Long View

So Thanksgiving technically isn’t an assignment, but I have my camera anyway and I am in Nevada, the birthplace of all things Jason Doiy. Seriously, I was born on the darkest night of the year, in the desert of the now fastest growing city in the United States—Las Vegas.

I’m up north though in Carson City, although I was born in Vegas we moved early on, probably before the next summer started.

Big Box stores are all that remain of a once vast high desert landscape surrounded by sage and low property rates. I drive around new tract homes and behind the Home Depot right off of Highway 395. I can almost hear someone say, “If you build it, they will come” as I pass empty lots in between fully developed homes.

I used to ride my bike down this hill before there was even a road. It was a washed out, rutted dirt trail that led down to the only place a kid could buy candy in the whole area. Now its a paved road.

I remember riding my dirt bike with a pocket full of Atomic Fireball jawbreakers and Big League Chewing gum past where these two vistas meet.

Been There Done That

I am in the Haight, walking towards 96 Delmar Street and I notice this old meets new, yuppie vs. hippie picture.



I remember the first time I meandered up the street made famous by the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. I was in awe that such a place of counter culture existed on the planet. Today, I find homeless kids and gawking brats from Concord crawling up the block. Been there done that seems like an understatement for shops hawking bongs, tye-dye shirts, hemp stuff, and the dreams of a past generation turned into marketable products. Maybe I am jaded and just too old (never trust anyone over 30), but more likely it is because the “times they are a changing.”

I meet a couple in there ballroom apartment. I am not kidding; it’s rumored to be a former San Francisco hang-out for Hollywoodites of the late 40’s. Supposedly, Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe once danced the night away. Of course my subjects remind me that it’s all just gossip and lore.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Depending on who you ask Autumn or Fall officially begins on September 23. No matter who you ask in the Bay Area it is really hard to tell when Summer ends and Fall begins. The lack of noticeable changes in seasons make for an easy, comfortable, almost climate controlled life. What could be better right?

In Mountain View, CA where there is actually no view of or from any mountains I notice, out of the corner of my eye, cheap gas and quickly pull into the station. While the car is filling, I look up and see a glorious elm that has reluctantly let go of some of its leaves. They are scattered around the 20 foot wide grassy planter that separates the asphalt from the sidewalk from the asphalt again. I think this is it. I think this is my own private Autumn, in November and I am not even wearing a jacket. California dreaming?

Stretching the Truth

In Newark, I am giving two presentations, one on ethics in photojournalism and one on creating photo illustrations. I am in love with the complete dichotomy of the two topics and how they almost counteract each other.

What I discover is that everyone in the room is willing to stretch their own personal ethics to fit individual scenarios that may come up. Pictures are extended horizontally to accommodate typography and layout constraints and objects are removed to make cleaner photos. I am slightly shocked to find out how untrustworthy a room full of hungry photographers can be. However, my presentations are a success based on the dialogue and discussions that ensued. At the very least people started talking about what they are doing and I made a good, truthful pigeon photo on the way back to the hotel.

The Color of Fear

I am traveling light; 1 carry-on, 1 check-in and a camera dangling from my neck. The shuttle picks my sleepy ass up after only 4 hours sleep and one cup of coffee. It's 5:18 am and still dark outside. We make one other stop, a couple climbs aboard dressed in shorts and Looney Tunes t-shirts. They are excruciatingly chipper and I bet Anaheim is their final destination or maybe even Florida, either way I wonder how cold it is going to be in Newark, NJ when I land.

The ticket lines are light and before I know it I am stripping in front of security, taking off my shoes, belt and jacket. I empty my pockets filling up dull, grey plastic bins with my junk. The intercom sedately announces that we are at “threat level orange,” and I am terrified for a minute, even more so because I don’t know what orange means. I guess red would be worse and something cool, soothing like blue or green would be safer, but how safe? I drift off and start to daydream about lying on my back, in a pool of clear blue water, staring up at the sky on a nice sunny day. I am picking out cumulus shapes that look like elephants and Barry Bonds when suddenly it’s my turn at the x-ray machine. I am standing there with no shoes, holding my boarding pass and an apple. The TSA employee stops me and motions at my apple. I say “I have to scan my apple?” and she nods. I ask how a piece of fruit can be dangerous. She doesn’t respond. I throw my apple in the trash. Oh well breakfast can wait.