everyone's lost but me...

Hidden Away...

2009-06-22T07:50:00.004-04:00

Hidden Away...

vanishing places o...

By gregg b. mc neill

Book Preview

This is a book of photographs i just published. you can purchase it through Blurb, or email me and i'll get you one.

loneliest bench...

2009-06-05T09:27:00.006-04:00

He often boasted of his advantages.

He had been given the perfect amount of shade, and the luxury of the perfect location along the trail, near the halfway water fountain.

While he slept, someone thought it would be funny to sneak in the sign behind his back.

Now all of a sudden, no one would sit there and he had no idea why. He felt abandoned and forgotten. He grew to hate the snickering behind his back and despised everyone he thought responsible.

As his depression deepened, the joke went stale...

We thought we were teaching him a lesson. We're not so sure anymore...

mirror

2009-06-05T07:44:00.004-04:00

She came here for the peace and isolation that frightened the rest of us, able to face herself, even after all that she had done.

For that, I envied her.

For that, we all resented her.

waiting...

2009-06-05T07:22:00.005-04:00

His train was supposed to be here.

No one else was on the platform, leading him to believe that his mischievious timepiece had betrayed him once more...

It had been quite a while before he could trust the old pocket watch again, left in the drawer for all those years to ponder it's betrayal, with all the other forgotten things .

It was Belgium all over again...

low-rez transmission

2009-05-14T08:18:00.004-04:00

Tracing the path of the broadcast was nearly impossible, since the analog transmission of data was no longer understood, like trepanation, leeching and supply-side economics. Not a single byte of meta-data, no sound, just a garbled hazy image flickering in and out.

Puzzling.

The transmission medium itself was ancient. In fact, we nearly missed it. The random sweep we used to calibrate our instruments is what caught it. That particular wavelength hadn’t been used, or even monitored, in decades. The retrotech needed to move data in this fashion would have to be built from scratch. Why? It would be prohibitively expensive, not to mention, very difficult, extremely cumbersome and frustratingly slow. The 'why' seriously intrigued me. It was like building a dugout canoe to ford an ankle-deep river.

Many of my colleagues had theories on where the transmission originated, but only one asked the truly relevant question, when, since there hadn’t been that much open land here for nearly a century.

Holiday On Ice

2009-01-10T12:33:00.004-05:00

Since Christmas could no longer be trusted to behave itself, it was confined to cell #17 in the A block of the Guy Fawkes Holiday Correctional Facility.

After Christmas tried to expand it’s area of influence to include all of November through January, Thanksgiving and New Years filed an injunction.

During the exhaustive investigation that followed, it was discovered that Christmas had set up 2 dummy corporations called “Black Friday” and “Christmas in July” to launder money received through the bribery and intimidation of other holidays.

At the trial, Thanksgiving hadn't been shy about it’s objections to the turkey and pilgrim decorations being entirely neglected in favor of the earlier and earlier Christmas sale trimmings. Halloween and Valentine's Day had actually been impressed with Christmas' initiative, but also recognized the danger in expanding any one holiday to 90 days.

In the end, even the Claus' pleas for leniency were ignored. Christmas was charged with Racketeering, Intimidation, Money Laundering and Tax Evasion.

Hannukah remained neutral throughout the affair. Their profits are expected to triple by next December.

christmas runaway...

2009-01-07T19:58:00.007-05:00

I found it collapsed and unconscious in an alley behind a bar, most of its decorations removed or stolen. My first thought was relief. It had been missing since the 23 of December, but it was now January 6 and Christmas had long since past.

The kids' emotional wounds had nearly healed. The realization that their tree had abandoned them turned our holiday into a horror show. Feelings of anger rose up from within as I recalled the night it left in an angry, drunken stupor, trampling nearly all of the presents under it’s care. (this was not much of a problem for Charlotte's new teddy bear, but the crystal vase and the life sized origami hedgehog...).

The kids had picked out the little tree themselves. I had seen the potential for trouble but was assured that its “habit” would never affect its work. We decorated it with heirloom ornaments from my Grandmother and Great Grandmother. I now imagined all of them strewn about in back alleys all over town as a result of weeks of unknown debauchery...

I resolved not to mention anything to the family, as I tried to help it up, but it shrugged me off, collapsing back into the puddle, muttering to itself.

A country of proud people...

2008-04-24T17:06:00.034-04:00

What follows are excerpts from a journal. The Images were taken for, and property of, Scar Tissue Filmworks

Terminal 2, Dubai Airport

This terminal houses the flights to places like Iraq, Mogadishu, Somalia, and Afghanistan. The people in this terminal are all very serious. The few conversations going on were in hushed tones.

Every Caucasian here were either a contractors or military. It wasn’t hard to notice the vast number of military haircuts, Oakley shades and cargo pants. I could catch knowing looks from across the terminal between men that had seen each other in places I had probably never heard of. An odd chain-smoking journalist in a photographer’s vest was sitting in the corner furiously scrawling in a notebook.

Our contact, wore a tan suit and a black turtleneck. He used to be a journalist for Al Jezera and now owns a media production company in Kabul.

Driving though Kabul was an amazing experience. The entire landscape is grey and dusty. Few of the roads are paved and nothing is clean. Cars, bikes and carts clog the streets. The trucks are brightly painted with happy messages and blessings. Chains along the front bumper give the trucks their name; Jingle Trucks.

Our contact asked us if we had a specific time we needed to be at Bagram Air Base and if we were hungry. The Director said that we were expected, but not at any particular time.

“I’d love to have some Afghan tea, maybe some Kabob…” I said with a smile.

Our contact gave some directions to the driver and we turned a corner off the main road.

“Is this a good idea?” The Director asked nervously…

Our car pulled over in front of a building made of corrugated metal. A crude sign above the entrance had a picture of a chicken and the word Kabobs.

I knew that we would never be able to get into Kabul once we were on base, so this was our one opportunity to get into a place like this.

The inside reminded me of the Tibetan bar in Raiders of the Lost Ark. A potbelly wood stove heated the water for tea, and a young servant boy was tasked with it’s stoking. At one point a young girl in filthy rags came in to fill a teapot from the rusty spigot. She was pushed away by 3 older men, she argued, seeming to say that someone else had given her permission. She tried again with the same results.

We were asked what we would like. I wanted to try some Kabob. He ordered us some chicken soup and beef Kabob. Our tea arrived first. Our contact poured a little into one of the clear glass teacups and swished it around, poured it into the next cup and repeated the process for all of the cups. The green tea was really delicious. The soup wasn’t great, but the Kabobs were spectacular, served on the 18-inch metal spears on which they were cooked (at a foot and a half long, I can no longer call them skewers…). The meat was perfectly seasoned on the spear; each piece nestled between a bit of gristle for extra flavor and to keep the meat moist.

I asked if it would be ok to take pictures here, and was told that it wouldn’t be a good idea at this particular place and time.

Damn. At least I got to try some good Kabob.

The road to Bagram Air Base is pock marked and surrounded by mountains. The few buildings are in terrible disrepair or mostly destroyed. Our contact told us a few stories about people he knows that have fought the Taliban and the Russians before them.
It was a jarring 1-hour ride, swerving in and out of opposing traffic to avoid monstrous holes in the road.

Snipers often sit in the mountains and take shots at military vehicles. Few people walk this road. The military only travel this road in armored convoys.

We get to Bagram, and wait for our ride into the base. Our bags are inspected and loaded into a truck.

After checking in at the Media Operations Center, getting our badges (which we’re obligated to wear at all times), we were shown to our quarters. It reminded me of the living quarters I had when I worked at Cedar Point many, many years ago. A simple plywood building called a Bee Hut. There were 3 cots in the room. We were informed that we had a roommate, a cameraman from the BBC. He turned out to be a cool guy, doing a documentary about combat stress and it’s effects on the women of the military. He was with us for one night before he was moved down to quarters closer to the hospital where he would be doing the lion’s share of his shooting.

We were told that we would be picked up at 8am the next day and taken to PRT (Provincial Reconstruction Team) Headquarters.

--

Our first Mission took us to 2 schools that are being built by Afghan contractors and labor, but organized, contracted and overseen by the PRT.

The journey to get to these schools was no drive down the Parkway. The 3-hour bone-rattling ride through the Afghan backcountry was, at times, harrowing. Our convoy of 3 armored Humvees drove narrow roads along the sides of sheer cliffs, through rivers and riverbeds, up and down terrain that no other vehicle could possibly navigate. Our vehicle, designated Ram 10, was driven by a southern Ohioan named Adam, known as Highspeed.

“Bump, John.” He calls out to the turret gunner, who braces himself. The Humvee nosedives almost 30 degrees down into a gully and back up again. Highspeed assures us that this terrain is no problem, as he’s a rally driver and off-roader back home. “I do this for fun on the weekends… Bump, John.” We bounce several inches off the seats as the 10,000-pound vehicle heaves over a boulder.

There isn’t a road here. It’s a dry riverbed filled with glacier-sized rocks.

“We can only take this way part of the year. Once it starts raining this will be a raging river. Bump, John”, Highspeed continued to take Ram 10 into places that even the Hummer dealer would wince at. He’s truly a remarkable driver.

