This wouldn’t have happened without the talent and dedication of some spectacular people. Thank you Mom and Dad, Ross, Lee, James, Matt, Todd, Kylie, Hal, Sheena, Ryan, Thomas, Julia, Amber, Andrea, the Studio, Joint, everyone at W+K, Tina, Andrew, Thibault, Neysa, Michael, everyone at Psyop, Flying Fish, Tom, the folks at Mollie’s, Stimmung and Lime.
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What child hasn’t lost a father or a husband to a 19th century whaling accident? Is there a young man in this day and age who hasn’t gotten roughed up by an Irish tough in the Old Bowery? Can you say – with a straight face – that your mother didn’t die of consumption in an asylum for the infirmed and hysterical? Saying you don’t enjoy the Decemberists, is like saying you don’t enjoy a bright bouquet of asteraceaes, or the feel of an ivory mustachio comb, or a mournful dirge about a twin brother who died (or was murdered?) on an unnamed Civil War battlefield.
I don’t think I understand you. Maybe you should try harder to like music.
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Chris Berry is the talented gent who drew the portrait on the opening page of my site. Recently, he decided to create the seizure-inducing version above. If you haven’t died yet, visit his site.
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Come. Gather ’round and warm yourselves by the fire. I will tell a tale of a magic land far to the south, beyond the sight of most men. A strange place, found only by those who need to find it. Maybe you thought it a boastful traveler’s tale or a bard’s fancy. Oh, but there is such a place.
A place of sharp mountains that bite at the sky, crystalline waters that sustain a verdant, green heart and lungs that draw deep breath from the fires within the earth. It is the whispered solution to life itself, the setting for every dream of beauty and the place where we hoped all our questions would find answers true and good.
My companions- two mighty director-kings, two art director wizards, a wise elvish producer and a stout account dwarf undertook our quest to find the perfect shoot location.
High and low we journeyed, battling all manner of doubt-beasts, ROI dragons, and client-induced miasmas. Some of us began to doubt the wisdom of journey. However, on a high mouatain pass, we encountered a small half-man emerging from a dwarrow gate. Although his stature was diminutive, his eyes sparkled with a timelessness – as if he had seen the birthing of the world.
I asked the creature “Is this the place mystics speak of when they seek beautiful vistas, deep green forests and untouched streams? A place both young and old, touched by the crazed hands of the gods? A place that exists half in our world, half in the realm of the gods? Good sir, tell us: is this truly the most beautiful place on earth?”
He smiled, lifted an open hand towards this sign and then we knew all was right:
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Experience the supple feel and unbridled comfort that wearing three cows can provide. Enjoy the near-total body coverage of the garment John Wayne affectionately referred to as his “bathrobe.” Thrill to finally having enough pockets to organize your gaming die based on the number of sides.
Starring in a Kevin Costner-penned period piece for TNT with Hal Holbrook? Need to take your Neo/Agent Smith sexual role-play to the next level? Looking to impress and intimidate that girl who works the Arby’s counter near the arcade? Want to tell everyone you don’t enjoy the touch of humans? Or just planning a workaday office or school massacre?
A leather duster is the right choice for everything for a Ron Paul-style apocalypse to hiding this morning’s breakfast burrito droppings. So, visit your local Internet, purchase a leather duster and declare to the world that you’re either a self-aggrandizing dork or a dangerous sociopath. In a leather duster they won’t be able to tell.
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This past weekend saw the excellent Concours d’Elegance at Pacific University in Forest Grove. While the Concours leans heavily towards pre-WWII autos, there was a small selection of muscle cars and more recent foreign exotics. But mostly there was chrome and tail fins. And ancient Rotarians who don’t particularly care for guys with long hair. An older gent remarked about the price disparity between cream puff classics of the 50s and the ever-increasing cost of 70s Muscle cars: “You can get the 50s cars cheap nowadays because their owners are all old and dying.” Here are some pics. Note the outstanding fonts on some the badges:
The rest of my photos can be found here. I’m a fan of 60s and 70s muscle. But I’m priced out of that market. My eye is now set on one car:
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Contrary to Hasbro’s original intent, the acquisition of a “My Buddy” is fraught with fun and hilarious psychological meaning:
First, your child has no friends.
Second, your child has no imagination.
Third, you have given up on your child.
This is of course, the purchase they will point back to when health and human services pull your lumbering, dullard son out from under soiled stacks of the Fresno Bee at his rent-by-the-week efficiency.
Note: the purchase of a “Kid Sister” besides being marginally creepier, sends a fourth message: mommy is now, by choice or accident, barren.
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He had the right change. He called to make sure. But he counted again anyways. The woman said the bus would be here anytime between 1:00 pm and 1:30. She couldn’t be much more specific than that as it was Saturday and everything ran a little slow on Saturday. He had $320 in his pocket and a hockey bag full of towels.
Every few minutes he’d nervously switch the bag from his left to right shoulder, then back again. His lack of knowledge about the bus system embarrassed him slightly, but he wasn’t from the kind of place where people rode buses. He couldn’t think of many reasons why people would take the bus to Waterbury.
He had seen an old picture of the “Brass Capital of the World” from the beginning of the century that showed a busy downtown full of people, cars and streetcars. Funny.
Any teacher who saw him would know exactly why he was waiting at the bus stop with a hockey bag full of towels. But, as long as he didn’t give them a reason to bust him- they wouldn’t. And carrying a hockey bag wasn’t a good enough reason. But the longer he waited, the greater the risk. It was all part of the game and he was good at it.
You had to be reasonably smart: keep the bottles well hidden, drink quickly and quietly, shoot the liquor straight or if mixing, pour it into an insulated school mug, do your best to hide your breath (especially during sign-in) and most importantly don’t do anything sloppy.
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“So it’s basically Scooby Doo, but instead of a dog we’ve got a shark.”
“Didn’t we just greenlight this?”
“That was Josie and the Pussycats Mr. Barbera sir.”
“Ok so this one has a shark. Are sharks big?”
“Jaws did very well at the box office last year.”
“Yes it did. Ok, so what does this shark do?”
“Well, the shark and his human friends solve mysteries in an underwater city. He also plays drums in a band called the Neptunes.”
“So, this shark, he can breath air?”
“Sure. And he can walk and talk.”
“A shark that walks, talks and breaths air. Who also plays in a band. I’m not sure I buy that, Rudy.”
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Mr. Coleman was in the booth next to us eating a steak at Dan Tana’s. He has a cut named after him there. I really hoped he was eating the Dabney Coleman. I pictured him saying to the waiter “I’ll have me, medium rare.” But I knew that didn’t happen. He was older, his salt and pepper hair turned completely white, and he was dining alone. But he was drunk in a good, jovial way and he enjoyed hitting on my producer. I could tell he was happy. And if Dabney Coleman was happy, then everything must be all right.
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