There was a monsoon last weekend. I stayed all cooped up the entire day, starting new projects I will never finish.

But after that it got nice and we all went out.

And some people went down.

Is that a whole pie or just a pepperoni? Appetizing nonetheless.

The other red bridge in my life.

I went into B&H one day to try out new lenses. This is the one I didn’t get but I wished I did get but don’t have enough money to make that wish come true. Canon 24mm 1.4L, I’ll miss you.

This is Georgie. He kept me company at work.

This is work. Saturday afternoon, sipping lemonade on the sidewalk with a bulldog waiting for the hungover to order po’boy sandwiches.

I finally met this little genius. Aki is really charismatic for someone who isn’t potty trained.

Let’s see how smart she stays with her new form of recreation.

I hang out with these characters all the time.

And this one not enough.

And sometimes all of them.

We went to a party but missed the nachos.

The best part of a party is always the rooftop.

And the getting there/going home.

This is life most glamorous.

friday the 13th

everything is just fine. don’t ask.

us vs. them

I couldn’t care less about scribbling your name around town, but this is one of the single best pieces of graffiti I’ve ever seen.

Less than a week after it went up, the city painted over it. Now it looks like this. Awesome!

Us vs. them.

These are my dreams.

I had a lot of visitors in the last few weeks. Rachael and Cary are among them.


These guys held it down.

Bob represents Berkeley.

Cameron eating his fourth dinner of the evening.

These guys are gonna get in so much trouble.

Hannah Hooper has such a nice spot in Chinatown. Everyone fell asleep at 7am in a circle on the floor.

Julian is serious about his cream cheese spreading.


Blake just got back from South America and we went to Josh Braver’s apartment. Roofs in NY are rad.

Target practice.

Once everyone left it was back to the locals. New York City bums.

This was nuts. There’s a rivalry between stoops on my block. The stoop from 225 threw down with the stoop from 218. They know better than to fuck with 221.

Craig Murphey loves hotdogs so much that he’s turning into one. Ketchup & Mustard.

I dragged Craig to a party at my old SF roomie Lin’s house. She has a blackboard for a wall and Craig sketched out his next tattoo. Little did he know that was my Halloween costume last year.

The wall at the beginning of the night.

It was an Easter Party/Jesus Zombie Party. That equals fun.

A friendly game of Uno.

Turned into Suck & Blow.

Which was awesoooome.

There was another party a couple weeks ago that had a mechanical bull. I’m pretty sure I could beat Luke Perry.

I fell asleep during the Les Savy Fav show and woke up to a big sloppy kiss from Tim the singer. He was still performing and the audience took cellphone pictures of us.

Francis got me a job delivering soul food for Mama’s. Beats messengering.

For my fake job, we interviewed The Walkmen.

They played us a few songs in their Practice Space.

They’re pretty good.

This is Ham.


No photograph ever was good, yet, of anybody–hunger and thirst and utter
wretchedness overtake the outlaw who invented it! It transforms into desperadoes
the meekest of men; depicts sinless innocence upon the pictured faces of ruffians; gives the
wise man the stupid leer of a fool, and a fool an expression of more than earthly
wisdom. If a man tries to look serious when he sits for his picture the photograph
makes him look as solemn as an owl; if he smiles, the photograph smirks repulsively;
if he tries to look pleasant, the photograph looks silly; if he makes the fatal mistake of
attempting to seem pensive, the camera will surely write him down as an ass. The sun
never looks through the photographic instrument that it does not print a lie. The piece
of glass it prints it on is well named a “negative”–a contradiction–a misrepresentation–
a falsehood. I speak feeling of this matter, because by turns the instrument has represented
me to be a lunatic, a Soloman, a missionary, a burglar and an abject idiot, and I am neither.

– Mark Twain, Letter to the Sacramento Daily Union, written July 1, 1866