Analog – like something that isn’t a computer, like something that actually occupies real space and has a fragrance about it, a color, feels like something. I’m tired of things that don’t exist. I’m tired of virtual. Give me something with a temperature, something that bites and makes me bleed.

Analog is an ancient Telecaster through a tube amp. It’s the rumble of a ’55 Thunderbird. It’s cornbread dressing at Thanksgiving.

My hands are red and green and blue and black, and it looks like I smashed them in the door, but it’s only the colors. They came out of a bottle rather than through the modem.

Make the paint fly through the air and land on the paper just right? Yeah, that’s a trick. You have to be good, even to paint the t-shirts for the tourists in five minutes – you have to be good. There’s no key for “Revert to Saved.”

There was life before digital. We had to talk to each other. We drove to the beach and mountains. We stayed home and cooked hotdogs. There was no question about who owned our brains. The flip side is that I couldn’t get this to you either.

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