Cosmic Candid Camera

Traveling Light

2010-08-14T05:11:00.001-05:00

I’ve sold my clothes and my shoes.

I’ve sold my furniture and everything hanging on my walls.

I’ve sold my lawn mower and my house.

I’ve sold all my photography gear and closed the studio where I’ve worked for 20 years.

I’ve left nothing in storage and gotten rid of everything I own except what I can carry.

It's been incredibly liberating to watch all my stuff disappear.

I’ve left behind everyone I know and everything that’s familiar to me.

I’ve stepped off a cliff into complete and utter uncertainty.

I’m traveling the world...embracing the unforeseen and reveling in the unexpected.

Where the Heck is Tonga?

2010-08-31T07:32:00.003-05:00

It's in the middle of nowhere.

It's in the South Pacific Ocean.

It's a group of 176 islands.

Its closest neighbor is Fiji.

It has a king.

The language has a lot of vowels and not enough consonants.

The flag looks like the Swiss Army and the Red Cross got together and decided to form a country.

It is unbelievably beautiful.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane is that all the men look like super heroes from another planet. Here in Tonga, Arnold Schwarznegger would be a girly man. The national sport is rugby, which makes American football look about as macho as riding a pink tricycle. The Tongans do very well in rugby, largely due to the fact that when they walk onto the field, their opponents huddle together and cry like little girls.

For the first leg of my around the world odyssey, I spent a week on a sailboat meandering around the exquisite islands of Tonga. Each day our "to do" list looked exactly the same:

1. Wake up

2. Apply suntan lotion.

3. Visit yet another pristine beach with turquoise waters and coral reefs.

4. Take a nap

5. Drink rum punch

6. Repeat as necessary

Needless to say, this hectic schedule has taken atoll, so I'm off to Fiji for some rest and relaxation.

Monkey Shines

2010-04-23T20:44:00.008-05:00

I was changing into my bathing suit when I heard the sound of shattering glass.

Assuming it was a member of the hotel staff who had accidentally dropped something, I called out “Hello!” from the bathroom. No answer. My next thought was that perhaps I had left the window open and the curtains blowing in the breeze had knocked a glass onto the floor.

I emerged from the bathroom to find a male baboon...90 lbs. of sinew and muscle and fangs...enjoying an afternoon snack from the fruit platter and looking at me as if I was the intruder in HIS hotel room! Out on the front porch were four of his buddies, who by now were watching me intently. Thinking about having me for dinner.

My mind raced...less than six feet from me was a ferocious fiend who could rip me to shreds. I frantically tried to remember if I had read anything that would help me in this situation. Curious George was the only book I could think of.

Was I supposed to spread my arms so I'd look bigger and more intimidating? Or should I curl up on the floor in the fetal position and whimper? Retreating to the bathroom was an option...but I might emerge hours later and find that all five primates had taken up permanent residence. The baboon, who obviously had no intention of leaving, continued devouring a helpless apple. I began to wonder which part of my anatomy he would find most appetizing. The phrase "low hanging fruit" took on a whole new meaning.

I maintained eye contact, spread my arms, and slowly advanced towards the him, making my best “baboon repellant” noise, which I’m sure sounded ridiculous to an animal that’s accustomed to frequent encounters with lions and wildebeests. He reluctantly stood up and sauntered away, but not before giving me a “go to hell” look which let me know he’d be back.

Note to self: When you’re in the Masai Mara Game Reserve...Kenya remember to lock your door?

An Army of One

2010-05-01T23:06:00.030-05:00

Sometimes you gotta face the fact that you're just outnumbered. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Spartans at Thermopylae.

Any time someone uses the phrase "That's our policy" as a smoke screen for laziness, or obstinance or just plain meanness, I imagine myself drawing the razor-sharp, white-hot sword of righteous indignation from its scabbard (schwing!) and lopping off heads like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Especially when the policy is clearly the antithesis of common sense. Which it usually is.

The other day I needed to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch to Lowe's. "Why so much mulch?" you might well ask. Despite my meticulous calculations as to how much mulch would be needed to fill three flower beds, I was off by a quarter ton. But let's not get side-tracked. Needless to say nine 50 lb. bags weigh...well...a lot! So I pulled my vehicle right up next to the pallet where they keep the mulch, so all they had to do was lift the bags directly from my truck onto the pallet. Easy.

I darted inside the garden center, and handed my receipt to the cashier.

"We don't do returns here...you'll need to go to the customer service desk."

If you've ever been to Lowe's, you know that Customer Service is about a quarter mile from the Garden Center. So off I trotted. Walking at a brisk pace the journey took about 3 minutes. I presented my receipt.

"I'd like to return some mulch, please."

"You'll need to bring the mulch inside so we can count the bags" droned the obviously bored and under-worked customer service representative, not even looking up at me.

That's what I'd call about 450 lbs. of unhelpfulness. Are you effing kidding me? These thoughts scrolled across my forehead in 6 foot tall red neon letters.

"Um...isn't one of your employees gonna have to accompany me to my vehicle to unload the mulch?"

"Yes sir...This is Brandon. He'll help you."

"How 'bout this idea? I'm parked right next to the pallet of mulch. To make it easier for everyone, how 'bout we go ahead and handle the return now, and then Brandon can verify the number of bags. If I miscounted, then I'll come back and we'll square up."

"I'm sorry sir...that's our policy."

