YouTube and Its Hidden Gems

^{“Invasion of the Saucer Men” poster}

Most people associate YouTube with the latest, viral short videos that include (but not limited to) bizarre music acts and “how-to” videos on anything to do with home repair. Knowing this, I suspect there are many who aren’t aware of one particular category that is somewhat of a hidden gem when it comes to YouTube… old movies.

Just like home repair videos, there are a ton of old movies on YouTube—especially old movies you’ve never heard of with actors, directors, and producers of the same status. After I watched my first old movie one night, the next night I returned to YouTube—almost the same time—another new old movie suggestion was waiting for me at the top of my list. Now, after two weeks of this kind of viewing, one of these movie types is always ready to be queued up no matter how long I’ve been away from YouTube or what device I might be watching from.

In the last month, I’ve turned to some of these offerings as a way of putting myself to sleep—in much the same way as the gazillion YouTube offerings of ASMR videos. These films typically lead to the same end except I fall to sleep because the movie is boring rather than soothing. Additionally, I put the sleep timer on the TV to one hour so I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night just to turn the television off as most of these movies are barely over an hour.

So, what kind of movies might I be talking about here? Ideally (for me) they are sci-fi movies produced between 1955 to 1970. Some movie critics refer to these as “schlock sci-fi.” They come in a variety of sub-genres when it comes to sci-fi: first trips to another planet, encounters with aliens from other planets, or something to do with saving the planet. Further, there’s always plenty of government b-roll and miniature model sets getting blown up.

The promo posters for these movies are always done much better than the actual films. I suppose that was simply to pull the audience in. But, when the poster is a beautifully-painted and colorful futuristic image and the movie (i.e., reality) is a shoddy, blurry (thanks to being duplicated multiple times over the-years) black and white… well, it’s understandable how one can lose interest in less than an hour.

^{The main cast of unknowns in “12 to the Moon.”}

Typically these movies were made employing actors who were never household names like Audrey Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Elizabeth Taylor, or Kirk Douglas. Rather, the actors that starred in this era/genre of moviemaking were mostly unknown. I mean, after all, who’s ever heard of Tony Dexter and Michi Kobi (12 to the Moon), Brian Donlevy (Quartermass Xperiment), or Paul Hubschmid and Madeleine Fischer (The Day the Sky Exploded)?

^{A “saucer man” from “Invasion of the Saucer Men.” This was about as good of a look of the aliens as you’ll get in the movie. The promo poster is by far more intriguing.}

Almost everyone of these movies qualifies as a “sleeper”—even for the most severe insomniacs—yet, there are those occasions where the movie is so bad, or the plot is so twisted that I end up staying awake and watching the entire film—the same film that was suppose to put me to sleep. I’m unsure how that makes me feel, but I should at least be a little bit grateful.

So, thank you YouTube for all of these crappy movies that keep on showing up in my queue.

Want to go to sleep fast via schlock sci-fi movies from over 50 years ago? Check out some of these on YouTube:

The Quartermass Experiment (1953)
The Day the Sky Exploded (1958)
Destination Moon (1950)
First Spaceship on Venus (1960)
Invasion of the Saucer Men (1957)
Trapped by Television (1936)
12 to the Moon (1960)

The Unforeseen at Keen is Obscene

Imagine not having access to any OEM replacement parts for something as complicated as a printer.

---

This is a letter I recently sent to Keen Footwear…

I’ve just visited your website regarding getting replacements for my worn out laces of my Newport sandals. Years ago after I bought my first pair of Newports, I had to replace the laces just like this second pair I now own. I recall the process was fairly easy in purchasing the laces and having them shipped. Imagine my surprise to visit your website today hoping to do the same thing that I did years ago only to find out the actual Keen website doesn’t carry replacement laces—or even recommend an outlet where OEM laces can be purchased!

