Sad Keanu

I was unaware of this until recently, but in May of 2010, a paparazzi captured a series of photos of Keanu Reeves eating a sandwich on a bench. After Keanu finished his sandwich, he sat for a moment appearing contemplative and sad. This particular image captured a lot of traction as a meme with numerous photoshop interpretations appearing on the web; Keanu looking sad among a group of kittens, Keanu looking sad with Iron Man, etc. I stumbled upon this “Sad Keanu” phenomena accidentally when browsing the Shapeways website, the marketplace for 3D printed objects. One of their most popular products is “Sad Keanu,” offered in two sizes, itty bitty and little, “both equally sad” (according to the website).  Like the rest of the public at large, this image resonated deeply with me. Keanu looked so vulnerable in that moment. Even celebrities, it seems, with all of their wealth and popularity suffer from the same range of emotions as the rest of us. Sadness is a great equalizer. It somehow made me feel that if I were there at that moment with Keanu, I could have put my arm around him and comforted him uttering something profound like, “there, there . . .”

Articles and posts proliferated summarizing Keanu’s tragic life. His father was a drug dealer who was sent to prison when Keanu was twelve. His mother was a stripper who married several times. Keanu’s girlfriend was pregnant with Keanu’s child, which was later delivered stillborn. Months later, his girlfriend died in an automobile accident.  Keanu’s sister suffers from leukemia and his brother has been in and out of prison a number of times. Undoubtedly all of these factors have contributed to the overall sadness of Keanu all of the posts have speculated.

In truth, Keanu has stated that he was not all that sad when the photo was taken. He did mention that it was a downer being photographed while eating a sandwich however, and he has declared quite often since (with an insincere look) that he finds the whole phenomenon amusing. Even after his protestations, he was once again captured looking sad as he was smoking a cigarette, fueling the “Sad Keanu” fire. His spokesman felt it necessary to issue a statement at that point to the effect, “Keanu Reeves would like to thank all of his fans for their concerns regarding his happiness and wants to assure everyone that all is well.” So there you have it. Keanu is really not as sad as we all think. He just naturally looks sad. Our outpouring of love and sympathy is grossly misplaced. We should probably divert our attention and emotions to other more pressing concerns. Even if Keanu is truly sad and only putting on a brave front, what could we really do to make him happier? Keanu’s happiness is ultimately Keanu’s responsibility. It is time for all of us to move on.

However, I will confess that I did order an itty bitty Sad Keanu while on the Shapeways website. It doesn’t hurt to have a small (no pun intended) reminder of one’s own humanity; the initial twinge of sympathy and empathy I felt when I stumbled upon this image, the fact that we are all sad at times and in need of comfort or that our emotions are often misinterpreted and we are grossly misunderstood. We are all Keanu and Keanu is us.   

finding enlightenment

When I purchased my new, sporty, red Honda CR-Z, I made arrangements to protect it with a clear coat bra, window tinting and to have an optional armrest installed. The dealer, Willey Honda, had the shuttle drop me off at Phillips Gallery while they completed the work and subsequently, pick me up. When I was picked up after they had completed their task, the shuttle driver and I had a conversation about the gallery. The driver asked about if I knew of John Erickson, a childhood friend of his, who happened to be a painter. "John Erickson is one of the premier artists represented at our gallery," I told him much to his surprise. The driver recounted incidents in the past like the time he dropped acid with John to go to his friend's opening. "Yup," he said. "John used to call me Little Buddha." "Why is that?" I asked as he was a thin, older white guy with a slightly scraggly beard. "Because I was always seeking enlightenment," he countered. "And did you find it?" I asked. "Yup, at Willey Honda," he replied.

elsewhere . . .

I recognize that by posting this, I'm only revealing my strange thought processes, but I cannot help myself. For me (as I suspect for everybody), reality is what looms right there in front of me at the present moment. At times, I am reminded however, that this is just a perceptual misconception. In truth, much is happening beyond my little sensory field. As an example, tides are rising and falling, causing water to lap on beaches on the west coast and east coast (and beyond) at this very moment. My favorite street in San Francisco is teeming with people and traffic as I write this. Delicate Arch is standing majestically in the quiet sunlight, perhaps experiencing a solitary moment between the sporadic visits of tourists. Somewhere, the sun is rising. Meteors are hurtling through space and the universe continues to expand. Yes, yes, it's a strange thing to share with all of you, but nonetheless, it is just part of the wonder I experience every day.

autumn

Occasionally, (OK, every day) two of my co-workers and I venture out to the 7-11 a few buildings away to indulge in some unhealthy, but otherwise delicious “manufactured” treat. Lately, a Pillsbury sweet roll has gained favor over the 4 for $1.00 mini-tacos. What can I say? I am a self-confessed and deeply ashamed junk-food junkie. Lately, as we step outside, our faces are brushed with the brisk, cold air that is autumn. I love autumn. Each season has its own charms, but autumn remains my favorite. It marks the gentle transition of the hot days of summer into the ultimate brutally frigid days of winter. The briskness energizes me and reminds me how wonderful life is with all of its small surprises and delights. Time passes and we are inexorably caught up in its wake. Even as I grow older, I would rather surrender to its movement and enjoy it rather than hopelessly rage against it.

the end of the twinkie apocalypse

Did I chronicle my Twinkie-deprivation trials and tribulations to you? (Of course I did. Nothing brings me more pleasure than whining to a prospective group!) Once Twinkies were spirited back into the open market by an obviously benevolent power, production could not keep up with the demand. It was very difficult to purchase a box even after repeated visits to key locations (Walmart, UGH!, was a main distribution outlet!) at methodically timed intervals. I cannot list the number of times I stood brokenhearted at an empty Hostess display. This has prove to be quite a horrible and grueling time for me, even worse perhaps than the period where Twinkies no longer existed in this universe. At least I was relatively consigned to a CERTAIN hopelessness and despair. (I could tell you tales of my search for a reasonable substitute. In short, there are none even though cosmetically, some appeared close. In retrospect, some seemed close enough, but I think that conclusion was colored as the taste of the original faded through time.) I'm happy to report that now, after this near culinary apocalypse-like period, Twinkies are in abundance. I can rest easy that order has been restored to my universe. My Twinkie-deprived dread (picture images of withdrawal convulsions) of replacing the latest devoured box has now abated and no longer haunts my subconscious. It is as if a great weight has been lifted from my psyche. The birds chirp a little sweeter, the pickles taste a little crisper.

Live long and prosper.

twinkies and the holy grail

I’ve always had an attachment to Hostess Twinkies. Inadvertently, I even purchased a two-pack one week prior to the earth-shattering announcement of the Hostess dissolution. Too late I wandered into the local supermarket to stock up after that proclamation only to find the bare metal of emptied shelves where the Hostess junk food once sat. “Oh, Hostess! We hardly knew ye!” How could I have taken them for granted for so many years? Why, why did I not pick up on the prescience of the movie Zombieland, in which a Twinkie-obsessed Woody Harrelson scoured every store he came upon in the post-apocolyptic world to search for his beloved snack (often risking his life in the process)?

Last Sunday I became aware of a possible replacement in the form of a coupon in the newspaper for $ .75 off the purchase of a box of Little Debbie Cloud Cakes. I recognize many of you involuntarily wince at the mere mention of Little Debbie, as do I, but hey, if there is an alternative (at least until the powers that be settle on the rights to Twinkie and who will ultimately purchase them), I’m willing to overlook past prejudices. I’ve never seen a Little Debbie Cloud Cake before. Perhaps the world supremacy of Twinkies shamed them away from the supermarket shelves for all of these years. Coupon in hand, I began my search two days ago. Both supermarkets nearby (a Dan’s and a Fresh Market) contained no such treats. A search on the Little Debbie website lists stores nearby that supposedly stock these babies, but then, they listed one of the two stores that I previously scoured to no avail. Today, I will widen my search perimeter to include supermarkets in the vicinity of my workplace. I fear Little Debbie Cloud Cakes are like the mythical Unicorn, somebody’s imagined creature, beautiful yet non-existent. (Side note: North Korea news sources recently announced the discovery of a past Korean King’s unicorn stable, so perhaps there is hope . . .
Another side note: how pathetic and desperate is that to hope for the credibility of news from North Korea?)
In any event, I’ll keep you posted on my quest for the alternate Twinkie Holy Grail, Cloud Cakes.

the wells fargo wagon . . .

As a child, I would read the back of my morning cereal box with relish, looking for the latest offer diabolically imagined by the corporate suits at Kellogs to stimulate continued sales of their cereal line (but I digress). I just loved the marvelous and wonderful toys you could receive for just the price of cereal box tops, which were, in my mind at least, free. I ate cereal every morning and knew that each bowl I consumed would bring me that much closer to ordering and receiving a new magical toy. One such  toy I specifically remember was a plastic submarine that would surface and dive with the help of baking powder (not soda, as you would expect, but baking powder) tamped into a little chamber in the underside of the hull. Once I had placed my order (the ritualistic sealing of the envelope, the licking of the stamp, the strategic placement in our mailbox for the mailman to gather and send it on its way), the wait was simply excruciating. "Did it come yet?" I would ask my mother each day as I returned from school. It was frankly difficult to focus on anything else.  Nights would be especially difficult for me. The quiet of the night would only amplify my apprehension and anticipation. Had I made a mistake with the number of box tops I had enclosed in the envelope? Had the mailman stolen my package for his own child? It was too painful to recount the various permutations of disaster that occupied my tormented mind. My preoccupation for the arrival of my package was much like the scene in the "The Music Man," where a gathering of people sang jubilantly of their anticipation as they peered down the street awaiting the arrival of the Wells Fargo Wagon. Inwardly, I was one of those singers. This was the song that played over and over in my heart. "Oh, it could be, yes it could be, something special, just for me!" I lived that song for much of my cereal-eating childhood. Such is the world of a young boy.

Four weeks ago, on September 14th at 12:01 A.M. PDT, Apple and its various Cellular Phone partners began taking orders for the newly unveiled iPhone 5. I had been avoiding a purchase of the iPhone since its first iteration was announced, opting instead for the iPod Touch. The iPod Touch simply offered virtually the same level of functionality of the iPhone sans the relatively expensive monthly data plan that accompanied it.  Needless to say, I was instantly smitten with the technology proffered by the iPod. It provided access (via Wi-Fi) to the Internet, e-mail, and a plethora of apps, in addition to its native ability to provide the soundtrack to my daily life.

