some sounds from the days of my youth. . . .

Cooter — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 08:04:06 GMT

soak in the soothing sounds of john anderson singing one of the 45 singles that was consistently played at my aunt's bar.

this is the sound of my childhood.

well, there was this one too. . . .

it's funny how agonizingly depressing that song is. the motherfucker pledged he would love her until he died. . . and then. . . some number of years later, he dies. . . and THAT'S when he stopped loving her. since my parents sometimes seemed to stay together out of some weird sense of obligation, this was what i imagined being in love with someone would be. . . minus the back-up singers and spoken word breakdown before the final chorus. the reality of my love life has been far from the ideaalized george jones version.

i blame country music for making me emo.

anyway. . . if you haven't yet destroyed yourselves with listening to this, i recommend you watch this guy do some karaoke. . . . sometimes, this guy looks so sincere it makes my heart bleed for him. other times he just looks confused. he looks awesome ALL of the time -- because of the hat. . . .

i need to shoot more. . . .

i also need to upgrade some of my gear (another pocket wizard, a new camera body, and a new lens would work out alright). i've been thinking about having some sort of print sale. . . .

in the meantime, go to wikipedia. . . look up the word "perineum" (that's the educated word for "taint"). you will see they have thoughtfully provided a photo with a little red arrow pointing to exactly where the taint is.

what the fuck is wrong with the world where that is actually necessary?

what the fuck is wrong with me that i had to look that up?

i love you, internet. . . .

bus stop full of fly bitches and skeezers. . . .

Cooter — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 15:06:16 GMT

so. . . . i deleted that last entry.

maybe i AM emo. . . . least, that's what i've been told. damn.

so there's some good news, though. . . .

i'll have my typewriter soon. that makes me happier than i probably should be. . . . really, though, it's just one more thing to check off the list. it's somewhere above, "have someone famous touch my junk", and somewhere below, "finish college." i suppose finishing college would be better than having a typewriter, but having a typewriter is above having someone famous touching my junk -- i can imagine a lot of famous people i wouldn't want touching my pink parts. . . so. . . you know. . . you don't want to have your dreams come true like they're extra wishes from that story "the monkey's paw."

another thing that makes me happy -- there seems to be this subculture of black homeless dudes in my town whose main distinguishing factor is the way they all wear camouflage coveralls. there's no discernible reason why they'r wearing them or wear they got them (we don't have an army navy store in town).

i was leaving work for a few moments the other day and found two of them lurking around the homeless shelter. one was wearing desert camo coveralls and the other was wearing the traditional woodland camo that most people associate with "camouflage" clothing. i was trying to drown out life and listening to "enter the 36 chambers". i look up and see old boy sporting the desert camo beating his arm against an old gmc van in time to the beat of "ain't nothin' ta fuck wit". sure, it was coincidence, but maybe he was actually rapping about the hard streets of huntington. . . or maybe he was banging out accompaniment to some singing so heart-achingly beautiful that the world would have stopped for a moment if only i'd have taken time to listen to him.

most likely, he was shitting his coveralls and threatening to have his lawyer sue somebody if they wouldn't let him to sleep in the mens' dormitory at the shelter. gummo-town is great for showing you its hidden face while you just stand having your mind blown. then, the reality of your own life tears out your stomach like a bad burrito and you move on with your day.

you know, i was also thinking that it would be interesting to see someone wearing camus-flage. . . .

they would be able to blend in with phd candidates in philosophy.

i need to play around with my portable light set-up a little more.

i need to shoot more photos. . . . it's good to be inspired again. . . or, if not inspired, at least motivated enough to try and make things happen. san francisco helped get the motivation back. i met some good folks that would be great to shoot with, but also because i did get to do a couple decent shoots -- thanks arin. . . i felt out of practice, but you made it easy.

now, adahlia and janejett need to find their way out to the hillbilly homeland for the epic shoots i'm planning for the spring. butthole time will be a reality. i'll do the devil's work. there will be some swampy gunplay. point break will be referenced in an extraordinary fashion. it'll be an adventure for sure.

this weekend i should be in louisville to shoot with ruby and baunfire.

in december, i'll get up to columbus to shoot with a couple fantastic ladies.

i need more change. . . but maybe i need to make it myself.

i guess i was asking for it because i dressed that way. . .

