Creepy Old Photographers
I was roaming around Saturday Market a couple days ago when the boldly-colored sign of an empanada stand caught my eye. After pointing my camera and taking a shot, I was immediately waved off by the owner who was upset that I had not first asked permission. I approached him to have a conversation and, after obligingly deleting the photo, I was informed that just that morning some of the vendors had been advised that there were reports of a "creepy old man” taking photos of women and children at the Market.
Without necessarily trying to defend that person’s behavior (whoever he was), I did inform Michael, the empanada guy, that, in this country, people who are out in public are “fair game” (so to speak) and, in most cases, should not have any expectation of privacy; photographers are not obligated to seek permission, however gentlemanly (and ethically-sound) that behavior may be. As long as the photo is not used commercially, the picture is the property of the photographer to do with it as he/she will. (I actually do carry with me photo-release forms in the off chance that I may want to use a picture for commercial use. See "Photography and the Law" for more info.)
I let him know that it was the striking colors of his sign that attracted me and the reason I took the photo in the first place. It turned out to be a very cordial conversation during which, interestingly, he offered me a free empanada! After our chat ended, and strolling around the Market for a bit longer, I returned to let Michael know that my take-away for the day was that at least one Market vendor had initially pegged me for a “creepy old guy.” Ugh. He then allowed me to take this photo. Thank you, Michael.
Soundtrack Suggestion
I got a Nikon camera
I love to take a photograph
So mama don't take my Kodachrome away
(“Kodachrome” — Paul Simon)
Surviving Winter
As I sit here in my neighborhood Starbucks, sipping a hot chocolate on this late-January Sunday afternoon, I am thinking about how I have (mostly) successfully made it through another horrible winter-weather event. No, here in the Willamette Valley we really don’t have the blizzards and sub-zero temperatures that regularly incapacitate other parts of the country; that’s not our thing. The experience that we have all collectively lived through here, recently, is yet another Oregon ice storm.
Starting nine days ago, on the evening of Friday, January 12, freezing rain began to coat the landscape from Eugene, here the southern valley, up to Portland in the north. When it started we didn’t really know how bad it was going to get, of course. But the forecast was not encouraging. And when I awoke last Saturday morning, it brought back unpleasant memories of a previous ice-storm disaster we had here. It was in December of 2016, when I was living in another neighborhood of north Eugene, that freezing rain left a good portion of the city immobilized. I had electricity for the first day of the storm, but when I awoke during the middle of that night, I had the realization the power was out. For the first full day of darkness, and then the second, I wore multiple layers of clothing (including a down jacket and ear muffs), huddled on my couch, for hours and hours at a time, under a big pile of blankets. I kept my phone powered on with an external battery pack and listened to the news.
The temperature outside remained in the teens and twenties. More trees fell under the weight of the ice, more power lines went down. I learned that it could be several days before power was restored. The temperature in my apartment continued to fall. It was about the time that I began to see my breath that my mood began to significantly decline. Oh, I thought, this is the very scenario that plays out when it is ultimately learned that the storm has led to various fatalities: people freezing to death, alone in their own dwellings.
It was after two full nights alone in the cold when I decided, on the third day, that I needed to take some kind of action. Given that the power was not out all over the area, there were pockets where life was, unbelievably, going on as usual. I called a hotel a few miles away, learned that they had power, and that they were offering discounts to folks who were seeking a safe place in the storm. I made a reservation, hastily packed a suitcase with my frozen fingers, and very carefully drove over there. I settled in, took a long hot bath, and started to feel safe. But this whole experience had been traumatizing and had left me with a sense of dread, unease, and extreme vulnerability.
Now, fast forward to 2024 and this storm. The weather this time turned out to last days longer and be more severe than originally anticipated; in fact, this storm was even worse than last time, according to the experts. Reports kept coming in with more and more power outages, even as my lights remained on. I became increasingly anxious. I rather expected to have to relive the trauma of 2016 all over again. And this time, any kind of escape seemed even more problematic; I didn’t believe my car would make it out of my parking lot, much less get me to a hotel that had power. What was going to be my survival maneuver this time?
So then, at one point, on the third day of pandemic-like isolation, and because of my previous hardship, I tried to make from the bottom of my stairs to my car. I took just two steps -- before I fell! Luckily, I didn’t believe I had any broken bones, but I felt foolish. What was I thinking!? I still had power, internet, heat and food. There was no call for emergency measures yet, but still I was somewhat panicky. I was likely in a state of trauma-induced anxiety and not thinking entirely clearly.
I went back upstairs and started to take care of my slightly wounded body. Even without any broken bones, I was hurting. My left shoulder seemed especially problematic. I texted a friend who immediately called me back with some self-care advice.
As this episode ends, I am able to report that I was able to make it out of the house on day six and find some comfort and care with a massage therapist who began tending to my slightly-broken body (and spirit - and ego). I am on the mend now, though it appears I have some healing yet to do.
With this essay I am, of course, reporting on one man’s lived experience of these events; ultimately, I survived just fine. The lights in my dwelling remained on the entire time and I only lost internet for about 15 hours. Mostly I had to deal with my increasing anxiety -- and then with my injured body.
