AWESOME! Lingerie Euphoria was put on the front page! Congrats to Luffy and the set we shot together.
LUFFY - Lingerie Euphoria

Hello anyone,

Please take I look at the newest Hopeful that I shot, AmeTsuki, her set is now in MR...
http://suicidegirls.com/members/AmeTsuki/albums/site/17990/
She is totally filled with awesomeness.

Also coming up for MR on March 25th, Hopeful Vigil_'s set "Little Motel" that we shot in Toronto.
http://suicidegirls.com/members/Vigil_/
Vigil_ is gorgeous - damn, I miss Toronto....

See ya

I had a dream...

I glanced around in awkward slow motion, my head turning painfully like it was struggling through transparent pudding, and my every movement restricted by invisible sludge.  Animated things around me shaped like people ran amok screaming and crying, darting in every direction, unsure of which area to move towards in the massive square concrete building.  We were all trapped in a doorless, windowless industrial cavern of concrete with harsh fluorescent tube lights suspended from the high ceiling above.

Their faces were obscured from their quick panicked movements, their arms flailing insanely above their wailing heads. They splashed through filthy dark water that seemed to be rising slowly, just reaching knee level.  Their screeching and whining was inaudible, the sound vibrations only loud inside my head. Their cries for help went unheard by anyone but me.  I was weirdly calm, moving leisurely through thick toilet liquid and the chaos of twenty or thirty horrified people towards what I now saw as the only way out of this hollow asylum. 

Through their hurried movements I saw a wall had transformed into a large passageway through to another room waiting around a corner.  Between this room and the next was a brightly lit gymnasium-sized hallway.  Standing in the hallway were ten or so randomly positioned human-shaped abominations waiting still and lifeless, their torsos contorted strangely with their arms thrust out in front of them.  Gleaming double-edged blades grew out of the stumps where hands normally were. As I involuntarily moved closer and towards what seemed the only exit past the unmoving monstrosities, I became aware of the saturating blood and strips of flesh stuck to the clothing and skin of the motionless things.  Their faces were featureless and blurry, their blades brighter and larger as I was pushed closer.  The hysterical beings around me began to run towards the bloodied statues, attempting to pass by them to the other end.  Instantly, their bodies exploded from the hacking and stabs of the knives, redness spewed like exploding fireworks, the immobile mutants coming alive and ripping apart anything that was within their reach.  Their slashing and knife thrusts were barely visible from the speed, as if an unseen puree button somewhere on their torso was suddenly pressed.  

Then in a brutal instant, once the shredded remains of the frantic hit the dirty water, the things froze back to their original disturbing stance.  Bloody mincing erupted everywhere, all around me, as I inched onward through the human-like food processors.  All the people around me were torn up, their life fluid showering on me like a calm walk in a warm rain.  I was moving closer to one of the hackers, their drenched and gut-caked body was still, unmoving, dripping gore from the frenzied attack moments ago. I was floating, unable to stop my advance - screaming didn't help as my mouth wouldn't open. I entered its perimeter of reach - my skin tightened awaiting the plunge of the first blade - but nothing, I slipped past un-mutilated.  Then past the next, and the next, until I left the horror briefly behind me.  I was at the entrance to another hallway, a curved square leading around a dark corner.  Some others had also made it through, and swiftly darted pass me and into the dark.  I heard heavy splashes just ahead of me, just as I took a step and slipped down a black slide into a deep grey concrete box filled with bloody water.  There was nothing to grasp, nothing to hold on to, just a slippery smooth wall that I tried desperately to claw.  Deep below the water's surface was a small tunnel to swim into - the only way out. What was on the other side was unknown. 

I reluctantly followed the others diving down through the warm redness and into the dark hole.

Adventures of me and my camera - part two

It was time to say goodbye to the fantastic Himalayas and the brief serenity of life on a houseboat in Kashmir. Goodbye to the five a.m. amplified chanting of Muslims that carried across the lake - goodbye to the glorious morning sun peaking over the mountains at six a.m. while I sipped my steaming Kashmir Tea and ate cookies - goodbye to the hundreds of eagles that soared high above the lake during the long hours of dusk - goodbye to my enormous Indian meals that were cooked with care for me, three times a day - goodbye to gawking at beautiful Indian woman dressed in vibrant sari's as they were slowly carried in water taxi's past the porch of my floating hotel.... Back to congested, muggy, dusty streets of Delhi.

