Defending the Oxford Comma

2/25/12

2012-03-02T14:35:00.000-08:00

Another JAH. Lake Monroe.

6/27/11

2012-03-02T01:08:00.000-08:00

Near Sicily.

We were on our way home.

I had to run downstairs to grab my camera.

I said I'd be right back.

It took half an hour.

We were never good with time on that ship.

Forever changed.

Forever smoldering.

6/17/11

2012-03-01T01:30:00.000-08:00

Somewhere along the Med.

2/18/12

2012-02-21T19:05:00.001-08:00

1/28/12

2012-02-18T21:51:00.001-08:00

Downstream.

11/12/11

2012-02-16T21:09:00.000-08:00

Israel. Blind Pilot. Indianapolis.

2/4/12

2012-02-15T09:39:00.000-08:00

Seating for one.

Valentine's Day Murder

2012-02-13T22:40:00.000-08:00

All that was left by the time I woke up.

1/5/12

2012-02-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

W 24th St.

12/14/11

2012-02-12T21:44:00.000-08:00

At The Dunnkirk

1 Year.

2012-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

It's been 1 year since I started this.

I have some changes planned, but I haven't had time to execute them just yet.

Hint: Expect more. Expect less. Expect less, but more of it.

Thank you to everyone who has helped me, inspired me, criticized me, and simply given this a little bit of their time.

Back to the Cascades

2012-02-09T19:51:00.000-08:00

Cars filled every parking space, designated or makeshift, in the Cascades Day Use Area parking lot.

Rushed as usual, M and I took the upper trail straight to the falls.

Do not pass "Go."

Do not collect $200.

Group after group passed us, both discouraged and encouraged by the clouds, as we hurried towards the falls.

With water levels high and puddles deep, waterproof footwear was in order.

The Cascades

There's never enough time, but time here at all is always a gift.

Assateague

2012-02-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

GSF drove down. We picked BWmF up.

Passing small crowds snapping away at the ponies, we headed straight for the beach.

Which way?

We spent most of the afternoon hanging out, our quiver of Nikons sitting next to us on a blanket. I may have had my Dad's Sony, set to take pictures in 16:9 for whatever reason, too.

10/13

2012-02-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

Shearon Harris

2012-01-16T20:32:00.000-08:00

Power from Shearon Harris.

Roadside Peacock

Reunited in Georgetown

2012-01-16T20:29:00.000-08:00

BWmF

Walls

First Light.

2012-01-16T20:23:00.000-08:00

6:28 AM

Strips of light.

I left Pops' house, somewhere in northern Virginia, at 1:00AM, January 1, 2012.

I'd constructed the plan earlier that evening, not having any significant plans to attend to for the evening. It was a questionable move considering not my own sobriety, but other drivers' lack thereof.

Racing past Pea Island, I finally pulled over just outside Hatteras. After swapping Aldens for Bean Boots, I clumsily jogged toward the shore, already annoyed that a faint glow had begun to appear on the horizon.

I hope everyone has had a great start to the new year.

P is for...

2011-12-27T18:34:00.000-08:00

A purple poodle.

My 6th grade English teacher, Ms. Kopp, showed poodles in dog shows. Often considered the mean or scary teacher, something not helped by a voice made abrasive from years of smoking, she was disliked and/or feared by many students.

Come springtime, I finally mustered the courage to inquire about the mason jars sitting on the edge of her desk filled with colorful shards of homemade candy.

Turns out she brought it in for the students, but no one had ever asked.

Turns out she wasn't really mean.

Spotted in Richmond.

DeTOx, isn't dead.

2011-12-24T21:55:00.000-08:00

During my first week of finals, an idea born from an almost forgotten conversation with BWmF on tattoos finally took shape.

Different than what I'd imagined, yet entirely what I'd wanted, it isn't just a logo for my blog, it's a logo for me.

Spending hours with our eyes glued to a 30" iMac screen in Herman B. Wells Library tediously manipulating proportion and dimension of two punctuation marks, at my behest, demands patience and a genuine understanding of how I operate.

I'm fastidious, detail oriented, arbitrarily particular, and absolutely principled. Usually.

Anyway, yo Pops, thanks for the logo.

Polished

2011-11-20T11:37:00.001-08:00

Wet. Wipe. Wait. Dab. Wait. Brush. Buff. Wear.

It's mechanical, mindless, and meditative.

The Mac Method. Gospel.

An hour's work.

A clear mind.

Pop's Rocks

2011-11-20T11:24:00.000-08:00

The leaves fell unexpectedly.

These days the light does the same.

Get Lost in Giles County

2011-10-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

Thinking that my (increasingly) obsolete TomTom nicknamed "Gertrude" would have "The Cascades" stored in its memory bank, I didn't look up directions. It did. Sort of.

With three hours until sunset, there was just enough time to figure out where I was going, hike up to the falls, take some pictures, and head back. Wrong.

An hour later, likely distracted by the impressive foliage of Jefferson National Forest and an authoritative English accent, I blindly followed that deceitful Brit, Gertrude, off of 460 and onto a two-lane road winding its way up and into the forest.

Fifteen miles of asphalt leaves plenty of time to encounter a sign, another five miles of gravel does not.

Not near the Cascades.

Second attempt. Thinking back to the night before, I figured we had until 7:30 before it got dark. The sun's trajectory behind the mountains went unnoticed as we entered the park.

I frequently paused along the trail, recognizing my simultaneous desires to linger and return somewhere I'd only just arrived.

A lone fly fisherman stood along the far bank of the stream. Pulling line from the reel, he slowly drew the tip of the rod upwards. With a quick snap of his wrist, the tip shot downward, sending a loop of line rolling across the surface of the deep pool. The fly whipped around, briefly fluttering skyward before delicately landing.

Further upstream, a father waved as he watched his son skip stones.

Around the falls rose steep walls and our voices.

Taking our shoes off, we gingerly stepped into the cool water towards the center of the stream bed.

Setting up against the eastern wall, my tripod and I struggled to find steady footing in the stream, each with only one foot on dry ground. Perched only a foot above the water, I anxiously watched my camera, clicking the remote while the other hand remained open, ready to catch the tripod should it be swept downstream.

One minute and five frames later, I grabbed the whole setup and stood safely back on dry stone, unenthused with my results and the water level.

The fading light ushered us to put our shoes back on.

I paused briefly after crossing a bridge, remembering that I'd wanted to climb down to some fallen trees while hiking in. Resolving to just come back someday when we weren't rushed by the sun, I wearily continued onward.

"You don't know when you'll be back."

I turned around and climbed down from the trail in response to the frank words.

The following five minutes were expensive.

... and worth it.

It was dark at 7:15. Our eyes adjusted, reducing our surroundings to desaturated shades of grey. Just one mile down either trail separated us from the car. The lower trail, continuing just over a bridge, was essentially unnavigable in the dark and the easy upper trail was nowhere to be found. Oops.

Get outside. Get lost. It's good for you.

Back to the Other Quarry

2011-10-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

Delaying dinner, I finally returned to the other quarry a few weeks ago.

The early October air was still warm, enticing me to make a jump I was ill-prepared for.

Fading.

I'll jump in the spring, when the water is warmer and I can pick apart shadows from boulders.

A Guardian in Brown County

2011-10-17T11:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, there are no words to accompany what you find along a quiet country road.

Locked In.

2011-10-13T13:53:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, my friend Adam and I snuck in on a warm summer afternoon, cigars in hand, and climbed to the top of the stadium.

As the sun set, we enjoyed our Romeo y Julietta No. 2's.

I haven't been back in the stadium since then, a game last fall, aside.

