Why I'm a bad photographer

Every now and then I’m forced to confront what a truly horrible photographer I am—usually when looking at pictures I took. Here is the thing, as a writer I rely on indirection. Rather than just come out and say some guy is a douche bag I would likely get at that point by noticing some offhand exchange or moment which I would then weave into the story. I tend to notice the things that other people don’t notice. It’s my THING. Except not always. I mean, occasionally I would start a story with “So-and-so is a gigantic douche bag.” But So-and-so is the exception that proves the rule. I mean: That guy? He really is off the charts douchey.

But back to the photos. Instead of just taking a photo of the surface beauty, or even the thing I’m trying to take a photo of, I always do this thing where I try to get some kind of weird angle or weird juxtaposition or something and I imagine that it’s going to magically turn into awesomeness between the reality which I’m seeing with my eyes and the alchemy of the camera. It never does. I remember taking some pictures at the beach with my sister who happens to be a really great photographer (she’s shot some pics that have run alongside some of my stories) and she said, “pay attention to the light.” Then she pushed me into the water and when I got out I noticed my wallet and keys were missing.

So anyway, all that is a caveat about the below horrid photos.

So, back to the story of this weekend. I woke up on Saturday wondering who the fat ass in my apartment was and upon realizing I was alone, decided to go to the gym. Then I remembered I no longer belong to a gym so I thought it might be a good day to join one. Then I decided instead, since it was a nice day out, why not jog around Brooklyn and by jog I mean walk fast except for ten feet here or there where I decide to jog? So I embarked on a three hour power walk. It was pretty awesome and now I’m even more in love with Brooklyn than I was before, not counting the years I held a Brooklyn grudge which is a detail not germane to this story.

Whilst powerwalkjogging around I listened to my semi-buddy Doug Benson’s I Love Movies podcast. I recommend this if you like things that are funny involving movies that aren’t Dustin and my reviews.

Here is Grand Army Plaza. I’m totally going out of order, by the way. My dad grew up right near here.

Here is the bridge over the Gowanus Canal. It’s no Goldenrod footbridge, that’s for sure. [update: now I’m wondering whether that’s actually the canal or just Gowanus. You’d think I would know. But then you’d realize that there’s no reason you should have thought I would know.]

Here’s the view of lower Manhattan from the Promenade.

Here’s another Promenade shot. The promenade is really beautiful—something not really captured in this shot.

Another Promenade shot.

A water taxi. You know what I don’t like? Water taxis. Also, water ferries. Basically if you are relying on some kind of public transpo seafaring vessel to convey you from one place to another, I’m not into it. Do you hear me, Venice?

More Gowanus Canal.

A street in Park Slope.