Michael Rosenblum — “tell me what you watch and I will tell you what you are”

Over at that drivel rag Huffington Post, I read this blog  from Michael Rosenblum titled, “Donald Trump is Going to be Elected.”

It opens with:

The American people voted for [Trump] a long time ago.

They voted for him when The History Channel went from showing documentaries about the Second World War to Pawn Stars and Swamp People.

They voted for him when The Discovery Channel went from showing Lost Treasures of the Yangtze Valley to Naked and Afraid.

They voted for him when The Learning Channel moved from something you could learn from to My 600 Pound Life.

They voted for him when CBS went from airing Harvest of Shame to airing Big Brother.

These networks didn’t make these programming changes by accident. They were responding to what the American people actually wanted. And what they wanted was Naked and Afraid and Duck Dynasty.

I imagine a few readers will finish that segment scratching their head wondering, “Wut?”

If that’s the case, perhaps this response isn’t for you.

While the sentiment and this blog’s expression are not new, I found myself nodding my head. Hell, I remember watching the “History” channel circa 2003 wondering why they were giving credence to the possibility that the biblical plagues happened and how they might have happened with modern explanations. Or musings about the whereabouts of Noah’s Ark. Two things that never happened. History, nor science, recognizes them as happening. And yet, the History channel spent beaucoup bucks getting this kind of shit produced for people who need their skeptic views of the bible they accept to somehow be reconciled and possibly true.

The French may love food, the Italians may love opera. What we love is TV. We are TV culture. It defines who we are.

TV. Fucking TV.

Throw away your television. 

We cancelled our cable earlier this year. We don’t watch sports, stay as far away from 24-hour news cycles as humanly possible, and check out very little on network TV. You can find all those shows on more inexpensive resources anyway. The internets are loaded with content.

I primarily use my TV to watch movies. We subscribe to Netflix and Hulu. We can get over 50 channels with an antenna. I have a movie channel now that shows more great movies than I’ve wanted. I also tend to watch PBS’s local news show: Chicago Tonight. Sometimes NewsHour and Frontline. NOVA.

The great thing about PBS is the content isn’t loud. People aren’t insulting each other. It’s civil, informed discussion. Most times. It’s actually really fucking boring. And somehow that appeals to me.

Tina has some guilty pleasures on TV, and it’s been perhaps a little more difficult for her to quit the cable. But all in all, she’s so glad we did. I am, too.

We read more. Exercise more. Talk more. Sit on the back porch and lovingly gaze into each others eyes.

Twenty-four hour news is bullshit. It’s loud, obnoxious and if nothing else entertainment, a ruse, and confusing. People honestly think that they are getting the information they need if they watch 30 minutes of FOX followed by 30 minutes of CNN or MSNBC … while surfing Drudge, Brietbart, Facebook, WND, et al.

And those lines about the French and the Italians. Cultured assholes.

We Americans are cultured, too. Cultured on TV and sports. And chain, cookie-cutter restaurants. There is a political conversation you can overhear in this goddamn country that wasn’t inspired by the exact same words that everyone on TV from dawn to dusk isn’t talking about. We have no brains of our own.

We’re us vs. them. We lump entire groups of people into categories of good and bad. Positive and negative. My own family posts to Facebook that liberals are vile and disgusting and their ideas and policies must be stopped at all costs!

But when all you surround yourself with is shit that makes one group awful and another group superior, that’s how you start to treat people you love. It’s inadvertent. The doer doesn’t realize they’re doing it. They mask it in, “I want to inform others.” Or “I’m proud of what I believe in.” “I’m a straight shooter.” Or “I love others and I want this love to show via these hateful comments.”

And then there’s me. Writing this blog post. Probably offending someone. Or maybe not enough. Should I write in all caps so that it looks like I’m screaming?

Donald Trump is great TV.

He knows how to entertain.

He understands ratings.

Hillary Clinton is crap TV.

She may be smarter, better prepared, a better politician. It won’t matter. She is terrible entertainment.

