Danger signs!

I'm a fan of hieroglyphic warning signs--those simple icons that help those who don't read--or don't read the local language--discern hazards. I've collected a few over the years that amuse me, and from time to time, for nothing better to do, I guess, I'll post some to the blog.
Generally, the simpler they are, the better, and the less open to interpretation such warnings signs are. Like the sign above: generally, when the building you are in is on fire, you should run like hell. . .

Unless, of course, you started the fire, and don't want to attract any undue attention to yourself; then, you casually turn your back on the fire and leave the building. This is more effective, I'd imagine, if you put your hands in your pockets and whistle as you do so. . .

Leave it to the Japanese. . .

The instruction booklet for Nintendo's Wii video game contains a number of great illustrations warning you what NOT to do to your $500 computer game. The artwork, rather than the spare and graphic symbols often used, is actually quite detailed and evocative of the Shoen style of Anime, appropriate, I guess, given the country of manufacture as well as the target audience of youth. And each panel is like its own little story. . .



This frame clearly warns the player not to be so into the experience that they rear up and smack a friend in the face with such velocity that eyeglasses and what looks like a tooth become dislodged. . .

Play quality WILL NOT be enhanced by pouring Orange Crush into the unit. . .

Though playing Wii may be a totally satisfying experience, the machine may not appreciate your efforts to share a post-game cigarette . . .

For you dumb-shits out there: do not attempt to use a CD-R that has been broken in two and taped back together. Super-glue may be a better alternative. . .

Jamming a shamrock into your Wii will not give you any better luck playing the damn thing. . .

I don't know what the hell this is: do the Japanese believe in Frosty The Snowman? And the farting baseboard heater. . .do these things actually make the Wii shake in horror???

This borders on Hentai: this panel either is warning the user of autoerotic asphxyation, or begging the frustrated Wii player not to commit suicide with a plastic bag if efforts to play prove too frustrating. . .

The Wii will not prove a subsitute for traditional sexual relations. . . . (actually, this last one is from a satirical website. . .but it mimics the style quite well).

More Danger Signs! later. And feel free to send me your favorites as well!

Mother Nature, You Bitch!

They call this "paradise"?

Simply incredible what a few sparks and a howling wind can do, isn't it? California may not have tornadoes, but the seeming randomness in the destruction of homes from the wildfires seems pretty similar. . . your home may be safe, but the neighbor's is reduced to a pile of ashes.

This ain't global warming in action--it's the earth cleansing itself. . .consider it Mother Nature getting a Brazilian Wax. Once in a while, the earth just needs the stubble cleared off so it can grow new bush. Once the fire season is over, look out for Part II: The Mudslides. Then the charges of price gouging of construction materials, insurance fraud, and the inevitable cessation of insurance companies in writing new policies. Can't say that this is all that unusual, except for the large area covered this year.

But all isn't gloomy. The fires apparently came at a great time for Southern California's economy. Damage estimates have topped $1 billion, but it's a good thing that housing bubble burst, or we'd be looking at around $2 billion for sure. You'd think that with the California National Guard (those that aren't in Iraq, anyway) diverted from securing our borders, illegal aliens would have a Green Light into the Southlands. . .but apparently not so. They'll probably be needed soon enough, as there'll be lots of construction jobs by the time this is over. Economists are predicting that with all the rebuilding and trickle-down to the economy, the fire will represent a mini-boom to California's economy, and that, in the larger scheme of things, the losses will be far less than those due to the sub-prime mortgage collapse. Well, thank God for that, huh?

I Hate The State Fair

Howwwwww-dy folks! This is Big Tex! Welllllcome to the State Fair. . .of Tex-AS! Now, gimme allllll your money, and we'll alllll beeeee hap-py! And try one of our famous corn-ey dogs! They're only $20.




Dear God.

What.

A.

Beat.

Down.

It's over now, the State Fair of Texas. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I hate the thing. But by now, it's become one of our "family traditions," and you don't dare disrupt those. The kids, you know. We gotta do it for the kids. So, we went, joining something like 3 million others in spending over $27 million on ride and food coupons alone!

I tend to forget what a wonderful experience it is to be a kid and to go to the state fair. The smell of the pigs! The stained teeth of the Carney barkers! Getting run over by extremely obese people in electric carts driving with one hand while they chow down on a giant turkey leg with the other.



I didn't see a single salad for sale at the Fair, but something tells me most folks really wouldn't have cared if there was.

