get this party started Roy!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
August 29 | BA Club
Sitting in British Airways Club in London
get this party started Roy!
get this party started Roy!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
After Sunday Morning Surf Session
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Summer | July 23
The Great Blue Heron
As I wandered on the beach
I saw the heron standing
Sunk in the tattered wings
He wore as a hunchback’s coat.
Shadow without a shadow,
Hung on invisible wires
From the top of a canvas day,
What scissors cut him out?
Superimposed on a poster
Of summer by the strand
Of a long-decayed resort,
Poised in the dusty light
Some fifteen summers ago;
I wondered, an empty child,
“Heron, whose ghost are you?”
I stood on the beach alone,
In the sudden chill of the burned.
My thought raced up the path.
Pursuing it, I ran
To my mother in the house.
And led her to the scene.
The spectral bird was gone.
But her quick eye saw him drifting
Over the highest pines
On vast, unmoving wings.
Could they be those ashen things,
So grounded, unwieldy, ragged,
A pair of broken arms
That were not made for flight?
In the middle of my loss
I realized she knew:
My mother knew what he was.
O great blue heron, now
That the summer house has burned
So many rockets ago,
So many smokes and fires
And beach-lights and water-glow
Reflecting pinwheel and flare:
The old logs hauled away,
The pines and driftwood cleared
From that bare strip of shore
Where dozens of children play;
Now there is only you
Heavy upon my eye.
Why have you followed me here,
Heavy and far away?
You have stood there patiently
For fifteen summers and snows,
Denser than my repose,
Bleaker than any dream,
Waiting upon the day
When, like gray smoke, a vapor
Floating into the sky,
A handful of paper ashes,
My mother would drift away.
BY CAROLYN KIZER
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Calgary | July 8
OK, this is the second time I've written this because my computer ate the first try.
We started the day with a visit to Southcenter, a shopping center client of ours in Calgary. During Stampede, it's tradition to serve free breakfasts. It's said you can go the whole week and not pay to eat because there's always some free meal going on. Southcentre gets about 8,000 people to come out and stand in line for over an hour for a paper plate with two pancakes and a sausage link. It's astounding.
We were asked if we wanted to show up at 7am and help serve. We declined. But they do all start drinking right away.
Later we took the train downtown to The Palamino. We ate barbeque, drank and listened (at times) to a band.
Stampede Roundup
Eventually it was time for the big show. Stampede Roundup. This is basically a big concert. Lots of corporate sponsored tents and such. The lineup was Loverboy, Our Lady Peace (which I'd never heard of but enjoyed) and The Steve Miller Band.
We spent a lot of time running into corporate tents uninvited because we experienced periodic downpours, tornado warnings and honest to God hail. But other than that it was fun. But the big event was The Steve Miller Band, which we left during the first song because everyone was cold, wet, tired and hungry.
Some people call me the Space Cowboy....
We started the day with a visit to Southcenter, a shopping center client of ours in Calgary. During Stampede, it's tradition to serve free breakfasts. It's said you can go the whole week and not pay to eat because there's always some free meal going on. Southcentre gets about 8,000 people to come out and stand in line for over an hour for a paper plate with two pancakes and a sausage link. It's astounding.
We were asked if we wanted to show up at 7am and help serve. We declined. But they do all start drinking right away.
Later we took the train downtown to The Palamino. We ate barbeque, drank and listened (at times) to a band.
Stampede Roundup
Eventually it was time for the big show. Stampede Roundup. This is basically a big concert. Lots of corporate sponsored tents and such. The lineup was Loverboy, Our Lady Peace (which I'd never heard of but enjoyed) and The Steve Miller Band.
We spent a lot of time running into corporate tents uninvited because we experienced periodic downpours, tornado warnings and honest to God hail. But other than that it was fun. But the big event was The Steve Miller Band, which we left during the first song because everyone was cold, wet, tired and hungry.
Some people call me the Space Cowboy....
