Hey...WossaMottaU?

A farewell...for now.

2007-01-03T18:38:00.000-08:00

No one reads this. So...I am signing off for the time being.

I have a new blog you may be interested in.

Ask me no questions...I just might lie!

2007-01-03T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have had the opportunity of late of taking a few on-line “assessment” tests as part of job the application process. In fact, over the years I have been subjected to such quizzing on many occassion in my searches for corporate positions.

These tests range from 30 or 40 basic “what would you do if” questions...to 200 plus questions hoping to get some insight into my psychological state. Usually they are multiple choice things that are very redundant at best, ie, asking the same questions over and over again worded differenly each time. Here are couple of actual examples taken from these assessments...

Ex: You get upset when given specific directions on how to do your work.
A. Strongly agree. B. Agree. C. Disagree. D. Strongly disagree.

or...

Ex: You are normally not an easy going person.
A. Strongly disagree. B. Disagree C. Agree. D. Strongly agree.

And so on.

I feel I probably do a good job at these invasive tests. If you really want to get hired, you attempt to answer them, not as honestly as possible, but as close as possible to what the administrator would favor. Let’s face it, we all have strengths and weaknesses...but why wear them on your sleeve for all to see? You want the job don't you?

Here is a short list of my Top 10 favorite (though fictional) assessment test questions.

1. I have the potential to be a serial killer.
A. Very likely. B. Likely. C. Unlikely. D. Don't ask me this question or I'll kill you.

2. People frequently tell me how bad my body odor is.
A. Very often. B. Often. C. Seldom. D. Only when I don't shower for a week or more.

3. I enjoy watching my subordinates squirm, suffer, and cry when I criticize their work.
A. Always. B. Most of the time. C. Once in a while. D. Only female employees.

4. At a social gathering, I enjoy starting arguments between other people.
A. Highly agree. B. Agree. C. Disagree. D. Highly disagree.

5. My most recent employer would describe me as cynical, vitriolic, caustic, and recalcitrant.
A. All the time. B. Once in a while. C. Only when necessary. D. Never on Sundays.

6. In school, I was often referred to as “that asshole who made fun of everybody”.
A. Everyday, everyone. B. Only in the showers at gym. C. Only to people who deserved it. D. Only to the new handicapped students.

7. At work I tend to do only what is necessary.
A. Strongly disagree. B. Disgree. C. Agree. D. What’s your point?

8. I have no problem with telling off my boss.
A. Strongly disagree. B. Disgree. C. Agree. D. Piss off!

9. It’s O.K. to call in sick to work only when...
A. You are too sick to work. B. You have a communicable disease. C. You can’t get out of bed. D. You are sick of work.

10. At work, you are the one person other people turn to when...
A. They have a problem. B. They need advice. C. They are feeling bad. D. When money is missing.

Remember...always answer these assessment questions honestly. Or, at least, try to remember what you said.

Snowstorm Sam

2007-01-02T14:31:00.000-08:00

I resurrected a little slideshow video I did a couple of years ago, just after we adopted Sammy.

His racing name was Snowstorm Sam. Fortunately, for us, his racing record was less than spectacular. By the tatoos in his ears, we were able to do an internet search and find his records. Out of 29 races at a Tuscon dog track, he only won 3 of them. He is still the most loyal and affectionate dog I have ever had. And, he still weighs in at his racing weight (69 lbs) two years later. Contrary to popular belief, greyhounds are 45 mph couch potatoes sleeping upwards of 18 hours a day...on our bed! But when he does run, he reaches that speed in 3 seconds flat.

New Years Eve...and now, Day

2007-01-01T12:04:00.000-08:00

(11:27 am)...Third down and five...Wisconsin on their own 37...he pumps, he fakes....wait...first this news bulletin...Marie Osmond has gotten fat!

The Rose Parade is over. I have no interest in college football, but I just may tune into the Rose Bowl Game...USC and Michigan (I think), so as not look like a wuss next week. We just packed away the lifelike Costco Xmas tree for another year...the one the with 1500 Italian twinkly lights. Loretta is vacuuming up the pine tree needles (yes, apparently even fake trees shed!).

Earlier, I cooked us each a 1/2 order of Eggs Benedict and homefries...then actually cleaned up the kitchen myself. We plan to “snack it” the rest of the day...cheese and crackers, celery and peanut butter, maybe a Prime Rib sandwich this afternoon (leftover from our homemade New Years Eve dinner).

Back to the Rose Parade. The highlights and lowlights. We didn’t see the whole thing in one shot. But it’s being broadcast over and over on various cable stations, including my favorite version: The KTLA Bob Eubanks edition, co-hosted by an unrecognizable named news babe out of La-La-Land. The highlight? The flyby of a B-1 Bomber flanked by a couple of F-22 Raptors, afterburners blazing just above Colorado Boulevard on their way back to Edwards Air Force Base. The lowlight? Some sort of giant butterfly-laden float with Marie Osmond perched and waving from the inside of a flower. Honestly, they should have just attached a hitch to her ass, put roller skates on her, and towed her down that Pasadena thoroughfare. Wow! The cherubic face and signature Osmond dental work is still descernable...but man...what a chubber! I didn’t watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade...but was she in it...floating down 34th street...tethered down with ropes held by 100 boy scouts? He’s a little bit Rock and Roll...she’s a little bit Country Biscuits and Sausage Gravy!

The weather here in the Central Valley is the nicest it has been in a few weeks...sunny, mild, with a few high clouds. I just remembered that Loretta and I talked about going for a ride in the ‘69 Porsche 912. Before we go, Loretta is going to light a few prayer candles, do a few incantations, and hope that we can get back home after the drive. It’s always an adventure taking out the 912...fun to drive, but there is anxiety concerning our odds of getting it started again.

We did stay home last night as planned...cooking a small Prime Rib with a Romaine heart salad and my own special Bleu Cheese Dressing. Loretta had a Pina Colada, I had a couple of Cuba LIbras. We watched Las Vegas Vacation, then Hostel. Yes, Hostel...Loretta wanted to watch a scary movie. Hostel is not as scary as it is gruesome...but fun to watch anyway. We hit the sack about 11:30 to watch the ball drop from the safety of our bed covers. It’s just too scary out there on New Years Eve. BTW...Dick Clark...what a trooper!

From my part time bartending days of long ago, I recall this evening as being referred to as: Amateur Night. Amateur Night in the bar business simply means all the amateur, once-a-year drinkers are out in force. For the most part, these fledgling embibers have no idea of what to drink, how much to drink, or how to act. Here was a typical exchange from one of those New Years Eves...

Me: "What'll ya' have miss?"
Miss: "Well, what is that greenish kinda drink that tastes like anise you make in a blender?"
Me: (rolling my eyes) "It's a Grasshopper miss...a Grasshopper".
Miss: "Oh...I don't want that. What is HE having?" (gesturing toward the oily beau-hunk with an open shirt, three medallions, and lots of chest hair at the end of the bar).
Me: "He's drinking boiler makers...shots and beers."
Miss: "Oooooh...I want that!"
(20 minutes later)
Me: "I’ll flip ya' to see who gets to clean up all that vomit".
Other bartender: "But she's laying in it...face down".
Me: "Yea...but her tits fell out when she barfed".
Other bartender: "Sweet! I'll do it."
Oily beau-hunk: "Buy her another shot and a beer on me".
Me: "Sweet".

Fun, huh?

Well, Happy New Year. May 2007 be fulfilling, prosperous, and safe.

Good chance that Marie Osmond will score a Nutri-System contract.

Good Day Sacramento...yes, I have accepted your invitation to change the station!

2006-12-31T10:21:00.000-08:00

Have you ever found yourself saying (to yourself or any person standing conveniently close to you), “How the heck did that person get on television?”

I say that to myself, or to any person in close proximity, all the time. “How in the world did that person get his or her charged coupled electrons splayed all over my expensive plasma television screen?” Yes, I know...I turned it on! But, it blows me away! To be fair, let’s include radio and film in that opening statement.

Now, I am not talking about good looks or bad looks here - although there is certainly enough aesthetic ugliness broadcast on T.V. and projected on gigantic theater screens to last us a lifetime. I am talking about just plain untalented, unfunny, uneducated, and unbelievely unappealing, unable-to-put-together-a-proper-sentence people. They have somehow convinced a power-to-be that we, the viewing public, would enjoy watching or listening to them in our homes.

Specifically, I need to focus on news...more specifically morning news “anchors”...in this diatribe of disgust. If I didn’t fine tune it to this genre, the blog administration people would run out of megabytes on their server with this post alone. The movies will get their own Hansen Rant at a later date.

A little history...

I spent fifteen years in radio broadcasting as a morning show announcer, DJ, program director, music director, and chief cook and bottle washer. I did it all for quite a while. Initially, working part time at the shittiest, fly-by-night A.M. and F.M. radio stations. I labored long hours in the morning, the afternoon, and late at night playing the dumbest music and running the nastiest local commercials on the planet. I was subjected to criticism and ridicule from the most vile of so-called program directors you will ever meet. Program directors at tiny radio stations who made Howard Stern’s Pig Vomit guy in Private Parts (played by Paul Giamatti BTW) look like your kindly Uncle Marvin. These small town station guardians of talent scrutinized my on-air work with a fine-toothed comb...all the while, conducting theirselves on the air without any regard for their own rules and regulations. Do what I say, not what I do! I recall one particular scathing critique session at a small, tobacco-smelling, hind-tit A.M. station in San Luis Obispo with a P.D. calling himself Rockin’ Ron. This was in 1976...I was 26. Rockin’ Ron was a tall, scroungy, goateed creep with shoulder length black hair. He always wore the same dirty jeans, Levy jacket, beat up cowboy boots, and some sort of record company (freebie) t-shirt for Boston, or Foreigner, or Peter Frampton. It went as follows:

Rockin’ Ron: “What the f*** do you think you’re doing?" (takes a big swig from a 16 ounce Colt 45 sitting on his desk).
Me: “Ummm...what do you mean?” (my eyes now averted to the five empty Colt 45 cans in the trash can next to his desk. He had just finished his four-hour program).
Rockin’ Ron: “I listened to your entire radio show last Sunday...and I didn’t hear one f***ing set of “the basics!”
Me: (face reddened with a combination of fear and growing anger) “Ummm...I thought I did”.
Rockin’ Ron: (takes the second, and last, big swig from the 16 ounce Colt 45) “Do you want this f***ing job?”
Me: (eyes momentarily averted to the empty Colt 45 can crashing into the trash can) “Ummm...yes!” (I really meant to say NO, but was too scared).
Rockin’ Ron: “Then take these six flash cards with you on your show today...and I don’t want to hear one single f***ing word other than what is written on these cards!”
Me: “O.K.”
Rockin’ Ron: (lets out a huge belch, the smell wafting across his desk, making my eyes instantly start watering). “Get out!”

I slowly and sheepishly backed out of his tiny office located in a storage closet near the studio. I could hear Rockin’ Ron fumbling around in the grocery bag that was sitting on his desk...the pop of the next Colt 45 can could be heard from two rooms away.

The six flash cards read: Time, Temperature, Artist, Song Title, Your Name, Call Letters. These were, and should still be, the Basics of radio on-air prattle.

Rockin’ Ron, despite his crassness and holier-than-thou attitude, taught me some valuable lessons about broadcasting. “Hansen,” he quipped, “if you can’t smoothly and effortlessly do the basics...then you can’t ad lib, be funny, or anything else on the air”. And Rockin’ Ron was right! He went on, “And, never say in a paragraph what you can say in a sentence”. On-air economics was of the essence in those days....and still should be today.

For the most part, our local morning T.V. show “anchors” either have not come from radio...or, in some cases, forgotten what they learned in those paying-your-dues days. They continue to blather on and on (seemingly) without any regard for the listener or the viewer. It is just one big verbal orgy of endless cackling, clucking, fumbling, giggling, and blathering about nothing. And to make things worse, most of them speak in a mind-boggling X-Gen velocity laced with “dudes”, and “likes”, and “ya’ knows”, and “whatevers”. It’s exasperating to watch at times. I thank the big broadcast guy in the sky when they finally go to the teleprompter and start reading a story lead-in. If we’re lucky, some of them have at least mastered the reading part...though not always. When they can’t even get through a short script without stuttering or stammering...it’s time for us to bail. Or, simply change the station.

Yes, I realize I have the right to change the station. These malingering morning misguided (so-called) journalists continually remind us of our right to turn them off if we don’t like it. What a brilliant rationalization. “If you don’t like it...piss off!”

At least most of the local evening news anchors in Sacramento were apparently (and rightly) hired because they had the ability to read well and to look pretty. They do what they were hired to do...be an attractive talking head. Unfortunately, even these high-paid puppets stray into unfamiliar territory on occassion...ad libbing and improvisation. No...no...no! Don’t do that! Don’t try to fly...your wings are not equipped for flight. You will crash to the earth like Icarus. In fact, you have no wings at all! Read...read...read! And that’s it.

And as for the morning T.V. talk show folk with no talent or ability for such off-the-cuff broadcast frivolity...get a radio job for while, or on weekends. Or, how about this...stop jerking each other off while watching your airchecks. You ain’t all that!

The biggest shame-on-you of all? The higher-ups who allow this to happen. What are they thinking?

There is some degree of merit to having high energy "personalities" on the air...the counter to the alternative of feigned sincerity from the other guys. But, there must be some sort of medium ground to all of this. How about some guidance from the producers? But maybe they need to spend some (more) time in radio as well.

The cluelessness runs throughout the hierarchy of...Good Day Sacramento!

Oh what the heck...I’m making New Years resolutions

2006-12-30T07:58:00.000-08:00

Me: “What are your New Years resolutions?”
Them: “Oh, I don’t do that?”
Me: “Do what?”
Them: “Make New Years resolutions”.
Me: “Why not?”
Them: “I just don’t dammit! Stop invading my space. It’s none of anyone’s business but mine!”
Me (running away and shouting over my shoulder): “Sorry! I can recommend a good therapist if you’re interested. Crazy bastard!”.

Them is any number of people I have asked that question in the past 40 years or so. It seems most everyone you ask don’t make New Years resolutions. Or do they?

I think, more accurately, most people really don’t like to talk about their resolutions. I know there are resolutions being made...they're just not being talked about on a one-to-one basis. After all, there are those surveys we have already been seeing on the news and the morning talk shows. So they must be revealing them to someone, somewhere.

It probably has something to do with them not wanting to look silly later on in the new year. You know, when at least half of their New Year’s promises have gone up in smoke...poof! Like when you run into Sally in June and you don’t recognize her because she has gained so much weight since New Years. Or Dan, whose resolution was to get that big promotion at work...and he is now unemployed. Or maybe Rita. One of her resolutions was to give up sex, stop being so promiscuous, and start going to church...and you just saw her on the Maury Show waiting for the results of a paternity test from the UPS guy.

We are simply afraid to fail. If we don’t set goals or make resolutions, then we won’t set ourselves up for failure. New Years resolutions are simply stated goals...no more, no less. And January 1st is just a date on the calendar, albeit a well-known date that is perfect for realigning one’s life. A date to adjust those goals if needed, the ones you made last August or last January.

There is nothing wrong with that! There is nothing shameful about changing, adjusting, realigning, or customizing your life’s goals and plans. It is perfectly normal. And, it is not failing if you don’t realize every one of them to the level you expected.

My New Years resolutions are simple and basic: Lose weight, make more money, be a more loving and caring husband, father, son, and friend, and to stop slouching. That last one is very important for me. It will help with my self-esteem. Standing up straight(er) and walking proud can really do wonders for some of us...or cause people to think you are an arrogant asshole.

So when someone tells you, “I don’t make resolutions”...they are probably lying to you. Don’t take it personal, they are simply revealing their insecurity.

Me: “Resolve away with reckless abandon. Quantity is better than quality here. The more you resolve, the more chances you have for success! Take those leaps of faith and follow your heart. Free your spirit. Quit your job and do what you have only dreamed of. I know of what I speak fellow traveler!”
Them: (running away and shouting over their shoulder): “Who asked you anyway? Crazy bastard!”

Dexter

2006-12-29T11:01:00.000-08:00

Dexter is not for everybody. Dexter is our favorite show right now. Dexter is one of the most original shows to come along in a quite a while.

For the last 12 Sundays, we have been glued to our television set at 7:00 pm (10:00 for the Pacific feed) even more so than we were for The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, or even Deadwood.

I think Dexter filled that Sunday night void for most of us, the void that happened with the ending of Six Feet Under a couple of years ago. Not to mention that weak season of Sopranos that ended with, not a bang, but with a whimper. Of course, the Sopranos returns in a couple of months with the final season, we are still committed to that dysfunctional New Jersey family. Deadwood also returns soon...being enthralled with the graphic bizarreness of this HBO series as well.

I stumbled upon Dexter just after it premiered. Got sucked in, then watched the first episode on demand. The premise of this hot Showtime series is really off-the-wall. The lead character, Dexter Morgan (played perfectly by Six Feet Under alumnus Michael C. Hall), is a serial killer. That is how the show marquees itself. In the character’s own words, “I’m Dexter. I’m a serial killer”. So why would you watch something that showcases itself in this manner? Well, if you are very religious, very sensitive, or very much one of those “morality types”...then stay away, it’s not for you...as so many other cable series are (not).

You see, Dexter Morgan is also a police forensic blood splatter expert, an adopted orphan, and a survivor from a gruesome childhood incident. This incident involved him being made to watch his mother being killed by a serial killer...with a chain saw. A caring police officer took him in, adopted him, and helped him deal with the obvious issues that might ensue from such an experience. Basically, his adopted father taught him how to deal with his tendencies to become a serial killer himself...by channeling that “energy” to a kind of vigilantism. Dexter “takes out” other serial killers who have gotten away with murder.

Due to his father’s police background and knowledge of forensics, he taught Dexter how to live this bizarre existence and not get caught. And, Dexter becomes a forensic expert himself (his day job), specifically, a blood spatter expert called in to consult and investigate the most heinous of crimes in the Miami area.

There are a number of side plots going on, including his struggle to have a “normal” relationship with a woman, his relationship with his adopted sister (who is also a police detective), and himself being pursued by a Miami serial killer. Any more details here would be considered “spoilers”...watch the show!

My daughter Jenifer and son-in-law Roth just spent two days with us for the holidays. Jen is a Sopranos, Six Feet Under, cable series “junky” (I say this with much affection). She had never seen Dexter as they do not have Showtime at home. In two days, she watched all 12 episodes on demand. The 12th episode was the season finale. It premiers again in March. I think she is hooked!

There are some gruesome scenes, but not gratuitous. Dexter is more of a murder mystery/ character study piece that also provides some great dark humor at times...thanks to Hall's sarcastic dialogue and smirky delivery. It has a great ensemble cast, most of which are not “name” actors...except for Michael C. Hall. All the characters seem to fit perfectly in this continuing story. All adding to the magnetism that draws you back week after week.

One big difference that Dexter offers over the last couple seasons of The Sopranos (for example) is that something happens interesting in every episode. Dexter “does away” with at least one bad guy (or girl) in every episode. Is this a perverted attraction for us Dexter fans? Perhaps.

It returns to Showtime in March with all new episodes. The producers do a good job of the usual, “Previously on Dexter...” promos. It makes it possible to join up with this Dexter fascination at any point in the season. But if you can watch it On Demand from the beginning, it will be much more affective...it really is a good show. It doesn’t come on until 10:00 pm, so keeping the little kids away should not be a problem...it ain’t for them! BTW...the 10:00 pm slot was a good move by the Showtime people. The Sopranos has held down the top Sunday 9:00 pm slot for a long time. There is no need to give up seeing the top dog of cable series season finale when it returns in early '07.

Dexter will win some Emmys and it will win Golden Globe awards (if you follow such things).

Tune in and get drawn in. And watch Dexter Morgan chop up really bad people into neat little pieces and toss them in the Atlantic ocean.

He was much scarier to me than clowns were

2006-12-27T07:25:00.000-08:00

I still retain a vivid memory from my early childhood about clowns.

I was never really scared of clowns, at least not in person. But somewhere around my 4th year, my parents took me to the movies to see The Greatest Show On Earth. I think it was at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. In that flick, Jimmy Stewart played a clown. He actually was a doctor in exile, hiding behind the clown personna and makeup in the circus that Charleton Heston ran. In at least one scene, they showed a closeup of Stewart in the clown makeup that he never removed the whole movie. That image projected onto a fifty foot movie screen was etched in my four year old mind...and, I remember that it scared me shitless! My Dad had to take me out into the lobby to calm me down. I don't know if we ever returned to the theatre.

The only other time I was that frightened at that age was in the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea "ride" at Disneyland. For those unitiated with early Disneyland fair, it was a walk-through exhibit of sorts, with diaramas from scenes in the move...including the giant squid part...a life-size squid viewed through the big Nautilus porthole. I lost it there as well! 'Nuff said?

And that brings us to Christmas and Santa. I don't think I was ever comfortable sitting on that guy's lap. Check him out in this photo of me from maybe 1955. He's scary! He was also smelly, grumpy, grabby, and impatient. But, it was the tradition and I did it.

I really had no desire to sit on this old fart's boney lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas. I'm pretty sure I believed in the whole Santa Claus deception...but I definetly never bought into these guys being the actual Santa Claus. In fact, I distinctly recall my parents telling me that these were Santa's Helpers, not the real Santa Claus. I must have asked my mom and dad about seeing his real (black) hair under the cheap, fake beard. Or questioned why Santa smelled like that bottle of liquid my dad kept above the cupboards...or worse, like an old ashtray!

Look at my face in that photo. Stark, raving, fear. When is this thing going to be over? Why do they make me do these embarassing, undignified rituals? I don't care about the candy cane in my hand.

I'm pretty sure that I will get all the stuff I asked for regardless of whether or not I sit on this "clown's" lap. Can I get down now?

The annual retail circle jerk

2006-12-26T09:11:00.000-08:00

Well...I think it’s all over. But not quite.

As I lay in bed very early this morning, covers pulled over my head, one squinty eye exposed searching for the digital time that is projected on our ceiling...I asked myself, “Please tell me that it is the day after Christmas!” The bad gifts, the no gifts, the fattening food, the goofy decorations, the Johnny Mathis song, the emotions, the greed...it is done.

Another yuletide season has come to an end. And even though the main onslaught of retail madness is over...it really isn’t yet. Many of the large department stores, including the one in which Loretta works, open at 5:00 this morning for one last Biggest Sale of the Year. I suppose they can say that it is the Biggest Sale of the Year because this year will end in a few days. Then they can start saying it again for the Big New Years Sales.

I don’t recall any news stories concerning the level of retails sales this season versus last...or whether or not this sector’s cash registers rang more than the predictions predicted. Chances are, they didn’t. It all started out with a bang several weeks ago, then fizzled out a bit as Christmas drew near. It always happens that way...some years worse than others. “Disappointing sales” is the usual catch phrase about now.

But what exactly does “worse” or “disappointing sales” mean to retailers? Here is how it works. To put it simply, the corporate circle jerks begin high up in the chain of command. Predictions of sales start in the boardrooms. Fancy-suited corporate weasels brought their colorful little Powerpoint programs and video extravaganzas to the board meetings last year about this time. Yes, over a year ago! The charts and graphs have red bars, and black lines, and blue arrows...smiling white-toothed, big-titted models shown shopping, dancing, and spending. All arrows and trend icons pointing in a direction that will placate the nervous CEOs and other company officers who wish to keep their high powered (and high paid) jobs. No one wants flat lines in retail! Only the “realistic” prognosticators paint flat lines, or, God forbid, downward-pointing arrows. The people who predict things like this - the realistic ones - are usually so-called independent folk who don’t work for the company.

By the way, the corporate restaurant industry works the same way. The environment in which I spent over 15 lovely years in (lower) middle management at the store level.

So, the corporate jerk-off sessions continue on down the line. The boardroom horseshit slides downhill. We all know that shit flows downhill, don’t we? The same goes for this stinky slurry of misguided information. From the brains, and mouths, and computers, and wet dreams of the fancy-suited weasels comes the sales predictions, now passed down to the division vice presidents, to the department heads, to the regional directors, to the district managers, to the store managers, to the assistant managers, etc. Again, this all happens at least a year in advance. Let’s not forget to throw in “marketing department” somewhere between the V.P.s and the store managers...these poor slobs need to sugarcoat all this good news in the form of multicolored, multi-media packages that will actually carry all this shit downhill....the fanciest of which goes to the investors for their corporate masturbation sessions. The most drab and ill-conceived presentations go to the stores and the hapless management types who are tasked to implement this dribble at the store level.

Fast forward to the end of the business year, sometimes in January, sometimes in July...it doesn’t matter. The corporate emails will start flying everywhere. Emails from the home office blasting store managers for not reaching their goals, for not “buying into the program”, or “turning in less than stellar numbers”, for “not following through”. These will be followed by requests for updated business plans and written excuses with the “whys” and the “wherefores”.

The landslide of corporate boardroom sewage will flow. The meetings will convene. The call to attend home office get-togethers will commence. The decisions will be made. The guillotines will be readied. The hooded executioners (district managers) will be dispatched to their appropriate locations. The blades will fall...heads will roll. The orders will be carried out with swift and reckless abandon. Select store managers and assistant managers will assume their positions. The lambs and goats will be sacrificed. The corporate fancy-suited weasels will adjust their numbers. And the fiscal year will come to a close. Fresh meat will be brought in from other kingdoms...all enthusiastic, hopeful management types with dreams of upward pointing arrows and bonus checks floating in their heads. The exhaulted rulers will strike a match and fire up one of the Cuban cigars they received from another higher-up, tear off a drumstick, sit back in their velvet throne, and breath a sigh of relief that another year has finally ended. The purge is underway. Another game is afoot.

And middle and lower management will only be able to sit and wait the arrival of a hooded individual knocking at their door. Their only hope? That their boss will have the courtesy to give them a “reach-around” when dishing out the results of a less-than-expected retail season.

'Twas the night before Christmas...

2006-12-24T05:50:00.000-08:00

Today is the night before Christmas.

Loretta and I have a full list of things to do...probably a good thing to stay busy. The alternative is lying around and being depressed. She is off today, and I am just...”off” as per usual.

Beginning at 8:00am, we’ll head out for breakfast somewhere, probably Perkos, one of our monthly “date” routines. My breakfast will be so gluttonous that I will not need to eat again for three days. BTW...Last night we had Panda Express takeout. I have been getting the 2-item entree. But recently (in my over-eating stupor) I have opted for the extra-item for $1.25 more. The nice Asian lady who runs the joint diligently asks us every time we go there:

Asian lady: (in her best inaudible and undeciferable pidgeon English) "You want add extra item for $1.25?"

Me: (Like I'm getting a deal) "Yeah, sure...why not? I'll have the sweet and sour pork". (All along knowing that if I got the 3-item entree, it would cost the same as adding $1.25 to the 2-item entree)

So when we got home, we noticed that they actually put another item in the bag. Now, I have to eat a 4-item entree...and they don't even have such an option! Yes...I had to eat it...waste not, want not. I'm still stuffed this morning (is that possible with Chinese food?)...and my stomach is making those gurgling sounds. Must be the King Pao Chicken! I digress...

Then to Gottschalks so she can pick up a few last minute items for gift giving.

We’ll venture to Winco for some grocery shopping...gotta stock up a bit for Jen and Roth’s visit come Tuesday.

Loretta is planning to “fluff” the pillows in the guest accomodations. This means washing the sheets, vacuuming, then cleaning the guest bathroom, etc.

Lunch? Probably nothing today, we’ll be grazing on appetizers and having a cocktail or two later on this afternoon. (Remember my gluttonous breakfast?)

We have an engagement photo shoot next door about 1:00. Our neighbor’s son is getting married in March and we are doing the wedding (in Napa).

Around 3:00, we’ll drop in to Sue & Gene’s place (yes, we’ve been invited) for a little holiday cheer and some appetizers. Plus, we have to drop off some prints I did for them.

Tonight, for dinner...instead of going out like we usually do, we’ve decided to stay home and make a nice dinner for ourselves. That means I will be doing the cooking while Loretta takes a nap on the couch in front of the TV. I’m not sure what I will be fixing yet. We’re having Prime Rib at Sue & Gene’s tomorrow, so no beef tonight!

Later, we’ll both hit the couch and break out the cell phones and start calling our families and friends...an annual Xmas Eve tradition for us the past 8 years.

We haven’t seen It’s A Wonderful Life for a few years, might be time to experience that tear-jerker again. Of course, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles sits in my DVD library ready for this time of year. I know it really is a Thanksgiving flick, but fun to watch around Xmas as well.

Around 10:00, I’ll wake up Loretta, “Honey, let’s go to bed”. We’ll stumble around turning out the lights and checking the doors. And that will be it for us on Xmas Eve.

We'll watch the news in bed. All that "Santa has been reported on radar shit" just doesn't do much for me anymore. Me...Kim...Kris...circa 1959.

I won’t elaborate on what this night was like for me when I was a kid, I’ve already done that here recently to some extent. But I will say this. It was always filled with relatives, good food, and gift opening. Yes, our family opened presents on the night before christmas. The rule was pretty simple. My Dad would remind me and my two sisters as we started getting whiny late in the afternoon:

Us: “Dad...when can we start opening presents?”

Dad: “I’m not gonna tell you again...when it gets dark!”

Us: “That’s not fair. The neighbors already did it, and they’re out playing with their stuff.” (The Dudgeons next door opening all their presents around 1:30 or so. I was so jealous.)

Dad: “If you keep whining about it, we won’t open any tonight. Most families open their presents on Christmas Day!”

Us: (with terrorized facial expressions) “NOOOOOOO! We’ll be patient.”

Sister Kim: "What's patient mean?"

Me: "It means that Mom and Dad are being means to us! Shut up!"

Dad: “Fine. It won’t be long. Go play with something you got last year”.

Us: “Yeah...right. All that stuff is yucky!”

Dad: (in his thoughts) “Swine kids!”

Us: (two minutes later) “Can we open just one now?”

Of course, he did allow us just one “early” present on this day. Mom and Dad would pick out one gift they knew would keep us busy for a while. Heaven forbid it was a sweater, or socks, or something stupid like that. There would be hell to pay for getting an article of clothing for that one early present.

Yup...the afternoon leading up to Xmas Eve was filled with anxiety for me. But a good anxiety. Unfortunately, the Jack Daniel's thing didn't come along until years later.

And to all...a good night.

A Christmas Greeting...

2006-12-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

...from Skip & Loretta.

Pa-pa-pa...ooh-ma-mah mow...

2006-12-22T08:01:00.000-08:00

I have not given anyone the one-fingered salute from behind the wheel in quite a while. In fact, I really can’t recall when the last time was that someone got “the bird” from me. For the most part, I’ve pretty much given up that practice. In today’s sad society, flipping off another driver might get you a response from the barrel of a nine millimeter. I was going to say “especially in Modesto”...but that just wouldn’t be fair...it could happen anywhere now.

But that is not to say that some people don’t deserve getting “the bird”, they most certainly do. And this time of year seems to bring out the worst in people’s driving. They are so bad now, I am having “bad driver anxiety” about even getting in a car the next two days (before Christmas).

So, in lieu of giving anyone the finger (and getting myself shot) - here are a few examples, in my experiences, that would warrant such an action. All of these have actually occurred recently, within a few short miles of the safety of my living room. Also, please keep in mind that honking the horn just prior to extending the middle digit is advised. C’mon, you want them to see it don’t you? What good is flipping some off if they don’t see it? Remember the tree in the forest thing?

1. Drivers running a red light. Yes, my Number One pet peeve right now...busting through an intersection where the light has already turned red. Of course, the odds of this jerk seeing you flipping him or her off are high.

2. Someone stealing the parking space you have been waiting for. This could apply in a mall parking lot or streetside.

3. Someone behind you honking when the light turns green. This would require the over-the- shoulder flip off...or, as an alternative, the bird-into-the-rear-view-mirror technique.

4. An aggressive driver tailgating you, especially on the freeway at 70 miles per hour. Over the shoulder or mirror flip...or, better yet, wait until they are passing you on the right. Roll down the passenger window and extend your arm toward them while screaming the appropriate obscenity.

5. Lane drifters. You must use your first here.

6. Not using the turn signals.

7. Pedestrians crossing in the middle of the street (not using the crosswalk) and expecting you to stop. Of course, you must stop...it’s the law. I still may employ the bird in this instance from time to time. If the pedestrian is packing a “9”, you may be out of range by the time they pull it out.

8. Badly smoking cars.

9. Rumbling, boom-box woofer stereo systems. Use extreme discretion here...keep in mind the odds of the driver having a firearm are pretty good.

10. Any vehicle traveling 20 mph under the speed limit. Use discretion here, as the driver may have Alzheimer's or dementia and doesn’t know where he or she is at the moment. Flipping off these people may shove them over the edge and cause an accident...with you!

This is only the Top 10. There are many more.

As a public service, here are descriptions of the two main bird styles. The first one is the Classic Style...most often used now by females. The middle finger is only slightly above the others, exposing only the last knuckle, the other fingers are only slightly bent. Keep your hand lose and relaxed, thumb straight and pointing up. It is a bit dainty looking and the more polite of the two.

The second one is the more aggressive approach...the Macho Style. Fully extend your middle digit while squeezing your fist tightly. All three sections of your middle finger must be visible above the other knuckles. Extend your thumb out to the side if you really want to make the point. The clenched fist with the white knuckles indicates more anger and really shows that you mean it! No messin' around here.

My father had his own style of flipping the bird from cars. He would actually employ the Classic Style with his arm stuck out the window and pointing up. Then, he would rotate his hand from side to side a few times moving it in an upward motion, thus demonstrating the “screwing” motion the bird refers to. It was quite effective...very theatrical. Dad never used the horn though...flipping someone off was more therapeutical than editorial for him...as it is for me.

I don’t recommend giving anyone the finger these days. As indicated earlier, today’s society has changed so much since those good old days when receiving the bird was almost expected when you screwed up while driving. Hell, when my Dad got that salute from someone else, he would just smile and wave at them (instead of flipping it back). You may want to do that in today’s world...it really does piss them off even more!

I must tell you that I have replaced giving out the three fingered salute with something else...something that is very therapeutic for me. I mouth the words and shake my head from side with a very visible smirk on my face. It’s just for my own satisfaction...most drivers never see it.

What words am I mouthing? Why, Merry Christmas...of course!

Thanks Modesto P.D...at least one of you should be ashamed of yourself!

2006-12-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

If you are one of those do-gooder, George W loving, ass-kissing conservatives who thinks that government and all law enforcement types can do no wrong...don't read this! Or, if you are one those aforementioned individuals and you read it anyway...you can kiss my ass.

Fact: I may be apolitical now (if there is such a thing). But I was raised in a Democrat-like family in the 50s and 60s. I would not now consider myself a Democrat or a Republican, but I do view myself as somewhat of a liberal. I was not a hippy in the 60s, though if I could go back in time...I would move to Haight-Ashbury and do that whole time period over - hang out with women who don't shave under their arms, smoke pot every day, and play my guitar on the street...different than what I actually did back then. Well, two out of three was the reality for a while (all my girlfriends shaved under their arms). I hated cops in those days as much as I hated all authority figures. Afterall, it was the Woodstock generation. I ended up in the service and did my best to do the right thing - all along totally disagreeing with that Vietnam fiasco (where I ended up spending some of my Navy tour).

Today, I would like to thank the Modesto police officer who saw fit to write us a ticket for an expired registration while the car was parked in the mall parking lot (where Loretta works). This little stocking stuffer will cost us $99. The DMV renewal on the Jeep will be paid today ($258). And so our city, our country, and the world will now be safer from tyranny, crime, and terrorism. That little flourescent sticker will be proudly displayed on our back license plate...and we will all be able to sleep better at night due to the diligence of one time-wasting dumbass public servant.

In the meantime...I wonder how many shitstain small-time criminals were breaking into other cars in the Gottschalks parking lot while our officer was writing our ticket? I wonder how many other non-tax-paying skidmark drivers were perusing the parking lot devoid of a license, registration, insurance, or legal documents for residing in the U.S.

No, I am not exempt from obeying the law, ie, keeping my registration up to date. I screwed up! But is this utilization of time by law enforcement prudent, especially this time of year? Would it not be better time management to prioritize patrol time? Or at least wait until after the holidays to write an expired registration ticket on a near-new, clean, Jeep Grand Cherokee? I am quite sure there were many fine examples of vehicles in that parking lot that looked like the rental car in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles...after the fire! Do they harass the owners of those pieces of shit? Hell, if the cops looked in the trunks of some of those cars in this town, they might find several dead bodies of missing people...or at least several dozen illegal aliens.

If the cops in this town actually did their job the entire time they were "clocked in", they might even solve a crime or two! What a concept! But writing frigging expired registration tickets in a mall parking lot at Xmas time is just plain unadulterated bullshit.

Bah...humbug!

I totally support our law enforcement community. I am glad they are there. I am a law-abiding citizen who doesn't speed, has never had a moving violation, always uses his turn signals, and never runs red lights. Where are you guys when jackassess are running red lights at every intersection...at every turn of the lights? Where are you clowns when this deadly practice is happening...a bad habit that could easily cause loss of life? I know where you are? You are patroling the mall parking lot and writing registration tickets. You are sitting somewhere on your cell phone talking to your girlfriend (the one your wife doesn't know about). You're eating donuts!

I'm not completely convinced that we need more officers on the street. I am convinced that they ones we do have need to be managed better. They need to be in the right places, doing the right things...the important things. And the main thing is protecting and serving...emphasize protecting.

If it was one of those Community Service non-police officers who wrote our ticket...shame on you as well. You people are worthless as tits on a bull anyway. If we are going to be paying someone to patrol around in an expensive car with a radio, let's pay them more, train them to be a real cop, give them a gun, and the authority to catch bad guys!

Away to the window I flew like a flash...tore open the window, and threw up on the sash.

We don't have a sash on our windows. But I do feel like throwing up right about now. I'll try to make it to the bathroom.

Modesto P.D....I truly hope you stay safe this holiday season. But at least one of you should be ashamed of yourself!

And to all...a good night.

I'm not a history buff...but...Jefferson was "right"...

2006-12-19T07:26:00.000-08:00

We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with inherent and unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, & the Pursuit of Happiness.

We, as Americans, all have certain unalienable rights. These rights were layed out in the U.S. Constitution in 1789, and a short time later redefined in The Bill of Rights. A few years before you may remember a little document called the Declaration of Independence, these rights were stated here as well...a precursor to the Constitution.

The D.of I. was drafted and written by Thomas Jefferson in 1776. Then sent on to Ben Franklin and John Adams for editing, then to congress for ratification in 1789.

We saw the latest Will Smith flick the other day, The Pursuit of Happyness. And, yes, that is how happiness is mis-spelled in the title - from a little scene where Smith’s character (Chris Gardner) sees that passage written on a wall near his son’s daycare center. He reminds the six year old of the correct spelling.

The short take on the movie, The Pursuit of Happyness, is Garner’s struggle to earn money to support his family, find a better career, and be happy. The flick is a gentle, sweet, feel-good piece that really does address this right stated in the Declaration of Independence. But it also points out one detail that we may overlook. Garner, surviving one disappointmet after after the other, realizes that his right to the pursuit of happiness is just that...the right to the pursuit. The Declaration of Indepence did not say we all have the right to be happy.

Without spoiling the ending of the movie, let me at least say that it has a happy ending. It is based on a true story. And you do go away with a renewed faith that this unalienable right is an important one. Of course, Life & Liberty are pretty essential was well. We Americans all have those two, we take them for granted. But not all of us are happy. You see, whether you want them or not, you got them...Life & Liberty. But happiness is fleeting - you have the choice to be happy, the choice to pursue it anyway.

As I sit this early morning and, well, "mourn" the passing of a big job opportunity yesterday...I have to remind myself of Thomas Jefferson’s words. Maybe it was appropriate that I received the bad news about the job five minutes after we got home from the seeing this movie. There was a message on the phone. “Hey, Skip. I don’t want you to think it had anything to do with you...but we have decided not to fill that position until after the third quarter”. (I assumed he wasn’t referring to a football game that would be ending in a couple of hours). “Again, please don’t feel that it has anything to do with what you did. The powers-to-be have made the decision to hold off for a while”. Some consolation I suppose. He could have said, “Thanks for your interest, but we have decided to hire another candidate whose skills and qualifications were better than yours, asshole!".

I thank my lucky stars anyway. I had Loretta standing next to me during my return call, “Don’t worry honey. Something will happen after Christmas. It’s not the best time of year for this”. And she’s right.

The dictionary defines the word pursue: To follow in an effort to overtake or capture; to strive to gain or accomplish; to proceed along the course of. Wow, that's a strong definition compared to what I thought it meant...overtake, capture, accomplish, gain. I just thought it meant chase!

There ya’ go! Or more specifically, here I go! The pursuit is still on. Next!

Godzilla...now there was a monster movie.

2006-12-18T04:13:00.000-08:00

The other day I was watching (for the umpteenth time) Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith on cable. This is the 6th Star Wars movie, but technically the 3rd episode in the George Lucas’ epic space saga of good and evil. Why would I watch this on cable when I own the DVDs? No comment at this point in time - too much time on my hands perhaps?

I had a recurring revelation, a minor epiphany of sorts. Yoda was jumping and spinning around the room, careening off the walls with his miniature Yoda-sized light sabre fighting Lord Sidious - looking like some character in an old Heckle & Jeckle cartoon. He was doing things that Yoda shouldn’t be able to do, considering he is an 800 year old hobbit. Even if he was the ultimate, uber-Jedi Knight...it just wasn’t right! It was the realization that I was watching a state of the art cartoon. This has occured to me before many times, like when I was watching one of the later Alien movies, or that Narnia flick, or War of the Worlds. The bottom line is that it is not credible any longer. Anything and everything can be imaged in a movie now. Making the incredible credible has become commonplace, and now...incredible!

Worse yet, even so-called scary movies are not scary any more. There indeed have been some creepy ones of late, ie, The Ring, The Grudge. But this recent genre are remakes of Japanese horror flicks. Sure, there are some special effects. But for the most part, they appeal to some of our most primitive fears: ghosts for one. The other is the devil.

I also remember as a child seeing the “original” War of the Worlds at the drive-in with my parents. It came out in 1953, I think this particular showing (at the Van Nuys drive-in) was around 1956 or so. It scared me shitless! This version starred Gene Barry (the guy who played Bat Masterson and on Burke’s Law) and Ann Robinson. Barry was Dr. Clayton Forrester, Robinson’s character was Sylvia Van Buren. Both of these actors, by the way, had minute cameo roles near the end of the 2005 Spielberg production (the grandparents standing in the doorway in Boston).

I recall sitting in the back of our ‘53 Oldsmobile and leaning my arms on the front seat to watch the movie...peering out from hands clenched over my eyes, watching the alien invaders through little slits formed by my fingers. By today’s standards, the special effects were primitive, but no less frightening to a six year old boy. For 1953, it was pretty spectacular - and scary. War of the Worlds won the Oscar in 1954 for Best Effects/Special Effects.

The 1953 version offered the Martians coming to earth inside giant meteors, crash landing outside all the big cities. A hatch slowly unscrews to reveal a shiny, glowing nozzle of sorts. This nozzle thing lights up even more and starts spitting out a death ray, microwaving everyone to ash. It is attached to a three-pointed spaceship that hovers above the ground, not those goofy looking three-legged cartoon robots that Speilberg came up with!

Spielberg did pay homage to the original in several instances. The most notable of which was the farmhouse. The two main characters in the original version take refuge in a remote country farmhouse (Tim Robbins was added to the Speilberg script). The Martian probe slinks its way down in to the basement area and Barry hacks off the mechanical head with an axe...eventually taking it to the nearby “institute” for study. While in the farmhouse, they make some contact with the living inhabitants of the spaceships. But instead of stupid looking, digital Disney characters (ala Speilberg’s version), we only get short glimpses in shadow form. Then one fleeting dimly-lit look straight into the face of the three-eyed, two-legged Martian hiding his eyes from the flashlight beam. The little monster reveals itself by placing its three-digit, suction cup fingers on the girl’s shoulder...one of my all-time best scariest movie moments. Of course, the Martians all die off from germs. At least the 2005 WOTW left that in. They also left in the opening and closing narratives...Morgan Freeman in 2005, Sir Cedric Hardwick in 1953...very nice touch.

The 1953 WOTW was a spooky, scary, exciting movie. Maybe it’s the “spooky” parts that I remember most. Maybe that is why some of these Japanese horror flicks are so disturbing. Even the original Japanese version of The Ring (called Ring-U) is creepier than the later attempt (although the new ones are all directed by the original Japanese director). That Samara chick crawling out of the television is classic. And...there’s the Naomi Watts factor! Bingo.

Hell...the 1956 Godzilla, King of Monsters was actually scary compared to the remake in 1998. That lumbering, Tokyo-destroying, 400 foot T-Rex played by a guy in a ill-fitting rubber suit was scary back then. Did you know that Raymond Burr was in that? Yup, he was.

These days, I listen to snot-nosed media types refer to the old sci-fi and monster movies as "B" movies. Well, those genres were always relagated to that status. But if Frankenstein's Monster was a "B" movie, then Monster in Law (J-Lo and Jane Fonda) should be an "F" movie! Insert any number of modern flicks in this "F" category, ie, ones with Jennifer Aniston, Jenifer Lopez,
Ashton Kutcher, or Adam Sandler as examples. They are not funny...they are not entertaining...the actors aren't talented. Maybe someday, some of these types will have the opportunity to star in a Japanese-directed horror flick...then at least they would be scary!

A Child’s Perception of Time and Space

2006-12-17T07:15:00.000-08:00

The little boy knew this particular trip would be a long one. His mother and father had been planning it for a long time. It was a vacation back to where most everyone in the family was born...South Dakota. It would take three long days of driving across the country from California to get there.

He and his two little sisters shared the back seat of the station wagon, as well as the “way back” section for naps. The “wayback” was behind the back seat, on a trip like this filled with luggage, a grocery bag of snacks, and a blanket or two. At nine years old, he could still curl up beside the suitcases and sleep.

Route 66 stretched out across the desert in front of them, endless miles of two-lane highway back then. Sand, suaro cacti, billboards inviting travelers to visit the "World's Largest Ball of Twine", and an occasional jack rabbit. Sometimes it divided into two lanes each way. There was always at least one billboard that read, “Your tax dollars at work. Route 66 Improvement Project 175.. To be completed in 1961”. Albuquerque would be the first stop for the night.

They would drive until sunset, then start looking for a motel. The roads in those days still passed through the middle of towns. Not like today with the giant interstates located several miles outside of the towns. The kids would start looking and pointing and suggesting, “There, Dad...there’s a good one! Let’s stay there”. The father would mumble something under his breath and tell the children to “pipe down”, then keep driving, looking for a motel with a “Vacancy” sign.

The little boy just hoped the motel had a swimming pool. It was summer, it had been a long hot drive through the desert. He loved to swim.

The motels lined the highway in the New Mexico town. They were only one-story structures then, layed out in a U-shape with the swimming pool in the middle of the parking lot.

They found a suitable one, a motel with a “Vacancy” sign and a swimming pool. The family stayed there for the night. The little boy’s father went out to bring back dinner, usually hamburgers and fries and cokes from a nearby Tastee Freeze. The children went swimming for a while until dinner returned.

The next morning, they got up early, and went to breakfast at a local cafe. It wasn’t a fancy place, just a roadside diner with a sign that read Bill's Cafe, or Route 66 Diner, or just Good Food. The pancakes the little boy had weren’t very good, not at all like his Mom would make at home. They were kind of cold and kind of stiff, the syrup didn’t taste the same either.

The little boy, his two sisters, mother, and father all piled back in the station wagon and continued their long trip to South Dakota. They would try to drive 500 miles today.

The next evening, as the sun began to lay low over the Nebraska prairie, they started to look for that night’s lodging once again. From the back seat, the little boy tapped his mother on the shoulder and said, “Mom...wherever we stay tonight, let’s not eat breakfast in the same cafe we did yesterday...their pancakes were yucky!”

Reefer Madness...

2006-12-16T08:34:00.000-08:00

I have seen worse. By no means is our refrigerator the messiest. In fact, Loretta and I routinely dive in head first and so some Spring cleaning regardless of the calendar date,

Earlier this morning, I said to my loving wife, "Honey, we have to leave about 10:00am. It's 8:00am now, so I have two hours to clean out the reefer". Well, 15 minutes later (with Loretta's help), it was done! I have no idea why I thought it would take 2 hours. It is a chore I have successfully completed many times over. Truthfully, I actually enjoy it. Throwing out old crap from the refrigerator is somewhat of a liberating experience...a rebirth if you will...a purge...a cleansing.

What did I toss? Without any remorse...I threw out the following items: moldy, sliced Swiss cheese...two large leeks (once destined for leek and potato soup)...two broccoli crowns (well-intentioned swing toward eating more veggies)...one really nasty looking yellow crook necked squash...a quarter head of iceberg lettuce now brown on the outside...a half full quart of buttermilk now 30 days past the expiration date...two half-used jars of roasted red bells (may have been OK, but I wasn't up for popping the top and sticking my nose in)...a really old jar of capers...a little plastic container of diced green chiles...an open 1/2 liter Diet Pepsi long since gone flat...and an assortment of plastic containers with contents of unknown origin.

We wiped off the shelves, returned all the "good" stuff...and now I'm ready to restock! Yes, there was a plan to this reefer madness. It is time to head back to the Sonoma Diet book and start up the "plan" once again. I know it is not the best time of year to adjust one's dietary habits, but I always seem to choose this time of year. Why not? We have not been inundated with invites to holiday gatherings, so neither one of us has packed it on (no worse than any other time of the year). But yours truly, especially, has layered on a few pounds from late summer when we were fully ensconced in that Sonoma Diet thing. And one of the challenges of this diet is that it forces you to eat a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables. Hence, the pantry and the freezer are somewhat void of substance. But, one must plan the meals and not let all that fresh stuff sit around for very long...they do indeed turn into science experiments in no time flat.

The bottom line is that we have already implemented one of our perrenial pledges...the new year's resolution to eat better...and to eat less. We are already back on that illustrious wagon.

Onward. But, I still need to use that slab of breakfast sausage I thawed out the other day. I don't want to be wasteful you know!

Check it out. What a neat reefer, huh?

I suppose I should've taken a shot or two before for contrast. That pack of moldy sliced Swiss cheese was quite striking... from a strictly photographic standpoint!

You bet your life...he was funny.

2006-12-10T07:42:00.000-08:00

Groucho Marx. There are many more classic Marx lines, but here are just a few...

Who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes?

I have nothing but respect for you, and not much of that.

Room service? Send up a larger room.

Those are my principles. If you don't like them I have others.

He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot but don't let that fool you. He really is an idiot.

I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception.

You know I could rent you out as a decoy for duck hunters?

You've got the brain of a four-year-old boy, and I'll bet he was glad to get rid of it.

A man's only as old as the woman he feels.

Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms.

One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know.

I must say that I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go to the library and read a book.

I have had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn't it.

If I held you any closer I would be on the other side of you.

I must confess, I was born at a very early age.

I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members.

I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

Either he's dead or my watch has stopped.

Remember men, we're fighting for this woman's honor; which is probably more than she ever did.

Women should be obscene and not heard.

Why was I with her? She reminds me of you. In fact, she reminds me more of you than you do!

Behind every successful man is a woman, behind her is his wife.

Marry me and I'll never look at another horse!

I married your mother because I wanted children, imagine my disappointment when you came along.

Whatever it is I'm against it.

A woman is an occasional pleasure but a cigar is always a smoke.

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.

Quote me as saying I was mis-quoted.

And one of my favorite Groucho retorts:

High society lady (in a huff): "I've never been so insulted!"

Groucho (looking at his watch): "Well...it's still early".

Compared to those days...it's amazing what the networks try to pass off as comedy these days.

I may be wrong, but...

2006-12-06T05:21:00.000-08:00

This is my latest bitch session. The term "bitch" here referring to a complaint...not a female canine gender or that other use of the word so prevalent in urban society.

I may be wrong, but...

1. ...shouldn't every driver be required to use their turn signals, have a drivers license, and not be allowed to run red lights?

2. ...what are restaurant owners thinking when they entrust the total well-being of their business to hostesses who's only concern about their job is when they can go home?

3. ...when someone goes to prison for a heinous crime, is it supposed to be a pleasant experience?

4. ...shouldn't it be illegal for auto dealerships to charge $200 for a $6 part and $100 to tell you about it?

5. ...Paris Hilton...what's the point? (This particular item list is endless btw)

6. ...Letterman just signed a new contract extension...c'mon CBS, he isn't funny any more.

7. ...I never understood Jay Leno getting the tonight show...taking Johnny Carson's place?

8. ...shouldn't it be illegal to make modern consumer electronics equipment disposable? Cases in point: plasma televisions, DVD players, and computers.

9. ...aren't we about done with this Iraq mistake?

10. ...is The Dog Whisperer making a fortune teaching us dumb-ass humans how not to screw up our dogs? (I enjoy the show btw)

11. ...Hillary Clinton will be the first female US president...possibly as soon as '08.

12. ...is Scarlett Johanssen incredibly appealing...or just weird looking?

13. ...shouldn't it be a law that stores can't put out any Xmas stuff at least until after Labor Day?

14. ...putting a breathalizer on the starter of a car (for drunk drivers) is a stupid idea? "Here honey, blow in this for me so I can start the car. And when we get home, remember to suck...blow is just an expression at home!"

15. ...would a big old fence stretched across the US/Mexican border really work? They'll just come in through the gate.

16. ...should 700 pound people in tiny electric cars be allowed to eat at Hometown Buffet?

17. ...shouldn't there be a law requiring people (men especially) to wash their hands after going to the restroom in a public place?

18. ...shouldn't people you know acknowledge receipt of your emails (let alone answer them)?

19. ...paying for air at a gas station is supposed to be illegal, isn't it?

20. ...shouldn't the most modest motel provide a bath towel bigger than a dish rag?

If anyone reading this would like to contribute...have at it. I'm sure there are thousands more.

What was I thinking when I ate that...?

2006-12-03T06:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not even sure why I mention this topic in this venue. But I've seen much more stupid posts on sillier topics by other people. I think I was prompted to write this partly due to the fact that my previous post alluded to Freud's anal stage of human psychological development, and, the temporary condition I find myself in this morning.

Admittedly so, Skip Hansen is a very "regular" guy. Not only am I "regular", meaning average looks, intelligence, and social stature...I am very "regular" in the regularity department. I do not have now, nor have ever had, a problem with "going" on a regular basis.

In the "afternoon" stage of one's life, one might expect to have digestive issues. As for me...not as yet. I have always been as "regular" as the 10:15 from Tulsa. Right on time...at least twice a day. I have known people who just can't "go", at least not without some sort of outside stimulation being introduced to their system. In fact, I knew someone a long time ago who didn't (or couldn't) go but once or twice a week! I believe her doctor made it clear that she needed to address this problem as it is not a healthy condition. For lack of better way of saying this, "Ya' gotta get that shit outta there! It ain't good for ya'!"

Like I said, I've never had much of a problem in this area, save for an occasional case of culinary bad judgement. Although I think nerves has been the cause in some instances. There is nothing like a good case of dysentery-like diarrhea to make you forget about what is making you nervous.

The strange thing is, I spent a good deal of time in the South Pacific when I was in my early-20s...my Navy tours. Vietnam, Philippines, Thailand, Taiwan...I was there. And I don't remember ever having any kind of digestive or stomach distress once. And I ate (and drank) crap in town, off base...in shit hole bars and restaurants I wouldn't even go in today. God knows what kinds of "bugs" were introduced to my system. Geeze, I even drank the water in town. And to top it off, that was in between flying 14 hour patrol flights to and from, in and around a combat zone...was I not nervous doing that? I never got sick when I was overseas.

