I’m proud to announce my T-shirt and tank line! Most of the designs are based on my balloon-quote photography, and they were illustrated by my talented friend Jen Van Horn. The profits from two of these designs will go to SMYRC, a Portland based resource center for sexual- and gender-minority youth.
In addition, they’re available in extended sizing, and a ton of color combinations. Please click here to browse the designs and thanks for supporting queer art!
You hunker down for another cuffing season, but without being cuffed to someone. You buy eggnog in bulk. You get your full size body pillow, name him Jeffrey. You brush your cat Ned, fluff up his fur for maximum cuddle potential. This is the hallmark of your last- seven? Eight?- Christmases, that you’re alone during them.
You’re prepared for Christmas 2017 to be the same, when this guy’s kind smile catches your eye from across the country. He visits you a couple times, you visit him in the Bronx, and just like that you’re cuffed. Even the eggnog tastes better when thinking of Chris’ warm, large, generous eyes. As the new year rolls over, you think you know how 2018 is going to go for you. You have no idea how wrong you are. Continue reading
It’s finally here! Here’s episode three of my puppet webseries This Ends Badly.
The production values keep improving, and we keep learning a lot. One big takeaway recently was how to streamline scheduling so that we can produce quality episodes faster. So stay tuned for more This Ends Badly sooner than you think! Thanks for watching.
To get caught up, here’s episode one, and episode two.
I was thrilled to chat with Scott McGlothlen, all-around nice guy and writer for his bare-all blog The Bare Inkslinger. The conversation was bit more revealing than I planned:
Scott: In June, my partner, Luke, and I set out to discover a magical place in a far, far away land known as “Portland.” Whenever the topic came up, people would always say the same thing: You’ve never been to Portland?! Oh, YOU would love it there. I’m pretty sure they meant this as a compliment.
We had actually scheduled our Portland adventure last fall. Then I had to go and blow the whole thing by having a nervous breakdown. Now that I was slightly less of a spaz (slightly), I could finally see this city AND finally meet the one and only blogger, Michael Schneider.
Michael: Talk about burying the lede, Scott, with the nervous breakdown. How are you feeling?
Scott: I’m feeling way better these days. So much of my life was out-of-whack when we first tried to come to Portland last year. I’ve been able to get a lot of things back in whack since that time. Life is still nervous with all I’m trying to do, but no breakdowns are to be had. Continue reading
Would you remember where you were when you first saw his face? Was it on your couch, surfing online and bored during commercials (haha that reference is for the old people like me who remember watching commercials)? Did you study his features across a bar with artisanal cocktails on a weeknight, your friend daring you to go talk to him? Or did you excitedly see him on the dating app in the “New People Near You” section, you eagerly swiping right while pooping? Yes, probably that one. “Fresssshhh meaaattt” you hissed through your teeth, saliva dripping from your mandibles as you unlocked your private album and flushed. Continue reading
The last time I was in New York, I was interviewed for Chris DeRosa’s Loud and Curious podcast! THRILL as I describe my artistic process in agonizing detail. GAPE SLACKJAWED as I tell the story of my first staged photo. SHUDDER when you hear my actual unlistenable voice. Click here to start the horrors.
I’m repacking my snake shirt, hoping no one sees it and reports me to airport security for trying to smuggle snakes onto a plane. No, no, they’re not real snakes of course: I spent the night before hot-gluing plastic and rubber snakes onto an old shirt that doesn’t fit me anymore. See, it is Pride month and I am naturally celebrating by embracing my dadbod and making bad food choices, and only the softly screaming side seams of my fitted button down shirts are my witness. In the meantime, I’m also planning the staged photo I’m going to take after everyone deplanes: “Snacks on a plane”. It’s not my best idea.
I walked up to the podium at the gate. “Wow, looks like someone really did a number on your heart” quipped the chirpy gate attendant as I handed her my ID. My eyes grew wide and I caught my breath. Jesus, does it still show in my eyes? Can people still see the pain I sometimes feel? Does she know I still have occasional dreams of him and I together, like a cruel glimpse into some parallel universe where-
Her brow furrowed as she saw my reaction. “Oh wait, I meant someone did a good job on it. Your heart.” She gestured to the heart tattoo on my arm that was extending my ID.
