Ferndale Nocturne

Ferndale Nocturne, by Taurus Burns. Posted with artist's permission.

Tonight I had coffee with a couple guys, one of whom is a local artist, Taurus Burns. Considering how we're acquainted, it's a bit unusual that I know his profession at all, let alone that I've seen his work. While we were talking, I admitted I'd web stalked him and seen the work he's posted online, and mentioned a couple pieces in particular that struck me.

Both are part of a larger series of Detroit landscapes, one of which is entitled Ferndale Nocturne. The painting is of a corner house in a residential neighborhood behind a tree. The scene is dark and lit from an extreme angle, as if from a streetlamp or a setting sun behind the viewer, so some features are given extreme emphasis, the leaves on the tree for example, while some are subdued beyond normal light/dark conditions.

The painting was different in my memory when I was discussing it with him than the actual image, which I looked up again before sitting down to write this post, but the reasons it struck me so well are more or less the same either way. The way I remembered it, there weren't lights and darks as much as whites and blacks. Rather than struggling to understand the what and where of the light source, I remember having a hard time figuring out the actual scene being lit, aside from the bold colors of the tree.

I blabbed through a meek description of the painting, which of course he recognized, and probably said something pretty weak in the way of telling why it struck me, but running through the conversation in my head while driving home, the real reasons came out pretty easily. The experience of refining those thoughts was surprisingly overwhelming.

What I'd like to have said, and maybe what would have done him more good to hear, is something more along the lines of how the subject of the painting emphasizes the difference between what's hidden and what's apparent, and what separates the two. It would have been especially relevant to our conversation immediately before and after my meager compliment, too, but I'm a lousy conversationalist. Even though the contrast between the hidden and apparent isn't nearly as extreme in reality as I'd remembered, it's still true that the metaphoric light and shadows hit me hard, on both the first and most recent views of the painting. As a viewer, I see three major components to this work: the light source, what's lit, and what isn't lit, each with their own personal metaphorical meaning.

The light source is a mystery. It's difficult to tell if this is a night scene lit by a street lamp, or if the light source is natural and the setting is dawn or dusk. Also, the source of the light isn't apparent to the viewer; it's outside the scene, which may mean the artist either didn't think it was important enough to include, or he meant that each viewer should interpret it differently. (It could also mean he thought it should be obvious, but if that's the case I'm a woefully unskilled viewer of art, which I refuse, for the moment, to consider.) The only clues about the light source are the angle at which the shadows are cast, and the colors of the leaves on the tree, which may be a reflection of a bright orange or yellow light, but could also indicate the season; that is another mystery. Whatever the case, the light source creates a vivid contrast between the other two features I mentioned, and what's more, is very representative of those aspects of my life that force some parts of who I am to remain in the shadows, while at the same time throwing a bright light on the other parts. As Shakespeare's Hamlet said, "I am too much in the sun."

The second major feature of this painting, in my opinion, is the part of the scene that's lit up. In the painting, the street curbs and a large deciduous tree are fully illuminated, as are the autumn-colored leaves. Most of the house itself is obscured. Without drawing too many parallels between the actual painted objects and my own personal meaning, I can still say for sure this is definitely representative of all those things in my life that people choose to see, mainly because those are the things I throw into the forefront of their perception. The things I choose to have lit are almost exclusively distractions from the main object: my actual State of Existence. My entire life, I've thrown up perceptual road blocks to prevent people from seeing facets of who I really am: my father's alcoholism, my family's dysfunction, my depression, my marital troubles, my personal failures, my low self-esteem. All these things are terrible and embarrassing to me, despite how common they may be in others' lives, and I have chosen, almost every day of my adult existence, to hide them behind something (anything) that may look more favorable to others in the hope of obscuring my real self.

Finally, there are the objects which are hidden in the shadows cast by the light and tree. As with the lit objects, the darkened portion also speaks to me of the aspects of my self I tend to keep hidden. To lend further meaning, the darkened house is the largest object in the painting, making up the majority of the background space. It is arguably the most important single object. As a viewer, I see the house as being representative of my real self, that which is kept behind more prominent (socially acceptable) objects (perceptions). A house as a metaphor for human being is by no means a new concept, but I think in this context its use is novel and delightfully done, despite the dark meaning I've assigned it through my own personal interpretation of the work. In the painting, all but a small portion of the lower level of the house is obscured by varying layers of darkness, which, again, speaks perfectly to the metaphorical comparison of that image and its personal meaning for me.

This painting is beautiful in many ways. On the larger level, it's a well-created and accurate reproduction of the scene itself. The perspective would be difficult for anyone but a professional to capture, and the light and shadows seem to fall as naturally as if in a photograph. The colors are wonderful, from tans in the tree and branches, the reds of the house and brick chimney, the leaves, and finally the brilliant azure of the sky. Going deeper, Ferndale Nocturne is a great example of solid talent. Despite my layman's ignorance of any true art appreciation or history education, I'm proud to call this artist part of my regional talent, and I hope to see him succeed not just because I know him, but because I think he does great work. One of the things I said to him during our coffee night is that art is a form of language, and this particular painting was created using expressions I find very familiar and appealing. For this, I have to thank him, and truthfully every artist that has communicated with in me this way. My life is made richer, and my emotions more clear, when I'm exposed to such expression. I know in this I am not alone.

Bibliophilia

Closing the book, I wipe away tears. My new acquaintance, Markus Zusak, has again brought me to such a state of reflectance. Such beauty in my hands, such tragedy. Such truth.

But I am alone in this houseful of people. There are none else who share this love. Not here.

T.S. Elliot and Emily Dickenson sit beside me, offering such treasures that no one else seems to recognize.

I am both enraged and ashamed. I am dumbstruck.

Poe sits above me and tempts my imagination, but I am the only one with enough patience to enjoy such a fine and delicious treat.

Milosz makes frames for my emotions. Dahl sits down to share an evil laugh. Hawthorne engages me in the finest depths of guilt. Buck reminds me what is just and good. Both Lewis and Carrol will walk with me along their separate paths. Homer and Virgil and Melville too, though most nights are usually too short to enjoy their company. Bradbury, Flaubert, Silverstein...when will there be enough time?

Figures crowd the room around my shelves, and only I can see. They smile silently at me, each knowing too well that part of my soul they alone have touched and spoken to. I carry them always with and within me, for the lessons and tools they have given have made me strong and rich.

Oh, how I am loathe to let those others be content without these gifts. But their time will come. They will find their way.

Or they will never truly know me.

Cloud

Looking out at the horizon this morning, while sitting at the intersection waiting for the red to turn green, I saw a wall of clouds squeezed between the tops of the cars and buildings and a vast expanse of sky. I imagined I could drive five or so miles down the road to reach a railing, at which I could stand and look down a deep dropoff, seeing the lower altitude towns below, and see straight into the rest of that wall of cloud as it extended below me, and still marvel at the top contours and curves at eye level.

Fountain Building 101

Here is where I started. I looked over the plan and thought, "sure, I can probably do all that stuff." It was mostly easy, though very labor and time intensive. Here's a little record of how it went with my 20/20 hindsight included, just in case you decide to build one, too.

I bought two extra bags... just in case

Step 1: Go shopping. The list on the source web site is pretty comprehensive:

Necessary tools:

• cordless drill
• tape measure
• circular saw
• bucket (I assume this is needed for mixing the concrete. Also may be useful for sitting on.)
• safety stuff (dust mask, glasses, hearing protection, etc.)
• straight edge, at least 4' long
• pliers and wire cutters
• sawhorses/work surface that will fit a 4x8 sheet of foam
• utility knife, box cutter, etc. to open paper bags
• tapered trowel to pick up and smooth the concrete as you pour it
• scrap 2x4 on which to form the hardware cloth
• hammer/tools with which to form the hardware cloth over the scrap 2x4
• some way of mixing the concrete. I bought a large tub and used a garden tool to mix it. A real mixer will save your shoulders the weekend you choose to pour your fountain.
• a cup to measure each quart of water required for the concrete, and
• a container to hold all the water once measured (5 quarts per bag)
• flat, sturdy scraping tool (such as a multipurpose paint tool)

Required materials:

• one 4x8-ft sheet of 2" extruded polystyrene foam insulation
• four 80-lb bags of concrete mix (or five 60-lb bags)
• four 10-oz bottles of Quickrete Cement Color or equivalent (one bottle per bag, I chose the "buff" color and mine is the same color as that in the source site photos)
• 2-ft of 1/2" PVC pipe... or less. You only need enough to come through the top piece and attach your hose. See the section on assembly to read specific challenges with this.
• 2-ft of 10-gauge coated copper wire... or not. I couldn't find 10-gauge (used 12-gauge instead), and its use in this project is difficult to manage and of questionable necessity. Again, see section on assembly.
• 3" screws (I used coarse thread drywall screws)
• duct tape
• 20 minute setting-type joint compound (1 bag). I found nothing like this. I ended up using quick setting 'repair' concrete, and used most of a 55-lb bag.
• flower pot or bucket, at least 10" in diameter and 12" deep (a five gallon pail works great)
• 3" ABS toilet flange?
• hot glue/caulk?
• 9" or 10" play ball
• something with a 3" diameter to place on the ball to form a 'collar' at the bottom of the top piece. The source site wants you to use the empty duct tape roll, but I hadn't used it all yet. As it turns out, we had Bush's baked beans with dinner that night, and the can was exactly what I needed.
• 1x3 lumber, and screws to hold them together, to reinforce foam forms
• 1/2" galvanized hardware cloth
• river rocks/stones
  and, last but not least, 
• A PUMP. In my opinion, it's preferable to buy this before you begin. I bought a 425 gph and it's perfect, but I had to guess at which pump to get. I find it odd that nowhere on the source site does a pump appear as a required item.
• hose. Go to any big box store and there will be this black plastic tubing in the fountain/pond section. Don't buy this. It isn't flexible enough and it's overpriced. I got 1/2" clear tubing from the plumbing section. It was cheaper and I could buy as many feet as I wanted, not the whole roll of 15 feet or whatever. Thinking about it, I should have got the fiber-reinforced tubing used for faucet supply lines, as it won't kink or bend easily. I also bought...
• PVC fittings to make sure your hose will go on the end of your 1/2" PVC pipe. In my case, I bought a threaded adapter and a brass fitting that was threaded on one end and had a hose barb on the other.

Step 2: Cut and build the forms

My super awesome cutting diagram

Cutting the forms was the easy part. Get your sharpies or dry erase markers and just take your time. I divided the foam up into large basic sections first (in red on the drawing), and then each of those was cut into individual pieces. I worried about my blade ruining the foam, or vice versa, but shouldn't have. Just have your shop vac handy for cleaning up all that pink powder. If you don't care to make your own cutting diagram, feel free to download mine (click the pic).

The only alteration I'd make to this cutting diagram is to ensure part B (that 4" square that creates an opening at the bottom of your column) is tall enough to fit your pump. If it isn't, make it fit, changing the vertical dimension (leave it 4" wide).

Once the pieces are cut out, it's a simple matter to assemble them all with (as described on the source site) 3" screws and duct tape. There are, however, some special precautions I should have taken along the way:

1. Reinforce! goldengolfball, who left the comment on the source site, is right: you can use a mile of duct tape on this, and if you don't reinforce it somehow it will bulge. It's about 1½ bags each for the column and the base; each bag weighs 80 pounds and needs 5 quarts of water (almost 10½ pounds). This is why I put the 1x3's on my materials list (though I didn't take goldengolfballs's advice and had to make 'adjustments' to my finished product...using a hammer). Specifically, reinforce (a) around the column form, and (b) the bottom of your base form (which ends up being the top of your base). With the column, it didn't matter much because I just got slightly curved lines instead of straight, but with the base, when those part G's start separating from part H, you get a jagged, irregular concrete lip projecting up around the edge of your project.

Also, don't forget to reinforce the bottom of the forms as they sit for filling. Heaven forbid you tilt your filled form to move it and the weight of the concrete rips the bottom away from the side. For only sliding around the garage floor, just duct taping it should work fine.

Finished forms. I later added so much
duct tape to the column form it was
covered in silver. And it still bulged.

2. Level! When building the base form, pay particular attention to the height of your part G's. Make sure the top edges, as the form sits for pouring, are all even and level with each other. My edges weren't all aligned, and so I had to guess about what would be level. After I used my level to try and flatten it, I realized my garage floor is somewhat sloped, and my finished product shows it.

3. Forming the top piece The source site has a brilliant plan for making the spherical top piece, but again goldengolfball points out an issue: you must tamp this. A lot. Mix your form material too wet, as it will fill better and, later, break apart easier. Also, when first placing your play ball into the wet stuff, give it an inch or so beneath it. Mine sat pretty much right on the bottom of the bucket, and before I actually poured the cement, the very thin layer of filler cracked and had to be taken out, leaving a nice gaping hole which, again, had to be fixed with a hammer and a delicate touch. I also had some voids on the inside of my form, but decided to pour concrete anyway and see what happened. Fortunately, when I broke open the form a few days early to 'repair' before it cured too much, those 'fins' that filled in the voids broke off with the form. Something else: I recommend using a copper pipe. I tried spacing the end of my PVC from the bottom of the form and that was nearly a disaster. Copper is the right color, and even when it's oxidized, will probably look better than a thick white ring at the top of your sphere. Finally, think about a way to ensure the end of your pipe is in the exact center of the bottom of your form. Otherwise if the collar part isn't allowed to move a bit, you're stuck with the water shooting up and falling at the angle at which your pipe was sitting when you left it.

4. Those copper wires The specified place for the wires on the inside of the column works out just fine, but when the source site tells you to put them into your part H, notice in the picture that the wires should be placed inside that 4" square. I didn't see that and put mine right on the line, which is where the inside edge of your finished column will sit. Now is a good time to get your chosen pump and make sure it fits between these wires, because if it doesn't fit now, it sure won't when the base is finished.

5. THINK about how you're going to get the form apart. For example, cutting a removable section from the bottom part F while assembling your base form will make it worlds easier to get both F's out.

Step 3: Mix and Pour

Finished pieces, *finally* out of the forms

This part was easy to figure out, but took most of an afternoon to do, and made me sore to boot. Mix two bags at a time, if you can. Pre-mix the color with your water before adding it, as this will help ensure the color gets evenly spread around. Also, I'm not a concrete expert, but I'm guessing it's best to just plan on the whole 5 quarts and add it in bulk, as opposed to eyeballing the consistency for each batch and potentially getting mixing differences from the top to the bottom of your fountain parts.

I used a triangular brick trowel to scoop up the concrete and fill my forms. It worked great, and thank God... I can't imagine trying to do that job with anything else. As you fill, TAMP the form, especially at first as you're filling those bottom edges and corners. I used the side of my hammer. I filled my base form first.

Smooth the top surface of your poured concrete any way you know how. The brick trowel is all I had so I made do. If you have a tool to do this job, super. It may or may not matter, depending on what kind of surface your base will sit on. Also, re-check your leveling on the base. NOW is the time to make corrections. Finally, if you think it might be cool to put your kids' hand prints (or a date, or your initials, or anything) in the concrete, do it here and now (/facepalm for not thinking of this myself in time).

When filling the column, I put a trowel-full of concrete down each side, then tamped it. I repeated these steps over and over again until I was a little less than 4" from the top. At this point, I put my part B into place. Remember, this is the piece that leaves the recess at the bottom of the column inside which the pump will sit. If you put this in place while assembling the form, you'll only have access to three open sides when filling, and there's no guarantee the space underneath it will be nice and uniform and pretty. So slide it in just before you're done filling the form, screw it in place, and finish filling. Making the concrete nice and flat at the open end of the column form is a relative no-brainer after you've done the base.

The suggestion to leave the forms intact for a week is a good one. I read one site on curing concrete that said to cover the exposed concrete and form in plastic to prevent evaporation. Although I waited a couple days, I eventually did this and my pieces are pretty solid.


Step 4: De-form and Assemble

The finished product... so far

Removing the forms was probably the single most frustrating process. The source site says "you can reuse the outer form parts to cast several fountains." This is bull, because by the time you've managed to get all the form parts off, most of them are mangled more than a little, and some are broken beyond recognition. The foam inside the column is the worst. Have a flat scraping tool handy, as you'll be forcing this down the concrete surface to break off pieces of your part C's 4-6" at a time to remove this form completely. I later thought the 5-in-1 (or 7-in-1 or 14-in-1) paint tool I forgot I had would probably have been perfect. In any case, however you de-form your fountain pieces, it's a good idea to have a garbage bag/can and the shop vac handy. "Clean as you go" is definitely good advice during this process.

When removing the top spherical piece from its form, I overturned my five gallon pail until the form slipped out, then set it on the driveway and hit the corner with my 5-lb sledge. I was fearful of the inside piece, but after twenty minutes of trying everything else I could think of, this was my last option. After a few well-placed, not-too-hard blows, the form split nice and easy with the sphere perfectly intact.

Once out of the forms, inspect the pieces. Knock off any protrusions you don't want, straighten those green wire loops, etc. Then drag everything to your chosen location. Plan to be able to plug in your pump somewhere nearby.

Level the base at the top so that when it's filled with water, the water's surface is equidistant from the top edge of the base. Lay the column with the bottom end inside the (empty) base and carefully lift in a way that will leave your copper wire loops safely inside the bottom cavity of your column. This may require a friend to either lift or guide the bottom into place. If you're using the copper wire to secure those loops together, cut your wire and get to securing now. You will be scraping your knuckles, so have some bandaids handy. Also, recheck how your pump fits into the cavity after you're done.

Say what??

Putting the top piece into place is tricky business. I have no idea how a 3" toilet flange is supposed to fit into the 8" circular hole part D is intended to make. I'm convinced I either misunderstood the directions or bought the wrong thing, and the source site has absolutely no description on assembling this part. It's something I'm still working out a solution for. Everyone says my fountain looks fine the way it is, et cetera et cetera, but I won't be done until I find a way to support that sphere, seal around the edge, and fill the space with pretty black rocks. For now, it's there, but looks sunken. Maybe I'll update later.

In any case, when placing the top, I recommend instead of leaving your pipe at its original 24" length and cutting hose to reach your pump, that you cut the pipe and make your hose longer. This is because you'll have to hold the sphere in one hand while fishing the pipe/hose down the center of the column, somehow figuring out how to slide it over the hose barb on the pump (another process best suited for having a partner). In my opinion, it'd be easier to place the pump, fish the hose up, then attach it to the pipe, holding the two as close as possible. Any kinks or sharp bends in your hose will render your pump ineffective, so a little more slack might be a good thing.

Final Thoughts
I filled my base with water and plugged in my pump, set the top so the water went straight up, and proceeded to enjoy it as-is. I still intend to figure out that top piece; as it stands, more water falls down the center of the column than goes over the sides, and it makes an echo-ey/drippy sound, as opposed to the Zen/tinkly sound I'm after. I may or may not form my hardware cloth into the cage for the bottom. Most likely is I'll form it and cover it with rocks, and then decide whether or not to leave it there depending on how I like the way it sounds.

Considering the fact that running the pump dry can ruin it, it's not a bad thing to be able to see how much water you have in there. Depending on ambient conditions, I lose as much as an inch per 1-2 hours of running due to splashes and evaporation.

My pump is sitting on its side just outside the 4" square hole it's intended to sit into. That's something else I'll be working on. It's intriguing how the pump itself doesn't need to be in the water at all, seeing as how I can attach a fitting (and therefore a hose) to the inlet and pump out my water for recirculation. Maybe, in the next fountain, I'll put this fact to good use.

Ode to America

This morning I opened my email and found an old article supposedly written following the 9/11 terrorist attacks by Cornel Nistorescu, a Romanian newspaperman. Despite its topic, I was skeptical of its authenticity. After a quick look, it passed the test of believability.

I suppose this a bit is outdated, but I submit that it's never too late to praise the praiseworthy. I also tend to be a bit extreme sometimes in my patriotism, something I will never apologize for. So I'm turning over the "just for me" sign today, and turning this blog into a public forum. Here it is.

* * * * *
Why are Americans so united? They would not resemble one another even if you painted them all one color! They speak all the languages of the world and form an astonishing mixture of civilizations and religious beliefs.

Still, the American tragedy turned three hundred million people into a hand put on the heart. Nobody rushed to accuse the White House, the Army, or the Secret Service that they are only a bunch of losers. Nobody rushed to empty their bank accounts. Nobody rushed out onto the streets nearby to gape about. Instead the Americans volunteered to donate blood and to give a helping hand.

After the first moments of panic, they raised their flag over the smoking ruins, putting on T-shirts, caps and ties in the colors of the national flag. They placed flags on buildings and cars as if in every place and on every car a government official or the president was passing. On every occasion, they started singing:'God Bless America !'

I watched the live broadcast and rerun after rerun for hours listening to the story of the guy who went down one hundred floors with a woman in a wheelchair without knowing who she was, or of the Californian hockey player, who gave his life fighting with the terrorists and prevented the plane from hitting a target that could have killed other hundreds or thousands of people.

How on earth were they able to respond united as one human being? Imperceptibly, with every word and musical note, the memory of some turned into a modern myth of tragic heroes. And with every phone call, millions and millions of dollars were put into a collection aimed at rewarding not a man or a family, but a spirit, which no money can buy.

What on earth can unite the Americans in such a way? Th eir land? Their history? Their economic Power? Money? I tried for hours to find an answer, humming songs and murmuring phrases with the risk of sounding commonplace, I thought things over, I reached but only one conclusion...

Only freedom can work such miracles.

Welcome Back Ira

Since the acquisition of my new vehicle last June, a very bright and sporty 2000 Jeep Cherokee, which is fathoms cooler than my previous vehicle (a drab and efficient 1997 Ford Escort LX), I have been without one key component to my everyday commute to work: the oh-so soothing sound of Ira Glass on the mp3 podcast of This American Life. Conveniently, he always splits the show into two segments, roughly in the middle, and though I know this is a necessary part of being on public radio, it almost feels like he does it just for me: half the show on the into work, the other half on the way home.

Don't get me wrong: having my new truck very fun, gas mileage notwithstanding (16-17 mpg vs. 30 or so with the Escort), especially with our newfound winter weather, but even though it came with a really cool aftermarket Pioneer stereo, with removable face and CD player and option for a subwoofer and such, I was loathe to listen to morning radio. Granted, I was without a car at all for a few weeks, which sucks supremely, but the victory of my Jeep was tainted by the loss of being able to her my daily TAL episode. My old car wasn't flashy, but it did have a cassette player, and with a cheap tape adapter I was able to bring a good share of my CD and mp3 collection into the car with me. There is no such adapter for CD players.

But now that era is at an end. After a long period of shopping for, buying, and returning crappy FM transmitters and auxiliary connection equipment, after hours of various Google searches for combinations of "Pioneer DEH-P3600 adapter/connector/auxiliary/mp3," and weeks of looking for instructions how to get to the back of my hardware, I have finally installed the thing with just the right plug at the end to make my old-school mp3 player talk to me again. And Ira with it.

So it's a new year, a new Me, and a new chance to make right with the world, but a welcome return to an old habit. Welcome back, Ira. You've been missed.

Addendum: My Automotive History

2000 Jeep Cherokee (no nickname...yet) [June 2007]
1997 Ford Escort LX ("The Green Car")
1994 Ford Escort ("The Blue Car")
1999 Chevrolet Blazer (only new car) [1999]
1986 Cutlas Calais (no nickname)
1977 Malibu Classic ("The White Ghost")
1978 Buick Century (my first car, $500 at HS graduation) [Summer 1991]

Baby, Don't Ya Cry

So, I just got back from an advance screening of the movie Waitress. Now, I won't tell you that I've never seen a better film, or a sweeter film, or a more appropriate date movie. (Okay, scratch the latter; this may be the best date movie I can remember seeing.) But what I will say is that it was a pleasure to watch. It was funny without being cheesy, and it was not overly chic-flicky. It was just a damn nice movie.

I'm sure there are cinematic flaws and shortcomings, to be sure. I'm no expert on great movies, but I sure know that I was drawn into this story, into the characters and their lives. I was pulling for the good guys and damning the bad beneath my breath. Keri Russel had me from the get-go. The bad husband actor made a really great, pathetic bad guy. The two other waitress actresses, including Adrienne Shelley (RIP), were perfect complements to Russell's character. Nathon Fillion...let's not even bother with that justification: suffice it to say he's as good as ever.

All around, this movie more than stands alone as an artistic accomplishment. Never mind the fact that it was the big (mainstream) break of Adrienne Shelley, yes, who also wrote it and was murdered last year after its completion, and never mind the droves of disgruntled Firefly (and now Drive) fans that will flock to anything with Mr. Fillion just to prove to Fox that more than one executive needs his head examined. It's funny, it's witty, and it's touching, and I highly recommend it to anyone facing adult life's slings and arrows.