I did, however, get very sick for several weeks while I was training in friggin' Millington, Tennesse. Millington (just outside Memphis) was home to a huge Naval airborne technical school. I was hurting for a while in that sewer of a place. But overseas? Nada!

I think it may have been partly due to the fact that the Navy pumps you full of antibiotics and other preventatives before you head over there. There is one lovely little injected cocktail called "GG", gammagobulin. They stick a huge syringe in each cheek...right out of the refrigerator I might add...and pump about a million cc's of this cold stuff into you. It feels like a couple of golf balls under your ass skin for about an hour to two. Maybe that humiliation helped stem the gastric distress tide.

Like I said, I do not have now, nor have ever had, a chronic digestive disorder. No spastic colon, no chronic gastritis, no irritable bowel syndrome. But in the past few years I do get what I like to call the What The Hell Was I Thinking When I Ate That Squirts? Or, the Pepperoni and Beer Syndrome.

I guess I really shouldn't complain since it doesn't happen every time I choose to abuse my system with pizza and beer...just once in a while. My poor wife Loretta can't even look at that stuff any more. In fact, if she even sees a picture of a green chile, she has to run to the bathroom!

So, at 5:00am, I got up and headed to the "library", several times. Now, at 7:00am, it's all good. I'm done. And the good thing about this morning's minor explosion? I found a really interesting recipe in Bon Appetit for Shrimp, Chicken, and Andouille Gumbo! I wonder how my system would welcome that concoction?

All in all, I think it was well worth the temporary discomfort I experienced...it usually is. I haven't eaten pepperoni pizza for months...and won't again for quite a while!

I may be a narcissistic manic depressed anal retentive nihilist...

2006-12-01T17:34:00.000-08:00

I removed dipolar from the title considering it would make it redundant...and there are enough personal issues lingering in the title of this blog.

I just took a self evaluation quiz on a web page about Manic Depression a few minutes ago. Fortunately, for me and my wife Loretta, I failed the test! In other words, it appears as though I am not dipolar...just a bit fucked up and slightly deluded in my view of the world. Many years ago a marriage counselor described manic depression to me. He indicated that, in its simplest form, it is when a person goes through extreme highs and lows in short amounts of time. This particular shrink...he was foreign but I don't recall from where...said everyone had good days and bad days, highs and lows. But manic depressed people, often times described as dipolar, go through extreme highs (almost uncontrolled elation and a feeling of well being) and extreme lows (sometimes spending days in bed, or sleeping a lot so as not face the world). Geeze, it would be nice to stay in bed for a few days...and sleep more than a few hours. Anyway, I guess I can rule out dipolar as a self diagnosis...although I do know quite a few people who are indeed dipolar. In some cases, their condition is pretty close to schizophrenic I might add. They shall remain anonymous for fear of reprisal!

I used to think I was somewhat Anal Retentive. Let's rule out that weirdness considering I have been accused of being a slob on more than one occasion. Anal retentives super organize their closets and sock drawers, fold their dirty clothes before placing them in the hamper, and are paranoid about touching "public" things. Wait...that last item mentioned is all about me now! Oh, thank goodness for Purel.

It was Freud who coined the phrase anal retentive in referrence to behavior later in life that resulted from things that may have happened to you during your anal stage. He went on to describe one of the characteristics exhibited during this stage is when one derives great pleasure from having a bowel movement. Hence, a person with anal retentive tendancies has issues with letting go, so to speak. The term is often used in reference to a person seen as overly worried about small details...they are uptight or distressed over ordinarily minor problems, and unable to adopt a philosophical attitude toward mistakes. That smells of my personality sometimes, but again, I'm a friggin' slob. But then, I do truly enjoy taking a big, lengthy, extended dump on a daily basis...sometimes more often. I may still be in my anal stage...is that bad?

Narcissistic? The term narcissistic is often use to describe vanity, conceit, egotism or simple selfishness. Apparently a young Greek named Narcissus refused to accept the advances of a young lady, he preferred admiring his own reflection. His punishment by the Greek gods (this is a Greek myth by the way)? Being turned into the flower Narcissus. Back to me, quoting a Seinfeldism, "...I don't like me!" Most therapists agree that a certain amount of narcissism is a healthy thing in a balanced well being. Where do you find that stuff, can you buy it at Costco?

Nihilism is a philosophical position, often associated with Friedrich Nietsche, which argues that the world, and especially past and current human existence, is without objective meaning, purpose, comprehensible truth, or essential value. Describing nihilism in one sentence isn't really possible. But a nihilistic person basically thinks everyone and everything is screwed up! Well known nihilists included Adolf Hitler and Dr. Evil. Got the picture? We may be on to something here regarding my personality! But considering how sentimental I am, I may not fit this profile either. Instead, I'll make up my own self-description.

Skip Hansen is a bummed out, burned out, sentimental, day dreaming under-achiever, who dwells in the past, but has an unwavering hope for the future. I will call this philosophy Neobeatleism. The theme song for Neobeatleism is actually of medley of All You Need Is Love, Imagine, and Because. Oh the hell with it, let's make this medley the entire Beatle catalog!

Help!

Steel Cut Oatmeal...or breakfast sausage and eggs?

2006-11-30T11:21:00.000-08:00

If I could eat for breakfast 3-eggs, an 8-oz slab of country sausage, and a plateful of greasy hashbrowns everyday...I would. Let's not forget a couple of nice, hot fluffy homemade biscuits and a big bowl of country sausage gravy...mmmmm! But, that wouldn't be a prudent idea. Factor in a Bacon Double Cheeseburger and fries for lunch, and a nice Ribeye with twice-baked potatoes for dinner and my cardiologist would have me committed.

Speaking of committed...Loretta and I have pledged to eat hot, fresh-made oatmeal for breakfast at least 5 days a week. The other days: maybe cold oat cereal on one day, then splurge a little on the other day(see dream breakfast description above). So far, we've been doing well. Since I refuse to eat that nasty, flavored, instant packet oatmeal (I'm not sure it is actually oatmeal)...I have also made the committment to cook oatmeal from "scratch".

Yes, I do indulge myself with a pat of unsalted, creamery butter, a little milk, and brown sugar. But my rationalization is that it can't be near as bad as the eggs and sausage routine.

Will I get tired of the oatmeal thing? Probably. But it's a start anyway.

By the way, Steel Cut Oats are more expensive than regular rolled oats. But I had to see what all the hoopla was about. They have a much more nutty and savory flavor, but do take a while longer to cook. Steel-Cut Oats are whole grain oats (the inner portion of the kernel) cut into two or three pieces (about the size of a beebee). Regular rolled oats are flake oats that have been steamed, rolled, re-steamed, then toasted. This processing causes them to lose some of their natural taste, texture, and nutritional value.

I am by no means a "health food freak", but would like to be. Any food I put in my system that actually helps remove cholesterol can't be bad for me!

Now if I could just find a no-cholesterol substitute for Applewood Bacon!

Somewhere...over the drug dealers house...

2006-11-30T08:07:00.000-08:00

We had a few days of spotty rain recently. It didn't really come come down in signigicant amounts around our parts here in Salida. Farther north in the Sacramento area it rained a bit harder. The nearby mountains are getting some serious snow. And, it's been really, really cold!

The photo above kind of marked the end of the series of storm systems we experienced. Late in the afternoon Monday, Loretta noted that bright sun was shining through our west-facing back windows, and...it was raining. "Hey", I chirped in anticipation, "there is probably a rainbow out front (the east side of our house)". I started feverishly digging into my camera bag in hopes of finding the Canon 20D all lensed up and loaded with a memory card ready to shoot. "Ureka!", I exclaimed with exhuberance, "I'm gonna get a couple of rainbow photos this time".

Meanwhile, Loretta reminded me of what has happened in similar times past when I got excited about taking photos of a quickly passing event. "Be careful, honey", she suggested in her most caring motherly advice, "Don't hurt yourself. You know what can happen when you get excited about these things". This concern from her fell on deaf ears as I was already in the front yard...camera to the ready and pointed at the rainbow.

Nothing traumatic happened to me (this time) in my zeal to get an image recorded.

Indeed, there was a rainbow spanning the neighborhood. A full rainbow arcing over all the tract homes on San Martin Drive...stretched across a cloudy, and sunny at the same time, Fall afternoon sky. It was a nice rainbow and I got a few photos. Of course, being the negative fellow that I am, I complained, "This would really be nice if I was out in the countryside with some sort of natural foreground instead of three bedroom houses, a beat up Corvette with the back window broken out, and an aqua-colored plastic utility box in the yard!" But, you get the shots when and where you can.

I was truly tempted get in the car to try and find either end of that rainbow...looking for a pot of gold. But even I know that is impossible...finding the end of a rainbow...and, finding a pot of gold there. In some other person's perspective of the rainbow, the end was right on my house. So, I was already at "the end of the rainbow".

Besides, from my angle, the end of that rainbow was on our drug-dealer neighbor's house across the street. I'm reasonably sure there is no pot-o-gold over there...though, you never know. So, I got some rainbow shots. And more importantly...I didn't injure myself in any way. Success!

O.K., O.K....Yes, I am thankful for many things...

2006-11-25T07:37:00.000-08:00

I’ve never had much of a problem being sympathetic, or sensitive, or reflective, or emotional, or sentimental. Not lately anyway. It seems in the last ten years or so, I’ve become almost pathetically sappy about some things. I get all choked up at what seems to be the simplest of things...movies, old photos, memories, a truly good Bacon Cheeseburger. But I just don’t emote very much about Thanksgiving. While I’m on the subject...Christmas doesn’t do much for me either nowadays!

In fact, the holidays in general seem to put me in a pissier mood than any other time of the year (if it’s even possible for me to be more pissier than I am normally). Usually from November 24th or so to January 27th, I’m just a grumpy, whiny, pain-in-the-ass. Why January 27th? Well, January 26th is my birthday. I usually snap out of this funk right after that.

So this year, I am going to make a concerted effort to get through this time of year without the usual recalcitrant attitude. Over the years I surmised the reason for this is very simple. This time of the year was always super special for me, as it is for most people. Simply put...as a child, I relished everything about Thanksgiving, Christmas, and my birthday. Since becoming a adult...sometime in my late 40s...it just ain’t the same anymore. The stress, the anticipation, the money thing...they all take their nasty toll on what used to be a free and frivolous time of the season. Shit...Christmas vacation was a blast, even if we didn’t go anywhere. But enough nostalgic whining for now. I am thankful for many things.

Yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, Loretta and I went to our usual turkey day soiree. For the past six years or so, we’ve had Thanksgiving dinner at our friend’s (Sue Perry) parent’s house...the Graysons in Oakdale. They are as close to being surrogate parents as we could hope for. We don’t spend a lot of time with them but we do end up there on several “big” days throughout the year...Thanksgiving, Easter Sunday, Groundhog Day, etc. It has always been difficult to make it down south to visit either of our parents because of work responsibilities and schedules...hence, we thank Bud & Helen Grayson for being so gracious. And they are indeed very gracious individuals. Despite my crass behavior, off-color jokes, love for Black Velvet, and incessant picture taking...they insist on inviting us back! Of course, our repeating invitation back may only be due to the fact that I am married to a very polite, lovely woman. I am also very thankful to be hitching a ride on Loretta’s social shirt tail. In fact, if not for Loretta, I just might have been injoying Thanksgiving (and every other holiday) the past 11 years at the local soup kitchen. And so...I am thankful for my wife as well.

Yes, I am very thankful for my mom, Betty...and my two kids, Jenifer and Jimmy. And though I know I must not assume that they are aware of how thankful I am for having them, this particular blog is directed beyond these principals. Geeze, I hope that was P.C. enough for the time being! Betty will get her very own blog entry soon.

There is no Santa Clause. There is no Easter Bunny. I certainly don’t enjoy a good trytophan-induced snooze after Thanksgiving like I used to. And there ain’t no angel named Clarence ringing a bell ‘cause he just got his wings! But there are some very important people in my life that I need to give thanks for more often...not just on turkey day.

In addition to my wife Loretta, my mom, my children, the Graysons, and the Perrys. Here are a few people that I am happy to have as a part of my life (in no particular order of importance I might add): Bob, Gary, Kris, and Peter Sellars. Some of them I don’t see nearly enough...one I will never meet...and some are essential to my well being and sanity on almost a daily basis. If I’ve forgotten someone (who reads this blog), I apologize...maybe you should call, write, or email me once in a while to get back on my “A” list! And not being on this list does not mean unimportance. Don’t forget...as we get older, that C.R.S. thing kicks in more often.

Here a just a few shots from thanksgiving at the Graysons. That's Loretta doing her serving and dishing-up thing. A picture of Loretta finishing up my plate (as I was still busy doing what I love to do most). And Bud giving the toast...that's Helen to his left...Loretta of course on his right.

So all in all, when everything was said and done...we had a very nice thanksgiving with some very nice people. I always ask Loretta on the way home, "Was I alright? Did I do or say anything stupid? 'Ya think they'll invite us back? I love you honey!" She assured me that all went well and they did, as always, enjoy our company on their special family day.

Now, I need to finish editing the 300 photos I took.

Where have you gone Maria Gambrelli?

2006-11-15T18:36:00.000-08:00

Am I the only person who remembers minute little details about certain times in their life? I hardly think so. And I hardly think that I am the only person who wishes sometimes they could purge their memories of these things, kind of like emptying the cache on a p.c., or reformatting the hard drive. Of course, anyone who knows anything about computers knows that reformatting the hard drive also deletes all files...and yes, I would still do it (to my mind) even with that consequence. I believe I am running out of space...the processor is slowing down because of that.

For example, I can still vividly remember to this day what I had to eat on November 24th, 1957, the day before Thanksgiving. Maybe not everything I ate that day, but one item in particular. It was Rye Crisp crackers with big chunks of Velveeta cheese cut from one of those giant slabs you buy in a box. I’m not real sure that I even really liked Rye Crisp...but I know I liked Velveeta, I was seven years old at the time and I gorged myself on those crackers and cheese. That November day in 1957 my family was moving into our brand new house in Canoga Park, California...right at the extreme western end of the San Fernando Valley. In fact, it was so far west that our back fence was literally the L.A. County line for a number of years. There were no other houses west of us for about five years...unless you count Thousand Oaks, but that was maybe 15 miles away. It was all fields of alfalfa, orange groves, bunny rabbits, lizards, and dirt.

I remember moving into our new house on Melba Avenue and eating Rye Crisp and Velveeta on November 24th, 1957. I think my parents paid about $15,000 for that house...a three bedroom, two bath modern tract home with built in appliances, a two car garage, and a sliding glass door leading to a big old cement patio slab and yard. That back fence that was the L.A. County line was made of redwood, my parents stained it deeper red soon after we got situated. They also had a swimming pool built shortly thereafter, in the shape of a “B”...for Betty, my mom’s name. It had a diving board and a black and red decorative cement deck. Considering I was only seven years old (the oldest of three kids), they put up a chain link fence to separate the pool from the house. We had the cement patio covered with a white and blue aluminum patio cover and grew some grass in what was left of the yard after the pool was dug. A few years later my dad put together a custom-made cabana in the corner of the pool yard. A cabana complete with real palm tree frawns and carved tiki heads. My dad and I traveled a few miles up into the hills where we had seen some large, old palm trees while shooting my beebee gun, that’s where the palm frawns and tiki head material came from. Metal-framed chaise lounges with brightly colored pads lined the deck area near the cabana, my mom really enjoyed laying out by the pool and getting a tan. She used to get very tan in the summer, so did my sisters. Afterall, we were living in Southern California...the San Fernando Valley. There was also a redwood picnic table and a BBQ.

I remember my parents having pool parties out there. We still have 8mm film of these get- togethers by the pool. Silent, grainy films showing young adults, still in their late twenties, dancing and swimming and drinking and smoking cigarettes. They would make faces at my dad holding the Kodak 8mm movie camera, then grab someone elses wife and starting slow dancing across the deck. There were always a lot of young children as well, babies in basinet-looking contraptions too. And there always seemed to be at least one shot of one of us kids dancing with one of the parents...standing on their feet. Then, they would throw us in the pool. We didn’t mind getting thrown in the pool...we loved to go swimming. Unless we got thrown in the pool on top another swimming child. At which point all the fun and frivolity would come to a screeching halt for a few minutes while the screaming, injured child was fished out of the water, coddled a bit, attended to, then released again to jump back in the pool and pick up where they left off. The parents grabbed another beer or mixed a few more drinks and the party went on...T-Bones, hamburgers, and hot dogs sizzling on the grill. Potato salad, chips and dip, and pitchers of Kool-Aid displayed on the brightly colored, plastic table-cloth covered picnic table.

Those days are long gone. I’ve long since lost most, if not all, of my wild-eyed idealism, innocence, and hope. The ambitions I had in my younger days have evaporated into thin air...poof! Where I once possessed only the slightest bit of confidence now resides an empty pit of broken dreams and despair. Failed marriages, businesses, and wanna-be careers have taken their toll. I’m tired.

There is a glimmer left in me though from time to time...but not often. The advice I received when I was a child (and as an adult) to “snap out of it” just doesn’t provide relief any longer from this negativity.

Everything in my life that could be considered less than optimal is totally and completely my own doing...I know that. There is no one to blame but myself. And because there is no one to blame or turn to, it is totally and completely up to me to turn this ride around.

Life used to be a lot more fun when we were young. I can’t tell you what I had to eat two days ago...and I can’t remember when the last time I had a truly fun, unencumbered, worry-free day. When did I last have a restful, full night’s, sleep...who knows? I do remember though what I had to eat on November 24th, 1957! And I do remember how I use to feel on the way to Disneyland. And I do remember the elation I felt while driving a car for the first time at 16 years old...or when Christmas was just around the corner...or going fishing...or eating Rye Crisp and Velveeta in our brand new house. And I do remember what Thanksgiving was like.

We always seemed to have relatives over. Most often, it would be my Mom's sisters from San Diego...maybe a cousin or three. Betty got up early to put the turkey in the oven, I could always smell it cooking by the time I woke up. She made the best gravy and mashed potatoes. Turkey (white meat exclusively for me back then), mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn. That was pretty much all I had on my plate. It wasn't until later in life did I learn to enjoy the stuffing, green bean casserole, salads, and...the 7 and 7's! My dad insisted every year that there was a small bowl of creamed pearl onions on the table...his favorite. Early on Thanksgiving Day, my Dad would make dips and chips and other snacks. Green onion dip and Fritos was my favorite. Dad would also make clam dip on occasion. That dip and the pearl onions didn't move very fast...I think he planned it that way...no one else ate them!

We would have dinner relatively early, 2:00 or so. The reasoning behind eating early? So we could have "seconds" or turkey sandwiches later in the afternoon of course...after laying around on the couch watching football or a replay of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. That evening, the Hollywood Christmas parade took place...we would watch that as well.

There are many memories from long ago that make me nostalgic for that simpler time. But they are just that...memories. I guess I will always have that.

And, I will always have the future...as long as I am around on this earth. There are things happening in my life now that I probably should have started years ago...but at least they are happening now. There are many things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving too. We all must remind ourselves of what those things are on a daily basis, not just on this Thursday near the end of November. I'll save that long list of mine for another blog...another time.

Where have you gone Maria Gambrelli? You’re still right here...inside me. And that is where you will always be.

The Great Cheesecake Disaster

2006-11-11T06:35:00.000-08:00

Anyone who cooks or bakes at all is well aware of this simple fact: There will be a food disaster sooner or later.

If you try making new and different things from time to time, sometimes they just don't turn out. But when you cook an item from a tried and true recipe you kind of expect it to be O.K. Obviously...not always.

I have baked this "secret" cheesecake recipe many times. It is much more than the everyday Jello no-bake deal. It takes a while...there are several stages...and it tastes pretty darn good. In fact, I have a couple of orders from people wanting to pay me to make them one. But I did something (actually two somethings) last night that led to The Great Cheesecake Disaster. First and foremost, I left out an ingredient...a fact that I didn't realize until after surveying the sad outcome. Second, I took some advice from a separate recipe "master" and applied it to this recipe. Voila! "You idiot! Gawd!"
That little "tip" I got from another "master" simply involved removing the springform pan soon after it comes out of the oven, presumebly avoiding the surfacing cracking that often happens when baked cheesecakes "set up". This technique may indeed work...if you don't forget to leave out the cornstarch! I'm pretty much assuming that this ingredient omission was the major fatal screw up on my part.I don't believe I will try that early springform pan removal again in future cheesecake baking attempts...with or without cornstarch.

By the way...it did make a nice pudding.

"Little Skippy" hits the newspaper

2006-11-07T23:47:00.000-08:00

This is a photo of me in 1950.

I don’t know who took the picture, probably my Dad or my Mom. Shortly thereafter, my Dad left for Navy duty in Korea. We were still living in Sioux Falls, South Dakota...where I was born.

I scanned it from a clipping my Mom gave me a while back. At first I thought it was from the newspaper...but the paper texture is more like a magazine. Maybe some sort of Lifestyle section of the paper. They spelled my last name wrong by the way.

As I breezed through similar photos of me the other day, I noticed several shots taken of me in that little seat hanging on the side of the car, a late 40's Studebaker I think. I believe that is what a baby car seat amounted to back then. Designed to hang over the bench style automobile seats, my parents also used it on the outside of the car on occasion...possibly when they were sitting around the front yard, next to the driveway. Obviously, child car seat designs have come a long way since the early 50’s.

Of course, I’m only assuming that they brought that hanging car seat (with me in it) into the car when they were driving! If not, that may explain a lot of things about me 56 years later.

Mission Impossible: III

2006-11-03T09:08:00.000-08:00

As with any other movie you choose to go see or buy or Netflix...you should watch Mission Impossible: III with the following in mind. After the first twenty minutes or so, ask yourself, “Am I interested in seeing how it ends?” In other words, “Am I being drawn into waiting for some sort of resolution?” Or, conversely, are the action sequences distracting...are the plot twists confusing...and are the actors making a believable effort? When the movie is over, did it take you from Point A to Point B then to Point C without putting you to sleep or causing you to walk out or turn off the DVD player and start surfing the cable channels? MI: III did not put us to sleep (a rarity on our couch when we watch rented movies) and we were genuinely drawn into seeing what happened at the end.

Despite all the hoo-hah of late about Tom Cruise. Despite harboring some disappointment in MI:I and MI:II. I really enjoyed this movie. It was fun to watch and I was truly interested in seeing what happened next. Yes, as a dyed-in-the-wool movie technical geek who gets overly concerned about “how’d they do that?”, I bought into the whole thing...to the end.

There were many sequences that I would certianly categorize as over-the-top SPX extravaganzas. Check out the Chesapeake Bay Bridge car caravan attack by a drone fighter plane, it’s mind blowing...especially after you watch the DVD extra on how they actually filmed it miles from an ocean! But it worked. Even Cruise himself was impressive in his enthusiastic portrayal as agent extraordinaire, Ethan Hunt. Many, if not most, of the stunts were performed by Cruise himself. Sure there was a lot of digital manipulation. But he was the one being blown up, dangled in harnesses over high places, and hanging out of speeding SUVs shooting at bad guys. I gotta hand it to him, little Tommy did a good job on this one.

The plot also involved a pretty good rendition of the arch villain, this time played by Phillip Seymour Hoffman. He plays a sort of international broker of mayhem and (inferred) terrorism, though his specific intention is never revealed in the movie. They chose not to script any kind of politics into this one. Hoffman’s character is quite evil and his portrayal is convincing. In addition, if this was a 007 flick, there are several very attractive “Bond Girls”...or should I say “Hunt Girls”? The fiance, one of his team sidekicks, the doomed agent he rescues...all babes! And yes, Ving Rhanes is back as one of his buddies.

Anyway, Ethan is preparing to get married. During his engagement party, he is called away to the local 7-Eleven to meet with his secret organization boss. This time, agent Hunt gets his instructions through one of those disposeable cameras that burns up after playing the message. And so he is off to Europe and other exotic locales (including Shanghai) for all the action. In the meantime, his fiance is kidnapped by Hoffman and held hostage in order to blackmail Hunt into giving up the location of a secret apocalyptic device, the controller of which would be able to rule the world. That’s the plot in a miniature nutshell.

Mission Impossible III is action-packed and is indeed a pretty good “popcorn movie”. There are several somewhat predictable plot twists and betrayals...but we’ve come to expect that in these movies. We would be disappointed without the twists, as long as they don’t detract from the movie itself. The ending is bit lackluster, but satisfying. Watch the “Making of MI:III” on the DVD, it is not very long and will reveal “how they did that”! Give MI:III a try. Turn up the surround sound and have a good time “at the movies”.

We also saw Nacho Libre the same afternoon. I'll blather about that flick next.

Living in the Pacific Flyway, part deux

2006-10-27T07:23:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I visited the San Joaquin River Wildlife Refuge waterfowl observation site just a few miles from our neighborhood. My intent was to see the Sandhill Cranes that hang out here this time of year on their annual migration from points north to points south. Instead of the cranes, I was treated to a spectacle that I had never been witness to in person...huge numbers of the Aleutian Canada Goose. I went back there Thursday morning, this time dragging with me my somewhat reluctant wife Loretta.

I knew I wanted to get some sunrise photos of these birds, and that meant getting there before the sun came up. This time of year, just a few days before switching back to Pacific Standard Time, the sun doesn’t come up until after 7:00am. So why did we arrive there at 6:00am...in the middle of the night? I’m never late to anything, maybe that’s why.

It was pitch black out there in the countryside. The moving lights of a solid string of automobiles and trucks in the distance on Highway 132 could be seen, making their way to Highway 5 and the bay area on their morning commute. The distant orangish glow of the city of Modesto to the west was also visible in this surreallistic time of the day. There were some other single lights here and there, at the farms and ranches. But not much else.

We could hear the geese the moment we arrived. The honking of hundreds of these migratory birds at least confirmed they were in the area. We couldn’t see the birds or the field yet, the area where I photographed thousands of them just a few days before in the hour before sunset. It was still too dark. And, it was cold...colder than we had anticipated. For a couple of weather-wimpy Calfiornians, this was almost more than we had bargained for. That Fall morning chill began creeping into our bones through the flimsy sweatshirts and sweatpants we had chosen to wear. Hell, I was going to wear shorts! It was clear as a bell with no wind...and as yet no birds that we could see. Just the sound of them in the distance...honking out their morning anthem. We sipped our coffees, stuck our hands in the pockets of our flimsy sweatshirts, and waited. Loretta was shivering just a bit. Me...I was pacing on the redwood observation platform...occassionally snaping a long-exposure picture of the darkness, hoping to conjure up some sort of aesthetic dawn shot. It wasn’t working...it was still just too dark. And now, my hands were getting very cold holding the bulky Canon camera. Loretta was wise enough to bring gloves by the way...not yours truly.

Then, the sounds of the geese began to get louder...and louder. And it sounded not like hundreds, but like thousands. There were coming closer. In fact, they were right above us now. As we looked up into the dark gray morning sky, what we saw was almost scary at first. There was just enough light now. Enough light to see a near solid blanket of geese. Some flying in V-formations, others lined up in offset straight lines...just over our heads. They were everywhere in the sky, and all slowly moving at the same speed and in the same direction.
I would liken the vision similar to the giant spaceships in the movie Independence Day as they passed over, blocking out the sky. It was awesome. And it was just too dark and too immense to get a good photograph with my telephoto lens. They drifted over us, presumebly choosing to settle in some other field nearby. None of them ever choosing to land in the field by the observation platform where were waiting. The immense alien craft sailed by right over us. And in a few moments, was gone.

As the sun began to rise in the east, I was able to start shooting some shots of the flocks of geese as they continued to come into our immediate vicinity. Huge groups numbering in the hundreds continued to fly to and fro. They would pass over us from time to time...never stopping near our location. And some flew right across the image of the rising sun, off in the distance, framed by the clear morning sky and distant farm buildings and fields. I caught many in the viewfinder of the 400mm telephoto lens, only hoping there was enough light to capture a useable image or two. There was enough light now.

