browsing the Flickr photostreams, this photo is one that captures the essence of my youth.
The Monica Hotel was one of my haunts in 1960. While I was not old enough to sip cocktails, I did so without questions about my age. It was a very happy bar and I enjoyed sitting at the bar watching the beautiful people passing by. It was air-conditioned and the longer I sat inside this bar, the more joyful my mind and imagination became.
If the viewer will note the left side of this image, the old Merry Go Round on Santa Monica Pier is visible. I do not recall too much graphitti in the 60s, but I do remember many chic and sexy young people like the gal and guy passing by.
It was a time when a few words of conversation could strike up an interesting transient relationship. Yes, those were the days.
In the far distance, one can view the Mountains where Malibu was located on PCH at the end of the pennisular range of mountains. I never worried about riding a bike, thus the sign meant nothing at all to me, I always had transportation, transient as it was, whenever the party or parties ended for the night or morning.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
img01--SANTA MONICA 28 March 1964
A SHORT STORY ABOUT THE GREAT TIMES ON THE STRAND
Of all of the photos I have discovered by browsing the Flickr photostreams, this photo is one that captures the essence of my youth.
The Monica Hotel was one of my haunts in 1960. While I was not old enough to sip cocktails, I did so without questions about my age. It was a very happy bar and I enjoyed sitting at the bar watching the beautiful people passing by. It was air-conditioned and the longer I sat inside this bar, the more joyful my mind and imagination became.
If the viewer will not the left side of the image, the old Merry Go Round on Santa Monica Pier is visible. I do not recall too much graphiti in the 60s, but I do remember many chic and sexy young people like the gal ad guy passing by.
It was a time when a few words of conversation could strike up an interesting transient relationship. Yes, those were the days.
In the far distance, one can view the Mountains where Malibu was located on PCH at the end of the pennisular range of mountains. I never worried about riding a bike, thus the sign meant nothing at all to me, I always had transportation, transient as it was, whenever the party or parties ended for the night or morning.
_____________________________________________________
img01--SANTA MONICA 28 March 1964
Photo project for state college photo journalism class back in 1964.
Uploaded by Lance & Cromwell on 16 Mar 09, 6.36PM PDT.
Of all of the photos I have discovered by browsing the Flickr photostreams, this photo is one that captures the essence of my youth.
The Monica Hotel was one of my haunts in 1960. While I was not old enough to sip cocktails, I did so without questions about my age. It was a very happy bar and I enjoyed sitting at the bar watching the beautiful people passing by. It was air-conditioned and the longer I sat inside this bar, the more joyful my mind and imagination became.
If the viewer will not the left side of the image, the old Merry Go Round on Santa Monica Pier is visible. I do not recall too much graphiti in the 60s, but I do remember many chic and sexy young people like the gal ad guy passing by.
It was a time when a few words of conversation could strike up an interesting transient relationship. Yes, those were the days.
In the far distance, one can view the Mountains where Malibu was located on PCH at the end of the pennisular range of mountains. I never worried about riding a bike, thus the sign meant nothing at all to me, I always had transportation, transient as it was, whenever the party or parties ended for the night or morning.
_____________________________________________________
img01--SANTA MONICA 28 March 1964
Photo project for state college photo journalism class back in 1964.
Uploaded by Lance & Cromwell on 16 Mar 09, 6.36PM PDT.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
ARRIVING IN VENICE BEACH, CALIFORNIA
Check out this image in my FLICKR PHOTOSTREAM for more details and links to my essays. If you need to EMail me, huffstutter7@aol.com
Monday, April 5, 2010
Riding Amtrak (1975)
Riding Amtrak (1975)
Eastern USA, November 1975.
Uploaded by Hunter-Desportes on 22 Nov 09, 11.37AM PDT.
Eastern USA, November 1975.
