In Category: ‘charm city’

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December 23, 2010 The Eyes of the Beholder

Baltimore is a living, breathing part of me. As I listen to the familiar whoosh of I-95 and see the spires of Legg Mason grow from the pavement, I’m disarmed by a flood of emotion.

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This can’t be normal. Hundreds, thousands of people move away from their homes each year, and they get on, grow up, move along. Some noses wrinkle in response, some spit and say “Good riddance!”

Maybe some don’t think at all.

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But even thousands of miles away I find myself eager to reach a destination that some view as a dirty scourge on the mid-Atlantic coast. A statistic on the chart. A place that people think they know all about from television dramas when in reality they would prefer it just does not exist.

I have grown weary of a locked little world, but I’ve never once said, “I hate this place.” Baltimore has always been a wonderland of growth, adventure and experience, full of smiles and friendship and education. From dark alleys to sodium lights, rodent jerky and hair nets, my years were always peppered with the sting of Old Bay and the twang of “Hon.”

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We love our partners unconditionally, and this is no exception. Even as my oldest friends move to their own corners of the country and new storefronts replace the old, the bones that shape this town stay the same. It’s still my Charm City. The City That Reads. The pink-and-yellow needles of those Big Boyz pens still pierce my heart.

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Let’s do this, Baltimore. I’m ready to step this up, turn it up a notch, take the next level, get serious. Let’s make it real.

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December 2, 2009 Rictus

Countless memories and every nook triggers a tale. Like lightning, I am struck; there is no respite. That diner, that dinner, that hike, that building, that waitress, that date, that flirt. The mistake. The night. My fingers can’t fly fast enough for me, and I wish I could find some conduit for my manic mind.

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Driven by hurt, happiness, and hate, riding the cusp of crisis… this is the artist’s song.

Posted In: charm city, inner thoughts.

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April 6, 2009 w(H)ole

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I’m missing something even living out here. I don’t really know how to make friends, although any real friends of mine tend to come about over a slow laborious process, only realizing at the very end how much we mean to each other. The guy at the other end of the bar lastnight looked like someone we knew, but we couldn’t put our finger on who. He drunkenly gave us directions to an underrated but entirely fantastic view of the city, he said, just under the top of Twin Peaks.

On the way home we stepped over the gutter punks and swept by random miscreants until Trav picked me up and slung me onto his back and ran, laughing the whole way with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other. Late night runs to the grocery store never get old, no matter how old you are or what city you’re in. Despite this, our typical beautiful evening in jolly San Francisco, there is a hole.

I try to think of a comprehensive list of all the things that I miss, and I can’t. They are too numerous and when I try to put my finger on them they slide just out of reach like bubbles of mercury. I’m constantly haunted by the memories of Baltimore, welcome or not. The oppressive heat and the stench of bus fumes and squashed rats under your tires. How the beautiful purple haze covers the city in an August summer sunset, how your tank tops stick to your skin as you watch the ducks paddle through the murky water in Fells Point. I miss the pounding sun in Patterson Park and all of the hard-working but tired shopfronts in Highlandtown, how the city comes alive in bursts of orange and yellow sodium lights at night. All of the mediocre dives with soggy pizza and fried things, blasted to oblivion in bluish fluorescent bulbs after midnight.

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Even the tender budding yuppiness of Canton, broken murals in East Baltimore, hopeful hipsters in Mount Vernon. I remember all the spring evenings I would drive (just drive) when I was in college, savoring the cool, sweet weather that lingers only for a couple of weeks before the heat begins. I dare say I miss being tested by the ghetto thugs, waving for my attention and catcalling as I walk down the street. You just don’t get that here in the Castro, do you?

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Most of all I miss the broken old buildings, and having the luxury of saying that this-and-that is such an overrated abandonment. Right now I would gladly visit even the most frequented haunts of Henryton or Rosewood. There are no abandonments here, not like they are out East. After driving seven hours each way recently just for the hell of it, I regret not taking that 3-hour drive to Pittsburgh more often to see the jewels that truly mattered.

