Sunday, July 27, 2008

Fat as a Cat and Feeling Good

The Cat on Chat-Ray Street
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

July 27, 2008, New Orleans, LA:

This here cat, looks exactly like how I'm feeling right now, after eating at Muriel's in the French Quarter again for the second day in a row.

Today, I began with a glass of Lucid Absinthe Suisesse, a wonderfully cool and refreshing cocktail made with absinthe, anisette, white crème de menthe, and raw egg white, all blended together and served over cracked ice. It was so good, I had to order a second one to complement our brunch.

Brunch began with Fontana's West End Turtle Soup, which exceeded my expectations. The bits of turtle had the texture of tofu in Chinese hot and sour soup.

It was followed by a tender slice of rib-eye topped with an incredibly savory sauce and crispy crawfish (or "crawdads" as we like to call them up north or "mudbugs" as "guys from freaking Omaha who wear Mardi Gras beads in the middle of July," as one website aptly puts it).

Some of the other unusual highlights from our culinary adventure over the last three days have also included BBQ shrimp and fried gator ("aligator" that is), which for lack of either a refined palate or the sophisticated vocabulary of a gourmand, I'd have to say "tastes just like chicken," tough chicken that is, but chicken nonetheless.

And yesterday afternoon, the first time we went to Muriel's, I had Escargots Orleans, which they describe as "Tender Escargots with Fennel, Leeks, oyster Mushrooms and apple smoked bacon simmered in a roasted garlic butter." Oh, my goodness, quite honestly, those were some of the best snails I've ever tasted.

Anyway, them is just a few of the highlights we've experienced so far here on my trip to New Orleans ("Nuor-lins").

Got to sign off now, because its time for a nap.

Summertime, and the living is easy.
Fish are jumping, the cotton is high.
Oh, your daddy's rich, your mama's good looking
I said, "Hush little baby. Baby, don't you cry."
Summertime, George Gershwin

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Waiting for The Train

"Think Good Thoughts, Think Good Thoughts..."
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom


July 22, 2008, New York City:

Resigned, he leaned back against the pole, sighed and waited.

Disappointed, he frowned and turned away, walking further down the platform.

Impatient, she precariously leaned into the track to catch a glimmer of the oncoming train, and when she saw no gleam, she stretched out her neck to see if it would improve her vision.

Understanding, she sat down to read the paper.

Efficient, he read his book, while listening for the roar, and waiting for the tell-tale waft of cool wind.

Anxious, she flipped open her phone every few minutes, watching the seconds pass into hours, wondering if anyone would notice that she’s late again for work.

Happy, she adjusted the volume on her iPod.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Hello People

Big Man, Small Man
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

This set represents an important milestone for me, for all 110 photos were posted unedited.

Previously, I had posted over 27,000 photos to flickr, and almost all of them edited in one way or another—usually for color, contrast, or composition.

However, this time around I was so happy with the results of these photos, which I took yesterday morning at approximately 8 AM at the dead-end intersection of 9th Avenue and 59th Street, that I have challenged myself to submit them as is.

I came across this unique mural of light, reflected off the buildings from across the street, the morning before and decided that I had to make sure to return to this exquisite spot again the following day to capture a little bit of the magic that I saw.

Needless to say, I am happy with the results and I am glad that I made the extra effort.

Another milestone is on the horizon for me, as I will soon be receiving my Canon Powershot G9, which I plan to begin shooting RAW with.

I had recently purchased and tried out the Canon EOS Rebel Xsi 450D prosumer SLR. However, after a week I decided, “This is definitely not for me.”

It just wasn’t the right fit for the kind of art I like to create and my methods of creating it.

So, after some nail-biting contemplation, I made the decision to return it and get the G9 instead. It was truly a somewhat tough decision because for a very long time friends and fellow photographers had encouraged me to “upgrade” to an SLR.

However, I balked. At least, until quite recently, when I came across a little bit of extra disposable income and decided that it was high-time that I made an investment in one of my greatest passions and consciously made a big step forward toward establishing myself as a “professional” in my craft.

Alas, ultimately, the move didn’t make me very happy. So, as I mentioned, I figured out a way to produce better quality photos and still have a tool that is conducive to my style of photographyThe G9.

Granted, I will be comprising the burst rate (shooting speed) with the exchange, but that never really mattered much to me. I’ve long been happy with what the lower-level Powershot models (D60, D70 and A520) can do, so I can’t imagine I will be disappointed with what the ultimate upgrade in this class will produce.

I’m looking forward to sharing.

As usual, thanks for tuning in.


Monday, July 14, 2008

(History Favors) Loving Strangers

(History Favors) Loving Strangers
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom


(History Favors) Loving Strangers
July 13, 2008, Salt Lake City, UT:

I spend a lot of time in motel rooms.

Roadside, big neon signs that flash VACANCY almost always, an OFFICE next to Room 1A.

Most don’t know the time of day and have never heard of the word “concierge.” Some got swimming pools, and quite a few ‘ve got vibrating beds. “Quarters available at the change machine next to the ice box” one once read—it didn’t matter that night, because we made use of practically every other piece of furniture in the room—the dresser with the mirror, the little round table, the arm chair, the bathroom sink and window sill.

When they’ve only got headboards that you can hold on to, I use the bed frame posts instead. Old and worn sheets stolen from other motel linen closets strip rather easily and make great soft tethers; the ripping sound is especially titillating if you blindfold them first.

I particularly like when the chamber maids get involved. I’m turned on by the ones that wear the little black uniforms with the aprons on the front, they always remind me of the dollies that my grandmother used to have on all her coffee tables. White shirts and skirts are pretty nice too though.

I like it when their hair is pulled back; I enjoy pulling pigtails, and I love it when they squeal.

One time we jumped naked in the pool with one of them right after midnight. She happened to be the night manager too—“Owners actually live in another town,” she said as she hurriedly took off her clothes. “They call a couple of times a week, but usually come out only once a month, especially if its slow, like now.”

The bed didn’t get many quarters that summer night. We watched the sunrise at poolside instead, and then we all went back to the one room with the king size bed and slept till noon. It was so hot we slept naked, on top of the sheets, on top of each other, with the door wide open for the world to see how wonderful life truly is.

Never did see Maria or Sandy ever again, but I certainly do think of them often.

I fondly remember how Maria had a smile that said, “Suddenly, I feel free as a bird,” and how she excitedly told us “I’ve been working here for four years now and I’ve never been skinny dipping before!”

Sandy, on the other hand, who I had just met at the local bar down the street, seemed like she had been swimming naked all her life.

It was just a feeling though, never got to know her much beyond her name; didn’t even know if she was living there or a just another vagabond like me, just passing through other people’s humdrum lives, sometimes shaking things up a bit, if only because you know it’ll make life a wee bit more exciting for them.


I suppose I could fly more often, for it certainly would get me where I’m going a lot faster.

Alas, these days the stewardesses just keep getting older, uglier and fatter—or gay. So, that’s just one of the many reasons that I prefer to drive.

Besides, cocktail waitresses, diner wenches and lonely housewives rifling through glossy magazines at the local Stop-and-Shop are almost always far prettier and quite willing. Odds are far better too.

Admittedly, I don’t know why, but I’m still surprised by how easy it all is sometimes.

Guess, when you live in the city and you’re a rambling man like me—always on the road, rarely a spare moment to think about how damned bored I would otherwise be—you don’t realize how boring life is for everyone else.

Half of the time, I’m not even trying, but there’s just this gleam in their eye, that certain sparkle, that inspires you to set them free, to set them on fire. This is especially true, when they make the first move—pretending to check out the potato chips, when all they really came in for was a pint of ice cream, The Enquirer and a box of tampons. And you can just tell by the way they shuffle that they have a whole lot of frustration pent up inside and that they’re ready to spontaneously let it all out during one long evening with you.

