Superbowl Shuffle and our spot in Paper Magazine...

This week, we put up our "Familiar Faces of 2008" galleries which captures all sorts of unruly people we shot this year, from Obama and Biden to Spencer and Heidi. As we comb through our music photos from last year for our first "mix tape annual", we're realizing we left a lot of people out. For instance, Ben Roethlisberger, as seen above with the girlfriend of our friend Rob Patterson. Also this month, our coverage of the Absolut Disco for Paper Mag made it into glorious b&w. Just because Beyonce's sister is on the cover doesn't mean it ain't still super cool. This month is all Reeves due to my crippling injury which has left me hallucinating that angry scorpions are trapped in my full arm cast. Give Sir Reeves a drink when you see him 'cause he's gonna be very, very busy. Fuck... fire ants just laid eggs on my arm....

Something Wicked This Way Comes....

Only 9 Days til Halloween! Fuck man, grab the bags of blood and dead dog's eyes The Day of the Dead and Drunk Assholes in Costumes is upon us! There's something about Halloween that opens peoples messy brains to the notions of illicit behavior whilst wearing disguises that I both embrace and am cautious of. I was recalling a time when I travelled to Athens, Ohio for their annual car burning, riotous Halloween Weekend Extravaganza. It was so great and the hospital staff was so nice for not pressing charges that I went back the following year. Here's a highlight reel of what 3,000 people costumed drunkards are capable of in the the most important state for a Presidential Election. Welcome to Ohio.

Photographers live for this shit. Everyone gets into character and loses sight of their sanity for like 48 hours. Like all the guys that were swinging their swords last year that were dressed up as Spartans from "300". I saw a guy get dented in the head when one Spartan reared his sword and when the bleeding finally stopped, he looked that guy and said:"Don't worry. I'm Batman. I can handle it." A little Alcohol + Costumes = Amazing Photo Opportunities.

To be honest, Halloween already began for us with appearances from some gnarly ghouls last week in Chicago: Heidi "Fleiss" Montag and Spencer Pratt dropped in to support Bright Pink Cancer Awareness for an undisclosed sum and Brody Jenner was spotted inspecting many a boob, failing to ever find a mirror. Reality Stars are terrifying. Reality Stars with A-List appearance prices? Even more terrifying. Nonetheless, they were all very well behaved. As is protocol for these talentless husks. 

But we had plenty of the Real Thing to combat the Pepsi products of MTV. Wunderkind band Cobra Starship kidnapped Reeves for, like all of Wednesday and even stole his camera at one point. That, and they got some wild girl on girl, mutli-participant debauchery going on in the middle of RiNo.

Then Joel Madden came in and pointed at some red tongued fat guy with the exact finger he touches Nicole Richie with. 

And then Kill Hannah decided to set fire to their bus in the Swiss Alps on tour this week. While I'm glad they protested the whole "double decker" idea, methink they should have removed their belongings first. We are ever grateful that they're all fine, and even more appreciative of Mat Devine's brilliant narration in this video.

Kill Hannah Bus Fire Video

  Anyway,  I'd just wanted to remind people of what I, narcissist extraordinaire, wore last year because this year its gonna be the most annoying costume ever. That, and the army of Sarah Palin/ Tina Feys.  Just think of the bloodbath that will ensue when armies of dead Heath Ledgers take on the one chick in Alaska that didn't like "Brokeback Mountain." 

This Year, Reeves and I are following our childish hearts further down into the world of 8-Bit Bliss and no, were not gonna be Sark and Tron. But our costumes will rock you like a Decepticon.

Stay tuned...

NOTES FROM THE OLD FOLKS HOME, PT. I.

Life at 85 must be pretty rough when you're threatened by the possibility of a massive coronary infarction every day due to three chicks forcing you into an orgy. Such is the tragedy of Hugh Hefner. Instead of pissing away his days in diapers, like most of his contemporaries in their respective assisted living homes, Hugh spends incredible amounts of his life mugging for his adoring millions with the Girls Next Door in tow. But there is a certain loneliness to his whole Swinger game that made me wonder what it is that men truly yearn for. Because I'm getting married a week from tonight, I felt it was time I address what really goes on at the Playboy Mansion and what goes on in the minds of the men who are lucky enough to make it in the gates of the most famous house in America.
A little background. I was on assignment with Playboy Golf for the celebrity tournament/ finals in LA. Many men had paid $4000 each to play golf with someone resembling a celebrity or major NFL star and party a few times at the Mansion. It was one of the poorest paying/ greatest opportunity kind of things ever. I lost a ton of money by flying out to LA for a week and lost even more sleep editing the thousands of pictures that resulted, not to mention the nerve wracking paranoia that overcame my fiancee while I went off to wonderland. I never want to sound ungrateful, but it was more work than I ever care to slave away for ever again. Next time, I'm getting everything in writing. (More about that in Part II)

I'll skip the lead in and head right down to our day at the Mansion.

Fellow photographer Eric Menendez from Left Coast Girls and I were loaded on the first bus so that we could capture the awestruck tourists as they spilled out on to the grounds. Our illegal immigrant bus driver did not know how to get to the Mansion and we ended up pulling in third or fourth, much to the chagrin of the passengers who had waited for an hour to get on the first bus. I screamed to the public "Who cares?!? We're going to Hef's!" Everyone agreed and sat on their hands in anticipation. I felt the same electric nervousness that accompanies a child on their way to Disneyland for the first time. That analogy wound up encompassing the entire experience, completely chock full of Goofy.
When we arrived, we were immediately greeted by Kenneth Johannsen, Hef's party photographer. His wife is actually Hef's main photographer and Kenneth shoots all the parties. Upon coming off the bus, I already liked the guy. He was jovial, sincere and completely ego-less, not to mention that he was wearing a pink Polo shirt. Ten minutes on the grounds and I was completely taken by his charm and grace (captured above). Hardly what I expected from a guy who could have been a territorial rabid dog.
Upon walking through the ivy walled arches, I gasped in disbelief. The grounds were WAY smaller than I could ever imagined. I thought back to when Eddie Murphy walked in during Beverly Hills Cop II and it look like this HUGE estate. Funny how film adds 15 lbs. to everything. The other thing that sullied my glossy dreams was how run down the place was. The grounds are impeccably kept, but the house and trim all felt really worn. It is almost creepy how everything heralded back to 1982. (Hef spends time between his two homes, the other one being across the street. On this day, he had been evacuated well before the arrival of the drunken golfers.) The zoo borders on ancient. There are four enormous satellite dishes that stand like tombstones over the tennis court; the game room was soiled and worn thin like the felt on the pool table. And rotary phones...yikes! It was like we were walking through a museum that had collected entirely too much semen, alcohol and saliva and wasn't properly cleaned. And I speak as a kid who grew up around wealth. We were comfortable, but in comparison to the area I grew up in, I spent a lot of time checking out the details of those more fortunate than my family. So, in my mind, I'm very discerning when it comes to rich people's taste and habits. And in the first hour I was there, I realized that Hef taste has not changed in 20 some years. His formula is classic and nearly immortal so why bother changing a thing? The man was born in 1922 for Chrissakes! Why should he have to update his home to fit the needs of his guests? In reality, the guests only want to see the past and dream of the days Hef was 50 years old, banging twelve girls in the mirrored back room of the game house. I had this idea that the man, despite being almost as old as the automobile industry, was still a hipster, walking tall with his three 20-something year-old-blonde-fembots. My mind was still reeling with the realization that Hef was 85 when I ran into the Hedgehog himself, Mr. Ron Jeremy.
I had dinner with Ron, Alexis Amore and Ashton Moore nearly a year earlier in Chicago. We caused a stir at La Scarola. Ron was a delight and a gentleman, very warm and kind. There is an important note here: One of the promoters that evening that was at the table is the reason I met my future wife. In an effort to thank her for that evening with the whoring sluts and hairy dick, I myspaced her a note and spotted a hot Asian on her friend list. Not a few weeks later, I would be on my first date with En, the love of my life. Thanks Brandi!) So when I spotted him at the mansion I expected he would recognize me by my eye makeup. I even brought over fellow Chicagoan Sabrina who had been an apple of his glazed eye last spring. When we came within his musky forcefield, I couldn't take my eyes off all the shit in his hair. It was like a bird pooped on him last week and he forgot to buy a comb, let alone shampoo. Eric told me earlier in the week that last year, Ron pulled up in a Saturn sedan to the valet. Apparently the informercial racket doesn't pay him as much as George Foreman. When I got near Ron, I swore he was lost in a sad zone of downers. It was as if he was numb to everything, barely speaking audibly while thanking everyone for their admiration. Even after reminding him about our outing 11 months earlier in Chicago he showed no sign of entering reality. I felt very sad. While the sun was shining, I was beginning to feel depressed by these lonely polygamists. I went off in search of a playmate who would remind me I was at the adult Disneyland. Sure enough, this little vixen obliged, complete with Mickey Mouse ears...


To Be Continued after the Maui Wedding Experience...