RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

Out of the trees:

A little too soon:

It’s a normal reaction, but taking this last photo left me feeling very sad. I wrapped the baby bird in a shroud of litter and left it in a nest of dried pine needles in someone’s sidewalk flower box. There’s no place in the city to bury a baby bird. There’s nothing to eat it.

Today it’s raining and I’m feeling annoyingly personal. Occasionally when I’m in these moods, I’ll pull an old journal from a dusty box and see what I was doing however many years ago on this date. It turns out that 4 years ago today marks one of the most important events of my recent life. Since this is a website and not some bullshit personal blog, you can all go to hell if you want to know what that event was. Seriously.

But anyway, I flipped back to May of 2003 and found this item that I don’t mind sharing:

They were two parts of the same building, facing in opposite directions. She could look out and see trees and hills and cattle grazing inside of an electric fence. He started out at the on-ramp of a road that led to a glistening human skyline just short of the horizon. She held up an important wall. One side of her pressed against the exit. He was a detachable window frame.

And that’s as far as I got.

On Tuesday of this week, I traveled down to Cape May, NJ to go birding with an old friend. Believe it or not, Cape May is one of the best places in the United States to watch annual migrations. But this post doesn’t have too much to do with birds. This post has to do with an experience I had at the Farley Plaza Rest Area along the Atlantic City Expressway.

As a crazy person who’s already discovered 5 Toynbee Tiles at 4 rest areas in 3 states, I was sure to drink an extra cup of coffee so that I could justify a stop on the A.C. expressway. Being even more insane, I was then able to spot these sparse, nearly unidentifiable fragments and positively identify them as the remnants of an old original Toynbee tile.

Fortunately my friend Mel (who had just wandered out of the car to photograph grackles hopping around in the rest area’s lawn) was nice enough to pull over and let me take the archival shots.

My girlfriend is tired of my posting articles she emails me, so in the interest of full disclosure, this is from one of those emails. It represents… well just watch it:

This is an interactive post. I need you all to do the following:

1. Shut down your computer.
2. Go outside

That’s all.

Last night I waited 5 hours (3 spent on my feet, completely immobilized by a crowd of 35,000 people… I think the Bush Administration calls that a “stress position.”) to hear Obama’s stump speech and get this um… awesome 300mm shot, which I then cropped down from 12.8 to 0.6 megapixels. All in all, the 15 minutes he spoke was pretty cool. The people I waited in various lines with were all nice, but 5 hours? Damn.

The atmosphere was like a non-competitive sporting event. Next time, I gotta get a press pass.

Yes I’m really saying that I judge my own shots from the pre-”debate” rally at the same standard as the New York Times. Actually Times photographer Béatrice de Géa has a slightly nicer Canon camera and a much wider lens… but in my own defense, I was told by a cop to get back on the curb before I could get the wider shot myself.

Here’s mine:

And here’s hers:

And acting as judge and editor, I like just like my Obama shot better than theirs. Mine:

Times:

And since this is my site, here are a few more of mine:

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On Sunday night I went to and photographed a trifecta of performances at Tritone. The night included a set by the broken-jawed Justin Duerr, a trash bag fashion show put together by Jamie Campbell and her 10 beautiful models and a headlining set by Seizure 17.

It was a great night of performances that produced some excellent photos. Except for the fashion show, I shot without a flash. In a dimly lit room, with underexposed shots, it’s hard to capture much color information outside of red and black. For example, here’s a shot from this morning’s New York Times, taken by Damon Winter at last night’s infuriatingly pointless, soul-crushing talk-radio level “debate.”

Ed Rendell is a red faced man, but in that shot he looks like Satan. And Chelsea should really get that jaundice taken care of. There isn’t a white balance adjustment in the world that could find the right color information in that shot. The information just isn’t there.

My strategy for Justin’s set was to convert to a sepia kind of tone through color manipulation and desaturation. I also did some b&w conversions and some other creative tinkering. All in all, I really like these shots. Fashion show and more are coming soon:

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There’s nothing more boring than reading about someone’s dreams. With that said, I’ve been having some real strange ones. They’re filled with beautiful light. The world looks like its shot in HDR. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to figure out how to download the photos I’ve taken there, onto my computer here. Like the shot I took last night of a hydrogen bomb test somewhere north of Philly. Although I still question the government’s new designated detonation area, the shot came out great.

Or the flock of parrots I saw flying around center city. I didn’t have my camera, but those photos would have been great.

Until I can get that dream-shot, here are several tales of real urban parrots:

Most famous are the Parrots of Brooklyn. Somehow, some way, colonies of Argentinean parrots have established themselves in NYC. Theories range from overturned parrot-carrying trucks to a great airport escape 1967. Federally backed eradication efforts have been unsuccessful in quelling the parrot menace, and several colonies still exist.

Then there was the lone parrot of Mt. Airy. This solitary representative of its species made do by joining up with a flock of pigeons. It hasn’t been spotted in years and is assumed captured or dead.

Escaped parrots crop up here and there around the city. A friend once saw one hanging out down at Penns Landing. Just yesterday, a post of phillyskyline told of an escaped cockatiel in West Philly. I recommend that Melissa try looking for Sport wherever pigeons may congregate. Maybe Clark Park or under the el tracks?

That’s all for now.

Back when I was a baby, I used to sit at my parent’s bedroom window and look out onto the street. Few things on Greene street in Germantown impressed me as much as Septa buses. They made such a big impression that I invented my own word for them: “Da!.”

The bus was an impressive beast. It was big, loud and it shook the whole house. When I was 11, lying in a bed on a farmhouse in Northern California, I woke up to an earthquake. In my middle of the night delirium I assumed it was just a Septa bus and went back to sleep. Ancient people believed that earthquakes were caused by the gods. I assumed it was Septa. For better or for worse, Philly’s transit agency has shaped some of the most fundamental aspects of my existence.

For a couple of years now, I’ve wanted to write my own Septa autobiography. My idea was to use public transit as the yarn with which to weave together my own Philadelphia experience. Shitty metaphors aside, it’s actually not a bad idea. I don’t own a car and didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 27. I’ve lived in this city my entire life and have ridden Septa to nearly every corner of it. These are my stories.

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The 23 Trolley

Wikipedia used to say that the 23 was the longest trolley line in the world but since the last time I checked, someone has removed that sentence. Either way, at about 14 miles it’s a long line. Starting way up at the top of Chestnut Hill in the northwestern corner of the city, the 23 travels southeast on Germantown Ave, hops over to 12th near Broad and Erie, winds its way down center city and South Philly before terminating a couple blocks from the stadiums.

You could drive to New York in the time it takes to ride from one end to the other. Until high school, I never rode it out of the northwest.

While the XH on Greene Street was the first Septa route to get my attention, the 23 was the first line that I actually remember riding.

It was Germantown in the early 80’s and I was with my mom near Germantown and Chelten. Considering my age (about 3) I remember it well. The thing that made the 23 stick in the mind of a toddler was that it was a trolley. It ran on tracks. It was loud. It threw sparks where the trolleywheel met the overhead wires. It was fucking awesome.

The cars were the very same 40’s era airstream looking things that were recently refurbished, painted green and put in service on Girard Ave. In the early 80’s though, the 23 trolley cars were in prefurbished condition. The floors were dirty, the seats were ripped and they smelled like 4 decades of mildew.

In other words, they were built to last, but maintained by Septa.

As a very young child, I only rode the 23 trolley a handful of times. As far as I remember, all the trips were from my home in Germantown up to Chestnut Hill. Other than the way it looked, felt and smelled I remember very little about those trips.

I noticed that people in Germantown were mostly black and people in Chestnut Hill were mostly white, but I didn’t know why that was, or how that mattered. All I knew was that I liked how the trolley glided awkwardly up the cobblestone road. I liked the open space in the middle and the plush seats that curved with the body of the car. I liked the ribbed rubber mats on the floor and the big windows that looked out over Germantown Avenue. I liked how high above the street I was and how people looked at the big orange trolley as it rumbled past them.

When I was 11, my family moved to Mt. Airy, the neighborhood between working class black Germantown and rich, waspy white Chestnut Hill. In Mt. Airy, we lived a block from the Avenue. I’d go to the corner with my friends and put pennies on the tracks. I know this sounds cliqued, but we really spent afternoons that way… sitting on the corner, smashing pennies with streetcars. At night I’d lie in bed and listen to the trolley rumbling at top speed towards Chestnut Hill. There was a downhill straightaway just past my block, where the drivers could hit 40-45mph in the middle of the empty Mt. Airy night.

