A drone shot of the Cascade Diner (and its subterranean partner, the Buccaneer Lounge) reveals the reason for the institution’s name.
San Francisco street scenes featuring motorcycles parked provocatively outside bars and cafés have become a recent focus of mine. Blues and reds in bright Sunday sunshine are enticing.
Canton’s bars are pretty specific in their target markets: bars for students, or for locals, or for the staff of the local schools. There’s not a lot of overlap. The Buccaneer Lounge, housed in the blue and white building at the lower right of today’s quadcopter photo, was the favorite hangout of faculty. The bar closed this winter, and (as with many third spaces) it will be missed.
This fall, I photographed my first wedding. When the wedding ceremony has finished, and the speeches had been made, the reception/party got into full swing. I’m particularly charmed by the way the flash lights up both the bride’s dress and the label of the Champagne in a room otherwise dominated by warm, earthy colors.
Continuing my Seattle street photography trend from my last post, todays photo is a similarly odd vignette of West Coast life, from the punk/patriotic dirt bike to the painted brick to the elegant Jameson label.
In the past, I’ve documented the slightly sinister feel of Canton at its most David-Lynchian. Here again, the lights of Main Street are friendly and inviting, but with that edge that small towns have. I can’t wait to see it carpeted in snow—the ambience changes again.
I found myself wandering around McMenamins Edgefield (just outside Portland in Troutdale, Oregon) with some free time before a wedding ceremony, so I went exploring. I love the way the confluence of additions and annexes to buildings wind up producing these strange internal spaces; they do a lot to magnify the mystery of an already mysterious place.
Bleary-eyed, through a wide-open aperture with the last hints of sun and the now-dominant neon signage as its only lighting, I present to you: the Hoot Owl Express. This is (for the moment) St. Lawrence’s main “student bar,” its walls covered in old hockey jerseys and its staff preternaturally capable of spotting a fake I.D.