Cooter — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 04:03:34 GMT

i should be working.

there's an excel spreadsheet that i should be making so that i can calculate how badly something is screwed up.

i have HOURS before i have to be back at work, though. . . and, really, it's not like i can't do it later.

just like the degree i need to finish. i can do that later too.

so raeli's set went up today on deviant nation. . . . i realize if you're reading this on deviant nation you probably already know that. however, i'm self important enough that i cross post this elsewhere. . . . you know. . . so now i'm making people think, "boy howdy, i need to join up to that deviant nation business." this way, gwin and satan will be able to retire early and i can go live with them sort of like an appalachian mister belvedere.

i can teach all of you about life and learn you a valuable lesson in the space of 22 minutes (not counting commercials). i promise.

so i was thinking of how i've became an awful person. . . and it's perfectly illustrated by my actions on the way back from san francisco.

i made it through security without much trouble and the plane was boarding when i got to my gate. i knew from my seat number that i was in the back and was hoping i would be lucky enough to have an empty seat beside me. i'm a big guy and i was already sitting on the aisle (so i couldn't crunch myself up against the window), and it would be a pain in the ass if i was shoulder to shoulder with another giant motherfucker sitting next to me.

i get to my row and see a tiny woman of maybe about 130 pounds sitting next to a portly middle aged man, middle class, midwesterner. she saw me wearing my bandanna, terrorist scarf, and tattered motorcycle vest and looked mildly disappointed.

i didn't blame her.

"look, sitting next to me now will earn you some fantastic airline karma for your next trip. i promise you'll probably sit next to someone far better looking and half my size. . . and, really, look on the bright side, between me and old boy there you probably won't even have to wear your seatbelt."

the banker looking guy laughed and then she smiled too.

at least she seemed to have a sense of humor. . . .

. . . or maybe she was scared because i looked like i was going to do some sort of hell's angel jihad shit on her.

anyway. . . . i sat down and went through the process of asking for the fat-guy seatbelt extender. i'm about 6'5" and probably about half as wide. the seatbelt is barely big enough to fit me so it's nice to be able to have a little room with the extension. the guy sitting across the aisle from me also asked for one. . . . he was wearing some t-shirt that was washed thin and said some shit like "gutfest 89" on it. . . . he was rocking white, high-top nikes and a pair of sweat pants that was all matched up with the festive array of warts on his face.

suddenly, i didn't feel so fat and ill kempt.

i sat in the chair nodding off like a junkie. i was too tall to rest my head on the back of the seat. i couldn't lean against a window, and (unless i wanted to appropriate my tiny seatmate as a cushion) i couldn't lean in either direction. i'd been staying up late, waking relatively early, eating next to nothing, nd drinking liquor for days (which is normal vacation behavior for me), so i probably even looked a little strung out.

the stewardesses would do everything they could to bash both me and the casually attired wart machine across the aisle with their drink carts.

i couldn't sleep very well, so i finally gave up and sat listening to portishead on my ipod. my arm was propped on the back of the seat in front o fme so that i could maybe keep myself from being banged again by the stewardess with the razor sharp hip bones.

i felt like someone was looking at me and turned my head slightly. sweatsuit mcpapilloma was staring at me. i don't have extensive tattoos, but i have a few. . . . i thought maybe he was trying to read my arm. . . .

i go back to listening to portishead. i threw my sunglasses on because it seemed like my eyes were about to melt out of my face.

half an hour later, he's still looking at me.

i looked at him and said, "you alright?" i didn't want to be confrontational, but i was getting tired of being stared at.