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Calgary | July 7
Stampede
I got up at 3:45am and have been traveling for 15 hours. We've just arrived in Canada for Stampede, what they call "The Greatest Outdoor Show On Earth." I was told it was a combination of a Rodeo and Mardi Gras. In reality, it's mostly a large group of people dressed in cowboy costumes (fake hats and plaid shirts) getting drunk, with a few rodeo cowboys thrown in for good measure.
On the day we arrived we went to the Stampede Grounds and had a nice infield suite to watch the Chuck Wagon Races. Now this is a dangerous sport. I saw an accident on the back stretch where a rear horse went down and had to be euthanized right there on the track, behind a curtain of blue tarps.
Then we went to a place called Cowboys. It was like a large warehouse with two levels of bars and a stage. Mostly young people, the highlight are young, well-proportioned girls who serve shots in interesting ways. They are definitely not hiring for brains.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Pen Pals | June 28
Several years ago — sometime in 2007 it would appear — I signed up on a penpal website. I think what stopped me was that they wanted you to pay like $5 for five addresses. Something like that, so I guess I just never bothered. Only, I had completed my profile and uploaded a picture. There was a free membership of sorts. Hell, it was two years ago, who knows.
Anyway, I get an email this morning from a young woman in Singapore. Well, not exactly. I get an email from the website, saying a young woman from Singapore wants to write to me. Sure. I go to the website and there are several other offers I've gotten since 2007 including two french men about the same age as me, married with kids...the works. I wrote them all back.
We'll see.
I like the idea of corresponding with people through the written word. And not so much email. I think it needs to be mailed letters. Something you look over more than once before printing it out, finding an envelope, getting a stamp and dropping it in the mailbox.
I read something on the website about the benefits of snail mail. One reason is that, especially in international situations, it can take up to a couple of weeks for a letter to reach its destination. Assuming you take a little time to write a response, and send it back, you take out the instant reaction of email. It takes longer to get there, so it had better be good. I think that's a valid position. I'm hoping this works out with at least someone.
Actually this started because I wrote an email to an author I was reading this morning. This is my new thing. If I like the book, I write the author. So far, everyone has written me back and I've stayed in touch with a couple of them. It's astounding really.
The author I wrote to this morning is Heather Lende and she wrote a book called, "If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name: News From Small-Town Alaska". It's great. I wrote her to tell her how much I liked it, but that I'm only on page 69, which means I've barely started it. Which is true. I only cracked it last night and picked it up again this morning. But you can tell.
The Los Angeles Times called it, "Part Annie Dillard, part Anne Lamott" and USA Today says, "If you like the stories on Prairie Home Companion or Northern Exposure, you'll love some real news from small-town Alaska."
The New York Times had previously called Haines, the town where she lives with her husband and three children, "the real Northern Exposure". According to Lende, "Haines is so full of local color, that if they made a movie about us, no one would believe it. There's the controversial new Presbyterian pastor who's arms are covered with tattoos. The sewer plant manager who rides a Harley and has a ZZ TOP beard. The school principal is a Roy Orbison impersonator, who dresses all in black and sings "Pretty Woman" at fundraisers."
Other than the isolation, lack of medical care, and extreme weather, it sounds like a nice place.
P.S. I just finished the book. Basically I read it in a day. I cried like a little girl at the end. I highly recommend it.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Dallas, TX | Behind The Scenes
I've posed a video of the behind the scenes of my recent shoot in Dallas.
CrossIron Mills Behind The Scenes Video
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Jersey Bros | June 20
I've been talking about doing a documentary on the South Jersey surfing community for years. I'm finally doing it.
My working title is Jersey Bros, a play on the term Jersey Boys and the surfer slang "Bro".
Jersey Bros: The Film
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Russians Invade Woolworth's | June 18
We're in what used to be the home of Frank Winfield Woolworth, the founder of the Woolworth's Five and Dime's. According to Wikipedia, he started the first store with a loan of $300 and grew it into the largest retail chains in the world through most of the 20th century. He did okay.
