I spent yesterday afternoon with Milla, hitting the streets once again for some old-fashioned, in-your-face street photography. Since Michelle has my digital camera, and she’s in Maui, I loaded up my Soviet-stock Fed 5 for a little photographic action. I bought that camera almost two years ago and haven’t used it much since a Homecoming trip to Dallas in 2004. It takes great photos, but my inexperience with it, plus yesterday’s rapid-fire shooting conditions, caused me to switch to my digital Canon jobby pretty fast.
The photographic juju was good, but maybe it was just the company. The freaks of Hollywood Blvd. were out in full force as my Amazonian friend and I prowled the street in search of unsuspecting models. I hadn’t been to that part of town for awhile, not since I worked there for Brigid on Charlie’s Lake, where we’d sit in an office high above the street and wait for “crazy hour,” the designated times at 10:00am and 4:00pm where the less stable denizines of the area came out, yelled and screamed for a bit, and returned to the shadows they came from. The neighborhood has cleaned up since then. Rows of nightclubs and cheap restaurants now stand next to the cheap souvenier shops. The crazies are now mainly tourists.
When I got home there was a voicemail from Mom: “Hey, I have a question about pleated pants.”
Okay, but I didn’t understand the “pleated pants” part, so as I called her back, I didn’t know what to expect.
“You have a question about what?” I asked as I plopped down on the couch, feet sore from the day’s jaunt.
“Well I know you don’t like pleated pants so I wanted to get your opinion if I should donate Dad’s.” (this is a gross paraphrase, I was tired okay?)
Basically the story is this: I don’t approve of pleated pants. They’re only flattering on the super-thin, and even then they’re usually paired with a tapered leg which doesn’t look good on anyone. But in general, I am of the mind that 99.85% of the population should stay away from pleated pants.
It stands to say that Dad had an entire array of pleated pants. Mostly khakis. He wore them with his collection of Hawaiian shirts — a habit I was never able to break him of. I understanding digging a look, but you would have had to have seen him to know that it was overkill — I mean he lived in rural Oregon.
I digress. I don’t mean to pick on someone who can’t defend himself, although I’m sure he’s now rolling around in a vat of khaki pants and Hawaiian shirts, that is if you wear clothes once you get to Heaven…
So Mom wanted to know if I thought it was charitable to give away such things as pleated pants to the Salvation Army. If even the poor should suffer such horrid fashion. “Well, one man’s pleated pant is another man’s…”
She was joking, I think. More using it as a way of telling me that she’s finally, really, actually getting rid of some of Dad’s things. They’re the easy stuff, the pleated khaki pants. The hard stuff, like those Hawaiian shirts, will come later.