As much as I’ve benefited, and love the process of coming home, uploading the day’s images, and applying the basic editing tools I’ve learned over the years. Those skills are basic at best. Removing objects is something I’m pretty heavy-handed at. Thankfully, when the need calls. I have a long-time friend who is kind enough to step in and apply his magic. In this case, a recent thunderstorm interfering with our trip to Philadelphia’s Woodlands. My focus on the middle figure was crashed by two uninvited figures. I was incredibly grateful when this friend agreed to work his sorcery and twice as impressed upon seeing the results. Slowly, but surely, I’m learning new applications in Adobe Lightroom. And while I try and hope to get things right when shooting. Know how to use the tools at my disposal.
Over the weekend, my wife and me took a trip north to the area of New Jersey we once called home. During those two days we covered a lot of ground and met up with a respectable amount of old friends and loved ones. One, a long time friend and photography mentor met us at a otherwise overlooked Irish spot on Clifton. This friend, one who had met some health issues head on and conquered them was full of life and laughter. He made my wife smile from ear to ear and even knocked my hardened personality back to life. As our meet up began to wind down. He pulled out a coffee table book on the famed photography and directorial icon Herb Ritts While the book served as a priceless token of our friendship. One I can’t imagine I earned. It served as a reminder of my childhood visits to DDB (Doyle, Dane, Bernbach.) where my Mother was a financially struggling secretary.
As a ten year old, it was such a privilege being brought up to the art department where artists and designers were working on the next, best sketch, art piece, or movie poster. The work, along with the artists I met, gave me an early passion and understanding of art that influenced me to draw and ultimately dive into photography. Years later, I was sitting next to a friend catching up on one another’s travels and run ins. The time was short, yet conversations through regular phone calls Kept us up on the important things. As our time came to an end, he revealed a old brown bag. Within, a book to brought back the memories of the apartment I grew up. Yes, we were poor, but my Mom always brought art and art books given to her at work. Things and memories that enriched us in countless ways. Funny how two unrelated stories reflect one another. I guess that’s life.
Last week I shared several pictures taken while exploring a Baltimore beach. My wife took a liking to the picture on the left. Adding “I really like this one, but I think it would look better without the automobile.” With little to no experience in many Lightroom techniques. I handed it over to a good friend who can best be disguised as a “pro’s pro.” Personally, I’d consider my long time friend to be a magician of sorts. As he has blown my mind with his skills many times before. I posted a before and after just below. I’d love to get your feedback. Feel free to comment below. Thanks.
Shared a phone conversation with a good friend I met more than thirty years ago. While we still share many things in common. It’s the bond of friendship and brotherhood that stands above everything. As we grow older, many of us fall into the trap of regret for the things we’ve done and said. I’ve been doing it far too long. I’ve come to realize I want, need, and will change that. Instead, being grateful for the people in my life. The friends I’ve managed to keep and the bond we share. Here’s to a new year full of change, growth, learning and appreciating the many gifts we often overlook.
As of late, I’ve been doing my best to reach out to long-time friends and loved ones. With the advent of social media, many of us, myself included, have overlooked the importance and joy of hearing a friend’s voice over the telephone or opening a handwritten note or card from someone you once shared frequent exchanges with. Just imagine if one of your hundreds of friends on Facebook ever got a call from you. Don’t worry. You’ll be struck by lightning while accepting your lottery win before that ever happens.
No matter how much time has passed, there will always be a place in our hearts for friends, family and loved ones — sharing memories and getting updates on their current or recent doings. In contrast, exploring a new way to see one another. Although, those first words, “Hey …, this is …” might take a little courage. There is almost always a reward on the other end of the line.
After four years in Seattle, we’ve decided to head back east. Despite the adventure and the fact that we bought a home here. We decided to move to Washington, DC. The draw of going back east to be close, but not that close, to family and friends, is undeniable. As someone inspired by the music from the area at a young age, music also influenced my sociopolitical views. The opportunity to live in a culture that had and still has such a profound effect on me is exciting and compelling. Since our decision, we’ve made a point of visiting the areas, restaurants, record and book stores we’ve enjoyed the most during our time here. One of the spots I’ll miss most is Belltown Barbers. Dave and CoCo have provided me with the best cuts and the best gab sessions anyone could ever ask for during my four years here. I hope and plan to keep in touch with them. Only time will tell. Regardless, by Saturday, I’ll be having breakfast at DC’s Waffle House and exploring the area’s record stores.st.
The other night I had a dream involving a very close childhood friend who was both a victim of child abuse throughout his youth and murdered before becoming an adult, regardless of the dream involving us partaking in a crime. Considering the thirty plus nightmares that had me revisiting his blood-soaked body or the blackened eyes or bruised back, this was the brightest and overtly positive dream I’ve had regarding my best friend. A gift of sorts, rewarding me for finding closure after more than thirty years.
