Tommy Chong, JBD & a Poolside Sharpie
October 2020, during COVID. As a lifestyle and event photographer there was no work. So, I was forced to go back to a retail job selling cell phones.
One day while at work, I got a call from Jason Harris—aka Jerome Baker. The last time we chatted was at an event in Las Vegas.
I’d been a fan since I was a teenager, admiring JBD’s legendary Motherships, learning about Jason’s apprenticeship under Bob Snodgrass and how he took the name Jerome Baker as a playful nod to Jerry Garcia and getting baked. I never expected him to call me to photograph him with Tommy Chong.
He explained about his collaboration with Tommy on a 20‑piece limited‑edition Mothership line. Each piece featured an original 1970s Tommy Chong Millie inside a glass marble, came in a signed box, red bandana bong bag, and stash jar and needed a photographer to meet them at Tommy’s house in L.A. to shoot him signing all 20 unfolded boxes. Just thinking about it made my heart pound.
My love affair with JBD began years earlier in San Diego, after moving from Jacksonville when my stepfather was stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. I saw one of those Mothership bongs with ice catchers and detailed mushroom marbles—jaw‑dropping. I learned Jason trained under Bob Snodgrass, had to first master the challenge of blowing a mushroom inside a marble before Bob would seriously teach him. That mushroom‑in‑a‑marble became Jason’s signature, and Motherships quickly became cult art in the cannabis world.
Fast forward, JBD was the world’s largest bong maker by the late 1990s, earning Cannabis Cups and innovating heady glass. Then came Operation Pipe Dreams in 2003—a $12 million federal operation targeting 55 paraphernalia makers across the nation. Jason got arrested, placed under house arrest, lost assets, and had his business seized. Tommy Chong also got caught up, ending up with nine months in federal prison, the only one among them to do any hard time for selling bongs online through his son’s company Nice Dreams. I hadn’t heard any of that in the media back then; Jason told me later. That shared history eventually became the link that brought them together.
When I got to Tommy’s house after Jason’s initial greeting and setup, there were only five of us: Tommy, Tommy’s son, Jason, a World Poker Tour producer handling video, and myself. Tommy didn’t sit much—he stood and signed all 20 boxes in black Sharpie, one after another with that trademark grin. Those boxes would later hold the two actual bongs we were photographing, the bandana bags and jars ceremonially beside them.
The house was stunning—lush greenery, amazing rugs, walls full of art, and a baby grand piano I recognized from videos. We shot poolside, though we never swam. The vibe was calm but electric and Tommy was welcoming; me—the longtime fan—documenting this bucket‑list moment.
After the signing, Tommy asked if we’d ever heard how he got into comedy and met Cheech. Jason and I shook our heads—no. He lit up and said he had two job offers: construction worker or being the lighting guy at a strip club. He looked at us both and said, “Can you guess which one I picked?” smiling.
Jason and I smiled and said, “The Strip Club!” Tommy with a large grin said “Yeah! I wanted to see boobies!” That line got us all laughing, but he was serious. After working there for a while, the owner needed an MC when the scheduled one flaked, so he asked Tommy if he would be the MC. He was like sure man and started cracking jokes, got laughs, and soon Cheech started showing up.
Cheech & Chong became friends right away and soon they had the whole place laughing out loud. It got to the point where people started coming to see them rather than the girls. So, the owner gave them one day a week. That turned into 3 days a week, then in 1978 Up in Smoke hit the theaters. That became the birth of Cheech & Chong. During this bucket list moment, I realized I needed to capture this amazing story, so I raised my camera and caught one of my favorite shots ever—Tommy mid‑story, hand raised, eyes alive and intense. It felt hypnotic.
As a child I decided I wanted to collect what I call life achievements. You know what I am talking about, the “I have been there and done that’s”. Each life achievement no matter how big or small, they are added. I am honored to add this bucket list life achievement to the list and look forward to many more.
Epically Unexpected Day in Vegas
Late August 2017 – Las Vegas.
