I wear a uniform at work, so no costumes for me, I look silly enough as it is. Unlike the folks above, who began celebrating All Hallow’s Eve last weekend. I think it’s time to just accept that people want to dress up all the time, start selling costumes year round. Halloween Everyday, people. Halloween Everyday.

And so today I show up to work, intentionally or not, looking like Harry Potter.

As we stood at the bar, watching the Red Sox shame Colorado for even bothering to show up, I didn’t feel much either way. Perhaps a bit annoyed at the people around me who, with no actual connection to Boston or the Sox themselves, still thought the team’s win had something to do with them, but on the whole just having a good time hanging with friends I hadn’t seen in awhile.

But then it all went sideways. We walked from the bar, which was situated in the center of LA’s permanent Farmer’s Market, to the newly arrived Pinkberry, only to witness those guys. Rarely seen traveling in packs, they were the guys that at forty-five still travel with their 7th grade backpacks on, the guys that live in their mother’s basement because the climate there is better for their collection of Original Star Wars figures. Not retarded, because making fun of retarded people would be mean, but guys who, somewhere along the line, jumped off the emotional development train, decided to just hang out on the side of the road and read their Omni magazine. Forever.

But it wasn’t just that they were all huddling together, laughing like the fat twins from Moonwalker(go find it on YouTube, I’ll wait), but for some reason they had decided to throw a bag of chips up on the roof of the Farmer’s Market. And were failing. And trying again. And failing. And trying again. Drunk, their normal mental deficiencies were amplified, creating Hulks without strength or rage. Their combined guffawing alone created a chilling effect, as if a collection of mutant thugs had invaded the market.

Yes, I was scared. Such men were not meant to meet, to become some twisted gang. And who was their leader? The guy with the denim jacket, “love me, touch me, find me” written on the back? In marker. The guy with 3/3 vision, requiring magnifying lenses to be fitted, poorly, into glass frames?

No. Such a beast had no leader, was ruled by a 14 year old hive mind. All women within a two mile area immediately split, their superior instincts sensing the danger.

My crew waited until we had our fruit-covered frozen yogurt, then did the same. But, though the plan was to see 30 Days of Night soon after, nothing would prove as scary that night as watching five “grown” men find absolute bliss over the flight of a snack bag of Cheetos.

Last night walking home through my empty neighborhood at half past midnight it felt like Christmas Eve. It was crisp and the air twinkled with excitement, it was eerily quiet, things were not normal. (I had also consumed 5 beers, but no matter.) My hometown team, the famously cursed then un-cursed Boston Red Sox won the World Series for the second time in 4 years. My step-dad, now in his 70s spent his entire life watching the Red Sox NOT do what they did last night. His.whole.damn.life. I feel like the spoiled brat who inherited his dad’s fortune. But hey, that’s also not a bad place to be. Even the New York Times is calling the Sox the “premier team of the new millennium.” Jesus Christ. So, glasses up, here’s to my goddamn awesome team, hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray!

So I recently returned from a strange and beautiful journey through Nepal and Northern India. Of all my excuses for keeping your parched minds watering for more of my wordsmithery for so long, this is perhaps the most convenient. My humblest apologies, dear friends. Namaste, my devoted readers. But your patience shall be rewarded with a strange tale from Darjeeling, India, land of copious tea, majestic Himalayan views, and so-so Wes Anderson movies that don’t really take place in Darjeeling. But recently I was fortunate enough to bear witness to Darjeeling’s newest claim to fame—birthplace of Indian Idol Prashant Tamang!! And what an electric, completely absurd moment the coronation of this child-king was…

Our Darjeeling sojourn began after a long, winding road trip from Bhadrapur, Nepal that included approximately 961 near death experiences carelessly careening around tea-laden mountainsides, and the most surreal customs office experience at the Nepal/India border that I can only liken to Billy Bob Thornton’s (Darrell’s) mechanic shop in Oliver Stone’s “U Turn”. The soundtrack to this death defying drive was enthusiastically provided by our guide, Kiran, who loaded our trusty Tata’s stereo with a CD entitled “USA Hits”, and which was comprised of timeless patriotic tunes such as Lionel Richie’s “Penny Lover” and Bon Jovi’s “Have A Nice Day”. Nothing like rocking out to Jersey’s finest to enrich a cultural experience in West Bengal. But that was only the beginning of this musical thrill ride!! (more…)

I am in no way worried by the fact that my entire state appears to be on fire.

Or by the fact that over 500,000 people appear to now be homeless.

