Sunday, May 2, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Fire Whiskey Bio... By: The Weird Weirs (aka Mat and I)
Gather 'round you rowdy scoundrels and let me tell you a story of the ravenous miscreants known as Fire Whiskey. Their tale of drunken chaos began in the foggy ocean streets of Santa Cruz, Ca. Gavi Gallardo, a fresh young lad with a grizzled soul and voice to boot, had packed his traveled van, worn with paint chips and the smell of a thousand tales, with his trusty guitar, a couple of shirts and took the first chance he got to high tale it out of the dust of Arizona to the land of big dreams and broken spirits. A fateful decision as the devil would have it, because there he would meet Johnny Oliveria, his soon to be brother in arms.
Now Johnny was a Santa Cruz local, a lengthy kid with a heart like the ocean and a passion for music just as deep. He was what you'd call a "jack of all trades," playing in and out of several bands around the area's dive bars and watering holes. You know, classy joints. The two began talking about the finer things in life -- women, weed, and whiskey -- and as the gods would have it the conversation began meandering onto music. They soon realized that while they shared the same influences, their peers weren't writing anything our duo wanted to listen to; so they set out into the great unknown as Two If By Sea.
Armed with their guitars and a harmonica, Gavi and Johnny combined folksy story telling with fast paced country ballads, all topped with the grimy crunch of punk igniting the first spark or their frenzied obsession. But many nights were spent in a cloudy haze before the smoke cleared leaving the boys restless and hungry for that raw sound doused in a bucket of gasoline. And like a stampede of wild mustangs running through their brains, the two knew at once they needed the steady handed drumming of Sean James.
Having been the backbone to an array of musical projects, Sean jumped at his old friend Johnny’s proposition to lend his talents to this new endeavor. And if that weren’t enough, he also started booking them on what seemed to be an endless run, getting them gigs wherever he could smooth talk his way into. Still playing as Two If By Sea, these three roughnecks delivered to the beaten masses their own “choke on the truth” cure for the 9 to 5 blues.
Before they knew it a year had passed, working tirelessly to find a unique sound that would reanimate the raped and pillaged American Dream. But try as they might, they knew they were still missing the food for the flame. And like Moses parting the Red Sea, the vision of their Promised Land came in the form of a man they knew as Nate “The Great” Kotila. Handling his bass like the firm delicacy of a woman’s thigh, Nate makes his instrument and the pussy cats purr for more. Changing their name to Fire Whiskey the troupe of renegade banditos on the prowl was complete at last.
So for all you courtesans and charlatans, vagabonds and outlaws, put your cash in your pockets and your switchblades in your boots but hold onto your hats and women, for Fire Whiskey is here to reveal their demons. A musical collaboration filled to brim with saintly sins, angelic heathens and the lonesome dust from a long drive home; this is all they know.
Now Johnny was a Santa Cruz local, a lengthy kid with a heart like the ocean and a passion for music just as deep. He was what you'd call a "jack of all trades," playing in and out of several bands around the area's dive bars and watering holes. You know, classy joints. The two began talking about the finer things in life -- women, weed, and whiskey -- and as the gods would have it the conversation began meandering onto music. They soon realized that while they shared the same influences, their peers weren't writing anything our duo wanted to listen to; so they set out into the great unknown as Two If By Sea.
Armed with their guitars and a harmonica, Gavi and Johnny combined folksy story telling with fast paced country ballads, all topped with the grimy crunch of punk igniting the first spark or their frenzied obsession. But many nights were spent in a cloudy haze before the smoke cleared leaving the boys restless and hungry for that raw sound doused in a bucket of gasoline. And like a stampede of wild mustangs running through their brains, the two knew at once they needed the steady handed drumming of Sean James.
Having been the backbone to an array of musical projects, Sean jumped at his old friend Johnny’s proposition to lend his talents to this new endeavor. And if that weren’t enough, he also started booking them on what seemed to be an endless run, getting them gigs wherever he could smooth talk his way into. Still playing as Two If By Sea, these three roughnecks delivered to the beaten masses their own “choke on the truth” cure for the 9 to 5 blues.
Before they knew it a year had passed, working tirelessly to find a unique sound that would reanimate the raped and pillaged American Dream. But try as they might, they knew they were still missing the food for the flame. And like Moses parting the Red Sea, the vision of their Promised Land came in the form of a man they knew as Nate “The Great” Kotila. Handling his bass like the firm delicacy of a woman’s thigh, Nate makes his instrument and the pussy cats purr for more. Changing their name to Fire Whiskey the troupe of renegade banditos on the prowl was complete at last.
So for all you courtesans and charlatans, vagabonds and outlaws, put your cash in your pockets and your switchblades in your boots but hold onto your hats and women, for Fire Whiskey is here to reveal their demons. A musical collaboration filled to brim with saintly sins, angelic heathens and the lonesome dust from a long drive home; this is all they know.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Two Birds in a Bakery By Mat Weir
For the past hour I've been sitting inside Gigi's bakery/cafe, a small shop by the freeway off Water street in Santa Cruz. A steady drizzle streams from the silver clouds above as I gaze out the large crystal windows to my left. "It's not a hard rain" as an elderly customer says with a grizzled laugh; just enough to clean the world. I fumble through a blueberry muffin and gulp down my first of at least four cups of coffee, all black. My morning ritual. But this morning, two middle aged birds are squawking about. Not quite desperate enough to be cougars, not young enough to be lusty, they are busily filling up the bakery with their upper class ideas on corporate business, the marketplace and all of their neo-new age corporate guru ideas on the finer things in life.
"Well, if I was to see an employee with his desk disorganized I would immediately assume that he wasn't ready to be given any more responsibility and I would continually pass him up for a raise. I guess some people need to have a lot around them, but it just looks so unprofessional and whether you like it or not, this world is based on appearances."
"Oh yes Mary, I agree. People like that are always breaking promises to themselves. They haven't realized their full potential. I saw this seminar the other night all about that. The speaker was saying that broken promises to yourself are the best way to destroy your self-esteem. He told us that if you were to do five push-ups a night for ten nights, and made yourself do them, after the tenth night you'd have done fifty push-ups. Not only could you pride yourself in a job well done, but it would be better than telling yourself to do fifty push-ups in one night and not being able to complete them."
As I'm trying not to spit my coffee all over my laptop with a sarcastic laugh, I notice that while this asinine squawking is going on, one of the many homeless faces from downtown has been tap dancing away inside the cafe. I have seen him around many times before, but still don't know his story; if he's one toke over the line or just quiet. But there he is, tap dancing away in the same old hand knit baby blue beanie and dark striped jacket. Clicking his rubber souled boots against the shiny, wood floor with a thud and a squeak, the whole time a smile of simple enjoyment on his face.
Now, what pisses me off about these high society women suckling way at the corporate tit is not necessarily their way of life (though they sold their souls a long time ago for comfort) or the fact that what they were saying was not only painfully obvious but complete bullshit (yes, five times ten equals fifty but then you're only doing five push-ups a night which isn't really exercise so you're pride in accomplishing fifty is false and undeserving not to mention if you're already making yourself do five you might as well do all fifty at once). What really made me loathe them was that they were talking about things they knew nothing about.
These were women who had lived their whole lives in and orderly fashion. They had taken the steps to rise up the corporate ladder, accumulating spouses and children along the way basing their lives and merit on the appearance of success. The idea that if you succeed in having and doing what everyone else is, you too will be envied and loved just how you envy those perfect people around you. They go to self help programs, the corporate version of the self-esteem movement which was just another version of the earlier "love ins," in order to feel good about themselves during the times that the power, consumption and glossy ad lives just don't have the same sweetness they used to. Their world view and lives are so layed out and categorized anyone who doesn't fit into place is unprofessional, messy, and not worthy to rise up in the world. They don't base this persons' worth on the actual work he does, on how he handles tasks or if his deadlines are on, but if he does it in an orderly manner. The squeaky cog gets the grease, or in this case, greased over.
My annoyance grew steadily until it became a great sadness for them, these two parrots squawking from behind their croissants and jewelry. In all of their talk about corporate mannerism, they never once discussed what it was they actually did, just how they looked when they did it. It seemed to me that their lives were just as empty and nutritionally starved as the conversation they were having. And all the while the man in the blue knit cap tap-tapped away, a satisfied grin spread across his unprofessional face.
"Well, if I was to see an employee with his desk disorganized I would immediately assume that he wasn't ready to be given any more responsibility and I would continually pass him up for a raise. I guess some people need to have a lot around them, but it just looks so unprofessional and whether you like it or not, this world is based on appearances."
"Oh yes Mary, I agree. People like that are always breaking promises to themselves. They haven't realized their full potential. I saw this seminar the other night all about that. The speaker was saying that broken promises to yourself are the best way to destroy your self-esteem. He told us that if you were to do five push-ups a night for ten nights, and made yourself do them, after the tenth night you'd have done fifty push-ups. Not only could you pride yourself in a job well done, but it would be better than telling yourself to do fifty push-ups in one night and not being able to complete them."
As I'm trying not to spit my coffee all over my laptop with a sarcastic laugh, I notice that while this asinine squawking is going on, one of the many homeless faces from downtown has been tap dancing away inside the cafe. I have seen him around many times before, but still don't know his story; if he's one toke over the line or just quiet. But there he is, tap dancing away in the same old hand knit baby blue beanie and dark striped jacket. Clicking his rubber souled boots against the shiny, wood floor with a thud and a squeak, the whole time a smile of simple enjoyment on his face.
