Holly Northrop Blog

Three shots of morphine later I asked for the Percocet well before any of the morphine had even begun to wear off. All I said was that I was crampy and they offered it up. Who am I to refuse? It was such an automatic response. Do you want a Percocet? Why yes, thank you. Do you want some air to breathe? But of course. In my head, it's that easy no matter how wasted I already am.

It didn't matter that I couldn't feel the leg things they put on you after surgery. I didn't even know they were there until an hour later when I noticed that my legs were sweating and I pulled back the sheets to see why.

"Wow, what's on my legs?" I managed to slur out of my mouth.
"Those are those compression stockings they put on you so you don't get blood clots." Martha sighed.
"I'm hot, take them off." I said sounding like a fussy five year old.
"You're a junkie, I swear to god. Why don't you sit up, you look ashen. Let's TRY to get it together so we can go. I want to go home." Martha pressed.

Even though I was moving at a snails pace, I did understand her point. We had been at the hospital for four hours, the last three of which I had been happily fucked up, Martha, not so much. I just had trouble getting my body to work. I barely remember her dragging me down the hall. I sort of remember waving at the nurses station. I have a vague memory of waiting in front of the hospital for her to pull the car around and I think it was raining but after that...

Some clarification is needed here. I am not a junkie, nor am I a drug seeker, as they are sometimes called. I do not loiter around the hospital waiting for a chance to be fucked up. I look at it this way. I am not going to pass up the opportunity for a good buzz and I mean really, if someone is going to scrape my uterus then the least they can do is fuck me up for the day. Right? I didn't get a drug doggie bag so really, all I had was what I could eat there.

The new calendar is here!!! It's supercool, on different glossy stock and $50.00 bucks a pop BUT here is the deal. If you break it down, wait let me get the Sharp Solar Powered Calculator...

Okay, if you break it down $50.00 ÷ 13 (that is right folks 13 months not just 12 but 13!). Where was I? Right $50.00 ÷ 13 = $3.85 a photo, a month. What a deal! I know it is like the death of our evil consumer ways but you gotta have something to look at all year long. You need somewhere to write down all those interview dates and doctors appointments. Think of the spooky black and white pleasure my little calendar could bring you for over a whole year. That is 395 days (remember, 13 months) of happiness, or 0.13 cents a day people!

So Tuesday, right, voting. Jesus Christ, I'm scared.

On Tuesday, I'll be over at the American Legion Hall, (a stronghold of the republican party for sure), working the polls;

(No Jasmine slow down and reread the sentence. I did not write that I was working the pole.)

Side note: That reminds me of a moment at my fathers weirdo funeral when the creepy Mason's were standing in front of his open coffin reciting their weirdo Masonic Funeral Service, specifically the part where the 'Master reads the Sacred Roll'. He said, "Wayne Schneider was a Master Mason." Jasmine thought he said Wayne Schneider was a Masturbator.

Only an advanced stage of Alzheimer's is going to make me forget that.

Good lord, anyway.

I volunteered to work the polling place for three hours on Tuesday. I am a poll watcher. I have to write down the name and party of each registered voter. I'm not supposed to talk to anyone, chat with voters or use my cell phone. Sounds perfect.

I must say I'd feel a tad better about our political process if there weren't four typos on the instruction sheet. Oh sure, I have typos out the ass but I'm not trying to make sure the presidential election voting process works seamlessly.

Later on election evening, we are having (gasp) friends over to hang out (bigger gasp) to watch the results. We are all going to be either very happy or very sad. One way will be joy and happiness and the other, according to Martha, will end with her sobbing uncontrollably in the fetal position in a dark closet.

I'd rather the neighbors not see that, but hey, that's part of the charm in getting to know us.

Aside from trying everyday not to freak out about something, things are...well now, who am I kidding, things around here are a little jumpy. I wake up jumpy and so the fuck what. So what if I have too much anxiety, who the hell doesn't at his point in the game? These are frightening times. As I've been saying to Martha, "I'm sick to death of seeing horrible shit happen that has never happened before."

At least my unemployment benefits have been extended. Extended until I get another job? Probably not. The good thing about being unemployed, (aside from the obvious) is that by this year's end I will have been in ten shows. That is the most ever and I think. Too bad it's a crap time to buy art, let alone an unknown artist but still. I did manage to sell one print! It's not like I've been sitting on my ass. I actually think that is impossible for me to do. I'm too squirrely and my project list is endless.

I am almost finished with next year's calendar. Every year around this time, I notice that the calendar I'm working on is way better than the last one. I suppose that is good; that whole thing about my work evolving and all. The idea that whatever I am working on is much more interesting than what I've done, keeps the fires burning, I guess is what they say.

Martha was in San Diego California all last week for a solar convention and I was home alone, avoiding the sun and waiting for dark. It didn't take but a day before I reverted back to my old weird self by staying up until after 2:00 and then waking up at 7am. I thought the meds were going to stop that but much like a runaway truck, sometimes only a sand ramp will stop me.

The show that I'm in during November is going to be awesome. I love showing at this gallery because Tim is not only a great artist, but he is a great curator. The show is called; A Show of Heads and the link is here.

Sometime over the past two weeks or so, our next-door neighbor has taken the air conditioner out of her window and now, she is leaving her magenta curtains open. The problem with this new, fuchsia view of her life is that she has a medical bed, complete with metal side rails up against the window. I know she is taking care of her father-in-law and yes, he deserves to see the outside world but in the two years we have lived up here, I do not remember this window being open. The man is mobile and does not spend the day in bed. I have to say that it is a little bothersome every time I walk out of our house and smack right there is a medical bed. It makes me think of two things that, much like bookends, are very related.

The immediate memory I have is when I was a kid, my little twin-sized bed had rails on the sides so that I wouldn't fall out of bed. I was a roller and I used to fall out all the time, almost every night. After about two weeks of middle-of-the-night incidents, my parents put up rails so they could get some sleep and, in an added bonus, I wouldn't break my neck.

The second thought I have is how I am probably going to end my final days in a bed with side rails. The whole inevitability of it all is a sobering way to start the outside part of any day.

She needs to move him back to the other room he was in, or maybe a nice room with a view of the meadow behind all of our houses. I'm sure he doesn't want to stare at the side of our house all damn day. All summer long, he used to sit on the porch every day, all day and watch the people go by. He always let us know if someone dropped a package off at our house and one time, he told us that he noticed a 'dark man walking around in our yard.' (It was a delivery guy looking for the side entrance.)

My guess is that neither one of us are happy about this. It's not like I can go over there and say to her, "Hey neighbor! So yeah, I'm a self-centered asshole and your father-in-law's medical bed bothers me, can you move it?" I'm sure her father-in-law's medical bed bothers her too.

So wow, is the world broke yet or what? What are we down to, 36 cents and a coupon for a free Egg McMuffin with purchase of medium coffee? Can you even buy coffee for 36 cents? Oh and, can we vote now? I'd like it to be over so can we just vote now. I want a black president for Christmas and I would like for Frankenstein and his Alaskan Bee's-nest-for-brains running mate to slither back into the shadows for the next decade or so. Well, he'll be dead in three to five but I have a feeling she'll be around for awhile. She wants to be president. A few years from now the Republican Party will have gussied her up and will parade her down the 'inside the beltway' runway as their version of the new Hillary.

"You bettcha" cha, cha, cha Palin went to five colleges in five years, (as apposed to Jasmine attending one college for five years) and she was a beauty queen? So hell yes, why not give her the keys to the country? Why stop at the country? Why not have her run the whole earth! Wooooo Queen of the Earth. Now she can really sink her teeth into a title like that.

This whole this is so insulting it makes me sick. I am nauseous to the point of barely being able to keep popsicles down.

Anyway, here is something weird; up until now, I've never seen anyone that I've ever taken a photo of again. I usually just take a photo and move on only to see them again on the light table. If I somehow manage to shoot something really cool of them, then they end up on a print and in a frame. There are just too many of us in this city to think that it would happen.

Well, I saw this guy at the train station again but this time he was drinking a Diet Coke® and eating a BABY RUTH® candy bar. Very different vibe indeed. At first, I smiled at him, as if I knew him because I thought I did. It took me a few seconds to realize where I remembered him from and how my wide smile must have seemed odd to him. And it did. He got kind of a weird look on his face and then kept glancing over at me every few seconds like I was going to get crazy on him. I had completely weirded him out by smiling at him, which I understand.

When I smile, a few things happen that do not work in my favor. I'm kind of transparent so I look super creepy in broad daylight and honestly my teeth do not help the overall presentation. I'm best gazed upon in more of a low light atmosphere, or in black and white. I had freaked him out so much that after a few minutes, he moved to another row of seats. Nice.

I had to pick up my mammogram films from St Mary's in Hoboken last week and from the second I stepped through the hospital doors to the second I walk out an alarm went off. Sometimes my timing is amazing. I couldn't make up the surrealism if I tried. The siren was like the old air raid sirens from the 40s but with a monotone voiceover "CODE RED 4TH FLOOR" on a ten second loop. All the lights were flashing from dim to bright to dim and then back to bright. It reminded me of Tomb Raider III Nevada Levels High: Security Compound.

What was even stranger was that no one seemed to care. The people I rode with in the elevator, the folks in radiology, general nursing staff walking the halls; I got nothing, no reaction what so ever. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to the whole event. Another thing I found interesting is that once you have an envelope with the word MAMMOGRAM printed in 72 point Helvetica Bold across the front, you can pretty much go anywhere in the hospital.

Case in point.

Going into Manhattan with three cents in my pocket and never the right clothing, my top four worries are: (in no order and ever changing)

1. Did I bring my ATM card?

1. What is the weather going to be like?

1. When do I have to catch my train to meet Martha?

1. Where the hell can I go to the bathroom?

1. Where can I buy over the counter medication if needed?

1. Did I bring enough film, is it a Jewish holiday and how close to B&H am I?

1. Does this bodega have string cheese?

1. Oh my god, where is my hand sanitizer?

The Hudson Artswalk is the 10th -13th this weekend. Come up or down or all around if you can. I have five pieces in the main gallery and three pieces at the CCCA Gallery space for the Hang Dog Show. Martha has four pieces in the main gallery also. Here's how queer we are. We volunteered this year but the stipulation is that we have to sit together. Lesbians.

I'm in another show in Texas. I wish I could see that one. It's a life after death themed show and I have three pieces hanging down there. One is The Cross at Ground Zero, another is of a grave I shot at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn and the other one, check this out, is of my dead mother in her casket. Yep, I went there. It's a great shot, so there. This holiday season is the five-year mark of her death and somehow it seemed fitting. The fact that I'm writing this on the exact day that my father died nine years ago is even weirder.

But anyway...moving on.

I never say this but it would be nice to sell something. Probably not the print of my dead mother but still there are other things that are not so disturbing, sort of. But it's not really a selling kind of time is it? We are all hording our money. Hell, I've turned into my grandma Schneider. Every day I tell Martha to withdrawal everything, bring it home, we will hide it all over the house and bury it in canning jars in the yard. Fuck them. Fuck the bankers of the world. The banking industry has NEVER been good to me.

I have all these projects that I'm trying to work on but doctors appointments and a general case of the head crazies have been prohibiting me from focusing on them. I want to make my yearly calendar, and oh, by the way they are no longer free to friends this year. Sorry but times are fucked and I am unemployed. If you want to do something helpful and you still have a job, buy my calendar.

I'm also trying to gather prints for a book, two books really. One would be a large photo book of my work and the other would be a smaller portfolio type book. I so need to update my design portfolio website and blah, blah, blah. I'm the busiest unemployed person I've ever known.

For about the past year, our sunporch has been slowing crumbling back into the earth. Now, when someone mentions that they have a sunporch it implies that they have a wonderful space with sundrenched-whitewashed floors and gentle breezes of lavender scented happiness that floats through pale yellow window sheers. Fluffy white pillows cover an inviting whicker-seating collection and beautiful dark green palms create pockets of cool shade.

The reality of our sunporch is much, much different.

To begin with, we use it as the main way in and out way of the house. More like a mudroom. The door is fucked up from when I had to push the screen in to unlock the door when we locked ourselves out. The weather stripping is coming off the bottom so when you open the door there are strands of rubber hanging off the door. Kind of like a rubber tire that has exploded on the highway.

The floor had hideous, and I do mean hideous, wall-to-wall teal colored indoor-outdoor carpeting. The previous owners even covered the red brick steps with it. The carpet was filthy, seeing how I had never cleaned it; not once in two years. Because there was a feeding station in there, the whole room smelled of warm cat food, regardless if the windows were open or not.

But the windows are cool, kind of an old 50's slat type. Each window has about fifteen slats of glass that open outward, but tilt down, so that even in a thunderstorm, it never rains in.

Oh but the water has been traveling through there in other ways. Ways I didn't even know about until we had the floor ripped up. Apparently, there has been a small stream running through it to the back of the house for about ten years. The good news is that under all that carpet and rotten plywood, there was an actual cement floor. It does have a rather large crack in it, but with a new layer of cement, some paint and new baseboard all that we will have to deal with is repainting the walls.

It's not like we actually have any money to do this shit. But we have to. The floor in front of the door was falling in because the water was rotting it out. Another winter and one frozen ice ball would have made it impossible to open the door. That would have been fun to come home to some cold dark night.

We had to get the tree in the backyard trimmed otherwise when the ice comes, and you know it will, some of the large droopy branches would most certainly have snapped and demolished the garage. Again, an interesting thing to either, come home to, wake up to, or watch happen.

We had to get new gutters because we barely made it through last winter. The three-foot long ice daggers that hung twenty feet above the front door last year, would have killed someone this year. And my god, what a fucked up thing to come home to, wake up to, or watch happen.

So this is fun, I had some of my flesh voluntary seared off. I went to a dermatologist and he went to town on several 'suspicious' freckles. Mostly on my arms but there is a big one on my face next to my right eye. (Sexy) My arms look as if I have been burning myself with cigarettes. You know, no matter how fucking depressed I've managed to be in the past, nothing will ever make me intentionally burn a hole in my skin. That shit hurts. It hurts even more when every few seconds you are being told not to move and then someone freezes/burns you.

Did I mention that I've been testing a Kiev 88? Oh my, how funny is life? I've wanted a Kiev for sometime for reasons that are not snooty photographic reasons but just out of shear curiosity. It looks like it might be fun to shoot with, kind of screwy to figure out and well, it is Russian.

A few weeks ago, Martha brought a Kiev 88 bag full of goodies home. A friend's sister wanted to know what the whole thing was worth. It was her fathers and dad is now no longer shooting so...

Inside the bag were all kinds of good stuff. A Kiev 88 with the complete standard package, PLUS, four other big times lenses, a few hoods AND a Polaroid back. Woo Hoo!

So I've been screwing around with various configurations with the lenses and film loading attempts. I've lost two rolls to loading errors and I fucking hate that. Ok, one roll sure, the thing is a little buggy, but two rolls piss me off. Film is expensive.

I shot two rolls of color just to see how bad the light leaks were. Black and white can hide that. I wanted to try a different lab closer to midtown because why? Because I had another dental appointment, what else?

I dropped off the film super early with the request that it was to be ready no later than 1:30. No problem.

At 1:30 the film was not ready.

After a few minutes, the owner came out, apologizing like crazy in a heavy, heavy Russian accent. The film was not Russian, he just happened to be Russian. All things Russian seem to be in my life right now.

Anyway, he very sincerely apologized to me.

"The guy…the guy, his clock was half hour off." He said.
I look at him, tilt my head slightly to the right and roll my eyes.
"I know. Sounds stupid believe me, I know. That is what he is. Stupid."

So I waited for twenty-seven minutes, grabbed the film, jumped on the 6 train and I was in the dental chair within fifteen minutes. As the dental assistant lowered me back, I warned her, "I'm sorry but I've had two iced coffees and a fruit cup. God only know what my breath must smell like."

Stuff like that just amazes me. I managed to go from 23rd & Park to 59th & Park, door-to-chair in fifteen minutes.

"Wouldn't it be great if they could just inject little shots of Novocain into your back?" I asked Martha while sitting in the car during our long commute home. She hates Wednesdays when she is trapped in the car with me. She calls Wednesday's 'challenging'. Mostly because I will not shut up.

"You know, little shots here and there, just where it hurts." I added.
"I've never had Novocain." She sighed.
"What?"
"You keep forgetting this, but I've never had Novocain."
I just sat there paralyzed, gazing out the front window. My mind had seized up and I was unable to speak. A welcome moment for Martha I'm sure.

"I don't know what to say to that. I used to have to have topical just so they could clean my teeth. Now it's not so bad, but I can't imagine with the shit that I've had done and not have had Novocain." I blather on and on...
"I've never had a root canal or any of the shit you've had done. That is why I can't understand these goddamn dental bills. I get a cavity, they just drill it, and it is over. Plus I don't have very many cavities."
"Man, I have Novocain at least once a month. It's like my period."
"I can't image what it must be like to be one of your dentists." Martha mumbled.

I just love the general oddness's and flukes that can happen within roughly a one-block radius in Manhattan. Sometimes it is as though a whole day is contained with in an hour.

Last Wednesday I stumbled upon the tired old bones of the Cheyenne Diner on 9th and W.33rd street located across the street from B&H. I was just up there in the spring when it was open, and at that time, it looked just like any other railroad type diner in Manhattan. So as I was walking across 33rd not only did I notice that the door was oddly propped open, it appeared that the building was in the midst of demolition.

I asked if I could come in and photograph it. They didn't care one bit. I wasn't able to poke around as much as I would have liked but I think I might have a few shots that are pretty interesting. At least right now in my head they are interesting, we'll see what happens when I develop the film. One guy mentioned to me that the Diner was moving over to Brooklyn. Probably Williamsburg in some bastardization of hipsterness.

Right after shooting ½ a roll at the Cheyenne I walk further down 33rd to Saint Michael's Academy where I shot a super weird photo of an all white Jesus. While walking near AP I was almost hit by Lincoln Tunnel traffic because I was too busy gawking at all the folks standing around outside smoking. At first I thought they were having a fire drill or something. We used to have them all the Voice. Stupid things. I'd usually walk out and go to lunch although many folks would just stand in the street, stare up at the building and wait to go back in. After studying the Associate Press folks for a few minutes I realized they were all on a break. Further along the road, (technically ½ a block down on 34th street) as I was shooting the New Yorker sign I looked down and saw someone I used to work with at the Voice.

We both looked at each other and smiled that big happy-to-see-you smile. "I was just standing there when out of the corner of my eye I saw this fuzzy red-headed chick with a camera pointed up at the sky and I thought to myself, NO WAY!"

Good to see good people and I do miss working with good people.

"I'm moving back to Greece. I'm keeping my apartment though, sublet it out I tell ya. That landlord can kiss my ass I tell ya, fuck him." —Greek diner on 23rd

The Horizon 202 Camera is officially back in the hands of the owner. He was to use it over the weekend and report to me how it's working. I'm just glad it's no longer around me. I didn't even want to hand it back to him, instead I displayed it on the center of the kitchen table. If I would have had a cake plate I would have put it on that. The technical report of what all was wrong with it: (Said in heavy Russian accent with a slight shaking of the head ending with a small puckering of the lips.)

"It was all screwed up. Berry, berry bad."

Every now and then, I remember that instead of wandering aimlessly around New York, there is stuff I want to do instead. I managed to see the When Color was New Show at the Julie Saul Gallery. As side from the rudeness of a Chelsea Gallery, the show was motivating in so many ways. Photography is luck, lighting and timing. I stood in front of one the most inspiring photos that I've ever seen. There are three things that work together perfectly with this shot.

The man is staring out into infinity with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The woman is looking at her wedding ring. There is a plate of white bread with a few pads of butter around the edges.

Man. Woman. Butter. Perfect.

The whole show was encouraging and many of the prints I've seen before in publications here and there. A few of them are in postcard form hanging in my studio. Just a subliminal reminder to myself that I need to look around more when I'm out shooting. Every shot is there, I just have to see it.

I got into an argument with a neighbor about noise. Now to be fair, his timing sucked for I wasn't really furious at him, (that's a whole OTHER story) but he took the brunt of my anger.

He and his fat fuck of a buddy were working on a car across the street. They had a volume control issue with their voices, deciding to shout normal conversation at each other while standing only two feet apart. After about 15 minutes of that horseshit I walked out of the house and across the street where I, in a rather calm tone, asked them if they could stop shouting at each other. No big thing right? Well while walking back to the house, the fatter one, started trash talking me the minute I was behind the hedge line, only he's an ass see, and he trash talked me loudly.

I turned right around, marched across the street, and got all up in their faces. I stood there sandwiched between too rather large and bulbous bellies with a combined weight of well over 400 lbs, bitching at both of them for saying shit behind my back. According to Martha, who by now was standing on our front stoop, I called one guy a jackass. I do remember being in his face and pointing a finger at him so it is of no real surprise that the words, "Listen here Jackass," came out of my mouth. But really isn't that just my way of making friends?

I dropped the Horizon 202 camera that I borrowed from a friend. Well, technically it fell, (while still in its case mind you), but nonetheless it still hit the ground.

Actually, it looked more like a suicide than an accident. It chose to jump off a table rather than take anymore of my weird angled visionary bullshit. Instead of spending one more second or 1/125th of a second with me, it jumped to its death.

Now it sits in a Russian repair shop over on 30th street, where I've put down half of the $178.00 total to fix it. The equivalent of a Russian hospital—scary thought.

In two seconds, I spent almost $200 and put a hiccup in a friendship. Like I have tons of those to burn.

Jesus Christ.

I'm still not really sure what happened. I set the thing down to change film and it just took a swan dive off the table. I didn't even think anything happened to it because it was IN IT'S PROTECTIVE CASE, zipped up and everything. But just like most things in my life, it hit the ground 'just right'. It hit the one corner that didn't have that much padding and well, when I pulled it out the back was bent and I could actually see the spool of my film. I opened it up to see if it was just a temporary thing and no, it was not.

I called Martha.

'You're going to be really mad at me," I said.
Silence.
"You're going to be really pissed- I dropped Victor's camera."
"Holly, WHAT THE HELL? Where is the STRAP? Why isn't it around your NECK!"
I started to cry.
"Take something." She ordered.
"What?"
"Do you have anything with you?"

I stopped bawling for a minute and wondered if she was asking me if I had any drugs with me. And I wondered why she would think that I forgot my pill case. It's like asking a running faucet if it has water, isn't it? I tend to carry enough prescription and over the counter medication to kill both of us at any given time, if need be of course.

"What like Xanax? I asked.
"Yes, take it and calm down. I'm serious."

After I got my wits gathered, (without the aid of drugs thank you very much) together Martha and I worked today's technology. I walked up the West Side Highway towards any subway line, while Martha in Jersey worked Google, feeding me numbers of possible camera repair shops. There were hardly any choices but she did manage to find the one Russian repair place that appears to be the real deal. (I get the camera back this week so we will see) It's in one of those old New York buildings where the elevators ability to work is questionable so you'd rather walk the four flights up. The place was packed to the rafters with old and somewhat new, Russian camera parts, bodies and lenses. A photo in it's self.

The deal is this, either the camera is returned to its owner totally like it was when he gave it to me or I'll pay for a brand new one. Or I should say that Martha will pay for a brand new one and I will forever, suck.

Overheard at a Diner on 6th Avenue.
Mostly, therapy is nice. Last time I was there, he said to me; 'You drink too much coffee and then take the Klonopin. What's that about?'

I can't wait to start writing with you—well, I'll do the entire outline and the whole structure and then bring you in to clean it up, but I'm excited to start working together.

Overheard while waiting for the subway.
What do you do?
I'm a teacher. I teach 9th grade History. Early stuff, like beginning of time kind of thing. Ancient History.
Oh, you mean Jesus Christ stuff?
Long pause... No like the Bronze Age stuff.
Oh, when's that?

Jasmine to me on the phone telling me about her day.
I went busy.
It went busy.
It was busy, shit mom, don't write that down. Don't blog about that. Goddamn it mom I'm tired.

So that other day at the gym, yes I've been going to the gym. I started working out in June. I'm old and I need to deal with the many things that are wrong with me or that are not working properly.

Anyway, I was working out the other day and after my little round of back muscle strengthening exercises, I wanted to do my 45 minutes on the treadmill.

At the gym there are three TV's mounted to the ceiling and while running in place you can stare up at them and sweat open mouthed while being spoon fed useless garbage. I choose to listen to crazy music on my iPod but the images are still very there.

Sometimes one of the stations is Fox News. Now, if the treadmill in front of the TV with FOX News is on, I will not get on it. I'll wait. I could change the channel but undoubtedly there is someone there who is watching it and honestly I don't want to know who it is. I just might get a little vocal about it all. On this day there was an open one in the back so I figured I'd be too far away from the TVs to be able to read the subtitles on Fox News. I was wrong.

So check this out.

They were talking about how The Green Movement that is currently being taught in public schools needs to stop. Public schools shouldn't be teaching children things that are not based in truth. It should be up to the parents to decide if they want their children learning about something like 'Global Warming'. Parents are pissed that their kids are policing them about driving SUVs, recycling, and wasting energy.

Their concern was that the children are being fed this hideous propaganda AND one 'reporter' compared this teaching to the brainwashing of Hitler youth.

What. The. Fuck?

I am not kidding. It was like one long televised schizophrenias rant. I searched forever of the Fox News site, (until I felt dirty and on the verge of vomiting), for a clip of this but their site is a search nightmare. I think they keep it that way so you cannot go back, check, and deep link to any of their hideous propaganda. Seriously, Hitler youth?

Still shooting with the Horizon 202 and I've got about another week before I should 'respectively' give it back. Seeing how I have to go into Manhattan twice this week I should be good. Going from the solid square format of my Holga to shooting in panoramic is a refreshing change. Suddenly the world has opened up. Not all shots can be pans, although it could be fun to do a series.

Martha and I went to see Batman over the weekend. We originally had tickets to the IMAX in Nyack but we decided against making Martha basically drive to work on a Saturday. After driving all week long from Hudson to Mahwah and then back, by Friday she's pretty bat shit crazy so adding another day, is nothing short of cruel. At the time we ordered tickets it sounded like a fun idea but on the day of the event we changed our minds and went up to the local crap theater, here in Hudson.

There were maybe fifteen people there but the truly stand out bunch was a family that sat in the last row up to our right. There were four of them, mom, dad, and two sons and all so very, very overweight that together they could have made three more people. They sat in the last row with an empty seat between each one of them and proceeded to wrinkle paper and chew food for a solid two hours of the two and a half hour movie. They would eat and eat and then every fifteen minutes of so they would send one of the kids down to the concession stand to stock up on candy and free refills on popcorn and soda. They only stopped eating when the food trough closed. Finally, the last thirty minutes of the movie were quiet.

The movie was long and Heath was awesome. I found the nurse outfit more disturbing then anything else. Free refills and processed foods should be eliminated.

I think I might be reaching the end of my ability to go to a theater. Martha and I have large TV so honestly what the fuck are we doing? At home we can get fucked up, pause for bathroom and water breaks and the occasional 'I need a moment break' without any trouble at all. I can touch and lay on anything I want without fear and stickiness. The only things that are sticky in my house are the things that are supposed to be sticky, like tape and spray mount. Ok so we don't have surround sound and for the moment we have to wait until things are released on DVD but still.

Jasmine's apartment saga continues. She's found a place that she loves, and is in the high range of her price range. That's funny, it's not really her price range it's more like ours now isn't it. Martha spoke with the landlord, she being the more responsible sounding out of the two of Jasmine's mothers. Technically, Jazz has three mothers, but none of us considers that beer-drinking bitch in PA to be anything more than a pain in the ass.

Speaking of asses, Jasmine's father has yet to pony up any money to help his daughter out. He gave her 100 bucks for her birthday, which she proceeded to spend on gas money to go see him, visit a friend in Pittsburgh and then back home to school. Nice. You know, I could get over shit faster if he would stop doing shit.

Anyway, the plan is to go to Pittsburgh once Jazz is a little settled. I think we are going to stay a few days and hang out with her. I want to visit my grandparents' graves and Martha wants to see actual living people. It will be hard to resist the urge to drive that extra hour up Route 8 and burn down a certain brick house with a recently landscaped yard, but I'll try.

I haven't been in to Manhattan for over a week to shoot and I'm starting to get a little wiggy about it. But, Sunday is Miss Harvey's birthday and it's a big one. We are going to a wedding on Saturday in Manhattan so she rented us a room for two nights at the Waldorf-Astoria®. Two nights and one whole day of nothing but Manhattan to shoot, you can bet I'm going bring more cameras then god intended. I'll probably even bring the Lubital, which hardly ever makes it in because it is so boxy and heavy.

For two days, we are so going to live a different life. Then it all comes to a crashing end with a 2:00pm dental appointment on Monday. This time, Martha will actually get to go to one of my dentists. Apparently I have a mouth full of cavities and I see nothing but a horror show headed my way and while I'm glad that she will be there, I know she's going to be pissed sitting in the waiting room with our luggage. The cool thing is instead of calling her from the dental chair and bursting into tears with horrible news, I can just walk out and drop the money bomb.

After that, we then get to ride the path, to the train, to the car, to the thruway to home. Awesome. Like I said, crashing end.

Big news around here is that we got Reverse Osmosis. Woo, hoo. But seriously, this will cut down enormously on the amount of plastic bottles this house brings home every week. We recycle, but you know, I lived in Jersey long enough to know that just because you put you shit out on the curb does not mean that it actually ends up in the right place. Besides plastic does not totally break down. It just gets smaller and smaller.

I remember when there was hardly any plastic in our lives.

Milk, juice, RC Cola, mayonnaise and Listerine® were all sold in glass. Toothpaste, TV Dinners, cream cheese, fancy cheese spreads, (including Velveeta®) were packaged in foil packets. Food was stored in foil, wax paper and meat was either cut or ground fresh and then wrapped in butcher paper. Lunchmeat was also cut fresh, wrapped in a wax paper and then in butcher paper.