Do you have any idea how disappointing it is to read, “…We don’t currently have replacement laces for all of our shoes, we do offer a few replacement laces on our website…” That’s like going to KFC and being told they don’t have any chicken or they only wings. Imagine a printer manufacturer like Canon that doesn’t offer replacement toner/ink jet cartridges for their printers.

Oh yeah, I know, I can get knock-offs of the laces from third party outlets/suppliers, but isn’t that like being told there’s a cheaper cologne at Walmart that smells very much like the one I’m looking for at… say, Macy’s? Could you imagine a high-end department store no longer carrying a popular item and telling their customers they can find pretty much the same thing at Walmart?

Up until today I have always thought the Keen was a pretty top-notch shoe manufacturer. I’ll be damned if I ever buy anything else from Keen—nor will I ever recommend them.

A Pick-up Game with LeBron?

^{LeBron surpasses Kareem.}

With LeBron James surpassing Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s all-time scoring record yesterday, and securing his name in the debate of who was the greatest to ever play the game of basketball, I considered that this might be a good time to mention my possible one-on-one games with him in the summer of 1997. The truth is, I don’t know for sure that it was LeBron James because he would have been only twelve-years-old at the time, and hadn’t achieved any notable fame beyond his circle of friends at that point in his life.

With that said, in the summer of 1997, I made my annual “pilgrimage” back to my home town of Akron, Ohio. Unlike most summer excursions back to that part of the country, on this particular summer I was home for the entire time as I was in the midst of a divorce and I took on a summer gig at Davis Printing in nearby Barberton working in their prepress department.

On one particular late afternoon/early evening, my parents were having a discussion that was starting to turn into an argument, and I just didn’t want to be there to take sides for whatever unfolded. So, I grabbed my basketball from the garage and headed to Reservoir Park in nearby Goodyear Heights of East Akron to shoot some baskets. As a kid growing up, we would often go to Reservoir or Davenport Park to play basketball, tennis, softball, or just hang out, so I thought it would be fun to visit one of my old “stomping grounds” as an adult of 37-years old.

The courts were vacant when I arrived and after about 20 minutes of shooting around on my own, a young, but tall teen on a bicycle circled around the court and started shooting baskets in one of the adjacent courts. I remember thinking that at any time, more kids of the same age would soon show up and join him, but that never happened.

Instead, he made his way over to my court and asked if I wanted to play a game of one-on-one. 

I remember a sense of surprise coming over me to discover how young he really was when he was right there in front of me—like, not even a teenager—yet, he towered over me at around six-feet tall. I didn’t flinch in his offer thinking he was probably some clumsy young kid that hadn’t adjusted to his new size and I would simply out-hustle him even if he had the height advantage. Keeping in mind, that I was never a good basketball player, something told me I could somehow teach him a thing or two.

As it turned out, he might have been young and oversized for his age, but I never detected anything from his basketball skills and foot work that struck me as clumsy. Further, he ran circles around me. So much for out-hustling him too.

^{A young LeBron at St. Vincent/St. Mary High School in Akron, Ohio.}

He easily defeated me in the game, although I don’t remember the score. I might have made three shots to whatever he tallied to win.

As a courteous gesture, he asked if I wanted to go for another game. Even though I knew I was no match for him, I took him up on the offer with the hope that he wore himself out in the first game. Again, I was wrong on this account, but now there was no element of surprise in the second beatdown.

I don’t recall doing any better against him in the second game, but once the drubbing had ended, he announced that he had better get home before it was too late. That was an easy out for me, because I would have hated to tell him that I was not interested in a third game of humiliation under the guise of basketball.

As he walked across the court to his bike, I said, “Hey, what’s your name?” As he turned around to answer, a hot rodding motorist screamed down nearby Brittain Road, and all I heard from the kid was “James.”

I didn’t consider what I didn’t hear, so I simply said back to him something generic like, “Take care James and be careful on that bike.”