Especially if you're on a date.

An Open Letter to CompuSystems, Inc.

To Whom it May Concern:

I attended Pittcon 2007 from Feb. 25-Mar. 3 in Chicago, a conference for which your company was contracted to compile contact data. According to your records, my badge was scanned at 23 vendor booths.

Initially I thought the badge scanning system was brilliant, but now I have a spam problem.

Maybe I neglected to read the privacy statement on the Pittcon website, or maybe the exhibitors are simply being unscrupulous. In any case, before Pittcon, my company's spam filter caught on average 5 unsolicted emails per month. After Pittcon, this number has jumped to as many as 10 per day.

When I say 'spam' and 'unsolicited email' I am not talking about services offered by vendors that did not scan my badge. In fact I seriously doubt any of these companies had booths at Pittcon, unless I missed the company whose domain names are achancetochange.org, holyspirit.com, mysteryshopper.net, and doubeclick.net. I know spammers will typically fake domain names to make their emails seem more legitimate, which may be the case in deanfoods.com, navy.mil, qwest.net, and k-state.edu.

I assure you, none of these unsolicited emails are legitimate contact attempts being mistaken for spam. One clue is the array of rediculous subject lines. I will detail a few below:

• Fahrenheit sunburn
• follicle liter
• Far east potency
• By the time I rolled into Havana the next evening…

The list gets more interesting from there, and today included something regarding Brad Pitt's anatomy and his penchant for home video.

I do not know what recourse to expect, but I will say that I never once believed that the professional and efficient job of data collection done at Pittcon would jeopardize my privacy. What is clear is that someone who got my email address at Pittcon has sold it to spammers, and this is a clear breach in trust between your company, Pittcon organizers, and conferees like myself.

Unless this situation is cleared up quicly, I will strongly recommend to anyone who attends a conference with data collection by Compusystems that they create a disposable email account for vendor contact.

Regards,

et cetera

Groupie

It's official. I'm coming out of this closet, and announcing to the entire world via the World Wide Web: I'm a This American Life groupie.

(If you're totally clueless, I won't hold it against you. After all, the show was on for about seven years before I stumbled across it. But now you can no longer use ignorance as an excuse. Surf to http://www.thislife.org and get with the program. Haha...the program. I kill myself sometimes!)

Some months ago, I wrote that I'd acquired a large number of mp3 files of past shows. The means are unimportant, given that you can listen to nearly every single show FOR FREE online (see aforementioned URL). And since that time, since that shady acquisition, I have listened to no less than four programs per week, going through nearly two year's worth of weekly hours filled with short story readings; expositions on common, everyday freakiness; tales of childhood wonder and lover's woes; of triumph and failure and fiasco...all padded and carefully packaged within the delicate confines of Ira Glass's soothing commentary. And all, no less, during my daily commute.

What is it that would make me give up my 89X morning shows? What is so wonderful as to knock aside winding down with Arthur Penhallow on the way home? Well, it's hard to explain. But I got some interesting perspective during a couple of theater visits.

The first time I stepped out of my radio with TAL was in Chicago, home of Chicago Public Radio station WBEZ, where TAL is made and broadcast from. I was sent there on business (my first trip; an extended journey of both distance and professional development...but that's for another post) and delighted to find that at 7:00 pm on my day of arrival, I would have the chance to listen to TAL live...well, not live, but as it was being broadcast on its home station. I was ecstatic. Nevermind that the reception in the hotel room, despite being a mere 12 blocks from Navy Pier, where the WBEZ offices and tower are located, was horrendous. I ended up listening via streaming media on the laptop. Which I can do from home, in the Detroit area. My enthusisam was unabashed.

This was an extremely fortunate night for me.

Turns out that, since I am usually working during the Detroit broadcast at 3 pm on Fridays, my TAL diet typically is composed of episodes a handful of years old. Yes, I have been downloading the podcasts as they become available, but figured I'd get through the old ones and then catch up with the new eventually. What I'd been missing is the announcement that the TAL crew WAS GOING ON TOUR, doing the show live in theaters across the country. Well, only six cities across the country, BUT STILL. And, as it turned out, their Chicago appearance would occur on my last night in the city.

O. M. G.

Of course I called Ticketmaster, the Chicago Theater, and all the discout ticket vendors I could find in search of a seat in the same room with Ira Glass, Sarah Vowell, David Rackoff, and Dan Savage, not to mention the hundreds of other fans that would be there. Allow me to digress further--nobody (NOBODY) else I know listens to this show. In fact, most people have never heard of it, and the ones that have sort of poo-poo it as artistic and/or liberal arts drivel. But finally, FINALLY, I would be able to talk about the show with other folks who enjoyed it at least as much as me.

