Author Archives: greg

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About greg

Just another bozo on the bus.

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.

farewell to flickr

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I joined Flickr in December of 2004. For a long time, Flickr–more particularly, a Flickr community called Utata–was a significant part of my daily life. I’ve mentioned this group several times on the blog (just counted–29 posts mentioning Utata) because it was massively influential in my digital life. I made a lot of friends because of Utata. I participated in a lot of photographic projects (both personal projects and group projects). I wrote a large number of essays about photographers (the Sunday Salons) for Utata. I spent hours every week monitoring, promoting, and supporting Utata community discussions. It was a lot of work and I loved it.

The last photograph I posted on Flickr — 01/31/2023

But over time, it became a grind. Part of the problem was classic burnout; I was doing too much, taking on too many tasks, agreeing to too many requests. That was compounded by changes in the way Flickr ran itself — changes in ownership, changes in policies. Those changes had a massive detrimental effect on the way communities operated. Over the last 18 months, I gradually slipped completely out of the orbit around Flickr and Utata. Eventually, I stopped using Flickr altogether. I no longer even thought about it.

Until a few days ago, when I noticed I was still paying for a Pro Flickr membership. It wasn’t a lot of money — less than US$9 a month — but I asked myself why I was spending a hundred dollars a year on something I don’t use. I opened Flickr and saw that I haven’t posted a photograph there since January. I was never a prolific poster; I rarely posted more than one photograph a day. As I became less interested in Utata, I posted fewer and fewer photos.

The true purpose of a fence is to create the desire to climb over it — 08/08/2006 (51,534 views)

Out of curiosity, I checked my Flickr stats. I’d only posted a total of 2412 photographs in my 19 years on Flickr. That’s an average of about 125 photos per year. Only 51 photos were post in all of 2022 — one a week. My most viewed photo was taken in 2006 — a black-and-white image of a converted barn, with an unforgivably long title.

I even went back to check my first photograph on Flickr, which turned out to be a selfie. December 17, 2004. Shot with my very first digital camera: a 4 megapixel Olympus C-770 UltraZoom. I no longer have that jacket; I managed to walk off and leave it behind somewhere. Which is sort of what I’ve done with Flickr and Utata.

Jean Jacket — 12/17/2004

Nineteen years is a long time in a relationship. But this morning I canceled my Flickr Pro membership. Not my membership–just my paid membership. It’s more of a symbolic gesture than anything else. It’s me saving nine bucks a month. Maybe I’ll use that money to buy another jean jacket.

I sort of expected canceling my Pro membership would make me feel something. It seems like it ought to mean something, like leaving this behind should carry more weight. But it doesn’t. I guess that’s evidence that I’ve made the right decision.

I’ll continue to shoot photographs, of course. After all, I’ve just recently re-discovered the joy of shooting my 12-year-old Fujifilm X10 (which, by the way, would fit perfectly in the pocket of that jean jacket I no longer have). I can’t imagine NOT shooting photos. Or thinking about photography. Even when I don’t have a camera with me, I shoot photos in my mind. The fact is, absolutely nothing will change, except nine dollars will no longer be automatically deducted from my checking account. The ONLY actual thing that will come out canceling my Flickr subscription is this announcement.

That probably ought to be sad. But it’s not. It’s just something I did this morning after coffee.

six minutes

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So I’m walking down the street last Saturday, right? And I see these weirdly-shaped areas of light on the side of a building–light reflected off another nearby building. The light is also illuminating just the top of a tree that’s almost completely devoid of its Autumn leaves. The nearly-bare tree is beside a tile mural of two hands–one black, one white–touching each other. The fingers on the hands sort of mirror the limbs of the tree. Everything there is odd and lovely and since I’ve got my little 12-year-old, 12 megapixel Fujifilm X10 in a pocket, I stop and shoot the photo.

And I’m happy with it. So I keep walking and I notice the mural is directly next to a cul-de-sac that’s the entrance to an underground parking garage for an apartment building (the building that’s creating the weird reflections in the first photo). There are a LOT of lovely yellow bollards (I have a thing for bollards) in the cul-de-sac that are sort of balanced by a yellow ‘Lane closed’ sign. Even better, there are some reddish shrubs that sort of balance the red of the illuminated tree. Better still, there’s a delicious acute right angle of shadow right in the middle–and in the middle of the shadow, another tree. And I’m immediately smitten by all the colors and the lines of the various buildings. So I stop and shoot the photo.

