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Elon Musk is Not Your Friend
I took the weekend off from social media.
(And from checking the blog.)
That used to be my regular pattern, as I’d ditch email/ social media each evening at 5pm, and every weekend.
Before the pandemic.
It was another era, as we all know, but given how quickly life got back to its patterns, (when the masks came off,) I’m not sure how many of us even consider the difference anymore?
For a long while, it was normal to refer to the before times. As if everyone on Earth were playing by an accepted set of rules: there was a way of life, pre-Covid, and then what came next.
Given that it’s still a question in the media, TODAY, whether the entire planetary catastrophe originated in a Chinese bio-lab, I think it’s fair to say we’re not behind it yet. We’re still in it.
Which means it’s not yet possible to know what the after-times will be.
I know one thing though: I’m not going back to using Facebook, Twitter and Instagram on the weekends anymore.
Today’s WaPo. Elon Musk is NOT your friend.
Lately, I’ve been feeling distracted.
And I couldn’t figure out why.
Last Monday, I wrote a post here about how I felt lonely sometimes. Lonely in a way I didn’t enjoy. That felt wrong, and unsustainable.
What could I do?
At some point, late last week, the knowledge settled in my stomach. But then it jumped, like a kicking baby, and gave me a message I couldn’t miss.
On Friday, at 9:30pm, I saw a tweet, and even though it had nothing to do with me directly, I’m enough a member of the media that I had personal connections to the missive. It gave me a stress trigger, right then and there.
Ooof.
So I asked myself, why am I checking Twitter at 9:30 on a Friday night?
I never used to do that.
Why now?
And the answer was, I’d convinced myself the weak-tie bonds, the quick jolt of energy we get from a like, or a reply, had come to stand in for actual human relations.
Should I say it aloud?
When someone likes your IG post, or you trade comments with a stranger, or even someone you know, it’s simply not the equivalent of going for a walk with a mate.
Or having dinner with family.
I took that unfortunate, night-tweet-trigger as a sign, and decided, for certain, I’d cut out social media this weekend, to see how it felt.
So what happened?
Jessie and I went to town on Saturday, to see an art exhibit, and discover the Taos Winter Market. We walked around. Met some new people. She got a Frito pie, for $7, which was all the cash I had on me.
Then yesterday, we went in again for errands.
We talked to each other.
It was lovely. (Even errands!)
This morning, I picked up one of the all-time great books, “The Hero with a Thousands Faces,” by Joseph Campbell, and found some inspiration. Reading genius on paper is so pleasurable! And it gave me the juice to write this positive post.
Marvel’s Black Panther culturally appropriated from the Sioux?
Distraction sucks.
Scrolling on social media, with all the flashing light, and video movement, is inherently distracting. It leaves us a husk, instead of the tamale filling.
So I stopped scrolling.
Instead, I googled the word Dignity, as it came up in an article I read about Jonathan Majors, in the Guardian, and then again in some show I was watching with Helen Mirren.
Apparently, dignity is different from respect, as the latter has to be earned, and the former is bestowed at birth.
Who knew there was even a difference?
I do.
I know now.
Because I finally accepted that social media is not a positive influence, (in the main,) and we need to be very careful when we play with fire.
(Shout out to Lily Allen!)
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What Do You Want?
What do you want?
Out of life?
Out of yourself?
Out of this blog?
Are you asking these questions?
If not, I’d recommend you start.
Call it manifesting, or visualizing.
The first photo on a Google Image search for “Manifesting.” (Courtesy of Vox.com and Getty.) Call it asking for help for the Universe, prayer, or self-actualization.
Call it what you like.
But if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Sunshine and Olly so far, (I’d hope,) it’s that I keep it real.
(Which means I live by the advice I dispense.)
That’s the root of authenticity, so I’m told.
I wasn’t even sure I wanted to start this blog, until I decided to do it.
But when I’m in, I’m all in.
And what have I noticed so far?
My greatest wish has already come true.
I hoped that by starting to write three, four, and five times a week, I’d build stronger brain-muscles.
It seems to be happening.
Though I used to think my weekly APE column kept me in creative shape, this is so much better.
Shorter posts.
No need to be discursive, because I don’t have to always circle back to photography.
Sunshine and Olly is my art, right now. (Along with writing my first novel.)
I’m doing it for me, but since a global audience has mushroomed in the past three weeks, it’s not just about me.
Is it?
It’s also about you.
Like it or not, a readership is a community.
But not one that often has opportunities to connect with itself.
Some creators enable an audience to learn about other members. To cross-pollinate, or allow tentacle formation.
Maybe that will happen here?
Maybe it won’t.
But I’d like to get to the point today, so here it is.
You came here of your own free will.
Nobody’s making you listen to me.
If I have any previously developed street-cred with you, or if you’re a new reader, I’ll still ask the same thing.
Please use this blog launch as inspiration.
Doing hard, scary things, is hard and scary.
Sunshine, breaking through the frozen ice, to see what was underneath. The payoff to challenging ourselves, though, is immense.
In my (nearly) 49 years on Earth, I’ve learned that nothing that comes easy has the same value.
We all wish for easy, sometimes, but it doesn’t get the job done.
Growth requires bravery and risk.
(Would that it were different, but it’s not.)
Catch you next time, and please subscribe to the blog, if you’d like to receive it directly in your email inbox.
Ciao!
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Karma’s a Bitch
Karma’s a bitch.
I know it.
You know it.
But a bitch isn’t necessarily a bad thing. (Even though it’s normally used as a pejorative term.)
First off, every child learns a bitch is a female dog.
Sunshine and Olly are bitches, and I love them.
The word bitch is pretty misogynistic, if you think about it.
It’s almost always used to describe a woman who exhibits masculine tendencies: strong, harsh, direct, decisive, opinionated, confident, aggressive.
Personally, I like to call people assholes, if they’re nasty.
Very occasionally, I’ll use the word bitch the other negative way: to describe a man as a weak person, like a snitch, or a punk.
Admitting that, though, maybe I’ll try to purge it from my vocabulary.
Because I don’t want to make Karma angry.
If you’re with me so far, I’m going to pivot.
(Because this is actually a sports post.)
This past weekend, Arsenal beat Aston Villa, in the English Premier League, and it was a pretty important result.
As Arsenal currently lead the league, but were just chased down by Manchester City, (a club owned by an Oil nation,) beating Villa was necessary to put a little breathing room back at the top.
And to break momentum, as the Gunners had already lost to City twice, recently, and been taken apart by Sean Dyche’s new-manager-bounce-masterclass for Everton a week or so before.
In case you’re wondering, when the meathead comes in, he only has one move.
He lines the team up against the wall, and then picks the biggest and strongest guys.
Big Sean then sends them out on the pitch, tells them to run around like berserkers, never quit, and kick the shit out of the other players.
Someone I know, (not naming names,) calls him “Big Dumb Ginger.” (Literally, by kicking their ankles.)
Did it work against Arsenal?
Yes.
Yes it did.
Everton won fair and square.
As opposed to the next nut punch, when the VAR incorrectly allowed Brentford’s off-side goal to tie the match, 1-1, during the same run of games.
The PGMOL (the referee organization,) which is more obtuse than Josh Hawley, and famous for never apologizing…
Apologized, and demoted ref Lee Mason, who’d forgotten to draw the off-side line.
That cost Arsenal 2 points, and certainly made some folks, (including me,) have dark thoughts of corruption.
Meaning… that Villa game was the perfect time for a signature win.
And boy, did we get one.
Some regular people have heard of Emi Martinez.
He was the Argentina goalie, when they won the World Cup a couple of months ago.
That is massive global stardom, for a brief moment.
And good ol’ Emi used his 15 minutes to hump his new trophy.
Image courtesy of The Daily Beast You read that right.
He also won an FA Cup for Arsenal’s manager, Mikel Arteta, and was then quickly sold from the team.
Regular fans had come to like him, after he replaced Bernd Leno, who’d been physically attacked by Brighton’s Neal Maupay, on the field.
Martinez won us a trophy!
He was big!
Given how quickly they got rid of him, and Arteta’s standards about personal character, it was clear they thought him a wanker.
