#snapped on a Canon AE-1

[jtmportland]

It’s Thursday! Haven’t done this in a while, so here’s another old scan.

This photo was taken October, 1989. I was visiting a friend in Oakland, California. A sunny morning, his cat Mango in the window, and a red 1957 T-Bird parked on the street. I was in love.

Two days later, the Loma Prieta earthquake would cause catastrophic damage to the Bay Area.

[wildemaven]

Weekends with Frankie: Flea Market Finds

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader

Words: 1,002

Rating: T

Warnings: mentions of food; let me know if I missed anything

A/N: Getting this out later than I wanted to, this sickness hit me hard. This isn’t beta’s and kind of feels like a mess. My brain feels like mush, so I’m not even sure I like the ending, nothing was working as I was writing it— it is what it is now lol.

Weekends with Frankie Masterlist / Masterlist

The paper cup is warm, its contents fueling this chilly morning. You’re tucked into Frankie’s side, your favorite spot to reside on the weekends.

It’s the third Sunday of the month. Which means it’s not your slow serene kind of morning. But sometimes sacrifices equal greater rewards.

The house you share with Frankie is modest but homey.

When you moved in, while spacious, it was lacking a sense of style. No fault to Frankie, the man is simple in his ways and never put much thought into decorating his home.

That was years ago. Since then, with Frankie’s approval, you’d been able to meld both of your aesthetics to design your home— his warm earthy tones and your contemporary mid century modern.

But it was your shared appreciation for all things from decades before that gave character throughout the space. Items laced with history from those who had previously owned them.

Thrift stores and flea markets are where gravitate towards when purchasing things.

That’s where you find yourselves this morning. Bundled in layers, ready to browse through a treasure trove of collectibles and piles of rare nicknacks strewn out for pickers to rummage through.

You didn’t necessarily need any one item in particular. Through thrifting together, you’d both found a love for collecting.

Frankie’s collection of vinyls was impressive. He had a real knack for finding some old gems. His most prized one being Prince’s Purple Rain album. More often than not, it was streaming through your home.

He was diligent in his purchases. Each album had to hold meaning or reference a time in his life.

You found joy in collecting old film cameras. You’d grown up before digital was the norm, and pictures took close to a week before you were able to see them. You love the accessibility of your phone for quick snaps but there’s just something about the click and winding of a vintage camera body.

Frankie appreciated the photos around your home even more so because they were taken by you. Your sweet little Canon AE-1 was always stowed in your bag when leaving the house. It accompanied you on many camping trips to the mountains. It was always with in arms reach during barbecues with the guys— you made each of them photo books through out the years of birthdays, weddings and group vacations.

Today your find yourselves digging through a pile of well worn tshirts, Frankie’s second love. It’s stacks and stacks of band tees, the images so faded they’re just barely visible. They’re aged to perfection, the fabrics so buttery soft from years of wear and tear.

You’d gifted Frankie a vintage Fleetwood Mac shirt when you’d first got together. It had quickly become his favorite. Dark blue, faded in some areas now littered with holes all over it. The offer to replace had been brought up several times, but he refused stating it was just starting to break in and fit right— it makes the man happy.

Sifting through a few piles, he’d found a few winners— new to him Styx and Rolling Stone tees.

Frankie and you have a love affair with books. Your home is filled with them, any and every subject. Early on in dating, Frankie had mentioned his aversion for reading when he joined the army. With all the studying he’d done over the years for flight school, he swore he’d never pick up a book again. But it was on his first deployment, the long days filled with trepidation and uncertainty, where he found books were the one thing that made his down time a little more tolerable. They kept his mind busy getting lost in the pages, the words leaving a lasting impression on him. Books were his escape.

You’d found him a first edition of East of Eden, the book that resolved his love for reading. He’d briefly mentioned it on your second date, a mere fact he’d given that you tucked away for a later time. When he’d unwrapped it 3 years later for Christmas, he was speechless. It was in perfect mint condition, every page crisp and pristine— but also he was so in awe that you’d remembered such a small thing he had mentioned years prior. It sits on his nightstand now, his watch and glasses placed on top neatly every night before climbing into bed, nestling himself against your sleeping frame.

It’s a small stack of books that you’ve both decided were worthy of a new shelf life in your home. Their pages grayed and worn with faintly legible marks littering the page margins, a glimpse into the thoughts of those who’d found wisdom among the lengthy chapters. Both of you looking forward to adding your own remarks in time.

Items tucked away in the trunk safely, as Frankie drives you home. The leather creaks as you shift forward to adjust the vents, the air ambient and warm. You relax back into the seat, sensation slowly coming back to your frozen fingers. Movement from the driver’s seat pulls you from thought. Frankie’s saying something, but the afternoon sun is filtering through the driver side window— you’re taken aback by his backlit presence.

The golden rays peeking through his over grown curls. That breathtaking dimple making an appearance as he reflects on the day, your life’s mission to make him smile just so you can witness it. He’s a force that makes life memorable and authentic.

You both haven’t moved since settling into your be couch when you arrived home, not before trading your warm layers for one of Frankie’s soft tees and leggings. Containers of pasta from your favorite Italian cafe are strewn out on the coffee table— stomachs satiated and nearly bursting. The low hum of the record player fills the room, Purple Rain. Frankie flips through one of the books from today, dog-earing pages as he reads.

The weekend nears its end with work life on the horizon. Your mind is already reeling with what’s in store for next weekend.

[theflagscene]

Anyone else remember that Hunger Games simulator from like a decade ago that you could put any name in and make them fight to the death? Yeah, well it’s almost 5am and I’m having some trouble sleeping so I figured it was time… time for -

The Main BL Couples Hunger Games 🔪💣

This shit gets long, so it’s under a cut. Content warning for your (possible) faves murdering and dying at the hands of each others. If you have no idea what this is, firstly, welcome to the internet, what is the outside world like? Anyway, this is 12 pairs of people forced to fight to the death, they are not teams, so being in a pair does not mean they will be kind to one another. Also, this is all for fun and pure insomnia induced boredom, don’t take this shit to seriously.

FYI, everything below here is just written text by me. There is no actual pictures of anything violent, it’s literally just something to read. Also I’m so going to be doing this with my favourite side couples as well, for now I just picked 12 of my favourite main couples, so let’s see how this goes!

District 1 - SeanWhite

District 2 - KinnPorsche

District 3 - AkkAyan

District 4 - KhaiThird

District 5 - TanBunn

District 6 - PalmNuengdiao

District 7 - AePete

District 8 - FighterTutor

District 9 - PatPran

District 10 - DeanPharm

District 11 - WinTeam

District 12 -PuenTayla

Can all mobsters and violent criminals not have too unfair an advantage plz, I’m looking at you Kinn, Porsche, Tan and Sean.

- Day One: The Bloodbath at the Cornucopia -

Fighter, Pran, Third, Akk, Ayan, Tan, Pharm, White and Pat all run without stopping for supplies.

Kinn grabs fish bait while Palm grabs fishing gear (how fitting for Palm)

Nuengdiao grabs a first aid kit and runs

Khai scares Win away before he can get anything useful.

Sean sets off an explosive killing Tutor, Pete (bye Saint characters), Tayla and Dean.

Ae sets off an explosive killing Porsche

Puen sets off an explosive killing Team and Bunn

- Day One: Afternoon -

White gets medical supplies from a sponsor

Nuengdiao and Pat team up

Sean and Tan hunt for other tributes

Kinn and Pharm team up

Ayan stalks Khai

Ae, Win and Palm do inconsequential things.

Fighter sneaks up and snaps Pran’s neck

Third shoots Akk with a poison blow dart slowly killing him.

- Day One: Arena Event: Mass Hallucinations -

(Damn, Day One, save some murder for the other days)

Kinn, Third, Pharm, Sean, Nuengdiao, Ae, Ayan, Tan, Pat, and Khai all survive without any trouble.

Win hugs a tracker jackets nest thinking it’s a pillow and dies.

Palm drowns White thinking he’s a shark trying to attack him.

Fighter drowns Puen thinking he was a shark trying to attack him.

- End of Day One: 12 Canons sound -

Tutor, Pete, Tayla, Dean, Porsche, Team, Bunn, Pran, Akk, Win, White and Puen all eliminated.

Districts 11 and 12 gone.

- Night One -

Palm treats his injuries

Ae gets food from a sponsor

Fighter and Khai share shelter

Nuengdiao and Tan share shelter

Kinn, Pat and Third share shelter, sleeping in shifts.

Sean, Ayan and Pharm get into a fight, Pharm kills both.

- Day Two -

Kinn gets water from a sponsor

Tan and Khai work together for the day

Pat, Third, Palm, Fighter and Ae do inconsequential things.

 Nuengdiao kills Pharm with his own weapon.

- End of Day Two: 3 Canons sound -

Sean, Ayan and Pharm eliminated.

Districts 1, 3 and 10 gone.

- Night Two -

Fighter treats infected wounds

Pat and Kinn share shelter

Palm, Third, Nuengdiao and Khai do inconsequential things.

Ae throws a knife into Tan’s chest.

- Day Three: The Feast at the Cornucopia -

Khai and Ae do not go

Pat gathers food before running

Kinn takes a weapon before running

Fighter and Third threaten a double suicide, the threat fails and they die.

Nuengdiao kills Palm with his own weapon (Oh come on!!!)

- Day Three: Afternoon -

Ae steals from Pat

Khai looks for firewood

Nuengdiao looks for firewood

Kinn discovers a cave

- End of Day Three: 4 Canons sound -

Tan, Fighter, Third and Palm eliminated.

Districts 5 and 8 gone.

- Night Three -

Kinn receives a hatchet from a sponsor (okay his family is cheating!)

