1,001 Words

Saturday March 31 & Tuesday April 3, 2007 - National Mall, Tidal Basin & Hains Point, NW & SW Washington DC

It’s Cherry Blossom time here in the Nation’s Capital.  It’s a party to mark the blooming of trees given to us by Japan in between the two times in the late 19th/early 20th centuries when we weren’t fighting with each other.  A few trees turned into a whole slew of trees.  I think there’s something like 1,900 of them around the Tidal Basin, with many more scattered around the District.  They’re really pretty, and the light up the entire area in color amid the muted greens and grays of early spring.  51 weeks of the year, Washington is known for its white marble.  For one week, it’s all about the white and pink blossoms.  Pretty cool.

After a fun Saturday working at the news factory, I hopped on my bike and went downtown.  It was in the 60s, sunny, and the crowds were out in force.  You had the locals, the semi-locals (people day-tripping from the outer ‘burbs), the spring breakers, and tons of Asian tourists who are drawn by the blossoms (although I can’t imagine that’s the only reason to visit DC from Osaka or Kobe - but what do I know about Japan?).  It was amazingly beautiful on this March morning.  The sun was trying its best to heat up the cool air.  The crowds were rubbing their bleary sleep-addled eyes to enjoy the color.  And despite predictions, the Cherry Blossoms were blooming a little earlier than expected.  It was pretty neat.  The crowds bunch up around the Tidal Basin, but some of the more beautiful trees are actually along East Potomac Park/Hains Point/Ohio Drive.  It’s a hike, and most people don’t know how to drive there.  But there are hundreds of trees to check out.  Pink ones, white ones, drooping ones, perky ones, and a few rare kinds which the Washington Post pointed out but for the life of me I couldn’t find.

Below are a few more pictures.  Here are their descriptions:

1. Standing in front of the Jefferson Memorial, looking across the Tidal Basin at the Washington Monument.  You can see the contrast in color between the regular trees and the cherry blossoms.  And people don’t realize how tiring it can be pedaling into the middle of the basin, and then having to get back.

2. I found some white blossoms and pink blossoms overlapping, with the sun lighting them from behind.  Do you think it worked?  I’m not so sure.

3. The arm part of "The Awakening," a statue at Hains Point.  It’s pretty cool.  And that "X" in the clouds - no clue how that popped up.  Maybe some contrails.  It’s cool.

4. A couple taking in the scenery.  The dog (which you can see kind of on the left side) moved just before I took this picture.  Foolish dog. 

5. Damn, that Monument photographs well.  Nice blue sky too.

6. There was some kind of anti-circumcision protest going on on the Capitol lawn Tuesday.  I really don’t know what it’s all about, because circumcision is generally decided upon before a young boy knows about his wang.  The protest did catch the attention of a field trip full of 10th graders.  I overheard one teacher say, "This will be the only thing they remember from the trip."  And it’s true.

Title is from the song "Daydreamin’" by Lupe Fiasco and Jill Scott.

Saturday, March 31 - 10:30am - C&O Canal Lock 1, NW Washington DC

My grandmother passed away last week.  She was my dad’s mom.  I have never been as close to that side of the family as I am to my mom’s side.  But while going for an outdoor adventure downtown Saturday, I snapped this picture where the C&O Canal meets Rock Creek.  Grandma & Granddad Muttart loved the C&O Canal.  They thought it was neat, a great piece of American history, and a well-preserved piece of nostalgia.  I didn’t realize that until I was older, and realized people dug a 185 mile canal to connect the Potomac River to the Ohio River (the canal only made it part of the way - going to Cumberland, MD instead of Pittsburgh, PA).  The Grandparents Muttart got to see most of the canal, most of which is now a park parallel to the Potomac River through Maryland and DC.  I guess when you get to a certain age, it’s just fun to check out stuff like that.  What else do you have to do?

If I were the artistic type and artsy type, I would tell you I took this picture at the end of the Canal because while the canal ends, the water keeps going - from the locks down into Rock Creek, which goes into the Potomac, which goes into the Chesapeake, which goes into the Atlantic.  The symbolism is nice - while a life may end, it keeps going on to the next stage.  A life could be taken through the canal, but now it’s just part of the water, going on to the next stage.  But I didn’t really intend to do that - I just thought it up while in the car the next day.  I’ll best remember Grandma Muttart’s devious smile - it’s like she knew she shouldn’t smile, but couldn’t help it, so it was doubly good.  Plus her name, Marita.  It means "little sea."  Always thought that was pretty.

