Monthly Archives: December 2023

unlikely, but possible

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So far two states, Maine and Colorado, have decided Comrade Donald Trump is ineligible to be on their state ballots. Colorado’s decision was judicial; it came from the state’s Supreme Court. Maine’s decision was administrative; it came from their Secretary of State. Two states, two different processes. In each state, the decision to remove Trump from the ballot was made by a body authorized to make those decisions.

Republicans, of course, are pissed off (SPOILER: Republicans are always pissed off.) And yet, these results are entirely consistent with the way Republicans WANT elections to operate.

Here’s a crazy thing: the US doesn’t have a unified federal election system. What we have instead is a patchwork of 50 different federal election systems. Voters in Alabama, for example, have a different set of laws and rules than voters in Utah, even though they’re voting in the very same election.

Does that make any sense at all? Nope. But that’s how the US Constitution set things up when it was written back in 1787. Of course, in 1787 there were only three states: Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. Another eight states were added in 1788, and other states gradually dribbled in over the next hundred years or so. Instead of bodging together a single set of election laws to cover EVERY state, Congress just kept saying, “Welcome to the monkey house, you do what you think is right when it comes to electing folks.”

And hey, modern Republicans have loved that idea. It allowed them to control election results by deciding who can vote, where they can vote, and when they can vote. Which is a nice way of saying it allowed them to decide who they didn’t want to vote. (SPOILER: they don’t want Black folks to vote. Or Democrats.) Combine that with massive partisan gerrymandering, and you have a recipe for minority rule.

But now, that States Rights approach has kicked them in the balls. Republicans are relying on SCOTUS to save them—which is a fairly safe bet, considering that Trump appointed three of the Justices and a fourth is married to a woman directly involved in the insurrection.

Am I implying SCOTUS is corrupt? No, not the entire Court. I AM stating my opinion that there are a number of SCOTUS Justices who are openly corrupt and base many of their decisions on political ideology rather than the law. To me, the question isn’t whether or not they’re corrupt, but who they’re corrupt for.

Right now, there are a lot of big GOP donors who are, for a number of reasons (none of which involve ethics or morality), reluctant to donate to Trump. Trump is a problem for the GOP. He’s warped the Republican Party to the degree that somewhat less hateful politicians are afraid to acknowledge, for example, that the Civil War was about slavery. It’s possible—maybe not likely, but certainly within the realm of possibility—that the corrupt members of SCOTUS will take those GOP donors into consideration and will refuse to accept Trump’s appeal of the decisions in Maine and Colorado.

It seems unlikely, but refusing to accept Trump’s appeal would effectively remove Trump from contention and make way for a more ‘palatable’ hate-mongering Republican candidate. It would also allow SCOTUS to claim they’re NOT ruled by conservative partisan hacks. (SPOILER: they’d still be ruled by conservative partisan hacks.) Refusing to accept Trump’s appeal might, in fact, be the only way this SCOTUS can redeem a meager shred of dignity and integrity. In fact, it might act as a sort of historical counter-balance for overturning Roe.

Let’s face it, this SCOTUS is the most fucked up Court in modern history. Legal scholars and historians might say, “Yeah, they fucked up by overturning Roe, but at least they drove a stake of holly through Trump’s black heart.”

unqualified

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I haven’t written anything about Comrade Donald Trump for…well, quite a while. Months. That’s not because he’s become irrelevant; it’s because I’m just sick to fucking death of writing about him. But…

Trump disqualified from Colorado’s 2024 primary ballot by state Supreme Court

That was the headline run by The Washington Post last night. Try to imagine the size of the smile that crossed my face when I heard that.

Just a couple of weeks earlier, in another Colorado court, Judge Sarah B. Wallace found that Trump had, in fact, engaged in insurrection. However, she ruled he shouldn’t be removed from the ballot. Why? Because she determined Section 3 of the 14th Amendment didn’t “intend to include the President as ‘an officer of the United States.”

Seriously. It was a cowardly ruling, in my opinion; a clear attempt to dodge her responsibility as an officer of the court. Let’s look at the text of Section 3:

No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may, by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.

