Lost in Textlation

I spent the better part of the afternoon taking pictures for the Japanese T-Shirt company that my friend photographs for annually. I had mixed feelings about the entire experience. The photographer texted me earlier today and ask if I were available and interested in helping him. I agreed since I already had agreed to the two previous years. However, based on my lack of attention to the actual text message, I was under the impression that he meant later this week and not on this very day. So after three hours of roller-blading and dodging past all sorts of hazardous city obstacles, crossing the Queens Borough Bridge into and out of Manhattan, braving 70 percent of Central Park, and finally not feeling up to anything other then soaking my feet in a hot Epson salt bath, I half heartedly felt obliged to agree to the cameras flash and make up for the two hours that he sat waiting, while I was lost in textlation.

The shirts by the way were hideous. They were something that one would pick up at a truckers rest stop in Alabama and most held the esthetic equivalent of the beer glorification and just-shoot-me-happy-face-with-gun-hole t-shirts of the early 80's. Trust me you feel very awkward wearing a tee sporting a huge biohazard sign in the middle of the square during these conflicting times and owning a good Muslim name such as mine; Catholic or not. It sucked because we were testing slow shutter camera speeds, which meant that I had to stand perfectly still as a curious world passed me by wondering who the heck this too-short-for-a-runway model was and why in hell did he have such an ugly shirt on. So as my Tarsus and Metatarsals eased back into comfort, I stood in Times Square, self conscious at the people wondering what the Japanese photographer and that underdressed Hispanic boy, with nipples on high alert were doing taking pictures in the middle of the hustle and bustle of this chilly neon lite Tuesday.

The worst part: I still have more pictures to look forward tomorrow.