I just do art because I’m ugly and there’s nothing else for me to do. ― Andy Warhol
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]Bananas. Not only is there a giant one in this picture, in case you hadn’t noticed, but it’s also perhaps the kindest way to describe the model. She was from one of the barrier islands off Georgia’s coast, near Savannah. A trust fund baby, Daddy’s only little girl, who had grown up with every privilege possible. She saw one of my pictures in a magazine and decided that she simply had to come shoot with me for a whole weekend. I needed the money, so I took the job not knowing the girl’s reputation, nor the trouble into which she had a habit of getting.
My first warning came moments after meeting her at her motel, one in the higher-end of the Hilton chain. She carried a number of credit cards that Daddy had provided, but despite each one having an excessively high limit, she had already maxed them all out for the month, and it was only the 12th (strange how I can remember that date). So, checking into the hotel was a bit of a challenge. Hotels don’t like to accept cash anymore. She stood at the desk and argued with the night manager for the better part of an hour, calling him every dirty name in the book, before finally calling Daddy, who gave them yet another credit card number. She then called a sorority sister, at 1 AM, who was a regional manager for the chain, and complained. The manager’s phone rang immediately afterward.
After checking in, she changed clothes, and then wanted to go out to the clubs. Â I knew several club managers and owners personally, so that wasn’t going to be a challenge. What bothered me, though, was that we were supposed to start shooting at 8:00 the next morning. It was already almost 2:00. She promised she’d have no problem waking up and being fresh, so off we went. First place we went was doing jello wrestling. She volunteered to participate. Second place was doing wet t-shirt contests. She needed to do that as well. I almost lost track of her at the dance club. I had already nicknamed her bananas, to her face, by the time I tucked her into her bed at 4:30.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]I left messages for all the places we were scheduled to shoot, postponing everything until afternoon. Even if Miss Bananas managed to wake up, which didn’t happen, I knew it would take a couple of hours’ worth of makeup and water consumption before she’d be in any condition to take pictures of any kind. We had talked through several concepts before she arrived, most of which involved nudity in some form. I was hoping to tone down the ideas a bit toward something a bit less pornographic and more editorial. When she finally woke up, a little after 10 AM, we ate brunch then headed out. This was going to be an interesting day.
After she bought half the clothes at one boutique (Daddy had wired her cash), we started taking pictures. Convincing her that a public park in the middle of a Saturday afternoon was not a good place to be flashing her ample breasts was not easy. After more than one close call with police, I insisted we move inside, to a rented studio where I wouldn’t have to worry about being arrested for her actions. Along the way, she wanted some fruit. The banana shot was one of the first we took in the studio, and arguably one of the best. You would need a very dirty mind to imagine what she did with the banana afterward.
Over the course of the weekend, we managed to drop over 2000 frames. Only three photos remain, none of which records her face or her name. Interestingly enough, she was arrested for cocaine possession the moment she stepped off the plane back in Savannah. Apparently, she thought her tray table was a good place to set out lines. One of the flight attendants called ahead to local police. I never heard from her again. I sent pictures to the address she had given me on her release, but received no confirmation that she ever saw them. Gwen Stefani was right, this shit really is bananas. So, how’s your Monday? [/one_half_last]
Oh! The Terror!
We must do something about the terror that hasn’t happened
The following is satire. You should be able to tell that, but we’re taking this precaution just in case. Some of you have been watching too much Alex Jones, Suzanne.
The Short Version
First Bowling Green. Then Atlanta. And now, Sweden. The rate of non-terrorist activities by non-terrorists has accelerated over the past month to levels so dramatic as to demand a non-response. We must not do something and we must not do that something immediately before the entire world is out of control with non-activities not happening anywhere. The problem is real. Sort of.
Brace Yourself, This Isn’t Pretty
We thought we were safe. Right here, in Middle America, which looks nothing at all like Middle Earth, we thought we were safe. We thought we were protected. We thought we were healthy.
We were wrong. We were misled. We were fooled.
We didn’t know that there are non-terrorist all over the United States. Real people who dare to be non-threatening with their lifestyles. People we pass on the sidewalk every day who might well be on their way to doing something totally harmless and innocent. We never know.
They look like you and me, these non-terrorists. In fact, for all I know, you could be one of them. Are you? Would you tell me if you were? Can I even trust you with this article?
We are now a nation, nay, a world on edge. The incidents reported by the representatives of our White House administration have confirmed the severity of the situation on multiple instances now. The people who haven’t been lost. The crimes that haven’t been committed.
First, there was the Bowling Green Massacre. Oh, the horror! I can hardly bear to type about the tragedy as I sit here with my fourth cup of coffee this morning. Thinking about all that didn’t happen, the lives that weren’t ruined, the families that weren’t torn apart by that horrible, horrible non-incident, causes me to not shudder with fear. Bowling Green is so close to where we live, a mere four hours’ drive away if you don’t get caught in a speed trap just outside Louisville. How could something so non-earth shattering happen right here, right in our own neighbor’s backyard?
Then, not striking another blow to our heart, came the incident in Atlanta. We love Atlanta. We sort of lived there once, but stayed in outlying counties so we wouldn’t have to pay Fulton County taxes. Atlanta is very near and dear to us and it almost broke my heart to hear of the terrible tragedy that didn’t happen there. In fact, I didn’t know several of the people who weren’t killed that fateful night. They were all wonderful people who are now doomed to living wonderful lives all because some madman didn’t do something wicked that fateful night.
And now, just this past weekend, the level of non-terror escalated as it jumped across the not-a-real-pond known as the Atlantic Ocean and invaded Sweden with unseen force. Sweden is such a noble country, with lovely people who have immortalized fish by giving them their country’s name and possibly citizenship. They are endearing and attractive and frequently blonde. How could they ever fall victimless to such an excruciating level of non-terror in just one night? We didn’t want to believe it was true, but there stood our Commander-In-Orange declaring the non-tragedy himself. When the concern over non-terror reaches our nation’s highest office, we have no choice left but to pay attention.
We must guard ourselves against this non-terror. We must protect ourselves from the things that cannot invade us. Our government has proven itself unable to stop these repeated attacks of nothingness. They could happen anywhere. We never know when we ourselves might not become victims of some horrible attack by those evil and wicked non-terrorists. We are every one of us at risk. No one is safe.
What can we do? What should we do? I don’t know that there is anything that can stop this growing reign of non-terror. There are people all around us, every day, and there is no way to tell who might be a non-terrorist and who isn’t. It’s not like they all walk around with “I’m a Republican” bumper stickers on their asses. We don’t have the space to put all the non-terrorists in prison, or send them off to Guantanamo. Their numbers are too many. Non-terrorists have thoroughly infiltrated our society in ways we can’t even begin to imagine.
Still, there are some things we can do to try and minimize the consequences of these non-terroristic activities should they occur in our communities and among our friends and family.
I cannot sit here and promise you that any of those things will work, though. My vision of a non-terror-free world may be a pipe dream. Non-terror could very well be the new non-reality. There is every chance that our children and grandchildren will grow up thinking that these non-terroristic events are the norm and will not think twice when they or their little friends become victims of non-terror. Oh, what a horrible, horrible world we leave them.
Still, we have an obligation to try. We have to spread the word about non-terror. We must call out non-terrorists on social media. We must confront non-terrorists in places of power where ever they may be.
We cannot afford to be silent. Non-terror has claimed too many non-lives. Speak up now. The world begs this of you. Do not be silent. See those buttons down below this article? Use them.
Share this:
Like this: