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It amazes me how many distractions there are in the world, and yet it comes as no surprise, either. Once we are given consciousness, we have the additional burden of spending it wisely. And really, who wants to do that when you could blow it on television, alcohol, or any number of brain-numbing activities?

Sometimes I feel like each of us is so latent with potential, it's practically seeping from our pores. What are we so afraid to achieve?

"Who's Gonna Save My Soul" by Gnarls Barkley, though simple in its lyricism, is one of the most soul-wrenching ballads I've heard in a while. You should listen.

It's a hard journey, going back to doing something you always loved to do, but that you haven't done in a while. For me, that's cartooning. I used to cartoon all the time until high school, when for some reason I just stopped. Now I'm doing it again. I'm brainstorming for a short graphic novel. Doing some initial character sketches.

It really scares me, I'm not going to lie. I'm scared of being judged. That may not make sense, but I am. I'm afraid people will compare it to something else and then I'll be finished. Revealed to be a fake, a sham. But, to hell with it. I get tired of pretending I'm not passionate about certain things.

So, here goes.

If you're in the vicinity of the L.A. Arts District and you're hungry, go to Aye Carambas and order the carne asada burrito. It is the most celestial conglomeration of steak, rice, pinto beans, and salsa verde I have ever tasted. I think it might have changed my life.

I'm having a crisis of faith.

For a year now, I have been a disciple of the gospel according to Strunk and White. Their book The Elements of Style is the only reference book a writer needs. But in the last week, I've seen one of their precious beatitudes violated so many times, I am starting to wonder if the world of grammar is spiraling into apostasy.

Verily, I speak of the serial comma.

The serial comma is the comma that appears after the second to last item in a list. For instance, in the sentence "I had ham, eggs, and toast for breakfast", the comma after "eggs" is the serial comma. According to The Elements of Style, the presence of this serial comma is a necessity.

But at work, as I've edited missions statements, press releases, and website copy—hey, there's one right there for you—I have noticed a perturbing lack of serial commas in the published world. My former deity is effervescing into a cloud of doubt. It's like learning Santa isn't real.

I would have dismissed all this, except that as I went to the bank today, I saw this emblazoned above the teller windows: "Savings, Checking & Loans."

What the eff?

Here's the truth about serial commas, and also a revelation of how stupid and obsessed we English majors can be: there is no consensus on the serial comma. Some use it; some don't. I, however, find it a comfortable distinction. So I will continue to use it with pride, confidence, and self-assurance.

Boo-yah, mo' fo's.

There strides the Migtastic,
blastin' his mouth so bombastic,
thinkin' his vocab's elastic
with his brain made of plastic,

like he got it from McDonald's
with his Chicken McNuggets.
Shoot, if stupid's a soda,
He'd probably chug it.

Word, biatch.

there he goes with his flip books,
breakin' necks like a homewrecker.
thinks he's all bad-ass.

picasso wouldn't even wipe himself
with that crap.

do yourself a favor:
stick with clever quips
and unsubstantiated rants.

your cartoons look like
marmaduke.

the car slid, and halted...
slid, and halted...
down and down the highway...
like a goldfish bowl in an
earthquake.

he scraped his fingernails
along the steering wheel:
an engineer's joke,
he thought.

we have no more control over where we're going
than we have over how fast we get there.

traffic ebbed, traffic flowed.

the floating excrement
of carbon fumes and
talk show radio waves
flooded his gills.

meanwhile, he grazed
the empty seat beside him,
as pristine as a newly planted
plastic castle.

It would be nice, he thought,
for a playful hand to poke at mine.
while I was shifting gears.

...to distract me.

"Egypt one knows without visiting it, and China the same; but Los Angeles is unique in its bright horror."

—Gore Vidal, Messiah

when the day of singularity comes,
the universe will cease its cold march
into nothing and retreat
to the warm hearth of its center.

on that day, we will not fear
the disconnect.

for the lights of Los Angeles
will bead together like the dew
to become a bright beacon
of unity;

famine and poverty and war
will effervesce and be cast out
from our lungs;

and no broken line,
no twist of a synapse, no
cruel, infinite distance
of time or space
will ever again
separate

me and you.

Life is a storm,
and I am not your life raft;

treat me like the land.

These poppies were growing in droves along the Pass Mountain Trail in Usery Mountain National Park near Mesa, AZ. This trail is ordinarily dominated by saguaro and teddy bear cactus, but after heavy rainfall in the past few weeks, the poppies, heliotropes, and scorpionweed were managing a breathtaking invasion.

A 7-mile hike in perfect weather. It was something beautiful.

I remember watching The Adventures of Pete & Pete and thinking, "I wish there was an Artie in my neighborhood." Then again, he probably would have been arrested, for no other reason than that a thirty-year-old stranger in skin-tight sweat pants who likes to have adventures with pre-adolescent boys is...well, a tad suspicious, actually.

Crying shame.

I was driving home from L.A. when I saw a banner over a Denny's, advertising endless pancakes. I thought to myself, what the hell would I do with endless pancakes? I can't even finish two pancakes, let alone an infinite onslaught of pancakes.

How many pancakes do you expect me to eat before I say to myself, "Oh, my God, I'm eating fried cake batter for breakfast, and I should probably stop sometime before my pancreas explodes"?