Now, what pisses me off about these high society women suckling way at the corporate tit is not necessarily their way of life (though they sold their souls a long time ago for comfort) or the fact that what they were saying was not only painfully obvious but complete bullshit (yes, five times ten equals fifty but then you're only doing five push-ups a night which isn't really exercise so you're pride in accomplishing fifty is false and undeserving not to mention if you're already making yourself do five you might as well do all fifty at once). What really made me loathe them was that they were talking about things they knew nothing about.
These were women who had lived their whole lives in and orderly fashion. They had taken the steps to rise up the corporate ladder, accumulating spouses and children along the way basing their lives and merit on the appearance of success. The idea that if you succeed in having and doing what everyone else is, you too will be envied and loved just how you envy those perfect people around you. They go to self help programs, the corporate version of the self-esteem movement which was just another version of the earlier "love ins," in order to feel good about themselves during the times that the power, consumption and glossy ad lives just don't have the same sweetness they used to. Their world view and lives are so layed out and categorized anyone who doesn't fit into place is unprofessional, messy, and not worthy to rise up in the world. They don't base this persons' worth on the actual work he does, on how he handles tasks or if his deadlines are on, but if he does it in an orderly manner. The squeaky cog gets the grease, or in this case, greased over.
My annoyance grew steadily until it became a great sadness for them, these two parrots squawking from behind their croissants and jewelry. In all of their talk about corporate mannerism, they never once discussed what it was they actually did, just how they looked when they did it. It seemed to me that their lives were just as empty and nutritionally starved as the conversation they were having. And all the while the man in the blue knit cap tap-tapped away, a satisfied grin spread across his unprofessional face.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My Beast...
My tears have become frozen in the midst of this winter storm. I feel nothing but the bitterness that is left once you realize your summer days have come to its dreadful end. Despite my efforts to keep from shaking, the wind pushes on and beats down on me as if it were God’s own wrath. I crumple in a heap of shame and despair. I no longer have what it takes to keep me here. And while the warmth of your familiar arms is oh so tempting, it has us both wondering if this is all worth having. The discouraging words that spew from your mouth attack like Vikings against my ill prepared heart that at one point in time would have fought till the death. The pillaging is now welcomed with submission. While others march on I remain in hiding, in fear of stirring up the beast that only pretends to be asleep.
Lost in Thought...
Cold hands of betrayal run idly down my spine as though they were playing my own heart-broken symphony and I jump as those bitter fingers slam down on that final note, leaving me breathless. Steam escapes my ears as I fumble for the words so quickly rejected. Eyes closed, squeezing tightly. Count to five and now to ten. Let the air out and do it again. But patience is in rare supply and I cashed my check far too long ago. Your voice wanders in and out of my perpetual thoughts. I want to listen, but my own still small voice is screaming for attention and unless I bark out her orders I am left to believe that I didn’t do anything to relieve this shrewd imposter that has taken over you. I’ve searched your eyes and it’s not quite lies, but it’s the light inside that has gone missing. I fear that this fraud who has invaded your once captivating fervor will be the one I am forever kissing.
This is home...
I miss the hot night air blowing in my face as the wheels go faster and faster. I miss looking down and seeing the world as a blur. Nothing else matters, this is sacred. The melody of my favorite song echoing within the corridors of my mind. This is what you live for. The moments when you're completely free from all thought except for what lays ahead. One wrong move and you're done for. The thought of that one mistake makes my heart pound harder in my excited chest. Rev that engine up and wave your middle finger high in the air for Death to see, "Not today you bastard, not today." The wind makes it impossible to hear anything except your own thoughts as you guide your machine through the endless desert. Swerving at the last possible second to avoid a joshua tree, now a bush, maybe even a jack rabbit running full speed after barely missing the deadly strike of the desert's mighty hunter, the rattlesnake.
The sun finally goes down, but you ride on. Nothing can break you from this adrenaline trance. Nothing except for the sputtering sound of an engine without fuel... but lucky for you the tank is full and the night is young. Ahhh, breathe in that air! The smell of gasoline and dirt combine to make an intoxicationg scent full of adventure. So distinct and clear you can taste it. It runs its course through your veins, only hightening that desperate urge to ride as fast as you can, leaving only a dusty trail of what once was. The night air gets colder, but you welcome the cold as it keeps you alert. Eyes always searching the vast landscape. This is home.
