Poles and Lines

Next to the tracks:



Yes, I'm sure you've noticed that this telegraph pole in the foreground is the very same one featured the other day. I hope you like these photos, since shot another roll in black and white on the SWC which I've yet to develop. It's the least I can do to show respect to the camera and the film to post a few of the pictures I took. I don't know how that last sentence makes any sense at all.

The four of us stood in the church parking lot, one of us taking a much needed break from hearing the repeated sincerities from well-wishers, which only wear one down even further It was the first time the four of us had been in the same place at the same time in nine years. We've known each other collectively for over 20 years, and some of the individual, non-related connections extend 35 years into the past and longer. But there we stood in our Sunday bests like no time had passed at all, even if our faces were more wrinkled, and our hair more gray — those of us that still have hair, that is.

We reflected on happier and stranger times — times we didn't know were strange as they were happening. We just accepted them as normal. And here we were all these years later each on his own path trying to make it as best we can in the little worlds we've carved out. It's a shame that it sometimes has to take a tragedy to gather people together that have never stopped loving each other.

I know what I'm saying isn't exactly groundbreaking or original. I think it was explored in that 80s movie where Kevin Costner played the corpse, or that more recent Adam Sandler movie whose name I actually do remember (oh yeah, The Big Chill) but won't drag down this blog (if that's even possible) by mentioning it here. But it don't make it not true.

We're hoping to get together again sometime in the next few weeks, while we're still all in the tri-state area. There's talk of a barbecue, far from starched shirts and complimentary post-funerary lemonade. Just to sit on a deck with your feet up on the railing, a 16oz cup of Coke in your hand, the aroma of cooking meat filling the air, and having absolutely no rush to be anywhere except in the company of others you hold so dear.

We won't be there because we want to, but because we have to.

Porsche

Okay all you SWC fans, you were clamoring for it, now here it is:


I'll admit, I still have a bit of a learning curve when it comes to the SWC. I have to get used to having such a wide angle at my disposal. I have to get used to adjusting my distance blindly (though I'm already used to that with the Nettar). I have to get used to what a 90 degree field of vision actually means when I'm blindly setting up a shot, since I'm not using the included viewfinder. Who knows what kind of parallax error the thing's got (even if it is a Hasselblad). But with any "new" old camera, you have to put plenty of rolls through it to really get a feel for what you're doing with it. Or maybe that's just me, and other people can pick up newold cameras and walk off with the Pulitzer any time they like.

Telegraph

If Lady Gaga were alive 150 years ago, do you think she and Beyonce would get together to record "Telegraph?"


I think this might be my first non-NYC photo on this here site. It was taken in New Jersey, along an unused rail line in my old hometown. This was also taken with the Rolleiflex (don't worry Hass fans, I'll be posting pics from the SWC, I promise!). God damn, I do love that slide film.

Across the street from the tracks is actually some decent housing, though the garbage on the tracks was definitely vintage. This included a can of Bud Dry (remember the dry beer craze kids?), a can of Pepsi celebrating the 1984 Jacksons tour (I think even before they were calling it the "Victory" tour, since "Victory Tour" wasn't on the can, just facsimiles of their autographs), and one even more ancient crushed Pepsi can with a pull-tab. Pepsi was representing back in the day, apparently.

Clouds

Usually found in the sky, such as these:


They were above Washington Square Park last Saturday. This photo, like the one in the previous entry, was taken with the Rolleiflex. I do have shots from the SWC ready to go, hopefully debuting tomorrow .

Does anybody know what color my photo is? It's little things like this where color blindness can be a hindrance.

Amanda

Amanda and I noticed each other, but for different reasons. I noticed her because she was selling photographs in Washington Square Park last Saturday. She noticed the camera around my neck, which was a Hasselblad SWC (one of my two new acquisitions). We then each showed and told, me and my cameras (I had my other new acquisition with me too, a Rolleiflex — 75mm Tessar 3.5), she and her art (film photography, and pretty damned good at that). She's at Tisch for Film and Television, and by all accounts she's going to last longer there than I did (which really isn't too hard. I was in and out of there like a teabag, though I'm still proud to this day to say that I got into NYU undergrad for film, even if I'm not currently making movies).

