..:: DESERTFUCKER : An Epic Saga ::..

Sometimes as a man the moment comes when you just have to suck it up and face the adversity in your life. You have to stalk that dragon of fear all the way back to his demon lair, disembowel the motherfucker and use it's own intestines to strangle it. Only then will the man truly become whole, with the entire world laying open like unholy oyster at his feet.


Sorry, just wanted to say that because I thought it sounded deep. I also might be a little drunk right now (sue me). Anyway, I just got home from VEGAS. I'm back in town now (ladies, please take note) after my awesome adventure in the sweltering hot wasteland that is our country's southwest region and I'm feeling like it might not all be over for me just yet. My shit life I mean.



Yes, I did go see my best-est friend in the whole wide world. Yes, I became overly emotional at several instances and may have embarrassed myself at times. And yes, after all is said and done, I still might have a lot to learn in this crazy ocean with some land to stand on that we call Earth. We lived, we loved, we learned. At some point I made my famous Stuffed Shells with Arrabbiata Sauce. All were delighted. Now prepare to be also delighted by my words and my photos.

I arrived in sunny beautiful Las Vegas on the anniversary of our war machine's founding. What I meant to say was I arrived on the date the common folk would refer to as the "Holiday celebrating our great nation's independence". I think it was perhaps the worst travel day ever to decide to land in the middle of a desert. I can't remember the last time I traveled on an airline other than Jet Blue, with their communist seating layout which I'm a big fan of. Low and behold, through the magic of Travelocity I was able to find last minute tickets at a more reasonable price. With US Airways I was actually able to choose, (more like "request") my own seat on the plane! I figured window seat on the way there, aisle seat on the way back (overnight flight and an overactive bladder being major factors for the return trip ). On both flights I chose a seat towards the front of the plane, placing me quite close to the curtain separating me from the more posh seating in first class. Excuse me, but I WILL use your bathroom motherfucker(s)!!



My plan going in was to buy a pair of sunglasses for the first sighting in a long time of this guy I've known since I was 12 years old. Yes, it sounds silly, but in the moments leading up to my arrival I had the details of this reunion laid out in my head like a scene from a movie. One of those really deep cool, coming of age indie features the kids are crazy about these days. I would wear the glasses, my friend would be right at the gate as soon as I got off the plane and at first I would pretend not to notice him, then wait a second then give him a loud, rude, Italian kind of "Ohhhh, look at this guy!" shout, making gestures with my arms and overly hugging him.
Aye, but reality's a wee bugger and I should have realized that with today's state of airport security, most people aren't allowed anywhere near an arrival gate anymore. That plus I couldn't see shit with the glasses on, had to walk a mile and a half to my fucking luggage, and my friend isn't really ever into wearing sunglasses in the first place. It dawned on me that emotionally I'm a young girl, and subconsciously I probably only wanted the glasses in the first place to cover up the inevitable flood of tears welling up in me upon seeing my good friend after oh so long. The meeting was sort of anti-climactic actually. After all the anticipation it ended up being more like "Hey, how you doin'?" - "Alright I guess,... you?". We had already established we weren't going to overdo it on the phone prior to my arrival, out of fear we would run out of stuff to say when I got there, only to be subjected to a long five-day awkward silence. We gathered my travel case and went out to the car. The parade of hot girls circulating through good ol' McCarran International was ridiculous. The throngs of smoking hot blondes with great tans and short shorts was simply a sight to behold. There was such an overwhelming abundance of luscious cans I thought I might had been at a food drive. We mosied on over to the vending machines outside for a cool refreshment. It was a most shocking vision: The Coca-Cola machine was stocked to the brim. No, over fucking-stocked actually, but the water machine ($3) which I had my eye on was almost bare, with a line way too long and one of those dollar mechanisms that keeps sliding your money back out to you over and over. A nightmare, I say.



My good friend went on to tell me how proud he is of his hard-nosed blue collar career as he led me to his according to Hoyle white pickup truck complete with wheelbarrow in the bed. By this time, my cardiopulmonary systems are beginning to plummet like the stock market crash of 1929 and I just couldn't wait to jump into a 120 degree pickup cab. You know, like when you're in a new place and those airport doors slide open and you recognize the difference in the air, and you're like "HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT'S HOT". Like that. So, suitcase in pickup bed (which I was afraid would instantly open, leading to some poor old lady getting into a horrible highway accident because my Old Navy boxers with the flamingos all over them landed on her windshield) - and we were on our way to the lovely Sunset Canyon apartments. Being early in the afternoon though, it became obvious to us that a drink was in order first.