In 1992, after years of fits and starts, the trolleys were officially discontinued. By the time I was riding the 23 to high school, the route was all buses.

Next up, the 23 buses.

This post comes via Geekadelphia, via Phillyist, but just in case you haven’t seen it, Septa has traded in its moderately honest old slogans like this:

With a new brutally honest one:

Here’s a product review I once wrote for: Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.

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The internet is a wonderful tool for research. But this story is a word of warning to all you web surfers out there. Before you start, it’s imperative that you know at least a little bit about the subject that you’re looking into. My total ignorance of one topic nearly cost me my relationship.

It all started when Abby - my girlfriend of 3 years - mentioned that her skin was dry and unhealthy. We were sitting around finishing off a nice bottle of Chilean red wine when she told me she was thinking of buying a creamy facial treatment for her face.

Unless you’re as clueless as I was, you can probably already see where this is going. The next day I typed “creamy facial” into my favorite search engine and got some startling results. I viewed some pictures and downloaded some informative videos, entirely captivated by the subject and the research in general.

Then I asked myself, how much was she paying for this? It didn’t look like there was too much to the whole procedure. I doubted I was missing anything important and technique appeared sloppy at best. After a brief deliberation, I decided to perform the facial myself. We are both frugal people and I was sure she’d love the savings.

Assuming she hadn’t asked me out of consideration to the slight embarrassment the subject might have caused, I decided to surprise her. I was sure that she’d be happy about my willingness to help out.

The next Saturday morning I surprised her with breakfast in bed. I cooked up pancakes and topped them with fresh fruit and maple syrup. She was very pleased and certainly surprised. I thought that following one surprise with another would kick off the day in true form. As she finished breakfast, I reviewed my creamy facial videos and prepared for execution. Before long, I was ready to go.

When I came at her ready for the big moment, her reaction was most definitely surprise. Then shock, then something that can only be described as horror. In those precious few seconds I yelled that I just wanted to give her a cheap facial, but this just made things worse. At that last critical moment, I felt the cold smack of her breakfast tray on the side of my head. Knocked backwards to the floor I lay there helpless, my solution spilling uselessly to the floor.

After a few minutes of intense confusion and anger, emotional levels returned to normal and a proper dialogue was established. I told her the story from the start and she explained to me what facial creams actually were. When I grasped the concept of facial cream, my heart sank. I realized that my research was misguided by an alternate definition of the term. My embarrassment was devastating. Later we both went out to the Body Shop to buy some “Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather.” We went home to test the foaming cream. It was great. Cool to the skin, this stuff feels great from the start. It doesn’t leave your skin too oily or too dry like other facial treatments.

The Body Shop Glycerin & Oat Facial Lather has a pleasant aroma as well. Within a few days I noticed an improvement in my skin as well as Abby’s. No more dryness and no more flaking. Our skin was also softer then it had been and it felt quite a bit healthier as well. Now I am a regular at the Body Shop too. I’m hooked on facial cream. I can’t get enough of it. I recommend it to anyone who may have dry, flaky or otherwise unhealthy skin.

An Anhinga in the process of eating a fish. This is a shot from a series of amazing photos, but for me the eyes make this shot the clear winner.

Since a week of April has come and gone, I guess it’s time for the March search awards. These things ebb and flow. Last month I had a hard time whittling it down to 33, this months I had trouble finding 25. While this months search results aren’t the best ever, the top spot is among my favorite of all time.

As always, the search awards are interesting search terms culled from my site stats every month. I monitor the terms that lead people here and post my favorites each month. Here’s March:

25. repellent dirt professor email
24. sagan de hades
23. wanted mosaic tiler darwin
22. the prettiest hawk in the world in the wild
21. philly greaseball
20. shadow of a crucifix
19. sexe nacid wimin wherin nutin
18. rabbit shadow hand
17. scariest shadow
16. yugo smoke
15. spiritual reality behind and beyond the phenomenon
14. freaky intercourse
13. gay sex louisiana park rest area
12. natural scenery of america
11. shadow zone darkest days
10. married women looking for sex in oil city pa
9. funny vulture
8. rabid vulture
7. hiding out in kempton pa
6. is cum in the anus harmful
5. nantucket -nectars -sound -wind
4. horny bike seat
3. amish ketamine
2. natural ear positioning schnauzer
1. pit bull language of whispers snorts grunts

I recently browsed over to planphilly.com and read Thomas J. Walsh’s article on how to fix the Ben Franklin Parkway. In case you haven’t noticed, the road has never really lived up to its full potential. Like the waterfront or east Market street it just sort of sits there waiting for greatness. While Walsh’s article is full of nice, modest ideas, he doesn’t go nearly far enough.

