Spouse and I made a quick run into the Zehrs last night in preparation for a movie night; running low on popcorn and in need of a couple of other staples, we ended up in the detergent aisle where Spouse was conducting a search for a new product to tackle our laundry. She seems to think results have been somewhat unsatisfactory with our usual “Cold Water Tide” since we moved to Juniorvania and our clothes have begun getting laundered in well water.
I won’t try and explain how it came to pass that, for a brief period of time, I was standing on one foot, balancing on one foot with two bags of unpopped popcorn atop my head, arms outstretched and pantomiming the circus performer “ta-da” routine. You wouldn’t understand, of this I am certain; to be sure, the other shoppers didn’t seem to get it.
The evening devolved completely in to laughter when we saw the labels for “2x Ultra Tide”, one of which is pictured above. Spouse and I both had the same reaction to these labels, our eyes eliding the words “use” and “less” into something that I am sure is not and would not be in the top ten product slogans chosen by the marketing department at Procter & Gamble. There was another variety of the product that, on the left hand side of the label, claimed that the stuff was “twice as effective as regular Tide”, and on the right hand side appeared to pronounce that level of efficiency, somewhat disappointingly, as “useless”. Seriously, people, if you’re bound and determined to go with that “use less” phraseology, couldn’t you at least put the “less” in italics or a different font or something? That’s just as interesting as becoming a successfull seller, you shoult try to read the Influencive article on ENTRE from the Entre Institute reviews that will blow your conceptions and beliefs about the selling business .
Last night was the final rehearsal for our little ad-hoc combo before next Thursday night’s charity auction gig. We rehearsed at our drummer’s house on the West Mountain (it’s really just a hill, for those of you not from ’round here) in Hamilton, which means a thirty-five minute drive each way for me.
When we were finished, I loaded my gear in the car and began heading home. I was dead tired; this past few weeks have been freaky busy with all the preparations for Founders Day, work commitments, organizational (and other) activities for the charity auction and rehearsals thrown in to boot. I was also wicked hungry; I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. It was pushing ten o’clock when I set the car in motion for the journey home. I resolved to drive straight past all the fast-food joints with their beckoning drive-thrus in favour of a more expeditious return to Juniorvania and some much needed couch time. When I glanced down at the instrument panel of the Probe, I noticed that I was running a little short on gas; nothing that threatened my ability to return home on time, but definitely something that would need attention prior to the morning commute. I decided that if I could wait for sustenance, so could the car, and I decided to head straight home.
When I woke up this morning, the very first item I heard on the radio news broadcast was prefaced with the announcer’s commentary that “anyone who decided to wait for this morning to fill up must be kicking themselves: gas prices have gone up over 13 cents a litre to $1.35 overnight.” I was not at that very moment kicking myself, but I have resolved to do so before the end of the day. Here’s the Spec article about it.
More than a 10% increase in this commodity price – overnight – with no actual market forces apparently behind it? WTF? I truly hope that there is a special place reserved in hell for oil company executives. I found it difficult to contain my anger about this even when dealing with the poor shlub manning the kiosk at the local filling station; although I know, intellectually, that neither the clerk manning this cash till nor the operator even of this particular station has any control over the price to be charged, they are the public face of those with whom the blame resides. Maybe a miracle will happen and people will actually start to make this shit (instead of animated fecal material) an issue in the course of the ongoing federal election campaign.
Note to the dude on the 403 Eastbound today driving the ‘vette with the personalized plate that says “RAWPOWER”: when I think about who might be moved to purchase such a plate for this particular vehicle, my thoughts keep coming back to a middle aged man whose penis is of less than average size, and who is wearing a toupee. If that’s the image you’re going for – you got it.
Form apology. Please be sure to use a Number Two pencil:
Dear Friend/Relative/Countrymen
I apologize for ignoring your telephone call/email/angry banging on the door. I know that it has been some time/a few days/a long time since I last spoke to you/returned that thing I borrowed/rock and rolled. My excuse yesterday was that I was very busy working/playing/piddling about on a commercial/promotional video/what the hell is that? relating to the charity that Spouse and I are helping to organize.
