New York – Live:
Jason Isbell Channels Bruce Hornsby at Bowery Ballroom – Sound of the City – Village Voice

I just noticed a blogger at the Village Voice used one of my photos in their about-town post on Jason Isbell. I think bloggers feel vaguely surreptitious doing this, and that’s why they never let me know. Of course I’m very pleased for them to use it. I’d wish they’d let me know in the comments, but I can understand their wanting to avoid nutters who say “No don’t ever use my photo!” Note that my Creative Commons license doesn’t cover this since I’m sure Village Voice makes money off their blog.

I’m more psyched about this I might normally be. I get photos used in blogs all the time, but this time it’s a film photo that I developed myself. I’m proud of it.

I’m think I like the new Jason Isbell record, incidentally. But, I’m not sure yet. I like him best when he is laid back and poetic.

Play it: “Sunstroke” – Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

I arrived at the address on a bright and hazy Thursday after a long and dreary afternoon drive through muddled Los Angeles congestion. Battling traffic had imbued me with a sense of undeserved urgency, there was no real rush.  Actually, I arrived after missing the place twice and circling back around. For it was a sterile, invisible,  two-story office outcrop that could have once been called Sea Breeze Motel in some other century, but which was now sturdy home to dentists, tax attorneys, and hairstylists. Parking was scarce. In fact, each space was visibly assigned to a specific suite number. The most popular building tenants rated two or even three spaces. There was no space at all allotted for suite number four.

Classic camera repair must not generate much foot-traffic, I thought.

I parked at a laundromat, forced to legitimize my taking up space by buying an orange soda at a liquor store. I considered that it would be a bit surreal to walk in with a Rollei and an orange soda. I stashed the bottle in my bag. Up the stairs past some wooden men speaking Spanish who looked like they knew me, but didn’t. The doorway featured a carved wooden Rolleiflex badge, so there could be no mistake. I looked for any posted information to discourage me from just barging in. I found none, I opened the door, I entered.

I have to confess that I paid too much for my Rollei when i first got it. I didn’t do my homework.  The model that was advertised to me was not what I bought. I think this was not through any malice on the part of the seller, just a matter of general confusion among amateurs. Perhaps this is why I am so keen on making it work for me. I’m self-conscious of its well-worn condition, though Carmen says it’s just well-loved Whatever. I really want the Rollei-tionship to work, and I’m willing to compromise to make it happen.

Inside the door was a tiny hall with a chest-high counter that separated supplicants from the Master. I didn’t have time at all to take it all before a slight lanky greybeard and wire-frames greeted me quietly, and not without some pain in his eyes. I realized I had been counting on waiting a few minutes to be acknowledged, but he was on me in an instant, wanting to know my business.  I insisted first upon introducing myself and offering my hand.  Didn’t he know that he was a legend? Harry Fleenor introduced himself in turn and shook my hand with a worried and awkward curtness. Having done that I launched into a staccato rendition of my problem:

“I have this Rolleiflex  (did I pronounce it right?) I’ve run a dozen rolls through it and the shutter doesnt always want to cock and i think it needs an overhaul (god no why am I telling him just let him check it out) so I was wondering if you could take a look at it, if you wanted. Sir (oh crap i’ve blown it already)” And, I quickly notice the small notice on the wall that there is a ten dollar charge for inspections.

With the jittery slowness of someone who has seen his share of fools like me, he took the camera, popped it open and cocked the –

“Oh, what’s that grinding?” he accused me.

“I can’t say,” I offered mutely.

He fired, wound, fired, wound, fired, wound. He’s going to say it’s fine and why am I wasting his time, I dreaded.

“Oh, yes there it didn’t cock.”

Whew.

“The shutter sounds a little slow, I’d like to test it, if that all right with you.”

Please do.

He stepped back into the office, and I could see it all. Esoteric machinery with Rollei logos, a gaggle of shiny bodies, stacks of documentation, Rollei’s history in posters, magnificent clutter measured by the decade. And, a woman of Italian lineage who was beautiful when the clutter was just a mess, seated at a table with a worklight with some interrupted intricate task, staring at me without curiosity but with unrestrained disgust. Fleenor’s wife? Faithful assistant? I lacked the experience to know just by looking. My life looked pale in that moment.

I noticed the wall with tacked up testimonials and thankyou cards from satisfied customers. I’d seen the same notes at a garage while waiting for a new car window, one that took four hours to replace.  I noticed a printout of a camera mural painted on a wall in Reno — a photo I had seen myself only a week prior. This comforted me slightly, as my circle was not wholly distinct from Harry Fleenor’s after all. I noticed a two foot square print on the wall of greener times with yellower flowers. My only thought was that I could take a better photograph than that.

