Thursday, August 24, 2017
Give An A**hole A Microphone
I have a bunch of these and nothing else, so I am using this picture even though. . . . What? It's cute.
I got three packages yesterday. I don't like that they all came on the same day. It is fun getting packages. Now, I have nothing to anticipate. I got a diopter for my Leica. I can't see shit any more and manual focusing has gotten nearly impossible, so I went the expense, and boy, anything Leica is expensive. And I got a pair of lounging pants from Europe. Yea, yea, I'm fay as all that. I'm telling you, don't buy clothing from the internet. It is just like buying stuff from the J. Peterman catalog. Who the hell knows what you will get. They are o.k. They are really like a pair of pajama bottoms. I want to be like Hugh Hefner and wear pajamas all the time. It is an easy way to get fat, of course, but he never did.
The final package was another Mamiya 6Mf camera that is a "replacement" for the one I just sent back because the lens froze up. This one is even prettier than the last. It should satisfy my obsessive hunger, but it won't. I mean. . . it has interchangeable lenses. How will I not lust after the others?
Owning cameras is a substitute for taking pictures. I am just like the guy who hang around the photo shop now, talking about the merits and deficiencies of different formats, film vs digital, lens quality, etc. I've got the pipe now. All I need is the photographers vest and maybe one of those khaki safari hats. Fuck yea.
I don't care. I've come to the conclusion that no one likes me anyway. Now that people sense a waning power, now that they can smell certain weaknesses, they have become more vicious in their mockery of my values, my looks, my physical injuries, etc. I am tired and cannot fight it. I can only slink away.
I said some posts back that I am adopting a new attitude, anyway. It is difficult and will take practice. Old habits are hard to leave behind, but I will become more internal and uncaring about the fashions and values of others. I swear it is true. I've had a good run. A really good run. I am reminded of that all the time. Last night, I was watching a documentary on Warhol's "Chelsea Girls," and I regaled Ili with stories from my stays at the Chelsea Hotel in the mid '70s. I was known there and felt like I was really something. I even had a nickname, but I can't remember what it was now. Still, watching that old footage of the rooms and that fantastic stairwell. . . I thought of all the people who were never known there. It doesn't matter, of course. Not to them. And I forget most of those things on a daily basis. But they are within me, somewhere. My plan is to go there and mine some of that.
I wrote that yesterday but didn't get around to publishing it. Whaaaa. Give an asshole a microphone, etc.
Posted by cafe selavy at 8:34 AM