Tim Fasano, who died last November of cardiac arrest, penned a memoir of life at the margins of society.
Before his YouTube page became a sensation with over 1,300 videos of his search for Bigfoot, Tim Fasano wrote a popular blog called Tampa Taxi Shots. The blogging craze was at its height in 2006, and Mr. Fasano began documenting his view of life on the streets from behind the wheel of a United Cab.
Mr. Fasano often said there was more philosophy in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven than in a college lecture hall.
He often wrote about ne’er-do-wells and down-and-outs, strippers and prostitutes, nightclub patrons, and guys looking for a late-night date. He wrote of vacationers who thought they were long-routed, sick people headed to the emergency room in the wee hours, and the mentally ill. There was no shortage of surly drunks, bums with no money, and addicts who believed Mr. Fasano knew where to score drugs. Several newspapers wrote articles about his blog, and often Mr. Fasano appeared on local television — once for finding a suspicious package at the Tampa airport. News outlets from around the country published obituaries about him, including US News & World Report.
His short, concise posts were compelling and bewitching in their effort to find meaning in the hustle of cab driving. A student of philosophy at the University of South Florida, Mr. Fasano often said there was more philosophy in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven than in a college lecture hall. An amateur photographer, he filled his blog with photos of the road, billboards, and graffiti. He took dozens of photographs of his fellow drivers, many of whom have passed away.
We at Coyote Canyon Press had the pleasure of reading his manuscript a few years ago. Based on his blog entries but fleshed out significantly, his book focuses on the unglamorous lives of people on the margins, people whose stories are rarely told.
The Cabbie’s Tale will be published in the summer of 2020.
Today, I ventured to the Huntington Library, only to be confronted by an enormous red modernist metal sculpture—an eyesore that immediately assaulted my sensibilities. One can scarcely fathom the logistical gymnastics involved in its creation and installation. The grounds remain marred by ceaseless construction, a Sisyphean endeavor that appears destined to persist indefinitely.
My pilgrimage was prompted by an exhibition of the works of Celia Paul, a British painter previously relegated to the periphery of my artistic awareness. Paul’s oeuvre is an introspective exploration of self-portraits, familial bonds, and the relentless, indifferent sea. Her mother’s death seems to haunt these canvases, with Paul claiming to sense her mother’s spirit in the ocean’s depths. Her art is suffused with an ineffable melancholy, a somberness that permeates each brushstroke, evoking an almost palpable sense of sorrow and introspection.
I had the honor of reading the names of the graduates of Sonora High School class of 2019. At the end, I captured this short clip of the graduates tossing their caps into the air.
This is a clip from a trove of 8mm home movies I inherited from my parents. This one is from 1958 and features my twin brother and me, along with our sister, dancing to American Bandstand on the television.
Erich Von Däniken’s Chariots of the Gods – a book that’s more like a spaced-out jam session than a scholarly thesis. Von Däniken’s riff? Cosmic journeymen moonlighting as ancient architects. He’s laying down tracks about spacemen sprucing up our planet with pyramid power and Easter Island headshots. But here’s the rub – Von Däniken’s solo is all over the fretboard, missing the chords of credibility and the rhythm of reason.
Dude’s got a knack for spinning a yarn that could hook the most skeptical of skeptics, I’ll give him that. He strings together ancient wonders like a conspiracy theorist’s dream playlist, but when you crank up the volume on his evidence, it’s just white noise and static. He’s like a DJ mixing myths with a backbeat of pseudo-science, hoping we’re too dazzled by the light show to notice the lack of substance.
His leaps in logic? Olympic gold-worthy. His connection of dots? More like throwing darts in the dark, hoping to hit a bullseye in the cosmic canvas. Erich Von Däniken has this way of bending unrelated facts into a space-time pretzel that’s more entertaining than enlightening. His narrative is a high-octane, no-brakes ride that’s a thrill for sure, but when you get off, you realize you’ve gone full circle and ended up just where you started – nowhere new.
“Chariots of the Gods” is a head trip, alright, but it’s not taking you on the journey to truth-town. For those digging a blend of ancient mystery and sci-fi spice, it’s a trip. But if you’re after the facts, you’ll find this rocket’s running on empty – a flashy launch with no landing.
Chatter