Not Quite A Milestone

   dw and I quietly celebrated my birthday a few days ago. A quiet day because I have one more year before I will admit to being old, in body at least. We went out to dinner and and three days later, due to unforeseen circumstances, I bought myself an expensive present.

  --- I just told dw that I recently read a list of texting shortcuts (such as lolz) one of which was "dw" which stands for "darling wife" and which I've been using for some time (dw is also dw's initials). We both agree that that's just precious ---

   In any case, dw asked me where I wanted to go to eat and I said I didn't know but I didn't want Tex-Mex or Italian and was indifferent to Thai or any other Asian cuisine --- so dw asked: "What about fish & chips?" and that was exactly what I wanted so off we went to Halibut's, a restaurant / blues bar on tres chic Alberta Street where once a month the young now-wow-and-today artistes and wannabes walk around looking at street art & crafts, eat street food and drink too much and pee on neighborhood lawns and complain about the man bringing me down dude.

   But Halibut's serves really good fish&chips along with live jazz and blues on weekends -- the rest of the time the music is canned and bands are represented with life size plastic statues of Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis and Dean Martin -- it's kind of creepy.

 

(N.B. -- For some reason, I'm not able to transfer photos into this page. Until I figure it out this blog will be photo less. At the moment, whatever is going on is beyond my skill level to solve. --) *

 

  For part of the dinner time, dw patiently listened to me bitching about my bicycle, which had suddenly become unrideable: it wouldn't stay in gear, wouldn't shift and the chain kept jumping from one sprocket to another. I had taken it in to the Bike Gallery and got a free adjustment which had made it worse -- I had a lot of bicycle bitching material.

   The next day I  tried to fix it myself and found that everything worked when it was on a stand but it acted up when I tried to ride it.

   So I stopped cursing the Bike Gallery mechanic, took the bike back for a more thorough tune-up, and the second time being a charm, the mechanic found the down tube (the front part of the frame's triangle) was broken in half. I'm really glad the break happened when I was standing on the pedals to accelerate and not when I was going down-hill at 25 or 30 mph (the bike is 20+ years old -- but the frame still shouldn't have snapped)

   But now I have a shiny new Trek -- my present to myself. This time I got a touring bike rather than a road/racing bike. It's heavier but is a better fit for the way I ride: I'm not going to enter a race anytime soon and the new bike will handle rough roads or packed gravel better than my old bike. Plus it's nearly as fast and agile as a road bike.

   Thursday, Bob D., Leslie B. and I went to Smith Rocks for a climbing outing. It was successful in a modest way -- four climbs and I led two 7's and a 9 -- As I said, modest. We got an early start -- 6A.M.-- but it became too hot for me and Bob (Leslie seemed less troubled) sooner than we thought it would so we quit early in the afternoon
   (Leslie, an attractive young woman, told one of her friends about the planned climbing trip -- including who she was going with and when we would be starting. On hearing the leaving time the friend said:  "Why so early? Do they drive that slow?" --  Leslie told the story with a quiet glee.  You gotta love a snarky youth.)
   The bit of a hike bothered me more than I thought it would. Once again I was reminded that my knee surgeon said complete recovery will take a year or more. 
 
   WORDS: -- dree one's weird -- which means to pursue or submit to one's destiny or fate. (Scottish or northern England) -- I first came across this in Enderby by Anthony Burgess -- a very funny book -- which wasn't a real surprise since Burgess tosses around ten dollar words as if they are five for a dollar. I had to look it up, of course. Since then I found that James Joyce has used the phrase.  Again, not a surprise although with Joyce I would suspect he just made it up. And Kenneth Graham (Wind In The Willows) has used it. Perhaps in some circles it's a common saying. Perhaps it's common currency among those who swim around looking for the Loch Ness Monster or trek around, nose to the ground, looking for the foul smelling Sasquatch.

