Sat

July 21st, 2026

A dragonfly convinced me that the decades I spent thinking I would never be able to meditate were wrong.

I’ve written about meditation several times here over the years and had repeatedly decided that it was basically stupid and not for me.

Turns out I’m just kind of stupid (story of my life) and I’m ecstatic to report that the reason I previously could not meditate is pretty simple: I’m lazy.

Now, “lazy” is not a term I use to describe myself often; I do work hard and do a lot (arguably, I do too much). But I thought that meditation was supposed to be an inactivity, a way to pull down the switch in my brain and nervous system to shut everything down for service.

Turns out, this isn’t how it works.

I just finished a book about the life of 13th century Zen Buddhist monk Eihei Dōgen. It was challenging af but I gained a lot, including the ability to sit. Dōgen spoke a lot about the practice of fully exerting oneself in every activity, in every moment. For example: eating. When you cook and eat, you should be present with every sense. Smell the garlic; taste the tumeric. And when you fully exert yourself in a moment, the universe shares in that moment with you. When you bathe yourself, you clean the universe, too.

This idea of exertion extends to sitting. Meditation is not the opposite of activity; it is something that requires presence and intense concentration in order to approach the kind of enlightenment that lives inside all living things. This isn’t a way I had heard meditation described before. So I started sitting this way. It’s hard. It’s rewarding.

This practice blew up for me in a beautiful way one day a few weeks ago when I took Marvel outside to poop.

While she was doing her business (exerting herself in a different way), I noticed a black dragonfly land on a blade of grass near my feet. I focused on the dragonfly and had an unexpected out-of-body experience. I could feel the entirety of nature, the trees and animals and sky; I could feel every person, especially the presence of my mom; I could feel all of time and the infinite universe, inside and outside of me.

It sounds very woo woo (because it kind of is), but it was a deeply spiritual moment for a person who has found most religion lacking. It connected me to this world and life in a relative and absolute way.

At the festival over the weekend, I was watching a set when a dragonfly landed on the shoulder of the guy standing right in front of me. A magnificent reminder to be in the moment, to use all of my senses, to be grateful to be alive, and to enjoy the show.

Minnesota Yacht Club 2026

July 20th, 2026

I’m exhausted (physically, emotionally, and heat), satisfied, and still basking in the afterglow of the third Minnesota Yacht Club Festival.

I didn’t attend the inaugural weekend in 2024 and experienced immediate regret. Last year, I went on Saturday because my favorite band Fall Out Boy (who wrote the song “Saturday”) were headlining that night. This year, I went all-in and bought a three-day pass. I didn’t go on Friday (which, from what I heard, is the best decision I made all weekend) but went all day Saturday and Sunday. I saw 19 artists I’d never seen live before and found something to love with each one.

I felt like Saturday was the stronger day overall. Every act brought their best and there wasn’t a bad set in the bunch. Matt and Kim were like a bomb constructed solely of energy drinks; I swooned over Jensen McRae and Lucy Dacus. I finally got to see All-American Rejects after being a longtime fan (one of the first songs my band The Next Step ever covered was “Swing, Swing” back in 2003) and they did not disappoint; frontman Tyson Ritter seems to know he has one of the best jobs on the planet and he was having a blast. Matchbox Twenty absolutely blew me away, a band surprisingly at the peak of their nostalgia-fueled power.

Sunday was more of a mixed bag, mostly because of technical issues I saw plague several sets (at one point, Die Spitz said “This is the worst set we’ve played in five years and we’ve only been a band for four years.”). But there were plenty of highlights and surprises; highlights included local legends Semisonic and Atmosphere, and Passion Pit was a surprise for me, an earnest and electric burst of energy late in the day. There is also an argument that Cage the Elephant could have headlined it all, with their strong set and loyal fans.

But I was there for one real reason, and that reason was The Strokes: one of my favorite bands of all time and one that has eluded me from seeing them in-person all this time. They came on late and left early and I wouldn’t change a thing about their set. They had the swagger and mystery and comedy and brilliant songs that have been a part of their DNA since the beginning and has mutated into part of my own genetic makeup.

Like I said last year, I don’t really have any notes for how the festival is run; I think they do an incredible job and it doesn’t really feel like 35,000+ people. I was disappointed, as a very sober and very thirsty person, that they had completely run out of the LOVE electrolyte drinks before Sunday began and there wasn’t really a substitute for them. I did, however, receive many free cans of cold LaCroix in a variety of flavors and I am grateful for that.

Another thing I’m grateful for? I remembered sunscreen this year. See you next.

Book Fair For Grown-Ups 2026

July 11th, 2026

The Book Fair For Grown-Ups and the Inbound Brewery team knocked it out of the park again. Despite the heavy heat, spirits I encountered were high and living their best Scholastic-coded lives. I took notes!