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here was a time that I loved Baltimore, way back before the ennui and bitterness hit. I loved the cobblestones and the formstone and the fact that Baltimore has nearly always been fueled by the toils of the hardworking blue collar residents of the steel and shipping industries. I loved the smell of the flowering acacia trees those brief moments in late spring and the dogwood, magnolia and cherry trees in every park. I loved waking up to snow, and being able to complain how badly Marylanders handle the threat of cold. I was so proud of Pigtown and how the city kept its chin up. Even the constant humbling of the massive Johns Hopkins Institutions made me a glutton for pain. Dan Rodricks was my personal hero, Kevin Cowherd my fluffy laugh. But I never took advantage of those years to document what made Baltimore so much more.

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I’m glad that I left. We only get one life and I would be smothered living in one place for all of it. But taking these roots we’ve grown, severing some and carefully wrapping others, is one of the most difficult and painful processes I have ever experienced.

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May 4, 2008 Long Winter, Season’s End

Baltimore’s farmer’s market is a seasonal entity spanning the warmer half of the year and the lower part of the city. From May until December locals haul their wares underneath the I-83 overpass on Saratoga Street, in the shadow of the downtown skyscrapers and nestled against the eclectic Hollywood Diner. No one will actually mention it, but it is also within a stone’s throw of the historic “Metropolitan Transition Center” (prison) on Madison, that huge gray stone building that looks like a castle. I have not been to the market in several years and was long overdue a visit.

Waking up and getting downtown by 8 AM is routine, even on a Sunday. At dawn the skies were gray with mist, unusual weather for May in Maryland, and the sun was a pale white disk behind temperamental tendrils of cloud. Within the hour it was clear and blue, leaving only a more ambiguous film at our level. I couldn’t help but think of a sleepy Sunday morning in downtown San Francisco, shortly before our graffiti escapade half a year ago. Fog is not a common occurrence in Baltimore and is probably been caused by the cooler, moister weather that we have been experiencing lately. This rare haze lent an otherworldly feel to the events that were to follow.

At 8:25 the market was hopping. The first market of the year! It is surely a day to celebrate. The smells of barbecue and bread, automotive fumes and the occasional waft of incense was as clamorous on the nose as the sounds were to the ears. Peeking between the huge steel joists of the overpass was the shy slanted sunlight, making golden liquid pools in the cold shadows. I was taken by the colors and motion, the halos of light illuminating hair of all textures and colors and shapes as people milled around. Jars of sweet amber honey, forbidden cans of homemade salsas and chutney, tiny promising pots of fresh baby herbs and baskets and bins of fruit. Like any other farm market we kept our eyes open for fresh vegetables, anything that came from the green fields of our state rather than struggling warmer countries across the world. There were also crusty brown loaves of bread baked fresh, dusted with flour and inviting to the teeth. Sticky cinnamon buns, innocent-looking muffins, salty kettle-popped popcorn, even wheat grass smoothies and the longest line for coffee I had ever seen in Baltimore. Between the farmers’ stands and handwritten signs were steaming buffet trays of Caribbean samosas, home cured bacon, crisp fried fish (you can’t be in Baltimore without fried fish), made-to-order omelettes. Closest to the street was a short alley of art vendors: batik clothing, wood carvings and jewelry. The variety in goods was mirrored by the variety of people brought here together for the day.

I could see pieces of scruffy urban life minging freely with the nouveau hippie, sharing the common goal of supporting the communal sale. Neon Trader Joe’s bags under so many elbows slanging together with hemp and cloth and plastic and in one case even a little red wagon! Punk hipster hair here, curly grey there, highlights yonder. Hawkers, pokers, sniffers, testers, waiters, servers, shoppers, takers… everyone became one between the muraled pillars and the intermittent growwwwl thump! of trucks overhead. Friends shared fruit and pastries sitting together and laughing against parking meters. Children ran underfoot and oogled at the bounty of the fields. Old women with armloads of petunias magisterially cleared swaths through the crowd with only floppy pink blooms.

