Dec 25, 2008

By the time I had read up on all the groovy features of the new camera to the point where I felt comfortable taking it out, I found myself down in Virginia Beach for the holidays. A beach town in the off-season is like a worn-out shoe = perfect subject matter.

I drove down to the ocean and walked down Atlantic Avenue, which is the main tourist strip. On the ocean side, huge monoliths of hotel chains (Hyatts, Holiday Inns, Sheratons, etc.) are stacked like dominoes all down the coast for like 40 or 50 blocks. The inland side of the street is all cheesy souvenir shops and party bars, like Bourbon Street as designed by Jimmy Buffett. On this Christmas night, the only denizens were cops, skate rats, and tourists looking at the shiny lights, wisely cruising in the warmth of their cars. I walked down a good ten blocks, but I didn't actually get too many good shots. I figured maybe there would be a palpable sadness lingering over this shuttered avenue, but the gaudiness just seemed mostly uninteresting rather than appealingly kitschy.

Now, PACIFIC Avenue, which runs parallel one block further inland, is where all the cheaper independently-owned motels are. NOBODY checks in come December. I mean, just look at this sad motherfucker:

Pacific Avenue is darker, both literally and figuratively. No cops. No tourists. The locals who wander here alone and in pairs reminded me that I really need to get some pepper spray for these shoots. I've been approached by enough bums and addicts in my time to know that things can turn ugly very quick.

I made my way back up to Laskin Road. Scattered bars here and there were open, so I wandered over to The Jewish Mother, hoping for a Christmas beer. No luck. The only other hopeful was this Irish-looking pub called Murphy's, which looked eerily similar to the Murphy's up in Alexandria. I had anticipatory visions of sitting at the bar with a bunch of sad, loveless, old drunkards, but instead the place was crammed with jerkoffs.

I try not to drink with jerkoffs.

So I drove back to Mom's neighborhood because when I came into town the night before, I was stunned by the GIGANTIC CHURCH they had built across from her street. I had to get a picture of this thing. It had been choked with people the night before, because they were having their Christmas Eve Mass or whatever, but this night it was silent as a tomb. Check out this monstrosity:

Eighteen million this thing cost, and the pastor used to fly in on a freakin HELICOPTER before the neighbors complained. This is why Mom will never convince me to move down to Virginia Beach. When Christian conservatism feels comfortable to let it all hang out, you get little pockets of suck like this. This is the home of Pat Robertson and The 700 Club, for Christ's sake. It's like central Florida without the palm trees and gators.

Anyway, before they built the mighty Jesus fort, there was a largely empty expanse of land between Mom's house and my favorite Virginia Beach attraction: the columbarium.

Yes, there is an inherent creep factor in hunting for photos in cemetaries, mausoleums, et al. at night. I'm no different from you. I get plenty spooked that some dude with a flashlight is gonna walk around the corner and bark out "WHADDARYOUDOINHERE?" But really, once you push that fear aside (this is gonna sound stupidly obvious), it's probably the most peaceful place you can hang in out after dark.

You know, just don't make a habit of it.