Laws that must change:

There are a host of laws that simply do not make sense. Whether they be outdated, or just based on false assumptions, here is a list of laws that would do an immense amount of good if they were rewritten:

1. Non-violent drug offenders - should not be put in jail. Jail only turns them into criminals and causes more difficulty for drug users to straiten out their lives. It also costs the nation billions in tax dollars. Make rehab or education the "punishment" for using drugs. Drug use should not be illegal - it should be taxed. This would eliminate drug money going to support violent cartels and terrorists, and the money could be used for treatment. This would improve the lives of addicts - they would not need to rely on crime to pay for drugs, and would not receive tainted doses that kill them or make them sick.

2. Bad drivers - we need to make a driver's license much harder to get. Driving a vehicle is a dangerous thing. We need to make extensive driver training mandatory for getting a license, similar to what one needs to get a CDL. Drivers should be tested regularly as they get old, since elderly drivers lose critical skills. Cell phones should be illegal to use while driving. This would lower traffic fatalities, lessen road rage frustration, and lower auto insurance. It would also encourage public transportation, saving on greenhouse emissions.

3. Public transportation - should be encouraged. All major cities should provide eco-friendly, reliable transportation for free. Tax money should go to pay for clean, comfortable trains, buses, and shuttles with extensive all-hours schedules. It would lessen pollution, traffic, highway deaths, and improve the quality of life (good public transportation is much more satisfying than the stress of driving everywhere).

4. Public education - should be based on a voucher system. Schools should be made to compete for students' monies. Competition is what fuels our society, and makes it better. The level of education would drastically increase, and parents would be given a choice as to how their kids are taught.

5. Credit cards, banks, and check cashing businesses - should be held more accountable for their policies. Predatory lending acts should be banned. Banks make profit from setting "traps" for naive customers, encouraging them to make mistakes. This is just immoral.

6. Politicians - should all have term limits. Average citizens should be our policy makers, not professional politicians. Careers in politics nearly always lead to corruption.

7. Police - their actions should be recorded. Too many bad cops are out there getting away with abuse. They should be paid more and monitored more closely. There should be an extensive performance review every year, and citizens who have dealt with each cop should be interviewed about their experience. Police exist to serve the community - they should be held accountable, and should be evaluated like any commercial service personnel.

8. Health care - should be free. The first thing a civilization needs is security for the well being of its citizens. Quality health care should be paid for by taxes. People should still be able to pick their doctors and plans - given a voucher for a certain amount of coverage by the state. This way, competition still exists to keep providers at their best. No one should have to go without medical treatment.

9. Small businesses - should be encouraged with tax breaks and free education. Low cost loans should be available to those who would like to start a business. This policy would increase competition, discourage monopolies, and improve the quality of life of small business owners.

10. Immigration - immigrants who would normally be sneaking in to the US should be allowed to come here to work - at a higher tax rate, lower wages, and without government benefits. Menial labor jobs should be made available to them if they choose - jobs that most Americans would prefer not have. Let us benefit from the problem! Who wouldn't hire a housekeeper for $3/hr? This may take away jobs from US citizens, but those citizens could save money outsourcing labor to immigrants, and get training for a better job.

11. Job training - should be free from the government. Not college and university - but short, career oriented training. This would improve the workforce, and the more money people make, the more tax money there is. Everyone wins.

12. Shorter work hours - an employee who works 20 hours a week happily will get more done than one who works 40 hours a week miserably. We should allow for happier workers. We should have more vacations and shorter work weeks. Work is not life!

bad vibes from the future robots from outer space

Ever feel like something's wrong?

Check that.

Always feel like something's wrong?

Yeah. Me too.

It just doesn't seem like we are living life. It feels like we are living in this false reality - like Plato's cave. Things aren't real, but are a reflection, a shadow of what is real. We don't notice because we have nothing else to base life on. But, there is a constant feeling of lacking. A lacking of substance in life.

I feel like this is just a rehearsal for the real thing. I want to fight to survive, not fight to make ten percent more this year than last. I want to wake up and be compelled to act by more than the alarm clock. I want to live moment to moment, and do things that make sense in the moment, not according to some vague plan that no one has written down or thought out.

I crave some vitality!

fanatic fury of fine photography

So, I'm attacking this August art show like Bear Grylls on the side of an ice cliff with nothing to eat but frozen grub eyeballs. So far, I have 18 frames to fill, and I had planned for 20. I think I'll force myself to edit out two images. It's going amazingly well, but the limited space is going to be a buzz kill for my artstardom. I really have enough for a solo show. Actually, I'm pursuing a solo show with this set because it needs to be done. I've got a meeting with Kimber over at Modified Arts after the show goes up. I'm hoping she's into this work like she has been my other stuff. I think I slipped by showing off my newer work that's being shown in Seoul right now, and she may opt to show it instead.

To add to the success irony, that new series of gestural nudes has me up all night building overlay layers in Photoshop CS3 (the best, most addictive visual stimulation since the Purple-Jesus Acid of 1994). Those will be coming soon. I don't want to build too much momentum, overriding the huge set of documentary-ish photos I just spoke of.

Anyway, framing those 18 prints and rewriting my artist's statement is all that is left, besides actually hanging the work. It is going to be a great show, my first time being paired with Farrell Yancy.

If you know of any Phoenix based photographers looking for a gallery to show in - send them my way! We are reviewing portfolios soon to fill a vacancy at Gallery 8.

My fellow Phoenix artstars Kris Sanford and Brendan Regan just had very successful shows up at Eye Lounge and the Kitchenette, respectively. I'm becoming part of a pretty cool club in Phoenix. My roommate and beloved friend Jen Laffoon just had her first solo show in NYC. She shmoozed with some super artstars up there. It's ironic how small of a world the photography gang inhabits.

Anyway, enough of this bullshit. I swear that the promised flood of preview images will be up soon. I just keep getting sidetracked with the printmaking.