About half way to our first objective, we stopped in a small village, the highlight of which was a couple of abandoned soviet tanks sitting at the end of the main road. The local kids used them as playground equipment. The Director started to hand out candy and was quickly mobbed. This gave me ample opportunity to shoot photos and video of the tanks while the kids were occupied. I got some really great shots of a small child as he cautiously approached me around the front of one of the tanks.

The Director called me over to get footage as he tossed candy out into the crowd of children and it scattered onto the muddy ground. The children scrambled over each other to fetch it. The Director smiled.

“Mister, Mister, pen Baksheesh, pen!” they all shouted over each other. The Captain told me that kids wanted American pens and they always asked for them. “Baksheesh” basically means, “give me…”

As the kids started getting more riled up The Director started talking louder and slower, because that’s how Americans communicate with people who don’t speak English. “HERE’S SOME CANDY! EVERY ONE TURN TO FACE THE CAMERA! TURN-TOWARDS-THE-CAMERA!”

“We gotta go.”, said The Captain, as he saw the situation starting to get out of hand. The Director’s mob began to resemble a George Romero film. “C’mon we gotta go.” We climbed into the Humvees and continued on. I could have shot those tanks all day…

--

Snow began to fall as we gained altitude. We reached the first of our objectives in fog and snow. It was a little surreal. Snow was softly falling, but there was no wind. It wasn’t even all that cold. Fog hung low as we approached the stone and concrete building that was soon to house almost 100 students. We climbed the steps and were met at the top by the schoolmaster. As we took the tour of the work so far, the Civilian Engineer assigned to the PRT, commented on how some of the work (namely the ceiling, and many of the load bearing beams) would need to be redone, as the concrete mix contained far too much gravel and even wood chips. “We see this a lot.” He said, “Contractors want to save money and will mix in this stuff to take up space. What they don’t realize is that this won’t be safe. We need to make these structures to survive earthquakes, which are common here.” The Captain added, “Contractors are paid in 25% installments. 25% up front, then we check progress, before the next installment is paid. This contractor won’t get paid until this work is redone to specs. And because of this we have to tell the School Master and the students that the school won’t be ready for them this spring. They may have to wait until next fall. Until then they’ll have to continue to hold classes outside as usual.”

I captured some amazing portraits of the students and School Master. The soft light that filtered by the fog and snow was amazing.

The PRT guys were discussing the work that had been done and the work that needed to be redone, and started taking a tour of the rest of the facility. As I went to follow them, The Director stopped me and said that he needed video and stills of him with the kids and the teacher.

As we were leaving, I wanted to get the tripod out of the Humvee and get an establishing shot of the building.

“We don’t have time for that now the guys are planning to go.” The Director said. I insisted that this part of the story needed an establishing shot. I ended up running for the tripod myself and got a quick shot. The Director saw the shot and then insisted that I get another establishing shot with him and the kids in front of the school.

Our second stop was another school that some renovations had been done on. The PRT needed to check on the progress of those renovations. The schoolmaster wasn’t around and the gate was locked. One of the men, followed by The Captain, found an Afghan ladder, two straight-ish poles with cross pieces haphazardly attached, some by rusty nails, and others, tied with twine. No person in their right minds would trust such a contraption. After climbing over, they proceeded with the inspection.

Highspeed was holding a security position outside our Humvee. He was keeping watch over the desolate snow covered farm fields. The clouds and fog obscured all but the bottoms of the far off mountains. “You can never see the peaks of those mountains, even on a clear day, you can’t ever see the peaks.”

The convoy continued it’s way back to base. On the way, we stopped to see one of the Provincial Sub-Governors. Since he wasn’t home and his place was next to a village bazaar, we took a break and did a foot patrol of the area.

Again, I got some amazing portraits from this little excursion.

The old man standing outside his shop wrapped in a brown blanket, had a proud look in his eye as I took his portrait. The dark haired man in the Afghan hat with the wry smile who let me photograph him. I nodded thanks with my hand over my heart, a sign of respect in this part of the world.

The most startling portrait of the day was of the three boys standing in front of a shop. When I saw it, I had to have it. I pointed the camera and started shooting, all the while knowing I had captured something special.

There was a shop that a guy turned into a sort of dinner theater. He had a burlap curtain covering the doorway and benches facing a TV. A Kung-Fu movie was playing that I didn’t recognize. His shop sells the afghan version of French fries. Served cold with a sweet spice sprinkled liberally over them, and wrapped in flat bread.

On the way back I thought about how hard life is here. What kind of desperation that must take hold when your only plan for the day is to survive.

Ahead of us, a Toyota Corolla packed with 8 or 10 Afghan nationals took a blind turn way too fast and plowed head on into the lead Humvee of our convoy.

None of the passengers in the car were wearing seatbelts; all were injured, including 2 toddlers. From the look of the windshield, at least three of the passengers hit it. The car was completely devastated.

A French Convoy we had passed earlier caught up with us and their medics took care of the wounded until an ambulance arrived.

The turret gunner of that lead Humvee broke two of his fingers in the incident. The Humvee was virtually undamaged.

--

Our mission brief today said that we’re delivering 26 mattresses to the women’s dormitory of a university. This is actually a pretty big deal, since there aren’t many universities in this region and even fewer that admit women. This school is housed in a German built textile plant from the 40’s. Its’ architecture has that ominous German look to it.

The Director said it looked like Dachau…

Nice…

We have a huge 5-ton truck in our convoy today loaded with the mattresses. It parks outside the walls of the compound.

We go inside to meet with the headmaster of the university and the region’s Sub-Governor. We are served tea and snacks while they discuss what’s happening. The tea is an important part of any process in this area. Business is never discussed right away. The Captain participates in a little small talk about weather, families, and hunting. After tea and cakes, business is slowly brought up. This can aggravate some foreigners, particularly Americans, as we have a tendency to want to get right down to business, which is considered rude.

Once the destination for the mattresses is discussed, we move onto the task at hand.

Several hands appear to help as the mattresses, donated by Bagram Air Base, are one by one carried into the woman’s dormitory and stacked against a wall.

The Captain is proving himself to be a great on camera personality. He’s got a great, permanent smile, he’s articulate, and what’s more, he knows what he’s talking about. I have him giving on camera “Play by Play” type stuff after each part of our mission. This will be invaluable footage when The Director gets into the edit.

After the University, we stop at a PRT-built women’s shelter to deliver some stuffed animals. It’s a bit of a mob scene and I realize that there is no good way to shoot this kind of thing. Half way through, I decide to shoot photos and get a few great ones.

--

There are no days off in a war zone. They are called “Low Battle Rhythm Days”. I caught up on some much-needed sleep, and processed some of the previous days photos.

I’m becoming a fixture at the coffee shop/Popeye’s/Pizza Hut.

--

Salang Pass, Salang Province.

The second highest road tunnel in the world at just over 11,000 feet above sea level (Bagram is about 5,000 feet), over 2 1/2 kilometers long. 80% of the region’s fuel and goods come through this tunnel and down the mountain pass.

Our mission was to meet with the head of Public Works for the province to see if the road clearing equipment that was purchased for keeping this vital road clear of snow and debris was being used properly or indeed being used at all.

Our meeting with the head of public works (a General in the Afghan Army) went well. We were requested to stay for a fabulous lunch of lamb stew, chicken and kabobs.

Got a few great portraits

The road leading up to the tunnel is heavily traveled and we stopped a couple of time to see the purchased equipment in use.

Once at the foot of the mountain, you must traverse a crazy number of switchbacks and bits of covered roadway. The tunnel itself isn’t ventilated and it was very icy. There’s something very unsettling about watching a 10,000 pound vehicle in front of you slide all over the road, dangerously close to oncoming traffic. What’s even more unsettling is when your vehicle does the same…

At the top of the mountain, we stop to inspect some other equipment, get some footage, and we go back through the tunnel and down the mountain.

This wasn’t without its difficulties. One of the Humvees had some problems. The brakes nearly caught fire. The driver had been riding the brakes downhill, instead of downshifting. We had one of the other Humvees tow it home.

--

Today’s mission was to inspect a clinic that had burned down. It was the best clinic in the area, originally built by a Bangladeshi NGO. The doctor still practices out of one of the fire damaged rooms. He had a calm, Zen-like appearance about him. His portrait is really great. Just after the PRT left, a man with a rash on his arms and chest came into the blackened office to be treated.

The PRT says it will be at least 3 months before they can begin the process of rebuilding the clinic, but in the meantime, they’re going to get the Doctor some tarps for his roof and other supplies to help him continue his work as best he can.

The next objective for the day was to look at a possible flood control project along the Panchere River. After disembarking from the Humvees, we are lead across farm fields and irrigation ditches to the area in question. “Cool. You’re first real foot patrol.”, comments The Captain. The walk takes about 15 minutes, but only 5 Afghani minutes.

The low-lying plain floods every year and the residents would like the PRT to build them a flood control barrier. The method used will be large wire mesh baskets called Gabions. You fill these huge baskets with rocks and boulders (if there’s one thing Afghanistan has aplenty, it’s rocks and boulders) and then stack the Gabions to make walls. This would divert the floodwaters away from the banks and save the mud-brick homes of the people that are forced to leave there for the months of the rainy season.

