Tod: You see this?

Danny: Holy shit dude. I hope this is what the future is like…. an earth being stalked by massive boombox robots.

T: That’s exactly what the future will look like! Only issue is what tunes they’re playing.

D: I’M THE KING OF ROCK! THERE IS NONE HIGHER! SUCKER MC’S SHOULD CALL ME SIRE! TO BURN MY KINGDOM YOU MUST USE FIRE! I WON’T STOP ROCKIN TILL I RETIRE! …as it pounds over the ruins of our cities…

T: Can we get someone to animate this sequence? We’ll cut to ruined metros all over the world, with the lyrics translated each time…..straggling survivors look up with distrust….slowly the spark hits their eyes and they start breaking….pull out and it’s a global dance jam…..

D: We gotta make this thing. It’ll make Wall-E look ridiculous.

Lauren Winkelman is a photographer I found through another photographer I found through the West Coast Polaroid scene.

Her photos got style, and so does she. But beyond that, I didn’t know all that much about her.

Which made her a perfect subject for an interview. So here we go: (more…)

I’m jealous of all you west coast people, all hanging out in the sunshine like plump little oranges. Must be nice. News flash: I’m fucking freezing over here. It’s 19 degrees. Which is very cold. Do you know what that’s like? Imagine the coldest air conditioned room you’ve ever been in. Minus 40 degrees. That pineapple libation you’re sipping on would freeze directly to your hand.

My body craves sleep and anything with melted cheese. And warm socks. Warm socks with melted cheese. My office, in a trendy loft, was built originally to manufacture cardboard boxes, not logos and websites. The heat was never really rigged up to keep nerds in office chairs warm. My co-worker bought a Slanket. She looks like a wizard when she wears it which is awesome. What’s not as awesome is that we need Slankets to keep warm at work. Another coworker sits in what used to be an elevator shaft. She has to wear her coat all day to combat a mysterious “steady breeze.” I go in the bathroom and thaw my fingers under the warm water. It’s been like this for weeks, our office temperature has been a steady, cold 60 degrees.

After blowing fuses with space heaters, wearing ski socks and winter hats we were forced to deal with the maintenance crew. They are a dirty dozen, at least four of them are related, wherever they are from is tougher than New York.

After continual badgering, we got them to come in and do something, any-fucking-thing, to get some heat. My Slanket-clad co-worker typed me an IM as we all watched them bang on pipes and argue for three hours:

“It’s like watching monkeys hump doorknobs.”

They bolted a huge square, green fan-like contraption to the wall which could not have been manufactured after 1960. According to the monkeys it was STEAM powered. I was convinced that this would be another cruel winter joke. Like slipping on black ice and spilling hot coffee on yourself (which has never happened to me). The maintenance guys would rid themselves of a big shitty fan that’s been taking up space in the workshop and would we stay freezing cold. That would be our punishment for harassing them. And they would laugh and laugh and laugh.

Twenty minutes after they left it cranked to life; it was louder than an air compressor. A funky wind blew threw the place. The smell was like moist, rusty asbestos… but it was WARM! the office was finally warm. Tears of joy streamed down my face. I had a melted cheese sandwich. I could finally TYPE again. Thank god. The maintenance guys were not monkeys after all. They were gods. Doorknob humping gods.

A wee bit ago I and my friend Ian came up with the idea of interviewing strangers in the park. A way of talking lots of pictures and doing lots of interviews, all at once.

So after advertising on a few websites, I photographed and interviewed anyone willing to show up.

It quickly dawned on me that a full interview would be cost prohibitive, so I came up with a questionnaire:

Here now, the people who sat down to write up some answers: (more…)

The Aftermath

People gawking at you. Children tapping the window with their sticky fingers. Everyone shouting at you to look his or her way. “Do something interesting for Christ’s sake.” Animals can’t understand English. But I can.

“Jesus! Did you see that girl? She just fell!”

Why thank you, sir, yes, I did just fall and really, I was completely unawares that that’s what that was.

It’s snowing and I don’t care because I’m sick of being locked up in my apartment. I’ve been on crutches for six weeks. My left foot hasn’t been in a shoe in more than five months.