i'm not sure, but i think he was trying to speak klingon or some shit. i couldn't understand him.

i turn around and exchange a few words with the woman beside me. she was actually a lovely individual and we had a great conversation later in the flight about the fact that i'm a titty photographer, coming from the appalachias, looking like an asshole while i'm actually a decent guy, and books (in fact, she finished her book on the plane and then asked if she could give it to me before we left) had she not been around, i'd have been more comfortable, but it was nice to talk to someone that seemed to be genuinely nice.

i turned around and the fat man was still looking at me. he hadn't moved or likely even broken his gaze. i stared back for a few seconds and finally said, "why don't you go ahead and quit eye-fucking me for a few?" shit. . . what's he going to do. . . pick a fight with me so we can both go to Guantanamo? old boy was wedged in that seat anyway, so it's not like i couldn't have taken care of myself.

he garbled out something else and turnd to look straight ahead. the yappy old folks from new jersey in the row behind me finally shut the fuck up and the stewardess just raised her eyebrows when she looked at me as she passed. i don't know, folks. . . . in my mind it was just a more pointed way of asking him to please stop staring.

i reckon i'm the only person that thought that -- no one around me talked for a little while after my request was made of the man with the topographical map of the surface of the moon growing from his face.

i need to try harder to be nicer, i guess. . . .

you've been burdened with photos of me long enough -- enjoy these shots from a shoot i had awhile back:

peanut butter flavored mice. . . .

Cooter — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 05:16:21 GMT

i made chili and it's sitting on the stove simmering. . . . I minced fresh garlic and every time i touch my face it smells like i've been fingerbanging chef boyardee's asshole. . . .

i'm not sure if you're supposed to put garlic in chili, but it seemed like the thing to do.

the decaying leather couch i've slept on (when i'm not sleeping on the bed in the basement) is perfectly contoured to my negative ass and lovehandles. if i prop my legs just right, my dog nico will find a way to lie under them. i suppose i could complain about various things that are not what i'd like them to be, but i have a dog that i rescued keeping my legs warm while my other dog sleeps curled in a ball on the other couch. . . . we're alone and everything is quiet except for the mice that thump and scratch inside the walls.

the mice are actually pretty loud tonight. they're loud enough that i wonder how many of them are teeming next door and trying to find a way into the apartment. over the last three days i've caught five of them in our humane traps. . . . the reality of the situation is that i don't like killing the mice because it makes me think of the pet mice i kept as a child. we lived in an apartment and that was about the extent of mammal ownership. . . . the story that i would probably tell you if you asked me why i was catching them live?

it's so i can release them across the street where the rich folks live.

that wouldn't entirely be a lie.

i'm wondering, though, if it wouldn't be more humane to trap them with glue. . . with their little snouts becoming partially glued to the trap so that they slowly suffocate. . . . or maybe it would be better to crush parts of their tiny mouse anatomy with a spring trap. . . . any of that sounds preferable to landing in a humane trape where they become coated in peanut butter.

imagine how hard it has to be for them when whatever is further up the food chain from a field mouse can smell them coming. . . coated in the animal fat and sugary goodness that is processed peanut butter. that has to be crueler since they're now probably even MORE tastey than they would have been.

i'm scared to think, though, that this could radically affect the evolutionary mechanism for field mice in my area. sure, most of them will probably be picked off by the stray cats in the area. . . but those that don't have proven that they can still thrive with the obvious handicap of being coated from head to tail in chunky peanut butter.

i should be spending my time doing something productive.

musing on whether or not my coincidental meddling in the local foodchain may create a breed of supermouse is'nt doing much for me.

so i need to shoot more photos.

i need to drink less.

i need to go do laundry.

there's another outtake from yesterday. i figured i'd post it because i'm lazy and haven't dug through the archives to edit anything new.

raeli may change her name here on DN to "beastbox". she's the best.

scariest thing ever

Cooter — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 06:34:30 GMT

my beard eating janejett's face.

i didn't even have to use my AK. . . .

