Lessons In Passing

Disclaimer: This entry is pretentious. I never normally would admit to being border-line self loathing, and I try to never talk about "art" in any way on my blog, because it's almost impossible to do without sounding pompous. But I have nothing else to say, unless you want to hear about how I got drunk last night and hit on Rob's friends. And you don't. You really don't.


Last night in Grand Central Terminal, a professional photographer had a tripod set up and was (I'm assuming) catching interesting people and taking their picture. He was in the middle of snapping pictures of a guy walking around in head to toe leather, with a Mohawk, heavy black boots with buckles, and studs piercing his ears and face. Totally punk. After a few shots, the photographer handed the punk his business card and they parted ways.

I wanted to ask for a business card, too, which I'm assuming had a website on it, to see the photograph that I saw being taken, which I thought would be pretty cool. I also wanted to know how you go up to seemingly unapproachable people and ask them "may I take your picture?"

I did not ask because I was shy, but now it is a regret so large that, 24 hours later, I am teetering on the edge of self-loathing. (and I NEVER self-loath!)

No more shy girl for me. Even it if kills me.