I had to leave Berlin and then the Bay Area and go back to my hometown in Virginia in order to not pay rent someplace. It was impossible to find a job back then, and I had no place else to go. So I went into self-exile and lived alone (with Dante) in my grandmother’s old condo across the street from the hospital where I was born. I felt hopeless a lot of the time because I figured I’d never be able to return to my friends in California, but there was also a quiet comfort in knowing I was hiding from the world. It felt like living on the moon. I wrote about it exactly one year ago:

. . . and though I was not happy, when I think about it now, there was a sort of airtight certainty to living there, that every day would be the same, that things would mostly be neutral, as though I were floating in lukewarm bathwater, and that in all likelihood nothing could meaningfully hurt me. My biggest expenses were gas and coffee, because driving around at sundown with a cup of gas station coffee was the one thing that really made me feel good. Sometimes I would drive around the rural parts where I had grown up, and I would pick out places where they could shove me into the ground once I finally died, thinking there was no escape. I came to accept that maybe that was my fate. It was a childish thought, but I kept on thinking it because there was no one else around to roll their eyes at me.

Two or three months after I first got back to Virginia, I started walking to this coffeeshop near the condo pretty much every day. I’d cut through the forest paths behind the hospital and into the old town area there. The coffeeshop itself had once been a store where I’d worked with my girlfriend at the time when we were in college, but ever since that place had closed, it was this coffeeshop. I guess I went in there because it was familiar to me, and it was something to do when there was nothing else to do. Other than grocery store cashiers asking me if I wanted my receipt, I had limited human contact, and only spoke to my cat, and occasionally to a masked stocker at Trader Joe’s whose face I never saw but who had pretty eyes. But more often than not I showed up and at the coffeeshop and talked to the baristas there

There was a goth barista named Caroline and I would hang out with her whenever she was working the register, which was several times a week. Caroline is real cool. We both have dark hair and fair complexions, so we initially started talking about which SPF we use (lol) and NATURALLY we both use SPF 50. Sometimes I would stay after the coffeeshop closed, and she’d lock the door and I’d help her clean up, and then I’d walk her home on account of it being dark and cold outside.

It was surreal to meet someone who had been born and had grown up in the same place as me. I hadn’t met anyone like that in over a decade. It was a spooky feeling. Outside of that, Caroline and I just got along real well in general even though I was older than her. Maybe we were both lonely in the same sort of way on account of the whole world being a big black hole of sadness just then, and it felt good to organically meet someone with whom you could immediately have a frictionless platonic relationship. AND SO OF COURSE we went on walks all the time, from winter into the spring and then the summer and, AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING CLICHE, we never ran out of things to talk about.

I tend to meet and befriend people who are immediately and naturally trusting and generous and friendly to me even though they don’t know me very well. They ask for nothing in return. I guess I’m just lucky that way. Caroline was that some sort of person. I am reminded once again of that line from NO LONGER HUMAN:

. . . natural friendliness which never became oppressive. Friendliness with no ulterior motive, friendliness stripped of high-pressure salesmanship, for someone who might never come again.

That August I finally got a job and went back to California. I wasn’t particularly sad to leave Virginia but I very sad to leave my friend Caroline. We continued to talk all the time, and I invited her to come stay with me if she got the chance to, but I wouldn’t see her again until almost exactly a year later when I had to leave California and because I’d been priced out of my apartment. When I returned to Virginia, I started visiting her at the coffeeshop again, and helped her clean again, and walked her home again, and was even there the day she got fired (!!! (she wasn’t sad about it)). We went on walks and she told me about all the creepy guys who had been stalking her at work and/or asking her to marry them. I guess there are a bunch of them out there. She also invited me to a party at her house, and I think I was the only person who didn’t throw up (lol)~

And then I left again! Now I’m across the ATLANTIC OCEAN, for god’s sake, and I miss that goth barista who became my friend and whose name is Caroline. Her birthday was at the end of February. I remembered because she had told me once before when we started hanging out. That being said, this year I was late wishing her a happy birthday by one day on account of my habit of not knowing the date or even what day of the week it is. I didn’t hear back from her for something like ten days. And when I finally did—



Bailey is her boyfriend. He’s a nice guy. I’m not sure who he saw, but it sure as shit weren’t me.

