13-VI-2008.
On seventh Lena went to a prom night. Not her own, there she got to strum it for two more years, but of her gang, with whom she attended to most of the courses... She's growing into a great mocker, and a tonguer at that. Yesterday, for example, her gang comes to decide that the plural of mouse pad is to be micepads. And, conversely, the plural of „tom hanks“ is „toms hank“. I can only conclude that they were under influence of her.
Then it turned to be not the official prom night, just the first prom party, the most solemn though, she put on some crocheted dress which mom made after a recipe of some woman of Ukraine - found the Dupljet magazine, initially via some subscription, while that was in existence, and then, a few years later, I found it on the net (I never remember to remember where [was] that) and downloaded fiftysome issues, which were then never needed.
The next such party was somewhere on Little Neck, on eleventh. Interestingly, all such parties were held north of the highway, in the area where the building is more expensive because they don't uproot all the trees before beginning the construction, so they have to maneuver the machinery around the trunks. I.e. the richer end, where the distances between the houses are bigger and there's shade to park in. I snapped this one just to illustrate the american love of fakes and imitations. Because this style, with beams and fillings, was the mainstream in most of Europe, including us, throughout most of the medieval era. But... it requires clayful soil and chaff, to be tamped well and stay tamped. No such soil here, this is the three rivers' mouth, it's all sand everywhere. This would be, at best, thin plank nailed over plywood, at worst simply painted, or pasted plastic... There are surely no beams and fillings. Not that there wouldn't be those who'd pay to have that, but there'd be nothing to make it from, and there wouldn't be anyone to build that. Because there's no way to find oak beams, and the carpenters who'd do that would charge their weight in gold.
I still don't see the point of a party which ends at 14:00. But then okay, they're high school graduates, not allowed to drink for two more years, so they just sit and have fun, can do that without drinks.
This shot acquired a special history. I shot it while waiting for her to come out. I'd usually drive her there beforehand, which I had to do because she wasn't en route to anybody, the whole gang lived in the richer places. Then at the set time I'd appear there again, call her (eh, having a mobile now), and wait for her to come out. I posted this shot on Panoramio. Three-four years later, when the Gugao started messing with the site more seriously („integration with maps“ etc), I found an option, a well hidden one, to see where my works were linked. There wasn't much of that, perhaps tensome, but this shot I found on a website where real estate is sold, as an illustration of the area where the house was - one of the neighboring houses was on sale. Which means that Gugao not just didn't pay me any for this, they didn't even tell me it was used. Didn't do anything about it at the time, but I was getting close to doing it.
Whic is actually the eternal problem where the visitors contribute the content. Starting with GeoCities, which started inserting ads into my site as soon as they were bought by Yahoo, through various blogs with multiple authors... which all soon turned into „yours the gasoline ours the ideas“, you write and contribute, we'll attach ads to your content and make money, you get a hollow nose all the way to your eyes. As if the gallery made money and the painter got... five minutes of glory.
So I quickly weaned myself off any cooperation with the big houses, and saw to it that I stick with small [ones]. The trouble with the small [ones] is that you never know whether they built themselves with the intent of becoming old that way, or to sell as soon as they achieve a price. Or, as happened in the case of the Panoramio itself, they may get an offer they don't dare refuse. And then what will you [do], [but] vote with [your] feet.
On thirteenth, the third party, somewhere around that middle school. On fourteenth, the smoke from North Carolina, their plastic brushes are burning („brush fire“), the stench got diluted by the time it came to us, it's at least 30km from here, just enough to make it look like light mist and to dispell any thought of going outside.
On fifteenth, the party at Gary, an even posher end. The ***_GUY:M*** have quite a largish house, just the same façade brick like ours, except theirs is approximately twice as large, with the same false window shutters and about ten times more land and trees around it. I didn't enter, and this time it also happened to be ending later in the evening. Maybe, maybe, this may have been one of those where the parents don't just tolerate the booze (and risk prison if discovered) but also procure it. Because it's better that the kids do that at home, with some adult supervision and without risking that anyone may snitch and get everyone a record in the police. Well fuck that entry into the world of grownups, you have a drivers', you may drive a two ton mastodon with four liter engine, you can have a firearm registered to you name, now you're finally allowed to smoke, just still aren't allowed one little beer... And in two years, when you finally be allowed, you'll wade into it knee deep and won't know what hit you.
At least the smoke dispersed.
Mentions: Gary Dalton, Gugao, Jelena Sredljević (Lena), the Daltons, in serbian
12-VII-2024 - 23-XII-2025