Saxe PhotoBlog

Top Five Lunches: Part 1

2008-04-19T10:45:00.005-04:00

Don Alfonso: Sant'Agata sui due golfi - Massalubrense Italy

Once a year, we spend a week somewhere in Europe with our friends, Doris and Ed. We all enjoy a good lunch and some of our favorites have been while we were traveling with them. A few years ago we decided to meet on the Amalfi Coast in Italy and spend a week in Positano. It was a nice enough place but all the restaurants were a bit touristy and after eating there for a few days we felt we had to try somewhere else. We decided to drive to the tip of the peninsula and without any plan in mind, we would stumble on some lovely little idyllic spot for a superb lunch.

We set out on back roads passing through a few small towns and enjoying the scenery when all of a sudden while driving through what seemed to be an innocuous working-class village, Sharon yelled out Stop! Ed slammed on the brakes in front of an iron gate on which some lettering in gold said “Ristorante Don Alfonso: with four gold stars beneath it. Through the gate was a small path leading through a garden to a neat little building surrounded on three sides by windows with flower-boxes.

We parked the car and entered through the gate to the restaurant. We sat down in a very bright sun-filled room, ordered a bottle of white wine and waited for our lunch to arrive. Shortly afterward, a very handsome sixtyish woman showed up at our table and introduced herself as the owner. She asked if, after our meal, would we like to tour the wine cellar and if we were, we could meet her in her office across the garden.

The wine arrived, the appetizer arrived, our lunch arrived, all at the proper time and all of it absolutely delicious. For the next two and a half hours, we sat by ourselves in this beautiful white room, enjoying the food, the wine and the soft gentile mood of the place. It was blissful, it was soulful, it was heaven.

After our coffee, we went across the garden to the lady’s office and she graciously showed us the property, including the gardens, the library, and finally the wine cellar. It was quite the cellar,starting out two thousand years ago as a roman well and now being home to sixty thousand bottles of wine. We walked down an old stone staircase for what seemed like forever passing endless bottles of wine stashed away in the sides of the stone walls in tiny little nooks and crannies. The place was musty, a bit cool, and covered with cobwebs. It reminded me of a scene from “The Casket of Montresour” with Vincent Price and Peter Lorre where they have this wine tasting contest in Vincent Price’s wine cellar. Only it wasn’t a movie set. it was real. The place was fabulous. After the tour we went back to her office where she graciously poured us some liqueurs and we sat for about an hour and chatted with her. She said that it was past season and that all her vegetables and foods were grown on their farm a few kilometers from there but perhaps the next time when we returned we could tour her farm. Right at the end, I asked her if I could take her picture and she agreed. This shot is of her relaxing in her office.

Fatima: Portugal, 2007

2008-04-12T11:09:00.003-04:00

Do you remember the scene in "La Dolce Vita" where the two kids claim to have seen the Virgin Mary in a field and the whole Italian media circus swoops down on there town to report the event?

Well, it's sort of true because in this town in Fatima Portugal, that's exactly what happened. It wasn't a town in the 1930's when this "vision" supposedly took place but today it is a small city devoted to this event. The high point is the cathedral which you cannot see in the photo . The photo only shows a part of the steps leading up to the place. Its fucking huge! We arrived there at around 10:00 PM but the place was still , kicking with masses going on in an outdoor cupola 24/7. This place was about as trashy as one could get. I thought I had seen it all when I was a kid in Montreal and they had the "Oratoire" situated on a hill with brother Andre's heart in a glass vase in the cathedral but this place put it to shame. I only wish we could have arrived a bit earlier while the souvenir shop was still open. I would have loved to get a slice of Pizza with an image of Jesus visible in the cheese topping.

Montreal Winter

2008-02-20T18:57:00.002-05:00

Small Cameras

For the past few years, I have been using small cameras which I can carry in my pocket when I am too lazy to schlep along my regular one. I had bought a Contax TVS III sometime around 2000 and usually it stayed at home as I wandered around all over the place saying "Why the fuck did I leave the camera at home" or similar elegant phrases. (read this) But every now and then it would end up in my pocket and every now and then I would be lucky enough to have it when a brilliant picture opportunity occurred.

Last week I received an email notifying me that I had won a prize at the Px3's Human Condition Competition, Prix de la Photographie Paris and that I would be included in a group show this spring in LA and New York and perhaps Europe later this year. I did not remember which photo I had entered so I logged onto their site and was surprised to discover my image was one taken a few years ago with my Contax. I have mentioned this event a couple of years ago (click here) in a previous blog. I never considered it one of my best but it seemed to fit the theme of the competition so I entered it.

Lately I have been using a Canon G9 as a pocket camera and although it takes a pretty good picture, it does not function very well at night because of the noise which is common with small digital cameras at high ISO's. But when I convert the image to black and white, it has a nice grainy effect which I like. I have exhibited a few of these images taken with these small cameras at my recent show in Italy and also there are a couple on my web site.

The photo at the top was taken last week in Montreal. I had to go there for a family function and although I dread going north in the winter, I felt I had to be there. As usual, Montreal in winter is miserable, damp and dim in every way. This photo was taken with my little Canon G9 from the 16th floor of my hotel room in late afternoon on a typical Montreal, February day.

Blocked!

2008-02-02T11:32:00.001-05:00

It happens to everybody who creates things. one day, the juices just stop flowing. You find your self doing the same shit over and over and your not satisfied with anything you do. Your creative life just stops. I am not sure when it started but its like a spider's bite. You don't really know when you were bitten but suddenly you find yourself scratching the spot.

I started scratching when I came down to Florida last November. I did not notice it at first but I suddenly found myself visiting the same spots I always do when I am here. The beach, Lake Worth, Palm Beach,— the same old shit— more shitty pictures. I knew I had to change my style a bit but how?

This is not the first time I have been "blocked". Creative block is a frequent guest in my psyche. It like recessions; they come around very regularly at certain intervals and some are worse than others. This one is a middle-of-the-road one and over the years I have developed a method of working through them. I might still visit the same old haunts but I expect very little to come of it, but every now and then, I am surprised. I bring my camera everywhere but shoot very little—I don't want to be caught off-guard. I look at my old images a lot and try to figure out where I want to go next. I also see if anything can be done differently or where I can improve.

But most of all there is the technique that I have used for over 30 years (Yes, it has really happened over and over). If I were ever to write a book on photography, this would be one of the main chapters because this technique has worked so consistently over the years. I call it the freebee technique and it works like this.

People are always asking me to take pictures of their shit that they sell, their relatives, insurance claims, their dogs, for passports, etc. I hate doing it and always graciously decline, but not when I am blocked. During these periods, I always say yes on the assumption that one never really knows whats around the corner.

Last Thursday night, Sharon and I had dinner downtown at Sushi Rok, and then decided to take a stroll down to the park in front of the library to see a free concert. When we walked out of the resturant and crossed the street, there were these four black guys talking in front of a storefront. One of them said something to me which I did not hear so I went closer and and asked them to repeat it. He asked me If I had ever been to Africa and I replied no. "We are from Zimbabwe" He said, "we have just opened up this store", he went on, motioning to the store behind him.

One of them was very tall and had wonderful dreadlocks. "May I take your picture" I asked. "Sure" he said, "and all my friends too. We can send it home."

This is not what I had in mind but what the hell. We all went inside and he gathered up all his partners and they all stood in a line and all of a sudden this little kid ran up and stood in front of everybody and I took the snapshot. I asked the kid's father if I could take a picture of the kid alone and he said sure. These guys were very warm and friendly and were delighted when I offered to come back and take their pictures (this time on my terms) later in the week. One of them then asked if I could take a few pictures of the store for publicity and I said sure, why not, no charge.