Cooter — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 11:05:18 GMT

today was a good day. . . up until around 10PM.
I woke up and had a couple shots to revive those old chemical feelings I had before collapsing last night. showered, shaved my head, and managed to get in a good shoot with Raeli (even though some of my gear crapped out on me. . . but that ended well because I isolated the problem and found a good replacement for the busted piece on eBay).

I got home and began drinking in earnest. mixing chemicals like some sort of alchemist looking to find a way to turn misery into bliss (or at least some state far removed from the reality of my own life), I managed to find a way to mix these elements into something that makes life feel like a lovely shade of purple (which is the color of the skin under my eyes. . . and the color I saw as I lost consciousness for a couple hours.

the shots looked good even in my fucked up state. . . and the editing wasn’t so intense that I couldn’t do it whilst destroying various neural pathways in my head. . . .

a member of what I consider my extended family came over and had a few drinks. . . . we talked a bit and, after a few drinks, I was given some disturbing information.

there’s no reason to comment on it, but the feeling I get when I think of it seems to jump from sadness, to disgust, to anger. . . much of it directed at myself.

then I remember that I should start subscribing to the two three word ideologies etched into my skin. . . .

fuck the world.

it’s not even close to thanksgiving, but I’ll be thankful early. . .

thanks for putting up with me while I’ve continually falling apart and rebuilding myself, folks.

thanks for helping me hit bottom.

thanks for knowing which category you fit into (since no matter who you are you could probably fit into both -- no one said being helped to the bottom was always a bad thing).

tomorrow, I plan on waking up to a chemical hangover that I’ll battle with even more substances. . . and a renewed resolve to shoot more filth and become more of a public nuisance.

enjoy these shots.

I'm making a list. . . .

Cooter — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 08:59:47 GMT

I'm sitting in my basement listening to shit-kicker music (the latest Hank III record). His last record "Straight to Hell" had more references to self destruction and despair in it (two things I've been great at appreciating over the last few years), but this one is solid. My only complaints would be that he references his grandfather and father as if they're people he's never met before (or, at the very least, isn't related to). . . .

I guess it would be a sentimental song if he sang about his predecessors and referred to them by pet names. . . But. . . Whatever. . . I probably couldn't write a better song so I should stop talking shit - if only because he comes through Huntington often enough that he may end up finding me and setting my house on fire with Jesco White.

I should be sleeping.

Instead, I'm going to make a list (and then figure out how to turn off the autocorrect on this shitty fucking program -- e.e. cummings, motherfucker -- he was the pioneer of emo bloggers that refuse to type capital letters).

Wake up
Shower
Shave my head
Stay in the shower washing my ass and taint
Dry off
Put on deodorant
Spray on cologne like a prostitute that hasn't seen running water in days
Tighten my belt so my trousers don't fall off
Choose which knife I'll carry (I think I may carry the small case knife and the brass knuckles tomorrow)
Print off the receipt for the lens I have to send back to Tokina
Pack my laptops (one for work and one for being a dirt bag).
Pack my portable lights
Pack my camera and light meter and all the other devices that make a mobile shoot possible
Pack a bowl

Haha

That's funny as shit. . . .

It's always 4:20, brah'. . . . let's go play some ultimate Frisbee and groove to some Dave Matthews. . . And then go date rape some college freshmen.

Then I'll tote my ass off to work and toil away for the man. . . . Maybe stopping for croissants and to ship my lens off.

Making lists is fantastic because you can have the positive feeling that you're imposing your will on the chaos that is the reality of your life. You could stay in bed and shit on yourself. . . Stop answering your phone. . . Stop eating. . . And just die. No one would probably notice if you played your cards right.

Creating a list is your way of asserting your existence even though the likelihood that you'll accomplish any of it is depending on your own ambitions.

Will I shower tomorrow?

