Featured Projects
Real tools, real easy
Tools not Rules is practical design philosophy for designers and creative professionals who make cool stuff on demand. The tools come from over 20 years experience developing products solo, in teams and across disciplines.
The focus is on straight forward concepts that make you creative life simpler and more more effective.
A bi-coastal improv dance party
The Shuffle Dance Challenge (SDC) is a bicoastal monthly dance event in New York City and Los Angeles. At face value it's a night of improvised dance performances to a cross-genre playlist that is designed to challenge performers, pushing them to the limits of creativity.
At a deeper level it's an opportunity for dancers, and their audience, to share the process of creation. And it's probably the most fun you'll ever have at a dance show.
Music
As a musician I play with a variety of musicians and bands in and around New York City. I've toured the world with Djinn, Beatbox Guitar, Bellydance Evolution and Bellyqueen.
I co-host the weekly underground bellydance party, Djam NYC, and MC events all around New York City. If I'm not playing music I'm either talking about it or helping the night run smoothly.
Featured Tools not Rules
Featured Short Fiction
Like most people I think it’s easiest to forget the pain if I keep my head down and blinders on. Stay busy, stay sharp and keep distracted. If I keep myself overwhelmed, forever struggling to keep my head above water, I may not have to deal with the guilt. I won’t have to think about the suffering I caused her, or rather, the suffering I should have prevented.
It’s the quiet moments that I’m learning to hate. In the positive space between distractions something will catch my attention, some sound or smell, and I’m brought back to the night it all began. Like a fender-bender, bang, I’m jolted back to the night Beth became something else, something other than my wife, and everything changed.
My boss takes a bubbling sip from his caramel latte and steam from the drink fogs his glasses. His lips are wet and pouting, his eyes are weak and watery. They don’t match the power he’s struggling to project from behind his desk, a giant oak sonofabitch that’s been in his family for generations.
He sets the latte down and purrs, “So, Michael, how can I help you?”
“Well, Sir,” I begin slowly because I know this is going to be a tricky bit of business, “I have something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
Images flicker across in my mind and progress forward in a stuttering stop motion animation. It’s Mr. Forsythe nodding his head, taking notes, some back and forth, I go back to my desk and continue working at the same level of pay. I need a stronger prompt to get a read.
“Tamerlane online,” said Dr. Chang. A cascade of lights illuminated the control deck and washed over her. “Cortez and Tecumseh saw a 17 percent drop in power but they seem to be stabilizing.” She cracked her knuckles and leaned over the array of controls to view the drone in its launch silo as it ran through systems diagnostics; gouts of steam rolling from exhaust vents and the flicker of external cameras acknowledging its environment. To either side of Tamerlane’s silo his fellow drones creaked and settled into Awareness State. The thrum of their drives could be felt through the concrete walls but, from the insulated Operations room, they were silent. In the silo great slabs of armor would be screeching, slowly dragging against one another, and the drone’s generators would be roaring to life at deafening levels.
The tremor began slowly, the low subconscious rumble of the subway underfoot, and intensified until the pigeons scattered and a wide split opened in the sidewalk, a ragged concrete maw, swallowing a young couple who had been flirting over their mimosas. My plate skittered off the table spilling my lunch across the sidewalk with a wet slap. The laptop and café au lait followed. I’m not a psychic but I knew this wasn’t going to end well.
A metallic voice, distorted by rage and amplified, electronic modulation echoed in the canyon of the financial district. “GIVE ME THE SOULSTONE, BILLY WEATHERS! YOU ARE THE HOST NO MORE!”
A beat, a breath, and a single scream tore through the air igniting a wave of confused panic. Standing at the edge of the square was a Heigelfiend drone: seasoned and scarred, two stories of war machine, radiating heat and twitching with a ferocious, sub-human drive to kill. To maim. To deliver pain.
Charlie paused, silhouetted in the doorway, and slapped dust from his leathers while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A window overlooked the mud of Main Street but the glass had long been stained by grime that choked every feeble mote of light. The Law Office of Martin Banks Esq. was painted on the window in gold script and the lettering was chipped and fading. Like everything in Cherry Cove it was worn and in a state of advanced disrepair.
“Mornin’, Preacher, glad you could make it.” The lawyer resolved into a dark lump sitting behind his desk. His spectacles reflected light from outside and for a moment they glowed there, in the shadows, like the eyes of a mountain cat.
“You know what I hate about zombie movies?” Perry paused and looked around the table then pushed a folded slice of pizza into his mouth. He chewed slowly; his lips slightly parted and he took deep, whistling breaths around the mass of cheese, dough and sausage. “This supposedly badass virus that has no cure and spreads like wildfire across the globe, bringing about the collapse of humanity and the end of the world as we know it doesn’t affect animals. That’s just lazy film-mak…”
“What about Return of the Living Dead?”
Perry swallowed. “Excuse me?”
The kitchen lights flickered and shadows twitched across the pale green walls and IKEA cabinetry. Owls dominated the room: salt and pepper shakers, magnets, dish towels, and needlepoint. The family dog, Pansy, was barking in the backyard at something unseen in the deepening shadows of twilight.
Barton shrugged and looked around the table at the rest of the gang. “Return of the Living Dead had a zombie dog.”