Maryland Parkway sports a wide variety of watering holes. We stopped off at Cheers, a local hangout right across from UNLV and apparently now a national chain. Sadly, it wasn't a place where everyone knew my name, but upon being introduced to the nice barmaid as just arriving from New York, I was immediately called out to some old guy at the other end of the bar. He's a staple there, and the woman running the bar shouted out "Hey Tommy look here, this guy's from Queens!". Instantly embarrassed and blushing (hard to tell through my sexy Latin olive complexion of course), I cleverly replied "Yeah, that's uh, accurate" (sharp, ain't I?). I learned soon enough that Tommy must verify you're actually from New York or else you're instantly 86'd. So in my infinite wisdom I manage to finagle a way to mention Citi Field, the new home for the Mets currently under construction next to Shea Stadium. I don't even know whether he was a Mets fan or not, nor did I care (Yankee fans are inherently inferior to me and don't even register on my radar, only my asshole-meter). This isn't including the fact that Brooklyn Dodgers fans are irrelevant, elderly and almost all dead by now. This guy seemed pretty old so I whipped out a gem, and that is how much the new Mets stadium will resemble Ebbets Field. Not waiting for a response, I went on to my drinkin' table in the corner of the bar. I was exhausted, but not about to admit it, I was just so overwhelmed over being in Vegas drinking at 1:00 in the afternoon with someone I've known since junior high. Not to mention I already had a slight lingering drunkenness from the 2 airline bottles of red wine I had on the plane, thanks to the very nice (and very gay) flight attendant who refused my money. My friend and I sat through a few moments of awkward "I just got here" conversation before we decided we should go get a bite to eat. On the way to the grub fest I spied out of the corner of my eye two shirtless douche bags riding in a convertible, which is totally illegal in New York, (both being a douche bag and driving a car shirtless) to our left. My familiar twinge of the desire to commit violence arose in me at that moment. If that red light had lasted 5 seconds longer, I would have jumped out of the truck and clubbed them to death. By "club" I mean using the infamous auto theft deterrent on the floor of the car. But alas, I am on vacation, barely in this city an hour yet and I just needed to relax and eat something. Roberto's Tacos was a nice fast food joint with pretty authentic Mexican cuisine on the way home. We had chimichangas and tacos. We laughed, we cried, I went a little crazy on the hot sauce.

Now I gotta tell you, I've noticed something on my multiple trips to Sin City. Every time I've been there, to this fastest growing town in the US, I've noticed the city limits going further and further into the desert each time. This point wasn't more clearly illustrated then when we drove towards my friend's new digs. On the approach it seemed as if we were driving straight towards a mountain, like almost into it. At the last moment we turned off into the gated community where he lives. If you kept going straight though, in about 100 yards the street just literally ends. I said to my friend "Hey, isn't that kind of close to a mountain to have development?" He laughed and told me hey that's nothing, give it a few months and they'll blow the motherfucker up to build more shit in no time. Ah, Capitalism.


The first couple of days unfortunately, my friend (who I'll refer to as Agent "M" from now on to protect the innocent) had to go to work, for which he apologized profusely (he said crazy nut job things like "Sorry, I have to support my family and pay the rent and be a man and responsible, I'm a working class hero and shit, blah, blah, blah...."). Since the concept of the regular 9 to 5 still escapes me at my old age, I of course didn't mind at all and told him that I didn't care because I just love being away from New York and his company is more than enough to fill my cup. Therefore, the first two days were filled with his wife (who's cuter than a bag of kittens), and his gorgeous young child bewildered as I avoided eye contact at all costs and generally kept myself locked in the guest room, only to come out occasionally to ask if I could use the bathroom (did you know I technically had my own bathroom? Ha- I win!). I was mystified by their garbage disposal too, I guess I need to get out more. I'm horrible in the social department, but you wouldn't be surprised by that at all if you knew me or have ever read this thing before.