“The shutter’s a bit slow. And, see here the tripod lug is loose. I can tighten that up for you if you want.”

He quoted a price. I nodded.  He added that based on the grinding, he’d also recommend a transport overhaul, and quoted a price on that. I said okay. This is what I’d feared, but expected.

“Do you use a Rolleikin?”

I thought: Oh course not, whatever that is, What is that? Wait, wait! I know what that is. Yes, I have one Yes I do use one. This is what I wanted to ask him about. Oh God how long am I pausing?

I said: “Yes, well I have. I mean, I do. I want to, but I can’t figure out the counter works. With that. I want to.”

He proceeded to show me how the counter works, that a crucial pin was missing. He could install a new one if I wanted. He didn’t know if I wanted to use thirty-five millimeter film. I said I did. He quoted a price.

I said okay.

At this point, he must have figured he had a boat payment on his hands.

“I don’t know if you want to spend the money, but I have some custom Maxwell focusing screens.”

He proceeded to describe them, but before he could quote a price, I said that I was happy with the the screen, thanks. We both knew the measure of me at that point. I offered that in my limited research, I thought the shutter might have been replaced at some point as I thought that model was supposed to have the Compur-Rapid shutter that went to one-one-thousandths of a second. He looked at me as one might view a child who has spit up creamed peas all over the family photo album. “No, all Rolleis of this model go to one five hundredth.”

So, he got out an invoice and started to write it up.

“My backlog right now is about six weeks. Is that all right?”

Paperwork ensued. He made some small talk about never having heard of Valley Village in the sixty years he’d been there. I assured him that happened to me all the time, as if that were somehow notable given my four years there. He made special note of my mirrored lens cap, and I searched for some hint of approval in his voice for that tiny detail. I may have imagined it, but I think I heard just that.

A significant cash deposit insured an amicable parting, another handshake and I was gone.  I’d taken in my camera to get juiced up, and I’d learned how to use the counter for the Rolleikin. I’d survived Harry Fleenor!

As, I went back down the stairs, the men from before were gone, but a shifty character lumped in their place, he avoided my gaze conspicuously. I couldn’t explain him, and I doubt if anyone could. I resolved that when I returned for the Rollei I simply must bring a roll of film and demand to test it by taking Mr. Fleenor’s  picture. I will try

Incredibly, my car was neither towed nor cited. And, the orange soda was the best I’d ever tasted.

Song of the day: “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” – Alan Jackson

I imagine Robert Capa had one just like this:

Leica IIIa + Lenses and Accesories.

$500? nah…

A series of funny listings for real gear in the “photo/video” section of Los Angeles Craigslist. Some homophobic tics make the seller even more nutty. That’s Reseda for you.

The ad for the Vivitar reads:

Stock the Vivitar 283 flash comes with an inferior, sub-standard, faggot hot foot mount. But this flash has one of the bitchin’ aluminum mounts from Holly Enterprises. Plus a velcro-attach bounce card. With this flash you will be swinging big and taking the best of the best exposures. Plus if some snobish photog blocks your once in a lifetime shot of the ghost of Jim Morrison, you can smash him over the head with your camera without worrying about the flash breaking off…then take the image of backdoor man’s vapors.

Feb 20 – TAMRAC PHOTO BACKPACK – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – LOWPRO TREKKER BACKPACK CAMERA BAG – $25 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – MINOLTA IV F FLASH METER – $100 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – QUANTUM TURBO BATTERY PACK – $75 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – NIKKOR 16MM 3.5 FISHEYE – $100 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – VIVITAR 283 FLASH WITH HOLLY ENT. ALUMINUM MOUNT – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – NIKKOR 50MM 1.8 MANUAL FOCUS – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – TOKINA 28-70 AT-X AUTO FOCUS LENS FOR NIKON – $75 - (Reseda)

Sounds from breakfast on the road

As I walked closer to this industrial grade vent in back alley Missoula, MT I heard eerie sounds emanating from it. I tried recording the sound on my phone:

Play sound

I spent only six minutes in Montana. I crossed the border and exited the first chance I got, in order to turn around. I had seen a creepy looking ruin at the last exit in Idaho, listed as Humphrey. I went back into Idaho and exited Humphrey — there was nothing there. The road was roped off, and only this massive ruin remained — notable for its sheer size. I had to walk seventy yards up the off-ramp to get near it. I started to walk across the snowy field to it, and whoomp I went in up to my waist in crunchy snow. Undaunted I kept going, but after a while I came to the barbed wire barrier — which was made extra threatening due to the deep snow. Snow already starting to melt into my sneakers and jeans, I gave up at that point and got this picture with the Rollei Automat. Kodak 400NC has been good to me in the past, but this image came out rather strange. It may have been x-rayed at the airport, or perhaps Humphrey is just haunted.