From my Dad after reading this... "Well you certainly capture the lore of riding and the "freedom" it brings, that rush that replenishes the soul. There is only one fix, one cure... you need to fire up that engine, cinch up that helmet strap, click her into gear and let her fly." - Kenneth "Bud" Lucas
The sun finally goes down, but you ride on. Nothing can break you from this adrenaline trance. Nothing except for the sputtering sound of an engine without fuel... but lucky for you the tank is full and the night is young. Ahhh, breathe in that air! The smell of gasoline and dirt combine to make an intoxicationg scent full of adventure. So distinct and clear you can taste it. It runs its course through your veins, only hightening that desperate urge to ride as fast as you can, leaving only a dusty trail of what once was. The night air gets colder, but you welcome the cold as it keeps you alert. Eyes always searching the vast landscape. This is home.
From my Dad after reading this... "Well you certainly capture the lore of riding and the "freedom" it brings, that rush that replenishes the soul. There is only one fix, one cure... you need to fire up that engine, cinch up that helmet strap, click her into gear and let her fly." - Kenneth "Bud" Lucas
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Lost Boys Shoot - The Making Of...
Model: Dusty Grave of Stellar Corpses
MUA: Nina Moseley
Lighting: Austin Anderson
Photography: Vanessa Lucas - Just For Thee Taste Photography
First and foremost, I would just like to thank everyone who was involved with this project. We had a lot of help from friends, whether it was borrowing a generator or driving all the way from LA, I am very appreciative to you all. Also, a very special thanks to my boyfriend and best friend, Mat. Without your support this wouldn't have happened.
This was my first "professional" photo shoot and I feel so privileged to have had Dusty Grave as my first model. He is a wonderful human being, a profound musician and, as you can see, a very sexy, impressionable model. There is more than meets the eye with this one.
Nina Moseley was chosen by Dusty to assist him with everything that involved his vampire-like style. Make-up, hair, clothes, props, you name it - she did it. This girl has what it takes to make even the ugliest of people become works of art. And I thank the heavens above for making our paths cross, everyone needs a little Moseley in their lives.
And, Mr. Austin Anderson, director, writer, producer, editor of (currently Continuum Pictures) soon to be his own Film Plane Entertainment was kind enough to assist me with all of the amazing lighting effects you see here. The man is a machine. There is no stopping him and I feel terribly sorry for any poor unfortunate soul who dares to try to keep him from making his dreams a reality.
With 48 hours of hardly any sleep, we managed to complete this shoot with only a few... adventures, haha. Tiki torches are easily knocked over and what with the lighter fluid so easily attainable... fires can start quite quickly. Thankfully, with three fearless men at our sides we were able to distinguish it without any major mishaps. And apprently people don't like it when you run a really loud generator near their homes at all hours of the night, but fortunately, the cops were pretty chill about it... as long as we agreed to leave the property. But after a long weekend of cops, fires and speeding tickets (wich was BULL SH**) we accomplished what we set out to do and in the mean time made some everlasting memories and friendships of which I shall always cherish. Thank you EVERYONE for all your hardwork. You are all truly amazing.
- V
MUA: Nina Moseley
Lighting: Austin Anderson
Photography: Vanessa Lucas - Just For Thee Taste Photography
First and foremost, I would just like to thank everyone who was involved with this project. We had a lot of help from friends, whether it was borrowing a generator or driving all the way from LA, I am very appreciative to you all. Also, a very special thanks to my boyfriend and best friend, Mat. Without your support this wouldn't have happened.
This was my first "professional" photo shoot and I feel so privileged to have had Dusty Grave as my first model. He is a wonderful human being, a profound musician and, as you can see, a very sexy, impressionable model. There is more than meets the eye with this one.
Nina Moseley was chosen by Dusty to assist him with everything that involved his vampire-like style. Make-up, hair, clothes, props, you name it - she did it. This girl has what it takes to make even the ugliest of people become works of art. And I thank the heavens above for making our paths cross, everyone needs a little Moseley in their lives.
And, Mr. Austin Anderson, director, writer, producer, editor of (currently Continuum Pictures) soon to be his own Film Plane Entertainment was kind enough to assist me with all of the amazing lighting effects you see here. The man is a machine. There is no stopping him and I feel terribly sorry for any poor unfortunate soul who dares to try to keep him from making his dreams a reality.
With 48 hours of hardly any sleep, we managed to complete this shoot with only a few... adventures, haha. Tiki torches are easily knocked over and what with the lighter fluid so easily attainable... fires can start quite quickly. Thankfully, with three fearless men at our sides we were able to distinguish it without any major mishaps. And apprently people don't like it when you run a really loud generator near their homes at all hours of the night, but fortunately, the cops were pretty chill about it... as long as we agreed to leave the property. But after a long weekend of cops, fires and speeding tickets (wich was BULL SH**) we accomplished what we set out to do and in the mean time made some everlasting memories and friendships of which I shall always cherish. Thank you EVERYONE for all your hardwork. You are all truly amazing.
- V
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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