In order of most to least important....
1) I went out last night to a lingerie show at Felt. Some photos of that are up in Street +/ Life. (They ARE safe for work.) The event was put on by SoBe Darlings. For a little info on SoBe Darlings, here's an excerpt from their company website:
SoBe Darlings is a full service company that offers a variety of experienced, professional, promo Models to suit both your company's needs and budget. You pick the type of promotions you want, and the type of girls you see fit, or if you prefer you can simply come to us with a budget allowing our creative staff to design a promotional campaign with the maximum effect and return on investment.
Using our models we promise our clients the best customer service and presentable models.
Offering models with unpretentious personalities, our models will make your event a success from beginning to end.
Book our models and your guest's will be captivated by our talented beautiful girls.
And something nifty... I'll be covering their events and other things as I am.... their staff photographer! Woohoo! Just fantastic, fantastic people, super-professional and then, of course, they have an endless array of beautiful models (which, of course, is good for everyone). I'm really excited about being part of this.
For more info on services and models, I would encourage you to visit the
SoBe Darlings website.
2) I
urgently need a graphic designer. Someone that can do a logo for a website, and possibly come up with a template. (Not for me.)
3) Seems like I was just down this road not that long ago....
People don't come to ipanemic.com to read. People come here to look at photos. The stats indicate this in an overwhelming fashion. I am perfectly okay with this.
This is what I am today. This is ipanemic.com today. My site needs to reflect who I am or I am out of whack. And the people that come here need to get what they came for. The model shoots... street and/or life... this is me. But we're done with the text here.
You can now choose to follow one or two blogs that have been running on this site a while now:
Street +/ Life or
The Model Shoots. Both have feeds.
This is what you will find at ipanemic.com.
What about the Patron Gallery?!?!? Too much info and irrelevant to anyone except patrons. And patrons aren't here for the text.
If you ARE a patron (or were previously a patron) and are reading this, I'll be sending out an email in the coming week. You'll be happy.
- December 28th, 2008 02:52am
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Twenty-something random photos up from the past few days in Street +/ Life.
I want to make some notes on these, but there isn't really anything I can say that ties any of it together.
It's been a weird week. I've been so close to having my holiday wish come true, but it seems that my schedule is slightly off. Despite my best, yet untrying, efforts to get to step 2, I have yet to reach that spot and it would now seem that it will be a while before I make it there. Still, it's okay. Santa Claus is coming to town.
By the way, not that I tried to overdose tonight on anything, but I realized that I seriously have chemicals between me. At 1:30am tonight, I chased down my 8th Robitussin shot of the day with a gargantuan cafe con leche. And, of course, a cafe con leche (or coffee of any sort) can only be enjoyed with multiple cigarettes.
Ask me about my health. (Crap. I just realized I forgot to eat today. And I kept thinking about Trix, too. Damnit.)
Anyway, photos are up. And possibly, regrettably, so am I. I need more Robitussin. Or maybe Trix.
- December 25th, 2008 03:44am
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I had two calls on my phone tonight from a number I thought I recognized but wasn't certain. I hadn't yet programmed it in. Tonight was going to be my big night out for the holidays.
Then I got a call from Penelope. And I wish I had gone over there tonight, to hang out with my friends. I like my friends.
Instead, I went out to "socialize" when I am in no shape to socialize. It's times like these, when your friends are good to be around. It's not times like these, that you socialize.
I did meet a guy tonight who I had seen around online. And I was pleased to meet him. And Dude, I apologize for being completely out of it. Any lack of interest in conversation on my part had nothing to do with you as much as it did my being in a complete fog. Plus, the band was playing. Weren't they? I don't know. I hope we'll catch up another time.
But I knew it was time to leave when I left. There were only two people I knew there, the second arriving much later than me. And when I saw my first friend, she greeted me: "You're here. You don't look well." "I don't feel so well."
I left that upstairs jazz bar and headed downstairs for a cigarillo, a travesty in my mind for if there's one place I should be smoking, it's in a jazz bar. Not funked jazz. Not preformatted jazz. But jazz beyond the tinsely voices of an impending Christmas..
I went back up after inhaling a few, taking pictures of randomness and nothing in particular.
"I saw you come down," I say. "I tried to wave, but I couldn't be loud enough over the street." (They had gone upstairs.)
"We thought you had left." I meant to ask the new friend where his counterpart was; she wasn't there.
I took photos of instruments. I took photos of a lit bar. I took some photos of this group. This group which I belonged to for the night. I think they are horrible shots. But I haven't looked at them yet. I left to go smoke again.
I realized, as I sat downstairs drowning in my second gin and tonic (no mojito for me, thanks), that I needed to eat. I hadn't eaten today. In fact, I've been a daily diet of one meal a day, only because I remember that I've forgotten to eat each day and know that I need to put something in my body.
Monday: 1.2 spring rolls
Sunday: 1/2 bagel
Saturday: bowl of trix
Friday: i can't remember.
I ordered the spinach and artichoke dip downstairs. I took a photo here and there. I smoked cigarettes. I coughed from time to time, but not ferociously. I ate four chips.
