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Anybody out there?

Am I wastin' my time writing this blog?

I don't get many readers here, and rarely get comments on the stuff that I post. It's a little discouraging.

Admittedly, my posts are all over the map. One day I might write about the Kennedy assassination. Another day I might write about baseball. On another, I might write about picking up litter, or about toilets.

So there is a certain inconsistency. Readers probably don't like that. They probably like to have an inkling of what they might be in for, before they stop by on a regular basis.

But I like it the way it is. It's why the little LUNG blurb at right calls this thing a free-form blog. It's no way to build a readership, I don't reckon.

Apparently, it's no way to invite comments, either. I rarely have much response to any of my posts, even when I'm crass enough to solicit them.

And yet, I enjoy writing these things – even if my readership is so low as to be immeasurable. I check the statistics that Blogspot makes available, and see that there are a few posts that get a modest amount of attention. (See "popular posts" at right, beneath the blog archive.)

So I'll keep at it. And if you're reading this – well, thanks for stopping by! Don't hesitate to come again!

So Much to Read, So Little Time

Sometimes I despair that I'll ever find enough time to read all the stuff I want to read.

When that happens, I remind myself that, barring some unspeakable something or other, I'm probably going to grow way old (longevity being in my genes) and end up with plenty of time on my hands.

So the time will find me.

Paradoxically, I'm just as likely to despair that there isn't enough stuff I want to read.

Am I full of it, or what?

I started thinking about this earlier today when I heard a brief portion of an interview on the radio. An author was talking about the Civil War. He said something about the South being the aggressor at the Battle of Fort Sumter; something about Lincoln sending an unarmed supply ship to said fort, thereby forcing the South to either let the ship through on humanitarian grounds, or attack an unarmed vessel. They chose the latter course of action.

I'm sure it isn't nearly so simple.

In the interview (actually a podcast of Fresh Air) the author was plugging his new book, 1861. I wanted more details, but lamented the fact that I'd never have the time to read that book. Not anytime soon, that is. There's just too much stuff on my plate right now.

Then I lamented the fact that I don't know much about the Civil War.

But I take comfort in knowing that one day, I should have plenty of time to read, and there are innumerable subjects that interest me. And innumerable books on each of these topics.

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What about you? Please give me your thoughts on this matter.

Related topic: I want to read real books. I'm not a fan of e-readers!

New Camera

Another from the file: True Tales of Detroit, circa 1988 or so (!!) [All present-tense references are thus very, very dated. Also, parts of it take place outside of Motown.]

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Many years ago, during a visit to Washington DC, I stepped off a subway train. As I made my way toward the exit, I realized my camera bag, with all its contents, was still on the train. I dashed back to the platform but was too late: the train was gone, and my trusty camera (along with film, flash unit, second lens, and Vietnam MIA t-shirt stuffed into a side pouch) went, quite literally, down the tubes.

(Photo by someone other than me)

So my first-ever trip to the nation’s capital was essentially undocumented. There would be no photographs of Kennedy’s grave at Arlington, where I stood with strangers beneath dripping trees, waiting on the rain.

And no pictures of the Vietnam memorials. I'd shot two rolls of film, but they’d been in the camera bag and were gone now. Gone, like the soldiers whose names appeared on the shiny granite slabs. At the base of the monument I had discovered a letter, open, left by a veteran. My doomed macro lens had focused up close, so a few lines could be read, and I snapped the shutter.

Then I picked the letter up and read it. The writer said he was the only member of his unit to survive a particular engagement with the enemy. He still wondered why. And he told his dead buddies that he would meet them all someday, in hell. I don’t recall whether the document was signed.

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"When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!" So goes the tired Ann Landersism; it bounced around my brain, along with the word “Nikon,” as I thought about my departed Pentax. I resolved to replace my missing camera with a better machine.

It didn’t take long, either. I had been back in Detroit for about a week, and still hadn’t received all the bills from my visit to Washington, when I walked into a camera store. My intention was to just look around, and sniff out a few prices. But a particular machine caught my eye, a 15-year-old Nikon-F – “A real camera!” the salesman said. And against my better judgment I wrote out a check for the amount due, and left the store with a new camera tucked under my arm.

I raced home to read through the owner’s manual and load up with film, my mind plotting an afternoon photo session. I skimmed through the booklet, gathering just enough for a basic understanding of my new picture-gun. Then it was off to the car for a drive downtown, to open fire on an unsuspecting city.

First stop: the People Mover, a multi-million dollar mass transit system, which at the time had been open for less than a year. I’d ridden the 2.9 mile loop around the downtown area a number of times already; it afforded spectacular views of the city. So I parked my car near the Greektown station, paid my fifty cents, and climbed on board. With scarcely a jolt, the car moved out, humming on its electric track.

The photography was actually pretty simple. Shots seemed to frame themselves, as vintage 19th century buildings came in and out of view. Detroit suffers from a dreadful national image, due to crime, mismanagement, graft, and general urban decay. But from an average height of thirty or so feet, it is downright beautiful.

A man who appeared to be a professional photographer boarded the train, loaded down with photo gadgets and accessories. A big photo bag was slung over one shoulder, a couple of cameras were around his neck, and an assistant lugged a tripod and other gear. All I had was a ratty old camera bag, pressed back into active duty, and my new, used Nikon with its crummy little 50mm lens. I felt a bit intimidated, and was glad when this photographer and his second banana got off the train.

Soon I got off as well, having completed one full circuit on the People Mover system. The safety of my new camera was very much on my mind. I made sure it was tucked securely into its bag. But what if I had left it on the train? What if it had become the second of my cameras lost to mass transit, I mused, in a scant two weeks? The irony would have been too great, and I would surely have flung myself headlong from the platform to the ground below, breaking my head open at last, and spilling its absurd contents onto the sidewalk. Passersby would be horrified at the gory sight; a dog would sniff curiously at the ooze seeping from my shattered skull, and perhaps take a tentative nibble.

None of that came to pass. I shot off a few more frames in the downtown area, and eventually headed uptown toward home.

I stopped off in the city’s cultural center, thinking I would take a few pictures of statues in front of the Detroit Institute of Arts. Instead I went into the public library across the street and checked out a book, John Hammond On Record, and then went back outside, where I took a snap of Copernicus, a bust of the Polish mathematician.