L.A. -- Venimus, Vidimus, Vicimus -- Part Duo

 John and Kate G. suggested we look at San Juan Bautista (established in 1797), a short drive south of San Jose, as a first stop as we continued on our way to L.A.  San Juan B. is a Spanish Mission church, now mostly a museum, but a side room is still used for Sunday services. The church, an old hotel and several other Spanish era buildings are grouped around a grassy plaza -- it's all very interesting, the church in particular is worth a look --         (Among other things, some of the original hand made and sun dried floor tiles have dog foot prints in them. Accidental, I would guess).

      Three bus loads of primary and middle school kids were unloading just when we got there, so while we got a fair look around, we didn't stay as long as we otherwise might have. A small item of historical interest: part of the original El Camino Real runs just east of the site. It's dirt / gravel about the width of a one lane road and still could be used after more than 300 years.
    (In many places hwy 1 is El Camino Real with pavement. The route has been marked with 12 foot high poles, shaped like a shepherd's crook and topped with a bell)
    The SJB town itself is a pleasant small town. We did a minor bit of looking around. One shop had a display of Mexican Day Of The Dead figures, skulls, tableau etc. One item, a tin cut-out eight inch tall female skeleton with a Carmen Miranda hat, red skirt and big glued on boobs, caught my eye but alas the store wasn't open.

We stopped at Carmel and Monterey and looked at several art galleries. As would be expected the craft work (furniture, jewelry, pottery, etc.) was exceptionally good, while the painting and sculpture and other "fine art" was mostly mediocre with only some excellent work. Galleries, like any  business, display what will sell and generally speaking, realism and non-experimental art work are what keeps galleries open. dw did see a print of a cat that she liked (as did I), but the printmaker was  sloppy and the print (38/100) was missing some crucial detail. dw had some -- should I or shouldn't I --  moments but decided to pass. Otherwise, we didn't see anything we could afford that we also wanted to buy.

We drove the Big Sur coastal road (which is indeed beautiful) and spent the night at San Simeon. The town has six motels, the worst quickie-mart in the U.S. -- staffed by a very pleasant pyramid shaped middle aged woman who had not a hint of shoulders -- and nothing else. -- Really. San Simeon, the town, has absolutely nothing. Not a river or stream, not a beach, nobody peeing on a lamppost, not even a cow mooing in the night.   --- nothing ---

In the morning we took a tour of Hearst Castle. That was interesting and we spent some time walking around the grounds, looking at plantings, pools, out-buildings, statues etc. The tour of the house itself  frankly was a rip-off. The actual house tour went through only four rooms and the rather plain and modest sized movie theater. I'm glad we stopped but the in-house part of the morning was entirely inadequate. Otherwise, the place is impressive. I was surprised -- the buildings and grounds were as ostentatious as expected, but in much better taste than I thought it would be. Over all, only because of the time spent wandering freely around the grounds,  a two thumbs up experience.

(Hearst statuary, Hearst details 1 and 2, Princess Leia you scamp!, outdoor pool, Hearst Castle) 

After the tour we stopped at a store / wine tasting room / greasy spoon just across the highway from the Castle entrance. We each had a hamburger -- a heart attack on a plate -- they were delicious. Big, piled with onions, tomatoes, lettuce a large patty of grass-fed Hearst meat -- well seasoned and dripping with grease -- wonderful stuff -- I had to use a knife and fork to eat it. It was too over the top to just use your hands. We did pass on the wine tasting since it was only noon and we would still be driving.

For the rest of the day we stopped at Der Solvang and visited several Der art galleries and a Der pottery shop and had a Der ice cream cone from a Der candy store. Der Solvang is just fixed up -- Yodeling Heidi style -- to death. Solvang does have a "Big Bopper" hamburger joint. I thought of sticking my head in and singing a few bars of "Chantilly Lace and a pretty face" but since I'm a nice guy I didn't. The people who work there probably had enough of that 50 years ago.

We stopped at Pismo Beach and Goleta Beach for the Monarch Butterfly groves. There are several sites along the California coast where Monarchs over-winter and those two sites are among the best for looking at them. This wasn't one of the better years but it was still interesting. They fold their wings when they cluster so they mostly look like clumps of dry brown leaves. It still was a worthwhile phenomena to stop and see.

We also drove through (but didn't stop in) Buellton. Some of you may not know that Buellton is the Pea Soup Capital Of The World. Earlier we had driven through Castroville: The Artichoke Capital Of the World. On previous trips we've driven through Waddington, NY: The Carp Capital Of The World ---- Kelso, WA: The Smelt Capital Of The World ---- and Blackfoot, ID: The Potato Capital Of The World. We've nearly completed a Full Meal Capital Of The World.

 Madonna Inn, listed on California maps as a point of interest was another stop. Madonna Inn is named after it's founder, not the Madonna. It's a large pink and white confection of rooms, dinner / dance hall, restaurant, wine cellar, candy store, cheese shop, and souvenir store.
    Madonna, the founder, co-owned a ranch with John Wayne and was friends with Hearst so the place is full of (name of movie star)-slept here-memorabilia. It's also chock full of pink and white, red and white, other and white -- kitsch. After Der Solvang where the visitors center recommended the Thomas Kinkade Gallery for our art gallery fix, the visit to the Madonna Inn put us into dangerous territory:  When a person gets too immersed in schlock there's a danger you'll start thinking it looks good and you might actually buy a velvet painting of a pink piggy bank in a tutu. (A pink Elvis in a tutu would be another story).
   We finished the day's drive at Ventura. Walked around a bit after we got a room. We found Perry Mason's office (actually the office of Earl Stanley Gardner) -memorialized with a bronze plaque. (of interest to many Portlanders: One local station ran Perry Mason re-runs at noon weekdays for 46 years) And I found out that Ventura's actual name is San Buenaventura -- although it hasn't been called that for a hundred years.