The reality of the situation is that the rainy season is less than a month away, and the project would entail 4-6000 Gabions. The PRT just can’t work that fast. It would take at least a month to get the paperwork ready for this kind of project. The PRT can eventually get them the Gabions, but the locals will need to supply the labor to fill them. One of the Afghans says, through the translator, that the Governor had promised them the use of excavating equipment. The Major said that he has no control over the Governor, but he will be talking to him with the next week and will remind him of the matter.

The Captain said that the PRT doesn’t want to just give the Afghan people things. The Coalition Forces won’t be here forever and he would like to see the people become self-sufficient. It’s the whole “teach a man to fish” thing.

A good example of this is the road clearing equipment for Salang Pass. The PRT donated the equipment, but the Public Works Department is responsible for maintaining and using it. The people of the region are used to asking for (and receiving) everything. “We are Afghanistan, we’re poor, give us what we want.” The Captain and the PRT are putting in place a bureaucracy where the people go to their provincial leaders to request a project, and then the provincial leaders go to the sub governors, who then go to the Governor, then The Governor goes to the PRT.

At ribbon-cuttings of new projects, like a recently opened Clinic, the PRT will take a backseat. They want the people to see and realize that it’s their local government that is responsible for the project. Whenever the Members of The PRT speak at these functions, they always bring it back to the Government official responsible. “We’re not going to be here forever.” The Captain said, “We’re basically trying to work ourselves out of a job here, so that the Afghan People can become self sufficient.”

When the PRT does a project, they hire Afghan contractors from the area where they will be working. The contractors then hire local labor to complete the project. The locals get the jobs and the clinic, road or school. Keeping this all local gives the Afghans a sense of pride and accomplishment, along with a job. These things are crucial to getting the country back on its feet.

--

There are usually 2 or 3 PRT convoys that go out every day from Bagram. The other convoy that went out today came under fire from small arms and rockets propelled grenades (RPG’s).

I came to find out that a few days earlier, The Director tried to get us onto that mission, after finding out it was going to “a troubled area”. We were denied permission to tag along. I was reminded of a comment that the Master Seargent uttered to me in the hallway, outside his office that day; “You’re partner is trying to get you killed.” It didn’t make sense at the time, but after finding out how hard The Director had tried to get us out their with those guys, I got it. It would have been “good TV”, but having us in that convoy would have put everyone at risk, since we would have become a liability, if anything happened to us, or our vehicle.

In the end, no one in the convoy was hurt. The air cover that the convoy had the forethought to order (in the form of 2 Apache helicopter gunships), quickly dispatched at least one or two of the aggressors.

It really brought home for me how dangerous this job can be for the PRT. We’ve felt completely safe every time we’ve gone out. That’s because we follow their safety protocols. We ALWAYS wear our Kevlar vests, and we are never out of sight of the members of our convoy.

When we were at the Bazaar, I was walking around taking photos and shooting video, oblivious to the bigger picture around me. There was always an armed member of our patrol following me, keeping a lookout and watching my back. The PRT are responsible for our safety on these missions IN ADDITION to their regular duties. I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration, for these guys. They have a tough job to do. They do it well.

--

The PRT helped to build a Women’s Shelter and Clinic. They are next to each other, on the same plot of land. The Shelter is for women and children and its run exclusively by women. This is a huge deal in this Islamic Republic. Today the women are looking for help with their International Woman’s Day event. The PRT will be able to provide donations of food, clothing and children’s toys. The women we meet with are not shy about asking for things that they need. Today they are asking The Captain for help transporting participants to their event. The PRT can’t provide vehicles to them. In the past they have gotten other NGO’s to donate funds to hire vehicles for them. The women are disappointed. “You can build roads, schools, and clinics, but you cannot get us a car?” One of them says through a translator.

Ending the meeting on a good note The Captain tells the women that the PRT has recently received approval for the construction of a 24-room school exclusively for girls on the grounds behind the women’s shelter. The current 12-room school, behind the Clinic is in terrible disrepair and will be fixed as well, in the end they will have the 36 rooms they need for their students.

On The way back, we stopped at a desolate cemetery at the foot of an imposing mountain face. There were only a few real tombstones. Most of the grave markers were just plain rocks partially buried in the ground. Makeshift flagpoles with green flags fluttered in the cool breeze, symbolizing those that died as martyrs. I got some great shots, but was hurried back to the convoy before I could get anything I was really satisfied with…

--

Went to a provincial Government Meeting today with the Governor of the Panchere province and all 30 of the sub-governors. The meeting lasted over 2 hours.

Afterwards we distributed some clothing to an orphanage.

--

Range day cancelled today, due to yesterday’s rain. Caught up on photo processing.

Went to a small bazaar on base. Dealt my way into a flintlock pistol for $30. It’ll be a cool souvenir for my wall.

With a week to go here, my thoughts turn to what’s next.

I’ve been thinking of coming back, actually, by myself, with just still gear. The portraits I’ve captured here are some of my best work ever. If I could return, I think I could get some even better shots. Doing a book based on the mission of the PRT and the people that benefit from its efforts might be a possibility.

--

One of the Missions of the PRT is to assist in the training of the Afghan National Police. They have a bad reputation to deal with. They used to be underpaid public servants, prone to rampant corruption and bribery. The PRT helping to train them in law enforcement techniques, such as the proper way to apprehend a suspect and vehicle searches, as well as self-defense The ANP play a pivotal role in the recovery of Afghanistan. They have to be seen as a trustworthy authority so that the Coalition forces can focus on things other than law enforcement.

--

More time at the coffee shop today, working on a library of photos for the soldiers of the PRT. They are very excited to see them. I’m apparently the only photographer they’ve worked with that’s been willing to share photos. The Director told me what ever they wanted was fine with him, so I’m trading over 300 photos for patch the members the PRT convoy wear. It says “Seven Club”; representing the less than 7% of the 20 thousand soldiers on base that ever go “outside the wire”.

I think it’s a good trade.

--

Went to a training class today run by the Bagram Media people. It’s a training class for Afghan cameramen and reporters. They had many questions and were eager to learn all that they could. These people are yearning to tell their country’s story. They are somewhat misrepresented in the world media.

--

The meeting we attended today was for Youth Generations. It’s a group that started out organizing intramural sports teams for the young people of the country, such as Soccer and Volleyball (which is HUGE here). The teams cross ethnic, cultural and religious lines allowing the kids to interact with kids from other regions and provinces. The group has grown considerably, now counting many adults among them and a new mission: to help the youth of their country to inherit an Afghanistan that they can be proud of. They meet monthly and this month there was a very special first time guest to the meeting. The local Sub-Governor heard about this group and what they are doing and wants to become involved.

The Captain hears about ideas for projects the group is interested in. One member says that they would like to plant trees. (Most of this region was almost completely deforested by the Russians and is in desperate need of trees). The Captain’s eyes brighten as he tells them about a recently received PRT contract to do that very thing.

The Youth Generations group will submit a bid for the project and they will be given donated trees AND be paid to plant them across their province.

--

Getting out of Kabul International Airport.

After quickly and freely giving away all of his cash (some lucky baggage handler made a weeks salary, and so did some other guy in a uniform who opened a door for us), and frantically announcing that he needed 50 bucks from me to pay the airport tax (the only legal bribe in the airport…), I suddenly got over traveling with The Director.

You do NOT have to tip anybody here. The Director just nodded his head no…

“You’re wrong. They weren’t going to let us out of here. I HAD to pay them off. You’re just wrong.”

I told him that his frantic waving of money, opening his wallet, and general freaking out in a place like this only attracts the attention I would, personally, like to avoid. He makes himself a target and therefore, makes me a target.

We have valid passports and visas, not to mention, confirmed seats on the flight. They have to let us on, bribe or no. The Director again tells me I’m wrong and wonders if we are going to have a fistfight in the middle of the airport to settle the matter. I briefly consider it.

“All that bribes do is move you to the front of the line. We have plenty of time before our flight. There was no need for you to throw your money around like that.” The Director continues to shake his head no.

He stops when the guy who was helping us with our bags agrees with me. “He’s right actually.”

Now The Director starts muttering to himself that we narrowly escaped being incarcerated in an Afghan prison.

Narrowly escaped? Yes. But not from that.

He spent the entire flight two seats across from me angrily scribbling in his notebook. More than likely a tale of how he saved us with $350.00 in bribes to heathen brigands in the wilds of Kabul airport.

The flight back to the US was uneventful.

I’ve though intensely about going back to Afghanistan in the weeks since my return. It’s a beautiful country of proud people.

Lessons I learned from ’07:

2008-01-03T16:10:00.000-05:00

1. Putting the vegetarian in charge of the meat for the Christmas feast is like putting the Mormon in charge of bringing the liquor to the Bachelor Party.

2. It is possible to spend $25.00 on lunch at Taco Bell. You have to be from Scotland and have a sudden deep yearning to know the fundamental difference between a Classic and a Baja Gordita, while comparing it with all of the members of the Chalupa Family.

3. All of the items on the Taco Bell menu (with the notable exception of the unidentifiable compound that makes up the Cinnamon Twists) are made from the same 7 ingredients. They are combined into their different permutations by a sophisticated computer program and uploaded to the CHALUPANET for taste testing at the Top Secret facilities in Rio Rancho, New Mexico.

3. Dry Ice is a little over a dollar a pound and can be found at a liquor store in Wheaton, MD. The urge to toss a 2 pound block of the stuff into the Reflecting Pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial can be a bit overwhelming at times.

