Hot Springs, Arkansas: a lovely place for fun!

Even though our trip has been riddled with problems from the beginning (car trouble, funding issues, clashing egos, internet failure, etc) for the most part we’ve been able to improvise with a little help from the nice folks we’ve encountered on the way. The hurricane destruction meant we had to cancel a lot of southern stops I was looking forward to including New Orleans and the Wichi Wachee Mermaids, but for everything that’ll have to wait til next time, we found something just as good.




We’d scheduled a shoot at the Arkansas Alligator farm. The helpful woman at the front counter informed me that the farm had been running for over a hundred years, and that the founder had been a driver for Al Capone during that time when Hot Springs was a destination for gambling, hookin’, and shoot ‘em up battles on the streets. After a lengthy explanation on how to feed bread to the goats, we were turned loose. We pet some goats, held some baby alligators and then Mike was into the pen with the full grown varieties, setting up his camera. While Chris, one of the alligator wranglers attempted to get a surly and hissing gator to hold still in front the camera (Mike’s process requires his subjects to pose for a relatively long time), John, a reporter from the local paper came down to interview us. He wanted to give us the low-down on unique things to see and people to meet in town. He had some friends that he was sure we’d want to photograph. Just down the street from the alligator farm, we met Zach and Cheryl, traveling musicians from Seattle, who’d found a happy home in Hot Springs and settled down to raise their newborn boy, and little girl, Eureka. A few minutes later, they were inviting us to stay the night, and decked out in their finest, giving an impromptu accordion and tuba rendition of the Talking Heads’ “Heaven” on their front lawn. An hour later, kids and warm beers in tow, they led the way to the nearby reservoir for an early evening swim. I can’t sing enough praises about Cheryl, Zach and their awesome kids, so I’ll keep it short - catfish, waffles, a bathtub outside, fire orange hair, and a dirty mouth; we didn’t want to leave.

Hurricane!

Hot Springs, Arkansas: got to the campground just after dark and set up right next to the interstate, but its green, mild and overcast, nothing like the oppressive Louisiana bayou we woke up in yesterday. Two days ago we were in hurricane country dodging trees through detours in blacked out parts of eastern Texas on our way out of Austin towards Shreeveport, LA. It was a surreal drive at night, past Sonics, Dairy Queens, and car dealerships, made mute with no electricity, ambulances driving in the opposite direction, and cars left by the side of the road every hundred feet. In the dark we could make out destroyed billboards, rescue crews and paniced locals. The occasional gas stations, still open with their hurricane taping up in the windows (Rita had done her turn the day before), were packed in with lines of cars and people sharing news and gossip while they waited. Before that there was the little gas/café where the large young lady behind the counter served up fried food and a little small town sensationalism, telling us that all the roads were closed, everything was wrecked, and everything else short of hell and damnation- nothing new as far as local advice. We'd waited it out in Austin for three nights, partly for hurricane reasons, but mostly for the roller derby girls, David's southern hospitality, and a whole lot of women in bondage attire.


But back to hurricane country, 6 hours of driving brought us in late to the Shreeveport KOA, where the man on the phone had told they were giving priority to evacuees, but there was still room for our tents. As late as it was, there were people crowded on cabin porches drinking and animated. A woman came up to us wanting to know where we were from and gave us the low-down . . . she'd been in the hot tub since 4 the last night so that was ok even though the signs said it was closed; the guy camped out next to the pool was a real ass, but tonight we were lucky cuz he'd gotten drunk early and passed out. The humidity was so oppressive, cold showers did nothing, but the pool was a few degrees cooler so that's where the night ended up. The next morning it was hotter, no one had slept very well, and we were obviously the only jerks at the campsite that couldn't deal with the weather. The other campers/evacuees had been up for hours and were drinking beers and making social calls to each tent site. Everyone was friendly and seemed eager to share their story. Some were from Texas, evacuated from Rita, some others from New Orleans. One couple, Nisee and Duane, who came up to the car for a closer look, told us they'd left New Orleans for Nisee's sister's house in Lafayette, but had to evacuate to Shreeveport when Rita hit. They hadn't been home in a month, they'd lost everything. Nisee told me that even though they'd lost all the photo albums of their family, at least she'd grabbed her daughter's first communion photo and dress and that she was just grateful to have all her family with her, that they could re-build, they would create new photos ”just like the ones on the car.” Nisee and Duane were thinking of moving to Las Vegas where Nisee could work in the casinos. Another man from Texas told us about losing his new home and having no insurance, but that he was grateful to be alive, to have his family with him, in fact his kids were having a great time, swimming in the campground pool, and being out of school, “they're happy the schoolbooks got destroyed in the house.” He was thinking of moving to New Jersey where he had some friends. He told us to “rock the New York show, and let them know what's going on down here.”