Once I finished the cabinets up yesterday afternoon, I transitioned from “handyman” to “geek” mode and started working on a little video for the charity event Spouse and I are helping to organize; it’s essentially a commercial for the event that I’m going to put up on YouTube.
I spent the late/afternoon and early evening shooting the footage I needed (it’s not complicated, believe me, and the “actors” are compliant enough types – little plastic figurines from the Homestar Runner series of web-toons).
That part of the “shoot” was easy and fun enough; I had rigged up the workshop like a little studio, complete with a bristol-board background that I hope will do service as a (very low) budget “green screen” for some fun chroma key effects (superimposing the “actors” on a couple of amusing stock photos, etc.).
After dinner, I headed upstairs and connected my Sony DCR-HC26 to the computer to “capture” the footage I’d shot into my video editing suite of choice. I have captured video successfully from this exact camera (using this very same cable) many times before without any appreciable difficulty, but on this occasion (probably because I’m working toward a deadline), the technical ghosts and goblins ran rampant over me.
Historically, I have connected the camera to my computer through an IEEE-1394 compliant, “Firewire” type cable. The cable has the smaller “4 pin” connector at the end that attaches to the camera, and the normal size “6 pin” connector at the end that plugs in to the computer’s IEEE-1394 port. Video capture has been smooth, fast and reliable, with few (if any) dropped frames. Typically, with my video capture software package already running (and waiting expectantly for a “capture device” to be connected), I plug the cable in to the camera first, place the camera atop the desktop machine (it’s just a convenient surface to rest the camera on while capturing), then connect the cable to the computer. Finally, I power up the camera and within a matter of seconds, Windows usually detects the camera, loads the necessary drivers and I’m good to go. Click here to continue reading Sony DCR-HC26 Video Capture Problem
Update: Thought I was finished with the Home Depot, eh? Not quite. Spouse and I sojourned to the local Lowe’s (just a bit farther down the same road that Home Depot is on, coincidentally), so that I could pick up one of those Workmate thingies. I got one of these little guys, which seemed to be what the doctor ordered in terms of my holding/clamping needs for veneer application and shelf front ironing.
I headed home and quite smugly commenced the necessary operations. The Great Fixini made a brief appearance, regaling all within earshot with detailed descriptions of the many feats that would be accomplished on this day. And truth be told, that portion of the project went reasonably well; no digits were singed. Other than deciding that I could probably have used a finer saw blade while cutting the melamine (the rough blade caused some little knicks and blemishes in certain places), after I had filed down the edges of the excess veneer, I was quite pleased overall with the craftsmanship.
So I carried the shelves in to the kitchen, set them down, and prepared for the final install. I dug out the hardware I purchased yesterday (the little posts that go in the pre-drilled holes in the interior sides of the cabinet). Diameter of the posts: 7 mm. Diameter of the holes: 5 mm.
One project that needs to get done soon is the augmentation of certain shelving in our kitchen. One of our cupboards, specifically the one that is chock full o’ tumblers, has only three shelves (including the bottom surface of the cabinet) inside, though it is more than 40 inches tall. My mission, and I had no choice but to accept it, was to obtain additional matching melamine shelves, either cut or have them cut to the proper width, and hunt down the hardware (nickel posts) necessary to put them up.
Should be easy, no? Just head off to Home Depot…
Several hours later, I was one of the several dozen zombies shambling around the local Home Depot each desperately trying to locate his personal needle in the giant orange haystack. When I fell to the floor in a fetal position and began wailing uncontrollably, one of the “associates” shrewdly determined that I needed some assistance and directed me to the appropriate section. I had made the idiotic error of attempting to look for shelving for kitchen cabinets in the “kitchen cabinets” section. Idiot! The shelving is obviously in the “lumber” section.