Saturday, March 17 - 9:15pm - Perth Amboy, New Jersey

To the left there is my annual view from one of the few and favorite traditions my family has.  For the past 25 years or so (I actually think it’s more), my grandmother has hosted a St. Patrick’s Day party.  It’s on the Saturday closest to the holiday, and on this year, it actually fell on the 17th.  The tradition is pretty simple.  Everyone shows up.  Wearing green is a must (although white with some sort of Irish saying is acceptable).  My grandmother serves huge helpings of awesomely awesome corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage.  My Aunt Karen makes a green concoction she calls an Irish Kiss, which is a punch that is quite delicious.  Around 8:30pm, everyone grabs a set, the green books you see above are handed out, and the music begins.  My grandmother leads everyone in about 90 minutes of singing.  The songbook has been relatively unchanged for about a decade.  No one is allowed to not sing.  Enthusiasm is rewarded.  And it’s a great time.  After 25 years or so, and having only missed two or three years, I’m starting to learn the songs.  It’s odd: I’ll be somewhere in the middle of October and randomly starting humming to myself, "Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murhphy’s Chowder?"  It’s a lot of fun.  Newcomers are always welcomed.  So long as you wear green and you’re willing to sing, you’re welcomed.  I’ve brought a few friends over the years, and despite some initial trepidation, they eventually get into the spirit.  Sure, having a few glasses of the Irish Kiss always helps.  But it’s a lot of fun.  It’s cheesy.  But it’s a lot of fun.

There’s even a certain setup with the seating arrangements.  My grandparents have a big open living/dining room setup in their house.  My grandmother always sits in the back corner near the stereo to be commander of the music.  My grandfater sits on the opposite side of the room, ready to make a break for the kitchen to keep the guests happy.  The Italian contingent (my grandparents’ neighbors, who are more family than some actual family) sits in the opposite back corner.  Then there’s the Bleacher crew.  The people who sit on the stairs.  I am proudly a stair member.  Henry (a friend of my grandparents who may or may not be related to us in some weird way) always sits at the top, because he can belt out the songs.  The rest of the young people usually sit on the stairs.  It can keep you out of eye and ear shot of my grandmother, but I like it because it gives a great view of everyone singing.   I can watch some of the older people in our family (people who I wouldn’t recognize if they weren’t sitting with corned beef on a plate, a green songbook, and an Irish sweater) enjoy the time.  Like I said, it’s cheesy.  But it’s fun.

The songbooks are even a point of contention.  Apparently, back in the day they were thicker than they are now.  As vinyl gave way to cassettes, it ended up getting trimmed down.  It’s down to 16 pages, with an intermission in the middle ("Time to take a wee and wet your whistle!").  The originals were typed by my grandmother.  The new versions are made on computer, with amusing little pieces of clip art and stickers, all on green copy paper.  This year, my grandmother remade the books.  That was apparently a point of consternation for some people.  They were upset their favorite song would be gone (mine is "If Your Irish, Come Into the Parlor" and always leads off the festivities — no, "Oh Danny Boy" is not my favorite as it’s incredibly sad).  But they’re all there, my grandmother asserts.

Speaking of songs, Irish songs can be broken down into a few categories.  We’re Going to America.  We’ve Gone to America, and We Miss Ireland.  We’ve Gone to America, and We’re Returning to Ireland.  Someone’s Dead.  Someone’s Gone to War.  Someone’s Gone to War and Died.  That’s pretty much the theme.  God bless the Irish and the 30-something percent of their blood that runs in my veins.

We’re not a family big on tradition.  I mean, we do the same stuff year after year.  But it’s not like we do certain things solely for the sake of tradition as a lot of families do.  I don’t know if it’s distance, family drama, family proliferation, or what which keeps us from some things.  We do have some traditions.  Meatball soup at Thanksgiving.  Atlantic City trip the day after Thanksgiving.  This chicken dish my mom makes every Christmas Eve (or sometimes Christmas if certain sons have to work at the news factory out of town on Christmas Eve).  But St. Patrick’s Day is my favorite.  I will gladly give up going out and getting sloppy with friends on March 17th to sit on my grandmother’s stairs and belt out "It’s a Long Way to Tipperary."  As I get older, I realize that as my grandparents make it into their 70s, this family tradition won’t last forever.  I hope some day when that happens, I will be in a position to take over this tradition.  I’m sure one of my aunts will be happy to help.  But I would want it on my own.  Of course, me not living in New Jersey like most of the family will hurt.  But it’s a family tradition I hold dear.  It’s one I want to keep going.  And it might need a little tweak or two, and frankly the average age of party-goers could be brought down a decade or four.  But I want the tradition to go on.  I want my little cousins to enjoy it while my grandmother is still the host, but them to enjoy it with their children as well.  It’s far too much fun.  Take your green beer at crowded bars on the 17th.  I’ll take the flat soda, killer corned beef, and bad singing of my family every year.