Judge Wallace’s decision was appealed (by Republicans, by the way) to Colorado’s Supreme Court. Yesterday, they basically said, “Sorry, Judge Wallace, but POTUS sure as shit IS an officer of the US. Dude ain’t eligible to be president on account of that insurrection business.”

So, what happens next? Trump will appeal the ruling to the Supreme Court of the United States. In case you’ve hit your head and forgotten, let me remind you that three SCOTUS Justices were appointed by Trump, and Clarence Thomas’s wife was directly involved in the insurrection. Thomas should recuse himself, but he’s not required to. And let’s face it, that motherfucker is massively corrupt, so he probably won’t. He can make bank off this case. The three Trump appointees? Well, we’re supposed to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they’ll judge the matter based entirely on the law. Don’t hold your fucking breath.

As I understand it (and yeah, I’m not a lawyer), the fundamental issues SCOTUS will have to determine are 1) whether the State of Colorado has the authority to determine if Trump committed insurrection against the United States, and 2) if he’s had sufficient due process to defend himself against that charge.

SCOTUS might refuse to accept the case, but that’s really unlikely. If they did, the Colorado ruling would stand. Trump won’t be on the ballot in Colorado. The reality is SCOTUS will almost certainly agree to hear the appeal. But they could slow walk it; they could hold off on issuing a ruling until early next year…February or March…by which time Trump will very likely have locked in the GOP nomination. Then they could claim removing Trump from the ballot in Colorado would create chaos and deprive the voters of their voting rights.

Is this asshole qualfiied to be POTUS?

That’s just a guess, of course. I have absolutely no idea what they’ll do. But I want to address one bullshit argument that we’re going to hear frequently over the next few weeks. People will argue that it should be up to the voters to determine if Trump should be POTUS; it shouldn’t be determined by any court.

That’s a bullshit argument. It sounds reasonable, but it’s not. The Constitution of the US tells us who is eligible to be president. Article II places only three limits on qualification: the person must be 1) at least 35 years of age, 2) be a natural born citizen, and 3) must have lived in the United States for at least 14 years. The 14th Amendment adds a 4th qualification: a person who has taken an oath to support the Constitution but engaged in insurrection or rebellion is NOT qualified. And the 22nd Amendment added a 5th qualification: no person shall be elected to the office of the President more than twice.

So there you have it. It’s not up to the voters. If the voters want Barack Obama to be president, they’re out of luck: he’s done his two terms. If the voters want Arnold Schwarzeneggar to be president, they’re out of luck: he’s not a natural born citizen. If they want Taylor Swift to be president, they’re out of luck: she’s not old enough…yet.

And if the voters want Trump to be president, they’re…well, they’re confused and stupid. But they’ll also have to wait until the most partisan and corrupt SCOTUS in the history of the US decides what to do.

The future of democracy in the US depends on them. I’d like to say I’m optimistic. But damn, optimism is pretty fucking hard to muster right now.

…and be there

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F/8 and be there. That’s the classic photographer’s maxim. It’s usually attributed to Arthur Fellig (better known as Weegee), though it’s highly unlikely he actually said it. Weegee was famous for what was called ‘spot’ or ‘moment’ photography in the 1930s and 40s. He made it his business for being at the right spot for newsworthy moments and being prepared to photograph them. A camera aperture of F/8 is generally considered an all-purpose aperture; it allows in enough light for a decent exposure while providing a relatively broad depth of field. So how do you get a good ‘spot’ photo? F/8 and be there.

In fact, Weegee routinely shot most of his famous photos with his massive 4×5 Speed Graphic camera set at F/16 or F/22. Not that the actual aperture he used matters. What matters is the concept is solid. Be in the right spot with usable camera settings, and you’ll probably get a good shot.

Me, I had my 12-year-old Fujifilm X10 set to F/5.6 in case I came across some random right spot. I was just idly wandering around the city when I heard the distinctive sound of a basketball being dribbled. I followed the sound. There’s a small urban recreation area in Des Moines with a single pickleball court, a ping pong table, a few tables set up for chess and backgammon, and a basketball half-court. This is what I saw when I came around a corner.