Boy, you can really tell that I grew up in White Land or as I like to call it, Mayonnaise Land.

Almost everything was in a cardboard box of some kind and potato chips and pretzels could be bought in large tin drums.

Of course, this was way back in the day when you could smoke in grocery stores. I remember riding in the child seat, sitting next to the little red beanbag ashtray that my mom had with her everywhere she went. She carried an ashtray, isn't that the oddest thing? Anyway, when we were at Kroger's sometimes she would accidentally singe my leg when she bent over to pick something off the shelves. Whenever this happened, she would give me a small brown bag of M&M's to eat.

At the check out all of our crap was put in paper bags and then a bag boy would go out to the parking lot with us and load the bags into our excessively large trunk. When he was finished, mom would tip the kid and then slide into our gas-guzzling Thunderbird. We would then ride off into the sunset without wearing seatbelts.

Every mother had at least one piece of Tupperware in her kitchen but that was it. No one lived by plastic like they do now. Even at cookouts we used paper plates with real silverware. Hardly anything in the kitchen was plastic. I remember when my mom and dad bought a new dishwasher and mom tragically put a knife with a rubber handle in there; it melted stinking up the whole house and ruining the washer. It was winter, we had to open all the windows to air out the house, and my dad was so very, very pissed. Pissed at my mom, pissed at the usage of rubber and pissed that it was winter. It's a good memory as most of them are.

Big fun news: I was accepted into two (2) shows last week. One is up here in Hudson at the Limner Gallery for a show titled 'Art Biologic'. The opening is May 3rd, 4-6pm and the show runs to May 24th. I have one piece in the show that is a little different then I usually hang. Come on up to Hudson if you want to see some art. It's First Saturdays' and all the galleries will be open late.

The other one is in Johnson City, Texas for a show titled 'Urban Ambience: Scenes from the City' at the Watson Studio Gallery. The opening is April 19 and runs until May 24. I have two pieces in this show (#42 & 43). So if you are in Texas...

And then finally I am in a current show in Jersey titled: 'Is it possible to make a photograph of New Jersey regardless of where you are in the world?' (Great Idea) Link is here but know that it is a rather large .PDF and takes a few minutes to fully load. All the photos are awesome and my piece is on page 19.

Busy, as a beaver, yes I am. I am submitting to three more shows, and well, we will see how that all goes. A while back Martha joked, but half-seriously, that I should get an intern. As truly funny as that is, she's kind of right.

Some friends of ours just had their first baby. Well, probably their only but anyway, they are brand new parents and congratulations to them. Welcome to the rest of your life.

Speaking of forks in the road, (or is it in the head?), Jasmine comes home for a quick weekend visit. She's going to play Photo Bitch for me on Saturday while I shoot a dear friend of mine and his fiancée in various locations in Manhattan. Should be fun and exhausting at the same time, hence the need for Photo Bitch. Jasmine is bringing a friend, (Weber) so the Photo Bitch has an assistant.

I get to use Martha's new camera. It is a digital world after all but I'll still shoot a few moody black and white holgas because that's just the way I am: moody black and white. Oh and the new printer came and man it is beautiful. Just simply stunning. Thanks babe.

When you buy a house, it never stops. The siding people have to come back to finish up the shit they should have done in the first place. There are holes and some of the siding trim is popping off. Needless to say we are not happy and I think if one more thing goes wrong, Martha is going to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau.

The floor in the sunroom is buckling. Not sure why or what the fuck is going on but I can't wait to find out. If we don't fix it, pretty soon we won't be able to open the door.

Our taxes went up again. This makes the umpteenth time they have raised them and so far, our tax bill has tripled since we moved here two years ago. We are going to have to file a grievance, (that should be fun) but how in hells bells can it be normal to pay $8,000 a year in taxes?

And you know it you love it, the wasps are back. The bug guy will be notified. Those bugs are straight from hell and for whatever reason they love our house. I did however find some sick comfort in watching them build a massive hive in our neighbor's attic. They work with military precision. Martha said we should send them over to Iraq. While I shouldn't have watched it, (the hive is about thirty feet from our kitchen window) I couldn't look away. It was like the live National Geo channel.

And while I'm thinking of nasty wasps; worrying about speaking badly of a former employer is not such a problem when that employer is doing just a fine job all by himself. I'm just so very, very glad that I no longer work for them. It would be too embarrassing to say, 'Oh yes I work for this racist, good-old-white-boy Arizonian jackass, who while excepting and award, had no problem using the "N-word" in front of a room full of Professional Journalists.' Reporters who report, and did report and in some cases even video taped the whole nasty event. This is the same ignorant jerk who just one week prior to shooting his fat mouth off received an Civil Libertarians award from the ACLU.

Wow, and wow. Old news, seeing how it happened last Thursday. It has already circled the blog world about a zillion times, but the whole thing just makes me sad. I have a real problem when a former employer drops the "N-word" on camera and gives a snarky apology as an afterthought.

Like all bad relationships that do not end in gunplay, eventually someone either leaves on their own, or walks away after being told to get the fuck out. I have been in a nasty staring contest for about six-months with the mothership and finally, they blinked. Of no real surprise to anyone, I was officially laid-off on Monday, I was asked to leave.

I have numerous mixed feelings about all of this but the foremost reaction I have is the desire to take a sauna everyday for about month so I can sweat the past two years of ugliness out of my pores.

Having worked there for over six years; the last two being one of the worst professional spans of my career, forced to watch well over 100 people leave either voluntary or involuntary; I am a little weirded out by the length of it all. It was the longest job I have ever had, so it will probably take me some time to get my bearings.

I guess the best way to gauge my state of mind is to review what I did upon leaving the building for the last time. I walked down Bowery, deep into Chinatown and shot two rolls of film. As I slowly wiggled my way back up to C-Lab to pick up a roll of color film, I stopped and had coffee at Starfucks, where I openly and aggressively applied Tiger Balm to my back while sucking down a tall coffee. Walking further up Broadway, I slid into Best Buy and bought the new Cat Power with a Christmas gift card that I had been carrying around with me. All extremely normal things.

I was hired at the Voice on my 39th birthday, one week after my unemployment had run out and three months after the Towers fell. The pit would continue to burn for another two months and every day on my way into work, out to lunch and on the way home, the air smelt like a combination of chemicals and wet earth that would get up in the sinuses and linger on the tongue.

How I got the job was a simple matter of having a friend who used to work there. He made a call for me and before I knew it, I was hired. The funny thing about my interview was, deep down in my gut I just knew I was going to work there. Before my interview, I sat over in Cooper Square Park smoking a cigarette, looking around I could just see myself there. The other funny thing is that for the past two years I haven't seen myself there at all. Long gone are the folks whom I respected and enjoyed working with, replaced with people who never wanted to have anything to do with me; an interesting environment to say the least.

Yes, my last day at the Voice ended quietly. After shooting for several hours, I made my way to Hoboken where I jumped on a train to meet Martha. I dived right into the post-apocalyptic nightmare that is known as The Road, which I am right in the middle of. Then something completely unheard of happened. I managed to have a whole three-seater to myself all the way to Suffern, New York.

Crazy Isn't Stupid, Stupid is Just Stupid
Moving on, spring is coming, I can tell even though we still have white snow and brown deer poop in the yard. We start this week out as week five of the siding people and with the exception of some kind a weather issue; they just might finish the job. No. Fucking. Way. I know, right?

