(The above text is a small excerpt on display at the exhibit.)
Korda's world famous image is now on display at the International Center of Photography. Check it out. There's life after Pokemon.
December 2005 Archives
In the make pretend fantasy world that exists in my head I hear Bush saying in his Texas finest:
"Ahh shit! They got Che banners! This is going to be easy Dick."
Speaking of Che...
Most Cubans have all sorts of revolutionary iconic pin ups at home as a keep-el-comitte-de-defensa*-at-bay tactic.
*The Committee of Defense –a neighborhood spy unit usually led by the nosiest person of self interest on the block.
I do not know exactly what got into me but once I began, I could not stop. The moving of a few items turned into the rearrangement of every last bit of furniture. Nothing seemed right. Everything needed a change, a new start, a new position in the existential physical to sooth the metaphysical. My temple hasn’t felt homey for some time. Things, objects, imponderabilia, needless keepsakes, and memories were discarded, abandoned at the curve side, alms for the more fortunate. New memories /objects are needed, greater ones, better then the past. Indispensable and non-disposable things to fill the voids of oedipal comforts and make ample room for the Freudian minimalism of not yet replaced-mantel pieces, picture frame fillers, new scents, like that of the lingering cologne of a nape and souvenirs of good tomorrow. Things begin change, something new takes shape and nothing feels the same.
Christmas Eve is the perfect reason to stuff a bird. It took me 3hrs and was mmm-mmm good.
This is my new Epson Picturemate! It is the newest addition to my gadget-toy collection. It is light portable and produces photo-lab like quality 4x6 pictures in seconds. I am officially photo-printing crazy. So far I have made a few Christmas cards, sepia tone prints, and printed stuff simply for the sake of printing. It’s not a bad first (possibly last) x-mas present. I have tons of fun ahead of me with this new baby, not to mention photo paper purchases.
A special thanks to my good freind Hiroyuki for getting it for me.
Todays travel gear
I used my rollerblades to get to work today. It took me about an hour and a half of heavy panting and continuous leg thrusting, to get there with 30min to spare. Can anybody guess what I did when I got out of work? I rollerbladed all the way back home. It was not my intention to skate back. I was hoping that the trains would be operating by then since there was word that the strike was over but the trains would not be up and running untill morning. I even tried to catch a cab in order to avoid having to ride my blades all the way back. If you live in the city and are Hispanic or just about anybody of color you know just what a challenge such a seemingly easy task could be. These guys would slow down enough to look at my face and then step on the accelerator really fast once they get a good look at me. Some would slow down enough to quote a ridiculously high price. Some wanted as much as forty dollars for what would otherwise have been a 15min-fourteen dollar ride. I was on a corner for close to 30min watching them load the white folks a few hundred feet away instead. I finally decided to blade back home and then tried in vain a bit more to see if any cab driver already on his way over the 59th street Bridge would be willing to take me. After a familiar disappointing spell and some ridiculous flat fee offers of 15-20 dollars for the “service”, my spick-self bladed the remainder of the way. The worst part is that this illegal, racist, and condescending behavior is primarily propagated by people of color.
I am so F-ing tired, of all this traveling these last few days. Not to mention, the bigots that I have met along the way who have made the process of skating much more inviting then hating.
This is what the line of people waiting to get on a private bus-line into queens looked like most of the day.
Taken, yesterday, from Roosevelt Island with my Canon SD400
Two and a half hours was the length of time it took to walk to work from my apartment in Queens. I think that it was at some point near Lower Manhatan that my leg muscles began to spasm and consider a strike of their own. Does any body know how many miles, more or less, that equates to? Actually I do not really care because it won’t change the fact that my legs, from ass cheeks to toes, are killing me and I have another similar hike in a few hours. The most challenging part is once I get off of work at 11pm. It’s a lot colder and your legs are pretty much Jello after the initial hike. Today, I am considering taking the dusty rollerblades from out the closet and rolling my way to work. Hopefully, I will cover ground faster but the number of pedestrians might actually slow me down. Going downhill on the Queens Borough Bridge might be especially tricky at such a steep angle and with so many people traveling on it. Heaven forbid I appear on the 5 o’ clock news for trampling an old woman to death with my Bladerunners. In which case the probability is great because if you have ever taken the ride your self you would know that going down hill super-fast on blades, on that bridge, is the very best part and makes the whole damned experience worth it; Minus the old dead lady part, of course; Unless, it was the war mongering loon, Condelisa Rice, and her overbite would in no way act as a ramp which would propel me into the East River. It would only delay my trip.
Anyway, I hope that the rest of you in NYC are finding your way around sans métro.
Thirty years old and I have got no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I have way too many talents, interests, and desires to make my mind up on any one field. I think its time I started to make up my mind on one thing or another. Someone suggested this book might help start helping me streamline and plan.
Philippe, thank you for the suggestion.