Title is from the Irish folk song, "If You’re Irish, Come Into the Parlor" done here by The Shamrock Singers.

Sunday, February 25 - 11:40am - Arlington, Virginia

I heart snow.  I mean, I freaking heart snow like no one’s business.  Snow is awesome.  It can take an otherwise crappy, cold, gray winter’s day and make it magical.  Little flakes add up to make a dusting, and then they make a covering, and they make a beautiful mess.  Everyone should get snow days.  Everyone should be told, when it snows, stop whatever responsibilities you have and just go outside.  Enjoy it.  It’s nature at it’s finest.  Of course, here in Washington, we mess it up simply by being scared of it.  Schools are already canceling, I’m sure.  But it’s freaking gorgeous outside.

I woke up this morning to the sound of sleet pounding on my window.  It’s like the sound of rain, just not pleasant in the least.  Sleet is nature’s big winter middle finger.  There’s nothing good about sleet.  It’s not rain, it’s not snow.  It just bites.  I went off to the grocery store after brushing my car of the 1/2 inch of sleet and getting soaked in the process.  The drive was fine, and the mayhem was subdued at the Cherrywood Safeway.  I suppose all the "Bread! Milk! Toilet Paper!" people had already raided the store.  The beer aisle was fine.  Twenty minutes later, I’m leaving the store and it’s a winter wonderland.  There are humongous flakes falling, everything is now coated in snow instead of sleet, and it’s just gorgeous.  I drove home, doing a little skidding along North Quincy (no one was around, so it was kind of fun - remember kids: steer into the skid while letting up on the gas!).  I threw the groceries in the house, and went for a walk.  It was like something compelled me to go outside.  I needed to be outside.  I had to take a look at the snow.  We haven’t really had much snow in the DC area this winter, and our big storm left three inches of ice and sleet compacted.  You couldn’t shovel it, you couldn’t get around it, it was in the 20s for a week, and it just sucked.  So I had to get out and see the beauty.  I walked around Quincy Park, taking random pictures of things which struck my fancy.  I love snow because it makes every sound muted.  The world is quiet.  It’s white.  It looks reborn.  I know tomorrow, everything will be gray and slushy and annoying.  But right now, the world looks awesome.

Below are three attemps at being artsy.  I tried to take a shot of my footsteps in the snow.  I suppose I should have dug in a little deeper, so as to show the grass.  Oh well.  The second picture is of the W-L baseball field dugout.  I thought it looked neat in the snow.  Baseball, a sign of spring, against the backdrop of winter.  Saturday afternoon, I saw some high schoolers starting practice for the upcoming baseball season. I thought, "What a great sign of spring."  The snow has put that idea on the back burner, at least for a few days.  The last picture is yet another quasi self shot, a portrait of the photographer as a cold man.

Title is a line from the song "Amid the Falling Snow" by Enya.  Yes, I know that’s a lame choice.  I liked the lyric.  Do you know how hard it is to find a non-Christmas related snow song?  That new one by the Chili Peppers isn’t all that good, so don’t give me any of that crap.

Saturday, February 3, 2007 - 5:20pm - Middletown, Virginia

The picture hanging out over there is from Northbound Interstate 81, just before it’s junction with Interstate 66.  Saturday afternoon, I hopped in the car for a random drive.  I live along I-66 in Arlington County, just a few miles of its eastern end in the District of Columbia.  I see this end all the time on my way home from work (when I’m in a semi-scenic route mood), so Saturday I decided to check out the western side.

