Posted on August 4, 2017
I was going to write this entry about how Massachusetts continues to amaze me, even after I’ve lived here forever. Before I got around to actually writing the entry, another idea popped into my head and I decided to go with it.
I decided to make this entry about one of my obsessions — Real Housewives shows. I already wrote on here about watching the New Jersey Housewives and my unending love for the Beverly Hills housewives, but I have never written about my hometown favorite — the New York City housewives.
Oh man, when that showed premiered, I knew I was going to be obsessed with it. I grew up in New York, so their ways and their lifestyles were very familiar to me. Everyone in New York aspires to be part of that high society. People aspire to be on the edge of high society in New York. I mean people aspire to be on the edge of the edge of high society over there.
So I started watching the Real Housewives in 2008. The first season was kind of quiet but from the second season on, it was wall to wall drama. I can’t even list all of the drama that has gone on during the whole time. Scary Island, Turtle Time, This is Morocco and not the Plaza hotel. I read all the recaps. I actually call her “Countess Luann Crackerjacks.” Thank you Brian Moylan.
Of course I do actually like and admire a lot of the women. Carol Radzwill is a real survivor and her book on her husband’s death was beautifully written. Heather Thomson is a real businesswoman and makes an excellent product. And hey, I’d even have Sonja Morgan as a kind of crazy friend.
But enough niceties. This show can be wall to wall drama at times and that was never more in evidence when in the sixth season, the women go to the Berkshires in Massachusetts. At first Ramona Singer of the Gowanus Singers (thanks again Brian Moylan) refuses to go and says that the Berkshires are for people who can’t afford the Hamptons. Then she orders an air conditioner (??????) for Heather’s house. Then she has some kind of PTSD fit. Then she charters a private jet out of there. Insane.
I never really understand these shows. I mean I understand. Yeah, they cast them for drama but why do they put all of these women together and try to make them be friends? Friendships form, friendships end. I have plenty of good friends and I can’t remember the last time I cried over getting a gift bag from one of them. Anyway, these shows make these women interact with each other in these artificial situations that lead of chaos and conflict.
Anyway, I thought of Ramona and the rest of that traveling circus when I visited the Berkshires recently. I have to say Ramona Singer you are so wrong. What an unbelievably beautiful place that is. So much history. So many wonderful things.
Take a look Ramona Singer, because I know you read this blog:
Posted on August 1, 2017
I only, shamelessly, admit that I steal ideas and entire photographs from other photographers. All photographers do it and so do I.
I usually pick though people from the regular canon of photography. Ansel Adams, Stieglitz, Steichen, maybe a Brassai here and there. Maybe Weegee if I’m feeling particularly mischievous.
On a recent sojourn through the hamlet of Winthrop, I found new inspiration, I mean person to steal from. William Eggelston is a photographer who I have recently become familiar with and who I have grown to like. He photographed kind of this tacky, interesting, colorful version of the American South. I kind of thought for a long time that I got away from my artistic roots. I guess I’m finding them again, but as usual, in a different way than I had seen them previously.
Anyway, so here are so photos that are directly influenced by William Eggelston. Well, I mean I stole his ideas:
Posted on July 31, 2017
One day when I first moved to Boston, I was listening to Car Talk on NPR. I hadn’t lived in Boston for very long but I already loved what I heard from the Magliozzi brothers on their show. I could not believe that I spent hours listening to a show where two goof balls told stories about cars. I am not a car person and I don’t really know much about how they are run, nor do I care.
One joke stuck with me in particular, about Boston’s four seasons, that makes up the title of this entry.
Commonwealth avenue, near my house, is in the road reconstruction phase of the year. I guess people outside of Massachusetts call this “summer.” So they are tearing up the Boston University bridge to replace when I assume are 100 year old pieces of track. Its caused no end of chaos around here and for my part, I’m over on Beacon street taking the wealthier, classier C line to work in the morning. Am I wealthier and classier? Probably not. But the road reconstruction. Well, it makes for good photos:
Posted on July 31, 2017
Every year for the past few years, my friends and I gather at Revere Beach to make this thing called a mandala. Its a kind of a shape in the sand that is filled in with flowers. The friends I see at this occasion are people I’ve known for years. We exchange what’s going on with us and all of our hurts and our pains. I don’t feel good hearing about other people’s pain, but its a bit reassuring that not everyone’s life is perfect and that my friends, as I am, are going through some painful, unresolvable heart breaking crap, as am I.
Everybody hurts, no matter what:
Posted on July 7, 2017
Yeah, that’s a lame title, but I couldn’t think of a better one.
Well anyway, let me explain it. When I was a kid, up until now, one of my favorite movies has been The Gods Must Be Crazy, about a Bushman forced out of the Kalahari to dispose of an evil Coke bottle that has been dropped into his village by an absent minded guy in an airplane.
The narrator of the film explains that 500 kilometers from the Kalahari, there is a big, bustling city where people work normal hours. At 7am, they rise to go to work. By 9am, they are working. At 10am, they take a coffee break. At 12:30, they take a lunch break and by 5pm, they are heading home. Monday to Friday they do this, having Saturdays and Sundays off.