I don’t think I ever mentioned that day again—or for years after—except to tell my father the next morning over coffee that some young kid made a fool of me on the basketball court at Reservoir Park. That would not have been news to him.

Years later, like many Americans, I came to hear and know about this basketball phenom from my hometown of Akron, Ohio named LeBron James, but that one-on-one game at Reservoir Park in 1997 never crossed my mind. It was only when I learned much later that as a young kid, James would ride his bicycle all over Akron looking for pick-up games wherever they could be found. Suddenly that uneventful pick-up game in 1997 that was barely worth mentioning slapped me hard across my face.

I immediately started researching everything I could find about his adolescent years. Born on December 30, 1984, Lebron James would have been about twelve-and-a-half years old in the summer of 1997. At that age in his life, he was about six-feet tall too. Was he riding his bike around Akron as a 12-year-old? It’s hard to say. I know if I had been doing the same at that age, I wouldn’t have told my parents. I wish I had studied his face more because in looking at images from his youth, I can’t say I remember his face as much as I remember his moves.

To this day, I continue to ask myself, “Is it really possible that I had a brush with greatness in a couple of one-on-one basketball games with King James himself?”

If it was LeBron James who truly schooled me in basketball on that summer day in 1997, it must have been a slow day for him. I like to think that he was on his way home from some earlier, more intense pick-up games, and there I was—an easy, non-threatening opponent—as he cruised by Reservoir Park. In short, I was the perfect cool-down activity to end his day before arriving home.

^{Google Earth over the basketball courts at Akron’s Reservoir Park.}

Down 2 Twenty-three

^{My 62-year-old grill including the recently evicted #29 (in red).}

The first tooth I ever had pulled was a stubborn and rotting, canine baby/deciduous tooth. I remember wiggling it around forever, but it just wouldn’t come out from my timid attempts. So when it came time to visit Dr. Burian for a regular checkup (a.k.a., “Dr. Barburian” by many of the kids in our Akron, Ohio neighborhood), he did me the honors of easily removing the stubborn tooth despite my unfounded anxiety. I walked out of his office disappointed that I hadn’t been able to do it myself.

Fast forward to year 21 of my life as a newly minted college graduate, I learned that getting my wisdom teeth (numbers 1, 16, 17, and 32) removed while still on my parent’s insurance would be a smart thing to do even though they were not causing me any problems at the time. Dr. Burian assured me that they would be problematic later on in my life.

As a result I went through with the procedure that resulted in total sedation (for the first time in my life) as my wisdom teeth had to be cut out rather than simply pulled. I remember waking up and noting that my t-shirt removed for surgery had been put back on me and tucked back in my pants. All I wanted to know was who had their hands down my pants without my consent.

A couple of years later I was diagnosed with TMJ (temporomandibular joint disorder), that would necessitate the removal of all four of my first bicuspids (5, 12, 21, and 28) before starting on a two-year stint with orthodontic braces.

In a recent visit to my dentist, he discovered that one of my second bicuspids (29)—which was crowned years ago—appeared to be dead (necrotic/non-vital) even though I wasn’t having any notable pain. Drilling down and through the crown for a root canal was the recommended treatment. So I made a follow up appointment for the root canal. At the time of making the appointment, I was asked if I wanted to be sedated with nitrous oxide (laughing gas). With an air of overconfidence, I declined since I had been through two other root canals in the past that were a breeze.

Unfortunately the root canal did not go well. Good old number 29 was not only dead, it was turning into a fossil as most of the nerve canal had collapsed from calcification. On top of that, near the bottom where it connected to my jawbone, it had become infected. And, because the tooth was in such bad shape underneath the crown, the drilling was breaking and cracking the tooth.

“We need to switch gears,” declared Dr. Rock Hull, my dentist. Meaning: we need to extract that tooth.

I can’t say there was much surprise in his announcement given that when he discovered the necrotic tooth a few weeks earlier, he had said that the remedy was either a root canal or extraction.

