Just a few words from the road. I went to the Museum of Modern Art. My eyes hurt from seeing so much amazing art.
This is my first trip to NYC and here are some observations.
1. The traffic was pretty easy (non rush hour times) and the drivers were relatively courteous.
2. The people were nice... and always heading to some place else.
3. I really liked seeing the two Yankee Stadiums.
4. A sunny day in NYC is as beautiful as a sunny day in SF.
5. SF and NYC are very, very different.
6. Jackson Pollack's paintings make sense when viewing an original. I got lost in one for a good 20 minutes and felt like I had been on a self-actualizing voyage along the way. The same happens when I view a Rothko.
7. NYC people dress to a higher and more polished level than the relaxed SF folks.
8. NYC women are so damn sexy
9. The guys aren't bad either.
10. NY pizza feeds the soul in the right atmoshphere.
11. Everything is so damn close to each other here. I ask a local family member any question about distance and they will say, "that is about 10 minutes past X."
12. TBC
4.13.2009
4.10.2009
"My own blood is much too dangerous"
Lines and DesignsPhoto by SB
The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
I am heading to New York this weekend for a wedding... a family wedding. It is funny how I rather be with friends than most of my family.
On the upside, I am going to NYC for the first time. I plan to go to the MOMA on Monday.
So, to all my readers, I will try to write from the road, but no promises.
SB
Enjoy Neko's song. I never tire of it's haunting sound.
4.09.2009
The Check Engine Light of Life
I saw that fucking little light come on in my Subaru this morning while driving down I-80. I was sipping my spiritually nourishing coffee (I can feel the flow of my morning coffee touch every molecule in my body and it is decaf. I love really good coffee.), I was listening to NPR and in a gentle mood. I looked down and the fuel light came on. My mind slowly thought of upcoming off-ramps and which had gas stations. A few minutes and one NPR story later, a second light came on. This light has never come on in over 100,000 miles.
CHECK
ENGINE
It didn't blink. It just stayed on. A very quick, one word version of "Ohshitfuck!" slipped from my lips. I instantly got that prickle shock of fear, dread, and danger to my financial well being that the light usually signifies.
I found a gas station, parked, ran my debit card, and started gassing up the Subbie. I dug out the owner's manual to see how bad the news was. If the light isn't blinking, take it immediately to an authorized Subaru dealer. FUCK!
It also mentioned that if the light came on shortly after filling the gas tank it could be the cap is not on tight enough. It came on at the end of the tank of gas, not the beginning. FUCK!
This afternoon I am going to take it my mechanic. He has the fancy $10,000 computer that will talk to my car's computer and discuss what the problem is. I am hoping it is an O2 sensor. Cheap and easy.
The computers in our cars are far more powerful than the computers that were on the Apollo moon missions. Diagnosis is faster and easier than ever. My old 1970 truck is completely analog. When something goes wrong with it, my mechanic or I have to spend a lot of time thinking, "It could be this, or this, or that. Let me disconnect this spark plug and tighten that while you adjust the throttle. If it acts this way, then it is that problem." Not as simple as a computer saying, "the engine misfired at 3000rpm due to faulty injector number 3."
I am jealous of the my car's instant answers. For the past few years, my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light has flickered on and off. I learned to put a piece of mental black tape over the light to ignore it, but I know it still comes on.
Right now, I am wondering what is broken in my life. What do I need to get fixed? I need to lose 10 lbs. Exercise is a great idea. My eating habits could be improved. My sleeping is bad. My marriage is rolling along like a ship in the waves of the stormy ocean, but at least the bow is pointed into them. My artistic angst is there, but I find I need that or I don't do anything. I am nervous about being laid off. My backyard is a mess and could use a few hard days of labor to make it presentable. My credit cards are paid off (hooray!)
So, why is my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light on? On my car, that little light instructs you to get off your ass and get it to a mechanic, ASAP. Maybe that is what my personal light is telling me too.
Dr. L wrote a great post about a her thoughts on a similar issue.
