I Wouldn't Read This If I Was Me

Winter!

2012-01-22T20:09:00.001-05:00

That's what it is around here...finally!

The weather has been plenty cold, but there hasn't been much snow. I'm told the snowfall totals have been well below normal; we had a dusting on Christmas Day, a light fall later, and a more significant storm yesterday. With temperatures not going above freezing for the last few days, I expect the white stuff to last for a while. At least until Wednesday, when the forecast is for a daytime high in the mid-40s.

PARENTHETICAL IT-AIN'T-TRUE-JUST-BECAUSE-IT'S-ON-THE-INTERWEBZ THOUGHT: My clever little weather gadget from The Weather Channel is very optimistic when it comes to temperature: our thermometer says it's 26 degrees right now, while the the little gizmo on my computer screen says it's 37. Hah!

Anyway, it was a lovely (if cool) day for a walk, which took us around the Goose Cove reservoir...

The ice didn't look stable enough to walk on....

Otherwise, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time continuing work on the pipe organ in a local church. Weather gets some blame for that. Right after, that is, the installation of new carpet in the sanctuary. We scheduled a tuning for a couple of Sundays ago; turns out that was the day the carpet people were coming to pull up the shaggy old stuff and, to avoid problems, we had to remove part of the organ instead.

That went back together after a few days, after which I found I had to dismantle part of the organ's facade and some interior woodwork to gain any access to the pipes. This took long enough that we couldn't finish in one day. Returning the next morning, we found that what I had done on Day One was now hideously -- as in a squadron of angry cats shrieking at each other -- out of tune. The building's heat had been set to 68 the day before, and then was shut off overnight. The 20-plus degree change (down and back) did the damage.

Photo by D., who luckily couldn't hear what I was thinking!

After the heat came up, we got it all tuned the second day, got everything reassembled, and it was operable for the service on the following Sunday. The organist said she received comments on how well the organ sounded.

Naturally, the improvement wasn't solely the result of my sensitive ears and capable hands. Without getting too technical, most modern instruments are tuned to a specific pitch, which is A=440 cycles per second. When this organ was built (1920 or earlier), it was not uncommon to find pipes constructed to sound best (and speak the right note) at A435 instead. Tuning to the slightly flatter pitch made a noticeable difference in the sound quality.

D. was a trouper throughout. She put up with the noise, time spent rectifying mistakes, my finessing and fussing and the sheer tedium that are all part of the job. I will also say the check to come for the work will ease some of the aches and pains caused by crawling around in an organ that was clearly designed to be serviced by the likes of Tom Thumb and Billy Barty....

Outdoors, more snow possible this week, before and after the "warm" days midweek. Now prepared as I was not in my California days -- I'm now equipped with proper boots, thermal socks, undershirt and Long Johns, plus gloves and a wool cap -- I'm quite enjoying this mild taste of winter!

Merry Christmas, and...

2011-12-24T14:44:00.000-05:00

...but first, Merry Christmas, courtesy of the good folks in nearby Gloucester (a seafarin' town) who assembled a tree from lobstah traps and floats, plus strategically placed ornaments and lights.


Even the lobstahs get a holiday!

As for the "and" bit: herewith, an unsolicited testimonial for Richard's Delicious Seasoning, which came to us as a present from JohnO. He's currently Somewhere In Florida, but shipped the tasty stuff before leaving home.

The seasoning is delicious, noticeable but not overwhelming, with a peppery (but pleasant) aftertaste. And is salt- and MSG-free, if that's of interest to you. John advised that it is suitable for "fish or flesh," neither of which he eats. So far, I can only report that it's remarkably tasty when sprinkled on meat. Other uses will no doubt come to mind. Get some; you'll like it.

All presents acquired. All I need to do now is wrap 'em. Which is what I'm off to do.

A Favorite Son candidate!

2011-12-22T21:04:00.001-05:00

I try to avoid politics here -- and in real life, too -- but there sometimes are exceptions, and today is one of them.

For three years, I have maintained that I would support a lump of month-old road kill if it ran against the current president who, I firmly believe, will take his place among such horrific past "leaders" as Franklin Pierce, Millard Fillmore, Warren G. Harding*, Richard Nixon and Jimmy Carter.

While offering my vote to an unidentifiable, decomposing hunk of meat, however, I was actually hoping a candidate would appear who exceeded my pitifully low expectations. One's support for the worst doesn't mean that's what is really wanted. Sadly, that is what we have gotten.

Now, at last, I believe I have found an alternative, already campaigning to win the New Hampshire primary election. That would be Vermin Supreme.

Has kind of a nice ring, doesn't it? President Supreme. Rolls right off the ol' tongue....

Here's Vermin Supreme during a recent "candidate's forum" event in New Hampshire:


Vermin Supreme (l.), and some hack political gink (r.)**

I know what you're thinking: this Supreme dude is a gag, right? Some lunatic joker with more time than sense stirring things up for a cheap laugh.

That, as Maxwell Smart used to say, is what they want you to believe.

In truth, Vermin Supreme is no political novice. He ran in 2008, scoring 41 votes in New Hampshire and, according the the Federal Election Commission, some 43 write-in votes in the general election. He is the Voice of Opposition to incumbents, having run as a Republican in '08, and as a Democrat in '12.

If one judges by his website, he is not concentrating on the major issues. That seems a Good Thing to me, as the entrenched politicians in Washington have messed up virtually every large problem they laid their grubby hands on.

Supreme likes to tell voters that he is alone among presidential candidates as an organ donor, having offered up one of his kidneys when his mother was ill. We each have two kidneys and need only one, he reminds us; he is in fact a serious champion of organ donation. Compare him to the grasping greedheads he's running against and the contest is already over. Who (especially among politicians) could believably muster up any kind of claim to surpass a man who gave so selflessly?

He is also a champion of dental hygiene and more brutally honest than anyone in American politics, past or present. He says he is perfectly willing to lie as president, for the simple reason that he can. And, in a case of sheer inspiration, he is the only candidate who supports fully funding time-travel research in order to go back and kill Hitler before he was born.

Actually, his website had my full attention the moment I saw a little drawing of a horse -- captioned "Screw World Peace, I Want a Pony" -- on the main page.

Finally, there's the "favorite son" bit: Vermin Supreme makes his home right here in my very own town, not two miles from where I am currently typing. It would do this burg no end of good to bring in the additional tourism generated by locating the "Eastern White House" right here on Cape Ann!

I find it slightly odd that, though Mr Supreme has been mentioned in the local newspaper, I have yet to see a single "Supreme in '12" bumper sticker, yard sign or lapel button anywhere in town.

If, in time, you see someone so equipped, that'll be me. As soon as Mr Supreme makes 'em available, that is. I can even forgive his involvement in the "Occupy Boston" debacle. Other Massachusetts politicos were far more offensive during that mess....

For quite a while, too much attention to politics has made me want to throw up. Thanks to Vermin Supreme, I've been able to smile a bit lately when contemplating the horde of goons, felons and self-anointed royalty infesting D.C. That, in and of itself, is something....

* Whose real and enduring claim to fame is the coining of the words "normalcy" and "bloviate."

** Photo stolen from the web, via some other blogger who stole it from a legit photographer without giving a credit line.

Sweet!

2011-12-17T11:54:00.006-05:00

One of the Christmas traditions here in Sandy Bay is an "open house" at Tuck's Candy Factory....

Yes, that's World Famous Motif #1© in the background....

On weekends between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Tuck's invites the public to come into the factory and see how their candies (a wide array of chocolates, hard candies and salt-water taffy, in a bewildering range of flavors) are made. It's all done the old-fashioned labor-intensive way; that's no surprise, as Tuck's has been around since 1929.

The hard candies begin with a large quantity of sugar, cut slightly with water and cream of tartar, heated to 300 degrees in a copper kettle, at which point it has become a syrupy mass. The liquid is poured onto a special table, where it begins to cool...

Somehow, I was reminded of my days working with fiberglass....

From there, the sweet globs are hung from a hook, where they are twisted and pulled to remove air bubbles. Flavoring (peppermint, etc.) is also added at this stage....

The mixture turns white (sort of) as air is forced out

Then the stretched, tugged and flavored sugar paste, still cooling, is taken to yet another table, where it is further pummeled and either rolled into long, thin tubes (for hand-formed candy canes) or stretched flat and cut into discrete strips to be fed into a vintage hand-cranked machine...

Some engineer spent hours -- maybe days! -- designing this candy machine....

It emerges from the fiendish device as ribbon candy, to the delight of the audience....


Will there be free samples???

Other types of candies are produced by machines of similar vintage. The taffy-wrapping device (older than Tuck's!) is worth a separate post and, in time, will get one. But the small-mint cutter is neat, too...


Oddly enough, Tuck's doesn't sell these mini-mints nowadays

I'm not that much of a candy-eater, but enjoyed watching the show and very much enjoyed munching on samples. All that hand-work pays off: I've never tasted better candy! And yes, I put my name in the box for a chance to win the Christmas six-foot chocolate-filled candy cane!

P.S. I'll do the same when Tuck's has a drawing for its giant chocolate rabbit come Easter....

PARENTHETICAL TOO-GOOD-TO-LEAVE-OUT THOUGHT: The local newspaper never disappoints. This little gem comes from Friday's police blotter: "A woman called to report a barking dog on White Way at 12:46 a.m. Wednesday and was referred to the dog officer. According to police, the caller said she had spoken to the dog, but that it had refused to comply with her request that it stop barking."

All I can say is: "Woof...."

Fa la la la la...

2011-12-04T18:15:00.001-05:00

...and so on.

Despite my own Grinchishness, which has traditionally kept all thoughts of the upcoming Non-secular Winter Holiday -- that would be Christmas -- out of my head 'til roughly December 20th, D. and I went down to Sandy Bay's chilly downtown last evening to see annual rituals performed.

First, of course, was the arrival of Ol' Saint Nick, who naturally makes his way into town on a fishing boat, accompanied by the Harbormaster and Coast Guard....

The sleigh and reindeer are probably belowdecks....

After the vessel moored, Santa found getting up on the wharf -- the same wharf on which World-Famous Motif #1© is located -- somewhat problematic, but there's no doubt he just didn't have his land legs yet....

The local reporter for the next town's newspaper claimed Santa would "walk up the ladder...."

After that, he transferred to the Forest Fire Department's truck, a restored classic, for a trip through town....

Not a sleigh, and the reindeer are likely forbidden by law from wandering around downtown.

After cheering on Santa, the throng -- far larger than a crowd, almost a multitude -- were enthusiastic as one of the Selectmen (actually, it was the Chairpersoness of the Selectpeople) lit the town Christmas tree.

Then they went home....

Sandy Bay is thoroughly modern...we have electricity!

Cold, even chilly, but festive!

Ho, ho, ho....

The Museum Expands...

2011-11-09T14:06:00.001-05:00

...in fact, it has doubled in size!

A couple of days ago, D. and I were out doing errands and decided to stop at a local thrift store to check out the merchandise.

I don't recall us actually buying anything there before now, as they never have bookcases, their selection of books doesn't match either the Transfer Station's "Book Barn" or the library sales, and the rest of what they carry tends to be standard thrift-store fare, which is stuff I don't want/need.

But on this trip, one item called out to me. Its calls were amplified by a $5.00 pricetag. I didn't haggle; I bought.

I wonder if everyone recognizes this....

This is my second Smith-Corona typewriter. I started with my parents' ancient Underwood, graduated to the S-C, and ended up with a Remington-Rand electric before joining the Computer Age back in 1987.

A little cleaning and a replacement ribbon (I hope someone still makes typewriter ribbons) and it will be just fine. Everything works as-is.

Now that I have this, all I need to survive the Apocalypse would be a Linotype machine and a printing press....

Don't think I'm kidding -- I would love to have both!

Along with a 4 X 5 Speed Graphic "press" camera (with bulb flash) and a fedora, naturally.

PARENTHETICAL JUST-IN-CASE-YOU'VE-FORGOTTEN THOUGHT: The other half of my Typewriter Museum was introduced here....

Why I Feel Old, reason #271,658.

2011-11-04T20:57:00.001-04:00

One of the little things I've taken on to bring in a little loot -- and to keep myself in at least a small corner of a world I enjoy -- is service work on a small pipe organ in a local church.

I've worked on a number of pipe organs over the last 45 or so years, some large, some small, in churches, homes and auditoriums. Most were built between roughly 1920 and 1930. Like any aging machinery, they can be touchy beasts, but are usually repairable with applications of leather, felt and glue. Plus, at times, short lengths of wire and/or pieces of wood. Simple skills are required, really, not much beyond trained-monkey status, even when you get to tuning and fine adjustments to the way the pipes sound.

This one seems likely to be more cantankerous than most.

This is what it looked like in mid-1920, when first installed.

To tell the truth, it looks about the same today. In fact, if all the parts behind the pipe facade (more pipes, plus the various mechanical devices that operate them) were as-installed, I'd find coping with its foibles rather pleasant.

Unfortunately, someone decided to "improve" it about 20 years ago, and added some medium-tech solid-state hardware to operate some of its controls. Therein lies my frustration.

PARENTHETICAL NOT-AS-MUCH-OF-A-GEEZER-AS-YOU-THINK THOUGHT: I really do appreciate a lot of modern stuff. I can use a computer (I guess that's obvious) and enjoy switching on a TV and not having to wait for the vacuum tubes to warm up. Listening to CDs without winding a record player seems kinda cool, too. And I'm very aware of -- and comfortable with -- the fact that movies talk now....

But said solid-state hardware wasn't working. The organist doesn't even remember when it did work, but wants it to. So I went in* and looked at the maze of circuit boards and tangles of added wire. Since no smoke came out when the power was turned on, I assumed that the wiring really was as poorly done as it appears to be.

Even with this dim spark of knowledge, it too me several hours of tracing and tightening connections and touching-up solder joints before it actually worked. I'm not celebrating yet; a few weeks ago (without any connection-tightening), the system came to life on its own...for about five minutes. Then it went dead again. But it has now worked for roughly an hour.

Most of it has, anyway. I'll go back tomorrow to chase down a related problem. I am, however, feeling more confident after having gotten the major part of the system going.

I mention this not to display my ignorance of transistorized things, but to draw a contrast between original and improved. When I started working on these things, all the 1920s (and older) technology was maintained, not thrown away in favor of new stuff. When a system failed, it was a matter mostly of looking at it to make a diagnosis (leather wore out, wire contacts sometimes bent or broke, felt-covered valves would wear to the point where they wouldn't work and gaskets would eventually leak air), then making the necessary repairs. No circuit-testing devices or user's manuals were required. In contrast, most of the people who work on these things today will automatically throw out old controls and replace them with solid-state electronics because that makes things better (in their view).

All well and good, but when the new systems fail, they fail completely. The old stuff? Failures tended to be isolated, and the organist could play around them.

Had this particular organ (a moderately priced instrument built in Boston by a relatively unknown builder**) retained all its original parts, the repairs would not have taken many hours spread over several days. They would have been completed in a day. And the repairs would likely last 50 years or more. As it is, I'm reluctant to even call the organist and advise her of the current repairs, as I'm not 100% certain they'll be working on Sunday.

I love doing most of this stuff, and have done a lot of free work over the years. I'm charging for this, but not as much as a professional pipe-organ tech would. Figured on a per-hour rate, I'd make just as much lying on the couch at home reading, I think.

At least I'm nearing the end of the solid-state mess. If repairs are completed tomorrow, I can go on to address some of the other problems behind that facade. That's the fun part, if you ask me, the wood-and-leather-and-felt stuff. I know how to do that.

This work will go on for some time. The list of things needing attention is long. Once I get through the really annoying problems and get the organ in fine playing shape, I'm seriously tempted to go into D.'s workshop and craft replicas of the original parts the "improver" threw away. They'll be made of wood, leather and felt. And they will likely outlast me.

I'm not going into a Good Old Days Were Better rap here, but I do wish a few more products of the past were being preserved. They had character missing from our injection-molded, computer-controlled age and could be repaired by normal humans using basic tools. For what it's worth, in the case of pipe organs, they tended to sound better, too.

End of story. I can hear the sound of readers' eyes glazing over....

* Getting "in" means removing a couple of wooden panels on the case (to the left of the keyboards) and crawling into a cramped space, taking along a work light and whatever tools might be needed. It's neither clean nor comfortable -- a lot of old-time organ mechanics I knew were built more like Billy Barty than Kobe Bryant -- but over the years I've gotten used to tight quarters when doing organ work. Good thing I'm not claustrophobic!

** If anyone cares (and I don't know why they should), this instrument was built by the Kimball & Frazee company. People who know about organs will perk up their ears when one says "Boston organ builder," since they will assume that the organ came from the E.M. Skinner company, which built some of the world's most magnificent organs. Say "Kimball & Frazee," and the response is sure to be "who?"

Distracted again...

2011-10-16T15:38:00.000-04:00

...by members of Sandy Bay's cat population.

Suspicious? Me?

The town has lots of felines slinking around, though most seem to prefer being indoors. Can't say as I blame them, as the weather is turning cool. It's a good time for them to be indoors looking out....

Some even have their own spaces for loafing, playing, sleeping and generally ignoring whatever they want to ignore. That's obviously tiring work....


Every cat needs a picture window.

PARENTHETICAL EQUAL-TIME-BECAUSE-I'M-AN-EQUAL-TIME-KINDA-GUY NOTE: Naturally, there are plenty of dogs here as well. Most are friendly, a few are standoffish, and fewer still are downright annoying. I've seldom felt much interest in photographing them, preferring cats as subjects -- and companions. There are exceptions!

The latest in canine fall fashions.

No, I have not forgotten to post a few more New Hampshuh pictures. Any day now....

Oh, what a tangled web...

2011-10-14T17:15:00.000-04:00

...and so on. I'm not that hot for quotations. Unless I'm quoting myself, which is fine.

Not really so tangled, I guess....

It would appear that we have some fairly hefty spiders in the neighborhood, no?

Saw the web earlier today when we took a walk to the waterfront to see what conditions were like, fog-wise. It was foggy, all right. Humid, too. And rain began to fall just as we were getting home. Summed up, a nice Fall day.

Things were quiet on the water....

I have to say I've been waiting for the Ocean Reporter to sink ever since I arrived in Sandy Bay. It's such a disreputable-looking tub. But even if the owner cobbled it together out of materials discarded at area boatyards, scraps from the Transfer Station and pieces that have fallen off cars, trucks and other boats, I'm told it is a sturdy beast capable of enduring lots of abuse and bad weather without taking a drop of water through its plates.

I'm still planning to post a few more New Hampshuh photos, but was distracted by shooting in the fog today. I love fog, and some day I'll even make a picture that shows it off to best advantage. Didn't today, though.

Fall Colors.

2011-10-13T21:34:00.001-04:00

The color change from summer green to fall yellow, orange, red, etc. seems to be a Rather Big Deal in this part of the world, and a slight mystery to me, who spent the majority of my life in places where foliage went directly from green to brown to bare-branch with little or no transition.

This meant that a trip to New Hampshuh was necessary, so D., her mother and daughter and I piled into the car for a northward run. It was a delightful two days.

Of course one of the first lessons a photographer learns is that neat things don't always become neat pictures. Vivid flora abounded, but wasn't necessarily arranged so that it made for good images. I managed, but it took time and a lot of shooting....

Naturally, there was much more to see than a bunch of trees and plants changing hues. We also went up the Mount Washington Auto Road, billed as the "oldest man-made attraction in America," which is celebrating its 150th birthday this year. A nit-picker -- that would be me -- might point out that it could not have been known as an "auto road" for most of its first half-century, as there were no automobiles in 1861. But never mind that.

We ascended to the summit. Not, alas, with me behind the wheel. Now that I think of it, that might have been a Good Thing, as I have the impression that D. has never seen herself riding with me at 165 mph on the track at Daytona; nor has she likely longed to be in the passenger's seat cruising along at 185 mph on a German Autobahn. The more sedate guided van tour was chosen, and if she was picking up my thoughts as I checked out the road during the trip ("accelerate hard now...heavy on the brakes...downshift...start turning...clip the apex of the corner here...accelerate...") she didn't exactly refuse when I insisted I will drive next time we're visiting Mount Washington.

The climb is amazingly rapid, going from ground level through forest -- yes, more Fall Colors -- and ending up at the summit, well above the tree line. Though the weather was fine while we were there, it can be dramatically different -- often worse -- on top than what's encountered at the base. Apparently, the weather station at the peak recorded a wind speed of 231 mph on a blustery day back in the 1930s....

