The Usual Suspect

Got rounded up today.  Happened to walk past an unnamed police department with a long-lensed camera in hand.  Hopped in my car and got pulled over three blocks later.  Lights, big guns, and all. No big deal, they were just worried I might be a terrorist on stakeout.  Only to my cat, but that's another story.  I'm mostly harmless.  No, really.

What happened is that I bought a new computer AND discovered the joy of RAW images.  The two combined have resulted in a second attempt at Project 365 and codependency with my Canon Rebel XS.  One photo a day. For a year.  Some are going to suck, but a great exercise in discipline and forced creativity.  Or so they say.  I'm expecting a few days of desperation with close ups of my belly button at midnight.   Should you wish to follow, my flickr feed is here. 

Self Portrait

Friday Redux

Thanks to a truncated work week I can now join the ranks of the seemingly idle. For years I've wondered who are these people who hang out in coffee shops on random weekdays, seemingly educated and employable but far from any office or workstation. As it turns out, they are me. 

Death With Dignity

The good old days, when people could die with some originality.

The Lost Tribe

We're an odd lot, Iowans beyond state boundaries.  I've heard enough migration stories to classify people into one (or more) of three categories: pursuit of fortune, pursuit of love, or mere adventure.  We yearn to know each other, to speak of our shared connection like survivors of some Atlantian catastrophe, regardless of the social circumstances or prior acquaintance.  I left for good reason (along with over half my high school and college classes), though part of me belongs to the great prairie in my heart.  Others must feel the same.

I've lived in many places: east coast, west coast, south, midwest, and abroad.  Some are insular, some are welcoming, some could care less.  Regardless of locale, Iowans reach out to one of their own.  This is never more evident then when I wear my RAGBRAI jersey.  Yes, it's an epic bike ride.  But it also identifies you as part of a tribe.  Never have I gone out without one random person walking/cycling alongside and asking which year i rode, where I'm from, and/or telling me what part of Iowa they're from.   The first time was pleasant.  The second felt like dumb luck.  The 45th was almost annoying in their yearning for connection.  It must stem from a sense of forced separation from a place of love and belonging.  Portland seems full of Iowans, it makes me feel at home. I like to think the best of us moved here.

I'll admit that I enjoy meeting others from my adopted home state, having technically been born in Texas.  There's a shared sense of experience, culture, and friendliness that I just don't get from Californians or Pennsylvanians (no offense). But why do Iowans reach out so much, almost pathologically, in a way that others do not?  I'm truly at a loss.  Are we trying to save the family farm of our heart, even if we grew up in a factory town?  Or are we listening to James Earl Jones, hoping people will come to the places we left behind, longing for the past.  It's a quirk, but I don't mind, for it reminds me that I'm not alone in my nostalgia...

Observations from the Saddle

About a year ago I started biking 'round town.   Mostly on long distance training rides for ridiculously absurd rides across Iowa or to the beach.  Thing is, when you spend four hours on a bike you tend to look around to keep the brain interested.  Here's what i've learned about Portland:

Distinct dog zones define the geography of the city.  West of the river you find accessory dogs like chihuahuas, whippets, and newfoundlands.  Inner Southeast (west of 82nd) is the home of family dogs: shepherds and collies.  Beyond 82nd one finds a master race of pit bull owners with bad attitudes and long leashes.

Log cabins and sheep farms exist within city limits.  I still get nostalgic at the smell of manure.

It's possible to experience clouds, rain, hail, snow, and sun all in one ride.  Each of them can and will hurt you, just in different ways.  Love the pain and embrace rules 5 and 9.

Homeless people also like to bike, with or without alcohol.

Ghetto convenience stores carry power bars and gatorade, if you don't mind being on surveillance video, and Ikea meatballs taste pretty good after a 30 mile ride, though people will stare at your lycra clad form.

Don't forget to lube up.  Seriously.  Not as kinky as it sounds, or nearly as much fun, but necessary if you do want to frolic later that evening.

Mount Tabor is seriously steep, but the tranquility of the summit is worth it.  If only I didn't feel so guilty at disrupting the early morning Tai Chi practitioners with my labored breathing.

Train schedules matter.  Not because I want to ride them, but to avoid getting stuck at a crossing for 30+ minutes.

Sauvie Island rocks for what it does have (stunning scenery, naked beaches, berry farms), but sucks for what it doesn't have (water fountains or an ATM).  Ride prepared.

The portland body is not hard to acquire:  rock hard legs from riding, and a soft middle from all the beer...

Project 365 - Carbonited

Sooooooo, all 3 of you reading this blog may have noticed a dropoff in Project 365.  I've run into a snag that's called for a temporary freeze in activity.

Here's the deal.  Digital photography is kickass for many things.  Instant gratification, easy distribution, and a serious geek factor.  Thing is, you now need more than a camera and a local film processor.  My home computer has the software, but not the memory or screen to do any serious post-processing work.  My work computer has the power, screen, and a handy card slot...but lacks the appropriate software (and it's just plan inconvenient).  

Expect more once I've resolved this dilemma.  I hear Apple's about to release new MacBooks, let's see what happens!

Things I can no longer do...

Oh to be this young again.

Nothing says winter like whiskey and chocolate.

There's something about the layering of bourbon and chocolate into a nostalgic shape.  It just warms the heart (and belly) in such a pleasing manner.  Here's a big thanks to Orangette for the recipe, we won't mention my internet crush on her blog.  I join the interwebs in singing her praise.

Day One - P365

Today marks the launch of my own Project 365.  A personal challenge to take at least one photograph a day, to be posted online as a record to myself and others.  Why February 20?  Why not?  Symbolic days seem to have come and go without much action on my part, so perhaps a softer grand opening is in order.    My goal is to force both the creative and technical sides of my brain into a daily workout on my new (to me) Canon Rebel XS SLR, rather than my daily workhouse (Monsieur iPhone) which gets fairly hard use but is less capable or flexible.

One important note.  I'm still deciding upon where to deposit all 365 of these.  Flickr.com and 500px.com seem to be the front runners, with deviantArt.com a distant third.  Stay posted for a decision.

Sometimes you need a headrest.

Goodbye to Swill

You can't hear it, but I certainly can.  That's the sound of six gallons of syrah being drained down the kitchen sink.  More specifically, six gallons of home-fermented 2010 Wall-Walla syrah that presents a great bouquet, but is followed by a discordant and impressively funky flavor.

I'm a little sad  that it didn't turn out as planned.  There goes a few hundred dollars, hours of labor, and not a small amount of my wife's patience.  That said, I'm still proud of my efforts and apprenticeship in the basics of oenology.  Now when we visit wineries I'm less mystified by winemakers. Heck, I almost feel a little clubby when talking techniques.  Fortuantely I remain in awe of their professional and artistic abilities and don't get ahead of myself. Perhaps more so of those fine souls who produce exceptional bottles time and time again.

If there's a next time I'll be more aggressive in fighting contamination (I might have skimped on the sulfites).  I'll also be inviting the grapes to ferment in a basement that I have 100% control over.   Alas the life of a condo owner, having to fight with neighbors over the use, configuration, and cleanliness of the forgotten corners of the building.  During the hottest months of the year I snuck my syrah into a dark corner of the bike storage room, right behind an old chimney, and I believe a nearby water leak invited mold to take root on the stopper of the carboy.  I tried to clean if off and resterilize everything, but the damage may have been done.  Ah well.   As in all things, one must look to the next harvest and learn from the past.

Iowa Nice

Think about it.  (NSFW)