When I lived in France as a student, I was completely unaware of America’s great cultures. Compared to the French, I had no culture. I was incapable of identifying them. We didn’t have the traditions in food and love of the arts. Our appreciation of most everything worth a damn paled in comparison. I remember one day waking up and realizing that our American culture was largely sports, sugary drinks, shit food and the weirdest, anti-Jesus capitalism in the universe.

I don’t know this to be true. It’s what I’ve been taught. Right?

When I went back to France in 2008 on my honeymoon, McCain announced his running mate Sarah Palin. Tina and I watched it on TV one night while munching baguette and sipping wine. We almost spit our wine when we heard her open her mouth. Palin was GREAT TV. And many ate her up. She paved the way for Trump to get as far as he has. He owes her a fist bump.

Rosenblum exits his blog with this:

In 1825, the great French gastronom Brillat de Savarind said, “tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are”. Today, in America, we can safely say, “tell me what you watch and I will tell you what you are”.

I’ll tell you what I watch.

I watch people. My favorite things to photograph are people and places.

If I’m not photographing, I love sitting and watching people.

I guess that — based on Rosenblum’s logic — that — kind of — makes me a … a person.


I turn to you

rosie mae _0175-

“I ask you to turn to each other, not against each other as we move forward. Let us support one another. Let us help heal one another.”

– Loretta Lynch, July 8, 2016

Agoraphobia is getting more and more attractive.

I’m starting to have nightmares on a regular basis about murders. Not to self diagnose and to diagnose America … but I think we’re all suffering from PTSD.

I’m hoping that I wake up and this was all a bad dream.

Last night, a sniper took out five cops and injured more. This week, two more black men die with phone video to show the world. Just this week, a friend of mine — a person whom I only know through social media —  was murdered in her home in North Carolina. I refer to her in this old vLog I did back in 2009. Her name was Wendy Rae. See this article here for information. It’s fucking awful.

Fuck, man, I’m still trying to get over that attack last August when Bryce Williams shot and killed those two reporters while working. I’m still trying to get over the Charleston massacre, let alone the Pulse Nightclub bullshit and November 13 in Paris.

When I ride down the street on my bike with Tina, I look at people in cars and wonder if they’re going to execute a random act of violence against us. It plays out in my head. It scares me.

Shit, a lot of stuff plays out in my head.

I hate it.

Social media makes it worse. You have friends ranting and raving from their stereotypical points of view. You have the shitheads that no matter what happens, they’ll side with the NRA and rant against the president. Then you have the folks that scream, “Do something about the gun problem!”

Who the fuck knows what the problem is.

We’re living in a goddamn powder keg. While I am fond of this president and the last eight years, I know so many who aren’t. And that building tension is about to explode no matter who wins the chair in November.

If Hillary gets it, the rednecks and racists will scream bloody murder. They’ll collectively say, “We’ve already had eight years of a black man. Now we gotta deal with this white-y fucking bitch who broke the law and shit. That’s what FOX told me!”

And if Trump gets it, the rest of us will eloquently bitch and moan for four years using reasonably decent grammar and educated words.

I doubt I’m alone when I say that I would love to win the lottery, move out of the country and hide away from all this chaos for a while. I need a goddamn break from violence and negativity.

When I was in France a few weeks ago, there was one night that Tina and our travel partners went to dinner while in Marseille. The place we chose was a bad choice. And we got stuck with tourist level food at not so great prices. The night’s conversation was loaded with negative comments, and everyone was damn sure not to leave even the smallest tip.

So I went to the bathroom after we were leaving, and I told everyone I’d meet them outside. When I came back down from the toilets, I gave our waiter, who was very patient with us and not a bad waiter for sure, a tip. He did, after all, deal with our table’s lack of French. We were a bit loud. And he hooked us up with another table’s unfinished bottle of white wine.

Instead of going back with everyone, I told them politely I needed to take a walk for a minute. So I walked around the Old Port and got my bearings. This was my trip to celebrate my birthday. I also think that traveling abroad means embracing the negative experiences and doing one’s best to stay positive.

You know that old idea that you can give someone a swell of compliments, but one negative word can or might carry ten times more weight than all those positive words?

I feel the same way about how negativity affects every day life.

And boy are we affected.

