Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just dumb, or don’t speak English correctly, or have a short attention span. Whatever the case, I can’t make heads or tails of the Baltimore County Land Records website. All I want to do is get a better copy of the plat for our property, so that I might begin the process of understanding exactly where the fuck my lawn ends and where the neighbors’ begins. The copy of a fax of a copy I have shows a trapezoid with vague and blobby notations of distance, but no point of triangulatory reference for anything except the west corner of our road frontage. Which means our garage could be in someone else’s yard. And there’s no mention of actual distance from the pavement to the beginning of our property, just a smudgy line which could be our hedgerow. Apparently I will need to hire a surveyor, at the approximate cost of one months’ salary, just to nail a ribbon on a tree and say “It’s here”. Before I can do that, I have to get the plat, and in order to do that (as far as I can tell from this suck-ass website) I have to make an appointment, with… somebody. There are names and numbers listed, but none of them say “I’m the guy who will help you get that thing you need”. Searching on their website for the obvious stuff, like “copy of plat” returns a “Google Custom Search Result”, which is quickly becoming Internet shorthand for “we don’t give a rat’s ass about you, and we’re too cheap to catalog anything properly.”
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In the meantime, I’m shopping for a new laptop. Idiot Central, the 17″ MacBook Pro I’ve had for four years, has only sported half a usable screen for the last month or so, and I’m tired of not being able to use it without an external monitor. I’m also really sick and tired of opening my bag to find that it mysteriously woke from sleep and cooked itself like a Hot Pocket. The trackpad button has been sticking in the down position, which means it’s always wanting to select something. It’s still a good, fast machine, so it’ll likely end up as a production unit on my desk, but its days as a primary computer are done. I use a laptop mainly as a travel rig these days, so I’m looking at a 13″ MacBook Pro as a replacement. It’s portable, small, and fast, and I don’t have the extra $500 to pony up for a 15″.
Update: It gets better. Remember how I was talking about the trackpad sticking? I did a little poking around this evening. The trackpad sits directly under the battery compartment.
See that bulge? That means the battery is fooked. It’s been swelling in the center and putting direct pressure on the trackpad above. I guess it bulged to the point where it finally disabled the trackpad completely. The funny thing is, my boss at work, who also has a 17″ MBP of similar vintage, just had his battery replaced today at the Apple Store due to the exact same issue. I have to see if he got it replaced under warranty or not, because I think we may be heading to the Columbia location this weekend, and we may be walking out with a new iPhone, a MacBook Pro, and a replacement battery.
I was walking down the stairs of my parking garage, lost in my own thoughts, when a peculiar sight stopped me dead in my tracks. A single Marine, in crisp dress blues, stood in front of a hookah bar, saluting a bouquet of flowers. I struggled to pull my camera from my bag before he finished, but was only able to snap off one shot before he spun on his heel and marched away.
His dedication to his fellow soldier, and the bitter irony of the dead Marine’s story made me appreciate my life that much more.
After an inexcusable delay, the fucknut off-duty Baltimore police officer who shot a guy outside a nightclub last week is now in custody. He’s claiming the guy he shot was threatening him, and “did what he had to do”, which apparently means “empty your service revolver into an unarmed man.” For the record, I’m pro-police. But every gun-happy jerk like this makes the whole force look bad. My reasoning:
documents obtained by The Baltimore Sun under a public information act request show that Tshamba was also disciplined in 2005 after he shot and wounded a man after getting into an altercation while driving drunk.
Uh-huh. Why am I not surprised? Kick his ass off the force. It should have been done in 2005.
I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised: Building Used On ‘Homicide’ To Become Hotel. Apparently Baltimore city sold the Recreation Pier to developers for $2 million, and they will turn it into a $35 million, 132-room hotel. Because, you know, Baltimore doesn’t have enough hotels already.
Via a circuitous route, I found this article on the NYT last night: Flying Behemoth May Find Its Way Home. Some background:
Glenn L. Martin was an early aviation pioneer, a contemporary (and one-time partner of) the Wright Brothers, who started out building trainers for the US Army Air Corps, and later several successful bomber designs used by the Army and the US Postal Service. Starting out in Cleveland, he bought a huge parcel of land in Middle River, Maryland, and moved the company there in 1929. The Martin company became known for its bombers, and, more visibly, its flying boats, including one version of the famous China Clipper, which flew the San Francisco to Manila route before World War Two.