I want to get closer to those bollards, so I cross the street, where I discover that there are sections of the apartment complex that couldn’t be seen from a distance. Lovely red and black color blocks, with windows that cast still more reflections on the wall opposite. A circular convex mirror reflects those red and black colors. I notice that the wall at the back of the cul-de-sac, which appeared white from a distance, is actually a very pale shade of blue, that’s enhanced by the slight shift in the angle of the light. The angle of shadow is somewhat less acute. There’s a strange curving line of electrical tubing for a lamp, and some crazy shadows. Those yellow bollards, also catching some reflected light, seem almost decadent. And so many glorious straight lines at interesting angles to each other. Finally, right in the center, a tree which sneers at straight lines. So I took another photo.

Six minutes. According to the EXIF data, that’s how long I spent at that scene. It seemed a lot longer. Six minutes and three shots. Six minutes, drunk on light and shadow and line and shape. Six captivating minutes.

This isn’t unique. Every photographer has had a similar six minutes. They’ve probably had several similar six minute experiences. It’s those six minutes that keep us toting cameras and making a nuisance of ourselves. Six minutes of ineffable delight.

murder machine

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Yeah, I don’t know how many blog posts I’ve written about guns and gun violence. Two or three dozen, probably. Maybe more. I’m not going to bother to count them. I’m mentioning that because yesterday WaPo published a piece called Terror on Repeat (this is a free gift link; you needn’t subscribe to WaPo to read it), which focuses on America’s mass murder sweetheart firearm: the AR-15.

The WaPo describes the piece as “the most comprehensive account to date of the repeating pattern of destruction wrought by the AR-15.” And hey, maybe it is. It’s certainly a powerful piece and I think y’all should deffo read it. It also says, “the full effects of the AR-15’s destructive force are rarely seen in public.” Which is true. But while the article does include photograph that reveal more of the weapon’s destructive power than most folks have ever seen, they don’t (and probably shouldn’t) show the REAL full effects of the AR-15. That would be the staggering damage it does to the body–especially the small bodies of children.

WaPo acknowledges that the AR-15 “was originally designed for military combat,” Most folks have heard that, of course. And most folks think the AR-15 is some sort of watered down version of the M16, a lesser weapon, an M16 Lite. Which is only sorta kinda accurate. Here are the main differences between the two.

  • The M16 has a heavier and longer barrel. A heavier barrel is more effective for prolonged and sustained firing by reducing heat-related accuracy issues. The 20-inch barrel also increases the rifle’s accuracy and effective range, making it effective for combat situations. The AR-15 usually comes with a lighter, shorter (16-inch) barrel, making it easier to handle and more effective in close quarters.
  • The M16’s bolt carrier is capable of both semi-automatic and automatic fire. Automatic fire means the rifle will continue to shoot as long as the trigger is held down. It’s capable of firing around 800 rounds per minute. The M16’s safety selector has three positions: safe, semi-automatic, and automatic/burst fire (in this setting, pulling and releasing the trigger will fire a burst of three rounds). The bolt carrier in the AR-15 is designed for semi-automatic fire only; its safety selector has only two positions: safe and fire. Semi-auto fire means the weapon will fire one round each time you pull the trigger. An unmodified AR-15 is capable of around 45 rounds per minute.

That’s it. Those are the only meaningful differences between an M16 and an AR-15. The M16 was designed for combat. The AR-15 may not have been intentionally designed for mass murder, but there’s a reason it’s the mass murder weapon of choice: it’s really, really, really effective at killing lots of people, usually at close range, in a relatively short time.

Does it have any other uses? Well, sure. I mean, you could use one to pound nails. It wouldn’t make a very good hammer, but it would work. As a firearm, though, it’s got limited utility. They’re fun to shoot (yeah, I’ve fired a few different AR-15 variants) and they’re easy to shoot. They’re easy because they use a gas impingement system. Basically that redirects some of the energy from a fired bullet into reloading the next bullet, which translates as less recoil. You can fire LOTS of rounds without bruising the shit out of your shoulder. And the AR-15 is like Barbie for gun nuts; it’s more a firearm platform than an actual gun–you can swap out parts and modify an AR-15 to achieve different looks. So they’re popular with gun nuts as well as mass murderers.

First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs. 700 rounds in 11 minutes. 26 dead, 22 wounded.

