Saturday arrived and I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. My roommate was at work doing inventory for the weekend so I had the apartment to myself. I had spent a majority of the week with “swinging shifts” at my new job as well as doing mandatory OT and here I was with some money, some time, and not a damn thing that I wanted to do. Shit.
Before I went too morose I go and pick up a new camera lens: Canon 50mm F1.8. I've been getting into night photography and having seen what shooting at 2.8 could do I decided to follow the suggestion of several other photography sites and pick up that lens. MSRP: $139 (at least according to the store I would pick it up from). Hellbent just to do something I got into my car and went to the Summit. I ate a steak sandwich at Zoe's Kitchen, bought “The Killing,” on Blu-ray, and wound up purchasing the lens for $122 (tax included). “Sweet!” Canon was apparently having a sale, so...
Back at the apartment and I drop some stuff off as well as pick up my camera, batteries, and my tripod. I have no clue where in Louisville I wanted to do some night shots when the image of the police substation parking garage came to mind. Screw it, I thought, I'm going downtown. I call Michael and tell him I'd be there in half-an-hour. Making one last check I again got into my car and hit the road.
And I got stuck in traffic on 71 heading south.
An hour later I'm walking up the sidewalk and almost reach the concrete awning for the Federal Projects building when he calls me on my cell. “When are you coming?” “I'm downstairs, dude. I just got here.” “Good thing on the timing...”
Not to discuss too much personal stuff but Michael's been dealing with some gastrointestinal virus for the past six months and, in my opinion, living where he does doesn't help. I wouldn't live there but then again I have lived in my share of bad places so who am I to make judgment? After signing in I take the seventeen floors up to his place and sit in his living room area while he puts on his shoes. Warren Oates was on TV in an old episode of “Lost in Space.” The sound is off so I have no clue as to what's going on except that Oates is spraying for bugs outside of the Jupiter and Will Robinson is interrogating him about it.
Back on the road but walking this time we're heading to Market to go to the Nulu “Flea Off Market,” which is a collection of electric and artistic people selling eclectic and artistic stuff. Or junk. Having taken some pics by the old Baer Fabrics building we finally arrive. One set of tables are against the side of Toast on Market, a popular Louisville breakfast/lunch spot (read: good food, long time to get it), while the other seems to be against a backdrop of cargo containers. There are some arts and crafts but mostly odds and ends such as old comic books, hardback books, and 50s copies of Popular Science. I stop at a tent where one guy is selling his photography niche: panoramic shots. I'll admit that he had some really cool stuff and told him such.
Michael had disappeared on me and I found him sitting in a chair. “Can you help me carry this back?” “Uh, no. Why?” “It's thirty dollars.” “That's a good deal. Maybe for an extra five they'll help deliver it.” He walks over to talk with the woman presiding over that “booth” and I went to take some pics. When I returned he stood there, cash in hand, and put it into his pocket. “What happened?” “Eighteen dollars is not thirty is what she told me.” I shrug and we walk out of there.
We're heading downtown begins wrenching like it's eating itself. Dammit. I need something to eat. I remember that some time ago my friend Jamie and I ate at La Rosita, a Cuban restaurant a little ways ahead. I set that as the next point to get to and we walk into a restaurant in which the only people inside were the ones running it – they even had the lights off in the back area. The downtown Louisville location of La Rosita does not have its liquor license as of yet (even though there's a neon Budweiser sign in the window) which is a shame because the food is really good. Michael brings up the point that someone must be sitting on their liquor license, trying to get them shut down because they have a prime location. Maybe it's true. I order some guacamole (which I rarely eat but they have some great guacamole) and some sort of Cuban meal of green bell peppers, onions, sausage balls, and cheese that had been wrapped together in aluminum foil and cooked. Good stuff. Michael has some of the guacamole and comments on how authentic it is and I share my meal with him. He relays a story on how a woman once taught him how to make it: “avocado, cilantro, and lime juice.” I might try that one day.
