4 November 2024

Every four years, I go through an utter nightmare. The United States goes through a presidential election...throwing ballots before the hands of racist voters in overrepresented rural states, then filtering them through the undemocratic Electoral College, practically inviting the Republican Nazi Party to seize power and destroy everyone I care about and everything I hold dear. And every single time, the stakes get even higher than they were before. Always! NO exceptions. And I can barely function...

• What about the climate, for crying out loud?! There's not a single issue more graver than this. This upsets me too much for words.
• What about the war on Ukraine? It makes my heart sink to think of this innocent country being crushed under the boot of Putin and Tr*mp. Moldova and the Baltics would surely be next.
• What about the fucking Supreme Court? The unaccountable, undemocratic entity that already gives the fucking fascists absolute control on a case-by-case, time-delayed basis?
• What about Project 2025? Tr*mp's custom-made how-to manual for irreversibly destroying the world's climate, driving America's queer population underground, dismantling every public institution, undermining the authority of blue states, and crushing them in a vice?
• What about the ongoing trans genocide? And a world where being fined $10000 for using a washroom is the new normal?
• What about the fucking institution of democracy itself? The political system of the far right is divine-right monarchy, as described in the Bible...and so would the political system of the United States, if the fucking fascists get their way.

If every single decent person in the States gets off their duff and votes for Kamala Harris tomorrow, we'll have dodged six bullets in one fell swoop. But I can't count my chickens yet, knowing just how many unhinged Christian fascists there are in Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Georgia, and a multitude of other states that can't decide if they want to be on the right or wrong side of history.

There is some cause for optimism. Democrats outperformed polls in 2022. Evangelicalism is shrinking, irreligion is growing, and irreligion now outnumbers any single religious group in America. And the reasons for this growth are a direct repudiation of the Religious Right. Negative treatment of "gay and lesbian people" was the reason 47% of people left the church; congregations becoming "too focused on politics," another 20%. But numbers are only good if they translate into votes.

I did my part, voting for Harris and senator Tammy Baldwin on the stripped-down absentee ballot that permanent overseas voters get. I wish that I could do more.

I also wish I could pretend that I (or anyone else) was insulated from the world of the U. S. of A, and didn't have to worry about any of this stuff. But climate change and hate websites don't stop at national borders. In Canada, we have a whole stead of Tr*mp wannabes in the wings, starting with Doug Ford and Pierre Poilievre. Our institutions might be more resilient than those in the States...but I can't begin to pretend that I'm "safe" from the influence of American White Christian Fascism just because there's an overworked CBSA official standing between us.

And fuck the "accelerationist" BS that some (invariably straight, white, cis-male) "lefter-than-thou" nitwits throw about. Look: It's easy to make flippant comments about burning the system down. I've said them myself when I've felt overwhelmed!! But as long as reform is possible, cooler heads must prevail. What happens when you destroy a system without any concrete plans to replace it with a better one? You get a void where the biggest bullies rise to the top...and people die. Germany might be a more secular and liberal country now than it was 100 years ago. But was that outcome certain in 1924...or even 1945? Absolutely not. Was it worth dragging millions of innocent people through fascism, holocaust, and world war to achieve that end? Fuck no.

Vote for Kamala Harris. All of you! For the sake of humanity!

I don't even know how I can say it any clearer.

29 October 2024

10 things my grandparents never said...

...that would have meant everything in the world to me if they had said them, out of their own volition, before 2017:

1. "Black lives matter."
2. "Trans lives matter."
3. "No person is illegal."
4. "We voted 'no' on Wisconsin Referendum 1 in 2006."
5. "We received a Christmas card from Tom Petri, and we tore it up and threw it in the trash. We don't need bigots who derailed ENDA and shilled for DADT in our house."
6. "Abortion is healthcare, and no one should ever be forced to give birth against their will."
7. "Both of us voted for Hillary Clinton and Russ Feingold, and so did everyone else in your family. Including your cousin Jack."
8. "It disgusts me that a racist abuser like Bill O'Reilly, who goaded George Tiller into being murdered, is rewarded with a national television platform. And it disgusts me even more that many seniors our age support the views of people like him."
9. "Any person who voted for climate change denier Ron Johnson voted for the ecocide of life on earth. It's not even POSSIBLE to be more sociopathically evil than that!!"
10. "I realize that your grandmother and I haven't always been the most knowledgeable or proactive about human rights and social justice issues, and you're hesitant to trust us. Here's what we've been learning, reading, and doing to rectify that."

24 October 2024

The Roads of Mercer County, West Virginia

The farther away I am from West Virginia, the more I want to write about it. No, I don't totally understand it either...

With the railways done, the time seemed ripe to reinvigorate the other half of that project from 2019. What did I do? Well, I think I outdid myself...

• 38 new pages (yes, thirty-eight pages!) devoted to explaining every known County Highway and Delta Road.
• Vector maps drawn or updated for every single "road tree" in the county. (48 in all...)
• All primary highway pages updated, with known errors corrected and road names for fractional spurs verified from Google Street View.
• Many pictures added. (Thanks, Krystle!)
• New primary highway page added for WV 108.

5 October 2024

The Railways of Mercer County, West Virginia

Back in 2019, I debuted a project called The Roads and Rails of Mercer County, West Virginia.

