The Ant Eye Bug

You guys should act now, the sale won’t last long. They were down to their last 2 million Sunday. The place is just East of Gilroy on 152.

I picked up two- dozen Army, 36 Fire, a nice variety of Wood Cutter, Black and Slave-Makers for less than twenty bucks.

Don’t say I never did anything for you.

Rectum? It Nearly Killed Him.

R.I.P Tower Records

When it was announced recently that Tower Records would be closing I diddn’t give it much thought. Tower will always hold a special place in my life but it had been years since I had been a regular customer. I still listen to as much music as ever but I have been getting it from a variety of other sources including the internet and trading copied cd’s with my music-fanatic friends.

In Sacramento I used to hit all three Tower stores on Saturday afternoon. The Broadway store always had the best import singles, the Watt Ave branch had the best Japanese pressings and you just had to check out the Sunrise location in case something special was stashed away in the cutout bin.

The Import section played a huge part in getting music from the late 70’s British punk bands into the hands of American fans. The first Clash album was released in the UK in three years before it was available in the US and when it was finally made available here, the American label took the liberty of replacing some of the original songs. Elvis Costello’s “My Aim Is True” could be bought at Tower three months before it was issued in this country. His next two albums were available in much different forms as imports and could always be found in the Import bins at Tower.

I had forgotten exactly what made Tower so special and why it will be so deeply missed. This weekend I had an experience that brought the message home to me in an amazing and wonderful way.

I don’t buy music the way most people do. I have rarely listened to the radio to find out about music and I’ve never had MTV or VH1. Most of my musical research has been done by reading. When I read Greil Marcus’s Mystery Train, which is a critical history of American music, I began seeking out the artists he explored in the book. This is how I first came to listen to the music of Robert Johnson, The Band and the Sun Sessions by Elvis among others. I have frequently bought albums by an artist without having heard a single note of their music.

It was also not unusual for me to wander the aisles of the store with absolutely no idea of what I was looking for. Just hunting for something to find. I’ve discovered some amazing music this way including something I came across in Tower Saturday.

I was browsing through the blues section when I saw a cd that intrigued me. On the cover was a blurry, black and white photo of a figure dressed all in white, walking with a guitar. The name on the cd was “The Legendary Marvin Pontiac” and the album said it was his Greatest Hits. I’d never heard of the guy, but I noticed a series of endorsements from famous musicians.

“Marvin would kick your ass for nothing. A true genius, a pure original.”- Iggy Pop
“The innovation and possibility in this music leaves me speechless.”- Beck
“A dazzling collection. It strikes me that Pontiac was so uncontainable prescient that one might think that these tracks had been assembled today.”- David Bowie

“This record changed my life.”- John Lurie

I couldn’t figure out why I’d never heard of the guy. On the back of the cd was a small bio of Pontiac that claimed he had lived in a mental institution and been killed by a bus. How could I have missed something like this? I was hooked though, and bought the cd (along with a copy of Ry Cooder’s Chavez Ravine).

I threw the disc into the cd player as soon as we got home and and was floored by what I heard. Clearly, this was not what it appeared to be. The music was beautiful and weird but it was also quite obviously not the work of a long dead bluesman. The singer is a strange mix between Tom Waits, Robbie Robertson and Captain Beefheart. The music is equally eclectic, part delta blues, part free jazz and some hilarious lyrics like “I’m a doggie/I stink when I’m wet/cause I’m a doggie.”

A quick google search revealed that “Marvin Pontiac” is the alter ego of John Lurie, best known for his work with the Lounge Lizards and as both an actor and musician in Jim Jarmusch films like Mystery Train and Stranger Than Paradise.

Lurie also directed and starred in a series of films called “Fishing With John” that spoof the old “American Sportsman” show which would take celebrities on hunting and fishing trips. Lurie’s version teams him with friends like Matt Dillon, Tom Waits, Jarmusch and Willam Defoe. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. So convincing that it wasn’t until I saw the director’s commentary that I realized the whole thing was a prank.


I had been had by a master and couldn’t be happier about it. The album is one of those rare pieces of music that I just can’t stop listening to. It’s on the Strange and Beautiful Music label and that’s a perfect description of what’s found on the cd.

