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DJ Donald Trump


When people have asked me what MDMA (Or Molly, or Ecstacy for those of us old enough to remember when it was called that) feels like, I’ve always said it’s like when you first open the dryer and take your favorite blanket, still warm, and press your face into it. That dopamine rush, of love, and safety, and home, that’s what MDMA feels like. And then, after it wears off, a day or so later, it feels like that same blanket, now cold and just a blanket, is wrapped around your brain squeezing the joy, elation and happiness right out of it. The GOP has eaten quite a lot of DJ Donald Trumps drugs in the last year and they’re kicking in hard now, and if we allow him to become president, we’re all in for one hell of a come-down.

I can understand why the GOP wanted what he was selling, at least from their point of view. The way they see it their country has been subjugated by a president that doesn’t speak for them, doesn’t look like them, and hasn’t rebuilt it the way the GOP would after the economy crashed (under a GOP president, SUCH a bummer). To put it in more ravey terms, they’ve had a real shit 8 years and really need a good kick to the serotonin receptors. And DJ Donald Trump has just the prescription for them.

He tosses them to the hoards like he’s feeding hungry ducks. Eat this pill for immigrants, yeeeeeessss, we’re building a wall! SO LONG Ramon. Bang this one for guns, oh shit this is good stuff, I can take my gun everywhere? I can take it when I swim! Coming down? How about a double stacker for trade, Jesuuuuus I’m peaking! We’re gonna WIN WIN WIN Trump can sell ice to the guys who sell ice TO the Eskimos. I never want this night to end.

Standing on his podium, DJ Donald Trump has whipped the electorate into a frenzy, arpeggiating his trippy ideas with a calculated rhythmic gesticulation at his own personal Electric Donald Carnival. And lesser DJ’s, ones who believe in generally the same type of music as Trump but would never give their crowds such strong shit, so extreme a bass drop, have seen their audiences shrivel and die. Ticket sales are off. So now they’re beginning to play Trump’s music so they can hold on to the dilated masses so desperate for the rush of change he promises.

But just like the group from Orange County who are now your best friends and back-rub partners this night cannot go on forever. Trump’s disco is a wild and crazy night that would end the way most movies about wild and crazy nights end, with schism, disaster and trying to remember where your keys are. I can’t fault Trump on his showmanship, he puts on events with the psychological frenzy of Daft Punk actually playing the trash-fence (it will happen one year, I promise) but his frenzy is dangerous. The Hangover was an entertaining movie to watch, but try living it and see how funny you think it is then…


And Now The Real Work Begins… Well Shit.


For the past five months of my life every minute has been about transitioning to right now in my life, and now that the transitioning has been completed I’m kind of scared, kind of excited, and kind of staring at my keyboard like a tiger in a padded room. The relationship drama has ended, the writing job has concluded, the apartment has been built, and countless goosebump-ey drives have been driven. The parallel flack has boiled off leaving me alone with the resin of my thoughts. And my thoughts are a dodgey lot. Maybe that’s why the first thing I’m writing is an essay about how having no more excuses isn’t maybe as much fun as picking out new carpets for my living room or buying a new mic for the VO booth. While the need to acquire and assemble is something of a hassle the sheer materialism of it all is reliably good for a nice dopamine rush, plus you get more stuff. Hell I wanna stop writing this right now and go get that fancy whiteboard for my office, you know, cause I have shit I need to plan.

But I’m not. Yet, anyway. I’m gonna sit the fuck here and write until I feel I have enough of a beginning, middle and end I can justify doing my laundry and going to Staples. And I just put on Coldplay. Fucking COLDPLAY.

The rub about being a creative person is that the high comes from your subconscious spitting up ideas like a volcano and not from the endless crafting of those ideas once the magma has hardened. Maybe that’s why so many “artistic types” are so good at picking out an outfit or thinking of the great American screenplay but fall so flat when it comes time to take the clothes off and write naked. Because that part isn’t fun. Sure smoking the Walter White is a blast, but you know what homie had to go through to make it? As a card-carrying member of the ‘artistic type with a good outfit’ I’m taking the end of my phase 1 as a MMA weigh-in challenge to now both have the good outfit, and the product to back it up. Because a well-dressed man with nothing to say is typical, and I am atypical. All my personality-building and karmic wankery has boiled down to this : I live for art, I must create art, and even though the creation hurts, it’s the only way I can maintain sanity and happiness.

