I’ve not been using my camera these days for anything besides some random shots of the hallway which never seems to progress; it’s a real shame because there are things out there to photograph, but I’ve just not been seeing them. Today, through one place to another, I visited heather’s site (she’s also responsible for the mirror project) and through hers another good photography site. I started thinking about pictures again. I remember when I first got my digital camera and was shooting everything I saw—living in a photogenic area of the city made finding subjects easy. Nowadays, I commute blindly by highway, rarely stopping to search for interesting shots. Instead of just carrying my camera around with me, I need to start using it again. Additionally: How to rig an old digital to take a picture a minute for the old Kodak sitting on the shelf.
Continuing on another thread, I’m rooting for Jay to win tonight, but thinking that Kara will probably take the whole thing.
Helpful Design Link: Fontleech, a site chronicling free fonts for poor designers.
painted hallway, 2.23.04
This morning my neck is a solid chunk of concrete, thanks to the hibernation-mode sleep I got last night. The good news is that the hallway is primed upstairs and 95% ready for a final coat of bright white paint; the bad news is that the entire house is covered in white dust again. Meanwhile Penn has suddenly developed that wierd eye swelling thing where the inside of the eyelid blows up like a balloon and makes him look like a post-match Rocky. This means I’ll have to squirt medicine into his mouth (twice) and his eye once every 12 hours for the next week or so—I think the poor cat is ready to run away from home by now.
I think that’s my old guitar…but I don’t know the girl.
In the winter of 1986, my Dad drove me out to Mt. Kisco to look at a bass guitar listed in the classifieds. I’d just picked up electric bass after playing upright for three years, and it was time to find a beginner’s instrument. We walked up a flight of stairs to a dark apartment building and met with a longhaired, half-stoned dude who took us into his practice room. He had several guitars lined up and handed us the largest of them all, a survivor from the late 1970’s: an Ibanez Blazer, woodgrain with a black pickguard. It had the longest neck of any guitar I’ve ever seen (21 frets), it weighed more than a car, and it had deeper sound than a foghorn. I tried it out with a rudimentary blues line, feeling sheepish and embarrassed, and it sounded good. I don’t know what my Dad paid for it, but we lugged it back to the Rabbit and took it home. On this bass I learned to play, finding it was easier learn jazz than keep up with Geddy Lee (not that I didn’t try.) Later, I bought a Steinberger from my friend, finding its portability and size easier for college, and the Ibanez became second fiddle (pun intended.) Eventually, in the post-graduate purge, I “sold” it to a friend so that his wacky girlfriend could join an all-grrl punk band, and it passed out of my hands. I think the bass in this Microsoft ad could be mine, only because the pickups are white—we had the original pickups pulled and replaced by the music store in town, and for some dumb reason they gave us white—we never bothered to have them switched out. I heard that girl moved to Philadelphia and took it with her years ago, so imagine my surprise when I saw it again. It’s nice to think that maybe one of us got famous. (And thanks, Dad.)
This evening, over a dinner of grilled steak, broccoli, and avocado with PBR in front of a new episode of Lost, I discovered my wife and I shared an adolescent love for Hong Kong Phooey. (One of my favorite memories of my grandma Dugan was sitting at her kitchen table in front of a pair of mini-Frosted Flakes boxes while she adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV so that we could watch cartoons through the snow.)
Gift. Looks like we have next Monday off, which should give me a bunch of time to finish off some projects at the house. At the top of the list: Finishing the hallway, which is creeping slowly toward its conclusion. There’s some finish sanding to be done, some caulking, and then I think we’re ready for paint. I’m also going to take advantage of the forecasted good weather to see if I can’t get the Scout into the garage.
I may have to give this application a try in the next couple of weeks. Apparently it’s a stand-alone app for iTunes which will metatag all of your untagged music, complete with album art. The only hangup I have is whether or not it would overwrite my current custom tags or ratings.
I’m also going to try to install OSX on Renie’s old beige G3 and see if I can make a FrankenComputer out of it, just for fun. (I have no idea what I could do with it right now, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.)
I wrote about my peculiar fascination with a particular bit of history here a few years back. In August of 1943, a bunch of American planes flew a bombing mission to the oil fields of Romania. What made this mission unique was that they flew at low-level—where most raids were flown at 20,000 feet, this one was at treetop height. I’ve always been interested about aviation history, and loved planes, but there was something about this story that stuck with me. Since I’ve been online, I’ve searched for information on the subject, and found some places where it’s discussed in great detail by some of the men who flew the mission.
