Working Drafts

Last year, I had the pleasure of working with artist and curator Sarah Perkins, the Metal Museum, and The Enamelist Society to design a book featuring the work of the hugely influential enamelist Bill Helwig. It was my second time collaborating with Sarah and the Metal Museum. You can view our previous collaboration here.

Bill Helwig "Flipbook" Sketches

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Helwig’s archives were a gift. Whimsical objects. Hand drawn sketches. Unpublished photographs. Small surprises tucked everywhere. We folded many of these into the book in playful ways, including adding a flipbook of the sketches created by Helwig and using vellum transparent paper to display multi-layered artwork.

I am really proud of how this one turned out.

The Art of Bill Helwig

Curated by Sarah Perkins

Purchase at Metal Museum ›

I'm kind of sorry I asked. Two balls and two strikes on Dansby Swanson.

Pat Hughes, May 31, 2025

And so it went with the odd, mildly hilarious, multi-year saga of the Chicago Cubs radio booth explaining the origin of Buckethead.

If you listen to Cubs games on the radio long enough, you start to recognize the rhythms. The way innings breathe. The silences. The hilarious commercials for adult diapers. Pat and Ron, and sometimes Zach. There’s room for digression too. The good kind. The kind that knows when to step aside for a line drive into the gap.

This is why Pat Hughes is so good. He can do several things at once. Call the game cleanly. Keep the tone light. Quietly rescue a bad story by turning it into something else entirely.

The Buckethead bit first surfaced, to my knowledge, in 2024. Nick Lodolo trivia. Same high school as Mark McGwire. Same high school as a guitarist named Buckethead. Pat says the name out loud. Pauses. Admits it feels strange and sort of nice to say “Buckethead” on Cubs radio. That alone gets the laugh. Not the story. The moment.

Ron Coomer plays his role perfectly. Dry. Patient. Curious in a way that never feels urgent. He doesn’t need the payoff. He’s happy to let the thing wobble.

Then Zach Zaidman jumps in.

Zach has facts. Zach has research. Zach has quotes from Guitar Player magazine. Zach has, unfortunately, a story that does not improve with repetition.

Buckethead wears a KFC bucket on his head. Halloween 4. A mirror. A revelation. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. It’s not a story so much as a Wikipedia paragraph that wandered into a live broadcast.

What makes the bit funny is not Buckethead. It’s the social geometry of the booth.

Pat humors it. He lets Zach run. He pretends, just barely, that this is all worth hearing. He asks gentle questions that sound polite but land sharp. “Don’t feel like you have to get through this story quickly.” “I will sleep better tonight knowing that.” Each line acts as a pressure-release valve.

Ron needles from the side. Colonel Sanders. Cassettes. Tidbits “really not worth much.” He knows exactly what’s happening and keeps nudging it along just enough to make it stranger.

Zach, meanwhile, seems convinced that if he just tells it one more time, it will finally land. Which is how the story comes back in 2025. Twice. Treated as if it’s new. Treated as if we all haven’t already been here.

By the third telling, Pat doesn’t even bother hiding it. “I’m kind of sorry I asked.” That line kills me every time. It’s honest. It’s earned. And it slides right back into a called third strike without missing a beat.

This is why I love Cubs radio. These voices are the sound of summer. They fill the empty space between pitches without stepping on the game. Even the bad bits become useful. They reveal who’s trying too hard. Who knows when to stop. Who can turn mild annoyance into comedy without ever raising their voice.

I’m looking forward to the new season, and to spending my days again with Pat and Ron on the radio.

This was the first book I read in 2026. I love a good road novel, and this one caught me off guard. Challenging but exacting—I couldn’t put it down. I’ve already ordered another book by the same author.

Two stray observations:

1. The cover art is lovely. It looks like a picture postcard you’d buy on your way to Yellowstone in 1963.

2. As someone who enjoys both fiction and watching sports, I really appreciated the way Markovits weaves basketball into his work. He apparently played pro ball in Germany for a time, and it shows.

Fresh Air has a nice review up

The Rest of Our Lives

Ben Markovits

Goodreads ›

A work of fiction. Working draft.

The room is dark. You don’t wonder where you are. This is not your home—but that is ok.

Footsteps creak in the hallway. A door opens and shuts. The spell breaks. This is a hotel room. The alarm clock beside the bed blinks.