Patiently, Alex Brown, Legg Mason, the Shot Tower and Baltimore Trust waited, holding the mist at bay for a few more hours. Across the way at club Sonar, a sleepy-looking bouncer in a pinstripe hat looked completely out of place in the morning sun. We toted our goods to the car, knowing we would be fed for a few days at least. I wondered idly if the dragon roar of the overpass had been infused into the crunch of my lettuce. As I enjoy my salad in my kitchen at home, would I taste the thunderous shake overhead and the explosive vibrance of the urban market? I regrettably did not bring my camera this morning because I was not expecting to be so pleased with the experience. Sure, there were no giant ruby strawberries, chilled sweet apple cider, juicy dates or ten varieties of fresh oranges at every corner but Baltimore has shown that it has much of its own matchless identity in these weekly bazaars. Nothing can take the true Charm City foibles out of the streets or the people, no matter how hard you try. But for what reason would you want?

Posted In: charm city, social commentary.

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April 20, 2008 Legacy

Yesterday. Yesterday I was inspired.

Of all the places to walk and be, it was “Hometown Girl” in Hampden that set my fire. I was browsing for a gift in that chintzy, tourist-trap of a store in one of the quirkiest neighborhoods in the city and I was knocked off my feet.

A Aubrey Bodine. Of course I’ve heard of him, although for the life of me I can’t remember how my familiarity with the name got started. I’ve seen his works before (I’m sure….) but I never noticed it before, if you know what I mean.

I saw, in the back corner between the snappy BlueQ lotions and the always-dark soda fountain cafe, a stack of matted black and white photos that caught my eye. The one in the front was interesting and appealing in that abstract cityscape kind of way, so I picked it up. I have been through enough art shops to know that local artists usually sell their works like this, and the photos are usually mediocre. I expected more of the same, except I was almost ready to see if this person had a website.

It was a simple photograph, but with wonderful range of tones all in grayscale. The outline of the classic Baltimore rowhomes’ white marble steps led the eye through a maze of order and chaos, squares, rectangles and right angles. Their Qbert-ishness led the eye right out of the frame, right to where tiny dark figures walked down the sidewalk in the corner.

It is a sight that no local of Baltimore could miss. It is a scene so commonplace we don’t even think about it anymore. Most of the time one sees such a sight, the air is filled with humid, choking heat, the growl of the MTA bus and usually the neck-prickling fear of getting shot in the back by a drug deal gone bad. The only thing that struck me about this photo was how clean it looked, how unchipped the stones appeared.

The date on the back of the card said 1945.

Looking up, I caught the tip of a Gothic church spire poking above several other thick white mats. I reached over and pulled it out. Stunning. The sequence of a lunar eclipse over the imposing silhouetted shape of the Washington Monument and the Methodist Church. Far, seemingly miles below the heavenly show were the foggy white trees and the sleeping boxy rowhomes. I didn’t know what to think. I have scorned living and photographing this place for years, and here was this man, a photographer active long before I was born was beating me to the creative punch even after his death.

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Although I never do this, I bought two notecards of his work.

The first was the lunar eclipse – it made me miss living in the city, the tantalizing twinkle of streetlights always just outside my window, the whoosh! of cars that was never too noisy and sometimes completely silent. My favorite memories of school were sitting in the windowsill of our 6th-story dorm room at 2 AM, gazing out towards the red Domino sugar sign and wishing it was tomorrow. My love of urban nightscapes was borne from this era: always night, always orange, always cool. No matter how hot and sticky the days are, the nights are a blissful relief. Night is when you venture down into the lights and savor the laughter of friendship, smoke and mirrors until the sun pushes you home again. I wonder now how much I was missing in the celestial lights above, how many wonderful nocturnal vistas I could have captured if I had shifted my perspective just 50 feet higher.

