Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.
Over the weekend, I stumbled across an online post that felt like a recovered artifact from a more honest internet. It contained several long lost lists created and posted by Anthony Bourdain, resurrected with the help of the Internet Archive and the kind of digital archaeology usually reserved for forgotten blogs and MySpace pages. A few devoted fans did their best to piece these lists back together, and in true Bourdain fashion, they were gloriously unfiltered. Favorite hotels. Favorite go to meals. Favorite porn. No hedging. No irony quotes. Just truth, served straight up.
The man was, as always, unapologetically honest. And maybe that is exactly why so many of us were drawn to him, and still are. There was no performance. No carefully managed persona. No mask. He simply was who he was and lived accordingly. Loudly. Imperfectly. Curiously. In a world obsessed with polishing its edges, Bourdain showed up chipped and smoking and completely uninterested in pretending otherwise.
Reading those lists got under my skin in the best possible way. They were intimate without trying to be profound. Personal without being precious. They made me realize how rarely we inventory the things that actually shaped us, the small cultural artifacts and experiences that quietly defined who we became. So I decided to follow Anthony’s example and start making a few lists of my own.
Not lists of achievements. Not lists designed to impress. Just honest ones.
Things I Miss That No Longer Exist.
Halloween
Yes, Halloween technically still exists, but not in the way it used to. Growing up, Halloween was an event. The whole neighborhood was involved. Houses were decorated. Porches glowed. People sat outside with bowls of candy and actually talked to each other. I remember pulling the pillowcase off my bed, putting on a costume that barely survived the night, and going door to door with hundreds of other kids, the streets buzzing with excitement and sugar fueled chaos. I would come home with an absurd amount of candy and feel like I had conquered something.
As I got older, Halloween evolved. I loved hiding out in front of my house, wearing a mask, waiting patiently for unsuspecting kids and adults to pass by so I could scare the absolute life out of them. It was mischievous and theatrical and deeply satisfying. Halloween was an aesthetic unto itself. A mood. A season.
While many of us still try to keep Halloween alive each year, something fundamental has changed. It has been over ten years since anyone knocked on my door on Halloween night looking for candy. Trick or treating barely happens anymore. It has been replaced by small local trunk or treat events in parking lots, or sometimes nothing at all. Safer, maybe. But undeniably quieter. Something wild and communal slipped away without much of a goodbye.
No Cell Phones
I will be the first to admit that I love technology. Phones today are impressive little slabs of sorcery. But there was something undeniably special about being unreachable. Going to the store, the mall, or the movies and simply disappearing for a while. No notifications. No pings. No expectation of immediate response.
There are people alive today who never knew a world like that existed. But I remember it vividly. I remember being kicked out of the house during the summer and not being allowed back inside until the street lights came on. I remember going places and having no choice but to pay attention and be present because scrolling was not an option and social media did not exist. You were where you were. Mentally and physically.
Some days I miss that deeply. And as technology becomes more persistent and invasive, I find myself deliberately consuming less of it. Putting my phone away. Letting it sit untouched. Pretending, even if only for a few minutes, that no one can reach me. It feels almost rebellious now. Like slipping out the back door without telling anyone.
Paper Tickets
I used to collect tickets. Movie tickets. Concert tickets. Anything that proved I had been somewhere and experienced something. I kept them in my wallet and loved pulling out a thick stack when I was bored, flipping through them like a personal highlight reel. Each ticket carried a memory. A night out. A song played live. A movie that hit harder than expected.
Eventually the stack got too big, so I moved them into a small box. I still have it. Most of the tickets are faded now. Some are barely legible, the ink slowly surrendering to time. But in today’s world of QR codes and digital wallets, I miss paper tickets. I miss having something physical to hold onto. Proof that I was there. That it happened.
I will probably continue making lists in the coming days and weeks. There are plenty more rattling around in my head, waiting their turn. But for now, this feels like a good start. Honest. A little nostalgic. Slightly chaotic. Just the way Bourdain would probably approve of, if he were leaning against a wall nearby, cigarette in hand, quietly judging us all.
