Course Reflection

This course has been extremely helpful for me as a writer. I felt relatively free to explore writing and to try other styles. For instance, the Ulipo movement was very interesting and I really enjoyed the attempt at restraint based writing in this class as well as in others classes. My classmates are extremely talented and that forced me to raise my level of writing as well. I looked forward to our presenting my/our zines with each other either through simply reading them on our own or by performing them in class. It was through that sharing that I was able to observe their personalities and styles.

The moment I feared the most was the reading at Woodland Pattern. But as it grew near I began to think of it as an opportunity to share myself, my work with others, for good or ill. It made perfect sense. I don’t want to write in a vacuum. I write because it has to get out of me and go anywhere, somewhere. I don’t know what it’s like to get high from any drug and I’ve never been drunk. But after the Woodland Pattern reading I felt so alive. I had so much energy tingled through me that I’ve never experienced before. I could feel that energy in my arms and in my heart. It wasn’t a typical rush but rather a sensation that felt more spiritual. I loved it so much that I want to do it again! So thank you for the opportunity! I’m very blessed to have taken this class with you as an instructor and with all of my classmates. I felt like I really belonged in this class. Too bad it’s over.

Reading 2

Boswell Books held a reading on November 20, 2012 for Lilly Goren, coeditor of Women and the White House: Gender, Popular Culture, and Presidential Politics. Goren’s reading was a very thought provoking take on modern American politics. The reading that she focused on was her interpretation of how Americans were “primed to some degree, by presentations by African-American men and women in Hollywood films and television.” She claimed that Americans adjusted to the idea of an African-American as our current president by seeing Morgan Freeman, as well as others, in films first. Whatever her political theories, what I enjoyed most was her elegant reading style. Her tempo was simple and smooth which made paying attention to her easy.

            I thought her claims to be highly interesting but ultimately not enough for me to read any of her work in the future. But her voice had the ability to be smooth and soft while reciting her book. It must be said that the book seemed very accessible and didn’t veer to far into verbose academic writing. As for seeing a person live versus reading their work is understandably a different experience. It appears that most authors seem so very ordinary like a next-door neighbor. Well, at least Goren does. Also, I find it difficult to sit still for too long and I become shifty and then I lose focus. So after half and hour I was ready to leave. But, the most important aspect that I took from both readings is the fact that I need/want to be a part of this literary community. I’m excited for future readings. What ideas are waiting to be shared with me? How will that open me up as a reader and a writer?

Reading 1

Boswell Books held a reading for Paul Salsini’s latest book, The Temptation of Father Lorenzo, on November 19, 2012. The small audience mainly consisted of an older generation of Salsini admirers and a few students. Salsini’s lineage stems from a village in Florence, Italy and it was while visiting a relative in a Tuscan village that interesting stories from World War II were shared with him. It was these stories of amazing story of bravery of these villagers that Salsini wanted explore in all of his Tuscan themed books. The Temptation of Father Lorenzo is an extension of those revelations. The book became a series of short stories that revolve around previously established characters from the Salsini’s previous Tuscan Trilogy. Interestingly, Salsini wrote this book as a response to the past trilogies character’s that called to him. He even joked that “I couldn’t get them out of my head.” He often wondered what they were up to as if the actually existed in the present day. In the end, it was interesting to hear Salsini expound on the past lives of the Italian villagers during this period.

For the first few minuets of Salsini’s introduction I was distracted. What took my focus was his uncanny resemblance to the actor John Houseman. Once I got over that detail I was able to focus on his opening announcements. Salsini’s voice was an uninteresting monotone that was hard to connect to. Nevertheless, I observed that he certainly takes great care of the relationships that he has with his characters. Other than that positive aspect of his working method, his reading didn’t intrigue me. I felt that his stories belonged to an older generation. Superficially, I didn’t connect to his work because he didn’t fascinate me with his style and his characters seemed bland. Now, one aspect to his live performance that I quickly recognized was that there seems to be a technique to reading that keeps people engaged. He doesn’t have that technique. Certainly the man is gifted as a writer but not so much as a speaker. He’s not very entertaining and maybe that’s not the point to a reading. But then again, maybe it is? Needless to say, I won’t be reading any of his work any time soon.

The Taste of Noise.