Woolworth's mansion, Winfield Hall in Glen Cove, Long Island New York was built in 1916. The grounds of the estate required 70 full time gardeners and the 56 room mansion required dozens of servants just for basic upkeep. The home's decor reflected Woolworth's fascinations with Egyptology, Napoleon and spiritualism (a huge pipe organ that Woolworth learned to play late in life combined with a planetarium style ceiling to provide an intentionally eerie effect) and was built with no expenses spared: the pink marble staircase alone cost $2 million to construct. The full price tag for the home was $50 million. In today's dollars, that would run you about $500 million. That's half a billion folks. That's a lot of nickels and dimes let me tell you.
In 1978 the abandoned and largely gutted mansion became the home of Monica Randall, a respected writer and photographer married to a German businessman, who wrote a memoir of her experiences there entitled Winfield: Living in the Shadow of the Woolworths. Other notable residents of Winfield were the Reynolds family of R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company and Reynolds Aluminum.
For more info (including video of the mansion, visit Winfield Hall)
So why are we here? We're doing a photoshoot for a Russian retail client in Moscow. Our model is actually from Moscow, so we're as authentic as we can be with a Japanese photographer, Australian hair and makeup artist, Texan stylist, and a couple of New Jersey art directors in a mansion on Long Island.
(click image to enlarge)
A couple of things about the house we learned. The organ in the ballroom is the largest residential pipe organ in the US. Also in that room was the first picture window ever in the US. A picture window is a large window with a huge, ornate frame built into the wall. So instead of framing a painting, it frames the view to the Italian gardens in back. The enormous marble fireplace came from a French castle.
(click image to enlarge)
The shoot went fantastic. Our model was beautiful and moved well. The clothes were amazing and Stephen, our fairy queen, did his usual magic and the hair and makeup were spot on.
As usual it was a long ass day. We went up the night before and stayed in NYC because we needed to leave the city by 7am to make to the house by 9am. We wrapped the house at 6pm, caught an 8pm train which got me back to Philadelphia at 9:30pm and I got home 11pm. But I didn't really get to sleep until 1am.
Woolworth's mansion, Winfield Hall in Glen Cove, Long Island New York was built in 1916. The grounds of the estate required 70 full time gardeners and the 56 room mansion required dozens of servants just for basic upkeep. The home's decor reflected Woolworth's fascinations with Egyptology, Napoleon and spiritualism (a huge pipe organ that Woolworth learned to play late in life combined with a planetarium style ceiling to provide an intentionally eerie effect) and was built with no expenses spared: the pink marble staircase alone cost $2 million to construct. The full price tag for the home was $50 million. In today's dollars, that would run you about $500 million. That's half a billion folks. That's a lot of nickels and dimes let me tell you.
In 1978 the abandoned and largely gutted mansion became the home of Monica Randall, a respected writer and photographer married to a German businessman, who wrote a memoir of her experiences there entitled Winfield: Living in the Shadow of the Woolworths. Other notable residents of Winfield were the Reynolds family of R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company and Reynolds Aluminum.
For more info (including video of the mansion, visit Winfield Hall)
So why are we here? We're doing a photoshoot for a Russian retail client in Moscow. Our model is actually from Moscow, so we're as authentic as we can be with a Japanese photographer, Australian hair and makeup artist, Texan stylist, and a couple of New Jersey art directors in a mansion on Long Island.
(click image to enlarge)
A couple of things about the house we learned. The organ in the ballroom is the largest residential pipe organ in the US. Also in that room was the first picture window ever in the US. A picture window is a large window with a huge, ornate frame built into the wall. So instead of framing a painting, it frames the view to the Italian gardens in back. The enormous marble fireplace came from a French castle.
(click image to enlarge)
The shoot went fantastic. Our model was beautiful and moved well. The clothes were amazing and Stephen, our fairy queen, did his usual magic and the hair and makeup were spot on.
