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?

Huzzah! No shutdown! 'til October! Wait, what?

After announcing the bipartisan agreement, Obama walked away from the podium and was believed to have mumbled, "...and abortion is illegal now." *cough* *cough*

washing ashore

washing ashore, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

I thought this was a throw-away shot at first. I was playing with my Speedlight and wanted to see what would happen if I just dumped it right on to my subject a la Weegee. Kenobi could have done without the annoyance, but he's never understood my needs, artistically speaking. After a few adjustments in Aperture I got something with some intriguing textures to it. And my 10-trillionth shot of Kenobi.

afternoon errands, Hoboken, NJ

afternoon errands, Hoboken, NJ, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

Another shot from the part of Hoboken that most people don't see, mainly because there aren't any bars on Observer Highway. The scene reminds me of the cover from Physical Graffiti. I should go over to St. Mark's sometime and try and replicate that. Or not. Whatever.

My inner geek's head just exploded!!!!

I frakkin' ADORE these books! I know, I know, they won't be able to REALLY do them justice, but still....

Newark St., Hoboken, NJ

Newark St., Hoboken, NJ, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

Hoboken is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous city in the world and the inflated property values bare this out.

Maxim

Maxim, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

Words to live by.

Yeesh...fetal ideas....etc.

I just Googled Brain Bubbles and found three other blogs with the same name. Gonna have to step-up that new moniker for my little scratch pad here. Something that's still to do with embolisms would be nice.

I like the idea of possibly writing something using the "characters" from around my office. Very exaggerated versions of them, obviously, and with different, very sarcastic names that sound vaguely like Web handles. I've come up with a handful already, based on the simply awful things I've said about them on Twitter. So far there's:

• SalesDouche: straight out of Glengarry, Glen Ross, without all of Mamet's brilliant dialogue.
• WaferThin: she's emaciated! Like her brain!
• ProfessionalWhiner: The Empress of Entitlement Land
• EmphysemaFace: Two pack-a-day smoker with the long, loud, hacking cough to prove it.

One or two more ought to suffice. Possibly based on people I like? Gotta find some of those...

My love's gaze

My love's gaze, a photo by Ryan Vaarsi on Flickr.

Pimpin' ain't easy, but apparently being a ho' is paying better than ever

I'm not feeling especially well today, so it's possible that I'm overreacting to this piece from Think Progress. But my gut-level disgust at American culture has been growing exponentially for quite some time now, so I'm going to assume that the nausea I'm feeling is more along the lines of a rational physical symptom inspired by this latest bit of irrational news.

It shouldn't surprise anyone to hear that a Palin is involved in bilking a charity, particularly one that may not have even been created with the most charitable of intentions. This is a family whose matriarch makes Huey Long seem like the soul of selflessness and civic duty. I've no inclination to run through the laundry list of sins committed by Klan Palin; I think they're fairly well etched into the public consciousness and my stomach's only just stopped heaving. But this kind of thing seems to have become a generational affair. The mother's obviously passed her polecat-like survival instincts on to her offspring.

I think the Daily Kos said it best:

"I think the takeaway message here is that baby out of wedlock = BEST. DECISION. EVER."

Indeed had I, in my wildest pubescent fantasies, ever dreamt that a teen pregnancy could turn out so splendidly, I would have gotten my high school girlfriend with-child toot sweet, before a year-and-a-half of chemotherapy turned my swimmers into little more than microscopic bumper cars.

Working from home & other things that don't suck

I haven't worn underwear in 48 hours. I've spent all the last two days in my PJs and slippers. It's like being Hef. Well, OK, not entirely. I don't smoke a pipe and there's a deplorable lack of half-naked women in my apartment. But otherwise the comparison is spot-on. The laptop is set up on the kitchen table and there's been a steady stream of work-related emails flying out to various parts of the eastern US, England and Asia. Quiet music accompanies the tapping of the keys (at the moment it's a track off of Yann Tiersen's wonderful Amelie soundtrack), which is a vast improvement over the constant chatter of SalesDouche, CompulsiveWhiner and LadyCoughAllDay. Needless to say, I'm not missing CubicleHell one bit.