So he badmouthed the club, again and again.
To anyone who’d listen.
Even as Arteta was proven to be a likable winner, with his team on a title-winning track, (maybe,) still, Emi ran his mouth.
And here he was, as the Villa goalie, playing for Unai Emery, the manager Arteta replaced at Arsenal.
Emery had been Martinez’s manager at Arsenal, and never played him.
Intrigue!
Arsenal fans hate Emery too, but more because he was feckless for us, and not because he’s an asshole.
More he’s a living Dad joke.
So how did Arsenal win?
By having a last minute goal, scored off the back of Emi Martinez’s head.
HIS HEAD!
First, the shot bounced out, then it hit his head, and he scored an own goal for Arsenal!
The game winner!
But there was still time for Villa to tie it again.
So Emi, against Emery’s wishes, went up field for a last-ditch corner kick attempt, allowing Gabriel Martinelli to score a counter-attacking goal into an empty net.
4-2 to the Arsenal!
And Emi is now a meme.
Again!
Forever!
Like I said, karma is a bitch.
But that’s a good thing.
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I’m Lonely. Are you?
Is anyone else lonely?
I am.
It’s hard to admit, because doing so can make us feel vulnerable.
I believe when we figure out our weak spots, and work on them, we improve.
But this one has been confounding me for a while now.
(Certainly since my friend Dave died last year.)
Making new friends isn’t normally hard for me, as an extrovert, but the pandemic seems to have shifted something core.
From the 80’s classic “One Crazy Summer.” These days, some people seem content to only socialize online.
I’ve got two examples of people new to my community, with whom I have things in common, (people who in the past would have become friends for sure,) but both seem comfortable only “experiencing” me on the phone, or by liking my Facebook posts.
Obviously, I’m not naming names, as I don’t blame these two people.
Rather, I’m writing the post because I think this is a bigger issue than people realize.
Human beings, (Homo sapiens,) are like dogs, horses, dolphins and monkeys.
We’re social creatures.
A feeling of “connection” is required for health.
And “social” media, with its focus on weak ties, convinces people they’re getting enough “connection juice,” but I beg to differ.
Having lived my social life online, and via festivals, for the last five years or so, I thought it was enough.
Lots of people know who I am.
My brand is cool, smart and fun.
So why do I feel, (these days,) that I’d trade the renown for some good, trustworthy, kind people, who actually care whether I live or die.
(It certainly explains why rappers are obsessed with their Day Ones.)
Drake and 21 Savage. (Image courtesy of Rolling Stone.) To be clear, I’ve got an awesome family.
I love my wife, children, (and now dogs,) very much.
They understand and appreciate me.
I’m fun to hang out with, and take an active interest in people.
I’m kind, considerate, generous, and witty.
Sure, I can lose my cool every once in a while, b/c I’m human, but right now, in February 2023, I’m starting to realize something.
It’s not my problem.
It’s America’s.
(That’s what reading the Zeitgeist is all about.)
And if people can’t figure out (collectively) that we need IRL, flesh and blood, human relationships…
We’re fucked.
Last night, I felt sad, so I went for a night walk. (Really leaning into the angst.) -
Sunshine Diary: Expressing Love
I told you our adorable, deaf puppy, Sunshine, was my new life-partner.
Since the first night we got her, Sunshine has looked at me like I’m Zeus and Dr. Dre, rolled into one person.
It’s true love!
So I decided to start a running diary of what our relationship is like, here on the blog.
Today, though, I’ll keep it brief.
(This is the fourth post this week, and my brain is tired, as I’m also working on other writing projects.)
Still, I wanted to share this first diary post, as it’s been on my mind.
Most people verbally communicate love to their dogs.
(Or other animal friends.)
It’s normal.
People even have a certain dog-voice, like the way they talk to human babies.
“Come here, cutie. You’re such a CUTIE! My little little fur ball.”
But with Sunshine, I can’t do that.
Or if I do, she can’t hear me, and last I checked, she can’t read lips.
(As yet to be determined if she speaks Spanish.)
Touch becomes critical, as you might imagine, so I pet her A LOT.
