The crazy part is, I did lose the job. I remember packing up my office while a friend followed me around holding one of those little Office Depot paper boxes that was absolutely not going to hold my amplifiers, microphones, Star Trek stuff, or really anything I had accumulated in there. But what I keep thinking about now is that the job hadn’t even been taken from me yet and fear had already taken the week from me. Even crazier, losing that job eventually pushed me out of ministry and into education, which became something I absolutely loved.

That’s what this one is about. Fear, the stories we create, and how easily we can leave the only moment that is actually real because we are replaying the past or trying to live in a future that hasn’t happened yet.

Put your AirPods in, go for a walk, sit somewhere for a few minutes, and listen.

When you’re done, hit reply and tell me what immediately hit you. I love hearing back, and I’m really fucking grateful you’re here for the second one.

-Aaron

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Ok let me start with: Welcome to the Transmissions! You are part of a courageous community of people. Some of you got here through Tiktok subscriptions, some from Substack, or any of the places @punkrockteacher lives.

Throughout the years, many of you have seen me change. And it is now…

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I filmed myself recording it into what ended up being just my AirPods microphone because for some reason they sounded better than my white, beautiful, and expensive RONE condenser mic. I was excited, I was unscripted, unfettered, and human. No artificial intelligence, just me, nervous and super excited at the same time. An audible rumble in my stomach.

When I was 10 or 13 or one of those early ages, I was the captain of a football team. I was a tailback and a linebacker, because as my dad told me, I wasn’t afraid to hit the big guys. That’s not true, I totally was. But I was determined to do it and I often hit the big guys.

I never scored a touchdown as a tail back. I would run a sweep, and gain like 5-7 yards and I guess I was helpful, because I was that kid that went to the 50 yard line and did the coin toss. My dad gave me an incentive that if I ever scored a touchdown he would give me 100 dollars. It might as well have been a million, I couldn’t even fathom that amount of money at that age.
On a crisp morning in September, of 1991 I got the call, a sweep on the weak side to get the first down. (I’m making that date up. I have no real idea) The QB took the snap, tossed me the ball, and little Aaron Leatherbarrow ran towards the out-of-bounds line and found a lane. I weaseled through two linebackers looking at me like Bebop and Rocksteady wanting Mikey’s pizza. I, for the first time in my life, saw the open field. I wasn’t thinking of the score, nor the team, nor the 6 points we would get. I saw one hundred dollars in cash being handed to me by my dad, and I ran as hard as I could.

BeBop tackled me on the 7 yard line and I didn’t score.
I don’t think my dad even had the 100 clams to give me tbh.

I’ve always been a nervous, excited kind of guy. Anytime something exciting is happening I get nauseated a bit. I feel the rumble, and if I wanted to I could lose my lunch in a heartbeat. These days I am better at holding my lunch, but I still feel the same rumble as I did in those days when my coach would bring a bucket to the coin toss every game knowing I might lose it.

I have that rumble now. I had it recording the transmission.

I know in my gut that there are countless people that need to hear these transmissions, that want something more, that feel stuck, that let each sun set feeling unfulfilled, so they watch a show, have a drink, and go to sleep, not wanting to see the sunlight, nor the same damn routine. Another loop. Another day of walking by Janet at her desk with her bobbleheads, that same damn Stanley, and the 2 framed pictures of her nieces next to the Walmart shopping bag with her snacks that she has to have by her in case her blood sugar gets too low.

You can change.

You want to change, but say..
“I don’t know where to start”
“I just don’t have the motivation”
“This is fine. I made this bed, and need to lie in it.”

Fuck that. You can change, and it is human to do it.
It is what we do. We evolve, we have a natural desire to be our best selves, and no matter how much we suppress it, it lingers.

That is exactly why I recorded these.
They are for you. Because you might feel the rumble of excitement and think that it is a warning. I felt that feeling on the field. I felt it when I hit the record button. I’ve felt it countless times after. It might just be fear, but it might be the beginning of the change you’ve been asking for.

You can change.

Serving Size: 1 Real Relationship
Servings Per Lifetime: just one

Amount Per Serving

• Emotional Vulnerability .......................................... 47g

• Unspoken Touches ............................................... 15g

• Car Rides with artfully made living playlists .......... 6g

• Mutual Weirdness .................................................. 18g

• Gentle Arguments Resolved Before Bed .................. 11g

• Shared Laughter ……………………………………...................... 9g

• Compromises That Don't Feel Like Compromises ..... 22g

• Oral Sex ....................................... 83g

• Daily Acts of Devotion (Unnoticed, Still Count) .......... 35g

% Daily Value
Trust .................................................. 120%
Fucking ............................................ 98%
Forgiveness (Self + Other) ................. 87%
Desire ................................................ 75%
Communication (Verbal + Otherwise) ... 140%
Play ................................................... 44%
Shared Future Vision .......................... 101%

Ingredients:
2 grown ass people that are committed over all things, Wine, always having plans to look forward to, glances across any and all rooms, forearm scratches during shitty reality TV, coffee processes memorized, undramatic honesty, Wine, deep breaths taken instead of slamming doors, soft "you were right" admissions, plans made together with fingers interlaced, random road trips to Savannah,

Allergen Warning: May contain traces of past trauma, fear of abandonment, attachment patterns, and old heartbreaks. Processed in a facility that also handles insecurity and pride.

