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.

22 June 2024

Greetings from the Hammer! Where there are streets that share names with cities in West Virginia, for some reason.

15 June 2024

Apparently my high school reunion in West Virginia is being organized by the racist clod who used to dress in Confederate flags from head to toe, giving proclamations that "the South would rise again" and describing gay men in terms comparable to Fred Phelps...and a friend of his invited me to come...ROFL, PMP, NO, I'm not going, and I'll NEVER associate with the white-supremacist Christofascist garbage of the far right who are the reason I got the fuck away from that place.

9 February 2024

New Year, New Tattoo

Many thanks to Steph Duchesne for her amazing work.

28 January 2024

Bundle Labels: Much Ado About Mail

Dedicated to Andrew Filer, who I think would have gotten a kick out of this.

On cold winter weekends, there's nothing I like better than browsing the Lakehead University Library...and looking for the unexpected.

Take the periodical above. Despite being in a Canadian library, it unexpectedly bears a mailing label addressed to Nashville, Tennessee. And that bright orange sticker with the letter "S?" That's an unexpected artifact from the U.S. Mail.

In the late 1960s, the U.S. Post Office used paper facing slips to identify bundles of presorted mail destined for specific locations. In the 1970s, these were replaced by adhesive labels bearing cryptic letter and number codes. Fast-forward to the 1990s: My family handled mailings for an organization...and I was cast into a role of remembering what a red "D" or orange "S" was as we dropped bundles of newsletters into the mail.

USPS, 1981.

With latent memories awakened, I found a 2016 article by Tony Wawrukiewicz (R.I.P.) explaining the history of the bundle labels. After digging around the deep corners of the Internet for further research, I think I've finally cracked the code and pieced together a full chronology:

At least eight different labels were used for different sorting classes (shown above in decreasing order of granularity), although not all of them were in use at the same time:

• Firm, for mail destined for a specific address.
• Carrier Route, for ZIP code subdivisions (including postal spam addressed to "Boxholder" on a specific road...ask how I know).
• Direct, for specific 5-digit ZIP codes.
• Mixed City, for large municipalities spanning multiple ZIP codes. (I spent most of my life in places where towns and ZIP codes had a one-for-one correlation, so I never saw this one back in the day.)
• Sectional Centre Facility, for 3-digit ZIP code groups.
• Area Distribution Centre. This one emerged in the early 1980s and may have briefly replaced the SCF label outright, then existed alongside it after consolidation resulted in ADCs spanning more than one 3-digit ZIP code group (and sometimes, more than one state).
• State, which came to an end following USPS "classification reform" in 1996.
• Mixed States, later Mixed ADC, a catch-all for the scraps left over when other sorting was done.

Has Canada Post ever done anything similar to this? As far as I know...no. Though Canada's post office does have its own analogous presort groupings (including a catch-all called "residue"), the Commercial Mail Customer Guide reveals that their prescribed way of labelling them is with paper facing slips...like it was for the USPS prior to the mid-1970s. No colour stickers for you!

13 January 2024

Andrew Filer (1980-2021)

This was Andrew Filer. He was a friend of mine.

He died two years ago. He was only 40. I only found this out this week, and now I feel like shit. :'-(

Andrew was originally from northern Minnesota, and had an encyclopedic knowledge about the little quirks of the area. He was excited when I moved to Thunder Bay, and encouraged me to visit the Hoito...which is also now gone.

How do I remember him? He was "super gay," out and proud, and had an unbridled passion and enthusiasm for the geekiest things.

How geeky? He travelled to South Africa just to track down a 1970s road sign manual in a library. He had a plan to restore a vintage character generator and use it on a YouTube channel showcasing obscure books.

We almost met face-to-face once, while he was travelling through his old stomping grounds and made a stop in Duluth. Unfortunately this happened when the pandemic was in full swing, and the border was locked tight...so it was not to be.

Sadly, he and I drifted out of touch in his final months. I had withdrawn from Flickr and Twitter, putting me out of reach of his daily interaction. That left text messages as our primary fallback...and he wasn't much of a texter. Add the blur of life and work...and the next thing I know, he's been gone for two years, I'm the last one to find out, and I'm reeling from the shock.

Now I wish I had reached out to him some more. Called him up in 2021, braved the border...done anything. I wish I could listen to him wax poetic about city lots, 1970s typography, or the joys of "exciting books" one more time. I wish...I could turn back time.

The image above was his personal Facebook photo. Knowing him, he made it small and pixelated on purpose.