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The Floating Gnome

A picture of a found photo of a parade float.

I don’t believe in reincarnation. But sometimes, I get this odd déjà vu when I’m rifling through a big box of loose photos at a flea market. Something stirs—part memory, part imagination. The “memory” seems to linger more than the imagination, that’s for sure. The memory? Why does it feel like I might have been at that parade?

I can spend hours digging in a single box of old pictures. I have, too. Many times. And discarded photo albums! Turning those pages creates a strange intimacy—flipping through the days of someone else’s life.

We make more photos in a single day now than were made in the first 150 years (give or take) of analogue photography. Today’s photos live on phones. Disposable. Delete-able. Quickly forgotten. But every analogue shot? Those mattered. You had either 12, or sometimes 24, and if you splurged, 36 shots in a roll. It made a photog to think. The photog had to slow down. I need to slow down.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing about all this. I guess it’s The Floating Gnome. That’s what I call this parade float photo I found. Four black photo corners, affixed to a comic book backer board, then slid into its poly bag and ready to find a new home.

That’s what I do with these pictures. I find them, and save them, then savor them. Eventually, I sell them. They deserve to be saved—from the city dump, mainly. They deserve better. They’re tiny little masterpieces in their own right.

But sometimes I wonder—did I see that gnome in another life, in some other city long ago? The woman holding the rifle. How do I know her? Those flappers laughing in front of the Model-T and showing a little leg. Was I married to the one in the middle — in a life I can only recall in some weird space in my mind? I don’t know. But some of these pictures feel oddly familiar. Actually, more than I’d like to admit.

Or maybe I just love weird, old photos.

Hey — don’t judge.

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I Subscribe to The Surfer’s Journal (and I Don’t Even Surf)

A Picture of the Surfer's Journal

I’m no surfer. I tried it once—on tiny waves in Hawaii, the summer of 2006, while on vacation with a porn star. Vacationing with a porn star should be a whole other blog…but a vacation in which I managed to ride a few tiny waves is what you get now. Doesn’t matter if the waves were small, surfing them was exhilarating.

Closest you can get to surfing is skating, and I skated when I was a kid. A lot…on the street, in homemade, wooden half-pipes and in Phoenix’s one skate park  — Highroller. I even recall skating at this weird, temporary skatepark that was made out of blue, fiberglass pieces that were assembled and disassembled as the park moved from place to place. I’ve only suffered one broken bone in my life, and it happened in Highroller’s concrete half pipe. Which is about the time I called it quits.

It didn’t take long to realize I liked the culture of skating more than I actually liked to skate. Tony Alva and Jay Adams. The idea of trespassing into someone’s back yard to skate their empty pool (no empties where I grew up in Arizona…and if so, would I have had the balls to trespass?). Skateboarder Magazine. Punk rock. Dogtown and Badlands. Stacey Peralta and The Logan family. 360’s and hand stands. Memories of begging my dad for plywood and two-by-fours from the homes he built, so my friends and I could build our own half-pipe (he finally said yes!). Oh — and Big Brother!

All things I love to this day. And I love The Surfer’s Journal. It’s my only magazine subscription. Mainly because it’s one of those rare magazines that still feels like something. Embossed cover. Thick, toothy paper. It’s a quarterly, so it’s substantial. Gorgeous photography. Layouts I want to linger over. Flipping through an issue of Surfer’s Journal reminds me of why I love books and printed matter in the first place: the experience of the object. It’s very tangible…which, to me, is a thing.

The writing’s good, too. Lifestyle stories, mainly. Beautiful photography. When I read TSJ, it makes me want to surf.

In fact, in my next life I shall surf.

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Synaesthesia Picks: Top 5 Collectibles of the Month — May 2025 Edition

Pictures of the Yvan Goll book Les Cercles Magiques illustrated by Fernand Léger.

It’s been a month of poetic rarities, visual wonders, and all sorts of weird stuff—books and ephemera that blur the line between object and artifact. I’ve been working hard getting my stuff researched, photographed and catalogued.