3:54am

I’m awake now. I sit up. My sinus infection has gotten worse.

The air conditioner kicks on. It’s January, but not like home.

I check my phone. A new text—photos of my two cats back home. I send back a quick so cute! I miss them! and set the phone down softly.

J— is asleep with her back to me. The pressure in my face is dull and insistent. I wish for a fan aimed directly at my head. She hates sleeping with one on nearby.

I’m not getting back to sleep.

4:06am

I decide to go for a walk. I need air. I need water.

I move slowly, careful not to wake her, not ready to face her yet after the way things ended last night. My phone’s flashlight guides me to my Nikes and a hoodie. AirPods. Room key. I slip out.

The elevator drops me to the lobby. Third floor. Fullerton Hotel. Da’an District. Taipei. Taiwan.

The front desk clerk looks surprised to see me. He’s watching a video on his phone and stands quickly.

“Oh—you’re fine. Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“I just wanted to grab a water?”
“Of course.”

The dining area is still closed. I take a bottle from the minibar fridge and step outside.

She chose this hotel because it sits near an MRT station where the red and brown lines intersect. J— is good at this—researching, weighing pros and cons, finding places that make moving through a city feel simple. She has as much confidence about these things as I do self-doubt and uneasiness, so it’s nice to travel with her, even when I feel like a burden.

We arrived in Taiwan five days ago. She was invited to give a workshop at a university near the southern tip of the island. I tagged along, mostly orbiting the campus 7-Eleven, which doubles as a commons for the rural art college. Outdoor tables, shade, and a resident cat kept me company while I hid with my laptop and Kindle. I wandered the campus and the nearby village, watching rice planted in flooded fields—by hand and by tractor.

After taking the bullet train two hours up the western coast to Taipei, we spent a day exploring, eating, going to museums, and then—seemingly inevitably—arguing. It escalated the way it always does until we were both sulking.

“I just need to unwind. We did so many great things today. Don’t let this ruin the trip.”

“Such a delicate fucking flower.”

I put in earplugs and went to bed without another word. The pendulum between elation and tension swings back and forth for us.

4:13am

Outside the hotel, relief is immediate. The air is cool, low 60s. Dark. Quiet.

An elevated train track runs above the street in front of the hotel. Wide city lanes. Tree-lined medians.

Yesterday, traffic was gridlocked—cars, scooters, bodies everywhere. Now empty. I’d been primed to feel melancholy in a city like this. Taipei is otherworldly, especially at this time of day.

I turn right.

My loose plan is to walk toward the dark skyscraper in the distance. Taipei 101. We ate dumplings there yesterday and took a long elevator to the top to see the city from above. It was the tallest building in the world for a short time, and in the dark sky it looks like something out of a Batman movie. It’s not very far. I can circle it, wander down side streets that look interesting, and be back in an hour or two.

Before I start walking, I put in my AirPods and select a playlist. I chose songs that felt atmospheric, hoping they’d attach themselves to this place in my memory.

I decide to loop the same song on repeat this morning. Background noise. Something to let my mind drift.

Just Like Honey.
The Jesus and Mary Chain.
Noise cancellation on.
Play.

The song starts with just a simple drum beat.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh

Then the wall of sound arrives. A staticky, dirty riff. A tingle runs down the back of my neck as the endorphins hit.

Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world

A calm, steady heartbeat. Patient.

I pass a brightly lit 7-Eleven. I make a mental note to stop there on the way back for a coffee. An employee stands behind the counter, expressionless. I wonder if he minds working this early shift. I imagine myself working there. It looks calm.

To the left, a long row of bright yellow YouBikes. A park bench beneath a tree. Rows of residential brick buildings on the other side of the wide street. No lights on in any of them.

I keep walking toward the 101.

4:23am

It’s unfortunate the way things ended last night, because before that we were having such a good time. We always are—until we aren’t.

The bullet train ride to the city was breathtaking. She napped with her head on my shoulder. I stared out the window as we passed above small towns and hazy green mountains. A clear blue sky. Cute illustrations of penguins and rabbits in conductor uniforms lined the walls and seat-back brochures. A family brought bento box breakfast—the young daughter standing between them to eat.

