I've gone over the bridge a number of times in the last year, but haven't done the dedicated photowalking/blogging. As part of a larger "yes, everything went to hell last year, but so goddamn what" campaign, the copious photographing resumes.

Yesterday's tack: underexposing to bring color to a blah, washed out sky.

Yesterday, I had a lovely afternoon with friends at the Yankee game. The weather was beautiful, it was cap day, and the company was great. The Yanks didn't win, but such is life.

I was in such a good mood that, my friends having gotten off the train a stop earlier, I decided on impulse to get off the 4 train at Brooklyn Bridge and walk over the bridge home. The sun was shining, my camera was in my bag, and "99 Problems" had just kicked on over my earphones. I was happy!

Then, as I emerged from the station, a confused-looking middle-aged woman asked me how to get on the bridge. I told her. Then, because we were both going to the same place, the awkwardness set in. Each time I was about to pull ahead and resume being a free-floating stranger, along would come another question: How far was it across? (About a mile.) Was it all uphill? (Only to the first set of arches; then it leveled off, more or less, then went down after the second.) Was I at the Yankee game too? (Yes.) Did I hate that bastard Farnsworth? (Nope.) How many arches are there really? (Only two.) Is it safe? (Yes.)

I began scouting out the place where I would pull over, make an excuse about taking pictures, and then take a boatload of photographs as she walked ahead and went on her way. Just before I could, things went off the rails. First she was talking about how her kids wouldn't believe she'd done this (noncommittal noise as I looked in vain for a way to pass the clump of tourists ahead of me). Then she started talking about how depressed she'd been for so long, how her one child was driving her to despair, how she'd been growing more and more suicidal.

And that, for me, is where it all went to hell. It's no good being burdened with the problems of strangers; I have enough of my own and frankly, I'm not in a position to help even if I didn't. But I also can't in good conscience walk away from somebody who throws the word "suicide" around. So there I was, fucking life-coaching this woman across the Brooklyn Bridge like the worst-ever episode of Starting Over. Do I know what it's like to be depressed? (Yes. Unspoken: everyone does.) How do I keep going? (This was asked several times. My answers included the tried-and-true standards about not making decisions in the worst state of mind, about owing friends and family better than that, about simply wanting to know what happens in the lives of people you care about.) What should she do? (Call the friend she mentioned. Get professional help. Think of what she wants to have happen; she can't make it happen by herself, but she can do her part to make it possible, or she can refuse and make it impossible. The unspoken answer: ask a professional or somebody who actually knows you for help, not strangers.)

She was a very slow walker, so the whole thing took over half an hour. I might sound flip in the above paragraph, but it was very upsetting. I was throwing bullshit around, trying to be kind without completely forfeiting the privacy I, as a stranger, was entitled to. I can't know how sincere she was; my thinking is that the person whose behavior is a cry for help, needs the help. But that doesn't mean she had the right to ask me for it.

I got her over the bridge and onto her train, and ordered her to call her friend when she got above ground. When I finally stepped off the subway, I was spent.

And now I'm wondering: will the bridge ever be my place again?

For some time now, walking over the Brooklyn Bridge has basically been my substitute for meditation. If I was alone, I was either taking photos--my way of absorbing how lovely this city can be, and of keeping the creative part of my brain alive--or I was just on a walk to calm myself, to be alone with my thoughts in a beautiful place. If I was with a friend, it was invariably a happy time--either practicing a hobby with an in-town friend or having the gratifying experience of taking a visitor to see something guaranteed to delight.

My first thought is that this won't tip the balance; the next time I go over the bridge, this thought goes, I'll feel that same sense of wonder. But I worry all the same. Not about Esther, the possibly suicidal, certainly troubled woman whom I will not likely see again. I tried. I did what I could. But I do, selfishly and unapologetically, worry about what I'll do if the next time I step on the bridge I feel, instead of awe, only wariness of the people around me.

At long last, my absurd retention of plot and cast details from TV I saw at age 5 has come in handy. The situation: bar trivia. Yes, a vital arena in which to succeed. The question was: "What popular TV and film actor guest-starred as Michael J. Fox's alcoholic uncle on Family Ties?"

The answer: Tom Hanks, friend. Tom Hanks.

He drank the vanilla extract.

Somebody HAS done some kind of reggaeton remake of "Feel Like Making Love". And it is even worse than you can imagine.

I hate my neighbors.

(Note time of post. This shit is still blaring.)

Update: it finally stopped at 3:40. I don't care if it makes me an old lady, I don't care if it was Saturday, they are assholes. The "yards" around here are garden-sized and no amount of pretending you're P. fucking Diddy in the Hamptons will change the fact that your speakers are three feet from somebody else's bedroom.

Today, in a break with the howling and whining that have defined this journal of late, I praise my friend Kat Kinsman. For in addition to compelling me to blog in the first place by setting this up on one of her servers, Kat does the following wonderful things, in no particular order:

1. Spouts the most eloquent profanity:
"Seriously, though - he should just grab a fork for the cock buffet, make a stop at the hot turd dispensary for dessert, and not forget to receive his complimentary bag of dick on the way out."

2. Mixes the best Hemingway daiquiris ever.

3. Snaps important shots of neighborhood graffiti:

Your eyes do not deceive you. When the Gowanus Lounge died, it briefly became the GO ANUS. Kat made sure the world did not forget.

