Like knitting, only masculine.

So one of my roommates (bad influences, as I said) brought home his dad's homemade maille shirt, which was actually made from key chain circles. I laughed and made mention that it was cool, but a step-and-a-half above pop-top maille. See, I used to make maille back in high school. It's not that complicated, it's just time consuming and a little on the physically demanding side. It used to be something for me to do with my hands while I watched a movie or suffered through deep thoughts.

In the spirit of nostalgia and that occasional desire to make something with my hands, I bought 100 feet of 14 gauge galvanized wire (thin stuff, basically), rummaged up a pair of wire cutters, a Leatherman and a Gerber, and a screwdriver for the molding shaft, and went to work. A hour later and I've got a small sliver of maille, 4x1 inches hanging. That, and my hands are red and raw, a status which did not change over night. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Anyway, this is a decent site for beginning maille makers. There are lot out there, so just hit up Google if you ever become interested.

Headed for Atlanta in 15 minutes with Aleks -- she's finally getting her citizenship! I'm happy for her, but unfortunately, her family can't attend the ceremony, so I'm going to go along and be celebratory. My family always raised me to believe that it doesn't matter where you live, what flag you fly, or who gets your money when the tax man cometh, you are always who you were born and raised. She'll officially be a citizen of the United States, but she'll always be Serbian, just like I might end up in ... oh, hell, I don't know, Serbia, but I'll always be a good ole hillbilly from the American South.

I guess this is pointing toward my ideology that you are who you decide to be, not who someone or something else says you are. There is no piece of paper, no edict, no televised ceremony that can take away the mountain and rivers in my blood, or the sawdust, roofing tar, or grease on my soul. Or clothes.

Later.

Hmm, cool ...

Daily life in Iraqi Kurdistan

This is a photo story by Ed Kashi on daily life in Iraqi Kurdistan. I'm a sucker for the music, so that may be why I like it so much.

Having a damned hard time with my own photo story. I emailed three different people about different stories, explaining everything, and no one's called me back yet, so I just left a message with the Vice Principal of Chase St. Elementary. Hopefully, he'll be willing to help me with doing a story on one of the classes there. And, hopefully, he'll call me soon. Like, today.

Ciao.

Somebody shoot me

I've begun an experiment that may or may not result in my total failure in life. To be more specific, my roommates (bad influences, all of them) convinced me last Saturday that it would be a good idea to load "World of Warcraft" onto my computer. And thus it began. The uploading, the downloading, the emailing, the headache, the long wait, and then I was finally signed up, 10 free days of adventuring, killing various fantasy animals, and running around in a pretty well-designed environment. As my sister and my best friend warned me, "It's another addiction, Jake! Bad! Bad, bad, bad!"

Eh, we'll see. But after my 10 free days, I'll probably just cancel the whole thing. $15 a month is not terrible, but I like doing other things, like salsa dancing and, you know, eating, which require money as well. But at least I will be able to say I ventured through WoW and survived. Not to mention I'm thinking about doing a comparison piece with "Guild Wars." And thusly the battle began ...

Other news - still sore.

Yet more news - the SLC (Student Learning Center, for those poor souls not living in Athens) was shut down this morning due to a bomb threat. I was headed for my first class when I got waved off by the cops, who just said, "Bom' threa'." Ah, gotcha. So I hung around as they evacuated everybody, took some pictures, ran into someone from my writing class who was getting the story, and took some more pictures. He can have the words, I'll take the pictures. I like it like that.

Bomb threats. Some bastard probably had an exam this morning, woke up and just didn't feel like taking it. Pretty damn inconsiderate. (As I write this, I sort of assume the entire building will collapse or something, making me eat my words, as always.)

Aleks and Zorana are headed into Atlanta today to try to see the Dalai Lama. I know I should be more interested - he's a massive international political figure, he's controversial, et cetera, et al - but I can't really miss my photojournalism class.

Later.

"Mass genocide is the most exhausting activity one can engage in - next to soccer."

Quote from "Dogma" that says it all. I haven't played in something like 5, maybe 6 years. Jesus, I'm tired.

Oh, check out Afterworld on myspace or youtube. That's some good stuff.

Another game

My roommates are bad influences on me ... I already want to get a new computer just so I can run this ...



I love the concept of magic and technology mixed in the same environment, and (it seems) especially when the environment involves some kind of horror aspect. Not to mention it's damned pretty - one of my roomies is beta-testing it and I watched over his shoulder for a while.

On JOUR 3610

I am finally into the photojournalism classes, and I am in a ... satisfying ... relationship with the class. "Satisfying," for everyone's reference, hides somewhere between "Goddamn, I love this," and "Goddamn, this sucks." It's not an easy class, and it's not an unrewarding class. I take pictures, and I learn, though I'm constantly frustrated and unhappy with my own work.

At first, it was a little boring, going over the nuances of manual cameras, since I've been shooting manual for the last six or so years. I wouldn't miss the class for anything (aside from maybe a salsa performance in a few weeks, but more on that later) though, just because I do enjoy the professor and the non-technical material we cover in class, a.k.a. "ratholes." I'd really like to get more into the non-technical aspects of the craft: talking to people, finding stories (we have gone over a lot of this, but not to the extent which I would prefer), and I'd really like to discuss the concept of "finding a style." Every photographer I've ever talked to has mentioned this abstraction, and, being the son of an engineer who works with concrete facts and figures, I can only just say, "What the hell?"