---- Travel usually includes moments of danger, not including buying a singing Santa doll dressed in a pink tutu. A lesser early one, familiar to Oregon drivers, is the speed trap set up by Coburg just north of Eugene. Coburg expanded its city limits to include a section of the I-5 freeway and uses a speed trap to largely fund the city.
     Of more interest, however, is the potassium iodide tablet give-away program set up by San Luis Obispo Public Health Department. If there's a need, residents (although not tourists -- such as us) can get free iodide tablets --- not at the Monitoring and Decontamination Reception Center (!), but at several other places. Why do they do such a thing? On the coast, nearly centered in the county and just a few miles from San Luis Obispo the town, is the Diablo Canyon Nuclear Reactor power plant. The reactor is built near 2 or 3 faults and directly over another fault (let's take a moment to think about Japan)
    San Luis Obispo is considered one of the best places to live in the country.  Hmmmm. By whom?


Word of the day: "Sheeple" -- people likened to sheep for being docile, foolish or impressionable.
     Milder than some words, but still useful in political discussions.

And along the same line: "If someone wants a sheep, then that means that he exists." -- Antoine de
     Saint-Exupery --   With all due regard to Antoine, what if you want a goat? If you want a goat are
     you suddenly like Schrodinger's Cat -- neither here nor there?   And so it goes. DJA
 

L.A. -- Venimus, Vidimus, Vicimus -- part 1

I read the title to dw and asked: "L.A. Venimus, vidimus, vicimus. --  Los Angeles, we came, we saw, we conquered. Do you think that's too pretentious?"
   And dw in her concise and certainly not pretentious manner answered: "Yes." 
   I considered debating the point but I recognize that my side is pretty weak so I've decided to just use the title; confident that dw is discrete enough that her sigh and groan will be inaudible and everyone else is out of hearing range.

A few weeks ago we had an early mid-winter crisis and decided to drive to Southern California for sun, fun and decadent pleasures. And rather than going for speed we chose to drive hwys 101 and 1 staying as close to the coast as possible. We made a few stops during the two day drive to San Francisco.
    At Crescent City we visited a co-op art gallery which, mirabile dictu, (sticking with the Latin theme) had only one painting of a crashing wave. Probably the other coastal galleries will band together and drum the Crescent City gallery out of the Society For Proper Coastal Art.
    And further south we spent some time looking at the area where I lived nearly 60 years ago. It's remarkable how little it has changed. The communities of Klamath, Klamath Glen, and Orick are the same size they were then. (Since I lived there, the Redwood National Park has been established -- and it didn't increase the population)  ---  Although the two Klamaths have been relocated, since both were wiped out by floods. ---
    The logging industry is nearly gone, of course, (really bad form to log in a National Park) so several saw mills have been removed.
    The house we lived in is still there (as a tourist cabin).
    My grade school is still there (Orick) -- it's the same size and even painted the same color.
    The 5 mile road to the actual beach is the same as it was 60 years ago:  heavily pot-holed gravel and mud, mostly one lane twisting over a series of ridges. It's amazing that the park hasn't improved the road.
    Part of the old 101 is open for cars (most of it has been turned into a pedestrian / bike lane) -- we drove that section and stopped to look at a WWII radar / anti-aircraft station. It was disguised as a small farm. (Originally the concrete blocks were covered with wood siding)
  

Stopped at Eureka for lunch and I looked for a copy of the Arcata Newspaper (I had already looked in Arcata) but didn't find a copy. The paper is noted for it's reporting of the official police blotter -- such as:
     ---A man in a gray shirt and jeans enjoyed a magazine as he took a dump in a 10th street parking lot ---
    --- A pit bull is being allowed to roam freely on Stewart Avenue ---
    --- Someone put a plastic baby doll inside a wicker basket on Spear Avenue and set it on fire ---
    --- A man watered a wall at City Hall and then used the public phone with his unwashed hands ---
    --- A woman charged $232.86 to the account of her estranged husband and signed the receipt "Asshole" ---
    --- "GET OFF ME" a woman yelled from a Valley East apartment, accompanied by door slamming
    --- In a shocking development a man with a beard and beanie smoked dope on the H Street sidewalk ---
    --- More yelling on the Plaza ---
    --- South G Street report: A cow mooed for more than an hour. ---
    It is possible that report #7, if common, is somehow connected to the other reports. And this is just a sampling --- there are many, many more.

During the afternoon drive, dw said she needed a Fatboy. We stopped and looked at convenient places but found no Fatboys.
    Newly retired dw remarked that her new goal in life would be to have a Fatboy everyday at 4 p.m. and already she was in danger of failing. I remarked that it was an overly modest goal but I would do what I could to help her achieve it. Alas on the very first day of her new goal in life, she sort of failed --- We found no Fatboys, so she had to make do with a Big Bunny.

In the evening we made it to San Francisco, where we stayed two days with our friends Kate and John G. (owners of the sybarite cat Beaner)

 

About Dan

I don't know that I will ever write about Dan, my younger son. He died in a traffic accident (he was the passenger) a few days ago. Certainly, right now, I'm too upset to write about him. It's just wrong for a son to die before his father. And I don't know that I will ever be dispassionate enough to write about him. But I want, and need, him to be recorded. So I'm going to repeat a few things his son, his brother, and an honorary daughter wrote about him:

From Josh, Dan's son:

"Words can't express what I feel right now. Never have I lost someone so near and so dear to me. You were and are my best friend. I wouldn't be the man I am today if it weren't for you. I love you with all my heart and you are always going to be in my thoughts. You only get one dad, and I had the best. R.I.P. father, and always remember --- I love you."   Josh

"I'm lost." --- Josh

From Sean, Dan's brother

"Hello, everyone. I've been silent up until now on Facebook, because I really can't find the words to express how I feel about my brother and how I feel about his death ---- I loved him very much and although we didn't say it to each other (we aren't touchy feely kinda guys) we didn't have to --- I knew he loved me, and he knew I loved him. Dan was a good man and you only need look as far as my nephew Josh as proof of that --- for he too is a good man and Dan raised him. Dan would have been quietly proud and humbled by all of the outpourings of love, kind words and condolences for him --- and so am I. I don't think he truly knew how many lives he touched and how loved he was, because to know Dan was to know -- he wasn't keeping count.  --- R.I.P. BROTHER --- "                  Love Sean

From Sage, honorary daughter
   For several years Dan was in a relationship Sage's mother. After that relationship ended Dan continued to consider, and treat, Sage as his daughter.

