Thursday, May 28, 2009

Magic Man


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

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!

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Chicken $hit Bingo

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.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Mermaid Sighting

Click on each image to enlarge
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I had the good fortune to spot this lovely creature on a recent diving excursion, and thankfully I had my camera with me!  Who says mermaids aren't real? 

digital voodoo by kendall witherspoon

Bad Juju

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

Thursday, May 21, 2009

iBuddha

Like so many users of the ubiquitous iPhone,  every time I bump into a friend we're comparing the latest "apps" we've downloaded.  Or, if they're one of the 37 remaining people on the planet who hasn't purchased this amazing and addictive device, I'm compelled by some evangelistic urge to testify how it has changed my life.  

It's about as obnoxious as being trapped in an elevator with an insurance salesman, a Jehovah's Witness and an acquaintance from college you haven't thought about in years who's appeared out of nowhere to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get in on the ground floor of a new business "opportunity"...and the guy who told them about it is raking in 5 figures a month and drives a Rolls Royce convertible...but it's not "multi-level marketing."  

In other words, I've become a complete iHole. 

The number of useless, time-sucking, inane applications for the iPhone is literally mind-numbing.  I chose a word at random and searched the iTunes Store, which produced the following list of applications available for download:
Sheep
Sheepish
Electric Sheep (?)
Catch the Sheep
Sheep Abduction (?!!) 
Black Sheep Lite
iZoo
Construction Site (huh?)
Animals Sound Machine
Sheep Count
A World of Lullabies
Pre-School Music
and my personal favorite...Death Screams (what the...?)

Who thinks these things up?  And then spends hours and hours writing computer code and building a cute user interface so people can download them for free and do who knows what with poor, innocent, animated sheep?  In my spare time I can barely keep up with mowing the lawn.  Maybe a sheep.....

That said, I've really enjoyed an application I downloaded recently called "Buddha".  If I'm waiting for my order at a restaurant, or stuck at a traffic light, I can gaze at an ancient statue of Buddha with late afternoon sunlight streaming across his placid features, accompanied by a quotation to ponder.  And if I shake my iPhone vigorously, a new quotation is revealed.  Magic 8-Ball meets the Bodhisattva.

And...when the light turns green, if I'm still pondering the sound of one hand clapping, I'm soon enlightened by the sound of many hands honking.

What did the Buddhist monk say to the New York hot dog vendor?
"Make me one with everything."

Sunday, May 17, 2009

I've Got a Buzz...How 'Bout U?

 
Do you ever wanna cut off all your hair?

Me too!  Frequently.  But someone always talks me out of it.  Or I resist the urge.

But this time I didn't.  It's fun to be impulsive and shake things up every once in a while.  Or maybe it's a cry for help.

Friday night I went to a party.  Apparently I didn't get the memo that you were supposed to wear orange and be a young, hip, extremely attractive person with thick, curly, black hair and flawless skin the color of mocha, and have an exotic name like Bijoy or Zion.

Instead, I came dressed as an uptight, middle-aged white guy wearing a shirt I bought on sale at Steinmart.  Good thing I forgot to bring the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread®.

But they let me in anyway.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Stranded


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.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Bruce Lee, Barbie's Birthday and My First Kiss


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.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Collaboration

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





Monday, May 4, 2009

Ethiopian Encounter


There's an obscure story in the Bible about a chance encounter between an Ethiopian eunuch and a guy named Philip who hitches a ride in the eunuch's chariot and then vanishes without paying the fare. The "Eunuch's Chariot"...isn't that the name of the new hybrid car from Chrysler?

But I digress...last night, my friend Tracey and I caught a cab driven by an Ethiopian guy named Abraham. We struck up a conversation, and when we arrived at our destination, I asked him to write down the name of the musician we'd be listening to on the car stereo.

Instead, Abraham pressed "eject" and handed me the CD. I protested, but he insisted. I loves me some international hospitality...thanks Abraham! The artist's name is Teddy Afro... you can check out his music here.


In the Bible story, Philip ends up baptizing the Ethiopian eunuch before evaporating into thin air. Instead, Tracey and I went skinny-dipping. The water was kinda chilly, so I sorta felt like a eunuch if you know what I mean andithinkyoudo.


Our late night adventure took place at the Hotel St. Cecilia. Turns out she's the patron saint of musicians and church music...I loves me some synchronicity!

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Get Cool New Look


My friend Kathy is an elementary school teacher.