I woke up early this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed ready to take on the MTA strike commute challenge. I boarded a taxi not very far from where I live. After about 30 min of waiting and arguing with a group of money hungry Indian cabbies who were taking advantage of New York City’s momentary disadvantage, I boarded the taxi of a New York old timer by the name of Seymor Korn, a 70 something Brooklyn born Jew. We waited around long enough to board another three passengers to meet the capacity requirement for entering Manhattan on this day. The rest of the caravan party under Mr. Korn’s direction was an American business gal, a thuggish camouflaged African American and a French teacher. The first hour of our ride, we were stuck in traffic less then a quarter mile from were we boarded. During which time the French passenger made a series of phone calls to everybody and anybody in her cell phone’s directory. We all kept giving each other looks of shared annoyance and prayed that she would soon stop. Our prayers were answered by Seymor who flat out told the French woman, “Please no more calls.” She gave him looks of contempt from above her spectacles the entire rest of the way while looking at us for some sign of sympathy. No signs of which, ever came and we diverted our attention to Seymor’s story of his experiences during the strike of ’67.
The urban brother had no cash on him because the ATM machines were all out of money near the location we hoped on. At some point nice old Seymor pulled over for him to withdraw money. Mrs. French then turned around and seeing that business gal had her eyes closed and head back, initiated a conversation with me. “Ver a iu going”, She asked. The girl next to me jumped with an oh-no look on her face and hoping that she wouldn’t be next on the interrogation line. I replied more then once, “I am heading to work.” Mrs. French would cringe her forehead and squint her eyes with the look of someone who is either hard of hearing or beckoning a repetition without the annunciation of any sound. The girl next to me began to tap her feet and, equally annoyed, I told the croon in French, much to her ethnocentric pleasure, “Je suis etre en route a le travail.” My thoughtless statement brought about by four C and D grade-average-years of French studies resulted in a rushed spew of mostly incomprehensible French words. The girl next to me turned my way with slightly puckered lips that conveyed a why-are-you-provoking-her message. Annoyed, the young girl gave up, paid her share and walked out of the cab prior to her stop. Seymor, began to shake his head and also walked out of the cab, leaving it parked on the curve, and went to check on the whereabouts of the ATM challenged passenger. He shortly returned complaining that the guy had stiffed him and disappeared.
The French teacher adopted a face of appall and said under her breath, “You can not trust zee blacks. You are lucky e did not rob or kill iu.” As my jaw sagged ever lower she continued, “They vare liars…” Mr. Seymore, who once after mentally confirming that he was actually hearing racial slurs from a great-granddaughter of those who helped shape our views on equality and democracy, jumped in and said flat out in his Brooklyn finest, “What is wrong with you lady?” “That’s not a very nice thing to say”, he continued. “I have met many great people who are black! Many of which I would trust much sooner then a non-black. That’s not a very nice thing to say” Quietly I was screaming, “Hurray Seymor! Good for you!” Then there came a long silence and more sub spectacle looks of contempt.
After several minutes of non French accented atrocities she turns to me once more and asked where I was from. After saying Cuba, she gave me a long up and down look from head to torso, from the front seat, and nodded her head as in a silent unneeded approval which reeked of hidden judgment. Then she turned to Seymor who with out missing a beat, almost in expectation of the yet unfolded, stated, “I’m Jewish.” “Oh, iu must be very wich then”, she replied. “All Jewish people are wich”, she continued. “Lady, all Jews aren’t rich. That’s why I drive a cab”, intervened Seymor who had a flustered air to his voice. She assured us that all her very richest friends were Jewish and how one friend named so-and-so had the second biggest diamond in who-cares-where.
After, several minuets stuck in her banter stereotype hell I began to realize that I needed to escape out of fear of calling the old bat an idiot. I asked Seymor to please let me off at the next corner, thank him, told him he was a good man and bid farewell to the loon.
I got off of the cab on 14th and enjoyed a beautiful, not so crowded, day on Broadway all the way down to Canal Street. I even had time to buy a book at The Strand and some supplies at Staples. I got to work at noon and found out that the scheduled waiters were unable to make it in to work and so, I threw on apron and took on the responsibility. I worked my butt off and made $250 dollars in tips and after dividing that share based on an internal point system, took home $87 dollars. Not a bad take for a Tuesday morning.
After being on my feet all those hours, I began my walk home from Canal Street to Queens. On my way, I stopped at the Apple store to buy a Christmas present and hated the line much more than I would the walk ahead of me. I walked endlessly but in good spirits and for some reason or another was able to really enjoy my 60 something blocks of a hike. Finally, tired and starting to feel the affects of the long walk, I decided to take the Aerial Tramway into Roosevelt Island to escape the inclined hardships of the 59th Street Bridge. For the record I hate heights. I mean, I can walk to an edge, look down and admire the view, but after however, if I have no business left so close to an edge its time to move. Willingly riding a box, full of forty people, suspended by a rope is not my idea of fun. I have lived in NYC nine years and never had the desire to ride it and now I found myself in it and perhaps on the fullest day of the year. That 6 min ride resulted in many milliliters of involuntary sweat from my palms and forehead. The rest of my walk was a piece of cake. I made it home about 3 hours later, went out for dinner, shopped for groceries, cleaned, watched TV, did my laundry and managed these few words.