I look forward to continuing through the series of classes, especially some of the stuff we'll supposedly do on slideshows and different presentation types. I'll hopefully be signed up for the new class next semester on using newer technology with media, but we'll just have to wait and see. My final (and not total, as we're only halfway through the semester) assessment of the course is that it's engaging, demanding, and totally worth it.

On El Prado (nostalgically)

Talk a walk down el Prado. To the right is the city of today, the dirty streets and buildings with crumbling and cracking paint; to the left is the old city, the city Havana puts on when guests are coming to visit. El Prado is the dividing line, a division of: road rumbling with cars that were made anachronisms four decades ago; trees that are old and gnarled, bent and twisted over the boulevard; the boulevard itself a mixture of black and white triangles forming squares and diamonds. In the mornings, people walk the slick black and white tile to work, letting the older folks sit by the side undisturbed, watching the younger men and women march off to work. Later in the day, kids play games with their classmates on el Prado, giggling and running and tagging and sliding. When the sun has finally worn itself out, the benches are lined with people of all ages and origins, sitting and watching the beggars and hustlers work the occasional group of tourists who edge cautiously down the walkway. It's as if they're afraid of getting sucked into Havana Centro with all its chipped paint and pickup games of streetball (sticks and medicine bottles, not bats and baseballs).

But let go of Havana Vieja. Get sucked down the side-street with all its buildings stuck in states of slow decay, with little bits of crumbling cornerstone littering the sidewalks and threadbare dogs darting in around the cars that may or may not be following some kind of rules on the road. Brush past the young, buff guys (there are no real potbellies, no beerguts, in Cuba), and excuse yourself respectfully past the older gentlemen in jackets. Duck through the on-going game of stickball, don't mind the boys whipping out little kid curses at you, give them some gum if you've got it. Wander and sticks to the areas you don't know. You might be surprised where you come out of the concrete jungle (the heat makes this analogy all the more valid).

Calle Hamel, where the local artist Salvador Gonzalez Escalona has changed his home street into a huge canvas.

The Malecon, where the Atlantic ocean is held away from the city by thick, old concrete and stonework; where the fishermen are replaced at night by lovers and partiers.

Revolution Square, where you can stand between the famous gaze of el Che and the staggering monument to Jose Marti.

... hmm. That's enough for now.

Unused photos. And Nyquil.

Some photos taken for my the last assignment, specifically, ones I didn't use. And I'm on a Nyquil hangover, something that I find as close to Robin William's mythological "Fukettall" medication, the stuff that makes you apathetic toward everything. So, anyway ...

The fact that this didn't show their faces and that it was soooo grainy kept me from throwing it at the assignment like a badly-used athletic analogy onto a blog.

I liked the "On Air" bubble being lit, but this was the only time that he got on-air while I was there, so I didn't have much time to rearrange. Thus, there is a microphone stock sticking perfectly out of his head. Bravo, me.

Another one of the DJ, this time through the glass of the DJ booth to his right. Just ... eh.

Right. Uhm ... going home now. To sleep it off.

My work ...

So I had a section of wall at the Latin American Study Abroad art show a couple weeks ago (yeah, I'm slow with the updating ...) and most of my tribe showed up. Then I showed up five days later to take my stuff down, and it was all gone. Gone. Surprise, then rage, then rational thought went through my skull ... though I kept slipping back to rage, as it's such a freeing and fun emotion. Different story, but all ended well, and anyway ...

Jerry Wallace, a graduate from "thirty-something years ago" of Lamar Dodd, checks out my stuff. Self-matted, by the way, one of my only really satisfying accomplishments this semester.

So, this post was essentially me patting myself on the back. Terribly sorry.

Another, just because I can ...

At Dawgs after Dark, Emily Thomsen and Chase Brown duke it out in a very springy ring with gloves they swore were 15 lbs. And I thought 16 ounce gloves were thick ...

Whoops.

Damn. That wasn't the right video - I'm still getting used to posting videos. This should be the video.

There are some things you can't beat with a stick

Two things which I -- generally -- always seem to enjoy: science and video games. I like that really weird science, too, the stuff you only find in far-out bad science fiction, like quantum mechanic guns and such. So I giggled like a little schoolgirl (pardon the mental image) when one of my roommates showed me this trailer.



This is a new game from the guys who brought the world Half-life, bless them and their offspring's offspring. Instead of the run-and-gun homogeny that many first-person-shooters seem to have, this is instead a puzzle game. You dash about with a device that opens what equate to something like worm holes (ha - knew I could get a Star Trek reference in there somewhere), solving problems.

For me, the real kick are the physics they're using. Say you're on a platform ten feet from the floor, and you need to get to a platform ten feet above your current position. There's a lip, but no way you could make a ten-foot jump. So you pop an exit portal on the ground next to you, shoot an entry portal on the ground ten feet below you, and jump down through the entry portal. This, of course, sends you through the exit portal, not only with the same momentum, but in reverse to your previous spatial orientation, so you're now essentially flying out the exit portal at 9.8 meters per second squared upside down and backwards.

HAHA! I think I just wet myself with excitement.

Okay, so I'm a geek. This isn't as exciting as I think it is, but it's pretty friggin' awesome.

Go to IGN.com and look it up.