I live on the third floor, walk up. The palms of my hands ache. The innards of my upper arms are speckled with popped blood vessels. My knees are kissed with bruised strawberries. My right leg is twice the size of its partner. My left foot is purple, swollen and scarred. It’s no longer the foot I was born with. A metal plate and four screws will outlive me.

“Can we go see a movie?” I ask my boyfriend. “There’s a theatre right down on 62nd and 1st.”

I live on 71st and 1st. Nine streets away, totally negotiable. No avenues required. I’m sick of paying for cabs. I’m tired of going from one inside to another to another. I want to feel air.

“You think you’re up for it?” he asks.

I say yes even though I mean no. I’m exhausted. The day before I had crutched downstairs to get the mail and had trouble breathing because my heart was in my throat the entire trip. I like my teeth. I don’t want to loose them. I liked my foot too.

I broke the metatarsal of my second left toe in September. I don’t know how. I still don’t know what’s worse—not knowing how I broke my foot so I can tell people when they ask or the pain I suffered after I had to get surgery because it never healed.
(more…)

Audrey Kawasaki is an amazing artist whose work I’ve been aware of for years, but whom I only met a short while ago. Matter of fact, I was half-convinced she was imaginary, the figment of my friend Bryan’s fevered brain.

This is not true. She is real. And awesome. So I went and asked her some questions. Here we go: (more…)

This morning a co-worker, Analesia (and for the record, I hereby verbally slap all parents who name their children with a name that starts with “Anal”), turned another year older. In honor of this occasion there was a breakfast feast unfurled upon the coffee-breathed, cubicled masses, still thawing out from the frigid morning commute. It’s fucking freezing outside friends.

Due to the plummeting climes I figured it might be a good idea to pad my fat reserves, so I moseyed on over to Analesia’s department to partake in the birthday breakfast bounty. After surveying the sundry scene, I decided on an “everything” bagel with cream cheese. Pretty tasty, people. But as I chewed this doughy cud I started to question the motivation of my selection, and I realized I’d been duped.

An everything bagel has a lot of delicious, yummy bits scattered upon its circular surface. But everything? I think not. Does it have Twinkies on it? No. Does it have disobedient Schnauzers on it? Thankfully, no. Are there RC Cola bottlecaps placed randomly upon its baked body? Absolutely not. How about an ’82 Chevy Camaro? Sorry, no. Perhaps it’s loaded with Gremlins 2 movie posters or per chance an odd argyle sock? Definitely not. Or maybe a Firestone Credit Card or the steamy droppings of a duck-billed platypus or an Eames era chair? Nope. Or what about a teeming riot of drunken Armenians or a Casablanca Lily stamen or one of Rue McLanahan’s used brassieres? Hell no. Does it house the Sphinx or sheath a sword? Negatory. How about one of them cute Asian babies—it’s gotta have one of them, right? Uh uh. But it must, I mean absolutely must, give rest to at least one Sousaphone or at least one needle-nose pliers or at least one “I Went To Colonial Williamsburg And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” t-shirt, n’est pas? Actually, yes, it has those. Not!!

Sounds more like a “some things” bagel to me…

Those of us at the ‘Nacle would like to wish all of you a Good December, whether you’re barking at the moon, dancing naked around a bonfire or just listening to your parents go senile, we hope it’s the best one of these yet! Remember to be thankful for all the things you have to be thankful for and if you’re having trouble doing that, eat more food and drink more alcohol. Then reflect. And repeat.

It’s like a lactating tit. Those guys’ve been makin’ cheese for a hundred years. You smell that smoky smell? They’re smoking the cheese. I like it with a little sliced capicolla or sopressata; nothing too heavy.

Speaking of which, did I tell you what I like to make for breakfast when I don’t want to go too heavy? Fritters and hush puppies. Nothing too big. Speaking of which, I was just telling the guy in shipping and receiving about my mistletoe belt buckle. I used to have one of them, but this girl stole it as a trophy back in my cocaine days. You know how that is – they take a shirt, boxers… this broad took my mistletoe belt buckle, the bitch.

That reminds me of a story. I was having this affair with this woman with the biggest tits you have ever seen. My god they were like THIS, like out to here, like boyeeoyeeyoing. And I would leave her sweet little love notes in her lunch. You’re married, you know how it is, you try to do nice things like make lunch, breakfast. So, months later, her husband visits her at work and her co-worker sez, “I love those little notes you leave her in her lunch” and he’s like, “What notes??!?”