Storage Instructions:
Keep in warm places. Rotate regularly. Avoid placing next to resentment or sarcasm.

Use By:
Not applicable. Love doesn’t expire, but it can ferment into something unrecognizable if neglected.

Distributed By:
We Always Get There LLC
Somewhere between "I can't believe it's us" and "Of course it's us."

Today, Cara moved to Florida with me. Cara and our baby, Mazzy.

I don’t think I could explain the amount of nerves leading up to this trip. I’m solid emotionally. By nature. But my Cara? She thinks of every fucking possibility on this planet, the next planet over, and one in Galaxy 9A, fourteen light years away from any human rational thought.

I wasn’t nervous about the move. That I was sure of. I was nervous about my soon-to-be bride and how she’d handle it all.

Two hours ago, I was tucking Mazzy into her Delta-approved carrier. I knew her exact weight (14 lbs) and the carrier’s (4 lbs). I waited until Cara went to the restroom and then—gently but assertively—I tucked Mazzy’s head inside. She didn’t object. Mission 101: Complete.

I ordered an Uber Black SUV. Because my girl deserves the best. Mazzy, yes—but Cara too. And the ride through Queens is nothing short of an adventure.

On the way to LGA, I could hear the worry in her voice. Mostly about a comment I’d made earlier:

“She feels like 20-pounds baby.”

I was trying to calm her. Trying to say: “Don’t worry, Delta only allows dogs under 20 lbs—we’re good.” But it did the opposite.

About seven minutes into the ride, I could sense her unease. Mazzy was calm, resting, perfect. But Cara said:

“I’ve been nervous ever since you said she felt like 20 lbs.”

And I knew I’d fucked up.I didn’t have a plan. I had a 42-minute ride, a sleepy dog, and a partner whose brain was spinning out.

Cara’s a real author—not an “I self-published two books on Amazon” type. I mean a real, working, brilliant, make-her-living-from-words author. So even writing this gives me anxiety. But I press on. We were barely out of Manhattan when she heard a pant. That was it. One pant. But to Cara, it was a signal.

“Should we give her half the Trazodone?”

“Should we wait?”

This was the central question of our evening. I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t care. I trust Mazzy. I have a weird, non-human connection with dogs. If they’re breathing and not bleeding, we’re fine. But Cara? Cara has built an entire cinematic universe around Mazzy’s backstory. If pressed, she could give you a list of Mazzy’s old enemies from Houston and a multi-part docuseries about her time on the streets.

So when Mazzy whined, it wasn’t just a whine. It was:

a) Flight anxiety,

b) PTSD from her Shih Tzu ex telling her about his traumatic Delta experience, or

c) a memory of the time she was denied entry to a Brooklyn speakeasy.

Anyway. We made it to the airport two minutes early. Shoutout to Amir, who got us there 120 seconds ahead of my obsessively repeated ETA. I told Cara in the car:

“I’m so fucking proud of you. This move went well because of the 14 days you spent planning every detail. Not just for Mazzy—for all of us.”

But she didn’t receive it.

“You don’t have to over-compliment,” she said. “I know you’re trying to care for us.”

But I was being transparent. I meant every word.

After security—Mazzy walked through like a pro on her Louis Vuitton leash—I clipped her back into the bag and thought:

“Okay. We made it. Time to exhale.”

Spoiler: it wasn’t time. But God was about to show off. We needed wine.

WE. FUCKING. NEEDED. WINE. And by wine, I mean 9 oz of vodka.

Mazzy was solid.I was solidCara was 88% solid. Still a win. We needed food. But Gate 61 is nowhere near a restaurant. You have to go down an escalator, through a memory, past a stress dream, and finally into a place that serves $21 hummus. I didn’t need food. I needed that cold Belvedere in a rocks glass with 8 rocks, 2 limes, and club soda. But I was the emotional rock, so I let Cara lead the way. I also told her I wanted to buy chocolate for the flight attendant. She said we’d find something near the gate.

—

Now. Let me pause. Because something just happened.

It’s 9:17 p.m. We’re on the flight. I’m typing. And Cara—without a word—just laid her head on my shoulder. She bled into me emotionally.

a silent handoff of weight. And I held it.

Forty-two seconds later, she looked at my screen and said,

“Wow… there’s a lot there.”

I took out my right AirPod so I could really hear her. She said:

“I can’t wait to sit down with Lilly and hear about her day.”

Lilly is my 19-year-old daughter. And in the middle of all this stress—all these swirling thoughts—that’s what Cara chose to share.

—

I’ll wrap this up. I didn’t know real happiness until now. I need my Cara. I need my Mazzy. I need Lois, Elise, and Lilly. I need this punk rock family we’re building, and whatever I have to do to protect it—I’ll give it everything. Thank you for reading my heart. Thank you to God, and to Deb and Cindy, and everyone who prayed. This was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And the most rewarding. When we took off, Cara needed Billy: “Try Try Try.” I needed David: “Lullaby.” Mazzy is at peace.

Now we’re descending into Jacksonville with nothing but courage, and forever.

Cara could’ve written this better. But I’m sure she will soon.

I googled the word for it once: effleurage. Apparently it’s a French massage technique. But for me it's a therapy session, a treaty between nations, foreplay, and the peace that passes all understanding.

Mazzy has been sleeping on my arm in bed. Her tiny white chest rises and falls, the hum of her breathing is a soft, steady metronome. I can feel her heartbeat through the weight of her head, like a small lawnmower engine idling in its sleep.

My arm is already tingling from being Mazzy's mattress when Cara does it. I don’t see her hand coming. It just happens. She reaches across the covers as a stealth mission, fingers slow, and starts scratching my arm. Not hurried. Just that barely-there graze. It’s Cara saying, I see you there with Mazzy. I see the weight of that arm under her head. I see the smallness and the bigness of this moment. The scratch is so light yet It makes my whole body go loose. It’s so tender, so specific, that I’d stand in line at the fucking DMV every day for a year — shoulder to shoulder with the same twelve people who all look like they only come to life once a year at the Ohio State Fair outside of Columbus — if it meant her hand would keep finding my arm like that.

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I asked Cara to marry me six days ago. It was the most incredible story and I have never shook from nerves so much in my life. The whole story is authored and brilliantly told by her, from her POV and its best to read it that way.
(Read her Substack HERE.)

She said yes 😊

She didn’t even realize it, but as we were celebrating at our favorite dive, on our favorite avenue, drinking our favorite drinks, listening to our favorite album — between snapping pictures of her new diamond glinting on her left ring finger — she would reach over and touch my arm. Undoing Me.

⸻

I do this thing with a PBR can.

I don’t remember where I saw it or how I learned it, but after two-thirds of the beer is gone, it can balance at a forty-five degree angle on that little ridge that curves from the bottom of the can to the side of it.

It looks like magic, and I always do it.

But that afternoon, while I was balancing a magical, I felt magic on my forearm. Our joy was limitless. Truly Tangible in the air. I noticed every time she expressed her own joy by touching that same spot on my arm. It wasn’t effleurage, but it was the same hand, the same place on my forearm, and it was the quiet communication that undoes me every time.

Cara and I will always be physical in our communication. I don’t know if that’s just our personalities or the product of building this love story for 18 months while living 949 miles apart. But I do know this:

Her touch is everything to me.

Cara moves here in two weeks, and I keep thinking about the feeling of clipping the bottoms off flowers I just bought at Publix, sprinkling in that little packet of “plant food” that I’m pretty sure is just sugar, pretending I know how to arrange them — and then standing back, absurdly proud, when I set them in the center of the table.

That’s what waiting for her feels like. The anticipation. The awkward joy of trying so hard, of preparing, of doing something small and ordinary and feeling like you might burst from how much it matters.

I’m already picturing the bouquet I’ll put together for the day she arrives. Probably Lilys, probably crooked, definitely not arranged “right,”.

I think about us sitting in front of it: Cara reading me her next Substack draft out loud, us planning our podcast between sips of coffee, both of us throwing out ideas and laughing. And in the middle of all that, she’ll reach over and touch my arm without thinking — not the touch of celebration like at 7B, not the wild spark of an engagement afternoon, but the quiet kind. The unthinking kind.

The kind of touch that sends me straight to heaven, right there at the table, with flowers leaning too far to one side, with her voice spilling ideas, with that light scratch saying everything we’ll never have to.

Not men—bottles. Four Peronis, lined up like cheap rent-a-cops on the bottom shelf of Cara’s fridge door. Condemned. Waiting for judgment. I opened her fridge one humid Friday with the innocent intention of retrieving oat milk. What I found instead was residue. Masculine residue. Peronis. In her fridge.

Cara, the woman who authored the Champagne Diet, who speaks about Prosecco like it’s Temu, had four crisp Italian lagers loitering in the door like forgotten exes. And something about them felt… wrong. Not the beer itself—I love Peroni, but the energy.

Leftovers.

They felt like a half-eaten Chili’s burger sweating in a styrofoam box someone forgot to toss before Tuesday trash day. They were clutter or at least… some guy’s.

“Are these yours?” I asked, casually, like someone discovering a hairbrush that doesn’t belong. She turned, lighting one of her candles, and laughed. “Oh. No. Those are from some guy…” She said Vito, or Tony, or Dima. Or… Cocksucker. I don’t know. One of them.”

She said it with that offhand elegance she has, like she was listing nail polish colors. Then: “He brought them over in one of those greasy black bodega bags. I’m pretty sure he was high.” I nodded and closed the fridge softly. Said nothing.

But something shifted inside me. The beers were hauntings.

I didn’t say anything that night.

But later, while Cara showered—probably rinsing off whatever round we were on for that weekend—I opened the fridge again and I drank one. Not sipped. Not enjoyed. Drank. Like it owed me money. Like it carried his fingerprints. Like I was purging a space that needed to be clean.

Three remained.

A month passed.

The Peronis stayed.

Cara never brought them up. Neither did I. But I thought about them often. Every time I grabbed a coffee creamer or took out the oat milk, I’d see them there—patient, smug, untouched. Like little glass horcruxes. And I hated them.

Then, one night—another weekend, another shower—I cracked one open again. Then another. I was tipsy and petty and sacred. I finally asked her: “Can I have these Peronis?”

She looked up from her candle. “Oh my god. Yes. Please. Drink them.”