Growing My Little Corner of the Internet
As 2025 starts packing its bags and edging toward the exit, I decided it was time to look over my website’s yearly stats. Since 2020, I’ve been steadily shaping this little corner of the internet with blog posts, photos, updates, and whatever sparks of creativity refuse to stay quiet. I never aimed for viral fame or digital glory. My only real goal was simple: steady, reliable growth. People finding my site, returning to it, and hopefully getting something meaningful out of it.
The tricky part is that running this place is a true one person operation. I keep the site running. I manage the plugins. I make sure nothing explodes in the background. I write every blog post and as simple as that sounds, trying to be consistently creative is like wrestling a cloud. I also choose, edit, and upload every single photo you see. I work hard to keep the content fresh so nothing feels stale or forgotten.
It’s a lot of work year after year, and I’m grateful beyond words that you visit my small patch of cyberspace. As social media becomes increasingly repetitive and loud, and as AI starts reshaping the landscape in ways no one fully understands, I’ve been shifting more of my energy here. My website. My home base. The one place where everything I create can live without getting swallowed by an algorithm.
And here’s the good news. For five years now, I’ve hit my goal of year over year growth. Five years of building, adjusting, learning, and showing up. And that growth happened because of you. Every click. Every visit. Every moment you spend here makes a difference.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for investing your time in me and in the work I share. You’re appreciated, and you’re loved.
A Website Survival Story
I first started building websites with WordPress many many many years ago. There’s something about the way it works, its logic, its quirks, that just clicked for me. So naturally, I built my own site. Over the years, I’ve helped a few other folks build theirs too. This site itself has worn many hats, explored different topics, and even gone through a few identity crises. Fun fact: I started it before social media was really a thing and used it mostly to repost memes. Yes, I am officially that old.
Building websites is fun, but it’s not always smooth sailing. Plugins can be tricky. Sometimes they play nice, sometimes they absolutely don’t. Recently, I installed a plugin called Imagify, and well, let’s just say my site had a rough few days. Photos were showing up cut off, distorted, and galleries refused to behave. For a photographer, a broken website is basically a crisis.
Trying to get help was another adventure. In this era of email only support, Imagify replied about once every 24 hours, and their advice wasn’t exactly life changing. So I spent the better part of a week patching things up myself. Some galleries had to be completely reworked, some photos had to be removed, and certain displays were abandoned entirely. It wasn’t perfect, but the site is back up and running for now.
Every December, I do a major review and overhaul of the site. That will be the time to dig deeper into what went wrong, maybe fix lingering issues, and perhaps even give the site another facelift. I’d love to hear your suggestions, anything that could make this corner of the internet a better place.
Thanks for stopping by, and here’s to photos that behave and websites that cooperate.
Ted Forbes Is A Cool Guy
Ted Forbes Is A Cool Guy
Recently, I talked about my big 2025 goal, to study art more deeply, to actually learn instead of just scroll. The plan, of course, did what most good plans do: it wandered off into chaos and left me chasing after it with a cup of cold coffee and a hopeful heart.
Still, I’ve been trying to bring art back into my daily life, in ways that don’t involve falling into the black hole of Tumblr, Instagram, or Threads. My goal’s simple: find one good article to read or one meaningful YouTube video to watch every day. Easy in theory, harder in practice. The internet, my friend, is a jungle of clickbait and recycled nonsense. But sometimes, if you squint past the noise, you find something golden.
That’s how I found Ted Forbes. Until today, I didn’t know his name, but one video later, I was hooked. By the end of an hour, I’d subscribed to his YouTube channel, followed his Instagram, and (in a truly shocking twist of fate) signed up for his newsletter. I know. Who even does that anymore?
The video that got me was simple and wonderful: Ted unboxing and talking about printed photography books sent to him by other artists. No hype, no pretension, just a guy who clearly loves photography, paging through real, tangible art, and sharing what moves him about each one. There’s a calmness in it, a sense that he’s lifting others up instead of shouting over them.
In a world that’s constantly trying to make art louder, flashier, more “algorithm-friendly,” Ted is doing the opposite, he’s making space for it to breathe. And honestly? That’s worth following. So thank you, Ted Forbes, for reminding me that art doesn’t have to be scrolled past. It can be held, seen, and loved, page by page, frame by frame.
