The Andy Monument

At 17th and Broadway:


I had no idea there would be a blazing chrome statue of Andy Warhol at 17th and Broadway until I happened upon it one day. And you know, I finally thought that some good use was being put to one of the many stupid pedestrian malls Bloomberg is shoehorning into the city. Then of course, I hear that the statue is only temporary, and will be removed in October. Thanks Mayor Bloomfuckshitcocksucker (yes, I believe that really is his name. He comes from a long line of Bloomfuckshitcocksuckers).

Study Picnic

in Washington Square Park:


Unlike my photo from the previous day, these two gals did consent to having their picture taken.

"Gals?"

Taken on the Sly

In Washington Square Park:


I like the look on her face. It's like she's looking over her shoulder and is just seeing Godzilla yet it still hasn't registered that Monster Island's most famous resident is bearing down on her, eyes a-blazing and breath a-flaming.

He picks up a bus and throw it back down,
as he wades through the buildings towards the center of town...

Teo

I've actually known Teo for quite some time. I knew him from Mars Bar. Neither of us hang out there anymore and I'll say with all certainty that we're much better off for it. He's an artist, and uses found objects as the canvas for his creations (you can see them in the background). He used to set up at University and 11th, but had to move once that building went under construction to be occupied by a trendy burger joint (still under construction). I wondered what had happened to Teo until I ran into him on the east side of 6th Avenue between 4th and Washington Place. It's his new home or gallery if you will. So if you happen to be in the neighborhood, drop by and say hello. Maybe even help support a man making a living from his art why don't you.

Oh, and there wasn't any extolling of the Nettar because I took these with the YashMat. But there's plenty left from the Nettar to come.

Name Forgotten (III)

Well, the title may not be entirely correct. I think his name might have been Juan. I do remember it was a Spanish name, which seemed incongruous with his Australian accent. Regardless, he was very very nice. In the background is his wife and their seven week old daughter who were being sketched by an unseen sketch artist (I guess I don't have to say "unseen," it's pretty obvious there's no sketch artist in the picture). And no, they weren't tourists, they live here.

I am happy that I got the focus spot on with the Nettar with this shot. How many days in a row can I extol the virtues of this camera?

We'll find out together, won't we.

Name Forgotten (II)

I was down to my last shot on the Nettar and determined not to leave the park without finishing up the roll. I had seen this woman sitting against the chain link fence for some time, and I eventually got up the courage to ask this complete stranger if I could take her picture. Obviously, she agreed. I'm pretty sure she said she was studying sound engineering or music production, but I forgot where. She did have some nice things to say about the Nettar, so in a way it does fall under the, "Hey Nice Camera" standard. And like the shot from yesterday, the focus was juuuuust a little off, but not so terrible.

You didn't take my card (well, it wasn't offered or asked for) and will probably never see this, but thank you for letting me take your picture.

Name Forgotten (I)

We did each other a favor that day in Washington Square Park. She noticed the Nettar and said the magic words, "hey nice camera" (or something to that effect, and in return for a portrait, I filled out the survey she was giving. I forgot if it was for New York Magazine, or The New Yorker...something like that. The survey was anonymous, and you had to fill out questions like, "Is America going in the right direction," and "Will the Knicks win a playoff series" (I got that one right). All I did was forget her name.

PHOTO TALK:
Looking at this roll I realized how great the Nettar really is, and now much I need to be using it more. It's great on bright days and loaded with 100iso film. Of course, there still is the matter of estimating focus. I do have a separate rangefinder, but I don't want to keep people waiting while I fiddle with this little thing trying to line up two images, and then see what the distance is and then set it on the camera. I was just a hair off...but I think it's still a good shot, even with the top of her head cut off just a little bit (and I don't mean like that "turbulent priest" Tommy Becket. Wow. I had no idea there would be a Thomas à Becket reference in this post when I started out).

Oh, and yes, judging by the title of this post, you can bet there will be a series of forgotten and unsure names coming up. I actually didn't know which one to start off with first, but I think she and her smile was a pretty good choice.

Empire State Reflection

In another building!


Yes this is a shot from the archives but it should only be for today. I feel too much like poop to get to scanning tonight (sorry about the salty language there). Earlier today I developed a roll from the Nettar. I've really been neglecting the Nettar as of late, and I'd almost forgotten how great a camera it was. I also got some portraits with it (gee, I didn't say, "people pictures!" I'm a big kid now!). I'd like to do more portrait work with it. It's an inexact science, just like with the SWC. I think that's what I like about them, these cameras where the viewfinders are just more or less suggestions. It really pays off when it all comes together.

Lunch Special Two,

Electric Boogaloo:


Another view from my seat while waiting for my ten dollar burger and a beer (Coke in my case).

