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About greg

Just another bozo on the bus.

weird is good

Strangest thing. I’ve been shooting photos since about the Triassic period and in all that time I very rarely shot photos in portrait orientation. Well, I mean, except when I was shooting actual portraits, of course. Landscape orientation has always seemed more natural and organic to me.

But since I’ve been using this Ricoh GR3X, I find myself shooting more shots in portrait style. I really can’t explain it. Is it because the camera is so small and light that I’m more willing to turn it on its side? That doesn’t make much sense to me, because I tend to pre-visualize almost all of my shots. I generally ‘see’ them before I shoot them. So why would the camera matter? Maybe it’s the fixed lens? I don’t know.

Or maybe I’m just ‘seeing’ more portrait-oriented shots? Maybe it’s just a coincidence that I’ve started doing that shortly after picking up a new camera? That seems improbable too. Doesn’t it?

Another thing. I’m not entirely sure this is true, but it seems like when I shoot something in portrait orientation, I pay closer attention to the edges of the frame. I like to think I do that with most shots, but I find myself actively thinking about the edges when I’m shooting in portrait. Maybe that’s just because I’m not used to it? Maybe I do it so automatically in landscape orientation that I just don’t notice it as much? That seems possible.

Take this photo, for example. I wanted that tiny bit of chimney in the upper right. And that sliver of the window frame on the left side. And along the bottom, that white line of the parking strip and the blob of shadow from a parked car. I wanted those things, but I didn’t want very much of them. Which, because the GR3 has a fixed lens, meant stepping forward just an inch or two, then stepping back half an inch. It meant doing the goddamn hokey-pokey in the middle of the street until I had it just right.

When I got home and downloaded the photos, I noticed that of the 24 photos I shot during that brief photo-walk, 7 of them were in portrait orientation. Seven. Almost a third of the photos. I’ve never in my life done anything like that.

It doesn’t bother me. It’s just a bit of a shock. Has this happened to anybody else? Have you suddenly found yourself shooting in a different orientation? Or have I maybe had a stroke and just failed to notice it? Maybe it’s a tumor. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s weird.

Happily, I believe weird is good.

0 and 2

That title’s a tad misleading. There was only one actual assassination attempt on Trump’s life. The second incident was basically a security breach, but it’s being described as an assassination attempt. In order to be an assassination attempt, you have to actually attempt the assassination. The Secret Service stopped the guy before an attempt could be made. Which, you know, is what they’re supposed to do.

About that…people (and by ‘people’ I mean Republicans and gutless Democrats) are posturing outrage again, asking “How did the would-be shooter get so close to Trump before being spotted?” He got that close because 1) Trump insists on golfing at his public courses, and 2) golf courses are fucking huge, and 3) unless a golf course is in a secure area (like, say, a military base) it would take a LOT of personnel to secure the entire perimeter. This is why presidents Obama and Bush often golfed on military bases. They weren’t greedy narcissists like Trump, who’s happy to charge the Secret Service for green fees that’ll go right into his own pocket.

I don’t know, but I’m assuming the Secret Service was running some sort of rolling security bubble around Trump’s golf cart, securing a couple of holes ahead of him and a couple of holes behind him. Which, really, is enough…or would be enough for an ordinary ex-POTUS. An ex-POTUS who wasn’t an active, volatile threat to the future of democracy. An ex-POTUS who didn’t thrive on pissing people off.

Let’s face it. A lot of people would like to see Trump dead. A lot of people responded to the first assassination attempt by saying they were sorry the shooter missed. A lot of people fucking hate Trump.

I want to see him cry.

I’m not one of them. Well, okay, yeah, I hate the guy. But I don’t want to see him dead killed by an assassin. I don’t want him made into some sort of MAGA martyr. That could lead to something really really ugly. And, frankly, a quick death is too good for Trump. I want him to suffer.

