Chris Hedden is a good dude. Most people say I’m too quiet, but Chris had me rambling away about things most people never ask me about. When you’re done with the interview, be sure to check out his music publication/podcast, On the Back Edge of the Beat.

Also, a correction: Leonardo da Vinci was a musician as well, but the point about drawing inspiration from different mediums still stands.

I recently sat down with Dan Rasmussen of KODI Radio (Cody, WY) to discuss the background of my new song Ghost Notes. Beyond that, we touch upon my path to Cody, my songwriting philosophy, and some impending life changes… For the OG followers of the memoir portion of this blog, I would say this conversation picks up where we left off a few years ago, and hopefully fills in some very large gaps in the timeline. Enjoy.

Just like a brother
My favorite drummer
Is it for nothing
All that we suffer?
Open the floodgates
Decades of love/hate
Pulling the sun down
Keeping me up late

Hours of golden
Days of the olden
Don't want to let go
All I've been holding
Chasing the pain down
Memory lane now
Walking in circles
Can't find my way out

There's chances that I missed
I been singing things I wish
I would have told you long ago
I know there's something better
It never came together
I wish I would have let you know

You're just like a brother
My favorite drummer
It's not for nothing
All that we suffer
Open the floodgates
Decades of love/hate
Smiling back on
Memories that we made

For those who don’t know, Richard and I used to play in a grunge-rock duo called The Id of Christ (this was in my BC era, of course). Richard was on drums and I sang and played guitar.

The photo above was taken in March of 2015 at a house-venue in Lansing called The Church of the Three Cats. After our show, we met up with some friends at Michigan State, where the beer was flowing freely in celebration of a big win by the Spartans basketball team.

As the streets teemed with drunken 20-year-olds, it was only natural that we fell in with the mob. But revelry soon turned to riot. Orange flames flew into the air. We gathered around a burning couch, and out of the shadows emerged cops mounted on horseback ready to break us up. Testing their resolve, the mob remained, unshaken, throwing more and more fuel on the fire.

I don’t know what the signal was, if they blew a whistle or something, but suddenly the cavalry charged and I was running full tilt into the dark unknown, losing Richard and everyone else in the stampede.

When the dust settled and the fog of war began to lift, I went from house to house in search of my comrades. One by one we eventually found each other, and marched proudly back to the dorms to catch a few hours of sleep.

The next day, Richard and I had an early show to get to back in Grand Rapids. We roused ourselves, dazed and confused, and feeling like true rock stars, were on to the next one…

A lot has changed since the days of fleeing from riot-cops on horseback. From the LA days, to being roommates in Montana, losing touch for awhile, then reuniting after our own journeys in faith – it was certainly a wild ride.

May 1, 2026 would have been Richard’s 30th birthday. This new song is a belated gift for him and anyone who called him a friend. He may not have always been a saint. He may have drank too much. Could’ve taken better care of himself. But he had a soft, welcoming heart. A brotherly love for all. And he was a ferocious drummer. May we always remember the good and beautiful things about Richard Wesley Devon.

Listen to Ghost Notes on Spotify, Apple Music, Amazon, and Tidal.

Ooo yeah
My nature hates a vacuum, girl, where you at?
Nobody understands me like you can
And I was never perfect but you knew that
And God was always there, I’m just a new fan
And I was never perfect but you knew that
Nobody understands me like you

Ooo yeah
My nature hates a vacuum, girl, where you at?
Let’s get the fam together and just move past
The politburo drama of the New Man
Nobody understands me like you

I could not come when you called me
I was up all at the party
Smiled at my good friend Charlie
Never too late to say we’re sorry
I been told the sky’s the limit
After this I must admit it
Up and died but kept on living
Thank you God for new beginnings

I could not come when you called me
I was up all at the party
Smiled at my good friend Charlie
Never too late to say we’re sorry
I been told the sky’s the limit
After this I must admit it
Up and died but kept on living
Thank you God cause now I'm singing...

Photo by Jon Decker.

Special thanks to Tobias Plante, Aubrey Bulson, Joe Kauzlarich, Josh Crain, and Morgan Mae for singing the “yeahs” in the outro.

And a special thanks to YOU for listening.

Little lovebird
Are you feeling lovesick?
Why does love hurt
When it should be perfect?
Hard to stay warm
When it’s getting colder
You can lay your
Head upon my shoulder

Little henpeck
That I try to let slide
There’s a pinprick
Like a thorn in my side
I get angry
And I hurt your feelings
Sorry, baby
Does it have to be like this?

Your mother was sure
We could never work it out
My father figure
I could never figure out
That perfect picture
I can hardly picture now
Oh, Holy Helper
Come and help me out

Little lovebird
Are you feeling lovesick?
Why does love hurt
When it should be perfect?
Hard to stay warm
When it’s getting colder
Come and lay your
Head upon my shoulder

Listen to Lovebird on Spotify, Apple Music, etc.

In my mind there’s a little box, and in this box lives a world of memories from a particular era. 2015 and 2016 were significant years for me, as they were for many people for different reasons. Sometimes I lift the lid of this box and catch a glimpse of something sweet, something romantic.

But I must say that most of the sights and smells of this era are best kept tucked away. It’s just too painful to think about, and I’ve done a good job of moving on. However, the cost of keeping this box closed is that most people I meet now never fully get to know me. Once upon a time I was okay with that. I didn’t really care to make new friends, and I thought I was perfectly fine in my protective bubble of emotional distance. 

If the smell of marijuana comes to your nose while reading this, or the taste of alcohol to your tongue, I do apologize. I would be lying if I said these substances (and many more) were not at play in this story. 

As someone who’s been sober for quite some time now, I by no means wish to glorify the subject of drug use, and a fair warning to you all: Many of the people in this story die. I only wish I had someone guiding me in the right direction at that time.

I’ll admit that some of these memories are a little hazy. Maybe I’ve imagined a few things! All I know is that once this box is opened, it may take awhile to close it up again…

‘Twas on the Northwest side of Grand Rapids, Michigan that I lived with my mom and stepdad. A twenty year old basement dweller was I, who only came out at night, and whose top priority in life was the success of his band, Gibbet. Named after the torture device that held condemned criminals in a cage in the public square to be ridiculed, Gibbet was the platform on which I bared my heart and soul. 

My second priority in life was partying with my group of friends, who had become more and more like a dysfunctional family. Unfortunately, I was confused enough at the time to think that the debauchery we committed together had a positive effect on my music.