I’ve learned a lot about myself in 2016, arguably more than I have in the past five years combined. Anyone who knows me will attest, it’s been a fucking doozy, but because I’ve been so goddamn busy I’ve always had todays-task to take my mind off it’s typical wanderings. Wanderings such as ‘am I getting sick’, ‘I should google if I’m getting sick’, ‘why did I google getting sick’, and ‘I have lupus’. Left to it’s own devices my mind is like a Roomba careening across the floor of my brain randomly sucking up detritus. I’ve always just kind of let it. But that ends now. The Roomba’s a toy. Everyone knows if you want your floors to get really clean, you get a Dyson, and baby, I just got one.

Dyson ball actually, amazing piece of machinery.

So I guess that’s what this post is about. I’m gonna try like I’ve never tried before. Every step I take will be walking towards my goal of expression through creation, and I will be as militant about that process as I’ve had to be in the setting up of life 5.0 (let’s go with 5). I don’t want this feeling of peace and purpose to end, and to facilitate that I’m just going to have to high-dive into my id and pull something out. And do it again, and again, and again until forever. For there are no more distractions that aren’t my creation anymore. There’s just me, this keyboard, and whatever’s next.

– Ben Morrison

Flight to Napa












Flight to Napa

So there I was, cavorting around Napa with people so versed in vino they were correcting the tour guide’s French. I was way out of my league. These weren’t just wine enthusiasts , these were wine fetishists, the kind of people who would send a bottle back, and not just because it’s empty. My confusion in their presence was topped only by the beauty of Napa, which took me completely by surprise – I felt like a caveman staring at an iPhone. The landscaping is like Zeus’s summer-home and the people are rad cause you know off the bat they like great food and wine. Napa felt like a distinctly Californian version of Europe without those fucking Europeans and I think I kind of want to die there.

The trip was as much about food as it was about wine, which was good because people aren’t going to waste a ten-year-old bottle of vino with Lunchables and Pepsi (I learned as I was breaking out Lunchables and Pepsi). Our first stop on the trip was the Woodhouse Chocolatiers where the rosy-cheeked owner walked us through the creation of our own chocolate bars, and my own hazelnut, sea-salt and milk-chocolate blend was unarguably the best. Only a day ago I was deconstructing my ex’s Facebook and now I was making chocolate bars with Willy Wonka.  What a difference an all-expense-paid day makes.

Chocolate for breakfast. What a wonderful way to start the day. Needing some actual sustenance they whisked us off to the Farmstead restaurant where the food was so fresh you could hear it screaming as it entered your mouth. This was farm-to-table dining, which is an easier way of saying “come eat on our farm”, and the portions were so big they served them in these huge Beowulfian bowls. I helped myself to seconds and thirds of the Pino they also make and figured if there ever was a time to get wasted at lunch, now was it.  As if to lubricate the finery in our bellies they then took us to the Round Pond olive farm where I learned that Olive trees are harder to kill than the Ents in middle earth and high-end olive oil is spicy enough that I would be a horrible Mexican.  All in all I was extremely blown away.

It quickly became clear that I was the comedian. Guffawing and knee-slapping I felt like Will Smith in the first episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Apparently wine-culture isn’t very big on being loud and apparently I am. While my companions lowered their glasses with nods of culinary approval I lowered mine with nods of four-letter-words. This experience was special, and when I’m happy I get loud. You should too.

But Newton shut me up.

Newton Vineyards is one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. Built on a hilly part of Napa’s valley walls the vineyards crest and fall like a roller-coaster made of grapes. The corkscrew-trimmed-hedges and Japanese air give it a distinctly Tim-Burton’s-Alice-In-Wonderland-feel, only with genuine substance.  In the distance their signature ominous-tree sits alone on a hill, one incongruent branch challenging you to an arm-wrestling match. It’s a real cool place.

We began by picking Merlot grapes and I’d be lying if I didn’t say my first thought when looking at grapes on a vine was that they look like dangling balls. This revelation made it even more surreal when I learned I was actually quite good at shucking said balls and after a couple of whacks wondered if there wasn’t a future in this for me. Maybe if comedy doesn’t work out I could become a migrant field-worker I thought, trucking round town hoping to escape my demons with each harvest. And it was at this moment I had my grand realization about the culture of wine. The shit takes time. The grapes I was picking wouldn’t actually be giving someone red teeth for another 4-years and by then we’ll all be in space-ships. Once we finished our harvest we toured the fermenting room and I couldn’t stop staring at the CO2 as it gurgled out of the casks. The sugars and the yeasts were doing battle and in many years this wine would come out of it’s cocoon a butterfly. The longer it stayed in the cocoon, the more beautiful the butterfly. Talk about patience.

