“Poetry by (2,025) Girls I’ve Brutally Fucked” | 5/10/25* | acrylics on canvas | 12 x 24 in
I painted this as the front and back covers for a split 7-inch by Apocalypse Meow and Todd Congelliere. It was the first time I’d done a commissioned piece in my usual/expressive style instead of taking the more labored cartoon/illustration approach.
The caption (“I was talking to this girl I REALLY GAVE IT TO. She said she wrote a poem about it. A poem about my fucking. That made me smile.”) seemed a little much for a pop punk record so I replaced it with the band names on the actual record layout.
I hadn’t actually seen the poem yet when I made this, but I read it soon after. Turns out it was only partially about “my fucking” and way more beautiful, affectionate, and insightful than I feel like I deserve. It’s really great and – in that way – makes me feel kind of shitty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. We had sex, it was fun; we hung out, it was fun; and then we repeated that cycle a few times. I guess friendship and fucking don’t really go together without feelings developing.
I’ve been sleeping around lately, getting involved with different girls to different degrees; I’m probably asking for trouble. I’m probably about to fuck myself – one way or another. There’s a lot more I could write about all that but I don’t wanna push myself to be too honest / transparent right now. That feels okay.
There’s this other girl… I wrote (what I guess I’d call) a long prose poem about her and about my experience with her in the week after we met. I’d developed feelings of my own for her [how novel!] But I was conscious of the fact that – this sort of thing – it does happen fairly often with me. I wrote a little bit about that too:
I’ve got these fucking warm, fuzzy feelings for a lot of people. A lot of my friends – I love them, I hug them, all that. But when I have these feelings for girls [I’m attracted to] (it doesn’t matter how many) I love them and I also want to kiss them, sleep with them [etc.] I don’t think that’s wrong or weird but you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to have feelings for one person that are strong enough that you don’t even want to connect with another person in that way. That seems like bullshit.
I don’t know… maybe I’m just selfish. Love and sex are all twisted up and make for difficultly-navigable terrain. I just wanna love and fuck without being confused.
Everything from here forward was written in May 2025. Everything written above this is from 12 years ago, in the period when I was the most girl-crazy and the most promiscuous. I was meeting lots of girls that wanted to sleep with me and I think I was just really excited about that because that, in itself, was sorta new. It was the first time (since I’d been a teenager) that I wasn’t in a committed, monogamous relationship, and it was the first time ever that I’d had confidence that I wasn’t entirely faking.
A year or so after all that though, I relapsed and then (another year or so later) I tried to kill myself. Right before the attempt, I lit my biggest painting on fire and then slashed and smashed the others. There were seven in all and – when I was FEELING BETTER – I started the process of stitching them all up with dental floss. This one wasn’t super torn up but it was so badly smashed that it needed to be stretched across new bars. For that reason, it was the last one I got around to restoring. I just did it recently but also decided that the painting itself needed some work. Like the actual art wasn’t up to my standards anymore. Which makes sense because I made it more than a decade ago. So that’s what I did. You can see the original “finished” version of the painting here.
This painting is not the kinda thing I’d make today. That thought in the fourth paragraph (about “asking for trouble”) is ESPECIALLY PRESCIENT. ‘Cause that’s exactly what happened – and to a more traumatizing degree than I could have ever imagined. But even though the sentiment of this painting is the kinda thing that could SEND THE WRONG MESSAGE in 2025, I don’t wanna change those elements of it. I like being honest. I like telling the full story. I’d just turned 28 and I’d spent most of the years prior in a single committed relationship. So now I was in a phase of experimentation. And I was pretty excited about it. And while I’m embarrassed by just about everything in this painting’s statement, I don’t really think I should be. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with rough sex or liking rough sex or even just figuring out what kinds of sex you like. So long as you’ve got a consenting, enthusiastic partner, be adventurous. Go for it. Do whatever. Life’s too short to not find happiness and fulfillment wherever you can.
This has no business being on the internet but I’m neurotic and can’t stand the idea of leaving something out of my “portfolio.” I’m very much taking advantage of the fact that my mailing list was lost in the domain transfer and very few people will be notified that this is now online.
Inpatient facility. 2012. The assignment was to write a list of ten “core beliefs” – my absolute truths – through which I filter every experience. They were pretty dark.
#1: I am ugly.
#2: I am a problem.
#5: I am only tolerated.
#10: Nothing matters.
But there was one out of the ten that was positive.
#4: I am smart.
“So Smart” | 11/23/2025 | acrylics and pigment ink on canvas | 12 x 36 in
When I was a kid, I thought I was so smart that things would just sorta work out for me no matter what. I ignored all conventional advice. Took nothing seriously.
As a teenager, I told my dad that I’d been shooting heroin for a year, (I think mostly) just to see how he’d respond. He kinda sighed and said, “Well, at least you’re not smoking crack. I hear that’s the drug that will hook you immediately and destroy your life.”
So the next day, I smoked crack for the first time, just to prove my dad wrong. Everything everyone believed was wrong. I was smarter than everyone.
When I was first introduced to “expressive art therapy,” my response was something along the lines of: “I’m a suicidal basketcase, I can’t keep a needle out of my arm, and you want me to color? Go fuck yourself.”
But treatment pushes the idea that you’re “powerless over your addiction.” That you can’t solve the problem on your own. Eventually (VERY SLOWLY) I became more receptive to taking advice even when I thought it was stupid and pointless.
