The Worst Is Yet To Come

Well, I thought he would win all along, but it is still unimaginable.  In my own home state, much to my tremendous surprise and sorrow, mandatory abortion and legal weed didn't get the 60% vote they needed to win, so I live in THE MAGA on steroids state.  It was a red tide.  I could see that coming, too.  But the media fed people false hope until the very end.  I blame, of course, Megan Thee Stallion.  Symbolically.  Harris leaned in hard on identity politics.  It didn't work.  She lost what Biden had among minorities.  Young voters leaned toward Trump.  

As C.C. says, the Democratic Party is a perfect circular firing squad.  

"But what about the trannies?"  

The Big Biden Giveaway didn't work.  It was never going to be enough.  

During the Nixon Administration, John Mitchell, Nixon's Attrorney General, said, "This country will go so far to the right you won't be able to recognize it."  It was the hippie years.  He was right.  People with authoritarian personalities (link) can't stand liberal ideologies.  

Maybe Biden will refuse to leave the White House.  I heard he thinks he won re-election.  

O.K.  I can't concentrate.  I'm being bombarded by texts from both sides.  My Black Sheep friend is down in Mar-a-lago with the winners.  The gymroids are a jubilant bunch.  I think they put Trump signs in my yard overnight.  From my liberal friends there is just the usual wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Only a few of them are able to muster the gallows humor that I think is required.  

I told everyone that if Trump gets elected, put your money in bitcoin.  I may have said it here.  I don't remember.  I said it a lot.  Well. . . bitcoin just took a big bump.  

Of course, I didn't buy any.  

That's my fate.  

It is a dreary, rainy day here.  For me, it is the pathetic fallacy (link).   I put the link just to insult you.  But I must get out into the fallen world.  It is the only one I have.  This is just the beginning, I'm afraid.  The worst is yet to come.  

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Well boys and girls. . . daddy fucked up this post.  What it was supposed to be, anyway.  We'll see what I come up with instead, but this was not the photo that was supposed to open the show.  Oh. . . no.  I was going to pull back the curtain and show you how photo magic works.  The photo I was going to show you was barely visible, a blown out ghost of an image.  It was a hopeless thing.  And then. . . through the wonders of postproduction tech and mostly my own creative magic. . . I brought images alive.  When I did this, I thought, "Hey, fella. . . that's what you can post tomorrow.  They will be simply amazed at what you can do."

Yup. . . that's what I thought.  This morning, however, when I went to the computer to send the photograph to myself. . . it was gone.  I hadn't thought that the original file would be lost to the hard drive after editing or I would have saved it.  All I have left are the final results.  

So imagine, if you will, a ghost image, something without color, shape, or form of any kind.  It is white with the faint tracings of an outline.  Close your eyes and hold that image in your head for a moment.  

O.K.  Now open them.  

See?  See what I can do???  There was nothing, then there was something.  But wait. . . I haven't finished.  Close your eyes.  Now open them.  

There.  

I guess it wasn't such a good idea to begin with.  That's what I get when I think ahead.  

I could show you what studio life really looked like.  Despite what you might think, it was not all glamor. 

Here's a normal day at the office.  These two just stopped by, I guess.  I don't remember exactly.  People used to drop by all the time.  The two didn't know one another.  I'd shot with each of them multiple times, but not together.  They both had expensive private college degrees, one in film and one in music.  While I had the two of them there, I decided to block out a possible shoot.  I moved things around and had them take places and just made some reference images for later.  

That shoot never happened.  

But from the mundane hours. . . .

It was fun.  

In a bit, I will go to my polling station and cast my votes for all the losers of this election.  My mother has already voted and cancelled my votes out.  There is no winning anyway.  We are a nation in ruins.  We are a world in collapse.  

That's what old people have said forever, so it must be true.  

Beck wasn't old when he wrote this song, though.  Sometimes it's just the way things seem.  

This is what I didn't do yesterday.  After reminding you several times that the time would change, I forgot.  When I woke up in the morning and looked at the clock, I thought it was the right time, but when I opened my computer and saw it was different, I just thought it was my blurry eyes not seeing the little red lcd numbers on my 1970's clock radio correctly again.  I didn't think much of it.  

When I had finished the morning blog and looked at the things I usually look at on the computer before I shut it down, I got dressed for a little outdoor activity.  I hadn't felt well since the dentist and the double vax.  I had barely moved from the house.  I had seen no one but my mother and the trick or treaters for days.  But I wanted to feel better, and I thought a few turns on the exercise track would be just the thing.  

I hadn't been to the gym all week.  I hadn't responded to any of the gymroid texts, either.  I think I was both sick and depressed.  Maybe, I thought, the depression will lift if I exercise.  But I felt done with my new friends for awhile.  I missed my old Bohemian life.  The gymroid money weighs on me too heavily.  They go and do and buy whatever they please.  I go to cafes where I can get cheap mimosas.  

So I went to the exercise course and had a wonderful workout, and my spirits had, indeed, lifted.  But when I looked at the clock in the car. . . no. . . that couldn't be the right time.  I had not been exercising that long.  I looked at my phone.  The car clock was off.  That worried me.  How had it happened?  Had the car shut down somehow?  Was this a trick.  

Then it occurred to me.  I was running on two times, the old and the new.  I reset the car clock and felt better.  But, I decided, I would run on the old time for awhile.  I would change over slowly.  I would change my analog clocks ten minutes a day.  I would take an entire week to transition.  I could do that and would.  

So when three o'clock came around, it was four.  Or vice versa.  I thought to go to the Cafe Strange, but driving there, I changed my mind.  I would go to see my mother instead, for it was the usual time. . . sort of.  It was now after four.  Three.  

When I pulled into her driveway, the elderly neighbor pulled in behind me on her tricycle with her cute little dog in the front basket and her iPhone belting out a tune.  At 90, she's a lively gal though she is legally blind with macular degeneration.  

Still--"What have you done to your hair?"

"I've just pulled it back," I said turning around so she could see.  My hair is just now getting long enough to pull up in a hair tie easily and that is how I had it at the moment.  The neighbor let her cute little pup off its leash and I let it into the house where it jumped up onto the couch with my mother who she loves.  We all sat outside and talked for an hour or so.  The neighbor is a hoot and loves to have me around for a good time.  My mother, feeling poorly, mostly sat and listened.  She has more bad days than good ones now.  