Physical affection is key, and also feels good for me, because science has proven the dopamine it stimulates is awesome.
Touch isn’t enough, though.
(Not to replace verbal communication, all by itself.)
Each day, several times, I’ll get really close to Sunshine, and we’ll look deeply into each other’s eyes.
Like, really deep.
We’ll go nose to nose, and I’ll give her kisses, obviously.
Her super-sense power, though, means she’s hypersensitive to vibrational energy, so I also discovered if I hum into her body, she feels the sound, instead of hearing it.
(Not surprisingly, she loves that too.)
Having lost the ability to communicate love with my voice, the workarounds have been fun, and creative.
Thought I’d pass it along.
Hope you have a nice weekend, wherever you are.
And please subscribe if you dig what we do here.
Ciao!
Here’s one of Olly too. I love them equally! -
Mental Health: What Are Boundaries?
Hola!
Como estas?
Todo bien contigo?
(Sorry, I know I’m not using those little upside-down, Spanish question marks, like I should be.)
Theo, my 15 year old, asked if I planned to write articles entirely in another language?
My Spanish is good, my French is rusty, and my Italian is basic, but Google can fill in the rest.
Es possible.
Vamos a ver.
But today, rather than write an article en Español, I’d like to pivot another way.
I’ve told you this blog would cover a variety of topics.
(Culture and Lifestyle is intentionally broad.)
The first image on Google for Culture and Lifestyle. (courtesy of differencebetween.com) For certain, I’d like to lean in to discussing contemporary ideas about mental health, as few topics are more important, yet wildly misunderstood.
To start, I thought we’d do a brief examination of one of the mental-health terms being widely adopted, but vague enough to be confusing:
Boundaries.
I’ll break it down for you, using my own definition.
Boundaries are the rules we envision, create, and enforce, within relationships, in order to feel safe, respected, appreciated, and understood.
Relationships are mutually-agreed-upon exchanges of human energy, and that can take many forms.
Verbal communication, physical intimacy, business networking, leisure activities, non-verbal communication, work environments… it’s endless.
Relationships vary so greatly, in so many contexts, from a wife to a child to a parent to a partner to a boss to a colleague to a friend to a rival.
Some relationships don’t always allow boundaries, of course, as in the case of employers, where one party is disempowered.
This “feeling” was so powerful in the Zeitgeist, across American culture, it lead to The Great Resignation, as younger Millennials, and Gen Z are more open about mental health.
In the relationships we DO get to choose, (or have any control over,) boundaries are like the 10 Commandments.
Boundaries set down the structure of a relationship.
What one person will tolerate, or deem acceptable, and what they won’t.
(Assuming healthy relationships go far beyond mere “tolerance of the other person’s existence.”)
Boundaries, therefore, are super-valuable, if we employ them properly.
But they can be equally threatening to people who might have transgressed our boundaries, before they were sturdily in place, and then find the new protections inconvenient.
Boundaries are meant to keep us safe, but only we can make them.
(image courtesy of the National Geographic Society.)
I wrote the other day about a friend’s betrayal, and subsequent contrition.
How I chose to accept an apology, with the proper context.
I mentioned my teen-ager was giving me the business too.
Turns out, I’d harbored suspicions for a while that something was amiss.
Teen-agers are typically angsty, but Theo was manifesting behavior I wasn’t used to seeing from him.
When he began transgressing certain boundaries, simple ones, like being nice, and not snapping at family members, (with an excuse of exhaustion, or a food crash,) I could point to the changes.
The boundaries/rules were in place, so once they were broken, it made it easier to ask why?
I’m not going into any details, out of respect for Theo, but as parents, because we have certain rules in place, and we enforce them, and stay consistent, it provides a framework of trust for the kids.
Theo eventually got himself in trouble, to create a scenario where he could unburden his mind, and when he received compassion and love back, at the end of it all, it made him feel safe.
(Plus, he reads more books when he’s grounded.)
One place to start, if you’d like to employ boundaries in your life, is to ask:
Do I feel good about the way this person is treating me?
If so, great.
If not, why not?
Once you know the why not, is it a dealbreaker?