Art, it turned out, could keep a needle out of my arm. It went from being a frustrating chore to all I wanted to do. It gave me an outlet to express myself, validation, and (something that at least resembles) self-esteem. And eventually it gave me a path. It gave me tasks and goals – a fucking to-do list to keep me busy and off drugs, while also supporting me financially. It gave me freedom from addiction, from poverty, and from the kinds of jobs I’ve never wanted and could never do.
That kid who thought everything would work out for him on the basis of his SPARKLING WIT and KEEN INSIGHT – he was a fucking idiot. Things have not all worked out for me. I spent years living in hell.
But I don’t anymore. Shit is working out. And as hard and as often as I work, it could be argued that I’m kinda skating through life on personality. Even the work I don’t enjoy, it’s all in service of something I love.
With all the money and praise regularly FED to me by strangers, all the people who look to me for advice or tell me how brilliant some painting, writing, or element of my business model is, it’s easy sometimes to feel like I just might be SO SMART I GOT LIFE LESSONS DRIPPING OUT MY BUTTHOLE.
That said, all of this is built around something I’d initially rejected with total contempt. So it’s maybe not the worst idea for me to remind myself of the remote possibility that – despite my REMARKABLE LIFE EXPERIENCE and the TREMENDOUS WISDOM I regularly bestow – I maybe don’t know everything about everything.
MAYBE.
I wasn’t CHAMPING AT THE BIT to spill my guts when I started this painting, so (in the absence of FRESH INSPIRATION) I stole an idea from YOUNGER SAM.
As luck would have it, I did hit upon major inspiration shortly therafter, which had me super eager to finish this one so that I could move on to what would be my next painting – one that I was already WAY TOO EXCITED about. (It’s at the studio getting photographed this week, so I’ll get it online soon).
I’m proud to say though that I still didn’t rush “So Smart.” In fact, I may have been even more meticulous than usual. Consequently, while it may not be my favorite piece conceptually, I think it’s rad as fuck visually. I just got the prints made and they’re already selling really well. They’re 5×14″ and you can GET YOURS from the webstore orfind me in person. Speaking of which…
Continuing with the recent trend of upping my game (in terms of presentation), I recently upgraded virtually everything about my art fair booth. I keep tweaking and improving it further still, so will wait to post a photo until after the weekend when I photograph its latest form, but you can catch a look on TikTok or Instagram.
Oh – the CBS and NBC affiliates both put me on the local news this month. So THAT’S COOL. Here’s the CBS (10 Tampa Bay) clip.
Anyway, I’ve been booking up 2026 pretty quickly. Lots of dates with the Southeast Punk Flea Market (’cause I love the SE PFM) and then (now that I meet all the EXHIBITOR STANDARDS) I’ve been filling the rest of my weekends with as many proper/juried art fairs as I can find. I’ll update the Events page (with more details) soon but here are the cities I’m gonna be in through March.
Jan 16-18 Venice, FL
Jan 24+25 Columbia, SC
Jan 26-29 Durham, NC
Jan 31 Greensboro, NC
Feb 1 Charlotte, NC
Feb 7+8 & 14+15 Sarasota, FL
Feb 21+22 Dothan, AL
Feb 28+March 1 Windermere, FL
Mar 7+8 Augusta, GA
Mar 14+15 Charleston, SC
Mar 28+29 Hickory, NC
Even if you think you’re already subscribed to my updates, PLEASE SUBSCRIBE AGAIN ’cause the old mailing list did not move over when the site moved from sammythrashLife.com to samnorth.art.
Thanks for reading. TALK SOON.
Statement is done. Tap here to read the personal updates that will soon embarrass me.
You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone (and Other Lies): The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah” | 8/30/25* | acrylic on canvas | 48×36″
It’ll get meaningful by the end, but what you’re gonna read up to that point is stupid as fuck. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I hate the feeling of BEING IN TROUBLE, especially for something that felt light-hearted. Brandon said he and Nick meant to take Callie’s pumpkins the other night but took another route home and forgot.
“You wanna go get ‘em now?” I asked. “Sure,” he said. But then Amanda said Brandon wasn’t allowed to go, but I could. So I did.
This is all for the BIRTHDAY PUMPKIN tradition, by the way. (Abridged explanation: it goes back to our teenage years, it’s basically just wrecking some leftover Halloween pumpkins; METHODS VARY).
I just got one of Brandon’s notoriously incomprehensible voice-to-text messages. I think he’s complaining about having to RETURN THE FUCKING PUMPKIN. Which makes no sense. WE’VE TAKEN CALLIE’S PUMPKINS BEFORE and it’s never been an issue. Why is this a fucking thing? And why is he giving me grief on my birthday for doing what he suggested I do?
I just made a video to promote the market I’m at this morning. I tagged the organizer but now I’m worried they’re gonna NOT LIKE IT ‘cause I said the word “fuck.” Granted, that hasn’t ACTUALLY happened but…
People are fucking squares and I’m NOT OPTIMISTIC about today, personally or professionally. The plan was Brandon and Amanda’s tonight (FOR BIRTHDAY) and now instead of that (or seeing ANYONE) I kinda just wanna isolate in a parking lot for the night.
I’m not TOTALLY BUMMING. It’s not cause for DEEP DESPAIR like it maybe woulda been in years past. But I’m feeling like “fuck everyone else in the world.”
My birthday’s not some precious thing to me. That’s why I booked this Tuesday morning market for today, even though it meant (1) I’d have to get up at 6am and (2) I’d likely spend three hours of my day on the manual labor of setting up and breaking down for very little financial return. (It’s a new market and this is bizarre scheduling so I’m not expecting much turnout). But on a Tuesday morning (even one that happens to be my BIRTHDAY) what else am I gonna do? The opportunity-cost (and fee) are low enough that it’s worth doing.
