I may be well on my way to being a confirmed drunkard. Not an alcoholic mind you, just a drunk. Alcoholics go to boring meetings and drink shitty coffee. If I go to boring meetings, I'm on the clock and getting paid while I nap.
It is an observation of mine that people tend to disparage their local brewery. Naturally there are exceptions. Yuengling being a notable one. I have yet to meet anyone from Pennsylvania who is a vocal critic of America's oldest brewery. The Genesee Brewery in my home town of Rochester NY on the other hand tends to be generally crapped on. Admittedly I engaged in a fair amount of that myself without having tried the product.
I still haven't had Genny Lite or Cream Ale because both of those hold zero interest for me. I avoid light beer like I avoid dinner at my mom's house when she's experimenting with new recipes. And Cream Ale- that just sounds like two things which should not be put together. Regular Genny and Genny Bock beer, those are good for the price if not just plain good beer. Genny costs about the same as Pabst Blue Ribbon or Budweiser and beats both- in my highly subjective opinion.
But like most things, this whole topic can be traced to Israel in less than six degrees. My friends there seem to prefer Heineken and Carlsburg to the local Goldstar and Maccabee. Now, I'll agree that Maccabee is over-hyped piss-water. But Goldstar is pretty good and cheaper than the imports. So guess what I would like a fridge stocked with next time I'm there? I hope it will still be 15 Shekels (That's about $3.00) a bottle from the vendors on the Tel Aviv Promenade.
So try your local non-microbrew beer. Unless you live in St. Louis or Golden Colorado, odds are it's better than you think.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
What dreams may- HOLY SH- WTF WAS THAT?!!!
I don't know how it is for you, but I tend to go through dry spells when it comes to dreams. Not the dreams of world domination, I mean you standard REM sleep dreams. The ones that you have to decide whether or not you should tell anyone about because it may let out far more info than you want.
Anyway, with me it seems like weeks go by without any dreams I can actually remember. But in the past few days it's been one after another. The most memorable one made me wake up with a big grin on my face. (No it did not involve a Felicia Day- Natalie Portman threesome.)
It started out with me laughing at a news article I was reading. In my dream it seemed that 80 or so neo Nazis had busted out of prison, gotten themselves SS uniforms and WWII vintage German weapons. And then ran smack into a detachment from the contemporary Bundeswehr who, like most Germans nowadays really don't like that Nazi shit. The results were pretty predictable which is why I was laughing. There's nothing quite like the surrealist dream image of Nazis being told by modern Germans to shut the fuck up. With bullets.
The fun part about dream you can remember is trying to figure out just where the imagery came from. With this one it's pretty easy. I was helping a friend of the family who was making a very low budget indie film set during the Holocaust. Specifically, since I have a longstanding interest in militaria and this time period I mostly ended up helping her procure and set up a uniform for the film's antagonist.
I guess dreams are kind of like a pressure valve. There when you need relief, but otherwise not particularly memorable.
This post doesn't seem to make much sense, but having not posted anything since July, I just needed to get soemthing up here to get back into it.
Anyway, with me it seems like weeks go by without any dreams I can actually remember. But in the past few days it's been one after another. The most memorable one made me wake up with a big grin on my face. (No it did not involve a Felicia Day- Natalie Portman threesome.)
It started out with me laughing at a news article I was reading. In my dream it seemed that 80 or so neo Nazis had busted out of prison, gotten themselves SS uniforms and WWII vintage German weapons. And then ran smack into a detachment from the contemporary Bundeswehr who, like most Germans nowadays really don't like that Nazi shit. The results were pretty predictable which is why I was laughing. There's nothing quite like the surrealist dream image of Nazis being told by modern Germans to shut the fuck up. With bullets.
The fun part about dream you can remember is trying to figure out just where the imagery came from. With this one it's pretty easy. I was helping a friend of the family who was making a very low budget indie film set during the Holocaust. Specifically, since I have a longstanding interest in militaria and this time period I mostly ended up helping her procure and set up a uniform for the film's antagonist.
