Zuma on my birthday
April 23rd, 2009The Salton Sea
March 31st, 2009Zuma March 21 2009
March 22nd, 2009This week’s beach update splits between two weekends. The idea here is to try to convey what this experience is like for me…which is not about a bunch of macho young man’s stuff in which one tames a wave and conquers nature and engages in Xtreme anything…it’s more about the fact that you cannot conquer nature, you cannot will the ocean to do anything, it’s not listening to you and really doesn’t even know you’re there. it’s about some sort of sense of one-ness with the whole thing. It’s sort of easy to get that feeling of serene awe when you are sitting on a board in the ocean with the dolphins swimming not so far beyond you, storm clouds building over the mountains…
It’s like the Buddhist mindfulness/Vipasanna meditation, which is a meditation not of blissed out, what’s-up-with-my-naval escapism, but of focus, concentration on specific aspects of the immediate here-and-now.

My board, Zuma, March 14, 2009

Tere, Zuma, March 21, 2009
Ninja Magazine
March 17th, 2009Ninja Mag is a very cool French magazine that just published a small set of my old Crotch Rot shots. For those of you who are not in the know about such things, Crotch Rot were Austin hardcore teen sensations circa 1984. Drummer Felix, (who was about 14 in this shot) went on to play with DRI. You can check out Ninja Magazine (and download copies in pdf form) at www.ninja-mag.com


Crotch Rot at the Ritz, Austin Tx circa 1984
Alva’s Board
March 17th, 2009March 2 8am
March 4th, 2009Just South of Mecca
February 14th, 2009“Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around. Something is lost and cannot be found.”
Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost persons and things, has his own trailer park, just south of Mecca.
I’d guess a person living in the Saint Anthony Trailer Park is indeed lost, at least to the rest of the world, as is the case with pretty much everything near the Salton Sea.

North Shore, Salton Sea.
Diazepam & Dog Sex
February 1st, 2009I’m looking through all the comment spam that’s been filtered out of the website. There are two basic themes running: cheap Diazepam and dog sex.
There might’ve once been a period in my life when being zonked out on Valium watching bad video of chicks getting fucked by dogs had some appeal. But those days have passed. It just does not sound like a good time to me anymore.
Context 2: Pacific Coast Highway
August 1st, 2007Following the Michael Brewster acoustic installation/sculpture experience (more about that later), we got into a conversation about information and substance. I said that there is an overwhelming amount of information being thrown at us nowadays. He said “But the information is really thin.”
I’d never thought about that.
It seems there is this human compulsion (I wouldn’t call it a need) to divide stuff up into ever smaller bits, and then look at each bit in isolation. Sometimes this is a valuable tool, like when you’re faced with a situation (or situations) the sum of which seems insurmountably huge. Breaking it up into bite sized chunks and then achieving those individually gives a sense of incremental accomplishment that you don’t get when tackling the whole, and sometimes that quantifiable progress is necessary just so you don’t give up.
But we take this too far when it comes to things like information.
The truth is there’s probably not any more information than there ever was. It’s just that we’ve broken it down into such tiny little bits that there are far far far more pieces of information.
In the case of information, this micro approach isn’t such a good thing. Often times those little bits of information are meaningless until assembled into a larger whole.
This is an image:
It’s 650 x 427 pixels in size, which means a total of 277,550 individual pixels. As it stands, that’s a pretty small image — smaller than it looks. The internet is all about compression, which basically means taking something and removing substantial amounts of information from it, and then reassembling it out of what’s left, creating the illusion of substance by making up what isn’t there, sort of like George Bush did with weapons of mass destruction and the war on Iraq. Compression is big business.
If I break it down into 277,550 individual pixels, I’m left with 277,550 bits of individually meaningless information. Even if I break ‘em down into 6 pixel increments, my individual bits of information are meaningless on their own. Try extrapolating that photo from this 6 pixel bit:

Sometimes, though, you can get some pretty amazing results by breaking something down into tiny parts and then reassembling those parts into something altogether different than its source. Here are a handful of video stills. These are from a 10 minute-or-so-long clip I shot pointing the camera out the car window while driving down PCH in the “city” part of Malibu. The video is kind of abstract — cars, buildings, people randomly interrupt the view more often than the view of the ocean can actually be seen, and they’re blurred ’cause I’m driving by at 50 mph.
Video shoots 30 frames per second, with means something like 18,000 frames exist on that clip, and I’ve isolated 40 or so individual frames that looked cool to me. Here are 12 of ‘em, 12 semi random 1/30-of-a-second-in-time moments, combining to make up just over 1/3 of a second of real time (and, maybe, 100 feet max of real distance) pieced together from 10 minutes in time and 8 miles of actual road.

Junk
November 19th, 2006My buddy says he and his girl are going back on methadone. They just haven’t been able to kick this time around.
I ask him what he’s gonna do with all his rigs. He asks if I need ‘em for props. Yeah. I do. I need to shoot some rigs and I haven’t had any laying around the apartment in a long time. 10 years.
I expect he’s gonna bring over a handful. Instead, he brings over a tupperwear dish with maybe 50 or more.
The next morning he sticks his head in my apartment. There was a clean rig in that batch. Can he get it back?
They ran into an old high school friend the other day. Her boyfriend is a dealer. She offered her number but they didn’t take it. They know where to find her, though. Walking distance. They head out on foot, find the chick, cop and are back in no more than 15 minutes.





Sometimes I wonder how a nice boy from a good family like me ended up living the life I’ve lived…and still live, I guess, because even with 10 years clean it remains all around me. Shooting pictures of junkies is not a walk on the wild side for me, not a descent into a murky darkness I feel compelled to explore but merely a step out the front door. It seems this shit is always gonna be a part of my life, and I suppose that makes perfect sense, really, since it is part of how I got from there to here.
Occasionally someone suggests that I should try to notice all the nice stuff around me, because, they tell me, it’s there. And it is. But for some reason I’m more interested in pointing out the things that surround us all but most of us remain unaware of. I assure you there’s a junkie in your midst. There’s probably a homosexual or two. Someone on the corner will sell you crack. I don’t care where you are. That girl-next-door porn fantasy? She might really be next door. Whether all this is good or bad is a matter of opinion, and that opinion doesn’t change the fact that it is. Period.