I want to see him tried by a jury of ordinary citizens and, it’s to be hoped, convicted of his crimes. I want to see him incarcerated. Or at least—at the very least—facing some sort of carceral punishment, even if it’s something like 20 years under house arrest. I want to see him bankrupt. I want to see his assets seized to given to E. Jean Carroll. I want Trump broke and humiliated and reviled. I want his wife and family broke, humiliated, reviled. I want him to be internationally scorned; I want global headlines calling him a convict. I want Trump alive and painfully aware that he’ll be one of the most despised characters in American history. I want him cognizant that the name Trump will be mocked and scorned for decades.

I want the motherfucker to suffer. I’m somewhat ashamed of that, but there it is.

i still talk to strangers

I wrote a piece back in April of 2023 about my habit of talking to strangers. Here’s a somewhat concise summary of the point of that post.

I like talking to strangers. I like meeting new people and learning something about them. Granted, most of my conversations with strangers are casually superficial, so it’s not like I’m learning anything important or meaningful about them or their lives. But the simple fact of meeting and having an idle conversation with random strangers tells me something about humanity in general.

And this is what I’ve learned: most people are pretty much okay.

That’s still true. Most people really are pretty much okay. A few days ago I found myself in Perry, Iowa, a small town of about 8,000 people. As my companion and I walked down the street, we saw a guy get out of a pickup truck, carrying a couple of small jars. One of which looked like homemade pickles.

I kind of leaned forward and grinned at the jar of pickles…and he stopped. He was delivering the pickles and some homemade cherry jelly to a couple of friends in a nearby shop. I asked if he sold his homemade goods, and he said, “No, I just give them to friends.” He asked, in a very kindly but curious say, what we were doing in Perry. I told him we were just walking around, looking at the town and its architecture, shooting photos.

He started talking about the town—how it had changed over the years, how it had fallen on hard times, and he started to get a bit emotional. I said something vague about how it was clear that he loved his town, and that sort of love was a wonderful thing. Then he left to deliver his goods.

We walked on. I stopped to take a few photos. And then the guy came trotting up to us. The friend who was to get the cherry jelly wasn’t in the shop, so he thought we might like it. This stranger, just because we’d chatted with him for a bit, wanted to share his jelly with us.

Randy Kennedy and a jar of cherry jelly.

Randy Kennedy. He’d lived in Perry most of his life, and he walked with us down the street, giving us a history of almost every building and the people/families who lived/worked in them. The old shoe store owned by Greek immigrants, whose son was a hero in the Second World War. The French woman who ran a small diner/sandwich shop, and the various sandwiches she made, and how he and his friends would tap on a window and she’d sell them sandwiches through the window. The florist whose shop always smelled so nice. The building where the local newspaper had been printed and how he and his brother had been paperboys and they’d gather at “that door right there” and collect their papers, and how he was sometimes late in getting his deliveries made because he’d stop and get a slice of pie at another shop. He told us about two taverns with doors on opposite sides of an alley, one for hippies and one for farm folks, and how they’d drink together and argue politics in the 1970s.

As we walked and talked, other locals would drive by or ride by on bikes, and many of them would call out to Randy, and he’d wave back. He walked with us for maybe thirty minutes, telling us stories about how wonderful the town was, and how it was failing now, and how MAGA had created deep rifts in the community. He talked about the way the town felt increasingly divided, and had become less tolerant. He talked about the local pork producing plant that closed six months earlier, putting 800 people out of work. Eight hundred, out of a population of eight thousand.

He didn’t mention the school shooting that happened in January, leaving an 11-year-old boy and the school’s principal dead, and seven others wounded. Some things were apparently still too raw to talk about. But most of the shops—even the ones that were closed and empty—kept ‘Perry Strong’ posters in their windows, maybe claiming more resilience than the town actually has. Maybe hoping resilience would hold the town up long enough for some good news.

This guy loved his small town and was proud of what it had been and mourning what it had become. He was pessimistic about the future, but desperately hoped he was wrong. His love for the town was heartbreaking. He was sad, but said he was okay. That’s when I asked if I could take his photograph, holding the jelly he’d give us.

Like I said in my earlier post, most people are pretty much okay. In a lot of ways, being okay can be seen as a victory. Randy Kennedy may look a wee bit sad in this photo; he has good reason to be. And yet he’s basically okay. The proof of that is that he chased a couple of strangers down the street just to give us some cherry jelly that he’d made himself.

I talk to strangers. I will always talk to strangers. And this morning, I had cherry jelly on my toast.

completely batshit deranged

I’m really beginning to believe that a line has been crossed. I’m talking about the line between neurosis and psychosis. I’m talking about Donald Trump.

A week ago, on August 30th, Trump sat down for a chat with Tiffany Justice of ‘Moms for Liberty’ (which, seriously? Is there a ‘Moms Adamantly Opposed to Liberty’ group somewhere?). The issue of trans rights came up and Trump said something completely batshit deranged.

“The transgender thing is incredible. Think of it. Your kid goes to school and comes home a few days later with an operation. The school decides what’s gonna happen with your child. And you know, many of these childs [sic] 15 years later say, ‘What the hell happened? Who did this to me?’ They say, ‘Who did this to me?’”

That’s…well, as I said, completely batshit deranged. And as much as I complain about the news media ‘sanewashing’ the batshit deranged stuff Trump says, I have to admit that I did the same thing. I laughed with others about it, and basically dismissed it as Trump being a fucking bonehead again, exaggerating wildly for effect. Because, c’mon, ain’t nobody gonna to believe a kid goes to school and comes home days later (I guess the kid’s parents were busy and didn’t notice he was gone for a few days) with an entirely different set of gender tackle.

But then yesterday Trump held a rally in Mosinee, Wisconsin. And guess what? He basically repeated that same completely batshit deranged story. He said,

“Can you imagine you’re a parent and your son leaves the house and you say, ‘Jimmy, I love you so much, go have a good day at school,’ and your son comes back with a brutal operation. Can you even imagine this?”

No. No, I can’t imagine it. In fact, I can’t even imagine any rational person saying it. I especially can’t imagine a fucking candidate for POTUS saying it. And I double especially can’t imagine a fucking candidate for POTUS believing it. But I’m actually beginning to wonder if Trump does, in fact, believe something like that is happening. I mean, if you say something completely batshit deranged once and it gets reported as being completely batshit deranged, a person who is NOT completely batshit deranged would know NOT to repeat it.

Completely batshit deranged?

But here we are. And all of a sudden, I’m hearing the lyrics to Psycho Killer in my head.

You start a conversation, you can’t even finish it
You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed
Say something once, why say it again?
Psycho Killer
Qu’est-ce que c’est?

Seriously, qu’est-ce que fucking c’est? It’s delusional, is what it is. And that brings me right back to that line I said may have been crossed in the opening paragraph. Back in January of 2021, in an article about Trump for Psychology Today, Dr. Stephen Diamond wrote this:

Once a person, including a leader, has crossed over the line from neurosis to psychosis, for, by definition, a delusion is a psychotic rather than neurotic symptom, that person has now become debilitated or disabled by a severe mental disorder, and may no longer be able to continue to perform or discharge their job responsibilities safely, efficiently and effectively. Their reality testing–which is different than neurocognitive functioning per se–has been significantly impaired.

Bingo. By repeating that completely batshit deranged story, I have to question if Trump’s reality testing has gone down the porcelain facility. It’s pretty widely accepted that he’s had a severe personality disorder for decades. But has he crossed that line? Is he actually delusional?

I’m thinking the answer is, yeah.

motives? I got your motives right here.

I used to comment fairly often on the various mass shootings in the US. In fact, I actually started to count the number of posts I’ve written with the tag ‘another mass shooting’ but once I hit 30 posts, I gave it up. I did notice that the last time I commented on a mass shooting was almost a year ago. I wrote this:

[H]ow often can you repeat the same weary commentary? Because it IS always the same. Every single fucking time, it’s the same. The names of the victims and shooters are different, the locations are different, the numbers of the dead vary, but the bodies are all dead in the same way and the guns involved are at least similar.