One of her students, Danny, is autistic, and often says and does things that are funny and endearing. Like one day he said to her "Mrs. G, you're really tall. I respect that!"

The other day he was completely agitated as he came running into class. He kept muttering over and over, "I need to make my list....I need to make my list!" Kathy handed him a pencil and paper, and he started scribbling frantically.

After class, Kathy found the following list on Danny's desk:

1. Get cool new look
2. Win dance off
3. Start club
4. Eat cheese
5. Go on an adventure

Words to live by...Atta boy, Danny!

Friday, May 1, 2009

Buffer Zone


Last night I went to the movies with my buddy Jonathan.

We arrived kinda late, and the theater was already packed. We spotted two empty seats, one on either side of a guy who was sitting by himself, so we asked him if the seats were taken. As he turned towards us to respond, we both recognized him from the neighborhood pub, so we asked if he'd mind sliding over so the two of us could sit together.

“Actually, I WOULD mind” he responded. “I like to keep an empty seat on each side of me as a buffer zone.”

I thought he was pulling a very convincing practical joke. It’s Friday night at a crowded movie theater and we both know this guy…in fact, I’ve talked to him at length on more than one occasion.

I grinned and repeated my request: “Seriously, how ‘bout sliding over? The movie’s about to start and there’s no place to sit.”

Turns out he wasn’t kidding.

People around us started to laugh nervously...no one could believe this guy was actually serious. Loud enough for those sitting nearby to hear, I said “Then how ‘bout we sit on each side of you and the three of us can snuggle up nice and cozy?” thinking that would embarrass him enough to get him to move over.

“That would really suck!” he retorted, glaring at me. I couldn’t believe it!

Just then, Jonathan spotted two seats on the other side of the aisle, and we sat down just as the lights dimmed.

In a rare moment of detachment and clarity, I realized that there was no way I could take this situation personally. It’s simply his policy when he goes to a movie to try to hang on to three seats, despite having only paid for one. I might not agree with his policy (and I don’t!) but if he has the audacity to defend it, I kinda gotta hand it to him.

The cool thing was, I never felt upset or angry. Disbelief...sure. Incredulity…you bet! But it was interesting to simply observe how his view of things was so different from mine. And so impractical, it turns out, because five or six other people asked if those seats were vacant, and he eventually had to relent and give up his “buffer zone”.

So why do I get upset about stupid stuff all the time? 

It's usually when I'm suffering from the delusion that things "should" be a certain way. And last time I checked, the Constitution hasn't been amended to include "John's Rules of Order". 

Epictetus, the Stoic philosopher, expressed it well: "Do not seek to bring things to pass in accordance with your wishes, but wish for them as they are, and you will find them." My guess is I'll probably need about 38,756 more attempts before I become proficient.  

Maybe the next time there are no empty tables at the pub, I’ll ask Mr. Buffer Zone if he’d like to join us.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Miles Davis and Me

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.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Grand Theft Auto


Rodney and I were itching for a joy ride. We were 18 years old, high school was almost over and our bodies were twitching with testosterone.

There were just two problems: neither of us owned a car, and the driving age was 21. We lived in Hong Kong, and our parents were Southern Baptist missionaries. The cars they drove were owned by the mission, and we were strictly forbidden to drive them.

Our caper was as well-planned as The Great Train Robbery. We scoped out the cars of every missionary who lived in our neighborhood, and discovered that the preacher's car was the only one with an automatic transmission. We at least had the good sense to steal a car we could drive without stalling.

I nabbed my mom's purse, removed the keys to the mission office, then rode my bike to a lock smith nearby and had them copied. I replaced the originals on my mom's key ring before she noticed they were missing, then set up a time to meet Rodney to begin phase two of our plan.


This involved going to the mission office at night, letting ourselves in through the main gate without being noticed by the night watchman or any of the missionaries who lived there, then getting into the office itself. Once inside, we made our way to the glass case which housed a duplicate set of keys to every car owned by the mission, labeled with a little white tag bearing the license plate number.

Using a flash light, we scanned the rows of keys until we found the one we were after, then I pried the locked sliding glass door open with my finger tips just wide enough for Rodney to slip a bent coat hanger through the narrow gap and fish out the keys we needed.

We were in the middle of this precarious operation when the night watchman came by on his rounds. We had to drop the key and stand as close as possible to the wall, so that when he shined his flashlight through the window he wouldn't see us. Our hearts pounded as the beam swept the floor a few inches from our feet....if we got caught we'd have a hard time explaining what were doing in the mission office after hours with a bent coat hanger sticking out of the case where the car keys were kept.

