So I bought a Canon Digital Rebel XT since I need a camera for my impending move to New Zealand (that, and I always wanted one).
Today, I went planespotting at Hobby Airport, which is an excercise in:
a.) patience,
b.) physical coordination,
c.) rooting out the best place to inhale burning jet fuel (read: JP-4; JP-5).
Mind you, I'm no photographer, so the vast majority of my photos are fairly soft, and I'm not quite agile enough to keep up with large, 100,000 lb.+ machines landing at high speeds (read: 150+ kts). That said, I snapped some decent ones.
On that note, I must complain about the lack of accessibility for those wishing to photograph said machines. Every drive/step led me towards one of these insidious bastards:
That, and I'm fairly certain a fine, upstanding, terrorist-fearing, patriotic family jotted down the license plate of my crummy vehicle to report to the Department of Homeland Security. Let's face it, folks: man + hair + camera * airport = plot.
My phone died soon after (unbeknownst to me, as I was crusing up IH-45) and I headed to Hooks, where I discovered:
a.) I'm a suck-ass no-light photographer,
b.) There's always one ugly duck on the duck pond.
Follow this up with reading David Foster Wallace at IHOP, and one has a pretty decent day, save for all the thinking and that bad-idea at two thirty (stopping at Jack in the Box for lunch).
Today, I went planespotting at Hobby Airport, which is an excercise in:
a.) patience,
b.) physical coordination,
c.) rooting out the best place to inhale burning jet fuel (read: JP-4; JP-5).
Mind you, I'm no photographer, so the vast majority of my photos are fairly soft, and I'm not quite agile enough to keep up with large, 100,000 lb.+ machines landing at high speeds (read: 150+ kts). That said, I snapped some decent ones.
On that note, I must complain about the lack of accessibility for those wishing to photograph said machines. Every drive/step led me towards one of these insidious bastards:
That, and I'm fairly certain a fine, upstanding, terrorist-fearing, patriotic family jotted down the license plate of my crummy vehicle to report to the Department of Homeland Security. Let's face it, folks: man + hair + camera * airport = plot.
My phone died soon after (unbeknownst to me, as I was crusing up IH-45) and I headed to Hooks, where I discovered:
a.) I'm a suck-ass no-light photographer,
b.) There's always one ugly duck on the duck pond.
Follow this up with reading David Foster Wallace at IHOP, and one has a pretty decent day, save for all the thinking and that bad-idea at two thirty (stopping at Jack in the Box for lunch).
and spit!