I'd planned and wrought a more ambitious project using Manuel's creations, but did this test shoot first, just to prove its impossible for the armor or these models to ever look bad.

19th-This trip is shaking pieces off me, moving the inert dust.  Not a massive upheaval, but something subtle, like a process or meditation.  And I want to help it, this chemistry, I want to limber up the bones and brain  beneath the dust, and soften the soil for the plough.  Did someone put a canoe in my trousers?

Arrive at the glorious villa of David bereguard's ancestors, had a wonderful dinner with the family of jean-marc, slept 12 hrs then bicycled through village to l'auberge de cygnet for lunch, slept on a matress in the sun then went for a walk in blackness after sex.  Followed by cards and Camembert in our massive living room.  I heart villas.

Don't go to provins with luggage, all hills and cobblestones, no lockers in the station.  But it does boast a thousand year history, protected by a great network of battlements you can actually explore unsupervised.  As in you can jump on them!  And climb and hurdle, not that I did, I was respectful.

We manage to generate a tail for this photographic comet, as upwards of 15 people begin to shamelessly follow us, shooting with whatever gizmos they have on hand.  even attracted my first ever papparazzi, who clearly is the first to intuit the fame I have yet to achieve...

Paris is the city of ancient and obese doors that take two to open, and yes the Tower does in fact take your breath away the moment you see it.  I see it first materialize out of mist above the heads of the barely clad models I'm shooting in the Place de Concorde, so its really a 2-fer. 

Sooo, apparently it is not only ok for children rounding the age of 6 to urinate in public, making utter spectacles of themselves, but tis also acceptable, nay expected, that their parent take an active role in holding, shaking and dabbing.  Never have I felt so titanic a wave of culture shock, or put away my camera so hastily. 

There is one peculiar thing missing from the streets of Paris; coffee shops.  I'm in a fucking starbucks in Paris because after a one hour walk, I'd been unable to locate the quotidian mélange of espresso and pastries.  At least English is spoken, albeit tentatively, as last night I cunning attempted my pizzeria order in French and ended down 35 euros and up 2 extra pies.  Apparently coke is a type of pizza here, involving chicken and a manner of pepper...I ordered 2.

OCT9th-My first brilliant experience after removing myself from the eurostar is the dulcet singing voice of the french train announcements, it just made me feel so at home in their station.  Which explains why it takes me an hour to actually exit the place, what with a distinctly foreign aspect to the signage and trouble finding a luggage locker.  The coiffed spaniel riding up the escalator with her master greets me as I take my leave, and I realize I don't believe ever having seen a dog on an escalator before, but it does have a ring to it.  The corner bakeries are populated with baskets of conspicuously French bread. Obscure French words for search, thing, without, rise like ramparts from the fog of war, but do little to assist in the purchase of cheese.  Better to have remembered the French for smoked, or cheddar; ended up with neither, just a wedge of something soft and smelling of moist earth, that spread proudly over heel of a baguette.

My favorite view of the Mona Lisa was of all the people queuing to take her picture, often with a flash despite her being glassed off; the reason being at least 90% of these art lovers actually walked away after their photo...without looking at the fucking painting!  At least their camera phone got to see the world's most famous portrait.  And yes, I took this with my camera phone

St Margarets built in 1150 and still serving haggis milkshakes after all this time

A glittering attempt to capture us contained within the panorama of Scotslandia

A picturesque view from the monument of the sheer stupendous glory and sass that be edinburgh.  I limped up 200 fucking stairs, so appreciate.  They have a Cafe Nero just off the right in an alley, for those making a similar pilgrimage, and this one provides a magic card, that when stamped 9 times, manifests a free mug of coffee.

This species of fox does not enjoy posing in the wild, but I'm a fast hand at this photography stuff.

One is able to climb the mightily narrow staircases up to the top of this gothic sensation, and succumb to a panoramic view of the city.  Better than haggis.

We stayed at Skin, the fab pink lustered model who graces the wanks of the rich and famous, due largely to her spread in Bizarre.  I am still reverse jet lagged, so this view is basically what I saw every morning at 7am.  The city is a darling, so finite, so utterly crossable!  You can climb something high and see right where it gets eaten up by pasture on most every side.  Not nibbled mind you, thoroughly consumed!  I think perhaps 3 years of LA's sprawl invites a sheer and gratifying pleasure beholding a modest city comfortable with its own proportions. 

london st pancras station, waiting for my silver streak to Edinburgh.  This trip incited a dear feeling in my cockles for the english sheep.  They looked like tiny snowflakes, scattered by the shadow of the oncoming train.