So here’s me, once again, writing the same essential goddamn post. Winder, Georgia. Apalachee High School. Your basic AR-15 platform weapon. A 14-year-old shooter. Fourteen, for fuck’s sake. FOURTEEN! We’re talking late puberty, here. This a period when boys begin to get some sense of who they are…and this kid?

People…everybody…always ask this question after a mass shooting: why? As WaPo writes this morning:

“…the shooter’s motives remain unknown. In a news conference Wednesday, Smith said investigators from the sheriff’s office and GBI had interviewed Gray [the shooter]. The investigators do not yet know why the shooting occurred, Smith said, adding that “We may not ever know.”

Nobody knows why 14-year-old boys do anything. And frankly, what does it matter? Maybe he’s pissed off at his parents, maybe he’s been bullied at school, maybe he’s decided to join Hamas, maybe he thinks he’s being controlled by the Jews of the Nine Universes, maybe he kept losing a particular ‘boss’ fight in Dark Souls, maybe he just wondered what it would be like to wander through the halls of Apalachee High shooting people. What difference does it make?

Let’s face it, this kid’s motives are a distraction from what everybody—and I do mean everybody—knows is the real problem. Easy access to firearms. Even if the kid (and lawdy, he’s just a kid) was bullied—even if he did want to join Hamas—none of this would have happened without access to (what I assume is his daddy’s) semi-automatic rifle. Take the gun out of the equation and the butcher’s bill drops.

But we won’t do that. Because this is America and in America we…well, in America kids are disposable.

Fuck it. Go Wildcats. Go, run for your lives. Ain’t nobody going to help you.

undecided? c’mon.

A couple of days ago there was a headline in the Philadelphia Enquirer stating “About 3% of Pennsylvania voters are still undecided.” As of October 23 of this year, there are 8,646,572 registered voters in Pennsylvania. That’s 3,897,179 Democrats, 3,451,289 Republicans, and 1,298,104 independent and third party voters. Three percent would be 259,397 undecided voters. A quarter of a million Pennsylvanian claim they just can’t make up their minds. “Harris or Trump…man, I just don’t know.”

I’m inclined to think the headline should have read ‘About 3% of Pennsylvania voters are either lying sacks of shit OR completely fuckwitted chumps.’ The liars, of course, are Trump supporters who don’t want to acknowledge out loud that they’re racist, misogynistic assholes. And really, I don’t blame them. The completely fuckwitted chumps are just that—chumps who are completely fuckwitted.

(Okay, short etymological tangent. The origin of chump is uncertain, but it’s thought to probably be a mash-up of stump, chunk, and lump—all of which at some point referenced a short, thick piece of wood in Old English, Danish, and Middle High German. In other words, a blockhead.)

There has never, in the entire long, ugly, weird history of these United States, been a more vividly clear difference between two presidential candidates. Never. About the only thing they have in common is they both walk upright on two feet (although Trump’s posture calls that into question). Comparing Harris and Trump is like comparing apples and maybe some sort of foot fungus. I could make a list (an incredibly long list) of the differences between them, but unless you’re on the Editorial Board of the Washington Post, you already know most of those differences. And unlike WaPo’s Editorial Board, you know why they’re important.

My point, if you can call it that, is that it seems highly improbable that 3% of the voters in Pennsylvania are truly undecided. The reality is you’ve got some Trump supporters who are either afraid of confessing their support or who’d like to get a little bit of attention, so are lying about their position. And you’ve got some people who simply don’t care about anything outside of their own personal interests and who probably can’t be bothered to vote anyway.

This election won’t turn on convincing ‘undecided’ voters to become ‘decided’ voters. It’ll turn on 1) getting people to the polls and 2) making sure the people in charge of counting the votes and certifying the results do their job. Trump can’t win the popular vote. He probably can’t win the electoral vote. But he’s put a LOT of money and effort into ratfucking the certification process.

