She stood puzzled, “Lab, Otto Style?”

 

My eyes were watering and the room was a blur. It was 6pm and deep in pre-production for an upcoming project, I’d barely eaten on a day that was wonderfully insane. I’m a little crazy in the fact that I love days like that; they keep my mind nimble and my creativity flowing. Plus, I was fortunate to be working with my favorite collaborator, my wife; and a good friend and very talented animator and illustrator, Brandon. Together they were helping me put the finishing touches on a set of perspective sketches for an advertising project I was directing the following week.

It was day eleven of my stranger-meeting challenge. My goal of interviewing a stranger before my midnight deadline was rapidly approaching, and beyond the pressure of the work at hand, was a growing growl in my stomach. Grabbing my camera bag, (as I always did when going anywhere), I decided to take a walk to my favorite corner eatery, Lemon Grass Thai Restaurant, a cool little joint around the corner from me.

Out the door I went, wife and Brandon deciding to stay focused on their tasks, as I promised to return ASAP. Just had to eat something or who knew what my blurriness would transition into. Plus, I can get a little moody when I start to sugar crash. Thought it wouldn’t take me too long, only a couple of minutes walk, I told myself, as I prayed I would meet a stranger on the way there. I rounded the corner, paced a couple of blocks and as I approached Lemon Grass, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, was Otto. I looked at him apprehensively, “Who is this guy, and why is he loitering in my neighborhood?”

But there were lessons that 365 was teaching me, and one of greatest was to not assume anything about a person until I met them face-to-face, so I approached him, staying aware of my surroundings and not getting too close into his space. Introduced myself, I told him I was on my way to eat at Lemon Grass, about my project, and invited him to be part of it. He smiled an energetic smile, “I am the owner of Lemon Grass.”I tested the statement a little as we talked about the menu. He seemed legit, inviting me to enjoy the food. By that point my body was aching from the 45 pounds of camera gear on my back and I needed food, so I asked if we could take our conversation inside.

With an amusing attitude he agreed and into the restaurant we went. We sat as he told me of his signature dish, Lab (a spicy beef salad). The dining room was empty and other than the server taking my order, we were left alone to chat. The only interruption being an occasional look out of the kitchen from what looked like one of the cooks. Seemed normal enough to me as I dismissed it as their being aware of where the boss was.

Otto nodded to them as they withdrew back into the kitchen, the phone began ringing with what I guessed was a rush of incoming take away orders. He turned back to me, “Try the Lemon Grass Tea, it’s a cure for joint pain,”as he shifted to a conversation to healthy eating. A few more minutes passed, the cooks emerged again, at which point, Otto excused himself, asking if we could take the photos in 30 minutes. He disappeared into the kitchen right on queue as my food arrived.

As promised Otto returned 30 minutes later, asked if I enjoyed my meal, which by then I had devoured. He said things were starting to get busy and it was a good time to quickly take his picture. We shot a few frames, and leaving back into the kitchen, he shared his last words, “Next time you come, order to Lab, and ask for it Otto style.”

Four weeks passed and on a much more sane day, I was once again having a Lemon Grass craving. This time my wife was able to join me. We sat at our usual table. Our favorite spot right across from a tropical fish tank that I give credit for my never wanting to order seafood there. Our server arrived and offered us menus. I looked at her and smiled, I already now what I wanted to try. You guessed it: Lab, Otto Style.

She stood puzzled, “Lab, Otto Style? He doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Really?” I responded, knowing I had been duped, as I asked for a menu. A mixture of stupidity and embarrassment filled my heart. He seemed so sincere. Why the deception? Later, as we finished our meal, I found out Otto was a part time delivery person who had moved onto greener pastures, a trade that was nothing to be ashamed of. I flashed back to all the gestures from the kitchen staff, of his 30-minute disappearance, and his need to exit as the phones rang. The story unfolded and I saw clearly.

In looking back, I can’t say that I lost trust in the world that day, but rather, I realized something that has continually been refreshed through the years of Sidewalk Ghosts. After meeting and continuing to interview strangers, I see that we all have insecurities, fears, and histories—the stuff you might say are the ghosts in the closetswe all carry.

