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Posts Tagged 'san francisco bay area'

The Ghosts of Footsteps

Crisp blue and puffing chest, the glare of sunlight off the smooth flat of the Bay. My first run since a week-long flu, down along the Bay Trail, with its breezes and San Francisco views, pretty despite being directly beside a freeway.

I passed a little woodsy alcove. It’s mostly rocks and open space down there, but every now and then, beside a freeway exit, an overgrown patch of cluttered trees and shrubs is tucked alongside the trail.

I caught a glimpse between the leaves: a little stream, heavy from the rains; a long piece of wood placed over, a makeshift bridge; the dead remains of footsteps, the ghosts of footsteps, a path going in. Something was hiding in there.

I thought about the books I’d read as a kid—-Bridge To Terabithia—how kids in the country or in the suburbs, or in any event, not inside the city, would always have these places to hide. A creek or the woods, some undeveloped patch of something—a place they could escape to, along with their fantasies and maybe a stick to poke things with, to build empires in their minds where they were safe or powerful or in any event not in their own lives, some other place.

And I remembered how terribly jealous I’d be those kids—those kids in books, not real kids—because I lived in the city, and there weren’t any places like that. Or there were—under freeways, or the woods behind parks—but they were already filled up, claimed by junkies and derelicts with cardboard palaces, people retreated to their own fantasies, their own escapes, their own Not Heres.

There was a thin strip of dense trees behind the jungle gym at Children’s Playground, in Golden Gate Park. I’d wanted to go in there, to climb around, explore, find my own something magical. It was shady in there, I couldn’t see in, and I wanted to know what all mysteries lay in the damp earth and shadows.

“Don’t go in there,” my mother’d said.

“People live in there. There’s trash and needles and it smells.”

And I’d known, even then, that you could catch things with needles, things like death. I’d thought of sarcoma spots and sunken eyes, sick beds and the scatter of Chinese food containers, and I hadn’t wanted to go in there anymore, but I’d still wanted to go somewhere.

It was a good run. My shin splints didn’t hurt, although I did get a tightness in my chest, like a squeezing, that made me stop and walk for awhile. I stared into the open and soaked it in, and was ready to run again.

If No Man Is An Island…

Alcatraz Night Tour—wandering around the haunted empty of an old institution, relighted and relabeled, black signs with white letters. All hard lines and sparse materials—cement and steel—littered with the footsteps of tourists, the little echoes we carry in our shoes and our voices and, in some of us, our hearts.

Because you live here, you’d never done it—because there was always some other chance, some other day, any day, it turned into no day, never. So when Nick said he was going to Alcatraz, fuck it, you said you were going too.

So you roved, like everyone else roved, wearing your headset and listening to the gravely voiced narrator of the audio tour, a well-cast choice by any measure. Former prison guards and inmates read their recollections, giving the tour more weight, more significance than it would have otherwise had.

You stopped in front of the steel doors to the solitary confinement cell, and listened to the weathered voices recall what they’d done to wait out the time in the blackness:

But if you would close your eyes—like right now, close your eyes, seal your eyes off with your hand—with a little concentration, you can see a light. And pretty soon that light will get brighter. And you’ve gotta concentrate on it—not a short while; it takes time and practice—but pretty soon you can almost put your own TV there, and you can see things and you can go on trips—and that’s what I did.

And it was an echo, the sound of a memory reverberating from some place inside. It was a night you’d stored away: summer, warm, the window open, the leaves cutting the streetlight into a thousand broken, dancing pieces. He laid on his side, held you under his arm, and you said you couldn’t sleep.

“Let me show you a trick.” And he said it softly—strangely soft, you’d thought, the way we’d whispered as kids in our hiding places, the places only children can fit.

“I used to do this when I was little, when I couldn’t sleep.” He rolled onto his back. “You put your thumbs against your eyes—you’ve got them there?—and you push. Not hard, but not light either. And keep pushing; don’t stop.”

You didn’t. You didn’t stop pushing.

“And eventually you see it.”

“See what?”

“Lights. Shapes. Anything. You go on a trip.”

And he got real quiet, and you listened—listened to the horrible silence and waited for your own show, your own little light parade. You saw only faint traces, dim colors, a couple gray buzzing lights.

He rolled back on his side, towards you. “Where did you go?”

You looked down, ashamed, though you weren’t sure why. “I don’t know. I don’t think I went anywhere.”

And he didn’t say anything, just traced your belly with the tips of his fingers—the fullest part of your belly, the part you hate and pinch and suck in in front of the mirror—and you felt so fucking lonely you thought you might die, that some part of you might die.

And it was the same feeling, standing there, alone with your headset in a silent group of wanderers. Like being a tourist in someone else’s loneliness—or rather, the ruins of someone else’s loneliness, what was left after the guards had gone and the light—now strange and harsh—had returned. Listening to their tricks, the little games they played (Your dad telling you, “Sometimes I’d bite the inside of my cheek, slowly, until it’d start bleeding and I’d play with it.”)—the ways they’d learn to escape, if only for a moment, into some place so deep inside that some piece, it seemed, never came back.

You blinked. You pushed the rewind button and the voice stuttered, restarted, and you listened again. And it was his voice, inside this other voice, and you remembered how you’d put it in a poem—or, you’d tried to put it in a poem, but it’d never amounted to anything, never quite fit, a parenthetical metaphor you weren’t quite sure related, or how it related, until right now, here, under the institutional glare of a tourist attraction, Alcatraz.

You half-smiled—what else was there to do?—and continued on with the tour, walked through the door in the steel bars into another emptied room.

Boiler Room, Angel Island

Abandoned by time but not escaped from it. Rust and debris, peeling paint and the pages of old magazines, broken glass so old its become smooth. Like some dim chamber of our hearts, we climbed into the boiler room.

Angel Island is full of abandoned buildings, the crumbling concrete and sagging frames of old military structures. A big mound in the middle of the Bay, smack in from the Golden Gate, the island is more than brown grasses and hiking trails. It was a detention center/”immigration station” during the Chinese Exclusionary Act, then an Army Post during World War II, later a missile center. Now it’s a state park, filled with picnicking families, kids on field trips, tourists on Segways.

Summer in San Francisco...

It’s nice to spend a day roaming around, out in the middle of the Bay—packing a sandwich and riding the expensive ferry and taking the long, gentle walk around the perimeter. But what I love most about Angel Island are the abandoned buildings.

Some are open to the public, stairways smashed out so there’s no chance of climbing up into the desolate upper stories. You wander around the ground level, the empty gutted rooms, staring up past the chicken scratch graffiti, wishing you could poke around the dusty remains above, crunch your sneakers through the silence.

Other buildings are fenced off, doors bolted and windows shuttered, large signs warning of the repercussions of trespassing. The grass grows up around these buildings, consuming them; sometimes you catch shadows in the broken windows and they look like your own.

We circumvented a large, fenced-off building, found a spot relatively hidden from the main path. It’d been a long time since I’d hopped a fence, wedged my toes between chainlink and landed ankle-sharp with a laugh.

We tiptoed towards the building.

The boiler room. Heavy, huffing machinery now silent, steamless, bellies swollen with the memory of a howl. Old basins and the criss-cross of empty pipes, useless and buckled. Nameless parts of an old operation. A map on the wall of where tools once hung.

We crunched around, slats of wood and indistinguishable debris, the flattened beer cans of some lost era. There’s something about crumbling places that make you whisper, a kind of reverence—not just for what has passed, but what has remained, aged and weathered and somehow still standing.

It reminds you of your own ragged heart, those places you’ve closed off, chained off, boarded up and shut. But they’re still there—forgotten, maybe, but not empty, bloodless pipes waiting, dreaming of steam.

And sometimes, something goes traipsing on in there, flicking lighters and echoing voices and leaving new footprints, in a place you swore no new footprints could go. A place you swore was sealed shut and secretly dying.

We trespassed into the abandoned boiler room, then stepped back out into the dim squint of a fog-heavy noon—our lives.

Sunday Morning on International

Sunday morning on International Blvd. A sidewalk laced in fog, car exhaust, the sick-sweet smell seeping from panderias. Little girls in patent-leather shoes, dudes crouched and smoking and speaking in Vietnamese outside the street shop: “Good tattoo ain’t cheap, cheap tattoo ain’t good.” The rattle of shopping cart wheels, the bark of fenced-in dogs.

I’m running late. I’m going to the 11am meeting at the In Between, a beat-up converted barroom now filled with folding chairs and faded banners, where we sit and curse and laugh, talk about God and booze, “hmm-mm”ing and “uh-huh”ing and drinking cheap coffee that stains our teeth. I love that place, its dusty corners and dying plants, the sag of the window frames.

I pass the bright blue letters of Iglesia de Buen Sabor, a storefront church with white bars over its frosted windows. The tambourine rattle and exalted voices of its congregation pours out the open door, from a faceless place—always black inside, when looking in from the street.

I make eye contact with a man standing in front of the doorway. He has a look of well-groomed desperation: cheap suit, overly combed hair, shoes shining like little black teeth. He’s got one crippled arm, bent and with a tangle of underdeveloped fingers; he cradles it next to his body as though he were holding an infant, or a small injured bird. I give him the half-smile and nod of a hello in passing.

He steps towards me. “Hello,” he says. “My name is Juan Carlos…” he continues on with a couple more names, surnames and second middle names. He leans his small hand towards me.

I pause mid-stride, take his small hand. “Right on, man, good to meet you.” It feels limp and strange in my momentary grasp, and I try to amend my handshake, make it softer, let it fit the contours of his curled-in fingers. “I’m running late, though—” I start to step away.

“You have a lot of joy in your heart.”

I stop, look at him with a slightly cocked head. “Thanks.”

He nods, smiles, then steps back into the black swallow and tambourine roll of his doorway.

I cross the street and squeak my own door open.

Fog so heavy

it wept

the dust from my windshield

what I’d carried with me,

wore on me,

up and over

a road soggy with night—

always becoming, becoming

just up ahead.

So this is driving

across the Golden Gate—

yellow halos,

the swallow of white,

pillars into nothing,

and beyond

the railings—black, black,

the hiss of black

underneath the stereo speakers,

whispering, “this is the end

of the continent”

and you can’t even see it.

Painting the Town: Street Artists Bomb the Bay

One of the nice things about living in the Bay Area is that people come here. Just, you know, to visit. We’re coming up on the high season, when the streets swell with tourists, clicking their cameras and speaking their different languages, hanging limbs off cable cars and sharing undoubtedly brilliant commentary in the halls of museums. We don’t complain so much about tourists in the Bay Area—aside from the fact that they spend a shitton of money (and have hopefully read the part in their guidebooks about tipping), it makes us feel good: we live somewhere people want to come to.

It makes us feel especially good when those people are street artists who leave us little gifts.

The Bay Area has been freaking out over the past few days about 6 Banksy pieces that have surfaced in San Francisco. We’re a medium-sized city, so it makes us feel special that an artist that big would come out and leave his mark. I, for one, had to take advantage of a sunny spring day and go on a taco-fueled, MUNI-powered mission across the city (cause, you know, why not?) to see as many as I could. But here on the quieter, slower side of the Bay, a couple other street artists/collectives have made visits. They may not be as big as Banksy (who is?), but spotting their work made me feel, I’m not gonna lie, a little warm and cozy about my hometown.

The blogosphere has been abuzz over Banksy lately. With the release of Exit Through the Gift Shop, everyone’s favorite British recluse has been hitting up spots where the film’s debuted. (His recent work in LA caused quite the stir when it was physically removed to be sold in a shady art gallery.) The San Francisco debut of the film went down recently, and we were all waiting, holding our collectively aerosol-stained breath, to see if any Bay Area pieces would surface.

They did. Warholian broke the news, spread the word and even got himself on TV:

I had to wait a few days, for a full day off (new waitressing gig = mucho trabajo) to embark on the mission. Luckily, Warholian posted exact locations on his Flickr stream (along with far better photos than I took). Oh, the digital age…

What was funnest about missioning around to find the pieces wasn’t really the art; it was seeing all the people come out. Folks were really excited to see the work, like a treasure hunt where the reward wasn’t some crappy Easter egg but sick-ass stencils that spawned social commentary—and a nice dose of civic pride. One guy I met was super stoked that a piece ended up abutting his soon-to-open bar (“It’s like free publicity!”). A group of European kids posed for photos by the Native American stencil while a hip dude explained in Spanish to a passer-by what all the fuss was about. On Haight Street, I met an old dude with a serious camera—miles of lenses and clicky gadgets—who told me, “I’ve never been that into this whole street art thing. Always looked like a bunch of scribble to me. But I read about this in the paper and thought, well, that’s pretty cool. So I wanted to come out and document it.”

Doubt this one will be winding up in a gallery

Yeah, my camera sucks. You should really just Google this shit.

Say what you will about Banksy—publicity stunt conspiracy theories and cries of being too mainstream—but that Bristol boy got San Francisco juiced, taking pictures and making missions and actually chatting with each other (usually a more Oakland phenomenon). And at least one cool old dude seeing street art as something other than vandalism.

But I’ve been noticing more cool pieces around lately, on my own side of the Bay. One of my favorite street art blogs alerted me to that fact that Feral was in town, and I spotted one of his pieces (now gone) by the MacArthur BART station.

Abandoned furniture and trash-feasting pigeons: that's my town!

And up on Telegraph, the epicenter of gutter punks and flip-flop-wearing bros, I spotted one of TrustoCorp‘s guerilla street signs. These have been making me giggle for months, and I was stoked to see some stuff locally.

I’m not sure who did this piece, but I liked the placement of it—a busy intersection across from a Whole Foods—and its stark insistence on being noticed.

I’m continuing to think a lot about street art and what exactly it is that draws me to it—what exactly it is that seems so undeniably related to travel. It’s got something to do with place, with the insistence of place, the immediacy and intimacy of interacting with a place on such a visceral, physical level (the subject of one of my first ever blog posts). The words are forming, the drooling gibberish shaping itself into discernible sounds under my wet pink tongue (“mama,” “dada”).

In the meantime, I’m thinking a trip to Italy for Fame Festival might answer some questions and cure some wanderlust. Just in case the Bay doesn’t receive any visitors for awhile…

I Heard That Lonesome Whistle Blow: Port Costa and the Past

In the hallway

It wasn’t the squeaking of the bats that kept me up all night. It wasn’t the way my shoulders dug in to the thin mattress that kept me rolling over, not the low-voiced howl of the passing freight trains that rattled me out of my half-dreams.

It was that I had to pee. And I was too scared of ghosts get up.

Not that I’m 7, and not that I actually saw or heard any ghosts. Just that, you know, I’m a wuss. The bathroom was only a couple doors down the hall. But I’d heard stories, of ghostly laughs and the clicking of century-old high heels, and I figured—why risk it? I waited until the gray light of dawn sank its fingers through the curtains, brushed the walls and illuminated the shadows. I relieved myself with incident.

The whole overnight to Port Costa, actually, went without incident, the kind that had been hyped and fore-warned: red necks, ghosts, bed bugs, cocaine-fueled partiers—I didn’t see any. What I did see: peeling velvet wallpaper, a spooky porcelain doll, fishermen tromping over gravel and train tracks, a stuffed polar bear, a dude playing a banjo and a whole lot of motorcycles.

We arrived after dark, weaving our way through the shadowed coastal hills of a regional park. The pavement gave way to gravel as we delved into a little valley, dim houses and an old chapel lining the one road of Port Costa. The road dead-ended into a wide parking lot, gravel, train tracks, the misty water of the Carquinez Strait. On one side of us was a three-story, dirt-colored old warehouse, on the other, the bay windows of the Burlington Hotel. That was it.

Inside The Warehouse

We turned the locked knob to the hotel’s door a couple times, until the banjo-playing dude on the corner told us we had to go across the street to the bar to check in. We entered The Warehouse, the main occupant of the 19th-century grain storage-house.  We stared stupidly for a couple moments, taking in the mish-mash of burlesque lampshades, checkered plastic tablecloths, mounted animal heads and vintage signs. We must have stood out—a man in the corner waved at us.

Turned out he was Howie, accompanied by Barbie, proprietors of the Burlington Hotel. They greeted us in what we’d discover was a typical Port Costa way: genuinely friendly and down-to-earth. It wasn’t the affected over-sweetness of a typical tourist town, nor the you-ain’t-from-round-here skepticism of an isolated small town. The vibe was unpretentious and warm, but not overly warm. It was the Goldilocks of small towns—just right.

Everything was just right about Port Costa: just enough overnighters that I didn’t feel too out of place, just enough decrepitude to make the hotel really really cool, just enough vestiges of history to make the town special—not undiscovered, but not blown up or theme-parky.

On the mantel in front of our room.

We wandered around the Burlington Hotel with our jaws dropped—it was the antique/vintage/ creaky dollhouse of cool we’d hoped for. But it wasn’t the stinky filth-pot Yelp reviewers and the Chronicle had made it out to be. Sure, it was faded and had the musty smell of an attic, but I had to wonder—had the people who’d called it dirty ever stayed in a cheap third-world hotel? Or a flea-bag American one, for that matter? It was no Courtyard Inn, but definitely one of the nicer hotels I’ve stayed in the US (not saying much, granted).

Maybe they’ve already started to spiffy up and straighten out, as the Chronicle article claimed. Aside from the lack of bed bugs and grime, there wasn’t a lot of raucous activity either. The other guests definitely looked like they were there for a good time, but the most debauchery we experienced at the Burlington Hotel was some middle-aged folks having a Hank Williams sing-along (I wanted in), followed by some late-night bed creaking (I did not want in). Pretty mild, really.

Ate all that!

As part of the Valentine’s Special, a $99 dinner-room combo, we headed back to The Warehouse for some good ole American eating. I’m usually a free-range, organic kinda girl, but I figured, meh, when in Port Costa. We grubbed on a whole lobster, one pound of prime rib, and unlimited salad/chili/chowder bar, washed down with soda served in a glass jar. My pants felt quite a bit snugger. A post-dinner stroll was definitely in order.

We tip-toed across the puddle-ridden parking lot, through an opening in the chain-link fence, and across the dark of gravel and train tracks. The nighttime mist made everything feel dream-like and removed, like we were somewhere much further away, like those weren’t the lights of a suburb blinking and sighing across the water. The way the Amtrack and freight trains’ horns would wail, the way their lights gleamed like animal eyes, how the heaved and rattled past—it made it feel like we were in some little pocket of the world, not quite forgotten by time, but where time just kind of rumbled past, without really stopping, leaving only a puff of exhaust and the echo of its cry.

Sitting on the rocks, I looked out across the water, and had a strange, back-of-the-head tingle. The lights of a far-off refinery winked in the billows of steam pouring out its towers, glittering like some kind of industrial Oz. Jagged fragments of memory came cutting back. “Fuck,” I said. “I’ve been here.”

High school. Malt liquor and weed and pills. We’d piled into B’s truck, drove around El Sob and Crockett looking for drugs and trouble, finding none of one and only a little of the other. We’d pulled into a parking lot, staggered across gravel. Refineries twinkling. Feet numb, and sides closing in, black. Cigarette smoke in my hair. Wanting to sleep.

