An Open Letter to Hughesnet

Hello *******. My apologies for the earful you are about to receive, but I am very unhappy with my Hughesnet service. Borderline furious with it. 


I’m requesting that I be taken off the extra 10 gig plan, as I have interrupted my sleep for the past nights in order to attempt to download an essential file; since I am lucky if I can check my email during the day. And my connection has been absolutely useless even though my late night gigs should be untouched. 

Like I said before, I was swindled into getting the extra 10 gig plan after being told that it would be useful during the day. If I’m paying extra money for something that’s not only disrupting my healthy way of life trying to use but in the end I’m also not even able to take advantage of them during the hours that they should be available, then I want out. That is absolutely criminal, and I honestly can’t believe you guys are able to get away with it. I could go on with the amount of times I have to deal with router and connection issues at any and all hours of the day, but I may begin bleeding from the ears again from rage should I go on.

I’ve never received worse service from any service provider in my life. This is absolutely unacceptable and I demand an answer. If you’re not the person this email should be directed to, please forward it to the appropriate parties.

We Done Goof’d - Found Footage
With the stereo projecting the strangely calming voice of Carl Kasell singing Golden Slumbers between his hypnotic ramblings, my mind is now dwelling on a more unsettling experience that has been brought up twice in recent days after spending much time in the back of my mind. On March 5th of 2012, while shooting a documentary in Nicaragua, my team and I were temporarily detained by the military. At the time, we weren’t sure whether or not we’d be taken in for a more permanent stay—or worse—so I shot insurance footage in the moments following the encounter to act as our voice in case our voices were silenced. (I’ll be posting excerpts at the end of the story.) Just last week, I found that footage and viewed it for the first time since the incident, and though said footage and scattered notes I plan on reliving the experience from the comfort of my home with the aid of a pack of Winston’s and Carl Kasell. I’ll save the whiskey for this last coming week in Cheyenne.
The scene in Managua, the capitol city of Nicaragua, is one of melancholic serenity. A picturesque tropical paradise juxtaposed to the vast human suffering enveloped in the unregulated emissions and unfortunate upkeep of the third world. The country has seen its fair share of civil war and bloodshed in recent history, including the infamous Iran-Contra affair waged by President Reagan in the 80’s. While in past years there has been compromise and a relative “peace” in the region, the recent election stolen by the corrupt Sandinista President Daniel Ortega has stoked the flames of bitterness inside the hearts of the Contra. Citizens show their discontent by blocking city streets with burning tires while the Government continues to abuse imminent domain to stifle those who they feel are a threat to their movement. We were Americans conducting business inside a very volatile political climate where anything could happen. While it was an incredible thrill and privilege, the threat of our situation was very real.
We had the luxury of spending our time working in the heat of spring without the burden of the bugs and heavy humidity of summer as we bounced around the countryside collecting our interviews and b-roll. The reward for a long day’s work could be found in the sweet embrace of the patio hammock, gently swaying to the tempo of the cool evening breeze with a nice glass of Flor de Caña rum resting on the table and the song of tropical birds serenading the air. The temporary sanctuary was used to quietly recap the chaos of the day inside the safety of our quaint compound before the next day of action. The job was an absolute dream—but that dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
The day prior to the disaster, the team and I were driving through the neighborhood of President Ortega. Evidence of his unpopularity and paranoia of the new generation of rebels was apparent with the numerous militants patrolling on every corner, armed with AK-47s and pineapples—keeping the “peace.” From the back of the bus, one of the producers suggested we get some shots of the guards, as our film was heavy with military content and such b-roll would prove useful. I declined the task, mentioning that as a bus full of white people filming inside the country under false pretenses to begin with, the last thing we wanted to do is draw attention from the crooked military to our presence. I wasn’t exactly sure they grasped the reality of where we were and what could happen. The conversation didn’t end there, however.
Our security guard, José-Luis, overheard our discussion and claimed that he knew a place where we could get what we needed. He had a contact who worked at a military base just a short way through the mountains. The team liked the plan, and we decided we’d go check out the place the next morning. While the idea of a supposed “in” for the location was somewhat reassuring, I still had a bad feeling about the whole idea.
The following morning, after a peaceful drive overlooking the impossibly green landscape and the postcard worthy waterfront, we arrived to a military compound in the middle of a dry, barren land. With the assurance of José-Luis, the director Dan and I exited the safety of our bus and ventured out into the wild with our cameras into the streets outside of the base. We then proceeded to, as most people with cameras do, get the shots. No questions, no hesitation, just a mission to get as much footage possible so we could get the hell out of there. A grand archway proudly praising the “Sandinista” army, parked tanks on display from the Contra-Sandinista conflict, and patrolling grunts wandering around the grounds scattered the desolate stage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough, so we went at it.
When filming in extreme situations, your mind and ego are erased; replaced by only the most basic of instincts, a healthy shot of adrenaline and the eye of the camera to guide you through the moment. This heightened sense awareness is somewhat similar to a ‘combat high’ that infantry experience in fierce fire fights. The ramifications and risk of your actions are second only to the importance of doing what you set out to do the best you can do it. It can be a dangerous phenomenon, and will one day probably be the end of me, but it’s an absolutely essential skill to have in this field. This high dulled me to the first armed Sandinista walking our way. It wasn’t until the second guard in our vicinity that I was jarred from my tranced state. Before I knew it, we were surrounded by a handful of AKs and militants representing a ruthless dictator of a third world hell hole. That’s when I began to get a little bit concerned.
It was now Dan, our Puerto Rican audio specialist Marco, José-Luis and myself surrounded by military police with our driver and producers still on the bus. The two in our group that spoke Spanish began explaining ourselves as a sixth soldier approached the group, who was dressed differently than the others. It was the commanding officer, and the gravity of our predicament truly manifested itself when he arrived on the scene as he forced his way through the five other soldiers who were containing the situation. The man was only in the area of five foot tall, but his presence was stifling with a telling gut and physique of a privileged lifestyle that stuffed his decorated dark green fatigues and a face that radiated with the air of a Bond villain. With a thick, jet black mustache that matched the midnight pitch of his sunglasses, the entire presentation was complete with a golden canine tooth hanging in his mouth that spoke with a slow, commanding voice as he interrogated Marco. While they were dealing with us, with one guard snapping photos with a small digital camera, two of the other MPs let themselves into our bus where they proceeded to interrogate the producers of their side of the story. We now had the potential to get our stories mixed up, which would not be a good thing.
While the militants backed off for a moment in a huddle, I slowly shuffled over to ask Marco what story he had given them. His answer was that we were filming the history of Nicaragua and the Sandinistas, hence our presence at the base. It was a good enough answer that was spoken just in time as the officer made his return to our group and began collecting passports. I was last in line when Señor Sadam approached me in a fashion that would make Lyndon Johnson proud,
“Your passport?”
My physical passport was stored on the bus, but I had a photocopy in my camera bag that I handed over to him. He laughed.
“This is not passport!”
I explained my situation and was allowed to get on the bus to acquire my papers. It was now just the ladies in the vehicle, and during my brief window of opportunity I asked them what story they gave the soldiers. They said their story was that we were filming for a church group to get more people to come and help out their cause. My stomach dropped to my feet. Our stories didn’t match up. We were doomed. Hopefully we’d have a nice story for the producers at Locked Up Abroad to pursue.
I returned to the dire heat of the sun and the unfortunate situation and handed over my passport. His eyes slowly scanned back and forth from my photo to my face. He finally spoke, “Are you afraid?”
“No.” I replied with a stone cold expression and a boldfaced lie. It took everything I had to keep from succumbing to the doomed situation; the potential of being imprisoned abroad in a place where Americans are despised, the idea of never seeing my friends and family again, the fear of the unknown boundaries of a third world dictatorship. My brain was bleeding and my legs struggled to stand, feeling powerless in the situation. After having our footage forcibly wiped and an excruciating 15 minutes of listening to foreign tongues deciding our fate, we were all allowed to get back on the bus.
After another moment of uncertainty and suspense waiting for their huddle to break, the officer finally climbed aboard the bus with one other soldier at his side. He spoke slowly and imposingly in broken English with a peculiar grin that revealed his golden tooth and eyes hidden by darkness.
“We are sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. We welcome you to our country and want you to enjoy your stay in Nicaragua. You are free to go now.”
His tone was hard to read because of his inflection. Was he being sincere? Or was this a Bond villain setting us up for a later arrest after they had researched our names and the Twitter trail of our project? We drove off and made it back to our home where we assessed the situation. The rest of the day had an ominous vibe hanging over it, and it took a second glass of rum to get the hammock as comfortable as it should have been. But the night came and passed and there weren’t any raids on the compound, and the next day was business as usual. The nightmare had ended, and it was smooth sailing the rest of the trip.
It’s hard to say how close we actually were to a disaster scenario. With the arrest and imprisonment of the main subject of the documentary for supposedly false pretenses in the months that followed, one can only speculate whether or not that came about by our folly. And you can bet your ass that our passports will be flagged in future visits to the country. But we made it and I only lost one good pair of underwear on the trip. It was a wild ride, one that I’m thankful of making it out of. 
[Here] is a clip from just moments after leaving the scene. 

We Done Goof’d - Found Footage

With the stereo projecting the strangely calming voice of Carl Kasell singing Golden Slumbers between his hypnotic ramblings, my mind is now dwelling on a more unsettling experience that has been brought up twice in recent days after spending much time in the back of my mind. On March 5th of 2012, while shooting a documentary in Nicaragua, my team and I were temporarily detained by the military. At the time, we weren’t sure whether or not we’d be taken in for a more permanent stay—or worse—so I shot insurance footage in the moments following the encounter to act as our voice in case our voices were silenced. (I’ll be posting excerpts at the end of the story.) Just last week, I found that footage and viewed it for the first time since the incident, and though said footage and scattered notes I plan on reliving the experience from the comfort of my home with the aid of a pack of Winston’s and Carl Kasell. I’ll save the whiskey for this last coming week in Cheyenne.

The scene in Managua, the capitol city of Nicaragua, is one of melancholic serenity. A picturesque tropical paradise juxtaposed to the vast human suffering enveloped in the unregulated emissions and unfortunate upkeep of the third world. The country has seen its fair share of civil war and bloodshed in recent history, including the infamous Iran-Contra affair waged by President Reagan in the 80’s. While in past years there has been compromise and a relative “peace” in the region, the recent election stolen by the corrupt Sandinista President Daniel Ortega has stoked the flames of bitterness inside the hearts of the Contra. Citizens show their discontent by blocking city streets with burning tires while the Government continues to abuse imminent domain to stifle those who they feel are a threat to their movement. We were Americans conducting business inside a very volatile political climate where anything could happen. While it was an incredible thrill and privilege, the threat of our situation was very real.

We had the luxury of spending our time working in the heat of spring without the burden of the bugs and heavy humidity of summer as we bounced around the countryside collecting our interviews and b-roll. The reward for a long day’s work could be found in the sweet embrace of the patio hammock, gently swaying to the tempo of the cool evening breeze with a nice glass of Flor de Caña rum resting on the table and the song of tropical birds serenading the air. The temporary sanctuary was used to quietly recap the chaos of the day inside the safety of our quaint compound before the next day of action. The job was an absolute dream—but that dream quickly turned into a nightmare.

The day prior to the disaster, the team and I were driving through the neighborhood of President Ortega. Evidence of his unpopularity and paranoia of the new generation of rebels was apparent with the numerous militants patrolling on every corner, armed with AK-47s and pineapples—keeping the “peace.” From the back of the bus, one of the producers suggested we get some shots of the guards, as our film was heavy with military content and such b-roll would prove useful. I declined the task, mentioning that as a bus full of white people filming inside the country under false pretenses to begin with, the last thing we wanted to do is draw attention from the crooked military to our presence. I wasn’t exactly sure they grasped the reality of where we were and what could happen. The conversation didn’t end there, however.

Our security guard, José-Luis, overheard our discussion and claimed that he knew a place where we could get what we needed. He had a contact who worked at a military base just a short way through the mountains. The team liked the plan, and we decided we’d go check out the place the next morning. While the idea of a supposed “in” for the location was somewhat reassuring, I still had a bad feeling about the whole idea.

The following morning, after a peaceful drive overlooking the impossibly green landscape and the postcard worthy waterfront, we arrived to a military compound in the middle of a dry, barren land. With the assurance of José-Luis, the director Dan and I exited the safety of our bus and ventured out into the wild with our cameras into the streets outside of the base. We then proceeded to, as most people with cameras do, get the shots. No questions, no hesitation, just a mission to get as much footage possible so we could get the hell out of there. A grand archway proudly praising the “Sandinista” army, parked tanks on display from the Contra-Sandinista conflict, and patrolling grunts wandering around the grounds scattered the desolate stage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough, so we went at it.

When filming in extreme situations, your mind and ego are erased; replaced by only the most basic of instincts, a healthy shot of adrenaline and the eye of the camera to guide you through the moment. This heightened sense awareness is somewhat similar to a ‘combat high’ that infantry experience in fierce fire fights. The ramifications and risk of your actions are second only to the importance of doing what you set out to do the best you can do it. It can be a dangerous phenomenon, and will one day probably be the end of me, but it’s an absolutely essential skill to have in this field. This high dulled me to the first armed Sandinista walking our way. It wasn’t until the second guard in our vicinity that I was jarred from my tranced state. Before I knew it, we were surrounded by a handful of AKs and militants representing a ruthless dictator of a third world hell hole. That’s when I began to get a little bit concerned.

It was now Dan, our Puerto Rican audio specialist Marco, José-Luis and myself surrounded by military police with our driver and producers still on the bus. The two in our group that spoke Spanish began explaining ourselves as a sixth soldier approached the group, who was dressed differently than the others. It was the commanding officer, and the gravity of our predicament truly manifested itself when he arrived on the scene as he forced his way through the five other soldiers who were containing the situation. The man was only in the area of five foot tall, but his presence was stifling with a telling gut and physique of a privileged lifestyle that stuffed his decorated dark green fatigues and a face that radiated with the air of a Bond villain. With a thick, jet black mustache that matched the midnight pitch of his sunglasses, the entire presentation was complete with a golden canine tooth hanging in his mouth that spoke with a slow, commanding voice as he interrogated Marco. While they were dealing with us, with one guard snapping photos with a small digital camera, two of the other MPs let themselves into our bus where they proceeded to interrogate the producers of their side of the story. We now had the potential to get our stories mixed up, which would not be a good thing.

While the militants backed off for a moment in a huddle, I slowly shuffled over to ask Marco what story he had given them. His answer was that we were filming the history of Nicaragua and the Sandinistas, hence our presence at the base. It was a good enough answer that was spoken just in time as the officer made his return to our group and began collecting passports. I was last in line when Señor Sadam approached me in a fashion that would make Lyndon Johnson proud,

“Your passport?”

My physical passport was stored on the bus, but I had a photocopy in my camera bag that I handed over to him. He laughed.

“This is not passport!”

I explained my situation and was allowed to get on the bus to acquire my papers. It was now just the ladies in the vehicle, and during my brief window of opportunity I asked them what story they gave the soldiers. They said their story was that we were filming for a church group to get more people to come and help out their cause. My stomach dropped to my feet. Our stories didn’t match up. We were doomed. Hopefully we’d have a nice story for the producers at Locked Up Abroad to pursue.

I returned to the dire heat of the sun and the unfortunate situation and handed over my passport. His eyes slowly scanned back and forth from my photo to my face. He finally spoke, “Are you afraid?”

“No.” I replied with a stone cold expression and a boldfaced lie. It took everything I had to keep from succumbing to the doomed situation; the potential of being imprisoned abroad in a place where Americans are despised, the idea of never seeing my friends and family again, the fear of the unknown boundaries of a third world dictatorship. My brain was bleeding and my legs struggled to stand, feeling powerless in the situation. After having our footage forcibly wiped and an excruciating 15 minutes of listening to foreign tongues deciding our fate, we were all allowed to get back on the bus.

After another moment of uncertainty and suspense waiting for their huddle to break, the officer finally climbed aboard the bus with one other soldier at his side. He spoke slowly and imposingly in broken English with a peculiar grin that revealed his golden tooth and eyes hidden by darkness.

“We are sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. We welcome you to our country and want you to enjoy your stay in Nicaragua. You are free to go now.”

His tone was hard to read because of his inflection. Was he being sincere? Or was this a Bond villain setting us up for a later arrest after they had researched our names and the Twitter trail of our project? We drove off and made it back to our home where we assessed the situation. The rest of the day had an ominous vibe hanging over it, and it took a second glass of rum to get the hammock as comfortable as it should have been. But the night came and passed and there weren’t any raids on the compound, and the next day was business as usual. The nightmare had ended, and it was smooth sailing the rest of the trip.

It’s hard to say how close we actually were to a disaster scenario. With the arrest and imprisonment of the main subject of the documentary for supposedly false pretenses in the months that followed, one can only speculate whether or not that came about by our folly. And you can bet your ass that our passports will be flagged in future visits to the country. But we made it and I only lost one good pair of underwear on the trip. It was a wild ride, one that I’m thankful of making it out of. 

[Here] is a clip from just moments after leaving the scene. 

Rocky Mountain High

After a mildly chaotic week of 12 hour work days and 6 whiskey soaked hour nights attempting to keep up with the wild animals performing in the two ring circus that is the Wyoming House and Senate (three ring circus if you count the journalists,) it was time to take a short break from the madness in Cheye City and jump across the boarder to the Square down south to do my best at checking out the scene, checking out the sights, and meeting up an old friend over the big three day weekend. All the while cursing the city traffic and content hunting for my next package covering the Marihuana situation in Wyoming—set to air the following week. Play time and crunch time were speeding towards each other at ludicrous speeds with an inevitable head on collision predicted somewhere within the next 72 hours.

After a little hiking and a little bit of investigative journalism regarding the new recreational refers law, that collision happened on Saturday night, approximately 9:10 PM at a Motocross event.

More to come

Doc Martin’s Day
More to come.

Doc Martin’s Day

More to come.

The Wild Wild West

After a grueling seventeen hour drive and a series of hiccups during the initial moving in, things have finally settled down in my new home in Wyoming—and besides one remaining leaking faucet, things couldn’t be better. Following the gracious help from family and friend, and the good times we shared, I was left alone to live in a strange place for the first time. Hundreds of miles away from everything I know and love with nothing more than some furniture and food, dozens of empty whiskey bottles, and hundreds of empty beer cans from the prior nights of good company. One of the most unsettling situations I’ve ever gotten myself into.

But that feeling quickly faded as the excitement of possibility and discovery settled in. The bitter cold of the Polar Vortex couldn’t even phase me as I sat in the car in the early morning with nothing more than my house robe and a curiosity about the western elements to check the temperature on the dashboard. Minus 15 degrees; so cold that the car’s digital display was lagging. Satisfied, I scuttled back into the house with frozen nose hairs and incredible shrinkage.

The clean air, the panoramic view of the surrounding mountain ranges, and the deafening silence wakes up a part of a man that has been long since sleeping. It is now apparent to me the appeal of the western expansion in the days of old; the search for the Elephant. The biting cold and the sacred wide open land makes one ponder what it might have been like for an expedition of fur trappers or gold miners traveling across these vast lands ages ago with nothing more than a wagon, simple supplies, and the constant threat of Indian attack on the horizon. 

I’ve yet to see the Elephant—but when I do I’ll take a picture of it.

Until then, here’s some [photos].

I love coincidences. The mathematically, statistically, and impossibly improbable things that we’re lucky enough to experience every now and again. Like meeting a sweet girl by chance, or visiting a bar for the first time just before skipping town and meeting somebody who just moved into town, or finding a bag of grass in a gas station at half past midnight with two cops shooting the shit with the cashier. They’re one of the best reasons to live.

I love coincidences. The mathematically, statistically, and impossibly improbable things that we’re lucky enough to experience every now and again. Like meeting a sweet girl by chance, or visiting a bar for the first time just before skipping town and meeting somebody who just moved into town, or finding a bag of grass in a gas station at half past midnight with two cops shooting the shit with the cashier. They’re one of the best reasons to live.

Best of 2013

In the mad rush to get all my affairs in order, including wrap up the semester long Fish Wrapper documentary mentor ship project, a large scale project for the Missouri Division of Tourism, a reality show sting that I’ve yet to even start, and some love here and there where I can find it, I’ve begun compiling this year’s Best of photography album for a venue that will be hosting my work next year for my first big photography exhibit. With the usual seasonal affective disorder finally rearing it’s sad head, it’s been a great break from reality and reflect on the unbelievable year I’ve had. And with all the crazy things I got myself into this year, things are only about to get more unbelievable.

With less than 20 days before I head out and begin my new life working as a Senior Production Specialist for PBS Wyoming, shit’s about to get real. Aside from doing my best to help the station meet it’s goals, exploring the glorious Western frontier, and learning to live on my own, one of my personal goals is to write more. Render the stories and ideas before I lose them, from getting detained by the Nicaraguan military to the sick and depraved world of reality TV production to the state of the World. It’s something I look forward to. Strange times. Exciting times.

View the entire Best of 2013 set [here]

Method Acting 

[More Photos]

With a tall glass of water and a handful of pills for the Sunday morning whiskey hangover, I set off towards Town and Country; the home of some of the wealthiest people in St. Louis. My purpose for the day would be to cover the production of the fourth scene in the feature film, “The Method,” an avant-garde production shot entirely in the first person that tells a tale with 12 extended take shots influenced by the existential and spiritual crises facing much of the first world today.   

I let myself in through the massive wooden front door and chuckled under my breath as I took everything in. Extravagant art, photographs of the home owner posing with world leaders, beautiful rooms decorated in the style of Jordan culture complete with crystal chandeliers decorating the seven million dollar abode. As a lowly peasant inside the confines of such a home, it took me a minute to shake the fear of bumping over a $100,000 vase and causing a Three Stooges style domino effect of destruction. 

Tensions were running high in the halls of this venue as the crew and actors prepared for the crucial 15 minute shot.  The day prior was spent rehearsing and today was the do or die time to achieve it. The scene involved a dying man, rendered mute and wheelchair bound by a stroke, being wheeled into his study and left to witness his family argue over his fate and the situation in a lengthy and intense volley of dialogue. The POV wheelchair rig worked out beautifully and with all the blocking orchestrated, the scene in theory would look incredible. All that was needed was a flawless performance by the actors. Very much a high risk, high reward shoot—and with the autumnal equinox falling on the very same day, time was of the essence as natural light was essential to the scene.

I got my shots and after seeing my fill of the action I decided to take a break out pool side in the perfect weather to try and nurse my throbbing head back to normal. It was there that I struck up an incredibly deep conversation with a Bosnian woman under the shade of a bench swing. We chatted about a wide spectrum of topics as I like to do with people from outside the typical American mindset. But when she revealed to me that she would soon be getting her PhD in Psychology, I asked her a burning question I’ve had for many years I like to ask people in the field regarding our status as social animals in the age of digital communication.

I spent much of my high school career in an introverted bubble playing online video games and communicating with friends mostly through AOL Instant Messenger. By the end of the four years, I became more and more aware that had missed out a crucial part of my life for developing social skills and how much spending more time in cyber space than reality had crippled me. I made a conscious effort of getting out of my comfort zone and improving those skills so that I might have a chance in the real world (and maybe get laid before I finished college,) and I can say that I’ve come a long way from where I started. Unfortunately, as I made those improvements and looked out to use those skills, I saw a disturbing pattern. The once social stigma of spending hours in front a computer was now becoming a social norm with the explosion in popularity of Facebook and cell phones. My friends and colleagues were unknowingly falling into the same hole I was finally escaping, and it was a frustrating existential dilemma of my own.

In my personal experience, observations and the occasional social experiment, I’ve noted some of the effects of a digital age of communication. The decline in the ability to empathize, the narcissism epidemic partially fueled by Facebook, the isolating effect of the “Filter Bubble" to name a few things off the vast list. There was a time during my College career that I almost dropped my passion for cinematography completely for one of my secondary passions of psychology in hopes of better understanding the effects that digital communication has on the human condition, and I made a decision that I still haven’t decided if I regret or not. But in that moment by the concrete pond I was in the presence of a professional psychologist, so I couldn’t help but unleash the question upon her. I thought I was prepared to what I was about to hear. However, her answer took me off guard, and through a straight face my stomach sank to my feet.

"It will be the death of us." She said after a sigh and a moments hesitation.

The ensuing thirty minute conversation had me more engaged than I had been in a long time; she had some incredible insight on the subject that was refreshing to hear in a way. It was good to hear somebody with actual expertise in psychology reinforce my crazy pessimistic ideas. Just like I had feared, much of the depression, division and dysfunction we are faced with today can be contributed to our new normal.

Unfortunately, the conversation came to an end abruptly when she was summoned by her husband and left for the day. The talk inspired me to perhaps tackle a piece regarding this subject, finding more psychologists and collecting a pool of professional opinions to help make the public more conscious to the issue so that it may be better addressed. With each passing day, media literacy seems to be becoming more and more apart of my life.

Despite the conversation about the potential downfall of the human race, the day was far from a downer. After a stressful ten hour day and a close race with the setting sun, the scene was finally completed with great results and I also was able to spend some time in the basement sharing haram shots of Grand Mariner with a beautiful Jordanian princess. In the end, I was even able to make it home just in time to see the viewer discretion warming before Breaking Bad.

A strange day for sure. It’ll be interesting to see what comes of it.

Detroit Rock City

I only wish I had time to tell the tales.

The rest of the photos can be found [here].

Real Reality

Shooting for a real Reality TV show was an interesting experience.  The people I met there, the experiences I lived, and the adventure of the trip was like none other, but the work in itself raised some interesting moral questions.  Rock bottom never felt so good.


More to come