So, show of hands: who here has a hobby? You know, something you do during your personal time that you find enjoyable. And no, I’m sorry: for the sake of this conversation, masturbation does not count. (Ha! Look at all you fareaks lowering your hands. I love my readers.)
I think having a hobby is an important thing, especially if you live in the city. It’s a release and a great way to reduce stress. For example: want to stab a guy for stealing your parking spot? Build a model of a 1978 Camaro instead! Are you wondering if the stinky woman standing next to you on the T would smell worse if you lit her on fire? Relax, pyro! Try knitting a scarf to help take the edge off.
Realizing I needed to take the edge off, and concerned that my only recent “hobbies” have been drinking and recovering from drinking, I decide to spend my Saturday in Long Island’s wine country chasing one of my favorite pastimes: photography. (Wow. Don’t I sound like a big ol’ Clint Eastwood/ Bridges of Madison County pussy?)
Have you ever driven through this part of New York? It’s pretty amazing. And by amazing, I mean rural. Like, Montana rural. Miles upon miles of working farmland accented with forgotten farmhouses and an occasional winesoaked socialite who’s gotten lost on her way out to East Hampton.
Most of my day and early evening hours are spent driving up and down farm roads looking for inspiration. You never really know when it will hit. It might come in the form of a simple tree standing alone in an open field, or maybe it’ll be a broken barn window; or maybe I’ll get lucky and stumble on an old Chevy pickup sitting on top of a hill, doing what it’s been doing for decades: making an otherwise boring field interesting.
Eventually, lacking ample sunlight and craving a look at nightlife in middle Long Island, I decide to put away my camera and head out to a local hotspot that’s been recommended for dinner and drinks. I locate the place, make my way inside, and somehow manage to find a seat at the crowded bar. The bartender, who is attempting (and, sadly, succeeding) to impress a few girls by tossing booze bottles around, takes a break from wishing he were Tom Cruise, walks over to me, and says “Welcome to TGI Friday’s. Would you like to look at our frozen drink menu?”
Okay, let me just say that there’s nothing wrong with hanging out at Friday’s. It’s a perfectly good social option, especially in this town. It’s conveniently located across the street from the local racetrack. (I’m not talking horses, people; I’m talking late’ 80s Oldsmobiles with spray-painted numbers. Just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page.)
I finish my dinner, have a second beer, and decide to call it an early night, since I’m planning to shoot a bit more at dawn. As I walk back to my car, I notice a jacked-up GMC pickup truck parked in the spot next to mine. To be honest, it’s impossible to overlook. Handpainted in camouflage, covered in mud, and sporting a rather impressive set of deer antlers that have been bolted to the hood, it’s a perfect example of the importance of having hobbies. They make us interesting.
I don’t really want to know what the owner of this truck does with his free time; in fact, the mere thought of it makes me want to yank a few teeth out of my head and start playing abanjo. But whatever it is he does, it makes him who he is. Hobbies make our personal landscapes more appealing. They define us. I’m a photographer. You might be a dancer. Captain Camouflage over here is a redneck.
As for all you perverts who raised your hands earlier, well, you’re just perverts. Start collecting stamps, will ya?
Michael Diskin can be reached at mdiskin@stuffatnight.com.