My best State Fair experience was in back in Utah 30 years ago, when the entire 8th Grade class at Churchill Junior High took buses to the Utah State Fair. The highlight was when Craig Osterloh got suckered into a midway game of chance. Enticed to win a $20 cassette/radio with two-dollar-for-three-shots at a basketball hoop, it wasn't more than 10 minutes later that he'd spent all $40 he'd brought for the day. . .and still not won the prize. He spent the rest of the day sitting alone in the bus in the parking lot, crying.



Is that Walt Garrison standing in for the money-grubbing Big Tex?

The business model for the State Fair of Texas isn't that much different. But instead of a Carney to rip you off, the scam is spread across the 277 acres of Fair Park. Worst of all is the idea to convert your cash to tickets, on the assumption that you won't realize how much you're REALLY spending if you do it 10 tickets at a time, much as casinos use chips.(Those black and white ones sure look pretty. . . it's tough to imagine them as being worth $100 as you plunk em down on the blackjack table.) The Fair website unabashedly claims an "estimated annual economic impact on the D/FW economy (of)$350 million. " Most of it, I'd guess, from the sale of Corney Dogs and Tilt-A-Whirl tickets.

This year, we didn't make it to the livestock barns, nor the petting zoo. We made our usual loop through Chevy and Ford Truck Land (why are so many models of similar-looking trucks needed?), into the air-conditioned showroom where Hondas and Hyundais and Lexii were on display, walked past the Age of Rust Railroad museum--now rechristened "The Museum of the American Railroad" or some such, I guess to give it a much grander and inclusive purpose--and straight into High Cholesterol Hell. The folks who come up with some of the crap that passes as "Fair Food" should be forced to inject this evil stuff into their own arteries. This year, the culinary delights offered include the cornerstones of good nutrition: deep fried guacamole, deep fried latte, deep fried cookie dough, deep fried spleen. All the stuff your Grandma wouldn't serve you as a kid because she didn't have a deep fryer the size of Oklahoma.

We went for traditional fare: Chicken Nuggets for I. A Corn Dog for E. A cheese/jalapeno Corn Dog for M .I got a Hamburger. And we got three drinks. Cost? Around $40. Think of that. Forty bucks. For a load of food that MIGHT cost you 10 bucks at an Alsups or Flying J. That Hamburger of mine was a real work of art: TEN tickets for a thin, over-cooked patty of high-fat ground beef on a cold bun. That's $5. Condiments? Ketchup, mustard, mayo. Over there. Get in line. Gee, thanks


Was I just imagining things, or have prices gone through the roof?

We're not high-rollers. We set our budget at a paltry $100 (remember when that would be more than enough to entertain a family of two adults and two small children with?). We used a combination of discount tickets to lower the cost of two $14 adult tickets and two $10 children's tickets to only $14 (bless you, ticket booth lady!). We parked in the front yard of some black guy with really nice gold grilles for $8. We spent another $14 on two small metal cars for the boys. The rest went for the food and a disappointingly small number of kid's rides.


For I., two times around the NASCAR ride wasn't enough.

The Rides! Here's the scam: You've got to be around 42" tall to ride on many of the kiddie rides alone. There are a few rides where you can be 33" and ride alone. . .generally rides offer excitement equal to that of sitting on an adjustable hospital bed. Still other rides won't let you ride alone if you're under 48" tall, but will allow you to ride with a PAYING adult if taller than 33". So, an 8 ticket ride for your little tyke (er, $4) is only half the cost, oh patient parent. Give the scary looking man with nicotine-stained fingers another 8 tickets to join your little one. That's $8 to let your little replicate ride in a fiberglass whale for three minutes of heart-pounding thrills


A tradition, but not this year: The Texas Star (or, La Estrella de Tejas)

By the time both of the boys each rode four rides, there was no way we were going to be able to afford the one ride we'd always taken in our years of coming to the fair as a family: the huge "Texas Star" Ferris wheel. I couldn't even imagine what that would cost this year to take the four of us for a nine-story high view of Fairpark, but I wasn't about to take out a bank loan to find out. We won't even discuss the "sky ride" above the Midway, the State Fair's newest attraction (it returned after a 33-year absence after someone fell out of one of the cars and died in the 1970s. That'd ruin your State Fair experience. This little fact was conveniently left out of the State Fair press release announcing the ride's return.


Would you really want to die, supposing you were the Human Cannonball, by missing your target and landing instead amid a display of Hot Tubs?