I took a beat, then said: “Fuck him. Fuck these beers.” and I drank the last two like a man clearing a battlefield. And just like that 😉 they were gone.

Now, I’m flying back to her. Fresh from Italy.

I just texted her from the airport: “Can you get me some Peroni?”

She replies: “Of course.”

And I know—when I land, and we kiss, or fuck, or fall into each other in whatever order we always do—there will be a cold Peroni in the fridge. And maybe that’s the thing. Maybe our love isn’t about the flights, or the wine, or the breathless nights.

Maybe it’s just knowing where everything goes.

Button 1

The first button isn’t undone by me, but that makes sense because Cara does everything with purpose and with intention. She’s usually the first to wake up, and this morning she is true to form. These heavy fucking eyelids of mine are really packing on the pounds, and I can’t seem to find the strength to open them.

Cara must be awake in that I don’t hear her little snorkel.

That’s my nickname for the feminine snore she lets out when she’s deep in sleep. It’s never abrasive. If anything, it lulls me to rest with her. But right now, it’s missing. And I wanna catch up! I wanna join her and end this miserable task of sleep.

My eyes finally open, and the angle of my head on our pillows creates a straight eyeline to the crown molding. The paint job in our room isn’t done well. The painter didn’t take their time, and I can still see where they skipped the second coat on the cutting lines around the molding and electrical sockets.

Why am I focused on the wall?

Her hand has already traveled to my thigh. Cara’s fingers are delicate. She’s seducing me, and I know it. The candle flickers within ear shot and I smile because Cara always lights a candle. Shell say she’s “creating intention,” and shell say it playfully and flirtatiously.

This is what she does when she wants to make out… or talk… or fuck.

Button 2

This one is mine to undo.

Seriously, who chooses black walls for a bedroom? Cara does. And somehow, it doesn’t feel dark. These Stuytown apartment walls absorb every sound of pleasure like thick, heavy, theater curtains—the kind you want to touch but know haven’t been washed since they were installed in 1976 by Midtown Theatrical supply who never told the maintenance crew that the pulley tracks need to be greased every 6 months or they’ll seize.

Our white sheets are actually very crisp, and clean, and cold. They might as well be new. The flat sheet—the one she actually knows how to fold—clings to the hairiest patches of my skin while I attempt to create inches of air between my body and the sheet; to give her hand more space. Access. As much as it wants.

Her fingers move gently. They are soft around the edges, crowned by nails coated in that soft pink polish she always picks, when she goes to Studio 86 Salon every 2 weeks. She traces. She draws and weaves stories on my chest…

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No one is up this early.

Limoncello is perhaps to blame.

I don’t see James sitting in his spot.

8:17

There is no one fighting for the spot to be the early riser today.

I earned that with no contest this wonderfully silent morning.

Clyve is going about setting up what looks to be watermelon and vine-ripe tomatoes. He greeted me and asked me the question that has been aching in my morning mind:

Where is James?

“I’m a bit worried,” says Clyve.

“Well, my friend… I will say we were in the bag at 3 a.m. last night. James included.”

“Is that so?”

Steve kept us up last night—which is ironic, as he was the voice that ended dinner.

“Are we doing one more round of wine, and are we going around the circle again, or are we going to bed?” Steve said.

Steve registered late, arrived late, and didn’t really show us his grandfather storytelling until midway through day two.

Every time he speaks I hear my father—just from this 70-year-old man who was given purpose when his son told him that his historic stories matter, and need to be written.

It is clear that Steve believed his son. And although this buttery bourbon drinker from the mountains of North Carolina—which we were all told is his second home—loves to spin a yarn, he will also tell you a funny quip to hide behind.

No 8:57 handouts from Lisa.

No James staring at his oversized (and I’m sure, full-of-malware) laptop.

Just myself, my hangover, and Kate.

Kate had the wisdom to go to bed around 11.

I think Kate knows I’m writing about her.

Her “Good morning” was kind but calculated.

And she didn’t know that I was watching her scan the parimeter while Dr. Lisa—who I described as Lisa 2—found her way to the Sanka packets she hid in the drawer.

“How late were you up last night?” is the new black this morning.

Still no James.

I found out last night that he is actually 77.

I found out last night that he considers me the reason people have opened up this intimately already.

He had me crying last night when he drunkenly shared:

“This fucker may be loud, but is clearly the reason we all are connected.”

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This morning—and this breakfast—isn’t about the espresso machine.

Nor the toggle switch.

Nor Dr Lisa’s little packet of Sanka that shows her particularity perfectly, and can easily allow your mind to see her 59-year-old brilliant self, who I’m pretty sure only goes to Ann Taylor to buy linen clothing.

Egg and sperm.

Dr. Lisa—who the fuck is talking about egg and sperm at 9:07 a.m.?

Especially after a drunken stupor.

I remember watching Scott go piss in a bush, finish smoking his cigarette, and come back with the drunken version of his practiced and perfect smile.

I remember him insisting that we don’t help him clean up the shot glasses.

And I’m looking at the hungover version of that practiced and perfect smile, and all I can do is compliment the practice behind such a welcoming magician’s flourish.

I didn’t care about the veg this morning.

Just a croissant, some Swiss, and a second—and soon to be third—spot of espresso.

James still isn’t here.

9:25

I have a strange lyric going through my head,

while Yusuf asks me if I would like to try the behemoth latte

instead of the pierced-pod espressos James, Clyve, and I

coiled quietly around—

the hum of what now feels like forgotten ritual.

“Throwing the book at white-collared criminals

The allies became an enemy became a nothing

Became a distant memory

Became someone you call from prison.”

9:39

James still isn’t here.

Dr. Lisa is showing Lisa (with the handouts) her recorded audio of a mud dauber bee,

and telling her, Kate, Scott, Yusuf, and me how she dislikes them—

and yet respects their life.

10:04

James still isn’t here.

James was up and awake first today. He and Clyve were fiddling with the toggle at the top of the espresso machine as I entered the common room. With a large communal table covered in a soft grey cotton table cloth. I set my iPad down on the table and listened to these men discuss the machine. Apparently, the issue was that the pods were not getting pierced properly. But they solved the issue, and after James pierced his pod and brewed his morning espresso, he saw me queued and ready to do the same. James looked at me and said, “Would you like this one?” This one moment set the stage for a wonderful exchange over the next hour.

I made my espresso, found a seat across from James, took out my iPad, and opened up the money chapter of The Amplifiers and quibbled mentally over starting a sentence with an “And.” I believe that is how our conversation started. Me looking for guidance.

The name James goes back in Leatherbarrow lore. My brother’s name, my grandfather’s name, and my uncle’s name. Every Leatherbarrow man has either James or Richard in their name, so there is something familial about James. His soft British voice timbre is perfect for morning Italian air and a second espresso.

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Me: Do you ever read a line over and over in constant frustration?

James: All the time.

Me: I’m struggling with this one, because when I look at it on the page it feels wrong, but when I read it aloud—it totally works.

James: Would you like to read it aloud to me?

I read the sentence, and decided to keep it because, as James instructed me…

“Break the rules!”

What followed was 38% editing and 62% sharing and musing over my ex-wife and his deceased wife. We both wrote about them last night. I did 500 words on what it was like going to MVP’s Bar and Grill, ordering two gin and tonics and saying I wanted a divorce, and James wrote 800 words of auto-fiction about the hope of seeing a distant, desired flame who was the memory of his wife.

We both teared up a bit while discussing the mental adaptation of accepting a life of being alone, and eventually the emotional adaptation. We discussed using oration as the context for telling these gutting stories, and the difference in finding your voice. He shared with me a friend from Bristol (not Brussels, as I wrote yesterday) who is an incredibly articulate writer but doesn’t really know who he is as a writer. Doesn’t have his “voice” as an author.

James complimented my voice. He said:

“You have a way about your writing. Simple and direct. You avoid the fluff and get to the point, and yet somehow paint an undeniable scene with your words. It’s clear, and it’s poetic.”

I was fighting back tears.

I thought back to his 800 words and said:

“You have a way of being elegant and mischievous at the same time. Your sentences are wonderfully descriptive and you write romance from real emotional intelligence. And just when I think I’m reading Hemingway, you put this cheeky mischief in the spaces between each word. I’m envious.”

And then we sat silently, accepting each other, accepting being seen as a writer, and hopefully both feeling as encouraged as I do now.

Scott came down and had no intention of piercing a pod for his espresso. He turned on the behemoth machine with three different levers, and James and I went about our editing. Lisa came down with her handouts, and soon each writer emerged in their waves, carrying with them a proper night of sleep, motivation to write, and everyone with their own unique caffeine delivery system.

As everyone gathered around this table—where I am sure the tablecloth was vibrating from the emotions that were breathed into the air above it by a 43-year-old father of three in the States and a 72-year-old English retired psychotherapist—The breakfast discussions began, and I stood, needing a bit of comfort.

I went and sat on the deck, took this picture, and felt a hug.

The mountain before me clearly has his arms around his family of hills, and all I really needed this morning was the safety of his protection. I could not be more grateful for the hills that surrounds us, for this pod-pierced espresso, and this delightful croissant that has a perfect amount of peach preserves already baked into its lamination.

I walked outside for my breakfast time. I opened my iPad for the first time to look over my manuscript and immediately rewrote the first paragraph of the money chapter in my soon coming book “The Amplifiers”. This change felt so clear. I don't know if it is the air, or the fact that I'm looking at the hills that could be mountains of Italy, but the clarity of mind is very real.

James was the next wave. James is a retired psychotherapist from Brussels. He sat down next to me with his buttered focaccia and spread his peach jam on it asking me if I was going to eat. I told him that I need some time before I eat in the morning. My tummy needs a coffee or two before we can bear the thought of digesting food. James is already my favorite human in this workshop. He is slow to speak, choosy with his words, and very silly after three glasses of red wine. 

Lisa, Kate, and Lisa(2) came down next along with Tamara and her allergies. This third wave was much louder than the first two. There was the clanking of dishes and the gurgles of the espresso machine. Discussions of room temperature, passing out handouts, and starting the business of breakfast. Lisa's husband (whom I will call Frank until I can remember what his name actually is) greeted me with his cute pot belly and his practiced yet permanent smile. Asked me how my livestream went last night, and asked about Cara and wanted to know what books she had written. I of course gushed about Girl Code and bragged that I was the last 3 chapters of “Don’t Do Anything I Would Do”.