The second was a street scene that could have been any residential neighborhood in Baltimore. A woman, her dress firmly anchoring her to any of the former two centuries smiling at the Arabber in the cart up the street. The houses have not changed one whit; the people both have and have not. You will never see women like her anymore, but the Arabbers have undergone a transformation. While they men in the cart bear a strict resemblance to their earlier counterparts, the horses are smaller, the carts are bigger… and there are far, far fewer of them. A very obscure, dying practice only unique now to Baltimore. Even here, many have no idea this trade exists, or has existed, but with the changing of society and the economy the need for street vendors (and the desire to purchase fresh produce) has vanished.

Although I am not technically a native to this city, it is difficult to see these things change so drastically in so little time and to not feel sad.

I want to get out there.
I want to shoot.
I will not be here forever.

You sure as hell never appreciate anything so much as when it is nearly gone, and I have only Bodine’s ghost to thank for making me realize just how much there is in this city that I have spent so many of my years.

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April 13, 2008 A Tempestuous Fever

Yesterday, as I was wrapping up and uploading my photo of the day, I happened to glance out the back window. What I saw there made me grab my camera and sprint outside.

Once in a rare while you see something great, something so moving and powerful that you can barely pick yourself up off the floor to appreciate the moment for what it is. This was one of those evenings. A spectacular sunset so filled with explosive color, clouds, light and motion that you cannot dream it in sleep. From our limited perspective down here on Earth we can only watch nature do her thing, swirling the clouds, roiling and boiling above us while the sun gently sinks below the horizon to touch their underbellies with light. Pink and cerulean, purple and red and yellow all together and at war in the heavenly sky. Unreal beyond belief, I am suddenly aware of how small we are.

A random and almost misplaced sprinkle of spring rain cooled my sunburned shoulders. I don’t know from which cloud it came, but the gentle, soft tapping on my skin was like a faint echo of quiet laughter.

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March 4, 2008 Drown, Drift, Float, Wake

Recently on a whim, I acted against my better judgment and took a couple of hours to visit a local clothing factory. Abandoned for almost 25 years, so much still remains, though it is a little local secret for students in the city. It had been almost a year since I’d last visited and seemingly just as long since I’d been on such an adventure. Certainly the motivation and excitement I used to feel has been long gone no matter what I have done to bring it back. We came, we saw, we conquered. But that something inside of me lay low in the cold, bogged down and stuck tightly as though in frozen molasses.

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The “zone,” the one that you have to actively strive to maintain even if you visit the mindset on a regular basis, has been long locked behind a door, the key nearly lost and the hole dusted over with cobwebs. On one hand I nonchalantly brushed it off because so many other life commitments have been vying for my attention lately. On the other hand was rising panic for a part of me that had suddenly disappeared. I would sooner rather wake up and find my right leg gone than miss the spark that drives me.

Perhaps my focus and ambition went the way of the clothing factory. Like the employees that picked up and suddenly left in 1985, perhaps everything inside my head that made life worth living simply decided to seek fortune elsewhere? I was the mannequin without a heart, the million voiceless woolen coats standing patiently for their return. Since then I have been here, bereft of words, waiting for strong arms to take me up and give me shape, warmth and movement once again.

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Slipping off the backpack, assembling my kit and snapping my tripod into shape was the hardest thing I had to do this day. The fear of failure, of solid confirmation that yes it really is gone was the gaping vortex that threatened to tip me into the deepest internal abyss. For months I had given myself just one more reason to not find out, just one more extended deadline. No muscles are harder to work than the ones that have seen so much neglect. Excuses are easy. Work is not.

I do not know for sure if I will ever live up to any expectations made of me. Those I hold most dear understand that I will never feel that I fill my own shoes, but with this familiar jest comes a much more serious issue of understanding what truly is and what is not. Who am I? Who are we all? When will we be satisfied with our capabilities? When will we stop making so many excuses?

