Posts tagged ‘subway’
Dear Peanut Butter:
Often times as parents we get a lot of advice, either from books or from our parents. But noticeably absent in any chapter or advice columns about parenthood is the importance of peanut butter, not necessarily for the child, but for the parent.
You have solved about 99 percent of all problems I have faced with my child. Don’t want to eat your broccoli? Well, here, have some fucking ants on a log. Don’t want to do your homework? That’s fine, but you won’t get a piece of toast with peanut butter. You sound a little grumpy? Here, a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup will make everything better.
Parents have a hard job. We are taught that the “in” thing now is to talk to your children all the time. Some of the uncles or single guys or ladies out there writing these advice columns must think that talking to their favorite niece at a birthday party for fifteen minutes proves their point. But stay at home with the child for at least a year and then come and tell me that children make great conversationalists.
I think you understand that more than anyone or anything. Unlike parents that have replaced peanut butter with hummus or some vegan/gluten free concoction, I have free space in my life where my kids know NEVER to enter. And I couldn’t have done any of that without you, peanut butter.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Darlene
You know you have too many fucking cameras when you can turn on any camera and know how to use it in less than thirty seconds.
The Main Thing I learned about Street Photography I learned in the bathroom
11/19/2013
Rufus Mangrove
All I wanted was a well written ‘top ten reasons to do THIS in street photography.’ But every time I came up with a list, I found out that someone like Erik Kim or Steve Huff had come up with a much better list three years prior. So I gave up on lists and for a while I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. And then one morning I decided I was just going to say one thing about street photography like I’m some kind of Buddah, and then to title the whole journey, “The Main Thing I learned About Street Photography I learned in the Bathroom.”
I think it would intrigue some people, and to add a little more incentive, I’d have maybe a webinar, and then when no one expects it, I’ll yell out, “Visit my page and I’ll give you secret codes for cool black and white presets and my thesis on the connection between street photography and solar power!”
Don’t get me wrong here like I’m angling for a scam. There is something to be learned by all this, and to show I’m not a phoney, I start every meeting by repeating three times, “Street photography is like peeing,” and I say it at different speeds so that no one knows when I’m going to say something or jump out at them. When it’s time to seal the deal, I know they’re ready to accept that premise. I have everyone repeat the following at least seven times a day.
Don’t let anyone tell you how or where to pee. That is the art of street photography
One of these days I’m going to get myself my own train. I’ll have it connect to all my secret hideouts so I don’t have to go through all the trouble of squaring the blocks or hacking into the mainframe of certain large law enforcement organizations. With all the new spare time, I’d probably start collecting animals like zebras which as some of you know aren’t horses. When it’s not a horse, you don’t have to worry as much about all those regulations.
You can read just about every book in the world about parenthood, but none of them will really explain to you how much fucking laundry you’re going to be doing. When you start the whole endeavor, you’re going to invariably volunteer to do the laundry rather than having to deal with the children; let the mother figure those buggers out. But soon that one laundry bag you and your wife had when you got married morphs by necessity into two laundry bags, then six months later, morphs into four of those fucking blue IKEA bags that you can carry pumpkins in. It’s going to be up to you not only to bring all those clothes down the elevator to the washer and dryer, but to bring them back in the next hour, so that you can spend the next hour trying to fold the clothes, then another half hour putting them away without fucking with the drawer system that you had no say in creating. The whole thing is completely thankless like you’re some kind of bass player. No one gives a shit if the laundry is done or the clothes aren’t on the floor or left in the washer overnight. But when you fuck with the laundry, somehow the whole house becomes a mess, and then everyone starts feeling that you’ve caused a god damn squalor. Heidi Murkoff will be the last one to tell you this, but don’t volunteer to do the laundry under any circumstances. Learn some nursery songs and how to have tea parties and other diversionary tactics when you still have a chance.
i hate it when i’m doing something real focused, like hanging clothes in the closet, and then turning around to catch my cat by the door staring at me. i hate it mostly because it happens pretty much all the time. i could be surfing the internet and turn around and in the corner of my eye, my cat is staring at me from underneath the table or on top of the ten foot bookcase. not a lot of people stare at me when i’m on the street because i am trying to go through life completely anonymous and i’ve worked hard to go mostly unnoticed by everything and everyone. but then this whole cat thing puts all the work i’ve done into question. i stay up at night worrying about it. i know cats are skilled and everything but if i can’t hide from my own cat then i might have a real problem. but what i really hate is when i think my cat is staring at me and when i give a double take, it’s my unfolded boxers or a hand towel discarded on the floor. and then i’ll see my cat staring at me from some other place in the room. sometimes i pick up the boxers or hand towel and throw it at her.
a few days ago i was being chased again by a pack of squirrels that mistook me for some kind of bread product. i ran past bedford avenue, took a right on 23rd Street, and ended up somewhere on Farragut Avenue underneath a truck.
last night i got into my car and drove into the ocean. at the time it didn’t seem like a stupid idea. i had to get to coney island and going via the ocean was the quickest way. by the time i made it a few hundred feet off shore, i realized i had a lot longer to go, and things were taking a lot longer than i expected. i was able to turn the car around but the current prevented me from going anywhere. i wasn’t freaking out because i could see land but the more i pressed the gas, the more i just stayed in the same place. i thought about jumping overboard and pushing the car but then there might have been sharks.
They had prepared a feast with unwrapped candy bars, sliced hot dogs, and mounds of some sort of pasta dish that looked like a cross between Kraft Mac N’ Cheese and cooked oatmeal. I wasn’t really that hungry but I didn’t want to offend my hosts by refusing the paper plate they had pushed in front of me with their noses. I quickly picked up one of the candy bars and put it in my mouth, chewing as fast as I could. It tasted like an old snickers bar, the chocolate a bit too crunchy and the bits of nougat and peanuts sticking to the roof my mouth as though they had been dipped in rubber cement.
Don’t —
Don’t you want me?
You know I can’t believe it
When I hear that you won’t see me.
Don’t —
Don’t you want me?
You know I don’t believe you
When you say that you don’t need me.
It’s much too late to find
When you think you’ve changed your mind
You’d better change it back or we will both beee so-rrrry . . .
DON’T YOU WANT ME BABY?
e v e r y d a y aperture 