photography

I used to be a photographer--a real one, one who had three Nikons around his neck--all containing real film--and each with a different focal length lens on it. I shot a lot of film, and developed and printed it too. I have boxes full right now, stored in our attic where--this winter for sure!--I'll sort them out, scan the best and Photoshop them for eternity.

Back when I was beginning, in the Fifties and Sixties, my heroes were the Great Ones: guys named W. Eugene Smith, Bruce Davidson, Eisenstadt, etc.

These guys lived with 35mm cameras, and they shot Real Life without filters. I emulated them and discovered that I too was a good photojournalist.

But by that time, there seemed to be no demand for real photojournalism, that which could capture and depict real life.

My first boss in NYC, Bobbie Ashley, at This Week Magazine, for instance. She lectured me about being a photographer, because to her photographers were small guys named Marty who tried to get sneaky shots of celebrities--the guys who later became papparazzi. Bobbie was a sweetheart but she seemed to have no room in her life for my kind of photography. Neither did anyone else, as I discovered.

I made the baby-spy photo above in about 1964, soon after my oldest daughter, Deborah, was born in Brooklyn.

NARROW escape!

I love this that I found this morning...


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That should gif a great start on your day!

And here's another one, related...in a way.

2, no 3, dolphins:


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Jealousy

This must have occurred in the 10th or 11th grade high school. It came back to me today.
I had a small motorbike, an English James, that could barely hit 45 mph, and I loved it. Often would go out for rides just to enjoy the feeling.
And I was in Verian Chaney's drama group — which my mother had signed me up for because I was too shy to talk to girls. One day Ms. Chaney ordered spontaneous acting: we were divided into groups and given an assignment to act out. I was with Ed Turner and his then-girlfriend, and an older girl who was fulsomely built... stacked like an outhouse, as we almost said. She was a year older than me, but went along with the stunt with good humor.
Ed designed the skit: we were two couples in a car parked on a dirt road somewhere. I was in the "back seat" with, let's call her Patsy, she of the impressive build. Ed and his girl were in the "front seat". They pretended to be smooching. Patsy snuggled against me and put my arm around her shoulders.
Blushing, I stared at the ceiling of the auditorium and said, "Hey, there's the Big Dipper....and...and...the North Star," and grew increasingly embarrassed as Patsy snuggled more insistently and Ed and his girl made loud smooching noises.
When Ms. Chaney finally released us, I went outdoors to ride my 'cycle home and discovered it gone.
Patsy's boyfriend Charlie — also a year older and much larger — had taken it for a joyride.
My Dad drove me around until we found the 'cycle, abandoned in the middle of a suburban street, the motor smoking because I'd had it locked in first gear and he drove it til it froze up.
Dad insisted we go talk to Charlie's father. I resisted but he insisted. At the front door, the man said hello, didn't invite us in, and said we had no proof that his son was involved. We retreated.
It cost a few bucks to get the 'cycle repaired, and I made a point after that of not befriending girls who already had boyfriends.

Work or Something Like It, part four

My first job out of undergrad college was in the public relations department of Gulf Coast Utilities, Co. Located in Beaumont, Texas. I moved there and got a $75/month apartment, and soon added an air conditioner, which got 24/7 use in that humid climate.

At first my job involved writing press releases that the local newspapers had to run because of the importance of the utilities co. to their existence. After about a year, the guy who was editing the company monthly magazine (i.e. "house organ") left to edit a weekly newspaper out West--that was nearly every journalist's dream in the Forties/Fifties, not mine, though. So I became editor. I had 32 pages to play with every month! Sheer bliss.

I taught myself photography and drawing, and did cartoons and photographs and wrote meaningful editorials and still what came out was mostly crap because it was a "house organ". I doubt if many employees actually read it. But I was having fun.

And I had a deep crush on a girl who worked in the same office, but I won't talk about that right now, because she was married.

Anyway, after a few years I got the mad idea that perhaps, because I was a photographer and a writer (I had sold a short story to a science fiction magazine and finished a novel and started another one), I should go to work in NYC for LOOk or LIFE magazine.

Work or Something Like It, part three

I'm working again, after years of carefree, free-lance life. And I'm actually working in journalism, having made that my degree pursuit, both in undergrad and post-grad work.

I'm copy editor at the Martha's Vineyard Times, a tabloid-sized weekly on Martha's Vineyard. It's the second weekly, the first being the venerable Gazette, which tried to follow in the tradition of Country Editor Henry Beetle Hough. A friend this last week characterized the Gazette as being for a different (higher) class of folks than the Times. The Times is delivered free to every post office box on the Vineyard, whereas the Gazette depends on subscriptions for its circulation.

It's interesting work and fun, although I'm drinking way too much coffee.

