18 October, 2005
you don't own me

before i even woke up, i knew this was a day that i was gonna stick it to The Man.
ok, the "Man" looks more like Neil from the Young Ones, and it wasn't him i wanted to do the sticking to (straight, not narrow), but the payroll department that'd shorted me, two weeks in a row.

that'll show 'em. i just deprived them of a day in my presence.

it was their fault, anyway. when i made my "sick" call, LesleyGore was on the musak hold melody, with the appropriate title. i could have lived with that... just not "Dreamweaver", afterward.

it would have been a crime to spend twelve hours pecking away at the Godforsaken Template Gulag, from which few have never returned. instead, i attempted at getting my shit together.

i'd kept putting off the finish for the porch glider i was going to paint, as well as the ragtop, for lack of a place to spray paint without the kamikaze diving of insects and the chaotic cyclone of leaves and dust. until i made the ultimate sacrifice in the aisles of the Cathedral Of Cheap Plastic Crap to find two screen tents to bind together... and a paint booth was erected. bug-free. leaf-resistant. good ventilation.

time to do a VonDutch.

all of this freedom opened my eyes to things i've been missing, not having them behind a camera viewfinder for a while. hell, not wanting to see, really. the respite must have readjusted my brain, finally, to starting me seeing things the way they should look on an image.

driving down the lane to Bill'$ house, the angled sun painted the asphalt with the swooping shadows of powerlines in huge swoops... looking like some grain-alcohol pickled lawnmower rider was laying patches of rubber while he was gearing up his rocket-powered JohnDeere.

something like that.

let's just say it was "painterly".

under The Man's thumb, again, tomorrow...
but i got an eye cracked open.

.