Independent. Avant-Garde. Cult. Underground. Sticks and stones.


When the mastermind Craig Baldwin came to Tucson in 2001, I set up a show for him at the local MOCA, which happened to be an old warehouse on the rails. Trains still passed by at regular intervals (loudly), so I told him maybe have a projector outside to show films on the trains. Baldwin said that was perfect, as his partner-in-crime, Bill Daniel, had tons of 16mm footage from riding the rails. I had heard of Bill but had no idea we were destined to meet.

Now I equate new cultural movements in cities by watching where Bill moves to, way ahead of the movement. He and brother Lee (cinematographer for many Richard Linklater films) were in Austin in the 1980s, then Bill moved to San Francisco before it got sort of revitalized in my mind, then Bill hit Portland before a scene blew up there. Now, when in-between film tours, he lives in Shreveport. Let’s see how the theory goes.

Bill has created great images in all these places, with early 80s punk rock photography, to helping Baldwin with his manic films, to various installations like THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN IN THE MOON (2002-3), to Bill’s beautiful “documentary” on hobo train graffiti, WHO IS BOZO TEXINO?, which has been a decade in the making.

Never content to be in one place, Bill has toured as much as any band with his films. He’ll be on a 50 city tour this Fall (2006), so if you want to host a screening hit him up at Check his website at The Bozo Texino dvd is available through and AK Press. He is also trying to get his book of punk photos funded, look at

CINEMAD: Were you and your brother like film nerds growing up, with cameras and shooting stills and stuff?

BILL DANIEL: Yeah, it all started out with BMX, but we called it Pedal-cross because BMX hadn’t been invented yet. We got an old Argus non-reflex 35mm camera that we found in Dad’s closet. We would take pictures of each other jumping ramps over trash cans or crashing on the baseball diamond on purpose, stuff like that. So yeah, it all started out of us wanting to document our motocross fantasies.

Did you see ON ANY SUNDAY (1971) when you were a kid?
Oh my God, that movie completely printed both of us for life, that and ENDLESS SUMMER (1966). We lived for the image of California.

Did you guys grow up in Austin?
We grew up in suburban Dallas, and Austin was the closest we could get to California. The moment we graduated high school, whoosh! High tailed it down. We moved to Austin, went to UT [Univ of Texas]. I was three years ahead of Lee, and I went to business school like an idiot. He had the benefit of seeing somebody stumble in front of him. “Business school? Fuck that, I’m going to film school.”

Were you just worried about getting a job?

Where I come from, the idea of going to film school or studying art was just so completely alien. The two words “film school” would never appear in the same sentence. But my brother, like I said, a lot happened in three years – punk rock and all this. We’d seen a different side of life. Actually, our next door neighbor in Dallas was a cinematographer. He did commercials and industrials.

So then you just had to figure shit out on your own after you burned out of business school?

Yeah. I started working in still photography. That was one impetus to drop out of business school. I was already working in studio photography as an assistant. I was making good money and having a great time and traveling and learning tons of photography skills. Through all this, I was fooling around with super-8 film, making experimental cine-plastic deals, put in some industrial music, Zoviet-France and stuff like that. I lived in an old hotel next to the photo studio that I worked in, and on the next block over was 6th street and the Ritz Theater and all these punk rock clubs. I was shooting punk shows 3 or 4 nights a week. My whole universe was this little microcosm in downtown Austin. Lived on our cruiser bikes and it was pretty idyllic.

Are most of the punk rock photos from Austin or from all over?
Mainly Austin. Later Dallas, but mostly Austin during that time, the ‘80-’82 era.

When did you start using super-8 film?
I started fooling around with super-8 in 1983. I’d seen a couple of Les Blank films and that’s what kind of turned me on originally. So by ’87, I knew that film was what I wanted to do, and I knew somehow that San Francisco was the place to go. I moved to San Francisco just having some intuition that it was Mecca. It really was for me.

Were you getting gallery shows in Austin or just constantly taking photos?
It was more integrated into the punk scene. We did a zine called Western Roundup. Some other publications used my photos. I did a couple of DIY art shows. In the hotel where I lived, downstairs there was an artist-run gallery. It was all very in-the-community low-end stuff. I did my 2nd or 3rd photo show with Mr. Biscuit of the Big Boys, who just died recently. Which is really sad for our generation of Austin counter-culturists, because Biscuit was one of the totally wild characters, a real shining light.

