Conversation with my son just now:

"There's a man in my sack with the corn." He says this while holding a corn-filled heating bag.

"The man in the sack said 'everyone attack' and he's sitting in the sack with your corn?" I ask. The kid does not get the Ballroom Blitz reference and moves on.

"Yeah, there's a man in the sack. I cut him up. His head and his feet. They're in the sack with the corn." The kid looks as angelic as the day he was born. On neither that day nor this one did I hear Ave Satani in the background.

"Well, that's sort of strange," I say.

The kid doesn't blink. "Yeah, it's strange." And he goes walking off with his sack, which may or may not have a dismembered guy in it.

***

Conversation with the media

Last week, the TV station I used to work for ran this story in the first block of news at 11pm. If you don't have time to click through, it's about a car vs. deer wreck.

Yeah. Complete with repeated images of the dead deer hanging out of the windshield of the car.

This is quote from the story is about the lady who was injured in the wreck. It pretty much sums up how classy my old haunt has become.

Cardell Lindsay, said, "They were saying she was real bloody, but they think most of that blood came off that deer because that deer came through the windshield. He's dead. I seen him."

Five years ago, the deer story never would've made it to a photographer's tape, let alone on the air...let alone on the air for a full minute and half with "Exclusive" stamped on it.

Exclusive? Really?

For most people who read across the country, this may seem par for the course. This particular station, though, was long considered to be protected from and above the FOXification of America. It was a bastion of real news. Now, it's running "Exclusive" stories about something that happens every day. And they are showing pictures of dead animals on TV.

What sucks is, I know the guy who had to produce the story. He came along after I left, but I've met him since and I think he's a helluva good reporter and a nice guy. I can only guess he was forced to do the story. I can only hope, anyway. The station used to be managed by people who respected their viewership as much as they respected the profession of journalism. Now, it is the same station that recently ran a series titled, "Are You Too Fat For Your Car?" and has semi-regular reports on the status of Britney Spears' collapse.

Hell, it's like watching someone you love die in the hospital. It's sad, sick, and painful. I still have many friends there who I'm sure wish they were able to do the kind of work they did a few years ago. My hope for them is the station's ownership realizes what they've done to what was once one of the most respected local news stations in the country.

Or, if I need to speak a langauge that might be understood...

"Journalism at that station is dying. I seen it."

***

A conversation with security

I hate the fucking circus. I really do. I only go because I don't want my kid killing some guy and putting him in a sack full of corn because I didn't take him to see the elephants.

The only good thing about the circus, as far as I'm concerned, is it is great fodder for my Flickr account. My buddy CC bought me a Flickr PRO account recently and I was looking for more good material. So, as I have for the past three years, I walked up to our local arena with one of my Nikons hanging from my shoulder.

At the door, several security guys were half-heartedly wanding the crowd. Had I wanted, I could've smuggled a kilo of blow, a machete, and a howitzer in my pants.

"Is that a detachable lens?" the security guy asked.

I was already a little cranky anyway. I've been on the wagon for a week and work is a little stressful. All I wanted was to have a nice afternoon with my family and maybe get one or two good pictures.

"Yeah, it is."

I knew what was coming at that moment. I remembered the same conversation playing out at the World Series of Poker. There, the exclusive media provider (read: we pay money to be the only people allowed to properly cover this event) established a rule that forbade cameras with detachable lenses.

"I've never had a problem with this before," I told the security guy.

"Every circus is different," the guy shrugged. "You can walk it back to your car or we can have someone escort you guest services."

My car was less than five minutes away, but I couldn't resist actually being escorted by security to make sure I didn't get my 18-70mm lens in any clown's face.

To his credit, my escort was a really nice guy who tried to make me feel better about the entire thing. "It's a copyright thing," he said while steam rose off my forehead.

I wanted badly to launch into a PETA rant about abused elephants and how the tigers should eat the ringmaster. Instead, I took a valet ticket that read "#285" and watched the show without taking any pictures.

I hate the fucking circus. More.

***

A conversation with you

About fifteen months ago, for lack of something better to do--and because I was very excited about the day--I live blogged the whole of election day. At first it was just a way to keep myself occupied. Eventually, it became a conversation with you. After more than 14 hours of live blogging, the post had 113 comments and was a great conversation to boot.

Super Tuesday is going to be another one of those days. I'm going to be fabulously preoccupied with the goings-on around America and I'm planning to live blog the day. If any of you folks would like to join me, the comments will be open.

See you then.

Labels: Elections, Parenting, Photography, Politics

My buddy T is one hell of a photographer. I think I've said that before.

A few weeks ago, T invited me to join him at a video game auction a couple of minutes from my house. I didn't make it, but he did. That's the thing about T. When he wants to do something, no late night or general malaise will keep him from going.

If you ever wonder what happens to the Ms. Pac-Man games and KISS pinball machines when they leave your local pizza parlor or arcade, this might be somewhat enlightening. Regardless, it's fun.

Visit T's slideshow at Death of the Arcade.

Labels: Photography

It's downtown Greenville on a cold December afternoon. A magician has worked up a sweat, torn off his coat, and is working the crowd to a wash of smiles and belly-laughs. It looks like a carnival shell game, except he's not fleecing anybody of anything except their disbelief.

When the trick is complete, the crowd applauds and the magician throws his coat back on against the cold air. As he re-organizes, someone tells him they know how he did his trick.

"That's why you shouldn't stand behind me," he says.



Later, we leave a toy store and find ourselves in a sudden snow storm. While it's cold outside, it's not cold enough to snow. It takes little investigative work to determine that a local gallery owner has decided to add to the holiday cheer with a soap-sud snow blower. Perched in a second-story window, the snow-machine is making one quarter of a city block look like New England on Christmas.

Because I'm a jaded adult, I'm finding more to watch in the red-eyed homeless guy and throngs of holiday shoppers. The boy, however, is wide-eyed and screaming. To his three-year-old mind, it's a sign that everything good about the holiday can't get better.

"It's Christmas Eve!" he screams to everyone and no one in particular.

He can't hear me when I tell him Christmas Eve is still a couple of days away. Even if he could, it wouldn't matter anyway. For him, a few cents worth of soap and a snow-making machine are all he needs to be happy for an afternoon.

I can't say anything else. I simply look at him through a lens and wonder if I'll ever be so innocent again. I'm reminded later that because I'm jaded and paranoid doesn't mean I should deliver the mental tension of the father on the son. I try to remind myself of that and hope for the peace to do so.

Because, when I see this kind of joy, I should want to do nothing but make sure it lasts forever.



More from the holiday camera at my Flickr account.

Labels: Family, Photography

A couple of pictures from Halloween night from my Flickr account.


Saving the world, one suburb at a time. Also, as I wrote on the Flickr description, for a kid who gets next to no sugar, Halloween night for my boy was like a fallen priest spending a night in a brothel. Or something like that.

Labels: Family, Mt. Otis, Photography

The title will be better explained in the coming days. For now, a few pictures from an extended trip to the Show-Me State.


My mom prepared a big meal for us Saturday night. Twenty minutes before we sat down to eat, a typical Missouri storm blew through and knocked out the power. We ate by the remaining sunlight and flickering candles.


The power was out for several hours. With no TV, no computers, no music, and no light, we did what few extended families do anymore. We sat around talked and laughed for a long time. We bet on what time the power would come back on (my wife won) and when it did, we all turned off the lights and went to bed.


For a kid who never stops moving, I find it pretty amazing that I'm learning a lot from him about when to stop and smell the flowers.


And what he knows about concentration, I'm not sure I'll ever learn.


This is the face of a woman displaying incredible patience.


Looking out from the inside of a small Missouri cave. We debated while here whether Missouri is known as the cave state and whether anyone outside this state would recognize it as such if it were. Turns out, Missouri is The Cave State, but I'd guess my friends in California just don't care.


A good uncle who would make a great father, if he should ever so choose.


A father who is about to endure an annual departure that hurts worse every time he does it.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography, Travel

I was such a tragically bad baseball player when I was in first grade. My team, if I recall correctly, had a Bass Pro Shops sponsorship (this was back in the day before Bass Pro was any more than a sporting goods store in Springfield, Missouri). My ability on the field did not go beyond being able to wear the baseball cap properly. After that, I have to think I was a source of endless frustration and embarrassment for my father. That said, being the guy he was, my dad continued to encourage me through all sporting endeavors all the way through high school. I don't think he ever missed a baseball, basketball, or football game. The first time I ever caught a pass in the end zone (button hook from the right side, hard missile into my chest against Ozark High School), I looked in the stands and there was my dad losing his damned mind he was so happy. It's still a memory that makes me tear up a bit.

The good thing was, my brother turned out to be a pretty good athlete who could hit dingers, plow nosetackles, and eagle the par fives at Deer Lake. My dad got to see a son play well in the sporting arenas, and that always made me happy. Oh, and lest you think I'm harboring some age-old resentment, my dad taught me to play guitar and poker, which happen to be my two favorite recreational activities to this day.

Last night, I went back to the baseball fields for the first time in a while.



I've recently been wondering if I have any ability with the camera outside of shooting seated poker players and my kid. As it happened, my friend BadBlood's son is playing ball this summer and his parents wanted some pictures. What's more, my kid adores the miniBloods and is taking an early liking to baseball. It sounded like a good family evening.

I recall a particular joy as a kid. Whether it was my dad going to play softball with his Roark-sponsored team (followed by pizza at Shotgun Sams), or any of my or Dr. Jeff's games, there were so many constants. The dust was omnipresent. The concession stands all looked the same. The bubblegum on the sidewalks formed a path to each field. The bleachers all felt the same and the people in them all shared the same look--we're tired, but there are few places we'd rather be right now.