The city buzzed with fight-week chaos. Floyd Mayweather versus Conor McGregor at T-Mobile Arena — “The Money Fight,” boxing legend against MMA champion. I drove in two days early with my camera, chasing the energy around the event.
Fight day, I hit the arena early. Vegas heat beating down, fans were swarming, Irish/ Money Team flags waving and street vendors hustling. I grabbed myself a souvenir sweat towel and wandered the scene. Nothing unique, just crowds, hype and me a little bummed I couldn’t get inside.
That’s when my phone rang! It was a friend from the cannabis industry. She asked me, “What are you doing right now?” voice buzzing. I told her I was outside T-Mobile Arena. She replied, “Get over here, “Now”. I have a surprise.” No details. Just urgency. Knowing her it had to be epic.
I found her in a retail strip mall. She was grinning like she knew the future, standing beside her was a tall man. She hugged me, then introduced us:
“Chris Wheeler — Fotobudz.”
“Big Percy,” he said, shaking my hand.
I didn’t recognize the name — I wasn’t deep into music back then — my friend looked at me like I’d been living under a rock. “Snoop Dogg’s manager,” she whispered. “He’s worked with everyone — Warren G, Tha Dogg Pound, Wiz Khalifa…”
Instant respect. Even before I knew who he was, I could feel Percy’s vibe: cool, grounded, no ego. We talked photography, the fight, the grind of chasing shots.
Then he checked his watch. “I gotta roll. You two should come.”
No explanation. Just that sly grin.
We followed him to the MGM Grand, slipping through a side entrance, corridors rumbling with crowd noise. Percy stopped at double doors and finally revealed the surprise: Ice Cube’s Big3 basketball inaugural season championship — we are here to watch the final quarter.
Doors swung open — arena lights, deafening cheers, retired NBA legends going at it like it was Game 7. Trilogy in red versus 3 Headed Monsters in green. We were maybe five rows from the court. I snapped a few shots but mostly soaked it in.
Trilogy won 51–46. Confetti rained as the buzzer sounded. Suddenly we were on the court, stepping over streamers and shaking hands with players. Less than two hours earlier, I’d been wandering outside T-Mobile, disappointed. Now I was standing center court in championship chaos.
Outside afterward, I thanked Percy and my friend a dozen times. He laughed: “We’re not done yet.”
Process
The next stop: a house party to watch Mayweather-McGregor. Not just any house — an actor’s home, packed with retired NBA players and West Coast music royalty. The vibe was low-key but electric: catered food, coolers of drinks, a flat-screen tuned to the fight. I stayed cool, years of photography taught me blending in beats fanboying every time.
When the main event started, the room came alive. Every jab, every miss, only drew cheers or curses. I shot candid’s — faces mid-yell, hands in the air, Big Percy leaning forward in anticipation. McGregor surprised early; Mayweather closed late. TKO in the 10th, 50–0 record intact. The living room erupted.
After the fight was over, I wanted to use the trick on Big Percy. I walked over while he sat in a chair and asked if I could take his photo. He said, “sure.” I told him what I wanted him to say; he smiled and looked at me funny.
I told him the method behind the madness, and he smiled again. So, I asked him again to tell me to “Go Fuck Myself.” This time I got the look like; I am not saying that (humorously). I caught on without him having to say anything. I told him, “You don’t have to say it out loud. It works the same if you say it in your head”. He smiled acceptingly, so I grabbed my camera and quickly said, “I am paparazzi, tell me to go fuck myself! He lifted his hand with the middle finger raised and a small joint rolled in his fingers, “Click!”
That shot — later converted to black and white — became one of my favorite captures. Raw, real, perfect.
Midnight bled into after-party hours. We rolled up to a strip-mall venue transformed into a West Coast hip-hop throwdown. The lineup: Kurupt, Tha Alkaholiks, LBC Movement and more. The crowd was thick, bass thumping, weed smoke hanging heavy. My all-access wristband got me front row, backstage and access to wherever I wanted.