I have a feeling that my creative block is coming to an end.

Mens Locker Room: Country Club of Florida

2008-01-30T21:26:00.000-05:00

300 years ago, some besotted Scots, having too much time on their hands, started whacking a feather ball around for fun. It seemed to catch on and in no time at all, they were stumbling around in sheep shit on the northern hills, while keeping warm by drinking a bottle of scotch as the icy wind swirled up their kilts and tickled their balls. The bottle would last for about 18 holes and hence the modern golf course layout was born.

About 350 years later, I fell in love with the game of golf. About 10 years ago, Sharon had decided that I needed to depart from my slothful habits and take up some form of exercise so off we went to Marty Keene’s Golf Academy in Williston for lessons. After the lessons came more lessons and endless trips to the driving range to hit balls but it was a slow sell. The main problem was that I did not know anybody who played.

One day my neighbor Marc asked me if I wanted to play golf one afternoon and so off we went to Cedar Knoll in Hinesburg for a round. It was a good day. Marc and I became friends, and I became addicted to golf.

Eventually, in my third year I payed my $600 and joined Cedar Knoll Country Club. It was anything but a country club. It was really a homemade local golf course which started out as a dairy farm and the owners who really knew how to grow things, got interested in golf and turned their farm into a golf course. I loved the place. I started showing up about three times a week to play, joined a men’s league and just got into it, and when I wasn’t playing, I would just hit balls on the practice tee.

One day as I was hitting balls, I heard from behind me “Nice shot!”.

It was Barry, the club pro complementing a shot I took as he was walking past me. Eventually, I began to take lessons from him and over a couple of years, My handicap dropped to almost respectable.

One year, Barry asked Marc and I if we wanted to have a Sunday regular round with him and Scott (who I did not know at the time). I was surprised and asked him why he would want to play regularly with an 18 handicapper and his reply surprised me.

“You are really serious about your game and are always trying to improve. You don’t see that with too many of the golfers around here.”

He was right. Cedar Knoll was a “blue collar” club and many of the members were in the building trades or had regular jobs, and golf for them was just drinking beer, being away from the wife, and hanging out with their friends.

So, every Sunday, the four of us would meet at 7:28 and play golf. I loved it!

In our fourth year of playing together, after the round and sitting on the deck drinking a beer, the subject of playing another course came up. Barry said there were plenty of wonderful courses for us to play at and he of course knew the pros who worked at them. A few weeks later, Barry asked if we wanted to play at this place called Country Club of Vermont. " I know the pro there. He is a really nice guy and I think he can get us on." I promise you it will be a real experience.”

The following Sunday, we met bright and early at the Williston car park, packed our clubs and drove up the interstate to Waterbury.

As we turned up the hill to the road leading into the club, I could see the front 9 on either side of me and immediately fell in love with it. It was by far the most beautiful golf course, I had ever seen. After the round, we had a beer on the deck of the clubhouse. overlooking the back nine with the mountains and Camel’s Hump in the distance. It was one of those rare beautiful serene moments which happen rarely and are remembered forever.

When I got home that evening, Sharon asked how it went. I told her the course was spectacular, I shot a crummy 95, I had a wonderful day, — I wanted to join.

“ Why not” she replied. “You really like to play golf, Why not at a nice club.”

I was floored. The next day I phoned the club and inquired about membership. A nice gentleman called back and invited me out the next day for a free round. I could just feel myself getting sucked in.

“I would never join any club that would have me as a member.” — Groucho Marx

I was not sure it was my scene or that I would fit in but on reflection, I had been a member at Cedar Knoll for the past 5 years and had still had not fit in. In the end, it was a “leap of faith” and I joined.

It did not take me long to find out how right I was. The first thing I noticed was that the members went out of their way to introduce themselves. It was not hard to find a game and the level of conversation had changed. I had moved from listening to people talk about football (which I never watched) to talking about business, wine, politics and football (which I still do not watch). People in the clubhouse would say hello instead of nod, behave like adults on the course instead of drunken slobs, tee times were respected and overall, it was a far more relaxing, friendly atmosphere.

My greatest thrill though is still driving up I-89 in the late afternoon, playing a round, and then sitting on the deck with a beer, watching the sun set while chatting to one of the members and thinking about my other great love— how to take a better photographs.

The photo you see at the top of the page is the men’s locker room at the Country Club of Florida in Boynton Beach. We play an inter-club tournament with the Country Club of Florida. Last September they had come up to play us in Vermont and now it was our turn to play them on their course. They were great hosts and at a reception for us, our club president was really impressed with their locker room (who wouldn’t be, most of Florida’s residents don’t have homes this nice). He came over to me afterwards and suggested I write something in my blog about it so this one’s for you Skip.

Somehow though, I think those scots really were into something and that over the years, it has been mostly forgotten. What I really love about golf in Vermont, is walking up and down about 4 miles of beautiful scenic Vermont golf links, with a golf bag on my back, in good weather or bad, and ending up in a club house quietly drinking a beer at the bar as I watch the sun set over Camel’s Hump. There is nothing like it.

Art?

2008-01-15T10:38:00.001-05:00

What does one do on a rainy Sunday in Florida?. This week we went to Palm Beach3 which is a gathering of all sorts of art dealers in painting, sculpture, photography and decorative arts. The event is held annually in the Palm Beach Convention Center which is appropriate for this sort of thing. The following week this building will be occupied by luxury car dealers selling Lamborghinis, and Rolls Royces — the same toys for the same boys. This is Palm Beach, the land of the pretentious, the impostor, the exhibitionist, and super rich. Its quite a mix. The convention center is the closest they will ever come to a mall.

Question: Whats it cost?

Answer: $35,000 (very glibly)

Response: Oh Fabulous!

No one here would ever dare to be shocked by the outrageous price of dreck.

This event brings in art dealers from around the world. Like a moth drawn to light, they descend on this convention center to peddle their wares to the rich and powerful who are united, only in their total lack of good taste. (If you don't believe me, just take a walk down Worth Avenue in Palm Beach and look at the schlock being peddled as art. My favorite is the life-sized bronze sculpture of Picasso sitting in a rocking chair— $120,000. Not BY Picasso, OF Picasso. It was done by some whore with a goatee.) There seems to be some uniform for art dealers. The men are dressed in black suits with black shirts, black ties and rimless glasses. The female dealers also have a "uniform" but it is more subtle. diamonds, white dresses and breast implants seem to be the fashion of the moment.

The public is just as contrived, at least most of them. They are dressed in the same"uniforms" as the dealers. This is to ensure that they recognize each so the sellers don't have to waste their time answering stupid questions from amateurs.

I know I am just ranting now but lets be honest. Its not all bad. Amongst the life-sized nude sculptures of porn-stars. over sized photographs of washed-out views from grandmother's kitchen, paintings of voluptuous semi-clad women staring vacantly into the distance, over sized photographs of blurred footprints, life-sized sculptures of push pins, $64,000 lighting fixtures, wall-sized portraits of screaming children with blood dripping from their empty eye sockets, and endless prints of Botero and Vazarelly, there was actually some good stuff to be seen. You just had to wade your way through all the shit to get there.

For me, however the main attraction was the crowd and the never-ending cacophony of color, shapes and styles was far superior to what was hanging on the walls.

The photo on top is of a jewellery dealer from Ottawa, Sharon was looking at a bracelet and this was the only contact we had with any of the dealers. (Most of them just ignore the audience as they peck away at their MacBooks and pretend to be very busy. The only thing that will get their attention would be a whiff of Chanel which is a secret sign that the person wearing it is stinking rich and worthy of their attention.)

