Hey look, it’s a picture of me reeeeeally faded as a teenager. Propped up by my friends who are still my friends. Kinda wedged between them, actually, Weekend At Bernie’s style. 

Well, that was fun. Now read this: http://velamag.com/the-ism-and-the-alcohol/

Hey look, it’s a picture of me reeeeeally faded as a teenager. Propped up by my friends who are still my friends. Kinda wedged between them, actually, Weekend At Bernie’s style.

Well, that was fun. Now read this: http://velamag.com/the-ism-and-the-alcohol/

americanguide:

A BRIEF GUIDE TO LOS ANGELES IN SEVEN FACES 

There is a large transient population of tourists, job-hunters, climate-seekers, elderly retired persons, and Hollywood hopefuls.

With these comparative newcomers, who form the majority of the population, ties with the home state remain strong. Angelenos dearly love to reminisce about “back East” and “back East” may be anywhere east of the Rocky Mountains.

This attachment for the old home furnishes a clue to the character of the City of the Angels and its people. It suggests that the transplanted settler has never quite grown used to living here, has never quite been able to regard Los Angeles as his true home. Coming largely from the prairie regions, of rigorous climate and even more rigorous conventions, he suddenly finds himself in an exotic land of lofty purple mountains, azure ocean, and mild, seductive climate, where the romance of old Spain is nurtured and blends with the gaudiness of Hollywood, where rigid conventions are relaxed and comparative tolerance is the rule. To many a newcomer, Los Angeles is a modern Promised Land. It amazes and delights him, and thaws him out physically and spiritually. There is a heady fragrance in the air, and a spaciousness of sky and land and sea that give him a new sense of freedom and tempt him to taste new pleasures, new habits of living, new religions. Finding himself in the amusement capital of the West and at the hub of a vast natural playground offering every variety of sport from surf boarding to skijoring, he proceeds to have more fun than he ever dreamed was possible. He is fascinated by strange new industries and new agricultural products: movie studios, oil fields, almond orchards, vineyards, olive and orange groves. He encounters new and exotic types of people: movie actors and sombreroed Mexicans, kimonoed Japanese and turbaned Hindus. He develops an urge to try things that are novel and exciting, from Chinese herb doctors to Indian medicine men, from social credit to nudism, from a wine-colored stucco dwelling to a restaurant shaped like a hat. And because the array of things to do and see is so dazzlingly different from everything he has known, his curiosity is always whetted, his appetite never sated. He feels a certain strangeness in this place he now calls his home, a strangeness that is at once exhilarating and disturbing, and that he had not known in his native place “back East.”

Los Angeles, A Guide To the City and Its Environs (WPA, 1941)

* * *

Julie Grace Immink is a social documentary photographer living in Los Angeles. She was born in the wagon of a traveling show. Exploring the streets with her camera is how she connects to the surrounding world. Her photographs are saturated with thoughts on life, death, faith and community. She gains inspiration from anything old and broken but believes in healing and restoration. Follow on tumblr at juliegracephotography.tumblr.com.

This dispatch arrived care of THE AMERICAN GUIDE submission page. Be a guide yourself and send a post from your state: theamericanguide.org/submit.

Oh, how amped am I to inhabit *this* LA soon??

The last day of unknowing. So unknow this. Unlisten, unwait, uncheck the email, disconnect. Sit on the balcony and listen to the horns, the men shouting. Watch the lights of the restaurant across the water click off, the headlights spin, the elevator rise, the reflection of the flash of the high-rise neon, and know that this will all be gone. You will be gone from it, and the past is already another country inside you, a country you’re living in—it’s all already antiquated and yellowed, and this balcony is gone and these clothes have grown moldy and this body has wrinkled and weathered, and this is your last chance, your last night, to not know anything that’s coming. And you could live in it, as long as the bikes keep running and the cigarette burning and the morning never comes.

nevver:

“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”  — Flannery O’Connor (above, with self-portrait)

nevver:

“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”
Flannery O’Connor (above, with self-portrait)

(via maudnewton)

It is winter ending on Earth

(Think of this poem every year on this day)

Happy St Patti’s Day

Happy St Patti’s Day

Frog Slaughter O’Clock

…starts just before I get there. Every day that I go to the market—bananas, 4pm—the three of them are back there: squatting on the tiles, in the blood, rubber boots and rusty surgical scissors, decapitated bodies in various stages of dismemberment in buckets, on the floor, in their hands. Sometimes they’re without skin; sometimes their innards have been gutted and are lying on the floor beside them, all that dastardly inside exposed, extricated, right out there on the tiles. Sometimes it’s just the head that’s been snipped off. But always there’s a beating, a pulse made visible by the blood, the throat, the gushing.

They put them in a pile. In a bucket, different from the basket in which they hang them, still alive and waiting. They must know. In their amphibian brains, their legs tangled and hanging out from the holes in the netting—it doesn’t take a monkey brain to tell you that you’re fucked.

The people who do it seem like regular market people: two women in leopard-print leggings and weird floppy hats, the main guy young, probably younger than me though his skin is hard. The first time I saw him, he was squatted in the blood, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he assembly-line slit the throats of the frogs and tossed them aside. I don’t know where his coworkers had gone. He was alone back there, methodical, exact, covered in the blood. The beating of all those throats was deafening, like a tunnel closing in on me, and I must have been giving him a look, cause he looked up at me as if to say, “What? I’m just sitting here, smoking a fag and cutting the heads off some frogs, you got a problem with that?” And I looked at his as if to say, “No, actually, no problem at all.” Then I took my bananas and kept walking.

We still see each other, almost nod to one another now. Sometimes he’s cutting their heads and sometimes he’s gutting them and sometimes he’s just sitting on an upturned bucket and looking down at all the blood and guts, probably thinking, “Damn, I’m the one who’s gotta clean this all.”

We don’t smile at each other. But I’m hoping someday, if I keep walking past, we will.

image

millionsmillions:

Rashard Mendenhall is retiring from the Arizona Cardinals in order to write, among other reasons. “The truth is, I don’t really think my walking away is that big of deal. For me it’s saying, ‘Football was pretty cool, but I don’t want to play anymore. I want to travel the world and write!’” Maybe he’ll be published by another retired sports star’s imprint?

That’s the spirit!

(Single??)

millionsmillions:

Rashard Mendenhall is retiring from the Arizona Cardinals in order to write, among other reasons. “The truth is, I don’t really think my walking away is that big of deal. For me it’s saying, ‘Football was pretty cool, but I don’t want to play anymore. I want to travel the world and write!’” Maybe he’ll be published by another retired sports star’s imprint?

That’s the spirit!

(Single??)

Rich people Surrealist party: one of the best reasons for rich people

Rich people Surrealist party: one of the best reasons for rich people