I woke up feeling devious this morning. So I called my ex-girlfriend and left a voice message on her phone. I knew she wouldn’t be up…the sun wasn’t even up yet. I said I joined a rock n roll band with some guys cooler than me. I told her she should come to the next show. I said an address, Logan square statue, 4th of July. I told her I could get her a pass if I still had any left. But if she wanted to pay the 25 dollars she could see us play that night at Navy Pier under the fireworks. I definitely didn’t have anymore passes to that… I said. I told her to call me back but to not call until after 6, I would be in meetings all day at the art institute and the museum of contemporary art. Bye I, said. I have to go and warm up my new car, I said.

I got out of bed and asked my roommate if they could give me a ride to Ogilvie train station. He said no. Shit, I said.


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You ever wonder about Bob Dylan? About what he’s doing right now, right this second? I think maybe he’s in his car looking up at a billboard for Chipotle or something. Something very ordinary. Just trying to get home through the traffic and the noise and the light. Ain’t it something to imagine Bob Dylan thinking about Chipotle? I bet he’s tired and hungry and tired. Chewing on some gum. Wondering how’d I get here, man? How’d I wind up this man here? Where’d my hair go? Where’d my friends go? And I wonder what he thinks when he hears Lorde come on at Home Depot while he’s looking for some screws. I wonder if he’s seen the newest episode of Mad Men yet. Did he like it? And what about the missing Malaysia flight? Where does he think it went? I wonder if somewhere in the back of his mind — somewhere so deep not even he’s aware — he actually knows the coordinates of the wreckage. I bet he does. I bet he knows. EO

Posted in Eddie O'KEEFE, Original Photography | 1 Comment »


Screen Shot 2014-04-13 at 9.02.38 PM

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Duke Ellington – Sweet Mama
The Mamas & The Papas – Got a Feelin
My Bloody Valentine – Strawberry Wine
Cocteau Twins – Cherry Coloured Funk
Bob Dylan – Time Passes Slowly #1
John Cale – Antarctica Starts Here
John Cale – Cleo
John Cale- Amsterdam
Therapies Son – Touching down
John Lennon – Angel Baby
Unrest – Imperial
T-Rex – Mister Mister
Dion – Purple Haze
Patsy Cline – Strange
Neil Young – Hey Babe
Bill Evans – Peace Piece
Miles Davis – Blue in Green

Subscribe on iTunes!

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I’m sorry mam, But your sons are dead. Your mom is dead too. Their
watches stopped working a week ago. They’re covered in dirt, except
round their eyes. We suspect they were crying and the tears pushed the
mud off their faces. Your eldest son was the last to die. He crawled
50 meters up sugarloaf hill in blood. There was sand in his pockets.
We found him dead.
We delt out death from the air but was called upon to deal with it on
the ground.
Ill send home their watches
And I’ll watch on
Don’t worry mam, we’re sending a tank to run you over.  Try to stay
alive. Then you can see your kids. At the funeral or whatever you do.
All your dreams of returning to a normal life have been crushed like
the can of soda I just drank and threw under a wheel of a moving
Church bells will ring
But no matter what
Your voice has descended into a black hole of silence


Posted in Bad Poetry, Nick MATSAS | No Comments »


It’s friday after school. Your dreams fit in a pouch in the front of your backpack next to your Texas instrument calculator with the loose leaf cheat sheet taped inside. It’s fifty-nine degrees outside and the coat you wear — your dad’s old one; all torn n smokey on the inside — isn’t keeping you nearly warm enough. But you like the way it makes you look. The girl in your class said it was cool and your glad she noticed. You’d been wearing it for weeks and no one seemed to care. Maybe she could be your girl. Maybe you could ask her to the dance. 

On your walk home you stop at the library to see if the French new wave movie you ordered from the Hinsdale chapter came in. The lady at the counter tells you it hasn’t. All the same really. You’re not even sure you like those movies. Not like Big Star. Not like The Stones. Not yet anyway. It’s dark by the time you leave the library and make your final trek homeward. And as you walk you find yourself wishing that you would never reach home. That these streets with their warm warm orange yellow windows and their family smells would keep on getting longer and longer and longer until the time it took to travel the width of a single house was more than an eternity.