My little kaleidoscope of fucked-up broken memories came out of some forgotten fold of my brain, stinging and still alcohol-damp. So I’d partied in Port Costa after all. Who knew.

The next morning, the town was mist-shrouded and dewey-eyed. I was dazed; all night I’d listened to the trains, thinking of all the other people who’d laid in that room before me, in the gray and shadows, listening to that same rumble and sigh. We drank teeth-burning from styrofoam cups and took another tromp around town, then further down the train tracks. Lots of killer photos ensued (currently, only the digital ones are ready; pro film shots will take plenty longer). Coolest find: on some rusty old rails, someone with a similar nerdy affinity for trains and travel left their mark:

The mild afternoon melted past, time a far away thing. The trains continued to pass, rumbling and horn blowing at a couple of kids poking around the rocks and rails of a once-great railway hub, filled with miners and shipyard workers and whores and ferry horns—and now, just the ghostly groan of the trains, passing, passing, but never stopping, no, not anymore.

Photos by Theo Konrad Auer. More on the way…

Where Do Dirtbags Go for Valentine’s?

One of Aly's photos from the Burlington Hotel

It happened like this:

Making the rounds last Friday at the Art Murmur, I came across the photos of a friend of mine, Aly Su Borst. They were pretty bad-ass: a series of self-portraits set in some run-down opulence that got my spooky/awesome sensors spiked. I took some photos on my phone. At home the next day, I showed my roommate, “Hey, Luke, check out Aly’s photos.”

“Oh, rad, Port Costa.”

“Where’s that?”

That’s how I found out about the overnight destination all the local dirtbags have apparently been partying it up in for decades. And like most things, I’ve found out just in the nick of time: the reputedly haunted, ramshackle old bordello/hotel that serves as the heart of the 250-person town of Port Costa (that despite being 30 miles from my house, I’d never heard of) has plans to spiffy itself up, and recently received coverage by the San Francisco Chronicle. I knew no time could be wasted—I booked a room for this Saturday night. It’ll be a Valentine’s weekend overnight the way I like it: full of bats, bedbugs, dive bar denizens and rock n roll.

The Chronicle‘s article made the Burlington Hotel sound like the very definition of “hidden gem”—not in the Tuscan villa sense of the word, but in the gritty, visceral sense—which is to say, the sense I dig the most. Whether it was in fact an old whorehouse, and whether it is indeed haunted by the ghosts of prostitutes and shipyard workers, one thing seems for sure: the Burlington Hotel is a relic of the Old West California, the one Jack Black captured in the book You Can’t Win—the one that’s all but gone amid the Botox and SUVs of Southern California, and the Blue Priuses and Tibetan prayer flags of Northern California. Which is why I want in.

It won’t be a relaxing, rejuvenating or romantic getaway. Its Yelp reviews reveal as much: “dirty,” “bad-ass,” “like a horror movie,” “whore-tel.” One person laments that it’s no longer the all-night rager spot it had been in previous years (frequented by the likes of none other than the East Bay Rats—nuff said). A raucous bar next door constitutes much of the clientele, including “bikers, transients, nazi crack addicts, and drifters. maybe tourists are in there somewhere, too.” (Really, there’s some effing gems on the Yelp page, read through that shit.)

Already pretty convinced, I came home from work the next night and found Liz and Melissa on the couch. “You guys ever heard of the Burlington Hotel?” They turned their heads slowly towards me. “Oh. Dude.”

They swapped debaucherous stories from their hard-partying youth—Liz being haunted in Room K, Melissa’s heshen friends getting permanently 86-ed (which apparently is saying a whole lot). “Make sure,” Liz advised, “that you bring your own sheets. Bedbug city, yo.”

I called to make a reservation, which wasn’t quite as difficult as the Chronicle article made it out to be. After a long succession of rings, someone picked up; muffled and scratchy, he told me they weren’t quite open yet, but to call back in a half-hour, and they’d be ready to “rock n roll.” I did, and they were. Butt rock blared in the background. All the rooms I’d been advised were the best were, of course, full, but I did get in on the “special” (Valentine’s Day special? probably not): the room and 2 surf-and-turf dinners for $99 total. Now that’s my kind of overnight.

Ridiculous photo from the Smokey's Tangle V-Day Photo Booth, February's Art Murmur

So sadly, since the Chronicle recently did a piece on the hotel, I’m gonna have to dig a little deeper to a) out-do their article, and b) find the right publication for it. The good news is that my partner in crime is bringing along his fancy camera, so the photos, well, they’re going to kill. Hopefully not literally.

Honolulu, Black and White and Back in Time

Faces stare out from a two-dimensional black and white. They are laughing, posing, cast in shadows and cut-and-pasted beside lush palm trees, neon hummingbirds, tan thatching and pinkened skies. Sometimes they smile; other times they gaze off, someplace beyond the camera, looking out from thin layer of time and plastic. And I am completely obsessed.

It’s my weirdest and raddest score from the Bay Area’s rummage event of year. The annual Oakland Museum’s White Elephant Sale is a cult event local collectors, scavengers, cheapskates and lovers of vintage live for. The Oakland Museum benefit is held out in a Jingletown warehouse, and hosted by the spunky white-haired ladies of the Women’s Board. Donations are collected throughout the year, culminating in the kitschy bonanza of bargains. The event takes over the neighborhood, complete with taco trucks and a free shuttle to the BART station.

While the main event is a two-day affair held on the first weekend in March, this last Sunday was the special preview—when the die-hards shell out $10-15 months in advance to get first pickings. A friend finagled us onto the guest list; we traipsed down across the train tracks, through the sour estuary smell and into the warehouse bustling with bodies digging for treasure.

Inside the warehouse

There was a little of everything: antique furniture, vintage suits, old Polaroid cameras, $1 LPs, 80s action figures that brought me back to my childhood—even a box of expired condoms. The prices put any flea market to shame, and everyone was in a good mood. The staff was sweet and grandparently. An old dude with a vest full of buttons from previous years’ sales stood by a Thomas Edison record player, explaining to whoever passed how it worked and the history behind it. Some staff dressed up—I saw a Napoleon look-alike—which added to the festive atmosphere and reconfirmed my aspiration to be a cool old volunteer/docent person when I retire (like I’ll ever be able to…). A truly awesome moment came when, rifling through old records, a tween boy with shoulder-length blond hair picked up a Van Halen LP and let out a long, “Yessssss.”

I scored a couple cool vintage-y household items, but by far the coolest thing I came across was a 20″ x 16″ photo collage. It’s cheaply framed, cost $1 and is full of the kind of mystery that gets my wheels turning, my imagination shooting sparks.

The artfully executed collage of photos is from a group of young people’s vacation to Honolulu. The handwritten note on the cardboard back guesses the year to either be 1939, or 1940-43, World War II. Beneath that, four names appear: Virginia Matthiesen, Cole McFarland, Bud Matthiesen and “Sailor Friend.” Those are the only tangibles I have to cling to, the only ones I want. In the grey photos of shorelines and hotel rooms, a garden and a roadside, I have all the fodder for fantasy I need.

The group is young, mid-20s I’d guess. They have the eyes and expressions of old-school rebels, a kind of pre-Beatnik vibe, something carefree and a little wild in their smiles and poses. One has a Neal Cassady look; a girl has sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes; another stares off from above bare shoulders and a shell necklace. In a different photo, Neal Cassady is wearing the shell necklace, leaning in towards the girl as she looks away. The light has caught her blouse, making it blaze with a whiteness that obscures her face.

There’s an impossible number of stories inside the collage, silent and lost like a dream you can’t remember. Whoever made it set it in a border of tiki-style thatch print, then pasted a couple cut-outs of palm trees, to add color and a tropical vibe. It’s visually cool and kitschy enough to be hip. But really, it’s the faces that make me love the collage.

Of course, I’m projecting all of this—maybe they’re not artsy rebels at all. But that’s the fun of it, imagining a trip like that, then: how long it must have taken to get to Hawaii, how rustic and undeveloped it looked, how more pointed and romantic everything looks in black and white. And the timelessness of getting into adventures on the road. I haven’t found the perfect place for it yet; one of my roommates loves it, the other thinks it’s creepy. For now, it’s leaning against my bedroom wall, where I can stare and dream.

At the center of the collage, pasted on a pastel sunset, is a solo shot of the sharp-cheeked woman. She’s looking back, over her shoulder, holding a straw hat down against what might be wind, what might be the passage of time. I like to think she’s looking back at me, out from a moment that’s long passed, a place that isn’t the same, a youth that is gone. Probably, she was looking back at one of the boys in the collage. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

Relatives and Revelations: What My Brother’s Wedding Taught Me about Travel

Photo booth fun

“What can I say? When you’re children get married, it’s one of the happiest days of your life.”

That was my dad, toasting at my brother’s wedding two weeks ago. Simple, but true: celebrating my brother’s marriage to a rad lady will definitely go down as one of my happiest days. Aside from the awesomeness of why we were all there, it was a gorgeous event at the Julia Morgan Ballroom in Downtown San Francisco, complete with caviar and a five-tier chocolate fondue fountain (that’s right, you heard me). I was surrounded with life-long friends and far-away family, flown in from the Midwest and East Coast.

Of course, as a travel person, my antennaes were perked by all the out-of-towners. Watching them all come in—arrive at the hotel, rent cars, hang wrapped dress clothes in closets—I realized I only travel a very specific way, and it’s lent a very limited perspective.

I’d argue that most Americans travel the way my family did two weeks ago: domestically, in hotels, either shelling out for a rental car or attempting to traverse poorly funded mass transit systems. It’s pretty far-off from the international ramblings I do on second-class buses and cheap pensions/hostels/couchsurfing. The weekend resulted a series of travel revelations—“light bulb moments,” as I’d once heard them described on Oprah.