I know I was enrolled at the Grand Rapids Community College, a stipulation set by my mom that allowed me to remain living at home, but I can’t recall what I actually did there besides write lyrics during class. Ironically, I was supposed to be working on a Criminal Justice certificate in the area of Addiction Studies. 

In 2015, Gibbet was beginning to reach new creative heights. The general atmosphere of the songs was procured by my inseparable best friend JD, while I was in charge of writing the lyrics, singing, and playing guitar. We began recording a demo album on a digital 8-track in my mom’s basement called Stroboscopic Fantasy. The new songs we showed our friends at gatherings actually garnered some respect, when before we had mostly been made fun of. We always loved what we did even when others didn’t, but now that other people were starting to see what we saw in ourselves, I was all the more confident. No matter how dark and chaotic the partying got with my friends, I always had music at the forefront of my mind. Perhaps it was a gift from God that saved my life, but more on that later.

Summer had finally arrived, and it was time for the annual trip to Lake Michigan with JD’s family, of which I was an honorary member. We always stayed right on the beach in the biggest house on the street. What was also exciting, and equally nerve-wracking, was that the annual lakeshore trip meant that JD and I got to spend time with his famous uncle, Red Hot Chili Peppers singer, Anthony Kiedis. 

My friendship with JD long preceded my RHCP fandom, and it was actually JD himself who introduced me to By The Way and Stadium Arcadium, two albums that completely changed my world.

I first met Anthony at the Van Andel Arena in Grand Rapids before a Chili Peppers show. I was with JD and his family, and Anthony came into the room pushing an elderly relative in a wheelchair. As much as I’d like to say I played it cool, I was quite visibly nervous. I was just a high school freshman, and I had no idea how much this relationship would eventually shape my future.

By this time, I had already read Anthony’s book, Scar Tissue, and had unconsciously made it a sort of Bible in my mind. As a kid with no religious background or moral framework, Scar Tissue became my guide on how to do whatever I wanted, and it gave me faith that, no matter what I did, I would become successful beyond my wildest dreams. On top of that, Anthony’s physical presence in my life gave me something more to model. I began affecting a kind of straight-faced alpha attitude, and walked around with perfect posture, all of which completely fell apart when I actually came face to face with the man I was trying to emulate. By the time I was 20 years old, I had met most of my musical idols, but no matter how many interactions I had with Anthony, it was a rare moment when I was actually calm. 

I definitely wasn’t calm on this particular family vacation, because JD and I were about to show Anthony our most recent batch of songs. Joined by a few younger cousins, we piled into a giant SUV on our way to a fancy dinner, and handed AK our demo CD. It was a beautiful day on the lakeshore as we cruised slowly down the sandy street, sun shining, waves waving. I was quite nervous as the first song on Stroboscopic Fantasy played. All I wanted was to please the person who I looked up to the most, and the anticipation of his reaction had me on the edge of my seat. But when the song ended I was soon put at ease by what Anthony said:

“That song was an A+. If you pursue this, I guarantee you will have success.”

JD and I spent the remaining trip driving the rented family golf cart all across town, and charging people for rides to and from the beach. One night, we were in the golf cart on an innocent ice cream run, minding our own business, when we were pulled over by not one, but two police officers. We tried to bargain with them to allow us to move on, but they were not amused with the two 20 year old boys who stood before them, and I’m sure the red satin kimono I was wearing wasn’t very persuasive. I don’t really remember what happened after that, and it doesn’t really matter. All I know is that we had a lot of fun.

2

I had a large group of friends in high school, and in 2015 not many of us had made it very far from the town in which we graduated. The central hub of our activity was the Trap House, a run down apartment in the ghettoest part of Grand Rapids where Micah, Smoes, and Spenny lived. All the neighbors had been in and out of prison, some for drug dealing, others for homicide. As soon as I would park my car on the street, I would run as quickly as possible to the door and knock frantically until someone, usually Spenny, let me in. My pace didn’t stop me from being intercepted on occasion though, and once I had a guy try to sell me crack at their doorstep. I was always relieved when I got inside and the door was locked.

But just because you were inside the walls of the Trap House didn’t always mean you escaped the threatening atmosphere of Southeast Grand Rapids. You might hear an argument or a beating from across the hall, or the homicidal neighbor might invite himself to your party, or it’s New Year’s Eve and instead of fireworks, there’s a barrage of gunshots that sends countless bullets into the air around you. I would like to say these occasions were rare, but they became relatively normal.

By the time it was August, it had been a few weeks since I was at the Trap House, which felt like a lifetime. My absence had been felt, and I received a warm welcome upon my arrival. We were also joined by our friend Brandon, who was a bonus addition to our bro reunion. It was the middle of the day, and we had nothing to do, and as the saying goes, idle hands are the devil’s playthings. We weren’t mature enough to be in each others’ presence without being intoxicated, so it wasn’t long until a concoction of substances was consumed by all. Eventually, the bright idea dawned on us that we should pay a visit to the Kent County Fair, and suddenly I found myself stumbling through horse stables and pig pens, staring into the eyes of soon-to-be slaughtered farm animals.

At one point I found a tree to lean against, where I watched two police officers, silhouetted against the sunset, walking their fairground beat. They seemed pleased to be keeping the peace at this family friendly event that I was so selfishly sullying with my presence. I probably should have turned myself over to them right then and there, and escaped what became quite literally a dark night of the soul.

The night was going well when we made it back to the Trap House. There was a prevailing feeling of freedom in our brotherly reunion, and the summer night was starry and bright. But when we opened the door, we were overwhelmed with a confusing sense of ominous trickery, as it appeared that the world had conspired to play a practical joke on us. I believe there may have even been laughter as we noticed the overturned couch and the garbage strewn about the living room. But when we noticed the TV and Playstation were missing, and that the bedrooms had been torn apart, the reality sunk in that the Trap House had been robbed.

Micah immediately locked the door behind us, and there was a brief panic regarding what we should do. Spenny, in a fit of rage, put his fist through the living room wall, cutting open his hand. I had to blink and rub my eyes, as I perceived his blood to be floating in mid air for more than a few moments.

Suddenly there was an anxious knock on the door, and the room became incredibly tense. Spenny cautiously opened the door, ready for violence, but it was just Peanut, a little African American boy who was always patrolling the neighborhood on his bike.

“Dude, Peanut! Get outta here! We just got robbed!”

Spenny slammed the door.

Who did this? How should we take revenge? Should we call the cops in our mental state? Should we commit insurance fraud? I walked into Micah’s bedroom to relax for a minute while the Trap House residents were discussing how to proceed. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and was taken with how unbelievably young I looked, as if I were seeing myself from an elderly perspective. I looked at the clothes I was wearing. I was in my baby blue Gibbet t-shirt that featured an original drawing by JD that depicted a man’s head exploding.