I hold no malice for Otto. Quite frankly, the opposite, for in a strange and distant way I feel empathy for a man who, most likely, was battling his own demons, and for whatever reason found me to uplift him—a fantasy he was living for his brief time with me, and if it was time that allowed him to feel recognized as a person, I’m glad I was able to be there for him. So Otto, wherever you are, I hope you are well.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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A CHALLENGE—In authoring today’s story, and in gratitude to Shabbir and his family, I invite you to take a short break from whatever you are doing. To reach out to someone important to you by simply letting them know you care about them and just how important they are to you.

 

It was Sunday afternoon, my day for spiritual worship and family time. A day I’m sure many of us covet as one dedicated to refilling our wells. At day ten of my one-year commitment, Sunday was becoming the hardest day to get my butt moving. But there were two things I learned from my father that moved me forward: First, “There is only one way to do things. In whatever you do, be certain to do it right, and finish it.” And secondly, as many Brits would state, “Keep a stiff upper lip.”

So with full commitment to see 365 to the end, a smile on my face, and a very supportive daughter in hand, I grabbed my gear for a Sunday stroll around the neighborhood.

We walked for a few blocks, noting shops unfamiliar to us as well as a few we had frequented from time to time. As we browsed, looking through locked storefront after storefront, most closed for Sunday rest, I realized 365 was changing my perspective of how I looked at the rows of small businesses. Being a small business owner myself, and knowing how important it is to retain a customer base, I’ve always done my best to regularly patronize my fellow entrepreneur. But the new feeling was deeper than that. Something was more soulful as it glowed in my mind and heart.

I paused for reflection; a different type of empathy was grabbing hold of me. My desire to connect at a deeper level to these neighborhood co-business owners was growing much greater. It had only been nine day’s of meeting strangers and my perspective of the world around me was changing, and it was for the better.

We passed the late, Canoga Camera – closed, (they had the best ink price in town. I’m sad recession put them out of business). Caveretti’s (old-school Italian deli) – open (of course, it’s a restaurant). The Boxing Gym – closed. We past five or six other locked stores and then prepared to look through yet another unlit window, Canoga Park Florist, and with one customer entering just behind us, it was open for business.

Now for as long as I’ve lived in my house, nine years at the time, never had that store been open on a Sunday. So, my curiosity took hold and through the door my daughter and I entered.

Quickly, shop owner Shabbir, who pausing from his busy work, looked away from reviewing his on-line orders to greet us. The time was 4:45ish, store was closing at 5:00pm. Even with that he was relaxed and in no rush as I explained the project. Without hesitation he bought in, graciously giving me almost an hour, (way past closing time), to get to know him, and he I.

Shabbir was a very honorable and kind man, impressed me as he gave my eigh-year-old daughter a stuffed toy. He did not have to do that, especially as I was taking his personal time to stay late after store hours.

I could write a book about our chat, but for the sake of keeping focused on not authoring an excessively wordy blog entry, I’ll keep it short— there are so many more stories to come.

That said, let me give you the short rundown of our conversation and some things I did not know:

• Shabbir loves working with all kinds of different people: bad day pick-me-up, to hospital gifts, anniversaries to weddings, birthdays to graduations, Mothers Day to Valentines Day—all have their respective flowers. But to Shabbir it’s more than just pre-arranged product, it’s pride in knowing exactly what flowers to choose for every customer he meets.
• Gladiolas, Lilies, and Tulips. Until now I thought only Roses were the most beautiful flower for arrangements.
• Yelp really does work.
• He loves being a florist and sees doing nothing other than that for the rest of his life.
• His philosophies: Knowing your customer’s heart makes you a better business person.
• Whatever you promote – you deliver.
• His dream, to pilot a plane—life is just too busy right now.

Now, as I re-publish this story, Canoga Park Florist in no longer there. My understanding is that there was a divorce—something I about learned per the years I frequented the store after first meeting Shabbir. My heart heavy as I remember how proud Shabbir was of his business and family. I think of his daughters (he told me all about them as he showed me their photos), and of how it might have affected them. Perhaps it was the recession that shut them down, or maybe it was other reasons much too personal for me to know. But whatever it was, I am saddened every time I walk by what once was a family-run business. Still unoccupied, every time I think back to all the Valentine’s Day roses I purchased there, I am reminded of how fragile our relationships are and of the importance of taking time to recognize and love our family to the fullest.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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She showed me photos of her eleven grandchildren and six great-grand children, and as we bridged past the pleasantries, we shifted to a darker history…

 

I was traveling from a location scout in San Diego, feeling rather tired from a long day of driving. En-route home from my dear old mum’s apartment, I dropped by her place to say, “Hi.” As all mothers do, she pulled me in for dinner, something no self-respecting British man could decline.