Now, call me a cheap-skate if you'd like. We budgeted this year what we felt we could afford to enjoy the experience and, as expected, it certainly wasn't enough. The kids enjoyed themselves with other free events: the juggler, the garden railroad, the Human Cannonball, the largest free-standing house of cards (blueprints of which are being copied for the latest Fox & Jacobs planned community), discovering the Greatness that is Big Tex, and, of course, wandering among the hundreds of hot tubs displayed by dozens of cut-rate spas dealers. But ultimately, it was the rides the kids liked, and I'd be lying if I were to say that at least one of our kids wasn't teary-eyed when we told him we didn't have enough money left to ride any more. How can a six-year-old understand how money works if his father barely does?


Bryan Berg--the CARDSTACKER! Don't sneeze or throw tennis balls at the display, please.

But, ultimately, it really doesn't matter. The look on the face of the kids while they enjoyed the rides made it all worth it, fatty foods, crowds, and Carney's notwithstanding. And we'll no doubt be back next year, if only so the kids can laugh at Dad's Big Tex impersonation:

Howwwwwwdy, Folks! I'm Biiiggggg Tex! And is that a corney dog in my pants, or am I just happy to be back at the State Fair. . . . of Tex-AS!



No longer terrorized by dreams of Big Tex walking down their street at night: I. and E. at the State Fair.


Fall Has Arrived. . . .

Summer lasted til around three this morning, when a cold front swept into North Texas. It was in the upper 80s yesterday, but with the bluster and rain, it'll barely be 50 today. Good thing the fair was ending, as all that rain falling into the deep fryers would really make Fair Park snap, crackle and pop. . . .

Waiting, still waiting. . .

This would look better with a train on the bridge. . .

After running a few errands Friday, I decided to spend the afternoon attempting a little railroad photography. It was God-awful hot for October, and humid, and the sun seemed high and light uninspiring when I came across Fort Worth Western's Tolar turn awaiting departure from Hodge Yard with a huge train behind two SD40's and a pair of GP50s. Why not follow him? After hanging around the Trinity River park downtown and deciding the light wasn't right for the "standard" shot of the wooden trestle, I backpedaled to the north side of town and photographed the train crossing a branch of the Trinity River from Oakwood Cemetery. Acceptable, not great.


The Oakwood Cemetery shot. . .

Knowing FWWR's propensity for fast-running south of Fort Worth, I hightailed it down US 377, and out Winscott-Plover road to wait for the train near MP15. There's still rural country out here, but don't look long! It was hit-and-miss with the clouds, and the clouds won, but the FWWR's bright yellow and blue paint still looks good under clouds. The weeds/grass have had a good wet summer to encroach on the right of way, negating several potential shots on the way into Cresson, so I highballed to Cresson and photographed the turn setting out empty sand cars.



Tolar Turn at MP16. . .

I topped off the fuel and headed straight for the shot of the bridge over Lake Granbury, a scene I'd not photographed in 12 years of living in the area. The light was nice and getting better. I waited. . .and waited. . .and waited some more. Wondering where the hell the train was after waiting nearly an hour, I called Ken Fitzgerald, who placed a call to FWWR's dispatcher and informed me the train had left Waples. "He won't be too long getting there," Ken said. Another half hour passed. No train. The only cloud in the sky approached the sun--the train HAD to be close, I figured. . .the cloud passed, still without a train. By now, it was 6:15pm, and I was due to meet my family for dinner at 7:00, so I reluctantly abandoned my spot on the shoulder of East Pearl Street, on the bridge over the lake and parallel to the railroad bridge. Hosed again


Tolar Turn sets out at Cresson. . .

Idle Thoughts while standing on a bridge. . .
While standing on the bridge for well over an hour, I had to do something to pass the time of day, besides being the target of yelps, yells and obscenities hurled by Hood County males driving big pick-up trucks who seemingly have nothing better to do than harass a middle-aged photographer standing on the shoulder of the road. It seemed like lots of folks--well, women--were talking on cell phones as they drove by. . .one, yapping away as she passed a slower-moving vehicle on the shoulder of the bridge. This got me to thinking. . . I counted the next 100 vehicles. Of these, 62 were driven by men, 38 by women. Of the 38 women, 12 were talking on cell phones. Of the men, only three. What this means, I won't conjecture.

On the drive back to Fort Worth, my prejudices against Texas drivers were once again rewarded. Doing 70 in a 60 zone, I was passed by a tailgater (again, young male in a pick-up truck) on the shoulder. An empty drilling company tanker truck bounced across the corner of a vacant lot to create his own turn lane at a stop light. I love it. Yee-haw.