As usual it was a long ass day. We went up the night before and stayed in NYC because we needed to leave the city by 7am to make to the house by 9am. We wrapped the house at 6pm, caught an 8pm train which got me back to Philadelphia at 9:30pm and I got home 11pm. But I didn't really get to sleep until 1am.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Gift Of Flight | June 15
I’m sitting in First Class on my way to Dallas, but we took off about two hours late, which means instead of getting in at 9:30pm, we’ll land around 11:30pm. I have to pick up a rental car, and get to the hotel which in Dallas is at least 45 minutes away so I won’t even get to the hotel until after midnight, and I have to get up at 7:30am. Man, I’m sick of traveling.
It makes me think of the comedian Louis C.K., and his riff on how spoiled we all are. We live in incredible times, are wealthy beyond measure as a country, and have access to the most amazing technology imaginable. And everyone is unhappy.
He tells the story of being on an airplane and they announced that for the first time ever, they were offering free wifi on the plane during flight. Everyone opened up their laptops and there it was. Fast and free. A little while later, they made another announcement, this time saying there was some problem with the wifi and that they apologized, but that it was down. The guy sitting next to him said with disgust, “This is bullshit.”
Louis thought it profound that here was this thing, free internet access at 35,000 feet, which hadn’t even existed fifteen minutes earlier, and already this guy was pissed because he felt someone owed him something.
“You’re flying! Like a bird! Isn’t that enough?” he cried. He also said everyone should have only one expression while flying, then he leans back in his chair with his arms outstretched on the armrests and a look of total terror and glee while crying, “Ahhhhhh!”
People talk about air travel as if it was the worst experience of their lives. I’ve done it. Everyone who travels much does it. We’re all spoiled.
People will say, “You’ll never believe what happened to me. It was the worst day of my life. First off, we were delayed 30 minutes, then we got on the plane and SAT on the runway for another 45 minutes. I was over an hour late! Can you believe it?”
The flight from New York to Los Angles takes six hours. It used to take three years by wagon train. People died. Others were born. You arrived with a whole different group of people than when you left!
So, yes I will arrive late to my destination. I won’t get as much sleep as I’d like. (Actually, I’ll probably get about the same amount of sleep, I just won’t drink as much as I would have at the hotel bar.) And yet, the flight attendant just handed me a hot towel to wipe my hands and face and any second now, she’ll be giving me my free cocktail. A little ice, a little rum, a little soda, a little straw. It’s still in a plastic fucking cup, but what the hey. I’m writing on my computer and listening to music with my Bose noise canceling headphones, eating my peanuts. It could be worse.
But I’ll tell you the problem with this. You start to think, okay, this really isn’t so bad. And then the next flight you’re back in the cattle car with all the other cows. And you’re cramped and hot and the guy next to you is even fatter than you are, and it’s taking forever for the drink cart to get to you and you’ve never been this thirsty in your whole life, the guy in front of you insists on leaning back in his seat providing you with a view of the top of his head but not your book, and you ate something you really shouldn’t have and now your stomach is rumbling and you’re praying you can wait until you get to your hotel before you need to do something about it, and that’s when you remember why you hate to fly.
The thing is, I DO like to travel. I like discovering new cities, restaurants and bars. I like meeting new people from different cultures and drinking with them. I enjoy bringing my camera and taking pictures of exotic places. I do like to travel.
I hate to fly.
Admittedly it’s better than the stagecoach, but I’m not sure it’s necessary to revert back to the frontier days to appreciate how far we’ve come. I don’t sit around constantly amazed with electric lights, the modern combustion engine, or how a package I mail from New Jersey gets to Canada overnight by making a pitstop in Memphis, Tennessee.
What I want is for things to be just a little better. Most things have gotten better over the years. Or at least faster and smaller. But flying, this thing that used to be so glamorous, is now a light form of torture. The airline I fly regularly got rid of glassware after 9-11, for some inexplicable reason and even after the other airlines brought back proper glass glasses, my airline stuck with the cheap plastic cup. This might not sound like a big deal but for what I regularly pay for airline tickets, I think they should spring for the stemware. The food they feed you is one step up from hospital food and the staff are underpaid and surly. I can’t think of another industry that can treat it’s customers so badly and stay in business. They can’t actually, that’s why the government has to keep bailing them out.