(Something egregious enough to end the relationship.)
What are your relationship dealbreakers?
That’s all for today, but I hope this offers some food for thought.
I found this on the internet, from an insurance company’s website. It’s not creepy. I swear. You’re wrong. It’s inspiring! (And if you’ve read this far, please consider subscribing. You’ll get the blog right in your email inbox.)
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Happy Valentine’s Day, Willie!
Valentine’s Day has always struck me as odd.
Nobody likes to be told what to do, but here we are, having an entire industrial complex tell us to buy flowers.
YOU MUST BUY chocolates stuffed into a cardboard-heart-box.
(Or not stuffed, as the case may be.)
As I see it, if you tell the people you love that you love them, all the time, every day, multiple times…
… and you do nice things for them every day…
…you probably shouldn’t need a greeting-card-holiday to guilt you into dropping $23.99 on bad flowers and worse chocolate.
Right?
This morning, as a Valentine’s Day present to my beautiful wife, Jessie, I shared some really great art with her.
A proper new discovery.
Something I was sure, FOR CERTAIN, would give her massive amounts of joy.
(Narrator’s voice: It did.)
Just yesterday, I’d stumbled upon a Willie Nelson album neither of us knew: Countryman.
Courtesy of Wikipedia It’s a reggae, and at times, dub album, featuring some covers, and remixes of previous songs he’s done.
(A masterful “The Harder They Come,” but also “Darkness on the Face of the Earth.”)
The album is pure happiness, and both Jessie and I needed a bit today.
So she was elated.
Yesterday was one of those max-out days, as both of us juggle working, parenting, kid after-school activities, cooking/housework, and now a wonderful dog pack.
Unfortunately, (though I know it makes us stronger,) we have virtually no support, on a day-to-day basis.
So we juggle it all ourselves, and luckily our children are both mature, and magnificent.
(Happy Valentine’s Day, Theo and Ami!)
Really, though, it’s a lot.
Take last night, for instance.
At Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class.
When the guy’s knee hit me square in the chin, from below, I thought two things:
One, I’m glad I put in the mouth guard.
(Told you about that yesterday.)
Two, probably time to wrap it up for the day.
I’ve praticted martial arts long enough to know to just walk away, and shake it off.
It was fair training, and my partner, Will, was a nice guy.
Train long enough, you learn not to see red, so after a minute, he came and fist-bumped me, and I said “Right on. Good job.”
But it was time to change out of my completely sweaty clothes, have Ami pack her shit, and the two of us called it a night.
My loved ones don’t need to hear me say Happy Valentine’s Day.
What is the spirit of the holiday, though?
Love and appreciation?
Taking a moment to honor someone you respect, love, like, or care about?
OK then.
How about you guys?
The Sunshine and Olly audience?
We haven’t existed even two weeks yet, and here you are. A group of nearly 500 people, (total visitors, so far,) from 5 continents, and 20 countries.
The US, Canada, Mexico, India, Spain, France, (finally,) Germany, the Bahamas, the UK, Ireland, South Korea, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Bulgaria, the Netherlands, Argentina, Italy, Portugal and Sweden.
Think about that for a moment.
All corners of Planet.
Badass!
Through the power of social-media-tech to spread the word, (and my goodbye post at APE,) a new online community formed, and if I keep up the good stuff, (maybe even some guest writers?), the community will grow.
Good vibes are being spread.
Thanks for being a part of it!
Hope you enjoy the Willie Nelson.
Or whatever makes you happy today.
(Maybe it’s already tomorrow, where you are?)
Willie Nelson and Morgan Fairchild in “The Red Headed Stranger,” courtesy of imdb.com PS: Please feel free to hit me up directly, and LMK what you think of Sunshine and Olly so far.
This blog is iterative. A podcast, and such things, are in the works. But will take some time, as I’m a one-man-band at the moment.
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A Punch in the Nuts
Let’s get some business out of the way first, shall we?
Not only did I correctly predict the Super Bowl winner, and the margin of victory, but I nearly got the damn score right too!
It was 38-35 Chiefs.
Sunshine and Olly is only 1.5 weeks old, and already, you can trust me for proper sports analysis.
