Words inspired by Hunter S Thompson:   By all that is holy and cursed in this great white north, there is a specific kind of manic, low-grade sorcery at work in the fetid orchards of Terhune. A madness that descends upon the young, convincing them that this ritual of harvest is a legitimate form of parenting—and by the five rings of Mounties on the lost power hour, I have bought into the entire savage pageant.

I have been dragging my whelps there since they were mewling pups in a sled. The mythology is now set in stone, eh: they are utterly convinced that the natural order of the universe dictates that an apple must be preceded by a sugar-coated frosted donut and followed by an apple slushie so unnervingly red it could be used to signal a downed aircraft. The actual picking of the fruit is a cruel and unusual delay, a vaguely educational buffer zone between the two sacred pillars of the sacrament. I have watched them evolve from tiny, feral beasts taste-testing gravel-covered windfalls to sleek, efficient predators, their internal radar locked not on the Macintosh, but on the heat signature of the goddamn donut fryer, cutting through the crowd with the cold-eyed precision of a moose in a Tim Hortons drive-thru. It’s a beautiful, terrible thing to behold.

There’s something about a trip to the plant nursery with my wife that feels like stepping into another world—one where the air is fresher, the colors brighter, and the stress of daily life just melts away. She’s the mastermind behind our ever-expanding indoor jungle, and I’m more than happy to play the role of dutiful sherpa, hauling home palms, snake plants, and the occasional unpronounceable tropical specimen. Our house might be turning into a greenhouse, but honestly? I don’t mind one bit.

Bountiful Gardens is our go-to spot, a wonderland of greenery where even a guy like me—more at home with a camera than a watering can—can’t help but get swept up in the beauty of it all. The variety is staggering, the staff is friendly, and the whole place has this easy, unhurried vibe that makes it the perfect way to spend a lazy afternoon. I bring my camera, she brings her wishlist, and somehow, we always leave with more than we planned. A perfect Sunday.  Bonus snaps of the land sharks.

Recently, I embarked on a road trip to Pittsburgh to attend the memorial for my uncle Michael Jay Nelson. On the drive home, I made a deliberate stop in Somerset, Pennsylvania—not far from where the legendary photographer Edward Burtynsky captured his iconic Breezewood image. Burtynsky’s ability to find grandeur in industrial and natural landscapes has always inspired me, and I wanted to see a slice of that vast, layered America for myself. Standing there, camera in hand, I felt the same pull to document the quiet power of highways, small towns, and open skies.

Somerset, with its rolling hills and sprawling intersections, offered the perfect backdrop for my own photographic exploration. Something is mesmerizing about the way human infrastructure cuts through the natural world—a theme Burtynsky masterfully explores in his work. I framed shots of gas stations under wide skies, winding roads disappearing into the horizon, and the subtle textures of aging pavement. It wasn’t just about capturing a place, but about feeling the weight of time and movement embedded in these everyday scenes.

This trip reminded me why I love road trips and photography so much. The American landscape, in all its contradictions—both rugged and manicured, lonely and alive—holds endless stories. Like Burtynsky, I’m drawn to the beauty in the overlooked, the places where nature and human ambition intersect. Every stop, every snapshot, feels like a small tribute to the vastness of this country and the artists who help us see it with fresh eyes. 

 #RoadTripPhotography #EdwardBurtynsky #PittsburghTravel #SomersetPA #AmericanLandscape #HighwayAesthetic #TravelPhotography #BreezewoodPA #IndustrialPhotography #ScenicRoadTrip #PennsylvaniaPhotography #DocumentaryPhotography #UrbanExploration #RoadTripVibes #PhotographyInspiration #SmallTownUSA #LandscapePhotography #InfrastructureArt #RoadsideAmerica #Wanderlust

Cats should be outside. There, I said it. I love cats more than most things on this planet, but keeping them indoors 24/7 is like forcing a NASCAR driver to ride a stationary bike—technically possible, but deeply unnatural. Outdoor cats get to be cats: climbing trees, hunting (poor) mice and birds, and napping in sunbeams that aren’t filtered through a window. Meanwhile, indoor cats turn into tiny, vengeful roommates who punish your confinement by knocking over anything that makes noise at 3 AM. Let them roam (within reason, of course—I’m not suggesting you unleash Mr. Fluffy onto a six-lane highway).