Instead, I am concerned about my mother, and the fact that she may see this whole disaster as an excellent opportunity to move in with me. If her house burns down, it will become my number one priority to disa-fucking-ppear. Cancel my cell phone, move into my car, fake my death, kill everyone who ever knew me. Nothing frightens me more than having to share living space with good old crazy “I want a grandchild nownownownow” mom.

So when I walk the dog in the wee hours of the morning, look up to the the moon, dimmed and shaded orange by the smoke that keeps kids inside and joggers looking out their windows wistfully, I worry not for our environment, because I’m too busy praying they save my mom’s house. Because I am way too lazy to chuck it all and become that small town diner owner without a past.

Did the battle of Midway decide the fate of the Axis forces? Was Hitler’s winter advance into Russia a repeat of Napoleon’s worst mistake? Could the Nazi juggernaut have brought the Allies to it’s knees with a nuclear weapon? Who gives a shit, the war is over, I repeat the war is over. Dan! Seriously, put down the remote, the fucking war is OVER.

I’ve been often branded a lover of violence for endlessly watching documentaries about World War II. Any goddamn topic about the war from the tires on the crappy VW that Hitler drove around in, to the sake-schwilling wannabe Samurai Kamikazes, I’ll plop down and watch. Why you ask? I’ll tell you why, just in case you give a shit. If not, go watch the Daily Show and pretend you’re getting schooled in world politics.

Don’t worry I’m not going to give you the whole schpeil about the “greatest generation” or how it was the last war with true good and evil cause that’s total garbage. Don’t get me wrong, the people who fought in Dubya Dubya Two were cut from Grade A stock. You can thank your lucky stars they showed up to exterminate the brutes, cause now you can eat your Burger King breakfasts in total freedom.
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Today I feel the creaking of my bones, the slowing motion of my blood. Thoughts have become sluggish. New technologies become hard to understand. Children speak a foreign language. I prefer yesterday to tomorrow. Food tastes…less. I cannot hear you, please say it again, louder. I don’t remember, but I will pretend I do.

Today I have become 30.
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IT’S ALL COCAINE, WHORES AND TEQUILA FROM HERE ON OUT, SUCKAS!!!!! WE’RE GONNA BEAT UP CLOWNS, THROW CRIPPLES IN THE RIVER, EAT BOOKS!!!!!! I’M OLD AND INVINCIBLE NOW, THE WORLD SHALL TREMBLE!!!!!!
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the wind blows, reminding me of all that is lost, i can hear the animals of morning, oblivious to the turning of time. We are all alone. Death is coming.
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BUT FIRST, LSD IN THE WATER SYSTEM, THE WHOLE WORLD WILL TRIP BALLS WHILE I SIP MARGARITAS UNTIL DAWN!!!!! PARTY PARTY PARTY!!!!

My pal Steve has a knack for witnessing the best our city has to offer by way of freakish random events. Being a news junkie, I’m glad that the random goings on that are missed by the local media are at the least, covered by Steve.

Steve: Before going home I stopped at the corner store by you guys, on Smith Street and the store got semi-held up while I was inside.

Danny: Oh hell no.

S: Yeah it was funny, insane. The dude reminded me about the guy from Ghost World.

D: You should’ve jumped in on it got yourself some free Slim Jims!

S: Yeah but it was kind of hairy for a while, there was a couple in there scared shitless. They just hid behind the chip rack.

D: Uh oh.

S: It wasn’t really a big deal just looked like the guy was up for a few days and he started going nuts when the guy at the store wouldn’t give him some free shit. He started going crazy and was flipping racks over. Then he tried to grab the register and run out.

D: As one does when tweaking on meth…

S: The dude from behind the counter tried beating him with a broom stick while the fruit proctor* held him down.

D: Hahahah

S: He got up started acting all belligerent and jumped on his Huffy and rode off. Then i was like “Ummm a pack of Newports please,” and walked out.

*Fruit proctor is the gentlemen who mans the front half of the store facing the street with all the fresh fruit and flowers.

The Tabernacle would like to wish Tuffie a very happy birthday (it was on Saturday, we take the entire weekend as a Sabbath). We thought about buying her cupcakes and then settled on a bottle of Jägermeister wrapped in its original liquor store bag. And then we used it in communion throughout dinner: “The body and blood of Tuffie” (swig… cold shivers.. ) Hip hip, hooray!

After shooting Katie back in July at a birthday party, I wrote her name down on a list, the List of Folks to Photograph. She had a great natural demeanor, was very easy going in front of the camera, comfortable without being too practiced.

We met last Sunday at a park in the valley, accompanied by Olivia and Olivia’s parents dog.