Hopefully, you’ll learn to trust me about other things too, if you don’t already. (Due to my 600+ article track-record as a blogger.)
Here’s a good piece of life advice, if you’d like one, as I sit on the couch this cold, gray Monday Morning in the Rocky Mountains:
Nobody likes to get punched (or kicked) in the nuts.
Sure, it’s common knowledge.
I get it.
But I’m speaking as an experienced mixed martial artist, currently training for an instructor license in Contemporary Jeet Kune Do. (Combat MMA, originally invented by Bruce Lee.)
You’d be amazed at how much high-level strategy is built around kicking or punching someone in the testicles.
Or at least feinting that you will.
Men are so protective of their little buddies down there, they’ll cover up, and leave the face and neck wide open.
It’s human nature for guys, to the point that Navy SEALS are trained in this type of street fighting.
Because when you think about it, a man’s balls are his legacy.
They contain the literal seeds of his DNA, that allow future iterations to exist.
Are we really surprised men are so protective?
And I say this as a guy who got kneed in the nuts, IRL, just the other night in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class.
Amelie and I joined the dojo last week, on a one year contract, as she’ll take the kid’s class, and I train with the adults afterwards.
Sure enough, a South Asian bloke from London got me in the family jewels, without THAT much force, and it stopped me cold.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOf.
Oof.
It hurts.
I asked right away if people wear cups in BJJ, but really, they don’t.
You lose too much mobility and agility, given the way the sport works.
(Though a mouthguard is a must, I was told, before you “roll,” or ground spar. )
Then again, I got metaphorically kicked in the man parts this weekend too, by my teenager, and it hurt even more!
(Though I was not alone. Arsenal, Brighton, the Brooklyn Nets, and the Philadelphia Eagles all know how I feel right now.)
image courtesy of NFL.com And that’s where I want to land today.
The spiritual nut-punch.
Just last week, I had a former, (and perhaps future) friend offer me a proper apology, for some serious betrayal.
Dude punched me in the nuts, then spun around, and came back for a roundhouse-kick to the johnson!
He did the kind of thing that makes you never want to speak to someone again.
But I had a trio of friends cut me out of a group here in New Mexico, about 6 years ago, and none of them ever spoke to me again, or even told me what they’d collectively decided I’d done to deserve expulsion.
I never got to say a word, or hear a word, and that always stuck in my craw.
If a friend did me wrong in the future, I decided I’d give them a hearing, if the opportunity arose.
Last week it did.
Integrity is all about sticking to your moral code, once you’ve built one.
So I was curious to hear what this friend had to say.
The phone call was fascinating, as I assumed he would tell me there were awful things going on in his life, (at the time he shanked me,) which had jumbled him up from the inside.
Affected his decision-making.
Sure enough, that’s how life works.
He had:
Health issues.
Chronic pain.
Family stress.In fairness, these were not used as excuses, but rather I sought to know what had been going on, to better understand how my friend could have done me dirty like that.
In hearing the issues were massive, and cortisol had been pumping through his system 24/7 at the time of our friendship problem, I was able to empathize.
And then forgive.
Maybe these are the lessons for today?
Relationships can’t heal, without accountability, and proper apologies.
(Without the capacity for empathy.)
And people rarely kick or punch someone in the nuts, unless they feel like they have no other options.
More likely, their subconscious is running the show, as with my teenager.
It’s a do-not-break-glass-in-case-of-emergency type situation; a kick in the nuts.
So keep it in your arsenal, sure, but please don’t attack our little buddies unless you must.
They get a bad rap, the testicles, but life on Earth requires men and women.
Yin and Yang.
(Is this blog turning into The Dao of Dogs?)
Sunshine and Olly. Yin and Yang. -
Superbowl preview: F-ck the Eagles
I hate the Eagles.
And you should too.
(Unless you live in Southeast Pennsylvania, or South Jersey.)
Everyone else should be rooting for the Kansas City Chiefs this Sunday.
Yes, I know their name is racist, and the tomahawk chop they do at Arrowhead Stadium is actually “super-racist.”
(Which is one step above regular racist.)