This brought the final wave. There was Yentil, a young woman writer of fan fiction, and Yusuf, the Yale professor that was very intrigued about me being a divorced man and memoir author. I went and got my focaccia, cucumbers, and a banana. I added a piece of Swiss cheese, some cubed softened butter, peeled my banana, then grabbed my second espresso that didn’t spill at all because I toggled the machine at the perfect time. I changed my location to the meeting table outside and ate with my fellow writers. James didn’t join the group but went on a hike outside and I listened to talk of partners, birds, and the plan of meeting again at 11 for our round table writing session.

There isn’t Ice anywhere in Italy thus far. Every drink is perfectly cold, and yet I have not seen a cube of ice in 4 days. I think I love it, but perhaps that’s because of the 8 months I spent tending bar and serving tables at The District in historic Springfield. It was a cool brunch spot that was way more concerned about its Instagram presence than it was about the Beef Wellington they advertised that they were almost always out of or consistently over cooked. I used to have to schlep this three-gallon clear bucket of ice back and forth from the outside ice machine to the aluminum Ice containers that sat right next to the well liquors. The rusted metal handle would cut through my skin while dumping the thousands of cubes. Drink after drink from Sprite to rum and cokes, filled to the brim with ice. 

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Breakfast was blissful this morning and nothing about it felt watered down.

It is so nice being here. And I mean that word “here” completely.

It’s nice being here.

It’s nice being clear.

I'm Awake.

Scott! his name is Scott! .. ok.. I feel better now.

Cheers! 

The Doing:
I was writing.

The Who:
She was soft, her eyes warm, her smile big, and her heart open. She stood by me always, and would never waver, no matter the storm. and most of all… she never left.

This was the transition, and I did not fuck around. Within months I was not pretending to be this guy, I was not hoping to be this guy. I WAS this guy. Everything I said and did was in this identity. I bought the sports coat, and the watch, and the loafers. I dressed as him, I spoke like him. I walked to Gemma (a really nice oyster bar near me with a rooftop lounge) My bartender Mike made me that Martini often. I would sit there and read, flirt with someone next to me, and go home feeling exactly as HE (my higher self) would feel. I would have conversations only as this man, and once, the person I was talking to about this shift in my mind used the word “memory” about a vision I had of my future. They said I had a future memory because it had already happened in the quantum realm.

Woah.

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Today, I was writing in my journal and something happened. I like to write as an even higher form of my identity in the current 3rd dimension I'm in. I think about the even higher version of myself, and write out my scenario. This is how I journal now. I was writing and I was listing the the things in my 3rd dimension I was thankful for.. and I remembered the conversation I had with chat GPT about what my highest self looked like. I am him! I have the tailored jacket, the gold watch. I have it! I've arrived! I'm not transitioning into that man! I became him!

I love it, but I just got started. I'm fixing my NOW like crazy to prepare for the amplifications of life. That will be in the book.

I even got a tattoo to show quantum entanglement to me on a daily basis.
I remember my future and it is pretty damn incredible.

I would start with:
“Daddy loves…”

And without hesitation, she would reply:
“Lois Leanne Leatherbarrel.”
(It’s Leatherbarrow, but she was young.)

Somehow, that morphed into:
Lois Lane Leather Barrel Head.

I don’t know how it started, but we still say it every day.
Every single time I see her.

Sometimes, I just say:
“Because…?”

And she replies, without fail:
“Daddy loves Lois Lane Leather Barrel Head.”

Wow. I’m already in tears writing this.

She turned 12 today. And I know—it’s not 13, or 16, or 18, or 21. But man… she’s my last kid, and fuck—she’s 12.

Today, she was wearing leopard print denim jorts that looked like JNCOs.
I don’t think anything sums up Lois better than that.

This girl doesn’t move to a different drum.
She moves to a completely different instrument.
And it’s not of this world.

She doesn’t like cheese… but sometimes does.
She refuses to get her nails painted.
She has the softest eyes of any human.

When I have moments of true sadness; when I miss having my kids 100% of the time…it’s her sweet little face I see. Her soft voice. The same voice that once, in the most matter-of-fact tone you could imagine, said:

“My daddy doesn’t live with us anymore.”

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As the tears well up in my eyes right now, it’s her little red anxiety-picked fingertips I see.

She’s the one I feel the need to constantly apologize to… but I don’t.
Instead, I shower her with stupid amounts of affection.

Her older sisters call me on it.

Lois is the only one who hugs me unapologetically.
She still kisses my face.

She still idolizes her father.
And I’ve never felt a deeper love.

All three of my girls had that love for me up until this age.
And then, in the very near future…

Dad takes the back seat.

It becomes friends.
Skincare.
And, God help us… boyfriends.

Fuck.

She was originally going to be named Kalel James.

But when she turned out to be a girl, she was given the name: Lois Lane.
And today, she turned 12.

She loves capybaras, YouTube, and Roblox.
She is the most sensitive of my three girls and is always looking to see if someone is upset with her.
She will always care more for an animal than a human.

If you ask her what she loves about anything, she’ll mention the animal or the snacks.

Lois still eats chicken off the bone.
She will eat fish and hasn’t flirted with being another Gen Z trendy vegetarian.

She is 100% my favorite person to hang out with.
And no one worries about me more.

