Flipping through the pictures of our trip to the beach:
"Did they come out good?" She asks.
"Yeah, pretty good." I say "I think this is my favorite." I leaned over and showed her the picture from my phone. It was a picture of me gently running away from the tide and Calvin, with his back to the camera readying himself for the next wave. The background is perfectly trisected by the beach, the ocean and the deep blue sky. It's a GAP ad if ever I saw one.
"Of course that's your favorite." She says as she rolls her eyes, "Cause YOU look hot in it."
And she's right.
Cause I totally look hot in it.
And she's also right.
Cause that's why it's my favorite.
My usual self centered narcissism aside, how can one not like the picture the picture that makes them look good?
Who takes a shitty picture and then says "umm, yeah, totally, that one, that's my favorite."?
Nobody does that. And if they do its because it was a group photo and it was the only shot where the four year old wasn't making faces at the camera. But even then they'll tell the other person how pretty they looked before changing the subject. Never again will they stand idly by and allow their three chins and bat wing arms to be permanently etched anywhere. Then they'll remind themselves to be too busy to attend next year's Christmas party.
Cause diet and exercise are effing ridiculous.
Best never to hang out with anyone ever again.
Except me. You're always welcome at my house.
Just bring wine.
And a DVD.
Something funny with Vince Vaughn in it.
And while you're here we can sift through all the pictures we like of ourselves and set fire to the rest.
And we will do this for two reasons.
Reason number one: I just spent the weekend down in LA visiting my grand parents for their 90th birthdays.
My grandfather was an amateur photographer before it became the profession it is today, so he's more pioneer than amateur, but with all the other things my grandfather was a master at, he did it for the shear love of being a badass.
On a parallel note, my grandmother could have easily been a model for post WWII sophistication and sass. Think part "Rosie the Riveter"and Audrey Hepburn with a little Tennessee depression era "aww shucks" thrown in to make her easily one of the most delightful people I'll ever have the chance to share time with.
So it's no surprise that it took my cousin two days to sift, scan and copy all the photos she could find.
For these are fabulous people. Fabulous people who live wonderful lives. Fabulous people, living fabulous lives, with access to a camera.
Yet had they been in their twenties during the digital age, there would have been hundreds, nay thousands, possibly millions of photographs to sift through.
So, in my opinion, setting fire to 99% of every picture I've ever taken would not only NOT diminish my legacy, but will be a great service to my grandchildren when I turn 90.
Assuming I make it that far past the zombies and the global warming.
The second reason, which Beyonce and Senator Weiner know full well, a picture unless burned, will last forever
The pasty binge drinking awkward haircut depressing taste in clothing baby in the bath tub post swimming pool shrinkage double chin ex girlfriend photos are now one "Share" button away from being immortal.
Once you've gone ones and zeros, there's no going back.
Or something like that.
If we hit send, we become PRISM's Official bitch. There's no real way around it. What happens on the net stays on the net.
So yeah, I might post things, in hindsight, I don't want my great grandchildren sifting through, but its a share all society I'm an elder statesman of and I'm okay with photos of me with my kilt pulled up to my belly as long as its been passed through an Instagram filter first.
The reason 99% should feel the burn is because most of that crap is boring. If my binary bits are going to last forever, I don't care if they're offensive as long as they're fantastic.
So if I'm singling out photos for infinity, I'm gonna like the ones that make me look good, or cool, or disgusting, or obscene, or running down the beach hot.
Cause when I'm sitting on my SoCal veranda 53 three years from now I wanna feel proud of the life I've lead.
And I want these pictures to tell a story.
And I want that story to be a bit of a lie.
A slightly unnerving, fabulous lie.
No Friday Five
No cloud in the sky
No worries
No cares
No place I'd rather be
And No one I'd rather be with.
Unfinished Tales
I've been at today's blog for almost three hours now, but I've got too much on my mind to write with any clarity, wit, or charm, and it's time to get the barbecue rolling.
I love you all, but there are priorities.
Father's Day Special Five
Oooh. Oooh. It's the first official Father's Day Friday Five!
And in true Friday Five offensive fashion . . .
. . . here are the top Five reasons Fathers are awesome.
(Note: If you are a mom and easily offended, just go ahead and stop reading now, because I will likely poke fun at some of your idiosyncrasies. Especially if you're my mom, who has no idiosyncrasies, and is made of rock, but soft loving rock, Mom, just go ahead and stop reading. Don't worry, I'll write something nice on Monday, after I've eaten all the Father's Day barbecue a man can eat and still fit in his pants.)
(Note Two: Single Moms should celebrate Father's Day too, because they're so kick ass they deserve two holidays, so even though this is a mysogenistic celebration of manly hood, you should be included in the revelry)
Number One:
Fathers don't keep score:
Dad does a lot of stuff for you. Even if most of it is behind the scenes. Remember that bike you got for Christmas? Dad had to get a second job at 7-Eleven to make that happen. Remember that college education? Dad's driven the same pick-up truck for 20 years to make that happen. Moms however, keep track of every pair of shoes, hair cut, misplaced lego, so that when you are in you thirties and want to marry that girl with a tattoo, she can say "How could you even think of marrying that trollop when I made you your favorite meatball sandwich back in the summer of 1993?"