As Jen and I were leaving Baltimore last friday, we stopped at the Giant to pick up some snacks. On our way out I spied an older gentleman with a baseball cap sitting on a bench by the exits. Passing by, I noticed he had a 98th Bomb Group patch on the bill—one of the main groups involved with the bomb raid. Although we were in a bit of a hurry, I stopped and asked him about the patch, and his eyes lit up. After a few minutes of talking with him, it turned out he wasn’t on the August raid (he missed it due to illness) but he eventually flew 37 missions—no small feat in thse days. Jen and I sat with him for a fascinating half hour, and he invited us to stop up to his house to look through his collection of papers and photos from the war, and talk about history. I can’t wait.
This morning I was in downtown Baltimore for a doctor’s appointment, and decided to kill two birds by stopping by the nearest branch of the Johns Hopkins Credit Union to close my account out. This account has been open since my first “real” job out of college that didn’t involve a hammer, ladder, or dust mask, as a print designer at Hopkins. The account has been sitting and slowly hemmorhaging money since they screwed up a couple of payments on a loan and reduced my balance below the minimum, so every month they deduct $1.50 for the ATM fee and add $0.90 in interest. Driving to the Bayview campus took me squarely through my old neighborhood, so I decided to mosey around and see what was happening.
First off, I read in the City Paper that DeGroen’s Brewery is shutting down. After many years of making the best local beer around, they couldn’t make a profit (and the construction around their location killed their foot traffic.) So my favorite Märzen will cease to exist.
Canton is still dotted with real-estate signs and renovation work trucks; what was Mrs. Bonnie’s Elvis Shrine is now an empty rehab, sporting a vinyl advertisement for first-time homeowners. My old house looks good; the new owner removed the 1950’s-era storm door off and put a gold kickplate and a large lockset on the front door. The whisky barrel continues to rot away next to the steps. My old-skool neighbors are still home—the Cadillac sits gleaming at its parking spot next door, and Nell’s bench is still outside waiting for a group of friends to gather.
The cabinet factory one block over and behind 620 is now a levelled vacant lot, featuring a sign advertising three-floor townhomes (with garage) starting in at $400K. (There were rumors it was to become an outdoor biergarten and high-rise condos.) $400K for a breathtaking view of the Shell station parking lot and American Harry’s roof. sweet. The rehabbed house on the north corner of Fleet, which had been vacant and empty for three years, is occupied again; the back parking pad now houses a motorcycle and gas grill where people used to throw their trash bags. (Note to the new owners: I used to watch bums climb through your kitchen window and piss on your living room floor. Enjoy!) Linwood Avenue now features nose-in parking, which probably alleviated the local lack of parking for about fifteen minutes.
Further up into Highlandtown, the march of Latino culture continues eastwards. Empty storefronts are now brightly colored bodegas and shops (Who knew that “Zapatas Botas” meant “Sneaky Feet?”) and Provident Bank has taken up residence on a prominent corner. The once-beautiful Grand Theater has been razed to make way for a new branch of the Enoch Pratt Library. Old Baltimore still exists, though, in the old guy with the 60’s era plaid pants crossing Eastern Avenue, the combination grocer/electronic store/garden center, and the heartwarming sight of 14-year-old mommies pushing their kids in strollers. Haussner’s is still empty, but the Patterson movie theater is now a neighborhood rec center. Plus ça change, plus ça méme chose.
Courtesy of Brian, our resident IT fellow (who we like.) The Hasselhofian Recursion. Click if you dare.
Good news: it looks like the new version of iPhoto has added support for both photos and movies. No more accidentally erasing movies left on the CF card.
Recap. Jen and I have been thinking about where the hell last year went; in some respects it feels like we did nothing, and in other respects, I feel like a whole new person. In no particular order, here are some of the things accomplished in 2004:
- Planned a wedding. (Jen really took this one on; I can’t take but about 25% of the credit here.)
- Um, got married.
- Traveled overseas to Rome, and decided we didn’t want to come home.
- Painted the outside of the house. (two sides’ worth of windows still to go)
- Took the better part of two months to nurse Jen’s Mom back out of the hospital.
- Completed three of four upstairs rooms in the house (sanded/stained/sealed floors, new electrical, paint, trim, and furnishings)
- Finished the linen closet. w00t!
