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衣櫃
比一甲子還老的衣櫃
是一座巍峨的黑巖
悄靜的聳立在無夢的天窗下
將祖母的一生鎮壓在我們王家
我打開衣櫃的門
鑲著明亮的鏡子
死了近六十年的祖父
站在裡邊
身穿風衣 戴著絨帽
他脫下那件祖傳的舊風衣
披到我身上
我搜索衣櫃
衣架上掛著祖母
二十歲 三十歲
到八十歲的髮絲
我拿它們來牢綁家中的
每一根樑柱與椽楹
我拉出衣櫃的抽屜
左邊是日據
滿是整齊規短的領帶
右邊是民國
一疊嚴重發黴的回憶
底下的 上了鎖
祖母說 鑰匙要重新打造
我關上衣櫃的門
祖父還在那裡
激動的指指他頭上那頂
從中國南京買回來的絨帽
我微微一笑
無意伸手去接
RECOLLECTION, a group show at Superette Gallery with the works of Harvey Benge, Marcus Haydock, Nicolas Hosteing, Simon Kossoff, Paul Kwiatkowski, Damien Lafargue and Simon Letourneau, curated by Myriam Barchechat.
Exposition du 16 novembre 2013 au 28 février 2014
Superette Gallery
104 rue du Faubourg Poissonnière
75010 Paris.
Opening reception on November 15th at 6:30 pm
During the spring of 2016, SLC 330 slipped out from hiding in Mass Coastal's yard in Rochester. 330 was one of seven F40PH leased by the MBTA in 2015 due to a power shortage. On this day, 330 is running a test train, testing the integrity of the recently-rebuilt bilevel coaches.
preparing for photo shooting
I was doing some sewing.My friend hold her on my knees.
Is it too bored, Peiqi?
It seems like so long ago, but one of the very first macro shots that I thought deserved some post-processing was a shot very much like this one. It's nice to shoot this long-legged fly again and recall that nature can sometimes put on quite a show on her own without help.
The person takes some photographs of the person on a bridge
He is only standing there for a moment or two more
He is remembering what he looked like or maybe who he was
And when it finally comes, he knows exactly what to do
He's meant to fall into the sea
Be dragged down by the current
Be dragged down deep beneath
Be dragged down deep beneath
---Memphis, I Am The Photographer
I've always had an obsession with the sea. I always feel more alive when I'm near it.
Punggol End Beach, Singapore.
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***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 2nd 2015
CREATIVE RF gty.im/546365069 MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**
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Photograph taken at 11:32am at an altitude of Four hundred and sixty eight metres on Wednesday 10th September 2014 in the wilderness, off Squilax Anglemont Road and beguuelin Road in the grounds of Celista Estate Winery, in Celista, British Columbia, Canada.
Celista nestles on the shoreline of Shuswap Lake, which drains via the Little River into Little Shuswap Lake, the source of the South Thompson River, a tributary of the Fraser River. Shuswap Lake is Eighty nine kilometres in length, Five kilometres wide and has a maximum depth of 161 metres.
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Nikon D800 70mm 1/2000 f/2.8 iso100 RAW (14 bit) Handheld AF-S single point focus. Manual exposure. Matrix metering. Auto white balance.
Nikkor AF-S 24-70mm f/2.8G ED IF. Jessops 77mm UV filter. Nikon MB-D12 battery grip. Two Nikon EN-EL batteries. Nikon DK-17M Magnifying Eyepiece. Nikon DK-19 soft rubber eyecup. Digi-Chip 64GB Class 10 UHS-1 SDXC. Lowepro Transporter camera strap. Lowepro Vertex 200 AW camera bag. Nikon GP-1 GPS unit.
