Roaming around Manhattan, having my photograph taken.
A bunch of people showed up at my door at 10 am yesterday; among them photographer Aaron Farrington, who’s taking the images that will be used inside my CD package. He was a lovely freak, an adorably nervous, intense, and absorbed guy from Charlottesville.
We had a white minivan (God’s comic response to “White Lexus,” maybe?) in which we cruised all over town, stopping and taking pictures when the scene was opportune. It was great fun. I warned Aaron that I had a tendency to put on what might be called a rapper’s glare in the presence of the lens, so he tried a number of things to make me laugh. At one point he riffed on something I said about existence, “You’re doomed,” he said, and, hilariously, that became what he said every time he wanted me to smile.
“Great–OK–could you turn your head a little to the left? And–OK–look at the camera. Great. Oh, and Mike, by the way–YOU’RE DOOMED.” And then I would bust out laughing.
There was a stylist on hand named Kumi, and every time my hair would get messed up somebody would say Kumi check! at which point Kumi would appear with a spray can of something or other. I realized in the course of the day that what I really need in life is a Kumi of the everyday, so that in a restaurant, or at the post office, or right here laying on my couch as I type this blog entry I could say Kumi check! and Kumi would materialize, with lip gloss.
We stopped just as the snow started to fall; by 10 pm I was home, watching the snow accumulate on the street outside, and the orange glow the streetlamps made on it. I fell asleep reading the Lonely Planet: Puerto Rico, fantasizing about the balmy colonial district of Ponce.