I’m confident Harris will win the election. I’m not as confident she’ll become president.

thoughts on wonder woman

There’s been a fun and interesting ‘challenge’ on Bluesky this month, revolving around movies. Each day there’s a prompt; something like ‘movie with the greatest opening scene’ or ‘best book-to-movie adaptation’ or ‘movie you love that everybody hates.’ Some folks just respond with a title of the movie and a still photo, but others offer thoughts and explanations about why they chose that particular movie. The whole thing has been entertaining.

Yesterday’s challenge was ‘a good movie in a genre you dislike.’ I generally dislike and avoid superhero movies and movies based on comic franchises. The protagonists almost always have a ‘origin story’ explaining how/why they became superheroes. This usually involves either a traumatic incident that shaped their future (parents are murdered, planet explodes, etc.) or they get caught up in some scientific or mystic mishap that somehow imbues them with superpowers. I’m actually okay with that. The problem is these superheroes tend to be rather incestuous because they share a common comic franchise, which provides the characters with arcane, massively inter-related, overly-complicated backstories and histories that only fans appreciate. The resolutions of these movies depend way too much on epic battle scenes between super-characters. I don’t mind that the outcome of those battles is predictable. I DO mind that as battle scenes go, they’re generally dull—explosions take precedence over acting. And one last thing; in superhero movies ordinary people (and the cities they live in) are usually just props and backdrops; their destruction is only used as a metric to demonstrate how important the superhero is.

None of that applied to the movie I chose: the 2017 film Wonder Woman, starring Gal Gadot as Diana. She didn’t have some sort of complex, traumatic past that caused her to take up superheroing as a career or hobby. She didn’t experience some scientific or mystical event that gave her superpowers. Her parents weren’t murdered in front of her, her planet wasn’t destroyed, she wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider, she’s not avenging anything in particular. In most ways, she’s not really a superhero. She was born an Amazon and trained to be a warrior. The training included a philosophy that the point of being a warrior was to fight for folks who can’t fight for themselves, to fight against injustice. That’s basically it, it’s just that simple. There’s a purity and innocence to her motives. She’s doing what she was born and raised to do. She’s not there to fight super-villains; she’s there to punch Nazis.

In the movie, that eventually means fighting in World War Two. There have been other movies and television shows in which a woman leads men into battle. In every other case I can think of, that’s depicted as a woman doing something transgressive, doing something women aren’t supposed to do. In other movies, it’s usually explained as an extension of some maternal instinct. They’re momma lions fighting to protect their families and the families of their people. That’s all very commendable, but it’s also very traditional.

Again, that’s not Diana. She’s a warrior. Her motive for leading others into battle isn’t just to protect others; it’s to fight injustice. It’s a subtle but important distinction. And it works because there’s an amazing training sequence at the beginning of the film. The training involved warriors being gracefully lethal, but the gracefulness was an integral aspect of the lethality. They were being graceful because it was pretty; they were being lethal with an economy of motion.

Diana, training to be an Amazon warrior

When a squad of Nazis landed on the island, the Amazons attacked. It wasn’t women against men; it was warriors against soldiers. There was a savage beauty in that attack, not because the Amazons were beautiful but because they were well-trained and graceful. Later in the movie, Diana leads an assault against an entrenched Nazi army. The physicality of the training scene made the assault on the trenches work. All that jumping and twisting and swinging in the beautiful setting of the island was translated onto the bleak horror of No Man’s Land. Again, the fact that Diana was a woman wasn’t even an issue; there was a palpable sense that THIS was what she’d been training for.

One other thing. I very much liked the way the writers/director dealt with Gal Gadot’s appearance. They acknowledged a few times that she’s physically beautiful—then just moved on, because that was the least interesting aspect of the character. This was smart, in my opinion, because the director and writers knew they HAD to address beauty in order to get it out of the way. They did the same thing with her outfit (and c’mon, it’s a ridiculous outfit for anybody to wear in modern combat). They provided both practical and symbolic reasons for Diana to dress the way she did.