The photo was taken with the Rolleiflex, and was actually the second shot of my very first roll through the camera. I think camera and subject came together to make a pretty great image.

Bad Luck Spot

by Felix Morelo:


Stand in the Bad Luck Spot at your own risk.

Grand Central

Not at ground level:


Strange times. They come in all forms. Strange, sad, and surreal. Almost beyond comprehension, yet needing to be faced.

I just received some very sad news. This is not the place for me to discuss it, yet I can't not acknowledge the emotional place this news has put me as I type these words.

But there I go again, always making it about me, when this isn't really about me at all. And yet I'm greatly affected by it, and greatly saddened.

It's a weird, weird thing. But all I can do is support, and love, and be there if need be. I'm not sure what that means when someone says, "I'll be there for you." It's too often a very hollow sentiment. But not now. Whatever "there" means, whatever definition it's given, whatever it is defined to me, if I'm so called upon, I'll be there.

I'm the edge of this, you see. I'm not at ground zero. This isn't my tragedy, but it's pretty damned close. And there's nothing worse than seeing people you love suffer, and trying to do anything and everything for them, yet only to know that ultimately they have to get through their sorrows alone. That's the saddest thing of all.

Hang in there Buckaroo. I'll be seeing you soon.

Grand Central

At ground level:


I really like this woman's right leg. It looks like a tornado that's roping out in it's final death throes, albeit a very short, thin tornado that happens to be happening indoors, albeit a large indoor space but indoors nevertheless. I like how I used "albeit" twice in that sentence. That was an artistic choice.

I also like how it looks like that she has no leg going into her shoe, like she has a prosthetic leg and it's just a rod going into a ball-joint down there. It reminds me of this dude I used to sit next to in my Roman history class at Columbia. I was taking notes and looking down, I noticed that he didn't have an ankle, just a shiny rod disappearing into his sneaker. Before every class he would eat a yogurt with this special metal spoon. One day he handed it to me and said, "Guess whose spoon this was." It was heavy, and sterling silver.

"I don't know...Joey Spoons, the Spoon King of Spoonville?"

"Saddam Hussein's."

The dude was a vet. His foot got blown off by an IED in Iraq, but he got Saddam's spoon. I'm not sure that's an even trade.

There were a lot of vets of the current wars at school, and their take on their take on the situation was as varied as something that's really really varied. Take my leg-deprived acquaintance. He was completely behind the action, GWB all the way. He felt we went in there for the right reasons and were doing good. I wonder if he still feels that way four years later.

This other dude I knew, a Marine who was part of the invasion force, was probably the biggest Hillary Clinton for President supporter I ever met. He also took home some booty from one of Saddam's palaces — a tea set. We had a class together and he went M.I.A. for a month or so. When he came back he said he had a PTSD breakdown. He went straight from the battlefield to the ivy leagues without even a break.

I knew another guy who was completely indifferent to the situation. He wasn't part of any invasion force, but worked on a Marine base after things had been cleared out a bit. He said his scariest moment was when one of his fellow Marines accidentally pointed a rifle at his testicles during the confusion of a mortar shelling.

And then there was this one other dude. He was Army, also in the invasion force. We were out one night and I forgot how it came up but it was mentioned that even though he was honorably discharged, he could still be called back for combat duty. This didn't faze him too much. "If they call me back, that means I get to kill more Arabs." He then went on to describe how easy it was to kill Arabs over there, and went into detail about shooting from the hip in complete darkness with a laser sight and night vision goggles, and getting headshots every time. I still can't say whether I was more horrified or fascinated to imagine this man I had already known for two years or so as Lt. Col. Kilgore.

These are the veterans in your neighborhood...

Simon

Earlier, we met Simon's artwork, sans Simon. Here we have the work and the artist posing together. For more about Simon and the art he displays to sell, you can check out his site.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how the dead get frozen in time.

I had a friend, a close friend. A dear friend. He died 15 years ago at 27. He's been dead longer than the entirety of my knowing him in life. I think about those of us who have kept ourselves alive, moving forward, aging...and I wonder how he would have aged along with us. I don't doubt that we wouldn't still be friends, even if we didn't talk all the time. Some of the people I consider myself closest to today, most fond of, I don't speak to enough. But I suppose that's part of pushing forward into this world, as we find our ways as best we can. It's easy to forget the support we got and support we gave to those closest to us. We take these things for granted, even if we don't mean to and don't even realize it.

It's weird to think of him stuck in time at age 27, especially since he was older than me. Now I have 13 years on him, and it's hard for me to think of being friends with him at that age. Not that it's hard for me to consider being friends with people younger than me, but him especially, since he didn't make the trip with the rest of us.

He'll always be stuck there.

If anything, the whole experience made me realize the importance of telling the people that mean the most to you in your life how you feel about them. Tell them that you love them, not because you were prompted by some holiday or birthday celebration, just tell them. Just say it. It doesn't have to be this constant thing, but just remind yourself how much someone special really means to you, and then let them know it. Tell somebody you love them.

I have to make a phone call.

Andriana

This is Andriana jazzing it up a bit for the camera. She was also set up on Monday "for display only" in Union Square. She makes wearable art (no, it's definitely not "jewelry," because that's illegal) out of old vinyl records (aren't vinyl records pretty much old by definition at this point?). You can see some of them around her neck. They're mostly for women, though she does have a few "mandants" as she calls them to cater to the less than fair sex.

Okay, I'm having a burning headache. How incredibly unpleasant!

Hwang

It was just the other day, Monday to be exact, that i came to the park to take a picture of the dead space left in the wake of the artists' removal. I don't know who noticed each other first, Hwang or myself. I thought he was a photojournalist there to document the first day of Bloomberg's new rules. But it turned out that he was just a tourist hailing from South Korea who has very good taste in cameras, whether it was his own digital behemoth, or the YashMat hanging around my neck. Of course, I was stopped down a bit too much, so when he finally sees this I'm sure he'll realize what I'm sure he already knows, is that it's not the instrument, but the person behind the instrument that counts.

Speaking of instruments, I picked up some new old instruments today, thanks to the generosity of my grandmother who still sees fit to throw her grandson a few bucks on the occasion of his birthday. This isn't anything new, but usually whenever she gives me money for a birthday (or winter holiday) it ends up in the bank just long enough to clear so I can write another check to some credit card company. I never get frivolous with dough I should be frivolous with. So this year I let loose a little, and made some purchases I normally wouldn't make during the non-festive times of the year. I'm sure in the coming weeks I'll be introducing images made from said instruments. Though as I think I mentioned in the previous paragraph, it's all about the guy (or gal) framing up the shot and pushing the button.

For Display Only

So maybe yesterday I said I'd be starting off today with some more traditional, "Hey Nice Camera" people pictures, but I think this might be my favorite picture on the roll:


If the wind hadn't kicked up, or if I had waited until it wasn't really windy, then this picture would have been much better, but I'm reasonably happy with the composition.

This was set up in Union Square Park yesterday by Simon, making the point that it is legal to set up anywhere in the park and display art as long as it's not for sale, hence the "For Display Only" sign letting you know that the "FOR SALE" paintings are on display only. I was happy to see this.

Though today one of the Union Square artists got a $250 ticket by a park cop saying she needed a permit just to display her art — which is total bullshit. She'll beat it of course, but it's a shame that the park cops don't even know or care what the rules are or how they're supposed to be enforced. Yesterday, none of the artists who were set up for display only got tickets (as they shouldn't have).

For display only.

Platform

This is the 7 platform in Times Square. I was either going to or coming back from (more likely the latter) a game at Citi Field:


No Das Boot or ice cream sodas last night. Just a little bit of Aguirre, Wrath of God.

This whole Bloomberg deal has gotten me down. It's also reading all the stupid responses by readers to the various articles posted online, like on the Times site for example. The majority of the people selling out there are creators of their own art. They're people who decided that they didn't want the 9-5 world and wanted to strike out on their own, making a living on their terms by selling their creations. It's not just a matter of money. That's just half of it. The other half is having the satisfaction that some total stranger has a connection with something the artist has created and that stranger is compelled to buy it. The feeling one gets when they see that their art has touched another human being is equal to any monies being made, if not more. That's what people don't understand. And now the artists have been reduced in number and pushed to the periphery of the park. But they'll fight, and hopefully will keep on fighting.

It's so easy to lose steam and momentum in the nascent stages of a movement. You have all that piss and vinegar in the beginning, but once you piss out all that vinegar you get complacent and give up. This can't happen here, especially with a legal process that could last for who knows how long. One or two years? I have no idea.

IN THE "HEY NICE CAMERA" DEPARTMENT:
I got some people shots today that I should have back tomorrow. I feel like it's been a really long time since I had a shot that somewhat conforms to the tenets that this site was built on. I just checked, it was June 30th. So assuming the E-6 machine at the lab wasn't on the fritz, we'll have some exciting and new people to look at.

C'est tout.

DY-NO-MITE!

You could call him Al. Or maybe just Mrs. Nobel got to call him that. Either way, I bet she doesn't have a plaque:


I'm sure I could think up some sexist joke as to the reason why he invented dynamite, but I've done enough damage with offensive words for one month.

Long day today. I think I'm going to have a cream soda and vanilla ice cream float for dinner, followed by a viewing of the five hour long version of Das Boot. Because when I'm tired and full of ice cream and soda and wondering why my stomach is hurting and lamenting that I didn't get a "real" dinner, I want to be reading subtitles of a German movie.

"Ist this nicht das unterseeboot?"

"Ja! Das ist un unterseeboot!"

I apologize for mangling, if not destroying the German language, which is known for its lilting beauty and softness as it rolls off the tongue.

Invictus

Well, for the second day in the row the title of the blog post doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the picture, but when have I ever let something like that stop me:


So why Invictus?

It's a poem I've been thinking a lot about lately, especially with all that's going on in the NYC artist community (as discussed in yesterday's post). It was written by William Ernest Henley, when he was sick in the hospital and was told he was on his deathbed. Facing his mortality but refusing to back down, so born was Invictus.

But the poem pretty much has a bad rap now, since it was quoted by Timothy McVeigh right before they gave him the blue juice. But I've always been of the mind that we can't let one domestic terrorist co-opt this message of defiance and hope.

Instead of the salty language and emotion of yesterday's post, I present Henley's Invictus, something that every artist in the city who is now facing an uncertain future (thanks to Mayor Bloomberg) should keep close to their heart.

INVICTUS

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Mayor Bloomberg is a CUNT

You may wonder why I gave this photograph the above title when it clearly has nothing to do with what said title is suggesting. It's just a shot outside of Bloomingdale's on a weekday:


Well, it's not so much of a title than an emotional outburst, and perhaps a childish one at that. Yet I stand by my statement. I don't know if I want to get into the whole thing here, but basically, the lives of a lot of artists that depend on their usual places to sell their wares and make their livings are going to change drastically on Monday. He's gotten his way. He's successfully culled the amount of artists that have been setting up in various parks around the city for YEARS. An injunction hearing was held last week, and this evening news came that the injunction was rejected. So now a lot of people's livelihoods are about to change. I could go on, but I've spilled enough ire onto the computer for one night. Today is a sad day for free expression in this city.

I should probably consider this in evolutionary terms.

The environment (or niche) that the artists have been living in has been altered. Now the artists can either go off and find a new niche, adapt, or go extinct. The last one is not an option. The first two will take some figuring out. But the one thing I've been saying all along is that the artists of NYC will find a way, Bloomberg or no Bloomberg.

There is hope. In all the previous lawsuits brought against the city by the artists, the city has lost, even when an injunction was denied. Though I have no idea how long this next bit of legal wrangling will take, and who knows how the artists will cope in the meantime. There's going to be strange times ahead.

But I repeat, the artists will find a way.

They have to.

Dad

I mean, if he's the father of our country, why don't we call him "Dad?" He's more than just a bridge connecting NJ and NY, so why don't we treat him as such:


Oh yeah, Dad was also a surveyor, and a slave owner! Who would have thought that over 200 years after George took the oath of office to be president of these here United States that a black man, perhaps descended from slaves owned by our first president (or our third president, or our fourth president, or our fifth president, or our seventh president) could sit in the very spot where that oath was taken and celebrate the legacy of hardship and emancipation culminating with the election of Barack Obama by having an inane, unnecessary conversation on a cell phone just like anybody else.

FISHAMAJIG RUSHDIE!
I was waiting to get that out of my system all day. I'm officially done with that bit. I hope.

General Electric

This building is one of those wonderful deco masterpieces that gets lost in the shuffle of the other more popular buildings of NYC:


Today when you walk through the doors you end up in a restaurant. It's some kind of nouveau-Asian joint I think. I want to say Mr. Chow, but maybe not. That's besides the point. Then again, I don't know what the point is, especially when I'm distracted by my cable going in and out of service when I'm trying to watch the latest episode of Top Chef, followed by that art competition show and the last thing I want to be doing tonight is spending time on the phone with an RCN representative telling me to do everything that I've already done like unplugging the cable box and re-plugging in the cable box and all those other things they have on their flowcharts that you've already done.

I still can't believe Padma used to go with what'shisface, you know, that the Ayatollah wanted to kill. Rushdie! Yes, Salmon (salmon?) Rushdie. Salmon Rushdie? Big Mouth Bass Rushdie? Muskellunge Rushdie?

I'll stop now before this goes on for another hour....

Water Level

Taken at the level that the water was shooting straight up out of the fountain:


So guess what...I actually developed film today! Like two rolls, even! That's why you're seeing this exciting picture of water instead of another trip to the archives, or me pouring over (poring over?) a year's worth of negatives to get something semi-interesting up here. Or even something not even interesting at all.

Speaking of something not interesting at all, I think this post is contributing to that very thing.

Yes, I'm tired.

Trés fatigue.

LMFAO

No, that's not an acronym for what I'm doing right now. It's the name of a musical aggregation (well, I guess they're more of a duo than an aggregation), comprised by those two slightly darker complected dudes with lots o' hair:


Mind you, I had no idea who they were as I was walking along Union Square West last fall (I think) with my pale blue Starflash at the ready, but they were drawing enough attention to themselves (even without their video crew) to merit a photo or two. Here's the second photo, illustrating all the shortcomings of what even 50 years ago was a cheap camera:


The one mugging for the camera greatly approved of the film camera.

Now I didn't realize that these people were anybody until I saw them on MTV, during the end credits of Jersey Shore. I've since learned that the song they were performing was called "Shots," the premise of which being that ingesting shots of alcohol is fun, and if you give women enough shots they will perform various sexual acts on you. According to the unfailingly correct Wikipedia, one of those dudes is Berry Gordy's son. So we can see this progression from "My Girl," to "I Second That Emotion," to "Aint No Mountain High Enough," and finally culminating with SHOTS.

God bless us, everyone.

Corner Bistro

Sometimes people just happen to be walking out the door when you're taking a shot, and sometimes you take the shot just the same:


And after you take the shot you pretend that you didn't realize that you just took his picture even though you know you just took his picture and turn around and amble down the street.

God played a joke on me today, just to remind me that he's up there, even if I'm not entirely sure if he's up there at all. So I was out and about today, as I'm known to do on occasion. I must have looked approachable because a group of young people approached me and said, "Sir, do you know where the so and so movie theater is?" I knew exactly where it was and sent them on their way. Yet one thing lingered after they moseyed along to see god knows what.

"Sir."

I'm just a little over one day into being 40 and I'm already being called "Sir." And it wasn't one of those ironic "Sirs." Those kids looked too young to know what irony is (and I'm not saying that's a bad thing). Just yesterday I was on the phone with my friend George, who's 8.5 years older than me and was giving me the rundown on what I should expect from my 40s. He mentioned that people would call me "Sir." I just didn't think it would happen so damned fast. So thanks God, for the reminder.

I'm going now. I have to go sit on my porch and yell at young people.

Son of a bitch.

Contemplative

I'd say something is quite vexing to this young girl:


Where does contemplation end and self-absorbtion begin? How is it possible not to think about yourself, or not put yourself first in your thoughts? How did we get to this place where we cast our lots out into the world and hope that somehow they come back to us via some kind of electronic message? What kind of world will this girl be living in in 10 years, when she's 13 or so and today's age of constant information will seem like the quiet years? How did we get to the point when it's now considered rude to interrupt a person on the phone while they're walking down the street?

I feel like I want to write a story here, but reticence is getting the better of me. Or maybe it's just the desire to engage in some self-contemplation that I'm not yet ready to share with the unwashed masses of the internet, or maybe not even share them at all. Maybe with the clouds outside and the air conditioner on, I just want to sit here in silence for a while, lulled ever closer to a nap by its hum. I'll grab a notebook and a pen, get on the couch, and lazily write until I slip out of consciousness.

Veni, Vidi, Sleepy.

A Ride Into the Past

And not my past, but a past that came to me via a roll of V620 that I developed. I'm guessing this is also from sometime in the 1960s, just like the other roll I put up. Though to my knowledge there is no connection between the rolls other than that I got them at the same time. But enough talking already, let's check it out in the order they were taken:

Who can't smile when they're sitting on a horse wearing a bowler:


Much as I'd like to think that this is Stan Laurel, I know it isn't. Also, when examined more closely, the rider appears to be female.

Now there's no question as to the femininity of these riders, nor to the fact that they're proud of what they've won:


While the one in the front is pretty slick in her shades, there's something about the one in the back with that wide, honest smile. And she's got a ribbon in addition to the trophy too.

Now I don't think this guy participated in any competitions that day:


I was trying to think of some kind of Cesar Chavez joke, but how do you joke around about Cesar Chavez. You just can't.

Here's another picture of the young lady with the great smile, the trophy and the ribbon:


Maybe if I did a higher resolution scan I might be able to make out what's written on the ribbon.

This next series of shots seem to be taken in another location and on a cloudier day. Though with all the horse shots we just saw, I look at this house and wonder if that's where the lawn jockey lives. You know, because he's so small:


Or maybe it's just one of Arthur Jackson's sheds.

Nobody puts chicken in the corner! But if the chicken walks there willfully, then there's no controversy:


Maybe it was just saying hello to that coniferous looking tree over there.

Now here is perhaps the same, but maybe another chicken looking stately and reasonably focused:


I love the look of this shot. It makes me think that the camera that took this might have been a Medalist, and I'm not just saying that because it's one of my shooters Okay, maybe I am a little partial.

And finally we're left with half a horse. No, it's actually most of the horse, but this end of the roll shot only half made the journey through time:


So as the sun pulls away from the shore and our boat sinks slowly in the west...oh wait, that's another signoff entirely. Let me try some kind of non-Spike Jones ripoff, or for that matter a Fitzpatrick travelogue and sign off in my own manner.

So folks, we've come to the end of another vintage roll of film, its images locked away for who knows how many decades until about a month ago, and which went unscanned for upload until this day of our lord July 9, 2010.

Abi gezunt.

Nighttime Arch

Yes, here's something you've never seen before on this site...a picture of the arch. Imagine that! At least this is at night:


Yeah, I know.

I've gots to raise my game. These posts have been relatively game-free lately. I haven't brought it, I left it somewhere. Or maybe having cupcakes for breakfast instead of something healthy might have had something to do with it. I've noticed that the older I get, the more of an impact my diet has on my body, and how I can go about my "daily life activities." I now understand why your parents always have a hard-on for you to have a good breakfast, since they're old enough to feel it. They forget that when you're a kid (or maybe up to your mid-30s or so), you can go on just intentions alone. Now I need some food, but nothing too heavy at this hour (god, how old am I?). I think this is a good time for one of my usual late night snacks, a ginger ale and one of those vanilla cake sprinkle covered cookies that they sell at the deli that are just wrapped in plain old saran wrap without even a label.

That's me alright, always caring about what I put down my gullet.

Come away with me Lucille, in my merry Oldsmobile...

Phase Two

No, I am not referring to the second album by The Jimmy Castor Bunch. Though now that I've mentioned them I can't get the song Say Leroy (The Creature From The Black Lagoon Is Your Father) out of my head, but I don't consider that a bad thing since they bring it so damned hard. No, this is Phase Two of the renovation of Washington Square Park, taken about a month and a half ago. Or maybe it was two months ago:


I cleverly stuck the lens of the Nettar through a space in the chain link fence keeping us parkgoers safe from that statue of Garibaldi that somehow moved from its usual spot, though you can see a bit of fence link in the upper right hand corner.

I forgot if I've posted on this blog my discontent at the whole redoing of the park. I'm not saying it didn't need a sprucing up, but they didn't have to move the damned fountain 17 feet just so it would be in line with 5th ave. But now it's out of line with Thompson, which when you looked north from Thompson to the park, the fountain was lined up perfectly. At least they had the sense to fix it in two separate "phases," so the thing wouldn't be entirely closed, but they're saying that Phase Two (electric boogaloo) will be finished in the fall, just in time for summer to be over.

