Flower Power

Parking garage + Metal sculpture + Digital editing = the ultimate renewable power source. The actual picture was pretty meh. Just a parking ramp with a kind of interesting metal sculpture. The negative effect gave it a futuristic power plant feel. The rest was just a little creative manipulation. I guess that's what you call turning a negative into a positive.

The good stuff:

animal crackers

red-winged blackbirds

lava lamps

head shops

The French Quarter

airboat rides

Play-Doh

glass fishing floats

rope hammocks

Kris Kristofferson songs

Angel in the underbrush

Almost 500 bird species call Florida home, and I'm thrilled that I don't even have to leave town to see all manner of them. I'm particularly enamored of big waterbirds - the sandhill cranes, herons, wood storks and anhinga that are part of everyday life here. The opening of Innovation Parkway has provided some great birding opportunities. Here, a snowy egret, which was sharing a watering hole with a wood stork, takes wing.

The good stuff:

Spirograph

local authors

Thomas Hardy on the moors

homemade Christmas ornaments

eggs and grits

mangoes

Roseate Spoonbills

old movies

porch swings

fresh-turned earth

Cloud Factory

Ever wonder where clouds come from? Me too, until Darlyn and I went out for a bike ride yesterday along Innovation Parkway and discovered their secret.  We also discovered where Ski Nautiques come from, but it seemed somehow less metaphysical. Next week we're going to try to discover where rainbows come from.

The good stuff:

Polaroid pictures

Homemade ice cream

New Orleans

photo excursions by bicycle

unlimited fountain refills

inkwells

old movies

fireworks

sand dunes

neighborhood bluegrass jams

Finding Nemo

A few miles east of Orlando, on State Road 50, families of all stripes gather for the cultural phenomenon that is Crash-o-Rama -- three hours of metal-bending, non-redemptive destruction -- the good old-fashioned demolition derby. Now I've wanted to see a demolition derby since the first time I heard Jim Croce croon about Rapid Roy, that fearless dirt-track demon doin' 180 miles an hour with a toothpick in his mouth. From the bad P.A. system to the ear-splitting roar of motocross and drag-racing in the distance, Crash-o-Rama was everything I'd hoped it would be. Metal bleachers that let the aluminum beer bottles fall through to the ground. Rebel flags, Elvis imitators, and car-crushing monster trucks. I even got to ride on one of the demolition derby buses before the races. And then there were the features: figure-eight bus races - with crashes and flames, skid-plate (front tires only) racing, boat-trailer destruction, and the finale - last car standing, total demolition. All of the bloodlust of bullfights and gladiators, without the actual blood and death. Sadly, Crash-o-Rama may soon go the way of the Drive-in movie theater. I've heard that Orlando Speedworld has been struggling to make ends meet. Here's hoping they can keep body and soul together for another generation or so. It was a beautiful thing.

The good stuff:

demolition derby (of course!)

bonfires

bike rides in the rain

graffiti

tie dye

worm grunting

learning a new skill

Halloween

brussels sprouts

slow-dancing

The Wool Pooh

In his award-winning book "The Watsons Go To Birmingham, 1963," Christopher Paul Curtis wrote about "The Wool Pooh," an imaginary demon lurking in the river waiting to pull unsuspecting children down into the vortex. This picture started life as an innocuous lawn ornament. But I knew, as soon as I started to mess with it, that he had a dark side. So, with apologies to CPC, ladies and gentlemen, I give you: The Wool Pooh.

The Good Stuff:

The chicken chatter of children

kettle corn

pencil shavings

frog frenzies at midnight

tree canopy cathedrals

red-shouldered hawks

volunteers

packages on the porch

fried chicken

hibiscus

Corsair caught unawares

This is what I'm talking about. Real life in Florida is always just one pair of lost glasses away from being an illustration from a children's book. This watercolored tableau started life as a happy snap of yard ornaments at a roadside art colony. All it took was a watercolor filter to turn it into a pirate adventure.

And now . . . The Good Stuff:

local artists

farmers markets

poetry slams

border collies

baby sloths

road houses

book signings

mysteries

nonsense

lanyards

Cash Crab

Seek first to understand . . . or, drop a buck on number seven and win a T-Shirt. Florida's long tradition of nature as roadside attraction -- Gatorland, Gator Park, Gatorama, Alligator Farm -- is alive and well on Captiva, where a flashing marquee outside the 'Tween Waters Inn proclaimed: "Crab races!" Inside, a crab wrangler with a Sham-wow! headset hustled the crowd in a P.T. Barnum banter. Granted, racing hermit crabs wasn't exactly cock fighting, gator wrestling, or donkey diving, but surely those crabs weren't running to the edge of that table for exercise. I thought of the fire-juggling bagpipe player, the fire-juggling stilt walker, the fire juggling magician, the fire jugglings acrobat, and the fire juggling mime I'd seen a couple of days prior, at Mallory Square in Key West. I guess it's no accident that Ringling Brothers called Florida Home. I'm reminded of this today, because  Florida's next governor may be Alex Sink, a descendant of Ong and Beng Seng, the famous Siamese Twins who came to fame, and a decent fortune, working for P.T. Barnum. The brothers married sisters and settled as farmers in Mount Airy, North Carolina, a city perhaps best known as the birthplace of actor Andy Griffith -- the real-life Mayberry.

The good stuff:

burnt sage

glassblowers

beer by the yard

cheap sunglasses

bakeries

free wi-fi

Hoover Dam

voting in primaries

dulcimers

newspaper cereal samples

Tibidabo

Two years gone
The taste of wine-soaked orange
Barcelona rising
With the funicular passing of pull cords at my kitchen window

Steam from my coffee
Now the tuneful breath of a Catalan calliope
Whose song is picked up by a passing Scirocco
And carried cross the Cezzane landscape
To the Black Madonna on Montserrat
The Olympic village at Montjuic
And the Sagrada Familia in the valley below
Where it is echoed by a guitarist with nimble fingers
Playing in a Medieval church
A few blocks from the school
Where Picasso learned to paint

The persistent ticking
Of the clock in my library
Reminds me of Spanish fans
So expressive in the hands of old women
And you, sharing ice cream in the carousel shade
Watching sunlight, cinematic
Through the spokes of the Ferris wheel
With me, on the threshold of heaven
Timeless as tin toys

The good stuff:

herb gardens
water parks
Gaudi mosaics
old photographs
bicycle bells
turtles
Snopes.com
fresh snow
hot dog carts
art galleries

Kaleidoscape

Friends up north like to say that Florida has no seasons. "Don't you miss the colors?" Anyone who has been to St. Marks, in the Florida Panhandle, during the annual monarch butterfly migration would have to answer with a resounding, "NO!" Butterflies by the thousands, flit, float and fly like confetti, in a three-act ballet that cycles from Canada, to the Gulf Coast, to Mexico, and back. It takes three generations to complete the cycle. Egg-laden mikweed bends under the weight of a million orphans, as rain falls on the vermillion ghosts of Chrysalis past. Up north, the colors fall. In Florida, they fly.

The good stuff:

productive insomnia

ceiling fans

fried okra

woodpeckers

Good 'n' Plenty

the Kool-Aid guy

aluminum tumblers

s'mores

legends

sealing wax

Astropod

They say it's the little things -- whoever "they" are. I happen to agree. I love to photograph bugs - although few will sit still long enough for me to get a clear shot. So I was happy to find this little tie-dyed guy, truckin' along, apparently on his way to a Grateful Dead concert.

The good stuff:

peach pie

fat crayons

pine duff

indie music

recorders

theremins

old record stores

gelato sushi

avocado ice cream

flash drives

Canterbury Tales

I celebrated the summer solstice in 2008 with a druid who lived in a goat shed on the outskirts of Bath. I met him under a bridge along the Kennet-Avon Canal, feathers and tinfoil in his beard, carrying a sceptor. Had it been a street, I probably would have crossed to the other side, but as it was, the contact was unavoidable. His appearance was remarkable. Even more remarkable, however, was his professorial knowledge of American politics and the election cycle. We talked of George W., John McCain, and Barack Obama as if we'd met outside a lecture hall at George Washington University. He was polite and brilliant, and he exuded such gentleness and peace that it made me wonder about the turn of events that had led him to be living in squalor. I never asked, and he never said. We just shared the news--two travelers, passing on the road to Bath.

