STORY: More Than My Money’s Worth

In honor of that last long winded, self-serving post, I thought I’d leave you with something a little more… well, er, I’ll let you be the judge.


The first time I hung out with Grant we went to an event for the new Reebok pump. Free booze, cocktails, they even gave us a pair of sneakers (please note: the new auto-pumps are nearly un-wearable, contrary to what they say, they choke your feet). As we headed home, we noticed an older lady trying to pull her skirt down to cover her pale, naked ass.
“Wait, I’ve got to get a shot of this,” I told Grant.
Just then she spun around, “That’ll be $20!”
“Fuck that…”

Halfway down the block Grant turned to me. “You know, you really should give her the $20. Just demand she gives you at least 5 poses for it. I’ll even put up the dough just to see what happens.”

It was on. We found her in a corner store a few feet from our first spotting. “Look what I’ve got,” I said, waiving the bill in front of her. She tried to lunge for it, but I snapped it back. “I’ll give you the $20, but I need at least 5 poses for it.”
“You mean like a photo-shoot?”
“That’s exactly what I mean: a photo shoot.”

Now keep in mind when we left the store for our “photo shoot” it was only about 10 O’clock. This is on Saint Marks Place (8th Street in NYC), that means there are people walking by. Think about that as you ponder the pictures below.

“Alright, lets see pose one.”


“OK, how about something hotter?”


“Sexy. Now the third. Put the cord—yes, just like that!”


“Now with the bill…”


Grant couldn’t even watch. Horrified, he’d disappeared the second her leg hit the banister. That is, until some well meaning passer-by asked if I wanted to be photographed with my muse. All of the sudden, out of nowhere, there’s Grant. “Yup, everyone lean in…”


Sure a $20 could’ve bought two drinks at the bar, or a movie ticket, popcorn and a soda, but the friendships that were forged that night… that $20 became something so much greater. A moment to remember forever. Like a prom. A wedding. Or a ticket for indecency, like the police who drove by just as the flash went threatened us with.

COLLECTION: Boredom times infinity

A little back-story is needed to fully appreciate the pictures that follow. Basically, what happened is this: Midway through my fourth year at FHM I started getting antsy. It was understandable really; it had pretty much been the only real job I’d ever had, a gig I signed on for at the tender age of 21, several months before issue one even hit newsstands. I was Associate Editor at the start, and though it was quite a fete for a guy without a collage education, four years is still a long time to be doing anything. Like I said, I was ready to go, but I didn’t know where or why. Finally Scott Gramling, newly minted Editor-in-Chief, offered a solution: Why not move to LA, where he could keep me on the pay-role as Editor at Large while I figured things out? Awesome.

Sadly, things didn’t go according to plan. A few months in, the FHM gig fizzled and I was left wandering the Hollywood hills aimlessly. That is until Tony Romando called. Tony was another of FHM US’s founding editors and he’d recently got a big job at Men’s Fitness. They were going to turn it into a fitness/lad magazine, something like FHM but with crunches, and he wanted me on the team. He even got Men’s Fitness to pay for the moving vans that brought me back. Sadly, this too didn’t work the way we’d hoped.

I’m not going to call anyone names, but lets just say I didn’t fit in in the Men’s Fitness office. What’s more, me and the Editor-in-Chief Peter (later fired) didn’t see eye to eye on nearly anything. I had so little respect for him (or maybe so much respect for myself) that one day I showed up and demanded a 30% raise—and got it. When the company decided to abandon the fun new tone I’d been brought in to hone, before even our first issue hit stands, I felt lost once again. Alone and confused, I took solace in the only place I could find it: The color copier by my desk. What follows is the result of 10s of hours of killing time…



Peter: "July is right around the corner, I was thinking maybe we could sit down and talk ideas for some kind of Americana, apple pie, red, white and blue theme issue..."


Me: "Just one minute, I'm kind of in the middle of something."


Peter: "We're getting ready to ship March, we should do cover-lines. Got any thoughts?"


Me: "Ah, something about Abs... I don't know... look, really though, can't this wait? I think I'm on to something."


Peter: "OK, when's good for you? Just run it by Tony, be sure he can come too."


Me: "Will do. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but when I talk it's hard to keep from drooling on the glass."


Peter: "Alright. Hey, that piece you..."