It occured to me that I might have a stroke right there at the customer service counter. How's that for about a quarter ton of irony?

"May I speak to the manager please?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, she dialed the phone and explained the situation to the manager in an exasperated tone, then hung up and monotoned "The manager says that's our policy."

Am I insane? Is this really happening? Have I unwittingly stepped through a hidden portal into Crazy World?

"May I SPEAK to the manager please?" By now the other employees nearby were starting to take notice. Meanwhile Brandon had wandered off to download the new "Complete Waste of Time" app on his iPhone. Or maybe was he "tweeting" about the Mad Man at the counter who thought he was William Wallace waging war against the English.

She dialed the phone again and handed me the receiver....

"Hi...my name's John Langford. How are you this evening? I need to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch and I was wondering if...."

"I'm on my way."

The manager arrived and I shook his hand warmly. Assuming there had been some misunderstanding, I described the situation in calm detail, to which he responded "Oh yeah...we can handle that...no problem."

Turning to the cashier and trying to conceal my expression of glee, I handed her my receipt.

"Sir...we'll need to see the bags of mulch before we can process the return" the manager said.

I couldn't believe my ears! I WAS in Crazy World!! I was speaking English, but they only understood "Red Tape." No wait...I'd been here before. This was one of those "Am I gonna just laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of it all...or am I gonna lose my cool (too late!)" moments. Why didn't I realize it sooner?!

"Let's go..." I said.

As we hiked to my truck, I told the manager not to take it as a personal attack, but that I'd like to respectfully register my protest against their policy in the strongest terms possible, and that I thought it was completely ridiculous.

By the time we completed our cross-country trek, we were chatting amiably about his kids, how long he had lived in Austin and so on. Sure enough there were nine bags of mulch in my truck. Be still my tongue.

A quarter mile later we were back at the cash register, where he confirmed that I had indeed returned nine bags of mulch. The cashier issued a return, and I strolled the now familiar route back to my car. It was like deja vu all over again.

At least I got some exercise. And a 450 lb. reminder that when I least expect it, I'll find myself in yet another episode of Cosmic Candid Camera.

Farewell to Virginia

2010-04-04T08:09:00.046-05:00

Among the more interesting and eventful assignments I've had was the time I was hired by a retirement community to photograph several of their residents. The reason for the group portrait was that all of these folks had local schools named after them. Needless to say, they don't put your name on a school unless you grew up when the world was still in black and white.

I was running behind schedule, feeling frantic and hoping that no one would fall, or succumb to the heat and humidity, or have a stroke. Especially me.

Meanwhile, an elderly woman nearby was peppering me with questions:

"What are you doing?"

"Who are you photographing?"

"Why?"

"Are these photographs going to be in the newspaper?"

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Are you photographing everyone who lives here?"

I was trying to maintain my composure and be polite, but I was really preoccupied, stressed out and beginning to think she might have a screw loose.

"Will you take my picture?" she asked.

"Well...I have to photograph this group, and then I have to break down all this equipment and haul it inside and set it all up again to do a headshot, so...if you're still here when I'm finished (realizing as the words came out of my mouth that the phrase "if you're still here" might have have a different connotation to someone who can see the light at the end of the tunnel) then I'll be happy to take your picture."

"I'll meet you back here at 3:30" she said...making it clear that I better not be tardy.

The cumulative age of the group was somewhere close to 500 years. Seriously. 6 x 80 something = High Potential for Disaster. I held my breath as my subjects arrived with the assistance of canes, walkers, oxygen tanks and orderlies. As they crossed the lawn, I prayed that no one would trip and fall and break a hip or have to be hauled off in an ambulance. Or worse.

To my extreme relief, we completed the shot without any injuries or fatalities, and as we packed up the gear to move inside for the second shot, I noticed that the woman who had interrogated me earlier was still there, giving me the eye to let me know she meant business. By the time we dragged all of our gear back outside, my crew was exhausted, especially since we had shot another assignment earlier in the day.

And then we saw her.

"Hello" she said, having freshly coiffed her hair, changed into an elegant outfit, and sporting a multi-colored walking cane.

"Hi", I replied, shooting a sideways glance at my assistants, who had begun loading the gear into my truck.

"I've picked out three of my favorite spots" she said.

"Is that right?"

I realized that this tenacious little old lady wasn't kidding, and that I had bitten off way more than I could chew.

"My name's John, by the way" I said, extending my hand.

"I'm Virginia Walker" she responded, gripping my hand firmly. "Let's get started over here at the gazebo."

By now the absurdity of this situation was making me wonder when the Cosmic Candid Camera crew was going to step out from behind a bush and say "Gotcha!" She had very definite ideas about how she wanted to pose, where I should position my camera, and completely disregarded any suggestions I made. My assistants were chuckling, so I decided to give in and just let her boss us around.

We gave her the V.I.P. treatment, using studio lighting to photograph her at the gazebo, and near a flower bed, and sitting on the edge of a fountain. As nearly an hour passed, my three assistants, whom I was now paying over time, grinned at me to let me know they were really getting a kick out of this quirky character.

As we chatted, I learned that Virginia was 92 years old, had three children, was extremely well-read and well-traveled, and not only was extremely sharp and savvy, but was also a funny, charming, dignified, and sophisticated lady.

As things were drawing to a close, I asked "So...Virginia. Are you single?"

"I'm a widow" she replied..."My late husband was a Texas Supreme Court Justice."

"So...are you seeing anyone?" I continued.

"No...not at the moment." She smiled coyly.

"If I asked you out on a date, would you go with me?"

After a long pause, she answered. "Yes...I suppose I would" in a tone that let me know that would be a big step down for her. And I don't mean age-wise.

"What are you doing Saturday night?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Virigina and I had several dates over the ensuing months. Once we went on a double date with one of her daughters and her "boy"friend...who were in their 60's. Another time we scandalized the retirement community when she invited me to dinner and led me from table to table introducing me to all her friends. On another occasion we sat together in her apartment as she showed me 80 years worth of Christmas cards, each one a painting or drawing that she had created every year since she was a teenager.

I grew very fond of Virginia, and every time we got together, we laughed ourselves silly, and invariably I got a little teary-eyed at something particularly poignant or touching or insightful she would say.

Virginia was always very concerned about my spiritual well-being. She insisted on buying me a subscription to a booklet of daily devotions called Daily Word. After carefully jotting down my mailing address, she sent off the subscription card, and called me repeatedly to ask if the publication had arrived in the mail yet.

After about a month of this, she took down all of my information again, sent in another subscription card, and began asking me again whether I had received my first issue. I thought about lying to her so she would stop pestering me, but because I knew she received Guideposts herself, I was afraid there might be a quiz! When I told her I had not, she got on the phone with customer service and registered her dissatisfaction. I wonder how many complaints they get at Daily Word magazine.

One night we went out to dinner and as the waiter approached our table he asked "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I'll have a frozen margarita with salt!" Virginia said, as if she drank tequila for breakfast. She couldn't have weighed 100 lbs., and if you've ever sampled the margaritas at Fonda San Miguel, you'll understand my concern about the possible side effects on a diminutive little old lady. As she sipped her drink, dabbing the salt from her lips with her napkin, I said "Hey Virginia, let's make a pact."

"O.K....what sort of pact?"

"Whichever one of us goes first...and I'm not suggesting it's going to be you...let's agree that if there's something on the other side of this, something after this life...let's agree that we'll make every attempt to get a message back to the one who's left behind."

"Oh, there's definitely life after death," she said. "You've got a deal!"

We shook on it, and as I walked her to her door and hugged her tiny frame goodnight, I thought how fortunate I was to have a friend like her. I've been on a fair number of dates during my 30 plus years as a bachelor, and I can say with complete honesty that I've never had more fun, more of a feeling of connection or more belly laughs and tears of utter delight than I did with Virginia.

A few weeks later my phone rang, and Virginia's name came up on my caller I.D. Always happy to hear from her, I grabbed the receiver and cheerfully said "Hi Virgina! How are you?" There was a long pause on the other end, and then I heard a woman's voice saying that Virginia was gone.

A few days later her son called from San Francisco to ask if the family could use one of my photos for Virginia's obituary. I told him I'd be honored.

A reminder popped up on my computer screen that it was Virginia's 94th birthday. I went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant and could have sworn I saw her sitting at a nearby table sipping a margarita.

And then, a month to the day after she died, I opened my mailbox to find my first issue of Daily Word.

Thanks Virginia. I'll miss you.

Water, Water Everywhere...But Not a Drop to Drink

2010-03-22T08:00:00.026-05:00

Many of us who took English Lit. recognize that line from the long-winded poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The passage from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" which many of us we were forced to read (I read the Cliff Notes instead) goes like this:

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

Timely words for World Water Day, an annual event designed to raise awareness about water quality, particularly in the Third World.

Did you know that:

3.575 million people die each year from water-related disease. (10)
43% of water-related deaths are due to diarrhea. (10)
84% of water-related deaths are in children ages 0 – 14. (10)
98% of water-related deaths occur in the developing world. (10)
884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people. (5)
The water and sanitation crisis claims more lives through disease than any war claims through guns. (1)
At any given time, half of the world’s hospital beds are occupied by patients suffering from a water-related disease. (1)

I've been asked to photo-document a group of volunteers headed to the remote village of El Zapata in Honduras in late May to help install a fresh water system. You can read more about it at Boone Planta Water Project. Each of us has been asked to raise $1400.00 to cover travel expenses and meals. Please consider making a donation at Network for Good. Please designate your tax deductible gift "BPWP/John Langford.

For those of you interested in more statistics, read on....but be forewarned, they will make you sick:

3.575 million people die each year from water-related disease. (10)
43% of water-related deaths are due to diarrhea. (10)
84% of water-related deaths are in children ages 0 – 14. (10)
98% of water-related deaths occur in the developing world. (10)
884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people. (5)
The water and sanitation crisis claims more lives through disease than any war claims through guns. (1)
At any given time, half of the world’s hospital beds are occupied by patients suffering from a water-related disease. (1)
Less than 1% of the world’s fresh water (or about 0.007% of all water on earth) is readily accessible for direct human use. (11)
An American taking a five-minute shower uses more water than the typical person living in a developing country slum uses in a whole day. (1)
About a third of people without access to an improved water source live on less than $1 a day. More than two thirds of people without an improved water source live on less than $2 a day. (1)
Poor people living in the slums often pay 5-10 times more per liter of water than wealthy people living in the same city. (1)
Without food a person can live for weeks, but without water you can expect to live only a few days. (4)
The daily requirement for sanitation, bathing, and cooking needs, as well as for assuring survival, is about 13.2 gallons per person. (3)
Only 62% of the world’s population has access to improved sanitation – defined as a sanitation facility that ensures hygienic separation of human excreta from human contact. (5)
2.5 billion people lack access to improved sanitation, including 1.2 billion people who have no facilities at all. (5)
The majority of the illness in the world is caused by fecal matter.(9)
Lack of sanitation is the world’s biggest cause of infection. (9)
At any one time, more than half of the poor in the developing world are ill from causes related to hygiene, sanitation and water supply. (9)
88% of cases of diarrhea worldwide are attributable to unsafe water, inadequate sanitation or insufficient hygiene. (9)
Of the 60 million people added to the world’s towns and cities every year, most occupy impoverished slums and shanty-towns with no sanitation facilities. (8)
It is estimated that improved sanitation facilities could reduce diarrhea-related deaths in young children by more than one-third. If hygiene promotion is added, such as teaching proper hand washing, deaths could be reduced by two thirds. It would also help accelerate economic and social development in countries where sanitation is a major cause of lost work and school days because of illness. (6)
Every 15 seconds, a child dies from a water-related disease. (2)
Children in poor environments often carry 1,000 parasitic worms in their bodies at any time. (8)
1.4 million children die as a result of diarrhea each year. (10)
90% of all deaths caused by diarrheal diseases are children under 5 years of age, mostly in developing countries. (8)
Statistics above quoted from Water.org

Is "Obsessive Compulsive" Hyphenated?

2010-03-11T11:47:00.031-06:00

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm a little bit on the compulsive side. O.K....a lot on the compulsive side. The manufacturers of label makers can rest easy knowing they'll always have a job because of people like me.

When I edge my front lawn, I also edge my neighbors' lawns. I'd edge everyone's lawn on both sides of the street if I didn't think the men in the white jackets would haul me away in a straight jacket. Speaking of jackets, all the shirts in my closet are facing in the same direction. The short sleeve shirts are at one end, and the long sleeve shirts are at the other. I have a drawer for white socks and a drawer for socks of color.

My garage floor is clean enough to eat off of. When you enter my house, you are never more than 10 feet from a box of Kleenex. If I eat dinner in front of the T.V., I'm compelled to clear away the dirty dishes before I finish chewing the last bite, or I can't enjoy the rest of the movie. And all of my dirty dishes are surgically clean BEFORE I put them in the dishwasher.

Once upon a time I bought an area rug for my living room (after trying out several and returning them), only to discover that I really wasn't going to be happy with it unless one edge was under the two front legs of the armoire that houses my T.V. set and stereo. It is approximately the same weight as a Ford F350 pickup truck. A team of long shoremen couldn't lift that thing.

Not to be deterred, I bought a 12 foot long piece of lumber, borrowed my neighbor's car jack, which I used in conjunction with my car jack, and by placing the piece of lumber under the front of the armoire and darting back and forth between the two jacks, was able to raise the front legs enough to slide the edge of the carpet underneath. No small chore...and I was quite proud of my ingenuity and tenacity.

After lowering the armoire and returning my neighbor's car jack, I noticed that the edge of the carpet didn't line up perfectly with the floor boards in my living room. By that I mean there was a deviation of about 1/4". I figured I could live with it...but I was mistaken. After a week of lying awake at night staring at the ceiling fan, I decided that my mental health hinged on fixing the problem. I sheepishly asked my neighbor if I could borrow her car jack again, and repeated the entire process until the edge of the carpet lined up EXACTLY with the floor boards. Mason and Dixon would have been envious.

Yesterday I was hanging some photographs in a long hallway at Charlie Tango, where they will be exhibited along with the work of three other photographers. The hallway is 25 feet long with 10 foot ceilings, and I decided to suspend my photographs from fishing line so that they would give the illusion of "floating" in mid-air against the white wall.

I measured everything three times, making careful note of the thermostat mounted at the far end, which would have to be taken into consideration to maintain the proper spacing. Here's the 3 1/2" x 5" index card I brought with me to map everything out. Is it just me, or does it look like the schematic for the Apollo 13 lunar module? All of this in order to hang five photographs. Five.

Three hours later, the task was complete. I took my final measurements and discovered that the photograph on the right was 3/4 of an inch closer to the end of the wall than the one on the far left. Keep in mind, we're talking about a 25 foot wall. So I decided to let it go. But not really. I figure if the Egyptians could build the pyramids without the aid of cranes and laser levels and walkie talkies, I should be more precise than that. But I decided to leave it alone, and to channel the discomfort I'm still feeling 24 hours later into this blog entry.

No sooner had I finished my handiwork than my fellow photographer Lance Rosenfield arrived with 20 photographs to hang. Eager to help, I loaned him my pencil and index card. I stayed there 'til 9:30 p.m. "helping" him, and to make sure that everything lined up just right. Here's his diagram. Clean and simple. I added the arrow at the top, because I just couldn't help myself:

Before we left, I scrubbed all the dirty dishes and put them in the dishwasher, made sure that there were four chairs at each of the tables in the lobby and that they were equidistant from one another. I've read and re-read this blog entry 17 times and have made a total of 43 changes and corrections. So far.

Breakfast of Champions

2010-03-11T10:30:00.005-06:00

Every Thursday evening, I get together with my buddy and fellow photographer Faustinus Deraet von Regemorter for some camaraderie, spicy tamales and a few frosty adult beverages. Next to my brother Paul, he is one of the funniest humans I've ever met.

