When Justin Bieber’s bones
Lay behind glass
For future generations to stare at like
Will our drive along that Flagstaff highway
With the Joanna Newsom songs
and the temporary trees 
all defiantly green
Still hold true
Or will all the songs we’ve written
Born from that magic 
Be lost
In a folder in congress 


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Screen Shot 2014-10-29 at 10.06.10 AM

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Bernard Herrmann – Twisted Nerve
Donovan – Hurdy Gurdy
Echo & The Bunnymen – People Are Strange
The Cure – Lullaby
Dusty Springfield – Spooky
Dead Ghosts – Dead Ghosts
Atlas Sound – Coffin Tick
Black Lips – I Saw A Ghost (Lean)
Jackie Morningstar – Rockin’ In The Graveyard
Leroy Bowman – Graveyard
The Meteors – Corpse Grinder
David Bowie – Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)
Mick Harvey – Famous Last Words

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Dear Adam,

I am writing you from Camp Lake Mini-Ha-Ha. I need to get out of here. My appendix exploded and I am bedridden in the nurse’s station. They say that I am fine. BUT I am smarter then these camp counselors. They run around here with their heads up their asses. Can’t even put together a decent ball game. I’ve seen brown-recluse spiders that were more coordinated than these scoundrels.

I don’t think any of them know shit about baseball. If I had the money, I’d buy them all Toronto Blue Jay Jerseys. They’d all fall for that. Especially Mickey. Mickey is an idiot. Mickey is trying to get me out of this bed. Mickey is trying to make me play ball. He has a crush on Laura, another counselor; she is hot. He turns the color of a baboon’s ass every time she comes around. I’ve never seen a bigger wimp. She hangs out with him though. I don’t get it.

Speaking of wimps… how are your beloved cubs doing? You guys need to get rid of Mark Grace. Make him retire. Hang up the bat. Is Sosa still leading the league in strikeouts? There is no TV here. I don’t know what’s going on out there. I kind of like it though. That’s why I’m writing you this letter, no TV! All they have in this room is a bunch of paper and a stack of National Geographics. I read all 20 of them. Its like one page is about Greenland and everyone is killing themselves there and the next page is African titties. My favorite page was about cloning. Ever hear about cloning? It’s when they take some part of you and make a new you. Many of you, if it works. Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine seeing yourself? Talking to yourself? I’d clone 18 of me. That would be a decent ball game.

I think 18 would be the limit though. Anymore and things might get violent. You know how I am with ball. Then Laura wouldn’t come. She doesn’t like violence. All girls don’t, but you know how all girls like to keep clean? She doesn’t. She’s got knots in her hair. She’s always saying she’s got a knot. I like her knots. She is cool.

Mickey doesn’t like the knots. He is always trying to get her into the water. He wants her to have clean hair. You can’t have knots in the water. It undos them. Mickey is all about rules and hygiene. He comes from a big house. He is a pussy. He made me fetch his things once cause I refused to stick my finger up my ass in right field. Look at what I found in his binder of torture.

Her smile is warm enough to turn fall to summer, bright enough to turn winter to spring. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She dwarfs the importance of the worlds biggest obsessions, time & money, and by doing so effortlessly, her value cannot be measured. If everything happens to you before you turn 25, she will be the only thing I remember.

Oh my god fagg-ola.

I’ll be seeing you soon… hopefully. They say I can call my parents this weekend and get out of here. I need a new appendix. Have you guys been egging Patel’s house?


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The last nine shots of this series were taken on medium format with Kodak Ektachrome, one the greatest film stocks ever made.  The stock is no longer produced, so there is a finite amount left out in the world.  I hope you enjoy the colors of these photos as much as I did when I first got the film back.  These photos are my first (and hopefully not my last!) tribute to one my favorite things in the world, Ektachrome.  DT

Model: Madison McKinley
Hair & Make-up:  Jennifer Sarchet
Photography: Delaney Teichler

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Dear Mr. O’Keefe,

This is [NAME WITHHELD] of [NAME WITHHELD], your trusted financial institution. I am writing to inform you that there is a current balance of $2,000 dollars remaining in your account. This is a dangerously low sum. Do you have monies coming in from your various projects? Are you currently writing something that will result in a financial gain? Let’s discuss. You still owe your parents [AMOUNT WITHHELD] from the last time this happened.

Hope Hollywood is treating you well.


Your finical advisor at [NAME WITHHELD]



I received your letter. Bummer about the 2K. I hope I get the remaining sum of what I’m owed for X, Y and Z soon. Once I can, I will pay back my mom and dad.

It’s funny you should ask, because as a matter of fact, yes, I am writing something new. That being said, I doubt it will result in an immediate financial gain. It’s — well, it’s hard to describe and I suppose it can come off as a bit pretentious if not illustrated delicately. To be honest I don’t like saying too much about it at this early stage. However, since you’re my financial advisor and you should be privy, I’ll explain.

Its tentative title is [WITHHELD] and it’s the unflinching story of a common American man coming to terms with his place in the Universe in the 21st century. A man wrestling with the meaning of life. And it’s about . . . well it’s about this man’s joys and pleasures and heartbreaks — his love and loss. It’s about his boundless dreams and his modest accomplishments and the discrepancy between the man he wants to be and the one he actually is.

