Beware of Darkness.

Several months ago, I slowly began to realize that something was lacking in my life. I knew I must move, and move quickly; but to where? Would Bun Boy Country be my salvation?


Nay; 'twas not to be the station of mine own salvation. Further into the mojave, we drove. But Soft, what pillar in yonder desert arises? Could it be, the WORLD'S LARGEST FUCKING OUTDOOR THERMOMETER? WELL, SHIT ON ME!














Yes, the town of Baker, California, did lift my spirits, but wholeness came not to my soul. Then I realized: I needed to see Wonders of the World... like Pyramids.














.. Perhaps Ellis Island, home of the greatest gift bestowed by les Francais, The Statue of Liberty?














But where, dear reader, couldst this unconscious sufferer, wandering aimlessly, bequeath the solemn sorrows of today to others and thusly and truly have my druthers?










Why, Las Vegas, Natch.



And what better company to mend my wounded timbre than mine own brother from Colorado, his good lady Stephanie, and home slice T.J., driving companion, friend, drinker of warm bud light in a small plastic cup from the bathroom of the Tropicana?













...Although I guess we were all guilty of said latter description.





"Dude.. Check this out! Over here!"









The view from the terrace.. and what they were looking at intently, to the right, the ass of the Folies Bergere (tm) chick. A fine ass indeed.















.. And then we went out, experienced debaucherous Vegas goodness, wielding and never yielding unique, tangible mojo, and I forgot the camera.


... But when we came back, however, everyone was ready for bed. Except this partying motherfucker, bitches.













Here I give 'em the ole' "Sleep, eh? I'll show you by photographing the ole' smoke-wink!" Note the ridiculous sized shaving cut on the lower-left-chin-area. Slow down, self.



"How you like the other side o' the face in-action weed stravaganza?" Sadly, there were eight of these pictures total, as everyone else decided it was bed time, and I. COULD. NOT. STOP. ROCKING. THE. FUCK. OUT. For there are, at any given time, millions of children, nation, nay, WORLD-wide, who are unable or simply afraid to engage themselves in any such expressions of rock, and frankly, I dug deep, whipped it out, and threw it on the table. ALL. FOR. THE. CHILDREN.


So I ambled back out into the city..














.. And straight to the Spearmint Rhino.

Because, well, only the cool roll solo to strip clubs...

.. Weep for our lonely souls.

May I Never Have To Decide Between Three Such Wonderful Options

.. Although I hear there's some sort of "Branch" in Waco that is into my first name, only with an "ian" suffix...

Anne Geddes, you freak me the Fuck out.

Dearest Anne:

Let me first say I undoubtedly respect your abilities as a photographer. You have a unique vision, and you work hard to further your goal of.. well, whatever it may be. You certainly know how to develop film. I could even go so far as to say you are peerless in this category, but upon further reflection, I've decided I cannot substantiate this with any discernible evidence.


The sanctity of mother and child is indisputable; I for one would never deign to blaspheme said union with ridicule and scorn. I believe, and I actually thought long and hard about this, that, well, children are the future. I think that we, as upstanding members of civilized society, should teach them well and eventually let them lead the way. Of highest import, however, is that we show them all the beauty they possess inside.

And, well, it wouldn't hurt to give them a sense of pride; it could even make it easier. And when the time arrives when second guessing and perhaps concern begin to creep in, we can always let the children's laughter remind us how it used to be.

So I was walking in the mall, being accosted by cart people trying to sell me new Cellular phone service (Please, just shut the fuck up you fucking annoying fucks - oh, and eat a bowl of dick while you're at it), and I come across the new Anne Geddes calendars. And I admit, though intrigued, I was freaked the fuck out.








What happens when this guy stands up? BAM! Baby death.







Oh, how sweet! BABY PINATAS. Donde Esta mi stick y blindfold? WHACK WHACK WHACK








And just what is happening here? Who are you, Marv Marinovich, trying to breed the next super athlete? Let the Child BE! No one is that flexible! Oh wait, this must be the child of Sri Pattabhi Jois. Or is this kid just DEAD? Is THAT what it takes to get your child into a GEDDES?

Maybe it's just me.

Big Ass Martini Glass: Or How I Learned to Stop Hating and Love the Gin

I am a Glass Blower.

As I work with borosilicate glass as my medium, I am technically a LampWorker.

T'is true. Some times I underwhelm myself; others, I am able to find the fine line between acceptance and smug, self-anointed beattitude regarding my "Artistic" output, potentialities, and current, demonstrated capabilities. I thought I was pretty fucking dope when I made this big ass, two foot five inch lamp, replete with glass lampshade and filled with multicolor aquarium sand.

















Yes, friend, I was proud that day. But with many interests and questions abounding in my life, I have strayed from the torch on recent occasion, favoring the comfort of alcohol and other forms of persuasion to get me through the slowly encroaching cold tightening its grasp on the San Diego autumn evenings.

Sunday, however, the muse reached forth, and with both hands carried me from the walking slumber of the Sabbath, directing me toward the work studio. To the backyard I went, with visions of prophetic cherubs blowing heavenly horns on high, heralding mine emergence into the greatness of the art world.

Then, however, I fucked up about three pieces in a row, and decided I needed a drink. Little did I know, Inspirado lurked nearby, like an eleven year old pickpocket in an Amsterdam train station, daring you to venture unaccompanied into Le Double V C.

Said lurking by inspirado was done in a bottle of gin, and before you can say "Pour me another," I had undertaken a quest to create the Largest Martini Glass in the World - or at least the biggest one I had ever made.

















This is how it turned out - 2 feet, 9 inches of pure, unadulterated, Gin consuming power.


















Pat demonstrates the sheer power and terrifying potential of such an instrument. He, however, chose Jack Daniels on ice to inaugurate the beast.




Gumby goes all 'Heff.