‘Bling’ doesn’t cut it

new camera strap

For about a decade now I’ve watched people walk around with digital cameras strapped to their necks, and it’s been an uninspiring image: the stale, black camera strap either yawns alone or shouts out “CANON EOS” or “NIKON” expletives, as if we had any say in the matter. Insipid digital cameras!

This past year I’ve had a mission on my agenda: to find a vintage camera strap like the one my father used to hang his Yashika 35mm from. I figured it would be an easy task, but the lack of product out there on the resale market left me wandering around looking for something new? Some kind of replica? Why was I the only person looking for something like this? Why was everyone so complacent with the black camera strap advertisement? I mean, this is a basic accessory! Like a pair of good shoes, you’re going to wear this thing every day.

About a month ago I found this “vintage” tapestry camera strap from B&H camera, and ordered it. About a week later it arrived, but guess what? It was BLACK. I think I started to twitch. “Excuse me,” I started in on customer service, “but WTF?!”

Turns out, B&H staff has to pick, at random, whatever color strap comes out of a big box of assorted camera straps. You can’t request any particular color or pattern; you get what you get and you then throw a fit.

Enter a savvy businessperson with an eye for what’s NEEDED in the world of photography fashion: Souldier Straps. DUH. Thank you. Based in Chicago, these women buy out a warehouse of vintage rickrack and trim and then spin their gold in the form of guitar straps, camera straps and belts. And then they go the next step and hit the music festivals.

A couple of weekends ago, Damon & I were at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, half-drunk and sweating our boots off, and when we cooled off under the market tents, we discovered these way-cool straps and treated each other to our 2008 souvenirs. I bought him a floral guitar strap; he bought me this beautiful turquoise and gold camera strap. It only took us about an entire concert slot to decide on the final patterns. But man, was it totally worth it.

Why I Love Austin

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This is home. Beyond this sycamore sapling (which, grandparents, Chas can identify!) lies a limestone expanse covering hundreds of acres, porous with trails and itching with wildlife. I haven’t begun to scratch the surface on my true feelings of place here, mostly because I have grown accustomed to actually being there either with the children or with Damon. We scramble and hike with friends and kids, but mostly we run. Almost every morning.

This morning, as we craggled our way through the round pebble creekbed, now bone dry. Frost crept upon the stands of wildflowers, long since browned by summer’s hot draught. A curious carving of ice, easily mistaken for packing foam, glistened around the base of each weed. Layers upon layers of crystalline ice ribbons sheathed brown stem. I dislodged a dry column of webbed crystal. During the night, in a last defense against the harsh northern wind, each stem swelled and burst, and seeping slowly from the plant oozed all sap and life to form intricate whorls of feathery ice curls. Layer after layer melted into my red hand. Happy to prove to Damon that it wasn’t frozen dog pee, I wiped my hands and kept on running.

This, among all daily surprises I encounter here, is why I don’t do treadmills. And this, followed by Tacodeli’s agua de melon (2 glasses) and poblano, spinach and egg tacos (with a half cup of the sour cream+fresh jalapeno hot sauce) is one very big reason why I’d rather not move. But change is in the air….