A city shrouded in a tangible haze. A standing conundrum as an unknown megacity and a sprawling frontier town. A place where shiny skyscrapers are built upon the crumbling cliff foundations and the speed of construction often outpaces the word getting out. A place I had never heard of.



The obscenely-lit international beacon of country the world is watching; the name conjures images of something remote and exotic. Where lore has long since given way to reality, those rare pockets found become all the more treasured.


A most surreal place where anything can happen and nothing follows logic. A crossroads of world culture tucked into a sinking, sweltering swamp. A wacky Wonderland where coexist prismatic monks and lewd ladyboys; lethargic locals and feisty farangs; weary world-farers and innocent initiates; and all those caught between simply passing through.



A tiny island in an alcoholic haze most the year. Populated by migratory drunkards seeking work, rich summer colonists, fleeting tourists, and a curious population of Jamaicans. This seasonal island goes from winter wasteland to summer colonial paradise every year, becoming a microcosm of cyclical drama for all those who regularly return.






A modest city caught between its conservative stagnation and a burgeoning art & culture scene; where a fundamentalist preacher stands down the road from a hula-hooping burlesque dancer. Standing alone between the spheres of Detroit and Chicago, between decay and progress.
The place that I began.