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I will never look into my viewfinder and be confused again. I refuse to let go of all the work I have done and lose the map of roads I have traversed in the dark. Even if I have no formal guidance in what I do and what I create, I have a light within that will always burn brightly.

Full gallery for the Fischer Clothing Factory.

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August 31, 2007 Fail and fade away

Nearly a week has gone by and I still cannot think of the words to say. Countless times I have started to write, then deleted, re-wrote and deleted again.

You see, this is the curse of having a public blog. I am actually very uncomfortable keeping this thing but I think pushing yourself to do things that are frightening is a part of life. And maybe (maybe) this will teach me some discretion.

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I have both so much and absolutely nothing to say about this building. Clarification: I cannot say most of what I am thinking, and that is unfortunate. The ideas are banging at the inside of my skull and the visceral portion of the journey is prickling at my skin. I feel bound, tied with my own ethics and fighting with the idea of trust and what is right/wrong.

Here is the key element that moves me about this power generating station: over the last 18 months a slow drama has unfolded. Inadvertently, Trav and I have found ourselves in a series mystery, piecing together the history, rise, and downfall of the power plants of the city. We never went into this with any sort of intent; it literally just happened. And little by little the story unfolded in a way that was random as coming across a piece of paper in a folder tucked away in a box in a building that had seemingly no relation to the present. I have mentioned before (jokingly) that exploring these buildings is like a computer game in that you have to pay attention to every detail and every piece of junk around you. You never know what might be useful in solving a problem… later.

The journey started with one power plant. Then there was another. And another. And another. And each time we opened a door and saw new sights, new clues came tumbling at our feet. These were hints, references and puzzle pieces to a story that seemed vaguely familiar like a past life. In a flash of understanding I began to truly see: they are all connected. And while this fact is so painfully obvious to anyone who is paying attention to The System it was lost on me for the longest time. I know that they are all links in a chain of a larger parent company, but they are connected.

And for some reason seeing the bigger picture was a pivotal moment. The crowning instant was finding photos of the initial demolition of West Harbor’s smokestacks tucked away in an envelope…

… under a pile of books…

… under a hard hat…

… in a dark corner office between endless banks of switches and dials.

What were the chances I would climb those stairs, step back there, move the hat, move the books, and open the envelope? But I did! And I will remember that moment for the rest of my life!

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With shaking hands we put the photos back in their rightful place. In the envelope. Under the books. Under the hat. I felt like we had defiled a grave, but maybe there is no reason to think that it was just a romantic analogy. It was reality. We had, in fact, discovered documentation of a dead entity at the very moment of her fall from grace. Whether or not the building actually cares matters very little to me; I was embarrassed and sad for her to be digging up evidence of an awkward moment.

Ethics be damned. Any reason for which I feel guilt is balanced, here and now, by this strangely important realization. I can’t forget it no matter how hard I try.

Posted In: charm city, urban exploring.

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July 10, 2007 The Ghost Ship

They say facing your fears is the best way to get over them. I say that it is just a really good way to lose sleep.

I’m afraid of deep water and this is absolutely no secret. Anyone who knows me has probably laughed at some point at how scared I am to even walk on a beach, although eventually I’ll get close enough to the waves to tread on wet sand. I can swim just fine – pretty well, actually – but my fear lies in the idea of the water, a huge an uncontrollable force ruled by astronomical forces that can smoosh you and drown you in the blink of an eye. Not to mention all of the things that lie in wait under the water: creatures, dead bodies, debris, refuse.

When I joined the Canton Kayak Club last spring, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Getting into a flimsy plastic shell and paddling defenselessly into the Inner Harbor… that is the exact opposite of anything I would voluntarily do. Maybe I was trying to throw off the scent of an identity thief, or I had tricep envy? Either way, I paid my club dues, did 2 hours of introductory training and was given a pat on the back and a membership card.

Fast forward to July. I haven’t been on the water ever since training day in April. We’d been talking about making plans with a couple of other friends and acquaintances who also have memberships, but nothing ever gelled. Sunday, though, that was our day. I was just along for the ride, not really thinking it would happen. Famous last words!