"If I could go back into time, I would convince God it wasn't his time to go. You weren't my biological father but you were the only father figure I had in life, and for that I couldn't be more thankful. I would tell you how deeply sorry I am for my selfish and stubborn actions and remind you that my greatest and happiest times in life were because of you. You taught me how much of a beautiful young girl I am, you promised to always protect me and that if a boy were to ever break my heart you'd do the same to him. I would tell you how much I cherished those special nights when it was just me, you and Josh and we'd do nothing but watch movies and eat popcorn. Or all the times you'd come up with those silly random jokes and you had me and Josh laughing so hard (we thought you were so cool). You really were the coolest dad EVER.  You were a natural. The world has lost a wonderful man, and not a day went by that I didn't think of you. I miss you dearly. Until I see you again, may you rest easy. I LOVE you dad."    --- Sage ---

And I wish I could write and do more justice to the man Dan was. These are just some of the comments about him. He was a wonderful man and a wonderful son. I am unable to say more. DJA
 




  

Centralia Studio Tour

          What is that which is under you?
          Take one letter from it and it is over you?
          Take two letters from it and it is round you?*
____________________

This weekend dw and I took a short drive north to Centralia / Chehalis Washington and spent a day and a half doing an open studio tour. Considering the location we were surprised at the  number of artist studios and the amount of good art. To be sure a lot of it was decorative/utilitarian art rather than "fine" art but nearly all of the artists we saw obviously valued craftsmanship. Three in particular -- Brad Tarbet (metal sculpture) -- and Renate & Gabriela Cowan (stained and fused glass) -- had exceptional technique.

dw bought one piece. A small vase made by Dan Sheridan, a potter with a bunch of stuff even I liked and generally I'm not much into pottery. For my part, I got a few ideas I'll cheerfully steal. We quite enjoyed the weekend. It's always fun to see art in it's natural habitat and to visit with the artists.

dw drove up, while I sat and worked on the Saturday NYT crossword puzzle. I do OK with the late week puzzles, but I'm definitely in the slow amateur category. dw, on the other hand, has almost no interest in crossword puzzles, but will ask, when I'm stuck: "Can I help?" And I will usually respond with something like:
   "Five letter word -- Who was the reserve left tackle for the NY Giants in 1958?" And occasionally dw will know the answer -- surprising us both, and leaving dw just a bit smug. I don't recall last Saturday's clue, but dw again knew the answer and then she said:
   "Ask me any question and I'll know the answer!"
   So I said: "Why did I forget my hat this morning?" (Heavy rain was forecast for the weekend)
   And dw replied: "I know, but I'm too nice to say."
   I retired from the field and went back to my puzzle. (Humph! I thought. Humph. Too nice to say
   indeed!)

Centralia itself --- who knew? It's a nice little town with a couple of good restaurants, two used-book stores (one well organized, the other with random piles of books, narrow aisles and a good-luck-finding-anything air) a bunch of antique/junque stores, two tourist-junk shops,  and several people-actually-live-here stores, as well as some street curiosities. The downtown has some empty store fronts but the place is still alive and was a happening place Saturday night (we had to try three restaurants to get a table).

Like most people (I suspect) we had thought the area was a place to speed by at 75 mph. We thought the place had two nut-jobs but nothing else. dw discovered the area for us when she spent a couple of hours waiting for me during the Seattle to Portland bike ride. (Centralia/Chehalis was the half way point) We enjoyed it enough that we might even stop occasionally when we
drive to Seattle.

We also visited the Mina mounds. A geological (probably ice-age glacial) feature ten miles north of Centralia. It's a curiosity. We were there late in the day (gates close at 6 p.m.) so we didn't stay but a few minutes. We'll definitely return and walk around a bit. It's an odd place.

Nut Jobs: Un-missable from the freeway --- First the Dominic Gospoder monuments. These things were erected by DG (a millionaire with time on his hands) They represent Holocaust Victims, Jesus, Mother Teresa, an Eagle, American Indians and a weather vane. All are worthy enough, I guess, but it's an unusual assemblage.  Some of the statues are shorter and barely visible. The tallest is over 100 feet tall. Gospoder started the project in 2001 and has since died. The Cowlitz Indian tribe now owns
the statues and intends to maintain them.

 Alfred Hamilton, a turkey farmer ( smirk ) who got PO'ed in 1971 and put up the billboard. Alfred died a few years ago (at age 84) and now the messages are composed and posted by his kids.  The kids try, and they are properly right-wing zealots, but they don't have the same flair their dad had. Some of Old Alfred's blazes of glory: "No Mexican Olympic teams? All the runners and swimmers are here!" --- "Evergreen: A haven for Commies and Queers." (Evergreen State College, Olympia, WA) --- "Shouldn't immigrants have to wait 21 years to vote? I had to!" --- and many more over the years. The Hamiltons often provide a "Oh, My God!" moment on the way to Seattle, but aside from the comic relief on a tedious drive, I don't think the signs have much of an effect.

Books: The Man Who Made Lists (Joshua Kendall)  A biography of Peter Mark Roget, the man who wrote Roget's Thesaurus. He was "the eminent nineteenth-century polymath --- physician, physiology expert, mathematician, inventor, writer, editor, teacher, and chess whiz ---" Another one of those "Who knew?" books. I found it very interesting, similar to the Professor and the Madman (about the Oxford English Dictionary). Roget seemed to be a humorless man, fearful of going crazy like many of his family (including his mother). Late in life he apparently developed a dry sense of humor:         ----- (*) and the answer is: Chair, Hair, and Air. -----

The Last Supper (Ross King) All about Leonardo Da Vinci and the painting of "The Last Supper". King also wrote Brunelleschi's Dome, and Michelangelo and The Pope's Ceiling. All three are excellent and well worth reading.
   According to Pacioli, a friend of Da Vinci, old Leonardo had quite the sense of humor.  One of his tricks: He made worms appear on cooked meat by chopping up the strings of a lute "in great lengths, just like natural worms," and then concealing them inside the meat. As the meat is roasted, the strings, "made from gut, will slowly twist and they will appear to be worms and those that see them will get sick." Quite the dinner host, old LDV.

Word of the day:  CEPHALOPHORE -- (from the Greek for -- head-carrier )  the depiction of a saint who is carrying his own head, after being beheaded. Such as my name-sake, St. Denis of Paris who was beheaded on Montmartre, then walked 6 miles -- preaching the whole time -- to the present site of St Denis Basilica where (one upping Tom Dooley), he actually laid down his head and died. It's true that after a few beers I can be a motor-mouth but I don't think I'd make the entire six miles even without talking so I give old St Denis two big thumbs up.   And so it goes. DJA
 

A Cat's Meow

A few weeks age, dw saw a very funny video (You Tube) " Diary Of A Sad Cat". dw sent a link to our cat owning (or, to be ultra-PC: parenting) good friends Kate and John G. The following is their exchange.

 

 

From Victoria Beaner Mehlman G. --- aka: the Bean

 

Dianne,

It is my understand that you asked Kate to download the "Diary Of a Sad Cat" video. I hope it gives her some awareness of how lonely my days are. I sleep out of depression. My only relief is a rare tidbit of food, the occasional water tap for a drink, and the shadows of leaves and birds that tease me as they move across the walls and ceiling. It is difficult to find ways to entertain myself in this prison.

     Unlike the video, I have no plants to eat but still I occasionally make my disillusionment known by barfing on the white rug. (Once, I overheard Kate telling you about that --- It made me proud)

     You may be surprised that I type so well, although I do find the shift key difficult to use. I attribute my skill to my petite, though naturally superior, physique.

     I hear the tap has been turned on. I have a mere five minutes to drink my daily supply so I must run. Thanks for bringing my plight to the attention of Kate. She is not enlightened, but your input may help.

 

Meow,

VGMB

 

 

 

from the beaner,

after writing you i feel inspired. usually only food, water, and prey animals interest me but you have made me feel important. i have feelings that I must share.

     as I mentioned before i find it very hard to use the shift key and to type upper case letters. i hope you accept this with good grace. my thoughts are no less profound. besides, mehitabel was universally praised and i'm clearly superior to a mere alley cat.

     today has been difficult for me, as i was given breakfast --- i knew my medicine was in it but i was so hungry that i ate it all at once --- and then i had to wait a whole 6 hours, staring at an empty plate, while kate was outside doing whatever rather than looking after moi and moi needs.

     i feel i can tell you this because i well remember that you brought me some french ham when you visited, and you might want to be more consistent when you visit. i assume the french ham and you come mainly to visit me. i will be willing to rub against you and purr a bit in exchange for the ham or shrimp. tit for tat i always say.

     kate says you might be getting a new car this weekend. i don't care. i hate cars, they make my heart palpitate and my doc says that's not a good thing at my age --- as you may know, a naturally superior cat, such as moi, lives a very long time --- regarding age, alas, i sometimes do feel it. sometimes i feel as young as 5 --- other times, well, i'm slow and even lying down is an effort.

     my weekend? --- well it isn't much different from my monday through friday routine.

     as you have connections --- being a nurse and all --- maybe you could get me a hospital job as a service cat to calm patients and employees. i would expect something in return: a little catnip or some extra french ham -- under the table would be fine ---i hope i wouldn't be expected to just volunteer my efforts. even though i sleep most of the time,. with my sophisticated good looks, my time is valuable.

     i have just eaten, and all this talk about french ham has made me extra --- napish --- if you know what i mean. sweet dreams.

 

the bean xoxo

 

 

 

 

from ms. Victoria to nurse w.

 

Dianne,

i feel very distressed today. i was not asked if the cleaning lady could come but she unexpectedly came. as a result my life is in complete disarray. maria left and closed the door more than an hour ago and only now am i beginning to recover from the ordeal. i do not like having my space invaded. since you are a nurse you need to get me some anti-anxiety drugs. i don't need much, after all i am a cat, but even more than pate' i need some xanax.

     last night i couldn't sleep and after hours of restlessness, i finally found comfort lying against kate's leg. she got up and moved to the guest bedroom. it was very disruptive. this morning i nearly had to create a scene to get john's attention. he was the only person available, so i jumped on the bed and stared at him for five minutes before he recognized his duties and saw to my needs.

     after such an exhausting, tension filled morning --- and a thorough cleaning --- i am feeling napish again. ciao and meow,

 

ms. vbmg

 

 

 

 

from ms. vbmg to nurse w.

again, i am having a bad day and i need some advice from you. kate doesn't understand me --- i don't know why, my needs are so simple --- and now i'm failing to understand her. today, out of nowhere, a juicy bit of fresh shrimp delightedly appeared in my dish. with relish i ate it, and then despite my cries and despite the fact that i was sitting in the exact spot where the shrimp appeared, no more shrimp appeared.

     but in this house i am treated as a mere pet and my rights are ignored on a daily basis. when i consider what i hourly contribute to the general welfare in this house what i get in return is clearly inadequate. why not shrimp everyday? why not a clean litter box 3x a day? i'm only combed twice a week --- if i'm lucky --- instead of every day. for hundreds of years we've been "tamed" and kept under lock and key when once we were acknowledged as gods and suitably worshipped.

     as a nurse, you could send me some anti-anxiety pills, they might even help my headache. i have needs my wardens won't recognize.

     i almost despair. I've considered a boycott --- but i fear my wardens, kate and john, wouldn't even notice --- or worse, they would notice and misunderstand and take me to the vet.

     I've considered sending an op-ed piece to the new york times, but i have no economic power so i feel it would be useless to write of my disillusionment. all i have left is to dream of my lost god status.

morose in mountain view.

to dream --- to sleep ---

 

 

 

 

My Dear Ms. V

Please let me assure you that you are heard. Your concerns are my concerns and I am here for you on every level. The failure of contemporary society to remember the feline goddess history is appalling. I fear nothing short of a CATastrophe will return us to the golden age of Feline Dominance. Having said that, I implore you to understand that those who know YOU understand the FD history and strive to honor you accordingly.

 

Sometimes, however, we all have to tolerate the quirks and forgetfulness of those around us. It is the mark of a superior mind to accept the inferiority of others and not take it personally. I know you will rise to the challenge.

