Further Adventures with DSL

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

Sorry about that folks. I fixed the link

Don’t expect me to explain exactly what happened to our Internet service, but we are much closer now to a solution. Finally, Wednesday morning what had been abysmally poor service got even worse. When I called the number for our DSL provider, I reached a very polite, well informed, customer service representative. To begin with the customer service rep told us (I’m no fool. I had The Husband in on this so we could play as a team.) to attach the modem directly to a computer and by pass the router (we have a network). After running some tests, she walked me through going to DOS and, with her dictating the directions, I reconfigured our IP address.

Fortunately for my sanity, The Husband had the presence of mind after it was done to ask how the address came to be incorrect in the first place since we really hadn’t been messing around in DOS lately . She explained that the address had probably been lost, corrupted, screwed up, whatever (by then my brain was reeling) as a result of a power failure. I don’t know whether you recall or not, but indeed we do have power failures in Bear Valley Springs. (It’s not all singing birds, wild flowers, and pretty scenery living out in the boonies.)

So, the good news is that, once again, I have access to the World Wide Web. The bad news is…we aren’t done yet. 1. Yes, I have Internet access, but The Husband does not. We still have to plug in the router and finish the job. (We weren’t able to take the support call to the next step due to The Husband’s schedule. It’s pathetic, but I don’t tackle these things if he isn’t in the house in case I call for help.) 2. All this comes just when I am going to be out of touch completely for a few days and then returning to a big, nasty job—taxes. Does it get any nastier than that? Thus, this won’t be finished until approximately mid-October. In the meantime, I have been able to sneak in a little time to check this out, and now I am remembering that DSL isn’t so bad. When it’s working properly, it’s pretty darned fast.

Before I wrap up this complaining and celebrating fest, I want to mention that the customer service from AT&T has been excellent each time that we have encountered a problem. Comcast may have provided the faster Broadband to us in LA, but their customer service was inept, rude, impatient, and thoroughly loathsome. In the long run, I prefer DSL. Go AT&T.

I certainly learned a great deal. I am still mystified by how an incorrect IP address could result in deteriorating Internet access. Why on earth didn’t it simply stop cold, instead of slowly getting worse over a period of at least two months? First, it began to slow. Then the connection would just disappear for no reason. A few minutes later, after running that "restoring connectivity" gizmo, it would be back and maybe last for quite a while, maybe not. The only constant was that it kept getting worse. That was what threw me. I assumed it had to be a problem with my computer, or our router. (Come to think of it, the latter may still be the case.) I was surprised how simple and quick it was to reconfigure the IP address and why it needed to be done. Most of all we got into this mess because I repeated an error I make all too often. Since I am painfully aware of what a dismal pseudo-geek I am, I always assume that I have messed up rather than putting the blame outside myself. That’s one of those things I am still working on. Oh, well, the clean-up job I started on my hard drives needs to be done anyway.

Constants

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

Last Friday was one of our “errands in Los Angeles” days. These days usually aren’t particularly entertaining—too much rushing from one point to another. too much traffic, and—on days like Friday— dull gray skies and haze that set a dismal tone. This time out we hit a particularly long string of sour notes. Almost every place we went to pick up something we can’t find in Tehachapi, the item was out of stock. With our tight schedule, we didn’t have time to chase around to branch stores. When the day was finally over, we came home with about half the errands on our list completed.

But, there was a bright spot. We stopped at our all-time favorite restaurant for lunch. "All- time favorite”. Are you picturing the posh place with a valet out front, designer décor, an exceptional wine list, fine linen napkins, extraordinarily expensive steaks, or fish cooked by an exotic chef with his own tv show?

No, you didn’t fall for that, did you? You have to know me better than that. Viva Fresh is a Mexican restaurant with décor that goes beyond cliché and, trust me, there is no valet. The parking lot is small and crowded—Beverly Hills this neighborhood is not. While it is a very nice neighborhood in one of the “horsey” parts of the San Fernando Valley, it isn’t where the uppercrust hang out for power lunches.

Viva sits just outside the fence of the Los Angeles Equestrian Center and the prime window seats in the main dining room face the Center along with the riding trail that encircles that facility. Since patrons often arrive at the restaurant on horseback rather than automobile, there are also tie rails or hitching posts in sight. (Nope. No valet to park your horse, either.) Unfortunately, that isn’t the end of the picture. The window seats also offer a fine view of the restaurant’s garbage bins. Never mind. You just focus on the horses and ignore the less scenic elements.