I never finished it. After a monthlong burst of productivity in which I explored the history of the county's twelve major highways, I was burnt out. So I let Part 1 stand by itself, and resolved to tackle Part 2 whenever the time was right.

In September 2024, the time was finally right. So I started digging through old maps and timetables, and pieced together the story of the railways that were built through Mercer County in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The story of the people who lived there, worked there, and rode the rails through now-bygone towns and camps with names like "Ada," "McComas," "Hiawatha," "Beeson," and "Dott."

Mercer County was blanketed by two major railways: The Norfolk & Western and Virginian, which competed for freight contracts and eventually merged. But there were also short-lived, short-line lumber railways that snaked their way up from riversides to ridgetops via hairpin curves and switchbacks. And there were city and interurban streetcar systems, linking Princeton and Bluefield with around 30 kilometres of commuter track.

This was an engrossing project, and I'm happy that I was finally able to give this subject the justice it deserved.

24 September 2024

Rando xenophobe: "Damn illegals coming into our country! Stop illegal immigration!"

Me: "You must definitely support the abolition of immigration controls, then. Making all immigration legal by definition, thus solving the problem!"

R.X.: "NO! Not like that!!"

11 September 2024

These are graphical re-creations of West Virginia vehicle inspection stickers from the four decades leading up to my departure from the state. If you're feeling uncharitable, you might call it "forging official governmental seals"...though after this long (and at this low a resolution), it's doubtful that anyone would care!

Vehicle inspections in WV were an utter racket. Either the inspector would "pass" any piece of rolling garbage if you paid them off...or they'd deliberately "fail" cars that were in perfect order because they had a full line of brakes and tires that they wanted to sell. At least you got a colourful decoration in exchange for the aggravation.

Old windshield stickers are exceptionally difficult to document: They're almost impossible to physically collect, and scant photo evidence exists. In West Virginia's case, I don't know even half of what the pre-1998 sticker colours and design transitions were. So what did I do to fill the run? I made stuff up!

Colours and format verified from photos: 1968-71, 1973-74, 1975-76, 1979-80, 1987-88, 1990-91, 1992-94, 1995-96, 2000-08.
Colours verified, format has not: 1971-72, 1976-77, 1983-84.
Colours based on hazy memories: 1981-82, 1986-87, 1989-90, 1991-92, 1997-2000.
Colours deemed "likely to within a year or two" based on historic photos: 1972-73, 1974-75, 1980-81, 1985-86, 1988-89.
Colours drawn from a hat: 1977-79, 1982-83, 1984-85, 1994-95, 1996-97.

I'd like to imagine that someday, I'll have corrected some or all of these. I'd also like to imagine that someday, I'll feel safe enough to go back to WV.

Someday...

31 August 2024

I had no shortage of strange experiences growing up in West Virginia in the 1990s. How about Learning Day Camp? 'Twas a thing I remember from my younger years...sometimes with a grimace.

This camp was a one-week event held each June on the grounds of Don West's Appalachian South Folklife Center in Summers County, WV. Nowadays Camp Quest is a thing...but there were slim pickings for non-Jesusy summer activities in Appalachia in 1991. So the few secular and left-leaning families in the area religiously sent their kids here (pun intended), for lack of anything better to do.

And it was my prison away from home. I hated being isolated. Being in a small town of 1,000 without the ability to travel was bad enough; being stuck on a 12-acre sliver in the middle of nowhere was an order of magnitude worse. I remember constantly seeing the Pipestem Knob Tower peeking up above the trees in the distance, and wishing I could be there instead.

What went on at Learning Day Camp? There were typical camp-like activities, like arts and crafts. But "Learning" was in the name...so they had kids doing busywork like book reports and arithmetic problems. This rankled me: I treasured my leisure time, and absolutely resented being forced to do school-like activities during the summer.

Another thing: There was absolutely zero social interaction. I never met any kids I could relate to or carry on a conversation with, and I don't even remember talking to anyone besides the counsellors who scrutinized me. I certainly never made any friends there.

Still, I had a reasonably-enjoyable time my first year, with the novelty of a new experience keeping me from being too jaded about it all. But something interesting happened: Every single subsequent year, the experience was worse than it had been the year before. The camp was in a downward spiral!

The first year, we regularly engaged in outdoor "physical education" activities. Then, they were cut: We were all left to grouse about indoors. We toured the Bluestone Dam the first year; the tour was abridged the second, then cut out entirely with nothing to replace it.

The first two years, the camp's indoor activities were divided between a dining hall, an art building, and a library. Then: "When are we going to the library?" "We're NOT going to the library. We sold off that building!" OK...

The year after that: "When are we going to the art building?" "We're NOT going to the art building. It's infested with mice, so we abandoned it!" OK...

The camp initially owned a Superior school bus...then they sold off the vehicle, forcing other families to pick up the slack by turning their cars into taxis.

Then there was the lice infestation incident. And the falling-off-the-swing incident. And the "Achy Breaky Heart" incident.

But, there was one saving grace about the place: Most of the people in southern West Virginia didn't know it existed. It flew under the radar of the gun nuts, neo-Confederates, and fundagelicals who monopolized the area. I still didn't feel at ease there, but it was a safer space than most for a deeply-closeted person who didn't conform to local stereotypes.