When the neighbor left, I picked up some branches leftover from the hurricane that the county hadn't picked up.  I broke them up and put them in a can so the yard trash guys would take them away the next day.  Then I hugged my mother and said goodbye.  

It was five-thirty.  It was six-thirty.  I went home to fix a drink and smoke a cheroot.  I was hungry, having eaten nothing but some coffee cake in the morning, but I didn't feel like cooking, so I did this.  

It was bad, it was good.  

I went home.  It was six-thirty.  It was seven-thirty.  

I've changed my whiskeys.  I have bought two bottles of my usual that have both been corky.  I've decided to go with a Japanese Suntori whiskey that is much cheaper and very tasty.  It is a bit lighter which is o.k. and perhaps a little less sweet which is o.k., too.  I find I drink less of it which is more than o.k.  So I poured a glass and sat down to watch television.  It had been a much better day, this Sunday, this end of a very long and hard week.  

I've been rewatching "Monsieur Spade."  So I've told you.  I finished it last night.  It was 100% better the second time if only for the reason that it was less confusing and just as beautiful.  I'm now hoping for a second season.  But it probably was not a real moneymaker.  One of the truly wonderful shows of the past few years, "Perry Mason," was not renewed by HBO for that reason.  Only dumb shows and superhero movies make money now.  If it has monsters and/or vampires, it's sure to be a hit.  I feel I am reliving the "Pretty in Pink" era of kid movies all over again.  

And so.  It was ten.  It was eleven.  It was time for bed.  That's right.  I'm an early riser.  

It is eight-thirty.  It is nine-twenty.  Poco y poco.  

Tomorrow I vote.  I will not sit up and watch the election results.  Not this time.  I'll wait to see who won.  It is not a sporting event, though t.v. has made it so.  

"We're still early in the first quarter, but some of the results are in.  Let's go to the electoral board and see what this means.  Dan?"

I might get sucked into it, but I really don't want to go play by play.  I'd rather go to bed and be rested for Wednesday's shocker, whatever it may be.  

Facts Are Facts

This from the Guerrilla Girls, 1989, Art Basel. I just did a long search of women in famous paintings. I searched for famous nudes of women. I searched for nudes of older women. It turned up what you surely already know. Most paintings of women in Western art are "White." I put that in quotation marks because I am not believer in the term, really. "White" was an invention. There were no "White" people in Europe. There was no, "Yo. . . my White brother." They all hated one another. The same is true of "Blacks" in Africa and "Asians" in the far east. 

But I get it.  Everybody does.  

Those women in Western art were mostly young, especially if they were nude.  Now you can call it a form of adulation, exploitation, reverence, or simply chauvinistic eroticism.  Makes no difference to me.  I don't see them as being mutually exclusive.  If you want to say it is a bad thing, O.K.  That is you.  If you want to say it is something else, that is O.K. with me, too.  There are naked men in paintings as well, and they are more often old than are the nudes of women.  I am finding that a curious thing this morning.  

What the Guerrilla Girls said in 1989 was a fact.  They had an agenda, of course, but facts are facts.  I wonder how those numbers have changed since 1989.  I'm sure they have changed drastically, times being what they are. . . . 

In my Lonesomeville project, I photographed both women and men.  I should have photographed more men, I'm now certain, but it more difficult and less appealing to me.  The men I photographed were all young.  Perhaps I had a certain amount of envy being no longer young myself, though I thought I was in almost every way.  But there was something else, too.  Having been a jock, I've seen naked men my entire life.  It is custom not to stare, I think, for it could be dangerous.  I never had the urge except when it was unavoidable.  Guys with giant peckers never liked to put them away.  Such things are difficult not to look at.  

"Holy shit--have you seen the cock on Pete?!?!?"

Mapplethorpe sure had a thing for them.  

In old paintings, though, you don't really see the giant cock.  Nor do you often see Verpa Erectus.  I think that is a correct term, though for some reason I want to say en flagrante.  I didn't take Latin in school and all that I know came from getting a degree in zoology.  Mostly, anyway.  

I'm not going to do a lot of research on this, but I do find it interesting.  What I also think--and this without looking into the facts--is that women artist make more images of women than they do of men.  You can correct me if I am wrong.  It is just my impression here on a spontaneous morning ramble.  I've always held (again without research or real evidence) that we, both women and men, like the female form more for many reasons.  Even gay men like the female figure if drag shows are a clue, though the vagina is absent and often off-putting to the gay men I know.  

As an aside, I find it fascinating that they still desire penetration, oral or anal, but only with men.  I, on the other hand, could not become Verpa Erectus for my own gender.  Still. . . $20 is $20!  Ho!  

But I stray.  I wander.  If I were to edit and rewrite, I'd clean this up quite a bit. . . but who has time for that?  I'm just thinking.  

She was a postal worker.  We shot together more than once.  She was really sweet and almost shy.  She was not young, but she was unconcerned with that.  Or maybe that is not true.  Maybe she still believed she was just as I have confessed I felt myself to be.  In every way, she was attractive.  I came across this photo yesterday while going through some digital files.  Its boldness confronted me.  It was really something.  But should I post it, I wondered?  I still do.  I liked this woman a lot.  She dated much younger men.  And she had trouble in her life.  She'd lost many things, including her house, and was moving into a trailer.  When I took photos in the studio, there was always as much talking as there was shooting, and I am a curious and good listener.  People tell me the most incredible things.  They will if you are kind and interested and can listen without interrupting.  People want to tell things.  They want to be heard sympathetically.  There is an underside to every life.  We are confessional by nature, I think.  Murderers, they say, always return to the scene of the crime.  Gamblers like to lose and murderers want to be caught.  Thieves, however, are a different story.  

So. . . here I've buried the lede once again.  I think there are people who only browse the blog, who click on it just to see and don't really read it.  Maybe they will scroll down the page, or maybe they won't.  I don't know.  But I like this woman and I hate what time makes of us. . . and yet. . . .  She was so many things at one and the same time.

I would like another studio.  I would like to do it all again.  I think I would do much differently this time around.  

The Times They Are A-Changing

This is the yard down the street from me.  My neighborhood is covered in Harris/Walz signs.  Not a Trump sign to be seen.  I don't see many Trump signs in town at all.  It is enough to make you think a certain way.  If I drive out of town, however, it is another story.  

