Loveville Post Office
Loveville, MD

After a few days of R&R in New York, I hit the road again in search of the "Crazy Corn Maze" in Mechanicsville, MD. I had this impression in my mind that it would be like some sculpted shrub covering acres of land right out of Versailles. But it turned out to be more like a "Crazy Dead Corn Maze" with dried out stalks that didn't merit stopping. No matter, I am a man with no mission, just wandering the US, so I looked at the map again and saw Point Lookout at one of the southern tips of Maryland overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. On the way to Point Lookout, I passed the Loveville Post Office. I've never seen a federal post office operating out of a trailer before.


Visions of a beautiful vista filled my head. I thought of a magnificent sunset as I gazed out into the water. But as I entered the Point Lookout State Park, I came upon a sign that read "Due to Damage from Hurricane Isabel, Point Lookout State Park will be closed for an indefinite period of time."

Thwarted.

I decided that Maryland wasn't for me. Not wanting to hit the more obvious spots like Baltimore, I went out the back door into Virginia seeking greener pastures, and landed in Richmond. As I drove down West Broad Street, I realized that most cities share a certain homogeneity, which probably contributes to the sense of familiarity I feel when I enter them. It's comforting to see the same stores and same restaurants when you're a stranger in a strange land.

I spent the evening deciding on a plan of attack for Virginia, and after doing a little research online, I figured that a tobacco farm was a good symbol of the state. After a night's rest, I grabbed a quick bite at the "Thai House" restaurant, which was really one of those hybrid Chinese, Japanese, Asian places I despise so much, and entered Dungannon, VA into my GPS. Dungannon had been featured in an ABC News story about the changing face of tobacco farms, but Dungannon was over 300 miles away, I didn't want to be driving all day.

So instead, I rolled the windows down, threw on some Michael Jackson's "You Wanna Be Startin' Something," disabled the GPS, and let the wind decide where I would go. I figured at some point I would run into a tobacco farm. And I figured that I have to stop being so Type-A goal-oriented. Sometimes you gotta go with the flow, right?

After only 15 minutes of driving, I ran into a sign that said "Caution: High Waters Ahead." It was a reminder that 54,000 in the state still have no electricity 10 days after the hurricane. Since I removed the James Bond submarine feature from my vehicle, I sheepishly reactivated the GPS and headed in the opposite direction to Prestwould Plantation near the NC border.

Trying to maintain some sense of spontaneity, I decided to turn off to the John Kerr Dam after seen signs advertising it near a moderate lake region in the south of the state. Not having photographed anything substantial for several days was starting to annoy me, but I figured a hydroelectric dam would do the trick.

Six miles off the main road, I walked into the Visitor's Center and was greeted by a receptionist. "May I help you?"

"Yeah, I was wondering where the best place to take pictures of the dam would be."

"Oh, you're not allowed on the dam, and you're not allowed to photograph the dam. You know, since September 11."

Thwarted.

America is paranoid. Sure, we're in a heightened state of alert, and Al Qaeda is planning stuff all the time. I don't want to diminish the very real threat. But give me a break! This trip is gonna suck if I can't take any pictures of tourist attractions.


I finally found Prestwould Plantation, which turned out to have a storied history beginning in the late 1700s when it was a 60,000 acre plantation of tobacco and cotton. Of course, after the Civil War, they lost their labor force (read: slaves), and the plantation was forced to sell off most of its land, and today, it's a private foundation with 64 acres and a really nice house. It was another one of those tours where I was the only person present, but unlike WV, the tour guide, Carol, acknowledged the fact that I was the only person there. It kept things just a bit more personal.

I'm currently sitting in a motel room in Danville, VA (How small is Danville? The two movies playing are "Bad Boys 2" and "Sinbad" -- both only $1). I'm gonna give the tobacco farm idea one more day to come to fruition before heading into NC. If the farm doesn't workout, maybe I can buy a cheap pack of cigarettes and take a photo. And yes, I know. Too much writing, not enough photos.