We can wait around for Godot, that someone or something to come along and give us "the answer," to bring meaning to our lives. Or we can get up off our butts and go forward to find it.
My wife has a great saying for times of indecision. I don't know if she created it or who thought of it. "You need to either shit or get off the pot." It is very crude and blunt, but effective.
So, where is that cool computer that can talk to my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light? I guess I am as analog as my old truck and am going to have to tinker with my life until I find the solutions. Damn, I wish had an owner's manual for that.
ENGINE
It didn't blink. It just stayed on. A very quick, one word version of "Ohshitfuck!" slipped from my lips. I instantly got that prickle shock of fear, dread, and danger to my financial well being that the light usually signifies.
I found a gas station, parked, ran my debit card, and started gassing up the Subbie. I dug out the owner's manual to see how bad the news was. If the light isn't blinking, take it immediately to an authorized Subaru dealer. FUCK!
It also mentioned that if the light came on shortly after filling the gas tank it could be the cap is not on tight enough. It came on at the end of the tank of gas, not the beginning. FUCK!
This afternoon I am going to take it my mechanic. He has the fancy $10,000 computer that will talk to my car's computer and discuss what the problem is. I am hoping it is an O2 sensor. Cheap and easy.
The computers in our cars are far more powerful than the computers that were on the Apollo moon missions. Diagnosis is faster and easier than ever. My old 1970 truck is completely analog. When something goes wrong with it, my mechanic or I have to spend a lot of time thinking, "It could be this, or this, or that. Let me disconnect this spark plug and tighten that while you adjust the throttle. If it acts this way, then it is that problem." Not as simple as a computer saying, "the engine misfired at 3000rpm due to faulty injector number 3."
I am jealous of the my car's instant answers. For the past few years, my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light has flickered on and off. I learned to put a piece of mental black tape over the light to ignore it, but I know it still comes on.
Right now, I am wondering what is broken in my life. What do I need to get fixed? I need to lose 10 lbs. Exercise is a great idea. My eating habits could be improved. My sleeping is bad. My marriage is rolling along like a ship in the waves of the stormy ocean, but at least the bow is pointed into them. My artistic angst is there, but I find I need that or I don't do anything. I am nervous about being laid off. My backyard is a mess and could use a few hard days of labor to make it presentable. My credit cards are paid off (hooray!)
So, why is my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light on? On my car, that little light instructs you to get off your ass and get it to a mechanic, ASAP. Maybe that is what my personal light is telling me too.
Dr. L wrote a great post about a her thoughts on a similar issue.
We can wait around for Godot, that someone or something to come along and give us "the answer," to bring meaning to our lives. Or we can get up off our butts and go forward to find it.
My wife has a great saying for times of indecision. I don't know if she created it or who thought of it. "You need to either shit or get off the pot." It is very crude and blunt, but effective.
So, where is that cool computer that can talk to my personal "CHECK ENGINE" light? I guess I am as analog as my old truck and am going to have to tinker with my life until I find the solutions. Damn, I wish had an owner's manual for that.
4.08.2009
A History of Violence
Reflections on personal violence.
In a recent post, "Manly Things", I wrote on being proud I beat up a couple of school bullies. Here is what I said.
Beating up the class bullies. Did it twice. Don't want to fight ever again, but still feel good about doing it.
I've been thinking of those two events as well as other incidences of violence in my life. I am not going to write about the usual fights my older (and only) brother and I had. They never got violent. I want to write on my other experiences about personal violence.
My first memories of fighting violence are from the early 70's. I was in preschool- kindergarten. My dad worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as an engineer on irrigation systems. We were living in Lower Brule, South Dakota on an Indian reservation during the same time the American Indian Movement (AIM) was flaring up at the neighboring Pine Ridge Indian Reservation at Wounded Knee. Being the white kids of a government employee during this time was not easy. I am not going to write about the politics and the different sides of the issues. At four years old, my only side was keeping from getting beat up, and that was it.