I've asked my friends to quit sending me political memes, opinions, and sarcasms.  What good do they think it is doing?  Back in the days before the internet, sure, door to door canvasing was the only way to get out a message.  Signs were important.  But now?  I guess it is just a point of pride, or, like the constant text messages, pride in being irritating.  

I think Trump is going to win.  I think that identity politics, gender fluidity, and Woke ideologies have driven many moderates to the right.  "Liberals" are now demonized by the far left.  They are a shrinking class just as is the idea of a "liberal education" in the universities.  Dylan was right--the times they are a changing.  

Dylan was quite the capitalist.  

If Harris loses, I blame Megan Thee Stallion.  WTF?

I guess I should recall, however, that Jimmy Carter embraced Bob Dylan and won.  

My college roommate, a political scientist and a card carrying member, says Harris is going to win.  But he is the one person in America who cost Gore a win in Florida and the presidency.  He told everyone to vote for Nader.  He had enough political sway to swing that election.  

It won't be close in Florida this year.  

The weather is nice.  Bro culture will be playing golf and watching football.  They are confident about the outcome.  

I think I'll take a long walk.  They say it is good for one.  

We change the clocks tomorrow to the correct time, when the sun is at its zenith in the sky at noon.  It is the natural time when people's circadian rhythms are synched with the solar cycle.  But we keep making DST longer and longer. . . and people weirder and more disordered.  Maybe that is what  is wrong with the world.  Maybe it was an intentional weaponization of the clocks.  

It's just science.  

People are tired of science, though.  There is just too much of it anymore.  Whatever you like to do is probably bad for you.  It's easier to roll the bones, get an astrological reading. . . look to the Tarot.  

Gypsies lived outside the law.  Don't call them Gypsies.  They are Roma.  

I think I'll become a Gypsy.  

Not Celebrating Much

I saw adults wearing costumes yesterday--I think.  It is hard to tell, really.  Green hair, poofy skirt, black platform shoes and ankle socks. . . who can tell?  It's just another day at the Cafe Strange, I reckon.  

But I didn't go there.  Apparently, it had just leaked out into the streets.  

I did go to my mother's house to pass out candy to the kiddos with her, though.  I didn't want to.  As the afternoon wore on, I was feeling punky again.  I swear I think the vaccines I got actually gave me some disease.  I was aching and tired, but I mustered up and got on the road.  

"Do you think you have enough candy?" I asked my mother earlier in the day. .

"Lord yes," she said.  

I went to the grocers and got more.  I know my mother.  She's a hillbilly.  She is cheap.  She would have bought the cheapest candy and not enough.  

The first kids to come, just before twilight, were the neighborhood kids.  And by gosh. . . they were cute.  Parents would come up the long driveway with their toddlers or send their elementary school aged kids up the driveway by themselves while they waited on the sidewalk.  The kids were sweet and polite.  They would say, "Trick or treat," and we would say, "Happy Halloween," and then they'd look into the candy bowl cautiously and then politely take one piece of candy.  They usually would study what was in the bowl for a bit before they chose.  Then they would look up and say, "Thank you," and the parents would say thank you, too, and maybe we would chat a bit about the children's costumes which were very, very good.  Many times, the entire family was dressed up in a theme--the Addams Family, Jedis, space aliens.  The kids would run with excitement ready for the next house.  

My mother's street is THE Halloween street.  Almost everybody, my mother excluded, puts up elaborate decorations in the yard--mechanical monsters, smoke machines, giant spiderwebs--and one house makes their front patio into a haunted mansion with all sorts of animatronics and cauldrons and spooky recordings.  It almost rivals Disney.  

So the kids keep coming, hundreds of them.  And as night falls and the hours pass, the streets begin to fill up with cars as people from other neighborhoods bring in their children.  And these kids are a little rougher as are the costumes.  And they are not as polite.  They come to take giant handfuls of candy from the bowl so that my mother has to begin putting the candy into the bags herself so that she does not run out, and the two big bags I brought begin to disappear.  

I tell my mother to go see the neighbors and the neighborhood and I sit with the candy alone.  And when she comes back, the candy bowl is becoming empty and I tell her I am going home.  

"Close up the house and go sit with the neighbors," I say, and she says that is what she will do.  

When I get home, I am done for.  And so is Halloween.  My neighborhood looks spooky at night with big oaks overhanging the street, but the trick or treaters don't come here anymore.  There is a neighborhood party at the neighborhood park on the lake which makes it easier on everyone.  The streets are quiet.  

I pour a drink and sink into the couch and turn on the television.  I had developed a roll of film from the wrestling matches earlier in the day, so I cut the negatives and put two strips into a carrier and start the scanning process.  The negatives look unbelievably good which is a mystery.  I think the black and white film worked out better somehow, but I only shot a not so spectacular match with it thinking it would not come out at all.  

As the scanner does its work, I come back to the tv.  My phone pings.  I have a text.  It is from a woman wanting to know how my Halloween night went.  I still can't figure her out.  We text for awhile in hesitant slow motion.  Then it seems we are done.  I watch something.  It is late.  I go to bed.  

I don't plan on being festive this holiday season.  I am paying little attention to it at all.  In the past, I wanted a more "sophisticated" celebration, but I don't feel any celebration in my soul this year.  The world is wearing me out.  People are on the political edges of their seats.  The planet has become toxic.  There are wars all over the globe.  People are either rich or they are fucked.  Everything seems contentious, even in the smallest of ways.  I feel no joy, really.  I want to check out for a bit, be quiet and contemplative, and see if I can renew my emotional life.  

But the holidays are in full swing.  We change the clocks and then we vote and then. . . half of us will go mad with glee, the other half with despair.  That is not true, though.  I know many people with college degrees who are as dumb as Joe Rogan.  They are part of the bro culture and know little about anything other than business, golf, expensive cars, and resorts.  I know many people with college degrees who have less income, are more bohemian, and who subscribe to most Woke ideology.  One group is unconcerned, the other over-concerned.  One group has lawyers, guns, and money.  The other thinks it will need them.  

I just got a text from Mexico City where my friend from the midwest has gone for The Day of the Dead celebration.  She is there as is my replacement at the factory who is now working at a factory in Minnesota.  I don't know if they have coordinated this or if it is simply happenstance.  I had considered going, but as has been my fate for awhile now. . . I am sitting here at home.  With regret.  Much regret.  Many, many regrets.  