Later we all sat down for an elaborate tasting and mixing session and for the first time on the trip I felt myself changing, just like the grapes. As an elaborate array of glasses sat before me I didn’t want to just chug them and start talking, I felt the wine deserved some introspection. Placing the liquidto my lips I described my glass as a “beautiful Parisian woman with a gun”, an image that my companions agreed was dead-on. After a perfect meal overlooking Napa I replayed the last two days in my head still unsure of what I ever did to deserve all of this. Drinking and talking are two things I’ve done a lot of in the past 11 years and this seemed to be the most desirable combination of both.

And it wasn’t until I was boarding the plane back to Los Angeles that all of this really began tosink in, the colors, the tastes. The swirling congregation of hues and smells meld into a playground for your senses and like a lover I was leaving would cherish the experience and run back as soon as I could. Napa is a place for the slow appreciation of man’s ecological potential, a place where easy-does-it does it easily. And while I’m sure my levity was nice in the beginning I was wise enough to let the land, and the wine, speak for itself. First time for everything I suppose.



Crohn’s in the Mirror

When it comes down to it, I got pretty lucky with this Crohn’s thing. I’ve talked to countless patients over the years and I’m aware of how harsh a blow I’ve been spared despite a lifestyle that could be described as less than ideal. I’ve only had one surgery, my flare-ups are few, and on the infrequent occasions I feel bad enough to curl up into a ball, my bed is comfortable.

Not so for others. This disease is an incalculable crap-shoot (pun intended). The greatest gift I have been given is the ability to seem totally fine, even when my gut is rumbling like Pompeii. Being a somewhat egotistical person, I can’t imagine what it’d be like to deal with both a constant flare and thecontinued withering of my body.

So I feel for those whose body image has been affected by Crohn’s. There’s nothing worse than something that’s impossible to hide from the world because it strips you of the ability to fight on your own. Something that robs you of your confidence because, try as you might, it’s obvious to everyone else how under the gun you are. Sure, I was way too skinny for a while, and sure, I have a scar on my stomach from when they took out my ileum, but neither of these has ever been bad enough that it takes away my mojo. In fact, my scar kind of looks like Harry Potter’s™ lightning bolt. I swear it glows when I flare.

The most I can say if you’re feeling bad is this too will pass (pun intended), and you don’t look as bad as you think. In my opinion, the best therapy is being as open as possible and finding humor in eventhe most belittling circumstances. If you feel your body has become worn down by Crohn’s, try building your brain up to compensate. Your perception will only ever be one thing – yours – and having climbed a relatively small mountain of my own, I understand I might not be so chipper if it had taken my smile inaddition to a small chunk of my gut. And hey, no matter what you may think, you look great.

Ben Morrison is an actor and stand-up comedian living in Hollywood, CA, who has appeared on NBC’s Last Comic Driving and MTV’s Punk’d. Check out Ben’s Crohn’s-focused comedy routine “Pain in theButt” on iTunes or visit


Have Crohn’s Will Travel












My apartment is a sacred space to me. In it I have all the accessories a Crohn’s patient could want – freshly-cooked food, a great bed to recover in and a bathroom containing not only a bidet but a tile and grout brush for easy cleanup. It is a carefully crafted refuge from the ravages of my bottom and it’s a space I feel very comfortable in.

Away from home is another story.

Having begun stand-up in my early 20’s I soon learned that the constant traveling was a delicate balancing act of remaining mobile and seeing to my ongoing tummy needs. As I could no longer rely on the comforts of my apartment arriving at a new place triggered an immediate mapping of my circumstances like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the beginning of T2. How far is the bathroom? How private is it? Is there anywhere to eat without a “Waffle” or “Cracker” In the name? I imagine people without Crohn’s don’t think about this much but whenever I travel I’m always hunting for a safe place to poop and food that’s going to make me.

So I started by making a kit. In it I have my meds in clearly labeled bottles (so TSA doesn’t unleash the hounds when ruffling through my stuff), some wet-wipes (good enough for babies good enough for Ben) and Preparation H (minus the applicator, I use my finger like a real man). These things bring me the comfort of home and in this game comfort is key. Which is why finding Crohn’s-approved food is so important.