On a regular basis, my brother and\I would get cornered and forced to fight or take a beating from a classmate or two. My brother is five years older than me. I learned a hard lesson. If I won the fight, I had to fight my opponents older brother or sister. At one point I had to learn when to take the beating over winning the fight. My brother had the same problems. He would jump in and protect me if I was way over-matched, but he had his own back to watch.
The tensions and violence moved onto death threats against my family. My parents taught my brother how to steer the car if one of them was shot while driving. We also learned that if someone started shooting at our home, to crawl into the bathroom and to get into the caste-iron bathtub for protection with my mom laying on us and my dad laying on the floor with a shotgun. Fortunately the worst that happened was that someone kept shooting out our porch light with a BB gun. Within weeks, we moved to Reliance, SD 15 miles away and off the reservation. My dad had to make that lonely commute everyday and we were scared for him. The most dangerous events though were the occasional tornado that came through town.
The two times I faced bullies are the only two fights I feel proud about. Dean was the neighborhood bully. He was in my grade, but had been held back twice. In fifth grade, he turned violent. He would beat up, intimidate and hurt boys, girls, pets, or whatever was in his way. I now know his home-life was hell and his life of violence went beyond his own anger. One afternoon, he started whipping my friend Brian with his leather belt. He kept saying, "C',mon chicken, belt fight me." I pushed Dean away as Brian was laying on the ground curled up trying protect himself. Dean turned to me and said, "You want a belt fight?" I didn't have a belt. Another kid threw me his. Dean smacked me once across my back with his belt. I had never been in a belt fight and that lash hurt a lot... so I broke the rules. I grabbed the end of his belt, pulled him close, knocked him down, and started throwing punches. He had a cut lip, black eye, and some bruises by the time I stopped. I got up and walked away. I was the first kid to stand up to Dean. I don't think he learned any lessons, but I felt I had done the right thing. A year or two later, Dean turned to drugs as his outlet. After high school, Dean joined the navy. I heard it changed him for the better. The last I heard, Dean was married and working at the local refinery.
My second fight against a bully was in 8th grade. Randy noticed I was quiet and when I became agitated my speech impediment would kick in. Every once in a while Randy and his friends would jump me, tease me, and throw me against my locker, then move off. By this time I was 6'4" ( over 6 inches taller and 20 lbs heavier) yet had not learned that meant I had an advantage because I had not fought anybody since Dean. Randy liked to pick on kids. He seemed to get joy from it. One day at lunch, I was sitting with my friend Sean and Randy and a friend of his sat at our table. I instantly went quiet. Randy kicked me under the table. I glared at him. I didn't want to say anything or my speech impediment would come out due to my anger. He kicked me again, harder. In a split second, I leaned over the table and using my long reach, grabbed his long hair and smashed his face into his lunch, hard. I then jumped across the table and started pounding on him. The lunch monitors pulled me off of him. I tried to explain that he had kicked me, but my words would not come out. We both were taken to the principal's office. He had a big bruise on his head. My hands really hurt from hitting him. The principal called Randy in first, then me. I was in shock. Randy actually confessed to kicking me before I jumped the table. We were both given detention for two days.
My dad came and picked me up from school. He asked me, "Were you in the right?" I stammered out, "yes." He nodded and we were silent for the drive home.
At home he sat me down and told me something that I am still trying to figure out what he meant. He said that now that I had a man's body like his, (he is 6'6") I needed to learn a rule about fighting. "Never start a fight with anybody shorter than you. If you win, you beat up a short guy. If you lose, you lost to a short guy." While I understand the basic idea, I wonder why he told me that then. As for Randy, he left me alone and I didn't see much of him other than the occasional hallway passing for the next few years.