People are constantly telling me how great it is that I “get to travel” like I do, and at least partly so, they’re right. I’ve gotten to see some cool places and experience wonderful things.
But it’s not all glamour. There’s lots of endless waiting, traffic jams, cramped spaces, lack of sleep, bad food, dirty cabs, dirty cab drivers, hotel rooms that are too hot, hotel rooms that you could hang meat in, hangovers, lost luggage, delayed flights, canceled flights, airport security, customs agents, and that doesn’t even get into the self-absorbed, egomaniacal, pushy, demanding clients. What does it tell you that when I get home I want peanut butter and jelly, a glass of juice and my own bed?
On the other hand, the flight attendant just brought me German chocolate cake which is pretty good and I just ordered another drink.
And that’s how they get you.
It makes me think of the comedian Louis C.K., and his riff on how spoiled we all are. We live in incredible times, are wealthy beyond measure as a country, and have access to the most amazing technology imaginable. And everyone is unhappy.
He tells the story of being on an airplane and they announced that for the first time ever, they were offering free wifi on the plane during flight. Everyone opened up their laptops and there it was. Fast and free. A little while later, they made another announcement, this time saying there was some problem with the wifi and that they apologized, but that it was down. The guy sitting next to him said with disgust, “This is bullshit.”
Louis thought it profound that here was this thing, free internet access at 35,000 feet, which hadn’t even existed fifteen minutes earlier, and already this guy was pissed because he felt someone owed him something.
“You’re flying! Like a bird! Isn’t that enough?” he cried. He also said everyone should have only one expression while flying, then he leans back in his chair with his arms outstretched on the armrests and a look of total terror and glee while crying, “Ahhhhhh!”
People talk about air travel as if it was the worst experience of their lives. I’ve done it. Everyone who travels much does it. We’re all spoiled.
People will say, “You’ll never believe what happened to me. It was the worst day of my life. First off, we were delayed 30 minutes, then we got on the plane and SAT on the runway for another 45 minutes. I was over an hour late! Can you believe it?”
The flight from New York to Los Angles takes six hours. It used to take three years by wagon train. People died. Others were born. You arrived with a whole different group of people than when you left!
So, yes I will arrive late to my destination. I won’t get as much sleep as I’d like. (Actually, I’ll probably get about the same amount of sleep, I just won’t drink as much as I would have at the hotel bar.) And yet, the flight attendant just handed me a hot towel to wipe my hands and face and any second now, she’ll be giving me my free cocktail. A little ice, a little rum, a little soda, a little straw. It’s still in a plastic fucking cup, but what the hey. I’m writing on my computer and listening to music with my Bose noise canceling headphones, eating my peanuts. It could be worse.
But I’ll tell you the problem with this. You start to think, okay, this really isn’t so bad. And then the next flight you’re back in the cattle car with all the other cows. And you’re cramped and hot and the guy next to you is even fatter than you are, and it’s taking forever for the drink cart to get to you and you’ve never been this thirsty in your whole life, the guy in front of you insists on leaning back in his seat providing you with a view of the top of his head but not your book, and you ate something you really shouldn’t have and now your stomach is rumbling and you’re praying you can wait until you get to your hotel before you need to do something about it, and that’s when you remember why you hate to fly.
The thing is, I DO like to travel. I like discovering new cities, restaurants and bars. I like meeting new people from different cultures and drinking with them. I enjoy bringing my camera and taking pictures of exotic places. I do like to travel.
I hate to fly.
Admittedly it’s better than the stagecoach, but I’m not sure it’s necessary to revert back to the frontier days to appreciate how far we’ve come. I don’t sit around constantly amazed with electric lights, the modern combustion engine, or how a package I mail from New Jersey gets to Canada overnight by making a pitstop in Memphis, Tennessee.
