Changing Perspective.

Spending WAY too muh time at lunch reading, I came across this article about changing perspective.

I wish I knew more about the psychology behind this, but my guess is that we as humans are visually stimulated by novel points of view. If it’s something we’ve seen before, well, it’s just not as visually stimulating as a photo taken that we’ve not ever been able to see with our own eyes.

I know I am fascinated with alternative viewpoints, from macro shots, forced degradation, timelapse to 3-D, I've tried it all with varying degrees of success. Point-and-shoot has its place, but I'm interested in trying out stuff like kite photography.

This has me thinking about an idea I'd hatched a year or two ago: buying a painting pole, rigging a mount at the top, and setting a camera on it with either a remote shutter release or on an intervalometer, for things like the parade.

Especially considering the number of similar shots I've taken at the parade over the years— often of the same subject.

It also got me to thinking about my next Nikon lens, a 12-24mm wide-angle. Of course, it's $900, but a guy can dream, right?

July 7, 2008 2:36 PM | link to this entry | comments (0) | filed under photography

Dear Cauliflower.

Hi, little one. This past week was a busy one, so this note is late, but I think you understand. Wednesday morning we met with a very friendly doula at a Starbucks up in White Marsh. A doula is sort of like a coach for both your mother and I. She's had several children herself, and she's helped a bunch of other mothers with their deliveries, so she knows what to do during the different stages of labor. I don't know about your mother, but I got a great feeling from this woman almost immediately after shaking her hand. We chatted for an hour and a half, and by the end of the meeting we were both sold. Which means that, barring a scheduling catastrophe or freak September blizzard, she will be one of the first people you meet on the day of the Big Move. She is very familiar with the hospital we'll be at and she gave the OBs in your mother's practice glowing praise, something that very nearly made your mother cry with relief. Also, the combined batting average of the doula and our doctors means the chances are exceptionally good you will be coming out the front door and not through the window.

All that noise you heard on Friday? That would have been the Catonsville parade, right out in front of our house. All the swearing you heard the previous Monday? That was your father's reaction to the people who staked out their spot on our lawn with a tarp and five rusty paint cans. Other houses get neat rows of plastic furniture, and we get the crap from the back of somebody's garage. I'm over it now, though.

Thinking about it for a little while, I smile when I think that you will spend your first couple of years in a house where you will expect this yearly phenomena just like you will expect a cake for your birthday. I wonder if we'll move out in time for us to have to explain to you no, not everyone gets a parade in their front yard, and daddy's yelling at that man because he's trying to kill our grass.

Every year we spend the week before the parade getting ready, and it never seems like we actually are. This year we had some friends come early and help us with some critical tasks which made things run a lot smoother. The parade itself was great. We got the usual state senators, representatives, judges, sheriffs and pageant winners, but no Governor. We did, however, get the Wienermobile! There was a lot of Jeebus this year, too—the tambourine people were back, and the puppets, but the Krishnas didn't make an appearance. The Boumis came out in full force, and there were a whole dealership's worth of Corvettes, along with a gaggle of pretty older cars. And some ugly ones too.

It rained off and on all day, so I would have bet your college fund there would be no fireworks that evening, but they decided to shoot them off anyway. Not that we were in any condition to walk down to see them; instead, we sat our asses on the couch and slowly fell asleep.

Saturday we were all still wiped out, so we did what most other Americans do on holiday weekends: we shopped for furniture and antiques at our favorite haunts, then took in Wall-E at a nice climate controlled movie theater. You will surely like Wall-E when you're old enough to watch it; I'd say it's one of the best Pixar movies in a long while (Toy Story and The Incredibles being my favorites). But we'll get to that in a few years—no hurry. Mommy and Daddy can't afford all those DVDs right now anyway.

July 4, 2008 12:13 AM | link to this entry | comments (2) | filed under baby

IT IS ALIVE.

Between client meetings this afternoon, I got an email this afternoon from Mr. Scout, asking me would I like to stop over this evening for the inaugural first crank of the engine? I don't think a squad of Marines could have kept me from seeing that sight, so I threw my cameras in the Jeep and hauled ass over there.

It's gotten further along since the last time I saw it, and the first thing I noticed was the engine block painted with a fresh coat of International Harvester red. There's a new Holley carburetor and a set of shiny new exhaust pipes hung from the frame to go with a MASSIVE new distributor, stainless steel brake lines, and huge new gas tank. It is, in effect, everything I wanted to do when I owned her.

Five minutes after I got there, the engine roared to life. It sounded fantastic, too—clean, smooth, and even. They let it run for about a minute before shutting down (the radiator isn't attached yet) and we retreated to the yard until the exhaust dissipated. At this point, they're done with the mechanicals, and it's time to get the tub onto the frame.

July 2, 2008 11:14 PM | link to this entry | comments (0) | filed under friends

Lone Star.

Ever since I've known my wife, I've been content to be the number two man in her life. Her first love, her true love, is a 76-year-old Texan with a white whisker, bad breath, an the sweetest disposition of anyone I've ever met. His name is Sage, and we were told this evening that he has advanced-stage cancer, spreading from his chest into his lungs. We looked at the X-rays of his long, lean body stretched across the film, the doctor pointing out the masses here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here, and each tap of her finger made my throat get tighter. This isn't fair. The tough little bastard beat diabetes, for Christ's sake. That bitch cancer took one good cat away, and now she's come for another.

He spent the night at the cat hospital down the road, where an internist is going to perform an ultrasound this morning to confirm and isolate each of the masses. Hopefully then he can perform a biopsy and tell us exactly what Sage is dealing with.

July 1, 2008 8:51 AM | link to this entry | comments (2) | filed under life

A Quiet Sunday.

I got a call early Sunday from my neighbor, who recently purchased a pretty green Defender 90, a Land Rover variant with a short and cloudy history here in the U.S. He'd just gotten wind of a Land Rover meetup in Columbia and asked if I'd like to ride along.

Well, duh!

We found a line of Rovers in a restaurant parking lot and walked around, chatting up the other folks in attendance; in comparison to the Scout aficionados I used to meet with, these were generally older, wealthier people with an affinity for offroading and the horrors of English electronics. Over a barbecue lunch, we swapped stories ad tips with some of the other owners, and I was tempted sorely by several people who tried to win me over to the dark side (I was wearing a Scout T-shirt). I told them it really wouldn't be that hard—if I didn't have a Scout, I'd have an old series Rover for certain. And, of course, there was an example present that made me a little misty:

This is an absolutely cherry Series 1, an exceptionally early example, done up in a paint scheme and soft top color that took my breath away, because it reminded me of an old friend:

I miss my old girl.