You have to know my mum, an amazing Brit, 86 years young at the time, her incredible history going all the way back to the WWII Blitz over London. Endless stories of a city under siege as wave after wave of bombs fell upon a civilian population; part of a mad-man’s quest to what he thought was perfecting the world. We all know how it ended and hopefully have all gleaned something from the horror it propagated. But more impactful are the tales of the brave who endured and conquered the wrath of pure evil. Enough of that for now; back we go to September 17, 2011, sitting in my mum’s apartment.

We enjoyed dinner, and over one of her 3 choices of dessert (customary in her home), I showed her the 365 project. Her eyes immediately lit up and to the phone she went to call her neighbor. Five minutes later I was sitting in Pat’s living room, meeting her and her four-legged companion, Sassy, for the first time.

We chatted for over an hour, and a little distracted by Sassy running all over the place, we still managed to have a remarkable conversation about faith and laughter. Her happiness was contagious and even though Sassy was drawing blood as she scratched on Pat’s delicate skin, Pat remained unaffected and smiling. Got to love the craziness of our pets, don’t we?

She showed me photos of her eleven grandchildren and six great-grand children, and as we bridged past the pleasantries, we shifted to a darker history as she told me of her son’s murder as well as the early death of her high school sweetheart husband. Of a tragic work injury that removed her from the workforce, and her being the only one still living out of all of her siblings. Still, she was unshaken in her optimism and positive outlook on the world. An example of light and courage she was. I was overwhelmed with a feeling in meeting her, simply this: grateful.

The night was getting late. I was getting close to my self-imposed publishing deadline and I had a big day coming. Plus, my eyes were starting to droop. I needed to get some sleep. All leading to my inability to refuse an invitation to sleep on my mums couch, figuring that I could hit the road at 5am to make it to my LA commitments. After all, it was better to feel the sting of morning exhaustion than the disappointment of a Jewish mother.

Mum asleep, I sat at the end of the couch, now made makeshift bed. Recounting the time spent with Pat, I listed what I had learned about her.

• She rolled with the punches
• Felt fortunate that she could still walk and think
• Held her hospital’s record for the most stints in a living human heart – ten to be exact
• I could not figure out how she could have had 3 hips replacements with only 2 hips
• And most amusingly, Pat had patterned her life after Betty Boop

Pat, I will always love you young lady.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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I asked, “Where are you from?”  He said, “Wherever I’m passing by.”

 

I had the opportunity to photograph the news anchors of Univision 34, Los Angeles—a great group of people to work with and a ton of fun to photograph. The photo shoot started very early in the morning and finished in the evening. It was, to say the least, a very full day. No gripes; I love to be busy. Plus, I had a plan for the day. Simple, straightforward, and easy—just grab someone at lunch break to interview and photograph.

But as life always does, the curve ball came. Lunch was absorbed with unfinished business as it locked me to my mobile phone. Still no problem; I shifted to the fallback plan. Find a willing person in the hallway at the end of the shoot. Strike two—wrapped the shoot and the halls were quite.

Adding a touch of stress, it was 8pm, and I only had 4 hours left until the day ended. A pressure I put on myself in committing to never miss the daily time stamp of my commitment to post a story every day. Told myself if I missed one, I would reset the clock to day one. (I never missed a day and the project changed my life for the better.)

So there I was, equipment packed, in the parking structure, sitting in the driver’s seat of my truck, engine running, and ready to wander the streets looking for someone to interview. Memories of the evening before fell upon me as I shifted into reverse in prepping to exit an echoing garage. But for whatever reason the gear shifter decided to give me grief. My wife and I have a saying, “If it’s not broken, it must not belong to the Redstone’s.” Car issues two nights in a row, !*%#^$#!!!!!

I was trapped in an empty garage and struggling to get my vehicle into gear on the forth day of a one-year commitment that I though was about to go down in flames. I needed to find a person to photograph and I needed it then. It was 9pm and I had wasted an hour figuring out the car problem. I shifted into gear and began backing out. Then a stranger appeared in my rear view mirror.

Hector was his name, one of Univision’s news photographers returning from the day’s assignments. I said to myself (as many of us do when random stuff happens), “Maybe my car broke down for a reason,” and perhaps that reason was to meet Hector.

Hector taught me a thing or two about what news photographers go through.

