Photocar 2005 - the begining

In September of 2005 six artists set out across our immense and majestic country to put a finish to their endless searching for the American dream. Hoping to find it somewhere in the back alleys and smoky bars that make up the smile lines and crows feet of America, they have launched a month long photography expedition to somehow put a face to this America they long so hard to find. They will be documenting the people and places they see through their own eyes in scratched black and white photography, paint, blood and the written word as they go. This is the first chapter in a weekly plight to find love and laughter and inspiration in the face of America.

Michael Garlington is turning 28, and although he could have chosen any bar in all of San Francisco to serve up his cherished vodka martinis, he chose to rent out a small Korean sports bar in the Richmond district to celebrate the big day. I arrive late, and still manage to elicit the same response everyone else did when I walk through the door. Thunderous applause and a stiff drink. Well the drinks aren’t that stiff, and after getting a huge hug, a sloppy kiss on the cheek and a marriage proposal from Mike he turns to hassle the obviously frightened young Korean bartender about the strength of her drinks. When her mother steps in to counter attack Mike, he quickly backs down and his accusations not so smoothly became flirtations, swearing to her he’ll prove his loyalty if only she’ll promise to go on a photo shoot with him at stow lake tomorrow at noon, but she has to do a nude.

Leaving Mike to whisper adorations to his newfound lady friend who at this point is blushing and making coy eyes, I wander into the crowd of my loyal friends and fellow like-minded miscreants, fashionista lushes, beautiful outsiders, who are already smashed, singing at the top of their lungs and threatening nudity if I don’t sing their song with them. I do. We always do, and Mike’s birthday is an extra special occasion to break into song. This one is a favorite, “…we laughed my friends and I, we swore we’d be together until the day we die, until the day we die.” Drinks are sloshing around atop raised arms like pirate ships amongst the turbulent sea of drunk people below, arms are thrown around waists and shoulders and kisses were being stolen left and right.

I think about the idea of home, and what that means after you’ve flown the coop and maybe you’re parents are divorced or maybe one lives in India or has too much plastic surgery or maybe you own a business with them, maybe you never see them, maybe they still live in the house you grew up in. I think about the idea of a place where everyone knows exactly who you are without hiding anything, without having to strategically rephrase that weekend you spent in Reno on drugs last year. I think about who to call with secrets and inspirations and realize they are all standing around me, holding me up. These guys and gals making up a team of six interesting and articulate people who afford me constant fascination and inspiration had become the thing I would most define as home. Only they won’t let me back out of singing a song on the OK! Karaoke system without a fight. I appease them for a few moments by hunkering down with the song list book on the bar, a dirty martini shoved in my face by Damian who loudly asks if I’ve ever seen a martini served in a shot glass before, his long hair framing his expressive eyes. I call him every Sunday night, after work when everything is almost too quiet and stifling just to hear an upbeat voice on the other end of the phone. He is one of the most realistic actors I’ve ever met and I think that must be why I call him with all my dirty laundry, we all do. He’s good that way.

I knock back the martini shot and laugh just as Adam Beebe picks up the microphone to sing the same song he always sings at karaoke. And yes, we find ourselves at late night karaoke more often than not. “Those were the days my friend.” Adam always sings this, and the funny thing is, he splits his pants right in the end of the song, as the whole bar made up of our close friends is whaling along. He has split his pants every time he has sung this song for the entire time I’ve known the man. He turns red, and when I question him later he promises me he never once did it on purpose. I believe him. I suppose he’s just the pants splitting type, and as he would say it’s a lucky thing for the ladies that he doesn’t wear underwear.

Mike makes his way over to me through the stinking happy crowd and yells something to me about my pants. “Yes!” I yell, “They’re pants!” Something about the pants makes Mike get down on his knees and propose again, I tell him I’m betrothed to God, and that they could resort to fisticuffs if necessary.

“Then come on Photocar.” Mike says with a look of total earnestness swept across his never still but now motionless face. I shift my focus to the room behind me and see four of my closest friends stopped amongst the turbulent crowd seething around them, looking for my reaction. I ask who is going, even though I already knew the answer. A photographer, an actor, a painter, an artist and I am the last to be asked, the writer. Melina Giorgi, Damian Kalish, Adam Bebe, Eric Melthesen, and Lauren Freyer.

Do I want to travel around this vast and disgustingly glorious land with some of my closest friends taking photographs and advantage of all the strange Americans we were to come in contact with? Do I want to try my hand as a beekeeper, go spelunking, scuba diving, dress as a mermaid for an underwater show? Do I want an all expense paid ticket to Photo New York, the most important of all photography exhibitions?
My answer? Fuck Yes.

We spill out of the bar with the owners and bartenders of the joint spread out like a human barrier across the inside, pushing us out into the San Francisco night. Someone tries hailing a cab, but somehow manages to flag down a stretch limousine like catching a dolphin amongst a sea of tuna. We decide not to throw it back, and pile in, one on top of another.

A few minutes into the ride I hear Eric bet Mike twenty dollars that he’ll be the first one to make me cry. Melina says that all she really cares about is that no one films her shaving her legs. I off handedly mention that Mike may be looking a little red in the cheeks on account of all the vodka and I know I’m hitting a nerve because the next thing I know there’s a fist pummeled through the empty seat next to him, pillow stuffing flying about the cab like some strange nuclear teddy bear fallout. Damian’s laughter at Mike’s outburst fills the cab of the limo as we sail down the avenues through the misty night. This, I decide amongst the cheap booze and pink neon, was going to be a strange and fantastic, drunk and debaucherous, once in a lifetime ride. I hunker down with another whisky as Mike’s mock anger passes, I start the group singing again as we coast towards the first leg of our journey, each one of us unsure of what is to come next, only knowing that wherever it is, we want to be there. Through the tantrums and catfights, through the dirt and grime of ten-dollar campsites, the excess of penthouse suites, one thing I’m sure of is that we all want to be there.

Lauren Freyer