Vex refuses to pose for me, so we decided to turn out digits into dinosaurs, and let them battle it out before the view out my window, in verdant Clapham Common.  Mine was a carnevorous brontosoreass, thats a joke to remind myself that I'm vulgar and american despite my current living circumstances, ancestry, and accidental charm.

This is an impromptu from my last shoot in LA, as I am now wuthering the hedgerows of jolly England for the next few months.  Notice the strident moustachios, capably, earnestly supported by the dapper braces and half wainscotting of duds Heathen, my faultless five and diamond obsession.

Sometimes we need nude black and white images of ladies in helmets to remind us of what love looks like.  The fact that its only been a day since she left for Edinburgh, and I'm already pining away alone in our little room above Clapham Commom, must mean that either I'm a pruned sap, or possessed of an awful short term memory.

This man is somewhere in eastern Europe, calling people sir.

Skin is the first experiment in pretty pretty versus portrait...theres a book here somewhere, but I don't have the energy and latex feels like wearing wet cabbages on you, I know because I had to wear a shirt once for a fashion show. 

If dylan monroe was any better looking, I'd send a search party out looking for his humanity.  He hurts your eyes less if you squint, but that gives you wrinkles, and then a day will come when you blame dylan for your unattractive crows feet, and he doesn't need that pressure.

he's that goodlooking for a reason.

christiane indulges my whim for soot and and broom handles.

the thunder and jelly and jam that is britney,  may she forever sweep the dew from my loins.

my two favorite naughties paid a visit to the studio before leaving permanently for Houston. Now who's going to hit me with a cattleprod when I wear lingerie on my head?

so he's not a wee bairn after all.....

For those who long to return to their childhood, I can facilitate such desires with a whisk of my mouse....

featured in the upcoming Citizen Game and the Expendables, as easy going as he is enormous. And a premium dancer

all kinds of people populate the hollywood cemetary not the least of which is this mustachio'ed minx; apparently she grows and cultivates rhinestones in nebulous Topanga caverns with which to adorn her upper lips and like areas..

a jaunt to the insane asylum one lazy sunday, and there spotting the muse of Arkam, le Kayta, feeding the vampire mouse as is her wont

I rubbed a lamp and there he was!

This extended family allowed me the chance to photograph their yearly summer portrait, and such a delight it was. The crouton pudding was divine....

I recently had the chance to knock heads with the elusive Norton P, fresh from his travels about and around the Orient; the sheer will within his outstreched palm was enough to draw me away from the confines of this reality.

a glimpse into the glamorous world of my dog, who stayed motionless on a 2 foot platform as long as I held a treat in front of the lens....

jeff parise the ever presence, invokes the spirit of a long dead sorceror with an enormous penis in order to further the cause of Czarist russia. he then proceeded to cut his own hair and beard for a follow up headshot, so not only can he act, he's a shoe in for the supercuts franchise

the long overdue beauty shoot featuring shannon and amy donning the majestic creations of drewbird; Rhee and daven furthered the delight that was this experience, enhancing the macabre aesthetic.

mad grindhouse design by Ou11aw

the beautiful selene, gracing the cover of the glorious Coilhouse, long may it reign and smite the artsy.

I'd like to say you'll be seeing more of her, but her head was so good looking, I lopped it off and froze it. Now she only comes out for monopoly games.

Lost in the land where bad paintings go to die, the Marquess Oasis de Cameltoe, heir to the realm of Good Taste, forges ahead through the twisted brambles and gilt, searching for a way home. Armed with the artifact Clouded Judgement, a head that glowed when danger hovers, her royal breast bare and perky, she marvels at the sheer absence of negative space.

The dulcet tread of the Marquess did not go unnoticed; the dark Lady of the amputee animals sensed the fresh and tender spirit ambling amidst the disembodied bits and moths and creatury things, and summoned her minions thus beginning the chase. Woe betide the innocently accessorized wandering the lairs of her legion.

She came to a turn amidst a boar infested chimney, and the Clouded Judgment shone excelsior, boding trouble for the questing Marquess. A quicksliver shadow flashed to her left, drowned by the sudden crash of something big behind...

Bursting from the inverted underbrush, or overbrush as it were, a fell apparition, the lion guardian of the Nether Regions, the arch fiend Derrick, or Duds for short. The terrified Marquess plunged forward into the mangy morass, the sulfur breath of the beast hot against her hips.