Just over a month ago, I returned, keeping an eye out for security guards and whoever else I might run into as I unlatched a gate.

While Adam and I hopped a railing to get out that one evening, this time I found myself locked in. Gates were shut by an invisible crew while I was hiking to the top.

Locked in.

After walking through the entire stadium looking for an easy exit, I finally climbed onto the wall of a cement ramp leading to the upper levels.

Sitting on the ledge, I realized fifteen feet separated my camera, and feet, from the unforgiving asphalt.

I tightened the straps on my backpack.

Sometimes all you need to get out is to just jump.

Bits from North Carolina

2011-10-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

My final days of summer in North Carolina.

Seen through my back window at a gas station. He waited patiently in the truck bed for his owner.

I like this font. Goldsboro.

Safe distance.

The start to good Carolina BBQ at Wilbur's.

I'm working on getting caught up with pictures, but lately my attention and energy has been elsewhere.

The Johnson Farm

2011-10-05T22:27:00.000-07:00

Southern Pines, NC

moo.

Letters and Numbers- Columbus, IN

2011-09-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

August 6th. Columbus, IN.

Bike rack.

Mid-century?

Reminders of home.

Turns out the numbers were recently replaced.

They looked better from further away.

I scrapped most of my shots because the sky was so dreary, not unlike today, but I'll be back to shoot Columbus.

It's one place where I know what to look for.

Grandfather Mountain and the Blue Ridge Parkway

2011-09-18T18:59:00.000-07:00

Almost one month ago my mom and I climbed into my car and went towards Boone, NC. Not realizing that the App State kids were moving in, we skipped town and drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards Grandfather Mountain.

Along the way.

The Moses Cone Manor

Mile high pines.

They filmed part of Forrest Gump on the road to the summit.

I spend too little time with my mom, but when I do, it's short trips like this that make that time all the more memorable.

The 1219

2011-08-28T22:50:00.000-07:00

Retired in Sanford, NC.

3 Points of Contact.

General Electric.

Walking with Duke.

2011-08-16T22:22:00.000-07:00

On a walk during my brief return to MD this weekend.

The "royal" Rhodie.

Stream-fed mosquito factory.

The light was magnificent as it shone through the trees; the humidity and mosquitos were not.

Streamside and a country drive.

2011-08-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

Friday. 6:00pm

After weeks of watching the sun soften to the perfect glow, roughly from 7:00 to 8:30 pm, and hours of studying for my upcoming final, I grabbed my cameras and headed to my car. After replacing the long dead batteries in my dad's old Nikon FM, I started driving. It wasn't about the destination, though a bridge left uncrossed on my last excursion seemed like a good starting point.

The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, intermittently casting rays of light through the foliage as I climbed into the underbrush.

As I approached the stream's edge, two large shapes darted towards a deep channel. Looking closer, several large bass sat at the bottom of the channel, mouths pointed upstream. In waters brimming with fry and minnows, the bass' size didn't surprise me, but their numbers did.

Much of my time in third and fourth grade was spent exploring the woods, lake, and nearby streams around the house. Fascinated with both fishing and biology, I caught whatever I could both for conquest and curiosity. My love for streams and creeks lingers as a tribute to my childhood and my dreams of someday returning to fly fishing.

Digital and analog. Different and just that.

I enjoyed the simplicity of the FM's three dot metering system, though I didn't trust it's inconsistent guidance. With my D7000 set up as similarly as possible to the FM (ISO and ASA at 400 with 35 f/1.8 and 50 f/1.4 lenses, respectively), I used it as a crutch that let me compare questionable exposure readings before shooting with the FM. Not taking notes for each shot was a mistake I'll need to correct next time, though, I don't know which pictures I used the D7000's meter on. Shooting and reviewing the results from both cameras has shown me a lot and will continue to do so.

After an hour, I returned to my car, continuing on back roads concerned only with my direction and the views around me.

Air blew through the open windows, clearing my head and cooling my body as I wound my way over and around the rolling hills.

I stopped at the top of a hill to look at the layered landscape bowing up and down across tree tops and fields in various shades of green.

More from the FM.

This trio was far too hungry to pay attention to me. The slap of the mirror briefly earned the attention of one horse before he returned to grazing.

Just thirty minutes from town I'd found a place not entirely new or familiar.

Driving back, I knew this was only the first of many similar trips to come.

Notes on July.

2011-08-08T07:01:00.000-07:00

Pieces of the first month back.

Less

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet

Shrooms, steak, and chevre.

Lake Monroe.

Pick your power.

The only way.

Responding from somewhere new.

2011-08-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

The adventures I've had in the past seven months only whet my appetite for movement and exploration. With the reality and awareness of Bloomington fast becoming the place I've spent the most time, my restlessness has grown quickly.

10 days ago. 10:00 pm. Fresh with inspiration, I grabbed my Parker Jotter and began to write an overdue letter.

I know I need to be better at keeping in touch, writing, and writing back; do you?

Just an excerpt-

"7:45. I skipped dinner, too tired to cook and too restless to sit down and study. Leaving the issues of Chatham v. Pohle on my desk, I quickly grabbed my backpack and stuffed it with my camera and lenses. With a vague set of directions, I drove south, anxiously watching the time as the sun began its descent.

Past the turn for “Rooftop.” Somewhere ahead lay a small road and a quick turn towards a stretch of highway I’d never seen. I stopped to take a picture of an abandoned tractor trailer adorned with Indiana University in large red letters. Was the decoration done before or after its retirement?

Cutting through the forest, the gravel road meandered gently like a river. At several turns, the gravel extended into the brush, partially burned and forever forgotten pieces of trash and furniture sat waiting to be consumed by the tall grass.

Impatient, yet wary of the large puddles and myriad bumps and dips, my foot was forced to dance between pedals. I missed my Landcruiser.

The pedal reached for the floor as I drove up a large hill, fearful of losing traction on the loose gravel.

Despite the signs instructing that visitors be escorted into the quarry, it was apparent that no one had showed up for work in years.

The rusted gate and padlock relieved any apprehension about proceeding.

The sun committed to its descent and with camera in hand, I took off in a jog towards the closest corner. There’s never enough time at sunset.

In the spontaneity of this trip and the warm glow of the sun, I was invigorated by an anxious serenity. Since delving into cases these past three weeks, I’ve struggled to keep hold of my voice. In the presence of the abandoned, I found inspiration and joy.

In the warm light, the limestone glowed a soft shade of yellow.

Two structures sit alongside a tall pole in the middle of the quarry. Their foundations and walls sit submerged, leaving only roofs to remind visitors of their presence.

I’ll have come back to this place before you read this.

Here, there was an urgency I needed to respect and abide by; this was my presence in a moment purely private.

My legs struggled, but carried me forward reluctantly. From within the heat of my jeans, my muscles cursed me for my reunion with the squat rack just ninety minutes prior.

I continued around the far side of the quarry; the heat remained as the light softened. The airy weave of this new New England-sewn madras pop-over lent no relief.

Leaving my backpack on top of a rock near the path, I clumsily climbed down piles of loose stone towards the clear water, agility and steadiness lost to iron and denim. Size was no indication of stability, I learned. I tightened my grip on my camera.

The dichotomy of madras and raw denim was vilipended by the lingering heat and humidity; both shirt and jean clung to me. Sweat dripped into the viewfinder as I made a futile attempt to capture the light.

The sun shifted orange, signaling it was time to turn back. Just a third of the way around the pool, I took off towards my car, tired and content with the thirty minutes prior."

I still haven't gone back to the quarry, but I will soon.

Here's to remembering that even in the most familiar places, there's always more to discover.