I guess dreams are kind of like a pressure valve. There when you need relief, but otherwise not particularly memorable.
This post doesn't seem to make much sense, but having not posted anything since July, I just needed to get soemthing up here to get back into it.
Friday, July 10, 2009
No one wants to see your butt pack
Hopefully, by now my photos from Operation : Northern Wind VI will have been released. If not, wait a while. They're worth it. In any case, this gives me an opportunity to climb back up on my soapbox and spout off about the blending of my two hobbies which will hopefully be the genesis of something leading me to the famous “Step 3: PROFIT!”
When I was at RIT I had to endure a few weeks of shooting sports photography. I hated it. I really don't give a damn about any sports except for the Olympics and those are easy to follow because most of them are races of one form or another. Maybe I should have tried to photograph some track meets, they'd have been easier to keep up with than high school soccer or tennis. The rule was: try to have the kid moving, face visible, with the ball in the frame. If you want to do mediocre sports shots that you can pass around at a PTA meeting, that's how to do it.
The thing is, I just didn't have the timing down and hated every second of it. While I can watch, enjoy and certainly appreciate the athleticism of sport, I have no interest in recording it. Photographing the fans was always a hell of a lot more fun. I've got a great shot of a soccer mom staring laser holes into a woman rooting for the other team, and another one of a Teen Girl Squad with one hanger on sulking in the background. They're good shots, you'll have to take my word for it.
Photographing airsoft is a little different. First, I actually like doing it. Second, I know how things go, I know what people do when, where they're going to go so I can put myself in the right place. There's a third one in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I think it has something to do with marking anyone who ruins a shot for a future burst to the face.
Of course, there are some unique challenges that come with wearing the blaze orange safety vest. Not the least of which is being able to hide that blaze orange safety vest. Well, that's actually impossible, but the point is that I don't want to give away someone's position. The easy way to do that is to just sand there looking stupid, checking the time, looking at a map or compass until the guy watching me turns around and does something else. Then I can resume photographing the person preparing to put a burst into his center of mass.
Another challenge goes back to the rule for mediocre sports photography. A soccer mom does not want to only see her kid's jersey number and no matter how much money they spend on their fake radio and hydro carrier, no one wants pictures of only the ass end of their kit. (Even if they have a large “Mud flap girl” patch that says, “Big Sexy,” on it. So that means getting in front of someone who is in the process of putting rounds downrange, often while they are dealing with incoming. This is where I can get my ass lit up from both sides at once. But the photos look good. And, two more names get added to the “In the face!” list.
Before the game starts I try to learn all I can about the objectives for each team and the lay of the land. I want to put myself where most of the action is going to be. In the case of Northern Wind, that meant spending a lot of time around a cluster of buildings. But, being sneaky myself I was able to channel both teams and find some other good fights. I was able to cut through the woods and find myself in a position to get some minor fights which otherwise wouldn't have been covered. Not everybody likes to be in the big battle. Everybody likes to find themselves looking badass in the photo gallery.
The last really big challenge is the dance. The dance, is what happens whenever you get more than one photographer or videographer covering in event. We all see the shots we want, but go through a crazy set of motions trying to keep the the orange vests out of our shots while staying out of theirs. We are a shy, sneaky and slightly evil lot. We don't like to be recorded. We like to be ghosts, 6”2' skinny, day glo orange ghosts. The only evidence of our passing being what we decide other people get to see. Seriously, the next time you're at a wedding watch how it works. There will be the guy getting paid to photograph, and at least two people with expensive cameras and an artistic bent out to get their own version of the same events. (Whenever I'm at a wedding I always introduce myself to the guy getting paid to shoot the thing and tell him to shove me out of his way if I'm in the wrong place. He's got money riding on this, I don't.)
The dance gets really fun when shit is hitting the fan all around you. Yelling, 'nades being tossed, smokes being thrown fusillades of bb's going in at least two directions- and on top of that you're trying to stay out of Nikki with the telephoto and Jeff with the DV cam's shots while getting close enough with the mid-range zoom to do some damage. And then you have to dodge game control's Humvee as they roll up to check out the fun.
