I Killed the King With My Lies

..June 2005 New York..

My friend, who I’ve known for 2 years, came to my home for the first time yesterday. She glanced at my place, remarked “I can’t believe you live in a place like this. It’s neat and civilized.”

That set me back a bit. I’m 31. I live in a neat home because in college I lived with 4 random people. I didn’t know their names. I slept on a dirty concrete floor in the sunroom portion of the apartment. I had no furniture, ate cans of string beans most nights, and owed $60,000 in student loans. In the winter I slept with a ski hat on because the wind came through cracks between the windows.

After graduation, I toured with rock bands for 2 years. Even though they were the biggest rock bands in the world, we criss-crossed the country on a tour bus. Staying in cheap hotels when not sleeping on the bus. Living on a bus with 4 rock stars is far from a glamorous life.

Three days into this journey I realized rock stars are as boring as I am. They put their pants on and off, go to the bathroom, and stress about responsibility like I do.

I wore most of the same clothing those 2 years. It didn’t matter what I looked like. There was no one to impress. We spent the majority of our time staring at an endless landscape of concrete strip malls that infest the Midwest. Countless daydreams about being in New York rather than at a pit stop in Iowa looking at truck drivers with missing teeth. We lived in close quarters on a bus for months, but we all felt alone in your hearts.

Now I’m 31. I live alone in a house built in the 1920’s. It was bought from a gangster. My home is clean, with enough furniture to make one person comfortable. The rooms are dominated with the colors red, black, and white. With not much furniture and tall ceilings, there is plenty of room.

My living room consists of a black couch, circular red chair, skinny black metal lamp, large tv with sound system, wooden coffee table with a chess set, red candles, and a zebra print area rug covering a portion of an untreated wooden floor.

In the corners there are props taken from a fashion campaign I shot, an old cracked wooden chair, and a guillotine. The long narrow windows are framed with red curtains.

The walls are lined with my photos mostly of rock stars and fashion models, framed as murals. Obviously the photos are dark. Most are provocative. Some nude. The main wall has a large mural of Jane’s Addiction lead singer Perry Farrell. It’s a sentimental photo, taken on the first night I toured with a real band. To the left is a photo of Marilyn Manson. Taken seven years later, it’s identical to the Perry Farrell photo. On the end is a blue toned photo of Radiohead guitar player Jonny Greenwood.

Randomly throughout the rooms I’ve hung hand painted Venetian masks. Most have been used to photograph nudes in different parts of the world.

My home is neat considering there isn’t much in it. I don’t know how to cook. The only food in my house is chocolate chip cookies and cans of soda. I’ve never sat at the kitchen table for a meal.

The bathroom is the most problematic room. The walls are lined with pastel pink ceramic tiles. Apparently the gangster had a soft side to his personality. The tiles are completely hideous. I’ve kept the bathroom the way it is so I can lock myself in there if I get lazy or take bad photos. It’s incentive to work hard. The only silver lining is the spacious shower stall. It’s large enough to shower and walk around. If I bite my lip and close my eyes, I can imagine not being surrounded by pastel pink ceramic tiles.

Yes, I’m 31. I photograph rock stars and fashion models for a living. And I live in a clean home. Why? Because the years prior I lived like a resident of a monkey cage at the local zoo. And yes, famous rock stars and beautiful fashion models live similar lives as you. They take their clothes off like you do and their shit smells just as bad as yours.