Crete

2011-08-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

After nine identical mornings, I still awoke trusting the deceitful soft light creeping in from behind our curtains. Turning on the television, a bow-mounted camera fed us our first glimpse of natural light every morning. Opening the blinds quickly dispelled thoughts of the sun, instead revealing the "Promenade", the main artery of the floating hotel, yet today the scene on screen revealed no difference.

We awoke late and ran off the ship hoping to salvage the two and a half hours. The clouds darkening the cool day threatened rain, but we didn't have time to change. A shuttle took us from port to downtown Chania.

As we pushed our way through filled sidewalks, the crowds thickened. In admitted ignorance of our location, we blindly stumbled upon the heart of Chania, the Venetian harbor. My eyes were instantly drawn to the light house standing across the harbor and the small sailboat passing by. Waves violently crashed onto the rocks around the lighthouse's base; those successfully passing the narrow entrance spilled water onto the terrace and our feet.

True to form, a soaked golden retriever emerged from the harbor and enthusiastically returned to its owner who sat with his things against the western wall of the mosque. As we approached, we watched as the dog refused a meal offered by a passerby; the food sitting untouched as the dog looked back for approval. I continued on, amused and curious by the repeated burst of water battering a short section of the harbor wall. Spray exploded overhead, soaking a lonely bench.

With only forty five minutes before we needed to find our way back to the shuttle, we raced around the harbor passing waterfront restaurants and the Maritime museum without thought.

Well traveled.

Reminded of spaghetti a la carbonara.

Carpeting.

As we climbed around the rocks to the opposite side of the wall, a different side of the Mediterranean became apparent. Wm. and I stood in silence watching the surf crashing just feet in front of us, the mist landing delicately on the front of my camera.

I realized as we left the lighthouse that every step brought us closer to home.

We rushed back the way we came, getting lost in the streets beyond the harbor. Not knowing street names, but aware of a series of wrong turns, we retraced our steps to the last confirmable point. We couldn't ask for directions. There were ten minutes until the shuttle left.

Wm. spotted a familiar awning down a different alley.

As usual, he only remembered turns I'd forgotten. We sprinted towards the indoor market, up the stairs, and through the dusty building to the final shuttle that sat idling outside.

Rhodes.

2011-08-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

Ready for rest, we spent our morning somewhere in Faliraki, Rhodes.

Apparently we passed Europe's largest water park on the way there.

I didn't see it.

Behind a hotel, I watched a photographer take various families' pictures with a Hasselbad as we floated in the cool water.

Wm. and I set off towards the city upon our return. Asphalt yielded to stone as we walked.

Making use of what they have.

En route to Crete

Country, not bird.

2011-08-02T18:58:00.000-07:00

My family spent two weeks in Turkey last summer while I finished a course on Ethics and went fishing and tubing on Beaver Lake in WI.

Consequently, only my father accompanied me to Ephesus, Mt. Koressos, and Selçuk.

Ruins produce ruined pipes.

Prayers on Mt. Koressos

Succulent.

Israel.

2011-08-02T17:55:00.000-07:00

Questioning by Israeli officials occurred the day before we arrived in Haifa. I'm not sure how or when they got on board.

Our expectations of being barraged with questions by a stoic Israeli official vanished over laughs about Wm.'s metamorphosis from the round-faced child featured inside his nearly expired passport.

The Sea of Galilee, a half mile beyond our first stop, led an unconquerable effort against Wm. and I for the title of "Most Vapid" from within the heat and haze. Between pulls of water and family photographs for proof of attendance, I tried to haphazardly match my incomplete and foggy knowledge of biblical history, largely supplemented by a semester of religion class during sophomore year of high school, with the comprehensive lesson pouring through the headphones.

Radio transmitters are the new personal PA system for guided tours, apparently.

Tabgha.

The Jordan River.

Neither muskrat nor beaver.

Catfish.

Leaving Haifa.

A minute of light. 60s x f/22 x ISO 100 @18 (on DX)

I was excited for Jerusalem, but tired of the slow evenings on board. Now halfway through the trip, the anxiety of what waited stateside slowly began to flow. For the first time in months, I was in bed at 10:30.

9:14 am

As the bus drove from Ashdod into Jerusalem, memorized fantasies of a city my mother once called home filled my mind. Though peripatetic, my childhood seems stationary compared my mother's. My grandfather, a diplomat whom would later be an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary for Bahrain (coolest title ever), spent years in Jerusalem, Kuwait, and Jordan (among other places.) For years stories about Jerusalem and time spent on the Red Sea inspired images of packs of wild dogs running through the streets and four children playing in a junkyard among wrecked cars and live ammunition.

Heat and dust dull the blue walls, but the dome shines brilliantly under the high sun. From the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock sits as a beacon of grandeur. A golden buoy floating in a sea of limestone, a color with which I am too familiar.

From beneath the shadow of the Western Wall, the sounds of shutters and prayers mixed; a juxtaposition of the purely touristic, the devoutly religious, and the somewhere in between.

I kept my camera by my side.

Field trips chaperoned by assault rifles.

Thirty rounds. Thirty students. Five chaperones. One rifle. One faith.

On patrol.

Overlapping roofs and narrow streets kept us shaded as we walked the Via Dolorosa. Crowded displays and ambitious owners peddled a mix of hackneyed Middle Eastern wares like keffiyehs, fake pashminas, and hookahs, with more geographically (biblically) specific goods. In my search from Haifa to Jerusalem to Bethlehem, nothing bore resemblance to my mother's Jerusalem cross; something never to be worn, but always treasured.

In a place of such volatility, I pondered how much and little things have changed, and how much they will.

Away from Naples

2011-07-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

Twelve days of awkward dinner company, free room service, guided "shore excursions", coerced relaxation, and (best of all) legitimate disconnection await onboard the "Mariner of the Seas." Any watch marked with "Get off the boat", "Dinner time", and "Meet everyone" would have been more useful than either my Easy Reader or Sub. Cruises are funny in that way. Days of the week become irrelevant, only to be replaced with concerns about whether or not one needs a tie for dinner that evening.

First port: Naples.

Leaving.

You don't need a numbered sticker designating your tour group to show you're a tourist while riding the ferry to Capri.

I woke up forty minutes after boarding. The hazy shadow in the distance now above us, our long shadows stood short at the foot of the mountainous isle.

There was a mixed party in the small harbor; yachts, fishing boats, and dinghies rocked gently alongside one another.

Our tour through the narrow streets of Capri took us past Kiton, Ferragamo, and Tod's.

The beauty felt just beyond our reach.

Another nap, another ferry. Sorrento.

The streets of Sorrento.

Local treasure.

Not built in a day...

2011-07-15T06:12:00.000-07:00

...but seen in one.

We stepped off the train into Termini. The station was still busy at 7:30.

I heard my name called. I saw my two roommates from my stay in Madrid. Canadians, I explained to Wm., are everywhere. Spaghetti alla carbonara was the first meal I had in Rome five years ago. Repeat.

A good meal after a long day made better by unexpected company.

The sun set as we ate.

My pack felt heavy by the time we checked into the hostel.

This wasn't Nice. The other residents weren't really, either.

An early morning intended, a mid morning start. Covering the city would take all day, but I thought it necessary for Wm. to see the main attractions if he was going to see anything.

The Vatican in black and white. Intricate without the opulence.

These stairs may look familiar to those who were required to take MATH-M119 back in 06-07.

Disarray behind perceived order.

Leaving and so did we.

The Coliseum

To the Pantheon.

Dreading the inevitable.