For the Bushman though, its always been Tuesday or Thursday or Saturday for that matter. They don’t follow any kind of calendar and they don’t have to do things by any set hours during the day. Their lives aren’t so segmented.
I might be in the minority, but somehow I’ve always liked the Bushman way. When I had what I used to call a “normal” job, I’d be in by 9am, working until 5pm. I always wondered how it was that I started at 9 and finished by 5pm. Sometimes I still had work at 5pm, but at 5pm I was ordered to stop. On Saturdays and Sundays, the conventional calendar said I didn’t need to come to work.
For about eight years, I’ve been a teacher and I have this sort of unconventional schedule. I work from 9 to 12pm sometimes and have the afternoon off. Sometimes I work until 11pm. Sometimes I have Thursday afternoon off. Something I work on Saturdays. I go through periods of time when I work on Saturdays and now we’re in one of those periods.
Working on Saturdays really isn’t that bad. You’re out of the house. You don’t sleep in but that’s OK. My work on Saturdays is usually easier than during the week. Most of all, you get to be out when a lot of people are in their houses.
Call its Saturdays if you will. But its pretty great I think:
Posted on July 7, 2017
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
No, I did not write this poem. Its kind of famous, as it is on a plaque on the Statue of Liberty. I never gave it much mind but lately I’ve thought more and more about what brings us all to this great United States of America.
This past week we celebrated July 4th, rapidly becoming one of my favorite holidays. I’ve gone to the fireworks every year since 2010 and I can’t even believe how much I still enjoy going. I thought it would get boring after a year but it never has.
As usual I go with a group of friends and most of my friends are from other places. I always think its so funny that I moved to Boston, the cradle of liberty, the place where the United States began and I started to feel very American. Then I also started to work with students from all over the world. I become American to leave America. I guess.
But then I thought of how funny it was what had all brought us together. I went with three Spanish friends and a Brazilian friend. Three of us live here in Boston and two were visiting. I think its so funny always that I’m the only one in my extended group of friends who went to an American high school with the cliques, the cheerleaders, the football players, the divided lunch rooms and the proms. The rest of my friends grew up in other countries. I really only have three purely American friends. The rest are either immigrants or the children of immigrants.
The poem, July 4th and the composition of my friends group made me think a lot about who gets to come to America, who stays here and why. The current political climate seems to be really harsh on letter more people in. Obviously I think that’s wrong. It kinda goes against what this country is really all about.
Either way, walking through the crowds on July 4th made me happy thinking about what had brought us all to the United States.
Let’s enjoy some fireworks photos!!!!!
Posted on June 27, 2017
Welcome to Wrongsideofthecamera, worldwide media juggernaut, those of you who have landed here because of a search of the word “Albertslund.” I hope you enjoy the prose and the pictures.
Well, there will be some prose on what Albertslund is, where it is, what part it plays in the life of this blog writing person and how it is connected to a lot of poop. Stay with me. I’ll make a point eventually.
So in 1997, which seems like yesterday and a long time ago, both at the same time, I boarded a plane from Newark Airport bound for Copenhagen, Denmark and a really uncertain future. I had departed for my long dreamt of study abroad semester.
I had seen images of the seaside Copenhagen, slick Scandinavian architecture and the like. Imagine my surprise when I happened upon this:
What on earth is that you ask?? Well, this is Albertslund, the student town I lived in in Denmark. No, it does not usually look like that. Usually it is not covered in fog but that’s how it lives in my memory.
Now round about the time of the actual anniversary of my departure to Denmark and a detailed account of all the interesting folks and things that happened to me will be detailed in an entry in August. I’ve already gotten most of it written out. It just needs photos to dress it up.
I bring up Albertslund here not because of a sudden fit of nostalgia, but hey, nostalgia isn’t terrible. Albertslund was a kind of an interesting place because there were these giant smoke stacks in the middle of it, kind of beckoning to you from all points. The little student town was built around these smoke stacks and the whole rest of the place just kind of lived around them.
When I moved to Boston, it reminded me a lot of Copenhagen. The two places share a lot of the same qualities. On Saturday, I visited the Deer Island Waste Water Treatment Plant in Winthrop or as I like to call them — the poopie tanks.
That saying was pioneered by one of my favorite students of all time, when we passed by the sewage treatment plant. He goes “hello poopies” when we sailed by the tanks.
Now here’s how the poopie tanks are connected to Albertslund. Albertslund had its huge smoke stacks and they were kind integrated into the town, while the poopie tanks were integrated into the surroundings of this little park in Winthrop on Deer Island. You could walk, jog or bike around the poopie tanks. There was something egalitarian and kinda Danish about the whole thing that I really admired. And from what I remember of my time in Denmark, my Danish friends would have loved to visit a park that contained a poopie tank.
Danish friends, express yourself in the blog commentary section if you disagree. Anyway, you want photos from the poopie tanks?? You get photos from the poopie tanks: