mek(ong)
…
scan.
scan.
cringe.
sigh.
scan.
curse.
scan.
throw something.
scan.
scan.
sigh.
pout.
scan.
groan.
scan.
scan.
ugh.
wash it all down with a sea breeze and a pizza,
and call it a day.
…
…
stinky
…
mekon(g)
…
honestly,
i think the King of Thailand and myself,
the King of Caneparidoesitbetter,
would be great friends.
first off,
we are both jazz aficionados.
(benny goodman???
is that the best you could do?
you’re the king!
couldn’t you have pulled the royal trigger on mingus or miles or max or monk or
even herbie-fucking-mann would have sufficed!
benny’s a hack!)
…
…
secondly,
we are both wild animal lovers.
( i wont lie though. i fucking hate horses)
…
…
neither one of us is afraid of sporting radical headwear.
(between you and i,
i wouldn’t be caught dead with a gold chandelier on my dome!)
…
…
and best yet,
like myself,
the man knows his way around a camera.
(check out how focused he is as he removes his lens cap.
boom!)
…
on a side note, solid gold king of thailand leica M6! what!
…
goddamn,
he’s a titan.
we’re meant to be together.
long live the King!
…
…
long live canepari!
…
(mek)ong
…
no one said it was going to be easy.
it started when the me(k)ong ate my hassy.
then g.o.d. snapped fergie’s bessa.
after that,
a Cambodian river slum pickpocketed my sekonic.
…
no one said it was going to be pretty.
paddy’s hassy snapped once and crackled once.
and for awhile,
my new xpan was stuck on stupid.
luckily both did recover,
but not before agitating my agita.
…
and then,
after SE Asia had practically chewed up and spit out my entire analog repertoire,
my 5D mark II,
130,000 snaps and 15 countries my ally,
exploded at my little brother’s 8th grade graduation
(congratulations snake!!).
ugh.
shutter pop.
mirror pop.
camera pop.
death.
…
now,
i’ve developed a complex.
black hand of destruction.
the Kali of photo paraphernalia.
i blame cooper first.
then myself.
now,
it’s just part of canepari’s myth.
you will know me by the trail of dead cameras i leave in my wake.
…
…
king (me)kong
…
m(ekong)
…
The Art of Naming a Photo Essay.
by
zackary david canepari.
…
step one.
nodoze.
…
step two.
crown and ginger.
…
step three.
get a car.
preferibly an SUV with some space and a sun roof.
close the windows.
lock the doors.
…
step four.
from beginning to end,
listen to any one of the wu-tang clan’s first 5 albums.
cuban linx is the obvious choice.
tical is my secret weapon.
…
step five.
let nature take its course
…
disclaimer;
this method isn’t scientific.
if you find yourself suffocating in an old toyota 4-runner,
A-Son blowing out your woofer
and a nodoze/whiskey headache on the horizon,
than this might not be the answer for you.
if you do reach this point,
i recommend the path of least resistance.
name the essay after the thing/place/people you photographed.
maybe throw some random parantheses in there for effect.
and
call it a day
…
like so.
m(ekong)
…
…
you’re welcome
…
mad cow.
…
first,
a disclaimer.
the following story never ends and is morally ambiguous.
much like the following photographs.
enjoy.
…
last night i was a bit under the weather.
a shoot at disneyland had left me with the dreaded disneyland-mad/cow.
AKA a cough and some snot.
there i was lying in bed,
moaning and writhing like the man-child that I am,
and there was this beeping sound.
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.
high and shriekish.
like the alarm on my old casio watch.
now granted,
every sound in my neighborhood,
due to compressed living spaces and paper thin-walls and loud neighbors with little yapping dogs(!!!),
is amplified.
anyways irrelevent.
so like clockwork,
everytime i’d start to get out of bed to investigate,
it would stop.
as soon as i got back in bed it’d start again.
finally,
my frustration bubble popped,
and to my twisted girlfriend’s pleasure,
i screamed as loud as i could,
“please kill that beeping noise fuck shit poop!!!!”
but nothing.
the beeping continued.
then it started to get more sporadic.
someone was clearly trying to stop the beeping but couldn’t figure out how.
beep beep be…
beep beep beep beep b…
beep bee…
my lady theorized,
“it’s probably the methhead with the sector nine”.
i wasn’t so sure.
either way it just wouldn’t stop.
finally,
i went for it.
out of the bed.
feet in the slippers.
down the stairs.
and out the door.
like a hunter i sniffed.
like a hunter i walked next door.
like a hunter i looked up the stairs.
and
like a hunter i saw the fire alarm dangling from it’s cradle.
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
a voice behind me,
“i couldn’t figure out how to turn it off”.
the methhead with the sector nine.
his eyes darting like a caged deer (on meth).
then fire engine sirens.
then the whole neighborhood in the streets.
i walked away in a haze of red lights and loud complaining chihuahuas.
yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap
…
…
beep yap
…
i’ve got 2 vaginas.
…
the last editorial assignment I’ve had was for this magazine.
i was told it was the british version of Maxim.
i told them “i’ll do it!”
the hard copy came in the mail today,
followed by a mixed bag of emotions.
shame.
pride.
disgust.
glee.
regret.
life as a photographer…
the highs are high.
the lows are low.
…
…
eww.
…
coyote skeleton disarticulated.
…
word to the wise.
a cow heart floating in a jar of formaldehyde
does not make a good valentine’s day present.
…
…
…
somebody’s got to do it
…
