Somebody out there listens to the Jackie Brown soundtrack.

I’ll miss you I’ll miss you I’ll miss you

 

Thanks for the tettrazini

 

Thanks for the wine

 

Thanks for the words

 

Thanks for the couches

 

Thanks for the pouty faces

 

Thanks for the hair ruffling

 

Thanks for the pet names

 

Thanks for the TV time

 

Thanks for the ultimate jams

 

Thanks for the hugs

 

Thanks for you

Photos by Blake Howell

Heave away, boys… heave away.

I’m gonna drive all night
Take some speed
*
I’m gonna wait for the sun
to shine down on me

I cut a hole in my roof
In the shape of a heart

And I’m goin’ out west
Where they’ll appreciate me
Goin’ out west
Goin’ out west

I Love You to the Max.

 

 

 

I just got home from Chicago. Sweltering, stifling, sticky Chicago. Unbelieveable. Through the mirage, a bank so graciously whispered me a digital heat index of 107º. My skin felt as if I were the Terminator being lowered into the lava from the inside out. And I feel terribly self-consious in the white shades Dapple lent me.

Whose bright idea was it to have music festivals in the gridlock of summer? It’s disgusting. It’s an American Apparel ad.

The Flatstock convention was absolutely inspiring, as well as dangerous; so dangerous I refused to browse it the next day because I have rent to pay.

I love you Bunney.