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LATITUDE: N 50d 57m 26.41s
LONGITUDE: W 119d 20m 11.08s
ALTITUDE: 468.0m
RAW (TIFF) FILE SIZE: 103.00MB
PROCESSED (JPeg) SIZE: 23.28MB
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PROCESSING POWER:
HP 110-352na Desktop PC with AMD Quad-Core A6-5200 APU processor. AMD Radeon HD8400 graphics. 8 GB DDR3 Memory with 1TB SATA storage. 64-bit Windows 8.1. Verbatim USB 2.0 1TB desktop hard drive. WD My Passport Ultra 1tb USB3 Portable hard drive. Nikon VIEWNX2 Version 2.10.3 64bit. Adobe photoshop Elements 8 Version 8.0 64bit
See www.firstchurchguilford.org/about-us/history-mainmenu-92 for this church's history.
See more of Bob's Guilford scenes at www.flickr.com/photos/bobphoto51/sets/72157625248647559/w....
See more long exposures at www.flickr.com/photos/bobphoto51/sets/72157625368608820/
C Tuna chapter 1... Going Nowhere Fast
Recalling the drinking memories can be more difficult
than other recollections for some reason. In the eighth grade I have very vague memories of tagging along with Paul Smith and walking from our school, Our Lady of Victory on Lambton Avenue in the Borough of York, up to Jane Street and down the hill to Smythe Park where we turned onto Blackcreek then a block or so down into this maze of streets with newer homes. We had a few drinks from his families bar, which was new to me, liquor kept over for other times. I don’t think we got drunk or anything but we got in trouble from the nuns when we returned a little late for afternoon classes. It was Mother Eleanor the saintly school principal who was upset with us. Her idea of punishment was to take you in her office talk to you in the kindest humane way then hand you a thin flimsy wooden coca cola ruler and ask you to strap yourself several times. She’ll be in heaven a long time that woman. What still impresses me more than the adventure into the Smiths’ liquor cabinet was the revelation of a new standard of living found in this area of new and modern homes with two bathrooms and showers, carpets and new appliances and things called recreation rooms. Of course the Smith home only had to house four people whereas we were seven in all, eight when dad was alive. In our end of the neighborhood generally described as York Township the homes were built in the thirties and fourties, driveways were mostly gravel, the homes for the most part were two stories, for some reason we always rented. Twenty six Victoria Boulevard was no exception.
I have a romantic recollection of drinking at a young age, stumbling down Weston Road near Eglinton at night hearing a car drive by blaring the new Animals hit of the day the haunting House of the Rising Son, when I play the song today it still resonates in a very personal way. This would have been in about 64 which made me sixteen at the time. That evening I ran in to Thomas Russell by the Churchill Restaurant owned by old Albert who was always dressed in a greasy white apron over a greasy white t shirt. He would have been in his sixties he was never shaved he had rotting yellow teeth, some were missing, his look was that of a pirate who’d had to much vino and his piercing black eyes looked right through you. Albert would serve you greasy french fries for a dollar or so. There was an ample oblong counter with stools that spun though somewhat rickety. Albert would take your order “fries and gravy” was my usual request, he would write this down on one of those yellow lined order pads, stick the pencil back in his ear and slowly walk to the kitchen which was in the back of the shop past banquet seating for fifty or more, there was never anyone in the place, we would rumour with each other that it was a ‘front’ for something but we never really knew what. We probably never knew what a front was either. The Churchill was a lot like Freds Lunch further on up Weston Road, that is to say like Freds a place that had had its heyday, a leftover from the bobby sox crowd and who knows what came before that fad. I do wish he had turned the deep fryer fat up to cook his chips as they were always limp and soggy. A successful jockey parked a shiny blue Lincoln Continental on the side street named Hollis, I think his name was Al Blue or Al Coy something like that. A fancy car in a working class neighbourhood would get your attention fast. The jockey looked like my old OLV schoolmate Chuck Paquette who came from New Brunswick and left school at fifteen and this was agreed on by the nuns as Chuck had a job to go to. There was bad news for me later that night, it was following a dance at The Church of the Good Shepherd that I’d been ejected from for being drunk and rowdy. A local cop named Danny Morrison whom I would serve many drinks to later in life at the Queensbury Arms busted me while I was pissing in the hedges of the church that ran along old Eglinton Avenue way before they built a super road and tore down several houses. That Danny, he thought he was Sherlock Holmes catching me having a leak, he said, “what do you think you are doing”? I looked him in the eye half wobbly from the drink and said, “Having a piss”! I was charged with drinking underage, he sent me to the station after calling a yellow squad car from a police call box attached to a hydro pole, only the police had the key to the call box, it wasn’t long before the squad car picked me up.