This is a cd that could never be found in the other music outlets in a town like Fresno. There’s no way it’s going to show up in Best Buy or Circuit City and since we don’t really have any independent stores that means it wouldn’t exist.

It’s a perfect example of what Tower records brought to society. And it’s a perfect example of what will be missing when it goes.

Oversized Baggage

It shouldn’t take eight hours to fly from Fresno to Boise. The actual flying time is about 2 ½ hours but of course there are no direct flights to anyplace from Fresno. I once tried to book a flight to Reno from Fresno only to discover that my route would take me on a tour of California cities including San Francisco and Sacramento before landing in Reno. In all, it was going to take nine hours to make a trip by air that can be done in less than five by car.

This time the flight to Idaho went through Portland where the layover was supposed to be an hour. Ten minutes before boarding the announcement was made that the plane was still in Seattle and would be 90 minutes late. This was repeated with an additional 45 minute wait before we were finally able to board.

As I walked down the aisle to me seat I passed two incredibly fat people sitting side by side a few rows up from my seat. These two gastropods must have come in at a combined weight of 700 lbs. The male of the species was sitting on the aisle. I mean he was so fat that he spilled out into the aisle and clearly couldn’t be contained. I assumed the two were together, I mean what are the odds of two passengersauri ending up side by side as a result of bad luck?

I heard the guy grumbling about the tight fit and saying things like “ gee , they must be really trying to save money with these seats”. And I’m thinking, no, it’s more like the fact that you weigh more than most zoo animals and you’re trying to squeeze into a cookie cutter.

It became obvious that something was keeping the plane from taking off and I could see the crew holding a conference near the front. An announcement was made that the departure was being delayed because of a “cargo loading problem”. My first thought was that this meant my oversized, rolling cart loaded with about $10,000 of camera gear (someone elses camera gear, by the way) was about to be chucked from the plane and onto the tarmac. It became evident that the problem was more of human one when the crew came down the aisle and began ‘redistributing the cargo’, which in this case meant putting one lard ass on each side of the plane rather than having the aircraft lean to the right during the entire flight.

To me, this has to be one of those moments of clarity for the excess baggage. I mean, if you’re so fat that your presence on a plane puts the other passengers lives in danger, I think it’s time to cut back on the Cheeze Whiz-stuffed, deep fried Oreos for a while.

Shit, when my camera gear tops a certain weight, the airlines don’t hesitate to charge me an extra $50-75 so why not charge a passenger more for weighing over a certain amount.

I’ve been saying for a while that instead of checking everyone’s shoes and making people take off their belt before flying the airlines should just make everyone fly naked. Now, this could have some serious shortcomings because like a visit to any nude beach will prove, it’s not always the people you want to see naked who want to be seen naked. Still, something tells me it would cut down on the kind of cargo loading issues that popped up on the flight to Boise.

Kiss For Sale

I photographed Gene Simmons this week. The lizard-tongued bassist from Kiss was in town hawking a new Kiss fragrance at a local mall. Fans who paid $36 got a bottle of Kiss stink, a handshake with their hero and a photograph of themselves with the man himself. Fans lined up for hours, many dressed in Kiss t-shirts and sporting as many mullets as a pro wrestling crowd. It was an odd mix of people, all white with quite a few parents in their 40’s who brought along their teenagers.

Gene Simmons is one of the great hucksters of all time. This is a guy who would sell anything if he thought someone would buy it. You can buy Kiss coffins, Kiss coffee, Kiss condoms and on a recent episode of his reality show “The Family Jewels” he talked seriously of selling bull semen with the Kiss logo on the container. He’s about money and proud of it.

I arrived at the store and worked my way through a crowd of about 1000 fans and then past three levels of security to find Gene standing on a stage, Kiss music blasting away as he posed and signed.

I stood in front of the stage and began shooting when all of a sudden Simmons stopped what he was doing and stared right at me. He pointed and then called me to the front of the stage where he leaned over and whispered “ You’re late, where have you been? I’ve been kissing beautiful women for an hour and you weren’t here to capture it.”