Martha and I did what we always do when one of us is let go and our financial future is sent into a tailspin, we bought something pricey. We consider it the layoff gift, because we're that damn weird and being laid off isn't a big enough gift in and of it's self, we bought art. Excuse me we bought Photography, apparently, a dying art form, which complete strangers delight in telling me once they see a Holga around my neck. People are so damn strange.

I remember years ago when Martha bought me a digital camera for my 40th birthday. I fooled around with it for days, shooting in all different modes and all the different settings. Eventually I settled on a programmed setting of no flash, white balanced, ASA 400, no beep, no sound and one shot only. Basically over time I navigated as close to my 35mm as possible. I goofed around with the Black & White setting but the whole thing felt stupid. I shot hundreds and hundreds of digital images over the course of two and a half years. The very first version of my website was almost all digital. Roughly all the Voice work I shot was digital, except for a few features where I was able to use the Holga for that 'Holga Look'. On a side note, I find if very funny that the last thing I shot for the Voice was this, although, it is not the one I would have picked. I would have chosen this one, but I'm just a picky bitch.

Countless times when I am out shooting or just walking from one place to another in New York the soundtrack in my ears perfectly matches the visuals of my path. Some are obvious like walking down McDougal Street while listening to Dylan or walking in step to Marquee Moon, over by Bowery and Bleecker, even though all that exists down there are hi-rise apartments full of Upper East Side Blonde girls who suddenly want to live the 'Downtown Lifestyle'. Thank god for places like Avalon Bowery Place, (Studios starting at $2,895) that can make those dreams safely come true. For Martha and I to live there, it would cost us around $6,500 a month and I wouldn't be able to have a darkroom.

Anyway, despite New York's continual slide into wealth management, I am talking about the delightful musical surprises that happen. Things like listening to Elvis in the middle of Union Square, or the Pixies in SoHo. Weird little bits of musical chance that can make the most miserable event tolerable.

One such moment happened last week when I was on the 6 Train going uptown to what I thought was to be a routine dental visit, but more on that in a minute. I had to stand on the train, which normally I don't mind but when the train is crammed full of shithead foreign tourists coming fresh off a Ground Zero stop, I turn into one big cranky face.

Just when I decided that I hated everyone, through my ear buds the sounds of the Butthole Surfers, Leave Me Alone flowed faintly in the background. In the process of yanking my hand up to adjust the volume control, I smacked the ass of the girl in front of me.

She jumped up and around allowing me the full on force of her lunch choice involving buckets of garlic. I smiled, she didn't, I rolled my eyes and shifted my direction by precisely one inch to the left and turned up the music. Standing three inches from my face and mouth breathing garlic at me, she glared at me for exactly one whole subway stop, and then looked away once we passed 14th street, having taught me a harsh, harsh lesson. (Like that had any effect on me, honestly now, all you did was stare at me and make my eyes water.)

This particular 6 train was being driven by Mr. Fuck-You-I'm-in-the-Union-Driver. You know the guy. He doesn't give a fuck about any of it and pushes the train to go as fast as he can, stopping on a dime in every station, laughing to himself in his little booth at the sounds of bodies banging about each subway car. He's the guy that we've all seen get off his shift and slide out of the subway car like Superfly, saying "Hey Baby" while pointing to all the female Transit employees.

Riding with Youngblood, you know the drill, find a nook and ride the wave. While traveling between subway stations and well beyond 60 miles per hour on some of the long stretches, for a split second your feet can actually leave the ground. It's the slamming on of the brakes that you have to be ready for. Every stop, all the tourists went flying, yet oddly, they never stopped talking to each other. Hands on pole, legs in the air, yak, yak, yak. I know they are talking because I can see their mouths moving around, but thankfully, all I hear is Butthole.

Once we get to my stop, I birth myself out of the subway car and immediately moved into the salmon upstream sensation of 59th street at lunch hour. It doesn't matter what direction you are headed, it is always the opposite of the flow. It's like a blizzard, always in your face and way too bright.

I am late when I get to the dentist so within seconds I am in the chair with the little napkin thing around my neck. Things move along like normal when the hygienist notices something about my upper left molar. Great. Okay, well, let's see what it is.

Now my relationship with this particular dentist is long and strong. For years, she was the only professional of any kind that I was seeing. That means that she was my therapist, my doctor consult and a life coach. She went through Jasmine's cancer with me where I would go there for check ups, just lay in the chair, and cry. Sad but true.

All this drives Martha crazy because:
a: Dr B (as she is known) is out of network;
b: she's fucking crazy Park Avenue expensive; and
c: I simply will not consider anyone else.

I can guarantee that as Martha is reading this, her hands are sweating and she's getting a headache, combined with a little stomach upset.

Dr. B pokes around in my mouth and does not like what she sees. Three shots of Novocain and a laser procedure later, I am numb and slightly shaken. But it wasn't as bad (meaning I wasn't as bad) as it can be. In fact, Dr. B touched my shoulder and said, "I just want you to know that was the most normal I've ever seen you. You're almost like a normal patient."

Drugs and therapy baby, drugs and therapy.

So, good feeling gone when I go to check out. The total for the day came to $4,500. Upon hearing that, I just started to ball. Dr. B walked over to me and hugged me then told the billing clerk to cut the bill in half.

Half is still crazy but not $4,500 crazy as I pointed out to Martha later on that evening, when she about had a heart attack.

I may be unemployed but as Martha pointed out to me while lying in bed one morning, "Thank god you're on medication."

Is it wrong to want to buy a $400 brown leather messenger bag? Without the whole, rational of, Jesus Christ Holly it's $400 or Jesus Christ Holly it's leather; pushing all that aside is it wrong to want it? I most certainly don't think it is worth $400. I mean what is? I can't think of anything other than some kind of electrical appliance that would justify a $400 purchase of one item.

I can spend a great deal on $10-$20 purchases but balk at anything over $50, except the Sundance Ring Bag. From the catalog page, it spoke to me. It somehow convinced me that its 'big, bold and handcrafted rich, rugged brown leather' was going to make my life complete. It's 'vintage inspiration' would make me feel young again, comfort found in my 70's hippy heritage.

Never mind the loose knowledge that I have of what goes on in a tannery. I mean talk about a long, toxic and filthy process. No matter, that bag spoke to me.

Yes, that is right you have guessed it. Martha has been out of town for several days and I've been home alone with nothing more then my thoughts to keep me in stitches. And I have to say, coming straight off of the whole Martha/Jazz dynamic it has been welcome chunk of solitude. Sometimes, they are like two cats in a pillowcase.

I am such a crazy little bee when left alone. I worked on my site, cleaned the house, and watched those types of movies that would drive Martha crazy. I stayed up way, way past my bedtime listening to music at ungodly levels while finally putting all my vinyl records away. I had quite the stack going on, an odd mixture of Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Kramer's The Guilt Trip, which is just fantastic by the way.

One of the perks to living in a house I suppose, I can be squirrelly all night long and who's going to notice? One night I was up so late, fucking around with bulb exposures on my Holga and popping a handheld flash at various things around the house, that even the cats had gone to bed, sleeping on top of the covers waiting for me to settle down.

But now, the reality of life returns as soon as Monday afternoon when I will be in the dentist chair having the hole in my mouth filled. I just hope that after a visit to the dentist a $400 purse does not seem like a reasonable purchase when compared to the bill. Usually the price of my dental work skews almost everything else. I've had one-hour visits cost more then our monthly rent at the high-rise.

Ah yes, the high-rise. Probably the coolest apartment I've ever had. I miss the high-rise. I think we all do. The only thing wrong with that apartment was when the neighbors would cook this horrifically stinky food. The stench would ooze out of the cracks in the door jam and no amount of hi-test incense or air freshener could make it stop. I don't know what it was but my god it was retched. I think I compared it once to what cooking a yak in bleach might smell like.