I am envy.  I am all envy.  Isn't that one of the Ten Commandments?  No envy?  Maybe it is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.  I'm not sure.  I just know envy is bad, and I am full of it now.  

My god. . . what a wonderful place Mexico City is.  

Lamento.  Mi cámara se arrepiente.

Testing. . . Testing

This is the closest thing to a Halloween photo that I have.  It will have to suffice.  

I'm always confused by adults dressing up for Halloween, but I guess I shouldn't be.  If I think about it hard enough, it is really an adult ceremony, isn't it, witches and goblins and all?  Adult people used to believe and fear such things.  It isn't that much of a stretch to think about what Trump supporters believe in.  Did you see the way they dressed on January 6th?  

"The Pope was right--the earth is flat!  Burn the witches!!!!"

It was Stalin who said, "It's not who votes that counts, it's who counts the votes."

I think I'll try wearing a "normal adult" costume tonight.  

I am not in/of/on (pick your preposition) this world anymore.  Planet Earth.  I can't follow along so much.  I do not seem to be connected.  I spent yesterday at home again, still feeling the agonies of the vaccine flu.  But I felt OK sitting at the computer editing pictures and listening to music.  I did that for many, many hours.  Then, in the afternoon, I decided to take one batch of photos from the same wrestling match and put them into a sequence.  Then I made them into a video.  It was a bit of work, and I thought it looked pretty cool, so I sent it around to some friends.  I thought they might like it.  I got little response.  I sent it to the gymroids.  Crickets.  WTF?  It's a gift like shaving cologne or hair slickum.  It's a toaster at Christmas.  

Whatever.  I'm no good at social media, either.  My love of "the vernacular" look in photos is not everyone's.  People like slick advertising stuff.  Only a few geniuses get away with the other.  A lot of people used to come here to see the Lonesomeville stuff, but I don't have a clue if anyone comes to this blog anymore.  Stat counters don't work now.  It is all a mystery.  

But like some astronaut stranded and lost in space, I keep sending out signals hoping to reach someone.  It's one of the grand metaphors of our time.  

Space. . . the last frontier.  

I grew up watching nature shows, often about the boundlessness of the oceans.  Yea. . . so much for that.  My planet blew up and I can't go home.  I'll just have to watch what happens, a Stranger in a Strange Land.  

I'll keep trying.  Testing.  Testing.  Is this thing still on?

Vaccine Flu

Holy smokes, I was knocked down yesterday by the vaccine flu.  I was s-i-c-k!  Everything ached--my skin, my muscles, my bones.  I took two extra strength Tylenol, but they didn't seem to touch it.  I kept telling myself that I wasn't sick.  I didn't have a disease.  My body was just preparing itself to ward such things off.  

But I felt viral.  I felt contagious.  

I don't know that I would recommend anyone getting both vaccines at the same time no matter what the CDC says.  I'm not certain I ever want to get vaccinated again.  Yesterday was agony.  

"You're such a little drama baby.  Shut the fuck up."

"I'm just sensitive."

It took everything I had to prepare the house for the maids.  Then I went back to bed.  I left my iTunes station playing, and I would sleep one song at a time.  And dream.  Three minute dreams.  Most were not comforting.  Indeed, they were far worse than that, and I was sinking, with each song, into deeper and deeper despair.  

At 12:30, I got a text from the cleaning crew that they were on their way.  I  struggled out of bed and went to sit with my mother.  While I was there, I got a message from the cleaner.  

"This is Lamine.  Please call me.  I need to talk with you."

Oh, shit. . . what has gone wrong now.  I called him back.  

"You know, we've been cleaning your house for almost 20 years now.  I am 72 and Maria is 73, and we are getting tired.  We've decided to retire while we still have our health, so. . . ."

Oh, man. . . my stomach fell.  I'm getting too old for change.  I don't want it.  

"We've sold the company to a very nice man.  He will have the same crews."

For a moment, I thought that maybe I should begin cleaning my own house.  That thought ran through my mind quickly, though.  What do I know about cleaning?  I've had a cleaning crew since I was married.  I haven't cleaned a house for. . . how long?  Really?  No wonder when I clean nothing looks as if it has been done.  

I haven't done my own yard work for even longer.  Maybe I could do that.  But what if I go away?  What then?

When I got home, the house was clean, but I was depressed.  Maybe it was the sickness.  I didn't know.  I just knew that I was sinking quickly.  I decided to take a Xanax.  This is the second time in a couple months that I felt the need.  That is not a great sign.  I read today in The Times about people who have that "meh" feeling a lot.  It is a low grade depression that enervates its victims.  I got up at five and read it then.  I just went back to find what it is called, but the article is gone.  The paper updates at six.  Whatever its name, though, I think I have it.  

All I wanted yesterday was a little help.  I am a lover without a love.  I needed some support.  How did this happen?  What the fuck did I do?  

Yea, yea. . . everything is a joke.  A big fucking joke.  

Maybe I'll feel better today.  Surely.  

I read a long time ago about some rich old movie star who was old and sick and lived in an apartment at the Mount Sinai hospital.  I just looked it up. 

The Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City has a premium patient accommodations program called Eleven West that offers luxury and relaxation. Eleven West provides guests with a refined atmosphere of serenity, privacy, and comfort.

That's what I want.  That's exactly what I want--serenity, privacy, and comfort.   

What I have, however, is overwhelming me.  

"Shut the fuck up!  Nobody wants to hear you."

Yea. . . I know.  

Q sent me this yesterday.  

"Overheard in a wine bar, from a woman who had been sitting happily by herself: You came all the way over here to talk about yourself?"

I wrote back, "No.  I just write a blog."

Temperance

I should take it easy, slow down.  I want to throw up all the pictures I took Saturday night, but if I do, I'll have nothing new left to share.  I won't be shooting another event until November 9.  So. . . show a little restraint.  I'm not sure if that has ever been my M.O., though.  

Yesterday is done.  I don't think the dentist likes me.  He said nothing to me other than, "Open wide," and "Turn your head away from me."  True.  He has joined the National Guard and has that tight military haircut now.  His head practically shines.  I heard him say "Code 2. . . could become Code 3" to another dentist in the building and then give a quick chuckle.  "Is he talking about me?" I wondered.  He put the numbing agent on my gums at just past ten.  I was out of the office with two new fillings at 10:36.  I was one thousand dollars poorer.  