When we arrived at Taipei Main Station, we ate a snack and bought metro cards. We talked about buying a souvenir train but didn’t want to carry it. Maybe later. Then it was off again—MRT, hotel check-in, dumplings, an art museum, photos together. Night market. Buzz in the air. Look at that. Alleys lined with parked scooters. The hum of a city built for walking.

We were hypnotized. But I was also tired. I hadn’t felt quite right since arriving. First jet lag, then something else. She has more stamina than I do and would have stayed out all night exploring.

Our compromise was to get a massage. They are open late here. Families with children sat together in the waiting area. J— checked us in. We were given brown striped shorts to change into and led to separate changing rooms.

A few years ago, I hurt my back. My massage would focus on my lower back and right leg where the sciatic nerve pain runs. At one point, the masseuse hit the exact spot where the pain originates in my lower spine.

Bingo. Right there.

I reached back to mime where she should focus but accidentally bumped her leg. She jumped back, startled.

No, no—sorry. Sorry. No. Just here. This spot. I pointed. Hurts.

I tried to explain the misunderstanding as best I could. She softened. The massage continued.

5:13am

I’m feeling better. My sinuses still ache and my movement is sluggish, but there’s a breeze and moving helps. The mundane things that make up a city street are exciting when you travel. Street signs in Mandarin. Crosswalks painted with iconography that makes sense but feels other compared to the cities in America. Same with traffic lights and subway entrances. Familiar but different.

The 101 looms ahead, ever-present, towering over everything. I move toward it slowly, in no hurry. Just taking it in.

The beat continues to keep time for me.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good

Maybe I should have woken J— so she could see this, too. But she’s never liked early mornings the way I do. I wake early and go to bed early. She stays up late and rises when she’s ready. Our days overlap in the middle. There’s a gap.

5:26am

When I reach the base of the 101, it feels wrong to be the only witness to something this big. A few lights glow in windows above, but the building is mostly dark. No people. A couple of cars waiting at the intersection. A cab idling. I take a few pictures and keep moving.

A few blocks away, I circle toward an area we were in yesterday. Shops. An outdoor Apple Store. I turn left, then right, into a wide plaza.

A young couple sits on a bench. She notices me. I stand out—hoodie, shorts over black thermal leggings, Nikes.

She’s drunk. No translation needed.

She stands next to me, then suddenly bolts down the plaza, untied Doc Martens slapping the pavement, white dress and denim jacket flapping behind her. I laugh. Her boyfriend laughs, too. Twenty yards away, she stops, throws her hands up in mock victory.

I won!

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
For you—for you

5:34am

She was just the welcoming party. Across the street, dozens of college-aged kids cluster outside a row of bars and clubs. The night is ending. Everyone’s waiting for a ride. Cabs line the curb. I walk straight through the loose knots of people.

I’m more aware that I’m old. A kind of tired fondness arises in me. They all look exhausted, leaning into one another, killing time. Making mistakes. This is your window.

Who parties next to an Apple Store? Taipei has better neighborhoods than this.

On the way back, I take a different route. It’s quieter. Residential. No neon. No medians. I reach a wide intersection where several roads converge. One disappears into an underground tunnel. Directional signs point everywhere and nowhere. I cross slowly.

Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive

6:15am

I’m back at the 7-Eleven. She’s probably still asleep, but I text anyway—coffee? anything?

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then nothing.

I exhale. Okay. This, I can do.

I remove my AirPods and the static of the city returns all at once. Inside the convenience store, I buy two waters. Two bananas. Two bottled coffees.

I sit on the bench beneath the tree. More cars now. A few bikes. People walking with purpose. The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky has shifted into that pale pre-dawn blue. I take a sip of water and condensation on the cold bottle drips onto my hand resting in my lap.

thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh
thoom … thoom-thoom — tschhh

Walking back to you
Is the hardest thing that
I can do
That I can do for you
For you

Psychocandy

The Jesus and Mary Chain

Apple Music ›

I love apps like this. It does one thing well and imaginatively, and taps directly into a core human need for routine and forward progress. It uses my daily step count to simulate hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. By combining the morning exercise walks I take most days with the general steps I rack up throughout the day, the virtual character advances along the trail map.

If last year is any indication, I don’t think I’ll quite make the full 2,650-mile trek, but I can’t wait to see where I end up.