We Got Married 6 Years Ago
Our 6 Year Anniversary
Most of my life has been… well, a bit of a labyrinth. Not the whimsical, movie sort, more the kind with too many dead ends, thorns, and an occasional minotaur of despair and depression. I’ve wrestled with hardship, survived more than I thought I could, and stitched myself together with whatever scraps of hope I could find. There was a time I was convinced my destiny was simply to endure, to suffer elegantly, perhaps, but suffer nonetheless. I thought joy was for other people. I thought my sins (real or imagined, I kept a running tally) disqualified me from anything resembling grace.
So when I tell you I have no idea what cosmic clerical error led to Leslie loving me, understand: I mean it. She is, without debate, without hesitation, the most extraordinary thing that’s ever happened to me. Together, we’ve stumbled and danced through life’s chaos, sometimes graceful as poets, sometimes clumsy as sleep-deprived adults without caffiene, but always, always side by side.
We’ve held each other steady through storms, reminded one another of our worth when the world forgot, forgiven, and toasted the small victories with the grandeur they deserve. Leslie is my wife, my co-conspirator, my partner in all things mischief, tomfoolery, and malarkey.
In short: life’s still a labyrinth, but now, I’ve got someone laughing beside me as we get lost.
Overcoming Perfectionism
Overcoming Perfectionism
At the start of 2024, I made a goal for myself, the kind of noble, well-intentioned goal people love to make when the calendar flips and everything still smells like new beginnings. I was going to study art and art history. Not casually, not just scrolling through pretty paintings on Instagram, but really study it. I made an elaborate self-study plan that could have doubled as a college course syllabus. I had the books lined up in the order I’d read them, the museum visits mapped out by season, the videos bookmarked and color-coded in a YouTube playlist. I was ready to become a walking, talking art encyclopedia.
And for about a week, I actually believed it was going to work.
But then, of course, life, that unpredictable collaborator, decided to improvise. Somewhere between work, errands, and the general chaos of existence, my art books migrated from my desk to the floor beside my reading chair, forming what I now affectionately call “The Pile of Good Intentions.” They’re all still there: dog-eared, with random scraps of paper sticking out of them like little white flags of surrender. I still haven’t made it to a single museum this year (though I might break that streak tomorrow with a trip to the Fernbank). And that beautifully organized YouTube playlist? It’s been sitting untouched for months, quietly judging me every time I scroll past it.
By most people’s standards, I guess you could call that a failure. Maybe it is. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little, that small, perfectionist part of me that wanted to check every box, to live up to the plan. But honestly? What I did instead turned out to be something entirely different, and in many ways, much better.
Because this year, I didn’t study art history. I lived a little art of my own.
I’ve read more books than I have in years, not the dense, academic ones about brushstrokes and movements, but novels and memoirs and stories that made me feel alive again. I’ve started junk journaling and art journaling, two things I never thought I’d enjoy, let alone stick with. There’s something oddly freeing about tearing up old paper, smearing paint with your fingers, and making something just because it feels right in the moment. It’s messy, chaotic, and deeply satisfying.
I’ve listened to music, really listened, not just streamed in the background while I worked. I dug out old CDs, spun dusty vinyl, even bought a vintage iPod. It’s been strangely grounding, hearing songs without the internet watching, rediscovering albums like artifacts from another version of myself.
I’ve gone on photoshoots, joined the ATL Shooters Club, met people who remind me that creativity isn’t meant to be done in isolation. I’ve had conversations that stretched late into the night, traded stories, and actually started building friendships here in Atlanta, something I’ve been meaning to do for years.
So no, I didn’t stick to the plan. I didn’t become an expert on the Renaissance, or memorize the names of obscure Dutch painters, or check off the list of museums I swore I’d visit. But what I did instead, the books, the art, the music, the people, feels a lot more alive.
And maybe that’s the quiet lesson hiding inside all this: plans are just scaffolding. Life’s the art. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is let the paint spill, let the music skip, and trust that the mess you’re making might just turn into something beautiful.
ATL Shooters - October Event
ATL Shooters - October Event
Over the weekend, I went to another ATL Shooters event, one of those little creative storms that make living in Atlanta worth it. For anyone new around here, the ATL Shooters Club is run by a guy named Tony, who, once a month, somehow rallies a small army of photographers and models to meet up, take photos, and make art. He picks the spot, we all show up with cameras and caffeine, and for a few hours the city becomes our playground.
