It was 10:30pm. I'd been searching for the directions I printed for a good 10 minutes. Mom had no idea either and she knows my "put it in a convenient place" patterns. I finally found them on Scott's bed.

The drive out to Long Beach was a surreal train of light dotted with this queer old feeling of mine. There's a refinery out near me (which you can see in my gallery), right by the 110 freeway/motorway. I awkwardly pawed along what I thought were on-ramps to the south, failing miserably as I found myself by some deserted parking lot that had a distinctive "Children of the Corn" feeling. Needless to say I backed out, pushed forward and finally realized I'd actually seen the bloody on-ramp I needed.

I've lived in Los Angeles all this time and never seen a single ship. I didn't even know where the LA harbor was. I figured that one out quickly as I climbed an enormous iron angel of rivets and cherubim floating below. The night was star-struck and gilded in clouds, the ground much the same in fluorescent palors. The air was crisp the only way it can be in LA: soft, free somehow, filled with possibility. I'd walked beside it a long time ago with Raven and 'Beca (from my Geneva days), or alongside Kris, my brother in arms and roaming.

Loading cranes and shifting winches, giant vats out of the X-Files, twinkled and tweaked in varying proportions by lime-lit proponents of the rainbow. It was supple and man-made. Their intentions cried in the night. Part of me wanted to hit the emergency lights and start shooting. The bridge had two lanes, after all.

Long Beach proper is like West Hollywood with two exceptions: 1) The swanky weekend crowd is older. 2) The swanky weekend crowd dressing to the nines. There's something about weekend crowds of yuppies and 30 somethings that puts the fear of god(s) in me. I get nervous around so many people who obviously aren't paying attention to my 2 ton supreme-with-techron baige behemoth. This is ok, though, since I notice them well ahead of time.

I passed by the happening party scenes brewing in the streets like Budweiser and moved into backlit corners and quiet residential neighborhoods, periodically side-lined by cheap liquor stores and a distinct 'Barrio' quality. This was the shitty end of Long Beach. I felt more comfortable here somehow. I myself hadn't quite dressed to the nines for my alleged slave auction: grey slacks, blue long sleeve, sandals and my years old black wool trenchcoat. I honestly didn't bother and from the general disinterest from the locals, maybe that was a good thing.

If you've ever been to a Rocky Horror Picture Show outing, you know the waiting line. The casual intimacy of a Renaissance Faire garbed in black and lace, corset and giant poofy wigs with transvetite sweeties leaning in with a sumptuous smile born in mirrors. They were warm memories to me. I was stepping back to when I was younger, when I still knew people like this back before the wall fell up and I lost the roadmap to love like that.

I watched girls jump into the arms of large trenchcoated lads. Odd assortments of lovely alternative folk shook hands. The tattoos of this small tribe swished in the wind or clung to svelt young things. The air had lips and curled around the bodies up along the way. I felt eyes on my own as I passed up and along, trying to look like I was looking for someone but in reality wondering where you got tickets. I flicked eye contact around, but I kept inside my regal distance. John wasn't there. I was alone. I was also a free man for the rest of the night. It was a pity: I wanted to be bought.

The pre-show festivities, inside jokes and staged debauchery were all grand. Lesbians gingerly stepped up to the stage and practiced their craft in the front pit; flocks of audience members ran to the back after being instructed where masturbation was allowed. And, of course, "what if you're STILL on fire?!" was repeated during the whole intro sequence of theatre rules.

They had a damn good looking cast, especially this somewhat striking puerto rican or dominican Frankenfurter. He rounded up the aisle to our left. I'd sat close by. He sat in the lap of the first (and obviously well-known) person, passed a few more people then leaned into me. He asked if I was having a good time as he reached over with one hand. I reached up accidentally stroked his. I said 'yup'. He seemed glad. I think it's that case of being too old to rock and roll but being too young to die.

The show itself was decent. Most of the audience had only gone 2-3 times and I was the only person on my side of the theatre who knew, well, some of the words. Every theatre has a different culture, but this was pretty dead. I tried now and then, but it just didn't catch. I've done this 16 times now. 84 more and I...get to sit sooner at the beginning of a show.

I had fun, certainly, but immediately afterwards I rushed off and had a very cold, empty feeling inside me. Here were these people that knew each other in intimate packs, reminding me of what it was like to know people in person. Voices. Actual voices and body heat and eyes. There was something intimately depressing; there was something I wanted. Somehow I'd moved ahead, though, but receeded too much. I was alone in the night again, with the chagrined notion that you couldn't keep people at a distance and still have them love you. Correction, that they'd still keep in touch with you.

Fuck the flowery language: I want whatever those people found in one another. I don't know what it means to be young. When did the curtain fall and the muses rot in jars hung by hooks in the belfry?

I'd always felt it impromper and rude just to introduce myself to people, though. Even if I had stuck around, what could I possibly say except "good job" to the cast and only be talking out of my ass at that (though their Janet did have an exceptional body)? Maybe I'll go back next week just to give John the oatmeal cookie he demanded for selling me into slavery. It only costs 7 bucks and some self-pitying backlash post-show. Yeah, I freely admit most of this is self-pity; I honestly can't help it at the moment, it hurts.

So, eah, the feeling of loneliness requires the infection of the exact opposite.

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Ingenuity

Comment: Takes a second to appreciate it. When I saw it, I had to shoot it (and if I had a nickel for every time...).

Armament

Comment: Please be straight with me, just what do I need to improve on with shots like this? I want up-close industrial captures, but this is all I can manage without impersonating an employee.

I haven't gotten much commentary on my photos besides 'they're great!' or 'these just aren't as inspiring'. I appreciate both of those types of criticism, I truly do, but I'm trying every day to do better by myself as a photographer. I'd truly appreciate it if you helped me with this improvement.

So in essence, if you see something you like or dislike in particular re: my photos or even the writing here, tell me and I'll take it into consideration. I love your input, genuinely.

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