Kopfkino

Hey, good lookin.'

I treasure people on my wavelength, those who believe there’s no school like the old school and who harbor an open-minded fascination with the world. If you’re reading this, I’m sure you’re one of those special folk. So is Alex Kydoniefs, a photo-snapper par excellence.

What a compelling chap, this Alex. He’s lived in Singapore, speaks in an English accent, and flies aircraft. We met in college; the ice between us broke after I told our mutual friend (who introduced us) that the Doc Martens I was wearing added much-needed height to my bantam, 5’7.5” frame. Alex remarked, in awe: “He knows.”

Sporadic communication practices meant that Alex and I did not conduct a proper, full-length hangout until one whole year after we met. (Oh, and we haven’t since; I am planning to move to L.A. in January, for a tentative 30-day period, so fingers crossed for part two!) Fortunately, a fateful day in October 2023 made the weight of the wait worth carrying.

You see, Alex thought I’d be perfect for a photoshoot. How flattering! Ever the professional, Alex assembled a pitch deck beforehand, detailing his vision. Kopfkino — German for “cinema of the mind,” something like that. Sold!

Since single-digit ages, I have made an effort to wear button-down shirts and sweaters as often as possible. Looking stylish — or, at least, like you know what you’re about — gets you ahead. There are no sweatpants to be found in my wardrobe, but also none of that Vineyard Vines crap that’s so popular with the preppies. Clothes make the man, they say, and when you look good, you feel good.

I awoke, hungover and in need of a shave, on the day of our shoot. In hindsight, those factors were a plus, and lent the images a bit of a moody edge. Alex showed up with a bunch of clothes, and we took off for Bombay Beach, a ghost town/art installation some distance away. All Alex: I had never heard of the place until he filled me in.

Turns out Bombay Beach is way the hell out from anything L.A. In a corner of desert, where Salton Sea’s shore once came to rest, sculptures rise from the sand, enveloped in quiet.

We weren’t going to be using our iPhones. Nonsense! Alex had a vintage camera, and grainy film, to capture me. (Full disclosure: we ended up resorting to a different retro camera mid-shoot, sans film, after our primary means of photography began to act up.)

The first photo — me in Aviators and a white t-shirt — has been my profile picture for everything since that day, including this Substack. Allow me to talk you through some of the other shots.

As Metallica said, no life ‘til leather.

Mad Max vibes. The hulk of a contraption I’m sitting in has pieces from the ‘48 Packard Jack Kerouac drove as he was assembling On the Road. How cool is that?

Looking for love.

Business as unusual.

This one reminds me of the cover for the Supertramp album Crisis? What Crisis?

While I was inspecting this ratty Lincoln, I spotted the biggest goddamn fly I’ve ever seen in my life — roughly the size of my pinky!

Religious iconography always has some intrigue.

Could be a piece of a Wes Anderson film set.

Beat-to-shit Beetle, the last photo we took. On the drive out of Bombay, we saw a “drive-in theater” populated with the bones of old cars! I wanted to spend a second day there.

I told Alex that my mom would kill me if we didn’t get one smiling pic.

Find Tyler. Go!

I know you may be wondering something, so I’ll deliver the unexpected truth: Alex and I don’t have a picture together. Unbelievable.