Tell them it’s a fundraiser.
Tell them it’s a fundraiser.
Sidewalk – 1969 – Garry Winogrand
Could somebody, please, remind him to make his bed?
Sir George Henry Martin (3 January 1926 – 8 March 2016)
Okay, so maybe your friend is having a bad day and you decide that posting a little inspirational message (in pretty type or accompanied by a nice photograph or funny drawing) on facebook might be just the thing to cheer them up.
That is a nice thing to do. Sending good thoughts over the interwebs. And, you never know, it might cheer your friend up. So I guess I don’t want death to all funny pictures and quippy quotes. But can we, please, stop trying to elect our President by meme?
First of all, posting memes for your candidate doesn’t accomplish anything … really … except to remind all your friends, yet again, who you’re voting for. I don’t know of a single voter who (upon being polled regarding why they support a particular candidate) replied, “I saw this meme on twitter and just knew – right then – John Kasich was my guy!”
And it’s not like you’re starting a meme discussion. You post a Hillary meme, then your cousin posts a Bernie meme in response, then you answer her with another Hillary meme and she Bernie-memes back, and so on and so on until one of you finally concedes and says, “Okay, your memes win. I’m changing my vote!”
If you take my advice and stop meming, think of all the time you’ll be freeing up in your schedule. Time to spend with loved ones. Or getting exercise. Or thinking up something of your own to say. And who can tell where all that stuff might lead? ‘Cause, you know …
And which guy could safely leave it at home?
If you guessed that the ER doctor on call needs his cell phone with him at all times, you win! Having his phone could save lives. And your prize for picking the ER doctor is your choice of a) a library card; b) a trip to a museum; or c) a romantic evening with your significant other.
If you picked this guy, you lose. And you’re probably one of the 6 billion or so non-ER doctors who pretty much never need their phone. Everything that’s happening on it can wait until you get home. Your punishment for picking loser guy is a) a library card; b) a trip to a museum; or c) a romantic evening with your significant other.
Vote Parmesan on Super Tuesday.
With comfortable chairs and decent lighting. Bring me Jacob’s ladder!
Department Store – 1964 – Garry Winogrand
The above pictures provide proof that Randall Smoot (aka Randy or Wildman Smooty) was an active participant in high school dances and after parties during the turbulent 1970s. He can be seen in photographs (including one in color) actively looking for his friend with the flask and for a young woman … any young woman … who would dance with him.
I hope these photos put to rest certain controversies regarding where and with whom Mr. Smoot was active 40 some years ago. And put an end – once and for all – to the brutal swiftboating of an ordinary American’s aimless, callow, and generally misspent youth.
Smoot claims that he accomplished quite a bit during those heady days … far more than his parents ever knew … and that he sometimes misses that important time of fighting for his own right to stay out late, drink while underage, and get to second base without having to pretend he was going steady.
In a separate interview, however, Smoot has stated that he does not miss trying to remove base makeup from his button-down shirts before his mother sees it, nor does he miss Boone’s Farm apple wine.
Does it bother anyone else how good all we ordinary people have gotten at posing for photographs? How eager, how easeful, how undeniably skilled. And that our talent at getting our picture took seems to be developing at an earlier and earlier age?
Everyone above the age of three now seems to know just where to look when a cell phone is pointed their direction, how to smile at it on cue, how to smile again – exactly the same way – for the just-in-case-I/we-didn’t-get-it-the first-time shots. Everyone is a good hugger now. We’re excellent smilers. And all of America – despite substantial and growing non-photographic evidence to the contrary – is awfully damn happy with their lives.
Happy couples, happy families, happy lives. Good American people pleased with wherever they happen to be when the camera happens to capture their latest moment of pleasure. Pleased with the other people in the shot. Most of all, pleased with themselves.
At the risk of being called perverse – it won’t be the first time – I miss the days when not everyone posing for cameras knew where to look, how to stand, what to do when the world said cheese. When we weren’t all good huggers and some of us couldn’t manage an easy, happy smile if our lives depended on it. Perversely, too, I relished those photos where strain was apparent. When the seams sometimes showed. When a picture actually did tell a story. A picture that – once in a great while – was worth a thousand words.
And, oh yeah, these guys.