Tomorrow, however, he's going home to Belgium for a visit, and we realized we'd have to miss our weekly ritual. So we decided to meet for breakfast at 8 o'clock this morning at Aranda's, a little taqueria in the neighborhood. Since my birthday is next week, and Faustinus will be out of town, a celebration was in order.

Imagine our waitress' look of concern when we each ordered a beer just as the other customers were sitting down for breakfast. Nothing washes down a couple of potato, egg and cheese breakfast tacos like a cold Tecate.

Just then the notorious curmudgeon, raconteur and candidate for Texas Agriculture Commissioner Kinky Friedman walked in, looking like the morning after the night before. Glancing over at our table, he sat down nearby and ordered heuvos rancheros and a beer.

The Emperor's New Clothes

2010-02-08T22:03:00.017-06:00

This evening, after a long day of work, I stopped by Sarah's Mediterranean Grill, which is where I go when I'm really, really hungry. Nothing satisfies quite like a mountain of chicken shawerma with a side of hummus and pita, topped off with a piece of flaky baklava for dessert.

As I was finishing my meal, the owner, whose name is Maethem, joined me at my table. He's a charming guy with a winning smile and an easy going manner, and we struck up a conversation about this and that.

I asked him about his family back in Baghdad, and he told me about an incident he witnessed when he was 13 years old and working in his father's clothing business.

One day, as he and his father were returning to their shop, they happened to be passing by as the Crown Prince of Kuwait, who was visiting Iraq, stepped out of his limousine. His dutiful chauffeur closed the door behind him, accidentally slamming it on the sheik's robe, worth thousands of denarii.

As the sheik shouted at the driver, threatening to fire him for ruining his priceless garment, Maethem's father intervened, offering to repair the Prince's clothing at no charge if he promised not to terminate the unfortunate and humiliated chauffeur.

After much persuasion concerning his abilities as a tailor, Maethem's father escorted the Prince to his clothing shop and told him his robe would be ready in half an hour. With skilled hands, he deftly repaired the intricate needlework on the opulent garment and presented it to the Prince, who could not believe his eyes.

As promised, the humble tailor refused to accept payment for his handiwork. A true prince is not always recognized by the clothing he wears.

Working From Home

2010-02-20T11:39:00.020-06:00

I forwarded the following ad from craigslist to a friend of mine who is considering a career move. It sounds like a great job, except that neither of us understood a single word of the job description besides the phrase "working from home", which she is more than happy to do:

From: john langford

Subject: i think you'd be perfect for this....

Date: Friday, February 19, 2010, 3:45 PM

WPF/XAML Designer (Downtown Austin)

We are looking for a WPF/XAML Designer (on contract basis) to implement Photoshop mockups of User Interface for WPF application. The user interface has been laid out using Telerik controls and the basic WPF controls. We have a graphics guy who has built screen shots of the entire user interface and now need a WPF guru to take the mockups and skin the existing controls and user interface. If you are interested, please have some sample work to show us (in WPF or Silverlight). We are flexible with you working from home or here at our downtown office. There is potential for a lot more work after this project if you turn out to be a great fit.

That last sentence should read "There is potential for a lot more work if you are one of the three people on the planet who can decipher this ad and who knows WTF WPF is."

Bon Voyage

2010-02-18T20:42:00.047-06:00

It was freezing cold, and I was standing high up on the windy deck of a passenger ship overlooking San Francisco harbor and the Golden Gate bridge. I was four years old, and along with my baby brother and my parents had left our home in New Orleans to cross the Pacific Ocean to begin a new life in the Far East.

The U.S.S. General W.P. Richardson was commissioned in 1944 as a navy transport ship, carrying troops to and from France, Italy, England and Morrocco. Subsequently converted to a luxury liner and renamed the S.S. Roosevelt, she carried a different kind of passenger.

During her colorful career, she was sold several times, and was called Atlantis, Sapphire Seas, Emerald Seas and Ocean Explorer I, like the names of lovers tattooed on a sailor's arms.

After exploring the the Mediterranean for many years, the old gal was finally scrapped in India in 1990, a seasoned world traveler with a lifetime of incredible adventures in exotic destinations.

For some reason, I thought we would be making the long voyage by paddle boat! I suppose this was because I had seen paddle boats on the Mississippi River near where we lived. Former riverboat captain-turned-writer Samuel Clemens took his pen name, Mark Twain, from the slang for "two fathoms", the depth of water needed for a steamboat to pass safely.

As I shivered in the cold wind, a grown-up handed me a tightly wound roll of crepe paper....a colorful streamer given to all passengers to throw to those on the pier below who had come to bid them farewell. I flung mine as far as a four year old could, watching it unfurl in slow motion as I grasped tightly to the end. Far below I saw a beautiful woman in a fur coat and a pill box hat catch the other end. For a long moment, we smiled at each other...a total stranger beaming up at me. I felt a mixture of excitement and shyness and confusion as she waved goodbye to me.

The three week crossing included typhoons, fine dining on crisp white tablecloths (which on days when the seas were rough were dampened so that the plates and glasses wouldn't crash to the floor), a screening of 101 Dalmations, and my first experience sleeping in a bunk bed.