Pictures soon . . . waiting on Baltimore to get em printed.

Austin, Texas: Hi, How are you?

I think its fair to say we all fell in love with Austin, Texas. Aside from the heat, there was nothing not to like. We stayed with an old friend Dave Kahlili over the weekend, and quickly met some super cool folks. It was a busy weekend in Austin, with refugees fleeing a hurricane in Houston, to visitors for the Austin City Limits music festival, but we still had the best show in town. We met up with the Texas Roller girls on Friday and got some great shots. After wards some of the ladies invited us out, so we headed down to 6th st. Good times abounded and Mike even managed to get 86’d from a few places before we headed home for the night. Saturday our new friend Morgan who runs the Sin Sations sex shop rallied the troops and got us some sexy models to work with. We were too hung-over and over-worked to go big on Saturday night, and we wanted to get an early start to get to Daniel Johnston’s on Sunday so we went home early to watch Arrested Development and pass out.


Damian, Adam and Mike are already fans of Daniel Johnston and the rest of the crew have had an extensive introduction to his music during the trip so far. Any one familiar with Daniel Johnston’s simple, heartfelt tunes might expect him to be pretty introverted and shy but Danny was real friendly and made us feel welcome. Mike put it best when he said, “It was like meeting a Beatle.”

Pineapple shows his traditional Samoan scarification.

Adam and Daniel Johnston

New Mexico: Yuppies / American Indian motifs

The folks at the diner in Raton just loved us, and I realized that in most of the nation, coffee is included with your egg breakfast. People kept asking us to take them away from their dusty little towns and drop them off somewhere they think of as glamorous like Los Angeles or New York. They want in on the dream they think we’re living. I guess I want in on some of whatever they’ve got. Simplicity and space.

Soon we hit the mountains of northern New Mexico, the sun was warm and the light was that perfect blinding white that almost hypnotizes you while driving under the trees… light shade light shade light shade. It’s like some primitive chant repeated until your brain is set at ease and you stop expecting to see some strip mall or condo development settled into the scenery. We noticed a large creek following us switching from side to side through the mountain curves. We stopped, we stripped, we waded down into the rocks until the cold water puckered our skin and I don’t know about everyone else but I played my own little baptisim, plugging my nose and laying back like those old mass baptizings where hundreds of people dressed in white would follow a preacher down to the river to drown their sins. I let something go there, let it settle in my open palm flying out the window on the warm wind of this golden summer. At the bottom of the hills we stopped at a little artisan hut that had a simple hand painted sign outside saying “Art.” Good enough, we make art and so do they so why not. Mike photographed an old bronze caster who does huge commissioned statues of buffalos and Hank Williams for the local towns. He played ragtime on an old upright while a woman walked some of us through the bronze casting process. We passed the Rio Grande at sunset with the underwear we pinned to the curtain line flapping around in the heat.




Later in Sante Fe at sunset we wandered through the narrow high end streets watching everyone in white linen walk by as the light from tiny white Christmas lights mingled with the adobe giving off a slightly contrived yet somewhat calming light. Everything was too expensive. Beautiful and contrived and too expensive.



Driving through Roswell, NM at night I imagined the desert next to us a sea of India ink lit slightly from a half moon. We camped out under the stars in a state park called bottomless lakes. Really they are sinkholes and only two of the seven or so are actually fit for swimming. The rest smell too much like sulfur and are that strange blue green you only think is ok when there is a sign somewhere telling you that its alright to swim there. When we were driving in through the pitch black country roads the smells coming in through the window were an astounding array of putridity. Mike said he would like a cracker to put with the limburger cheese smell wafting through the van. For once it wasn’t one of us at fault, but instead the strange landscape.

