neondreamscapes

STEPPIN’ OUT

neondreamscapes — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 11:58:45 +0000

OK, OK I do have to admit, this has all the appearances of a foot fetishist’s wildest dream come true, or perhaps just your average fashionable woman’s idea of an on-line shopping spree in an upscale footwear catalogue. I was spending the week in deep concentration editing images from a series of Washington social functions, when I became aware of the vast and varied array of shoe leather adorning the dainty feet of the social elite, not to mention the sculptured sweep of their shapely and curvaceous legs. Having lacked the time, or the creative energy to put together a more comprehensive artistic statement, and still reeling from the sad and unexpected loss of a good friend, I have settled on this quick and colorful glimpse into the world of form, function and footwear in the Nation’s Capitol.

GOODBYE PHIL

neondreamscapes — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 15:39:04 +0000

I never got to just sit down and talk with Phil Mathieu enough- He was always working, off to another gig, making beautiful music, constantly giving the amazing gift of his talents to others. I will miss him. We will all miss him.

There is a viewing at Pumphrey’s in Rockville on Friday from 3-5 and 7-9.
Address:
300 W. Montgomery Ave.
Rockville, MD Phone: 301-762-3939
Phil’s service will be held at the Shrine of St Jude at noon on Saturday. There is a reception after the service from 1-4 in the hall at the church http://www.shrinestjude.org/
Address:
12701 Veirs Mill Road
Rockville, MD 20853
Phone: (301) 946-8200

THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 14

neondreamscapes — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 10:57:11 +0000

Turnbuckle looked up from the computer and was suddenly struck by just how quiet the squad room was. He always considered it a bit of a joke when someone actually referred to this meager space as “the squad room”, because in reality the detective division of this tiny Maryland hamlet consisted solely of himself and his sometime partner, Tinky Matta. The two detectives usually took turns, alternating between day and night shifts and splitting weekend duty. Theirs was not a jurisdiction that suffered from a surplus of violent crime, that distinction falling to the nation’s capital to the south and Baltimore further east. Incidents involving murder were usually the straight-forward result of domestic bliss gone awry or drunken misadventure at The Wombat Lounge and this much mayhem was a rarity. The aging neon tube in the overhead light flickered and hummed, teasing JC with the constant threat of plunging the small basement office into semi-darkness, the pale glimmer of the computer screen the only source of emergency illumination. JC squinted at the monitor and pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
“Hmmm…”, he said to himself, as he hastily scrawled a series of notes onto several lavender
post-it notes. “Looks like we may have an ID on the licence from the getaway vehicle. Well, well, one Vincent Gabriel Barlow. Goodness, laddie, you are certainly swimming in the deep end of the pool tonight.” JC spit out the soggy remains of the old reed and reached for the plastic sheath that held a number of fresh, German cut Vandoren White Masters. He sucked vigorously on the new reed. “Old piece of shit Honda like that will either blend in like a chameleon or we’ll find it broken down on the side of the road. Not a great choice for a getaway vehicle, dick head. Not much of a choice for a driver, either. God’s Holy Trousers!”
JC rose from his desk and walked into the corridor that led to a stairwell and the upper levels of the county office building. The peeling institutional green cinder block walls were decorated with motivational posters exhorting employees to be diligent in reporting discrimination in all its ugly guises, be they racial, sexual or faith based as well as the ubiquitous warnings to be alert for terrorism and the dreaded threat of unattended packages. Turnbuckle had hoped to refresh himself with a cup of java from the aging Mr. Coffee at the end of the hall, but was not surprised to find the pot coated with a thick brown goo that had crusted to the inside of the glass. “That prick Jarrod!”, muttered JC under his breath. The day watch officer was notorious for abandoning the coffee pot with just enough liquid remaining that the leavings would continue to warm and eventually evaporate into the mahogany sludge that now coated the bottom of the vessel.
Turnbuckle shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the cobwebs from his sleep deprived
brain, reached deep into the pockets of his pants for some spare change and resigned himself to a stale Twix bar from the vending machine. He still hoped to cling to the rapidly dispersing wisps of his dream, and of the real life image of that fantastic butt in the tight dress skirt on the eighth floor when he heard the sound of small, but determined feet descending the stairs.
“Professor! Hey, JC! You down here?” echoed the shrill voice of Tinky Matta from the stairwell. “Lock and load partner, we’ve got a sighting from Baltimore. Time to roll.”

THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 13

neondreamscapes — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 17:51:03 +0000

JC Turnbuckle lay with his head cushioned against a pillow of old arrest reports, a thin trickle of drool puddling and turning the ink into a miniature blue-black pond beneath his cheek. He had been running on adrenalin and caffeine since the call on the diner murder had come in early that morning and found himself drifting into the soothing ether as he waited for the forensic reports to arrive. The little blonde with the nice ass from the county accounting office kept giggling her way into his dreamscape and seemed on the verge of surrendering to his neck-nuzzling advances when the bray of his phone startled him into consciousness. “Damn!”, thought Turnbuckle, as he blotted the spittle from the pile of reports and quickly glanced down to see if his trousers revealed any signs of his amorous dream.
“Detective Turnbuckle”, JC barked into the instrument, a little too stridently. “You got something on the diner shoot?”
Turnbuckle pushed aside the stacks of paper that littered his desk like his own personal recycling center and fumbled for a notepad and his battered Waterman. JC had no issues with technology and knew full well the advantages the vast police data base gave him over the villains in society, but he could not bring himself to relinquish his beloved fountain pen, temperamental
and occasionally messy though it may be. Besides, no one could read his spidery scrawl anyway,
often not even himself.
“Yeah,….OK, good, yeah. What else? You certain? Is that confirmed? Yep, I got that…. Anything else?” The Waterman scratched away as Turnbuckle continued making notes with one hand and fired up his aging laptop with the other. Any lingering vestiges of sleep had swiftly evaporated as the latest information came crackling across the line. “Great! Thanks, Correll, I owe you one! Keep me posted.”
The information from forensics had been solid and clear. Fingerprint analysis had confirmed a match on prints from a coffee cup, silverware and spent shell casings as belonging to one Alton Lee Findley, a minor league problem child of privilege. Though a long time visitor of both local and state hospitality institutions, it seemed that he had never taken up permanent residence with either, owing to the deep pockets of his mother and a family connection with a prominent criminal defense attorney. The randomness and brutality of this particular attack certainly bore all the hallmarks of his past public outrages, and, according to a psychologist’s note in the margins of his file, an incident like the one in the diner this morning was just a matter of time. Findley had been in training for this performance for years.
Turnbuckle perched his glasses onto his hairless forehead and ground his fists into his tired brown eyes. The ghost of his fleeting dream danced across his retina, the brief flutter of blonde hair still hovering on the edge of his consciousness as he picked a slightly splintered clarinet reed from a corner of his desk and sucked it between his teeth. The glow from his computer screen threw colorful light across his face as he carefully scrutinized the youthful visage that stared back at him in mute apathy from the mug shot.
“What a waste”,Turnbuckle inwardly reflected. “ All that privilege, advantage, and this is where it leads. Pretty good looking kid, too, if it weren’t for those lips.”

THE SUNSHINE STORE

neondreamscapes — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 16:50:04 +0000

