New Yorker quote of the week

From "Unlikely Stories," by Alex Ross:

Nothing in these operas is any more implausible than the events of the average Shakespeare play, or, for that matter, of the average action movie. The difference is that the conventions of the latter are widely accepted these days, so that if, say, Matt Damon rides a unicycle the wrong way down the Autobahn and kills a squad of Uzbek thugs with a package of Twizzlers, the audience cheers instead of guffaws.

Matt Damon, the thinking woman's hottie. Who can kill people with candy.

This is what 89 looks like

Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for genes—





Plus a shout-out for olive oil and amphitheaters. Just because.

































There are more Massachusettsian snapshots over here.

Jiggity jig

Home again! I smell like airport. All I can handle right now is a shower before bed, but rest assured that photos and anecdotes from Savta's 89th are on tap for later this week.

I also wanted to share what it looks like when Dad and Ann's new kitten comes to visit my laptop, but Blogger won't let me post a screen capture for some reason. So let's just say that Google doesn't recognize "uuuuuuuuuuuuujghhhhhhhhhhhhh/9" as a search term.

Issue four is here!

And I'm already in love with it. Such a sucker for that fresh ink smell.

http://www.canteenmag.com/

Coming soon to an indie bookstore (or, if you must, a B&N) near you.

Spametry

The junkmail folder was full of riches today, just begging for free verse. And so:

Don't watch yourself while hanging over
Strange things in your window, dude.
Does she talk that does not love you?
I remember about you.

Come, your papers are in mess.
Lose all the offensive nicknames once and forever.
Shall we meet again?
It has a lot of benefits and no downside that I can think of.
Your weekend will not be good without good nights.

Eccentric lady waits for you in hall.
Just waiting for a Breitling.
Want to see her tears?
Don't ever let her down again.

In a nutshell

From a New Yorker essay by Adam Gopnik about Damon Runyon:

Writers train for one length or another, and Breslin's [book] is essentially a series of eight-hundred-word columns strung together, all told in that good Breslin style—quick glimpses of Prohibition, the Hearst press, stealing coats in the Depression—so that the total effect is like watching the world's longest train go by at night.

Here, Gopnik is discussing veteran journalist Jimmy Breslin's biography of Runyon, but he also manages to sum up what it often feels like to be a professional repairer of other people's words—whereby you're responsible for retaining each writer's unique voice while fitting it seamlessly into the context and tone of a particular publication.

Shootwardly mobile

iPhones are the wave of the future and all, but let's get back to film. I posted a couple of new sets over on Flickr: an afternoon at the de Young Museum and a weekend in Tahoe.

We got into a discussion at work today about whether or not professional photographers ever call themselves "shooters." I voted no, but that's because when I hear the word, I think of 1) hitmen and 2) tequila.

Our art director said a pro and a shooter are opposites: When you have a studio setup and a livelihood, you're a photographer; when you have an idiotproof digital and a Flickr account, you're a shooter. But I think I fall into the giant range between the two. So I'm a . . . shootographer? Phooter? Help me out.

While you're thinking, here are some highlights: