Pat's Christmas Camera Picks for Black Friday 2010

It's not entirely uncommon for me to get a phone call or email this time of year asking me what camera someone should buy for their spouse/child/parent/sibling. Usually, I have a list of questions if I don't know the potential recipient that help me qualify my recommendations.

This year I've decided to put together a pre-Black Friday list to help equip some of you as you fight your way through the goings-on of this eventful time of year.

My list of cameras is based on some criteria; value (not just price), user skill level, and application. I've got four groups, or categories, that I like to look at; The Cigarette Pack, The Traveller, The Super Amatuer and The Pro. Let's begin.

The Cigarette Pack

This particular category is one that I see falling off the radar in the next two years. Formerly, The Cigarette Pack camera's greatest single feature was its size and convenience. But, as the ubiquitous smart phone camera continues to advance in ease of use and quality, the need for this type of camera is on a rapid descent.

Ultimately, this type of camera outshines the smart phone in the lens department. They're actually harder to use than most smart phones when it comes to reviewing your photos because the buttons are so incredibly small. Additionally, as a space savings measure there are fewer buttons which cause the engineers of Tiny Fingers Incorporated to hide essential menus and options under countless submenus. Very frustrating. The smartphone handles this by sing a touch screen. I'm not sure why camera manufacturers have resisted this temptation of making their products easier to use but, alas, they do.

So, If you're the type of person that takes no joy in using your smart phone as your point-and-shoot I recommend thusly:

The Olympus Stylus family of cameras is an excellent choice. They're economical, the lenses are generally quite sharp and they don't carry the financial weight of the name-brand cameras like Nikon and Canon.



If you're a particularly adventurous, check out the Stylus TOUGH Series. They're rough, tough, light and ready for a beating.

The Traveller

When someone tells me they're about to take a journey invariably my first words are, "shoot something!". What I mean to say is, with the advent of digital cameras there no longer any reason to NOT take lots of photos. Seriously, what's holding you back. Oh, it's your camera...

Not anymore. If you enjoy traveling, day tripping or just shooting a lot of photos but the cell phone just doesn't cut it, you fall into "The Traveller" category. The Traveller needs something to capture scenes that are likely available only to one who takes great pains to get off the beaten path. Once there, the creative juices begin to flow and you need something with more horsepower than a smart phone but not as heavy and bulky as a full on DSLR (Digital Single Lens Reflect - a digital camera with interchangeable lenses).

My favorite batch of cameras for this type of photographer comes from Fuji. The FinePix series of cameras offer a great quality lens with some control over exposures. And, one of my favorite things, they mostly all run on AA batteries.

Check out the S2550HD



or the S200EXR for some good options.

The Super Amateur

We all know who these people are. At birthday parties they're found standing on chairs or squatting down low to get that perfect shot. They grab a camera without the owner's prior notice to shoot a few photos and put the camera down at the end of the evening having filled the memory card, and are, henceforth, handed the camera on every occasion.

The Super Amatuer needs a few more tools to achieve their goals. I can't think of more well-stocked creative toolbox than the Canon Rebel series of DSLR. The EOS Rebel T2i is one of my favs.



Equipping a Super Amateur with something like the EOS Rebel is a great way to either open the door to a professional career in photography or ensure that you never have to ask your beloved photog what they would want for Christmas ever again. If the shooter doesn't jump to pro, you'll always know that if you buy a lens or memory card, you're pretty much in the clear.

The Pro

Okay, so you're sitting around, counting all your gold and the name of a Super Amateur pops into your mind. You know they've shot a couple of weddings and they really, really want to quit their day job to go pro. They've got the eye, the drive, and they're making a little dough on their scenic photos or senior portraits. It's time to get them a heavy hitter.

I'm not a real fan of Nikon. Anyone who's spent time with me knows that. It's no secret. But, I'm not ANTI-Nikon, they're just not for me. Add to that the fact that the camera I'm about to recommend is becoming one of the most widely recognized camera of choice for the all-around pro.

Behold, the Canon 5D Mark II. We use this rig at the agency I work for in Eugene. It's got everything; high enough resolution for high end commercial work, HD video, expandability and quality glass. The 5D MkII is used to shoot the opening sequences of Saturday Night Live and it was used to shoot the last episode of "House" las year. In addition, we use it for clients like the U of O and several other demanding clients.

