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Friday, April 04, 2003
Sunday, March 30, 2003
After the incident in the Home Depot parking lot (see below), I soothed my ego by going to CompUSA to buy paper for my printer. On my way to the register I spied the scanner I wanted, so I went ahead and bought it. I guess I was still riding the impulse shopping wave or something. At any rate, I got it hooked up, and I now have some Holga pictures to show you.
For those of you who are too lazy to click on the link, here's a sample picture of my brother:
This picture has all the characteristics of a Holga shot: fuzzy image, weird wavy border, and light leaks galore. I think it gives the picture a cool retro look. The other great thing about the Holga is that it uses medium format 120 film - each frame has four times the area of a 35mm frame. This means that the pictures are great for making big enlargements, as well as for faking someone's last known photo or for creating images for sale to tabloid newspapers:
Pretty cool, huh? They gave me $50 for that shot. This scanner is going to pay for itself!
For those of you who are too lazy to click on the link, here's a sample picture of my brother:
This picture has all the characteristics of a Holga shot: fuzzy image, weird wavy border, and light leaks galore. I think it gives the picture a cool retro look. The other great thing about the Holga is that it uses medium format 120 film - each frame has four times the area of a 35mm frame. This means that the pictures are great for making big enlargements, as well as for faking someone's last known photo or for creating images for sale to tabloid newspapers:
Pretty cool, huh? They gave me $50 for that shot. This scanner is going to pay for itself!
I have a confession to make: I have a real problem with Home Depot.
I suspect this might stem from the fact that I am the worst handyman ever. I know it's a terribly unmanly thing to admit, but I can't fix anything. I am completely at the mercy of entropy. I can try to repair things when they break, but there's a much greater chance that I'll just make the problem worse. I'm the guy that all of the repairmen talk about when they're tossing back beers after work:
For me, going to Home Depot is like seeing this humiliating lack of repair skill writ large. It's a giant orange monument to my inadequacy, manned by pilgrims who are constantly wondering aloud why anyone would pay to have their Blorgle washer replaced when it's so damned easy to do it yourself. Acres of tools and wood and inscrutable hardware and little fiddly metal bits that have something to do with plumbing, I think, or maybe heating, and they just assume you know how to use all this stuff and you can't ask anyone for fear of looking like an idiot and dear God get me out of this place.
I'm mentioning all of this because I had to go to Home Depot yesterday to get a present for a friend. The bad omens started before I even got inside. As I turned into the parking lot, a shadow fell across my windshield. The sun was temporarily blocked from view by a giant Ford F-350 pickup truck. It was wide and black and jacked up into the sky on giant tires. The paint was covered with masculine-looking scratches that were no doubt sustained while driving over a mountain, or maybe a bear. The bed of the truck was filled with lumber and lengths of pipe and white plastic tubs of something. The screeching sound of Aerosmith blasted from the cab. The driver, a tan guy wearing a mustache and a wife-beater, looked down on my European sports sedan with contempt as he drove past me. He seemed to sneer as he heard the strains of They Might Be Giants' "Why Does the Sun Shine?" coming from my car stereo. I got the feeling that if we were to meet face to face he would have a hard time controlling his laughter long enough to beat me up.
I parked between two Nissan pickup trucks and nervously made my way to the giant automatic doors. I expected the doors to slide open as I approached, and I nearly smacked my face on the glass when they didn't. I stammered with confusion momentarily, and then I looked up and saw the word "EXIT" painted on the door in foot-high letters. I slunk over to the entrance, hoping that no one noticed. This was not going well.
The store smelled of concrete and plastic, metal and sawdust. The entrance was dotted with outcroppings of confident-looking young employees selling various high-priced items: air conditioners, lawn mowers, air compressors, etc. I ducked into the nearest aisle to avoid their eager gazes. One look into my eyes would reveal me as a fraud, which I assume would cause them to sound some kind of alarm and eject me from the store.
