BIBA

$10 keyboard from Rite-Aid that played mostly Christmas songs.
Biba fearless, reckless, and shirtless.
Grant and Jon holding down the beat.
Molly and I with the best seats in the house.
A dog in every corner of the yard.

And with that, Biba danced. And I mean, she tore the front porch down, channeling an amazing amalgamation of James Brown, Robyn, and Edgar Winter.


We did this for an hour.



When it was time to stop, Biba cried and cried in futile, childhood protest.

I believe we all cried, too. But only on the inside, as we have learned not to cause a fuss. We have learned that the fun inevitably comes to an end and you have to go to bed.

How do you explain that logic to a kid? You can't, because if you think about it long enough, you find that it makes no sense.

Le Monde Appartient à Ceux Qui Se Lèvent Tôt

I left the room at 5am with my Super 8 in hand to film the Parisian sunrise.

It was really hard to keep up the facade that I meant to dress in sandals and a sleeveless shirt while I walked through Monmartre in the rain. The weather had been perfect the past couple days, and I thought it was dark out, because, well, it was 5am... not because there were rain clouds doing their thing, and doing it well.

The sun wouldn't be rising that day. And that was ok. Because I was in Paris, and if there are two things I love, it's being alone and public transit systems. So a quick change of plans, and a quick look at the map and I was on my [soaking wet] way.

I hopped on and off the Metro a couple of times, and happened across an umbrella along the way.

There was not a soul in sight, save a couple of dedicated joggers and a groundskeeper.

Just me, in the rain, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, hoping that the rest of the world would sleep in that day.

4

4 from melanie bellomo on Vimeo.

Spent the kind of day with friends where you find yourself repeating the phrase, "Is this really my life?" Over and over.
Weather too temperate, water too welcoming, food too good, people too cool, life too easy.
Everyone with cameras in hand, it has been called by some the most well-documented 4th of July of 2011.
Bryan & Alli and Ryan & Sonia opened their home and stretch of Malibu beach to us, and had every eastsider second-guessing their coordinates by the end of the day.

An Open Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe,

Your attempts to keep me away from this girl are nothing short of cruel. At first, I brushed it off as simple coincidence. But now, 2 years after seeing this lovely face for the first time, my absolute adoration has not waned, and you continue to mock me.

Coincidence, I think not.

Rather, full blown intent to separate. But for what? For why? I have put some thought into this, because, Universe, you are complicated. However, I believe I have figured it out. You clearly are threatened by the potential power storm of amazing magical explosions that will occur when Jasmine Ash and I rise above your futile efforts and, once and for all, fulfill our destiny to HANG OUT.

Well I have news for you, Universe. You will not keep us apart. We shall overcome. We will be in the same city for more than 3 days and we will meet up for coffee and we will talk about pups and nail polish and bunnies and the Beatles.

So get over it. Because it's happening. And the world will be a better place for it. So get on the goddamned bandwagon already and stop hatin'.

Regards,
Melanie

UPDATE: My browser crashed as I was posting this and everything was LOST! GONE! BYE BYE! That has NEVER happened before and frankly, Universe, I take that as a threat. Bring it, bitch.

Lesson Unlearned

I guess I play the piano. I mean, I think I do.

We grew up with a little Story&Clark in our living room on Oakmont Ct. It started innocently with that song where you roll your fist on the three black keys, then pound the flanking black keys twice as hard you can in between each fist roll... You guys know the one. I would do that nonstop, because it really didn't have an ending. And man, it sounded as good as it felt.

From there it all came pretty quickly: Mary Had a Little Lamb, Heart and Soul, the Top Gun Theme. Pretty soon, my left hand joined in, and I was making up my own pretty little songs. PS:Here's the great thing about not knowing how to write music down... You must never stop playing or you will forget it all. Therefore, I never stopped playing.

Lessons were never even considered. To be completely honest, I didn't even know such a thing existed. The piano bench was the most popular seat in my house, and maybe my parents knew that the last thing we needed after a long day of guilt and redemption at St Rose of Lima Catholic School were rules and regimen. Thankfully, apart from the actual architectural structure of our house, structure was the one thing that was brilliantly lacking in our home.

Papa Joe played piano. Without a doubt. He was a bona fide piano player. One of those never-took-a-lesson-in-his-life types. He would play anything and everything for hours. And purely for enjoyment. His and ours. We would dance wildly around my grandma's living room while he banged out the 12th Street Rag and the Flight of the Bumble Bee, following each note with a corresponding leap, spin ,or crash. Then he would kindly slow into Love is a Many Splendored Thing, and as the sweat on our collective brows would begin to cool, he'd pull out his ace...

Twilight Time.

Ugh, Twilight Time. Even at 5 years old, that song broke my heart. No words, just music. And it moved me deeply. I've been able to hear it only in my head for the past 7 years or so and I cannot think of one thing that I want more than to hear him play it again. In his own special way. The way that I have searched for and have failed to find.


When Papa passed, I mourned. I never understood that word before that moment he left. But then I knew it so well, because he was gone, and he took it all with him. His scratchy beard, the smell of car grease on his skin, the nicknames that only he called us, his piano playing. Gone. I cry now while I write this, because the loss remains. And I want it all back.

I decided to start taking piano lessons. I decided it would be a good idea to learn what notes were and where they lived on the piano. I decided that it was time for me to know what all those little loopdeedoos and flags on sheet music were. I decided that this would be the way for me to finally be able to play all of his songs to myself so I could listen to them again.

I went for my first lesson today. The instructor asked me what my skill level was, to which I replied,

"I don't know where 'C' is. I play by ear. I know nothing."

Then he asked me to play him something. I played him about 10 seconds of a Chopin song Angelo had taught me 15 years ago. He had a tape casette recording of this song and we obsessed over it until it became this ridiculous mutation of the original.

This definitely gave the instructor the wrong idea. I think he [so wrongly] thought that I knew what I was doing.

The next 30 minutes was a whirlwind of phrases such as, "No start with your third finger, " "One and a-two, and-a skip, and a-three, and-a.." "that empty circle with the dot means it is 2.5 notes" and the very popular "Start again." At minute 28, I started crying. Commence meltdown sequence...

"I don't understand anything that you are saying! All the ones and a-twos... and...I don't know what b flat means! Or how to find it! I don't know any of this! I was being honest! I only know how to memorize which keys get hit at the same time and the rest is my ear saying which way to go! Up or down! Up or down! I ONLY KNOW UP OR DOWN! "

When I got home tonight, I played every song I knew to exorcise the lesson demon. Half way through an old Sicilian folk song that Papa Joe frequented, it hit me...

I'm a Bellomo. We don't do piano lessons.

Just figure it out. Use whatever fingers you want. Let your ear tell you where to go. If you get stuck, call your brother.

Because, here's the thing... I want to hear Twilight Time again. Badly. But I don't want to hear a "lessoned" version of it. I want to hear Papa Joe's version. The version that's in my blood. So help me, I am going to find it, and when I do, I'll finally be home again. And I cannot fucking wait.

The Gospel According to Danny

Don't talk to me about digital. I've got hypo in my veins. The stains you see on my shirts are Dektol. I like the dark room, the radio, the yellow light glowing. I rip the printing paper into quarters. One square is swimming in the Dektol. Through the clear, brown liquid I see my work emerging – my picture. Then I take it, the little piece, and give it away, a gift, to the person pictured in it, a return for what they have given me. Thirty years pass. People die. Children grow old. They keep the little piece, stuck up on a wall with thumbtacks, creased and stained: themselves, young and alive, forever. That is photography.

-D. Lyon (photographer, keepin-it-realist, personal hero)

#sickmoviebro

Sick movie, right bro? Just some friends, on a roof, raging.

Sarah Rayne has Skillz.

She does. But whatever, you guys. Calm down, because it's not even a big deal. It's just fact. So you don't need to freak out about it, you just need to deal. She has skills.

And she will share them with you.

Like, check this out...

1. She steals. As in she's a thief. As in literally. As in mini bars and reality television production cheeseburgers. But she will give all of her spoils to you.

2. Sarah has 3 different (legitimate) music projects going on (that I know about). One with her bros because she is a family oriented person, one with her friend Brian because she is a good friend who likes to collaborate freely, and one on her own because she is an independent woman with a keen sense of self.

3. If you are crying, she will take a picture of your face.

4. If you are laughing, she will make it worse and take it to the next level with dick jokes.

5. Sarah has a Monday night beard during dodgeball season.

6. She knows every swimming pool game in existence. And if you try to make one up to throw her off, she will have it wired immediately and add three new rules that make it more satisfying than it ever was when you were playing it without her.

7. When playing sports and doing general athletics, Sarah does not put her hair up in a ponytail.

8. She will go to the beach with you at 4am. This is "hearsay," but I believe it to be true with all my heart.

9. Sarah will make you feel OK about looking up the short skirts of women who walk by while you are floating in a pool.

10. No one, and I mean no one, can "do dead" better than Sarah Rayne.

11. She makes coffee cake that can and will open up your soul.

12. She always has extra capes.

13. She will make you feel like you are full of worth on your most worthless days. I swear. It is some kind of sweet black magic.

If it weren't 3AM, I'd keep going. Anyways, I'm glad I got at least this much off my chest. In summation, Sarah clearly has skills. If you see her, remind her of that. And also tell her I love her. Because I do. So much. How could I not?*

*see below.

And Another Thing

I've changed my mind about a few things.
Insert randomly chosen photograph here...
Cool.
Goodnight.

What Is Up

Making my way back over here.
I have Netflix and it's ruining my life.
I love it so much.
The good news is, I'm in the mood to write starting tomorrow. It's just a hunch.
But I'm thirty now.
Which means I get to call "a hunch" my intuition.
And no one effs with intuition.

Googling Sophia Loren

My Google search history for the past week...

1. Young Sophia Loren Underwear
2. Reddit True Story
3. Pet import Russia
4. Cock sock
5. What do you call it when two guys' dicks accidentally touch?
6. Thesaurus truth
7. analog emoticons
8. How often should you cut your hair?
9. Pet import Japan
10. Maple Center

52 Card Pickup

During one of my extended stays with Great Aunt Harriet, she asked me if I wanted to play 52 card pickup.

I looked down at her wrinkled hands and saw her thickened, yellow nails gripping the worn, soft-blue deck of cards that had taught me how to play such staples as WAR, Go Fish, Rummy, Gin Rummy, and Slap Jack.

"Yes."

She smiled and patted the so-blonde-it-looked-invisible hair on my oversized head and we walked into the kitchen her mobile home.

"Alright, pay attention. I don't wanna explain this twice."

The deck of cards began flying madly into the air as she laughed so violently in my face that her chin hairs shook.

As the cards began to settle, her laugh trailed off into tiny hiccups. After a moment of my stunned silence, she pointed at the ground...

"There. 52 cards. Pick em up."

and walked out of the room.

Chiamare

Grandma Mary used to call everyday.

Every. Single. Day.

It was the usual,

"How are you?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Come over for a visit and we'll make some dead bones*."

I think part of the reason she called was because she knew the five of us were home alone wrecking some kind of havoc, as five siblings left to their own devices in a two-story house will do.

She only lived a mile away; less if you were an 11 year-old who knew the horse trails that tentacled through the neighborhoods like the back of her hand. She could have just as easily drove by and caught us chucking kitchen knives into the overgrown lawn, or peeked through the window just as some small body was mid-flight between the banister and the pile of pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals that were carelessly piled at the bottom of the staircase.

I suppose she knew better. Or rather, I think she didn't want to spoil our homemade fun.

I would try my best to quickly get her off the phone without letting on my intention. It was one lovely land line for our seven-person household, and call waiting was not in our budget. I had important phone calls I was waiting for; at any moment Joey Fama could be crank calling me to yell "Boobs!" into the receiver. If I missed that call, he'd move on to the next girl on his list and she'd be the one who would get to punch him the next day at school. And I was not one to pass up the opportunity to punch a cute boy in the arm.

At the time, I was sure she was not privy to my hurried, preteen impatience.

But now. Looking back.

Grandma doesn't live a mile away anymore. And I haven't run through horse trails in longer time than I've had my driver's license. And dead bones only get made for weddings. Or funerals.

And Grandma doesn't call everyday anymore. I think now it's my turn. I think it's been my turn for some time now.

When I do pick up the phone and dial my most familial/familiar area code and she picks up, I can't keep her on the phone long enough. Her words are kind and thoughtful, though they come out slower and with quiet cadence. I always want to tell her that I'm sorry I don't call more often, that I miss her, and that I will come see her soon. She always tells me the same thing.

"Melanie, you are always in my heart. Even when I don't see you. You're always there. You all are."

*dead bones are my favorite cookie of all time. An old tradition in my family that came about purely by mistake.

Revisiting McCambridge Park

This photo is from my dad and Uncle Sam's 10th birthday. That's my Uncle Dick kneeling, and my effortlessly beautiful Grandma keeping everyone steady. When we asked Dad (the lanky kid on the left) what he wanted to do for his big six-zero, he sent out this email.