Get a 5D Mk II and you wont be sorry.

One other recommendation I might make for the pro is a light meter. It's a tool that will allow the advancing pro reak away from the pack creatively and it's a tool I wouldn't go anywhere without.

The Sekonic L358 Flash Master is the king in this field.

It comes highly recommended by professionals worldwide. If you've got the money and your pro already has a camera they're working well with, this is the ticket to their heart of hearts, whether they know it or not...

Wrap up

There you have it! If you still can't decide, drop me a comment and I'll see if I can help you nail down a solution for that light-loving photogeek in your life.

From Lebanon to Lebanon

As a photographer, the better part of my job is less technical and more relational. Making people feel at ease is one of the greatest challenges a photographer faces when photographing people. As a matter of course I ask a few questions about where the client lives, where they're from originally, likes, hobbies, etc.

Over the years I've honed my list of questions, often giving me a quick insight to the client, allowing me to joke about things that might be common in their life. Things that are not too personal but just close enough to be disarming.

When I detect any kind of an accent, which my wife and children say I'm good at, I generally start down a mental list of questions that lead me to an understanding of the person before me. Within minutes I can generally find out where someone is from, where they're headed, and why they've chosen 'here' as their stopping place. Much can be learned from simply listening for an accent.

Normally, this quick banter leads to some smiles, a few laughs and hopefully some great photos. I love this part of what I do because I love people. As much as I love people and their stories though the greater percentage of the information I've gathered gets locked away in the deep vaults of my brain and rarely brought out again for deeper introspection. I've occasionally wondered if in my waning years when I begin to 'go vague', as my Nana used to say, those stories will arise as if from nowhere and completely confuse the nurses tending my bedpan.

Occasionally, though, a simple comment elicited by one of my questions touches some direct nerve in my soul and electrifies the deep spirit. All at once a word or sentence pulls back the veil and I discover I am locked in a prison of blessing and complacency. The awareness made real by the comments of a stranger, a person I'll likely never see again.

Today I'm photographing doctors for one of our clients. We've been on a campaign to photograph all 100+ doctors, on location with the same portable studio. We'll use the images for marketing and such so they all need to look somewhat identical. As one can imagine doctors are busy people who, generally speaking, don't enjoy having their photo taken. It's important for me to coax out that inner happy person that interacts with the patient. So, the list of questions comes out to help me gain just a bit of insight in the five or ten minutes we have together.

"Where did you do your residency?", or "What made you choose your specialty?", and "What brought you to Oregon?". All these roads lead somewhere that help ease the tension.

But, today, it was that last question that blindsided me. My client had a name that seemed to originate from the Middle-East. His accent told me he hadn't been in the states for a short time or possibly his parents spoke english regularly prior to arriving in the US. The accent wasn't deep but it was unmistakeably, an accent.

We worked through a list of softball questions, occasionally laughing at this or that, until I asked "What brought you to Oregon?". Simple enough. Hassan told me that it was war that brought him to Oregon from Lebanon. He didn't sugar coat it but he didn't say it as if I had insulted him either - just a matter of fact. He grinned and said "I didn't want my kids growing up in a war", then joked that he chose Oregon so he could still be close to 'Lebanon', even if it was Lebanon, Oregon.

War. I don't want my kids to grow up in the midst of war. There I was, instantly transported to my aforementioned inner prison of complacency. I wanted to ask so many more questions, dig deeper - father to father, man to man about the days, and months leading up to his decision to leave everything and, like our pioneering forfathers, find that elusive 'better place'. But, I had set my own trap. I lead us down a path of easy conversation only to find us teetering on the edge of an abyss.

After the photos were done and Hassan was on his way I gethered my thoughts. Life, for us anyway, is so much easier. Please don't take this as some public television appeal to your environmental conciosness theat occurs at the last ten minutes of every nature show. I'm not trying to lead you to a place of some repentance for an ill you didn't know you had committed. It's not that at all.

But, I would appeal to what I'm affraid we allowed to atrophy in our society; the sense of basic understanding that most of us have it pretty damned good. I spend nights awake wondering how I can afford that new computer or find time to get my children involved in something that will allow them to bloom in the fertile soil of this peaceful and contented life we lead. All the while ignoring the reality that exists beyond our borders; that war, famine and corruption viciously shreds the hopes and potential futures of people just as deserving as any one of us.

The argument can be made that we all have a choice to leave that which holds us, find a new future - chart a new course. But do we, really? Or is it because we live in the richest nation in the world that we flippantly belive our freedom exists throughout the lands?

Today, I met a man that looked into the abyss with me, and shrugged off the uncomfortable silence with a look of, "I bet you didn't expect that for an answer did you?". Unfortunately, I think he was able to shrug it off because here, in the land of plenty, he's probably quite used to the blank stares of complacent people like me who have no idea the deplth of what he's been through.

Keep on Truckkin'

Much the way some families name their animals, we name our internally combusted companions. Cars, tractors, motorcycles, you name it, they've all got names.

Today it's Charlotte that's heavy on my heart. Charlotte is a 1967 Ford F250 Camper Special that came to us as a gift from a good friend. She's got a long and storied history as a family truck. She's been camping, wood-hauling, Christmas tree getting, a farm worker and a gentle trainer in the world of kids-becoming-drivers.

When we received Charlotte she didn't run and, not having a budget set aside we nestled her into a driveway home until we had the necessary funds to bring her out of dormancy. Alas, the time came early this year. With a job change and some selling off of other things we finally had a budget. It was time to start diagnosing Charlotte's heart problems.

The boys and I have been tinkering under Charlotte's hood off and on for the past month or two. The first order of business was to get her running and moving under her own power. The fuel tanks had become so rusty that even when we did get the engine turning over it was just a matter of minutes before the fuel filters were clogged with rust and tank debris. Additionally, the mechanical fuel pump had given up. Between the pump, filters and bad gas, Charlotte's engine was starving for fuel. A good cleaning of the tank, new electric fuel pump and a case of filters set us right on that but now the battery wasn't charging.

Basically, all of the peripheral items that needed to feed Charlotte's heart had failed her and needed replacing. After every new item we would take Charlotte out on the gravel backroads of home for a test drive. Invariably, we would end up walking home to get the tractor (Mabel... I told you we named everything...) and pull Charlotte home. It wasn't until recently that I smartened up enough to put a bicycle in the back of Charlotte before heading out on a test drive, and that wisdom had to come from my loving wife. She's pretty smart which makes me wonder why she chose to marry me but, I digress.

"Mabel - 1950's Massey Ferguson - Trusty companion in times of need"

With every iteration of the test and repair process Charlotte began to run longer and stronger. At one point last week we returned to our driveway under our own power, a moment of great celebration indeed. But our glitter soon turned to despair.

Two months into the Waking of Charlotte Devine something became clear; Charlotte has a smoking problem. We soon realized Charlotte's trail of blue smoke wasn't going to magically disappear with the addition of some new and inexpensive part that could be purchased and installed in a day's time. Truly, a tragic moment.

All along the way Dan, a good friend and Ford aficionado from church, has been helping me with the necessary upgrades to Charlotte. His advice is straight and true and, he too has an affinity for Charlotte. Dan's counsel has been invaluable in all of this and he's helped me stay optimistic along the way. But now that we've done just about all we can without pulling Charlotte's engine it came time for me to face the facts; Charlotte has a bad valve and possibly set of stuck/bad rings.

Both of these diagnoses aren't life threatening. Indeed, it's actually some pretty decent news. The repair and refurbishment of these two problems is relatively inexpensive. Unfortunately though, we had to abandon our efforts with Charlotte.

This story has reached a juncture that needs some 'splaining'.

Our home, a little slice of heaven, is located at the foot of the Coast range along a wide, agriculture rich river bottom that is laced by the meandering Luckiamute River. The cool and quickening smell of mint rises strong in the heat of the July sun from the acres of deep green across the road from us. Just beyond the mint are wheat fields. But possibly the most prominent crop of all in this part of the world is grass. Yep, grass; rye, blue, bent it's all grown right here at our doorstep. Until about 5 years ago our lovely section of the Willamette Valley was the largest producer of grass seed in the the world. And with that grass comes grass pollen.

"The fields of home - grass and hay galore!"

As some may know, my wife bears the burden of some pretty extreme allergies. During the first few months of spring and summer she doesn't leave the house. Her allergic reaction to pollens is so extreme that the maximum strength antihistamines and hormones render her lifeless and still unable to take a deep breath. She doesn't ask for pity, but you better dang well change your clothes in the laundry room before coming in from working outside.

Because Jalet is locked into the house for 3 months in the earliest part of Oregon's good weather she develops an incredible case of cabin fever. Peering through the dust and pollen covered windows to the world outside takes it toll on her spirits. If she's not watchful her fever can quickly turn to a serious case of depression. Add to the mix all of the allergy meds and you've got a constant cocktail of discomfort.

So, when the grass seed is harvested and the pollen levels drop she's charging like a racehorse in the chute to get out and reconnect with the world that so cruelly abuses her for the three months prior. The girl loves to be outside and a truck is her key to freedom.

The connection between our beloved Charlotte and Jalet's freedom is likely quite apparent now. Our efforts to revive Charlotte were intended to give Jalet the keys to discovery again. But with the news that the necessary repairs would come at a greater cost in time than money we had to make the difficult choice to let Charlotte become a secondary project and get something the would be reliable and operational within the next two weeks. A heavy sigh of disappointment is appropriate here. Go ahead, I did. As a matter of fact I spent hours wandering from tool box to coffee pot, wrench to bench, wondering if I was giving up too easily or giving freedom.

Freedom. Jalet is going to need her freedom before I can get Charlotte lovingly restored to her reliable condition and therefore, we decided to look for another truck. We're not giving up on Charlotte, just meeting a short term need I keep telling myself.

After some searching on Craigslist we found our answer. Meet Fern Zuckerman, a 1989 Ford F250 4X4. She's probably not going to win the county fair beauty contest but she'll pull our trailer and take my lovely bride on a camping trip when the pollen clears. And really, that's what we need right now.

Charlotte has great days ahead of her, I believe. We have two upcoming drivers who need to know the value of mechanical aptitude and the price of maintenance. I suspect Charlotte is going to be the perfect teacher.

Satisfied with modified

It's pretty rare that I can keep anything bone stock. Rarer still is the time I actually complete a modification project.

With this in mind, I spent my Father's Day working on a motorcycle I bought from a neighbor down on Frost Road about 2 years ago. He bought it for someone special who decided to go with a pretty sweet Burgman super-scooter. I think she's real pleased with her decision and, honestly, I'm glad she didn't want this bike. It's my kind of bike. Sort of. I'll explain.

Piglet, 1974 Honda CB125

For a long time I was a Harley guy. I so, so wanted a Harley. My Dad had some in his lifetime and I've always turned my head at the sound of those bad-a## twin pipes. Harley bikes seem to embody what I love about motorcycles; machine, man, wheels, period.

One day, a bicycle mechanic, bored or otherwise, looked at the rudimentary machine before him and found it fit to endow with a gasoline powered engine (did you ever notice it was bicycle mechanics that came up with the neatest stuff?). Why? You couldn't exactly carry your groceries or transport your family to church on Sunday. Essentially the confounded contraption was useless for anyone other than the rider. The tractor received a power-plant and fed a nation. The boat, a boiler and piston and the oceans were conquered. The glider took wing and under power of an internal combustion engine (at the hands of two bicycle mechanics, no less) and shrank the world. The motorcycle remained selfish. Singular, solitary, useless for mass transit.

All at once the sound of the motorcycle punctuates with gleeful exclamation the phrase, "No back seat driving". The bike, by virtue of engineering and design, is free of editorial sighs of disapproval from the traveling companion customary with other means of transportation. It's a machine, that's pretty much all there is to it.

Back in the day, the bike resembled the mechanized dinosaur it was. The Harley, before it's popularity with the silver-haired, comfort seeking CEO's of the baby-boom generation, remained true to this archaic design.

It was with great joy that I realized my love affair with the Harley was only skin-deep. It was the look I wanted, not the label. And, I found the look in the Brit. brat "café racer".

The café racer is a return to the selfishly styled dinosaur of years gone by. A machine with two wheels meant for nothing more than moving through space, often at remarkably dangerous speeds.

Classic café racer styling isn't hard to spot; a typical commuter bike stripped of it's fairings and dressings that hide it's meat-eating heart of iron, hidden wires and tight, down-turned handlebars (oft referred to as "clubman bars").

For more on café racers check it out here...

Now, I'm not fully smitten with café racers. But, the do personify much of what I love about a "real" bike. Really, what I love is the derivation of the café; the "rat bike". Specifically, a child of a marriage between rat and café.

Hence, how I came to spend my Father's day. Piglet, our beloved bike from down-the-road (so named because I couldn't afford a Hog, so I got the piglet...), underwent the beginnings of a great and worthy transformation from street bike to a rat/café cross.

With the help of my trusty sons and some wrenches we began the transformation. Fenders were the first to go.

The 'Before'

After the fenders, the seat, side covers, and just about anything else that isn't needed for the bike to actually run.

Teach them to modify at an early age...

Slowly, piglet was beginning to look like the bike I've always wanted, a dinosaur. With the removal of every accessory, every amenity, we stood back and smiled at our glee-filled destruction of the mediocre.

"Hey, Papa, what about this, uh, whatever-it-is?"
"Remove it."

Yep, the goal, a bare bones machine. Trouble was, I hate the handlebars. Elijah's light went on, "How about the bars off that old bike behind the house?" Such words rang as much music in my ears. With the twist of a few screws we had the set of bars we needed to give Piglet that low-profile look we were so desperately seeking.

Poor-man's clubman bars.

Joy of joys, the rat bike was now in sight. and it was only 5:00PM. I love this. The obvious question arose, "What about a seat?". Indeed, the rat bike or café racer is a solo operation. With this in mind, I had been toying with the idea of using an old tractor seat Jalet traded for some years agone. How perfect would that be? Tracing backwards on the time-line of development to the tractor for the saddle on our stripped down horse. The seat is a perfect fit.

The picture-perfect posterior placement mechanism

It's about as far as we could take it for one day. With a few hours' work and some clean-up, I found myself back "in like" with my bike. The modifications were cost free at this point. Next on the list is to have some machining done on the handlebars, place the battery and hide the wiring.

We've put our thumbprint on this machine. Like it or not, it's our Piglet.

Piglet, 1974 Honda CB125

Anyone looking for some vintage CB 125 parts?

Suspended Homelesness

The world is different a thousand miles from where I live. Startling, I know, but it's true.

Many years ago I spoke to a person from the middle of our country about their local mainstays; things you see on a daily basis that become meaningless. In my part of the world it was log trucks and saw mills. The Pacific Northwest is rife with them. No doubt it has some connection to the dense crop of potential 2x4's covering virtually every inch of the Willamette Valley's hills.

To my surprise, log trucks and saw mills weren't mentioned by the flat-lander. I asked where the mill was in their town. They didn't have one. "You mean, there is a part of the world where trees aren't thicker than grass?", I thought to myself.

Over the years, that one short conversation has had a profound impact on me. It slowly changed my thinking of the world in a way that would include the possibility that not all places were like my back yard.

Still, it's easy to be surrounded by what seems normal and forget that somewhere, thousands of miles away, the world is different.

I commute 140 miles, round trip, every other day. It's in that commute that I've come to notice cars. There's zillions of cars on the road at any given time. I am just one in an entire country of people that are in motion.

When I say 'in motion', I don't mean in that ubiquitous terminology spewed in political speeches or motivational conferences, I'm talking real-live, honest-to-God, moving through the air motion.

We - me and my fellow patriots of the country of Car - are suspended a short distance from the ground, homeless, place-less, neither here-nor-there at a speed unthinkable to our grandfathers every moment of every day. We are sleepless in our motion.

All one has to do to be a member of this country of Car is get in to their vehicle and drive. It's impossible, where I live anyway, to imagine not using a car.

This sparked my thinking about where there are routes, roads or trails that a car seems out of place. A place where motion is achieved by foot only. A place where you are not disconnected from the firmament for even one moment.

Where is this place? I suspect it's the better part of this great planet. Fact is, the country of Car is a country inside a country. My bet is that you'll only find the country of Car when you visit rich nations.

Getting from point to point quickly and easily is reserved for the wealthy, I guess. How fortunate we are to have the country of Car, or are we?