Holmden Ave - Tremont, Ohio

This road spills straight down from the ridge into the Cuyahoga Valley. It dead ends into Quigley, just across from Arcelor-Mittal

Chagrn Falls - Wiley Creek

Collinwood

I met these two guys over in Collinwood. Mike, the guy with the keys, was cleaning up a house he had just purchased. He pointed out all of the empty houses on the block and said things were in pretty bad shape. Eric was walking down the block to tend to another property. The city has been citing people for letting their lawns go. Mike and Eric were responding to citations.

53rd & Walworth

Fixing the Fuel Filter - Ronald & Jimmy, Tremont, Ohio

Little Italy - Shop Window

Mike The Hatter's, 645 Prospect Ave., Cleveland, Ohio - Sam Garrett

West Side, Cleveland, Ohio

E. 55th Hotel - Abandoned

Laptop Robbery, 6400 Bridge Avenue

Tanisha, our next door neighbor, had her townhouse broken into yesterday.
I was sitting in my living room, surfing the web and eating plantain chips and Goya salsa for lunch, still in my pajamas when it happened.
Looking up from my laptop I glanced out the rear window of my townhouse onto a normally vacant alley and saw two young black men fussing with a laptop.
My first thought was: "Are those guys working on the cable service?" No. No uniforms.
My second thought was: "Are those guys hijacking my internet?" No, not the type to chalk up my neighborhood.
My third thought came to me as I watched one of them stuff the laptop into his coat: "They're stealing that laptop."
I did a little jump, ran around the room and my brain clicked off a few more quick thoughts: "Where's the camera?" "Where're my jeans?" "That's not my laptop, is it?"
Full disclosure - I was still a bit hungover at 12:15 Wednesday April 22, 2009 so, naturally, I was sitting in my living room in my pajamas eating plantain chips and salsa at 12:15, surfing the web and watching a documentary about Rocky Erickson rather than being outside on a rare sunny spring day in Cleveland, Ohio. The cops catching a laptop thief being the only phenomenon more rare than a sunny spring day in Cleveland - something not to be missed, unless you're hung over and eating plantains, watching a laptop crime in progress.
I knew I didn't have a good ID on the guys: even though they weren't more than five feet away from me through the glass of my townhouse window, I knew I wouldn't be able to truly describe their faces in my mind or to anybody else.
So I went for a camera. I threw open the door and met Cedric who was standing on the sidewalk in front of our house. He was on his phone talking with a 911 dispatcher.
He covered the phone and said "Hey man, your neighbor just got robbed."
"I know," I said. "I'm trying to get a picture of them."
"They're around back," he said.
"Thanks," I said and took off around the corner. Half the way down the block another guy was walking his pit bull. He had also seen the robbery. He was trying to give me some directions, pointing down the alleyway heading east, his pit bull at his side.
I came upon the thieves in my pajamas and slippers. They were about fifty feet away from me, through some trees and fences. I pulled up my camera and snapped this picture. Full manual mode, overexposed and all sorts of stuff other than helpful. But it does capture the rush of the moment. The thieves saw me with the camera and took off at full sprint towards Ellen Street, which is to the left in the picture.
I trailed them for a bit down Ellen, but thought better of what might actually happen if I came upon them in close quarters. So I called off the search and circled back to the townhouse.
Cedric was still on the phone with dispatch when I returned and he handed the phone over to me.
I spoke with the operator and gave her the details of address, etc., hung up with her and gave the phone back to Cedric.
I was grateful that Cedric had been responsive enough to realize what was happening and quickly call 911. But as I found myself stuck there with him waiting for the police, it dawned on me that maybe people in Cleveland really are a little bit crazy.
"They're from the East Side," he said. "Ain't no way this shit happens on the West Side. In broad daylight? It ain't even HOT yet," he said.
"You don't think they're local," I asked him.
"Fuck no! I'm an AIDS Counselor so I seen this shit all my life. They're from the East Side. Probably in one of those houses down there," he said pointing to West 58th. "These fucking kids," he said. He started to get pretty close, a close talker.
"I live over on Clark. There's nothing over there so I don't get much attention, but I got a gun and if one of these motherfuckers breaks in my house I'll shoot him right in the butt," he said and then asked me if I smoked.
"No," I said.
"Oh that's good. Sign of the times. Used to be everybody smoked," he said.
Cedric became more and more animated and I became more and more desperate for somebody else to show up so I could stop listening to him.
In the interim between Cedric's call to 911 and the arrival of the police he managed to tell me his story: sixteen years as an Aids Counselor, his own children and the difficulty of keeping them straight, his having diabetes, his mother's advice against letting the doctors start cutting on him because "Once they start cutting at you, they don't stop." He made some slicing gestures on my forearm.
"I walk everywhere, everyday. I lost 160 pounds. I can't let them cut off my legs. I said no way. I need these. Got to check it everyday. You got a dollar? I need to take public transportation all the way back across town." Cedric the hero was quickly becoming Cedric the zero. I gave him a dollar anyway.
