Oldies Goldies Yard

Oldies Goldies Yard, originally uploaded by mavenimagery® Away....

Oldies Goldies Yard
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True Story and image by: maven

Please read the hilarious true story. Names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. Views and opinios represent personal experience and mavenimagery does not guarantee that they will work the same way for others.



HOW TO HANDLE A PROPERTY OWNER. HOW TO HAVE IMPOSSIBLE EXCESS TO HIDDEN GOLDEN-PHOTOGENIC OBJECTS.
Mission One:
Do not ask permission to take a picture. Just think like a trained Seal with a sophisticated weapon—your camera—and Confidence think, “I’m going in”. Go in, and take your shot. Confidence is attractive; it’s your tailored jacket, pleasant simile; your Jack Nicholson voice even if you’re squeaky and stammering. You are your favorite actor, a mentor or future best self. If these seem like New Age Tripe (nonsense), that’s your limiting mind at work. If your Host hostile it’s your lucky day; you already took the pictures. If your Host is hospitable; it’s your lucky day, too
See also: Clint Eastwood
See also: Brad Pitt, Edward Norton
See also: Charlize Theron, Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon
It wasn’t the worst neighborhood I have ever seen. But sure enough I wasn’t expecting a Golden Junkyard. Not only to a photographer or HDR-genic or IRET- esque, but they were objects of national treasure. This is not like when we see a rusty, beat-up VW, its headlights are dangling from their socket and go all nostalgic “If we could only see what its headlights have seen”.
After ten minutes or so, like a kid running in the candy store, filling his pockets with kinds of sweets, I was filling my memory card with all sorts of Oldies Goldies. I am in someone’s private property. I am in a Classic Cars Museum in LA; in Antiques and Collectibles Faire in Northern California’s newest and hottest show. I’m not invited. I don’t have a ticket. I’m trespassing. I’m a “Sweet Loving Criminal”, but criminal nonetheless.
EARLIER THAT DAY.
A DELIBERATE FAILURE, TEST MISSION

Excuse me? I shout to the young lady within earshot but the wind returns my voice back to me. I shout, Can I take a picture of that old car in the backyard?
What? She asks, walking toward me and probably her mother follows her.
Can I take picture of that old car? My hand still in the air, pointing to my backyard and not her. As if she doesn’t know what’s in her backyard.
Which one? Asks the big, young lady?
The Plymouth? Asks her probably mom.
I say, the older one.
The white Cadillac? Asks The Big
I say, The older one. The burgundy color. The 1940 model not the 1967.
I think you’ll have to ask John, says the Mom
My father is very sensitive about this, says The Big.
I ask, About what?
Can you come back later? Says the mother
No, it’ll be late by then.
Is this for tomorrow’s paper, asks the Mom. You can still make it to the cut-off time eight o’clock.
That’s not even his car, says The Big looking at Mom.
I say, OK, then. It’s not even car. So, I walk through the orchard, from the side of your backyard.
I’m not sure about this, says the Mom. Can you come tomorrow?
I say, what’s the big deal? It’s not even his car. It’s not even in your backyard.
Yeah, but he still takes care of it. My father is very sensitive
I smile. I say, Say hello to your very sensitive dad
Sorry, says The Big. He’s just—
I cut her off. Very sensitive about them greens. It’s alright. Bye now.
Bye
If you’ve seen a fixed-fake-ass shiny Hot Rod 1940 burgundy convertible Cadillac in display rooms and fairs, you must’ve gone ’Wow”. But, to see the real thing, that’s something else. That was my loss for the day or days to come.

