Archives for posts with tag: Daniel Incandela

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This is Casey and you know what I like?

Boobs.

I like having them. I like looking at them and I like talking about them.

I also love the double standard when it comes to boobs.

Room full of girls talking about boobs? Just another Tuesday.

Room full of dudes talking about boobs? Dirty.

Room full of dudes talking to girls about boobs? Sexual harassment.

Did you ever see that PETA commercial that was deemed too dirty for the Superbowl? I’ve always been a secret fan of it.

There was a comedian on television last night that was disappointed with the negative connotation of that came from a name like BOObies.

He proposed a name change to YAYbies! Or HURRAYbies! (the latter is a little too close to rabies for my personal taste.)

I hated my yaybies in eight grade. Out of nowhere…BOOM! C cups. Then I learned how to use them for good. Recently I learned that a good set of yaybies can make a cute dress cuter and can balance out substantial hips with style. Sure I complain about them, but if I didn’t have them? You betcha I would have looked into buying some by now.

Is it right that there’s a double standard? Probably not. But every time my husband wonders how I get anything done with a good set of yaybies to play with? I may act disgusted but I’m gloating inside.

I’m well aware of how fantastic they are. Those of us who have them? We all know how fantastic they are, we just let you believe otherwise.

Leucadia Farmer's Market Pomegranates

DANIEL:

This was the first image where I was tempted to take a look of Casey’s written interpretation (don’t worry, I didn’t). I have no idea what these things are. But whatever, right?

It got me thinking about Sandra Lee from the Food Network. She often uses a ziploc bag to dispense whipped cream or other things. She cuts the corner of the bag so she can frost a cake or add a dollop of cream to a cupcake. It’s pretty cool. I’m impressed.

These vegetables/fruits made me think of stuff like that for some reason. Simple solutions. There are lots of them out there.

I strongly believe I invented the move where you add dressing to a salad and then shake it in its container. It works every time.

I hang my shirt up in the bathroom when I shower. I didn’t invent that, but in my younger years, I was convinced it de-wrinkled it for me. Ha ha ha. There’s now way it ever did.

I definitely invented the move where you have the barista add sugar into the drink while making it. There’s something special about adding raw sugar into a hot drink as it’s being constructed. And it saves those awkward encounters where people are adding milk/sugar to their drinks at the little bar area.

I’m one of the fastest people through airline security. I invented a series of moves. Place everything in the bag – belt, wallet, watch, phone, bling, you name it. Only carry your ticket and ID. Untie your shoes. Take your laptop out while you wait in line. Attack the conveyor belt like it’s a challenge and with confidence. I invented this technique and I should teach people.

I like to over-tip for average or above average service. I certainly didn’t invent that, but it’s a mantra in my life. You should adopt it too.

I love riding my bicycle and I always bring a plastic bag to cover the seat in case it rains. That’s another invention of mine. There’s nothing worse than sitting on a wet seat. If I have an extra one, I’ll put it on someone else’s bike.

There are simple things we do on a daily basis that are taken for granted. But when you really think about them, it’s clear what a big role they play. They simplify yes. They may make you laugh. They may make you sound outrageous. Either way, it’s how we’re getting through life.

How are you getting through life?

(new here? read this first.)

I’m Daniel. And I’m kind of a nerd.

This picture has always reminded me of the Millenium Falcon. Like a lot of kids my age, Star Wars played a big role in my upbringing. I can still see Han Solo and Chewbacca engaging hyper drive. That’s what this image means to me – 6 years old, watching in complete wonderment as I discovered space, robots, the force, Princess Leia and bounty hunters. It’s a miracle I didn’t break the VCR back in those days.

I’ve had plenty of time to process the first three Star Wars films (I refuse to discuss the new one’s). I do a mean Chewy impression. I’m known to slip in a “these aren’t the droids you’re looking for” during conversations, and I attend Gen Con annually, there’s more…I honestly think R2-D2 could beat a T-Rex in a fight. It pains me that C-3PO is so insecure. I really don’t get it. He’s shiny, gold and can communicate in over 6 million forms of communication. What’s the problem?

Let’s just say I reference Star Wars a lot.

A few years ago, I bought two orange trees. I named them R2-D2 and C-3PO. I still have R2. Unfortunately, Threepio died. I’ve killed a lot of plants. I ordered a new orange tree earlier this year and considered the name for some time.

I’m thrilled to say that Boba Fett the Orange Tree is flourishing. I keep him on the balcony, usually by himself (bounty hunter style). The Boba Fett character was probably the coolest in all of the Star Wars films. Amazing armor, quiet, traveled frequently, made his own hours, AND, a rocket back pack. What a life.