4. MTV has a Standards and Practice Department. (who knew?)

5. I have it on good authority that monkeys do not make good pets. “They’re awful! They shriek… constantly, they throw their shit all over the place, and they jump around a lot… Anyway, we had to get rid of him, but he ended up solving his own problem by escaping. I was living in Morocco at the time, so no one really noticed.” –Eric

6. Support and kindness sometimes come from the most unexpected places. This gives me hope that we hairless, talking monkeys just might have a chance in this world.

7. The worst things will always happen to the best people. That’s the way it is. The Universe has no concept of what is “Fair” or “Just”. It’s Us vs. The Universe. The odds are stacked against the little guys (that’s us, by the way), so keep your head down and your guard up, and remember the most dangerous part of any combat is friendly fire.

8. “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we are free to do anything.” --Tyler Durden
I’m still dealing with this lesson, as well as Tyler’s other assertion: “The things that you own, own you.” Purge, my friends, purge.

Next…

Not so much a lesson but a quote that’s been stalking my conscious mind for a while now:

“The bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you’re not ready for the Big Moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really...but it does. So what are we? Puppets? No. The Big Moments, they come, you can’t help that. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. That’s when you find out who you are.”
-- Whistler, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I think that the harder you try to resist the changes, the rougher the ride. I’m trying to let go a little bit more in ’08 and ride the current for a while… taking in the changes and letting them happen…

The last and most important lesson I learned in ’07:

9. I continue to survive the Sweeps Week episodes leading up to the mind-blowing season finale of the Truman Show that is my life…

Stay Tuned…

watch your step...

2007-11-22T11:38:00.000-05:00

The unfortunate little beast upstairs howls almost constantly now. Blind, deaf and thanks to its incontinence, now has to be housed in an infant’s playpen. It’s stubborn owner selfishly refuses to have put it out of it’s misery, choosing instead to live with it’s cries, like some sick canine version of Johnny Got His Gun.

This situation brings to mind something a much too honest friend of mine told me after the dissolution of a recent relationship, “You’ve never been able to finish anything and you can’t ever accept when something’s not working. That’s a bad combination.” (much like being impatient and slow moving....). She was right.

The whole relationship had turned into a really bad scene. He was my friend. She was my lover. I overestimated his friendship, and underestimated hers. They ended up together. His betrayal hurt more. My much too honest friend saw it coming. All of my friends did, actually.

The prickly emotional minefield that Memory Lane has become seems like some masochistic game of hopscotch that I can’t stop playing.

The dog upstairs refuses to die, like the memories, and the kick in the gut that accompanies them. They’re the kind of good memories that were over long before they were finished, like a great television series that has gone on 2 or 3 seasons too long. In the end you just wish that you had gotten out before the ending tainted the good times.

This minefield is over two years old now, even overgrown by other minefields in some places, but I’m still stepping on those memories and they still go off with brutal and terrible efficiency.

the price...

2007-09-02T23:32:00.000-04:00

If you think about the most iconic portrait, which one comes to mind? Is it Steve McCurry’s Afghan Girl?, or maybe one of the many amazing images by Annie Leibovitz , Walker Evans, , Robert Mapplethorp , William Allard , Helmut Newton , or Richard Avedon?

Portraits are the most difficult of the photographic pursuits. The skill of the portraitist is to capture a revealing moment that peers into the soul of it’s subject… it reveals the unseen, it moves us.

"Photographers are like hunters who possess the killing instinct, but not the desire to kill."
--Peter Coyote, "Exposure"

Stuffed animal heads on the wall, or portraits, same thing, both trophies of the hunt.

Some tribes believe that photographs contain the soul of their subject. That puts a heavy burden on the photographer.

Do we have a responsibility for the images we take?

Do hunters have the same kind of burden of conscience over their "body count”?

Some of my portraits have begun to haunt me.

The price we pay for the portraits we take is that they end up owning a piece of us.

I don’t have portraits on my walls any more…

U S Airways: Taking The Short Bus To Customer Service

2007-03-31T00:02:00.000-04:00

I arrived at the airport early to relax a little before my noon fight to West Palm Beach (connecting through Charlotte), for the Candidate’s speech that evening. (I would also be traveling to Miami early the next day for another shoot with the campaign photographer).

I treated myself to a breakfast of a Five Guys Bacon Cheeseburger (truly the best burgers anywhere). It was really divine and I thought it a great way to start my day…

At 10:40am my flight was cancelled. No reason was given. I called my travel guru, who takes care of such things at the office, and she began desperately working on the problem of getting me on another flight to West Palm.

The barely audible announcement said to go to the “U S Airways Special Services” desk for “Re-accommodation”. What I had no way of knowing was that the term “Special” wasn’t so much a designation as it was a description. (Special, as in short-bus/crash-helmet special.)

I waited in line with 75 other people to be “re-accommodated” at the speed of lithium by the ONE attendant at the desk. The airline quickly cancelled two other flights within the next 30 minutes, increasing the line, but not the assistance at the counter.

After 45 minutes I was loosing my amused grin at the absurdity of it all. The travel Guru had me on speaker as she was dealing with the confused travel agent, who kept insisting that my flight wasn’t cancelled, and that she couldn’t really do anything until it was.

A few other attendants came and went from the Special Services Desk. None of them stayed long enough to help anyone.

My favorite was the one who approached the counter via the Dunkin’ Donuts stand. She perused the selection for a bit, chatting it up with the cashier, poured herself a cup of Joe and mixed in her additions like it was a science experiment. She finally sauntered around behind the desk, looking over the attendant’s shoulder for a bit, then left as slowly as she came, making sure to avoid any eye contact and ignoring anyone who tried to get her attention.

I noticed Flight 1223 direct to West Palm Beach was boarding and I walked the counter, abandoning my place in the re-accommodation line. With the Travel Guru still on the phone, I asked the attendant if there was any way I could get onto this flight, but before I could finish, he growled at me over the rims of his black plastic frames.

“There is NO WAY you can get onto this flight. I can’t help you. You NEED to get back into the Special Services Line.” I expected a couple of finger snaps to go with the headshake.

I stood there for a second, my eyes wide. US Airways: Where Customer Service always comes with a healthy dose of “FUCK YOU!”

The Travel Guru was amazed as well.

After 90 minutes in the stagnant line, my will to live was being sucked out of me quicker than a trip to Walmart.

My thoughts immediately ran to my luggage, namely the camera case. If that didn’t make it to my destination, there wasn’t much use in me going at all.

Things weren’t looking good. The Travel Agent’s computer still didn’t show that my flight was cancelled, and there wasn’t much hope of me making it to West Palm by 5pm, unless I could get to BWI airport in Maryland (fat chance, since I feared I would have to perform the 12 Trials of Heracles to rescue my luggage first).

The fall back position was a later flight to Miami to make the second shoot with the campaign photographer the next day.

I was next in line, the light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps? Wait, was that a whistle?

I was finally assisted, but not onto another flight. I collected myself and put away my frustration. Wearing my best Mid-Westerner smile, I said that I needed to get to West Palm Beach by 5-ish. It was a business trip, and it was really important, and could he help me out.

“Not a chance.” he said, his expressionless face seemed to be mocking the entire situation. I was told that I would not make it to West Palm Beach, no matter what airline I flew.

I didn’t believe him (he didn’t even check his little mystery screen in front of him, hell, his fingers never even typed anything in!), but what could I do? He offered no alternatives or suggestions, not even a fake apology.

I inhaled deeply glaring at his half closed, dispassionate eyes. “Where do I retrieve my luggage, then?”

“You have to go to the ticket counter.” He was already looking over my shoulder at the next person in line that he would refuse to help.

I walked to the other end of the world, past the security check point and back to the US Airways ticket counter.

The “Supervisor” told me to go downstairs, back the other way, to the Lost Luggage office in baggage claim.

My belongings were already considered Lost? This was going to end badly…

“Thank you very little…” and I was off to baggage claim.

I explained my situation to the people in the Lost Luggage office… twice. They couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that I wasn’t flying on a later flight. I told them that since I couldn’t make it there by 5 there wasn’t any point in going, and I just needed my luggage back.

“What flight were you on, Sir?”

“907”

“That flight was cancelled, Sir.”

Sigh. Slow Blink. Compose. Smile.

“Yes, I know. Where’s my luggage?”

She called the baggage room and was told that there weren’t any bags there from my cancelled flight, and didn’t know what flight they were put on.

I was told that my bags were probably put onto flight 1223, the non-stop that I was flatly refused entry on.

(I’m, frankly, astounded that my bags were allowed on that flight. Every time a passenger leaves a plane, or even fails to board, they lose their minds, stop everything and get their bags off. That’s the TSA and Homeland Security rule. So, how the hell did my bags get on that flight? No one could give me an answer on that one.)

When I asked when my bags might return I was told THAT THEY HAD NO IDEA!!!

(I am constantly amazed at how an entire industry can continue to run under such gross incompetence.)

“They could be on the 3:30 return from West Palm, if the bags make it there…”

“Wait, you just said that they were on flight 1223. So why wouldn’t they make it there?”

“I said that IF they were on flight 1223, sir…”

“You can’t track my bags? Isn’t that what the barcode on the tag is for?”