Sadly, after a time, the iPhone began to outstrip the iPod Touch in features. Undoubtedly this was a marketing decision by the powers at Apple. Each iteration of the iPhone widened the gap between itself and its lesser sibling. The iPhone incorporated a camera and more importantly, apps that could simulate some of the artistic "looks" that I worked so hard to create via traditional photographic methods. As an example, the Hipstamatic app provided filters that closely resembled the look of plastic toy cameras, or images taken with infrared film or pinhole cameras. I was annoyed that an artistic venue had been denied me simply because I did not possess the right technology. I anxiously waited for the new iPod Touch to incorporate the same capabilities in its next incarnation. In a fashion it did, only the resolution of the camera was laughable. While the iPhone was offering a built-in 5 megapixel camera, the iPod was offering less than 1-megapixel resolution. The gap between the iPhones and the iPod Touches widened. The difference between the latest incarnation of iPhones and iPod Touches is reported to be already one generation different, owing to the different processors incorporated in each. The iPod Touch camera now it sports 5-megapixel resolution, a noticeable improvement over the previous generation (which I had told myself would be enough to warrant my next purchase), but again lags behind the iPhone 5 which offers a (second-generation) 8-megapixel camera. This was the tipping point for me, coupled with the annoyance of searching endlessly for free Wi-Fi spots in the cities of our travels to access the internet for information. I finally decided to make the leap to the iPhone. I had been reading the cereal boxes long enough regarding the popular smartphone. It was time to commit.

Once resolute in my decision to purchase the "5," I was not rabid about ordering it, unlike cereal-box-top boy of so many years ago. True, I had considered staying up until the designated hour to place my order online, but decided instead that a good night's sleep was more important than the possible three to four week delay it would cost me to wait until the next morning. I had waited for 5 generations of iPhones to place my order, I could easily wait a few more weeks. Eventually, at around 10:00 A.M. the next morning, I accessed AT&T's site to place my order.

That day, the media was overwrought with reports of the frenzy of iPhone orders that accompanied the pre-order opening day. As suspected, the anticipation and fervor immediately outpaced the available supply and all of the websites were reporting 3-4 week delays in deliveries. It was mildly amusing to read the articles about the queues and server difficulties encountered by the onslaught of Apple fanboys (and fangirls). I couldn't help but feel a little superior as I was calm and comfortable with the anticipated delay until I noticed my confirmation e-mail. It stated simply without a hint of irony, that ("Congratulations!") my order would be delivered September 21st! WHAT? Could this be a mistake? Most likely it had to be the result of an automatic reply geared toward the best possible scenario embedded in the AT&T order confirmation response system that would undoubtedly be corrected later in a subsequent e-mail. And yet, when I entered the tracking system, the order stated that not only had it been processed, but that the iPhone had been shipped! How could this be possible? Could I really be one of the first to have the iPhone 5 in my hot little hands? It could potentially be delivered to my door without having to endure three (or more) nights and days of camping out in front of an Apple store? Cereal-box-top-boy was back! Sleepless nights ensued. Each day, I checked the status of my order and to my dismay, there was no tracking number assigned. The tracking number was the designated next step in the process and its absence hinted of a system error that would dash all of my now falsely-raised expectations. I searched the web and found a forum of people who were in the exact circumstance that I faced. They had received a confirmation with the 21st delivery date with no progress in the tracking system beyond "shipped." The general consensus was that it was simply not to be. I cannot calculate the number of times I would check that system in a given day. I became resigned to the fact that I would indeed have to wait for 3-4 weeks prior to receiving my iPhone, a now intolerable waiting period. Resignation grew to depression. Then, on Thursday, at about 9:14 P.M., the evening before the 21st, my tracking number appeared! Clicking on that number revealed that my iPhone had traveled from Fort Worth, Texas to the FedEx distribution center in West Valley City!

As per the tracking status, the iPhone would be delivered to my door no later than 3:00 PM. I called in sick as a signature was required for the iPhone 5 to be delivered and I did not want to jeopardize a first day delivery. I had to run a quick errand first thing that morning and hurriedly set out to quickly return. While I was driving, I spotted several FedEx trucks in the neighborhood prowling the streets no doubt loaded down with iPhone 5s in their cache. I returned home, thankfully with no note of a failed delivery awaiting me. I was confident the wait would not be long and I could go to work having benefited from a miraculous recovery. And so I planted myself on the front porch armed with my newspaper and Kindle Fire to keep me occupied while I occasionally peered down the street feigning indifference. Time passed slowly, but eventually, my particular FedEx truck arrived, clocking in at 2:23 PM. FedEx cannot be accused of "over-promising" on their delivery times. When I interrogated him about his other deliveries of the day, the driver reported that like me, others were outside awaiting their deliveries and that they too, were very, very happy to see him pull up. The next day I read numerous reports of others who recounted their wait outside. And so, it appears on that Friday, September the 21st of 2012, scores of people across the United States paced impatiently outside of their homes while they awaited their own Wells Fargo Wagon and similarly, they waited for it to bring something special, something very, very special just for them.

the legendary nikon f4

Please note: this is only for camera aficionados. Specifically, Nikon fans. It goes into way more detail to be of interest to anybody but the most dedicated of photography fanatics.

There's nothing like my reverence for fine products to inspire me to post anew. In this instance, I'm paying homage to the legendary Nikon F4. When this product was introduced in 1988, I could not help but fantasize about one day owning one of these cameras.