The day wasn't without mistakes, but with the sites seen, I had satisfied my duties as a tour guide. Nine hours later, we contacted the Two from Toronto and had one last night out; it was an interesting conclusion to an even more interesting trip.

I awoke on the floor of my hostel room the next morning confused only about my energy and clarity. I'm not a morning person, not after nights like that. My bed stood next to me, undisturbed and uncluttered.

It was time to meet the parents. Time for schedules, plans, and arranged meeting times. We took off towards Termini.

Reunited on the Riviera

2011-07-13T19:03:00.000-07:00

My brother Wm. and I took off towards Gare St. Charles at 7:00am. I didn't look back as we left.

Company was nice and conversation was refreshing after three days without English in Marseille.

As the train followed the coast west towards the white and cerulean beaches of Cannes, I shared stories of my time in the cities prior. We watched tile roofs blur into streaks of red and shared a pair of headphones.

Cannes was quiet; I didn't mind.

We swam, read, and watched. We didn't dive and didn't worry.

Opposite the beach and nestled between restaurants and hotels sits a stretch of luxury boutiques. Gucci. Chanel. Prada. Louis V. [Insert name here]. Yawn now.

Polished- Mustang and Gucci.

McLaren SLRxNikon DSLR

Exotic sports cars, like their retail equivalents, don't do much for me. Pretty (sometimes), impractical, and incredibly expensive doesn't get me going; I'd much rather come home to a mid-century Mercedes 300SL (provided I could even fit in one) than some Italian fighter jet-wannabe. There's no denying that the SLR is a beautiful car when you see it parked on the street, though.

There's GTH, and then there's GFY. The latter done by JM Weston.

We shouted, "Mazel tov!" alongside twenty strangers as we watched the sun set behind a wedding on the beach.

Past full restaurants and empty sidewalks, we finally settled on watching the French sing karaoke (read: drunkenly butcher American pop songs) at the Irish pub outside the hotel before heading to bed.

Nice: Bigger, busier, and rockier than Cannes.

Present, past, and future.

There was a dense flea market in Old Town. I've never been partial to souvenirs unless they are found; recently this feeling has grown stronger, but this was a great place to buy old posters and prints.

Fans of silver (?)

Back to the beach.

Nice tires.

Forgetting towels was a big mistake.

Clarity after climbing.

One last look.

There is perfection in retrospect.

We paused for a moment to admire the beauty around us and acknowledge our existence in the present. As we turned to leave, the discomfort of harsh stones and cold water faded, replaced with the unbridled potential of the evening ahead.

The Red Truck on College Ave.

2011-07-11T18:33:00.000-07:00

You never know what (or who) you'll see if you just pay attention.

Please be careful while driving.

Marseille

2011-07-10T13:56:00.000-07:00

Waking up 25 minutes before your train's departure is not advisable. I took off down the hallway in my boxers, past the hostel's cleaning ladies standing amused (or confused) in the doorway to the eight bunk room, and feigned composure as I called for the desk attendant to hail a cab.

Just barely making my train to Cerbere, once seated I found time to catch my breath and suck down the final drops of a one liter bottle of water wisely placed beside my pack in the hostel. Relief settled in as the train disembarked and I was quickly asleep, soothed by the sensation of motion and the sounds of For Emma, Forever Ago.

The train came to a stop and the noise of people lining up at the door roused me. Confused about being the only one still sitting, I grabbed my pack and hopped off. The herd mentality is troublesome. As the doors closed behind me, the gravity of my mistake emerged. "Figueres." At the home of the Salvador Dali museum and apparently all of my fellow passengers, I was not where I needed to be. According to the itinerary I needed to follow to make it to Marseille, I had just trapped myself in Spain for the remainder of the day.

Do I go back to Barca to enjoy another night out and risk repeating this hectic morning? The next train to Cerbere wasn't coming for two hours and at this rate I would be stuck in some little town right before the French border for the evening.

Catharsis shouldn't come easily.

I let the anxiety and frustration go. As I watched Barcelona-bound trains pass every thirty minutes, I reminded myself that I would figure this out.

Onward, to Narbonne.

I did.

Notre Dame De La Garde from my hotel window.

I arrived in Marseille at 11:30 that evening and would soon discover that my only actual mistake was not staying in Barcelona for another day or two.

The absence of hostels meant I was truly on my own in this city. I was restless in my hotel room, but at the very least, I got some much needed sleep after the consistently long evenings in Spain.

Knowing what I left behind and what lay ahead, I was disappointed by my surplus of time in the city.

I tried to stretch the hours while in Spain; here I had to learn to slow down and compress them.

The views from the Notre Dame De La Garde were stunning and well worth the long walk up.

The hidden path up.

Over the course of this trip, I realized I was rarely on level ground. My seemingly constant climbing led me to new views and perspectives; the only thing that mattered was seeing something different.

Remnants of one of my favorite meals- moules avec frites.

A preview of the sun-bleached colors of the Riviera.

Creatures along the harbor.

Ready for the Riviera.

Barcelona

2011-07-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

I stepped off the train from Madrid at 5:00 pm. As I exited the Arc de Triomf stop, I was bathed in the warm light of a beautiful afternoon.

The weather changed the following day and I found myself, once again, caught in the rain on the way to La Sagrada Familia. This time, we waited in the shelter of a pharmacy as the downpour telling jokes and stories from past adventures and the evening prior.

Searching for the best views of the city, I headed north with a roommate to Tibidabo after a brief jaunt through Gaudi's Park Guell. The clouds cleared just as we left the park and the heat taunted us, having dressed for cooler temperatures, over the next hour as we made our way towards the peak.

Notice the slant.

Easy ride in the opposite direction.

We took a shuttle for the final uphill stretch, the road winding serpentine past large houses turned commercial. Moments before the shuttle arrived, local police had explained that Tibidabo was inaccessible. The funicular wasn't running. After our two hour hike North, we had to see for ourselves.

With overcast views of the entire city at our backs and an ominous layer of dense fog obscuring the peak, we approached the empty funicular station. Not far from the bottom of the track, three cars reminiscent of VW buses approached at a crawling pace.

Just too funicular for anyone else to ride.

The two funicular(s?) run in synchronicity, simultaneously reaching the single split in track halfway through their trip that allows them to pass.

As we ascended, I accepted that the views I'd hoped for would remain beyond my reach.

We were met with dense fog and cold winds once on Tibidabo and as we walked through the gates, the funicular unapologetically began its trip back down.

The place seemed better suited for a B-list horror film than a fun summer afternoon.

The church and amusement park rides, alike, sat solitary underneath their shrouds of grey, ignorant of the bustling city that lay below. As I rolled down my sleeves and longed for a jacket, I forgot that I'd been cursing the sun just an hour prior.

The wind blew incessantly, pouring fog across the empty streets.

We walked through the park equally fascinated, frustrated, and amused by our own meteorological misfortune and surroundings.

So you want to see him?

The weather stayed wet and grey until the morning I left for Marseille. I had been deceived by the city's radiant welcome, but the energy and pulse of Barcelona's clubs rejuvenated and exhausted us every evening; the flashing lights compensated for the drab colors during the day.

Despite the weather, having navigation issues that are unparalleled by any other place in the world I've been, and a variety of humorous and terrifying mishaps, I can't wait to go back someday. With a handful of Canadian hostel mates, I had some of the best nights (mornings) of my life, that is, until I realized I was saying, "eh?"

Madrid

2011-07-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

I finished Less Than Zero on the flight over from DC. IAD to FRA. FRA to MAD.