Uploaded by Hunter-Desportes on 22 Nov 09, 11.37AM PDT.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Devil Bar
...it's all the red. And of course, it is because this is the only place on the West Coast where one can truly enjoy the true "martini from hell"...and still retain one's sanity. Yes, this is where it's at. The longer one sits here, the more mellow one becomes. Keep in mind, however, California's fierce laws against driving while intoxicated, thus hire a driver for your pub crawling while enjoying a time out from the times that trouble mens' souls.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
360 YEN PER U.S. DOLLAR 1963
ESSAY ABOUT THE ROOFS OF JAPAN: Memories of my time spent in Japan during the early 1960s by Robert L. Huffstutter
When I first arrived in Japan, in August of 1961, my first impressions were so many and varied it is difficult to describe in a short essay, but it is an essay I have been writing in various form throughout these past years. Each mention I make of Japan is part of this ongoing essay, one that will only end when my life ends. So, to say that Japan made an impression on me is an understatement. From that first day in August so many years ago, my love and fascination for Japan has increased into volumes, many yet to be recorded, though I continue writing.
Now, about the roofs. The roofs of Japan are like no other roofs anywhere, their tiles, their decor, their natural blend into the ever-present shilouettes of the hills behind almost every scene in the old woodblocks, the early photographs, the contemporary photographs, and in almost each of my own paintings of Japan.
I love the roofs of Japan, the ones in your image, the traditional and classic. But not those roofs only, no, but the roofs of the lesser structures too, those wooden structures still remaining that were constructed in the 19th century. They were plentiful to the eye in the early 1960s and I hope there are many left.
But those roofs constructed to simply provide a roof over one's head have a certain type of charm too; they are not just slopes of plywood like so many I see in the USA, put up to keep the rain out and nothing more. No these economical roofs constructed to keep one dry in Japan do not forget tradition or heritage, thus even those roofs have a personality of their own, and they weather soon to appear as though they were built when Hearn was looking down at Yokohama from his hilltop abode.
But enough about the roofs, those with history and those built for residential purposes and commercial purposes. The eventually converge and meet in the metropolitan congestion of cities in Japan. My relationship with the cities of Japan is confined mostly to Yokohama. Yes, Yokohama, I knew it well for my time spent. It was Yokohama where I went for sketching, for a getaway on weekends, for a time to party, Oh, Yokohama, I knew you well. Your roofs were alway the subject of my visual delights as I rode the trains to and from Sagami-Otsuka.
They flew by me quickly on those trains that stopped at towns like Tsuruma, Yamato, and so many others before finally reaching the train station in Yokohama. Oh, what a mass of humanity going one way and another, quickly and briskly, soon to disappear in one shopping street and then another.
During my first few weeks of residence in Japan, my footsteps fell on many streets that fascinated me, but were not the streets where I had intended on going. I was always looking for Iza-zake-jo, that street where everyone seemed to want to be, where there were hundreds of paper lanterns hung at a most ornate entry, plastic cherry blossom attached to the many lines that run along the way, sakura, sakura, pink and beautiful even when the season was over. And always the joyful aromas of delicious curry and soba with strange spices I had never tried. The roofs, the roofs, with their diverse angles popping up with impressive dragon motifs and little symbols I knew nothing about.
The roofs of Japan, yes, they made quite an impression on me my first day in Japan, and on my last day in Japan too. As the vessel that took me away from my beloved left its wake from the pier at Yokosuka, heading for my country, there were tears in my eyes for a country I had loved from my very first day, and a country that I would love forever.
We had shared so many hours together; we had shared stories abot our families and we shared sad moments when she told me about her father, a man she never knew. She was the daughter of a Burma Road soldier and never returned home. She had shown me his photo once, and then never again. He had looked so young and handsome in his uniform. We understood that all was forgiven. It had not mattered to us. What had mattered had been the time we had spent sketching in Sankien gardens, in Yamashita park, in Hakone and by the side of little roads in villages when we just decided to let the trains take us where we wanted to go.
As my vessel moved away from the pier, we waved, she with a white hankerchief, me with my hand and then my hat until there was no longer an image but only a memory. And the ship moved beyond the horizon. She turned and returned to her home in the large apartment buildings of Totsuka; I stayed on deck of that large transport, leaning on the rail, still seeing what I imaged were the shilouettes of those eternal mountains, but they were ghost images only. When the sun finally set on the Pacific, I turned in for the night and wrote a letter.
The roofs of Japan appear in my paintings and in my dreams. When I return, the reality of those roofs will make me smile once again.
THIS ESSAY HAS NOT YET BEEN COMPLETELY EDITED FOR ERRORS............