My first camera was a Nikkormat (in my case, the Japanese model "Nikomat") FTN. This was a heavy, beautiful camera that by its nature just seemed purposeful. I had made this decision at the last moment switching from my initial impulse to order a Minolta SRT101 (another fine camera which still gives me pause whether I made the right decision or not, but that's fodder for another posting). In any event, the Nikomat naturally influenced my lens purchases as manufacturer's lenses were not portable across other lines (yet, another topic worth discussing since that has changed somewhat today with the micro 4/3rds standard, but I digress). It was only a natural progression to one day migrate to the F4. In the years between my Nikomat and the Nikon F4 I had purchased other Nikons. Notably, the FM and then the 8008S and finally, the F100, an amazing camera in and of itself. (The F100 is easily one of the best cameras I've had the privilege to own and I'm still amazed at the build quality and beauty of the sound of the shutter release each time I shoot with it) 

The Nikon F4 was the flagship model of the Nikon line-up. It boasted 1850 body parts, a communication network with a maximum of 7 CPUs, sophisticated software holding 43 million ways of operating conditions and 4 motors. It was the most advanced camera of its time and represented the largest technological leap from one model to the next EVER. At the time of its introduction, it cost $3600 (in today's currency). It was targeted specifically for the professional market and was therefore built with durability as well as ease-of-use in mind. Production was halted in 1996 when Nikon introduced the F5, an evolutionary model (not revolutionary, mind you). The beauty of the F4 is that it is compatible with every Nikon lens ever made, including those produced AFTER the camera was introduced. This is the only camera (with the exception of Leicas?) that can boast this capability. Canon, Minolta (now Sony), Pentax, all changed their lens mounts somewhere along the line to the annoyance of devotees of these respective manufacturer's product lines.

As you can image, with an 8-year production run, there a number of used Nikon F4s available on the market. With the advent of digital photography, such cameras have rapidly lost re-sale value as film has been relegated to near-obsolescence status. Thus, I have purchased my dream camera, now 24 years later at the cost of $295!  Yes, perhaps it can be viewed as sad that I have been unable to let it go after all of these years and have to satisfy that obsession when a newer technology has emerged. To me it's very fulfilling that after all of these years, I can satisfy that obsession EVEN when a newer technology has emerged. Since the camera was built for longevity, many F4 owners firmly believe they will be able to continue to use it through the rest of their lives. As proof, the F4 was built for a minimally reliable shutter cycle of 150,000. To put this into perspective, shooting the Nikon F4 for 10 years at a rate of 15 rolls (36 exposures per roll) per month, the shutter would have gone through approximately 64,800 cycles, roughly 43% of its rated minimum life. At the same rate it could be utilized reliably for another 13 years. I personally do not think my Nikon has been put through such a pace judging by its condition. So I suspect I will be able to utilize it for many, many years to come, especially since it has undergone inspection and had the requisite cleaning, lubrication and adjustment.

And so, I anxiously await the delivery of this latest purchase (my birthday present). It is on its way to my awaiting hands as I write this, having departed Seattle at midnight, via UPS with a scheduled delivery of Tuesday. It is in remarkable condition having been owned by an amateur rather than a professional, who undoubtedly would have put it through its paces on a daily basis. The high resolution photos of my particular camera  betray just a few minor scuff marks, with the seller describing it as "mint." I'll of course be anxious to inspect it, but I'm hopeful the photos accurately depict its present condition and that there will be no surprises.

Admittedly, I'm shooting again with film in preparation for the opportunity to utilize the F4. I love digital because of its immediacy and "disposable" image ability. By that I mean, I can review my images and erase them with a push of a button, allowing me the freedom to shoot without discrimination. Film is a little more precious to me. I tend to be stingy and perhaps too careful with the images I shoot with a film camera. However, in spite of the resolution advances of digital photography, there is still a quality of film that I believe cannot be reproduced in any other medium. I know there are many "traditional" photographers who would agree. There is a silkiness or smoothness about a film image that is just plain beautiful. Hopefully, one of my next posts will include some images taken with my new-old camera. 

keith richard's skull ring

The first time I spotted Keith Richard's (of Rolling Stone fame) skull ring, I believe was on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. I immediately responded to the "cool" factor of that ring and vowed that one day I would possess one. Occasionally, I have scoured shops, usually on vacation when I happen to be in one that would feature such items. You know the kind I am referring to: "biker" shops or "head" shops or "wicken" shops. It has not been an ongoing obsession. It is only when I am reminded of that iconic ring that I momentarily remember my vow of oh-so-many years ago and resume my search for the PERFECT skull ring.

Fast forward to today. Lately, I've been making a number of purchases on the wonderful site known as Etsy. Etsy features crafts people and artists from all over the globe. It is both the blessing and curse of Etsy as it is often difficult to find the real gems that exist on the website. You often have to perform very focused searches in order to discover some truly wonderful finds. Sadly, it does not occur to me to search categories that contain such finds. As an example, there is a wonderful artist who makes little dioramas that have a mechanical component to them. In one of his series of dioramas, you crank a little handle to animate the waves of a small ocean with a wonderful little sailboat perched atop the water. What keywords would you enter into a search box to uncover this? I'm not even certain how I stumbled upon this artist which makes me wonder how many more are out there in the cyberspace of Etsy. But I digress . . .

Recently it occurred to me that Etsy might just host the artist who has crafted my ideal skull ring. After several pages of scrolling through the results of my search, I stumbled upon an artist, Paul Phillips, who makes a wonderful skull ring of either sterling silver ($300) or bronze ($140) that can be silver plated. His skull is different than the one  worn by Keith. If anything, I believe it to be a more accurate representation of a human skull, but before I go any further, below is the information I managed to uncover on the original ring produced for Keith as per the Courts and Hackett website:

"In 1978 the celebrated London goldsmiths David Courts and Bill Hackett were working on a small scale silver sculpture of a human skeleton. Using a real skull for reference they carved a perfect miniature replica which they then moulded. When the hollow wax skull was removed from its mould the inspiration for the ring was born. Further experimentation led to the creation of the original silver skull ring. At the same time an invitation arrived from Keith Richards to his birthday party in New York - so Bill and David decided that the new ring would make a fantastic present. From the moment he put it on his finger, the magic began and he has worn it ever since


Since Keith put on the original Courts and Hackett skull ring in 1978, David and Bill have received countless requests for a copy but their original decision that the ring should remain unique has meant that there is no replica mould and no duplicates.

Now, for the first time and only available from them is a magnificent new deaths head ring sculpted from the same human skull used for the original.

Using unique techniques developed in their workshop they have created the ultimate skull ring. Exquisite details include an immaculately carved bone structure, individual teeth and finely engraved cranium.

Crafted in solid 925 silver each ring will be stamped with the Courts and Hackett hallmark guaranteeing authenticity, date, materials used and country of origin."

Me again. The Courts and Hackett ring goes for approximately $477, not an unreasonable price at all. However, to me, the original looks just a little mean. Although professed to be an accurate depiction of the human skull, I swear the eyes look menacing. While I want to adorn my finger with a skull (to express my inner Rock Star), I don't necessarily want my ring to be any more off-putting by looking menacing. (Yes, yes, I know; a skull ring is inherently off-putting, but hopefully you know what I mean. Incidentally, if you're interested in purchasing the same ring, Paul's Etsy shop can be found at: http://www.etsy.com/shop/noformdesign?ref=seller_info.)

Anyway, to make a long-story short, I am now sporting my newly-purchased skull ring (shown above). And yes, I now look like a Rock Star, thank you very much.

higashi

Recently, a co-worker presented me with a pink box of obvious Japanese origin. The box was wrapped in a rice paper skin with one of those gold elastic bands with the neat little bow on top with Japanese script. Inside, beneath a leaf of delicate textured rice paper lay neat rows of little sculptured delicacies in various muted tints of color. She told me someone had presented this to her as a gift and she thought I might like to have it for its aesthetic qualities as a subject for one of my photographs. I accepted it, put it in my kitchen drawer (containing my candy supply) and promptly forgot about it.

This month, my issue of Saveur magazine arrived and contained therein was an article on "Higashi," the very confections I had sequestered away a few weeks earlier. Briefly (and this I did not know until I read the article), Higashi is composed of tinted sugar and rice flour. It is an integral part of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, but only from around the 18th Century when it was first introduced to the royalty and upper class ranks of Japanese society. The Japanese Tea Ceremony itself dates back to the 15th Century. Traditionally, Higashi  was sculpted to reflect the season. In Spring, as an example, Highashi were crafted to resemble cherry blossoms. Higashi is rarely found outside of Japan, but there is an American company, Chambre du Sucre (so why do they have a FRENCH name?), that imports these confections. Incidentally, these delights are made by the same Japanese company for 268 years.

And, I have yet to photograph them in a way to do them justice.

the lost city of atlantis

Today an article appeared in Wired magazine's on-line blog detailing how the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) create maps of the ocean floor. Some years ago, the data they collected was integrated into the data utilized by Google Earth. Some observant aficionados of this app noticed a grid of regular lines in a portion of the undersea floor northwest of the Canary Islands. They immediately proclaimed these grids to be an indication of civilization in the form of streets. It was not long before they speculated this to be the streets of the sunken city of Atlantis.

Purportedly, as reported by Plato in 360 BC, the city of Atlantis sunk into the ocean "in a single day and night of misfortune" as a result of earthquakes and floods.

Sadly, Google Earth was displaying an error that resulted from the sonar method that oceanographers used to map the ocean floor and the way various maps and data were integrated. As NOAA cited, "the lines show the paths traveled by the ships that gathered these higher-resolution sonar readings." This week Google updated their maps with the corrected images.

As I've stated in a previous post, I sincerely want to believe in such mysteries. I still hold out hope for the discovery of the Loch Ness Monster, Yeti and the Abominable Snowman. I would like to think that there are such things that remain undiscovered even though modern technology seems to continually and brutally advance solely to dispel the romantic notions of mythical creatures and legends of yore.

And yet, there are after all, new species that have been discovered and continue to be discovered (which I celebrate). And even more importantly, the discovery of heretofore previously thought extinct species. Why then, is it not possible for the Loch Ness Monster to be swimming happily in the murky waters of the Loch? Or for the Lost City of Atlantis to be a historical fact rather than a mythical tale? Regardless, I will continue to believe in the possibility of such wondrous and awe-inspiring things.

memory loss

My memory isn't what it used to be. In fact, I'm afraid the electrical connections that once lit up my internal thought processes have lost their brightness. Before, entire storage spaces in my mind were brightly lit allowing me to access the most obscure information you could imagine. Now, those spaces are dark, occasionally lit by the flickering of a soon-to-be extinguished bulb.

I'm not as bold in conversations with friends and less so with strangers as a result. I fear for the stalled silences that immediately accompany a lost thread of knowledge or train of thought. Before, I could summon up the names of books, movies, authors, actors, plot lines, artists, etc. at the drop of a hat. Often one small association would trigger a string of thematically connected ideas that could dazzle even the most adept of cocktail conversationalists. Now I'm reduced to something like, "you know, the actor who played the general in that Sylvester Stallone movie where he went ballistic." Such are the ravages of age upon the cognitive process.

I try to keep my mind sharp with little exercises. I do the word scramble each day in the newspaper. I string together meaningful phrases out of the letters on license plates in front of me (e.g. GSC could equate to "girl scout cookies" or "go shoot coyotes"). I exercise every day (well, almost). I systematically go through the alphabet in my mind whenever I forget something, like the actor example above. ("Abraham? No. Bob? No. Collin?" etc.) Sometimes this methodology yields results but even when it does, it is often minutes sometimes hours after the initial thought should have been completed - a far cry from my "sharper" days.

I saw this phenomena creep up with my parents which does nothing to quell the internal terror. The only solace I can derive from all of this is that my older friends all seem to be suffering from the same malady. Our conversations no longer run smoothly as they sputter and stall upon those lost associations and references we used to grab readily. An astute onlooker could undoubtedly identify those moments of silence and stupor where both parties look at the ground in embarrassment (and in the vain hope that there might be some clue as to what we are looking for there on the ground). It all goes down easier when I know I am not alone.

In the meantime, in a real pinch, I can always go to my iPod. At least I can Google enough of my memory fragment to find the component I had forgotten. I try not to rely upon it too much though. I'm convinced that the iPod, like the calculator, has become a crutch that discourages us from more active mental participation. I suppose I'll know I'm in real trouble when I forget how to use the iPod or forget what the iPod in my hand is entirely. I do hate this memory loss thing. But then, by that time, I won't remember what it was that was troubling me.

rangefinder cameras revisited

Seriously, if you're not into cameras or have little patience with other's obsessions, be forewarned, you may want to skip this post.

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything and wouldn't you know that inspiration would be found in my penchant for conspicuous consumerism? Way back in March of 2010, I praised (in more detail than any but the most rabid of photographers would appreciate) the joys of rangefinder cameras. I won't bore you with a re-hash of that post, but am compelled to say that in retrospect, my purchase of the Panasonic GF1 while motivated by the similarities (at least in appearance) to the rangefinders of old, was totally misguided. In truth, the GF1 is a digital camera with a similar body style that offers interchangeable lenses, but in action, it does not possess enough of the rangefinder's DNA to qualify as a modern-day substitute.

I refer you once again to the photo below to clarify.

The key feature of a rangefinder camera is the optical viewfinder in the upper right-hand corner of the camera (a Leica M3) displayed above. While single-lens-reflex cameras became the eventual standard for news photographers, sports photographers and consumers in the late 60s and early 70s, the blessing and curse of this design is that at the precise moment of exposure, the mirror that allows the photographer to see through the lens that is capturing the image, flips up to totally obscure the viewfinder. 

The rangefinder on the other hand, offers a clear view of the framed subject at all times since the viewfinder is simply a "window," clear glass if you will. In a sense, with SLR cameras, the decisive moment becomes the indecisive moment as you may or may not have captured what you intended. True, the digital cameras of today offer almost instantaneous feedback, but to the PURIST, in the spirit of a rangefinder camera, the decisive moment is still the moment when you depress the shutter release button as you compose through the viewfinder. (OK, OK, some of today's digital cameras offer electronic viewfinders eliminating the blackout problem, but the view is propagated by a micro-miniature television screen which makes it somehow offensive to technophobes such as myself). And so in an attempt to right my past wrong, I have recently purchased the new Fujifilm X10. 

The first thing you should notice, now that you've been trained to spot rangefinder cameras, is the optical viewfinder just to the right and above the lens. It is this one key important feature that qualifies the X10 as a modern-day rangefinder and one that is lacking on almost every digital camera today. Sadly, the display on the back of these cameras has become de riguer these days. Cameras should not be held away from you, they should be snuggled against your face(which incidentally, helps steady the camera in a way not achieved otherwise). 

And similar to the classic rangefinders, this camera sports a vast array of manual controls, those things called knobs and dials that have somehow been eliminated with touchscreens. You actually have to twist the lens to zoom in and out rather than push a lever that actuates a motorized zoom lens. How innovative is that? I suppose I'm betraying my reactionary ways here, but you should know I was "classically trained" as a photographer. Cameras were mechanical marvels back then, operated by gears and intricate internal mechanisms that coalesced in a perfect symphony of movement to adjust the lens opening, the shutter speed and align the film in the proper spot to capture a moment of time. Somehow the decisive click and tactile feedback of the shutter mechanism of those cameras proved to be immensely satisfying, unlike the electronic beep or simulated shutter sounds of today's devices. Yes there are more electronic parts than mechanical ones in the Fuji X10, and yes, it is a digital camera. But, Fuji has incorporated the interface and operation of those old rangefinder cameras in its latest model. There is a reassuring feel and look of a camera once more versus the evolving face of digital image capture devices (have you seen the Lytro?) I can return to my roots with this camera, back when I was first inspired to create images. Remarkably, I've found the "fun" again in shooting photos.

supernova

Just this past week, astronomers in California discovered the closest, brightest supernova in 25 years. In essence, it is believed to be the sighting of the first hours of a super-dense white dwarf star (containing more mass than our own sun), exploding. This blast hurls matter in all directions at nearly one-tenth the speed of light - matter that ultimately will form the building blocks of other stars and planets.