Play “Hollow Hills” – Bauhaus

For unspecified but very valid reasons, my roadtrip actually started in Salt Lake City. Ascending north on the 15, it wasn’t long before my first unscheduled detour. I saw signs for Syracuse, UT. Thing is, I didn’t know there was a Syracuse, UT. But, I began life as a human in Syracuse, New York so I figured there must be something interesting there in Utah. Syracuse surely a place of auspice in any state. I saw signs, brown signs, suggesting a “Syracuse Museum” right this way. Following the signs, however, led me down and around and past a roundabout. Abruptly I was on a gravel road as rural and unhistoric as can be. I stopped to turn around when I noticed a rusted truck in a quiet field with some horses milling about, so I got out to see if there was a picture there. There, out in the middle of silent, sunny nowhere Syracuse, UT. As soon as I did, the horses all came over to me. Perhaps they were bored. They mugged and jostled for position, like I was the attraction there. The quietude and beauty of the horses overwhelmed me then, and I fully expected my car to explode. But, somehow it didn’t explode at all, so I checked the light, took some pictures, and got back on my way. Found my way back to the 15 and beyond.

Song of the day is “Can You Tell” by Ra Ra Riot, a band also from Syracuse — the one I’m from.

Noted in my Flickr mailbox:

Hi Mick,

I used one of your incredible Coachella shots on CBC Radio 3. (I climbed this guy at Burning Man!)

CBC Radio 3 is a “profit-free” division of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which is not unlike your NPR.

radio3.cbc.ca/blogs/2009/02/Top-Canadian-Acts-Heading-For-Coachella

Hope that’s cool?

Yes, it’s very cool. Check the CBC site, it’s playing great music!

Original photo:

Music to Read By: ” Scattered Black and Whites” – Elbow

Saturday night’s a bad time to lose a car window. Or a wallet, or a phone, or some cameras. So, I chose all of the above when my car was broken into back in December. It was a brutal twist to a desolate holiday season, and I was shaken deeply, alone and at the end of my rope. I spent Sunday in a daze, but Monday morning, despite the freezing rain, it was time to rebuild.

I went to an auto glass place that was happy to have me, and happy to have me wait about three hours for a window to be delivered so they could put it in. Given the rain, I wasn’t about to argue. Kicking around the garage, I was antsy and restless. I missed one of my cameras – the trusty Canonet that I was just starting to love. I played with the dog that lived on the couch in the garage, but I couldn’t sit still.

Impulsively, i walked out of the garage to a drugstore and picked up a disposable camera. A disposable black and white camera no less! I walked around the yard, in the rain and I saw things I wanted to remember. It felt normal, so that was good. Life isn’t all that dramatic, and much worse things have happened to better people, but it was a moment I was profoundly thankful for.

I took the camera to Rite-Aid for some One-hour processing. One thing, they told me their “machine” was broken so it would be two to three business days. No rush I thought.

At that point, my pictures were lost.

I kept going back to Rite-Aid day after day. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The routine was the same. Go in to Rite-Aird walk back to the deserted photo counter. Try in vain to attract attention. Wander to the front and flag down some disinterested clerk to call for assistance. I went in seven times and never less waited less than twn minutes for someone to run through the same look-in-the-drawer-when-did-you-drop-them-off-check-back-thursday routine.

Eventually I gave up.

Then this week, I got the call. 984 hours after dropping them off at the one-hour photo counter, my pictures were ready. I went in to Rite-Aid, walked back to the deserted photo counter. Went behind the counter and started rifling through the drawer myself. An agitated voice instantly came over the intercom asking for assistance at the photo counter. The eye in the sky was watching the whole time.

A disapproving but too-bored-to-care clerk came over and told me to move to my side of the counter and I’d be served. I cheerfully obliged and finally got my pics. Which was good, because as it turns out there were some keepers. That disposable camera rocked!

And, I’ll never set foot in that Rite-Aid every again for any reason.