One by one some of the neighbors showed up; Sean, Paul and Leslie.
Tanisha phoned Sean, whom she calls "Booger," and told him she was on her way back from work and to please wait with the police until she arrived. The police had another robbery to check on, but said they would be back to speak with the victim in a few minutes. So we sat around and I told everybody what had happened.
Then, to kill the time Paul and I checked out the scene of the crime for ourselves. We were wondering how these kids could've gained entry into a bolted door. We looked at the point of entry: no signs that we could see of forced entry - no scrapes on the door, the jamb was intact, no sign of being kicked in or jimmied. We thereby determined that Tanisha, or her mother must have failed to close the deadbolt.
Tanisha of course had assured us over the phone that her mother, who was "OCD about everything and she locks and double checks everything every time she does anything," had locked the house down, no doubt, before leaving.
A few moments later Tanisha came roaring down the street in her Mini-Cooper and pulled up to the curb.
"Mother fucking kids! I can't take this shit anymore. What the fuck do they need a laptop for? I am supposed to be seeing a client right now," she said.
We watched her stomp up her steps and put her key in the door handle and push right into the house.
Paul and I looked at each other. "No deadbolt."
Everybody had stuff to do after that. Paul and Leslie were off to PA for a visit (that's them at the top.) Sean was heading back to work. And Cedric had to keep on moving.
I stuck around with my camera, sort of the unofficial chronicler of this event.
Eventually the police returned and took our names and vitals. They got the story from me pretty quick and I described the thieves as best I could. I showed them my camera as evidence that I hadn't trusted my memory before and it still wasn't much good to any of us.
Tanisha then haded over her license and started peppering them with all sorts of information:
"I have a gun! I am so sick of this. I hate this neighborhood," she said to the officer who was still sitting in his cruiser taking down her information.
"Can I have your ID?" he asked.
"Sure. I'm not from around here. I am a clinician. My mother is OCD about everything. She locked the doors. How do these kids get in the house? I will fucking kill them."
"Yes," the officer said.
"I don't have to ask, you know?" she said.
"No, that's true," the officer said.
"I can shoot them if they come in here again. I have a gun in the house," she said rather matter of fact.
"I am trying to make this a better community. I am trying to contribute. Somebody ought to go talk to those kids or their parents. I don't know if they don't have a father but somebody needs to beat the crap out of those kids. Why do they do this? I have a car note to pay. I have a mortgage. Don't they know they're making it worse on everybody doing this? I will kill them. I have a gun in the house."
At this point I felt it necessary to let the officers know where I stood.
"I don't have a gun in the house so if I call, that pretty much means I need help real quick," I said.
"I recommend you get some weapons," the driving officer said to me. Not the response I was expecting.
They asked us to wait on SIU to show up and dust for prints. We said we would no problem. Tanisha took me indoors and started showing me all of the other things around her laptop that the thieves had overlooked: a blackberry, lockbox, keys, various electronics.
"Why didn't those kids grab any of this? Stupid fuckers. That laptop doesn't mean anything to me. It syncs every night with my MAC upstairs. They can't get anything off of it," she said.
"I think they probably want to sell it," I said.
"Well, I'm just saying they should've taken this lockbox if they had any sense. There's passports, passwords, account numbers, all sorts of stuff in there. Stupid fuckin' kids."
By this time SIU showed up and started to photograph the scene of the crime. I spoke with the detective a bit and showed him a boot print on the door the other officers had thought might be significant.
"Shoe treads only matter on TV," the detective said and went back inside.
I told Tanisha and her mother, who had shown back up by then with her grandson, Tanisha's son, that I would be leaving and to call if I could do anything else for them.
The kid started yelling and screaming about the cat in the basement, making all sorts of a racket and Tanisha told him he'd better shut up and head upstairs or this officer would take him right to jail, which of course had an effect to the contrary, sending the tantrum to level ten.
"Oh, don't tell the kid that," the detective said putting his head in his hands in a gesture of defeat.
"I'm just trying to get him to shut up," Tanisha said.
"It's not fair," he said.
"To him?" Tanisha asked.
"To the other officers. He'll be afraid of all of us," he said.
At that moment, the detective standing there rubbing his temples, I could see him imagining this kid's whole life play out before his eyes and somewhere, out on that line, he feared that he, or one of his fellow officers was going to run into this kid, right here in front of us right now, but as a teenager, or a man. And that when that day should come, if it should come, that this very moment of convenience that Tanisha and her grandmother had seized upon as a way to silence their child was going to end in tragedy, and his face seemed to say, "again."