We first went there, years ago, because we had horses stabled a few hundred yards away at a stable called Din Cara. The stable was run by a wild man, named Will—a hard-boiled and opinionated British fellow who was one of those once-in-a-lifetime characters. Viva became a habit because it was perfectly located for a quick place to refuel after a few hours of tacking, then riding, followed by the dirty clean-up of horses and tack. Nothing much has changed. There are no formalities at Viva. Not surprisingly, dirty riding clothes, sweaty hats, and manure stained boots are a common sight in this eating establishment. We always knew that we could walk straight from the wash rack to Viva and all you had to clean up was your hands. The stained riding breeches and that nasty brown spot on your white shirt from when your horse snorted didn’t get a second glance from other equally untidy patrons.

Long after Din Cara was a distant memory, (obliterated for a housing development dubbed, Din Cara, to rub salt in our wounds), we continued eating at Viva. We kept going back, even though we had moved and no longer lived nearby, largely because the food has always been simple, but delicious. The refried beans (lard free), because they are so simple, rank at 95% as good as the pinto beans my mother cooked and, believe me, that is high praise. All the meat is fresh and tasty, the sauces are mouth-watering (how I miss those treats); and, while they serve a hot salsa that will scorch the roof of your mouth, it isn’t applied on your food for you. In the case of many, if not most, dishes, you get to be in charge of how spicy or mild you want your food. Perfect for me. On most evenings there is live music and the groups we have heard were made up of studio musicians. These folks are the top-notch professionals who play the scores for Hollywood movies. Good music. Good food. Tough to beat.

Even with the delicious food, one of the best things about going to Viva is that we often get to say “hello” to Joaquin. When we first began eating at Viva, Joaquin was a waiter there and after hundreds of meals at the place, we began to think of him as a friend. His brother worked at Din Cara mucking stalls and we were fans because they both worked hard and Joaquin, especially, always had a cheerful smile. One meal I will always remember was at the stable and not the restaurant. We came back from riding one evening to find Joaquin’s brother and his fellow workers cooking some beef over a hibachi. They generously invited us to sit with them and share their food. Naturally, we declined. We didn’t want to reduce the size of the meal for any of these fellows who had spent hours shoveling manure. But, they insisted. We finally gave in and they served us a couple of the best carne asada tacos we had every eaten.

Eventually, Joaquin partnered with one of his fellow workers and bought the restaurant. It was one of those stories that makes you feel proud and hopeful about life, as well as people, in general. By then, Viva was by far our favorite restaurant. On special occasions, we celebrated by going to Viva. When we were especially tired or needed cheering up, Mexican food always seemed to be the perfect choice. When we wanted to have a long, easy dinner with friends, we invited them to join us at Viva. We were regulars.

After we left Viva last Friday, I began thinking about how comforting it is to have some constants in our life. Almost nothing about our lives resembles the life we lived when we first decided, so long ago, that we should “check out the Mexican food down on Riverside”. We have moved household twice, and now only get to Burbank once every five or six weeks. The after-meal conversations are shorter—no time to linger, and we talk about very different matters these days. We only get there for lunch these days, so no music; but, not much has changed at Viva. The beans are still superb, the chips are still fresh, there are still plenty of dirty boots about, and sweaty people munch chips while they watch riders and horses passing by the windows. Folks tell me that the Margaritas are as good as ever (not something I will ever be able to vouch for, unless I am prepared to schedule a slot at the nearest emergency room). We still know most of the waiters working there. When we see Joaquin, he has the same quick smile. And, Viva still feels like home.

Computer Battles

That recent fog, or fever, passed several days ago; but, I have been fighting Internet battles for the last few days and, unfortunately, don’t see an end in sight. I knew from the beginning that our access up here to the World Wide Web was apt to try my patience, since we left broadband back in Los Angeles. However, for almost a week now, getting on the web is almost as fun as going to the dentist. For now, I am unable to upload the larger files to my online galleries and even reading, much less posting on the sites of my fellow bloggers, is a slow and exasperating task. Some days, it’s click the mouse; go get a glass of water; wander out to the patio and check the status of the rose bush; amble back to the office; stretch; rearrange some papers on my desk; then, yes, there it is. Boy, am I a spoiled brat, or what? I remember AOL dial up. That wasn’t a picnic and I survived—but, not for long I admit.

I suspect that the problem is much more complex than our Internet provider. My computer is almost three years old. That means not worn out, but overdue for a serious clean-up and, oh, how I dread that. By the time I reload all the programs and download all the updates, two days will be chewed up in work that I loathe. Of course, it wouldn’t take two days for anyone who is truly computer savvy, but remember I mostly fumble and bluff my through this stuff.