She cares deeply about every relationship I’ve ever been in.
She takes on every emotion I feel.
She knows how I feel before I do.

Daily, I fight the feeling of…

I let her down.

She is my last daughter.
The youngest.
And today, she turned 12.

I hope she knows that the last drop of blood in my heart, the last breath in my lungs, and the last bit of hope in my soul will go to her happiness.

I love you more than I ever knew I could love.

Happy Birthday, Lois.

Nineteen.
My goodness.

I got married when I was 19.
Her boyfriend is cool. I have nothing bad to say.
But damn.
My Lilly is 19.

Every Monday used to be my day off. I was a minister back then, and since Sunday was a workday, Mondays were for rest. So, Lilly and I had our Monday ritual.

After church, we’d go to Pokémon League.
I helped run the league as one of the professors. Lilly kept an eye on the little kids, making sure they didn’t get swindled into trading their gold foil Ultra Ball for a Snorlax or something. Young ones rarely knew the value of trainers.

On the way there, though—that was magic.

I used to drive this old beater of a truck.
An odd green Dodge Dakota. Spray-painted black on the fenders.

We’d stop at the QT by the comic shop and get a hotdog and share a Coke.
I taught her the right way to eat a hotdog—diced onions and mustard.
Anything else? Odd.

We’d sit in the bed of the truck, perched on the toolbox, and eat. Then we’d go inside, play Pokémon, and afterward, head home to organize our new cards.

If she wasn’t at school, Mondays were Daddy Date Days.
A trip to Target for a toy. McDonald’s.
Justin Bieber on the radio for her.

And for me? I was convinced I had discovered the next great MC. Some dude from LA named K.Dot who had just dropped his first hit single, Swimming Pools.

Elise and I had our long walks by the train tracks. Hours watching Yo Gabba Gabba.

Lois and I still have our dates, where we can get chicken on the bone, because the other sisters aren’t there.

I love every second of those moments.
And now.

Lilly is 19.

The other day, she said,
"Hey, Dad, I’m gonna go hang with Aunt Leah, then stay over at Jack’s."

And I just said, Okay, baby. I trust you.

I feel the exact same way right now as I did when it was Target and Justin Bieber.
But now, she’s a woman.

A brilliant, unapologetic woman.
Sure, she leans too heavy into anxiety.
Sure, she procrastinates.

But my god—this woman I raised is a powerhouse.

I respect the hell out of her.
As much as I love her.
I respect her.

Anyway.

Happy birthday tomorrow to my firstborn.
Lilly, you are why I will always have pride

.

It was so awesome seeing the bands that I cared deeply for share the same disdain I did with the executive branch of government. I was hopeful that we could Rise Above as Henry Rollins screamed at me to do. A second volume came out and I felt comradery. Here were all my favorite artists, making art, sharing their frustrations and communicating the horrors that were happening in DC. Ugh.. I hate American Government. I really do!
I don’t think people understand! We are the fucking Ants! (thats a reference to a Bugs Life) whatever. We have a democratic republic! We don’t have to put up with this shit. We can turn off the news. We can tell people the truth. We can really use underground zines and articles that have no other agenda than true journalism. Look at the artists on the back of these albums!

I checked to see if there was a Rock against Trump album.. and there is. Its cool that a little label and a bunch of unknown smaller bands are stepping up. I actually really love it. It is just so sad to me that the passion behind revolution is so small.

We need punk rock to save us.
Anyway…
I wrote a song. Its at least something. I wrote this Blog. Its at least something.

I hope we all do something. I truly do.

Ok.. you made it this far! If you really believe whole heartedly that we are on the right track then yeah cool.. sit there and enjoy your news and your government. For those of you that agree with me, that think this is horrifying to watch then do something! stand up, make art, start the revolution, dont murmur and complain, CREATE! We need that punk rock ethos so badly. There are so many options of making your voice heard. Please speak up. Please go to a rally and please take action steps. The USA needs you. Now more than Ever.

The goal is Unity, The goal is the federation, The goal is Love, and Acceptance and any tru punk rock heart will understand that.

Jeremy McCrate and I started talking about our interests pretty regularly after church on Sundays. He was a tech nerd who drove a convertible Miata, and I was a Minister who hated my van. We both loved tech, and music, and comics. He loved gadgets, and architecture, I loved Board Games and Comics. We would ‘nerd out’ quite often and had just enough ego to think we had some authority on the topics. We didn’t. We did love it however and decided the world would love it to. He had a friend named Keith that knew about Movies and eventually Andrew was invited because of his Video Game knowledge.

We called it the Omnicast and I dont know if I’ve ever loved a creative project more. I was the “authority” on music and had things to say about the rest of each topic. Jeremy knew gadgets and Tech, Keith knew movies, Andrew- Games and there we had it. We would go to a coffee shop after hours set up our sm57s and record on Jeremy’s MacBook. He would render it, send it to me on the google drive, I would edit it, and make us sound good. I loved that podcast so much because i learned every week. I was in the tech news, I knew the movies, and I would blow them away with new emerging artists like this unknown hip hop artist from Chicago named Chance the Rapper. I really had something to say back then.

What i never spoke about was my marriage and my career. Those were the things in my life I was embarrassed about so I never spoke about them.