So far, I’m enjoying being out here, painting and listening to punk rock, but I just started thinking about how I miss having A PERSON — and how my last person just yesterday flew across the country to go into rehab again. And then I started thinking about nurturingsick relationships. (Not with her; just in general). And THEN it occurred to me that I could use today and no one would ever know. AND I DOUBT I’M GONNA but I HAD THE THOUGHT.
It’s later now (5pm? 6?). Brandon asked if I’m coming over. (Not when, but if). I asked if he REALLY returned that pumpkin or if I got his message wrong. He said he did, so that Amanda “wouldn’t get pulled into PUMPKIN DRAMA.” [that emphasis is my own]. I said, “I don’t know why there’d have been drama and I definitely don’t know why Amanda would get pulled into it but okay.”
He didn’t call and say, “Let’s not stress it; it’s your birthday. Let’s just have a good time.” He texted back: “if you wanna argue about it, maybe it wouldn’t be a good birthday dinner.”
So I just thumbs-upped that shit and I’m not going. Was tempted to say, “OKAY SEE YOU IN DECEMBER” but it’s a sicker move to just let them both (eventually) realize they’re not gonna see me for (at least) 5 weeks now.
Apparently, Amanda bought pumpkins today, but you’d have to fucking pay me to use those as birthday pumpkins after this dumb bullshit. “Birthday pumpkin” is fucking done forever as far as I’m concerned. It was already sorta embarrassing and this was the fucking nail in the coffin of that tradition.
It’s dark now (9pm). I’m not gonna use (obviously). I’m just gonna fix the hot water and then get something to eat FOR THE FIRST TIME TODAY (as per usual). [I’m SO PROUD of my disordered eating].
This painting’s not about about going away for 5 weeks. Its title (LIKE ALL GOOD TITLES) is a suicide threat. I’m not even 5% of the way to that BUT I STILL ENJOY THE SENTIMENT. And I finished painting it 8 weeks before this all happened, but it’s felt like it’s missing something — and that something is definitely some petty/diaper-baby text. So I’m gonna hit it with a pen and work most of this in there. “BIRTHDAY PUMPKIN IS FUCKING DONE FOREVER” strikes me as especially funny. [I’m such a substantive, serious person!]
BEING DEAD so EVERYONE CAN FEEL BAD ABOUT THE HORRIBLE INJUSTICES THEY INFLICTED UPON ME is a nice fantasy. Emphasis on “fantasy.” No one gives a shit and I’m a fucking crybaby. Good thing I was INSIGHTFUL enough 8 weeks ago to NAIL IT with the (“and Other Lies”) subtitle.
Speaking of which, the other text on the book’s cover is: The exciting new bestseller from the acclaimed author of “Why Don’t You Love Me Anymore?” and “Wah Wah Wah.”
I came up with the title and subtitle one day as I was driving around, listening to punk rock, and smiling my dumb little shit-eating grin. But the part just below that (“the exciting new bestseller…”), I came up with all that on the spot, as I was painting. It’s my FAVORITE PART. “Wah Wah Wah” certainly seems to capture the sentiment of everything you just read.
I am a (now) forty year old fucking child.
A few notes as I write this two weeks later:
As I mention in the statement, this painting was “finished” by August 30th and what you just read wasn’t written until November 4th. But the painting and the text seemed to belong together so – now they’re together. I wrote all that text onto the canvas on November 7th.
When Juliana and I broke up, Brandon and Amanda took me in. I was still shooting up. Other friends warned them not to do it. Or to undo it as I continued shooting up but assuring them that I was titrating down. They ignored everyone else and took a chance on me. A month or so later, I was clean and I’ve been clean since.
In those early days, it was Amanda who helped me sort out the legal mess I’d been ignoring for eight years. She helped me get my driver’s license back and resolve my outstanding warrants. And it was Brandon who pushed me to start making art again. I was resistant. I was scared. What if I “didn’t have it” anymore? What if the world didn’t give a shit anymore? He got me through all that.
All of this is to say that I don’t know what my life looks like today without Brandon and Amanda. They were there for me in a way that no one else was. They let me go at my own pace. FOR THE MOST PART…
We agreed on a deadline. When I woke up on April 8 (2024) – no more shooting up.
Naturally, on the night of Sunday, April 7, I decided to take another stab at a fatal overdose. But I didn’t die and they still didn’t give up on me. And – sure enough – April 8, 2024 is my “clean date” now. And this is the longest clean streak of my life.
This blog entry is scheduled to auto-publish on November 25th, but today is the 18th, so it’s been two weeks since all that embarrassingly stupid pumpkin shit, and I’ve still not spoken to either of them. It occurs to me that this probably warrants some action on my part. But I don’t think I’m gonna reach out. I am, however, gonna pull THAT FUCKING CANVAS OUT AGAIN and add a bunch of this text. (It’ll be there in there by the time you see this). ’Cause the painting deserves it and they deserve it. It shouldn’t just be the dumb, petty shit.
Changing a painting TWICE after I’ve already paid to have it professionally photographed, that’s not normal for me. With very few exceptions, once one of my paintings is “done,” its FUCKING LOCKED. But this one won’t let that happen apparently. It doesn’t want to be finished yet. Hopefully the same is true of my friendships.
It’s embarrassing but putting this in my art and putting it out into the world – that’s maybe as close as I can muster to reaching out. Acknowledging that is even more embarrassing. Contemplating whether it will trigger a response, well that would be too much even for me. SO I’M DEFINITELY NOT DOING THAT.