Before the guests arrived

What shocked me most was the sheer expense of it all. Even at an off-season rate, further discounted for the wedding party, staying in Downtown San Francisco is not cheap. Renting a car is not cheap. Eating at the restaurants and cafes Downtown is also not cheap. No wonder people ask me “But how can you afford to travel so much?” I used to feel that travel within the US was kinda a rip-off. I don’t take it that far now, but I will say you get a lot more bang for your buck elsewhere. (That being said, I have done New York City on $40 a day, so maybe I’m just a cheapskate.)

The night of the wedding, my parents decided to not add battling the Bay Bridge to the day’s ledger, and booked a room, which I piggy-backed on. Which brings me to the next travel revelation I had: looking good on the road is a major hassle.

As far as hassles go, mine were pretty minimal: the morning of the wedding, I dropped my shoes, dress and fancy jacket off at my parents’ house in Oakland before taking BART out to the city to get my hair and make-up done. I toted with me my overnight bag, in which I carried more make-up and hair products, as well as jewelry, nail polish, etc. My parents brought my dress clothes; I met them at the hotel and changed. The next day they took my dress clothes back to the East Bay while I hung out with my cousins. Not bad at all, considering I didn’t even have to negotiate riding the train with a hanger of dress clothes.

Classy as shit

But considering the way I normally travel, this jaunt across the Bay was complicated exponentially by the need to wear something other than jeans and sneakers. When I travel, all bets are off: I bring my most utilitarian clothes, no makeup, a dabble of hair gel and loads of sunscreen. I look like a total ragamuffin—handy, since it tends to decrease the amount I’m hit on. Wanting to look not just presentable, but my drop-dead best, is tricky enough; doing it out of a bag was even harder. I garnered a new appreciation for business travelers, beauty pageant contestants and all other non-backpacker/dirtbags travelers.

Here’s another thing I learned: logistics are tough. Organizing big groups of people, getting them here and there when they don’t know where they are, is really hard. No wonder tour companies charter buses. And no wonder people trundle on them happily.

I’m the kind of traveler that loves transit. I grew up riding buses and trains, and I get a kick out of figuring out new metro systems: where train lines connect, what lines run where, the fastest and easiest way to get from Point A to Point B. There’s a skill to transit, and I’ve honed a kind of sixth sense for the rhythm and order of it. So when my dad started to fret over how we’d get everyone from the Downtown hotel to a Sunday night pizza dinner at my brother’s house on 27th and Dolores, I responded, “We’ll have them take the J-Church.” Easy, right?

Well, it was easier than shuttling loads of people back and forth in the couple of rental cars, but not as easy as you’d suspect. I played transit tour guide, leading everyone to the Montgomery Station, through the turnstiles, down to the platform, on to the train (luckily, we all got seats). I alerted everyone to our stop, got us all out of the back doors (although almost lost my grandfather in the process), and down the two blocks to my brother’s house.

There’s not a lot of hand-holding or coddling on MUNI, and I like it that way. MUNI’s not most intuitive system—you can only pay station turnstiles in coins, have to retain a transfer ticket, and all lines eventually come aboveground, where stops are unmarked. But it’s still cheaper and more comprehensive than BART, long-distance commuter trains that double as mass transit for the Greater Bay Area, with a pathetic number of inner-city stations and a whopping $7 round trip fare from my neighborhood in Oakland to Downtown SF. In my mind, this makes BART infinitely inferior to MUNI. Who needs plush seats and timetables anyway? I’ll take hard plastic and a vague urine smell over a $7 fare any day.

iPhones have no flash, but you can still kinda make out five tiers of fondue.

But riding the train with my relatives, I realized that transit can be damn stressful. If you’re not already in the groove of it, or don’t share my nerdy obsession with maps and routes, it’s really just a pain in the ass. The potential to get lost is huge: you could get on the wrong train, get off at the wrong stop, end up god-only-knows-where. It’s confusing, station agents are exasperated, locals impatient. My relatives that rented cars were hit with overnight parking fees and having to traverse a maze of one-way streets, but when they got lost, they were warm and dry, and could easily turn back around. I realized why, despite the costs, so many travelers opt to rent cars over riding transit. Guiding everyone through the process, I also realized why tour guides carry those little colored umbrellas.

In the end, everyone got to and fro and everywhere inbetween safely. We gussied up, boogied down and had a killer time. And that’s what weddings are all about, right?

Lauren Quinn is a writer and traveler currently living in Hanoi. Lonely Girl Travels was a blog of her sola travels and expat living from 2009 to 2012. She resides elsewhere on the internet now.

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Are Arabian Horses Fast?

What horse is faster thoroughbred vs Arabian?

Both breeds were substantially faster than Arabians.

Quarter Horses racing 336 m or less gained speed in each segment of the race while Arabians and Thoroughbreds racing 1006 m ran fastest during the middle of the race and had decreased their speed in the final segment of the race..

Are Arabian horses good for beginners?

Can beginners ride an Arabian Horse? Yes, Arabian horses are one of the good beginner horse breeds. Years of selective breeding has made Arabian horses an all-rounder. Although Arabians aren’t the most gentle horse breed, they are highly intelligent.

Is the Arabian horse the fastest horse in RDR2?

Similarly, but more readily accessible, the Black Arabian horse in RDR2 can be purchased for $1050 once players reach Chapter 4. … It also has a 6 in every category, like the Black Arabian, so with maximum bonding and improvements, the horse will be nearly as fast as the Black Arabian and Rose Grey Bay Arabian horses.

What is the most dangerous horse breed?

The ways a horse can hurt you are consistent across all breeds, so here is a little more information about those various attacks.Kicks. Horses can kick with up to nearly 2000 pounds of force. … Bites. … Falls. … Przewalski’s Horse. … Mustangs. … Australian Brumbies. … Thoroughbred. … Akhal-Tekes.More items…

What is the cheapest breed of horse?

The cheapest horse breeds tend to be Quarter Horses, Arabians, Thoroughbreds and wild Mustangs. Although you can usually find cheaper horses within each of these breeds, you will need to keep a few things in mind. There are special considerations that need to be taken with most inexpensive horses.

How smart are Arabian horses?

Arabians are highly intelligent and sensitive. These qualities can actually be misunderstood, and can appear to be faults of the breed. Because of their heightened intelligence, they will not accept blatant force, or submit to demands.

How fast can a Arabian horse run?

forty miles per hourI didn’t have all the answers, so I researched Arabian horses, and this is what I learned: Arabian horses are fast; they can run upwards of forty miles per hour, quicker than most other horse breeds.

Are Arabian horses used for racing?

The Arabian is the 3rd fastest horse. The horses participate in traditional racing events but they do well in endurance events. The breed has a good chance to win a race because it can race 50 miles or more. The breed’s stamina helps to excel in racing events.

Are Arabian horses hard to train?

Their sensitivity and hotter temperament do require intelligent handling, she adds. “Some people get into trouble with Arabians when they interpret the horses’ reactions as not learning as well as, say, a Quarter Horse. And in reining, it’s true Arabians may take a little longer to train.

Are Arabian horses crazy?

The answer isn’t so clear cut, but it’s safe to say there are many Arabians that are not crazy. In fact, a lot of them make great riding horses even for young and inexperienced riders. … Some horses misbehave when they lose interest or get distracted. Arabians are usually sensitive horses, as well.

Are Arabian white?

Although many Arabians appear to have a “white” hair coat, they are not genetically “white”. This color is usually created by the natural action of the gray gene, and virtually all white-looking Arabians are actually grays.

Is there a better horse than the white Arabian?

The White Arabian appears to be “only” the third best horse in the game, but not by much. And also, it’s free, eh! Those are, to my knowledge, the best horses in the game….So… That white arabian horse actually isn’t the best horse in the game.HorseRose Grey Bay ArabianHealth7Stamina7Speed6Acceleration65 more columns•Nov 5, 2018

What is the fastest horse in America?

American Quarter HorseThe American Quarter Horse breed has many unique characteristics: adaptability, amazing sprinting capabilities, and versatility. For horse owners looking for lots of power in short distances, this is the fastest horse breed for the job. This breed can run speeds of up to 55 miles per hour over a quarter-mile distance.

Why are Arabian horses so expensive?

The purebred Arabian horses aren’t simply bred in the Arab anymore, but in Western parts of the world too, like the USA, Australia etc. Since the Arabian horses are in such high demand, they are sold at very high prices. … This is another reason why Arabian Horses are expensive.

What horse is considered the best racehorse of all time?

Without further ado, here’s a list of what we believe are the most famous racehorses of all time:Secretariat. The greatest racehorse of all time. … Man o’ War. Man o’ War’s weight-carrying performances are the stuff of horse racing legend. [ … Seattle Slew. … Winx. … Kelso. … Makybe Diva. … Zenyatta. … Hurricane Fly.More items…

Which is the most expensive horse breed?

ThoroughbredsThis makes Thoroughbreds the most expensive horse breed in the world.

What breed of horse is the fastest?

ThoroughbredsThoroughbreds are considered the fastest horses in the world and dominate the horse racing industry, while Arabian horses are known to be intelligent and excel in endurance riding. Take a look at some of the horse breeds used in racing, dressage and general riding.

Can Arabian horses barrel race?

The Arabian might seem like a strange choice for barrel racing but they’ve been a common sight in recent years, they have immense speed and their light frame enables them to turn tightly.

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Quick Answer: What Animal Has The Stinkiest Poop?

Which animal is most stinkiest?

The zorrilla is considered the smelliest animal because it gives off a fluid from its anal glands when it must defend itself from danger.

The nocturnal animal eats small reptiles and rodents while living in rocky areas.

The zorrilla is also know by its Latin name (Iconyx striatus) or Striped Weasel..