Duck Island

St. Patrick's Day, 2009 - Holgas

Rell Family Appliance, Madison Ave & W. 98th

Wlady's, Lorain Ave., Cleveland, Oh. - Shoe Repair

Sunrise, Steelyard, Cleveland, Ohio

Structures

West 65th St., Cleveland, Ohio, 1/20/2009

Louis B. Stokes Wing, Cleveland Library, 1/20/1009

Inauguration Day, Cleveland, Ohio, 2009

Ohio City - Market Days, Cleveland, Ohio

January 9th, 2008

Lorain Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio

Car Fire, Ontario, Cleveland, Ohio

Christmas 2008 - Cleveland

Christmas 2008 - Long Island

Airplanes

Lorain Ave/Tremont

Forest City

Slavic Village

Lake Erie, Gulls, 12/11/2008

Sportsman Barber Shop

West Side Market, Cleveland, Ohio

AllState Barber College, Cleveland, Ohio

Shop

New project. Shooting people making a living in marginalized industries.
These are Kelly Woodworth from Smoke Zone II in Cleveland, Ohio and Scott (I'll get his last name next time) from Revolution Tattoos Cleveland, Ohio.

Elyria, Ohio: Cora Roberts

Ridgeville, Ohio, December 2008

Cleveland, Oh., 11/26/08

Abandoned Coast Guard Station, Cleveland, Oh., 11/26/08

Cleveland, Ohio, 11/24/08

Medina, Ohio

Arcelor-Mittal

Obama Rally, 11/02/08

Canton, Ohio, 10/27/2008

Obama in Canton, Ohio

Brandywine, Ohio

Cleveland - Obama Biden Rally, 10/16/08

Valley of Steel, Cleveland, Ohio

Early AM, West Side, Cleveland, Ohio, 10/10/08

Lou and Evelyn

Cleveland Halite Field

10/01/08

Underground Railroad, 10/01/08

These shots were taken from one of the last stops on the underground railroad. From this point in Lakewood, Ohio, slaves would board ships for Canada.

Lake Erie, 9/26/08

Cleveland, OH. 9/24/08

For "Stag at Sharkey's"

Well, Danielle and I have made it to Cleveland and we are both looking, in earnest, for decent work, which is hard to come by here in Cleveland it seems.
Today, though I found a lead on a management position at the Cleveland MFA - retail sales. Hey, everybody needs their "Starry Starry Night" repro.
In any event, I got to look around at the collection, at least the part of it available to view (the museum is undergoing extensive renovations and as a result only one wing is open to the public.)
I like the feel of museums and think I would like to work in one, even as a retail clerk. I mean, at least I'd have cool stuff to hang out with on lunch breaks.
A good deal of the work I saw today was 19th and early 20th century American paintings. All of them interesting and fresh to me (I've been to the Boston MFA so many times that I forget there are other collections out there.) One in particular struck me so much that I decided to write down my thoughts in a poem. Here it is, an ode to George Bellows' "Stag at Sharkey's."



