YOU SHOULD BE IN PICTURES

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-18-24)

 

     Last week was National Camera Day, when cameras get together to celebrate, get drunk, make fools of themselves and promise not to take pictures of each other. I couldn't really call in sick and take the day off work to celebrate, not with all those cameras around. Since hardly anyone even has an camera anymore, I guess you could call it National Phone Day. There's a website that follows all these "National Days," and it offers a timeline of significant events in the history of photography, and invites us all to celebrate the camera as a way to tell our story. You should always tell your "story" while you're living your "truth, especially if you're on a "journey." Usually if I'm telling a story I pretty much made it up, and that's my truth.

     I was always fascinated by photography, starting in my teenage years, and my Dad even bought me a camera for graduating something he was surprised I graduated, like the 8th grade. It was a very nice camera, too, an Olympus SLR. I made a darkroom in my basement and actually printed photographs. I had an enlarger, and all the chemicals in various trays, and a "safe" light, so you couldn't really see how unsafe all of it was. It was definitely much safer than when I had a chemistry set down there. You were supposed to perform experiments like testing for pH or seeing how crystals form. I was focused on mixing the chemicals together to see if I could make them blow up. But I did learn some useful things, like cats hate having their pH taken. My Mom wholeheartedly welcomed the transition to photography, but she did get nervous when I told her was down there blowing up my photographs.

     I fantasized that my Dad and I would bond through our photography. My Dad had a Nikon, which was considered the Cadillac of cameras, just as Cadillac was considered the Nikon of watches, and Rolex was considered the Dom Pérignon of shoes. We could go out with all our camera gear, automatic winders, extra lenses and batteries, waiting for that once-in-a-lifetime subject to come along. I was nervous about seeing a once-in-a-lifetime subject at my age- what does that say about the length of my lifetime?

     It's just a matter of time before we're going to find something rarely seen in nature to photograph. You have to be patient. I'm very patient, but I'm also getting very hungry. Finally we see it: A woman wearing a shower cap in broad daylight. Dad says, "Let's get a picture of her and put it on Facebook. We'll cube out her identity so she doesn't sue us." "Dad, we're going to put her on Facebook without her face? Also, Facebook is not invented yet." He says, "I know it's not exactly nature, but at least it's human nature." "Cut her a break, Dad, maybe she just came from  baby shower. Hey, Dad! Isn't that a passenger pigeon over there?" "A what?" "It's a bird thought to have been extinct since the year 1900!"

     "Okay, this is good. First, let's figure out your depth of field. Walk off in feet the distance to your subject. Now, adjust your aperture accordingly. What's your F-stop? That was a trick question- aperture's the same as F-stop. Now take a reading on the light meter. What does it say? Really? It must be nighttime. Wait- you have it upside down. Okay, set your shutter speed based on the light reading. Low light, so we'll need the tripod. What's your ASA set at?" "Dad, the bird's been gone about 10 minutes." The passenger pigeon had hopped on the local.

     My friend Georgia is always posting a fantastic photo of an amazing scene, like a beautiful castle at the top of a canyon on top of a mountain, with a sheer 1,000-foot drop on all sides. First of all, I'm not scaling that cliff to come up there and conquer you in your stupid castle.  When you finally come down for pizza, and you will, because the pizza guy's not going all the way up there either, I'll slay you then. I might even smite you also, just out of spite. My point, if there is one, is that I can no longer believe that any photo is real. There is photo-shopping going on, there are filters, there is retouching.

     I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that I may be one of the most photographed people in America. That's because I've taken the train into Manhattan for 44 years now. And when I arrive it's like Grand Central Station there, and every tourist is running around with a camera taking pictures, and I must be in the background of quite a few of them. For that reason I'd also like to point out that any photo taken of me may not be real, and may be altered or retouched. And if it is real, please take a few moments to alter it and retouch it, because I'm much better-looking in person. And don't retouch it in an inappropriate place.

BEATING THE HEAT

 

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-03-24)

 

     It was above 90 degrees for three days in a row last week, and that's the definition of a heat wave. If I could not keep from crying and it was tearing me apart, that's the definition of a heat wave burning in my heart, and luckily it didn't come to that. But it was really hot. The city opened over 500 cooling centers so that people who didn't have air conditioning could get a little cooler. I tried one of these centers, and when I emerged I was into Radiohead, I now never wear Crocs for any reason, I lasered off my tattoo that said "I heart my poodle"  and I no longer own a sweater-vest, so it worked.

     What are the rules at the cooling center? How long can I stay? If I'm visiting New York and I'm too cheap to get a hotel room, can I go to the cooling center for a couple days? Can I bring a date even if her apartment has air conditioning? If I bring a girl who's super hot, what's she going to look like when she comes out?

     I still can't believe that when we moved into our house the previous owners had not installed central air conditioning, and were relying on a hodgepodge of window units of varying effectiveness. I guess they were counting on the pool to lower their body temperatures. That pool in our backyard, oblivious to the hazards of global warming, maintains an average summer temperature of about 40 degrees. I thought it would be warmer if I measured it in Celsius, but it's even worse. "Rick Melén was hospitalized yesterday for hypothermia, and is expected to fully recover, but only to his previous state."

     So we did what anyone with a questionable understanding of geography would do, and that's go south, where it was cooler. Just traveling down the Garden State Parkway is always an experience. My Android Auto GPS map informed me that 10 miles away was a 20 minute slowdown. To me that's not a transportation problem, it's a math problem. How fast to I need to go NOW to make up for the time that the slowdown is going to slow me down? I calculated that If I got to the slowdown in two minutes, I could make up the time. I will need to go 300 miles per hour.

     Let me know if you've seen this: Sometimes the GPS will offer an alternate route: "17 minutes slower, tolls." Are there other fine qualities of the route that they're not telling me? OMG it's SO WORTH IT! Everyone seems like they're in such a hurry I feel like the entire parkway is a race track. People are jockeying for position and even old ladies are cutting me off when I try to enter the fast lane. It's like there's ONE parking space at the end of the parkway and no one can stand the thought of anyone else getting there first. I have to go 78 miles an hour just to gain access into the left lane and immediately people behind me are flashing their lights for me to pull over into the right lane because it's too slow for them. But in doing so I would be aiding and abetting the crime of going 79 miles an hour in a a 65 mile-per-hour zone, and I would have to place myself under citizen's arrest.

     I'm bouncing these ideas off my wife, but she's sound asleep, so I'm bouncing them off parts of her body that I know won't wake up. Should I pivot to the New Jersey Turnpike? Might be faster but there are so many trucks. I feel safer if I get behind one that has a sign that says "How's My Driving?" and a phone number I can call. "I'm behind one of your drivers and he's making a face in the mirror like he's going to cut me off. Could you ask him if that's his regular face?" 

     We finally get to the shore, and I have a few minutes to relax and unwind before I start thinking about how bad the traffic's going to be on the way back. We stroll the boardwalk. The offer of an ice cream is readily accepted. Heroically I only order a kid-sized ice cream cone, but I tell them to make it a fat kid. There's an Escape Room place with a line out front. If it takes that long to get in I'm probably just going to stay there.

     It's Father's Day weekend, and Dads ride free at the amusement park. It's also Pride Month and Juneteenth. If I was a gay, black Dad I bet they would pay ME to ride the rides. There are only a couple I can go on that won't make me sick. There's one with helicopters that roll around slowly on a track with small hills on it. I think I could go on that, but my wife won't let me because she thinks it's for babies. Then why do the helicopters say "POLICE," "RESCUE" and "MARINES" on them? I'm an elite performer in that chopper, in service to my country. Plus there are other Dads riding in it. "They're holding their kids in," my wife points out, so I look around to see if anyone might let me borrow their kid for a few minutes.

     I tell myself that the Garden State Parkway is much more fun than any old ride here, and I keep telling myself that until Juneteenth fades into Julynth.