Where I live, I-66 is a modern urban interstate.  It’s two lanes in each direction, buried between sound walls, Metro’s Orange Line running along the middle, and surrounded by houses and office parks and the like.  Once you get about 30 miles west of where I live, past the last junction with US 29 near Nissan Pavilion, the road changes quickly.  It suddenly becomes a bit more rural.  The exits get a little more spread out.  You can start seeing the piedmont of the Blue Ridge Mountains, signs for Luray Caverns and Skyline Drive, and some random towns you only hear about every now and then in DC, and they may as well be on the other side of the world.  It amazes me that people will commute from this far, solely so they can get a big yard and what they deem decent schools and out of the lights and buzz of a city.  It also amazes me that 30 miles to the west, and you’re in a different world.  You’ve left behind the outer DC suburbs, and you’ve entered the transition area to Appalachia.  There’s still a rustic feel, there are still farms, you can see plenty of trees (even with the lackluster scenery on a cold February day).  It also amazes me that when I lived in St. Louis, this kind of out-of-the-city scenery could be had in just 10 miles or 15 miles.  In Boston, it seemed like it never happened, even if you traveled into New Hampshire.  And, when I was growing up, you didn’t have to go 30 miles - just about 5 or 10.  Ah, such is life in the sprawling world of our nation’s capital.

I brought some CDs with me for the drive, and "Fast Car" was on one of them.  Not Tracy Chapman’s version, but one by Canadian singer David Usher.  It’s not a bad cover.  And the subject line comes from the song.  Ever since I got a license, I would always go out for random drives.  I know, I’m helping global warming and aiding terrorism by buying extra gas and running my car further into the ground and all that.  But it was always a place and way to clear my head, be it from serious things to the usual high school/college/young adult life bullshit.  Even if I couldn’t clear my head, I could organize my thoughts so at least whatever issues the day brought were a little neater inside my brain.  Sometimes, those issues could be sorted out in a 45 minute drive around Montgomery County.  Sometimes, I would want to circle the entire Beltway to get things going.  One time, I drove all the way to Norfolk.  The drive back was a long one.

Sometimes, it would seem like a drive was a way of escaping.  My first few months in St. Louis, when I hated everything, I would often drive west along Interstate 70, in what I guess was a hidden agenda of escaping St. Louis.  At a certain point, I would have to turn back around.  The drive back could be rough, because I was just heading back to whatever I was trying to avoid.  As the distance signs kept counting down back to St. Louis, I could feel whatever issue was bothering me with my new Midwestern life was coming back.  After a while, I learned to like St. Louis and these drives weren’t about avoiding things. 

Saturday’s drive was all about that.  There are some issues going on, and I’m not going to get into them all because they’re not my issues, per se, and I’m not all about spewing my personal life here.  Chances are, if you read this, you know what’s going on.  Saturday, I just wanted to drive in a direction which was away from issues.  After 70 miles, counting down the mile markers on I-66 until we hit zero (on the on-ramp from westbound 66 to southbound 81), and I don’t think the issues really went away.  I just decided I really didn’t want to drive to Roanoke.  I took the scenic way back, coming along US 50 to Middleburg, then north on US 15 to the Dulles Greenway.  The issues are still all around.  But I feel like I got a little bit of reorganizing done in my head, and I might be better able to tackle the issues.  It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not, because the issues will come to a head when they do.  I just know I need to be in the right place when other people come to need me - similar to an athlete preparing for the big game.  I might need another drive from time to time, but I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

This week, keep your mom in your mind.  She’s an important lady, whether you live down the street from her, or a cross-country flight away, or if she’s no longer with us.  It’s a tough week for moms.  My mom is having back surgery Wednesday, and she’s barely in the Top 3 on the Mom-Related-Issue list out there.  So keep your mom in mind, and maybe keep someone else’s too.  She might need your help.

For further reading on the interstate highway system, I highly recommend Divided Highways by Tom Lewis.  It is probably the best book about the history, positives, and negatives behind this modern marvel.  For inspiration on tackling issues, I would recommend "Bring On the Rain" by Jo Dee Messina.  For a random picture of late-January’s snow/ice mess in DC, look to the right.  That was January 21, along North Quincy Street in Arlington, Virginia.

Title is a line from the song "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman.  David Usher’s version isn’t too shabby either.