That said, if you’re going to have an outdoor cat, do not declaw them. I cannot stress this enough. Declawing isn’t a “procedure”—it’s mutilation. You’re removing their fingertips because you care more about your couch than your cat’s ability to, you know, be a cat. If you’re that worried about your furniture, either get a pet rock or accept that claw marks are part of the cat ownership experience. Better yet, invest in a scratching post and some common decency.

Yes, the outdoors has risks—cars, raccoons, the occasional hawk with questionable morals. But life is full of dangers, and yet we still leave the house (well, some of us do). You can mitigate risks with supervised outings, catios, or just letting them out during daylight hours. A happy cat is one that gets to explore, sniff weird things, and come home to demand food like a conquering hero. An unhappy cat is one that stares at you while slowly pushing your favorite mug off the counter. Choose wisely.

At the end of the day, cats are tiny, fuzzy wild animals with a fondness for cardboard boxes and hoods of cars. They deserve fresh air, adventure, and the right to use their claws as nature intended. If that’s too much for you, maybe stick to goldfish. (No offense to goldfish—they’re great, but they don’t judge you nearly as hard.)

Let’s talk about Moody Park in Trenton—the kind of basketball court where legends are born, ankles are broken, and the three-point line is more of a suggestion than a rule. If you’ve ever played here, you know it’s less NBA Finals and more Survivor: Trenton Edition.

First off, the court itself has seen things. The pavement has more cracks than my grandpa’s old vinyl records, and the rims? Let’s just say they’ve rejected more shots than a high schooler’s dating attempts. But that’s what makes it beautiful. This isn’t some fancy, Instagram-ready court with pristine nets and players in matching jerseys. Nah, this is where you show up in whatever sneakers still have grip and pray the next gust of wind doesn’t send your game-winning shot into the next zip code.

And the competition? Forget about it. You’ve got dudes out here who swear they “almost went D1” back in ’03, teenagers who play like they’ve got a personal vendetta against gravity, and that one guy who never takes off his jeans but somehow still drops 20 on you. It’s chaos. It’s poetry. It’s Moody Park.

So if you’re looking for a real basketball experience—where the only thing harder than the defense is the concrete—come through. Just bring your A-game, a ice pack for your ego, and maybe a tetanus shot, just in case. Ball is life. And at Moody Park, life is hilariously unpredictable. �🔥

#MoodyPark #StreetballSurvival #TrentonMade

I never thought I’d fall in love with the ocean. Growing up in Canada, my summers were spent by the lake—cool, quiet, and familiar. The beach always seemed too vast, too loud, too unpredictable. But then I found myself in Asbury Park, and something shifted. The rhythm of the waves, the warmth of the sand, the way the light dances on the water at dusk—it all felt like coming home in a way I hadn’t expected. It’s where my kids first learned to swim, laughing as the tide carried them, and where they dramatically declared their hatred for fish tacos after one skeptical bite at Mogo.

Now, even as I bundle up against the cold, my mind drifts back to the shore. There’s a quiet magic in the way the ocean pulls you in, making you feel both small and infinite at the same time. I still love the crisp bite of winter, the way snow muffles the world into stillness, but my heart has carved out a new space—one that belongs to salt air, endless horizons, and the memories we’ve tucked between the waves. Maybe home isn’t just one place, but all the moments that leave their mark on you.

There are moments in life when work doesn’t feel like work—when passion and purpose align to create something truly meaningful. That’s exactly how I felt during my recent photo shoot for the Miracle League of Mercer, a nonprofit organization that provides children with disabilities the opportunity to play baseball in a safe, inclusive environment.

About the Miracle League of Mercer

The Miracle League of Mercer is more than just a baseball league—it’s a community built on compassion, inclusion, and pure joy. The specially designed rubberized field ensures that kids of all abilities can play without barriers, whether they use wheelchairs, walkers, or other mobility aids. Every player gets a chance to hit, run the bases, and score, all while being cheered on by volunteers, coaches, and family members.