We did indeed see a few Sandhill Cranes winging their way past us in the distance, giving a wide birth on their journey to who knows where. The Aleutian Canada Geese themselves also opted not to land near where we were waiting to welcome them...and photograph them. At one point, I looked through my long lens at one of the fields well behind us, several hundred yards in the distance. And there they were. Hundreds upon hundreds of geese walking and grazing...and staying safe from us. The previously bright green, grassy field in which they had landed was now black with their numbers. On our way out, we stopped briefly on the road right next to their parking place. I crept slowly out of the Jeep with my camera and began snapping a few telephoto shots through the barbed wire fence surrounding the field. At the same time, the geese, as a group, turned their feathered backs on me and either walked away or took flight to the other side of the field. It was as if to say, "I'm affraid you are not worthy of our close presence on this day. Try again some other time". And so I will.

I will try again sometime soon. They fly in to this part of the valley in October and November, so I assume them may be around for a little while. I also assume they will not be present in that field next to the observation platform unless they are already there when I arrive. Wild birds like this are extremely wary and savvy of human presence. Afterall, one must hide in a goose "blind" when hunting them...not standing out in the open with a long-barreled camera pointed in their direction! I guess I just need to get a bigger telephoto lens for those long distance shots. And, be more patient.

Living in the Pacific Flyway

2006-10-25T13:09:00.000-07:00

Quite often I manage to allow myself to fall into the nature photography mode. In fact, I would really like to do it more often. But it does require one action that I have always had a challenge with...getting off my butt and out where there is actually “nature”.

One such nature area located a mere 4 miles from my doorstep is the San Joaquin River National Wildlife Refuge. Although I have been there on one previous occassion, my visit yesterday provided me with quite an epiphany. Earlier this year we drove out to the site one time. It was not the time of year to see the “show”. There was nothing there, ie, no birds or other animals...the waterfowl had come and gone farther south...or back north for the Summer.

The public access is a rather small section of land just off Beckwith Rd outside Modesto. There is a gravel parking area right next to an elevated viewing platform...just adjacent to a huge tract of land set aside for this part of the refuge. This particular redwood structure enables folks like you and me to observe the migratory bird influx at a safe distance (for the birds). This visit provided me with a totally awesome and mind-blowing look at what goes on for a few weeks in the Fall in the Pacific Flyway.

By far, the predominant bird at this location this time of year is the (once-threatened) Aleutian Canada Goose. There were literally thousands and thousands of them hanging out in the fields surrounding this viewing platform. This smaller sub-species of the Canada Goose spends Spring and Summer nesting on a few windswept islands near the Alaskan coast and Washington, while wintering in Oregon and here in Central California. After more than three decades of conservation efforts, numbers of Aleutian Canada Goose has come back from a few hundred in the mid-70’s to over 32,000 today. It has been officially removed from the threat of extinction list.

While I was there for about an hour before sunset, these huge flocks of geese “grazed” on young alfalfa plants in the fields set aside for this purpose. Every once in a while, you could watch them take flights in large squardrons...honking, sqawking, and winging their way to another field nearby. Shortly thereafter, another flock would fly in from a different field to take their place. This went on the entire time I was there, until the sun set. Each time they moved, hundreds of them provided me with some great photo opportunities...especially as they flew between my camera and the setting sun.

Originally I had ventured out there to see the Sandhill Cranes who also inhabit this protected area in the Fall and early Winter. I only caught a few glimpses of the cranes flying by at a distance. But maybe I will see more next time. I have planned another visit sometime this week, at sunrise this time.

I took hundred of photos, so choosing this small handful here was quite a chore deciding which ones to use.

I also got to drive the Yellow Bomb out there. It actually made it there and back without any automotive trauma! It felt good watching and photographing the birds...and driving the 912.

Brainstorm #1017

2006-10-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I have a brainstorm. Wait. That's not an accurate statement. Every few minutes I have a brainstorm. Brainstorm #1017 is the one thousand and seventeenth brainstorm this year...not in my lifetime!

Not to be confused with brainfarts, brainstorms are ideas that pop into my head for making money. Keeping track of my brainfarts would be a senseless, if not impossible, undertaking. Oh, what is a brainfart you ask? As one gets up there in years, one's brainfarts become more and more frequent. Here's an example, "Why the f**k did I walk into the kitchen?". You with me?

Back to Brainstorm #1017. While playing around with my photo editing program the other day, I fiddled with a few of my recent food-styling photos. Actually, I was somewhat disappointed in the results of some recent food shots I attempted, they just didn't come out as I expected. But after a few keystrokes in Photoshop...voila! Pop Kitchen Art! Doesn't this shit look like something they might sell at BB&B, or Target, or Walmart? Hey...colors are back in style. So are photographs for home decor.

So now, just like the proverbial tree in the forest, here is my latest brainstorm for making a fortune. Well maybe not a fortune, but some sort of cash return. I'll even sign and number each one of the prints...what the hell!

My hard drive is filled to the brim with mediocre photographs of almost everything. Colorful images that would lend themselves well to this format.

Hey, how about calendars with this stuff on it?

Fruits, vegetables, pies, cakes, hot dogs, salads, jars of pickles...even kitchen appliances. This could be akin to the old Peter Max or Andy Warhol pop art from the 60's.

Yes, the photos are my originals...copyright Skip Hansen Photography. The name Pop Kitchen Art! has now been officially published, right here on blogspot!

If you're interested in helping market something like this, drop me a line. I am open to suggestions. If you think it is a stupid idea and more of brainfart than a brainstorm...keep it to yourself...I have enough self-esteem issues at this point in my life!

If you'd like to purchase a print similar to these, let me know. I will send you a link to my website where they will be published and available for sale. Get in on it while they are cheap. Once I sell the idea to Target...I'll be out of the sales picture for good...at least on this brainstorm.

"If I only had a brain!"

At the intersection of Clusterf**k Ave and Fubar Drive

2006-10-22T08:18:00.000-07:00

Now this is not an actual intersection near our home. There are no streets with those names in or near Modesto. It is the generic name I use for any number of cross streets in this misplanned community in which we live. My question to the so-called planners that manage this city, “What the hell were you thinking?”

In an area that has been growing by the proverbial “leaps and bounds” for at least 10 years or so, it appears there has been no thought put toward the traffic situation...specifically between Highway 99 and any other section of Modesto east. Thousands of new homes and still being built along with the infrastructure that goes with them...stores, shopping centers, Home Depots, Lowes, and Starbucks. Most of these new homes are being built to accomodate people who work in and around the bay area, some 50-70 miles west of here. Most of us can not afford the homes in San Francisco, Walnut Creek, Concord, or even Livermore. But we can still afford one in Modesto...or Tracy, Manteca, or Salida (where we live). So why are the roads the last thing improved around these new home areas? Why are they such an afterthought? As a child, my family moved from the extreme east San Fernando Valley to the extreme west San Fernando Valley. It was here that the housing boom of the 50’s and 60’s manifested itself in this once sprawling and prestine suburb of L.A. My first memories of these new housing tracks include getting there on brand new wide asphault thoroughfares constructed before the houses were built! Not after.

We now live in an area where there are still two-lane overpasses over Highway 99 that connect this auto artery to thousands and thousands of new home tracts. Streets with names likes Sisk, and Pelandale, and Kiernan that traverse acres of walnut orchards and dairy farms now carry gazillions of poor slobs in cars trying to get home from the bay area. These are two-lane farm roads with 4-way stop intersections every few hundred feet. Now factor in the scores of huge semi’s and small to medium trucks and vehicles that service the construction going on out there...and voila: the intersection(s) of Clusterf**k Ave and Fubar Drive! They’re everywhere. To add insult to injury (literally at times), no one seems to consider or know how to adjust the timing on what traffic lights there are.

Yes, the powers to be seem concerned, there are newspaper articles all the time on this very issue. There is construction going on all the time to widen these roads and modernize the intersections. Once again, hereby creating a further problem: constant road construction. Again, the point is...all of this is happening long after the new homes have been built and people have moved in.

My short take on why this occurs? Politics. Simple local politics involving developers and the corporate and government weasels that stand to gain something from these misplanned developmental adventures. “Shall we vote on Development #567 now?”, says the speaker. A squeaky little voice from the sidelines chimes in, “But what about traffic and support structures for these new areas?” “It’s all in the master plan...haven’t you read it? (gavel drops) “Next issue on the docket...”, demands the speaker. We move on.

So it continues here in Modesto. Skinny, two-lane orchard roads give way to wide-ass, 6-lane streets for a few hundred yards, then back to skinny, two-lane orchard roads...then back again. Long, choking lines of near-new SUVs, tractor-trailer trucks, and Cobalts traverse these passageways daily...all trying to get from Point A to Point B in a decent time frame. This once sleepy farm town, the childhood home of George Lucas and all his characters from American Graffitti, is growing fast...and the traffic is going slow. The corridor between Highway 99 and the eastern areas of Modesto (where most of the homes are being built) is only going to get worse. And from where we live in Salida (just west of Highway 99), we have to get in that long line of traffic just to get to our local grocery store...located at the intersection of Clusterf**k Ave and Fubar Drive.

My next rant concerning the traffic here? The drivers themselves. I had no idea that so many people in this world are colorblind...they cannot tell the different between a Red and a Green traffic light!

Mia Sarapoccielo

2006-10-19T07:43:00.000-07:00

This blog entry is another of my Babe-A-Licious Awards.

From time to time, I am reminded that certain less-than-well-known celebrities and near celebrities deserve some recognition.

Yesterday, I surfed by a twenty year old movie on cable called Legend (1985) starring little Tommy Cruise. It was the “exciting” finale where our hero ofts a fairy tale type bad guy with horns and lots of prosethetic makeup...resembling the big “D”. Mr’ Cruise’s character was also saving a fairy tale princess whom the horned antogonist had kidnapped and dragged to his underworld lair. Upon closer scrutiny, the young vixen he was attempting to save closely resembled Sloane Peterson. She was wearing a lot of “period” makeup and a flowing chiffon dress, so realizing that this actress was also Matthew Broderick’s co-star in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) was no easy task. Yes...it was Mia Sara.

Mia has been around for a number of years and has done a few movies of note, one of which was Ferris...as Sloane Peterson, Bueller’s pretty high school girlfriend. So I googled her!

She is a very appealing actress, now nearing her 40’s and married to Jason Connery, son of Sean. Her filmography includes a lot of TV (CSI:NY & Nightmares and Dreamscapes) and quite a few films, Ferris being the most notable. But she also starred as Claude VanDamme’s wife in the movie Timecop (1996) where I was also reminded of how Babe-A-Licious Mia is. I think she was romping around in a mini-skirt and knee-high boots if I’m not mistaken (I’m a sucker for that getup).

Her real last name is Sarapoccielo. It’s Mia Sara...very Babe-A-Licious...and much more than just Ferris Bueller’s girlfriend.

Happy Birthday Jenifer

2006-10-13T10:19:00.000-07:00

I'm not at all sure there is even a Young Seattle Today magazine. But if there is..."Any resemblance to the existance of this publication is purely coincidental"...I just made it up for my daugher's 27th birthday. Please don't sue me!!!

Happy Birthday Jenifer. I hope you have a wonderful day in Seattle with your very loving husband, Roth. I wish we could be there with you.

Don't step on a crack. Avoid black cats. Don't walk under any ladders. And, above all else...don't be superstitious on this Friday the 13th.

Dad

Jenifer

2006-10-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

Shortly after midnight on October 13th 1979, Jenifer was born in San Luis Obispo General Hospital.

It wasn't long after that moment I realized what a lucky person I was.

Yes, my first child had just been born...a daughter. But I realized that my life and future had changed.

No matter what else I would experience in my life, I would always be a father to this little girl.

I remember my very first feelings that early Fall morning. They were feelings of pride...an emotion that I strongly feel to this day, twenty seven years later.

Jenifer has grown up into an independent, strong-willed, young lady.

And even though we have been through many a rough road in these twenty seven years, we have always remained close. Geographically, we have a few miles between us. Emotionally, she is still that little baby in my arms, wrapped in a new-born's hospital blanket.

The feeling of pride I experienced on that early Fall morning is still there. I only hope she has half the love for me that I have for her.

Jen...you know that I will always be "right here".

Dad.

Smooth Jazz...is it jazz or elevator music for baby boomers?

2006-10-09T09:47:00.000-07:00

Mindy Abair...Peter White...Euge Groove...Boney James...The Rippingtons...Michael Linkton...David Benoit. Have you heard of these names? They are at the top of their profession in today’s world.

If I said Miles Davis...John Coltrane...Dizzy Gillespie...Bill Evans...Ella Fitzgerald...would these names be more familiar? Probably so.

All the names listed here so far are top jazz artists. Some have been around forever, and some for only a few years. But they are all jazz musicians.

Artists like Mindy Abair and Euge Groove are what some call Smooth Jazz musicians...Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie: Traditional Jazz. But the lines separating these two musical genres has been blurred of late. In fact, the music you hear on so-called Smooth Jazz stations is not what is was just a few years ago.

True traditional jazz purists still do not accept this new, and still evolving, direction of jazz music...a distinctly American invention that now spans the globe. Jazz was born in America. So, is Smooth Jazz its own genre? I think so.

Smooth Jazz station playlists now include recent and, at times, older R&B types tunes from Al Green, Earth, Wind and Fire, and DeBarge...yes, DeBarge! It seems to have evolved into a truly listener-driven format. But which listeners? Who are they?

Being a dyed-in-the-wool typical baby-boomer (at 56), I almost exclusively listen to Smooth Jazz stations. This coming from an ex-radio announcer who, for the most part, can’t stand to listen to any radio station these days. In fact, on recent trips to our old stomping grounds, San Luis Obispo, my disdain for “local” radio there has been elevated to new levels. It’s worse than it ever was. The formats, the playlists, the incessant, annoying commercials...and, the announcers. Wow...it’s like this area I lived and worked in for 25 years is in a time warp of sorts. On most any station where there are actual “live” D.J.s, the same people are on the air from 25 years ago...and they haven’t improved one bit. They all still sound like they are still working at the college radio station (Cal Poly’s KCPR).

I apologize if I offended anyone, since many of these people used to be in our social circle back in the day. I can only assume that, like me, they enjoy being on the air...because there most certainly is no money to be made in small town radio. They are probably working for minimum wage. Herein lies one of the reasons I exited the radio biz some 15 years ago. Radio station owners simply do not care about what the announcers sound like. The business is now solely music and commercial driven. Yes, there are some local, live, morning shows...and they are annoying at best to listen to. They are not funny...they are not clever...and they simply blather about nothing and continually laugh at each other as if there was actually something funny going on! The rule of thumb now? Continue to beat the Morning Zoo format into the ground, ie, load up the morning show with six or seven voices on the air saying nothing worthwhile. Someone is bound to upchuck something of interest by sheer volume of prattle.

So...back to us baby boomers and what we would like to hear on the radio...and that brings us back to Smooth Jazz. Some people have called it Prosac Radio or Pablum Radio. It is not produced to incite enthusiasm, or elicit thoughtful conversation, or motivate anyone to do anything. It is there for a relaxed listening experience...and nothing more. It really is our Elevator Music. Elevator Music, btw, is still around and is still the most listened to radio format...believe it not. Even E.M. comes in a plethora of fragmented formats from which to choose. For the uninitiated, E.M. is composed of a selection of lushly orchestrated cover versions of long popular songs. Percy Faith, Montovani, even the likes of Yanni and John Tesh are some of the names that come to mind. And, typically, it was the music played in hotel lobbies, department stores, and elevators...background music.

Is Smooth Jazz background music? To some extent. But a good majority of it is cutting edge, state of the art, groovin’ music for us old folk! Listen to any CD from L.A. jazz group The Rippingtons with Russ Freeman and you won’t come away with the feeling you just took a double dose of Zoloft. Russ Freeman, for one, is a premier guitar player whose production style and electric (and acoustic) guitar riffs put some of younger “ax masters” to shame. He’s a smokin’ musician. And he’s not the only one...there are many others...masters of the tenor sax, keyboard, and brass.

Give your local Smooth Jazz station a try sometime. Around here we have The River (KOVR, 105.5). I don’t always agree with every song on their playlist, but it’s the only radio station I listen to right now. Of course, I have yet to purchase a satellite radio rig. At least the XM radio thing (and its clones) provide a wide source of listening choices that include AM type stations with teams of idiots blathering away about nothing.

When I first got into radio in the early-70s, there were only a small handful of radio stations allowed in any given area. Now...most every available frequency on the dial is occupied by some sort of broadcast fodder. It’s a whole different game out there now. Sure, we have more choices...but in this case, more is not necessarily better. We old radio personality dogs are not a dying breed...we are already dead...and gone.

Some Short Takes...2

2006-10-07T07:55:00.000-07:00

RV

I wouldn’t go so far as to say, “Don’t bother seeing the movie R.V.”. Not many people actually bought tickets for it when it was in the theatres a few months ago anyway. But I would suggest that you give it a chance...rent it, Netflix it, borrow it from a friend, wait until it comes to HBO or Showtime or Cinemax. In a nutshell, it is kind of a resurrection of the old Vacation flicks with Chevy Chase. Only this time, it stars Robin Williams and is set in a Class-A RV.

Other main characters are played by Cheryl Hines (Curb Your Enthusiasm), Joanna ‘Jo Jo’ Levesque (a recording “star”), and Jeff Daniels (whose film credits are too numerous to mention here). But the main “character” in this movie is not the parts portrayed on the screen, it is the director. For nothing else, watch this movie because it is directed by Barry Sonnenfeld (Men in Black, Get Shorty, the Addams Family). RV really has his signature “touch” so to speak, and it carrys the film. Personally, I feel it was the writing that fell short. Even with Robin Williams, there weren’t very many truly funny moments.

In brief, Williams plays an advertising executive who tricks his family into taking an RV vacation to Colorado (replacing their long-anticipated Hawaii trip). The family is unaware of the fact that Williams’ character is also on a mission for his nasty boss to meet a big client in hopes of saving the account. As I said, it really is a re-hash of the Vacation scenarios that ran its course over 20 years ago. It has the harried husband, the somewhat sympathetic wife, and two extremely bratty sarcastic children who don’t want to be on this trip (sound familiar?). There is a lot of physical comedy involving the RV of course, as well as many opportunities for Williams to utilize his rapier wit...but it all usually falls a bit short. The ending is a happy, predictable one...and you just may like this flick...keep an open mind.

School for Scoundrels

In between going to see the high profile, digital action adventures movie...I try to take Loretta to see a comedy on occassion. I say “take her” since she always the defers the choice of movie to yours truly...and she enjoys this type of light comedy fair. So, we saw School for Scoundrels.

Reason number one and two for us paying money to see this? Billy Bob Thornton and John Heder. Billy Bob because of Slingblade...John Heder because of Napolean Dynamite. First, we are big fans of Billy Bob...but are getting a little weary of watching his recent movies just to see if we can gleen any resemblance to Carl. As far a John Heder is concerned...the same goes for Napolean Dynamite. Thornton’s character in School for Scoundrels is miles away from Carl. But Heder’s character is still...well, a nerd! He’s a dork in this one as well. But wait. Heder has succeded in slowly making his way down the dufus scale since N.D. He is only half-dorky in this one, and his character actually displays a slight bit of intelligence and, yes, balls.

The story? Heder is a wimp who is always taken advantage of. In this, he plays a NY City meter maid guy who loses his job. Even his involvement in the Big Brother program fails as none of the kids want him as a Big Brother (got the picture?). Thornton plays a faux-psycholgist who runs a class for wimps...the School for Scoundrels...a bizarre, short course to re-instill confidence in losers. Heder’s character begins to do well in the class, Thornton’s character goes after Heder’s new-found girlfriend (Jacinda Barrett...very babe-a-licious Australian girl btw)...and the “game” is on.

This movie is more of a dark comedy at times, but bounces back and forth from cute romantic comedy and back to dark. It’s a little confusing to watch because of this script enigma. All in all, there is a happy ending, of sorts. John Heder does succeed in bringing down his dufus image a notch or two. If anyone saw Benchwarmers (as we did), you’ll agree that there seems to be a plan with his career moves. I’m not sure he will ever pull off a totally serious character...but stranger things have happened. Give School for Scoundrels a try when it becomes available to rent in a few months.

Fall, time to start the P.T.

Needless to say, we just came off of a brutal summer here in the valley and most other places. We’re completely fed up with the 100+ temps we saw for three straight weeks in July. It cooled down a bit for a month or two, then heated up again a couple of weeks ago...then rained like hell this week. But, for what its worth...it is Fall. And Fall is always a good weather time, while it lasts.

Fall in the valley usually means tule fog...that thick, nasty, valley ground fog that occasionally burns off in the afternoon to white-out haze. But when it’s not foggy, it’s half-way pleasant around these parts. Time to get out and walk. Today...I will walk the greyhound for the first time in a frigging year or so. Sammy has always been a good walker, he was raised that way at the track. After about 30 seconds of chaos when I reveal the leash, he settles down and just tools right along beside me. Greyhounds are walked regularly as part of their racing training, and he has never forgotten that. At some point in time, I will kick things up to a jog...but not for a while. When I have jogged with Sammy beside me, he only has to walk a bit faster...no big deal to a retired racing greyhound. I'm sure he finds it amusing when I jog.

So, for now...the neighborhood Sammy walk will kick off the P.T. for me. Maybe by next Spring, I will be able to attempt a 5k or a 10k run. No...really! Stop laughing! I mean it! Serious!

Do not touch that door handle! Jerry was right.

2006-10-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

I recently read some statistics from a survey about handwashing in this country. I believe the survey was taken by the Soap and Detergent Association in 2005. I know that sounds like I made up that association for comic relief, but I didn’t. It sounds like a private group, although it wouldn’t surprise me if it was a government-funded deal. Why not, huh?

The story lead read something like this, “Americans are washing their hands less”. According to the survey, generally speaking, Americans wash their hands after using the restroom 83% of the time...down a few percentage points from the last survey I assume. Before I move on in the survey, let me say this first: What a crock of shit!

Since the stats in this article were gleened from a voluntary survey, possibly from some cross-section of the American public, does it make them accurate? Hardly.

Over the years, I have done my own survey of sorts in men’s restrooms. And I can tell you confidently that men do not wash their hands after using the restroom more than 50% of the time...or less!

First of all, my observations only include the men that finished their “business” while someone else was in the restroom, right? This fact alone even scues this percentage model even further into the Twilight Zone of survey inaccuracy. Even in a annoymous survey with personal questions like this...people friggin’ lie through their teeth! That’s akin to cheating at solataire, isn’t it? Only you are aware of the cheating...or the lying.

The reason for this blogular diatribe stems from my recent obsession with keeping my hands somewhat germ free...not necessarily clean, but free of strange, alien, foreign, disease and sickness-causing germs. I’m not obsessed with it, but I am now (and have been for the few years) concerned, shall we say?

Getting back to men’s restrooms. Here is a typical scenario. A male walks into a public restroom to “take a leak”. After having touched the door handle on his way in, he sidles up to the selected urinal. If the room is somewhat busy (and there are no dividers between the fixtures), he taxis in really close so the pervert next to him can’t see his weiner while he is peeing. The male now unzips his fly and places his hand on said weiner...removes it, and begins the voiding process into the urinal. Shortly thereafter, he shakes it the appropriate amount of times...this is certainly a personal preferrence area better left alone at this point. I’ll just say this. What male child was not told by his father the quaint little saying, “Remember...if you shake it more than three times, you’re jerking off!” I guess appearing to jack off at a public urinal is not better than walking out with a huge urine stain on the leg of your tan Dockers.

Moving on. When said male has finished peeing and shaking, the unit is placed back into the shorts...pants are zipped back up...and now he is done...and headed for the door! Again, this is the case more than 50% of the time...closer to 80% of time if he is alone in the restroom.

I refer now to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry is in the restaurant restroom with Poppi, the father of one of his girlfriends...and the owner of the restaurant. Not only does Poppi make no attempt to wash his hands after going to the bathroom, he informs Jerry that he is now headed straight to the kitchen to make Jerry a special pizza by hand just for him. Of course, Jerry freaks out...won’t eat the pizza...breaks up with the girl, etc, etc. This scene is not far from the norm...believe me.

Not...cut back to the public restroom where I am observing the guy leaving without washing his hands. The guy walks to the door, grasps the handle, opens the door, and leaves. Now...you tell me. The next person (or series of people) who touch that door handle may as well be touching the guy’s penis! I ask you...is that something you would want to do? He just had his weiner in his hand. Not only that...after various amounts of shaking, he probably has urine on his hands! So, me touching that door handle with bare hands? Not gonna happen! Ever again. I use a paper towel or my shirt tail...or my foot. In fact, I haven't flushed a public toilet or urinal with my hands for a number years. A clothed elbow on the urinal handle works well...a well-placed shoe sole on the commode handle does the trick.

And believe me when I say this...in most cases, the guys who don’t wash their hands are disgusting looking individuals to boot. They’re not wearing Armani suits, nicely pressed pants, and are well-groomed. They’re pigs! They’re smelly old men, and dirty-looking individuals and non-bathers. They’re public nose-pickers, butt and crotch scratchers, and ear diggers. This really isn't an accurate statement, but one must assume this. Guys in Armani suits don't wash their hands either.

After spending many years in the restaurant business, seven of which with a large buffet firm, I realized the extent of filth I was being exposed to. I was certified by the NSF and California Restaurant Association in several sanitation courses, not to mention each individual restaurant’s requirements for management. There are nasty, nasty germs out there...and the majority of which don’t come from the food itself. They come from people...the workers and the customers. I can’t tell you how many times a customer would come up to me at the buffet restaurant and inform me about another customer not washing their hands in the restroom...then, picked up a spoon or tongs at the buffet line...or worse, fondled several dinner rolls with his bare hands. “What are you going to do about that?!”, they would complain.

There are laws and regulations requiring employees to wash their hands after visiting the restroom, eating, smoking, sneezing, or even touching their face. All we could do was educate them and then follow up when we caught them not doing it. That’s all. But what about the public at large?

So with that in mind, one must themselves be aware of what is out there. Not only on restroom handles, but on any public door handle, or chair arm, or supermarket basket. Yes! The supermarket basket...what a festering, filthy, breeding ground for germs. And that is why Loretta and I always carry that little bottle of sanitizer gel...wherever we go. It’s not an obsession...it’s simply common sense these days.

Many restaurants now require food-handling employees to wear disposable, latex gloves at all times. That’s well and good. But when these employees don’t change the gloves often, especially after taking out the trash or touching something not sanitary...what good is that? The latex gloves thing is not affective. Washing your hands often, and properly, is.

What is proper handwashing? We were always taught by the NSF that this required hot water, an anti-bacterial soap, and washing for at least 30 seconds. The old rule of thumb was to wash your hand the length of time it takes to sing Happy Birthday.

Back to the survey. People washing their hands 83% of the time after using the restroom...hardly. Washing for 30 seconds...very unlikely. Washing their hands more than 10 times per day (43% said they did)...what fantasy world did these numbers come from?

It’s not that the general public is comprised of dirty, unsanitary people...it’s just the nature of the world. It is full of germs. Remember the story in War of the Worlds? It was germs that saved the world. We need germs. They serve a very useful purpose, not only protecting us against alien invasions, but against other germs.

But, germs can be deadly. Recent e-Coli contamination in spinach for one. At the very least, they can make you sick and uncomfortable. And chances are, they came from another person...not from the food itself. And the number one transmitter of those germs is hands...yours and theirs.

Seinfeld’s Poppi epsidode was funny...but true to life. Howard Hughes? Now he was a bit obsessed.

Siss Boom Bah!

2006-10-04T17:02:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was a busy one for Loretta and I. Not only did my daughter Jenifer and hubby Roth fly down from Seattle, but we all piled in the Grand Cherokee and motored our way south some 240 miles (one way) to the Central Coast. Before we left for our old stomping grounds, we had the opportunity to spend some time with Jen and Roth...cooking and photographing a nice dinner on Friday night for one thing. That time was precious to me.