Since then I've scuba dived with sharks in Tahiti, watched in amazement as a herd of elephants strode silently across the Serengeti, marveled at the majestic waterfalls in Brazil, run through the ruins of Florence before dawn, hiked through the jungles of Costa Rica as howler monkeys prowled overhead, gazed at the constellations from a thatched hut in Thailand, skied across snow covered rice paddies in Japan and plunged over white water rapids on a raging river in Honduras.

Many years have passed, but I still have the vivid memory of gazing into a stranger's kind eyes, joined to her by an umbilical cord of bright red paper, until it drew taut and tore apart, leaving her behind and launching me into a future that even Mark Twain could never have imagined.

Third Eye Blind

2010-02-06T12:31:00.017-06:00

Everyone has spotted a "tilaka" or "bindi"...a mark worn on the forehead by Hindu men and women. It marks the location of the sixth chakra, the seat of concealed wisdom, and symbolizes the Third Eye of introspection and spiritual enlightenment. It is also said to protect against demons or bad luck.

I now have one my very own tilaka as the result of slamming my car door against my forehead last night while talking on my cell phone with a customer service representative in....wait for it....India!

As a result of my self-inflicted injury, a couple of choice words sprang spontaneously from my mouth, one of which began with the word "God", and the other of which signifies the sacred union of two people. The customer service rep on the other end of the line did not find me enlightened in the least.

With any luck at all, my tilaka will form a permanent scar as a reminder to be conscious and aware...and what happens when I'm not.

Bad Juju

2009-05-22T02:03:00.019-05:00

Do you ever feel like you're at the epicenter of some sort of electro-magnetic vortex?

This past week I had to replace my kitchen disposal after it flooded the area under the sink with what looked like baby vomit. Cost of replacement and installation: $300.00

I also had my car towed. Cost of retrieval from towing yard $175.00. Parking ticket $25.00

And my computer hard drive crashed, resulting in the loss of hundreds of photos and all my applications. Cost of repair: $200.00 Loss of data: Priceless

$700.00 later, I'm still trying to figure out which photographs are gone forever and how many survived. The good news is that while sifting through the wreckage, I discovered a bunch of images I shot in Africa more than two years ago. Turn your speakers up and enjoy!

Music: Miss Q'n by Zap Mama

Magic Man

2009-05-28T20:45:00.014-05:00

This week I had the good fortune to photograph an amazing performer and all around good guy who goes by the moniker Magikhana, also known as Arsene Dupin.

Last night we went out for Thai food, and as we entered the restaurant, we encountered a Jamaican guy with long dreadlocks holding a beautiful, curly-haired baby. I started making funny sounds with my mouth, and Magikhana balanced the brim of his baseball cap on his nose. The baby was mesmerized. The dad said "Rastafari!" and gave each of us a fist bump.

Magic moments like that appear out of nowhere when I least expect them.

See Chell

2009-05-28T20:36:00.018-05:00

On Saturday I did some more experimenting with my underwater camera. Many thanks to Chell Parkins for being such a good sport and for staying submerged in the chilly water for more than an hour on a single breath!

Mystic Moth (and Other Frequent Flyers)

2008-09-02T01:21:00.016-05:00

One afternoon as I was eating lunch, a moth with very distinctive markings came and landed on my sandwich. He carefully inspected it with his proboscis, and hung out with me while I finished eating.

Several hours later, while I was waiting for the charcoal on the grill to heat up, the same moth came back and kept me company again. Maybe it was the wine, but it felt like this moth and I were starting to be pals.

Shortly thereafter, I saw these birds performing their high wire act. It reminded me of a documentary I saw recently called "Man on Wire" about a French guy who in 1974 managed to string up a tight rope between the Twin Towers in New York City at night without anybody knowing. By sunrise, he was walking back and forth, 1000 feet above the ground, while the cops watched helplessly. If you haven't seen it, you must!

Under Pressure

2009-03-02T13:39:00.016-06:00

Look closely. There are three people in this photograph, not two. If you squint your eyes, you can see someone in the front of the raft whose head is being removed from their neck. That’s me…the guy who has somehow mistaken a class IV white water rapid for a drinking fountain which dispenses water at a rate of 347 cubic meters per second. I won’t be thirsty for quite a while.

At one point during the trip we stopped for a breather. When I was a kid, if I complained that my friends were getting to do something that I wasn't, the response was often "If everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you want to do that too?" Apparently the answer is "Yes". Having faced my terror of heights the day before, I went first, adding more bruises to my previously pulverized posterior.

At the end of our thrilling three hour trip down the river, we were hauled back to the lodge where we regaled each other over hot plates of spaghetti with tall tales of our death-defying adventures. See if you can guess which guy in the photo below is NOT a tourist.

After The Deluge

2009-03-02T13:47:00.011-06:00

Last night we had a “gully washer”. Even Noah would have been looking for higher ground.

It started about 2 a.m. and continued throughout the night….an absolute torrential downpour that lasted about 5 hours. Because my room has only screens instead of windows, for most of the night the wind was howling through the cabin, the curtains were parallel with the floor, and the room was filled with a fine mist. And because the roof is made of corrugated tin, with all the falling branches and sticks and fruit and what-not, it was like trying to sleep in a firecracker factory with the sprinkler system on.

Today the rain has abated somewhat, but the temperature has dropped significantly, and I have no long pants or socks, having left them at the hotel I'll be returning to on my way back home. Thankfully I do have a fleece pullover and 2 (moist) blankets I can crawl under. The humidity is 150%, and the weather forecast calls for more of the same, so the chances of anything drying out anytime soon are slim to none. It’ll be interesting to see how long it takes the soaking wet t-shirt I hung out to dry yesterday afternoon to turn into a biology experiment.