Together we spent the majority of our time chilling out on his patio. I use the term "chilling" loosely, as it was hotter than hell in the middle of August most of the time. It's a nice patio on the ground level with a cute little herb garden his wife made, and that his young son regularly destroys with a garden claw, but in such a cute way that you can't possibly be mad at him. I finally got to see this little comfort zone of his, the place he always told me on the phone he was calling me from. It provides a great view of the surrounding mountainous desert landscape and it's also a great listening post for all the horribly loud, too many kids screaming three-ring white trash circus going on next door. Agent M and his wife thanked me for coming, not just for the visit, but apparently my trip also heralded the long-awaited moving out of their horrid neighbors. We watched and chuckled to ourselves as five 8 year-old kids carried out a big screen TV and several couches.



There happened to be a heat wave warning issued while I was there. It was only a paltry 115-118 degrees during the first few days, which is child's play for a man (me) so ruggedly built and adaptable to all of nature's harsh forces. It pained me to finally realize that I'm not quite that man yet. That's at least two, maybe three weeks away (thank you Victor Conte). It's interesting because for the climate in Las Vegas to warrant a "warning", means the shit is really coming down the pike - and hard. The warning basically said that "Those who are tourists or otherwise not acclimated to the weather should not go outdoors- or if they absolutely have to, try to schedule everything between 9pm and 9am". In a moment of glorious inspiration, I likened the terror blossoming in my heart over the coming daylight to the scene in the "Chronicles of Riddick", when the sunrise was so feared because it incinerates everything on the surface of the planet. The Vegas-ites thought that was pretty funny.



I did have the opportunity to meet a few of agent M's friends, a couple of them who I recognized from my previous trips to the Silver State. To natives of Las Vegas, the sight of a Puerto Rican is as expected as Jesus pulling up to a no-limit poker table at the Bellagio. One guy he's known for a while is really cool, Altman. He's one of those people I remember from my friend's wedding oh so many years ago. He's a former 82nd Airborne infantry member who charismatically details stories from his past like no one else. Like the time someone in his unit or division or whatever (I'm not up with the military terms the kids are using these days) - couldn't handle the stress of serving our country and decided to kill himself (I know, initially not very funny). This genius thought the best way to go was to wrap the power cord from a large floor buffer around his neck, then to throw said buffer out the window, only to realize that when it hit the ground that he wasn't dead because the power cord was at least a foot too long. Waiting for him outside was a bill for the buffer and a prompt dishonorable discharge . Good times.


Alas, there are new friends agent M has made while living there. We went to visit one of these friends, the "couple you hang out with" when you're a married couple yourself. This guy's wife seemed very cool. It was the Fourth of July so she was very hospitable, offering me food and snacks and such. She rated very high on my "couth" meter. Then there's the guy who didn't remove his stem before entering the cherry pie of my vacation. The one that sticks in your teeth and you don't quite want to spit out in front of people because hey, you're in Vegas, and you're best friend is looking right at you, directly fucking at you waiting for your reaction to see if you like the slice with one of his new friends in it (aren't my analogies great?).


This guy had a cool name like Kilometers (actually it was probably Miles or something), and he always said cool things like "Yeah, me too". The inevitable "So, what do you do Nick" question comes up and my response of "Getting into acting, currently a movie extra", or "background actor" or whatever the fuck I said apparently didn't fall into his "acceptable" column. He found it hard to believe my Playstation 3 and LCD High-Def wall mounted sex box of a TV were possible on such meager proceeds from such a dishonorable excuse for a job. He was also utterly defeated in the "Who has a more disgusting back surgery scar" nationwide contest I've been running for about 6 or 7 years now. The premise is I tour the country putting people with "disc problems" to shame. Live, via satellite, in front of a studio audience. That's how I rock, 'nuff said.



A thousand sharp "extra" and/or "background actor" pointed comments/jokes later something else became strikingly apparent: While reclining on his evening chair inside his beautiful but "Dad totally bought this for me so who am I to talk" condo, I realized (and to be diplomatic I waited until it happened at least 57 times to be sure)- I realized that this guy makes this horrid clicking noise sporadically during his dialogue. You know, like when you click your tongue off the top of your mouth. This apparently denoted either: a) He was somehow under the impression the next thing he would say was something important and or funny, b) It's a time filler that means "Hey, I can't remember what I was going to say next and I'd like to keep you trembling with anticipation so I'll make a clicking noise while you wait because somebody, somewhere thinks this is cool", or c) His primary language is whatever they speak in Somalia, so he can't help but let a few remaining clicks slip out as he gets a grasp on his newly adopted English language. To be honest though, it was a beautiful condo. Big screen TV, hardwood floors, nice open kitchen, and multiple cats which I am very allergic to. I can never really be mad at real estate though.







