I always wanted to be an old eccentric reclusive sort of guy.  I grew up with idols such as Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Kurt Cobain, even Edgar Allen Poe.  Possibly needless to say, all died disgruntled drunks or addicts of sorts.  Why then, is it a surprise that I would choose a path any different than that of my idols?  The thing is that my eccentric idols all produced something, they managed to remain productive.  On the other hand, I'd be quite happy with my apparent chosen path, following my idols and all, except that I don't appear brilliant and haven't managed to produce much.  What happens to the drunken, eccentric, reclusive old man that didn't produce anything inspiring and also kept himself so secluded from others that he produced nothing meaningful, nothing inspiring?  Those men, my life-long idols, were in a sense forgiven, for they gave something to society in their wake.  Their seclusion and apparent lack of appreciation for this life was truly forgiven and even somewhat celebrated in that the birth of their art was so painful that it just makes sense that they were so troubled, that they wasted their lives away.  But what about me?  What have I contributed by sitting at the end of the bar, watching a basketball game I couldn't care less about, warming the bar stool for the next poor soul who unwittingly walks through the door?  When does my inspiration hit?  When do I make up for my debt against society?  

"A tie is a noose and inverted though it is, it will hang a man none-the-less if he's not careful." -Yan Martel, "Life of Pi"


Saw this on the bookface today and seemed appropriate for where I'm at right now:


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Update:  Link to the photo was broken... oh well.  It was only temporarily entertaining.

The Blue Hour

Did I mention there's an album.  I had a big part in writing much of the songs.  It sort of documents about 15 yrs of my life and I'm sort of proud of it.  If you fee like it, you should give it a listen.  If you like it, you should get it.  If you'd like it and you can't afford it, hit me up and I'll send you some MP3s anyway, maybe even some MP1s!

Get LUMINARIA's The Blue Hour on iTunes here!!! 

A Real Man

This is an old post for an old blog, but I had to start somewhere.  To rehash an oldie for your reading pleasure.  Back with more later...


He shot up, shocked and stricken, awoken from some distant dream as though some ancient lever action had been brought to life from his hips after many years of un-use and almost constant rest. He immediately shot me a crooked and increasingly accusatory glance that spoke volumes of hatred and irritation. 

He had been sleeping so blissfully on one end of the large black metal framed futon, despite the television blaring loudly in the background, that when that spring-hip action jolted him forward once again to waking life, the boundless rolls of his belly were sent rippling like many waves atop an endless sea of gluttony. 

My eyes traced slowly over his large frame; from the jelly-like rolls of his furry belly, up to an almost non-existent upper torso, arms outstretched, clinging into the back of the futon as if his fate depended upon it, on up to his droopy chin that had become one indistinguishable entity long ago, joining in some unholy matrimony with the rest of his body's parts. His eyes were the perfect shape of an almond, his overtly feminine but almost seductive eyelids were outlined in a black shadow but contained a brilliant and vibrant golden iris, not unlike the gold leaf one might find on a gaudy and overpriced birthday greeting card, with one slight obsidian drop meticulously placed on top.

One of his eyes, still closed and encrusted with sleep, gave his radiant and proportionally small face an odd and cumbersome slant. It almost seemed like an eternal wink. His right eye open, fully alert and effectively communicating his silent disgust while at the same time showed signs of being full of accusation. And his left eye closed almost completely, giving him a lusty and boisterously seductive appearance, the overall effect surmounted to something like true nihilism personified. One thin line followed down his nose to connect with his mouth which curled up at the edges giving him a guilt-ridden, mouse-like grin. At the top of his head was a small patch of sandy red hair, which often sat in little tufts about his head like lava erupting from a very actively violent volcano.

His name was Portia and he was the most ridiculously sweet and rambunctiously feisty cat I've ever had the pleasure to know.