So it’s Christmas time again and apparently that means ‘tis the season to be terrified every night as I lay me down to sleep. My fiancée Maggie has gone completely Griswold and has crammed every nook of our new condo with some sorta seasonal paraphernalia. We even got our very first Christmas tree together—awwww. But what I was not prepared for as she excitedly unpacked her many trunks fulla decorations was the band of evil elves that dwelled within, and that now shall frighten me throughout December (if I survive, that is).

I knew that it would be an adjustment as our holiday traditions inevitably collided along with our lives. Relationships, however lovely and fulfilling they may be, are by nature a series of negotiations and compromises. And I’m perfectly okay with this. But prepared? No. Appropriately armed? Apparently not…

My family always had a very lackadaisical approach towards Christmas—always a mad dash for gifts on Christmas Eve, decorations were limited usually to a wreath and some stockings, and we always were that family relegated to purchase that last, pathetic, straggly tree left in the lot usually about 4 days before the big day. Then it would remain in our house—fully decorated—until usually around March or so when my mom would finally coax me to haul its brown carcass away. Maggie was born in to a much more Rockwellian holiday atmosphere, complete with manger scenes and green bean casserole and caroling and an earnest yuletide zest for the season. And, of course, all the decorations were put up right after Thanksgiving, so as to enjoy a solid month of Christmas cheer. How heartwarmingly perfect, Right? Well I now know that something sinister was festering within her tinselly winter wonderland in Sarasota, and now it has moved to New Jersey to live with me… (more…)

Early morning in the laudromat, all men are equal. The homeless guy and myself are both eating candy from 7-11, trying to keep warm. We’re both wearing dirty clothes, neither of us have shaved.

But, of course, there are differences as well. I, for instance, am not playing air guitar and soundlessly singing. Nor am I blinking uncontrolably. Nor can my body odor be smelled from several feet away. Also, I am not mentally ill.

But despite our differences, my homeless compatriot and I have no trouble finding common ground. We both like music. We both like waking up early. I have no trouble believing that, like myself, he enjoys the steady rythyms of the washing machines.

Joining us is a revolving door of elderly folk, getting a jump on the day before them young whippersnappers snatch up all the washers. Posture slouched, pants hiked up high, the kibbutz while they sort, shaking their heads at the way washing machine prices have shot up in the past sixty years.

All of us here, with it not yet seven in the morning. If it is this interesting, this early, I can barely wait to see what the rest of the day will bring.

As an American, it’s my born right to be on the lookout for new countries to invade. We invaded Massachusetts, the west, hell we’ve even taken shots at Cuba and Mexico before hitting lands beyond our horizon. One place I’m really hoping we drive tanks into is Sudan. Aside from saving millions of lives from an ongoing genocide at the hands of government sponsored militias, our tanks could set straight some serious problems with government officials, who are currently trying a school teacher for letting her students name a teddy bear Mohammed. If convicted she could be whipped, jailed and fined. I kid you not.

Saving lives of really poor people was not good enough reason for military intervention, but TEDDY BEARS, and the WHIPPING of a TEACHER? Done and done. Gear up folks, we’re goin’ in.

Talking, well, IMing, with a friend, we thought about a mutual dream of ours, to find a short bus, take it across the country, picking up fellow photographers in a Merry Pranksters-style adventure.

But then we realized how untenable that idea is now, when every hitchhiker is an axe murderer, where gas costs more every time you blink, where we are now at the age where we can’t chuck our lives for a few months and take things on the road. I can barely save enough for a plane ticket, let alone a trip through America. Credit cards, food, car insurance, union dues, rent. Not overwhelming, but just overwhelming enough to prevent such a grand scheme.

Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it is still worth the planning and driving and gas money and pinching pennies to take a car across a country that scares me in its gestalt of fear and xenophobia and intolerance.

Smokey the Bear says: Holy Shit!

Spent Sunday photographing a new L.A. band in Griffith Park, which was recently laid low by a wildfire. Which is the new Earthquake in LA. Used to be I could “sell” LA by saying we had fewer natural disasters than other cities. I’d lure folks in with tales of the perfect weather, the superior physical beauty of the city’s residents, the potential to see a movie star, the excellent food, the “something for everyone” atmosphere. And I always had an easy parry for the “what about the earthquakes?” question. “So rare, and they’re actually quite fun,” as opposed to hurricanes, floods, tornadoes, snowstorms, all of which had their own season and which seemed to occur every year. The trusty earthquake was rare, and seldom lasted longer than a few seconds.

But now, now we’ve got fires. Pretty, yes, but far too regular and destructive to just gloss over in an LA recruitment speech. Thanks a lot, Mother Nature, now Danny Eagle will never move here!

Feeling the flab of of the gravy and the grog of the leftover turkey sandwich it was high time to take a cruise on the bike. Me and my pal Hal rolled up the cuffs of our pants, zipped up the jackets and got a move on. There was a wintery bite in the air; it was no place for the gloveless. The sun was bright and the whole area code was still relaxing from the break. I felt like I was doing the city equivalent of tossing the football around the yard.

We cruised past the shops, rode to the stinking canal, saw some neighborhood punks up to no good. We took time to stop and examine things, the makeshift Christmas tree vendor, the strange old social hall I’ve been scheming on renting out for a party and of course a dog eating happily from a trashbag. Hal found an abandoned work boot, and for good measure tossed it in the water. It landed upright like a small boat and drifted aimlessly downstream. As the sun went down we packed it in and somehow thoughts of warm thick gravy and turkey sounded pretty damn good again.

Yeah, so…still feeling guilty about murdering the indigenous peoples. I know, I know, it wasn’t me personally, and it wasn’t even my ancestors, who were off in Africa and Europe back then. But every time I eat a bite of turkey, or see a Thanksgiving decoration, I can’t help but wince at the fact that the folks who invented this holiday had absolutely no problem killing off the folks they were sharing the land with. Also, they were religious nuts. How come nobody ever mentions that part. This country was basically founded by the 18th century version of Scientologists. Or Mormons. No, Moonies. Yeah, Moonies. Cuz those cats are really nuts, and not a single one of them is even close to being president.

So, yeah, a bunch of 18th century Moonies come to a big wide open country, wearing goofy hats, give sick blankets to the folks living here, then build a wacky society on their bones. If it wasn’t the truth, it’d be hilarious.

But hey, the natives got casinos now, so it all worked out in the end!

Right?

I can now walk to work, which awesome. It’s a new job so I’m just now figuring out the nuances of my newly minted morning routine. I still don’t know which of the many faces in downtown Brooklyn I’ll see daily. Who the new “weird hat guy” or “limpy old duff” will be. I did see a man today who looked crazy, he was cursing the BloodMobile as it backed into its spot for the day. He had two work-like bags which made me reprimand myself for being so judgmental. “He’s not crazy, he’s clearly just going to work with really messy hair, and also talking angrily with himself.” Then he started walking with me. And talking to himself. I was unnerved at first but then decided to enjoy it as one enjoys the sounds of birds in the park. He seemed most upset with “That guy who (inaudible mumble) is (inaudible groaned word) FRAK, kindlebaum, MOVING around!” Will we be regular commuters daily? We’ll just have to see.

Spent the weekend at the Madonna Inn, a singular hotel in Northern California, which has the singular distinction of having over 100 differently themed rooms. Included are the Caveman Room, the Irish Hills Room, it goes on an on, deeper into a hole covered in David Lynch and John Waters.

12 photographers strong, we rented several rooms and shot the Fuck out of that place, spending all of saturday night going from one room to the other, setting up huge 1200 watt lights, burning holes in reflectors, crushing cookies into the carpet for effect. Greg put on Jessica’s gold dress, Jessica rode the wooden pony in, you guessed it, the Pony Room, the SF crew got wild on Sparks, which I learned is both booze and caffeinated drink.

There are few things more fun than hanging out with friends who all share the same interest and willingness to get buck wild in the same way. Thank you internet and Polaroids.

If you’ve gone, then god bless. If you haven’t, then I must inform you, you are not yet alive.

Ehem, um, so… you might wanna um… have a looksie at our B.A.T. Movie Hits page, there’s a little doozey you shouldn’t miss by the Fat Boys. You shouldn’t have missed it back in 1984, hell maybe you weren’t even born in 1984 (depressing).

Yesterday my friend Nick and I had beers and burgers at the White Star in the JC as we watched our New Orleans Saints get pummeled by an unlikely assailant known as the formerly winless and generally hapless St. Louis Rams. To compound the savagery of our defeat was a motley crew of jersey-clad Jersey folk who were loud and shameless and full of greasy opinions and afternoon crapulence. Then, as a final gesture of bad will toward men, on at least 1 of the 8 flat screens during every commercial break there were ads for some upcoming Ultimate Fighting Championship brawl in which one person plans on basically annihilating the existence and aesthetics of the other, and vice versa. And all this ubiquitous carnage left us pondering that age old question and terrible Black Eyed Peas song: Where is the love?

