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    Robin Williams

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    "We wanna go forward, not backward! Works better that way," I muttered to myself and anyone listening. I prefer when the bus rolls forward. We were doing the famed (in my head, anyway) midnight trip on the 7, headed out to Rainier Beach. The traction motor kicked in, and all was well. "Alright, time to to go home!"

    "Ah heard that!" grunted the elderly gentleman to my right. Above his thick white grizzle of a mustache were two clear blue eyes, still piercing, alive, ever studying the world around him. Never too late to learn. Some faces intrigue with beauty or charisma. It was his attention to his surroundings which drew me; here was a man who stayed open. He'd been watching me from the chat seat, and I hadn't known how to strike up conversation. Now was the perfect opportunity. 

    "How was your day today?"
    "So so."
    That could mean so many things. "Right on." 
    "I sell Real Change," he explained, somehow reading the inquisitiveness in my mind.
    "Oh, where at, where's your spot?"
    "Corner a Fourth and Pike up there." Imagine his gravelly bass voice, decades of wisdom, cigarettes, or both.
    "Oh. That's a great spot, high profile."
    "Yeah, I been there thirteen years."
    "Oh excellent! That's a tough gig. Though you would know better than I,"
    "It takes a lot."
    "I got a lotta respect for the folks down there." I spoke on my involvement as a volunteer there, and my making the 2013 Vendor of the Year film for the organization. "Willie's great. Tricia's a doll. They're great people." He concurred. I marveled at how long he'd been selling. "Thirteen years!"
    "Yeah, that used to be Rite Aid there on the corner," he said, wistfully. Yes, we were getting wistful about Rite Aid! "I'd flirt with the ladies." He added almost sheepishly: "that was a long time ago!"
    "There's a way to do that diplomatically," I smiled back. He seemed like the diplomatic type.
    "We had fun." 

    Isn't it a wonderful thing to witness, the gradual freeing of a personality, layers peeled back willingly, as a person gets more comfortable? The body and soul realizing, this is a friendly space. He wanted to share further, trusting I'd be interested. I was. 

    "Hey," he said, "they're having this photo exhibit of Real Change vendors goin' up at City Hall."
    "Oh great!" 
    "And I'll be among them. Forty-five portraits or so–"
    "I'm so glad they're doin' that–"
    "Woman by the name of Susan came and took my picture today,"
    "Oh how was that?"
    "Went real well!"
    "I'm talkin' to a celebrity right here!"
    "Well," he enthused, leaning forward, "you know, Robin Williams came by once."
    "No way!"
    "Yeah, he bought the paper. We got to talkin' about bicycles. He was always really into bikes,"
    "Okay,"
    "And he said, 'lemme see if I have some real change.' Diggin' in his pockets, you know."
    "Yeah. Wow. That makes me think highly of him, that he bought the paper."
    "Yeah well, he was always pro-homeless."
    "Ugh, that's great. That's great. Some people just really get it."

    He pointed out his home as he prepared to leave us. "I live over there. I got on four years ago, been there three and a half years."
    "Congratulations. That's a big deal!"
    ​His blue eyes twinkled in the darkness as he replied. "Oh, you know it!"
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    The Man Game and How to Beat It

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    For the sake of illustration, this is a monologue I wrote years ago. It was included as part of a piece in my 2013 solo show at Blindfold Gallery. Two men are working late hours cleaning a lab, and one of them pontificates as follows.

