[dovate.com] » 2006 » April
 |
|---|
Since spring hit in full force, I’ve had a hard time photographing the city. I see nothing; the light is bright, the trees are full of leaves and the streets filled with interchangeable faces. In the springtime, a downtown corner in Philly is a corner in New York, is a corner in Boston, is a corner in Baltimore. A tree full of blossoms mine as well be anywhere on the planet. This time of year, I can’t see anything.
Until it’s 11 o’clock at night and I’m on Frankford Ave. under el tracks a few blocks past Oxford station. There’s a bar with no name, its façade made entirely of aluminum, and its windows made of Plexiglas. The el sits above the street like a ribbon of decay. Everything rots in its wake. The city crumbles around the tracks. Signs are painted in large block letters, shining in neon or faded past legibility. I look to my left and see a Magic store. Its windows are full of demonic rubber masks and costumed life size mannequins. It’s amazing.
 |
|---|
It’s closer to midnight and we’re at an intersection I haven’t been to since high school. Heading north on 5th we cross Wyoming Ave. Memories of the corner flood back. It looks nicer than it did 10 years ago. The building at the corner shares a name “Campbell” with someone in the car, so I promise her a picture of it. The ISO on my camera is up to 1600. The shutter speed is 1/8 of a second. I rest the camera in my lap for stability (not to mention not having one of the businessmen on the corner think I was a cop) and take 3 shots. When I got home and look at the raw images, an incredibly noisy self-portrait pops out of nowhere. I like it!
 |
|---|
Earlier today, the band Bumrunner broke up. The band’s former members quickly rebounded, reforming several solo projects. Coincidentally, these projects overlapped and they all ended up back in the same band, The Fire Theves. Since their first show is tonight at the Fire, they’ll have to reach back into their Bumrunner catalogue of songs. Other than that, the band is brand-fucking-new.
The New York Times reported today that California is very slowly slipping into the Pacific Ocean. The immediate consequence for me, is the closure of portions of the astoundingly beautiful Highway 1. Back when I shot exclusively film, I took some beautiful shots of the beautiful coastline. I should really scan some of them and put them up.
But anyway, the road sits on a ridge between coastal mountains and the Pacific. The majority of the land is not protected by state or federal law, but by the miracle of extremely unstable geography, it is also impossible to develop. That same miracle puts the famous Highway in an extremely perilous position. Like today for example, with the Times reporting “elephant size” chunks of mountain crashing into and through the road. To compound problems, it also seems that the road is slowly sliding off the ridge.
It looks like a trip down highway 1 is not in my immediate future. Far more aggravating is the situation for residents of the closed portion of highway. Commute times for nearby residents have doubled as drivers cram other, inadequate alternatives.
* (Sorry Glen)
This morning I wish that I was a Harbor Seal. That’s all.
I’m disappointed that Bush chose ex Fox News (cough) ‘analyst’ to replace that smooshie little doughboy, Scott McClellan. Sure it was a smart economizing move, cutting out the middle man and making a fox commentator the official voice of the white house, but still something troubles me.
Could there have made a better choice? Even dipping into the Fox News pool aren’t there more qualified people? For example, wouldn’t Bill O’Reilly, who rumor has it has been considering a career change been a better fit for the white house? Just imagine those press conferences. “You’re out of line, Goldberg. Sit down and shut up!”
Or why not give the job to someone with more press corps experience… someone with a more ‘intimate’ knowledge of the west wing; someone like Jeff Gannon. Or maybe to a person who can speak to the base… Pat Robertson for example. Or why not Nascar champ, Kurt Busch? Who could argue with that move? With a world of good choices, why go with a no name like Tony Snow? O’well.
 |
|---|
This old factory holds a special significance for me. I can’t quite explain it. I often photograph it. This isn’t my favorite photo, but this evening, with the wind blowing through an open window and the smell of rain that hasn’t quite arrived yet already thick in the air, I thought I’d put it up.
While refineries switch to a more “environmentally friendly” ethanol based gasoline additive, the eastern United States will experience sporadic fuel shortages. Barring another devastating natural disaster, the dearth of precious fuel should only last for a couple of weeks.
Apparently the shortages have hit Philly – with gas stations across town selling nothing more than apocalyptic visions of a fuel-less hellscape (or super-expensive high octane fuel). But don’t fear, the lack of gass will be short-lived and with ethanol additives, it’s ostensibly good news for industrial corn farming. In other words, the true apocalypse is still just a faint glimmer at the rapidly approaching horizon. That’s all for now.
|
|
|---|
Today is Weird NJ day. It’s a glorious day that only comes twice a year. Pick yours up today:
It’s raining outside. I feel like writing in the vein of a 19th century transcendentalist.
Over the last few days I’ve been strangely attuned to a particular conception of hell that seems to occur and recur across space, time and culture. It’s something that I believe deserves some detailed analysis by a wide range of intelligent humans of various skill, training and talents.