He died a ridiculous and unflattering death in The Empire Strikes Back – it’s almost like someone played a prank on him. It still really irritates me today. But I’m coping.

All I can do now, is make sure that when Boba Fett the Orange Tree dies, it happens with a little more dignity.

4th of July

how casey sees it…

I once had a stepdad who was a mortician. I could say funeral director, but for the sake of this story he was a mortician, he did mortician stuff, he just happened to direct funerals as well.

I learned a lot a lot from him over the years, such as certain chemicals used on someone who had died from an overdose would cause them to turn Kermit the Frog green. When reconstructing a face for a viewing glass marbles are used where eyeballs used to be. A dead body left in a hot car for weeks will turn black and bloat. There are certain religions that approach death differently, and the feelings towards it are palpable among the different sects.

But there is one story he told me about a teenage girl riding down a narrow two lane canyon in the back of a friends car. They had been drinking and she had stuck her head out the car window for whatever reason teenagers stick their heads out of car windows. They came around a bend at the same time as a truck traveling in the opposite direction.

It hit her.

It tore her in half.

Many times my friends and I had been that girl, hanging out car windows while riding down steep and curvy canyons. Sometimes I was drunk, sometimes I was not. But from the moment I heard that story I was changed. I could visualize it too easily. The breeze in her face, the curve in the canyon, the headlights, the honking, that sound, the screaming…

…the phone call to her parents.

Even 13 years later I still tense up driving down winding canyon roads, especially at night.

I’m not sure if it was his intention to scare me with this story, but it worked. And while I still lived the rest of my teenage years with fairly reckless abandon, I also lived with a new fear, the fear of death.

(new here? read this first.)

¡Hola! Mi llamo es Casey and I take very good care of my nails. All twenty of them. Even the goofy little toes that I thought turned inward as a result of a lifetime of ballet, but guess what? My kid has the same toes. And they’re trouble. Genetic trouble. Sorry grandkids!

Lest you think I’m looking at your nails and silently judging your nail care routine, I assure you I am not. Well. Unless I’m having a really bad day. Then I may sneak a peek and take comfort in the fact that even though my entire life is falling down around me? At least my nails still look good. Or at least better than that guy’s over there.

A lot has gone wrong with my body. A lot has broken over the last few years. But one thing that stays pretty consistent, not to mention one of the few things I have control over? My nails. Twenty little perfectly polished and shaped beacons of hope. I will never grow stray hairs from my nails. I will never get zits on my nails the day before a big event. My nails will never gain or lose 20 pounds and have the stretch marks to prove it. My nails don’t bloat. (And if they ever do any of these? Heaven help us all.)

Aside from the occasional hangnail and car door (yeah. that one hurt.) my nails are my constant.

Thanks guys. 20 times over.

cherry cherry.

Yo, what’s up? This is Daniel.

I’ve never had a manicure or pedicure. People have been getting them for centuries. And I’ve never done it. I’m tempted. Maybe one day. It might be a man thing. It might be about intimidation. Not sure.

In terms of grooming, I keep clean, I’m looking forward to turning gray and I kind of hate shaving. If I had it my way, I would shave once or twice a week.

I visited an uncle in Palermo, Sicily in the 1990′s. I arrived after weeks of backpacking through Europe, drinking lots of wine, eating cheese, reading and not shaving. There was a definite language barrier, but that didn’t stop us from immediately driving to a barber shop where I was given a straight razor shave. I was partly terrified and partly intrigued. I left clean shaven with cuts. I smelled magnificent. My Uncle looked at me in a new light.

Since then, I always try to get a wet shave every few years. I spent 20 Euros on the island of Capri (I got ripped off). I’ve had one in downtown Indianapolis the morning of a dear friend’s wedding. I even walked into a barber shop in Kusadasi, Turkey and pointed at stubble. Again, I left with cuts, but I smelled like a man. Man, alive.

It’s now become a rite of passage for me. And I’m plotting the next experience. I’ll pass this onto my son. And I hope one day he’ll walk into a barber shop somewhere out there and ask for a shave. Or a manicure.

***Hi! this is Casey…I just have to say that this was completely coincidence that we both chose to write about fingernails. Neither of us peeked or discussed our views on this photo before we hit publish. Cool, right?***

(new here? read this first.)

Daaaaaniiiieeeellllllll!!! Recently, people have been calling me Dan or Danny. I don’t really mind it, but the people that know me think it’s really weird. Anyway, Danny Boy’s version -

A couple of year’s ago, I took this photo in Millenium Park. I loved it for a number of reasons. Then I randomly discovered this fountain this past weekend in Corning, NY.