But I digress. Anyhow this woman was showing Sharon a bracelet and I asked to take her picture. She said yes. By the way, she didn't really belong here since her stuff was reasonably priced and she actually spoke to people.

A Quick English Lesson

2007-12-23T11:43:00.000-05:00

For the past few months, I have been tracking the visits to this blog and my web site (www.dsaxe.com) using a neat little utility called Statcounter. It tells me who has visited my site, where they came from where they went to and how long they visited. It also tells me what search criteria they used to visit me. The results were quite surprising as I found out that about half the visits were from Saudi Arabia, Iran, Yemen, Egypt and elsewhere in the middle east.

A quick look at their search criteria gave me some clues. They were all searching in google for the word “Saxe”. It wasn’t a quick stretch to figure out that they were in search of porn sites and were confusing my name (Saxe) with the word “sex”. (Although most of them quickly move on after discovering their error, a few of them linger on and explore my blog in more detail, and I appreciate that.)

Not only do these guys have to get laid more often but they also have to improve their English if they want to surf the web for porn sites. So here is my message:

Anyone searching this site for porn or sex, you have come to the wrong place. What you really need to do is to google the following words:

Sex
Porn
XXX

This should get you to the right place. Good luck.

P.S. I have a feeling that by my using these words, increased traffic will result because the search engines will direct them here. Only time will tell.

Dog: Somewhere in Portugal

2007-12-13T10:53:00.000-05:00

I am working on my website which I am in the process of updating. I really like this picture but it does not fit in with my site design. The problem is that it is vertical and it just does not fit in with the other images so here it is— on its own.

Actually, I am a big believer in single images. Somewhere along the way, galleries and the public that follows their lead decided that themes or stories were the next big thing. They might have a point, but there is still room for a single image every now and then.

This was some small fishing village in Portugal (I cannot remember the name) that had absolutely no charm, tourists, historical sights or quaint restaurants. It was beautiful and was oozing of soul. The air was cool (it was mid November) but in the sun, you would never feel it. As we walked along through the town, I noticed this dog was just hanging out, sleeping in the middle of the road but as we approached, it got up, gave me a final look and walked away. We were strangers in this town— even for dogs.

Outstanding Service

2007-12-08T13:18:00.000-05:00

The new AT&T

I hate it when large companies buy smaller ones. they say it is to improve thing and is for the benefit of their customers but this is rarely the case. The bottom line is the bottom line, and the only reason they do it is to increase their profits — and usually at the expense of their clients.

In Florida I use a DSL connection for my internet that was serviced by Bellsouth. For two years I had no problems with it until BellSouth was gobbled up by AT&T. Ever since then, they started answering their phone with “Welcome to the new AT&T, offering you outstanding service.” I knew I was in trouble.

The first clue was when I noticed that it took about twenty seconds for my email to go out. This seemed about 18 seconds too high so I phoned tech support. I was immediately connected to some guy who barely spoke English. I told him the problem and He said that it was within tolerances (whatever that means). I disagreed and pushed further.

“It usually takes only a second or two” I said

“It might be a problem with Outlook. Try re-booting it” He suggested

“ I am on a Mac” I replied.

“We do not support” Macs he said.

You have been supporting It for the past three years when I first got my DSL connection. Has something changed?”

Click! the line went dead. Something had changed.

I tried phoning again knowing full well that the next guy might not be as stupid/rude/unhelpful.
Again I was connected to a guy who could barely speak English. “ Welcome to the new AT&T, offering our customers outstanding service. How can we help you?” he asked.
I told him the problem and again he suggested doing something with Outlook.

“ I am on a Mac” I said, “you support Macs, don’t you?”

“Of course we do, but I am not an expert on this system. Let me connect you to our outstanding Mac support department.” he said. He gave me a number to call, and I thanked him and dialed the number. It was the number for Apple Computer.

I decided to postpone taking action until I could think of something else but sometimes you are just forced to act.

A few days later, Our signal went down and I phone AT&T for some more “outstanding service”. All the lines were dead. I kept phoning for a few hours but all I would get was an outstanding busy signal. I assumed it was a wide-spread problem so I just left it until the next morning.

The next morning I called and a recorded voice which offered outstanding service said that the problem was fixed and they were on line again. I guess that meant everybody but me. I called for the next few hours, (the lines were still busy) until finally I could reach another non english-speaking person who actually tried to help. After talking with him on the phone for about an hour, I found out that this problem was spread over seven states and that there were also a number of other homes that were still without outstanding service. In any case he said that there were also some problems with my modem and they would send somebody to look at it the next day. So there I was in for another day without outstanding service.

The next morning I awoke and VOILA! it was working again although very slow. I decided to not cancel the call just in case, and in about two hours the AT&T outstanding service guy comes to the door. He looks at my telephone lines and then focuses in on my modem.

“Everything looks to be OK” he explains. “I will just re-boot your modem to get the speed up to where it should be.”
He fucks around with some of the wiring (pretending to be professional and check for erros on my behalf) re-boots the modem and everything goes down. I am offline again.

“What did you do” I asked. It was working before you got here.

“ Dunno”.

He picks up his cellphone and calls the office. They talk for a few minutes and then he says that the problem is probably with the wiring. They will send somebody the next day to check the wiring outside my home (he only works inside, the other guy only works outside.) and if it looks OK, the problem is probably inside my house with the wiring and they will have to charge me an undisclosed amount to repair it.

“Will that solve the problem?” I asked.

“Maybe” he shrugs,

“You know, it was working almost perfectly before your system went down in 7 states, and now that I am having a problem getting back online. you have finally deduced that this problem lies somewhere in the wiring of my house. Is that right?”

“Uh hu.”

So there I go from having service, to getting outstanding AT&T service which means I do not have any service anymore. After he leaves, I check my wiring and network and find out I have no outstanding service because this guy fucked with the connections and replaced them incorrectly.
I looked at Sharon and said, “were getting cable.” She agreed.

I phoned Comcast (the cable company)and they said I would be up and running the next day.
The guy arrives early the next morning and installs the cable modem. It is about three times as fast as the DSL. As he is leaving and I show him to the door, there is a sticker on my doorknob from AT&T. It explains that they have checked the outside wiring, at it is intact and that my problem is “probably” inside my house and they can check it out if I wish but I have to understand that there is an additional charge for this and there is no guarantee that it will correct the problem.

I can hardly wait until Monday when I tell them what to do with my problem.

El Camino de Santiago

2007-11-25T09:45:00.001-05:00

Just before we were about to leave for Portugal, our phone rang. It was the hotel in Lisbon apologizing profusely for a booking error that they had made. They were very sorry for the error but they had to move us to another hotel. They assured us that we would be happy there.

“Uh Hu” we said. “Ya, right”

“What the hell” was our general philosophy because after traveling to Europe all these years, we had grown accustomed to this sort of thing and were venturing into this with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. They promised us our complete satisfaction and that a driver would be meeting us at the airport to take us to the Palacio Belmonte.

“Palacio?, Right”

Our cynicism was immediately put to rest when upon exiting through the gate in Lisbon, there was a young lady waiting for us with a sign that said ”Saxe”. As we were going through the city to our hotel, Sharon turned to me and said, “Now for the Palacio. Lets see what this is like.”

The black Mercedes sped through downtown Lisbon and began a long winding trip up one of its many hills to the old part of the city. The streets became narrower and narrower, and the car slowed down as it made the endless series of twists and turns through the ever-narrowing streets. Eventually, the streets became alleys as I noticed the side mirrors almost scraping the sides of the buildings as we sped to our destination.

At the top of the hill, the car stopped and she pointed to an old wooden gate in the center of a medieval crumbling wall. We got out and went through the gate into a cobblestone 15th century courtyard. Up to now it seemed interesting, but things were to get better.

The Palacio Belmonte was a 15th century palace, built for some ancient noble at the top of one of Lisbon’s many hills (there are 7 in all). Our room was in a tower and comprised of 4 different floors. We entered on one floor which had a very modern bathroom. At the end of the corridor, there was a winding staircase which took up one flight to a fairly large den. There were windows on three sides (this was after all a tower) overlooking the city and water below. In the center of the room was a table and chairs with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Nothing had changed in this room for 400 years except at some point, electricity was added. On two walls were some very old blue-tiled illustrations of ancient nobility in their fine clothes with prancing animals at their feet. The walls were ancient plaster and the floor was the original stone. Up the stairs was the bed room which was simple and had some small windows looking out onto the city. The final floor was a door leading out to a terrace which overlooked the town, the harbor and the outlet to the Atlantic.

“Cool”

The next day we began to explore the city and do the tourist thing. That night we returned to our room and began in on the bottle of wine which had been sitting in the room. Sharon wanted to check our email so after a couple of glasses we went down to the lobby to use their computer. When we got there, there was a lady sitting in front of the screen typing away feverishly at the keyboard. When we entered the room, she turned around and Sharon asked if she would be there a long time since she just wanted to check our email. She apologized for monopolizing the computer and insisted that Sharon do her thing, and she would then resume her writing afterwards. While Sharon went online, I sat down in a great big leather chair and she joined me. As she was asking the usual questions as to where I came from, etc., I looked at her and wanted to take her picture. I just did not know how to approach her about it but as I keep finding out, they always open the door for me.

She said she was from Guadalajara, Mexico and was a writer.

“ My husband and I have just returned from walking the El Camino de Santiago”

“Huh?”

“ You never heard of the El Camino de Santiago?” She asked

“Huh?

She went on to explain that el Camino de Santiago (The way of St. John) was a pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, where legend has it that the remains of the apostle, Saint James the Great, are buried. It was one of the most important Christian pilgrimages during medieval times and was considered one of three pilgrimages on which a plenary indulgence could be earned. It was a trek that lasted for 750 kilometers and took them the best part of three weeks to complete. Along the way they would stop at various religious sites and have this card that they carried stamped like a sort of passport. At the end of the journey, they would go to the town of Finistre which the ancients thought to be the end of the known world and cast their boots, and clothes into the sea. She described the scene in detail, a beach littered with boots, underwear, and other apparel.

It was actually quite fascinating to hear her talk about it for:
1.El Camino was something that I had never heard of before.
 2. She was so pumped up about it, and being a writer, she described the event to me in a very personal and passionate way.
3. Whenever I am in Europe, I become interested in Catholic rituals.

She said that for her, it was a journey of personal growth and meditation, and not religion. She added that most of the people in her group were there for the same reason. She and her husband were in a small group of 10 travelers who marched along the side of the road with walking sticks as the traffic whizzed by talking, reflecting, and just chilling out as it were. At the end, she felt rejuvenated and refreshed as they then continued to tour Portugal for another week. In two days, they would be returning to Mexico. She then pulled out a small notepad and jotted down the names of some towns that we might be interested in seeing.

I love these encounters. For one thing, it reminds me how little I know about some things. It also confirms my belief that everyone is different and that all men/women have widely varying interests and passions. It opens my eyes and stirs my imagination. Not that I would ever want to do it, but that others are actually excited about doing it. As a photographer, the most interesting thing about what I see is how different we all are. I would have a great deal of difficulty finding any inspiration in a place where everybody looked, acted and thought the same.

“ Would you mind if I took your picture?” I asked.

Fado in Lisbon

2007-11-10T14:37:00.000-05:00

We were in Portugal last week. One night, Sharon asks the hotel guy "What about Fado?"

We knew it was their version of soul music and that it was only done in clubs in Lisbon, but that's about it. He kindly offered to make a reservation for us at one of the clubs. We then found out that it was a dinner thing and that you would have to sit through a shitty meal to enjoy the music.

"Can we just listen to the music and drink" I asked.

He said he would find us a place and made a reservation for music only at one of the joints at the bottom of the hill. If you have never been to Lisbon, the first thing you notice is a lot of hills. The town is crawling with them. It makes San Francisco look like as flat as a bowling alley. So after having dinner and finishing a bottle of wine at another restaurant, we staggered off into the night looking for Fado.

The other thing about Lisbon is not only do they have a lot of hills but the streets (and sidewalks) are covered with these tiny glazed stones which make it very hard to walk— especially if you have been drinking.

After stumbling along these tiled uneven streets and getting lost in alleys and narrow streets with no names we somehow found the place and walked through the door. There was a foyer with a couple of women hanging around smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. One of them came up to us and we identified ourselves as the couple from the hotel who wanted to only drink some more and listen to music. We were led into a dinning area which was dim and empty except for a few groups just finishing their meals. There was absolutely nothing going on. We sat down and ordered a bottle of wine.

"You have had enough to drink already" Sharon said. "Don't drink too much."

"Of course not." I lied.

We sat around for about half an hour and still nothing was going on. Finally one old guy from one of the tables finished off his glass of wine and went over to the small stage and sat down, picked up a guitar and started tuning it. Across from us at the other end of the room sat two guys and a woman who had been sitting there smoking cigarettes and drinking wine since we got there. One of the guys put out his cigarette and went over to the stage and adjusted one of the chairs as another guy entered the room from the kitchen with a cigarette in his mouth, sat down, picked up a guitar and started strumming it. The show was about to begin.

It ended as soon as it began. After singing two songs, the first guitarist went back to his friends at the table and started to drink some more wine. The singer returned to his table with the other guy and woman who had been smoking continuously and lit up another cigarette. The other guitarist went back into the kitchen. The lights came back on and we noticed that except for another couple, we were the only people left in the room. Sharon and I looked at each other, blankly like two lost schmucks.

"Is that it?" I asked.

Obviously it wasn't because after about 20 minutes , the two guitarists appeared again and this time one of the other guys at the table across the room from us, put out his cigarette and went up to the stage. All he did was crack a joke to one of the guitarists who was tuning his instrument an then left the stage to go back to his table and light up another cigarette. The two guitarists began to play a little tune which lasted for about 2 or 3 minutes and the set was over. It began to dawn on us that drinking wine and chain-smoking were the inspirational tools for Fado singers.

We hung around for about half an hour longer with nothing happening and then said fuck-it and got up to leave. As we walked past the table with the three chain-smoking singers, one of them suddenly got up, butted out his smoke and blocked our exit.

" No, no, don't go" he said in minimal English. "More to come be patient drink wine" and pointed us back to our seats..

As soon as we returned to our seats the young girl in the photo who we had not yet seen walked through a curtain from the kitchen, came on the stage and started singing. After three songs they took an other cigarette break and then the older woman from the photo came on stage and sang four songs and then the all returned to their places for another cigarette and then finally the guy on the right who never looks at the audience or camera came out and sang a few. By now it was about 2:00 AM and things were lowing down. Once they began to set the table for their meal, we decided it was time to leave, but not before taking a few pictures. I asked the guy at the table if I could take their photo and they all smiled and said yes. They all promptly butted their cigarettes in unison and came out into the foyer for their pictures.

Feathers

2007-10-21T23:46:00.001-04:00

In 1994, after living in Vermont for two years, Sharon and I decided to buy a condo. We found a small development in Colchester, and put down our deposit and moved in the following summer. Our unit shared a common wall and driveway with Fred and Kaye.