But down at the bone, the AR-15 is basically a murder machine. It would be smart if the US would ban the sell and importation of AR-15 variants (we won’t do that). It would be even smarter to ban possession of AR-15 variants (no fucking way we’ll do that). But we’re not smart. So we’re stuck in a nation that has around 25,000,000 AR-15s in circulation. Twenty-five million murder machines. And more sold every year.

I think maybe the saddest thing…one of the very many sad things…about the WaPo article is this: there are folks out there (and by ‘folks’ I mean ‘guys’) who will read the article, who’ll look at the photographs and see all the blood, see all the destruction, who’ll read the statistics about the lethality of the AR-15, and they’ll be thinking, “I have GOT to get me one of those.”

Here’s a true thing: men commit around 98% of all mass murders; they (okay, we) are responsible for probably 90% of all murders. The vast majority of physical violence is committed by men. Around 80% of AR-15 owners in the US are men. I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s a serious problem with male culture in the US. We’re not going to solve our gun violence problems until we solve our problems with male culture.

EDITORIAL NOTE: We really must burn the patriarchy. It’s poison for everybody, regardless of gender or identity. We need to burn it to the ground and bury the ashes. We need to burn it and bury it and place a curse on the burial site. We need to destroy the patriarchy at the atomic level, so that no two patriarchal particles will ever touch again. We need to end the patriarchy, then buy ice cream and eat it really slow.

a year

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It’s been a year now. A year without the cat. I don’t check the perimeter anymore.

Checking the perimeter. I should explain that. The cat was already living here when I moved in. Every morning, I’d get up, start the coffee, then I’d go stand by the sliding glass door that led out to the deck and the back yard to see what the weather was like. At some point, the cat decided to join me. And that became our morning routine.

August 31. 2014

Almost every morning for years. Once or twice a month the cat would decide to sleep in, but usually she’d hear me getting up and would meet me on my way to the kitchen. I’d start the coffee, then we’d stand at the door and look out. Nothing special, really. It was just a thing we did.

December 4, 2016

The cat would usually lean up against me when we did this. Sometimes she’d sit on my foot, which couldn’t have been comfortable for her. We’d look outside for a minute or so, then the cat would either suggest I feed her or she’d quietly slide off to some other part of the house.

January 2, 2018

Almost every day, we did this. Some mornings, if I had my phone with me, I’d take a photo of the cat beside me. I don’t know why; it was always the same basic photograph; my feet, the cat, the door. Some photos were in color, some black-and-white, some square, some with the standard 3:2 format. It would depend entirely on which app I opened on my phone (yeah, I’m the sort of guy that has a dedicated b&w app on my phone). Usually I deleted the photos shortly after I took them. Usually. Not always.

Periodically, I’d post a photo on Facebook or Instagram of the two of us at that door and caption it ‘The perimeter is secure.” My friends found it amusing. So did I. It became a thing, checking the perimeter. It turned into an accidental photo project.

The photo below is the last photo I shot of us checking the perimeter. I don’t think I posted it. A couple of weeks later, she was gone.

October 25, 2022

You do something together every morning for years and then one day it’s just you. It leaves you off-balance. For a week or two after the cat died I’d step over to the sliding door after starting the coffee and I’d check the…and I’d look outside. It wasn’t checking the perimeter anymore. It felt wrong. It felt wrong, and it just hurt too fucking much. So I stopped.

It’s been a year now. If I want to know the weather, I look out the window. Some mornings I still expect to see her waiting for me. Every so often I still get weepy, thinking about her. It still hurts. I hope it will always hurt.

It’s been a year. I miss her so much.

return of the fujifilm x10

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This is what happened. At some point over the last few months I began to miss the feeling of using a camera. I missed holding a camera in my hands. I wasn’t dissatisfied with my phone; it takes excellent photos. But it’s not the same; it’s a multi-use device that also happens to take photographs. I missed using a tool designed solely for the purpose of making photographs.

So a couple of weeks ago I opened up a cupboard and looked at all my abandoned cameras. I don’t have a camera collection; I just have some cameras I’ve stopped using. Some are film cameras, some are digital. I picked up a few and handled them. It was one of those Goldilocks moments; this camera was too big, this one was too heavy, this one would require a substantial investment in film and processing.

I pulled out the last camera I’d bought–a Fujifilm mirrorless camera. I was surprised to find the battery still had a charge. So I shot a few frames around the house. It felt awkward in my hands. Worse, I’d forgotten all the familiar menu pathways. I couldn’t remember how to make the cameras do what I wanted it to do. When I put the camera back in the cupboard, I noticed the very first Fujifilm camera I bought. A small X10, the first model of the compact cameras with the letter X and two digits in the product name. I bought it back in 2012 and wrote a blog post about it.