Why do guys poop longer?

According to Dr. Sonpal, there are health reasons why a man may take so long to poop, specifically if he is constipated. “No one should, in theory, take that long to have a bowel movement. This means the person is not getting enough water, and the stools are too hard,” Dr.

Do hyenas stink?

There’s another use for smell: communication. Hyenas roam large territories in packs and use smell to guide their way. Pouches near their anus produce a foul smelling paste called “hyena butter”, which they rub onto objects and even each other.

Which animal sprays a smelly liquid?

SkunksSkunks are North and South American mammals in the family Mephitidae. While related to polecats and other members of the weasel family, skunks have as their closest Old World relatives the stink badgers. The animals are known for their ability to spray a liquid with a strong, unpleasant scent.

What does elephant poop smell like?

But in fact it is quite a pleasant, musky smell, and is actually less offensive to your nostrils than the average spray-on repellent. Nobody wants to be in a situation where they need to squeeze the last remaining liquid out of fresh elephant dung.

How can u tell if your breath stinks?

Bad breath is a common issue that is hard to accurately self-diagnose. You may be able to tell if you have bad breath by cupping your hands over your mouth and nose or licking the inside of your wrist, and smelling it. Bad breath is often caused by poor oral hygiene.

What is the smelliest poo?

Guinea pig poo19 Guinea pig poo These ugly vermin have the stinkiest poo in the animal kingdom!

Why do I smell like poop?

If you smell like poop… When your digestion is severely impaired, smelly chemicals are produced in the gut that eventually cause stinky bowel movements when you do finally go; these same compounds can also seep out in your sweat, making you smell a bit like a septic tank.

What does koala poop smell like?

Koala poo is about the size and shape of an olive, and it’s usually a dark greenish colour. It’s probably one of the least offensive types of poo, because it smells strongly of eucalyptus. Koalas produce these little pellets 24 hours a day, even when they’re asleep, and they produce a lot of them – up to 360 a day.

What animal has the best smelling poop?

KoalaKoala diet consists entirely of eucalyptus leaves and as a result their poo smells like eucalyptus oil air freshener. It was cool to see the animals in the sanctuaries, but there is nothing like seeing them in their natural habitat in the wild.

Why does my fart smell so bad?

Intolerance to food Food intolerance is a very common cause of bad odor flatulence. Typical conditions that can cause smelly flatulence include lactose and gluten intolerances. In both of these conditions, the body’s inability to break down lactose or gluten causes smelly gas to build up and eventually be released.

What is the taste of poop?

It tastes like all the food your body didn’t want. Most poop, (especially human poop) tastes a lot like nothing, just like most things extruded from the body (snot, semen.) Foods with high salt and sugar might alter the taste a little. This is, of course, if you can get past the smell.

Do monkeys stink?

In addition to being a pet that has involved care, they are also said to have a smell that is several times stronger than a skunk and can be detected up to 164 feet away in the wild. Those connections don’t exist in primates and most other animals—explaining why monkeys can’t dance.

How do I get rid of poop smell?

Tips for reducing smelly odours after you go:Grab some poo-pourri. Yes this is an actual product and according to reviews it works wonders in the bathroom. … Use air freshener. Bathroom air fresheners come in many shapes and forms. … Clean the toilet. … Open the window.Sep 4, 2016

Does pig poop stink?

Bacteria in pigs’ intestines and their environment break down the manure, releasing hydrogen sulfide, ammonia and methane—all of which are pretty stinky.

Why do men’s poop smell worse?

Turns out there are differences in stool odors between men and women, says Edwin McDonald, MD, assistant professor of gastroenterology at the University of Chicago. That’s because poo is comprised mostly of bacteria that’s been living in the intestines, and the types of bacteria in the guts of men and women vary.

What does otter poop smell like?

Otter spraint (poo) is one of the least offensive smells in the world of excrement; it has a slightly fishy – pungent odour. It is a delight.

Can you vomit poop?

While it sounds unpleasant and unusual, it’s possible to vomit up your own fecal matter. Known in medical literature as “feculent vomiting,” throwing up poop is usually due to some type of blockage in the intestines.


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Ibanda Natural, Uganda
Ibanda Natural, Uganda
Ibanda Natural, Uganda
Ibanda Natural, Uganda
On Sale

Ibanda Natural, Uganda

  • -£-10.00
  • Regular price £10.00
    Tax included.

    A totally delicious, fruit forward and bright banger from Uganda's fly-crop harvest. Expect a juicy apricot syrup, guaranteed to rise an eyebrow.

    Heirloom, SL14 & SL28

    1600 - 2000m.a.s.l.

    Tasting notes
    Dried Apricot - Blueberry - Syrup

    Ibanda is a village in the northern part of Kasese District, situated in one of the many valleys of the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains. Farmers typically have between 1 and 2 acres of land and coffee is their main crop. Farmers have been shown how to improve their yields by using good

    agricultural practices and the quality of their harvests has been greatly improved by encouraging farmers to only pick the fully ripe cherries.

    Ripe, red coffee cherries are harvested daily during the harvest season and taken to Ibanda. The cherries are weighed, assessed for quality and the farmers are paid in cash. From here trucks carry the cherries to Bugoye Coffee Station.

    Here the cherries are floated and graded before being sun-dried in the polytunnels to protect them from rain. The team turns the cherries several times each day to ensure even drying whilst allowing the cherries to mature and develop their full, rich flavours.

    The carbon footprint from this coffee's journey has been offset twice.
    This includes boiling your kettle to brew it.

    The packaging is biodegradable and recyclable.

    Bike delivery or postage is included.

    One love.


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You’re a Delight!

A quick publication share today where the call was to design with Triangles.   Of course I had to use Altenew’s Sohcahtoa for the background, and out came the pineapple from Avery Elle again, one of my faves from 2015 for sure!

You're a Delight - Detail
You’re a Delight – Detail
You're a Delight
You’re a Delight

I’ll be back in a couple of days with another video in my new Cards 4 Men series, I look forward to seeing  you again then.

Other Supplies:  Copics – YG00,03,17,95. G99. 0. Y11,26.

10 thoughts on “You’re a Delight!

  1. Your triangle background is fabulous, and perfect with the pineapple! Really beautiful card, Therese!
    Congrats to you on another lovely publication! Thanks for sharing it with us!

  2. Your card is wonderful. The colors are spectacular, and the pineapple sure does take lst place.

  3. Those triangles are amazing!!! Just went back and watched a previous video you did with them – so easy to achieve! Definitely putting this on my must try list!

  4. Awesome card! I love the background and yes that pineapple, I remember that stamp from last year. It brings instand-summer feeling, love that!!!

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Posts Tagged With: walls

York City Walls

York has the longest and most well preserved medieval walls in England stretching 2 miles around the city. On my trip to York I only did a partial walk around on two separate days, one from Bootham Bar past York Minster and the other over the west corner, passing the railway station to Micklegate Bar.

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My Fair Concubine by Jeannie Lin

September 27, 2013 Historical, Reviews 0

13263350The Nobleman Who Turned a Tea Girl Into a Princess…

Yan Ling tries hard to be servile—it’s what’s expected of a girl of her class. Being intelligent and strong-minded, she finds it a constant battle.

Proud Fei Long is unimpressed by her spirit—until he realizes she’s the answer to his problems. He has to deliver the emperor a “princess.” In two months can he train a tea girl to pass as a noblewoman?

Yet it’s hard to teach good etiquette when all Fei Long wants to do is break it, by taking this tea girl for his own…

I’m going to try my best not to gush and rambling, but I’m warning you guys right now, this review will be filled with gushing and rambling.

So here’s what happened. Boyfriend and I used to stop at a Cheesecake Factory between his job and our place. There’s a Barnes & Noble next door, so often while we were waiting for our to-go order I would go over there to buy a romance novel. (This is why I loved the Goodreads app because I would just pull up my to-read list right there and go searching the shelves. Why’d you have to break my heart, Goodreads? Why?) On this particular night, I was in the mood for some Beverly Jenkins, but they only had Night Hawk and I already had Night Hawk. I was walking along and My Fair Concubine caught my eye because, you guessed it, there aren’t white people on the cover.

I have a delicate relationship with Harlequin romances. I either love them or they leave me regretting every life choice I’ve ever made. I brought this little buddy home and pretty much forgot about her. She was put on my to-read shelf next to forty-five Zoe Archer paperbacks I’ve been saving for an imaginary vacation somewhere cold. Fast-forward over a year and I found myself skimming and I mean skimming though e-book after e-book on my iPad. I think I was a little burnt out on contemporary romances and erotic romance. Then, like it was fate, Jeannie Lin tweeted that My Fair Concubine was on sale on Amazon and I thought HEY, I HAVE THAT BOOK! I SHOULD READ IT NOW! OMG am I glad I did.

I’ll give you the skinny without spoiling, though all I want to do is spoil. Fei Long, a military man and one stud of a hunk, finds himself in a pretty crappy position after his father’s death. His sister who is betrothed to a clan leader in another empire, has run away with her true love, leaving Fei Long to either answer to the head of his kingdom OR find a replacement bride. Enter Yan Ling, a serving girl at a rural tea house.

Fei Long hatches a plan to train Yan Ling to be a proper princess and to pose as his sister to fulfill the marriage pact. They only have a few months to whip her into shape, but Yan Ling is up to the task. Mostly because she’s been put out of her master’s house, but you really should really read to find out why.

I’m sighing just thinking about Yan Ling. She’s my favorite type of heroine; innocent, but tough and curious with a great sense of humor. Her insecurities were realistic. She came from very little, basically worked as a servant and had no formal education, but despite their class distinction, she doesn’t think less of herself. I LOVED that.

