Archive for July, 2009
Do you remember a few weeks back when I posted a quick paragraph about the new, super hot personal trainer at the gym?
Well, last night I was at the gym, doing my thing and considering the waste of time and money it is. I mean, really. For the last six years, I work out hard for 2 months, just long enough for my muscles to get sore but not long enough to see any results, and then I stop working out for 2 months. And then every year in January, I get on the scales and I am 5 pounds fatter than the year before.
I don’t like going to the gym anymore, and it seriously crossed my mind that I should just cancel my membership and accept the fact that, despite weighing 155 pounds through my twenties, I am doomed to be a bear for the second half of my life. But then I got distracted because the super hot trainer walked through the room and sat at the PT desk.
And then I started thinking about how I could introduce myself as a photographer at the gym without saying something that sounds creepy.
And then I considered that the best way to approach him about photographing him would be to get to know him.
And then I decided that the best way to get to know him would be to hire him.
And a minute later, despite having just considered dropping my gym membership altogether two minutes earlier, I was sitting across the PT desk talking to the super hot trainer, and setting up an appointment for a consultation.
He says that he can get me to my fitness goal in four to five months. And that would certainly be ample time for me to convince him that he needs to model for me. But the PT company that he works for is expensive — between $35 and $50 per session, depending on how many you buy. And since I’m picking up a car payment for the first time in four years, I’m not sure if spending between $280 and $400 a month on a personal trainer is a wise use of my money. I guess it sort of depends on how much it means to me, the chance to get the super hot trainer nearly naked in my photo studio. Oh, and there’s the added benefit that, just maybe, in the end I won’t be fat, anymore.
Here’s what I know so far: the super hot trainer is named David. And he works part-time as a trainer and part time at a GNC store. And he has an exceptionally detailed tribal tattoo that wraps around his calf, just below his knee. He also gave me his cell phone number, which sort of negates the whole need to hire him — I could just drunk dial him, instead. But that’s not the way I operate.
Every cop is hotter . . .
. . . if he is riding a motorcycle.
Around midnight, Lucy is in the yard doing her thing. I look up and see stars — not a lot (light pollution), but more than usual. I can tell that it is one of those nights that, if we lived in the country, I could see the Milky Way.
I have always had “grass is greener” syndrome. We live on the edge of the city and the country. Our house isn’t even two years old, but already, I am thinking about moving to the city. I miss being in a walking neighborhood. I want to get a bicycle, but they are so rare in Indianapolis that I think traffic makes it too dangerous (especially where we live). I miss seeing artists and interesting people walking around; I miss having a neighborhood bar and grocery store and coffee shop within walking distance.
But then there are times like this one when I want to move farther into the country. At night, I like it out where we live because you can near bullfrogs and the occasional owl, and I like the wind in the trees, and because you can see stars.
Sometimes, I think I was born into the wrong life. I should have been Martha Stewart because she has a penthouse in the city AND a farmhouse in the country. She can go to whichever one she chooses any time she wants.
Pondering this, I lay down in the middle of the driveway to look at the stars for a bit longer. I see the Big Dipper; I think I see Cassiopeia but I don’t know (when I was a kid, I knew my constellations but that was a long time ago). I see a meteor. I make a wish. I find this to be so peaceful that I think about sleeping in the driveway all night. But I’m sure the neighbors, not to mention Jay, would find that troublesome. And besides, we live close enough to the country that Bigfoot might be a problem. I am afraid of Bigfoot. And so I get up, take the puppy inside, and get into bed.
I’m curious to hear your thoughts on the following two images. Do you find them intriguing? Boring? Why? What stories do you get from the photos? Do you like one and feel more indifferent about the other?
I spent a few minutes cleaning out some folders on my PC at work. I found this image. I couldn’t begin to tell you who this boy is, or why I have a photo of him on my work PC, but he’s kind of cute, in that IT guy sort of way.
I like what this photographer has to say about websites, probably because in one paragraph, he hits on several of my bigger pet peeves about how photographers display their work online. Nothing irritates me more than clicking on a photographer’s website and being assaulted by some godawful soundtrack that’s supposed to make the site seem “hip”; and when I see a photographer using a ginormous watermark on every photo, I always find myself thinking that either the photographer has an ego as vast as Sarah Palin’s ignorance (and who wants to contend with that?), or that this is the 21st-Century artist’s rendition of a compensation mechanism — the digital equivalent of the 50-year-old man in a Corvette.