I started to walk away but he had more to say. “And don’t take pictures of me with the old one’s either, nobody wants to see me with an old women when all these young, nubile ladies are here.” I went back to my spot and started to shoot again as he greeted a women in her 40’s. From behind the women I could see Simmons pointing to her and then looking at me as if to say “ Don’t shoot this, she’s too old.”

Now serving half pints

I call this picture “ Multi-colored Mexican soda bottles in the window of a taco place at Shields and Weber in Fresno on a Wednesday afternoon in October at 3:18.”

Spent Tuesday night shooting the Lakers and Utah Jazz in an exhibition game with my friend Gary. Sitting on one side of us were the Laker Girls, which caused Gary to miss much of the on court action and on the other side was a midget photographer. Guess which one I was drawn to?

Speaking of which, midget wrestling is coming to town Friday.

http://www.halfpintbrawlers.com/

It looks like I’ll have to miss it, which is a shame considering my history with the wee folk. After all, I did attend their national convention a few years back.

My Tit Itches

I really should wear pants when I use the jackhammer.

The Church of the Latter Day Elvi

Those two great American icons Jesus and Elvis have found a meeting place at a Catholic church in Selma, Ca. Although he claims he never does a mass dressed as the King, the priest is often in Elvis mode, tightly packed into the white suit he bought on the internet. He swivels and waddles his way through church picnics and fundraisers like some sort of Holy Hillbilly.

They say the Lord works in mysterious ways but I say Elvis works in even more mysterious ways. Wouldn’t it make more sense that a priest would dress up as Jesus than Elvis? Yet, I can’t remember the last Jesus impersonator I saw. Elvis impersonators grow on trees. It won’t be long before Christmas is replaced by Elvis’s birthday as the nations’s biggest holiday. You only have 65 more shopping days before E Day.

Messiah’s come and messiahs go but there will never be another Elvis. He even named his house Graceland.

Donner...Party Of Six

I have been reading a new book by Bill Buford ( author of the great soccer hooligan book Among the Thugs) called “Heat” about fine cooking and the lives of some of the more flamboyant chefs of the world.

This has got me to thinking about food of course but also which of my friends I would be most likely eat in case of a sudden rise in the popularity of cannibalism (it WILL happen my friends).

I now present my case for and against several of my longtime pals. If you are not on the list, don’t despair, this is only a dinner menu, dessert is still to come.

And now for our choices tonight.


Thor:

Pros: Mormon upbringing makes this familiar territory for our fair haired father of two.

Cons: Broken limbs in motorcycle accident may have caused permanent stress on delicate white meat, especially in breast and thigh areas.

Tony:

Pro: Tends to be well fed and in natural state is usually free range.

Cons: Chorizo, malt vinegar and curry do not mix. Imported meat under far less scrutiny than domestic.

Kaz:

Pros: When properly cooked, meat literally falls off the bones.

Con: Plucking can often take days.

Donnell:

Pros: Once had sex with a bald women.

Cons: Once had sex with a bald women.

Lane:

Pros: Bathes with clam chowder.

Cons: Long-term effects of intercourse with plastic sheep is still under investigation.

Mark:

Pros: Tastes like chicken.

Cons: Nicknamed Pooter. Has expressed recent concern with his uncontrollable fecal delivery system.



I haven’t yet made my choice. It is possible, of course, that I shall choose none of the above and instead indulge in the tasty, white meat of my own succulent flesh.

Fried Mood

I hate hot weather. I thought I was getting used to it but the past two or three weeks of brutal heat has kicked me in the nuts with reality and cured me like a Honey Baked ham.

I stayed inside all day Saturday doing things to myself with ice cubes that usually require a medical license and when I finally emerged from my sunless bunker at 9:30 PM it was 108 degrees outside. The low temperature at 5 AM was 90. This is wrong.

I think it’s important to blame someone for this climatic serial killer who’s stalking us day and night. The obvious choice would be our mentally disturbed president which wouldn’t be wrong but I’m opting for a more local assassin. My enemy in this war is one of the local weather broads. Don’t know her personally and don’t care to but this women made a decision a few weeks back that has come to haunt our days and nights like a mutant strain of diarrhea taking hold at the annual Kiwanis Chili Fest/Monster Truck Rally in Bakersfield.