I was friends with the Big Boys and I toured with them, took tons of photos, most of the photos for their albums and stuff. I was kind of the Big Boys’ house photographer, I guess. They were THE skate band. We were really into skateboarding at that time, and this was between skating's second and third waves. Skating was not really cool in 1980. The OP thing was fading and Thrasher had just started as a newsprint mag. But the Big Boys were "Fuck you, we’re skaters!” They’d have their boards with them on stage. It was really goofy, but at the same time, we were really excited to have a kind of music that identified us, even though skateboarding was really unfashionable then. It was kind of the beginning of the hardcore scene, except that it wasn’t hardcore yet. It was still wide open and creative and goofy and anything goes. Within the next two years, it kinda morphed into a more rigid hardcore scene.

Plus you guys were off the coasts. A delay of culture.
Yeah, it was the pre-internet world of being off the coasts. We made it up as we went along. When touring bands would come through, it would be this infusion of new ideas. When Minor Threat came through, it taught everyone the proper way to wear short pants, and that was to take a pair of old black suit trousers and cut them off at the knees. Every band that came through left a particular impression.

Was the majority of your photos documentary style?
Documenting punk shows was definitely my main deal. But I was also doing these abstract industrial landscapes that were influenced by listening to industrial music, Zoviet-France, Throbbing Gristle and all that. Superimpositions, multiple exposures, night city scenes lit with a flash. That stuff was developing along the side at the same time as the punk documentary stuff. It’s actually the kind of photography I’d like to get back into at some point.

The expanse of Texas?
No, no, not at all. More like urban decay, and also more like an abstract thing. There was a painter in Austin, Philip Trussell, a true beatnik, been a painter since the 60's, just a fully-committed, fuck-the-establishment-do-it-on-your-own artist---he was one of my first artistic mentors. He was looking at my punk photos and gave me a lot of encouragement. I think my abstract photography was really inspired by his paintings, which were like beatnik cubist landscapes.

How was San Francisco when you showed up there?
It was like another golden era. I got there at the end of ’87. From then until the dot-com boom was a really awesome, creative, fruitful era in the Mission. I was based in the Mission, and 992 Valencia St. was really the center of the universe.

The address of Craig Baldwin’s Other Cinema.
Yeah, Other Cinema and ATA [Artists’ Television Access]. ATA was really active in those days, too. There was a huge amount of stuff going on underground, rent was dirt cheap… My friends in Austin would say, “How can you afford to live in San Francisco?” I was living cheaper in San Francisco than I could in Austin. It was amazing. You didn’t need a car, you could pile a bunch of friends in an old Victorian and split the rent 5 ways, burritos were gigantic and less than three dollars… And tons of free shows, bands and films.

Did you already know people up there or was it just kind of obvious that it was a city for you?
The corny story is – I’ve told it a million times – the first thing that happened to me in San Francisco was meeting Craig Baldwin. I didn't know anyone yet. On my second day in San Francisco I rode my bike down the hill from the Haight where I was crashing until I could find a place, and I went down to Valencia St. I knew Valencia St. was the place where I was going to find what I was looking for. I had been to a killer punk show at a space there called the Tool and Die in 1981, so I knew that would be a good place to start looking for something cool. Well of course the club was long gone, But right in the same block I saw a poster for this “Eyes of Hell Cinema.” It had the most amazing line-up of film screenings on it, three shows a week, every genre, vintage experimental films, grade-Z movies, bizarre documentaries, everything was on this one, very graphically busy calendar. I marched up to the address, which was 992, and Craig Baldwin opened the door with a Jolt cola in each hand and said, “Hey, you just moved here? Come on in!” Within about 3 hours Craig had explained the entire past and present of the San Francisco film scene. I was just taking notes as fast as I could.

San Francisco was so rich then and there were so many places to plug in. It had both the benefit of being a big scene and a lot of different things going on – SRL [Survival Research Laboratories], secret breakfast clubs, the Cocophany Society, art spaces with no name – but things were still cozy enough that everything kind of rubbed up against each other, kind of like a small town scene. There were dozens of collective households, there's a great story waiting be told there, the history of all those collectives. Victorian mansions, warehouses, and storefronts and huge raw spaces divided up with stolen billboards. Studio Four, Shred of Dignity, the Vats, the Cauliflower Collective, there were a ton of these things, and each one had a different personality. The infamous collective house by Golden Gate park where everyone had to sleep with a different roommate each month, what was that place called?... .Some were a little more hippie or more urban primitive, and they all did house shows, so there were crazy art events happening in these places all the time.