I’m a kid. I often describe myself as a 13-year old. I play an adult well, but I’m often repressing the urge to simply be a kid. I filter what I say around colleagues. I often laugh at my creative ideas because I know they need to be grown-up-ulated first. I’m okay with that. I’ve made it this far.

Who doesn’t want to run around in a fountain on a hot day? Kids become even more kid like when they encounter fountains. They’re oblivious to the outside world. Adults are invisible. It’s them, in the moment. Pure energy, laughter, excitement, exploration and fun.

I love this image for that reason. And, the perfectly blue sky. The reflection in the water. The kids laughing and running. And the small rainbow peaking through the spray. I’m not sure what that rainbow is doing, but I like it.

Anyway, now that I’m all grown up-like, I guess I’m looking for my equivalent fountain experience. Most of the time, I find it while taking photos.

A fountain, kids and a rainbow

A fountain, kids and a rainbow

caaaassseeeyyy!!

During the 2002 Olympics in Salt Lake City someone had the brilliant idea to install one of those fountains that appear as if from nowhere in the outdoor mall downtown. I know there’s an entirely different set of words to be written about an outdoor mall in the desert/snowonderland that is SLC, but please. Let’s focus on the fountain.

There are choreographed water displays set to John William’s Olympic theme. It was cool eight years ago! But since then the fountain has turned into a free summer activity for families from all over the Salt Lake Valley. People bring snacks, chairs, towels and little people dressed in swimsuits. Some of the parents even come ready to soak up some rays.

There’s even been a little stage erected for local dance troupes to show off their stuff.

It’s a mall.

A public one.

Never have I had the desire to lie outside the Apple Store across from the giant window displays of Barnes and Nobel in a tankini as my child runs through chlorinated water with a bunch of strangers, no restroom in sight and everyone else walking around fully clothed as if they were shopping at the mall.

Wait…

Running through a fountain on a hot summer day should be spontaneous. It should be done fully clothed. One should walk away surprised at just how dark their favorite t-shirt can get when soaking wet. It shouldn’t be a planned activity…plans should be saved for super crazy places…like the public pool.

(new here? read this first.)

casey’s first.

There was a time that I didn’t know what death looked like first hand, I didn’t have to worry about another’s ulterior motives and I didn’t have to think about a single food I put into my mouth (aside from kiwis and avocados…I’ve always known they make my mouth itchy but never really cared.) There was a time I looked forward to every day.

There was a time when a picture was just a snapshot I took of my best friend eating a sandwich in the Neiman Marcus cafe in Union Square at the beginning of our first ever weekend weekend away together. Now it’s a memory of a better time. A time when both of us didn’t know about death first hand. A time when neither of us knew about the awful in the world. A moment where our friendship, and we individually, were invincible.

And oddly enough, both able to eat gluten.

Daniel’s take

What’s the deal with focaccia bread?

It’s fancy. It’s different. It’s hard to spell.

You get it at foux foux cafes. I like it. Not sure I trust it.

It adds at least $4 to a sandwich.

It leaves a slight oily residue on your fingers.

Sometimes, it crumbles in your lap and leaves a stuff on your pants.

That’s what focaccia is capable of doing.

It’s great in a food fight, though.

A baguette is solid. A roll will suffice. Giant pretzels, rye loaves, bread sticks, slices and a boule aren’t bad. But they’re no focaccia.

Focaccia flies through the air with grace, with sophistication and panache. It allows for precision.

It may lack the impact of a hardened baguette, but it makes up for it with the penetration of olive oil or rosemary residue.  And you get to yell, “You got focaccia-d”.

The next time you’re at a fancy café, family reunion, boring lunch or job interview, order the focaccia and see what happens. You’ll earn instant respect.

(new here? read this first.)

This image is brought to you by Daniel.

I discovered dinosaurs like a kid, eventually, at age 29. I never got hooked when I was younger. Older, I saw the Jurassic Park movies and liked them, but it never went any further.  Dinosaurs never appealed to me until my first real museum job at the Indiana State Museum, where I wrote and produced distance learning classes – typically a one-hour live video experience to kids or adults all over Indiana and sometimes beyond. The development of content and producing was a lot of fun – especially the visual interpretation.

My first real production at the museum was in support of an exhibition called Chinasaurs – Dinosaurs from China (catchy right?). I remember being less than thrilled at the assignment, but it was my first, so I dove into the world of dinosaurs. I quickly impressed colleagues, friends and playa hatas with terms like cretaceous, triassic and herbivore. Once I learned the general history, time frame, and basic science, I began studying the actual ‘terrible lizards’ themselves. And then I was hooked, instantly.