It’s difficult for me to read at home. I have to have silence and little distraction in order to concentrate. But in my house there’s the TV and it’s accompanying library of movies that call to me. What about the wife and son? They’re tough to overlook with her inquiries and his jumping solidly onto the floor every few minutes. There are the neighbors who love to howl beneath our floor when listening to raging techno music. So I try to spend some time reading and writing in pseudo-solitude at the library. Generally, that’s a place that’s kept silent. But not right now. There’s an alarm shrieking that I’m desperately trying to ignore. My silence has been shattered.

I watched with interest when the little Asian man viewed the door that said “Emergency Exit Only.” He inspected the door hesitantly, touched the handle lightly with his thin fingers to ensure no alarms would sound. Nothing happened. Then he forcefully pushed the door open. In that last moment before the alarm went I off, I too thought as he did, that he’d made it through without setting it off. But when he took his first step through the door is when the alarm went off catching us both off guard. As it rang, he came back in and swiftly pulled the door shut tightly hoping that the sound would stop. Then he searched the entire door for a switch or a trigger to kill the sound. After he was unable to locate any device to halt the noise he ran away.  He left me sitting here listening to this noise. 

Bookface

She seemed larger than I remember. She grew to be a giant. I remember her small frame, blonde hair, and sharp nose that fit her foreignness so elegantly. Maybe the prettiest nose I’ve ever seen on a woman? But now her giant body cast large shadows on the wall and obscured the light that was behind her back. Why was she wearing an old blue nightgown that belonged to my grandmother? Suddenly, there was a shift and she became normal size and I was reduced to a small phantom. She looked older now. She never once spoke to me. And maybe if she did her heavy words would pin me to the floor. She kept her distance and never looked me in the eye.

         But I desired to speak to her or write a note and lay it near the lamp for her to read. If I wrote the words down they would’ve said, “You have so much to offer like a black hole.” But I never did. I wondered who the child was that sat in the corner. There were intricate hoses and tracheotomy tubes protruding from the boy’s nose. They appeared advanced and were grey in tone with strange fluids flowing through their slender lumen. I never understood what exactly was going on but I was there again near her and that felt peaceful

Constraint

I’ve always found my dreams to be very interesting. I’m communicating fears or hopes within them. How do I/we come up with some of the images or language that is expressed in dreams? I’d like to use my dreams as a constraint for the next project. I might view them in the style of New Criticism or maybe not. Then again I like the idea of taking other associations into account. I’m still uncertain. I am thinking of the dream that I had last night and what it meant. I’ve never been one for social media, especially Facebook, but looked at the site recently and it rekindled my memories. But it was all too easy to do. To “see” people you haven’t visited in years all I have to do is look them up on my computer. I could see them, their kids, and what kind of lifestyle they lead. No mystery, it was figured out in a matter of minutes. Running into an old friend at the Outpost? Boring. Anyway, all of that relates to my dreams. Somehow, my dreams connected Facebook with elaborate tracheotomy tubes

Higgs boson, what have you done to my room?

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The God particle. Faith vs. science. A black hole in Switzerland? I try to imagine what would it’d be like if they accidently created a black hole and the whole planet was swallowed up instantly. I hope it’d be instant anyway. If it took two or three days that would just be ridiculous.  Humanity’s demise resembling a Mike Bay feature? We may never know.

 Anyway, the first thing that comes to mind is all the work that I’ve done, like this blog and beyond, would’ve been for nothing. And by nothing I mean nothing. Not even a trace of it will remain. Not even a hint of a computer or shred of paper left in the galaxy. All of our music and art, gone. Maybe the energy will exists in space somewhere becoming fuel for a star or a few grains of sand on Mars. Or maybe not? Maybe Mars get swallowed up too. Forget about the last toasters strudel that my wife ate; I got black holes to worry about now.

God is on ESPN

It had happened so fast and everything was once again normal. There was nothing moved or misplaced. Everything was just as we left it. All the doors were closed still and air was calm. We looked outside and there was no place for a person to hide without being seen or heard. It was then that we could hear someone shouting from the living room. An old man’s voice rang violently over the walls and wobbled some of the ornaments from their positions. We both peeked around the corner and saw a preacher standing firm with a bible cradled into his arms.

He looked like a sweaty hog with dirty pink skin and a mouth filled with crooked teeth. He screamed, “It was the divine power of the lord that has saved you from your sins. The Shepard has risen and wants to see his sheep reclaimed. Can I get an amen or hallelujah, y’all? Can I get a couple of them? Ah, yes! Can you guess where God is now boys and girls? Heh, heh, the only place that is safe for him to hide! I’ll tell you. Well, he’s in the tv, radio, and on your computers right now. I can hear the drums and horns right now, y’all!”