Last night, around midnight I went outside to see if I could witness the supernova. Supposedly,  the zenith of the supernova's brilliance was to occur sometime between last night and this weekend. I looked patiently around, trying to find the Big Dipper, the landmark via which the supernova could be located. I utilized my Planets app on my iPod Touch to mark the position of the Big Dipper in the night sky, but to no avail. Either the clouds were obscuring it or the brightness of the moon was creating too much glare off of the atmosphere. I was of course disappointed, but realized as I stood there for what seemed an extended period of time that just being out there was beautiful. I paused at that moment to absorb it all, the cool summer breeze that hinted of the arrival of Fall, the quiet of the night, the vastness of the universe that lay outstretched above me and the silent, distant stars that flickered against the darkness. I didn't care that I couldn't see the supernova at that moment. Although it is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, there is something to be valued about what exists out there for us everyday.

new profile photo

After approximately 5 months,  I've successfully lost 20 pounds. Prior to this time, I've avoided posting any photos due to the vanity of an older man. Now that I've regained a thinner version of myself, above is a new profile photo.

Celeste of the Desert

Celeste is one of my oldest and dearest friends from college It seems we were always destined to be apart. Each summer, she would depart for El Paso, a place near and dear to her heart where she once lived and many of her friends continued to reside. We would write each other occasionally during her summer escapades or whatever she was doing back there in the hot desert climes of Texas. When fall brought her back to the U. we would resume our friendship once more.

Looking back, I've concluded friends are the ones who can tell you when you're full of crap, which Celeste did quite often. Believe me, people who don't tell you when you're full of crap aren't doing you any favors. Celeste could point this out to me in a way that caused me to pause and reflect upon my behavior rather than defend it blindly. (Wives replace friends in your later life. They are the ones who remind you about the crap except they are not so delicate about it. Men are never really in a position to tell their wives they are full of crap because they simply never are. Crap seems to be specifically gender-tied to men. But I digress . . . )

As was foretold by our early separations during college, our adult lives have followed the same path. Currently, Celeste has settled in the isolated desert of Arizona somewhere near Kingman. She is building her dream house there, but has met with some of the realities of the harsh environment there.  She recently wrote me about some of the pitfalls of desert life. Without her permission I include it here:

My morning routine was interrupted when my peripheral vision caught Jack and Buddy, our dogs, quietly roaming through the side yard.  I watched them for a moment and then saw Twilight, one of our cats, stretched out across his favorite nap spot.  The sadness was almost immediate.  I knew he was dead.  Still, I walked out to him.  He was on his side, his eyes half closed and his tail extended behind him as if pulled straight by a playful child.   He would have jumped and sprinted had he been alive.  I didn't touch him.

Cats are necessary on our ten acres surrounded by miles of desert.  The cute, cup-eared, kangaroo rats ubiquitous in our area, draw Mohave rattlesnakes.  The cats keep the scurrying mouse-like kangaroos in check.  This is not to say we and our animals live a Mohave-free life. The tell-tale puncture wounds on Twilight's lip and nose confirmed one of the snakes got him.  Green hued, Mohaves kill with one of the most lethal venoms of U.S. snakes.  

The snake that killed Twilight is resting between garlic chicken and Lean Cuisines in the freezer waiting to be turned into a hat band or such.  We aren't always able to get the perpetrator, but it helps a bit when we can.  Coyotes and rattlesnakes are the prime predators.  Gone are cats Sheba, Tom, Mama Cat, Sunny, and others.  Sage, our beloved dog was lost to a mountain lion, and Buddy, who came after, both were bitten.  Chickens Bandit, Samantha Jane, Sunny Skies, and Little Red, succumbed and chicks disappear before they can be named. 

Their deaths are inevitable in this unyielding environment where coyotes and snakes must kill to live .  We know this, but each is missed and mourned and a small tragedy. 

the man and the donut reunited

Monday I ordered two dozen apple cider donuts from Cold Hollow Cider Mill. They arrived via Priority Mail on Wednesday, neatly packed in airtight plastic bags, a little squarer for having been packed snugly in the box. Amazingly, all of the donuts were intact and appeared to be quite fresh. The enclosed instructions suggested that the donuts tasted best when served warm. Specifically, they suggested they be placed in the oven at 200 degrees for 3-5 minutes. Since I had the donuts delivered to my work address, I immediately placed one in our toaster oven. To my delight, they tasted every bit as good as I had remembered! The room was filled with the scent of apples and cinnamon.

That night, at home, I warmed up one for Joni. Sadly, it was warm enough but the surface had not re-crisped up like it had for me at work. At work, the exterior regained its crunchy hardness while the inner portion remained soft and airy. I was a little perplexed and disappointed. Perhaps the smaller area of a toaster oven was more efficient than the standard in-home unit. Regardless, I was a little discouraged. Without the crunch, the donut could not achieve its former glory.

The next day I tried heating a donut at work for a morning snack and realized that I had misread the setting dial on the toaster oven. I had set the heat to 200 degrees Celsius which translates to about 350 degrees Fahrenheit! As I had experienced the day before, the donut was crispy on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. Mystery solved! Tonight you can be sure I will be heating more donuts at the 350 degrees setting. And yes, I will be in donut heaven.

addendum to the best doughnut

After reading my latest blog entry, a co-worker Googled "apple donut in Vermont" and actually located the apple orchard/bakery detailed in the post below. It not only still exists, but appears to have thrived and expanded. It is the Cold Hollow Apple Cider Mill located in Stowe, Vermont.

They offer their donuts (their spelling, not mine) in dozen batches and can be shipped anywhere. Circumstances preclude me from immediately ordering my first couple of dozen donuts, but you can be assured, I will faithfully report upon the experience once it has transpired. (Or, are some things best left to memory, like the first girl you had a crush on?)