I took the above photo last week, and I find it particularly apropos given all the events over the last year, or more … Racism, violence, bigotry …

Whether we know about it more because of social media or we’re living in an exceptionally violent time, I fucking need to take a walk and get away from it for a while. But I can’t seem to get far enough away from it all.

Man, I’m spent.

I’ve decided I need to be a force for positivity in my world. So when Loretta Lynch gave her speech today, I took notes. And that quote up there meant everything to me at this particular time … when I want to be on the blame team. I want to be negative. But my brain can’t take it anymore. My heart either.

I turn to you. And not against you. 


Oh la la … AirBnB slammed a big, unhappy dent into the side of my birthday celebration

Last September I turned 40.

For Tina’s 40th birthday, we did a big trip to Bali.

For mine, I wanted one more trip to France.

Several years ago, Tina and I decided to only stay in AirBnBs when we travel. We found that the “living like a local” experience is far more valuable than living like a tourist out of hotels. When you can buy local fare and cook for yourself, it enriches experiences.  We’ve AirBnB’d in the states and abroad, including New York, California, France, Turkey and Italy.

We’ve stayed in homes with art on the walls that probably cost more than our condo. Splurging a bit on better AirBnBs is partly on purpose. Not only do we want to live like locals, we want to experience living in a place that is better than the our life.

Tina’s attention to leaving the apartments tidy and clean has landed us reviews from all the owners we’ve rented from about how clean we are.

This trip may change our view of AirBnB, of their philosophy of placing people in people’s lovely homes, and also of their greediness to raise their annual revenue rather than work with their customers in an honest and well-intentioned manner.

During this last trip, we traveled with my oldest and dearest friend Aaron and his wife Jackie. We started the trip in an amazing apartment in Paris’s 16th arrondissement for three nights. At that apartment, the owner couldn’t meet us to check us in, so her good friend Robin met us. He showed us the apartment. Gave us not on the keys to the space, but to the area. He recommended a variety of restaurants, expensive to not. He recommended where to find markets and stores. He was incredibly thorough and kind.

Three days later, we drove to Normandy and stayed two nights in Caen. Our AirBnB owner met us with smiles and gusto. She gave us the keys, gave us an extensive tour of the apartment, the lights, the nuances, etc. She gave us advice on Mt. St. Michel. Where to go off the beaten path. She was incredibly kind and thorough. It felt like all AirBnB experiences to date.

Marseille is where the AirBnB train derailed

For the Marseillaise AirBnB, we chose lower price option and excellent location en lieu of appearance and a well-reviewed apartment. The apartment was situated right off of Marseille’s Vieux Port with amazing views of the area. Traveling is expensive, and this place was just a little lower on the scale of pricing.

When we booked the apartment, we noticed it no reviews yet on AirBnB. We assumed that the price reflected the owner’s need to build up some steam within the AirBnB community. Tina checked the listing frequently after booking, and she noticed some positive reviews trickling in, which seemed to set her (and our) mind(s) at ease.

As the dates approached, the owner sent Tina correspondence explaining that he could hook us up with a driver to pick us up at the airport for $80 each direction. We found that the rate was  a little high, but we thought that maybe we would accept a one-way ride and then decide later if we needed to book the return trip.

Despite Tina’s insistence to the owner that we only wanted to pay for one way, he kept sending her a payment request for $160. Frustrated, she almost gave up. Then he finally sent a bill for $80 less than 24 hours before we were to arrive in Marseille. The owner told us that the driver would be waiting for us upon our arrival, holding a sign and all that cool stuff.

When we arrived in Marseille, the driver called us to say he was running late, due to a fuel strike in the country. We waited about 10 minutes for him.

The driver apologized and we all loaded into his van to head into the city. He was friendly and gave us a history as we drove, showing us where Zinedine Zidane grew up, and other information about the area.

When we arrived at the apartment, he pulled up on to a curb and we unloaded all our luggage. He went into a local restaurant at the base of the building and later came out explaining that the keys weren’t there and we would have to wait for them to be delivered by someone. He had no idea when the guy would arrive, but he said we could find something to eat at the restaurant we were in front of. We were concerned about all our luggage, and he said we could leave our bags in the restaurant. Since this was the case, we ended up staying and eating at the restaurant whose specialty was sardines.