   BOOKS: Death In The Afternoon (Hemingway) -- A great title, but disgusting on nearly every level. Good old Ernie starts by detailing the use of horses to stick the bulls with the vara (the things they stab into the bull's neck -- which weakens the bull, makes it harder for it to lift it's head and makes it  less dangerous --  The horses are purposely allowed to be gored and they then run around the ring, stiff legged, trailing their entrails -- A comic interlude for Ernie. The rest of the book discussed the details of bull fighting and various fighters. I admit the book is interesting, in a fashion, but even more than before -- even if he was a good writer -- I despise Hemingway and his smug, juvenile "I can buy a big gun and kill things", macho persona.
   The Peloponnesian War (Donald Kagan) Sparta and Athens go at it. Interesting and well written, but to be honest, at 500 pages, it told me more about the war than I really needed to know. And so it goes DJA

*since I can't seem to get photos into this page, I'll put some on my Facebook page.
  

 

  

  

 

Oconomowoc Anew

   dw and I just returned from another trip to Wisconsin. We went back to celebrate dw's Aunt Barbara's 80th birthday. It was very low-key as Barbara wasn't interested in a party or anything else even semi-elaborate -- Steve (dw's brother), Kay (Steve's SO), dw and I treated Barbara to a lunch and a cake -- quiet but pleasant. Otherwise, in the evening we sat outside and talked; we did a modest amount of yard-work; we went with Barbara to her favorite bar/restaurant -- Pauline's -- and went to the Oconomowoc Fire Station to see the hose cart:

The hose cart is an early 20th century piece of fire equipment. It carried 800 feet of 3 inch fire hose, and the hose plus cart weighed over 1000 pounds. The firemen towed it to the fire by hand (A manly bunch, it seems). dw's grandfather and great-grandfather were volunteer firemen and the older one built the cart (at his own expense) for the department to use. At some point he got PO'd and took his cart and went home. It stayed in the attic of his garage (the family home -- still occupied by his descendant) for the next 90 years until this year when Barbara donated it to the fire department which restored it to it's present splendor. A deputy chief (Glenn Leidel) gave us a talk on how the cart was used and then gave a tour of the station -- It was great. Thoroughly interesting and entertaining. And he let dw try on his fire-fighting outfit:

   I can see a new fashion trend starting.

   We also revisited the Kohler Art Museum in Sheboygan. Again I must say it's one of my favorite museums anywhere. The Kohler collects vernacular or outsider art works and installations -- they'll buy whole buildings or rooms (most of their collection is stored someplace -- they only display a few items at a time) A good article:  www.nytimes.com/2009/07/12/arts/design/12 

 And the Kohler is famous for it's bathrooms:

This is one of six -- three men's and three women's.

Some notes from the road: Except for two delays (one meant we returned home a day later than planned), the flights, going and coming, were uneventful and we even scored some good seats.

   At the Minneapolis airport we saw an iPhone cover -- a piece of plastic, a 5cent item -- for $35 dollars. We didn't believe it and dw asked the clerk about it. The clerk scanned it, confirmed the price, and said: "No wonder we haven't sold any."  I guess even Apple fanboyz have their limits.

We walked around the grounds of a small monastery across the street from Steve's house. At a small shrine to the Virgin Mary dw asked me why Mary was stepping on a snake. I explained that Mary is sort of a reincarnation of Eve, only this time she doesn't succumb to the snakely wiles of Satan -- But that particular story has never rung true to me. Would any woman take an apple from a snake? It was a snake for god's sake. In my opinion any woman, past or present, would say: "You're a snake. At least make it a piece of pie and we might talk."

Books: The Worst Hard Time (Timothy Egan) About the monumental dust storms that occurred during the Great Depression. -- The same area and time that Steinbeck wrote of in The Grapes of Wrath (one of America's great novels) -- Egan interviewed survivors who stayed in the area -- It's an amazing, fascinating book. Of interest to me: The whole area was unquestionably saved from complete depopulation and destruction by the efforts of Franklin Roosevelt's administration -- and I don't believe the region has ever voted for a Democrat  -- Oh well.

