Click on the looming phantom to enjoy death the way that we enjoy death in Oaxaca. Because life is overrated.
Here be Vikings.
Click on this found crucifix to encounter various galleries: photographs in many different colors, including none.
FIFTY YEARS AGO, the Xoloitzcuintli — the Mexican Hairless dog — was on the edge of extinction. Now one sleeps in my bed. Whether this is an improvement in the creature’s circumstance can be debated. Other bald news, however, is unquestionably good: After centuries honing its attributes as the world’s weirdest (not ugliest) dog, the Mexican Hairless was officially welcomed this year at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.
VOLUME TWO in the Epic Milrose Chronicle Saga in Many Volumes
(design & photography © Douglas Anthony Cooper 2013)
A celebrity is at her most vulnerable when naked. This is when she is least likely to make sensible decisions. Often she is chilly and nervous. Hence, it is while naked that a famous person — who genuinely loves animals — finds herself shilling for people who are genuinely committed to slaughtering them.
PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) gathers up these A-list nudists like so many unwanted dogs.
Click on the distressed house to reveal slightly gloomy images of Marfa, the Town that Judd Built.
Día de los Muertos among the Tzotzil Maya in Chiapas.
(INITIALLY PUBLISHED in Travel+Leisure Magazine, this feature won the Lowell Thomas Gold Medal from the Society of American Travel Writers, and was republished by Pico Iyer in The Best American Travel Writing 2004.)
I have made a career out of not enjoying Canada. It is one of the few things I do well. My radical malaise, Canada-wise, is associated mainly with Toronto the Good, and my hellish adolescence in that winter-benighted place.
Who I was in the Nineties.
(Writing. Media that was New at the time. Poorly scanned photography. Primitive graphics. Quite proud of this.)
(This story about Hurricane Mitch was initially published in FATHOM)
If you live somewhere, you don’t want me to visit. No, really. I’m approximately as safe to have around as the Grim Reaper. In fact, I seem to be his official advance scout. I can’t count the places that have experienced genuine disaster soon after welcoming me with warm, soon-to-be-severed arms.
(BECAUSE I CAME CLEAN regarding my fraudulence — a full disclosure, in their own magazine — Food & Wine decided they’d continue to let me write articles for them.)
I have never cooked a meal in my apartment. Okay, let’s be frank: I have never cooked a meal in my life. I have fried the occasional egg, toasted the odd bagel, boiled random pots of water, but this is lilydipping relative to the great canoe trip that is true cuisine.