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Abby at a Harley Rally, c. 1996
…and Abby’s was wicked cool. For a while my wife was into motorcycles. She once rode to Georgia for a Hog rally. To this day, she can still tell me everything about every Harley we pass, and loves to stop and look at them. This photo of her is from about 1996.
Steph posted six things about herself that were “quirky” after she allegedly got “tagged” by a friend. Whether or not she really got tagged, or was just looking for a forum to confess her darkest secrets, I suppose we will never know. I did this once before after Wil Fry got tagged, but I think it’s fun and funny.
I consider it a challenge to be at least as quirky as Steph, so here is my own list of quirks…
There’s six. I win!
While I was taking several loads of trash to the curb down our 100-yard-long driveway, I noticed what a beautiful, clear, quiet, cold night it was. For no reason other than feeling like it, I decided to make a few images of the night sky. Surrounding the stars in this image are branches from our 100-year-old walnut tree, which I illuminated with a few seconds of my LED flashlight.
On another tab in this same web browser, I am reading a Thom Hogan article about how the 12-mega-pixel Nikon D3 isn’t “high resolution” enough, and you need to stitch at least two of its images together to make it truly “hi-res.”
Seven years ago, the highest-resolution digital camera on the market was the Kodak DCS 760. At six mega-pixel, it was regarded as the gold standard of digital, and photographers paid $8000 for it. (Three years before that the DCS 460 was sold for $15,000.) I got a 760 on Ebay recently for a tiny fraction of its original retail price. It turns out that it still takes great pictures even though there are newer cameras out there.
How is this possible?
Easy: you don’t need new cameras at all. You only need a new camera if you have a tiny penis and/or enormous hubris.
Commerce is about ego. Nothing more.
This also, by the way, is an excellent example of the concepts of planned and perceived obsolescence.
Here are Abby's toe socks. I don't know why she decided to wear them tonight, but I can tell you that they have penguins on them.
Two things I thought were really funny tonight:
I was out in the garden, pulling up some morning glory hay for the goats, when I discovered a large watermelon, obviously a volunteer from more than a year ago when we planted them. I think it’s strangely cool and funny that I actually got to say, “Hey, I found a watermelon!”
It had frozen, of course. I cut it up and gave it to the goats, but they weren’t interested.
Frozen watermelon from the patch
Here is a true story of something that happened on our patch a little less than two years ago…
With an imminent frost, I walked down to Dorothy’s house to get some old flower pots. The plan was to turn them upside down and put them on top of the tomato plants in our garden to keep them from freezing.
As I opened the doors of the red shed, I heard a high voice in the distance. It sounded a little like, “Help!” but since there are kids who live in that direction, I thought it was them. I moved over to the grey shed and found a couple of coffee cans that would also work, and was about to leave when I heard a more distinct, “Help! Heeeellllpppp!” Still not sure what it was, I looked around the corner and see if anyone really did need help, then walked over to see a girl, about 20, laying on the ground in the woods about 100 yards north of the shed.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
“I can’t move my legs,” she answered. She was dressed in sweat pants and a long sleeved shirt, and sneakers. She had no visible signs of injury, nor were there any signs of a struggle or accident of any kind.
“How did you get here?” I asked.
“I was in a ditch. I don’t know.” I asked her name, and she said it was Jennifer.
I approached cautiously. When it seemed clear, I called 911 and put my coat over Jennifer and asked her some more questions.
“I’ve had mental problems,” she explained. She didn’t know where she had been, and could not explain to me how she got from her house to a ditch. The last thing she claimed she could clearly remember was watching television the night before and going to sleep. She was also unable to iterate why her legs wouldn’t move. She claimed to live at “515″, which is the property to our north, but didn’t seem to have any idea where she was. She seemed to think she had been on the ground there for about four hours.
Within a few minutes, several Ponotoc County deputies, Chickasaw Lighthorse Police officers, Byng Fire-Rescue units, and EMS arrived. They asked her all the same questions I did, and she gave them similar answers.
They examined her and found that aside from being very cold, she was not injured, and coaxed her to her feet. Dan Randolph, a deputy and Byng Fire’s Chief, gave her a ride, presumably home.
When I was about 16 I saw the movie Three Days of the Condor starring Robert Redford and Faye Dunaway. Dunaway portrays Kathy, a photographer who gets tangled up in the intrigue. In her apartment, Redford, whose character is Joe Turner, looks at some of her images on the walls; deep, rich, low-light black-and-white images. He remarks that the photos aren’t really autumn, but they aren’t really winter. They are in between – November.
Kathy: Sometimes I take a picture that isn’t like me. But I took it so it is like me. It has to be. I put those pictures away.
Joe Turner: I’d like to see those pictures.
Kathy: We don’t know each other that well.
Joe Turner: Do you know anybody that well?
Kathy: I don’t think I want to know you very well.
This scene made a huge impression on the early years of my own photography. I was thinking about that all day today as I watched the sky go from sunny to, well, November, as a cold front passed and it turned blustery and grey. The sky told of November and all that it entails.
November Sky
Today the Chickasaw Nation Health Service “topped out” their new multi-million dollar health facility south of Ada (across the street from where Abby works, Pre-Paid Legal Services.) Before the actual raising of the beam, we were encouraged to sign it, “so that 200 years from now, when they tear this thing down, they’ll wonder who you were.” Anyway, if you squint just right, you can see Richard R. Barron, Ada Evening News Photographer written on the beam near the center of the photo. I drew a box around it when I signed.