You know how it is, you’re married.

But like I was saying about the mozzarella and sausage, what you do is get a few olives from down the block, I’ll show you how to make an amazing sauce, you can boil a pound or two of fettuccine, get yourself a loaf of semolina, maybe a prosciutto stuffed artichoke, a few cutlets of veal and some pork medallions which you can cacciatore and you’re set. Nothing too big.

Zoetica Ebb is an Internet Superstar, and it has been a wild pleasure getting to know her. Model, writer, photographer, she’s a triple threat.

No, really, she’s threatened me before. Very intimidating, this one.

It was a no-brainer when I first started thinking about interviews to do one with Zoetica, the lady’s the real deal.

So here we go: (more…)

Jim Lucio was one of my first Polaroid heroes, and getting to meet him a few years ago really showed me how awesome the internet can be. We’ve been friends ever since, but will one day become the bitterest of enemies, fighting over the last packs of Polaroid film in the world.

But until that day, interview!!!

Here we go: (more…)

Linn Heidi Stokkedal is a young photographer from Norway, whom I met when she and her cohorts did a cross country road trip through the U.S. last summer.

Here now, her thoughts on photography, art school, me, and how modeling is like being furniture: (more…)

I am an ageist in that it is a rare moment indeed when I befriend, nonetheless date, any human whose age is smaller than or equivalent to mine. I tend to find members of the younger generation self-absorbed, egotistical and unaware of the fact that their skinny jeans will, in fact, one day be revealed as the cause of some terminal disease. People aged twenty-seven and under lack perspective in that to them, there’s only one—theirs. This, my friends, is fucking annoying.

That said, I am currently head over heels in love with a twenty-three year old. Yes. Two, three, as in born in 1985, as in four years younger than me, as in we wouldn’t have even attended high school together, as in yes, a Baby Young Gun.

Aston and Demi notwithstanding, I can’t help but be amazed at how ingrained the social mores of this world are in that at first this genuinely felt slightly awkward to me. But after more than three months, I’ve decided whip out my under-eye cream and flare my nostrils at those who call me cradle robber. This boy has swept me off my feet and here’s why:

Baby Young Gun is the cutest most precious member of the opposite sex I have ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. When I first saw him I took a triple take, no joke, and that never happens to me.

Baby Young Gun doesn’t play mind-fuck games. He called—not texted—the day after we first met to ask me out. When the day arrived, it was pouring rain, but I later found out that he arrived a half an hour early to the general area where we had agreed to meet in order to “find a nice place” to take me.

Baby Young Gun does not play by the “rules” because he’s unaware they exist. On our first date we were already discussing gas and diarrhea. Our third date? Dinner with his grandparents, his great-aunt and uncle and his aunt and her boyfriend. Perhaps a little early, but I could’ve cared less. He has always called me when he wanted to and said whatever comes to mind. “If you ever fart in front of me I’ll propose,” is just one example of his innocent, yet absolutely genuine nature that will always make me smile.

Baby Young Gun is the sweetest boy I have ever met. Besides my parents, no one has ever told me so many flattering things. It flustering, because I’m totally not used to it, but in a good way. My mind doesn’t know how to react and/or process so my heart just swells a little and I bury my head in whatever’s available.

Baby Young Gun makes me laugh, but never when he’s trying. Whether it’s seven a.m. in the morning (when I have to get up to teach) or three in the afternoon, this twenty-three year old can send me into a fit of giggles with one line. One night, he was to meet some of my older school friends, fabulous women who are or have been married and have grown-up kids. “Oh, so they’re around your age,” he replied.

I could go on, but I’ll stop here because it’s probably getting disgusting. Has Tuffie turned into a total sap? Probably. I mean, what the hell am I writing about after having been MIA from the BAT for three months? Is Tuffie a cougar? Likely. I mean, my favorite movie, “Sixteen Candles,” came out before he was born.

But does Tuffie give a fuck? Far from it. Baby Young Gun makes me happy and I know that’s all that matters. I don’t feel this way about people, ever, and I never thought I would. So some times I feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with myself, but then he’ll say something like, “One two three, poof” (code for he has to fart), and I’ll snap back into just living in the moment and tell him to go for it.