Here are five standouts that made me pause, marvel, and (maybe) even think, I can’t believe this is still available. But hey, I bought them in the first place…so yea. I’m slightly biased.

1. Yvan Goll & Fernand Léger – Les Cercles Magiques (1951)

A surrealist collaboration between poet Yvan Goll and modernist painter Fernand Léger, this limited edition (one of 750) is a visual and literary gem. How about that cover? It might be my most very favorite thing I’ve listed this year. In fact, it is. Maybe I shouldn’t sell it? Léger’s six illustrations dance alongside Goll’s poetic circles, creating a harmonious interplay of text and image. That cover! Printed in Paris and entirely in French, this is one of those rare pieces that feels like holding an exhibit in your hands. Did I mention that cover?! A must-have for collectors of avant-garde literature and fine press art books. Tu parles français ? Il ne faut jamais juger un livre à sa couverture.


2. Robert Creeley – A Day Book (1972)

This unpaginated, abstract collection of poetry and journal fragments captures Creeley at his most meditative and experimental. Issued by Scribner’s with a cover by pop artist Robert Indiana, A Day Book isn’t just a poetic document—it’s a visual one. It reflects a moment when poetry refused categorization and leaned hard into thought, rhythm, and introspection. For fans of the Black Mountain poets, this one doesn’t show up often in collectible condition. And with the glassine jacket! WOOT.


3. Amphora 8 (1972) – Featuring Bukowski, Norse, and More

I kinda miss going to Hal’s old place on Albion and listening to him complain about his car insurance. And no, he never tried to hit on me. But he did tell me some great stories.


4. Sing Out! Folk Music ‘zines Featuring Woody Guthrie

A lot of early Sing Out! issues featuring contributions and appearances by Woody Guthrie—including his lyrics, columns, and artwork. These magazines weren’t just publications; they were community / communist (?) manifestos. Founded in the aftermath of the Almanac Singers and fueled by the folk revival, Sing Out! was a hub for voices like Pete Seeger, Lead Belly, and of course, Guthrie. Betcha Dylan read them, too.


5. Kenneth Patchen – The Best Hope (1968 Poem-Postcard)

One of Patchen’s evocative poem-paintings reproduced as a postcard and issued by Leslie Tobin Imports in 1968. Hand-lettered in Patchen’s unmistakable style, the text reads: “The best hope is that one of these days the ground will get disgusted enough just to walk away…” A short burst of poetic despair, rendered with quiet grace. I’ve been paying attention to Patchen stuff for years. I haven’t seen many of these Leslie Tobin Poem-Post Cards…ever.

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Junk in the Trunk, Ginger on the Shelf: One More for the 10-Record Rule

front cover of Ginger Baker's Air Force

“Junk in the Trunk” is marketed as a “Vintage + Artisan Market” market, which is fine by me. At least I know what I’m getting myself into. I know I’m not going to clamor through filthy boxes and creepy Chevy vans crammed with vintage porn, but I certainly will find a terrific Iced Americano to go with my $25 entrance fee. In other words, Junk in the Trunk is the kind of place you’d expect to find in North Scottsdale, where  avocado toast is $15, and for $48 you can find a sweet-smelling, hand-poured candle, or a reclaimed mahogany cheese board engraved with the phrase “Brie Mine”.

I didn’t think I’d score a double-record Afrobeat-prog-jazz hybrid with 14-minute drum solos. And yet, there it was, buried between Night Moves and Rumors. And for just a sawski? I was all in. Which is the only reason to go to vintage and artisan markets.

The only thing I really know about Ginger Baker is he played drums for Cream, and he’s got a knack for punching people in the face. And sure, in the almost 50 years I’ve been paying attention to records, I’ve come across Ginger Baker’s Air Force more than once. It’s not a rare record. But it’s kinda undeniably cool. I especially like the way Martin Sharp designed it. I mean it took some balls for Sharp to hand ATCO Records a design with all the information about the record — including the band’s name — on its back cover.  For the front? A weird, surreal wave-of-something crashing down on some exclamation points and a floating target and musical note with people running around God-knows-where. And are those brown things Ampersands? Who knows!? One thing’s for sure, ATCO had bigger balls for green lighting it.