I luckily had the chance to spend some time with Agent M's young son. Prior to my visit I had only seen one picture of him, taken pretty much as soon as he was born. I didn't know what to expect honestly. I mean, kids tend to look different after they're newborn. Who knows? This kid could have grown into a troll since that picture 2+ years ago. I was hoping it wouldn't turn out like that Seinfeld episode, you know the one I mean. No worries, because the kid turned out to be absolutely beautiful, cute as a button, smart, sharp, and extremely amusing. I felt that although my budget would be very limited, and they were putting me up for the 4 or 5 days, that I had to at least bring some form of a gift. I decided to pass over my friend and his wife and just go for something the baby might like. So I went on to my old workhorse to get gifts for people who I have no idea what to get and who I have no interest in what they like, the reliable Mets.com. Agent M doesn't like baseball, nor does his wife and in turn probably not his young son. Completely ignoring that, I ordered the little tike a David Wright toddler T-shirt. I would have got him a Carlos Beltran shirt, but since I'm the only Puerto Rican in the equation I figured I'll get him the shirt from the young white superstar on the team so as not to offend the doting parents. I wasn't aware of this, but baby sizes are weird to shop for. Apparently sizes are determined according to age, which is completely asinine in my opinion. I ordered it smartly right before I left, so it would arrive while I was there and I would act all surprised when the doorbell rang. I had it gift wrapped with a card included that said something like "You probably can't read yet so this is pointless. WEAR THE SHIRT". It took him half an hour to unwrap it, then the inevitable 'not thrilled at all' look came across his face when he realized what it was. Then comes the 'Say thanks to Nic' from mom, to which the also inevitable "NO!" response comes as he runs away. He doesn't respond well to strangers, as he probably shouldn't. He did come around to me eventually. I was shocked at the moment two or three days later during dinner (I was making stuffed shells for the fam) when he suddenly got out of his high chair, found the shirt and unfolded it, demanding that someone help him put it on. Shirt on, he runs over to my chair, defiantly pointing to his chest and exclaiming "My Mets shirt", "My, my Mets shirt". I almost fucking cried, and I'm tearing up right now writing it. I told Agent M that if this kid suddenly gets it in his head that he wants to be a third baseman for some reason, not to dare contribute to stifling his dream because of his own anti-baseball mentality. He just doesn't understand the trials and tribulations of being a New York Mets fan. He told me his son usually hates clothing gifts, but as of my most recent phone call with them, the kid has taken a real liking to this shirt (he wouldn't take it off for the first couple of days) and he asks about me while wearing it since, which according to them is very rare.

My friend (Agent M) and I (Agent N) used every opportunity to catch up on our long and sordid past, all the while hugging often. There's a particular highlight that sticks out for me, one that will remain with me for the rest of my days (which I didn't agree with at the time). This was when he whipped out the box of all the letters he recieved from everyone he ever knew since he moved away. I kind of knew this was coming, and immediately regretted not bringing my own collection of letters recieved from him, but in not so nice a box (more like a trapper-keeper actually). Those letters would of course have counteracted how crazy I sounded writing to him and would have bailed me out.


During the process of selective randomness, he thought it would be funny to read aloud every correspondence that mentioned me, ranging from letters from an old ex-girlfriend (who is someone who I hope gets cancer right behind the eyes), to letters from her best friend who my friend dated briefly (only the letters where she not so eloquently states her hatred for me of course), to just random fucking letters from regular assholes who always thought I was a weirdo. Oh and some of them even included pictures of myself, ones where I looked so horrible to the point where I began to wonder why these people were ever hanging out with me in the first place. Yeah, closure is fun.

Agent M's wife is expecting another baby. She's extremely brave and good looking and she has that nice "glow" look to her in these last stages of pregnancy. I love how my buddy reflects on all the girls he misses in New York, who he thought he really loved, and who have or who are on their way to aging horribly. You ain't missing much baby! They're hideous, horrible people well on their way to aging quite badly. Anyway, he's much better off in Vegas, and tears well up in my eyes like a girl whenever I think of how fulfilled his life is right now.



The whole time I was there, I was surprised at Agent M's reluctance and almost outright refusal to do the whole trip to the Vegas strip thing. Finally, a couple of days before my scheduled departure, we spent a weekend evening taking in the sights. I didn't realize just how long the strip was as we began our walk. We parked at the New York, New York Hotel/Casino, on Tropicana Avenue and Las Vegas Blvd, and started out from there. First I had to get a picture of myself on a bridge I can easily sell you sometime. It's kind of retarded to take pictures in front of replica landmarks from my hometown city (read about my joy over recent time spent at the Statue of Liberty), but who cares. From Trop, it was about a mile down to Flamingo Rd. Agent M suggested I check out the forum shops in Ceasar's Palace, with it's overpriced goods, boutique shops and creepy painted Roman soldier mimes. So we walk into a nice columned marble laden casino and when we couldn't find the shops, asked a nice man at the information desk for directions. He was a genuine chocolate face; (no make-up!). He reminded me of the hotel security guy from "Very Bad Things" (one of my favorite movies). Coincidentally his name was also Agent M, and he quickly informed us that the Forum Shops were at Ceasar's Palace. No shit, we're thinking, that's why we're here. He then states the obvious, telling us that we're presently standing in the Monte Carlo. My bad. At this point we were already getting loaded and probably lost our sense of direction a bit. Two contributing factors being the beers in those casinos are such large plastic cups, and also that you're allowed to walk around on the street drinking alcohol. Bad combo when Nicky's in town, let me tell ya. From Flamingo to Spring Mountain Road (another mile) and on to the Mirage now for a hops and barley reload. On the casino floors we noticed a disturbing trend developing, and that is of course hot chicks paired up with douchebags. It's a goddamn nationwide epidemic if you ask me. We decided against waiting for the super-gay pirate show in front of Treasure Island, opting instead to watch the volcano erupt in front of the Mirage. It was while strolling along this stretch of the strip that we walked across one of those pedestrian bridges over a major intersection. It was nice, glass lined and brand new. It also turned out to be a big source of pride for Agent M, who within his line of work personally inspected all the building materials used in the erection of this structure (huh, I just said "erection").

Oh, Agent M loved geology. I imagine it appealed to his meticulous nature. An Ice Age here, a million years of mountain building there.... Geology is the study of pressure and time, that's all it takes really, pressure and time. That and a big goddamn poster.

If it wasn't for his hard work and painstaking attention to detail, who knows how many tumbling into the street asshole-tourist deaths have been avoided? Tons, I would guess.


Spring Mountain Rd. to Sahara now. We thought it might be a good idea to skip the Nascar Hotel (Gee, who would want to miss that?). Instead, It's now approaching midnight and we thought we might head to the world's largest gift shop. It's a far walk, and I instantly imagined the moment we would get there, and the gate closing. I must be psychic because my earlier vision turned out to be accurate. They were totally closing as we got there. No worries, we've only walked about 4 miles already, how about a little more? Down the block we go to Dino's, which is the oldest (and last) family-owned bar on Las Vegas Blvd. Karaoke is my forte (when I'm sloshed), so look out early 90's Red Hot Chili Pepper hits! Foot-long frozen margaritas in hand, and it was time to walk back to New York, New York.






After our long giftshop-less, but ultimately very enjoyable walk it was undeniable that visible breasts were necessary to make the night and my trip complete. My friend had been insisting we go to a strip club for a while, he said he would really like to see a set of tits other than his wife's, but I was a nervous little girl without much strip club experience (both times I've been to one, I just sat very very still and didn't move). I caved in, and we went to Little Darlings, part of the mega-empire nationwide Deja Vu network. There we witnessed some graphic exotic dancing. One girl kept violently slamming her crotch on the stage in a split, and another had the most perfect tear shaped breasts with puffy nipples that I have ever seen. Being a completely nude club, there was no alcohol served. The glorious snail trails lining the stage, pole and floor as we sipped on our Cokes were more than enough to make up for that. One highlight was being able to bask in the glory of a stripper that (to me) looked just like Hayden Panettiere, but to my friend looked like a "Hispanic Elizabeth Taylor and she would be perfect for you", but he doesn't watch Heroes, so who can blame him. Her set featured some excellent music, and let me tell you, I have a completely new found admiration for the works of Peaches. No, not the name chosen by the flapjack chested black girl strutting her stuff on the main stage at the same time, what I'm referring to is the Jewish-Canadian musical genius who's hits "Fuck the Pain Away" and "Rock Show" were blasting on the loudspeaker, while this gorgeous Liz Taylor (when she was hot) was shaking it like a polaroid picture.