Yes -- I can't not take a shower. . . . No crust punk living for me. . . Generally, my skin is too sensitive and my scalp and balls would be constant sources of embarrassment for me (what's funnier than a big man that is scratching his balls and then scratching his head like he's confused about the source of his groin discomfort?).

Will I carefully choose which knife I'll carry?

Yes. -- I'm a hillbilly and I've carried a knife pretty much every day since I was 12 years old. Ever since I've had to fight in the streets like a member of the Sharks or Jets, I've also carried something for self defense. Breaking out the Spyderco kept me from getting my head caved in once. . . So chances are I'll always have something on me. . . .

Will I shave my head?

Maybe -- I have a huge head and carefully shaving it takes time.

Will I ship my busted lens back?

Probably not -- that will involve going to the UPS store and I do what I can to avoid talking to those assholes (even though I'd rather talk to those assholes than the assholes at the post office).

See what I mean?

It's meaningless.

I took the time to make up a list. . . And even injectred a retarded joke about date rape and Frisbee into it. This was all time that I could have been sleeping so that I could become a more productive member of society when I'm forced to interact with it. . . .

I think I'll maybe just stay in bed after all. . . .

Maybe I'll never get up. . . I'll see if I can cultivate bedsores that will become infected and eventually turn my blood into poison before Alli returns from Beckley. I'm not sure if I can get bedsores in a day or three, but I'll give it my best. I figure if I don't move, Nico or Lily may become hungry enough to tear my throat out . . . .

The only meaning to life is what you assign to it, folks. . . . A new president, a new pair of shoes, or a new vice won't protect you from all the nothing that's out there. . . .

Good luck giving your life meaning, everyone. . . . I don't know how well I'm doing on that front, but I plan on shooting some photos on, watching some horror movies, and maybe riding just a little too fast on a motorcycle that's too old, too small, and too poorly maintained for consistent safe travel.

Maybe this guy has it figured out. . . Or at least he's figured it out for himself. . . .

Swing proud from them there hooks, son. . . .

FTW

the dre song sums it up best. . . .

Cooter — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 04:50:23 GMT

not "nuthin but a 'g' thang", but "the day the niggaz took over". . . .

it's good to see that there could be massive changes coming (hopefully for the better). . . . good or bad, though, i think complacency is the enemy. . . .worst case scenario, the evanelicals could be right and the end times may be on their way. i'm ready to see the earth crack open and devils come pouring out of the ground. . . . hail satan!

in the meantime. . . enjoy this:

>

i hope you can appreciate the irony. . . .

if not. . . .

well. . . .

here you go:

i'm obviously ready -- i've even spent some time in oakland recently.

if you haven't already, enjoy the san francisco photos again. . . for the first time.

linky

shots from san francisco. . . .

Cooter — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 06:59:14 GMT

so. . . .

i went ahead and tagged shit. . . threw it in a big set. . . and did all that sort of nonsense. . . .

go here, peeps.

(UPDATE - i found out that you can't see the "restricted" content on the guest pass. sign in to see the few shots that are a bit more scandalous)

one interesting phenomena that you'll notice -- during the course of shooting the little self photos at arm's length, i told myself to give more and more smoldering looks. . . .

here with cerah -- smolder level 0. i was still a bit withdrawn and not saying much to anyone. this was also before we hatched our plans to conquer the internet with meat-porn (she's fantastic!).

with jane jett - smolder level 1.5 -- she makes me smile too much to smolder.

with aradia -- beginning to smolder more. . . maybe like. . . shit. . . at about a 4 here.

and finally with sylvia. . . i'm smoldering so fucking hard i appear to be in a coma.

what the fuck, right?

not smoldering at all here. . . . just a bit sad to go.

once again. . . it was lovely meeting all of you. i'm a drunken lout at times. . . and somewhat withdrawn in social situations. . . but i generally mean well.

next year will be epic.

[Deviant Nation] Cooter's Journal