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I know it's been a while - a long while - since I posted... but I wanted to share something new I'm building. Have a look. I think you'll like it. It's name is ZOOMDOGGLE.

NEWS: No News is Good News

“So I’ve got this newborn,” writes Leslie K from, er, I don’t know where the hell she’s writing from. Anyway, she goes on to explain that this little girl of hers, Kristen, is an absolutely perfect “button nosed, always happy, little angle,” but is the messiest eater of all time. “My terrier drools as she watches the food get smeared all over. Just once I’d like to lift her up and let her and let her lick K’s face clean, but my dog isn’t really baby approved. So today, I decided to test her. I rubbed the food on my face and got down on my knees.”

Nice.

“It seemed like something you would do,” she continues, “and you know what, I don’t know why but it was like the funniest thing ever. I was laughing so hard I started crying. I think Kristen thought mommy was hurt, but it wasn’t anything like that. It was fun.”


Cool.

Her note got me thinking though… I don't know why, but I’ve got about fifteen entries saved up, everything from The Milk Challenge and Central Park Slip N’ Slide to The Strangest Fundraiser and a bizarre bet I’m calling Airport Leapfrog, and yet, for some reason I haven’t felt compelled to put them up. So I’ve decided to take a little time off—45 days to be exact. Minimum. In that time I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done; stupid stuff that makes me smile, going on my dates (keep the emails coming) and taking pictures. I just won’t be putting it on the Internet. Not right now anyway.

So where does that leave you? I don't know. Let a dog lick something off your face. Free a fish. Take a shower in a fountain. Whatever makes you happy. See you in a bit. I hope you stick around, but if not, that’s cool too. It’s been fun. For me anyway.

50DATESin50STATES: Florida

Miss Florida is just about as comfortable in her own skin as a person can be. And she’s got great skin. But as I watched her rub pumpkin guts on her body in the shower (my idea), something felt wrong. Things weren’t going as planned and I started to worry that maybe this was a bad idea... maybe I shouldn’t have come.




Let me explain.

Simply put, what attracted me to this one was her idea of a fun date: “I don’t have nearly enough pictures of myself naked,” her email read, “I was just accepted to be a Suicide Girl, but I’ve only got one set of pictures and I don’t know how I feel about them... care to help?” If you don’t know what a suicide girl is, do yourself a favor, stop reading this, go to suicidegirls.com and get acquainted. It’s kind of a pro-girl, DIY, nudie site, where tatted punk-rock girls post pin-ups and lovers of tatted punk-girls pay fees. Its cooler than it sounds. You get to follow each girl’s exploits.



Anyway, she’d recommended I come down to Fort Meyers, where she’s from so we could rent a run-down cabin at a campsite and take the pictures there. Instantly I had visions of her jumping naked on a bed, both of us laughing, dizzy from the flash and high off the silliness. In the end, the room we rented (right on the beach, as the campsite we’d planned on going to was closed post-hurricane) had ceilings so low I had to bow my head as soon as I came in the door. Bed jumping was out.

But that wasn’t the real problem. Truth is, as I sat there, watching this lithe beauty bound around the room we’d rented right on the beach, I kinda wished I was doing this with someone else. Someone from my past. Yeah, I guess I’m heartbroken.



And in that moment it occurred to me that perhaps even fate had done it’s best to turn me around. First there was the hurricane. Then, on my way to the airport, there was a subway fire and I almost missed my flight. When I finally did get there, the people at the gate kept trying to find volunteers to give up their seats in return for travel vouchers. (This is how I live my life, constantly looking for signs, but never sure when it’s fate trying to tell me something and when it’s just life throwing road-blocks in my path to be overcome... but what if I’d made the wrong decision?)



Finally I just said something. I couldn’t have gone on, not like this, it wasn’t right. You know what? Turns out she kinda felt the same. Turns out, while we were carving pumpkins on the beach—while I was lamenting love lost—she was fearing the shower scene. While I was second guessing jumping on beds with strangers, she was second-guessing putting naked pictures of herself on the Internet. But we were both too embarrassed to change the plan... too scared to let the other down (OK, that’s a half-truth. MAYBE she had already mentioned something. But MAYBE I wasn’t ready to hear it just yet).



(Again, for those of you keeping score, this is why we decided not to put her name or likeness up. This way I could tell the story and show a picture or two from our misguided session without stepping any toes)

Anyway, as soon as we started talking about it—as soon as we both stopped worrying about playing the roles we’d commented ourselves to and just started being ourselves—I think we both felt like a weight had been lifted. I’m not saying my heartbreak just disappeared; all I’m saying is that Ms Florida is a pretty interesting person herself.



At 19, she’s done a lot of living. Her Dad had been Bob Dylan's tour manager and actually went on the The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test—that’s six-months of tripping (again, if you have no idea what I’m talking about, stop reading now, go to Amazon and place your order; the Author is Tom Wolfe)—so you can imagine how few rules there were in that household. Her mother had died when she was 8 and, though she didn’t say it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion she took over as the responsible one. Then, about mid-way through her teens she moved out. She’s been tending bar for the past year, and is just now getting ready to leave town to go to school.



There’s more though. She’s intelligent. She’s funny. And she’s pro-choice (no small feat in bible-belt). In fact, when you go to the DMV in Florida, one of the plates you can choose to put on your car is pro-life, but there’s no pro-choice equivalent. I’m not sure that’s entirely constitutional. Neither is Miss Florida. So she wrote letters to every policy maker in the state. Finally she had a meeting some comity or other... they told her they didn’t want a pro-choice plate cause it might upset people. Like the pro-life ones don’t? It’s bullshit. But you’ve got to admire her gumption.



But perhaps most interesting of all is that everyone in all of Fort Meyers seems to know her. Everywhere we went, the diner, the bar, the crab-shack, even the gas station, people of all ages would stop her to wish her well. “Hey, I hear you’re off to school. Congratulations. You’re going for the right reasons right? This isn’t just going to be a party.” They were worried, but in a nice way. It’s like all of Fort Meyers had had a hand in raising her. The whole town was watching their street-smart little girl grow up and wanted to impart a last word of wisdom or two before she left.



Yup, once we abandoned the bed jumping and embraced the booze (“that’s pretty much all we do here in Florida,” she’d told me, after her fifth story beginning with, “we got all the ice and beer we could find...”) I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had a good time. Nay, a great time. Oh, and I even learned something... from a self-assured 19-year-old. After a day of sunbathing, we stumbled sun burnt into the second bar of the evening—the second one that pretty much comped her check I might add—only to bump into her ex. Her ex who’d left her. Her ex who’d left her recently. Her ex who’d recently left her heartbroken. Her ex who’d recently left her heartbroken and, apparently, had stopped into this very bar to say hi to the cocktail waitress he’s dating now that works here.



They didn’t say a word to each other, but she didn’t run off either. Ms Florida hardly seemed fazed, but she didn’t throw it in his face either. Instead, we casually finished our drink, paid the check and went to the next spot. It was like nothing happened at all. I couldn’t believe how cool she was about the whole thing. I would’ve flipped.



Finally I asked her what the deal was. Was she over him? Was she confident he’d be jealous, having seen us laughing in the corner? What? “It’s not like that at all,” she said after a brief moment of reflection, “I was having a good time; why let him ruin it?”



Maybe I was meant to come to Florida after all. I still don’t know everything... maybe I could learn a thing or two from a 19-year-old with a penchant for nudity. Maybe fate brought me here for a reason. Maybe.

Live in the north east? I’m hoping to pull off my next few dates without a flight. The lines are still open. Anyone interested in taking part should send their name, age, working phone number and picture to 50DATESin50STATES@gmail.com. Please be sure to include your hometown, state, nearest airport, any strange or interesting points of interest, a suggestion or two for what we might do on our date and a compelling argument for why you should be the one. When planning our outing though, please keep in mind I’m damn near broke; the opera could be nice, but a picnic and a freak-show would be nicer. See you soon…

50DATESin50STATES: Ohio

It all started with a question: “Is the Fresh Prince episode that makes you cry the one where Carlton gets shot?” asked Ms. Ohio (aka Kristi) in reference to something I’d posted before, when she first contacted me. “Best of luck to you on the date search thing,” she continued, “If you happen to end up near Columbus, OH I have a wedding I refuse to go to alone... I promised my friend that I would attempt to find a date today. That counts as an attempt, right?”

She explained the situation further on the phone. Turns out, at 31-years-old, Kristi’s never taken a date to a wedding. And with most of her friends married, she felt going alone would be a bit on the embarrassing side. Still, she was having trouble finding a suitable candidate in her hometown. Minutes later I was shopping for a new suit. If nothing else, I figured, buying some nice clothes might help me get through this malaise I’ve been feeling lately (really, I’ve been so “blah” I almost abandoned my 50DATES and took a big job at a magazine I know I have no interest in working for, just because).

The shopping made me happy, so I figured what the hell and called the airlines. Soon after, we were face to face.



She’d asked that we not tell people at the wedding exactly how we met. But she didn’t want to lie either. The move, we decided, was to be as ambiguous as possible. Of course, we shouldn't sound like total strangers either. We’d have to know each other well enough to blend. We needed to appear comfortable enough so as not to arouse suspicions. And to do that, we’d have to actually get to know each other.

With just five hours until show time, we went to work:

HER: “I coach a girl’s soccer team, its really fun.”
ME: “These are my favorite jeans. At first when I got them I thought they were too tight, but now they feel too loose. Either I’m losing weight or my testis are changing.”

HER: “The last guy I dated was waiting to go to prison the entire time we were together, but I had no idea until the other day when I bumped into him and he told me he’d just gotten out.”
ME: “The cat I live with makes human-sized poo’s. Do you think I should be worried or just get a larger scoop?”

Ok, so maybe the conversation didn’t go like that, anything like that—it was weeks ago and I’m working from memory—so sue me. Bottom line though: By the time we suited up to go to the wedding, we were having a great time and seemed to know each other amazingly well for a relationship that was only five hours old. Really, quiz me.

Want to know about the last guy she dated?
She met him on a cruise boat.
How about her favorite car?
Volkswagens, cause they’re boxy, but that’s not why her cat is named Jetta.
The burses on her knees?
They’re from soccer. Get your mind out of the gutter. She plays against boys and she kicks ass.

Yup, and I worked all that out between listening to stories about which of her married friends are cheating and with whom, pointing out the “slower moving vehicles on the road” (her driving is a little suspect, but I lived to tell the tale, so I guess we’re cool), taking in a movie (they only cost $1.50 at Columbus' cheap theater) and a visit to my new favorite diner, the one and only Waffle House.







The wedding was fun too. No one gave us too hard a time. She barely cried when they said their vows (I’m grateful, that could’ve been awkward) and we went back for thirds on the cake. It only took two drinks to get her out on the dance floor. And it only took two more to get her off when they played her song “Milkshake.”



By midnight, as the wedding wound down, we were starting to get wound up. We decided to go dancing.

Kristi took me to the clubs her and her friends go to and, loath as I am to admit it, there really weren’t any men for her. Most of the guys there were boys; either still in college or fresh out. I couldn’t believe this was where she liked going... understand this is an attractive, smart, fun, successful woman. She explained that because most people in Ohio get married in their mid-20’s, they stop going out by the time they hit 30. It wasn’t that she was in the wrong bar; if anything, maybe she was in the wrong town. Regardless, we had a good time.

As we ate breakfast on the way to the airport the next day, a part of me wished I had more time to hangout and play.

That’s when the first tears came out. Hers of course, not mine (only the The Fresh Prince of Bel Air makes me mist up). “What, wait, no, what did I do?” I begged.
“Nothing... Everything... Its OK... I’m just... I don’t know when the last time I had that much fun was. Or when the next time will be. I’m 31-years-old and I’m still single. What’s wrong with me?”

It was heartbreaking. After a good-long hug and a joke or two, the tears stopped, but it wasn’t until I sat down on the plane that it occurred to me: What the fuck was she talking about? Did she actually WANT to be one of the couples she’d told me about? It seemed like every story started with “they were high-school sweet-hearts” or “they met right out of school” and ended in “everyone knows he’s cheating but her,” or some equally gross variation. They all got married too young cause, well, probably because everyone else was, and now as they were starting to grow up they were all sleeping around because they didn’t have the balls to remedy a situation they were probably too young to have gotten into in the first place.

Screw that. Kristi’s a catch. Kristi’s waiting for something better. Kristi’s ahead of the curve. And if Kristi’s got the nerve to do it in a place where it’s not all that easy a thing to do, then who am I to cop out on my own life? Why settle for anything less than exactly what we want.

Two dates, two life lessons, and too much fun for words. I’m starting to think this 50DATES thing just might work... for you and me both Kristi... hang in there, we’ll get though it together.