Arriving in Frankfurt, the immediateness of my situation became increasingly apparent. I kept my iPod off, though I found distraction in another coke-dusted story of Bret Easton-Ellis. In the airport, I put down my Kindle just long enough to help translate for a frantic Chinese family. They checked their stroller at the gate and it was sent to their connecting flight instead of left out for pick up; try communicating that through charades. I now have a place to stay in Naples, should I ever need it.

It was the imminent arrival of the unknown. My imminent arrival in a foreign country. Time that I failed to recognize I needed. Time away from family and friends. Time away from the comfort of home and my bed.

Enter Madrid. My first stop.

Home for a bit.

Time for change.

As I collected my pack, I thought of the unknown that laid ahead of me. A new city. A different language. No plans, but I was finally detached. Disconnected. Liberated.

There are restrictions wherever you look.

Dream big, even if you're living small.

Though I brought almost all new music to listen to during the trip, I decided I wanted to immerse myself in the sounds and energy of the city, and I succeeded. What I accomplished by doing so, I'm still unsure of.

Despite the spontaneity of my trip, I managed to cover both classical and modern art museums, an afternoon among roses, getting caught in the rain, a football game in the Real Madrid stadium, and most importantly, the sobering perspective granted by traveling alone in a new place.

Beauty, everywhere.

Do you know where to look?

It was time for me to learn to be on my own, to let go, and to get in touch with getting lost.

As I left La Retiro, Madrid froze. A city stopped and a boy in motion. The skies shut down and the clouds opened up. As people hid under overhangs and in bars, I continued forward, letting each step remind me of where I was, and that it didn't matter where I was going.

Get caught in the rain; it's probably been far too long.

(By the way, some of you may be happy to know my jeans received a much needed rinse during that walk back.)

Welcome back.

2011-07-01T17:17:00.000-07:00

New chapter, new apartment, same town.

Unpacked.

Diana (Mini)- Cooler Temperatures

2011-06-01T09:04:00.000-07:00

Diana has been troublesome. I lost a roll shot over New Year's Eve to a mediocre film processing lab, and without the pockets afforded by winter coats, we travel less and less. That said, her unpredictable performance has helped me capture moments in new light (and color.)

With our air conditioner out of commission for my last days at home, I've sought solace from the D.C. heat and humidity in memories of seeking warmth in wool.

Winter.

Crystal Lake, IL

Nags Head, NC

Rodanthe, NC

Harper's Ferry, WV

Spring.

Calvert Cliffs, MD

Washington, D.C.

Tomorrow, I leave for Europe. With or without her, I'm not sure. I'll return on June 28, hopefully clear in mind and ready to handle returning to an old town and a new phase in my life.

Walnut Ave. Bloomington, IN

(un)events by the river.

2011-05-26T20:50:00.000-07:00

Worn brick and ivy in Georgetown.

Rosslyn at night.

In moments held too long, the Key Bridge shares its luminescent inconsistencies.

The Blue Line to National.

2011-05-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

I drew a few looks from others waiting in the parking lot while I sat patiently, head out my window and camera in hand, listening for the train to come by.

Scranton by way of...

2011-05-20T11:02:00.000-07:00

Bar Harbor.

At around 12:30AM we finally decided to look for a place to sleep. It was somewhere between Hartford and Scranton, and closer to Scranton. I didn't know what part of New York we were in then. I don't know now. It was liberating and relaxing. Spend a night in a town and don't worry about where you are, only that you're there.

It's been two years since gSF and I last saw each other. Odd how quickly time passes and things change. Around December 2005, we moved into the same dorm room, one of the two massive rooms under the stairs of Main Hall. It was the type of room that underclassmen would randomly visit out of amazement, not just curiosity. 520 square feet and hardwood floors, we didn't know that it was all downhill from there.

The sleepy town, well past its glory years from the turn of the century, looked soft and desaturated. Aged brick and stone both encouraged the calm of a quiet Sunday.

The temperatures rose, but the clouds remained as we walked through Nay Aug Park in Scranton.

To the bridge.

Down to the water.

We followed the stream down the bank, our ironically matching Black Rapid R-straps held D7000s by our sides as we negotiated the wet and slippery path.

The steep walls of the small canyon rose up around us, covered in moss and moisture from earlier showers.

Back onto the path, only to scramble down from it again.

Inside the tunnel.

Not being able to climb back up to the path, we followed the tracks into town.

There was a lot more to see; I'm glad we did.

As we walked from tie to tie, catching up and talking about our recent foray into photography and the future, I thought of Stand By Me, close friends on an adventure down the tracks. As easy as it was to enjoy the moment, it's hard to forget it could easily be another year before we meet again.

They say you meet friends for life in ~~college~~ prep school.

With law school classes starting in six weeks, I continue making the deliberate decision to embrace reality and the looming change, not ignore it.

...the security of being first, with full sight and full knowledge of one's course- not the blind sense of being pulled into the unknown by some unknown power ahead. It was the greatest sensation of existence: not to trust, but to know.

ME.

2011-05-19T15:04:00.000-07:00

Driving through Maine on Rt. 1 did not meet my expectations. Perhaps, only because my expectations were wrong. Instead of the jagged, rocky coast I imagined below me, the road separated from the ocean by only a steel guard rail (not unlike the PCH), I found rolling hills, sprawling forests and fields, and stone beaches leading to quiet harbors and inlets. This is not a complaint.

Passing through Bath, I somehow forgot about Popham Beach, the location of the background image on my Droid X for the past 6 months. I would, unfortunately, continue to forget about it until we were driving South again.

Breakfast at the Wiscasset Diner in the eponymous town was charming and satisfying.

Driving through the Mid Coast, with its charming towns and pastoral fields made me want to stay. Maybe spend a summer working on a fishing boat?

The lobster roll from Red's, touristy as it may be, is near perfect.

We passed a number of flea markets. This mount for $500. A bear pelt for $900. I once saw pictures of a Stanford White property with two polar bear rugs; such furnishing is probably not as acceptable as it once was, but I wouldn't oppose it.

Buoys for $15? I'm glad I found mine on the Cape.

Yours truly doing who knows what.

We eventually arrived at Bar Harbor. Passing by named estates and local hotels, I dreaded the thought of the crowds that would emerge in the summer months.

An afternoon hiking down (and up) Acadia's Cadillac Mountain and stopping along Ocean Drive lent spectacular views of the coastline, from far and near.

I finally found the rocky shores I had been yearning for.

As the sun set on our last night in Maine, I raced through Acadia National Park chasing the orange glow. Miles of road on the Park Loop were passed in a rushed blur; my eyes focused on every bend and curve of asphalt.

I wanted more time then. I still do now.

Ezra was right; make like Walcott.

2011-05-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

After a quick stop in New Haven for a pie at Pepe's, we continued northeast, our eyes set on a campground twenty minutes outside Provincetown.

The clouds appeared just outside Boston. I should have known better; though I was born just outside the city, it seems that the city is constantly discouraging my attempts to return. It's better through the rose-hued lens of memory, anyway.

By the time we drove through Hyannisport, the clouds continued to taunt us, patiently and persistently releasing a light shower. Passing signs for the Hy-line Ferry to the Vineyard, I laughed at myself for once planning a trip in March, three years ago. Hemingway would have cursed me for bringing him along on that trip or this one.

The cottages along Route 6 flew past, most lost in the misty sea of grey. Where lights shone behind windows, I wondered about wintering in a place still so dreary in May and the warmth of my sleeping bag.

Making an abrupt turn off the road, we stopped to take pictures. The cold, humid air was thick with the smell of pines and salt.

Littered in the grass and along the shore, bodies of various invertebrates lay disassembled and damaged. Pieces of horseshoe crabs lay cracked alongside the damaged hulls of these small boats.

