Category Archives: Photography

In what film is Nicolas Cage missing a hand*?

*That’s how I feel tonight.

There was lots of talk of rape and murder in the local news tonight as my mom watched it waiting to hear word about that potential snowstorm that might hit the Northeast on Christmas night into Boxing Day.  And there was also talk about the full lunar eclipse tonight!  How it coincides with the Winter Solstice, which, by the way, hasn’t happened since December 21, 1638, and won’t happen again until 2094 (via Huffington Post).  That’s special.  Apparently NASA says that for East Coast viewers the optimal time to see the full eclipse is at 3:17 a.m., which, lucky for me, is right about when I’m going to bed these days.  Optimal time, indeed.

I know.  Everyone’s blogging this and reblogging this.  It’s always a slow news day in the blog world, huh?  But I really am excited about this.  Look in my recent posts–you’ll notice there aren’t many.  That’s because I haven’t been excited about much of anything.  But the moon and the sun and the planet and rare astral happenings?  That’s exciting.

I probably won’t take any pictures of the eclipse later tonight, but I did happen to take this picture earlier of the full moon rising.  After which point I was promptly eaten by a werewolf. 

A Walk.

I lost my digital camera’s memory stick for several months, but when I moved I found it!  Here’s yesterday:


Seagulls on ice

Don’t you hate seeing seagulls hanging out in, like, K-Mart parking lots?  Or circling the dumpster behind McDonald’s? E very time I see it, a little chunk of my inner child dies.  Go back to the sand, back to salt water!  Back to beautiful and natural things you can depend on–tides being influenced by the moon and sand castles getting stomped on by children named Jason.  Or Bartholomew.  Or Sven.

I don’t know.  Seagulls.  It’s so sad.  It’s sort of like the persecution of Native Americans, the Trail of Tears… only not at all.

West 12th Street – West 42nd Street, First Leg

Cabinet in hospital trash pile.



Snack break.



Grey clouds

Amy Adams groping herself.

Self-portrait break.



West 12th Street – West 42nd Street, Second Leg

No. Fuck you, Macy's.

Good question...

Meet a wax figure of Nicholas Cage?

No.  Definitely not.

Adventures with radical bird folk

June 13th was the day of a significant occasion, yet one that I was unaware of until the last minute.  I came dangerously close to missing it, which would have been a tragedy because the occasion was…  National Pigeon Day. 

And no, it’s not just an arbitrary day for pigeon lovers to come together and make noise about feeding regulations and building spikes that prevent nesting (though there was that).  June 13th commemorates the death of Cher Ami, a homing pigeon that saved 200 lives while serving with the 77th Division of the U.S. Army in France during World War I.

Pigeons are fierce, man.  So fierce that there are falcon nests installed atop the Tappan Zee Bridge to scare away the winged things and the rust and ruin inducing droppings they bring.  Come on.  That’s something.  Can your poop bring down a feet of engineering?

Anyway.  It really was a cool thing and I’ve been meaning to mention it and I’ve especially been meaning to share a couple photos I took at the Central Park event.  It was like I had been a lonely religious zealot for years and suddenly I had found a group as fanatic as I.  Or maybe much more fanatic…

Life of the party.

The life of the party (and the subject of my dreams, now and forever).

UNTIL the hen showed up.

UNTIL the hen showed up.

Whats more bizarre--a hen on a leash or a child?

Requiring and reveling in all the attention.

From humans and canines alike.  The dick.

From humans and canines alike. That whore.

As much as I felt a kinship to the people at the event, part of me didn’t know if my breed of pigeon loving was the same as theirs.  It’s like, I’m perfectly content admiring and contemplating them from a park bench, but I’m not sure that’s enough if I truly want to be accepted into the National Pigeon Day group. 

My love is more passive, I guess.  I like carrying a tote bag with a pink pigeon screened on its sideI like reading books about them. And of course singing along to lyrics that mention them (Ben Folds’ “Annie Waits”: Annie sees her dreams / Friday bingo, pigeons in the park; Tom Petty’s “Mary Jane’s Last Dance”: There’s pigeons down in market square / she’s standing in her underwear).

So, in conclusion, pigeons make me happy, I love them, but I’ve yet to wave an angry poster as their advocate at City Hall or boycott a supermarket that tries to keep them from calling the “O” or “A” in their neon sign home.  We’ll see.

By the way–there’s totally a link to my pictures here, on the organization/holiday’s blog, which brings me way more joy than is normal or healthy (qualities no one should strive for, anyway).

Hot Fun in the Summer

There’s something about the beginning of summer.  And there’s definitely something about the beginning of summer in New York.  Earlier tonight I headed over to Manhattan to catch a free film at MoMA, only it was “sold” out, so I resigned myself to the sculpture garden.  All the past times I’d been to MoMA it’d been winter.  I didn’t even realize they had a sculpture garden.  But they do!  And it ended up helping me reach an important revelation.  I’ll get to that in a second.

Have you ever seen 1938’s Holiday with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn?!  I’m only about 30 minutes in, but Grant’s character, Johnny Case, just had this topical little line:

When I find myself in a position like this, I ask myself what would General Motors do? And then I do the opposite!

This was GM in '38.  (No need to look at any GM photos of today.)

This was GM in '38. (No need to look at any GM photos of today.)

Okay, back to my sculpture garden revelation: people don’t care if you take their photograph when they think you’re photographing something else.  Because more than anything, I think people are fascinating.  And I want to capture them.  But it’s simply no fun dealing with someone in a tizzy because you’ve pointed and clicked them.  We’ve long debunked the idea that cameras capture your soul.  Therefore, I don’t think it’s a big deal if I shoot your face.   Anyway, here are some of my photographic stealths of the day:

If you cant be immature in the modern art museum, where can you be?

If you can't be immature in the modern art museum, where can you be?

Also, I completely failed to get a digital converter box.  Screw the system.