Diana becoming Wonder Woman

Earlier in the film, the characters spent some time in London. We saw how Diana the warrior being confined by custom to wearing restrictive clothing, being confined to silence by patriarchal convention. There was a momentary respite from that in a scene in which Diana kicks ass in the alley fight. But it’s not until she’s facing Nazis in trenches that we get to see her become Wonder Woman. She shrugs off the cloak she’s been wearing over her outfit, and it’s like she’s also shrugging off all those tiresome patriarchal conventions. When she climbs over the top of the trench, it’s a liberating moment, for the audience as well as the character.

But after that battle, the movie became disappointing. One of the Nazis is revealed to be Ares, the god of war…and what had been a smart, funny film became silly and stupid. It became another dull superhero versus super-villain flick. Gal Gadot was largely replaced with CGI, and they CGI’d the life and heart out of the character. We had the usual super-villain speech-making, the usual massively catastrophic damage to structures and regular people, the usual explosions and fireballs, and all the personality of the actors disappeared. It became a cartoon; it became everything I dislike about comic and superhero movies.

But damn…the first two-thirds of the movie was just fucking brilliant.

yellow lines, yellow rope, yellow dumpster lid

I’m an absolute pain-in-the-ass to run errands with. Why? Because I have a tendency to get distracted by stuff I see. Random stuff. I’m talking abstract lines and shadows and shapes and colors, stuff that usually gets lost in the passing clutter of everyday life. Stuff that, when it’s isolated within a frame, becomes visually interesting (to me, at least). Like, for example, some newly painted yellow parking lines reflected off a car door.

We’d just bought a few groceries and I’d just put the bag in the back seat when I saw the reflection. I stood there for a moment, sort of arranging it in my head. In the past, I’d have just admired it, then got in the car. But now I have an actual camera that fits in my pocket. So now I have this photograph.

It’s just a flash of light, shadow, line, and color that likely won’t appeal to anybody but me. But this is how I go through the world, seeing stuff like this. And since I now own a little Ricoh GR3X, I can photograph the world the way I see it. Sure, I could have taken a similar photo with my cellphone. But it’s not the same. With an actual camera you have more control over the exposure.

I also use the GR3X to take ‘normal’ photographs, of course. The usual landscapes, urbanscapes, street images, New Topo stuff (which counts as ‘normal’ for me). But almost every day there’s some weird little visual thing that will captivate me enough to stare at for a moment, but not enough to go fetch a camera. Having a camera in my pocket comes in handy at these moments. You know…in case I see a bit of sunlight illuminating a coil of yellow polypropylene rope hanging in the garage.

The yellow rope alone would have been enough. But the red of the fire extinguisher almost exactly matched the red of the walking stick. You can explain that to people, but without the photograph they probably won’t see it. They may not see it even with the photograph. But that’s okay.

My friends and family are ridiculously patient with me when this sort of thing happens. “What are you doing? Why have you stopped?” “The dumpsters have yellow lids.” “Yellow lids.” “One of them is open and the yellow is brighter. And the clouds.” “I’ll wait in the car.” It’s really a wonder they don’t stab me.

There’s an old photographer’s aphorism: the best camera is the one you have with you. I suppose at some point I’ll get over my infatuation with this camera and I’ll stop carrying it with me all the time. But right now, it’s just part of my leaving-the-house ritual. I grab my keys, my wallet, my phone, and my Ricoh GR3X before I walk out the door.

There are two benefits to this. First, I’m shooting more photographs and shooting them more thoughtfully. Second, carrying this camera everywhere has impressed upon me how very tolerant folks are of my eccentricities. It reminds me that I’m a very lucky guy. It reminds me to appreciate the people around me even more. How many cameras can do that?

EDITORIAL NOTE: Okay, I just now noticed that the predominant color in all three of these photos is yellow. Is that weird? It seems weird. But now I have to change the title to reflect that.