• The new space was warranted and much-appreciated. I sounded like an old man when I recounted last year’s event: “There was this many people on a day this hot in a room half this size!” But I was just saying it because this year felt relatively cool in comparison! (Also, when your administration is actively exacerbating climate change, its people reap what you sow.)

• One of the greatest joys of having written Theia is the countless opportunities I get to connect to animal lovers and, specifically, Boston Terrier owners. I got to see so many Bostons today! It’s such a gift. And we just about sold out of Theia so it’s time for a restock.

• I sold more copies of Maple Island today and any other single day since it was released last November. All you need is a sign that loudly displays the words “SEX” and “VAMPIRES” and you too can reinvigorate your writing career! But seriously: thank you for all the support on this smutty book that means so damn much to me.

• I shared with my visitors which audiobooks I’m working on so if you weren’t there, you’re square.

• I had so few familar friends to see today! It was scary! Shout out to Rio and Cait and Oz, though. You’re the best and you’re supposed to say something like “You’re always welcome on our podcast!” but you haven’t and it’s totally fine, I promise.

• Honestly, though? Maybe seeing new people is good. I love love love my home conventions, but it’s hard to have new things every time, and when I don’t have new things it’s easy for someone who already has it all to skip my table. I have never been a person who needs to sell stuff (I’m so bad at it, you guys) but, conversely, our tables do cost money and getting my work to as many people who might enjoy it is a lovely experience. Maybe I should get out of town for an event or two? Where should I go?!

Today was a movie (wait, a movie that was a book first?) and I’m so grateful to everyone involved. See you next year?

Don’t Think Twice

June 7th, 2026

As a born-and-raised Minnesotan and a self-taught musician, I made a solemn teenage vow to myself to see two artists live in concert: Prince and Bob Dylan.

I saw Prince in 2004; a manager at Chili’s had an extra ticket to one of his Musicology album release shows and invited little ol’ me and it was nothing less than life-affirming. Heck, I even saw Morris Day and The Time a few weeks ago at the new Mystic Lake Amphitheater.

Tonight, I finally saw Bob.

I was nervous; Dylan has put the miles on. I heard a review of one of his recent shows that described it as a form of elder abuse. Not real confidence-inspiring stuff.

But gosh: he opened his mouth and sounded just like Bob.

As the sun set behind the stage, he played keyboard and harmonica and sang words in the kind of way only Bob Dylan can sing them. Two songs in, a venue employee tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could upgrade my ticket. I (literally) jumped at the chance and was whisked away down below where I could sit in a seat and actually see Bob for real, who was wearing a white jacket with the hood up (the entire time).

It was a sincerely enchanting experience, and absolutely worth the wait.

Oh! And no cell phones or photography were allowed. But, thankfully, I am a detail-oriented artist who drew this impeccable image as soon as I got home so you can feel like you were there, too.

I put an arrow on Bob so you know which one he is. Lucinda Williams and John Doe were so wonderful and subversive, as well.

I love my state and its music and its people and I got to soak in it (and the summer sun) on a pretty perfect day. It reminded me how grateful I am to be from here, be shaped by here, and get to live here.

Fight Song

July 3rd, 2026

I saw a t-shirt today that made me sad.

It also served as an important statement on the state of this country during our birthday this weekend.

The shirt itself was joyously racist and aggressively obnoxious; in other words, it well-represented the administration and its supporters. It’s not always a shirt; sometimes it’s a hat or a bumper sticker or a viral tweet. There’s still (always) a lot of discussion about what divides us, but this was a good reminder of one of the clear and obvious differences: some of us fight for things, and some of us just fight against them.

I’d argue we’re at our best when we stand up for ourselves, for our values, beliefs, ideals, communities, and the people we love and care about; we’re at our worst when we incessantly and viciously attack, insult, and denigrate one another or whole groups of human beings.

This sounds like the kind of polite manners and mutual respect we used to teach children by example, but I have never seen adults this openly abusive and abrasive in my life, and as quick to flop and cry foul when the same crass techniques are turned around and pointed their way.

When you squint and see through all the bad behavior, however, you start to realize something: there isn’t anything these people are fighting for. It’s just a bunch of bullshit they’ve been brainwashed with to incubate fear and hate.

It’s something I think about all the time. When I get angry or become critical, I ask myself: what am I fighting for? And if I can’t answer that question honestly, then I realize I’m a sucker getting caught up in the mob, too. I’m human. It happens.

But it’s a question worth asking yourself, over and over and over. It’s the question that led to the birth of this country. And it’s a question that, once it dies, takes life and liberty and happiness and hope with it.

In The Hunt

June 29th, 2026

Being weeks out from graduation now, the first question people usually ask when they see me in the wild is: “How’s the job hunt going?”

My answer is always succinct and honest: it is a nightmare out here.