It’s honestly become one of my favorite things about being here. But what keeps surprising me, in that strange, humbling way, is when other photographers tell me they look up to my work. That I’m someone they’ve followed for years, or that I’ve inspired them to shoot more. I never quite know what to say to that, because deep down, I still feel like the kid I was 13 years ago, wandering around Olympia, Washington with a camera I barely understood, taking pictures of anything that would stay still long enough.
Back then, I used to buy cheap roses from the grocery store just so I’d have something to photograph. I’d ask friends if I could take portraits for practice — most said no, a few said “hell no.” But I kept shooting anyway.
The one moment that sticks with me most was this photoshoot in an abandoned building near Puget Sound. I had a few friends with me, no clue what I was doing, and zero understanding of editing. I knew what I wanted my photos to feel like... moody, cinematic, alive, but I didn’t know how to get there yet. My creativity was bigger than my skill.
So I did what seemed smart at the time: I asked for help. I posted some of the photos in a photography Facebook group, said I knew they weren’t great, and asked if anyone had advice or tutorials I could check out.
Big mistake.
They tore me apart. Dozens of photographers told me I was awful, talentless, that I should sell my camera and give up. Some were cruel just for the sport of it. The comments got so bad the group’s admin actually stepped in and told everyone off, but by then, I’d already logged out, feeling about two inches tall. I still remember that feeling, the sting of being told I wasn’t good enough.
And maybe that’s what lit the fire. I worked hard for years after that. Not out of anger, but determination. I wanted to prove, mostly to myself, that I could make art worth looking at. Thirteen years later, I like to think I’ve done that. But every time someone compliments my work, it still pulls me back to that moment, the kid who just wanted to learn, to be part of something creative, and got laughed out of the room.
That’s why I love the ATL Shooters so much. It’s the kind of place I wish I’d had back then, a space where photographers of all levels come together, share tips, teach each other things, and just create. No gatekeeping, no judgment. Just art, curiosity, and a little bit of chaos.
I didn’t have that community 13 years ago. But I have it now. And that makes every long night of trial, error, and stubbornness worth it. Because now, I get to help build what I once needed, a creative family chasing light together through the wild streets of Atlanta.
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Lisa Frankenstein - The Bride of Lisa Frank
Long before I ever touched a camera, I was just another night owl lost in the endless scroll of Tumblr. I’d spend what felt like lifetimes drifting through a sea of moody portraits, cosmic color palettes, and quiet emotion, wishing I could create something that lived up to what I saw there. I sometimes wonder how many miles my thumb traveled in pursuit of inspiration.
Now, years later, I stand behind the lens as a photographer, my work a living collage of all those nights. I can still feel the echo of Tumblr’s influence in my images, the colors, the texture, the quiet ache for beauty. It’s a craving that never really fades, this urge to bring the imagined into being.
Luckily, I’m married to someone who shares that creative pulse. Leslie, a Special Effects Makeup Artist, often dreams in a different direction than I do, but every so often, we both catch the same spark. That happened when she came to me with an idea: The Bride of Frankenstein, but with the color palette of Lisa Frank.
I saw it immediately. dolphins' in rainbow hues, gothic drama dipped in 80s nostalgia. Lisa Frank, the queen of technicolor notebooks and childhood joy, had never stepped into the shadowy world of Halloween… until now. The idea felt both absurd and perfect.
We’d played with the Bride before, once twisting the concept into something new, but this was different. This time, it was about contrast: horror meeting harmony, darkness bathed in color. So, we gathered at Casa Scott. Kat, our model, brought her radiant energy and creative soul. Mac, our stylist, arrived armed with combs, hair picks, and enough hairspray to stop time. Leslie conjured her magic with colors that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. And me... I stood ready to catch the spark when it hit.
Did we capture it? The impossible blend of gothic and glitter, of lightning and laughter? I’ll let you be the judge.
But I like to think that somewhere, deep in the archives of Tumblr, a ghost of my younger self is scrolling through the feed, pausing on this one, and smiling.