Oblivious to this, my fourth-grade teacher promoted the camp to her class body, urging everyone to go...in spite of the fact that roughly half the class were people I didn't want to see there. Next thing I knew, my "all brawn, no brains" adversary of Grade 4 was there at Learning Day Camp, breaking the playground toys. Considering that by this point the camp's activities had devolved into toiling in a single room for a week, this was the final straw...and I never went back again.

My family investigated several other local camps, hoping to find one that was more stimulating for me...but every single one of them was a blatant right-wing church-affiliated cesspit of religious abuse. So that was the end of my camp life in the late twentieth century.

22 August 2024

Placas de México

As it happens, I fell into a rabbit hole early this month researching the licence plates of Mexico. Here are the results, for your collecting enjoyment:

• Automóviles.
• Camiones.
• Vehículos Fronterizos.
• (Edit: One more!) Motocicletas.

What is the biggest point of appeal to Mexican plates? To me, it's the letter block system: The orderly scheme by which groups of letters are assigned to different states in alphabetical order. All plates from 1966 to 1998 were also admirably bold in design; clear and legible with no frivolity other than interesting colours.

Alas, the country got graphics-happy in the late '90s...and newer Mexican plates are a visual cacophony, plastered with illegible symbols and tiny text. But what the newer plates lack in design sense they make up for in sheer variation. More than 200 distinct designs exist (with many states cranking out a new one every three years), all with endpoints and subvariations to track! All ensuring that this project is likely to keep me busy for a long, long time.

22 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day VIII

How do I get home to Canada without a car? If there's a will, there's a way.

Northville Cemetery Massacre (1976). Ah, the joys of travelling through places featured in violent '70s B-movies...

First objective of the day: Travel to Northville, and return a borrowed vehicle to its rightful owner. So I turned onto Seven Mile Road, and cautiously coasted towards town. What can go wrong? Nothing, that's what. There were no breakdowns, no sirens, no crimes, no catastrophes, and no surprises at all...other than seeing a generic McMansion on the site where my grandfather's quaint house once stood. I cringed.

At ten o'clock sharp, I pulled into my uncle's driveway.

Minutes later, I was on the road in my uncle's vehicle once more...only now, I was a passenger and he was the one driving. The destination? Windsor. If I could get there, I could get anywhere.

But there are few things that make me more uncomfortable than crossing the border...especially in someone else's car. My mind raced: What can go wrong? What will go wrong? What if we get secondaried? What if we get searched? I counted up the number of days I had been out of the country: I couldn't prepare for every eventuality, but I could at least prepare myself for common questions.

We pulled up to the booth. My uncle handed over our passports, and politely explained that he was taking his Canadian nephew to the train station.

"Welcome." And our passports were handed back. "Thank you," I said. It was the calmest, friendliest border crossing I had ever experienced. I looked out the window and saw the landmarks of Detroit looming to the north, with the Detroit River between. I was now on the other side.

Windsor's VIA Rail station is within the shadow of a liquor distillery east of downtown. The train to Toronto left at 5:35, 8:37, 13:46, and 17:40...and I had gotten there in time for the third run of the day, with hours to spare.

After a quick lunch at Tim's (where I shared the full story of how the doughnut magnate met his demise at the hands of de Tomaso), it was time for goodbyes. I thanked my uncle profusely for the help and assistance he had given throughout my trip...and waited on the platform for the next stage of my voyage to unfold.

I like trains. There are few experiences more relaxing than riding one...especially at the tail end of a weeklong journey to Michigan. And after living in Thunder Bay where no passenger trains existed (thanks, Mulroney!), they felt like a luxury I was eager to indulge myself in once more.

The next 2½ hours were spent gazing out the window, watching the scenery of southern Ontario pass by. The train rolled through the outskirts of Windsor, a "city in motion." Chatham (er, "Chatham-Kent") was next on the line...followed by Glencoe, with its restored caboose and vintage depot.

Soon we passed through London, the city where I once lived...home to venues with gratuitous rainbow-washed corporate sponsorship. Woodstock came and went. Brantford followed. Then the train rolled into Burlington, by way of Aldershot...which the inner West Virginian in me kept wanting to call "Alderson."

Alderson—er, Aldershot—was my cue to disembark. I walked to the front of the coach to retrieve my luggage...and promptly had a panic attack. My suitcase was nowhere to be seen! Did someone take it...like the fool in 2008 who walked off the Amtrak "Cardinal" with my luggage as I slept? No...but some other fool had placed a huge duffel bag and golf club bag squarely in front of mine. After wasting valuable moments rounding up my possessions, I was off the train.

One GO Transit transfer later...and I was home. The 69th Annual ALPCA Convention was finally done. The final score:

• 3 countries: 2 travelled in, 1 experienced vicariously through plates alone.
• 8 days.
• 7 nights.
• 28 licence plates collected.
• 666 photographs taken.
• 1 fewer automobile.

But one experience of the journey was far more important than any "score:" Having the chance to re-connect with close family and friends...many of whom I hadn't seen in seven years.

And that's what made this trip irreplaceable.

