I walk down Eighth Avenue,
through downtown Ybor City,
FL. with Devon Shirley, the
drummer of The Photo Atlas,
and Zach Tipton. Tipton looks
the way Napoleon Dynamite
would look if he had straight
brown hair and a beard, but he’s
just as quirky. “Yeah, man it’s
the same thing with me.” Shirley
says to Tipton. “I told her that I
might not be home at the end of
March like we thought, she said
if I’m not home then, don’t
bother coming home.” This
clearly blows Tipton’s mind,
which has his own dilemma that
involves a girlfriend and a B-list
celebrity and other details that I
promised that I wouldn’t go into,
even though by now it’s a story
I know by heart. Within the first
forty-five minutes that I have known Tipton, I have heard the
story and other possible scenarios seven times and counting as
he tells the story once again to Devon. We finally reach our
destination, a little hole in the wall pizzeria. If you go to New
York, Philadelphia, or Chicago, pizzerias are owned by Italians.
If you go to a pizzeria in Florida, especially Ybor City, they are
owned by Arabs, primarily Palestinians or Moroccans, so why
should this one be any different? The young Arab gives Shirley
a long look, up and down, before greeting him. With his long
hair swooped to the right side of his face, looking like a
hardcore Eric Foreman, Shirley orders a slice of pizza and
small salad, Tipton follows suit. “What are you getting?” asks
Shirley. “A Cuban.” I say. “What’s a Cuban?” Shirley asks.
For a moment I look at Shirley as if he has asked the dumbest
question in the world, then I quickly remember that he’s from
Denver, and I let him slide, so I explain exactly what a pressed
Cuban is. I can see his mouth watering, but he sticks with his
slice and salad. He probably would have changed his mind if it
wasn’t for the mere five bucks is all he has for lunch. “Okay
we’re set man.” Tipton says as he closes his cell phone. Tipton
through downtown Ybor City,
FL. with Devon Shirley, the
drummer of The Photo Atlas,
and Zach Tipton. Tipton looks
the way Napoleon Dynamite
would look if he had straight
brown hair and a beard, but he’s
just as quirky. “Yeah, man it’s
the same thing with me.” Shirley
says to Tipton. “I told her that I
might not be home at the end of
March like we thought, she said
if I’m not home then, don’t
bother coming home.” This
clearly blows Tipton’s mind,
which has his own dilemma that
involves a girlfriend and a B-list
celebrity and other details that I
promised that I wouldn’t go into,
even though by now it’s a story
I know by heart. Within the first
forty-five minutes that I have known Tipton, I have heard the
story and other possible scenarios seven times and counting as
he tells the story once again to Devon. We finally reach our
destination, a little hole in the wall pizzeria. If you go to New
York, Philadelphia, or Chicago, pizzerias are owned by Italians.
If you go to a pizzeria in Florida, especially Ybor City, they are
owned by Arabs, primarily Palestinians or Moroccans, so why
should this one be any different? The young Arab gives Shirley
a long look, up and down, before greeting him. With his long
hair swooped to the right side of his face, looking like a
hardcore Eric Foreman, Shirley orders a slice of pizza and
small salad, Tipton follows suit. “What are you getting?” asks
Shirley. “A Cuban.” I say. “What’s a Cuban?” Shirley asks.
For a moment I look at Shirley as if he has asked the dumbest
question in the world, then I quickly remember that he’s from
Denver, and I let him slide, so I explain exactly what a pressed
Cuban is. I can see his mouth watering, but he sticks with his
slice and salad. He probably would have changed his mind if it
wasn’t for the mere five bucks is all he has for lunch. “Okay
we’re set man.” Tipton says as he closes his cell phone. Tipton
has closed a deal for a place to
stay for the night for his band
Moros Eros and The Photo Atlas.
The infamous “Cache”, I ask if
his wife’s name was Jonnie, but
no one understood the reference.
All I know about Cache is that he
loves to party and smokes ton of
weed, which is fine with The
Photo Atlas, since they have hit
the bowl twice already and it’s
only seven pm and they've only
been in Ybor since five thirty.
If you have been lucky enough to
hear of The Photo Atlas, it’s all
because of one word: Myspace.
com. Well that’s more like three,
but all together its one word.
Myspace.com, that insane animal
started by that weird fucker by the
name of Tom, who is the only bastard that will be my friend
because he doesn’t really know me... Well that’s enough of me
airing my dirty laundry, anywho, where was I? Ah, yes
Myspace.com. Say what you want about it, even if it has
spawned more business for the porn industry, and at the same
time giving sexual offenders an outlet, not to mention landing
another group of thirteen year old girls in juvie every other
week after they video tape themselves beating their peers to a
pulp. The point is that you can say what you want about
Myspace, but without it bands like The Photo Atlas wouldn’t
have an outlet.. The dance punk quartet made up of Alan
Andrews (Guitar/Vocals), Bill Threkland (Guitar), Mark
Hawkins (Bass) and Devon Shirley (Drums). The Photo Atlas
are straight out of Denver, CO., and sound like the love child
of At the Drive In and The Rapture. “There are some bands
that are just Myspace whores! They’re just a myspace band
they have a zillion friends, and everything but that’s all they
will ever be is a myspace band.” Shirley comments. “We’re all
about the live show. Myspace is great and all, but you have to
come out and see our live show to get the full effect.”
Therkland adds. The Photo Atlas has managed to build a strong
stay for the night for his band
Moros Eros and The Photo Atlas.
The infamous “Cache”, I ask if
his wife’s name was Jonnie, but
no one understood the reference.
All I know about Cache is that he
loves to party and smokes ton of
weed, which is fine with The
Photo Atlas, since they have hit
the bowl twice already and it’s
only seven pm and they've only
been in Ybor since five thirty.
If you have been lucky enough to
hear of The Photo Atlas, it’s all
because of one word: Myspace.
com. Well that’s more like three,
but all together its one word.
Myspace.com, that insane animal
started by that weird fucker by the
name of Tom, who is the only bastard that will be my friend
because he doesn’t really know me... Well that’s enough of me
airing my dirty laundry, anywho, where was I? Ah, yes
Myspace.com. Say what you want about it, even if it has
spawned more business for the porn industry, and at the same
time giving sexual offenders an outlet, not to mention landing
another group of thirteen year old girls in juvie every other
week after they video tape themselves beating their peers to a
pulp. The point is that you can say what you want about
Myspace, but without it bands like The Photo Atlas wouldn’t
have an outlet.. The dance punk quartet made up of Alan
Andrews (Guitar/Vocals), Bill Threkland (Guitar), Mark
Hawkins (Bass) and Devon Shirley (Drums). The Photo Atlas
are straight out of Denver, CO., and sound like the love child
of At the Drive In and The Rapture. “There are some bands
that are just Myspace whores! They’re just a myspace band
they have a zillion friends, and everything but that’s all they
will ever be is a myspace band.” Shirley comments. “We’re all
about the live show. Myspace is great and all, but you have to
come out and see our live show to get the full effect.”
Therkland adds. The Photo Atlas has managed to build a strong