It is a daily humiliation, a habitual humbling, a constant experience of rejection and failure and soul-crushing uncertainty, but you know what? That’s okay and I’ll tell you why.

As far as the responses to the dozens of applications I’ve submitted go, it’s been an expectedly mixed bag. I’ve had my share of rejection letters, a few of them surprisingly sweet and thoughtfully written, but most just copy-and-paste slips from an age-old template. I’ve had phone interviews. I’ve had practice task requests; in design, instead of a traditional introductory meeting, they give you a prompt for a project and you send in your work and that helps them see what kind of designer (and person?) you are.

In a truly dystopian move, though, there is a new tactic on the job scene and, if you’ve been paying attention to the abysmal state of modern affairs, I’m sure you can guess what it is: the “A.I. assistant” interview. That’s right: there are companies that care so little about who works for them now that they’re not even bothering doing the interviews with people anymore.

I have received these requests. I have rejected them with my whole chest. And here’s the part where I tell you why I’m okay.

You’ll see a lot of people talk about authenticity. About being genuine and real. And then you’ll see them act directly opposed to this supposed ideology.

Go look at LinkedIn right now. You will find the same thirteen adjectives self-describing most people on any career website, because they’re all using the “professional playbook” (and yeah, that playbook includes A.I. now). Even at school, we were encouraged to sand our edges, to follow standards, to conform.

I have and will perpetually refuse to do this.

I have stubbornly remained human through all of this. My work and my writing and my social media presence and, hell, even my resume includes things that doesn’t tell people I’m genuine or authentic, but shows them. I can be sarcastic and silly and messy, but I’m also professional and empathetic and kind. There are thousands of people who have received my service and know I’m the real deal. And even though I don’t have that job yet, I strongly believe that when the right people come across me and learn about who I am, they’ll know I’m the right fit for who they are and what they do.

Basically, everything is okay because all of this is reminding me of who I am, and who I am is pretty cool and would be a good part of any good team.

Anyway, if you’re navigating this market right now too, I see you and I’m sending all my love your way. I’m grateful to be working in the other industries where I have skills so I don’t have to settle for anything less. And as the rising wave of backlash against A.I. (and inhumanity) continues, I hope that companies see sooner than later how humans are the irreplaceable and priceless assets; not just for their businesses, but for our lives.

Dual

June 17th, 2026

I don’t know what I am.

Zen Buddhism says that in our absolute reality, each of us are the whole universe and nothing simultaneously; in our individual, relative versions of reality, however, I believe the entire point of our existence is to discover who we actually are before we’re gone.

Usually when we define ourselves, we have to say: I am this thing; I am not that thing. But if we do dig deeper, we start to experience a collapse of this kind of dualism. And when that line between two formally distinct sides is blurred or smudged or erased altogether, it can take us further away from concrete identity, which may be helpful in a spiritual, attachment-severing sense, but is a total bummer when it comes to figuring out who we are in the here and now.

I always think about this when I visit Faribault, and when I contemplate the complexity of being a man.

So what does it mean to be from somewhere? For those of you who don’t know me well or read everything I write (how dare you), I am of, at least, two distinct places: I was born in Minneapolis, the big city, and I moved to Faribault, a small town, halfway through the third grade. I never had the interconnected roots that the other kids in Faribault had; I always felt like an outsider, which makes sense when many of the children around you have known each other from before they left their respective wombs.

Interestingly enough, though, I always claim Faribault as my hometown, even though I wasn’t born there and have always felt more city in my blood than country (which might actually just be all the microplastics). I sincerely couldn’t tell you where I belong; my entire past feels as fluid as the Mississippi (or Straight) river.

This might seem trivial to some, but I’ve been watching the World Cup religiously and you can see and feel how people connect when they totally know where they’re from: in their bodies, through their hearts, down to their bones. Nationally, I’m a U.S. fan; genetically, I root for Germany, Norway, and Denmark (who missed the Cup this year). I have a inkling of where I was drawn from on the bigger page; I struggle to see which panels my lines fit into today.

So what does it mean to be of a particular sex or to have a specific gender role based on cultural and time-specific context? For me, being a man is being both dog and trainer; in fact, I’ve been able to deal with quite a bit of shame and guilt by realizing this duality, and finally accepting my responsibilities for both roles. But acceptance of both animal and non-animal qualities isn’t conductive to male identity-building; it can distort our perspective, make societal life even more confusing and, if used with resignation, can lead to countless excuses and refusal of personal accountability.

Said the alcoholic.

Look, I have a lot of empathy for men today, but it doesn’t mean I have to feel bad for them; a lot of the toxic masculinity and giant-sized narcissism we face is self-perpetuated and just plain gross, a ton of guys tying their own shoelaces together and blaming the world for tripping them over. It’s easy to be lonely when you treat everybody around you as wrong and less-than; a little dash of humility and a sprinkle of decency and sugar go a long way.