Anne Akiko Meyers
Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center
New York, NY

I shot the picture above at a rehearsal for Anne's only New York recital of the year a few months ago. Tonight I went to the concert. Anne was a child prodigy on the violin having played concerts all over the world, television appearances on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, Juilliard educated, and multiple recordings to her name. I met her several years ago at another concert, and we became good friends after that. I've watched her deal with the trials of being on the road for the better part of the year, dealing with repetitive stress injuries that plague virtually every musician, and being a torch-bearer for an underappreciated art in an age of short-attention spans and pop music. But in the end, making music is what she knows, and she couldn't imagine life without it. Not so dissimilar from photography, or any art for that matter.


I figured I'd wear a suit tonight. I don't know what struck me. But it was a classical concert and Lincoln Center, and I guess I'm tired of wearing the t-shirt/cargo pants combo (by defacto "uniform") all the time. (My friend Sara says I dress like a college student). Plus, chicks dig guys in suits. My mom would have been happy. Well tailored suit, nice shirt. Of course, my hair is too long for her tastes, but I think I'll get it cut tomorrow before I head back out on the road. The glasses are perpetually crooked. I can't do anything about that.

Anne's encore was a Charlie Chaplin tune called "Smile." I always liked that tune.

Smile though your heart is aching,
Smile even though it's breaking,
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by, if you
Smile through your fear and sorrow
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You'll see the sun come shining thru for you.

Light up your face with gladness
Hide ev'ry trace of sadness
Although a tear maybe ever so near
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use of crying

You'll find that life is still worthwhile
if you'll just smile.

Marty & Elayne
The Dresden Restaurant
Los Angeles, CA

A non-descript facade marks this Hollywood institution on Vermont Ave where for the past 18 years, Marty and Elayne Roberts have performed from Monday through Saturday with their ever-hip brand of lounge jazz. The two weathered the storm of the 80s and 90s pop music, and have emerged as icons in tinseltown where locals and celebrities alike come by to watch, listen and perform. Think Tony Bennett meets Tom Jones in a dive bar, and you start to appreciate the genius of the operation.


With a permanently tattooed show-biz smile on her face, Elayne looks like it would take her more effort not to smile. The songs come out effortlessly whether she's playing the piano, synthesizer or flute. Husband Marty sports perfectly coiffed hair with a tensile strength greater than kevlar, and is equally happy on the drums or vocals. In the past two years, Marty has given up duties on the bass to play with the 20-something Gordon, who seems thrilled to be playing with such legends.

On this night, 84 year old Jimmy Merrill took the stage as is his custom almost every Tuesday night, open-mike night. Music in hand, he convinced Elayne to let him perform songs she really doesn't want to perform, but dressed in a shiny shirt and pointed, two-toned shoes, who can argue.

Josh and I had just come from a performance by jazz vocalist (and Thelonius Monk Jazz Competition Winner) Jane Monheit at the Roosevelt Hotel, and while we couldn't fault her impeccable tone and technique, there was something refreshing about seeing a crowd full of appreciative fans hootin' and hollerin' for Marty & Elayne.

Martin Sheen & Janel Moloney
West Wing Emmy Party
Los Angeles, CA

My buddy Josh invited me out to LA for the West Wing Emmy party as he is one of the new writers this year. It's tough to resist such an invitation, so I hopped my first JetBlue flight to Los Angeles to spend the weekend. I also picked up a little Canon digital camera figuring that security wouldn't like it if i lugged in the big camera. I've also come to the conclusion that when I'm socializing, the big camera becomes an excuse for not interacting with people, and clearly I don't need less socializing right now.

Prior to landing in LA, I had actually only seen one episode of the West Wing. And after meeting a bunch of the writers on Friday, I decided that I ought to educate myself a little bit. Fortunately, Josh had a bunch of episodes on his Tivo, and every episode at his office. I spent several hours watching the program, and found it to be quite enjoyable.