Miami, Arizona

the art of being an artist

Being an artist is only around 20% about making art, and 30% thinking about how or what to make. Another 30% is marketing yourself, and much of this effort is futile. I'm going to say that the next 15% is drumming up resources to keep making the art, and the last 5% is reaping the benefits, like having gallery exhibitions.

I just spent a few hours trying to round up some contacts over the internet. I don't know how anyone did it before the web. Of course, back then I think there was less competition too. These days everyone and their eleven year old niece consider themselves photographers. Since the advent of Live Journal and Deviant Art, bad fetish photographers and cliche goth-artists have now started considering themselves true artists. That's the thing about Post-modernism that irks me - 'bad' is now considered an aesthetic choice. For millennia, skill was a limiting factor to weed out incapable artists. Now incapable artists are able to squeeze right in with brilliant artists, since art is so subjective.

Since I am on a rant, I would like to say that people suck. I have found that most people are willing to do and say anything to keep from admitting that they were wrong. I learned long ago that if you just admit you made a mistake, people are very forgiving. When you lie and blame others, it's obvious and you look foolish. I wish everyone could accept this. Enough of that, though. I promise that a lot of good artwork is on it's way!

a question, an answer

Someone asked, 'should we legalize opium?'. Here's my answer. You may note a hint of sarcasm:

No, we should continue to waste billions fighting a 'drug war' that has produced no results. We should continue to send recreational users to prison, where they become hardened criminals and get introduced to harder drugs. We should continue to support violent foreign drug cartels who kill not only US citizens who get in the way, but resort to things like slave labor to produce the most profit. We should lie to our children about the nature of drugs so that when they eventually do experiment, they believe nothing we say. We should ensure a certain level of instability in the drugs, so that many casual users are poisoned or OD, instead of offering a true dose alternative. We should continue to force the price of drugs to be outrageous, so that addicts must resort to crime to continue their habit. We should keep needles away from users, so that they resort to sharing gear and get infected with HIV. We should definitely not create a legal alternative that we could tax in order to provide money for rehab and educational programs. We should bury our heads in the sand and pretend that what we've been doing for the last forty years is working.

promises, promises!

I've been insanely busy editing work for the July group show at Gallery 8, and the 2 person show there in August. It has kept me from publishing much here on PMW, but good things to come! I plan to post the fruits of my labor very soon, so there is immaculate artwork headed this way.

Stay tuned!

autobiography, part III

I had my first brush with death at the age of 3. A year or so ago, my Mom told me this story:

We were visiting one of her friends and I was running around the house amusing myself as they sat in the living room drinking coffee. At some point, I wandered into the lady's bedroom and found a bottle of what looked to me like candy. I ate the entire bottle, thinking I had scored big time. Turns out it wasn't candy, but Valium.

They took me to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. I guess I had started to act a little slow and dopey, and they found the empty bottle. Lucky for me. Poor lady lost all of her Valium though. I wonder if she had problems sleeping the rest of that month. Of course, back then, the pharmacy would actually replace your drugs if you lost them. I wonder how that conversation sounded...

Team USA

Congratulations to the US soccer team, which dominated the Gold Cup again this year. Although nearly the entire country is oblivious to the tournament, we played like a world class club, at times looking like a European team. Things are looking good for the Yanks, who seem like a new team since Bob Bradley took the helm at head coach.

two things

A couple of college students have a notoriously annoying roommate. They have made it their life's mission to play practical jokes on him constantly, and get them all on film. The best part is, the internet audience gets to vote on what prank they pull next. The newest is possibly the best prankvote ever. These guys are an inspiration!

If you haven't seen Knocked Up yet, go now. It is by far the funniest movie of the year. It rivals The 40 Year Old Virgin and Something About Mary in pure hilarity. Seth Rogan and Paul Rudd have amazing chemistry. I was surprised at the level of naughtiness the movie achieved, and the quality of the guy jokes riffed back and forth throughout. This one is worth watching over and over.

autobiography, part II

While I was busy learning to do things like walk, talk, feed myself, etc., the world was rapidly moving forward. In 1975, the Watergate scandal was in full swing. Cabinet members were falling left and right, scrambling to find someone else to become a scapegoat. The age of the microcomputer had arrived. The Vietnam War officially ended with the fall of Saigon. The US and the Soviet Union docked spacecraft in orbit, the first such collaboration for the two nations. In July, Jimmy Hoffa was first reported missing.

My family lived in Columbia, SC. The first person on my father's side of the family arrived in the early 1700's, having fled religious oppression in Germany. A group of these German settlers chose Orangeburg, SC as their new home. It was one of the very first colonies in North America. My family lived in that very same area for the next 250+ years.

My ancestors were very religious protestants. We did find out that some of our ancestors were slave owners. Apparently that was not considered a sin at the time. There is a tradition of religious hypocrisy in my family that created a lot of confusion for me in my teenage years. I will get to that later, though.

In September of 1975, the same month that Lynette Fromme - a follower of Charles Manson - failed to assassinate President Gerald Ford, Patty Hearst was finally arrested in San Francisco. Her trial became a public spectacle. In October, Muhammad Ali defeated Joe Frasier in the "Thrilla in Manila." The first episode of Saturday Night Live aired. The Boston Red Sox won the greatest World Series of all time.

I spent much of my very early youth with my extended family, and we took vacations to the beach, and to our little plot of land at Lake Murray, SC. I was introduced to fishing, boating, and swimming very early. I would always be a fan of water.

autobiography, part I

I was born in May of 1974, five years after Woodstock, and six years before Reagan. That's what we were, a generation caught between hippies and corporate America. We had drugs and we had high-tech. Hell, we mixed them. There's nothing like tripping on acid and playing Nintendo - crystal meth and Moral Kombat.

The day I was born, the House of Representatives Judiciary Committee opened impeachment hearings against President Richard Milhous Nixon. Nixon would later resign beneath the Watergate scandal. Nixon was considered one of the most idiosyncratic Presidents, both brilliant and devious. He was a notorious football fan, which tells me he couldn't have been all bad. But he was a Republican, which means that he was mostly bad.

Besides me being born, and the Nixon thing, that week was pretty uneventful.

Then, several days later, Patricia Hearst (AKA Tania) opened fire on Mel's Sporting Goods store in Inglewood, California, in order to free her S.L.A. brethren who were caught shoplifting socks. The Symbionese Liberation Army had held Hearst captive in February of that year and converted her to their cause. The next day, Los Angeles police raided the S.L.A. safehouse and lit fire to it. Over 9,000 rounds were fired, killing six of the members.

Later that year, the Cleveland Indians learned that 10-cent beer was a bad idea. West Germany hosted and won the World Cup. A television journalist named Christine Chubbuck committed suicide on live tv. Muhammad Ali knocked out George Foreman in 8 in the "Rumble in the Jungle."

In November, Carol DaRonch narrowly escaped abduction by Ted Bundy, but Ronald DeFeo succeeded in killing his parents and four siblings in what later became called the "Amityville Horror House." A 3.2 million year old hominid skeleton named "Lucy" was found near the Awash river in Ethiopia.

Most of my early years were spent watching Hee Haw, the Dukes of Hazzard (I grew up in the South), and The Midnight Special after we got tv's in our rooms. That was the only show on after midnight, and if it was on after midnight, it had to be bad - so we had to watch it. "We" is my sister and I. She is a year older than me, and a lot more sensible. I have two parents, one male and one female. We had a Cairn Terrier named Mac. Mac loved to swim so much he would jump off of a moving boat. I learned to swim before I can remember. Well, I learned to not sink before I can remember - I can remember swimming lessons. I was scared of the high-dive. All the kids had to jump off of the high-dive, but I had to jump with the instructor holding me. These days, kids are not allowed on the high-dive, and swimming instructors are not allowed to hold the children. The 70's were a lot looser time.

to be continued...

So you want to be an artist. Why?

Here's a little essay on what I've learned since I first decided to become an artist, in the summer of 1994.

early frustration:

I was 20, and had already failed at my first 'calling,' which was electrical engineering. I hadn't really failed as much as I had just dropped out of school. Now, I figured, it was time to get serious. As I leaned on the fridge in the kitchen of the restaurant where I worked, subtly checking out the ass of an eighteen year old hostess, I planned my future.

I had chosen engineering by default. It's what my dad had done for 30+ years, and I was good at math. The only problem was, I hated it. It was all about computers, and this was a couple of years before I associated computers with free pornography, so it was when I still hated computers.

Travel - that's what I wanted to do! Travel, see exciting places, and avoid real work. How could I make that into a career, preferably a career that hot chicks would find fascinating? One word came to mind: photojournalism. At that fateful moment, I made a decision.

"Stop looking at my ass," said the hostess.

"But I'm going to be a famous photographer," I replied.

"Then take a picture," she said, and walked off. I knew, someday,I would be shooting wars from helicopters in rain forests. Girls would fondle my Pulitzer (that's what I call my wang). Guys would envy my beautiful Nikon (that's another pet name for my wang). I would somehow develop an Italian accent.

later frustration:

So, I went to another school, the 'J-school.' Not a hip hop training center like it sounds, but the world's first journalism school, at the University of Missouri. Mizzou is actually what people there call the state, and they don't even wear do-rags. I packed up, moved to Mizzou, and enrolled at the J-school. One semester later, I moved back home.

I hadn't done my research. While U of M is a great school for journalists, it kind of sucks for photojournalists. They don't teach you photography until your senior year. If only that had been in the course catalog. Well, it had been. If only I had read the course catalog.

So, I defaulted back to the University of South Carolina, in the city where I grew up, Columbia SC. In-state tuition will do that to a guy. For a lack of better options, I enrolled in the Art department and took photography courses, until I could find a better school for photojournalism.

As fate would have it, five years later I had not attempted to find another school, and found myself graduating from (the other) USC. I was officially a Gamecock. I am one of a select few who can stand up in a stadium and yell "Go Cocks!" without meaning anything dirty. Thus ended my 8.5 year undergraduate degree.

my search for direction:

Sometime between then and now, I decided to be an artist. I figured that a guy can get laid from a cool job even if there are no bullets flying. Plus, someone has to shoot those Victoria's Secret ads. Now I had to figure out my angle, my motif. My voice. How to pay my phone bill.

I got a job running a photo lab at a community college in Arizona. I continued making art, but never decided on what I wanted to be known for. I shot architecture because I love the technical challenge. I shot models because I love images of people (and I like hot women). I shot industry because it is beautiful in a Blade Runner way.

This is not how you get famous as an artist. Think about Ansel Adams. Photographers hate Ansel because he is the only photographer that people can name. And his work is pretty cheesy. Beautiful, but cheesy. "Hallmark calendar" is not what you want people to associate your work with. Anyway, he did one thing pretty well - market himself. He stuck to one kind of image, and anyone in the world can summon one of those images in their mind. That is what sells - consistency. AA shot lots of other stuff, by the way, but he only marketed the landscape stuff.

I needed my Snake River - Wyoming 1942. But I can't limit myself. I need to shoot every idea I have. It's a craving. I'm not a photographer, I'm a photojunkie. So I shoot every idea I have. But, I only market a few of them. I have a series of abstract nudes, a series of social landscapes, and an ongoing documentation of urban growth in Phoenix, AZ. Each of these genres I market to different audiences. I've hedged my bets, and each group of work is like a career in itself. I played with the idea of having pen names, but it may be too late for that.

the payoff:

I promised to tell what I've learned about being an artist. Here it is:

You can't decide what your message is going to be. It decides on it's own, and you as an artist can merely channel it.

There is no area of art that is superior to another. However, every artist thinks their approach is the only one that matters. That frame of mind makes for a very successful artist.

