Karina at Four Barrel Parklet

The other day I learned the different classifications of dawn and dusk.

Your layman may be satisfied with the general “dawn,” “morning,” “evening,” “nighttime,” but for those who need to know exactly what kind of morning is under discussion there are four phases of dawn and dusk, respectively, all with wonderfully exotic, romantic sounding names. In order, from first to last dawn (reverse for dusk), they are Astronomical, Nautical, Civil and Solar.

I won’t bore you with the details as Wikipedia has a wonderfully informative and succinct article on the subject. Suffice to say my favorite two are Nautical and Civil dawn. Except for under ideal circumstances (weather, terrain, etc) the Astronomical flavor of both dawn and dusk are essentially indistinguishable from ordinary morning or nighttime. Meanwhile, there tend to be too many people mucking about to really enjoy nautical or civil dusk.

The nautical and civil dawns represent, for me, the times of day when anything is possible and nobody is watching. The world consists of you, your thoughts and a couple of 24hr Donut shops. Anything can happen next but for those few minutes – they only last a few minutes – it’s just you.

Kinda sounds like this.

Cannoli & Espresso

Cannoli and espresso. “Breakfast of champions” has different meanings for me, depending on what’s going on in my life. A martini and a cigarette are the classic. I usually ask for extra olives; if you tell a bartender that it’s in lieu of a meal they tend to be generous with garnishes. Sometimes I’ll sub in a Bloody Mary and a waffle or a crêpe and a little maple syrup with bourbon mixed in. While you can’t live on any of these breakfasts of champions for an extended period, they’ll to give you the edge you need to face the cold world one more time.

Kurt Vonnegut had a thing or two to say about this kind of breakfast. So does Guy Clark

Instant Coffee Blues

Sorry about the ad and the mid-life-crisis background video.

Pinball at Uptown

The year of our lord, two-thousand aught nine was a distinct nadir in my existence. Like the ’70s in New York City, I look back on 2009 as having been a very dark place in time; hidden danger lurked around every corner. My friends were frenemies and my enemies wanted to murder me. With an ax. Ironically.

Uptown is a place where 2009 lives on with a vengeance – at least on Saturday nights. I spent most of the last Saturday curled up under the overhang of an Asteroids cabinet next to this pinball machine. Periodically someone would ask “is that’s an FM2?” or about my thermos. Between shutters and sips of beer I searched for something that proved I hadn’t accidentally slipped backwards in time a la Billy Pilgrim, in vain.

Even the music was the same.

Angela & Ernie at Gestalt Haus

Some friends and I enjoy a beer (or five) at Gestalt on 16th St. Angela, who knows a thing or two about timed exposures, was kind enough to hold still for a few extra moments, in spite of several blustering conversations happening around her at once.

…And for a little ambiance…

Kristen With An Orange Slice

What goes better with a tall-boy of Blue Moon?

Maybe this?

Rusty at Home

This is Rusty. He died a few years back but in the spring of two-thousand aught three he was in fine form. I’ve been combing like mad though old negatives, trying to find something worth posting. The current roll of film in my camera has been in there for a week and isn’t even quite half way finished. I haven’t found much worth photographing.

Meanwhile an existential crisis brought on by some accidental time travel this past weekend has been testing my sense of direction. An extremely anachronistic Saturday night still has me in a slight daze – kind of a Falcon and the Snowman-esque “I don’t know who my friends are anymore, I don’t know who to trust” inversion of self-confidence / breakdown.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m thankful that my favorite holiday is clearly visible on the horizon. If it takes a little dose of unqualified nostalgia to get me there then that’s just what we’re going to do.

Sorry about the VEVO but…

And for those in The District that know what I’m talking about…

Julia at Breakfast on Market Street

The next installment in the ongoing “Breakfast with Pretty Girls” series:

The first time I met Julia was at the worst party I’ve ever been to ever, a title which had up to that point been held by Clare for a little soiree she hosted at her parent’s house in Hayward some three years prior. Since then Julia and I made a pretty good run at only ever hanging out one time in any given city. This might be a sustainable strategy for Dıpןo, who as far as I can tell from his twitter hasn’t spent more than one day anywhere other than Rio, but neither Julia nor I are international DJ/Producer superstars so we eventually caved and met up a second time in San Francisco.
And because it’s the weekend and this is a total J.A.M.

Lauren at FourBarrel

Lauren has free mornings and the kind of face that will make you forget all about whatever dirty, shameful, drunken, self-abuse you got up to the night before. After sleeping on the floor of a friend’s apartment or (often as not) the cab of my pickup, I find myself crossing my fingers and calling; hoping, praying, that she’ll have half an hour to grab some coffee and a donut. Although, when they’re at FourBarrel and $4 apiece I think we call them doughnuts.

It’s kinda like this

UPDATE: My friend just shared with me that I’ve been sleeping on the floor of his condominium; it’s not his apartment. It’s his condo…

Tom & Sabari at The Market

Nikon FE, f/1.4 50mm, Portra 400

Rainy, cold, overcast weekends might seem like choice opportunities to stay inside and TiVo something, but they aren’t. Especially if the farmers market isn’t canceled. “We were out there but it was a slow day. I guess people would rather be warm and dry than eat this organic arugula I grew with my bare hands” they’d say.

They would say… Over Tom’s dead body. He and Sabari had been out at the fair for an hour or so by the time Julia and I met up with them. For me, the idea of going anywhere in that weather without at least two cups of coffee and a Bloody Mary under my belt was too much to stomach so we wound up making a few stops along the way.

After about another half an hour of milling around we decided that we’d seen enough and returned to Tom’s apartment for further cocktails and The Big Lebowski on Instant. Another nice little Saturday.

When you’re cold, just listen to this.

Cody at St. Francis Fountain

Nikon FE, f/2.8 28mm, Portra 400

Cody is great. Everybody who meets him, likes him. Literally. I don’t know a single person who doesn’t think Cody’s at least a pretty good guy. Some people call him Code, some people call him “Number One,” I just call him Deis. Short for Diesel, ’cause that’s how he rolls.

We had a chance to grab a little brofast a couple of weekends ago. It was one of those mornings where you’re awake at eight but don’t stand up until a little before noon. Brandon, Deis and I piled into my truck with all three of our bikes in the back and headed out to The Mission for three of St. Francis Fountain’s country breakfast plates, three cups of coffee and one small orange juice. The OJ was for Brandon.

And to REALLY get you in the mood…