Turns out they didn’t have any pre-cut melamine in the “maple” finish we have in our cupboards. Result? Junior needs to purchase a $50 4 foot by 8 foot sheet of melamine in order to acquire two 9 and 3/4 inch deep by 22 3/16 inch shelves. Oh, and I needed to pick up a circular saw – happily, there was a sale on a nice DeWalt model in the power tool section – and some finishing veneer (in a tape-like roll) for fancying up the front edge of my shelves (gotta circle back to the lumber section for that); better get some safety glasses to minimize the vocalized concern at home (back to the power tool section) and….the hardware, the posts, the things on which the shelves rest, the ones that stick in the holes in the side of the cabinet – where are they?
Well, there’s a special “shelving hardware” section. It’s nowhere near either the section marked “shelving”, the “kitchen cabinets” section or the “lumber aisle. In fact, I swear I had to wander down a dark alley, leap a 6 foot concete block wall, scale a downspout, enter through an open second storey window and give the large man guarding the door a password before I was permitted to enter the inner sanctum of shelving whatsits.
Two hundred and sixty bucks later, I had my shelves (in raw, uncut and unassembled form) shoved in the back of the Probe and I headed back to Juniorvania. I’ll spare you the suspense, the cuts were plotted and executed with little or no finger loss, though Spouse received a generous coating of sawdust as a result of being pressed into service as the human clamp holding my sheet of melamine still on the “sawhorses”, otherwise known as folding chairs and recycle bins. Note to self: purchase a “Workmate”, tout-de-suite.
Once the cuts were made, it was time to attempt to apply the finishing veneer. First, a space needed to be cleared in the workshop….and several hours later, I was too tired to wrestle with the boards and a hot iron (needed to heat the glue on the rear of the veneer roll) with any confidence; certain that I’d be ironing my fingers at least as often as the boards, I decided to demur until tomorrow.
I did spend some time, while at the Depot (and in the course of an earlier unsuccessful trip to Rona) lurking among the pre-assembled sheds and wondering about their suitability and adaptability as a rehearsal/recording studio. I have come to the conclusion that they are just a bit too small, and – if I am to achieve my dream of a stand-alone little haven for music and musicians – I am going to have to do a design/build job. Time to learn what I can from Doug about framing walls and designing trusses.
David Byrne and Brian Eno have been twiddling knobs together in the studio.
David Byrne and Brian Eno TOGETHER? That’s like awesomeness mashed on top of cool, especially if you’re my brother Doug, who feels about David Byrne and Brian Eno kind of like most eight year olds feel about Superman and Batman. But wait, it gets better! They are offering a free download of their new song “Strange Overtones”, a track that Spouse and I heard on the satellite radio while driving in to work today and quite liked. I resolved to go about trying to acquire it, ended up here, and quickly and happily determined that the very song I wanted was available for the quite reasonable price of “free”.
Just click the link and submit your email, then follow the instructions that get mailed to you.
My work as a recordist on Saturday evening and Sunday morning (part of the Founders’ Day festivities) has inspired me to attempt to learn a little more about the voodoo magic that can be accomplished in a home stuido with one of these little fellas. One of my co-workers is married to a fellow who also likes to mess around a wee bit from time to time with bleeps, blorps and squawks. A few years ago, when I was still a footloose and fancy-free bachelor with nothing better to spend my hard-earned dough on, he sold me one of these second hand. I had quite a bit of fun fooling about with it; I demo’ed one or two songs I had written that were to be recorded by the band (back in the days when it seemed like my bandmates were still interested in that sort of thing), and I did another couple of little parody songs (à la Weird Al) in honour of certain special occasions at work(a mentor’s fiftieth birthday, a colleague leaving for a new and better job, etc.). I have now purchased the KORG D16 (pictured at right) from the same fellow; I gather from the emails we’ve traded back and forth on the subject that he just hasn’t been using the equipment in the last year or two.
