It seems I have angered the gods.

April 5, 2006 11:21:27

After this mornings walk to the dog park, I came up with a couple reasons why I feel it is best not to start conversations with dog owners^*. (a work in progress)

1. A woman and a friend pass by talking about her dog, and I over hear her say, "...so I had to squeeze his other anal gland too." She glances over at me and says, "Good morning." I attempt to close my gapped jaw, and she walks by, smiling.
2. A few moments later a woman yells screaming after her dog who is running towards the road, "Auntie Clarisse, Auuuntie Clarisse, Auuuntie Clarieeeesse!" Auntie Clarisse is, of course, ignoring every screamed syllable.

* The notion that I am also a dog owner at the park is not lost on me, and I fear that my sanity may be slipping away.

Church on 7th ave.

A beautiful day today in the BK.

A friend sent me an holga camera in the mail as a present. Here are a few shots from the holga, light leaks and all...

neighborhoodies

I had one of these for a while, in yellow, but I had to get rid of it after I was nearly stoned to death on the train with half empty Starbuck's coffee cups.

And for the record, my hotcakes run slightly perpendicular to the park, and just a few blocks west...

Last weekend at about 4:00 AM I was awoken by a extremely loud explosion and crunching sound. In my half sleep I assumed it was car accident somewhere in the vicinity, and I went back to sleep.

My mother was spending the night on our couch, and would be taking the morning train back to Long Island. I was stirred from a half sleep again a few minutes later. My mother was calling my name. I got up, put on some pants and headed downstairs to find all the lights in the house blinking on and off like strobes, the battery backup for my computer beeping incessantly, and the filter from the fish tank spurting air and water in a spastic fit of stops and starts like a turrets patient on speed. Lights from fire trucks on the street were streaming in through the front shutters and my mother sat nervously on the couch.

I stood at the top of the stairs in a daze. I had surmised in a half sleep that I was either in a lucid dream, or some of the mescaline I had taken back in high school was finally taking its tole. I walked downstairs to peak out the blinds to see half of my neighborhood on the street, and at least a dozen fireman and policemen mulling about. I proceeded to turn off the battery backups and fishtank filters to stop the incessant noise, and attempted to calm my mother. She asked me to venture out to the street to query the firemen about the nature of the situation. She was concerned for our welfare, and rightly so, but I mentioned that I assumed if we were in any imminent danger the fireman would come to rescue us from our home, and that the last thing they needed was another gawker on the street asking questions. She did not appear pleased with this reply, and continued to ask me to venture outside for the next few minutes. I assured her we were safe.

Moments later a fireman rang our doorbell. It seems there had been an underground fire, and the heat and smoke had built up pressure and blew a manhole cover off and into the underside of a car on the street. The car had been destroyed, and smoke from the fire was seeping into people's basements. The fireman wanted to be sure that we were in no danger of carbon monoxide poisoning. My mother shot me a look. Three firemen streamed down our narrow hallway bumping their axes and oxygen tanks against each wall trying to navigate their way to our basement.

I went upstairs to apprise Tamara and Julie of the situation only to find them sound asleep. I knocked on Julie's door, and her response was to shush the dog from barking, "Julie?", I questioned through the door, "Are you awake, did you hear the explosion?" Her room is in the front of the house, and I could hear the fireman and neighbors just outside her windows. The fire truck lights flashed bright red and white beams on the ceiling of her room, but she remained in deep sleep. "Julie, there was an underground fire, and the firemen are here to check for carbon monoxide." "Wah? ok, I'm up." she replied. She appeared downstairs a few minutes later, not so much shaken, but with a quizzical look on her face, and sleep still in her eyes. Tamara soon followed with much the same look.

The firemen returned from the basement, It seemed there was some carbon monoxide, and they would come back in a few minutes to check again. They were concerned about the reading they had gotten from our basement. My mother shot me another look. The living room started to smell of smoke. Tamara and Julie quickly identified the cutest of the firemen, and headed outside to get a closer look.

A few minutes later the firemen returned. They wanted us to open the basement doors to let the smoke air out. The doors to our basement are basically flat metal hatches that give , if but cumbersome, access to the basement. There metal doors are padlocked, and only our landlord has the keys. We informed the firemen of this, and they asked us if they could cut the locks. It seems that fireman are rarely hindered from gaining access to places, and in about ten seconds they had lifted the front basement doors frame and all from the cement encasement. Why cut a lock when you can remove the door in its entirety. The brawny firemen flexed their muscles and threw the door encasement aside as Tam and Julie watched swooning. I must admit I was a bit overcome by their masculinity at this point as well.

The lights stopped flickering, and the fish talk filters stopped spitting and sputtering. The basement began to air out, and after a short while the firemen took their leave. They left the metal basement door off, but it's a minor price to pay for our lives, and I soon realized that this seemingly heavy door only weighed fifty pounds or so. It was easily placed back into its normal position. Somehow, my replacing the metal door encasement had little of the sexy bravado of the fireman's, and it only seemed to cheapen the experience for everyone involved.

Days later, I was in the basement darkroom loading some film into a developing tank. The spool I was using turned out to have a chip in the middle, and was proving difficult. After a minute or so wrestling with the film, I got it loaded. I looked to the left, and to my surprise I saw rays of light streaming into the basement. I didn't notice the light at first because my eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness. I set the tank on the table, raised my fists into the air and let out a slow howl, "Noooooo!" The fireman may just have saved my life, but by yanking the basement door from its cement encasement they let streams of penetrating, film destroying light into my darkroom. Damn sexy firemen.

A garden we pass on the way to the Pavilion Theater up on Prospect Park West:

But of the softness of the bear which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not snuggle of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

Driving down the Belt parkway last weekend we saw a van with the word 'Crunk' painted on the back and sides in big bold orange letters. We had to do a little bit of lane ballet to get close enough to the van to find out exactly what this 'Crunk' was all about. Apparently, it is a new low cal high energy drink, or a heaping pile of marketing crap for short. Either way, if you get thirsty and are in need of energy, CRUNK!

Update: sweet sunny x-mas, I found the official Crunk website (warning, is flash and keepin' it real, Yo).