But I can't have a darkroom in a two-bedroom apartment. I feel like I'm living my very own Green Acres but only in my own head. I am equally Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert, having a fondness for both Manhattan and a Hooterville way of life. When I'm in Manhattan I'm in my element but when I'm home, holed up in my house for days on end, I'm pretty happy too.

I suppose I have a lot of duality in my brain. I think that's part of the problem, or so I'm told.

All along the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge there are signs bolted into the light posts that read; "Desperate? Life is worth living! Call Helpline." I noticed this last weekend when I was on my way to therapy. Fitting, I know, but what struck me as odd was that they are mostly posted in the center of the bridge. Now, the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge is long and tall, and if, lets just say if, you wanted to jump off the bridge I would think that any point along the bridge would work. Why make a trek of it when around 200 yards in is just as good of a location as dead center? Maybe that is the point, Dead Center but see no matter what you hit, anything over two stories is going to kill you. Thinking that you can just dive off a bridge, slip into the water and then drown is a mistake. No, no, it's hit the water and explode. Hell, I could swan dive from the top of my house if I wanted to. Not that I do, I'm just saying. Relax, it's the holiday's isn't everyone thinking about killing themselves?

Thursday, before the snow actually started in Hudson, Martha was all cross-eyed and hell-bent on going into work. She managed to make it there, but not before driving through the tip of the storm, causing her concern on her ability to drive home. After about an hour at work, longer then it took her to actually get there, she got back in the Prius (!) and drove directly into a blizzard. It took her three-hours to get home, which isn't bad considering the severity of the storm. She said there was an accident every half mile of so, and the Prius did 'not that bad' in the snow.

Once Martha was home what more could I ask for? A huge snowstorm to dump fourteen inches on us the day before my birthday seemed just perfect.

Jasmine bought me a really cool photo book and I'm so proud of her. It arrived a day early and everything. All in all my birthday was great. I baked my own birthday cake that was so good Martha had two pieces and then passed out with yellow frosting still on her lips.

A new Diane camera is in my life thanks to Martha and I've been shooting with it like crazy. I'm currently out of developer and fix so I have no idea how the little camera is performing, (to me it seems fine), or where the light leaks might be. My chemicals probably won't get here until after Christmas, which sucks and proves that sometimes I really should pay attention to this holiday.

Speaking of Christmas, I have yet to buy one fucking thing for anyone and I'm not really sure what to do about that. At this point in the game, it's almost too late to buy crap online unless I pay crazy shipping. So that means I'm actually going to have to drag my ass out of the house and go into the places that have Christmas music, or excuse me, 'Holiday' music playing. Martha and I decided not to get a tree again this year, because Zoë is such a monster and will not leave any kind of evergreen alone. She is such as suck ass cat that the only foliage I can have is cactus and she tries to eat that. Stupid thing. I've even seen her try and chew on the Christmas lights. Anyway, we are exchanging a few gifts and we do have the outside decorations up but inside, it could be anytime of the year.

Bucktooth Neighbor Wave
Our neighbor across the street is totally obsessed with outside chores. I know this because he is forever making noise and seeing how my studio and the living room face him, well... he bothers me.

In the summer, he was ceaselessly cutting the grass, weed whacking the trim, mulching the flowerbeds and watering. In the fall, he was constantly blowing leaves down the driveway and then into the front yard where he would blow them into a pile. He would then get the lawnmower out and mow it all up. Now, in the winter, I watched him snowplow, salt, shovel, and again snowplow all day Sunday. Every hour he was back outside making some kind of noise interrupting my enjoyment of the hours upon hours of Planet Earth in HDTV that I was engrossed in. That show ROCKS and it rocks real hard on the new TV.

Anyway, Martha and I started talking about what might be going on over there and here are the loose facts. He looks to be around our age. It is his parents' house and they still live there. He moved in around the time we bought our house. My guess was to help with his folks. The mother is almost unable to walk, yet refuses to use a walker. I've only seen her a handful of times and she has the smile of elderly dementia. The father shuffles out every now and then in his slippers to take out the recyclables. There is a sister, who looks to be within a year or two of the brother and she has a little yappy white dog. Cute as could be but it barks at everything, including the wind. The sister only comes around every few months to visit. At one point yesterday, we noticed a kid outside, chipping away at some ice. Not sure where he came from. The house is small, smaller then ours and all one floor, so when everyone is in town, (like now) it must be gaud awful. Mom, Dad, brother, sister, kid and dog. It explains why at one point I looked over and noticed that he was just standing in the driveway holding the shovel. Just standing there, not doing anything but not going inside either. It was 17 degrees outside and he was just standing there.

Ah, yes there is nothing quite like Christmas time along 5th Avenue in Manhattan. Kind of makes ya crazy if you don't have some sort of distraction. So that is why I shot Christmas in Midtown while listening to Led Zeppelin; specifically, the live twenty-five minute version of Dazed and Confused from the 1972 show at the LA Forum. When that song was over I found myself still in the feverish pitch of an international Christmas blast and unable to tolerate the sounds of directionless tourists. I shuffled my Shuffle to the twenty-three minute version of Whole Lotta Love from the same 1972 show. I definitely had a Wizard of Oz and The Dark Side of the Moon thing happening. It was, simply put, fantastic and the only way to roll around up there this time of year. It doesn't have to be Zeppelin but my god I recommend blasting something in your ears.

More talk about Zeppelin, I know, I know but there is no denying them. This is a band who electrified the blues and once they get in your head, they stay. Zeppelin's first four albums were released within two and a half year period, (from 1969 to 1971) and that is a substantial amount of excellent music to be bombarded with. I am officially deep in the trenches of a Zeppelin problem and I am taking Martha with me. She even started humming songs and the other day, she watched Black Dog online without me even being in the room. What can I say? For her it's all about John Bonham, for me it's Jimmy Page. I've taken out all my old vinyl, (all ten albums) and Miss Jasmine is now Christmas shopping online for either this, this or this.

What I really want for Christmas is something like this, only with this lens but that is a whole other subject that is never going to be talked about. But hey, look what's back on the market. Now that and a stopwatch would be a fun birthday present.

While wondering around the mean streets of Midtown, I called Jasmine in Pennsylvania for directions to the Disney store. I'd wanted to go there to shoot a Barbie® window display but didn't have a clue as to where it was. For some reason I thought it was near Times Square but as I walked by the Sullivan Theater, it occurred to me that I really didn't know where it was and before I made the huge commitment to walk down into Times Square at the height of lunch hour, I'd better double check. I'd just assumed it was in Times Square, because it sounds like it should be there. Jasmine is my dialup internet when I'm out shooting. If I need the exact address or phone number for something in Manhattan, I call her. Even out of state, she's still my photo bitch.

Jasmine informed me that it was over on 5th Avenue near Central Park and she knows this from memory because why? Because she's been there, of her own free will. Not with me, that's for damn sure. While I was waiting to cross Broadway with fifty holiday shoppers with cameras, I said to Jasmine;

"Oh man they lit that god damn tree last night and everyone here is out of their fucking minds."

Jasmine laughed in my ear as the woman in front of me turned around and gave me a total look of abject horror. I mouthed a 'what?' and shrugged my good shoulder at her and she looked away. That's right, Merry Christmas and welcome to New York.

With the hoards of crap that the foreign tourists are snapping up, New York City's economy should be just fine. The rest of the country will be homeless, having foreclosed on their dreams, but Manhattan is cleaning up. Who could blame them? If I lived anywhere else, I'd suffer through a shitty international delayed flight just to hit America's bargain basement prices. It is as though the United States has become one big discount store. We are now nothing more then one giant Wal*Mart.