Great things about the shoot:
-Katie.
-Katie’s amazing dress.
-The contrast between Katie’s dress and the grass.
-Katie’s smile.

Not so great things about the shoot:
-Tiny dogs that choke themselves straining against their leashes.
-Tiny dogs that get tripped up and caught in their own leashes.
-Creepy fat dads who play frisbee with their daughters but sneak lecherous looks at Katie.
-People who arrive at the park drunk. At 2 in the afternoon.
-Sunlight at the park, harsh and bouncing off all the wrong surfaces.
-Other people who I know are staring at me because I’m taking pictures.
-Other people.

Then my girlfriend got into a car accident and I had to cut the shoot short.

She’s fine. Her dead car sat in the driveway for a few days, until some dude who wouldn’t get off his cell phone came and picked it up for charity.

No, I’m not happy my girlfriend got into a car accident. But I wasn’t altogether upset that I had to leave the park, filled with people as it was.

Too many variables, and perhaps engages a bit too much of my deep seated and rarely surfacing social anxiety.

Next time I’ll take her out to the desert for a shoot. Just us and the cacti.

Or the moon. How much is it to rent the moon?

What’s that feeling you get when you are liberated from a job you’re no longer feelin’? It’s liberation baby! The beige walls that have looked the same to me for years are suddenly looking slightly off-kilter, distorted through a lense of total excitement. The same old office is suddenly the same OLD office. The world looks great to me today, I got a new motherlovin’ job. I can ride my bike to it. While I’m there I will not be working for a giant bank, a huge monolithic global corporation, or any other incarnation of The Man. I can design and feel good. And I suspect I can again, wear sneakers.

Men in New York have a lot less hair on the tops of their head than men in Los Angeles. Or so it would appear, probably because when men in Southern California go bald, they can just bic their head, whereas in New York, with the chilly whether and all, that’s not really a viable option.

In the past two weeks, while riding the metro, I’ve seen two of the craziest, saddest and most original combovers ever on men my age (that would be the 25-30 bracket). Being that the metro presents Tuffie with a prime opportunity to people watch (read: stare), she took full advantage of this with these two specimens, whom she had the opportunity to ride with for more than a few stops.

Specimen Number One
Specimen Number One enters the metro in the standard New-York-young-guy work attire: slacks, a button-up shirt (plaid) and ugly shoes. He’s got the over the shoulder briefcase/computer bag and is reading a well paged through New York Times. Even though I’m sitting down and he’s therefore towering over me to grasp the bar above my head, it’s impossible not to notice his combover. (more…)

How, in the first fifteen minutes of the concert, did you get so drunk you were unable to remember not only what day it was and where you were, but what concert you were attending? Even with the music playing loud enough to seep through the walls of the first aid station, to the point where I had to yell every question to you, the answer never, even as the off-duty cops working security “escorted” you off the premises, entered your mind.

And no, the answer to “who’s playing tonight?” is not “it depends.”

Sure, it was a good idea to take the bus to the show, go ahead and have a drink or two. But the amount of alcohol you must have consumed to engineer such amnesia, you must be broke. You must have spent your entire savings. How will your afford the bus home?

And no, the answer to, “do you know where you are right now?” is not, “the bad room.”

Passed out on the floor of the Palladium before the third song is finished, what kind of east side hipster are you? Sure, you did better than the girl so drunk she never made it inside, never even got to see the show she paid a healthy sum of money for. But doing better than her is nothing to be proud of. Practice at home first, next time. Away from sharp edges.

And no, the answer to “what time is it?” is not “my brother?”

At the last Morrissey show of his two week engagement in Los Angeles last night, after the thin white (but wearing black) duke stepped off the stage, after the band had thrown their shirts out to the crowd, shirts they most likely purchased at Target immediately prior to the show, I was oh so lucky to see several well dressed, well coiffed gentlemen argue over, and quickly escalating into fighting because of, said Target shirt. Of, not Morrissey, but a band members. A shirt you could buy for pennies. They not only fought, their friends jumped in, their girlfriends jumped in, security guards were jumped in against their will, bystanders shouted encouragements. Over a T-shirt. Thrown by a guy who hangs with Morrissey. I’m not even questioning the excitement over getting Morrissey’s shirt, not even gonna get into that. And in the end, the security guards, of course, won. And with the wisdom of Solomon, or perhaps, of course, they’d been through this before, they cut the shirt into several pieces, so all parties involved could go away with something.

Of all places, you’d think a Morrissey concert, with his sullen, melodic wail, and his British pheromones flooding the arena, would indicate a certain degree of civility.

Enter beer, which makes savages of us all, and through our savagery, makes us all equal.