It's a beautiful place, with plenty to see both on the road and at the peak, but somehow photos don't really get the point across.

There are three ways to climb the mountain: road, hiking trails, and the cog railway. You can see road and railway in the above photo....

Speaking of railroads, we stayed in North Conway, which is also the home of the North Conway Scenic Railroad. Conditions permitting, I would have opted for an extra day or two just to check out the trips offered and take a leisurely look at the wonderful collection of classic locomotives, railcars and general memorabilia gathered there.

This too was a natural for taking photos, and I did, coming away with many, many photos; I have too many to choose from! So instead of showing them (yet, anyway), here's a peek inside the beautifully restored station:

I haven't sorted all the trip photos yet (there were more than 180 from our two days, plus those D. took), and frankly I'm a bit under the weather (and therefore not overly energetic) today. I think I've got a bit of a cold. Or it might just be my normal allergic reaction to yuppie tourists, who filled the sidewalks of North Conway and its curio, trinket and bauble shops.

Even if it hadn't been as great a trip as it was, the excursion definitely got my travel-juices flowing again. Just think: a little more driving and we might have added Berlin or Lebanon to our agenda!

PARENTHETICAL MULTI-COLORED THOUGHT: yes: we're getting Fall Colors here as well, but D. thinks they are nowhere near as vivid as they were in New Hampshuh. Based on limited experience, I can only agree.

Wings of Freedom

2011-09-20T11:41:00.003-04:00

I was sitting in my office Sunday morning when I thought I heard a four-engine aircraft flying overhead. We occasionally see and hear planes from Logan Airport here, but this was a propeller plane, not a jet. I asked D. whether any local fields housed such craft, and she directed me to check into Beverly Airport. Their website listed the "Wings of Freedom" traveling air show, and Sunday was the last full day.

Among the planes listed for display and tours was a Boeing B-17. This has special significance to D.'s mother, whose brother, Sergeant Hugh Jennings, was killed in 1942 when the B-17 he was riding in crashed on a training flight in Idaho. She wanted to see this one, and so did D. So did I. It was a beautiful day to be outdoors; making the choice between working and heading over to Beverly was easy.

There was a large crowd on hand to see the B-17 "Flying Fortress" and B-24 "Liberator" heavy bombers, P-51 Mustang and Vought F-4U Corsair fighters and T-6 and Stearman (biplane) pilot trainers. Flights were offered (at budget-busting rates) as well as the inexpensive tours inside the B-17 and B-24. We opted to join the long line for the B-17 walk-through.

"Walk-through" is something of a misnomer. Space is at a premium inside these warbirds; most of their bulk is filled with hardware. It was impossible to spend any time inside without thinking of what the crews of these planes experienced under combat conditions. Taking a moment to steady oneself and look around was not an option for those brave men.

Time and the mass of people worked against getting good photography, particularly of the planes' exteriors. Those shots I liked ended up being of details, with people cropped out.

One of the B-17's four Wright "Cyclone" engines

The bombardier and nose gunner's bay

Bombardier's position from outside, with nose gun turret below

The last photo struck me as having a bit of WWII-vintage LIFE magazine feel when converted to black & white.

I know where the B-17 and B-24 are kept when not being sent off to air shows. Their "home" field will be having an event in October, and D. and I are considering heading over for that. There are several other noteworthy aircraft in the collection there, as well as some significant cars.

Just can't get enough of these. I've been fortunate to have seen B-17s and B-24s in flight -- the number of survivors in flying condition is pitifully small, so such opportunities are rare -- and am always ready for more. I'm ready to take many more photos, too.

Twins!

2011-09-17T18:21:00.000-04:00

Can you tell which of these lamps cost me $19.95 last week at Home Depot and which was free yesterday at the Transfer Station (dump, to you)?

Designer lamps...oooh, shiny!

I didn't think so.

Actually, I can tell the difference: the Home Depot lamp has a clear power cord, while the freebie's cord is black. Also, I had to assemble the Home Depot lamp.

Neat, huh?

In real life -- as opposed to artificially posing for the camera -- they stand in opposite corners of the Nerve Center. I suppose I don't need both, but I like having them and, when we find a comfy chair for D. to use for reading or just being in the room with me, we'll each have a light to use.

I have no idea where we'll get the chair. Might be at a furniture store, or it might be at one of the resale shops around here.

Or it might be at the Transfer Station.

I love this place!

PARENTHETICAL FRESH-TRICKS-NOT-LEARNABLE-BY-ELDERLY-POOCHES THOUGHT: I had a lamp exactly like this one in the last place Where I Used to Live. Thought it was cool then, and still think so. I'm attracted to design-y stuff, even when it's cheap. Especially when it's cheap. Got it at Home Depot, too. For $19.95. It's probably in some stranger's low-rent pad now....

Changing the subject...

2011-09-15T19:27:00.003-04:00

...from what I originally intended to write. I planned to put up a post about our attendance at this week's Town Meeting here, as the governing system seems to have been devised by the settlers who came off the Mayflower. I thought it'd be quaint.

I blame Horatio Alger for this. Some of the stories in his boys' books mentioned town selectmen, most often as a dour, Puritanical and steady bunch. Our selectmen -- there are three women on the board, but they are also selectmen -- don't quite fit the bill, Alger-wise.

But the Town Meeting, held twice a year, is at least a place where the citizens come together to vote on the town's major issues, and that is a welcome change from the elect-'em-and-forget-'em mentality of many cities which, at least where I lived, led to corruption, atrocious debt, and a lot of just plain nonsense. Here, about two percent of the population showed up, and the discussions and voting made for a lively (and long) evening.

Still, I deleted two attempts to write in detail, because there was a fair amount of lunacy involved at times, and at more than one point the whole thing started to smell of politics. Politics -- even small-time politics -- interests me, but also angers me, so I decided not to go there by subjecting you to a full (boring) description.

Let's just say that, whether through an outbreak of common sense or just plain luck, a couple of issues I cared about as a local voter were handled properly.

So....

Didn't they appear on "America's Got Talent" a couple of seasons ago?

I herewith present The Garden Report:

We had decidedly mixed results with our efforts to grow foodstuffs this year. We planted tomatoes -- a can't-fail crop -- along with broccoli, carrots, cantaloupes, cucumbers and pumpkins.

First, the total failures, broccoli and cantaloupes. The broccoli grew nicely, but didn't, well, broccolize. Nice plants, but nothing remotely edible. We got cantaloupes, but they were tiny and grew so slowly that we knew they'd never mature, and the bugs got at 'em.

Carrots were no great success either. They grew, but not much, and when we finally yanked them out we managed, by very careful slicing, to get enough for D. and me to enjoy them in one dinner salad. One. Out of the whole season. Pfui.

Cucumbers did better. We got several, and one or two more might be edible before the season sputters to a close. Tomatoes also grew, but we tried two varieties (li'l bitty ones and huge-O Atomic Tomatoes) and, thanks to the bees spreading pollen around haphazardly (we think), ended up with a lot of mutant fruits. Some never ripened.

Our First Tomato -- each of us got one yummy bite....

Let it be said that the cucumbers and tomatoes were delicious, as good as I've ever eaten. We used both in a number of salads through the summer, and made tomato sandwiches with the monstro 'matoes. My disgust with store-bought fruits and veggies will no doubt increase to exceptional levels through the winter.

Roll on next Spring, when we'll try it again, taking certain steps -- starting the growing season sooner, separating tomato varieties, possibly choosing different crops, and so on -- to improve the product.

And the pumpkin? The jury is still out. We have one, not as large as expected, but turning a nice pumpkin-y color. We have hopes it will be ready for Hallowe'en, but that's more than a month away and no one is certain it'll actually make it.

Much more interesting (and non-controversial) than the Board of Selectmen and the Town Meeting!

Breaking News -- World Headquarters Now Open!

2011-09-08T18:17:00.000-04:00

Yes, with the hanging of some art on the walls, my plush office suite is now complete! Well, except for another bookcase or two, a chair for D., a floor lamp, and other trivial items....

But the Big Stuff is in place: Walls, flooring -- nice heavy-duty tile* -- and all the other must-have items.

Take a look:

The Control Center

The panther on the wall is one of the animals D. created for a local church's float in the Sandy Bay Fourth of July parade. Another, an okapi, is on the wall of her workshop. They were too cool to dispose of when the float was dismantled.

Otherwise, it's the usual stuff: A desk (built from a dining table someone discarded at the dump) holds computer and printer. There are bookcases on the left wall, and another will go against the right wall. The chair is pushed to the side so's you can see the floor tile (installed mainly by D., like everything else from floor joists to wall studs, drywall and ceiling tiles). Looks quite nice with the Castle Path walls, no?

The side wall

Here, you can see bookcases, a utility cabinet, my keyboard (a gift from JohnO) and the "art" we hung on the walls, namely six of my favorite prints from the "shoes-on-a-wire" photo series I made back in 2006-08. Makes the room feel more comfortable.

The other two walls are still bare, but we have some potential decoration for them as well. I have a very neat photo D. took, plus a painting done years ago by a family friend. One or two other photos and a piece of sheet music from the 1920s may get framed and hung as well. So -- since it's my office -- might my autographed photo of Russ Meyer.

I love my office. Not just because it's a relaxing place to work, but -- this is much more important -- because D. put so much work into it. Can't really adequately express my appreciation for that!

* Ironically, the stuff that looked best was down in the low-price stacks at Lowe's (or was it Home Depot?). The fancier the tile, the less it fit in to the Grand Scheme....

Schooner or later*

2011-09-04T19:05:00.000-04:00

Today was the Parade of Ships at Gloucester, part of the big Schooner Festival. D. and I went, arriving early so as not to miss the flotilla in action.

Lovely.

Sadly, the weather was not lovely: Overcast skies and and a high-humidity opacity to the air made photography problematic. I shot 99 photos -- D. took something like 120 -- and very few pleased me.

But the ships were great.

That's the old Tarr & Wonson Paint Factory (a local landmark) on the opposite shore left

The best of my pictures responded to the black & white treatment. I like this one, as it doesn't really look so much like 2011.

But the organizers put a bit of a damper on the picture-taking fun by not banning powerboats while the schooners were sailing around the bay. I deleted a lot of images simply because, for me, seeing those modern fiberglass lumps amid the sailing craft just felt wrong.

Yes, I did have little mental flashes of zipping through the ships with a WWII PT boat, all three big Packard V12 engines at full cry, but that's just me. Can't afford a PT boat anyway. And torpedoes are too expensive to fire off just for laughs....

A very enjoyable Sunday morning. I got to see -- and photograph -- some neat ships, came back with a handful of good photos, and D. came back with some better shots, one of which can only be called capital-A Art.

* Those who also read D.'s blog will notice she used the same title. I howled in outrageous outrage when I saw it, whining that I was going to use that title. It's a case of great minds thinking alike, as both of us left the event thinking of using it. Hmpf....

Just My Type

2011-09-03T15:32:00.002-04:00

D. and I hit a couple of yard sales around here this morning. There was nothing specific on the "look-for" list (although I was, as always, hot for books and bookcases, which weren't on sale today), but it was a lovely morning and a bit of wandering seemed like a great idea.

One of the sales was, well, interesting. It was an everything-must-go "estate sale," which meant we could wander through a house filled to the gunwales with knick-knacks and objects of all kinds, plus three or four well-fed kittycats lurking to see what all the fuss was about.

And I bought something:

Initially, I mistook it for a label-maker

It's a Simplex Typewriter, Model 1, vintage 1892 (so one info source says), nestled in its original box. It would be difficult to imagine a simpler device: the operator inks a little pad below the "keys," turns the type-wheel to the desired letter and pushes the lever next to the wheel. The wheel moves automatically, and there's a latch that allows it to return at the end of each line.

By modern standards -- even then-current standards -- it's pretty basic. A standard sheet of paper won't fit, and the stop-and-add-ink routine would get tiring in a hurry.

I look at it as a kind of primitive Blackberry on which people of that day could tap out their "text messages."

Later versions, it is said, added lower-case letters. In any event, the Simplex Typewriter was gone by the early 1920s or thereabouts. They were produced in huge quantities, and apparently many survive.

So why did I buy it? It's neat and I like it, that's why. Also, the seller initially named a price that was roughly the sum I would have offered, and reduced it quickly when I hesitated. Without haggling, I thought it a good deal.

And I like toys.

Besides, one cannot be a writer without owning a typewriter. I will from now on mention the little Simplex to anyone who questions my bona fides as a writer....

Books!

2011-09-02T14:30:00.001-04:00

Have I ever mentioned how much I love books?

Didn't think so....

One of the saddest aspects of my forced move from Where I Used to Live was the loss of my library. I managed to grab a few tomes during the hectic and unhappy evacuation but, as I later found out when the great friend who stored them for me shipped them to Sandy Bay, a number of prized books were still lost.

On the bright side, I have begun to replace them. I bought a few while in Texas, mostly minor works high in amusement value. That helped, and I almost needed a small bookcase when I settled in here.

Things are looking up. I'm discovering that this area is a treasure trove for fine books, and the sources are most unlikely: one is the Transfer Station (dump, to you), which has a small building in which are displayed books people would otherwise throw away. I've found some excellent books there; for space reasons, I've even left some behind that I would otherwise have glommed because they weren't either books I wanted to replace or books I really wanted to read.. I've taken a few idle-reading novels that might end up back there, however.

Likewise, the local supermarket has a table set up by the Animal Aid Society where one can grab whatever's there and leave a small donation. Good source, but inconsistent.

The other major suppliers have been a thrift store, a church's annual sale (not just books there, but all kinds of goodies) and the library's book sale.

Between them, I've scored pretty well, replacing lost books either directly (in one instance, a superb two-volume biography of Theodore Roosevelt, Volume One got lost and was replaced at the church sale) or with others covering the same subject matter.

It's what you might call "a start...."

Oh, I have a long way to go, and will soon be consulting my online sources for some books I want/need. A few will soak up the spondulix -- I'm not ready to shell out 500 scoots for a two-volume work I'm desperate to own -- but some appear to be far less expensive than I feared.

Next: records (I lost all those, too). A start has already been made, thanks to the transfer station (D. found a copy of the original disc of Songs by Tom Lehrer there!), and there's a record store in the next town that is crammed to the rafters with good/odd/downright weird records. We've grabbed a couple there, and will soon head back for more.

This all may take a long time, but I'm no longer so antsy about Instant Gratification. Besides, in my new and somewhat busier lifestyle, I'm not able to devote countless hours to reading as I used to, and already have a backlog of interesting stuff to peruse.

PARENTHETICAL IT'S-DEEPLY-WEIRD-OUT-HERE NOTE: I present, without comment, an unedited copy of a news item that appeared yesterday in the local paper under the headline "Police find no injuries, damage in Bridge Street mishap: MANCHESTER -- A resident who backed his car into a bush on his Bridge Street property called Manchester Police to report the accident Wednesday at 6:50 a.m. According to the police log, however, officers found no injuries, and the vehicle wasn't damaged."

Nature's fury, unleashed...

2011-08-28T19:43:00.000-04:00

...aided, of course, by a long, long lens on the camera, which "compresses" the image and makes the waves look even bigger than they were....

A beach scene not far from Sandy Bay

All the best TV reporters know how to set up shots like this, as everyone who has been watching the news during the past few days will know.

As a matter of record, there was little damage around here, even though we did get some fairly brisk winds. One of our tomato plants took it on whatever passes for the chin on a tomato plant, a few local dead tree branches broke off, and there's lots of leafy debris around. The ground is pretty well saturated, too.

Tomorrow, it is said, will be sunny.

I'm secretly glad that Irene thing didn't cause more destruction, and am more than amused -- admittedly, in some cases, somewhat disgusted -- by official responses to the storm's threat, but remain a bit sad that my very first East Coast Hurricane turned out to be something of a dud.

We won't need to buy any more drinking water for a day or two, that's for sure....

Ah, well, back to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow. Must push to find more work, the organist who plays the pipe organ I've been messing with apparently has a short list of things she wants fixed, and this would of course be a nice week for the check owed me for my last writing job to appear.

But tomorrow will be sunny. I like that.

Surveying the carnage...

2011-08-28T11:14:00.000-04:00

...caused by Whatevertheheckitis Irene.

There are twigs down everywhere, and some street flooding as deep as an eighth-inch. What with the wind and rain, I'm told it's kinda like experiencing a Nor'easter, but without the bad storm parts.

Ghouls that we are, D. and I went into town this morning to see what was still standing. Couldn't find the Swath of Destruction, alas, but both of us aimed our cameras at the same spot....

Still vigilant, Mango surveys storm damage today at Bearskin Neck

The TV people say the worst is yet to come for this area -- maybe, unless it doesn't happen -- but we keep on keepin' on. If Mango can take it, so can we!

Waiting for...

2011-08-27T15:05:00.001-04:00

...Hurricane Irene?

Tropical Storm Irene?

Heavy Drizzle Irene?

According to everyone, if by "everyone" you mean meteorological experts like the current president and the anchors and reporters on the TV networks' news teams, this could be -- apparently must be -- a four-alarm disaster of a "historic" storm, hell-bent on bringing Doom to the East Coast. We here in Sandy Bay are within a hundred or so miles (or two hundred or so miles, depending on who's talking) of the Dreaded Storm Track.

Eeek!

Problem is, Irene is doing what hurricanes do, changing course and weakening as it crosses either land or cold water. The projected wind speeds and rainfall totals for our area have been gradually cut back over the last couple of days.

Even so, the TV is filled with Tracking Irene!!! and Hurricane Watch!!! stories. They can't loosen their grip on the Death & Destruction story any more than can Mayor Mike "the sky is falling!" Bloomberg. Part of that is CYA, of course, presented just in case the floodwaters are tinted red with blood and entire cities are leveled, but a lot more has to do with reporters' love for the dramatic ("if it bleeds, it leads") and Bloomberg's knee-jerk nanny-ism.

We are Prepared! We've put extensions on the rain gutter drains, bought an extra two gallons of drinking water at the market and are breathlessly awaiting every Breaking News flash on TV.

Well, not the latter....

It's pretty clear that people in this area are taking the whole thing pretty calmly. Not that nothing is being done; oh, no. It's just that the preparations to welcome the remains of the Hurricane from Hell are rather low-key here. Just the way I like it.

Mango, exemplifying the pre-hurricane panic this morning down on Bearskin Neck

Just between us, I'll admit I was hoping for a little more Weather Action from this Irene thing. I've been through earthquakes, of course, and got a few chuckles out of the way Easterners were freaked out by last week's li'l shaker. But I've never seen a hurricane, and would like to have peeped out at least the edge of an active one.

That said, when there's a choice between me being bored and people being hurt, I'll take boredom every time.

New toy!

2011-08-25T19:21:00.001-04:00

Yes, I have one.

Before I write about it, let me say things have been busy here: work (completed; now awaiting a token of appreciation -- that would be a check -- from the client), payment received for the last article I wrote and first round of pipe-organ work, some running around and general Good Times.

To celebrate, I invested some of the spondulix that have flowed in -- well, dribbled in -- on a new camera.

PARENTHETICAL YA-GOTTA-TAKE-A-CHANCE-WHEN-YA-CAN THOUGHT: It's actually a "refurbished" unit direct from the manufacturer. The same thing worked out fine with my last computer purchase some years ago, which happens to be the computer I still use, and saved me a whole buncha loot. You hope they fixed what was wrong with it the first time, but if they did you get a piece of good equipment for substantially less than the "new" price. I could not have afforded this one any other way

It's far from The Ultimate, mainly because my bank account isn't up to Ultimate-type stuff. But it's an upscale example of its type. A Canon (which I prefer), with an optical viewfinder, plenty of sensible adjustments hidden among the gimmicks (I'm still getting used to which is which, which will take a while), 12.1 megapixel resolution and a 20X zoom lens. Like every other Canon lens I've ever had, this one is tack-sharp.

The camera also has "image stabilization" and can shoot at elevated ASA/ISO settings, which means it's usable in low light without a tripod. If a 'pod is handy, that's better, naturally.

Here's a photo I snapped last night....

Annisquam River, Gloucester, MA

Yes, it's "grainy" -- shooting at ISO 800 will do that -- but I happen to like the effect.

This has me kinda fired up about taking photos again. It's much the same way I felt when D. sent me a camera to replace the trusty digi (also a Canon) that died at about Age Six.

When I get some good ones, I'll be posting 'em.