Poor Forever | 10/12/25 | acrylic on canvas | 36×36″
“Do you wanna be POOR FOREVER?” is what I ask my friends when they spend money frivolously. It’s also the question that rings out in my head whenever I’m considering spending money on ANYTHING.
My attitudes about money come from my dad, his dad, and my mom. There were the ways they talked about money and the ways I saw them use it.
My dad was POOR FOREVER. Or at least he acted like he was. Based on my inheritance [his clothing] I’m gonna assume that he probably was. He certainly never spent money on me or my siblings. And if any of us were to ever ask for something, it was QUITE THE ORDEAL. Because, as he told it, he just didn’t have it! If it was important enough, maybe he could ask my grandpa.
But he also had some curiously expensive shit. And he traveled a lot. Maybe that was all paid for by his second wife. I don’t know.
My mom had FAMILY MONEY. She was very good at spending it. So far as I know, that’s why she no longer has any family money.
In any case, I don’t have a safety net. Not that I’m aware of anyway.
My grandpa died recently. He worked his whole life and made a good living but still kinda behaved as if he were afraid of being poor forever. That’s how I’m trying to be.1 That’s how you accrue SAVINGS. And “savings” give you safety.
My grandpa wrote a bunch of different wills over the course of the last twenty years but I don’t know the details of his estate and I kinda feel like it’s none of my business anyway. Even if he didn’t provide for me directly, I’m pretty sure he provided for my dad and (SEEING AS MY DAD’S DEAD) maybe some of that’s supposed to trickle to me? Who the fuck knows. It all feels weird and fucked up and I don’t know anything about that kinda shit so I just focus on trying to take care of myself.
Don’t get me wrong – I WOULD LIKE SOME MONEY. (PLEASE GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY). Not to spend – just to have. Because I kinda live in a perpetual, low-level state of financial anxiety. It would be super nice to know that I’m not gonna die in poverty.
(Isn’t this all SUPER UNIQUE AND INTERESTING? I’m definitely the only person who has these thoughts or fears, right? I journaled some shit along these lines into the painting only to realize — and say as much, with arrows pointing out at my mundane concerns: “I’m PRETTY BORING”).
None of this is to say though that I’m even in poverty now. As I wrote into the top left of this painting: “I realized today that I have more money than I’ve ever had.” And since then, that number tends to tick down for a few days, before it shoots up to a new most-money-I’ve-ever-had number. We’re not talking numbers that are gonna blow anyone’s mind, but I could make a down payment on a house. Y’know – if any bank would ever give me a mortgage. (Which they wouldn’t).
My concern is that my overhead is very low. If I were living A NORMAL LIFE, I would not be able to tuck this much away.
And if I can be a FUCKING FAGGOT for a second, I think I still wanna have a FOREVER PARTNER and a kid. And those things require money and stability.
[Please excuse my use of the word “faggot” but — as we all know — there’s nothing gayer than falling in love with a girl. And as someone who’s been calleda faggot more times than I can count, I think I should get to use the word just once (in GOOD HUMOR) seein’ as I made it to my 257th piece of art without ever having used it before].
[That said, if you’re gay and my joke bums you out, let me know. ‘Cause I don’t actually think amusing myself is more important than your feelings. And your telling me about it would be HOW I LEARN].
[It’s embarrassing how embarrassed I am to say I want to fall in love and HAVE A LITTLE FAMILY. That I have to resort to using that word for “balance.” Please, somebody shoot me].
Now, if it’s not too late to get back on track…
Just kidding. We just did a triple tangent on the word “faggot.” THERE’S NO GETTING BACK ON TRACK.
There are other journals scattered about the painting. I allude to officiating my grandpa’s funeral in place of a rabbi (despite my not having grown up Jewish (or anything)). I refer to the statement I wrote on my blog (AND ON INSTAGRAM) right when he died. (It’s good – you should read it). I joke about making excuses for not becoming the MOST SUCCESSFUL ARTIST TO EVER LIVE.
But you get the gist. Money isn’t important but a sense of security is. We all wanna feel safe. We all wanna be able to take care of the people we love (EVEN IF THEY DON’T EXIST YET (and possibly never will)).
Some people think my art is HILARIOUS (and THEY’RE RIGHT) but a lot of them don’t look closely enough to see that’s not all that it is. I’m trying to be taken more seriously as an artist (for the $ame reason$ that thi$ piece i$ all about) but, at the risk of undercutting that, I’ll just say that this painting (like much of my art) is an attempt to find humor in the shit that freaks me the fuck out.
If that’s not the language of a SERIOUS ARTIST, then I’m a hopeless idiot. (And that can’t POSSIBLY be true — right??)
I’m already pretty good at the second part. During my last (very extended relapse) I got an ALLOWANCE from my little sister of $115 a week. That wasn’t enough to cover my drug habit but – by the time I got clean – I’d still somehow managed to save up $6k in my Venmo account. Don’t ask me how. I am the GOLD MEDALIST in the DRUG ADDICT OLYMPICS. ↩︎
The DEATH OF SAMMY THRASHLIFE – but first: my newest painting and its story.
All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me | 10/23/25 | acrylic on canvas | 24×36″
“Come inside with me,” Jon said. “I wanna show off how punk you are.”
Ooooo – that made me feel PRETTY COOL. I was fourteen years old and this older kid who played guitar and sang in a punk band thought I was SUPER PUNK.
We went inside THE KFC where he worked and he got his paycheck. When we got back in the car, he explained to me, “Yeah, I don’t really dress punk anymore. There’s no one in this town to be punk for. It’s definitely not gonna get you any girls. It’s still fucking cool though.”