For Stag at Sharkey's

Another restaurant and I'm
in Ohio's world again, but
this time it's nickels and dimes and
pennies from ashtrays that I'm
hunting. Oh, Mother says
we can hunker down at
her and Father's compound if
things get too bad. And I'm sure we
could. Fifteen bedrooms and
an acre of green grass out back and
we could easily turn the fourth, fifth
and sixth garages into chicken coops.
But, what did I learn all of these things
for? The people of
the FSA, gaunt and deteriorated, clear-eyed
and dirty, flat and wasted, on their iron and straw
beds with their shaving bowls and straw brooms.
They're gone.
And I went to see Stag at Sharkey's
today and understood the painting, I think, and
saw in it the future of the form and its demise. I
think this may be the greatest moment of my life,
looking at this oil, and laugh to think I may think such
a thing. Where would we get chickens from, anyway?
Does anybody know that, something like that?
We can get tomatoes, for sure, but...

Chinatown, Boston, MA 2008

Redbones - Last Shift

On Cycling in the Rain

But then I ventured into the rainy afternoon
And found myself on Massachusetts
Avenue and heading south into
Cambridge and not caring too much for
The morning I had
Spent with you sweating
In those wonderful new
Sheets and having
Scotch and
Magazines and quick dinners
And videos rather than mortgages
And Babies and Businesses and Real,
Honest, Large Work.
By 16 East/West (less than a mile)
I was again
Righteous, but hungry
Already and again trying to eat intelligently
For I was training to race,
Wasn’t I?
But Di Mio is a half mile and
Pesto and foccacia and perhaps then
A stretch of slow riding.
The struggles of the racer are
Not well known but let it be
Said they are many and
Not as feminine as all that. One wants
To BE Beloki, who came back too
Early from his crash, to get
Back on the bike and struggle
Into town on broken rims (Beloki
Would never ride on broken rims)
And depleted systems, delirious
With dehydration and hypoglycemia
Only to suffer tendonitis, a bad
Contract and the burning desire
To remain still.
And still the water spraying up
The saddle onto my back.
Couldn’t I have gone to the beach, to
The water, to the sounds and achieved
The same maybe more?
Perhaps it helps to quell the
Warm sensation of disembowelment
That swarms through my depressions.
Having died, having wanted to die
Having planned for death I get
On a bike, climb as many hills as I can
Until I taste blood on your tongue:
If you want to follow me, man, this
Will not be easy.
And you want to be Kivilev in
A situation like that. Kivilev who
Chased the leaders across France
Until his body withered and the spirit
Of his mind withdrew from
His face. Who like the farmers, who like
The drought
Like the dust of the deep depression, until his
Skull lay still, crushed on the Tarmac
In France. There is no redemption. Unlike
Nozal, Ullrich, Armstrong, Cassagrande
Or Virenque who
Withdrew into their deepest kernel and could
Not resist. And I ride in
To town. The angry cars
Like the news, like the
Accretion of work.
I stop to eat,
Thinking in the rain I should really be
Reading poets from Chicago
Who speak nothing
Of the sport of cycling for what is
It? I tip the waitress
Too much and consider walking into one
Of those kitschy retro shops that
Have sprouted across town, perhaps
Buy back my affection for her
With an old clock, or
An enormous toy ring. But I am struck
In place by the thought
Of being a king.
As I stand breathing
Deep looking
In through the pane to the
Plastic record players,
Lunchboxes and cigarette cases,
I reach around my back - the pockets
Are stitched into the back of these jerseys -
Into my jersey pocket
And feel for my key chain and lock ring
Charm, my wallet and a little
Bit of money.
There’s an old dog tied to the parking meter
And he’s wet and probably blind by now and
We’re waiting there and
I tell him I’ve only four dollars.
His eyes are milky and he makes
A noise, more of a chuff than a
Bark, and he says to me over and
Over and over
You are a king.
You are a king. You are
A King.