I'm sorry does that sound like bitching? Let me pull down my balaclava so you can see the grin. I'm getting shots fucker! Good ones! Keep popping smoke and keep me happy! Too close for missiles? Switchin' to guns!
When I was at RIT I had to endure a few weeks of shooting sports photography. I hated it. I really don't give a damn about any sports except for the Olympics and those are easy to follow because most of them are races of one form or another. Maybe I should have tried to photograph some track meets, they'd have been easier to keep up with than high school soccer or tennis. The rule was: try to have the kid moving, face visible, with the ball in the frame. If you want to do mediocre sports shots that you can pass around at a PTA meeting, that's how to do it.
The thing is, I just didn't have the timing down and hated every second of it. While I can watch, enjoy and certainly appreciate the athleticism of sport, I have no interest in recording it. Photographing the fans was always a hell of a lot more fun. I've got a great shot of a soccer mom staring laser holes into a woman rooting for the other team, and another one of a Teen Girl Squad with one hanger on sulking in the background. They're good shots, you'll have to take my word for it.
Photographing airsoft is a little different. First, I actually like doing it. Second, I know how things go, I know what people do when, where they're going to go so I can put myself in the right place. There's a third one in there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I think it has something to do with marking anyone who ruins a shot for a future burst to the face.
Of course, there are some unique challenges that come with wearing the blaze orange safety vest. Not the least of which is being able to hide that blaze orange safety vest. Well, that's actually impossible, but the point is that I don't want to give away someone's position. The easy way to do that is to just sand there looking stupid, checking the time, looking at a map or compass until the guy watching me turns around and does something else. Then I can resume photographing the person preparing to put a burst into his center of mass.
Another challenge goes back to the rule for mediocre sports photography. A soccer mom does not want to only see her kid's jersey number and no matter how much money they spend on their fake radio and hydro carrier, no one wants pictures of only the ass end of their kit. (Even if they have a large “Mud flap girl” patch that says, “Big Sexy,” on it. So that means getting in front of someone who is in the process of putting rounds downrange, often while they are dealing with incoming. This is where I can get my ass lit up from both sides at once. But the photos look good. And, two more names get added to the “In the face!” list.
Before the game starts I try to learn all I can about the objectives for each team and the lay of the land. I want to put myself where most of the action is going to be. In the case of Northern Wind, that meant spending a lot of time around a cluster of buildings. But, being sneaky myself I was able to channel both teams and find some other good fights. I was able to cut through the woods and find myself in a position to get some minor fights which otherwise wouldn't have been covered. Not everybody likes to be in the big battle. Everybody likes to find themselves looking badass in the photo gallery.
The last really big challenge is the dance. The dance, is what happens whenever you get more than one photographer or videographer covering in event. We all see the shots we want, but go through a crazy set of motions trying to keep the the orange vests out of our shots while staying out of theirs. We are a shy, sneaky and slightly evil lot. We don't like to be recorded. We like to be ghosts, 6”2' skinny, day glo orange ghosts. The only evidence of our passing being what we decide other people get to see. Seriously, the next time you're at a wedding watch how it works. There will be the guy getting paid to photograph, and at least two people with expensive cameras and an artistic bent out to get their own version of the same events. (Whenever I'm at a wedding I always introduce myself to the guy getting paid to shoot the thing and tell him to shove me out of his way if I'm in the wrong place. He's got money riding on this, I don't.)
The dance gets really fun when shit is hitting the fan all around you. Yelling, 'nades being tossed, smokes being thrown fusillades of bb's going in at least two directions- and on top of that you're trying to stay out of Nikki with the telephoto and Jeff with the DV cam's shots while getting close enough with the mid-range zoom to do some damage. And then you have to dodge game control's Humvee as they roll up to check out the fun.
I'm sorry does that sound like bitching? Let me pull down my balaclava so you can see the grin. I'm getting shots fucker! Good ones! Keep popping smoke and keep me happy! Too close for missiles? Switchin' to guns!
Friday, June 19, 2009
Never die, never fade away.
One of the most important books I have was a parting gift from my high school photo teacher. As he was packing up his things getting ready to retire he gave me the pick of some of his old photo books. They stood in a cardboard box like records at a store and I looked through them the same way. Landscapes. Ansel Adams. Industrial and commercial. Stock books. I stopped at a slim, white hardcover. There was a man on the front in a strange looking coat, wearing an Uncle Sam hat and a sign advertising haircuts. I picked it up and looked through it. This was something completely strange to me. Strange images devoid of context. It showed another time, I could tell by the prices in the windows, the cars but most of all the clothes.
Men women and children dressed to the nines. Or the eights. Families proudly walking down city streets in suits, jackets and no one without a hat. It was much more my father's time than mine. And yet, something about it drew me in. Each photograph had a story behind it. A conversation, a passing glance. But none of it was there. The story was a blank as the large areas of white surrounding the photographs. There was no context and it drove me crazy. I wanted stories, I wanted to know what was going on.
Mr. Littwiller noticed the book and said, "Ah, I thought you'd like that one." I had no idea why. At least not until I was long done with RIT and had been put through the ringer by Mr. Litwiller's old friend Gunther Cartwright.
Though those years at RIT I always focused on what the images in that book never had. A story. I wanted to tell the stories. I worked so hard at making the images match the words I wanted to say. That is to say, I was miserable. The happiest I was making photographs was when I said, "To hell with the story. I want to take photographs I am proud to put up. Photographs where people ask me to explain what is happening, not photographs where I have to explain everything to get them to see the image."
The photographs that capture my imagination are not the ones which tell a story, but the ones which begin to tell a story. The ones which make people wonder and feel the need to do a little digging on their own.
A photograph of a man jumping from a boat to the dock with a mooring line makes us gasp a bit. Does he make it? Does he go in the water? But I find myself asking: What made him take the jump? Who's on the boat? How many times has he made the jump before? What's he going to do later? In five minutes of thinking I can fill in, in my imagination the guy's entire life's story. And then i wonder what's this guy to the photographer? Was he hoping for a splash?
I guess I've come around to thinking that telling stories is not nearly as much fun as trying to get other people to make them up.
Men women and children dressed to the nines. Or the eights. Families proudly walking down city streets in suits, jackets and no one without a hat. It was much more my father's time than mine. And yet, something about it drew me in. Each photograph had a story behind it. A conversation, a passing glance. But none of it was there. The story was a blank as the large areas of white surrounding the photographs. There was no context and it drove me crazy. I wanted stories, I wanted to know what was going on.
Mr. Littwiller noticed the book and said, "Ah, I thought you'd like that one." I had no idea why. At least not until I was long done with RIT and had been put through the ringer by Mr. Litwiller's old friend Gunther Cartwright.
Though those years at RIT I always focused on what the images in that book never had. A story. I wanted to tell the stories. I worked so hard at making the images match the words I wanted to say. That is to say, I was miserable. The happiest I was making photographs was when I said, "To hell with the story. I want to take photographs I am proud to put up. Photographs where people ask me to explain what is happening, not photographs where I have to explain everything to get them to see the image."
The photographs that capture my imagination are not the ones which tell a story, but the ones which begin to tell a story. The ones which make people wonder and feel the need to do a little digging on their own.
A photograph of a man jumping from a boat to the dock with a mooring line makes us gasp a bit. Does he make it? Does he go in the water? But I find myself asking: What made him take the jump? Who's on the boat? How many times has he made the jump before? What's he going to do later? In five minutes of thinking I can fill in, in my imagination the guy's entire life's story. And then i wonder what's this guy to the photographer? Was he hoping for a splash?
I guess I've come around to thinking that telling stories is not nearly as much fun as trying to get other people to make them up.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Eli is to photography in 2009 as Wil Wheaton is to writing in 2002
I haven't posted anything about photography yet. I've been trying for a long time to figure out what to say. The fact is, photography is a sort of painful topic for me. Thinking about it in a professional sense just bring back memories of failure and crushed dreams. Going through old images seldom gives me a sense of accomplishment at what I did in the past, it usually just makes me angry about the present. I feel like instead of finding a way to make new art I'm using the few good pieces I have as a crutch. "Hey! Look at these! I don't suck after all!"
