If you ride like lightning, you’re going to crash like thunder.

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As the sun began its decent into the Hudson, my sense of restlessness became unbearable. I found myself standing on First Avenue in Manhattan watching hundreds of cars putter past. I needed to escape.

Motorcycles afford their owners to act on any whim. For me there was no planning, no route, and no baggage. A simple thought to abandon this island and three minutes later I was chasing the sunset.

I crossed the George Washington Bridge and looked South along the Hudson. A warm haze seemed to envelope Manhattan. The sun danced across the skyline, almost taunting New Jersey with its golden aura.

I spent the next hour and a half zig-zagging through small towns in New Jersey. I saw couples kissing, families going to the movies, and men smoking cigars. Deputies patrolled, pizza makers tossed dough, and kids screamed. In those ninety minutes I was privy to a sliver of Americana- a sliver that whet my appetite for an American Summer.

With this newfound desire, I made my way to a highway, which one I couldn’t tell you, and made my way to Philadelphia. I figured, the former temporary capital of the United States of America is pretty American.

As the miles of asphalt ran beneath my feet, the heavy air of a storm blew past my face. Ahead of me was the unmistakable flash of lightning. Adventure won out against better judgment and the subtle flick of my wrist brought me that much closer. To what, I’m not sure.

I passed through Camden as the lightning struck and the thunder bellowed only a few miles ahead. As my BMW ascended the bridge into Philadelphia, the most remarkable thing happened.

Fireworks detonated to my left, at eye level, no more than fifty yards away. It was as if the tourism bureau anticipated my arrival. Brilliant colors illuminated my course. The explosions of gunpowder thundered over the boxer engine. I looked down to the shore and saw the intricate stage lighting of an outdoor concert. Strobes, colors, patterns against a sea of black.

The Philadelphia skyline stood before me, proud, as it sufficiently took my breath away.

As soon as my tires reached the shore, the crash course I was on with the storm rang true with a crack of thunder and an onslaught of rain. May 10, 2013 was not the day I was to explore Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I merged back onto the highway, raised the windshield, and gunned it.

Within five minutes I was ahead of the storm. The lighting in my mirrors flickered like a patrolmen’s cruiser. Instead of Johnny Law it was Mother Nature chased me out of Philadelphia.

For the next hour and twenty-eight minutes, the dotted lines on the asphalt dashed past my feet. I watched the onboard computer update fuel consumption and range date as I beelined back to New York City.

The road was desolate as the minute hand swept past 12:05am.

As I reentered New York City over the George Washington Bridge, I couldn’t help but look down at the World Trade Center. For the first night in history, its spire stood 1,776 feet tall.

That’s pretty American.

Bask in the nostalgia.

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It was June 2003. I showed up to the Starlight Theatre and Cafe for my first day of work. My day consisted of picking up cigarette butts from Coal Alley and mopping the basement floor with bleach. For $4 an hour. After the first week, my boss- who is no longer around- realized that he couldn’t legally pay me $4 an hour, so he bumped it up to $7.

I rose through the ranks over the following ten years. I was a busboy, a concession stand attendant, an usher. I was a host, a food runner, and a sound guy. I cleaned the toilets, counted the money, and ran the projectors. I was a garbage man, a maintenance man, and a manager.

I snuck girls into the projection booth- well, we all did. I kicked rowdy kids out so I could escort old couples in. I put films together with seconds to spare. I got into fights. I opened the doors in the morning and locked them at night. I convinced myself it was haunted- I remember flicking off the lights and running to the door. Even at 18 years old. I lugged audio equipment in from the rain. I performed comedy on the stage. I developed crushes and had my heart crushed. I hid on the roof and dreamed of owning the place myself. I had my name on business cards. I sat at the bar and met characters even more unique than those on the screen only steps away.

The Starlight taught me about responsibility and what it means to function in a small, close-knit community. For years the Starlight has been serving downtown Nantucket. Thousands of stories have started in the back row of the theatre, the corner stool at the bar, or by candlelight on the back patio. The Starlight needs your help to ensure that more stories have the chance to be told.

Take a second and think back on your fondest memories. The Starlight serves as the backdrop for many of mine.

I want the next generation of kids weaving tales about their nights at the Starlight. In order for that to happen, Mark and Jeff need your help. To keep the doors open and the theatre operating, vital equipment needs to be updated. Take a look at their Kickstarter video. Donate if you feel inclined… every contribution is dearly appreciated.

Just bask in the nostalgia. Its cathartic.

A Brush With Death Paints A Beautiful Picture.

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Life cannot be fully appreciated until the reality of death is understood. Until an individual is forced to confront their own mortality, the true value of life will go unrecognized. In my short existence there have been a handful of events I shouldn’t have walked away from. Death lurks throughout life and it’s always the final encounter that gets you.

My most recent brush with death came last night.

Like any other day, I fired up my motorcycle and spent the afternoon exploring New York City. I met up with my friend Greg and we casually rolled around Brooklyn. The sun began to retire for the evening and I figured I’d do the same. I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge as the sun sank below the skyline. The brilliant glow painted Manhattan as angelic. Virginal, really. By the time I hit the FDR the sun’s warm embrace faded and the cold grip of winter proved dominant.

Traffic thickened and I figured surface streets might provide for a more relaxed ride home. I exited the FDR at 71st street and made my way to 1st avenue. As I crept up the avenue, my hopes of a quick return home were dashed. Delivery trucks and taxi cabs littered the roadway. Car horns blared like a symphony out of tune. It was an unpleasant soundtrack.

Slowly but surely, I was able to make my way uptown. While the traffic was at a standstill I was able to scoot around, one of the benefits of riding in the city.

Eventually I found myself in the 90s. I meandered through traffic and positioned myself ahead of the first car- a white, four door, something-or-other. I shifted into neutral, took my hands off the handlebars, and leaned back, taking a look around such a bustling city.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the car positioned behind and to the left of me began to creep forward. I looked at the traffic light and the cross street still had a green light. The car started to ease forward again, just a foot or so away from my back wheel. At this point, he was so close that he couldn’t move unless I moved first. Not two seconds later, while our light was still red, the car stepped on the gas.

The front bumper of the car plowed into the motorcycle inches behind my leg. As the driver continued, the bumper hooked onto the front fairing of my motorcycle, pulling me into the intersection. When the motorcycle broke free, the nearly 600 pound machine leaned over onto my right leg, nearly causing me to drop it. As I tried to recover, the driver fled!

I righted the motorcycle and saw that he had only made it to the next intersection before getting stuck behind a fortress of vehicles. With a cocktail of rage and adrenaline coursing through my veins, I took off in hot pursuit.

As I approached the rear of the car, I stuck out my left leg like a javelin. I felt like a medieval knight charging into battle. As I passed, my shod foot made contact with the passenger mirror. Maybe I broke it, maybe I didn’t. I’ll never know, but it felt good to enact street justice.

Like an Italian purse snatcher, I disappeared into the rest of traffic.

As the numbers climbed and I got closer and closer to home, I began to think about how lucky I was things didn’t end differently. I was in the middle of this thought process when I looked into my side view mirror and saw a white car approaching quickly. The car pulled up next to me, passenger window down, with an irate Indian gentl- er… person behind the wheel. He spewed such niceties as, ”Where you going, Asshole?!” or “I’m going to follow you home, Fucker!” and “I’m going to run you over!”. Seems like a rational individual, right?

As he was screaming these epithets he was swerving towards me, trying to knock me off the motorcycle. Hitting me once wasn’t enough, he needed to come back again. There were moments where I was inches from parked cars and no more than a couple of feet from him, all while traveling at 40 mph.

For a moment I debated stopping. I though about approaching him about his transgression. I mean, I was wearing a helmet and riding gear. If things got physical, I’d be safe. To date, I have never struck an individual and I didn’t plan on starting with a mid 50′s Indian man. I downshifted and took off.

He stuck with me, honking and flashing his lights. After every evasive move there he was. He was right behind me, but my BMW was alway one step ahead of his rental-car-spec sedan. I zipped and weaved into the bike lane of 1st avenue and approached 115th street. He was in the bus lane on the other side of the street. I thought I was safe to take the left and get out of there. As I rolled up to the intersection, he appeared from between two cars, nearly T-boning me. I put the motorcycle into a deep lean, downshifted mid turn, a dangerous maneuver under normal riding let alone duress, and narrowly avoided the impact.

By this point, he had been chasing me for about two minutes. I got tunnel vision. 115th street was a blur. I passed a bus, and flew down the block at 60mph. As I reached 2nd avenue I saw the ‘Do Not Cross” hand had stopped flashing, meaning the light was going to turn red at any moment. I leaned through the hard left and picked up speed as I approached another red light. Afraid he would see me, I ran it. And the next.

I made a right hand turn and beelined for 3rd avenue, his car in the distance. I pushed the aging motorcycle to its limits as I powered north up the avenue. I reached 110th street, a quite stretch of pavement, and quickly tucked the BMW between two cars.

I sat on the curb, breathless. I was numb. My body was receptive to what was around it, but could not process it. I heard the drips and ticks from my motorcycle’s engine, but nothing else. The smell of burning oil wafted into my nose. I was aware of movement around me, but couldn’t make it out. My senses could not or would not piece a collective image together.

Now, I know I perpetuated the stigma of violent motorcyclist, but I stand by my decision to go on the offensive after being struck. A blatant transgression against my person will never go unanswered.

Facing the possibility death provides a stronger appreciation of life. Last night reawakened my love of life and those in it.

Contact Zone: Mexico and the United States.

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Note: This trip took place Spring 2009.

From 2005 to 2010 I resided in the middle of the contact zone between Mexico and the United States – Tucson, Arizona. Mexican culture permeated the divide and provided a vibrant environment for those living north of the border. Unfortunately, during that same time span, border violence rose dramatically. Everyday there were new reports of beheadings, torched bodies, and drug seizures. Many times, this was happening less than 70 miles from my doorstep. Being who I am, I had to see for myself what was actually going on.

I planed to drive to El Paso, Texas and cross into Ciudad Juárez, the cradle of border violence. I carefully mapped out the trip and shopped it around to friends, all of whom refused to take any part in my endeavor. Shortly there after, the US Department of State issued a travel warning for American Citizens traveling within Mexico. To better illustrate the scale of violence, from 2007 to 2010 there were over 35,000 drug related homicides alone. With mounting trepidation, I decided to postpone my trip.

I was determined to see what was going on along the border but needed a new plan. I remembered an old acquaintance had told me about two towns, Ruby and Arivaca. Both towns are situated in Arizona, just north of the border, and are a hotbed for drug trafficking activity. Arivaca is the kind of town you go to if you want to disappear, intentionally or otherwise.

I had a friend visiting from the East Coast, so this was the perfect excuse to venture into the desert and see what I could uncover.

We left Tucson late morning and headed south on I-19. Forty-five minutes passed before we reached Arivaca Road, the road that would guide us deep into the Southern Arizona desert. A mile off the highway and we realized we were now foreigners. Bullet holes decorated everything. Barbed wire was woven into the landscape as though without it the land would actually unravel.

The further we traversed, the fewer signs of life we saw. The landscape opened up. The road skirted across the crests of hills, providing endless views. We pulled over on one of these crests and surveyed the outlying lands. I abruptly realized that given the kind of activity that took place in the area, I might not want to be looking too closely.

A twinkle caught the corner of my eye. The sun’s rays caught something on a distant hill. Against my better judgement, I raised my camera and used the zoom to investigate further. Staring back at me was the US Border Patrol. It was decided that we should make haste.

We rolled into Arivaca. A film of dust coated everything. There wasn’t a soul in sight. It looked as if the last resident evacuated a decade ago. Another hour and the noon sun might have turned the rest of the town to dust. I pulled the Jeep over and nervously got out. We were taking photographs of collapsed buildings when all of a sudden we spotted a bit of commotion at the other end of the main drag. Men had exited a building and were pointing in our direction. By the way they moved, they seemed to be on a mission. It was clear we were unwelcome and who knew what they would do to intruders. We scurried back to the Jeep and pressed on, our eyes glued to the rearview. As we made our escape from Arivaca, I began to understand why people warned me not to stop when passing through.

What was left of the pavement had long dissolved into the desert floor. The Jeep began to rattle as we entered some of the most unforgiving terrain in the United States. Dust floated into the cabin and deposited itself where ever it desired. The roads have no names. In fact, they aren’t even roads, just general trails between where you just were and where you are now. The landscape was harsh; the rocks jagged and the shrubbery intimidating. The fuel gauge dipped below half.

The Jeep’s suspension began to articulate as we crept over and around fallen trees and displaced boulders. Something about their placement seemed artificial. Manmade perhaps.

Finally, the road opened up and a signpost came into view. We had finally made it to our destination. I heard there was a caretaker of the property, so we slowly meandered through crumbling adobe homes in search of life. Secretly I was expecting to find him dead. I could not understand how such an environment could sustain life.

We found a home that wasn’t falling down and assumed it to be the right place. We got out of the car and began to head towards the door. We were both scared. Arizona is pretty liberal with guns. Suddenly, a short man with a long grey beard emerged. The man was shirtless. Even at a distance his skin looked like leather. Two legs extended down from his oddly short shorts. As he came closer he said, “You can call me Sundog.”

Not thirty seconds later did an old truck rumble up the drive, a wolf-like dog leading the way. It came to a halt and a Mexican man emerged wearing head to toe denim. His shirt neatly tucked into his pants. His cuffs buttoned. His bolo tie cinched tightly around his neck. Sundog asked us to stay where we were while he and the Proper Mexican disappeared into his house.

After a few minutes the two emerged. The Proper Mexican got back in his truck and disappeared back down the drive.

Sundog motioned us towards his house. I was sure that as soon as I crossed the threshold I would be killed and eaten. As soon as my boot plunked onto the floorboard Sundog turned around like a true host and asked, “What would you like? I have marijuana, peyote, pills…” I was caught off guard by his offering. He insisted that we have a seat before he disappeared into a back room. Again, I thought this was it, he’s going to come out with a necklace made of ears and kill us.

My eyes darted across the room and registered all the strange decor. Skulls on the desk, bones hanging on the wall. Knives and pills littered the table. A long gun standing  by the door. The dialogue that ensued was odd but nothing beyond what you would expect from a recluse living in a ghost town. He mentioned the nightly occurrence of drug mules trekking through the area, bushels of marijuana anchored to their backs. He told us of one occasion where a mule got separated from the group and left 100 pounds of marijuana in Sundog’s care. Weeks passed without any sign of the gentleman, so Sundog began selling it himself to whoever came through.

He continued to weave tales of the wild. He told us about the time he was bitten by a rattle snake and lay dying for seven days before anyone came to his rescue.

After a half hour of chatter, Sundog reluctantly let us continue on our way. He was a strange character; a man content with having almost no access to the outside world and living in the middle of the war on drugs.

We began to explore what was left of the bustling mining town. The first building we entered put us toe to toe with a rattle snake. If we weren’t going to be killed by the Cartel or Sundog, it would surely be the wildlife that got us.

We found the ruins of the old general store, the site of numerous murders. In the early 1900s Mexican bandits came across the border and committed crimes before retreating south and avoiding capture. On two separate occasions the bandits held up the store and murdered the owners.

When the sun began to drop, we thought it best to make our escape before nightfall. Running into someone out here in the dark can only end one way. Despite this danger, instead of returning the way we came, we headed further south towards the border. The elevation climbed. As we peaked the crest of a ridge, the most spectacular view of Mexico was revealed to us. The particular area we were in was too treacherous for a physical line of demarcation. There was no telling where the US ended and Mexico started. The land looked uniform. Serene. Undisturbed. Virginal.

A gentle wind skimmed my face as Mother Nature exhaled her final breath of warm air. The fading rays of sun reached out from the horizon. With such a mesmerizing view before me it was hard to understand how death and destruction could plague such a landscape.

With that said, come January 2013 I will be leaving Manhattan and returning to the border. This time I will be reporting from Mexico about how pervasive border violence actually is. There is a chance that this segment will be done on film if it is safe enough to record.

Staten Island: One Week Later.

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I threw my leg over the BMW around 1:30pm today with hopes of being able to reach Staten Island. The sun was shining brightly, but its rays did nothing to warm me. The air was in the mid 40s as a catapulted myself down the FDR. It was a unique experience for me given my relationship with the highway only a few short days ago. About half way down the length of Manhattan, traffic came to a standstill. ConEd workers had dug up two lanes in order to make repairs. The severity of the city’s situation apparently didn’t resonate with many, because horns were blaring all too frequently. Tempers flared towards the men and woman who were bringing this city back to life.