At the very least, this vision of “hell” is something deeply engrained in the human psyche, almost like instinctual imagery. The idea of this experience seems so similar and accounts of this place are drawn together by such a fine and strong thread, that I’m inclined to grant its experience total validity. Whether the source of this vision is internal and chemo-genetic in origin or a truly ‘spiritual’ or non-physical, is a question of personality. It’s impossible, at our level of knowledge and capacity of intellect to conclusively ‘prove’ this either one way or the other. The fact that the experiences are real and that they describe a startlingly consistent vision is all I’m here to discuss.
So what is this vision? You already know it. It’s all around – deep in our shared and meaningful symbolism. I’ll give you a head start. This cartoon, by my personal hero, Nicholas Gurewitch, pretty much sums it up.
That’s all for now.
I was innocently looking for tourist information for the nuclear testing grounds of Nevada when this message popped up:
NOTICE TO USERS
This is a Federal computer system and is the property of the United States Government. It is for authorized use only. Users (authorized or unauthorized) have no explicit or implicit expectation of privacy.
Any or all uses of this system and all files on this system may be intercepted, monitored, recorded, copied, audited, inspected, and disclosed to authorized site, Department of Energy, and law enforcement personnel, as well as authorized officials of other agencies, both domestic and foreign. By using this system, the user consents to such interception, monitoring, recording, copying, auditing, inspection, and disclosure at the discretion of authorized site or Department of Energy personnel.
Unauthorized or improper use of this system may result in administrative disciplinary action and civil and criminal penalties. By continuing to use this system you indicate your awareness of and consent to these terms and conditions of use. LOG OFF IMMEDIATELY if you do not agree to the conditions stated in this warning.
Nice of them to tell me.
But anyway, I’ll be heading out in that general area of the country in about a month and was interested in visiting the space where humankind’s most hellish creation [besides (insert bad joke here, e.g. Kenny G)] was detonated. Either there or Yosemite. Either one is fine. To be continued…
 |
|---|
Believe it or not, this photo was taken in 2005. It “looks” much older. An 8×10 of it hangs over my computer at home. The photo was taken in the Musée D’Orsay in Paris, France.
This morning, I spotted Fox 29’s traffic helicopter, “Sky Fox” flying over center city Philadelphia. Looking up at it, shiny and hovering, I was suddenly struck by something. Could Sky Fox be a gay? Not being an ignorant bigot, I have no moral opinion either way; I mean who gives a shit? I was just wondering how a gay helicopter gets along at a Fox News affiliate. Is it hard for Sky Fox over at Fox? Did the military turn it away, a gay black helicopter, forcing Sky Fox into a menial job as a traffic chopper? I really think there’s an interesting story lurking behind that glossy black façade.
I guess the Duke rape has turned into one of those cultural flashpoints where incomprehensibly ignorant lunatics try justify their hateful and dangerous views with certifiably insane lines of argument. Here’s my two cents.
Living just off Penn campus and just down the road from Princeton, I went to a few Ivy League parties and let me tell you something. Sodomizing strippers against their will, minority or not, (or as the 60’s radical feminist liberals call it, “rape”) was just a way of life. Why in springtime, it wasn’t uncommon to see professors sexually assaulting provocatively dressed female students right out on the college green. What do you expect? Boys will be boys. It’s been an American tradition since biblical times… speaking of which, in trying circumstances like these, we should turn to the bible for guidance:
Deuteronomy 22:28-29 NAB
If a man is caught in the act of raping a young woman who is not engaged, he must pay fifty pieces of silver to her father. Then he must marry the young woman because he violated her, and he will never be allowed to divorce her.
Sounds fair enough. Except… there’s still the problem of the whole gang-rape thing. I mean, she can’t marry them all. And that’s not even to mention the whole race/class dimension of it. Better keep reading:
Deuteronomy 22:23-24 NAB
If within the city a man comes upon a maiden who is betrothed, and has relations with her, you shall bring them both out of the gate of the city and there stone them to death…
I like that. No loose ends. And that’s the end of that chapter.
The Pew doesn’t fuck around. Although open and in operation for months, their Philadelphia Center for Arts and Heritage had its kickoff reception yesterday evening. For a series of sterol offices he space is really pretty amazing. Actually to be more accurate, it was really, really expensive. Glass walls everywhere, state of the art tech and conference room equipment and a confounding, yet strangely impressive architectural design. The 270 degree, 18th floor skyline view didn’t hurt either.
For those interested, the center combines the Pew’s Arts and Culture projects here in the Delaware Valley. Google it if you’re interested in the details. It’s really a great place that does good things and all that… but it doesn’t make for an interesting story.