During the war, they designed and built several medium bombers (the infamous B-26 and its lesser-known British-used cousin, the Baltimore) and flying boats (the PBM Mariner, and the JRM Mars), and after the war the company enjoyed fewer successes in a consolidating marketplace. After Martin’s death in 1955, the company ended production of airplanes in 1960 to focus on missiles, and after few mergers in the 60’s, the company became Lockheed Martin. Production on missiles was already happening elsewhere, and employment at the Baltimore aircraft plants was scaled back dramatically from a wartime high of 53,000.
This story circles back to a famous plane Martin built during the war, though: The JRM Mars, originally conceived in 1935 as a “battleship of the sky”, was designed with a 200′ wingspan—greater than a 747. The first model was built and flown through the early years of the war until the Navy realized that huge armed seaplanes were more of a target than an offensive weapon. However, they recognized a need for a long distance cargo carrier, and in 1944 they requested 20 Mars flying boats. The Martin company redesigned the plane for its new role and began production. After the surrender of Japan in 1945, they scaled back the order and six planes were eventually built. They were christened with exotic names: Two Hawaiis (the first was destroyed in a fire in 1945), the Caroline, the Marianas, the Phillippine, and the Marshall. The Marshall was lost off Hawaii in 1950, but the remaining Mars boats served the Navy until 1954, when they were retired and sold for scrap metal.
They were then bought by an enterprising Canadian pilot in 1959, who converted them for use as water bombers on the Pacific coast. The Marianas Mars was converted first, and had a few successful months before it was crashed by an overzealous pilot in 1960. The Caroline Mars was converted next, but unfortunately was lost in a winter storm in 1962. The remaining two boats have remained in trouble-free service in British Columbia since then.
However, the 60-year-old planes have gotten more expensive to run, and their owner has put them up for sale. Several interested parties have expressed interest, including the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, and a consortium of Baltimore businessmen and avaition historians.
Personally, I’d love it if they were able to exhibit one here in Maryland, but I’d be afraid they’d have to keep it outside in the elements where it could decay in the weather. Pensacola is too far away but much more temperate, and the scope of the museum down there ensures the plane’s future preservation. A happy middle ground: The Udvar-Hazy museum out by Dulles—there’s plenty of room there, and the Smithsonian takes good care of its planes.
More reading:
Glenn L. Martin Aircraft Company, from the Maryland Online Encyclopedia
Martin Aircraft History, The Maryland Aviation Museum
The Martin Flying Boats, Vectorsite
Why I Moved Out Of The City, Example #472.
I think it’s probably time for the Mayor of Baltimore to take control of the city school system like Bloomberg in NYC and Daley in Chicago.
Last night Jen and I drove into the city to watch the Washington monument be lit for Christmas. As mentioned before, we’re both struggling to get into the holiday spirit now that Thanksgiving is over, so the offer to enjoy some fireworks and hot chocolate was a welcome one. Cabbing up to Charles street, we walked to the base of the statue and found ourselves in front of the Mayor, who was surrounded by two burly security guards and quietly talking to a couple of mounted police.
We decided it was time to get some warm drinks, so we looped around the museum and waded into the square in front of the stage, which was ringed with booths selling food and drink. After buying a couple of burritos (nothing like a burrito in December in front of a gospel choir singing Christmas carols to get you in the mood!) the Mayor led the crowd in the countdown, and they shot off fireworks.
After the celebration was over, we walked back down Charles street and bumped into a friend of Jen’s, whose boyfriend runs a new restauraunt downtown, and decided to join them for drinks.