I Canceled My Spotify Subscription
I Canceled My Spotify Subscription
Lately, I keep seeing the same phrase pop up all over the internet, something like, “I can’t believe this is reality, and I’d like to get off now, please.”
Honestly? I get it. The world feels like it’s getting weirder by the second, and the ride operator’s long gone.
Today’s reason for disbelief: Spotify (and a few of its streaming buddies) are now running ads for ICE. Yeah, that ICE. The ones who say things like “Join the mission to protect America” and “Fulfill your mission”, as if we’ve suddenly wandered into a recruitment campaign for the dystopian sequel no one asked for.
I won’t spiral into a full rant about advertising or how companies chained to ad revenue lose their moral compass. But let’s just say when you let advertisers steer the ship, you can’t be surprised when it starts heading straight for the rocks.
So, I canceled my Spotify subscription. It’s strange, I’ve been a loyal listener for years. My playlists were basically chaos, but I loved them. But I can’t keep giving money to a company that plays host to ads promoting organizations like ICE. Some things just hit a line you can’t step over.
So where am I going next? Well, I’ve been on a quiet mission to go back to physical media, CDs, vinyl, even MP3s on my newly revived iPod. There’s something comforting about owning the music outright. It can’t vanish because a licensing deal expired or an algorithm got bored.
That said, I do still need a streaming option, mostly for discovery and those times I’m too lazy to dig through a stack of jewel cases. After a little research, I landed on Qobuz. They pay artists more fairly, their catalog’s solid, and, as far as I can tell, they’re not in bed with ICE or anyone pushing that brand of nonsense.
The catch? I have to rebuild everything. No easy playlist transfer. No magic import button. Just me, starting from scratch, copying, pasting, remembering, re-curating. Between that, digging through SoulSeek, and updating my iPod, it feels a bit like a musical scavenger hunt.
But honestly, I kind of love it.
Because when you buy the album, when you actually own it, it’s yours. It can’t be quietly removed or rewritten. You can’t “lose access” to something that’s sitting right there on your shelf.
Maybe this is just what getting off the ride looks like, finding slower, smaller ways to stay connected to the things that still make the noise worth hearing.
I’m Not Dead Yet
OK, I suppose I should start by assuring everyone that I’m not dead. Not quite yet, anyway. (Cue the man from Monty Python and the Holy Grail being hauled off shouting, “I’m not dead yet!” Honestly, that’s been my life’s aesthetic for years, stubbornly alive due to spite and coffee).
Still, I had a good laugh over the flood of messages after I posted my “obitchuary”. Most of them were some variation of, “You son of a bitch, I thought you were dead!” And for someone who’s spent a decent portion of life assuming their absence would barely register, I have to admit, it was oddly touching. Not the reaction I was aiming for, but a heartwarming bit of unintended chaos all the same.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed we all quietly share that same haunting thought, that our deaths would go largely unnoticed, that our lives ripple too softly to matter. It’s why It’s a Wonderful Life still makes half the planet cry into their hot cocoa every December. Of course, life doesn’t really follow movie logic. We don’t get soaring orchestras or conveniently timed redemption arcs. Cops aren’t “buddies,” and no one solves a murder in under an hour.
But here’s the lovely, inconvenient truth: we matter more than we think. We leave fingerprints on people’s lives, sometimes smudged, sometimes shining. I know I’ve made my mark, some of it gentle, some of it… less so. There are a few people who’d probably spit on my grave, and honestly, that’s fair. We don’t get to choose the whole impact we leave; we just scatter it like glitter and hope it catches the light more often than not.
Yesterday, in therapy, I mentioned a time I “unfortunately survived.” My therapist immediately countered, kindly but firmly, that I had it backward. “You fortunately survived,” she said. “Messy, imperfect, maybe even a little scorched, but alive.” She’s right, of course, though I still think of myself more like Iago from Aladdin 2, muttering, “You’d be surprised what you can live through.”
So maybe that’s the lesson hiding under all this: life’s ridiculous, messy, unfair, and still wildly worth living. We’re all just shuffling through our own sketch comedy, absurd, painful, full of strange beauty, trying to make it to the next punchline with a bit of dignity left.
Until next time, keep creating, keep living, and if you must write your own obituary, make sure it’s funny enough that people text you to see if you’re still breathing.