Tag Archive: Nina


Last night Nina sent me this video in the e-mails and asked if it reminded me of the film House. I replied that it is very clearly inspired by the psychedelic Japanese horror weirdness of House, especially obvious with the cartoony rotoscoping.

Basically, this music video is a funny tribute to a movie that I think everyone with half an ounce of taste should see. If you haven’t seen House (or in Japanese Hausu), get off your ass and do it. You can get the Blu-ray from Netflix, watch it streaming on Hulu Plus, or just buy the damned thing on Amazon. It’s that good. Imagine if Kwaidan ate an entire sheet of blotter acid and you pretty much have House. Doesn’t that sound enticing? I know it does. In fact, long time readers of this site have already seen bits of the film.

The only thing this video could have had to make it better is an animal portrait spewing blood.

Thanks, Neenerbeans!

I’m just going to leave this here and let you do with it what you will. Possibly not safe for work if you work in a boring place.

Thanks, Nina!!!

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I received a link to this video in an e-mail tonight with the subject “boner alert!”. The entire text of the e-mail read “look at his lil’ shoes!!!!!” I figured I’d share it with all of you since it was kind of totally amazing.

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Within this speech, we have been given the clues on how to successfully achieve your dreams, your goals. They are:

  1. You must have the Lord.
  2. You must have a truck.
  3. You must have a woman of equal worth to yourself.
  4. You get monkeys.
  5. You get dogs.
  6. You breed those monkeys and dogs and get dog monkeys.
  7. You get goats to jump on the top of the truck to the Superman theme.
  8. You make rodeo appearances.
  9. You give speeches where you make a lot of words, but say nothing.

Dreams achieved! To quote Nina, “It’s that easy!”

No go out there, all you 1962-born little boys who had the dream, the goal, of owning a monkey and make your dreams happen!

This last weekend I officially joined the growing vinyl devolution. If you follow my Twitter, then you probably know I had been pondering the acquisition of a turntable for a little while after numerous record-shopping trips with my friend Charles. People are so excited about buying actual records these days that I couldn’t stay away from it, which I think is pretty funny. We’re seeing a backlash against the ephemeral nature of digital goods with people embracing hand-made objects, learning to repair things, the maker movement, and the resurgence of vinyl as examples. I don’t mean this in some hipster-bashing, forced-irony way either (regular readers will know that I do not endorse hipster bashing). I really think that with the proliferation of intangible digital goods people yearn to have something physical to hold on to, to touch, to embrace. Vinyl is fulfilling that need in people while also giving you some bitchin’ jams to listen to. Sure, it’s awesome to have 80 billion songs in your iPod, but there’s something much more engrossing about actually listening to a record on vinyl, cd, tape, 8-track, wax cylinder, whatever—a sentiment previously expressed by Señor Vestal.

As I may have noted here before, music really changed for me when I stopped driving. In California, I would drive all over the place, as people do all the while listening to CDs and casettes. The duration of the drives and my desire not to get into an accident while changing the music created a near optimal album-listening environment. There exists a divide between the music I listened to in the 90s while living in California, and the music I have discovered since I moved to NY in 2001. I have a better sense of the older music as a whole, as an album, if that makes sense. The songs on those older records exist as parts of a greater whole not just because I’ve been listening to them longer, but because I would experience the albums as a unit. Music since the file-based shift exists as disassociated tracks, rarely incorporated into large album groups in my musical awareness. Splintered, fractured, split, current musical acquisitions float by rarely anchored. I find that disappointing. There’s a reason your favorite musician put those tracks in that order on the album. I want to be privy to that reason.

But back to the actual purchasing of vinyl. Going around with Charles, it seemed like such a fun thing that I was missing out on for no good reason. I have always loved record shops and the act of searching for records is sometimes more fun than owning them. There is something unmistakeable about browsing through bins of music, hunting for hidden gems and surprises, never quite sure what you’re going to find. You never get that experience online. It’s too streamlined, too inorganic. But flipping through albums in the store is exciting and fun. And if you’re going to be buying music rather than just pirating it from the old interwebs, then you might as well be getting your music on vinyl. CDs kind of suck and I still refuse to buy MP3s, so where should I go? Vinyl!

But what’s a turntable without records to play? A paperweight. So what did I get? With the purchase of the turntable at Permanent Records in Greenpoint, I got three albums.