Fred was a chemical engineer who worked at IBM. He was very proud of his brain and never missed a chance to show off to anyone within earshot how clever he was. He was a 350 lb braggart who felt that he was always right and felt perfectly justified in badmouthing any one who disagreed with him.

Kaye was his mother. She was spiteful, mean, stupid, and totally devoted and protective of her “brilliant” 45 year-old son.

They would take evening walks together arm in arm and trap the other neighbors into conversations. These were mostly about how brilliant Fred was. They would do all the talking while the neighbors just nodded stupidly as Kaye would talk on and on about what a marvelous son she had. Eventually, the poor neighbor would look down at his/her watch, say glibly “I gotta go” and duck into the safety of their condo.

Fred always thought he was the smartest guy in the room so it came as no surprise that he would eventually come to criticize everyone who serviced the association from the landscaping to the snow removal, to the pool service to the garbage collection. Everybody was incompetent. And when the association board failed to fire them, he began a series of public letters challenging the board’s wisdom in not heeding his advice. Every week there would be another public letter ridiculing the board members personally, and calling upon them to do things the Fred way. He seemed to think that everything should be done the way IBM did things with reviews, multi-quotes, cost analysis and so on for our 15 unit development. Even something as simple as getting insurance for the pool should be an endless series of specifications, quotes, meetings and weekly progress reports to the members. He endlessly criticized the board for not putting the time to do it his way. Eventually, the members tired of his tirades and in their impotent little way elected him to the board.

It was a public vote and Sharon and I, and another couple were the only members not to vote for him. Our fate was sealed. We were now the enemy.

Kaye immediately began a campaign of hate toward us. She began by asking us to return her keys (we had exchanged house keys years earlier) as we could no longer be trusted. Once after having some work done in the woods next to our house, two chips from the wood-chipper found their way onto her lawn. I watched from my office window as she picked up the two chips and systematically went from door to door showing the neighbors the two wood chips and pointing her bony little finger toward our house. Whenever the FedEx truck would pull up to deliver a package she would be out the door in a flash telling them not to park in the driveway which we shared.

One day in this driveway Fred started yelling and shrieking at us for some imagined misdeed that his mother told him we did to her. We had an altercation and I told him to go fuck himself. I had had enough of this schmuck.

It was war, at least from his side. From then on he began to confront us by using his position on the board to pass bylaws especially aimed at us. He actually passed a bylaw making a part of my driveway a no-parking area (I ignored it). There was a tension in the air because they were always there and it was impossible for us to avoid them.

One day, while visiting Sam in Montreal, I told him the story of what was going on. He could not stop laughing. The more he laughed, the more I laughed with him. I said that Sharon and I had decided to sell the house since having this prick as a neighbor was not much fun. He agreed, and went into his bedroom and came back with a crow’s feather in his hand.
“Put this feather on a common wall between both your homes. He will never bother you again until you sell your house” he said

I am not a big believer in magic but I was in a “what-the-fuck sort of mood so I took the feather back to Colchester and did as he said. Until we sold the house three months later and moved, we never saw them again. Whenever we were in the driveway or on the front lawn, they were inside their home, out of sight.

As it turned out, we moved to a better place with normal neighbors and I never thought about those wretched people again.

A few weeks ago, I was playing golf. It was Indian Summer and the leaves were at their peak. I looked up in the sky and saw a hawk, circling above me. Suddenly it dove into the pond next to the 10th fairway and scooped up one of Fred Bashara’s prized Japanese Coy that he had donated to the club and fed every day. As the hawk came out of the pond and began to climb with the struggling fish in its talons, a solitary feather fell to the ground in front of me. I picked it up.

"This is for you Sam” I said

Una Importante Photograph Americano

2007-09-17T14:29:00.001-04:00

One might wonder what I am doing in this picture. The short answer is that this picture was taken by a paparazzi by the name of Vincenzo at a fashion show in Brescia, Italy. I certainly look like I belong here but there is more to the story than this.

Recently, I was invited to exhibit my photographs at a photography gallery in Brescia, Italy. Naturally, not wishing to pass up a chance to visit Italy, Sharon and I decided to go there to attend the opening. The gallery was owned by Enrica and Renato who showed themselves to be very gracious hosts. Our original plan was to show up at the opening and then spend a few days traveling around Lombardy and Piedmont exploring the countryside. However, our hosts were so hospitable, we ended up hanging out in Brescia getting to know them and spending time with them.

Enrica was a bit more busy with her work so it was Renato who we saw the most of during the first few days. He was an architect who specialized in renovations but he spent his evenings usually in our company showing us around and introducing us to his friends. One day he asked if we would like to attend an “opening” of a store on the outskirts of Brescia. He said the place was owned by a friend of his and that he had done the renovations. There was to be a grand opening and perhaps Sharon and I would like to go with him.

“Bien sure” I replied (our only common language was French)

The next day while drinking wine at a bar he let out a bit more information about the event which was to be held the following evening. He said that the store was specializing in exclusive ladies and men’s clothes by the top fashion designers from Milan. He casually said it was not really his scene but perhaps we might find it interesting.

“There should only be about two or three thousand people attending” he calmly mentioned.

The following night I committed one of the most colossal professional blunders of my photographic career. I decided not to bring my camera!

For the previous three days, I always had the thing hanging around my neck. I had been taking pictures of Enrica, Renato their kids, the waiters, the bartenders, people in the street- everybody who walked and talked Italian. I was a regular Marc Focus. (He was the photographer in “Putney Swope” who was always showing up with three Nikons around his neck, showing his book to the ad guys, and going through the motion of glibly flipping the pages while rattling off in a monotone voice —
“I did this for Hertz, I did this for Revlon, I did this for …”)

So that night, wanting to be on my best behaviour, I stupidly thought I would not embarrass my hosts and decided to leave my camera at the hotel.

The moment I passed through security and entered the party, I realized that I had made a very serious mistake. This “little” party was something I had seen only in Fellini movies. There were searchlights penetrating the Italian night, there were models dressed in Valentino, Dolce & Gabana, Gucci, Pucci, Armani, Versace, gowns parading in front of paparazzi's with flashes going pop pop as the scene was illuminated with only their flashes and the searchlights zig zagging through the night. There was music blasting from loudspeakers hidden in the trees, there were guests dressed to their eyeballs in expensive clothing, there was drink, there was food, there was as they say in the hood, lots of bling. And oh yes, everybody had a camera. We entered down a runway, through a gauntlet of paparazzi photographers with their flashes going pop pop and all the time, I was saying to myself over and over, “you schmuck, you fucking schmuck” as we entered the building. The “store” was beautiful. It had been and old warehouse that Renato had transformed into a super modern glitzy showroom with fitting rooms. display cases a bar, a terrace so shoppers could relax and sip coffee while spending their thousands on clothes that they probably would only wear three times.

The party was actually outside in back on the ‘lawn” This lawn easily could contain the 3000 guests. There was a stage with two models in Betty Boop costumes lipsyncing old hollywood love songs from the forties. There were two giant screens on which they were projecting scenes from Italian and American cinema. There was champagne, there was food- good food, there was a light show, there were the spotlights of course, and last of all there were the paparazzi with their flashes going pop pop.

Every now and then, I fuck up big time as a photographer. Its part of the game and it doesn’t really bother me anymore once I compose myself and get my super ego off my back. And so after about a half hour of cursing, biting my knuckles, knocking myself, stomping my foot, slapping the side of my head, I decided to do the only thing that ever works for me in these situations— drink. The wine was good, the food was great and they had a fascination with American music from the forties and fifties so I just went with it and enjoyed the evening.