Me: "Damnit..."








This went on for hours... days even. I literally must have 100s of these. Cool huh? Occasionally I'd drool, but other than that, nothing much happened.


Then I realized something: By moving my eyes as the scanner passed by, I could make some pretty cool faces.


See.


Moving my whole head did some pretty cool stuff too.


One day Jess came by and I let her in on the action too. Did I mention these make great Christmas cards? Anyway, about this time—mid-way though a work-day—I realized I'd been limiting myself by only putting myself under the hood. I'll bet this thing could do a pretty good group portrait too.


See, two is better than one.


Incredibly, it never occurred to me to press some anatomy against the glass. I don’t know why not though, secretaries have been doing it at office parties since the beginning of time.


Wouldn't that have been cool? Instead, the dirtiest thing I could come up with was this hand gesture.


Oh well.


Something else I never considered was enlargements.


Just thing of the fun to be had with genitals on the glass and the machine set to like 300%. They'd look huge!


I only zoomed in once though, for this head-shot, minutes before a jam forced an end to the fun.

When FHM finally invited me back, Scott asked what I’d been up to since leaving the office. Honestly, I had little to show except a file of portraits taken by my dear friend Xerox. Well, that and some car vouchers...

COLLECTION: What The Fuck?!?

Note: As always, all pictures taken by me, myself and I. Unless of course, you can see both of my arms, in which case I probably gave the camera to someone else and was like, “Hey, can you take my picture with so-and-so…”



This is my friend Grant. Nice guy, talks with a bit of an accent, but other that, everything pretty much checks out normal…


…until of course he jumps. He’s like some kind of British jumping bean. Check out how effortlessly he takes to the air. You wouldn’t think you could generate that much lift from size 7 hooves. WTF?

And then there’s this guy. I turned on the TV one day and he was on some morning show talking about the way Latinos are portrayed in the media. Come on? Look at those sleeves. Is he for real? WTF?


I live in Chinatown and everywhere I turn I see signs like this. WTF? Am I wrong, or does this say “New Big Wang Resturant”?


Or maybe the jokes on us… maybe they know exactly what it means, but they also know that if they name their barbershop something like “MEI DICK BARBERSHOP” jackasses like me will come even in the cold to take pictures of their signs.


Dykes Lumber, WTF?


Check this one from Philly out. Someone ripped off a few letters so it says “Gay”, but even before the vandalism it said “House of Gayer Hair Replacement.” WTF, Didn’t anyone look before they ordered the sign?


Hey, if the biggest compliment someone can give their cat is that it acts like a dog, why not get a dog in the first place? Really, WTF? Were they out of dogs when you went to buy the thing, but you were desperate to soil your carpets some kind of way?


You know this guy is married. Really, just think about that. I met him in a stairwell in Vegas, then I saw him and his wife on TV a few nights later. WTF? I’ve had dry spells that lasted years, but this guy somehow convinced a perfectly normal women into waking up next to him till death do us part.


How come the prettiest girls…


…can make the ugliest faces? Oh and while we’re on the subject, how come hot girls always think it’s funny to burp out loud and talk about their poos and stuff? WTF? I blame Jessica Simpson and Jenny McCarthy. I’d like to go on record though: It’s not cute. It doesn’t make you one of the guys. Cut it out. Really.


Hey cool guy, WTF? I been wearing this sweater for years. Take it off.


How come hot lesbian love is so hard to document in dark bars? WTF?


WTF?


For real though. WTF?


How come everyone looks cuter with a little alcohol? WTF?


Check this out: I was just getting over the flue, or had just got off a plane or something… WTF, how come I only bump into my Ex’s when I’m at my worst?


Next time you’re having a bad day, think of this lady. I saw her at a casino in Connecticut and didn’t even have the balls to lift the camera to my face. Oh, and did I mention she had a little bald spot brewing in the back… WTF? Some people have it rough. For real.


And now meet Greg Valentino, owner of the world’s biggest biceps. He makes no bones about the fact that he used to juice, but word on the street is he also used to inject some kind of oil in there to plump ‘em up. WTF? Do girls dig that kind of stuff? And where can I get some.

Well, there you have it. I’m off to the artic circle on Wednesday, but I’ll try to add at least one more entry before I go.