19 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day VII

Way back in the summer of 1991, I remember visiting Lansing. My family and I piled into a car, drove down Michigan Avenue (the fact that the street shared a name with the state it was in interested me more than it should have), and found ourselves at an interactive museum where I had an incredible time.

Snuggled between R. E. Olds and the Lansing Centre on the riverbank was a science centre called Impression 5. Could this be the place? Nervously, I stepped inside...and a world opened up.

The museum featured two levels of captivating exhibits exploring the nature of waterways, molecule structures, lasers, ferrofluids, and more. The ground floor even contained a somewhat-nauseating setup where you could walk inside mock-ups of internal organs! Fascinating stuff. And even though the exhibits were designed primarily for a children's audience, I didn't feel unwelcome being there. Then, I saw it...

The rolling ball sculpture! It was still there...just as I remembered it!

Yes, folks: During my first visit to Impression 5, this was the exhibit that impressed me above all others! You dropped an oversized marble on the upper point of the track. The path of the ball was somewhat randomized, and you watched and waited while it careened, glided, and dropped through multiple layers of obstacles down to the tray below. Three decades later, I was still captivated.

Then and now, the sculpture reminded me of a film on Sesame Street that everyone over the age of 35 remembers. All that's missing were the cherry sundaes at the end.

There was one last thing to do in Lansing: Explore traces of the city's bygone commercial development.

The "1721 Building" was one of the more interesting of those traces: It's a former Kroger supermarket that opened in the late 1950s, received a "Superstore" exterior makeover in the 1970s, and closed in the 1980s. The building's been stopped in time since, and the hexagonal signframe and spherical light fixtures are both Kroger artifacts.

Three miles away, there was yet another bizarre supermarket sighting. It turns out that the Frandor Shopping Center has been reconfigured over the years...and what was once the front face of its anchoring Kroger store is now the side, and vice-versa. A modern-looking facade has been tacked onto the old side (or current front)...while a complete 1970s facade now faces out towards a fenced-off service corridor, caged from visitors like a tiger in a zoo.

Frandor was also home to the...*ahem* Sears Tower. It goes without saying that the store itself was closed.

And I was done. Though I didn't own a car anymore, my uncle gave me custody of his own vehicle for two days so that I could pilot my way through the next leg of my trip: Lansing to Ann Arbor.

Lansing is in Ingham County, and Ann Arbor is in Washtenaw. These are the only safe counties in Michigan; places enlightened enough to vote down the state's anti-queer constitutional amendment when it was tabled in the fall of 2004.

Between Ingham and Washtenaw lies Livingston County, a haven of small towns with dubious reputations.

Its biggest city, Howell, is the size of Bluefield. It's the place where Robert E. Miles, Grand Dragon of the Michigan Ku Klux Klan, lived, worked, and plotted to bomb school buses. It's made the news for incidents of racial harassment in public schools. And this month, its roads were plastered in billboard-sized campaign ads for local luminaries in the white-supremacist Republican Party. None of the signs were for Tr*mp...suggesting that maybe, just possibly, even evil had standards. But on M-36, I saw it: An entire vacant lot decked out with balloons and signs as a holy shrine to the orange fascist. All the festivity of a Nuremberg rally, right there in Livingston County for Bob Miles' descendants to enjoy.

Mercifully, this was the moment where my camera battery died.

Minutes later, I was relieved to head south past Eight Mile Road.

I wasn't home yet, but I was ready for a post-trip recovery...so Day VII was spent doing as little as humanly possible. Highlights of the day were feeding my cousin's cat, and visiting Gallup Park on the Huron River...where I happened to catch the Amtrak "Wolverine" in mid-motion and saw "Black Lives Matter" written in letters big enough to be seen from the air.

16 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day VI

The last night in Lansing was uncomfortably humid...and at the crack of dawn, I checked out. The DoubleTree Hotel was OK on the balance...but I have a hankering suspicion I would have been more comfortable at a Motel 6.

Next point of order: The ALPCA Annual Meeting. "If you're visiting from outside the United States, stand!" I stood...and so did fewer than a dozen people out of a room of hundreds. The club's leadership tries to play up its annual convention as an "international" event, but this is a hobby in which a lot of stateside tunnel vision occurs.

The numbers came in. Attendance for the week? 453 (later finalized at 461). Membership tally? 3,394 members, up 74 over the previous year (but still down from the club's 1996 all-time high). Funds raised in the previous night's donation auction? Over $18,000. Winner of the coveted "Best of Show" display trophy? Jim Carden, for his 1938 Michigan type set. *Yawn.* Nothing against Jim, but this was a year where the award picks were so obvious that the entire competition felt moot.

After an touching tribute to Dale Blewett, it was time for more honours...and David Steckley, an Ontario collector who I've known for years, was inducted into the ALPCA Hall of Fame! Given Steckley's dedication, passion, and hospitality, I can't think of anyone more deserving of the honour than him. Congratulations!!

Following the meeting, there wasn't much call for trading...but plenty of opportunities for conversation. Next year's convention is going to be held in Tulsa, Oklahoma: Yeah, like I'll ever go there. Say "Hi" to Zac Hanson and his Pinterest account for me!

One of the people I was eager to touch base with was Jim Fox, whose 1994 reference work License Plates of the United States had a huge impact on me. Of course, Jim Fox also happens to have been the drummer in the James Gang...and was always keen to discuss music as well as licence plates!

In 2022, the James Gang reunited in Columbus to perform at a veterans' benefit with the Black Keys, the Breeders, and Nine Inch Nails: Four bands from different generations and eras, but all from Ohio and united by camaraderie. Jim spoke highly of Trent Reznor, calling him "a genius." I was wearing my Walk the Moon hat at the time, so I was promoting the music of Ohio in my own way that day.

The convention floor remained open until 5; but with so many of my friends packing up and leaving, there was little incentive to hang around the lonely hall any longer than necessary. Besides: Lansing had other attractions downtown, and now was a tremendously-great time to see them!

After trying out Cottage Inn Pizza for lunch (good, but too much cheese), I wandered down Museum Drive to see what excitement would await. Lo and behold, there was a Saturday car show! Most of the vehicles on display were Oldsmobiles that would do Jerry Lundegaard proud (this was Lansing, after all)...but there were a few exceptions, even...

...A customized Chevette! I absolutely loved this. I'm not even sure what it had under the hood, but it looked like a million bucks.

I surveyed the show, then found my way through the nearby doors of the R. E. Olds Transportation Museum...which was charging half-price admission that day. What I found inside was an impeccable collection of Oldsmobile and REO cars and memorabilia, demonstrating the long shadow of Lansing's most famous industrialist.

Unusually for a museum of this stripe, two of the vehicles were "hands-on" exhibits that visitors were actually encouraged to sit inside. I think I look quite fetching behind the wheel of this 1954 Oldsmobile Super 88, serial number 548M50970...although my head protruded above the windshield!

The museum's single largest artifact is this 1974 Diamond REO Raider, one of the last to be locally-built. Anyone who experienced road trips and truck stops in the '70s or '80s would likely feel a visceral pull towards this.

One wall was adorned with a colourful display of vintage road signs, and a near-comprehensive run of Michigan licence plates all the way back to the first leather issue of 1905-09. I wonder how many ALPCA conventioneers knew that they were standing one block away from these gems?

Note the early, 1920s-vintage Michigan route marker...and the yellow stop sign that was clumsily repainted red to bring it in line with post-1950s standards! The "LA" series plates of the 1960s were from the first letter block allocated to Ingham County (i.e., Lansing). Officially, the letter blocks were assigned to counties in decreasing order of population...but clearly, there were mnemonics at work as well.

On my way out, I summed up my thoughts to the staff: "The museum was absolutely excellent." But there were still more places to go...

13 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day V

Day V was a watershed: The moment of the ALPCA convention when I could finally catch my breath after two days of frantic action, relax, take some photos, chat with friends, and enjoy my fleeting moments in Lansing before the week was finally through.

But there was something else to attend to that day. I had a close relative from Northville to meet at the hotel, and I didn't want to keep him waiting.

I took a seat in the DoubleTree lobby. Minutes later, my uncle dashed through the door. "Mr. Turnbull!! It's my pleasure to see you here in Lansing! How are you doing today? I'd love to treat you to lunch! But first, tell me: What's this I hear about your car? You're trying to sell it? Maybe I can help..."

Half an hour later, we were sitting in a carriage at what used to be Clara's Lansing Station...and I started telling my side of a rather strange story. As it happens, I owned a Hyundai Veloster that had been purchased in the U.S. and brought to Canada...which meant it was a "grey market" car whose status was a source of stress and frustration that I wanted to end. It still had an active Wisconsin title...so I had a grand plan after the convention to sign the car over to the first Hyundai dealership in Wayne or Washtenaw County willing to make me an offer, and find some other way to get home to Ontario.

"Wow, that's what you want to do?! Listen: I have some friends in the car business. And I have an idea..."

Minutes later my uncle was tearing over the car with a camera, documenting its condition from every angle. And before I knew it, I had signed over the title, exchanged car keys, and was waving goodbye as my uncle piloted "my" Hyundai down Michigan Avenue, destined for a wholesaler in Livonia. "I'll get the money to you later!"

And that was that. The car was gone, and a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I owe him one...

Back at the convention hall, I reconnected with Amy and relayed the story of how I managed to part ways with my car. I also learned that I had missed the call to be in the group photo for Canadian collectors. Sigh...

Since I had clinched my rounds of every table the day before, it was now time to devote my time to the other great part of licence plate conventions: Taking in and photographing all the imaginative displays, some of which are labours of love or works of art. This stunning type set of 1938 Michigan licence plates, assembled by Jim Carden, straddled both categories and felt like a shoo-in for Best of Show.

Day V's collection development was a return to my roots, with three West Virginia plates from the state's 1950s and 1960s past. In the mid-noughts, I really wanted to do a year-by-year West Virginia passenger run. I failed to make much headway before I moved out-of-state...but I never totally gave up on the idea.

I also found another New York plate suitable for the 1985 run. Maybe they should've skipped this combination, though?

Meanwhile, my quest to find an Ohio plate with the "WTM" initials led me down a few rabbit holes...and culminated in a near-miss that was four letters off. Oh well, I'll get you someday...

Next up? The donation auction. The auction serves as the convention's climax; an evening of action-packed mayhem before the day when everyone goes home. I never bid: The entertainment comes from the auctions themselves, especially when bidding wars break out or someone unwittingly buys a box of rust! Those orange New Yorks were tempting, though...

