Wild Card Weekend

"I take pictures to see what a thing looks like photographed" (Garry Winogrand).  

A near quotation, anyway.  

I've been going through his archived images.  Wow.  A lot of nothing and then some unpublished image like this!

A gem!  What a strange narrative this evokes.  He just kept taking picture after picture after picture.  

I like the dog pic, and I like this one, too.  I spent yesterday afternoon cooking up some sleazy pics and trying to print the out on Japanese Sumi-e paper on a roll.  Trying to feed it through the printer was hit and miss, mostly miss.  The paper is a bit transparent and very delicate, but I want to experiment with the prints, tearing and taping them, spilling coffee and/or oils on them, and whatever else I can do to degrade them.  Such a thing is great fun, but also very time consuming, and, unfortunately, I have little time, so I don't know how far I'll get.  I want to put them all in a notebook along with various small transfers and anything else I think of.  

Winogrand archives again--WTF?!?

Of course, I didn't get to finish anything.  My few hours rolled by and it was time to go shopping for dinner fixin's.  Sunday night spaghetti--sans wine.  Christ, will this month never end?  

I prepped.  I cooked.  Then I cleaned.  I was worn out with it.  I worked longer on dinner and after dinner clean up than I got to work on my own project.  I wanted a whiskey.  

I sat down and turned on the television.  Watched some football.  My mother said something about "they laid out the red carpet."  

"What?  Who are they?  What?"

She was looking at her phone.  Oh. The Golden Globes.  I gave her the t.v. controller and went to sit with my little computer.  When I heard the Globes begin at eight, I went in to make a cup of tea.  I watched Nikki Glazer's opening.  The Times thought it was great.  I didn't.  The Golden Globes used to be a drunken, outrageous awards party.  Now it is as scripted as the Oscars.  I sat through the first award, Best Supporting Actress.  The winner read her acceptance speech from a wrinkled piece of paper in an exacerbated voice.  It was awful, truly awful.  

The Times thought it wonderful.  

Later on, some people won best music or something.  A group came up to accept, but a tall Asian women hogged the mic, crying breathlessly for far too long saying nothing.  One of the fellows tried to say something into the mic, but she karate chopped him in the throat, figuratively, and went on.  What the fuck was she crying about?  It was awful.  

I'm sure the Times thought it was great.  

I went back to my computer to look at the Winnogrand archives.  Were I home, I'd have been working on my scrap notebook of torn and stained things.  

Bitch, bitch, bitch.  

I expected my mother to go to bed, but she didn't.  She stayed up way past her usual bedtime.  Finally, late, she said goodnight.  Yea.  That was it for me, too.  

The temperature dropped in the night.  Now "the world" is grey.  "Grey" because "gray" seems too bright.  It won't be fun exercising outside today, but the flu is rampant here right now, and so the gym scares me a bit.  I had a flu shot, but evidence tells us it is not very effective this year.  So. . . I have a quandary.  

I sent this around to irritate some of my friends far too early this morning with the note that I was hurt by Grok knowing that nobody was interested in undressing me.  Q wrote back something that I will not post here in order to protect the guilty, but. . . yea. . . they need an app called "Burka Body," something to cover that shit up.  

Have you ever seen how much fun old Persia was under the Shah?  

O.K.  I gotta get out of here before I become dangerous.  I don't want to get into ideology.  Ideology always makes you the wrong kind of friends.  

Oops. 

Uh. . . maybe blame that on this (link).