After hiding a few things of our own, the decision was made to call the cops. Brandon and I waited on the porch for the cops to arrive while the others double and triple checked that any contraband had been sufficiently tucked away. Intrusive thoughts began creeping into my mind about JD’s dad Steve. He had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer a few months before, and it was clear that his time was coming. He was like a second father to me, and his influence on my world was immeasurable, so the thought of losing him was devastating. I’m not sure how, but I maintained my composure.

When the cops showed up, Smoes opened a can of beer and said, “You boys mind if I crack a beer open in my own home?”

They said, “Sure, why not?”

“Because I’m not 21,” he laughed.

They conducted a half-hearted investigation of the robbery and concluded that there was nothing they could do. We sent the cops off cordially and sat defeated in the destroyed living room that had once been our EDM playground.

What happened next wasn’t necessarily the result of any conscious thought or decision, but more of a moral decay brought on by mere circumstance.

Recognizing the ghetto, white-trashiness of our situation, we turned on the most appropriate music we could think of, Eminem, and began destroying what was left of the interior of the Trap House. Any random item was fair game to be thrown at the wall or ground. Even Spenny’s electric guitar didn’t survive the carnage, having been smashed to pieces on the living room floor.

There were no rules. There was no such thing as responsibility.

Unfortunately, things escalated further, as they tend to do when one takes another dose of what caused them to become insane in the first place. All I remember is that I was overcome with such a wave of animalistic violence that I became afraid of myself. The world around me had the appearance of video game graphics, and I started to feel like I was trapped inside of Grand Theft Auto 5. I excused myself from the maniacal laughter that had recently moved to the kitchen, because I didn’t want to be around any knives lest I hurt someone. I laid down on the couch that we had flipped right side up again, and forced myself with all my might to stay where I was and fall asleep.

I woke up sometime the following afternoon, and the first thought I had was, “I don’t care about anything.” It would be a long time until I shook that feeling off.

Spenny’s alarm had been going off for 5 minutes straight before I knocked on his door to see if he was awake. I finally opened it and yelled his name a few times until he turned over from his stomach and said, “What day is it?”

3

The late summer night was warm enough for a t-shirt, but cool enough to be comfortable. The hint of humidity in the air was practically unnoticeable to a native Michigander like myself. I was happy to be outside. The party upstairs was too hot, and there were rumors that a few of my acquaintances were doing hardcore drugs in the bathroom. It was all becoming too much for me.

Out on the porch, underneath a fluorescent light that attracted moths, sat a dirty old loveseat where I made myself at home. I wasn’t alone for long though. Another person made their way downstairs, apparently in need of some fresh air as well, and sat down next to me. It was Joe, one of my longest and most cherished friends, and I was happy to have his company.

I first met Joe sometime in the 4th grade, and now that we were both around 20 years old, we could officially say that we’d known each other for half of our lives. He was kind of a shaggy kid, always wearing his hair a bit long, and was into skateboarding. I think a lot of people would have described him as quiet, but any one of his close friends would have said otherwise.

If you sat by Joe in class, or at a school assembly, or any social gathering that required a silent and respectful audience, you were guaranteed to be bursting at the seams with repressed laughter. He just couldn’t help making a mockery of anyone in an authority position, and as much as it pains me to think of how utterly disrespectful we were, I still have to admit that Joe was one of the funniest people I ever knew.

As time went on, our sense of humor grew increasingly odd and obscure. I think back to when my group of friends found a stuffed animal in our high school hallway, a little white mouse that was obviously meant to be a child’s play toy. Joe named it Thornton, and this cute little mouse soon became the center of our attention, as if it was a real-life pet. Arguments would arise, sometimes turning into full blown custody battles over who would be Thornton’s guardian for the week. All of this coincided with the rise of Snapchat, and it became obligatory to document your time with Thornton. Thornton doing homework. Thornton grocery shopping. Thornton at the beach. I imagine there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures of this stuffed mouse stored away on old cell phones.

When the joke got old, Joe and I began plotting Thornton’s demise. We were at the grocery store parking lot in Lowell one night when we came up with a solution. As the arbiters of Thornton’s fate, we would douse him in gasoline and set him on fire as soon as possible. We gathered the loose coins in our cars’ cup holders, pooled together our meager sums, and were shocked by how much gas actually came out of the pump. We couldn’t have spent much more than a dollar. We looked around, hoping no one would notice us spraying fuel all over the ground.

I can’t explain this, but we deemed the Goodwill parking lot to be the best place for Thornton’s funeral pyre. When Joe took out his lighter and put a flame to Thornton’s gasoline soaked body, it caused a small explosion. As we watched him burn, it occurred to us that the fire was much bigger, and had been burning much longer than either of us had anticipated.

We frantically stomped on the flaming mouse, again hoping no one was watching us. The bottle of water we poured on the fire only made it expand. A half-empty bottle of Gatorade was our last resort, and thankfully it worked. We grabbed what was left of Thornton and fled the scene in Joe’s BMW. We tried to keep a low profile, but when I saw the flashing lights of an approaching cop car, I froze, only to breathe a deep sigh of relief as he continued right past us.

Although we thought what we did was hilarious, and I always considered my friends to be the cool kids in school, I wonder how many of our classmates viewed us purely as outcasts.

Like all of us at the time, Joe had a dark side that seemed to be ever-evolving. This became especially evident in the wake of a party-gone-wrong on the night of our high school graduation. In fact, this infamous occasion would eventually be referred to by my group of friends as Sad Night.

The beginning of Sad Night wasn’t as sad as it was nostalgic as we gathered at a friend’s house for a casual get-together. We basked in our shared high school experience, and acknowledged the bittersweetness of moving forward with our lives. The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon featured the famous “drum off” between RHCP drummer Chad Smith and his doppelganger, Will Ferrell, which provided us with some comic relief.

I didn’t actually witness the events that punctuated Sad Night and solidified its name in our personal history books. However, I heard all about it the next day.

Joe, having gotten incredibly intoxicated, insisted on driving home. Spenny, who at the time could have been considered Joe’s best friend, tried with a few others to dissuade Joe from risking his life. But Joe had a mind of his own, especially when drinking, and fiercely persisted in his efforts to drive drunk. The conflict escalated into a brawl in which Spenny got the better of Joe. But instead of completely humiliating his best friend, Spenny mercifully desisted, and inadvertently allowed Joe to seize the moment and escape home in his car.