And I couldn't feel my face.  My right eye was numb.  I put my finger to my nose, but it was gone.  My tongue was useless.  And I still felt like shit from the sleep aids.  What to do?

I went to the pharmacy to get 2X vaxed, Moderna in one shoulder, the flu vaccine in the other.  I waited to see if there would be some terrible reaction because of the novocaine.  Since I never talked to the dentist, I'd forgotten to ask him to leave out the epinephrine in the numbing agent.  Epinephrine really jacks me.  They use it, or at least they used to, to make the novocaine last longer.  Maybe they don't use either drug now.  Maybe they use something else.  I don't know.  The dentist sure as hell didn't tell me.  

When I got home, tired, numbed, confused, I decided to take a long walk.  It was ok. It was fine.  Then I went to the gym.  They say it is better to exercise after getting vaccinated.  By the time I was finished, it was 2:30.  I decided to go see my mother since I was on her side of town rather than driving home and back after showering.  I did a couple of chores for my mother, and when her neighbors stopped by, I took my leave.  I stopped by the grocery store to get the things I needed for dinner.  

Home.  Soak.  Shower.  It was already four-thirty.  I'd been drugged, vaxed, and exercised, and hadn't eaten a thing all day.  What the hell.  Cocktail.  I sat on the deck in the pleasant afternoon and began to ache.  Was it the effect of the two vaccines or was I really dying?  Maybe I shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, I thought, but as I have previously explained, restraint may not be my M.O.  

At five, I prepped an easy dinner, Japanese teriyaki noodles with lots of chopped vegetables and pieces of the roasted chicken I had bought.  A big bowl.  I made it extra soupy.  The broth was full of jalapeño peppers, scallions, and garlic.  I drank it like a tonic.  It made me feel better, I thought, but I was sinking with the sun.  The achiness was settling in.  I couldn't wait to go to bed.  

I am still aching this morning.  Not bad.  Both shoulders are sore, but not bad either.  I got out of bed too early.  My eyes are bad and I saw the red lcd lights on my 1970s clock radio wrong.  But the maids are coming today, so I won't be able to go back to bed, I think.  The house is still a mess.  I have camera gear spread out everywhere.  Maybe I should go back to bed now.  It is still dark outside.  Maybe I should take some Tylenol.  

Dare I eat a peach?

Things will be better tomorrow.  I am certain of it.  And then it will be Halloween.  And then we will change the clocks, and everything will go haywire again.  Nobody wants to change the clocks.  Why do we still do it?  It is madness.  

Well. . . that was a shitty report.  But it is all I've got.  We change the clocks and then we vote.  Maybe you already have.  I like walking in on Election Day.  I'm fairly traditional that way.  I don't understand voting early.  What if something happened?  What if one of the candidates was found at the 11th hour to be a murderer or child rapist?  It wouldn't make a difference, though, I guess.  Most of you still wouldn't change your vote.  We no longer share a common morality.  The compass has been broken.  Up is down, black is white.  There is only one side vs. the other.  

I've given up on all of that.  I now only wish to document the bright underbelly of life.  Bright underbelly?  Does that make sense?  

Have you ever seen a shark from underneath?  

The Wrestlers

I don't have much time to write this morning.  It is a shit day which starts with a trip to the dentist.  After that, I will get double vaxed.  If I am still on my feet, I will make a trip to the gym.  But I am whacked right now.  I had only slept for five hours on Saturday night.  I was sleepy before bedtime on Sunday.  Still, I took a Tylenol PM before I went to bed at ten.  I didn't open my eyes until eight, and I am still groggy.  No time for reading the papers.  Just some coffee and a shower before I half unconsciously begin this hellish day.  

I am sure to feel badly tomorrow.  

I spent all day Sunday working on the wrestling pics.  They are difficult.  There was very little light and the photos are dark.  I have to work like a devil to bring them to life.  Each one is its own problem and takes me twenty minutes or so in postproduction work.  Selavy.  

Have you seen Aronofsky's "The Wrestler"?  Yea. . . this is like that.  The routines these wrestlers were performing were pretty tough--coming off the top rope, flips and pile drivers.  It is easy to get hurt.  They can't be making much money, if any.  They are not independently wealthy for sure.  I saw them after the match standing together talking about the evening's performance.  I didn't see them leave, but I'm betting they had shitty cars like mine.  Where do they live?  Certainly some are in apartments with roommates or living in trailer parks.  But on Saturday night, you know. . . they are in the limelight.  

There can be no other explanation.  None of them are going to be making it into the televised big leagues.  They gamble their bodies for a small crowd of people sitting on folding chairs in a metal warehouse on the outskirts of town.  

I have no idea what the people who pay to come see the show think.  Many of the sparse crowd (that makes little sense) wanted to talk to the performers.  

I want to go back and do more.  I have ideas.  

But now my idea is to get into the shower and get this thing done.  I am glum.  This is not the day one aspires to.  It is a day to suffer through in hopes of better ones.  

Wish me luck.  If you want.  

A Ramble in the Outskirts

I sit here now before the radiant Xenon screen in the dark having slept but five hours.  Despite multiple "sleep aids," I could not slumber.  I should have, I think, but something has gotten up my nose.  I mean, for the life of me, I couldn't breathe and now I sit, a box of Kleenex at hand, blowing. . . gulping air through my open yap.  

I got cold last night.  Maybe that's what did it.  Or maybe it was the extraordinary stress of a crazy busy day.  

Saturday was spent getting ready for my photo excursion into the world of little league wrestling.  I spent the day charging batteries and trying to get all my peripherals to work and then work together again.  I hadn't used some of it for years.  How much light would there be?  Would I be able to use those Holga lenses.  Should I try film?  Certainly I would take my old standby, the Canon 5D, with which I shot the overwhelming majority of "Lonesomeville."  I pulled out all the lenses.  And, of course, the Leicas.  And lenses.  And the synchronized Leica flash.  I spent a useless hour trying to get it to work on the 5D.  I watched some videos on how to drag the shutter--all things I already knew.  I even watched some YouTube vids on shooting professional wrestling matches.  Time slipped away.  My dining room table was full of photo gear.  I needed to chill.  There was no way I was going to take all of that.  I pulled out camera bags.  I tried to pack what I needed this way and that.  It was imperative I make decisions--what would stay and what would go?  

I looked at the clock.  It was three.  I hadn't eaten.  I reheated last night's steak and cut up a McIntosh apple.  I called my mother.  