Blunt ideas do not make for good art. If your idea is crystal clear to you, your message obvious and unpolluted by contradiction, then you are making clichés. Only questions make good art, not answers.

The only way to find your voice is to try everything that comes to you, and keep it up no matter how unsuccessful it is. The more frustrating your search, the more brilliant the foundation of your final success will be. Every click of the shutter or stroke of the brush is a step towards enlightenment.

Other artists who have a 'gift' and enjoy easy success usually disappear into meaninglessness. They have not gone through the great struggle, therefore do not understand their own work. They had an idea, and got lucky. They know how to exploit techniques that others have shown them. The work is not their own, and when they fail, they will not know how to persevere like the artists who wallowed in failure for eons before 'making it.'

You cannot learn much from what other people tell you. Disregard most of what teachers and other artists tell you about making art. If there is truth in what they say, it will stick somehow. The truth will resonate with you subconsciously. If you do everything the experts say, then you will end up being a very trite artist.

Girls do indeed dig artists, but only if you treat them kind of bad.

pants on fire!

Here's a fascinating, appalling idea from an extremist: radical honesty. Psychotherapist Brad Blanton never lies to people he meets. If he thinks you are fat, he says so. If he thinks you smell bad, he'll let you know. He once let his dog lick his penis - and is perfectly honest about it. It's luridly tempting, but I'm not sure I would have the balls. After reading this Esquire article, I'm at least going to make an attempt. Tomorrow should be an interesting day!

mixed bag of nuts

hilarious tales of woe

Cool optical illusion!

Gotta be the cutest little girl in the world, ever.

Ever randomly hit 'ctrl v' to see what's hidden in your pc's clipboard? I accidentally did and out came:

Sinar Copal Hinterlinsenverschluss.

Das Verschluss ist Gebraucht gut erhalten und hat sehr wenig Gebrauchsspuren.

Da dies eine Privatauktion ist, keine Garantie und keine Rücknahme.

Versandkosten beziehen sich auf Deutschland alle anderen Länder auf Anfrage
I think it's a German poem about the love affair between the circus midget amputee named Gebraucht, and his darling ballet dancing monkey Garantie. Their tale of ill-fated love in the front-line bunker during WWII, the sand in his behind which caused the downfall of the homeland, and her poorly fitting halter top. That, or an ad for some camera gear.


Something I learned today:
While hiking with a pretty girl, it is not advantageous to stop and vomit. It may sound like a really cute seduction move, but believe me - it doesn't improve your odds of scoring at all.

dreams I've had of waking

Today I slept all day instead of going to work. Not the best idea, but I had a sick day left so I used it.

It was one of those times when I kept waking up but my dreams were better than my waking life.

Strangely they were more like nightmares. Dreams in which I'm in love like I used to be with dangerous women like I used to date. In fact, the girl in my dream was that one who encompassed the entirety of the women that had taken my heart hostage in ages 17-29 - the accumulation of the ideals I obsessed about in my youth.

She didn't have a name but her face was that of the girl I forgot.

We were only together for a month but I've never been more in awe. In the dream I was again within touching distance of someone I truly admired. A person who filled my mind and all I could do were things to ensure myself another dose of her.

She held power over me. My life was hers to destroy. She was not cruel, but was only in search of the truth. In my desire to please her I became a liar, and she sensed it right away. The more I understood her the more I saw my own failure to be worthy, and the harder I tried to hide it. My house was falling apart and she grew more distant.

In later years I learned how to put away the part of me that was vulnerable. I became too cool to fall in love. There were no longer women who could hold this power over me. I could see how foolish they all were, and none of them held that kind of purity. To fall in love is only to fall into co-dependence.

Armed with indifference I became the breaker of hearts. I sought my revenge and dealt it without pity.

For many years I've been logically detached from emotional risk. I've even grown successful as an independent man.

Lately though, the nostalgia has been creeping up through my subconscious. To be that passionate again - to see so much in someone that I could let them control my fate? Secretly I want to be at risk again. I want her to be able to hurt me, but she is gone.

There aren't women like that in my reality. I've banished them, it appears. What now?

I'll be on the lookout. Maybe she still exists but I just fail to see her. Maybe grown men don't have the luxury of being fragile.

I'm almost afraid to stay awake, because she'll disappear - my sleep will be dreamless again. I'm also afraid to go to sleep because she might be there, waiting. And I will have to risk losing her again.

If only I could reconcile my mind and heart. It's time for a deus ex machina from stage right.

so bad it's... bad

I just watched 'lil Bush. The characters remind me of Jay Leno jokes from 2003. I guess it's supposed to be offensive along the lines of South Park or Family Guy, but despite scenes like an adolescent Dick Cheney camping out in Barbara Bush's uterus, the show just doesn't have an edge. Neither witty nor silly, the best thing about the show is 'lil Bush himself - a character that takes our leader's faults and makes them lovable. I get the feeling that if this show survives an entire season, big Bush would do well to embrace it. In fact, if the makers toned down the all-too-forced shock gags, it would be a fairly entertaining Republican roast.



On a positive note, SuperBad looks like a winner on the level of Reno911 or the 40 Year Old Virgin.

new feature!

This blog has become a festering clusterfuck. In order to make a little more sense of it, I've added the option on the right hand column to 'view by topic'. If you only want to see photos, click 'photo'. If you only want to read stories, click 'story', and so on. I hope it helps make this blog easier to navigate. Please leave me a comment if you have any other suggestions. Despite appearances, anyone can leave a comment.

scary story

When we were high school seniors or around that age, we used to go to a place called "Old State Road" in Cayce, SC, close to where we lived. We would go there to drink and get in trouble, like many kids did. Old State Road was the old road from Columbia SC (where the civil war started) to Charleston. It was no longer in use since highways had been built, just a dirt road that was out in the woods. There was tons of lore surrounding it, though. It was rumored to be the meeting place of the current KKK, and there were two 'satanic churches' hidden somewhere off the road. There were also random gravesites out in the woods, with centuries old markers, most of which were collapsed. It would be the perfect place for a teen horror film.