This little aggravation won’t get solved immediately due to an upcoming trip and a few commitments that are ahead in the queue. In the meantime, I will post here as best I can (mostly without photos) and my comments on the posts of others will be a bit on the sparse side. It’s no fun being out of the loop, but it won’t last forever. This is just one more of those things that shall pass. But now you know that you need not wonder what exotic and enviable adventures I may have embarked upon. What? You already knew better than that? Drat. I have given away too much. I have to work on an air of mystery. Now, maybe if I….

Rules and Regulations

This story reminds me of the ongoing conversation regarding the encroaching limitations on photographers. The number of photographers who would be affected by this particular set of regulations is small. But, it's still a scary thought. It almost makes you wonder if some day photographers could be be singing, to the the tune of Paul Simon's "Kodachrome", of course, "Mama, don't take my Photoshop away.

In a Lull

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

These periods of being stuck are nothing unusual for me and I am getting better about handling them; but, I sure as heck don’t like them.

How best to describe where I am? Who knows? More importantly, who cares? Call it a funk; call it burnout; call it a lull. I have been stuck. I have been pretty much tongue-tied with nothing to say that is fit to share in a family-friendly blog. Most of you know what I am talking about because you have been there. I have been distracted by this business of keeping my finger in the dyke to hold off an impending collapse of my messy storage system. Besides that, I am working on a couple of projects that are taking more time than I expected and I have let that frustrate me. I haven’t been at my best, physically, and I am having an unusual, for me, problem: not sleeping well. And, I confess that it really ticks me off when I virtually lose a day of life, because I am exhausted from a sleepless night. My computer is running slow—bloated with files, and is if all that weren't enough I was having real problems getting anything done on the web.

Finally, it all piled up and morphed into one of those fits of dissatisfaction with everything that I do. Nothing I write is worth saying, much less publishing. All my photos stink—no, I mean really stink. New ones and old ones. Why am I struggling to save any of them from drive failures? How did they get so awful and why did I bother to process them, much less hang on to them, or back them up in the first place? Maybe I should toss all of them and begin fresh. Never mind, the next batch would be just as bad. See what I mean?

At any rate, lest this be contagious, I need to quarantine myself for a couple more days until this fog lifts, the fever subsides—whatever. Perhaps this is just something brewing. Perhaps I will emerge from the malaise energized and produce like crazy. Or, maybe not. At any rate, I will be grateful to go on to the next phase whatever the heck it is.

Remembering 911

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

A local radio talk show host is doing a 911 tribute this afternoon, and I am trying my best to keep it together. I’m not doing very well.

Flawed Workflow

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

The more progress I make with this cleanup the more I realize how much is yet ahead of me. It isn’t as if I had dumped files on random hard drives with no system at all; still, I have found my system woefully wanting. Part of my problem is that I got completely shutter-happy for several months this year and my shaky system was overwhelmed. It was overwhelmed partly because the system was weak, but mostly because I got took hundreds of pictures and began rushing to the next batch of photos before I completed the workflow on the previous one.

As for my filling system, it isn’t as if I hadn’t spent hours reading articles about workflow and organization. But, not surprisingly, if you read twelve experts on organization of files you get twelve different plans for surefire solutions. At this point, I am more convinced than ever that some of this flailing about it is an inevitable part of the process. I suspect that ultimately, each of us has to establish a system that works for us. For example, I remember studying the workflow of one individual who organizes all his files almost exclusively by numbers, assigning each project a unique number. Ugh, my head hurts just thinking about it. Though I learned early on that some numbers, dates and file numbers for example, are essential, that expert’s methods would turn me into a whimpering wreck in less than a month.

My method of organizing my files is still in flux and that is the major problem. The biggest problem was procrastination. I put off the drudgery work and had fun. Am I contrite? Not really. Yes, I now face an unholy mess. But, I had a grand time creating it, and I learned a great deal. It will be a long slow process, but I am getting closer to sorting out the chaos.

And then, there’s the anxiety about some of the photos I am tossing. Believe me, in spite of my jokes about machetes and General Sherman tactics, I am proceeding somewhat cautiously. Confidence in my editing abilities has grown in the last year, but I have a ways to go in that department. I still consider myself a near-beginner at this photography thing and a hungry student.

There were some interesting comments on my last post about editing old files and I noted the anxiety others face when deleting old photos. I would love to hear some ideas on workflow systems.

Paying the Price

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

You know those news stories that include a photo of the usually slump-shouldered elderly person in the baggy, soiled sweater with the hair pointing every possible direction who has been exposed as a pack rat? The next photo shows an appalling scene of stacked newspapers, tin cans, empty cereal boxes, and all sorts of debris that normal people discard. We shake our heads and say, “How does something like this happen to a person?” Well, those are the pictures that have come to mind as I have buried myself in the chore of cleaning out old files. I feel far too much like the person in that first photo.

