conversation opener:

“…did i tell you someone called the other day and asked for a fake foot?”

about the cousin-in-law who rather rudely asked for money and only money for christmas. I had suggested wampum, but sarah’s idea was much better:

“we have clumps of dark chocolate labelled coal and thats what i want to get for chris’s cousin that sent us the letter for money.”

then she thinks of somehing better. “i could make her an origami crane out of a dollar bill….”

and then better. “or maybe a zoo of five animals out of singles….but then add in some super glue so she can’t get them undone”

and to top it off— “i could even rip them in half first..”

On my self portraits:

“no matter how good you are i dont think you can catch essence of bitch in a picture.”

On chocolate on chocolate Klondike bars:

“they are my cocaine/stabilizer in an otherwise nonsensical unmedicated world…and you can quote me on that.”

Done and done.

“Well, I just finished measuring mine.”

“Then let’s go.”

—Ethan and Bugsy

oh, and the worst ‘your mama’ joke ever:

Nathan. “Anything with a dollar menu is automatically a fast-food restaurant.”
 
Ethan. “So nathan, does that make your mom a fast-food restaurant?”
 
Everyone else: *blink*
 
Ethan. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was really bad.”

Last night around four in the morning, nathan’s ass breath woke me up (due to a deviated septum and some nice big honkin’ tonsils and adnoids, he’s a mouth breather, especially at night).

So, like any sane person, I elbowed him.

In response, he moved his head up and down like I’d fall for it and think that he’d really moved out of my ass-breath detecting range.

I did not fall for it and elbowed him harder.

And he rolled over with an indignant huff.

…yeah. You’re gettin’ that surgery, dear. Your choice is with or without anesthesia.

I give up.

Who knows how to use the vacuum tube things at the bank?

I ask because I have no idea. Do people just inherently know how they work and I’m just missing that bit of information? I mean, I’m sure it could’ve been handed out after they dished out ADHD to folks in that place wherever they hand out all the stuff you’ll have for life. So while everyone else got knowledge about using the vacuum tube things, I was wandering off to look at all the shiny stuff.

Anyway, I ask because I’m tired of going to the drive-up at the bank and seeing two lines of cars—one that’s right next to the teller window so you just use that drawer-slot thing and another that requires either using the ATM or the vacuum-slot-thing. There’ll be five cars in the close line and one car in the ATM/slot line.

You know, I’d like to pick the ATM/slot line and be able to use it.

I tried it once. I drove up, waited for the car in front of me to drive off, then pulled right up and started looking for the vacuum tube thing. I couldn’t find it. I mean, I know it was there, I’d seen the canister in the hand of the person before me. But I couldn’t find it. I broke out into a pressured sweat and wondered when the teller would start talking over the tiny hidden speaker.

Still couldn’t find it.

Finally, I quickly reached into my wallet and… used the ATM.

My friends like to keep my dreams within reasonable reaching distance and will remind me if they soar a bit too far.

Friend. “One of the Oregon climbers has been found dead.”
 
Me.
 
Friend. “Please don’t pick up mountain climbing as a hobby, okay?”
 
Me. “So I can’t ever climb Everest?”
 
Friend. “No.”
 
Me. “Dreams… destroyed…”
 
Friend. “Aaaw.”
 
Me. “It would just be for the view!”
 
Friend. “Buy National Geographic.”

…and you know, a subscription to National Geographic is way cheaper than an Everest expedition.

Brilliant!

The hardest photos for me to take actually aren’t any of the ones that are the more technically challenging (fencing photography comes to mind) or the photos that require a significant amount of serious physical exercise to get them (anything up in the mountains for certain). The hardest photos are the ones of myself. They aren’t the hardest because I need to do a delayed trigger, a remote trigger, or find someone to be my bitch and trip the shutter on my command. They’re the hardest because they’re me.

Maybe it’s the fear of not exactly knowing how to capture myself. I can certainly capture other people, places, animals, things, whatever. But myself? It’s a scary and difficult capture. Another part of it is that shallow human being inside of most folks that thinks oh my god, do I look that bad? And another part is well, who the hell am I?

But does anyone know themself that well?

Dunno.

Recently I came into the possession of several hats and shot a bunch of photos (see Badass!Hat entry for part of that shoot) and a great deal of them were of me.

Of all of them, the Badass!hat ones were the easiest because I was playing a part. I was being a badass, and as much as I’d like to claim otherwise, I’m not a badass. Badass, by the way, is a really fun word to say, right up there among smock and scowl.

I’m me, whoever that is.

So I play with the camera, trying to mess with its mind (I’m sure it has one), playing all these different parts, but I’m not certain that any one of them is actually me.

I can stare the camera down:

—but when I look at it, I’m thinking You can see my scalp!” not that I’m going bald, it’s a bad gel choice on my part. But I think it anyway.

I can glare at the camera:

—but due to the depth of field of the shot (f/2.8 fellow photo geeks), my head looks detached from the rest of my body (and sometimes, I’d love for it to be so).

Or I wear a hat and hide my face:

—and think “Oh my god, are my ears really that small?” They are, by the way, there’s no denying that. My sister says that they haven’t grown since I was two.

Or I might grin and bear it:

—and think that I look like I am incredibly concerned that the camera pointed at me is going to rip my ears off the moment that I blink.

Or I can tell the camera to get the fuck away:

—and yet still think “Wow, I really need to stop picking at my thumbs.”

I could also subtly tell the camera off:

—but question whether or not I’ve got a double chin. “OMG, do I?”

Try for a look at me! pose:

—and wonder “Do I look like a cancer patient?” (I’m not, by the way.)

I could try lost in thought:

—but that’s an awfully white arm right there and my camera-shutter-trip-bitch has focused on my hand for some odd reason (you can see the focusing error in the larger size).

An attempt at a generic pose:

—but clearly, you can see exactly what I’m thinking. “Camera-shutter-trip-bitch, I’ve got a pom-pom on my head.”

Or I could finally deem to smile:

—and be told “Oh, you have such a cute smile.” No I don’t. And one of my eyes looks wonky.

And by the end, I’ve had it:

—oh, and camera-shutter-trip-bitch, you lied when you said my hair looked fine. And holy shit, maybe I am going bald.

I’m not sure any of those are me.

I’ve got one photograph that I actually see as me. This is me:

—I’m a little kid, five or six or seven, lost in thought. The shot uses natural light, something I use so much in my own photography. This is the one photo I have of me that makes me think, “Hey, that’s me.” But I obviously didn’t shoot that photo.

Now, this isn’t about finding myself, that’s an entirely different train of thought. It’s about somehow being able to capture myself in the ways that I can capture other people.

Where do I find myself in a camera?