Chicken $hit Bingo

2009-05-24T22:29:00.023-05:00

I am not a gambling man.

I've been to Vegas twice and I didn't put a nickel in the slot machines. But every Sunday afternoon at Ginny's Little Longhorn Saloon, for $2.00 you can buy a 6 x 6 inch piece of real estate on a sheet of plywood (limit: one per customer) and have the time of your life.

Since there are only 54 squares available, tickets sell out fast, so you better move quick when they announce it's time to place your bets. The sheet of plywood is laid the pool table, a wire cage is placed on top of it, and then Ginny comes out from behind the bar with "C.C." the chicken under her arm. If the chicken makes a deposit in your square, you win the pot...so to speak. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "playing craps".

You've never seen so much hootin' and hollerin' in your life. You'd have thought we were watching the final seconds of the Super Bowl. The excitement continues only as long as it takes C.C. to take care of business, and this afternoon it was a 15 minute hair-raising, nail-biting, white-knuckle, razor's edge roller coaster ride.

Cameras were flashing, people were shouting, and the chicken would stop periodically to pose for pictures. She's a real entertainer, and she knows how to strut her stuff. In the end, the jackpot was divided between #19 and #37, because C.C. made her mark right on the line.

In Kentucky they bet on thoroughbred horses. In Monte Carlo they bet on high performance race cars. And here in Austin, we wager on where a feathered farm animal is gonna take a shit.

Collaboration

2009-05-06T14:18:00.019-05:00

A phenomenally talented creative director and graphic designer, Kendall Witherspoon, contacted me about the possibility of collaborating on a project just for fun.

We're getting together tomorrow to talk more about that, but in the meantime I e-mailed him a photo I shot recently, to see what he could do with it.

Here are 11 variations he came up with...amazing!! You can check out more of Kendall's work, as well as his blog, at www.thinkspoon.com

Click on each image to enlarge

Water Cooler Gossip

2009-04-02T23:56:00.009-05:00

Sometimes my water cooler talks to me.

Yes, that's right...my water cooler talks to me.

After days of silence, it'll let out a loud "GLUG GLUG GLUG" for no apparent reason. And when I look over with a startled expression, it just stands there, acting as if nothing happened.

My refrigerator is usually pretty reticent, but on hot afternoons it gets irritable and starts buzzing with an annoyed tone. This sometimes gets a gurgle from the water cooler but not always.

And once those two start chattering away like two Tri Delts at a sorority party, the trash can just stands there and glares, keeping a lid on it.

James Taylor, Duct Tape and Helicopter Rides

2009-04-08T16:16:00.030-05:00

Last night I saw James Taylor in concert for the 8th time. The first time was July 4th, 1976. The last time was in Rome, Italy. He's my all time favorite musician...his songs never fail to move me, despite having listened to them thousands of times over the last 40 years.

And seeing him live always reminds me that despite doing two stints in a psychiatric hospital, and years of struggling with heroin addiction, he seems to have found some peace, and has brought so much pleasure to so many people for so many years.

The summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I worked as a roustabout on an offshore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. This was in spite of the fact that my mother spent weeks pleading with me not to and sending me newspaper clippings of oil rigs catching fire or articles about horrible accidents in which people had been maimed or killed.

The first morning when I reported for work, I asked an old-timer at the front gate where I needed to go to catch the chopper to the Pennzoil rig. With the three and a half fingers on his right hand he pointed and mumbled "Over there". Even though I didn't play the piano, I hoped I'd still have enough digits by the end of the summer that it would at least be a possibility.

Each week, I'd drive to Galveston, board a helicopter and fly 80 miles out to the rig, where I'd work 12 hours a night, from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m., 84 hours a week. I'd try to sleep during the day, with helicopters landing above me, and the rig shuddering below me.

And then I'd fly back to shore for a week off. I spent my days off trying to get my circadian rhythms turned around, so that I could sleep at night and be awake during the day, just in time to go back out on the rig again and work all night and sleep during the day. It was miserable.

Because I didn't own a car, I borrowed one from my college buddy Bill Hailey, who loaned me his Ford Galaxy, since he was going to Japan for the summer. The car had an AM/FM radio and cassette deck which I suspended from the underside of the steering column using about a half a roll of duct tape. Each week when I'd pull into the parking lot where the helicopters took off, I'd tear through the duct tape, place the cassette deck in the trunk, grab my hard hat and rubber boots, and head out for another week-long hitch on the rig.

I didn't own any cassettes (vinyl albums and 8 track tapes were still the norm) and because money was in such short supply, I wanted to buy a tape that I wouldn't get tired of listening to all summer. The choice was simple. The music which kept me awake on those long drives to Galveston at 6 o'clock in the morning was James Taylor's "Gorilla". I still love that album, and I every time I hear the song "Mexico", it evokes memories of the round trip I made each week and the grueling job that paid for my junior year of college.

Miles Davis and Me

2009-04-29T03:31:00.022-05:00

When I moved to Hong Kong in my mid-twenties, I had the good fortune to work with a guy named Jim Shaw who was the editor of the magazine where I was the marketing manager. Jim was about 30 years my senior and had lived all over southeast Asia as a correspondent for the Stars & Stripes newspaper, a publication for U.S. military personnel which has been in print since the Civil War.