Hi Everyone,

Here is the picture that will be 50 years old next Friday afternoon. It was taken in McCambridge Park in Burbank and when we developed it, Grandma really liked it, and Uncle Sam said "Me too!", and Uncle Dick said "It's groovy". I said "You know, we should take another one on our 60th birthday so it will be all of us in two photographs that are exactly 50 years old". Papa Joe said "Good idea," and I was put in charge of remembering to do it. So that is the true story.

Love, Dad

So that's what we did. I got to do the reshoot. A far cry from the perfection of Papa Joe's eye that I will endlessly be chasing, but I'm proud to be the next Bellomo to snap this shot.

Pretty close, eh? My favorite part was right after...

Happy Birthday, Pop!

RIP Barnaby

I really don't know how to do this, yet. I don't know how to write about it. These pictures are the best I can do right now, but he deserves so much more. Rest in peace, my little one.
Oh how I miss you so much more than I know how to say, except for that I love you the same way. So much more than I know how to say.

Doing What I Do Not Do

I am not a wedding photographer.

Nothing about the way I shoot lends itself to being a wedding photographer (film, labs, old heavy cameras, waiting). I do not have business cards, especially ones with the words, "Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, and Special Events" written beneath my name . I am incapable of charging a fee, for fear that the photos will not turn out and I will be thought of with regret forever after. I detest giving people direction; the phrase, "Move a little to your left," makes me ill. I avoid weddings like one avoids an ex-boyfriend after gaining 15 lbs; you do it if you have to, but you better be wearing a badass dress and have a "plus one."

I am not a wedding photographer. But my life as of late would suggest otherwise.

A year ago, Gabe, a friend from college, asked if I ever shot weddings. I said I had once, but, well, see above. He urged me to think about it, that his fiance loved my photos, and they, above all else, would love to have me there. So I thought about it. I thought about where I would be in August of 2010, I thought of how my photo skills would have surely progressed, I thought of how nice it would be to visit the state my grandparents came from.

But there was another thought happening somewhere in my subconscious as the word, "Sure," so effortlessly tumbled out of my big mouth.... There's something about events that are a year away. I always think they'll never really happen.

As the rental car swerved deep into the Poconos Mountains, further and further away from civilization, I thought,

"This is, in fact, happening."

While Paul and Jill (guests of the wedding and my ride) helped me to recount the times we must have met during our four years at the same college I began to get genuinely excited about the people I would be seeing. The people I vaguely remembered, but knew I thought I really liked I'm pretty sure I hoped.

We arrived at the house where most everyone would be staying and the festivities were well under way. The wedding was scheduled for the next day and friends and family from all over the country were congregating at this impossibly beautiful farm house to "pre-party" as we used to call it at Colorado State.

I found Gabe right away and gave him a big hug. The truth is, I was flattered. Gabe had always kept in touch. His perseverance was unmatched. He sent postcards on a regular basis, followed my blog and berated me to post more, checked in on my website, and just plain cared about what was going on in my life, even when I was silent for months at a time. I was happy to be there with him and for him. Kind of like a way to make up for my lackluster 3 to his sparkling 50 postcards sent. To set the good friend score even and show him that I do value our friendship, regardless of the fact that I had not seen him in more years than I had known him. Oh, and the bride, Lea, was one of the most lovely ladies I had met so far this century.

But that is not the point of this story. The point of this story is that I am not a wedding photographer.

Gabe showed me to my room and I began to unpack. My dress went on a hanger, my book on the bedside table, my toothbrush by the sink, and my charger in the phone. Then onto my film and the systematic divvying up of how many rolls would be allotted for what. Finally I grabbed 1 of the 3 rolls set aside for that night and the precious time to hide behind my camera had arrived. I went to my bag to get it.

My parents once left my little brother behind at a rest stop during a cross country road trip. They realized it a few miles down the road, sped back, and swooped him up, barely causing a wrinkle in our family vacation.

My camera, unlike, my little brother, was not a few miles down the road. No, no, it was, say, 2700 miles down the road, AKA, on the other side of the country. It is difficult to relay the pure horror-agony-panic trifecta that set in the moment I realized that my entire purpose of being at that moment was not with me.

My first instinct was to run, naturally. Because, ya, that made sense. Just run away and never come back and they'll think you died and they'll never ever know that you destroyed the single most important day of their young lives. This truly seemed like a more than viable, and flat out reasonable solution. But there were too many of them! They were everywhere. In the halls, behind every corner, outside, inside, even a few passed out in the field leading to the road, no doubt.

