Pablo's Experiment

SAVONAROLA IS BACK FROM THE DEAD

Until Sleater-Kinney gets back together I will have to be happy (and I am, believe me) with the sudden and powerful return of Savonarola, two of my dear dear friends and one of my favorite singer/songwriter duos. I rank them higher than the Lennon and McCartney. I am a contrarian.

They dissolved about a year and a half ago after one self-released album (full disclosure: I produced "Knives" and "People I Don't Like") when Ted had a midlife crisis and ran off to join These Are Powers.

AND NOW THEY ARE BACK. And possibly with another name change, though I'm encouraging them to keep it, and possibly with a stylistic change, which would predicate a name change. In short, they are writing stuff, but I have no idea what it is. They played an acoustic show at Tommy's Tavern (possibly the best they've played) on Sunday on a bill promoted by Anthony Macbain and featuring he, Schwaahed, Ron Wax and MC'd by Oldman Unfamous Jacob.

The images (and there are more here), were my first with my new Pocket Wizards (awesome) and the after-show was my first time DJ-ing (off a borrowed iPod, no less).

A splendid time was had by all.

You Gotta Feel It And Like It

Jim sold me one of these shirts for a very reasonable $12.00 US, though I have no idea when I'd wear it (the first person to say "All the time!" gets slapped. You'd better be anonymous).

Stream-of-consciousness correction: I declare this to be my drinking shirt.

Anyway, if anyone has any info on Jim, I'd appreciate it. To tell you the truth, I don't even recall if Jim is his name. It starts with a "J." Or possibly a "G."

Deep In A Whale's Vagina

I liked the sightlines at PETCO Park very much (clearly I was in the nosebleeds; section 317, I think) though the actual layout of the park leaves a bit to be desired. It seems like it's impossible to get to the upper decks without negotiating an Escherian spider web of escalators and elevators and platforms that look out onto the... parking lot and train tracks and the Coronado Bridge. This is an annoyance to the casual fan which is compounded by the just-out-of-rehab-on-work-release staff members who seem to give nothing but convoluted, twitchy directions.

The location is QUITE convenient, though, as it seems that all roads lead to it (Full disclosure: I was staying at the Park Manor Suites which is on 6th). Of course, if San Diego fans would cheer for their own team (y'know... to give the park a hometown feel) rather than the visitors, then maybe the atmosphere would be different.

Why I Am Paranoid: Pt. 1

"The people who run the motel said that the office wouldn't be open for us to check in. We're getting in too late," she said while driving through the Catskills in the waning dusklight.

"I see. How will we be getting into our rooms then?"

"Well," she began. "They said they were going to leave Room 6 unlocked with the keys to our room, Room 7, on the dresser top and we'd just sign the paperwork in the morning."

"Uh huh."

There was a silence. A pregnant pause.

"So," I asked, breaking the quiet. "Just to clarify, we are to check into a roadside motel in the Catskills that neither of us have seen in person in the middle of the night with no guard or office clerk on duty."

"That's right!"

"How does this plan not bother you?"

Hey, I've Got A Better Idea...

Today I got my first Flickr Asshole suggesting I crop one of my pictures -- the one you see here. He suggested a nice square crop that would wipe my delicious, creamy textures, atmosphere and balance off the planet. "Hi, friend! I've got an idea -- why don't you FUNDAMENTALLY ALTER YOUR PICTURE?" I summarily banned him from commenting on my pictures. This is not to say I haven't cropped before, nor will I crop again. I will say, however, that I only do it in,

a) Extreme situations where I couldn't get in as tight as I wanted, thus making it a conscious choice from the start. (These usually occur in situations where I'm tethered to the cameraman and can't tear off or frame up and I have to correct the horizon).

b) Situations where I frame and compose for square format with the clear intention of doing it later.

With the case of Meena here, I intended to do neither. This composition was not accidental.

So to conclude the title -- "Hey, I've got a better idea. Go fuck yourself."

Throwback Image Saturday

This portrait of Nick is from waaaaaaaay back in 2002 when I was still in school and had a grand old time stealing the keys to the photo kids' studios and busting out the strobes. That said, this was all tungsten lighting with an 80A corrective filter held over my old Yashica TLR (RIP). I was doing my own yearbook of portraits which I digitally printed (on a state-of-the-art epson somethingorother...) and bound for presentation.

Nick was a stand-up guy, a fair critic and genuinely enthusiastic. He was one of the first people I showed my thesis film to -- about 20 minutes after completion, in fact -- so whatever criticism he was to give would have done no good (when I say I had 'completed' it I mean that I got the edit done and didn't want to work on it anymore). He said he enjoyed it very much and saw the (obvious) undertones right away and gave a knowing wink. Nick vanished shortly after my graduation -- I suppose he dropped out. I did have some connections and friends still going for a few years after I left, but I haven't seen him since.

