Archives for posts with tag: hillbillies

A mile outside Houma, La., sits a little shack on the side of the highway next to a drainage canal that runs along a sugar cane field back into some swampland, and eventually into the Gulf. The shack houses a two-man operation called Munsen’s Monster Tours, and it’s about what you’d expect: An old Cajun hillbilly—with all the moves, equipment and knowledge requisite to entertain tourists to the tune of 20 bucks each—pontoons you along for a couple hours, stopping at intervals to feed the wildlife with a casual showmanship and backwater manner that makes Steve Irwin (R.I.P.) seem like a Disney character. The guide said his father made a living in the mid 20th century gathering Spanish moss to sell to bedding manufacturers at four cents a pound. I guess his is what you’d consider a generational success story.

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The analog negative wears light exceptionally well. The sensitivity of film and it’s relationship to the visible spectrum is fantastic. Light recorded onto a negative has a quality that I just can’t see in digital photography. I know how to manipulate film and I know how to use it to my advantage. I don’t think my relationship with digital photography will ever be that intimate. I will always prefer to use film over a 16-gigabyte compact flash card.

These images are from my trip to Yellowstone and I took them with my analogue Hasselblad.



























PEASANTS spent July 4 at the Flaming Gorge reservoir, a few hours drive outside my hometown, Rock Springs, Wyo., in the company of some childhood friends and their cohorts. They were small-town punks who still play in bands but have mostly traded skateboards for beer guts and after-school detention for jobs and families. A conglomerate of children roamed the desert shores where we camped, throwing rocks at gulls and beating the hell out of lizards. A rattlesnake struck at one of them and a father chopped its head off with a shovel. Like most everything else in camp, the snake was thrown into the fire—sadly, before I could harvest its rattle.

We threw firecrackers with waterproof fuses into the lake and confused a fish so much it bit a guy’s fishing hook. He threw the fish back, though, and instead ate a 92-oz. steak. I tried to rescue a raft blowing out to sea but the water was so cold it stole my breath. We hunted for fossils but found little. We shot off artillery shells and lit some fountains called Exploding Bin Laden Noggins, which disappointingly didn’t really explode. It rained all night after we went to bed and our tent flap kept flying up in the wind, but we had drank enough beer and peppermint schnapps that it didn’t really bother us.

Happy birthday, America. You’re the best.