E.'s Day. . .

This afternoon, between my truncated sleep and the neighbor daughter's first birthday party, E. had his fourth game of the season in his "fall ball" coach pitch league. He moved up from T-ball, and it has been quite a transition--not all-together smooth, as he's clearly a half-year younger and less coordinated than the rest of his teammates. Having someone throw a ball at you is quite a change from hitting it off a tee. . . and E. is one of just a few players who are having their first exposure to this new type of baseball. So far, he's played in the outfield each game, which he isn't too happy about, since he'd rather be "in the action" in the infield. But, that time will come, as his team's infeld is pretty good--they can hit, field, throw, and catch, all skills E. is still a little shaky at.

But E. does have his enthusiasm going for him, and when he applies himself and focuses on what is going on, he does have a lot of hustle. Today, he had a couple of little dribbler hits, but was engaged the whole game, enthusiastic, and rooting for his team. As a result, he was quite pleased when Coach Kevin awarded him one of the Game Balls. He was so proud. And so were we. Way to go, little dude.

Thanks, Dad.

PFC Louis W. Kooistra, 18, in 1944

I've been glued to the television set this week from 8 to 10pm, forsaking even my much-anticipated nap before work each evening, so I could watch The War, filmmaker Ken Burns' 14-hour documentary on World War II.

It's been time well spent. It's certainly put the war in a greater context than anything I've come across before, and opened my eye to what "sacrifice" really means. It's also given me a much greater appreciation of what the war meant to people of my father's generation. . . and most importantly, given me a greater understanding of my father's life.

The War views World War II largely through the eyes of residents of four United States cities: Luverne, MN; Sacramento, CA; Waterbury, CT; and Mobile, AL. But the stories and perspectives from these towns aren't any different, the series points out, than those of countless other American cities. . . including Grand Rapids, Michigan, where my father grew up.

Lou Kooistra was born in 1925, just a tad bit too young, thank God, to participate in the opening years of the War. While older able-bodied men and his high-school upper-classmen headed off to war, my father, 16 years old at the time of Pearl Harbor, had to stay behind, finish high school and wait until he turned of age to join the war effort overseas. Wanting to fly planes, he tried to enlist early in officers' training for the Army Air Corps, but his mother wouldn't sign her permission to his early application; when he finally was drafted in 1944, he went into the Army infantry, something that probably saved his life, when you compare it to the mortality--or lack of--among air crews in Europe.

Dad took his basic training in New Jersey, and was set to ship out for the European front just after Christmas, 1944. The Allies had landed in France at Normandy six months earlier, and the push to Berlin was stalled in western Belgium and eastern France. Our troops were being decimated by the heavy fighting that winter, and Dad was being trained as a replacement soldier to shore up our fontal assault.

Dad made a frantic return to Grand Rapids by train while on a weekend pass to see his family for what he assumed would be the final time, barely making it back to New York harbor in time to embark on the Queen Mary for the trip across the Atlantic.

He arrived in Europe and immediately moved to the front line to join Company F, 71st Infantry, 44th Division, 6th Army in the waning days of the Battle of the Bulge in the Sarreguemines region of southeastern France. His company then pushed east towards Germany, seeing heavy action in taking the town of Mannheim, amid sniper fire and small-arms street fighting. Dad in fact, was hit by a sniper's bullet, which gave him cause for concern when he misinterpreted the warm water from his canteen, pierced by the sniper's bullet, for blood as it ran down his backside and leg. Not too long after this, Dad was wounded by a piece of shrapnel from a German grenade, and returned to service. He earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze star, among other citations, during his time overseas.

Thankfully for Dad, Germany surrended not too long after that, soon after the 44th reached Austria. By late July, after some leave time in France and England (and plenty of chances to get acquainted with the local girls--it wasn't all war!), Dad and his company had returned to the States on the Queen Elizabeth, to await training and reassignment to the Pacific, where the US was preparing a ground invasion of Japan. The atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki hastened the Japanese surrender, however, and Dad never had to go to the Pacific, much to his relief. He spent much of the next year on base in Missouri awaiting his discharge from the Army.
This is just the barest outline of dad's military career. As he looks back on it now, he recalls the war as being filled with unspeakable horrors; but it also created friendships and memories that have lasted his entire life. In retrospect, he now says he wouldn't have traded the experience for a million dollars, though he certainly didn't feel that way at the time.



