IT IS FINISHED.
I HAVE DONE MANY THINGS I AM ASHAMED OF TO BRING THIS BOOK TO YOU.
BUT IT IS READY.
AND IT IS GORGEOUS.
80 PAGES OF PHOTOGRAPHY AND STORIES ABOUT PHOTOGRAPHY.
PRODUCED WITH THE HELP OF THE MEMBERS OF THE BACK ALLEY TABERNACLE. BLOOD, SWEAT, TEARS, CADAVERS AND PROTOCULTURE HAVE GONE INTO THE CREATION OF THIS WORK OF ART.
BUY IT.
MAKE MY MOM HAPPY.
And on another note, as I now have cable for the first time in over twenty years (it’s the disc-shaped thing they bolt to your roof), I was catching up on all things post-Cosby with a teen-witch movie called “The Coven” last night. I’ll be damned if John Travolta isn’t in that film acting as a high school aged goth. The weirdly bloated modern Travolta (thinking maybe L. Ron’s baby alien is growing inside his belly). The movie listed the actress as Veruca Salt or Faruza Balk or something, but that lil’ goth chick was no girl. For whatever reason the 2008 John Travolta used his secret Scientology power to travel in time to 2002 or whenever to make this film for the future. What? Huh? Just know that it’s scary looking, I tell you. Best of all, “her” Hollywood-goth look, which was utterly unconvincing when the film was released now looks DEAD ON as now all the little goth girls dress the part to the tee. Which makes me sad for the high school boys who have to make out with girls who dress like old, fat John Travoltas.
You don’t see it? Go rent the movie. It’s motherfucking John Travolta.
I ordered a chicken burrito today and found a few unconventional “parts” in there. One was squishy and fatty, the other tough and crunchy. Regardless, I took down the entire burrito. God gave the chicken many parts, who am I to decide which are fit to eat and which are not?
“Are there fat people in your class?”
Lanie (short for Melanie) dropped this zinger while were playing an educational PBS Internet game, helping some character that resembled Cousin It find a witch’s broom. She’s seven and, given my lack of experience with children, she’s what I’m calling Tuffie’s first babysitting victim.
“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I responded. “Why, are there fat people in your class?
“Uh-huh.”
“But, they’re nice, right?”
“No.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. How are they not nice?”
“It’s this girl and she’s all like girlie and she plays with Bratz and Barbie and she makes fun of me because I’m kinda a tom boy and I don’t like that stuff.”
“Oh, “ I said, fighting the urge to tell her that Fat Girl was probably overcompensating for having some extra cushion and was very likely just jealous of Lanie’s own petite frame.
“Well, I’m sure it has nothing to do with her being fat,” I said instead. “Some people are just mean, and you don’t have to be friends with them.”
Forget knowing how to perform CPR or the Heimlich maneuver; bullshitting should be the number one skill required on a child care resume. You absolutely have to know how to tell a lie with conviction. (more…)
I can’t write reviews, not really. I’ve tried, done an admirable job, but really, I’m no music critic. Can’t play any instruments (unfortunately, being an amazing whistler apparently does not count), can’t read music, don’t know from music theory. All I know is that some records, most records, sound like crap, and a rare few don’t.
But I listen to a shit ton of music, more than is legally allowed, definitely. And hey, since you’re here, and I’m here, let’s talk about a few albums I’ve had in rotation of late. No judgments (BOLD-FACED LIE), just talk. No big whoop.
NINE INCH NAILS | Ghosts I-IV
I haven’t much liked Trent Reznor’s music the last few years. Sounds like he’s basically recycling old songs and ideas, nothing new in the mix. And the last thing I want to do is pretend it’s 1996 again. That year sucked balls.
But I’ve always kind of dug his instrumental work, less pretentious, let Important, just interesting music. So this new 4 album set of solely instrumental work? Fresh. Nothing earth-shattering, but enjoyable. Good on the plane on the way to NYC, big island o’ steel that it is. Even better after that first seven n’ seven, mm hm.
THE BLACK KEYS | Attack & Release
Big fan of these guys, but their last album was stuck in the mud. These dudes had me locked in after their live set at Coachella few years back, and then they go and get all boring. That show wasn’t cheap, dudes.
Fortunately, their new disc is far better, lot more like a blues album, which is a-okay. It’s produced by Danger Mouse, and you gotta be racist not to like his stuff. Yeah, I said it. The album isn’t a huge leap, isn’t a huge diversion, but is just plain old more interesting. Definitely straying from radio-friendly songs, more dynamic, good stuff.