False Dream

I pressed the trunk upward with both hands. I crawled through the bedroom and saw him sitting on the bed searching through an old shoebox of his. He called me inside to sit with him and reminisce. He took a picture and pinched it between his dry fingers. It was photograph of me as a young boy. My father was holding me in the air with a smile on his old face. I saw a black mass flat upon the ground. I wondered what it could be so I crawled toward it carefully. As I got closer I believed it was a dead animal that somehow wandered too far into the room.

The apparition in the window, the footsteps, and the energy of the house made me fearful of living there anymore. This place would either consume me or I’d consume myself. I noticed a subtle movement from my bedroom window. It was just enough to grab my attention but I just assumed it was a strong breeze that blew the curtains. I happened to look up at the window again and saw a dark figure of a man in the window, waving. Suddenly, he was moving furiously with an uncontrolled panic. His arm and legs were twisting and striking the bed with quick bursts of anger. I sat still, admiring the picture of myself.

Mystery

Her gazing eyes and my choir of echoes. My voice floats the hollowed hallways, always. Yet, I still wont stop till its heard solidly in the ear. Salacious and obliterated from what I once was, firm and real. I never sleep, awake at night looking for your eyes, removed away. I hear you speak. And then I run.

The stairs that you walk, erect and tall, I watch you. I want to follow but I’m not allowed to go up there, remember? Always held in the hallway. Often, you feel my hand on your shoulder but you just adjust your blouse and don’t think twice when you really should. You touch your thighs. I’m transfixed, caught, and time doesn’t exist.

The sun has faded. I’m the mist in the hallway, the shadow you seldom see. I’m the choir that reminds you of me. Downstairs, your eyes move and adjust to the light and you can’t see me anymore. Turn on the bright lights. Sublimated from the hall. I have eternity and nothing at all.

Streetlight

Howling, howling, through the trees and into the street. The moon was full. It had to be children. Howling and screaming, through the trees and into the street. It had to be the couple downstairs. Howling and crying through the trees and into the street but closer to my window. This had to be a joke. What was that I saw crawling through the dark street that night last year?  I saw its hairy body crawl into the forest. Just it’s hind legs, nothing else. I thought I was crazy. It was real and now it was crying across the street. And it was not alone.

Zeus.

Standing, trapped in a corner and tremendously high above the crashing waves. They’re colliding with thick brown towers of granite that have snapped like branches. They’ve fallen into the water from the sky. The sky is raining immense columns of stone. I can feel them crack as they hit the round boulders that scatter among the shallow water and crashing waves. I can’t jump from here.

How did he get here? He’s angry again for what I’ve done but I can’t remember why. Did I cross him? Did I take from him? I still can’t recall. He pointed his gun in my face. I’m staring down the barrel and I can see the tip of the bullet resting. It has a silver point and that’s all I can recollect. I grab my musket and point it at him. We’re both on a ledge now, trapped in a corner. I hope, I pray, that my gun is loaded. He shouts again and communicates to me that he can see the inside my gun bullets. No matter, I know they are there. Because, I can feel them resting inside.

I begin to cry. I’m scared beyond reason. I should be scared but this is not why I cry. It’s for something else I can’t explain. I call out to my father. I look up at the sky and look for him in the clouds. I scream again for my father and still he does not answer. I shout once more to the sky for my father but he is quiet. He will not answer me. He doesn’t help me when I need him. I let go and fall into the water and crushed granite. Zeus.

My Desko

Poetic Fragments of objects within reach.

Keyboard ticking away at the my recognition

sitting Sharpie so pink and kinked to my position.

Thick Vaseline to heal my lips

Red fettuccine cords of the ear buds tips.

Thin black pencil I'm ready to throw

the bonsai tree filled is something to show.

I Remember sits on the glass

book to be read because its past.

Broken iPhone falls to the floor

Piece of junk from that damn store.

I'm done with this writing

scratch the beard I'm done fighting.

Super Sound of the 70's

My uncle crashed his metallic blue Corvette into a TV while All in the Family was on.

The chrome bumper wrapped itself around the rotten brown husk of the set.

We had to grip a thick crowbar and peel the metal backward. Carefully, we poured hot wax into the TV to keep slivers of glass from penetrating our thin skin.