The good stuff:

ukelele music
bleu cheese
shooting stars
birdsong
banana splits
old friends
new pencils
Moleskine notebooks
long-distance phone calls
train stations

Gay Paree

It was a beautiful June morning on the Left Bank. Seventy degrees and breezy under a light rain. I had just dodged a man in a black duster -- sharp silver claws, black nail polish, a top hat, a Victorian cravat, and a red-eyed jackal walking stick -- a real mama's boy, who cockroached into the underground outside the Jardin du Luxembourg before I could unshoulder my camera. The street was mostly devoid of cars, except for the occasional Smart car skittering through at a cross street. Drums in the distance and the hee-haw of police sirens. I looked up to see a phalanx of Paris's finest, surfing a tsunami of humanity, three million strong, bearing down on me from the east, filling the wide boulevard -- orange and yellow balloons and a band, blasting away from the flatbed of a semi nudging its blunt snout slowly through the revelers. Atop the cab, Adonis wields a pride flag like a broadsword, slashing the air in surreal semaphore: We're here. We're queer. Get used to it. It was a Saturday, and for the next six hours, the world's largest gay pride parade would hold the City of Lights in its thrall.

The good stuff:

serendipity

lagniappe

Stonehenge

old T-shirts

the cool side of the pillow

the warm side of the bed

onion rings

calamari

magnifying glasses

bangers and mash

Ohhhhh . . . syrup and "buttah." Boy do I feel silly.

Yeah, I'm that kind of dad -- cinnamon, with a dash of vanilla. I come by it honestly. My grandfather, on my mom's side, used to demo pancake batter in grocery stores. My folks inherited his commercial griddle, and Dad put it to good use. Hotcakes were haute cuisine (haute cakes?) Saturday mornings when I was growing up. I can't tell you how many Saturdays I awoke to the smell of pancakes -- Bisquick. I didn't set out to make a religious figure. I was just down to the last of the batter and decided to try a happy face. I wonder what I could get on eBay for my flapjack Buddha. Dharma cakes anyone?

The good stuff:

Breaking in a new ball glove

The smell of new shoes

electric blankets

herb gardens

mint julep

wide front porches

bonfires on the levee

snowcones made with real snow

cattail  swordfights

rootbeer floats

The politics of green balloons

It was only there for an hour or so, a flash mob of green balloons on the Plaza de Catalunya, a happy splash of color on a gray day. It was only upon closer inspection that the installation's true purpose was revealed. And even then the message was cryptic, a single balloon marked with Sharpie. But it was beautiful.

And now, the good stuff:

balloons

french fry forks

candles

chai tea

dog parks

lilypads

newspaper comics

buskers

chicken soup

cashmere

Bill & Ted's LAST Excellent Adventure

Death may not be proud, but dayum, some people go out in style. As you may have gathered, I'm not morbid. I celebrate life in all its many shades and colors. But ever since I saw the famous pyramids of Gisa (one page before the hanging gardens of Babylon) in my little Scholastic "7 Wonders of the World" paperback, I've been fascinated with the ways different cultures venerate loved ones and empire builders. Fair warning -- I love to photograph interesting funery. I find it achingly beautiful, and sometimes (as in this case) even funny. Oh, sure you've got your cherubs, a cross, and even a mourning dove with an olive laurel. But you'd barely notice them. This is a guy bound for eternity in a glass box (that somebody has to squeegee), wearing a polo! He's got sunglasses tucked in the collar of his shirt and he's hoisting a bottle of Jack Daniels. I mean, don't you just want to party with this guy?

The good stuff:

juniper berries

grass stains

rope swings

crickets

alligator eyes

cinnamon

happy meal toys

cracker jack

orange blossoms

Cotton-eyed Joe

Lemon Boat

This one is for my brother Gary, in Omaha, who reminded me of when we would race lemon boats in the gutter after a rain storm. We grew up in Los Angeles, but it might as well have been Mayberry. It was a time of crossing guards, and Fuller Brush salesmen, and family photographers with mobile studios who would show up at the curb outside our house to take our portraits. Of course, it being the city, it was also a time when seeing a cow meant waiting for the local dairy to bring one round to school in a truck. So, Gary, enjoy. And thanks for the memory.

Now . . . the good stuff:

Macrame pot hangers

God's eyes made with yarn and popsicle sticks

Paper garland

Rainy day craft boxes

Goldfish in baggies

Harvesting mistletoe

Homemade pizza kits

Monopoly marathons

Jigsaw puzzles

Zots

 

We are the champignons!