4. Always does her hair just so.

5. Sings songs about her rabbits and dogs.

6. Makes the notion of a Karl Rovian sexcapade even more horrifying than the phrase "Karl Rovian sexcapade" would suggest.

7. Listens to my bullshit.

8. Approaches culture actively. She listens to enough music, old and new, that she could probably pull off professional critiicism, but she does it without a whiff of pitchforkian snotbaggery. She reads constantly, writes everything from email to novels with thoughtful composition, creates both parodic and serious digital art, and even composes her outfits. All without caring if I turn up in jeans and a t-shirt that says "OKAY", while I listen to "I Got a Man" on my iPod.

9. Introduces me to the nicest people. Her boyfriend, her friends, her pets, even her plants--they're all preternaturally interesting and kind. Without, you know, being weird and culty.

10. Is thoughtful and generous for no reason at all. I'm looking at you, Yankee lunchbox.

"Live girl-on-girl action!
Girls making out with each other to turn on guys is the latest craze at high school and college parties. Is this sexual liberation, or regression?"

Let me thhhhhhink . . . mock-gaily frenching your friend for the gratification of some frat boy asshole who would probably hurl into his white ball cap if he had to deal with a real lesbian . . . gotta be liberation, right?

I'm back to hating everyone again.

Good news! It appears that my sirenlike attraction for (not to) the unstable homeless of the city is undimmed. Saturday evening, I was traveling downtown on the 4-5 with one big bag and one small. Because I am a conscientious subway traveler, I placed the big bag on my lap and the smaller bag on top so that I did not take up more than one seat. My efforts to not be an asshole were rewarded when a particularly scented homeless gentleman came from the next car over and sat down next to me. Not the best my nose had ever been, but he had a right to be there; so far, no problem.

Then he started chattering and doing this weird leering thing. Whatever.

Then he turned on a diagonal and pushed his legs into me. I looked over to decide exactly how confrontational I could be about this, and he got his lighter out and started trying to light my bag on fire. Fortunately, his lighter was out of fluid, so no harm done.

The funny part is that I wasn't scared or angry. I was just annoyed, put out that I was being hassled. My thought was basically, "Great, now I have to give up my seat. Asshole."

It would appear that after Homeless Kicker, Huggy Bum, that guy who screamed he was going to make a coat of my skin, and, of course, the legions of subway onanists, I have become a shade less sensitive. Yay?

Check out this glowing profile of Brooke O'Harra and the Theatre of a Two-Headed Calf.

Oh, the pride by proxy!

As once before, I'm posting some of the paintings I've been making. I have no illusions that they are objects of great beauty, but just making them and their unphotographed companions has been doing a lot to keep me sane, so I regard them with affection. And I actually kinda like the blossom one all on its own.

These are gradually being used to alleviate my apartment's bare wall problem, which just shows how nice and encouraging my roommates are.

Note: The fourth one down has the unfair advantage of having been used as a test subject when I was practicing with my new tripod. All the others were snapped in standard half-ass fashion. And in defense of the last one, there's a whole thing with iridescent paint blended into the softer green stripes that ain't showing up at all. I . . . I don't know.

IT HAPPENED AGAIN.

Tonight, after I had dinner with friends who are at the tail end of a NYC visit, another of our friends wanted a photo of the group. So we asked a man who was waiting for his SO and lined up. It should be noted that this means there were five of us plus the man, plus his girlfriend who came out, plus other passersby, and that I was standing next to my friends' brother.

The man was about to press the shutter when a homeless woman walked up with a bag open to beg. Before we could even deny or give leftovers, she grabbed my stomach, twisted, and said "goochie."

THERE WERE FIVE OF US AND SHE PICKED ME.

I HAD SAID NOTHING, DONE NOTHING.

I WAS STANDING NEXT TO A GUY WHO WAS AT LEAST 5'10".

SOMEBODY WAS POINTING A GODDAMN CAMERA AT US AT THAT VERY MOMENT. (Alas, no photo was taken.)

It was funny at the time. Over dinner I'd been telling my friends about the various encounters I've had with less stable members of the NYC population, so the first words out of my mouth (after the natural reflex action of bending over and backing away) were, "A-FUCKING-GAIN!"

She kept moving and that was that. I don't think it was meant to be harmful. But
a. it actually hurt
b. I don't like strange people touching me
and
c. I'm tired of this shit.

I really don't know what it would take for me not to be accosted by homeless people at this point. Time of day, safety of locale, presence of other people, degree of bitchface I am wearing . . . none of these seem to have any effect. I have been kicked, hugged, sung to, propositioned, subjected to would-be arson, and now grabbed. (If we count the non-homeless population, I've also been screamed at and made an involuntary confidant of suicidal tendencies.) I can't figure out what the fuck it is about me that makes people--particularly those who are a heady combination of crazy and unclean--feel entitled to touch me, but I want it to stop. This disturbing yet tiresome crap is happening with greater frequency, and I'm beginning to consider it less a possibility than an eventuality that I will meet an insane person with the ability and desire to do me serious harm.

It's time for me to come into a giant pile of cash and become a hermit in Duluth. I will spend winter--otherwise known as nine months of the year--in the warm embrace of a cozy home and cable TV, emerging only to kayak in the summer. If I meet any angry hobos on my way to the lake, I will hit them with the kayak.

Until that heap of money comes in, I'm going to be brainstorming other bum-proofing strategies.