 

An op-ed piece in the NYT is always a good idea and worth a try. As for the anti-anxiety assistance, the Warden's medication could be diluted multifold and perhaps a tiny amount put in a delicacy for your consumption. However, it has been my experience that the delicacy itself serves the purpose and I will communicate your needs to Kate. In the meantime, delay the evening visit to the downstairs long enough to cause a moment's pause (paws?) as everyone considers "Where's Beaner?" It will perk them up.

 

P.S. next time stare at John for 7 minutes --- longer is better.

 

Ciao Bella, and hang in there.

Nurse W.


If anyone else in interested, you can sent a guest blog to: feder400@gmail.com. Of course I might re-write or do some editing, but hey, it would be easy access to my vast (?) audience.  DJA
        

I Did It So You Don't Have To

A while ago, dw and I were sitting around of an evening, idly reading --- some travel show on PBS providing background noise --- basically bored and boring. We agreed that our lives were lacking a certain je ne sais quoi, that we needed to step out of our comfort zone and get more variety in our lives.

Pursuing that thought, a few weeks ago I decided to get a concealed carry permit (hereafter known as a ccp). Not that I am likely to carry a concealed weapon, but I was curious about the permitting process, particularly how restrictive it is. My parents gave me a 30-30 rifle when I turned 13 and I've owned a gun of one sort or another since then. However, not so oddly, I've never felt the need to carry a concealed gun. Also, not so oddly, I've never been in a situation where I felt a gun would improve things. (Except for the times I've gone hunting. While I had limited success I did think the gun was more efficient than a rock or a stick would have been)

(A friend who I put down as a reference said: "I'd never get one of those, I'd be sure to shoot somebody." -- He owns a boat moorage and a couple of rental houses -- he doesn't seem to attract the cream of the crop as renters)

The NRA seems to think everyone should have any weapon they want and carry it wherever they want. That sort of makes sense -- "Dick" Cheney, for example: He nearly missed when he used a shotgun to shoot that guy in the face, but if he had a Predator Drone it would have been a sure thing. And a Predator would make snipe hunting easier (let alone golf -- you could put the holes wherever you wanted them -- and the holes would be a more satisfying size) I'm not so ambitious. I'm just curious about a simple .45 magnum and a simple quick-draw shoulder holster.

In the event, I signed up for a ccp class. I'm now going to write down everything I learned so you too can get a ccp.

The 30 or 40 people in the class were a bit surprising: Most were 40 and above and a slight majority were women.               
There was only one younger guy who seemed to be a bit primitive, and another guy who (I'm guessing) seemed to be worried about blue-helmeted U.N. armies in black helicopters.
     (By golly, with his AK-47 and pistol and ccp he'd show them blue foreigners. He was prepared to
      defend his two bedroom -- in need of repairs -- ranch against all comers)
But most were ordinary middle-aged people (Look out! Grandma's packing heat! And she's mad as hell and she's not gonna take it anymore!!)

On to the lessons:

Number One: Safety. Don't shoot yourself. No, Really! Don't shoot yourself.

Two: These are some different types of guns. (Don't be absurd, of course you can't actually touch them. Just because you're going to get a ccp doesn't mean the instructor thinks you should handle a gun)

Three: These are some different types of ammunition. (They're cut in half or otherwise de-activated so you can touch these)

Four: Video of armed citizens in action. Scene: with the subtlety of Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny a bad guy sneaks up on a woman. She whips out her revolver with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp proud and thwarts the villain. The class got to watch several variations of this scene. We were inspired.

Five: If you shoot someone, don't talk to the police, or anyone else. Get a lawyer.

Six: Over half of the class time (about 2 hours) was spent filling out the application forms. (The forms are available on line. If you can read this, you won't need 2 hours to fill them out.)

Silly me. Before the class I thought there might be some actual discussions or information on gun safety. Where applicants might go to get some real practical practice with gun handling. Some actual real-world information like: If you think you need to pull out your gun, just get the hell out of there.

The whole thing was astonishingly useless. However, I sent my application to Utah (!)  and now, thanks to reciprocal agreements between states, I can carry a concealed weapon in nearly 40 states. Oregon, I'm happy to say, takes a little longer so if I want to shove an assault rifle down my pants and carry it concealed, I have to go to Washington or Idaho.

The entire thing was appalling.

Books: It's more browsing than reading straight through, but: ...isms ... understanding architectural styles (Jeremy Melvin) it concisely explains architectural styles -- with illustrations -- from Pre-Classicism through Meta-rationalism (!?). It's inclusive and informative. A foot deep and a mile wide. It satisfies my architectural need to know.
   and The Nothing That Is -- A Natural History of Zero (Robert Kaplan) I'm re-reading this book. It's everything I need to know about zero and more besides. It's tough sledding in places.  As a history of  zero, it also applies to the ccp class.

Word of the day: It seems like this should come up several times a day: Malversation -- Corrupt behavior in a position, office, or position of trust.

Finally: "Privilege and self-interest are most likely to triumph when they can be concealed behind a mask of severity" (Pliny the Younger) -- Tea-Party and the Koch brothers anyone?   and so it goes DJA.


 

Thinking About Hats

I am not obsessed with hats even though I have a modest (20 some) utilitarian collection of them. I have my favorites, as well as some that I rarely wear (although I did in the past), but having hats at all is a curious thing. After all, humans, along with sheep, can grow great mops of hair so a hat would seem to be superfluous. On the other hand, it's far easier to deal with an oiled rain hat (like my Filson) or a Borsalino than a mat of felted hair that looks like the wearer glued a dead labradoodle to his head.
     Once upon a time, men wore hats. Men were expected to wear a hat, and none of this baseball cap stuff unless the guy was a pre-teen or playing for the Dodgers. With a casual dip of the brim and a slight tilt, a hat displayed a certain style or insouciance far beyond the reach of a beanie with propeller or it's baseball cap brother. And a real hat makes a statement: An English Walking Hat (such as my Kangol) says "Come mist or rain, I'm going for a walk." and nothing more needs be said.

  

Here's a picture of a guy wearing a proper hat. Looking classy. It's not on backwards or twisted to the side

   Admittedly there are hats and other hats. Carmen Miranda wore proper statement making hats but most of us would choose a different style, at least for casual wear. Even with the jazz hands, few of us (I suspect) would choose this hat for an evening at the theater.