When I first arrived in Japan, in August of 1961, my first impressions were so many and varied it is difficult to describe in a short essay, but it is an essay I have been writing in various form throughout these past years. Each mention I make of Japan is part of this ongoing essay, one that will only end when my life ends. So, to say that Japan made an impression on me is an understatement. From that first day in August so many years ago, my love and fascination for Japan has increased into volumes, many yet to be recorded, though I continue writing.
Now, about the roofs. The roofs of Japan are like no other roofs anywhere, their tiles, their decor, their natural blend into the ever-present shilouettes of the hills behind almost every scene in the old woodblocks, the early photographs, the contemporary photographs, and in almost each of my own paintings of Japan.
I love the roofs of Japan, the ones in your image, the traditional and classic. But not those roofs only, no, but the roofs of the lesser structures too, those wooden structures still remaining that were constructed in the 19th century. They were plentiful to the eye in the early 1960s and I hope there are many left.
But those roofs constructed to simply provide a roof over one's head have a certain type of charm too; they are not just slopes of plywood like so many I see in the USA, put up to keep the rain out and nothing more. No these economical roofs constructed to keep one dry in Japan do not forget tradition or heritage, thus even those roofs have a personality of their own, and they weather soon to appear as though they were built when Hearn was looking down at Yokohama from his hilltop abode.
But enough about the roofs, those with history and those built for residential purposes and commercial purposes. The eventually converge and meet in the metropolitan congestion of cities in Japan. My relationship with the cities of Japan is confined mostly to Yokohama. Yes, Yokohama, I knew it well for my time spent. It was Yokohama where I went for sketching, for a getaway on weekends, for a time to party, Oh, Yokohama, I knew you well. Your roofs were alway the subject of my visual delights as I rode the trains to and from Sagami-Otsuka.
They flew by me quickly on those trains that stopped at towns like Tsuruma, Yamato, and so many others before finally reaching the train station in Yokohama. Oh, what a mass of humanity going one way and another, quickly and briskly, soon to disappear in one shopping street and then another.
During my first few weeks of residence in Japan, my footsteps fell on many streets that fascinated me, but were not the streets where I had intended on going. I was always looking for Iza-zake-jo, that street where everyone seemed to want to be, where there were hundreds of paper lanterns hung at a most ornate entry, plastic cherry blossom attached to the many lines that run along the way, sakura, sakura, pink and beautiful even when the season was over. And always the joyful aromas of delicious curry and soba with strange spices I had never tried. The roofs, the roofs, with their diverse angles popping up with impressive dragon motifs and little symbols I knew nothing about.
The roofs of Japan, yes, they made quite an impression on me my first day in Japan, and on my last day in Japan too. As the vessel that took me away from my beloved left its wake from the pier at Yokosuka, heading for my country, there were tears in my eyes for a country I had loved from my very first day, and a country that I would love forever.
We had shared so many hours together; we had shared stories abot our families and we shared sad moments when she told me about her father, a man she never knew. She was the daughter of a Burma Road soldier and never returned home. She had shown me his photo once, and then never again. He had looked so young and handsome in his uniform. We understood that all was forgiven. It had not mattered to us. What had mattered had been the time we had spent sketching in Sankien gardens, in Yamashita park, in Hakone and by the side of little roads in villages when we just decided to let the trains take us where we wanted to go.
As my vessel moved away from the pier, we waved, she with a white hankerchief, me with my hand and then my hat until there was no longer an image but only a memory. And the ship moved beyond the horizon. She turned and returned to her home in the large apartment buildings of Totsuka; I stayed on deck of that large transport, leaning on the rail, still seeing what I imaged were the shilouettes of those eternal mountains, but they were ghost images only. When the sun finally set on the Pacific, I turned in for the night and wrote a letter.
The roofs of Japan appear in my paintings and in my dreams. When I return, the reality of those roofs will make me smile once again.
THIS ESSAY HAS NOT YET BEEN COMPLETELY EDITED FOR ERRORS............