The old chestnut “You can’t judge a book by its cover” has been flogged to death, but sometimes the truth of this adage proves to be illuminatingly true. I’ve lived in our small corner of the Washington suburbs for years and for much of that time I have passed by what appeared to be a derelict and abandoned gas station/country convenience store. The gas pumps have been dry for years, the dust from the nearby fields clogging the nozzles, the windows dark and devoid of the normal signs of commercial life, and, on the one or two occasions I had stuck my head through the front door in search of a quick caffeine fix, I had been greeted with a view of near empty shelves of sugar charged kid’s cereal and coolers of lonely night crawlers awaiting the next desperate fisherman. And yet, some mornings I would pass by the intersection of Georgia and New Hampshire Avenues, and the cracked and pot-holed lot would be filled with a curious mix of shiny new Mercedes sedans and the odd assortment of landscaping trucks and massive Harley cruisers. “What gives?”, I asked myself. “Is there something inside this cinder block box that I’m missing?”
Well, when my son, The Diner Hunter and I finally got past the aging shelves and dusty boxes of crackers, we discovered a roadside dining treasure right in our own backyard, for at the back of this seemingly empty gas station was a four stool grill that dished out a breakfast that could not be beat- and the best burgers on the planet! There are no menus, no checks, no credit cards, no receipts- you clear your own plates, you call out your orders to the ladies behind the chipped and pitted counter. If you get a seat, just if, you could be sitting next to the burly tattooed dude from the bobber outside, the stylish and wealthy matron who owns the 200 acre horse stables nestled off the main road, a world weary musician, or a group of chattering high school lovers, lost in a universe of their own as they dig into a half pound of ground beef, cheese, fried onions and bacon guaranteed to clog even the healthiest arteries. Nothing about the Sunshine Store speaks to a healthy diet, this is a coronary on a plate, but you will never find a tastier meal. A vegetarian friend pronounced the french toast the best he had ever tasted, all the while eyeing the rows of sizzling bacon with wistful envy.
And, if you are a people watcher, every visit comes with a floor show, whether from the good natured banter between the gals at the grill, or between the diners themselves. This is not a diner, nor really a lunch counter, but it has all the best hallmarks of both. It is a spot of true egalitarian community, an authentic crossroads dive and a sadly vanishing bit of Americana, especially on the outskirts of the Nation’s Capitol. If your Roadside experience needs some brightening up- come on out to Sunshine, put your heart healthy diet on hold and get it while you can. ….and be sure to bring cash, you won’t need much, but they don’t accept plastic. It’s just not that kind of a place.

THE GENTLEMEN’S TASTING CLUB

neondreamscapes — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 03:14:36 +0000

Sometimes a man just has to get away, to retreat to a special quiet space, an island, a refuge of quiet and safety in a world otherwise filled with noise and distractions. A place where he is not judged, where no expectations must be fulfilled, where his worth on the planet is measured only by the pleasure of his company. Where he can always be guaranteed that, no matter what else he achieves or fails at in life, someone will stand proudly at his grave side and proclaim “He was a great guy to share a drink with.”
For more than eight years, The Gentlemen’s Tasting Club has been such a haven. From humble beginnings, and the dream of two like minded artists, this beacon of light has shined through the amber liquid of a thousand gallons of Bourbon, Irish, Welsh and Scotch whiskeys, casting a golden glow into the hearts of The Members. Over the years, the membership has expanded, reaching its understanding hands and hearts out in fraternity to grow from that enlightened charter duo to the four souls that comprise the Club today.
Although the physical manifestation of The GTC has been located in various “lounges” over the course of its long and storied history, the soul of the organization resides in the hearts of The Members, a more talented, heroic, intelligent and loyal group of Gentlemen than have ever walked the earth since the days of the Gods of Antiquity. And, they make a pretty mean cocktail!
Well known for their love, respect and reverence of the female sex, they nevertheless reserve an hour once a week to view the world from a more Gentlemanly perspective. It has also been rumored that several times a year The Members sponsor a secret outdoor event involving ritualistic sacrifices of meat over large fires and the consumption of unique alcoholic beverages with the hope of furthering their twin goals of world peace and a cure for Zackery disease.
It has been suggested that The Club be expanded, that the membership be opened to a desperate and envious world at large. Pilgrims flock to The Shrine of the Growling Wombat, in hopes of enlightenment, of acceptance, of the perfect cocktail. “Each day, I die a little inside! My heart goes out to the weary, the hopeless, the thirsty,” The President gently confides, “but I am just a man, and every individual must seek their own path on the road to the perfect beverage.”

An Evening at The Fabled Wombat Lounge

The Gentlemen’s Tasting Club Men and Meat Festival

FAREWELL CAPITAL CITY

neondreamscapes — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 16:32:07 +0000

It was with a heavy heart and a hungry belly that I stumbled into the Capital City Diner this morning. Owner Matt Ashburn, after fighting a long and valiant battle, had announced that D.C.’s only true diner was closing its doors today, and I needed to grab the cup by the handle and have one last cup of joe, one last greasy, delicious breakfast before the grill went cold and the lights went dim along Bladensburg Road and the Trinidad neighborhood was left with a hollow void in its culinary soul. I hope you enjoy this brief photo essay and tribute to Washington, D.C.’s Capital City Diner.

