Someone out there really hates (or really likes) Paris Hilton. So much that the ghost of her greatness (or lameness) follows him around everywhere, even to empty power stations buried in the woods. The gentle rush of the babbling brook can't quiet his thoughts of her, how tempting (or irritating) she is, chase her from his thoughts.
Whoever he is, he's got an.... interesting... artistic interpretation of what he imagined they did in this building (or maybe didn't imagine, who knows, but I need more parentheses) and to protect the innocent I refrained from photographing any of his stunning work.
That said...
This was a spontaneous trip that ended quite well. After the last power plant excursion it was a bit underwhelming but even if I hadn't recently visited the best power plant in the country I might not have really liked this little cutie. It was a beautiful, unseasonably un-humid Saturday afternoon that was unexpectedly free of plans. When life hands you lemons, go make lemonade, right? I prefer limes (and gin), but you get the gist of it.
The most remarkable thing about this place is the graffiti. I have nothing against real graffiti art because it's beautiful and -- I found out tonight -- it is amazingly easy in post-processing. Shush! In the past I'd recognized photos of this building because of the colorful tagging, so you could I went just for that. Funny, eh? I don't need to test my monkey-climbing skills just for that. Oh well.
Speaking of monkeying, that was the other big bonus point for this building. I'm not a rock or a mountain climber who just squirrels up huge cliffs just for the hell of it like CCG (that's my acronym for "Cute Climber Guy" but I doubt he reads this) but I do enjoy other contexts of climbing. This place didn't disappoint and I always feel a little more accomplished after a successful shimmying.
One thing that pissed me off is the amount of crap strewn about all over the floor. This is not me bitching about how messy an abandonment is, but me getting on my high horse and wanting to throttle every bored/stoned/drunk/otherwise chemically altered individual who came in here and decided that destroying the property was a good idea. I know, I know: bless the spray paint and curse the mess, it makes no sense, right? Maybe. Taking on a slightly more selfish tone, I was more than irritated at the fact that EVERY. PLACE. POSSIBLE. that I wanted to stand to get that perfect shot was ruined by a mound of trash that rendered it impossible to securely plant my tripod. Insert sailor mouth and steel-toed boots.
I think Trav got much better photos of this place than I did. Lately my brain has been shutting off, approaching my hobbies like work and I'm unable to be witty in these now-train-of-thought blog entries. Maybe I need a decent night's rest, maybe I need a smack on the head. Whinge, wank, whine, whatever. On to the show.
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