The biggest legend involved a certain bridge - an old cement bridge with just enough room for one car to pass over a creek that was about 20 feet below. The story went that if you shut off your car while parked on the bridge, put the keys on the roof, and waited, you would hear a baby crying. Your car then would not start.

One night, of course we tried it. Nothing happened, but it was a pretty creepy place when you turned the car lights off in the deep forest of backwater South Carolina. Disappointed, we decided to go look for the 'satanic churches'. The oldest member of our group, Jerome, said he knew where they were. Said that one was really a satanic church, and one was just a creepy house that was closer to the road.

We drove off in search of the place. I vaguely remember driving through corn fields to get there. Like, actually driving off the road and running over the corn plants, you know, like stupid kids would do. (how I long for those days....). Finally we got to where the 'churches' were supposed to be. It was way off the road, and we had to trek through weedy forest to get there, and really wandered around a lot, since we really didn't know exactly where we were going. Oh, and we only had one flashlight between the five of us.

Eventually, we came up to a small old house, broken out windows, over grown with weeds. This must be the house that Jerome thought was closer to the road. He hadn't been there, but knew someone who had. Me, being the youngest and stupidest, took point. I poked my head in the door, and shined the flashlight around. Typical trashed abandoned house that you would find in that area, but lots more graffitti. Tagging and spray paint art hadn't made it down to the South yet, and graffitti was pretty rare. This was really hastily done cryptic symbols and phrases. I wish I remember what they said.

We walked in a ways and shone the flashlight about. The most bizarre thing was that there were clothes everywhere. Piles and piles of clothing. The place was just covered in clothing. The piles were too high to walk through many places. Almost every inch of the place was covered in jeans, sweatshirts, t-shirts, etc. Like someone had emptied a semi headed for Goodwill.

We went in a couple rooms into the house, but got so absolutely creeped out, that we all had to leave. We couldn't get out quick enough. Nothing happened, but the place had just so damn weird of an aura that we couldn't take it.

So we went somewhere else and drank and smoked pot and stuff.

crunch time

Why is it that when watching someone else play chess, give a speech, or play soccer it is so easy to see how to do it better? I have the same experience when looking at someone else's photograph, book, movie, or outfit. Through every book I read, my mind is constantly editing - each sentence, paragraph, and plot improved upon so effortlessly. Yet, when I sit down at my pc to write - nothing! Just trying to put down in words a short story that actually happened to me becomes laborious, an unnatural act. It's like I'm trying to write in a second language. Where does that masterful editor go when I set out to create my own work?!

comics

A few of the most warped, hilarious comics on the web:

Cyanide and Happiness

The Perry Bible Fellowship

and the most classic, classy, and deranged comic strip of all time -

Red Meat

great internet fiction:

There's this fascinating tale of a bartender whose life is turned upside-down unfolding in a series of blog posts by a guy who goes by DOB. It's a really great story that has all the elements of classic literature - babes, booze, guns, and rooms full of spiders.

Reminds me of David Wong's classic net fiction, John Dies at the End. One of the best stories I have ever read on the internet, dealing with all the classic themes such as animated deer meat, toilet portals, and angry spider beasts from another dimension.

anti Paris parade of petty party poopers

I just watched a video of Sarah Silverman bashing Paris Hilton at an awards show that Paris was attending. I've never really found Sarah very funny, but I like her boyfriend Jimmy Kimmel a lot, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Everybody knows Paris. She's ditzy, slutty, not very talented, etc., but when did she become less than human? I mean, Paris has never done anything to hurt anyone. She's basically partied on camera her whole life, and now everyone wants to bash her. It's one thing to make jokes at someone's expense, when they aren't around. It is another thing to all out attack someone while they sit helpless in the audience.

Sarah's rant wasn't feminist. Sarah isn't a feminist. She's a petty, jealous not-very-funny comedian. Her speech didn't prove some witty point. It didn't enlighten society. All it did was make her look like a jealous cunt. Paris is going to jail. Jail sucks, even for Paris Hilton. I'm going to guess especially for Paris Hilton. I can only imagine the abuse she is going to get from the guards. I'm guessing she gets gang raped in the shower - a lot.

And some people out there are going to say she deserves it. Why? Because she's rich? Because she likes being rich? Because she hangs out with celebrities? Tell me when I get to the part where she is evil. Tell me when I get to the part that is any different than what any girl would do if she was born fabulously wealthy.

Paris has really never hurt anyone. Sure, she could be a lot better person. But so could Sarah Silverman. So could anybody. Paris is a spoiled rich girl. I think she would be a lot of fun to hang out with. I think she is really cute. I think she would be annoying, but I think her cuteness would overpower it. I can't say that for Sarah Silverman. I don't know what Jimmy Kimmel sees in her.

The point is that Paris Hilton doesn't attack people. She's not a bitch. Sarah Silverman does, and is.

artist

I don't know much about this artist, because I've forgotten all the German I ever learned, but here is some really great artwork

unreality

I have a secret obsession
oh, my most cherished possession.
a little bit of magic
satisfies my taste for the tragic

takes me to another place
the look of bliss upon my face
if I were meant to be
less that completely free

I would not pursue her
but try to see right through her
because the lie is held within
her pale and perfect skin

someday we'll have to face
the unreality of this place
but for another day
I will look the other way

timing

When I posted the "bad things I've done" list, the last one had to do with my Dad. He had a couple of heart attacks a few years back and almost died. I was feeling bad about how many times I missed hanging out with him then after writing the post. I ended up writing him this really sappy email about how much I love him and how bad it was when he got sick and that if anything happened to him it would kill me.

The next day he had a stroke.