One night I’m watching the news and her last name is, well, that's not important but the next night she’s going by the last name Toasty. Ok, she got married but you don’t have to change your name, understand? Since the name change the temperatures have gone apeshit. It’s pretty clear who’s fault this is so please, please change your name before people begin bursting into flames on the streets.

In an effort to find some relief from the heat, I joined up with a couple friends and headed into the mountains for a day of fishing. Our first stop, a Dinky Creek, which sits at 5600 feet provided little break from the pain. We fished for a couple of hours with only a couple of small fish landed. We kept hiking downstream for mile or so but everywhere we stopped we found half naked fat people and their kids wallowing in some of our favorite fishing holes.

We climbed up and down some steep hills only to be greeted by more hillbillies. By the time we found unmolested water, the sun was beating off the white granite like a three dollar whore yanking off a drunken district attorney. We were drinking water like crazy and still couldn’t come to terms with the heat so we made the hot climb back to the road so we could make a new plan.

We broke down our gear, rehydrated and began driving up the mountain in search of cooler air. Ten or twelve miles up the road we stopped to take a look at a small creek in a campground called Buck Meadow, which sounded like a porn stars name to me, and a good reason to take a look. The creek had a nice and quite visible population of wild trout so we broke out the gear again and started fishing. Their were a few clouds overhead and the temperatures were at least 10 degrees cooler and the creek was lined with trees.

We split up and fished for more than an hour, the fish were typical of small creeks, 7-12 inches and quite hungry for anything that looked like a bug. Eric caught 4 or five and Joe and I each landed 2 trout. At one point I met up with Eric and pointed out that the clouds moving in from the east looked pretty ominous and we could hear thunder. The wind picked up, the thunder became more frequent and it was obvious we were going to get rained on so we broke down and decided to find Joe and have lunch before the storm hit.

By now the temperature had dropped even more and it actually began to feel nice. We finished up lunch just as the rain began to start and decided to enjoy the change in weather and drive even higher up the mountain to 8000 feet. Summer storms are common in the mountains and they usually hit hard and fast, dumping heavy rain and hail for no more than 20 minutes before moving on.

As we drove the rain got harder and harder until it pounded the car so much that we couldn’t hear each other talk. We kept expecting the storm to pass but it got heavier and heavier. We drove to a lake above 8000 feet and after doing a quick recon mission for future fishing turned around and started down the hill. At one point the car’s outside thermometer read 58 degrees. It began hailing and the rain kept coming. After more than an hour the downpour stopped and we pulled into a gas station in Shaver Lake where I called Anna. “It’s 62 degrees and just stopped pouring,” I said. “What’s it like down in Fresno”? “It’s 113 degrees, “ she answered.

To put this in perspective, Shaver lake is 50 miles from Fresno. By the time we has driven down the four lane highway back to the valley just16 miles. the temperature had risen from 62 to 100. By the time we got home at 9:30 it was down to a Toasty 104.

Heck On Wheels

Madera Skate is located in an old warehouse on the county fairgrounds right next door to the big dirt moron magnet that goes by the name Madera Raceway. You know the kind of place I’m talking about, the kind of place where guys who seem to have been born with greasy oil stains on their face and limbs get drunk and watch oversized go carts drive in circles for three hours every Saturday night.

None of that inside the metal walls of Madera Skate though. Monday’s and Friday’s it’s home to the local women’s roller derby team. What happens in this place the rest of the week is somewhat of a mystery, though a sign on the wall near the men’s room announces that Wednesday night is “Christian Night.

Apparently the owners of the facility are either members of a liberal sect or they really need the money the team pays to rent the joint because a similar place in Fresno banned the team after the owners caught a glimpse of some of the ladies tattoos.

It’s pretty much the same sport that we all watched on tv when were kids, The Kansas City Bombers and LA T-Birds seemed to be the only two teams that ever played but there must have been others.

The new version seems to be more Suicide Girl than prison matron but the skaters do come in all shapes and sizes. The ladies do sport nicknames that seem to come right from old school pro wrestling like “Goodie Two Bruise” and “Nancy Knuckle Cruncher”. ¬¬¬¬¬
The women were friendly but something told me that like the Hells Angels you wouldn’t want to hurl an insult at one of them unless you felt like having the holy shit roller-stomped out of you by the entire pack.