It is interesting, the two times I learned how much damage I could do were when I hurt a girl, once physically and once verbally. Both incidents are on my top 5 list of life regrets. The first time was when I was five. My best friend was Stephanie. We played all the time. One day she said something to me that made me so mad. She started to ride off on her bike and I picked up a rock and threw it at her. It hit her in the head and knocked her off her bike. At first, I was (and still am) shocked that I actually hit her. I have never thrown anything accurately, except that one time. When I saw her fall I knew that I did something very wrong. I ran to her and she was holding her head and crying. I went and got my mom, a nurse, and she helped her. I confessed to what I did and felt so bad. I am crying writing this. The hardest part came later that day when my mom made me tell Stephanie's parents about what I did. I had to own my violence.
The second time I hurt a girl was when I used language as my violent weapon. Shauna and I were in 7th grade. Shauna, my friend Christopher, her friend Claire and I were walking home from the bus stop. We were joking about puberty. Without thinking, I pointed at Shauna's chest and asked mockingly, "When are you going to grow some tits?" Within one second, she slapped me open handed across my face as hard as she could. It was one of those slaps that could be heard from a great distance. I felt the red welt swell on my left cheek and it burned like hell. My eyes started watering instantly from the harsh pain. Shauna ran home crying and Claire followed her. Chris just looked at me and said, "You deserved that one." I knew it too. Later that night I asked Chris to go to Shauna's with a note of apology. It took a few weeks for the ice to thaw, but Shauna and I became friends again. In some bit of minor irony, puberty hit Shauna in 8th grade, during which she grew to fill D-cups in just months. That lesson taught me that words can be as violent as hands.
So, what have I learned from all this? I have not been in a physical fight since I jumped the table in 8th grade. I never want a fight, but I can if needed. I also know that I am not an innocent person. I've hurt others who were innocent and was the bully for it. Maybe the ass-kickings that I gave Dean and Randy are similar to the one Shauna gave me. Her slap taught me a lesson that is still teaching (and smarting).
In a recent post, "Manly Things", I wrote on being proud I beat up a couple of school bullies. Here is what I said.
Beating up the class bullies. Did it twice. Don't want to fight ever again, but still feel good about doing it.
I've been thinking of those two events as well as other incidences of violence in my life. I am not going to write about the usual fights my older (and only) brother and I had. They never got violent. I want to write on my other experiences about personal violence.
My first memories of fighting violence are from the early 70's. I was in preschool- kindergarten. My dad worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as an engineer on irrigation systems. We were living in Lower Brule, South Dakota on an Indian reservation during the same time the American Indian Movement (AIM) was flaring up at the neighboring Pine Ridge Indian Reservation at Wounded Knee. Being the white kids of a government employee during this time was not easy. I am not going to write about the politics and the different sides of the issues. At four years old, my only side was keeping from getting beat up, and that was it.
On a regular basis, my brother and\I would get cornered and forced to fight or take a beating from a classmate or two. My brother is five years older than me. I learned a hard lesson. If I won the fight, I had to fight my opponents older brother or sister. At one point I had to learn when to take the beating over winning the fight. My brother had the same problems. He would jump in and protect me if I was way over-matched, but he had his own back to watch.
The tensions and violence moved onto death threats against my family. My parents taught my brother how to steer the car if one of them was shot while driving. We also learned that if someone started shooting at our home, to crawl into the bathroom and to get into the caste-iron bathtub for protection with my mom laying on us and my dad laying on the floor with a shotgun. Fortunately the worst that happened was that someone kept shooting out our porch light with a BB gun. Within weeks, we moved to Reliance, SD 15 miles away and off the reservation. My dad had to make that lonely commute everyday and we were scared for him. The most dangerous events though were the occasional tornado that came through town.