Abraham, my personal guide, host, and water-craft navigator, drove me to the airport in his huge white sport utility vehicle. Our conversation was booming - all the time trying to hear each other over the blaring horn that he stubbornly never abandoned. Attempting to disperse the tiny three-wheeled taxi's from our path was fruitless. Everyone here with a license is deaf, or just as stubborn as the horn-blower behind them.

Srinigar airport had the most intense security I've experienced on my journey around the world so far. We had to stop at a roadside checkpoint just outside the tiny airport to have all my luggage x-rayed and the contents questioned. My camera rechargers are big black boxes, and are always given a second uncertain glance. Army personnel meticulously inspected the underside of the truck with mirrored poles searching for explosives. Again at the entrance to the terminal, my bags went through more x-rays, as my identification was rigorously scrutinized. I was becoming a tiny bit nervous and uneasy at my progression through this airport.

My ticket was issued at the check-in counter and again my bags were opened and x-rayed for a third time. My one checked backpack was carted to the gate and waited for me to identify it before it was loaded into the plane. I stepped into line for the metal detector - women on the right, men on the left. My carry-on bag, filled with real expensive cameras and equipment, was emptied out onto the inspection table once I passed the metal detector wand test. The highly-decorated security officer who groped all my precious lenses started to bombard me with a battery of questions about cameras, if I was a journalist, why I was in Kashmir, and finally, what I thought of the Muslim faith. He asked me if I thought the Muslim people I had encountered on my travels in Kashmir were loving to their children and what my general opinion of Muslim people was. I was calm on the exterior, but a whirlwind of fear was quickly building inside. Since all my experiences in Kashmir were great, I had nothing but good things to say, and that proved to be the right answer. But he still wouldn't let me through security, I stood there patiently with my equipment still spread out on the table in front of me. The security officer looked me in the eye, smirked and said, "you can't get on the plane until you take a picture of me". "Uhhh..." I said aloud, as my vision was diverted towards the rather large sign of a camera with a big red cross through it hanging just behind and to the left of his head. I slowly pointed to the brightly lit and obvious 'NO PHOTOS' sign taped to the wall, and he said "don't you worry, I am in charge here". He sat down, crossed his legs, gave me a 'Glamour-shots' pose, and repeated the request for me to pick up my camera and capture this tense moment on the digital sensors in the back of my SLR. Surely, at the very second my finger depresses the shiny silver shutter release, fifty automatic weapons will have twitchy fingers on the triggers and my beloved head in their crosshairs! But soon after the simulated film advance noises of my digital point-and-shoot were completed, every clenched muscle in my body that waited for bullet penetration became relaxed again. My fear subsided as he ordered me to take another frame of his fellow gun-toting co-workers that sat at the table beside him. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and scribbled his name and address across it. As he thrust the paper into my hand, he had me promise to send him the photos before I was allowed to board the plane. I took his address, said my goodbyes, and walked through the gate to identify my checked bag and waited for the plane to be ready for boarding. Whew! I was finally on my way back to Delhi! - but not before one more baggage and passport check in the middle of the tarmac as I walked to the steps leading up to the open door on the side of the plane.

Adventures of me and my camera - part one

NO PHOTO, NO PHOTO

“Why can't I take a photo of the gates of Tiananmen Square?”, I pondered silently to myself during a recent tourist excursion to Beijing, China. A police officer lacking any personality and devoid of emotion approached me as I hoisted my camera to my face, attempting to take a quick shot of the North gates and the enormous painting above them. He sharply told me I wasn't supposed to take pictures of the building while shaking his hand in front of my waiting lens. I quickly looked around to the left of me and then to the right and noticed two billion camera flashes fading the paint in the same exact spot of the building I was pointing my camera at. I turned back to the officer and said “Pardon?”, thinking maybe the waxy yellow buildup in my ears prevented me from hearing him properly. He repeated himself and I heard correctly... I wasn't allowed to photograph the building.

People within spitting distance away from Mr. Policeman and I were joyfully wearing out the buttons on their crappy little plastic throw-away insta-matic cameras, but I wasn't permitted. We were surrounded by zillions of clicking little silver and black boxes - absolutely everyone including tiny infants strapped into strollers had a camera - the place was plethoric with picture-producing people - the deafening roar from billions of shutters firing off made me want to shriek and claw my own eyes out! ...and the jovial masses all succeeded in capturing the same simple image I yearned to photograph. But I couldn't have my picture, noooooo, I wasn't allowed. Stupefied at what I was told, I said “OK” and lowered my camera while nervously forcing a consenting smile. I didn’t understand what was different about me and my approach to photographing architecture - other tourists weren't hindered. I walked around to the opposite side of the bridge to where the copper was standing, and took a bloody picture of the stupid building when he wasn't looking. Then I ran away.

Aaahhh yes... The Rocky Horror Show, live on stage in Zurich, and my wife Sandra and I warmed up two seats in the ninth row.

I was surprised and excited to see the large black and red posters covering all the flat surfaces in the city - the last tour of the London Rocky Horror Show was coming to Switzerland! I definitely needed to have this event included in my to-do-before-I-die list. Ticket price was absolutely no concern, I just wanted to be close enough to be pelted with rice, toilet paper rolls, stale toast and soaked with fake rain water squirted from plastic water pistols. I've always been fascinated with this sex musical, ever since I would watch my older sisters and their hot girlfriends prepare themselves before going to the theatre for a night of transsexual mania. In the late seventies, I used to listen to the vinyl album over and over, looking at the strange sexual images on the worn sleeve, wondering what the hell it was all about. Singing along with all the odd lyrics and thinking to myself, what does 'heavy-petting' and 'seat-wetting' mean, and what the hell is a transvestite, and why can't I find Transylvania in my junior school atlas? Dressed up in garters and skimpy outfits, their faces white and black and red, my sisters and her friends ventured out into the night with their bag of props to throw back and forth at the rest of the cult theatre crowd.

I had my first Rocky Horror halloween party in 2003, and it was also my first experience wearing fish-net stockings, garters, PVC, and little leather underwear. Oooohh, I felt sexy. I attempted the high-heels, but opted for the contrast of ominous black motorcycle boots to help tip the scales back towards masculinity. I think it worked. I felt so sexy, dainty, and experienced an aura of beautiful feminine softness while still able to crush skulls under my dirty black knee-high death boots. My hair was dyed black, thick makeup was caked on my face and a full martini glass placed gently into my moisturized and manicured satin-gloved hands. I was ready to be it, not dream it. I wrapped my eight foot long feather boa around my bare shoulders and I practiced my bored lipstick sneer in front of the mirror for when my guests would arrive. Of course I was Franknfurter - I was the party host, I had to be him.

At the end of the long night of sexual debauchery my castle from Transsexual was trashed, there was broken glass everywhere, cigarette burns deep in the hardwood flooring, candle wax coating the walls, and my friend Lori crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs with a broken wrist, bloodied knees, and one fake eyelash hanging askew from her left eye. She had tripped on her four inch leather heels and noisily bounced down a flight of stairs behind me as I was kicking everyone out at four in the morning. I had holes in my stockings, abrasions on my hips from the tight leather underwear, and had eaten at least a pound of red lipstick that was constantly needing re-application. I'm sure some of my family members and friends will never look at me the same way again. It was a good time and can't wait for the next time.

At the Zurich theatre, Sandra, the Rocky horror virgin, and I found our seats and I began to explain the twisted plot of the play to her. I thought again, about how she takes me to the beautiful things in Switzerland, like the amazing Cirque Du Soleil a few nights before, or the top of Santis Mountain a week ago, and I subject her to the weird, depraved and demented shit that my warped mind thrives on.

The lights dimmed and the story narrator was suddenly visible, suffused by a spotlight. He introduced the story speaking german and the musical brouhaha began. During the wedding scene we were showered upon by handfuls of rice for about three minutes. I had failed to mention to Sandra about the use of projectiles in the show, so it was quite a shock when the first fistful of hard rice was flung into our faces from the rows in front of us. Then the rain came. Pistols and cannons sprayed water from every direction, soaking us while the performers and audience both sang "Over at the Frankenstein Place". That was all fine with Sandra, even getting wet was OK, but she wasn't too happy with the toilet paper rolls bouncing off the side of her head during the unravelling of Rocky. I started throwing the rolls around myself, grabbing them up from the floor beneath me and releasing them with all my might. Toilet paper was crisscrossing all the theatre seats, we were all weaved into a messy web of lavatory absorbency. For the rest of the performance, we swam the warm waters of sins of the flesh and then took the bus home in the cold rain of reality.