August 18, 2016


Chupa’s friend Jonic, a creative director at an ad agency, has a lovely wife who stays at home with their kids.  In 2014, she produced a line of impeccable ceramics, but then discontinued production despite a welcoming reception of her work.

One night, we went out to celebrate Jonic’s birthday.  While the guys discussed work, politics, and work politics, I asked Alisa about her ceramics background.  

“This is going to sound kind of bad,” she said, “but . . . I’m one of those people who’s good at everything.”

A year later, Jonic crashed at our place so he could commute to work while their house was being renovated (Alisa and the kids were with his parents).

I mentioned Alisa’s talent, and asked Jonic about her paintings and other work.  

“They’re incredible,” he said, “and she has no interest in art whatsoever.  She couldn’t care less.”

“What a waste!  I would kill for those skills.”

“Some people are like that," he mused.  "They have all the talent in the world, and they just don’t give a shit.”

Also in Imagedotes


January 28, 2017

Two orange tabby brothers followed us home in December.  They lived with us for five weeks, snuggling, wrestling, running around like madmen and punching each other in the face, until their owners saw our “found” signs (which had been posted in front of their house for weeks).

Chupa misses them a ton.  They shredded furniture, ate Kolinsky brushes and laptop screens, farted intense farts on our laps, pawed wet paintings and shoved my brush around whenever I painted, but they were cute and soft fuzzballs.  

Out for a Stroll
Out for a Stroll

January 11, 2017

I'm laptop-free for the next week, since an orange demon (a stray cat we took in) ate my laptop screen.  I'll try to join these bears for some outings.

January 03, 2017

Several years ago, Mom and I visited Japan during cherry blossom season.  While there, Mom found out that her mom had cancer and was awaiting surgery in the hospital.

That night, Mom lay on the bed in our room at the ryokan.  “Emmie, my mom is sick . . . what if I lose her?” she asked.  

I tried to think of something kind and comforting to say.

“Well, she is 86,” I said.