Okay, I'm running out of steam really fast right now...

à demain...

Matt (sitting)

Matt sells postcards of New York city, but they're not your everyday New York City postcards. As you can see, they catch the eye(s) of potential customers:


You see, he also takes pictures of people and places. Well, they're more like people in places. I don't mean like inside places, but a place being a street or an overall scene if you will. I mean, they're candid shots, but not in the Allen Funtian sense.

But far be it from me to try to describe with words what he does when you can go to his website, and realize that my description of his work is a gross injustice to the actual product.

Flags

I bet you thought I'd have some kind of alternate title for this post, but no. Who says you can't be both gay and a proud American:


I spent a long time outside today, sweating in a way I haven't sweated since I first sweated sweat. I am bereft of energy and mind. Therefore you get this trip into the past, back when the gay pride parade was a little less commercial, though I already made a post about that in this thing.

Tomorrow I should be back with more current material.

Little Girl

The little girl held the hand of her classmates as they walked in tandem, she staring straight ahead and mouth agape, stepping into her future:


I think I almost had a, "Have You Seen Her" moment with that opener up there.

I saw a woman walking down the street tonight. She was middle aged. White. Walking with a limp. Her tan pants were soaked from the crotch to her shoes. I wanted to ask her if she needed any help, but only said nothing as I walked past. I stopped and turned to watch her progress, and berate myself for not caring enough for my fellow man to get involved. She slowly crossed the street, and turned herself to traverse the cross street. A police car drove by, not noticing her. I thought about flagging it down, but what would I say, that there's a slow-walking, limping woman whose pissed herself? Is that cause enough to get the police involved? She didn't look homeless or anything, she would have gone completely unnoticed if she were continent and walking briskly. Though she went unnoticed in her present state too. Or she was noticed and passed by so many people, myself included, still with our guards up, not wanting to get involved, and when that day comes when we turn to a stranger for aid and he turns away, we won't wonder why.

What Are YOU Looking At?

You want to mess with that dog? I don't think so. That's like the Frank Booth of dogs over there:


I'm foregoing various espousals of wisdom from Frank Booth after considering yesterday's exercise in vulgarity I should maybe put up a post with not so much of the salty language that's so popular with today's youth culture. Was that even a proper, coherent sentence without even a single comma, or am I on crack? You know what, don't answer that.

But you know that dog doesn't drink Heineken...

YOU ARE A CUNT

Depending on who you ask, that might not necessarily be the nicest thing in the world to say. Though I suppose whoever wrote it felt they can't be responsible for how others react to the words on the wall:


Now as for my experience with the writing on the wall, it made me smile. Hell, liked it so much I even took a photograph of it. It's not a word that causes me any consternation. Hell, cunt passes from my lips on a regular basis. You can interpret that last sentence as you like.

I think this post might be as far from Dale Carnegie as I'll ever get (then again, there's always tomorrow).

I'd write more, but I have to get back to watching one of my all-time favorites, The Wizard of Oz. I still can't decide which I like better, the Lullaby League or the Lollipop Guild...

In Harm's Way

No, John Wayne and Patricia Neal aren't in this shot, though there is a very young and scared boy who just fell down in the middle of the street pointing at the car just out of frame:


Even though they were walking with the light, I'm sure it was still somewhat terrifying to fall down in the middle of the street and getting yanked up so violently by the woman who's now trying to get her charges out of harm's way as quickly as possible.

I took this with the Yashmat, which among its many features is a fixed lens. So I took the liberty to do some cropping with the more dramatic elements of the image.

Here's the square format crop, keeping true to the 6x6 original:


I also went a bit more modern with a 7x5 crop:


I think rectangular works better for this one, though I still have to figure out what to do with the figure in blue on the left, since no matter where my left side border is, some part of her will be in the frame. For this I put in a little sliver of her just so it didn't seem like there was this disembodied arm in the shot. Or maybe that would have worked.

Maybe that's the problem with photography in the digital age....too many choices presenting themselves too easily to the user!

Decisions, decisions...