Once we were sure we had been undetected, we fished the keys out, took them to be copied, then replaced the keys, all in the same night.

With uncharacteristic patience, we waited a few weeks to make sure that no one had seen us coming and going and reported this to our parents, and then I asked my folks if Rodney could spend the night. About 3 a.m., we snuck out of the house, walked the half a mile or so to where the preacher's car was parked on the street, and began our adventure....Rodney drove first.

After cruising around for a half hour or so, we decided to go through a tunnel which would take us out of the city and into the New Territories...the part of Hong Kong which joins Kowloon, where we lived, to mainland China, and where there were fewer traffic lights and less likelihood of encountering any cops.

Or so we thought.


By this point, I was behind the wheel, and no sooner did we emerge from the tunnel than we spotted a police road block ahead, looking for illegal immigrants sneaking across the border from China. I instinctively hit the brakes and slowed down, which of course attracted the attention of the police, who motioned for us to pull over.

As I pulled onto the shoulder, I glanced around and noticed that there were several green- uniformed members of the Royal Hong Kong Police, but no police car! I floored the accelerator...spraying gravel all over the cops who were chasing us on foot and easily out-running them in their futile attempt to catch us.

We took the long way home, circumnavigating the mountain range we had just driven through, knowing that by now they had used their radio to issue an all points bulletin for our arrest. We got back to our starting point a couple of hours later, the fuel gauge dangerously close to empty, parked the car and high-tailed it back to my house, slipping in the back door without waking anyone.

A couple of weeks later, Rodney's family was invited to lunch at the preacher's house after church. Rodney was a couple of bites into his mashed potatoes when the preacher announced that every time he left the house, he got pulled over by the police, who told him that his car had been spotted running a police road block at 3:30 a.m, driven by two Caucasian males.

Rodney just about choked on his food, but held his breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was the preacher about to reveal the identity of the 2 culprits? As it turns out he was as mystified as everyone else in the room...and Rodney managed to swallow his food without asphyxiating.

It's been 30+ years since our escapade,the preacher has long since crossed over the River Jordan, and the two car thieves are still at large. Here's a photo of Rodney and me taken last year when he flew in from Florida to buy a used garbage truck, but that's a story for another time.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot...


When I was a senior at Hong Kong International School, I had a huge crush on a girl named Paula.

We were in Expository Writing Class together, where Mrs. Chern had us arrange our desks in a big circle. I always tried to sit across from Paula, where I could gaze at her long legs, her tight-fitting school uniform, her full lips and her long hair that I desperately wanted to walk through bare-footed.

Paula had more curves than a 17 year old girl ought to have, and her boyfriend, who was as handsome as she was gorgeous, was over six feet tall and the captain of the rugby team. Needless to say, I was no competition for this good-looking, athletic, über-cool cat.

I graduated and moved back to the States for college. The summer after my freshman year, I returned to Hong Kong for a visit, and to my surprise and delight, Paula was also visiting, without her pesky boyfriend, and I managed to wrangle a date with her.

I took her to an expensive restaurant at the top of Victoria Peak, overlooking Hong Kong harbor, and spent way too much money on Chateaubriand for two, Caesar salad for two, and some kind of expensive dessert, all ordered by Paula. In my effort to accommodate her expensive tastes, I played along, and didn't say a thing when she hardly touched her food.

After dinner, having set the stage for a romantic ending to the evening, I led her up to the balcony overlooking one of the most spectacular skylines on the planet...and she chose that moment to let me know that she had a boyfriend back home.

Crestfallen, and feeling like I had been taken for a ride, I made some lame attempt at continuing the conversation, but the wind had been knocked out of my sails...so I walked her to a cab, and never heard from her again.

Until facebook.


Having been contacted by many of my former high school classmates, I thought I'd give it a try. I did manage to find a woman with the same name as the Paula I knew, but her picture was one from childhood, so I couldn't be certain it was her. My curiousity got the better of me and I sent her a message asking if she was the Paula who attended HKIS in the late 70's and if so, to please contact me.

Weeks went by with no response, until today when I received this message:

"Yes, I went to HKIS until the middle of my junior year (1977), when I came back stateside. Sorry for asking this, but were you in my same grade? I should pull out my yearook, blame it on age!"

I guess I won't be sending her a "friend request" after all.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

James Taylor, Duct Tape and Helicopter Rides


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.