After a couple of hours, Renato come over and said he was getting bored and we should go. (I said it wasn’t really his scene) On the way out, I spotted one of the paparazzi's doing his thing with his flash going pop pop. It was Vincenzo who by pure chance I recognized because he was at my opening a few nights before. He came over and shook my hand and asked how things were going I told him about my leaving my camera at the hotel and in one of my rare “moments of clarity” asked if he could take my picture with some of the models and Vincezo replied “Si, no problem” and shouted something to the models in Italian. The only words I understood were “Una Importante photographe Americano” and in no time at all there were these five dolls surrounding me while he took the picture.

Grazie Renato e Vincenzo

Every Picture Has a Story

2007-08-30T17:51:00.000-04:00

This is a self-portrait of myself from 1998. This was my second trip to Italy. We had been there the previous year but our hotel was a colossal rip-off and I was determined not to ever stay in an Italian hotel again. (I’ve mellowed since.) One day while reading the New Yorker, I stumbled upon an ad for villa rentals in Italy and in due course, I was in touch with a very officious man by the name of Daniel who ran a small Villa rental agency called Vacanza Bella. In no time, we had booked the tower of the Castello Montalto which was the site of the Battle of Montalto sometime in the early 14th century. While the castle was under siege from the Florentines, the army of the Duke of Montalto poured boiling oil down from the parapets onto the attackers. Lovely!

The castle was now owned by an American woman who was married to a local guy and had turned the a large part of estate into rental units for tourists. We had the tower. It was quite the joint. In the living room were 4 or 5 large paintings on the wall of dwarves. (there is one of them to my right in the photo.) Every night as we returned from our outings in Tuscan villages we would sit in the living room and fantasize about the paintings and what they were doing there.

One day the American owner knocked on the door and asked us how things were going. We replied that we were delighted a could be and she offered to show us some of the tower. She took us up the winding staircase and eventually there was a small door to one side about half way up the stairs. She opened it and inside was a small room about 6 feet by 5 feet with a table, a candlestick and a small bed. next to the door was a plaque with an inscription in Italian. She translated it and it went something like this.

“Whoever enters this blessed spot will know that they have eternally pleasured me and I honor them for that. They are forever in my heart.”

She said it was the traditional room of her husband’s ancestors who would exercise their right to seduce the peasants who worked in the fields outside their castle. As we climbed the stairs, she went on and on about the history of the castle and its minor place in history. Eventually the tour was over and she asked me if we had any questions.
“What about the dwarfs” I asked?
“Oh!“ she replied, “that has nothing to do with the history of the castle. but If you are interested...”

Her father was a painter in San Francisco during the depression. He was famous as a copier of old paintings and eventually his talents were noticed by the king of Spain in the early thirties. The king was an admirer of Velázquez who had done the originals 300 years ago. The originals were no longer the property of the Spanish, having been looted by Napoleon and shipped to the Louvre so he hired her father to paint the copies. Her father spent a great deal of time working on this project but unfortunately he never got paid for the job. Along came the Spanish Revolution, and Franco of course refused to honor the contract and that was that. Her father died penniless in San Francisco in the early fifties and the painting lay in storage unknown to anybody for 20 years. Eventually after her mother’s death, their existence came to light. By that time she was married to this Italian guy and had the painting shipped over to Italy to decorate her castle.

Over the years I have seen many illustrations of these dwarves, in museums and in print. Apparently the king of Spain in the 17th century kept them around for amusement as jesters and had Velázquez paint them. The copies were pretty good.

55 rue Guilbault Ouest

2007-08-17T22:41:00.001-04:00

My friend Brian Nation has a picture on his blog of his old apartment on 55 rue Guilbault Ouest in Montreal. Its a lovely piece about the times he had in this place in the early sixties. This is what it looks like today. The Trotsky House is still across the street, and there are some slick condos at the end toward St. Urbain, but this place has been supplanted by a parking lot for some third rate apartment on Pine Ave. C'est la vie.

In the summer of 1963, after being tossed out of l'Ecole des Beaux Arts, I decided to hitch-hike out west and hang out with Richard Wilson in Vancouver. He had a summer job at UBC illustrating artifacts for the Department of Anthropology and had invited me out there to stay with him. He had a dorm room on the campus and I had to sleep on the floor but after a few days this had turned into quite a drag. He was upset about Harvey sleeping with his girl friend, Serena while he was in Vancouver and every night as I lay on the floor, he would talk my head off about what he was going to do to him when he got back to Montreal.

Sam arrived just in time and introduced me to an acquaintance by the name of Peter who had a place in Kitsilano. We all crashed there for a few days but I always got the impression that Peter did not like me very much. He was a cold sort of fellow with a mock British accent with all the aloofness that went with it. After I few days I split for San Francisco for a few weeks and hung out on Market Street, North Beach and absorbed all the life and energy (or so I thought at the time) that would ever turn on a 20 year old naive Jewish putz who was away from home for the first time in his life. One day it was time to go back to Vancouver and eventually home to Montreal. On the bus back to Vancouver, all I could think about was Richard yakking my ear off all night about what he was going to do to Harvey when he got back. I couldn't stand it. I gathered all my courage and called Peter and asked if he could put me up for one more night. He hemmed and hawed and stuttered and made grimaces with his face but eventually caved in and said "all right, just one night and that's it." I felt like such a schmuck. He did not say a word to me that evening, pretending to study and avoid eye contact at all costs. Just before going to bed he suddenly spoke.

"I have some books that are almost overdue at the library downtown." he said pointing to a stack of 7 or 8 large coffee table sized books on the floor. "Perhaps you might as well drop them off for me since it is on the way to the train station."

"I am leaving at 6:00 AM" I said. "The library will not be open."

"I am sure they have a return box somewhere." he said. as he turned off the light and went to sleep.

The next morning I gathered up my stuff, together with his books and thanked him for his "hospitality" and split. When I arrived at the library I looked and looked but there was no return slot. I thought of leaving the books at the entrance but that did not seem to be a good plan so I took the books with me to the train station. I rented one of those lockers with the yellow key in it that won't come out until you shove a quarter in the slot and put the books inside.

"I will mail him the fucken key when I get back" I thought.

Four days later I was back in Montreal. Brian was living at 55 rue Guilbault and I went over to see him. Harvey was there. I told Harvey about what Richard had been raving about in Vancouver but all he did was take a joint out of his pocket, light it, take a long draw, hold his breath, exhale and hand it to me.

"Try this." he wheezed

When I had left Montreal, 4 weeks earlier, non of us were smoking weed but a lot had happened in my absence. So there it was, at 55 rue Guilbault, that I smoked my first joint. Harvey and I spent the rest of the summer at Brian's listening to records, smoking dope, and watching the parade that passed through his door. Everybody who I would ever know or hang out with for the next 5 years, I met that summer. Sam eventually showed up around the end of August and Harvey and I introduced him to the demon weed.

"Peter is really pissed off at you." he laughed. as he sucked in a bit of smoke.

"The library is really hounding him about those overdue books. What did you do with them?" I told him about there being no deposit slot and leaving him in one of those lockers with the yellow key that won't come out unless you put a quarter in.

"So where is the key" he asked.

"Right here " I said taking my wallet out of my pocket. " I just remembered about it."
We all cracked up laughing as Harvey rolled another joint.

A few weeks later, Willy and I rented a place on Evans Street but that is another story.

Party Girls: Hollywood, FL

2007-07-17T13:24:00.000-04:00

The boardwalk (stone walk) in Hollywood, Florida is a mix of cheap bars, cheep tee shirt shops, cheap restaurants and cheap motels. It caters to a mostly blue collar crowd of French Canadians, mid westerners and students. Where else can you get a hotel room on the beach for $39.95 per night? I actually like the place because it is kind of real as opposed to the pretentiousness of Palm Beach. One early evening as we walked along beach path we came across a band playing in front of one of those cheap motels which catered to mostly students. These girls were in their best Paris Hilton wannabee mode and were dancing, drinking and basically partying it up. When they saw me taking pictures they began to play up to the camera and I took the shot.