"Thee is no way I am going to make it over today.  I'm a mess."

I stunk.  I dropped into an Epsom tub and then showered.  I washed my hair.  It was after four.  I would need to leave the house by six-thirty.  What I needed, I thought, was a Canon Speedlight to synch with my 5D.  I drove to my buddy's shop.  Nope.  They didn't have one.  I went to the big shop downtown.  They had them, but they were too expensive.  I drove home.  Cameras still lay strewn on the table. Tennessee had texted a brief note earlier in the day: 

"Im out on tonight. Make some good photos."

No explanation.  I would have no one to watch my gear while I was shooting.  

Time ticking, I made my choices and crammed them willy nilly into two bags.  It was too much, but. . . . 

I needed to get dressed.  How does one dress for a little league wrestling show as a photographer?  Cargo shorts, I thought.  I'd need the pockets--maybe.  Funky black and white tennis shoes.  A henley.  I grabbed a ball cap in case I needed it.  I looked in the mirror.  Who in the fuck was this?

I had a few minutes before I needed to leave the house, so I made a Campari and lit a cheroot.  I sat on the deck thinking myself a fool, not for going to this thing, but for spending an entire day stressing over it.  The Campari was familiar.  I came back to myself.  Was I an alcoholic?  Did I need "liquid courage"?

No, I thought, I was a good photographer and knew what I was doing.  I could feel some of the old confidence returning.  I'd need to be certain.  Fuck yea.  It was as it always was--anxiety then certainty.  It was the only way I knew how to work.  

I put the bags in the car and came back to get my phone.  I took a shot of whiskey.  

The place was hard to find.  It sat in a morass of metal shed buildings housing industrial stuff in a rough part of town.  The road in was littered with cars parked wherever they could fit--mostly along a fence posted "Fire Lane--No Parking."  I found a spot there, but I chickened out.  I drove around and found a place between two big panel trucks.  I wasn't sure if this was o.k. but I had to go.  

The rolling door to the metal building was open.  Three rows of plastic chairs sat at the entrance inside and out looking toward the ring.  I walked through the entrance, nobody saying anything to me.  The ring was big, the room small.  There were chairs lining the walls perhaps two feet from the ring apron.  The lighting was going to be bad--three overhead fluorescent lighting strips.  I found a chair out of the way and pulled out a camera to see what kind of light metering I would get.  Holy shit.  Even with the ISOs cranked to maximum, the shutter speeds were low.  I pulled out my film Leica loaded with Tri-X rated at 800.  Somehow, it seemed to be fine.  I would have to shoot with a bigger aperture than I would have liked meaning focus would be critical. I took a couple test shots with each of my cameras.  A little guy I recognized from his photos walked out in wrestling togs.  He looked at me and smiled.  I walked over and said hello.  

"Are there any places I shouldn't go or stand?" I asked him.  

"No, no. . . do what you like."

The fellow standing with him said, "Just remember not to stand in front of people.  They are paying to see the matches.  And be aware.  Sometimes wrestlers come over the ropes.  I've seen expensive cameras broken."

"Oh, sure. . . I'll be respectful."

And that was it.  I could do what I wanted in the small metal warehouse.  A few people came in and took seats, fifteen, maybe twenty at most.  After awhile, they began to yell for the matches to begin.  They were regulars, I assumed.  

The first match was the promoter wrestling a young kid.  There was introductory music.  There was a female announcer introducing them.  There was a bell, and they began the show.  The kid wasn't very good, and the promoter carried him along.  They didn't do much that was complicated.  I was trying out different camera/lens combos.  And then, maybe five minutes later, it was done, and the promoter picked up a mic and talked about the kid.  

The next match was a woman fighting a young, soft and chubby man.  They were practicing their choreographed moves.  You could hear very well everything the crowd said.  

"C'mon. . . you can't let a woman beat you.  Give it to her."

"Ref. . . that was a slow count."

"Give it to him, Bella!"

Five minutes later, the ref raised the woman's hand.  She had pinned her opponent to the mat.  

I scrolled through the photos I had taken.  They looked o.k., but a lot of them were blurry, especially anything taken with the Holga lens.  I would need to give up on that.  I was shooting mostly with the Canon 5D and a zoom lens, the same one I shot with on "Lonesomeville."  I thought earlier in the day that might end up being the case.  It is a good camera.  I was shooting the Leica's, too, but they all had prime lenses.  That zoom lens on the Canon--a 24--105mm--was really good.  

The next match was between two blubbery guys.  They went through their paces and had a few more things in their repertoire than the others.  One fellow had his face painted.  That was o.k.  

The night wore on.  There was a women's title match.  Big fat girl was the champ.  She retained her title.  

We were getting to the main events.  Two women, a title holder against a title holder.  One was the woman who beat the boy earlier in the night.  There they are at the top of the page.  They really went at it, coming off the ropes, flipping each other upside down, and putting on a little drama.  They were much better than what had come before.  

Then the main event.  I couldn't figure that one out.  Three guys got into the ring.  An elimination match, the announcer said.  These guys were moving pretty fast and taking some really hard falls.  Their punches were a little harder and louder.  Two wrestlers were fighting outside the ring and the other came over the top rope on top of them.  They all went to the ground.  This was looking more like the pro wrestling you would see on t.v.  

And then it was over.  The thing was done.  I packed up my gear and walked over the the promoter to thank him.  I said it was a real learning experience for me and that I would send him some photos.  Maybe I could come back sometime.  

"Any time.  Come any time."

Driving home, I was pretty exhausted.  And hungry.  I stopped at a Chic-fil-a near my house and got a sandwich to go.  When I dropped my bags on the floor, I grabbed a Guinness and sat down to eat my sandwich.  I wondered if I had gotten anything worthwhile.  I was too tired, I thought, to download any photos before bed, but when I was finished eating, I pulled the card from the Canon and put it in the computer.  As he photos downloaded, I went to pour a scotch.  It took quite a while for the photos to transfer.  I looked through them.  So much was garbage.  Did I have anything at all?  I picked one--just one--to work on just to see.  Hmm.  Then another.  

When I looked at the clock, it was one.  I needed to make my ablutions and go to bed.  I was worn to the bone.