I wound up in the electrical section, or maybe it was paint. I wandered amid the never-ending aisles looking for the present I had in mind. Whenever I saw another person I tried to adopt a Serious Home Improvement Look, as if I were making thousands of mental calculations about how many pounds per square inch of water pressure my Floomer nozzle could handle once I installed the dual flange inverted locknut I came for. Most of these people were wearing their own Serious Home Improvement Looks and paid me no attention. I imagined that they were all just as clueless as I was, but I decided that was unlikely.
I staggered on, the laughter of a thousand repairmen echoing in my head. The shelves were so high that I couldn't make out the tops of them, as if they were obscured by clouds. I turned a corner and saw a glimmer of light ahead of me. It was the front of the store, or possibly the Afterlife. Either way, it had to be an improvement. I raced toward it and found that it was, in fact, the front of the store. And there was the present I'd been looking for - gift cards! It was the only item in Home Depot that I was qualified to purchase for someone else. I took one off the rack and headed for the register.
On my way, I passed the Tools section. As I walked by the display of cordless hand drills, a curious feeling swept over me: I wanted one. I don't know whether my desire to own one was for practical reasons or if I simply had a good, old-fashioned manly case of power tool lust. I decided it didn't matter. Anything that got me closer to actually wanting to fix things should be encouraged. I spent about 2 minutes shopping before I grabbed one off of the shelf and high-tailed it out of there.
As I walked, I felt an odd spring in my step. I was buying tools! I suddenly felt like a member of the club. I acted very nonchalant as the cashier rang me up. I looked off into the distance and tried to project the distracted air of a professional tool user. It's true that most pros probably wouldn't waste their money on a dinky 12 volt drill like the one I was buying, so I tried to inflect my expression slightly to indicate that this was merely a backup - you know, a smaller drill to keep in my trunk for odd jobs that crop up unexpectedly, like rebuilding part of a bridge I happen to be driving over, or disassembling my car engine in the parking garage at work.
I paid the cashier and strolled out of the building into the beautiful morning sunlight. I got into the car and rolled down the windows. Perhaps I was on my way to becoming part of the Home Depot crowd. Maybe that guy in the giant truck would start to respect me. I reached down and cranked up the music. The entire parking lot was filled with the sound of accordion and xylophone:
"...the sunlight comes from our own Sun's atomic energeeeeeee..."
I blushed, turned down the volume, and tore out of the parking lot, hoping not to see any black pickups in my rearview mirror.
I suspect this might stem from the fact that I am the worst handyman ever. I know it's a terribly unmanly thing to admit, but I can't fix anything. I am completely at the mercy of entropy. I can try to repair things when they break, but there's a much greater chance that I'll just make the problem worse. I'm the guy that all of the repairmen talk about when they're tossing back beers after work:
"So this dumb sumbitch had a WRENCH and a SCREWDRIVER and a POWER SANDER and a CEMENT MIXER stuck inside the water heater! Not only that, he somehow got his watch caught on the Floomer nozzle! I had to take off the entire Bleezer Assembly just to get him loose! All he needed was a 50 cent Blorgle washer that he could have replaced in 5 minutes, but I got over $600 out of him. I told him I needed to replace the Sleenle Valve, and he's just nodding his head like he knows what I'm talking about. I didn't have the heart to tell him that there ain't no such thing as a Sleenle Valve!" [The bar is filled with the sounds of raucous laughter and back-slapping as they order another round of drinks with my $600.]
For me, going to Home Depot is like seeing this humiliating lack of repair skill writ large. It's a giant orange monument to my inadequacy, manned by pilgrims who are constantly wondering aloud why anyone would pay to have their Blorgle washer replaced when it's so damned easy to do it yourself. Acres of tools and wood and inscrutable hardware and little fiddly metal bits that have something to do with plumbing, I think, or maybe heating, and they just assume you know how to use all this stuff and you can't ask anyone for fear of looking like an idiot and dear God get me out of this place.
I'm mentioning all of this because I had to go to Home Depot yesterday to get a present for a friend. The bad omens started before I even got inside. As I turned into the parking lot, a shadow fell across my windshield. The sun was temporarily blocked from view by a giant Ford F-350 pickup truck. It was wide and black and jacked up into the sky on giant tires. The paint was covered with masculine-looking scratches that were no doubt sustained while driving over a mountain, or maybe a bear. The bed of the truck was filled with lumber and lengths of pipe and white plastic tubs of something. The screeching sound of Aerosmith blasted from the cab. The driver, a tan guy wearing a mustache and a wife-beater, looked down on my European sports sedan with contempt as he drove past me. He seemed to sneer as he heard the strains of They Might Be Giants' "Why Does the Sun Shine?" coming from my car stereo. I got the feeling that if we were to meet face to face he would have a hard time controlling his laughter long enough to beat me up.
I parked between two Nissan pickup trucks and nervously made my way to the giant automatic doors. I expected the doors to slide open as I approached, and I nearly smacked my face on the glass when they didn't. I stammered with confusion momentarily, and then I looked up and saw the word "EXIT" painted on the door in foot-high letters. I slunk over to the entrance, hoping that no one noticed. This was not going well.
The store smelled of concrete and plastic, metal and sawdust. The entrance was dotted with outcroppings of confident-looking young employees selling various high-priced items: air conditioners, lawn mowers, air compressors, etc. I ducked into the nearest aisle to avoid their eager gazes. One look into my eyes would reveal me as a fraud, which I assume would cause them to sound some kind of alarm and eject me from the store.
I wound up in the electrical section, or maybe it was paint. I wandered amid the never-ending aisles looking for the present I had in mind. Whenever I saw another person I tried to adopt a Serious Home Improvement Look, as if I were making thousands of mental calculations about how many pounds per square inch of water pressure my Floomer nozzle could handle once I installed the dual flange inverted locknut I came for. Most of these people were wearing their own Serious Home Improvement Looks and paid me no attention. I imagined that they were all just as clueless as I was, but I decided that was unlikely.
I staggered on, the laughter of a thousand repairmen echoing in my head. The shelves were so high that I couldn't make out the tops of them, as if they were obscured by clouds. I turned a corner and saw a glimmer of light ahead of me. It was the front of the store, or possibly the Afterlife. Either way, it had to be an improvement. I raced toward it and found that it was, in fact, the front of the store. And there was the present I'd been looking for - gift cards! It was the only item in Home Depot that I was qualified to purchase for someone else. I took one off the rack and headed for the register.
On my way, I passed the Tools section. As I walked by the display of cordless hand drills, a curious feeling swept over me: I wanted one. I don't know whether my desire to own one was for practical reasons or if I simply had a good, old-fashioned manly case of power tool lust. I decided it didn't matter. Anything that got me closer to actually wanting to fix things should be encouraged. I spent about 2 minutes shopping before I grabbed one off of the shelf and high-tailed it out of there.
As I walked, I felt an odd spring in my step. I was buying tools! I suddenly felt like a member of the club. I acted very nonchalant as the cashier rang me up. I looked off into the distance and tried to project the distracted air of a professional tool user. It's true that most pros probably wouldn't waste their money on a dinky 12 volt drill like the one I was buying, so I tried to inflect my expression slightly to indicate that this was merely a backup - you know, a smaller drill to keep in my trunk for odd jobs that crop up unexpectedly, like rebuilding part of a bridge I happen to be driving over, or disassembling my car engine in the parking garage at work.
I paid the cashier and strolled out of the building into the beautiful morning sunlight. I got into the car and rolled down the windows. Perhaps I was on my way to becoming part of the Home Depot crowd. Maybe that guy in the giant truck would start to respect me. I reached down and cranked up the music. The entire parking lot was filled with the sound of accordion and xylophone:
"...the sunlight comes from our own Sun's atomic energeeeeeee..."
I blushed, turned down the volume, and tore out of the parking lot, hoping not to see any black pickups in my rearview mirror.