The Photo Shoot for Hamilton Square Neighbors Magazine

I had the privilege of photographing one of their games for Hamilton Square Neighbors Magazine, and it was an experience I’ll never forget. The energy on the field was electric—smiles everywhere, laughter filling the air, and an overwhelming sense of camaraderie.

Some of my favorite moments:

• The excitement in a child’s eyes as they rounded the bases with the help of a buddy.
• The pure joy of parents watching their kids play in an environment where they feel completely supported.
• The dedication of the volunteers ensured every player felt like a champion.

Why This Matters

Photography has the power to tell stories, and this one was especially heartwarming. The Miracle League isn’t just about baseball—it’s about giving kids confidence, fostering friendships, and reminding everyone that sports should be accessible to all.

I’m so grateful to have been a small part of their mission and to help share their story through these images. If you’re looking for a way to give back, I highly recommend checking out the Miracle League of Mercer—whether as a volunteer, donor, or simply a fan in the stands. The happiness on that field is contagious!

To learn more or get involved, visit their website: https://miracleleaguemercer.org/

Have you ever volunteered with or photographed an organization like this? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments! ⚾💙

No crisp edges. No patriotic clarity. Just the vibration—that ever-present hum of chaos we’ve learned to call normal. The focus wouldn’t hold because nothing holds anymore. Not the facts, not the future, certainly not the goddamn tripod of democracy when the ground itself won’t stop moving.

I thought about all the hands that stacked these stones. The blood and sermons and slave labor baked into the mortar. Now we’re the ones tilting in the wind, watching the apex waver as the vultures circle lower. The memorial hasn’t changed. We’ve changed. The camera only caught what’s been true for years—we’re all just trying to steady the frame before the whole picture dissolves.

Blooming:  A note from Hunter S Thompson:  Ah, yes—Blooming Season—that brief, hallucinatory window when nature vomits color onto the landscape like a drunken god with a paintbrush. The air is thick with the stench of pollen and false hope, the sun a merciless spotlight exposing winter’s crimes. And what do we do? We grab our cameras—our weapons—and charge into the fray, half-blind from the glare, half-mad from the beauty.

This is no time for art. This is war. The flowers are staging a coup, the trees are in full riot gear, and the godforsaken bees are hopped up on nectar like tiny, winged meth heads. You think you’re taking a peaceful snapshot? Fool. You’re documenting the chaos before it’s swallowed again by the crushing void of summer heat.

So shoot fast. Shoot reckless. Let your lens betray the lies of pastel serenity—catch the tulips in their garish, screaming glory, the dandelions as they plot their guerrilla takeover of your lawn. This is not photography. This is survival. A last, desperate stand against the inevitable march of time, entropy, and your neighbor’s goddamn leaf blower.

Now get out there. The light’s fading, the flowers are laughing at you, and the vultures are always watching.

BLOOM OR DIE.

For years, I worked as a photo assistant to Kip Meyer, a photographer whose technical precision and mastery of craft left a lasting impression on me. Under his guidance, I learned not just the fundamentals of lighting, composition, and exposure, but also the discipline required to execute flawless work under pressure. When his daughter, Lili, asked me to photograph her wedding this summer, it felt like both an honor and a test—a chance to apply everything I had learned from him in service of his own family’s most important moments.

But before the wedding, we decided on an engagement session to get warmed up to the camera a little.  The setting for the session added its layer of responsibility. Meadowlark’s gardens are breathtaking, but their natural beauty demands a photographer’s full technical attention—beautiful color, intricate backdrops, and the challenge of balancing spontaneity with precision. I approached the day with the same rigor Kip had instilled in me: meticulous preparation, an eye for detail, and an understanding that great photography is as much about anticipation as it is about reaction. It was a privilege to document Lili and Archer’s engagement session, not just as a photographer, but as someone who had witnessed the family’s story long before this chapter began.

In the end, the experience was a reminder of how much craft and mentorship matter. Kip’s lessons were present in every shot—not as pressure, but as foundation. The portrait session turned out beautifully, the images were true to the day, and, most importantly, the trust placed in me felt like the quiet completion of a circle. It was a full-circle moment not just in my career, but in the way knowledge and artistry are passed down—one frame at a time.  I look forward to being apart of Lili and Archers wedding day :)