If only there were tickets available. Technically, there were, but only in the wheelchair-accessible section of the theater. And they couldn't sell me those unless I, you know, was in a wheelchair. Which I'm not. I briefly considered the fact that the clerk on the phone didn't know me from Adam, and wondered where I might come up with a cheap or borrowed wheelchair for the evening...but that only lasted for about 0.0025647 seconds. I might occasionally search for illegal mp3 downloads, but I'm not that low. I conceded that I better listen to the new episodes more often, and decided to suck it up.

Pittcon came and went, day after day. I saw all the vendors and the technical folks and listened to all the talks and collected about a million pens and a laser pointer and a flash drive and some fake caribeaner keychains with little compasses and all sorts of coroporate convention swag. And then it was the last night. I rode the Metra back from McCormick Place and started walking. But not to the hotel. To the Chicago Theater. I just had to know if there were any seats--anywhere--that I might have.

Well, there weren't, but being that the show was a mere 3 hours away, they let me buy a seat in the wheelchair section.

What I can say about walking back to the hotel isn't exactly like floating, and what I can say about the few hours thereafter isn't exactly like being nervous, but I struggled to plan exactly everything. As it turns out, I didn't plan well for dinner and arrived way too early. But I got to stand there and listen to some of WBEZ's donors as they picked up their complimentary tickets, listened to a station executive talk about Ira Glass's reluctance to acknowledge his radio superstar status, and met a nice guy with bad teeth whose donor nametag said Ricardo Phillips.

The show was remarkable. I will not attempt to recount the flow of humor and emotion that flowed between the audience and the performers here; I will only say I should have written about it then. I met a very artsy woman with whom I couldn't quite connect, though we tried very much to be socially compatible. I visibly bristled her when I said that the value of art depends on its cultural context, and she recovered by saying she was a collector of professional jargon and asked me about the conference I had attended. She particularly liked the world 'spectroscopy'. An artsy friend of hers (who also bought his ticket that day and got in the third row...bastard) mistook us for a couple and his interest in me lasted only until he was told otherwise. But I still shook his hand and introduced myself. Suffice it to say I'm no social butterfly and never will be good at meeting strangers and treating them like old friends.

I won't forget the show for a good long time, hopefully not at all. The performances were just like on the radio, only read at a podium and microphone. Last Friday, bits of the New York show were played as the new episode (What I Learned from TV, #328), and a 4 minute film can be viewed here (though I don't know for how long). I laughed, I cried, and after about two hours, it was over.

What happened next was beyond expectation. As I was leaving, walking slowly past one of the doors into the theater, I saw Ira Glass come back on the stage. He was talking to some people on the side, who seemed to be waiting for him. Some seemed even to know him. I wandered back inside and watched, in a dumbstruck awe, while Ira had a conversation with a patron (who seemed to know something about Showtime). I stood only a few feet away. When they were done, I spoke up. I didn't know what was coming out of my mouth. I just said it.

"I just wanted to thank you," I said. And for what could easily have been 45 seconds as 8 minutes, I had a short conversation with Ira Glass. I had a short conversation with Ira Glass. I shook his hand, he asked my opinion on the excerpt from the TV show they were making, and he asked what I do for a living. For that brief few moments, were were buds, just like when he rides to work and home with me in the car every day, but I was doing some of the talking, too. And then he thanked me for coming, and I turned to leave. Only then did I notice there were a dozen, maybe more, people standing around there. Maybe they were waiting for the same chance to meet him, maybe they were just watcing. But they didn't even exist during that short conversation. Nobody else did. It was just me and Ira Glass in the whole room, and he gave me his full attention and was interested in what I had to say. And that made me feel incredibly good.

Of course I beat myself up for not saying XYZ, for actually allowing ABC to come out of my mouth, and for not paying more attention to the moment. I came to terms with the fact that I may have looked like an idiot, that he may have not actually thought I was best friend material, and all the other stupid facets of self-doubt one might go through after meeting a person one admires. And I was better for it.

So that's how that went. The entire evening, from stepping off the Metra to finding the open-late-deli walking back, was a whole package I will continually open and rewrap for myself.

My second foray into the flesh-and-blood world of This American Life was this weekend at Eastern Michigan University's Pease Auditorium. Ira Glass spoke on invitation of the Ypsilanti District Library. He was onstage all by his lonesome, and his talks were not specifically TAL-related. He talked about what it's like trying to succeed in the world of creative media, rules to set for yourself, roadblocks you should not sweat, and the marks of success, notably Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. I dragged my poor wife, who was coerced by the promise of a nice dinner and a hotel-night out, not to mention the tickets were only $10 and "I already bought two, so you have to come with me."

I was mildly skeptical that she might not enjoy the whole ordeal, at least until the show began, after which I believe that she would see the beauty of the experience. I was wrong. She was not in the least resistant to the plan, made overnight arrangements for the kids and enjoyed it through and through. She is an artist herself, a writer with talents that I, the aspiring amateur, struggle with even a basic understanding of. Things I can only express in clunky, mechanical prose, she sprinkles and dazzles into each nook and cranny of her dialogue and the overall harmony of her pieces. She laughed, she cried. So did I, but not just because of what Ira, my old friend, was saying, or the clips of his days as an NPR reporter, or the way he laughed at himself and allowed us to laugh along with him. I did so because not only had I experienced this evening which so fed my creative center, but I was sharing it with Nancy, and her center was being nourished, too, with the same spritual and emotional food. And that's something we too seldom ever experience together.