“Oh. Yeah! Thanks,” I stammered back. One of the rubber snakes coughed, cleared his throat awkwardly, inside my duffel bag. Continue reading
We meet like any other guy I meet online: “Hey how’s it going? You’re handsome and seem interesting.” He either replies, or does not. If he does, it then becomes a delicate conversational dance to eventually work up to meeting up. In my case, that delicate dance is usually a stumbling waltz to bad music and I end up falling onto the other guests, grasping at a tablecloth and then I’m pulling the buffet down on top of us. In this instance, though, this guy Jerry is startlingly handsome, and is weirdly nice. He compliments my photography and we chat about our jobs, our art. We seem to vibe well, the chatting is easy and kind, which is a relief after a couple recent incidents online with clearly unhinged people. Jerry mentions he travels a lot and it’s then I look at his profile closer, he lives across the country. Because of course he does.
It’s around this time that someone else messages me. It’s Jerry’s partner, Ben. He says they’re in an open relationship and he finds me attractive too. Oh! Continue reading
It happens like this: he is here, you and he are having a great time drinking rosé outside on one of the islands that is a Sunny Spring Day in Portland. You met in real life, not on the apps. You say this to friends proudly after the great first date as if it edifies the romance, as if it lends a degree of integrity to the whole affair. Meeting on the apps is for troglodytes, it’s for people who do not have social skills, it is for people who sit at home every night and eat pizza and watch Netflix. Meeting on the apps is for people who turn their heat slightly down so their cat will be forced to show them more affection and sit on their lap; these App People look out their blinds like the man who was Amelie’s neighbor who never left his apartment for fear of breaking his bones, they get on their phone and woof at men on the apps and fantasize about meeting men who will never want to meet them in real life, they don’t even fantasize about hot steamy sex at this point they would settle for holding hands while watching a movie, this is what people on the apps do they fantasize about buying groceries together, they fantasize about lying in bed and watching Vine clips together and laughing (yes I know RIP Vine but remember this is a fantasy and also a memory of when I was happiest), they fantasize about deleting these same apps that brought them together.
Anyway. You met this guy in real life. Continue reading
It’s the moment. Max and I are looking at each other outside the restaurant, their slender frame smaller than my larger, lumpier one. I am wearing what I thought would appeal to them: a pink linen shirt, slightly flowy, I wore my light chinos and rolled up the cuffs, wore derby shoes with non-visible socks. In short, I look like a queer snack. They are wearing a poncho, blue eye shadow, I swear that there is glitter in their beard that I have been staring at all night over dinner. They stretch their arms wide for the embrace and I lean in for the kiss; they turn their head and I get a mouthful of beard and glitter. Okay, friends, I think and pat their back in a brotherly way to let them know I’m on the same page. We walk our respective ways and I look back to see if they turn around. They do not.
Later, I ask them out again over text. They reply “Sorry, had a blast. you’re not queer enough.” Continue reading
At long last, we’re all very pleased to present the second episode of my single gay puppet dating webseries (I never said I wasn’t “niche”). Fun fact: this episode combines footage taken over almost three years!
In this episode, Mike loses a bet and has to delete his dating apps. But is the real problem the apps…or is it Mike?
Thanks for watching! If you haven’t seen the weirdly-quiet episode1 yet, check it out here.
“We’d like to welcome you to San Antonio, if that’s your final destination” the flight attendant intones as the plane taxis on the runway, seeking a berth. Final destination, you think, as in for the rest of my life? You shudder. San Antonio is not your favorite city by a long shot. It reminds you of parts of your hometown Albuquerque: it’s very very flat, it’s the color of concrete and adobe and not much else, it’s largely conservative (on your last trip, your pale pink shirt made headlines for weeks after your visit), it’s only navigable by car, it’s a military city. This city is like the anti-Portland, and yet it has some of your favorite humans in it. One of them, your mom, texts you now: “Do you have any baggage with you?” “Only the baggage in my heart!” you cheerfully reply and wait. She does not reply. You then text, “No, just my carry on” and head to the arrivals curb. Continue reading
“I love you” he says, softly and sincerely. Your eyes grow large, your breath catches, you stop what you are doing with him. He turns suddenly to you in the bed, his eyes also grow large.
“I meant…”
“No, I know that was accidental.”
“Oh shit.”
“No, it’s okay, I know it’s too soon.”
“Yeah I was just caught up in the moment. I meant to say “I love you being here” but ran out of breath.”
“Okay.”
Your apologies and explanations stumble over each other, the walls recede, the bedsheets catch on fire. Somewhere in the distance a air raid siren starts wailing, the bomb goes off, and your last thought before you are vaporized into tiny particles is “thank God at least we wont have to talk about that tomorrow…” and the blast hits the building and breaks your body into sweet sweet gay radioactive ash. Continue reading
“Maybe this is how it starts” you think to yourself, as you wait at the passenger arrival gate at PDX. This isn’t the first time you have had this thought, and you have even been close to being right before. You look at the faces of all the other people there: the gruff, hardened, emotionless middle aged man. The white family who has signs made for whomever they’re waiting for. The young black girl, she’s wearing a knit hat and coat maybe a little too large for the November weather. You love her the most, she’s also wearing headphones that may or may not be plugged in to anything, and a headset microphone in front of her mouth which reminds you of Janet Jackson’s Rhythm 1814. Your suspicion that she may be high-functioning autistic is reinforced when she lets out a loud squeal of pure glee when she sees who is probably her brother coming out of the doors, only then does she tear off the headphones. Continue reading
The leaves rustle, in the morning there’s a chill in the air, shopping bags start becoming aggressively seasonal, and I suddenly crave every pastry near me within a ten block radius. It’s fall, jerks! And I have never embraced my dadbod more: it is the daddest of bods. Wait is that appropriation?
The text from the guy comes at work while I am lifting a pastry up to my mouth in the break room at work. I consider telling my coworkers that this is my first cheese danish. It is, in fact, my third pastry, but really I only count it as my second because I had the first one before I clocked in. I look at my phone, log into social media, bury my face in the screen. I really don’t appreciate the stares they’re giving me, I can practically hear their whispers to each other as they giggle at the crumbs in my beard, their-
I lift my head. Oh. The break room is actually empty. Ahem. Continue reading
We’re hard at work on Episode 2 of This Ends Badly! It’s titled “From Bad to Worse” and people familiar with the classic 2014 post The Date With Myself will recognize a particular sequence.
In the meantime, please enjoy this short, “How To Get Ready for a Date”! Thanks to Colt Schafer and Hannah Brady for their help making this.
I’m happy and grateful to present Episode 1 of my webseries, This Ends Badly! It’s the result of a large group effort, and we all learned a *lot*. For example, I learned that sound is somewhat important. Who knew? (Everyone did, Mike. Literally everyone.)
The week it happens is a week like any other: you work, you write, you take some photos, you film. If you lived this week and could warn yourself how bad it would get, send a message in a bottle through time to tell yourself to brace yourself for what was coming, would you? Would it even have helped?
You wake up one morning before work and get ready for your routine. You stretch in bed first, yawn a great gaping yawp into the morning sun. You close your eyes and concentrate on stretching the parts of your stiff body; you roll your neck, then tense your arms, your torso, then flex your legs, strong from a summer of riding your bike more than you ever have. Your body wakes up in waves, and you get ready for the rest of your morning pre-work ritual: coffee made in a French press, dark and loamy. Making your boring turkey sandwich to take to work. Feeding your cat- Continue reading
Dear BLCKSMTH,
Hi hello. You haven’t posted anything in like two months. What’s up with that? Signed, Mike S. in Portland
Hey Mike! Your name sounds suspiciously familiar, have we met? Well, truth be told, I’ve been working on my webseries a lot lately, and am close to releasing the first episode! Besides that, I’m also learning how to speak truth to my newly awakened interest in politics.
Also, I’m interested in my writing about being single evolving. I’m a privileged white male, and whining about dating can only get you so far before it sounds like you’re releasing a Taylor Swift album, complaining about boys while the world is burning. I’m in charge of my own happiness. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop sharing the horror stories, though! We’re all in this crazy thing together.
Dear BLCKSMTH,
I’m getting on the dating apps for the first time ever. I’m 47. So, how do you overcome the feeling that you got in first grade and all the cute gay guys will not pick you for dodge ball time? Signed, J. in Cleveland Continue reading
The epiphany happens one day when you’re cleaning your apartment: Oh! I haven’t heard from him in a few days. I think I’ve been ghosted. You get your phone out, go down the most recent text messages. A few names of friends scroll by, your dad whose health is doing fine, your mom who is safe from the hurricane in Texas, a couple new connections whose names are not in your phone yet. Yup, there he is: Handsome Andy, who you chatted with a year ago. You saw him again more recently at a bar, and holy shit now he has a beard and is handsome as f. A nice full beard is nature’s beer goggles. Continue reading
I wake up much later than the alarm clock says I should. I sit up in the bed, the sheet falls away. I take in the room: decent sized, comfy queen bed, there is a vintage bike mounted up high on one wall. Maybe it’s not vintage maybe it’s just dusty? Anyway. There are books and comic books high on the other wall. The light through the window is high and hitting the floor, it’s almost noon here. There is no one else in the bed, I slept alone, but then a memory comes fast and sneakily: a perfect morning almost two years ago, not this bed, when I had flown in overnight and got under the covers. I kissed the back of his neck repeatedly; he made a soft, pleased murmur in his half-sleep every time I kissed it, his neck always got so so bristly in between haircuts. I shake my head, literally swat the memory away. Ugh, that again? And then another even more disorienting thought: Wait, where am I?
Oh. That’s right! I’m in New York. Continue reading
The flight is bumpy, the flight is turbulent, the flight is a flight designed to turn my knuckles white.
It touches down in Albuquerque at midnight. My hometown airport is almost deserted except for a few huddled families. I realize for a small self-pitying moment that no one has ever met me inside an airport. I roll my eyes and call a Lyft to take me to my dad’s place. He volunteered to pick me up at midnight. I politely declined but was secretly horrified: what the fuck, dad? You are 83. You are not picking me up at the airport at midnight. Continue reading
Anxiety is the shoe that never drops, the anticipated alarm that never goes off, the gift in the middle of the night that keeps on giving. Here are a few recent times my anxiety reared its ugly head and painted a reality different than the actual one.
I thought my beard looked like pubes.
I looked in the mirror one day before work, and was suddenly convinced that my beard looked like it was composed entirely of pubic hair. The entire rest of the day when talking to coworkers or clients, I thought that they thought the exact same thing.
I took a bumpy plane ride and got covered in Xanax gravy.
I’ve had a debilitating fear of flying since I had an unusually turbulent flight through the Rockies once. There’s nothing more hilariously disorienting than the adrenaline rush of realizing you left your backpack (containing your keys and wallet) back on your plane, right before your connecting flight, while you’re under the heavy Xanax blanket. Continue reading
I feel it the minute I get off the plane: the air itself is different. It’s warmer, drier, thicker, if the air was a tortilla chip it would be stone ground. I leave the terminal, look for my rideshare. I glance across the airport at the Theme Building, the midcentury UFO-with-landing-gear, whose restaurant closed a few months after I left this city in 2013. It’s then that the chorus swells with the noises I rarely hear in Portland: the car horns raise their frantic duck voices in harmony, I hear the nearby lilt of a family speaking Spanish and I smile. I’m in Los Angeles. I am home.
Los Angeles is everything people say it is. LA is shallow, LA is awful traffic, LA is that guy on Tinder you matches with you and never, ever replies. LA is a city of broken dreams and loosely made promises. Los Angeles is an acquired taste, if you like the taste of garbage. LA is that spoiled child that falls down and looks around to see if anyone is watching before starting to cry.
What I mean to say is: I love every inch of LA. Continue reading
Ugh, I did it again. In this video, I talk about minimizing triggers while my cat Ned upstages me. It’s a huge subject to cover in only three minutes, so how do you think I did? (Transcript is under the break)