And look who never lets a photog get away with nuthin! From David's wedding - and that's Duncan's shoulder there.

After years of wrangling my own eyelids, I've finally beat them into submission. I can wear contacts now. Sadly, this may mean the end of the Where's Waldo-esque "find cd's glasses in the photo" game in which contestants race to be the first to find where my glasses are hidden having been deftly snatched from my face the moment a camera turns my way. Are they in my hand? Are they on the table? Are they still on my face? Bad photog!

It's worth noting that besides having to exhaust my eyes into allowing me to insert and remove the things, I also have to work actively to overcome years of my mother's instructions not to tug at the skin around my eyes. Doing so breaks the capillaries and leads to all kinds of bad things. Dry in an upwards motion, ladies. Up! It's not like it was a "no more wire hangers" edict, but it's surprising how simple advice offered to youngsters sticks around . . . forever.

It's an odd thing to see myself again. It kinda sucks, actually. At night, when washing up for bed, I'm just fuzzy enough to see a freckle- and blemish-free face in the mirror. With contacts, though, I'm all there - crystal clear and for the world - no, worse, me - to see.

Funny thing is: I never thought of myself as wearing glasses until faced with the prospect of their removal. I've had glasses since high school, but until I started driving, I never wore them full-time. In fact, though I wouldn't do so, I'm not required by law and the DMV to wear them to drive. But leaving them on my face just became easier, so there they've been. They're lousy for running, terrible in the snow or heat, they fog up on cold mornings or over hot cups of tea, and they just do NOT work with formal wear. Or chandelier earrings. Only Tina Fey can rock the black frames while accepting an Emmy, you know?

Then again, people know me with glasses. I must have that weird no-glasses face to people now - lousy descriptor, but you know what I mean, sort of a vacancy on the face that doesn't make sense right away and takes adjustment. Plus, in a town based so heavily on the "hey there" factor, is changing a fundamental aspect of one's look wise? Tonight I was at a party with people I already wasn't sure would remember me - loosing the specs couldn't have helped matters.

Perhaps strangest of all is the vulnerability I feel without them. Yeah, yeah, the metaphor or analogy or whatever is the best literary term, is obvious: glasses are a kind of mask. They shouldn't have become a security blanket, but they have. I can liken it only to the way I felt walking down K Street in a new, far more form-fitting dress during a time when I was losing significant amounts of weight. This isn't horn tooting - but I got a lot more stares and comments from people who's attention I could have done without or for which I simply wasn't prepared, regardless.

It will all take some getting used to - even after I get the prescription right, which it still isn't. See and be seen. A tough thing to sort.

Why would I be bothered.

Could have something to do with being greeted at a friend's going away party last week with "So: how does it feel to NOT be a part of that new website?"

My carefully constructed response: "huh?"

Careful readers recognize the question irked mainly because of its horrible, S&W violative split infinitive.

Web sites come and go, people; good grammar is forever.

The wind at Gloria Ferrer blew fiercely and made waves in these grassy bushes. I'm not sure the still conveys the motion - but I know poets and artists have long sought to capture the wave like motion of wind in a meadow. The light, nearly-white color of the blades makes this look even better lit than it really was. All this explanation is superfluous. I just think it's pretty. Rob favorited it. So here it is. Take away from that wordy ramble below.

Browncoat Ball - San Francisco Browncoats

Yes, kids, it's a Firefly fan convention of sorts. A ball. A, dare I say, shindig.

Yeah, you. You're part of us. And you're a spy too, I bet. It's that damn flickr. It's that damn "Everyone's Photos." Lately, I cycle through them like they're some kind of photo-crack. I even right-click my way to a new window when I get a particularly good selection, because sometimes you can hit back and keep the same 4 and sometimes you can't. Then I get stuck in people's photo streams. There are a lot of public photos out there, that's for sure.

Peeping at this peoeple's lives reveals a lot. For one thing, there are a lot of good eyes out there. Of course, there are a lot of crap shots too. Then there are the babies. And the weddings. And the engagements. Mostly the same, some more special than others. Oh, and the vacation shots. Set after set of "look, gondolas!" or "hey, Notre Dame!" I have those sets too. Should these shared experiences make me feel connected to these strangers? Sometimes, they make me feel like I'm in a scene from "How I Got Into College," right down to the saving the Italian fresco discussions. The boring repeat offender feeling comes when I see photos of the Eiffel Tower from the same angle. Shared experience creeps up when I see shots of Cinqueterre. That probably shouldn't count as original, however, since anyone with money for a Rick Steves guide ends up there.

My other flickr related thought of the day came to me while I was in the middle of an agonizingly long Warrior 2 pose. As my arms burned and sagged, I stared at the framed photography lining the walls in the gallery/yoga studio combo space. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't particularly good either. An explanatory sign noted that none of the shots were photoshopped or color adjusted, though some were hung sideways or upside down. It gave a few of the shots an unexpected feel - created a fun moment of confusion in the viewer. But all in all, I could beat that shit. Or at least my friends and my parents have made me believe that I could. That's always a dangerous thing. As I exlain to them over and over again: with a digital camera and an online photo storage site, ANYONE can look brilliant because out of the hundres of shots I take I just make sure the 10 good ones end up front and center.

But with digital cameras the norm - and Kodak laying off its old workforce used to film and the comforting smell of darkroom chemicals - is photography still an art? That's a dumb question - it's not like blogs have ended writing as an art. People probably write as much as they did before and photograph as much as they did before, more people just know about it now.

No, that's bullshit - at least for photos - there are more of them taken. Perhaps fewer printed, but definitely more taken.

My Dad used to scold me for making my photos in the darkroom, rather than in the camera. Since I don't use photoshop or edit my photos, I guess I'm making them in the camera now - but frequently, they are happy accidents. The flower shots take some planning, some attention to the light. But my camera is tempermental. There are shots that I thought would be brilliant that turned out crap. And then there are times where I stick my hand up and shoot and - poof! - perfection.

Flickr: making us all the same? Pointing out that we're different? Making new photographers or just making more deluded arteests?

I wonder if I could have my own show somewhere. It'd be something to do that wasn't a political blog. Probably wouldn't ruffle any feathers.

Still missing my blog. And I will especially miss it tomorrow.

Here's the view from the patio at the Gloria Ferrer Champagne Caves. I first went there years ago with Chris and Kerri before they were married. I can't remember if I was living in SF or Sac at the time - must have been Sacramento, but I can't quite recall. No, wait, I do. It was Sac. Actually, now that I think about it more, I'm not entirely sure we went to Gloria Ferrer on that trip, but we always hit the same circuit, so why wouldn't we have done so?

Doesn't matter.

It's the perfect place to wrap up a day out among the vines. True to tradition, we stopped at Roche, then lunch at Viansa, then to Cline - which has my favorite wines. Then up the road to Shug (great, oak-free Chard), Benziger, Imagery, and then back to Gloria Ferrer - or just Gloria to those "in the know," as the Imagery gal told us.

Gloria Ferrer serves great spicy (in the British sense) roasted almonds.with your flute. In that context, the modern champagne flute looks right, though for sipping around the house, I prefer the old-school wide, flat glasses, the Martini glass's cousin - and tied with it for sexiest among barware.

The sun had moved behind the winery and the brisk wind made things a bit chilly. My generous glass of Blanc de Blanc, however, helped. We paired it expertly with a wedge of Sonoma Jack and some water crackers. The "we have to drive home" special.

Chilly or not, that view may be my favorite in all of Sonoma that I've seen so far. Napa too, for that matter. Color never looks richer than in wine country, of course. The stereotypical comparisons to Tuscany make sense. But it's definitely California light, not Italia light. Works though. Makes me wish for a better camera and better eye to go with it.

But this photo is a good enough approximation. What would've made it best, though, would have been another set of eyes along side mine, enjoying it. That's what's missing from most everything these days. These last 100.

Just a planter at the State Fair, but they are far healthier than the ones in my flower box and they looked great in the golden afternoon light.

Liam may be the cutest baby ever on the face of the Earth. How fortunate my sister gave birth to him so I could have access to this ultimate in cuteness. Look at that face. Look at him looking back.

Especially Phoblographer*, but this one too.