I'm only one man, Denny's. There's room for two pancakes. After that, close whatever blasphemous vortex from which pours your parallel dimension of endless pancakes, before you forever rend the fabric of time and space and drown the known universe in breakfast pastries.

And while you're at it, can you bring me some endless syrup?

strange window,
that it should reveal
nothing beyond,
and even less within.

I started writing a new album this week, with the hope of writing 12 songs total. The songs are going to center on the theme of connection: how we make connections, how we miss them; how we reach through time, and distance, and technology, and our personal differences, to make contact with each other in an age of isolation.

I'm writing this because of Los Angeles. Although it's a cliche to say that Los Angeles is an isolating place, it is. Your mid-20's can be an isolating time, too: you're no longer in college (thank God), but you're not quite in a career. Having left home years ago, you're not sure where you're supposed to set your roots. And what about romance? Are you supposed to just have your fun, or is it time to get serious?

Anyway, being someone who doesn't connect with people easily, I'm fascinated with how people do it. I think I'm writing this in order to discover for myself how people reach out and find community. Still, I'm not aiming for catharsis. My favorite songs are ones that embody a fictional (or not-so-fictional) character rather than preach a message or just spill shapeless emotions.

So, characters, if you care to be vulnerable, here's a question you might answer to inspire me: what's a connection you've missed in life—one that you still regret?

Until the fog clears,
I'll hang a lantern
from my tired arm,

hold it out against
the cold sting
of the waves,

and pray to God
I can steer beyond
the rocks,

until I find you.

After two hours of trying to find patterns in the Spackle on my ceiling, I realized this was insomnia and that I should probably just sit up in bed and blog.

I'm staring at a dry river bed right now. The freelance gigs were gushing for about three months, and now that stream is dessicated. I want to live in a world where my talents are always in demand. I don't live in such a world.

Still, I don't want to bitch, because I've made some good art in the past few months. For God's sake, I made a whole album of folk music. I wrote four episodes of a new sitcom, with lots more episodes on the way. That's something to smile about.

I thought I'd be further along than this, though. Sure, I'm only three years out of college, but still, you expect things to pick up faster than this. You keep asking yourself: am I not marketing myself the right way? Do I not have the right skill set? Should I quit, should I give up, should I stop dreaming?

But the answer is no, no, no, no. You can't stop dreaming, because then you're dead. Even if you're alive for another fifty years, you might as well be dead, because you gave up what made life worth living. You're an artist; deal with it. You have to make art, because you love it, and damn it, you're not good at anything else. To hell with the critics and the nay sayers. Long live skipped meals, looming bills, and brazen uncertainty, because that is The Path, and even if you've made mistakes along the way, there's no turning back from it. Make the necessary sacrifices.

My dream is to write and act stories, to draw and paint worlds, to play and sing songs. That's not going to change, ever, not for a lifetime. So I'll work the night shifts at the lackluster jobs and spend my daylight hours devoted to my calling. I'm not afraid to do that.

los angeles, he thinks.

she hasn't cared about
my stupid dream since
the gold rush.

don't forget
to compliment
her make-up.

© 2008 by Stephen Bobbett. All rights reserved.

tonight we sacrifice
our sacred eyes
upon the altar of
photons,
bathe our patron saints
in the kisses of
our flashbulbs,
and behold
the golden bodies
of our vicarious
adoration—
gods and goddesses
we believe we
could never
be.

© 2008 by Stephen Bobbett. All rights reserved.

BEGINNER- TO INTERMEDIATE-LEVEL GUITAR INSTRUCTION!

Let me know if you're interested in at-home guitar lessons. I'm teaching beginner- to intermediate-level courses, so whether you've played a six-string for a couple of years or you're just picking one up, I can help you improve your technique!

Choose from either:

1) 2 half-an-hour-long sessions per week, $15 per session*; or
2) 1 hour-long session per week, $30 per session.*

Your lesson plan is adaptable according to what you want to learn and how fast you want to learn it. Lessons can include, but are not limited to:

- Anatomy of the guitar
- Performance postures
- Fretting, strumming, and finger-styling techniques
- Reading notation and tablature
- Scales and chord structures
- Genres and styles (e.g. rock, classical, folk, blues, etc.)

All you need to provide is a six-string acoustic guitar, accessories (like picks, straps, etc.), and an eagerness to learn and have fun!

*Please note the hourly rate does not include the $15-25 for curriculum, which you can select or I can select for you.

E-mail me at stephen@thejackoftrades.com for more information!

blessed are they
who are nostalgic
for nothing,
whose memories are not
like spider webs
tethered to so many branches,
but are instead single threads
tied swiftly from heart
to home.

blessed they must be,
to be so much less entangled
than me.

© 2007 by Stephen Bobbett. All rights reserved.

This is a great comedy about art and community. See it!

It still amazes me, what human beings can do with enough practice.

Livin' the Dream: Coming soon to a web browser near you!

Some days, I feel like the puzzle piece I swear should fit here, because I look like I would fit here, but I just don't for some reason. Why is that?

you can't
incarcerate
the heart.
it will reach
for the keys
as the warden
sleeps,
and release
itself.

© 2008 by Stephen Bobbett. All rights reserved.

"Do not defeat. Do not fight back. Do not surrender."
- Articles 39-41 of the Constitution of the Republic of Uzupis