Saturday, January 6, 2007 - around 2:00pm - Washington, DC

Yay global warming!  That’s what I have to say today.  And I’m sure it’s what plenty of people in the Northeast are thinking, since it’s an obscenely gorgeous day outside, let alone the fact that it’s January 6.  The forecast high today for fair Arlington, Virginia?  71°.  Those are Fahrenheits, baby.  I sucked up the ongoing flu/chest cold/pneumonia/bubonic plague, got hopped up on Dayquil, and went for a bike ride down to the airport and back.  On January 6.  Did I mention the weather was nice outside?  Mad ups to the Little Girl of my life, my sister, who bought me one of those wicking shirts for Christmas.  It wicked all right.  I stayed fresh as a fat daisy on a bike.  Now there’s an image.

Now, plenty of people are talking about global warming, especially since we’ve had such an unseasonably warm winter so far here in the Nation’s Capital.  I give plenty of credit to Al Gore for putting the issue front and center in a lot of people’s minds.  I mean, I remember hearing the term 15 years ago.  But no one really cared because the economy went well, gas was cheap, and it still snowed plenty.  But this date’s record high (for Washington) is 72° and that was set back in 1950 (or something - I’ve been thrown asunder since Bob Ryan stopped publishing his weather almanac).  And I doubt the high set back then was caused by global warming.  Freaky weather things happen.  There was the Year Without Summer I and II.  Always gotta get a sequel in.  There have been winters, and I’m remembering my high school days, when we got slammed with at least one-foot plus snowfall once a winter.  For those of you not familiar with DC snowfall, 2 inches shuts down the place.  A foot leads to raping and pillaging.  A lot of people have fond memories of snowy times as a child, white Christmases, and the like.  But you know what: you probably remember those because they stand out.  You surely don’t remember that Christmas when it was 42° and partly cloudy, do you?  No, you remember the one where it started snowing to beat the band when you drove home from Baltimore and you watched people spinning out on that hill on Bel Pre Road.

As a Eco Crunchy Granola Green coworker of mine says, and I oddly agree with her, is when we have ten winters like this.  Then it’s time to worry.  Of course, by then, it may be too late to really do anything.  For now, I’ll just keep driving my car which gets decent gas mileage, hope for big snowstorms, and enjoy randomly sunny warm days in early January.  Because it’s going to be in the 40s by next week.

Below, two bonus pictures.

#1) The Washington Monument, seen in puddle reflection form.  It’s okay.  I can do better.

#2) The Signers of the Declaration of Independence Memorial.  It’s tucked away on the National Mall in the Constitution Gardens, and if I’m not mistaken, the company my mom works for provided the stones.  Each stone has a signer’s signature.  Pretty neat, especially as it’s tucked away.

Title is from the song "A Hazy Shade of Winter," originally by Simon & Garfunkel, but made 80slicious by The Bangles.

Friday, December 8 - Capitol Hill, Washington DC - About 2:00pm

This is really just a post to put up some pictures I took Friday.  Since I’m wigging out over what to buy people for Christmas and have done nothing to help that situation, I went to the Library of Congress.  It had a rare Da Vinci sketch which had never travelled outside of Italy, and was there for two days.  It was freezing, but I figured when was the chance I’d ever see this thing again.  It was pretty neat.  But neater was the Library of Congress.  I had never been there, and the inside of the main (Jefferson) building is impressive.  Frescoes on the ceiling, intricate tile patters repeated throughout the building, and lots of neat stuff.  If you’re ever wandering around Washington, after you’ve come to buy me a beer, it’s worth checking out.  And, like all things in DC, it’s free.

Working from the top down:

1. The main atrium/lobby in the Library of Congress.  Just behind here is the famous reading room, which you’ve no doubt seen somewhere besides here.  The architechture here is gorgeous, and it was fun watching workers but up the Library’s Christmas tree.

2. This is the ceiling of the main atrium/lobby.  I really like the pattern in the stained glass.  However, it’s clear the roof could use a little cleaning.

3. A (cropped) photo of an ornament on the U.S. Capitol Christmas Tree.  Bonus points if you catch the two things in the reflection.  If I had a better camera, this would have turned out better.

Title is from the song "Photograph" by Def Leppard, although Malibu Storm’s newgrass version(*cough*Nickel Creek ripoff*cough*) isn’t without its charms

Friday, December 1, 2006 - 11:45pm - Terminal 1, Concourse B, O’Hare International Airport, Chicago, Illinois

I love airports.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Where else can you get such a wide range of human emotions all in one place?  You have people happy they’re going somewhere.  People sad they’re leaving somewhere.  People concerned about who they’re visiting or who they’re leaving.  Families, couples, singles, old, young, black, white, businesswomen, old frat boys on a golf trip, funeral goers, wedding crashers, and much more.  Rarely will you ever see someone who is truly bored at the airport.  Even people who are just sitting, staring out the window are psyching themselves up to get into a giant metal tube with wings, under the command of a person they don’t know, and willingly let this stranger defy numerous laws of physics while hurtling something the size of three houses six miles over land at 500 miles an hour.  Really, airports are fun and exciting and like a little city all by themselves.