So you got along with Baldwin right away?
Yeah, for sure, kindred spirits. He talks fast, just the way I like it. I've been really lucky to work with him, I have so much respect for his work, and I mean how often do you get a chance to work on things that you actually respect?

When you got to SF, what did you start working on?
I wasn’t doing any still photography at that point. I started working with Craig right away. He was working on TRIBULATION 99 (1992), I did some work on that. And I was also involved with a lot of things at ATA. I programmed a twice-a-year super-8 festival called All-City Super-8. One of the first events that I went to at ATA was a three-day, round-the-clock event called the Festival of Plagiarism. ATA was like an art clubhouse with no adult supervision.

Mainly what I was doing, film-wise, was these little sound super-8 documentaries, kind of Punk Verite. I was really into mag stripe super-8film, which they stopped making a few years back. Sad, because that was an awesome means. If they made that film right now, I would be shooting it for sure. Fucking rad – sync sound in a little cartridge, cheap, pretty poor sound but I like that rattle-y quality. I love the way that shit sounds with the automatic level going all over the place and the glitchy in-camera edits. Oh man. To have single system sound-- cheap hand-held camera that recorded image and sound, together, in-sync, good grief, that was a miracle. Now it's just an accepted fact of life that every device in the world records motion picture with sync audio.

So I was making these short documentaries of panhandlers or artists that were working at ATA, I did two on bike messengers. I was a bike messenger for a couple of years thinking that I would make a film about it. Documenting the job was kind of my excuse to work as a messenger, which I guess was a dubious career move. At the time, I was doing photo assisting, which made more money than at messenging, but I was totally burned out on commercial photography. I was just hating advertising. I quit photo assisting a few times just in disgust of the whole advertising culture. But I would always fall back into it because it was freelance and easy money and I really loved the craft, I just couldn’t stand the culture of it.

So I thought, “I’ll make a documentary about bike messenging and I’ll be a messenger, that way I’ll get paid to make a film.” Great, but hammering all day on a bike for a pretty skimpy wage will just wear you right out. End of the day you’re not really in the mood too much to try and make a film. But I did, sort of. I strapped cameras to the bike, taped a mic on the handlebars, recorded radio chatter, and interviewed some messengers. I ended up with a couple of eight-minute films. One’s called A BAD DAY CYCLING IS BETTER THAN A GOOD DAY AT WORK (1989), which was a sticker that I saw inside the offices at Quicksilver Messenger. The other doc is called A BIKEMAN’S HOLIDAY, which documents this annual messenger ride out to the Russian River. “Oh, it’s the weekend, let’s relax by riding our bikes 90 miles completely drunk to go camping and bring nothing but more beer.” We took off early Saturday morning from downtown and when we got to the Golden Gate Bridge, everybody pulled over and dropped acid.

Were there many wrecks?
Well, everybody got lost, you know? About three hours later, the pack kinda got split up. I wasn't tripping because I was supposed to be at work, you know, making a documentary film
But you never thought about trying to get into films as a job? I've probably worked at least a little bit in every department; AC work, loading, some cinematography here and there, swung booms, was a recordist, did a lot of lighting because that translated from the photography work. I did some grip electric, would gaff smaller shows… I never really pursued it as a profession. It’s cool to work on friends’ things, but I knew that to really get into it was to go back into the world of advertising, and I just hated advertising so much that it didn’t matter how much fun it was to make a film. It’s just not worth it.

When were you checking out the whole hobo scene and get the idea for WHO IS BOZO TEXINO?
I had been kind of documenting graffiti since ’83. Then around ’89, right when I was doing all those short super 8 documentaries, I thought, “Well, fuck, I’ll do one on hobo graffiti. It’s perfect, I can take the camera with me on the train.” It started as a twelve-minute super-8 film and then it kept on growing and growing and I thought, “I should shoot some 16, I’ll optically print the super-8 up and this’ll be a 16mm film.” It started out to be reversal, but then I started shooting negative, and it just kept growing and it spiraled out of control.

It doesn’t seem like hobo graf is covered too much.
There’s a book coming out in the next few months and I’m helping the guy with a chapter on monikers. It’s mainly aerosol freight graffiti but there’s one chapter about what they call monikers, which is the stuff that’s in my film, the old school stuff. But yeah, it hadn’t been paid much attention yet. I've found a few newspaper clippings from over the last fifty or sixty years, but nobody had really done any in-depth thing at all.

When did you first hop a train?
I hopped a freight in ’87 out of Houston. I was living in Galveston at the time. I actually tried to catch one out of Galveston, but a rail worker said, “What are you doing?” “I’m trying to get to California.” He said, “Get in the truck,” and he took me to Houston, like sixty miles up the road, took me to the yard and said, “These are the trains that go to California, sonny.”

Did he make that trip just for you?
He was driving into Houston anyway. He just saw me in the Galveston yard with my pack and said, “Sonny, I don’t know if you heard the news, but the trains don’t run here no more.”
He told me which part of the yard westbound trains were built in, so that saved me a lot of trouble there, but I really didn’t know what I was doing. It was definitely beginner’s luck. By the time I was living in San Francisco I met people who were into freight hopping. One guy, Barry Schwartz, a video artist, crazy motherfucker, man. He would do these video installation performances on trains. He would get out there with all of his video gear, audio gear, and all of this scrap metal, and get underneath a pig train – a trailer on a flat car – and wire piano wire around some metal and put contact mikes on the train, drag mikes, spin cameras from weird shit and do these really amazing industrial performances. All of this while flying through the desert at 70 miles per hour. His videos are some of the coolest things ever done with trains and cameras.

Did he make it into BOZO TEXINO?
Yes. He says, “ I never drink but that one night I did.”

How did the film start to take shape? You were making it for over ten years, right?
Or 16 years. I don’t keep count, really. It kinda kept growing and it went through a lot of identity crises. At one point I thought it was going to be a straight documentary. I was writing a humanities grant. Talk about being out of my element. Whatever. I learned how to format an academic paper correctly and brushed up on my grant-language skills a little bit. It was kind of a folly. It was an interesting experience, but I did not get a humanities grant.

Every year or so, I would get a pile of film and go out and shoot some more. A lot of the interviews were done sporadically when I could finally track somebody down, get a little bit of film together and some time to go out again. At one point, the film really ran aground when I realized that in order to finish it on film, you know, make a print, it was going to cost tens of thousands of dollars. Tons of money. It was going to take all of this optical printing, plus all of this contact printing, because by then it wasn’t just super-8 and 16mm, it was also reversal and negative. I was going to have to decide if the printing master was going to be reversal or negative, and whichever way I went, half the footage was either going to have to be flopped or contact printed twice. It just turned into a technical boondoggle. That’s when it went into deep hibernation for about five years.

And then in those five years, all those clever people down in Silicon Valley made Final Cut Pro, and all of those projector companies were getting all the business people set up to do their Power Point presentations and they made those cheap projectors that are so bright and pretty. And I said, “Okay, I’ll make a fucking video. Projectors look good, they’re cheap as shit, and as much as I hate computers, I can afford a G4 and learn Final Cut Pro.” And of course it was fun as shit. Final Cut Pro is a blast. I was late coming into it, kicking and screaming the whole time, holding onto this romantic notion of, “My hobo film has to be a film!” And in a way I wish it was on film, mostly because of archival stability.

Basically it just comes down to, “Do I want this to exist at all?”
That’s true, but I have to say also that going the digital route changed the film aesthetically in some ways that I really like. Sure, film looks great, but I had shots that were over or under or too flat or out of date stock that was fogged, so I was able to tweak a lot of the stuff, like all this color footage that was all fogged and weird. So it was really fun, it was kind of like photography again. In film printing, you’re pretty limited with that you can do with the lights, but in a digital domain, you can really play with the contrast and the black levels and the gain and all that, so that was really fun. I was also able to do a couple of other things, like flop some shots to get better screen direction and stuff. But I think there’s only one dissolve in the entire film, and there’s no speed changes either.