The Viking of Sixth Avenue – Moondog 2004

Permanent Records has a Moondog section. Let me repeat that: Permanent Records has a MOONDOG SECTION. It’s like they were all, “Joe, you will be buying this. We love you. We have always loved you,” and then they swallowed my soul and brought me back from the dead as a ghastly beast with a thirst for human flesh.

If you are unfamiliar with Moondog (and you shouldn’t be), then you should know that he was an avant-garde street musician in the mid-20th Century who would perform his music on self-made instruments. He was a mad genius with some whacky social ideas who nevertheless created some of the most interesting, most recognizable music of the last century. You’ve probably heard his music around but never known. For example, this piece.

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Right? You’ve heard it somewhere mixed into something before.

The album is incredible. You should listen to this right now. You will not be upset by it.

Exotica – Martin Denny 1958

Martin Denny’s 1957 album Exotica is, arguably, the album that launched the whole Exotica craze in the US in the late 50s and early 60s. It certainly gave the movement a name and laid the groundwork for a highly polarizing moment in musical history. I am quite a huge Exotica fan, having been introduced to it in college by my dear friend Jesse. So the prospect of owning this record (for a mere 7 dollars!) was irresistible.

One note, I got the 1958 stereo-rerecording without Arthur Lyman who had left Denny’s band to strike out on his own swath of Exotica creation. Though Denny preferred the original monaural recording, I like the stereo a lot. Stereo was still fresh in the recording engineer’s bag of tricks and they really go out of their way to play with stereo placement which, when pumped through a 5.1 surround system like mine, sounds pretty damned amazing. There are birds all over the place.

Odessey & Oracle – The Zombies 1968

Odessey & Oracle stands next to The Kinks’ Village Green Preservation Society as one of my favorite late-60s British rock albums. Every track is excellent. It was a must-own for me. I’ve purchased this album before as a double-disc CD with a bunch of alternate mixes and demo versions, but when considering which records to get initially I just sort of felt like I needed to have it in my house.

Nina also walked away from Permanent Records with a 1 dollar Village People record so she could listen to their song called “Roommate”. It was worth her dollar, no doubt.

Then on Wednesday after brunching with Nina at 5 Leaves, we had some time to kill before Cut Copy and wandered down to Sound Fix in Williamsburg to liberate myself of yet more cash. Here’s what I walked away with.

Noble Beast – Andrew Bird 2009

What can I say about this album? Most of my most regularly listened to music on my iPod has playcounts in the low teens, but this one is in the high 60s which doesn’t include the number of times I’ve listened to it at home. If you could wear out MP3s, I’d have worn out my MP3s of Noble Beast. It was a natural choice for the home vinyl collection and worth every dollar I’ve spent on it both times. This album is definitely one of my newer acquisitions that has found a root in my brain as a complete unit. If you’ve never heard Andrew Bird before, you owe it to yourself to get a copy of this one.

In the Aeroplane Over the Sea & On Avery Island – Neutral Milk Hotel 1998, 1996

I had never actually purchased either of these albums before and I felt like it was the right thing to do. Also, In The Aeroplane Over the Sea is stupidly awesome. Like, forget it, get the hell out, you’re done amazing. It was a late-90s gem that slipped past me at the time. I was only introduced to it by my brother Charlie in the mid-Aughts and was mad I’d been missing out on it for so long. A great sing-along record. Everyone should own a copy.

I bought On Avery Island because it was there even though I consider it a lesser album. Really, I guess it’s my small way of encouraging Jeff Magnum to continue doing shows because I would love to see this music played live.

Ask Forgiveness – Bonnie “Prince” Billy 2007

I bought this record for one reason: his cover of Danzig’s Am I Demon. That’s it. Well worth the price. The rest of the EP is good too, but for me Am I Demon is the star of the 8-song show.

Streetcleaner – Godflesh 1989

And sooooooo I took a turn for the heavy.

Godflesh is Justin Broadrick’s industrial project and one of the first groups to really incorporate electronic elements with crushingly heavy music. He even played drums for Napalm Death on Scum which basically makes him Grindcore royalty (if such a thing exists). I’ve never really gotten into Godflesh that much before, but when I saw this I knew I needed to take it home with me. I’d seen the “Crush My Soul” video on the old Earache My Eye tape, but never really delved too deeply into their work as a teenager. Yet, now, here I am with a much greater love of electronic music, a heavier palette, and purchasing old LPs. It seemed perfect to take home an industrial record from 1989. I’ve given it a listem and I was totally right. It’s tight, heavy, and crushing. For a fan of old school electro and old school metal, this is the perfect synthesis of the two.

