b i r t h d a y

Jazz hands.

Of course we ate. Of course I took a picture.

Billy and Boyd.

Pepi Ginsberg. Holy Moly.

Deer Tick.

Sax in the backseat of my Camry.

That accent could spark some westward expansion.

Burly men love Lady Gaga.

Dr. Dog. I'm speechless. Just angelic.

contd.

They played the Breeze. Jesus. !

ah, still speechless.

Some guy crowd surfing at his bachelor's party.

Syllables are attempting to connect still.

Man, it was a fucking amazing birthday.

My spoils of war. And my tote bag arsenal ever amasses and carries my shit.

I want to thank Farid and Andrea for co-piloting this adventure with me.

Back To The Yeasayer Part II

Y E A S A Y E R

Known eco-terrorist, Geoff, seconds before his angeldust trip turns lethal.

Jen shows us a jellfish hickey. Only known cure: piss on your neck.

The middle guy showed me his nipple hours later. I owe him one; one nipple.

Lion King Lazer Show With Fire-breathing Zebras.

Stephen and Alan.

Cecil pointing out a unicorn in the crowd.

El Paso in the first row. Eat it, Marfa.

Left: Harry. Right: Henderson.

Stephen, the Loveboat.

Top to bottom: Alex, Billy Ray, Alex's crotch, Marfa asphalt.

Boy George's bicycle.

Three steers and no queers.

The coolest older sister and one soon to be smelly tent.