As we continued further, past seemingly endless numbers of cottages, motels, and liquor stores, we finally reached North Truro, not far from Provincetown. By then the rain had slowed to a drizzle and we set up our fire and tent for the evening. Sleep came easily after a long day and a few Naragansett's.

I awoke at 5:30, the tent filled with the relentless, dull, light of another overcast day. Paralyzed and compelled by the cold, I decided to explore the beach, remembering our campground's signs. Sliding into the cold, rigid 14 ounce denim of my jeans, I was invigorated in a manner not unlike running into the ocean. I quietly climbed out from the tent, once again grateful for bringing my Patagonia down jacket and frustrated for leaving it's sibling shell and car keys inaccessible.

My joints stiff from the long drive the day before, I trudged towards the corner of camp where signs pointed to the beach.

The sandy trail meandered through lichen covered pines.

Sustained and soothed by the cold, moisture-laden wind that was sure to be an onshore breeze from just beyond the dunes, I continued on. Eventually reaching the beach, I passed parked cars; their drivers sitting comfortably inside with a hot mug of coffee and the day's paper.

The mist formed not by low clouds, but by a thick mixture of spray and sand relentlessly battering the shore. At this moment I appreciated the weather-sealing on my new camera; the body and lens accumulating beads of saltwater as quickly as I could wipe them off.

I am always invigorated by the ocean. The texture of the air. The smell. The sound. The elements are intoxicating.

I sat on a piece of driftwood, silently enjoying the ruggedness of the coast until my hair was soaked and my jeans clung to my legs like a plaster cast, stiff and saturated by the ocean. Inside my Bean Boots and my layers of flannel, fleece, and down, my feet and torso remained warm and dry. This was not the Cape Cod I visited as a child.

Beautiful in it's own right, but equally miserable we followed Vampire Weekend's sage advice from "Walcott." We ran north to Maine; encouraged by the promise of blue skies and warmer temperatures.

The best souvenirs are found, not purchased.

The Burning House- revisited

2011-05-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

I realized that the previous "Burning House" picture was not an accurate reflection of what I would probably take in that situation. Careful, but brief, reflection and a distinct sense of urgency are important elements I failed to incorporate in my decision.

Looking back at my initial response, I realized those were all things I don't want to get rid of, but not necessarily things I would really have wish I kept.

What will you be glad you have in a month? A year? Five years? Ten?

A lobster buoy from my road trip, camera lenses (and the unseen camera), computer, car keys, monogrammed belt buckle, handmade Sutherland handkerchief, an unfinished painting, favorite shoes, picture of my grandfather, and my great grandfather's sword. These are the things I know I'll be glad I kept.

The Burning House

2011-05-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

The flooding Mississippi is just a reminder that calamity can strike at any time. The sanctuary of homeostasis and a comfortable home is easily interrupted.

If your house was burning down, what would you take with you?

Foster Huntington, writer of my favorite blog, A Restless Transplant, asks this thought-provoking question. The responses are multi-faceted in both content and philosophy. What's most important to you? What can't you let go of? Or in my case, if I had an opportunity to get rid of everything, what would be most important for me to keep? What do I use?

Foster's creation of The Burning House was ironically timed. I've always felt as if I had too much stuff; however, I've always used it at one time or another. Yet, for the past two months I've been entertaining the thought of significantly simplifying my life. We are encumbered by our possessions, our relationships, and our past. What we carry with us is in many ways just as much of a deliberate decision as it is not. The act of removing clutter- emotional, psychological, and physical, alike, isn't easy, though.

As I prepare to pack for a four week trip to Europe and moving back to Bloomington just days after my return, I'm given the opportunity to reassess myself and my relationships with my possessions.

Catharsis.

What do I need? What do I want? What do I use? If I were to walk away today, what would I bring?

Though the hypothetical situation would demand quick thinking and action, I can only imagine that the others who have and who will respond, like myself, spent more than thirty seconds looking around their room. Moments after I sent Foster my response, I felt as if I should have retracted it and sent a new one. The jeans and OCBD I'm always wearing. The money clip, wallet, and pocket square already in my back pocket. My car keys. My belt buckle. My camera and lenses. My Computer. My loafers.

Not looking back is easy; it's walking away that's the hard part.

Three weeks.

2011-05-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

Reflecting on three months of posting on DeTOx, and my favorite pictures from the past three weeks, a consistent lack of direction is evident, and irrelevant. Our boredom is often a decision, whether or not we choose to concede this fact. Look around. Light. Color. Pattern. Texture. The oft overlooked, the unique, and the overly familiar.

Here's to three more months and not being bored.

Abandoned.

Hop. Hop. Hop.

Ben's.

For Endres.

Armed and Angry.

"I don't care anymore."

Rooftops.

Want.

The light and dark side of parquet.

Yours truly.

More color amongst the grey. Evanston.

Shooting Sakura.

2011-04-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

"Let's make it 5 o'clock instead of 6."

My uncle invited me to accompany him to shoot the Cherry Blossoms in early April. As we set up our cameras, more and more photographers appeared from the darkness, taking their positions between the cherry blossoms, all eyes on the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial sitting just across.

I don't know how many times I've watched the sun set in D.C. This was the first time I watched it rise.

It grew crowded quickly and tempers flared as photographers bumped elbows.

At work.

If you're in the right spot, you can watch the sun rise at Jefferson's feet. Minute by minute, we watched the light evolve as the sun inched its way skyward.

Asian hilarity. Good luck with that model release. Oh wait...

The model's real entourage.

We capped off eight hours of shooting in proper fashion, with a good burger and a cold beer, a ritual that started on a fly fishing trip between third and fourth grade. My first trout, my first real burger, and now my first sunrise by the monuments and cherry blossoms. You never forget your first...

like a billy goat.

2011-04-19T14:25:00.000-07:00

My love for the outdoors has been obfuscated by an undeniable infatuation with shell cordovan, selvage denim, and oxford cloth; materials promising consistency and predictable evolution after years spent with feelings of the opposite. Growing up, my happiest days were spent out in the woods or by the water. I honed my fire building and survival knowledge in Sedona, at age 11, inspired not by pyromaniacal fancy, but rather a tattered, old copy of a survival guide lost in the move back east.

Some of my best times in high school were spent on the climbing wall in a renovated barn on my boarding schools' grounds, laughing and learning about ourselves and the sport. Accessibility, not acrophobia, delayed my return to climbing in college; scarcity continues to impede it.

Playing hide and seek with the Potomac as we drove along MacArthur Boulevard,, the spring air calmly blew through open windows and BWmF sang along with Leftover Crack as we neared the park.The winding road encouraged acceleration, but the prude speed limit and cyclists cautioned otherwise. A vintage roadster driving behind us seemed to share our frustration.

After a quick scramble up to the highest point at Great Falls, a phone call brought us back to reality and the road where our friends waited at another different canal access point. Good thing park access is still free.

The Billy Goat Trail part A. Online guides will say you need hiking boots or athletic shoes. Probably a good idea, but BWmF's Sperry chukkas and my LL Bean camp mocs proved perfectly capable.

Climbing alongside the Potomac brought me back to the adventure camps of my youth.

BWmF not spotting DF

Better judgment reminded me that more problems emerge with the descent and after a few minutes examining a route up the (unseen) river side of this outcropping, we moved onward. I would love to return with climbing shoes, chalk bag, and crash pad.

A poorly picked route through one section required some rather comical maneuvering.

I was warned against biting geese, but survived without zoom.

A farewell to the trail and the day.

As we returned home we reminisced about our days spent fishing and biking, over a decade ago, and promised to explore more (both dirt and concrete) in my remaining months.

