ve seen it. Before YouTube became the gold standard, there was Vimeo, which hosted tons of beautiful mini-documentaries. My film school buddies would send me links to them religiously.

One of those videos documented the cyclist’s last day with his dog. The dog was old and sick and needed to be put to sleep. The details are foggy now, but I remember the cyclist was a recovered drug addict. His narration reflected on his darkest days — deadbeat friends sleeping on his couch, years lost to shame — and that throughout all of it, his dog was there. Through his most isolated and humbling hours, the dog stayed by his side. From rock bottom all the way through recovery.

No detail was spared in the video. From the needle going in to the moment the vet said, “he’s gone.” I remember that part vividly, since it was such a foreign experience to me at the time. It would be years before I had a dog of my own, and even more before I’d endure that pain myself. But something about the image of the cyclist in the rain etched itself into my subconscious like a warning.

In the days after I put Forrest down, that picture resurfaced with surprising clarity. I thought about all my friends who’d said goodbye to their dogs. It felt strange to recall that list so immediately, but it arrived all at once. One friend told me, “it’s like a club you don’t want to be a part of.”

If you’re a member of that club, you know the grief has its own distinct color. There’s no sense in weighing it against other losses, as mourning a connection that spans a decade without a single word spoken is its own category entirely.

Once the shock fades and the weakness passes through you, gratitude enters. A recognition of the peaks and valleys of the years you shared, and how different your life would have been without your friend beside you. It feels like discovering an antidote — like you’ve weathered the side effects of countless medications and finally found the one that works.

While I was grateful for every second I had with Forrest, my gratitude sharpens around one particular period. In 2020, I found myself newly single, living alone, and shut inside as the world closed. Most of my friends were newly married or new parents, unwilling to risk even a distanced walk through town. They had everything they needed inside their homes.

It’s almost laughable to scroll through my photos from that year. There wasn’t a single day we weren’t at the beach or running through the woods. There was nothing else to do and no one else to see. Forrest thrived as the world crumbled, and because of him, I was okay. I avoided any major crashes. Feeling okay became my full-time job, and Forrest was the CEO.

My stomach has made its home in my throat for now. When the sun goes down and the lamp in my living room hasn’t turned on yet, I mistake the shadows for Forrest coming around the couch, ready for our afternoon walk. I still bolt from my desk at 3 p.m., remembering I need to give him his medication. I still hear his nails on the floorboards and his steady breathing beside my bed.

It’s hard to recommend an experience this painful, but it’s only this painful because of the beauty that precedes it. I’d still give it a 10 out of 10. If you’re already part of the club no one wants to be in, my heart is with you. And to those who still have their friend by their side…

May all your dogs live forever.

In a week’s span, I spoke to more people in that 300-person town than I do in my own city of 187,000 during any given month. That’s the beautiful thing about small towns — you get more seclusion and more inclusion all at once.

There were four businesses in total: a post office, a general store, a restaurant that I never saw open, and a café. Anything outside of that was a 25-minute drive. I rented a cabin approximately 7,000 feet up and worked on music all week.

I had mostly good days, but I did find myself feeling guilty at one point upon stumbling upon a demo for a song I’d played at shows last year, remembering that I’d received messages asking when it’d see a release. I try to read my messages. Not like there’s a ton of them, but I also try to stay off my phone, so there’s a delicate tightrope there. There’s some good ones in there though. Like this question that came in recently:

Sometimes I get super nostalgic and wish I could have a song hit the same way it used to. Are there songs you aren’t able to play, for one reason or another, that you really miss playing or performing? And if there are multiple, are there different reasons why not? - Angie R.

I think the short answer is that I almost never, ever want to go backwards. I’ve tried—and failed—to harness the energy I felt during past moments or chapters, and I’m always left feeling like I’ve created a cheap version of something that was once very powerful. I’d imagine it’s similar to revisiting the place of your first date with your longtime partner and expecting to conjure the same feelings you felt then.

Even if there’s love—hopefully an even stronger and deeper love than what you felt on that first date—to summon the feelings you felt back then would be to inhabit two entirely different people. Maybe that’s a dramatic example. After all, I’m sure it’d be fun to revisit those places where I first spent time with my wife. But there’s no denying it would be a different experience altogether.