“SIR, we don’t have time to scan every bag. I can see you’re getting upset. When your bags show up, then I can call you and tell you when we can get them back.”

My eyes widened again. These are the people that are supposedly keeping my air travel safe?

These people were morons.

If it’s this easy to get an unattended bag on board a plane, I’m amazed that there haven’t been more terrorist attacks.

She handed me a laminated card and asked me to point to the pictures that most matched my luggage. I answered several descriptory questions and was told that when my bags “showed up somewhere” that I would be notified.

My late night flight to Miami to meet the campaign photographer had to be scrapped since I had no idea when my camera would be arriving.

Nice.

As I left the Baggage Claim office, I grumbled something about how this might be the only example of how government regulation could improve an industry. I can’t think of how the Fed could do any worse.

I took a cab back to the office, thinking that I’d be arrested if I stayed there talking to the drooling, inept employees at U S Airways. I was called about 2 hours later to say that my bags, apparently, had not made it onto flight 1223. They were still not located, and they would call me when they were.

By this time I was stuttering with astonished frustration. Every time I asked these people a question, they would just start jabbering on and never give an answer. I kept repeating my question, and calling her on her Clintonian dodges. She finally admitted, “Sir, I’ll be honest with you. I can’t tell you where your bags are, or when they’re getting back.”

I had to hang up or face prosecution for over-the-phone-man-slaughter.

I didn’t hear from Us Airways again until 10 pm. They said that my bags were at Reagan National. They would be delivered to my residence. Normally this is where a feeling of relief would wash over me and I would feel that an end to the ordeal was near, but that wasn't to be the case...

By 11:30 they hadn’t shown up. I called the 1-800 number and was told that the delivery people had a 1-4 hour window.

At 2:30AM I fell asleep. No bags. I dreamt of the raging phone call I would make the next morning, and the looming blog entry that would follow. I dreamt how the cc’d message to US Airways might actually reach a human person. I dreamt of how it was all so useless, and how this criminal enterprise called the airline industry would continue to survive and breed like a virus and continually operate on the bleeding razor’s edge of bankruptcy, with government bailouts, taxes, fees and surcharges to keep them afloat for just one more year. They would continue to restrict flights, passenger rights and privileges and maybe eventually ban human passengers altogether.

5:45AM my phone rings and my bags were delivered.

I would rather perform dental surgery on myself with no anesthetic than ever fly US Airways again.

In Celebration of this Day of Days...

2007-02-19T21:17:00.000-05:00

President’s Day.

This is the day where we honor the Commanders in Chief of our nation, both past and present. We honor their leadership and their sacrifice.
We honor them as only capitalists can: With mattress sales. Some crazy fat guy in a powdered wig and a frock coat, green-screened into a shot of a crowded store, beckons us with the promise of massive liquidation savings.
“I cannot tell a lie, these are the best prices of the year on Sealy Posturepedic and Sterns and Foster.”

It’s nice to have a day off, but what do we do to celebrate?

Some would say should we do exactly what our president would want us to do. The same thing he told us to do after the crisis in September of 2001. Spend Money. Contribute to our debts - I mean contribute to the growth of the economy.

I went to Whole Foods and bought some criminally priced steaks, what did YOU do?

Tipping: Part 2 Electric Boogaloo

2007-02-16T02:21:00.000-05:00

gratuity |grəˈt(y)oōitē| noun ( pl. -ties)

money given in return for some service or favor, in particular, a formal a tip given to a waiter, taxicab driver, etc.

ORIGIN late 15th cent.(denoting graciousness or favor): from Old French gratuité or medieval Latin gratuitas ‘gift,’ from Latin gratus ‘pleasing, thankful.’

I’ve previously railed against poor tipping at the coffee chain, now I want to look at it from the other side.

I want to tip. I like tipping. It takes so little to impress me toward gratuity. A basic understanding of a job, the smallest effort, it doesn’t take much.

But, I don’t tip if it’s not deserved. This isn’t a Mister Pink “I’ve been here a long fuckin’ time and she only filled my coffee once…” thing.

Bottom Line: Give me SOMETHING. Smile. Introduce yourself. Call me by my name. Fake it. But give me some small reason to want to tip you. It’s not a right, and in most cases, it’s not mandatory.

At the airport curbside check in, the Thrower dutifully helps me to check my 3 pieces of luggage, charges me the outrageous amount of $80.00 for excess baggage, then takes me to a machine inside to print my boarding pass.

“Can I get a receipt for the excess baggage fee.”

“You’ll have to go to the ticket counter for that. I’ll be the one taking care of your bags, sir.” She says in the well-rehearsed expectation of a gratuity.

“You can’t print me a receipt?” I usually tip a buck a bag for curbside. I look at her thinking; “You’re abusing the whole idea of gratuity. You’re asking me to go wait in line for a receipt when I used your service to avoid the very line that you’re FUCKING SENDING ME TO!!”

“No, I can’t print you a receipt, but I’ll be the one who TAKES CARE OF YOUR BAGS.” I remove one of the bills from the 3 in my hand, sighing disgustedly.

”thank you very little…” I mutter and stomp off to the fucking ticket counter line.

The woman behind the ticket counter barely speaks English. “We no print receipt, you go to where you charged, they print receipt.”

“The agent out there said she couldn’t print my receipt and told me to come here.”

She gives me the blank stare of someone who has just reached the dark outer edge of her understanding of the English language.

“I get Manager.”

The Manager, decked out in a pressed uniform blazer, informs me that he can’t print a receipt either. He’s sorry, but he can’t. I dicker with Blazer Guy for 10 minutes, mainly citing that curbside check in, supposedly faster and more convenient than waiting inside is, in fact, neither.

“I understand. I’m sorry.” He repeats this mantra 3 times

At the Manchester Airport, the hotel shuttle driver puts my bags in the back of the shuttle, drives me to the hotel, and drops my bags on the front sidewalk. He turns away before I can slip him his gratuity. He definitely deserves it. I want to give it to him. He drives off.

I drag all 4 of my bags up the walk toward the lobby. I’m my own Sherpa, with a big duffel one shoulder, a laptop case on the other, and a large pelican case in each hand. The guest entering the doorway ahead of me looks back, holds the door for a second, but thinks better of it, letting it close.

“You worthless, slobbering pile of dog-snot! I’m 5 steps away and you close the door in my face!” That fucker saw me, too. He witnessed my struggle with 4 heavy pieces of luggage lumbering up the walk, barely able to keep balance. Eye contact was made, which is an unspoken contract with your fellow man.

I stand at the door, stunned for a moment.

“No, that’s OK, I’ll get the door.” Setting down one case as the duffel slides off my shoulder, onto the ground, blocking the door that I’m trying to open, I mutter something about bastard fucker something or other.

Some people’s kids…

At the check in counter I sign the requisite paperwork and there it is on the bottom of the form, a check box. “Would you like to have a $2 per day gratuity added to your bill for the house keeping staff?”

First of all, if there is a tip to be given, I’ll give it.

Second of all, I haven’t even SEEN this room yet. I check NO. Are they going to ask me in advance for a tip at the bloody restaurant as well?

Once I check in, I’m told that I’ll be getting back on the shuttle to get to the building I’m staying in. It’s the Bed and Breakfast around back. “Great, I can give the shuttle guy his tip.” He comes back, loads my bags into the shuttle and drives me to the other building. Dropping my 4 bags on the sidewalk, he points to a doorway about 50 feet away.

“Go up that ramp there. You’ll have to use your card key to enter.” He does an about face and takes off again before I can give him cash.

“Dude!” I would have tipped him $5 just to help me through the fucking door.

I 2-trip it up the ramp, through the door, load a luggage cart and trolley down the hall toward my room….

Well, not exactly to my room. To a narrow Old New England stairwell with a sign pointing up to where my room would be. No fucking elevator…

“Sunova… (deeep sigh… finding my cave… power animal… happy place…) Fine. Fine, whatever.”

It’s almost 9PM. I haven’t eaten since 1. I call the front desk for room service.

“Only the main building has room service, sir. You can place an order for pickup.”

I call out for Chinese. I order General Chicken and 2 egg rolls.

“Minimum order 15 dollar.”

“How much is my order now”

“12 dollar 15 cent.”

I ordered a crab Rangoon, and meet him downstairs 20 minutes later. I must have be the last order for the night, since his family was in the car, all decked out in kitchen clothes.

I tip him $4 dollars, since he put forth a little effort for a customer by driving back to give me my receipt.

At 8am I wake to the email that the event here has been cancelled and the office will get back to me on my fate for the rest of the day.

I call the front desk to ask where breakfast is being served.

“We don’t serve breakfast there anymore.”

“Oh. I was confused by the sign out front that says Bed and Breakfast.” A silent pause. “So, it’s just the Bed, then?”

“Yes. The restaurant serves breakfast until 10 am.”

10 minutes after 9. Still have to shower…

“When do you start serving lunch?”

“We don’t serve lunch.”

“OK, when you start serving dinner?”

“The bar opens at 5 and the kitchen opens at 6.”

“Does the bar serve food at 5?”

“Yes.” Another pause.

“What do they serve?”

“I don’t know. Bar Food I think.”

“Right…” This conversation can only get ugly. I have to commit to it, or walk away.