I told Caroline, I said: “As much as I like it over here, hain’t nothing more I’d rather be doing than walking around smoking a joint with you.” I also instructed her to kill my doppelgänger.

All my earthly possessions are still stored in that condo in Virginia about 4,000 miles away from me. Eventually, and probably sooner than later, I’ll have to go back and get them. And the first thing I’ll do once my boots hit the pavement at Dulles International Airport is gun it to whatever coffeeshop she’s working at and wait for her to clock out so we can go for a walk and smoke a joint the size of a little league baseball bat. Till then, I reckon I’ll have to make due with her German counterparts over here.

Love ya ☆彡

to all the would-be mrs. starsailors . . . i’m sorry but i’m still engaged 🚬👌

apropos of nothing, here are the !! TOP FIVE !! worst years of my life in chronological order:

  • 2003 (hardcore bad strangeness)
  • 2008 (i was a big jerk for some reason)
  • 2011 (my cats were abducted (i got dante back))
  • 2016 (dead broke and malfunctioning in portland lol)
  • 2022 (a total waste of time with nothing to show for it)

the best year of my life was 2013 or 2019 for similar reasons . . . namely, i had a cool house and was meeting a lot of people and barely anything went wrong and i was more or less the duke of oakland. yeah baby . . .


My friend Nina from CHALK TALK has a show on UCLA Radio every Tuesday at 5 pm, which is 2 am here in Berlin. I am of course awake then and so I reliably TUNE IN, usually while sulking in the bathtub. For weeks I have wanted to call in between songs, but I kept missing my chance. Well! Tonight I did call in, and Nina and her cohost put me on the air without letting me know that I was on the air. So I just rambled on like a total jackass for five minutes about the etymology of her cohost’s name (it’s Greek and means “wisdom” (lol)) and how it won’t stop snowing in Berlin, and how I feel sentimental about California, and so on, not realizing that a bunch of random people in Los Angeles could hear me. Well! In all honesty, I think that rules. It’s probably better that I didn’t know.

Back when my cousin was in college, I would call in to his radio show every single week with a different voice and do a stupid bit for as long as I could. Like I’d say I was an expert on Civil War cannonballs or something and just make a bunch of shit up until he caught on.

Man, that’s absolutely what I should have done tonight. Oh well!! Next time . . .

(P.S. I miss Chalk Talk and my friends from Bex’s band. When I was with them in Oakland and LA last year, I was the happiest I’d been in a long time. It’s true! I told everyone I’m Down To Drive Again this summer if they’d have me. I’ll fly all the way back to California just to do it. Why not? Well, they said yes. If I’m still alive by then, I reckon that’s just what I’ll do!!!)

Several of my friends have come to visit me in Berlin, and I’ve forgotten to post the pictures I took when they were here. So I’m gonna do it now!

Back in January, Molly and Daisy, who are sisters from England, and who I met in Portland a long time ago, stayed with me in Friedrichshain. Every morning we ate at a breakfast place nearby called Frölich (which means cheerful!). See here:

I then took them to Treptower Park to gaze at the severe Soviet monuments there:

. . . and to the Victory Column in the Tiergarten, which Molly and I scaled for €4 (Daisy was tired and stayed below with her sketchpad):

We also met up with JULES and went to some weird museum whose name I have forgotten:

We also saw a (pretty bad) movie at my favorite theater in Neukölln:

Molly went back to New York and Daisy went back to their little hometown in England, and I felt pretty sad about it.

. . . until Emel-Elizabeth, The Girl From Estonia, finally returned to Berlin for Berlinale and stayed with me here in Schöneberg. We had dinner at Jess’s massive apartment nearby:

We also ate at this Korean place nearby that has Bible verses written in German plastered all over the walls, and all the beer is non-alcoholic. It was really good!

Later, at the 24-hour grocery store by the U-bahn station, Emel was mystified, as I was, by the Germans’ great love of soup precariously stored in what appear to be plastic sausage casings:

On February 24th, AS IS MY WONT, we celebrated Twin Peaks Day by getting pie and coffee:

On the way home, we walked by a playground you’d see in a nightmare:

Finally, we sat down in the living room and searched for each other on T*nder, and then matched. (Apparently her mom calls her Ella ???)