We all combined our complete strength to remove my uncle’s flimsy body from the Corvette. We tugged, and tugged his red bellbottoms from the bucket seat. We could not unclip him from his fragile station. With a twist a tiny person touched the radio. What a Fool Believes blasted form the fragile side speakers twisting with the flames and glass. The Doobie Brothers poured all over the ground and stained my last M.A.S.H t-shirt.

Fire Bad!

            I worked at a hospital. I enjoyed staying to myself and leaving others alone. Most people knew that except one guy. He was tall, maybe 6’3. He was big, maybe 250. To me, he resembled an ogre or Frankenstein’s monster. Not kind on the eyes, this man.  He walked with a slumped posture. His eyes were blue that sat in deep eye sockets. His face seemed calm but you could sense his anxiety through his eyes. Nevertheless, it was his mind that bothered me. You could never tell if he was happy or sad. He must’ve been bipolar.

If you are transferring a patient you have to be calm with them. I witnessed him push people in wheelchairs or beds at incredible speeds. I saw him slam a bed into wall with patient in it! Carelessness at work is not a good quality I’d say. But it was his demeanor that was more off putting. Once, I got trapped in an elevator with him. Granted, it was only going two floors up but I was nervous being in there with the wretch. “Felipe, what time did you wake up today,” he  asked my cryptically. That was the only thing he said to me in there. I ran out of the elevator as soon as I could.

Another day I walked into our department office and I saw him with his shirt off. He had  blood pouring down his back. I stopped in my tracks when I saw this horrible sight. He looked at me harshly and then chased me out of the room. Later, I had heard that he shaved his back at work for some mysterious reason. Yet, there were days when he was so peaceful. He would greet me with enthusiasm and ask how I was doing. But later he’d follow that up by telling me what I should eat for lunch. I’m glad I don’t work with him anymore. Goodbye, Frankenstein.

The Boxing Kid

I don’t know this kid personally. Actually, I was more of an observer to this kid’s actions. Still, I hadn’t seen anything like this happen in my entire life. I was taking a table tennis class and we were in our tournament stage at that point. So the last reaming students were playing a few matches before class ended. Just then we could hear music emanating from the hallway. We all stopped and looked around as the heavy guitar riff from Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger came closer to our classroom.

It looked as if a heavy weight fight was about to take place. This other student had an entourage surrounding him. There was one person who had raised a boom box above his head blasting this kid’s theme song. This kid was in the center of his entourage with a boxing robe on. They moved as a unit and the kid in the center was shadow boxing fiercely.

One of the members of his group slowly removed the robe fro the boxing kid. The kid looked directly at me and shouted, “Are you the best in this class?” I looked at him sideways and directed him to the opponent that would give him the satisfaction he desired. So class stopped and we all watched the table tennis match. The boxing kid got his ass handed to him. Still, “A” for effort.

Ah, Jason.

In 2003, I was a security guard. I didn’t care for the job but I needed to pay my rent. One day, they hired this new guy, Jason. So, one day this giant oaf walks into the guardhouse ready to work. He was young so at least that was good for me (older people are cranky.) He was bizarre. He bragged too much and had outlandish claims. So, I stayed very far away from this character but he always seemed to find me. He always wanted to talk about anything and I found his stories to be too eccentric.

He stated that he had found a meteorite in his back yard after it had almost him in the head after falling from space. There was also a story of him hunting for deer but somehow he managed to kill a squirrel instead that was running up a try. He said that he had stabbed it with a knife while sitting on the ground! I don’t know if that’s even possible. I guess.

This guy really bothered me the first few months of working together. He seemed a clown destined for stupidity and lies for the rest of his days. But one day, my feelings changed for this man. I look back at my time with this man and I say with the utmost honesty and conviction: Jason is a genius! Comedy gold! As my other friend stated, “He is the shogun of sweet. The clown prince.” Yet, it is also true that he is extremely intelligent and perceptive beyond his years.

This is how that change came to pass. One day, as I sat reading a book on top of a hill, I watched him drive the security van around a building. He was down bellow driving in circles knowing full well that I was watching. He employed the use of the security van’s PA system to blast a ringtone of a chicken screaming “Bwok, bwok, bwok.” I saw this happen, people. I was there.