One more thing. I’ve trimmed my collection down. I’m trying hard to stick to this self-imposed 10-record-rule. I went to Eastside and got some trade cred with the Billy Childish and Martin Frawley records, and I gave my niece Diet Cig as a gift. And here’s a piece of friendly, record-collector advice: if you’re around Tempe and into Billy Childish, I’d run down there ASAP and grab “Blues That Kills” by “Wild” Billy Childish and The Chatham Singers.

One last piece of friendly, record-collector advice: something tells me I’m not holding on to Ginger Baker’s Air Force for more than a listen…or half a one.

 

 

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The Accidental Diptych: Discovering 35mm Half-Frame Film

A Jim Camp photograph taken with his Kodak EKTAR camera

There’s a particular kind of magic that comes from forgetting where you are — not physically, but photographically. That’s part of why I love shooting 35mm film on my Kodak Ektar H35. (Boy, did that sound like a commercial…or what?)

The camera’s half-frame format splits a standard 36-exposure 35mm roll into 72 17.5mm images, and that simple doubling shifts everything. When I get my pics back from the lab, each one made ends up married to another — a diptych dictated not by concept or sequence, but by time, accident, and the peculiar rhythms of life. Separated by a thick, black line. I almost forgot to mention the beautiful, lo-fi quality, too — from the camera itself to the pictures it makes.

I’ll go hours, days, weeks, and sometimes months between frames. I’ll shoot one image and then forget about it. Life moves. I move. And when the roll finally finishes and I develop it? There’s often a surreal, poetic dissonance waiting for me: a stranger in hot pink fur next to a tiny dog in a red Adirondack chair. I made that picture hours apart in a day spent in NYC. But different moods. Different places. And the same frame.

What I love about this format isn’t the economy — though that’s part of it. It’s the randomness, the surprise. The way memory, film, and time get scrambled into something new. It’s like flipping through a stranger’s photo album and finding out it’s yours.

More soon (who knows when!), as I keep working my way toward another 72 in the can to drop at my local film lab.

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When Sunday Mornings Meant The Bruiser and The Crusher and Not Mass.

A photo from the May 17 Phoenix Championship Wrestling show PCWAZ Wrestling in Mesa

Here’s how old I am: I grew up with exactly nine TV channels — and none of them ran 24 hours a day.

And trust me — nine stations was plenty. I was in big-city Chicago, after all — a major media market. My VHF lineup covered the basics: ABC, CBS, NBC, and PBS. Then came the two UHF channels, 32 and 44. I won’t bore you with the technical differences between VHF and UHF (ask ChatGPT if you’re curious), but trust me: UHF was where the cool stuff aired.

Channel 32 showed old reruns: Batman and The Little Rascals and The Munsters and Get Smart! But 44? 44 was sacred. Because Sunday mornings in the 1970s meant only one thing on every channel except 44: church. Seriously, every station was full of people praying and priests mumbling Latin and handing out communion. Except Channel 44…and Bob Luce Wrestling. I never missed Sunday Morning wrestling.

Sometimes tuning in meant wrapping foil around the rabbit ears just to kill the snow and static and to minimize “ghosts”. Bob Luce brought cigar-chomping Dick the Bruiser, his tag partner The Crusher! Baron Von Raschke and his “claw”! Big Cat Ernie Ladd and his thumb! Moose Cholak! Ox Baker!

Luce wasn’t just a promoter — he was a ringmaster in a plaid sport coat. His shows jumped from grainy locker-room rants to shaky in-ring chaos, always hyping “the wildest card of the century” at the International Amphitheatre. (Remind me to tell you about the time the roof caved in there during the Ice Follies.) Like all great promoters, Luce didn’t sell wrestling. He sold spectacle. Good versus Evil. And for a Chicago kid glued to 44 every Sunday, there was nothing like it. The only thing I hated? When they’d suddenly “run out of time” and end the show mid-match.

And why didn’t I beg my dad take me to the International Amphitheatre for Luce’s live shows? It’s a question that baffles me to this day. I guess it just never crossed my mind.

I quit paying attention sometime around The Rock, Stone Cold, Hulk Hogan as heel and what would be the end of Bischoff’s fantastic WCW run. But wrestling’s always stuck with me. Always. These days, I use vintage wrestling imagery as source material for my art. So when Dom Vitalli from Phoenix Championship Wrestling offered me a ringside spot to shoot pictures for his local league, guess who showed up two hours early with a couple of cameras hanging around my neck just to hang backstage with the wrestlers.

Let’s just say I was way more excited for tag teams, body oil, and shaved men than I should’ve been.

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The Value of a Worn Book: When We Were Very Young Revisited

A picture of the A.A. Milne 1925 holiday edition of When We Were Very Young

So, here’s the thing. In my last rambling, I took a very cheap shot at A.A. Milne’s When We Were Very Young. I joked it was about as collectible as a used coloring book. And while that line still makes me chuckle a bit (I try to avoid laughing at my own jokes) — I’ve had a change of heart.

Because the more I sat with that book, the more I realized: it is something. I could find maybe six or seven copies online — total. Before the internet (does anyone remember AB Bookman’s Weekly?!), tracking down this book would’ve been really difficult. And when you actually read it — when you feel the illustrated cloth boards, take a good look at Ernest Shepard’s illustrations, or how about that Christopher Robin frontispiece?! — it is special.

Nope, it’s not a first. And it’s certainly not pristine. But so what? It’s nearly a hundred years old, and it’s survived wars, floods, a child’s careless hands, and who knows how many house moves. Maybe it’s not “collectible” in the formal sense. But it’s charming. It’s vintage. And it still matters.

I think that’s the part I forgot when I penned that blog: sometimes a book’s value isn’t in scarcity, but in how it feels in your hands.

And this one? It may not be rare by some definitions — but unlike a scroll or a screen or a swipe or a JPEG, it’s got weight, texture, that wonderful, slight scent of a used book…and a whole lotta Soul.

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Buying & Selling Blindly: Confessions of a Bookseller with Bad Impulse Control

A picture of the A.A. Milne 1925 holiday edition of When We Were Very Young

Look, I’ve made worse decisions.

I’ve bought more than one book that wasn’t a true first. I remember pulling a near fine, beautiful clothbound For Whom The Bell Tolls—its bright, unread spine screaming at me from a thrift store shelf during my early collecting days—only to later discover it lacked that Scribner’s “A”… and a dust jacket. Still, I skipped out of there thinking I’d scored.

Or, on the flip side, there was the time I bought a handful of letters (well, more like short, typewritten notes signed in ink) from William S. Burroughs to the editor of a tiny, obscure little magazine. The editor handed them to me and asked, “Can you give me $140 for the lot?”

This was 1997. I was part of a collective of booksellers in a San Francisco shop called Tall Stories, in the Mission District. I looked over the final Burroughs note while considering the price. It read something like (and I’m paraphrasing here): soon, the last pygmy three-toed sloth will be blasted into extinction from its tree by a white hunter wielding his shotgun.

Do me a favor and read that last line again — this time imitating Burroughs’ flat, nasal, sonorous delivery.

“Yes, I’ll take them.”

After The Editor left, I priced my six letters at $280—double my money!—and slipped them into the store’s shared glass case. Not long after, Alan Milkerit, a real bookman who’d been teaching me the ropes, walked in and noticed something amiss in the case. He looked closer. He opened the case and snapped my letters up. Then he tossed three $100 bills on the counter and said to me, sternly, “Haven’t I taught you anything yet, boy?”

Fast forward to my latest gaffe: A.A. Milne’s When We Were Very Young. Yeah. I should’ve done a little homework. In my defense, it looked like something. I was on one of those lesser-known auction sites, thinking, this one’s being overlooked—especially since the listing and its description didn’t even mention “Winnie the Pooh.” But no edition check, no online comps, and was it originally issued in a jacket? (Yes, it was.) In the end, I went with a hunch and twenty bucks.

