The worst part about this whole beer-bottle shanking by random bum was that we thought we could just tie a few t-shirts around the wound and everything would be okay. We ended up at the hospital and needless to say, the whole thing was an act of incredible maturity.

Foot undies.

My mom wears these on her feet for her dancing lessons. I believe she can salsa now, thanks to these.

Extra mature contents.

Kitten party.

Clay got covered in kittens in Brooklyn. He hates them.

Domestic violence.

Headless crotches.

Living above a laundromat.

This was an epic taco party that happened at some point.

She literally just called me.

My stalker.

This woman calls me thrice daily. That's right, a panhandler with a cell phone. I spent three days in September with her, taking photos and dressing her cats up. It was fun, so we kept in touch. Ten calls a day until I mailed her prints. It simply hasn't ended. I've received five letters and nearly a thousand voicemails. Recently, she changed her number and I accidentally answered. I nearly ate my stomach. You're probably wondering why I don't just answer, but that's an entirely different story for which I have several audiotapes of her ramblings. She's really interesting and smart, but I simply don't want to have any more phone chats. You can find her on the corner of California St. and Polk St. in San Francisco.

Keeping it classy.

Some babies.