   Word for the week: Isn't actually a word, it's a name or a phrase. Osedas Mucofloris or in English: Bone Eating Snot Worm. Since I read about the bone eating snot worm, I sometimes lie awake at night -- worried about what might be under the bed. If such a thing must exist it should be named a Bone-Eating Gertrude and just forget about mentioning the mucus coating. But so it goes DJA

P.S.  For some reason the Times link isn't working. If you're interested Google: NYT Kohler Art Museum. -- The article is one of the first links that will come up.  DJA

More On The Bicycle

   Since the last post, the biggest news here is that dw has officially retired. I won't comment on her new status since she has promised several times to write an entry. We shall all wait with bated breath.

   Regarding the bicycle: On my regular route to the rock-climbing gym I've been passing this street person:

  He had the largest collection on his shopping cart I've ever seen (If you look closely you can see a wheel). He was organized, with a green tarp to cover his cart and a blue tarp to sleep under. And the location was odd because the corner is essentially a residential neighborhood with little pedestrian traffic to pass on a dollar or two. After he had been there for two months, he was missing one morning and I figured the police had moved him on. On returning home I saw a small wreath of flowers at the base of the no-parking sign. I looked in the paper but didn't find any notice of his death -- brief or otherwise --- But I'm assuming he died. Another person little noticed  nor long remembered, but someone noticed and cared enough to lay a small temporary memorial.  Donne had it right: the death of a stranger, even if seen indirectly, is affecting.

On a better note, I've had two bicycle adventures with birds. First, I was going down a hill -- moving about 20mph -- when I caught up to a crow who was just drifting along. He (? -- I'm not good at sex identifying crows -- ) was flying low and I came up behind him getting close enough to actually grab his tail (I didn't) before he sped up and turned away. I followed him for about half a block.

And second, I was approaching a bridge when a peregrine falcon swooped over my head from behind, missing me by six inches, and nailing a pigeon which was perched on the bridge. -- An explosion of feathers and a couple of seconds later the falcon flew away with the pigeon in it's talons. I don't really know, but I think the falcon used me as a moving blind. It was great and it happened so fast I didn't have time to be startled and run into a bridge pier or even fall off the curb.

Finally, I have a plane to catch -- and that's hard, they're big and fast -- so I need to bring this to a close.  DJA

The Hiatus Is Over (At Least For Now)

Last Saturday's "Pearls Before Swine" comic strip:

    Rat: "Hey Goat ... I was reading your blog at home today, but I got distracted." 

    Goat: "Yeah, that can happen with even the most compelling writing ... What distracted you? A phone call? Person at the door? TV show?"

    Rat: "A beige wall."

I'm not taking it personally.

   A few weeks ago, in a  modest celebration of dw's birthday, we took an overnight trip up the Columbia Gorge.  We drove to Goldendale for lunch at the Glass Onion, which is a surprisingly good restaurant -- for such an out of the way place.  I had a grilled chicken breast sandwich -- on focaccia with a black olive tapenade and goat cheese -- really excellent. And dw had a tilapia with caponata dish -- also excellent. For dessert I had a piece of apple pie and dw had chocolate cake with a berry sauce. The deserts were good but not up to the standard of the meal.

   After eating, we drove back roads west of Goldendale to find the end of a rail-to-trail bike ride we have been thinking about doing. After finding it we have reconsidered the ride. The trail is 35 miles long (packed gravel) and it ends 15 miles from Goldendale. We had considered riding it from Lyle to Goldendale, spending the night and then riding back to Lyle but neither one of us is in good enough shape to ride, back to back, two 50 mile days, particularly on gravel. We might do a two car relay and ride it one way.

   After that, we returned to The Dalles where we spent the night. The next day we returned to the Washington side and took a short hike at The Dalles Ranch State Park (An old working farm/ranch that was deeded to the state and turned into a park -- Farm house, barn, out-buildings, assorted horse or tractor powered farm machinery scattered around)

One site was very happy with California Poppys.
  
   Further east, we stopped at Wishram to look at a locomotive that is sitting there. (I didn't get a decent picture) The thing is HUGE. (If there's a steam engine fan reading this, it's a Baldwin 4-8-2 P-2 Mountain class.) The engine, plus tender (which is designed so it looks like one unit) is 90 feet long and 17 or 18 feet tall. The eight driver wheels are each over 6 feet in diameter. A modern diesel might be more powerful, I wouldn't know, but the Baldwin looks like the sumo wrestler of train engines. Strictly by appearance that big boy could kick sand in the face of any modern diesel around. (It also weights 260,000 pounds)
   After staring slack-jawed at the behemoth we stopped at the local tavern (The Pastime) for a burger and a beer. The burger was good and since we were sitting at the bar with the locals, we had a Bud so we would fit in. The Bud was a Bud. The Pastime has a bar cat who sleeps on it's own bar stool. With any provocation the cat will walk the length of the bar -- lap to lap -- stopping wherever it gets the most attention. When everyone shoos it away it returns to it's stool and goes back to sleep. The tavern has all the classic small town elements: A pull tab game (not for gambling purposes) Seemingly designated stools -- Local elementary school booster stuff -- Classic tavern signs:  Our credit manager is Helen Waite. If you want credit, go to Helen Waite. and: If you need credit, you don't need a drink, you need a job. We loved it -- and the burger really was good (the fries, not so much)

   After that we stopped at Maryhill, looked at the new addition and wandered around the grounds.
  
      Back at The Dalles we found that you can't get a flat tire fixed on Sunday afternoon. I finally got a can of fix-a-flat which was good enough for the rest of the day.

     Another night at The Dalles and then we came home via Dufur and a back road that led to Hood River. We got an ice cream cone at the Dufur ice-cream emporium and listened to the young woman complain about how dead Dufur is and The Dalles isn't much better. Which seemed to fit with what we'd seen, and finally we stopped at the Dufur Grocery Store. It's an amazingly well stocked grocery / deli with really cool ceiling fans.

   The nearest (top of photo) thing is the electric motor, and all of the fans are belt driven. The store has three banks of fans. After a good Thai lunch in Hood River, we came home. The mountains were in splendid view all weekend (Mts. Adams and Rainier)

   Books: I've read a bunch, but I'll just mention a couple:  Packing For Mars (Mary Roach) Which is basically about the nitty-gritty of long and short term space travel. Pee, poop, no bathing or change of underwear -- things get pretty foul. Anyway, a really entertaining book.
   Just My Type (Simon Garfield) -- "a book about fonts" -- about the history and design of various type styles. A lot more entertaining and interesting than might be imagined.

   And finally, in response to the beige wall -- a new blog feature: odd words. These will be words I come across in various places and which I never use and can't imagine anyone else using either.
  
 For starters, I'll just quote from Packing For Mars:  SCURF --- "A.k.a., shed skin. Dorland's Medical Dictionary defines scurf as 'a branny substance of epidermic origin' --- an evocative pairing of dander and breakfast cereal. Try new Kellogg's Dandruff Flakes!"

 And NAUFRAGOUS --- causing shipwreck -- If the Baldwin P-2 Mountain class locomotive is ever found floating unhelmed in the Pacific, it would potentially be:  nafragous.
   And so it goes. DJA
   

Local Color

   Today I rode the bike to the rock gym and back -- fifteen miles round trip. My knee surgeon and the physical therapists have all warned me about over-doing it while I'm recovering from the new knee surgery. But what's the fun in that? By Wednesday I hope to be able to move again.
   However I was reminded of the pleasures of bike riding: In addition to the wonderful aromas wafting about the Williams Avenue restaurant row, today one of the cafes had a quartet (piano, bass, drums and sax) entertaining their breakfast / brunch crowd with some jazz /swing music. I stopped for awhile to listen.

   Later I saw a very odd tandem bike -- the riders were back to back -- a pushmi-pullyu / Janus arrangement. It seems to me that it would be unpleasant for the person moving backwards and I couldn't see any advantage to the arrangement (the bike was nearly as long as an ordinary tandem) It seems like a pointless curiosity.