It was around 98 degrees that afternoon and as humid as a sponge. We drove down to one of the docks south of the city and hauled out three kayaks, two blue and one orange. Naturally, I got the orange one. I am known for having balance issues on flat, steady ground, so getting in and out of a kayak bobbing in the harbor was what I thought would be my biggest challenge. Let’s just say that I’m grateful Matt bends bolts for fun.

Now we start paddling. I’m trying to get the hang of it again, and I’m trying not to run into pylons that are sticking out of the water in plain view. After 15 minutes I’m already tired, but we haven’t even gotten out of the little cove where the marina sits so there’s no option but to push on. Also, Matt is pretty much out of sight already, he paddles so fast. Gotta catch up…

I’ll cut the details because our trip out the harbor/river/bay was mostly me grumping and whining and being a pain the arse to the poor DH behind me. My hands were starting to get blistered. My sunglasses were doing no good. Every stroke found my hands bonking painfully against the lip of the kayak. I was getting dripped on. The water stank. We were really far from shore and the swells were making me extremely nervous (No, I never had the nerve to see A Perfect Storm). I kept listing to the left. Worst of all, it didn’t even feel like we were moving.

I think it took us the better part of an hour (or two) to get out and around to our theoretical destination. Honestly, I know that the abandoned Ghost Ship was the whole point that Matt (and probably Trav) had joined the kayak club but I never really thought we’d be going all the way out there. It’s really far! And I’m really wimpy! I have no idea how I made it there because my arms were already falling out of my shoulder sockets and I couldn’t feel my triceps. But somehow…. We rounded one last dangerous rock pile by a peninsula and there she was.

How does one get aboard a half-sunken ship from a kayak? Apparently it’s easy. You paddle REALLY fast and aim for the mostly-submerged barge that it’s tethered to, and then seal-crawl up the rest of the way in your kayak. I had it easy; by virtue of my gender I had two people pull me up, instead. Actually it was very fortunate that the barge was there because (I think) it is tipped underwater and the hinged doors are what made up our landing ramps.

Then you strap all of your camera equipment to your body in a makeshift manner, inch along the rim of the barge and JUMP! through a broken window in the ship. And hope that any people on passing boats don’t have a mean streak and steal your kayaks while you’re out of sight. Because… dude, there is no other way out of there.

About the Ghost Ship itself: I have never been in anything like it before, that’s for sure, but there isn’t much left in it. Back in the day it was one of those entertainment ferries, the kind like the Bay Lady that you can hire for a set number of hours with your party and dance, drink, have dinner, whatever. Now she’s tethered to (technically) a portable marsh, bottom levels completely filled with water.

The steep tilt did make things more difficult than I would have expected. Getting my horizons straight was bad enough, but it was simple things like climbing stairs, not having your tripod fall over when you’re looking through it, walking into rails, etc. I am such a land lubber. And what rhymes with “lubber?” That’s right, “rubber.” My arms felt like two very boneless pieces of rubber so I spend my first round leaving the camera on the ground and walking, just scouting. There are lots of abstract textures in the paint there, and interesting patterns of dancing light from the water. The holes in the floor seemed to have been circled with hot pink spray paint… years ago. Now they’re faded into a misty carnation, making me wonder who did such work here and why.

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Also, there were tons of barn swallows and red-winged blackbirds. While they were very cute, eventually their whirring/chinking/cheeping started to grate on my brain. To contrast the lightness of this, every few minutes I could hear a deep creaking groan of industrial metal. I only assume it was the ship settling under our weight or bumping against the barge on the other side. The noise sent shivers down my spine, not because I thought we were in any real danger but because it was so true to every bad movie I’d seen that involved a compromised ship.

Although it seemed kind of cheap to me, I don’t think we stayed in the ship anywhere near as long as it took us to get there. We packed up, jumped out the window, stored our equipment back in the dry bags. Well, at least I did – the guys wanted exterior shots from the water, which was fine for them. I know my paddling skills better than that.