That’s why living a life of ennui—one of stability, security, predictability and utter boredom—just doesn’t make any sense to me.

I’ve learned that sometimes the solution to all the world’s problems lies in a little bit of loving. Which is why, when you travel as much as I do, you’ve got to let a stranger love you every once in a while—just a nice and easy night together, no wondering “What if?,” no strings attached, no emotional baggage to handle.

This is why, when I go somewhere I’ve never been before, I never waste my time being a tourist. Because I know, unlike the statues and the stories and the legends, the local attractions for me are very much alive and often feeling alone in the world, much like me.

Besides, why would I want to read about the tall tales of others when I can assuredly weave some pretty interesting yarns of my own?

“The "timeless" men are those who make history, for history can be made only by those who are not floating with the stream. It is only those who are unconditioned by time who have real value, and whose productions have an enduring force.”
Otto Weininger


This story is fictional. R&O thank you for the inspiration)

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Her Apocrine Allure

Her Apocrine Allure
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

July 2, 2008, San Jose, CA:

“You’re trouble mister,” she smiled, pushing me away.

I was buried nose-deep in the heady pit of her neck, inhaling deeply, intoxicated by a sultry mix of feline heat and the poison she called her personal line of perfume.

It was a hundred and four and we were deep and punch-drunk in the heart of Texas, sipping on some sweating Lone Star and Tecate beers. Two empty shots of Patron lined with crusty-salt ( "training wheels" the sassy waitress called them) with half-eaten lime wedges sat next to the bottles on the bar. Old Elvis tunes rang through the joint from a jukebox in the corner.

You fooled me with your kisses
You cheated and you schemed
Heaven knows how you lied to me
You're not the way you seemed

She fanned herself with the paper menu, “Wheh! Oh, Lordy, Lord. I’m feeling hotter than a whore in church. What are you doing to me mister?," she intonated, like a siren wailing under the full moon.

I grabbed the arms of her stool and pulled her in again, my knee sliding in smoothly between her damp legs.

She pressed her naked knees together (she loved to wear dresses— "I have a whole closet full of them," she once beamed to me proudly, her dimples curling higher than I've ever seen before); she squeezed them together almost as if she was trying to exorcise that aching feeling; the one that I now sensed. Much like a K9 smells through to a femme fatale tightly wrapped in black leather or a seisomograph feels the trembles of trouble at the fault line, I felt something ornery acoming on, a certain redolent pulsation now emanating from between her whet thighs.

Looking awry at the floor with a shy smile that almost fooled me, she spoke softly, demurely asking, “Have I ever told you that I’ve got a problem with my knees?”

I cocked my head in the same curious manner that dogs do when their masters confuse them, and then squinted, trying to see through my suspicious mind, furrowing my brow so that I just might remember.

Alas, I was caught in a trap, and I couldn't get out, even as I gave one good last shove of the surly lash that was now cocked warily, like a pious pirate ready to plunder, above my one good eye.

Knowing I was hooked, she placed her hands, one atop the other, on my captive knee. And then, looking at me straight in the eye, she leaned in to whisper, al the while digging deeply, “…You see, the problem is that whenever I’m around you, I can’t seem to keep them together…”

Momentarily dazed and confused by the vertigo of her allure— the girlish voice meant to disguise a vixen's intentions, the apocrine waft of her perfume that was now pulsing in synch with the aching drumbeat of my desire, and the sharp pangs that were now coursing up my thigh as she pressed her sharp nails into it— It took me a long moment to understand.

Once she saw the slight curl of my lip, the reassuring tell that told her that, indeed, I felt the pain, she informed me through clenched teeth and a wicked smile of satisfaction "'Vamp,’ the color is ‘vamp,' mister.”

It was then, then that I understood.

"What is second sight? A gift? A training? Or is it simply that suddenly within the brain a thousand impressions, ideas, sights, sounds, and smells coincide to provide an impression of what is to be? The mind gathers its grain in all fields...” Louis L'Amour


(R&O thank you for the inspiration)