THANKS FOR THE RESPECT

neondreamscapes — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 14:57:35 +0000

Several months ago, when I first launched this blog, my initial posting was for the release of a new jazz CD cover that I had designed entitled Dialogue, for the trio Ehoff, Gano & Knepp. Last night the group invited their friends and families to celebrate the occasion with a CD release party and concert. Over the years I’ve contributed my meager talents to the packaging and imaging of countless bands and musicians and, sad to say it is a rare exception when the musicians acknowledge my efforts, publicly or privately. Last night, this truly classy and sweet group of guys not only thanked me, once again, but even presented me with a token of their appreciation from the bandstand. For that, I just want to say, my warmest, deepest thanks, Jason, Marty & Clem. It is my honor to work with you, your groove runs deep, as well as your hearts. Many thanks!!
Now people, go out & buy the CD!! Dialogue- EHOFF, GANO, KNEPP

THANKS FOR THE COFFEE CHAPTER 12

neondreamscapes — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 19:01:31 +0000

Finn’s breath whistled out in a fair impression of a teapot brought to boil as the blade of the razor kissed the soft, pampered skin of his neck. It felt like the gentle tickle of his grandmother’s feather duster, as she had teasingly shooshed him along when he got underfoot as she cleaned the house long ago in his youth, but the warm, wet feeling that dripped under his collar and down his chest, combined with the equally warm wet feeling that saturated his pant’s leg sent alarm bells ringing in his beer be-fuddled brain. Much of his former bravado and suburban swagger left him as easily and quickly as his bladder had loosened at the touch of the surgically sharp blade melting into his delicate flesh and the cool night Baltimore air further ridiculed him by pressing his damp trousers close to his goose-pimpled legs. Barlow and Daryll stood frozen in a parody of a department store window display, wishing the spell would be broken, that their bodies would be restored to flesh and muscle, and that they could turn and run for their worthless lives, all the while praying that they would henceforth devote themselves to good works and helping old ladies cross the street. “ Maaaa…” whimpered Finn. “ Please, Maaaa…”
“You have exactly thirty seconds to explain just what chicaneries you are about this evening”, whispered Mendocino Jones, his breath hot and smelling like strong Ethiopian coffee close to Alton Findley’s cheek, “ before I relieve you, and your toxiphorous friends of your testicles and your wasted existences on this planet. A hothouse sybarite like myself can not tolerate intrusions by senseless vagabonds such as yourselves. Speak quickly. My patience is limited!”
“Maaa…. Men…. Mendocino! Mendocino!”, coughed out Finn, tears coursing down his cheeks, spittle spraying from his puffy lips. “Mendocino! Please man, you know me! Alton Findley! My mom! Remember?!? You knew my mom!”
“ Aaaaaaaaaaah”, cooed the towering black giant. “ Your mother, yes, aaahhh, a graceful gazelle, an alabaster goddess, a courtesan of unequaled talent, why, if memory serves, she could suck the chrome off a……….., but I digress into the realm of vulgarity, and in the presence of her, ah, offspring. How she could spawn an exiguous salamander as yourself…… “ the thought trailed off into the void. Jones shoved Findley to the sidewalk as one might brush aside a worrisome gnat, and brushed an invisible speck of lint from the lapel of his smoking jacket. The straight razors had vanished somewhere into the folds of the harem pants.
“ I ain’t your daddy, dung beetle, so tell me- What exactly brings you to my humble abode?”

2012 WEBSITE REBOOT

neondreamscapes — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 17:18:10 +0000

Once or twice a year I update my professional website with a group of images and projects from the previous year. I invite you to follow the link the view some of my best, most interesting, or simply my favorites from 2011. Tell your friends, tell your family, tell those deep-pocketed clients yearning for the perfect image in the coming year. Visit me at MICHAELGSTEWART.COM