It doesn’t get much cooler than dinosaurs, unless we’re talking about robots. Even then, it’s like comparing, well, dinosaurs and robots. Have you ever studied them? Dinos like Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Psittacosaurus, and Apatosaurus are all stunning. Kind of makes me wish Jurassic Park would actually happen. The range of dinosaurs, diversity, sizes, millions of years, herbivores, veggie eaters, defenses, methods of attacks, and much, much more is astounding.

I spent a lot of time researching dinos and preparing my first live production to a group of 3rd graders. Despite my nerves, they were captivated. They laughed at my dinosaur jokes (think Raaawwwr), were amazed at the length of the Sauropods, learned about dino diets (mostly veggie) and discovered a new profession – Paleontology. One hour passed like a New York minute. And I still haven’t forgotten it.

My kid-like dino obsession continues. I still cite random dino facts. I have dinosaur figures. I wear dino-themed t-shirts. And yes, I like my eggs over medium, in the shape of an Apatosaurus. Who doesn’t?

Dino Egg

Dino Egg

casey’s turn.

I have won awards for baking. State fair blue ribbons.

Ten of them.

And yet I still have a 43% fail rate on flipping fried eggs.

My success rate of cooking and peeling a hard boiled egg? Maybe 17%.

I have googled, I have trained, I have practiced. I even have a fancy timer.

I have asked Martha, Fanny, Alton and my own dad how to cool an egg down so that it peels effortlessly.

I cannot grasp the scientific concept of it.

Screw scientific, I can’t even grasp the damn concept of it period.

I have gone through elaborate ice baths and cooking techniques…all failed.

Needless to say someday I’m going to have to answer to my daughter one Easter as to why our eggs are so…well…crappy.

I can produce croissants from scratch. I can make a roast that would make your grandfather sing.

Lemon meringue pie?

In my sleep.

But eggs. Damn hard boiled eggs.

Quit your gloating. I can hear you from here, if you don’t watch out you’re going to get some egg on your face, and it’s still going to have peel on it because I can’t get it off.

(new here? read this first.)

Casey’s turn.

I didn’t think much past the fact that she had hired me to take pictures of them. They were mother and daughter, made even more apparent by their amazing red hair. I clicked away, capturing giggles, hugs, smiles and two sets of beautiful blue green eyes.

We made small talk about food, weather and Elmo. All the while I was hoping and praying that at least one of these pictures would turn out and that she’d be happy that she chose me to take them.

When I went through them the next day I breathed a huge sigh of relief. There were several I knew she’d be pleased with.

The last one I shot was the epitome of a two year old. Head buried in mom’s legs unwilling to take one more command or go one step further.

I remember those days. Well.

It wasn’t anything fantastic, the shadows were harsh due to the high sun and you can’t see anyones face.

But I included it anyway.

I found out afterwards that she is a widow. And that her daughter looks just like her late husband.

I was honored she trusted me take their pictures. But what struck me the most? The picture I added in as an afterthought? She emailed me back with this…

“BTW, I just looked at the shot of us in front of the 2 with my arms outstretched and the shadow is perfect because Jim’s there even if he’s not, you know?”

I was photographing angels and I didn’t even know it.

Hi. This is Daniel. And this is a great shot.

It was hard to ignore the repetition of two’s. The Robert Indiana Number 2, two arms, two arm shadows, two humans, and two fuzzy bushes. 2x2x2x2x2x2. I thought about 2’s, for the next couple of days. Get it?

I love repetition, symmetry and natural patterns. It made me think of other two’s out there.

Deuce Bigalow & US soccer player Clint Dempsey (Deuce), as well as all the other uses of the #2 or deuce, in tennis, in baseball (the curveball), cards, toilet humor and more. ‘nuff said.

First, there was The Godfather. Then came The Godfather II. Is there a better movie sequel out there? I really think not. Brilliance.

There’s that 1889 Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. There’s also the one in Vegas, 1999. I’ll leave it to you to pick your favorite. Simulacrum.

Staying with the Paris theme. There’s the Louvre in Paris (remember the Da Vinci Code?) and coming soon, the Louvre Abu Dhabi. And Guggenheim for that matter. They should do a Sex in the City movie there too. Sarcasm.

Nothing says pairs like Noah’s Ark.

Geek time. iPhone first release. iPhone 3G. It’s what I roll with.  Version 2. But I want 4. 2×2.

In nuclear physics, 2 is a magic number. Not sure what that means either.

Beck released his 1st album for David Geffen Records – Mellow Gold, and followed that up with the superb second, Odelay. Sissyneck!