Even as a kid, I often felt helpless and afraid to say or do anything to improve the situation. Being aware of and even witnessing some of the beatings or the following results were terrifying to me. I can only imagine what it might have been for my friend. Choosing between who was more abusive, the oversized nonfunctional alcoholic father, and his quick fisted bartender mom is hard enough. The two of them inflicted enough physical and emotional damage to last two lifetimes. While everyone on the block and my parents were aware of the abuse. Perhaps due to the times or their fears of what might happen if they got involved. Not one of us picked up the phone or visited the local precinct to file a report. The thought of being a rat or pushing into a foster home both played a part. However, in the end, the fear of possibly making things worse formed the most significant cloud over our wanting to protect him.
Considering it took me close to twenty-five years to put his murder and the mental scars of his abuse to appreciate what a special and unique friendship we shared. To get over the nightmares and thoughts that focused solely on the darkness. It feels rewarding to look back at all the good times we shared and the many adventures we embarked on.
Glen loved baseball and, more specifically, the Yankees, for which he knew the history of just about every player wearing pinstripes. As pre-teens, we shared a love for comic books, baseball, the original star wars saga, and slasher films. There were countless sleepovers where we’d avoid sleeping to get a jump start on the next day’s adventure. We did everything in our power to see every horror flick that was released during that time, whether it meant finding a way to break into the theatres’ back door or convincing an adult to pose as our parents or guardian. It seems as if at least ninety minutes of each Saturday dedicated itself to catching a flick. These days I can’t help but think those slasher films were an escape from his own nightmarish life.
I’m not sure, and I don’t remember when or how we met. Though living just a few houses apart most likely initiated our first meeting, my first memories involve being curious about why some neighborhood kids attended pre-school. To think we were already exploring an environment outside of our front yards and parents’ protective eyes is somewhat of a head-scratcher. For sanity’s sake, I’ll say the times were very different.
Glen’s thirst for adventure and nose for trouble led us on countless adventures. Some of which, I find it hard to believe we managed to survive or, at the very least, evade the police and a possible stay in juvenile detention. Whether it be trespassing, shoplifting, vandalism, arson, or worse, Glen had a particular taste for trouble that only seemed to grow over time. Perhaps being the smarter or at least, more analytical of the two. I often served as the moral compass that kept us from getting in too much trouble or, to an extent, getting killed. Funny how in looking back. I never looked too far into the future. Whether a life of crime, prison, or following his parents as both alcoholics and abusers. And though we spoke about juvenile hall as sort of a badge of honor. I’m grateful to add; it never came to that.
Regardless of our differences and perhaps due to our similarities, we were inseparable. There were a few fistfights over the years, but no bloodied nose or black eyes kept us apart for more than a few days. From the age of four to thirteen and beyond that, we were brothers, even taking a blood oath when we were eleven.
For better or worse, his father’s attempt at sobriety took them to Las Vegas when we were thirteen. His father, a long time nonfunctional alcoholic, was finally looking to turn his and Glen’s life around. Returning to his gift for cooking, he took a job as a line cook in Vegas. During the two years apart, we kept in touch through letters and occasional phone calls, conversations about girls, music, and, most importantly, girls. A couple of months before my sixteen birthday, he wrote a letter announcing his plan to take a bus back east. A lengthy bus trip from Las Vegas to New York Cities port authority was undoubtedly a better idea than hitchhiking. Sure, what could go wrong?
Upon his arrival, it was easy to see that the sense of brotherhood we shared was still intact. Though we had grown in different directions, our bond seemed more vital than ever. In the days, weeks, and months that followed, there was talk about my mother adopting him. However, Glen never lived by a set of rules or curfews. His not coming home for days and even weeks proved to be too much for us to handle. While I often wished he would adapt and accept the boundaries of a new life. Part of me fully understood why he couldn’t.
Weeks later, his bloated, beaten, and bloodied body found blocks from where the bus dropped him off to start a new life. There amongst the trash on the side alley of a midtown late-night food joint. Though I never really followed the case, investigated what he got into or why he ended up. Both I and those who knew him all have their theories.
However, with years behind me and somewhat of a sense of closure, I wanted to look back on the best friend I ever had and let him know how much his friendship still means to me. Through closure and a sense of acceptance, I’ve finally opened the doors to remembering all the good times we shared, the adventures we embarked on, and the many discoveries we made along the way.
As I began to head back down from the roof deck and enjoy the tacos my wife had been preparing. I was greeted by a really kind couple by the bar. After a short chat, I was asked if and where they could see some, if any of the pictures I had just taken. I gave one of them my card in hopes of sharing before I headed downstairs. While there are probably countless people living here, my hopes are to run into them again and possibly lear more from natives of the city I’ve come to call my home. In the meantime, this post and these pictures are for them.
I first met Al when he was playing bass for New Jersey’s Dog Tired. A punk band heavily influenced by bands such as the Pogues and Still Little Fingers with lyrical muscle that might find itself swimming with more emotive bands such as Dischord Records Rites of Spring and Embrace.
