I like to think of myself as technologically capable. But there is sometimes a little whisper in the back of my brain that says “it’s way beyond you.” I’m pretty sure these notes that reside on most electronics belonging to Roger have something to do with it. Useful to him, but to me they are reminders that nothing is quite as straightforward as it seems.Perhaps someone in the ecycling world will create poetry from them:
Records clean, monitors okay!
Does not Trans. No squelch.
Playback (sometimes) left chan noisy.
Phones and line. Open door before writing to A drive.
In case you’re not familiar, this is a Showchron flatbed film editing table.* A cutting edge piece of technology in the 70’s, it is now a behemoth in the basement. Or at least it was.
It has now been adopted by a new generation, who despite all that digital has to offer, still want to explore film. I knew they were out there.
*This is the first in a series, “Dad’s Basement Diaries.”
One benefit of film photography, in retrospect, is that it allowed us to create more bad pictures than good. Let me explain. Today I am going through several boxes bequeathed to me by my mom when she sold her house. She is still alive and well, but we have more storage space for these things than she does in her new condo. These boxes are full of photos.
Had these photos been produced digitally, it would stand to reason that they wouldn’t have been printed unless they were not only decent, but had been photoshopped, snapseeded, or otherwise paid attention to; the ones I perused today were not, neither before nor after their creation.
Of course there are some keepers in the pile, but it’s satisfying to be able to toss the majority in a trash bag and not feel the least bit compelled to consult mom on the matter. I am thankful so many of these photos are bad. And I know mom will be thankful she didn’t have to spend any time on this particular project. My suggestion for the future: Keep them in the cloud.
The other night we were joined by Roger and Sara aboard a chartered sailboat in the Sound, an evening event we acquired at a Lion’s Club auction earlier this year. Our Captain, Ed, provided safe passage to Port Madison, where we saw porpoises but lost wind. It picked back up on our return East, during which JJ had the helm most of the way.We were amazed by the bells and whistles on board that were unimaginable to us in our heyday of family sailing on the Odeon forty, thirty and even twenty years ago: a key starter (no more back breaking lawn mower starts!); a self tacking jib (eliminating the need to trip over the tiller (whaa?) while scrambling to the opposite seat to crank down the jib sheet during a tack); sheets (lines) in a centralized location (negating any reason to leave the cockpit whatsoever, much less to sit on the boom to crank down the main sail). Add to that food and drinks provided, and had we not been enjoying ourselves so thoroughly, we may have napped.
It all started when a ball landed right next to his mouth and he didn’t even flinch.We decided it was an opportunity for summer amusement or maybe art.
Scratch one ping pong ball.