That was yesterday. The doctors gave him a clot-buster medicine and it worked. He seems like he is just fine now. He had gotten so bad that he was totally unresponsive and couldn't move - but the shot totally wiped out the stroke. Now, he's just itching to get out of bed and walk around. Medical technology is amazing these days.

It did remind me of the post I made several days ago about this article. It almost seems like the timing was too coincidental. I don't know. I'm just glad my Dad is ok.

the bad things I've done:

A la My Name is Earl, I have decided to write a list of the bad things I have done. Or more accurately - the entertaining bad things that I can remember and am willing to admit. I'll think about the whole apologizing thing later. Here goes:

1. In 1st grade, I wrote on a little slip of paper "Bill eats shit." I don't know why I did it - I don't think Bill really did eat shit. His breath smelled fine. Then I folded the paper and threw it on the floor. The teacher found it and was totally irate. She demanded to know who wrote it. I kept quiet. She picked on the only black girl in the class, who had a reputation for being 'bad'. Her name was Treva Mims. I will never forget Treva. She got a spanking for the 'shit' comment - which was my fault. This was in the South in the late 70's. I'm sorry Treva. Sorry for the spanking, and sorry for my contribution to the racial oppression of those times.

2. Also in first grade. We had 'reading group' which consisted of a circle of chairs and everyone reading the same book. My best friend in 1st grade was Gene. He was a black guy (I only point this out to dispel the appearance in post #1 that I am a racist). We liked to prank one another. One game was to sit down first, and when the other sat down, hold a pencil pointing up in their chair so that the person would get poked in the butt. We always got each other, and the victim would get a little poke and jump and it was really funny. One day I held out the pencil for Gene to sit on, but this time he sat down really hard. The sharp pencil went right into his ass cheek, and the tip broke off in his ass. He had to go to the hospital and have the pencil tip removed from his ass in what could not have been a fun experience. I'm sorry Gene, for once again promoting racial violence, and for harming your butt cheek.

3. Making fun of Randy. My Dad's best friend had a son my age (I was one day older). We of course, got set up as friends. We were always sent to play together. It was ok, Randy had some cool Lego's, but he was kinda weird. I remember one night we spent the night at my house, and were talking from bunk bed to bunk bed. He wanted to play a game. That game was "ding-a-ling sword fight," where we would duel it out with our whackers. He said the loser would get his "ding-a-ling" bitten by the winner. Then he said, maybe we should reverse that - the loser does the biting. I said maybe we should play a different game. He had a lot of that kind of stuff going on in his head. Another time he wanted us to shit on the floor of the public bathroom because somehow that would be funny. I don't think Randy's brain was a pleasant place.
I put up with it all through my childhood. I learned to deflect his strangeness and we had some good times. But by the time we got to high school, who you hung out with was of ultimate importance. I no longer wanted to be associated with the 'weird kid.' One day, when all the cool guys started making fun of Randy in gym class, I had to pick a side - defend my pal or go with the crowd. I think it was my comments that made him cry the most.
Randy ended up in private school because of stuff like that. I'm sorry Randy, for hurting you and failing to withstand the peer pressure. But, in reality you deserved some of it - you were fucking weird and needed to learn how to repress that shit.

4. Out doing my roommates: I've had a lot of roommates. Most of them were my best friend when we moved in together, and after we moved out I never spoke to them again. I used to be really hard on roommates - I expected them to be kind of perfect. I didn't put up with their shit, and I always had to feel superior. So a few of my roommates I one-upped a little too much. I got Jerome fired from our cooking job because I ratted him out for being a fuck-off (but hey - so was I!). I rubbed it in Manny's face that I did better in school than him. Looking back, both of those guys were selfish pricks who tried to either terrorize or fuck my girlfriend. I'm not sorry at all!

5. Stealing money from my mom. Just sad. She was horrible at keeping up with money, so my sister and I would routinely help ourselves to a fiver from her purse. Made up for all of that psychological torture she put us through to some extent, though.

6. Stealing liquor from my parents. They had a whole cabinet of liquor that they had received as gifts. They don't drink, so the cabinet just sat there stock full. Throughout high school, we slowly replaced all that liquor with water. That was just funny.

7. Made out with my neighbor's girlfriend. I had these great neighbors who were punk kids. The guy Jake was a really cool guy and he had a smokin' hot 18 year old girlfriend. We made out one day. She was so fucking hot - a very pretty punk rock girl. She let me know that I could have sex with her - even made an excuse to crash over at my side of the duplex one night - but I resisted. I think that makes it all right. I could have boned her and I didn't, solely because I didn't want to hurt Jake. I think that makes up for the other stuff. Damn she was hot though - I kinda wish I had...

8. Fucking my buddy's mom. That was a big mistake. We used to come visit Smoke in the town he lived in. Him, a roommate, and his mom lived in a big house. We would go visit for a weekend and it would be a 72 hour party. We had parties that became legends. One weekend at about 4am, we were all starting to drop out one by one. Russ had claimed the couch, and I wanted to go to sleep, too - so I called the EZ chair. Smoke's mom was a little bit of a MILF, and always partied with us. We all knew someone was going to do the deed some day. When I called the EZ chair that night she said 'no, you can sleep in my room.' I was actually hammered enough to think that I was just going to sleep. That didn't happen. Apparently the whole house heard us going at it. The next morning was the worst I have ever felt. It took 2 years to work up the courage to talk to Smoke again. He, being the coolest guy in the universe, forgave me. I let him punch me, and he didn't even hit me that hard. We were never the same though. Smoke, I am truly sorry for that. No one should have to hear their pal banging their mom. Thanks for not killing me with a chainsaw or something.

9. Being a pussy with my girlfriend: I had a really cool, really hot girlfriend when I was 19. She was 20, and had a really strong personality. I became very whipped, and let her dominate me. I was in "wuv" with her big time. When she finally dumped me for being such a girly-man, I cried and begged for her to take me back for hours. No man should ever act like that. After that, she started dating my boss, and I slept with her roommate. That's how we got over each other I think. Sorry, Victoria - you deserved a really alpha guy to be a stud for you. Thanks for emotionally beating the shit out of me for being a pussy, though. I needed it. You would be proud of how much I evolved. These days I do the dumping.