Fei Long is one of my favorite types of hero. He’s brooding and a bit cranky, but within reason. He’s trying to keep his household together. Even if you don’t understand Chinese traditions, you can understand the pressure of thinking you might be the one to let your whole family go shit after your parent passes away. It’s a lot of pressure.

As they continue with Mission Princess Bride, they slowly start falling for each other. The tension is so thick and juicy and perfect. I actually cried twice the tension was so good. I mean they fall in LUB, but the mission!!! I stayed up way past my bedtime because I was so anxious to see how Lin was going to get these two out of this pickle of a jam. The scenes, yes sceneS when they are finally together are so well written. I mean if someone said to me what Fei Long said to Yan Ling we’d get married right there on the spot. The sexy times and even the smoochie times were both sweet and sexy, but honestly the story was so good I think they could have simply kissed and I would have been more than okay with that.

The supporting characters, the house servant, Dao, and Fei Long’s BFF, Li Bai Shen, don’t just serves as human props, but they actually add valuable meat to the story. You care about them too. Plus they were both pretty funny. The villains of the story are equal parts annoying and homicidal. They added the perfect amount of pressure to the mission. Of course there’s a happy ending that left me wanting to read more about these characters. Jeannie Lin will join Beverly Jenkins on my Heck Yes shelf. I can’t wait to read her other books.

Final Assessment: Should you read it? Yes. Hell yes. Read it twice. A

Series: This is book #3 in the Tang Dynasty Series. The worlds connect, but I’m not sure about character overlap.

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A queer romance author of color who will read just about anything, for science, or this blog. She gravitates toward post Civil War era historical romance, westerns, BDSM erotic romance, LGBT romance and erotica. She’s interested in trying out more New Adult titles with multicultural characters, romances/erotic titles of any subgenre with Transgender characters, stories with Native American characters, especially if they are written by Native American authors, horror and romantic suspense.

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Cute Letter Pearl Necklace

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Adorn your neck with this stunning letter necklace done with chic pearls and a glowing gold plate letter!

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Program Archives
Escaramuza: Riding from the Heart
Producer/Director: Robin Rosenthal & Bill Yahraus
Genre: Documentary
Program Length: 1 Episode/60 Minutes
Premiere Date: October 5, 2012 on PBS
(Please check local listings)

Las Azaleas are the gutsy team of women rodeo riders vying to represent the U.S. at the National Charro Championships in Mexico, where “to be Charro is to be Mexican.” Escaramuza, or skirmish, describes both their daredevil horseback ballets, ridden sidesaddle at top speed, and the intensity of their competition season.
Neither life-altering challenges at home nor cartel violence across the border can keep Las Azaleas from their goal.

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Latino Public Broadcasting is the leader of the development, production, acquisition and distribution of non-commercial educational and cultural media that is representative of Latino people, or addresses issues of particular interest to Latino Americans. These programs are produced for dissemination to the public broadcasting stations and other public telecommunication entities. LPB provides a voice to the diverse Latino community on public media throughout the United States.
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Fort Minor Live - 2005.11.09 Yokohama, Kanagawa

Show Information

November 09, 2005
Yokohama, JP  Japan
Yokohama Blitz
Venue Type:
Music/Concert Hall
Show #:
1 of 1

01. Remember The Name Long Intro
02. It's Goin' Down
03. Dolla
04. Enth E Nd
05. In Stereo
06. Mr. Brown Styles of Beyond song
07. Fort Minor Medley
08. Believe Me Ext. Outro w/ Breakdown
09. Feel Like Home
10. Red To Black w/ Post-Song Drum Solo
11. Numb/Encore Shortened
12. There They Go
13. High Road
14. Petrified String Intro

Show Notes:

- It is unknown whether this was the first show the band did their first encore at or not. It is confirmed that the next show in London had the encore. If they did, then this was the first show that Fort Minor played a shortened version of 'Numb/Encore' at. They would have had an encore break after 'Red To Black' and came back with 'Numb/Encore', 'There They Go', and 'Petrified' to close the show.

- Beatdown had a short drum solo after 'Red To Black'.

- The 'Fort Minor Medley' is a mid-set mashup of verses from 'You Lose', 'Megadef', and 'Bleach' by Styles Of Beyond, Tak's verse from 'Respect 4 Grandma' (Fort Minor) and two original verses by Mike.

Source 1: Video - PROSHOT (Unknown)

Time: ? mins

Comments: There were two reports on this show shown on TV in Japan. One of them had a short interview with Mike talking about the band and trying to speak Japanese. One of them had a small clip of 'Believe Me', while another had a small clip of 'Enth E Nd'.

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Soothing sunscreen SPF 50+ soothing cream for everyday use, but highly recommended before sun exposure with SPF50+ protection against UVA-UVB rays.

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ID: 19916

Bedwars is a popular minigame which is available on java and bedrock. So i decided to make my own, It has generators and shop also. But in shop there are less item. I will also add more items, So hope u like it.

How to play :

You will spawn in a room there will be teams. Just click which team u wanna play it can be played between 2-4 players.Then all players will spawn on different islands there will be some generators to get resources.  The main objective is to break all beds and be

Here’s some images

The map

The generators

The shop


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Double Distillation. Made with 100% mature Blue Weber agaves that are more than 8 years of age, from the high mountain region of Mazamitla Jalisco.

Bottle: Handcrafted crystal bottle with a brown tint, featuring a unique artisanal braided rope around the neck. Each bottle is truly exceptional. Skilled artisans place a unique clay medallion on the heart of each bottle.

Color: Golden amber with brilliant tones and gold highlights

Aroma: Very balanced aromas of oak and cooked agave, with touches of honey and vanilla standing out.

Body: Rich, silky, well balanced body, with long pronounced legs, and a sleek texture on the palate.

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HYDROXTREME, Get the pornstar effect

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Our Television Testimony

We have three children – ages 6, 3, and 2 – all of whom enjoy watching television.  For a long time my wife and I struggled to regulate how much television our kids watched, at what times of day they watched, and what kind of shows they watched.  It was hard.  For one, our most lived-in room in the house – the family room – was laid out with the television in mind (all the seating oriented toward the television, shelves of DVDs, etc.).  The kids had learned how to turn on the television, change DVDs, and flip through their favorite kids channels.  And my wife and I had come to depend on the television as a lazy
parenting tool ("Hey kids, watch some TV and be quiet while I make
dinner/check my email/talk on the phone/waste time on Facebook").  Turning off the television sometimes involved arguments with the kids, and turning it on surely kept us more tuned in to the television than to each other.

But six weeks ago we decided to cut the cord … no more cable television at our house.  The decision was driven by a perfect synergy of both financial and lifestyle considerations.  We are saving money and our children are spending much less time in front of a television screen – both of which are good things.

In fact, we moved the television out of the first floor altogether, leaving my old computer and a stereo as the only electronic entertainment devices in our children's play area.  We still have the television, connected to a DVD player, but we move it to our bedroom … and it gets used about once a week for the kids to watch a Disney movie or a Backyardigans video.  And yes, the kids will sometimes watch partial episodes of Clifford on www.pbskids.org or Little Einsteins on www.playhousedisney.com, but overall their screen time has dropped dramatically.

And somewhat to our surprise, our kids didn't instigate a violent revolt.  For sure, the week after we cut the chord was a pretty tough transition.  But in the days and weeks that followed, we have watched as our kids have gone from complaining about being bored to coming up with their own games to play.

Over the past six weeks the kids have built more living room forts and set up more make-believe yard sales and cooked more make-believe meals in their play kitchen than they ever had in the previous year.  Our six year-old, who is not the strongest reader, will sometimes grab a book and try to read by herself, and our three year-old will get a book, too, just so she can be like her big sister.  Instances of sidewalk chalk art have skyrocketed, as have the numbers of puzzles completed.  We also find that the kids need to take more frequent baths, since they are playing more often with markers or with dirt or in ways that get them quite sweaty.  It's been amazing.

It is highly unlikely that we will go back to television anytime soon, even if I do miss watching sports.  And I doubt that we'll be a family that owns a video game system, either.  Banishing the television screen to our bedroom where watching a movie becomes a weekly special event has been a great move for us, and there is little reason for us to increase the amount of time that we or our children spend in front of a screen.

So, a word to all you parents who struggle with the amount of time your children spend in front of a television screen: If cutting down the time your family spends in front of the television is hard to do, consider cutting it out altogether.  It is possible.

Published by Lutheran Zephyr

Spouse. Parent. Lutheran Pastor. National Guardsman. Political Junkie. Baseball Fan.

3 thoughts on “Our Television Testimony

  1. Somehow this topic came up at our bible study group yesterday, even though we are all either way past being early empty nesters or one has a new baby. One point that came out is that it is good to limit TV, but how much harder that is when the TV is right there and the parents have to impose limits. That is a good thing, for sure, but much harder than when the children have much less immediate contact with it. I found it easy to have limits when they were little, but later, if they each had their own choices, the TV was on too much. Then there was the issue of the two parents not being on the same page on this one….’nuff said.

  2. I gave up cable a few years ago after a billing dispute with the cable company. The only thing I regret is that I don’t have reliable internet access at home (I jump on hotspots when I can find them) because I can’t get DSL from the phone company in my building (which struck some kind of deal with the cable company so that only their services can be used in our building).
    Granted I don’t have kids, which might make a difference. But honestly, I’d rather find other things for my kids to do than watch TV.

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Mostly Metal Challenge Reveal & Blog Hop!