Since I began taking pictures, I have been sloppy about editing. Like many of us, I suspect, I would much rather take photos than face filing duty. I not only don’t mind photo processing, but usually enjoy it. It is the downloading, editing, and keywording that are drudgery. As for cleaning out folders and discarding pictures in old folders—that I will postpone until I can’t avoid it any longer. Oh, sure, I will occasionally get serious and clean out a handful of old files, but it has always been tough for me to be ruthless and, mostly, I have taken the easy way out by deleting a handful of obvious losers and promising myself to get back to a folder later.

The time is here. I can’t simply continue adding external hard drives. At last, I have begun going through old folders and this job calls for a machete. I need to channel my inner General Sherman. (Yes, that is a gentle swipe at The Husband and his style of landscaping.)

I did notice as I started this project a few days ago (yes, that’s where I have been—buried under piles of electronic debris and obsessed with cleaning up the mess.) I will say that that the task is easier this time around. Because I have been taking hundreds of photos in the last several months, it is finally easier to discard marginal pictures that could possibly be saved. Besides, I faced the fact that I can’t simply continue to add more external hard drives. Another scene that has been popping into my mind, recently, is one where I place the newest hard drive at the end of the row and my desk collapses in a heap of dust.

Sunsets and Repeated Themes

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

A few days ago, Paul Lester posted his thoughts about the themes some of us repeat in our photographs. I admitted in my comment on his post that I sometimes think, from the beginning, I have been endlessly repeating the same five or ten photographs. Sure, I produce some pictures that have subtle variations in details and sometimes I manage larger changes that might briefly fool the casual observer. Even then, it wouldn’t take a genius to see that the scriptwriter is rehashing one of the same old familiar plots—just trotting in new actors—maybe even tossing in a few new set pieces or turning the opus into a period piece.

From the beginning, sunsets have been a dominant theme of mine. Periodically, I vow to myself that I will close the door on this phase and declare, “Enough. I could supply a city full of amateur photographers with sunset photos.” My effort is wasted. Ultimately, I never can resist going for one more.

The truth is that, while a part of me wants to resist photographing sunrises and sunsets and “move on” to a new subject, I never grow tired of losing myself in that splendor that marks the beginnings and endings of each day. For me, those final moments as the sun sinks out of sight are always particularly touching. Another day has slipped away and those hours can never be retrieved.

Some days end with no fanfare, and I find that touching in itself. No fanfare. No eye-filling displays of color. The sun simply slides behind the curve of the planet and the day is fundamentally gone. Then there are the days when the sun, in a last fierce blast of energy, belches color across the sky and the west erupts in a dazzling display of golds, purples, and pinks. Not all days give way quietly to the darkness. I am always awed by the drama.

I know my fascination with sunrises and sunsets has something to do with my keen appreciation of story and, after all, all stories have beginnings and ending. Great stories, (the ones we tuck away in the backs of our minds, so we can take them out and relish them now and again) have beginnings that grab us and say, “Come with me. Forget everything else. You don’t want to miss a moment of this!” The endings or resolutions of those stories are equally engaging and tend to stay with us. They often persist in our minds because they are spectacular. But, perhaps most of all, those endings that are satisfying incorporate events that are not fully predictable, while still resonating with us as ultimately inevitable. We have all read novels or seen films that were weakened by endings that didn’t meet these criteria. Sunsets always seem to be fitting endings. They are certainly predictable to a degree, but you just never know what delicious surprises may be thrown in during those last few moments.

I notice that my fascination with sunsets grows as I age. That’s probably because, like everyone else, I become increasingly aware of my mortality as the years pass. Sunsets are also about transience. No day, no matter how much fun, or how significant—or how awful, for that matter, lasts forever. These are not morose thoughts. They are simply some observations that were floating through my mind while I processed this photograph and marveled at the beauty and splendor that is there for us to enjoy each evening as one day fades into the next.

The Last Rose Standing

(Click on the thumbnail for the bigger, better version)

Not surprisingly, I became quite attached to the only rose that was spared in The Great August Massacre. Now, it probably qualifies as the most photographed rose on the North American continent. I wasn’t thinking about insects as I focused the macro lens on this occasion, but these wise guys popped into the frame. I decided to humor them.

Originally, I toyed with the idea of going black and white for this one. When that didn’t seem right, I opted for the muted tones. When you consider how addicted I am to color, I wonder what this says about my state of mind. Maybe it has something to do with all the dreadful news from the Los Angeles area. It’s difficult to manage a light-hearted attitude with the fires devouring acre after acre.