    ​"I call it the Man Game. The Man Game is when you and another man meet for the first time. You're a dude. You and your girl go to someone's house, a friend of your girlfriend's. This friend of hers is a woman, and that woman has a boyfriend. Great. The two of you get introduced. For a split second he's nice, on the outside, saying nice to meet you. Then the Man Game begins. He asks you what you're into. You better be into something awesome. He'll make it seem like it's not. He needs to prove he's cooler than you. He'll off-handedly mention that he works at a glass-blowing place. Or that he has his own studio loft. Or that he owns two limousines or whatever the hell thing he can think of that's cooler than what you said. He probably actually does these things, too. They always end up doing man stuff. They play football. He'll phrase it in such a way that it makes him the alpha top dawg male he-man on campus, which is exactly what he's going for. It's the man game. He's trying to out-man you. You, don't flinch. How you win the man game is by not caring what he says, but not showing it either. Fake sympathy or awe, but also make clear that you don't really give a shit. Say, that's kinda cool. It'll break him in half. He can't show it though, because if he does it comes off as petulant and he instantly loses the man game for being too emotional and insecure. Of course, that's exactly what he is, insecure, since he’s playing the motherfucking Man Game in the first place. Make him more insecure by being secure in yourself. Be confident, but don't feel like you need prove it. Don't shove your confidence in their face– that's stupid, it's what they're doing. Just be quietly confident. Like they can't touch you. Your disarming lack of a need to try to stomp all over them will do something, as will the fact that you know they're playing the Man Game, and you play it back to them in a more confident and subtle way. Ask them for details. Do they like what they do. This does the unfortunate thing of humanizing them and causing them to talk about real emotions, which they hate. Or let them think you're a boy, someone without accomplishments, for just a little bit, while you ask them about their bullshit, and then tie their shit into some great shit that you’ve done. Oh yeah, that reminds me of this, how I'm the first guy to ever land on the moon, or some shit. Watch them shut the fuck up."

    --

    "So they got you on the 7," said this hulking figure, grinning through a mild haze of diminished motor skills masquerading as coolness. Many people on the 7 have seen me before, but I was new to this man, a fellow in his thirties dressing like he was still sitting in the back row of a high school classroom: black jacket and pants large enough for me to use as sleeping bags, with a flat-billed cap and untied skaters.
    "That's my route!" I replied.
    His grin, turning to a smirk, looking down as he stood above me. Who's this skinny white boy, said his gaze, and how far out of his depth is he, out here at Orcas during the late night. He put in his starting bid for the Man Game.

    "You got a taste of some of the 'hood brothas yet?"
    "Well," I said, smiling, pausing, going for the truthful response: "I'm from South Central LA."
    "What parta LA?"
    "South Central, South Gate."
    "Me too!"
    "Oh cool! What part?"
    "Pasadena."

    I withheld laughter. That's like saying, 'I'm from Rainier Beach!' 'What part?' 'Duvall!'"
    "All over," he continued. "We lived in Watts,"
    Which is in fact in the 'hood. "Oh yeah, by the Towers,"
    "Um, uh," he said. "Yeah."
    "We were little bit east in South Gate, just up and over from Compton airport."

    It's possible he knew what the Pasadena comment sounded like, and he thus continued mumbling for a while, doing his best to present himself as So Ruff, So Tuff. I listened and replied. I forget the details, but they weren't terribly memorable. He asked my heritage, and I mentioned the Korean element.

    "Yeah, you know, I'm black," he replied.

    You almost wanted to hug the guy, he was trying so hard. No actual African or African-American would have tolerated such a line. There's a difference between a lifetime wrestling with the worst parts of this country's legacy and, um, getting a killer tan on Hermosa Beach.... Only to me could he get away with it, but it got me thinking how insecure he must have felt. Most forms of overt masculinity are so deeply tied to insecurity it's almost easier to think of them as the same thing. Somehow he and I got to talking about schooling.

    "Learning is good though," he said, after I'd enthused how happy I am to be over and done with college. His comment was mildly unexpected, because enthusiasm for learning requires admittance that one is not supremely knowledgeable, which requires at least some security, or confidence, in oneself. More shades of him were coming to the fore.
    "It is, I wanna stay sharp, stay open," I was saying.
    "'Cause if you ain't learnin', ain't smart, I don' wanna talk to you."
    "I can always learn something from the folks around me, doesn't matter who it is," I said, steering by way of agreement.

    He watched me interact with the passengers, many of whom know me. There are advantages to doing the same route for years. You become a part of the neighborhood. "You cool," he said after a while. "But you gotta stop messin' with those females."

