Tommy and I have lived together a number of times over the years. Our first year of college. Our third year of college. Just before I got married and (awkwardly) long into my marriage. In Santa Barbara, Summerland, San Francisco and New York.
Tommy's farts sound like drunk ducks.
The Inevitable. . .
This afternoon I walked out into the pouring rain to get some groceries. When I returned my wife hit me with the news that Polaroid, as we have known it, will soon be no more.
This was bound to happen. I mean, I am digitally reproducing Polaroids I've shot right here anyhow. I am not so much shocked, simply bummed out.
I won't be stockpiling. Not that much anyway. At least as far as my wife knows.
3 comments:
Tommy gave me that book he is reading at the end of the trip.
"The High Window" by Raymond Chandler.
I am sorry for your loss.
i too am sorry for your loss. my grandpa always took polaroids as well. i suppose now he can in heaven as well.
maybe now your blog will be worth something. i always thought it was the artist that had die, not the medium.
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