Included in the mix of plates and memorabilia were a number of effects of Dale Blewett, a late Ohio collector whose absence was mourned. Occasionally a Ukrainian plate would show up on the block...followed by a snide comment from a doomer in the crowd predicting the country's demise. I swear, some people are just awful.

Auction bidding continued until 11 at night, by which point I was holding back the z's. As I walked back to the hotel, the pedestrian skybridge connecting the Lansing Center and hotel was illuminated with a scrolling cascade of rainbow colours. There's so much cause for doom and gloom in the world...but for a moment that night, I felt like I was in a place where I belonged.

11 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day IV

I pulled myself out of bed, pulled on some shoes, then pulled myself outside. Surely there ought to be a good coffee shop or restaurant in downtown Lansing serving better breakfast fare than the host hotel? Turns out the capitol square is a ghost town at 8:17 am. Half an hour later I returned...just as empty as I was before.

On Day III, I managed to wind myself halfway around the convention hall before running out of time. On Day IV, I picked up the search where I left off...and before long, I was digging my way through bins and boxes yet again.

One conventioneer had containers on the floor filled with hundreds of Tennessee plates from the late 1980s and 1990s...squarely within my era of interest. Strangely, there were no prices posted except for whole-box bulk lots...so I asked the seller what price an individual plate was. "I won't sell individual plates," said the seller in a southern-accented breath of passive aggression. So I didn't buy any from them. Minutes later, I found a 1993 Tennessee plate for my collection...from another seller, procured in petty revenge.

There's a whole world beyond Tennessee, though. Rounding a corner, I became captivated by the sight of a tabletop filled with Italian number plates...some of them over 60 years old.

Lo and behold, this was the table of Massimo Max Canclini, a new member who had flown all the way from Bormio in the Alps just to see us! I quickly chatted up a conversation, with Massimo's multilingual fluency cutting through any language barriers. Then I saw it...

A 1976-85 series Italian plate from Catania, a province on the island of Sicily. A matched set of three plates, actually: A rear plate, a large orange "CT" attachment, and a miniature front plate; all with a matching jurisdictional code and serial number. And constructed from heat-stamped plastic, which will never rust. Distinctive. Beautiful. And birthyear-appropriate, as a cherry on top.

Italian plates are notoriously difficult to collect thanks to the confluence of geographical separation, strict controls, and permanent registrations that wed plates to cars from the factory to the grave. I always wanted to have one...but I figured I never would, since they were unobtainium, especially from this era. Yet, here I was holding one in my hand. Could it be?

The Catania set was for sale, the price was fair...and before I knew it, my collection had some Italian flair. Massimo wished me well, shared some research he had gleaned revealing that the number had been issued in December 1977, and gave me a sticker for the Valtellina Oldtimers automobile club as a memento to remember the day. And I certainly will!

After this excitement, I was ready for a midday break. The convention centre is adjacent to a riverside park decorated by faux road signs displaying "inspirational" messages...so I explored this for a bit. I had too many things in my hands, though...so I stopped for a moment so that I could stash my notepad and camera into my bag.

Suddenly I heard a voice, and a stranger approached me from a nearby bridge. "Hey! What's your name?"

I was dumbfounded. "Uh...Andrew."

"What?! I absolutely HATE you...because my name's also Andrew! What month's your birthday?"

"August?"

"Oh GOOD, my birthday isn't in August!" He laughed, and his demeanor suddenly turned jovial. "Call me when you need anything...anytime!" The Other Andrew reached out for a handshake, which I frantically grasped with the wrong hand. "Hey, I love those kinds of Swiss Gear-type backpacks. Wait, don't go away!!"

"I was going this way anyway," I said. "Take care!" True enough, I was walking away from the bridge at a fast clip. I was plenty weirded-out by the confrontation. I had lunch at a nearby burger joint, then hurried back to the convention hall before some rando could confront me again.

Fortunately, the rest of the day went by without further trouble. It was an incredibly productive day for collection development, with no fewer than 15 finds...my other favourites of which were a Kentucky Extended Weight plate with a novel shovel and pickaxe graphic, Nevada's no-nonsense design of the early 1970s (with a validation sticker bearing the rarely-seen FHWA Series A font), and a Maine lobster that was perfect for Pride Month.

By 5:00, I had finished visiting every table on the convention floor. Total time required for all the stops? Just about 13 hours.

Before the day was done, though, I got a phone call. It was a close relative from Northville. He was in town, and he was stopping by. The order? "I'll meet you at the hotel at 11 a.m. tomorrow."

To be continued.

9 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day III

Typically, hotel breakfasts work in one of two ways. They'll host a continental breakfast, where a wide variety of mediocre foods are spread out in the lobby for the taking. Or they'll have a "real" restaurant serving scrumptious, tasty fare...for a price.

Somehow, breakfast at the DoubleTree combined the worst of both worlds. The hotel restaurant was closed, yet its space was commandeered to present what outwardly looked like a continental breakfast...only there was nothing edible on the table apart from a few sausage links and horrid pancakes that tasted like industrial chemicals. There was no ordering, no serving...yet a harried staff member was there to frantically present every diner with a $15.90 bill. No thanks, learned my lesson: I'll just have coffee from now on.