Other stuff, too.

But right now, I have a hurricane to track. That evil "Irene" is said to be headed our way and, depending on whom you happen to believe, will bring Vast Devastation, A Major Catastrophe, or maybe some high wind gusts and an inch or two of rain.

No matter what, might be an opportunity to grab some interesting photos!

Or not.

Busy times around here...

2011-08-05T23:04:00.000-04:00

...but it hasn't all been work.

PARENTHETICAL A-LOT-OF-IT-ACTUALLY-HAS-BEEN-WORK THOUGHT: D. has had lots of piano clients sending in jobs lately, some of which I've been able to help a bit with. That has eaten up a lot of time. So has chasing down an errant check for an article recently completed, and starting in on yet another piece for the same client. Another addition has been doing some pipe-organ service for a local church. It's been a while since I've done much of that, but a hasty repair -- which saw D. and me toiling down there at 11:00 one recent Saturday night to get the poor old thing ready for a Sunday service -- was followed by a request for some more ambitious renovation which was completed last week. More seems sure to come. Won't make me rich (so far, nothing has, doggone it), but it's work I enjoy and D. likes to help with it, which she does very skillfully.

What was I going to write about before I so rudely interrupted myself? Oh, yeah: it hasn't all been work, and yesterday saw us heading off -- with D's mother and daughter -- to the semi-wilds of New Hampshire for a day at an amusement park.

Canobie Lake Park has been in operation since 1902. Of course its operators have taken note of all the major competitors, so now it's a kind of junior-grade Disneyland, with dashes of Knott's Berry Farm, Universal's whatever-they-call-it, Six Flags and all the rest. But Canobie Lake comes off rather nicely by comparison, not because it has any rides that deviate from standard fare (they don't), or because much of the original has survived (the carousel is old, and a couple of repurposed buildings date back to the 1930s or 40s), but because it all somehow seems more human and, well, friendly.

The rides we went on were fun, but equally enjoyable for me was just looking which, as usual, meant snapping a few photos:

One of several roller coasters at Canobie Lake

This one's called "Da Vinci's Dream," and I'm hoping ol' Leo had a fairly strong stomach if he dreamed of riding this....

One of my favorite styles of architecture: no need for a sign to tell you what's sold here!

Ditto for this structure. Didn't seem to be doing much business, though....

Somehow, it seemed as if the people who designed the park had a good time imagining what was to go in and what it was to look like. A vast majority of the customers seemed to be enjoying the place, too. The water-park sections (and a ride called "the Boston Tea Party," which anywhere else would have been the usual kind of log-in-a-flume ride but was given a local historical theme here) were quite popular, since almost everyone loves a good soaking on a hot day.

Me? I'm ready to go back again, ready to ride more rides and take more pictures. For my taste, Canobie Lake is right up there with Castle Park (in Riverside County, California) as an amusement park I consider worth going to. Part of that was the company, of course, but these two places lack the soulless and calculated feel of the major parks. It's like choosing a particularly well-stocked, competitively priced and clean mom-and-pop store over Wal-Mart.

But enough of this "amusement" stuff. Work calls....

Bad, bad me...

2011-06-02T22:23:00.001-04:00

...as I just haven't been in the mood to write much here.

It's not as though nothing's happening. I've kept relatively busy helping D. with her work, doing this and that around the house, painting my Deluxe Office -- I'll be moving the computer, my books, and assorted stuff down there soon -- and, on occasion, heading out for small adventures.

Today, D. took me to a state park near Newburyport. It's a former estate covering considerable acreage along the Merrimack River. We covered a fair distance on its trails and paths, and had a good time. The weather was glorious, if a wee bit too windy. D. has been there countless times, and there's no doubt we'll be heading back there again soon. It's that kind of place.

Sadly, the photo-muse wasn't biting today, or my camera wasn't working well, or both. The pictures really didn't turn out as intended. I'll do better -- or at least spend more time getting the photos right -- next time.

This photo I'll share. Apparently someone took their dog to the park regularly, which it enjoyed. It has since headed off for Doggie Heaven, and its owners created a little memorial for it, which neither the park rangers nor other visitors have bothered....

"Valentino" had good taste in places to play. When I manage to get some good images, or at least fiddle the ones I have so they look more like I want them to, I'll put 'em up.

All else is the usual Good Stuff. Busy times....

Why I love this place -- Reason # 12,387

2011-05-26T21:50:00.002-04:00

I received a package in the mail today, one of several coming from a close personal and professional friend back Where I Used to Live. He stored some of my books, recordings and other items rendered homeless at the time of the Great Exodus last year. Now, they are ready to be reunited with me. After all, I can store the books in my new Deluxe Office, now nearing completion....

Which only peripherally has to do with today's "why I love it here" moment.

After doing some inside work this morning, I decided to enjoy the sunny -- if slightly humid -- outdoors for a few minutes. I had walked down to the end of the block and partway down Main Street when the mail carrier drove up and stopped. She said "I have a package for you, and you have to sign for it...here's the card, sign here and here, and I'll drop it off up at the house when I get there."

Imagine that. I've been here a shade less than two months, and the mail carrier knows me, knows my name, knows where I live.... Anyone who has lived the majority of their life in big, anonymous and relatively soulless places where one is lucky to learn a few names in their immediate vicinity -- and Los Angeles is sure as hell one of those -- will understand why I find this wonderful.

They DO???

Oh, I've been learning names, too. Among them are Tim, Tom (the town's former police chief, by the way), Mary and Elizabeth and John, Arnold, Pete, Bill and Andi, Bruce, Bruce, and Dora and Eli. The latter two are dogs....

Now, all I have to do is learn the mail carrier's name.

This small-town living takes some work, Jim.

My Dilemma....

2011-05-21T21:50:00.003-04:00

Three things happened today.

This morning, D. transplanted the veggies to our planter "boxes." Then, I mowed the lawn.

This afternoon, we drove up to Merrimac to the car show at Skip's. It was great. Weather was fine, and the selection of cars was just what I'd hoped: local rides, not all in "show" condition, but most well worth looking at. Also, good burgers, fries, and ice cream.

For me, a big change from the usual car-show fare. Didn't have to wear a blue blazer with a "judge" badge on the lapel, wasn't recognized, didn't have to pontificate on the relative merits of, say, Ferrari 250s versus Ferrari 275s, or why the Duesenberg SJ was superior to the J. In short, I got to play spectator, and I really enjoyed it. There were one or two cars I would have loved to drag back to Sandy Bay, too.

D. had a good time as well, took some neat photos, and decided she wants a '56 Ford Thunderbird. Could happen, you know, right around the time I can afford one or more of the cars I'd like to have.... At least a vintage T-Bird is something I could service myself.

Oh, yeah. The dilemma: Should I post a photo I took this morning, or one of the shots from the car show? I'll just do the Larry the Cable Guy* routine, and "Git 'er done!" by posting one of each.

The cucumbers and pumpkins get their first visitor!

I want this! Also, the Studebaker behind it. The T-Bird behind that is D.'s favorite.

I have as much use for a tractor as I do for a jet-ski or one of those three-wheeled "motorcycles." But I think classic tractors look very cool.... Might have been a real drag to drive home, though!

* Yes, we've been watching America With Larry the Cable Guy on The History Channel every week, and I'm addicted. The guy is funny, earthy, unaffected, totally devoid of self-consciousness and seems to be having a great time popping into odd places and doing odd things. In fact his stint with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders was the funniest thing I've seen on TV in ages. Best of all, the people he visits seems to be having a great time, too. I recommend the show unreservedly.

A Man of the Soil -- Still!

2011-05-20T21:08:00.000-04:00

Yes, D. and I went down to the dump this morning and loaded up on nice, rich, odoriferous dirt...four loads in the bed of her Toyota pickup.

Transported home, it filled the two vegetable boxes quite nicely. All that remains -- and I will watch, but not let my brown thumb gets too near growing stuff, lest the inevitable happens and we are condemned to subsist on store-bought tomatoes all year -- is to stick them little plant-things in their new, vitamin-enriched home and get ready to gobble some home-grown food!

Have to say the process of dirt-scooping at the Transfer Station and unscooping at home was a bit rough on my arms. I could blame the extra weight of the wet soil, but D. did more than her share of shoveling, and I haven't heard her complain. More likely I'm just woefully out of shape after a sedentary few years.

But, hey, I'm a writer...I'm supposed to know how to shovel dirt and, well, manure....

Buffy the Buffalo's friend...Lucy* the Llama!

Tomorrow afternoon is the car show in Merrimac. I'm in the mood for a nice drive through the countryside, and not at all opposed to the idea of scarfing another burger at Skip's. It will also be fun to see what cars the locals bring out to show off. At worst, it will be much more fun than watching the pompous wealthy deigning to show their mega-dollar cars to the proles as I have so often had to do in the past. Pictures? Could happen....

It's another foggy night here in Sandy Bay. Hasn't rained all day, and the likelihood of more rain in the immediate future seems to have lessened. That means more walks, more yard work, and perhaps in time a chance to wear shorts again and put the sweatshirts away for the season.

* D. thinks the llama's name is Lucy, anyway. I don't know -- only Buffy had a sign. The cow remains unidentified....

A Man of the Soil!

2011-05-19T22:06:00.002-04:00

That would be me.

D. decided she wants to grow vegetables this year, started a bunch of 'em (from seeds) in li'l bitty pot-like things, and has kept them under a gro-lite (except on the rare days when we've had sunshine). They are getting to the point where they need to be in the ground so as to crank out tomatoes, beans, zucchinis and other healthful edible Food Items.

So last weekend I built two planting frames, which are nothing more than shallow boxes without bottoms or tops. Boards for same came out of the scrap pile (D. is frugal where it counts) and nails came from a box of dusty, rusty fasteners (her dad was frugal, too). After assembly, I plunked the frames in the yard.

Today, I dug up the turf underneath so we can fill the boxes with soil from the Transfer Station (dump, to you) and plant the seedlings. She wants to go there tomorrow to shovel up a bunch of nice, rich dirt, which also happens to be free, just like my new office desk.

Buffy the Buffalo. Not shown: unnamed llama and cow.

Okay, so the grass I was digging up to clear space for the New Dirt and Veggies was not California grass, which tends to have puny, shallow roots and rolls up pretty easily. Nope, this stuff was well entrenched, and didn't want to be taken out. Add saturated soil, lots o' tree roots and a horde of gnats, and the whole process was not what we professional writer-types call "a million laffs."

Ah, the things I'll do for a fresh, home-grown tomato! Or, more accurately, for D. who, among other things-that-make-me-happy today acquired the necessary pieces to install my office door, hang the suspended ceiling and paint the walls (a grayed-tan color called "Castle Path" has been selected for same, since the Home Depot didn't seem to have Zolatone spatter paint and metalflake Kandy Tahitian Orange seemed slightly excessive, even for me)....

Just thought I'd mention this before I limp into the other room to gobble an aspirin or five.

Not much...

2011-05-18T12:12:00.000-04:00

...happening here in Sandy Bay. Foggy, rainy and cold outside, limiting any outdoor activities. That's been the norm for the past three days, and predictions are that it will extend through the week.

Bad news maybe for Saturday, which is apparently Motif #1 Day here. The red fish shack (in fact, a replica of the original, which perished in a storm decades ago) on a pier gets its own day, with art contests, music and other Cultural Pursuits. And why not? Images of it are everywhere....

Not that we will be here. Weather permitting, D. and I are planning to go to a car show at Skip's Burgers* in Merrimac that day. For once, an afternoon spent looking at collector cars and hot rods will be a completely non-work-related activity. I can relax!

Sign seen near Newburyport last weekend

Still lots of Good Stuff going on indoors. If I wasn't stealing time away from writing the article I have due -- I'm ahead of schedule with it, but the sooner done, the sooner the check gets here -- I might go into some of it. Do I value money more than conversing with my friends here? I'll never tell....

* Skip's is a favorite of D., her mother and daughter, and has been in business longer than I've been alive. The fries are superb, but the burgers rate about 8.0 on the 1.0 (White Castle) - to - 10.0 (In-N-Out Burger) scale. Haven't yet had better ones around here, though. And they do have cool t-shirts, one of which I have bought....

So much for moderation!

2011-05-15T21:37:00.005-04:00

I'm just not a "moderating" kind of guy, I guess. After Dorrie left comments telling me how to deal with the Blogger Comment Machine -- comments which I seem to have lost while supposedly "approving" them, by the way -- I decided to go back to the old system. So if anyone decides to say anything, it gets posted right away. Unless, that is, it's on an old post from 14 or more days back, which seems to be where the spammers play, anyway.

I've said that excellent things were happening, and I want to mention a few. First, the World Headquarters: it's nearing completion, with drywall now hung, electricity (real outlets, not an extension cord draped over the wall) and a cable to hook me up to the Interwebz. Add door, floor, ceiling and paint and it's done.

PARENTHETICAL I'M-STILL-NOT-PRACTICAL NOTE: I keep pushing for a porthole in one of the walls, but head of the construction crew seems decidedly cool to the idea. I guess that'll be filed with my concept of making a ceiling out of rag rugs and concocting flooring from the various mismatched chunks of lumber left over from the main construction and D.'s scrap box, all randomly laid down and covered with Varathane. Doesn't anyone have a sense of adventure?

Ditto for a desk. D. and I found an old dining table at the local Transfer Station (dump, to you) and brought it home. It's a hefty piece, solid and substantial. We've cut it down a bit, fixed the drop-leaf section in place permanently and rearranged the legs, and it'll make a neat work table/desk. Once again, D. showed her penchant for over-engineering, with the result being a piece that should be able to withstand anything short of an all-out nuclear attack. Looks good, too. And it was free.

All of this is what you might call fortuitous timing. I have one job in hand, which will bring welcome relief to the dwindling supply of spondulix. Another project from the same people, longer and better-paying, is not yet final but has a good chance of happening. If it does, I'll have two or three months of fairly intense work. And money. Guess which pleases me more? Having a set place to grind out the verbiage will be a big help.

Random The-Sun-Also-Sets-in-Sandy-Bay photo

This is not tonight's sunset, which took place behind heavy clouds and drizzle. I planned to insert the photo maybe two days ago, but Blogger was being weird and I couldn't post.

Haven't had a day in my five-plus weeks here that my appreciation for D. -- and pleasure at being with her -- hasn't grown. I'm working harder than I have for quite a while -- there's always something to do here, and much of it involves some kind of physical effort -- but that's wonderful. Those muscles needed to be used. As the wheat farmers say, "no pain, no grain."

I've also been doing some menial tasks in D.'s high-tech workshop, too, learning work that I quite enjoy and helping her a little bit. Good thing, too: her customers are sending in quite a few jobs right now..

We also have fun. Sometimes it's as simple as going for a nice longish walk. Other times, like last Saturday, we get to more interesting events. On that day, we went to a nearby town to attend a reception at a shop where pipe organs are built; the company was showing off their latest work which, while not exactly my style musically, was a beautiful example of what it was supposed to be. The workmanship was exquisite, too. It will soon be installed in a hall at Harvard, but was set up temporarily in the shop for testing.

Not much time to be bored around here. I like that.

Big, big change in lifestyle and attitudes from just over 13 months ago, Jim. I like that, too.

Housekeeping-y stuff

2011-05-11T20:20:00.000-04:00

Lots o' excellent things happening to Yours Truly, but not much time to sit down and write about them. I'll catch up soon, though.

However: I have recently had a lot of spam-style comments show up here, and I'm getting sick of it. Therefore, I'm going the ol' comment moderation route as of now. If you're nice enough to comment, I get to read it first, and will automatically pass it on to be posted.

Well, almost automatically. Spammers and random commenters will be banished into the obscurity they so richly deserve. I don't so much mind seeing their tripe in my email inbox, as it just takes hitting the Fuggedaboutit Button to make them go the hell away. Blogger, alas, makes the deletion process annoyingly tedious.

When they (the insidious Blogger/Google/Whoever Else Combine) get their acts together and make it possible to keep the idiots at bay without jumping through a bunch of damn cyber-hoops, I'll go back to free-range comments, which I prefer.

D. made me do it!

2011-05-04T14:13:00.001-04:00

Yup, she put a Theremin performance on her blog this morning, and Theremins attract me the way honey attracts....flies....

But even a good performer -- and the one who played on D.'s video is good, all right -- doesn't cut it if he or she can't swing, and that vid was strictly nowhere, even if the player was laying down a pretty good tune. At least it's good if you're the potted-palm type, musically.

Here's one that gets it. Some groovin' back up and someone who knows how to wave their hands around the Theremin's antennae can really get the ball rolling and get out of that 1950s-sci-fi-movie-soundtrack bag, Jim....

PARENTHETICAL I-CAN-BE-BEATEN NOTE: No sooner had I started writing this than D. proved that she's completely with it on this Theremin stuff. Gonna be hard to top these three solid cats!

Another nice day...

2011-04-30T19:44:00.000-04:00

...in Sandy Bay. But we didn't soak up much of the spring sunshine.

D. and I spent much of the glorious, sunny afternoon indoors, getting the framing up for the Sumptuous Office Complex.

To be fair, I have to say D. did the lion's (lioness's?) share of the hard work, cutting the 2x4s, flailing away with a small sledgehammer when our measurements proved too precise and things needed to be, shall we say, "persuaded" into place. She knows how to do this stuff, and I cringe when I consider what it would look like if I had gone ahead, in full bull-in-china-shop mode, and slapped the thing together myself.

Nonetheless, a few hours' work brought forth a pretty nifty result....

The more we do, the less fits into a photo....

Down at the far left end of this sturdy and remarkably plumb structure is the doorway. The framing is essentially complete, with headers fastened to the joists above and sill plates ditto to the floor. Wiring, wall covering, ceiling, paint and floor coverings will soon follow.

It's going to be a busy place down there, what with the stonemasons, sculptors, plasterers and fresco artists all doing their respective things. I'm thinking Sistine Chapel here, Jim....

Actually, I'm also thinking it will be good simply to have the space done up enough to use. There's work to do now*, and more likely in the near future.

This is fun!

* My favorite former client is now a former and current client, dropping some rather remunerative work on me, with discussions about further projects continuing. Oddly enough, the move seems to have helped; not only am I in a better position mood-wise to write -- it's a Temperamental Artist thing, baby -- but the magazine has two editors nearby (in the same state, anyway, and it's small compared to my previous states) who seem more inclined to deal with me...should they want a face-to-face meeting, it's a fairly short trip now. I'm digging that, as my bank account and D. will, as well....

Saying goodbye, saying hello.

2011-04-29T18:19:00.001-04:00

I finally ended a 23-year relationship with my former bank yesterday. Actually, it was longer than that; I was using yet another bank that was swallowed up by the Stagecoach & Horses bank, and didn't bother to shop around when informed that they were my "new" bank.

The relationship -- banks are big on that "relationship" stuff, but mine didn't think I was worth relating to -- ended the way it had always been: with a heavy dose of frustration on my part. They don't make it easy to close accounts, hiding the information in obscure corners on their website and denying access via their automated "customer service" phone line ("I'm sorry, that is not an available choice...to hear your account status, blahblahblah...."), forcing me finally to send an email demanding that they close my accounts. Whereupon, I got an email from the customer service center (in India, I think, as the email started out "Hi, my name is Seth and I am here to help you...") and the deed was finally done. Only took a couple of hours.

My new bank, which D. also uses, is a small, conservative and local institution. Opening an account was simple; the hardest part was the activation of my debit card. Old Bank was satisfied if you stuck the thing in an ATM and chose your PIN there. Not this one. After said card arrived in the mail, I had to trot down to the bank in person -- only a 10-minute walk, which I enjoyed -- and have the customer service lady crank it up for me. After, that is, I signed in the bank's book that I was me, had the card and wanted it activated.

Ah, the human touch.

Whaaaaa?

Also got my driver's license today. My new home state offers what it calls "conversion" of an out-of-state license, which struck me as a very civilized procedure. Hand in old license, fill out form, take eye test, pay fee and have photo taken for new license, which will supposedly arrive in five days. No written test, driving test, or any of that other folderol I recently went through elsewhere. Only took a few minutes, too. And the clerk said "Welcome to [my new home state]" when we finished....

The only agonizing element was the cost of the conversion. It would have bought me three licenses in my Old Home State, four in my recent Transient State. Oh, well.

Still, I left the Registry of Motor Vehicles a happy boy.