Rot-Gut: Or, What Happens When They Make Wine from Apples and Call It Kiwi Strawberry

Atop the hierarchy of intoxicants, fine wines and Scotch Whiskeys typically hold sway over all other considerations. Their regal colors and scents, their depth of provenance, the nearly mythical back-story: all of these elements conspire to assure wine and Scotch Whiskey their deserved spots above the rivers of rotten libations we humans produce and consume in search of the perfect buzz.
But are they, these two kings of the drunk-dial, really so different, so far afield from their besotting brethren as to be truly separate?
If drunk, do they not give us hangovers?
If set to match, do they not aflame (not wine, but that's splitting hairs)?
If offered to alcoholics, are they not dispatched with verve and alacrity?
No, you can see, they are not any greater of themselves. It is we, the perpetually stinky bar people, who elevate and denigrate our drinks of choice and chide. We are all marketers, picking and choosing, aligning and re-aligning based on whimsy and want.
And, typically we want what we are told to want.
Take vodka. Perhaps the most popular potent potable in the pouring world. When done “right” it has no scent, no flavor and, theoretically leaves little to none in the way of a hangover. It can be drunk in a shot, as a fruit based cocktail, as a classic martini or a martini in Manolo Blahniks. It can be injected into melons and smuggled into concerts. It can be poured down an ice luge in Vegas and drunk with surprisingly little shame. It is the perfect vehicle for the alcoholic; the stereotypical Russian in his kitchen, listening as the compressor in his Stinol sputters to a stop, downing drop after drop of his last chilled Putinka, his own spirit rising on a current of evaporating memories.
Vodka sits not alone atop the trash heap of alcoholic marketing campaigns. All of them, in some way, cater to and create their very own dancing slice of the demographic booze-pie.
In one sentence or less (or more), a quick synopsis of where some popular alcoholic products and trends have taken us:
Bourbon – NASCAR – cars for running moonshine now run on moonshine. Rich.
Beer – Drunk Super-Nerds nattering on about esters and oily, piny residue sticking in a lattice to the glass. Blah.
Rum – Mojitoes.
Tequila – Sammy Hagar's goatee.
Cocktailing – The introduction of the celebrity bartender. Old, fat, loud and sybaritic these narcissistic belly-flops washed up onto our bars over the past decade and refuse to swim back to sea.
And that's the top end.
Equally aggressive but perhaps less vapid, the lower rungs of the booze ladder offer some insights into who we are, why we got where we are (if you're there, you know what I mean) and, are we really to blame?
Maybe by defining a portion of the low-end of the booze theory we can grasp how similar we really are, separated only by the slightest circumstance.

I offer you a tour of the lesser labels.

Listerine/Nyquil: ($6.00) Terrible. Absolutely abhorrent. Check the labels, though. Both products contain a fair amount of alcohol and can get you pretty juiced. Only for the absolutely desperate. Not even worth an experimental bender. Causes dizziness, the “jooglies” and run-on nonsensicating.

Robitussin: ($5.00-$7.00) Active ingredient Dectromethorphan (dmx). When used in normal doses the side effects include, nervousness, dizziness, sweating, nausea, vomiting and unusual paleness along with a litany of other complaints. When consumed in unhealthy doses, add hallucinations to the list. Only recommended for the compulsively efficient. If caught alone under the influence of this nuisance, remain calm, out of sight and in your kitchen cabinet (you're probably there already.) Attempting normal communications with other members of the species while “Robo-ing” is possible but ill-advised.

Ripple: (unavailable for purchase) The wine that made Gallo blush. Gallo Wineries of California produced this ultra affordable table wine through the 1970’s. Gallo discontinued making the product to coincide with their efforts at capturing a more upscale portion of the drinking market. All that remains of Ripple are the pop culture references from “Sanford & Son,” to the Grateful Dead to the inimitable Gordon Lightfoot’s thought of “Georgia pine and Ripple wine.” This wine has, thankfully, left the pantheon of American liquors. Only the dark cloud of Gallo’s cynicism remains to hang over an otherwise enjoyable pastime – gettin’ lit up.