Unless you’re stuck at O’Hare Airport at 11:45pm on a Friday night.  I was lucky enough to get out of DC Friday, despite the winter storms in the Midwest and the coming high-speed winds to DC.  I didn’t mind the 2 1/2 hour layover, because it gave me time to grab a beer, some dinner, and watch the first half of Wedding Crashers (yes, I am the last white male in his 20s to see this movie - thank you, Netflix!).  I was on my way to Bloomington, Illinois - most of the way to visit JonFarr at the U of I.  We all piled on to flight 7309, running on time, and 8:30-ish departure for a 25 minute flight.  I chatted with a woman who was on her way back from Tokyo.  I started the Hemispheres crossword.  The pilot came on, very sorry, but he thought if we tried to land in Bloomington, we would likely crash off the end of the runway and die.  I’m no pilot, but when a pilot openly says this to his passengers, I’m going to side with him.

JonFarr was nice enough to offer to come pick me up, but it’s apparently 3 1/2 hours from Shampooed Banana to O’Hare, so that meant plenty of waiting.  I had another beer, spent plenty of time on the phone, watched the last half of "Wedding Crashers," but that still left tons of time.  And that’s where airports get interesting.  Everyone leaving for the night were leaving.  No one was left to show up, at least not in the hot spot that is Concourse B after dark.  I started doing laps up and down the terminal.  In all fairness, I started pacing long before the place died down.  I was still on the phone, going from B-4 to B-16 and back.  I’d say it’s a good 1/4 mile from end to end.  I did this for about six laps.  Good times, especially with the backpack* and wheely bag. 

*ASIDE: When I travel, I’m like an inconsolable six year old.  I bring far too many sources of entertainment with me.  I had a DVD player with six movies, four mix cds which are designed specifically for travel, a mini mp3 player, and a book.  That’s not to mention a phone to make others entertain me.  If I hadn’t stopped carrying my journal every time I traveled, I probably would be getting fitted for a metal rod spine.  I’m lucky if I remember to bring enough socks, but dammit, Runaway Jury is always with me.  God loves any movie with John Cusack, Rachel Weisz, Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman, and Luis Guzman.

Back to the lecture at hand: I started noticing things on the laps.  For starters, I wasn’t the only one doing them.  Like old people who mall walk, I started smiling and nodding at the folks I kept passing.  I started noticing changes in tile patterns on the floor.  The dinosaur near the Terminal One security checkpoint became the halfway marker (I wish I took the rockin’ picture to the left, but it’s from flickr user "Found Photographer").  I wondered who really bought that much booze at the Duty Free kiosk, and if it’s really that good of a deal, and why the hell is Russian booze sold at Chicago’s airport.  What I really noticed were the people who were clearly settling in for a long winter’s nap.  These are people who probably were on the 9:15am to Birmingham, and they surely weren’t getting out until Saturday morning.  They may be the only ones who look bored at the airport.  They aren’t going anywhere.  They know it.  The only thing on their minds is getting something close to a full night’s sleep, not having anything stolen, not going into back spasms over the ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, and remembering why the hell they’re at B-9 listening to repeats of CNN Airport at 3:12am.  I felt a personal victory.  I was escaping.  My ride was coming…eventually.

Somewhere along lap five, I stopped after hanging up the phone with Steve K, and I was at the high end of the B Concourse.  That’s when I saw the picture above.  The repetition of the tile, the overhead beams, the lights, the blue signs, and the endless abyss which a long, straight airport building with repeated colors becomes when there is no one moving inside of it.  The excitement is gone.  The life of an airport is gone.  All that’s left is an amazingly functional building made to look as good as an amazingly functional building can, the hum of electricity, and the sounds of maybe 50 people in a building which had thousands just two hours ago.  It was eerie and calming, all at the same time.  And since I remembered by 9th grade photography class lessons about repetition and lines and horizons, I took this picture.  This was actually the third one, the other two people horribly horrible.  I actually did this one without a flash, letting the camera just sit on the ground.  It would have looked better with a little altitude, but it was the best I could do on short notice.  I kinda like it.

