self portrait and weekend round up

selfportrait_jeremywitt

Over the weekend, Tina and I spent time in the studio. We photographed Lu dog (seen here) and then I set up something that I was hoping to rope a friend into, but failed to do so.

My hope was to walk up to our local watering hole and ask a regular to walk over to the studio and grab a portrait of him or her.

But no one was there.

I don’t go to the bar nearly as much as I used to, but on a typical Saturday afternoon, there’s at least two or three regulars. The inspiration for the shot is a loose translation of this Dan Winters -style setup

I also wrote about recent stresses, which included reading this editorial from Pat Buchanan.

This morning, some drunk kids woke us up at 3 a.m. chatting it up out front of the next-door-neighbor’s apartment building. Apparently, they were out of whiskey, and whiskey was the driving factor of their game night that had come to a close.

After 30 minutes, I yelled out the window to please have the courtesy of shutting up.

“Sorry,” said a female voice.

The group dispersed, but then one of the guys started crying uncontrollably from across the street. Wailing. When he composed himself, he announced to the neighborhood that he couldn’t believe he cried like that.

While I laid there awake, I began thinking about life and started writing yet another letter to a couple family members. I wrote until about 6:30 a.m. and finally fell back asleep around 7:30.

I also googled Pat Buchanan, and I was a bit weirded out to see google finish my search with the following:

pat buchanan

Perhaps I’m not the only one who thinks the guy is way off his rocker as a racist jerk.

It would appear, and I could be wrong, that the reason that editorial was published at WND is because MSNBC and FOX aren’t fans anymore of Mr. Buchanan.

His words aren’t welcome. This is pure conjecture. But it looks like he’s not getting pundit work with the big guns anymore.

So whatever. We’ll figure that whole thing out.

Yesterday, I threw my back out cleaning up the studio. And now I’m limping around my home like an old man.

The devil must be punishing me.

Honk.

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