Since I finally joined the world of the digital camera, I've become much more interested in taking pictures. I grew up in the era of the Instamatic. Everyone took pictures of everything. Looking back over the photo albums in the family's living room, I've discovered that my parents took a picture every time anybody farted. They took pictures on vacation; they took pictures at home. They took pictures of every first day of school, pictures of me opening every last present at Christmas, and pictures of table settings. Certainly, though, they weren't alone; when I visit the family homes of other friends, I see the same thing. The problem with the Instamatics (and the Brownies before them) was that, until you got the prints back, you didn't know which pictures were actually good and which ones sucked. A lot of them sucked. Parents would let kids take pictures, which resulted in a lot of photos of knees, because kids take pictures from a lower level. They also include a lot of pictures of the pets, because kids are more interested in the pets than the adults. Oh--wait, I still do that.

Once I got the digital, though, I decided that I should start recording things that have some interest to me, and not just pictures of parties (though there are plenty of those as well). I wanted to document the places I know and the things I love, so I started taking pictures all over Maryland and Virginia. I even tried to be all arty, so I did a series of doorways in North Baltimore, and a series of creepy faces in Baltimore architecture. (Baltimore apparently really dug that Victorian concept that architecture should frighten people; there are monstrous faces peering out of the stones of a LOT of buildings in this town.)

I also thought that I should document the surviving homes of famous Baltimoreans. Let's face it--the city is pretty damned run down now, but over the years it has been the home of quite a few important figures. Not too many big movie stars, but numerous literary lights, captains of industry, and medical marvels have called the town home. Therefore, I set out to take pictures of some of the houses. I'm not finished, yet, by any means, but I'm pleased with my progress so far.

In all likelihood, Baltimore's lasting claim to literary fame is E. A. Poe. In a way, this is sad. He wasn't really a Baltimorean; he was born in Boston and grew up in Richmond. He did live in Baltimore sporadically as an adult, and here met his unfortunate if rather poetic end. But: we can also count H.L. Mencken as ours, and he really was--born, raised, and died in Baltimore, the man was one of the great essayists and journalists of the 20th century. Sadly, he's mostly forgotten now, and when he IS remembered, it's always with a disclaimer that he was Not a Nice Person. Of course he wasn't, but in 2009, one must be a Nice Person, Politically Correct, and Aware in order to be lionized. Gertrude Stein, as well, thought that there was some THERE in Baltimore; she had several family connections to the place and lived here for some time--in fact, attended the Hopkins, too. (HER house has been rotting away up in Reservoir Hill for decades, but she'd probably rather enjoy the idea.) The city can also claim Christopher Morley, who penned some very witty novels back in the '30s and '40s. Although Baltimore doesn't normally claim him, Fitzgerald loved to claim Baltimore. He only lived here for a few years, but did have some Maryland family, and he wanted to make sure that everyone knew it. Raised in a decidedly middle-class world in the Midwest, ancient Baltimore provided a touchstone to an aristocratic world that some of his characters possessed while the author himself did not.

I was also careful to take a couple of pictures of the elegant St. Paul street house that was once home to F. van Wyck Mason. Have you ever heard of him?

Frankly, I hadn't either--or, thought I hadn't. When I discovered that he'd lived in and around the city for many years, I struggled to remember why on earth I knew the name. When it finally came to me, I wasn't sure whether to be impressed or appalled. You see, the only one of his books I'd ever read was "The Barbarian," which I'd bought years ago for the lurid cover art. The cover in question depicts a stunning blonde in Carthaginian costume (I had to read the stupid thing to know that she was a Carthaginian) with her foot on the neck of a very large, very muscular and entirely naked dude. What book can possibly live up to the promise of that cover? As it turned out, this one didn't.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I found a copy of another van Wyck Mason novel. This one--"Rivers of Glory"--was a hardback book, and didn't appear to be of the Sinful Shocker variety. Hmm...maybe the guy DID write real books, too! I looked him up online and found that, in fact, he was quite the prolific author, and specialized in historical fiction (with naked musclemen?). So, I delved into "Rivers of Glory."

Aha. It really is another Sinful Shocker. The first few chapters introduce the principal characters, Andrew Warren and Minga Allen. As each character is presented, their physical attributes are made quite clear: Andrew's long, muscular legs and broad, hairy chest; Minga's supple, slim form. In the first chapter, Andrew takes advantage of the chambermaid who sees him naked on the bed. Minga is shortly raped by two Hessians along the Hudson, shortly after she has (willingly) boinked a British officer. When the pair hook up about a third of the way into the book, they don't go all the way--after all, the reader can gather that they're ultimately going to be a love match, so they can't do it--but they both spend some time contemplating the other's physical charms. Minga is en route to the home of her aunt in Jamaica (the island, not the section of Queens) because she thinks she might be pregnant courtesy of either the Brit or the Braunschweigers. Once she gets there, she learns that her aunt is an unrepentant ho. Aunt Adelina is having an affair with a big muscular octoroon and, possibly, also with her mulatto maid. The octoroon guy is also her estate manager. She kills him because he's trying to blackmail her (but only because he's in love with her and doesn't want to let her get away)--and, even as Adelina prepares to plunge an Arab knife into the man's chest, van Wyck Mason takes another chance to describe the smooth expanses of his muscular chest and shoulders.

I haven't even finished this thing yet. I can't wait for the description when Andrew and Minga finally get it on. The book was written during the second World War and was undoubtedly supposed to be a patriotic effort; its Revolutionary setting was probably supposed to instill homegrown pride in its American readers. I wonder how many men ever read this book all the way through? It's a great example of pseudo-highbrow pseudo-porn. The story is fairly trite and predictable. The true art of this novel--and "The Barbarians" as well--is getting the reader turned on without ever using a dirty word. Forget the story; the ladies back home during the War felt patriotic because the book made them dream of their men overseas.

Never mind Poe and his silly labyrinthine descriptions of unnecessary details. F. van Wyck Mason, though a native of the North, was in spirit an author of the Old South. He fills your mind with thoughts of heaving bosoms and rigid loins, but they're so encased in "yellow lawn, with dainty scarlet ribbons" and "scarlet shirt open to his belt" that you'll never know you're reading something naughty.