12:02 is just around the corner. Mom called earlier. A little misty. Said it’s been a good and big day for her. She’s been harking back 41 years to the time in her life that must have been one of the best. The coming of the child, the child they said would never come. I never doubted it…

She’s always told me of how she knew when she was pregnant. The very moment. The doctors said it wasn’t possible, she wasn’t going to bear children. She knew. The lotus blossom opened and the Voice told her. The same Voice that said around that same time, “Go to India.” And all of it happened. I happened. And sometime after that, when I was old enough to have my shots, she always explaines it, we were off to India. And I’ve accepted it and expected it this. You hear the voice, you know the important things, implicitly, you trust the big notions that swim all over you and you follow them to their logical and hopefully majestic and conclusions. The big, bold things must be done, and done effortlessly. That’s how it was taught to me and I’ve scarcely imagined it otherwise. I knew when I saw Ilse that we would make life together. There was no voice, rather it was like a pat on the shoulder, commending me for hearing the bells peel. Since that moment we’ve made miracle children, easily, and gone to India and then some. And we’ve made it all up as we’ve gone along, according to the dictates that seem fit, according to the hoyle apparent. According to the grand will of my wife and the dreamy conjuring of my mother and the earthen logic of my father that he tinges with an ample dose of fuck-it, use a credit card, and the voice of my children playing, as long as they are rapt, I am stated.

The wind and weather are big in bursts tonight. I have a view down on it all from the perch of our home, the Skyfarm long-view East by South East. From up here it’s like flying in a dream. The view is past tree branches, the upper ones, and the song is thrushing wind and the timpani of rain up the chimney. I directed the retrofitting of our chimney after the last rains had spilled down it and now I find that it’s become percussive. But dry, and the little fire that’s left in it pips in time to the rain off the Don Quixote I’ve made of our chimney with metal sheathing and drip holes.

These are just a few of the tricks that at 41 have been wrought by me. Happy Birthday, Meeno.

Lauren is blond. Way blond. Thrifty blond. Right up there with the best of ‘em. And that’s what makes the North Valley such a rich place to discover – by scab picking – the true colors of culture. And I had my main man, Marc Alt, in town covering the whole thing for posterity. We go way back. And we go way forward. These are some of the many good things that men do…while shining light on miracle blonds.

Special things happen at sunset on the West Coast. Especially when you’ve had to wait for them all day. The body painting escapade took a bit longer than provisioned for but that worked perfectly, putting us into some very kind light – eight hours later. And so I went Boogey boarding. It’s always supposed to work the way it’s supposed to, and it always seems to. Blessings on us. Plus Teairra Mari is a major pro and makes taking pictures of her very easy. She puts her glow on and Malibu steps right in line. This shoot was as fruitful and on the money as the last with her, and somewhere in all of this is the cover for her new album due out this summer. Shout out to a terrific crew that really made everything come together at the right moment to make just that perfect moment. Our business is moments, and these really shine.

Dustin Lance Black and Cleve Jones. Angel face Black wrote the new floor-you history-pic, Milk, and Cleve was the real deal dude there off the corner of Castro running Harvey Milk’s campaign back in the 70′s. These guys are doing real, tangible amazing things, well earning all the celebrating their currently getting. Black framed one hell of an American tragedy and really got right what it means to have politics guide you and to liberate yourself so much that you begin to hum and give off that glow called LEADERSHIP. What a miraculous man that Harvey Milk was, and Cleve Jones was right there with him. And he’s continued on through a life of hugely affirmative, progressive activism. He founded the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt and has been a lifelong loud voice speaking out against the silence that kills integrity and individuality. Here are a couple serious insiders, one inside Hollywood, one inside Lefty politics, each at this juncture in history bringing the importance and pizazz and power of their forte’s to the other’s world. And in that juncture, we all win. These are the celebrities that turn me on.

I’d been wanting to nail this shot all year. With the aid of my good man Petro, it’s in the bag. I really love those Christmas caroling lights. You stroll in through that long colonnade and it’s total release.

On a recent field trip with the tots.

No, baby, that’s Nikki-16, the hottest act since Vanity-6. Can you say Studio 54 Purple Cocaine Rain?

On the job with orange American Apparel’s widely displayed. I was shooting at Trade Tech downtown when I busted my trousers leaping over a guard rail. I was thinking I might ask the fashion students to sew me back in, but the damn things kept ripping further before I could get to the needle. I found a boutique downtown for some new 501′s. Haven’t had 501′s since Jr. High. Felt great. Mike said they were knock offs. I said no. Then I washed them. They shrank like wool. Perils of letting it all hang out to get that perfect shot….

Griffith park can burn, the back lot of Universal Studios can burn. All these places make up the background in the tapestry of my youth. They are inviolate there. And so when set upon by disaster, I have full reckoning of their mythic, Phoenix abilities to rebound and become again stage fronts to any play you can mount.