Good thing! Because on the way out I capsized my boat. Splash, for real. Here is the order of thoughts that went through my head:

1. Crap, these boots will NEVER dry out
2. The water tastes like runny mucus
3. My camera!!!!!
4. I hope I don’t get trapped under the barge
5. What STD will I catch from this?
6. *censored*

I’m a little bit sad that concern for my camera only rated at #3, but I plead shock for shifting my priorities around.

And the guys had the flaming audacity to be jealous of me. Jealous! because theoretically I wasn’t hot anymore. I’ll take being hot/thirsty over being wet with three inches of water inside my waterproof boots, TYVM. I offered to shove them into the water next. They declined.

The trip back was uneventful, otherwise. We cut across the major boat route in an effort to make the trip shorter but the only thing I really noticed was that we had to paddle like crazy to get out of their way (all other boats have right of way over kayaks) and were left riding giant swells. I was NOT AMUSED. There is something to be said about having to make a wet exit, however: you care a lot less about getting splashed, but I was still unclear as to what to do if you capsize a mile from shore.

All in all it was a great trip. If I had bothered to check the map before we left I may not have gone because it was significantly farther than I think I could have handled (approx 6 miles). But I made it through there with only slight damage to my dignity and some decent photos – and maybe not knowing your physical limit is a good thing because I sure as heck wasn’t going to spend the night sleeping on the water! Best of all, we all have a new story to tell.

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My gallery is finally up here.

With this trip, I think that I am living my life to the fullest. Can’t complain about that, even though it makes for very, very long blog entries afterwards.

Posted In: charm city, urban exploring.

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July 5, 2007 Light show at the Brewery

Last night we had a date with Matt and his girl to go camp out on a rooftop. Sounds good, right? No crowds, nice fireworks, cameras. What could possibly go wrong? It’s not like we’d never been to that roof before. Heck, even though it had rained like crazy that afternoon, the precipitation stopped and it was a balmy (though humid) 80 degrees. The clouds made for a dramatic sunset, very promising.

Matt is handy. He knows lots of stuff and has a really innocent face to go with it. He’s really good to keep around so anyone reading this, make sure you stock up on canned salmon and kidney beans. Once we were in (thanks, Matt!) we climbed pretty much right to the roof, picked a spot and lay our coats down. The bumpy asphalt-like material was a little wet, but nothing serious. I had more of a problem with the rocks poking me in the rear, but hey… I’m Asian!

We sat there shooting test shots as the light faded, taking in the smaller fireworks displays that people will inevitably drive to PA or WV for and launch from their back yards. The harbor fireworks weren’t scheduled to start until 9:30. We were really enjoying the breeze, the view, the company. The freedom. The only thing that would have made it better would have been Chipotle, but that’s neither here nor there.

Right when things started getting dark, thunderclouds started crawling in from the west. Headed right towards the city… and us! A few raindrops wouldn’t kill the camera and I was bound to get some good shots tonight. It was a while before I noticed my companions had grabbed their tripods and run for shelter. Determined, I just tossed my raincoat over the two of us (30D and me), just like in the old fashioned days to make a little slice of darkness. In this case it was dryness. Good shots don’t come easily, right? Maybe…?

169898317 L Light show at the Brewery

Right when the lightning bolts started to get good, the heavens opened and we were practically swimming. Jeebus! Being in the middle of a long exposure sure makes me stubborn, but even after a certain point it was obvious it was time to turn tail and run, too.

Time: 9:08 PM.

Note to my crew: next year if it storms, pick a location that does NOT have a roof completely occupied with steel towers and structures composed of corrugated metal.

169898655 L Light show at the Brewery

I’m fairly new to the art of fishing for lightning, but I have definitely done worse than these in the past. Next time I try this I’m going to put in a request for some brighter bolts right over the skyline, and maybe slip in an extra $20 to make sure more of them coincide with the fireworks.

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