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
ESSAY ABOUT THOMPSONS AND ENERGY
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES: UNCLE JIM AND AUNT DORT
My Uncle Jim and I on the stonewall at Grandfather Hawthornes. From the time my uncle and aunt took me out of the city's home for orphans when I was around three years of age, I lived with them until I turned eighteen. The first few years were spent with Grandmother and Grandfather Hawthorne. We moved down the street from the Hawthornes into a home owned by Doctor Frank Day in 1948. I still recall the joy of having my own room. We did not have television, but somebody bought me my own radio and I was able to listen to all of the good old radio programs that many people my age still chatter about for hours. My favorite radio programs were Gangbusters, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and My Friend Irma. Oh, there were others, too many to reall at a moments notice, but I will say that it was radio that enabled me to envision scenes in my imagination that are much akin to a gallery of slides or photos, on file and ready for an immediate recall whenever I want to remember. Frankly, I'm glad I didn't have a television to keep me company. But more about the radio days in another posting. For the moment, my hat is off to my Uncle Jim for treating me like his own son, may he rest in peace. Uncle Jim passed away in the late summer of 1984. Not a day passes that I do not remember him.
My Uncle Jim and I on the stonewall at Grandfather Hawthornes. From the time my uncle and aunt took me out of the city's home for orphans when I was around three years of age, I lived with them until I turned eighteen. The first few years were spent with Grandmother and Grandfather Hawthorne. We moved down the street from the Hawthornes into a home owned by Doctor Frank Day in 1948. I still recall the joy of having my own room. We did not have television, but somebody bought me my own radio and I was able to listen to all of the good old radio programs that many people my age still chatter about for hours. My favorite radio programs were Gangbusters, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and My Friend Irma. Oh, there were others, too many to reall at a moments notice, but I will say that it was radio that enabled me to envision scenes in my imagination that are much akin to a gallery of slides or photos, on file and ready for an immediate recall whenever I want to remember. Frankly, I'm glad I didn't have a television to keep me company. But more about the radio days in another posting. For the moment, my hat is off to my Uncle Jim for treating me like his own son, may he rest in peace. Uncle Jim passed away in the late summer of 1984. Not a day passes that I do not remember him.
ESSAY ABOUT THOMPSONS AND ENERGY
AN ESSAY ABOUT THOMPSON SUB MACHINE GUNS, TRAINS, ENERGY AND COAL
One of my fondest memories of a toy was this hand-made and hand-carved wooden replica of a Thompson Sub-Machine gun. One of my relatives who had been in the South Pacific during World War II and who had a Thompson, spent some of his down time after the war making wooden items as a way to regain his serenity.
The gun was actual size and most realistic, but it was wooden. Highly varnished, thus shiny, it was a favorite toy and was used many times in childhood war games in the big woods behind this home pictured.
Most of the neighbors had boys, thus as we grew older we were a tight unit of lads, not a gang by any means, but a unit of friends who had the respect we needed by simple civility to the other. If there was ever a disagreement among us, we worked it out by simple avoidance of the other for a few days or a stand and shout session of name-calling. We shared many memories and good times.
At that time in history, the late 40s and 50s, families normally stayed wherever they had a home. There was no moving for the sake of rapid upward mobility or to find a place that did not need up-dating. To be quite frank, there was not one single home on that block that couldn't have used one hell of lot of up-dating. However, everyone was pretty happy. Homes on that block were heated by coal.
There were railroad tracks just a few houses south of where I grew up, thus the sound of trains was part of my youth; there were, I recall some mighty big steam locomotives that roared past our neighborhood. The old Missouri Pacific route of the Eagles had double tracks, the Kansas City Southern, the freight line had one track only. The KCS was basically an oil supply train that ran from the Standard Oil Refinery in Sugar Creek, Missouri to various areas throughout Kansas City, Missouri.
While speaking of refineries, I am reminded of energy.
If one stood at the top of a hill a few blocks north of our block, the eternal flame of the Standard Oil Refinery could be seen. It was a flame that died in the 70s, never to be fill the sky with it's orange glow again.
So, when I think of energy, I think of our natural resources, not windmills...
By Robert L. Huffstutter
One of my fondest memories of a toy was this hand-made and hand-carved wooden replica of a Thompson Sub-Machine gun. One of my relatives who had been in the South Pacific during World War II and who had a Thompson, spent some of his down time after the war making wooden items as a way to regain his serenity.
The gun was actual size and most realistic, but it was wooden. Highly varnished, thus shiny, it was a favorite toy and was used many times in childhood war games in the big woods behind this home pictured.