Today is the reveal of the “Mostly Metal” Challenge hosted by Michelle Mach of Beads And Books.  Michelle is a jewelry designer and writer, and hosts several challengs throughout the year.  I was fortunate enough to grab a kit for the challenge,  and my category was “Gunmetal Love”.  It was indeed a challenge for me since I rarely use gunmetal.  Here is the kit that was sent to me:

Since I couldn’t think of what to make incorporating everything, I chose to make several pieces:

It’s amazing how we retain things we learned in childhood – I made the red cords into a keychain by using the macrame techniques that I learned long long ago.  I also used hematite beads to make heart earrings.  The swarovski crystals were made into dangle earrings, and the red ribbon roses (unique to my kit) were made into a hair barette.  Now, I just loved the pink pearlized vintage glass cabochon, so I got some Vintaj brass components and made it into a necklace:

And here is the list of participating artists to visit:

Antique Brass Romantic

Filigree Fun

Gunmetal Love

Oh, Michelle is hosting a giveaway to those who leave comments at her blog as well as all the other participating artist blogs.


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NTN 2P7202 Spherical Roller Bearings

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What is 2P7202 bearing cross reference？

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Configuration:Single Row
Radial Clearance:0.008 to 0.023 mm
B:8 mm
PDF 2P7202

Product Details

Bore TypeCylindrical Bore
ra (max)0.3 mm
da (min)12 mm
EnclosureDouble Shield
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ConfigurationSingle Row
Radial Clearance0.008 to 0.023 mm
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R. Schumann: String Quartets Nos. 1-3, Op. 41 Emerson String Quartet

Cover R. Schumann: String Quartets Nos. 1-3, Op. 41

Album info

Label: PentaTone

Genre: Classical

Subgenre: Chamber Music

Artist: Emerson String Quartet

Composer: Robert Schumann (1810-1856)

Album including Album cover Booklet (PDF)

Formats & Prices

FormatPriceIn CartBuy
FLAC 96 $ 14.50
  • Robert Schumann (1810 - 1856): String Quartet No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 41 No. 1:
  • 1String Quartet No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 41 No. 1: I. Introduzione. Andante espressivo - Allegro09:09
  • 2String Quartet No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 41 No. 1: II. Scherzo. Presto03:46
  • 3String Quartet No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 41 No. 1: III. Adagio05:34
  • 4String Quartet No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 41 No. 1: IV. Presto06:19
  • String Quartet No. 2 in F Major, Op. 41 No. 2:
  • 5String Quartet No. 2 in F Major, Op. 41 No. 2: I. Allegro vivace05:54
  • 6String Quartet No. 2 in F Major, Op. 41 No. 2: II. Andante, quasi variazioni07:23
  • 7String Quartet No. 2 in F Major, Op. 41 No. 2: III. Scherzo. Presto03:15
  • 8String Quartet No. 2 in F Major, Op. 41 No. 2: IV. Allegro molto vivace06:52
  • String Quartet No. 3 in A Major, Op. 41 No. 3:
  • 9String Quartet No. 3 in A Major, Op. 41 No. 3: I. Andante espressivo - Allegro molto moderato06:57
  • 10String Quartet No. 3 in A Major, Op. 41 No. 3: II. Assai agitato06:17
  • 11String Quartet No. 3 in A Major, Op. 41 No. 3: III. Adagio molto08:01
  • 12String Quartet No. 3 in A Major, Op. 41 No. 3: IV. Finale. Allegro molto vivace07:11
  • Total Runtime01:16:38

Info for R. Schumann: String Quartets Nos. 1-3, Op. 41

The Emerson String Quartet makes its PENTATONE debut with a recording of Schumann’s three string quartets. Penned in the summer of 1842 during an exceptional peak of creativity, these quartets formed the beginning of a six-month surge during which most of Schumann’s best chamber music saw the light. Inspired by the example of Beethoven, Schumann’s quartets display a mastery of traditional forms, combined with typically Schumannian fantasy and lyricism, particularly in the inner movements. As such, they underline a new level of maturity in Schumann’s artistic development, surpassing the fantastical aesthetic of previous years. The players of the Emerson String Quartet bring out the extraordinary freshness and originality of these works, and add another master composer’s oeuvre to their impressive discography, after having recorded the complete string quartets of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bartók, Webern and Shostakovich. The artistic strength of Schumann, whose life was dominated by alternating periods of depression and manic creativity, inspires and consoles the quartet members during the uncertain times of a pandemic, and his music may equally inspire listeners. Since its founding in 1976, the Emerson String Quartet is ranked among the world’s most acclaimed chamber music ensembles.

Emerson String Quartet

The Emerson String Quartet
has amassed an unparalleled list of achievements over four decades: more than thirty acclaimed recordings, nine Grammys® (including two for Best Classical Album), three Gramophone Awards, the Avery Fisher Prize, Musical America’s "Ensemble of the Year" and collaborations with many of the greatest artists of our time.

The arrival of Paul Watkins in 2013 has had a profound effect on the Emerson Quartet. Mr. Watkins, a distinguished soloist, award-winning conductor, and devoted chamber musician, joined the ensemble in its 37th season, and his dedication and enthusiasm have infused the Quartet with a warm, rich tone and a palpable joy in the collaborative process. The reconfigured group has been praised by critics and fans alike around the world. “The Emerson brought the requisite virtuosity to every phrase. But this music is equally demanding emotionally and intellectually, and the group’s powers of concentration and sustained intensity were at least as impressive." The New York Times

The 2016-17 season marks the Emerson Quartet’s 40th Anniversary, and highlights of this milestone year reflect all aspects of the Quartet’s venerable artistry with high-profile projects and collaborations, commissions and recordings. Universal Music Group has reissued their entire Deutsche Grammophon discography in a 52-CD boxed set. After recent engagements together at the Kennedy Center and Tanglewood, illustrious soprano Renée Fleming joins the Emerson at Walt Disney Concert Hall, performing works by Alban Berg and Egon Wellesz from their first collaborative recording, released by Decca in fall of 2015. The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center has programmed celebratory concerts at Alice Tully Hall, as well as in Chicago and Purchase, NY, in October: the Calidore Quartet teams up with the Emerson for the Mendelssohn Octet, and the Emerson gives the New York premiere of Mark-Anthony Turnage’s Shroud (co-commissioned by CMS). Former Emerson cellist David Finckel appears as a special guest for Schubert’s Quintet in C Major. In May 2017, international acclaimed pianist Yefim Bronfman will join the Quartet for a performance of the Brahms Quintet at Carnegie Hall. Additional highlights include a concert with clarinetist David Shifrin as part of the Quartet’s season-long residency at Chamber Music Northwest in Portland, Oregon, as well as a collaboration with cellist Clive Greensmith for the Schubert Quintet at the Soka Performing Arts Center in California. The Emerson continues its series at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC for its 38th season, and the quartet members have been selected as Artistic Advisors for Wolf Trap’s Chamber Music at The Barns in Virginia, curating the series in celebration of its 20th season. On April 21, 2017 the Quartet releases its latest album, Chaconnes and Fantasias: Music of Britten and Purcell, the first release on Universal Music Classics’ new US classical record label, Decca Gold.

Multiple tours of Europe comprise dates in Austria, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, The Netherlands, Spain and the United Kingdom (including Wigmore Hall for a 40th Anniversary Gala); the Quartet also tours South America and Asia.

Formed in 1976 and based in New York City, the Emerson was one of the first quartets whose violinists alternated in the first chair position. The Emerson Quartet, which took its name from the American poet and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson, is Quartet-in-Residence at Stony Brook University. During the spring of 2016, full-time Stony Brook faculty members Philip Setzer and Lawrence Dutton received the honor of Distinguished Professor, and part-time faculty members Eugene Drucker and Paul Watkins were awarded the title of Honorary Distinguished Professor. In January 2015, the Quartet received the Richard J. Bogomolny National Service Award, Chamber Music America’s highest honor, in recognition of its significant and lasting contribution to the chamber music field.

Booklet for R. Schumann: String Quartets Nos. 1-3, Op. 41

© 2010-2021 HIGHRESAUDIO


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User Reviews (1)

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  • Gilles Grangier's forte ,in the fifties,was the thriller;this musical finds him on foreign territory .

    Another vehicle for heartthrob singer Georges Guétary who sings less than usually ,but barks,mews,moos,chirps and imitates motors and other sound effects .And a trio of black singers (the Peter sisters ) and a violinist take to the stage instead of him.

    The beginning of the plot bears some resemblance to Jules Verne's "Tribulations D'Un Chinois En Chine" (which Philippe De Broca transferred to the screen with Jean-Paul Belmondo in 1965):A suicidal South American took out huge life assurance and the insurance company frets over the future;one of their employees (Guétary) and an executive's niece (Gaby Sylvia) are sent to what's the insured person is up to.

    In fact ,the plot is very derivative ;some good moments are to be found in the second part when Guétary's character ,who does not speak English at all, is led up the garden path by his colleague.


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Rated NR 150 min. 2009

The film is a part remake and part dubbed version of a Tamil film "Abhiyum Naanum." The story is about the special love and bonding between a daughter and her father.

Film Credits

Director: Radha Mohan

Producer: Dil Raju

Cast: Prakash Raj, Trisha, Sunil and Jagapathi Babu

Show Times

Sorry there are no upcoming showtimes for Akasamantha

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Live Music

Laura Merrimen w/Ronok Sarkar

When: Wed., March 23, 8 p.m. 2016

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News + Opinion » Shoptalk

Neighbourhood Witch General Store enchants and expands

Saying farewell to Put Me On means more space for the magical shop.

Tarot is one of the workshops that will be on offer at The Neighbourhood Witch after expansion. - KIMBER LUBBERTS
  • Kimber Lubberts
  • Tarot is one of the workshops that will be on offer at The Neighbourhood Witch after expansion.

Neighbourhood Witch—owner Pamela McInnis calls it “Halifax’s most magical shop”—is expanding.