But the "sleep aids" I took didn't work.  I woke up at two.  I took some more.  It was cold in the house, too cold.  I couldn't' sleep.  I got up and turned on the heat.  In another hour, my head was a block of snot.  I got up and blew my nose.  I went back to bed, but it was hardly worthwhile.  I miserably looked at the clock.  Six.  Fuck it.  I got up, made the coffee, and sat down to tell you this.  

I have lots of photos to go through and work on.  My house is a total mess from yesterday's carnage.  It will take me at lest an hour to put things away and clean up.  But I am a little jazzed.  I took pictures.  I'd like to go out into a crowd and make more today.  But I am going to need rest.  I'll go back to bed now, perhaps.  Maybe I'll take an antihistamine.  Maybe I'll sleep 'til noon.  I don't know.  

But it was alright getting out of the house for a minute on my own, a stranger in a strange land doing strange things.  "Look at me!" I know I thought, rambling with the dregs on the outskirts of town.  

I'm pretty sure I'll go back.  

And Away We Go!

  I'm shaking in my boots about shooting the wrestling match tonight. . . but we'll get to that. 

I had unusual excitement last night.  The tenant stopped by to tell me that she could smell gas outside my house.  The gas company has been working on the lines and turning off the gas to the $1.7 million house across the street which is about to be torn down to make way for a new one.  The tenant is a bit of an alarmist, so I told her she should go over with a lighter and see if she could locate the leak.  If she found it, I said, she should call the gas company.  

Then I went to my mother's.  

I decided I would cook up a steak for dinner.  I hardly ever eat beef now, but one of the gymroids had said that afternoon he was grilling a steak over a wood fire and drinking a bottle of wine.  The idea stuck with me all day and seemed a good one, so I went to Whole Foods to get their very good beef, some asparagus, and a potato.  

When I pulled into the driveway of my house, a neighborhood woman was walking by with her dog.  She had already passed my house, but she turned around and approached me.  

"There is a strong smell of gas outside your house," she said.  

"I've heard that.  I guess I'd better call the gas company."

Pain in the ass.  I pulled up their info page online and read, "If you smell gas, call 911."  That seemed odd, but. . . O.K. 

I seasoned the steak, put it in the Dutch Oven, and put it on the stovetop to sear each side before I put it in the oven to broil.  I poured a glass of wine and then heard crazy sirens, many, coming down the street.  There were four trucks in all.  They blocked off the streets, lights a-flashing.  Then the boys slowly climbed out of the trucks wearing full-on firefighting gear.  It didn't look comfortable.  As they gathered, I sauntered out, a glass of wine in hand, and explained the situation.  Many of the firemen looked at me with something between mistrust and dislike.  I grinned and took a gulp of wine.  

"O.K. boys, you don't need me, so. . . ."

But I was worried.  What if they shut off the gas line.  My dinner!

I went back inside to flip the steak.  Sizzle, sizzle.  In two minutes, I put it in the oven.  Then I poured more wine, lit a cheroot, and went out to sit on the deck. 

By then, people were showing up in the streets to see what was going on.  The tenant and the across the street retired orthodontist walked up.  

"Did you call them?" asked the tenant. 

"Yea."  I took a hit off the cheroot with smiling eyes.  "I guess I really shouldn't be smoking."

The retired orthodontist looked at me aghast.  He seemed a little jumpy.  I took another hit.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

He really looked nervous now.  "I have some scotch in the car," he said and hurried away, but he didn't come back.  The tenant said she was going to take a walk.  I went back inside to tend to dinner.  I got the asparagus and potato started and walked back outside.  One of the firemen was walking up the drive, so I stepped out to meet him.  They had re-dug the whole in my yard where the gas people had been working.  He wanted to show me that the cap they had put on wasn't on all the way.  They had clamped it and were now waiting for the gas company to arrive.  

"They'll be here in about an hour," one of the firemen said.  

"I'm glad to know they are so responsive to the Fire Department," I laughed.  

"It always takes an hour," the fireman sneered.  

"Well. . . thanks gentlemen.  I've got to go back inside and answer my calls and texts.  All the neighbors want to know if I died."

"Not yet," said one of the fun ones.  "Not this Friday night."

We both chuckled as I shook my head in agreement.  The muscled up skinhead firemen, a tall one and a shorter stocky one, looked at me with MAGA eyes.  I raised my wine glass to them in a faux-salute and emptied the glass down my gullet.  

"Thanks again."

When my dinner was ready and plated, I took it to the deck to eat.  I figured they'd like that.  

Earlier in the day at the gym, Tennessee told me that our Black Sheep trust fund boy had called him that morning.  He was at the jetport.  

"Get your things and fly up with my to New York."

You see, Black Sheep is working for the Trump campaign and they were flying him up in a private jet for the big weekend--Joe Rogan and Madison Square Gardens.  Black Sheep doesn't know shit about politics, I'm certain.  He's no policy wonk.  But he loves to party.  

"Come on, man. . . you know what kind of women are going to be at this thing?!?!?"

He'll have plenty of stories, I am sure.  But T declined opting to stay home and go to dinner with his wife.  

"He's flying into some private jet airport in New York City.  I didn't even know it existed.  Can you imagine what this weekend will be like?  He'll be all kinds of fucked up.  You're right about his politics.  He's just doing it for the parties."

He'll do well.  It is his kind of crowd.  They'll love his monied prep school charm.  

So. . . here's what has inspired me to try to shoot the little league pro wrestling thing tonight--the photos of Elmo Tide.  This is what I have in my head to make.  But it won't be like this, I know.  

There will be no dramatic lighting, I'm positive, and I am worried.  I have never tried shooting action stuff before.  Will everything be blurry and out of focus?  Will I be able to drag the shutter and make the kinds of images I have in mind?  Will I have the chutzpah to get the angles?  

The wrestlers will not be this skilled, I'm pretty sure.  I wonder if they will let me into the dressing room.  "O.K. boys. . . I've got a camera, so if you don't want to be on the cover of this shoot, put away your cocks!"

That should win me points.  The highlight is going to be a city championship women's title fight.  I'm not kidding--citywide!  Ha.  

T is coming along.  He invited himself.  He's a real fighter, won some grappling tournaments, fought in Thailand, but he's never seen this kind of thing.  It makes me nervous, though, to have someone I know there to watch me fail.  But what the hell.  "Tits up," as they say on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  I'll be learning on the job.  

I should be happy.  The roller derby people said yes to my shooting as well, so I will photograph their "championship" finale in another two weeks.  Alain said he wants to come to that.  