When I went upstairs, she greeted me with "You showed up!" I realized then that it was time to leave.
A trip to Walgreens for more milk. I should have a warm glass of milk now.
- December 24th, 2008 12:57pm
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I wrote this last night after a long day, drifting in and out of sleep, hacking my lungs away.
The pain right now is particularly unpleasant. I've been half-awake, half-asleep for an untold number of days now. I've definitely lost touch with reality. And I would mention the M'butu uprising, except all of my little friends with their pierced proboscises and chalked chests seem to have laid down for the night. Little shits are sleeping on me.
As I laid on the couch earlier, taking a break from sitting in front of these two monitors, the bane of my existence, my hands ran through the spindly sawgrass in the pot beside me. And with my eyes closed, I imagined for a moment that another hand, one from outside, reached in through the closed and locked wrought-iron gate and grabbed my wrist as if to pull me out. It grabbed my wrist as if to pull me down into a world of an even deeper and darker existence.
I really need to go see the medicine man.
I called my friend earlier, the one whose CDs I've had for months now. It was about more than CDs, me leaving him like that, although it was entirely nothing personal. It's never personal with me.
Which brings us to the infection and the earlier discussion over brunch. I was telling my friend this morning, over his wholewheat pancakes and my toasted bagel, how my sickness keeps me at bay. How I remain utterly removed. How I allow it to. And how the glass between subject and I is enough of a divider to keep me sufficiently and happily out of reality. While I somehow seem to sink into the personal, somehow seem to capture it, it is unquestionably, not my personal reality. For a few minutes, for a few hours, it is. It is. I live that moment, and I show you whatever I saw. But I'm not really there; it's not a reality that sticks. They are only moments in time; snapshots of a life that passes in front of me.
The ever-present illness... I keep myself away because of it. I hide myself. I lock myself up in some mental cell and believe (believe!) that this cell is where I deserve, no, should be. And I have convinced myself that it is only here in this place that I can create. That it is only here where I can find something, however mediocre it is. And I sometimes regret when I step out of this cage. (Sorry, girls I've had dinner with.) When my friends say, "You should go out," they never know why I play it off yet stand back in complete and total fear.
I'm mentally, and let's pause on this word... fucked.
I received some good advice today from these people who I came in contact with. 1) Go see a doctor. 2) Allow yourself to be open for possibilities. Another friend of mine, a few months back now said to me, "I want to read truth. I want to see you. I don't want to read your bullshit." I may be paraphrasing.
Let me take care of number two first.
I openly invite you, dear friends, today to bear witness to my truth; to my reality. This sickness is, in large part, why I see the world around me the way I do. Pieces of my life flash before me at moments like this. Jim Jones on a console TV in a made-for-tv-movie in the late 70s making the proclamation that you can't have good without evil. A vision of burning oil in the deserts of Arabia. Little rich kids snorting coke at a house party. Red lights in Amsterdam. There I am on a bus; hold that frame a moment.
"To all of his illness, to all of his ugliness, let us raise our glass in a toast. Because the truth shall set him free."
I mentioned the other day a medical photo that I had taken of myself. Here is that photo. Be forewarned, that the image is graphic in nature and may or may not be found repulsive. That photo was taken a year and a half ago. I now have a pretty scar where that hole was, underneath my right arm. That hole that you could easily fit a marble in.
Back in September (or was it August) when I had the party here, I had developed something nearly identical to that the week prior in a different location. Now, three months later, I have three or four, possibly five or six, of those same vacuous infections of various sizes in a region of my body I can only describe as delicate. I can't give you a firm number as to how many I have exactly as I can't piece it together any longer. One disappears, another surfaces. The pain subsides, the pain comes back like a a mother fucker. Every time I move my body, I take a risk; I risk contorting some bit of my skin such that it screams out in agony. My flesh devours itself.
You could see me on The Street's street.
"But you're sitting here and you look fine," he says as he cuts into his pancake.
"I am not fine."
I'll smile. I'll laugh. I'll be pleasant company. And I will thoroughly enjoy that moment. But I'm not fine.
Reluctantly, I will go see a doctor. I guess I will do that later today. I was supposed to have a shoot but I really don't know if it's on or not. I feel, however, that if I were to go on the shoot, the shots I would get would not be the style desired. Because whatever I would see behind the lens would be through a grimace of pain that I can't hide right now. Of course, 12 hours is a long time away.
I would like some rest, though. I am weary.
I went to bed last night at 4am finally. The earliest I've actually successfully laid down in a long time. And I slept. I slept for 9 hours. For the first time in a long time, I slept without interruption. And I woke up coughing. And I woke up in pain. I didn't go to the doctor. I didn't have a shoot. I did the only "hard" thing on my plate: I walked Ginji. I had no child here to whom I could say today: Please go get Ginji, I can't do it today.
The pain is still here, the coughing is finally subsiding, I think. I don't know that I need to go see the doctor. I had been waiting until my kids would be gone, but I realize there really isn't a good day for me to go.
I need coffee now.
- December 22nd, 2008 05:34pm
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