Back then they’d let you out in the morning with a summons to appear in court within a few days. By the time you were released you would have sobered up, possibly have had enough time to piss yourself, barf all over the cell and scratch your name in the fading yellow green paint besides those other names like Danny Abraham, Bob Latus, Eachie, Holmes and more. In the morning a big red faced copper would give you shit as you were about to leave, shouting things like ‘why don’t you join the Armed Forces and we don’t want to see you here anymore’.
The fine for such an event was about $25 dollars and my mom and her boyfriend paid it on numerous occasions. His name was Johnny Basala. He was a worker for the Township of York, drove a truck and some equipment for the works department. I don’t know how my mum met him but he was her boyfriend for a few years and he’d be over on Victoria Boulevard on Saturday nights with a case of beer and his green 56 Buick sedan. At fourteen or so I had the urge to drive, felt that driving would give me some status make a man out of me. Johnny gave me lessons. He would let me drive with him beside me up and down our street. The Buick was an automatic driving it was simple. Mom and Johnny would go to the Legion on Saturday nights and there they’d meet Agnes and Wally who were their equals at drinking, often they’d all come back to our house because mom had the kids and if we were left alone to long we might kill each other. I suppose they gave me a glass of beer or two but I actually don’t recall this, growing up in that drinking environment, it seemed normal to drink. There is that stigma of drinking with your parents, that generational separation where you did things and you didn’t tell them, they’d be the last people you’d tell. We’d play cards with Johnny, me and Sue and Kevin and Shane and Barbara who was quite young this being around 1964. The shoes Johnny was filling, those of my dad would have been difficult for anyone to fill. There was a difference in them, white collar blue collar sort of thing, religion to, Johnny never pushed the religion on you nor did he ever raise his hand, well, in that regard, it wasn’t his place. He’s been dead a long time now, died from drink related matters. I remember him coming over on Saturdays all shaved and smelling good, his hair in a sixties look, pushed back at the sides like a Hungarian Elvis. He always wore long sleeved banlon shirts and trousers, never shorts. Mom was happy, she had some company, I never gave it a moments thought that they might have been ‘doing it’ in the bedroom, I could never think that of my mom. Besides having been raised a Catholic I bought into the myths they spread and I guess I may have thought kids fell out of trees for all I knew about sex, sex education, there was no such thing! You couldn’t talk about sex, it was a common belief that if you masturbated hair would grow on your palm.
There were two pool halls in the area that I frequented Nicks on Weston Road south of Eglinton and Glenvalley Bowling and Billiards on Weston Rd. near Victoria then owned by John Shura a big rotund almost blind Honky of a man in his fifties. I say he was almost blind because his black framed glasses were as thick as the small coke bottles he used to sell us from the water filled cooler besides the cash register and pool ticket timer. The timer made that distinct time clock sound whenever a cardboard ticket was inserted to signify the beginning of your pool game, you paid by the hour, it wasn’t much, maybe a dollar or less per hour. The second floor hall had big ten foot by five foot Brunswick tables with built in sturdy brass scoring knobs. On a wall near the table there was a wooden pool cue rack and beside that there was another wooden scoreboard with moveable brass numbers and a small chalkboard to write other numbers in, gambling was strictly forbidden, but everyone did. There was a smelly bathroom at the back of the room, smoke hung from the ceiling curling into the long fluorescent tubes. Everyone smoked back then, smoked and drank.