United*States
Save Money. Live Somewhere Else.

The Wet Side of the Darkroom
I've been glazing my back with Tiger Balm extra strength for about a week solid now and it really seems to be pulling me through a rough patch. I'd rather smell like grandma then wear the TENS unit. That thing just reminds me that I'm fucked up and honestly, do I really need yet another thing to remind me of that?

Tiger Balm, for whatever reason, doesn't have the same reaction. Probably because I can't really smell very well. Too bad for everyone else now that it is the holiday hugging season. Acupuncture is working well and so is therapy. Lots of talk about bad things seems to be releasing some of the tension that I have all jammed up in me.

My therapist shares a space with several other head doctors in the practice. I've been to therapy about five times now and every time I've been there I've noticed a round tan device about the size of a large nut can sitting outside of her office. Finally, the last time I was there I asked her what it was. She said it was a noise machine. I laughed and joked, "Oh to muffle the sobbing." Her response was total straight-faced silence. I guess that would be an unfunny yes.

The drive down and over to see Jasmine now takes about an hour longer since we've moved upstate. What took six hours now takes around seven, depending upon mood levels, traffic and bladder issues. There is that big stretch through the Pocono Mountains where there is not one thing to stop at, and no cell phone service for that matter, so you best have gas and an empty bladder.

Of those seven hours, Martha let me listen to Zeppelin for roughly three and a half of them. Not too bad at all. For me it went by fast, for her, I'm sure that part of the trip was a drag, although she did appreciate listening to the live version of Moby Dick that I have. It's twenty minutes long, so you can see how three hours can go by without too much notice. Hell, you add in a twenty-five minute version of Dazed and Confused with nothing to look at but the endless leaf stripped Pocono Mountains, and well, there you go. I guess I should consider myself lucky that she didn't just veer off a cliff or something.

Big excitement along the way when we were caught in a rainstorm and an orange leaf the color of my hair became stuck in the windshield wiper on Martha's side. This was right after I had put Zeppelin away.

"Oh why does this leaf torment me so?" she articulated.
"It's either me or an orange colored leaf, right?" I laughed.

On this trip, I brought five cameras with me. I know that sounds like I'm preparing for a massive photo shoot, but what I wanted to do was actually use different cameras for each roll of film. So I brought three different speeds of Polaroid, 600 Polaroid for the One-Shot, 400 black and white for the Lubital, 127 film for the Brownie, and 200 slide film for the Holga. I spent more time packing the camera bag then I did for all the other shit that you are supposed to bring on a trip. I even brought the tripod, both of them, the small one and the big professional one. But I forgot the ball, and a bunch of other little things that we could have thrown in the car.

I'm glad I brought the tripod. The thing is always a drag to lug around and I'm trying to force myself to shoot different things. Martha and I did a little night shooting with some slow speed film. Nothing like standing in front of a church in the middle of nowhere for five minutes, with nothing but the full moon and the light of an giant glowing cross illuminating the frozen ground around you.

Five minutes is a really long time to loiter on God's land and when you factor in that the preacher lived next to the church in a trailer, it was only a matter of time before I saw him in there looking out at me through his hunter motif curtains.

I did have someone in a truck drive up next to me and ask me what I was doing. When I told him that I was taking a picture of the church, he spun out on the gravel road around me. Dick.

I think that I did more shooting then spending time with Jasmine. Thursday was fun, but we didn't get to her apartment until almost three, and by six o'clock we were all dead tired after a big dinner and all that Guitar Hero activity. Jasmine and Martha have started a new band called The KittiLitta. They rock.

Friday, Jasmine had to work, yes that is right, she had to work on Black Friday. She said that when she got to work a 5am there was a line all around her building. When they opened the doors, people came streaming in like sand. All five registers were open and never stopped ringing shit up throughout her nine-hour shift. By 11:00am, the store had made $80,000. More proof that everyone is out of their goddamn minds. In a town of roughly 15,000 people, where the largest employer is the University, (the second being an oil and gas drilling company) that is literally a twelve pack of yellow Stickie™ Notes for every man, woman and child who lives there.

So by the time I saw Jasmine that afternoon she was delirious. Poor thing, she does look cute in her Staples uniform however. We were supposed to have dinner with some friends of hers at 6:30 but she didn't think she could stay awake that long. So we went to Eat'n Park and had dinner with the blue-haired crowd.

As we were eating our dinner Jasmine was telling a few work stories. She said that every Sunday morning at Staples it is like Dawn of the Dead out in the parking lot. People just stand out there and wait for the white logo light to come on, letting them know the store is open. She said she can see them waiting out there, every now and then someone will walk up to the glass door and look in.

As she was telling us this story, I thought about how brainless we all must seem to her generation. I mean really, what is so fucking important in our lives that we need to wait for the Staples store to open on a Sunday morning? Just what the hell are we working on and more importantly, why? Sure I may say that all of her friends are a bunch of 'tards, but upon hearing her talk about people my age acting like PowerPoint idiots, well I think it might be a draw as to who is the most ridiculous.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream
To kill time on Friday until Jasmine was off work, Martha and I drove around the backwoods of Pennsyltucky taking photos. Our destination was the Torrance State Mental Hospital outside of Blairsville. Jazz had recommended that it might be an interesting place to shoot because one of the buildings was abandoned. Finally after driving around every little god fearing, meth lab town in the area we found the hospital.

Once on the grounds of Torrance's extremely large campus, no one asked us what we were doing, were we were going or why we had cameras, which after driving around for about 30 minutes, getting out if the car and setting up the small tripod you would think some security would have come around.

Built in 1919, the campus is quite large, almost Ivy League large as it does have a university feel to it. School or nuthouse, it's all the same thing really. Anyway, in the hospitals heyday the buildings housed between 3,000 - 4,000 patients. That's a whole lot of crazy locked up there on that mountain.

At the edge of the campus stood a large building that was in the process of being gutted. The windows had all been pulled out and one could see clearly into the empty rooms with cream-colored wall tiles. Easy, wipe-down walls, Martha called them. The building had fencing around it and was obviously the one Jazz had been talking about. I can see how the kids would sneak up the back and crawl in at night to scare the shit out of each other.

As we drove around the campus, we noticed that the majority of the buildings were abandon. Something Jasmine had not mentioned. It appeared as though the current working part of the hospital is only using about 30% of the buildings. Driving around gave us a bigger sense of just how frightening the whole thing was.

We saw four massive U-shaped buildings that were totally vacant. This is where the general population was probably housed. We could see inside the windows and it appeared to be the standard open psychiatric ward layout. One big warehouse type room on either side with the main door to the building in the lower part of the U.

Around the back is where we found the building where the current residents are housed. About three hundred or so patients currently live behind a razor wired electric fence at Torrance. Out of their windows, they have a view of the four larger abandon buildings and not much else. This is where you go if you are criminally insane, committed rape or have a major drug problem. As if any of these things are even related or should coexist with each other. Each one of these 'batshit crazy problems' should have their own building. Not all shoved into one space together where they could trade stories. Granted they probably are not in one room together, but I'm sure there is some small group interaction going on.

In the timeline of mental illnesses' there certainly were worse times to be locked up in a nuthouse but given that stuff like what John B. Watson and Rosalie Rayner of John Hopkins University were doing with a baby named Albert B in 1920 and a little piece of magic called Behavior Modification, I can only imagine what the hell was going on in the psychiatric wards up at Torrance in 1919.

John and Rosalie (those wacky adulterous scientists) made an 11-month-old child terrified of a pet rat (and all things with fur) by clanging a steel bar behind him every time he saw the animal. Great stuff and