It’s one thing to be the honorary black sheep of a family, but it’s quite another to own that shit and not give a fuck. Meet Harry W (or H Dubs, as he prefers to be called on the streets) the star of my Passover weekend. Harry is cousin to one of my most favorite NYC friends, who, knowing my fascination with Judaism, invited me to celebrate the Pesach with her family in Falls Church, Virginia.

Given that we were greeted at the door of her aunt’s house with shots of tequila (apparently it’s kosher), I knew the night was already going to be memorable. But when we sat down and Harry told the only other non-Jew there that she was “Jewing the wine,” I knew the evening would be something I’d never forget.

We began reading from the Haggadah and just after my friend’s uncle split the matzah and began passing half of it around for each of us to taste, Harry decided it was the perfect moment to burst out laughing and announce that that morning, whoops, he’d had a bagel for breakfast. Needless to say, his glassy eyes and Tourette-like outbursts were making it clear that he was not just operating under an alcoholic buzz. (more…)

So last week my department (yes, I’m in a department) went out to lunch with a couple of colleagues who were visiting from our corporate offices in Dallas. They were in town to perpetuate the reinvention-of-the-wheel corporate culture that my company is quite fond of, and to (and I quote) “get their hands dirty” and see “where the rubber meets the road”. They were nice enough guys, even though their mouths were crammed fulla corporate buzzwords and a very saccharine, aw shucks southern humor that inspired my most grimaced of fake smiles. But as the beers started to flow and the lips started to loosen, things actually became interesting in a much unexpected fashion…

For a variety of reasons, I’m not much of a “company man”, per se. I tend to keep to myself, do my work (or play laptop pinball), and then roll the fuck out. While I have fostered a few friendships within the 3% lunatic fringe to which I belong, I generally prefer to keep my personal and my work worlds quite separate. In this same vain, I mostly loathe these company lunches, rife with shoptalk and smalltalk galore, and all the Desperate Housewives and American Idol that a social conformist can eat. Although the meal is free, all that I usually hunger for is to be free. But not this time, for the Miller Lite’s that one of our special visitors with the twangy politeness kept ordering began to lubricate his leathery mouthpiece, and I subsequently loosened my grip on my tasty French dip (au jus), and listened up… (more…)

Took the day off work today, just didn’t feel like working a job I can’t stand on this particular day.

So it was IMing, not showering until 4pm, listening to a white and a quick trip to the developer to pick up some film.

This shot was waiting for me:

This shot is part of why I’m not sad about the end of Polaroid, though I’ve used Polaroid almost exclusively for over ten years, though Polaroid has helped make me the photographer I am today. Helped. No, it didn’t help, it made me the photographer I am today. I used it to meet people I’d never have met, talk to people I’d have otherwise been afraid to even make eye contact with. It showed me the wonder of photography. See, now I’m gonna cry.

But this shot. This shot and some other I’ve been taking, they’ve shown me the way. Polaroid was the nest, and it’s time to fly, man!!! Fly High!!!

This shot here is almost exactly like a Polaroid I took of Celisse, my lovely model that day out in the Marin Headlands, out in San Francisco. The fact that I can still take the kinds of shots I want, even though the Polaroid Corporation has decided to focus its attention on DVD players and TVs, that gives me hope.

Because when a film company decides to focus on TVs, a man is apt to lose hope in the world.

But, things change, all things end. There is pain, yes. But as the 3rd best Beatle said, this too shall pass.

Life is hard. I have to watch girls get kissed by other girls. I have to sit at dinner with family and eat delicious food, make jokes at Daniel Day Lewis’ expense, and give my adorable little cousin piggyback rides. I have to take portraits for a friend, all the while discussing photography and comic books. I have to trade music for a buddy’s flight to Ohio, playing snippets of my favorite songs. I have to hand my local comic book store guy a cd of rare Jellyfish tracks he’d been looking for for years, watch at he points to his goosebumped flesh, showing the world how jazzed he is.

I have to watch a ridiculous french thriller while eating Italian food with friends, heckling the film as it plays.

I have to go on a five mile jog through Beverly Hills with another friend, have brunch with yet other friends, and walk the Venice boardwalk, the mecca of jankiness, with other friends still.

Things are rough.

…

Shit, who am I kidding? This weekend was fresh.

I would like the world, the USA and New York in particular, to puh-lease get off the Pope’s nuts. There were army helicopters buzzing my office all day yesterday, street closures, a “beefed up security presence” and other hoopla making our fine city a big mess of hype.

I honestly respect someone who has dedicated his/her life to spiritual studies and instruction… seriously. Few people are devoted to much more than their daily coffee routine. BUT, the Pope is just a person. A human born from human parents. He is not the Lord, he is not God’s human representative. He’s just a dude. So, lets have a good time, wish him a happy birthday and bring everyone back down to earth, just for a second. Can we do that please? Thanks.

I’ve had this concept for an animated series rolling around in my head for some time now. Self-doubt and a lack of access to production funds has kept the idea from manifesting into Prime Time ratings domination. I turn to you, my BAT adherents and disciples, for your wisdom and guidance. Is “WHOSE MIME IS IT ANYWAY?” solid like Nader or weak like Hillary?

The basic concept is this: World-famous mimes Shields and Yarnell (click this link to jog your memory) are traveling with their four year-old son. Looking to found a Marcel Marceau museum in inner-city Chicago, they lose track of young Preston during a botched convenience store holdup. Shields saves the day by miming himself into a badass gunslinger, but in the commotion young Preston wanders off……and smack into the home of the Dayton Family. Hilarity ensues when the young white mime tries to enlist the help of the urban black family. . .WITHOUT WORDS!! Get it? He’s a mime! He can’t talk! HARHARHARHAHAHA! Oh my god, that’s so darned funny! Isn’t it?

Thinking he’s a racially-insensitive deaf mute with a bad habit for flashing offensive gang signs, the Daytons adopt Preston into their family. Each laugh-track filled episode follows Preston, in full white face makeup, and the Daytons as they try to figure out “WHOSE MIME IS IT ANYWAY???????”

Our very own Uncle Jemimah tied the knot this weekend and we at the Tabernacle (though NOT asked to officiate) are extremely proud, teary-eyed and full of good sentiment. Congrats!

Despite my previous techno-phobic diatribe, I must confess that I am abso-holycrap-lutely hooked on the 3D Pinball Space Cadet game that came standard to my what is now a jalopy of an IBM Thinkpad laptop that my company bequeathed me upon my entrance in to corporate whoredom. I’m sure eight years ago when I signed the company User Agreement they had no idea that, as I was scribbling my name on the dotted line, they were unleashing a digital pinball savant upon the universe. They also failed to account for the countless hours of unproductivity that would result as a direct effect of my addiction. I’m talking thousands upon thousands of hours, cumulative weeks, quite possible years of flipper (keyboard controls “z” and “x”) pounding shirking of responsibility and diligence. Now that I think about it, maybe I’m addicted to not working, and not pinball after all. Either way, my high score is staggeringly lofty, and truly humbling to the mere amateur. I would tell you what it is, but you might faint or succumb to an heart attack, and that would be too much work for my lazy conscience to bear. Yes, I said an heart attack, and I meant it.

It’s more than just slackeritis that has me deserving of Space Cadet knighthood. First of all, I fucking love this pinball game, just like its material forefathers, and I never have to rummage for quarters to play. It’s not like I would shed these troglodyte rags for a mere game of solitaire. Please. But it’s also the notion that I’m actually getting paid to play pinball. I’d love to actually compute my salary divided by my hours logged in pinball ecstasy and marvel at exactly how much my company has monetarily invested in my soaring scores. I doubt that they would love it as much. (more…)

First, my dad decides that texting is sw33t, and now I receive an an email from my mother asking me if I’m going to Coachella this year????

Has the whole world gone mad????

And when I told this 56 year old white woman that it was overcrowded and too pricey, so I would not be going, you know what she replied?

“I hear that!!”

I repeat: pray to whatever gods you believe in, get your house in order, because the end times are upon us.

My dad, in response to a text I sent him, ended his reply with an emoticon.

One of these: ;)

Winked at me. With an emoticon.

My dad, who drove a Rolls Royce, who loves hip hop and Sun Tzu, my own personal RZA.

Stories have been told to me about this man that involve him lifting a much bigger man up by his lapel. Of capers pulled, women seduced, victory snatched from the defeat of the ghetto.

Emoticon.

I now look to the skies for a meteor, or angels, or… a meteor.

Katie West, aka Avolare: Internet Superstar

Yesterday I met a photographer I’m a big fan of. I’d followed her work for a few years, always been impressed with her strong style and utter fearlessness as her own subject.

So when I heard she was coming to LA, I grew a pair and emailed her, asking if she’d be able to spare me a second or two to snap her picture.

She graciously agreed, and I waited for a few weeks, knowing it’d fall through.

But it didn’t. We actually met yesterday, broke bread over some chick’n & waffles, took pictures, kibbitzed.

Turns out she’s a fan of mine, as well.

Because the internet is magic. It’s not like the old days, where fans were on one side of the art, creators on the other. It’s a two way street, where I can look at and comment on Katie West’s photos, and she can follow those comments back to my work, look and comment.

Which leads to me taking pictures of her and her fiance at the Chinese theatre, giving them the lowdown on how Scientology is the largest landowner in Hollywood, and how Fatburger is awesome. We can all laugh at the guy on Hollywood Blvd to tried to hit on her by saying her name should be on her shirt, which, by the way, was a multi-colored list of the Spice Girls’ names. Genius.

We can have a great time, as fans and creators.

And that, man, that is a beautiful thing.

Recipe for a good day:

-3 mile jog during which you hum in your head

-1 brazilian psychedelic rock song, while saying hi to

-7 fellow joggers after posting

-1 picture of cute dog posted on internet, after all of which you drink

-0.5 of a protein drink for breakfast while listening to

-2 songs from the Billy Joel Greatest Hits album, thinking about the

-1 copy of photo book sold and to be delivered during

-1 brunch at Roscoe’s house of chick’n & waffles with

-1 super awesome photographer/model from Canada.

Repeat as often as necessary.

Things I “learned” from these two girls last night:

Possession of MDMA will get you charged with manslaughter.

At 21 (two years in the future for the both of them), there’s nothing to look forward to anymore.

That underage kids shouldn’t rave.

They’ve both been ravers since they were underage.

It is possible to take 9 hits of Ecstasy and survive.

Lingerie is appropriate attire for a rave, as long as you’re on enough Ecstasy.

Lingerie is Not appropriate when it’s fifty degrees out, the E isn’t working, and you have neglected to bring a jacket.

When you’re in a bad mood, raves suck.

Taking too much Ecstasy at a rave, which results in the jitters and a fast heartbeat, will make you quit.

Taking too much Ecstasy while drinking Captain Morgan and swallowing several Xanax, which results in a trip to the hospital will not make you quit.

EMTs at raves are awesome. And “totally nice.”

And I am there. There is a point at which thinking of the work day ahead of you creates a feeling of utter despair. A point at which you will use the flimsiest excuse to tell off your co-workers. Where you hope to get clipped by an ambulance as it leaves the station, ignoring the potential to injury in favor of the possible days you’d get off.

You see no value in the work, and find yourself, without prompting, lecturing the rookies about how they shouldn’t do this job for more than two years. You say this while thinking back on the five years you’ve put in.

But then you see, on the freeway, while typing, a car driving with its rear bumper almost off, scraping against the asphalt, and your partner begins to chant, “fall off. Fall off. Fall off,” and you see the weekend is only hours away. It is possible to make it, at least that far.

Daily, for more years than was healthy, I whipped through my neighborhood on bike, foot, or skateboard, rain or shine to deliver a junky local rag called the Patriot Ledger. My friends teased me about it and I left many a pre-teen-light-stuff-on-fire-session for it, but come Christmas time, I was the one looking crispy in a brand new hundred dollar shirt, bought with my own cold cash.

There were hard life lessons learned on The Route, like stuff about responsibility, money, and work ethic, none of which I’m going to share with you. You want the lessons? Go get a paper route. Get SOME kind of job for Chrissakes, what are DOING with your life?!

What I will tell you is that I got to know every single person in my neighborhood, their dogs, how well they tipped and how they looked surprised in a bathrobe. My customers sit in my head, not aging, just paying, or not paying, complaining or complimenting. They are the people who populate Suburb, USA. Maybe they are the future us, lawnmowers, pets and all. God help us if they are. Allow me to introduce you to… (more…)