My recollections are clear of getting older guys to grab us beer at the Brewers Retail outlet located besides the A&P store where the Facelle plant made their toilet paper. One guy who got us drinks was named Bud he was in his early thirties and hung out at Nicks he was the best pool player in that place and he had a hair cut like Tom Waits, a big section of hair was always falling off his head and over his eyes, it kind of made him look dumb but he wasn’t he was real sharp. I switched from hall to hall and got street smart and wanted to be cool, be like the other guys who all drank on the weekends this is how it started. Before long my mom was encouraging me to drink at home on Saturday nights so I wouldn’t get in trouble on the streets, also I suppose so I wouldn’t get thrown in the can for drinking underage the age of majority being twenty one at the time. By not being thrown in the can mom wouldn’t have to pay the fine.
Drinking was about the only vice in those years it was pre pot by about three or four years at least in our part of town. This always irks me, you seldom hear folk saying, ‘better not drink beer or next thing you know you’ll be using heroin’. Smoking tobacco was encouraged on billboards in magazines, on TV commercials, everywhere. You could buy a pack of smokes for thirty five cents it seemed everyone smoked. My mom smoked Players Plain I’d go get them for her at lunch time often at the local Loblaws store. The light blue packaged cigarettes were just there in racks by the cash register along with several other popular brands such as Matinees, Export A, Belvedere, Dumaurier, just saying the names you can sense the marketing of this sleek product. At the store I would pretend I was looking at comics or magazines then I would quickly grab a pack or two when the cashier wasn’t looking, I never did get caught in that store. I smoked a mans cigarette when I started at 17, Players Plain, or Export Plain or Buckinghams the same as my father had smoked. Later when I got sick of tearing my lips on the unfiltered brands I switched to Rothmans King Size and when I quit at about 35 when Christine was born I was still smoking Rothmans. The Rothmans plant was located up around Dufferin and Caledonia. When you’d go by the factory you could smell the fresh tobacco being processed into cigarettes. Billboards used sexy symbols to plant the smoking ideas in your head, when I went to University in the early 70s I could smoke in the classrooms, and I did nobody ever complained though I think they may have wanted to.
As I went through my teen years I changed friends numerous times, from my athletic days playing baseball and hockey I found that those people were not around at night hanging out, playing pool, new faces entered my life, people like Mark Goodine, Kenny Goobie, Peter Hooker, Gooch who died in a house fire, Don Humes, Bugsy, Mike Cooper, Joe McCormack also known as Eachie, Mickey Clare, Dave Wellwood also known as The Goat, G Man, Pee Wee, Rocco, Tom the Newfie, Benji, Dave White, Joe Stickley, The Murphy Brothers, Vern and Maurice Mersereau, The Crane brothers Brian and Barry, the McKendrys Tom and Brian, Steve Boros, my brothers were around, Alex aka Big Al, Kevin aka The Kid and Shane aka ‘Toot’ who passed on early in life, Brian Hishon, Brian Campbell, Rick Fordham, Russ Codlin, Tom Brolley, Rick and John Adams, John Adamson, Brian Day, Gary Duseault, Scotty Collins, Wayne Polyshin who wore his hair in a fifties style the front thrown up with a little part through the middle this was a waterfall, Paul Harding, Greg and Danny Middlebrook, Terry Tiveron, Paul Antaya, guys you’d run into at Nicks or the Glenvalley, the Kirkpatricks were a big family Gary, Alec and their sister Linda who knew Mary Sales from Weston with the bouffant hairdo like Shelley Fabres from the Donna Reed TV show who ended up marrying Tall Danny McDonald who hung out at Dufferin and Eglinton who was friends with Frank Cece who got shot by a woman and lived and Kenny Tanaka whose folks had a variety store on the Danforth and whom I had a fight with at the ‘Y’ dance one Saturday night before Kenny Od’d, for what its worth I won that fight, there was Larry Wrentz, Walt Husk, the Walfords, the Wilsons, and on and on.