I have to eat, shower or no, so I trudge off across the barren wasteland toward the restaurant.

The Funeral-Home-Quiet is deafening. Two couples quietly eat their meals, and 2 single older men sit at their respective tables. I wait to be seated.

And wait.

For over 10 minutes not a soul comes out of the back kitchen. No waitress, No hostess, nobody.

I wait some more.

It’s like everyone in the restaurant is serving detention. No one speaks, just the soft clinking of silverware on china and the mildly disturbing songs of mastication.

A tall, pale, Concentration-Camp-Thin woman with long, dyed black hair walks out of the back, saunters really. A slow, loping gait that says “I’m so over all of this, I could just puke.” She takes no notice of me, straightening up an already straightened table on the other side of the room. A long, slow, laborious arm sweep to make sure that the tablecloth is absolutely free of any offending wrinkle or pucker. Lazily placing the unlit candle, salt and pepper shakers and the packets of sweetener in the middle of the perfect sea of white.

She eventually makes her way over to me.

“How many.” Her squarish black plastic frames don’t even rise to meet my gaze.

“One.”

“Follow me, Please.” she mumbles, taking 6 lethargic steps to my table. She drops the menu and ambles away. She comes back a few minutes later to ask if I want any coffee. I take the opportunity to order as there is no telling when she might return from her next walkabout.

Moving at the speed of Lithium, she gets my Hash and Eggs to me, never coming back to ask if everything is ok. (In actuality she does only fill my coffee cup once.)

A little attention to a detail or two would make a world of difference. If coffee is the first thing I order, chances are that it’s pretty important to me. Keep an eye on it. (Isn’t this waitress 101 stuff?) I don’t need her to keep coming back again and again to ask if everything is ok, but she wasn’t busy and she didn’t come back, even ONCE.

I know that waitresses don’t make great money, and their job is pretty hard work. The tips are most of their take home pay and I think of a standard 15% as rent for taking up space while I eat, although I almost always go 20%.

It comes down to this: If your take home pay depends on tips then getting tips becomes part of your job. One smile, or a ‘Good Morning’, one lousy ‘Is everything OK?’ is all it would take to get a tip out of me.

I tip this waitress EXACTLY 15%.

She deserves far less and I usually give far more.

Before checking out I leave some cash for the cleaning lady who gave me extra coffee packets and an additional box of tissues.

Yes, but is it Art?

2006-09-05T23:14:00.000-04:00

I had stopped what I was doing suddenly. Like the abrupt and offensive sound of a needle scratching an LP, my task had ceased. I looked up at him dumbfounded.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Photography isn’t art. My Dad was an art teacher for 20 years, and it wasn’t until recently that photography was inserted into the art curriculum. It was never considered an art before then.”

I blinked twice. With this level of ignorance, I’d expected knee-high Jack Boots on his feet, or some kind of stick or club in his hand. He was so sure of his opinion... so confident he was right...

“It’s not art, it’s a skill.”

”You...(sigh)...I...I don’t have the words to express to you how wrong you are.”

He looked at me as if he’d just discovered that it was I who had pissed in his corn flakes this morning. “Don’t you tell me I’m wrong! I know what I’m talking about. My Dad taught Photography for 10 years. It’s not art it’s a mechanical process.”

My eyebrows rose as if to object, my mouth opened and inhaled as if to speak, but nothing came out. I was so shocked at the absurdity of it all... (Was this what it was like to be offended?...) and finally composing a thought...

“I think that Ansel Adams and Edward Weston, among others, would take issue with that.” I tried to contain myself, being at what passes for work. I put down what I was doing and...

“I don’t know who Amstel Adams or Western is, but my Dad said...”

He continued to talk...his words melded into the teacher’s voice from the Peanuts cartoon.

All of a sudden I knew the story...

His Dad was a failed or frustrated painter, maybe a watercolorist or a Bob Ross graduate, or maybe he answered that ad for a free art test on TV, either way, he felt forced into teaching. Then he gets this class foisted upon him with no raise in pay to compensate for the extra pain in the ass (not to mention little or no extra funding to make it work). Now he’s dealing with all of this chemistry, and these mechanical cameras and lenses...this class was the albatross around his neck and he’d been sure to pass on this opinion like a recessive gene to his offspring.

“...So you’re saying that art must be made by hand?”

“Well, yeah, that’s the creative process. Artists create something from their minds that wasn’t there before. Art isn’t just recording reality.”

“(blink)...So, if I make a camera out of, say, a cigar box, I then make some paper, and coat it with silver nitrate, and then use the cigar box and the paper to create an image that wasn’t there before, that’s not art.”

“It’s still a mechanical process. I know, my Dad’s an ART TEACHER.”

I raised a Harrison-Ford-Righteously-Indignant-Finger at him, “Well, I’m a PHOTOGRAPHER and maybe you should with hold your judgments on the matter until you see my ‘ARTWORK’ on display in my gallery space. There are some other PHOTOGRAPHERS there who might take an interest in your opinions as well.”

For the first time in a while he said nothing.

“(deep inhale)...You have a sad and narrow view of art.”

Some people’s kids...

from a conversation I had recently...

2006-06-20T03:06:00.000-04:00

Photographers live in the past.

We take ourselves out of the moment to record it for posterity. Witnessing, but never fully taking part.

Then, after the fact, we examine and rearrange the events, hoping to make sense of them. By then, however, it’s too late. The past is gone and it doesn’t really matter that we figured it out in the first place.

I’ve realized that the several years of my life I’ve obsessively documented are now hollow memories and not as fulfilling or comforting as I thought they would be.

As I peruse these photographs from time to time, I see Brothers, Friends and Lovers. I see the places I’ve gone and places I haven’t been to in a very long time. The one thing I don’t see is myself. I am absent from these events, and consequently, I am absent from the memories as well...

I still carry a camera pretty much everywhere I go, but now the life experiences come first and the photos come second.

A Short Note...

2006-06-18T21:01:00.000-04:00

Re: Public Breast Feeders:

Unless you brought enough for everybody, maybe you should put that away.

Reflections on the Unphotographed Life

2006-06-18T20:12:00.000-04:00

My Doctor once told me, tapping his temple; "Some images are just for you... for up here."

Those images are some of my best work, and I jealously guard them.

Wide Load...

2006-06-18T02:33:00.000-04:00

I entered the crowded coffee chain at 10AM, to discover that it wasn’t really that crowded, just jammed up by 2 people, each with doublewide strollers. This husband and wife team had managed to put a complete stop to traffic flow. The store was smallish, and had a couple of displays that were taking up valuable real estate (though not as much as these Peterbuilt Prams). As people shuffled in, and tried to move into the line, the prams held their ground.

Do these people have any concept of what they’re doing? Can’t you park those damn things at a meter and have one of you go in? Oh, wait. Neither of you knows what you want even though you both see this menu every day of your work week. So if you could fuck with everybody’s life, while adding 15 minutes to my coffee buying experience, that’d be great.

While you may think it’s quaint to have a stroller the size of your husband’s H3, nobody else does. That Baby doll tee from Abercrombie and Fitch doesn’t give you a pass, either. I don’t care how MILF you may think you are; you’re standing in the way of my coffee. So take off those shades, hang up the phone, turn off the iPod, make up your FUCKING mind, and get that progeny-riddled monstrosity out of the store!! MY LIFE IS LEAVING ME!!!

These goddamn strollers take up the ENTIRE width of the sidewalk, but then to bring them into a store?

“Excuse us...Excuse us.” over and over again in that condescending overly polite way stroller driving Mothers have around here. Clipping ankles and running into people as they muscle their way through, never stopping.

Maybe this an example of “I’m on vacation, so the rules of polite society don’t apply to me.”

Sir, I can see that you have your vacation pants on as well as your vacation sandals, and your very brave vacation hat. That’s great. I’m happy for you. None of this exempts you from the ire of people who aren’t on vacation, however.

Try this exercise: for 10 minutes a day try to think of someone OTHER than yourself...

now try harder...

The woman’s mega stroller is 6-point turned into a hallway, completely blocking access to the other room as well as the pastry case, while the other super mega stroller continues to block access to the line and wonders what he’ll order.

I move around him into the line, with a sigh. The barista asks me what I want, and I manage to suppress the urge to say “a tire boot for the SUV behind me.

I understand the need to air out the little people with a wistful slow walk through the narrow streets of Old Town, but a little consideration, if you please. For example, there is no need for your mate to walk abreast of the stroller. You don’t move fast enough for the locals, so just like on the escalators: stay to the right, so we can pass you...hell, stay to the left for all I care, but taking up the entire width of the walk is unacceptable.

This may come as a shock to you, but not everyone in Old Town is on vacation. IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU.

So, I get my muffin and latte, turn around and nearly topple onto this fucking pram, as this idiot has all but pulled up to the back of my ankles, blocking me in. I stop, look down at the stroller and look up to him square in the eyes.

“Hey man, you need a CDL to drive this thing?” This guy doesn’t have the space to turn around or even move to one side and just stands there with a vacant expression on his face.

One frustrated sigh and eye roll later (a look reserved just for the tourists) I step over the front corner of the pram and stalk out muttering something about inconsiderate yuppie bastard tourists.

The Most Dangerous Pastry...

2006-06-11T02:02:00.000-04:00

She had asked for a Rice Crispy Treat.

