I had a hard time figuring out what I wanted to be, a hard time fitting in.


I went to Manual High School in Denver, CO, and spent four years trying to find the right social group.  Actually, perhaps it is best to say I spent three years trying to find the right group — trying to find the right persona for myself — but by my fourth year I gave up.  During those first three years, I joined the tennis and lacrosse teams; drank beer and listened to The Cult; and spent a year wearing saddle shoes and cologne.  I eventually found some people to hang out with at least, the smart stoners.  This was a little different from the other drug circles, because we all got good SAT scores.  It was really our discontent that brought us all together.

I mostly spent my time with just one person, my friend Matt.

By the end of our first three years of high school, we’d both pretty much given up.  And we both decided we would be artists.  Neither of us knew what that meant, but we spent a lot of time collaborating with each other.


We seldom made things or did any kind of work together, but we did a lot of research.  We both went on a reading rampage, in attempts to define ourselves as artists.  We’d read the same books, and when we got together we talk about what we saw in them.  We read Camus, Jim Carroll, William Burroughs, Philip K. Dick, e.e. cummings, and many other things.  It wasn’t much, but clearly we were both had something in common; we couldn’t find the right social persona, so we worked together to try and understand different creative personas.

We’d read Najda or The Basketball Diaries or A Scanner Darkly, sit on the roof of Matt’s house or the balcony just off his room, and then looking below at our suburban neighborhood, we’d get stoned and try to figure out what this all meant.



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