What I want is for things to be just a little better. Most things have gotten better over the years. Or at least faster and smaller. But flying, this thing that used to be so glamorous, is now a light form of torture. The airline I fly regularly got rid of glassware after 9-11, for some inexplicable reason and even after the other airlines brought back proper glass glasses, my airline stuck with the cheap plastic cup. This might not sound like a big deal but for what I regularly pay for airline tickets, I think they should spring for the stemware. The food they feed you is one step up from hospital food and the staff are underpaid and surly. I can’t think of another industry that can treat it’s customers so badly and stay in business. They can’t actually, that’s why the government has to keep bailing them out.
People are constantly telling me how great it is that I “get to travel” like I do, and at least partly so, they’re right. I’ve gotten to see some cool places and experience wonderful things.
But it’s not all glamour. There’s lots of endless waiting, traffic jams, cramped spaces, lack of sleep, bad food, dirty cabs, dirty cab drivers, hotel rooms that are too hot, hotel rooms that you could hang meat in, hangovers, lost luggage, delayed flights, canceled flights, airport security, customs agents, and that doesn’t even get into the self-absorbed, egomaniacal, pushy, demanding clients. What does it tell you that when I get home I want peanut butter and jelly, a glass of juice and my own bed?
On the other hand, the flight attendant just brought me German chocolate cake which is pretty good and I just ordered another drink.
And that’s how they get you.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Sunday Papers | June 14
I love the Sunday New York Times. I love everything about it. The feel, the smell, the sense of delight and anticipation. But I have to admit, it’s gotten a little ridiculous. It now costs me $6. Maybe it’s the recession talking, but that’s a hard pill to swallow, especially since I can read the entire thing online for free. But that’s the rub.
I like the paper, not the news. There’s something about the discovery of opening the paper, one section at a time and reading it from cover to cover (except for the boring parts). Also, the Sunday paper tends to include more lifestyle fluff. A little world events so that I stay informed, and then articles about baseball umpires, or a new burger joint in Tribeca; the baseball scores and the book reviews. I can read the same articles on my computer, but it’s not the same thing.
One of the problems with the internet (and modern technology in general), is that it’s too easy to scan for only the things you think you want to read. In the old days, after remote controls, but before digital programming guides, you channel surfed. You might pass by something and stop, watch for a bit and get hooked. That rarely happens when it’s just a title on the screen of your television, let alone something you recorded on your DVR. The same is true with online news. You skip a lot more of the things you didn’t know you were interested in.
Another thing about the paper. I’m definitely one of those people who likes to read the paper in order, and in pristine condition. I will pull a paper from the middle of the stack to get one that is in good condition and I bristle if someone rifles through a part of the paper I haven’t read yet. If I’m paying six dollars for this thing, I want first dibs and you can have whatever I’ve read when I’m done with it. Not before. Is this strange and uptight? Probably but I don’t care. The newspaper is a singular thing. Taking a section out of order, or before I’ve read it is like me grabbing the book your reading to read a chapter, three chapters ahead of where you happen to be. And dogearing several pages while I’m at it. You just don’t do it in civilized society.
My one caveat is that I’ll let Jane have the magazine first because she doesn’t usually do much damage to it. It’s bright and shiny and attracts a lot attention, but for the most part, it’s even fluffier than the Sunday paper.
And the funny thing is, for all my concern about the paper, when I’m done with it, I either throw it away or put it in the mud room for use as a fire starter at a later date. For something that is so disposable, it’s strange even to me that I hold it such high regard.
But I also know I’m not alone. Not even close. Habitual newspaper readers are notoriously particular about their habits. I’m sure a quick Google search would turn up plenty of essays, articles and rants on the very subject.
Jane has told me, “My father was just like that.” And while she admits that I am not alone, she is completely oblivious as to why something like this would matter. She simply doesn’t understand.
But then again, she dog ears pages of her books which sends me straight up the wall. My books generally look like they haven’t been read when I’m done with them. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I care that hers look like she slept on them (which she probably did). I just know I do.
And that’s the thing. If you’re sitting next to me reading YOUR paper, I don’t care what you do with it. Desecrating books still bothers me, especially if they’re library books, but you can’t solve all the world’s ills yourself. But there’s no earthly reason why I should accept anything less than what I want with MY paper.