There was a guy, all by himself, dribbling a basketball, juking around imaginary defenders, shooting baskets. He was in the shade and almost invisible, but the setting itself was so stark and had such a startling red stripe that I turned on my camera and kept approaching, hoping he’d move into the sunlight. And he did.

I kept edging closer. I refused to look down to double-check the camera settings for fear he’d move into the sunlight and I’d miss the shot. He kept dribbling and juking and shooting, and every time he moved into the sunlight, I snapped a photo.

I only got five shots before he stepped into the shadow to check his watch. Then he put on a jacket, collected his basketball, and walked off. My first shot was as 12:44, the last at 12:45. Two minutes at most. Probably closer to seventy or eighty seconds, most of which was spent walking forward, camera ready, trying to maneuver the guy into the sunshine by wishing really really hard.

Once it was clear the moment was gone, I started desperately chimping* my camera’s playback, hoping I’d managed to get at least one shot that was worthwhile. In one of the shots, the guy was too obscured by the shadow. The other four? They all turned out.

Are they great photographs? No. But when you’re shooting a photo, you generally have an idealized version of the resulting image in your mind. These four photographs are pretty much what I was hoping they’d be. Pretty much. I have some niggling complaints about the final photo, but overall I was ridiculously pleased.

Photographing some random guy shooting baskets on his lunch hour is a small thing. But it’s the sort of thing that keeps photographers walking around with a camera. There’s a definite dopamine jolt when you get the shot right. It doesn’t even matter what the shot is about; you just want to recreate that feeling again. That’s exactly why I was idly wandering around the city and exactly why my camera set to my default daytime aperture of F/5.6.

I’m no Weegee, but I want to be ready when I’m there, wherever there happens to be.

EDITORIAL NOTE: Chimping, for non-photographers, is the act of looking down at the screen of your digital camera while reviewing the shots you’ve just made, and making chimp-like “Ooh ooh” noises as you do it.

in which I stray somewhat from the topic

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Jeebus fuck a pumpkin, can you believe every single member of the Republican Party in the House of Representatives voted to open a formal ‘impeachment inquiry’ against President Uncle Joe? I mean, yes, of course you can believe it because the GOP is no longer a legitimate political party, and hasn’t been for years…but can you fucking believe it?

Sure, it’s entirely symbolic. Sure, it’s just performative politics. Sure, it doesn’t change a damned thing. Sure, we’re accustomed to this sort of Republican skullduggery. And sure…wait. Hold on a minute.

Okay, here’s a thing I just learned: there’s only one L in skulduggery. Who knew? Skulduggery, of course, is a term used to describe all manner of unscrupulous, underhanded, or dishonest behavior—which makes it appropriate for the GOP. Another thing I just learned: skulduggery has nothing whatsoever to do with skulls, which is both a relief and a wee bit disappointing.

The term apparently comes from an old Scots word, sculdudrie, which referred to a certain laxity in regard to chastity—which, coincidentally, also makes it applicable to the modern GOP. The term has been described as “a euphemism of uncertain origin,” although some etymologists seem to think it may have been used as a legal term of art in the early-to-mid 1800s. And let’s face it, considering how weird Scottish law has been throughout history, that wouldn’t be very surprising.

Remember, Scotland—and particularly Edinburgh—was one of the centers of anatomical study back at the time sculdudrie would have been used in law. Dissections of human bodies were often performed in front of an audience (I am NOT making this up) made up of medical students and interested members of the public. Scottish law limited the origin of cadavers used for medical research; they could only come from suicide victims, foundlings, orphans, or inmates who’d died in prison. When legal cadavers became scarce, anatomists began buying corpses from ‘resurrection men.’ Which is a nicer way of saying ‘grave robbers.’ Under Scottish law at the time, it was illegal to disturb a grave. And it was illegal to steal the possessions of the dead. But actually selling a dead body was perfectly legal.