For such a violent game, the atmosphere at the practices is fairly mild. Some of the skaters bring their boyfriends and husbands, one of whom was doing his finance homework while waiting. Several of the women brought their kids, who were far more annoying than any adults in the building.

I’ve always thought roller skating was kind of stupid but then I’d only ever seen kiddie skates and this Godawful event they have in Fresno every year called the National Roller Skating Championships. It’s three-day international event that features a group of candy assed dandies and their teenage girl- beards prancing around an arena on roller skates to really crappy music. Imagine not even being cool enough to “compete” in ice skating and you have an idea of how fucking ridiculous the whole concept is.

So what I’d like to see is one of these roller derby teams crash the National Roller Skating Championships and skatter some of these ponces like bowling pins, throwing elbows and stomping on $700 skating outfits with their dirty wheels.

Can I Get An Amen?
I Said, Can I Get An Amen?

I'd Swear It Mentions Cockfighting

WANTED

Police Say The Suspect Is Heavily Armed.

Republicans, Christians Fatter Than Normal People

STUDY: Republicans, Christians Fatter Than Normal People.

A study just released by the Federation of American Teachers Shepherds and Osteopaths (FATSO) provides startling evidence that members of the Republican party and all followers of Christ are 97% more likely to be obese than normal people.

The study, which spanned a 30 year period ending in December 2005 has provided mixed, and somewhat surprising reactions among members of the groups taking part in the research.

“I’m not surprised at all,” said Rev Neeander Thall of the Glorious Whole Life of Christ (or Glory Whole, as it’s better known) in Clovis, Ca. “In fact anyone who knows the bible is fully aware of the frequent references to “Abundant Life. It’s right there after the part where it says homosexuality is evil and Harry Potter is the adopted son of Satan,”he said.

“What in God’s name do you think that means,” said Rev Thall. “I’ll tell what it means you Taliban-loving heathen” he said as he gestured to a reporter. “It means, by God, we’re supposed to eat until our thighs rub together like two lesbian strippers at Jimmy Swaggart’s Easter party.That’s what it means.”

Thall went on to say that he also believes skinny people are tools of the devil and should be “fattened up or thrown out.”

Alabama Reublican senator Harry Sax, well known for his controversial attempt to ban the use of the word “balls” in all sporting events, told a newspaper Thursday that he felt the Abundant Life theory also held an answer to the nations immigration problems.

“Hell,” said the 368 lb former police chief, whose friends call him “Booger”, “I mean have you ever eaten a 10 year old Honduran boy”. “I’m telling ya Bubba, it’s like a tender mix of beef jerky, mango and chili peppers. It’s kinda tropical. Goes well with a nice glass o’ rum on those warm summer evenings,” he chortled.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Sax,” people in this country start changing their goddamn diet and we ain’t got a immigration problem. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Say son,” said Sax to a reporter, “all this talk of food’s making me kinda peckish. What you say you and me go get some lunch? I feel like some Mexican."

Why Why Why?

I spent three hours standing on hot blacktop in 98 degree heat waiting to spend five minutes photographing Arnold Schwarzenegger as he gladhanded a crowd of morons. Most of the people in the crowd had no idea of his politics but instead were there to see a “movie star”. One douchebag told me that he had no idea what party Arnold was in but that he is proud of the fact that “Our governor can kick the ass of every other governor.”

Ahh yes, the future is indeed bright for this state.

My Night With Madonna or Where All the Gay Men in Fresno Were Monday Night

I photographed a Madonna concert Monday night and while I’m no fan of her music the evening was entertaining. I saw more limousines and gay men than I’ve ever seen in Fresno. It was like the Gay Pope was in town and everyone wanted to kiss her ring.

I was allowed to shoot the first 4 songs before I was tapped on the shoulder by my minder and led off the floor of the arena. Most acts only allow 2 or 3 songs to be photographed so I guess I should be thankful for the extra song, which saw Madonna riding a huge stripper pole with a leather saddle over the crowd.