The drive was also a 4 1/2 hour segment of time where were all captive audience to each other...a time to chat, catch up some more, and make fun of people! No...that wasn’t all we conversed about, just part of the time. Jen and I argued and scoffed about each other’s iPod playlists (I won out since I was relagated to all driving duties), and Roth and Loretta just rolled their eyes at the father/daughter verbal jousting. Nothing serious, mind you...just the usual.

We stayed in the Holiday Inn Express in Pismo (or is it in A.G.?) and Jen and Roth went on to stay with her mother in Nipomo after the Saturday wedding we attended. I got to visit my mom for a few hours on Sunday...then we all piled back in the Family Jeepster Monday morning and headed back to Modesto...then on to Sacramento airport. All in all, it was quite a whirlwind weekend.

One of the primary reasons we went on this soiree was to attend the wedding of Megan McManus, the daughter of my buddy Peter Hill and his wife Rosie. Megan is about the same age as Jen...they grew up together, Peter and I have been the best of friends for over 30 years. Of late, Pete and I haven’t spent much time together. Loretta and I moved away from the C.C. over 8 years ago. So it was nice seeing him again.

Pete and I met while working at Shakee’s Pizza Parlor in Arroyo Grande. It was 1975 or so...we were both in our mid-twenties at the time. Me...recently divorced from my first wife. Pete...soon to be divorced from his first wife. We had a lot of fun working there. As I remember, my cousin Dennis also worked there for a while (he lived with us for a time). We made pizzas, poured draught beer, smoked some stuff on occassion, and lived the life of somewhat carefree bachelors. Many a time after work, we would sit around the pizza parlor drinking beer with the general manager (Tom was his name) until three or four in the morning...or until the keg ran out, whichever came first. We’d smoke cigarettes...(Pete smoked a pipe)...shoot the shit...and just hang out.

Over the years, Pete Hill and I went through many changes, both personally and professionally. I eventually got married again and had a couple of kids. So did Peter. I also moved away to Idaho for a time (twice). But we always seemed to stay close while I lived there. Our families did a lot of socializing together...we both had kids near the same age. We would get together for family BBQ’s, holiday get-togethers, cocktail parties, Halloween parties, and more. Pete’s wife Rosie and my ex-wife Anna are still very close.

Peter and I worked in radio broadcasting together as well as the pizza business. He worked as DJ on and off for a number of years as did I in the San Luis Obispo area. Neither one of us is doing that now. We had a lot in common.

Pete and I would laugh and laugh at Johnny Carson’s jokes. We both lived the life of a standup comic vicariously through Johnny. We even had the opportunity on a number of occassions to emcee big parties and other events that involved a microphone. At these affairs is where we would actually stand up in front of large crowds and tell jokes...it was a blast...always.

We learned to golf together, if you could call what we did “golfing”. Peter and I were consummate duffers...but we had fun. We’d get up very early on Sunday morning and hit the “links” of the Pismo Gold Course while there was still frost on the greens. I can still remember the sound of the golf balls rolling across the frozen grass...and we just laughed about it. We drank our coffees, smoked our cigarettes in the morning Pismo fog, and kept trying to be good golfers. It didn’t really matter how good or bad we were...or what the score was.

Pete and I talked about starting businesses together many times. Nothing really ever came of it...except once. We actually had a wholesale sock business at the swap meet in Nipomo for a few months. There isn’t enough room in this particular blog to tell you that whole story...it was fun...and even funnier when he and I talk about it. Needless to say, it didn’t make either of us rich. I know it made us “richer” in many ways though.

So, Pete and Rosie’s daughter Megan got hitched this past weekend, to a nice guy called Frank Porcho. It was a really nice wedding at a very nice golf club in Nipomo. Everything was done with class, and all went well. That was the main reason for our visit to the Central Coast...to attend the wedding of Pete’s daughter.

I got to see my old best friend Peter Hill again. We had a few stolen laughs, told a few bad jokes, and pledged to get together again real soon. We pledged that the next time we see each other, it will be time set aside for this old friendship of ours.

When you talk about old friends like Pete, and you talk about things that happened over thirty years ago...you’re a lucky person. And I feel extremely fortunate, and lucky, to have known Peter Hill for that long. We endured many things over the years...and we’re still alive and kicking to talk about it. Some of those things we can cry about...but most we laugh about. We had fun together. And after seeing him again this weekend, I am quite confident that there are many more laughs to come between us.

So, Peter Hill...here’s to you. I know I can make you laugh with just a punchline to two from some old, bad joke. And when I make you laugh...it makes me happy.

Siss Boom Bah!!!

Hair today...gone tomorrow

2006-09-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

I am a fervent dreamer, I’ve mentioned it before in this here blog. My dreams are usually a perplexing collection of misadventures far from home...trying to find my way home...running from airplanes crashing...and an occasional, erotic flying dream (the latter not as often of late!) But last night, I had one of my many reoccurring dreams not involving my being lost in a strange land. I dreamed about my hair falling out...even moreso than it already has! Details in a moment.

One of my favorite TV shows of all time was The Dick Van Dyke Show. One of my favorite episodes from that was the one in which Dick was overly preoccupied with his concern about losing his hair. He perceived a noticeable loss of follicle one morning, and the rest of the show he “freaked” out...including having a wacky dream about it. Someone advised him to put salad oil in his hair, wrap a towel around his head, and sleep on it. In his dream, he wakes up in the morning with a head of cabbage for hair! It was a crack up. Laura is laughing at his predicament like a devil’s minion. He then supposedly wakes up again and tells Laura about it (Ah, Laura Petrie...another vibrant childhood fantasy of mine that just won’t go away...I digress). She comforts him in her usual, Mary Tyler Moore way, calming him down. He is still wearing the towel turban. He goes in the bathroom and screams...his head is now completely bald. The scene fades to Dick waking up for the third time, and all is well with his hair, he and Laura laugh about it from their p.c. twin beds...cue theme song to commercial.

My hair dream last night was not quite as humorous as the one written by Carl Reiner for The Dick Van Dyke Show, but it is mildly amusing that I continue to have these themed dreams. My follicle fairy tales have run the gamut...from me having Fabio hair to my hair falling out in large chunks and weird patterns. I guess that is why they call it pattern baldness. Anyway, my hair has been falling out for a number of years. My actual first notice of this came at the age of 25 (I’m 56 now). I had been talked into getting my hair permed. Yes, friggin’ permed! Losts of guys did it in the mid-70s...didn’t they? Well, I did. As a side note, it made me look so much like Gabriel Kaplan (remember Welcome Back Kotter?), that little kids would run up to me and say, “Mommy, mommy...it’s Kotter...it’s Mr. Kotter!” So for a few months, that is how I wore my hair, in a tight, almost Afro-like perm...until it started falling out. Each morning I would notice wods of my nice, curly dark brown hair stuck to my comb and in the sink. I thought this was caused by the perm, so I ceased this practice immediately. My hair grew out again, with the usual unmanageable waves, and all was well in Skip Hair Land...for a few years anyway.

Cut to five years ago. Soon after I turned fifty, I noticed my hair line had receded noticeably in front. And worse, there was a bald spot on back of my head where once was that swirl one has in that area. The hairless circle was smooth as a baby’s ass and about three inches across. Talk about screwing up how I combed my hair, it was disturbing at best. I found myself trying to rearrange what hair I had left on top to the extent that it now looked like one of those comb-over affairs. It looked like an old man’s hairdo! This ain’t happening to me, no way. So...that is when I decided to shave my head. And I did shave my head, every day for about five years. Afterall, I was riding a Harley and it was much more convenient for the helmet-hair issue. Life went on. Sure I looked a lot like Dr. Evil from Austine Powers movies, but everyone told me it looked “right” on me. My scalp still was somewhat prestine...no scars from splitting open my head in childhood bicycle incidents. It looked and felt O.K. Factor in the goatee, and I appeared to be a large, Harley-riding bad-ass. If I can’t look like Vinnie Barbarino, I’ll look like a professional wrestler...who knew?

Then, a few months ago...I simply decided that enough was enough. I decided to grow my hair out...just to see what was left. One of my hopeful theories was that while I was shaving my head bald, my hair had somehow restored itself, gotten thicker again (a scenario I had heard on a talk show about hair loss I think). So now after a few months...I got hair again. Not to the extent to which I had hoped...but hair. And thicker hair...where there still was hair! None of it had restored itself, but it has gotten thicker, more wirey, more wavey...and more grey. Although I still possess very, very dark brown (almost black in the winter) hair, it is now flecked with grey a bit. You see, evidently you inherit your hair gene from your paternal grandmother. And she had thick, wavey, grey-flecked hair until the end. Being a male, one must realize that the hair gene also contains the baldness gene...in most cases surfacing only in males. Voila...thick, dark, wavey hair with a pattern baldness effect near the back of my head...thinning on top...and a receded hairline. Might I still be able to grow a poneytail?

It still remains to be seen how far I will take this new found interest in the length of my hair. It is over my ears, and steadily creeping down the back of my neck. It is, indeed, very wavey and a touch thicker than my younger years. I simply comb it straight back out of the shower (no blow drying any longer, I don’t want to give it more reason to fall out more than it has).

Many of the people close to me have commented that I have nice hair, "Stop shaving your head...but you’re not growing a friggin’ poneytail...are you?" Don’t know yet...we’ll see.

Concerning my latest hair dream last night? While combing my hair in the morning, my newly grown, longer locks started falling out in chunks again...a lot. I had woke up nearly totally bald on top...with one difference. The image in the mirror looked like Fabio! Yes...I dreamed I was a balding Fabio last night...with long, wavey tresses on the side and back...and only a dozen or so long hairs left on top. It was disturbing (again) to say the least.

Will I be one of those past-middle-aged nearly bald guys with a poneytail and a beer gut, driving an old Porsche, and getting courtesy smiles from young girls? Who knows? But I do have control over the beer gut and the hair length. I’m working on the gut. I’m growing my hair to whatever length I desire. I drive an old Porsche. But there ain’t nothin’ I can do about my hair going bye bye. I pledged many years ago that I would never augment my hair in the form of a “rug” or surgery. Neither one of those ideas is a viable alternative to baldness in my book. Besides, guys who do that are not fooing anyone. And I certainly don’t want to have that God awlful looking doll hair that implants give you!

And they say that women are vain!

You Can't Take It With You...or can you?

2006-09-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

You Can’t Take It With You was a Pulitzer Prize winning play by George Kauffman and Moss Hart in the 30s, made into movie in 1938 starring Jimmy Stewart, Lionel Barrymore, and Jean Arthur. And, traditionally, that line kind of referred to what you can’t do when you die.

It’s a timely saying that has withstood time and trends. It is still very relevant in today’s world. Although my twist on it goes something like this, “You Die...You’re Dead...You’re Done”.

One must go for the gusto whilst one is still able. Go for it! Do it while you still can. Why not...you might be gone tomorrow? And on and on.

For better or for worse, I think I have somewhat lead my life in that fashion...at least the last two years. Not to the extent that I have tried to do all the things that I truly want to do, but at least to the extent that I am trying to fullfill some of the things I have only dreamed of. I have posted a list on this blog, 100 things I have yet to do (and would really like to do).

Besides having a mindset that challenges me to even think about these adventures, I have accomplished a few. Many of which I did years ago...decades ago.

I guess I really am, and have been since I was a child, a restless soul. Some might call it A.A.D.D....others call it wanderlust. One of my long time mentors? Ernest Hemmingway. A few others are Christopher Columbus...John Steinbeck...Ansel Adams.

The latter, Ansel Adams, I can most relate to at this time in my life. In fact, he did have something akin to A.A.D.D. His father tried to nuture his restlessness with classical piano lessons and other schooling. He was eventually given a simple, Kodak Brownie camera by his father...and that birthday present changed his life forever. He spent the rest of his life after receiving that present roaming the country in search of the perfect photograph. Most of his work was done in Yosemite of course. But his unrelenting focus was taking that one photograph that would represent that one special moment he experienced in person. He struggled to put that emotion on film. Most people would say that he certainly accomplished that goal hundredfold. He would disagree. His own self-doubt and self-criticism is what kept him going...and going...striving to get better images each time he went out on those wilderness excursions.

I have moved my “home” several times in my life. More than any other person in my immediate family or peer group. At 19, I went in the Navy (in 1969). During that time, I experienced locations including San Diego (twice), Mountain View, CA, Millington (Memphis), TN, Hawaii, Alaska, Guam, Midway Island, the Philippines, Taiwan, Japan, Thailand, Hong Kong...and Vietnam.

After the service, I lived in L.A. (where I grew up), San Luis Obispo, Grover Beach, Arroyo Grande, Idaho (twice), Fresno, and now Modesto (Salida). All this time since being overseas in the Navy, I’ve wanted to live in many other places as well. I guess I am just not “there” yet.

One saying I have carried with over years though is, “No matter where you go...you’re still you”. That has kept me from moving around even more I suppose.

I truly believe my daughter Jenifer has this wanderlust bug as well. She is very adventurous, creative, and not affraid to search for new experiences. After having moved away from her “hometown” a year ago, it remains to be seen how long she will be satisfied with her new “hometown”: Seattle. Being a bit more pragmatic that I ever was (and being female), she will probably stay in one place longer than I did. Maybe not.

Her and Roth are coming to visit this weekend. They will stay with us a couple of days before driving with us to her “hometown” of San Luis Obispo/Arroyo Grande. It will be her first time back in over a year. She is very reflective in her latest blog entry concerning this visit...wondering what it will like, what has changed there, how she has changed, and so on. Her mother and brother still live on the Central Coast, as well as a few old friends...one of which is getting married this weekend, the initial reason for the journey from Seatlle. Jenifer will have the opportunity to visit them and maybe see a few of the places that were a big part of her growing up time.

In every instance when I moved away, I went through a period of anxiety after I got there. A period of self-doubt and remorse, “Should I have done this? I’m not sure I really like it here”. Jenifer has had those feelings as well concerning her move to Seatlle...with one big difference from me. She truly loves her new home! Her and Roth are really enjoying Seattle...at least outwardly they exhibit that emotion about their new-found home. They’ve recently purchased a house there. But I did that as well in Idaho...and hated it there! What she is feeling is something that I have not been able to say about my many moves. I guess I’m still looking for that certain “fit” that she has found in the northwest. Quite possibly, she is bit more self-actualized than I will ever be. Good for her...she’s lucky to have that. She is very strong-willed and appears to know what she wants...most of the time.

Wherever you go, the one thing that never changes...is you. No matter what job or profession you are in, the one thing that remains the same is that person called “you”. Maybe being a photographer now will fullfill this wanderlust I have. To actually grow as a photographer, I feel one must possess this wanderlust. That feeling of wanting to experience what is on the other side of that hill, around that bend...what tomorrow will hold. And, of course, capture it on film!

You can’t take it with you. When you die...you’re dead...you’re done. If you believe there is something more gracious and wonderful after you pass on...more power to you. I don’t know...and neither do you.

I just know that there are places and things to experience while we are here, while we still are able. My niece and nephew just got back from Europe. They are 19 and 21 respectively. “We needed to do this now, because who knows when we will be able to again”. You bet. Jenifer and Roth moved to their favorite city, now...while they can, because who knows when they will be able to again.

The last time we were in Monterey, I noted, “Why would anyone NOT want to live here?” Maybe that’s our next home. Who knows?

One thing I do know? It ain’t here!

"What'll ya' have, pardner?"

2006-09-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

What the hell is a mojito anyway?

Well, I happen to know what the hell a mojito is because of my tenure in the restaurant business. My last corporate management gig was at a faux-Mexican restaurant that made many futile attempts at pushing this old, Latin inspired cocktail on its unsuspecting patrons. For the uninitiated, a mojito is to rum what a mint julep is to bourbon. What it is not is a foo-foo drink for the alcohol faint at heart. More on these two embibements later.

We have some artwork hanging on our kitchen wall depicting six, old, traditional cocktails: White Velvet, Manhattan, French Twist, Sidecar, Cosmopolitan, and Margarita. The latter two most people might be able to identify with...the first four, good luck finding a person on the street with any knowlege of these concoctions. Seeing these framed, painted representations of famous drinks on a daily basis prompted me to write a few lines about the business of serving cocktails.

Having spent time, not only in the restaurant industry but, as a bartender as well...I have become familar with mixed drinks other than the Top 5 most popular...too familiar at times! In the early 80s, I applied for a second job (while my son was gestating) at a busy, western-style eatery in Twin Falls, Idaho called Rock Creek. It had a large, busy cocktail lounge. I walked in one quiet afternoon, sauntered up to the owner sitting at the end of the bar, and said, “I need a part time job”. “Can you bartend?’, he replied, “We need a bartender”. “Well,” I said, “I think so...I’ve never been one, other than pouring draught beer at a pizza parlor”. He then asked me if I knew what a screwdriver was and what was in it. I answered his quiry correctly. We chatted about the ingredients in a few other popular cocktails including martini, margarita, and daquiri. Two minutes later, I was shaking his hand and agreeing to come back in an hour to start my career as a bartender at Rock Creek. His only concern? My beard. In Idaho, in the early 80s, a beard was still considered to be a subversive, hippy-influenced grooming statement. I went home and shaved.

This restaurant owner informed me that 95% of the drinks I will have to mix are the Top 5 most popular. The other 5% are lessor known cocktails that can be found in the Bartender’s Companion, a thick paperback listing all drinks known to man and how to make them...always found stuck to the shelf under every bar. “Don’t worry”, he said with a slight smerky smile, “if you don’t know the drink, just look it up...or, just ask the customer what is in it!” Thus soothing some of my anxiety.

What are the Top 5 by the way? Argueably, they are Screwdriver, Margarita, Daquiri, Martini, and Scotch & Soda. Yes, there are people in the world who can not name the ingredients in that last drink...I think many of them have been on Jeopardy or worked at The Olive Garden. The other end of the popularity spectrum, ie, frequency of ordering? Grasshopper, Golden Cadillac, and Blowjob. Yes, there are people in the world who insist on ordering a Blowjob...close behind that is Slippery Nipple, Beaten Fetus, B-52, and the dreaded Purple-Pull-Your-Pants-Down. That goofy drink list is endless, especially when you factor in the crappy messes that Bobby the Lifetime College Student invented last week at a frat party.

By the way, what is the nastiest drink I have ever served up? The infamous 21st Birthday Drink. Traditionally given to the very willing, very intoxicated just-turned-21-that-day patron by his “friends” near the end of the evening...it contains the liquid found in the long rubber mat at the mix station on a bar. Considering there is quite a lot of overflow from drinks being poured by a busy bartender, this piece of essential bar equipment catches it all. Most times it is simply dumped into the nearby sink when it becomes too full. At other times, it contains the ingredients of The Birthday Drink. There usually is no charge for this mess...and should never be, don’t you agree?

Well, I worked as a bartender for a year or so...while maintaining my full time day job as a radio announcer. Both of these careers have since gone the way of the Do-Do bird...by choice. But I did learn a lot about customer service, about people, and about mixing cocktails. The old time, traditional bartender job used to be a noble profession. He or she not only mixed up good drinks with much pride involved, they also offered an ear to those patrons who were there to drown their sorrows. They needed to be amateur psychologists as well as professional mixologists. Bartenders leaned an elbow on the mahogony, looked the customer in the eye, and was genuinely interested in what he or she was saying...at least the good bartenders did that. They knew how to mix drinks for each regular patron. They remembered how they liked them to be made, how strong to make them, and when to ask if they wanted another. A Screwdriver consists of vodka and orange juice and ice. How much vodka, orange juice, and ice? That depended on the individual customer's preferrences. They provided a “service” to people. They, in most cases, actually enjoyed what they were doing.

Nowadays, most bartenders are simply assembly line clones of a since long extinct profession. Especially in the corporate chain restaurants, it is far from the noble endeavor it used to be. They just don’t get it any longer. They don’t care. And, to be fair, they are not given the latitude to be what a bartender was meant to be way back when. It is a “numbers” game. In many cases, bartenders squirt drinks out of a gun that is pre-calibrated to portion the alcohol. Margaritas are pre-mixed with everything, including the cheap-ass tequila they use, in 40 gallon plastic drums hooked to a pump and a hose. Any pride in how they perform their duties, maintain cleanliess, or present themselves rarely happens in today’s watering holes. They expect a tip rather than earn it. And they couldn’t mix a proper Long Island Ice Tea if their lives depended on it! Let alone be able to know the difference between a good Cosmopolitan and a tankerd of toxic swill in a taste test.

Back to the Mojito and the Mint Julep. Ordering a Mojito may sound good as it is a very trendy cocktail of late. But even if the bartkeep knows how to make a proper one, be aware of what to expect. It is, in it’s traditional form, mostly alcohol. Just like a real Martini, a real Cosmo, and a real Margarita.

A Mojito is as follows: Lime juice, sugar, and mint leaves “muddled” in an Old Fashion type glass (a small, squat, thick glass). The glass is then filled with crushed ice, a jigger of good rum, and sometimes a spritz of soda. A Mint Julep is nearly the same, but with bourbon instead of rum.

A traditional Margarita is as follows: In a Old Fashion type glass, add crushed ice, a jigger of good tequila, a splash of Cointreau or Triple Sec (orange liquor), and lime juice. Sometimes the rim of the glass is dipped in lime juice then coated with Kosher salt. A blended version of this drink is not a real Margarita. By the way, a Perfect Margarita is the same as just mentioned, but with a “float” of Gran Marnier...tastes even better, but your bartender will add $4 or $5 to the price of the drink!

A traditional Cosmopolitan is as follows: Made by shaking together vodka, Cointreau, cranberry juice, lime juice, and ice. Then straining it into either an Old Fashion type glass or a Martini glass, which may be rimmed with sugar.

Whenever someone suggests ordering a Kamikaze, just remind them “Oh, you mean a Cosmoplitan”. But instead of sipping it, you “shoot” it! You’ll get quizzical stares from the younger crowd...but it’s always fun messing with them.

Drink and be merry. But when you are shelling out those astronomical prices for “nice” drinks...send it back if it sucks. I always do. I almost always send back Long Island Ice Teas, as I have rarely found one made properly. Besides, they usually run about $8.00.

I am almost never disappointed with a Miller Genuine and a shot of Cuervo Gold...except when they don’t pour three fingers of tequila. Cheap bastards!

Bottoms up!

A quick SLO turnaround...

2006-09-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

This weekend I drove to the Central Coast on Saturday morning, spent the night, then headed back to Modesto early the next morning. It was another solo trip for me, as Loretta had to work. My mission: visit my son Jimmy, visit my mom Betty...and, of course, take a few pictures. Mission(s) accomplished.Going there without Loretta always makes it bittersweet, as I miss her the moment I leave. She tells me, as well, that the feeling is mutual...I believe her! We are planning a weekend on the coast in two weeks for a wedding. This particular wedding is for an old friend's daughter, so I won't officially be "working"...although I do plan on taking photos for them as part of our wedding gift. We'll have time to do some other things as well, including see my mom again, hang out at the ocean, and relax a bit.

On the way in to Pismo, I stopped in SLO for a short while. I wanted to snap a few photos in the mission plaza area. There was a street fair going on, the annual Italian Street Painting Fair. They don't actually use paint, it's a painting-with- chalk thing. It looked like 25-30 squares were taped out in the plaza for artists to ply their talent on the plaza in pastel chalks...each individual area set aside was sponsored by local businesses. Everyone was busily etching out their creations under the bright morning sun. The weather was perfect, and it appeared to be a nice turnout.

They do a lot of things like this in SLO, unlike here in Modesto where you're lucky to find something like this at all. Of course, SLO is somewhat of an artist colony in its own rite. Sure it's a college town (Cal Poly) and tourist stop, but it has always been a bit of a mini-Carmel. I lived on the Central Coast for 25 years before migrating to the San Joaquin Valley. I don't make a single trip down there without becoming extremely nostalgic about my time spent there...a lot happened in my life during those years. Besides, the weather is superb and my immediate family still resides there. The drive from Modesto to the C.C. sucks, although not a deterrant to taking that drive at least a half dozen times a year.

Jenifer was born there. Went to school there. Graduated from college there. And got married there (last year). She and Roth set out on a leap-of-faith adventure to their "next S.L.O."...to Seattle last summer. They do miss S.L.O., but have discovered a much larger and more diverse version of their home town in Seattle. Hence, I no longer have that "excuse" to make the trip to the C.C., ie, visit my daughter. It still seems a little weird coming down the Cuesta grade on 101 into San Luis, and not taking that exit that leads to Jenifer's place.

Saturday afternoon, Betty and I set out for our usual trek to the ocean, this time to Avila Beach. It was beautiful there, the weather was clear and mild and even a little warm for that area. I took pictures and got to see the town of Avila since it was plowed under a few years ago from toxic contamination. They've done a good job resurrecting that little beach "town". Loretta and I will try to get there in two weeks.

By the way, Cal Poly's WOW week was in full swing, the week set aside for new students and their families. Pismo was the usual nuthouse on a busy weekend! Wall to wall people, assholes and elbows downtown. After this week, everything will settle down a bit, reverting back to the sleepy little tourist area that it is off season. Go there in the fall or winter and have the place to yourself...almost anyway!

After the sun set and I had taken several hundred photos of Shell Beach leading up to that event, we had dinner at Finn's...a seafood style restaurant at the Grover Beach ramp. It wasn't busy at all as most of the WOW week people stick close to SLO or the other big "name" Pismo eateries like McLintocks or The Cliffs or Alex BBQ. All of the aforementioned restaurants were packed to the gills. My mom and I ate fish and chips...me feeling extremely guilty about downing that kind of faire as it is not a part of the Sonoma Diet! But, I'll get back on track this week...making up for the McD "driving breakfasts" I ate as well.

After dinner, we had an interesting visit at my mom's place with sister Kris. I downloaded my photos on the iBook, then hit the couch. I had planned on getting up very early and making the drive back via Highway One...didn't happen. I had just been that route a few weeks prior and wanted to get back in a shorter amount of time. Loretta, Jen, Roth, and I will drive back that way in two weeks. I did have an opportunity to stop at Shell Beach and take a few rare morning photos of the rocks, the pelicans, and the ocean. Then, back on that sucky drive back to Modesto...101 to 46 to 41 to the dreaded 5...and home. All in all it is a 500 mile trip there and back. With the iPod blasting through the radio, I managed to make it home without too much anguish...or sweating this time.

We really do miss the Central Coast. Whenever we make the trip down there, we never miss an opportunity to visit one of the beaches...if not just to drive by and look at it out the window of the car.

Loretta and I moved away from there 10 years ago for reasons of advancing my job position. That position and others have long since evaporated. But we did buy a nice house in Salida and are very happy...when we are actually in the house!

Modesto has always been and still is a hick town without much to offer in the way of art, culture, or job opportunities. We've met some nice people, made some friends, and have had some fun. But it may be time to move on...again. Seattle has quite often been a sore topic of this discussion. Loretta usual points out that she can't live where there is that much precipitation and fog. As for me, that doesn't bother me...I sort of enjoy dreary weather.

The likelihood of us moving anytime soon? Fairly remote, for financial reasons. Seattle would most likely be a fertile area to cultivate my style of photography versus what one finds acceptable in Modesto.

Time will tell...

Some Short Takes...

2006-09-15T07:15:00.000-07:00

We saw The Illusionist. I was very hopeful of this film after viewing the trailer, afterall...Paul Giamatti is in it. It presented an intriguing story of a 19th century magician, political power struggles, a love story, and a murder mystery. It dragged a bit at times, but had a satisfying ending. I just couldn’t buy into Giamatti’s faux Austrian/English accent, nor Edward Norton’s high, nasal, lispy voice as a charismatic stage illusionist...remember how creepy he was in Primal Fear (1996)? We should have saved our money, waited one more day, and saw The Black Dahlia...there is always next week. BTW...anyone see Hollywoodland, is it worth the $6.50 (bargain matinee price of course)?