I think the knee-jerk judgmental reaction is that Jon was wrong. That you should be yourself no matter what.1
But Jon was also just a kid navigating adolescence and figuring shit out (even if, to me, he couldn’t have been more of an ELDER STATESMAN; I mean, come on, he was in ELEVENTH GRADE).
(It’s also worth noting that we’re talking about clothing. An expression of identity but not identity itself. It’s not FUNDAMENTALLY IMPORTANT).
I respected him and thought about what he’d said. (OBVIOUSLY IT STUCK WITH ME ‘cause I’m writing about it 25 years later). But I didn’t tone my shit down any. I STILL HAVEN’T. (For better or worse).
The wrong reading of “All of This is Just to Get Girls to Like Me” is that I’m doing anything for that purpose. I’m not. What I am doing is being myself in the loudest manner possible. And I am hoping that these paintings, my writing, my BEHAVIOR, and my style will act as a BEACON to the girls that are already predisposed to finding them attractive. My hope is that all of these things provide a SHORTCUT to girls seeing who I am and what I’m about.
I gotta say: it sure felt like it was a more effective tactic when I was doing this 10 to 12 years ago. My whole SCHTICK is not as attractive at 39 as it was at 28. But that’s okay. I’m a victim of ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT. That’s what addiction does to you. I’m also a victim of PUNK ROCK and its attendant Peter Pan Syndrome. I likely always will be.
Which is ALSO OKAY. As much as I sometimes get down on myself, I fucking like me. I THINK I’M SUPER COOL (and definitely still REALLY, REALLY PUNK).
When the time is right, the right girl will come along, see, and appreciate that too. ‘Cause I’m not super interested in girlS anymore. I want THE girl. (Even if I don’t know who she is yet).
Speaking of which, the text that’s actually in the painting reads:
ALL OF THIS IS JUST TO GET GIRLS TO LIKE ME (More precisely, a girl. The right girl).
Do you THINK I’M SPECIAL YET? Do you wanna be my girlfriend now?
(Can’t you tell how thoughtful I am? Don’t you hear THE MOUNTAIN GOATS SONG I’ve got playing?)
And then, written on the side of the canvas:
So I decided to cannibalize my own idea. One of my next paintings was gonna be called: “Girls Don’t Like Boys, Girls Like Weed and Target.” But let’s be real – that’s ‘cause it would SELL. There’s no EMOTIONAL TRUTH in that. So, instead, I made it part of this painting by filling space with Target logos and pot leaves. And now I can joke that it’s SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING.”
I advertise the borderline personality disorder diagnosis all the time, but I also suffer from a really serious disorder that CAUSES ME TO THINK I’M FUNNY. With god’s help, maybe one day they’ll find the cure.
It’s been 19 months since I got clean and almost a year since I crept out from the shadows and rejoined the world. Everything’s gone really well for me in that time. But I’m older than I was in ROUND ONE of my art career and Sammy thrashLife feels even sillier to me now than when I first jokingly coined it. So I’m in the process of “rebranding” with my real name.
The new logo, which only took two hours to make. (Not impressed?? Are you suggesting it shouldn’t take me that long to write my own name??)
I think I fell into a trap where I thought everything about me needed to pull focus. That I needed every element of my presentation to cast out a line to hook someone. “I have borderline personality disorder. I used to manage with heroin. Now I make art instead.” That’s all true but maybe I don’t need to LEAD with the backstory. Maybe I should let my art speak for itself. (IT CERTAINLY HAS PLENTY TO SAY). And then if people are interested, they can discover the rest.
So I’ve launched samnorth.art (and samnorthart.com, for anyone whose brain just CAN’T HANDLE a dot-art url) and will be building those out soon. And I’m gonna phase out “Sammy thrashLife” on all my banners, fliers, social media, etc.
The new site may not have a blog or a webstore. It’ll still have the statements for each painting and drawing but they’ll likely be a little more tucked away, rather than the focus. If I’m being HONEST, all of these changes are aimed at the way I’m perceived by high end galleries and collectors. I’ve got no interest in changing my artwork, changing my personality, or changing my BEHAVIOR, but if some minor adjustments to my presentation help to get me taken more seriously: COOL.
If that at all concerns you, please know that I wrote the statement for another painting last night, it directly addressed my desire to be “taken more seriously,” and yet I STILL COULDN’T HELP MYSELF from making it as raw, as fucking ridiculous, and as embarrassing as anything I’ve ever made. So much so that I’m nervous to share it. So if you’re a fan of all this, exactly as it is – don’t fret; Sam North is very much the exact same artistand writer as Sammy thrashLife.
“The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way)” 4/27/25. acrylic on canvas. 30×24″.
This is the thought that pops into my head when EVERYTHING’S GOING MY WAY. “The whole wide world can SUCK MY DICK!” It’s joyful. It’s a celebration. It’s definitely not an angry thing. Hence my qualifier “but, like, in a fun way.” I’d fucking hate it if someone looked at this painting and thought it was some kind of angry, pouty harumph… “suck my dick!”-kinda thing. That shit’s NOT ME. It’s some dumb expression of dumb masculinity and I hate it. But this – the JOYFUL version. That makes me smile.
I wrote a bit about that on the canvas, along with:
“My stupid punk songs, singing along and moving around like no one can see or hear me, painting ILL SHIT like this, making lots of money OR NONE – I like my life. Losing money stings but when I’ve got everything I need, it’s just a number and I’ll get it back.”