Fortress – Protest The Hero 2008

I have to admit that this isn’t exactly what I wanted, but I will qualify that by saying that this is one of my favorite metal records of the last decade. No, it is not that I didn’t want to own this particular album—I did and I do—but what I really wanted was a copy of their newest album Scurrilous which just came out at the end of March. Unfortunately there is no way to get it on vinyl so I am stuck with the shitty MP3s Charlie sent me until I can get it. Bummer. Nevertheless, Fortess slays and I am glad to have it in my collection.

So there we are. That is my initial round of vinyl purchases. Will the addition of a turntable make me stop buying CDs? Probably not, but I haven’t really been buying a lot of CDs the last year and a half anyway, so it is not likely to affect something I’ve already slowed down on. Will this become a cash sink into which I throw all of my expendable income? You bet your sweet ass it will. I am enjoying it immensely already and had to fight not to order Computerwelt from the German eBay today. Keep coming back and I’ll keep posting my acquisitions as I acquire them. I hope it will be as fun for you and it is for me.

Now that six days have passed and I’ve lost 13 pounds, I thought I’d post for you all to give you a little update of what has been happening since my surgery Friday. I know you’ve all been dying to read about my ultimately trivial trials and tribulations, so I’ll try to hit on every tiny bit of minutiae and detail that has run through my mind since Friday morning. Deal?!

Surely you’ve all read my quick and dirty post from Friday afternoon where I posted a sample of my delightful post-surgery voice. Well, I didn’t get into the niity gritty of it all with you.

After surgery I woke up nice and cleanly, ready to put on my clothes and walk out the door. Frustratingly, they made me wait until Jesse arrived as I guess it is against hospital policy or whatever to allow just-post-anesthesia patients to get up and walk out by themselves. Silly policy. What, they don’t want drugged up patients wandering into traffic on Fifth Avenue? Honestly, I felt fine. A little ti-ti, a little woozy, but not bad in any capacity. Truthfully, I’ve gotten myself home from further in MUCH worse states. I was good. I put on my clothes, stood up, paced a little bit, and then they put me back into a chair to wait. Within 10 minutes or so, Jesse arrived and the female nurse told me I would have to be rolled out in a wheelchair. I protested but she told me I must use the chair. Once we were all set and ready to exit, she told another male nurse to lead me and Jesse to the street. He asked if I wanted to sit, I said no, and he was cool with me walking. Rad. The lady nurse said I needed to use the chair, but he just pshawed her off and let me walk. Awesome.

A painless cab ride to my house in Greenpoint followed. Jesse dropped me off, making sure I was good, and I began my regimen of drugs.

The first and least pleasant of the medications I had to take were 4mg hits of methylprednisolone, a steroid used to fight inflammation. Luckily these guys are tiny little baby pills. Unluckily, I had to take 6 of them my first day, 5 the second, 4 the third, 3 the fourth, 2, the fifth, and just 1 on the sixth day today. They also taste like shit, particularly when you’re burping steroid fumes because the only thing you’ve eaten in days is half a pint of ice cream and four quarts of water. But the worst is swallowing pills with a pained throat. Not nice.

The next drug I’ve been on is Amoxicillin, a penicillin-based antibiotic. If you were ever a kid, you’ve probably taken this stuff before. I know that as the son of a doctor and a nurse with a bazillion siblings, we never lacked a bottle of the sickly sweet, bright pink, bubblegum flavored chew tablets in the medicine cabinet. I don’t have the tablets, but the liquid they gave me is bright pink and bubblegum flavored just like I remember from my childhood. I take two teaspoons from a delightful little dropper provided by Duane Reade in the morning and at night. It’s chalky, a little gross, but not all together unpleasant. If my throat hurt more, it would be a bear.

The final playmate in my drug trifecta is Hycet, which is really just liquid vicodin. Party time, right? This stuff also tastes like miserable hell, but it’s much better than trying to swallow those damned huge vicodin tablets and, because it’s a liquid, it gets to work right quick and allows me to eat. I am trying to be sparing with the stuff since A) opiates can be a real bitch, B) it’s a highly controlled substance and therefore difficult to obtain, C) I’d like to only use it when I absolutely need it. Call me stubborn, but I typically avoid pharmaceuticals unless I can see no way around them. Two spoonfuls of this shit and I can swallow broken glass.