At Ease: Austria, 1945

Over a thousand World War II veterans a day are dying off in this country. My dad is 81 years of age, and nearly all of his fellow soldiers from Company F are no longer on this earth. It won't be long, sadly, until all the World War II veterans, Dad among them, will be gone, and then the war will go from an experience shared by the living to the pages of history. It is truly amazing the effort this country took in fighting the second World War. Straight out of a depression, our country wasn't prepared militarily nor economically to undertake such an ordeal, but leadership in Washington "spread the misery"and made this truly a war that everyone participated in, whether they actually fought or not. It was a war the citizens agreed as being necessary and right to fight. And though parents didn't send their sons overseas, many to their deaths, without hesitation, they saw a greater good in the cause.

The war profoundly changed America, the US emerging as an economic and political powerhouse afterwards. The role of blacks and women in American society changed as well, as did the largely agrarian United States population, moving en masse as it did to the city for war jobs and staying on afterwards as American industry reached its zenith.

And my Dad was part of it.

So, before it isn't too late, thanks, Dad, for everything. Thanks for the sacrifices you and your family and your neighbors in Grand Rapids made on the homefront, and for the service you gave to, at least temporarily, eradicate tyranny and fascism from the world. Four years into our nation's little adventure in Iraq, it's clear they don't make wars like they used to. And, as a whole, they don't make Americans like that, either.


Dad and E. and I.--two boys enjoying the freedom their Grandfather fought for.

Trolley Buff

End of the line: West Village at City Place, car 636, a former Dallas Railway car built by Brill, is reflected in a puddle of rainwater.

Perhaps no two words are more derisive to the hard-core railfan than to be called a "Trolley Buff." Maybe "Fan Living With Mother (or 'flim')" is just as damning, but not by much.

My experience trackside the past 30 years is that those of us heavy-haul "true believers" dismiss railfans who have an interest in trolleys, trolley systems, and light rail as being lower on the railfan caste as those whose primary interest is big-time freight railroading. Trolley fans? Ha, they sniff. Somewhere between tourist line buffs and bus fans. What a bunch of poofters!

Back in the barn: Car 369, a Melbourne, Australia car named "Matilda" ties up for the night at the trolley barn on Bowen street.


Melbourne car Matilda on Bowen Street. Lights from a nearby Shell Mini-Mart seem to be quite well balanced for daylight temperature!

I can see their point. Standing trackside alongside a mountain railroad as 18,000 horsepower of SD45's digging for all they're worth up the grade, sanders wide open, turbochargers wailing in pain is an experience tough to match. Certainly it's got it hands down over trolley cars. But there's something to be said for being open-minded about all forms of rail transportation. In the coming years, it will likely be the need to haul people that will drive much of the development of our nation's rail system, and on a most basic level, people hauling will come down to a proliferation of light rail systems. It's happened in cities like Los Angeles, Portland, Denver, and even Dallas. And they all owe a tip of the pantograph to their predecessor systems, the streetcars.

In Dallas, a small group of largely volunteers keep alive the tradition with the McKinney Avenue Transit Authority, a heritage trolley operation in the streets of Dallas's Uptown district. The 3.9 mile system has gradually expanded over the past decade, drawing support from local businesses who find neighborhood trolley service is good for business. A big chunk of the MATA's funding comes from DART, who subsidises service on the line 7-days a week, from at least 10am to 10pm daily. During peak periods, three vintage streetcars roam the line; during off-hours, at least two cars operate. And there are plans to expand the railroad further, into Dallas' rapidly-developing West End.

Motorman lowers the trolley on the 636 car at the Bowen St. carbarn.

Cars 369 and 636 inside the Bowen St. carbarn.

I hauled out-of-town visitors Steven and Joe--both of whom had spent considerable time living in the DFW area previously, and neither of whom would confess to having photographed the operation before--downtown last night to take some night photographs of the operation. Now, I'm not sure I convinced either one of these chaps about the legitimacy of trolley photography as a portion of their railfanning diet, but I do know they kept pretty busy photographing the two cars operating as they returned to the carbarn and were put to bed.

I'd been wanting to get back to Dallas for night shots most of the summer, and I'm damned glad I had the opportunity to do so. The cars are photogenic, the ambient lighting is quite nice, and the volunteer operators are most accommodating. It's definately worth the couple of hours investment in the experience, if only to get an idea of how people once got around the big and not-so-big cities in our country.

Meanwhile, I'll try to keep it our little secret that Joe and Steven spent a late night photographing. . .trolleys!

Motormen and car 369 at the Trolley Barn.