Some of the guys went to jail real early, guys like Eachie who eventually got deported to Scotland and Kenny Goobie who did a stretch in the O.R. in Guelph when he was just sixteen. Then for a while we hung around Jane and Wilson at that pool hall downstairs next to the other Playboy clothing store and met a new set of friends, Callahan and Spence, some singer last name of Thomas would come around, Burwash Bert Osbourne had just moved to the area from Bloor and Christie and there was Roman Mills, Mike Rousseau who disappeared in the 80s and Bobby Brooks and Brian Wilson and Bobby Miller who did a long stretch, then up to Keele and Eel where the friendship base widened into some guys with Italian backgrounds, Dominic Sonita who became a great plumber, Bruno Big Thumbs Rumolo who moved to Italy, Johnny and Jimmy Russell aka JR who worked for the post office for thirty years, Mario DePoce who managed Michelin Tires, Jim Vella an expert placement manager, Rick Campbell who married Charlotte Wilson who had a kid shortly after, Mario Molinaro aka Mars who runs a restaurant and catering business in Mississauga, Jake the Snake Nash sells paper penguins to put on lawns and used to sell potato chips for a big company , John Bell who had two kids with Cathy Cece and whose brother Dave died while buying a quart of milk, Tony Flaim who went on to fame with several bands as the lead singer most prominently with The Downchild Blues Band, Moose MacKenzie a millwright at GM, Handsome John Sonita from St Clair who died when his Lincoln crashed on the way to the airport where he and his girlfriend were off to France to open up a chain of boutiques, George Holmes who got shot by his brother Glen at the Fairbanks Tavern and can talk about it, Erico another employment placement specialist, Gillies with the gold tooth, Al Kaye who had nasty Doberman Pinscher dogs, John Stoddart a syndicated writer with a national distribution who recently was the recipient of the prestigous Stephen Leacock award for humour, Steve Magnus John’s cousin who studied psychiatry, the Woods brothers Johnny and Jimmy who worked at Otis elevator downtown with their folks who ran the cafeteria, Carlo Vescio who died tragically after struggling with his addictions for years and worked in the clothing business, Guy Basato who also died young, Stan Primrose a CPR worker, Big Danny Abraham, Eddie Sprangler who got hit by a train playing chicken and when the guy he was playing with went to pick his body up there was no head! Bob Latus who helped cleanup the crack dealers in Kensington Market and died at the hands of a car late one night on Victoria Park Ave. he was carrying a pot of soup that one of the vendors in Kensington Market had given him to take home after the place closed down, Fat Jack Hamilton was in charge of train wrecks in south central Ontario for CPR, Big Bob Butler a member of the Black Diamond Riders who worked security at the Jamboree in Havelock before he died, Les Fleury had a stroke in his mid twenties and couldn’t drive his sharp Barracuda any longer, Dennis Azcue who we all called Dump because he drove a dump truck for Mazza Construction, Brian Cross whose dad owned the Fish and Chip store on Rogers Road where a big metal fish used to hang above the store doorway and they took it to their cottage on the Trent River in Hastings and painted it gold Brian and his wife Minny were large and I saw them in the Dominion store one time in the 70s shopping and I said “what are you looking for the diet peas”? They ran a few Submarine shops later in life in BC, after making a pile of dough they came back to Toronto and sadly died recently, a week apart. Kenny Osler aka Crazy Ivan who went through the plate glass front window at Chris’s restaurant on Eglinton Ave, Ross McNab who calls Bingo at St Clair and Weston Rd, Luce who is a card dealer in Las Vegas, the Metes Ralph and Jimmy who along with others hung around a place called Greenleaves a snack bar with a pool hall and a few bowling lanes and for some odd reason this name Greenleaves represented a Downtowness that was different to our usual places it was located next to the General Mercer public school on Old Weston Road close to Siverthorn and St Clair where Pinky Pincevero hung out with