Caught in a Wind

A cold wind, at 25th and 6th Ave:


I like the slightly pained look on this woman's face.

Apropos of Nothing:

I saw a guy talking on the cell phone in a restaurant bathroom today. I wanted to start yelling simulated noises of likeminded men in the throes of pleasing each other, and implore the phone user to stop being such a tease, but for some dumb reason I thought the better of it. Just last week at the opera I saw a guy standing at a stall, peeing with one hand and texting with the other. When he finished he shook his cell phone and pressed SEND on his dick.

Okay, that last sentence isn't true, but the first one is. Oh, and after he finished peeing/texting, he went to wash his hands. Well, he ended up only washing one hand. The other hand kept a firm grip on the phone, the thumb ever moving...

A Fraction of One Fifth

From Washington Square North:


You know, I think I really have to learn how to properly expose snow shots on overcast days. Good thing it's April.

A Big Heart On

A ladder!


Isn't that what every girl wants on Valentime's day (yes, I said "ValentiMe's"), a big heart on a ladder?

So I saw something yesterday that kind of irked me (oh no here he goes again...).

I was looking at picture frames at my local art supply store, and came upon a company whose came I can't remember, but they featured "green" frames. Not green in color, but green as in environmentally sound. The packaging touted all sorts of reclaimed materials and recycled this and low-impact that so the buyer could feel secure knowing that they were actually helping the environment by buying their product. Per chance I flipped the fame over and saw in small writing:

Made In China

So for all they care about the environment they apparently have no qualms about doing business with one of the the biggest human rights violators on the planet (and they ain't too great when it comes to animals either).

I mean, no country is perfect, but if you're going to push some environmentally friendly mother earth loving picture frame on me, the very least you can do is show some respect for the people that live here.

Underwear and Overwear

On University Place:


Is it wrong for me to wonder if the woman in the reflection is wearing undergarments similar to those worn by the mannequins? Oh, and is a mannequin still a mannequin if there's no head or rams or legs attached and it's only a torso (I suppose I could have just said "torso" and left out that obvious description)? I'm of the belief that a mannequin can only be referred to as a mannequin if it has the whole compliment of body parts from head to feet, and yes, even arms. I don't go in for those Venus DiMannequins you see around some of the shops that are too cheap to pay for arms.

Two arms, I say.

Two arms!

Lunch Special

On 17th Street:


I forgot the name of this place, but from 11-4 you can get a burger and a beer for ten bucks. And it's not just a burger, but a burger with the lettuce and tomatoes and onions and fries. And if like myself, you don't drink beer, they'll happily hook you up with a coke at no extra charge.

But I can't remember for the gosh darn life of me what this place is called, even though I pass by it all the time.

Peace Love

I like this sort of thing:


The "and" and or maybe the "&" is implied.

With the clouds slung low and the skies about to burst, the drone of an airplane grew louder and louder until I wondered if it would ever stop, or if it would be the last thing I'd ever hear. I clutched a pillow on my couch, shaking, wondering if I should go to the window to see my possible destruction, or just sit there and wait for it to come to me. After what seemed like an eternity the mechanical whine faded into the distance, and the tension gripping my body began to relent, but I still put on the TV and waited to see if my regular programming would be interrupted by a special bulletin. It wasn't, and the wacky world of sports show on FOX went on as scheduled.

This happened just three hours ago, brought to you by the legacy of September 11th.

Phallic

In Madison Square:


Architects obsessed with penises? Who knew!

Saturday, April 15, 1995 (maybe I should have been dating these all along...).

I only got one hour of sleep the night before the funeral. I doubt many people who attended got much more than that. I piled up the NYC crew into my 1985 Thunderbird and headed to a church in New Jersey. I have a vague recollection of being a pallbearer. I don't remember if we carried or rolled the coffin in. His bass was on a stand in front of the pulpit. The very bass I said I had hoped to get if he was dead. Well, there it is, Stupid. Go ahead, take it. See what happens.

I had been asked to say a few words at the funeral, but I said no, which was very uncharacteristic of me. I really am a ham, but I didn't think I could add any more or less to the event. Or maybe I didn't want to feel so exposed up there. Or maybe I was just plain afraid. I don't remember a damn thing anybody else said up there. My most vivid memory (besides me and my friend holding hands in a death grip) was a single teardrop on the floor in front of me, which fell from his girlfriend's face. A perfect circle, it was. I stared at it for the rest of the funeral. I needed something to focus on.

I've had trouble with this post, thinking about what details from that day I could talk about, yet none of them really have any "value." Or maybe what I thought was interesting beforehand just doesn't really seem worth mentioning. And of course, if you haven't noticed, I haven't used any of this space over the past five days to actually say anything about my friend, just about me and my experiences surrounding his death, so it's definitely not a tribute. I don't know what it is. It's just me reflecting (a self-indulgent exercise if ever there was one).

Or maybe I'm just petering out at the end of a long day, offering up this anticlimax to these past events I've been unfolding.

Or perhaps I should have let the dead lie sleeping altogether.

Looking, Shooting, and Checking

In front of the Flatiron Building:


Obviously, the Flatiron Building isn't in the shot, but that's what they're looking at.

George came with me to the wake. Yet another feeling in a string of feelings that I hated about this whole experience...walking into that room and seeing your dead friend's body, the face flattened and made up, looking kind of but not entirely like that person you had seen just week before. It's another day I'm glad I don't have too many memories of.

As George and I approached the deceased, we each decided to lean against this wooden contraption set up right in front of the coffin. The thing gave way and we crashed into the casket which rocked back and forth on its bier. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice that two Jews that never saw a portable kneeler before nearly knocked the whole damn thing over.

His collar was a little loose, and we could see the ligature mark on his neck. I was always fascinated by forensics, yet part of me wished I hadn't looked that closely.

Snowy Tree

On Washington Square North:


What a lousy photo, don't you think?

In about 1990 or '91, I was driving around New Jersey listening to one of the local college radio stations. Instead of playing heavy metal music, the DJ was crying about this girl, a friend of his who died in a car crash. He just kept on crying and trying to talk and saying how wonderful she was, and how tragic it was that she died...and all I could think was how pathetic a display. Sure, there's a time to grieve, but his on-air blubbering really didn't hit me in any emotional way, other than frustration since he could have been playing Number of the Beast instead. I remember telling myself that night that if I should ever be in his position, I'd handle myself differently.

April 13, 1995 found me sitting behind the microphone at a college radio station.

I was the DJ for the weekly punk rock radio show at a university I no longer attended (don't ask). I knew I didn't want to be that guy crying on the air about someone that the listening audience had never heard of. Since my friend was a musician in a local band, I announced that he had passed away; not mentioning how or that he was my friend. I then said that the first set of the night would include music that he made, and music that he liked to listen to. I even included non-punk music in the set. Black Sabbath and Frank Zappa on a punk rock show? It's my show and I can do what I want. I'm sure I sounded low key.

Later in the show the live band came in to play. One of the guys looked at me and said, "Why do you look so miserable?" I didn't have the strength to answer.

Something else also happened that night, but I won't mention it until later. No, it's not like yesterday's post when I said there was something that I just couldn't face and had to mention that I just couldn't face it. This is something I will elaborate on, but not right now. Soon, but not this day.

Zig or Zag?

In Brooklyn:


When Judy Garland had a cold, she'd sing, "Zig went the strings of my heart!"

The next evening we drove out to NJ, to his parents' house. It was the first of several drives over the next few days that I dreaded having to make. Every step up the driveway was filled with dread, not wanting to enter that house. At the top of the driveway sat his pickup truck. Never has the sight of a simple, empty truck ever been so striking.

I opened the door and his older brother embraced me, crying, saying how much fun my friend had had talking about going to wrestling matches with me. In the year or two before he died, we started to go to WWF events at the Garden. It was all silly fun. I mean, we weren't like crazy into wrestling or anything, or took it seriously thinking it was "real," but it was great entertainment — not just the matches but the whole experience of going (there's more to this, but I'm not ready to write about it here. Even though that's a douchey thing to say, I can't let this go by without mentioning that there is something else gnawing at me. Something I still feel great guilt over. It's something I've only ever discussed with one other person, and I'm not ready to get into it just yet. We now return you to your regular friend suicide remembrance programming). I think that was the first moment I realized that there would be no future memories to be made with my friend.

Every time I'd think of some experience I had with him in that time right after he died, it was like discovering a gem in the dirt.

Oh yeah! Remember the time we did that?

And with each little discovery came this great feeling of joy, another memory for me to hold on to. Yet when reflected upon again, the gem didn't shine as brightly. It's like getting your family vacation pictures back from the drugstore a week after you've come home. With every picture you flip through there's that, "oh yeah!" sensation, but it's never fully recaptured when you look at it subsequently. I think I just used two different metaphors to say the same thing.

The only other memory of that night I have was being in the kitchen and humming The Price Is Right theme song along with another friend, while his father sat close-eyed in a chair in front of a TV that was just providing a background wash, all the while resting his forehead in his propped up hand.

Sixteen years is an odd span of time. It seems so long ago, but it wasn't, really. It's in that place between just yesterday and way back when.

Memories of New York

I remember New York!


The real Statue of Liberty is bigger. I'd have made some crack about this being the only game in town, but the government shutdown was averted for the time being.

So the next day wore on, and I hadn't heard a thing. I contented myself to believe the age-old adage that no news was good news. I mean, if there was bad news, surely I'd have heard about it by now, right? Around 3:00 in the afternoon, still having heard nothing, I called a friend in New Jersey. I could barely recognize his voice. It sounded deeper than usual, and I thought for a second it was his father. That all cleared up, I asked, "So, is he alive or what?"

"No."

I have no recollection of my immediate response. What I remember was five minutes (or so it seemed) of me begging my friend that he was joking with me, that the news he told me wasn't real. "Listen, I promise I won't be mad at you if you're joking around. Please tell me you're joking around." Over and over I kept saying, imploring, promising I wouldn't be mad at my friend if what he just told me wasn't true. But he could only say,

"I wish I was."

I wasn't crying. I was too shocked to cry just yet. I don't remember how much detail I found out in that conversation. Probably just the basics, that he was found by his mother and sister hanging in the shed at their country house in upstate New York.

I next called my closest friend in the city, who was also friends with him. He wasn't in, but I'm sure he could hear the desperation in my voice on his answering machine as I begged him to call me back. I wasn't going to leave that kind of news on a machine. Next I called my parents.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. No, I'm not fine..."

I still didn't cry. I didn't want to cry in front of my parents, even on the phone. I held it in until my friend got my message and called me back. Then I let it all out. I hadn't cried for almost 9 years until that point, sitting on the floor leaning my back against the couch and clutching the phone as hard as I could. But I had a grimmer task ahead of me. I had to inform the New York contingent one agonizing phone call at a time.

Each time I told them the news I felt guilty. I felt like I was deliberately hurting them with this news that made them so sad. I also felt like I was lying to them. How did I know he was really dead? I'm just taking the word of one of my oldest closest friends who I spoke to on the phone. I didn't see any pictures, or any body, I just heard words. I was spreading false information, and making all of these people sad unnecessarily, hearing them cry and scream every time I gave the news. Why was I doing such a terrible thing to such nice people? How could I be such a jerk?

I don't remember how many calls I made before I passed the responsibility over to another one of the NYC gang. They could put the word out into the boroughs. They could spread the sadness just as well as I. I had plenty for one day. Besides, there was a lot more to come.

Barber Pole

On 9th Ave:


Somewhere in the 40s.

16 years ago today it wasn't Sunday, but Monday. And it was Monday night, sometime after 8 when I got a curious call from a friend in New Jersey. "Have you seen him?"

I thought it was strange he was asking me this on a Monday night.

"He didn't come to work and nobody's heard from him all day. We think he might have come into the city. His girlfriend hasn't heard from him either."

Well of course I'd give the word if I heard anything. It was odd, but I wasn't particularly worried. Later that night I was having an internet chat with someone I had gotten to know in an AOL room. I told her that a friend of mine had gone missing. I said, "If he's dead, I hope I get his bass."

We say these things. We say this ridiculous stupid things. We say them because of course there's a reasonable explanation for why he didn't show up at work. We say them because even if we covet someone's musical instrument (and someone who could play it better than you could ever dream of), we don't actually want the thing, and especially not that way. We say these things because in reality, everything is fine. All is well. He just wandered off for a day but nothing terrible has happened. Of course not. Terrible things don't happen to us.

Terrible things never happen.

Alleyway Escape

Somewhere in this city:


I feel like I'm running out the string with these slide shots from the Medalist, but I've been filling up film with images of places and even people! People who fall into the "hey nice camera" category!

My mind is in a lot of places right now.

Sloping Upward

On the west side:


Oh, but I could write a tirade directed at FedEx today, but I won't. Instead, I'll give an update on a previous post.

BREAKTHROUGH!
Do you remember a while back I posted a roll of vintage film that was half army dudes, and half a car (I mean, the other half of the roll were pictures of a car, not half a car), and I couldn't figure out what the model of the car was even though it suspiciously looked a lot like a 1959 Impala but I couldn't find any exact matches?

It wasn't an Impala. It was a Biscayne!

Now it all makes sense. Even the blurry script nameplate on the back makes sense, because it doesn't say Impala it says Biscayne! According to the infallible internet, the Biscayne was pretty much the same car as the Impala, but sold for less and was mainly sold for fleet use, like the police and what have you. So it makes sense that it was on an Army base. But it still was obviously modified. I still wasn't able to find any matches for the unique grill, and I doubt any factory option was to have the exhaust coming straight out of the engine block and piped out just behind the front tires. I still think that's badass.

Here's the post I'm talking about.

Assorted Buildings

And some scan lines, too:


The Civil War is still going on, but it's ending tonight. Though there will be any number of sesquicentennial observances going on for the next four years, and a new Robert Redford movie coming out next week about the Lincoln conspirators. I might throw a few bucks towards that, bedbugs be damned.

Yes, a friend of mine put the fear of bedbugs into me so I don't go to the movies anymore. Then again, I freely go to the opera. Perhaps I'll pick up a better class of bloodsuckers there.

Fountain,

or urinal?


That should be fairly easy.

I feel like a hack.

West Side Towers

On the West Side:


Would you look at that, a color photo! Yes, I'd say we're coming upon slide film season yet again, what with the skies so blue and the flowers about to bloom.

This is gonna be short. Ken Burns' The Civil War is on channel 13. I want to see who wins.

Churchlike

No?


Yes!

This has been your "602nd Photo Post Spectacular!"

And haven't they really all been spectacular?

Electric Box

In Brooklyn:


This is an underpass (or overpass, depending how you look at it) on the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge.

My head is burning pain right now.

Balconies and Sky

On Broadway, across from the Flatiron Building:


I saw Russell Simmons on the street today. He was getting out of a Maybach on 13th to go to Bikram Yoga on Broadway. I knew he was going there because just before then I saw his brother Joey go into Bikram, and Russell had his yoga mat strapped around his back. He was instantly swamped by people taking pictures and shaking his hand. He was gracious and posed for pictures with people on the sidewalk. Here was this man who has given me so much over the past 25 years, some of which I've listened to over and over again, forever a part of my life from the time I discovered it to this day. To name a few: LL Cool J, The Beastie Boys, Slick Rick, Public Enemy, SLAYER!!!!!! (people forget Slayer was on Def Jam) and many others I'm sure I can't recall.

Instead of bum rushing Russell, I said the only thing I thought appropriate as he walked by:

"Thank you for all the music."

Russell looked at me like I was taking a dump in the middle of the street. Mind you, I didn't expect to become his best friend or anything, but I'd have appreciated a smile or even a simple "thank you." I've always thanked celebrities when I meet them. That is, celebrities that have actually had an impact on my life, and they've always been gracious be it Mel Brooks or Lemmy. When I meet a celebrity I admire, I'm not looking to take up their time or grab a picture or an autograph, I just want to let them know that their life has held meaning for me.

You let me down Russell.

(I'm sure he'll be crestfallen if he ever reads this. Yeah right...)

Sunning on Saturday

on Sixth Avenue:


This was on either a Saturday or a Sunday, thus making it a weekend day. Or one of the days of the weekend, which are either Saturday or a Sunday. Of course, there has been talk of the "three day weekend," though I don't consider that an official designation as it pertains to weekends. Yes, why if we have weekdays we don't have weekend days? I say we should embrace "weekend days," so they don't feel neglected around the weekdays. I mean, the weekend days need all the help they can get since they're outnumbered by the weekdays. The weekdays have their clique, their President, Vice President, Recording Secretary, Ombudsman, Delegate...and all the weekend days have is each other. Just the two of them, building those castles in the sky, just the two of them, that one and the other one. Yes, Saturday and Sunday, the defiant ones, chained together and leaping from trains. Wait, I might be confusing that with something else.

Jutting Out

Into the frame:


It's been a while since I've dumped a Flatiorn on the viewing public. So dumped I have.

Saturday is stupid day.

On Saturday at 3pm in Union Square Park, thousands of mid-20somethings to early 30somethings will gather to have a pillow fight (and similar events will be happening around the world at 3pm local time). I guess this is some gambit to recover their lost youth. These are the same people who are playing kickball as adults. Then again, I'm not sure they're trying to recover their lost youth, rather than being unwilling to relinquish it. These are the same people who use film cameras to be ironic. I have mixed feelings about that. And of course, there are the mustache waxers who I truly hate. Though I don't think they're going to be at the giant pillow fight, god forbid their carefully sculpted facial hair gets knocked askew. But now I'm just going off on an anti-hipster tangent. Yes, I realize this isn't the most focused, anti-giant pillow fight entry.

If I had any gumption I'd show up to the pillow fight with a cue ball in a tube sock. Who says "harmless" fun can't be harmful...

Focus Points

On Broadway (not the song):


I don't know why I chose to focus on the building reflection in the little lamp on top when it clearly should have been on the one in the left middle foreground.

Oh, and nice reflection of yourself, dick.

4th and A

Through the SWC:


Nobody is cooking death for dinner tonight. Always a good thing.