Most of the neighbors had boys, thus as we grew older we were a tight unit of lads, not a gang by any means, but a unit of friends who had the respect we needed by simple civility to the other. If there was ever a disagreement among us, we worked it out by simple avoidance of the other for a few days or a stand and shout session of name-calling. We shared many memories and good times.
At that time in history, the late 40s and 50s, families normally stayed wherever they had a home. There was no moving for the sake of rapid upward mobility or to find a place that did not need up-dating. To be quite frank, there was not one single home on that block that couldn't have used one hell of lot of up-dating. However, everyone was pretty happy. Homes on that block were heated by coal.
There were railroad tracks just a few houses south of where I grew up, thus the sound of trains was part of my youth; there were, I recall some mighty big steam locomotives that roared past our neighborhood. The old Missouri Pacific route of the Eagles had double tracks, the Kansas City Southern, the freight line had one track only. The KCS was basically an oil supply train that ran from the Standard Oil Refinery in Sugar Creek, Missouri to various areas throughout Kansas City, Missouri.
While speaking of refineries, I am reminded of energy.
If one stood at the top of a hill a few blocks north of our block, the eternal flame of the Standard Oil Refinery could be seen. It was a flame that died in the 70s, never to be fill the sky with it's orange glow again.
So, when I think of energy, I think of our natural resources, not windmills...
By Robert L. Huffstutter
Sunday, January 31, 2010
ROBERT'S LATEST PHOTOS OR ART
this is a work in progress and has not been edited or even put into proper form yet...............
Like I said, that government employees have a key to the treasurery is not myth. While the majority of the population aspired to high position in free enterprise commerce, there was a certain element who found the government benefits ripe for harvesting; they had the wisdom to realize that their jobs would be secure as long as there was a government. Though the majority of these people were not exactly those who invent wheels, they greased the wheels. And their decisions to stick with government service has paid off. Just in case folks do not realize it, the majority of the stimulus money will be kept within the government circle of employement. So, to see the administrtion bashing private enterprise is odd in some respects, but there has to be a boogy man to blame for the excess money drained out of the treasurery and blaming it on banks keeps the eyes off the cherry orchard and money tree farms the government maintains and prunes for itself.
The only thing that sucks is that the private who risks his life gets the lowest salary of anyone employed by the government.
You know why the top officials in government are not concerned that their salaries aren't equal to the top CEOs in private enterprise don't you? Well, how many Senators do you know of who aren't millionaires or like the majority of them, those with the long service, who are not multi-millionaires?
Yes, I know. In my visits to the VA on a regular basis, I meet numerous men of my generation who decided to go into government entry level jobs when their military was over. Those who went to work for the VA who had the minimal medical training are now millionaires. As I said, money just rolls into their mailboxes. Of course, there is that reputation about government jobs based on the snail-motions of the postal workers inside the post offices that causes people to believe that all government employees are like postal employee, or the majority
Like I said, that government employees have a key to the treasurery is not myth. While the majority of the population aspired to high position in free enterprise commerce, there was a certain element who found the government benefits ripe for harvesting; they had the wisdom to realize that their jobs would be secure as long as there was a government. Though the majority of these people were not exactly those who invent wheels, they greased the wheels. And their decisions to stick with government service has paid off. Just in case folks do not realize it, the majority of the stimulus money will be kept within the government circle of employement. So, to see the administrtion bashing private enterprise is odd in some respects, but there has to be a boogy man to blame for the excess money drained out of the treasurery and blaming it on banks keeps the eyes off the cherry orchard and money tree farms the government maintains and prunes for itself.
The only thing that sucks is that the private who risks his life gets the lowest salary of anyone employed by the government.
You know why the top officials in government are not concerned that their salaries aren't equal to the top CEOs in private enterprise don't you? Well, how many Senators do you know of who aren't millionaires or like the majority of them, those with the long service, who are not multi-millionaires?
Yes, I know. In my visits to the VA on a regular basis, I meet numerous men of my generation who decided to go into government entry level jobs when their military was over. Those who went to work for the VA who had the minimal medical training are now millionaires. As I said, money just rolls into their mailboxes. Of course, there is that reputation about government jobs based on the snail-motions of the postal workers inside the post offices that causes people to believe that all government employees are like postal employee, or the majority
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