Spenny had done all he could to save Joe without destroying their friendship, and Joe had made his point: he would do whatever he wanted and no one would get in the way. The two remained seemingly as close as ever, but as far as I know, they never discussed what happened on Sad Night. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last time Joe would attempt to drive home under the influence.

In the months to come, I would spend my fair share of time hiding car keys and pleading with Joe not to drive home after nights of drinking. But again, he had a mind of his own, and it’s not like I was a shining example of a disciplined lifestyle. Still, I couldn’t figure out why this person who I loved so much, who seemed so smart, could do the number one thing we were always warned against while growing up. But every time Joe made it home he would prove to me, and apparently to himself, that he was invincible. He even hit a parked car one time, but being the cool, calm, and collected person that he was, popped some gum in his mouth and convinced the police that it was an honest mistake.

After the Trap House was robbed, it became increasingly clear that partying was no longer just for fun. It was now a necessity. The sense of community among my friends was diminishing. Everyone seemed to be having an individual party by themselves, so when Joe joined me outside on that summer night in 2015, it was almost a surprise.

We sat out there for hours in the cool breeze, talking about everything and nothing at all, talking the way only two familiar friends can. Did you see that Snapchat? Remember when we jumped the speed bump at the high school? How’s your brother’s band doing? Do you think Trump could actually become president?

When I think back to the trivial nature of our conversation that night, part of me wishes I would have just grabbed the guy and hugged him, and told him how much he meant to me, or that together we would have realized how stupid we were being all the time.

I’m not always at ease with the idea that everything unfolds the way it was meant to. What’s especially hard for me to think about sometimes is that after that night, even though I would still see Joe here and there, and say hello in passing, our heart-to-heart conversation out on that loveseat would be the last one we would ever have.

4

“I hope I remember the words to this song,” flashes through my mind.

I sit down on a stool with my acoustic guitar and look out at the audience. I’m a little shaky. It’s a perfect day at Fallasburg Park in Lowell, Michigan, and the sun is shining on the familiar faces of friends and family. Mom is getting married, and we start the ceremony with a song:

“This is the first day of my life

Swear I was born right in the doorway

I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed

They’re spreading blankets on the beach...”

Tears well up in everyones’ eyes including mine. I finish the song and stand off to the side. JD’s dad Steve walks over to me, wiping a tear away from behind his sunglasses. He gives me a fatherly hug and whispers in my ear, “You’re a good soul, buddy. I hope I know you forever.”

The ceremony is short and sweet, and my mom is finally married to the wonderful man who is now my new stepdad. We make our way back to the recreation center for the reception. The wedding band consists of myself, JD, Steve on lead vocals, and JD’s little brother Sam as our special guest on trumpet. We play for hours, and every face is full of smiles at this heartwarming celebration of love…

It was an honor to play with those guys that day, especially with Steve, who I looked up to and respected in so many ways. He was bald and a little overweight, but he was a beautiful human with a strong constitution, and could sing like Mick Jagger. No one had ever made me laugh harder or think deeper than Steve. All-night road trips to out-of-state music festivals, hotel conversations about philosophy and religion, crying from laughter at Chinese restaurants - this is what I think of when remembering Steve. Hanging out with him came with the feeling that you were really living.

It was a calm summer night, and my mom had invited Steve over to hang out and play guitar with my stepdad. The two of them had played in a band together, and usually such an occasion would be cause for celebration, but the underlying reason for his visit that night was rather somber. Steve had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer, and the outlook wasn’t good.

Although he was at our house to hang out with the parents, Steve was my friend and family too, so I lingered with them on the porch for a while, soaking in his limited presence. Even through the explanation of his diagnosis, new reasons to laugh would pop up out of nowhere until we were all in that unusual limbo between laughing and lightly crying.

I wanted so badly to tell him how much I loved him, maybe I could put it in a letter, or maybe the proper time would reveal itself later. But Steve didn’t want to be seen as the cancer guy, and I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Of course it was impossible for me to reduce him down to something so hopeless, when in my mind he would always remain a powerfully wise father figure who demanded great respect. When I finally left the parents to talk amongst themselves, I got into my car and drove around aimlessly, crying for the incredible loss that loomed over us all.

I don’t think it was a coincidence that I became an everyday weed smoker around this time. I thought I had found a natural cure for my ever-present anxiety, but I see now that I was merely escaping the world around me, failing to fill the God-sized hole in my heart.

From the time of his dad’s diagnosis, JD became increasingly preoccupied with family affairs, and rightly so, but that meant that our musical momentum came to a temporary standstill. I began producing a solo album in my mom’s basement with the same digital 8-track that JD and I used to record Stroboscopic Fantasy. I enjoyed the problem-solving nature of beat-making, and I continually surprised myself with my own upward progression. I drew unending inspiration from the solo albums of John Frusciante. I was playing a lot of bass as well. The songs were coming out alright, but after all these years, I still have to admit that my musical brotherhood with JD brought out the best in me, and I still struggle at times to unlock my full potential without him.

One afternoon, I was just wrapping up the final beat for the album when my mom called me upstairs. Steve was gone. Mom and I hugged each other and sobbed for a few minutes, and then I stepped outside and into my car. In remembrance of Steve, I listened to three Rolling Stones songs: Dead Flowers, Moonlight Mile, and Let It Loose, the last song being Steve’s publicly requested funeral send-off song. My mom and I spent the rest of the day driving around, talking for hours, telling our favorite stories about the friend we had just lost. I never even considered returning to the album I had almost finished.

About a month later, JD and I were grabbing a few things that were left in Steve’s house in Lowell. Our plan was to go back to my mom’s house in Grand Rapids, hang out, and maybe think about making some music if it felt right. It would have been a fairly normal day despite the recent loss of Steve, if it hadn’t been for a confusing text I got from a friend who shall remain anonymous. I’m reluctant to say who it was, because this particular friend was so deep into addiction that he had hardly been coherent the last few times I saw him, and had even been homeless for a while, or so I heard. Long story short, this person had lost all credibility in my eyes, so when he sent me a text that said Joe was in the hospital, I dismissed the claim as another one of his druggy delusions.

On the way back to Grand Rapids, JD and I put on the song Eye Opener, an ethereal and melancholy track by Dot Hacker. The song suited the cold, windy, and overcast atmosphere of our autumnal drive to the city. “What if Joe died,” said JD, with an incredulous half-smile on his face. We both feigned laughter, and shrugged it off, knowing full well that Joe was invincible, and that what JD had said was impossible.