PANIC AT THE DISCO | Pretty. Odd.
Don’t look at me like that. Elitist. I already know what you’re going to say, just hear me out.
The single, Nine in the Afternoon, grabbed me. It was just plain strange, and not what I was expecting from an emo-pop pretty boy band. So I got the album. And damned if it isn’t horrible. Shit, just thought about that, I wonder if it IS damning. Does listening to Panic at the Disco mean I’m going to hell? Entirely possible.
But shit, it’s actually quite pleasant. Easy description: emo meets Sgt. Pepper. Seriously. Much like Cobra Commander stole the DNA of the world’s worst dictators to create Serpentor, these kids have dug up the Hearts Club Band, boiled it, then shot themselves up with the Beatles juice.
And it works. It’s not gonna save anyone’s life, or cure syphilis, but it’s fun, and interesting.
But don’t ask about the lyrics. Even I can’t be expected to listen that close to these guys.
THE RACONTEURS | Consolers of the Lonely
Funny story about this one: It’s supposed to come out tuesday, both digitally and on hard vinyl/cd/tape. If there’s still tapes.
Anyway, it was accidentally released onto iTunes. Three days early. Heh. And though it was quickly removed, it took less time than it takes the Russians to shut down the Estonian government’s website for the album to makes its way to file-sharing networks. Good or bad, the industry’s fucked.
But the album’s not! Hey-o, it rocks! RAWKS.
Not really, but it’s good. It’s more blues/rock/white stripes magic. Like the last album, it’s got Jack White sharing the lead with Brendan Benson. Unlike the last album, it’s got more than two white-hot singles and a bunch of too experimental filler. It’s a lot more even in quality, and actually far more interesting by being more conventional in the song-writing.
That almost sounded like something a smart person would say.
They got some bluesier jams, bunch of songs got some fresh horns in the background. I got this one on “repeat,” heard it about six times since Saturday.
That’s all for now. Go “acquire” these, let us know what YOU think.
I’ve known it was time to move on from my job for awhile, but it’s always nice to have a day that reminds me why being an EMT is a job, not a profession.
So thanks to the old man who evacuated in the ambulance, tried to pull the paintings from the wall at the hospital, and could only ask why whenever we told him not to do something, like fall out of bed.
And thanks to the old lady whose heart began to stop beating mere days after her husband died. It actually started beating slower, as if she was slowly willing it to cease all function.
Also a shout out to the Russian woman who yelled “my mother is well” in Russian during our whole trip from the hospital to the convalescent home.
One day I’ll write a forty page paper on the multitude of problems inherent in our medical industry. And then I’ll be assassinated.
The Russians give me music, now. The new Gnarls Barkley, Justice, Metaform, Snoop Dogg, hell, I even got the new Panic at the Disco album, just because they had it.
When Oink, bittorrent site from God, died, I was sad. I’m not ashamed, I’d become a music addict, downloading an album a day, spending hours listening to new music. And when my source dried up, I went through serious withdrawals.
But now the Russians got my back. Sure, they’re the number one cyber-hackers on the planet, attacking both the music industry and small Balkan nations. Sure they’ve got a stranglehold on their citizens and use their oil exports to manhandle their neighbors.
But they got the music.
And so, thanks, tovarichi!
This here photo is from The Armory in Manhattan, which is now home to part of the Whitney Museum. I’m betting it was used for a long time to house weapons to beat the Ruskies with, but hell, that war’s long over.
And yes, We won. You know how I know?
Because there’s a McDonalds on every corner in Moscow, and not a single Russian fast food joint in New York City.