Last night, two friends-who-fish and their wives took me and my wife out on a picnic with fishing rods. Bill Moody loaned me a spinning rod 'n reel and a nice lure, and taught me how to cast my hopes out into the waves from South Beach. No bites from blues or bass, but it was fun nevertheless. Next step is probably to buy my own gear.

FIrst Job in Oklahoma

(I almost cannot believe it's been MONTHS since I last entered here; wouldn't blame anyone for not dropping by if that's the best I can seem to do. Well, I'll TRY to do better, that's all!)

I was 11 or 12, riding a bicycle and in the summer, one of my uncles asked if I wanted a job in his little grocery store. Sure. I could earn $1 AN HOUR!

His grocery store was in a poorer section of town, older residents, not much activity. His store didn't have many active customers either, so he tried to thrive by taking orders on the phone and having me deliver. Sometimes, if he didn't have an item, I'd bike a few blocks to the bigger supermarket, buy it there and then he'd tack on an extra charge when I delivered it to the customer. If I helped myself to a soda pop from his box, he'd charge me for it (I don't/didn't blame him for that.)

One day he was cleaning behind the counter and using ammonia and offered me a sniff, which I took. Damn near took off the top of my head.

Anyway, there wasn't much business and he couldn't afford to keep me on. I think he sold out a while later.

Skip to many years later, a few years ago: he was dying of Parkinson's. In a hospital bed, and I went to visit; his wife and her twin sister were there too. He had been getting by with medicines, but now they had let him down. I didn't stay long, and when I got up to leave, he beckoned me over to his bedside, looked me in the eye and started to talk. I couldn't understand a word. Totally embarrassing, so I smiled and patted his head and said something, probably equally unintelligible, and left. Never saw him again, because he died a while later.

Mortality and disease suck. Nobody told me that would be what Life was about when I started, or I would (I think) have paid a lot more attention to EVERYTHING!

The World as I see It

Everyone sees the world in her or his own way, from within her own particularity. So I make no apologies if my way of seeing the world differs in small or large ways from your insights--to use a well-worn phrase: it is what it is.

Weltanschauung, the Germanic phrase that defines it.

So if you have two witnesses for an event, you could easily get two different narratives about what happened. I can guarantee I would tell you a different story than what someone else would say.

For one thing, I'm contrary. When people try to suck me into a political discussion I can always easily assume the role of the opposition--if you speak Tea Party, I'll speak up for the liberal side of each issue. And vice versa. To me, both extremes are equally ridiculous in that both pretend that the other can't be a real person, cannot have a valid point of view. Is it possible that both sides can be equally right and wrong?

For the most part I use protective coloration. Like that chameleon, I can pretend to agree with you on most any issue. I just want to be quiet and agreeable because I've never won an argument because I'm not a true believer.

I do believe in a few things that few others do: that God exists and is all good and is love and will take care of me and those I love.

DIsney World!

My hope for years was to visit Disney WOrld. I read stories about the different venues.
When I really wanted to do was when Disney Animation was stationed there--if I went I could watch real animators do their thing. But now it's not there anymore.

But I still wanted to visit. And this Spring, while vacationing in Florida, it became possible for a 1-day visit. My dear wife Penny made my dream come true. (more later on this)

We drove to Orlando and entered the grounds--4 or 5 lanes of traffic going through gates where we paid $14. Then funneled into gigantic parking lots, we found our spot. Next we walked to admission gates where we stood in line for almost an hour, and finally paid $80 each (no discount for seniors). Then we took a ferry ride to the Magic Kingdom which was our destination for the day--I'd chosen it over the other offerings as having the most bang for the buck.

Finally we walked into the Kingdom. Noise and lots of kids--thousands of them. Dazzled, we walked along the historic reconstruction of an Early American small town. Then we saw the Castle and that focused our walk. We stopped a couple times along the way to see things and then were caught up in a Parade. Friends had told us not to miss the parades.

And it was fun and noisy. The song was something about Celebration--let's celebrate ourselves for all we are and do. A Feel Good song. And it was so upbeat, and the performers who sang and danced as if there were no tomorrow, really sold the idea. By the end, I had tears in my eyes from the sheer enjoyment of the event.

We went through two other parades, with different casts and characters but essentially the same message. In the last one were Mickey and Donald. I had worn a T-shirt with art of Donald on the front and this message: "Donald Duck has had the same fowl attitude since 1934", the year he was "born". I so wanted to dance with the Disney Donald and Penny finally got a photo of the two of us together, though all the action was so frenetic that it was tough.

Here we are:

Weather here

Penny, River (our dog) and I drove down to Nokomis, FL and arrived a week ago Tuesday, at a rental house provided for us by the same fellow who built our home on Martha's Vineyard.