But the question of Joe’s wellbeing still lingered in the back of our minds. When we arrived at my mom’s house, we decided to investigate further. I stood out on the porch and called my friend Andrew, who was a slightly more reliable source, and had supposedly been with Joe the night before. The phone rang, and I anticipated Andrew’s amiable voice on the other end, but what I got instead was someone who sounded hollowed out, void of emotion.

“Hey, dude! So, what happened to Joe?” I asked, with an inquisitive smile in my voice.

Andrew said plainly, “He died.”

5

It’s the middle of a dark night. I’m driving fast down a two lane highway. The road in front of me is dimly lit by headlights. I drive faster. Suddenly, I realize that I’m drunk out of my mind. But the drunker I feel the faster I drive, and the world becomes a blur. I feel myself losing control, swerving to the left and then to the right. I can’t escape. The tree in front of me grows brighter as my headlights approach. I know it’s the last thing I’ll ever see. My car collides with the tree, and at that moment I wake up in a cold sweat…

Winter was on its way. The dying leaves and cloudy skies were a reflection of my internal world. The time between losing Steve and losing Joe had been a mere 32 days.

A veil of vivid memories stood between my eyes and my surroundings. All I saw was Joe. My trusty pressure relief valve, marijuana, transformed from my daily delight to my sadistic slave master. No matter how much I smoked, I couldn’t get happy. The inner peace I had once felt was replaced by inescapable pain. I found myself vividly reliving every moment I had ever experienced with Joe. He was in my dreams. I would get lost in thought and imagine him walking through the doorway to tell me he was still alive.

What makes marijuana use so insidious is that, although you can maintain a relatively functional appearance, over time it slowly steals your soul. It’s almost imperceptible in real time, like watching grass grow. But if you don’t mow it down, you’ll wake up one day and wonder how your lawn got so ugly.

Having prior knowledge that Steve’s end was at hand allowed me to obtain an ounce of closure, but Joe’s death hit me, and everyone who knew him, like a sucker punch. Needless to say, the fall of 2015 was spent in grief. There were torrential tears, days of denial, and mental breakdowns in which many people cried, “I just want my Joey back.”

In retrospect, this outcome couldn’t have been more obvious. People who make it their life’s mission to test fate, and perpetually dangle themselves with one hand off of a cliff, usually have their death wish granted.

Joe’s demise became a demarcation line. Some of my friends made it their excuse to dive deeper down their paths of destruction, while I and a few others were gently guided somewhere safer.

My own emotions simmered on the backburner for a few months, but ignoring reality was like turning up the heat, and eventually things boiled over. My mental breakdown happened the night before Thanksgiving. There was some petty drama unfolding in my family, and I told my mom I didn’t want to go to our Thanksgiving dinner. When she asked why, the floodgates opened wide, and all I could say was, “I just miss Joe.”

It was like that sentence was a cork jammed into a hole in the bottom of a sinking ship. It could no longer sustain the pressure of the flooding waters that threatened to drown me in the facts of life.

Luckily for me, what followed my unexpected outburst was a 3-hour-long therapy session with my mom, a conversation I will never forget, the type of therapy that money can’t buy. I emerged from that conversation with a little less weight on my shoulders, and from that night on, slowly but surely, I began to develop a new sense of clarity and understanding. I even tried quitting weed. I attended my family gathering, and everything went just fine.

It’s hard to remember the timeline here, but somehow, during all of this tragic chaos, JD and I found it within ourselves to write and record a new batch of songs. In fact, it was the best material we had ever written. I had always been crafting music in my mind from a very young age, and now that I was older and more experienced, this habit seemed to be paying off. I believe that having a creative outlet to channel all of my pain and suffering into is what saved me from going completely off the deep end during this time. I could always drift away to an imaginary world of rhyme and rhythm where even the most painful scenes became beautiful.

Despite it being the first Thanksgiving without Steve, there was some excitement in JD’s family. Anthony had flown in from California for a surprise visit, perhaps feeling called to fill in the masculine void left by Steve’s absence.

I was glad to be invited on a family outing to Dave and Buster’s in Grand Rapids one evening, where all the little cousins could play games and run around. Although Anthony’s presence usually put me on edge, I felt relaxed. There were now bigger things in life than worrying about impressing anyone. As we all sat around the table, there was much talk of music, Michigan-Michigan State rivalry, and all the small things in life that bring us momentary joy. JD told me that night that he could hear a change in my voice, a resolution.

Of course my grief didn’t disappear overnight. That would still be a long way off. But that wholesome night with my second family was one of the first steps down the road to acceptance. It was around this time that JD and I started talking seriously about moving to California.

6

I spent the first half of 2016 delivering Edible Arrangements across the Grand Rapids metropolitan area. It was a great way to deepen my connection with the place in which I was born, the city streets becoming as familiar to me as the back of my own hand.

When I first got the job I was blown away by how much freedom it allowed me. I listened to any music I liked, scheduled my own lunch breaks, and my boss would never know if I picked up JD to ride along with me. The authority to do these things was never bestowed upon me by anyone but myself, of course, but I can assure you that each and every customer got their chocolate-covered fruit in the end.

Meanwhile, the decision to move to California had been made. JD and I had talked about it since high school, but we took the responsible route set forth by our parents to attend college first, which amounted to a big waste of time and money for everyone involved. Neither of us made it past our first year. It was always clear to us that we were destined to become world famous musicians.

That instinct was all the more confirmed by a phone call I got from JD one afternoon. “Dude, Dude! I just got a message from my uncle! He said that if we move to LA we could stay with him while we look for our own place, and that he would introduce us to anyone we wanna talk to!”

Anthony had been driving down the PCH that day, listening to his own new music and, feeling inspired by life’s infinite possibilities, magnanimously offered his young nephew and I the opportunity of a lifetime. It had always occurred to JD and I how much his uncle could help us if he wanted to, but we never presumed anything, nor did we ask for any favors up to this point. The prospect of pursuing my dreams in LA was exciting enough on its own, but now that life had dealt me another wildcard, I became self-assured that nothing I dreamed of was too big, or out of reach.

The new music that Anthony had been listening to that day would become the Chili Peppers’ 11th studio album, The Getaway, the release date of which happened to coincide with the first day of that summer’s family vacation on Lake Michigan.

I picked up a CD copy at Vertigo Records for JD and I to listen to as we drove out to the beach. The length of the album matched the length of our drive almost perfectly, so that the last song was playing as I parked my car in the driveway of the beach house. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and everyone was outside when we pulled up. The last thing I expected, though, was for Anthony to walk up to my car, lean in through my window, and start headbanging to “Dreams of a Samurai”.