One day you’ll be so far west. In the middle of nowhere. In the warmth and in the dust and with dreams that couldn’t fit in all the backpacks in the world overflowing from your heart. And you won’t  know who you were before or how you go there then or what happened to your dad’s old jacket. EO

Posted in Eddie O'KEEFE, Original Photography | No Comments »


Been thinking about the battle of Britain. That’s a lot of bombs. I’m thinking about the bomb on the plane being flown by the father. A respectable man in different clothes. A man that loved his family. A man that had pictures of his daughter and his boys. He presses a button and the bomb falls, falls past all the blue in the sky, dodging the suns beams onto a little house next to an ammunition factory in east London. It explodes in a little girls room. She was 4. She loved her mommy and her daddy.  Her skin was white and she use to have beautiful eyes. In a few years, the house will be cleaned up. And a new house with a new family will live inside it. And everyone will want more…and more…and more.

I remember the first time I was on a beach at night. And there was a fire. And all you could hear was water. Next year I might be flying a plane and there’s a battle. I don’t want to blow up that little boy. But sometimes you have to. Evil, how did it steal the end of the world?


Posted in Bad Prose, Nick MATSAS | No Comments »


before now and later

Let the moment slip through your fingers. Watch it float away into a sherbet sky of memories, hazy in the afterglow of passing. A brief moment. A pocket sized tragedy. Cascading and tumbling and joining a vast array of other moments, growing increasingly smaller and smaller as they drift farther and farther away, scattering into a bittersweet abyss – an all too familiar void somewhere between the heart and the head, the present and the past, what could have been and what will never be.

Lie awake in bed at night. The passing moment is long gone, but still burns from within. Retrace every step, reword every sentence, edit and revise and omit and analyze, loathing the past for what it could not do and the future for what it will not be.

Wake up in the morning. The moment has become a safe recollection – a tiny black spot in your rear view mirror that use to be a mountain a few forgotten miles back. Security sweeps over passivity, embracing the muted placidity of lost causes, blanketing doubt with the thin veil of self-assurance. Good for you. It’s good you didn’t do anything.

But in that moment – oh those profound fleeing moments of expiring infinity – you see furtive eyes and feel kindred souls and hear words like sermons and taste life and all of its strange flavors. And you imagine the generations upon generations upon generations of people it took to create such a beautiful specimen, the years upon decades upon centuries of coincidence and chance that it took to bring them to you in this very moment. But don’t think about such things for too long because the moment will get up and leave.

But while the moment is here, don’t hesitate. Tell them everything. Tell them not to be afraid to love. Tell them that nobody belongs to anybody, but that everybody needs someone, sometimes. Tell them that nothing last forever, but that forever is only a collection of moments, so dense in numbers that it’s easy for the trees to become the forest. Tell them that you don’t want to hold them back, but that you just want to hold them, even if it is only for this moment. Tell them to smile more, because they have a beautiful smile. Tell them everything. Do it all and to do it right now, right here, because time is a cruel thief and will steal this moment – it will take it and turn it into a sad memory. But wait -

….there it goes. Can you feel it? Nevermind, it’s already gone. The moment floats away. You try to reach out and grab it, but by the time you lift up your hand, it’s just out of reach. It grows increasingly smaller and smaller as it drifts farther and farther away, scattering into a bittersweet abyss – an all too familiar void somewhere between the heart and the head, the present and the past, what could have been and what will never be.

And there it goes. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Goodbye.


Posted in Bad Prose, Eric HEHR | No Comments »


The following pictures are from the past six months of traveling and wandering around the Midwest, West Coast, and Southwest. The majority of these photos were taken throughout Chicago, Los Angeles, and Austin, with a few rogue shots from random places in Oklahoma, Missouri, Arizona, and Texas. All photos were taken on an early 90′s Canon SureShot 80 Tele with a variety of 35mm black and white film – mostly Kodak BW400CN and Arista DX 135-24. All photos are scanned from negatives and unedited. EH

Posted in Eric HEHR, Original Photography | No Comments »


Exhausted. Exhilarated. Extinct. EO

Posted in Eddie O'KEEFE, Original Photography | No Comments »


Last night I left Chicago and ended up at a ridiculous Rap, Trap, Purple Syrup, Strip Show. My roommate was part of the rapping. When he invited me, he told me to bring a camera. Throughout the night a lot of people would come up to me and whisper in my ear. They’d offer lean and say they “respected” me. I would lean over and say I respected them. NM

Posted in Nick MATSAS, Original Photography | No Comments »

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