Last night, my kid was one of the kids who didn't maintain attention for more than couple innings. In fact, after miniBlood knocked one to right field and made it all the way home, my kid decided he was going to practice his homeruns. Into the dust he ran, making tracks for an invisible homeplate. "I made homerun, Dad!" he yelled from across the field.

I spent my time looking through a lens at a kid who didn't seem like he could be more at ease. I occasionally stole a look at his proud dad and thought, "I'm going to be there in a few years." My job was made easier by the fact that miniBlood was pretty damned good, and much better than most, if not all, of the kids on the field.





It was a little after seven when I looked down at my kid's dirty feet and up at my wife's sun-drenched face. Both looked like they were ready for bed.

I could only think, "Just wait. In a few years, L'il Otis will be tending to the hot corner while mommy wonders how she's going to get the grass stains out of his pants."

Whether the kid gets his dad's or his uncle Jeff's athletic skills, I can't wait.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography

This is not the jungle, and yet it feels like it sometimes.

In a society, we try to assign some meaning--try to assign some blame, even--for things we can't understand. Faith, for some, helps. It's these things that make the faithless wish they were the praying kind. Because, without faith and the ability to forgive, there is only anger. And in anger there is little but pain.

Anger is blinding. It feeds irrationality. If we cling to some last shred of reason, we might be able to hold on. The problem is, on the back side of reason, when we come out on the other side, we're left hollow. We never had the faith. We've given up on the anger. We've teetered on the edge of insanity and acted without rational thought. We've managed to survive in spite of ourselves. And we're left in the same jungle, surrounded by the same animals, and left wondering how we let so much time pass without finding a way to fix it all.

So, how do we survive? Again, the faithful can chalk it up to a master plan and a deity's will. Those on Faithless Street don't have a mailman. They don't get word that it's all going to be okay. So, they make up their own little stories. Stories like you read here, I guess.

It's days like the one we just watched that get me searching. Not for faith, necessarily, but cause I have my own little brand of it (one that, last I heard, is not in the playbook of Pat Robertson, Pope Benedict, Gary Bauer, or Tom Cruise). I just search for something. I've managed to get by without blaming anyone except the one person responsible. I've managed to control my anger without getting too numb. It sounds cliche, and I sound like a broken record, but I got by through making my kid laugh.

Best medicine? Some say, I guess. It's a salve, I think. I don't like zoos (I actually once broke up with a girl because she wanted me to go to the zoo and Christmas mass within six months of each other), but my kid loves the animals. So, I go. It's easy to see how some of the animals get through it. Some are just too dumb to get it. The goats at the exit petting zoo are pretty good examples.



I get goaty sometimes. It's easier that way. I eat the food people shove at me. I wander around in my pen and take the petting when I can get it.

But, I think the thinking folks among us know that if we're goats, we're little more than sheep. We'll end up getting led to the milking pen or the shearing shed. We'll flock and baa and not offer much in the way of the jungle's version of progress. In short, we're civil in our inaction.

No, we're not goats. We have will. We have reason. Or, at least we like to think we do.

And so we recognize that we're in the jungle and it appears to be the only jungle we have. And that's what makes our eyes sad. When people look at us and say, "Dance, monkey," we can choose not to. However, that doesn't change the fact we're pretty much trapped.



It would be nice if there was a solid wrap to all this. It would be nice if I could tell you there is way to survive the jungle without deluding yourself into believing it's all going to be okay. If I could do that, Tom Cruise might give me a job.

I can't do that. It may seem like I'm beating the obvious drum a little hard, but we're living in a time I don't think any of us expected 15 years ago. I finally admitted to myself today that it's got me a little scared. It's not the madman that turns an idyllic community into his personal shooting range. It's everything. I don't have to list it for you. If you're reading this, you're likely thinking about the same things.

What do we do, folks? Do we get goaty? Do we accept that our eyes are growing as sad as the monkey's? Or do we do something else?

Tell me. Because this jungle is getting deeper and darker every time I look up.

Labels: Mental Massage, Photography, Society

If my dad had died in 2003 like he was supposed to, I would've remembered him as a caring, hardworking man. It would not have been a bad memory. Still, I also would've remembered him as a man who never stopped, who didn't know a life existed outside of Type A personalities, and who planned to relax only upon his death.

Dad didn't die in 2003, and for that I'm still pretty damned amazed and thankful. What's more amazing, though, is the effect a near-death experience can have on a guy. Dad is still cantankerous, impatient, and curmudgeony. But, sometimes, when he is alone, he stops. Today, when he thought the rest of us had walked on to look at a potbellied pig, he stepped off into a little grove. I was watching, but he didn't know it. I knocked off a couple quick shots as Dad proved there is time to stop and to...well, do what you're supposed to when you stop.



Sure, it's cliche, but it didn't take away from what it felt like to see my dad, alive and looking every bit of it.

My folks are in town for the weekend. My kid gives me a lot of joy, but there's not very much that makes me smile more than seeing how happy the boy makes his grandparents and vice versa. Here ends the sap. Well, after a couple of pictures.

Labels: Aneurysms, Family, Parenting, Photography