An off-topic post on one of the websites I frequent caught my attention; this one about the demise of the 35mm film camera. Sigh. Ever since cheap digitals came along, the idea of actually taking the time to load a roll of 12 or 24 or 36 frames into a camera, shooting the pictures, driving them to a processor, then waiting to see if "the pictures came out OK" just seems sooooo old fashioned. The good ol' 35mm SLR is soon to join the typewriter and the buggy whip as a nostalgic thing of the past.
It's funny, though. I see loads of highly-creative images on the web, shot with digital point-and-shoot cameras, and I can't take a decent photograph with my wife's digital to save my life. Unfortunately, I can't seem to shoot decent photographs with my 35's or my mega-dollar Hasselblad anymore, either.
I remember (go ahead and cringe, he's reminiscing again) a time about thirty-five years ago when I received my first real, honest-to-goodness 35mm camera. It was used, it was made somewhere behind the Iron Curtain, and it weighed about the same as the AK-47's that were probably being made on the same assembly line. I had absolutely no idea how to use it, other than a poorly-translated instruction book, and all the photographic subject material I could glean from the A.K. Smiley Public Library.
But I figured it out. Pretty soon I could rattle on about ASA's and shutter speeds and f-stops just like I knew what I was talking about. And, surprisingly, I shot some damn nice photos. At least, compared to what everyone else I knew was making with their Kodak Instamatics. In retrospect, I guess it wouldn't be hard to beat an image from an Instamatic, but looking back, I think the images hold up pretty well. The sheer fact I knew how to use a 35mm camera earned me my first newspaper job. If I'd only stayed a photographer...
As time went on, I upgraded cameras, relying more and more on the electronics those clever Japanese crammed into the increasingly sexy ergonomic aluminum and polymer camera bodies. Funny, but my pictures didn't get all that better.
So after my bad-ass all black Canon was stolen, I went back to a used and battered low-end Nikon, selected for it's lack of gimmickry and it's reputation as the backup camera war correspondents fell to using when their "good" Nikon took a crap from jungle rot or shrapnel from a Viet-Cong mortar barrage.
I didn't shoot much artistic stuff with it. My main subject matter was the used-car inventory at a dozen southland used car lots, being as I was selling advertising in those days. I'd rush the film to the developer, then rush back later to pick up the prints, then rush to the paper, size and crop the images, and throw them at the newspaper's back shop along with an ad layout minutes before deadline. Life sucked, and so did my hundreds of dramatic, low-point-of-view 3/4 angle shots of Plymouth mini-vans, all in glorious black-and-white.
Things didn't get any better when my boss acquired the very first commercially available digital camera, in the sad hope it would return it's investment in saved film and processing costs. It featured one, count 'em, one mega pixel. Press the "shutter" and, eventually, say, two seconds later, it would take a photo that looked like it had been shot with one of my old friend's Instamatics. This little jewel cost ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. I was mortified. And I had to share it with two other people. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions? I photographed the road to hell with that one mega pixel camera...
My camera-to-end-all-cameras came about four years ago. In a fit of lunacy, I was the high bidder in an eBay auction for the holiest-of-hollies, a Hasselblad medium format camera. This is the camera Neil Armstrong used on the moon! This is the camera Ansel Adams used in Yosemite! This is the camera used in thousands of weddings, and hundreds of Playboy centerfolds! Can you say Annie freaking Leibovitz?!! And this is the camera yours truly would lug all over Ireland; I, a former "pro" (e.g, I got paid a couple of times) carefully composing a single bad photo, while my fellow bus tourists were firing off hundreds of digital images that looked better than mine. Aaarrrggg.
I dunno. Let me blame it on cataracts, or a photographic mind destroyed by thousands of used cars, or the digital camera from hell. I just can't shoot shit anymore. But my youngest daughter wants me to take her picture with the Hassy; she in period 40's costume, her boyfriend wearing his Marine uniform, recreating a time long ago when girls kissed their guys goodbye at the train station as soldiers went off to war... which he is about to do, for real, in a much different world than it was then.
Pray that I can pull it off, one more time.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Why General Motors Should Die
Let me count thy ways...
(We'll for the sake of expediency ignore The General's historic lack of control over its dealer network, allowing dealers to provide horrible customer service for decades, if not outright occasional fraud.) Let's just focus on product, and review why I think GM should die:
1971: Chevy Vega - what can I say?
1972: Chevy "LUV" Pickup - Isuzu Import, with frames beginning to rust out while still on the boat. One of many foreign cars rebadged and sold to customers who believed they were buying "American".
"Badge Engineering" - sharing the same car between low and high end product lines
1976: Cadillac Seville (redressed Chevy Nova) - worst example of badge engineering
1979: Chevy Citation - subject of government lawsuit
Orphans: Opel, Geo, other imports dumped and unsupported with parts and service
Late 70's "Slantback" Oldsmobiles and Cadillacs - styling disasters
Substituting Chevy engines in Oldsmobiles without telling customers = lawsuits
1981 Cadillac 4-6-8 engine - engineering disaster
1984 Pontiac Fiero with "Iron Duke" 4 cylinder engine - engineering disaster
1970's-80's GM passenger car diesels - engineering disaster
1982: Chevy Cavalier - cheaply designed, cheaply executed
1980's Geo Metro
1980's - First generation Saturns
1999: Cadillac Escalade
2000: Chevy Aveo
I could go on and on about how GM took a generation of children who grew up in '57 Chevys and destroyed their faith in American automobiles. No matter how good their cars may be now, or in the future, their negligence to the USA consumer will not be forgotten. GM can't turn the clock back, and there's no way forward.