Number Two:
Fathers keep score:
You are essentially the baseball card he can never trade away. Every single accomplishment of yours, from your first "almost" words to the time when you almost but not quite made the junior varsity softball team, is collated and inshrined on a secret invisible merit badge and matching sash that dad keeps behind your mother's shoe rack. I don't know Calvin's blood type, but I know in an instant what his little league pre-kid-pitch batting average was.
(.517)
And I will always know what his little league pre-kid-pitch batting average was.
Always.
Number Three:
Dads can fix things.
Now don't get me wrong: Moms make things better, they make things brighter and more beautiful and their kisses heal wounds and their spit is like a bubble bath . . . and some Dads don't know which end of a hammer you use to screw in a light bulb, but it's his job to fix things. It's really the only thing he's good at.
Number Four:
Dads do not care how many Otter Pops you've eaten.
Please do not ask him again if you can have an Otter Pop. Of course you can have an Otter Pop. Its only a friggin Otter Pop. Just don't get his keyboard all sticky and go outside once in a while
Number Five:
You will never know how much dad loves you.
A Mother's show of love is infinite even if it is sometimes doled out depending on her mood and what you decide to wear on Thursday, but dad keeps his love tight to his chest. He doesn't want you to see the cards he has been dealt and he only has one little "tell"
You can get a glimpse of how much Dad loves you by giving him a hug.
No matter how long or how tightly you hold your arms around him, you will always be the first to let go.
Dad was the first person to hold you and every hug is a window to the very moment he became a man.
Number Five point Five:
Step-Dad.
Since I am both a father and a Step Father. Since I have both a father and a step father, and since my own father has been a father and an almost, but not quite step-father and he too has a father and a step father, I think I can say unequivocally, Numbers 1through 4 don't change, and as for number five, well, he may not have been the first person to hold you, but go ahead and give him a hug anyway. Because he's fucking awesome.
And in true Friday Five offensive fashion . . .
. . . here are the top Five reasons Fathers are awesome.
(Note: If you are a mom and easily offended, just go ahead and stop reading now, because I will likely poke fun at some of your idiosyncrasies. Especially if you're my mom, who has no idiosyncrasies, and is made of rock, but soft loving rock, Mom, just go ahead and stop reading. Don't worry, I'll write something nice on Monday, after I've eaten all the Father's Day barbecue a man can eat and still fit in his pants.)
(Note Two: Single Moms should celebrate Father's Day too, because they're so kick ass they deserve two holidays, so even though this is a mysogenistic celebration of manly hood, you should be included in the revelry)
Number One:
Fathers don't keep score:
Dad does a lot of stuff for you. Even if most of it is behind the scenes. Remember that bike you got for Christmas? Dad had to get a second job at 7-Eleven to make that happen. Remember that college education? Dad's driven the same pick-up truck for 20 years to make that happen. Moms however, keep track of every pair of shoes, hair cut, misplaced lego, so that when you are in you thirties and want to marry that girl with a tattoo, she can say "How could you even think of marrying that trollop when I made you your favorite meatball sandwich back in the summer of 1993?"
Number Two:
Fathers keep score:
You are essentially the baseball card he can never trade away. Every single accomplishment of yours, from your first "almost" words to the time when you almost but not quite made the junior varsity softball team, is collated and inshrined on a secret invisible merit badge and matching sash that dad keeps behind your mother's shoe rack. I don't know Calvin's blood type, but I know in an instant what his little league pre-kid-pitch batting average was.
(.517)
And I will always know what his little league pre-kid-pitch batting average was.
Always.
Number Three:
Dads can fix things.
Now don't get me wrong: Moms make things better, they make things brighter and more beautiful and their kisses heal wounds and their spit is like a bubble bath . . . and some Dads don't know which end of a hammer you use to screw in a light bulb, but it's his job to fix things. It's really the only thing he's good at.
Number Four:
Dads do not care how many Otter Pops you've eaten.
Please do not ask him again if you can have an Otter Pop. Of course you can have an Otter Pop. Its only a friggin Otter Pop. Just don't get his keyboard all sticky and go outside once in a while
Number Five:
You will never know how much dad loves you.
A Mother's show of love is infinite even if it is sometimes doled out depending on her mood and what you decide to wear on Thursday, but dad keeps his love tight to his chest. He doesn't want you to see the cards he has been dealt and he only has one little "tell"
You can get a glimpse of how much Dad loves you by giving him a hug.
No matter how long or how tightly you hold your arms around him, you will always be the first to let go.
Dad was the first person to hold you and every hug is a window to the very moment he became a man.
Number Five point Five:
Step-Dad.
Since I am both a father and a Step Father. Since I have both a father and a step father, and since my own father has been a father and an almost, but not quite step-father and he too has a father and a step father, I think I can say unequivocally, Numbers 1through 4 don't change, and as for number five, well, he may not have been the first person to hold you, but go ahead and give him a hug anyway. Because he's fucking awesome.
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