Now, a little Baltimore history here: Back in 1989, when I was new in town and wanted to go out drinking without getting carded (before I got my in at the Tavern), my roommate Pat and I would wander down Charles Street to a little jazz pub called Buddies. I don’t know how we found the place, or how we knew it would serve us (although I suspect it was through our friend Jay, who had already scoped the entire city’s offerings in an alcoholic haze), but there was Guinness on tap, the lights were low, and the barmaid on Saturday nights was beautiful. The band was anchored by a ruddy-faced drummer named Bing, and he was usually accompanied by a guitarist named Steve, who had a wide Magnum P.I. moustache and an old hollow-body Gretsch. There were a revolving group of horns who came to blow—an alto sax one night, a trumpet the next, and usually they were joined by a student or two from Peabody down the street. We saved our money and drank Boh all week just to afford a pitcher and some nachos (dinner), we tipped well, and always staggered home happy.
Fast forward to 2004; Buddies is gone and replaced with Copra, a complete gutting and rebuilding of the old space. The vibe is very much like San Francisco without the uptight more-beautiful-than-you attitude; the menu is upscale comfort food, and the drinks are poured well. Upstairs is normal dining, and downstairs is a wide room ringed with comfortable couches, a fireplace, and four plasma screens. We relaxed and caught up with some old friends, enjoying our evening.
In the parking lot of my office building this afternoon: a beautiful half-cab Scout—as beautiful as the half-cab can be—a 1980 (the only year they galvanized the steel and Zeibarted at the factory) diesel with a Meyer plow, with nary a dent or spot of rust. Sweet.
Get Out Of The Way. People in Baltimore just don’t get it about the snow. For the love of God, people, just drive. Don’t slow down to stare at that guy on the side of the road—he’s just pulled over to make a call, not because he’s bleeding from an axe wound. I have to get to work before noon, for cripes’ sake.
→ This is a syndicated post from my Scout weblog. More info here.
The Baltimore area is socked in with snow, and due to short-sighted company policy Jen is at work. I’m here trying to diagnose a sick iMac and doing some freelance work. Tom & Jerry cartoons—that’s something that brings me back to days after elementary school with Channel 11 and a pile of Legos.
Proof There Is A Higher Lifeform Out There. Adam Goldberg in a new Comedy Central show about a Jewish vigilante doling out justice A-Team-style, called “The Hebrew Hammer.”
Proof That Some People Need Prescription Medication. Is this the most insane story ever? Unbelievable. I’ve always said that mayonnaise is the condiment of the devil.
Today I’m grooving out to some old Bad Brains stuff I ripped years ago. I stopped over at Jen’s this morning to fix her air conditioner and pick up some stuff; then I drove to the house and parked in the driveway for a minute. Timing the drive at 9:30, I was able to make it to work in about 25 minutes, which is about the same amount of time it takes to get out of Canton to work, with less traffic.
I love Baltimore. I love the freaky ice cream truck outside my house at 7pm every night. I love driving three blocks further to find a parking spot at night. I love helicopters hovering over my house. I love the little woman who’s worn a housedress for the entire six years I’ve been on this block. I love thirteen year old boys walking pit bulls. I love twelve year old hoochie girls pushing baby carriages (and not for the reasons you think, you perv.) I love Formstone. I love hot asphalt in August. I love the smell of rain on pavement in the evening. I love my neighbors because they stoop when the sun is low and the air is cool. I love living right up on my neighbors and the fact that they check up on me. I love the kid on the two-stroke scooter that I can’t see in my rearview mirror. I love the rise in my heart rate when I walk home from my car late at night. I love the neighborhood bars and the people that are in them when I’m leaving for work in the morning. I love the good-looking Yuppies that surround me. I love the old-school Cantonites that still live here. I love marble steps, and the fact that I’ve owned a set. I love chicken-wire skylights. I love Highlandtown and Canton and Hampden and Pigtown and Bolton Hill. I love the alterno-kids that make me feel old when I go to bars to shoot pool. I love the bars that don’t exist any more where I used to drink—Tio Loco’s, Wroten’s, Miss Bonnie’s Elvis Shrine, and Lista’s (the top deck only.) I love the Harbor and everything about it. I love to see the old advertising signs fading on the brick throughout the city. I love motorcycles out in front of the Daily Grind. I love cobblestones under the tires of my bike. I love the shiny breasts on the statue outside Johns Hopkins university. I love all the apartments I’ve lived in throughout the city.
There’s a “Sold” sign on the steps outside my house this evening.