Before falling asleep I heard what could only be described as a cow screaming. Too hot for a sleeping bag I fell asleep paranoid that the aliens my brother always warned me about were going to get me in the same way I imagined they were getting the screaming cows just a few feet from our tents.



Woke up to a swim in a blue sinkhole set against red rock and a realization that the landscape was beautiful. Shot some dairy queen workers, an alien enthusiast hell bent on building a hotel/ lounge modeled after an actual alien spacecraft, two cops in ten gallon hats and a sweet couple who run a tattoo shop / anti-alien propaganda store. All was well but news of the hurricane headed down south made us question our southern route.

Salt Lake City to Idaho

There's KOA and then there's primitive camping. Primitive camping at Sand Hollow Park in Zion, Utah didn't cost us anything and provided us with dry dust and a wet lake. However, in SLC for 40 dollars total we got a shower, a pool and wireless connectivity, plus we were right next door to the Old Bottling House, private club and lounge. Four dollars buys 8 people a membership (which is required to drink at a bar in Utah... membership makes boozing less sinful or something. The watered down beverages served us well for once, when we woke up feeling fresh for our big day in Salt Lake City. We're definitely looking forward to Idaho and Montana, after the weak cocktails in Las Vegas and SLC we could all use a real drink.

We managed to squeeze in three appointments in SLC: A chocolate factory, a non-denominational religious organization dedicated to the preservation of seven universal principles and egyption-style mummification of people and their pets, and a woman who makes vegan bondage wear.

Shortly after entering Idaho, just 30 miles shy of our next stop, our van broke down. It sputtered, shuttered, and started to glow. So we rolled in to town, on a tow truck. Not a bad way to make an entrance. If your gonna get stranded in a town, there are worse places than Pocatello (or P-Lo as some folks call it). It may not sound like much, even if it is the third largest city in YouDaHo, but the people were great and we had a blast. First off, the tow truck driver was super accomodating, then the folks down at Davies auto repair discovered, late on Friday, and just before closing for the weekend, that it was just a distributor cap. A half hour later we were saved from making a weekend layover in a town we were only planning on passing through.

Being the positive people we are, we decided to make the best of the situation. Friday night we lived it up. We were all dead-set on getting wasted at some local bars. We ate dinner and had drinks at the Office, where we got the breakdown on all the local hotspots, plus a tip for breakfast the next morning. First we went to Djs, a bikini strip club. It didn’t come highly recomended, but we all agreed the women were hot and the drinks were cheap. Next we went to the Green T, which we heard could get kinda rowdy, but they had a mechanical bull so we had to give it a shot. A few turns of the bull, and a couple of really awful sugury date-rape shots later, we jumped in a cab and returned to our favorite haunt, the Office. They had been so great we had to return for last call and by that point it was really jumping. They made us feel at home, and at the end of the night they even picked us up some Mexican food. At this point, I have to admit, that everything gets a little hazy, but our good cameraman, Aaron, got enough on film to fill in the blanks.

Saturday morning greets us with empty stomaches and a early morning (11am) wake up call. We threw everything together and prepared to get on our way to Denver. But we heard about a monster truck rally down at the fairgrounds. By the time we were finished with breakfast at Jeri’s Jumbos, photocar had backstage passes to the event, where we got some great shots from behind the scenes of the monster tuck circuit.

All the people in Idaho are really nice, and we left with nothing but good feelings for the place, until, a few miles from the Wyoming border, the local police dept decided they wanted a closer look at photocar. The next thing we know, every unit in town - including one guy who wasn’t even in uniform – are swarming around the van. We’re told to line up outside. They immediately bring out the drug sniffing dogs and start rifling through all our equipment while making idiotic comments (“hey! Thar’s nudity on this van!”) We end up - in handcuffs - freezing on the side of the road for nearly an hour while the cops go through their harass-the-Califony-hippies-routine. We thought we were about to all be ass-raped. Since we don’t smoke weed, they didn’t find anything. They said they thought we may be meth smugglers, but I don’t think drug dealers would drive such a conspicuous ride. It was totally unnecessary, and no amount of words can express my distaste for bad cops. A great weekend, sandwiched between some trouble, is always bitter sweet. We had a good time in Idaho, but we earned it for sure.