In a relatively weak year for the show, and against stiff competition from the likes of The Sopranos, the West Wing ended up winning two Emmy's including one for Best Drama to the surprise of many. So suddenly I found myself standing next to Martin Sheen (who is about 5'6"), and Janel Moloney (who is about 5'11"). Not a great picture, but a fun experience nevertheless.

Darren Bounds
The Path to the Beach
Block Island, RI

I decided to haul along a Hasselblad medium format camera on the trip along with my digital gear. I never really used one before, and it took me 5 rolls to figure out how to load the film correctly. But since the negative is a square, it causes you to visualize differently. Here's a pic that I recently got developed from Rhode Island in lieu of having shot anything new recently. Jen watches in amusement as Darren comes bounding down the hill for an end of the day dip into the ocean.

The Girl Who Got Away
Amanda
New York, NY

One of the most agonizing decisions I've ever made was to leave my girlfriend in order to pursue this trip. The trip was supposed to represent the ultimate form of freedom and independence. I wake up each morning, look at the atlas, and decide where to go on that given day. The trip was supposed to represent the discovery of me as a photographer. And I decided that I needed to do the trip alone, only to find that 6 weeks later that I was mistaken.

My girlfriend just wanted me to be there for her at the end. She begged me to let her wait for me. She just wanted me to love her the way she loved me. I told her "no." We were breaking up. And after agonizing over my departure for weeks, she had no other recourse but to fill the tremendous void in her life, and try to move on with someone else. And today I realized that I lost her, and today I realized that that is not what I wanted. But it's too late to get her back.

My biggest fan. My best friend. The first person I saw when I woke up, and the last person I saw when I lay down to sleep. I shouldn't be so cavalier with love. My hubris defeats me again. When you speak to someone who used to love you, but loves you no more, then you know the sadness that I feel today.

Not so ironically, all I have left are the photos as reminders that no photo is worth losing someone who you love, and who loves you back. On these days, America seems empty except for the sound of my keyboard, wet with tears.

Crash Site
Flight 93
Shanksville, PA


A pockmarked road over gently rolling hills leads to the non-descript field where 40 people lost their lives two years ago today. The air was chilly and the photographers outnumbered mourners when I arrived, but as 10:06am approached, cars lined the roadside, and people came to pay their respects.

A ceremonial flag was unfurled, and all were invited to take a hold and say a few words. Family members joined complete strangers and paused for just a moment to remember the day that changed everything.

Two years ago, I was awoken by the sound of the second jet crashing into the South Tower. I scurried to the street to take pictures, and stood two blocks away as the first tower came down. It's strange to think that I could have died that day -- indeed many of my friends and family thought I did die until I was able to contact them several hours later when the cellular lines cleared up.

I went to Shanksville because it's too soon to forget. I went to Shanksville because September 11 is part of our history. I went to Shanksville because a small part of me died two years ago. And on this day, America is...September 11.

Donald Cook
Coal Miner
Beckley, WV

The last time I visited a coal mine was in 1994 in Yuubari, Japan. Yes, the same Yuubari as the reknown melons (you've heard of them, right?). What would compel anyone to visit two coal mines in their lifetime defies logic, but there I was searching for that bridge again when I saw signs for the Beckly Exhibition Coal Mines, so I pulled off the highway and headed into Beckley. The girl at the RiteAid told me that in fact, it was worth seeing, but she hadn't actually seen it since she was about six. "Take a jacket," she said, "It gets cold back in there."

I arrived at 1:45pm, and unfortunately, the next tour wasn't until 2:30. Should I wait? Should I go. I decided to wait, and pulled out a newspaper to bide my time. When 2:30 rolled around, I was the only person waiting for the tour. Donald Cook, a 17 year coal mining veteran, chuckled, and then started the tour. Curiously he acted like there were more people in the tour than just me -- gesturing and looking at people that weren't actually there. No matter, I didn't care. Whatever made him comfortable on my personalized tour was fine with me.

The Beckley coal mine was a family operated mine from 1890 - 1910, when it was shut down to rising economic pressure from larger coal conglomerates. It saw unused for many years until the town of Beckley purchased the mine for $1, and renovated it to use as a tourist attraction. In its first year of operation in 1962, it generated $250,000 in gross revenues, and besides being a continuing draw, is the only mine in the country owned by a city.

Donald covered everything from the "Canary in the Coalmine" (used to detect low-oxygen conditions) to using the bathroom (the old miners would relieve themselves on pieces of timber, and then throw the timber into the coal carts to be sent up to the pay master). It was, all in all, very enjoyable.


That damn bridge eluded me. I drove towards the New River Gorge national park and turned into the visitor center, where i watched a 12 minute film on the watershed area. Fascinating for sure, but where's the bridge? My brief conversation with the park ranger revealed that I had actually passed over the bridge two days ago without noticing. Really not that surprising since it is an arch bridge and not something visible like a suspension bridge. So I retraced my steps, and 50 miles north, I was standing next to the bridge. I couldn't get that close, but it is big and impressive, nevertheless.

Finally, the perpetual haze that seems to cover most of the state creates really incredible sunsets. Pinks and oranges that are an incredible site.

Frank Cicarelli
Korean War Veteran
Fairmont, WV


A random stop for gas led me to the Pizza Hut in Fairmont, WV where I saw a sign for "Mary Lou Retton Dr." Curious, I asked my waitress if the Mary Lou was from Fairmont, and indeed she was. Upon paying, the manager directed me towards her house...you know, go till you come to the fork in the road, etc, etc. Of course, I got lost, and found myself pulled up along side an elderly gentleman who was washing his car.

Frank Cicarelli's father came from Italy and settled in Reesville, WV where he was a coal miner. Young Frank, anxious to avoid the mines enlisted in the army where he spent 21 years, including tours of duty in Korea. When he settled back in Fairmont, he recalled seeing a young Mary Lou Retton walking home from practice in her leotard with that signature smile. But apparently, she doesn't claim to be from West Virginia anymore much to the chagrin of local residents who erected several signs in her honor "Fairmont -- Home of Mary Lou Retton." After she claimed Texas as her home, the locals took the signs down, but Mary Lou Retton Dr. remains.

I told Frank that I was driving around the country and he told me that I ought to drive down US19 and find Gauley Bridge, the tallest bridge in the state from where bungee jumpers and parachutist launch from. I asked him to show me on a map, and he looked and said, "Well, Gauley Bridge is supposed to be off 19, so that map is wrong...."


Two hours later, I arrived at Gauley Bridge. I had a suspicion that Gauley wasn't exactly what I was looking for since I was driving down into a valley, instead of up. And since he seemed to have a bit of a memory problem while I was talking to him. The real Gauley Bridge is an old rusted hunk of metal next to the Biscuit House. He meant to point me to the New River Gorges Bridge, which up until February was the longest steel-arch bridge in the world. C'est la vie.

West Virginia is mountainous, just as I suspected from the "Mountain Mama" song -- you know, Country Road, take me home....

Kathy and Mike
Dinosaur BBQ
Syracuse, NY

Bars are fun when you're in the right mood.

After notifying Sara via IM that I was sitting on the corner of Comstock and University, she convinced Jeffrey and John to make a detour to their old alma mater on the way back from looking at ski houses in Stratton. As they approached the city, John called and told me to get directions to Dinosaur BBQ.

Swarms of people and Harleys were surrounding this very popular eatery -- in part, perhaps, because of the huge Irish festival that was happening two blocks away. Nevertheless, the wait was about 1 1/2 hours, so we settled at the bar, and struck up a conversation with a very garrulous woman and her more subdued husband. Kathy is an educator with three kids. Her middle child, Zack, is a sophomore at Syracuse and plays lacrosse. She insisted that we hunt him down when we went out after dinner, and show him the picture of his parents. Kathy also insisted that in a few years that I should marry her daughter, Nellie, a precocious 19 year old who seemed to be the apple of her mom's eye.

Kathy suggested that we try the ribs, and Sara and I ended up sharing the pulled pork and ribs plate after downing BBQ shrimp and chili fries. It wasn't the healthiest of meals, but it sure was good.

Being the traveling recluse that I am, it isn't often that I have friends to go out with, so we had to take advantage of the night. After wandering around for a bit, we stumbled into Konrad's on Marshall Street (or "M" street as it is affectionately known). A very adamant bouncer told me that "no photos tonight," so I put the camera away wondering why this somewhat empty bar wasn't allowing a traveling photographer to take pictures. Then about 30 minutes later, Carmelo Anthony rolled into the bar -- you know, MVP of the NCAA basketball tournament, drafted #3 by the Denver Nuggets? Yeah. ok.

The next day, we leisurely made our way around campus with Sara and Jeffrey showing us their old stomping grounds. There was even an old awards plaque in the Information Sciences building with Jeffrey's name on it. Although nobody is really sure if he ever truly graduated from school since he never went to any classes. The last stop was his old house. We said our goodbyes, and I drove south towards West Virginia.

PS. I spent an inordinate amount of time shooting the volleyball tournament, and discovered that it is a very hard sport to cover. I couldn't quite get high enough, and since the girls generally don't jump much higher than the net, their faces were often obscured by it. But it was fun to experiment nevertheless.

Syracuse v Siena
Big Orange Tournament
Syracuse, NY

The cool thing about hitting a campus known for its athletics is that there is usually a game going on somewhere on any given day. I rolled into Syracuse because I have so many friends that graduated from there, but was a bit bewildered by the campus layout. Unlike Brown, it was a bit spread out, with no discernible "Quad" or "Green." Nevertheless, I logged into IM and chatted with Sara, who gave me the low down. Then I logged into the Syracuse website to find that the Orangewomen were hosting a volleyball tournament, and 5 minutes later, I was taking pictures.


You probably won't be seeing the Orangewomen playing the top westcoast teams anytime soon. But at 5-1, they are still ranked 10th in the Big East. And watching them play reminds me of the my high schools days when I watched the University of Hawaii Wahines play their brand of volleyball with All-Stars like Tee Williams. UH Coach Dave Shoji has the best winning percentage of any active Division 1 coaches in the nation.

Prior to Syracuse, it was a short trip to Rochester in search of the Kodak factory. The kind woman in the Rochester Visitors center told me that they didn't run tours there for the past ten years, but the George Eastman House did have exhibitions related to photography. I walked over to a cafe near the Eastman School of Music (Eastman was an avid flower and music fan), and while I was eating my chicken sandwich, an elderly gentleman approached me to comment on my camera.

As it turns out, Jim Allen has been photography contemporary jazz greats for the past decade since he retired as an educator. He told me about his recent exhibit at the Eastman House, and how they still sold his calendar of jazz musicians at the bookstore. We talked shop for just a few minutes until his departure, but five minutes later he returned. "Say, I have a calendar in my car, I'll give you one."

He returned a few minutes later with the calendar, which I insisted he sign.

"To Allen,
Good Luck!
From a fellow photographer.
- Jim Allen"

Such a simple gesture. Such kind words. A fellow photographer indeed.

Ana
Ms. Buffalo Thong 2003
Buffalo, NY

The ubiquity of conservative, puritanical views in regards to sex has given rise to some strange phenomena in the US. The annual ritual of Spring Break, complete with wet t-shirt contests and contemporary Girls Gone Wild film crews seems to be confined to our little spot on the planet. The proliferation of the thong into mainstream America by Victoria's Secret and the popularity of Sisqo's "Thong Song" gave rise to the uniquely American "Thong Contest."


In a small two block stretch of the Chippewa district in downtown Buffalo, swarms of locals flock to the over 40 bars on a cool summer night following the annual "Thursdays at the Square" festival. And for the past ten weeks, a small group of guys have been promoting their parties and website, affectionately known as Buffalo Thong. After an ownership change a few years back, Shaun, Jake and the rest of the crew decided to start hosting parties and promoting them through the website, and now have plans to expand the site into a Citysearch-like vehicle for promoting the entertainment and nightlife in Buffalo.