The backstory on all of this is that when I started this painting, SHIT WAS GOING MY WAY. I made a LOT OF MONEY selling art in March. When I finished the painting before this one, it was already sold and I was in the middle of a particularly profitable day of selling prints. I felt energized and validated and LIFE WAS COOL. By the time I was wrapping this painting up, the TIDE HAD TURNED A BIT. I was at some three-day festival I’d signed up to be a vendor at, and it was NOT GOING WELL. It had nothing to do with me, it was just a shit event. No one made any money. It was just so badly organized and promoted. But sitting there in my tent that first day FOR THIRTEEN HOURS, I was working on this painting and kinda depressed. There was NO ONE AROUND. It was the first time I’d done an event and sold NOTHING. Not only that, I didn’t even get a single person stop to look at my art. And I couldn’t even listen to music because there was some DJ just BLARING the worst music in the world. Without punk rock, I struggle. But when I have it, it doesn’t really matter what else is going on; it has SUCH A HUGE impact on my mood.
So that was Day 1 of this particular shitshow. On Day 2, it was still a disaster of an event, but I set-up much, much further from the DJ and his speakers so that I was able to hear my own speaker and listen to the songs I LIKE TO LISTEN TO. And, consequently, I was having fun, painting, and not worrying anymore about the fact that these fucks got $200 out of me and I’d driven from outta town to attend this waste-of-my-time. After all, it didn’t matter how bad the weekend was; it’s just one weekend. I know my art’s got value, I know people wanna (and do) buy it. I know things are gonna work out for me if I keep making good choices.
And that’s pretty much what happened (pretty much immediately). I realized I didn’t owe these flakes anything, so I lined up a couple other opportunities for that night and the next day, and then I bailed when necessary to make it to that night’s Plan B. And it went great. I had fun, I made money, I met people I liked. ALL WAS RIGHT IN THE WORLD (a world that I was once again happy to invite to suck my dick).
I finished the painting the next day – at another event where I had fun all day, painting, listening to punk rock, and getting paid for it.
I’m not gonna pretend like my “job” is all fun and no work, but it’s pretty fucking great overall. I mostly do whatever the fuck I want. Sometimes it almost does feel like the world is sucking my dick. It’s NOT ENTIRELY UNCOOL.
Prints of this painting are now available in the webstore.
In other news, things are generally going pretty well lately. I’ve been doing a ton of work on my bus (I basically taught myself how to be an electrician) and I’m gearing up for my first trip outta state since I started being a person again last year. (The last time I left Florida for work/art was before the relapse, wayyyyyy back in 2015). I’ve also finished another two paintings since “Whole Wide World” so I’m hoping to share those with you soon as well. And I started another this past weekend that I’m especially excited about so keep an eye on my socials to keep up with my progress on that.
As always, check the Events page to see where you can find me in the coming weeks and months.
Thanks as always to everyone who supports what I do. None of this art would exist without you.
Statement is done. Tap here to read the personal updates that will soon embarrass me.
Some days, I feel like I have such a grip on my emotional well-being, that it’s maybe a little disingenuous to still promote my artwork as I do – like it’s the product of mental illness. Earlier today though, after becoming upset, hitting myself in the head twice, committing an act of vandalism, undoing it before anyone would notice, running off, pulling off the road to get out of my bus and journal on the side of the road, and then starting to cry… well – it just might be possible that I CONTINUE TO EARN the right to market myself as a fucking basketcase. There’s a lot more I could say about all that but I think it’s better left ’til it’s not so fresh.
I finished my newest painting on Sunday but, for today’s blog entry, I’m reaching WAY BACK to finally tell the story of one that I finished a decade ago. It’s one of those classic feel-good stories of self-destructive behavior, self-harm, compulsive sex, substance abuse, and criminal charges. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
“The World Revolves Around Me.” 8/21/15. Acrylic paint. 4×4′.
There are two blocks of text in this painting. One written before Wallis and I split up, one after. The first reads:
When I finished writing and crawled into bed with her, the bad feelings melted away in an instant. I had to wake her to tell her how much I loved her. She was sweet and affectionate and cuddly – nothing like the girl that had fallen asleep in that bed an hour prior. In the morning, she’d remember none of it. Turns out she’d stolen more Seroquel than I’d found. (Which explains how fucked up she was). I found a second razor on the floor, mangled. “What’s the story here?,” I asked as I displayed it. “Oh – I must have chewed it up, trying to get the blade out.” I guess that explains the blood in her mouth.
Wallis was a cutter. The worst I’ve ever known. If she drank too much, she’d get depressed, find a razor blade, and fuck her shit up. And not that straight across shit; I’m talking up-and-down vertical cuts on the wrists and arms. After one of those incidents, she’d agreed to quit drinking. Shortly thereafter, we were in Miami and I dropped her off to spend the day with her mom. I knew her mom liked to drink so I called ahead and told her: “Wallis isn’t drinking right now. It’s been causing her serious problems. Please don’t encourage her to drink with you.” When I picked her up that night, she was drunk, which frustrated me but – she seemed okay, so I didn’t make a big thing out of it. I drove, she sat in the passenger seat and told me about her day. And then (I forget why, but) I turned on the dome light for a moment. I looked over and found that as she’d been casually telling me about her (admittedly, not wonderful) visit with her mom, Wallis was sitting there, blade in hand, quietly cutting away and fucking COVERED in her own blood. It was fucking brutal. Like, over-the-top horror movies levels of blood.
Even years later, I’ve heard Wallis describe the time we spent on the road together as the best part of her life and the most fun she ever had. I’d helped her get off hard drugs so she was clean for the first time in her adult life and we were traveling the country, chasing my art dreams, doing whatever the fuck we wanted. In spite of what I’ve just told you, it really was great a lot of the time. Just not all the time. In addition to the on/off drinking, she’d sometimes steal my psych meds for an extra buzz. I think there were two main issues that contributed to our problems.
(1) Our everyday lives revolved entirely around what was happening with me.1 It was all about where I had exhibits and opportunities and making my career happen. We had a lot of fun but – a lot of the time – I was working/painting and she was just left to read or play on her phone or whatever she could do to occupy her time. We were constantly on the move so she couldn’t exactly get a job and, any place that we went, if she had friends, they were my friends first. It wasn’t really possible for her to have her own life. I think she needed more. She needed something to give her her own sense of purpose and fulfillment.
(2) We were wildly in love with one another but that didn’t solve my self-esteem issues. When I met her, I was in a pretty wild phase of promiscuity. I’d always gone from one long term relationship to the next, but I’d broken up with Heather when I decided to “take my show on the road.” When I met Wally, I was single, doing really well with art, and was meeting a lot of girls who (at the risk of sounding arrogant) really were throwing themselves at me. A few times, I had girls (that I’d never met before) walk up to me at an event and directly tell me that they wanted to fuck me. Like, right then if I’d be so kind. I’d always done alright with girls but this was new. It was not in line with my PREVIOUS EXPERIENCES. It went to my head. It fucked with my ego. I don’t think it was good for me.
I definitely grew up in a culture and a scene where my value was measured by how many girls I’d slept with and which girls I’d slept with. That’s been a hard thing to shake over the years. It took me a while to get to a high enough number that the number didn’t seem to matter anymore but, still, I had this feeling like, “If I sleep with this girl, then I’ll be good enough.” But that was, of course, not true. It didn’t matter if I’d slept with [insert hot girl here] if I wasn’t still regularly sleeping with other hot girls. And that’s SO FUCKING STUPID. It’s embarrassing. Wallis had been one of the girls that I saw that way. Before I fell in love with her, I was SUPER EXCITED TO FUCK HER. And I still really liked fucking her. The sex was great. AND I WAS IN LOVE WITH HER. Deeply in love with her. That should have been enough but it wasn’t. So I was still on Tinder, still flirting with other girls, and still sleeping with other girls. My philosophy had been, “So long as she doesn’t know, it doesn’t hurt her, so there’s no harm.”
But she fucking knew. She knew everything. She was regularly reading EVERYTHING ON MY PHONE. And it deeply hurt her.
To my credit, when she finally told me that she’d known all along – and I finally understood just how much it was hurting her – I did stop. I stopped cheating. And I haven’t cheated on anyone else since. (And to her discredit, she fucked one of my best friends while I was working one day. But (1) that’s a whole other story, (2) I didn’t find out ’til years later, and (3) can I really blame her when she knew that (often enough) when I was out “working,” I was also sometimes out fucking? No, I don’t think I can).
In any event, we eventually decided to split up, at least temporarily. She’d go back to Jacksonville, I’d continue on as I had been and the tentative plan was that we’d give our relationship a second shot down the line (ideally, once I was established/successful enough that I wasn’t living on the road, traveling the country and scouting new galleries to show my work).
Switching gears/elsewhere in my life, ever since I’d started my whole touring-the-country to build my art career plan, it’d become really tough to get my Adderall prescription every month. At the time, monthly in-person visits were required for an Adderall ‘scrip, so – in every new city, I had to find a new doctor. I’d call every doctor I could find and it was a regular issue that the soonest anyone could book an appointment for a new patient was weeks away – often further away in time that I even planned to stay in that city.
On one of my stops back in Sarasota, I’d filed a Marchman Act in an effort to get Chris Spillane off drugs. Afterward, my friend Abby asked if I’d do the same for her, which I did. When I dropped her off at the treatment facility, she handed me a bottle of Adderall. “Do you want these? I know you take it too and it’s not like they’re going to let me bring it with me.” Yeah, sure – of course. It’d help cover any gaps between getting my own prescriptions refilled each month.
A few months later, Spillane (who I’d brought on the road with me in my effort to keep him clean) and I were in Chicago. Mike and Dave (of Like Bats) invited us to form a new band with them. We called it Shitty Children and were soon invited to play Awesome Fest in San Diego. After the fest, on the 20+ hour drive back to Chicago, we got pulled over just outside of Normal, Illinois. Mike had been drinking beers. He wasn’t driving but there were empty cans on the floor by his feet. The police separated and questioned all of us. Spillane (GOD BLESS HIM) apparently consented to a search. I wasn’t worried though. I was off drugs and living a good, clean life. I was a positive anti-drug role model. I didn’t have anything to hide.
And then they found that bottle of Adderall in my backpack and arrested me because I didn’t have proof of my own prescription with me. Despite the longstanding prescription, despite all the positive press I was able to produce to demonstrate that I was a literal poster child for recovery from drug addiction, the prosecutor was determined to charge and convict me. My public defender was useless and, in hindsight, I think if I’d hired my own attorney, I could have gotten it tossed out. But that’s not what happened. I was convinced that, according to the strict letter-of-the-law, I was technically guilty of illicit possession of a controlled substance which meant, if I went to trial, my only hope was a jury ignoring the technical facts of the case and bucking the law to, sympathetically, find me “not guilty.” If that didn’t happen, a conviction carried the risk of a serious sentence. So I wound up accepting a terrible plea deal, wherein I’d be branded a felon for the rest of my life and either serve 30 days in jail or else 2 years of probation.
But it’d be a while before that happened. Even though the arrest was months before I even met Wallis, the case was still dragging out at the time we split.