Little Vince and red haired Ralph, Billy Putsungas who made the news one day as he had been popped with a few ounces of smack and a half million dollars in cash, not bad for a corner boy and Danny Russell hadn’t yet died of cancer, Steve Warren a class dresser, Bill the Greek and his brother Paul whose lives ended way to soon along with Bills’s wife Marissa, Carl Pennik who seemed to spend more time in Kingston Penetentiary than out, Brendan McCarney who still fixes furnaces, Eamon Lever who found work in the pest control field, Tommy Kallo a city of York employee before amalgamation, Donny Robbins who I’d run into at the Hills while he worked for a dairy company and there was only one queer guy back then, ‘they were queers not gays’, his name was Roy Deshekel, and there were more people at the Studio pool hall across the road where Dave Usher and Stan Saltzman would gladly take your money. There was always someone at the York Restaurant run by Steve a swarthy Greek who seemed to be permanently buzzed on Ouzo, while back at Macs’ BP station across from the pool hall guys like Mike Reagan, John Adams, John Crossey, George Stevens, Pete Miller, Doug Professor MacMillan and his brother John who were Stones fans, Scott Taylor and his brother Reid and their friend Ian the violin player, Wes Moffatt, Gary Oldfield, George Brady, Bud Walford, Dougie Wilson and Sam Mule` ‘the Barber’ another TTC guy and a big guy named Ray hung around they were car guys, they owned cars, some of them fast cars, sooped up things one guy even owned an Edsel that had an automatic transmission operated by buttons located in the steering wheel it seldom worked. I moved in and out of each group easily not ever saying “he is my best friend.” I had hundreds of friends all over the west end and a reputation that I could handle myself as C Tuna which fortunately I didn’t have to demonstrate on many occasions. While hanging out with other guys like Mars and Holmes I got around an even wider area including St Clair Avenue from Lansdowne to Old Weston Road where it was a different story. Here the young guys, hung out with gamblers like Al Nuce and there was a young hooker with dyed black hair named Pat Cox. Once the Pepsi crew hired Pat for splashes at one of those seedy Lakeshore Blvd Motels. A few times we played craps in the schoolyards. We’d run like hell when someone yelled the cops were coming. Sometimes we’d sneak in the pool at Earlscourt Park when it felt like it was a hundred degrees out. Holmes lived at a house in York Township at 63 Lonsborough St where some real rounders lived, not pretenders, Danny O’Donohue who was a safe cracker and is doing time for being involved in whacking a mobbed up guy, and Pat O’Hagan another Irish wiseguy in the rackets also lived there. Those two robbed the Biltmore Odeon movie theatre in Weston they went in a back window and an old lady spotted them so the cops were called and they had put to much charge on the vault, blew it up and everything in it as well as a wall. The cops came and arrested them, Pat O’Hagan seated in the theatres chairs pretended to be sleeping said, “I must have fell asleep during the movie”, with that the black cop we all called Leroy went for him and O’Hagan threw a stick of nitro at him, the copper was so shook up he had to take the rest of the year off of work! The house was run by this woman Pat Zona she had hands like a bricklayer and one time on a Friday or Saturday night after Holmes and I had had some drinks she asked me how old I was, at the time I was seventeen and she said, ‘boy, you’re pretty round for your age”, Pat died of cancer in 03. There was Johnny Sombrero who was always seen driving around in a dust covered black cadillac two door slinked down in the seat like Marlon Brando his wardrobe was classic Wild Ones, slicked back duck tailed hair with curly cues at front a black leather jacket with all of these chrome do dads stuck here and there, very menacing, his club was called the Black Diamond Riders and these guys hung together, they were for the most part older and definitely not to be messed with, Sombrero is not his real name few people know his real name. There was a guy named Jack somethng or the other today he runs Canada’s most famous country