Turns out the auction house doesn’t describe books very well, either; which means mine might be as collectible as a used coloring book. (Okay… just a little more.)

We’ve all got blind spots. Mine, apparently, are English nursery rhymes. And the less-trafficked auction sites.

More soon—assuming I don’t fall for a mid-grade Babar next.

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Gonerfest 9: Lettered, Boxed, and Now Released.

Gonerfest Nine picture included in the synaesthesia press publication Music Box

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.

Jack Gilbert, “A Brief for the Defensefrom Refusing Heaven (2005)

After Gonerfest I came home from Memphis with a camera full of music and a head full of ideas. What came out was Music Box — my attempt to make something in the spirit of what Johnny Brewton had pulled off at his X-Ray Press — especially X-Ray 8. Johnny’s work has always stuck with me: loose but professional, real and raw, letterpress personal and full of all these wonderful bits and pieces. I wanted mine to feel the same without stepping into that trap Harold Bloom calls “The Anxiety of Influence”.

So I printed 30 giclée photos — bands, moments, the crowd, all of it — and housed them in a found cardboard box. Held together with a wrap-around band. A found, vintage library card pocket repurposed as a place where you’ll find my colophon. The hidden couple dancing. And Jack Gilbert…because Gilbert was the greatest living American poet — until he wasn’t.

Monsieur Jeffrey Evans (’68 Comeback, The Gibson Bros.);  Thursday night Emcee NOBUNNY; Memphis’s Moving Finger; the Frenchmen who made up Jack of Hearts; The Golden Boys from Austin TX; the Oblivian who calls himself Greg; all the way from Holland The Anomalys; Indiana’s The Hussy; a couple shots of Texas bad asses Bad Sports; Melbourne’s incredible Bits of Shit; a couple a fans! and a couple of River City Tanlines;  NOBUNNY and his backing band that night, Bad Sports; Dez Vibez from Ryan Wong aka Wong Reatard aka Mr. Rousseau; another Aussie band Native Cats; Chicago’s White Mystery; The Detonations; Ex-Cult / Sex Cult; a photog / fan screaming at Mad Macka; finally, a photo in there of the Hi-Tone at full capacity — the last image in the box from one of the last shows played. An experience. And I didn’t even mention the food or make pictures of what I ate.

There’s 26 lettered copies of Music Box. I archived most of them. For years. Because my doubt looms large and Imposter Syndrome is very real exempli gratia Vivian Meyer and Henry Darger and all the poets and writers scribbling away and too afraid to show a soul.

But I’m listing Music Box now. Cause fuck the doubt and everything that comes with it.

If you were there, you’ll get it. If you weren’t, maybe you’ll feel like you were…all laid in to a small, perfectly square box.

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The Night Mike Peters Played “London Calling” for Me (And About 30 Others).

Everyone likes a story about a live show, so here’s one for you. I saw Mike Peters play solo on the Sunset BLVD sometime around 2009. Tiny bar wedged between the Whisky and the Rainbow. Might’ve been called Cat Club  — I can’t recall. Cause there’s nothing better than aging! What I do recall is how good he was. And there couldn’t have been more than 30 of us in the audience.

I’ll say this, too: I was never a big fan of The Alarm. Too close to U2, if you ask me. Or, as Harold Bloom called it: “The Anxiety of Influence.” But if you were listening to the radio or watching MTV in 1983 — which we all were — you couldn’t avoid “68 Guns”.

OK, so I just Goooogled Mike Peters Cat Club shows and it was the Cat Club, and he played three consecutive Fridays for the month of April to celebrate his 50th birthday: the 3rd, 10th, 17th. I can’t recall which one I went to. But I do recall this like it was just the other day: at one point, he asked the room if anyone had a request. I asked him to play the one song that influenced him the most.

He grinned and played London Calling by The Clash. (Photo credit here.)

Mike Peters passed recently — 29 April 2025. A little over 16 years to the day after my Cat Club Show Story.

His acoustic version of London Calling was amazing.

And cancer fucking sucks.