A little bit later we're heading down Market to where I have an idea the police substation is at. Months ago we had wandered around and found a police station with a cool dilapidated garage and I commented that I would come back to photograph it. Now, I was going to do it. I vaguely figured that it was somewhere after second street but before fifth. A woman walks beside us, talking on her cellphone, and Michael claims that he's met her buy doesn't remember how he might know her. I take a look at the buildings at night and point out the ones I want to come back and take pictures of such as the Old Spaghetti Factory. I rattle off the fact that it use to be a clothing factory called Levi Bros and that if you go behind it you can still see the “painted ad” on the back of the building. Heading toward Fourth Street Live we pass by a guy playing guitar on the sidewalk and take another left to zag over to the location which is on third street (I wasn't far off).
The police substation, according to what one officer told me, used to be “the old LG&E building,” Now it's a small, gray police station with POLICE in black letters on the lamp globes that aren't lit. Next to it is the parking garage that goes down into a basement level. That was our destination. We walked around and looked to see if anyone was around I walked inside and setup my camera. The place is dry, dusty, and dirty. Some type of van seat rests against the left wall. One of the back windows has a bullet hole in it. Light comes from a fluorescent one in the upper left corner of the room, the tungsten ones outside showing through the windows, or the ones behind me. I fiddle with the camera settings trying to get “the perfect shot,” not really knowing what I want to capture until I see it. Michael stands behind me with the empty tripod case watching out for cops or anyone else in the area. I move up, down, left, right, stand, and even sit on the floor trying to see what I can do with my camera.
And here's where I break the story with a lesson: while shooting RAW is the way to go (trust me on this one) and following the advice of other photogs and getting a 50mm lens is well worth it, night photography does cause a certain strain namely in the battery department. I was shooting seventy-to-eighty meg images (with a jpeg thumbnail) and shooting at night with batteries I thought would be fully charged. In the middle of a shot the red light below the black dial on my camera continued glowing red for what I deemed too long a period of time. I shut the camera off and tried turning it back on.
Nothing. Zip. Nada. No “sensor cleaning” on the display. I couldn't get anything to register on the display. Fuck.
“Either I broke my camera or the batteries are dead. I'm hoping it's the latter,” I said as I walked toward the overhead florescent light. Looking at the electronic display on the top the battery light was blinking so... yeah, my camera battery had died. I hoped that was the least of my problems.
I packed the camera into the bag and collapsed the tripod and put it inside the case. Michael and I walked into the parking lot filled with standard cars and police vehicles when an officer in an SUV passed by us. We waved at him and Michael said that God was working at least to the fact that we were able to shoot in the parking garage and leave before being discovered by someone on patrol and subsequently questioned. I imagined myself going, “Yes, sir. I'd love to show you the pictures I took but the batteries died.”
I needed to piss badly and wanted to stop somewhere in Fourth Street Live but held it until I got back to Michael's apartment. The plan was to take “Guido” (his name for his black Cadillac) over to the Monkey Wrench to see his friend Kellie's band, Son of the Widow, perform. It was only 8pm and I have nothing else to do so...
The Monkey Wrench is a bar off Grinstead Drive that has a stage for various acts that play there as well as a rooftop deck (usually for those who want to smoke). Michael parked Guido across from Lynn's Paradise Cafe and we walked the two blocks leading up to it. Standing outside we talked with a guy who quickly went inside while a girl stayed outside. She had on a thin, white hooded sweater and wore some band t-shirt. We all introduce ourselves and she says that she's a drummer whose come to see the show. Michael and I walk inside and the doorman asks for five dollars. Michael replies that we're there to see Kellie and to hear one song and go. He lets us past and Michael rushed over to the stage and greets the drummer. A woman who walks up behind him is in a thin, red shirt and tight, black leather pants. That would be Kellie. She thanks Michael for coming and he tells her of the “cover charge situation” and she replies that he should tell Joe that's it's okay for us to be there. We walk to the bar and I order drinks for us. Some time after the first song I point to a booth on the bar side of the place which has a wall obstructing a majority of the sound. “Good call,” he says as we walk over and sit in the booth and shoot the shit.
