AND NO ONE ELSE CAN HAUNT ME, THE WAY THAT YOU CAN HAUNT ME.

PAINE WEBBER SNOOZE-N-SCREAM.

BUBBLESMILES.

FULL BLEED.

WONDER WHEEL.

CONEY ISLAND.

So two nights before we went to Coney Island Brett was running down some steps out of an apartment on Mulberry in the wee morning hours, slipped and ripped his ear straight through the cartilage vertically more than half way down. His girlfriend Jane, horrified, freaked the fuck out while he lay in a motionless concussed haze for two minutes. They hopped aboard the EMT freight blazing through lights and he earned himself a nice 15 stitches. The doctor told him he'd have to avoid the beach and the watering of his precious plot of Breezy Point garden tomatoes. He slipped out for a cigarette, promising Jane he'd filled out all the proper paperwork, and asked me the next day if it's safe to take out stitches after viewing three or four youtubes on stitch removal procedure. The next day we hit the beach, figuring this Indiana Jones hat would be enough to block the rays.
Extra points for the police officer who said, "No, you idiot, finish them first... Thats alcohol abuse."

(GOD DAMN THIS COMPUTER IS ON IT'S LAST LEGS.)

GIESE SETS IT OFF.

The bottom shot is the product of what happens when you shoot a really old roll of film meant for blaring sun at midnight in midtown. (Given to me by some old creeper who now only shoots digiflex. He gave me a ziploc with about 50 rolls of film from the year 2000.)

(Note the Jordan tongue.)