The moment all seemed lost, she is rescued by the demon Denver Barbados. Though initially wary of the motives of her would be savior, known to be the illegitimate adopted daughter of the Grandest Demon Ouchless Tumor, the Marquess was nonetheless won over by her magpie love of brassy accessories and horns. She felt safe crushed against the armored bosom of Barbados.

The Demon Barbados demanded payment for the timely rescue of the royal personage, and only one would suffice. All royals carry within them a hand crafted wooden soul, made by the finest Balinese sculptors, as a better than average replacement for an actual one....forged in the nethers of Queen Babs Downey Jr, the soul was the Marquess' only link between the realm of the Living, and compelling puppet theatre.

Her pantomime soul finally lost to the Demon Barbados, the Marquess Oasis de Cameltoe suffers the ultimate penalty for her faith in wire and bits; pushed from the precipice into a void of carbon darkness where lurks the most fearful, lurky mystery accessory of them all. 1970's David Bowie's Codpiece. To be continued...........

I'm entertaining the idea of doing a series of images informed by vignettes from my favorite literature. This is the first of them, based on Hemmingway's Dangerous summer.

no thats not my hand print....ok thats my hand print, cocaines a hell of a drug

famed fetish model Vima goes back in time to visit Indochine and have a cuppa

the current highlight of my photographic career, shooting John Larroquette holding a plastic mallard

shooting Gila and Choya at the same time was tantamount to walking into the Louvre, pulling the Mona Lisa off the wall, and smashing it over my head, then wandering around trapped in the picture frame bleeding all over the marble parquet, leering beatifically. It was hot

One from a promo shoot for Salvage clothing, featuring Aaron, the drummer from Prong. The remainder of the images are top secret for now, as they depict unreleased scenes of carnal t-shirt chaopathy that cannot see the light of day. I.E. no one's seen the designs, and yes, thats a made up word. For those of you who care deeply, I also shot the cover art for Prongs most recent CD, which I don't have yet....hopefully its really disgustingly goodlooking, like the drummer Aaron.

the 2 faces of my great sage and friend Erin, and her Janus faced anti-hipster, Weston, who is so cool, he had to face away from the camera lest I became over infatuated with his oh so bloggable face. I think if they have a boy baby together, he'd look just like the infant version of keifer sutherland. My camera and I will bear witness should this singularity occur.

kate, keep your boobs to yourself, you showoff. Albeit a wonderful model and designer, Kate cannot help but flaunt her chesty bits, insisting to all and sundry that they admit to her boob supremacy and kowtow before them. If I had a pound sterling for every time she mentioned them things, what with the currency exchange and US interest rates at an all time low, I have, like, 4 dollars.

Anyone clever enough to meet Nell face to face should insist she stick her tongue out as far as possible, photograph it, and send me the images. Please!

I was fortunate to shoot in an incredible metal working studio by Joe, the resident maestro, and Rachel, the wardrobe stylist and a reincarnated WWII paratrooper. If you plan on a jaunt to burning man this year, you will get to see some of joe's masterful pieces in action. Hair and make up by christian and bea, hotness courtesy of kumi, nell and kate.

Ulorin was gracious to drive to london from far away in order to shoot with me. I think mostly because she intended to steal Robert's hair pieces and elope with them to Cocomo, but I've been wrong before.

this is the first image from a series featuring Kumi and Ulorin in london. I'd been shooting for 8 hours at the White Womb, but somehow witnessing the scantily clad kumis and vexes woke me right up. Tony's light and stormy cocktails didn't hurt much either.....fancy hair and makeup sizzle courtesy of the greats Robert Masciave and Bea Sweet, and Olga made sure the silly factor was almost on par with the sexy factor; almost!

a glimpse into my recent trip to the UK, courtesy of Kumi's phone. I was blessed to have the opportunity to shoot overseas for the first time, at the White Womb studio in London.

this my friend Medina, she is nice, a very premium dancer and can actually wink using either eye, but I am exceptionally beloved of the right. She also makes clothings that are first rate style, and is incredibly tall for a non-lesbian

one of my favorite shots from a recent band shoot, featuring the redoubtable flying V guitar.

this was a challenging shoot largely because we were trying for 4 different look plus a bluescreen scene all shot in under 3 hours. My thanks to John Moore PR, Mr Littlejohn for playing dress up, and Jimmy for his courage under fire.

this is a literal example of the process behind the hyper-reality. Lesa was kind enough to pose for the 5th installment of my ongoing horoscope narrative, here representing Leo.