Presenting The Funky Photog

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Meet the awesome talent that is Andre M. Brown. AKA The Funky Photog.

Okay, we might be married (fourteen years and a day, holler), but by no means is this a paid endorsement. (That is, technically, no money has exchanged hands. I can be, and may have been, bribed with grilled salmon. )

As you'll see when you mosey over to his on-line portfolio (of which he'd be happy to sell you a print or two), Andre shoots for the soul. Both his own, because, duh, it's his passion, and on a continued creative quest to uncover the essence of his subject matter.

Enjoy his vision.

 

 

 

 

Phishing. From Far Away.

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Hello?" I said.

No answer--but I could vaguely hear something. 

One more try. "Hello?"

"I need to talk to Andre Brown," he said, sounding like an Indian Queen. 

That's gay pride. Not royalty.

"What?"

"I need to talk to Ms. Andre Brown," he said, slightly more whiney than before.

Seeing that there was no Ms. Andre Brown, my fraud alert kicked in. Seemed like a telemarketer. From a far away land. He had clearly been instructed to sound urgent. But instead, he was sounding like a little bitch. 

I was amused.

 "It's not Ms. It's Mr. He's not home. Can I take a message?"

"Yes. I'm calling because your computer sent out a signal that there's a problem."

Here we go. Snicker.

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!"

Wait. Did he just say what I thought he said? He couldn't have. So I asked, "What?"

"Why are you laughing ma'am?!!"

Oh, no he didn't. This dude who just cold called me, in a clear attempt to rob me of something, is now verbally reprimanding me? That can't be. Can it? So I asked again.

Naturally.

"Why am I laughing?"

"Yes. Why are you laughing ma'am. This is a serious matter. Your computer is in danger."

Couple of things buddy. I'm laughing because you're clearly an international hoser. Your acting skills suck, as well as your choice of profession.

You've also called the East Coast. We're skeptics by nature. As well as street wise. You will not be receiving any personal data by me. In fact. I'm going to taunt you. I've decided my goal now is to make you hang up first.

"Really? How did you figure that out?" I asked.

"Through the internet. If you just give me a minute ma'am. I can show you."

Seriously dude. Clearly you didn't pick up on the sarcasm in my tone. Do you really think that I'm believing your story. Any piece of it?

All lost in translation. 

And now you're insulting my intelligence. Which you shouldn't do. Because this will come out of my mouth, and I will quickly become the loser at my own game. "Don't ever call here again or I will report your number to the authorities," I said. 

No worries chap. If you were a good student, you would have come away with a little somethin' somethin'. But it was a bit more subtle than my social security number, so I doubt you picked up on it.

That inflection in my voice, right before I hung up? 

That was the tone you were looking for in the first place.

 

Stuff Money Can't Buy

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Earlier this week, prior to the heartbreaking devastation in Oklahoma, the big story was that Powerball drawing: $590.5 million cold hard cash. One winner.

Trust. It wasn't me. Not only have I not been to Florida lately, but more importantly, drum roll please, I didn't play.

Until last Saturday night, I too always indulged in a ticket, when the jackpot rose to what can only be described as an obscene level. Two dollars and a dream and all that. 

Mine always started out firmly rooted in travel: first class tickets to visit my girlfriend in Australia. Europe. Hell, even San Antonio! (Only because that's where my bestie decided to set down roots.) Front row tickets to Essence Music Festival in New Orleans every year. Bali! Here we come. Iceland--for Andre. Puerto Rico. Again. And again.

Next, I'd spring to bring my favorite musical acts to my city. Duh! I'd convince, okay, bribe, blasts from the past like Remy Shand and George Michael to come out of hiding. I'd publish my book. Start the writing based non-profit I've been talking about for the past five years. Help some young 'uns pay for college. Buy an apartment in New York City. A genuine Tribeca loft. With a lovely roof deck. Or a brownstone in Harlem. Or both.

Yet, every single time I started spending all of my imaginary money, the same buzzkill gradually creeps in. And I'd abruptly realize how much of my outstandingly beautiful life, that I kind of dig, even in its non-millionaire stage, I'd have to give up.

Clearly, we'd have to say adios to our charming 1890's historic cottage that sits right on the street. Bye-bye to Andre's, literally, growing landscaping project, including this year's addition, three Rose of Sharon bushes, that he sat, deep into a hole, or three, to plant. We'd never feel the satisfaction of working hard towards a goal. And through a mixture of determination and fate, see them come true.

Already, in many aspects, my life has grossly surpassed my wildest expectations. I never dreamed I'd actually own a convertible. New. Hardtop, baby. Or the working antique pinball machine that sits in my kitchen. Or meet Maxwell, get interviewed by Al Roker on my 40th birthday on the Today Show or swim with dolphins. 

But it all somehow went down. Even on a relatively limited budget. 

All without winning a dime.

Indeed, you don't have to win the lottery to have a rich life. And outside of one enormous, ten year old tube tv that is cutting off a portion of the wide screen picture that the rest of the world is viewing, I really do have everything that I need. 

And more.

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