And it’s about the small moments in his life too — a memory as a boy (the yellow raincoat; a dead deer in the woods; the smell of a toy). But it’ll have the big stuff as well, you know, the trailer moments, as they say. First kisses, graduations, deaths, births, mushroom trips, etc. I have this real zinger of a moment where his car flips over on the way to prom. Just wait until you see it (hint: it’s the other guy’s fault).

Here’s the kicker: what really makes this movie special is that it’s all gonna happen in real time. It’s gonna be a 75 year long movie and it’s gonna take 75 years to make. And once it’s done, you can just go in and out of the theater at your own leisure. Like a church you can visit when you need to. I’m already talking to theater chains about building specialized venues to project it. Oh and at the end, the very end — when he’s dying (hint: cancer) — the screen fades to white for three whole days. 72 hours of a slow fade to white. And then credits roll silently. It’s going to be great.

There’s no real story per se — just vignettes and images and music and life and stuff. Reflections of truth. No lies like all the other movies. Just truth. Even if it’s scary and ugly sometimes. I just want to write something real, you know? While I’m on this Earth and still can. Something big and important and full of magic. Something special. Uncompromising. That’s the goal anyway. Maybe it’s too ambitious. Maybe it’s egomaniacal. I go back and forth. In the meantime I’m always looking for babysitter slasher rewrites. Fingers crossed.


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Todd Rundgren – Baby Let’s Swing
Twin Peaks – Sweet Thing
Springtime Carnivore – Sun Went Black
Los Angeles Police Department – She Came Through (Again)
Allah-Las – Yemeni Jade
The Viscounts – Harlem Nocturne
Sleepy Cheese – The Glory
Foxygen – The Game
Victor Jara – Te Recuerdo Amanda
Blaze Foley – Clay Pigeons

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The following photos were all shot on reversal film. Thanks Lane. EO


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I want to be exceptional.
I want to make exceptional work.
I want to be possessed.
I want to be endlessly creative and curious and excited.
I want to be a genius.
I want to live forever
I want everything I do to be a statement.
Intentionally crafted and articulate and precise.
And I want every statement to be better than the one before it.
Like a Beatles album.
I also want to make nonsense.
I want to be The Replacements on SNL.
I want to be The Replacements always.
I want to dismantle the notion that art/rock n roll/cinema is serious; any different than a cave drawing or a pissing contest.
Fuck the word cinema.
Fuck the word art.
It’s all just rock n roll.
I want to intentionally make bad shit and burn down all that I have built.
Metal Machine Music.
John Baldessari.
Eighties Dylan.
I get it now.
Does the world really need another movie? Or pop song? Or television show?
Does it need another photo or painting or poem?
Does it need your blog?
It certainly doesn’t need this one.
Does anyone even care anymore?
Is there an audience anymore?
I can barely read a book without checking Instagram every five pages.
I Google my name an obscene amount throughout the week.
When my girlfriend posts photos of me on the Internet, I check in throughout the day to see who has liked them.
While writing this, I have checked Twitter three times.
I often delete my social media accounts and then reinstate them an hour later.
I’m worried I’m throwing my life away chasing selfish, narcissistic approval.
I’m worried that really it’s not about the work but about being praised.
I’m worried I’m too old.
I’m worried the shit I like is too old and that my interests are too narrow and that I have nothing left to say.
Why do I like old shit?
What does that mean?
Why do I feel guilty about it?
I’m worried I am stopping myself from greatness because my attention span is shot and I can no longer truly focus.
I’m worried friends who read this think that I’m an ass hole.
And that this is insincere.
I am an ass hole.
But I want to be honest.
An honest ass hole.
I want to say things that matter or not say anything at all.
I want to be Bob Dylan.
Kurt Cobain.
Earnest Hemingway.
Joni Mitchell.
Andy Warhol.
David Lynch
Patti Smith
Georgia O’Keeffe
Charles and Ray Eames.
Frida Kahlo
Andy Kaufman
William Eggleston.
Lou Reed
Woody Allen.
Steve Jobs.
When I was in elementary school I took learning disabled classes.
I’ll forever remember the learning disabled placard on the door.
We played Mancala and got extra time to take tests.
I failed Spanish in high school.
I almost failed chemistry.
I got a shit load of Ds.
Once, when I was failing a course in junior high, I argued with my parents and claimed that it wasn’t so bad; it was actually an F+.
An F+!
I think F+ should be the name of a famous book.
I speak with a kind of weird lisp thing.
I went to speech class to fix this.
It didn’t work.
My high school grade point average was 2.2 or something.
My ACT score was like a 21.
I took an IQ test online once and the score was basically average.
And part of me is certain that I am actually just stupid.
And that those numbers are correct.
And that there is nothing more within my soul.
That I am an average man of average intellect who has been blessed with dumb confidence and the ability to bullshit and all of my good fortune has been founded on those two skills.
I sometimes worry I am incapable of being even close to anyone on the list above.
Incapable of even securing the privilege to try-out for single-A minor league status.
But sometimes I feel infinite and very powerful and full of life and poetry and worthy things to say.
And I’m most often frustrated by my inability to express all that I feel in my heart.
I want to change people’s lives.
Or someone’s life.
Man I’d love to have a kid one day.
I am not content to be average.
I am not content.
I want to believe in God.
I want to believe in God.
And some days I do.


Posted in Blurt, Eddie O'KEEFE | 5 Comments »

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