The two times I faced bullies are the only two fights I feel proud about. Dean was the neighborhood bully. He was in my grade, but had been held back twice. In fifth grade, he turned violent. He would beat up, intimidate and hurt boys, girls, pets, or whatever was in his way. I now know his home-life was hell and his life of violence went beyond his own anger. One afternoon, he started whipping my friend Brian with his leather belt. He kept saying, "C',mon chicken, belt fight me." I pushed Dean away as Brian was laying on the ground curled up trying protect himself. Dean turned to me and said, "You want a belt fight?" I didn't have a belt. Another kid threw me his. Dean smacked me once across my back with his belt. I had never been in a belt fight and that lash hurt a lot... so I broke the rules. I grabbed the end of his belt, pulled him close, knocked him down, and started throwing punches. He had a cut lip, black eye, and some bruises by the time I stopped. I got up and walked away. I was the first kid to stand up to Dean. I don't think he learned any lessons, but I felt I had done the right thing. A year or two later, Dean turned to drugs as his outlet. After high school, Dean joined the navy. I heard it changed him for the better. The last I heard, Dean was married and working at the local refinery.
My second fight against a bully was in 8th grade. Randy noticed I was quiet and when I became agitated my speech impediment would kick in. Every once in a while Randy and his friends would jump me, tease me, and throw me against my locker, then move off. By this time I was 6'4" ( over 6 inches taller and 20 lbs heavier) yet had not learned that meant I had an advantage because I had not fought anybody since Dean. Randy liked to pick on kids. He seemed to get joy from it. One day at lunch, I was sitting with my friend Sean and Randy and a friend of his sat at our table. I instantly went quiet. Randy kicked me under the table. I glared at him. I didn't want to say anything or my speech impediment would come out due to my anger. He kicked me again, harder. In a split second, I leaned over the table and using my long reach, grabbed his long hair and smashed his face into his lunch, hard. I then jumped across the table and started pounding on him. The lunch monitors pulled me off of him. I tried to explain that he had kicked me, but my words would not come out. We both were taken to the principal's office. He had a big bruise on his head. My hands really hurt from hitting him. The principal called Randy in first, then me. I was in shock. Randy actually confessed to kicking me before I jumped the table. We were both given detention for two days.
My dad came and picked me up from school. He asked me, "Were you in the right?" I stammered out, "yes." He nodded and we were silent for the drive home.
At home he sat me down and told me something that I am still trying to figure out what he meant. He said that now that I had a man's body like his, (he is 6'6") I needed to learn a rule about fighting. "Never start a fight with anybody shorter than you. If you win, you beat up a short guy. If you lose, you lost to a short guy." While I understand the basic idea, I wonder why he told me that then. As for Randy, he left me alone and I didn't see much of him other than the occasional hallway passing for the next few years.
It is interesting, the two times I learned how much damage I could do were when I hurt a girl, once physically and once verbally. Both incidents are on my top 5 list of life regrets. The first time was when I was five. My best friend was Stephanie. We played all the time. One day she said something to me that made me so mad. She started to ride off on her bike and I picked up a rock and threw it at her. It hit her in the head and knocked her off her bike. At first, I was (and still am) shocked that I actually hit her. I have never thrown anything accurately, except that one time. When I saw her fall I knew that I did something very wrong. I ran to her and she was holding her head and crying. I went and got my mom, a nurse, and she helped her. I confessed to what I did and felt so bad. I am crying writing this. The hardest part came later that day when my mom made me tell Stephanie's parents about what I did. I had to own my violence.
The second time I hurt a girl was when I used language as my violent weapon. Shauna and I were in 7th grade. Shauna, my friend Christopher, her friend Claire and I were walking home from the bus stop. We were joking about puberty. Without thinking, I pointed at Shauna's chest and asked mockingly, "When are you going to grow some tits?" Within one second, she slapped me open handed across my face as hard as she could. It was one of those slaps that could be heard from a great distance. I felt the red welt swell on my left cheek and it burned like hell. My eyes started watering instantly from the harsh pain. Shauna ran home crying and Claire followed her. Chris just looked at me and said, "You deserved that one." I knew it too. Later that night I asked Chris to go to Shauna's with a note of apology. It took a few weeks for the ice to thaw, but Shauna and I became friends again. In some bit of minor irony, puberty hit Shauna in 8th grade, during which she grew to fill D-cups in just months. That lesson taught me that words can be as violent as hands.