If done right, the Parkway has the potential to transform the city. It borders everything from City Hall to Fairmount Park. It’s surrounded by busy and vibrant neighborhoods. It’s lined with world-class museums. And right now, it’s basically a highway. If I was an omnipotent city planner and I had a billion or so dollars to play around with, here’s how I’d fix it.

1. I don’t care who makes noise and how much noise they make. First and foremost, I’m closing the center of the Parkway to vehicular traffic from Logan Circle to Eakins Oval. People can drive on the Philadelphia-sized 2-lane streets that abut northern and southern borders of the new grand pedestrian mall.

In addition to closing the midsection of the road, I’m tearing up the asphalt and putting in a wide path lined with gardens and outdoor vendors. Artists, musicians, performers and food trucks will be encouraged to descend on the space. There will be benches, stages and public plazas. There can be bike lanes and bike rentals. People can rent a cruiser near the Franklin Institute, pedal the Parkway and Kelly Drive, go to a museum or 2, grab some food/drink and call it a day.

Why do this? There will never be street life on what’s now basically a 6-lane highway with 2, 2-lane roads on either side. Traffic absolutely has to be secondary to the Parkway’s purpose. Think of what it could be. Think of something like la Rambla in Barcelona… only bigger.

2. All in all though, I’m not completely deaf to the needs of commuters. And we also need a quick, fast and easy way for people to get to the Art Museum and this grand new space. That’s why I’d take the old rail bed that runs under Pennsylvania Ave. and turn it into a subway. The infrastructure for a new line is largely in place. Making the Art Museum easily accessible would benefit everyone. I discussed this (with pictures and diagrams) here.

3. Move the Youth Prison out and move in the Barnes. No offense to Youth Prisons or prisoners, but a looming kid-jail can be a real drain on the festivities.

4. Bury the parking lot at Eakins Oval and turn it into a park / plaza.

5. Keep some of the green space that lines the Parkway, but also encourage residential and commercial development.

6. Drop a MOVE style bomb on the Philadelphian and let that beast burn to the ground.

Actually that last one isn’t really essential. But the rest is…

This city has the population and the ability to sustain a grand public boulevard. If the Parkway were designed according to these plans, the throngs of people that clog up Kelly Drive would bleed into it. The throngs of people that run up and down the art museum steps all day would bleed into it. The throngs of people that live and work in Fairmount and center city would bleed into it. And aside from all this, people that don’t go to any of these places would be drawn to the beautiful new space. The Benjamin Franklin Parkway is empty by design. It’s time for a radical redesign.

Hello loyal readership. On the off chance that you read this site and you don’t know me personally, I’ve been gone because it’s been my birthday. As an unrepentant narcissist, I chose to celebrate the occasion of my birth by taking a few days off from all things normally scheduled.

But anyway, the word art, or artist is discussed way, way too much. The discussion is incredibly dull and about as pointless as anything I can think of. Art is art, and life is art and nothing is art and everything is. If I had my way, the word would be deleted from the language and people could stop talking about it and getting on with experiencing and creating it.

With all that said there are a few people who – for lack of a better term – I’d call artists. Justin Duerr is one of them. Justin was recently assaulted randomly on the street and injured pretty badly. Everything about it is sad. Here’s his first creative response. (copied and pasted from a myspace bulletin) If you don’t understand some of the terms in the description, by all means, google them.

Just the first in what I’m sure will be an avalanche of little creative projects born of being at home/resting up for a few days.

This is a video for my solo project, currently incarnate as THE AURIC DOVES OF AVALON.

This video features a cellular automata program written by my father.

Basically it’s that, and shot of a bunch of my large posters collected together, plus a few incidental pieces.

It’s a ceremonial video to help activate healing, peace on the streets, and positive life-force.

The music features samples from EVP records, shortwave, bass, and harmonium.

Filmed at home, and my first real attempt at “editing” video….. enjoy!

JUSTIN DUERR & THE AURIC DOVES OF AVALON - “ONE WHO IS NOT DEAD” :

ONE WHO IS NOT DEAD.