Anytime you shoot one of these big concerts you have to deal with all sorts of uptight PR people who are paranoid that you’re going to illegally photograph or record the show. Most acts require you to sign a waiver which makes it illegal to sell the pictures or post them on any websites other than the media outlet that assigned you to the show. Madonna’s “people” however were very cool and never asked me to sign anything and even sent me a press release telling me exactly how far from the stage I would be and what songs I would be photographing. I would prefer to be cut loose to wander as I please but that’s never going to happen so you just have to take what’s given.

Still, there are always Spinal Tap moments at these things and last night was no exception. As the first PR person was taking me from the lobby of the arena to my shooting position we were stopped by a man mountain of a security guy who informed the PR person that “she diddn’t have escort privileges” and couldn’t take me backstage and onto the floor of the arena. It took a series of calls on her walkie talkie, several whispered conversations with various official looking folk before we were finally cleared to make the 30 second trip through the forbidden zone known as backstage and to my final resting place near the sound board.

Once at my shooting spot I discovered that they had me standing on a platform above the level of the crowd, which was good for me but clearly not good for the people in the seats behind me. They were understandably a little upset that their $300 seats were located directly behind a 6 foot 5 photographer on an elevated platform. If it had been a heavy metal concert I may have been used for a punching bag but Madonna fans are far more polite than they should be. Other than a few “down in front” comments the most I heard from them was “ Ahh, say, just for my information are you going to be standing here all night?”

My favorite picture of the night wasn’t published. Madonna holding a guy in a dog collar on a leash was apparently too much for readers of the Central Valley. Too bad, I think that’s exactly what the average local family should see while eating breakfast.

Shiver Me Timbers And Blow Me Down

NASCAR is a form of mental retardation which can only be cured by a fiery death.

Next Time Pray For Sunny Skies

Woman Hit By Lightning While Praying

POSTED: 2:52 pm EDT May 30, 2006
DAPHNE, Ala. -- Worried about the safety of her family during a stormy Memorial Day trip to the beach, Clara Jean Brown stood in her kitchen and prayed for their safe return as a strong thunderstorm rumbled through Baldwin County, Alabama.
But while she prayed, lightning suddenly exploded, blowing through the linoleum and leaving a blackened area on the concrete. Brown wound up on the floor, dazed and disoriented by the blast but otherwise uninjured.
She said 'Amen' and the room was engulfed in a huge ball of fire. The 65-year-old Brown said she is blessed to be alive.
Firefighters said its likely she was hit by a bolt of lightning that apparently struck outside and traveled into the house yesterday afternoon. She was found lying on the floor by her 14-year-old granddaughter.
Fire officials think the lightning likely struck across the street from the couple's home and traveled into the house through a water line. The lightning continued into the couple's backyard and ripped open a small trench.
A family member said he will no longer assume it is safe to be indoors during a lightning strike.
Dime-sized hail and wind gusts of up to 45 miles-per-hour moved across coastal Baldwin County. As much as three inches of rain fell in some areas in three hours.


There's no need to even comment on the previous story other that to say, It's about time.

Fishing With The Dark Prince

I spent Sunday fishing with Eric and Joe. Funny how two people can have such different memories of an event.

Joe sent this email to another friend who was unable to go with us.

"You really missed it.

I had wondered off from Kurt and Eric to check on a pool of fish I had thought I spotted from the car as we pulled up to the stream. When the pool didn't turn out to be anything special I thought it would be best to return to the location of Kurt and Eric. I'm glad I did.

As I round the bend, I see Kurt and Eric both trapped, no wait, cornered by a huge grizzly with a few of her cubs behind her. I had no time to be scared or think of my own safety Carey or else it would have been curtains for my two friends.

I picked up the closest thing I could find which was a stick about three feet long and about two inches thick. With stick in hand, I threw myself between the bear and my friends, who by now were crying and huddled together about to be bear food.

What ensued, was not pretty.

For the better part of an hour the grizzly and I tussled, russled and scuffled.

I'm not proud of killing that bear with my bare hands in front of the baby cubs Carey, but I did what I had to do to save my friends.

As for the foster cubs, I have them, at my condo now. I'm nursing them with baby bottles I bought at the store and warm soy milk. I think I will raise them and this is based entirely on the huge amount of guilt I have for killing their mother (with my bare hands, the stick broke).

The reason behind telling you this is twofold.

1) Your friends, my friends, Eric and Kurt, are alive and well. They will live on to take more news photos.

B) I have chosen to name the bear cubs. At first their names were to be Eric and Kurt, but I noticed one of the cubs was a girl-cub. So, I have now decided to name one of the cubs, the girl-cub, Carey. In your honor. The second cub will be named after my favorite baseball player of all time, Yogi.

I'm sorry you had to stay home Carey. Next time?"


Joe "papa bear" Hollak


And now, the truth.

Wow, I've always wondered what it would be like to walk (or hike) among the mentally disurbed but now I know.

First off, Joe spent the entire drive up the mountain popping pills and filling the cab of the truck with talk of devil worship, pornography and the joys of shopping at Wal-Mart.

Eric and I just pretended to go along, knowing full well that it's best just to let these things play themselves out before taking action.

We said nothing when, after arriving at our first destination of the day, Joe jumped from the car, stripped naked and covered his body with a thick layer of Vaseline. (Memo to Joe: get that thing on your chest checked by a doctor. I don't care what you say, that thing is NOT a nipple, in fact, I swear I caught it winking at Eric when his back was turned)

Eric and I gathered our materials, bibles, prayer cloths, annointing oils and portable confession booth etc, and headed for a nice meadow to do God's work for the day. Joe, or "Damien" as we'd taken to calling him by then, seemed to be happily occupied by throwing rocks at a group of disabled, albino children at a nearby camp.

Eric and were nearing our second hour of praising Him and sharing the Word with some Romanian pilgrims we had met earlier when, from across the meadow we heard a horrible screeching sound that reminded me of the time I saw a naked lawyer fall into a pit of rabid sandcrabs.

We turned and looked and saw "Damien" charging across the meadow toward us, yelling in what was clearly some ancient form of a dark language, understood only by those who've undergone years of horrible and highly secret ritualistic workshops.

We barely had time to react, he was moving much quicker than a man of his carriage should have been able to and he was carrying what appeared to be a large tree branch. It was only later, when the mace kicked in that we were able to get a close look at the weapon and see that he'd been trying to carve the branch into what appeared to be a crude pitchfork.

For some reason, he headed right for the Romanian men, who were paralyzed with fear. He began clubbing the poor bastards over their heads and then tried to wrestle them to the ground. The men fought like champs and as Eric and I tried to tear him from his prey I remembered the can of mace I had in my pack. It's always a good idea to carry protection with you and the can of "chemical billly club" did it's job. Within seconds, Damien was curled up in a ball with the dry heaves, sobbing like a girl scout.

As the mace began to subside, we heard Damien croak out what sounded like a dying man whispering the word "Grizzly, grizzly, must kill grizzly".

It tooks us a while to figure out what the poor, gasping heap of evil was saying but then Eric figured it out.

The poor, satan-infected son of a bitch had mistaken the Romanians for grizzly bears. In his state of mind, the shirtless, hirsute euro-pilgrims looked exactly like giant, killer bears. He was trying to save us, not kill us.

Still, there was no way in hell we were carrying this crazy fuck all the way back to Fresno with us. Instead, we made a deal with the Romanians to leave him in their custody in exchange for eternal salvation.

So, if he's claiming he has them at home and he's "nursing" them, just realize that these are three, very hairy, slightly overweight eastern european railroad workers we're talking about.

Two more things while i'm at it.
1. When Joe aka Damien, says he's got fins, don't as I did, assume he means swim fins. He actually has fins on his back. My memory of high school biology is a bit foggy but I believe this is known as the dorsal fin.

2. I left a little "gift" in Joe's waders. It's a time release device so next time he slips into his rubber pants, make sure to stay upwind and away from any open flame.

Remember, it's Yawaeh, or the Highway...

A Grizzly Dream

I had a dream. In it my friend Tony was eaten by a grizzly bear. We were on some sort of outing in the mountains and Tony dove into the river like a Mexican sea otter. Just as he went under the water, a fucking huge grizzly bear stood up from the river and in one giant gulp, ate him.