You can see how this might lead to some skulduggery (even though it’s got nothing to do with skulls). In fact, that’s how the case of Burke and Hare got started. William Hare owned a lodging house in Edinburgh. When one of his lodgers died, he and a buddy, William Hare, sold the corpse to famed anatomist Robert Fox. Later, when another lodger became ill with a fever, Burke and Hare decided not to wait for her to die. They smothered her and sold her cadaver. In the end, they apparently supplied a total of sixteen fresh corpses to Dr. Fox.

Burke, Hare, and both their wives (who were at least aware of their crimes) were arrested. Hare agreed to testify against Burke in exchange for immunity from prosecution. And since Scottish law prevented him from testifying against his wife, the case against her was dismissed. Burke was found guilty at trial. The verdict against his common-law wife was ‘not proven’ which is another weird aspect of Scottish law; it’s a verdict that basically says “Yeah, we know you did it, but the State didn’t prove it, so off you go.”

Burke was hanged and his body was given to an anatomist and was dissected in front of an audience. His skeleton is on display (I swear I am NOT making this up) at the Anatomical Museum of the University of Edinburgh Medical School.

Uh…I seem to have gone off on a slight tangent. It wouldn’t be very difficult to find a way to compare the GOP to Burke and Hare or to compare the absurd impeachment ‘inquiry’ to grave robbery. Hell, I could even find a way to compare the public dissection of William Burke to the trial of Donald Trump, since both of those motherfuckers deserve to be flayed in front of an audience. But I think I’ve probably tried your patience long enough.

bi-generation?

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Okay, first thing, if you’re expecting this to be about a generation of bisexual people, you can just stop now. It’s not about bisexuality. Well, not specifically. I mean, it’s about Doctor Who, so it could be argued that bisexuality is sorta kinda implicit. I mean, The Doctor (and yes, Whovians (and also yes, Doctor Who fans are often called Whovians, get over it) always refer to Doctor Who as The Doctor, get over that too) is an alien who’s been both male and female and has been attracted to both men and women, so…yeah.

I understand, not everybody is a fan of Doctor Who. If you’re one of those folks, then you might as well take a nap, on account of this is totally about one of the esoteric aspects of The Doctor. I’m talking, of course, about bi-generation.

If you’re NOT a Doctor Who fan and, for some inexplicable reason you’re still reading this, allow me to explain the regeneration business. There’s obviously a practical aspect to it. The show is 60 years old; the original Doctor Who has been dead for almost half a century. In order to keep the show going, a new Doctor had to be introduced. Rather than just toss in another actor and pretend he’s the same person, the writers introduced the concept of regeneration. When The Doctor is fatally injured or their body is failing for some reason, they go through a transformation process—their cells renew into a different physical form, which results in a new body. Their memory remains mostly intact, but the new Doctor has a unique new personality. This is regeneration.

It’s happened 13 times in the course of the show. We expected it to happen a 14th time, when the new Doctor (played by Ncuti Gatwa) would be introduced. But instead of a classic regeneration, we were subjected to bi-generation. As The Doctor (played by David Tennant) prepares to die, he’s supported by two women, one on either side. The regeneration process begins, then…nope. It just…stops. Everybody is confused. The Doctor asks those supporting him to pull (on his arms), and hey, bingo, he splits in two. Sorta kinda.

I mean, where there was The Doctor, now there are two Doctors—one a pale skinny Scotsman (Tennant), the other a muscular Black man (Gatwa). I didn’t notice this at first, but The Doctor’s clothes are also divided; Gatwa gets the shirt, tie, shoes, and underpants. Gatwa also gets to ask the question that EVERYBODY is thinking: “Now, someone tell me what the hell is going on here!”

Putting the bi in bi-generation.