A Few Generalizations in Bullet Points
• His news van was really his office.
• Everyday he commuted to and from Los Angeles and San Bernardino in bringing the news to us. Not a short drive.
• He had been nominated for an Emmy.
• He had one documentary under his belt that had been featured at the San Diego Latino Film Festival.

But Here Is What Was Really Impressive
From 1999 to 2005 Hector’s assignment was to cover events happening on the Mexico / California border. He told me of things so frightening and gruesome that I choose not to publish. It was with the greatest respect and empathy that he shared what he had recorded. All I can say is that with all my years of portrait and advertising photography, I had never found myself in the depth of situations as had Hector. In only a few minutes he opened my eyes to the courage of media photographers. He was a young guy, just getting married, who put it all on the line to look tragedy right in the face, and thinking beyond his own safety, took the risk to bring us the news.

In retrospect, all I can say is, Thanks Hector, and all of you brining us the real news. Keep up the meaningful work!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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Take one middle-class Caucasian man dressed like a college golfer; put him in a public park; place a camera around his neck and paperwork in his hand. Then have him loiter around the teen center—at night, mind you. Sound suspicious? Perhaps.

 

I was not really thinking too soundly on this one. The saving grace was having my wife and daughter by my side—gave me a bit of credibility (all except for the golf club my sweet little child kept swinging in the air…really, she was just practicing her drive—golf industry, look out!).

We spent a good hour approaching people. All very gracious, but none taking the offer to be photographed. I began to notice a consistent through-line, a common tendency for people to slowly gain distance. Subtle things, like a tree between us, or a wall, and one of my favorites, a car. Bottom line, no one wanted to come near me. In retrospect, I did look a little creepy.

The story got better. The night crept to just past 8pm and kids were slowly leaving the park, beginning to release the area for the rougher evening crowd. Lights were shutting down soon, and with my tail between my legs after many a rejection, and a commitment to return at a later date dressed a bit more appropriately, I made the call to leave for greener pastures. We approached our car and looked at each other no differently than usual. You know that, You have the keys, right? look.You got it! Keys were safely secured, dangling in the ignition behind the steering wheel, doors locked, safe and sound inside the vehicle. We are just that kind of family… always planning ahead; and truly, I could see no better stop-gap to auto theft than to lock the keys, and of course my wallet, securely in the car.

Now there we are, no photos, no wallet (no better place than in the glove compartment of a locked car, right?), and 10K of camera equipment in my backpack. By the way, even the locals kept their eyes peeled as the night came on, and being the only guy in the whole park wearing a bright blue beach shirt, I was really starting to feel like a target. Standing in bewilderment at the fact my family and I were stranded out of our bright red
Accord in the midst of what seemed like a sea of much less bright cars. Gary Larson’s Far Side comic series strangely came into my mind; specifically the one of two deers talking, one with a target on his chest. His buddy saying to him, “Bummer of a birth mark, Hal.” And that night, I was Hal!

But there was no need to fear, my daughter stood forward and boldly stated, “Don’t worry Dad, I’ve got a golf club.” Wife does what wives do—brought the common sense back into play, grabbed the cell phone and thirty minutes later Francis arrived, the Diamond Security man of the hour. To the rescue he stepped, car door picking tools in hand and cell phone on shoulder. Literally 2 minutes and the door was open. He turned, handed me a clipboard with paperwork to sign. As I watched him fade away towards the driver’s side of his truck my gut told me he was my photo opportunity that day and with that feeling I could not let him get away. The possibility of failing to get a photo on day four of a one-year challenge was looming and the clock was rapidly ticking away. I rushed this savior-of-the-moment in a sprint of determination.

He terminated his phone conversation and looked at me with a straight face of inquisition as I explained what I was up to. He paused. Thinking and summing me up much like the rest of those I approached that evening had. It appeared as if I was about to receive yet another failed attempt to befriend a stranger. Preparing for a long night of searching, I visualized myself elsewhere. Maybe the pharmacy up the street, a polka club, Pizza Hut was in order, and if that failed, maybe I was supposed to simply throw myself into on-coming traffic and just photograph whatever happened. That way, at least, I would have had a good injury story to support the fact that I tanked out on day four.

It’s funny how many crazy thoughts can zip through the mind in a nanosecond, and at that moment my mind was taking me to strange places. I forced myself to shut the nutty thinking down and looked back at my new friend Francis, who with an approving nod of acceptance redeemed my efforts. I’m telling you, I owed this guy big time.