Single, in the Ohio area and want to get in touch with Kristi? Perhaps you’d just like to share some words of encouragement? We’ve set up a special line: kristisoundscool at gmail dot com.

And as always, the lines are still open on the 50DATES. Anyone interested in taking part should send their name, age, working phone number and picture to 50DATESin50STATES@gmail.com. Please be sure to include your hometown, state, nearest airport, any strange or interesting points of interest, a suggestion or two for what we might do on our date and a compelling argument for why you should be the one. When planning our outing though, please keep in mind I’m damn near broke; the opera could be nice, but a picnic and a freak-show would be nicer. See you soon…

NEWS: Nothing to See Here

I’m not all that comfortable taking pictures in disaster areas. I mean, the way I see it, if I’m doing it to document the scene, someone else is probably doing a better job, so what’s the point? If I’m doing it as a tourist, well, that’s just gross. Also, it’s hard to stand passively with a camera when there’s work to be done. Because of this, I only took about 20 pictures in total and promised myself I wouldn’t post any here.

Since returning home though, I kinda wish I’d taken more… the devastation is hard to imagine, but even harder to describe. A visual aid or two wouldn’t be the worst thing.

That said, here goes. Welcome to Biloxi, MS. Sorry to get all serious on you. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program ASAP.


These are the markings found on pretty much every building left standing. Get used to them. The letters to the left of the “x” refer to the team that did the search (New York-1). Above is the date it was searched (9/1). To the right are any hazards found inside, this could be anything: leaky gas, explosives, or “dead dogs” as was the case here. And below is the number of dead bodies found inside (0). An empty square above would mean that perhaps the building could be salvaged. This one however is crossed—it will have to be demolished by the owner.


Notice where the gate opens? See the front steps? That’s where this house stood before the tidal surge hit. There’s nothing unique about this situation though, houses along the Gulf Coast were pushed several lots over, or simply exploded, as far as the eye could see.


I’m pretty sure that green building was standing on those cinderblocks before the storm.


Imagine if this was your life…


That tent in the background is where this man is now living. He doesn’t want to leave and who can blame him? This is his property… it’s where his house stood not long ago. PS: This is not the country, this is a city street. The woman with the ice is standing on the sidewalk.


Many interiors of the buildings that remain are covered in mud. Only it isn't mud. It's the same human waste that backed up in the sewers, contaminating the water system. For that reason, and because of the debris, up to date Tetanus and Hep vaccinations are pretty much mandatory.


Again, this isn’t this gentleman’s home, but it’s pretty much the only structure left standing on his block, so it’s where he and his wife took refuge during the storm. The surge brought nearly 9 feet of floodwaters down this block and they were forced to crawl into the tiny unfinished attic (its more of a crawl-space really) as they watched the waters rise. Another foot or two and, with no means of cutting through the roof, they would’ve died.


Left without running, drinkable water, power or food, most of the people in East Biloxi spend their days sorting through the rubble, waiting for help (the government’s been slow in acting round these parts) while doing their best to help themselves.

Want to learn more? I highly recommend checking out my friend Seige’s web-site. His family pretty much lost everything, he… er... he explains it best. CLICK HERE.

Want to lend a hand? I highly recommend checking in with Hands on USA. CLICK HERE.

Last but not least, me and some friends are organizing a super-low-rent benefit here in New York for later in the month. I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, going was hard, but after 10 days leaving was even harder. I decided step one to feeling normal again was making out with someone as soon as possible…. Which, pretty much leads us to the epilogue.



My flight from Biloxi to Atlanta was pretty uneventful. Atlanta to NYC? Not so much. I was in a window seat with an empty seat next to me. She was in the window directly across with an empty seat next to her. See where I’m going with this? There’s no time like the present: Me and “plane girl” were sitting next to each other before we even pushed off from the gate and began making out just about the time we reached our cruising altitude.

In fact, the whole thing made me so giddy I was convinced I could get the rest of plane to start making out with one another. It didn’t go down like that, but hey, I’m pretty sure I had the women in the row behind entertained.