Running was out. Being a grown-up was in.

A short prayer: "Dear God, please let there be cell reception up here in your gorgeous mountains." as I dialed my home number.

"Jon. I left my camera at home."

The next hour was a blur of Jon scouring Craigslist for old Nikons, me sobbing through phone calls to strangers in Scranton asking if they'd take $175 (all the dough I had on me) instead of $250 for their camera, and occasional silent mental breakdowns every 10 minutes or so. Finally we found Russian Steve in Allentown selling an old Nikon for the right price and promising in the most unsettling tone,

"You can drust me, eet workz. Eet workz pearfectly."

Up at 6am to start my 2 1/2 hour drive to Allentown to test his camera, drive back, and make it to the Poconos by 11:30am to start shooting the girls getting pretty and the boys hitting the back 9. Fat chance. Or more specifically, morbidly-obese-needs-stomach-stapling chance.

For the first time in my life, I did not get lost driving to a new place from a new place. That was the only thing that went right that morning. Russian Steve did have an old Nikon, but "eet" did not work. At all.

Mid-meltdown on his couch under a painting of Jesus at Gethsemane, he revealed to me that he did have this other Nikon. This other Nikon caused a series of begging and pleading with Russian Steve to please accept a personal check on top of my $175 so that I could purchase it and not have to kill myself because I single handedly ruined an old friend's wedding day. He finally conceded and handed over a beautiful old Nikon F4. A dream camera of mine, to be honest, but the glory of my possession of it fell flat in this veritable nightmare.

I believe I kept my fingers crossed the entire drive back to the Poconos, hoping against hope that this F4 would not only work, but take beautiful photos and save the God-damned, God-forsaken day.

I arrived at the bridal suite at 12pm and the ladies had just begun getting their hairs done.

Here's what happened next...




I think if I were a wedding photographer, this experience may have kicked me right out of the business. Luckily, I am not a wedding photographer, and this experience was one of the most special and fun I have had in quite some time. And though I didn't have my "plus one," I sure as shit had one badass dress.

Jenny O + Scout: Una Storia d'Amore

Trovare.

Amare.


Lasciare.

Nikkormat, Jr.

Sophia using my old Nikkormat. She shot an entire roll that day. Only needed help winding it; understandable considering its weight/size in proportion to her.
It felt so strange having to explain that she'd have to wait a week before she saw the photos that she took.
And the photos that she took... Amazing. Mostly dogs and people with no heads. And a lot of photos of her brother, Joe. Head included.

Sandypede

Dodgeball
Originally uploaded by World Dodgeball Society

The Power of Sandy Compels You.

The Getty

Blessed Be.

d o d g e b a l l
Originally uploaded by World Dodgeball Society

Baby Biggs and Ry-Ry Christ

Rebecca and Ryan got married this summer in St Lucia. I was lucky enough to be there. Aw, Baby Biggs!

I Got My Philosophy

It was probably Spring break. I was home and mid-thaw from spending the winter knee-deep in snow at Colorado State. I was at the point in my “don’t-live-at-home-anymore” stage where I thought I had learned enough to have a valid opinion. And the first opinion I decided I had was that Ben Folds played some bad ass piano.

Now, me liking a musician that hadn’t been hand fed to me by one of my siblings was unheard of. My childhood is not recalled by how old I was or what year it happened to be, but rather, which band or album I (and my siblings) was obsessed with at any given time. Each of them had been responsible for one super great obsession.

Sarah aka The Morning Drive Phase: Blizzard of Oz and Houses of The Holy

Mary aka The I Love Calvin Broadus Phase: The Chronic

Angelo aka The Rap is Crap Phase: Metallica, namely, Master of Puppets

Tim aka The Kinder Phase: Little Bunny FooFoo

I never had the need to develop my own musical tastes, as my sisters and brothers were clearly holding it down for me. But being under 20, and over 800 miles away will cause you to establish your own idea of what is awesome. Ben Folds was making me play air-piano way hard and I couldn’t wait to get back to Cali and show the sibs my new moves.

The day I got home, I was sent to the valley to pick up the baby brother from school. Lil Tim was a mess of burgundy with gold trimmings and smelling like a pep rally as he hopped in the passenger’s seat of the Chevy Blazer. We did the customary exchange of yelling nicknames at each other (“Tim-Tam!” “Smellanie!”), and headed back toward the 405.

