Two sides to every family

We Geriks converged in Wichita, Kan. in June 2010 and decided a family portrait was in order. Smiles were stale that day, so I remember telling everyone to just relax. A relative manned the cameras (digital and film) and we left relatively satisfied with our humble portrayal.

I recently sent off a roll of film to be processed; Fuji 800 stuck in an Olympus XA rangefinder. It’s old film, the last of massive color bricks we still have at the Journal Star, but it seems to work well enough. What did I find when the prints returned? A bunch of junk and exactly two frames of the Geriks. The poor scan quality might be helping us out a bit.

I don’t remember assaulting my family.

Exhibit 1
Exhibit B

Hasan

I’m shopping for dried cherries in the grocery store on a recent evening. Modern convenience has crippled me; I panic in aisles filled with twelve varieties of one item, each with slightly different amounts of sugar. With five packages of these damn cherries in my hands, a man approaches me.

“Hi, do I know you?”

Uh, no? No, you do not.

“Hmm, are you sure? You look familiar.”

Well, I work at the Journal Star. Maybe you’ve seen me around.

“I’m Hasan. You seem like someone with their finger on the pulse of Peoria.”

Am I being propositioned? Should I run?

“Are you into energy drinks?”

Now I’m terrified. My damn hand is shaking the bag of dried cherries like a rattle. And no, I’m really not into energy drinks (or anything else you’re selling me.)

“Oh, well, I’m actually not either. But I’m trying to get the word out about a new energy product. Would that be something you’re interested in?”

I’d suggest letting the business desk at the Journal Star know about it. I really have no pull in what we cover.

“Oh, no no, I meant, are you interested in getting the word out personally?”

Sigh.

Hemming and hawing my way around an actual answer, we eventually swap phone numbers. He received digits that were nearly correct.

Sorry, Hasan.

AP bulletins

A big part of my daily job is monitoring “the wire” for breaking news developments. These usually come in the form of Associated Press bulletins, unless the world crumbles to pieces, and then they might present as a FLASH.

There’s a bigger difference than the dictionary definitions might indicate. A nuclear explosion in downtown Chicago would merit an AP flash, but a shooting spree at a mall in Omaha would only merit an AP bulletin. No doubt a complex formula of (gravity X scope / amount of news that day) governs this decision.

Royal weddings, on the other hand, clearly test these rules. The breathless coverage on TV at home and abroad might give you the impression that a flash should be issued. “But for shame!”, cry the hardcore newsmen and newswomen, for the annals of news and entertainment shall never meet on the same dark street corner.

The Associated Press is not in the business of creating wars – just covering them. So a series of bulletins was moved on Prince William’s engagement to commoner Kate Middleton. And the world breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Stringed

Mandi – a string player herself - gives the cello a quick checkup.

There’s drizzle on my window, tea on the stove, an apartment in disarray around me.

In this apartment is a cello, on extended loan from a friend, but in need of some TLC. The instrument seems sound enough, with four strings that resonate when plucked and no giant pieces missing. Cosmetically, though, it’s been around the block.

I’ve tamed (or at least tackled) a lot of instruments in my life: piano, organ, clarinet, flute, French horn, bass guitar and various marimbas and percussive devices. Friends still express shock when learning about my not-so-secret past; I’m better known as a guy with a camera.

To me, the cello represents a form of maximum expression that seems difficult on many other instruments. I’ve wanted one for years. It’s been said that the cello is the closest approximation of a human voice; I might be able to make you cry with a piano, but could I do it with a single line of notes – no chords expressing major or minor modes?

A new bow is needed. Amazon to the rescue; we’ll know if I can draw a pleasant sound out of it in a week.

Autumn in Action: I created this multimedia project last year, accompanied by cello

Quick from the hip

I find myself relying more and more on cell phones and point & shoot cameras. And you know what? I’m absolutely comfortable with that. Candidness easily trumps immaculate quality.

I’ve had this discussion with other photographers; budget reductions at newspapers throughout the country have resulted in cameras 4, 5, even 6-years-old still being used. While annoying, it may actually make us better photographer in the end. Megapixels and insane light sensitivity aren’t everything. I’m more than that.

There are times that I pass something and do an immediate double-take. A coffee walk with a friend, this man sitting outside smoking and soaking up the sun. We pass him by 30 feet... and I can go no further. My face betrays my pain and I don't need to say anything more. We double back, this time as I carefully aim my cell phone at him from my hip.
There's magic before 7 a.m., shared with no one. This is the roof of my car; I go to work far too early.

Time is what prevents everything from happening at once

Deadlines and newsrooms: the two shall never be divorced. And what do we rely upon for our timeliness? Clocks, of course!

Once upon a time, the ticking seconds hands of clocks building-wide were controlled by a demanding machine nestled deep in our complex. This concert of time lost and gained ensured that no second of productivity was left uncounted.

But like all mechanical things, this eventually broke. The smooth second hands were replaced with individual timepieces and halting movements. This army of atomic synchronized clocks should have assured a similar accuracy. Except that it didn’t.

I’ve tried correcting them, but the devices have been castrated, no longer adjustable by manual means. One corner of the room may read “get home, fool” while another screams “back to work! five minutes of hellish email remain!”

The end of Daylight Saving Time puts us squarely in the future, autonomous in error by a full, uncorrectable hour (give or take five minutes.)

UPDATE: The clocks, as a collective being, have chosen to behave. We are back to real time (as inaccurate as that usually is.)