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Reality shows...wow, will it ever end? Hardly, they represent a huge new boom in TV ad sales, evidently based on fan popularity. Someone must be watching them. The latest offering: Survivor, Cook Islands pits various ethnic groups against one another? They’re serious...it is not a skit from SNL. I guess I am not an objective critic of this genre. I have not now and have never had any interest in these shows. Did I say the word “not” enough yet? Soon, look for reality show offerings like Survivor Compton: The Crips and the Bloods, Survivor Omaha: The Farmers and the Ranchers, Euro-Survivor: The Rude versus the Bad Teeth, or Survivor Hollywood: the Asskissers and the Backstabbers. I don’t get it.

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The weather...what’s up with that? There was no Spring this year, at least in California. It went from rainy and cold to very hot and dry in one weekend. Those 105+ days in July were literally a killer. We’ve been near 100 again for a week or so, and the forecast today is for a high of 81! It was 97 yesterday and it is supposed to be 81 today! The weather geeks tell us that one of the reasons for our weird weather of late is because the Earth is a couple of degree warmer since 100 years ago. How the hell can they accurately say that? How accurate were the thermometers 100 years ago, let alone the record-keeping? Now they tell us that the Hole-In-The-Ozone-Scare (scam) the past 20 years was probably a natural, cyclical thing...it is closing up again...naturally! Another in a long line of town cryer, attention-getting ploys by geek scientist types with way too much time on their hands. I suggest that these technical scientific people should be made to wear stiff plastic pocket protectors in their short sleeve white shirts with clip-on ties, a holster on their belt for their slide rule, and a big white piece of tape on one corner of their thick black glasses just to idenify the source of this dribble...like in the olden days. At least back then...you knew who the nerds were.

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Meredish Viera (yes, I said Mere-dish) will be a welcome breath of fresh air to The Today Show. I have always thought she was intelligent and very appealing, back from her days on West 57th (the 60 Minutes clone from 1985). I hope Katie does well on the CBS evening news, but she looked like a deer in the headlights her first show. Back to Meredith...btw, I never watched The View...sorry, she just didn’t seem to fit on a stage with a bunch of trite bitches who had nothing worthwhile to contribute, especially Star Jones and that old bat comedienne they had.

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Does anyone truly give a damn about the recent rash of celebrity couple out of wedllock babies (especially the so-called TomCat creation)? More specifically, seeing the first pictures of them! My gosh, I am more entralled with pictures of a baby panda squirting out of Ling Ling, or Ping Ping, or Ping Pong...whatever their names are.

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Some stores have their Christmas stuff out already...some for a month or more. That’s just not right!

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Jim Carrey fired his long-time management team recently. Apparently the string of clinkers he offered us the past few years didn’t jive with his $20 million dollar per movie fee. It remains to be seen if he can “make a comeback”. Just like many others, Carrey has become a parody of himself in every flick.

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Ludivine Sagnier

2006-09-13T16:51:00.000-07:00

I was going to do a mini-review of the movie Swimming Pool (2003). But truthfully, in reality, this is a mini-tribute to one of the sexiest young actresses working today.

Before I begin my gush-fest, you must know that my daughter Jenifer just wrote a review for the movie The Last Kiss. She did a great writing job, presenting a comprehensive look at a new movie starring and about people in the 20-something age bracket...a genre that Hollywood (and movie-goers) never seem to tire of, no matter what year it is at present. Though Jen tried to be subjective about the merits of the movie, she was apparently overwhelmed by the movie’s star: Zach Braff. So, I believe my motivation for this “review” is based on similar, carnal reactions to a person in a movie...and not necessarily the film itself. With that disclaimer on the table, here goes another actress infatuation piece from yours truly.

When you get a moment, go to your favorite browser and type in the search box: Ludivine Sagnier. Chances are, this is first time you have ever heard of that name. In fact, I hadn’t heard that name until the day I stumbled upon the movie Swimming Pool (2003)...I think it was on Cinemax late one night.

Swimming Pool is a movie written and directed by French moviemakers (Francoise Ozon & Emmanuelle Bernheim). It’s officially listed as a Drama/Mystery/Thriller. It is true to that form, but let me add Erotic Thriller as well, since there is much of that in the movie...though not extremely graphic or overlydone. Nudity? Why, yes! More on that later.

There is a notable co-star in the form of English actress Charlotte Rampling, who, by the way, is not too shabby in her own right in the sexy department. Rampling is 60 years old now, but still has that speccial something that made her a pretty busy actress in the seventies and eighties...a lot of TV, a lot of French and British productions, and so on. Charlotte, by the way, takes it all off as well in one scene in Swimming Pool.

Back to this Ludivine Sagnier. In the movie, she plays the wild-child, French daughter of Rampling’s boss. Rampling is a mystery writer vacationing (and writing her next mystery novel) at her boss’ house in France when the wild-child, Julie (Sagnier) shows up unexpectedly. Julie is an 18 year old party animal who drags local Euro-creeps home with her at night...cavorting sexually and very audibly around the house...much to the dismay of Rampling’s stodgy character Sarah.

Eventually, the two become buddies of sort. Sarah also begins to assume the roll of Julie’s long lost mother at one point.

Well, Julie supposedly bashes in the skull of one of her suitors one night after he refuses to have sex with her in the swimming pool...are we getting the title’s connection yet? Said swimming pool is also the locale for many of the exchanges between Julie and Sara, Julie and the Euro-creeps, and an old fart who lives there and takes care of the gardening...and the swimming pool. Now, Sarah helps Julie dispose of the guy whose skull she bashed in. They bury him in the backyard...by the swimming pool of course. In the meantime, Sarah has been using Julie’s exploits as fodder for her book...busily writing on her laptop all day and into the night.

If I tell you any more, it will spoil a very interesting plot twist at the end. Suffice to say, Swimming Pool is an interesting, albeit low key movie that does hold your attention, especially if you are a guy! You see, Ludivine Sagnier is one of the sexiest little actresses I have ever seen in a movie. Sure, she plays a nasty girl-gone-wild character in this, but she is genuinely appealing...in a strange, thick French accent, barely-legal sort of way.

Julie (Sagnier) does romp around the swimming pool in her bikini quite a bit. Not to mention several nude scenes in the pool, her bedroom, the living room, the stairs...did I leave anywhere out? To put it arcanely, she is built like a brick shit house!

Sagnier’s appeal also lies in her uninhibited acting style as the character Julie. Fancy free, doesn’t give a shit about anything, and loves to smoke pot, drink, and party...not to mention fool around with whomever she pleases. It kind of brings back memories of the seventies for me. But maybe that is the way Europeans are now and have always been, especially the French.

Ludivine Sagnier was seen more recently as Tink(erbell) in Peter Pan...a decidely sexier rendition of that character than Disney envisioned...or Mary Martin. Of course, Mary Martin’s tinkerbell from the fifties was played by a flashlight...remember? Sagnier has been in a number of French films and European television productions. She is touted as being one who is “on the verge” (of stardom). It will be interesting to watch and see if that indeed does happen. My recommendation to her agent? She needs to be the next Bond Girl! And since we have a new James Bond coming very soon, her not-fitting-the-mold demeanor will be a breath of fresh air...and a look into the future of movie sexpots.

Ludivine Sagnier is a total hottie! And so are you Virginia Madsen...just bit more mature than Ludivine.

The Monster From Cable Internet Hell

2006-09-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

For someone who spends a decent amount of time on the internet, I’ve been going through Cable Internet Hell the past month. In fact, I should send a rough draft of some sort to Wes Craven or Clive Barker for the screenplay of this story. Some other working titles I’m considering: Nightmare on the Internet, Cable Mayhem: Apolcalyse, Firewall Frustration, or Snakes on a Browser.

I have been so frustrated for these past weeks, it’s a wonder I haven’t gained back the recent weight I lost on The Sonoma Diet, fallen off the bourbon wagon, or thrown all my computer equipment in the pool. Fortunately, I didn’t do any of that...but certainly felt like it at times.

It all started one quiet afternoon after we returned home from two days in Monterey.

I went to log on my usual browser, on my usual Apple Mac laptop, in the usual way. I have been on a cable modem for several years now, so this task has always been a very timely process. Anyone familiar with high speed internet will know that it only takes a few seconds to “fire up”...and you’re there...surfing away without much delay. But for some unknown reason (unknown to me at the time), it didn’t go anywhere...fast!

By the way, there is a new message that my brain has registered as reason to disengage from rationality: “Browser not found. Check your internet connection or retype the browser address.” After a few days of seeing this message many times, I had become The Lost Connection Monster From Cable Internet Hell. Poor Loretta...but that’s another story for now.

But wait...the next morning, I logged on and everything worked just fine...for about five minutes. Then, in the middle of uploading photos to my website, reading an email, or just trying to load a web page...it “takes a crap”...again. Re-log onto the browser...same message...over, and over, and over again. It continued this process, ie, on, then off, on, then off until I couldn’t get a connection at all...all day...during many days.

Of course, at this point, I am reinventing the wheel with my computer network configurations, hypotheszing why it has happened, re-wiring every cable connection, disconnecting all the TV’s in the house, buying cable boosters, and sweating like a farm animal. Not to mention...becoming The Lost Connection Monster From Cable Internet Hell. I was pissed off to say the least....and very frustrated...and this was before I called the cable company!

So...after a couple days of this mayhem, I called the cable company...Charter F***ing Cable. Of course, that’s not their real name. It’s simply what they will be referred to by yours truly from here on out, the remainder of my days on this Earth. I’ll just use the abbreviation CFC for brevity and decorum the rest of this blog entry.

The first call to CFC, I spent 20 minutes “talking” to Mr. Automation, “Let’s see if we can find out what is wrong with your connection before sending you to an (live) agent”. Yes, a full 20 minutes answering automated questions like, “Is your computer plugged in?”, “Is your cable plugged in to your modem?”, “Did you purchase your computer before 1968?”, “Is your head currently up your ass?” All of which I had checked many times before making this call...of course, I was only reasonably sure that my head was not up my ass. After waiting another 20 minutes for a live agent, “Linda” comes on the line. Linda, by the way, may not have been her real name since I believe she was calling from Sri Lanka. In her best broken English, Linda commenced to ask me the same questions as Mr. Automation just did. And I am answering these questions again to the best of my ability through tightly clenched teeth. Try talking sometime with your mouth clamped shut and your lips pursed so tight that every word sounds the same. Occassionally, Linda would say to me, “Mr. Hansen, are you still there?” Apparently, the response “Ah huh” in growl mode doesn’t come across clearly on a phone conversation to the Far East.

Here is the semi-short version of the next 21 days. Linda set me up with a “tech appointment”. CFC tech comes out one week later and replaces antique cable modem and a couple of cable wires. CFC tech notes: “Wow, this is taking a long time to come up (on his laptop)”. CFC tech leaves. My internet connection works fine...then takes a crap as the CFC tech truck is pulling away from my driveway! I get a “priority” return appointment 2 days later. Same CFC tech comes out and tells me that their system won’t work connected to a router (the system I have been using without change for 2 years). CFC tech spills the beans, “CFC has made some technical changes in their signal of late. Some people have had to rewire their entire house...at their expense. Oh look, your connection is working now”. CFC tech leaves. My connection "takes a crap" as CFC tech truck is driving away from my house. I find out that our next door neighbor has had the exact same problems for exactly the same amount of time (they have not had the patience to schedule a visit from CFC tech, remember those 20 minute conversations with Mr. Automation and “Linda” from Sri Lanka?) I see a TV ad for A.T.T/SBC/Yahoo High Speed Internet. I managed to get on line for 10 minutes and check it out...$12.99 a month. I speak to the A.T.T. booth girl at the fair. Yes, DSL is now available in your neighborhood (a few years ago, it wasn’t...hence the cable modem fiasco). A.T.T. booth girl at the fair also informs me that high speed DSL does not tie up your phone line any longer. Ureka! A solution. Booth girl says she will call me on Tuesday after Labor Day and set everything up for me. No call from booth girl. I manage to get on line for 10 minutes...quick, order the DSL! A week later (Monday), the modem and self-installation kit arrives (saving me $200 in hook up fees by a tech). A.T.T. email says it will be configured and connected to your house by Monday. I stick in the installation CD, following all the instructions to the letter, hit “connect”...nothing. I get the message, “Browser not found. Check your internet connection...blah, blah, blah”. Only this time, the message is in a pretty, more graphically pleasing, colored font from SBC. I try the CD procedure again (twice). I call A.T.T. They check my order...”It won’t be active unti 8:00 pm (it is now 7:45). I wait until 8:30 and try again. Nothing. I call A.T.T. back. The nice lady (sounds like the call is from Shanghai this time) talks me through “manual registration” procedures. Nothing. Informs me that my browser (Firefox) won’t let me register the account (something about Flash), she must pass me along to a “Level 2” phone tech who can do it. Andy comes on the line (also sounds like a resident of Shanghai). Andy talks me through some other technical stuff, various websites, and keystrokes and...voila! It works. Flamethrowing, firebreathing, Formula One internet connection! I ask Andy, “May I ask from where you are calling?” Andy responds, “California...San Ramone”. “Oh...I’m in Modesto”. “Yes, I know that”, Andy replies in his best, polite broken English. “Hmmm...how’s the weather in San Ramone?” That blew my Shanghai Conspiracy Theory.

I remained civil to all with whom I spoke during this whole process. The only un-civility I exhibited was to the cable modem itself one night. I won’t go into details at this juncture..but let’s just say that it got “bitch slapped”.

You must realize that I am in the middle of taking my photography business marketing efforts to some new levels. These new levels fully involve the internet...specifically uploading photos to my website portfolio and answering new email inquires about wedding dates and portrait sittings.

My demeanor over the past 30 days of this internet nighmare likened to Steve Martin’s character in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Similar to the scene in the airport after he was stranded in a distant, snow-covered rent-a-car parking lot where their was no rental car to be found...walking miles across freeways and runways back to the terminal and confronting a very non-caring, unattentive counter person. My parody on his conversation: “I f***ing want a f***ing internet f***ing connection right f***ing now!”

So...I got my internet connection back, without displaying that sort of verbage to anyone...rare for me. How many brain cells did I lose during this month long interlude? No telling...irrelevant at this point in my life anyway. Evidently, I still have enough cells left to take photographs and write and blog or two on occasion. Loretta was very sympathetic to my plight...very supportive. She is very sensitive to my anguish in these areas, during these times. She’s a jewel...a peach...and breath of fresh air when things get stale. She’s happier now as well.

As far as CFC goes? They are history to me. I have had it with the B.S. of this whole situation and with the B.S. that they dole out. You have no choice as to which cable company you use in your house...one cable company per neighborhood is how it is set up. CFC only gives you choices on how much money they are able to gouge from your pocketbook in forms of upgrades and so-called premium services. What choice you have now is the choice I am making. There is phone company DSL service almost everywhere now. There is satellite service for TV viewing everywhere...and several companies from which to choose. My internet cable service problem was never resolved. During this past 30 days, the ratio of success versus failure: 50% of the time I could never get on line. During the other 50% of the time the connection was slow, slower than any dial up connection 90% of the time...leaving 10% of that 50% in which I had a working connection...for 10 minutes at a time at best. That can not in any shape of the word be considered: cable service. It is not anything but shameful and sad. Sad that CFC has changed things technically...shameful that they don’t care and they are doing nothing about it. By the way, all new connections and home construction is set up to accomodate the new system. Retrofitting older homes for any kind of digital internet will be at a cost to the homeowner, so I am told by Johnny CFC tech (his named changed to protect...me!)

If you are having similar problems, don’t let them try to convince you that it because you have a router or a wireles system in your home. That is complete and utter bullshit!

As far as my intentions for television service, I will probably go with Dishnet (again)...evidently they are part of the ATT/SBC conglomerate. The cost for these changes will be simlar to what I have been paying for cable non-service. Plus, we just recently bought a HD plasma television...we may as well have a good, clean HD signal from a satellite dish (and maybe TiVo too, huh?).

So, just like Dr Jekyl and Mr Hyde...I have transformed back into regular Mr Skip after a few weeks as The Monster From Cable Internet Hell. A character that I am not at all proud of or comfortable with...as per usual, I am working on it!

Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters

2006-09-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

This is Captain Geech. His buddies, The Shrimp Shack Shooters, are still in the fridge...waiting for their photo opp...and for dinner. They may get a reprieve today, as Loretta and I have had an urge to make Carne Asada tacos instead tonight.

I have been very remiss with my food styling photo projects. I love to take pictures of both prepared and unprepared food items, it’s one of the things a photographer must do on a regular basis. Well...it is not a must-do thing, but for me...I should be doing it more often. It all goes into a huge file called Stock Photography. Someday, those images will begin to sell to Stock Photography “houses”. Each individual photo isn’t worth much, but as a collection, they can bring in steady source of income.

Back to food styling. Jenifer and Roth are coming here the end of this month, flying down from Seattle. They’ll spend Thursday and Friday nights with us here in Salida, then we will all load up and drive down to Pismo (actually Nipomo I think) for the wedding of a long-time family friend. While speaking with Jenifer and Roth on the phone last night, we talked of making a "bitchen" dinner on Friday night. Roth, my chef son-in-law, will do most of the cooking this time (I think Jen has revealed this little ditty to him already). And I, Mr. Skip Hansen, photographer, will set up the food styling studio.

Of course, one of the fun parts to entertaining and cooking is the planning of the meal. We have almost a full month to do that. The other fun part (at the other end of the process) is actually eating it! But that is only a small, almost anti-climatic step in the scheme of things. Since I have been doing relatively well on my Sonoma Diet effort, things have changed quite a bit in this area. I not only don’t eat as much, but what I fix has changed dramatically. Geeze I miss the cream sauces, bacon double cheeseburgers, fried foods, and Jack Daniels. No big deal...at least I am seeing some results.

Back to Captain Geech. A couple of weeks ago I was on a mission to find some large shrimp “still looking at you”. Good luck. Since we don’t live in Seattle, finding shrimp that are still intact with all their parts was not easy. I went to several markets to no avail. Most of the people just gave me a mystic stare when I said, “I need some shrimp that are still looking at you”. No sense of humor for the most part I guess. A couple minimum wage meat and seafood counter types may not even have known that shrimp have eyes...or that they possess body parts beyond a meaty tail.

So, I finally found a friendly and helpful person at O’brien’s Market in Modesto...an upscale, somewhat expensive supermarket that has an extensive meat and seafood department, closely resembling a butcher shop. The seafood counter girl managed to find a box or two of frozen, large shrimp. In the business, they are called 3-4’s...those numbers representing the number of shrimp per pound. The scampi-type shrimp are usually 25-30. The small shrimp cocktail shrimp: 50-60...that I affectionately call Sea Monkey Shrimp.

She brought out the box (that she had torn open for me), and presented me with my choice of eight, large, frozen, completely intact shrimp...at $9.99 a pound. I opted for three “good ones”, ie, antennae not broken off, legs still attached, and all “still looking at you”. Voila...Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters, a referrence to a scene in one of our favorite movies, That Thing You Do. To explain: the 60’s musical group in the movie (written by and starring Tom Hanks btw), The Wonders, got to play Captain Geech and the Shrimp Shack Shooters in a beach party style movie. Yes, both groups are mythical and only resemble musical groups from that bygone era. My Captain Geech? He is much more than mythical, he's a real crustacean...waiting to headline our Labor Day BBQ!

Anyway, Captain Geech sat very still for an hour or so of studio shots. His buddies eventually made in into the spotlight, accompanied by The Cilantros, the Gilroy Garlic Boys (a jazz ensemble), and The Limeliters (I couldn’t resist that one) for a photo jam session.

The rest is photo history.

Virginia Madsen's Boobs

2006-08-30T07:46:00.000-07:00

I have just decided to write a song titled “Virginia Madsen’s Boobs”. It will be a country-flavored ditty, kind of like the type of material often heard on The Bob and Tom Show on radio. Several songwriter/comedians frequent their show...in person and via CD...many of which are pretty funny, in a twisted sort of way. More on Bob and Tom at another time...Loretta and I have loved listening to their syndicated program for years, (originally) out of Indianapolis I think.

Anyway...here’s the not-so-short version of my Virginia Madsen Obsession Story.

Virginia Madsen is one of the stars in one of our favorite movies, Sideways. It also starred Paul Giamatti (another favorite), Thomas Haden Church, and Sandra Oh (now featured in Grey’s Anatomy). More V.M. biography forthcoming.

Virginia Madsen isn’t particularly gorgeous, per say...but she is extremely appealing. When I say extremely appealing, please realize that this referrence elevates the person beyond being simply gorgeous. For instance, Pamela Andersen is gorgeous, but not very appealing. Sharon Stone is gorgeous, but not very appealing. You see? Another actress who is not especially gorgeous but is very appealing is Scarlet Johanssen. My lovely wife Loretta...not gorgeous, but extremely appealing. Both lists can go on and on...another blog, another time (soon). Hopefully, you get the picture.

These very appealing but not necessarily gorgeous women just seem to possess a special something that, as a somewhat healthy, red-blooded American male, I am attracted to. I am mesmerized by these women, especially Virginia Madsen.

After googling her and gathering some info from imbd.com...I was a little surpirsed at what I found. First...I was shocked to find that I am not the only person who feels this way about Virginia Madsen! I say this with tongue in cheek, and it deserves some explaination I suppose.

Let’s explore a little V.M. info, maybe I can make sense of this...

She will be 45 years old on September 11th of this year. Great age for an attractive (and appealing) woman. She is blonde (real or not real is irrelevant)...I’m a sucker for blondes. She has big, puppy dog eyes...one of which is part brown and part green, the other is all green (true). She is half Danish...as am I. She is the sister of Michael Madsen...another of my favorite actors (Reservoir Dogs, Species, Kill Bill, Muholland Falls). She has great, natural acting talents...never appears phony. She played Maya in Sideways...one of my All Time Top 10 movies. And...not the least of which...she has beautiful, ample breasts! Pretty breasts...big breasts, though not too big...natural breasts (I’m only pretty sure about that last line). Again...real or not real...irrelevant. If they are not real, what a talented plastic surgeon she must have had.

So why the song “Virginia Madsen’s Boobs”? Well, despite all the other accolades about her, including her being “one of Hollywood’s most talented actresses” and being “voted one of the most beautiful actresses in 1986” (according to imdb.com), she has a nice rack! Two recent events sparked my interest in V.M.’s top section again. One...she was a presenter on The Emmys Sunday night (a program, by the way, I haven’t watched in a least 10 years). Her glamourous, evening gown was perfectly splayed open almost to her navel...displaying her more-than-adequate top section...all tanned, oiled up, and glistening with, well...glitter I guess! She (and they) were magnificent. Even that Joan Rivers person (and homely, untalented child she drags with her) commented on Virginia Madsen’s attire being one of the highlights of the Emmy evening. And two...last night on one of the cable stations they played Candyman. Candyman? What’s Candyman you ask? Well...Candyman is a 1992 Clive Barker (Hellraiser) horror film. Virginia Madsen is the “star” of the flick. Briefly... she plays the reincarnation of a woman from the mid-1800’s (unknowing to her of course). She is pursued by the ghost of a murdered slave with whom she was involved way back when. His nickname is the Candyman (didn’t pay attention as to the reason for his name), he has a hook on one hand, resides in a condemned highrise in some large metrpolitan city, bees come out of his mouth at various times (bees were instrumental in how is was killed apparently), and he disembowels various characters in the movie with said hook....waiting to find his long, lost love, played by our girl Virginia.

Back to the Madsen mammaries. They are revealed once in a bathtub scene...sans suds by the way. And again at the hospital while putting on her patient smock thingy. They’re just plain nice...”just right” to coin an oft-used country expression.

Unfortunately, I noticed Candyman showing on cable a few minutes too late...those two scenes occur early in the movie. I lamented. So, after attempting to locate Candyman “on demand” (with no success)...I guess I’ll just have to buy it! I’m quite confident I can locate it in the $9.99 rack at Best Buy, it’s not what you call a blockbuster movie. Then (and only then), can I show it to Loretta (a big Sideways fan as well)...for what reason I do not know at this point. Maybe guilt?

Virginia Madsen is just so damn appealing. And she does work very regularly, for over 20 years or so now. She recently played Harrison Ford’s wife in the movie Firewall. Not a huge part...but a huge co-star, right? She was also mostly recently seen in Prairie Home Companion.

I thought about trying to drag a shot of her from Candyman out of some celebrity skin website. But with all due respect...not this time. I think she is great...boobs or no boobs. Besides, she just may be reading this. And monkeys are going to fly out of my ass!

I will get to work on that song, “Virginia Madsen’s Boobs”. And, find time today for a short trip to the video section of Best Buy. I will, afterall, need some visual inspiration...right?

P.S. After having taken a quick peek at a celebrity skin website (just google Virginia Madsens boobs)...it looks like she isn't shy about displaying those units in several other flicks as well. If you get a chance to see them...you'll know why. Would you be...shy that is?

My baby girl is now buying a house!

2006-08-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

I guess you could insert any number of descriptive actions after the words "My baby girl is...".

Afterall...Jenifer is soon to be 27 years old, married, living in another state, has been to Europe on her own (with other friends), graduated from college, and now...buying a house. So, that list of things she has done since she was a baby just keeps getting longer...naturally. That list of adult things...most of which I am very proud. The majority of which I am very proud. Some adult things, like doing 21 shots of various hard liquor on the night of her 21st birthday, an unnecessary but popular rite of passage, not as proud as I am extremely relieved (that she survived the ordeal!).

But now, my little girl whom we named Jenifer Leigh Hansen (now Jenifer Leigh Gonzales...or is it Jenifer Hansen Gonzales?) and her husband Roth are smack dab in the middle of a All-Time Top 10 Stress List thing. They are in escrow to buy a home in Seattle.

A few of the other All-Time Top 10 Stress List things include a heart attack, marriage problems, job problems, moving, redecorating one's house, and a death in the family. Back in 1986...I managed to experience 9 out of that top 10...within about 6 months. I survived. I am confident that Jenifer will survive this escrow ordeal as well.

You see, Jenifer is stressing out quite a bit during this house-buying process. Her saving grace is that husband Roth remains calm. He is a very low-key guy who has consistently remained a very rational influence on her when things get a little...well, tense.

Buying a home, especially your first home, is not fun! Shopping for a home is fun. Dreaming about buying a home is fun. Specifically...dealing with the teams of idiots you find inhabiting the world of real estate and mortgage loans is a daunting task. Fortunately, they are doing this home-buying thing by dealing directly with the owner...no real estate agent. I am a real estate agent, though not working in or practicing in that field of endeavor at this time. The reasons why I am not are irrelevant at this juncture...but let me say this. I just found it a very tough and unsatifying way to earn a living, especially when the bottom falls out of the market. 'Nuff said for now...although the teams of idiots I ran into did influence my decision to get out...for now. Jenifer has now been exposed to this same team...welcome to the world of real estate.

Having been on both of ends of this escrow process many times before, I can comisserate with her feelings. I have done nothing but encourage her and Roth to go ahead and get into home ownership as soon as possible. Knowing that they are both very intelligent and analytical (to a point), I was confident they would use care in choosing which house to buy. Afterall, it is a very emotional purchase...decisions must be made with rational and logical thought. They are buying the house in which they have been living for over a year. Good job!

With all the professional and personal advice I could give them (solicited and unsolicited), they are taking the next big step life. The next huge move in their lives together as a couple. Escrow is set to close in a couple of days. Congratulations Jen and Roth! Right on!

They are well aware of the challenges involved with property ownership...not the least of which is a higher expense. The higher expense not only in the monthly payment (versus rent), but in maintenance. They know they can't call their rental landlord when the toilet doesn't flush right, or the water heater is not heating water, or the fence falls down. They are ready for all of that.

And I am ready to console my baby girl when the next things happen. Like when the toilet needs replacing, the water heater needs replacing, or the fence needs repair. I don't live near them right now...or I would be over there to physically help with circumstances such as these. Jen will surely stress out when these things happen. Roth will surely be there to calm her down...as will I via the phone and internet.

My little girl is all grows'd up! But...she is still my little girl. And she still calls her Dad when she needs him.

American Beauty - blog II

2006-08-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

From someone who spent the majority of his “stupid little life” making lists...shopping lists, To Do lists, client lists, “punch” lists, and Pro’s and Con’s lists...I'll admit, I’m a list maker.