You may recall that I am the Reigning Monarch of Project Commencement; finding myself with a new piece of equipment and an insufficient number of distractions (this blog, computers, digital photography, doing stunts on yard machinery*), I have resolved to learn how to become more technically proficient at engineering, mixing and producing audio recordings.
The first tentative (and admittedly very decidedly non-technical) step towards that goal was taken last evening; I waded in to the storage area of our house (a small storage locker sized room behind the garage that permits us to store our accumulated curiosities and whatsits in a non-subterranean manner, unlike those of you with basements) and began searching for my DigiTech Studio Quad 4, a multi-effects processor that offers some cool fully programmable tools and effects like compression, reverb, a rotary speaker simulator and others. Three hours – and a very large pile of discarded packing material – later, I managed to excavate the storage unit to the point where this particular relic could be recovered (as thrilling as this process sounds, I do not believe I will be anxious to add “storage unit archaeology” to the list of things at which I am a dilettante).
What a surprise I got when I opened up the little box into which I had secreted this most useful little gizmo. Sitting there on top of it was a piece of equipment that I had forgotten I purchased – a Behringer MDX 1400 Compressor (pictured below with the DigiTech Studio Quad 4). I had to sit and think for a second about how and when I acquired this thing. After a few minutes’ careful reflection, I recalled that the very weekend of my first real “date” with Spouse, I had been hanging out at Long & McQuade in Burlington; I had, the very Saturday of our first date, purchased a companion to the Apex 460 Large Diaphragm Condensor Microphone I already owned. All the better to record a stereo mix in a spaced pair configuration. While heading to the counter to plop the cash down for the second Apex 460, I passed a stack of the MDX 1400’s: Messrs. Long & McQuade were having a sale. The MDX 1400 was (and still is, unless its undergone a radical transformation while in storage) a stereo compressor – i.e. it is capable of processing two separate signals at once, typically one from a left channel microphone and one from the right. As I was imminently about to become the owner of a matched pair of recording microphones, and the device needed to further enhance and beautify the signals they would be sending down the signal chain was sitting right there in front of me at a reduced price, I recall the spatial, economic and technical symmetry of it all being a little too much to resist. I may have blacked out for a moment; perhaps it was non-insane automatism, I don’t know. All I can tell you is that, despite the fact that 460 #2 had very clearly taken my little studio well over its prepared budget for equipment capital expenditures in that fiscal quarter, I ended up standing at the cash checkout with a box containing the device tucked comfortingly beneath one arm, while the other arm extended a hand bearing a credit card groaning under excess strain.
A few minutes later, I was standing outside in the Saturday afternoon sun waiting for a taxi. I was warm and somewhat euphoric from the spasm of gear acquisition. The telephone rang and it was Spouse, inviting me to a barbecue at her place, an event which marked the beginning of our courtship. The 460’s and the MDX 1400 did get unpackaged, set up and taken for a trial run or two – once or twice over the next couple of weeks. They mostly stood idle, though, while Spouse and I negotiated the beginning of our path together. When I moved in with her, they were packed into boxes and stored in the basement, as our little house in the City was far too compact to accomodate any home recording projects, as these have a habit of generating a considerable mass of wires, cables and cords, the various ends of which are distributed with entropic inevitability towards walls (and their power receptacles), cabinets and desks (on which effects, recorders and control gizmos stand flashing with input and output ports waiting for precious signal path) and a metallic forest of instruments, microphones and their stands.
Some months and years have passed now, and Spouse and I are happily settled together. I always knew that I would come back to recording music; that’s one of the reasons we were determined to end up in a rural area (all the more difficult to annoy neighbours in the course of the creative process). It is time to set up this gear (in Mission Control at least initially) and see – or perhaps more properly, hear – what can be done with it.
I am going to attempt to incorporate two of my interests in this way: as I explore the technical issues and experiment with the gear, I am going to attempt to document my results here. I find that I learn things better when I am forced to sit down and concretize my thoughts about such things; by summarizing and describing my efforts, I hope to reinforce the technical knowledge I gain.