MD 20/20: (about $3.00) A fortified wine produced by Mogen David Wineries. Originally, known as Mad Dog 20/20, Mogen David Wineries changed the name to MD 20/20 to better reflect the sophistication of its market. This poison is known for its ability to induce foaming mouth syndrome in heavy imbibers, and tends to color the tongue a lovely hue of either green or blue, depending on flavor. A prerequisite at all proms, fraternity Hell Weeks and Venice Beach barrel parties, Mad Dog’s phantasm of flavors has pushed MD 20/20 to the forefront of rotgut. Its alcohol content varies with flavor and color between 13% and 18%. Mango Lime, Orange Jubilee, Pacific Peach, Kiwi Lemon, Tangerine Dream, Key Lime Pie, Red Grape Wine and Strawberry Rose are all available. The stuff tastes like sugar water and can knock you on your tail with gusto. Should be paired with cheese and peanut butter crackers, or bread crust.

Boone’s Farm: (around $3.00) This puzzlement is made from apples. The flavors alone speak volumes about the quality of this product. Names like Strawberry Hill, Kiwi Strawberry, Wild Island, Mountain Berry, Sun Peak Peach and Kountry Kwencher evoke a calmness akin to the catatonia of a three day Boone’s hangover. Boone’s hails from Nevada where, apparently, apples grow wild in the desert: their vintners keeping a watchful eye for the best pink lady to distill into a bottle of Kiwi Strawberry.

Thunderbird: (about $6.00) Vinted and bottled by Gallo wineries, the color of this wine is disarmingly similar to urine. First marketed post prohibition, the Gallo brothers sought to corner the downtrodden market driving through ghettos, pushing the swill to the disaffected and disenchanted. “What’s the word? / Thunderbird!” So goes the jingle. A drink for hobos, bums and hard-core drunks, Thunderbird is available for sale at select stores of untold esteem.

NightTrain: (about $6.00) Another loop in Gallo’s extensive net of hobo wines, this wine is fuel enough to sustain a three thousand mile bender. The type of trip from which one never really returns. Keep this one in the bag for an added shot of credibility next time you’re mining the turmoil of your darkest mind. Once you’re on the train, it makes no stops.

So, c’mon, if you’ve got $6.00 and you’re staring at a bottle of Robitussin, or Thunderbird skip it. Walk up to the register and pick up a couple of nips. The crème de menthe nips go for a cool buck or less and they keep your mouth fresh and inviting. Or you could venture into a handle of Rubinoff for $10.00 or so. Soon enough you’ll be bleeding from the gut and conspiring with Rasputin on that long slow train out of St. Petersburg on your way to the bottom of the Neva.
And you won’t even know how you got there.

Suffolk Downs, May 14, 2008

May 12, 2008

May 9, 2008

Concord, MA - May 7, 2008

May 2008

LaForge @ Charlie's Kitchen

Color

Somerville Ave,

Arnold Arboretum

Holga

Spring

Down at Conroy Park

Evelyn's Birthday Weekend

Went to Cleveland to celebrate my niece's 2nd Birthday. Here're the pics

Alewife

A series of images from the banks of the Alewife Brook in Somerville/Medford/Cambridge/Arlington.

New Pics

Littleton, MA

These are four images made in Littleton, MA. Although, the horse lives, I think, closer to Harvard, MA.
A strange world out there. I love it, very green and deep old growth forests pocketed with 200-300 year old town centers built around village greens and churches. I used to train on my bicycle out there.
All sorts of apple orchads, pig farms and horse stables. I believe most of the farms are working farms, but I did notice alot of Benzos pulling into the long drives of those family farms. Who knows?
The boat and VW were parked in front of the Littleton Depot, now defunct but converted into a junkyard/graveyard/resurrection lot for antique ovens.
The commuter rail still flies past the depot - the lines are still active. It's a strange and rare coexistence of an old country lifestyle and a bumping, status-rich concern of downtown Boston, and NYC even, I'd imagine.
Living there seems alright: a farm, a horse, wife, coupla-three kids, ten to twenty cats, twelve pigs, three rusted out Bluebird school buses and a tree fort. What more is necessary, really?

John Smith House, Concord, MA

MIT Architecture

Rollin' through MIT w/my Yashica. Those eggheads don't mind a little analog. Not even one stare while on campus. Most of 'em had their noses buried in chocolate chip muffins anyway.