The last time I was in that Key Food was ten years ago, somewhere between late August and before September 11th, whenever my friend Matt's birthday was. Earlier that evening I had driven out to his party, which he had at a Chuck E Cheese out on Northern Boulevard. When I got there, the employees didn't question what an obvious non-child in a motorcycle jacket was doing showing up at a kids' venue. I was there to hang out with all of the other unsavory late 20 early 30-somethings that had gathered for Matt's 28th. Some years later I would remember this lax approach to security when I heard a story about a man in a NJ Chuck E Cheese peering over the tops of bathroom stalls as young boys did their business. I assure you the only child I stared at was this Chinese looking kid who was hogging this Star Wars Land Speeder video game where you actually get to mount a replica land speeder and destroy the empire one stormtrooper at a time. As much as I glared at him and his pile of tokens, he didn't relinquish his speeder.

After the Chuck E Cheese portion of the night ended, myself and Matt headed to Mars — the Mars Bar, that is. By then it was well after midnight and the bar was relatively empty. Matt and I were in the middle of the bar, and the only other patrons were three people a little farther down who seemed content with each other. That content was soon ended as two of the men started to escort the third out of the bar, but not before they smashed his head through a quarter inch thick plate glass window. It sounded like a shotgun went off when this guy's head hit that ancient glass, some of the last original glass left at Mars. They then dragged the guy into the middle of the crosswalk at 1st Street, threw him to the ground, and repeatedly kicked him in the face and head before taking off up 2nd Avenue.

The guy staggered to his feet and somehow made his way back to the outside of Mars, crying, "I'M BLIND! I'M BLIND," and collapsed to the sidewalk. The bartender was unsure if she should call 911. The owner didn't like the bar getting police attention.

"The guy can't fucking see. Call a goddamn ambulance! If you don't, I will," I said. This wasn't about the bar getting negative attention, there was a guy covered in blood where his face used to be lying on the sidewalk. The ambulance and police came, and they took statements from us, though we weren't much help. Nobody really got a good look at the two guys who roughed this dude up. After they took him away, the bartender thanked me for convincing her that calling 911 was the right thing to do.

With that all settled, the only thing to do was to end Matt's birthday the proper way...with a cake. So sometime between 2 and 3am (maybe even later) Matt and I headed over to 4th and A and picked up a premade birthday cake and candles from Key Food, then went back to Mars to end his birthday in style.

East Village Street

What were you expecting, Flemington, New Jersey?


I'll get back to the Flemington saga another time.

Every so often somebody cooks something in this place that smells like fucking death. It always has me checking my own garbage to make sure it's free of old, rotting greens. Then I begin to wonder if someone died in their apartment and are just rotting away. That's not outside the realm of possibility. Not everybody in this building is young and hip like me (okay, I'm neither of those things, but play along, will you?).

I had a talk with a friend of mine today, and we found ourselves on opposite sides of the same, ridiculous behavior. I mentioned that I had peanut butter and ginger ale for breakfast because I was too lazy to wash a bowl and a spoon. In case you're wondering, I used my finger as a delivery device for the peanut butter.

My friend on the other hand (sans peanut butter) said that she will go out of her way to not use clean dishes, as they are transubstantiated into dirty dishes. She also mentioned she would never use her finger to eat peanut butter as there might be bacteria on hand (pun definitely intended. And yes, my hand was freshly washed).

As of this writing, we are both starving to death in our own apartments in a city filled with food, yet there is no possible way to eat it.

Barbershop Duet

Well, maybe a quartet if you count the gentleman in the background and the cut off figure on the left:


Yes, we are back in the barbershop after hours for this shot as well. I'm sure by now you recognize the bearded fellow from yesterday's post on the right. But who's that in the center? He has plenty of hair, but he's definitely not there to get a cut. He too, will soon be hard at work on a Saturday night. And like yesterday's caveat, more will be revealed when his proper profile picture gets posted (I'm actually a little worried about how it'll come out, but maybe I'll just shelve those worries until I see the final product). But yes, this shot was definitely the calm before the storm that hit Flemington, New Jersey that fateful eve.

That fateful eve? Yikes.

Barbershop Pinball

In Flemington, New Jersey:


Who is this man, and why is he playing pinball in a barbershop after hours? Why is there even a pinball machine in a barbershop at all? I know why. I know the answers to all these questions, but they too will have to wait. If you recognize the man in the picture, please feel free to let it be known. Though I'll wait to give the lowdown on this bearded fellow until I develop his profile shots. And that might take a while since I haven't even reeled up the film yet. But I will say that this man is just taking some time to relax with a game or two of Stargate pinball before going to work. No, he doesn't work in an after hours barbershop where men drink rum and cokes out of jelly jars (not pictured), but Saturday nights are his time to shine, and shine he did.