So, the crown was then cut off and the meticulous (and painful) work of extracting a crumbling tooth that couldn’t be grabbed cleanly commenced. Despite the pain, I actually felt sorry for Dr. Rock. It wasn’t going how he had planned and his patients for the day were queuing up like stranded planes waiting to land at a closed airport.

After nearly three hours in the chair (sans the nitrous oxide), and a lot of sweat in the room, plans for an immediate implant in this fresh void were scrubbed because the extraction was so complicated and messy. The battle zone where tooth 29 once resided would require time to heal. I wish I could have hung around like a fly on the wall to listen to the chatter at the end of the day between Dr. Rock and his staff. Surely #29 and I were trending.

Looking back, I’m glad it wasn’t Dr. Burian working on me that day. Although I can’t imagine how the experience could have been more painful, I’ve no doubt it would have been. After a battle like that, I couldn’t be happier to have a dentist who is young, smart, and empathetic to an old geezer like myself. Neither one of us enjoyed that, but I’m glad I went through it under Dr. Rock’s watch.

Now that this extraction is behind me, I feel a bit dirty, a little less intelligent, even White Trash-ish …as if I lost my virginity to a sleazy barfly. Hopefully whatever replaces my real tooth (an implant or bridge), I’ll feel like my old self again. Nevertheless, even if I only possess 23 or my original 36 God-given teeth, I have to keep it in perspective and find a way to be thankful. After all, my father lost all but his lower front teeth when he was 45, and here I am at 62 writing about one bad tooth.

BTW: That problem baby tooth that I couldn’t wiggle loose in my childhood… that was pretty much in the same location as #29. (Queue the scary music.)

Overhead traffic, Rabbit Holes, & FedEx

^{Alaska Air Boeing 737-990 over Powell, Wyoming at 33,000 feet traveling at 553 mph from Seattle to Atlanta with 3 more hours of flight time.}

Most people would consider my hometown of Powell, Wyoming—whether they live here or are visiting—a pretty remote place in this world of eight billion humans. Certainly there are other places more remote, but in terms of averages in the United States, we’re pretty much in the boondocks, the sticks, the hinterlands… the middle of nowhere. Some locals call this part of Wyoming, “The Big Empty.”

Typical of remote locations, there is often a lack of diversity in the populations occupying them. And, Powell, Wyoming is no different. With the exception of a small body of international students at the local college, Powell is pretty much a  “white-bread” community.

Yet, nearly every clear day I’m reminded that perhaps we aren’t that remote and maybe we’re a little more diverse than I think.

A FedEx Boeing 777 near Powell on the PlaneFinder app.

Thanks to a little app on my phone called Plane Finder, I can learn about the planes that fly overhead on any given day which are relatively many given we are in the middle of nowhere. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we are near a major airport, but I’m astounded in how many planes I see flying overhead on any given day—even if they are typically 25,000 feet or higher. And, thanks to Plane Finder, I know about any given plane’s origins, its destination, how high above me it is flying, how fast it is traveling, how long it has been in the air and how much more time remaining in its flight, its manufacturer and model, its flight number, and which airline it represents.

Beyond the knowledge of these airplanes overhead, flying from all over the country (and world), it’s fun to think about the diversity of the passengers onboard those aircraft that are only about thirty-some thousand feet away as they transit the blue skies. They may look down and see an arid and sparsely populated land mass below—that is anything but inspirational—but I look up and think about the places where they are going to and coming from, and the variety of cultures on board, and suddenly my outlook on the day gets a little brighter. 

For example, just today I looked up to see a plane heading almost due south. It was flying from Calgary/YYC to Dallas-Fort Worth/DFW). Not long after, another plane flying due east from Portland/PDX to Chicago/ORD. Other days, I’ve looked up to discover a plane coming from Frankfurt/FRA and heading to Los Angeles/LAX or Las Vegas/LAS.