I shot everything: Tha Alkaholiks bouncing, LBC spitting raw verses, the crowd throwing West Coast signs. It was gritty and intimate, nothing like a polished arena show. Backstage was chaos — laughter, smoke, jars of Moonrock passed around like trophies.
I wanted a close-up photo of Kurupt, I searched all over until I found his green room. As soon as I walked in, I hear someone bark, “If you don’t belong here, get the fuck out!” Instinct took over: I slipped into a corner chair, stayed quiet, acted like I belonged. The door closes and I start shooting candid photos of Kurupt and his crew from my chair.
Then someone shouted, “Yo, camera man — group photo!” Suddenly I was rearranging furniture, directing a room full of rap legends. Kurupt front and center, Moonrock jars raised high. Flashes and laughter broke out. The shots were gold.
By the time we left, dawn was breaking. My feet were wrecked, ears ringing, adrenaline still spiking. I collapsed in bed replaying the day:
Morning — wandering outside an arena.
Afternoon — on a championship court.
Night — watching Mayweather make history with legends.
Late night — backstage with Kurupt, photographing hip-hop royalty.
None of it planned. Every door led to another. Camera in hand, I just kept saying yes.
Even years later, that day feels unreal — a reminder that the wildest stories come when you stay open to chaos. I never know where the camera will take me next, and that’s the best part. Wherever it leads, I’ll be ready — finger on the shutter, soaking it all in.
Seshes to All Access: My Highlife Music Festival Adventure
In 2016, I was juggling real estate photography by day and chasing my passion for cannabis culture by night. I launched @Fotobudz on Instagram to keep my cannabis work separate, documenting Southern California's underground seshes—those wild, pre-legalization pop-ups full of smoke, music, and community. Each event sharpened my eye and expanded my network, but I knew it was time to level up.
That moment came when I bought a VIP ticket to the High Life Music Festival—a full-blown cannabis and hip-hop celebration at the San Bernardino County Fairgrounds. The lineup was stacked: Rick Ross, Waka Flocka Flame, and my personal icons, Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. I didn’t have a press pass. I had no guarantee of access. But I had my camera, a VIP wristband, and a burning need to shoot something bigger.
Around the same time, I saw a Craigslist post from Weedmaps looking for a freelance photographer. I scraped together a DIY studio using cabinet doors, construction paper, and table lamps, shot a mock product session with a Weedmaps hat and vape pen, and sent it in. Then I forgot about it—until I received an email that changed everything. Weedmaps wanted to interview me.
At their Irvine office, I met the team, showed my work, and landed the job. I was now photographing dispensaries across the Inland Empire for one of the biggest names in the industry. Then came the twist: I was sent to shoot a dispensary—which turned out to be the organizers of the very festival I’d bought a ticket to. I kept things professional, proved myself over a few visits, and finally asked the question: could I shoot the event?
They said yes. And just like that, I went from ticket holder to all-access press. I packed my gear, and prepped for the biggest gig of my life.
On event day, I showed up early. Vendors were setting up, the desert sun was beating down, and the crowd was buzzing. My pass opened every door—no lines, full access, and unrestricted photography rights. I networked with vendors, shot the festival grounds, and captured the 4:20 celebration in all its hazy glory.
As night fell and the crowd surged toward the stage, I chatted with security. One guard clued me in on some tips, understandings, and more importantly, how to get on stage. Waka Flocka, Rick Ross and Bone Thugs—I was in the pits, photographing each act from angles I never thought I’d reach. The energy, the lights, the music—it was everything I’d dreamed of shooting.
But the night wasn’t over. With my pass, I found my way backstage. There they were: Bizzy Bone, Wish Bone, Chanel West Coast, just hanging out by the trailers. I didn’t lead with my camera. I lit a joint, kept it casual, and melted into the vibe. Once the moment felt right, I raised my camera and started shooting.