Generally, the weather here is warmer than in Mass and NJ, but still gets cool enough that we are grateful for the forced air heating system in this very small cottage, as well as the gas fireplace.

The best thing is being 25 feet from a canal; our house has its own dock. Across the canal and on our side as well are small boats tied up. We can sit with our morning tea on the dock and watch fish swim by and cormorants and other water birds taking smaller fish for food. Plus, a pelican flies by every morning.

A few miles down the highway is a Dog Beach, provided by the town. We went there today and found many other dog owners and their pets having a grand time. We flung tennis balls for River and he enjoyed the entire scene. People along the edge of the water were seeking and finding shark's teeth. One woman showed us her catch; she had tiny black teeth from prehistoric sharks.

And we've found some friends from NJ who moved down here. Next week we're going to Disney World, a longtime hope for me. Penny feels she can enjoy it too.

Me, a Hero?

Many nights when I can't sleep, I run through a mental list of all my missteps, failures, stupid things I did. I know it's not healthy and so I hope to remember some good moments--and just the other day I did. The one time in my life when I acted as a hero and got a hero's reward.

It happened while I was at Oklahoma University, in a fraternity, Sigma Chi. One night a group of us gathered around the one TV set to watch the Dave Garroway Tonight show... and it focused on Mardi Gras, which was just getting started in New Orleans. Trumpeter Al Hirt celebrated the moment and four of us got inspired. We jumped into my '56 Chevy and headed South. It was an all night drive and we arrived at the Sigma Chi house in New Orleans, where we were assigned an empty room with mattresses on the floor. We slept until noon, then headed out to see the town.

By nightime we had already drunk a Hurricane or two and were enjoying the various jazz spots. Then, ahead, I saw this: two young women were hurrying along the street being followed and harassed by young males.

Without thinking, I quickly stepped up beside one of the women and said something like, "Hi, you waiting for me?" (Exact wording lost in the mists but the impression I hoped to create for benefit of the harassers was that I was her date.)

Gratefully she eyeballed me and grabbed my arm and together we walked. My girl teamed her friend up with another one of my frat bros and we spent the evening together, having a wonderful time. I wonder if I said anything the whole time I felt so fortunate to have such a pretty girl for a date. They were schoolteachers from somewhere, thus a few years older.

I had gained the gratitude of an "older woman" and she showed it later.

Ah, for the life of a hero. Pity that the lesson didn't stick enough to fix all my future opportunities for heroism.

The Working Life, part 2

The Columbia Journalism School was a joy in many ways. I loved the sense of professionalism, of getting assignments and jumping on the subway and interviewing people on the phone, etc. By the end of the academic year I felt like a "New Yorker" from my knowledge of the subway system.

We rode the trains with a NYTimes, folded in the correct way for reading. We were supposed to read every thing in it, but that was far too confusing, so I glanced over a lot of it. I did notice at the time that the Times definitely had a liberal slant, but that was mostly noticable in the editorials, not in the news columns. And it seemed right to have a liberal flavor, since we'd just elected JFK as President.

During the year, however, my wife and I separated. I became deeply depressed and probably my schoolwork suffered. But I was graduated with honors. Just before graduation I got a job offer, from This Week Magazine. It was a Sunday supplement that appeared in NYC as part of the Herald Tribune, which had begun a very interesting new life, trying to be interesting without being tabloidy. Intellectually interesting. Writers like Tom Wolfe and Jimmy Breslin helped make it seem so, launching a New Journalism style of more personalized stories. Our school was on the cusp of this development--still preaching the old style of reportage but allowing newer ideas to seep in.

Anyway, despite the urging of my faculty advisor, Penn Kimball, to pass on the job offer, I took it because I was underfunded and felt financially desperate.

First thing I had to do, an order from Photo Editor Roberta Ashley, was go to the top men's clothing store and get some new clothes. My Texas wardrobe looked too much hayseed for a New York publisher. So I did: got a new gray suit and wore it for years, til I lost it in a bag after a baseball game.

After I took the job, my girlfriend and I moved to an apartment far out in Brooklyn, closer to Coney Island than the City, and I had a 45-minute commute by train each morning.

And, after I took the job, the Newspaper Guild called a major strike against the newspapers, and the Herald Trib no longer appeared on newstands. I had a call about taking a position with LIFE mag, which was going to put out a substitute newspaper, but I (kick self) turned it down. I thought I was settled, comfy, nice lunches with photographers, etc. But what happened was that NYC ad agencies, not seeing This Week any more, stopped placing ads in the mag. Income suffered, and I, as last hired, was first to be fired, just before our first child was born.

(I now realize I wrote about this last year...O well...)

So, I jumped to Time-Life Books, hoping to land a writing job but got stuck as a Researcher/Reporter. At same salary I made at This Week. So...new baby, new expenses, same available funds. In the week that JFK was assassinated.

The Working Life

My first real job was after college--Oklahoma University, 1957. I had a BA degree in Journalism, had worked on the school daily newspaper, had not given any real thought to what would come "after".

Hurriedly, in the few months before graduation, I tried to find work, but I really didn't have any idea what to do with myself. Knew I had to earn money, be on my own. Plastics was not an option (reference to movie The Graduate).

I bundled together some clippings from the newspaper: very few serious articles, mostly satire and humor columns I'd done to amuse myself. I didn't really have anything to offer. In fact, some of my work on the paper that year had been suicidally stupid. For instance, I'd headlined a story about the Oklahoma Governor's visit to Hawaii: "Governor Gets Kissed, Lei'd." Not smart in a school that depended for its very life on the politicians a few miles down the road. I had no references from faculty. Hadn't done particularly well academically.

So, to help me, when firms came recruiting, I was given newspaper assignments that got me frontpage bylines. One interviewer, from Gulf States Utilities, was interested and invited me to interview, at which I showed my ignorance by my assumption that they were Gulf Oil, and mentioned my dad's longterm employment by Phillips Petroleum. They forgave me, though, because I had a front page byline that day.

I flew down for an interview in Beaumont, Texas. They hired me and I moved down a week after graduation. Again, I had no longterm plan, just figured I'd work there for awhile and then...and then...

Fortunately I fit in fairly well with the small group in the public relations department. I wrote dull press releases that got used because GSU had a sweetheart deal with the local morning and evening newspapers. But somehow, ambition grew inside me and I started working harder, taught myself photography, took the Famous Artists Course in Illustration and Cartooning, and was finally given the editorship of the monthly magazine published for employees. This was a "house organ" because its only purpose was to enhance the company and keep employees relatively pleased with their lot.

And I sold a short story to a science fiction magazine and thought that made me a professional writer.

In some ways it was possibly the best job I ever had, before or after. I had almost complete control on all editorial material, could do stories and illustrations my own way, and I had enough good sense to play the corporate game. It was intoxicating, seeing my own words in print month after month.

And then ambition grew faster. I started imagining that I was good, a good writer, a good photographer. I read LIFE and LOOK magazines, and tried in my own publication to imitate their styles, imagined that perhaps that was my destiny, to be a photojournalist for the big time.

I set my sights on New York City, and Columbia University's Graduate School of Journalism. I figured that, in the words of the song I hadn't heard yet, that if I could make it there I could make it anywhere.

I applied and was rejected because I didn't have the tuition. I got married and applied again, telling them my wife could work to support me and help pay tuition. They let me in.

The rest was downhill, with some bumps that made me think I was going in the opposite direction.

Activity

Many activities are metaphors for other activities.
Book building, for example, is a metaphor for building something else--a house, a boat, a relationship.
Similar things happen.
First we need a plan: an actual blueprint or an outline.
We test the strength of supports in each--can this foundation support the dwelling above it? Can what occurs in the first pages of the book support the conclusion?
And so on.

Excessive Sleepiness

I've been a sleepin-in guy since at least college when I didn't dare sign up for an 8 a.m. class because I'd miss it too often.
I think some of that oversleeping may have been because of watching too much b&w television, though.
And when post-grad I got a job that required me to be at work by 8, I got there, despite watching too much tv/
Now, in forced retirement, living in a new home in a new community, this is my daily routine:
wake between 5 & 6. Exercise a bit. Eat a bowl of cereal while reading online comix... and then, nap. After the nap I wake feeling refreshed especially if there's sunshine.
But why the nap? It's a precious time for me, because by 7:30 my head is buzzing with sleepiness.
This morning I had to be careful going downstairs from the office to the bedroom because I was worried I'd fall asleep in mid-step.

liberal/conservative hate

OK; the hatred issue. Time to put it down.

Liberals are currently acting as if hatred against a sitting president is brand new. They thought they had a Teflon president, but apparently he's not.

The way liberals hated Richard Nixon and George W. Bush helped set the standard for presidential hatred, and now they're reaping the benefits of what they accomplished.

Not that the Republicans are innocent--they're not. But don't pretend there isn't a history here as complex and long-standing as any feud.

Where did it begin? With Lincoln? No, before that even.

And each generation of haters produces the next, each more dedicated than the previous one to roiling the waters, playing havoc with civil peace, challenging the Constitution by stretching "freedom of speech" to its utmost.

As long as people believe that hatred is a positive force, this will go on.

We should teach in schools this truth, as a poet or philosopher has said: "Hatred is a poison that a person consumes in the hope that it will hurt someone else."

Hatred always turns on the hater, and the only defense is to stop hating.