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Today I received what appeared to be a legitimate email notifying me that a digital drawing I created of Frank Sinatra for sale was being taken down from my website. The reason involved legal rights surrounding the image of a famous person. I strongly disagree with restrictions that prevent artists from creating original artwork about public figures. To me, this is not merely about one drawing of Frank Sinatra. It raises a much larger question about freedom of speech, freedom of expression, and freedom of the arts. Artists have drawn, painted, sculpted, written about, celebrated, mocked, and criticized famous people...

This month, on the first Friday, I was given the opportunity to participate in the Downtown Fullerton Art Walk. It was great to be back out there, displaying my artwork and books and reconnecting with people from the Fullerton art community. I saw some old friends, and while some encounters were filled with kindness, others were a little more difficult. I left the old Fullerton Art Walk on bad terms, so returning brought up some mixed feelings. But it was also good to discover that some people, including Jesse LaTour, have forgiven me and were willing to welcome me back....

So I almost have everything prepared for the event this weekend, the LA Times Festival of Books. They’re expecting a crowd that could swell to 150,000 people, a small city built out of books, tents, coffee, and conversation. It’s the kind of place where stories don’t just sit quietly on tables, they hum in the air like electricity. I’ve been going down my checklist like a pilot before takeoff. Books? Packed. Booth? Paid. Credit card reader? Finally getting its moment to shine. Transportation is mostly handled, minus that one loose thread getting to the hotel for a night, but compared...

Today felt like stepping into a softer room inside my own mind. I had therapy this morning, and we talked about energy levels. Not the kind you measure with a stopwatch or a Fitbit, but the kind that hums underneath everything. The kind that makes a day feel like a sprint… or a slow walk through fog. For a long time, I’ve lived in a place called hypomania. Not quite the fireworks of full mania, but definitely above sea level. A steady buzz. A creative current. A kind of internal jazz music playing whether I asked for it or not....

This morning didn’t begin with an alarm clock. It began with a small, determined creature named Whiskey Kitty, who decided my face was public property. Purring, pawing, and administering what I can only describe as a full-contact affection campaign, she made sure I understood one thing clearly: I was loved, whether I was ready for it or not. Somewhere in the middle of that feline love storm, I heard dishes fall downstairs. Now that sound carries weight. It’s not just noise, it’s a question mark. At my age, with everything going on, my mind doesn’t whisper possibilities, it shouts them....