"Here let me see that one- Ahhh! Oh god mom, when you hand someone a dagger, make sure it's in the scabbard!"

"I'm looking at something."

Another set of relics from the storage shed, sitting alongside my traffic light and a set of weathered white wicker chairs, were two Nazi daggers and an axe. Before you say anything- no, this is not the kind of thing we normally keep around. No one in my family seems to remember how people such as ourselves would acquire weapons of war, but I do remember seeing them on the shelves in Doug's art room as a kid. They didn't interest me then, but today I saw something else from my past. In my film theory notebook from 2003, I found what appears to be some sort of hope for the future:

"My aspirations are to be a screenwriter and to direct my own films. In five years I will be sitting behind the wheel of a cube truck driving my minimal crew past the fields of Kansas, listening as the radio plays Ace of Base songs even though they haven't been socially acceptable since 1996, dreaming about Greece and trying to remember if there's any food in the fridge. Ten years will find me on a beach holding a bleeding tomato, blue and green grease paint dripping off my face screaming 'tangerine blood me!'"

It's more than 5 years later and I completely missed the 5-year prediction. Which is okay because as it was, I was in NYC with friends and getting ready to watch the fields of southwest America roll by on a roadtrip. I'm not sure how the 10-year prediction will fit into this: I'm certain that it was inspired by the idea that in between 2008 and 2013 I would attain wild success and not only have my own island, but have all the reputational merit required to go existentially crazy. An eclectic.

Somehow I feel in between those two points. I have driven cube trucks long distances with minimal crews, and yet I have also seen beaches and while there spoken simple words that no one else can understand. And I'm always wondering if there's any food in my fridge, that is, when I have one of my own.

In between these two far-fetched points of future me as seen by 23-year old me, I now have to say "let it not be." Yes, I do see the Nazi daggers. Yes, I know that someone out there has got to want them, and if want them they do, then there will be a price tag which I will write.

"I don't know. Should I hold out and buy a better used Hassy? I just wish I could look at this one and use it before I buy it- You're not helping me, you're watching Howie Mandel."

"I'm waiting for the fat people to come on." Yet another reason for Jay Leno to be despised by me. I have an active list of arch nemeses, he might find himself on it tonight.

I sucked it up and dropped the hundreds on a used Hassy that may or may not be worth it.

This is on the heels of the return of my Alaska photos.



I actually adore this picture a lot. Love it, even. The face of Bella the baby is gorgeous, and I love the activity happening in the frame. But look at all the grain! Holy crap. This happens a lot with darker photos, but even photos taken in bright daylight have this problem. Either I'm a shitty shot, or every time I get 35mm scanned onto cd a grain truck falls into the machine. And then there is this:



This 120 shot has nothing to do with much of anything I can be faulted for, other than not acting on my acute paranoia of airport x-ray machines. But nonetheless, it added to the urgent overtones of the day.
Oddly, I feel relatively little panic after spending $900 on a camera. Of course, $900 is chump change for a Hasselblad, and probably indicates some sort of fatal flaw that the camera store isn't telling me about, but that is me. That is how it goes and I can't complain.

So I'm going to face the demon that has haunted me since Florence, the demon of great quality and good feelings: Hassy. For almost a year now I have fantasized about this. My very own Hassy.

This will require a light meter. Another investment.

And still I have not been able to figure out this live scan thing. Yes, that drama continues. I called the hotline twice in one day, once to be told they had no idea what the document in question was, and the other to be told that I couldn't have an appointment. What the remedy turned out to be was.......... police station fingerprints on a fingerprinting paper pre-stamped with a California number code. Now, I still have to make that finger-rolling newbie fill out my paper of misfortune, but this time I will not be told no. I will pick up his fingers with the pen and fill out the info myself if need be.