As I see it, there’s no shortage of real-life, not-for-entertainment violence out there to enjoy and absorb and consume on a daily basis—street gangs, warring nations, Diana Ross at the airport, etc. Not to mention enter-pain-ment like brutal video games, gory movies with Saw in the title, and the cringingly gruesome Dancing with the Stars. And this increasingly popular UFC craze is further evidence of our collective belly’s expanding waste line as our gluttonous hunger for blood will soon have us wearing the dreaded Murderous Muumuu of Misanthropy!! And to curb this appetite for destruction we concluded that the best approach was to fight fire with water and hate with heart, and conceived what will hopefully be the next great wave of pop-culture humanism and an answer to our violence saturated, testosterone tainted media machine—The Ultimate Loving Championship!!
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Pushing an usher? Bad idea.

Taking a swing at an usher? Really bad idea.

Taking a swing at all the security guards who are running at you? Well now you’re just trying too hard to be different. Next time get a tattoo, or make your own clothes.

Or…oh, I don’t know, don’t get wasted and attack concert staff, which gets you arrested.

Just a friendly tip from the Tabernacle.

I feel like I live on a weird sitcom set. In the sitcom, these two young guys move into apartment building where they’re the only people not related, the only two not Italian, and because of they both listed “designers” on their rental application and because one is from San Francisco, they are often confused as a gay couple.

“Oh yeah, I talked to your little buddy there, from San Fransisco, he says he got the keys”, says the landlord in a thick Brooklyn accent.

Almost on cue, as though it were the opening of Welcome Back Cotter, the subway rumbles over the street slightly shaking the Jesus and Mary statuettes on the front lawn. The Italian and American flags flap at half mast in light of the Pope’s recent demise, the white wrought iron gate creaks on its hinge. Entire families are in the little fenced in driveways of their places, washing cars, bouncing a ball, planting little solar garden accent lights and yelling. “Hon, you gotta come out and see this, she was just dancin’. It’s unbelieeevable.”

The ancient neighbor Sal, who speaks no English despite having lived here for three decades, explained in his own special way how the little solar lights worked, by grumbling emphatically and pointing at the sun. While working on my bike out on the front porch Sal’s great great great grandson, himself probably 35 comes over, “Hi, I’m John… you like bikes? You wanna new one?” “Um sure.”, I replied realizing I didn’t have the luxury of declining his offer.

He took me through Sal’s place down the stairs to the back garden, “Here it is, I never use it.” Slowly emerging from a giant blue tarp is a bike is for a man a thousand feet tall, John is maybe 5′ 5″. “Lemme see if my little buddy from San Fransisco fits on it.” I wheeled it through their dining room, careful not to knock over the figurines or bump my head on their dusty crystal chandeleer. “Thanks a lot John, see ya round.” John gave me a very firm handshake as though it were serious business and paused before saying almost alarmingly calm yet sinister, “….nice to meet ya.”

Now we have a giant bike we can’t ride. Not even my little buddy from San Fransisco can ride it. It was a gesture of good will, the first attempt by the neighbors to make nice with us. We own this bike, and I fear the second I ditch it John’s gonna come by and ask us how we like it. “Um..oh yeah, it’s a really great ride, very smooth.” The bike goes, we go.

It’s hard to know if we’ve made it to “these guys are alright” status. I suspect that will take time. For now, I will agree with Sal’s undecipherable mumblings, will dish out lots of “how ya doins” and will ride that giant bike if it kills me.

Turns out those trailers FEMA handed out to survivors of Hurricane Katrina? The ones that people have been living in, as their homes were obliterated? They got Formaldehyde in ‘em. That’s right, the chemical they put in dead folk to keep ‘em from decomposing. The chemical the European Union is banning, because it’s carcinogenic. It’s all up in the trailers.

Which maybe explains the headaches, nosebleeds, breathing difficulty and nausea people living in the trailers have been complaining about.

Is there anything FEMA’s done right in the past eight years? Hell, during the recent fires here in Southern Cal, FEMA just couldn’t get by without fucking up, BY FAKING A NEWS CONFERENCE. FEMA is that buddy of yours that just has to punch his boss, even though he knows it’s wrong. The guy that has to take that girl home, even though he knows his girlfriend’s coming back from vacation any time now. Who fakes a news conference??? Is the government being run by the cast of Saturday Night Live?