SIDEHIKE.NET

On my eighth birthday my mom made me a Ghostbusters themed cake. On Saturday I turned 31 and something else spooky happened.

This year as a present to myself I turned off my phone and my BlackBerry. I turned off my computer. I didn’t check email. I completely disconnected. Several years have passed since the last time I had a day where I was completely unreachable. As wonderful as it was, I may have to make this a more frequent (perhaps monthly) occurrence. I know some people might find the thought of being without their iPhones or CrackBerries flat out frightening, but seriously, I found it delightful. It might surprise you how much more clearly you can think and focus yourself without the distractions. I highly recommend the experience.

Anyway, the spooky stuff…

Early in the morning, very much pre-dawn, I tossed my camera and tripod in the truck and headed west. The whole point of my “Day of No Distractions” was to clear my head do a little thinking and reflecting on the last year, and perhaps set a goal or two for this year. I find both driving and photography to help put me in that relaxed, meditative state of mind (especially when I’m able to get away from the city), so hitting the road in search of scenic locations is a little like doubling up on Nirvana for me.

Also, I know it’s super nerdy, but I was hoping to be able to take a picture at 3:51am, the exact time of my birth (adjusting for the shift from Eastern to Central time) — the moment I turned 31. I did it last year when I turned 30, and I was hoping to make it a tradition.

That was the plan, anyway.

I got away from the interstate when I got to Weatherford, and took Highway 180 towards Palo Pinto county. I hung a left on a state road that twists and turns its way through the dips and dives of the Brazos River valley. Another turn took me across a causeway, and eventually I found myself on a pitch dark county road in the middle of nowhere. At this point I was about 10 miles from the nearest ghost town.

Despite thoroughly enjoying the drive, I found it a bit disheartening that I couldn’t find jack squat worth trying to photograph. With the moon spending most of its time hiding behind clouds straight out of a vintage Scooby Doo cartoon, it was just too dark to shoot anything out there, even with long exposures.

I looked at the clock on my dashboard and grumbled something uncouth as the digits clicked over to the moment I’d been waiting for, and the only sight out of the windshield was pitch black.

Then, as if on cue, a brown “Historical Marker Ahead” road sign popped out of the darkness and into the path of my headlights.

Now, for those of you who live elsewhere, you have to understand that there are over 13,000 Historical Markers in Texas. They mark everything from the Alamo to “this field is only a few miles from a place where a guy ran a trading post for a few weeks in the 1850s before moving a few miles further down the trail where there was a creek with fresh water.” The vast majority of these signs are more like the second example than the first. So the odds of there actually being anything worth shooting at this marker were, quite frankly, pretty freaking slim.

But it was all I had, and the timing seemed almost providential.

I skidded the truck to a stop in the gravel in front of the sign and realized it was so dark I couldn’t even read the damn thing.

So I grabbed my camera, turned on the flash, and took a picture just to figure out what was too dark see. I blew up the image on LCD, and the first line creeped me the heck out.

So here I am, at the very moment of the anniversary of my birth, staring at a marker in the middle of nowhere that memorializes a guy born on my birthday.

Weeeeeeeeeeird.

(Here’s a link to a pic of the full marker, if you’re curious.)

I’m just struck by the eeriness of that first picture I took of the marker, though. That blue glow is probably just an odd, errant reflection of the lights on my dashboard. Although I had the window rolled down so I’m not sure what could be casting the reflection…

… it very well may be the ghost of Mr. Whipple reminding me not to squeeze the Charmin.

Will there be any stars, any stars in my crown
When at evening the sun goeth down?
When I wake with the blest in those mansions of rest
Will there be any stars in my crown?

Chesapeake Plaza, Fort Worth, Texas

Chess set in a shop window in Hot Springs, Arkansas

Yes, I took this photo of the Weatherford courthouse at the very moment lightning stuck and a DeLorean streaked by at 88mph.

There’s actually a lot of little things about this exposure I’m still not happy about, but I like it anyway, so I’m posting it.

(It looks even better bigger and on a black background.)

Tonight I needed to get out of the house.

So I threw the camera in the truck and headed west.

I eventually ended up in Mineral Wells.

I need to go back when I have the time to spend photographing this town "right." There’s a lot more to see.

Mineral Wells is an odd little town of about 15,000 people out in Palo Pinto county once famous for the "medicinal" powers of the many nearby mineral springs that gave the town its name. For example, water from the "Crazy Well" was said to be able to cure mental illness, among other maladies. I have heard people say that one of the minerals in the water in particularly elevated concentrations is lithium, so there may be something to that belief…

It’s hard to drive through the town without noticing this building. This is the Baker Hotel. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about the place:

In 1926 construction began on the Baker Hotel, which would offer therapeutic baths and massages to the many visitors. Built in the style of the Arlington Hotel in Hot Springs, Arkansas, the Baker is not quite Art Deco, but still a product of the Roaring 20s. Construction was completed in late 1929, and the Baker opened for business on November 22, 1929. [From Bo: Notice the bad timing -- this was less than a month after the stock market crash at the beginning of the Great Depression!]

T.B. Baker, a wealthy hotel businessman, spent $1,250,000.00 to build the famous hotel. Some of the famous names to appear on the Baker Hotel guest list include Judy Garland, Clark Gable, the Three Stooges, Lyndon Johnson and Lady Bird, Roy Rogers, Will Rogers, Marlene Dietrich, Mary Martin, General Pershing, Dorothy Lamour, Sammy Kaye, Jack Dempsey, Helen Keller, and Ronald Reagan.

The building has 14 stories (which puts it on the international list of skyscrapers), 452 rooms, two complete spas, and claimed to be the second U.S. hotel with a swimming pool and the first Olympic-size swimming pool in the United States.