He asked me how college was going and I asked him how Molly* was. I answered that college was still cold and he answered that he wanted me to stop asking him how Molly was every time we spoke. Once the formalities were out of the way, I decided to lay it on him. We had just entered the turn into Simi Valley and the Ronald Reagan Freeway was uncommonly traffic-free.

“Tim, check this out.”

I pressed play and turned the dial clockwise.

“Song for the Dumped” comes out of the gates like a 2-ton Brahma bull with mad cow disease. It begins with the kind of musical gusto and hysteria that most songs take 2 or 3 verses to build up to. A veritable free-for-all of violent strikes to the piano that cause your neck to joyously whiplash in lunatic rhythm for almost 4 minutes.

I looked over at Tim who seemed more horrified at my frenzied antics than impressed by my new favorite song. Fudge. I blew it. I mean, I don’t know what I had expected.

Or wait... Yes I do... I expected Tim to be completely taken with the music, magically know the words, and wildly sing-a-long with me while we sped down the 118 to our First St exit. I immediately let go of the dream, and turned on KNX 1070 News Radio for the rest of the drive.

I didn’t call home very often when I was in Colorado. When you’re away from home, you assume everyone’s in a holding pattern until you get back (FYI to any teenage readers: NOT THE CASE).

I was back home the day after classes ended for the Summer. I went to visit Tim at work and bring him a sandwich from The Hat. I walked into his mini-office and heard “Philosophy” blasting through the speakers of a boom box sitting on top of the file cabinet. Sitting at the desk was Tim, mouthing the words and feeling it. Like, for real.

This was 10 years ago.

Tonight, Tim-Tam and I are going to see Ben Folds beat the shit out of his piano live for our first time. No doubt, we will be completely taken with music, magically know all the words, and wildly sing-a-long.

PS Thanks, Eric.

*Molly is the girl Tim had a crush on for about 1 week in the third grade.

Oh, BTW...

dodgeball
Originally uploaded by LA Dodgeball

Dodgeball is back.

Everyday Miracles

Eric and Doug living life to the fullest.

Don't Know What I'd Do Without...

Scout.

"Why I Love Richard Christy" by Melanie

Richard Christy* falls asleep listening to this; his favorite scary soundtrack.

Ever. Single. Night.

His fiance listens along with him.

Super strange, I know. But here's what really got me.... there's a part in the tape where a woman starts screaming and it wakes up Richard's fiance and scares the shit outta her.

So...

Richard made a special version of the tape where the screaming has been mixed down. And that is why I love Richard Christy.

Well that and because he has drummed in metal bands named "DEATH" and "Charred Walls of the Damned."

Oh Richard. Just look at you.



*Richard Christy

Saul Leiter aka Love of My Life

I love Saul Leiter. I do, so deeply, and usually spend my last waking moments with him in my bed each night. He gives me sweet dreams. Early Color is my single most favorite photography book ever in the whole entire world. Look...

I try to spend time with my other loves: Parr, Eggleston, Winograd, and Lyon.....
But Saul has my heart.
Here. One more, then goodnight...
OK. Goodnight.
M

Expert Dance Moves

I logged in to my YouTube account after many months and found that my brother, Angelo, has been using it to upload little movies he makes at work. I CANNOT stop watching this one. It is bringing me so much joy, especially the boy on the far right during the first 4 seconds of the video.

Know Your P's and K's

Dear Angelo,
I'm cataloging (see below), lest we forget.
From, Melanie

• Stop ik, that hurks.
• One Hundrek.
• Angee, do you wanna get some copfkee?
• I got pulled over by the copks last night.
• I have the hipkups.
• I drokked the baby on accident.
• Has anyone seen my keyps?
• I'm on Team Edwark.
• You're stupik.
• That's a Corgi on my tea cupk.
• Publiksher's Clearing Houkse.
• I cannok believe you just said that.

www.BHSAH.com

Tim's been helping me put together a new website for the animal hospital. Go take a little look. You will see things like this there...

www.BHSAH.com

Happy New Year

Get the kids together and bang your pots and pans. I'm happy that last year is last year. I sure do like all of you a lot. So let's be nice.
-M

Angeles National Magical Forest

It's about that time of year again, for this...

and this...



but mostly this...

Ryan and Anna

My lovely friends Ryan Bingham and Anna Axter got married this summer. Here are a few shots from the day.
PS It was on the mountainside of a huge Malibu estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean, so.... ya.