Photography

Photography

I’m about to offend some readers, so let me start with an apology.  Not one of those lame semi-apologies most people give…you know,

“I’m very sorry IF I may have offended some people, it was never my intention blah, blah, blah.”

My real apology is,

“I am sorry for offending many talented people for my opinions which are the result of not truly understanding your medium.”

Here goes: 

I don’t consider photography to be true art.  I enjoy a good picture, but it does not impress me like an artist with paint, pen or another technique.  To me, photography is to art as podiatry is to medicine, or drumming is to music.  It has its place, but it does not impress me the same way as a brain surgeon impresses me, or a violinist mesmerizes me.

I guess it is because if I had a drum I could beat it and maybe even play in a group and maintain a beat (ok probably not, but I could come close).  I could inspect a foot, maybe even trim some nails, without losing a patient.  

If I had a good camera and took about a billion random pictures, some would be very good.  I could never play violin without getting booed.  I would not be able to even watch a brain surgeon in action.

It just seems to me that everyone can take a picture.  It wasn’t like that in my childhood.   

My pops had an old Kodak collapsible thing.

 Loading the film was tricky. 

Usually my mom loaded the camera when we were driving so dad could take pictures of the scenic country we explored.  This process generally ended up the same as mom reading a map.  Dad pulled over and said,

“Here, let me do that!”

The picture taking required a reading with a light meter,

 an aperture setting based on the meter reading and the film speed chosen.  I was impressed that pops knew all those formulas.  Inside, lighting was also important, and there were flashbulbs.  First, we had individual bulbs, then there was a cube thing that let you take several pictures without reloading.

The exciting thing about pictures in those days was waiting to see what you took.  Often pictures taken in summer were still on a roll dropped off for developing in the Fall.  There were always photos you forgot about; it was like finding treasure.

Picture taking today does not require film loading, light reading is automated, results are instant, and they can be edited and or altered after the fact.  Today anybody can snap a picture.  What is the big deal?  How is that art?  Why do my pictures always suck?

This post was going to be a nostalgia piece about my first camera, an old brownie with a flash and a plastic fake leather case. 

  I got sidetracked insulting photography enthusiasts (see above for apology.)

Knucks

Knucks

When we were kids, we used to play a card game.  It was called “Knuckles”, or just "Knucks," and sometimes “Bloody Knucks.” 

Anyone remember this game?  I’ll bet some do.

I forgot how it was played, but I do remember how it ended.  I Googled it, and for most people it is pretty much the same, they remember the end, but are fuzzy on the rules.  It may have followed “Double Solitaire,” but I also think it may have followed the rules of “Go fish.”

The ending was what counted.  The winner got to rap the other guys knuckles the number of times of the points he won by.  

The manner of the rap was chosen by drawing a card.  Red meant you hit hard, black was soft. 

Then there was the method of the rap which was chosen by the rapee. There was the scrape where you scraped the knuckles with the cards of the deck held lengthwise against the knuckle.  You got one scrape per point.  There was the smack, a blow to the knuckles with the width of the deck.  One smack was worth five points.  Finally, there was the bomb, basically a smack but with a greater and thus harder length of downward stroke allowed.  The bomb was a ten pointer.

There was a strategy.  If you lost but drew soft, you chose a smack or bomb as the rap method because the scrape, even if soft, would loosen up the knuckle and make bleeding easier later.  If you drew hard, the smack or the bomb hurt more, but the scrape was very effective.

The winner was the first to draw blood.  I remember it was kind of a badge of courage to be the loser and have the bloody knuckle.

What did we play after a game of Knucks?

What you only have one knuckle?

I don’t know where this game came from or why it was so popular, but I’ll bet kids from other ages and in other areas of the country all played some variation of the same game.

What did you guys call it?

The Asshole and the Conductor

The Asshole and the Conductor

The recent hoo-ha over United Airlines having a passenger thrown off the plane reminded me of a situation commuting on a New Jersey Transit train.

Years ago, New Jersey Transit had a fare schedule where if you bought a round trip ticket off-hours, there was a significant discount.  If you didn’t use the ticket both ways in off-hours, you were then charged the full rate. 

It was very common for people to buy the round trip, go to the city during off-hours and return during peak-hours.  The conductor charged them the difference and they were always surprised and upset because they didn’t understand the rate.  They often complained to and fought with the conductor.  They always lost.

One Friday night, these things always occurred on a Friday night, a passenger on the way home was informed he would have to pay an additional $3.75.  He refused.  The conductor explained the situation one time and warned him that if he did not pay the additional $3.75, he would not be allowed off the train.  He refused.

When the train pulled into the next station, the doors did not open.  We were informed that we would stay in the station until the transit police arrived to take the delinquent passenger away.  We sat for fifteen minutes waiting for the police to arrive, they were about forty minutes away, and everyone started getting a bit peeved.

Other passengers offered to pay the $3.75 just so we could move on.  The conductor refused.  The delinquent passenger started to freak out and was screaming, “I’ll pay, I’ll pay.”  The conductor ignored him.

We waited at the station for forty-five minutes before the Transit Police came and dragged this ass-hole away screaming, “I’ll pay, I’ll pay.” 

The conductor won this battle.  On a train, the conductor has the power to enforce transit rules.  Not obeying a conductor on a train is like attacking a police officer on the street.  They have power, and sometimes it goes to their head.

On this Friday night I was late for a dinner reservation and my (ex) wife was pissed (we had no cell phone in those days).  Her rage was not tempered by my valid excuse…it never was. 

Because this one a-hole did not understand the fare rules and refused to pay $3.75, and because the conductor could think of no other way to handle the situation, our train was delayed forty-five minutes, and every train that left behind us was delayed almost as long.  Almost one thousand people had their Friday night plans disrupted because of an ass-hole passenger and a conductor on a power trip.

I didn’t care about all those one thousand people, I only cared about the new butt hole I was ripped…again.