   Further along on the ride home, I saw this event. It was a neighborhood event, like a block party only they were painting the intersection. A lady involved in the project told me it was part of a week-long event that would see several intersections painted. There's a non-profit organization -- started in Portland -- that helps neighborhoods paint intersections as well as build various sorts of "earth buildings" and establish neighborhood gardens (vbc.cityrepair.org)

   Oddities:  This creation was at a bike shop. I think the rider stands on the pedals and uses the curved silver bar as handlebars. The convoluted pipe bendings seem to have an aesthetic aim. Note the red tail light and the skate-board rear wheels. I didn't see it ridden. The arrangement seems impractical for a cross-country bike tour.

   And the fellow below was sitting on a curb eating a sandwich, drinking his Pepsi and feeding his parrot. It was curious. They were clearly BFF's -- The guy was talking to the parrot and the parrot was chirping, chattering and squawking back in a very conversational manner. The guy was complaining to the bird that it had shat on his shoulder. The bird didn't care but was willing to talk about it. After a bit the guy said: "Let's go." and with a lot of chatter, the parrot walked up to his shoulder (and probably shat again).  And the guy picked up his stuff and left.
   

Bicycling is much more interesting than driving a car, and in a few more weeks I trust a couple of miles on the bike won't be such an epic struggle. DA

Leaving On A Jet Plane

   Ordinarily boarding an airplane is an unexceptional event. I get in line, shuffle along with everyone else, wait with everyone while those ahead try to stuff their steamer trunk into the overhead bin, accept whoever my seat mates are (sometimes with dread) and settle in for a few hours of unpleasantness.  My last few flights, however, have been post knee surgery and as I have been somewhat gimpy and slow I've taken advantage of early boarding. This has made boarding a different experience. I go down the aisle without the crowding and rush, put my bag in the bin, and sit down to enjoy (temporarily) the expanse of vacant seats. And once seated we early boarders assess the rest of the passengers as they come in -- rating them as suitable seat mates.
   It's a complex area of hope and dread. Not to offend anyone, but I certainly don't want to sit next to someone fat. I'm not a small person myself, but I do fit in an airline seat. I fit, but there's no room left over for another person to share -- so when a corn-fed beef comes down the aisle there's  a time of fear and dread followed with a nearly audible sigh of relief when they pass by. A woman on the small size (such as dw) is ideal. Too young and they might be a gum popper who would need to be dealt with but normally a small woman is perfect -- better than a small man since the woman is less likely to have B.O. If I happen to be in the mood for conversation (rarely -- I usually read) an older man or woman is better since they're more likely to have interesting things to talk about.

   (The exception proves the rule. On a train ride to San Francisco a couple of years ago my seat mate was a 20-something man. Due to two accidents (vehicles on the track -- what the hell is wrong with people that they can't see a damn railroad train coming) the journey took many hours more than I had planned so I ran out of reading material. The young man, it turned out, was a WWII reenactor - something new for me. I knew of Revolutionary War reenactors: Usually on the East Coast where a bunch of (mostly) men don their spiffy red and blue and white uniforms with their tri-corner hats and then march around shooting blanks with their flintlocks. Afterwards they drink corn liquor and lie and sneer at the farbs*.
   And Civil War reenactors -- they're all over the country, even here in Oregon where the nearest Civil War Battle was 2000 miles away. The Civil War reenactors march around in their drab blue and grey uniforms with ill-fitting shoes (there wasn't a distinction between left and right feet, shoe wise) shoot blanks with their percussion rifles, then they drink whiskey or moonshine and lie and sneer at the farbs.
   I've never heard of WWI reenactors. I guess they'd have to dig two facing ditches and fill them with water so they'd be muddy. Then they could crouch in the ditches and each side would take a turn jumping out of the ditch, running to the mid-point and then everybody would fall down and pretend to be dead. To be authentic they'd have to take turns for several days. Then they could drink red wine or schnapps and lie and sneer at the farbs.
   The WWII guys though. They had the guns and the machine guns. The jeeps and the howitzers and they even had REAL TANKS. I could get into that. Charging around in a jeep (or much better) a tank without worrying about bombs or cannons. It would be even better than driving a Cat where I just pushed around a pile of dirt (though that was pretty great). Then everyone would drink beer or red-wine or schnapps and lie and sneer at the farbs. )