So now, though I'll probably remain the only TAL junkie in the house, both of us now share something I once believed I would only enjoy alone. Now when Ira or any of the other TAL personalities come to town, I won't be alone as I once feared. Now, it won't just be me waiting at the foot of the stage for the chance to thank a somewhat obscure, shy Jewish reporter for the way his interpretation of life has affected my own. Now I'll be doing it with a partner.

Now we're both groupies.

Elusive

After months of putting it off, I finally decided to sit down and figure this out. I had to, you see; it was sitting there in my Outlook box waiting to be solved, and I had to empty the box before leaving work for the year. Which is tomorrow.

What I found was that, no matter how proud of my MENSA sample test scores I may be, I am no genius. Think you are? Give it a go.

No, I won't post the answer. I looked all over the web for it to no avail, and you'll get no better. I will tell you this though: it takes me 15 clicks.

Schmancy

Over the last week, I've had the privilege of dining (that's right 'dining,' not eating) at two very fine restaurants.

Historically, I am not a great gastronome, no lover of fine food and drink. There have been many times I've wished I didn't have to eat at all, such a bother I've found it to be sometimes. But those times mostly come when I am bored with the (lack of) selection, or want to spend time spent cooking/eating/cleaning doing something else. But being a necessary thing, I learned to keep it simple and suck it up.

Simple is definitely not a word useful in describing my recent dining experiences. First, a holiday lunch at Maggiano's Little Italy brought a tilapia dish crusted with something light and toasty and textury. Side dishes and drinks were not as memorable, but the highlight of the meal was the cheesecake. The slice was a good three inches high and four inches wide at the round end. OMG, and the strawberry topping...I was a freak. Of course, cheesecake is one thing I'm always a freak for.

My second big deal was a birthday event for my wife and half of another couple at Laffrey's Steaks on the Hearth. Apparently some Detroit icon, this little place is deceiving in its size. The steak was probably the best I've ever had. This was just a steak, but the texture and juice and flavor (woody and smoky and red) still make me salivate to imagine. I also had a twice-baked potato (which I *must* learn how to make) and sauteed mushrooms with it. Okay, so this was a simple meal, but well worth both the drive and the price (which is saying something; plan $50/person) for any special event you can think of.

With the holidays afoot, there is lots more good eating in store for me in the next several days, but after that it's back to my old routine: looking forward to a weekly visit to Taco Bell for lunch, and the fanciest non-special-occasion dinner being baked mostaciolli, both of which are fine by me.

This American Life

Every Friday at 1500 EST, I try to tune into my local public radio station (101.9, WDET-FM) and catch my favorite radio show, This American Life. I'm a closet fan. I don't know anyone else who listens to it--anyone else, really, who listens to public radio on a regular basis at all, except my sister. I'm not part of some Detroit cultural elite. I just love the show.

Maybe it's Ira Glass's voice. Maybe it's the short musical vignettes during and between acts. Maybe it's the humanity of the stories, the laying bare of those things which make normal people cringe or cry, or laugh out loud at inappropriate things. The show is definitly known for its unique human quality, and humanity is something that is definitely lacking in not only commercial radio (for which, I suppose, it must be praised, as this is precisely why many of us tune in [to tune out]) but open society in general.

Try it sometime. Walk into a drug store and start talking about feelings. Not yours, just in general. One of two things will happen. The stranger who is the cashier or pharmacy tech or stocker, or whomever, will either (1) look at you in disbelief, or at least discomfort, or possibly with contempt, and may or may not begin deriding or condescending you as oversensitive, liberal, homosexual, or something else...or (2) something will connect with the person, an event upon which you will be understood to be in a sort of temporary, two-person, micro-society. Secrecy is included in all such agreements, as all others outside this short-lived, newly formed organization will be assumed to immediately jump to all conclusions in (1) about both of you.

Try it in a bookstore, a place where culture (supposedly) lives a little more freely. At least in the large places (Borders, B&N), it's more allowable to open up, but you're still subject to some of the same labels. You can only go so far into why you think The Good Earth is worth the money and time. You cannot call it beautiful, not unless the person you happen to be speaking to shares this view (something you will only find out by baring your own opinion). You cannot say how Ellison affected your professional direction, or describe the excitement of Moby Dick on your kids' faces, without being viewed, at least by a majority, as some kind of...freak.

I don't mind being a literature freak. I don't mind that when I asked to borrow the BBC Pride & Prejudice DVD's from one coworker, another balked at my lack of manly qualities. It's part of who I am. I don't mind that I have no one to laugh with about Jonathan Goldstein's "If This Ark is a Rockin', Don't Come a Knockin'." But sometimes I'd like to. Sometimes, it would be nice.

So in the barren land of human life, a weekly dose of humanity is refreshing and welcome. Come next Friday at 3, count me in.