Chanel threw up duck lips. Bizzy posed back-to-back with a friend. I fired off a few frames in tough lighting, praying the shots landed. They did and I left floating—not just from the joint, but from the moment.
That night taught me everything: the value of betting on yourself, of staying ready, of building relationships that matter. I went from warehouse seshes to an A-list music festival with a camera and a plan. That was the day Fotobudz stopped being a side hustle and became my story.
From underground to backstage, I found my place—behind the lens, exactly where I was meant to be.
Behind the Lens: My Journey into Photography
Photography isn’t a job or a hustle—it’s my lifeline. I don’t have to take photos; I get to.
My story with a camera began when I was nine years old in Jacksonville, Florida, during a time when my world was collapsing. Abuse fractured my mind and Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) became the mechanism that helped me survive. In the middle of that chaos, a disposable film camera became my safe place. I’d mow lawns and do odd jobs just to buy more. Every click of the shutter was a small act of control in a life that felt out of control. I was drawn to cracked sidewalks, faded walls, rusting fences—anything that mirrored the mix of beauty and brokenness I felt inside. Those early snapshots were the first steps in my healing, a way to speak without speaking.
When my family moved to San Diego for my stepfather’s Marine Corps transfer, I documented the cross-country drive, chasing new landscapes through the car window. But once we settled, the abuse intensified. My quiet refuge behind the camera gave way to anger and rebellion. For years, my camera sat untouched, my creativity silenced as I focused on surviving each day.
Everything changed decades later, on a trip to Queens, New York. My cousin, a passionate street photographer, showed me her images of the city—raw, alive and electric. Something in me cracked open. With a small $300 point-and-shoot I’d bought on a whim, I started walking the streets, averaging 50 blocks a day for over a week. I chased the glow of skyscrapers at dusk, graffiti-splashed alleys, and the restless blur of yellow cabs. I was in a trance, feeling joy I hadn’t touched in years.
Back in California, I shared those images, and the reaction was overwhelming. They truly loved the images. That encouragement lit a fire. I bought my first DSLR, a Nikon D3300, and dove headfirst into learning. I devoured tutorials, studied compositions, and discovered my love for juxtaposition—light vs. dark, decay vs. life. Without realizing it, I was rebuilding my artistic voice one frame at a time.
The name “Fotobudz” came next—a playful blend of “photo” and “buds”—and it quickly became more than an Instagram handle. It was my artistic identity. I gravitated toward “Time-Lost” places—abandoned in the eyes of others but still breathing history. I made it my mission to find beauty in decay and light in darkness. Negativity had no place in my lens; even in documenting harsh realities, my goal was to tell the story, not glorify the pain.
Hungry to grow, I enrolled in the photography program at Mount San Jacinto College. Around the same time, I upgraded to my first full-frame camera—a Nikon D800 with a Tokina wide-angle lens. At first, that single lens felt like a limitation, but mastering it taught me patience, precision, and the art of perspective. Adding a 70–200mm telephoto opened a whole new world, letting me capture both vast architecture and intimate details.
Eventually, I left the cell phone industry and jumped into full-time photography, starting with real estate work. It was enough to survive, but barely. This lasted for about a year before the jobs started to run out. That is when a low point unexpectedly became a pivot. I took my camera to an underground cannabis event in San Diego and saw an entire world bursting with stories. I focused on the vendors—capturing their products, their pride, their hustle—and built relationships that opened doors. Soon I was everywhere: San Diego, LA, the Inland Empire, even Las Vegas, photographing events, brands, and artists.
Today, Fotobudz is more than a name—it’s my art, my therapy, and my purpose. My lens has taken me from abandoned factories to bustling festivals, from silent decay to moments of human resilience. Every image is a step in my healing, a tribute to the boy who found safety behind a disposable camera and the man who refused to put it down again.
Photography is my privilege and my passion. I don’t just take pictures—I preserve stories, honor time, and turn pain into purpose. And the journey continues, one frame at a time.