About the time that our food was coming out, the representative with the keys walked up. He was about 40 minutes late. Tina and I left Jackie and Aaron and we walked upstairs to check in. While I was getting my luggage, Tina had a difficult time communicating with him. When I walked up, Tina was telling the representative that I spoke French so maybe that would be better than her trying to talk to him in English. But when I tried to speak to him, I couldn’t seem to communicate in French either.

So he didn’t speak French or English? 

Inside the building, we crammed into a small elevator and rode to the 6th floor. The elevator stopped on the middle of the landing between the 5th and 6th floors. So you had to walk up or down a few stairs depending on your floor. We went up to six and he let us in to the main room. The guy kind of pointed at the kitchen and the views in the main room. One of our first questions everywhere is: “What’s the WiFi password?” In very broken French, he told me. I finally found a pen and made him right it down on a paper towel that we had brought in our luggage from the last apartment. He struggled with writing as well. I wondered if the was a bit special.

Within a minute or two, we were on our way out the door again without a proper tour of the space. We assumed we’d have to get our bearings when we came back up with Aaron and Jackie. I mean, what is there to know? There were doors to two rooms and it appeared to look like it did in the photos. I looked in one of the bedrooms from the threshold, but didn’t go inside.

If anything, we felt very uncomfortable with the guy showing us around, and figured it’d be better to let him go, finish our lunch and get back upstairs with the rest of our luggage.

Big mistakes are elephant shit-sized blunders

Once back in the apartment we got to see how flawed it was. We laughed with Jackie and Aaron that this rental was definitely going to be considered a location to sleep, and that we did NOT rent it for its appearance. The apartment felt more like dorm rather than a home.

There was an orange leather couch in the main room with a base that was covered in black duct tape. When I bumped the base with my suitcase, orange powder fell to the floor from underneath.

There was a light dangling from wires on the terrace. No fixture.

The hot water heater was left with water in it and a thick layer of residue had grown on the sides of the container. I had to scrub it out, and tried not to share that information with Jackie and Aaron, because they probably wouldn’t want to drink the coffee made from the water it heated to put in the French Press.

In the bedroom we slept in, there were two random red stains on the wall opposite of the bed that looked like someone spilled something and tried to wipe it down.

Had we had more foresight, we would have photographed the stains and the water heater and sent them to the owner, as well as documentation for the light, more complaints regarding the guy who let us in.

The day before we checked out, we decided to contact the original driver to take us back to the airport, because Uber rides were coming up at 40 euros and there wasn’t an Uber Black option, only Uber X, which may or may not hold all four of us and our luggage.

We contacted our owner, and he sent us an apology for the keys guy and offered us a ride at 40 euros, half the cost of the trip to the apartment.

We took him up on it.

In our communication, we failed to ask what to do with the keys. So at 7:15 a.m., we decided it was best to leave the keys in the door of the apartment. On the inside of course. It was something I did all the time when I lived in Montpellier, France back in college.

The straw that broke this trip’s back. 

There was no going back on the decision to leave the keys, and once landed in Paris, Tina’s phone blew up with texts, messages and voicemails from the owner. At first he claimed we needed to pay the fee to have a locksmith come out, because he had no other keys.

Then he found that the key was in the door so we needed to pay over 1200 euros to pay for an entire new door and lock system.

Then he sent us another message to say that “Good news, the cost is only 110 euros” only to respond minutes later to say that the person found red stains on the wall that had not yet been noticed, and that we needed to pay to repaint the walls.

To shorten the long story, we dealt with the owner on several phone calls and in messages. To me, his calls felt like harassment. Instead of discovering the information, and figuring out how to deal with it, he impetuously called us and immediately sent money requests.

He also sent over what appeared to me to be newly manufactured documents explaining that the guy who met us (40 minutes late) at the apartment to check us in, would meet us at the apartment to check us out. I’m not sure if the owner realized how stupid that made him look, though, because he made no mention of it in any of his correspondence when discussing check out at 7:15 a.m. He only sent us a message that a driver would pick us up at 7:15.

Finally after arguing with the impassioned owner, we involved AirBnB and they started mediating the issue. I never got the feeling that AirBnB really read our side of the argument and I was shocked that their resolve included asking us to pay half of the door cost. When I read through the company’s policies and about their inordinately high revenue, I felt that this issue, arising solely by miscommunication from the owner, deserved nothing from us. This issue belonged to him, his insurance and maybe with AirBnB’s host guarantee. The issue was cut and dry a failure on the part of the owner to designate a place to leave the keys.

This conversation is easily one of the first subjects that comes up at checkin. It usually goes: 1: “What’s the WiFi password?” 2: “Where’s the bathroom?” and 3) “What do you want us to do with the keys when we leave?”

When the owner sends an idiot to meet you almost an hour after your agreed checkin, the failures point only at the owner. The owner’s ambassador didn’t show us the apartment. He simply gave the keys and dashed.

I do think that if it weren’t for his discovery of the red on the walls, that AirBnB would likely have better sided with us, but with the accusation of the walls, plus the lock, AirBnB’s pathetic customer service placaters department thought it was impressive to require us to pay half the door bill.

Blazing accusations and impetuous, exorbitant bill requests

Imagine if you were on vacation, and the owner of a hotel or place you were staying kept calling you, claiming you owed him $1500 for something you honestly didn’t do on purpose and then kept calling with irritated and erratic claims that you did things you didn’t do? In fact, he was blaming you for his own inferiorities, his own mistakes, his own failures.

$1500. Wouldn’t that make you sick?

$1500. For something you didn’t do.

It would derail your world. Put you in a tailspin. Stress you to the nines.

This demand for $1500, dear reader, was harassment.

Fortunately, time and reality set in, and the price dropped to 110 euros. But I believe that this issue always only pertained to the owner and to AirBnB.

The loss of time, the stress, the attention to clearing your name would occupy your life, thoughts, ideas, perspective. No matter how hard we tried, we were occupied with this experience and spent valuable vacation time dealing with incomplete information, redundant requests for inflated sums of money, and an owner who is nearly as incompetent as he is a failure.

The whole reason we choose AirBnB is because we have consistently felt that all the places we’ve stayed felt like a home. In the last place we stayed in Paris, the owner described the apartment as her “baby.” She was proud of it, and that pride transfers onto us, her guests, just like it does with every apartment, except the one in Marseille.

This wasn’t someone’s home. That piece of shit was someone’s rental property. And instead of living up to the philosophy and standards that we’ve grown to love about AirBnB, it represented everything that’s wrong with commercialism and growing popularity. The Marseille property is the sellout, and I imagine it’s signifying the fall of a company like AirBnB, who is greedier for cash revenue rather than honoring their own legacy of placing weary travelers into honest to goodness people’s homes that they take care of like they are their own children.



Numerologies are bullshit … fo(u)r real

Today Tina and I leave for France to celebrate my 40th birthday, which was last September.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been waking up every morning around 4 a.m. and can’t get back to sleep for a while. In those waking hours, I’ve been trying to think in French putting myself in all kinds of situations and trying to work out the grammar and vocabulary.

This morning, I woke again at 4 and couldn’t stop thinking about how this trip somehow coincides with the number 4. I’m not a numerologist. Nor do I think there’s anything more than contrived coincidence to think about this trip in terms of fours, but here’s what I came up with while lying in the dark staring at my eyelids.

We’re going to France to celebrate my 40th birthday.

Twenty years ago, I traveled to France for my study abroad. There are five fours in the number twenty.

  1. At the time of my first trip (1996), I had been dating my high school sweetheart for four years.
  2. Four years after my first trip (2000), I met Tina after making a big move to Chicago.
  3. Four years later (2004), I was established as a freelance filmmaker and photographer. Side note: In 2002 (2+0+0+2=4), I lived in the Philippines for 4 months. Also, within that time I had officially transitioned from the political affiliation of my parents to
  4. Four years later in 2008, I married Tina. We honeymooned in France.
  5. By 2012, Tina and I were working together full time. In 2013, we visited France a third time.

