Shot this while shooting through to the Madrugada on Terminal Island recently.
Archive for September, 2009
Note the cutie with the mohawk. Mette refers to him as Him, capital H. The steam is rising. Kindergarden is bad ass.
Bedraggled but not beaten after their first Miley Montana nuclear winter ski bunny, inferno, white U2 flag over the US Festival,industrial catastrophe nightmare dreamscape of underwater pubescence and movie hype and cleavage, and legs furiously pumping a very coltish green gallop over Marshall stacked guitars and hip-hop ballet dancers recently from Vegas floor shows with daddy Cyrus looking shorn like Elvis in the mix booth flogging smiles to screaming, simmering sixth graders while the daughter of the hour, a Pat Benatar and Wendy-O-Williams and Dorothy of Oz all rolled into one, floats overhead on a Harley be-sequined and singing Joan Jett’s anthem with as much balls as I ever heard it at eight, like my daughter is tonight, or four, like my wee’est lass, when I spun my first 45, over and over and over. Yes, ROCK has always been in their blood, but tonight it’s ringing in their ears!
My girls and their cousin Poet, rock ready for the big Miley Montana show tonight.
The secret’s not out of the bag yet.
As easy a transformation as John Malkovitch into a puppeteer, with a little help from my friends and a growing menagerie of finger dicing tools, I’ve taken, like Harrison Ford, I like to think, to the wood in my off time.
We’ve found the awesome new spot to load up on dirt. That makes my wife very, very happy. She’s already gone back, clandestine, without me, several times, for her paramour soil.
Deserted spot, quiet moment, just the sea lions honking.