Dammit. My heart leapt into my throat. The tag on the tray said Marshmallow Bar. Can’t she read?

I couldn’t let her call it a Rice Crispy Treat, not with those rumors floating around. We never paid for the right to use the brand and if THEY caught wind of it, we’d be in trouble.

I must have had a deer in headlights look on my face because she repeated her order.

“Rice Crispy Treat?” she said, pointing.

Those elves are treacherous... I mean they’re Evil. He’s not called Snap for show. That little guy is a knee breaker and he’s crazy.

You ever wonder WHY the Original Boo-Berry went off the market? It’s because they never found him, not after he started talking smack about Snap and his brothers. (Subsequently, they pulled a "Darren From Bewitched" and "reintroduced" him.) After that, Cap’n Crunch had to house all of the General Mills guys in his Vitamin Fortified Compound in the West Indies.

“How ‘bout a Marshmallow Bar?”
“No, I’d rather have that Rice Crispy Treat.”

Part of me wanted to know how those power hungry imps could have a lock on the whole crispy rice and marshmallow fluff combination, anyway. That’s like Microsoft trying to copyright the letter M.

“Are you DEAF? RICE...CRISPY...TREAT.”, she signed.

There’s a reason you’ve never seen Cocoa Pebbles Treats, you know. Flintstone has a family to think of. After The Cap’n left, Fred replaced Dino with a Veloceraptor. Barney and Betty took Pebbles and Bam Bam and fled to Mexico.

“Ma’am, we don’t HAVE any Rice Crispy Treats...HOW ABOUT THIS MARSHMALLOW BAR?”

I had heard that Crackle had subcontracted alot of their Copyright Enforcement work to Tony The Tiger and his Cereal Assassin Squad.

“That’s a RICE CRISPY TREAT! Are you going to sell it to me or not?”

In the back of my mind I had wished that I had the money for some kind of protection. I had turned down Quisp’s offer. It had been a little steep, but looking back, I’d pay twice the price. The more this woman insisted, the greater the risk to my well-being.

Fucking Corporate wanted to sell these stupid pastries, not me. I tried to tell them about the risk of such a venture.

Nobody ever listens to me...

“Ma’am, don’t make me ask you to leave. This is a MARSHMALLOW BAR.”

The Keebler Elves had wanted to branch out into the breakfast business a while back. Their tree mysteriously burned to the ground one night, along with their cereal plans. My shop would be next if this lady didn’t shut her cake hole.

“Fine. You call it whatever you want, but it’s still a RICE CRISPY TREAT!”

I winced as she produced her cash. She sneered at me, grotesquely chewing a huge bite.

I thought of all of the strange clicks and beeps on my phone and the mysterious cars slowly driving past the store.

As the glass door closed behind her, a nondescript black van pulled up to the curb. A furry orange arm with black stripes pulled her inside. Funny how his claws never looked that big on TV.

Her half eaten marshmallow bar skipped across the pavement, as the slider door slammed and the van screeched off...

I pulled my passport out of the drawer, and my emergency duffle out of the closet. I locked the front door and left the closed sign to lazily swing side to side on it’s nail.

Maybe Belgium, or Prague...

"Don't take any wooden nickels." and other non-tips from TagTown USA

2006-06-07T01:39:00.000-04:00

The world is essentially divided into 2 types of people: those that tip and those that are cheap oxygen wasting mouth breathers.

This is the type of person that a corpulent childhood friend named Albert would have described as “School in the summer time... No class.”

You know who you are. And so do we. We notice you, and we still smile because it’s our job. But on the inside we’re doing unspeakable things to you... and that’s why I’M smiling.

When I moved here from West Michigan, I thought I had left a city plagued by the cheapest lousiest people on earth.

Not so.

Bearing their lanyards as a badge of distinction (as if I’m impressed), sauntering up to the counter while talking on the cell phone (hands-free blue tooth sci-fi ear piece, of course, you neophyte) and browsing a menu they’ve looked at a thousand times before. The vacant open mouth stare I know so well. Then they order the same thing they always do.

“Uuuuuuuummmmm... hum... well I’d like- No we can’t have that report by Monday- Grande 3 shot extra hot decaf half organic, half soy sugar-free hazelnut mocha...oh yeah with extra whip.”

Paying with a $20, they absently pocket all of the change, using the phone call as a dodge and avoiding all eye contact, as if we don’t notice. I would probably shove this silly drink up your ass if the first pennies you’d ever made weren’t already taking up all of the anal real estate under your khaki’s.

The other big tip dodge is the credit card and gift card. If you are paying with a card, you still look like a cheap asshole for not tipping on your Venti 5 shot double blended light ice extra caramel Crappuccino.

That ringing you hear is the clue phone...pick up!

Another non-tipping favorite is the guy who orders a small coffee in a large cup. When you come back for that $.50 refill, you feel great don’t you? Do you think that you’ve put one over on us?

By the way, when you come in first thing in the morning with yesterday’s cup to get a refill...

Again we smile, but on the inside...

What you don’t seem to understand is that we keep you awake for your mind numbing shitty desk job. YOU NEED US. What else are you going to drink? The coffee in the office? I didn’t think so.

So, the next time that latte of yours isn’t doing its job, and your eyelids are drooping, think about whether you tipped or not. I could’ve absentmindedly hit the decaf button (which can happen...).

The changing face of covert assassins...

2006-05-23T23:29:00.000-04:00

"“We used to have a lock on the huge albino assassin market...sure it had been done before, but we were the ones who came up with the self-flagellating monk angle. You see, no one ever questions a monk, and you don't notice the albino thing right away either; 'Jeepers, that's a big monk!', you say...but other wise you take no notice."

"Then that damn book came out and we had to change tactics. Of course, we had a back up plan. We've been working with a major cosmetics company to create a self-tanning spray specifically for our guys. Something natural, not too bronzy, or shiny."

"Well, it'’s been a real disappointment. We had long-term contracts that are now void, because people see our guys coming a mile away. Nowadays, who's NOT going to notice a 7-foot tall albino monk, even if he ISN'T one of our assassins?"

Is it possible to look at all manly with a blended drink in your hand?

2006-05-05T00:13:00.000-04:00

What does a Strawberries and Cream blended drink say about you as a man? Decaf Light Blended Coffee? I don't care what mid-life crisis car you're driving, you can't look cool sucking from a straw. Maybe Chuck Norris could...maybe.

It beats workin'...

I get an embossed card after 90 days, right around the time I have my 30th coffee tasting. My decoder ring comes after 120 days. At 5 years they let me into the Inner Sanctum, where their ultimate plans for controlling the world will be revealed to me. At 10 years I get a sabbactical and use of the Island Lair...

Of course, I'll be wearing the black apron of a Coffee Master by then.

seriously, coffee master, black apron, you know, the Jedi Knights of coffee...

"This is not the drink you are looking for..."

"You'd LIKE a muffin with that..."

Moving cups around, blindfolded, making lattes with my mind, maybe I would finally crack the mystery of the Iced Cafe Voltaire...then somewhere nearby, a cup spills.

a disturbance in the coffee...

Although, I often wonder if Tea Master might look better on the business cards...

This art will self destruct in 5...4...3...2...

2006-04-30T00:50:00.000-04:00

"I AM THE GOD OF HELL-FIRE AND I BRING YOU...!!", bellowed The Doctor.
I jumped back as the flame singed my eyebrows.

vegan apocalypse

2006-04-27T01:13:00.000-04:00

Back then we didn't know that plants led lives of their own. They lived, loved, mated and died. Once this startling discovery was made, Legislation was passed to prohibit the consumption of plant life of any kind. The agricultural industry collapsed overnight, as fields were ordered to be left to grow, nothing to be touched.

Their spirits were among them teaching the young plants how to grow, and when to fear the harvest.

The Pause...

2006-04-26T01:47:00.000-04:00

I'm always straightening my tie.

I like to stop the van and take a few seconds before I do these gigs.

The four-foot check sits awkwardly in between the seats. I look at the name again, saying it to myself a few times.

Contrary to popular belief, "The Check" isn't cardboard, it's actually made out of foamcore board, which is much sturdier. People have a tendency to hug them.

I move the mirror to make sure my tie adjustment has worked. It has, but I adjust it anyway. The cameraman is loading tape into his video camera. The photographer is testing his flash.

We are about to change these people's lives forever, and they have no idea. This used to excite me about the job, but lately it's just become sort of, you know, more of a job.

anyway,

I sigh and say their name again a few times.

I straighten my tie and put the white van in gear. It's just over the bridge.

I just hope the flying elves don't come back...

10R-29L-6R

2006-04-26T01:33:00.000-04:00

I realized that I finally knew exactly which one was "the weakest link".

Sylvan

2006-04-25T02:25:00.000-04:00

Shortly after executing my compass, I came across a glen. He was lost too...

Planned Avian Communities

2006-04-25T02:17:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, today's condo developments will be tomorrow's ghettos...

church...

2006-04-24T01:07:00.000-04:00

The tiny church had no name. It's builder was remembered by no one. The inside was empty, save one small podium and a picture of a thoughtful Christ, looking up through a small hole in the rafters.

It now gave sanctuary only to the desert animals that took refuge under it's foundation.

Too late...