When you’re with a famous person, as many people already know, sometimes you’re not sure how much you should acknowledge their fame, but the more you avoid it, the more awkward things become. I froze up a bit, and when the song ended all I could muster was, “Yep! First listen!” No compliments for AK.

Over the course of the next week, though there had never been a shortage of this kind of behavior, the new album’s publicity seemed to cause an influx of nervous fans asking for photos, which was almost always declined. Waitstaff at restaurants fell to pieces. People screamed Anthony’s name outside of our house. As crazy as it was, it felt like an absolute privilege to be along for the ride, and to associate with such a high level of rock-music royalty.

The biggest pitfall I perpetually fell into, though, was thinking that my association with celebrity is what made me interesting to others. I always had a story to tell about some famous person I had met backstage at a show, but the high status experiences I frequently had, my supposedly amazing adventures, were never borne of my own accomplishments. I can see why many people secretly accused me of “riding coattails”.

But the ride continued. Later that summer The Chili Peppers were booked to headline Lollapalooza in Chicago. From a young age, JD and I never failed to take full advantage of backstage amenities. We ate free gourmet meals, took joyrides on “borrowed” golf carts, and brushed shoulders with countless rappers and rock stars. Lollapalooza 2016 was no different, and we took pride in being part of the in-crowd.

One memory sticks out from this particular weekend. We were in the RHCP compound (each headliner gets their own exclusive space), when who should walk in but the loveable and charismatic rapper, Mac Miller. Him and JD made conversation, and Mac openly admitted that he was trying to get clean, and now had a few weeks of sobriety under his belt. There were little kids running all around us, and in a few minutes Mac started playing with them, goofing around, hitting ping pong balls back and forth with JD’s little cousins. Unfortunately, in a few years he would become another example of a seemingly sweet-hearted man who met an early grave due to drug abuse.

It wasn’t my first time seeing RHCP headline a music festival, but this one was particularly spectacular to behold. A certain rumble tends to rattle through your soul when approximately 100,000 people gather together and scream in your direction. JD and I stood side-stage, affording us almost the same vantage point as the band itself, facing the dazzling Chicago skyline.

Anyone in my position would have had a hard time resisting the allure of what the rock star lifestyle has to offer: fame, money, and most of all, power. I couldn’t help but imagine a future where I was the one standing center stage. Two weeks later I was California bound.

7

I often think back to the card I received from Steve at my high school graduation open house. He wrote, “Wishing you all the fun, love, discovery, and wonder that you… can handle!”

When it was time to leave for California, I hit the road ready and anxious to discover the unknown world that lay ahead of me. Exactly what and how much I could handle, though, was yet to be determined.

I was 21 years old, and had never lived away from home before, though I wasn’t really on my own at Anthony’s. There were housekeepers and assistants practically at my beck and call. Groceries were paid for and I didn’t even have to do my own laundry. Outside was a picture-perfect, postcard-image of paradise. Palm trees swayed in the cool ocean breeze as JD and I dangled our legs over cliffsides to watch whales and dolphins play in the Pacific.

I would spend most mornings people-watching at the local plaza where celebrity sightings were a daily occurrence. One morning you might see Luke and Owen Wilson grabbing a brotherly cup of coffee, the next you might see Billy Corgan pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. Paparazzi were down the street waiting eagerly for the perfect shot of Angelina Jolie, who had just split from Brad Pitt, and Kanye was reportedly seen here and there. Needless to say, the opulence of the neighborhood was dazzling, and everything had an air of immaculate cleanliness.

From the morning we arrived, there was talk of record producers, album budgets, and festival circuits. AK had gotten some advice from Guy Oseary, who said it would be against our best interest to sign with a record label, and that we should do whatever we could to maintain ownership of our publishing rights. AK, as our benefactor and de facto band manager, would set up meetings for us in the coming weeks.

In the meantime, a friend of ours introduced JD and I to a character who would come to define much of our early LA experience. At first glance, I thought Baker Wallis exuded a somewhat stereotypical LA pretty-boy vibe, but the more I got to know him, the more he proved to be a truly eccentric artist, bordering on musical genius. He was one of the few people who was bold enough to directly ask JD what it was like to have a rock star uncle, which earned him some respect. It didn’t take long to develop a good rapport with him, and after our first meeting Baker agreed to produce a new single for us.

He was renting a room in a giant mansion in Bell Canyon from a single mother whose son was an actor. There was a grand piano in one of the living rooms, which made it the most obvious place to set up shop. JD laid down his parts flawlessly on the first and second takes, as per usual, whereas I struggled to get into the proper headspace to record my vocals. Baker, like a good producer should, tried to get me out of my own head. I soon found myself standing outside with the microphone next to a black widow spider with an egg in my hand. “Just squeeze the egg as hard as you can without breaking it,” Baker instructed. “Dude, there’s a black widow in this song now. So dope!”

Baker was the first person I ever met who talked about things like persuasion and hypnosis in regard to publicity and image. He introduced us to a book called The 48 Laws of Power, a kind of nihilistic Hollywood bible that teaches the reader how to practice deception and manipulation. Realpolitik, if you will. He showed us his library of self-produced music, all of which was completely original and forward-thinking. There was probably enough material to constitute several different albums, each with its own theme.

We would talk late into the night, either out on the patio, or comfortably in the seats of the in-home movie theater. Baker revealed that he hadn’t made many real friends since moving to LA, and admitted to JD and I that we were some of the first people he connected with on a deeper level in a long time. We told Baker all about what had happened to us in the last year, and that two weeks after moving to California we had gotten the call that our friend Micah (from the Trap House) had died of a heroin overdose. Death was so much a part of my life that I didn’t really care to connect with anyone anymore, but Baker was a rare exception.

Life had changed tremendously in the span of one short year. It seemed like only yesterday that I was inconsolably grieving for my lost friends, or maybe more specifically, my lost innocence. I was trudging through the bitter snow to deliver Edible Arrangements for a meager wage, not seeing much purpose in anything I did. Now I was living like a prince on the coast of sunny California. I counted myself lucky, but how long would it be before this luxurious life lost its luster?

After hours of conversation with Baker one night, I had the epiphany that fame is a complete illusion. In fact, it struck me as quite obvious that everything I had been seeking up to that point was meaningless, that the adoration of strangers was my way of filling a bottomless pit in my soul. For years I had watched fans fawn over Anthony, and had even done so myself. I coveted that type of attention and thought it was what I needed to make me happy. If fame couldn’t fill this void, what would? Of course I loved music, of that there was no doubt. But I spent an awful lot of time seeking attention and neglecting my musicality in turn.