(We'll for the sake of expediency ignore The General's historic lack of control over its dealer network, allowing dealers to provide horrible customer service for decades, if not outright occasional fraud.) Let's just focus on product, and review why I think GM should die:
1971: Chevy Vega - what can I say?
1972: Chevy "LUV" Pickup - Isuzu Import, with frames beginning to rust out while still on the boat. One of many foreign cars rebadged and sold to customers who believed they were buying "American".
"Badge Engineering" - sharing the same car between low and high end product lines
1976: Cadillac Seville (redressed Chevy Nova) - worst example of badge engineering
1979: Chevy Citation - subject of government lawsuit
Orphans: Opel, Geo, other imports dumped and unsupported with parts and service
Late 70's "Slantback" Oldsmobiles and Cadillacs - styling disasters
Substituting Chevy engines in Oldsmobiles without telling customers = lawsuits
1981 Cadillac 4-6-8 engine - engineering disaster
1984 Pontiac Fiero with "Iron Duke" 4 cylinder engine - engineering disaster
1970's-80's GM passenger car diesels - engineering disaster
1982: Chevy Cavalier - cheaply designed, cheaply executed
1980's Geo Metro
1980's - First generation Saturns
1999: Cadillac Escalade
2000: Chevy Aveo
I could go on and on about how GM took a generation of children who grew up in '57 Chevys and destroyed their faith in American automobiles. No matter how good their cars may be now, or in the future, their negligence to the USA consumer will not be forgotten. GM can't turn the clock back, and there's no way forward.
Life In The Slow Lane
The new Honda Fit I've purchased has retaught me how to drive.
There's a little instrument on the dashboard that, were I Barney Frank and talking to the heads of the "Big 3" about bailout money, I'd demand they install on every new car and truck. It's a little bar graph that moves up and down as you drive, telling the driver exactly what kind of gas mileage you're getting. Below it is a numerical display of your average MPG, linked to your trip odometer. Those two little displays that take up about three square inches of dash space have made me a new man behind the wheel.
Where once I blasted over to the fast lane and dialed in a 75 MPH setting on the cruise control, I'm now content to ride along with the trucks and the little old ladies hugging their steering wheels with a death grip.
"Go ahead and pass me, motherfucker," I utter to the guy blasting past in his 4x4 pickup. I glance at the mileage indicator and knock another mile per hour off of the cruise setting. Sixty two feels about right. "Oh wait," I exclaim, noting that the road is now going ever so slightly down hill. I kill the cruise control and let the car coast, picking up a precious few miles per hour. My new friend, Mr. Mileage Indicator, responds with additional green bars, telling me my mileage is soaring. At the bottom of the hill, I reset the cruise control.
A semi-truck passes me slowly on the left. I feel the car rock slightly, and note that he's momentarily breaking a path for me, as the air is diverted around my car. Cool. The indicator lights up another couple of bars.
Now let's play with the big boys, shall we? Traffic is light, so... let's play NASCAR, and pretend I'm following Jimmy Johnson around one of those super speedways. I tuck in behind the semi and draft him. The truck is almost sucking me along in his wake. I'm not brave enough ride nose-to-tail, but a couple of car lengths allows me a margin of safety while riding in still air.
"He he he," I giggle. I've been watching my average climb all the way to work. 48.6 MPG. The tenths come harder the higher the average climbs. I'm getting so I can anticipate the gain or loss of a tenth of a MPG. Breaking into another round number, say 48.9 to 49.0, is gratifying to say the least. This is fun.
So what that the price of gas is dropping like a stone; I'm making up for my past sins when it was $4 a gallon. Bite me, Mr. Jacked Up 4x4, Miss Urban Assault Vehicle. I may be slow, but I'm ahead of you.
There's a little instrument on the dashboard that, were I Barney Frank and talking to the heads of the "Big 3" about bailout money, I'd demand they install on every new car and truck. It's a little bar graph that moves up and down as you drive, telling the driver exactly what kind of gas mileage you're getting. Below it is a numerical display of your average MPG, linked to your trip odometer. Those two little displays that take up about three square inches of dash space have made me a new man behind the wheel.
Where once I blasted over to the fast lane and dialed in a 75 MPH setting on the cruise control, I'm now content to ride along with the trucks and the little old ladies hugging their steering wheels with a death grip.
"Go ahead and pass me, motherfucker," I utter to the guy blasting past in his 4x4 pickup. I glance at the mileage indicator and knock another mile per hour off of the cruise setting. Sixty two feels about right. "Oh wait," I exclaim, noting that the road is now going ever so slightly down hill. I kill the cruise control and let the car coast, picking up a precious few miles per hour. My new friend, Mr. Mileage Indicator, responds with additional green bars, telling me my mileage is soaring. At the bottom of the hill, I reset the cruise control.
A semi-truck passes me slowly on the left. I feel the car rock slightly, and note that he's momentarily breaking a path for me, as the air is diverted around my car. Cool. The indicator lights up another couple of bars.
Now let's play with the big boys, shall we? Traffic is light, so... let's play NASCAR, and pretend I'm following Jimmy Johnson around one of those super speedways. I tuck in behind the semi and draft him. The truck is almost sucking me along in his wake. I'm not brave enough ride nose-to-tail, but a couple of car lengths allows me a margin of safety while riding in still air.
"He he he," I giggle. I've been watching my average climb all the way to work. 48.6 MPG. The tenths come harder the higher the average climbs. I'm getting so I can anticipate the gain or loss of a tenth of a MPG. Breaking into another round number, say 48.9 to 49.0, is gratifying to say the least. This is fun.
So what that the price of gas is dropping like a stone; I'm making up for my past sins when it was $4 a gallon. Bite me, Mr. Jacked Up 4x4, Miss Urban Assault Vehicle. I may be slow, but I'm ahead of you.
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