…And I don’t mean hard like a brick, or like a dick, or like knocks, or like times, or like liquor, or like cold facts, or like Rock Cafes, or like candy. And I also don’t mean hard like not knowing where my next meal’s coming from, or hard like my child is dying, or hard like so many people’s lives out there, in the out there. Really I mean hard like I don’t have anything to say to you, at least not now, at least not right now, maybe tomorrow, definitely soon. And it’s not for lack of material…
So much has happened since last we spoke. Strange and awkward apologies. Eaves dropping on some guy next to me at the Tops Diner who was telling his friend that he got some nicotine patch and it made him so clear and focused that he quit smoking and got divorced from his tyrannical wife at the same time. My bachelor party in New Orleans which was all love and no smut but still ended in my paradoxical friend Mike getting punched in the eye by some odd girl at six oh eight in the five oh four in the shockingly hilarious Crescent City morning. Ran in to my ex who is now the personal assistant to John C. Reilly and who swears is the celebrity version of me and who now ironically feels like my personal assistant. I’m guessing she’s nicer to him than she was to me. Struggling with seating charts for my fast approaching nuptials so that x is not near to y and so that a is close to b and so that the rest of the social alphabet is seated in a joyfully geographic fashion. Dealing with the chronic pain of my herniated disc and my even more herniated ability to actually deal with it. Working out at a gym, which I’ve never done before, but actually enjoying it because it’s this weird boxing gym (Lenox Lewis trained there) but was bought by these bitchy Russians and then converted in to a pseudo-Menudo gym and so I’ll be elliptically, effeminately revitalizing my cardiology as two gang-banging beefcakes beat the crap out of each other in the manly smelling boxing ring twenty feet away. My soon-to-be-in-laws’ cat has terminal cancer. My Dad is leaving soon for the North Pole and at the same time facilitating elephant rental for the reception. And last night, at around six Las Vegas time, my naked nephew Luke, middle name Aiden, was born, almost named Angus, middle name Beef, but beautiful and beet red and miraculous all the same. Even today I was walking to lunch and accidentally became part of a very Hispanic Good Friday procession and at once enjoyed the unintelligible hymnals and at the same time pitied the seemingly impoverished, stymied faithful.
I think sometimes my periodic cyber-silence is a hushmouthed hybrid of being a very private person and also being a showboat at the same time. When I write, I don’t want to reveal too much of my me, and at the same time I want to arouse your zona persona with my inane revelations. I think I want to be the lame, inefficient devil on your shoulder that you hear but never see, and rarely obey.
I’m sure for some it comes naturally, self-assuredly, and they drop their thoughts and walk on. They don’t self-edit, don’t care, and are never at a loss for words. They don’t self-obsess whenever they actually do post because it’s a daily exercise for them, no need for narcissistic ejaculations followed by self-loathing damnations. They are self-disciplined, prolific, and will probably write the next great American post-modern novel. They certainly don’t drink tall Maker’s Marks on the rocks at eleven fifty two and re-read everything they ever wrote on this blog and feel completely unreal.
Blogging is hard.
Tonight is dinner with Megan at our favorite Mexican spot, El Cholo.
This means I am only hours away from being Food Drunk. That’s when you just eat through a Food Coma, when your stomach is so overwhelmed by the embarrassment of riches coming at it, your brain shuts down. You’ll laugh at anything, all the while continuing to munch on the guacamole made at your table, at the nachos covered in cheese, at the enchilada with a fried egg on top.
Damn, I am so hungry right now.
Post Script: We ate nachos. We drank margaritas. We had food that arrived steaming from the heat. We ate so much we both nearly fell asleep at the table afterwards. It’s at least ninety minutes later, and I’m still in physical pain. We showed each other our full bellies, to see who looked more pregnant. We made fun of the fat people who ate around us, aware of the fact that our pants were fitting far more tightly than they should. This is the dumb joy of being full on excellent food.
I’m a big fan of mistakes in print or on the web; they’re subtle reminders that there are real live people behind these things who make mistakes. Regardless of all the hard work, consideration and cold cash that goes into these things, people still fuck up. And that’s awesome. Today I specked paper for a project; the paper is sadly named “Desert Storm.” I love that “New Slom Design” was printed all over the Verizon box my girlfriend’s new cell phone came in. And today I found a real beauty, two lovely banner ads accidentally placed side by side… (more…)
If I had a nickel for every time I said “like,” I’d be fabulously rich. I’d be even more well off if I earned a dime every time I inserted an “um” or “ugh” into my dialogue. Life would be beautiful. But alas, with no magical Valley Girl Fairy to reward me for being unable to speak in polished English, I work retail and baby-sit to make ends meet.
That being said, the amount of anxiety my body grappled with before my first-ever public reading last week was probably equivalent to that of a 16-year-old virgin on prom night who knows the time has come. It was a mix of excitement, dread and uncertainty over whether or not I really wanted it to happen. That’s because in addition to my un-refined manner of speaking, my body translates loose nerves into seriously rapid reading. This knowledge created a most-effective vicious-circle frame of consciousness that literally left me breathless.
And then, of course, there was the fact that the Ms. Susan Orlean would be reading as well. I want to be the next Ms. Susan Orlean. I want to work for the New Yorker. I want to follow around interesting, strange and borderline-psychotic people and write about them. These things are the things Ms. Susan Orlean does for a living and these are the things that would equal absolute happiness for Tuffie.
