thoughts of a son of a bitch


There aren't enough drugs to make me feel better.

	6/07/01 I'm very lucky to have a great class. A bit of a luxury, I suppose. One class a week, eight students. Lost a few from the original eleven. But, what the heck, it's night school. Boy, does that have connotations of some poor guy trying to make his life better by taking law classes, or what? But these are eight determined people. It feels really great to teach the bit I know, to encourage them, to try to spark them. I want them to be fearless. Accept any challenge. Tonight I gave them a pop quiz. Unheard of in design classes. The first two questions were brainstorming-type questions. How would you shoot a black and white cat to make it the focal point of a picture? ("Stick the camera in its face.") What shots would you choose to shoot on an article about LA's new mayor? ("Naked!") I love these guys. If you push people hard enough, they'll make you laugh. Then, a boring question about a polarizer filter. And then, a math problem. "Find the following five-digit number. The last digit is three less than the fourth..." You get it, the "train-leaves-Chicago-going-60-miles-an-hour..." type of problem. Hey. Fear nothing! Math is nothing but another problem. I guess what it really is is the tool to solve problems. A little bit of whining. A "what-the-fuck?" from one of them. And then the last question: "why was the meter reading in the last class showing an aperture of 90?" The subtext: how did your teacher fuck up last week? I copped to my mistake. I had blamed the meter. It was me. And then their work tonight was great. (If you're wondering how I'm doing, I keep looking at the clock. It's 12:45 am. They stop selling alcohol at 2 am. I'm hungry. I want to go to Pavilion's. Can I go and bypass the beer and wine... You know, I actually feel better tonight. I had a busy day - am I distracting myself? If it ain't one addiction, it's another. I have thought myself an alcoholic, but never really copped to it. I went to adult children of alcoholics, but not AA. I had it under control. Nine or ten years of no drinking. And then I had a weakness. And another. Who knew that this was so close under my skin?) Okay. The class. Good work tonight. Not just good pictures, but good pictures in good design! These people are doing great stuff. The other day, a former student sent me a piece she had done. Clean, simple, and nasty. A bunch of empty vodka bottles on a messed up bed. And the caption? "Absolute Lush." Brilliant piece. Perfect execution. Highest compliment? I wish I had done it myself. And these guys are getting there. I'm going to miss them My daughter is having a yard sale this weekend. On my yard. Among the items she's unloading are a Beatle jigsaw puzzle I gave her. (What has rap done to her brain?) And my old, black leather jacket. It was my perfect black leather jacket. A jacket like all of the "greasers," the tough guys, wore in high school. Soft cabretta, black. I got it when I was long out of high school. But I loved it. Probably my rock star dream. My cool. My daydream. I wore it until it didn't fit. And then a few years after that. And now it's going to bake out in the goddamn California sun. Another piece of clothing out on the yard. Held up and poked and thrown aside. And then probably sold for a couple of bucks. I'll be looking for it. Okay. Ten after one. Does the tall guy who works nights at Pavilions look at me they way I used to look at the "secret" alcoholics when I worked at Hayden's Liquors? The mixture of pity and disgust? Does he even give one tiny little shit? Probably not. He's probably just happy to make it through the night without getting shot. One sixteen. Wide awake. T1 is also rediscovering old addictions... One twenty one. Took some time to make the animated gifs... 2:05 am. Another day.

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