Golden Age

More unseen photography from the Way Back.  I will never get through all the old files to make a website.  I am too enamored with. . . myself, I guess.  

"Look at me!  Look what I did!"

"Uh-huh.  Whatever."

What's the point, anyway?  I don't know.  I just like it.  And I like my stuff a lot of the time.  What I used to do, anyway. . . in the Way Back.  

But I may have been wrong.  I saw some photos in the file that had signs in the background that said "2002."  Since the film photos are all scans, I can't be sure exactly when they were taken.  Some were before the turn of the century and some after.  Just reporting this for the sake of accuracy.  

Some of the photos in the old files make me sad.  I'm not well organized, and often some of the scans are in with more recent photos of my life.  They make me sad. . . but happy, too.  I regret some things, but not my life.  As a whole, it has been a giant adventure movie filled with wonders and romance.  No regrets.  

Except for a few.  

My friend Travis says he wouldn't have done anything differently.  He'd just do more.  I'm with him on that.  

We will never see the sun again here in the formerly Sunny South, or so it seems.  I am going to meet with the factory crew on their pub crawl today.  They are taking the SunRail from Factory City to the end of the line and back, stopping at pubs and bars all along the way.  I will meet them at one near Gotham and then again here in my own hometown, but it will probably be raining and I will be drinking cranberry and soda, the old AA cocktail.  I'll need to wear shoes which will determine the rest of my costume.  I want to look good "for the ladies."  

If you want to piss people off, "for the ladies" is a good start.  But fuck. . . it is funny.  I did see, however, on my pool pub adventure, that the dives still advertise "Ladies Night."  Wow.  That's a real throwback.  I'm guessing when you step into those places you're in Trump Country.  Best not be wearing your old Obama hat.  

I've made no progress on the Burlesque/Pool/. . . what was the other one. . . project.  Nobody has replied to my emails.  Oh, yea. . . Little League Wrestling.  I've decided that some local boxing and fighting gyms might be good.  And if I can get into a bodybuilding competition. . . .   I think that one of those smalltime beauty pageants would be great, too.  

Just thinking about it all makes me tired, though.  Where's my assistant?  I need some young woman with aspirations to help me.  That's what I want most of all now.  That and another studio.  

Yea, yea. . . I still like this shit.  As a matter of fact, the film prof from the gym asked me yesterday if I was still doing this stuff.  

"Not since I closed the studio."

"Do you have a place you can do it?"

"Just my living room if I move furniture.  I've thought about doing that, but it seems so. . . cheesy."  

He was fishing, I think.  His wife wants me to photograph her.  There are some other people, too.  Portrait photographers are making a lot of money locally.  People pay $1,500 for a half hour shoot.  Outdoors.  In parks, on beaches, in front of chapels, etc.  It seems to satisfy the customers, though, now that the Sears Portrait Studios have closed.

"I could use the money," I told him.  "I need to try to break even with what I spend on this stuff.  But it is hard for me to do commercial work.  Impossible, it seems.  There are lots of people who are proud that they can do that.  They think of themselves as 'photographers.'  I think I'd have to do such things out of town where nobody knew me."

But sometimes I think about it.  The money, I mean.  I have an idea of shooting people in "my style" and only charging them if they want the results.  It would be a no-risk thing.  But if they wanted the results which may be photos or may be transfers or manipulated media things, it would cost them plenty.  And they would have to sign an agreement that I would be able to use the images, too.  

"Your photo is being taken by an artist, goddamnit!"  

Ho!  But I need their money to buy a new printer and all the materials.  

I'm not sure I have the requisite energy or chutzpah for that anymore, though.  

"Assistant!!!  Where's my damn assistant???"

It has to be a woman, you know.   Two men showing up for a shoot. .  . nope.  Young gay or trans people, probably, but I fit none of those categories.  So I'll just keep blaming it on the lack of a young assistant that I never look for.  

Still. . . . 

I've been lazy about the intensity of my workouts.  My body and soul just can't take it anymore.  I need to be gentle and kind to myself.  That's what I keep learning.  I'm not going to make the Olympics and old guys who are jacked look silly, I think, stupid and maniacal.  I'm just going to have to live with the body I have and take care of it as well as I can.  Tranquility would look good on me now.  

"Serenity now!"

Won't happen, I'm afraid.  

But we'll see how I fare on the pub crawl today.  I think there might be somebody there I'd like to charm.  Or, perhaps, I'd like for her to wish to charm me.  That would mean I was charming, right?  

I'll be disappointed, though.  I think I should take a camera.  Film, not digital.  Black and white.  You know.  Like the Way Back. 

Sometimes all it takes for me is something silly. . . like a silly song.