My favorite moment was personal. It also demonstrated the maturity I’ve developed since early adolescence. Apparently the things that used to fuel my youthful insecurities now just amuse me immensely.
*
The reason I was at the Pew’s PCAH in the first place was my girlfriend, Liza. She works for one of the Pew’s 7 tentacles of the Arts here in Philly. With the promise of fine catered hors d’ouevres, interesting company and fine wine I decided to head on over after work.
After an hour or so, I wandered off on my own to take in the sights, sounds and tastes of the gathered elite. After making a large and meandering loop of the party I spotted Liza at the end of the hall talking to an enthuastic looking young man. Judging by body language, he was trying to impress her. She looked comfortable and the catering staff had just broken out the Pinot Noir, so I decided to make my way around the party one more time.
Twenty minutes later, I checked back to see how Liza was doing. I found her in the same spot as before, the man in the same pose, speaking animatedly. A glint of hope shone in his eye. After a moment’s deliberation, I decided to approach. As I walked the long hallway towards the two of them, I felt an uncomfortable scene coming on. Whoever this guy was, my presence was going to thoroughly disrupt his plans. The consequences were unpredictable.
I decided to ride it like a wave. In a second I was next to Liza, having injected myself into this poor bastard’s pick-up attempt with the grace of a sack of sand to the back of the head.
The man, processing my sudden appearance with a strangely exaggerated sense of befuddlement, went awkwardly silent. His eyes started darting back and forth, sweat materializing on his brow. I smiled a friendly and genuine smile and said absolutely nothing. Liza said to me, “He’s a writer for Harpers.”
Impressive indeed!
“Oh” said Harpers. (you could hear his voice deflate) He swept a finger pointed from the hip, back and forth between Liza and myself, “this must be your boyfriend.” (I found out later that Liza had told Harpers of my admiration for his magazine)
“Um hmm.” Said Liza cheerily, “This is Steve.” Being largely oblivious to the nature of male posturing, she sensed a change, but couldn’t place its raison d’être.
“Hello.” Said Harpers, his confusion quickly turning to pure fear. He laughed nervously and for no reason. The color had fallen out of his face. He was going all blotchy. A lump in his throat began pulsing up and down his neck. He was starting to make me uncomfortable.
I tried my best to be friendly and told him that I loved Harpers Magazine and that I’ve kept a subscription to it for several years. I asked what he had last written.
But my attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. As Harpers struggled to explain the thesis of his last published article for one of America’s oldest and most esteemed intellectual periodicals, I started to feel a little sorry for him. His light-hearted conversation with Liza had precipitously ended and here he was having a far more uncomfortable conversation with me. But I was honestly fascinated. I do love Harpers Magazine. I listened intently and with authentic interest. It turned out he wasn’t a writer for Harper’s like he told Liza, but instead, just a freelancer who was lucky enough to have several articles published by the magazine. Although (or possibly because) I’ve never had an article published by Harpers myself, I was disappointed he wasn’t an editor or something more exciting.
His fear was changing into something else entirely now. It looked a little like guilt, or anger. A caterer came by with a silver tray of bite-size crab cakes. We all eagerly plucked one from the tray’s fancy doily. The caterer offered napkins. Harpers joked anxiously, “I already have one” presenting a thin, moist ball of pressure worn tissue paper from an unclenched palm. “Trying to conserve” he said as the caterer went on her way down the hall with her tray of miniature crab cakes.
And then it was the 3 of us again. Over the next few minutes, we forged our way through half an hour of so of conversation before Harpers realized – apparently quite suddenly – that he was free to leave whenever he pleased. Once this realization was born, he was gone in an instant. I saw him one other time that evening. I was making my way towards a cheese tray; he was listening to a tall young man in tweed talk about Shakespeare. He glanced sidelong at me before averting his attention from my friendly hello.
*
Later that night, Liza was genuinely shocked when I suggested that Harpers was trying to pick her up. “I don’t think so” she said.
“No.” I said. “His intentions were about as subtle as a train wreck.”
“Really…? No.”
*
At another time, I might have felt the irrationality of jealousy, or the fear of professional inadequacy in the face of a competitive male of greater credentials. Actually, in the past, in similar situations, I’ve felt exactly those things. What a shame! Bald amusement is infinitely more satisfying. That’s all for now.
 |
|---|
March, 2006 - Kensington, Philadelphia
Continuing on a personal tradition, I just headed over to the main post office at 30th and Market to drop off my tax return. Why do I wait until the last day? I don’t know. A couple years ago, I made it on the evening news. They asked why I waited until the last day. I told them I didn’t know.
The strange thing is that I’m not a procrastinator. During college, I worked full-time, went to classes and kept an active social life. I never pulled an all-nighter to finish a paper. I usually finished major research projects a week or so in advance. But taxes? Just can’t do it. Except for one part. I spent the refund months ago. O’well.
 |
|---|
March, 2006