2006-04-24T00:13:00.000-04:00

All of a sudden he realized, there in low light of the evening sun, that his life had passed him by. He was destined for nothing.
What had he accomplished?
What had he to show for a lifetime of wanting?
His shoulders buckled and fell under the weight of his acceptance that wanting wasn't enough.

Deep Throat knew he could hide out in the Terrarium...

2006-04-22T14:09:00.000-04:00

how long could he possibly stay there? They would find him soon, unless he did something...drastic.

Operation Latte' Thunder...GO!!

2006-04-22T02:00:00.000-04:00

Freelance, you know, the Latin term for terminally unemployed. That's me. Lately, the bills are out-pacing the gigs.

time to take my Howard Roarke tour of the Rock Quarry. But which quarry?

Realizing that my only marketable skill aside from the whole camera and lighting thing is making coffee, I got a job at a coffee chain...a big one.

I get a pound of coffee a week for free...i had to get that out of the way...

My first day was spent reading through a forest of dead trees compiled into bound works the likes of which I haven't seen since college. These great tomes included things like the 20 steps of cleaning the pastry cabinet, and the 16 steps to making whipped cream. At first I was a bit nervous, thinking that this actually might be akin to rocket science. I was quickly turned around when I realized that the manuals are written to the lowest common dominator, and that I wasn't crazy, or stupid and that this (as I suspected) is the farthest thing from rocket science. They were able to take the simple process of mixing a bag of powder into a pitcher of water and complicate it to a level I've never seen before. I read through the several chapters that I was required to complete and spent much of my 11 hours watching others work.

I did spend a few of those hours in front of a computer watching a presentation that was so mind numbing, I actually felt dumber after it was over. The photos that accompanied the presentation were horrendous! Some store manager with a new camera decided he was a photographer. His very liberal use of the flash and the awful exposure of some of these shots really made me cringe. It was so bad that I asked the manager if I could redo the presentation for them. I would, too...for free...to save the poor souls forced to sit through this nonsense. Do I really need to see photos of each of the 12 steps to cleaning and stowing a mop bucket? Is my life so sad that I have to sit through this at age 35?

(pause as I have one of those moments where I really start to examine my life...thanks to Bourbon, it won't last too long.)

One of the other folders of brochures and pamphlets includes a Tea Passport and a Coffee Passport. I am expected to conduct coffee and tea tastings. This is actually kind of cool and was the best part of the day. I had three coffees in different presspots and tasting cups. I was to pair each coffee with a pastry or food item. There is a pairing chart that says what coffees go with what, so it wasn't too difficult. I was told to take out of the pastry case whatever I wanted...

The Kenya AA went surprisingly well with the Lemon cake, red grapes (the most enlightening pairing by far)and an orange. The coupling with the grapes really brought out the citrus notes in the coffee and brought down the high end acid taste.

The Sumatra was paired with cheese. Brie, cheddar and a pesto jack. The cheese actually made this coffee tolerable to me, as the bolder dark coffees have not been kind to my aging stomach over the past couple of years.

Guatemalan Antigua was coupled with a chocolate espresso brownie. nice. The rich brownie really went well with the bold earthy flavor of this coffee. The apple also went nicely.

As I fill my coffee passport, I will be on my way to becoming a Coffee Master. I have to take a couple of classes to attain this title. I might stay just to get this title, and have business cards made:

Camera, Lighting, Coffee Master

Evidence Collection

2006-04-12T16:52:00.000-04:00

Evidence of the crash was collected over the course of 10-15 seconds. I was able to store all of the information I had gathered onto one negative, thanks to an ancient technology...

The collection of extended periods of time onto film was created around 1880.

2006-04-12T16:23:00.000-04:00

I know there was an American Flag bandana there when I took the photo, but now I'm not so sure. Did it vanish in processing?

"The trains are blameless, holy creatures..."

The Doctor was here...

2006-04-12T16:16:00.000-04:00

A year after the event, there was still proof he had been there. Did they leave the evidence alone, knowing it's importance?

...or had he come back...

mousegame!

2006-04-08T12:53:00.000-04:00

Mouse starts under the bowl. Bowl is lifted. If the mouse goes into the color hole you've bet on, you win. There's a mouse kibble in each of the holes, but the odds are always on the house (or is it the mouse).

I feel like this mouse all the time....

This carnival game seemed kind of seedy at first, but upon second thought, the mouse gets a treat no matter what hole he goes into, so for the mouse, it's all right then...

so maybe I don't feel like this mouse...

My Posse...

2006-04-06T12:38:00.000-04:00

I'd like you to meet my Posse, Runz with Scissahz

First up is Crispy G, he's always on edge, ready to snap. Some tribes say he can steal your soul, so lookout for him.

Big Fresh is up next. He's so hard-core, he's puttin' in 80 hour weeks...every week.

Tastee-Taste is our man across the pond. Don't let his appearance fool you, he's a brainiac, and ready to pounce!

Hot-Stuff 'll make you into a statistic in the blink of an eye, so watch it!

And backin us up here state side, Mr Durden, if you don't see him around, you know he's off somewhere savin' the world. (you know, like Pete's Dragon)

We're stickin' together like the zippers on a Michael Jackson Beat-It jacket.

thanks to: http://www.planearium2.de/flash/spstudio.htm

My brief, torrid affair with bacon...

2006-03-31T18:36:00.000-05:00

Upon moving in with my new roommate, Mr Durden, I was told that he was very frugal with all but 3 things:

Bourbon : Maker's Mark or Knob Creek
Coffee: shade grown, organic, fair trade, free range
Bacon: Thick-Sliced Virginia Bacon.

It comes in a 1.5lb. package, and at almost $8.00, it's nothing to sneeze at.

The right bacon makes all the difference, and sub-par bacon is a real shame, according to Mr. Durden.

Before living here, I had never given bacon it's proper respect. I considered it a treat, a throw away side to eggs and pancakes, an occasional addition to my Subway Turkey 12 inch.

He takes it very seriously, considering bacon to be it's own food group. We have a jar or two of drippings, used for cooking almost every one of Mr. Durden's native dishes. My favorite is pilau (pronounced Pur-low), a rice dish with shrimp, sausage and, of course, bacon. Another brilliant and tasty treat is Shrimp and Grits. Bacon drippings and flour combine with sauteed onions and green pepper, add the shrimp (with have been sprinkled with lemon juice, and cayenne pepper and allowed to sit for a few minutes), and served over cheddar grits.

I confess that I have a newfound love of the porky goodness, or maybe it's lust. It really does go with everything, and makes almost any food better. I've crumbled a few slices into bowls of New England Clam Chowder, and added drippings to everything from grits and biscuits to spaghetti sauce, rice and burgers.

Wrap any meat in bacon and you can pan fry it till the cows come home and it won't dry out. (I use this trick with chicken breasts when cooking over the open flame of a camp fire.)

And now we come to the dilemma... My diet advice (read: dodge) has always been: All things in moderation, including moderation.

Sensible eating with any amount of physical activity, and you can be a reasonably healthy person. I don't have a television or a game console, I walk quite a bit, and I don't drink beer (Bourbon has no calories), so I've been mostly guilt free when it comes to my diet...

As with any new lover, the first part of a relationship often involves an over indulgence in all things. I'm coming to the cooling off period with bacon. I still love it, but we'll be spending a little less time together. This is a good thing, as I can be allowed to appreciate a little more, our meals together.

I turn 35 this year and I've noticed that it's getting harder and harder to retain my girlish figure. This could be a problem as chicks just don't dig on man-breasts like they used to. I'm starting to be more (gasp) responsible when it comes to my diet.

So, my darling bacon, I think we need to spend some time apart. We need to live our own lives. Maybe we can see each other in the future, if things (like me) work out.

Even still...there's nothing like good bacon...damn.

(repost) Depending on the kindness of Strangers? Is that even legal?

2006-03-31T15:02:00.000-05:00

(Until I post something new, here's a repost from my previous blog site...)

I was walking today and came across the following sign:

Lost:
iPod

30 GB in black wearing a DLO Action Jacket

iPod was lost near 40 E. Taylor Run Pkwy; missing since 2/7/2006

Music ranging from Andrew Thompson to Weclef

If you have any information on the whereabouts of this ipod please contact Leann at 703-283-6303

Reward

The sign was printed with the iPod graphic showing Bono crooning a lament for Leann that must surely be "Whose gonna listen to your Wild Horses".

I wonder how much more exciting the Wyclef must be with the addition of the DLO Action Jacket. Is it the same level of improvement that one gains from the GI Joe WITH the Kung Fu Grip? Does the Action Jacket also have a Kung Fu Grip option?

I wonder if the person or persons who have poor little iPod are keeping the Action Jacket on, seeing as how the blustery days of spring are here in VA. If iPod catches a cold, would that be covered under the warantee?

What reward would make it worth one's time to return iPod? another iPod? WWBD? (What Would Bono Do?)

I was struck first by the futility of the action, but then I wondered how nice it must be to have that much faith in humanity.

Or is it just depressing how little faith in the same I must have to think this action so futile?

Just in case I'm wrong, I've posted my own sign:

LOST:

Brown Wallet wearing DLO Action Jacket:

containing $200.00 and several credit cards with high limits and low balances!

lost nearby

reward

call Mozo 616-555-1762