I broke free of the traffic and happened upon a fleet of, presumably National Guard, troop carriers. Instead of being filled with soldiers, these vehicles were filled to the brim with cases of bottled of water. Thousands of cases. My eyes began to well as I realized that I may not be prepared for what I was about to witness.

I continued over the Williamsburg Bridge and onto I-278W towards the Verrazano Bridge. Coming the other direction were two military Humvees, their long antennas bobbing side to side as they rumbled past.

I crossed the bridge and spotted another convoy, this time comprised of NYPD vehicles. I had never been to Staten Island before, so I figured I would trail the police to the area hardest hit. Much to my surprise, they diverted in a direction that did not make sense to me. They continued inland, away from the zone hardest hit.

I continued ahead on my own and stumbled upon a line of people waiting to get gasoline. These people were not in cars but instead standing, zigzagging really, around the pumps. I pulled my motorcycle over on a side street and made my way back on foot, camera at the ready.

I snapped a few photographs from afar before a few of the individuals in line called me over. As I approached, they began asking which network or newspaper I worked for. When I told them I didn’t work for anyone, they couldn’t believe it. They couldn’t believe that someone would want to come down from Manhattan and report independently from any major news outlet. One gentleman, the one who initially called me over, told me he lost his house and was about to be displaced from his shelter. Of the ten or so people actually talking to me, none of them had received any assistance from any organization.

I began to walk back to my motorcycle when a woman and her child called me over. They too asked which news outlet I worked for. We began to talk and her story was just as heartbreaking as the others. As we parted ways, she pointed me in the direction of all the chaos.

I made my way down the road. None of the traffic lights were in operation. I continued further, a slight film began to coat the road. Garbage fluttered around in the breeze. It was at this moment that the true severity of destruction came into view.

I parked and continued into the neighborhood on foot. I meandered through the streets cautiously, as to not upset those in mourning. Cars were flipped over, boats on top of houses, and homes knocked off their foundations. People emerged from these quaint little dwellings covered in silt, their mouthes covered by dust masks. Their hands held what little was left of their belongings. Piles grew tall outside homes. It was hard to fathom that everything at one point in time fit nicely inside. People’s prized possessions now littered the road.

I spoke to one woman whose home was under 12 feet of water. She told me about a family from Manhattan who came down yesterday – strangers – and spent the whole day helping clean her house. Then today, the same family returned with hundreds of dollars in tools to replace those her husband had lost. She too mentioned that she hadn’t received any help beyond what neighbors and strangers were willing to offer.

I came across a home that had been burned to the ground. The owner approached me cursing the electric company for letting his home burn. The metal headboard to his bed was still standing erect amongst the ashes.

As I continued through the streets I noticed very few National Guardsmen or police officers. In fact, I saw exactly three men in fatigues and two men in NYPD uniforms while I was in the neighborhood. As I continued to talk to residence, I realized that they had come up with their own way of dealing with the devastation. As soon as one person’s home was cleared, they would go and assist their neighbor. The bond in this neighborhood was ever present.

At this point the air was growing thick. The stench began to overpower me. I looked at my watch and nearly five hours had passed. My boots were covered in mud. The sun had long retreated behind a veil of clouds. The temperature was falling. A formation of Blackhawk helicopters flew over head

As I looked around, it felt like the world was crumbling down around me in slow motion. People broke down. Others stood stoic in the face of adversity. Something didn’t feel right. I was about to get on my motorcycle and leave. I was about to return to a warm home and eat a hot meal. I was a spectator to the most horrific event to shock this area. I had the luxury to leave, while these people had nothing.

I recommend viewing the photographs in their full size.

Planned trip to Staten Island.

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I will be going to Staten Island today, Sunday November 4th, to take photographs. If there is anyone with family there in need of supplies, please let me know. I have enough fuel for two or three trips from Manhattan. I will be on a motorcycle, but have room for blankets, food, water, first aid kits, etc… If it is dire, I can try to shuttle people off the island.