Pat tends to his wounds

Khai passes out from exhaustion

Nuengdiao and Ae share shelter

- Day Four -

Khai explores

Ae and Kinn fight, both survive.

Pat sets off an explosive, killing Nuengdiao.

- End of Day Four: 1 Canon sound -

Nuengdiao

District 6 gone

- Night Four -

Ae tries to start a fire, fails.

Khai has nightmares

Kinn destroys Pat’s supplies when he’s asleep.

- Day Five -

Kinn attacks Khai, he manages to escape.

Pat gets a hatchet from a sponsor (Pa to the rescue!)

Ae hides

- Night Five -

Pat and Khai share shelter

Kinn and Ae share shelter

- End of Day Five -

Everyone survives

- Day Six -

Ae hunts for food

Kinn and Khai hunt each other

Pat dies trying to escape the arena

- End of Day Six: 1 Canon sound -

Pat

District 9 gone.

- Night Six -

Khai dies from an infection

Kinn stabs Ae in the back with a trident (with a what!?)

Two canons sound.

Districts 4 and 7 gone.

Kinn from District 2 wins

(*whispers* you cheater)

Top kills: Sean with four

First killed: Tutor

Last killed: Ae

First District eliminated: Eleven

(I find it funny that PerthSaint were the first/last killed lol, they just can’t have anything nice can they!?)

Well, that was fun lol. You know when I was putting the names into the generator, I was like; I stg Kinn you better not win this shit with your big bad mafia tiddies. And what did he go and do!? Won this shit with his big bad mafia tiddies! I could not believe it.

[vintage-snap]

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[blackssuunn-mandoandyodito]

Tabaco y Brea

Part three

Pairing:Javier Peña x DEA! reader

Rating:Uh, PG-13? What are the ratings?

Words: 2.6k

A/N: Um, tbh this is my favorite and the one we start the Drama™ with.

Warnings:rape reference,violence, (murdering?), sexual talk, prostitution. If I’m missing anything let me know.

Summary:You go to Medellín for the Narco meeting. Things get complicated when Helena doesn’t arrive.

Part one Part two

Colonel Horacio Carrillo is waiting for you at the Carlos Holguin School, his base of operations, once you get to Medellín. Javi drives you all in the OGV (this time a white Van) with you in the back and Steve riding shotgun. Javier gets out, you and Steve rounding the car as the Colonel greets him.

“La inteligencia que me diste estaba en su punto. Los traquetos se van a reunir en las Margaritas” (Your intel was good. The traquetos (drug dealers) are gathering in Las Margaritas)

 You still can’t figure out how Javier was able to convince the Ambassador to let all of you come without more than a day’s notice.

You get closer, Carrillo turning his head towards your direction. Javier sighs.

“I want you to meet our new DEA, Steve Murphy”

The Colonel smirks. “Carne fresca” (Fresh meat)

Both look at each other, and you roll your eyes. 

“No sea idiota coronel” (Don’t be an idiot colonel)

Steve, once again, looks at you surprised. He may not speak Spanish but he’s sure he knows what idiota means.

Horacio laughs at your comment and lets a heavy hand fall on your shoulder. “No sea llorona Bera, hay que darle una buena bienvenida al nuevo!” (Don’t be a crybaby Bera, we have to give the new guy a good welcome!)

You shrug off his hand and get closer to Murphy in a protective stance. He’s a good guy, that much you’ve noticed with so little time he’s spent with you. Steve bumps you playfully as if saying thank you. You bump him back.

After that, everyone climbs into their respective cars and drive straight to the fancy hotel where the narcos meeting was going to be held.

You get a room along with the three of them, your Canon AE-1 hanging heavy on your neck as you climb up the stairs. Steve has a Fujica, and you guess he will be taking as many photos as he can. You’ll try and do the same, but the ones you’re taking will be staying with you and his are going to the ID guys.

Steve gets closer to the window and immediately starts snapping pictures as the narcos keep coming and getting out of their fancy vehicles. You do the same, but from the other angle.

You can see Carlos Lehder, the Ochoa brothers (and you now realize this probably has to do something with her sister being kidnapped) and Fernando Galeano “The Wolfman”, but you’re surprised when Gonzalo Rodriguez Gacha “The Mexican” gets out of another car, his face not very happy as they close the red door behind him.

“Is that Gacha?” Javi asks. You nod beside him, his voice sounding as surprised as you feel.

“I’ve never seen him with other traffickers”

The colonel is right, of course. Gacha is known for being a lone man regarding business, a paranoid man who doesn’t trust anyone. Him being there doesn’t mean anything good.

Finally, Pablo Escobar and Gustavo Gaviria arrive in a brown Mercedes convertible. Horacio orders Steve to take pictures of him and something urges you to answer that you’re not his soldiers to be bossed around, but keep your mouth shut.

Reluctantly, you admit in your insides that the intel Javi got from Helena was great, and you can feel in your guts that something big is going down today.

Hours pass and you realize that the meeting is over once the hookers are called up. The four of you get out and drive to the meeting point with Helena, and even if you’re not very fond of her you pray that she’s okay and got the work done.

-

“She should be here by now”

Javier is pacing outside with Carrillo standing beside one of the cars, Steve partially lying on the front while you’re inside with your head hanging out the window.

“You think she slipped?”

Javi shakes his head. “Nah, she’s no dummy”

Horacio bends over the car’s chest and laces his fingers together. “Maybe she’s getting pretty for you”

You snort and Javi gives you a dirty look but nods towards him. “Yeah”

More time passes, and if you’re honest you’re starting to get worried for the girl. One of Carrillo’s men gets close to him and mutters something that makes your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach.

“Vimos a la chica irse hace un buen rato” (we saw the girl leaving a long time ago)

You open the door and jump off, getting close to them as Carrillo speaks to Javi.

“They’re telling me the girl left a long time ago, she’s already dead”

Your partner looks concerned as he kneads his shoulder, a frown well pronounced showing in his face. He turns around and shakes his head.

“No, they wouldn’t kill her at the hotel”

“Then they killed her somewhere else, she knew the risks” you hate how nonchalant Horacio sounds, how easy he speaks about an innocent girl being dead because she decided to help you.

“If we’re going back, we go back now” Steve intervenes, and you’re grateful he has more human sense than Horacio. 

Javi gets close to him, muttering, “Necesito que la encuentres” (I need you to find her)

Horacio gives him a look, but answers. “Conozco un sicario, si te interesa. Quieres?” (I know a sicario, if you’re interested. You OK with that?)

Your blood runs cold as Javi nods, “yo voy” (I’ll go with you) 

You get close to both of them and grip Javi’s arm. “Yo iré contigo también” (I’ll go with you too)

Before Javi begins his protest, Carrillo points towards Steve. 

“Qué hacemos con Carne Fresca?” (What do we do with Fresh Meat?)

Javi glares at you. “Necesito que te quedes con él” (I need you to stay with him)

Disagreeing, you shake your head and move ahead of him. Horacio looks at how you walk towards his vehicle with a grin on his face, and you hear Javi telling Steve something from the distance.

 Shortly after, they’re following after you and climb into the car. 

-

You get to the place where the sicario is supposed to be and decide to stay inside the car as Javi and Carrillo along with one of his men go up to a balcony.

 Even if you’re not there, the sounds of a man getting chocked with a plastic bag reach your ears and Carrillo’s voice shouting drowns them a little bit. 

You clench your eyes shut as footsteps can be heard and shortly after, a gunshot resonates through the night. 

The sicario must have said something interesting because, without a word, both of them climb into the car and drive like crazy to another part of the city.

Horacio hits the brakes out of nowhere and the tires squeal in protest. Javier turns to look at you from the copilot seat, frowning.

“No me quedaré aqui Javier, ni lo pienses” (I won’t stay here Javier, don’t even think about it)

He lets out an exasperated sigh and gets out, his grip hard on the gun at his hands. 

Carrillo’s men go first, getting rid of the ones guarding the entrance. Then, Horacio goes on the other side, with Javi after him and you close behind. You climb the stairs silently, as close to the wall as the small space lets you, one of the soldiers leads you upstairs.

Chaos ensues when he fires, and shouts can be heard all over the place. Javier and Horacio start shooting the men quickly and soon it’s only you who are there. You turn around to Javi, and nausea invades your senses.

Helena is lying there, naked and beaten as she whimpers. Her face is bloody and bruises are starting to form all over her body. You have to cover your mouth to keep a gasp from escaping. You’re amazed at how beautiful she is, even after all of this, and a sense of admiration fills your chest. 

Javier takes off his vest and kneels to cover her with it. With tender hands, he holds her face and says her name.

“Helena? It’s me”

She doesn’t answer, and you can feel the guilt already eating at Javi.

“Te voy a sacar de aquí okay? Te lo prometo” (I’m going to take you out of here okay? I promise)

He lifts Helena in his arms and you trail behind him with your gun held up, Horacio walking behind you.

Nobody says a word as he takes her to the ambulance and you drive off to the hospital. Carrillo talks to his men by radio, telling them where you’re heading to and orders them to go there. Steve is still with them, so you guess you’ll find him there too.

You get to the hospital and Javi takes her to the ER, but they don’t let him go inside. Before his temper gets you in trouble, you put your hand on his shoulder and speak.

“Yo soy su hermana” (I’m her sister)

They nod without any protest and let you go inside with them. Javier sees you go and cocks his head in a silent thanks. 

Half an hour passes before anything else happens, but a doctor gets close to you in the waiting room to tell you she’s stable.

“Puede entrar a verla si lo desea, está consciente” (You can go see her if you want to, she’s conscious)

You nod and smile at her, “muchas gracias, iré en seguida” (thank you very much, I’ll go straight away)

Standing up, your muscles protest for being tense for so long, and you walk to the room the doctor pointed at.