I seemed to have passed that on to my daughter. I believe I got it from my father, he was great at making lists...especially for camping trips. He would jot down on blue lined graph paper from work, every meal we were going to have, every item of food to buy for those meals, every piece of equipment we needed to bring, the time frames for packing, leaving, and arriving, getting gas and fuel for the lanterns...everything.

Like I said, one of my often written lists over the years has been Pro and Con lists. These were done to visualize the good and bad about some aspect of my life, mostly about big decisions to be made. Mostly about changing jobs. I guess it really didn’t matter which side of that Pro and Con page was longer...one Pro could overcome many Cons I suppose. And I suppose that is the way it should be. There always seemed to be more Cons than Pros anyway. Since I would most often make that Pro decision anyway, the list was academic...an exercise in what is called rationalization. We all do it, every day.

Well, it’s time for another list from me. This one is simple...it is a Pro list. Here it is...completing this sentence, There is so much beauty in the (my) world...like the way I felt...

...the first time I drove a car all by myself, on my sixteenth birthday, the day I got my driver’s license.

...when my family and I would pile in the car and drive to Disneyland.

...the night my daughter was born.

...the morning my son was born.

...on Christmas mornings, waking up and walking into the living room to see what Santa had brought me (I always got what I wanted).

...this morning, when I woke up to see Loretta lying next to me.

...the last time I looked through my camera lens and composed a photo.

...knowing that I’ve made it this far in my life.

...a few minutes ago when our dog Sammy put his muzzle on my lap and looked up at me for some attention.

...seeing the joyful look on 102 year old Sara’s face when I took some photos of her, 20 minutes before she died.

It’s not a definitive list. It’s something I need to do continually, like my daughter Jenifer does on her blog. She posts lists of songs that give her chills, reasons she loves her husband, reasons she loves living in Seattle, and reasons she loves her Dad. She’s got the list gene too!

I know many people who make lists about what is screwed up in their lives. They may not write them down, but they take note of them on a regular basis. A few of these people are very close to me, and it saddens me to know they are carrying around this horrible burden...and it’s eating away at their souls. I know how it feels because I still do it at times. I’ve always been a negative person...but I’m working on it!

But, I can still remember the way I felt the exact moment I saw my Dad driving down our little tree-lined street and into our driveway in a green 1961 MGA convertible...I was sixteen at the time. It was my high school graduation present, the exact car I wanted. I can remember it like it was yesterday.

The more I work at culling the bad things out of my memory, and savoring the good things...the better I feel about myself...and about others.

You might try it sometime (if you don’t already). Make a list...check it twice...and add to it on a regular basis. Then go back to it once in a while and read about some things and times in your life you may have forgotten about...some good things.

It couldn’t hurt!

(Note: the ending monologue from the film American Beauty concerns a similar list from the lead character who has just died. He is taking note of all the beautiful things in his life...postumously). The last few lines from the film are posted on my previous blog.

American Beauty...a beauty of a film

2006-08-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from the script of one of my favorite movies...American Beauty (1999).

It was written by Alan Ball, who is also the writer and creator of HBO’s Six Feet Under.

This part of the script comes just before the ending credits, and is a voice-over by Kevin Spacy’s character, Lester Burnham...just after after he dies.

I guess I could be pretty pissed about what happened to me...but it’s hard to stay mad, when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst...

And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life...

You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure...but don’t worry...

You will someday.

It's one of my favorite monologues from a movie. There are things that have happened to me in my life that I continue to carry with me...things that I should let go of. Why? Because there are too many beautful things in this world, in my life now...and yet to come...that I simply need to be patient, and they will appear.

American Beauty is a quirky (for lack of better term) movie, and not for everyone I suppose. When Loretta and I saw it in the theatre seven years ago, several people walked out shortly before the end. I just wasn't what they had expected.

Just for the record...it won Oscars for Best Actor (Kevin Spacey), Best Cinematography (Conrad Hall), Best Director (Sam Mendes), Best Screenplay (Alan Ball)...oh, and Best Picture of 1999. Annette Benning was nominated for Best Actress, but didn't win for this role. American Beauty had many other awards bestowed upon it, both foreign and domestic.

If you haven't seen it...rent it or buy it. If you have seen it...watch it again, it's worth the 90 minutes of your time!

James Dean (1931-1955)

2006-08-18T15:19:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to take the drive from Modesto to Pismo Beach. This particular trip was to visit my son Jimmy as well as my mom and my sisters. I also planned to take advantage of this jaunt for the purpose of photographing the Central Coast beach area, Morro Bay, and Highway One. I did all that.

My usual route to the Central Coast takes me down Highway 5 to Highway 41...then 46 to 101 to Pismo. It’s the quickest way, though not the most scenic...it’s just convenient.

Highway 41 south from Highway 5 meets up with 46 to Paso Robes, the road out of Bakersfield and 99. This is also the road that James Dean took out of L.A. on September 30th, 1955.

Dean was testing out his brand new Porsche 550 Spyder racer (named Little Bastard, Dean’s own nickname)...on his way to a race in Salinas with his mechanic, Rolf Wuetherich. At 5:00 pm, a 1950 Ford Tudor was making the turn from Highway 46 onto Highway 41...it crossed into the path of the Porsche and they collided almost head on. Wuetheric was thrown from the car and survived with relatively minor injuries. Dean was taken to a hospital in nearby Paso Robles (about 35 miles way), and was pronounced dead at 5:59 pm. James Dean was 24 years old.

There have been many questions raised over the years concerning the speed at which the Porsche was driving, the late afternoon sun in his eyes, even if it was indeed Dean driving at the time. A National Geographic special recently aired concerning this. Two gentlemen attempted to reconstruct all the events of that day...utilizing police reports, interviews with Wuetherich and the highway patrol officers who arrived at the scene. They even used GPS equipment and sophisticated computer programs to precisely locate exactly where the accident occurred. That intersection has since been reconstructed and the actual location changed a bit.

James Dean’s memorial was constructed in 1977 approximately 300 yards southwest of the scene of the accident, just off Highway 46 near Cholame, California. It was built in Japan by a Japanese benefactor and is made of stainless steel and concrete. Located directly under and around a California oak tree, it sits in the dirt parking lot of a roadside diner called Jack Ranch Cafe. The date and time of his death are etched into the stainless steel along with some favorite prose from the late actor. Over the years it had been vandalized then repaired...it was in pretty good shape when I was there a couple weeks ago.

I have stopped there on several occasions, even taken some photographs. Most of the time I just drive by it, glancing over as I pass by at 60 miles per hour. We’ve never patronized the Jack Ranch Cafe there. There is a big sign over the door that reads, “Restrooms are for customers only”...that’s a shitty attitude to have....I assume they food is shitty as well...so do most others apparently since I rarely see any patrons parked in front of the cafe. It doesn't look like any place I would care to try. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the memorial.

So, I decided to stop this time...take some pictures...read the memorial. Sometimes there a lot of cars parked around it, making it more difficult to get a clean shot of the thing. This time, there was just a lone Harley rider...standing there, paying tribute to this long gone icon of the tough guy image. The biker and I exchanged greetings. He said, "Vandals have really messed it up over the years...prying off the letters in his name...stealing parts off it. It looks pretty good now though. They must have fixed it up recently". It sounded as if he had stopped there before, probably many times. We both just stood there a few moments looking at the structure wrapped around the oak tree. The Harley rider mounted up, put on his helmet, knodded a goodbye to me, and fired up his motorcycle. I returned the knod and told him to ride safe...he took off in a blaze of noise and dust down Highway 46 towards Paso Robles. I continued to shoot a few more pictures until another car stopped in front of it. This time it was two ladies, who looked like mother and daughter. They stood out of the way until a finished another shot or two. I smiled at them and backed away, heading for the car. They stepped up closer to the memorial and started taking pictures and reading the inscriptions.

So why is James Dean such an icon? Why did this James Dean Memorial out in the middle of nowhere evoke some emotion in me on that particular day? Why did I stop? I can't tell you. I was never that big of a fan...I was five years old when he died. He only made three movies (East of Eden, Rebel Without A Cause, and Giant...plus a couple TV dramas). Maybe it was because of the NG special I saw a few months back...I don't know.
As I hit the road again, I couldn't get it out of my mind. I kind of started writing this blog entry in my mind during the next hour of driving. I guess it's because James Dean changed the way we think about ourselves as well as establishing a type of screen character that has been emulated many times since. Even George Lucas admits that his young Annakin Skywalker (who became Darth Vader for the uninitiated) was modeled after James Dean's personna, both on screen and off. The rebel, the chance-taker, the tough guy with a heart. Hell...Fonzi was an incarnation of Dean...albeit a parody.James Dean was 24 years old when he died in 1955...yet his estate still earns over $5 million a year. There are other memorials to him all around the world. There are James Dean film festivals, get-togethers, and other remembrances every year. Whatever he had...he still has it.

I just get a kick out of the people who think that he's the guy who makes the sausage!

The Descent - it was decent, for its kind

2006-08-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

Loretta and I saw The Descent the other day. Go see it if you like this sort of thing in general, ie, monster in a cave with six women ending with a gore fest. Don’t go see it if you are susceptible to claustrophobia. This review will be a quicky...so stay with me for a moment or two.

So, six (or was it seven?) early-thirty-something women start out on one of their extreme adventures...this time a descent into a hole in the ground located in a remote area of the Appalachin Mountains (sp?). Evidently, they, as a group, do these sort of things on a semi-regular basis.

The movie begins with them rubber-rafting a treacherous looking whitewater river in Scotland...for some reason, half of this group of friends is from that part of the world. On the way back to where they are staying, one of women gets in a terrible car accident...her husband was driving...their 7 year old daughter in the backseat. This scene, by the way, treats us to the first of much gratuitous blood and gore as the husband’s head is impailed by some copper pipe flying off the other car and through the windshield in the headon crash...cool so far! Our female heroin wakes up in the hospital, a little battered but still alive...finding out her daughter, as well as her hubby perished in the crash. The hubby’s demise (with the copper pipe sticking out of the back of his head) was obviious, the daughter’s demise revealed in the hospital.

Fast forward one year later. All the girls are meeting up once again for another extreme adventure, this time for some spelunking in the wilderness. The lead character (our car crash mom) must get back into the "fray", have some fun, and prove to herself that she still has what it takes following her personal tragedy...I think!

Here is the short take. They head down into the cave. They get lost. They find out that their leader friend lied to them about which cave they were going to...one that was never explored before! Ooooo! “I just thought it would be exciting to go somewhere where no one else had gone”, she explains. “We can even name it after you, Sarah...” Or whatever her name was. The other girls are pissed off at their friend's deception, but they trudge on, trying to find a way out. Shortly thereafter is when the body count begins....predictable since there were way too many cast members...time to start culling the less famous “friends”.

Yes...there are monsters in the cave. Apparently some sort of human tribe living underground...blind, albino types with no clothes. This, suprisingly enough, was the only nudity in this flick. I anticipated at least a topless shot from one of the girls, all of which were somewhat attractive. Afterall, that usually shows up somewhere in every R-rated splatter movie...right? None.

The bad guys (and gals...yes, there are female monster cave people as well) start attacking. Their actions at this point are akin to most zombie movies, ie, snarling, throbbering, drooling, tearing off pieces of the unfortunate girls, and...well, eating them. The cave monster people are pretty quick on their feet, climbing the walls and ceilings, running on their hands and feets at times. But soon, the girls find out that the pasty looking humanoids are kind of soft and mushy...a swift kick here and there sends blood splattering on the cave walls...followed by a stomp to the head...and they’re toast!

The girl’s numbers dwindle to four, then three, then two...I won’t spoil the end for you! The cave people’s numbers are, of course, endless....despite many of them being dispatched in a variety of gorey ways. The climbing picks worked well on several of them...in the head, in the eye, in the back, etc....it just seemed to piss the rest of them off.

So, on the Skipster Gore-o-Meter...a solid 7 out of 10. Was it scary? Yes, at times. There were plenty of jumping-out-of-the-shadows scenes...flashlight reveals...even the usual bats-flying-out-of-a-hole thing.

The last 20 minutes or so gets pretty intense, I gotta hand it to the director. Even I was gripping the seat arm. Lots of blood, lots of graphic gore, lots of revengeful splatterings...that is the type of flick The Descent strives to be. It is suspenseful and intensity-driven. Both Loretta and I found ourselves saying out loud, “Alright...that girl can kick some ass! Holy shit! Kill them suckers!” So, yes...The Descent was decent for this genre...better than The Cave (2005).

There will probably be a The Descent II. They will need a whole new cast though, ‘cept one. Whoops...I spoiled it for you...sorry!

Failure to Launch - failure to entertain

2006-08-17T19:47:00.000-07:00

We Netflixed Failure to Launch the other day.

This is one of those chick-flicks that, despite my usual reluctance, I either rent or go the theatre to see for the benefit of Loretta. I realize it’s just not right to only see action/adventure/sci-fi/gore movies...afterall, I live with a woman! And she, Loretta, is so indulgent of me and my guy-flick ways.

First, Matthew McConnaghy can not act his way out of a paper bag. Whether it be light romantic comedy, action adventure, or serious drama...he’s just not believable. He continually appears to be looking in the mirror at himself and admiring what he sees. His attempts at making little faces, gestures, head cocks, and displaying so-called emotion is laughable. Yes...what a hunk! I always try to consider the hunkiness factor. And, yes, herein lies his appeal...to females. He’s damn cute. Maybe if he is cast in some sort of special effects, complete body and face makeup film (Planet of the Apes Revisited?), I could look past his narcissism and appreciate some acting skills...if indeed there are any...(remember Paul Giamatti in the remake of Planet of the Apes?).

I’ve always had somewhat of a crush on Sarah Jessica Parker...we used to watch Sex in the City every week. She is very attractive, intelligent, and appealing (in a neurotic girl-next-door way). But just like Jennifer Anniston...how many times can she pass that personna off in a movie? How many times can you fall back on three or four little facial quirks, a squealy giggle, and a pretty little set of slightly pendulous yah-bows (always a plus on a scrawny frame) ? I think that’s how you spell yah-bows. Beyond all that, she’s starting to look a little ragged guys (and gals). “I’m not ready for my closeup Mr. DeMille...don’t even think about it!” And yes, too skinny is not warm and fuzzy. I happen to prefer women built for comfort, not for speed...I digress. Now, I know we all get crows feet as well. But hers are more like condor feet now. Plus...and here is another one of my Seinfeld-esque rationalizations...she has freaking man-hands!!! Jessica’s bony, veined, and now liver-spotted hands need to remain in her pockets...or just out of the frame. Her grasping a guy's face during an impromptu kiss is the worst use of these mind-of-their-own appendages. They're just gross!

The movie itself is just not funny. That’s what it all comes down to as usual, despite all the hype from the writers and director about chemistry and a great script. I think the script and the premise was good. A story about a 35 year old guy...a hunky guy (not the usual geek) living at home with his mommy and daddy. Connaghy’s character, Tripp (his name another dumb choice in this flick), lives the dream bachelor life...driving a Porsche, playing with his two best friends (rock climbing, paintball, watching football, and playing video games), and dating very attractive women. All along, not revealing his homelife to any of them...until it’s time to break up (usually from the girl getting too serious, of course)...by bringing them to his “home”. Only at this time does he reveal to them that he indeed still lives with his parents...thus causing the poor, unsuspecting maven to dump him.

At the onset of this dumb attempt at a movie, Sarah Jessica Parker appears to randomly show up at a furniture store where Connaghy is. They strike up a conversation, initiated by her. She goads him into asking her out...he (and the audience at this point) not aware that his parents hired her to get him out of the house. Evidently there is a market for that sort of thing, similar to the story in Hitch. That’s what she does for a living. Apparently, paying a woman to do this is not considered prostitution since one of rules states she never has sex with a client...which, by the way, happens later in the movie...she still under the employ of his parents. So, yes...she is technically a prostitute...since his mother encourages her to “turn up the heat” in order to complete her contracted, pre-paid assignment...insinuating that sex may be needed when all else was failing.

Some fun and frolick ensues with the couple until he finds out her intentions...blah, blah, blah. Fast forward to the exciting and heartwarming climax...

By the way, a couple of high points in the movie...Kathy Bates and Terry Bradshaw as the parents. They are mildly entertaining as the distraught parents trying to figure out how to get the freeloading S.O.B. out of the house. Beyond that...the whole story is just a contrived, phoney mess masquerading as a romantic comedy.

Of course, the two principals end up together and, presumebly, live happily ever after...this, after the obligatory “reveal” of the intentions, an obligatory break up, and obligatory arranged get-back-together by the friends (replete with applause and romantic, lush Hollywood string music score). Again, all too predictable. And, with absolutely no on-screen chemistry between the guy and the girl (mostly because of Connaghy’s lack of sincerity and presence of any acting skills whatsoever). An empty shell of a flick...with good intentions. Another squirm in your seat movie experience...it's embarassing to watch.

Too bad, it could have been good. One of the sidekicks, (Justin Bartha, he was in National Treasure), is kind of funny at times...as is Sarah Jessica Parker’s roomate (Zooey Deschanel), who, by the way, is a total babe (playing a worse neurotic mess than Parker).

My advice? Don’t rent this. Don’t buy this. Don’t borrow this. Don’t bother watching this...it stinks. Rent Some Like It Hot and watch it (for the 50th time)...a much better use of 90 minutes of filmdom. Now that’s what a romantic comedy is all about. Hell...I’d even submit to watching When Harry Met Sally a dozen times in a row before I would sit in front of this contrived B.S again....even with Meg Ryan’s phoney mannerisms and feigned sincerity! She's another faux movie enginue in this genre that has already had her fifteen minutes of fame I suppose.

My advice to McConnaghy? Don't lose your hair, your "six pack, or your current agent...'cause it will be infomercials for you for sure!

BTW...we saw The Descent at the theatre today...actionadventuregoregalore...review forthcoming.

Central California Coast

2006-08-16T06:42:00.000-07:00

I had the opportunity (again) to drive Highway One from Morro Bay to Monterey. This on my way back home from one of many jaunts I take every year to the Pismo Beach area of the Central California Coast. In most times past, I would usually wimp out and decide to simply "highball" it back on the usual route...101 to 46 to 41 to 5 to Modesto where we currently live. I say currently because I still believe our Modesto (Salida) existence is temporary.

We had just returned from our little one-night-stand in Monterey the previous weekend...I had planned to make the Pismo drive the following weekend to visit my son, my mom, and my sisters... of course, to visit the Central Coast...where I resided for almost 25 years until ten years ago. The Highway One drive adds about fifty miles and three hours to the journey back...hence my wimping out and opting for the quicker way back to the couch! But this time I made that left turn off Highway 101 at San Luis Obispo, transistioned to Highway One, and headed toward Morro Bay, Cayucos, Cambria, Big Sur, Carmel, and Monterey. Before leaving though, I managed to snap a few hundred shots of Pismo Beach, Shell Beach, Oceano Beach, and Montana de Oro Beach. Afterall, the Central Coast does have beaches! That's what this whole thing is about.

It was 9:00 am when I left Pismo, only two hours later than I had planned! This in itself was a good enough excuse to exclude the long Highway One plan home. I figured it would take me about seven hours versus the usual four and a half...I'd still arrive back on my couch around 4:00 or 5:00, just in time for the evening news. So, with camera stuff in tow, a small cooler with a few Diet Pepsis, a couple apples, and some yogurt...I left my old stomping ground for points north.
The weather was perfect (sans fog)...I had a full tank of gas, a whole day to drive home in a leisurely fashion, and I was by myself. Loretta had to work and couldn't come on this trip. I was bound and determined to get some nice photos of the one of the most beautful places in California...Highway One. Even though I had made this drive on many occasions over the years, it was still somewhat of an enigma to me. Yes, this drive takes you past some beautiful vistas of the ocean. But it is also, at times, quite scary...especially when driving solo! The elevation of the highway goes from zero to over a thousand feet above sea level and back again several times. Those thousand foot drops just inches from the roadbed evoke a lot of anxiety from someone who has...well, vertigo!Keeping in mind that the inside track (the northerly drive) on Highway One is less imposing, it's still a bit freaky at times...especially driving by yourself. You ain't gonna be able to sightsee from behind the wheel! The road goes from long, sixty mile per hour straightaways to twenty mile per hour switchbacks in no time at all...and some of those windy sections are literally in the clouds.

Scary sections notwithstanding, I found myself well past Morro Bay in a short amount of time...I had committed making the drive. Besides, the Highway 46 turnoff back to Paso Robles and Highway 101 I had long since past by...there was no escaping now! I pushed on past Cambria and San Simeon.

Now, there are many places to turn off the road...vista points. Some of these are convenient, most are set up with a left hand turn lane and plenty of vision up and down the highway. I managed to hit most of them I think...including some improvised turnouts where at least I was fairly confident that I wouldn't get smacked by some over zealous tourist from Austria in a rented Cobalt. After a half dozen or so photo stops, I realized that one day does not a Highway One photo safari make. At this rate, I might get home by Tuesday night (it was Monday morning at the time). But, it's hard not to stop at every opportunity considering the scenery at hand...it is simply incredible. I knew I must pick and choose how many times I got waylaid. Plus, I had relagated myself to the fact that I was only going to be getting typical touristy shots, since I didn't have the time or the knowledge of off-the-beaten-path locales. The slow pace coupled with the perpetual road construction on Highway One...it's not the quick way home.

Being summer, even on a weekday, this area is ripe with travelers. They are everywhere on the Central Coast. People drive and fly from all over the U.S. and the world to come here. All in all, it really wasn't too bad. Traffic was relatively light, despite the ocassional Flagman Ahead obstruction. I only had to stop and wait once, and just for a minute or so...enough time to snap the photo above while waiting in line.

Since one day is not enough time, I will return shortly...probably in a few weeks...and do it again with Loretta in tow. We'll most likely zip over to Morro Bay, visit my son, and spend the night there...leaving early the next morning for the drive north on Highway One. We also plan to spend the night in Monterey, so we'll have a more leisurely time of it on the way.And, one blog's worth of writing and photos doesn't do this justice. There are more photos on my flickr site, and I will be adding more from time to time. I took upwards of 500 shots on this Pismo/Morro Bay/Highway One trip. I could have easily shot 1000 or more...just not enough time.

That's what it all comes down to...enough time. So...I make time now...doing the things that I enjoy most and, hopefully, do best.

Does making more money make it easier to be unhappy?

2006-08-10T12:40:00.000-07:00

This question goes well with the Billy Crystal aka Fernando Lamas line, “It’s better to look good than to feel good”.

It seems most rich people tout that “money doesn’t make you happy”...only poor people think that, right? Although Micheal Ovitz has been known to say, “...you only say that if you don’t have money”.

So, does having a lot of money just make it easier to be unhappy?

Let’s go one step further. Does having a lot of money by working at a profession you enjoy make you happier? More likely than the title of this blog implies...wouldn’t you assume so? But...happier than what?

I can truly say that I do not personally know of anyone in my immediate peer group that enjoys his so-called job or profession. Period. Even some acquaintances and close relatives of mine are in the same boat. They hate what they are doing!

So you say now, “If you hate what you’re doing...do something else”. Of course that is easier said than done from a pragmatic standpoint. I happened to have done just that in the last two years. Hell, I did it several months ago. So am I happier than before. The answer to that question is “yes”...and “no”.

I truly enjoy...no...I truly love what I am doing now: photography. Every time I set out on a photographic endeavor I feel like I did as a kid on my way to Disneyland. I feel elated...fullfilled...excited...anticipatory...a little anxious, but happy. But just like going to Disneyland...I get somewhat depressed “on the way home”, or when it is over.

The other side of my coin involves the money angle. Yes, I enjoy photography. But I don’t enjoy being a “starving artist”. Heck, there have been many great artists who died pennyless and miserable. The cash has not begun to flow as yet. The business aspect is still in the fledgling stage. And I am somewhat mired down in that quagmire of self-doubt.

This self-doubt comes about when I’m not feeling the self-reliance it takes to push on, ply my trade, market my skills, and take the next step. Maybe I’m not good enough to make a living at this thing? Maybe I am good enough but don’t possess the savvy to make it a successful business? It will take both of those characteristics to make me happy. And, thus, successful...in my mind.

Is looking good better than feeling good? That, just like everything else, is an individual thing. It’s all relative.

Speaking of relative...I don’t have any rich ones. So, I guess I should just push on with the “plan”...gotta do what I gotta do...I ‘yam what I ‘yam.

Maybe eating more spinach will help!

And, no, I don't plan on cutting off an ear yet. I may climb a flagpole naked for attention...watch for that in the local news.

Twenty hours on Foam Street - Monterey

2006-08-08T05:45:00.000-07:00

Loretta and I visited one of our favorite places this past weekend. Well, I suppose it really wasn't technically a weekend since we got there late Sunday morning and left to come home late Monday morning. It was all too short as always.

I am not alone in my thoughts that Monterey is a special place. Why? I guess I could just say, "It just is", but that wouldn't do it justice. The word ambience comes to mind. The words by the ocean seem appropriate. In fact, I made this comment to Loretta and our friends while we were there, "Why would anyone NOT want to live by the ocean...specifically, Monterey Bay?" We have been very lucky with the weather...it has always been prefect. We've been there in November. We've been there in April. And now in August. It has always been clear, sunny, and mild...it was "perfect", as all of us stated to one another several times. I'm quite sure it gets nasty in Monterey at times! We've just been very fortunate. But, it wouldn't matter to me.

Loretta and I have been there by ourselves a few times. This last little trip included our friends Sue and Gene...the third time in two years with them.

This photo was taken in one of our favorite spots for lunch, we usually end up there soon after arriving. It's called Isabella's...a very pleasant, mid-sized restaurant on Old Fisherman's Wharf. The menu is simple and relatively affordable (for lunch). The $3.00 margarita specials (all the wharf bistros do it on Sunday) are just right. The decor is somewhat nautical, but not campy or obnoxious. There is always Frank Sinatra music playing. And we just like it! We always seem to sit at the same table, right around the corner from the front door, so we can watch the Sunday crowd stroll by on the pier. The remainer of the restaurant toward the back affords harbor and marina views. I believe it is owned by an Italian family that runs a few other places in and around Monterey...they've been there for a while and seem to know what they're doing.

After a little lunch, we'll wander the wharf for a while checking out the seafood shops, sampling the chowder hawked in little plastic cups to passersby. Slowly making our way back, we pass the huge wharf plaza and into that end of town. There are a few shops there that Sue and Gene like to frequent...mostly touristy, curio places. The plaza had some sort of Turkish festival going on while we were there. It was noisy, smokey, and nothing appealed to us to stop. A mainstay of that section of Monterey on weekends was not there...an organ grinder with his monkey. Yes, there are still people who perpetuate that old tradition. The monkey has the little hat and outfit that includes a red vest, he runs out into the crowd at the end of his little leash collecting coins...and, of course, tipping his little hat each time! Once in while, a small child will attempt to pet him and he'll let out a short screech of surprise until the organ grinder guy disciplines him a bit. Then the monkey will reluctantly sit there for one small tactile moment by all the children in the crowd...scampering back to his owner, sometimes jumping up on the little organ box perched on a monopod.

The walk back to our motel on Foam Street from the wharf is about 1/4 mile or so...seems longer after all the $3.00 margaritas, clam chowder, and sourdough bread. We pass by another part of the marina and a park on the way. It's a nice walk on a wide, Monterey-pine-shaded bike/walk path.
BTW...Be sure to obey the usual traffic laws (right and left lanes, slower traffic keep to right, etc)... because one of the locals whizzing by on his bicycle will surely scold you if you don't! Or, run into you, causing great bodily harm I'm sure. Sometimes foreign tourists just don't get it!

You'll see little harbor seals basking on the rocks and marina structures. Some of them hang out unseen under the wharf squawking (I assume at one another) in a beligerent tone. Boats come and go...some sportfishing boats as well as whale-watching excursions. There's even a glass-bottom boat or two that we have yet to try. And a lot of people, especially on weekends. Even weekdays are somewhat busy during the summer...though never really what I call crowded. This ain't Disneyland!