The famous Big Bands of the era, such as the Dorsey Brothers, played the Sky Room at the top of the hotel or in the first floor Brazos Room. Lawrence Welk spoke of his times at the Baker early in his career. Guy Lombardo is another Big Band leader who also played the Baker. In addition to this, many celebrities stayed at The Baker including Welk, Judy Garland, Clark Gable, The Three Stooges, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans. A local legend also contends that Bonnie and Clyde stayed in the hotel one one occasion under an alias.

The building was in constant use from 1929 to 1963, including a three year period during World War II in which it served as military dependent quarters. The building sat vacant for two years until 1965, when a group of Mineral Wellians re-opened the Baker, but it would not last. The final guest checked out in 1972 and the Baker quickly began to deteriorate.

Supposedly the building is haunted. I especially like the story from TexasEscapes.com about the ghost on the 7th floor:

The stories of ghosts and hauntings began in the Baker long before it ever closed. A porter who worked there during the 1950’s and 1960’s was the first known to witness the ghost of the woman on the seventh floor. She was possibly the mistress of the hotel manager. Distraught from her affair she jumped to her death from the top of the building. The year of the incident has not been verified but the room she stayed in, apparently quite comfortably, was a suite on the southeast corner of the seventh floor. Many have reported smelling her perfume and her spirit is said to be quite flirtatious with men she may fancy.

I fondly remember May 31, 1986. That was the day I got my own TV in my room. It was a big freaking deal. It was an old RCA relic with a blurry picture that kept glowing after you turned it off at night. But it was finally mine. And when I plugged it in for the first time that Saturday morning the VHF dial went straight to WFAA channel 8, our local ABC affiliate.

This was the first time that the Indianapolis 500 was shown live on TV rather than on tape delay, and I was about to pee myself with excitement. David Hasselhoff (back when he was Knight Rider cool, rather than ironic) sang the national anthem. Chuck Yeager (the badass who broke the sound barrier) drove the Corvette pace car. Rick Mears was the fastest man alive in my book, and he was starting on the pole.

Bobby Rahal ended up winning — the first person to ever finish the race in under three hours. It was a great day.

So as a racing fan, I’m quite happy to see the IRL and Champ Car Series reunified. There’s been a void in American auto racing, and it looks like it’s well on its way to being fixed.

For those who aren’t versed in the history of the sport, the shortened version of this story is that a few of the people in charge of “Indy” style racing have been bickering with each other for the last couple of decades. It resulted in the league splitting into multiple different racing leagues, and quite frankly the racing and the show suffered. This season marks the first season the groups have been reunified back into one entity, the IndyCar Series. And it’s a good thing.

My dad and I have been attending the IRL races at Texas Motor Speedway for the last four years, and while they’ve been very good races, Texas has actually been kind of unique in that regard. For the most part Indy racing just wasn’t all that popular anymore. Not only was NASCAR kicking it’s butt, but IRL wasn’t putting on the kind of spectacle that Indy racing used to be about. People would tune in for the Indianapolis 500, but otherwise people didn’t bother. And well, I can’t blame the casual fan. A race with 18 cars (only 6 or 7 of whom have a chance to win) isn’t nearly as exciting as a field of 30 cars. So it’s great to see that kind of excitement coming back.

If the kid sitting a few seats away from us who kept driving his Hot Wheels across his dad’s head is any judge, the sport’s definitely going to be alright.

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So it took me nearly a month, but my photos from the Bombardier Learjet 550 are finally up over on Flickr. (Here’s a link to the slideshow.) After past races I have rushed home from the track and gone straight to work organizing, editing and posting my photos. When you figure I take anywhere from 2,000 to 5,000 shots on the average race weekend you can understand what a grueling process that can be. This time around I decided to pace myself a bit slower and be more selective — and to not kill myself with sleep deprivation after the race. This was partially a conscious effort at forcing myself to produce different and better photos. But it was also a simple matter of realizing that June was a pretty intense month work wise, and I needed to be able to concentrate on projects and let the photos come second. (Besides, it’s not like I lucked into something wicked like the Michael McDowell crash back at the Samsung 500, so there was no rush.)

Anyway, sorry for the delay. Enjoy the pictures.

Go see a parade. Blow up some fireworks. Crack open a cold beer. Throw another shrimp on the barbie. Toss a few wieners on the grill.

When you’re done with all that, learn something about why this is such a great nation. Or just watch this quick video and go dig another brew out of the cooler.

At this point, I would call myself a “semi-pro” photographer. I have photos hanging in an art gallery. I have sold a few pieces. I have done work under contract. I’ve had a waitress at a popular establishment that serves hot wings ask me to take photos of her for their company’s calendar. (Though I sadly lost her contact info.) So all of that is to say that my camera gets a good workout.

I have a degree in journalism, and took photojournalism-specific and media law classes in pursuit of that degree. I’ve worked as a professional editor. All of that is to say that, though I am not a lawyer, I should probably know a thing or two about when and where you can and cannot take a photo. (And even so, I have consulted an attorney about that very subject, as well.)

So it really irks me to see things like this happening more and more often:
Photographers harassed by security at Union Station … even while interviewing Amtrak’s chief spokesman.

It has happened to me more than a couple of times.

Not to go off on a rant here (I know … too late), but selective and arbitrary bans on photography are an incredibly unfortunate, shortsighted and quite frankly ignorant abuse of authority. They are not only bad for art, they are bad for journalism. They are bad for democracy and for America. The UK, too.

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UPDATE: Alleluia and an Amen from Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton. Good on her!