Shawn

Amongst the pushy graininess of this photo, you might be able to find Shawn. You may not know it to look at him, but he is a Guinness World Record holder. Now consider the photo and wonder to yourself, what sort of record might he hold? Is he some kind of collector? Is it some sort of athletic achievement? Well, he did tell me that in the course of achieving his record he did suffer from a very sore hand, arm, and shoulder but said it was all worth it (no, it's not for that. They don't keep records for that sort of thing).

Shawn Howlett is the current certified Guinness World Record holder for having the top score on the arcade game Chiller. Yes, indeed. He got the record in December 2010 at Richie Knuckelz' Arcade in Flemington, New Jersey. Which, not coincidentally, was where this picture was taken just six days ago. I think he said he played for 4.5 hours straight to achieve the record, and then he went on to tell me about a guy who played Q*bert for 48 hours straight. He said the guy had so many lives saved up he could walk away from the machine to take care of his various life functions and then resume playing (so I guess it's not really 48 hours straight).

And you may ask yourself, how did I get here? I mean, how did I get to be at a classic arcade on a Saturday night in of all places Flemington, New Jersey? A town known only for its fur factory and the Bruno Hauptmann trial? Perhaps I'll save that for a future post. Until then, I'll leave you with just two words:

Kong Off.

PS: Yeah, I'm not too thrilled with the excessive headroom either, but I am determined to master the art of portraiture with the SWC. Well, if not "master," at the very least take a reasonable people picture with the durned thing.

Of Mannahatta!

At Fulton Pier, Brooklyn USA:


Here's a typical shot from a typical place in a typical town called Brooklyn. I know...I'm not too thrilled with it either. However, my empty promises should soon be filled, as I have my DDX raring to go. So when all my chemicals have reached the same temperature (I'm assuming), I'll get to cooling them down to 20c together and I'll push that 3200 to 6400 and hopefully find a pot of something that's not gold yet is kind of funny yet I can't think of what to say at the other end.

I've been listening to Fear a lot lately. Even if not actively listening, their songs have been running through my head. Random lyrics jumping out at me:

My house smells just like a zoo, it's chock full of shit and puke.

Let's have a war, give guns to the queers.

Disciplinary correctional surgery.

I don't care about you, fuck you.

And so forth.

But aside from the thought provoking, insightful lyrics, I've been thinking about their actual music — their sound. Even though they were associated with the punk and hardcore scene, they didn't really sound like any other band. You can't say that they have a "punk" sound, or even a "hardcore" sound. They just are. They're just Fear.

But why write about this now?

All of these thoughts have gotten me to thinking about a friend of mine. It's easy to think about him. His picture (along with his bandmates) is stuck to my dry erase board by a magnet. His small nightstand lamp sits on a small stand next to my couch where it shares space with books, remote controls, and camera doings. The lamp hasn't worked in years, but I like having it there. Even without these tangible reminders, he'd still be on my mind. Even if it weren't almost 16 years since he hung himself, he'd still be on my mind.

Like me, he loved Fear. Like me, he also loved Black Sabbath, and a myriad of other bands spanning all genres and eras. We talked about the music we loved for hours on end. And it's only just recently that I realized that Fear had a completely unique sound for the scene they were in, and all I want to do is talk to him about it.

It's an unrequited conversation. It's one I have in my head while thinking about him, imagining standing around his driveway as the sun goes down, each of us clenching a beer, and singing the praises of Lee Ving. It's a conversation with the dead, but the dead don't talk back.

And I think of all the other things I should have said, not just about music, but maybe things I could have said that would have made this topic immaterial, and instead I could be writing about the great conversation I had with my living friend. But life ain't that way. Some rents you can never completely sew up. You just flatten them out and wear it as best you can.

Silver Sharkskin

At Fulton Pier:


I always wanted a sharkskin suit. I'm not sure I'd wear one to my wedding (I think I'll go tails and top hat like my old man for that event, whenever that is). But someday maybe that dream will come true when I'll have a green sharkskin suit with matching shoes, socks, shirt, tie, and hat, just like this slick black dude I saw up at a Concord Hotel singles weekend oh so many years ago back when I was a kid. No, I wasn't there for the singles weekend, I was there with my grandfather and a bunch of other old Zionists from the Bronx at their annual Catskills getaway. They're all dead now, even the hotels.

Oh, and this is not the Guinness Record Holder I was alluding to yesterday. I'm hoping if I get my act reasonably together that'll be up either today or tomorrow.

I'm sure you'll be waiting by the computer until then.

Checking the Shot

In front of the Flatiorn Building:


They were French, that's all I know.