I know a lot of people tell me I'm really good, but there's a catch to that. I have a hard time accepting praise from people who don't notice that their prints from the CVS minilab are too magenta. If may parents, relatives and friends are complimenting me I'd rather it be because of some connection they have to the image rather than on technical or aesthetic merits. I do like to form that emotional connection, but also for every good thing someoen can find about an image, odds are I can find two faults. Part of that is the nature of art- the creator is always painfully aware of the smallest mistake or defect. It's also because of the harshly critical environment at my photo school and how I reacted to it.
I was not a leaf on the wind, and I did not soar.
I am very ambivalent about trying to make a career (Or even a part time job.) out of my photography. On one hand, I do believe myself to be "Better than average," if not good or great. And a certain part of me does crave recognition. At the same time, I fear being not as good as I ought to be, or as good as I think I am.
I just don't have the courage yet to really put myself out there and try to succeed on my own terms. I don't quite know what those terms are. I'll let you know when I figure them out.
I know a lot of people tell me I'm really good, but there's a catch to that. I have a hard time accepting praise from people who don't notice that their prints from the CVS minilab are too magenta. If may parents, relatives and friends are complimenting me I'd rather it be because of some connection they have to the image rather than on technical or aesthetic merits. I do like to form that emotional connection, but also for every good thing someoen can find about an image, odds are I can find two faults. Part of that is the nature of art- the creator is always painfully aware of the smallest mistake or defect. It's also because of the harshly critical environment at my photo school and how I reacted to it.
I was not a leaf on the wind, and I did not soar.
I am very ambivalent about trying to make a career (Or even a part time job.) out of my photography. On one hand, I do believe myself to be "Better than average," if not good or great. And a certain part of me does crave recognition. At the same time, I fear being not as good as I ought to be, or as good as I think I am.
I just don't have the courage yet to really put myself out there and try to succeed on my own terms. I don't quite know what those terms are. I'll let you know when I figure them out.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Being a history buff sometimes sucks.
I was taking my mom out for an early birthday lunch to Sticky Lips Barbecue. As we got into the parking lot I saw that another car came in behind us. He followed as I went around the lot once and got a spot. Then he sat there about 20 feet back with his window rolled down.
I could see a slightly chubby middle-aged man, he had light colored facial hair, glasses and a bright red jacket.
"What does he want?" I asked aloud. I was thinking he might want to chew me out for that little bit of e-breaking I did in the lot. (My mother was NOT pleased with that.) Or maybe I had a break light or signal out.
No, it was my bumper sticker. I usually don't like bumper stickers. I tend to be fairly low key and like my car the same way. But there are some I just have to have. The Car Talk "Drive Now, Talk Later," one was the first- followed by an "Isotopes" sticker giving a little plug fro my favorite local band. But this was about the blue and white one that says, "Israel, you do not stand alone."
The guy had some rather strong feelings about that one and as it turned out he had very good reason. He introduced himself and said that he had been shot up by Israel. He was on the USS Liberty.
On June 8, 1967 as the 6 Day War raged on land the USS Liberty was in international waters off the Sinai when it came under attack by Israeli aircraft and petrol boats. 34 American sailors were killed and over 150 wounded. No one has yet come up with a convincing answer as to why it happened.
Relations between our two nations continued along as if it hadn't happened. This former navy man wanted to make sure I hadn't forgotten. How could I?
That's pretty much what I told him. That's all he wanted. To know that his shipmates won't be passed over by history and forgotten by their countrymen. It hurts me to remember this. I do not like the feelings of conflict it brings up in me, the sense of an impossible choice between loyalties. I'm glad that I don't have to shoose. But I do have to remember.
I could see a slightly chubby middle-aged man, he had light colored facial hair, glasses and a bright red jacket.
"What does he want?" I asked aloud. I was thinking he might want to chew me out for that little bit of e-breaking I did in the lot. (My mother was NOT pleased with that.) Or maybe I had a break light or signal out.
No, it was my bumper sticker. I usually don't like bumper stickers. I tend to be fairly low key and like my car the same way. But there are some I just have to have. The Car Talk "Drive Now, Talk Later," one was the first- followed by an "Isotopes" sticker giving a little plug fro my favorite local band. But this was about the blue and white one that says, "Israel, you do not stand alone."
The guy had some rather strong feelings about that one and as it turned out he had very good reason. He introduced himself and said that he had been shot up by Israel. He was on the USS Liberty.
On June 8, 1967 as the 6 Day War raged on land the USS Liberty was in international waters off the Sinai when it came under attack by Israeli aircraft and petrol boats. 34 American sailors were killed and over 150 wounded. No one has yet come up with a convincing answer as to why it happened.
Relations between our two nations continued along as if it hadn't happened. This former navy man wanted to make sure I hadn't forgotten. How could I?
That's pretty much what I told him. That's all he wanted. To know that his shipmates won't be passed over by history and forgotten by their countrymen. It hurts me to remember this. I do not like the feelings of conflict it brings up in me, the sense of an impossible choice between loyalties. I'm glad that I don't have to shoose. But I do have to remember.
Monday, November 24, 2008
I don't walk onto military posts often and when I do I am always overcome by a sense of being distinctly out of place. Whether I am photographing, acting as OPFOR or going to do odd jobs as a Sar El volunteer, even though I have a job to do I always feel as if I am an interloper. In a way, I am. I can wear my hair as long as I want to, dress as I see fit (within reason), I don't salute and I don't have to do push ups. (Thank G-d.) Even though the circumstances are not everyday, I am quite familiar with the feeling.
It is the same feeling I used to get when I would go out on assignment for my photo classes. The heightened self-conscious feeling of other people's eyes on me wondering what I'm doing at their place of business or event. It's a feeling that a few years ago overwhelmed me and put me in a cheap, overstuffed chair across from a psychologist. (Not a psychiatrist. Mine wasn't able to prescribe drugs. It was probably better that way.) Of course it's different now. For one thing I've grown up a lot on five years. For another thing when I'm on a military installation I've got people I can point to and names I can drop.
But the initial discomfort is always there, as well as the, "What the fuck are you doing here?" looks from the people who have to be there. But after a while it fades. I observe them, they observe me. I see something in them I want to photograph, and after a while, they see me acting professionally, doing my job, without interfering with theirs. A few jokes ("One more for "Soldier of Fortune!""), a few images shown on the back of a digital camera, and a quick explanation tend to go a long way.
But the initial nervousness is always there and in this situation and others I don't see it going away.
Now it's time to step away from my issues for a while and get into the basics of my last weekend with the NY Army National Guard's Recruit Sustainment Program in Buffalo NY. Here's my weekend:
17:15- Arrive at the armory. Find the sergeants I'm working for. Introductions with the ones I don't know, bring in all my stuff (Four trips), then dinner. Photograph the recruits doing maneuver training outdoors. A couple other OPFOR guys show up, we shoot the shit until about 0200 then get to sleep on some cots.
06:30 Saturday morning- a very unpleasant wake up, followed by breakfast, equipment checks, and briefings. I have two sets of gear to check, photographic stuff and my airsoft gear. I lend out one of my guns to the RSP. I photograph one group running the gauntlet of sniper fire, bombings, civilian mobs, thug-ish police and the room clearing from hell. Then i follow them inside and photograph them as they learn to cammo their faces. I talk with them a bit and they are a lot more comfortable with me, and with getting shot to hell by my friends. I tell them next time they see me I'll be gunning for them too.
I trade my camera for an Echo 1 Vector Arms AK47, put on a plastic badge and go out to play Iraqi Police. I'm mostly passive. I do some communicating which I aim at getting them to remember what they're supposed to be doing or presenting a minor speed bump in that process. There is one situation where they are slow to enter a room. We go in to "Show them how it's done,' and promptly get shot to pieces by our fellow OPFOR. As I write this I still have the welts.
After lunch, more of the same.
After dinner there are 3 hours of scored challenge events. By now my feet are killing me and I'm dead tired, but I do the best I can. I run, I scream I get pushed to the floor at gunpoint and searched.
After the recruits are bedded down we tear through six large pizzas and 3 18 packs of Labbat's beer. I fall asleep on a cott in between to cars in the cavernous motor pool.
Sunday was more conventional airsoft. We did more shooting than acting which we discussed at length in out AAR. But it still had training value. The recruits communicated well, moved as a team, supported each other and did a number on us.
When I got home on Sunday I promptly called in sick to work and passed out for about 13 hours. I really was sick. When I woke up I had my first full on cold of the season. Runny nose, congestion, the whole deal. I can't help thinking the lack of sleep and long hours held the door open for the germs. Still worth it.
It is the same feeling I used to get when I would go out on assignment for my photo classes. The heightened self-conscious feeling of other people's eyes on me wondering what I'm doing at their place of business or event. It's a feeling that a few years ago overwhelmed me and put me in a cheap, overstuffed chair across from a psychologist. (Not a psychiatrist. Mine wasn't able to prescribe drugs. It was probably better that way.) Of course it's different now. For one thing I've grown up a lot on five years. For another thing when I'm on a military installation I've got people I can point to and names I can drop.
But the initial discomfort is always there, as well as the, "What the fuck are you doing here?" looks from the people who have to be there. But after a while it fades. I observe them, they observe me. I see something in them I want to photograph, and after a while, they see me acting professionally, doing my job, without interfering with theirs. A few jokes ("One more for "Soldier of Fortune!""), a few images shown on the back of a digital camera, and a quick explanation tend to go a long way.
But the initial nervousness is always there and in this situation and others I don't see it going away.
Now it's time to step away from my issues for a while and get into the basics of my last weekend with the NY Army National Guard's Recruit Sustainment Program in Buffalo NY. Here's my weekend:
17:15- Arrive at the armory. Find the sergeants I'm working for. Introductions with the ones I don't know, bring in all my stuff (Four trips), then dinner. Photograph the recruits doing maneuver training outdoors. A couple other OPFOR guys show up, we shoot the shit until about 0200 then get to sleep on some cots.
06:30 Saturday morning- a very unpleasant wake up, followed by breakfast, equipment checks, and briefings. I have two sets of gear to check, photographic stuff and my airsoft gear. I lend out one of my guns to the RSP. I photograph one group running the gauntlet of sniper fire, bombings, civilian mobs, thug-ish police and the room clearing from hell. Then i follow them inside and photograph them as they learn to cammo their faces. I talk with them a bit and they are a lot more comfortable with me, and with getting shot to hell by my friends. I tell them next time they see me I'll be gunning for them too.
I trade my camera for an Echo 1 Vector Arms AK47, put on a plastic badge and go out to play Iraqi Police. I'm mostly passive. I do some communicating which I aim at getting them to remember what they're supposed to be doing or presenting a minor speed bump in that process. There is one situation where they are slow to enter a room. We go in to "Show them how it's done,' and promptly get shot to pieces by our fellow OPFOR. As I write this I still have the welts.
After lunch, more of the same.
After dinner there are 3 hours of scored challenge events. By now my feet are killing me and I'm dead tired, but I do the best I can. I run, I scream I get pushed to the floor at gunpoint and searched.
After the recruits are bedded down we tear through six large pizzas and 3 18 packs of Labbat's beer. I fall asleep on a cott in between to cars in the cavernous motor pool.
Sunday was more conventional airsoft. We did more shooting than acting which we discussed at length in out AAR. But it still had training value. The recruits communicated well, moved as a team, supported each other and did a number on us.
When I got home on Sunday I promptly called in sick to work and passed out for about 13 hours. I really was sick. When I woke up I had my first full on cold of the season. Runny nose, congestion, the whole deal. I can't help thinking the lack of sleep and long hours held the door open for the germs. Still worth it.
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