The film festival WRAPPED UP, and so she flew back to Tallinn, and once again I felt real sad about it. This feeling has persisted ever since.


tracey is one of my best friends. the other day i found her new novel at dussmann books in berlin and it was surreal. i’m really proud of her

Back when my cousin and I ran this little publishing company in Oakland, we befriended a dude named Fielden Nelson. I had read a short thing he’d written on a popular website I don’t want to link to, and so I sent him an email and we started talking. Fielden was a cool guy. This was over 10 years ago now, and when he wrote this, he was about my age now. I don’t think he’d mind if I reposted it in its entirety:

You will move to L.A. from somewhere in the Midwest without previously obtained shelter or employment. You will be cautiously optimistic. You will have a solid short term plan. All of your childhood will be in your trunk.

You will have been moderately successful. You will stay with more successful friends. Because it is California, the land to where the more successful have already moved. You will stay with good friends. You will stay with friends of good friends. You will stay with colleagues of friends of good friends.

You will stay in extra rooms, assigned to non-extra functions. You will stay in living rooms, assigned to living functions. You will sleep on pull-out couches. You will consume limited space. You will overstay your welcome. You will walk in on intimacies. You will see nipples. You will hear what other people sound like. In the bathroom. In the bedroom. When they think they are alone or cushioned by walls.

You will sleep in hotels. You will sleep in motels. You will sleep in your car. You will sleep in a tent. You will have a graduate degree. You will turn 37.

You will look for jobs. You will send out résumés. You will do interviews for things like Bakery Counter Night Person, Part-time Intern for the Assistant Manager, and Personal Assistant to the Hostess/Host. You will not get jobs. You were bored working when you were a teenager.

You will walk other people’s dogs. You will watch other people’s homes. You will sit in other people’s chairs and use other people’s pillows. You will be surrounded by other people’s pictures, other people’s food, and their odd intimate tastes. In art. Lighting. Soap. You will be paid to do this. This will come to not feel strange.

You will walk. You will turn down random streets. You will consider collecting random things. You will consider building random things that will serve random purposes. You will consider pirates and their place in the modern world. You will lose any fear of lost.

Your cousin/friend of a friend/former classmate will get a major role. Write/direct/manage/create/invent a Hollywood Internet Silicone Valley thing. They will instant message all available social satellites: Never stop chasing your dreams. Hard work will pay off in the end. You have to fall before you phoenix. They will be 23.

You will focus too hard on the minute details of doing everyday things. You will grow to not trust spelling, grade school historical facts, the pronunciation of words, or the nerve responses returned from your fingertips.

You will at some point overhear these random phrases: fusion bicycle; going from consulting straight to banking is rare; traffic-driven website; my producer would kill me if he knew I was telling you this but. You will want to punch the people saying these things. As hard as possible. In the stomach. Until you realize they spend two hours every day with their personal stuntman/ex-marine/part-time porn star/niche martial-arts trainer who teaches them to flip off walls and obliterate boulders of low self-esteem. And to do ten reps after you’re dead. Step aside. The war is over.

Your relatives will die. Your mother will break down like you’ve never seen her break down before. Over the phone. You will not be able to attend funerals.

You will borrow money from people you’ve already borrowed money from. You will move into a broken apartment. It will cost more than your first car.

You will fall out of love. You will fall in love. You will fall out of love.

You will run out of money. You will be glad it’s always warm. You will stare at the sea. You will stare at the sun. You will stare at the birds breaking up blue. You will stare at the wind leant palms.

I remember feeling like I related to these sentiments at the time, but I was mistaken. Maybe in a quote-unquote spiritual sense it resonated with me, or at least I wished they did, though the reality is that I had not yet truly experienced many of the quiet sadnesses and feelings of disillusionment that he talks about.

What I’m saying now is that, YEAH, having just reread this many years later, I have absolutely bore witness to and lived these things firsthand. I’m always saying that in some ways, bad-interesting experiences are almost better than good experiences, and I got plenty of the former, for whatever that’s worth, probably not much . . .

Though yeah: this little essay is good. It is airtight and wastes no words. It’s also 100% true.

(Fielden? You still out there, brother . . . ?)