pixpopuli – blog

I’m not an audiophile, but I do like tinkering, and that’s why I began a project to build my own turntable for playing vinyl records. That project is ongoing, and I’ll report on it in more detail at a later date. But this penchant for tinkering has also spilled over into the realm of photography, and since the early days, I’ve indulged in attempts to make various bits of photographic equipment.

My first enlarger, cobbled together in my bedroom when I was a teenager, used items salvaged from a model railway and a telescope. A section of track served as the column (the enlarger was laid out horizontally instead of vertically). I can’t remember what I used as a light source, but I remember the lens was the objective lens from a telescope, and was mounted on an open box car from the model railway. I would move it forth and back along the track until the image was in focus, and then put some photographic paper at the appropriate location for exposure. It actually produced recognizable images, though none of them survive. This would have been some time in the 1960s.

More recently, I must have received a blow to the head, or perhaps someone laced my tea with LSD, because it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good idea to learn to repair cameras “in my spare time”. At the time I had been grimly resisting what I perceived to be a lemming like rush toward the cliffs of digital photography, holding on for dear life to the old equipment and the old ways of doing things.

To this end, I did some research and found a suitable candidate camera, the Pentax ME. In short order I had a collection of these, all non-working, which would serve as sacrificial lambs. I bought some essential tools and set to work.

To begin with, I tackled a couple of lenses. At a swap meet, I found a Pentax 24mm lens that was completely clouded by internal fungus on multiple elements. Otherwise, it was in excellent condition. I disassembled it until I had access to all the affected elements, and was able to clean them almost completely. The fungus had left no permanent damage, except that it had removed some the coating on one internal surface. I put it back together, and found that it would no longer focus to infinity. Disassemble and reassemble. Again. Now it would focus to infinity, but there was a fingerprint on one of the elements. Disassemble, clean, and reassemble. Third time was the charm, and I sold it for a good price. That was encouraging.

Another lens was a 28mm Kiron that someone gave me. There was something wrong with the focusing mechanism, making the barrel impossible to turn. Other than that, it seemed very clean. I pulled it apart and found that the lubricant was all gummed up inside. I cleaned out the old gunk and re-lubricated it, and it was right as rain. Another success.

But that’s about as far as it went. I put my dead cameras aside while I worked on other projects, and gradually forgot about them. I bought a working ME  from a pawn shop, and had it cleaned and calibrated. I wanted to use it for a while to see if it would serve as the basis for a complete SLR system. I collected a few lenses, and it seemed to be working out fine, until I took it to NYC one long weekend.

On my return I discovered that the meter was on the fritz, and had ruined most of my shots. I had also begun to resent the time spent at the color lab, dropping film off, waiting for processing and picking it up again. And I was growing frustrated with hours spent numbering and filing negatives, laboriously scanning them, removing dust specs in photoshop. I was painfully aware that I wouldn’t have to do any of it if I would just switch to digital.

So began the process of getting rid of all my film cameras. I’m not done yet, but getting there gradually. This week I finally sold my collection of dead Pentax ME bodies, and now only a few bits and pieces remain. Goodbye ME, and goodbye waiting in line at the color lab. Goodbye cutting negatives into fives and numbering them. Goodbye scanning, and goodbye spotting. Goodbye loupe and lightbox. Goodbye film.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of this new Leica.

Did I pick it up here, at this fast food joint, as I sat waiting for my order, experimenting with shakeitphoto to pass the time? They have a bench where you wait for take-out orders, and it was occupied by a man and his young child. I took their place when they got up to leave, and I remember wondering whether that kid was carrying swine flu.

As I waited, I made a few photographs, including this one of a woman who came to the counter to complain. I remember trying not to touch anything in the restaurant. On the way out I waited until someone entered, so I could exit without touching the handle.

I don’t know why I’ve been so anxious about catching something this year. We first heard of the H1N1 while we were in Australia, but didn’t think much of it at the time. A couple of weeks ago, I tried to get a flu shot from my doctor, but none was available.

And now, I am infected, but not, apparently, with swine flu. It seems to be a run of the mill gut infection, which in Australia might be called gastroenteritis, or ‘gastro’ for short. In the US they call it stomach flu. Whatever you call it, it’s rather unpleasant. It’s been years since I had such an illness, and I’m glad of that.

I kept looking for ways to interpret my symptoms as swine flu, but in the end it just didn’t add up. So, in order to maintain at least a semblance of melodrama, I’ll just call it the Miasma, and picture myself fading away as if I had been written by Thomas Mann.

And so, the Miasma seems to have been creeping about the house like an invisible intruder. Suddenly, I have a designated drinking glass, and I’m noticing more hand washing than usual. And then, Florence (as in Nightingale) decides it would be best if she were to sleep in the spare room, for the time being. The time being being until the Miasma has passed. I haven’t checked, but I think she also put a biohazard sign on the front door. I’m still allowed contact with the dogs, probably because they are of such vigorous constitution that they would give smallpox the plague before succumbing to anything themselves.

The treatment, to begin with, was rest, fluids, and alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen. These didn’t seem to have any effect on the progress of the sickness. Rather, they exchanged one kind of discomfort for another. Apparently, medicated discomfort is somehow preferable to god given discomfort, but the precise way in which it is better eludes me at the moment. After a day of no measurable improvement, Florence visited the apothecary and obtained some medicinal herbs, assuring me that they would stem the flow, or calm the waters, or hold back the tides, or some metaphor that unites the concepts of stopping and liquid.