In America of the 21st century, bad is in. Paris Hilton, rockers with tattoos all over their bodies and faces, bikers with "eat me' tee shirts, junkies, and bad-ass rap singers are our role models. I wonder if this is all a reaction to those ultra right wing righteous morally correct bigoted assholes who seem to be running things these days. If that is the case, God bless 'em.

Life and Death in the Cemetiére du Montparnasse

2007-06-21T21:29:00.001-04:00

Everybody who was anybody in art, literature, film at one time or another has lived in Paris and most of them are buried there. So on our most recent visit it came as no surprise that Sharon suggested a visit to the Cemetiére du Montparnasse; home to some of the most honored artists, writers, and film stars that the French culture has produced or adopted.

We arrived after lunch and checked in at the gate where we were given a guide containing a map, with all the premium plots labeled neatly and circled in red. The
problem with these maps is when you use them, you are constantly referencing them and not looking around to see what is really going on. So my choice was to just stumble around on my own and see what came up.

The cemetery is laid out with wide tree lined paths lined by tombs, both old and new. The old ones that are left unattended for three years are soon dug up and replaced by newer residents who have paid dearly for the privilege of being buried “midtown” amongst the famous and near famous.

After about a half hour of wandering about, I had only come across the tomb of Serge Gainsbourg who was a well-known songwriter in the sixties. He had once written a song about a bus ticket-taker so his tomb was covered with bus tickets neatly placed under tiny rock. The rocks are a Jewish thing which show that the person is unforgotten but I do not know whether Serge was Jewish or not. But the rocks were still there never-the-less. There was also a tomb of some official from the Cinematheque Francaise and it was decorated with photographs of very famous French film stars from the fifties and sixties.

Thats all I found until I stumbled upon Sharon walking down one of these tree-lined boulevards with this very neatly dressed French gentleman. They were chatting in French as I joined them. “This gentleman is giving me a tour of the cemetery” she said. “We are on our way to see Man Rays tomb.”
“Man Ray!” I shouted. “Is he here too?”

On our way to see Man Ray’s grave, we passed a number of authors and personalities whom I never heard of but he was very familiar with them and told us everything about their lives and loves and deaths. He seemed very familiar with them as if they were his old friends.

I asked him if he worked for the cemetery, but he smiled and said he was just here visiting his wife and this would probably be his future residence also. He smiled when he said that and I saw a guy who was alone, at peace and would welcome death when it eventually came to him.

“Unconcerned but not indifferent” said the inscription above Man Ray’s tomb. On the tomb lay a single rose. Dada to the end.
Around the corner was the resting place of Delphine Seyrig who at one time was one of my favorite actresses. (L’année dernièr à Marienbad and she was also the baroness in ”The Day of the Jackal”.
A bit down and to the right was another tree-lined boulevard and just in front of a wall was Jean Paul Sarte and Simone de Beauvoire. Their tomb was also festooned with bus tickets underneath rocks and I asked our “host” if the tickets had any meaning.

“They started putting them on the tomb of Serge Gainsbourg because he wrote a song about a ticket-taker on the bus line. The rocks are a Jewish thing. I guess they thought it was some sort of custom so they started doing it to a lot of graves of famous people. They also write small notes and place them under rocks also. Most French movie stars also have them on their tombs.

Phillipe Noiret was here also. he had bus tickets placed under rocks (a Jewish thing) and also small notes. A custom was born!

After a while he said it was time to go and wished us a happy visit in Paris. Before leaving he pointed us to Baudilaire and told us of a tomb of a rich gentleman who has an original sculpture by Brancusi (The Kiss) above his tomb. They were all there as he said.

We never did find out where Alfred Dreyfuss was but it was quite a place. I noticed people taking quit breaks from the city, mothers nursing their babies, lovers, and people quietly reading their book. It was definitely more than just a cemetery.

My thoughts drifted off to our “guide”.

Americans are always putting the French down and see them as rude. uncooperative and cowardly. At least that’s what the comedians on TV would have you think. But they also honor their heroes who unlike us are not politicians, or warriors, but artists, writers, actors, both native and adopted and they spend time with them long after their deaths in the beautiful and peaceful Cemetiére du Montparnasse.

We can learn a lot from them

Petite, Sixtyish, Jewish, Female, Suspected Terrorist

2007-05-24T12:33:00.000-04:00

Between the corporate greed from the airlines and the paramilitary security from the TSA, flying is becoming more of an ordeal every day. Recently, Sharon and I had to go to Atlanta. Sharon had read the rules about carry-on on the web and had packed all her make-up in small 100 ml containers. Apparently the local TSA chapter had other ideas and as we passed through the screening devices, we were singled out for special treatment.

“Is this your bag?” a very butchy female guard asked

“yes” I answered

She began to open the small carry-on bag and remove everything from it including noise reduction earphones, my camera, and finally she honed in on the toiletries bag. She removed the clear plastic 1-liter bag, held it up to the light and inspected it visually. She then opened it and began to remove the items one by one separating them from the rest of the stuff.

“Thats my mascara!” said Sharon. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Its a potential weapon” she responded in a very authoritative voice

“Those are all in the right size containers! What are you doing?” said Sharon who began to get very annoyed with this little Nazi.

“SUPERVISOR!!!” yelled the security agent.

A very large overweight man with a hawkish face suddenly appeared and placed himself between Sharon and the female security guard. He placed his fists on the desk, resting on his knuckles and addressed Sharon.

“Ma-am, do you not know the regulations concerning bringing carry-on containers on the aircraft?” He was talking in a deliberate slow voice which one used when speaking to idiots.

“I know the regulations. I read them on your web site” responded Sharon

“ the regulations are posted on our web site” he said. He then lifted his right fist of the desk and pointed his finger to the very small space between his fierce little eyes. “Look at me and listen to me very carefully” he said with his finger still pointing to his eyes. “ The regulations concerning bringing liquids on the aircraft are posted on our web site and in the lobby.”

“ I know that” said sharon. “I read them before boarding”

“Ma-am, you are not listening to me!” he said still using slow-talk-to-the-moron official-speak

“It clearly says that 100 ml containers are allowed and says absolutely nothing about mascara being forbidden because it is a potential weapon. Why are you removing all my make-up?”
Still pointing his fat little finger between his eyes he said “all containers must be no larger than 100 mls …

"I know that!” said Sharon

“..and they must be placed together in a 1-liter clear plastic zip lock bag.” he said triumphantly.

“Like this one” said Sharon lifting up the 1-liter clear plastic zip-lock bag that the first female guard had previously emptied.
He picked it up and examined it for a few moments and then affirmed. “Yes. This is a 1-liter clear plastic zip lock bag.’

”And if I put all these containers in it, that is OK” said Sharon.

“Yes”
Sharon lifted up the bag and placed all the 100 ml containers including the “potential weapon” mascara into the bag and put it in front of his face.

“ can I go now?”

“Yes”

The threat to airline security was abated. We can all breath a sigh of relief.

EPILOG: I have nothing against the TSA. They are only doing their job. The problem lies with those schmucks who make the rules. This task is done in a pseudo-military style without regard for the respect of the public it is trying to serve. These are the same guys who responded so well to the initial warnings of 9/11, reacted so swiftly to hurricane Katrina, and have planned the occupation of Iraq with such pristine precision.
The downfall of our wonderful society will come from within. It will be exacerbated by idiots who are placed into positions for which they have absolutely no expertise and subsequently delegated to uniformed henchmen with more authority than brains.