Jim was a raconteur and quick with a quip. He didn't hand out compliments easily nor suffer fools gladly. He had a limitless supply of stories, and he'd laugh at your jokes if they were funny. He was the kinda guy you wished was your uncle.

Jim and I got to be friends, and on several occasions I had the pleasure of being invited to his home where we'd sit in the living room with our shoes off under the slowly revolving ceiling fan which was painted with zebra stripes and listen to hours of jazz on Jim's reel-to-reel tape deck. His wife, Kaoru, would bring us bottle after bottle of beer, while Jim regaled me with stories of life in Japan and Vietnam.

When he heard that Miles Davis was coming to town, along with Herbie Hancock, you'd have thought they had announced an encore performance of the Last Supper with the original cast. Jim insisted I buy a ticket to see one of the all time jazz greats, and because the legendary trumpeter was a notorious heroin addict, there was a good chance this might be my last chance to see him perform. The concert was great...and Jim, who had seen Miles play before, remarked that he had been uncharacteristically generous...facing the audience instead of performing with his back to them!

After the show was over, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the concert venue, when I noticed a subterranean garage door opening, and a long, sleek, shiny stretch limo pulling up the steep driveway. I don't know what possessed me, but I held up my hand, motioning for the car to stop. When it did, the rear passenger window silently rolled down, and there, in the pitch black interior of the limo was the expressionless, ebony mask of Miles Davis, a guy even the Devil himself would be scared of.

What does one say to Miles Davis? I think what came out of my mouth was something completely inane like "Great show, Miles! Thanks for coming!"

Without changing expression, or saying a word, he held up the palm of his hand...whether in silent benediction or as a gesture for me to shut the hell up, I'll never know for certain...then rolled up the window and disappeared into the night.

Bruce Lee, Barbie's Birthday and My First Kiss

2009-05-13T14:07:00.019-05:00

Today is Barbie's 50th birthday.

The doll created by Mattel in 1959 reached the half century mark this year. But the Barbie I'm talking about was the first girl I kissed.

I was 15 years old, and hadn't ever kissed anyone on the lips before, other than my great-aunt, and that was against my will. When Aunt Jewel puckered up, you had to just grit your teeth and take it like a tetanus shot. She had a wispy mustache, smelled like baby powder and wore bright red lipstick which leaked into the creases around her mouth...a memory which came flooding back to me the first time I saw a satellite photo of the Nile Delta.

But Barbie obviously had some experience in the smooching department. It lasted only a few seconds, but that first kiss rocked me back on my heels. The feeling was kinda like your first leap off the high dive...terrifying, unfamiliar and thrilling all at the same time. I wanted to try it again.

Walking home that night, feeling 10 feet tall and bullet-proof, I passed the home of Bruce Lee. Yes, that Bruce Lee. He lived in our neighborhood in Hong Kong, and I remember thinking "You may be the world's greatest martial artist, but right now, I'm pretty sure I could take you!"

Barbie and I have stayed in sporadic contact over the years. We both live in Texas, but we never see each other. We're friends on facebook and we e-mail each other once a year or so. I called her today and sang "Happy Birthday" to her voicemail.

She has the same birthday as my brother James, who died when he was 21 and I was 24. There aren't too many people in my life nowadays who knew James, but Barbie did. He would have been 47 today...but in my mind he'll always be that skinny 21 year old guy with a big grin and sad eyes.

And Barbie will always be that 15 year old girl who gave me my first kiss.

Stranded

2009-05-15T04:04:00.017-05:00

Tonight I went downtown to meet my friends Kinuthia and Leticia, who got married last December. Leticia is pregnant with their first child, so inevitably the topic came up of whether they'd opt for circumcision if it's a boy.

They're both from the Kikuyu tribe in Kenya, and tradition dictates that a boy's passage from boyhood to manhood takes place around his 13th birthday. Part of this ritual includes circumcision. OUCH! I hope it's a girl.

As I left them, pondering our discussion, I encountered a homeless guy who introduced himself as Max from Hattiesburg, Mississippi. As we walked the 3 blocks to where my car was parked, Max told about his stint as a cook in Houston, and how he had to give up the bottle after he had a stroke. When we got there, my car wasn't. It had been towed.

I let loose a string of expletives, not just because of the $200.oo it was gonna cost me to get my vehicle out of hock and pay the parking ticket, but because of the inconvenience and the fact that I've parked in this spot dozens of time without incident. Well, there was that one time.

Meanwhile, my new acquaintance Max was scavenging for cigarette butts in the cracks in the pavement next to a nearby dumpster, and by the time I got off the phone with the Austin Police Department, I was furious. What a buzz kill.

As I was commiserating with Max about my misfortune and how much it was gonna cost, he asked "You wouldn't happen to have any spare change, would you?"

I had to laugh out loud. "As a matter of fact, I do" I replied. "Here's a coupla bucks".

As Max shuffled off down the sidewalk, I had to re-evaluate my situation. I have a car that runs and a friend nearby I could call on my iPhone to pick me up and drive me to the impound yard. I have a comfortable home that's air-conditioned when it's warm outside, and heated when it's cold. I have a bathroom with hot and cold running water and a shower that I don't have to share with anyone. I have a comfortable bed and plenty of clothes and shoes, and a washer and dryer and a stove and refrigerator. And I never have to worry about where my next meal is coming from.

And I've already been circumcised.