Slowly, you open the door trying to avoid disturbing her, but her head turns towards your direction once a creaking sound echoes through the room.

“Hola Helena”, you greet her, “soy Bera, la compañera de Javier” (Hello Helena, I’m Bera, Javier’s (DEA) partner)

Your voice is soft, and you try to be as careful as possible so as not to startle her. You walk to his side and sit down at the chair beside his bed. She tries to give you a smile, but it becomes a pained expression caused by the bruises in her face.

“Tú eres Bera, eh?” (So you’re Bera, uh?) her voice is hoarse, probably because she screamed at some point. Your heart clenches at that. 

“Si, soy yo. Cómo te sientes?” (Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?)

You feel stupid just as the words leave your mouth. How is she supposed to feel after what she just went through?

Despite this, she chuckles. “Como mierda, pero sobreviviré” (Like shit, but I’ll survive)

A strained smile reaches your lips. She’s a strong woman, that much you can notice. Regret invades your throat at how unjustified your resentment towards her was.

“Me aseguraré de que salgas de este país, te lo juro” (I’ll make sure you get out of this country, I swear)

She doesn’t say anything but nods, grateful. An awkward silence covers the room but you don’t want to leave her alone. The smell of desinfectant makes your nose itch, spots in the curtains making you uncomfortable. The covers of her bed are completely pristine though, and that reassures you a little.

Just as she’s about to fall asleep again, she mutters something.

“Eres muy especial para Javier, sabías?” (You’re very special to Javier, you know?)

Her words leave you speechless, and she keeps going at the lack of an answer.

“Contrario a lo que pareces pensar, yo no significo mucho para él. Nada más allá de una amistad tal vez” (Contrary to what you seem to think, I don’t mean much to him. Nothing more than a friendship maybe) Her words have an undertone of bitterness, and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out.

“Siempre que yo intentaba algo más con él, me rechazaba. Al principio pensé que era porque simplemente no estaba interesado en una relación,” she shrugs, the movement tense and clearly painful “pero aquella vez que me estaba cogiendo y dijo tu nombre? supe que era porque ya le pertenecía a alguien” (Every time I tried something with him, he rejected me. At first, I thought he just wasn’t interested in a relationship, but that one time he was fucking me and he said your name? I knew it was because he was already someone else’s)

You freeze, partially because of how easy she speaks about it and partially because of the actual words that just left his mouth.

“Yo-Yo no-no..” you stutter, “estás segura de que dijo mi nombre?” (I-I don’t-don’t… are you sure that he said my name?)

She chuckles at that. “Pues me acabas de decir que tú eres Bera, y si lo susurra en mi oído cuando se está corriendo no hay manera de que haya escuchado mal” (Well you just told me that you’re Bera, and if he whispers it at my ear when he’s coming there’s no way I heard it wrong)

Heat spreads through your cheeks and a flutter forms in your stomach at the (frankly hot) thought of Javi thinking about you as he came. But you don’t know if it means what you’d like, there’s no way to make sure unless Javi straight up tells you and he doesn’t even know you know.

You start freaking out in your head. Does he feel the same way about you? Was it just the heat of the moment? Are you gonna do anything about it? Why hasn’t he said anything!?

Ultimately, you decide not to do anything about it. If he wanted you to know he would have told you already. The thought hurts, but you can’t do much.

 You get out a pen from your jacket, rip a piece of paper from the notes at the bedside table and write your real name and the phone number from your house as well as your office one, handing it to Helena.

“Si alguna vez necesitas algo, llámame” (If you ever need something, call me)

She takes it from your hand and nods, folding it under her pillow. You stand up and go towards the door, but just as you’re about to get out, she speaks.

“Asegurate de que Javier esté bien” (Make sure Javier stays well)

Warmth spreads all over your body at her tone. You’re sure she doesn’t mean “keeping him safe”. Regardless of this, you nod.

“Siempre”(Always)

You close the door behind you and walk outside the hospital, conviction in every single one of your steps.

Javier is leaning in the bar at the streetside, Steve standing in front of him. It looks as if they just fought about something, Carrillo sitting at a chair behind Steve.

“I hope you know what that means” it’s the only thing you get to hear from the argument.

Javi then hands him a beer just as he walks towards the corner store, Steve taking a gulp of it. You get close to him and grab his arm.

“I’m sorry for leaving you behind”, you say. “I’m sure you didn’t come all the way down here to just sit around and watch from the sidelines”

Both Carrillo and he snort at your comment, leaving you perplexed. Were they talking about that before you came?

“It’s okay Bera, not your fault”, his posture understanding as he grabs your hand and squeezes. 

You smile and turn to Javier. “She’ll be fine. I’ll help you get her the visa”

Javier nods. “Gracias” (thank you)

You go buy a soda and the three of you drink in silence for a moment.

“Qué sigue de esto, equipo Torbellino?” (What goes after this, Whirlpool team?) Carrillo breaks the silence from his seat. He smirks at you and you roll your eyes at the nickname he gave to both you and Javier, but repress a smile and you turn towards him.

The night starts to weight down on you, the events of the day catching up with your body. In spite of this, you straighten up at the change of subject and your breath comes out easier than before.

“A Cali” Javi says. (To Cali)

You smile. 

Tag list:

@dynphomaniac

@fioccodineveautunnale

@storiesofthefandomloversreblogs

@thisisthe-way 

[hoseoksactualass]

[5:37 p.m.] fuck buddies and instagram husbands

hello babes,, im posting this again bcos tumblr has prOBLEMS w it like it won’t open on my masterlist erhrbwbc and the tagging system was shit around the time i posted it :(((((

"Lift your foot higher."

You might stomp on his Canon AE-1. It's not one of the Big Boys, but it's the beginner's film camera. One you could find at the nearest appliance store Jungkook would step his Doc Martens on, because he was and is that streetwear e-boy wannabe. And succesfully.

" - hands in your pockets, maybe, if you could - yeah - cool," he crouched, very unflattering for the tightening joggers he was wearing. But you could see the healthy roots of his hair. Straight. Looked like it smelled good.

"Kook, my leg's starting to - "

"One. Second. Your face - good - aaand - done," he dropped his bum on the floor just as you dropped your leg. And then he's silent and pouting at the viewfinder like nothing was to his heart's content.

"What's cooking?," you crouch next to him. Now, you feel bijou next to him, all soft and putty, because he has the scent of baby lotion.

"Having these developed and scanned for your Instagram is tiring."

You scoff. "But you like taking pictures, right?"

The way you tilted your head didn't go unnoticed, but he was good at hiding how it made him feel. Except for his cheeks. For all he knew, the way you said taking pictures was growing on him, and you could see it on the red of his apples.

"'course."

"I don't need them on Insta. I just need them on your camera," you smile.

He looks at you. Baffled like he didn't want them on his AE-1, his film-making-obsession start. Like he wasn't trying not to look at the stupid necklace he gave you dangling around your neck. "You just want them to... sit here?", he raises a brow.

"Yeah, duh," you snorted, sitting yourself down. " - for when you miss me or something."

It's not like you haven't fucked. It was just that that was growing on him, too. But he laughed like it wasn't true. Your shirt was huge, collar hanging dangerously low on your chest. It gave Jungkook butterflies, but he couldn't comprehend it.

"And it's essential, right? You can use me for studying lighting and shadow, and... ," your voice faltered. It was hard to maintain the confident, playfully stuck-up facade you had if he was looking at you that intently. Doe eyes and slightly parted mouth and everything Jungkook. Like he was hearing you out. All for the idea that you were offering something else other than your body. Now, it was something he loved loved. For all you knew, he could use a fucking vase for lighting and shadow - one Namjoon found cute in Malta, or something, but you. You were a good idea. "Earth to Jungkook?"

"Uhuh."

"You okay?"

He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Yeah - just - thinking, I guess."

"Uhuh."

"Back against the wall," he said, then he was behind the camera again, and you were scooting your ass back. "Maybe lose the shoes."

"Ooh, bossy. And you're the one complaining about developing and scanning," you chuckle, your back slack against the wall. When you kick off your shoes, you hear the faint click.

"You said you just wanted me taking pictures." Another click.

"Well, yeah."

"Can you take your shirt off?"

He didn't drop the camera. He knew you were going to obey. And then it's a distant thought for you, because you swear you could see him blushing and beating himself up for bringing it up in the first place. And you knew he loved your boobs, so now, your shirt was off. Another click. "Yeah," he groaned.

"This good?"

"Mm. Let me - there," he scooted closer. When he was this near, the shots were from your chest up. His breath was audible now, but it probably still would have been even if he was across the room. "Great."

You wanted to laugh, but more of because you were getting shy. And you don't get shy around him. Not like this. "I - what should I do?"

He beat you to it. Chuckled first, and now, you were embarrassed. "Nothing."

"I - okay?"

"One second," he tilted his head. You thought oh okay, his hair was really long now, and it looked really nice to... pull on. Entangle your fingers in. And then he's beating you to it again, because he has his hand reached out and he's brushing your hair off one shoulder. He has you off guard, and your eyes are tracing where his fingers meet your skin, and then there's another click, and your eyes are on each other. Click.

You pull him by his neck, and it's slower than usual, but it's working, cause you can see him lowering his camera. When your lips meet, it feels different. His lips are soft against yours with marvel. You know, and conforme, he breathes out a slow "Okay" when your lips are detached. The hairs are short on the back of his neck. You let your hand go to unbutton your jeans without thinking. Until click. It was quick; you look up, and then again -- click. His breath almost fogs the viewfinder, and his feelings are getting in the way, so he clicks again like it soothes his nerves. Or maybe he was hard. So you don't pause.

