Polly informs me that the use of “Brit” is OK in Great Britain, although she's not particularly aware of Brits who, as a group, are into old Champagnes. I assured her I knew many “Brits” in my wine business days who, flying at an altitude I knew nothing about, were into “old Champagnes”, the older, the better; and others, such as myself, who were not Brits but also in the wine business, who were introduced and seduced by one and another glass of this disgusting bubbly pushed across the dinner table by members of the British wine establishment. Actually, I believe there were also a couple of Australians involved, but there's always a couple of Aussies involved, it merely adds a stamp of authenticity to the subject.
Then, of course, considering the context: the wine business, a mine field of one upsmanship and snobbery; the location, Napa, wine fanatic central; and the people, wine geeks who drove about in beat up automobiles, but had cases and cases of old claret stashed in their closets. I recall my good friend the beautiful MSC, born in Warwickshire and pin balling about the world in classic (rock and roll freak) British fashion, said nothing about old Champagnes during the days we spent together investigating art and life in San Francisco, so maybe it's just the Brits I knew in Napa.
Where did that come from?
The vertical hand grip for the F6 (by the way) arrived today. Now I can share rechargeable batteries and strobe lights between the digital camera and the film camera.
Batteries and strobe lights? Who in the fuck (including you) gives a shit?
Calm down. Yes, it is something small and inconsequential, but satisfying none the less. One battery, many cameras. One shooter, many cameras. Many photographs, many cameras. I could go on in this vein. One mind, many realities. One man, many problems.
You spend too much time in your own head listening to the voices. You need to get away from the voices or you'll start believing they're real.
Real real or really real? (Here in Oakland.)