There’s a verse in the Bible that says, “For in much wisdom is much vexation, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.” Needless to say, this epiphany was rather inconvenient considering the path I was on, so I let it slip my mind for the time being. There was still plenty of fun left to be had while living at Anthony’s, but this was perhaps the first crack in the foundation of a soon-to-be crumbling worldview.

8

There’s something inspiring about the blank pages of a brand new notebook. Each empty line holds a new possibility. It’s a feeling I’ve had a hundred times throughout my life, and I’m sure you’ve had it too. But when I picked up what would become my next journal at a store somewhere in Northeast LA, after having spent the day looking at potential rental houses with JD, that feeling was more powerful than ever.

I couldn’t wait to fill the pages with these wild stories, both past and future, about the things I did and the people I met. I thought maybe someday I could tell a dedicated audience about what it was like to live with a rock star, how I met Rick Rubin, and how I frequently brushed shoulders with actors, athletes, and world famous musicians. It would be a colorful chapter in my autobiography, an incredible step on the ladder to success. But in all honesty, when I recently consulted this journal to fill in the gaps of my story, I was shocked at what I failed to remember: It was one of the loneliest periods of my entire life.

It’s kind of a delicate subject, because if I’m to give you my version of events, it follows that some of the people involved will be inadvertently convicted by it, which was never my intention. It would be much easier, and perhaps much safer, to just give you the highlight reel of my two months in Malibu and move on, but that would only be a small fraction of the story.

Let’s just say we were an unusually self-involved group of people. Anthony was and is the frontman of one of the world’s most successful bands of all time, and because of that he was hardly ever home. JD had lost his father only one year prior, and was in a prolonged state of mourning. He preferred to be left alone. I started to get the impression that my hunger for success and adventure annoyed him, so I eventually learned to stop asking him to hang out with me.

Baker’s presence was impactful but brief. It became increasingly clear that the Machiavellian worldview he subscribed to took precedence over our friendship. When we couldn’t agree on the composition of our single, he said some things that utterly destroyed my confidence as a songwriter, and although he tried to make amends, I couldn’t get over what he had said.

I began to believe that I was the only one who actually wanted what JD and I had set out to accomplish, and that belief caused me to become bitter and resentful. In retrospect, I can see that I had little patience for other peoples’ problems, and saw them as a hindrance to my own forward progress. My one-track mind, which had often served as one of my greatest strengths, was turning into one of my greatest weaknesses.

Years later, I heard a quote from a popular business consultant, the former lead hostage negotiator for the FBI, Chris Voss, and it’s resonated with me ever since. He said, “Never be so sure of what you want that you wouldn’t take something better.”

But in the fall of 2016, I had never heard of Chris Voss, nor had I ever been so sure of what I wanted. What could be better than unmitigated material gain? It was all so close, yet so far away. I held out hope that JD and I would settle our differences, that Anthony would deliver on what we had talked about, and that everything would be okay in the end. Either way, I had a lot of time to kill in the interim.

I tried filling my time with more people-watching at the plaza, walking Anthony’s dogs, driving his custom golf cart to the beach, and reading. The house was actually full of books, both in the living room and home office, the subjects ranging from esoteric spirituality to health, autobiographies, and classic literature. Although I was in the habit of picking up a random book, skimming the pages and putting it back, I felt unusually drawn to a particular title that happened to catch my eye: East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

I took the book off the shelf and flipped to the first chapter. I was pleasantly surprised by the beautiful imagery of California and the pace of the writing. Although I had been overwhelmed with the feeling that my life had reached a giant anticlimax, something told me that this book was about to take me away on an epic journey beyond my whole scope of knowledge. Little did I know, it would change my life forever.

9

Most people will attest to the fact that the mid-2010’s was a period of heightened emotions on a near-global scale. The 2016 US presidential election was ramping up, and was the backdrop of the average American’s everyday life. While I hadn’t been old enough to grasp the weight of most elections I had lived through up to that point, the battle between globalism and nationalism in 2016 was undeniably unprecedented, and it caused me as much anxiety as the next person. The world was changing, and we were all changing with it.

Northeast LA was an overwhelming place to live during such times. JD and I had just moved from his uncle’s house in Malibu to an overpriced rental in Mount Washington, just a few miles outside of downtown. It was a stark contrast to the super-rich hippie vibes of seaside living. The clean ocean air that had filled my lungs was replaced by a thin cloud of dust and smog. And the people. The claustrophobic cluster of so many people in one place gave me the feeling of being a tiny ant on a giant, inescapable anthill.

Long gone were the housekeepers and assistants who made us meals and did our laundry. Gone was the spacious living room with the beautiful ocean view, and perhaps most sadly of all, gone was the custom golf cart on which I had taken so many memorable joyrides. JD and I were officially on our own.

As often happens when two friends move in together, our friendship, which had already been standing on shaky ground as of late, began to strain. It’s not like we hated each other or couldn’t get along, but there seemed to be a growing animosity between us that was brought on by unavoidable differences in personality, my personality being like an unstoppable force and his an immovable object.

I was desperate to nurture my extraversion, to explore LA, to make friends with local weirdos, and to finally taste the ever-elusive rainbow that I had spent a lifetime chasing. But JD was simply not interested in any of that. I was perplexed by his prevailing disinterest in anything existing outside the four walls of our house. But my pitiful pleas for him to explore the city with me only pushed him further away, and thus accentuated the loneliness I was desperately trying to escape. I couldn’t understand what was going wrong.

Something that made matters even worse was the fact that, on top of paying the initial security deposit for our house, I had paid for three months of rent in advance, assuming that JD and I could spend that time working on new songs, so that when his uncle got back to us regarding potential music-business opportunities, we would have a plethora of new material ready to go for our debut album. Sure, I had drained my entire bank account in one fell swoop, but it was a bet I was willing to take. JD had inherited a hefty chunk of change when Steve passed, so he was quite financially stable for the time being. Everything looked good on paper, but I never accounted for the possibility of our friendship turning so icey. The type of musical chemistry that can only exist between two people on the same wavelength, that magical X-factor that had carried us further than I ever imagined, was rapidly vanishing before my eyes.

I was depressed. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so alone in a city populated by millions of people. I started taking long walks through the hills of Mount Washington, lamenting my situation, yet still holding out hope that things would take a turn for the better. I would take the Gold Line train to Little Tokyo and wander aimlessly through the weird, neon-lit Japanese shops. The pangs of the passage of time grew sharper and more acute by the day, the minute even, as I waited for something, anything, to free me from my predicament.