We were brought the Jersey Shore. And then MTV signed them for a second season. Thanks.

A peace sign uses two fingers. Flip it around, and it means something very different.  Especially in England.

A-Team the TV show – it played a big role in my upbringing. A-Team the movie. Fool.

And it does takes two to tango. Alliteration.

I haven’t really mentioned companionship or the role of student and mentor. Or the obvious, parent and child. When it gets down to it, this picture reminds me that we’re all in this together.  Sometimes we help others. Sometimes we’re helped. But no matter what, we’re always connected to someone.

And sometimes, it helps to just bury your face in someone and giggle.

BTW, this is our second post.

(new here? read this first.)

Daniel’s take.

What do you do with an incredibly long layover in Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle airport? We’re talking really long – you change contacts, brush your teeth, shave, receive care packages, and so on. It’s happened to many. This is a compilation of their experiences. A CDG Survival Kit.

Find an outlet (provided you have adapters). The outlet provides power. It will allow you to charge your iPhone, iPad and walkie-talkies. You can also plug in a projector, blender or one of those massage chairs. You get the picture.

Find an empty seat with room to stretch. And close to the outlet. You’ll need space for your bags and to really lounge. If the layover is long, change into your pajamas, carve out your space, and make yourself at home. You’ll want to keep circulation going. Take out your mat; connect your laptop to the projector and watch yoga lessons. Do a morning and evening Bikram session. You might even make money. Importantly, you’ll feel better about yourself.

Obtain a shopping cart. You’ll need it for shuttling things from point A to point B. It will also keep raiders away at night. Place it in front of your tent. Do your grocery shopping as the masses are boarding the flight you didn’t make. Offer to transport older people from gate to gate. There are valuable Euros to be earned.

Befriend someone at the espresso stand. They’ll get to know you and learn to make your cappuccino exactly as you wish. They can also keep an eye on your things when you pop to the bathroom. Need to a get a message to the outside world? They’ll do it. If you’re feeling especially entrepreneurial, create a flyer advertising your shuttle service for people that don’t move too well. They can put it on the café corkboard.

Give blood. You just should.

Learn how to DJ. Offer your services at the various airport restaurants, cafes and fast food places. Come up with a catchy name, like DJ Red Eye or MC 747. Book yourself a few times a week. Le TGI Fridays is the place to be.

Become an airport tour guide. Lead a variety of visitor experiences – the 15-minute tour, the 60-minute tour, the history of France tour. You know what we’re talking about. If you’re going to be stuck, at least know your surroundings.

Be nice to the airport dogs. You need them. They provide needed companionship. They fetch. And if they don’t like you, you’re screwed.

Follow these tips and time will fly. You’ll fly. Just ask the dozens of people stranded before you were.

Terminal 2 - Charles de Gaulle Airport

Terminal 2 - Charles de Gaulle Airport

Now for Casey’s Turn.

Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion’s starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge – they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion… love actually is all around.

-Love Actually.

I sometimes forget that airports are hallowed places.

Sure they’re filled with overpriced food, fanny packs, tacky souvenirs and constant PA announcements. Not to mention the grumpy people that just want to get home already.

Flying used to be a luxury, a privilege few could afford.

Now it is treated as a more expensive city bus, where most of its passengers can’t be bothered to put on clothing without a stretchy waistband or shoes that that don’t make a slap slap sound when they walk.

But every person going through the airport has some sort of story.

And it’s generally on the other side of security that their story unfolds.

I could stand at the arrivals gate of any airport for hours.

Yesterday it was two teenage girls, one came running from the other side of the airport squealing while the one who had just deplaned dropped all of her belongings, opened her arms and braced herself for impact. They didn’t stop hugging until they had done three full rotations in the tightest, twirliest hug known to anyone.

One of the few times an overprotective mother will let go of her child is at an airport, that is when grandma and grandpa are on the other side. You could line the entire way to grandma and grandpa with ponies, ice cream and carnival rides but that kid will stay locked on their grandparents until they are in their arms.

It is at airports where soldiers are reunited with their loved ones after months or even years apart. It is at airports where boys come back to their moms as men after college or church missions.

It is also at airports where one can take an enormous tangible step towards a new life.

Moving across the country perhaps.

I remember that flight well.

The second the wheels left the ground in Salt Lake, Utah was no longer my home. Nothing I owned was still there, it had all been driven across the country to a tiny apartment in Indianapolis.

I may or may not have spent the whole flight in tears (I did) but when I got off the plane and through the airport my Cody was there waiting for us. It was at baggage claim four where my new life began, and Indiana became my home.

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