Let's take a ramble through the thorny brush and see what we turn up, shall we? I'll end with something I think good. Trust me. I'm not like the others. . . .
I don't hate commercial photography all the time. Sometimes it is fine. But I'm not a fan of clever photographers so very much. I look at what they do, the incredible setups that take a whole lotta time. When I look at a photograph by Gregory Crewdson, for instance, I'm intrigued for a bit, and sometimes a bit envious of the final image, but man. . . he depends on a good amount of helpers to make that image. Good for him. He gets a big chunk of change to make them, and I guess he sells them for even more.
But I prefer "the snapshot." Not simply vernacular photos, which I dig more than most, but a good "snapshot." A good snapshot is not easy to make. I'm thinking high toned here: Robert Frank, Garry Winogrand, Lee Friedlander, William Eggleston, Saul Leiter, et.al. Do you consider those photographers to be snapshot artists? Some classify them, I guess, as documentarians, and that's ok by me, but I think of them as snapshot artists nonetheless. At a meaningful level, if that can be said. Everything has "meaning," I guess, but. . .
Don't take that as a dissertation, just something occuring to me to write first thing in the morning after a night of opioids and half dreams. But, I hope, my neck just might be getting better. I don't want to jinx it, but maybe I just did. We'll see. I'm trying to avoid depending on a doctor.
I went to my early morning appointment yesterday to see the new ortho. I got there at the intended time, then waited forty-five minutes for the entitled prick to show up. Truly--forty-five minutes behind already at eight o'clock in the morning?
"Hello there. How are we doing this morning?"
"Fuck you. The donut shops aren't even open yet."
That was what I was thinking, at least, as I waited for him to show up. For what? Cha-ching, that was all. He asked me how I was doing, said good, and made another appointment for three months hence. I could have knee-capped him right there and then.
"How's the knee, doc?"
But it did get me out of my mother's house early, and I had a long day to myself. I was back in my own home by nine. I like mornings in my house. It was a real treat, and I allowed myself to some creative time before I left for the gym. I'll show you some of what I did in a minute. But the sunshine fell through the big wooden shutters casting beautiful pools of light and funky shadows across the wooden floorboards and 19th century rug, and I wasn't dreading the gym when I left because I am doing easy workouts now. No, I'm not "working out." I'm merely exercising. Yes, that's a good way to look at it. And when I got there, I was fairly beaming and people, more than one person, said, "You look like you're in a good mood," and honestly, I was. I don't think I've actually smiled in a very long time.
What a little of my own life can do for me.
There is a tea house in my hometown to which I've never gone because it is in a boring building on a busy road and has a strange name--Krung Thup. Well, now. . . earlier in the day, I learned--don't be a wise guy--that is the native name of Bangkok. What? You are laughing at me, I know, but now I know, too, and I am certain to go. I read that they make good Vietnamese coffees. All this time, I imagined it was British tea and finger sandwiches. Huh.
We're still rambling.
My day was truncated, of course, as all my days are, by my inevitable return to mother's. At four, rather than going to the big grocers near my mother's house, I went to Whole Foods, not minding that it would take me awhile longer, that I would get caught in the after work traffic, etc. Nope. I was relaxed and happy. I was still smiling. When I parked the car, I innocently flirted with the woman putting away her groceries in the car next to me. I'd had some texts earlier in the day from a young girl friend that lifted my spirits, and maybe I was feeling more confident, too. I don't know. I just felt a bit like my old self. Inside, I wandered through the store slowly thinking about what I might make for dinner. I spied a container of large cooked and peeled shrimp and thought that would make a nice start. I picked out some beef. I picked up two potatoes to boil for making dirty mashed potatoes. Some salad. And on the other end of the store, some very good dark chocolate with almonds.
A tall young boy, maybe six-three and twelve years old, checked me out and called me "boss." That's what all the twelve year olds call me now. "There you go, Boss." I think its funny. "Jefe" they mean. I used to hear that all the time in Mexico. But my conservative friend and I would use the word "Chief" instead to be. . . well, smarmy.
"There you go, Chief."
So I remembered, and so I was laughing as I went back to the car. The sun was getting low and bright so that the shadows were dark and deep and you had to use your hand or the sun visor when it came through the windshield.
I was listening to good music, a mix YouTube had given me from one of my newly discovered songs. This one.
You may already know it from a Quentin Tarantino movie, or so I read, a "cult classic" from 1995, a cover of the original 1964 French hit "Laisse tomber les filles." I had heard it playing over an Instagram post earlier that morning and thought to ask Siri to identify that tune, clever boy that I am. As things go, it led me down a rabbit hole of joyful material, and I was enjoying the YouTube playlist and feeling adequately hip and gleeful when my phone rang.
It was my mother.
"Where are you?" she whined.
"What?"
"I don't know where you are."
"What's wrong?'
"You aren't here and I don't have my pills."
"You don't get your pills for another three and a half hours."
"Oh. Where are you?"
You've seen the news and the video of that private jet crashing into the highway in Palm Beach, right?
Yea.
My day was done. It had been a good one, but now, I was called to duty. It was the second longest day I've had to myself this year. Man. . . it was delicious.
O.K. In my spare time, I made this. I swear to you it is 90% accurate. I just slapped this together quickly, but after seeing it, I want to make a two minute version to go with the whole song. I'll post the lyrics, too.
You know what I mean?
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
or you'll be alone in a quick
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
or you'll never get another fix
i'm telling you it's not a trick
pay attention, don't be thick
or you're liable to get licked
you're gonna see the reason why
when they're spitting in your eye
they'll be spitting in your eye
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
a girl's not a tonic or a pill
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
you're just jonesing for a spill
oh, how your bubble's gonna burst
when you meet another nurse
she'll be driving in a hearse
you're gonna need a heap of glue
when they all catch up with you
and they cut you up in two
now your ears are ringing
the birds have stopped their singing
everything is turning grey
no candy in your till
no cutie left to thrill
you're alone on a tuesday
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
or you'll be alone in a quick
hang up the chick habit
hang it up, daddy,
or you'll never get another fix
i'm telling you it's not a trick
pay attention, don't be thick
or you're liable to get licked
you're gonna see the reason why
when they're spitting in your eye
they'll be spitting in your eye
you're gonna see the reason why
when they're spitting in your eye
they'll be spitting in your eye
you're gonna see the reason why
when they're spitting in your eye
they'll be spitting in your eye
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