So, what have I learned from all this? I have not been in a physical fight since I jumped the table in 8th grade. I never want a fight, but I can if needed. I also know that I am not an innocent person. I've hurt others who were innocent and was the bully for it. Maybe the ass-kickings that I gave Dean and Randy are similar to the one Shauna gave me. Her slap taught me a lesson that is still teaching (and smarting).
4.07.2009
Why Create Art (by the numbers)
Old Chair 1Photo by SB
I was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art(SF MOMA) a few weeks ago. I noticed something interesting and encourage you to observe it for yourself. Find a comfortable bench in an art museum and watch how people look at art. These numbers are estimates, not exact figures. 99% spend less than 20 seconds looking at any individual piece. They glance, read the info and move on. 99% do find a piece though that stops them and then spend many minutes absorbing it and relating to it. I also noticed that 20% or less of the collection got 99% of the deep viewing. I expect over 99% of my viewers choose to move on and not notice my photo.
I used to be a middle school math teacher, so let me do the math on this. I had an exhibit at a local gallery a few years ago. According to the gallery counter, around 600 people (some may have been repeat viewers) visited the gallery between the show opening party and the closing. I had 30 prints on display.
- If 20% of them got the most viewing, that would account for 6 of my photos being popular. I would hope all of them had merit, but I need to look at this objectively.
- Out of the the 600 who looked, 99% moved on. That could mean 6 people found something in the photo exhibit that made them really look at it and think about it (1% X 600=6).
- It could also mean that 6 people found each print important for a total maximum of 180 people(1%X600X30).
- It could also mean that just less than 6 people (I guess that would be 5 people) found 20% of my prints worthy of a deep look.
Statistics are very interesting. I can spin results so many different ways. The problems are the variables. How do I know that four or five people did not visit the gallery multiple times or that the same person looked at each photo in depth? Thinking about those little variables keeps my mathematically geeky mind reeling for days. I know I could apply some deep statistical analysis, but art is subjective and it is really hard to account for taste numerically. I did sell four original prints, traded one with an artist for a photo of hers, and sold 14 un-matted cheap prints. I also got a heads-up on a great, used enlarger.
So, if a minimum of 6 people were moved (positively or negatively) by my art, was it worth it? For me, yes. I knew after that experience which prints performed better and for the next show I was able to exhibit them more prominently. When I exhibit in a new geographic location, there is little overlap of viewers. If I get a few "fans" at each one, and they buy or recommend me to friends, I am building a group that are getting something from my art. My fame may not grow as fast as Britney Spears, but the growth is healthier and the "fan" has a deeper connection to my art.
I use Google Analytics to monitor who visits this blog. I am often interested in seeing how many people visit and stay at it for over a minute. I interpret that as people who are actually reading it. I then look at how many repeat readers I have. Like my art, most visitors take a quick look and move on. A few stay and read and a very few become regular consumers. I am fine with that. My blog and my photos are not for mass consumption. I am not Anne Geddes.
So, why create art that will be unseen, unheard, and not consumed? I don't create photos for my eyes only. I create them for others. I expect and appreciate criticism and try to improve my art, but I want people to see it, to react to it, and feel something about it. It is what makes me an artist/exhibitionist who wants people to be voyeurs into my world, my thoughts, my soul, and my life.
4.05.2009
In Praise of Manly Things
At times it is hard to enjoy "manly" things. Manly things, to me, are those things men do that are not necessarily intellectual and are often frowned upon from the cultured people. Manly things are not always politically correct, environmentally friendly, and may objectify women. I am not obsessed with enjoying these all the time, but I do have my "manly" needs. How can I be an enlightened human, yet enjoy these "base" pleasures of mine?
- Photographing nudes (it isn't always erotic, but it is still manly)
- The roar of a powerful, well-tuned engine (one of the sexiest sounds in the world)
- The feeling of my body being sucked into the car seat as I step on the accelerator and slide the shifter through the gears.
- A Navy Blue Angel flying low, and unheard, on the deck at near supersonic speed then enveloping you and the crowd with the thunderous roar of the afterburner engines that rattle your lungs.