All of this to say: I don’t know how many people are doing this work anymore. This whole “knowing thyself” work. The work of figuring out who we were, who we are, who we want to be and, most importantly, why.

As I watch countless people around me scroll to death and defer all of their own potential feelings, thoughts, and/or opinions to AI or social media’s feelings, thoughts, and/or opinions, I don’t wonder why so many feel so alone and without any purpose. We make our own purpose and then we make it together, in real life, with the identities we discover and forge and then rediscover perpetually.

So, again, I don’t know what I am.

But I do know that the whole point of this life is to look into it as deeply and passionately and truly as I can before I leave this borrowed body behind.

World Cup 2026

June 12th, 2026

I’m so sorry if you see me in the next five weeks because my personality will be, largely, the World Cup (though, depending on your opinion of me, this may be better than whatever my normal personality is).

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with soccer; I have both hated it and loved it during different periods of my life.

(I definitely had a comical distaste for the sport when I worked at Old Chicago and we started opening hellishly early on the weekend for Premier League matches, but it did gift me my English team. My GM Luke encouraged me to pick and support a side, as I would then get more into the games, so I asked him who the rivals were for his team, Chelsea. He said it was Arsenal and my choice was made. They’re currently the Premier League champs, btw!)

I am now at the point in my life where I have never loved soccer more. I don’t know when the light switch flipped but it actually wasn’t like a switch at all; it was a rekindled relationship that started with curiosity and has resulted in obsession.

(Another aside: I think my love/hate relationship exists with sports in general. Though I have never been known as athletic [nerd and writer and drama club president, hello], I really do love to play, and I think a lot of my physical awkwardness came from my terrible eyesight. Though a lot of you know I wear glasses now, I didn’t for the first thirty-ish years of my life, blindly navigating through my days like a powerless Matt Murdock. I was insecure about that, and not being able to see led to me finding other ways to represent myself. I think it worked out for the best, but I digress.)

Anyway, this is all a post to say: if you’re obsessed, too, and want to talk World Cup, I’m your guy. I’ve already watched every match so far and can’t stop watching and reading everything else Cup-related.

P.S. I read an article about a pick-up league in Atlanta called Roswell Seniors Soccer Club where the median age of the players is 73 and I can’t stop thinking about it. Does anyone else want to start an old person league with me? Please? I promise we can just walk the whole time, eat treats and chase butterflies at our leisure.

SpringCon 2026

June 6th, 2026

I know it’s been a long time between conventions for me when there’s so much to catch up on!

There was rarely a moment I wasn’t in conversation with an old friend, a new fan, or a random passerby today. I missed this community so much and there were moments I felt maybe I was missed too! I got to learn all the good news and listen to the hard times, too; everyone’s going through it and I feel grateful to those who share that.

I very rarely attend any con hearing near universal praise for the event, but I heard it sung again and again today (despite the heat!). Definite magic to be found at SpringCon, and I just want to thank the organizers, volunteers, fellow writers and artists and craftspeople and vendors, and, of course, the attendees. I won’t wait another eight months until you see me again!

Ceramic Squirrel Cookie Jar

May 31st, 2026

I know that a surefire way to experience heartbreak in this life is to have attachments; this hard-earned knowledge hasn’t stopped me from keeping my mom in a ceramic squirrel cookie jar.

A beautiful, diseased tree that lived behind our home was cut down on Friday. Its branches held a dray that housed a sibling gang of squirrels; I counted seven of them one morning last week as they squeaked and leaped about our yard. I noticed that they had been moving pieces of their nest from one tree to another, like they knew the end of their stay in the former was near.

What a lesson from nature, I thought. Change is normal. Moving on is normal, totally not a big deal. The tree you live in right now is only the tree you live in right now; you will live in many trees and someday you won’t live in a tree at all.

Our beautiful, diseased tree fell and that was that. There was a quiet sadness sat in our yard, grief in the form of a stump. The absence of the tree deeply upset me, but I felt silly, as the squirrels were so easily able to get past it.

Until we heard it.

A wail of sorts. I thought it was a bird. But I looked outside and it was one of the squirrels, splooting over a branch in the new tree, seemingly crying out in pain, though not in any visible, physical danger.

Maybe it is possible to be okay with all change. Maybe it just takes practice. Or maybe it’s a trick taught by nature: act unaffected and unattached, pretend to be cool with change or get buried by it.

It’s my mom’s birthday today and I wish she were here to help me let that squirrel know it’s going to be okay; I wish she were here to let me know, too.

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I woke up and my ceramic squirrel cookie jar was gone.

I think a part of me would be okay, knowing she was out there somewhere and living in another tree.

But I know another part of me would wail, the part of me that never stops, the part of me that holds on to all the birthdays we had before and all the birthdays we’ll never have.