PARENTHETICAL NEWS-YOU-CAN'T-USE THOUGHT: That name strikes me as strangely archaic, as many names do here. Something one might have seen in Colonial days, like "Informer of Deer," a sort-of game warden's job which, in fact, was held in a nearby town at one time by one Lord Timothy Dexter....

So now I have my driver's license, bank account and library card. I guess I'm really here!

And, if anyone asks, I can prove it, Jim....

A Surreal time in Ipswich

2011-04-26T18:05:00.000-04:00

Sunday afternoon got a bit strange when D. took me into Darkest Ipswich to visit a place called New England Biolab.

No fences, guard towers or (obvious) cameras greeted us when we turned onto the grounds of what was once a large private estate. In fact, the grounds are still well-kept, and the Biolab Boss Man apparently lives in the former family manor house....

There's also a modern glass-and-metal building where the boffins hang out, but I like this one better.

I haven't the slightest idea what the Biolab produces -- I read a description, and now have a headache and know less than when I started -- but have a sneaking suspicion there's some spooky stuff going on out there in the middle of all that empty acreage....

I was told that these are guinea fowl, but suspect they are actually genetically modified sparrows....

Someone in Biolab-land likes art (my guess would be the owner, who has also established a charitable foundation), and the grounds are dotted with oddball sculptures.

PARENTHETICAL I-DIG-WEIRDNESS THOUGHT: Or are they Biolab projects gone horribly wrong?

A golden frog decorates the research building....

And a horse wanders in the meadow....

There's an octopus, too....

Since I had a strange feeling that one or more of the Roswell Alien Cadavers were being studied in the research building, I couldn't help but wonder if this was a work of art or a spore cluster from the planet Veeblefetzer-9....

Despite my usual paranoia running at full steam, I don't think we were bombarded with any form of radiation, subjected to any otherworldly probes, implanted with alien communication devices or otherwise genetically altered in any way.

I'm pretty sure of that. No reason to worry at all. I'll keep you posted on that....

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T17:09:00.000-04:00

Yes, it was Easter here in Sandy Bay, too. Also the birthday of A., D.'s daughter.

Since it was a lovely spring morning -- t-shirt weather, after two weeks of major chillage -- I wandered out to shoot a few photos. Here are two:

I'll be entering this contest next year, you can bet....

Your basic No Comment-style photo....

Shot a few more this afternoon, but they're for tomorrow....

In the meantime, I need to rest up from the day's fun.

Eat your heart out, Mike Holmes!

2011-04-22T18:16:00.000-04:00

Substantial progress was made today on the Mr Scribbler Luxury Office Suite in the cellar of the D. Building!

A total of 13 2x4s (pressure-treated, of course, since it can get dampish down there), three sheets of 4x8 plywood and innumerable screws have created the floor. To further protect the wood from the ravages of errant water intrusion, the whole assemblage is raised slightly off the existing floor by some lightweight spacers.

It's almost dead-on flat -- the deviation isn't noticeable except to a carpenter's level -- and quite sturdy.

The various objects on the floor, placed there to weight down areas where the spacers were glued to the frame, will of course be moved before the sumptuous final covering is put down. D.'s workbench (one of several) will probably stay where it is.

Next step: framing in the walls and probably applying sealer and paint to the cement walls. Oh, yes, and installing a door. Unless, that is, the final wall section ends up being installed with me inside, in which case we may get into a weird kind of Edgar Allen Poe bag....

Won't be easy to get photos of the finished space. I'll have to play with my photo program's "stitching" feature to show as much as I can.

Once again, I have to give major credit for the speed and quality of the work to D. I'm used to disassembling and rebuilding things other people have made, while she can work wonders with raw lumber. She is also precise, while I tend to hit things with a hammer and saw off ends that stick out. Plans? Not this boy....

PARENTHETICAL WHERE-YOU-ARE-IS-WHERE-YOU-ARE THOUGHT: My abode Where the Ghetto Meets the Sea measured roughly 10x18, which included my desk, four bookcases and a queen-size bed. An 8x12 office, devoted only to writing -- and the odd item or two that won't fit upstairs -- seems like unbelievable luxury.

It's going to be a nice place to work, in a wonderful place to live.

World Headquarters!

2011-04-21T19:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, demolition has begun for the new Mr Scribbler World Headquarters*! Construction is scheduled to begin as early as tomorrow....

At the moment, the new Nerve Center of my would-be empire is cleverly disguised as the corner of a rather capacious cellar, which also houses D's shop and her art space, not to mention a heating-oil tank, water heater and washer and dryer.

Nonetheless, even though at the moment D's work area is threatening to burst its borders, she wanted me to have a place where I could work comfortably and access whatever research materials and books I might need, and came up with a nice plan of walls and floor to make it seem like an office and not a corner of the cellar. I've never had such a thing before, I must say.

A few hours before the photo was taken, the piles of random lumber on the floor had been assembled into an odd-looking but functional pair of workbenches. Some clever engineering -- and a boatload of drywall screws -- had gone into making such a disparate bunch of scraps stand on their own and actually bear weight. It was almost a shame to take them down.

But there's no stopping the Tide of Progress. Now that the necessary wood has been delivered to create a proper raised floor, we've cleared the area (including the small stepladder and the parts from a player-piano mechanism) and are ready to start fitting things together. After that, walls, a door -- the workshop sometimes produces noticeable quantities of sawdust, and current opinion is that computers don't like sawdust -- plus a desk, bookshelf and a cable connecting me to the Interwebz.

Today, office space, tomorrow...work?

PARENTHETICAL A-MAN'S-GOTTA-DO-WHAT-A-MAN'S-GOTTA-DO THOUGHT: There are rumors swirling that I am on the edge of getting enough work to keep me busy for a while and refresh the depleted coffers. Alas, no one has offered me an advance to write the definitive biography of Lord Timothy Dexter, whom you have recently met if you've been keeping up with me, or Brother Curtis Springer, former proprietor of a gospel-style religious radio program and of Zzyzx Mineral Springs in the California desert. I'm afraid my literary interests these days run closer to subjects like these gentlemen than the things I've been writing about for a quarter-century. But I've been typecast and, like Ol' Blue Eyes singing "New York, New York" to the paying customers long after it must have made him cringe to hear the band swing into the intro, I'm in it for the spondulix, Jim....

Anyway, it's just another case of D. making me feel far more than welcome here. I wouldn't ask for this kind of effort from her, but she offered. Despite my protestations that I can write anywhere, including the current location for the 'puter, she seems to know that I'll do better when I'm comfortable.

Hope she's noticed that that's happening already. I am comfortable, and I am doing better. Neither she nor anyone who knows me has seen me when I was feeling so comfortable, happy and "at home."

Simply because it's a totally new thing for me.

More updates to follow as the massive construction project continues. I'll interrupt regular programming with Breaking News any time....

* A wholly-owned subsidiary of Scribbler Interplanetary Ventures, Ltd.

The First in the East and Me

2011-04-15T18:45:00.000-04:00

I first encountered Lord Timothy Dexter when, at age 10 or so, I was devouring my parents' bookshelves. There, I found a book called The Square Pegs*. In it, author Irving Wallace explored the lives of several wonderful American eccentrics, including John Cleves Symmes (who theorized that the Earth was made up of hollow concentric spheres, that a far different race of beings lived in the middle, and that this world-within-a-world could be accessed through a hole in the North Pole; he petitioned Congress for finances to allow him to find and enter the hole), George Francis Train (the man who, among other things, was the real-life inspiration for Phileas Fogg, the hero of Jules Verne's novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea) and "Emperor" Norton of San Francisco.

But the last chapter in the book was devoted to one Lord Timothy Dexter, who seemed the most colorful of them all. He had shipped New England-style warming pans, cats and wool mittens to the Caribbean and coals to Newcastle (England), and profited from each cargo. He was not considered worthy of respect or liking, was not even thought to be especially intelligent, but acted as if he was all those things and more. He staged his own funeral some time before his death, and seemed to be enjoying the festivities until he noticed that his wife Elizabeth (the Ghost) wasn't showing signs of remorse, whereupon he caned her. His shouts and her screams put a damper on the wake.

Above all, there was A Pickle for the Knowing Ones. Only slightly harder to decipher than the Dead Sea Scrolls, it was a revelation to me, a budding author. Wallace tended to clean up the spelling and "peper and solt" the text with punctuation in his excerpts, but I wasn't fooled. I was enchanted by the snippets of the original he published verbatim. Eventually, I read it all.

In sum, the Dexter saga was good medicine for someone whose level of self-esteem varied, then and now. I took Dexter's words to heart: "forder a grate good man Came to see me Not Long sence I told sade man I had many Innemys he sade be Cos you are toue onnest to be beloved you dont gine in Comon ways with Rougs"

Even before I came to Sandy Bay, D. knew that I was a Dexterphile of the first order. She promised to take me to Dexter's stomping grounds at the first opportunity and sent me a copy of Pickle to keep me happy until I got there.

So on Sunday last, just a few days after my arrival, we drove to Newburyport. And there, at the corner of High Street and Dexter's Lane, was the house. It had survived the years well; save for the loss of Dexter's Mouseum -- sold at auction in 1807 -- it looked just as it did in his day. I could almost feel his presence.

It was, in sum, my own pilgrimage to Graceland. I made a solemn vow to the Lottery Gods that, given the right numbers for a large enough jackpot, I would not only buy the house, but would also recreate the Mouseum as it was, perhaps adding only a statue of myself. I think Dexter would approve.

The day was not over. D. knew how to get to Old Hill Burying Ground, where Dexter's mortal remains are interred. We entered the graveyard and began a search for his stone. We spent quite a bit of time hunting for him, found many fascinating grave markers along the way and even found his name on a plaque on the "gate," but seemed destined to leave finding him for another day.

At last, as we were almost ready to admit defeat, I found him.

The marble over his grave showed the wear of 205 years, but I was able to (barely) make out his name. Next to him, a near-identical stone for the Ghost, who died three years later in 1809. His son Samuel (1807) and "dafter" Nancy (1856) are there as well, but their graves are unmarked.

I like to think the shade of Lord Timothy Dexter knew we were there to visit him.

*The book is still available from time to time through such booksellers as abebooks.com or similar sites. I recommend it.

The First in the East

2011-04-13T21:05:00.000-04:00

Last Sunday, D. and I made a pilgrimage to Newburyport, Massachusetts. It's a nice little town, but I would have felt no great compulsion to go there so soon after arriving in Sandy Bay except that it was the place where one of my literary favorites, Lord Timothy Dexter, lived, worked and wrote.

Before I tell his story -- in some cases, in his own words -- I should emphasize that being a fan of Dexter's writing does not mean I chose to emulate him. As you'll soon find out, that would be near-impossible. What I admire is what might best be called his "spirit." He was a self-made (partially) man with a large ego and a desire to Be Somebody. Sadly for him, he was also what used to be called a "crank," and thus was almost universally despised by all who knew him.

In fact, what drew me to Dexter was the total story, not just his writing....

Born in 1748, he started out as a farm laborer, then became an apprentice tanner. After completing his apprenticeship, he engaged in what he called "spekellation," buying worthless Revolutionary War-era "Continental" currency with the view that the U.S. government would offer an exchange for dollars, which they did. That allowed him to finance a shipping business; he sent ships laden with odd cargoes hither and yon without any apparent planning on his part, often with astonishing success. At one point he bought up all the whalebone he could find; strangely enough, his cornering of the market coincided with the increasing popularity of women's corsets, which needed whalebone for stays. From this deal alone, he earned more than a "tun" of silver.

By the time he was 25, Dexter had moved to Newburyport, bought a mansion, and married Elizabeth Frothingham, a wealthy widow. While he accumulated a fortune, he was unable to become part of the local high society, and indeed left town for a time in disgust, settling on a large estate in New Hampshire. He returned, bought another mansion on High Street, and began to write letters to the local newspaper.

His literary ambitions thus sparked, he then proceeded to write a book. A Pickle For the Knowing Ones; or Plain Truths in a Homespun Dress. This was first published in 1798, and has been available in one edition or another ever since. (My own copy, a gift from D., a replica of the 1848 edition, is currently available at obscure bookstores.)

Rather than describe his writing, it seems better to put a few lines here, beginning at the start of the book with Dexter's own explanation of his "royal" status, combined with the announcement that he would soon be establishing a museum at his High Street home:

IME the first Lord in the younited States of A mericary Now of Newburyport it is the voise of the peopel and I cant Help it and so Let it goue Now as I must be Lord there will foller many more Lords pretty soune for it dont hurt A Cat Nor the mouse Nor the son Nor the water Nor the Eare then goue on all is Easey Now bons broaken all is well all in Love Now I be gin to Lay the corner ston and the kee ston with grat Remembrence of my father Jorge Washington the grate herow 17 sentreys past before we found so good a father to his shildren and Now gone to Rest^¹ Now to shoue my Love to my father and grate Caricters I will shoue the world one of the grate Wonders of the world in 15 months if now man mourders me in Dors or out Dors such A mouserum on Earth will annonce O Lord thou knowest to be troue fourder hear me good Lord I am A goueing to Let or shildren know Now to see good Lord what has bin in the world grat wase back to owr forefathers

It will not have escaped anyone's attention that the author's spelling is hit-or-miss, his capitalization is erratic, and punctuation is nonexistent. This may help explain why Pickle is not to be found in the world's great libraries. And yet, beyond eye-strain, his "style" adds a certain charm to the book.

Note also that "now man" "mourdered" Dexter, not "in Dors and out Dors," and what would come to be known as "Dexter's Mouseum" -- by him, at any rate -- was indeed at least partially completed:

Aside from four carved lions and two effigies of Lord Timothy Dexter himself, the wooden statues included familiar American heroes such as Washington, Jefferson, John Jay and other Dexterian favorites such as "Loues 16" and "the grate bonepartey." One statue represented a corn planter for reasons known only to Dexter....

Did Dexter's book achieve his intended purpose ("I wans to make my Enemys grin in time Lik A Cat over A hot pudding and goue Away and hang there heads Doun Like a Dogg bin After sheep gilty")? We will never know. He did go on to expound on other matters before completing the final page, including excoriation of the town leaders in Newburyport for not sending enough watchmen on patrol. He also included dissertations on colleges and "preasts" (disliking both), verbally attacked his "dafter's" suitor, one Abraham Bishop -- they were, apparently married for a time -- and complained about his wife, whom he dubbed "the Ghost."

By the time one has read through all 32 pages of Pickle, one thing is clear, even if Dexter's words and thoughts are not: as a writer, the man was unique. His style is instantly recognizable, and attempting to emulate it is folly. One might copy, for example, Clive Cussler; all that is required is to forget all you learned about the English Language after the age of six or so. Other writers' styles can be faked by ignoring words of more than three syllables and all rules of logic or, conversely, by never using words of less than three syllables and searching the far corners of the dictionary for esoteric verbiage. None of that helps to unlock the key to Lord Dexter.

Before I close -- and there will be a Part Two, in which I lay down a little more history and discuss Timothy and Me (and, of course, D.) -- I should also note that one of the "revised" editions of Pickle that appeared during Dexter's lifetime had an appendix from the author that shows a sensitivity rare in authors, then and now:

fouder mister printer the Nowing ones complane of my book the fust edition had no stops I put in A Nuf here and thay may peper and solt it as they plese”

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About the title of this post: In a not-at-all-rare burst of what I'd call honesty -- and others would, I guess, call unwarranted arrogance -- Timothy Dexter described himself as "First in the East, First in the West and Greatest Philosopher in the Western World." Even while saying so, he laid down a challenge to prove him wrong:

I --- I --- me T Dexter of N Port Desires Any man or men on the gloube to Exseede me as to what I have Rote in my Littel book, and what I can Rite Consarning Nater and the sole and the frame of man … I am the old plane Tim to see any felosofer in the world

For my almost-neighbor...

2011-04-12T21:24:00.000-04:00

...who lives a long block away and whom I have yet to see here in Sandy Bay. I have, however, walked by her house several times, met her husband and his mother...oh, yeah: I've heard her dogs barking, too....

Anyway. She didn't know where the shoes-on-a-wire in the previous post are located. Maybe this will help....

An omen?

2011-04-12T11:51:00.000-04:00

Naaah. I don't believe in 'em.

PARENTHETICAL DON'T-STEP-UNDER-A-LADDER THOUGHT: Okay, so if someone handed me a nice seven-figure check -- one that could be, you know, cashed and all, I'd sure as heck say that was an omen telling me I would soon rush out and buy an Audi R8 Spyder, but that's not the same thing....

Anyway, when D. and I went out for a stroll in Sandy Bay last night, she spotted something long-time reader will know was a photographic favorite of mine. In fact, it was only quick work by maintenance crews in my area -- thus cutting off (so to speak) my supply of subjects -- that made me abandon what scholars and gallery-watchers will one day call my "Shoe Period."

Dry spell over!

Assuming they last for a while, or that whoever put them there discovers that a Famous Photographer is once again incorporating them into his work and decides to advance the cause of Fine Art and slings a few more pair around, I'll try to combine them with Local Color, as I did before.

Since that's not happening yet, I hereby add another -- shall we say -- an example of local quaintness....

No, I haven't been in that shop, nor is it likely I ever will be. Might stroll by and listen once in a while, though.

PARENTHETICAL PUBLIC-SERVICE-MESSAGE THOUGHT: I'm still working on the post related to Sunday's visit to my literary hero's home town. Be patient, please....

Now that I'm here...

2011-04-09T20:38:00.000-04:00

...it was time to hit the road, though not far.

Something much discussed long before I came to Sandy Bay was my appreciation for a literary giant who lived -- and wrote -- in a town that is, if not exactly nearby, within reasonable driving distance.

Today, we decided to head that way. Of course there were a few practical matters to take care of en route, one of which led to tonight's first photo. D. is doing some historical research on a particular individual and found a house where his father lived for a couple of years in the late 1700s. That's apparently enough to earn one a historical plaque for a house in these parts. So she wanted to get a couple of photos.

While she was taking care of that, I found another "first" for me: A kittycat living in a 250 year-old house, and here she (?) is, looking as if she would have belonged in that window the day the house was first occupied....

Not much later, we arrived at our destination and, for the first time, I was able to "meet" the author of whom I have so long been in absolute awe....

I'm stalling a bit. The story will take some explaining, some excerpts of the man's work will have to be supplied, and some work must be done to improve a couple of images. One or two illustrations from his day will be added as well, in what I expect will be a two (or more)-part posting here. Can't get that done tonight.

Mainly, I just wanted to get it on record that it was another superb day for me in the New World.

Home Port...

2011-04-08T21:32:00.000-04:00

...at last!

Okay, so I have been here for three days already, but much of that time has been devoted to, well, decompression after the events of the past year. Aside from flying here from Where I Used to Live -- for once, a singularly uneventful trip, if you ignore having to get up at the ungodly hour of 2:30 AM to catch a 4:00 shuttle to the airport for a 6:20 flight, which is a time when I'm generally not breathing, much less awake and functional -- the settling-in process has begun, which is never speedy.

But it has been better than my high expectations, One of the important matters was adjusting to a major dose of culture shock. I am, though I consider myself a worldly-type guy -- I've thought of changing my name to Mr International Man, and you may call me that if you wish -- essentially a child of the West: Los Angeles area, where anything built before, say, 1950, is seen as rivaling Stonehenge age-wise and, more recently, Texas, which in the area I lived in seemed approximately of the same vintage as suburban L.A.

Conversely, Where I Am Now feels closer in age to Colonial Williamsburg and Plimouth Plantation. It's my contention that, if one were to erase cars and pavement from downtown photos, there would be precious little difference between April 7, 2011 and April 7, 1811. Or 1751, comes to that.

I like that. It speaks to the part of me that appreciates the comforting combination of small towns and history.

Consider this photo, which I took this morning whilst we were out for a stroll (this is a walking kind of town, bless it):

Despite my photographic ineptness in this instance -- and I will deny ever saying that I am somehow less than a veritable Matthew Brady or Ansel Adams, so you didn't see it here -- the "Central Garage" at the right looks as if the snout of a 1937 Ford should be pointing from one of its doors. Or a 1909 Model T. And the town, the whole area for miles around, is just dripping with Colonial-style houses and buildings you would see in pre-photographic illustrations. Many are sure to be livening up more future posts than you can imagine.