    He wasn't speaking about the passengers, all of whom at this hour were male. I was having lady troubles at the time, but hadn't said word one about it.
    I looked at him. "How did you KNOW that?"
    "I see you, good lookin', wit' the hair and shit. I coul' tell you get around. Hey. You know what you remind me of?" 
    "Who? Don't say Doogie Howser!"
    "Naw, man, I wasn't gonna say that shit."
    "Okay, who."
    "A Jehovah's Witness."
    "A Jehovah's Witness?"
    "Yeah. You know any Jehovah's Witnesses?"

    I had no clue where this is going. "Um, one uh my best buddies used to be one, but other than–"
    "I'm a Jehovah's Witness," he said.
    "Oh right on. Yeah, one of my friends, he's good people. He grew up as one."
    "They're the only true people."
    "Yeah?"
    "No other people deserves to be in heaven, they're the only true followers of the Lord."
    "Oh, right on."
    "So what's your type?"
    "My what?"
    "What's your type? Uh female?"

    Oh, Lord have mercy. We're not about to have this conversation. I answer with the shortest possible reply that's still true: "thin." He nevertheless managed to find this incredulous and fascinating.
    "Thin? You say thin?"
    "Thin, yeah."
    "You like 'em thin?" He said it as if I must be certifiably insane, which given the societal bent on the subject was refreshing. He would've gotten along with odalisque painters of the 1800s.

    "Yeah, thin, man, that's my thing." No elaboration, no specifics, we're not going down this road… but this is tricky now. Changing back to the former subject wouldn't really work either, since religion on the bus is not a good idea. Time for the old standby. "You been in Seattle a long time?"
    "Yeah." Slowly, he tries to count the years. Then: "Hey. I'ma catch the 2, go to Madrona. Do you talk to your mom a lot?"
    "Yeah, she's cool. She's great, they're great. Yeah, I stay in touch. I think that's important."
    "Yeah, moms are cool." Again, not what I was expecting. "'Sept sometimes they be tellin' you how to do stuff, gettin' up in your bizness."
    "Well sometimes it's a tough love kinda thing, their way a showin' they believe in you."
    "Hey. I think I'ma go to Capitol Hill, get somethin' to eat. Go to Dick's. Iss crazy of all the routes, they put you on the 7."
    "I pick it by choice!"
    "Oh."
    "Yeah, it really does it for me. Reminds a little of LA, to be honest."
    "You know the bible?"
    "Sure."
    "Book of Revelation, man, Mark of the Beast. The Mark of the Beast!"
    "Uh huh."
    "You know the Book of Revelation, the stuff they say in there? That shit's gonna happen in our lifetimes." 

    All civilizations throughout all of human history have all believed they were living during the End Times. Not the right time to say that one aloud though....

    I said, "oh yeah?"
    "While we're alive."
    "Right on."
    "The Mark of the Beast."
    "So this is the stop for Dick's."
    "Huh?"
    "And QFC." 
    "Well, you turn?" Do I really have to leave?
    "Naw man, I'm goin' straight. Where you tryna go?" Yes, it's that time.
    "Oh, I'll get out here then." If you insist.

    I mentally shook my head as he slunk away. Walking contradiction didn't come close to covering it. More like the all-singing, all-dancing conflicting conflating opposing primordial ooze of the world! From his disparate moods and ideas was enough soup to make the fully formed opinions of five people who could never stand each other.

    But are we so different? Am I? I look at photos of myself as a child and yearn for simplicity. In the same breath I read Nichomachean Ethics and work on James Joyce. I watch harsh, brutal films about the worst parts of the human psyche, then bounce off the walls smiling at everybody outside. I'm righteously repulsed by advertising yet brainwashed by it just the same; I talk seriously about meditation in the same breath as I have a great time at certain very head-banging concerts... and incredibly, I can reconcile all of this such that I actually think I'm reasonable! Well adjusted! Can you believe it? In what strange world would that be? 