Next day, and it's time for me to leave. I had just adapted to the climate, and was really enjoying myself, but it's time to say goodbye. First I needed souveniers of some sort. Since the gift shop thing was a disaster, we went to more humble sources, namely Sav-On. I got my T-shirts, fridge magnets, and postcards which were too late to actually send to anyone.
Off to the airport. We were there completely on time, checked in, I had my suitcase checked in too mind you, and I got my boarding pass. We had a good 35-45 minutes left, so we head over to the bar (within sight of the gate) and have a couple of large pilsners, along with two shots of Makers Mark for good luck. A tearful goodbye ensues, no it was PERFECT actually. I roll over to the gate, waving to my friend as I go through my intense security check, run over to the gate (I can see the plane through the window), and whatya know? I missed my flight (surprised much?). I tell the nice lady behind the desk that no, I didn't miss the flight because there's 20 minutes left and I'm looking at the fucking thing through the window. I'm getting very upset now, and I totally see a situation developing where she'll call security or something. Instead of admitting that she most likely gave my seat away (flight was overbooked), she just told me to go to the office. What about my checked bag, my fair lady? "Don't worry, it'll be in New York when you get there". I run to the office, get a flight for the next morning, and make that shameful call to my friend who I hope hasn't hightailed it out of the airport yet. He had just got into his car when I called. "Knowing you, I figured this would happen" he says. "Thanks, I think. Can you come pick me up?" He has to work his first assignment for work early in the morning, and his wife and boss wouldn't be too pleased if he took extra time because of his New York friend. He does pick me up, takes me back to his place, and guess what? His wife isn't too pleased. I shy away on the couch, apologize profusely and explain to her that I'll be gone first thing in the morning. Now the kid starts screaming bloody hell, he won't go to sleep and now both his parents are extra pleased that I'm still there. The child insists that he see me before he goes to sleep. I can't blame him, I mean, we totally fucked with this kid's perception of time, space and travel by telling him that guy went bye-bye on an airplane. He was literally pointing to planes in the sky asking his mom if that was the one I was on. All of a sudden here I come waltzing back into the house, leaning over his bed with my dark swarthy complexion, beer and bourbon on my breath, telling him everything will be ok and it's time to go to sleep. That went over great. Agent M's boss completely chewed him out the next day for missing his appointment, but my friend tried to get someone who did owe him a favor to cover him, but to no avail. So fuck that guy.



Time for me to leave the Ciudad del Sin now, for real this time. I got to the airport bright and early this time, (still a little drunk though). Luckily I didn't have to pack this time, because obviously my luggage is already in New York. I had no guarantee that some schmendrick wasn't going to just steal my bag (with the majority of my regular wardrobe packed inside) off the conveyor belt at JFK. It's Monday morning now, and since I didn't have access to HBO during my stay in Vegas, everyone there (including myself) missed my appearance in the hilarious new TV hit "Flight of the Conchords". My episode (#4-Chemistry) had aired the night before, Sunday. Sitting in the airport during the 2 hours before my flight, I fielded a lot of phone calls and text messages congratulating me on how handsome I looked (those messages were from my mom, and um, a lot of hot chicks too, I swear). Everything turned out ok, at least I got my suitcase without a problem.




I truly can't put into proper words what this trip meant to me. Ok, I'll try one: cathartic. On one hand, it was a much needed vacation and time off from the hectic big apple. On the other hand it wasn't a vacation at all. It was something that had to be done. While for agent M I'm sure it was a nice diversion from a stress laden routine, for me it was a deep emotional journey into the consequences of foundations we built years ago during adolescence.

Get busy living, or get busy dying. That's goddamn right....I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Mojave is as sepia as it has been in my dreams....I hope.

Forgive the (slightly altered to fit the story) lines from the Shawshank Redemption. They just seemed appropriate.

Now enjoy the following slideshows with my expert photography.