Today I reeled up five rolls of 120 and 135 (look at that pretentiousness) and they're all ready to be developed. Now all I have to do is get off my ass and whip up some DDX and get to the pushing and pulling. I even have a few portraits shot, including a bona fide Guinness World Record holder!!

No hints, just stay tuned...

Kate (maybe?)

Kate (if that was her name) was part of an NYU Sight and Sound crew shooting in the park. I think I wrote about Sight and Sound ages ago. They basically throw you an Arriflex 16 and tell you to go make movies. And after all the work you put into your five minute or so silent masterpiece, when you think you've got all the angles covered, and after it's been shown to the class, your professor then rips you a new one, pointing out everything you did wrong — and he's 100 percent right. It's a little humbling, a little hazing, but it's all part of the process.

On my last day of Sight and Sound our professor showed us Oliver Stone's thesis film. It was awful. It was a nice gesture, letting us know that for all the shitty movies we made, even accomplished filmmakers also made shitty movies back when they didn't know much better than us.

Mallory

I think this is the very first Mallory I've ever met in all my life. Well, there was Mallory Keaton, but I didn't really get to know her that well. But let's stick with the real life Mallory we have before us.

This was my first picture of her. I asked for a second one since I forgot to adjust the aperture, though this first one came out better. Of course, there's that artifact going across the bottom of the shot. It seems to be some kind of bleed-over from the previous shot which was way overexposed.

We talked for quite a while. She's a journalism student at NYU from way way waaaaay upstate New York. She also writes poetry. And studies German. And really likes studying German so much that she doesn't want to part from it as she gets deeper into journalism. I suggested she should combine the two and work for Der Spiegel. She liked the sound of that.

Tom (maybe?)

Well, I remember that he was German. I remember that he lives here in the city. I remember he had nice things to say about the Rolleiflex. I just don't remember if his name was really Tom. I've also noticed that this is the second time on this blog I have someone named Tom, yet I'm not entirely sure if that was their name. I even asked my friend who accompanied me that day to remind me of this person's name. Well, Tom (or whoever you are) didn't get a business card so chances are he won't be seeing this to get insulted that I'm not quite sure what his name was, just a week after taking the picture.

Then again, the internet is a funny place...

Chelsea Hotel

Or Hotel Chelsea, if you will:


This is the last shot from that run of SWC rolls before I start stretching it, and you get alternate views of the Empire Diner (and I'm not saying that ain't gonna happen, just so you know). But lucky for us, I have two rolls all set to develop tonight. Though the Ilfosol-3 is looking pretty yellow. I'm sure it'll still be potent, right, all you film developers reading this out there? I need to get my hands on some argon to start putting into those open chemical containers to stave off oxidation. Now I'm just typing to hear myself type.

In the Round

Tic and Tac with piano accompaniment:


It's amateur hour in the city tonight. As I type this, men and women are vomiting green beer onto sidewalks from the East Village to Hell's Kitchen. I prefer to hide up here, and think about the memories I have from this day.

The St. Patty's Day Massacre was 25 years ago today. You won't find it in any history books. It's only relevant to myself, and about 11 other people, none of whom know that this blog even exists, and only one of whom that I still talk to. It marks the first time I ever rode in a police car. No, that's not true. I did ride in a Scotland Yard car when I was 13, but that was more of a private tour/ridealong. But 25 years ago when I was 15 it wasn't my choice. It was my first time suspended from school that year, but not my first suspension. That came a year earlier when I was a freshman (but without police intervention).

It was a hell of a sophomore year.

Stretching

In Washington Square Park:


In some ways, I actually like that the super wide lens of the SWC can make events happening in a relative close proximity look like they're happening quite a long ways away. On the other hand, you could end up with a very busy frame and you're not quite sure what you should be looking at.

This is like the, "Where's Waldo" of yoga shots.

I wonder where Waldo is right now...

Accordion to This Guy

Did I actually just write that? Ooh, that's bad...


"Instantly brains boiled and heads exploded!"

I just heard that coming out of my TV. They're doing a show on Herculaneum (which never seems to get the props Pompeii does) on channel 13. With a tagline like that, you know this is going to be a short entry.

NYU Law Library

On Washington Square South:


This one doesn't have the cachet of the "Library of Death" just a block away.

Oh, I'm not even going to go to a place of lawyers and suicide. We need those people (when they're "yours").

Bobst

AKA the "Library of Death":


Maybe I'm being too harsh. I mean, only three people in six years killed themselves in the library. The other six people that killed themselves during that time did it elsewhere. At least one jumped from the Tisch building. One jumped in Midtown, and others jumped from other buildings in the neighborhood.

What a cheery entry!