His breath stops when he sees your underwear. Like he never has. And it hugs your pelvis so tightly and perfectly, he snaps another picture, and it flashes red on your cheeks.

"Gonna have these scanned and developed?," you sit. You don't know what to do, but he clicks again, so at least you know it appeals to him.

"Maybe," his voice is soft. Careful. Like it would ruin the natural light if he spoke too loud. You could see how hard he was under his joggers.

"Yeah? And where will they go?," you're crawling towards him, and you swear it's not sexy, but he takes another picture.

"They'll stay in my porn folder," he joked. You snort. He lets you push him down the floor and mount him. "Look at me," he mumbles. When you do, there's two clicks, or maybe one grip on the camera too hard, because you're circling your hips the way he likes. "I - okay," he groans. Nervous.

You lean down, pressing a kiss on his jaw, your lips making its way up, and it finds his lips, and then there it was again. A foreign frailness, but it made the pits of your stomach burn a different way. You whimper. He pushes you off for a bit. Sits up quick and easy to tug his shirt over his head, and you help him pull his undergarments off.

The tip of his cock was red with his feelings; it was almost pathetic. Then he leans back a little, his hand reaching the clasp of your bra, and alas. You flip positions. The floor was cold against your back, and the Canon looked small on his hand as he straddled you.

"Can I - ?," he uttered, caressing one breast.

"Y-Yeah," you exhale. He squeezes for a bit too long so it looks good in the photo. "Mff."

"So fucking pretty," he muttered. There's one more photo taken, and he groans in relief when he puts the camera aside, because real life looks a shit ton better than through the lens. He can see the little blooming of blood in your chest. You're so wet; the patch on your underwear felt cold opposing the air. He pulls your panties off, and his breath hitches. You were nervous, and for what. It was as if everything happening at the moment right now was a first.

When you come to think of it, and you see how the flowering of red in his cheeks makes your heart clench, maybe everything was indeed a first.

"Can you - touch yourself?," he says, kissing the corner of your lips, but eyes wide open. It was odd, because he was there, but you found yourself parting your lips open and smearing your finger with your arousal. Right below him, where your skin was almost flush against each other. Enough so he could take another picture. You push a finger in, and your hips cant up. "Keep doing that." Another picture. You're biting the back of your other hand. Another picture. He brushes his hand down your waist to your hips, and you moan under it. You were ignited, thinking your fingers were his, and you recall how fast they move, so now, you're touching yourself hard like a bitch, and you felt like crying. "Fuck, baby," he groaned, pulling your hand away. Your fingers were soaked. He took a picture of that.

You opened your eyes, watching him lean down as he takes your wrists and holds them next to your head. His skin is supple, nuzzling into your neck and pecking. So slow, you weren't accustomed to any of it. "Jungkook," you whispered.

"Yeah?," he responded. There's a wet, kitten lick below your ear; you inhale sharply.

"Nothing - just - keep going."

"Okay," he nibbles down on your neck, and it stings for a while, then there's a warmth that takes over, and when his lips pop off the skin, it's cold. And purple and red. "You're so beautiful."

Your heart doesn't skip a beat. If anything, it beats faster. But you were scared he'd feel it, though you knew he would.

His cock slides over your heat, and he groans. "You're so wet - I want to - stuff you," his breath hitches as he pushes himself inside you, earning a languid whine from you and an erotic squelch of your cunt.

"Fuck - Jungkook - ," you retort, your hands balling into fists, because you can't touch him. And he's choking the blood out of it, but you're not thinking of that, because what the fuck, he's never felt thicker. When all of him is inside you, he doesn't want to seem too frenzied. He growls and bites down into your neck. His breath is almost sharp, and it makes every end of your nerves burn. His thrusts are slow so you could hear and feel everything, and every time he bottomed out, he grinds his bone against your clit - "Oh!"

"Oh?," his breath is shivery. His grip is tight around your wrists, and you want to touch him, but the thought of him restraining you like this, having all his way with you on the fucking floor, made your eyes roll back into your head.

When he buries his face where you crane your neck, he hums against the balmy skin. It's new, because other times, you rip each others' clothes off, fuck each other into the seventh heaven, whisper absolutely nasty things, but now -- his breath fanned all over your body, the air condensing against the skins, and every time you moaned his name, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck. "So good," his voice was tight, breaths coming out in quivering waves.

"Jungkook - ," you breathe out, pushing his face away, so you could look at him. His eyes looked glazed. Full of sweat. So pretty. " - please kiss me."

His heart didn't skip a beat. If anything, it beats faster. And he was scared you would feel it, though he knew you would. When you kiss, it's like you never have.

And Jungkook wants to fucking cry. He's getting it so good, and his abs are tight with butterflies and how much you're clenching around his cock. The way you shut your eyes, your lips wet and plump gets to him so hard. He wants to look at your face forever. His hips move faster now.

"Yes - fuck - there - ," you whimper.

"Yeah? Like - this?," he can see your hands struggling to wriggle free, but he's close, and you're perfectly framed under him like this, your tits bouncing - "Cum - all over me."

"Oh, god - "

"Yeah, let it - go - fuck - "

"Oh, god, Jungkook - ! - "

"Yeah?Yeah - yeah - fuck - you're so tight," he's rambling, love hot on his tongue and his orgasm on his tail, and you're clenching hard and shaking under him; he sees your back arch, and his name passionately ripping from your throat. And it's just so good; you're so good - his face scrunches, and he knows he has to pull out, but one second, because he's taking pictures in his mind, and the forbidden words are coming out of his mouth -

"God - fuck - IloveyouIloveyou - fuck -," then he's cumming, in huge loads, all over your stomach. But it feels hotter because of what he just said. You know he's embarrassed, his grip loosening, and he lays on you, pants in sync. "I - yeah."

Then the words aren't so forbidden anymore, because he can feel you giggling when you say "You do?"

/for @youngmsfts/

[goldeneramotoring]

Since Forever // Topp Drift p.1

I met Clive for the first time shortly after snapping the first picture you see in this post. You can tell he hadn’t been on track yet from the fact that he wasn’t yet wearing his Converse sneakers. He drives the same Toyota Corolla hatch he’s been driving for the past 10 years, about the same time as he’s been hanging with Merlin.

Neither of these cars are going to blow your socks off. The Corolla makes due with a first-gen 4A-GE with some head work, and the 240sx is working with an SR20DE. Collectively, these two couldn’t even pump out 300WHP on a good day, but if you think that matters you’re mistaken. I can’t shake the resemblance these two bear to Osaka’s Kanjo racers, from their mismatched wheels, to their mostly stock engines swapped in from more powerful sibling cars. These are two cars built with the sole aim of delivering driving thrills on a budget, through chassis balance. Over the long years that they’ve owned their cars each one has been through several iterations before arriving at their current state, each car carrying bespoke modifications fabricated by the two drivers. From Clive’s chassis bracing and lower control arms, to Merlin’s exhaust and front strut bar, these two have taken the built not bought philosophy further than most.

If you’re the type of person who thinks the 200hp isn’t enough, 1 ride in Clive’s 86 will show you 100hp is all you need.

Toyota Corolla Hatch (“AE86″ Canadian market, 4A-GE gen 1 swap) Nissan 240SX Hatch (“S13″ Canadian market, SR20DE swap)

Canon AE-1 Program 50mm F1.8 35mm film; variety unknown

[newsmatters]

Maaaaan I’ve never shot film unless we counting a Polaroid Snap BUT a couple of days ago I decided to bid a Canon AE1 program and I can’t wait for my first ever roll of film to get here tomorrow and maaan this dude is one handsome mf : Cameras

Maaaaan I’ve never shot film unless we counting a Polaroid Snap BUT a couple of days ago I decided to bid a Canon AE1 program and I can’t wait for my first ever roll of film to get here tomorrow and maaan this dude is one handsome mf : Cameras

I have been shooting film since the early 1970s. Finally gave it up in the early 21st century. Don’t miss doing it one bit. The money I saved by not shooting film for 1 year paid for my digital camera, and that is not even counting the gasoline I saved by not driving to and from the film developer. The AE-1 was the best selling camera at about the time I got my first SLR camera, selling for about…

[davidquigg]

This is a short story I declared finished almost seven years ago. I dredged it up accidentally on Saturday morning by plugging “Canon AE-1″ into my Gmail’s sent messages.

I still like this story and care about it but nonetheless have shown that I’m capable of forgetting it exists, so I’m posting it here to give it a chance to go play outside.

SOMETHING ABOUT AIRPLANES

Draw her face.

Or his.

Yes, yes, you're not an artist.

Fine. Shut up.

Just try.

Try because I want you to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Start simple. Get paper. Get a pencil. Sketch the shape of her face. Don't overthink. Let's stipulate that this will not be art.

Just sketch.

You're paralyzed, obviously. I had the same problem. This is what it feels like when you start to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Go on. Sketch the outline of her face. It's just a shape. This could be middle-school geometry. I mean, you've got to know the shape of her face. You've thought of her at least once today. Because today is either a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, and whenever it's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, you think of her. So you've got to know the shape of her face.

This is when you'll be tempted to screw this all up by cheating. Log the fuck off Facebook.

You don't get to look at that little thumbnail photo she posted to her profile. You don't get to look at it because it's cheating. You also don't get to look at it because you promised yourself you wouldn't look at it. She's not even your Facebook friend. And you've supposedly come to realize that there's something unseemly about clicking on the profile of one of your seven mutual Facebook friends and then clicking through to see their friends just so you can scroll down and smear your screen with nose grease because you're crowding in close and then closer to her thumbnail photo. Look at it this way: If she lived next door to a friend of yours, would you contrive to visit that friend's place just so you could look out his window and into hers? Don't answer that. I'm liable to hate you for your answer. Or I'm liable to hate myself less. I'm not interested in hating myself less. I'm not interested in you hating yourself less. I'm interested in you knowing what I came to know only a few hours ago.

