Signs of Austin

I'm starting a new Flickr photo set called "Signs of Austin." Basically, this imaginative name applies to photos I've begun taking of various signs unique to Austin. I've decided that my new fake job, which I hope will impress and amaze the chicks at cocktail parties and happy hours better than "electric utility lawyer," is "free-lance journalist." You know, like Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County (which, amazingly, I've seen only the last part of, since after all, the best part of any romance is the part where it doesn't work out and they have to live with the anguish sadly ever after-still not sure how I got this way....). "So, like, what do you do? Oh, actually I'm a Free-Lance Photographer; I travel the world taking photos for Time, Newsweek, Esquire...can I get you like another mojito?" Like that. So, this is Project #2 of Chris Reeder, Free-Lance Photographer/Hunk of Burnin' Love. (#1 was of the Town Lake Trail). Hope you enjoy.

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Two complaints.

First, can anything stop the new "white pants" trend before it goes any further? I get out of the office right around never, but in the span of two weeks, I've seen at least five women wearing white pants. Its not even Easter yet. White pants are so "wife-swapping at the hot tub after getting back from the EST lecture and the Woody Allen movie." White pants inevitably lead to white shoes, which have no place in polite society outside of the 1970s.

Second, ditto for the "high five." Can we please stop with the high fives already? Britney Spears thinks the high five is overexposed. This afternoon, I walked past a couple in their 80s if they were a day over 10, who had just successfully parked their late model Buick in a smallish parking space. The wife turned to her navy jacket, orange sherbet button down wearing husband and high fived him. When people who were alive in the last Great Depression pick up on a cultural fad, that's when you know its over. 1983 is tired of the high five. Unless you're Starsky or Hutch, the jive brothers from Airplane, or a member of a NBA team in the semi-finals or finals, kindly refrain from high fiving. I got sick of Joe Average trying to high five me for his pathetic daily achievements, like spelling "aphrodisiac" properly in his personal ad, about 20 years ago. This is just a permutation of an even better general rule-keep your hands to yourself.

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I don't want to let Opening Day pass without some remarks. Its harder to follow professional sports these days, with such widespread player movement. You really can't get behind any of the players on "your team" these days, because as soon as you do, they've been traded to Cleveland for draft choices and minor leaguers to be named later. But baseball itself can still amaze and entertain. Like life, it is few little moments of intensity surrounded by watching, waiting, planning, and expecting. Every "play" in baseball is preceded by all sorts of subtle moves, barely visible yet highly important. And unlike any other sport, each team has the same opportunities to win as the other team-9 sets of 3 outs. You can't run out the clock in a baseball game. Baseball has mounds of problems, and its owners may never sort them out. But even in imperfection, baseball still symbolizes our nation, particularly with the integration of outstanding players from all over the world, much like the integration of immigrants from everywhere in the world to our country. So I look forward to my 44th season (43 1/2 actually-I missed most of the 1964 season but was around for Bob Gibson's first World Series). See you at the yard, meat!