The music. It was definitely indie but not necessarily “indie rock.” It was something slightly different and each song reinforced the point. I remember one having a slight Middle Eastern-vibe but that was about it. I can't remember a lot of the conversation – I went back to the bar and ordered a BBC Bourbon Stout which had me sailing. Michael wanted to step outside to smoke so I followed.
“This guy's a wild man,” he exclaims at a guy who looks to be in his twenties with a gray suitcoat and cheap black glasses and scraggly beard that went down six inches. The guy, Jeremy, turns to him and they begin talking. Jeremy's girlfriend walks up and we all introduce ourselves. She tells me that her name is “Eli” (short for Elijah) and we step to the side and talk for a long time. She's thin, with long, black hair. She has on a white, sueded jacket and scarf, wearing high heels. The conversation starts about fashion for some odd reason and I make mention that courdoroy, the jacket I had on, was difficult to find. “I think that clothes swapping is the best way to go. A lot of things never really go out of fashion but when I want something different I try trading with someone else,” she states. My eyes wander for a minute at the idea and I concede that no, guys don't do that. “I guess guys basically don't do it because they wear what they wear until it's going to fall off.” “You're right,” I reply.
And in a small, singular moment I see what her boyfriend sees in her: her eyes. Brown. Beautiful. I'm staring into them as she fishes a cigarette out of a pack in her purse and lights it. I'm looking at her eyes, teeth, lips, nose, and the toboggan on her head and realize in a small moment that I've been with someone like her: Jen. Or, as Michael kindly says, She Who Shall Remain Nameless. But yeah, she's standing there and we're talking for a long time. At some point she begins talking about the feelings of others, how narrow-minded culture is, pot farmers, and something else and she stops herself. “I think I just want to go back inside and draw. I've made an ass of myself.” I assure her that she hasn't (but never say that she's crazy) and her boyfriend walks over to the front door and stops. She walks up to him, kisses him, then they proceed to go inside. Her boyfriend holds out his hand and I shake it. She holds out hers and I hold it for a moment as if to kiss it. They turn and go inside.
Michael is standing and talking with a guy named Chris. He turns to me and says, “You should talk with this guy. He's an advocate,” Michael says motioning over to me. I introduce myself and the guy keeps talking about how he went to some old man's place and sold the guy insurance. “He meets me at the front door with a shotgun and is like, 'What do you want?' and I'm like, 'I'm just here to talk with you about insurance. If you would like, set up an appointment with me.' And the guy did. So I find that this guy is working for GE and is paying $145 for himself -himself only!- for insurance. Nothing for his wife. So I get his HR person on the line and start asking some hard questions because you don't know what you don't know. Know what I'm saying?”
I flip through the apps on my not-so-smartphone and tweet what he just said, “You don't know what you don't know.” Sage wisdom. Chris continues talking about how he “saves” people by getting them better insurance rates on their medical coverage which, in some small, demented way, is justified. At some point in time salespeople were instructed to believe that reallocating funds for people who don't take the time to study their insurance policies like an undergrad cramming for that One Big Final is doing a service for mankind. Whatever makes him sleep better, I guess.
Saving people money isn't Chris's only contribution to humanity: he helped sign the Neville brothers. His uncle was big in New Orleans and ran a club called The Warehouse that featured up-and-coming acts during the 60s and 70s. In fact his uncle paid $5,000 to bail Jerry Garcia and company out of jail when they were busted for possession (which led to the song, “Truckin'”) I sat on the bench next to Michael and continued listening as Chris gesticulated in “rap moves” about how he was 12 when his uncle and him walked into A&M records with the Neville brothers and watched them sign their contracts. “If you look on the back of their album, 'From the Bayou,' it'll say 'Special thanks to Chris'... that's me.” We all shook hands and he went elsewhere while Michael and I went inside to catch the rest of the show.
The doorman stopped us again wanting the five bucks. Michael and him talked for a few minutes and the doorman finally went back inside. “That was a test. He wanted to know if we really knew Kellie. He won't bother us again,” he tells me. The show ends sometime after and it's somewhere around ten o'clock. I suggest we go down into the Highlands further. Getting into Guido we drive down to the Hideaway Saloon and park by the Book and Music Exchange. I have to piss so we go into the used book, movie, and music store and I'm pointed toward the back where a blue door leads into the combination crappy toilet and storeroom. After I'm done I find Michael, point him toward the restroom, and peruse the store.
Next we're at the Hideaway Saloon or, at least, outside of it. The staircase leading up to it is lined on both sides outside the door with guys smoking and talking. The guy standing by the door says, “They're playing,” and I walk inside for a moment. The band starts and the guy standing at the door asks me for five bucks. I have no cash on me and walk outside where Michael has turned and walked toward the other side of the street. “I'm not paying five bucks to listen to guys butcher 'Norwegian Wood' on the banjo,” he says.
We pass the closed businesses on the left and I make a comment about the first time I ate at La Bodega with my friend Chad. I'm fairly drunk at this time. We stop at Cumberland Brews, because I had never been before, and we sit at the bar. I order a pale ale and sit getting drunker by the moment. The bartend is a woman with long, black hair and medium build. She tells me that she's from Colorado originally but moved when she was 4 to California then to here. She had majored in marketing but was enjoying doing bartending. Her name was Mandy and her thinner, with long black hair co-worker was Crystal who was attending UofL and majoring in photography. Her thesis would be on display in December.
Guido got parked next in the MidCity Mall lot. I noticed how the ATM on the corner had been uprooted and something else was going to go in its place. Michael wanted to go the bar I didn't, the Highlands Taproom, and we walk over there. Passing twenty-somethings lining the sides of the ramp going inside we get in and take the stools next to the bar. I'm uncomfortable as the place is packed beyond any expectation I've had for it. I suggest that we go to the Back Door and Michael nods. And we're off.
Before we leave the premises a girl calls out to Michael. I stop and she's talking directly to him while cleaning her glasses. She's short, medium build, and wearing brown shirt and skirt. Patting the concrete seat she beckons Michael over and they talk for a moment. I'm not sure what they're saying but she says that she'll be over at the Back Door as long as there's a pineapple. As we walk away he says, “I couldn't do that.” I'm in disbelief. “She's drunk and I've done that too many times before. I'm stained. Girls like her want to go for the lowest person they see.” I'm still in disbelief.
At the Back Door we walk to the back and play pool. Two things: I have not played pool in a decade and I'm drunk. And I continue to suck at pool. Michael wins and as I walk away a girl 2/3's my height and drunker than I've been all night walks up to me and is leaning into me when she says, “Do you believe in Jesus?” I respond, “Well, historically he existed...” “This guy wanted to play pool with me but he wouldn't unless I believed in Jesus. I'm an atheist.” I can tell that she's really, really drunk. “My mom is Jewish and my dad is Southern Baptist.” “How'd that happen?” “I know, right? Fucking hippies.”
I turn to see her friend who is blond, sober, and taller than her. They introduce themselves and the blond friend tells me that the brunette (who I first spoke with) is a college roommate who doesn't get to go out anymore. Her friend then speaks up about the fact that she's a mom and never gets to go out. Michael walks up and we're all talking and find out that the brunette getting drunk is payback for the time when the blond was drunk and had pictures of her eating a wafer that had been up her butt prior to that. Revenge and retaliation... We walk out to the smoking section and I tell a joke while two girls who walk up to the table we were sitting at promptly left by the punchline. Oh well.
I'm drunk and really need something to eat. We factor where to go – Sicilian pizza, etc. - when we drive by and see that Papalino's is still open. Opting for that we park and walk in. While standing in line I order pizza for us both and ask for a beer. “I'm sorry, but we stop serving alcohol at 2.” Probably a good thing seeing as I probably looked fairly drunk and a police officer stood behind the guy at the register. I walk outside and sit at one of the tables waiting for my food. A few moments later Michael walks out with both slices and seeing that a table inside is open we walk back in. We're talking while watching a redheaded chick command a group of her male friends. I split time between that, eating, talking with Michael, and watching “Major Payne” on the TV on the wall.
We're back at Michael's apartment by 3am. It's been a helluva night so I grab my camera and tripod and leave by 3:30am. I get home by 4, take a shower, and collapse. I don't wake up until 11am. A helluva night.
