Hi! My name's Chris. I've lived in Los Angeles since 1995, when I came out here for grad school. I 'm originally from the north side of Columbus, OH.

I'm a creative writer and artist and have shown my work in galleries in Los Angeles. Check out my art here.

I've also written a graphic novel! You can check out some sample pages here.

I like graphic novels, Christmas, tide pools, grilled cheese sandwiches, reading, biker moustaches, dudes, football (Ohio State and the New Orleans Saints), sea monsters, painting, pine trees, bookstores, tennis, going to the gym, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Cricket Magazine, gloves with the fingers torn off, illustration, rugby players, Trina Schart Hyman, Stephen King, horror films, Hillary Clinton, film history and unexplained phenomena.

I blog about illustration, painting, Atari, films, Christmas, books...and things from my favorite era: the late 1970s/early 80s. As well as assorted other stuff!

Email: Cobbler3@yahoo.com
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CURRENTLY READING: American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

 

I find myself walking through the antique district below Fourteenth Street. My watch has stopped so I’m not sure what time it is, but probably ten-thirty or so. Black guys pass by offering crack or hustling tickets to a party at the Palladium. I walk by a newsstand, a dry cleaners, a church, a diner. The streets are empty; the only noise breaking up the silence is an occasional taxi cruising toward Union Square. A couple of skinny faggots walk by while I’m a phone booth checking my messages, staring at my reflection in an antique store’s window. One of them whistles at me, the other laughs: a high, fey, horrible sound. A torn playbill from Les Miserables tumbles down the cracked, urine-stained sidewalk. A streetlamp burns out. Someone in a Jean-Paul Gaultier topcoat takes a piss in an alleyway. Steam rises from below the streets, billowing up in tendrils, evaporating.

Bret Easton Ellis - American Psycho (1991)