Sunday, September 30, 2007

They Tried To Kill Me?

I was at the Amtrak Depot the other night shooting some old (50+ years) passenger cars that were parked.
As luck would have it, a train was coming towards us and I decided to shoot it as a blur behind the yellow and grey Central Pacific car.
But first I tried to gauge what the reaction of a pair of Amtrak employees might be.
Other people across the country have been told they can't take pictures at rail stations because of Nat'l Security, although what use a picture could be to terrorists is beyond me--they can just use their fucking eyes, or carry a small point and shoot to be discrete.
Obviously American people carrying big cameras on tripods?
Not so much of a threat if you ask me.

So I walked up with all my gear and asked what the deal was with the old-time passenger cars.
The reply in it's entirety: "Private owner".
I wait for more.
They just look at me.

So I walk a few paces away and plunk down the tripod past the yellow line.
Like almost on the tracks.
Still not a peep from the men in uniform.

As the approaching train slowly comes into view, my companion mentions that it seems to be on the siding that leads into the station.
That's when I realize that if I don't move my shit in a few seconds the train is going to turn me and my camera into hammered dogshit.
And still the Amtrak guys say nothing.
Thanks, guys.
You knew I was close enough to get hit.
You wanted to see me jump or die, but I kept my cool and didn't stop taking pictures, so screw you.

After the unloading of passengers began, much more fun was had.
There were Amish people, or maybe Quakers.
Three 20-something hipsters went off towards downtown smoking a joint that smelled great, as pot always does when you aren't actually smoking it.
And I took many pictures without getting a ration of bullshit from any of the half-dozen Amtrak employees, which is shocking to me and to the people who get interviewed by the FBI and HoSec whenever they pull out a camera at other train stations.

Just try what I did at Penn Station or Grand Central and see how fucked-up your day (and the rest of your life) becomes.

I swear, my guardian angel is one bad motherfucker.
That, or I'm invisible.

The last theory makes more sense since I can never get a waitress to actually wait on me when I'm working in a bar. Almost every weekend for the last 27 years--no service--and I tip very well.
So a big 'screw you' for all the waitresses, too.
I just want a damn beer.

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