He spent most of his time sleeping in the patch of sun where the driveway met the lawn. Almost free.

He was in a dark place. Actually, a black hole.

Another evening of mutual assured destruction.

The notes and sketches were without exception more interesting than the final product.

, the fictional character at the center of this non-fictional memoir,

His work appeared to consist of random isolated details drawn from our entire cultural apparatus, observed at various magnifications from the front or behind.

This just in: internet preferable to all previous human endeavor.

Realizing gradually, then all of a sudden, all of the stuff that’s never going to happen.

Number one problem facing humanity: irony.

Why is “like a painting” seen as a compliment to the photographer?

In the entire history of humankind, we have come up with only three names for tuxedo cats: mittens, socks, and domino.

A tiny miscalculation, compounded daily.

Watching your neighbor doing Sunday yard work you can almost see the self-righteous thought bubbles about the value of hard work floating above his head, played in his dad’s voice.

next page arrow