I grew weak from a lack of nutrition, my diet consisting mainly of oatmeal and ramen noodles. I had no idea how to take care of myself, and I started to lose what little bit of muscle I had, which rendered me a ghostly image of my former self. The impulsive decision to shave my head didn’t help either.

I had a lot of time on my hands, a lot of time to think. I was searching for meaning in books, particularly in The Sayings of Confucius and The War of Art. I gravitated towards a podcast by the neuroscientist and atheist philosopher Sam Harris, who had a calming and logical voice, but I had already been a proud, militant atheist since my early teens, so there was little he had to say that I hadn’t already heard.

But there was a growing cognitive dissonance in my mind, and I felt I could trace it back to the book I had finished a few days before moving to Mount Washington. It was the book I had borrowed from Anthony’s office about a month before, the one with the curious title that happened to catch my eye on that boring, yet consequential morning. It was Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

In summary, East of Eden is an allegorical novel set in Salinas Valley, California during the early 20th century that sees its characters play out the Biblical narrative of Cain and Abel, who, according to Genesis, were the first two naturally born humans, their parents being Adam and Eve. If you’re not familiar with the story, when the brothers make their respective offerings to God, God respects Abel’s offering but does not respect Cain’s, and thus a violent conflict ensues in which Cain murders Abel.

In East of Eden, the abundantly compassionate and loving father-character is continually wronged by those he cares for the most, but in the climax of the story, after one of his sons inadvertently causes the death of the other, the father finds it within himself to forgive the surviving son. Therefore, the book suggests that the surviving son has been absolved of his guilt and shame, and is now free, if he so chooses, to cleanse himself of the darkness that caused his brother’s death.

Another major theme of the book is the all-too-human tendency to create false idols out of people who we want to look up to. But the bigger we build them up in our minds, the harder they fall when they inevitably reveal themselves to be imperfect. The insinuation that this phenomenon, of which I was most certainly guilty, could somehow be fomented by a disbelief in God challenged some of the foundational tenets of my worldview.

In my analysis of the Cain and Abel story itself, a realization struck me to my very core. After having spent the past few months surrounded by award-winning entertainers, mansions, and exorbitant amounts of wealth, I wondered what was wrong with me that I was now drifting toward destitution instead of sharing in the ubiquitous success of my peers. Why was my life, that had recently been so full of promise, falling apart at lightning speed? Why was everyone else being rewarded for who they were, and I wasn’t? Why didn’t anyone seem to recognize my value? I asked myself these questions with a fallen countenance, and then it hit me: I was no better than Cain, the angry, murderous older brother of the enviable Abel.

While I wasn’t literally a murderer, I could follow the logical steps of how resentment in the face of rejection was feeding a destructive, nihilistic will to power within myself. I had refused to be humbled, to learn, to adapt to my surroundings. Most of all, for my entire life really, I had felt as though the world owed me something. And oh! how much of this was wrapped up in my relationship to my hero, Anthony Kiedis!

All of these new thoughts and ideas felt so dirty. Atheism had always been such an integral part of my identity. Wasn’t I too smart to entertain anything involving God or the Bible? But because of the circumstances in which I found myself, I was being forced to rethink everything I thought I knew…

10

When Donald Trump was sworn in as the 45th President of the United States on January 20, 2017, it kick-started a brand new era for our country and its people, an era of intensified hope, fear, love, and hate. In short, we were swept up in a tale of two cities, the best of times, and the worst.

The internet was still a free venue for ruthless political debate and virtual blood-sports, and because of my budding openness to new ideas, I began exploring philosophies that I had previously disregarded. I was just one of millions of people being radicalized from one side of the spectrum to the other on a number of topics.

The last two years had been such a rollercoaster ride of experiences and emotions both on a societal level, and for many people, a deeply personal one. As for me, I had lost people I loved, and as a result, descended into a period of pure darkness. Then, most unexpectedly, I was called to adventure by my biggest hero, and with my best friend by my side, embarked upon a great odyssey that took me to new and exotic places. But most profoundly of all, I had left home seeking the world and found God instead.

Of course it would be years until I exercised or practiced any sort of faith in God, but my heart had been opened. My spirit was willing to reform, but my flesh was weak, and slow to respond. I still smoked weed almost every day, and waited far too long to get the job I needed to support myself in California. I started depending on JD’s inheritance to keep me afloat, all the while maintaining a blind hope for a deus ex machina to save my situation. But one never came. By the end of 2017, I was almost $20,000 in debt to my best friend, and at one point had as little as $3 left in my bank account.

What was interesting, though, is that JD was going through some of the same changes in worldview that I was, and perhaps that’s what kept us from killing each other. We loved each other as brothers, whether we liked it or not.

By the time 2018 rolled around, we were both pretty much broke and in desperate need of a change. People sometimes ask me how and why I ended up where I am today, and I often struggle to deliver an abridged version of the overall story you just read. In truth, our situation in LA, both physically and spiritually, necessitated a drastic change in scenery. JD’s suggestion of Montana was so bold, so random, that it was almost a joke between us, and I, being so weakened by my position, was game for anything that might get me out of it. There was something exciting about the idea of uprooting ourselves once again, and this time without knowing anyone who lived where we were going.

I had built my bank account back up a bit before we moved, to about $200, which is roughly how much I had to my name when I arrived in Bozeman in February of 2018. Many natives of Montana are quick to begrudge those who move here from the West Coast, and I understand why, but when I arrived here from LA I was a completely blank slate, ready to assimilate to a whole new way of life. It’s kind of funny if you think about it. Some people might read this and think I’m a failure. But it wasn’t until I moved to Montana and observed the snow-covered landscape, the humbling mountains standing tall in the distance, that I finally thought to myself, “I can do anything.”

At the time of this writing (fall of 2022), I’m completely debt-free, drug-free, alcohol-free, I’m engaged to the woman of my dreams, who I attend church with several times a week, and finally, over this last summer, at the age of 26, I released my debut solo album for all the world to hear. None of this would have been possible without the support of my friends, family, loving fiancée, or the grace of God.

While there’s still so much left unsaid, and I’m tempted to go on, it’s probably best that I let you get back to your own life, however you choose to live it. But before we part, I thought I would leave you with this piece of scripture that happened to find me in the early stages of this writing project. It’s from Hebrews 12, and it says this:

Endure hardship as discipline; God is treating you as his children. For what children are not disciplined by their father? If you are not disciplined - and everyone undergoes discipline - then you are not legitimate, not true sons and daughters at all. Moreover, we have all had human fathers who disciplined us and we respected them for it. How much more should we submit to the Father of spirits and live! They disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, in order that we may share in his holiness. No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it…

Photo by Behnam Razavi