So, if you ever find yourself in Canoga Park, night falling, and keys locked in the car, pick up the phone, call AAA and ask for Francis at Diamond Security… and please remember, tip him well!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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There I was, walking my neighborhood saying hi to all my neighbors. Felt strangely like Ozzie on an outing to borrow a cup of sugar for Harriet. No not Ozzy Osborn, but Ozzie Nelson.

 

Ozzie Nelson?

If you don’t know the vintage sitcom, Ozzie and Harriet were the ideal TV family and ran on ABC from October 3, 1952 to September 3, 1966. A fourteen-year run that was quite remarkable for its longevity. For trivia, here is a Wikipedia link, and if you’re bored, curious or just plain nostalgic, here is a link to YouTube episodes.

Back to the story: I was on the streets, strolling house by house, ignoring the graffiti and feeling mighty full of 50’s style neighborly love.

I rounded a corner and behind the barrier of an old school picket fence house rose the energy and laughter of Alishia and her mother Valerie. I came upon them right as they began a game of front yard badminton.

I mustered my courage and somewhat fearing the possible blows of long-handled racquets, a fear brought on by my remembrance of the thrashing I received just the day before from a less than friendly person I had approached. A guy who pushed me into on-coming traffic, so I gingerly approached them to ask if they would allow me to take their picture.

No racquet swung, we chatted for a short time and realizing that we shared a similar point-of-view of what I was publishing, Alishia accepted the offer to be interviewed and photographed.

A FEW OF ALISHIA’S INSIGHTS:

• Observe and Share Everything •
• Practice Humility in Every Situation •
• Value Community •

Lot’s of wisdom from a young woman of 21! Wouldn’t you agree?

I was only three days into the beginnings of Sidewalk Ghosts, but one constant was already emerging:  “A vast majority of people were willing and wanting to share.”

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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11:30am: Early lunch with family, I sat in uncomfortable chair at breakfast joint. Almost decided to photograph and interview Chef Abraham. Discouraged by the lunch rush, I passed on the prospect.

1:00pm: Fry’s Electronics. Bought blue-tooth keypad for iPad and spent enjoyable 30 minutes in demo massage chair. Healed from the terrible ergonomics of entry one. Still figuring the project out, I readied to comfortably blog day 2 of the first 2 years of the daily interviews that founded Sidewalk Ghosts.

4:00pm: The day was burning, embarked on forced quest for stranger two, Found myself at shopping center and denied by one very cool looking person. First aggressive rejection of countless more to come; left dry lump in throat as to if I was crazy doing this project.

4:30pm: Tugged into Golfsmith by my 8-year-old daughter. First wanted to be a dentist, then cowgirl, then Egyptologist, then doctor, then stunt girl, now golf pro. Break down and buy her a 7 iron.

4:45pm: Price golf lessons, $1000 for roughly 10 lessons! *#! Wholly Heck!!

5:00pm: Left store resolved to find better way to spend beginnings of daughter’s college fund.

6:00m: Went to driving range instead.

6:45sh: Arrived to Encino California, Ready Golf Driving Range. All was well.

7:00pm: Hit ATM, withdrew cash for golf club rental.

7:01pm: Reluctantly ate $3 ATM fee!!

7:05pm: Approached strangers Daniel and Donal. Good guys, they stepped in.

One Was Mostly Silent, The Other Chose To Be Invisible.

As quoted by Irish cigar toting golfing buddy Donal.“Daniel, the genuine article, and a gentleman to boot.”

These two guys were great. Would have been nice to get Donal on camera as well, but he left all stage honors to Daniel. We small talked for about 20 minutes and captured this photo of Daniel, An accountant, moved to Los Angeles from New York in 2006 to get closer to better golfing.

He kept it simple by sharing a quick philosophy,“I’d rather roam on a golf course than be stuck at a desk.”

The Man Was A Golf Ball Cannon – SERIOUSLY!

7:30pm: Stepped onto mat and began hitting drives with my daughter, as we did, kept hearing a solid crack and watched balls escape over the horizon’s fence as they exited the driving range at over 300 yards. There was no way I was leaving without photographing the golf ball mangling man that was to our left. The guy’s drive was no joke.

Brent, Online marketing dude at Avatar Labs– a very cool Entertainment advertising agency. Turned out we knew a few of the same people. Who would have thought? Began to realize just how small the world could be.

A minimalist, he shared these words of wisdom, “Life is Good!”

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

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