Blog

I put up new photos, but the three shots of yours truly were quickly zapped when it was discovered that due to the position of this coffee shop’s only free table, I would not be able to work on them without my screen facing The Public. For some reason, tweaking photos of one’s self in public seems enormously arrogant to me, so I’ve caved to whatever social phobia that falls under and deleted the whole lot. (That this reluctance is wildly at odds with my apparent willingness write about myself on a website that bears my name will certainly be pointed out in the comments section. I will fight you.)

In lieu of the deleted self portraits, I’ll toss in a couple favorites from the masquerade ball I was hired to take pictures of last night. It was a birthday party for Heather Watkins, and a night to remember. (Heather being the one person responsible for the full extent of my graphic design education) If I’m lucky, a reasonable percentage of the 1200 frames taken (over the course of four hours) will come out. (10% would be fine; though I’m expecting something closer to 7%.) To the whiners, I promise the Heather-replacements are more interesting than the shots which were dropped. One of them had made the cut only because I recently discovered a shameful lapse in my journalistic coverage of open-wound photos over the years (the only ones thusfar are of Becca’s left foot from 2006), and the others you couldn’t make out my face for all the peanut butter.

And now, two things which I learned while riding the No. 70 bus heading north along 17th and Powell.

1. Bus driving can result in chilly fingers. Our driver was wearing what I assume to be the normal TRI-MET summer gear – powder blue shirtsleeves and black pants – but both of his hands were covered with heavy woolen mittens that he had to remove at each stop to hand out tickets. Clearly, last week’s climatological deviation from cold and shitty had infected him with some crazed notion that spring was upon us. Poor bastard. All of his passengers were done up in sweaters and full rain gear and were extending politely brief but appropriately pitying glances in his direction. I think someone had donated the mittens.

2. You can – roughly – gauge our national economic health by counting the number of cars on freight trains. While our bus was waiting for one such train to pass, the guy behind me (the same guy who had almost started a fight with a new passenger over the basketball team displayed on his hat) started to explain how he had come to realize this length-to-economic-well-being ratio after working at the Portland’s northern train depot for several years. Though totally obvious, it struck me as being brilliant and I remained mutely amazed until getting off eight blocks later.

I would also like to take this opportunity to make a more public HAPPY BIRTHDAY to one reader of this blog (possibly two) in conjunction with tomorrow’s phone call and in apology for what will be a woefully delayed gift.

Good night!