What the hell is going on is something completely and entirely unprecedented. As a fan, you have to ask, why did the writers do this? Why would they introduce a new form of regeneration? In my opinion, there are solid narrative reasons for the bi-generation business. Consider that The Doctor, in various incarnations, has been around a LONG time. They’ve saved civilizations and destroyed them, they’ve rescued billions of people and seen (or caused) billions to die, they’ve fought monsters and they’ve been monsters, they’ve loved companions and seen them die (or leave or get abandoned). Because of this, The Doctor has the universe’s worst case of PTSD and survivor’s guilt ever. Let’s face it, the Doctor is massively fucked up.

By tossing in this bi-generation, the writers have done two very important (for the fan base) things. First, they’ve given the new Doctor a clean slate. Gatwa has The Doctor’s memories, but isn’t burdened by the guilt. It also allowed Gatwa to skip the post-regeneration ‘Wait, who am I now?’ confusion that normally accompanies a new Doctor. He starts fresh, confident, eager, enthusiastic—and Gatwa’s delight in being Doctor Who is apparent and infectious.

Second (and probably more important for the fans), the old Doctor gets a chance to heal—to live a somewhat more normal life, to have something like a family, to be relieved of the obligation to fix every fucking thing that goes wrong, to just relax. There’s something healing about seeing Tennant sitting down to a meal with his expanded chosen family. It’s just really nice to know his end isn’t traumatic.

BUT (you knew there was a ‘but’ coming, didn’t you), I’m a wee bit disconcerted by one thing in particular. As I said at the beginning, Whovians always refer to The Doctor as The Doctor. Not just any Doctor, but THE Doctor. Because The Doctor is singular. There’s only one The Doctor.

Until now. How can Ncuti Gatwa be The Doctor when there’s another Doctor Who loafing about in Donna Noble’s garden in Chiswick? Personally, I’m more than willing to abandon the singular The and refer to the 14th Doctor as the Doctor, so long as I get to imagine the old Doctor sitting around at night with Wilfred Mott, drinking tea from a thermos and looking at stars through a telescope.

the privilege of the sword

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I don’t know if this is a thing or not, but during the holiday season (which, for those not in the US, is the period between our Thanksgiving and the New Year) I tend to re-read favorite novels. It’s probably got something to do with comfort and quiet and nesting. I don’t know, but there it is and I’m not going to think about it too much.

This year I’ve decided to re-read Ellen Kushner’s The Privilege of the Sword. It’s probably been a decade since I read it, but it’s a novel that resonated with me. I’d read her earlier novel, Swordspoint, a few months before. The Privilege of the Sword (okay, I’m just going to refer to as PotS from now on) isn’t exactly a sequel to the earlier novel, but it’s definitely sequelish. It includes many of the same characters and takes place in the same “fantasy” world.

You’ll note I’ve put “fantasy” in quotation marks. Both novels are often listed as fantasy novels, which is a genre I tend to associate with some sort of magic (and, too often, elves and dragons). I’m fundamentally skeptical about the use of magic (and elves and dragons) in a story, but I accept that they’re inextricably bound up in the fantasy genre. I accept them in the same way that I accept the frequency of murder victims in cozy mysteries. I tend to wince a little when it happens, then get on with the story.

As I started reading Swordspoint, the first novel, I kept waiting for somebody to do something magical. It was sort of like having a new car; you know it’s going to get dinged at some point, so you’re sort of tense every time you leave it in a parking lot. But once somebody opens their car door and dings your fender, you relax a bit. The damage is done. My point is I couldn’t quite relax and enjoy Swordspoint for the first few chapters, because I was waiting for somebody to wave a wand or cast a spell or something. Eventually I realized it wasn’t going to happen. It was a tremendous relief.

There’s no magic in either of these novels (at least not as an element of the story; the magic is in the quality of the writing). These novels are fantasies in the same way one of my childhood favorite books, The Prisoner of Zenda, was a fantasy. They’re set in an imaginary but internally consistent story world, one in which politics and political intrigue play as much a role as the swordplay. The ‘fantasy’ element is the way the story world–its culture, its social norms, its customs and traditions, its concept of status–is maintained and made real.

