Voila! The magic of film. You can't do this with a digital camera. Well. . . you probably could, but it wouldn't be the same. I had trouble spooling the film on the reel. I told you. I guess I never got it right, so several pieces of film were ruined. Ruined? It all depends on what you mean by "ruined." This might have been a lovely picture, but therein lies the fun and the magic, right? O.K., I'll say it.
Piss shit fuck goddamn.
There is the dark tent fiasco of loading the film onto reels, the mixing of chemicals, the developing, fixing, and rinsing, the hanging and waiting for the film to dry, the cutting of the negatives, then the slow process of scanning to see what you have, and then. . . probably 90% of the photos are boring-- or the above. But you are not done. You still have to import the file into a photo editor and finish it, or, rather, turn it into a digital file which is exactly what you would have gotten with a digital camera or your phone.
And yet. . . I don't know what to say except, "There is something about film and film cameras."
Plus, I have over 100 leftover rolls of old film at home. Hours and hours of breathless, breathtaking fun.
My mother went to breakfast with the neighbors yesterday, so I got an earlier start. I was finished at the gym by the time I often get there. I was supposed to see T there, but I was gone before he arrived. I got home and finished up scanning the rest of the three rolls of film and showered and was ready for lunch at 12:30. T said he was on his way to pick me up when the cleaning crew arrived. I sat outside and talked to the "head lady" while I waited. She is a Jamaican raised in New York, and we get on thick as thieves. We tell tales and laugh like old friends.
When T arrived, he got out of the truck and started right in with her, too.
"Hello darlin'," or something like that. When I climbed painfully into his big truck, I said what a nice woman she was, and he told me, yea, he heard how we get along. I had butt dialed him and he had heard us on his way to pick me up. He recited some of the conversation.
"Did you hear me tell her what a fuck shitwad you are?" I asked.
"Where are we going?"
Where we went, however, was not open for lunch. We decided to go to Gotham and get some Michelin recommended Udon noodles instead. The place is around the corner from the photo store, and T wanted to go in and buy a lens for the camera I had recommended he get, so I said just park in their lot and we'd walk around the corner.
But he couldn't. Fucking cowboy has a twenty foot long truck that won't fit into normal parking places. We drove back onto a side street and found a place in a puddle of water nobody else would park in.
"You need a town car, son."
The tiny restaurant was fairly empty and the beautiful waitress told us to sit anywhere. I let T pick, then complained that we were sitting too close to the speaker playing pop music too loudly. But T was undeterred and started singing along.
"How in the fuck do you know the lyrics to this song?"
It wasn't just that song, but the next and the next.
He told me he knew the songs because of his son who is an up and coming record producer.
"He produces all sorts of music," he said and went on to tell me of his offspring's recent successes. He was producing music for the woman who was the opening act for Ella Langley. T is a fan of Langley's music and his wife had gotten them tickets to her concert coming up for his birthday, and when his son heard this, he arranged for T to be backstage for the concert and to meet Langley.
"I feel kind of stupid," he said.
"Oh, hell, they'll have lots of food and liquor backstage. Just eat and drink and have fun. Just don't act like some dumb hillbilly and you'll be fine."
He cocked his head and gave me a look. He's a sophisticated hillbilly, I know. He runs in high cotton, as they say.
I looked to the kitchen where they make these special Udon noodles with water and flour imported from Japan. The beautiful waitress had her back to us, and I could see the light red tattoo of three Asian symbols lined vertically from the top of her neck as her hair was pulled atop her head. I say "Asian" because I don't know what they were other than ideographs of some kind. I would never get close enough to really get a good look, I know. I don't know where she is from, but I assume Japan, so I am probably wrong. I've been here several times before. She brings menus but that is all. She has never smiled at me once. And today, a fellow comes to take our orders.
"Have you been here before?" he smiles.
"Yes," I say, "but that doesn't mean I know how to order."
He laughs.
T knows, though, as he lived in Thailand for a year, and so I let him choose the numerous sides we will split and I order a bowl of Udon with beef. I keep turning to look at the beautiful woman.
"I don't think they let her wait on men," I say.
"When I come here with my wife, she always waits on us and is very nice."
"I don't think they let her wait on me," I laugh.
"Well. . . yea."
Everything was warm and good and flavorful. It was just what I wanted, an antidote to my home cooking. I am not familiar with Asian spices and sauces, not enough to use them successfully, anyway, and this just hit that little spot that longs for travel and adventure. It is as close as I get now. Lunch.
When we finished, it was later than we expected. T had a 3:30 meeting and so we skipped the photo store and hurried back to town. T has sold his house here an now has decided to sell the condo he is renting out, too. He is keeping his beach condo an hour and a half away, but he will be living in Tennessee, so I will probably only see him a couple times a year.
As it is with most of my friends now.
Back home, I sat down and began working on the scanned files. But the beer and the food had made me very sleepy, and I decided I needed a quick nap. Just as I lay down, however, the Asian spices start to work, and I got up for a trip to the bathroom. Holy shit--it was a good thing, for I remembered just then I had to take my mother to the dentist at 4:30. I looked at the clock. It was 4:00.
I called my mother and told her I was on my way. Traffic was lighter than usual and I made it in good time. I got her and her walker loaded into the car and we were in the dentist's office on the dot.
"We tried to call you," the lady at the desk said. "We got the partial, but it is not right. They are going to have to make another one. I'm sorry."
We made another appointment week and a half away.
I could barely keep my eyes open when we got back to my mother's house, and I was not at all hungry. Neither of us were keen for dinner, but I was keen for a drink to settle my Asia belly. And another. And I decided that is what I was going to do. I would drink and watch tv and take something to help me sleep.
I slept for ten hours without waking.
Now I must get on with things. What things? You know, the old routine. I broke the routine for a minute yesterday, though, so there is that. Maybe I'll go for an afternoon coffee. . .
But it is supposed to rain.
I feel like a character in one of Hemingway's short stories where people are bored and do stupid shit to deal with the internal void. "Cat in the Rain," perhaps.
Or someone in one of Joyce's Dubliners tales. The silence. The rain. The routine.
And once more . . . many must have it.
I've posted this video before, but I watched it again last night. I like the female playing guitar and singing harmony, Who is she? She is wonderful. I love the song but can't abide the lyrics. I was at a factory party at the house of the lesbian with whom I did not get along sitting in a room away from the crowd with a woman who had decided to take a job elsewhere. We were not especially close. She held herself slightly above her station in life, as I recall reading somewhere. She wrote poetry, and I had gone to see her read at the Country Club College once. I had to admit, some of it was very good. She was a good performer, too, drinking from a bottle of water like she was working a sex act. She was not unattractive. As we sat in the room alone, I told her that her tenure at the factory was safe if she wanted to stay and she said thanks, but no. The Shins first album had just come out and I admitted how embarrassed I was to like it so much. She smiled and nodded and conceded the same. And for a moment, there was the first hint of tenderness between us. I don't think she liked the lesbian any more than I did though she was sometimes a fellow traveller herself. I often think of that moment when I listen to this song, that and Ili. We used to listen to this album and Aretha Franklin's Greatest Hits on long drives to the beach and back. That's the power of music to bring back some melancholy sadness.
But the lyrics to this song suck, I think. It is like something written by a confused teenager trying to be creative. I would love to change the lyrics because the melody is so very wonderful, especially in this slowed down, half time version.
With the woman playing guitar and singing harmonies. Who IS she?
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