Visiting with one of my students—who happens to be an international student from Timor-Leste today, I said to her, “You must see all kinds of planes flying over your home town.” Strangely enough, she said airplanes are pretty rare. I was in disbelief, so we looked at the current air traffic over Timor-Leste via Plane Finder, and oddly enough, she was right. There’s all kinds of air traffic in that part of the world, but the routes seem to circumvent her island nation for whatever reason.

I was telling a couple of my colleagues in the art department about this and wondering how we could do some kind of collaborative art project about this local, overhead anomaly. (If something comes to mind as you’re reading this, feel free to leave a comment, or just run with this idea and do something about the planes that fly over your community—wherever it is. I’d love to hear about it too.)

In case you are wondering, yes Powell/POY does have an airport, but no major carriers service our lone landing strip where single-engine puddle jumpers land and take-off. If you want to get on a major carrier airplane while in Powell, you’ll have to find your way to nearby Cody/COD or Billings, Montana/BIL about 90-miles away.

A map of the FedEx routes in and out
of Memphis, Tennessee.

Of course, now that I know more about these planes that fly quietly overhead, more questions have found their way to me, leading to more rabbit holes to go down on the internet. For example, I noted that FedEx flies their planes over Powell on a regular basis from Memphis/MEM to Portland/PDX or Seattle/SEA and back.

That got me thinking, “What’s so significant about Memphis/MEM to Portland/PDX or Memphis/MEM to Seattle/SEA? It turns out that  Memphis/MEM is the main hub and the location of their headquarters. Everything that is FedEx seems to pass through Memphis/MEM. And, how did that come to be, I wondered? Because during FedEx’s infancy, they purposely chose Memphis/MEM because Memphis International Airport/MEM is near the mean population center of the country and inclement weather is relatively infrequent compared to other centrally located international airports.

Now I need to know how many planes they have…

Rest Stop Diversity

A typical British Columbia rest stop.

For the most part, we can probably agree that road trips are all about the scenery that comes with any given cross-country excursion. Driving to Alaska that includes passing through Western Canada will not disappoint when it comes to scenic wonders, but that’s not what I’m going to discuss here.

If one is driving from the “Lower 48” to Alaska, I think it would be difficult to overlook the contrast in rest stops along the way. In particular the difference between rest stops in the “Lower 48” versus those in Canada (and Alaska).

Those who live and drive around in the Lower 48 probably don’t give much thought to rest stops other than if they seem really clean (or dirty), how crowded they might be, and their specific locations or the various add-ons of any given rest stop (i.e., dog exercise area, playground, vending machines, etc.). And, in Montana for example, some of the newer rest stops have individual rooms that include a urinal, toilet, sink, and dryer where privacy is totally guaranteed. One of these newer versions can be found just shy of the 49th Parallel at the Sweet Grass, Montana, rest stop just before you cross into Alberta, Canada.

However, once you cross over into Canada, rest stops are reduced to a minimum. Don’t expect to find any welcoming buildings that are air conditioned with maps, wireless internet access, or an exercise area for your dog. If you’re lucky, a full-blown rest stop will include two outhouses (i.e., “pit toilets”) and some bear-proof trash receptacles. In short, American rest stops are luxurious compared to those found in Canada.

I suppose this Canadian rest-stop-minimalism is fairly practical given they have fewer people, and more miles to cover than the U.S.—certainly in their Western provinces vs. our Western states.

Rest stop signage in British Columbia.

All of this taken into consideration, it’s worth noting that the quality (or definition) of these rest stops seems to vary from one province to the other as well. For example, in the Yukon Territory, there’s probably a rest stop about every 15–30 miles. However, when you cross into British Columbia, the frequency of rest stops is about the same, but don’t expect to find any form of toilet. A rest stop in British Columbia only includes ample parking space for your vehicle and bear-proof trash cans.