   And the young man didn't even stink, so seat-mate assessment is an inexact science. On the last flight from Wisconsin though my luck ran out. I rolled snake-eyes. I drew to an inside straight and missed. I put in my last dollar and the slot machine came up lemons.
   My seat mates were a couple: I'll call them Ken and Kollie. The plane was  medium sized with five seats per row: ABCDE. Seat A was filled with Dollie, a friend of Kollie. B was a woman a few years older than I. She was nicely dressed and looked as if she belonged to a book club and enjoyed an occasional glass of sherry in the evening. During the flight we would exchange glances and figuratively pat each other's hand and murmur "There, there. This too shall pass."
   Then the aisle. C was me. D was Ken and E was Kollie.  (here I must stress: NONE of the following is an exaggeration)
   Ken and Kollie were among the last few to board so there was a fair amount of fussing finding space in the overhead bins and stuffing packs under the seat. No sooner were they seated when Kollie sprang up and shouted: "Fuck, it's Dollie! Hi Dollie!" Ken murmured something and Kollie (with an outside voice -- her normal volume) said "F--- You. You're always tellin' me what to do." Then Kollie got out her cell phone: "It's my f----- sister. I'm not going to hang up, asshole." And then the steward came by and told her to turn off her phone. Ken murmured something. "F--- you a--h---" and she punched him.
   (At this point I should mention that Ken seemed to be a decent sort. He was clearly a laborer and pretty big -- bigger and sturdier than I am -- and throughout the flight he tried to keep a lid on Kollie. Kollie was 5 feet or so, over weight with a very modest bust line and straggly hair )
   Then Kollie draped her legs over Ken's leg. "F--- you. I can put my F------ seat belt on." and she punched him (Pow! right in the kisser!) Then she grabbed his hair and pulled him in for some mouth to mouth tongue action. They both sat back, then she reached over and fondled his crotch. Then she punched him again. Then she frantically waved at Dollie who frantically waved back. "Hi, Dollie." "F--- you, a--h---. Dollie's my friend." (Pow! right in the kisser!) And she grabbed Ken's hand and rubbed it against her boob -- moaning with faux sexual excitement and (Pow! right in the kisser!) and grabbed his crotch again. Ken murmured something. "F--- you. I want something to drink. When do we f------ get something to drink?-- ( she ended up with four airline bottles) And it went on and on, without letup, throughout the flight.
   I considered speaking up but decided it would doubtless escalate the situation. And besides, while Ken seemed to be a decent sort he might take offence at a stranger telling his wife to shut up and he could have easily pounded me flat. I asked the steward if there was a seat I could move to. There wasn't. I had a credit card, could I upgrade to first class. It was full.
   I tried meditating -- didn't work. Considered getting drunk -- no way would I pay $7 for a tiny airline whiskey drink. Read the airline stuff-for-sale catalogue with (Pow! right in the kisser!) and moaning and crotch grabbing in the background.
    Eventually the flight ended.
   Leaving the terminal I saw Dollie leaving -- she was supported by a man and woman as she was too drunk to walk without assistance. I saw Kollie leaving -- marching out like a hog going to war (as my father used to say) followed -- with seeming reluctance -- by her husband Ken. And my ride (Bob D.), picked me up and drove me home. Earning my eternal gratitude because the ride (Bob is civilized) ended my journey in the twilight zone.    DA

   * Farb: a reenactor who is insufficiently authentic.

In Memoriam

                                                   Robert (Bob) Wessel  1928-April 21, 2012

   He was a good man, and he will be missed. Requiescat in pace.        DA