Drugs taken and brain exhausted, I laid down on my sofa to watch a movie (I have no idea what) and passed out. I woke up later and spoke to my doctor. He commented that I didn’t sound like I was in all that much pain to which I replied that I was not. He told me that the worst was yet to come and to be sure to drink ample water and get some rest. Two spoonfuls deep into a hydrocodone daze, I successfully ate half a pint of ice cream but then became grossed out when my mouth got super phlegmy and I couldn’t do anything about it for fear of making my throat bleed. That right there was pretty much it for me and ice cream during this throat business, though I’ve been ordered only to eat soft, cool things.

I’ve come to recognize something about dessert too. Eating dessert alone is fucking depressing. I heard a lot of “Oh, you get to eat all sorts of ice cream! Fun!” and “I’m jealous you get to live on ice cream!” and whatever. But, you know what? It’s all nonsense. Who wants to live on this shit? I do not have a sweet tooth. I bought a pint of sorbet at some point when I first moved into this apartment in April and it’s MAYBE 1/3 gone. Most of that was eaten by Mike. Look, I like ice cream…when I’m sharing it with someone I like. But ice cream all by yourself because that’s all you can eat? Depressing. I have no problem eating dinner by myself. It is a nice time to chill and reflect and just sit quietly. And, no doubt, I will drink by myself until I can’t feel my face and every bad decision seems like the right one. But dessert is meant to be shared and nothing has hammered that home quite like sitting in the dark, alone, trying to force ice cream down my wounded throat with only the sweet, foul-tasting hydrocodone juice providing me respite. Oh how I yearn for something savory.

After a night of fitful sleep caused by my newly VERY loud snoring due to an incredibly swollen uvula and painful swallowing leading me to drool all over myself, I awoke early Saturday morning strangely full of energy and ready to go out into the world. I was inflicted with an acute case of cabin fever literally 24 hours after my surgery. I had no idea what to do with myself. Last week when thinking about what the weekend would entail, I had thought it would be raining since we were supposed to be hit by hurricane Earl on Friday night. But that never happened and we were blessed instead with perfect New York City autumn weather. How frustrating to be stuck inside, feeling fine, trying to be diligent about this whole healing process! But later in the evening, when Jesse called me to come out with them, I just didn’t feel up to it. I couldn’t place it, exactly, but something was off. Then I realized it was that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial since Thursday afternoon and it was Saturday night. I was not supposed to eat solid foods of any sort until Monday, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of more apple sauce or dissatisfying ice cream. I scoured my pantry to see what I might make that would be soft and treat my throat nicely.

Oh Lord, thank you for the pasta gift you gave me. Willfully breaking the rules, I made the half-pound of pasta telling myself that if it hurt even a little bit that I would stop and put it away. Well, it didn’t hurt and I wolfed down the whole batch without issue. Stupid boring pasta with stupid boring premade sauce was the best thing I’ve eaten in ages, no hyperbole. As I told Nina, I crossed the pasta barrier and never looked back.

On Sunday I met up with Charles and spent the day just hanging out with him. We wandered through the neighborhood and got some ice coffee, which was magnificent, and went to The Meat Hook so he could buy fancy hot dogs and sausages for Labor Day. I nearly died. The Meat Hook, if you’ve never been, makes their own stuffed-casing meat things. The hot dogs are homemade and so good that you don’t even need to apply mustard. The only thing they have in common with your standard-issue, grocery store, pink liquid meat and entrails tubes is their name. These things are light years beyond a standard hot dog. You might go so far as to consider them real food. I know. I know. You never thought anyone would describe a hot dog as real food, but I totally just did and I stand behind it.

To see these wonderful things there and unable to even think about eating them made my heart sink. I would have killed for the adorable girl in the red bandana behind the counter to grill one of those things up for me. Alas, there was no way I’d get it down my throat without doing something bad. So back to Charles’ place to walk his dog Sebastian and kick it. It was nice to be out of the house for the first time in days. I don’t really do well as a homebody when I feel good. If I feel sick, yeah, sure I’ll stay home and just hide out. But if I feel fine except for some mechanical pain, I want to be out. Being at Charles’ was a nice compromise between being out going nuts and staying home. I felt safe. Secure. And he was going to cook some ribs later which sounded just fine by me.