I’m not sure why this is—does the Yukon Territory have more money than British Columbia? I think of the 30 or so British Columbia rest stops that I drove past, only one offered toilets—pit toilets of course.

Once in Alaska, the 49th state echos the Yukon Territory for the most part when it comes to rest stops with an occasional “trash only” rest stop here and there in between the other outhouse-equipped rest stops.

My father was a plumber and I’m pretty sure he held the belief that thanks to modern plumbing, outhouses should be a thing of the past. It’s safe to say that he would not have enjoyed driving into Canada and Alaska.

Confession from Alaska

^{An outbound A-10 Warthog from Eielson AFB.}

There are several attractions when it comes to spending the good part of a summer housesitting and taking care of seven sled dogs in Alaska—most can probably come up with their own list of interests. For me it is the extra hours of daylight, and compared to the lower 48, the relief of mild temperatures at a latitude of sixty-four degrees north.

There is another attraction that I wasn’t counting on, and I’m somewhat reluctant to admit to it. I feel as if a priest should be present for what follows: It takes place every weekday morning at about 9:00 sharp—when fighter aircraft from Eielson Air Force Base fly over. As it turns out, they seem to fly straight over the property from their home base just south of Fairbanks. Sometimes they fly over in the afternoons too, but the morning exercises seem to be pretty consistent.

I grew up watching all kinds of aircraft fly over our house everyday as our home was under the final approach of the Akron Municipal Airport—this included the Goodyear Blimp too. Back then, fighter aircraft were rare, so when they did fly over, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch them overhead.

This morning between 9:00 and 10:00, I counted 28 fighter and attack aircraft fly overhead. I’m assuming they were all different ones. For the most part they fly out in waves of four—single file. I’m unsure what fighter aircraft they are. Even through my telephoto lens on my camera, it’s hard to really determine if they are F-15 Eagles, F-16 Falcons, F-18 Hornets, or one of the newer fighters like the F-35 Lightnings, but when I drove past the base on my way into town last week, I noted the Falcons and some other twin-tailed fighters sitting near the runway.

The other aircraft included in this daily aviation parade are the slower and quieter A-10 Warthogs. They are easy to identify in their straight wing profile and the twin engines near the tail and mounted on the side of their fuselage. The Warthogs typically travel in pairs—somewhat side-by-side, but with one trailing the other.

All of these aircraft are pretty high in the air by the time they get overhead and with the recent smokey skies from fires in Western Alaska, the view of each aircraft is mostly a profile. I’m looking forward to some clearer days when I can get a better look.

A formation of F-35A Lightning IIs and F-16 Fighting Falcons assigned to the 354th Fighter Wing assemble during a routine readiness exercise at Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, May 20, 2022. The formation demonstrated the 354th FW’s ability to rapidly mobilize and launch aircraft from its strategic arctic location. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Elizabeth Schoubroek)

One day, some were returning to the base and traveling much slower and lower, so perhaps I’ll get some better images when (and if) that happens again. Lately, they have been returning to base just west of the property, but out of sight thanks to the tall trees all around—I hear them, but can’t see them.

As they fly over each morning, I find myself wondering about where they are going or how far they are going. And, even though it seems routine as they fly over everyday, I wonder how routine these flights truly are.

I was told the other day that since the war between Ukraine and Russia has started, the activity of these flyovers has increased.

On a related note, I heard on the radio this morning that since its release three weeks ago, the new Top Gun movie has grossed something like $700 million in tickets. I wasn’t really counting on viewing that flick anytime soon because it sounds like they used the same corny, formula as the first film—even another beach volleyball scene. That said, I might sneak into some theatre to sheepishly watch while blaming it on my new-found summer attraction during my stay in Alaska. I’ll never admit it if I do.

New Discoveries in Old Music

Michael Stanley and The Michael Stanley Band were a strong part of my music vernacular in my teenage years. Although this was not a typical American teenage influence, it was typical if you grew up in Northeast Ohio where The Michael Stanley Band broke most attendance records at the major venues that brought in the biggest national and international acts.

