Lufkin Day

Beverage: Patron margarita

Toast: Kurth Kids Can!

I got up this morning and drove the five hours to Lufkin TX. According to Wikipedia, Lufkin is "deep in the heart of East Texas". The drive was long enough to be sure, but there was pretty much nothing to see on the way. There was a BBQ joint that had a smoker in the shape of a giant revolver. Smoke came out the barrel. I might have to go on the way back.

But I knuckled down and made the trip. Here was my chance to be the King of Lufkin: they love Kurths there and here I was. First chance for glory: checking into the hotel. I arrived at the place and stepped into the lobby. I beamed at the girl and handed her my ID expectantly. She runs it through the machine and there is pause. And then.... Nothing. No hail to King Kurth. Just... Nothing.

She creates the key wordlessly and gives me the keys. Hurm. I cover the pain with a brave smile and retreat to the room.

Time to get my gear in order before the afternoon light sets in. I switch the battery out on the D40 and then flip it on. Oopsies: I gave Matt the SD card in Maine back in July and never replaced it. I find a Target on the way to my rest stop and head out. Target in Lufkin is like WalMart in Texas. Oh the humanity. I buy a card and struggle to get it out go the pack. I finally do but the camera doesn't like it, so I'm screwed. Off to the first stop: Kurth Primary School.

This is the one I was worried about. A single guy taking photos at an elementary school raises eyebrows these days, so I was glad to find the place empty.

 

Next stop: Kurth Library.

It's only a few miles away so here I am. At first, the place looks abandoned, so I'm happy. But then I see a lone guy hanging around. Hmm. It's closed and a hundred degrees out: what is he doing there? I set about to shooting the outside sign and then head over to the main entrance.

Five or ten snaps and he's on me. What am I doing? I explain briefly and we chat about the building. We go back and forth a bit. He's an out-of-work electrical contractor who grew up in Lukin. The more we talk, the weirder he gets and the more I want to scram. By the time he's talking about the doom of Lufkin, I'm hiking it across the empty parking lot and waving a hurried greeting back to the gentleman.

I loop around to the the other side of the building to see if there is another opening with a sign. Just a loading dock. So I type my next destination into the GPS. Back around to the front and I see the contractor talking to a young woman. They see my mustang and stop talking and watch me wordlessly, they turn their heads following me own the street.

It's a little unsettling and plants a seed within me.

 

 

Next: trouble on Martin Luther King blvd.

 

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el Oro Bastardo

Beverage: Chardonnay spritzer

Toast: to free time and free minds

I have been a crabby bastard lately. I've had some physical complains- like a sore back, but I think that comes from the work stress that's at the root of my ill humor.

One of my colleagues gently teased me about my abrupt attitude after a recent project meeting. I didn't know who amongst a group of five people could make a decision so I said something like "ok, marketing- can you decide this?" Innocently intended, but from a crabby guy it might have come out cold. I know these people after all.

Point taken.

This was earlier in the week. We were chatting on Instant Message today and she made a joke about the matter again. Of course I expressed how I hoped no one had taken it negatively. Her response was to send me an animated gif of my head in a Mexican wrestling mask bouncing around.

What what?

Joel bought me a wrestling mask at a gas station in Detroit a few years ago. I wore it for Halloween in the California field office. My wrestling name was el Oro Bastardo: the Gold Bastard. Someone there smartly took a photo of that bastard. It has come back to haunt me a number of times since. The dancing head gif being the latest.

Today I laughed it off. It helped me take a step backward up and out of the stress. There's no profit in fighting or being a cranky bastard. Now it's time to try a beat the dog days heat with a light drink and prepare for the weekend.

 

 

 

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Filler

Beverage: cold Tom Yum soup. Bleagh!

Toast: know when to fold 'em

I was reading a book as a youth one time and got to wondering why there were like three blank pages at the beginning before the real book even started. I figured it was wasteful and frankly I was irritated at all that pointless page-turning.

So I asked my father about it. What's with these extra pages? He said, son every fool knows that all books have a total number of pages divisible by four. This was clearly a mad lie told for some inexplicable reason. Two pages I could understand but four made no sense. "If you don't believe me sport" my father said "why don't you count one yourself and see?" Then he ambled off leaving me staring at a mystery that could only be solved by more fruitless page-turning. I licked my finger and started in.

That takes me to this, or something like it.

This is filler and it's taking up a lot of time lately.

Filler is the publisher of a book adding content to meet some constraint or requirement. Like adding three blank pages to get to four. Except that in some contracts these days the sets comes in groups of eight or even twelve. Yes.