Luckily, my BFF had rendez-voused in New York the week prior and hooked a sister up with some over-the-counter Spanish anti-anxiety pills. I immediately gave one a test drive and it was awesome. Had the calming effects of smoking a bowl without the after effects of giggling, stupidity, zoning or insatiable munching. (more…)
A shot from what seems forever ago, but I believe was only three weeks past.
I am particularly exhausted this weekend, think last weekend’s rock n’ roll vacation is finally catching up to me. Been fighting off a cold since last week, as well, good times.
I like this shot bunches. Nothing fancy, just a pretty girl and some pretty light, which is all I ask from a good shot.
Also, I would have no problem engaging in some blasphemous marriage with her hair, which, just looking at this shot again, is unbelievably fantastic.
Unfortunately this shoot was truncated by another appointment I had, so I didn’t get to soak up a wealth of stories about Dola, some of which I’d then type here, instead of what you’re actually reading.
Plus, I think I’m about to go back to sleep for another half hour or so.
Let me just add, for no other reason than No One Can Stop Me, probably my favorite sentence ever is GHOST RIDE THE WHIP. Something about that sentence hits me like a lightning bolt, fuck the guy who said Cellar Door is the perfect phrase, it ain’t got nothing on GHOST RIDE THE WHIP. Perfectly constructed, flows off the tongue. Discuss!
Got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first? The bad news? Perfect. Bad news is, there’s a woman in Kansas who’s been sitting on the toilet for two years. Because of a phobia she has been unwilling to leave the can. Good news is help has arrived and she’s being treated for having her body literally grow around the toilet seat. I’m fairly sure that problems like this don’t exist in the developing world and maybe I’m over-reacting, but if there was ever a sign of our society breaking down it’s this. It’s not high school kids dropping out, it’s not governors sleeping with prostitutes, it’s people like the toilet lady and her boyfriend of 15 years.
My trip to New York was just about perfect. Saw almost all the folks I wanted to see, did almost all the things I wanted to do, ate all the food I wanted to eat. Any vacation that includes creme brulée as dessert on two separate occasions, Blaise K readjusting her breasts before you take her picture, sitting next to Danny & Mrs. Eagle as the final episode of The Wire plays, getting a private reading from Tuffie, and four solid days of being drunk is a-okay in my book.
And now, photos:
Mrs. Eagle, enjoying the booze at their new favorite dive bar, which, truth be told, smelled a bit. But it was adequately dark, and they kept the juice flowing, so no harm, no foul.
Blaise, know as Bazima to the faithful followers of her blog, giving me a send off lunch, before I spent three glorious hours at JFK.
Tuffie and her roommate Lily, two damn fine broads, and I was damn lucky to hang out with them. You all know how awesome Tuffie is, but did you know that she was a Professional Writer? Cuz it’s true. And a quick word on Lily: she’s the type of dame punch you in the face, then kiss ya in the same breath. And you’d thank her for it.
This is Brooklyn. Rain showed up when I did, and left only a little while before me. But it made me that much for grateful when the sun decided to show.
Also, adidas are far more water-resistant than I’d previously thought. Good to know.
This here’s Elizabeth Weinberg, concert photographer extraordinaire. We had ourselves some brunch, then spent a good hour in the 30 degree weather taking photos of each other. Which leads me to this: there is no breakfast in New York. It’s all brunch there. And that is crazy. Just wasting the day, New Yorkers are. The whole, “city that never sleeps” thing? Lies. They sleep alright, right up until noon. And thus, breakfast gets woefully ignored. Shame on you, New York.
And that’s it for now. Gotta get back to the LA grind, make some money, save some lives. Big thanks to Jen, Scott, Blaise, Tuffie, Lily, Jim, Jeremy, Elizabeth, and all you smelly crazy people on the subway.
Like Bunk, Louie lit up a cigar and like McNulty I sipped some Jameson from the bottle… sort of. Louie was drinking root beer and I Bud Light, but still, the finest show ever made for television was ending right before our very eyes and as soon as it was over we waited maybe five minutes and then put Season One in the DVD player. On our 4th hour of The Wire, we shut it down and called it a night.
One of the best things about the show is that it shows how the greasy gears of our big American cities turn and crunch. For every story in the paper, there’s four behind it. With our governor nailed in a prostitution scandal, I’m naturally searching for the behind-the-scenes action. (He was nailed on a wire no less!) Which of his super rich Wall Street enemies pulled some strings to nail him? How much you wanna bet that his enemies used the same service and probably saw him in the lobby of the hotel? How many other plays were made before this one? One thing is clear, in The Wire the headlines are just not quite as clever…