Matt and Amanda came over for dinner with a bunch root-beer baked beans, so we had a feast of slow-cooked ribs with homemade barbecue sauce, dill and mustard heavy potato salad, and those sweet yet savory baked beans studded with bacon. All while I was so high on my drugs that I could barely talk. It was awesome. No, I’m exaggerating. I wasn’t THAT high, but I had accidentally taken one too many spoonfuls in preparation for dinner, so I was not my typical conversational self. All in all, it was great. It’s nice to have friends that can cook.

Monday morning I woke up bright and early, 8ish, a stupid time to be awake on a holiday. Michael called me around quarter to nine asking how I was and what I was up to. He was at his ladyfriend’s house in Williamsburg, so I invited him up to chit chat and try this new coffee joint, Milk and Roses, that opened up on Manhattan and Clay. If you live in the neighborhood, check them out. A damned good iced coffee prepared just how I like it, basically just a double americano on ice, for 2 stupid dollars. And they have a quiet, lovely backyard. So comfortable, so easy. Shit, I might just go up there tomorrow and sit by myself with my book. Who knows?! I’m crazy like that!

After our usual stitch & bitch session, Mike and I went back to my house where he made himself some eggs and I ate some tomato soup trying to be a good patient. Soft stuff, liquids only, I drank my water, good good good. We hung out listening to some minimal space house for a little while before meeting up with Charles again to head down to McCarren Park to meet with Matt and Amanda and a couple friends of theirs. The day was stupidly perfect again, not a cloud in the sky, 78°, light breeze, comfortable in pants or in shorts. The kind of day you want to spend outside. And we did. It was an ideal day to sit in the shade on the grass and no do a whole lot of too much.

After a couple hours and the arrival of Jesse and Manja, I started to get hungry again. For some strange reason, a bowl of tomato soup was not keeping me full the entire day. First Caitlin, Charles, and I split one of the last Meat Hook hot dogs and, god damn, even room temperature with no bun or anything was it good. Of course, the hot dog was a gateway drug. I set my sights on one of the last two bratwursts we had. I wrapped it in a paper towel and started taking little hamster nibbles off it. About 2/3s of the way through the brat I noticed that it was tasting too salty. And when it was nearly gone and I put it down and I still tasted salt, I decided to investigate by spitting.

Unfortunately, I do not have a photo, but what came out of my mouth was the brightest red blood I’ve ever spit. And when I could continue to spit it, I thought perhaps it prudent to call my doctor, holiday be damned. I called and left him a voicemail at the office and then another on his answering service as the message instructed. I heard back from him within a few minutes, by which point the blood had stopped. He told me not to eat sausage (sadness) and that I should stay on soft, liquidy stuff for a few extra days now because of the bleeding.

THE HORROR!!!!! A few extra days?! Didn’t he know I was going to make adobo later that night? That I’d purchased everything for it and was super excited to make that wonderful, salty, tangy stew of meat, garlic, and love? Were not chicken and rice technically soft foods? Was not sausage technically a soft food?! Woe! Another five days on fucking not real food?! I thought I might have died. But better soft food than spitting blood into the grass at McCarren Park.

On the way home from the park, we stopped at one of Manhattan Avenue’s myriad appliance stores and I purchased my very first blender. It’s a tool I don’t use or even think to use often, so I’ve never owned one of my own. Juli had one when we lived together, but I can count the number of times I used it for myself on one hand. One Black&Decker blender richer and 50 dollars poorer, I went to the grocery to buy smoothie fixings: orange juice, milk, bananas, strawberries, raspberries, whatever the hell else might go in those things. How disappointing to be buying fruit to blend into a frothy paste when you had planned to make a comforting bowl of steaming chicken adobo. Utter heart break.

My sleep was really bad that night. I don’t know if it was the psychic disturbance of seeing so much blood come out of my mouth (meh) or that my uvula was still swollen and my throat was actually starting to hurt. Maybe a little bit of both. I tossed and turned and woke up and spun around and drooled and sweated and felt like I barely slept even ten minutes. It is no surprise then when at about 11am on Tuesday I started nodding off and felt compelled to lay down. I didn’t wake up again until 7:30 that night.

What the hell? I guess I needed it. I slept fine that night too. So weird and dumb.