At first I thought it stupid. But after 20 or so minutes of doing this I saw his brilliance. From that moment on he kind of won me over. I’d like to say that I calmed him down a bit and this helped the two of us to remain friends. This man, this mastermind of silliness is a true testament to what is good in this world. Yes, he stole a 25-pound turkey and fed it to his family for Thanksgiving but yet has the compassion to care for his friends and family with the utmost sensitivity. I’m proud to say I have shared an enduring friendship with Jason. We are still friends to this day.

True Grit

Working as a janitor at the middle school has its rewards. Here’s one for ya. One day I was sweeping up the hallway and I see this piece of paper all folded up on the ground. I pick it up and unfold it and see that it’s a note. The handwriting was bad so I couldn’t make out every word but man it was a good one that I found! It was a godsend!

This kid tells his buddy, Chris, that he might have seen the “Phantom Pooper.” Now, this note could help me break the case of the “Phantom Pooper.” See, there’s a boy who goes into the bathroom and takes a shit in the urinal. But nobody knows who this kid is. Nobody ever sees him and I take it this kid isn’t braggin’ about what he’s doing to nobody. I mean it has to be a boy. How could a girl do it? If it was a girl, why not just go in the girl’s bathroom?

So, this “Pooper” really pisses me off cause guess who has to remove the turd? Yeah, me! Anyway, the bit that was important in the note was that the kid saw a guy walk out of the bathroom was wearing a skin-tight shirt that said “King Diamond” after there was a turd in the urinal. I think I might know who that is. It’s that fat senior burnout Jeff Hageman. That kid came to school with a hole in his shirt the other day that was right over his nipple. We all saw how pink that kid’s nipple was that day.

I hear that kid Jeff makes the freshman walk across the football field with a pickle in their ass. The worst part is that if the pickle comes out, then you have to bite the ass end of the pickle. I saw this happen one day. But I don’t remember if Hageman was there. Anyway, it is some sort of thing that seniors do to freshmen that’s goes way back to when I was a kid. I gotta keep my eyes peeled now.

Royale With Cheese

I remember I used to be good dancer. I mean, I was special. I could do things with my lower-body that would cause a person to really stop and take notice. Well, when I was young I could do such things. Now, c'mon! I'd be lucky if I could to the "Texas Fox-Hop" with my bad hips.

I remember on Saturdays I would get up very early in the morning and go buy cheap paint from a store and then go sell it the store I was working at for a dollar more. Actually, my boss made me do that.

I remember I'd stop and get two slices of pizza and eat them at the same time. I was very skinny back then and I could do things like that and not gain weight. Now, I eat a cookie and I have an extra chin.

I remember I used to be in the "T-Birds."

I remember going to France. I went into a McDonald's over there. Do you know what they call a quarter-pounder with cheese over there? Well, I won't bore you with that story.

I remember I used to have a lot of hair. Now, I have a room in my house dedicated to all of my hairpieces. These pieces come from all over the world. I have one from the far reaches of Tasmania!  Sometimes, I like to go in there and talk to the pieces. (Calling them "wigs" is disrespectful.) Yes, it's true! Doing that creates a connection between the hair and myself. Not in the literal sense! We become one, a unit, a person again.

I remember walking out the back door of my house looking at my Lear Jet!

Ye' Ol' Days

The well air-conditioned break room of the Hopeville Wal-Mart is silent. A couple of employees sit quietly fingering through back issues of Forbes Magazine left over from last month. Signs cover parts of the wall that assert, “Clean up after yourself, your mother doesn’t work here.” So the tables are indeed kept clean from any stale food or debris. The two poster-boards are filled with Wal-Mart propaganda of working hard, having a great attitude, and keeping your hands clean.

Teamwork is also a big issue with the “yes” men at the corporate offices as well as the minimization of theft from employees and outsiders. There’s one manager sipping his coffee and reading the postings and nodding his head seemingly in agreement. A custodian comes around and begins to sweep a floor so clean one would wonder why he’d do it again. The floors are polished to a reflective sheen with only a few small scrapes from the bottoms of the silver chairs.

The manager on break whistles to the janitor and points to the garbage can reminding him that he needs its contents depleted. The janitor tips his hat back at him and proceeds with his new found assignment. The manager turns back around and takes a peek into the employee locker room. The lockers are perfectly blue with Wal-Mart decals at the top of them. Four of those lockers have gold colored name plates with the names of the mangers that run the store. The manager seems satisfied with the cleanliness of the locker area and simply nods his head again. He then puts his used coffee cup in the garbage can and proceeds to head back out to the sales floor.

