World, meet Roscoe.
Roscoe, or Tim Jessick as he's lesser known, is a clinically schizophrenic punk rock terror who is a hazard to himself and pretty much everyone and everything around him. His variety of adult ADD rivals the intensity of a space shuttle launch, feeding on nothing but potato chips and Four Loko, and fueled by faggot jokes and prank phone calls. He's vulgar, unbecoming and crass, with a wit so sharp it could stab you in the throat while convincing you it was an honor. His charismatic humor is however contagious and undeniable, and his stories are so good that whether they're real or not becomes completely irrelevant. Paid to party, he lives on Social Security Insurance due to his impressive list of mental illnesses, and collects full medical benefits for all the times he gets stabbed while playing a rousing game of "toss the knife" when boredom strikes.
But don't be so quick to judge this ludicrous piece of shit before you get to know him. Don't mistake his humor for full-on douchebaggery. Behind all the faggot jokes, dick references, toe cutting and blood splatters is something most people write off as nonexistent in Roscoe. See, what I love about Roscoe is the huge fucking heart of gold he's got right there on his striped sleeve. Roscoe could easily be just another stereotypical shitbag punker, and perhaps such was my first impression of him, but he's far from it. And he's got no fear of me letting the secret out that he's actually one of the biggest sweethearts I've ever met; easy to talk to, always down to make fun, and undoubtedly always able to make you laugh no matter how pissed off you are, like when a kitten erases your entire iPod or your PMSing mother won't send you your money. A Santa Clause in a metal getup, Motley Crue blaring from his ghettoblaster, this boy will still call you his best friend after you fuck his girlfriend, stick a knife in his hand, and then send him to the hospital because you then sprayed said wound with glow-in-the-dark spray paint. Well, as long as you're laughing about it as hard as he is.
(Not to mention he's a wicked good kisser and avid participant in any game of spin the bottle.
^Photo by Carly)
I have found that my favorite photos are usually of the people who exclaim at the sight of my camera that they aren't photogenic; those who I end up photographing more than anyone else are those who are at first convinced that no one can take a good picture of them. I had it with Sarah Franceshini who then became my muse for the two years I knew her, during which it seemed a mediocre photo of her was impossible. When Ben Aleshire said the same thing, it didn't take long before I was his band's touring photographer, unable to take any more photos of him because I already had too many good ones to choose from. And Roscoe, too, has now adopted me as his official photographer, all because of one fateful day wherein I'm convinced the only reason the sun came out at all was so that Roscoe could fucking party in it, and so that I could photograph every minute.
"Have a good heart and do cool things."
Favorite status = achieved.
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