 

Queen Elizabeth wears hats that make a statement:

But even paired with her foul little ankle-biters I think she looks a bit goofy. And besides I don't think that hat would do squat for keeping off the rain. Her perm would be sagging and dripping in no time with even a modest mist. This particular hat would offer some protection against rock-fall on any sport climb she tried, but a standard Joe Brown (although a bit old-fashioned) would do a far better job.

 

A few months ago, I decided my hat collection was sadly incomplete. If a hat guy lives in the West, even the Pacific Northwest, a hat guy needs a Stetson. (Not a stiff brimmed Stetson. The evil, eponymously named, Dick Cheney wears a stiff Stetson) So after a bit of searching for the proper hat, I bought a Stetson:

 

I didn't wear it when we hiked the Grand Canyon -- style be damned, a dark brown felt hat is a bit much when it's over 100 degrees. But I was wearing it last week when, walking down a sidewalk, I started to pass a little four year old girl who was playing in the back of a pickup (watched over by her grandfather). She stared at me for a moment, then waved and said: "Hi, cowboy!" I smiled, tipped my hat, said "Howdy, miss." and continued on my way. This little event neatly illustrated the difficulty of wearing a cowboy hat:

   It isn't a problem in the country where a guy isn't going to meet many women, but in the city where there are likely to be a lot of women it's hard to get anywhere. To correctly wear a cowboy hat, every time the cowboy-hatted man meets a woman, he has to tip his hat, or actually doff his hat and greet the lady. And how to properly address any particular woman is a huge problem:

    For instance, one of my nieces is a school teacher, and "Schoolmarm" is the correct term. But another niece works in international banking and how does that translate into cowboyese? A third niece is larking about in Paris France. A cowboy hat would clearly indicate Paris Texas. I've been to Paris Texas and there's little larking about there, so referring to the third niece while wearing my new hat would only lead to confusion. And what if I accidentally called a Miss a Ma'am or a Mrs.? Or vice-versa? All of these problems really slow down a guy, and my walks could come to a full stop. 

  

 So this little essay illustrates the importance of having a collection of hats (even a modest one, such as mine).  With a variety I can fit the hat to the occasion. When I walk in the city, I wear a walking hat.

When I walk in the country, I wear the Stetson. (Of course, if I ever ride a horse I'll wear the Stetson.)

When I bicycle, I wear the helmet (a hat by another name). It's all good and appropriate. 

 

Word of the day: For the men. (if this applies to you, get help. It isn't really happening -- unless you're swimming in cold water)  Koro: the belief that your penis is shrinking and that it'll disappear and then you'll die.

 

Moot Point: a cow's opinion, so it doesn't matter unless it's referring to cow things, such as cow flop. 

 

Books:  re-reading The Horse's Mouth (Joyce Cary) A very funny book -- Artist as an irascible old fart --  Alec Guinness wrote and starred in a movie adaption that took this fine plate of English roast beef with hot mustard, and turned it into an insipid  blanc-mange. If you have a chance, by all means, skip the movie.          And so it goes. DJA

 

P.S. the occasional weird word spacing is a function of this terrible blog program. At some point I'm going to start a different host.

I Bicycle The STP (Seattle to Portland) aka Old IronAss

To dispense with statistics: I rode 107 miles on Saturday, the first day of the ride, and 98 miles on Sunday. I averaged 10.2 mph on Saturday and 10.35 mph on Sunday. On both days I had enough energy at the end of the ride to speed up to 14 and 15 mph on flat sections.
   It wasn't easy to tell (the ride had 10,000 bicyclists), but judging from the number of people at the various rest stops, and the number that would be coming in as I left each stop, I believe I was about the middle of the 2 day pack. (about 1200 riders do the distance in one day -- mostly they ride as teams) I was faster than I expected to be (dw said she thinks the other riders spurred me on -- she's probably right). Pre-ride I figured I would average about 9.5 mph. In all I was pleased, and while I don't think I will, I would even do it again.

dw drove my PSV (cycling-speak for Personal Support Vehicle) and acted as my facilitator. She made motel reservations in Seattle. I said: "Well, OK, if you want to, but Seattle is a big city and I don't think we'll have any trouble getting a room." Hah! When we got there Friday afternoon, everything remotely close to the U of Washington (the starting point) was full. She also made a reservation in Longview (Centralia -- the half-way point -- is booked up a full year in advance). Again I thought it wouldn't be necessary since Longview is 60 miles away from Centralia where everyone would be stopping. Hah, Hah! Everything -- motels, hotels and camping spots -- within 60 miles of Centralia was filled. Particularly regarding travel, lesson learned: listen to dw.
 
 Each day I started riding before 6 a.m. -- which meant getting up at 4 to get ready, load the bike and stuff and get to the starting line. After seeing me off, dw would return to the motel and then do some sight-seeing. And during the day would meet me a couple of times to refill my water bottle, and bring some food (The ride organizers had both, of course, but there was generally a long line of riders at each station and it was much easier for me to be supplied by dw)

(Sunday in Scappoose, at a dw supplied rest stop)

( Starting off in Seattle. My mouth is open 'cause I'm thinking, "It's 5:30 in the morning - I'm not a morning person - what am I doing here?")

( The first major stop at REI in Kent, Washington. This is less than half of the riders. REI had a good idea. They had people walking around with trays of food and drink, that eliminated the long lines of riders trying to grab some food. I scored a couple of bagels with cream cheese, and an Odwalla drink of some sort that was olive green and tasted like grass. Which says it all about that drink selection. But the water was excellent.)

 

For most of the ride I did little talking with other riders. I was comfortable with it, but it was somewhat odd. With nearly 9000 people spread out (they tended to clump up) it was unusual that I was frequently alone. I seemed to be in a space a bit slower than one half, and a bit faster than the other half. That, as it happened, was convenient since the cold air in the morning and the exercise really stimulated my sinuses so, while I always looked, I pretty much could clear my nose at will.

