Here’s one that should have been posted ages ago. This summer my friend Kalani Fujimori and I worked together on some graphics for a line of boxing-inspired sweats and tees for a Ace Hotel x Wings + Horns x Beams collaboration. I haven’t seen any of the pieces up-close but they look pretty rad in this video.

Ugh, yes, it has been forever. But that’s just how busy I’ve been. Not a bad thing, and it’s not like anyone other than employers read this anyway. I’ve updated my PDF a bit but still have a few projects to add / old to subtract.

While at 72 and Sunny, I did a lot of work for the Facebook “Communities” of Carl’s Jr. and Hardee’s. There was quick turnaround on daily posts, but the assignments were usually fun to do and were pretty good creative exercises.

I just uploaded some of the videos I made while on the account.

I’m in the process of adding some recent work to my portfolio section and new projects are in the works. Check back soon.

Today I stepped out of the office on my bicycle to run a few errands. I returned a couple hours later to find a display’s worth of IMs, a number of emails in my GMAIL inbox and a couple sent to my work address – and they all had to do with THIS.

“Is this you?” “You seen this?” “Remember that afternoon?”

To which I replied, It is. I hadn’t. I do – god I miss those lunches.

At first I thought the site had to have been made by a friend. It felt like it. Super good idea. Super clean design. A few particulars came to mind.

Turns out it wasn’t made by anyone I know. Just a good designer with a good idea and an aptitude for sifting through flickr for good swipe material. Proud as a parent.

And you know what? It’s funny. And it makes sense. I mean, considering the number of images I carelessly pilfer for my own creative ends – coupled with the number of images out there of ALL OF US – the odds of my sleepy mug popping up in someone’s project/comp/whatever isn’t anything to bet against.

www.wtfshouldidowithmylife.com/

My writing partner Mac and I recently took a job at 72 and Sunny in LA. Mac’s a thorough dude, a killer writer and a gem of a partner. He was Editor-in-Chief of Mass Appeal Magazine (R.I.P.) before leaving to be in the fifth class of W+K 12. I first met him on a visit to Portland while he was still a student. Our paths crossed a couple of times in bars around Williamsburg a year or so later until we ended up freelancing at the same spot in NYC. We connected quickly and were soon working as a team. We did that for a few months until we got a call from the dudes over here. A week later we flew out to interview and a few weeks after that we said good-bye to New York and quickly found ourselves knee-deep in work. We’re still smiling.

A year ago today I had an accident. I fell off my bike. At the time I was staying at the Ace on 29th street, painting a mural in room 310. I was in my element, with a couple of days left until completion, when my boys of Grand Army called and told me to come down to SoHo and greet the spring weather at a party Mother was having. I was hesitant, but caved and joined them.

There were girls there. We met some. They left with us and we went to Home Sweet Home. From here things get fuzzy.

I remember our group deciding to change venues. They were to take a cab. I was to bike and meet them. At 7th and A, with not a soul in sight, my front wheel fell off and I went over my handlebars with the purple grips. I caught myself. Every last trace of air left my lungs and my reflexes popped me back up the instant I made contact with the pavement. The impact was so great that every button on my jacket popped off, and all that was left of the riveted button on my Dunderdon workpants was a large hole. I was a block away from my destination, so I called my friend Logan, who I knew was already there. He came out and hailed me a cab, urging me to ditch my bike and go to a hospital. I put the bike in the back of the cab and went to the Ace.

The Ace was still under construction at the time and only the service elevator, which was on the opposite side of the hotel, was operational. With my bike on my shoulder, backpack on and wheel in hand, I took said elevator to the fourth floor, got out, walked across the length of the hotel and down two flights of stairs.

It was around 2am. I would spend the next five hours trying to lie down, though the pain in my shoulders and neck was so great that I couldn’t lower myself past 20 degrees. I’m aware of how insane it was for me to take so long to bring my broken self to the hospital, but I was drunk with pain and all logic had gone out the window. I had decided to wait until the sun came up before leaving my nest. I tried to roll a joint. I tried to go to the bathroom. I paced gingerly. I felt around my trunk, examining the ribs I suspected to be broken.

Around 6:30am I walked ever-so-slowly down to the street corner to hail the cab that would bring me to the hospital. I got one, and upon seeing my weak state and hearing my mumbled request to get me to a hospital – I don’t care which one – the driver told me to get out. I refused. I pleaded, promised a generous tip, just get me there. The frustrated driver couldn’t get me out of his cab fast enough, dropping me off at the entrance to the emergency room at Beth Israel Hospital.

I made eye contact with a nurse upon entering, but followed procedure and filled out the paperwork. Waiting, I decided I could wait no longer, for I had lost my ability to breathe. I said fuck it and walked to the back and got the nurse’s attention. She settled me down, and the healing began.

X-rays and ultrasounds ensued. The ribs I thought broken were just fine, it was my liver that was fucked. My inability to breathe was a result of all the blood in my chest and gut. The impact of the fall had caused my liver to rupture, leaving several lacerations on this important – yet regenerative! – organ. I had bled, internally, 1/3 of my blood, separated both shoulders, and broken some little, inconsequential bones in my wrist.

I’ve already written more than I wanted and I haven’t even gotten to what this post is about, so I’ll skip all morphine-induced anecdotes – but, boy are there a lot, hella funny, too – and cut to the chase. This was meant to be a thank-you to all of the people that visited, called, texted or emailed. Once I mended my gut and was a normal person again, I kept hearing the same question: “How did the experience change you? What did you come out of it with?” My answer was, and is, always the same. I saw how great my friends are. I saw how amazing my dad is (he had flown from Minnesota and was beside my hospital bed within twelve hours of my phone call). I got closer to him. Talked about things I’ve never talked to him about. Real shit.

It’s funny that it takes being one-third dead (or two-thirds living, depending on how you see the glass) for you to become aware and appreciative of the people in your life, but that’s just the way things work for some of us. So thank you,

Jay - For looking after me. For being a dad, an older brother and best friend all at the same time.

Miranda - For treating recent history as the distant past. For getting into my hospital bed and watching cartoons with me. For being so consistently good, despite my repeated failure to reciprocate.

Mr. Santos - For not having a bad bone in your body.

Doctors of Beth Israel - For fixing me.

Cute Indian Intern at Beth Israel - For smiles. And being cute.

Loren - For taking this rad polaroid.

Jelly - For calling. I was high on morphine, but I remembered, and it meant a lot.

Jou-Yie & Everyone at the Ace - For your patience and understanding when I wasn’t painting, and tolerance and sense of humor when I was.

Sasha - For being the coolest, most capable person I know. I love you, but I’m pretty sure my Dad loves you more.

Joe and Mike - For being you. And there. Always. I’ll make it up to you one of these days.

Dad - For a lifetime of bailouts and second-chances for your life-long-knucklehead of a son. I don’t think I’ll ever make it up to you, but I’m trying.

So this Saturday I braved the shitty, shitty elements –  of the diagonal rain variety – and went to a shoot my homeboys of Dark Igloo were organizing. Dave and Mark (the Igloo) worked with Eric Luc – a photographer friend of ours – and shot fifteen of the friends (and dog) who make up their New York Family. I’m always psyched to be a part of anything they’re up to, but this was next-level fun.