- Cleavage... enough said.
- A really crude joke
- Watching Michael Jordan dunk the ball. (I am not an organized sports fan, but he transcended that for me.)
- Opening a door for a lady.
- Hard sex - not BDSM. I am talking about passionate hot sex that can be a little rough and very powerful for both partners.
- Beer - occasionally I just really want a beer instead of wine.
- Stalking wild game - I used to hunt. The sheer energy and exhilaration of the hunt still gives me tingles. The blood lust for the kill no longer enthralls me though, so if I hunt now, it is only with a camera.
- Doing something that can kill you. I love kayaking and a few years ago I had a bad run-in with part of a bridge in the Yellowstone River. The water was late October-in-Montana cold and I was tangled in some driftwood. I got free, rescued my trapped kayak and then grabbed the stern of my friends' canoe as they paddled to shore. I had never been so cold. My whole body was shaking and numb. That moment was one of those life-clarifying times. I don't necessarily want to repeat it, but now I know I can survive it. I am getting anxious to get back out in my kayak for the maiden voyage in 2009.
- Working on my truck and using the right tools to get it done. I really like taking on a big project on my truck and completing it. I don't mind the cuts, scrapes and dirty fingernails. I really like finishing it up, cleaning up, starting it up and seeing that my work ... worked.
- Using a chainsaw
- Starting a fire in the fireplace
- Target practice. As mentioned above, I don't hunt anymore. I still enjoy going to the range and reaching out and "touching something" at 700 yards. (The target is usually an empty 1 liter soda bottle or an aluminum pie plate.)
- Camping, backpacking, skiing, and most other outdoor stuff
- Sitting somewhere and seeing the most beautiful woman of the day walking by.
- Making eye contact with a woman I desire... and knowing there is a spark.
- Drinking with friends
- Helping an elderly lady with her heavy purchases. Heck, I like helping anybody that needs something heavy lifted. I may have bad knees now, but I am blessed with an iron back.
- Being artfully crazy at Burning Man (not necessarily a "manly" pleasure, but pretty wild all the same.)
- Initiating the first kiss (although I don't mind it when the lady initiates it too.)
- Beating up the class bullies. Did it twice. Don't want to fight ever again, but still feel good about doing it.
- Feeling the moaning, grinding, soft, wet warmth of a woman pulling me in.
- Watching movies with explosions with the volume up high.
- Pulp Fiction
- Grilling/BBQ - As my meat-loving friend Steve calls it, "worshiping at the grilled flesh alter."
- Helping people broken down along the road
- Paying for the dinner and the movie/event while on a date.
- Driving, or better put, not being a passenger. It is not that I think I am the best driver. I just get really bored and antsy being the passenger.
- Superhero movies - I am sucker for them. I don't like them all, but I want to watch them.
For better or for worse...
For better or for worse,
In sickness and health.
First, I am feeling better. I am still coughing a bit, but my energy is back and I finished my antibiotics. My mood is better because the mute button is off! Today is the first day I've been able to sit down and write.
This month is a crazy one for me. Yesterday, I photographed a friend's wedding. Next week, I am flying to New York to attend (but not photograph, thank God) another wedding. The week after that I am flying out to Washington DC for a conference.
Last Thursday, I returned to work while still having the "MUTE" button on. By Friday, my voice was almost back, just had no endurance. Yesterday, I drove down to Fresno for the wedding.
It was a pretty day. The groom was handsome, the bride was truly beautiful. Most of the families behaved and old family issues stayed barely below the surface.
This is the third wedding I've photographed. All were free. What did I learn from photographing a wedding?
1. Have a plan and shoot list, but be ready to bend it, break it, and then return to it.
2. Have batteries, memory cards or film, lots of them.
3. Try not to flirt with the women... too much.
4. Do not photograph weddings for money, unless you are good at it and really love it. Unfortunately, neither are true for me.
So, this last week of mine is aptly named, For better or for worse.
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