10. Dissing my Dad when he was sick: My Dad had a couple of heart attacks. After the second one, he had a triple bypass. He was homebound for six months or so. A lot of times I told him I would come over and hang out with him, but slept in and didn't make it there. I was doing a lot of drugs and drinking a lot back then. He really got hurt the times I didn't show up. I still feel rotten about that. I wish I could make it up to him. I just try to be there for him now, and let him know that I do love and appreciate him. I really love my Dad. I hope you know that, Dad. I hope it comes through despite my fuckhead nature.

That's all for tonight. These weren't as funny as I had hoped. It was cathartic, though.

Election '00

Me and my all time best buddy Boo were sitting around my place watching tv and drinking beer, like we usually do. We had terrible hangovers, like we usually do. We didn't have any girls to call, like usual. It was election night and we were watching the returns.

I was a pizza delivery guy, and had been in almost every house and building in the city at some point to deliver a pie. The news coverage was showing the Democratic's return party and I instantly recognized it as the ballroom at a swank downtown hotel.

Me and Boo are so close we don't have to talk a lot to know what's going on, so the following conversation is understandably short:

Me: "Let's go."

Him: "OK."

And so we did.

Turns out it was free, and there was no one checking that you were legit Dems or anything.

Oh, and there was an open bar.

Not many phrases will actually give me a full erection. One of the few that will, however, is "open bar." Free alcohol and me and Boo is a dangerous combination.

From what I remember, we took over the front center table, had the local celebrity "Bubba", a news crew, the entire under-30 crowd, and a giant pyramid of empties at our table. We took over the joint. Boo ends up on the local news talking politics, I'm hitting on a cute young photographer, and Bubba's piss drunk.

Around 10pm, they announce that the governor is there. Everyone gets up to welcome him in, and your heroes - Boo and I - find our way to the front entrance. We had so taken over the room that everyone thought we were some kind of big shot political players. So the governor of South Carolina walks in the entryway and gets greeted by two hammered guys who voted for someone else.

Turns out that many scientists believe that people can sense emotional events in the future. This reminds me of another story from my days at DoDo Bird's sports bar and grill.

I was dating a girl who was much older than me. When you are 17 and your girlfriend is 21, it kinda makes you the man amongst your buddies. I, however, was very inexperienced in relationships. Inexperienced meaning that I had never had one before, which means I was head over heels in 'wuv' with her.

She worked at the steakhouse I had just left for the new job. When you work in restaurants, you don't get off work until 2am because you have to clean up all night. Usually there is a party after that, too. Restaurant staff become night owls real quick.

But this night, I had off. I was still a senior in high school and was asleep at home when I got a phone call. It was my girlfriend's sister, worried that she hadn't made it home. It was about 4am and they lived a half hour out of town. She was really freaked out and got me freaked out with all of her freaking out. I decided to drive around and look for my girlfriend. I went to her work - no one there. I went to my work since she was a friend of my friends there - nobody. I drove to the hospital and they didn't have her. I was getting worried. I just started driving around.

Well, as it happened, I was driving down the frontage road along side the interstate in our part of town. As I approached a barren little turn off, suddenly I knew she was down that road. I had never driven down that particular road (it was a dead end, a place people went to make out in their cars sometimes). I didn't even know where the road went. I just suddenly knew she was there. It was an unquestionable fact in my mind. I've never had a premonition like that before, or since. I just knew.

So, I turned down the road. I'm really freaked about her being gone without calling - she never forgot to call her family if she was going to be late. I'm halfway expecting to find her dead. As I get to the end of the little road, my headlights pick up her little red car. The lights are off and the windows are all steamed up. I park, and get out with my headlights fully illuminating the car. I look in to see her in the passenger seat and my best friend at the wheel. I knew he always had a crush on her. She looks like she is getting dressed really fast. I yell at them to open the door. They don't. I yell again. They look totally freaked out. I'm yelling my head off at them because I just found my girl cheating on me with my best friend after spending all night worrying about where she was. They still won't open the door, and are yelling back at me to leave. I'm getting madder and madder, and in a final redneck fit of rage -

I start beating the fuck out of the windshield. Pounding it. Glass shattering everywhere. Wailing away at it until my hand is a bloody mess. I was just so pissed that they wouldn't even open the door when I busted them.

Finally, my friend Jarome opens the door and gets out.

"Craig? Holy fuck! It's Craig!" he says. "What are you doing?"

I stop. "You didn't know it was me?"

"No. We couldn't see anything with your damn headlights on. Just a silhouette. What's wrong with you?"

She gets out and is crying and wants to hug me.

"What's wrong?" I say, "I just busted you fucking my girlfriend and you want to know why I'm mad?"

"Dude - we were just talking."

I turn to her - "But you were getting dressed when I pulled up."

"I was just putting my socks on. My feet were aching after a long night at work. We saw you and thought some maniac was coming to harass us. We wanted to leave, but you parked in the way."

Me: "Oh. What the hell are you doing out here then?"

Her: "Talking about you. I've been feeling bad about us and I wanted to get Jarome's opinion about what's going on since he is your best friend. We've been talking for two hours."

Me: "Oh. Uh, sorry about the windshield."

I guess they were telling the truth. It sure sounded legit in the conversations that followed. They were both really concerned about me. I had to call my Dad to come get me after I took her home and let her have my car since I broke hers. A half hour drive with your dad after beating the shit out of a car is a strange scene. He was really cool about it though. Didn't really even ask me about it. Just talked about how he sees deer on this part of the highway all the time, etc. That was a relief - I was so drained. Oh, and bringing her home to her parents was not too fun either. But they were cool too. Her mom is a nurse and she bandaged up my hand. I guess everybody sympathized with me after I told them how it all happened.

portrait

self portrait

Going for creative lighting is hard when you can't see your subject. I like this self portrait, because I think it describes me well - the messy kitchen, my indifferent look, and how half of me is hidden in shadow.

your lucky day

Here I am reading some guy's stories about being a midnight street sweeper and all the crap he runs into, when I realize that: I too have a blog, and I too have had a shitty job. Alarm bells start going off in my head as a flood of memories from my sometimes retarded, sometimes scary life overwhelms me.

