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6.4.2019

The Chicago Loop

My parents took my brother and I to see a Kiss concert when we were children. It was January in New England and we stood in line for three hours in our puffy snow suits waiting for the doors to open. Our mom brought snacks and hot chocolate in a thermos. There was a crush when the doors opened as hundreds of stoned, denim-clad and half-frozen Paul Stanleys, Gene Simmonses, Ace Frehleys and (to a lesser extent) Peter Chrises surged forward, catching us up. In a biblical moment, our father, a towering man, extended his arms and bulldozed a perimeter, protecting his two confused sons and terrified wife. We scrambled through concrete tunnels and claimed some available seats just above the floor level. We spent the next hour, speechless, reverent, watching beach balls and frisbees float and glide and pot smoke waft in ribbons toward the ceiling of the civic center. Later, as we watched Kiss strutting, howling, preening, bellowing, spitting fire, blood and semen all over the stage, I was unable to fully grasp that such humans could exist. I couldn't quite believe my eyes. My brother and I stood on our chairs, screaming and squealing, all decorum lost, and took turns taking pictures with our Kodak Pocket Instamatic with a disposable flash cube on top. 

Afterwards, we piled back into the family station wagon and drove the three hours north through the frigid dark, ears ringing, back to our little house in our small town, back to dirty snowbanks and silence and school. Our photos came in the mail two weeks later, each frame revealing giant, flashed-out backs-of-heads in the foreground, nearly obscuring the pixel-width specks of color on the distant stage, a weak suggestion of what we had beheld with our own eyes. It was, at least, proof that we had been there and that it had happened.

Catch You Later, N.Y.C.

New York, B Train 2016

 You have to be thick-skinned to "make it" in New York, some say with pride. Others would argue that the line between being thick-skinned and a self-centered asshole is thin and that the key to holding on to one's integrity while living in New York is to be aware of that line and to not slip permanently over it, to the asshole side. For most natives, there is no point of reference for this phenomenon. For transplants like myself and many of my friends, it becomes clear, often around the ten year mark, that a choice must be made: get out or stay and allow yourself, your partner and your offspring to potentially become New Yorkers. Most get out- head to Jersey or other suburbs- and after sixteen years, six beyond the recommended duration, I'm getting out, too.
 I've had many days where I felt that I loved New York but as the years wore on, I found myself wondering "Is this really how I want to live... listening to some Guy honk his horn, over and over, forever?" A fair amount of my energy was allotted toward doing my best to approach the place with gentleness and a sense of humor. I did okay but for the odd violent fantasy or involuntary expletive.
It was a good thing to practice. Ultimately, though, my people are from New England and I could never suppress my joy when a New York sports team lost.
 I'm grateful I was able to experience NYC for several years, as a regular person, commuting, working, hanging out, whatever. I (mostly) enjoyed it- and I almost always had a camera of some sort with me. The new galleries on my site, called I Never Loved You and Day In, Day Out #2 are a couple of collections of snapshots from some of those years, taken mostly while on the way to or from work.
  I have respect for New Yorkers. I was there on 9/11, a new arrival- and I saw how regular folks made baskets of sandwiches to hand out to the thousands slogging over the Manhattan bridge back into Brooklyn that morning- and the surprising gentleness and kindness that would sometimes come out of nowhere. I remember a Woman slipping on the ice in midtown one morning and landing hard on her can. She was startled and started weeping, perhaps triggered by some playground humiliation from her childhood, and out of nowhere a man was at her side, resting his hand on her shoulder and speaking soothingly to her, the way a parent would speak to a frightened child.
 Generally speaking, though, New York is a pain in the ass. Most real New Yorkers know this. It's one of the reasons we (kind of)  love it.
Thanks, New York. Don't let the door hit me on the way out!
Click the photo to go to the gallery.

                                                         

The Irony of Optimism

Hudson Valley, NY Aug. '16 

What a nice perspective, given the circumstances. Thank you, whoever you were. Life is but a dream.  

An Ungrateful Turtle

I often find it difficult to convey my intentions to snapping turtles. I happened upon this guy, who I'll call "Gene" on my bike ride yesterday. I like the "same shit, different day" expression on his face. Gene was apparently on his way somewhere when I found him in the road. But where? I was curious- but not so curious as to spend the next twelve hours following him to find out. I tried to help him along, first by speaking soothingly to him while making "move along" gestures with my arms, then, by prodding him (mostly) gently with a stick, which he attacked. Good luck, Gene.