Thornier is content filler. This is commonly caused because you want to keep things together or apart. There is a war between the needs of the book and the cost of the paper. Each small change can save or cost millions of dollars.

But of course we've looked at all of this before and did all we could think of then. Now its done and the task is even harder.

So, I read through competitor's books and try once again to solve the mystery of the fruitless turning pages.

P.s: do not drink cold Tom Yom soup.

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Hobo Sign: the Sucker

Beverage: green tea

Toast: to your health, sir

This is the sign of the sucker- the easy mark. The person in the house marked with this glyph is a fool for the taking.

Most of the hobo signs have a gentle, almost quaint vibe. Look out for the mean ole' dog! Hey! That feller is a policeman! This one is a little more sinister message. And is it me, or is this thing kind of phallic?

I guess calling them hobos or highway is a little romantic as well. These are homeless people we're talking about after all. There was a funny piece on the news last night. The gist was that they built a park and walking trail along a river and now they are noticing a lot of homeless people nearby. Of course there are shocking tales of public urination and lots of What about the children!!? Some woman is leading a crusade or something.

Cut to a hobo who went by the name of Drummer or something. "It's a disgrace!" Drummer declared to the camera. "They built this trail and now all these people are around all the time! Listen, I don't like most people, and I certainly don't like you" he declared affably. "But I've been here for years and I have no intention of going anywhere. So build yer trails somewhere else!" Big smile and a wave.

Drummer was clearly the winner of the congeniality prize and stole the show from the offended crusader.

 

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Chucks

Beverage: same as yesterday

Toast: to old shoes!

 

I bought these at DSW in South Windsor. I remember thinking long and hard before buying them. Did I want to be the guy in these shoes? They seemed childish. Plus, with feet my size sometimes shoes look a lot different on. These seemed clownish, and I didn't want to be that.

But at length, Beth sauntered by and said something like "Oh. Buy those." So I did. Sometimes i think I should hire Beth to walk around behind me telling me what to do.

It took a while to warm up to them but now I even wear them to work on Fridays occasionally. It's funny: but the shoes you are wearing definitely affects your mood and mindset. I remember in school when I was a punk rocker type I had these old draggy engineer boots with a broken buckle. They clang-dragged when I walked and it gave me a feeling of menace that I enjoyed a little too much.

One semester when I was cartooning for the paper I had to go deliver some political comics. It was the first day back from break and unbeknownst to me, the whole newspaper staff was having a big meeting. Here I come clang-dragging my leather jacketed long haired self down the stairs to the bullpen. The whole place was a tomb, everybody staring at me. Big open space and

Clang..... Drag.

Clang..... Drag.

It must have taken 7 seconds to cross the room to the advisor and drop my stuff but it seemed like seven minutes. The advisor liked me because I was the only political cartoonist they had and he was all grins, stifling a laugh at the discord between grungy me and the bright-faced newsies all put out that their meeting was disturbed. I grinned at him and then snarled back at the young journalists. He was the only one who knew I was harmless.

Personally, I blame the shoes.

 

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No Bread Sammich

Beverage: back to the Diet Dr Pepper

Toast: hard work is good work

In a recent post I referenced Nutella. I had never had it before a few weeks ago. Maybe you hadn't either. So, I thought I'd take some quick snaps.

Now, they say Nutella is a hazelnut spread with a light mocha touch.

That's a lie.

This stuff is chocolate sauce. It isn't super-sweet, though so it's more pleasant than a pure desert topping. I didn't look at the back of the label, but I don't think it's too good for you,

The point of this post though, is less about the delicious bread spread that I have eaten half without actually making a sandwich, and more about a thing I noticed in the process today.

When I shoot some of these, I'm usually letting the shots go where it seems interesting. But their use is usually in the back of my mind. Typically with the macro stuff, I want to get an establishing shot as well. You can't just plunge into the micro details without taking the reader in with you. I also choose the shots based on how they go together. I don't always end up with the 'best' one, which is surprising to me sometimes. It could be interesting, but if it doesn't support the story or work with the others it has to go. Maybe I'll push it out to Flickr like some of the dead flowers.

I also invent rules for editing the snaps down. The rules are different each time, but it helps me to delete the dozens that go away each time. This item must be in focus. Need to have some green. The fire must be more interesting than the bill. Things like that. I go through a couple rounds of deletes.

I don't suppose this is mind-blowingly revealing or unique. I just noticed it as I was going by. It's interesting to be committed to a regular project.

Speaking of going by, I gotta find some real food. I can't eat fried chicken and Nutella tonight. Although, a Nutella mole sounds ok...I'm off!