Zoloft works

Cats in New York and California and places like that often refer to the middle of this country as “the fly-over states” or a “red state hell-hole” and whatnot. Sure, the cell phones don’t work and it’s next to impossible to get decent sushi or a vegetarian meal. And yeah, we’ve all been making jokes about gun-toting yokels blowing us away a la Easy Rider or inbreds wearing masks made of human flesh hacking us to bits with machetes. But the more I travel around this nation, the more pleasantly surprised I am by the individuals I meet. Of course we’ll encounter plenty of frightenly ignorant reactionaries, defacto segregation, suburban sprawl, scary religious iconography and obese “ugly American” stereotypes, but not many more than we do in our sophisticated “progressive havens” on the coasts. The best part of the Photocar project is being able to meet up and engage with “ordinary” people from so many different places; Desert homesteaders, truck drivers, factory workers, students, forgotten people with their own unique story to tell. If nothing else, the Photocar is a traveling exhibition that comes to places where folks don’t often get out to see “fine art.” It’s pretty pretentious, but for the most part people’ve been appreciating what we’re doing.

I hate Las Vegas

We’ve all come to the consensus that Vegas is not our town. Even though the good folks at Viva Las Vegas Hotel and Wedding Chapel (the only place in Vegas that does gay weddings?) were generous enough to give us four themed rooms, we’re still on a budget, and Vegas is not the place for people who don't have much bread. We realized too late that we should have gone to a dive bar or some old town casino, but the lure of the strip was strong. After a gluttonous buffet experience, we spent the rest of the night meandering about among all the empty spectacle like brain-dead zombies. Adam was the mouthpiece to our discontent, and his vocal tirades and (loud) abhorrance of the place was eventually enough to push us over the line. Even the miles of dead-eyed gamblers endlessly feeding coins into beeping boxes don't get us any good photo shoots or interviews. This is possibly the most evil, dehumanizing shithole on the planet.



When it's time to retire, we split up into our four lovely honeymoon suites at the Viva Las Vegas (the Blue Hawaii room, the Egyptian Room, the super-coked-out Disco Room and the "Gothic" Room which includes a coffin themed bed and bathtub and a mural of Dracula on the door.

The Morning is all hangovers and realizing the extent of the damage done by the india ink that was spilt all over the bedspread and everywhere else. I slept (or rather fell over) in the Disco Room where everything was soft pink neon and mirrored surfaces. I walked into a completely destroyed room complete with polaroids tossed into empty whiskey cups and watercolor paintings scattered all over the muddied floor.We were ready to go early even though our shoot wasn't until three when the "nice" Elvis started his shift. We shot two newlywed couples as they came out of the back door of their five minute wedding chapel.

Death Valley spook house

The first thing that greets you is a big creepy mirror. The Hotel Amargosa is haunted; I’m afraid to ask my roommates how to spell it correctly for fear that saying it out loud will anger the spirits. Half the hotel Amargosa is closed, one wing is totally shut off, and every other door down the available hall is dead-bolted, to keep brave souls from encountering lost souls. It is quite a change from this morning, where we encountered nothing but lost souls in LA, where it’s not the mirror that’s creepy, but the endless fawning over it.

On the way out from Barstow, we killed a rabbit on the road, which isn’t so bad as the fact we held it up for inspection, and took pictures for posterity. Then Mike threw it up onto the roof of the car, it fell off 50 miles down the road, leaving a big red streak down the side.

Haunted hotel in Death Valley with a blood soaked car. Should be an interesting night. Mike is excited to see what happens when you combine all this with my inclination to night terrors and talking in my sleep. Frankly, I’m too tired to worry about it. Lauren on the other hand is visibly anxious.

Los Angeles minus the guilt

the van