That people so brazenly mock Native Americans, a minority culture, much less one that occupied this continent before we took it and killed most of them, does not speak well of people in the great state of Missouri.
(Actually, it makes them look like a bunch of wankers.)
Still, I’m rooting for the Chiefs.
And you should to.
As a born-and-raised Jersey Boy, you might think it natural I became a Giants fan.
My father was a Giants fan. (That’s how it works.)
They were the big brother team in the greater NYC area, with the woebegone Jets the little brother green with envy.
I’ve watched the G-men win 4 Superbowls, (including one in person,) and Eli Manning will forever be the little brother who kicked Tom Brady’s ass.
TWICE!
Which makes Eli Manning a legend in New Jersey, where the Giants are based, live, and play.
Eli Manning gives Philly the double-bird on National Television. (Courtesy of SI.com) They love him in North Jersey, anyway, but down South?
Not so much.
Because South Jersey is enemy territory.
They have funny accents down there, saying wudder, instead of water.
Who does that?
They allowed slavery in South Jersey, and think Wawa is bougie.
(It’s not the North.)
The tip of Cape May is nearly on a parallel with Virginia!
Had my parents raised me in Ocean County though, only 30 miles Down the Shore, (across the Toms-River-Mason-Dixon line,) I might have grown up rooting for the Phillies, Sixers, and Eagles.
(Pause.)
Sorry. Had to step away from the computer to vomit in the toilet.
An Eagles fan?
As if.
Let’s assume you don’t know Philly fans are famous for being “less-than-classy.”
(Yes, that’s a euphemism.)
They’ve thrown batteries from the stands at players on the field.
Or pelted Santa Claus with snowballs!
They ran Ben Simmons out of town for mental health issues, in 2021, as if being a cosmopolitan, liberal, East Coast city shouldn’t make that regressive thinking impossible.
Philly fans hated Ben Simmons for being a fashionista, and attributed his mental health issues to being “soft” Sure, I’m biased, because I hate the Eagles, and they have beaten the Giants A LOT in the last 25 years.
But they’ve only one 1 Superbowl.
Ever.
And then they fired the Coach who won it, after forcing him to bench Superbowl QB Jalen Hurts, in the second half of the final game of 2020, so the Washington Commanders would go to the playoffs, instead of the Giants.
(This happened. You can look it up.)
A few months later, they stole Heisman-Trophy-winning Wide Receiver DeVonta Smith from the Giants, in the 2021 NFL Draft, by trading with the dreaded Cowboys at the last second, taking him immediately before their New York rivals would have.
Dealing with the Cowboys to hurt the Giants?
Not classy, but not illegal.
Not cheating.
As opposed to how they got to the Super Bowl, when they played the San Francisco 49ers two weeks ago.
Some of it was cheating, some of it was dirty, and some of it was just plain hilarious.
Like I said: Fuck the Eagles.
First, Haason Reddick took out SF QB Brock Purdy, whom everyone in America loved, (except in South Jersey and SE PA,) by destroying his elbow on the first series of the game.
It was a clean hit, but he also attacked the elbow.
Any decent martial artist, (or football defensive lineman,) can tell you the elbow is a target.
Mess it up, and everything’s done.
So was it an accident, a violent tackle, or maybe deep in a player’s head, he knows the game is over if he takes the Queen right away?
(A gambit, if you will.)
image courtesy of What’s On Netflix Secondly, the Eagles scored a touchdown right after DeVonta Smith, (the same guy they stole from the Giants,) caught a crazy difficult pass.
Except he didn’t.
The ball hit the ground.
Eagles coach Nick Sirianni has apparently coached his players with a code word, according to the announcers, to get back to the line of scrimmage to start the next play quickly enough to avoid instant replay.
(When they know they call on the field was wrong, and it will be reversed upon viewing said replay.)
They scramble like hell to beat the video tape, and successfully utilized it here.
This is also known as cheating.
Lastly, and this was the funny one… at one point, the Eagles punter made a terrible punt.
Embarrassingly bad.
At once, on cue, all the Eagles players on the sideline pointed to a stadium cable, claiming the football had hit it, causing the ball to change trajectory.