Anytime I’ve filled a set list with old songs, I’ve tried to find a new way into them. The ones that become my favorites tend to appear based on how successful I am at that practice. There were songs I loathed playing with Envy on the Coast early in our career. Lyrically, they felt juvenile, or the emotional expression of the song felt clunky. When we reunited in 2016, some of those songs became the ones I most looked forward to in the set—the subject matter now inconsequential, the experience more about the feeling of playing them and the connection with the audience.

There are some artists who make a living out of giving the audience what they want. They’ve built careers around putting on shows akin to a Vegas residency. There’s an anniversary tour for every album, a new spin on old records, and a new merch line to accompany it. Then there are artists who don’t mind disappointing the audience because they believe the best show they can give is the one they’re most excited to play. The latter have always been my favorite artists.

A few years ago, I saw Stevie Wonder for the first time. He played a medley of some of his hits but mostly did whatever he damn well pleased. Earlier this year, I saw Nine Inch Nails, who spent a chunk of their set collaborating with Boys Noize and playing remixed and re-imagined versions of some of their biggest songs. A good portion of the audience looked puzzled. I heard grumbles from people beside me who took a full 45 seconds to even figure out what song was being played.

I had the privilege of seeing D’Angelo three times before he passed. At one of those shows, he only played one of his own songs. The rest were covers. People were pissed. I assumed he was in between chapters—working on a new record that was still too fresh to share—but now twelve years past his last release. I figured he decided to play what was inspiring him in the moment. That’s the story I told myself, as I’ve been in that place before too.

I believe all of these artists found themselves in a similar place to you, Angie—wishing they could get a song to hit the way it used to—but instead of fighting that feeling, they chose to bend the song to suit who they are now, or to put it to rest.

The truth about that new song I mentioned earlier is that a few months after those shows, I found myself in a new place creatively, and I’ve felt the need to chase that. The song remains the same as when I last left it, but I need to wait until life brings the song and I back together.

One thing I do believe in is the evergreen—a song that hits every single time. Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” always washes me in a romantic nostalgia. Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” and Fleetwood Mac’s “Silver Springs” both cut me like a knife on every listen. Refused’s “The Deadly Rhythm” always makes me want to run through a brick wall, and for good measure, I’ll confess that I believe Miley Cyrus’ “We Can’t Stop” is a certified banger that hits every damn time.

Recently, a friend shared a video of a 1972 television performance of Stevie Wonder covering The Carpenters’ “Never Can Say Goodbye”. I hadn’t realized that one of my favorite Frank Ocean songs, “Close to You,” samples that very Stevie performance. I can’t really explain why, but I’ve felt the need to listen to that performance a few times each week. It’s been in my life less than a month, but I already know it’s an evergreen. It calms me, fills me with a strange sense of hope, and every time it gets to that part where Stevie smiles—around the 45-second mark—tears come to my eyes. I sat in my car yesterday, listening and watching while parked in my own driveway after a rough day, and texted that friend who shared it with me just to say thanks.

I’ve digressed quite a bit here, but I guess what I’m saying, Angie, is that some songs always hit, some lose their luster, and others just seem to be waiting their turn to be dusted off and appreciated the way they once were.

I want every ounce of energy spent raising my hand. Every crease carved into my brain from memorizing the dates of the accomplishments attributed to the dead white guys that adorn our currency.

I want every knee-shaking moment at the chalkboard, every embarrassing delivery of a wrong answer, and every oak-tag project I handed in that year returned to me.

I want the entire year back. The whole of my third-grade experience. I want the days spent dividing the classroom into the different branches of government. The melodies from the Schoolhouse Rock! episode about how a bill becomes a law. I want apologies from the principal and all the teachers.

The things I’d do with that time. More hours out on the pavement, scraping my knees. More afternoons learning economics by rummaging through the bottom of my backpack, looking for change. More time spent getting my bike stolen. More time getting bullied. More hours training for the harshness ahead.

More time spent learning that there are no checks and balances.

I want to rewind to sitting on the edge of my bed, guitar in hand, fumbling through the chords of some Zeppelin or AC/DC song as my fingers struggle to fret the notes. I want my mother to walk into the room and say, “You can stay home from school today, and every day this year, for that matter. All you need to know is that it is, and always has been, about money. How much you have is how much you can get away with.”

And she’d pat me on the head, and I’d wring out a chord, feel the distortion fill the air, and know everything I’d ever need to know in life.

There are songs that arrive in fifteen minutes and songs that take five years. There are songs that feel as though they were written by some other presence that infiltrated your room, and others you have to wrestle into submission before they escape through the crack in the window. Some songs feel like paintings—layer upon layer of color and texture—and others feel like sculptures, asking you to chip away until they reveal themselves.

Equally varied is the emotional connection you have to them. Some songs have an agenda, something to prove or say; others are more like collages of feeling rather than a single thesis. Some are deeply personal. Others just feel like an assembly of words that happened to feel right in the moment.

The most frustrating part is that none of this—the process, the connection, the intent—has much to do with whether a song is good or bad, or whether people love it or don’t. Sometimes the spark in your gut is right; other times it’s just your own attachment muddying up your objectivity.

“Counting Blessings” is a rare one for me. It feels like it happened in fifteen minutes, though I can’t recall exactly, because it didn’t feel like I wrote it at all. It wasn’t that some apparition took over, but rather that whatever that ghost was, it reached deep into my guts and pulled out everything I’d been trying to play and say for a whole year. When it was finished, I struggled not to weigh the rest of my catalog against it—it managed to do everything I’d been attempting, but with far less effort and excess.

The song was written in the first week of September 2018, and there was a loose release plan slated for May of 2020. The subject matter wasn’t about anything that happened that year, obviously, but its themes felt a little too on-the-nose for the moment. And there was also a sensitivity around white guys making themselves the center of the story in 2020… so we shelved it.

Since then, it’s just sat. I’ve played it for friends, but honestly, their reactions never seemed to match my own connection to it. There are songs that mean far less to me that have traveled much further and resonated more deeply—but that’s how it goes.

That’s what’s fun about writing here: I can say that. If this were part of a marketing plan for a new single, there’d be nothing dumber than saying, “Hey, this is one of my favorite things I’ve ever made, but my friends didn’t seem to give a shit.”

So now it’s yours to judge. You can be honest with yourself. This one will stay special to me, just as it has for the last six years.

Counting Blessings

Pieces of a woman
left right on the concrete
pieces of a woman
left, right on the concrete
oak tag, magic marker
yelling "f*** the police"

pieces of a woman
left, right on the concrete
pieces of a woman
line of chalk at your feet
oak tag, magic marker
yelling “f*** the police”

he's still yelling louder
he’s still yelling louder
he’s still yelling louder
holding on to his receipt
he’s still yelling louder

he’s still yelling louder
holding on to his receipt
but you can't take it back.

is it all for show?
and should we feel better now?

pieces of a woman
left right on the concrete
remember him from high school?
does he still radiate heat?
oak tag, magic marker
yelling “f*** the police”

he’s still yelling louder
he’s still yelling louder
we're still yelling louder
he's holding on to his receipt
but we’re still yelling louder
he’s holding on to his receipt
but we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder
we’re still yelling louder

Counting Blessings (unreleased violent joy)

(Paid subscribers can listen to the song below)

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I should’ve known it’s football season, but the fact that I didn’t does not make it a question of loyalty. If by definition, a fair-weather fan is one who only supports a team when things are going well, I’m not that. Yes, I will probably tune out if it’s a miserable watch, but I can’t even really be depended on for the good times either. I’m also not a frontrunner, which is a word I haven’t used since sixth grade, but growing up in New York back then, you either liked the Giants or the Jets, or you liked the Cowboys — and therefore you were a frontrunner.

I’m none of those things, really. I just found something else to do that day. This is an odd thing for sports fans to hear. It’s incomprehensible. When my neighbor, who knows I like football, sees me mowing my lawn on a Sunday afternoon with my headphones on, he rushes outside on a commercial break in an attempt to figure out if I’ve hit my head and forgotten what day it is.

When I was a kid, the New York Jets held practices at Hofstra University, a mere ten-minute drive from the house I grew up in — a big difference from the commute to their stadium, the Meadowlands, in Jersey. My father would take me a handful of times before the start of each season. I’d grip the chainlink fence and watch these superhero-sized men towering above me, blocking out the sun as they ran up and down the shoddy grass field, a long cry from the manicured astroturf they played on each Sunday.