A hint of color among the grey

2011-04-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday, like much of April, was undistinguished with lifeless, grey skies and continuous showers. My partner in crime, BWmF, having just returned from a long trip to the Pacific Northwest, said we should skip our early week ritual of happy hour at Pizzeria Paradiso, thus sparing ourselves and our denim, a good soak. Better weather will come.

I looked skyward at 5 o'clock and was greeted by the sun, now happily shining amidst thin patches of cumulus. A gentle breeze replaced the seemingly ceaseless rain from the hours prior, but the cool, wet air remained, beckoning my favorite jacket, a bright green Patagonia shell with six years of loyal service.

Invigorated by the sunlight, clouds, and reunion with a month-absent friend over good beer, I rushed onto the Metro with a third mutual friend, DF.

Color among the grey.

I love colored trench coats.

Back in Georgetown.

Returning to Pizzeria Paradiso in Georgetown after a month-long absence felt like coming home. I've always sought to establish a familiarity with certain restaurants, BWmF and my licenses going unchecked suggests we've accomplished just that. We skipped pizza as almost every beer selected for the week at "hops" in its description. After progressing from IPA to Imperial, to Black IPA, I led the way to the waterfront, camera in hand.

Forgot a tripod.

Rosslyn and the Key Bridge

Charleston Pt. 3

2011-04-07T15:03:00.000-07:00

Last set of photos from Charleston.

Primary Colors.

Want.

Clever.

Less so.

So much left to see.

I'll definitely be going back.

Charleston Pt. 2-The Battery and Bowens Island

2011-04-07T06:08:00.000-07:00

Along The Battery, it's about what is there- what can be seen behind the iron gates of these Antebellum estates, and what can be imagined as being hidden from view.

History.

Morning light.

Details.

Oink.

Extravagance.

Legacy.

Principle: Strive to harmoniously integrate architecture and surroundings.
Reason: Creating cohesiveness between architecture and nature promotes aesthetic harmony; the sense that things are as they should be.

At Bowens Island, it's about what isn't there...

Irony: "Sophisticate"

He's everywhere. Eight days.

Affordable seafood. A simple menu. Countless names written on the walls. "People either like it or they don't." - May Bowen

This is another must see if you ever make it down to Charleston and I'll leave it at that.

Charleston Chews, Brews, and Views Pt. 1

2011-03-30T22:25:00.000-07:00

I have no need to describe my affinity for the Atlantic. I'm fond of the culture (both above and below the Mason-Dixon line), the food, the history, and the cities which define the East Coast as somewhere other than the home of New York, and more regrettably, the point-source pollution that Long Island and north Jersey relentlessly produce.

Principle: Eat local as often as possible, especially whilst travelling.
Reasoning: Support local business? Sure. Search for heritage, tradition, and integrity through local flavors, ingredients, and culture? Definitely.

Provide a domestically-produced superior (or at least competitive) product or service and I will be forever loyal; it's about heritage, tradition, and integrity. It's why I wear and prize my Aldens and Made in USA shirts by the Brethren and J. Press.

Last week I had the opportunity to spend four days in Charleston, SC. I jumped at the chance and ~550 miles later stepped out of the car and into (unexpected) southern heat. Thank you Weather Channel, you were only off by 10+ degrees. Not so funny when I come expecting to continue breaking in new denim all week and have just one other pair of (red) shorts in my bag.

Remedy Roses

Lunch: The Remedy Market on Spring- Owned by a young couple with a retriever mix named "Charles Barkley", they offer a light menu of sandwiches, salads, natural drinks, and craft beers. It's a small place, conducive to speaking with other customers and the owner. Victory's Hop Devil IPA and fresh roses kept my tuna melt with gouda company.

Dinner: Gilligan's. Uninspired, but acceptable seafood. Dinner wasn't so much a failure as an exercise in mediocrity, but we ran into some excellent advice while there. After asking a local for the dive-iest, dirtiest, most hole-in-the-wall seafood place around, he told us about a place that his family used to run out by Folly Beach.

The good news is that it's still open and doing quite well, the bad news is that his family no longer has any connections to the restaurant, "They got a sign now, but that's only been up a few years. You know you're on your way when you hit the dirt road."

Drinks: The Gin Joint. Apologies for being camera-less at the time, but if you're ever in Charleston, the $10 is well worth the artfully mixed cocktails they have on their menu. This brief mention really doesn't do the place justice; you'll just have to go for yourself.

Bacon and toast are the stars of this meal.

Breakfast: Halo. I must admit, while I enjoy toast, I've never been excited about it. Breakfast at Halo changed this. The multigrain loaf from the nearby Ashley Bakery produced the best toast I've ever had. Ever. Good prices and service after the breakfast cutoff time mean I'll definitely go back next time I'm in town.

Lunch/Dinner: The Crab Shack. Slow service. Free peanuts. Beware the Charlie Melt or bring Tums and Lipitor. Fortunately I don't need either, but some might.

In any town, I seek out places that locals know about and visitors try to keep secret; a true hole-in-the-wall or dive is worth its weight in gold.

To be continued...

Surprise from the Sky

2011-03-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

Gifts are better late than never.

This took too many attempts, just like Foster, of A Restless Transplant, said it would.

Inside this iconic box is a sterling silver engine turned belt buckle with my four initials engraved on it. I've always wanted one, but I felt as if such items were best received as celebratory gifts. In my case, this one is for my college graduation; quite suiting, I think.

Though I enjoy the idea, which an acquaintance of mine once followed, of engraving something ironic (in his case "BROKE") on a belt buckle, I feel as if I should own one with my initials on it, first.

My mom mentioned that she used to have one from my grandfather; however, it's since gone missing. I hope it turns up someday, even if I have my own. Such things are best enjoyed when passed down generation to generation.

Failure on the Eastern Shore

2011-03-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, BWmF, JJ, and friends accompanied me on an expedition to Calvert Cliffs State Park on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake. Neither BWmF or I had been in the better part of a decade, but we'd gone a few times together back in elementary and middle school. Fossil hunting on one of the sunniest days in February should have been a nice change of pace, if it weren't for the tides and the wind.

BWmF

The two mile hike from the parking lot to the beach was pleasant. The sunlight shone clearly through the trees, illuminating the salt marsh and revealing sliders sunning on logs just beyond the reach of my 35mm lens. If the wind wasn't sign enough that we were in for a tedious experience on the shore, we passed a group of people armed with buckets, shovels, sieves, and waders looking dejected and tired as they passed us on the trail.

We were greeted by high tide and violent winds that whipped sand in sporadic bursts across the couple hundred yards of open beach. Thirty foot cliffs on both sides of the beach intensified the onshore winds and the four of us hid behind sunglasses and hoods. My D70S stayed safely in the bottom of a zip-top LL Bean tote, Diana should have made an appearance (but didn't), and I only thought to take two quick shots with my Droid X once on the beach.

Margot's final effort.

BWmF before the log crossing

An hour of lackadaisical digging and sifting of the sand produced not a single shark tooth between the four of us. BWmF and I reminded ourselves that we weren't in Aurora, NC, a town that seems to be built on fossil-rich river sediment. After a picnic, sponsored by Wawa, we returned home disappointed, empty-handed, and sandy. Sometimes, that's just how it goes.

Love in Bloomington.

2011-03-11T09:36:00.000-08:00

Bloomington is a wonderful place in the summer; social circles expand, fraternity rivalries and hostility evanesce, scores of college kids hurl themselves into quarries, and romance blossoms.

