The brief, ignoble career of L. Rand Steiner, chronicler of futility and desperation.
Writing about photography—more about writing than photography.
Stockholm syndrome : not just for prisoners anymore.
When I was about ten years old my Grandfather told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that whenever he was going through something painful or unpleasant he always reminded himself, it’s what you deserve, you miserable piece of shit, and that always made him feel better. I used to wonder why that made him feel better, but think I’m starting to get it now.
Who the fuck knows
It’s anyone’s guess
Fuck if I know
Who’s the asshole, somebody asked, and when he repeated the question I realized he was referring to me.
The holidays, and with them, his annual despair.
The situation was fluid. Which was to say, he’d been drinking a lot.
The collection exclusively featured images of mayhem and disaster.
The kind of fuckup that’s so bad, that even if you know you didn’t fuck it up, you still worry that you were somehow the one who fucked it up.