Although I can probably recite the lyrics to most of his songs between his beginnings in the early 1970s on up through the mid-80s, I’m not all that familiar with the volumes that came from him after. And if not for his untimely death in 2021, I would probably still be ignorant of it.

So, as a result of his passing, I’m catching up with his later works—post-Michael Stanley Band days. If one could describe Stanley in one word, my pick would be “prolific,” as he was throughout his career, right up to the end.

On a recent day trip to Riverton, Wyoming and back, I decided to listen to one of those albums that I was unfamiliar with, his 2005 release, The American Road (which seemed appropriate to what I was doing at the time).

I suppose there are no surprises in The American Road as it is typical Michael Stanley with his thoughtful ballads, catchy guitar riffs, and angelic backing vocals to contrast Stanley’s rugged-sounding singing style. However, one song did catch me off guard—reflective of its title, “Just When You Thought It Was Safe.”

Perhaps it’s because I’m a graphic design person, but this song sounds as if it came from a Dark Knight/Batman graphic novel.

Daggers at midnight, pistols at dawn
There’s a wild man on the corner
What the hell’s that boy on
And he’s ranting and raving 
Like a cable show host
Who’s praying his soundbites 
Get ’em hard on the coast…
And here comes the madness 
From the left and the right
Watch their agendas
Kinda steal through the night
Then some dude’s all up on you
And he’s demanding respect
Ah, you couldn’t buy a kind word 
If you had a blank check…

(chorus)

Sometimes you see it coming
Sometimes it’s far too late
(it) Always seems to get real crazy
Just when you thought it was safe
(yeah, it) Always seems to get real crazy
Just when you thought it was safe…

Crazy Melinda she’s got a lot on her mind
She’s long on looks but running short on time
And that clock you hear ticking
Is it hers, is it yours
Or does it really matter 
Behind those closed doors
Where she’s working her magic
Working the room
The naked truth or just too much too soon
And the sweat from her body’s
Made a lot of men bleed
She’s what you want, boy 
But she ain’t what you need….

Listen here: Just When You Thought It Was Safe

Refinery Revenge

Over the Laurel Refinery in Laurel, Montana.

My father once spoke of the Goodyear latex plant (where he worked for several years) as a very dangerous operation if anything would ever go wrong. I believe his language was something like, “If that place blows, it’ll level a good part of East Akron.” Basically, he saw the facility as having the same destructive force as a small nuclear bomb detonating.

The Laurel Refinery in Laurel, Montana has the same feel as the latex plant in Akron, Ohio. It is owned by Cenex-based CHS Inc. and produces diesel fuel for the “northern tier of the United States.”

I’ve been driving by the Laurel Refinery for occasional visits to nearby Billings since I moved into this area of the country in 1991. U.S. Highway 212 goes directly by the refinery before connecting with Interstate 90. And, on any given drive-by as I gaze up at the convoluted structures of the refinery, I always think to myself, “Man, I hope this place doesn’t go off right now.”

The refinery is an impressive and ominous sight—especially if you drive by on a winter night with all of its lights and steam-producing vents/stacks.

Years ago, I pulled over to the side of the road to photograph the refinery using my tripod and a film-based camera. Before I could even get a shot off, a refinery security personnel approached me and informed me I could not photograph the facility. I was treated as if I had breached some kind of security and was on private property.

I knew that was bullshit since I was standing on the shoulder of a public highway, yet I didn’t argue with the refinery security guard, rather I just packed up my gear and drove away thinking, I’ll get that shot some day.

I had no idea how accurate I’d be in that thought.

Thanks to drone-based photography, I’ve pulled off that shot several times now—even in broad daylight. I’m pretty sure that these recent aerial perspectives make for much better images than my old ground-based film camera back in the 90s.

I’d like to think that I received my payback with interest.