I just took a break and tried to light a fire in my outside fireplace. I used half a newspaper (or at least what seemed like it) and because everything has been wet here for going on a month, I had to resort to a chemical firestarter. The newspaper wasn't even good for that.
Maybe I'll just read the paper online.
I like the paper, not the news. There’s something about the discovery of opening the paper, one section at a time and reading it from cover to cover (except for the boring parts). Also, the Sunday paper tends to include more lifestyle fluff. A little world events so that I stay informed, and then articles about baseball umpires, or a new burger joint in Tribeca; the baseball scores and the book reviews. I can read the same articles on my computer, but it’s not the same thing.
One of the problems with the internet (and modern technology in general), is that it’s too easy to scan for only the things you think you want to read. In the old days, after remote controls, but before digital programming guides, you channel surfed. You might pass by something and stop, watch for a bit and get hooked. That rarely happens when it’s just a title on the screen of your television, let alone something you recorded on your DVR. The same is true with online news. You skip a lot more of the things you didn’t know you were interested in.
Another thing about the paper. I’m definitely one of those people who likes to read the paper in order, and in pristine condition. I will pull a paper from the middle of the stack to get one that is in good condition and I bristle if someone rifles through a part of the paper I haven’t read yet. If I’m paying six dollars for this thing, I want first dibs and you can have whatever I’ve read when I’m done with it. Not before. Is this strange and uptight? Probably but I don’t care. The newspaper is a singular thing. Taking a section out of order, or before I’ve read it is like me grabbing the book your reading to read a chapter, three chapters ahead of where you happen to be. And dogearing several pages while I’m at it. You just don’t do it in civilized society.
My one caveat is that I’ll let Jane have the magazine first because she doesn’t usually do much damage to it. It’s bright and shiny and attracts a lot attention, but for the most part, it’s even fluffier than the Sunday paper.
And the funny thing is, for all my concern about the paper, when I’m done with it, I either throw it away or put it in the mud room for use as a fire starter at a later date. For something that is so disposable, it’s strange even to me that I hold it such high regard.
But I also know I’m not alone. Not even close. Habitual newspaper readers are notoriously particular about their habits. I’m sure a quick Google search would turn up plenty of essays, articles and rants on the very subject.
Jane has told me, “My father was just like that.” And while she admits that I am not alone, she is completely oblivious as to why something like this would matter. She simply doesn’t understand.
But then again, she dog ears pages of her books which sends me straight up the wall. My books generally look like they haven’t been read when I’m done with them. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I care that hers look like she slept on them (which she probably did). I just know I do.
And that’s the thing. If you’re sitting next to me reading YOUR paper, I don’t care what you do with it. Desecrating books still bothers me, especially if they’re library books, but you can’t solve all the world’s ills yourself. But there’s no earthly reason why I should accept anything less than what I want with MY paper.
I just took a break and tried to light a fire in my outside fireplace. I used half a newspaper (or at least what seemed like it) and because everything has been wet here for going on a month, I had to resort to a chemical firestarter. The newspaper wasn't even good for that.
Maybe I'll just read the paper online.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Margot | June 13
"He's been taking pictures of you since you pushed your way into the world!" my sister-in-law Bernadette called out.
She's right. I was in the room when Margot was born and took pictures of everything. I mean everything. I don't know what I was thinking, but I definitely got caught up in the moment. What are you really going to do with actual pictures of the birth. Hang them over the fireplace?
Regardless, Margot has often been my muse. One, she's beautiful; two, she likes having her picture taken; and three, she's 10 and can't drive or date. For the moment, she's a captive model, available whenever I need her.
(click on image to enlarge)
But if there's one thing about Margot, it's that she has her own ideas about things. I thought clients were bad. She has more opinions and art direction than anyone I work with. But, she's a good model. Handles direction well, and is more or less patient. Although that's starting to wear thin a bit. I guess as long as she continues to like have her picture taken, she'll put up with me. At least until she begins dating and driving, which we figure is in the next couple of weeks.
(click on image to enlarge)
You can see her website at Margot Okeefe
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