Uncle Ofay's Good-Times Story Corner

[Or, at least, let us agree to war with only our Olympic fencing teams.]

Bouncy lexicographers.

Brian Cox on the LHC, the building blocks of existence, and the history of the universe. [Introductory link.]

David Perry on videogames, emotion, and the potential of the medium. One characteristic of gamers is that it is true that everyone inherently thinks their experience is uniquely transcendent, and hence all gamers become something of evangelists.

Lastly, from the journal of a Power Dyke in Training: a review of the really, really terribly stupid and offensive advertisement for some film called "The Blind Side."

Her quote follows the trailer.

1. White people are so good and trusting and kind.
2. Black people are so big and dumb and slow and poor.
3. White people have beautiful homes.
4. Black people don’t have homes.
5. White people are stable.
6. Black people are unpredictable.
7. White people coach football.
8. Black people play football.
9. White people are the best thing to ever happen to black people.
10. Black people are the best pets white people can have.

These are accumulations. I've always taken great inspiration from things that exist outside of an "approved" aesthetic environment.

The first is a bookmark clearly made for English grandparents. I had another adorned with two white Scottish terriers, above the caption, "A Double Scotch," and the red-scripted slogan beneath which stated: A book is a friend that never fails you. That one was lost when I jumped down onto the subway tracks to retrieve the copy of Simon's The Corner that had fallen; a story I've already told here, but always intended to elaborate on the specifics of the loss. (Certainly a minor loss.)

The second is my baker's business card. But only on certain days. It was out once, and then not again. Someone important must have been visiting. You can't tell from the scan, but I believe it's actual letterpress printing. It's quite lovely to hold, and an unusual color.

Following these are scans of instant film portraits taken about a month ago by my friend Louis. Two of myself, and one of a classmate that I don't know personally, but found her quite lovely that evening, and enjoyed the portrait, even if she didn't want it. So, with Louis's generosity, I told her I was keeping it. I must have sounded insane. What? Why? Wait. You're not going to do anything scary with it, are you? I understood her concern; someone having your photograph is an odd, intimate thing. "You won't use my likeness to disparage me" is a very real, earnest, and truthful question. It says, informally, don't use this to betray me.

That's powerful.

But I would never dream of it. I feel affection for the people I study in photographs. Barthes sees death, the dead, the soon dead. But he's also puritanical about color, so he would never even consider these as "serious" photographs.

Perhaps I agree with him, while disagreeing with his stipulations. But that comes from not taking myself seriously as a photographic subject. I attempt not to pose... sometimes, but I guess not always. Many of the portraits that people take and show seem to be striving for seriousness, and come across as dull, stilted, awkward, and contritely self-aware. I don't place myself above, when I find myself (rarely) the subject, making ridiculous poses, dances, and embarrassing expressions. Even when I'm not being silly, I at least attempt to avoid freezing. I fidget terribly, make faces, look around, and am generally uncooperative, refusing to follow direction I find disagreeable. No one has ever told me I'm easy or terrible to shoot; but I've also never been directed by a professional, either.

Then, sketchbook pages.

And myself, yet again, from almost a decade ago. Things have changed.

Lastly, lets have a few words from my mentor, trainer, and agent (I don't need to give you his number; look in the Yellow Pages under "successful"). Here, he explains what we're doing together with this whole "internet" thing that's so popular these days, and then elaborates on the sometimes unpleasant necessity of killing a man by pushing your thumbs through his eyes into his brain.

Hey, success can get ugly. He taught me that.