I finally got some of my black-and-white 4x5" images back. These are photographs of them, not scans. 4th of July from our balcony:
The following three are from Monday night down not he Platte River under Speen St and 15th St in Denver.
We picked up some fireworks on the way through Georgia and thought we'd put them to good use on the beach. Our cab driver (not the one named Yoda -- no I'm not kidding) let us know that fireworks + beach = jail, along with suggestions on how to use an M80 to deter would-be home invaders. Anyway, we did the obligatory sparkler writing, followed by Matt's fire dancing, and finally decided to appease the natives and set me on fire with 30 feet of fuse ... check out the pics below!
Las Vegas sits in the middle of some of the most beautiful terrain this country has to offer. And most of the millions of fucking tourists never see it. It's like they say, "ooh shiny! oooh tits! ooh buffet!" and while they're inundated by fake they quickly lose their hold on reality. I mean, fuck, I like shiny. I like tits. I love the fucking buffet. So we struggle to remain even sort of rooted, so getting the fuck outta Dodge is a requirement. We headed to the Valley of Fire. If we didn't have shit to do, I'd rework the 23rd Psalm to my purposes. Alas, I'm just gonna drop a teaser. We went with friends of Phaux ... maybe more on them another time. Good people.
Sometimes I think we should rename this blog Proof Of Future Cancer with all the smoking that's captured on film. Anyway, Phaux, thanks for the ego-porn.
Yeah, this a road. It screams Moto Guzzi commercial. Except we were driving a Kia. But everytime we parked it, it looked like one of those depressing mini-van commercials that consoles both men and women about the depressing sterility and banality of their existence by saying, "You will not always be changing dirty diapers in the living room watching SportsCenter, sometimes you will be changing dirty diapers in the the desert."
So, this is the kind of shit that you get when you take 3 awesome photographers to the desert ... serious ego porn.
These were taken with a IR-modified Canon G9, which for some reason turns my clean shaven face into very strange 5 o'clock shadow, sort of like the oldest brother on Party of Five. You know, the guy who became the doc on Lost? Don't you think it's strange that when he's living on Alamo Square with running water and Walgreen's within walking distance he never could shave, but when he gets on the semi-deserted island in the middle of Pacific, he actually is Wall Street clean shaven? Weird. Oh, yeah, that's a knife. Not the Global, but hey.
That's Sylvester. Photographer-slash-Art Director. That's my grill going in the background. Cowboy cheesesteaks, rosemary pork tenderloin au poivre, asparagus. That's why they let me tag along.
I hate to tease all of you with this shot ... but pretty sick, huh? And that's not even the best shot. God I just creamed myself.