Scott Fisher (left) his puppy Osso, and Frank Capanear. Brian Smith Scott Fisher (left) his puppy Osso, and Frank Capanear. In the event that you can pull the damn trailer off the RV parcel, the man said, you can have it. In this way, Frank and his running bud Scott dragged away that old '70s explorer and thudded it on a trailer parcel close to Roger Road and Fairview. Honest had leased the part for $200 every month on a circular drive encompassed by tin storehouses, greater singles and truck repair tucson doublewides, tangles of vehicles and infrequent family things as yard adornments. In Frank's eyes, the dismal, sun-blurred trailer was his new home. A while later the trailer surprises where it sits, an elaborate rubbish store salvation. Like a set piece on some Burbank backlot for a 1940's Robert Mitchum war picture, or a powerful festival fascination you'd half-hope to ascend and whirl around, Frank and Scott the cagey barkers consistently outside it. Blunt's day by day life of late is frequently overcome with continuous trailer fix and redesign. His scrim of beard growth, the missing teeth, eyes wrinkled in endless sun squint, the slight bent-legged developments (a grappler's penance and insane injury-inclined appendages—we'll get to that), all dead giveaways to life spent generally outside in everlastingly desert sun and residue. However, the fella is pushing 60, yet looks more like a person of 45 with a background marked by battered streets. There's childhood and vim in his track, a child like nasal to his voice, a sharpened feeling of parody (check his green Ralph Lauren polo cap and ARMY tee), and a face communicating hard-won consideration. He's the sort of fellow who'll apologize on the off chance that he swears, drop a King Solomon reference as a sentence sugar while speaking his fights with Natives over water powered mining or riding his bicycle crosscountry or developing weed in the Catalinas as a youngster. Presently Frank meticulously splash painted the whole wheeled house in mint greens, jades, yellows and maroons—the strong tones of camo to mirror his help of war veterans, just compared in weedy botanical outlines. Tall grass pulled from the yard and rear entryway filled in as shower over layouts, and plastic greenery trees welcome guests at the entryway. Forthright Capanear: "I'm 'Gilligan's Island,' the more crude it is, the more I like it." - BRIAN SMITH Brian Smith Blunt Capanear: "I'm 'Gilligan's Island,' the more crude it is, the more I like it." On the off chance that he splashes points on the grass perfectly, the paint takes on euphoric lines and shadows of nature, backwoods scenes, you could say. It is radiant road workmanship, complicit by one way or another, a dissent quietly shouting, "this is the existence we pick." It is an outside of his inside ways of thinking, both individual and widespread. Indeed, home as an evergreen craftsmanship project, an invite blast of shading and caprice to the environmental factors. Neighbors don't say anything negative, they appreciate such invigorating point of interest. For a person with zero involvement with spray painting workmanship, nothing gets away from Frank's consistent hand, even the propane tanks all through the trailer.