MPR News was named best large market broadcast affiliated website in the country, for the second year in a row, in the 2014 Edward R. Murrow Awards.

Charlie, Tattered Cover Bookstore, Denver, Colo.

Larimer Square, Denver, 2003. Larimer Square, Denver, 2003.

The Minnesota State Fair: 1,824,830 people rubbing shoulders over the course of 12 days with each other, along with untold numbers of cattle, horses, swine, poultry (don’t forget the llamas) and scores of shops and kiosks selling everything from John Deere tractors to deep fried Twinkies on a stick. Coming as it does during the run-up to Labor Day, it’s always hot. I grabbed a quick Hipstamatic of these folks playing in one of the many misters placed around the fairgrounds to help people stay cool.

Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives. Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives.

Fire Island, the barrier beach separating Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean, means different things to different folks. To me, the best parts are the deserted stretches of the National Seashore from Fire Island Inlet, across the Great South Bay (and Captree Bridge) from where I grew up in Babylon, out eastward to Moriches Inlet. Right in the middle is the solitude of Sailor’s Haven and Sunken Forest: a modest little dock area for day boaters, a pier for the ferry from Sayville, a nature walk, a snack bar and deck for a few refreshments and souvenirs, and, across Dune Road, a handful of lifeguards with precious little to do on many days. It was a place I wanted our kids to see this summer on our trip back east, to grasp how it is possible to find such quietude less than six miles across the bay from 7.7 million Long Islanders going about their daily lives.

Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.) Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.
Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.
Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.)

Montauk, August 2014. When I was a little kid growing up next to the Great South Bay on the South Shore of Long Island, Montauk Point represented the end of the world as I knew it, right at the very end of the Montauk Highway. Get to the lighthouse and your next stop, beyond the horizon, was Block Island, and then some other points on a map in a place called New England that I knew nothing about.

Montauk was different. There was a huge harbor filled with ocean-going trawlers, instead of the little clamming skiffs we saw on the bay everyday, and you could watch them come and go while cracking lobster claws at a waterside table at Gossman’s Dock. It always seemed to be foggy or windy in Montauk. And there were hills and forests, something you didn’t see a whole lot of among the modest ramblers in the growing suburban sprawl to the west in the 1960s.

Now, whenever I get back to Long Island to visit my brother, who still races sailboats on the bay, I try to make it out to the end of the highway at Montauk, even though it has grown and changed a lot. This year, the whole family went, and it held their attention, just like it has held mine all these years. (Photos made with a Holga, scratches and vignettes included, on Kodak Porta 400 color film. And an editing note: a few weeks ago I cross-posted Instagrams similar to these. I’ve taken those down now.)

Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park. Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park.

Hipstamatic scenes from a 24-hour stretch that began at Smith Point on Fire Island, clams at my brother’s house on Long Island, the train into the city the next day, Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the view from our hotel room in Midtown and a late-night stroll on Seventh Avenue up near Central Park.