- Planted three separate beds of bulbs and flowers, grew tomatoes, cayenne peppers, and five types of herbs on the back porch
- Left a job over “creative differences”
- Freelanced our asses off
- Bought a new (used) car; donated a very used car to charity (RIP, Tortoise)
- Had an alarm system installed, so now a woman in Pikesville can call to tell us our front door has blown open again
- Had the roof repaired (ouch)
- Nursed Jen’s Mom up until her final day, in her own house, and took care of the family
- Played Santa for the Lockard family.
- Paid off three separate credit cards and the entire honeymoon
I know I’m forgetting something here. Babe, what did I leave out?
So the holidays are bearing down on us, and we are scrambling to get last-minute things done before the 25th. We erected a small fake tree last night (we’re not chancing a real tree if we’re not going to be around to see it) and decorated it with some of the ornaments from our collection. I bought some garland at the store last week, wired it together, and hung it over the entryway to the living room. There are some things, though, that we don’t have that remind me of the seasons of old…
- Pine. My parents had one of those old-time Sears humidifiers for the house, which was filled dutifully every night. Along with three or four buckets of water each evening, they added a capful of Pine-Sol to the mixture to give the house a decidedly original odor.
- Perry Como and Bing Crosby on vinyl. I have them both on the iPod, and I can pipe them into the stereo whenever needed, but there’s something old-skool about hearing LP’s on the big console record player my dad used to have.
- Tinsel. Remember when that stuff was big, and everybody had it? I’d bet a bunch of people still use it, but I personally haven’t seen it in the stores in about five years. I remember vacuuming the house in 1988 and finding tinsel from 1984 still stuck under the furniture.
- A Christmastime when every other commerical was not a diamond/jewelry commercial. Or was it always like that?
- The days before “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.” Corrolary: When “Band-Aid” was new, and it was cool to be an activist rock star.
- Big Lego sets for Christmas. Many a Christmas day I spent on the floor in front of the tree, building directions spread in front of me, ripping open little bags of plastic parts and assembling the kits. Legos still rock the world.
What’s Christmas to you?
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.
Many big ups to Dave for offering the use of his table saw. You may be wondering why it’s so consarned important to me to get this built: it could have something to do with the fact that the window on the north wall of the dining room looks hideous when compared to the other one, and all the work we’ve put into the room doesn’t look finished without it.
Because I Absolutely Love Things Like This… New York Changing, a book with before/after shots of New York City, in what looks to be meticulous recreation of photo angle, position, and time of day. Fascinating.
I looked at the Thing last night, and while I could visualize Jen and I cruising down the highway next spring with the top off, a song playing on the radio, and a bag of beach gear in the back seat, I couldn’t get past the beginnings of rust around the interior of the tub. Overall, it was in really nice shape- the doors (mostly) closed, the outer fenders were in decent shape (and replacements can be had for less than $100) and the interior was intact. One thing that was leaning me towards the VW was the ease of repair on both the engine and the body—I’d be more comfortable taking a cutting torch to the Thing than the Scout, with replacement parts being so cheap. However, common sense prevailed, and again, I thought about the truck in the driveway, all the miles and stories we’ve shared so far, and how she deserves to be rebuilt. So I’m putting $200 into a car cover for the winter and ending the insane search for instant gratification—I’m fully aware that’s what I’m seeking here—in favor of saving the money for a new Fiberglas tub and about ten years of restoration work.
Friday Link Fun: Found last night: the Baltimore County Legacy Website, featuring some excellent pictures of Catonsville, and Jen’s old apartment house, back in The Day. | While doing an image search for a ’69 Mustang (Todd’s mechanic is selling one) I ran across Cars In Barns, a site dedicated to pictures of “that junk heap behind the barn,” which sometimes turns out to be a Shelby Mustang or a SuperBird. Pull up a chair, get out a few hankies, and browse.
→ This is a syndicated post from my Scout weblog. More info here.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to leave most of the windows open this morning.
Top ten CSS tricks you may not know. (via dominey)
My New Shirt-Folding Technique Is Unstoppable. Look upon me and weep in amazement. I have tried this, and it works. Rejoice! (via metafilter)
The second of three floor-sanding quotes came in yesterday, and it’s about $300 less than the first. This guy was really cool as well. Meanwhile, a cherry ’78 Scout showed up on the DC Craigslist for $3,700 in running condition—the same amount for a new fiberglas tub delivered to the house. I cried myself to sleep last night.