picnic the Havelock Jamboree. Sometimes we’d go to Dundas and Keele, the Junction and terrorize that neighborhood, walking around in tailor made pants with stovepipe bottoms, Cuban waistbands, classy shirts, shoes from Europe, winklepickers that were pointed like a cowboy boot and excellent for giving the boots, in the summer many of us wore what we called 409s, I thinks that’s what they cost, other shoes from Ingeborgs were also popular with the dressers and a lot of the guys were great dressers buying tailor made strides from the Playboy Shop which had two locations and was run by the Bagnato family, we all had credit in the clothing stores like Al Basians on Weston Road, I still owe him a ton. As I look back on things I guess it was affordable to dress well few of us had cars and the expense that a car brings. We might not actually have been ‘bad’ however the image was that of hoods, short for hudlum. Some of us had fedoras that is felt hats with brims and silk trim and Holmes had a different hat for every day my favourite was the grey stock broker wide brimmed bowler he wore, at times we would carry umbrellas and walking sticks, real Dukes and we weren’t afraid to use them my wife Julia said we were like the gang in the Kubrick movie A Clockwork Orange.. I recall going to Yorkville one weekend night in the mid sixties when Hippies were becoming fashionable and us greaseballs would go and terrorize longhairs for something to do. So this one time I am more than surprised when our intended victim stands up for himself and informs us he’s a Vietnam veteran he had killed people over there, had ‘stuff’ jujitsu or karate training taught in the marines and could kick the shit out of us all if he cared to. Right there and then, on the spot I had an awakening. I would shortly afterward reexamine my path of being a drunken lout and become a stoned and drunken lout.
This was strange to take, but I love the results.
Please click L, looks much better. (grr flickr sharpening)
Arriva South London ADL11 [V611LGC] Dennis Dart SLF/Alexander The East Surrey Water Co's pumping station (now the site of Tesco) had a disused fountain in its grounds in the '60s when I lived in these parts. I have no recollection of it ever having been in public, but if it was, I expect the one-way scheme made necessary to handle the Purley Way (Croydon A23 bypass) traffic did away with it sometime after Purley Way was opened in the '30s. However, this stage (where the old trams reversed in the road) was always called "Purley Fountain" so that is what I still call it.
When the 166 was converted to SMS operation there was a huge outcry amongst the genteel folk of Coulsdon and Purley to bring back RTs because the on-board ticket machines never worked (that is literally true, I never saw one bus fully operational) and there weren't enough seats. We called them "cattle trucks". We did get more seats, but the machines remained as the SMSs quickly gave way to DMSs. It took MUCH longer for LT to realize on-board ticket machines were NOT A GOOD IDEA.
Yet here we are in the 21st century back with single-deck standee buses. When will the experts learn we want to sit down on a bus, not dangle on straps?
This bus went to Arriva Scotland, a company since sold to McGill's.
My ref: 100_0010
A digital original,
Processing notes:
Contrast enhanced with a "Daidoish" preset (exposure, contrast, and clear-view increased; blacks increased and whites decreased in curves to clip blacks and highlights)
Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.
~ Jean Paul Richter
Dedicated to my dear friend Mari Anne.
First shot with my new Canon 5D Mark II. :)
I've been called a 'Purist", perhaps I've even referred to myself as such a few times. The term 'Purist' is a bit of a misnomer to begin with however. I'm sure Film Photographers are apt to think any digital representations, edited or not, are to be deemed 'False'. HDR can be awful, beyond awful even, but done well it has the potential to add a new dimension to your images while imparting a subtle, yet emotional flair. I'm testing the waters, seeing where it all fits together, without overdoing it. Consistency has its merrit, stagnation benefits no one. The evolution of the artist some would say. Please join me...