 

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Weak Weekend

Beverage: diet Dr Pepper

Toast: let's get stupid

 

I think this chicken made me a li'l sick. It was certainly awkward purchasing it. The conversation went like this:

Me: yes, I'd like a number 2 with a diet dr pepper, breast meat and a biscuit.

Kid: .......what?

Me: a number 2.

Kid: ...yeah...what you want?

Me: uh- a biscuit.

Kid: size?

Here I think at first he means the size of biscuit, but then I think he must mean size of drink, which is confusing because it only comes in one size. But I stick with it.

Me (confidently): medium.

Kid: uh. yeeeeah. Size?

Me (now realizing he said sides not size before): oh. A biscuit.

Kid: it comes with a biscuit. Side?

Me: uhhhhh.. Cole slaw?

Kid (rolling his eyes over the speaker): yeah.

Then I pull around and wait forever. He finally comes to the window his hands full of drink, straw and box. I have money in my hand and neither of us can give each other anything. It's the embarrassing conclusion to a ridiculous exchange. I take the chicken and retreat in haste. Now I feel gross and stupid.

 

 

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Outlaw Country

Beverage: Bookers Bourbon

Toast: your gonna get yours

There's an old Public Enemy song Joel and I used to like called Your Gonna Get Yours. It's about how great his car is. Now, Public Enemy isn't known for frivolous ditties about fast cars. They are serious-minded political black men. But they were moved enough about their Oldsmobile that they sang this one. Must have been some car. The lyric I always like is:

Out that window middle finger for all

So, I'm driving home and I can't bear the idea of going back to the apartment. There is too much of my life there. I feel about like Chuck D and his universal gesture. I'm on the fence about it though until I flip the dial over to the Outlaw Country station on the radio. This is a station of music like the album by that name we had when we were kids. The DJ is even a musician I used to like a little in college.

They are playing this song. Songs sound different in the car than other places, so I take the first exit I see and head south. There's a scuzzy old section of town outside the city and I remember a liquor store there from when I used to come here as a trainer. Those days seem like a long time ago, and as I tick off the years on my finger, it was.

I buy Bookers.

This is expensive stuff; I think I've bought it half a dozen times. And it's strong. I drink it on ice. I usually pour a glass over ice and leave it alone for a while. When the ice cracks and I hear that pop, I'll pick it up for a sip.

Each kind of alcohol has its particular effects. Maybe it's the impurities, I don't know. But tequila is different from wine in ways other than the alcohol content. There is an aspect or personality to each. Bookers has a unique personality. It's different from Makers Mark or Knob Creek, certainly different from Jim Beam. More adult, somehow more honest.

And pitiless.

I think that's what I like best: la belle dame sans merci.

Bottoms up.

 

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Fortune Favors the Bored

Beverage: I guess I should go buy champagne

Toast: to the high life!

There is no food in my house, so I went to eat what was around for dinner. First course: a fortune cookie from last night. Delish!

And my fortune? For those of you with cataracts, it says "Keep up the good work. You soon will be rewarded financially."

This is obviously stupendous news. I have been working hard. So the cookie is likely right about the other part, too. Time to start living the good life!

And what's fancier than lighting cigars with money? Not lighting the cigars! Just pointlessly burning the money anyway.

Well, I might have done it to take snaps of. I'm not that fancy. Then it was back to Dinner of the Scavengers. Second course was a spoonful of peanut butter dipped in Nutella. So I guess I am a little fancy, Fortune, here I come!

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Retail Therapy

Beverage: diet coke from the Chinese place

Toast: respectful silence

I was crabby pretty much all day. It started off with a series of needless lectures over email. You'd ask someone a question and instead of answering it they explain a bunch of stuff you already know in a snotty tone and never get to the first question. I got like three of these in a row with strangers being douchey.

Usually I take things like the puff adder in the old Monrovian story: de man he step on the adders back. De adder he say: oh! Dat man he does not mean to step on me, I will let him go. De man step on the adder's tail. Dat adder say: oh, dat man! He makes a mistake, I will not bite him. But de man step on de adder's nose! De adder he say: DAT MAN! He make fun of my nose it is so short! I will BITE him one time!

By ten they were stepping on my nose and I had to step away before I wrote emails I'd regret.

By eleven I was feeling weird physically and left the building for a while. This is uncharacteristic. I typically work all day and through lunch. I have left the building in the day perhaps five times since coming here.

I found myself at Best Buy and I bought this watch. It's called a Pebble.

The idea is, it pairs via Bluetooth to your phone. Then you get a text or call, and the watch shows you the alert. So instead of staring at your phone rudely around people, you can glance at your watch and decide what to do.

The other part that's sort of fun is that you can design your own watch faces and create apps for it. I made one with the Ramones logo for instance.

But even this didn't make me feel better. Because now I had shopped through lunch, which I didn't realize until later. Sometimes you step on your own nose I guess.

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Dead Flowers

Beverage: ice water

Toast: here's to trying

These are shot with a Nikon 60mm macro lens. It's the same one that has been on my camera throughout the blog. Some of the early posts I was using a cell phone camera, but since then it's mostly been the same lens throughout.

I've had trouble with it before for macro because the short length often had me in my own light as I was trying to work closer. My solution for that has been to raise the ambient level. Translation: shoot outside. I move things out on the deck. Shots like these it's afternoon light and I'm in the shade. The lens goes down to around f3 though, so I have a lot of room. But I like that soft stuff these days so I'm enjoying what I get. I'm also amused by letting things get high key.

I had left these flowers on the counter when I went to Maine. You may have seen them here. I came back and they were doornails, as I had planned.

Dead flowers always remind me of the old Stones song. My old pal Johnny taught me to play it on the guitar and I would struggle along with it while he sang and played lead. I usually had to sing the chords in my head to keep it straight. Well (D) when you're sitting there (A) in your (G) silk upholstered (D) chair. But eventually you can just D-A-G along and it feels really good.

I like that when you're strumming the guitar, your brain kind of calms down. Java was harassing me to get the old thing out. Maybe I will. But right now I've got flowers to clean up. And I d-d-d-d-d- a-a-a-a-geeee.

 

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Sympathy Beard

Beverage: cold beer

Toast: to fellowship!

I got in the other night and didn't feel like doing much. It got to be Sunday and was scratching my neck in the bathroom mirror, deciding what to do. You can't go a week without shaving and expect to do it in the morning and get to work on time. If I was to shave, it had to be Sunday.

I ran the water and got out my trimmer. It was the one that a couple days earlier I had used on my father. I looked at the trimmer and back to the mirror. Fuck this, I said. I trimmed up my head and under my neck but left the beard. Then I switched to a razor and worked the jaw line and cleaned up my noggin.

I scrutinized my work. It was very tempting to clean up the cheeks or to thin out the mustache. Once again I told myself to stop being a baby and let that sucker grow.

 

The summer of my senior year in HighSchool I worked at a camp for sad, rich boys. About halfway through the season, nearly all of counselor decided to engage in a beard-growing contest. It was awesome. Beards of all sizes and stripes. Each beard was like its owner. Some sturdy and workmanlike. Others fanciful and full of longing.

In a couple cases, the studliest jocks in the camp grew the wimpiest threadbare beards. How we laughed at them. There were many opinions offered about how to best grow beards. Everyone would offer the poor beardless men advice as to the diet and exercise routines that were most conducive to facial growth. But good beard or bad, we were in it together and that part felt great.

At the end of summer we wrote a song about it to the tune of Over There:

Facial hair! Facial hair!

Looking tough! Beardy scruff! Facial Hair!

Cuz the beards are growing, but Doug's ain't showing-

He can't grow it anywhere!

We sang it with gusto. Even Greg.

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On the pipe

Drink: Bloody Mary

Toast: Safe travels

I got a groin-area pat down going through security at Bangor International Airport.

I think it was because of the Bloody Mary I had beforehand. I had been going back and forth with Beth about how early to get to the airport. She was of the opinion that there was nothing to do in the tiny facility. I told her you could always enjoy a per-flight cocktail. So, to make my point I went to the small lounge in the airport after checking in. I was the only one there of course, but I bellied up to the bar and ordered the breakfast beverage.

It was not delicious. The glass was awkward, kind of like a squat hurricane glass that didn't hold the ice well. I tried drinking through the tiny stirring straws, but that failed, so I put the glass to my lips. The surface tension on the ice in the bell of the glass broke once I passed a certain angle, and the bulk of the drink came shooting forward at me.

I tipped back, but the damage had been done: spilled drink on jeans.

I don't think of it again until I go through security. It's one of those full-body X-ray deals. I empty my pockets, assume the pose and uh-oh, better try again. The guy tells me to hike up my pants tight and try again. Same results. So it's off to the private pat-down room.

My mind went back to a time we were going through security in Portland and I told the TSA guy I thought his policy explanation was "bullshit". That went like you would have expected. This time I bit my tongue and went along with it docilely.

I'm not going to write some hack piece about the diminishment of our civil liberties, but dang. Have you seen the photos those X-rays take of you? Now this? I keep swearing to take the train next time, but that's too long and just as expensive.

Some day I'd like to do it though. It would be nice to see more of America from ground level. Take a slower look at things going by.

 

 

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