So I'm thinking I gotta get this stuff out there. Living the life of a kinda open-minded, very reckless, often stupid southern boy can be pure torture - or pure entertainment. We'll see which is which as I've found a something new to add to this blog: life stories.

Since I'm on the topic of work, I'll start with this little gem from my days as a line cook at a sport bar and grille in Columbia, SC:

When I was 16, I got a job with my sister's boyfriend at a steakhouse. I learned how to cook there - work the fryers, bake potatoes, and the holy grail of the kitchen - work the grill. Cooking 40 steaks to temp at once is a science up there with spinal surgery in difficulty. Anyway, I took my skills to a sports bar and grill when I was 18.

Being a cook at a place that serves alcohol is a special thing. Special in the fact that when the kitchen closes, the beer starts flowing. Special in the fact that almost all of the staff is made up of alcoholics, drug addicts, and lots of people whose parents had boundary issues.

The beginning of the afternoon is comprised of doing 'prep work' before the evening rush. This means making salad, cutting meat, cooking big pots of rice, cleaning the fryers, etc. Part of the ritual of all those doing prep work is to first go out back by the dumpster and get high. It's mind numbing work and a numb mind is necessary. So one day, like every day, we went out back to get high. This day we got really high. My first job as we got back in was to clean the fry vats.

Fry vats are those big stainless steel deep fryers that you can see over the counter at fast food joints. All restaurants have them. They are filled with vegetable oil, and heated to 350 degrees. They are gas powered and run all day long. When you have to clean them, you have to empty out the oil from a gasket in the bottom, and run it through a filter, or dump it and put in new oil. This day I was putting in new oil.

The first step is to turn off the gas heat. Then you have to drain the oil. I know a lot of guys who have spilled super heated oil on themselves and lost serious amounts of skin. It's a really dangerous job. Hot oil vaporizes human skin on contact. I constantly had little red blisters on my arms from getting splattered by hot grease. So, I give the fryers the respect they deserve while I am draining the oil.

This day, something was wrong. The gas didn't turn off when I cut it, or the whole thing was overheated, or something. When the oil drained out, the bottom of the tanks started drying out and popping, obviously getting too hot. A little bit of residual oil caught on fire. I double checked the gas gage, and it was set to 'off', but still something was going bad here. I'm still freshly cooked off the weed and I run get Brent, one of my coworkers, to help.

"You're too high," he says. "You're over reacting." He gets some water and dumps it in the vat, thinking that will cool things off. It vaporizes instantly with a hiss, sending hot steam up at our stoned faces.

"Holy Fuck," one of us says, as we jump back. We're both really baked, and wondering what we've done wrong, knowing that our present state of mind must be to blame. We're also afraid to go get the boss, since he'll know we screwed it up being stoned.

"Let's pour oil in it," I suggest - thinking that the oil can take the high temperature and it will just go back to being a full oil vat at cooking temperature. Not so.

By this time, the vat is smoking, popping and crackling. I'm really getting scared, but thinking it's just the weed getting to me, and try to act cool. I grab a 5 gallon box of vegetable oil and prop it up on the edge to pour it in the vat. I start pouring, but at the temperature this bare metal has cooked up to, oil is just fuel.

I'm reminded of the song American Pie, the part that goes "flames climbed high into the night, to light the sacrificial rite." Satan may have laughed with delight, but we sure ran out of the kitchen screaming. I can only imagine what those few customers in the dining room thought.

The boss came back, looked at the flaming fry vat and turned off the gas line behind it. "Lines must be stuck on. Don't use that one tonight," he says, and just walks out nonchalantly. Brent and I stare at one another as the flames burn themselves out. After that, it was work as usual - but I sure was rattled the rest of the night.

July preview

An image from the upcoming group exhibition at Gallery 8 in July.

must... eat... BRAINS...

The roomie and I saw 28 weeks later this afternoon. It was great. There's nothing like watching a zombie movie in the theater (consider my screen name). The 28 movies are some of the best, too. I can't think of a better way to get your adrenaline flowing, other than to actually be chased by zombies.

It looks like the Circular Exhibition that I posted about in my last entry will be showing at the Hun Gallery in NY (two blocks from Madison Square Garden) the first two weeks of July, then at the Ho Gallery in Seoul the last two weeks of July. Considering the group exhibit at Gallery 8 in July, my 2-person show there in August, and the Million Little Pictures show that is up in Atlanta right now, I'm in 4 shows this summer. Not bad for being out sick.

image for Seoul exhibition

I have the honor of being featured in a "circular exhibition" where a NY gallery is sending up and coming artists' work to a gallery in Seoul, South Korea. The image I am going to send them is an abstract nude - this is the work the NY gallery is familiar with. Here it is:

initial post

Well, I've taken the plunge. I am backing away from LJ, Myspace, and all those photography sites to (hopefully) consolidate everything in this one blog. I will still keep up with all those sites, but this is going to be my main focus.

I'm just learning about blogging, but here are my goals:

1. To update every day, if possible.
2. To showcase my creative writing, analytical writing, and art
3. To link to other websites that I find interesting and useful
4. To build a 'web identity' - to plant my flag in this new world of internet 2.0
5. To create a record, a documentation of my life
6. To provide interesting enough content to build a following. Someday I would like this to become a source for advertising income.

Welcome to my new blog. The title is 'post modern wasteland'. My screen name will be zombie_attack. The URL is http://pmwasteland.blogspot.com