Download for iOS

Visit Aaron La Lau's Website

Until high school, my family lived in a small rural town in central Illinois. About two and a half hours south of Chicago and forty-five minutes west of Champaign-Urbana—the home of the University of Illinois. In 1993, Chambana was also the birthplace of one of the first web browsers: NCSA Mosaic. Mosaic would go on to become Netscape and then, eventually, Firefox. This was all long before Marc Andreessen became a Bond villain.

I was in middle school during that first electric stretch of the internet. We always had Macs in the house. Movies like Hackers and The Net ran constantly on cable. I was ready—emotionally, spiritually, hormonally—to put on rollerblades and start hacking the planet.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Internet access in Mt. Pulaski didn’t really exist unless you were willing to pay long-distance charges and dial into AOL, Prodigy, or CompuServe. Occasionally my parents allowed it, but those sessions were short and unsatisfying. It didn’t feel like the real internet. It felt like peeking through a locked door.

What we did have were magazines. Lots of them. MacUser and Macworld, especially. Those covers are burned into my brain. Without access to the actual web, those magazines became my portal to it.

Sometime between 1994 and 1996, I was flipping through MacUser when I noticed a small ad in the back, tucked into the “Adult” classifieds. In a plain black box it read: FREE Internet. Beneath it was a phone number: 1-217-792-2PPP.

That number stopped me cold.

217-792 was my town. Population 2,000. Middle of nowhere.

If you grew up then, you memorized phone numbers. That prefix is still burned into my brain. And here it was, printed in a national magazine, quietly offering the thing I wanted most in the world. It felt like finding a golden ticket in a candy bar.

The ad said, “All you pay for is the call.” Which, for me, meant I paid nothing at all.

I clipped it out—carefully removing any evidence that it came from the “Adult” section, which would have ended the experiment immediately as far as my parents were concerned. I plugged in our sluggish fax modem, fumbled through MacPPP or ConfigPPP or FreePPP (the utilities you used to dial and connect) and eventually heard the sweet, grinding handshake of connection. I created my first email address. I loaded my first web page. Slowly. Painfully. Wonderfully.

I was on the real internet.

The company behind it was called Slip Net. There’s almost no trace of it now. It seems to have made its money through those same classified ads, alongside things like “Sexy Modem: The Ultimate BBS.” One of the few remaining breadcrumbs is a mention in TidBITS. They note in the, "Free Service Providers" section, "SLIPNET (shell,slip,ppp) modem -> 217 792 2777 info@slip.net".

TidBITS also played a pretty huge role in getting me online. I bought the famous big yellow book, "Internet Starter Kit" that came with a floppy disc. It taught me how to use the included utilities like FreePPP or ConfigPPP to connect.

From there I wandered. Gopher servers. FTP archives. Tiny text files pulled from distant universities. Later, Hotline servers, trading low-resolution videos that took hours to download. It all felt vast and secret and impossibly alive.

A few years later, my family moved to a bigger city. DSL arrived. Then broadband. The web exploded. Being online stopped feeling like a privilege and started feeling like oxygen. And eventually, like something closer to being in a stranglehold.

Sometimes I think about how strange it is that there was ever a moment when you had to earn access to the internet. When it felt like discovering a hidden room in the world. When it promised possibility more than surveillance or exhaustion.

And no, I never did end up rollerblading through New York City while hacking the planet. But for a brief moment in the mid-90s, it felt like I might.

If anyone reading this knows why a San Francisco–based ISP had servers sitting in Mt. Pulaski, Illinois, I’d love to hear it. It still makes no sense to me thirty years later.

A few years ago, I tracked down old copies of those magazines on eBay and framed the ad as a reminder of when the internet felt young and strange and full of promise.

If you’re curious, Archive.org has scans of some magazines that feature the ads:

MacUser, September 1994

MacUser, January 1996

After posting about the static dashboard to track my 2025 walking mileage, I decided to make a new one for this year—something live, something I could update as I go instead of waiting until December. Now I will log each day’s miles and the totals update automatically, along with a few other stats. You can see how much I walked for any given day. Right now, it's at 4.

It was just a fun little thing to make for me, and it’s oddly motivating. A little gamified. A little obsessive.

I’m proud that I hit my 1,000-mile goal last year. This time around, I’m aiming for consistency. There were a few big holes last year when I didn't walk for weeks. I think even if I can get a mile in each day, that will be a lot better.

View My Walks