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* attentive readers will note that I did NOT mention either my “lawn mower video” or the account of July’s fishing shenanigans, both of which are still in the mysterious project queue of my mind and both of which would quite obviously qualify as Part of the Kingdom of Inchoate Projects; each of these undertakings bears some thematic relation to the more generalized list of “Time Sucking Things I Piffle About At”, so I thought I’d try to keep the list – and the sentence – somewhat shorter. You know, quibbling about such things might itself qualify as a time-wasting obsession – maybe you attentive readers share a bloodline with the Monarch.
As previously mentioned, Founders’ Day took place on Saturday August 29th. The little Nation of Juniorvania hosted 15 visitors for a truly Wendelous complement of 17 festivicators, celebrants and partakers. The afternoon had been designed and conceived as an ongoing free-form exhibition of various Feats of Skill and Athleticism: badminton racquets and shuttlecocks procured, volley- and soccer balls obtained, a curious sort of whiffle jai-alai set acquired, and – as the crowning glory – the Open Championship of Par 3 Golf on the line. Atmospheric and meteorological conditions were perfect, with one possible exception: over the past two or three weeks, a substantial surplus of winged invaders of the family Culicidae have firmly established their undoubted aerial supremacy within our borders. The boffins in the Juniorvanian Ministry of Defence, already gravely embarrassed earlier this season by incidents involving invaders both ornithological and mammalian, had essentially thrown up their hands and fled.
As a result, the first Feat of the day turned out not to be one of physical strength or agility, but rather one of mental acuity. Spouse had gamely attempted to fill the breach vacated by the stumblebums in Defence by purchasing one of those screen tents from Canadian Tire. At one point, I counted five individuals with a collective nine post-secondary degrees (including one engineer and an architect) poring over what appeared to resemble a collection of litter much more than an unassembled shelter. After some inventive cursing and more than a little grunting and groaning, however, the pioneer spirit prevailed and our nylon sanctuary was at last erected on the front lawn. One little problem: there were large, arching gaps between the base of each side of the tent and the ground surface, each gap offering more than ample opportunity for our airborne tormentors to infiltrate the secured perimeter.
This threat to life, liberty and blood supply was finally addressed through the application of a plastic painter’s drop sheet cut into strips to the perimeter of the tent. The ad hoc barrier was then weighted down with bricks and stones to prevent it from being blown away (though there was, truth to be told, nary a breeze to be felt all day) and to keep the bug flaps flush up against the walls of the tent. the practical result of the necessity for these modifications was that – within twenty minutes of arriving on site – my mother and new sister-in-law Tace were hard at work schlepping a wheelbarrow full of heavy stones back and forth across the lawn to the construction site. Note to Tace: welcome to the family; when attending a family function, do not forget to bring along your steel-toed boots. We know how to throw a shindig up in here!
Once our bug shelter was up, assorted recreational athletic activities commenced, courtesy of the colourful collection of toys previously mentioned. Our nephew Thomas was suitably cautioned that no swimming events were scheduled for this year’s festivities, and instead presented with a colourful “Cars” themed inflatable ball, which he proceeded to pursue, tackle, lie on, hug, wrestle with, bounce off, kick, punch, hip bump and generally devote his entire attention to for the balance of the afternoon. Frisbees were thrown, cocks were shuttled briskly to and fro, and the air fairly crackled with the plastic whiffle of the jai alai ball as it was snapped back and forth across the playing grounds. All of this athletic exuberance was thirsty work, and it soon dawned on us that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had very much let us down by failing to procure any of the aforementioned items; this deficiency was felt most profoundly in the cold BEvERage department, and my father was dispatched at once on a humanitarian mission of mercy to re-supply the poor unfortunates exerting themselves on our front lawn, all of whom were in grave danger of coughing up dust and a few pounds of inhaled mosquitoes. There was an abortive attempt to engage the youth of Juniorvania in the sport of bocce, but the lawn proved as tricky a surface (and as much a challenge) for our young athletes as it previously has for certain lawn tractor pilots.