Of course, since I have an ego that’s as fragile as Sarah Palin’s political track record, I also look at articles like this and immediately worry that I, too, have done something wrong. This one paragraph expressing one person’s viewpoint has made me wonder if the images are too small on my own recently redesigned website. But since I’m not selling a whole lot of fine art prints on there anyway and primarily using the site for marketing and to find new subjects, I don’t suppose it matters that much.
I still don’t get what the problem is with the health care bill. The World Health Organization ranks countries like Columbia, Saudi Arabia, and Dominica higher than the United States in terms of quality of health care. I have personally had my physician write me a prescription and then have my insurance company switch it to something cheaper that’s “almost as good.” And there are people in this country who have to choose between medicine and putting food on the table, or dying of cancer and being homeless.
And yet the scariest propaganda that the Republicans can churn out says that you’ll have to wait longer at the emergency room or for a non-life threatening surgery. In 2005, my mother called her doctor on May 12 to tell him she was in pain, and it was July 6 when she was told that she had cancer, so you can’t tell me that things are lightening-fast in this country under the current system.
Obama’s health care plan may not be perfect, but I support it and recognize the dire need for change.
However, I am following Homer’s lead on one thing. Yesterday I received a letter from the Democratic National Committee asking for money. During the election cycle, I busted my ass as a volunteer to get Obama elected and donated money to the campaign every Friday. However, this time I am truly tempted to send back the envelope without a check, and with a note saying that I will start giving the Democrats money again when either Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell or the Defense of Marriage Act is repealed. But not another dime, before.
We had the pleasure of attending a dinner party at which several of Jay’s former elementary teachers were in attendance. Two of them arrived together, and the only way I can describe them is to think about what librarians from The Andy Griffith Show would look like, and these women were it. They were both probably pushing 75 and wore their gray hair up in buns and stern-but-still-kind expressions on their faces. They both chose navy blue, conservative, polyester-blend clothes and black no-nonsense shoes. They treated each other more like they were a couple than friends — I’m sure this is only because they have known each other for 40 years. They were stereotypically school-marmy in every way, except one — they arrived at the party driving a red Mini Cooper.
Later, we met our next door neighbor’s husband. She has lived next to us since October but her husband is still working in Florida. There is one word to describe him: Boomhauer. His wife said to us, “This is my husband, Adam,” and then walked away. And then Adam started talking. And kept talking. And didn’t stop talking for about 5 solid minutes. And in this conversation, these are the words that I understood.
- “job in Indiana”
- “didn’t like”
Among the other interesting people who were encountered this weekend:
- the creative director of a dance company
- a gay cop who’s a retired marine with a degree in religious studies
- an unbelievably drunk elderly woman, and the officer who gently put her into the back of her patrol car to take her home
- the soldier, in uniform, who was stranded at a gas station and in need of 50 cents (which, sadly, I did not have)
- the bartender at the Landmark movie theater where we saw Harry Potter (for what it’s worth, I’ve decided that I should walk into every movie theater carrying a martini, from this point on)
- the city councilman, along with his wife and two deaf men, that Jay and I sat with for a cocktail at a gay bar yesterday afternoon.
Somehow, I have gotten out of the habit of carrying one of my cameras with me at all times. Probably because the more I’ve gotten into photography, the heavier and more obvious the cameras have become. But this must change, as I have missed several great portrait opportunities, here.
When I called the Nissan dealership to look at the Cube, I was told to ask for BJ. I told Jay that for whatever reason, it was an easy name for me to remember and then commented about how I have never been asked to walk into a showroom and then yell out for a BJ before. But BJ, as it turns out, was a young, tall, wholesome, baseball-cap-topped boy who ended up selling me the Cube. I got to go back to see BJ again yesterday, so he could put my floormats in; and I get to go back again next week when my shag is delivered. (Yes, the Cube comes with a small section of shag carpeting, which is more than Japanese irreverence but also serves a purpose. I’ll tell you about that, sometime.)
Lucy likes the Cube. She got to ride in it today, to go to the vet to have her stitches out — remember, Lucy had work done last week. I will kind of miss the stitches because the one right over her eye made it look like Lucy had been in a bar fight.
That G.I. Joe movie that’s coming out next month looks perfectly abominable. But after seeing the following two shots of G.I. Joe (aka Channing Tatum) from next month’s GQ cover story, I think I might just be able to suffer through it.