Schwartz's: Montreal, Circa 1999

2007-04-21T11:23:00.000-04:00

What's this shit about lining up for food. For the past few years, I've noticed people lining up at mediocre restaurants for breakfast and dinner. Schwartz's is a Montreal institution that's been around for years. The smoked meat is OK, the ambiance is awful, the waiters are downright rude, and everybody lines up Sunday afternoon to get in and experience this shit. Look at the picture! Its raining for christsake! Across the street is the Main. The smoked meat is great, the ambiance is cool retro 1950's chic (not contrived), the waitress has been there for ever and is really sweet, but professional and best of all, you never have to wait to get in. But look at all those lemmings across the street. They are standing in the rain for up to one hour waiting to eat ordinary smoked meat and be insulted by some schmuck waiter because they think they are recapturing a moment in Montreal's ethnic past that has not existed in years. Scwartz's in the '40s was certainly more charming then, but its gone.

Here in Florida, there is a restaurant in Lake Worth on the Pier called Johnny G's. Its a dump but the line up for breakfast is about the length of a football field. They line up for two hours just to eat breakfast! Is it just me? Breakfast is orange juice, coffee, toast and for others some eggs or something. That's it. What the fuck are they lining up for? There must be about twenty diners within a few miles of Johnny G's that has the same thing without the wait but they all line up here and for the life of me I will never lean why.

The only time I will wait in line for a meal is if the place is really good, I have a reservation and the Maitre Di says it will be a few minutes while they set the table. At least I am waiting for something special. But for some greasy spoon diner with a "reputation"— fuckem

Marla & Mickey

2007-04-06T18:21:00.000-04:00

Sharon and I went out for a quick stroll just before some friends from Burlington were due to arrive. As usual my camera was around my neck and as we walked through a church parking lot to the intracoastal waterway this small dog with a studded collar ran up to Sharon. She was soon followed by Marla who was very fit, friendly and chatty. We talked about her dog Mickey and she mentioned they were due to have their pictures taken by a photographer friend later and I asked he if I could take a few and she was kind enough to oblige. I ended up taking more shots of her alone and she asked me if she would ever see any of them so I said to visit this blog and it would be up this afternoon.

This one is for you Marla.

Teens on the Beach: Hollywood Florida, 2007

2007-03-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

We had spent the day in Coral Gables and decided to drive back along A1A (the coastal road) and watch the scenery. A1A is not a scenic road between Miami and Boca Raton. It is littered with high rises condos, hotels, restaurants serving bad food, fishing piers, more condos, beachwear stores, bars, surf shops and on and on for 30 miles. The amazing thing is that just behind it is the Atlantic — one long beach that stretches from south of Miami all the way up the coast of Florida. Every now and then there is a sort of ally with a small sign that says "BEACH" which is the access to the shore for the public. Somewhere in Hollywood, I saw one of these signs and stopped to have a look. It was on a small road with small shacks renting rooms for $45/night and all around were ultra-tanned French Canadians hanging out in the bar, toasting themselves on the beach, or just plain hanging out.

I walked through this small strip of land between a bar and small motel and saw the beach. There was a road that went along for miles with the beach one one side and an endless series of bars, beach shops, ice cream parlors, and tacky motels. It was great! Just at the end was a lifeguard shack with four teenagers hanging out.

Voila!

Taz: Thanks Man!

2007-03-13T10:30:00.000-04:00

Taz is one of our two cats. He is very friendly, outgoing and a bit high strung. His favorite spot is on my desk between the keyboard and computer screen. (He likes to keep close to us.) A few days ago, my wife noticed a large bump on his right hip so we took him to the vet. The vet thought it might be cancerous and said it should be removed. A few hours later he called to say he was fine and the mass was benign so we picked Taz up and brought him home. He had a large gash on his shaved hip where the wound had been stapled closed. He was wearing a plastic head collar which prevented him from chewing out his staples and he was groggy from the anesthetic. Anyone who has ever owned a cat knows that the animal has absolutely no idea what is going on, does not understand that this is being done for his/her own good, and is just sitting there looking at the owner with a "what the fuck are you doing to me" look on their face.

I had this dream last night. I had died and on my way to heaven, I had to take a detour for a "cat intervention". This was where all the cats that I had owned in my life were there to confront me. Tortoise Shell, Dracula, Clod, Woosel, Dook, Fritz and last of all Taz all faced me with serious stares as the airing of grievances began. I gave them stupid names, I fed them cheap food, I did not allow them to eat garbage, I teased them too much, I stopped them from going out: it went on and on. Toward the end, I began to feel a bit down but then Taz who had not participated so far stepped up to me, licked my hand and said "thanks man".

Carnivale: Coral Gables, Florida

2007-02-25T11:21:00.000-05:00

Sometimes there is just nothing happening. Saturday in Miami was a creative bust. After arriving there around noon, we spent the better part of the afternoon getting lost. We stumbled upon these beautiful gardens outside of Coral Gables in late afternoon so we decided to hang out these for a while but upon arriving, we were told that the park was closing in 20 minutes. It was turning out to be just one of those days. where you are 20 minutes behind everything.

So needing a late afternoon coffee, we ended up in downtown Coral gables just before sunset. We parked and walked around a corner and there it was. Thousands of Columbians getting ready for their Mardis Gras parade in downtown Coral Gables. It was great! Lots of color, lots of music, lots of dancing to latin rhythms, gorgeous women shaking their beautiful butts to the music as they waited for the parade to begin. One lady told me that this was the first time they were doing this thing in America but it was a regular thing in Columbia and they hoped it would become a regular fixture here. They had my vote.

Korean Resturant: Lake Worth, FL

2007-02-02T13:40:00.000-05:00

Fucking Super Bowl
Miami is sixty miles away but the Super Bowl Special Event orgy of low end entertainment for the permanently brain dead reaches all the way up to West Palm Beach. We usually go down to Clematis Street every thursday night for some sushi and a free concert but this week its the Super Bowl and things are a bit different. They had announced that an official Super Bowl event was scheduled for this evening on Clematis Street and it drew a crowd,- a very large crowd. It was so large in fact that we could not find a parking spot and the only spots available were private ones at bush prices (whatever they could get). All of the Super Bowel special events focus on a combination of drinking, selling of souvenirs, and staring at tits. Not much else, so we were not missing anything by leaving. We decided to drive to Lake Worth and find a quiet refuge there, but it wasn't any better. There were still crowds all over the place drinking, screaming, and barfing, To make matters worse, most of the eating places were unusually crowded so after wandering around for a while we found this Korean Place at the end of the street that was empty. After looking at the menu, it was clear why this place was empty. It was authentic enough to keep a horde of beer guzzling, adolescent boors at bay. Quiet enough for us though so we got into the menu. While waiting for the food, I saw this shot and snapped it.

Hamburger Heaven: Palm Beach, Florida, 2007

2007-01-20T18:42:00.000-05:00

I love hamburgers! I have a list of my favorite spots and this one has been at the top for the past twenty years. Sharon took me here when we first met and we keep coming back. In season we have to wait until after two to eat because the place is packed with hotel guests from the Breakers but every now and then we get lucky. They had a spot at the counter which is fine and I had my little camera with me which is also fine but the big disapointment was the waitress who did not want me to take her picture. It's not that she was uptight, she just didn't want me to take her picture. I was watching her kibbitz with this elderly gentlman and could have snuck off a few but I don't do that so I passed. Just before leaving I took this one of the people on my left but it was the waitress that I really wanted. We finished and I left her a big tip and maybe next time..