COLLECTION: Misery Loves Company

Immediately following the first of my 50DATESin50STATES I went to the bus station. The plan was simple, board a bus at 8:30PM in Birmingham get off at 9:25AM in Biloxi. It should’ve only been 40-something-dollars to get me from Alabama to Mississippi where I’d planned on lending a hand with this whole Katrina thing. Of course, as is always the case, nothing ever goes to plan. The following is a collection I took over the 36+ hours it took to get me to my final destination. Unfortunately, I missed a lot of steps (its hard to take pictures while a team of cops point loaded guns at you), so figured I’d give you the rough outline first.

STEP ONE: Birmingham to Montgomery by bus.
This bit went pretty well. I slept. Well, I slept and chatted up a girl. But mainly I slept. Then I had a three-hour layover. That was cool too. This is where I took the bulk of the pictures tying to entertain myself. Unfortunately, when the bus that I was meant to board came at 1AM, it was full. “You’ll have to wait for the next bus,” they said when I asked what I was supposed to do, “it should be here 24hours from now.” GET THE FUCK OUT. “Hey, don’t look at me,” the woman said as I scowled, “look at the back of your ticket, we don’t guarantee that you’ll get there, same as the airlines…” “Yeah, but they try really, really hard.”


STEP TWO: Cab to Montgomery Airport
I split the cab ride with a guy who’d missed the same bus. He was trying to get to New Orleans to see his house. He’d maxed out his credit cards. My driver’s license is expired. Together we hatched a scheme: He’d spend the night at his mom’s house in town; I’d go to the airport. At 6AM when the rental car companies opened, he’d call me. We’d rent a car with his license and my credit card and drive together.

STEP THREE: Montgomery Airport
Where I come from airports never close. The businesses inside do, but not the building itself. When I got there the lights were on. The automatic doors weren’t sliding on their own, but they weren’t locked either. I slid them open, walked in and, finding the place empty, curled up in my sleeping bag by the ticket counter. I actually got to sleep before the cops came. Four of them. I think they thought I was a bomb. They all had their guns pointed at me when they pulled back the sleeping bag covering my face and body. I yelled. I was lucky I didn’t get shot.
“Why’d you break into the airport?”
“What do mean break in? The doors were open.”
“Did you go past the security checkpoint? Did you hide something on the other side?”
It was all very In The Heat of The Night. Luckily they believed me. I wasn’t arrested. Instead I went to sleep in the grass outside.

STEP FOUR: 6AM Still No Call from My Cab Friend
I went to every counter in the airport, desperate to buy a ticket from Montgomery to Biloxi/Gulfport. No one flew there. It was one of those “you can’t get there from here”-type experiences. I was going crazy. One airline went, but they wouldn’t have a seat for two days and even then it was going to cost $1,200. Finally someone suggested I fly to Mobile by way of Atlanta. It’d only cost $200. And it was only 45 miles from where I was heading, surely someone from the organization I was going to would pick me up… at 8:45AM, having past the exhaustive “SSSS” security check (I always get those S’s on my ticket, it means you’re a security risk) I was sitting on the runway awaiting takeoff when my phone rang. “Jake, it’s me, your buddy from the cab. Good news, I borrowed a car. Tell me where to puck you up I’m driving you to Biloxi.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

STEP FIVE: Mobile to Who Knows Where
After landing I called the organization. They told me I was way to far to pick up. Sure it was only 45 miles, but with all the roads and bridges out it could take all day. I asked a cabbie who told me he’d take me for $300. Ugh. With nothing left to do I harassed everyone at the baggage carousel. I know I was weirding people out, but what else could I do. Finally I found a guy who was heading my way, he was the logistics coordinator for a CB base (whatever that is) being run out of the local air force base. When I told him I was an EMT he agreed to give me a ride.

STEP SIX: Where am I?
They dropped me off at the address I’d requested on the road I’d asked for so where the hell was I. A few calls later I had the mystery solved. I was in Long Beach. It seems this one road runs through several towns, and in each town all the addresses reset. It would be a few hours before someone could pick me up. With nothing left to do I found the local food distribution being run out of the biggest church in town, put on a new shirt and helped distribute while I waited.

Crazy right?


























(this was where the police found me, but I was fully covered when they rushed in)


(this is me outside following the interrogation, only somewhat relieved to have not been arrested)

















The moral of the story? I don’t know that there is a moral. That’s the worst part—$300, 36 hours and I’m pretty sure I didn’t learn a thing. In fact, I know it. I nearly had the exact same experience trying to get home.