Out of curiosity, I did a quick file search and found the last photo I shot with x10. It was from August 15, 2016 at the Iowa State Fair, at one of those rides designed to toss people around and give them the illusion of danger. I liked the photo; you can see anxiety and bravado, you can see the clinched-butt need to appear calm and unfazed.

Iowa State Fair 8/15/2016

That photo was the spark I needed. So I dug around in the cupboard until I found the battery charger and charged the batteries. It had been so long since I’d used the camera that I had to re-set everything from scratch, including the date and time. I even tracked down the manual for the X10 online. I’m sure I must have at least glanced at the manual when I bought the camera, but I was unaware of some of the things the camera could do. For example, I created a custom setting for black-and-white shots, which is something I’ve never done before (and I’ll come back to that in a bit).

A man in a bright red vest and hoodie standing outside a barber shop.

Yesterday I set out to see if I could remember how to use a camera. Well, that’s not entirely true; I set out to go geocaching with my brother, but I used the excursion as an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the X10. The little camera was a tad too big to slip into the pocket of my jeans, but it slid easily into the pocket of my hoodie. It weighed next to nothing. While my brother did the grunt work of geocaching, I watched a guy in a red vest fidget outside a barbershop in a Latino neighborhood. And the camera felt right.

Dead end road across the river from the minor league baseball stadium.

The camera felt right but the final results were…mixed. The first thing I had to re-adapt to was the parallax effect since the X10 is a sort of retro-designed rangefinder camera. I suspect a lot of folks have never used a rangefinder camera and are wondering, “Greg, old sock, what the hell is this parallax effect?” Unlike your basic single-lens-reflex camera, which allows you to see the scene through your lens, a rangefinder viewfinder is only near the lens. So you’re not seeing exactly what the lens sees: that’s the parallax effect. You have to learn to adjust to the small shift between what you see and what the lens sees. The closer you are to the subject, the more drastic the effect.

Kid riding a bike, seen through a public art sculpture.

In the photo above, I wanted to catch the rider in that patch of sunlight between the shadow and the tree. I was a fraction of a second late with the shutter as I panned to follow the kid, but I want to claim the tiny amount of parallax exacerbated the problem (DISCLAIMER: it almost certainly did not exacerbate the problem, but it’s a convenient thing to blame). If I was a fraction of a second too late releasing the shutter in the photo above, I was a fraction too soon in the photo below.

A city employee cleaning up litter and leaves.

I’d hoped to catch the street cleaner at a point just beyond the sign identifying the location as the Civic Center. I was a tad too quick on the trigger. Much of the day was spent confronting the reality of the Ferris Bueller School of Photography. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. I was lucky not to miss the look of disdain by this privileged white woman as she watched a black man securing some home furnishings in the back of a rusty pick-up.

A man secures some home furnishings in his pick-up while a woman walks by and watches.

I mentioned earlier that I created a custom setting for black-and-white shots. This is one of the advantages of digital photography. With a film camera, you either have to change from color film to black-and-white film or carry two cameras. With a digital camera, you just turn a dial or change a menu option. I decided to try to create a setting that would sorta kinda almost mimic Daido Moriyama’s Provoke period. High contrast, high ISO, high grain. (Of course, digital imagery doesn’t have grain; it has noise, which isn’t remotely the same…but what the hell, I set the noise allowance as high as possible).

And hey, guess what. It didn’t work.

Two people walking behind some townhomes.

It wasn’t really a surprise that it didn’t quite work. Partly because Moriyama wouldn’t photograph a couple walking behind some upscale trendy townhomes. Partly because I didn’t see many high contrast scenes. And partly-mostly because I’m no Daido Moriyama. I shot maybe a dozen frames (okay, digital imagery doesn’t actually have frames either) using the custom setting. Most of them, like the photo above, are painfully dull.

I was only pleased with one black-and-white shot. Frankly I’ve shot MUCH better black-and-white photos with my cell phone (which, if you’re interested, you can see in a post about practicing photography in public). These photos were less black-and-white and more black-and-shite. But I intend to experiment more. Maybe I’ll figure out how to get the camera to give me the b&w photos I want.

Cyclist checking his stats.