So why have I decided to read PotS instead of Swordspoint? Because I recall PotS as a more human story. I recall it being funnier, sadder, more simple but more surprising, more elegant, more intelligent, and more (for me, at any rate) emotional. My recollection may be faulty, but I’m relying on it anyway. There’s an excellent chance I’ll reread Swordspoint as well.

The basic plot of PotS (as I recall) is as follows: a young, rather flighty young woman is called to attend her uncle — the mad and deliciously depraved Duke of Tremontaine — who has decided, for obscure reasons and against all tradition, to train her as a swordsman. In both novels, disputes are sometimes/often decided by setting hired swordsmen against each other. The young woman (I think she’s in her teens?) is initially more interested in attending balls and attracting a potential husband, but tolerates her uncle’s peculiarities for her family’s sake. Eventually, she learns to appreciate swordplay both as a skill and for the freedom it provides her. Her new talent and attitude also allows her to help others who aren’t able to help themselves. There are, as I recall, at least a couple of subplots which are woven seamlessly into the narrative.

Some of that may be incorrect, but that’s how I remember it. What I remember most is that delicious feeling of being completely engaged with the story world and the characters who inhabit it.

I’ll start re-reading PotS this evening or tomorrow, depending on when I finish the novel I’m now reading (the most recent Murderbot novel) and how busy I am. I’ll take my time reading it — maybe read 2-3 chapters a day. I may report back here every few chapters.

I confess, I’m a tad hesitant to start re-reading it for fear it won’t quite hold up to my memory and my expectations. It’s always a risk to return to your favorites, isn’t it.

a tale of two railroad crossings

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Okay, the title is a lie. There’s only one railroad crossing in this story. But the title was too good to pass up. Sue me.

Lately we’ve been seeing a lot of Nazi shit again. Some of it’s related to the appalling situation in Israel, of course, because Nazis will always find some way to contribute to whatever hate is taking place. Some of it comes from the Republican Party.

Seriously, the leadership of the Texas Republican Party voted 32-29 to reject a resolution saying members of the Texas GOP should “have no association whatsoever with any individual or organization that is known to espouse anti-Semitism [sic], pro-Nazi sympathies, or Holocaust denial.” They didn’t say it was fine to hang out with Nazis; they just decided hanging out with Nazis wasn’t important enough to make a fuss over.

You may be wondering, Greg, old sock, what’s that got to do with railroad crossings? I’m about to tell you.

A few years ago I was out noodling around in the countryside and happened across a swastika painted on a shed beside a railroad crossing. So I did what anybody would do. I stopped and took a few photographs of it.

It was one of those cold, drizzly, dreary December days, which made for a nicely dramatic photograph. I only took three or four shots (because it was cold, drizzly, and dreary). Just as I was about to get back in the car, a sheriff’s deputy arrived. I waited and waved. He got out and politely asked me what I was doing. I told him I was shooting photographs. In the past, I’ve had a few encounters with the police who wanted to see my photos, so I prepared myself to refuse that request (you know…just on principle). Instead, he said something like, “I hope you got your shots, because I’m here to paint over that swastika.”

I asked if I could photograph him doing that. He said he’d rather I didn’t. And because he was polite, I didn’t. I got back in my car and left. But I returned about twenty minutes later.

The deputy was gone. So was the swastika. It’s certainly not as interesting as a photograph, but socially and culturally, it’s a huge improvement.

I don’t know if somebody reported the swastika or if one of the local deputies spotted it while on patrol. But I was pleased that the sheriff’s office acted.

EDITORIAL NOTE: I was a criminal defense investigator for several years, which meant I was in an openly adversarial relationship with policing agencies. I don’t fully ascribe to the ACAB (all cops are bastards) view, but I’m painfully aware that all police officers have the capacity to be cast-iron bastards and often are. Because of that, I’m quietly thankful when I see any law enforcement person actually contributing to public safety without being a bastard about it.

box of glasses

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I don’t know about you (seriously, I can in all honesty say that I absolutely do not know about you), but whenever I come across a box full of old eyeglasses, I fall victim to a sort of mild compulsion. I feel the need to put them on. It’s not an irresistible compulsion; I could probably hold out against it, if I really wanted to. But why would I?

