Last weekend we buried my friend Carlos Batts on the side of a hill in Glendale. It was the magic hour, so the sun and smog conspired to give mourners a Tony Scott panorama of downtown Los Angeles while we pondered the loss of a friend gone too soon. In attendance were the bent and burnt of Hollywood. I counted more than a few pornographers in black, models with tattoos spilling from dress sleeves too. One dude looked like a East L.A. biker. More than a few bore the cultivated look of art collectors and gallery owners – pricey-looking clothes
The Rookie of the Year reflects on losing his unborn daughter.
Jenn Frank plays a rough demo of the heart-wrenching adventure game That Dragon, Cancer.
I cried into her bedsheets and kissed her hand, because there was that mask forcing air into her and there was too little of her face to kiss.
Gus Mastrapa contemplates all the ways he has died.
If Stu Horvath were surrounded by demons and ghosts, he wouldn’t be scared – he’d be relieved.
Dennis Scimeca can not sing the songs of Minecraft any longer.
Jenn Frank dreams of rocket ships.