When I moved to Manhattan in 1994, I began to see more and more of Al. I always and still do, consider him a good friend. Enjoying going to see him in a number of bands including The Fury’s (Who eventually changed their name to The Truents.) and (pictured here.) The Deviators. Though I haven’t seen Al in years, I’m sure if we ran int0 one another, we’d be able to pick up just where we left off. If interested, you can find more information about Dog Tired, The Truents and The Deviators on Discogs. I’ll leave a link just below.
If you’re lucky, life will provide you with many colorful and complex characters. One’s who, despite their flaws, weaknesses, and complexities, provide you with the warmth of their love, stories, and experiences. For me, my childhood would provide me with countless adventures, characters, and stories to share for years to come. Thanks to a less than storybook youth and a knack for remembering even the most minute details. I’ve been given a portal to many of the people and exchanges I had throughout those very impressionable years.
Of all the colorful characters I met, regarded as friends and became part of my extended family. Some of the brightest loomed just around the corner at the local watering hole. It’s where I went from ordering my steak and burgers well done to medium-rare. Where I learned that calamari was just a better way of saying breaded squid, it’s where I met one of the bar’s regulars Roger Dodger.
Roger had dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and when I come to think about it, looked a lot like a younger William Devane. I’m not sure of exactly when we met, but he soon became a familiar face and someone I looked forward to seeing when my dad’s girlfriend opened the bar, or I was returning from my nearby little league game. At the time, I loved coming into the bar for a cheeseburger and fries or a plate of calamari. I’d always sit next to Roger and talk about baseball while stuffing my face with whatever was on the menu.
At the time, I was crazy about baseball and had gone from being a back alley slugger to my first year in little league. With Shea Stadium standing over the junkyards and fly by night auto repair yards just a short distance away, I quickly latched on to Flushing’s lovable losers The Mets. Though Roger and I both loved the game, Roger was a dye in the wool Dodger fan who attended his share of Brooklyn Dodgers games as a kid. He’d joyfully reference players with names like Newcombe, Pee Wee, and Duke. Players, who though retired, were considered legends of their time. The mere mention of such icons brought much glee and color to our conversations; Essential ingredients to ad to my young and still very impressionable psyche.
One day while enjoying a spirited discussion about the game. I decided to take a detour by asking about what he did for a living. “I have a truck route where I deliver beverages to local bars and restaurants.” Looking back, it made sense. While I never did see a vehicle, uniform, or hand truck. Considering the timing of many of our encounters, I didn’t see any reason to question.
Fast forward a few years, and while visiting my dad, we happened to watch the movie ‘Goodfellas.’ While it instantly became my favorite movie of all time. I saw many similarities between the characters and the people I grew up around. It opened the door to conversations we had never had before. It wasn’t long before Roger came up. I remember referring to Roger, commenting that he was one of the kindest people I had met during that period. My Father followed with a big exhale of laughter. “Yeah, he loved you, which might be the only reason he never murdered me.” Strangely enough, it turns out that Roger was also a hit-man who fulfilled contracts for both the Irish and Italian mobs. My dad, who was always a great storyteller, was kind enough to detail his methods and some of the places he’d dispose of the bodies. When all was said and done, he had made quite a name for himself before meeting his demise. And though the thought of unknowingly trusting a contract killer with your time might seem fucked up. It was all a part of what I always considered a pretty normal childhood. And though Roger might have raised some hell in his time. I’ll always look back on my days with him, our conversations, and how he always treated me as positive. I was lucky to learn early in life that things aren’t necessarily black & white. Maybe, just maybe, it goes to show that every man, woman, and child has a purpose and a place in this crazy, sometimes upside-down world.
A punk band heavily influenced by bands such as the Pogues and Still Little Fingers with lyrical muscle that might find itself swimming with more emotive bands such as Dischord Records Rites of Spring and Embrace.
Fast forward a few years, and while visiting my dad, we happened to watch the movie ‘Goodfellas.’ While it instantly became my favorite movie of all time. I saw many similarities between the characters and the people I grew up around. It opened the door to conversations we had never had before. It wasn’t long before Roger came up. I remember referring to Roger, commenting that he was one of the kindest people I had met during that period. My Father followed with a big exhale of laughter. “Yeah, he loved you, which might be the only reason he never murdered me.” Strangely enough, it turns out that Roger was also a hit-man who fulfilled contracts for both the Irish and Italian mobs. My dad, who was always a great storyteller, was kind enough to detail his methods and some of the places he’d dispose of the bodies. When all was said and done, he had made quite a name for himself before meeting his demise. And though the thought of unknowingly trusting a contract killer with your time might seem fucked up. It was all a part of what I always considered a pretty normal childhood. And though Roger might have raised some hell in his time. I’ll always look back on my days with him, our conversations, and how he always treated me as positive. I was lucky to learn early in life that things aren’t necessarily black & white. Maybe, just maybe, it goes to show that every man, woman, and child has a purpose and a place in this crazy, sometimes upside-down world.
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