Signed, sealed, delivered, my name on the beam for posterity
Oh, and along those same lines, I once dreamed that I could perform miracles with the wave of my hand, and that my most impressive miracle was being able to turn bridge beams into potato salad.
Comments Off “I want a lap organ!” -Kindergarten letter to Santa
Does it bother anyone else that “Santa” and “Satan” are so similar?
Pork strudel + prescription fat blocker
Hair pie cocktail
Actual sign at house in Latta, Oklahoma, Winter 2000: “Free info on mind control.”
Actual wet cement inscription, Latta, Oklahoma: “I, Harjo.”
Actual sign in Coalgate, Oklahoma: “Home of Ol’ Coaly, the Largest Rodeo Mural West of the Mississippi.”
January 1, 2000: Armageddon
February 12, 2000: I make pinto beans
“The internet is a terrible place. It’s full of fat women and people who eat feces.” -R
For your information, I wasn’t blowing vapors in the mohedrus, I was blowing Zs in it.
The I Chink: The Chinese Book of Racism
By Star Trek logic, our planet should be called “Huma Prime.” By my logic, “Dick’s Third Nut.”
Saint Patrick’s Day, 2000: I dream there are lobsters in my underwear drawer.
I admit that “Skeeter Beater” is a better name than “Skeeto Beeto.”
Brown eggs are whole grain eggs.
“I wouldn’t let him anywhere near my dead boy.” -K, as Lucille Turdfer
Weener on bun, colon done.
Weener on bread, colon dead.
“He’s weird. He has a fet footish.” -Mc
Hush Puppies = Dog Balls
My most embarrassing personal secret: the first girl I dated collected Smurfs.
Real place, Turner Falls, Oklahoma: Blue Hole Bath House.
J hurt her knee having sex. And on that same subject, yes, I am hung like a horse. But it’s one of those little Japanese horses.
Dog poop was known simply as “bottom” or “bottom mess” until, in 1716, Jonathan Dookie came to America.
Dating certain women is like wiping your ass with a lit firecracker.
“YOU ARE BLANK!” -N, audio tape, 1976
‘Have you ever noticed that the tortillas at this restaurant smell like cum?” -MS
“I’m taking snacks!” -U
Atheists have goshmothers and goshfathers.
“Christians don’t buttf*ck!” -J
People pick up this bøk and read out loud from it, and it’s obvious that most of them read at a sixth grade level.
I pick up this bøk and read aloud from it, and it’s obvious to most of them that I poop at a sixth grade level.
Actual headline, Ada, Oklahoma: Compost Causes Foul Odor
Actual headline, Ada, Oklahoma: Group Organized to Put Come on Capital Building
Actual headline, Ada, Oklahoma: Michael Jackson, Assuser Reach Agreement
I used to could smell a woman with issues a mile away. I had excellent issuedar.
“Good looking bitch who knows how to keep her f*cking mouth shut: Priceless.” -?
“There’s nothing wrong with cruelty. In fact, it can be quite stimulating.” -D
Old laundry basket full of juice bottles
Okay, it apparently wasn’t enough that I saw a bobcat on the way to Wal Mart. Once I got there, things got much weirder.
Hmm. It was a very weird night at Wal Mart.
Ada fans during a tense moment
The local football scene here has been somewhat lackluster. Over the years, the area football programs shined, especially Ada’s, which boasts 19 state championships, 5 of which I covered. But this year, it’s just been on the slow side. Crowds are smaller and quieter. Teams that once dominated are faltering.
One pleasant exception was last night. Ada hosted traditional rival McAlester, and while I think rivalries are lame and pretentious, the game itself was great, and it woke up a fan base that has been asleep all year. It ended up going to two overtimes, with McAlester edging Ada 28-27 after Ada failed to convert after their final OT touchdown.
The same guy who used to complain all the time about everything (“ah, f**k, man!”) told me on one of our trips, “Rich, man, sometimes you have too many f**king opinions.”
That’s probably true, but I don’t know why he thought he could tell me how many opinions I could have, and he probably had too many opinions himself.
According to sources very close to the Giant Muh, the phrase “jump the shark” has, itself, jumped the shark, and should henceforth be replaced by “lleap the llama.” To the best of our knowledge here at Giant Muh, the Fonz never leapt a llama, alpaca, camel, vicuña, guanaco, or any other tylopod, but since llamas are cute, and make excellent pets, this phrase will be adopted, until it becomes annoying, probably sometime next week.
Our ballots were given to us at Byng City Hall by our own de facto mother-in-law Dorothy, who spends 14 hours at City Hall every election day. She and those like her keep the voting places going in small-town America.
Also, as most of you who are not hung over know, Barack Obama was elected to be our next POTUS. Yay.
Here are some interesting facts about yesterday’s election:
I am excited about Obama becoming president.
I used to hang out with a guy who was super super negative all the time. His catch phrase was, “Ah, f*ck, man.” One time we were hiking a short, easy-to-navigate trail in Arizona. We were in a section of a wash that had about a million footprints, not a quarter of a mile from our destination. He stopped, got a look of desperation on his face, and said, “Rich, man, I think we’re f*ckin’ lost, man.”
On another occasion, he learned that a lot of gays were really into one of his favorite artists, Natalie Merchant. He looked at me with that really anguished expression on this face, paused, then asked, “Am I gay?”
I’m telling you that to tell you this: I recently discovered an internet radio station called Erin’s Chill. It is almost exclusively female artists, and it is my distinct impression that it is geared toward gay women. The thing is, I am really taken by the music. In fact, I’ve listened to little else all week. Ah, f*ck, man. Am I a lesbian?
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