Two days and a fun weekend later, I found myself at the Central Illinois Regional Airport in Bloomington, Illinois.  The life was back in this airport, whose entire facility is smaller than the B Concourse at O’Hare.  There were bunches of people, all aflutter over going somewhere.  The Springfield family on its way to Disney World.  The Urbana businessman on his way to Mass General Hospital for some kind of consulting thing.  And the East Coast young man who found the "Honor System Coffee" pictured here very amusing.  The coffee wasn’t too bad, and yes, I put my dollar in the little box.  Everyone did.  There was a sign on the counter which said, "Smile!  The camera is watching you!  Please pour your coffee before putting money in the box."  I looked around, but never saw the camera.  I don’t think there really is one.  I love the Midwest.

Title is from the song "Sweet Home Chicago," made famous by the Blues Brothers, but made best by Magic Sam.

Saturday, November 11, 2006 - 3:15pm - Arlington, Virginia

Took this picture today at Gravelly Point, site of the famous Duck Bike Path picture.  I’ll write more about this later, as I’m running late for a previous engagement.  The picture and the song make me think of someone I wish I were visiting; someone I’ve thought about a lot lately.  I don’t know when I’ll be back again, but I know it will be soon and I am willing to wait until then.

Bonus points if you can name the airline and type of plane featured in this picture.  I’m looking at you, Jon Farr.

Title is from the song "Leaving, On a Jet Plane," originally an amazingly forlorn job by John Denver, but I prefer Chantal Kreviazuk’s more-haunting hippie-chick version.

Classic Photo - November, 2002 - Forest Park, St. Louis, Missouri

Driving and walking around town, I enjoy the fall colors.  I know people in New England think they have the market cornered on the beautiful leaves, but it’s not too bad in most of the country.  I remember reading once the reason Vermont has some of the most beautiful foliage in the nation is because most of its trees were cut down in the 17th and 18th centuries, then later replanted, and that helped fuel the colors.  I’m not quire sure how much truth is behind that, but it sure sounds good, doesn’t it?

The picture above is from the fall of 2002.  It’s from somewhere in Forest Park, St. Louis.  I had a weekday off when I worked a weekend schedule, and was meeting some new-friend/co-workers for dinner downtown before a Blues game.  I decided to walk through the park and get a nice glimpse of this big park in the new place I lived.  It was nice, with all the leaves this amazing orange color thanks to the sun and a warm fall.  I think every picture I took that day turned out amazingly, but this one is my favorite.  Something told me to take a picture of the pond in front of some glowing orange trees.  The water was rippling from ducks or fish or thermonuclear tests nearby, and it just made a really nice reflection of the leaves.  So what you’re seeing is a real photo (not touched at all - we don’t do that here…well, except for some minor cropping, but I own PhotoShop 0.1, and the free version at that) of a pond’s reflection of leaves.  It just turned out really well, in my opinion.  I think once a year I get a photo to work like that.  (See the Alki Beach shot below)

Fall starts an interesting time psychologically in the world.  Everything is dying, but it’s dying spectacularly as the leaves turn these amazing colors, making you notice them after they’d become green and become part of the background.  After the leaves fall, we carve up some gourds and throw them on the doorstep and invite beggar children to grow fat off our freebies (aka Halloween). Then, we all gather in each other’s homes for Thanksgiving and comfort food.  When that’s done, we string up electric lights around our house for Christmas, bring a big dead tree into our homes, throw more lights on that (you know Pepco just loves it), and wrap up some boxes.  Trust me - this is my favorite time of the year.  Then to say au revoir to the year, we drink champagne, make some noise, kiss someone, and drink more champagne.

The problem is January 2.  The Christmas lights are down, the Christmas tree is gone, the wrapping paper has left.  Suddenly, you look around.  The leaves are fallen and gone.  The grass is dead or barely hanging on.  It’s cold and gray, and sometimes snowy.  It’s dark early, dark late, and it’s simply quiet.  No wonder early January sucks, especially since all you have to look forward to now is St. Patrick’s Day.  Blech.  Look in this spot in early January for what I do to combat all that stuff.

Here’s a wider shot of the ripply leaves.  This is a different picture, not the one above just cropped differently.

Title is from the song "Moondance" by Van Morrison.