The second block of text in the painting begins with a vast oversimplification (if not an outright misrepresentation) of why I bought Wallis a ticket back to Jacksonville:
Is it because I gave up on my girlfriend and put her on a plane back to Florida? (A trade-off for new/casual sex). Is it because I’ve felt discouraged and unable to do anything productive or profitable? Is it because I feel crippled by my ongoing legal battle and the likelihood that I’ll be getting a jail sentence this week (or delaying that and continuing on in uncertainty)? This last week, I’ve acted less like I’m self-employed and more like I’m unemployed. I have the evidence to prove I’m successful but I don’t feel that way. I’ve been resting on my laurels (and my bank account) so hard that they both seem to be wearing out. I don’t like this painting but I can’t figure out why. I think it’s because the thought of the immediate future makes me sad. And maybe because I wish I had someone to tell me “it’s gonna be okay.”
When am I gonna win?
Because of my NINE YEAR relapse, it’s taken me a long time to finally get around to writing the statement/story of this piece, so I can only guess at what was on my mind back then that sparked the sentiment behind the title (“The world revolves around me. My world. The only world that matters (to me).” The biggest hint though is the figure with a confederate flag for an eye and rainbow-colored teeth. Confederate flags and monuments were BIG in the news when I was painting this – whether they should still be up at state capitols or whatever. (Which, of course, no – fuck off – they shouldn’t). But I couldn’t help but watch some of the reactions on both sides and just shake my head. YOU ARE GETTING WAY TOO EMOTIONAL ABOUT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T WARRANT THAT LEVEL OF EMOTION. As much as I think anything confederacy-related is stupid as fuck, I’m not gonna pretend that the little shit-eater in me didn’t also like the idea of super sensitive white people2 being bothered by its presence in my painting. I also just like the contrast of the red and blue with the white stars. (When they’re outlined in black anyway; without the outline (like it is on the actual flag) it’s not even aesthetically cool). But I juxtaposed it with rainbow teeth because (1) I really like rainbow-colored anything and (2) I wanted to balance the conservative thing with a progressive thing. If that bothered anyone on the political-right – well – even better.
More to the point, what I’m saying with this piece is that (without religion) life has no objective meaning. Nothing matters. Or everything matters. Or, more accurately, each thing matters only to the extent that each of us decides. And that value doesn’t transfer between people. I decide what matters to me; you decide what matters to you. The world 100% revolves around me. That’s a fact. But only for me. For you, the world does not revolve around Sam. I hope it revolves around you. You’re the main character in your story. It’s your world to conquer or surrender to.
I don’t ultimately care about confederate flags and monuments because they’re almost certainly totally out of my control unless i decide to become an anti-confederacy activist, which is not something I’m particularly interested in. I’ve got my opinions on the matter but they’re not important enough to me for me to invest that much of my time or emotional energy. The Sammy thrashLife News Network IN MY HEAD has 24/7 coverage on the real issues. Issues like my friends, Chris and Abby, falling hopelessly back into addiction and darkness. My efforts to help them get clean.3 Meeting a beautiful, wonderful, funny, fun girl named Wallis and helping her get clean, falling in love with her, and traveling the country. Playing music with my friends in Shitty Children and performing on stage again for the first time in years – a stage that I shared with some of my favorite bands in the world, at one of my favorite fests in the history of punk rock. Making art that I’m FUCKING STOKED on, that helps me work through my issues, makes me happy (USUALLY), frees me from having to work a regular JOB, and gives me a sense of fulfillment and the only kind of genuine self-esteem and confidence that I’ve probably ever known. And then all the other shit – whether monumental or petty, positive or devastating that is worth investing my emotional energy into. AT LEAST ACCORDING TO ME.
That’s my world. Everything else – that shit’s happening in another universe. As much as I’d like to SOLVE WORLD HUNGER or BRING PEACE TO THE MIDDLE EAST, I’ve got one life to live and it takes a lot for me to not fuck it up. I don’t lack empathy, I’m not self-absorbed (okay, that second part might not be ENTIRELY true), but if I’m gonna do any good in this world, I’ve gotta PRIORITIZE, keep focus, and do it where I can have the most impact. A big part of that is this kinda thing right here – what you just read.
I’m gonna have to take that “no more than 12 emails per month” thing off of my mailing list sign-up sheet. It was true when I made it but, AS I GET MORE PRODUCTIVE, these updates become more frequent. It’s totally possible I’ll have another one within a week for that new painting I mentioned (it’s called “The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way”). I’m excited to share it with you guys, so keep an eye out.
In the meantime, prints of “The World Revolves Around Me” are now for sale in the webstore. This is also one of the few originals I’ve got that’s not yet sold, so shoot me a message if you’re interested. Or go see it in person. I’m happy to report it’s been accepted for a gallery exhibition that opens next month.
This is totally unrelated to the actual, intended message of this painting. I didn’t even pick up on the coincidence until writing this statement. [go back]
In my experience, it’s only those who like to be offended on behalf of others, that ever seem to take offense at my art. Anyone who would actually have cause to be personally offended tends to be thoughtful enough to recognize my intent – or at least ask about my intent before they let something bother them. [go back]
Those plans succeeded by the way. Chris is still clean, happy, and healthy to this day. Abby got clean too. Until last year, when she died. The story I’ve been told is that she was still clean but, one night, slipped up and allowed herself to do a line of cocaine at a party. Cocaine allegedly cut with fentanyl. And then she went home, went to sleep, and never woke up. That doesn’t quite make sense to me but I suppose it’s not terribly important. The world’s a little darker without her, regardless of how or why it happened. [go back]