“We were coming to the point where we just had to get more space, 'cause we’re a growing business,” says McInnis. “We maxed out our space out here.”

Neighbourhood Witch General Store (1526 Queen Street) initially opened above Put Me On vintage clothing in September 2015, offering a slew of spell-binding products including crystals, incense and jewellery. In mid-January of this year, McInnis announced plans to move to the larger space downstairs, which was occupied by Put Me On (also owned by McInnis) up until February 18. McInnis has also taken on a business partner, Kelly Marney.

The larger shop with “five times the retail space” will provide room for both locally-made and ordered-in products. As for the upstairs, McInnis says it will serve as a space for a healing room, along with classes and workshops.

“There's going to be everything from candle magic, palm reading, tarot reading, spell casting, Wicca 101, Witchcraft 101…we’re just gonna have a whole bunch of different people coming in and teaching.”

At the same time, McInnis notes that Neighbourhood Witch isn’t just for the magically inclined: “You can come in and just buy things 'cause they’re pretty,” she says. “There’s something in here for everybody regardless if you follow any specific spirituality or not.”

The new and improved Neighbourhood Witch is aiming to have a soft opening Friday, February 23, with plans for a grand opening party to follow.

Update: According to the Neighbourhood Witch Facebook page, the soft opening has moved to Sunday, February 25.

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News + Opinion » Opinion

Student-led campout put divestment back on the table at Dalhousie

There are no more excuses, Dal. It’s time to divest.

Alex Ayton is a Divest Dal committee member, pictured here with other Dalhousie students protesting on the quad. - VIA SAHAR ATBAEI
  • Alex Ayton is a Divest Dal committee member, pictured here with other Dalhousie students protesting on the quad.

A few days ago I addressed the Dalhousie board of governors on an issue that hasn’t been discussed in that room for three years: fossil fuel divestment. Students made it impossible for the university to ignore the issue any longer by staging a week-long campout on the quad in front of the iconic Henry Hicks building—where Dalhousie's president's office is.

If you haven’t heard of Divest Dal, we’re a student-led group that has been advocating for Dalhousie University to divest from the world’s biggest oil, gas and coal companies: the main drivers of the climate crisis.

It now stands that 16 of the 17 hottest years on record have happened since 2000—which also so happens to be the birth year of Dalhousie’s freshmen who start in 2018.

With global warming approaching one degree Celsius above pre-industrial averages, we are already seeing the toll of climate-change fuelled events. Harvey, Irma, Jose, Ophelia and Maria: the names of hurricanes barrelling down on coastal communities. Or 861: the number of fires sparked this year in the forests of British Columbia. These disasters are increasing in frequency and severity and are not-so-gentle reminders of the toll of a fossil-fuelled world.

It’s the people who’ve done the least to cause the crisis that are the ones being hit first and worst: Indigenous communities, people of colour, people living on small island nations and northern communities. When we talk about climate change, for these communities we’re talking about survival—the difference between life and death, between having a home or seeking refuge.

Despite this reality, major oil, gas and coal companies have enough carbon to send us on a path of well over five degrees of global warming. Unless we act boldly and swiftly, these companies will burn it.

The good news is that the landmark Paris climate agreement affirms we must stay within 1.5 degrees of global warming if we want to have a shot at a livable climate, and that means we need to keep 85 percent of fossil fuels in the ground.

This reality has investors all over the world thinking about climate change, because in a carbon-constrained world, making a bet on oil, gas and coal is a bad one at best, and there’s data to prove it.

Ask Genus Capital, a Canadian asset management firm that specializes in fossil-free portfolios and whose multi-year research shows that divested funds perform just as well, if not better, than regular ones. Or, ask the 800-plus institutions—including universities, municipalities, pension funds and even the world's largest sovereign wealth fund—who’ve divested a combined $5.5 trillion dollars.

At the end of the day, remaining invested in these companies holds us back from moving towards a 100-percent renewable energy economy that works for all. We shouldn’t be investing in a sunset industry, we should be investing in climate-saving renewable energy.

On January 21, 1986, Dalhousie took a stand against the oppressive Apartheid government in South Africa by divesting from companies complicit in the regime. They were urged to do so by the student union, the faculty association and Dalhousie’s senate.

Divestment has the support of the student union, the faculty association and the senate because we understand that climate change is the issue of our time.

Right now, Richard Florizone and Dalhousie’s board of governors hold the power to stand with the fossil fuel industry or to act boldly for climate justice.

There are no more excuses, Dal. It’s time to divest.

Voice of the City is a platform for any and all Halifax individuals to share their diverse opinions and writings. The Coast does not necessarily endorse the views of those published. Our editors reserve the right to alter submissions for clarity, length, content and style. Want to appear in this section? Submissions can be sent to

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Tag Archives: Botnik

Unexpected results in ML & project updates

There was a recent paper that caught my eye that I think is worth sharing with anyone interested in the themes of my blog: The Surprising Creativity of Digital Evolution: A Collection of Anecdotes from the Evolutionary Computation and Artificial … Continue reading

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Quick Answer: Does Hairspray Seal Charcoal Drawings?

How do I protect my charcoal drawings?

The ARTnews Recommends Editors Protect your charcoal, chalk, graphite, and pastel drawings by using a fixative spray.

Fixative spray keeps surfaces from smudging, fading, and flaking after a work is complete.

There are two basic types of fixative, regular and workable..

Can you set charcoal with hairspray?

The answer is yes – you can use hairspray to set your charcoal drawing if needed, but you should use a professional fixative if you are serious about drawing. … Using a fixative or hairspray will help, as it will bind the charcoal granules that sit on the surface of the paper, together, which helps prevent smudging.

How do I make a homemade fixative?

Mix casein with (grain) alcohol and (distilled) water, in a 1:2:5 ratio. See here for more experiences (and likely some troubleshooting). And in case you have any shellac at home, you can try mixing it with isopropyl alcohol in a 1:4 ratio to create a shellac fixative3, which you can apply using a spray can.

How do I protect my pencil drawings?

How to Protect Your Pencil Drawings From SmudgingUse a Fixative. Fixatives do exactly that — they help “fix” your graphite to your paper. … Put Wax Paper Between Your Pages. Wax paper is useful outside of cooking and baking! … Frame Your Pencil Drawings. If we’re looking for a barrier, this is a top notch barrier. … Use Page Protectors.

How do you keep charcoal drawings from smudging?

To stop charcoal sketches from smearing, one must use fixative spray. Use many light coats to avoid dust from the sketch. Instead of applying one heavy coat of fixative, it is best to apply multiple lighter coats. You need to hold the fixative about 2 feet away from the paper while you spray.

What can I use instead of fixative?

To fix chalk pastels use a cheap hairspray instead of the expensive arty fixative. Go to the ‘pound shop’ (or dollar shop) to stock up. Also, use pastels to shade over acrylic paint – great for folds in fabric or shadows…

What fixative is best for charcoal?

Top 5 Best Fixatives For Charcoal In 2020Winsor & Newton Professional Fixative.Sennelier Delacroix Fixative Spray.Golden Archival MSA Varnish.Lascaux Fixative Aerosol Spray.SpectraFix Spray Fixative.

What to spray on chalk to make it stay?

To make your chalk drawings permanent, lay your chalkboard out and carefully spray with a THIN even coat of hairspray from AT LEAST 10 inches away. Make sure you entirely cover the surface. The aerosol is important because it sprays small even droplets.

Can you draw over fixative?

Allow fixative to dry completely before painting, drawing or touching the work. Do not over apply as it will cause a more dramatic color shift or even cause pastels to dissolve in the fixative.

Does Hairspray seal ink?

Hairspray will fix a matt print but there are also matt fixative sprays available should you need them. On the face of it it would appear that hairspray is the outright winner here. It is cheap and in the short term seems to give the best results on pigment prints if you want a gloss finish.

How do you keep pencil drawings from fading?

– Parchment paper This translucent waxy paper is one of your best allies when it comes to preserving your graphite drawings. Although parchment paper is the optimal choice—the graphite will keep better in place—you can also put a white sheet of paper on the drawing to protect it.

How do you ship charcoal drawings?

Place the entire object in a thick plastic bag, fold down the opening several times while pressing out the air and tape shut with plastic packaging tape. Then place the packaged drawing into a wooden shipping box with custom cut styrofoam spacers so that it cannot move.

Can you frame charcoal drawings?

Whether sprayed or unsprayed, when framing a charcoal drawing, it’s best to use a double or triple mat to prevent the charcoal from touching the glass. Friction is the enemy of charcoal so when cleaning the glass, a slightly damp cloth should be used to avoid the static that a dry cloth can create.

Can you use hairspray to seal pencil drawings?

To preserve your little treasure’s artwork, a fine mist of hairspray over the child’s drawing will “fix” the medium. It works best for unstable mediums such as chalk, pencil, and pastels which can easily smudge.

Does Hairspray work as a fixative?

FIXATIVES: … Some artists may suggest using hairspray as a fixative; however this is not recommended for a couple reasons. First, the chemical makeup of hairspray does not ensure archival properties and could cause yellowing of the paper over time. Also, if too much is used, the paper can become sticky.

How can I protect my pencils without fixative?

If you are interested in storing your drawings without a fixative, you can place the picture between two pieces of glassine interleaving paper. Glassine interleaving paper is an acid-free translucent paper that is ideal for protecting and storing delicate artwork like graphite, charcoal, colored pencils, and pastels.

What is fixative spray?

In drawing, a fixative is a liquid, similar to varnish, which is usually sprayed over a finished piece of artwork, usually a dry media artwork, to better preserve it and prevent smudging. Modern fixatives are usually alcohol based, and hydrocarbon propelled. … Fixative is most commonly available in aerosol sprays.