Roommates

Sometimes friends and family will ask why the three of us didn't just remain roommates in our first house at 527 E. Park Ave. The answer is because Dillon, Jeff, and myself had what some might consider to be too much fun.

Luckily, we're all reasonably productive people.

It was always a creative environment, though.


Borderline stupid, at times.


We found ways to entertain ourselves. Obviously, using the least amount of necessary stitches along the way.


Dillon and I even managed to find a way to make the best out of community service.


These aren't real.

When we did get arrested it was for littering and disorderly conduct. It was 10 a.m and we were listening to metal music on our way out to the beach to go surf. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to throw the empty glass bottle of a Starbucks frapaccino at a speed limit sign. Apparently, someone else on the road called the cops and told them we were throwing beer "bottles" at "signs," plural.

We made it all the way to the parking lot next to the pier, suited up, and were running toward the water when the cops showed up. Dillon and I were arrested. Once we were sitting inside our cell in Tybee Jail, all we could think about was that annoying squeak echoing from our wetsuits rubbing against the uncomfortable cell-beds.


When Jeff wasn't involved in the trouble he was usually behind the camera catching those precious moments before and after you hear it.

"Bail, dude!"