Perhaps you also feel that same impulse when you come across a box full of old eyeglasses. It’s possible. But like I said, I don’t know about you.

In any event, I did, in fact, recently come across a box full of old eyeglasses while clearing out some shelves in the garage. I don’t know how many pairs of glasses. Dozens, both men’s and women’s, both regular glasses and prescription sunglasses. And hey, I gave in to that compulsion. I gave in without any hesitation at all. I wanted to see what the world looked like through a series of lenses generated for other people.

[SPOILER: it looks blurry.]

And almost immediately I felt another mild compulsion: I wanted to see what they looked like on somebody’s face. But you can’t just ask somebody to sit and try on old eyeglasses that belonged to other people, all of whom are dead. You can’t ask somebody to do that just for your own amusement. I mean, you can ask them to do that, but it would be awfully presumptuous.

So instead, I turned to the Model of Primary Convenience. Me.

I don’t take many selfies. I know what I look like; I’ve had this same face all my life, so there’s nothing there for me to discover. And, in all honesty, I’m sort of uncomfortable taking photographs of myself (unless it’s a reflection in a window or something).

But there I was, under a mild compulsion, sitting at a table with a box full of eyeglasses and my Pixel phone in front of me. So, I put on the first pair of eyeglasses I pulled out of the box (women’s cat-eye glasses) and I took a selfie. And I looked at it. And it was sort of hilarious.

So I did it again, with a different pair of eyeglasses.

Here’s a True Thing about people who spend years shooting photographs: you sometimes stumble upon an idea that feels like it’s worth repeating. It becomes a project. Eventually, I tried on 25 different pairs of eyeglasses and took a selfie in each of them.

This wasn’t as simple as it sounds (and it sounds really simple). Lots of the glasses I put on were so strong they were disorienting. Others were so dark they were difficult to see through. I often had to guess when I was properly framed so I could press the shutter release (which, yes, I know, isn’t actually a shutter release; it was either call it a shutter release or the button, and the button makes it sound like I was launching a thermonuclear weapon).

I tried to maintain the same facial expression in all the photos because…well, I don’t really know. Some perverted notion of uniformity, maybe? Something to do with the notion of an internally consistent photo project. In any event, it was really difficult to maintain the same expression, partly because I kept wanting to laugh and partly because the glasses distorted my sense of reality to the degree that I often couldn’t see my expression clearly enough to maintain it.

Earlier, I wrote that I tried on twenty-five different pairs of eyeglasses and took a selfie in each of them. I probably tried on twice that many; I just didn’t take a selfie in all of them. A lot of the old eyeglasses were similar in design, so there was no point in photographing them. I mean, one pair of aviator-style glasses looks a lot like every other pair of aviator-style glasses.

A lot of those similar looking eyeglasses had radically different prescription strengths. It probably won’t surprise anybody to learn that trying on a few dozen different eyeglasses of various prescription levels will can you a whanging headache. So if I failed to keep my expression the same in all the photos–if, in some of the photos, I look confused or dazed or disoriented or dangerously unbalanced–now you know why.

I did all this entirely to entertain myself, of course. I’m sort of embarrassed to admit that’s my reason for doing a lot of the stuff I do. But having turned my personal amusement into something of a photo project–having shot a couple dozen selfies in various eyeglasses–I find myself thinking some of you might find it amusing as well.

Besides, I firmly believe in Stieglitz’s concept of practicing in public, of showing work that doesn’t quite meet your standards for what the work could be. He wrote:

[I]f one does not practice in public in reality, then in nine cases out of ten the world will never see the finished product of one’s work. Some people go on the assumption that if a thing is not a hundred percent perfect it should not be given to the world

Stieglitz talked a lot of bullshit, but he was spot on in this regard. I don’t feel any need for ‘the world’ to see the stuff I do, but I’m a firm believer in sharing anything I think somebody somewhere might find interesting. Even when it makes me look ridiculous.