Here we are on Wednesday. I’m going a little crazy and even have found myself wishing to be back at work. I know I shouldn’t be working, but damn I really really want to be doing something. It was nice to have time off this summer when I was unrestricted, but this whole staying home and doing nothing shit is driving me up a wall. Even my trip into the Upper East Side to re-up on my vicodin juice seemed pleasant when normally it would have been a miserable chore. I enjoyed waiting in line at the bank and the pharmacy. How miserable of an existence. And my throat is hurting worse than it has so far, which I suppose means that it’s finally getting to the job of healing. It’s no where near unbearable, which I am thankful for. If I had to rate my absolute worst strep incident ever a 10, I think this is maybe a 5. Uncomfortable, sure, but not coupled with the horrible fever, shaking, and pain that comes with strep. Even if this gets up to a 7 or 8, I’ll be riding fine, no sweat. I’ve got my juice and know how to use it. Bring it on.

The worst part of the whole thing is sitting by myself in my house. I want to run around and do things, but I can’t and that makes me unhappy. I’ve caught up on my movie watching and sleep and alone time. I want to drink a beer and eat a taco. I want to say yes to Chad and work Fashion Week. I want to be out of the house. But I know I shouldn’t and that it really is best if I just lay low for the next week and a half.

To sum it all up for those of you not inclined to read my 2900 word ramble about the last six days, I thought I would feel like this:

But really, I feel like this:

Take from that what you will.

Last week, a couple of old friends of mine came to visit me here in New York for a week and a bit. Here’s an incomplete list of the things we did while they were here.

  • Went to see Landmine Marathon and Salome.
  • Shopped at the farmers’ market.
  • Made dinner and drank wine.
  • Saw Heartless Bastards at Bowery Ballroom.
  • Imitated my sister Tullia.
  • Danced to the DJ stylings of The Roots’ ?uestlove at Brooklyn Bowl.
  • Looked at art in the Guggenheim.
  • Wandered through a healthy portion of Central Park.
  • Ate at one of my favorite diners by Columbus Circle.
  • Danced until delirious to 60s Soul Music.
  • Watched an entire season of The Simpsons.
  • Roasted a chicken.
  • Drove to Vermont.
  • Swam.
  • Fished.
  • Sent a bunch of logs to hell.
  • Ate the biggest marshmallows I’ve ever seen.
  • Drove back from Vermont.
  • Ate ate DuMont, which I love to no end.
  • Wandered through lower Manhattan until the girls’ feet hurt.
  • Bought delightful mugs at Fishs Eddy.
  • Watched the sun set over the East River and drank wine.
  • Sprinkled the week with bacon, egg, and cheeses.
  • Had an awesome time.

Really, it was the best trip ever. This summer has been so rad so far I might explode.

We were pretty busy and I didn’t really take as many photos as I’d have liked, but therein is the trade off. Do I spend time taking photos a few feet back from the action, or do I neglect the photos in order to be part of the game. In this case, the latter won out, so you only get 67 photos of the time they were here. Not too bad, but not a whole lot, either.

Here’s a link to the gallery.

Here is a quick selection of some of my favorites.

My prime-lens-only tear continues. After the disappointment I experienced with my old 50 f/1.8 in Telluride, I went out and had an impulsive moment and purchased the 50 f/1.4. Pocketbook lighter, I have to say I am not upset with the purchase. It brings that focal length up to par with my 28 and 85 in terms of handling, making it a much more useful and friendly place to work. Not only that, but if you manage to nail the focus at f/1.4, it looks great. The 50 accounts for 53 of the 67 photos in the set. To me it is obvious which ones are not the 50, but see if you can tell.

Anyway, I love the compositional restriction afforded by the prime lenses. No, that’s not exactly right. I love that there is no noodling about with zoom to make me miss a moment. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: primes rule. There is a time and place for zoom lenses certainly, like when your movement will be restricted or when you’re shooting a party and you need to be able to cover all sorts of focal lengths quickly. But for the type of photography I do mostly, primes are really nice. First, they’re faster than their zoom equivalents. Second, they’re less expensive. Third, they’re lighter. What’s not to like about that? So you can’t zoom between 28 and 135 mm. So what? Any zoom with that great of a range that is affordable is a piece of junk. Limits encourage creativity.

Truthfully, I’m not sure I’d think this way if I hadn’t spent so much time shooting with zoom lenses, first the Tamrom 28-75, and then the Canon 24-105. The Tamron is long gone, and the Canon gathers dust in the drawer. Who needs it?