PARENTHETICAL I-WILL-BE-A-TOURIST-IF-I-LIVE-HERE-THE-REST-OF-MY-LIFE NOTE: The one who invited me here, and makes this home instead of just place to exist, is a long-time resident of this town and region. I live in constant fear of her rolling her eyes every time I, like Toody -- or was it Muldoon? -- of Car 54, Where Are You? fame, look at some old building, historical plaque or cemetery and say "oooh! Ooooh!" Can't help myself....

Okay, so the neighborhood-type photo above is only the first of what is sure to be a torrent of photos of Home Port. In time, most all y'all (yes, I'll still say that) will know where I am. I'm a latecomer -- I wasn't here when the first resident set up some sort of housekeeping in 1690, and in this part of the country, length of residence is everything -- but I intend to get deeply into the lore of this place, which seems, so far, to have many features that make it perfect for me.

PARENTHETICAL I-COMPLY-WITH-THE-LAW THOUGHT: From what I've seen and have been told, I'm sure the town has an ordinance on its books requiring any photographer to shoot this building. Why else would it be called "Motif #1?" Ordinarily, I would ignore any structure that had to do with fish unless it was made of metal and said "Star-Kist" on the side, but who am I to ignore a building that has apparently been seen on postcards, photos and paintings around the world and probably on several neighboring plants? So here it is:

The ocean's on the wrong side of the land -- I'm used to seeing it in the West, not East -- and the weather is a bit more rugged than I'm used to, but I'm kinda thinking I belong here. All I have to do is convince the natives.

More to come, and soon. I'm enjoying this place....

Heading for...

2011-04-02T20:27:00.000-04:00

Not, you understand, on the board for Selchow & Righter's long-lived "Backgammon Game of India," though the events of the past year have been rather Parcheesi-like in some respects, what with sometimes being blocked in my attempts to land at "Home," plus other leaps forward, steps back, and adventures both bad and good.

All y'all are probably aware that I have a rather specific definition of the word "home," and have sometimes gone through contortions to use other words and phrases to describe my residences: house, place where I'm staying, and so forth. Home is where one is wanted, where one wants to be and feels most comfortable.

So this time, judging from all external indicators and, most of all, that little voice deep inside that tries (not always successfully) to warn me when I'm about to commit a major act of dumbness, I can happily say I'm headed home.

All of my problems are not magically solved by this move. Just some of the most important (mainly involved with such issues as happiness, mental comfort, and the like) will be taken care of by the 1500-mile excursion. Still, I'll have a lot of effort to put out -- yes, work is starting to dribble in, and more seems to be headed my way -- and some sacrifices to make before everything is straightened out properly.

It is, however, a positive move, one I'm looking forward to with more enthusiasm than any I've made in, well, many years.

I hadn't intended to write about this yet, but it appears my computer will likely head out tomorrow via truck to make the journey I will soon be making by air. That's going to drive me temporarily nuts, as I use the little gadget quite a bit, for work and play alike, and wasn't quite ready to yank its cable and stuff it in a stout box.

You may notice I'm not saying where I'm going. No real reason for that, except I'm not there yet. It's a superstition of mine, I guess, to not talk much about things before they happen. When I'm settled in and start posting photos and stories again -- more often than I have of late, I think -- it will be immediately obvious to some where the Secret Operations Center is located. All will be revealed at the proper moment....

Am I going to miss Where I Am Now? Not too much. I knew it was a transitional place and, in time, realized the day would soon arrive when I'd need to be moving on.

Which is what I will be doing in just a few short days.

Home. I like the sound of that.

Too bad it has taken me 60 years to get there, Jim. But better late than never.

Just before...

2011-03-04T11:37:00.000-05:00

...yesterday's photo was taken, I shot this one....

When I first saw the thumbnail-size image, I thought I had moved the camera while shooting.

That seemed the only possible explanation. Unless, that is, you consider the likelihood of abnormally high doses of radiation in the Duck Creek area....

In any case, these geese were hefty specimens and didn't seem particularly friendly. Even the local ducks, normally pretty tolerant of other birds, acted a bit suspicious of them.

Springtime?

2011-03-03T23:49:00.000-05:00

At least it felt that way today.

And everyone was out enjoying it...at least at Duck Creek....

I wonder if they naturally ~~waddle~~ walk in step?

Hard to believe...

2011-02-06T19:23:00.000-05:00

...that only two days ago the snow was ~~over my head~~ ~~up to my navel~~ ~~knee-high~~ almost up to my ankles Where I Live Now.

Yesterday, the skies cleared and the temperatures began to rise, leaving behind some rapidly-melting white stuff and, here and there, this....

Today, the temperature got up to 50, so I shook off my cabin fever with a long walk. Thanks to the recent snow and rain, I found a new distraction amid the endless rows of brick houses....

Yes, a bit frustrating for Mr Photographer, as it was behind a fence on a big chunk of private property. Couldn't get close enough, or find a clear shot from where I was. But I'm the first to admit that if this was on my land, I'd want to keep riff-raff like me from wandering around....

Some weather forecasts call for more cold temperatures and perhaps snow by Tuesday. A pity, that...I was getting used to regular mail delivery (yesterday's was the first in five days) and taking walks again.

This...

2011-02-04T17:48:00.000-05:00

...is what I saw when I ventured out this morning....

Full disclosure demands I admit the "venturing out" was of short duration. Being without gloves, a fuzzy hat and waterproof footwear, I had turned a distinctive shade of blue by the time I made it back inside.

Still, it was beautiful, the air was wonderfully clean and bracing, and I was reminded how much I love snowy weather when I have the necessities to face it.

Around me, however, Where I Live Now seems equally unprepared. I'm told this is not the first time snow and sub-freezing temperatures have been part of the local scene. That doesn't mean anyone here is what you would call prepared: This is the fourth day of no mail service, closed schools/businesses, and general paralysis.

That all may end tomorrow, according to the weather-guessers. The predicted high temperature is well above zero (Celsius), and that should send the white stuff dribbling for the drains. Dire Weather Warnings have expired or been retracted.

Next time I see snow -- except on TV -- I expect to be prepared. And, I hope, wherever I am, the local services are are equally prepared to even pretend to cope with them li'l white flake-things when they drift out of the sky....

Uptown!

2011-01-29T20:43:00.000-05:00

Got out and about today, and briefly found myself in an old, somewhat dusty, prairie town.

Naturally, the camera came along with me for the ride....

Sadly -- at least for me; it might have saved all y'all some serious boredom -- I didn't have time to wander around documenting every interesting nook and cranny of this grand place, but there was one landmark I absolutely would not have let slip past, un-recorded, in my peripheral vision, no matter what.

This is the Uptown Theatre*, a 1948-vintage red-enamel, glazed-tile and yellow-brick Art Moderne movie palace out in the middle of what looks like (but really isn't) nowhere. A plaque on the wall attests to its birth year, and reports that the most famous and best-loved feature of its snack bar was the pickled Sno-Cone**.

Nowadays, the Uptown is apparently some kind of community theater, which is Good because it was saved from the destruction visited on far too many wonderful old movie houses.

But for me, it brought back memories of watching black and white war movies and Warner Bros' cartoons during the Saturday matinees of my Yoot*** at the long-ago demolished Temple Theatre, a much less-interesting theater in my home town.

With such reminiscences rattling around in my head, I wanted to display the Uptown as it might have been illustrated on the day it opened.

PARENTHETICAL I HATE-IT-BUT-NEEDED-IT-NOTE: Since the community theater folks felt compelled to replace the original marquee with cheesy electronic message boards, I felt compelled to dip into my photo software's box o' tricks and black out the offending portions. If I was a real artist, I would painstakingly have recreated the original marquee. But I ain't.

I wanted to drag the Uptown away and take it with me wherever I end up next. I'll feel that way for a long time....

* Duh!

** If the place had been open I still wouldn't have tried one, sorry....

*** Said matinee-going Yoot being a number of years after 1948, if you please!

I need...

2011-01-29T18:17:00.000-05:00

...what this place has to offer!

And that's all I have to say right now....

Whaaaaaa...?

2011-01-09T17:17:00.000-05:00

All y'all who endure this kind of thing every year may laugh at me -- why should you be different? -- but, while I am very familiar with snow, I simply didn't expect to see it Where I Am Now....

I mean, I've spent plenty of time in and around the White Stuff, from Alaska to Colorado, Seattle to Norway, Connecticut to, well, California. I've played in it, walked in it, driven in it and, on two memorable occasions, even raced cars (albeit informally) and scooted around on a snowmobile in it.

I'm simply not used to seeing it from my bedroom window.

In fact, that has happened to me only once before, and that was in 1991. The place Where I Used to Live seldom had recorded snowfall (the last time before '91 was in 1950, and I do not remember that), so the sudden appearance then was a surprise for us. More so to the four cats that then shared my abode; two took right to it and went outside to play, two sensibly -- and aloofly -- stayed indoors and ignored the whole thing.

The snow lasted only an hour or so there. It'll likely be around longer here. Given my current situation, it's not especially convenient, but I do like it, and am enjoying snow-memories it is dredging up.

Maybe I'll feel less affinity for snow when I have to shovel big drifts of it, as I'm quite certain I will one day. Nope. I'm sure I'll be offered hot chocolate and other inducements....

In the wind...

2011-01-03T18:38:00.000-05:00

...but it's impossible to tell if this is merely decoration meant to add an Old West flavor to the area or a working water pump. The vanes do spin in the breeze, anyway....

My guess is that it does nothing. Couldn't see any shafts, chains or even wires connecting the vanes to anything. Seems like a shame....

Public Service message, 12-31-10....

2010-12-31T23:00:00.000-05:00

Let me suggest that it's time for all of us to get our ducks in a row for 2011....

Happy New Year, one and all!

Letting sleeping turtles lie.

2010-12-31T18:02:00.000-05:00

Or, more accurately, sunbathe. Yes, there is a bunch (squadron? gaggle? flotilla? herd? team?) of small turtles that like to lie out on the banks of Duck Creek on clear days and soak up the sun....

There were actually six out there when I first walked by. By the time I had unlimbered the camera and moved within shootin' range, five skedaddled for the water. When this one noticed me inching even closer, he ran like a, well, turtle, too. I hung around for a while, saw one or two li'l heads poke up out of the water, but they are a shy bunch and preferred being submerged to attaining photographic immortality.

Makes me wish I had a longer lens for the camera.

Or a turtle suit, so I could sneak up on 'em undetected....

I'm almost afraid to ask...

2010-12-31T12:44:00.000-05:00

...but I will, because I'm all about people puttin' me some learnin'!

Is there any other kind?

Things I never expected to see...

2010-12-30T21:14:00.000-05:00

...Where I Live Now. In fact, a pair of stone lions and two stone pillars flanking the entrance to a shopping center full of Chinese stores -- and one Japanese restaurant -- might be darn near the last things I would have imagined I'd see here.

Nonetheless...

Let it be said I wouldn't be surprised to see these Where I Grew Up. Yes, when I was a mere yoot, the population was made up primarily of Anglos and Latinos. But sometime in the 1970s the Asians began to arrive. Today, my home town is largely Chinese, with huge conclaves of Koreans, Vietnamese, Japanese and Heaven-knows-who-else filling the surrounding towns. You can drive many blocks without seeing shop signs in English.

But I'm not there anymore. And I hope I'm not going back.

Culture shock is what it is, Jim.

Good Old Things

2010-12-29T16:58:00.000-05:00

Saw this during my wanderings today....

It's good to see classic things -- cars or anything else -- cared for and used, which this old Ford clearly is.

I just hope someone thinks it's worthwhile to keep me running when I'm 76!

I'm all about public service!

2010-12-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

As a result, I consider it my duty as a Good Citizen, whose heart is full of concern that all should enjoy safe and happy holidays, to pass along a worthwhile instructional video to help ease any potential stress should the worst happen to you.

I suppose I should warn the squeamish to use the proverbial Viewer Discretion, but hey, I made it through a showing of the immortal classic educational film, "Blood on the Highway," when I took Driver's Ed in high school (every movie I've seen since was downright tame), so you can watch this, too....

No actual zombies were injured in the preparation of this video...I don't think.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-25T10:25:00.000-05:00

Wasn't going to post today, but JohnO's comment in the previous thread reminded me that there might be one or two people out there who haven't heard "The Christmas Song."

So here it is, sung by the composer* himself....

It just wouldn't be Christmas without Mel's tune playing....

* That would be Mel Torme, who was nicknamed "the Velvet Fog" for his smooth voice....my music teacher, who knew Mel, called him "the Velvet Frog," but that's another story....

And finally...

2010-12-24T15:31:00.000-05:00

...for this Christmas-that-isn't Christmas (here, anyway), my favorite Christmas video!

PARENTHETICAL THERE-ARE-PLENTY-OF-CHRISTMAS-TUNES-IN-THE-SEA (whaaaa?) NOTE: This is not my favorite Christmas song. That would be Mel Torme's "Christmas Song," than which there are none better. But this is the best Christmas song video I've seen.

Hope it brings all y'all a smile or two....

Time to follow Santa!

2010-12-23T22:49:00.000-05:00

Yeah, this is another one of my "Christmas Traditions." Since in recent years I haven't been able to run around dropping off pressies to those I care about, I take a little consolation in watching the Big Fat Dude do his thing.

You can do likewise here.

It was fun last year...

...and I'm sure it will be again this time around.

I'm assuming Santa can get through the TSA checkpoints okay....

One more Holiday ditty...

2010-12-23T20:39:00.000-05:00

...for tonight, anyway.

I'm not sure you can exactly call it a "Christmas" song, but it fits the season perfectly.

Even if it didn't, I'd like it, because I love Klezmer music and enjoy listening to spoken (or sung) Yiddish. Wish I spoke it, too.

PARENTHETICAL SHAMEFUL-REVELATION THOUGHT: Yes, I can rattle off a few words and phrases, none of them socially acceptable. Yiddish is just full of earthy aphorisms....

Anyway, this retelling of a familiar tale is entirely socially acceptable, clever and delightful.

I watch it every year.

Christmas Music!

2010-12-23T18:06:00.000-05:00

Since it's that time of year, it is also time to do what I've done every Christmas for several years, which is to promote some of my favorite Christmas-related music and, well, things.

I suppose it's a "tradition" -- sort of -- so one or two among my vast audience of three or four may have seen these before. Go ahead, click on the links again...they won't hurt you! And you might even get a smile or two out of 'em.

PARENTHETICAL "Ho, Ho, Ho" THOUGHT: I'm not exactly in what you would call a "Holiday Mood," but if anything can help chase Da Bloos, it's likely to be found among the next three or four postings. I'm trying, anyway.

So watch and enjoy!

Buried.

2010-12-22T19:16:00.000-05:00

It has been a chilly, dark day here, entirely appropriate for finding an old prairie cemetery on my walking route.

That's not something you expect to see amid recently built industrial buildings (many now empty) and on the verge of a busy highway.

The cemetery was established in 1855 by Rev. George Blewett. His daughter, Anne, was the first to be buried there. In time, Rev. Blewett joined her there, as did other members of his family. His son -- grandson? -- was one of the last to be interred there, in 1919. Other families have gravesites within the simple iron fence as well.

Given the size of the fenced-off land, I have to assume many grave markers have vanished over the years. Were they stolen, or were there many wooden crosses and plaques that didn't withstand 90 years of neglect?

I felt transported far away from the busy area Where I Live Now. This is the kind of place one expects to stumble across when driving down a lonely back road, a place to be appreciated without traffic noises and other signs of modern life....

For once, I'm a bit sad that I don't use some tricky photo-manipulation program that would allow me to wipe away the trappings of civilization from the background. Buildings, cars and telephone wires have nothing to do with this place.

By the same token, I wish I had some idea of the stories entombed below the remaining headstones....

Christmas and friends.

2010-12-21T14:32:00.000-05:00

I admit I'm not really feeling Christmas this year. I could cite a whole boatload of reasons for that; I don't want to, so just take it as a given.

But a couple of people who have access to my Secret Location haven't forgotten, and they have brightened my spirits considerably.

One sent a couple of wrapped presents which I, with remarkable self-control, have not yet opened. Knowing the person who sent them, there's no doubt in my mind that they are thoughtful, personal and just plain wonderful. The temptation to start rippin' up that wrapping paper is barely tolerable.

The other sent a US Mail box with contents unwrapped. He basically went for the jugular, giving me one of the very few things I've been missing since I left the Former Place....

Sensibly, he didn't try to send the other things I miss, which would have been impossible anyway. In-n-Out Burgers wouldn't have survived the trip; neither would a couple tacos, a burrito and a plate of guacamole and chips from Tito's Tacos.

This dude has me figured out. He knows of my secret jonesing for real coffee -- not the slightly-flavored brown water most people seem to drink Where I Am Now -- and knew about it before I relocated. Either he has become a La Llave pusher and expects me to come crawling back to him, money in hand and begging for more, when this stash runs out, or he wanted to feed the need because he's a good and thoughtful guy.

I'm going with the latter theory.

It's not only the thought that counts. It's the thought behind the gift-giving urge that separates capital-F Friends, those whose mere existence makes your world better, from the rest.

I'm grateful to know both of these people. Their gifts are a happy reminder of how much they mean to me.

Lunar-tic behavior...

2010-12-18T22:53:00.000-05:00

...as a rare occurrence occurs in the wee hours of Monday Night and Tuesday morning: The winter solstice coincides with a total eclipse of the Moon for the first time in 456 years. Wiccans everywhere have perked up their ears....

All y'all can get the details here.

It has been a few years since the last eclipse I (or anyone else) saw....

Not such a swell shot, but I was making do with the equipment I had.

The next regular eclipse will occur sometime in 2014 if I remember correctly. Maybe I'll have a camera, lens and tripod capable of delivering quality moon-photos by then!

That doesn't mean I won't give it another try Monday night. Not promising any shots will appear here...the delete key may get to 'em before you do!

Crime scene!

2010-12-16T14:50:00.000-05:00

Did some gun-totin', Christmas-hatin' galoot do this? Was Santa going up the chimney with more goodies than he came in with? Did he pour an extra tot of rum into his milk -- you know, the traditional "milk and plate of cookies left out for Santy" bit -- and get too rowdy? Did a rival gang of Santas do a drive-by from their sleigh?

Or did someone forget to plug in the Jolly Fat Dude's compressor?

It's not only solid objects...

2010-12-14T20:49:00.000-05:00

...that catch my eye in my current black-and-white photographic mood....

PARENTHETICAL I-GUESS-WE-SHOULD-BE-LITERAL NOTE: Yes, you could say the island in the far background is very solid. The water doesn't quite fit the definition of "solid," but is far from fluffy and soft.

New photos coming soon. Some even in color...when I have to.

When there's nothing new...

2010-12-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

...I still enjoy messing around with the old, as in changing a photo's effect by taking away the color.

It's not so simple. Picking a shot that survives the bleaching-out treatment is a matter of guesswork, really. Several shots I thought would be ideal candidates didn't make it. Others, some of which seemed to depend on color for their interest, worked out pretty well.

Chrome is tricky. So, to my surprise, is near-transparent red plastic. Light-blue metallic paint makes the transition to pewter-like tones quite well. And the subtle, reflective shapes of this '59 Ford's sheet metal keep their sculptural beauty.

Don't mind me. I'm just having a little fun here.

It's that time of year...

2010-12-10T15:26:00.000-05:00

...when winter* creates its own black & white images....

Where do all the missing leaves go, ye ask? Why, down to the ground, of course, where I rake 'em and bag 'em. And rake 'em and bag 'em, ad infinitum....

* Yes, I know it's not officially winter yet, but it's close enough to look and feel like it....

Colorless.

2010-12-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

That's how I feel today. Maybe it's the season.

Or, just possibly, I'm seeing things differently these days.

Whatever, I'm in the mood to take color out of things....

Revenge, or "art?" I dunno....

The camera has had a couple of days off...

2010-12-07T20:29:00.000-05:00

...mainly because I haven't found a thing I wanted to shoot. It happens. And I don't like it.

That said, one of my interests, black & white photography, has been enjoying a bit of a revival in my head. It has always been there; that's where I started, after all. Add to that my recent thoughts about Will Connell -- which led to my godfather C.K. and my father, all of whom could do wonders with a roll of Kodak Panatomic-X.* Stir in seeing photos from a dear friend who is a true artist with a camera and can produce compelling B&W images, and I've been moved to start idly riffling through old images to see which would respond well to having their color bleached out (digitally).

Here's one. I liked it when I shot it in color, as the light was grayed and softened enough by overcast skies to have a nice "feel," but I like it better the way I would have shot it on film.** If I had been shooting film that day.

