Sunday, February 23, 2003

Yesterday included a multitude of eclectic photo ops and photo situations and at one I was able to utter a key, three-word phrase that, unlike ILOVEYOU, is just not appropriate for every day usage:
Men emerged holding muskets at the ol' Fort Niagara alongside the Canadian border and, knowing these were re-enactors probably a little on the zealous side, I said those three words.
And in response the first musket-holder said You don't look French so we won't.
Being a Francophile I immediately thought I'd like to throw some steaming Brie at his red, near-frostbitten face but did not.
I was there with Lead Boy Colleague to document this re-enacted winter garrison and - JOYOFJOYS - asked if they'd blow off their operational cannon in addition to the five-gun salute over the lake. They obliged, rolled out the cannon, went through the lengthly process of packing and checking and lighting perhaps six times before
off it went. They did this twice for our enlightenment. A third hack-type shooter was on the other side of the cannon action and you knew he was Serious by the khaki vest he was wearing.
My only other previous cannon-type experience was when my pal's highly eccentric attorney father shot off his pipe bomb and miniature cannon one summer evening up in Canada at their lakeside summer residence.
Speaking of pyros and the issue of control, the bar fire in Rhode Island, I hope, will create awareness about club safety. That night I was out shooting and one stop included a joint that had quickly posted an emergency escape plan around the walls and even as a slide on their continual a-v display.
It's also made me realize that many of the places I pop in are fairly certain death pits with minimal attention paid to safety.

Hair band safety endnote:
One night, in the suburb of Lackawanna (where the Al-Qaeda cell of seven was discovered) I was at a KISS tribute gig by a band called SSIK. They had homemade pyros that at the time I found amusing - coffee cans filled with black powder and the like. Several months later, driving down Ridge Road, the club was gone. Burnt to a krispt. Know when to say Hell no to pyros. Sometimes at concerts photogs in the pit are inches from boxes that are sometimes labeled pyros. Usually a stage tech comes out to tell us to steer clear of such boxes during song 1 or whatever and tell us not to touch the boxes, like we're really dying to pry open their lids and fuck with Britney's (or whomever's) super-special bells & whistles.
Onwards to further photo matters.

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