Fuck.. I dont know

I want to start a punk rock podcast that really dives into who I’ve become, what education really is like, how fucking insecure 20 years of ministry made me. I want to talk about performance and the shit storm it has brought my life.

I want to talk about how much I love teaching and how i dont think I can do it much longer.

I want to talk about how i think we have forgotten the anthems of the 90s punk rock albums that shaped the core of who i am and what I believe. I have no clue if im actually an authority on any of this shit, but I am passionate about it.

I wish Jeremy was here to do this with. He always laughed at me and when we were talking, I felt like my voice mattered.

It might be tough to actually get a podcast up and going, but I really would like to.

Ps.. I just did a google search to try and find our old logo.. it’s nowhere online and that makes me sad. It was pretty cool. It looked like one of those technicolor homescreens

Alright that’s it.. I have to go and grade some 5th graders’ first 5 paragraph essay and I see one kid who hasn’t even finished the first sentence which is supposed to be a rhetorical question.. fml..

lol ok bye!

It’s these damn lyrics! I think I did my last 2 songs on paper, (the Halloween Episode & Tattoos) but then I edit them in a google doc. Why is that?

I started reading those high school essays again this week and man… a fire was lit in me. I forgot how much I love reading them. I forgot how passionate I was in sharing their voices. I forgot how eloquent they were and most of all I forgot how well they knew themselves. I brought that out in them! Maybe I can bring that out in me.

Why is it so hard to teach yourself? Why is so hard to learn from your own advice?

Why can I teach how to be authentic in your writing, but for the love of God I feel like a failure every time I try to write from my heart.

I wanted to write a song, and ended up writing a 3 out of 10 blog.

I’ll keep trying my friends.

At least i know that the song has a good drummer behind it.

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I used to say that father’s day was “lets show how little we know dad” day. I remember getting a nose hair trimmer once. I was so embarrassed that my wife would be so offended by my nose hair that instead of telling me, She used father’s day as a way to tell me that I was repulsive to her. I think that trimmer is still in our old house somewhere. In spite of those moments, I am proud of being a father. It defines me as a person and I would love to be celebrated for a day.
It was after the divorce, and I was 39 years old, and I woke up on that Sunday without my children. I don’t remember the weather, but it was grey. We had a father’s day lunch scheduled at my sister’s house and the girls were gonna be there and I didn’t want to project how sad I was without having them wake up that morning with me, so I was very supportive of not revising the schedule for father’s day, especially since I was going to spend most of the day with them. On that grey morning however, I was in pain. I hated it. I hated waking up, and I was struggling.
Being a minister for over almost decades and a school teacher after that, I was always apprehensive about getting a tattoo so I was a tattoo virgin. Nothing on my skin except for one piercing in my left ear I did when I was 15 with an ice cube. I decided this was my morning plan. I would go inflict pain. I didn’t really have a plan, but thought maybe just an anarchy symbol would be pretty sick. I drove everywhere looking for one that was open. I think the one that I found was called Eric’s tattoo shop or something alike. I had only gone to shops to piece my girls’ ears because I heard that was way more sanitary than Claires. This one was yucky. I decided I was going to put the tattoo on my left hand, so I could see it while driving. I showed Eric the space on my hand I wanted it, and showed him the anarchy symbol.

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Eric found it online, and printed it out and used this blue transfer ink to place it on my hand. It was upside down. I wanted to look at it the right way but Eric was not about to do that. He was explaining to me the whole culture that it is about facing out. Showing art off to the people looking at you or some shit. I don’t care. I wanted to look at it. I wanted to see it on my hand to remember who I was, and I wanted pain.
I was not in any mood for an argument so I took the authority and was like.. I get it. I don’t care. Put the damn thing on this way.
I loved the dull consistent pain of the needle gun. I was so comfortable sitting there I almost fell asleep.

I went to lunch and saw my girls. No one noticed that tattoo. I knew. That was all.
As years have passed, I have almost an entire sleeve on my right arm. Every tattoo points to things in my life, and every tattoo sit is about me feeling physical pain to heal a part of my life. Just recently, I had a very low moment of too much bourbon, an embarrassing TikTok Live and the next day while hungover, I needed to heal. I sat and let my friend Ian over at Darkside Tattoos give me 4 hours of numbing constant pain that felt so lovely. I wrote in my notes app as soon as i got in the car the following sentence. “I get tattoos when I’m in pain”
This turned into the following song. Cassette Crisis (my punk band) recorded it at a studio December 26th and as of yesterday just received the final mix of the song “Tattoos” I will put the lyrics at the end while you head over to Spotify to follow Cassette Crisis to prepare for the single release.

I get tattoos when I’m in Pain
Sometimes its a memory
Maybe its because I need the affliction
Mostly its because of you

The Ink evolves as Life does
Stages of Imagination
then Pride, then Familiar
then All is Forgotten

It all Diminishes. I’m not that person anymore
It all Diminishes. I’m not that person anymore

Inevitably I need more,
because stories never end
and no one ever seems to stick around
just Ink and Pain

It all Diminishes. I’m not that person anymore
It all Diminishes. I’m not that person anymore

I get tattoos when I’m in Pain
I get tattoos when I’m in Pain
I get tattoos when I’m in Pain
I get tattoos when I’m in Pain