Eagles punter Brett Kern pointing at the wire. (courtesy of Getty images) The Eagles insisted, when something went wrong, that it wasn’t their fault, and begged the same instant replay officials (they’d just cheated) to find evidence the ball hit the wire.
Crybabies!
Still, the Eagles are stacked.
They’re really good.
Even Giants fans have been forced to admit this to their gloating, beard-encrusted-with-cheesesteak-bits Philly friends.
They have top-end talent at every position, and depth.
Howie Roseman, their Jewish GM, (whom I’ve noticed everyone calls “shrewd,”) did a great job.
But the Chiefs have Patrick Mahomes.
And he’s THAT good.
Not only is he physically gifted beyond belief, but everyone on the team says his superpower is that he’s wired differently.
He’s competitive, and able to rise to the challenge, like Michael Jordan.
Given that he also plays for a complete team, with lots of top talent, Pat Mahomes will be the difference maker.
His winning mentality shows, when it counts most.
As does his superhuman ability to block out pain, when he’s injured.
Most people can’t do that.
(Hell, if I have a pimple under my beard, I get grumpy.)
Mahomes wins games by sprinting to the sideline on a sprained ankle, at the last second.
A pure winner.
All things being equal, go with the Super-Duper-Star.
Superbowl Prediction:
Chiefs 34
Eagles 31 -
Photo review: Controlled Burn
Shout out to our photography fans!
What’s up, everybody?
How are things?
I know some of you followed me here from APE.
Thank you!
Danke schön!
Gracias!
Grazie!
Merci beaucoup!Wait. Forget that last one. No one’s reading in France yet.
You know the French.
Now that I’ve got my own fancy website, with analytics, we’ve welcomed a host of international readers, from Mexico, Canada, Spain, Germany, Italy, the UK, Ireland, the Netherlands, India, and Argentina.
Four continents!
That’s pretty freaking cool, if you ask me.
Again, thank you!
Most, (if not all of you,) know me for writing about photography.
I appreciate your willingness to come to Sunshine and Olly, and read about other things.
But it would be crass to take your attention-span for granted.
To assume you’ll give my art endless patience, no matter what I do, because of previously-accrued, positive street-cred.
(Looking at you, Donald Glover.)
You won’t do that. I get it.
At 48, I know better.
To prove it, we’re dropping our first photo-related article, in our inaugural week.
Hope you dig it!
In my last APE piece, I discussed a group of Georgia photographers who were all making work like each other.
It was weird, but I tried to understand it.
Thankfully, the photo-book-gods smiled on me yet again, because my first review here is a great counterpoint to the last one there.
(Love it when that happens.)
“Controlled Burn,” by Shannon Davis, is an experimental book, from Georgia, and takes the form of an oversized-match-box.
We have controlled burns here in New Mexico, by the Federal government, and they caused the worst pyro-emergency in the state’s history.
Just last year.
(Heckofajob, Brownie!)
Locals farmers also burn their weeds here each year, Taos being rural America, but they don’t use the term that way.
It’s reserved for the Forest Service.
Apparently, though, that’s what farmers call it in the American South, when they flame-up the old weeds, and blacken the soil, making it more amenable to new crops.
A controlled burn.
(Now we know.)
How do you make a book into a match box, you might ask?
Fair question.
It’s cardboard, with glue.
The book is a heavy-paper, accordion-fold, simply printed, and poetically done.
Truth time: I didn’t realize there were images printed on the back, until I went to photograph it for you, just now.
But I love them. Really rounds out the visual narrative, and announces a bold color palette.
There’s a poetically written, short, text insert, below the folded-image-book, and I tried to pry up the photo of the matches, on the bottom, but apparently it’s glued too.
(Why. Won’t. This. Damn. Thing. Budge!
Oh wait, it’s probably not meant to.)
After reading the text, about a Northern transplant finding a permanent home in the South, musing decades later, and being told you can live there forever, but not be FROM there…
…let’s just say I could relate.
Great little project, this.
Very cool.
I’m impressed.
Thanks for sending it my way, Shannon!
(And no revenge post today, right Laidric?)
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