After hours of waiting, the contest got underway a little after midnight. The finals contestants stood up on the bar and shook their booties for two songs, and then it was done. Shortly thereafter, the crowd dispersed very quickly, proving the value of what the guys bring to the bars in which they promote their site. Surprisingly, the crowd has a very mixed crowd of both guys and gals, which possibly stands as a testament to the inocuousness of the contest. Girls are not allowed to display any nudity, lest they be disqualified from the over $2500 in cash and prizes.

in other news

I randomly picked a hotel in Springfield, MA after I left Providence because it was relatively close to some windmills that I had seen in the NY Times. It turns out that the hotel shared the parking lot with Pizzeria Uno's (I love that place), and more importantly, the Basketball Hall of Fame (I love basketball!). On the day I visited, they were getting ready for the 2003 induction ceremony with greats like James Worthy and Laker's announcer, Chick Hearn, so all the floors weren't publicly accessible, but it was still a hoot. I learned that my vertical leap from a standing position is only 22" (Vince Carter's is 41" and he's 6'6"), and my wingspan is only 72" (Kevin McHale's is 96"). I guess that's why I'm driving around instead of playing in the NBA.

Beluga Whale Tank
Mystic Aquarium
Mystic, Connecticut


The pizzeria that inspired the movie, Mystic Pizza, is at the end of the main street in downtown Mystic. I had heard rumors that Mystic Pizza was the best tasting pizza in the land, and that they had the cutest waitresses in town because the joint is apparently "the" place to work. As my luck would have it, neither proved to be true. The pizza was mediocre, despite the recent expansion of the brand through the distribution of frozen pizzas at your local supermarket. Truly, nothing mystical about it.

Mystic's heyday was back several hundred years ago when it thrived as a ship building port. Today, the seaport area charges you $17 to access, which I didn't bother to pony up. Much more interesting was the free US Submarine Museum in nearby Groton. Although the exhibits are a bit dated, I had seen enough Discovery Channel specials to recall a lot of the relics displayed in the museum. Most impressive is that the world's first nuclear submarine, the Nautilus, is docked along side the museum and you can take a tour complete with guided audio "sticks" through the sub. Sure the mannequins posing as chefs encased behind protective plexiglass is a bit cold-war, but it's still neat to walk through a part of history. The Nautilus, of course, has the distinction of being the first vessel to cross over the North Pole submerged under the ice.

Mystic's real gem, however, is their aquarium. I can't quite figure out why Mystic has such a world class aquarium, but it really is only second to Monterey's in my mind. The first thing I saw when I walked in was a huge tank with what I thought were manatees. They turned out to be Beluga Whales (which my friend Austin told me comes from the Russian word belukha, meaning white. They don't produce beluga caviar as I previously thought since they are mammals, and because caviar comes from sturgeons). With a big grin on my face, I walked through exhibit after exhibit and saw everything from flourescent frogs to thousand pound sea lions. The movie could have been greatly improved if it took place at the aquarium.

My sister went to Brown University in Providence, and being the reclusive brother that I am, I never visited her. So with time on my side and a full tank of gas, I motored from Mystic to Providence. I didn't actually know where Brown was besides being in the general Providence vicinity, so as I found myself wandering the streets of Providence on a futile search for Brown. This was after I fell asleep in my car for a brief nap.

Thankfully, the GPS unit in my car knew where Brown was, and of course, being an Ivy League, it was on a hill -- not at the bottom of the hill like the Rhode Island School of Design. I walked around, admired the brick buildings (I LOVE brick), and then realized what a sad state we live in. College is so much about individual expression, so it is ironic that every college town looks the same now with streets lined with the requisite Gap, Starbucks, and Urban Outfitters. Bring back the afro pick, tie-die and naked guy. Let's get some variety out there.