Now I’m not one to pooh pooh the wonders of modern medicinal herbs, but I’ve seen these herbs before. Only then they were in the form of a disgusting pink potion, instead of these innocent looking tablets. And every time I drank that potion, it seemed to have no effect at all.

Nevertheless, I had (more or less involuntarily) adopted the role of patient, and it only made sense to do Flo’s bidding. And she insisted that I take the herbs. Being in the end a biddable man, I agreed to be bidden. I am forever in debt to Flo. Thanks, Flo!

While she was out fetching and carrying, Flo also went to Canter’s to get some Jewish Penicillin. This remedy is one in which I have developed inestimable faith, and I was in no way reluctant to partake, despite the protestations of my inner tubes.

In addition, as evidenced by this photo, which shows my entire nutritional input for a 24 hour period, I prescribed myself what I shall hereby name Australian Penicillin.

Certainly when I was ill as a child, which was often, my mother would dispense this treatment with alacrity. The only more common remedy was tea, which was used for all purposes, medicinal and otherwise:

Australia won the fifth test.
Alright, I’ll put the kettle on.

The Americans have put a man on the moon.
Oh wonderful, I’ll just put the kettle on.

India just won the fifth test.
Hmm, let’s have a cuppa.

It’s raining.
That’s nice dear, I’ll just put the kettle on.

It’s stopped raining.
Another cup?

Mum, my girlfriend dumped me.
Ah well. Cup of tea?

Dad, Ryan and Walker have been recaptured.
Good son, tell your mother to put the kettle on.

At least one of these remedies seems to have done the trick. The gurglings and rumblings and explosions seem to have abated. The temperature is hovering around normal, and the brain seems once more functional. As much as I’d like to give credit to the medicinal herbs, I feel I must attribute this improvement to the double dose of ethnic penicillin.

But although I feel better, the Miasma is still evident. Flo has insisted that I strip the bed and incinerate the sheets and blankets. You can never be too sure, she said, and of course you can’t. She still refuses to kiss me, except on the top of the head. I guess she thinks the Miasma particles are not attracted to the top of the head. The dogs seem glad to regain access to both their sofas, as I had been occupying one of them on and off. I thought I would be able to go to work this morning, but received a “Not so fast” reminder from my body, and thought it best to keep my coding pants (a.k.a pyjamas) on and work from home instead.

I’m sure that come tomorrow, the Miasma will have passed, and I’ll be back at work carving monuments of code from granite boulders. Probably. In the meantime, I think I’ll just put the kettle on.

Orly Taitz is the gift that just keeps on giving.

A couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.

The lights are on, but nobody’s home.

A few roos loose in the top paddock.

A few beers short of a six-pack

One brick short of a load

A few fish short of a hatstand

Not playing with a full deck

As crazy as a sack full of ferrets

Out to lunch

Nutty as a fruit cake

Mad as a hatter

The elevator doesn’t go to the top floor

Not the sharpest knife in the drawer

Not firing on all six cylinders

I said goodbye to Clam today. It was sad, we go way back. Let’s see… my first Mac was Elsie. Geddit? Then came this guy, when I wanted more Mac purity. The next was.. well, let’s just call her Melissa.

(For those among you of the Geek persuasion, we’re still in Motorola 68K territory here.)

Melissa was my first lap-top. She came via an ad in Craigslist, bought to my doorstep by

a striking and portly old Sikh
whose ears were so terribly meek
that he hid them in roses!
for one thing he knows is
just how to treat ears that are weak.

He was some kind of Doctor or Homeopath. Looked wealthy. Me, I was poor, studying for my Philosophy degree and in need of a computer I could take to the library. It was a situation; one with lots of winning. I think I paid $750. And those were real dollars.

And now we come to clam. Ah Clammy boy. Wherefore art thou Clammy? Unfortunately, some years ago Clammy was put out to pasture. I contemplated getting rid of him numerous times, even looking at prices on eBay to see how much I might get for him. But each time I faltered. Finally about a year ago, I realized it was enough. He can’t just sit in the closet all day. Dammit Clammy, everyone has to work and nobody wants to work with you because you can’t run the latest Mac OS.

Clammy sez: “But I can maybe run Linux?”
Me: what for?
Clammy: you know, to do your experiments. Your special scientific investigations.
Me: Stop looking at your fingers. Now listen! I’m going to let you stay if you can run Linux and I can find something useful to do with you.

Fast forward to now. Like when you realize you’ve been daydreaming. You’ve more or less dozed off with your eyes open. You’re a thousand miles away, and suddenly you realize it. You scramble to find your way back, and its like fast forward till now. This moment, right here, is like that. And Clammy has had linux installed for about a year, and I haven’t found anything useful for him to do. And Clammy has been advertised on eBay, been auctioned, and sold. And then paid for.

And then sent away.

These guys have been helping me with my work.

Front & center is Mr. Coffee. He’s generally not around much these days, because he likes to party late at night. But an exception was made today, because there was left-over Halloween candy in the kitchen. Among the candy was chocolate, which I understand is forbidden to eat without coffee. On the left is my old nemesis, Mr Water. A tricky bugger is Mr. Water, because he never tells me when he needs attention, which leads me to ignore him, and by the end of the day I’m tending towards the psychotic as I hit the freeway home. In the back are a couple of hasbeens, but I keep them around to remind me to stay topped up.

In the wayback, lurking in the corner, is Mr Fibre Channel Loopback Connector. The less said about him, the better.