What is missing from this report, obviously, is the experience of the thousands and thousands of other Oregonians who fared much less well: those families whose lights went out, and are still out; those individuals who tried to walk outside and ended up in the emergency room with broken arms, wrists, hips, pelvises; those folks who tried to heat themselves inside with dangerous devices and ended up with carbon monoxide poisoning; business owners who lost days of income because of closure; and those of us who physically survived but will live long-term with the trauma.
If you are out there and reading this, I hope you are in a place where you are warm and safe – and, for the time being, living your life mostly trauma-free.
Soundtrack Suggestion
Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around for my possibilities
I was so hard to please
Don't look around
The leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
(“A Hazy Shade of Winter” - Simon & Garfunkel)
Well, Poop!
I’m a mall walker. Yep, I’m one of those gracefully-aging folks that put on their track shoes and rack up some low-impact mileage inside. Last weekend, on a very-dreary Sunday morning, I got to the mall about 9:00 a.m. — a comfortable two hours before opening time. As I was on my second lap, and coming up on the newly-installed Christmas tree at center court, much to my surprise and disgust, I almost stepped into a rather large pile of, well, shit. It was ugly and god-awful smelly. I was aware that there were at least a couple dogs accompanying their owners on this particular morning, so I was contemplating how to talk about this with the next canine handler I saw.
A few minutes later, near the tables by the coffee shop, I spotted one. At first I walked on by, but then I circled back to have a conversation. To the guy holding the leash, I made the observation about my recent fecal encounter and asked what, if anything, he might know about it. I wasn’t surprised when he said he knew nothing — but then he did, sympathetically, express great dismay. He asked directions so he could check out the situation himself.
I continued on with my walk and by the time I had made my way around to the trouble-spot again, the offending heap was being cleaned up by the housekeeping folks. Bless their hearts.
Then, a couple minutes later I came upon the same guy. He was talking to yet another dog owner, so I was curious about the conversation. As I walked up, he recognized me immediately, and let me know what he had found out: security folks, he reported, had determined that it was not dog shit.
Yes, you got that right; it was assessed, by whatever means I am unsure, to be human in origin. (Or was it Bigfoot? — I was unclear.)
What. The. Fuck.
Well now, what motivates me to report this experience? I guess it got me thinking about how other humans in our culture are behaving disgustingly — and shitting on institutions much more sacred than mall floors. It would seem shit-piles are becoming the norm.
So, what am I thinking of?
Well, for one: former-President Trump’s attempt at overthrowing American democracy as we know it on January 6, 2021. A result of “the big lie,” his coup attempt was beyond-words distressing. He totally shit on the norms of the rule-of-law in general, and the peaceful-transfer-of-power in particular.
Then, of course, how can we forget the U. S. Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe. Six of the nine, black-robed, all-powerful, lifetime-appointees blatantly shit on fifty years of precedent regarding women’s reproductive rights.
Additionally, I’m thinking of how this also reaches down to street level; whenever a local school board acts to ban books, it directly shits on the first amendment. How crazy is that?
Well, I am sure you get the idea. The heaping pile of crap encountered during my walk took my mind to other places. This is quite the extrapolation, I know. Still: shit is shit. And it’s everywhere.
Soundtrack Suggestion
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
(“Blowin' In The Wind” – Bob Dylan)
Birthday Blackmail
So, here I am, age 70. My birthday was two days ago. As some of you may recall, in my 20s I was skeptical that I would ever live past 30. Ah, well, I have never been so wrong!
This essay is simply a little record about the 24-hour-run-up to my birthday. I really do love it when being alive is so darn fun. (And, yes, we live in very interesting times, but this report has nothing to do with a rich, orange-colored bigot who is bent on destroying our democracy.)
On the morning of August 16, I awoke to a rather unusual junk email. It was addressed to one of my legitimate, widely-known email addresses (in fact, the one associated with this blog). The author purported to be writing from Germany and was issuing a blackmail threat. He (I suppose it’s a “he”) said I had 24 hours to come up with $290 in bitcoin and deposit it in his account (a bitcoin wallet address was given). He claimed that a keystroke-logging program had been deposited on my machine, and that he knew a lot about me. So, if I did not forward the funds, the consequences would be an email message to everyone in my contacts (and everyone I was connected to via social media) containing embarrassing video of me recorded with my MacBook Pro camera. So, two things you should know: (1) my computer’s camera has been completely covered up for at least the last couple years; and (2) if you see a suspicious email from/about me, you might think twice about clicking on whatever link is provided. On the other hand, who knows how interesting it may be! (Yes, you guessed it: I have not paid him.)
Then, later in the day, while on my daily walk, on a beautiful sunny afternoon along the bikepath between the Willamette River and the Owen Rose Garden, I was approached by a woman approximately half my age, working in the world’s oldest profession. She hesitated, stopped, smiled, and asked if I “wanted a date.” All I could think of to say was “no thanks.”
Anyway, that’s a day in my life. Happy birthday to me.
WTF, America
I had been having a pretty good day yesterday. I was happy the electioneering was over and feeling confident that HRC was in the bullpen, ready to come into the game as POTUS 45.
I went for a long walk in the morning, then meditated later. And when I took my blood pressure, I got a healthy result.
I bought a Papa Murphy’s pizza late in the afternoon and brought it home to settle in for some time with the folks on MSNBC. The hosts of the NPR Politics podcast, which I had listened to on my walk, thought the race could be called as early as 11:30 (Eastern), which is 8:30 here in the West.
All seemed right with the world.
