The iconic stuntman that brought many a jaw dropping in the 1970’s, died today at 69 years old. Evel Knievel had suffered from diabetes and pulmonary fibrosis for many years, an incurable condition that scarred his lungs.

As a small boy I loved watching him hurl himself at a ridiculously long and towering ramp, and see him fly over 20 Greyhound buses and land unscathed on the other side. I even had the Evel Knievel SUPER Stunt Cycle Set with Gyro Launcher toy given as a Christmas gift when I was a kid - loved playing with that.

He’ll be missed by many, his stunts are still awe inspiring to watch on youtube. What a way to earn a living, by hurtling yourself through the air on nothing but a wish and a prayer, only to hope you land in a stright line.

RIP you crazy bastard.

[great night at my favorite Brazilian restaurant with my favorite human being]

…before tonight I never really understood what “fuck you” actually felt like.

Taking the 5 express downtown from Grand Central to Fulton Street is always an easy task - no real chore, it’s quite direct, eventless. I take this route quite often during the week, journeying home from a night with my beau - piece of cake.

I walk down the two flights of steps which take me to the Broadway/Nassau platform which is home to the A/C train - busy, to say the least. A larger commuter hub. This is the place where the Brooklyn crowd split off like a broken vein into the pounding heart that is Manhattan - and it’s no different in terms of going back into the southern borough at the end of the day either.

I normally walk the entire length - the length of the platform/train - at least I can get a standing place/seat closer to the front-most part of the train. Tonight I followed habit, walking the entire length of the platform, and coming to a stop at one of the support struts that dot the length of the station. I lean up against one, and decide that listening to some Michael Jackson may be a decent enough way to live through the next 15-20 minutes of waiting/subway riding.

I pull out my iPod and I’m scrolling through and….

[BAM!]

…my hand is knocked with a force that I’m glad that my iPod is attached to my ears by way of earphones - otherwise the fucking thing was flying out of my hands. After the initial mental “what the fuck”, I eye the [yellow] blur that followed the blatant shoulder barge, and noticed with remarkable raising of eyebrow that the cunt never looked back… not even to apologize.

Welcome to being “fuck you’d”.

My brother will attest to what I’m about to say… knock me, nudge me, no problem - just say you’re sorry… if you don’t, I’m fucking killing you. And I don’t care if it’s in public.

[sigh]

So after my blood boiling level fell to below normal, I analyzed what happened and came up with numerous fucking ways why I shouldn’t follow this prick and cave in his skull for just barging by me with such lack a of human dignity to warrant a “sorry”… I couldn’t come up with anything. I wanted to wind the earphones around my iPod, sling the thing in my bag, follow this wanker, to a public (as public as he pushed me) place and pound the shit out of this motherfucker until I felt better, entitled, suckling on the teat of victory.

Out of nowhere I gained a sense of serenity. I must have left my music running… I didn’t wind the earphones around my iPod… I didn’t follow him into violent oblivion… no suckling.

I realized how beautiful this city is, how original - the people, splendid. The sporadic events that intertwine our lives with the slightest of touches, and the heaviest of pushes. Without the slightest thought, this guy had become part of of my life whether he liked it or not.

It’s with the most fragile of changes in the innermost sanctity of breaths of experience, do we truly experience the truest sense of what is New York City.

The following song was playing when I was pushed.

Apt.

About 3 months ago I upgraded my camera from my Cannon point-and-shoot to a Nikon D40X (10.2MP) Digital SLR. To be honest, I was Hoke Colburn with a Porsche. The good pictures I did manage to take were out of sheer luck - the kind of luck that warrants the obligatory “ooh yeah baby!”.

Fortunately, I wanted to take my sub-par photography prowess to the next level and decided recently to register with the New York Institute of Photography. Maybe they could help me understand the difference between an f/stop and depth of field, or how to understand what aperture means. I’m a couple of weeks into the course, and I love it. I’m learning more on light, framing, focal length, and various other aspects that I feel are already beginning to improve my shooting.

The course encourages all students to start their own photography website - a place to post their work. Last week I registered www.davidkerryhannan.com in preparation for displaying some of my photographs. I think I’ll wait until such time when I’m not mentally crossing my fingers when hitting the shutter release any longer.

This photography thing is very fun.

About a week ago I ordered the entire ten-part series of Band of Brothers, the HBO original series that ran in 2001. The story starts with Easy Company (of the US Army’s 101st Airborne through the eyes of the soldiers) being put through the rigors of “basic training” in the first episode “Currahee” - given its name from the hill the troops had to run in full combat gear as part of their fitness training.

The entire series is beautifully shot, sharply written, and splendidly presented and directed by a fine list of pros - Tom Hanks himself stepping in to direct Part 5, Crossroads.

Executive Produced by Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg, Band of Brothers is a true viewing spectacle bringing WWII and the long battle for Easy Company.