So sketch. It's hopeless. I know. Let me save you some hours. Draw an oval. Any oval. Does the oval look exactly like the outline of her face? No. Obviously. But it's a start. Darken the inner edge of the bottom of the oval. Does the oval look more like her? Less like her? Adjust accordingly. Keep darkening inner edges. Keep assessing. Keep adjusting. Somehow you will eventually end up with a shape that seems surprisingly right.

Now pick a facial feature. Maybe eyes. You're not an artist. I know. Neither am I. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because I just need you to point to the exact spot inside the oval where her right eye should go. You've got to know that, obviously.

It's hard. But you got the face shape eventually. Or you think you did. So you should try. Just point to the spot. Just point. With the pencil. If I managed it, you'll be able to manage it.

But did I actually say that I managed it? I'm pretty sure I didn't say that. I didn't say it because it didn't happen.

Try to realize what this means and let it really sink in. Try. I say "Try" because you're not going to realize what this means. What you're going to do is wonder what this means.

You're going to wonder what it can mean that the same brain that can picture Jay Fucking Leno or Don Fucking Knotts or Angelina Jolie or Justin Fucking Bieber is only capable of rendering her as some smudge in a haze of longing.

She accused you once of just loving the idea of her. But nobody had ever been more real to you, so the accusation seemed ridiculous. And now this.

You have never had a sewer rat lick you with the ardent, rhythmic persistence of a family dog. But just the thought nauseates you, and rat-lick nausea's back-of-the-throat scuttling is what you feel now. Without knowing why. Without really knowing what this whole Leno- Knotts-Jolie-Bieber-her syndrome adds up to. Knowing, though, that it is something novel and morale-wrecking and mercilessly survivable.

Everything seems to be mercilessly survivable. This, for example. It happened years ago, when I could have drawn her face. It is happening years ago, when I can draw her face. It is happening.

She has found me out. Or thinks she has. She does not see me seeing that she is setting a trap. She is among the new CDs. In the D section of the shop. I look away.

A moment before, she did something to a copy of Something About Airplanes. I don't know what. But it doesn't matter. I'm assuming it involves some kind of subtle identifying mark. If I wanted to avoid getting caught, the specifics of what she'd done to the CD would matter. I don't want to avoid getting caught.

What she is doing now is an equal mystery to me. As I said, I have looked away. This is not an easy thing to have done. She has made a starer of me. I am not a starer. I could have been. I would have been. But back when my unfurling teenage libido threatened to ruin me, Andrea Zilpop sat me down on a humming Kenmore dryer and made me watch "The Tao of Steve" on the TV/VCR her parents had installed in their laundry room.

Andrea had seen the movie at work, which for her in those days was Rain City Video in Fremont. She hoped the movie might somehow trump my testosterone and allow me to remain someone she could bear to stay friends with. Her plan was not crazy. There is, I dimly remember, some learn-a-lesson section of the movie. But that is not the lesson I learned. What stuck in my brain instead is one pillar of the obese, irresistible protagonist's mantra of seduction: "Be desireless."

Being desireless has worked. So I have stuck with being desireless. In every way.  I do not, for example, stare.

As I said, I have looked away.

I do not want to be looking away. My face tingles from the perverseness of looking away from Mali. Mali may be her real name. Or it may not. Maybe her east-of-the-mountains parents named her Molly and she has moved to Seattle and become Mali. I don't care. This isn't about her name. This isn't about her Value Village clothes. This isn't about her piercings. This isn't even about the seemingly extravagant breast tattoo that reveals its topmost sliver whenever she interrupts her clack-clack-clack perusal of our latest used CDs and arches her back.

I am an expert on what this is not about.

I balance a stack of CDs on my left palm. New CDs. Not truly new. Used, in fact. But new to us. Willy bought them. Sam priced them. Now I'm stocking them.

Somewhere in this stack is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I know this because an imaginary Jeff Tweedy has been singing my favorite track inside my brain from the moment I picked up the stack. "… Tall buildings shake / Voices escape singing sad, sad songs …" Jeff just sang that.

Imaginary Jeff.

When I'm stocking, there is always a song in my head. And sometime during the course of stocking, I always discover that the disc that holds the song has been in my hands all along.

Somewhere in the stack. This has stopped freaking me out. It has stopped seeming mystical, beautiful, impressive, oppressive.

Someone is moving into my peripheral vision. Closer. Closer. Whoever this is, they are not Mali. Even out of the corner of my eye, the blur is all wrong. And they're getting close in a looming, intrusive way she never does.

"Uh, have you heard if …" He does not pause. The elipsis is mine. Because, hell, I just have to interrupt. Here, at least.

Even if not in real life.

Because it's so obvious what's going to happen here. It's time to play Stump the Record Store Guy. And, yes, I'm human. I'm stump-able. But not by this guy. I can tell that from his blur. I don't even have to look over at him. I can also tell his question is not real. He doesn't want an answer. He wants me to know that he knows stuff that he assumes I don't know. Fine, I'll let him talk.

"Uh, have you heard if Andrew Bird is going to put out a live CD of his '05 show at Doug Fir Lounge? I think it was like April. Yeah, April 9th. Best show I've ever been to, dude."

No it wasn't, I want to say. Because this guy was not at the show. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.

"Yeah, they say …"

This is the sure tipoff that all this comes directly off the Web. Which is cool. Just be straight about it.

"Yeah, they say it was his best performance ever of that Happy Birthday song."

This is nonsense, of course. I don't claim to know when Andrew Bird's best performance of the song happened. But I do know that he performed a purer, better version in Amsterdam nearly four years earlier.

"Man, I'd give anything to hear that show again," he continues.

This is where I almost snap. I want to tell him to go back to www.archive.org/details/ abird2005-04-09 if he wants to hear the show so badly. Because we both know that's where he heard it in the first place. Not live.

This guy is talking over imaginary Jeff Tweedy's singing to involve me in his charade of self- esteem building. I want it to end.

"Let's check something," I say, smiling as I lead him nowhere near the Andrew Bird section and straight to the Andrew W.K. section. I paw through the discs, looking in vain for a recording on which Andrew W.K. performed in Portland under the name Andrew Bird.

He snorts. This ingrown hair of a man snorts. He's not even going to call me out on my error. He knows he knows more than me now. This is all he came for. He can tell himself that this is why he buys all his music on iTunes. He's smarter than all of us. Nothing for him to learn here that he can't learn by consulting John Cusack's iTunes Celebrity Playlist and clicking "Buy All Songs." I mean, John played a record-store owner in a movie. So if John recommends fifteen tracks and two of them are by Gnarls Barkley, then it must be for a good reason. Right? Right.

"I'll take it from here," he says, shaking his head.

Good.

"Uh, OK?" I say, feigning bafflement. "Let me know if I can answer any more questions." This all feels so good. The hollowness of his swagger washes away all my annoyance. Stuff like this is what I'd miss if I quit. And Mali. I'd miss Mali, obviously.

She is finished with whatever trap she was setting for me in the New section. Unless someone else with a fake question intercepts me, I am about to be standing shoulder-to- shoulder with her in Used. She does the back-arching thing. I'm way too far away for a glimpse of tattoo. But still. Still.

I would pay to have someone competent take my picture right now. Because I sense that I have never looked happier. And I'd like to know what this feeling looks like. I'd like to hold a print of this moment in my hands when I'm very sad or very old.

Mali is doing something with her eyebrows. She is acting. It is bad acting. Bad, adorable acting designed to convey concentration. She is flipping through discs in the catchall section where we indiscriminately file all bands that start with D.

She exhales loudly. Loudly and adorably. Crap, I am so not desireless.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, looking up while still doing the frustrated, focused thing with her eyebrows.

I should explain that I was Willie before I started working here. Willie Hill. But Willy already worked here. So I couldn't be Willie at work. When I refused to be Billy or Will or Bill – Will Hill?! Bill Hill?!! – it was Evan who cracked himself and everyone else up by blending my given name and last name. Hilliam. I'd become Hilliam. And that's who I am. Here in Ballard, at least.

My parents hate it. Obviously. But they live in Wallingford. In Wallingford, I'm still Willie.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, doing the eyebrow thing. "I've been wanting Something About Airplanes. For weeks. Does anybody ever bring that in used or do people just hang on to it?"

"We see it sometimes. In this town, there's always at least one person swearing off Ben Gibbard."

"For serious?"

"You'd be amazed."

"Oh."

"Last week. No, two weeks ago. Dude comes in. He's got an empty kitty litter bag that he's filled up with every Death Cab record, every Postal Service record. He's got All-Time Quarterback. And he's growling."

"Growling?"

"Well, words. But he's growling the words," I say and yell out "Travesty!"

Sam is closest. He yells "Travesty!"

Willy hears. He yells "Travesty!" He pauses, stomps his foot, and hollers "Unconscionable!"

"Unconscionable!" Sam yells.

"Unconscionable," I tell Mali.

"Is there more?" she asks. "I don't want to clap between movements."

"But you do want to clap, right?"

"I want to know what's unconscionable."

"And what's a travesty."

"Yes, a travesty, too."

"'Cupid.' The guy downloaded some unreleased solo tracks by Chris Walla. On one, Walla covered 'Cupid' by Sam Cooke."

"Travesty!" Mali says.

"You've heard it?"

"No," she says. "I'm just being cooperative."

"Right."

"Active listening."

"Right."

"Anyway …"

"Anyway," I say. "This guy hates Walla's 'Cupid' cover so much that he decides to sell everything ever touched by Walla or by people who touched Walla."

"So you've got his copy of Something About Airplanes?"

"Never at the end of the month."

"What?"

"We sold it almost right away."

"Oh."

"We'll get another."

"OK, well, can we do the thing again?"

"Of course. I'll call you if we get it in."

"Used."

"Right. I'll call you if we get it in. When we get it in."

"Used."

"Used."

With everything but her arms, she moves to hug me. It's a kind of lurch. You can't hug without arms. So we don't hug.

"You're the best," she says instead.

I love that she knows what I'm about to do. I love that she set a trap. It hasn't occurred to me that she might find this whole thing creepy.

I mean, how can it be anything but endearing to discover that the guy at the record store perpetrates a lovelorn fraud every time you mention a CD you're hoping to find used? It will go like this: 1) Hilliam retrieves a new copy of the CD Mali wants; 2) Hilliam pays for this new CD in cash; 3) Hilliam removes the CD's clear wrapping; 4) Hilliam buys the CD back for the shop, screwing himself out of about ten bucks because the CD is now, technically, used; 5) Hilliam waits seventy-two hours before calling Mali to say that the CD she wanted has miraculously appeared.

Fifty-some hours later, she calls the shop.

"Hey," she says, sighing.

Just that. She's never called before.

"Mali?"

"Uh, yeah. Does that junkyard phone have caller ID?"

"I recognized your voice," I answer unstrategically.

"From me saying 'hey'?"

"You sighed, too."

"Shit," she says, laughing. "Am I the Sighing Girl of Ballard or something? Is this how everyone thinks of me?"

"Not that specific. Sighing Girl of Seattle is what people tend to say."

"Smartass! … Want to meet up for a cigarette break?"

"You smoke?" I blurt, glossing over this unprecedented non-retail-related overture and fixating on the seeming impossibility that a smoker could smell as nice as she does.

"No."

"Then why are we meeting for a cigarette break?"

"Don't you smoke?"

"Not since high school."

"Oh, I just figured all you guys did. The shop smells a little like my grandpa's overcoat."

"Noooooooooooooo," I say, as if this truth stings badly.

She laughs. But this moment is slipping away. I slap at my pockets. I detect packaging.

"Lemonheads!" I say.

"What?"

"I've got Lemonheads. We could do …"

I'm looking around to see if anyone is within earshot.

"Do what?" she asks.

"Sorry, we could do a Lemonhead break. Are you down?"

"Lemonheads? Hell yeah, I'm down," she says. "Meet me like halfway?"

"Halfway like skatepark halfway or like kitchen-store halfway?"

"Kitchen store," she says.

We hang up.

The little guitar riff that opens "Portions For Foxes" is chiming out of the shop's speakers.

This is a coded message. What we mean when we play this song or any of the ten other tracks on Rilo Kiley's 2004 release is that we knew the sound of Jenny Lewis singing long before a National Public Radio review of her solo album introduced her to the ears of every amiable Dockers-wearer within range of Terry Gross's voice.

I yell to Willy that I'm going on break. He looks quizzical. So I pantomime smoking a cigarette. His eyebrows rise, signaling comprehension, and he waves goodbye. I walk out, striding west on Market just as Jenny Lewis sings me a warning: "the talking leads to touching / and the touching leads to sex / and then there is no mystery left."

This is not what I want to hear as I walk to meet up with Mali, hoping that the talking will lead to touching and the touching will lead to sex. Not what I want to hear at all.

So, reflexively, I play a song in my brain. Not just any song. And not even a whole song. Just the opening lyrics to a song from Jenny's bandmates' side project: "Well she gets real mean when she's drunk. / And she finally fell asleep and I'm glad. / She said, 'The only way you got as far is you did / is 'cause of me. Your songs suck.' " I've always wondered if those lyrics are about Jenny. Now, for convenience, I've decided to decide that they are definitely about her. I willfully black out the second verse where the mean drunk – whoever she is -- recants and apologizes.

Heedless now, I walk past the shoe boutique that used to be a rubber-stamp store and the booming restaurant/bar that used to be a failed restaurant.

No song plays in my head now. A rare relief.  I hear a Vespa start. I hear a clang. It's the type of clang made after a successful wallop of one of those smack-a-lever-with-a-hammer contraptions they erect in the feats-of-strength section of county fairs. This particular clang is synchronized with the Walk part of the mid-block Walk/Don’t Walk indicator. With its blessing, I now cross Market.

Continuing west, I pass the kids' boutique Mon Petit Shoe that used to be a friendly, long-in- the-tooth toy store, the yoga studio that used to be a Hallmark shop, the furniture store that used to be a competing record store, and the Puerto Rican restaurant that used to be an Australian restaurant that used to be the eastern part of the now-shrunken kitchen store.

Kitchen 'N Things is closed for the night. Mali has not noticed me yet. Her face is pressed against the store's front window, peering at something green.

I find myself wishing I were famous, wishing some paparazzi would leap from the shadows.

Though I'm not smiling, I sense that I look as happy as I feel. Again, I wish for a photograph that I could hold up and compare with every future joy. Is this pessimism, optimism, premonition? I stop my footsteps and watch Mali for a good fifteen seconds before calling out her name.

She does not turn to me right away. She peers a moment longer, seeming to say a kind of goodbye to whatever merchandise it is that she's coveting.

"Ah," she says, instead of greeting me. "I love Kitchen Uhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Things."

I can't honestly tell if she's mocking the store's middle "'N" or cooing it like a loved one's nickname. I don't care. Either way, it strikes me as adorable. Anything she says drives me deeper in love.

"What were you leering at, lady?" I ask.

"Brushes. Silicone brushes."

"Don't you guys sell brushes?"

"Sure. Housewares. Aisle three. But not like these. Not silicone."

I don't know what to say. She goes on. Very earnestly.

"Plus, they're 100-percent recycled material. They're made from old fake boobs."

I nod without really registering what she's said.

"Are you serious?" I ask, regaining my common sense.

"Horribly serious," she says, giggling. "Dour. Humorless. Can't you tell?"

"Smartass," I say, reaching up and giving her left arm a gentle tap. "Let's get very, very serious here. How goeth your shift, fair maiden?"

"Goeth?"

"I don't know. I'm just making stuff up. How's your shift going?"

"Fine. The usual bizarreness. I just had two customers start bad-mouthing each other at the checkout. Freaks."

"What happened?"

"Well, we've got like two weeks left at the store before they tear it down to build the bigger, better store with the stacks of condos on top," she says, pausing to make some kind of crazy jazz hands that I take as a signal she finds the whole "bigger, better" thing to be bullshit. "Anyway, this woman pays for her stuff and starts chatting with me about where I'll be transferred during construction. Turns out, she knows my new store. I say that I've heard everyone's mean to each other there. She tells me, in this well-meaning-slash-excruciating detail, everything she knows about the nice people who work there. She also gives me advice. Career advice. Life advice.

Meanwhile, I'm ringing up some semi-older dude with a twelve-pack of Bud. The first woman does not stop talking. The dude keeps glancing back and forth between me and the woman.

Mostly, looking at me, though. Finally he leans in toward me and says, 'I think she likes you.' I pretend not to hear. Because like what, what am I supposed to do? Join in? Give him a little giggle? Help him slam this lonely, sweet woman who is so intent on being nice to me that she will not leave me the hell alone while I try to do my job? No. No. I won't. So I ignore him.

"And that should be the end of it. But as he walks past the woman with his beer, he says, 'Why don't you just leave her alone? She's not interested.' Now, the sweet woman stops being sweet. It's go time, man. She's like, 'Why don't you back off? Go home and drink your Budweiser and mind your own damn business.' "But she gathers up her plastic bags and heads for the door, where they go off on each other a little more. I manage to tune that part out. But now I've got the rest of the line to deal with.

The next guy is this mumbler. So, you know, he mumbles something. I say, 'What?' He says, 'I feel so low-maintenance all of a sudden' and glances over at Advice Lady and Budweiser Prick.

And, of course, he's low-maintenance by comparison. And that would have been totally great if he hadn't felt the need to point it out. Still, I say, 'You are low-maintenance and I appreciate that.' Luckily, he doesn't stick around to chat. He just takes his strawberries and his Odwalla and gets out of my life."

I tell Mali, "Oh my god. You're way too nice. I don't know how you can deal with people like that."

I say this. But it's not what I mean. I mean something more. I have a whole theory about this.

The theory goes like this: In all the world of retail, the most exhausting thing a woman can be is sexy and nice. Nobody girl-chats with mean and sexy. Nobody flirts with plain and nice. And pretty much every kind of customer just wants to flee from mean and plain. But sexy and nice? You get everybody. You get everybody who wants to see you naked. You get everybody who wants a friend. It is endless. And retail is already endless.

But I don't say any of this. Because what makes me any less weird than Mali's customers if I use her crappy-shift story as a clumsy excuse for telling her I think she's sexy? Better to impersonate a friend right now. Better to save telling her she's sexy for some dizzy, panting, half-dressed moment in our hypothetical shared future.

What words should pass through my lips if I manage to wipe away this smile? I simply don't know.

"You make me smile," I finally say since it is true.

"That's just because I'm too nice," she teases.

"No, it's in spite of that. Nice people make me frown. Every last one of them."

"Until now?"

"Until now."

"You're so full of shit."

I smile yet wider. She smiles, too.

This continues. Continues for longer than I want to document here, for longer than anyone would want to read. I remember every word, every gesture, every crumbly nibble of the cupcake we share down the street, every last expansion of my smile.

****

The film was trickier than the battery. My hands and the film and the inner workings of my neglected Canon needed to collaborate. They did, eventually. I thumb-flicked the lever to advance the film. I clicked the shutter release. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb- flick. I was ready.

The 16 I boarded is a southbound bus. But first it goes west. It drives along 45th until it reaches Stone Way. This is one of the vivid intersections of my acne years. Here stood the closest McDonald's to my house. It had a drive-thru. Very convenient. I knew people who went there.

But I disliked all of them. My loose confederation of friends always made the walk – and later the drive – east to Dick's drive in, where we could dine without the nuisance of chairs, tables, or even walls.

For reasons that seem, well, petty to me now, each of us would raise a middle finger whenever we passed that McDonald's at Stone and 45th. So the teenage me would have certainly flipped me off as the 16 turned left on Stone and I found myself missing the McDonald's and resenting the condos that had risen in its place.

The 16 goes south on Stone and jogs diagonally to the southwest before merging its way onto the Aurora Bridge. In some unremembered year when I was not yet a grownup and, therefore, still impressionable, a bus like this one fell from this towering bridge. A guy named Silas Cool shot the driver and then himself. I've harbored a gut-level uneasiness about this bridge and about people named Silas ever since. The closer I get to my own natural death the more it shames me that I don't remember the names of the murdered driver or the one passenger who died in the fifty-foot plunge.

This forgetting didn't trouble me at all that day on the 16. The uneasiness eclipsed all other thoughts. What power we all held. How powerless we all were. Any of us could pull a pistol and, for reasons known only to ourselves, change – or even end – the lives of dozens of strangers. There would be no stopping it. So I averted my eyes from the driver and from all the possible catalysts of my death.

I stared out the window toward the shrouded Cascades and twisted a ring on my AE-1's lens, compulsively changing the size of hole that light would pass through if I took a picture.

And so it is that my first shot that day was radically overexposed. The resulting photo – of the front end of a climbing seaplane that seems to just barely clear the bridge's railing – is more striking, more beautiful that anything I would have shot on purpose. I wouldn't know this until I got the film developed. Even then, I would need to shoot five more rolls before understanding the error that gave me this treasured image. It would take another dozen rolls before I could replicate the effect more or less at will.

I shot nothing when we passed the Space Needle. I shot nothing downtown when I got off to transfer to a 174. Nothing as we passed the home of the Mariners, the Seahawks.

I traveled with the camera pressed to my eye as we neared Boeing Field. But the overcast sky had suddenly switched from being a veil filtering the sun to being a shroud. This mid- morning dusk made the camera useless. Even using the widest opening in the lens, I would have had to expose the film to light for one-eighth of a second. Such a small sliver of a second is actually a long time in the world of photography. It is a fatally long amount of time when you're shooting from a moving vehicle. Unless you happen to know enough to pan the camera and keep the lens pointed toward whatever passing object you're shooting. That's when things can get interesting. Spectacularly interesting. But, as you may sense already, the only spectacularly interesting photographs I could make at this point were accidental.

So I'd only shot that lone photo from the bridge by the time the bus pulled over on East Marginal Way long enough for me to get off at my stop. This put me in the city of Tukwila, essentially across the street from the Museum of Flight. I intended to throw down the $14 to go inside. It was my whole reason for riding the bus this far. But I got detoured. In all my family and field-trip visits to this place, I'd never noticed that the outdoor airplane display was plainly visible – even to deadbeats standing outside the fence, especially to deadbeats with long lenses on their cameras. Turning my back to the wind, I removed my normal lens and replaced it with a zoom lens that allowed me to get closer to the airplanes without getting closer to the airplanes.

****

We are at Besalu. Mali and me. She got the table. I got the coffee and pastries. It's not busy. A rarity. And this is a relief. Because I didn't have to stress that we might have radically different approaches to getting a table in an overstuffed café. I'm of the laughably civil school of table- getting: literally, ask every person ahead of you in line if they need a table before taking one.

Mali might believe in the more standard, snake-a-table-as-soon-as-you-see-one-and-screw- everybody-else approach. If so, I am not ready to know this. I'd be willing to tolerate it. But unlike so much else, it's not the sort of thing I could manage to see as an adorable quirk.

"Oh, they look so good," Mali says, reaching for the plate of pastries that I'm just about to set down.

"You've seriously never been here?" I ask.

"No, this is my first time above 58th Street."

"Wow."

"Don't you ever have that? Streets you just don't cross? Whole parts of neighborhoods you don't bother to explore?"

I think about this. She talks.

"You think I'm lame," she says.

"No. Not at all. I was just thinking about what you said."

She nods.

"When I was growing up in Wallingford, there was this McDonald's …"

She is nodding furiously. I realize what's going on.

"Please, go ahead and start eating," I say. "You don't have to wait until I get done talking."

She smiles. Not at me. At her ginger biscuit. She takes a bite. She stops chewing, stops moving – the way you might if you were about to spit out something unexpectedly rancid. She closes her eyes. She swoons. Literally swoons.

"Amazing, isn't it?" I say.

She resumes chewing, swallows, reopens her eyes.

"Oh my god," she whispers, slapping the table with both palms and making Jurassic Park ripples in our coffees. "I could have kept that bite in my mouth for the rest of my life."

"Amazing, huh?" I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that this is essentially the same thing I said less than a minute ago.

"Uh, yeah," she says.

She swivels, looks back toward the kitchen.

"Does he make these right here?" she asks, jerking her head toward a dark-haired man who's loading some kind of dough onto both sides of an ancient-looking scale. With a big knife, he slices a hunk from the left pile of dough and drops it on the right pile. The scale falls into balance.

"Yeah, him and two other people. But it's his place," I say.

"Would it be inappropriate to run into the kitchen and hug him?"

"Probably," I say, laughing hard until I start to wonder whether the little artistic venture I'm about to unveil would stand a better chance of shining in some other café, some place without its own resident culinary master.

I'd planned on offering Mali a taste of my croissant at this point. But that would be an impossible act to follow. I push myself. If I just say the words, I'll have to go ahead and do it.

"Hey, let me show you something I've been wanting to show you," I say, sliding a Ballard Camera envelope from the pocket of my jacket.

There are three more envelopes just like this one on my bed at home. They are thicker envelopes. This thinner one holds what I consider to be the eight presentable images from my four rolls.

"Come on. What is it?" she coaxes, noticing the hesitation I thought I'd managed to hide.

I've given a lot of thought to what comes next. Just hand her the envelope? No, seems almost apologetic. Hand her the images one at a time? Too controlling. Instead, I've decided to lay the images out. Three columns of two, topped by the remaining two photos. Why? Don't know. But this is what I've decided.

I put down the first two pictures. A smile – so full, so deep, so reassuring – takes over Mali's face. It animates me. I lay out the six remaining photos with the flourish of an overcompensating tarot reader. My chair is now meaningless. I am an idiot marionette, dangling, waiting for her reaction.

She's deliberate. Each image gets a long, careful look. I become aware that I'm sweating. I breathe fast. Then faster.

Please. Say. Something.

"Did you download these?"

"No," I say a bit too enthusiastically. "I took these."

"Who did you take them from?" she says, holding a hand to her aghast mouth.

She is messing with me. She knows what I meant. I know she is messing with me. I know she knows what I meant. But I am so keyed up that I start to defend myself.

"IdidnttakethemfromanybodyI," I blurt.

She lowers the hand from her mouth. It has been hiding a smile, that same smile. I breathe again. I am ready.

"I took these," I say. "With my camera."

She stares at me.

"You've never told me you were a photographer."

"I'm not."

And I take a deep breath because I'm about to flay myself.

"There's something about you, Mali. You just make me want to make things."

She squints at me.

"To create things, you know. For once. Instead of just talking shit, you know."

She squints tighter. The eyes close now. But a tear leaks from each eye.

Her left hand slides across the tabletop. I put my hand on top of it. We stay that way. While I'm not totally sure what has just happened, I know that it is powerful, and I sense that it is powerfully good.

****

Arranged in the same pattern but in a different order, the photos are now Scotch-taped to the wall next to Mali's futon. I wake to find her looking at them.

"I have a new favorite," she says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, this one," she says, jerking her head in the direction of all of the photos.

She can't point. Her arms are around me, encircling my left shoulder, my neck, my right armpit. We went to sleep this way. I can't decide what would mean more to me: us having held this position all night or Mali having chosen to recreate it as soon as she woke up. This is another one of those endearing-either-way choices.

"I'm sorry, Armless Lady," I say, straining to kiss her neck. "I'm having trouble seeing where you're pointing. You're going to have to describe your new favorite photo."

I am expecting it to be that first photo I took, the one of the seaplane cresting the Aurora Bridge on its takeoff from Lake Union. Its accidental overexposure makes it unique among these eight photos. Also, I'm disinclined to admire any photo that I made on purpose. I still feel incompetent. Incompetent but strangely helpless to resist the urge to keep creating. So my camera is here by the bed. There's a new roll of film in it. The camera has a self-timer. I could set it on Mali's bookcase and photograph us right now.

I don't.

I didn't.

I never did.

She releases her hold on me and slides her left hand down my chest. She retrieves my right hand, brings it to her mouth, and kisses it before delicately folding everything but my index finger in toward my palm. She guides my hand until my index finger is pointing squarely at the blurriest photo of the bunch. Shot from below and slightly off to the right, it shows the nose and two cockpit windows of a commercial jet.

"Really?!" I marvel.

"Yeah. It reminds me of a clown's face."

"Hmmm," I say and then stare at it until the plane's nose becomes a clown nose and the two windows of the cockpit become the clown's eyes. "OK. Yeah. Clown face. Got it."

We're quiet until I say, "It's funny. You can't see it in black and white, obviously. But the part that looks like a clown nose was painted a total clown-nose red.

"I believe it," she says.

Her arms are back around me.

"I have to say, I'm surprised that's your favorite. You seriously like it more than the really similar one that's in better focus?"

"Seriously. That one looks like a plane – not a clown."

"Didn't realize you have such a thing for clowns."

She laughs, gives me this tender headbutt. I expect banter along the lines of "Well, I'm lying in bed with a clown." But she must not want banter. So I retrace our conversational steps.

"I'm trying to figure out what it means that I set out to take pictures of airplanes and your favorite airplane picture makes you think of a clown."

"Don't think about it too much," she says. "The clown thing is just a tiny part of it. I'd like it without the clown thing. What I like most is that the picture looks like a mistake."

"You like it because it looks like a mistake?"

"I like it because it looks like a mistake. But mostly I like it because I don't think it's really a mistake. Of all of these, it's the one that looks most like you were pushing yourself, reaching for something. And I guess only you know if you actually reached what you were reaching for. But whatever. I like that you trusted me to look at it. I like that you trusted me to see past the blurriness."

"I almost didn't show you that one."

"And maybe that's what I mean. This is the one that stopped you. This is the one where you needed to decide what this was all about, whether you were going to show me some flawless, boring-ass pictures or whether you were going to show me you."

"What's weird to me," I say slowly, "is that I'm showing you a me that didn't exist a week ago."

"Well then maybe what you're showing me is us."

It is a flat, detached, factual statement. I try to catch my breath.

I can't.

I couldn't.

I never could.

[jeremysaffer]

Spent the day putting together some of my favorite images of some of the many incredible bands that have graced, stomped, bloodied, thrashed, moshed, and tore across the Worcester Palladium stage... been digging through when I started shooting there at age 16... shooting on 35mm film on a Canon ae-1. there was a lot to go through but I think I've found the best snaps from a few bands for a project that will be revealed in the near future. The Palladium has always been my home away from home and I am forever grateful of the ongoing opportunity to make it so and for them to trust in a one time young fan with a camera, who somehow made this into my life's work... it's awesome looking back and seeing these legendary bands... Slipknot... Korn... Linkin Park... Slayer... Megadeth... etc. who have taken their larger show to the palladium and on the flip side bands like Avenged Sevenfold, My Chemical Romance, Black Veil Brides, A Day To Remember, Lamb Of God, Bring Me The Horizon, etc. who started on the small stage and now sell out the main stage and even bigger venues as the new wave of icons of heavy music... and of course staples like GWAR, Behemoth, Lamb Of God, Killswitch, Hatebreed, Suicide Silence etc. who have always been a staple of the main stage at the Palladium. Lots of memories behind these photos... this is about 15 years... here's to the next 15 years of awesome shoots and shows at the Palladium. where icons add to their legacies and legends are made on the stage. #typeonegative #mitchlucker #suicidesilence #korn #megadeth #lambofgod #avengedsevenfold #slipknot #theused #archenemy #dimebagdarrell #blackveilbrides #kingdiamond #robzombie http://ift.tt/2vB5M2I

[jtmportland]

Hey, hey... just realised it’s Thursday, so here’s another old scan.

A rather ordinary photo of Tower Bridge. Though it looks older, this was snapped in January 1989 from the Thames Path just behind the Tower of London. I was attending university in central London at the time and often wandered the streets with a camera. 

I’m looking forward to returning to London very soon.

[tekamedia]

Video shows man hiding as shots ring out inside El Paso Walmart - CNN Video

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Video shows man hiding as shots ring out inside El Paso Walmart - CNN Video

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An item that has been used previously. The item may have some signs of cosmetic wear, but is fully operational and functions as intended. This item may be a floor model or store return that has been used. See the seller’s listing for full details and description of any imperfections. See all condition definitions– opens in a new window or tab

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Brand:

Canon

Type: Digital SLR Weight: 18.52 Oz. Connectivity: USB Battery Type: Lithium-Ion Megapixels: 18.0MP Color:

Black

MPN:

8595B001

Features: 1080p HD Video Recording Dimensions: 5.2×3.1×3.9in. Model:

Canon EOS Rebel T5I

Screen Size: 3.0″ Country/Region of Manufacture: Japan Series: Canon EOS Rebel Manufacturer Warranty: No UPC:

0013803222425

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Product Information Professional photographers and amateur hobbyists alike can enjoy stunning state-of-the-art photos with this Canon Rebel T5i Digital SLR Camera. This black digital EOS Rebel 700D Camera boasts 18.0 MP digital resolution that ensures high-quality pictures. Thanks to the included complementary metal-oxide semiconductor sensor, you never have to worry about blurry images as this feature ensures you always achieve crisp, clear images with realistic detailing. This powerful digital single-lens reflex camera can be used on its own, or add one of Canon’s coordinating lenses to take your photo snapping up a notch. Just attach the right lens and gain the zooming capabilities and control you need to capture the photos you’ll never forget. Product Identifiers Brand Canon MPN 8595B001 UPC 0013803222425 Model T5i / EOS 700D eBay Product ID (ePID) 144819529 Product Key Features Battery Type Lithium-Ion Color Black Features 1080p HD Video Recording Dimensions 5.2×3.1×3.9in. Screen Size 3.0″ Series Canon EOS Rebel Type Digital SLR Connectivity USB Megapixels 18.0MP Dimensions Weight 18.52 Oz. Width 5.2in. Height 3.9in. Depth 3.1in. Additional Product Features Exterior Color Black Viewfinder Type Optical Viewfinder Magnification 0.87x MAX Video Resolution 1920×1080 Exposure Compensation -3 Ev to +3 Ev (In 1/3 Ev Steps) Still Image Format Raw + JPEG Sensor Resolution 18.0MP Camera Type Digital SLR Sensor Type Cmos Light Sensitivity 12800, 100, 25600 Viewfinder-Field Coverage 95% Lens for Sd Body only Flash Modes E-TTL Additional Features Picture Style Auto, Af/Ae Tracking, Depth-Of-Field Preview Button, Dust Delete Data System Display Size 3in. Focus Adjustment Autofocus & Manual Focus

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Boombotix

PackageQuantity: 1 MPN:

BBREXBLUE

ProductGroup: Speakers Model:

REX-BLU-02

ProductTypeName: PORTABLE_AUDIO Manufacturer: Boombotix Publisher: Boombotix Title: Boombotix Boombot REX Wireless Ultraportable Weath ReleaseDate: 2014-07-07 SKU: BBREXBLUE Size: One Size Studio: Boombotix EAN:

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[ricksaintlou]

Eataly. Flatiron. Canon AE-1.

Snapped a few shots of the roof at Eataly a few weeks back. I’ve only had snackums there but one day I have to try a proper meal.

[cajunho]

I’ve been itching to shoot film for a while now but I never took action on my own. I guess I just wasn’t motivated enough to pick up an SLR or a point-and-shoot at the time. I was just happily snapping photos with my iPhone and posting it on Instagram (follow me @marijuanchoo.)

One late night in February, I met a girl through Mars, one of my best friends, at a concert held at my home college. She was pretty, cool, and easy to talk to. I didn’t think much about her that night.

She’s into the whole film thing with her collection of Polaroid Cameras (many of which unused and on display, collecting dust.)  A week or so after we started talking, she purchased a Canon AE-1 from a friend and started shooting immediately. I got a bit envious so I started rummaging around the house. I found a barely used Olympus Stylus 80 point-and-shoot camera. The film loaded inside the cam must have been there for a while now since a receipt dated 2006 was in the same bag. Feeling inspired, I started shooting again.

Since then, I’ve purchased two more point-and-shoot cameras. If the opportunity arises, I’ll probably purchase a Canon AE-1 Program as well. Shooting film is pricey but for me, it’s definitely worth the experience, the thrill, and the feel.

Oh, but this entry isn’t exactly about shooting film; it’s about her.

When we were first introduced, I didn’t pay her much attention. I mean, it was dark, I was (a bit) drunk, and the mosh pit was calling me. It had been a while since I had seen Mars so I’d come and chill with them every once in a while. As usual, Mars had to go a bit early in the night (probably around midnight.) Surprisingly, the girl wanted to stay. That was cool with me so I told Mars I’d look after her friend. Since I didn’t want this girl to feel left out or have a bad time, I stuck with her the rest of the night. I can’t exactly pinpoint when it was that night that I felt comfortable talking to her and messing with her. I just remember her hitting/slapping me each time I’d mess with her a little and it really didn’t seem as if we had just met. I’m very picky with close friends and I try to keep to the circle I already have so it was really surprising for me that I was comfortable being myself around her.

Everything was just so unexpected. We kept talking a lot more after that and it wasn’t even on purpose; it just happened. I didn’t have any intentions or anything. Who was I trying to impress? I was trying to wing her with a friend of mine! It was just so unexpected. So unexpected…

I didn’t expect to fall for her.

[analogsleeper-blog]

People Story XVII by Florian Turgeon Via Flickr: In Hiroshima, one summer afternoon, near the dome that still remains after the A-bomb, I met a survivor of that day, at the time just a toddler.

Small words, but priceless life lessons. This is a man whose life has been impacted by the mistakes of past generations. Yet he decided to move on to build, at his own individual level, one encounter at a time, the prospect of a more peaceful future.

[tokyo-camera-style]

Harajuku

Canon AE-1

I’ve mentioned this before, but sometimes for one reason or another I’m not able to approach people I see on the street with a film camera. Sometimes they pass too quickly, sometimes they are busy focused on something else.  

Since I’m NOT the kind of guy who’d approach a young woman with headphones in her ears in public I went with an on-the-go snap as I walked by.