I’ve learned that when in a place that doesn’t have access to organic, healthy cuisine (which is everywhere except where you live), your best bet is to go to a chain restaurant and stick to their “healthy choices” menu. Typically these entrees have far fewer processed ingredients and will be the most painless way to eat painlessly. Similarly, identify genres of food you do well with and stick to those, mine are Mexican and Sushi – both of which are usually available If I ask the Google. And while road-trips are thrilling, avoid going berserk at rest stops. Every time I’ve downed a bar-bell sized energy drink and inhaled a bag of chips with ingredients a scientist couldn’t pronounce I am reminded that although I am away from home my Crohn’s travels with me. If I just think ahead and pack the same snacks I’d eat at home I’m generally good. Nothing is worse than a flair away from home.

And finally, never allow the fact that you have Crohn’s to stop you from travelling in the first place. The symptoms of our disease are so embarrassing sick people tend to forget that there’s a beautiful world out there that doesn’t care if you have something weird with your butt. If you make your comforts mobile you’ll find your capacity for adventure is no different than anyone else’s and Crohn’s is something you once heard you had.

Although I will miss my bidet.


Welcome to Crohn’s


The first time I ever heard the words “Crohn’s Disease” was right after I found out I had it. I remember I was sitting with my mother looking at the latest round of x-rays from a small bowel series, and although to me it looked like a traffic jam in the Holland Tunnel, the doctors seemed confident that disease was evident.

The room started spinning. Only four months ago I had been a seemingly healthy high-school student and then the universe flipped some cosmic switch and my guts went into open revolt. In the following months my life turned into a circus of new terms, new medications and new doctors, and as if the symptoms of my new disease weren’t enough, the stress of knowing I had one only made it worse.

So that’s what I want to talk about today – the immediate aftermath of a diagnosis. Yes, you have a disease. No there’s no outright cure, and no, no one is quite sure why you have it. These things you simply must accept. In order to get enough of your brain back to focus it on what needs to be done, just let it go, and move foreword.

Secondly, this little thing called the internet has made finding other people like yourself much, much easier. Sites like and a host of other similarly minded sites await your perusal – and typically a huge community of sympathetic voices too. I have made lifelong friends simply by signing up and reaching out. And if you’re on Facebook, search for “Crohn’s Support” and in no time you’ll actually be using it for something useful.

Thirdly – diet. You must now embark on a long and arduous journey to find out what your body now does and doesn’t like. For whatever reason the rules in your tummy have changed and it’s worth taking the time to carefully rule out what’s a no-no. Cook just a chicken breast. Eat it. See how you feel, and write down any particular discomfort. Then over the course of a week do this for all the major food categories. By the end of the week you’ll have a nice little docket of information on what your body wants, and right now, information is gold. Eventually you will find one or two things that seem to be OK, and when you do, learn to cook them like a Top Chef. Challenge yourself.

Fourthly – focus on your body. Instead of viewing this as a negative, why not decide that you’re going to fight against it by getting in better shape than you’ve ever been. When I got diagnosed in high-school I was relatively heavy, and given that I was dropping weight anyway, took it as my sign to begin running. Because of that regular exercise is a now a vital staple of my wellness, and on the few occasions I let my workout lapse I can feel Crohn’s creeping back in.

And finally – you must identify all the things you do have control over, and lord over them like a dictator on a small island. If Crohn’s is going to mess with you, then you’re going to mess with it right back by pulling together all these threads to make a net much stronger than it’s unwelcome presence. The road you’re about to walk down is much easier knowing you control your destiny, and despite all the new doctors, meds and terms, you’re still in control. Never forget that.

Rice is Nice


In the 13 years since Mr Crohn moved in I’ve noticed through trial and error that certain foods anger him greatly, and others slip by like a SBD in gym-class. So today I wanna talk about rice.

Let’s face it – Angry Crohn’s has a lot to do with what you eat. Having been on just about every medication out there including the snip snip sew sew kind I began to examine the food and drink that was angering the part of my body that handles food and drink. After awhile it became clear that if I really wanted to find what was causin’ the barfight in my bowels I’d have to Swazye-up and find the troublemakers muh-self.

And one that always played nice, was rice.