At the heel of the hunt, though, I’m happy with the old X10. I’m reminded that my approach to almost everything I do is grounded in the same attitude. I want to do things well, but so long as I’m enjoying myself, I’m not that concerned with the results. And folks, I had fun with that little X10. I plan to start toting it around with me more often. In fact, I just ordered two extra batteries.

naw, wasn’t zorro

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According to the patriots on FreeRepublic, history has been destroyed. Again. The first time it was destroyed was in July of 2021, when the statue of…somebody, I can’t quite remember who…was removed from the Market Street Park (I think the park used to be named for a person, but nobody seems to know who that person was) in Charlottesville, North Carolina.

You may (or possibly you’re unable to) remember back in 2017 when that statue was first ordered to be removed. A group of white supremacists, neo-Confederates, neo-fascists, white nationalists, neo-Nazis, Klansmen, and far-right militias gathered in a Unite the Right rally to protest the removal. A counter-protest ended when one of the white nationalists drove his car into the crowd, killing one and wounding 35.

The statue…I think there was a horse involved, maybe?…was apparently removed (assuming it actually ever existed, who can say?) and put into storage. No reputable museum wanted to take possession of a large bronze statue of…some random guy who was maybe riding a horse. The statue was ordered to be destroyed–melted so the metal could be repurposed to create a new statue of somebody or something else.

There were a number of lawsuits opposed to the destruction of the statue of…whoever it was. Somebody with a horse; I’m certain there was a horse in it. A cowboy, maybe? Possibly a circus performer? Anyway, those lawsuits failed and recently…wait. Pony Express rider! I’m just guessing here, but that’s a real possibility.

Doesn’t matter. The lawsuits failed and just a few days ago, history was re-destroyed when the statue was melted and this person, whoever he…or she, or they (which seems more than likely because really, there’s a BIG push to remove non-binary people from history) was became completely and utterly erased from history. Nobody will ever know who they were, or what war they lost, or which nation they betrayed.

Oooh, Zorro! And his horse Tornado! I bet it was probably…but no. I remember Zorro. Don Diego de la Vega, in his mask and that wonderful sombrero cordobés, fighting valiantly against the corrupt and tyrannical officials of California. So no, not him. Whoever the statue was of, I’m guessing that person wasn’t fighting for justice.

a candy corn centrist

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Every year around this time I feel the need to eat candy corn. And every year, after I eat a few pieces, I find myself wondering why. Because of that, I find it impossible to take sides in the ‘candy corn’ debate. I feel about candy corn the same way I feel about some of the more esoteric sexual practices: if you enjoy it, have at it. If you don’t, you still have lots of options.

But for fuck’s sake, people, don’t try to stop others from enjoying their candy corn, and don’t shame them for liking it. And candy corn aficionados, don’t try to force your candy corn on anybody who doesn’t want any. This is NOT complicated.

Candy corn has a long history in the US. It’s been around since the late 1880s. As far as I can tell, the company that’s been continuously making candy corn the longest is Jelly Belly, which was originally called the Goelitz Confectionery Company (and I have to say, I think the name change was an unfortunate decision; some poor bastard is now forced to introduce himself as the CEO of Jelly Belly, and you know all the other CEOs are laughing).

The Goelitz brothers began producing candy corn in 1898. Unlike the white, orange, and yellow candy we’re mostly familiar with, Goelitz candy corn (also apparently referred to as ‘chicken feed’) was white, brown and yellow. I’m sure there was some rational corporate explanation for the change in the color scheme, but I’m going to assume it was because orange is simply a more jolly color.

The commercial manufacture of candy corn was NOT the most unfortunate event of 1898. Henry Lindfield became the world’s first fatality from an automobile accident on a public road (his car rolled down a hill in Purley, England and struck a tree–which is less embarrassing than having to introduce yourself as the CEO of Jelly Belly). And the USS Maine exploded in Havana harbor, sparking the Spanish-American War (which, although it was fought primarily in the Caribbean, resulted in the US owning Guam and the Philippines; the US also annexed the Hawaiian islands that year, which was unrelated, but you have to wonder about the sudden desire of the US government to own islands located way the fuck away from the mainland). And Caleb Bradham invented Pepsi-Cola (so named because it was intended to relieve dyspepsia, whatever that is).

I seem to have lost track of my point, which is that despite the attempts to vilify it, there is absolutely nothing wrong with eating and appreciating candy corn. Even ordinary decent citizens (such as myself) have been known to enjoy it (or at least wanting to enjoy it, even if afterwards it turns out we do not). Nobody needs to justify their taste for candy corn.

Licorice, on the other hand, is an offense to the gods.