I'm amazed by the change. As taken, the photo was a bit soft and dreamlike, probably due to the pastel effect on the surrounding greenery and the remains of beige paint on the truck. Now, it has a harder edge, and my eye is drawn more to the destructive effects time, missing parts, and rust have had on the poor old Ford.

Yes, this is more to my liking. Fun to do, as well.

* Yet another archaic reference. Panatomic-X was Kodak's best film ever, as far as I'm concerned. It had a slow ASA/ISO rating, which meant using a tripod/flash in anything but broad daylight, but when properly processed, gave brilliant results. It also had exceedingly fine grain, so enlargements were never a problem. I think they stopped making it many years ago. Creeps.

** Or for that matter, if I had known how to mess with color saturation, hue, contrast and brightness on the computer when I took the original.

I learn something new every day!

2010-12-05T12:45:00.000-05:00

At least I did yesterday, even though only I realized it this morning.

And what was this speck of learnin' I picked up?

Ducks are pigeon-toed....

Mealtime...

2010-12-04T18:16:00.000-05:00

...at the Duck Creek Cafe!

From time to time, I have brought a few crusts for the Normal Ducks, Muscovy Ducks/Chernobyl Birds and assorted Unidentified Local Fowl, but these Good Avian Samaritans must have handed out a couple of loaves to the quacking throng. Funny, none of these folks look like St Francis....

There were plenty of satisfied customers after the meal, even if all of them were stuck with the bill....

I'm not really paranoid...

2010-12-03T21:02:00.000-05:00

...nor do I wear a stylish tinfoil chapeau.

But there are times when I feel as if I'm being watched....

In the Arboreal Dell...

2010-12-02T18:26:00.000-05:00

...I prefer black & white to green & tan....

Little House on the...

2010-12-01T22:03:00.000-05:00

...used-to-be Prairie!

A little hard to believe that cars were whizzing by 50 feet behind me as I took this photo....

Seventy-five years ago, it was probably in the middle of nowhere, beside a meandering dirt road. Now, it's in suburbia: across the four-lane highway, there's a shopping center; 100 feet to the west, a busy intersection and then an industrial area, and houses -- brick, of course -- on the other three sides.

I think I've exhausted the supply of neat old houses and peaceful country vistas within walking distance. Not a happy thought.

Expect more ducks and any local details I find interesting enough to shoot. We're not talking about ideal choices photographically -- just what I can dredge up. Have to keep taking pictures, you know.

In the meantime, I'll probably dream about this house. As it was. A snug shelter away from all the things that annoy me about built-up "civilization." I'll bet past owners of the place could hear coyotes at night...I'll take that over traffic noise any time.

Cold Duck!

2010-11-25T15:35:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, it was over 80 degrees under scattered clouds Where I Am Now. Today, it's solid gray above and 39.

But it was business as usual at a local stream called, appropriately enough, Duck Creek....

PARENTHETICAL GUESS-I'M-TOO-CYNICAL-SOMETIMES THOUGHT: At first glance, I dismissed Duck Creek as something dredged out as a kind of visual bonus to attract customers when this area was transformed from farmland to endless streets lined with endless brick houses, all remarkably similar. Nope...turns out Duck Creek was here first. It has, of course, been tamed a bit, with adjoining pathways, cement walls and little dams to control the flow.

But the ducks are still there by the dozens (sometimes, by the hundreds), along with miscellaneous other species of avian life...

They don't seem as keen on migrating to escape the chill as I would have expected. People feed them here; I suppose that has a lot to do with it.

Free meals wouldn't be enough of a lure to make me paddle around in that chilly water, though.

PARENTHETICAL PICTORIAL "TURDUCKEN" (*retch*) THOUGHT: I have no idea what kind of bird this is, but a flock of 'em hang at Duck Creek...so far as I know, there is no nuclear waste facility or Secret Gubmint Research/Torture Facility around here....

If it weren't for kids with chalk...

2010-11-23T16:26:00.000-05:00

...I wouldn't have a picture to post today!*

Walked six miles in the sun and found nothing at all that made it worth pulling the camera out of its carrying-case. I've hinted that this area is singularly dull image-wise, and now I'm out-and-out saying it. It's nowhere for a photographer.

I'll say one thing, though: this kid's a real Texan. Or maybe illiterate.

* Yeah, like you care....

PARENTHETICAL I'M-NOT-A-TOTAL-DUMMY (MOST OF THE TIME, ANYWAY) THOUGHT: I do happen to know that "dogie" is, as the dictionary reminds us, a Western term for a "motherless calf." I remember "Git Along, Little Dogies," as performed by a bazillion cowboy singers (usually twangin' away on a gee-tar while astride their hosses). I still think this was cute, and kinda Texas-y....

More practice...

2010-11-22T17:19:00.000-05:00

...in which I learn that the camera's built-in "black and white" setting is better than monkeying around with the software I have....

I think Will Connell would like this one better, though I'd still prefer a darkroom and the necessary tools to put my knowledge of classic film processing and printing techniques to good use. Software? Phooey!

On the other hand, there are instances when a little color does help, "story"-wise...

One thing hasn't changed from my days of film photography to the Digital Age: I still don't want to mess around much after taking a photo. It has always been my objective to get the shot right in the camera and then do only what's necessary to put the image in viewable form.

PARENTHETICAL HEY-I-FORGOT-WHAT-I-WANTED-TO-TELL-ALL-Y'ALL NOTE: Anyone who loves (or even likes) photography and history needs to bookmark www.shorpy.com and go there at least once a day! I know of no other place on the Interwebz that displays such a stunning array of photos. You could stare at the "full-size" images all day, picking out the tiny details. At least I could....

Reading...

2010-11-19T16:17:00.000-05:00

...my own work. Well, a fraction of it, anyway. One of my former clients just sent me copies of some* of what I've done for them over the past decade, and it's quite a stack: a box-full of oversized printouts --running from one to six or seven sheets each -- and a couple of CDs containing all the original PDF files, which I can then pass along to potential future clients as samples of my writing and (in some cases) photographic "skills."

Wading through all this is not exactly a thrilling experience. First, and perhaps foremost, I am not working with this company now, and may never do so again. The obvious reasons -- "personality conflicts," complaints about the work itself -- don't apply; it's simply a matter of money. When the coffers run low, freelancers are the first to be shunted aside. Moreover, my "rabbi" there** with whom I worked from first to last, has been promoted to a new role at the company, and doesn't yet know how -- or if, or where -- he can use me.

I'm also not a big fan of rereading work I did years ago. Or, for that matter, months ago. Once it's in print, there's nothing I can do to improve, add, delete or generally mess with the story. As any writer can tell you, that urge is strong; nothing has ever been written that couldn't be improved, no photo has ever been taken that couldn't benefit from a rethink. At this stage, all those urges do is cause frustration.

It wasn't all great stuff. Editors messed with some of the copy***, photo editors chose less-than-perfect images, layout people made text disappear, and once in a blue moon I screwed up, getting a fact or two wrong or grinding out a sentence so convoluted that editors just threw up their hands in horror and let it slide.

But there are a few winners in the pile, articles that I'll be proud to use as examples of what I can do.

Mind you, that's what I can do when I'm paid for it. Though these people were fairly free with the mazooma, they did have a bad habit of offering me rush jobs that didn't pay well, which I did simply to keep them smiling. I won't make as much anywhere else today, as story rates have dropped considerably.

The worst part of the whole deal is that I'm not doing this -- or any -- work right now. Never mind the fun I had doing some of the articles; not writing at all is painful. That has to change, and soon.

Much of my working past -- particularly in my most recent "career" -- was not all that wonderful. That it was better than now is depressing, and looking back at what I was doing tends to make that worse. If the favor these people did by digging up and sending me this pile pays off, it will be worth the sad moments spent looking at relics from a former time.

Cranky old Henry Ford famously said: "history is more or less bunk." To some extent, I have to agree with him. He might feel more strongly about that if he was around to wade through my past work....

* I'm guessing about 25-30% of the total, which went into three magazines the company published. These all come from one of them; more are said to be on their way soon.

** That's an old Noo Yawk term, likely with some underworld associations. In this case, a "rabbi" is not your spiritual leader, but someone who helps move you, for whatever reason, through a system.

*** In fairness, that seldom happened to me, and less often than normal with this company. Still, a hamfisted copy editor can mess up your whole day....

Still practicing...

2010-11-17T22:32:00.000-05:00

...with the new camera.

I take it wherever I go, of course, but the photo opportunities are somewhat limited here. I'm not the type to say "oooh, another brick house! I must document that!"

Did see the city water tower in a somewhat different light when I walked past it today, so grabbed a shot.

At least I'll know how to use the camera when a worthy photo-op comes along!

Where I Am Now...

2010-11-14T19:51:00.000-05:00

...is not, as was previously mentioned, exactly a Paradise for photography. It's not a bad place, just not what you'd call, well, overtly photogenic.

What that means is this: now that I'm again in possession of the necessary image-making device -- and I'm using the word "necessary" both in terms of being required for photography and needed for my mental health* -- I have to do a little hunting for photographic prey.

So what does this unnamed burg have?

Bricks. Lots o' bricks. The red, tan and dark-brown rectangular blocks are the local material of choice for homes, walls, commercial structures and, for all I know, trees and shrubbery**. Surround all the brickwork with cement for roads and sidewalks, and you have an overview of Where I Am Now.

You may notice a lack of driveways. The result in this car-centric*** town is driveways behind the houses, accessed via a network of alleys...

But all is not brick houses and glaringly white streets. If one walks around, and pokes into hidden corners a bit, one can find places that haven't been turned into housing tracts, shopping centers and industrial parks. There are small spots that remain absolutely bucolic, staving off Inevitable Civic Progress...

Moreover, there are one or two houses from the past to be seen, once you find them. They're worth the search, too...

This is not a new area by any means. I don't know when it was first settled, but it only took a walk past a local graveyard to learn that it was quite a while ago...

So, while this isn't precisely where I want to be, or where I intend to end up, it is Where I Am Now (mind you, I'm damn grateful to be able to reside here for now) and, with some walking and the heightened perception using a camera provides, I have to say it has more charms than first expected.

* Yes, I know some may argue that the camera's arrival came too late for that, but what the heck, it's a nice figure of speech....

** I kid, I kid. At least about the latter. The trees shed leaves and the shrubbery needs trimming, which obviously means they're not formed from bricks. I think.

*** More accurately, big ol' SUV or giganto pick-'em-up truck-centric.

I've got my eye back!

2010-11-11T20:04:00.000-05:00

PARENTHETICAL ABANDON-HOPE-YE-WHO-ENTER-HERE THOUGHT: This may well be a long, long post. I have things to say, and intend to plod through them 'til I get to the end. This ain't Twitter, you know.

Yes, thanks to a very dear friend who understands me (and understands what drives me), I have a camera again. I couldn't be more pleased -- peering through that viewfinder is like breathing for me.

It has been a long time since my faithful Canon digital gave up the electronic ghost. Nineteen interminable months, in fact. During that time, I've had experiences and have been to places where the camera would have played an important role. But it wasn't there. I have not been pleased. In a way, I felt crippled without a camera.

When my friend -- no mean photographer herself -- told me the camera was on its way, I started doing what I used to do instinctively: I looked around me, searching for things to photograph. Where I Am Now is not exactly a photographic paradise; to be honest, it is dull as tepid bathwater visually.

It didn't take me long to see my first subject, though, and that brings me to Part Two of the story.

My godfather C. K. was a photographer, first as a Navy combat cameraman in the Pacific during World War II, then as a professional, and finally as an instructor at a well-known college for photographers and industrial designers. C. K., who met my father when both were teaching at that school, encouraged my early efforts with a plastic box camera. His advice was all the "schooling" in the craft I ever received.

Not content to pass along his own skill, C. K. showed me the work of a colleague at the school, a man whose talents he revered. That's how I learned about Will Connell; hazy memory tells me I met the man at some point, but it was his book, About Photography, combined with some prints of his work that had ended up in C. K.'s hands, that really grabbed my attention.

PARENTHETICAL FUNNY-WHAT-STICKS-IN-YOUR-MEMORY NOTE: I have always remembered the words with which Connell began the book: "The book will probably do nobody any good, because those who need it won't understand it, and those who understand it won't need it...." That has essentially become my philosophy when I'm asked to teach people how to do things...especially where photography is concerned.

From my fuzzy recollection of Connell, he was remarkably like C. K. Both men earned the old (and now politically incorrect) title of "Man's Man." They were rugged, outdoorsy guys with the eyes of artists.

Connell was famous -- at least to the "art" crowd -- for his sensitive and very human portraits and his photos of historic buildings. But his true genius, as I saw it, was as an industrial photographer who could make compelling and beautiful images from such prosaic subjects as aircraft plants and machines. And powerlines.

C. K.'s advice to me dovetailed perfectly with what I took from Connell's work. First, he told me to start with black and white film: "Color doesn't tell a story," he said. "The image does." This tied in with everything else he told me, the essence of which was that every photograph has to tell a story. Doesn't necessarily matter if the photographer and viewer take different stories away with them, but the story has to be there.

Connell's rich, black and white images of power transmission towers were compelling to me when I was young and impressionable, and remain so today, when I'm old and impressionable.

As a result, I was drawn, new camera in hand , to the local power lines....

Naturally, I've taken many other photos in the days since my new "eye" arrived. Some of them, or future images of wildly differing types and mainly in color, will get posted. I'm back to the habit of carrying a camera with me everywhere. I'll get better with it, too -- we're still getting acquainted.

But my first effort was guided by long-ago, long-gone influences who had so much influence on whatever "good" photos I've taken. So this is for you, C. K., and for Will Connell, the Master.

And for you too, D. You have given me back one of my greatest joys.

It's that time of year...

2010-10-27T19:59:00.000-04:00

...when some people get all hung up on political stuff. In deference to a friend who commented on the earlier "The Rent's Too Damn High" post -- and because I'm already past total burnout on the subject -- this won't exactly be a political post. Think of it as a sniffing-around-the-edges-of-politics post. No advocacy, criticism or other stuff having to do with any political party or candidate.

So don't worry. Unless you really want me to howl like a pack of hyenas coming down from a long-term Thorazine habit about some elected official or some particular philosophy, in which case I'm gonna disappoint you.

One of the things that galls me about the Wonderful World of the Interwebz is that every election in every part of the country is getting full discussion among the political junkies.

Do I care what's happening in the tight race for the NY-24 or MA-12 or ND-27.5 districts? No, I do not. I might wish voters in those places were a little smarter*, but other than that I'm down with the idea of ignoring them totally.

Okay. Let's get to the nut of the thing. A new term -- at least new to me -- has sprung up this election time, and just hearing (or reading) it is enough to make me break out in a rash that no lotion can cure. I refer, of course, to the "money bomb," a concentrated period of funds-hustling for a favorite candidate.

If you waste your time reading any of that stuff, you know what I mean: "Supporters of Tim Dogbreath, the Totally Humorless Party candidate in ID-07, are holding a money bomb to help him beat Max Hernia, the eeeeevil Loopy Party hack. Tim needs $100,000 today, so let's get him there!"

Of course people chime in immediately, saying things like "I live in California, but I just sent Tim $100...he only has $97,680 to go!"

Unfortunately, by this point I already know too damn much about Tim and Max as it is, and I wouldn't give either one of them fifty cents, regardless of party affiliation.

PARENTHETICAL YES-I'M-IGNORANT THOUGHT: the only thing I really know about Idaho is that it has a governor named Butch Otter. Since that's just too weird for me to get my mind around, I immediately stop thinking about Idaho.

No doubt my reaction has something to do with the fact that I could use a "money bomb" myself right about now. Hell, I could use a fleet of B-52s dropping money bombs on me right now. Am I going to scrape around in the bottom of my pocket looking for pennies to help pay for some goon's campaign? When/if he wins, I'll get to help pay his salary anyway, along with his expenses, his oversized staff, his perks, his first-class travel. Lucky me. Lucky you.

Not to mention that I'll get to help pay for all the dumb projects he can think up while in office to reward the people who made the Really Big Donations to his campaign.

But it gave me an idea, and here it is: Donate to the Mr Scribbler Money Bomb! That's right, send in the ol' mazooma, as much as you can afford, and more, and do it TODAY!

I only need to raise $1,000,000 for my campaign to not run for office and, since election season will be over (Yay!) next Tuesday, you only have six days to make my Money Bomb a huge success! Yes, I promise that if this works, I will absolutely reject any political ambitions, ignore all the pleas for me to go Straighten Out the Mess in Washington.

Even better, I promise not to give one thin dime from the Money Bomb to any political campaign for any candidate in any district from any party.

Pretty cool idea, huh?

Hey, it has worked quite well for some tuned-in players who have set up Political Action Committees to funnel money to favored candidates. They skim "operating expenses" off the top of the donations (gotta lease that Escalade, keep up the Amex Platinum and pay themselves a half-mill a year) and funnel the rest, then take credit for helping those jackwagons** get into office.

The people who run those committees are known as "Political Experts," and get lots o' face time on the talk shows, write best-selling books about politics, get invited to All the Right Parties, and make fortunes telling candidates how to run for office.

Not me. I'm going with a Political Inaction Committee.

But I can't do it without your help (as the candidates say).

Hurry up, now! Get those donations coming in! Only $999,999.97*** to go!

* Translate that as they should agree with me

** A word from my second-favorite GEICO commercial....

*** I just found three pennies in my pocket and made a loan to my campaign, just to get the ball rolling....

These days, it's not the same.

2010-10-23T12:57:00.000-04:00

With the exception of emails, blog comments and very occasional posts here, I haven't been doing much writing lately. The reason is not a shortage of subject matter; instead, it's a lack of motivation.

The motivational factor, now vanished, was mainly financial. I spent 24 years being paid for a combination of opinion, research and writing skills. That was a good deal all around (at least as far as I'm concerned): I entertained and educated people, and could buy myself space under a roof, a meal or two and, on rare occasions, the odd useless-but-entertaining gadget.

It's not easy to wean oneself off that kind of situation. When I think about belting out a slew of words, I am brought to a screeching halt by the lack of an audience. Yes, a paying audience; people who work hard to develop skills are generally reluctant to give 'em away for free.

PARENTHETICAL ARROGANT-BUT-WHINY THOUGHT: I sometimes read what my colleagues are writing. Some of them have pretty well-paying gigs, too. I never was one for reading magazines (unless they featured one of my articles!) but I do see various websites, usually of a general-interest nature, where my particular subject is covered. Most of what I see displays adequate talent at best, more often a definite shortage of the kinds of knowledge, common sense and analytical/communication skills that separate professionals from amateurs. But those writers seem to know something I don't, which is how to project an image of competence even when there's nothing to support it. They know how to sell themselves; I'm one of those old-fashioned losers who expected a body of good work to sell me.

Worse, maybe, is that I've fallen behind in my field. A lot of things have happened in that world during the six months or more that I've been separated from it. If, by some miracle, someone were to call and offer me a chance to get back in harness, it'd take me a lot of solid study to get back up to speed. Weeks, maybe months, at a minimum. And I would have to find some way to replace at least some of my lost library on the subject.

I've never understood people who are so driven to write that no little handicap -- like crushing poverty, for example -- can stop them. I admire them, for sure, but that's not how I roll.

I love writing. It's a wonderful craft. But, like any craft, if one is good at it, takes it seriously, devotes time and effort to it, works to hone the skills necessary to be considered a "real" writer, some return should be forthcoming.

In my case, it isn't.

Not that there ever was a flood of spondulix rolling my way. Enough (with some prudence) to survive was about as good as it got. That was sufficient, really.

I'm not even sure why I bring this up again. If I had to guess, I'd say that trying to sell myself -- a good, proven product -- to people who simply aren't buying has worn me out.

When one is worn out, all that's left is crankiness.

I'd love to be writing again. I miss it in a very essential, deep-in-the-gut way. I still have plenty to say. And I can say it better than those who have read only my blog, emails and comments can know.

But I'd also like to get something back. Appreciation ain't enough, Jim. Bring money.

Why I'm down with "The Rent Is Too Damn High Party"

2010-10-19T21:41:00.000-04:00

All the serious political junkies -- you know, the ones who who wish polls were taken every five minutes instead of daily so they could see how their fave candidates are doing at every moment, who read RedState or Huffington Post the way hard-shell Baptists read the Bible -- are making fun of Jimmy McMillan, candidate in the New York Governor's race.

Not me, fellow babies.

Oh, I know the committed*, the True Believers who kneel at the feet of sages like Keith Oblermann or Rush Limbaugh, see McMillan as a joke, a more energetic and charismatic clone of the unfortunate Alvin Greene, the Democrats' Senatorial candidate from South Carolina.

Nuh-uh. Once I caught him on video, I knew Jimmy and his "The Rent is Too Damn High Party" are the wave of the future. Or should be....

Think about it. What he's saying, boiled down, is simple: Life is too expensive for too many people these days, and jobs are disappearing**. If government has any role in our lives aside from national defense and, perhaps, building roads, it is to help people live well. Ideally, this should be done by not putting endless rules, regulations, onerous taxes and other roadblocks in their paths.

Sadly, our government has become a self-perpetuating scam operated by people who think they have some kind of moral duty to "help" various groups (oddly enough, those groups tend to be people who vote in blocs and donate to said politicians' election campaigns) and impose their own particular/peculiar moral and business standards on the common folk.

As individuals, we are all, to some extent, our brothers' keepers. Our government orders us to be so, and chooses the "brothers" whom we are to support. Oddly enough, many are already better-off than we are. That's what political connections will do for you.

Naturally, while they're "serving" us, they're living high, to put it mildly. On our dime. I don't get the impression McMillan would be get as heavily into personal corruption as, say, Charlie Rangel, or become a blowhard, elitist nanny like Mikey Bloomberg.

Though it didn't come out much during the gubernatorial debate -- given the number of ding-a-lings on the stage, it's amazing anyone was able to say anything -- McMillan also seems to be advocating tolerance. I'm down with that, too.

Yes, all the pundits -- including partisan lickspittles like Sean Hannity and Chris Matthews -- think McMillan's a joke.

I don't. If I could afford to move to New York (and had time to register as a voter before the election), McMillan would have my support, you can bet.

I've waited my whole adult life to vote for a candidate instead of picking the one whom I think would do the least damage. This may be the closest I get to that goal since I wrote a letter, so many years ago, urging the brilliant Barbara Jordan to run for President.

Perhaps Jimmy McMillan should change the name of his party to something a bit more universal -- like "The Back to Basics Party" and go national.

I hate to think what the nation will look like in a few more years if the corrupt, self-centered and doctrinaire establishment parties stay in power. We really can't afford to be ruled by self-anointed royalty any more.

"The Rent is Too Damn High," both in our own lives and in America in general.

* Define "committed" how you wish....

** Just ask me....

PARENTHETICAL UPDATED UPDATE-Y STUFF: This morning a friend pointed out some rather unsavory parts of Jimmy McMillan's act which you can read about here. Have to admit I'm a bit disappointed....

Still, it's easy to dig up bad stuff about almost anyone running for office, and I'd rate Jimmy's mild antisemitism and evasions regarding his own living conditions rather lower than the removal-from-office-worthy behavior of Office-Holders "C," "M," "R" and "O" (to name only a few of the many).

What politician or candidate hasn't been a disappointment? None I can think of. I'll still go by my father's voting advice: "When you have a choice between a known jerk and an unknown jerk, go for the unknown."

Hey, how about those Chilean miners?

2010-10-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

Yes, this is my Big Chance to show everyone how insensitive I really am.

According to various news reports, roughly one billion people are glued to their TV screens as I type this, all engrossed in the spectacle of the rescue of 33 Chilean miners. Every TV channel save the Cartoon Network is relaying the images and providing breathless coverage. Every psychologist who isn't allergic to television makeup, everyone who has ever been within five miles of a mine and everyone who has ever been in any kind of dangerous situation is analyzing the event.

The "analysis" is beyond ridiculous. News anchors who know nothing about what's going on (you might say that about 90% of the subjects they cover) are opining about mining, geology and psychology as if they actually know something. Various shrinks -- who should damn well know better -- are talking about the miners' "problems" as if they had personally treated them for years.

PARENTHETICAL I'M-NO-MONSTER NOTE: I'm really happy for the miners and their families. I can't begin to imagine what they've gone through, and don't want to try. This is the closest thing imaginable to an ideal end to the situation.

But I think turning disaster into something closely approximating a sporting event is disgusting.

ANNOUNCER: "We're waiting for Number 16 to come up now!"

ON-SCENE REPORTER: "Yes, Daniel Silva, age 27, is stepping out of the capsule now!" (sounds of applause, cheers in background)

Fortunately, the miners have apparently spoken to some kind of consultant who has advised them on what to say when the Worldwide Microphone is thrust into their collective faces. They may have landed a book deal, too.

Tragedy as a Made-For-TV Event.

Maybe I am an insensitive jerk. But apparently breathing a sigh of relief that 33 people were rescued from a tragedy isn't enough. No, you have to participate, have to watch the whole thing, talk about it* and treat the rescue as if it were an event of the magnitude of the first Moon landing (I didn't make that up; some TV nitwit said it), make 33 ordinary human beings, humans with strengths and weaknesses, into saints.

The best part of the whole thing? In a few hours, the rescue will be over, and 33 humans will be with their families and friends.

The worst part of the whole thing? In a few hours, the rescue will be over, and the media leeches will have to find yet another tragedy to feed from.

As my journalism prof used to say: "If it bleeds, it leads."

The Cartoon Network is looking better and better, Jim.

* I'm talking about it. Or at least writing about it. Guilty as charged.

Why I'm a Loser, part 23,748.

2010-10-05T13:33:00.000-04:00

During my latest financial meltdown (as opposed to all the previous financial meltdowns), several people have suggested that I should -- to use the current terminology, which makes my teeth grind -- monetize my blog. I am, after all, such a great writer, etc., etc., blahblahblah.

All y'all know what that means: pick topics that show up in search engines, run ads, add a "donation" button, write several times a day, engage in endless self-promotion (which means reading, quoting and commenting on a horde of similar blogs, scattering links to me like grains of rice).... Then sit back and watch the ol' spondulix roll in.

It's not that easy.

I did do some snooping around to see how it's done. What I found did not exactly inspire me to take the Big Leap and Put It All Out There for advertisers (and readers) to lap up like a horde of thirsty kittycats gathering around the milk bowl.

I found things I could write about (and, in some cases, have written about). But I also found compelling reasons to maintain my blog as-is, which is as a place where I can vent and write about me when the mood strikes.

So here are the likely prospects, with my take on each:

1. NEWS AGGREGATION: These are sites like the Drudge Report, which exist only to provide links to other peoples' work. Since I don't give a happy damn about gossip and pop culture, I'd miss half the links that seem to be hot for readers right from the git-go. The rest would be repetitions of every other aggregator's links. Not exactly what I'd want to do;

2. POLITICAL BLOGS: Yes, I read some on a pretty regular basis and yes, I do have strong beliefs and opinions. Problem is, what I'd want to say (or could say with the necessary clear conscience and straight face) would not fit the model demanded by readers of political blogs. Liberal or conservative, one must adhere to the Party Line; any deviations produce howls of outrage from readers and greatly diminished web traffic. To me, the result is a kind of lock-step conformity that I simply can't make myself fit into, a case of my-way-or-the-highway absolutism at its worst.

3. MY OWN AREA OF EXPERTISE, now sadly unused by any clients: (I'm still unsure why I can't bring myself to come right out with it. Guess I'm still trying to preserve an anonymity that no longer exists.) The situation on the Interwebz mirrors that of the world of print publications: Amateurs have invaded the scene, all searching for what I used to have (various freebies, including products to evaluate, fancy travel, and so on). They broadcast their opinions which are, in my immodest, defiantly non-humble view, uninformed and badly expressed. The sites I've seen either reprint press handouts (unthinkable when I started in the game) or, worse, talk about the subject without any context or background knowledge. Or, they steal from established writers (like I used to be).

4. HUMOR: I can't draw, so cartoons are out. Likewise, when I'm trying for laffs, I am about as funny as a direct meteor strike on a Big City. Some people got it, and some don't got it. I don't got it.

PARENTHETICAL WHAT-IT-ALL-BOILS-DOWN-TO NOTE: The biggest weakness of the Internet is its instant-communication nature. Both news and analysis/commentary must hit the webs within moments of any event. Neither I nor anyone else can offer coherent and consistent opinions at the speed of electrons whizzing down cables. Information must be processed before it can be understood, must churn around in the brain before the typing fingers go to work. So-called "livebloggers" don't get this.

So there, in abbreviated form (as if my writing is ever "abbreviated"), is why a "monetized" blog would earn me an income in the high single digits. Through heredity or environment, I am constitutionally unable to play the kind of game that would make me successful in a world of short attention spans and acceptance of badly researched "facts" (see: Wikipedia, as massive a source of errors and outright misleading "information" as has ever existed).

I've always been ready and willing to sell out. If someone wants to pay for my take on any subject, I'm on hand. What I can't do is compromise on what I consider the basics: background, real research, taking the time to write well -- at least using proper English and spelling, except when I deliberately violate the rules of style for effect -- and what, for lack of a better word, I can only call integrity.

That doesn't make me particularly noble, of course. Mainly, it means I'm a lousy whore who can't peddle my, well, "product" in the Internet Age.

Being an irrelevant dinosaur ain't easy or fun, Jim.

You can't lose 'em all...

2010-09-23T16:49:00.000-04:00

...and, for once, I didn't lose. Okay, so I didn't actually win either, but I feel compelled to add a final chapter to the Geek Squad Saga.

All y'all read about it below: in essence, my computer picked up a nasty virus, and Geek Squad was supposed to clean it out for me. After I dropped a whole heckuva lot of loot on them, the computer came home and started in on the same old nonsense. I complained (politely) and was essentially told to pound sand. Another company actually came through for me, but I was out a hefty pile of spondulix, enough to buy a decent new 'puter. Geek Squad, via its customer service people, kept on telling me to pound sand.

So here we are. I mentioned having found contact info for a Geek Squad bigwig, and indeed made contact. Mr Bigwig didn't get back to me personally, but assigned someone (higher up the corporate food chain than my previous contacts) to check it out. At some point, the Dreaded Gift Certificate was again offered as a way to smooth my ruffled feathers.

PARENTHETICAL THINK-ABOUT-IT-FOR-A-MOMENT THOUGHT: What is a "gift certificate" worth? It entitles you to buy stuff at the same store that made you angry in the first place, costs them maybe half the face value if that much, and in the end they have the money and you don't.

I thanked the representative for the offer, but emphasized that I would prefer cash. Right now, I need that more than anything I could get at Best Buy. Unless, that is, Best Buy has started selling food when I wasn't looking....

Yesterday, I was advised that a refund was indeed warranted, and was told to call the manager at the offending store. Which I did. He invited me to come up and collect my loot. The only minor drawback was that the sum offered was $60 less than I wanted.

PARENTHETICAL YES-I'M-GREEDY THOUGHT: It was actually more like roughly $250 less than I wanted, but why quibble over details? I can't say the other stuff they did hurt anything or wasn't needed...just that I didn't want to be roped into those services at the time.

Being heavily into my "be polite" mode, I explained this very calmly. In the end, after some to-ing and fro-ing, the manager handed me a pitifully small stack of Jacksons this morning (with a couple Lincolns thrown in to round out the sum I felt was reasonable) and, if I still didn't quite feel all the grief had been worth it, I had to admit the company and manager played fair. We shook hands, smiled at each other like we meant it, and I left.

I'm admitting all this here. I prefer to mete out praise instead of complaints, you know. Don't get as much chance with the latter as I do with the former, though....

Oooh, yeah, before I forget: I'm getting a gift certificate, too, directly from the corporate office. A bigger one than I was offered to shut up and go away. Already have a good use for it in mind....

The whole episode has been an occasion for stress I didn't need, Jim. But it got resolved and I didn't lose this time.

Geeks, don't fail me now!

2010-09-18T17:17:00.000-04:00

Oh, wait...they already did....

PARENTHETICAL YA-GOTTA-KNOW-THE-BACKSTORY COMMENT: My computer made the journey from California to, well, here during the last week of July. I set it up, and crawled out onto the interwebz. That's what I do with a computer. Very quickly, it picked up a "trojan" virus, which rendered it useless. Not having the computer-help resources I had in the other world, I decided to play it safe and rely on a well-known name's professionals to restore my poor Compaq's health.

So, I took my box to the Geek Squad at a Best buy store in the next town up the road. They charged me $190 for virus removal, $35 for "cleaning," and $100 to back up my data on CDs. With tax and who-knows-what-else thrown in, the total came to $357.

I picked it up the next day, set it up again, and bingo! back came the same virus. I called the store and was advised that the warranty didn't cover virus removal. I was, they said, welcome to come back and spend another $190. They'd be happy to give it another shot.

Somehow, the notion of paying someone again to fix something they didn't get right the first time didn't grab me. I called a local service firm, which sent a tech out. He removed the virus, installed a superior antivirus (the Geeks said nothing about doing anything like that), installed a couple of useful goodies and restored a few settings the Geeks had messed up. Total charge: $160. No further problems. None.

And so the saga began. No sooner had I again achieved connectivity with Out There than I made sure to drop Geek Squad's "customer service" people a mild email. When I received a response, many days later, it was not what I'd call effective or to the point.

In fact, It's worth quoting from (exactly as received):

Thank you for contacting the Geek Squad. My name is Agent Elorme.

Thank you for taking the time to send me your letter. I rely on direct feedback from our customers like you to let us know how The Geek Squad is doing. If you or anyone you know ever has any experience that is less than perfect, I want to know about it. We care very much about quality and I hope you'll give us another chance.

I apologize for the delay on our response and thank you for your patient. I am sorry to hear you are still having problems with your computer after the in store repair. I would like to offered our Under Cover service as a one time curtsey were an technician remotely logs in your computer and run diagnostic. You will need to have internet access in order to perform the service. I will waive all fee for the service. If you accept my offered please send me a date, time, and phone number where you can be reached. Once again, I do appreciate you as a customer and thank you for taking the time out of your day to let us know what went wrong.

I look forward to speaking to you. Thank you for choosing Geek Squad.

Once I satisfied myself that I understood most of what "Agent Elorme" was trying to say, I fired off a reply, noting that the poor response from my phone call had made me decide to go elsewhere for good service.

That prompted yet another email, this time from someone for whom English is a first or, at worst, second language. Yesterday -- we're now at the 17th of September, you understand -- I received yet another email, suggesting I contact Geek Squad's toll free "consumer service" number about the possibility of a partial refund.

So I did. That was two-plus hours of my life I'll never get back.

It started off well enough. The first person took my information and we discussed various questions she had. She then sent me to another rep, who did the same, and called the Best Buy store in question to see what was what. Then I was cut off.

Naturally, I was on "hold" for roughly half the time involved.

I called back, and went through the same process with two more people. These were a bit more clueless, making me fear that "Agent Elorme" wasn't far away. One couldn't find anything in the records, claiming my name was misspelled. Then I got it out of him that he had mis-typed my phone number after I repeated it three times.

By this time I was no longer mildly irritated, no longer interested in perhaps getting a partial refund. No. Now I wanted at least the $190 back. That's what happens when you irritate a customer by being clueless and condescending, you know. They go from reasonable to angry.

When the final "agent" offered me a $50 gift certificate at the store, I informed her that would do no good. Who needs a gift certificate for a store you never intend to buy from again? She shifted me to her supervisor.

Right off the ol' bat, I knew from the tone of this dude's voice that I was essentially threatening to rob his company, and he wasn't having any. It was my fault, because I didn't take the computer back and give them another chance (at another $190) to make it right. That somehow voided the warranty I had been told at the time didn't apply anyway.

Amazingly, I didn't dip into the vast storehouse of profanity, vulgarity and expressions of rage I have stashed away over the years. I merely told "supervisor" that it was a pretty pathetic way to run a company. The rest I didn't say; I just thought it real hard.

If I had to guess, I'd say my dealings with Geek Squad -- and my subsequent promise (which I intend to keep) that I will never again spend a penny with them or Best Buy -- didn't not result in any hand-wringing at their corporate headquarters. Hell, I'm only one customer; losing me won't require them to park their fleet of VW Beetles or lay off any of their "technicians."

We've all seen people who, when wronged by Evil Corporate America, set up websites (which they fill with page after page of boring details about their woes) and, like conspiracy theorists chasing the Infamous Grassy Knoll Assassin, can quote dates, times to the second, and produce witnesses to support their arguments. I've tended to laugh at such people.

I understand them now. I won't do that -- in fact, I can't think of anything I can do in this case -- but I understand it. There's an evil little part of me that wouldn't mind seeing tires flattened on every black & white VW Beetle in town, but that part remains quiescent, as it has after every other instance when I've felt rooked, cheated, bamboozled or hoodwinked.

Just don't expect me to feel any pity for Geek Squad and Best Buy if they go the way of other less-than-customer-friendly electronics retailers/ service points. Comes to that, expect me to cheer wildly on that day!

If you ever need fast, competent computer service, I can give the highest recommendation to a nice company in my area. And I advise you: avoid Geek Squad and Best Buy under any circumstances.

Revenge it ain't, but at least now you know -- as the late, not-necessarily-great Paul Harvey used to say -- the rest of the story.

Good-day.

PARENTHETICAL POST-SCRIPT-Y TYPE THOUGHT: A few minutes of research (on the computer which has worked perfectly since Not-the-Geek-Squad fixed it) got me a telephone number for a Geek Squad executive. He's gonna get a call from me come Monday....

The Return of "Jim"

2010-09-17T20:58:00.000-04:00

My friend Juanderlust suggests (in a comment on a previous post) that I haven't been writing here often enough, and he's right.

It has been a difficult few months, Jim.

But all is not lost. Not all "all," anyway. Whenever presented with an opportunity to smile, I can still manage it.

One prime example is this TV commercial, which makes me smile every time I see it. It never gets old. In fact I am beginning to believe this may be the best TV commercial in recorded history, the absolute pinnacle of the art since Philo Farnsworth invented the Boob Tube oh so many years ago:

PARENTHETICAL IT-AIN'T-LIKE-RIDIN'-A-BICYCLE THOUGHT: Did that work? I've forgotten everything I knew about HTML. Advancing age and creeping senility, I suppose. Or maybe I never really had a firm grasp of the fundamentals.

One reason for my silence -- and I'm always ready with excuses for my multitudinous failings -- is that I am so used to writing for money; when the ol' spondulix were rollin' in* I didn't have much trouble batting out posts for free in my spare time. It was fun.

"Fun" and I don't have much to do with each other these days. My last writing gig was something like three months ago, and efforts to find a local gig -- any gig -- have been met with uniform disinterest.

So I'm nowhere near being Mr Happy Dude right now.**

But I do have some music stashed in my computer to listen to -- a good bit of my CD collection was salvaged during the Big Crash back in April, but is still in L.A. -- and my old photos to look at. Not much, really, but one clings to sanity with whatever resources are available.

I also have access to the "little piggy," who cracks me up without fail when I see him on the Tube.

And I got you, Jim. Wish you'd buy me a drink, like in the old days....

* Okay, make that dribbling in....

** There is one exception to the no-happiness situation, but that's far away from reaching the talk-about-it stage as of now.

New news

2010-07-07T11:01:00.000-04:00

NON-PARENTHETICAL YOU-HAVE-BEEN-WARNED NOTE: For most people -- everyone? -- this will be an exceptionally boring post. Tough. It's what I'm thinking about when I would much rather be thinking about happy stuff. Ain't no "happy stuff" around right now, though....

These days, a majority of the public gets its news from the Internet. That would include me, I admit. It's a big change from a diet of a couple of daily newspapers and half-hour of TV news plus a variety of weekly/monthly magazines, which was my routine 20 years ago.

But being wedded to the computer for work reasons ultimately changed my habits. There are thousands (if not tens of thousands) of sources for news now, all easily accessible.

Most people feel as I did at first: a good library of bookmarked sites can put you in touch with more than you need to know about anything you want to know about. As a "news junkie" from way back, I quickly began to see this the way a kid sees a big toy-shaped box under the Christmas tree.

But now, having seen my own news-related career collapse like a bridge made of toilet paper, I have had to look more closely and see things differently.

What you find when peeping at the man behind the curtain* is that the number of actual reporters -- which I define as people who actually go where news happens, ask questions of participants, do diligent research, and assemble a fact-laden digest of what happened in clear, concise form -- has actually diminished from the days of so-called "old media."

Today, most online news comes from aggregators, people who assemble links to news stories from various more-or-less credible sources. The Drudge Report is a prime example. Drudge is not a journalist, no matter what he thinks. Instead, he (or whatever individual manages his website these days) he is a reader and assembler who works with the electronic equivalent of scissors and paste to put a whole bunch of ~~stolen~~ borrowed stories in a small space.

And the articles you read on other sites? Too often, they are "written" by hacks who are paid $30 by a "content mill" to whip out what is essentially a first rough draft of a real story, one based on a couple of minutes'-worth of Google searches, other online articles or direct lifts from Wikipedia, itself a notoriously inaccurate "source." These people are typists, not reporters.

But hey, it's all free to the reader.

This has two bad effects: first, it tends to perpetuate erroneous information. If x writes something bogus, it is given fresh life when picked up and plagiarized by y. Unless someone actually digs up the truth by talking to genuine experts or people involved in the particular story -- which is economically unfeasible for anyone who expects to make a living as a writer in this climate -- misinformation and outright lies spread like fungus.

The second bad effect is related to that last sentence. And it's where I come in. Or. more realistically, go out. Though I have not had any contact with former clients in the past few months, I still talk to someone who is trying to peddle his wares. What he hears -- and I believe him -- is that the magazines' story banks are full of articles offered up "on spec" (that is, written and submitted with the hope they will eventually be published and -- maybe -- paid for). They are not looking for new articles.

Never mind that the material they have on hand is largely of dubious quality, filled with inaccuracies and poorly written. The stories are of "internet quality" and, for companies that see articles as a way to fill the white space between the ads, that'll do just fine.

We have all seen those internet ads trolling for writers. I have, and have followed up on many of them. What I have found in the fine print are sub-minimum wage payments for writers. I'll give a few credit: they openly admit "you won't get rich writing for us" and appeal to the desire of any aspiring writer to "build a portfolio" as if someone else, somewhere, will actually pay a living wage for your work later.

PARENTHETICAL NEWS-FLASH: I have a portfolio, thank you very much, one assembled over 24 painful-but-successful years. The work therein was vetted by editors, copy editors and fact-checkers, was almost always painstakingly research and smoothed by me before submission. What it entitles me to, apparently, is to apply for (and probably not get) a $25K/year, 24/7 job in an area where a one-room apartment will cost you $30K/year or more. In short, my portfolio has the approximate value of a used Kleenex.

Perhaps this means nothing to you. Stories that play fast and loose with facts, don't even try to hide the writer's personal biases and are sloppily constructed are the norm today, not the exception. This is the "New Journalism" and the thieves who fill their websites with stolen work are the "New Media."

To me it's pretty damn ugly, Jim.

I won't even start on the cable TV news networks and the crap they peddle. Nor will I talk about today's "commentators" who, unlike the giants of the Walter Williams/George Will/Victor Davis Hanson class, deliver reasoned opinion (even when I disagree with them, I can follow their logic and appreciate their informed opinions) instead of adding a sentence or two of their own to links and blockquotes from other "pundits" and calling that "commentary."

As far as I'm concerned, the nut of the whole thing is rooted in short attention spans and a lack of any desire to hear/read anything that challenges one's own opinions and beliefs. Never mind that said opinions and beliefs are built on the same weak foundation of mangled facts and distortions that pepper today's information world. What's wanted is instant gratification, accuracy, quality and coherence be damned.

The "free access" routine plays into this as well. You don't want to pay for news? You think advertisers do that for you? You're half right: advertisers pay the aggregators; very little filters down to the actual producers. That has a negative (to put it mildly) effect on those who churn out the pap you read. In two words: they starve.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Actually I do know what to do, but that's another story. And not a pretty one.

* I'm guessing that's an obscure reference these days. Do people still watch The Wizard of Oz?

Father's Day...

2010-06-20T20:08:00.000-04:00

...is almost over, slipping past well under my personal radar.

I'm not a father. Well, as far as I know there are no offspring of mine out running around. And I'm sure I would have been informed by now.

PARENTHETICAL CLOSE-BUT-NO-CIGAR NOTE: My ex-wife is a mother, with at least one child. But she waited until after we decided to divorce -- but possibly not before she moved out of our unhappy abode* -- to get pregnant.

All of which is fine by me. By the time the issue of raising bambini came up, I was not against the notion as a general concept. I simply didn't want to make babies with her.

After that, every woman with whom I might have wished to enter a state of parenthood** proved to be either unwilling or infertile. Or both.

And now it's too late. My days of considering making an addition or two to the world's population appear to be behind me, though my enthusiasm for practicing making babies is undiminished. Tony Randall I'm not.

My father has been gone for more than 20 years. I don't miss him. To indulge in a hoary cliche, I missed him when he was alive. I won't bad-rap him, but the past is not changeable, and our relationship was not especially wonderful. Or even good.

I do, however, admire fathers. Fathers have, after all, created all the women I loved/love, people I admire, inventors, producers of great art, music, literature, all my friends.

Of course fathers also cursed our world with mass murderers, crooks, tyrants, malcontents of all kinds, and politicians. Fatherhood does not have a 100% record of success.

On balance, though, I have to take my hat off to all the men who have, at one time or another, earned the honor of being called "daddy." Without fathers, this would be a damn barren planet.

So I'll say it: Happy Father's Day to all.

* I was informed of this by a trustworthy person who admitted having heard it directly from ---- some time after the divorce was final. And, let it be said, she did marry the presumed father....

* Marriage, too...I'm old-fashioned that way.

Writer's block.

2010-06-19T19:10:00.000-04:00

For as long as I've had an online journal -- which has been a fair number of years -- I've told anyone who cared to read my words that I'm a writer. A capital-W Writer, thank you very much, one who has made a living -- tenuous, poor and inconsistent, perhaps, but my continued existence more or less attests to it -- grinding out words.

And, despite my wish to step away from the monster that has consumed me for so long, such money as I've earned in the last few months has come from writing.

Pathetic whore that I am, I suppose I would return to it full-time if the opportunity presented itself. I would rob banks if I possessed the necessary skills, too. Money talks. In my case, it screams.

But I've learned something, and it is a bit painful: I will never be a decent fiction writer, one whose books carry the "x Weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List!" line atop the cover and/or get made into big-grossing movies featuring Big Stars.

I guess I've known that for years, but reading a book that bears both distinctions and a Famous Author* has simply driven the point home like a red-hot rivet shot from a pneumatic gun.

Let it be said that I did not sink to my knees in abject wonder while reading it. No, I am not going to sing the praises of this book. Just the opposite, really; I found it poorly constructed, full of interminable paragraphs formed from fast-drying cement and situations that stretch the definition of "improbable" to new lengths.

And that doesn't even take the stereotyped characters, vapid dialogue and predictable scenes into account.

But hey, it sold. Big buckaroons for author and agent. Zillions of people raved about book and movie.

I am a mercenary kind of guy. Writing the Great American Novel holds no appeal for me, unless it brings me into reach of a Great American Fortune. Having been approached on several occasions to write non-fiction books within my own little field (and turning each offer down), I am aware of the financial details attending authorship, particularly as they relate to factual works.

Had I accepted the ego-stroking offers, I would have reached my current state of whimpering poverty much faster.

It is possible that, with practice, I could learn to emulate some best-selling writers, to adapt their vapid, semi-literate styles -- can you say Clive Cussler? -- for my own, and put myself in line for a pile of spondulics. I'm good at mimicry when I put my mind to it.

But I know, deep down, that any discerning reader would swiftly realize that I was faking it, and would be properly scornful. And would put the book right back on the shelf, unsold.

My own "style" wouldn't work in book-land. In writing for magazines, I learned to create economical prose that fits into small, well-defined spaces. The twists, turns and side-trips of a novel are as foreign to my way of writing as producing original manuscripts in Chinese.

Changing my written ways now would be a monumental task, a case of the-leopard-changing-his-spots much more difficult than I can manage while having to deal with all the other negative nonsense life continues to throw at me. Better -- and faster, and easier -- to become an expert on, say, String Theory.

Oddly enough, I have a couple of embryonic plots for novels stewing in my head. One is based on true-life people in a true-life place**, and would become fiction simply because not enough is known about the protagonists' real lives to come up with 40,000 words about them. Someone tried. And failed miserably.

The other is seems better. Coincidentally, I think it has greater commercial possibilities as well. But I can't write it. I am not "in touch" with the main characters in terms of the lives they would have led, the patois they speak in certain circumstances, or how they would react and adapt to the situations the story would set them in.

All is not lost for the latter idea, though. I know a writer who could produce it with grace and sensitivity***. From time to time, I jot a note or two about it in hopes that I can convince this writer (a friend, mind you) to take a stab at it.

If that never happens, these ideas will simply join many others that formed in my brain, blossomed and withered. Unlike the Unknown Soldier, they will never be memorialized, but will simply end up in some anonymous landfill with other artifacts chronicling my existence. "Pas de biggie," as the French are smart enough not to say....

There's definitely another factor at work here, but I won't go into it. I've written about the fallacy of the "starving artist" argument in the past, and don't want to waste a lot of time exploring the psyche of the emotionally starving artist, even if I think that plays a part in my current inability to write dancing, singing, balletic stories. Stories people would read. Would pay to read.

This has been one of those "inside-baseball" posts that no one in their right mind should read. If you've gotten this far, I feel kinda sorry for you.

If I was a better host, I would have filled this space with jokes.....

* Since I have no desire to be a literary critic, or to displease those who may enjoy this writer's work, I will leave the author blissfully -- and well-set financially -- anonymous.

** My original intention was to write a musical about them. But musicals seem to be out of favor these days, so a novel is the only possible alternative.

*** This writer can -- and does -- write rings around me in any case, even when confined to short-form work. I do sink to my knees in abject wonder when reading anything this person writes.

Sympathy for BP?

2010-06-17T20:04:00.000-04:00

Naaah. Never. No way. They have made a mess the likes of which we have never before seen, one that will have bad effects for decades, probably centuries.

But I came close to feeling a twinge of compassion for BP's Tony Hayward today. Damn close. Poor ol' Tony had to appear before a congressional committee today.

Frankly, I think I'd rather be forced to go out naked to scoop the noxious sludge from BP's shattered well than be grilled by the unprincipled, generally senile, always self-important and beyond-clueless loons who populate the halls of Congress.

I had no idea they are all experts on the mechanics and engineering aspects of oil drilling and disaster preparedness. No inkling that a superannuated hack from Michigan, a public-trough-guzzling drone from California or the rest of these buffoons could manage a pair of shoelaces without help from one of their hordes of well-paid flunkies, much less spout technical buzz-terms so freely.

In fact, they can't. Said flunkies burned the midnight oil to come up with rhetorical questions for their bosses to throw at Hayward. Always in the most self-righteous, angry tone they can muster*. Looking carefully, one could see the Congress-crooks' eyes dipping to the cheat sheets before them when they asked about the details that led up to the disaster.

Meet any one of them on the street and ask about "blow-out preventers" or types of concrete well-shafts and their eyes would glaze over.

Granted, Hayward didn't come out of the hearing smelling like roses. He was evasive, scripted and woefully uninformed about what his company did and is doing. Not my idea of a proper CEO, he came across as slightly lower than a conscienceless P.R. hack trying to excuse massive corporate idiocy.

In his defense, he had Eric Holder, the so-called Attorney General peeping over his shoulder muttering threats about criminal prosecutions**. Anyone in that situation would be smart to take the fifth whenever inquisitors try to pin them to stupid/illegal/unethical activity.

There were two questions within the mental capabilities of the freeloading Lords (and Ladies) of Congress and, so far as I know, neither was asked of BP today:

1. How and when will the damn flow of oil be stopped?

2. How and when will you clean up the foul mess?

No matter how and when, I suspect it'll cost BP far more than the $20 billion they have committed to pony up. Good. Whatever it takes. They made the mess, they must clean it up.

Of course I hope we'll see how that money is doled out. I don't trust anyone even remotely connected to the government to pass it along honestly and fairly.

But what I want to see now is steady, total concentration on the only two goals that mean anything at this time: stopping the flow of oil and cleaning it up before it destroys more of our environment. That attitude is, sadly, beyond the ideologically motivated leeches in Washington who, in the final analysis, care more about advancing their own agendas and covering their own sorry asses than protecting citizens and the environment.

At the moment when the oil rig caught fire and started belching out an uncontrolled flood of oil, BP bore sole responsibility. Now, almost two months later, they share culpability with hideously incompetent jerks in the government who, in a rush to make political hay out of an unspeakable disaster, have dredged up every possible obstacle to a speedy resolution. And have lied, singly and collectively, about their roles.

If anything could divert any of my anger away from BP, it is the unconscionable antics of the president and both parties in congress.

Obama calls this a "war," a meme that has spread like wildfire among the chattering fools in the political world. It is a war he is unfit to lead and Congress is incapable of conducting.

Had these inept partisan hacks been running things in December, 1941, we would have responded to the Japanese attack. By 1950, if we were lucky.

If ever we have needed genuine leaders and doers, it is now. We don't have them. Tomorrow, next week or next month is too late.

* The tone of voice they generally save for members of the Opposition Party or constituents who dare ask them to justify their actions.

** The same threats he has so far managed not to make to some genuine criminals, but hey, the law is flexible, don't you know....

I don't know what the hell gets into me...

2010-06-11T23:35:00.000-04:00

...but I was thinking of this song tonight.

The last time I heard it? It was circa 1964, in Flagstaff, Arizona*.

I thought it was funny as hell back then. Now, it has a strange appropriateness....

* Just to show how deeply weird I am, I remembered the lyrics as I listened. All of them. I could have sung along. If I could sing....

Oil, politics and incompetence.

2010-06-10T12:42:00.000-04:00

As a general rule, I try to avoid subjects about which I know little or nothing. While I'm pretty good at looking like an idiot, it's seldom voluntary.

So I probably should avoid saying anything about the oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.

But it's frighteningly clear that Barack Obama doesn't know a damn thing about the situation either. Neither does his pet Coast Guard admiral who is "in charge." Same goes for Congress and the trained seals of the news media. Neither, apparently, does British Petroleum.

It's not hard to understand the basics: BP and its contractors managed, through gross incompetence, to foul the Gulf. The flow of crude continues from the broken well after nearly two months.

And what is the government's response? It stages media events, the President goes out for photo opportunities, meets with incompetent bureaucrats and yammers about "kicking ass," and Admiral Allen comes on TV daily to sputter about speeding up BP's payments to people affected by the sea of oil.

Excuse me. There are only two vital issues here: the first is to stop the damn flow of oil. The second, is to use any and all means to clean up the oil already spreading from Louisiana to Florida.

It's that simple.

Granted, drilling for oil more than a mile below the surface of the ocean presents enormous difficulties. It may be more problematic than "rocket science." If a company chooses to do so, they had bloody well better have emergency techniques developed and ready for use.

BP didn't. They created a gooey, stinking Frankenstein's Monster, and they should be doing more to fix the damage. They must pay for the mess they've made, a mess they should not have been allowed to make in the first place.

But the response from our President, a man who, in my view, has proven himself a grossly incompetent leader, totally unqualified for his job, has so far been disgustingly political and completely unacceptable. He is wasting time -- and our money -- on hollow posturing.

We don't need babble about "developing new energy sources," face-saving "investigations" into possible illegal activities on BP's part, Justice Department meddling into BP's business operations and endless meetings that don't provide either actions or solutions.

If we had a real President, he or she would have gotten on the horn to BP executives 50 days ago, and would have sent them the following message: stop the oil flow from the well, and clean up the mess. Now. Said executive would have mobilized all governmental resources instantly, would have accepted all offers of assistance from private individuals and countries that have dealt with similar, if smaller, crises in the past, and would have suspended or streamlined government regulations that slow emergency actions.

Instead, the Chief Executive has thrown hundreds (if not thousands) of desk-bound, politically motivated bodies at the crisis and has made endless, repetitive speeches. Action? He seems not to understand the word.

The time for palaver and political calculations ended when the oil platform exploded.

Numerous methods for both capping the well and soaking up the oil have been put forth over the past 50 days. Wasting time letting government officials and members of Congress discuss them (in front of TV cameras, naturally) is pointless; those that don't increase the possibility of worse damage -- and that includes almost all I've seen -- should have been put into action immediately. Most strike me, a non-expert, as sensible. Even if they don't work as well as their proponents suggest, any improvement would be better than the current disaster.

Once the flow is stopped and the oil is sopped up, the recriminations can begin. At that point, Obama can point fingers, assign blame to everyone but himself and make excuses for his inability to lead to his heart's content. BP can makes excuses and its CEO can tell us how sorry he is. The company's cash can and should be distributed to those demonstrably hurt by the mess.

All those things are important. But they pale in comparison to the immediate issue, which is that oil is flowing, uncontrolled, from the ocean floor. It must be stopped, by any means necessary.

BP and our current government have failed miserably. Until people who put reality ahead of politics, action ahead of image, and humanity ahead of personal advantage are put in charge, we can be sure the BP disaster is only the beginning.

Those responsible should lose their jobs. That includes those in charge at BP and the company contracted to run the platform and the government officials who have mishandled the situation. Sadly, the President bears sufficient responsibility to merit dismissal as well. Gross incompetence is intolerable in a situation where lives and the environment are at stake.

After the damn oil flow is stopped and the mess is cleaned up.

Somebody up there...

2010-06-04T22:24:00.000-04:00

...must be laughing his/her/its ass off at me. It's the only thing I can figure.

All y'all know I've been job-hunting for quite a while. Years, actually. The hunt has continued since I've pulled up stakes (or, to be accurate, had the stakes pulled up for me) and relocated. I've looked here, there, and a whole bunch of other places. Not everywhere; I have ruled out a return to California unless offered a genuinely obscene income should I do so.

So this last week, I was offered a job, indirectly through the good offices of a couple friends who happen to be former colleagues. They both recommended me to a P.R. person in a nearby large city; I talked with him, sent along a resume, and felt somewhat encouraged by my reception.

Ah, yes. The job: it was a freelance writing gig, which took me all of two days to complete. It was also in the same subject area where I toiled for 24 long years.

My closest friends probably got damn tired of hearing my oft-repeated rant since April third: "No more freelance writing! No, no, no! Never! And certainly no more writing about ----*!" They could probably reproduce the tremulous indignation and determination in my voice with devastating accuracy.

I took the job. Naturally. It was money**.

Money is not a pressing issue for me at the moment. Yes, I owe more than the Gross National Product of five South American nations, have a long list of pretty essential items for which I need a substantial sum of spondulix, and would like to lay aside a few coins for my doddering old age. But right now I'm ahead of the immediate game. Until, that is, the excreta next hits the rotating ventilation device....

I am comfortable in my present location. I may be here a while, and that won't be a bad thing. In fact, it'll be a good thing.

Except for one major issue: I want a job. And I have my doubts that what I'd most like to do will permit me to stay in this place.

But it is nice to be able to relax. I'd forgotten how that feels.

However: I do hope the Universe got its quota of chuckles from offering me a very temporary return to my old ways and will lay out something steadier and more remunerative for me next time around. Once was kind of fun in a twisted way; a second time may not be.

* What I used to write about....

** Not what I would call a whole hell of a lot of money. Not as much as I would charge if I was in a position to turn down work.

My phone...

2010-05-21T23:52:00.000-04:00

...which is, incidentally, the first cell phone I've ever owned, has a number that was previously assigned to one Wang Lee.

I know this because I received an automated bill-collection call for said person today. Since the message said "...if you are not Wang Lee, please hang up" -- I am not, never have been, and have no intention of ever being Wang Lee -- I followed directions.

That explains a few odd calls I received during the first two weeks I had the phone. Those were in Chinese, and the callers seemed perturbed that I speak only English. My Chinese vocabulary is restricted to "ni hao" (meaning, roughly, "hello") and "Hong qui" ("Red Flag"). Can't have much of a conversation with those....

I don't know what Wang has gotten into, but it can't be good.

On the other hand, I pity the poor fool who eventually gets my former land-line number. They'll get some calls, too, and for a while at least some may not be too pleasant. They'll be in English, though.

But I must say having the little mobile phone has been a gift from Heaven. It certainly suits my current peripatetic lifestyle. Even with its Southern California-based number, it happily sends and receives calls in my current location, which is several states away. It kept me in contact with two Very Important People during my travels on the Big Gray Dog, and has made it possible for a select few others to talk to me.

And it will move with me to my next destination, which will happen in a few days. It simply doesn't care, as long as I hang it on the charger once in a while and regularly feed it fresh minutes.

Hey, look at me: I'm modern at last!