Ain't Dead Yet

The author, during the ever-so-brief Good Hair Years.

Twenty-one years ago today I sat in a blue, vinyl chair while a nurse, I think her name was Kathy, administered several cc's of IV Vincristine into the radial artery of my right arm and, with that, I was given the last dose of chemotherapy I hope ever to receive. It wasn't the last time that I'd set foot on the Oncology ward at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, one goes for many follow-on visits after a course of chemotherapy, but it was the last time I'd be there to receive my Alkaloid of the Week.

I remember it as a quick trip. Vincristine was my "easy" chemo drug, which is to say that its potential side effects are relatively benign: peripheral neuropathy, hyponatremia, constipation, and hair loss. Compared to the three days of puking that followed a dose of Cytoxan, Vincristine had all the effect of Flinstones Chewables.

More than 2 decades later, cancer is integral to how I view myself. There is no version of me that I can wrap my head around that doesn't include Burkitt's lymphoma. Which is a weird thing to say. But weirder still is how OK I am with that. My cancer is a bucket of cold water that never stops hitting me. It's helped me discover things about myself that I might never have tumbled to otherwise.

25 years down the road from perfection

Honestly Lars, how do you say shit like this with a straight face?

"We have a tendency to be pretty adventurous in Metallica. We're not afraid to move around on the musical map a little bit ..."

Indeed, Mr. Ulrich, those of us who persevered through the band's acid jazz phase can attest to the veracity of that statement. Yet, when you chose to release an entire album of Ladysmith Black Mambazo covers? Pure genius!


Lars goes on (and on) to talk yammer about the challenges of putting together the Big 4 tour (Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax, Megadeth), which I imagine mostly have to do with scheduling hip replacements and wrangling a sufficient supply of Centrum Silver. Beyond that, what? Making sure Scott Ian could get his shifts covered at Burger King? Getting everyone to stop picking on Dave Mustaine just to see if he'll cry (again)?


Somewhere in the basement of my parents' McMansion there is a rack of cassette tapes. Somewhere among them is the copy of Master of Puppets that my girlfriend gave me in 1987. Not far from that there is Anthrax's Among the Living, Slayer's Reign In Blood and Megadeth's Peace Sells, But Who's Buying? I'm suddenly able to understand my father's endless playings of Quadrophenia on boozy Sunday afternoons.

Fuck any time

A couple of years ago I got my wife a collection of postcards called Fuck These Postcards. Basically 20 shots of street signs, billboards, what have you, with"fuck" Photoshopped in. I probably shouldn't have sent one to my grandma. Whatever, bygones. Anyway, at the time it seemed to me like the sort of thing that any fool with a camera and a computer could pull off and here's the proof. Another 19 of these things and maybe I'll try selling them.

Waiting in the appropriate room, Hoboken, NJ

Waiting in the appropriate room, Hoboken, NJ, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

I'm gradually becoming bolder with my street photography. I know, I know, he's sleeping; but not that long ago I wouldn't have tried taking it head on. The New York metroplex is a weird place. Some people get all sorts of squirrelly when they realize they're being photographed. Anyway, progress.

I pretty much just snuck up on this guy. OK, that's not true, it was more of a stake out. Which is perfectly legit, no matter what New Jersey's appellate courts would have you believe.

He is a dealer in entropy and a disbeliever by trade and inclination. To Landsman heaven is kitsch, God a word and the soul, at most, the charge in your battery.
--Michael Chabon
--The Yiddish Policemen's Union

Bom dia, Hawthorne, NJ

Bom dia, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

Today's art. I must say, I'm rather proud of it, despite a touch of blurriness. I managed to pull off a rather clever bit of stealth iphoneography for the wee-small hour of 9 a.m.
Now fuck off, it's time to read. Michael Chabon beckons.

self portrait, April 2011

self portrait, April 2011, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

I hate self portraits, but I think they help us learn something about ourselves. Or I hope they do. Or I'm just a fucking narcissist. I've many rather lovely neuroses bouncing around in me and a tendency toward self-criticality and self-examination are among them. Possibly that's from where this sort of self-torture-through-self-portraiture springs.

Really America?

How? How is it possible that this diseased and incompetent government, to which I already send a large chunk of every paycheck, needs yet another piece of the little bit that I earn? I have less than a third of the income of some people who I know for a fact are receiving rebates this year.

I suppose things would be different if we'd been good enough to reproduce, purchase property, i.e., be proper American worker-bees. But having made the choice to not be Breeders and having neither the cash nor the desire to purchase property, we are being punished by a system that seems designed to torment people like us.

Maybe we should have purchased land. Hell, there was a streak of a few years where people with no credit history, no collateral and (if you believe some of the stories) no proof of citizenship were able to buy property in America. Yeah, they eventually defaulted on the loans and got evicted, but so what? They probably got a nice fat tax rebate every year they had the house and their credit is probably mostly recovered by now.

I need to get out of this chicken-shit banana republic. I need to find someplace where I can pursue a fulfilling career, not be buried in usurious credit debt and keep a decent chunk of my earnings. Preferably somewhere that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S., 'cause I'd like to do a little damage on my way out the door.

My lovely street #photography set

Street photography, a set on Flickr.

I finally decided to organize my street photography into its own set on Flickr. The perfect kind of activity for a lazy Sunday on which i'm putting off doing my taxes. Of course, now I'm in need of a new excuse...

The treasure hunter

The treasure hunter, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

I'm coming to think of photography as a way in which I can come to a better understanding of the human species. That said, this picture may represent a setback in that regard. Assumedly she's not looking for a tire?