( Early Sunday morning. I tried several times to get a photo of a long string bicyclists, but by the time I would stop and get the camera out the view would change. Just before I took this pic, the road was full of riders. )

The pre-ride info sheet claims that only 30 miles out of the 200+ are up hill. -- An outright lie -- (contrary to popular belief, just because you're going from North to South doesn't mean it's all down hill) In any case there's one hill that the riders are warned of: Exiting Puyallup is the hill. It's a mile long at 7% grade which actually doesn't sound like much but everyone found it difficult.  After all, that's only about a 400 foot climb in a mile. I'm pleased to say I managed to pedal the whole way up -- a bunch of people ended up walking before they made the top.
    Near the top, I passed a 25 year old (I was going so slow I had plenty of time to hear his comment) -- he joined a couple of friends who had waited for him. He said, "Was that the hill you've been talking about? That wasn't so bad!" I thought, "Buddy, you've just been passed by a near 70 year old with a vaguely dubious heart, a steel knee, and a sore foot (my gout was reminding me "I'm still here." -- it cleared up) Don't tell me you thought it 'not so bad'. "  But I kept my smirking to myself. There were several other hills that some walked or had to stop half-way up. Notably the hill leading to the St. John's Bridge which I thought was a totally unnecessary hill. In that 4 block stretch I passed perhaps 50 people walking or resting. I was in full sympathy with each one of them. 

With 10,000 riders, I expected to meet a certain number of jerks, but I didn't experience any. There were a few events of carelessness (and perhaps inexperience with such a crowd) but nothing I thought was just rude. (Some riders I thought should have been more courteous to cars -- come on, people, move over! -- ) But all in all I felt the riders were very well behaved.

Regarding my recent experiences with flat tires (4 during one ride, and 9 in little over a week) I was fearful of that, so I carried two spare tubes and a patching kit. I was lucky and didn't have any flats, but I passed 40 or so others who had flats. A couple of really unfortunate people: one had a flat within 2 miles of the starting line, and another had a flat about 4 blocks from the finish. It would have been faster for the second guy to just walk the bike to the end, but I guess he wanted the finishing photo of him riding in.

Near Vader, Wa (Sunday) we passed a dead deer fully bloated with legs sticking straight out. It was ripe enough to announce it's presence for a 100 yards both coming and going. The expected comments: "Yummm, there's good eatin' ", "Breakfast!" and "Oh, the poor thing, it's injured!" But in all the ride was surprisingly uneventful. Sunday morning in particular was a pleasant ride with pretty farmland scenery, sunshine, cool air and only 3 cars in nearly three hours of riding -- a perfect way to start a cycling day.

And Hurray, Hurray, I finished (photo by dw)

 I was vastly satisfied! DJA

Grand Canyon Suite, Part 3: Miscellany

   Preparatory to starting the hike, dw read a book that advised hikers to force themselves to eat in hot weather, since your body "uses enormous amounts of energy" to keep itself cool. I observed that while that's doubtless true, I have enormous amounts of energy stored in the emergency back-up fuel supply that has settled around my waist. However I did take that advice when I inhaled a plate of bacon at Phantom Ranch.

On the hike itself, I expected I would be the oldest on the trail. (Not the oldest to ever do the hike. I don't know what the age record is, but I imagine it's 15+ years older than I.) I thought on any given weekend I would be the oldest. --- Not even close. We met quite a few people (mostly men) who were older than I am, some of them pushing 80. Not counting the rim-to-rim in one day crowd, I would guess the median age of the hikers was mid-forties.

"Why are they called the Vermilion Cliffs?" " Because they've been there ver a million years."  (the North to South shuttle bus driver)

 I wrote about the nasal cleaning swab in an earlier blog. This time I decided to buy one. I particularly enjoy the stern Teutonic flavor of "Nazal Clean". Some of the directions: -- Insert the Nazal Clean into the nasal cavity and rotate in a circular motion -- If Nazal Clean is lodged or breaks off in nose, seek medical attention. --  DO NOT vigorously rub the inside of your nasal cavity. -- Nazal Clean is NOT DESIGNED to be used in any other orifice. ---
(dw: "Rats, I had plans for it!")

Hmmm

Our favorite beer when we're in it's distribution area (mostly Utah) :

We think it tastes more like a stout than a porter, but it pretty much has to be named Polygamy Porter -- Polygamy Stout just wouldn't taste the same. (It's quite a good beer)

 

Available from St George Medicinal Herbs, co.:  St. George Silver Sol.  It cures: Athletes foot, blisters, herpes, cold sores, shingles, flu, cholera, meningitis, plague, gingivitis, thrush, cankers strep throat, best nose spray (look out, Grandma!), pneumonia, B.O., and toenail fungus -- to name just a few. Best of all, it promises YOU WON'T TURN BLUE!!

 

We drove hwy. 93 (it follows the eastern border of Nevada) to come home. We hadn't driven the road before so it was something new. The road pretty much defines High, Wide, and Lonesome. At one point (probably 100 miles from any water, even a small rivulet) someone abandoned a 25' sailboat. It looks as if it's been sitting beside the road for a long time.

 For 60 miles or so the road is paralleled by an abandoned set of 6 wire power lines (they dangle on the ground in places) -- the road is so remote that no one has stolen the wire -- that's a couple of tons of copper sitting untouched.  It's so remote there are deer crossing warning signs, and cattle warning signs with no bullet holes in them. We concluded the road is an alien abduction zone.

 

In Ely Nevada, I bought a loaf of "artisan all natural ciabatta" to make some sandwiches for dinner. It was so dry it couldn't be cut, it just crumbled. (It was too much trouble to return) But when I finally read the small print, I saw it had been baked in Frederick Maryland. Podunk Nevada is shipping bread from the East Coast?

 

Returning to earlier features:

The Pythagoreans had a thing against beans. Pythagoras was fleeing some soldiers and he refused to walk on some beans -- the soldiers caught him and killed him. But I think historians might have misunderstood what really happened. The beans were probably strewn across a stone floor and he was barefoot. It would have really hurt to have walked on the beans.

 

Word(s) for the day:  Godwin's Law -- An aphorism maintaining that as an online debate increases in length, it becomes inevitable that some will compare someone or something to Hitler or the Nazis.