On the way out he takes a look at the employee recognition board and looks at the pictures of babies, newlyweds, pets, and himself from his vacation to Cancun, Mexico. He looks a little closer at the picture from that day at the beach and notices that some rascal has put a tiny Hitler mustache on him. He licks his fingertip and rubs off the small piece of graffiti. He gazes upon his reflection and notices his tie is misaligned. He sways his head in dissatisfaction to his gaffe. He straightens his silver tie against his black shirt and then strolls out of the break room and back on duty.

To Have and to Hold

In DIY culture I see different artistic disciplines coming together for one aim. That aim is the tangible zine. The goal is not to produce material that ends up being binary code that you can’t feel. We want to hold the completed project. DIY culture is definitely a tactile experience. It’s communal and intimate. Writing, photography, and graphic design coalesce to create a distinctive experience from zine to zine. I feel a sense of direction, a pull, that the creators want me to go into. It’s both very conscious and subconscious in DIY culture.

I have always enjoyed holding a piece of art in my hands. Whether that’s a magazine, book, CD, photograph, or graphic novel doesn’t matter. It’s the ability to interact with an object physically that’s quickly becoming harder to find. Our society is moving farther away from those experiences and its great to see that zines still remain true to thier original form. I hope they always will.

Freedom!!

I enjoy having the absolute freedom in DIY culture to express myself. That’s a powerful motivator in creating a zine. Having the ability to say exactly what I want to say and to show the audience what I want them to see is a powerful concept. It almost has the same spirit as creating a film. Certainly they are different in most respects but the execution is seemingly familiar. The ability to create these projects without big budgets, timetables, and requiring someone else’s permission is very important. So, if I have an idea, I can execute it quickly without having to solely depend on others to move a project forward.

The Passion

There are no shortcuts in DIY culture. One may not have the resources of a major publisher but that doesn’t correlate to a weakness of an individual’s work. Perhaps, the opposite is true. I admire the resourcefulness of zine makers. I believe that financial confines or the lack of physical resources, motivates a person to becomes more imaginative, to dig deeper to find different techniques for the results they’re seeking. There’s no shortage of passion within the culture but rather an emphasis of it. 

          When trying to execute an idea in DIY culture one really has to go through a process of trial and error. You have a vision–now, find a way to implement the concept into the final product. It’s a part of DIY culture that give a creator a lot of freedom to try different paths with varying results. Wrestling with ideas, layouts, materials, etc. is challenging; but when the outcome is fulfilled, it’s very rewarding.

DIY Materials

During my time in special collections I was introduced to different types of zines that interested me for many reasons. But what I found most remarkable, physically, was the material that they were built with. Mostly, it was the different types of paper the zines were built on that defined my experience. The zines had differing paper quality and thickness that was immediately observable. Sometimes, paper wasn’t used at all within a zine. For example, I remember seeing an x-ray film used as a cover for a zine. An X-ray film with an image is not easy to come by so it takes some effort to procure such a material. It was wonderful to hold a piece of medical technology used for another purpose than intended.

After seeing, hearing, and touching the different types of paper/material used for zines, I’ve come to appreciate the dedication and sense of artistry these creators have. I’ve never given much consideration to how words and the paper they’re written on blend together to form a meaning or sense of direction.  So, I’ve become aware of, and fascinated by, the potential for the materials used in DIY culture.

The shape of the paper used in certain zines was also very interesting to see. The overall size of the material used created a sense of space and intimacy with the surrounding text, which was another aspect of paper layout that I find compelling. Also, the sound of some the paper was unusual at times. Some writers used material to change the auditory experience by using wax paper, or envelopes, that created an interesting sound. The use of sound even created a sense of softness to the interaction between reader and zine. So, sound added another layer of complexity to the experience of zine creation that I found appealing.

Gascan

These black Oakley sunglasses have a dark grey “O” on each stem. The “O” doesn’t contrast with the black frame.  The black lenses are fading but are scratch free.  The frames are a hard yet durable plastic. These glasses are 7 years old. I paid $100 for them. This particular design is the “Gascan” and it’s made in America.

It’s hard to see on a sunny day and these are my favorite sunglasses. Mostly, because they still fit my head nicely. As the years go by the shape of my face has changed and these glasses have kept pace. They have continued to widen with me. An all black frame matches my brown skin-tone nicely. The lenses are smudged and haven’t had a proper cleaning in 4 days. It’s nice to be fashionable when running from the police.