And now we are set to go to France again. Number 4. The word “French” is a derivation of the Gaul word for four virgins.

Just kidding.

On this trip, We’re traveling with my oldest and dearest friend Aaron and his wife Jackie. There will be four of us. 🙂

I’m so excited that I can’t even sleep let alone see straight.

I can’t wait to get there!

Help me blow out my candles, but my wishes have already come true. 🙂


Hanging on for dear life during neck-snapping re-trajectories … or something

I feel like I’ve aged four years in the last four months.

One day I start the day with meditation. The next, I start the day in a full-on mental sprint. Gosh, I guess sometimes it’s a full-on physical sprint.

Today is somewhere in between.

My company, Wittefini, is busier than it’s ever been. My personal ambitions are occupying the hell out of my so-called free time.

This is good.

While I work most hours of my week, these hours don’t feel so “worky”. I’m doing what I love. It just happens to be billable to someone else.

The driving force of positivity in my life, my wife Tina, balances me. Even if I work all night, the next day we work out. Spend us time. Spend time together. Take our dog Talulah for a walk.

Our schedule is unlike anyone’s I know. There’s no clearly defined work schedule. There’s no right or wrong place to sit down and work. There’s no clearly defined free time.

I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. But I know it’s not completely awful.

Lately, my goals are to remain positive despite all the fucking chaos around me. Politics will drive a man crazy, and then some. Other people’s views will then send that same man to the edge of oblivion.

This “positivity” is no small feat.

I went through an angrier period a few years back. To me it wasn’t so much anger, as it was the swinging pendulum that I was riding at the time. I needed to let go of a lot of poisonous ideas and thoughts from yesteryear and I was confused and desperate to let go.

Anger to others was my inability to accept others failures.

Anger to others was my perception that all people strive for perfection, to make the world better, to be better people to their loved ones, to call, to nurture relationships, to want to be present.

Anger to others was my pervasive disappointment.

Negativity can be perceived by others in so many ways. I couldn’t and still can’t paint other people’s perceptions. I can’t control others ideas or responses. That much is true.

Declaring a state of “positivity” is basically admitting I’m not always positive and it’s a struggle to be so. It’s like god declaring you can have no other gods before him. We can only assume there are other gods that can be considered for the job.

My other ambition right now, that just may kill me, is to create more content.

Tina and I are, apparently, as barren as one of those landscapes on Mars.

Legacy takes a different form with me.

And while insecurity and self-doubt sometimes prevent me the idea I’ll reach the level of — say — notoriety that I might dream of sometimes, my ambitions seem to want to push me to try.

Do. Or Do not. There is no fucking try. 

Lately, my perspective is a concentration on Tina, Talulah, my cat Zoe, and being/becoming a role model, force of good, strong creative influence. I want to work with groups. I want to collaborate. I want to leave earth better than the way I found it.

And concentrating on negative and not doing something positive about it … that shit was killing my so-called soul.

If I could do it all over again, I’d likely do it all the same way, though.


I accept the way I’ve done this life recipe is right. I’m at the dinner table of all I’ve cooked, and I see what’s wrong, see what tastes can improve, and will cook the next meal marginally better until one day, most courses taste great.

For the first time in what feels like ever, I’m not concentrating on perfection.

This is big for me. Concentrating on perfection is creatively, mentally and physically paralyzing. It’s a preventer of all things artistic, loving, beautifying and doing.

I want to “do more.”

Be more.

Going at it alone is the wrong choice. There are very few successful artists, people in general, who found any level of success by their lonesome. And this idea banged me on the head several years ago, and now it’s just starting to make any sense.

So onward and upward with “doing more,” “productivity,” and “positivity.”

Shake it up and throw it on the barbie.

Let that shit rest when it’s cooked and serve it with a smile and a hug.

Attempting to document our world via vLog

Over the last few years, I’ve attempted to vLog a little. They’ve always been intermittent attempts to do some kind of behind the scenes or show a snippet of our lives.

When I slowed and basically stopped blogging here, it left a large hole in my, um, spirit, that I’ve since wanted to fill.