 

Books: I've just started The Presidents Club (Nancy Gibbs and Michael Duffy) It's about ex-presidents and how they have often helped their successors and formed friendships with their political ex-foes. It's proving to be interesting. I've just finished reading the Hoover/Truman chapter. My parents loathed Hoover (my mother refused to call Hoover Dam by it's name -- when it's name came up, she called it Boulder Dam -- which was a temporary name) While Hoover wasn't very good as president, he was critical in helping Truman revamp and streamline the Executive Branch, and more importantly helping Truman design and institute the Marshal Plan which was critical for the survival of millions of people after WWII.     And so it goes. DJA

 

 

Grand Canyon Suite: Part 2: Ssssizzlin'

Angels Rest campground (Phantom Ranch) and it got even hotter later in the afternoon. This thermometer was in the sun, of course, but there was very little shade on the trail.

Cottonwood creek and Angels Rest campground. The creek was surprisingly large (the water needed to be treated before drinking) and it was very refreshing to splash around in. It didn't cool off much during the night. dw slept on the picnic table wearing just enough to be decent. I slept in the tent -- just in my skivvies -- not enough to be decent but it was still hot.

(Scorpions are known to abound in this campsite.  One ranger likened a sting to having a glass tube jammed into your hand, and then broken off. Another ranger (supposedly) gets a new tattoo of a scorpion each time he gets stung. -- Sort of like a WWII fighter pilot and his airplane.)

Phantom Ranch itself is a series of cabins and bunkhouses. The main building is just a large room -- serves breakfast and dinner (family style) and it's air-conditioned which is possibly why dw spent the whole afternoon there. Actually most of the people who were at the bottom of the canyon spent the whole afternoon there.
    Along with the air-conditioning you could get beer. Tecate lager, which I thought was nearly undrinkable, and Grand Canyon lager which was much better but still pretty thin.

We just spent the afternoon and night before moving on. We did get a breakfast which was a mistake because we didn't start hiking until a bit after 5:30 and we didn't get far enough along the trail before it got hot.

(The breakfast was quite good though. Scrambled eggs, muffins, pancakes, bacon and coffee. Our end of the table was missing a couple of people (assigned seating) and the other three who were there were Indian or Pakistani or some such. I don't know if it was their preference, or religious restrictions, but they didn't eat any bacon. I figured I'd be working it off during the rest of the day, so I hit that plate of bacon pretty hard. -- It was great.)

Again the scenery was spectacular:

For a while the heat really got to dw, but she recovered enough to take a side hike to Ribbon Falls:

The moss covered apron is travertine, formed by the falls and dissolved limestone. We spent more than an hour here, enjoying the shade and rinsing our shirts in the water and then putting them on for the quick blast of cold. We reluctantly moved on and struggled more with the heat, finally getting to Cottonwood camp and lucking into the last remaining site that had some shade. Three groups came after us. They dropped their stuff and immediately retreated to some shade.  

 

The last day was the hardest, about 7 miles and 4500 feet in elevation gain and most of that coming in the last 4 miles. Since dw had struggled the previous day I took more of her stuff and most of the water for the last day. We started on the trail when It was just light enough to see, but even so the heat was again a problem. I went well until about the last mile and by then it was a bit cooler and there was more shade and dw began to perk up -- I considered suggesting we trade packs -- but I sucked it up and finally we both topped out.

A few more scenery shots:

When we finally topped out, we both thought: "Thank god, that's over!" After a shower and some r&r we both thought: "Actually it wasn't that bad, maybe we could do something similar again. Although it would be a good idea to get into better shape first."  But so it goes. DJA

 

Next up: some of the details that make travel so much fun.

Grand Canyon Suite, part 1 B (photos)

  We first drove to Capitol Reef NP where we camped and hiked Spring Canyon (as well as a couple of shorter hikes)   

                 The picture shows an easier section about a third of the way down the canyon.

   After Capitol Reef we moved on to Bryce NP (at 8000') and did another hike: Down to the bottom and back up to the rim.

 

 

 Grand Canyon Rim to Rim. 

                                                          This photo shows most of the path we took. The sickle shaped greenery just left of center is Indian Springs campground and some of the trail is visible. The trail descends to the river via the dark slot just above and right of the top of Indian Springs. The large canyon that recedes from right center is Cottonwood Creek canyon and the trail follows this canyon for about two thirds of the visible length, and then veers to the left and climbs up to the North Rim.

  

 

 

   Many flowers were in bloom, including yucca and cacti as well as a bunch of other things I don't know the names of                       

 

NP Ranger and Trip Leader

  

The visitor at our campsite:

  This guy (I admit I didn't look close enough to see if it was a guy or gal) was a little over three feet long. It came slowly crawling through our site, dw was napping and I was sitting at the picnic table reading. When I noticed it, it was close enough I could have bent over and grabbed it. I carefully lifted my feet onto the table bench and watched it drink some water (a small stream was at the edge of our site) After a bit, I started lobbing pebbles and twigs at it, trying to get it to move on. Eventually it moved out of the immediate area, although it settled in for the night just 15 feet from out tent site. The ranger said these snakes weren't very aggressive and we needn't worry about it. (easy for her to say, her bed didn't have a great reptile 15 feet away) It was a splendid addition to the usual array of fauna: deer and squirrels and lizards and bugs. In the evening we went to a ranger talk given by a young ranger, Elissa. She told us the biggest snakes in the campsites have all been given names (Indian Springs -- Manny; Angels Rest -- George; and Cottonwood -- Sam) : Our snake was a smaller one, just an ordinary low-down no-name snake. (and the names might have been given by Elissa who gave an evening talk probably unique in National Park lore: the talk concerned the preservation role of the National Park Service and one thing to be preserved is silence. In that light Elissa (who started as a professional percussionist -- cymbals, timpani, etc. ) introduced John Cage and his piano piece --4'33" -- which is four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence. -- It can be performed on any instrument -- even a kazoo -- perhaps particularly a kazoo.)

 

Nearing the bottom of the canyon:

 

After this point the trail followed the river for about a mile to a bridge crossing:

 

The bridge crossing is just beyond the bend

 

Next: up and out. We survive a furnace.    DJA