if you’re keeping track, between those involved in the tent construction and boulder procurement and my father on the supply mission, there were six guests performing some sort of task that probably ought to have been attended to prior to the commencement of festivities. Really, you need to party with us. In the meantime, my mother-in-law Gillian and my sister-in-law Assunta were busily assembling comestibles for the athletes to consume come lunch time. All in all, there were eight of our ten adult guests doing party-related work, with the remaining two scrambling to provide some semblance of proper adult supervision over the five guests that local labour laws prohibited us from putting to work.
Within a short period of time, though, the troops were fed and watered and there was a cooler full of ice with an ample supply of Alexander Keith’s chilling down in front of the screen house. Seeing a momentary lull in the assignment of tasks, my parents and Spouse’s saw an opportunity and made a break for the golf course to commence the Open Championship of Par 3 Golf. Athletic activities continued on the North Campus. My brother Mike and brother-in-law Jono put on a mostly skillful display of badminton, while the Frisbee flying rotating disc exhibition put on by Doug and Tace had its own aesthetic merits as well, as this activity was conducted entirely with beverage in hand.
I had the satellite radio on the porch, and Peter Frampton was loudly inquiring, by way of song, as to the similarity between our subjective perceptions and his own; I found myself instantly transported back in time some thirty-plus years, both sonically and atmospherically, to the family camping trips of my youth. In the mid-70s, my folks made a point of piling us three young boys and the dog into the ’71 Chev Impala (olive green), firing up the eight track tape deck (Gordon Lightfoot’s Don Quixote and Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits were frequently found therein) and heading north to Carson’s Camp in Sauble Beach, where we camped in close proximity to family (usually right across the way from my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Frank’s trailer). Days were filled with the clank of horseshoes striking posts driven into the sandy ground of various campsites throughout the grounds, though our family preferred to concentrate on quoits, so our locally produced sounds were much more subdued rubbery thwaps. We spent many a day tossing the little rubber rings back and forth in competition with one another, or throwing either baseball or football around, and then gathering all together at the end of day. I remember all of those days and nights fondly; they were filled with good natured ribbing, plenty of laughs, and plenty of storytelling around one of my cousin Marcia’s signature “campsmokes”. One such summer in particular has always stood out in my memory; it was the year “Frampton Comes Alive” came out, and it seemed as though Peter and his talking guitar were blaring from eight-tracks throughout the park. On Saturday, it seemed to me as though the vibe was very much the same. I couldn’t be happier about that.
Once the golf had been completed, it was time to prepare the traditional (I guess) Founders’ Day feast. Several hundred (approximately) ears of corn had been obtained from the neighbours’ place and a couple of herds’ worth of filets wrapped in bacon. Good thing, too, because I dropped more meat during the preparation of the meal than putts during my entire afternoon of golf.
Our resident songbirds, Bella, Sarah and Grace provided a fitting close to the day’s festivities with a stirring performance atop the living room stairs, of an anthem of sorts that appeared to have been composed expressly for the occasion; more precisely, it appeared to be composed during the occasion. Somewhat avant garde in nature, the vocal performance was accompanied by a rather unconventionally-executed guitar part. Structurally and tonally, the work was one that challenged its audience, there can be no doubt, but a reference in the final stanza of this tune to the many virtues of “Founders’ Day” brought the crowd assembled below the stage to their feet and a thunderous round of joyous applause.
Happy Founders’ Day, everybody!
Spouse and I made a quick run into the Zehrs last night in preparation for a movie night; running low on popcorn and in need of a couple of other staples, we ended up in the detergent aisle where Spouse was conducting a search for a new product to tackle our laundry. She seems to think results have been somewhat unsatisfactory with our usual “Cold Water Tide” since we moved to Juniorvania and our clothes have begun getting laundered in well water.