Dude, where’s the one dissolve?
Oh man, it's in the last shot. This kills me. I ended up putting a jump cut in to snap it up because it was such a long take, even though I loved it as a long shot. I would watch it again and again while I was editing. It’s Grandpa walking down the line of cars at the very end. Like, “Man, this is beautiful, this is what my hero Les Blank would do, he’d let this shot roll.” My brother shot it with his Arriflex SR, so it’s a really great shot.

But I chickened out. I thought, “It’s way too fucking long, I have an economic imperiative here to make a snappy film” and I didn’t want to sit in a theater with this thing a thousand times with people fidgeting, so I chickened out and put the dissolve in there to make a jump cut and snap it up. Then Vanessa [Renwick] and her daughter Montana, who are the aesthetic executives, were like, “What’d you do that for, that’s terrible!” If I get a chance to get into the tape again, I may restore Grandpa’s long, long walk. That’s another great thing about digital versus film: wanna change the show? Throw it in the Avid again, make some changes, spit it out again, It's nothing like having to go back to recut the negative.

So when you’re going through, say year seven, midway through the fifteen years or whatever, are you just dealing with it and doing other projects as they come up, like Craig’s SPECTRES OF THE SPECTRUM (1999)? You must have had this insane moral dilemma that you had to finish BOZO and do it right for the people.
It was a horrendous psychological burden. I would be walking down the street and a block away, I would see a friend coming towards me and I’d be like, “Oh no. Oh no. I hope they don’t see me.” And then it’s, “Hey Bill, how’s your movie going? Are you ever gonna finish your movie?” “I don’t know, man, sorry.” Then the grant people saying, “You know, you’re a little behind on your production schedule, aren’t you?”

Now my friends are the ones moving to the other side of the street. “Oh shit, here comes Bill. He’s gonna invite us to another screening of his movie. I’ve seen it already, Bill!”

How much contact did you have with the people who are in it? Did you pretty much go out and shoot and see them and talk to them and that was it?
Most of the tramps in the film I just ran into on the road. Ride with them for a while before bringing up the subject. "Oh hey, wanna be in my movie?" "Huh?" Some of the tramps I would run into again over the years. A few I've been able to keep up with. Grandpa’s pretty much my adopted grandfather now. He’s actually got a birthday coming up. Some of the really dear people in the film, like Robert, the black guy in the middle section of the film, that was just a chance encounter riding out of the Stockton yard. We rode together for two divisions and then we said goodbye. I’d love to get him a copy of the film, because he’s the heart and soul of it. But yeah, that’s a weird thing about this kind of a project.

It’s a weird thing about documentaries in general, it’s so strangely possessive of people’s souls. The Native Americans had it right: you definitely capture someone’s soul in a photograph, and it’s even worse in a film and even worse in a documentary. You’re carrying around this bizarre psychic responsibility when you put somebody in a documentary. In a lot of documentaries, you keep a distance between you and the subject, and everybody you’re filming kind of implicitly signs onto this contract of the distance. Like a one-night stand; “We’ll be really intimate during the filming, then you’ll take it away and do whatever you want with it, and maybe I’ll see it or not.”

A lot of the guys in the film seem like lifers, but is the hobo dying out because of rails going out or is the lifestyle always gonna be around?
It’s definitely dying. There will always be people riding freights, one way or another, but what there isn’t so much of is the lifer, the professional who is able to make it a sustaining life. That’s true for a lot of reasons.

One, there’s just a lot more security. We live in a police state that’s not as bad as the Soviet Union, but we’re definitely losing civil liberties and certain freedoms of movement in public space. Sure, riding freight trains has always been trespassing, but the margins are definitely shrinking. Also, the economy. There’s not a lot of easy-to-get labor jobs. You need a social security card for everything.

But today the classic hoboes, somebody who travels for seasonal and temporary work, are Latin American illegals. That’s actually a glaring omission in my film, that they're not even alluded to. That’s why my film is not really a documentary. There are a lot of aspects of the culture that I never really get into. Migrant workers, its a great story that I just didn't get on film.

Did they not want to be identified in a film?
Probably no more or no less than regular tramps. But that omission is more about just the limits of film as a medium. An hour-long film doesn’t have that much carrying capacity. You can't put everything into 56 minutes. Even if you jam it pretty tight, it’s nothing like writing. I had such crazy ambitions for the film. It was going to have all these different historical sections: the Depression, the turn of the century, Jack London, Jack Kerouac, the wobblies, contemporary Mexican migrant workers. “Oh no. In one film? All that stuff and try to carry a storyline, too?”

So a lot of the 56 minutes is given over to nurturing the story through, and that meant I had to be less expository, “Here is the classic hobo in 1880.” I had done a lot of research and had crates full of file folders and tons of found footage, boxes and boxes of found footage. And then at one point, I said, “No way, it's just not going to fit into the film." There just wasn't time for all of the historical material. I probably should have made a feature, huh?

What about Bozo Texino – the man - grabbed you? A basic narrative to follow?
That basic narrative locomotion, that was there from the beginning. Even when it was a twelve-minute super-8 film, it was about seeing this image and getting bizarrely infatuated with it, it being the driver for both the narrative and the making of the film itself. Even as the film was spiraling out of control as a humanities documentary, I was still working with this narrative of looking for Bozo. Even when I had all these crazy tangential ideas that never panned out, I always had the same thread working the whole time. I hope that my next projects have some kind of guiding beacon like that, because I’m definitely not the kind of filmmaker that has a script and goes out and executes it.

You also did the installation THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN IN THE MOON (2002-3) along the way, too.
Yep, 2001, that was in the dark time when the film was on the rocks and not making any headway. I decided that I could make an installation out of it. Get my hands on the material and deal with the subject, have a good time and do something that was relatively cheap and easy to do. It turned out of be super fun and it ended up influencing the way I work, “Oh, this is fun, this’ll be a good way for me to work while I’m working on a film, I can make installations with the material along the way rather than get bogged down fundraising or not being able to do anything because I don’t have money or enough material yet.” And that was designed to be mobile and so I ended up touring the shit out of that on a show I did with Vanessa called the Lucky Bum Film Tour, that was 2002 and 2003...

That’s what the Sail Van is, mobile installation. It's the next project, which will hopefully turn into a feature, it’s based on peak oil and environmental collapse and survivalism, a screwed up future of squandered resources. I’ve shot and collected some footage and been doing some installations in that direction. I did one at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts where I built Noah’s Ark out of an RV trailer. I built a wooden double-ended hull and projected videos through the windows of the trailer. One side was the interior, had some photography in there, and the other side was the exterior. That project morphed into the Sail Van, which is my Chevy van with sails on top and I project video onto the sails. This is the thing that I got the Creative Capital grant for and it’s where all my efforts are going to go in the next couple of years. Hopefully by next spring I’ll be touring with the van again. Vanessa and I did a short tour last year called Heart Attack Island. It was a prototype run of the Sail Van.
You should say something about touring, because you’re a professional.
I am now because I don’t have any other income. That’s the definition of a professional. I pushed away from the dock now.

In the beginning, was the idea of touring influenced by Craig and then realizing that you can do it?
Yeah, Craig has been on the circuit for years. Also the model of touring with a film owes a lot to the method of touring with a band. Working for the door, rather than for institutional guarantees.

It’s definitely getting easier, both as the touring network is getting a little more developed and people start to recognize it more. But it doesn’t really fit into the paper very easily, the weekly arts and entertainment paper. It doesn’t really fit into the film section; are they going to fit me in between Mel Gibson and some other epic garbage? The people who are into street culture aren’t going to be looking in that part of the paper and the people who are looking for Mel Gibson – WHO’S BOZO TEXINO? isn’t going to register with them.

You need a feature write-up. Pretty much. The Pick of the Week thing is good because those aren’t specific to discipline. The papers are divided up into such strict genres. Dance, theater, galleries...The world that I'm into doesn’t really fit into one of them. The critic who writes about music or art is more likely to have something to say about my films than the person who has the job reviewing dramatic Hollywood features. The audience who'll go to a temporary venue in a warehouse to see a touring film are not the same people who open the paper to the film section because they have a date on Friday night.

But you’ve had pretty good luck in cities. Even smaller cities seem to be treating you pretty well.
There’s definitely the small town nothing-to-do factor. Circus comes to town and, woo hoo! But even big cities have certain small town dynamics, because there’s all these scenes evolved around certain spaces and certain types of art. In Chicago, you can do five different shows at five different places and not have any overlap.

Is this the end of the interview?

Do we need some kind of climax scene? Resolution? Feel-good ending? Just kiddin’. I will ask that you get my website in there:

top and bottom pics of Bill Daniel by Plante.