    Like him, it all makes sense within my mind. He was a slinking reminder to go easy on others. We're all still figuring it out, studying the shades of who we are, exercising the different and valid sides of ourselves, some of which don't need to reconciled so neatly. We all have our sharp and beveled edges. The Earth turns, and the night is fully and utterly night, and yet half a turn later it is incontrovertibly and completely day. You wouldn't want it to forgo one of those for the mere sake of consistency, now would you?
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    Napoli, Part II

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    I really love this place. More from that strange corner of the world which contains all that is glorious and terrible about contemporary human life. The experience was a rich, overwhelming avalanche of color and chaos, grit and verve, crumbling infrastructure and resilient positivity. Most tourists in Italy don't travel south of Rome, or if they do skip right over Naples to Pompeii and the beaches; for that reason I'm including a lot of images (all raw 35mm scans) here. You won't find these alleys photographed much elsewhere.

    ​For a more clear understanding of the machinations of the city's underbelly, I recommend Robert Saviano's excellent and explosive non-fiction text, Gomorrah, (like the Mafia, but larger, more dangerous, and less well known) or the Matteo Garrone's sobering film adaptation of the same. The fact that the Saviano text even exists is something of a miracle.
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    Napoli, Part I

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    I know you came here expecting a story, but I want to share a bit of what I do when I'm not driving the ol' 7. Here are sixty or so images from Naples and the areas surrounding it– a bizarre cocktail of ancient tranquil beauty and by far the most dangerous slums I've gotten away with photographing. There were great people populating the entirety of this spectrum, and the light shone through trees, markets, and decaying buildings without judgment. I endeavored to do the same.

    As you may know by now, my photographs feature no digital enhancement; these are all uncorrected raw negative scans of 35mm. There's a lot more where these came from– look for a similarly sized helping in the next day or two! 

    Hope you enjoy them!
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    Seattle Shines

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    Photo by Holli Margelli.

    Another interview I wanted to share– this time with Holli Margelli, the photographer of holliwithani.com, as well as founder of the Seattle Shines project– you might recognize some of my photographs there. 

    ​Click here for the interview!
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    Heard Him Say

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    "How's it goin'," he said, the twenty-first century version of "hello." Words may change, but intentions hold steady. I was leaving the comfort station at Rainier & Henderson, and we recognized each other on the dimly lit sidewalk. He's a touch shorter than me and likely a touch younger, at the intersection between stocky and thin, normally with a fierce-looking pitbull in tow. Tonight he was alone, a twenty-something African-American man, wearing a turquoise pullover hoodie with his hair tied back in a bun.

    "Hey! Oh hey, man!" I said.
    "Hey, I got mah own place!"
    "What? No way!"
    Look at the glow in his eyes. "Yeah,"
    "I's just' bout to say I hadn't seen you in a while!"
    "Yeah, in Renton. Right offa Maple Valley."
    "Dude! That's awesome!"
    "I haven't been bringin' her out as much." Referring to his pitbull.  
    "I was about to ask,"
    "Yeah, 'cause it's cold, people be thinkin' I'm a bad parent. But I don't have to go… I'm not at the Aloha Inn no more."

    I shook my head in a big grin, arms clasped behind my head. The nights are getting warmer, and my year-round choice of uniform (long-sleeve button-up with sleeves rolled-up, no jacket; accept no substitutes!) felt comfortable in the evening breeze. I was reflecting on his tone as he pronounced "Aloha Inn," the sort of rueful familiarity one wishes to be over and done with. Those of us familiar with Aurora Avenue know the Aloha Inn is no place to retire. 

    "Yeah, so you don't have to go all the way up there– this is so great!"
    "I'm on Benson Road," he exclaimed. "The 169."
    "The 169 yeah,"
    "Right by Fred Meyer–"
    "Fred Meyer's right there, that's perfect. Dude. Congratulations!"

    We pounded fists, and our eyes met again. I was hardly more than a stranger to him, just the friendly 7 driver, but he wanted to let me know he mattered, that he was back amongst the land of the living. His was a voice of both yearning and enthusiasm, a cry from the heart that he was better than the states I've seen him in before, and his new circumstances proved it. Homelessness and the cloaks of invisibility and judgment it brings can make a soul feel hardly human. The words may have been about his apartment and his dog, but the import was larger, richer. 

    ​In his handshake I heard him say: I too have dreams and principled goals, and like you I have expended valiant effort in the name of those goals, and I am afloat again, staying above water in our messy world. I know how to swim. 

    I am somebody.