There were no fancy jerseys or stadium lights. The players wore solid-color pinnies, with the quarterback donning a red one so that no one accidentally took out the franchise’s biggest investment, baking under the last remnants of the East Coast summer sun before it retreated until next July.

Just before the end of practice, my father would rush me over to the pavement where the players would exit the field. I’d again cling to the chainlink, this time hoping to grab the attention of one of these superheroes. I was too shy to disrupt their march to the locker room, so my father did my bidding for me. “Hey, how about an autograph for the kid?”

I had a large plastic helmet that I had them sign. I would stand there in awe each time, as though their superpowers were being transferred into that helmet and that maybe, if I put it on, I too could fly, or run at the speed of light, or smash through walls and feel no pain.

One time, as running back Scottie Graham scrawled his signature across my helmet, my dad had the gall to add, “Hey, how about a wristband for the kid, Scottie?” He paused, raised his eyebrows at my dad, then pulled the wristband off his arm and handed it to me. Despite my mother’s disgust, I refused to wash it, forever preserving the “S.G.” written in blue Sharpie just outside the Jets logo.

I may be a weak excuse for a sports fan these days, but I still get choked up anytime I come across one of those videos of an athlete making a kid’s day. Maybe it’s because they don’t have to. It’s not part of their job description. People love to hold them to that standard, and then act surprised that giving someone millions of dollars and asking them to demolish their body week after week does not breed a Disney character of a human being — but it’s simply not their job.

That said, the ones who make it their job are special. They’ve accepted the burden of their superpowers and wield them with responsibility. Like a king who’s wary of the crown, but dons it with duty when his time comes.

I may not know who’s playing half the time, but I still believe in superheroes.

Coming back, I felt like words alone weren’t enough, so I dug into the unreleased folder to…

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For $53.95, this little rectangular hunk of plastic was mine, courtesy of eBay dot com.

Two years and many trips to my local photo lab later, I found myself stuck with a roll of film I couldn’t bring myself to develop. Not because it was technically impossible, but because I sat on it for eight months, paralyzed.

I hoped the roll held photos of my cousin, but I wasn’t sure. Worse, I feared there was one—but that it would be blurry, out of focus, unremarkable. I know I had the camera with me in the parking lot outside Gillette Stadium. I remember the harsh sunlight, how I searched desperately for shade or a tree to soften it. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d see my cousin, Scott, I wouldn’t have been so stingy with the shutter. I’d have burned through the two extra rolls in my bag in a heartbeat. But I didn’t know. The news of his passing came via text, just one month after that day in Boston celebrating his 49th birthday. And so this roll became, unintentionally, a time capsule.

Last week, I finally mustered the courage to drop it off at the lab. Then I bit my nails for three days, obsessively checking my spam folder in case the email with the scans got lost.

When the link finally arrived, I scrolled slowly. Every time I go through this ritual, I feel my insides melt. It’s like watching a magic trick with your stomach instead of your eyes.

The photo wasn’t magical in the technical sense. No dreamy lighting, no depth of field, no clever focus tricks. None of the attributes that usually send me rushing to Emily with a proud “Look what I did with the eBay camera!!” But none of that mattered. For once, I was grateful that I’d ignored the artsy instincts and just pressed the button.

I scanned the photos further and found one of Adriana with our dog, Chloe, in Joshua Tree around Christmas time last year. Chloe passed just one week into the new year. I was so fixated on whether or not I had a shot of Scott that I underestimated just how heavy this time capsule weighed.

I sent both photos to Emily and admitted my anxiety about developing the roll. She said the feeling was familiar, and told me how she sometimes avoids photographing certain people for fear of failing to capture them as she sees them.

I sent the photos to my friend Sean, too. His response: “How is it possible that phone cameras can’t do that?”

And he’s right—it is remarkable. All that technology crammed into the devices we carry everywhere, the endless functions, the countless tools they’ve replaced. And yet, they can’t replicate the magic of a beat-up, secondhand point-and-shoot film camera.

For the sanctity of this ritual—and the magic it both creates and preserves—I hope they never figure it out.