The majority of the meals I eat are relatively simple and I almost always cook for myself (which is the only way I can ensure I’m not eating monodilitheyiumpsudomagneziate, which is an flavor additive I just made up.) Over years of making simple meals in small kitchens, It soon became clear that rice never caused me to flare (and I’m not saying that this would happen to you, but in a life as pattern-dependant as ours it’s always good to take a note of what doesn’t snag).

And so I began to eat rice with most every meal. It’s perfect for meal volume, andd if cooked properly will seldom weigh you down with that “just ate an anvil” feeling. As a whole I’ve found rice to be very agreeable to my body, in fact it’s one of the only foods that my cousin (who has Crohn’s and some wicked food-allergies) can eat with little difficulty. Yes, rice goes in peacefully and goes out the same way – in the minefield that is the supermarket a little certainty is always nice.

So if you don’t have any known allergies to rice or rice-based products I’d advise you to explore the myriad products derived from our simple-grain little friend. I’m talking rice-milk (tastes like vanilla and doesn’t spoil), rice-pasta (you can go abbondanza! without filling you abdomina!) and rice-proper (which can be added to just about any protein without overpowering it). I’m more partial to the white-rices, but multiple grains are always nice too. Oh and never fried. Fried makes the Crohn unhappy.

So cook some rice and see what happens.
 Six quadtrillion Asians with no Crohn’s can’t be wrong.

My Father is a Scotch

My father is a scotch.

If people were booze, my father would be a scotch. Unlike domestic dads, my father has a cool sipability to him. He is not a vodka, wanting to please everyone, or a gin, wanting to please no one, he is a scotch. You might mistake him for wine, as everyone gets along with him, but scotch has an edge that fits John Morrison best. Of all the alcohols, scotch cannot be rushed, and of all the dads, neither can my father.
Scotch is patient, calm, and reliable, and you will only appreciate it if you are wise enough to do so. Just like him.

Like eggplant and expresso, Scotch was one of the things I didn’t understand until I was older. Having waited until college to start drinking at all, scotch tasted like an ashtray and I was doing just fine on 40‘s and hangovers. Sneaking a drink when home was frustrating though as my father would only stock the dreaded scotch and cheap swill was hard to find. “It’s brown liquor time!” he’d declare, pulling out a bottle and examining it like a surgeon. He’d then get out his triple-decker-shot-glass-with-a-handle and fill it to the brim in a single pour. These moments I remember.

It was also around that time that my father and I began to butt-heads about my future. Like any good parent he wanted stability for me and like any good comedian I knew stability wasn’t funny. I was enjoying drinking and doing whatever and whomever I wanted, and growing up was not something I ever planned on doing. My trips home soon became tense as heated conversations about my lack of future would boil over when both my parents were present. But when my mother was done fretting and retired to bed, generally with the sun, my father always made sure to sit with me when the house was dark. And as all sat quiet in my kitchen, the light a soft yellow, my father would twist the cork and he and I would finally talk. And in our raised glasses I began to understand the man that raised me. I began to see myself in his eyes, and I wanted to be him.

For he is a scotch.

Required to sit in silent contemplation for no less than three years, scotch tastes, if anything, wise. The oaky bite and peaty undertone has an ancient taste that makes the drinker feel like they’re kicking ass in slow-motion. To appreciate a scotch is to demonstrate maturity, and that is why you will never see a glenmorangie keg-stand at a frat-party.  While all other liquors go out of their way to please everyone, scotch pleases only itself. It takes time to make a good scotch, and the best things take time and planning. It was this he wanted me to understand.

So now whenever I drink scotch, I feel like my dad. I feel like him calmly sipping a drink while reading a book and I feel a deep and abiding calmness come over me.

For I am a scotch too.

In The Cloud

My inner peace is as fragile as my data, and after a month and a half of continual uploading, my data, is now preserved. I recently signed up for online backup, and now that my TB of memories have almost finished uploading forever, I am finally peaceful.

This was not always the case.

I got my first digital camera in early 2000 and since then have taken over 120,000 photos of my life and times. As my father before me, I am a photographer – my obsession not with the shot but with the moment. My photos are, for me, a record of my time, and if I lost them I don’t know what I’d do.

Which is why the Love Bug Virus freaked me out so much.