I was travelling light this year. I came to the convention with no table, no traders, and no display boards: Just myself, prepared with my own enthusiasm, plus a backpack to hold any loose odds and ends that I found about my day. The backpack was decorated with pins and buttons I had procured during the last eight years of grad school, queer activism, and hobby events...partially to serve as self-expression, and partially to cover up a corporate logo. And if these buttons ticked off the Old White Men who actively lobby to slap forced-birther slogans or "In God We Trust" on licence plates...it was all the better.

Our venue, the Lansing Center, faced the hotel on the Grand River...and as the clock neared eleven, I moseyed on over. A huge cluster of collectors the whole world over were mulling about, many of them lugging bins and boxes. I checked in at the pre-registration table, and was handed a lanyard and laminate: "Andrew Turnbull, Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada." Guess the secretary hadn't processed my address change yet.

I took a moment to photograph the welcome sign on the lobby floor...then I looked up. Out of the blue, I was face-to-face with an old friend from my final years in Wisconsin: Amy Terry-Penak! Suddenly, I no longer felt alone: I now had a confidant on the convention floor that I felt at ease around. My entire mood improved.

I helped Amy carry in a couple of boxes from her car...then I slowly descended into the action-packed world of the ALPCA Convention floor. The first day of trading is always the most harried, thanks to a shortened time schedule and an overbearing urge to cover as much ground as possible. I was on a quest to find licence plates...but not just any ones. Here were some of the things on my list, ranging from the hopeful to the hopeless:

• A 6"x12" plate from any jurisdiction bearing the number "10240;" with or without separators.
• A South Carolina plate with an 11/14 expiration...the only piece of the puzzle missing from my 2016 Marriage Equality run.
• An Ohio licence plate bearing the letters "WTM" for Walk the Moon. (Insurmountable challenge #1 is finding the plate. Insurmountable challenge #2 will be tracking down the members to sign it!)
• A Distrito Federal plate from the time of the disastrous Mexico City Earthquake.
• 1985-dated motorcycle plates from Prince Edward Island and the Northwest Territories. (Good luck finding that...)
• A West German number plate of the 1970s or 1980s (easy) with an intact 1985 inspection seal (difficult).
• An Italian number plate of 1976-85 era, with two-piece plastic construction. One of my unattainable, unreachable dreams.
• 1985-dated licence plates from any jurisdiction that have aesthetic merit, and which I don't own already.

The next six hours were a blur spent entirely crouched over tables, frantically checking notes, and digging through box after box as though I were looking for the holy grail. Before long, I was finding jewels in the rough...the single greatest of which was a Prince Edward Island amateur radio plate bearing hand-painted serifs, a commemorative Canadian Scout Jamboree validation sticker, and a coincidental callsign containing the word "cis." If there was anything this day that was a shoo-in for the "I can't believe I found that!" files, it was this.

Other favourites: A heavyweight New Jersey from the fifties (I'm a sucker for orange on black), a plate from my current province bearing my initials, and three antique car plates...two of which had embossed graphics, and one of which still had the original registration taped to the back! (Ohio Historical Vehicle 5985H was issued in 1982 to a 1936 Chevrolet, in case you were wondering.)

There were also some things I didn't buy. It pained me to leave this U.S. 460 route marker (from Virginia, a state I once lived adjacent to) on the floor...but I knew I didn't have the space for a shield.

At five o'clock, the day was done. My button-studded backpack reverberated with the satisfying click-clack of metal plates within. A subset of attendees gathered on the Grand River for a posh three-hour "dinner cruise"...at extra cost, of course. I wasn't interested, but I extended an invitation to Eric Tanner to explore the eateries downtown. He obliged, and we ended up at an Irish pub for a lot of conversation...and a little food.

More from days II and III:

Although Day III didn't afford me much time to look at displays, this tabletop run of first-issue Ohio plates from 1908-09 was impossible to ignore! How many of these does a single collector need? Apparently 23...

A melted sign at a liquor store on Washington Avenue, now closed following an April fire.

The Progress Pride Flag and Juneteenth Flag, waving brightly at Lansing City Hall. A heartening gesture of solidarity...but why do I think they'll get stuffed into a drawer for the other 11 months of the year?

The quaint Victorian-era Michigan Millers Mutual Fire Insurance Company Building on Ottawa Street, now utterly dwarfed by a skybridge and the newer buildings that surround it! I guess there's a coffee shop in there...somewhere?

Capital City Market, a new urban Meijer concept just a stone's throw down the street from the convention. If I'm not mistaken, this is the first chain supermarket to operate in this neighbourhood since the 1940s...and of course I was interested by this.

7 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue: Day II

Day two was destined to be the slowest, most sluggish leg of my journey. I was in no hurry this day: Ann Arbor and Lansing were just 120 kilometres apart on the map, close enough that I could have biked between them if I really wanted to. After living in Thunder Bay where any travel time of 8 hours or less was considered "short," it was a trifle!

Traditionally, the day before the ALPCA Convention had been the slot of a quasi-official "meet and greet;" a glorified flea market where collectors popped open their trunks in the parking lot of the convention centre or hotel, chatted about, and sold or traded wares. (At Huntsville in 2007, some people were so eager for action that they even held a mini meet and greet the day before the meet and greet.)

But there was no meeting or greeting this year in Lansing. The parking lot events had long been a bone of contention between ALPCA and convention venues, especially after incidents where parking facilities had been damaged by collectors with oversized trailers. There was also evidence that they sapped away convention attendance. For these reasons, the secretary of ALPCA came down on the events in 2018...and there's not been a parking lot meet since. And you know what? I'm glad of that. I don't miss being forced to endure sunburns and bug bites, just to avoid missing out on expected trading opportunities that would otherwise happen within the convention hall. Rest assured: Lansing 2024 was going to be an indoor event.

My morning this day was also spent indoors, hiding from the rain. After hitting up Zingerman's Roadhouse for lunch and reconnecting with a close cousin I hadn't seen in years, I finally hit the road. Lansing was the seat of the Michigan state government, so what could I expect to see there?

The personal vehicle of a right-fringe scuzzbag from the 105th district, that's what. Reared with a "degree" in Bible study from Jerry Falwell's "school." So many red flags, I don't know where to begin.

But no signs of Tr*mp.

I found the host hotel easily...albeit after overshooting myself in the quest of following old U.S. 27 and soaking up roadside sights. I checked in and did a cursory inspection of the room. No bedbugs: Good. No mold: Good. No Bibles: Good. No alarm clock: Not so good. Only one bar of soap to divide between the sink and shower: Not so good.

Next, I whipped out my phone. Cell phone roaming coverage isn't a given in the U.S....where consumer-hostile telcos have taken it upon themselves to obsessively dismantle functional 2G and 3G networks in the name of forced obsolescence. Fortunately, T-Mobile's GSM network in Michigan was still hanging on...although I had to be mindful, or my phone would try to switch to UMTS and drop dead.

The hotel had a lonely unadorned pool, but my room card wouldn't open the door. I shrugged and retreated to the lobby...where I promptly ran into Chuck Sakryd, Scott Broady, and Eric Tanner. I was among friends, in a place I wanted to be. But the convention was still a day away. What would tomorrow bring, when the Lansing Center opened its doors? I had to wait, and find out.

6 July 2024

Lansing Travelogue 2024

Long-gone are the days when I habitually made stateside trips for fun. Since the world changed in 2020, I've crossed the border for only two reasons:

• To attend a funeral.
• To attend a Walk the Moon concert.

But this summer, I had a third: To attend an ALPCA convention.

ALPCA is the Automobile License Plate Collectors' Association, a hobby group I've been a part of since 2005. In the noughts and teens, I made my presence known at every ALPCA convention in the east and midwest...culminating in the summer of 2016, when I assembled a 53-piece rainbow-striped display chronicling the timeline of U.S. marriage equality in licence plates [right]. Doubtless I ruffled the feathers of some old white men that week...whose conceptions and prejudices deserved to be ruffled. Because love was winning, and I was buoyed with bravado and optimism for the future.

The optimism of 2016 didn't last. Three months after the convention, I could no longer focus on hobbies: I was focused entirely on survival, thanks to fucking Tr*mp. I withdrew from licence plates and left the country, spending the next half-decade in monk-like seclusion singlemindledly devoting myself to graduate school, museum work, and becoming a Canadian citizen.

Fast-forward to 2024. This year's ALPCA convention was in Lansing, Michigan...almost close enough for a day trip. Plus, I had family in the mitten who I was itching to see! Going to Michigan also let me take care of a task that had been eating me up for more time than I care to admit. More on that later.

Google claimed that the first day's leg of driving would take four hours. In reality, it took six and a half. The trip through southern Ontario went by well enough...except in Chatham, where I lost time trying to find a mythical Arby's signed from the road.

Next stop: Detroit. I pull up to the booth. "Where are you going?" "When did you last enter the country?" "Open your trunk." I've had to open my trunk for at least two of the last three border crossings in a row. What do they expect to find? Does my passport cause a red flag to pop up on their screen, saying "give him hell?" Damned if I know. The CBP are as transparent as mud.

Now though, I was in the thicket of The Strait. The downtown streets consisted of complete pandimonium, with masses of tourists parking in no-stopping zones, swigging alcoholic beverages, and descending into the streets. What was going on? Damned if I know...though my best guess is a sports game.

Less than two miles from the gleaming Fox Theatre and hordes of tourists were the ruins of Detroit's Campbell Elementary School. This fairly-modern school was built in the 1960s, served a community for several generations, and was open as late as 2010...and now it's falling apart; a victim of depopulation and defunding that "rebirth" projects have yet to arrest.

Which brought me to a glaring, upsetting reality about Detroit. As grand as it is to see landmarks like the Book-Cadillac Hotel and Michigan Central Station restored, much of Detroit's "rebirth" has consisted of projects catering exclusively to the deep-pocketed whims of white suburbanites, tapping into nostalgia for a mythical "golden" age that never existed, while excluding the needs of the predominantly-black population who actually lives there.

One of the many 1950s National food store buildings that the Detroit area is pockmarked with.

After exploring a swath of Poletown, Kettering, and St. Jean for an hour, I made tracks to Ann Arbor for the night. Next stop: Lansing.