With today's blog, I want to get back to something I've intended to do from the start, but haven't alway found the time. I'm going to start listing ten things daily (or not), that make me happy. If anything strikes you, I'd love it if you'd chime in. So here goes:

• pelicans
• spanish moss
• cedar chips
• eucalyptus trees
• mechanical banks
• tin whistles
• trombones
• rowing
• train songs
• rain 

Waterworld 3D

This hydrant in downtown Orlando had always struck me as the friendly sort, but closer inspection revealed this post-apocalyptic tableau.

Keys to success

Don't get me wrong; I love my word processor. But there's something magical about my old Eliott Fisher Special Edition Underwood. Jack Kerouac wrote Atop on Underwood. He stayed up nights a few miles from here playing Charlie Parker records and agonizing over the final rewrite of On The Road. He blasted out the sequel, The Dharma Bums, in a two-week jag of coffee and Benzadrine. You don't see many buggywhip collectors. But typewriters are different. Typewriters are art. I had the pleasure of publishing a poet, who wrote exclusively on typewriters, had them all over the house and moved, one to another, as the mood struck him. He was/is a blues musician, and he wrote as much by the sound and feel of the keys as by the sound and feel of the words themselves. Here's a link to a picture of a woman who had a typewriter, and the last paragraph of On The Road, tattooed on her back. http://thorspecken.blogspot.com/2009/06/tess-adamski.html

Centerpiece

Centerpiece

May flowers in March
Pink preview
Impatiens?
No. Phlox
And you, denim blue
Kneel
Moth-drawn
To this wild inflorescence
Snip panicles
With winter-weathered shears
Building the bouquet
We will honor
With a red Dixie cup
And call “centerpiece.”

— ©Brad Kuhn 2010

Bike rack as art object

This was already a cool bike rack when I found it - at Six Mile Slough in Fort Myers, part of a wonderful day with Darlyn and our friend and tour guide Dan Moser. Essentially it was just a bike rack in front of a swamp. My camera saw things differently.

Variations on an English Garden

Roses are red and grass can be blue, lupines are pink, if you mess with the hue. I played with this picture, and changed it a lot. And then, in the end, I decided let's not . . . Sometimes it's best not to mess with success. I think credit here should go to the original artist.

Hoofers

Today's post is not my work, it was forwarded by my daughter, who collects weird videos like lightning bugs. It is, however, true to the spirit of this blog in that it digital art, it's beautiful, and it makes me smile.

Here Be Monsters

Not to brag, but, by show of hands, how many of you can say you live in a state where it rains lizards as big as Christmas hams? Don’t believe me? Check out this video.  http://www.justnews.com/video/22153242/index.html Iguanas aren't native to Florida -- let he among us who is truly native cast the first stone -- but they thrive in our tropical climate and can grow as long as six feet. This little guy was only about two feet long, but Darlyn and I saw a couple of five-footers literally walking on water -- running like monsters across a thick mat of sea grass in a backwater on No Name Key. When the temperature drops as low as it did this past winter, the iguanas go torpid and fall out of trees. Now you might consider iguana rain one of the signs of the Apocalypse. Personally, it makes me want to ride my bike up and down Duval Street asking shopkeepers for an iguana-proof umbrella -- maybe something in a nice carbon fiber, or Kevlar. To me it's only more proof that I am, in fact, living in a Salvador Dali painting, and I like that, very much.

Cactus vs Traveler Palm - Petit Cadeau, Big Pine Key

I’m not sure at what age we lose our sense of wonder. One day it just dawns on us that our swords and spyglasses are cardboard tubes and the pirate ship we swore we’d defend to the death is just the box the refrigerator came in. We look around to see if anyone is watching, and slink off to make a living. We call this growing up. I’m not sure when that happens, because I am bound and determined to go down with the ship. (It helps that I live in Florida, where our real life would make Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter throw down his hat and say: “That’s ridiculous!”) Peter Pan had the right idea. And I promise you, dear reader, that I will not waste your time with logic. Here you find only the ridiculous and the sublime. Things that make me happy, and real-life pictures viewed through my kaleidoscope. Welcome to Neverland, land of the edge dragons, where I assure you: Here be monsters. So raise your raisin box trumpet to the sky, saddle up that hobby horse, and fling yourself at the ground and miss.