LATER: THE NEVER FAILS MISSION:: SEAL STYLE

Are you taking pictures for Denny?
I turn, fake a smile, nod and wave to the rich in flesh woman who walks back inside.
Click. Five minutes. Click. Ten minutes. I wasn’t holding a stopwatch recording the time. I was recording history at its best. See, this grill of an old 1918 Ford truck, here, to some may look like a grill of an old truck; but to me it’s a wizened face of an old truck telling stories of its days in WWII…
Can I help you?
I turn and actually I have to look up a little to see a bearded face wearing a Giants cap.
I fake a grin. Oh, Hey, there big boy. The man was in his forties. I say, Nah, it’s too late.
For what? he asks bearing down on me.
I say, Dude, how tall are you? 6.2’…6.4’…
You still didn’t tell me what’re you doing here?
Taking pictures. But, now I’m done.
What for?
I turn and face the truck. I ask, Dude, is that a 1920 Ford?
1917.
Oh, the plate…see, there. Says 1918
It’s a 1917
Cool, I fake excitement. The oldest truck I have taken picture of is a 1920. That was awesome, Dude—
I’m worried about you being here.
I turn back.
No, you don’t have to. Was just taking pictures.
In my property?
See, now, I know it’s your property. But while you were still inside…that’s before you coming out, I wouldn’t know it was your property now, would I? I reach into back pocket and take a wallet with a magnet clip.
I say, here is my card. He takes the card, studies it like a fourth grader. You from LA, California?
Is there any other LA? Dude, you’re not confusing it with La, Louisiana, are you?
There is only one City Of Angels in the whole world.
But you ain’t no angel.
Right. I must’ve missed the auditioning part, I say. I fake a laugh and fist-jab him in the chest.
He doesn’t laugh. Intense pair of eyes scrutinizing me.
But, we’re angels at heart.
That’s not what I see on TV. I see crimes and mobs. No Angels.
Seen the movie Angel, Danny? The one with John something…um, help me out, what’s his friggin name?
Mean John Travolta?
Yeah! Attaboy! Seen it? That’s an angel for you there.
No. He took no care of his dead son. An angel would.
That’s all tabloid crap, Denny. Don’t believe that shit. You think we’re all mobsters? I raise my hand and show my pinky finger. I say, Denny, you see a pinky ring?
No, so?
A pinky ring is represented by Ares, the god of war. That’s why mobsters wear pinky rings. No pinky ring, no danger, Denny.
Don’t remember telling you my name.
Good point. You seem to be a smart guy—
I’m worried about you being here. How d’ya know my name?
The lady back there asked me if I’m taking pictures for Denny. I waved and she waved back.
Did you ask permission?
No. I say. When she waved back I thought it was OK…
So you just waved to my wife and didn’t ask. Where was she?
I turn my head and I see only one dwelling at the side of the entrance.
You want me to tell you where your wife was Denny?
What the hell you want from me? Denny raises his voice, looking toward the entrance, paranoid. Whatever he was on began to wear off. Whaddaya doin in my property and goin talkin to my wife. She say anything to you?
I didn’t say I talked to your wife.
She say anything about me?
Dude, chillax, I say. You’re over-reacting.
She good people and all but she got a big mouth. She talks a lot.
What’s wrong with talking.
She tells stuff she ain’t supposed to. I’m worried about you being here.
She, um, your wife doesn’t know.
She be guessing and all. Watching me all the time.
I was guessing, too. Now I’m sure.
Guessing what, asks Danny, panicking. Are you a cop?
Do I look like a cop?
Matter of fact you do. You talk like one, too.
A clear little drop of blood dangles of tip of Denny’s red nose.
Dude, I say. Your nose bleeding. Too much sniffing does that to you.
He takes a nasty rag already full with blood and snot from his bib overall and blows a long rattling goob.
I’m be replaced if not killed for sure, Denny says, sniffing. There’s this guy, some Latino, comes here twice a week—
Dude, I say. I don’t wanna know. I don’t want to be witness to your shit. Whatever you’re cooking inside I won’t be staying for dinner.
So why’re you here?
For these, I say, drawing a wide angle in the air, toward the Golden Oldies. These are the ingredients of my cooking. See, this grill of an old 1918 Ford truck, here, to some may look like a grill of an old truck; but to me it’s a wizened face of an old truck telling stories of its days in WWII.
You're weird, Denny says. You people down there are weird. Intangibles.
You mean sex and Rock'n Roll, movies, music, stories, art, rumors,Gangs, prostitution, computer programs, anything that isn't real. Virtual realities. Make-believe stuff. The culture?
Yeah, something like that.
What was I saying?
Confusing an old truck grill to a wizened man face.
You're following. That's a good sign.
Good sign for what.
That your sniffing hasn't killed all the cells in your brain or blinded you yet. Yes, I was saying, all these for you, Denny, they’re a camouflage.
What’s a camouflash?
I turn and start walking toward the gate. I say, Look it up, Denny.
How you spell it?
Dude, if you can crook n cook, you can read a book. Take care Denny. Good talking.
You, too, Dude!
As I passed the window, I saw the curtain twitch. She was watching…