I fell in love almost three years ago in the summer of '08. I was seduced by the promise of a new experience; something intimate and familiar, yet rustically exotic. It was the allure of something honest, local, and secret.

I was introduced to a fine Bloomington tradition that summer- Hinkle's. This burger joint (shack?) isn't physically hidden like The Burger Joint in Le Parker Meridien Hotel, but you don't end up eating there by accident. Within its walls is an experience that is best shared with close friends, one of whom must possess a car. Upon entering, you won't hear much beyond the hiss of the flat top and a request for your order, "dear." People don't come here to talk; they come to eat.

Hinkles x Diana

The menu is simple, just like the burgers, and I never find myself tempted to get anything else. It helps that they only accept cash. The burger is a beautifully thin, savory patty with the perfect amount of caramelizing; slightly crispy, yet still tender. The white onions are pressed into the burger as they grill, thus simultaneously infusing their flavor and texture into the experience. The pickles add the perfect amount of saltiness to the mix.

My order? One double, one single (cheeseburger of course) with onions, pickles, and mayo.

Note: I don't care who you are, every burger joint-style burger should have mayo on it.

The day before I graduated, like I did any other time before an extended departure from town, I stopped by for my usual order. They knew I was leaving, but I had to explain I wasn't coming back. The sense of community and loyalty only added to the Hinkle's experience and I waxed nostalgic as I contemplated my burger.

Alas, experiencing true love isn't a once in a lifetime experience. I know I fell in love, again, just a week ago. You can have it ground fresh Monday-Friday, 10 to 4, provided they don't run out of meat. Make sure you get onions and pickles or you'll find yourself on the receiving end of some rather embarrassing announcements about your condiment choice from the 4'8" 70-some year old powerhouse that takes your order. (Read: "Who's the pussy who didn't order onions?")

There's a long history to Hinkle's and while I could take the time trying to retell its story, I think it's best told by the newspaper clippings on the wall. If you ever find yourself in Bloomington, IN, look the place up and order a double cheeseburger with onions and pickles; it's not Hinkle's if you have it any other way.

Analog, Lo-Fi, or Film. A tale of two cameras.

2011-02-15T22:13:00.000-08:00

Learn to let go. No instant feedback. No retakes. Just click, wind, repeat.

Shoot analog. Shoot digital. Take more pictures.

I recently inherited a D70S from my uncle, the professional photographer. No lens, but six batteries. As I hunted for a lens, I remembered in my dad's office, lay a forgotten Nikon FM. Metal camera and lens body. It's heavy, but in a good way; the heft suggests durability and resilience like Harris tweed or shetland wool. It's an acquired taste.

"Grab some black and white film, wake up early, and head down to Georgetown. Shoot some doors", my uncle suggested. I just might.

The 50mm F/1.4- I love the colored aperture labels.

I've enjoyed shooting with this for the past week on the D70S, but it's a bit long for a walk-around lens (on the DX sensor) so I bought a 35mm F/1.8.

Rewind 6 months. Camera-less and bored, I bought a Diana Mini (I refuse to call it Mini Diana) at the start of Fall semester. Not yet willing to buy a DSLR at that point, and unwilling to buy a point and shoot when I had 8MP in my pocket, I finally decided it could be fun to shoot with one of the numerous (and dreadfully trendy) plastic cameras on the market.

Capable of shooting up to 72 pictures in a half-frame format on a roll of 35mm film, I not only had to relinquish control of my photos, but also needed a few months to finish a roll.

Now I shoot mostly full-frame pictures on this.

Using such a primitive device forces you to re-evaluate your expectations. There are a number of times I've been frustrated with the outcome, operation, and limited capabilities of the camera, but I'm starting to realize therein lies the fun of it. There's a time and a place for any camera, but at any time and place you should have a camera.

Think less, shoot more.

Digital or Analog.

A quick trip to Harper's Ferry.

2011-02-14T20:46:00.000-08:00

My friends and I made an extemporaneous trip out to HF, WV on Saturday afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised, having totally forgotten where Harper's Ferry was, when I was last there, and how to get there, that it was only a forty minute trip.

Growing up (mostly) in the D.C. area, I had the opportunity to visit numerous historical sites during my childhood. Gettysburg, Antietam, Williamsburg, Roanoke, St. Mary's, and Harper's Ferry, just to name a few. HF is a little town nestled just across the Maryland border in West Virginia and home to a beautiful and unique view of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, re-creations of historic stores, interesting buildings (including a post office/police station/liquor store visible upon entering town), and (supposedly) a fair number of ghosts. There's enough to keep visitors occupied for a few hours, that is, if you don't arrive at 4:30PM on a Saturday.

It was a bit late in the day by the time we left, and a bit later by the time we arrived, but we figured we could hang around and get a ghost tour at 8. We didn't. We figured that we could grab dinner in town. We didn't. It turns out the last restaurant closes at 6. Fortunately, the views were worth the drive home on an empty stomach.

Mostly hidden by the shade of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the last hours of sunlight didn't offer any refuge from the cold temperatures. Walking through the empty streets, the winds blew gently, but relentlessly from across the river. As we shivered our way back towards the car, JJ decided this was just the time to come here- when the streets are empty, the skies are clear, and the town is yours.

How'd they paint that sign?

BWmF x Hans Solo in Carbonite fade.

Photography notes to myself: Stopping down would have helped on 85% of the pictures I took, but I think shooting wide open made this last picture perfect.

JJxPolaroid Spirit

A little "Sumpin' Sumpin'", a Celebration, and some phenomenal pizza

2011-02-09T21:16:00.000-08:00

It was 1997. Ages ago, I know. I was in 3rd grade and one afternoon my mother told me she quit.

My childhood thus far had been marked by endless, but thoughtful (so I'm told) questions. I was a precocious little guy, thirsty for information on anything and everything. My mother did her best to oblige, but as with anyone, eventually ran out of answers. When she closed up shop, instead of expressing abject annoyance, she candidly explained to me the inherent futility of asking her esoteric questions.

Several days later I came home from school to find a number of boxes on the floor of my bedroom containing the World Book Encyclopedia. Today, I've had as many as forty-four tabs running in a single Google Chrome window. Such behavior is undoubtedly the evolution of a similar habit, my fanned, multi-volume approach to encyclopedia browsing I utilized on my bedroom floor.

I recently realized, over superlative beers and pizza with a close friend, not only my comfort with intensive research, but my proclivity for doing so. No matter what the subject, I've always sought to deeply immerse myself in hobbies. Knowledge, and more importantly the process of seeking and attaining it for myself, is a value on which I pride myself; however, over the past few years it's been substance vs. experience and I'm starting to wonder if my recent frustration is rooted in finally acknowledging the source of my preference for the sustainable/repeatable (material) over the ephemeral/unique (empirical).

On a lighter note- good beer and pizza are two things that possess both qualities- ephemeral and repeatable. Pizzeria Paradiso, in Georgetown (Dupont and Arlington have restaurants as well), is home to a great happy hour for their draughts and some of the best Neapolitan-style pizza I've ever eaten. The crust perfectly balances the light, flakey crispiness, characteristic of such pizzas, but still manages a chewy interior. My favorite is a modified "Atomica" with tomatoes, salami, pancetta (instead of black olives), red pepper flakes, and a healthy serving of gooey, perfectly melted fresh mozzarella.

The Atomica via D70S, old Nikon 50mm F/1.4, shot wide-open. My photography needs work, but shooting at F/1.4 is nice in low-lit restaurants.

I'm a hop-fiend. While BWmF enjoyed his Lagunitas Sumpin' Sumpin' Ale, I contemplated the curiously sweet and citrusy Founder's Celebration IPA.