Check out their website at: http://www.coldhollow.com.

Sadly, I can see my memory had embellished the Rube Goldberg donut machine. It appears thusly,

the best doughnut

As a result of stern advice from my doctor (not to mention the recent diagnosis of prostate cancer), I have endeavored to lose weight over the past 4 months. Through a regiment of regular cardio, weight training and a strict and reduced caloric intake (documented religiously on a weight-loss app loaded onto my iPod), I have successfully lost somewhere between a fluctuating eighteen to twenty pounds.

During this time, I have only succumbed to one of my favorite guilty pleasures of doughnuts (or donuts), only three times. Fundamentally, there is no good thing health-wise that can be derived from doughnuts. They are essentially ring-shaped carbohydrates that have been fried. (Have you noticed that some of the best tasting things seem to be fried?) However, in spite of the nutritional deficiencies inherent in doughnuts, I would be remiss in not mentioning the pure gastronomic delight derived from these cardiac time bombs. I'm sorry but I cannot help but smile involuntarily upon my first bite into a newly cooked (yes, fried) doughnut. In my mind, doughnuts were the forbidden fruit growing on that tree in the Garden of Eden. It was no apple that Eve proffered Adam. It was a doughnut. It was the doughnut that gave Adam insight into the sins of the world and revealed to him his own nakedness as well as Eve's. But, I digress.

Abstinence often triggers memories of past experiences, and as I reminisce I can vividly recall the best doughnut I ever gobbled down. Flashback to 1996, during our family's three-year stint in Connecticut to support Joni's attendance at Yale Law School. We often tried to take advantage of the surrounding locale to explore an area we had not previously visited. One of our forays took us into Vermont where we toured the headquarters of Ben and Jerry's and visited the lodge of the Von Trapp Family (of Sound of Music fame). It was on our loop homeward that we spotted a barn on the side of the rural Vermont road that advertised "Apple Pie, Apple Cider, Apple Doughnuts" and invited us to "Come On In." There are many apple orchards in New England with structures adjoining the orchards that featured homemade delights made from apples. Honestly, we had not visited one that did not prove to be a joyful discovery. And so, with anticipation, we pulled into the dirt parking lot to visit the barn that housed the bakery and store.

As I crossed the threshold of the open barn door, I was overcome by the smell of apples and cinnamon. In front of me, loomed a Rube Goldberg contraption that occupied the entire central area of the main room. It featured a snake like switchback of conveyer belts, a central housing for the motor that powered the belts and a stream of hot, bubbling oil. At the far end, the conveyer fed O-shaped forms of lightly brown dough that ended in the bubbling stream where the raw doughnuts were delicately plopped. From there, the doughnuts drifted downstream slowly as they cooked. Finally, through with their little swim, the apple-infused doughnuts were picked-up by a final conveyor belt to be deposited into a bin where they were scooped up by the grandfatherly purveyor, put into a sheet of wax paper and placed in my outstretched hands. I could only look down at my hands in silent awe as I felt the warmth of the just cooked doughnuts radiate through the wax paper and the napkins beneath. As I looked up at Grandfather Doughnut, he smiled knowingly as if to say, "Yes, I know, it's a miracle isn't it? Wait until you taste it!"

The interior of that barn and everything else faded into black as my taste buds overwhelmed all other senses. My endorphins obviously exploded as the warm, fresh, apple and cinnamon infused doughnut hit my tongue. The texture was perfect. Crunchy on the outside with a velvety-smooth interior that melted like butter in my mouth. I must have eaten six in a row without pause. I think Marissa and Joni did the same. I had been transformed at that moment to a new level of doughnut spirituality and worship. Ultimately, we returned to our car, clutching another dozen of the doughnuts in a brown paper bag, the oil blotting the exterior as it soaked through. We resumed our trip home as the barn disappeared behind the bends of the road and the hilly green landscape.

I will never be able to return to that barn. I have no memory of what route we took as we returned from our trip to Vermont. It was over fifteen years ago now. Perhaps that orchard no longer exists or it was taken over by somebody else who dismantled that doughnut-making machine. Or, perhaps I'm just being pessimistic. Perhaps it is still there, run by the next generation of a family devoted to the family orchards and business. Whatever the case, I will never forget the best doughnut I ever tasted.

class reunion ruminations

I’ve recently participated in organizing my 40^th high school reunion. Interestingly, this activity has conjured up many memories of that past life, reviving all of the insecurities, conflicts, crushes and friendships that had overwhelmed me at that time.

I’m sure, as is common, I view myself internally as being much younger than I appear externally. Inside, in large part thrives a young man just stepping into maturity, outside, captured in the harsh reality of a mirror, is the aging man (albeit with a rather bewildered look on his face,) who has weathered many experiences and lessons that sometimes seem too easily forgotten. It is much easier to look outward at my former classmates of the reunion committee than inward to gauge how much progress or wisdom has been accumulated over the years.

I can still envision them all as they appeared in high school. Some have changed more than others. And I remember my encounters with them back then, impressions readily recounted, emotions re-lived - but gone are any harsh judgments or categorizations. Although they are not as attractive (i.e. "youthful") as they were in high school (and I include myself here without hesitation), there is a patina of beauty that surrounds them, borne from their years of struggling, loving, raising children and experiencing all of the triumphs and disappointments that life has to offer. They have all achieved a manner of dignity and grace that makes me want to embrace them and declare, “Look how far we’ve come!” from that same starting point of our humble high school.