So yea, I can fail in front of an audience.  Whatever.  This is what I said I wanted, and I actually used my credentials in my pitch.  I NEVER do that.  But if this little league stuff works out well, I will use it as a step up.  Showing my old Lonesomeville project won't open some of these doors.  And if these turn out o.k. I may head out to Freemont Street in Vegas for a little photo fun.  

If I fail and it all goes to shit, though. . . you will be the first to know.  

O.K.  I have to start getting my photo gear ready.  Charging batteries, learning to shoot my photoflashes again, practicing dragging the shutter. . . all of it.  So. . . a little music to calm my jellied soul.  

Fear of. . . Failure

I was at the dentist for about ten minutes.  They took an X-Ray and a picture, then the doc said he thought he could fill it and another spot where I had lost a veneer. 

"Today?"

"No.  I jammed up today.  Make an appointment at the desk.  I'll see you in a week or two."

I got an appointment for Monday.  One X-Ray and one pic--$127.  The two fillings--$1K.  If he has to do a crown instead--$2K.  A little on the steep side, I think.  And he didn't seem to like me much.  

So I was home early and the sun was shining and the air was very pleasant.  I decided I would go walk around the lake where Tennessee and I had eaten the other night.  I felt light.  

But first, and I don't know what got into me, I looked up some of the oddball things going on in my own county, things I've thought over and over again to photograph.  I found two things of interest.  One was a gym that trains people to be pro wrestlers.  They have a BIG EVENT on Saturday night.  I wrote to them to see if I could come take photographs.  Then I wrote to the women's roller derby team asking the same thing.  

The day was moving along, so I got on my togs and drove to the lake.  

I'd thought to walk/run again, but the day was pretty and my legs were sore and my knee was hurting, so I decided just to walk and look and think about the pictures I might make.  I was up again.  

There were other walkers and runners and bike riders on the trail, but not so many.  I walked by the dog park where people can take their dogs to run and play and swim in the lake.  It smelled of dog poop, and I wonder about the wisdom of doing such a thing.  My old dog, Wiley, would have just gotten into fights with the other dogs.  She was a lot like me--a loyal loner.  She was true blue, that girl, a one man dog.  

I passed beautiful old oaks and brand new pine saplings.  This was good.  This was fun.  But I swear, this was the longest few miles I had ever walked.  I think it was because I was walking in a huge circle around the lake.  My bearings were off, maybe, and I wasn't sure how close or far I was from where I began.  

But I wasn't tempted to sit.  Just to pause to make phone artifacts.  

Then there were homes again decorated for Halloween.  I figured I was close. 

And I was.  I'd left some electrolyte drink in the car and chugged that right down.  It's called Electrolit.  It isn't so sweet and tastes much like the original Gatorade before it was bought by Pepsi and given the big sugar makeover.  

I got a text.  Billionaire Boys going out at five.  I was down for that.  

When I got home, I was hungry and opened a can of sardines and spread some crackers on the plate.  I sat down to check my mail.  Uh-oh.  I had a message from the wrestling gym.  

Thank you for reaching out and would love to have you at our event this Saturday. Come down. Come in for free. Can show this note at the door. Feel free to reach out as well (phone number redacted).  

Great!  Now I was in for it.  What if it all turned out bad?  What if I couldn't make any pictures that were worthwhile?  Now I was full of self-doubt.  Big shit.  Big man.  Ugh.  

I finished eating the sardines and put on some music, sunk into an Epsom salts soak, and started thinking.  Which camera?  Which lenses?  Should I just go for the weirdest look or should I. . . I wasn't sure.  

A trip to mother's, then to the bar.  The boys were already there.  Drinks, talk, food. . . the usual witticisms and banter.  More people showed up, then some left.  We went across the street to the Irish pub to finish up the night.  

When we walked in, a waitress who has served us before came running over happy to see us.  Sure.  There was nobody in the bar.  It was a ghost town.  She would be making money.  And she remembered everything we'd said and done.  You know. . . hip "older" guys.  I think that's what she said.  What she meant, though, was "Cha-ching!"  The boys don't care.  They think she's fun.  She is a couple semesters away from graduating with a business degree.  I told her she needed to give the big spenders her resume.  They could help her, I said.  And oh, those boys were happy to take her LinkedIn page where her resume resided.  

"I don't need it," I said.  "Unless you want to read a good book."

She didn't.  

Alain asked her if she wanted to get a master's degree.  

"Oh, no.  I'm ready to make some money.  My boyfriend is majoring in economics," she said.  "My brother is a political science major.  What are they going to do with those degrees?  It's like a waste of time."

Tennessee got her IG page.  

This is what they all do.  

This morning I read an article in the Times--'For College Kids, Giving Up On Books Is A Perfectly Sensible Choice" (link).  The author used to assign nine books a semester in his classes.  For years now, he hasn't assigned any because, for many reasons, kids don't read.  They see college as a means to a career.  Yup.  Our waitress was a perfect illustration of the article.  But she is a fine girl.  When we called for the check, she took it right to Alain and said, "Am I going to split this up--a pain in my ass--or are you paying as usual?"  Good girl.  She knew right where the money was.  I made an obvious attempt to give him some cash in front of her which he, of course, refused.  

Did she wink at me as I put the money back in my wallet? 

This morning, when I checked my email, I had this from the women's roller derby team:

Thank you for reaching out to us. We don’t have a problem with it, we love any opportunity to collaborate and get some promo. We have had more than one photographer before. Would you need us to sign any releases or anything? 

H-o-l-y  S-h-i-t!

I was in for it now.  My stomach kind of fell.  I didn't want to do this anymore.  It was just too much trouble and I was sure to fail.  Then what?  Oh, man, oh, man. . . what the fuck had I done?

Yea, yea. . . I'm a baby.  I'll do it.  I'll make myself do it.  I think.  50/50 anyway.  

T said he showed the waitress a couple photos by me.  She liked them, he said.  She said she wanted some pictures like that.  

"I don't have a studio anymore."

Yes. . . I need to open a new page.  I need to shoot the wrestlers and the roller derby girls and some burlesque dancers and boxers and body builders and circus performers--anything I can get.  

If, you know. . . if I can figure out how to make good pictures again.  

O.K.  Let's listen to some music to calm my troubled soul.  If I had this talent, I'd. . . .