Pictures

Okay, so I failed the #WRITE31DAYS challenge, but I’ve been taking a lot of photos lately.

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Interesting wall outside Arab restaurant

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I was shooting a derelict, burned down motel. This woman entered through the fence, crying. She went into one of the rooms. I felt like a vulture. I left.

 

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Hidden mural

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Spools in parking lot of Asian American Family Center.

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Aztec dancers swirl around Fernando, who keeps steady time.
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Before the effigy is burned.

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Close up of American Toilet King, no friend to the Aztec.

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Hippies with fire and swirls.

 

 

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Day 9: The Ruse

Mr. Trump stood offstage, hands cupped over his groin, as “Proud To Be An American” reached it’s saccharine crescendo through the public address system speakers. The crowd roared like Romans demanding blood. Surveying the sweaty attendees, man with eyes rolling back beyond the view of Chinese-made snapbacks were in an ecstatic release. Trump was pleased, and nodded his approval, which seemed a contradiction coupled with his furrowed brow and pout.

“Patriots, I give you our next president, Mr. Donald J. Trump!” the speakers announced, and the roar turned into a shriek, a war whoop. Mr. Trump sauntered to the podium, a smug close-mouthed smile plastered on his garish sepia face.  He scanned the rally crowd for babies to eject. His staff had ensured him several times there were none in the first 10 rows, but some of them were a little Mexican, or maybe those weird Mexicans from Guatemala or some other backward tacotown, and so could not be trusted.

“Folks, I gotta tell you, you look great. You guys that came out, you see? A lot of people have turned their backs. I was treated very unfairly, very unfairly, especially by that horrible internet, which is going down the tubes, let me tell you, doing very poorly, by the way.”

He pursed his lips again, as the rally attendees hurled anti-internes slogans, “Roast Snopes!” and “Tumblr is for socialists!”

“Folks, before we get going, There’s something I gotta do. Can  do that?” He grasped at his jowls behind the knot of his Chinese-made tie, and began to tug and yank, his diminutive digits the perfect pincers to accomplish the task. He pulled the skin forward and up, with a schlopping sound when it flapped off. Blinking at the bright lights were three male heads. “Hey, we’re Kamal and Johnny, the Jerky Boys! And we got you good, jerkies!”, said the head on the left. The slightly smaller head in the middle spoke next. “I’m 12-yeal old Brayden. Fart fart faggot fart!”

The crowd was silent for a moment, than began chanting “Trump! Trump! Trump! Trump!”, as supporters took to twitter and facebook to declare the TrumpHeads3 for their honesty, and point out that at least they’re not politicians.