She ees... my seestar...

Ally's sister Jamie came to visit over the (posthumous) July 4th weekend and while we'd met at Ally's wedding last year, it was nice to meet again socially and to have someone new to bounce light off of.

A play about the picture below in one act:

"What Would Freud Say?"
A Play
By Richard Gin

EXT. BEACH, TWILIGHT. Richard takes pictures of ALLY'S SISTER JAMIE without looking through his CAMERA'S viewfinder. He stops to check his exposure on the MONITOR and is surprised to discover he has unintentionally taken an image that makes Jamie's BOOBS look huge.

RICHARD
(to himself)
Humm. What would Freud say?

ALLY
What?

RICHARD
What?

ALLY
What did you say?

RICHARD
Nothing.

ALLY
Nevermind. I heard.

THE END

Retroactive Post to June 27, 2007

The problem with doing delicate work like a Pharma job is how little I can talk about it. Multiple NDAs and general courtesy prevent wholesale blabbing about the quality of the shoot or the product itself, so posts like these might seem a little boring for those looking for juicy tidbits (especially with regards to some of the other high-profile shows I work on that people have a vested interest in).

I somehow manage to find time to go exploring when I travel -- I force myself, basically, a habit I picked up while working on Hoop Guys two years ago. If you work your tail off in a city -- particularly one you're not familiar with -- all you see is the lobby of your hotel and the set you work on and then what do you tell your friends about when you get back?

I asked Biggsy and Max what to do about food and they recommended Benny's for cheap Mexican. A nice two mile drive in the Oxford Hotel courtesy car and a nice smothered burrito later meant that I had three options:

1) Call the Hotel car to come pick me up.

2) Pay for a Cab to take me back.

3) Start walking.

As I had a relatively easy day, and it was a hair after 8:00 PM, I started walking with only a vague sense of which direction I was going, and while I made it home, I found the above scribbling on the sidewalk which seemed to hit home extra hard for some reason.

I always said the reason that the middle of the country is Red and the reason the Bible belt exists is because of the lack of reference points -- on the coasts you know where you stand: That way is land. THAT way is the sea. I can only go in one direction without dying. The limits are easy to see, and they are therefore easy to believe in.

In the middle of the country there isn't any of that -- the land just goes on in all directions and maybe somewhere there's a lake, or maybe SOMEWHERE there's a shore, but you can't be sure just by standing there looking. So you have to trust the people you're with. And you trust your politicians because, hey, you've got no reference and people help people 'round these parts. And you believe in God, because without God, you're marooned and adrift and locationless.

I'm not revising that particular thesis but adding a footnote. When you're in a strange place with no reference points the mind tends to wander, and when it wanders it goes to either towards fear or towards melancholy -- the unknown and the comforting. The comforting becomes melancholy when you realize what you want most -- what can save you -- can't be grasped.

Another Retroactive Post to June 24, 2007

The one thing I always liked about the prairie is the way the weather patterns shift minute to minute. We landed in Denver just as a summer storm was passing through and the tailing end of it made one of the weirder sunsets I'd seen in years. We walked outside after drinks (martinis) at the Cruise Room in the Oxford Hotel and it was like someone had put a Tobacco Filter on the world.

Retroactive Post to June 24, 2007

Me: "Oh! We can stop at Randy's Donuts on the way to the airport!"

Dan: "Yes... we could do that."

In truth, I'd never been to Randy's, even when I was going to Kings games when they were still at The Forum (which is still, even in religious mothballs, better than the Staples Center). We arrived at Randy's with a good two hours to spare before it could be considered panic time at the airport, but we had to wait in line for a good fifteen minutes before our turn came. The line itself was always about ten people deep (there is one walk up window) and the drive-thru windows were easily backed up onto Manchester Blvd. They seemed understaffed for a Sunday morning, even though it was going on ten AM.


In true (bad) scientific form, I consumed one (1) plain cake donut as a control. The donut base is really pretty good -- better than you'd expect, if you're the type who figures they'd coast on reputation -- cakey not too sweet with a nice crisp exterior that holds up well to dunking, which is the only way to enjoy a fresh donut.

I then had a maple long john, which is a surprisingly obscure commodity here on the east coast and found it to my satisfaction -- the light sweetness of the cake portion didn't make the whole thing sickening or overwhelm the maple flavor which, while as inauthentic and synthetic as anything else, was passably "maple."

In conclusion, Dunkin' can take a leap. Horton's gets a pass for belonging to a culture. Krispy Kreme remains some other-type shit.

The whole detour to Randy's took a good half hour longer than we had figured and by the time we made it to the airport a pipe had burst in the first terminal, forcing passengers out into the street and causing massive congestion that seems to happen in L.A. no matter what. Still, we made it into the waiting area with ten minutes to spare and pacified our producer, M., who got a chocolate-cake donut with a sugary glaze. He declared it "good."