In November, I decided that I would produce a weekly vLog — at least — for as long as I can do it.

I’ve been somewhat successful with it, even though the vLogs themselves are far from “professional” video productions. They’re pretty gorilla really. Things I’d never include or do on a pro job, I let slide with these vLogs.

My goal, first and foremost, is to document my life as a professional photographer, a husband, and friend to about two people. 🙂

I’m not getting any younger. And as the years pass and I look back, the only road I’m paving comes in the form of work for clients with a spattering of personal work. But I’m absent in my own life, because my face rarely shows up in front of the camera.

In full transparency, these vLogs are incredibly influenced by YouTuber Casey Niestat. I’ve even lifted some of his approaches to telling stories from his playbook.

What I like about Casey is that he’s an incredibly creative and prolific content creator, but he does it in a way that’s true to his personality. Love him or hate him, he’s a positive guy and goes out of his way to present himself with a sense of lovable neutrality.

This blog certainly started as a divisive voice and it ended up dividing parts of my personal/familial life that I wished it didn’t do. It wasn’t that I wanted to be anonymous, but I also didn’t want familial interaction to influence my views.

My views regarding the supernatural remain the same. Those views are largely kept quiet except during short discussions with Tina.

Recently, Casey included a quote that means a lot to him. It was, “Never let perfect be the enemy of good enough.”

This is a perfectionist’s conundrum. When I release something to the world, I’m endlessly critical of it. I’ve had to learn, through my career, that nothing I do will ever be “perfect” per se and that when clients and others like something, it’s okay to let go of self criticism that leads to self deprecation, insecurities and even creative paralysis.

The way I see many creative people — including myself — is that they/we are paralyzed by fears and insecurities, even perfectionism. They have a zillion ideas and even criticize those who create, while their own work is minimal or prevented thanks to those fears.

I’m not sure any thing ever gets any easier in this regard.

My next goal is to really push my personal envelope. Put myself out there with more gusto. More Oomph. I think there’s a formula of likability + crazy that creatives must have to set them apart.

I don’t define that crazy as a pejorative. I think there’s good and bad crazy. It’s that je ne sais quoi of likability and anomalous something something. Or maybe I already have it and I just need to keep plowing forward.


The other reason I’m doing it is because I want to be a content creator.

I’d much rather make something for someone else to consume than to consume something.

That’s why I love cooking. That’s why I love photography. That’s why I love making motion pictures. That’s why I don’t like sitting absently in front of a TV.

I haven’t seen a movie in the theater in years.

That’s right. I haven’t seen Star Wars yet.

And it’s killing me.

If anyone is still out there, I’ll do my best to at least publish my vLogs here. Gosh, I miss writing as well.

Before I forget, Happy Fucking New Year, to you and you and you.

Let’s do this #2016.


Reviewing old B&W photos with no dates on them



Today, Tina and I drove to the south side of the city to an area called Palos Park. I think.

We visited Tina’s aunt and uncle to share some recent black & white photos that Tina received from her brother. The photos were from Tina’s parents and grandparents, and many of the faces were of strangers or people we have no way of recognizing.

Tina thought it would be a good idea to share the shots with her family to see if they could identify them or if they would even want them, or copies of them.

It was a trip down memory lane, and her uncle was able to name many of the folks in the photos.

Among the pictures were envelopes filled with loved-one’s hair.

It’s great when you’re looking at photos, and you hear the stories about different people. Tina’s uncle would say, “Oh man, this guy here. Your mom’s uncle’s brother’s sister-in-laws brother’s cousin’s dad … I hated that guy … what an asshole.”

I love the candor.

I personally enjoyed looking at the quality of the photos. I mean, you have these strange families in their better-than-Sunday best posing in the once-in-a-lifetime photo that captured them in such crisp and beautiful black and white. Or the little photos that are thumbnails of street scenes. Kids playing in fire hydrant water. So much history with ghosts whom I’ll never ever meet. Or maybe met once at a wedding or funeral.

It was a lot of fun.

After the trip down memory lane, we enjoyed dinner together before driving 45 minutes back to the city.