Tony's wife and son were there as was my wife and all we could say was 'Wow, I diddn't know there were any grizzly bears left in California."

I don't have a picture of Tony handy but here's one of Edward James Olmos. It's the best i could do on short notice.

Bring back radio

Is there anything Bob Dylan can’t do? In addition to the genius that is his musical career, Dylan established himself as a great literary mind with the publication of his autobiography Chronicles last year and now he’s making a claim as a master of radio. His new weekly XM radio show Theme Time Radio is the best thing on the air.

Each show has a theme, the first three have been Drinking, Weather and Mothers (for mother’s day) with Dylan choosing the music and adding between song stories and jokes like “I read that drinking’s bad for you so I decided to stop reading.”


Dylan’s musical selections are eclectic. He’s played tunes by Judy Garland, Buck Owens, LL. Cool J, Dean Martin, The Clancy Brothers and Muddy Waters. He doesn’t just play the songs, he offers little tidbits of information about the artists that could only come from a fan and he frequently recites the lyrics as if they were his own.

It’s a real joy to hear and reminds me of how much I miss real radio. And by the way, If you don’t want to pay for XM radio just search the internet a bit for places you can download the shows. As I see it, the only flaw in this whole thing is that it’s not free. Unless you do a little online research.

When Patriots Sell Their Shit

Thanks for telling us, because without the sign I'd just assume that you were selling the same soiled mattresses and used car batteries that everyone else sells in their front yard. And thanks too for being so proud of your nation's flag. I'll bet you love Jesus too.


...Why do people keep referring to the sex “act”? Act? What the fuck are they talking about? When I hear the word act, I’m imagining some guy balancing on one foot while standing on a red wooden chair and juggling frozen turkeys while a midget sets fire to a stack of children’s bibles with circus music playing in the background.

And if it’s an act there better be an intermission, programs for sale in the lobby and if the performance warrants it, a standing ovation.


...The fewer limbs a person has, the more likely they are to be religious.

...After a really good shit I sometimes feel like playing mumbley-peg

Pray for Bird Flu.

Hump This or Journalism Version 2006

In an effort to share some insight into the inner workings of news gathering I would like to tell you how I spent part of my Thursday.

One of my five assignments was to make photographs for a story about a family that held a birthday party for their one-year old at a local children's park only to find that the park was in need of repair and this upset them. In particular, the parents remembered a giant Humpty Dumpty from their childhood which was no longer on display. They decided to donate $20,000 to the park and just like magic it is a news story.

I met the family at the park and along with someone from the parks department I asked to see the Humpty Dumpty (from this point on to be referred to as Mr. Dumpty) which was being held captive in what they called "the bone yard". I explained that I wanted to shoot a picture of the family with Mr Dumpty but the guy from the park and the family insisted that Dumpty was in bad shape and that they really diddn't want their picture taken with him while he was in that kind of shape. One of those "We would rather remember him as he was, not as he is" things I guess.

I insisted on at least seeing Mr. Dumpty so I could at least get a mug shot of the poor guy and they led me into the bone yard. I made a few pictures of the giant egg and then out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something even better. An abandoned tea cup ride with a pair of legs sticking out the top called to me. I began shooting which made the parks guy nervous. "Say, eh, that's not going to be in the paper now is it", he said. "I thought this was about the donation, let's go over to the sign in front of the park and get that group shot."

I told him the picture was for my Christmas card and shot for a couple more minutes before we all were herded out of the bone yard and I shot the family in front of the sign picture that will actually run in the paper.

People keep telling me I should blog. I'm not sure I'll have the discipline to keep at this but for now I'll give it a try. The word blogging just sounds funny to me. It sounds like something that you would do after a bout with a dozen chili-cheese dogs and a six-pack of warm beer. "Dude, I'm having trouble walking today, I was in the bathroom all night blogging."

Speaking of skulls why is it that no one ever describes a persons physical appearance by commenting on their head? Just once I'd like to hear a guy describe a women by saying "That chick has the sexiest cranium I've ever seen. I' mean just check out that frontal lobe. Can you imagine what her medulla oblongata must look like?


Is it just me who thinks the crucifixion should come back in style?

Let's quit fooling ourselves and start making all toilet paper brown.

I need food.