Sitting in my college dorm in May 2000, I remember watching a CNN report about a killer virus moments before opening it myself. I got an email that said “I Love You!” and I thought “Someone loves me?!” and opened it immediaetly. My hard-drive lit up and I could tell something wasn’t right. Moments later my screen went black and instantly a year of writing, memories, photos and crap had dissapeared like disco. And i’ve never been the same since. The idea that the very record of my existence could vanish forever shocked because I’m all about the ones and zeroes and am way too trusting for my own good

When people mention the “Big One” two immediate images terrify me always. My apartment lighting on fire and burning my blankie, and my apartment collapsing and crushing my computers. Each image represents the loss of something sacred to me, and before uploading my data online, I couldn’t tell you which one worried me more. I’d live in mortal fear of either of these, my heart-rate quickening at the mention. But now that my data is backed up online I have much more time to focus on my blankie, which is the only thing I’d want when looking through my photos anyway.

So if you haven’t backed-up your life on-line I highly recommend it. Im not going to plug one specific brand, but google “Online Backup” and make up your own mind. You shouldn’t have to pay more than $5 a month for unlimited backups, and once completed you will feel coated in kevlar.

The Borg had some really good ideas after all…

Staples In My Head

Summer. Times Square. I had just finished a monster night of shows at Sweet Carolines and was lookin’ to mingle. Having long since finished the jack-and-cokes I got paid with, I convinced Anthony, the venue’s plump owner, to let me make my own. We all called Anthony the Beaver, cause he looked like one.

Given the rare opportunity to Ben-size my beverages I quickly made two Jack-with-a-splash-of-Coke’s and drank them with a smile. It was going to be a good night.

Infront of the club my cell phone rang – it was Andrew, my old roomate. “Yo Benny” he said, “I stole a key to the roof, let’s kick it”. He and I had lived in an apartment with a killer roof-deck some time ago, and the idea of boozing up there again was very appealing.  “I’m on my way”, I said, and with a click of my CD Walkman, set off for the subway.

Gliding at 140 beats-per-minute I wound through Times Square’s pre-apocalyptic river, as bourbon and adrenaline canoed through my veins. Making it to the 42nd street station I trotted downstairs giddy with the night ahead. As I rapidly approached the ticket-booth a warm creschendo of techno lifted my heart, and I jumped for joy. And then everything went black.

I was in the fetal position, and people were looking at me, that much I knew. Wobbling to my feet I touched my hand to my head in a daze, and it was covered in blood. Oddly I was most upset that this was going to make me late for the roof but when a huge NYC Thug walked up to me said “Yo. You fucked UP”, I knew this was serious.

Looking behind me I saw what happened – While jumping for joy I had launched my head into a low overhang, a sign for which was displayed so prominently it could have happened in the “Caution Low Overhang” station. Muttering expletives under my breath I held two bloody palms out to the woman in the ticket booth, and she called an ambulance with the nonchalance of ordering Dominoes. Once the EMTs came they asked what had happened. “Wheww hu see”, I slurred, “I whas jumping fah joy and I shmmashed mahead.” Just then my phone rang – it was Andrew. “Yo B, where you at?!” he asked, “Imma be a leetle late” I said, and then the EMTs made me hang up.

The New York City emergency room is not a nice place. Hallways lined with unlucky figures stretched endlessly into a beeping trench of shitty neon. Stepping over people who could be either sleeping or dead, I made my way to a dingy doctors office with a dingy doctor in it. “What HAPPENED?” He beamed. “Jussslike I saaaid – I was jhuuumping far johy!”. He paused, looking at my wound. “I’m going to have to shave your head.” “Noo!” I shot back, “Noo shave mahhead. Imma comedian… needmahair. What else you got?!” He looked around the room quizzically and settled on a staple-gun resting on a table. “How about staples?”. I paused, and for an instant the Staples commercial ran through my head and I thought “Yeah, we got that”.

He picked up the staple-gun and placed it to my dome. Gripping the handle tightly he slowly pulled the trigger, and with a KrrrCHUNK, began putting staples in my head. After twelve or thirteen had been laid across my cranial-gash, he wrapped my entire head with gauze, which bloodied as if I had survived a bombing in a middle-eastern market. After making me promise I wasn’t going to party any more he released me into the night, free to pick up where my head had left off.

Hopping out of the cab minutes later Andrew looked at my bloody-head-wrap in disbelief. “That’s a good look for you”, he said. Handing me a beer he and opened our old door and slunk through the rapey hallway towards the roof. Climbing up through the hatch on 199 1st Ave. the city lay out before us like an old friend that we could always crash with. Taking a long, cool sip of my beer, I hopped in place, finally content with my evening.

“What was that?” Andrew asked.

“Just jumping for joy…”