Our stroll back toward Cannery Row and our motel passes by the Monterey Plaza Hotel. It's very nice, but quite pricey...maybe we'll stay there someday. We always seem to end up at the Plaza Bar at the end of our day for an after-dinner cocktail. Only one though, as the drinks there run about $8.00+ each!

Our Monterey Sunday afternoon then includes checking into the motel...2:00 or so. Loretta and I generally break out the portable bar and mix a bloody mary or two for us, Sue, and Gene.
Then, a leisurely stroll through Cannery Row. This means, Sue and Loretta go shopping...Gene and I hit one of several restaurant bars! They don't have the $3.00 margaritas that the wharf offers, so we'll generally pound a few beers on one of the outside patios. And just sit...and relax. That's one of the things about going with Sue and Gene that make it enjoyable for us...the girls like to shop, and Gene and I are content to plant our asses in a chair and do nothing.

Later, back at the motel...we retire to our rooms for an hour or so. Gene takes a nap...Loretta and I sit in the spa for a while...then dinner.

The next morning, very early (6:00), I usually get up, grab a cup of coffee, and head down to Cannery Row by myself with camera in hand. There is something quite soothing about strolling the daytime-busy thoroughfare as the sun comes up that makes me feel detached from the rest of the world. The tourists are gone. The shops are closed. But the restaurants are already busy with early morning activity...putting out the trash, receiving the morning produce and seafood deliveries, hosing down the sidewalks. I headed down to McAbee Beach, a small sandy area in front of the Spindrift Inn. The weather was calm and mild...t-shirt and shorts. And this is where the incident occurred.

I was having a great time, snapping photos of the pre-dawn tidepools and bay...no wind, the water was calm, the seabirds jockeying for position amongst the exposed rocks, the lanquid tide surging in and out. I had almost filled up my digital memory card and decided it was time to head back. And then...being a little too confident, I made an ill-advised move. I attempted to make a long step from one wet, barnacle-covered rock to another...and went down! Hard! Pretty much head first. The $3500 Canon EOS 20D (and equally costly lens) went flying ( I can still hear the clippity clap of it bouncing across the rocks). My right foot had slipped out from under me, raking my shin across the barnacles. My left shoulder and elbow hit another rock and settled in the wet sand, my head hit another rock (a glancing blow, fortunately)...and I found myself almost standing on my head, wedged between barnacle and seaweed covered boulders, feet still up on the rock I was once standing. My first thoughts just micro seconds later? Geeze, I hope no one was watching this (there wasn't another soul around)! My second thought? Holy shit...I can't afford another expensive digital camera right now.

Yes...all 235, 56 year old pounds went down like a stack of jenga tiles at a drunken frat party.

After a second or two of analyzing my predicament...let's see...I'm face down in the sand, feet in the air, in a lot of pain...but I'm conscious...alone, blocks from the motel...I hauled myself up to a standing position. I quickly surveyed the situation...sheepishly picking up the camera. It seemed to be OK...the lens was clear, avoiding any rocky contact...only a couple of small nicks on the edges. Myself...not so lucky.

Although nothing truly serious transpired, I was beat up. There was sticky blood everywhere...on my hands, my knuckles, my elbow...and my right leg. Chunks of barnacle and skin were hanging off of my kneecap, sand coated my left elbow and the side of my head. I was a mess. But, I had to trudge back to the motel. I headed up the beach...blood dripping from a dozen areas...chunks of skin...and holes. The lower shin abrasion swelling up to the size of an ostrich egg. I needed bactine and ice...fast.

Yes...the camera survived. I survived...with fodder in tow for a blathering blog entry about Monterey. We had a nice time in one of our favorite places...despite my studpity.

I got my clam chowder and bay shrimp cocktail. We ate some crab sandwiches. Drank some $3.00 margaritas (too many in my case). Breathed some fresh, Monterey Bay sea air. And I took 150 photos.

We had a great Twenty hours on Foam Street...and I got to walk in the footsteps of one of my mentors once again: John Steinbeck. His image is everywhere on Cannery Row.

I just hope they will let me back in that restaurant bar where one of the other incidents occurred...another time, another blog for that story!

aquaria update

2006-08-05T08:34:00.000-07:00

After a little more than two weeks, my saltwater aquarium leap of faith is is proving to be a successful venture.

Only one unfortunate demise stains my salty aquaria tenure. A little, black Three Spot Damselfish didn't make it, falling victum to his twin from stress and harrassment. One of the characteristics of many salter species: they gravitate toward attempted elimination of others of the same clan. Damselfish, especially, are very territorial...moreso than many other fish. You win some...you lose some...that's part of this game.

The two Tangs (a Yellow and a Scobas) are still settling in to cohabitation, as they tend to behave in a similarly agressive manner toward one another. The Yellow Tang has been pushing around the Scobas since we introduced the newcomer into the tank. The harrassment antics have subsided quite a bit, as they will both strive to establish some sort of territory for themselves.

The key behavior to keep an eye on: that each tenant readily eats when food is offered. The poor Scobas is eating heartily, even while being chased by the Yellow one!

So far...so good.

It's not the destination...

2006-08-04T09:07:00.000-07:00

Where are you going?

Where am I going?

Where are we all going?

For years and years I have continued to ask myself Where am I going? I'm not talking about the grocery store, school, Monterey for the weekend, or the premier of Nacho Libre. I'm not really even talking about career paths either. I'm referring to a destination of your state of mind.

One answer oftened heard from yours truly to that question: I'm going crazy! That was a cute retort of mine when I was in radio, ie, when my job was being paid to regurgitate cute retorts for a living.

Twenty five years ago I could have honestly answered that destination question without any trouble. Hell...I could have honestly answered that destination question five years ago without too much hesitation. It was relatively obvious to me where I wanted to go. I wanted to go to the next place in my career, in money, in stature, in business. I wanted a bigger, better house...a bigger, better car...bigger, better vacations. Hell...I even daydreamed about having a bigger, better johnson! I had a clear picture of my next step(s) in life. In fact, I even had a good idea of what my semi-final destination should be. I say "semi-final" because everyone's final destination is death...right? That is where it all ends...that is where the final stop sign is...the last hurrah...the last busstop...the ultimate pink slip. We won't go into so-called after-life horseshit here because I believe it is just that...happy horseshit! This, naturally, is fodder for other blogs. My wish for a semi-final destination was that I be a self-actualized individual. My take on what self-actualized means? Getting to a point in one's life in which you are exactly where you want to be and where you should be. That should part is where much internal debate arises. A college psychology professor introduced me to the saying (during some informal therapy for me), "Never should on yourself". In other words, you have arrived at a point in your life where you are truly happy with yourself, what you are doing, and what you have done...don't concern yourself with the world's preception of what you should be. Is this making any sense yet? Be patient...it will.

Believe me when I say this. I am not a fanatic on any one type of religion or ancient Asian philosophy. But there is a way of life that seems to make more sense than most of the others. It is the teachings of Tao.

Tao is not a person. Tao is not a religion per say. Tao is a way of life. Simply put (and I emphasize the word simply), if you know the Way, then you know the goal, because the goal is not at the very end of the Way, the goal is all along the Way - each moment and each step it is there. Very simple is the message: You have to find the Way! The Way is everything. The Journey is everything. The Journey is the goal. It's not the destination...it's the journey.

Sure, I know what you are saying, "Well...if you are a Taoist monk, and can sit in a temple in saffron robes with all your constituents bringing you food and gifts every day, this would appear to make more sense". But who can do that? I know I can't. We poor slobs with mortages, bills, and college funds need to work and make money. No argument here. But remember this. It's not the destination, it's the journey. Along the Way, one must make the attempt to enjoy the Way! That's as simple as I can put in writing in several paragraphs.

I thought about a few contemporary lines that may pertain to and exemplify this Way of life.

Jeff Spiccoli (Sean Penn) in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, "Hey dude...let's party!"

Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, "Honey, it ain't the years...it's the mileage!"

Del Griffith in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, "Oh...that'll buff right out."

(unknown, although a song was featured in Easy Rider), "Don't bogart that joint!"

Does it make more sense now?

common courtesy and manners resurface?

2006-08-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

Could be.

A couple of my concerns with the so-called youth of today are grammar (verbal and prose) and manners... or total lack thereof. The bad grammar thing I must be careful with here...for yours truly doth transgress at times. More on that at a later date. In both cases, it is a function of education in general. The grammar: our school system is failing. The manners: the parents fell way short in this area. Here's my take on common courtesy and manners.

First, let me say this. Bad manners by the public at large is much, much too common today. Whether it be youngsters, foreigners, locals, Christians, heathens, store clerks, or the man on the street...where did common courtesy go? Please note...I have excluded oldsters in the generalization. Oldster being a person older than I (I'm 56). Of course, this is all relative. I'm quite sure I am considered an oldster by my kids (who are in their mid twenties). Senior citizens, for the most part, still practice and truly appreciate manners and courtesy from others. Again, a generalization, since I contiually run into crotchety old farts (and fartettes) who do not now (and may never do) find it necessary to acknowledge the presence of other people in their immediate vicinity. These people, unfortunately, are already dead and gone and don't know it anyway...moot point for now. Besides, this behavior is evident in folks of any age.

The other day while shopping in our local grocery store, I was quite impressed by a simple little passing. I was perusing the juice section. I turned around to look for Loretta (she tends to lag behind, and then gets a little upset with me for walking too fast). At this time, a group of three early-20s type guys were attempting to squeeze by me in the aisle. Please note: they consisted of three different ethnic groups and appeared to be friends. The tall blonde kid actually said to me in a very polite (not condescending) manner, "Excuse me" as he passed by! Wow! I was so impressed. Why was I impressed you may ask? Maybe because I have become such a grumpy, cynical old man...partly from years of enduring discourteous, uncaring, unsymapthetic people in the service industry...that this small moment of common courtesy brightened my day just a bit. To top it off...as I moved past them a few seconds later, I said, "Excuse me guys". The tall blonde kid said, "No problem". I had actually received an unsolicited splay of good manners, doled some back, and then received a response to my act of courtesy. That's it! That is what this is all about. This little scene happens all the time, mostly without the manners. For instance, how many times have you been standing at the video store (let's say Best Buy) looking for a movie? When someone disgusting, rude, smelly thing will move between you and the video rack without uttering a word. They will pass close enough to you that you will be able to discern details of their personal hygience. They will intrude into and through your personal comfort zone. If you're lucky, this neandrathal will continue moving by. Once in a while, they will actually stop in front of you and the videos and look at the same items that you are looking at! This where the the personal comfort zone buffer (and parameters for such) come into play, ie, the amount of space you must stake out to avoid such brazen intrusions. Another blog...another time for that.

You must understand something about me. I really make an attempt to be friendly, courteous, and pleasant to people in public. From my training in the service industry, I try to make eye contact with people. If the eye contact is reciprocated...I flash a modesto smile...and even an occassional, "Hello". These pleasantries are afforded to man or woman. It's not exclusive to attractive, well-groomed, middle-aged females...well, maybe just a little.

My point is this. Quite possibly if all of us make a blantant attempt to put these courtesies and manners into practice on a daily basis...they may rub off on someone. No, you can't change the world in a day. But maybe, just maybe, your little efforts may have a small, positive impact on some poor, unsuspecting, discourteous, ill-mannered slob. It just might (or is it, just may). My attempts to upgrade my grammar skills are not a secret. I just keep trying.

My next personal improvement project: getting pissed in traffic at really bad drivers. I know I can't retrain them...but I can stop swearing at them at the top of my lungs. The middle finger salute ended for me many years ago. A minor in-car, in-traffic incident involving a 357 magnum nipped that behavior in the bud!

Thanks for reading this.

The Pacoima plane crash - 1957

2006-07-29T10:22:00.001-07:00

A recent blog of my daughter Jenifer addressed her Top 5 fears. One of which was a plane crash. In the blog, she referrenced something that happened to me many years ago. It prompted me to finally sit down and put some of my thoughts about it to "paper".

Back in 1957, I was a 7 year old living in the L.A. suburb of Pacoima, California. Pacoima was a one of many little towns in the east San Fernando Valley, a short distance from Burbank. My family had moved from Burbank a couple years before...after "immigrating" from South Dakota in 1952. We bought a nice new tract home that in today's standards was quite modest...the kind depicted in the TV series, Wonder Years. Those homes are probably still there today, only the area of town we lived in is now called Arleta (named from the main street that runs through it, the street we lived on). Today, Pacoima has pretty much delapidated into a ghetto, or one of the "hoods" of the once desireable San Fernando Valley. It is not a nice place any longer. One of Pacoima's claims to fame is that it is where singer Richie Valens lived. He attended Pacoima Junior High, situated right next door to my elementary school, Terra Bella Elementary. In late 1957, we moved away (20 miles or so, to Canoga Park) the extreme west end of the valley. And that is where I resided from that year until the early 70's.

On January 31, 1957 at 11:18 am...something happened that would probably affect me the rest of my life. In fact, considering that this happened almost 50 years ago...and I still think about it today...would be proof that it did (and still does) affect me greatly. I have dreams about it to this day...nightmares mostly.

A large, four-engine commercial airliner on a test flight over the valley collided in mid-air with an Air Force jet on a training mission. There were no passengers on the airliner, just a minimal four-person flight crew. The Air Force jet had a pilot and navigator. The two aircraft plummeted to earth from 25,000 feet raining debris over areas of the east valley, the jet crashing into an uninhabited area near my school. The airliner crashing into the athletic field of Pacoima Junior High School...the field was filled with students. It actually came in at an angle, clipping a church next door, skidding into the school, filling the schoolyard with flaming fuel, debris, and aircraft parts...and mowing down schoolkids.

Me...I was in class at Terra Bella Elementary in one of those "temporary" bungalos lined up right next to the junior high athletic field. Between our classroom and the field was a chain high link fence a few feet away. I don't recall exactly what our class was doing at the time, maybe reading...it was late morning. Those old bungalos had high celings and huge windows on the junior high side. The windows going all the way to the ceiling, the kind you need one of those long poles to close the top ones. They were all wide open...you could see the older, junior high kids playing soccer, or football, or baseball in the field...just a few yards away.

I don't think any of us in that class saw the plane coming down. There was no warning. No one noticed anything unusual. Many years later, I found a map of the school (from a Pacoima newspaper) that depicted the path of the airliner as it entered the field. Had it not crashed into the church and then into the athletic field, it would have continued on...into my classroom. As it was, all this was going to happen just a hundred feet or so from where I was at my desk.

The sound of the crash was deafening. Like nothing I had heard before. Not until many years later would I hear sounds like this, when I went to Vietnam.

One of my most distinct memories of that moment in time was my efforts to get under my desk. In those days, weekly atomic bomb drills were mandatory...it was the middle of the cold war. We would have to crawl under our desks, crouch on our knees, and place our arms around our heads. It was a part of school life back then. I say "efforts" to get under my desk since the desk and the building was shaking so much, I couldn't get under it. The desk was bouncing up and down like during an earthquake. My head was banging on the edge of it. The rumbling explosion sound continued...it seemed to go on forever. Kids in our class were screaming...the teacher was screaming...and some junior high kids were screaming outside the window, trying to climb over the fence outside the windows...attempting to avoid the flaming debris coming at them...and at us.

Behind the children climbing the fence, I could see nothing but orange flame and black smoke in the field, billowing up into the sky. Years later, I was reminded that some of the children climbing the fence were on fire. I remember seeing that...but had blocked it out for many years.

The teacher quickly decided that we needed to get out of the classroom, I hadn't been successful in getting under the desk anyway. She led us outside, the doors were on the other side of the bungalo from the junior high fence and the crash site. As we exited the classroom, I glanced up in the sky and watched the huge black and orange fireball billowing up behind our bungalo. Debris was falling everywhere. The teacher decided that this was not the best path considering all the flaming aircraft parts falling all around...she hurried us back into the classroom. At this point in time, most of my memories are a little blurry. The carnage right outside our windows was still going on. Kids were still trying to climb the fence. I saw things that I shouldn't...things that no one should.

Our teacher grabbed the window pole and started closing the windows and the blinds. It only took a few seconds. When all the blinds were closed, the classroom was now dark as the power had gone out. Children all around me were crying. The teacher was crying. I can't really remember how I felt at that moment. Probably just scared shitless! Maybe I was crying. I was 7 years old.

I don't recall the length of time we sat in that classroom before I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Maybe a few minutes, maybe half an hour. During this time, the teacher suggested we turn on the record player and play some records (anything to get our minds off what had just happened). I remember the whole class, in chorus, chunkling at this idea, as the power had gone out when the plane hit. "Oh, yea", the teacher said, "what would you like to do?" She began letting us all make a trip to the bathroom in pairs. "Hold your partner's hand and stay together...go straight to the restroom and come right back". The restrooms were also in one of those bungalos, a few yards from our classroom. My partner and I left the class and headed for the restroom. We had to pass by the outside covered lunch area, right next to our playground. Lodged inside this covered lunch area, resting on the picnic-type tables...was an engine...a fifteen foot long airliner engine, pretty much intact. Since the buildings now blocked the view of the junior high field, I couldn't see what was going on there...fortunately. The air smelled of burning gas, the black smoke continued to billow into the sky from the other side of our classroom building. There were pieces and parts of airplane everywhere. I remember picking a spark plug off the ground on my way to the bathroom (the airliner was not a jet, it had piston engines). I don't think I put it in my pocket...I just threw it back on the ground. Next to the lunch area was a huge piece of twisted and burned metal, about the size of a car...still smoking.

There were people running everywhere. Police...firemen...medical people...and parents looking for their children. My mom ran the quarter mile or so to the school and picked me up. She had heard the crash and saw the fireball rolling up into the sky from our house a few blocks away.

This particular air disaster did bring about changes in some aircraft procedures, ie, test flights over heavily populated areas. The official cause was listed as pilot error.

The documented human toll was 3 students and 5 crew members killed. Approximately 75 injured, many very seriously. Richie Valen's cousin was one of the three students who died in that crash (the scene depicted at the beginning of the movie La Bamba). Richie himself (a student at Pacoima Junior High) was not at school that day, he was at his uncle's funeral. The undocumented, long-term affects on the people involved and nearby...I suppose nobody really knows. I can only speak for myself.

I don't remember any formal psychological followup. In todays world, aftermath counseling is a given. Mine came much later in life I suppose.

One bit of information that reminds me of how fortunate I was that day concerns the classrooms on either side of mine. Those other classrooms next to ours were vacant that day...those classes were on a field trip. Both of them were filled with aircraft parts...a landing gear in one...burned engine parts and sheet metal in the other. Our room was spared. Why? Fate I guess. In any case, I must be still here for a reason...we just need to figure out what that reason is!

Aquaria

2006-07-27T08:15:00.000-07:00

Well...I dove back into the aquarium thing last week (pardon the marine-like pun).

I have always had a penchant (that word sounded good for some reason) for keeping an aquarium, albeit with various degrees of success. Since I was 12 years old I have loved aquariums and tropical fish. Of course, the enthusiasm always wained after a short amount of time. My attention to maintenance went down (or away). The fish would die...and the aquarium went into the garage for a while. Then, I would start it up again or buy a new one (usally bigger and more expensive each time).

This time I decided to "go for it". To make a leap of faith so to speak. I did it again...this time I went saltwater!!! OMG...am I insane? Do I not remember past aquatic failures? Did I not heed the warnings, ie, saltwater tanks require so much more maintenance and attention? Apparently not...

Yes...that is a 60 gallon saltwater "show tank". The 60 gallons is a record for me, the largest yet. The "show tank" just means it is very tall and thin, allowing for a much bigger viewing area. It will also allow for a much better view of the algae and dead fish if it comes to that! But...let us think positively. For I pledged to do it right this time, "Loretta...I promise to take care of it". That last statement sounded just like a child's plea for a kitten or a puppy, didn't it? Seriously, I will make it happen this time or my name isn't...well, let's not go that far.

With a saltwater tank, there really isn't that much more maintenance. It's just that they are much less forgiving than freshwater tanks when you don't do the minimal. That minimal is a monthly water exchange and filter cleaning (or element replacement). The water exchange involves draining about 20% of the water and replacing it with fresh (or in this case, salinated), dechlorinated water. I can do that. I will do that. I have to do that...Loretta told me that she is NOT going to do that!

Sure, you must keep the glass clean inside and out. Windex for the outside, an algae scraper sponge thingy for the inside. Sure, monitor the salinity level...very simple with the inexpensive floating hydrometer I got. The temperature? Well, yes...that's another issue...not as important in the summer as in the winter. This time of year, the temperature is pretty much self regulated with A/C. In the winter, the inside air temp gets cool at night, hence the need for an in-tank heater. Not a problem...got one, ready to go. Beyond all that...we're stylin' with a very nice piece of living furniture. We have two screens of entertainment going at once...the tank is right next to the plasma TV!

Oh, one more issue...the fish can be expensive. They can be very expensive...depending on how exotic one wishes to go. Factor in the mortality rate, and the fish are even more costly. But, go back a couple of paragraphs now...if I adhere to the aquaria pledge I made, things should be OK, right? Let's hope so.

Speaking of fish. We have started with the so-called Saltwater Fish for Beginners. Yes, a few of the aquarium website on-line fish stores have this list for us salty novices. Some of the little guys cost between $3 and $5...not bad. Of course, these little hardy fish are somewhat aggressive toward other fish...and, they grow fast. Did I mention that characteristic of saltwater aquarium fish? They grow a lot faster (and bigger) than freshwater fish. That's all relative though...bigger is relative. For instance, a little damsel fish or clownfish (like Nemo) may grow to 5 or 6 inches...but not overnight. It may take a few years. Not a problem (have I said this before?). That will just be another motivating factor for getting another (and much bigger) tank! Anyway...

Above is a Yellow Tang. Below is a Spotted or Pajama Cardinal Fish.

This orange guy below is a Tomato Clownfish, a close relative of the Percula Damsel, aka, Nemo fish. We will probably not get a Nemo fish, as they are (pound for pound) one of the most aggressive saltwater fish around, ie, will try to kill others that resemble it!

The ugly one is an Algae Blenny. Not pretty, but does his job well...eating algae and keeping to himself.

There is another one, an Engineer Goby. A skinny, striped, eel-like fish. But he was very camera shy. Seems he digs little holes to hide in under the sand. In fact, his little hole is so big it has undermined one of the decorations. I think he made it a two-story hole with a three car garage!

So far, so good. We just got back from the aquarium store with five new "cheapies"...several colors and varieties of Damsel fish. Photos forthcoming. Wish me luck!

Lady in the Wah-Wah

2006-07-24T17:52:00.000-07:00

Well...we saw Lady in the Water today. I had been anxiously anticipating M. Night Shyamalan's latest cinematic offering for several weeks. If you plan to see it in the near future, better not read on...there will be so-called spoilers.

First, let me say that I am an M. Night fan, as is my daughter Jenifer. She and her husband Roth went to see it this past Saturday (opening weekend) in Seattle. Unfortunately, the theatre where it was showing stopped the movie two thirds of the way through, cleared everyone out (offering passes for future visits), and told them to go home! Evidently, there was some sort of technical or electrical problem that prevented them from continuing the showing. They attempted to locate another theatre showing Lady in the Water that night without success (it was sold out). The next day, they went to see another movie, planning to sneak into the last 1/3 of Lady after the first movie was over. But, paranoia and conscience prevailed. She couldn't get herself to committ larceny...even for a long-anticipated movie. Besides, she has told me since that she was so disappointed in the first two thirds, she wasn't that interested in seeing the ending. Wow! We went to see it anyway.

Back to the swimming pool fairy tale. In a nutshell, apparently Lady in the Water is based on a children's fairy tale set in modern-day "reality". A bedtime story that M. Night has told his children...or something along those lines. It is also supposedly an often-told story in many cultures, one of which is Chinese...from whence one of the movie's characters explains to the main character.

That main character, Cleveland Heep, is one of the highlights of the film. More accurately, the actor who plays Heep is one of the highlights of the film. For me, an M. Night Shyamalan film starring Paul Giamatti is must-see movie material. I have been a big fan of Giamatti for many years. I guess it's because I can closely relate to some of his movie roles. Often playing quirky, depressed, no self esteem roles, ie, Miles Raymond in Sideways, Kenny 'Pig Vomit' Rushton in Private Parts, Harvey Pekar in American Splendor, and even the fidgety orangutan slave trader Limbo in Planet of the Apes...I simply enjoy seeing his movies. In Lady in the Water, I feel that Paul Giamatti was over-cast! He is much too much of a great actor to have starred in this childish "thriller". But, he does play another troubled, depressed (and in this one, stuttering) individual.

Yes, it is a thriller...at times. But most of the time, it is a slow-moving, children's boogeyman movie that isn't really very scary. Even in that genre, some of the situations and parts of the storyline are just not believable! I know that sounds like a bit of a conumdrum or something (a supernatural thriller that has unbelievable parts), but it's true. Heep goes around explaining this developing story to a bunch of weirdo residents of a Philadelphia apartment complex (he is the super). Part of his explaination involves convincing these people that they are integral characters in the long-told fairy tale that is about to come true. A fairy tale that pertains to a race of people living in the water (the Blue World) that have been there for thousands of years.

You see, all of this goobly gop is explained in the opening credits! At the start of the film, there is a voice over various stick figure cartoon like images, all depicting the relationship between the above world people and the water world people (presumebly over eons of time). The water world people get pissed off because us above world folk continue to kill each other and plunder mother earth. So they pretty much give up on us...and stay out of sight...until now. Evidently an age old profecy must be fulfilled, ie, send one of their water nymphs (the mother nymph no less, although she herself is not aware of her stature) upstairs and warn us. What is she there to warn us about?...sorry, I totally missed that! I didn't even dose off once during the film...and the whole purpose for this above water visit is a mystery to me. Hence, the title Lady in the Water. More accurately, the Lady from the Water as she really isn't in the water much during the film. In fact, when Cleveland sees something in the water (swimming pool) the first time, he does something my parents always told us not to do around the pool: he runs! He runs around the pool, slips on the wet deck, hits his head, and falls in the water...unconscious. He wakes up in his own bed with the Lady in the Water (played by Bryce Dallas Howard...Opie's daughter) sitting next to the bed and wearing (only) one of his shirts. Yes...she speaks perfect English. Yes...she is strangely etheral. And, yes...she is forbidden from telling us poor above world slobs exactly why she is there. And so the guessing game insues. Heep (Giamatti) must unravel the mystery as to why she is there. That's about it.

Beyond all the why-is-she-here mystery, there is not much more. Yes...there is a monster...a big bad wolf-like thing with twigs for fur that followed her up...and, of course, wants to eat her (or blow her house down...wait that was the pig story). There is a giant, magical eagle coming soon to take her away. Funny...at the end when the eagle takes her away, it flies up, up, and away...not back into the pool, the water, and the mysterious submarine cave under the pool drain from whence she appeared. Anyway...there are also three mean and nasty monkey figures (BTW...they go by one name, kind of like the three Daryls from Newhart I guess)...and they live in the trees and are supposed to punish the wolf thing for coming to our world. Of course, they do appear out of the trees, dispatch the wolf, and allow the magical eagle to carry Opie's daughter back to...somewhere. CG eagle flies around the apartment complex once. Shot of Heep (from underwater) watching his nymph fly away with the eagle. Fade to black...and credits. That's it.

The main impression I got from this movie was "what is the point"? There was a lot of deep conversation about what each of these apartment people have done (and will do) to impact history and the world. M. Night's character (yes, the writer/director has quite a large part in this) finishes his book that will someday influence a boy to grow up and become president...blah, blah, blah...as an example. Oh, I forgot, the Lady from the Water can tell your future! Phew...it was all a bit disjointed and a somewhat clumsy telling of a children's fairy tale...one I've never heard, but a fairy tale anyway.

I'm sorry this was so long-winded and confusing...kind of like the movie. At this point, my laptop is ready to die. Time for me to close.

I just may have to watch again (on video) someday. Maybe she did go back in the water...and I blinked or something. BTW...the "teenagers" sitting behind us commented when the movie ended, "That was lame!" And an old guy with an oxygen tank walked out about 20 minutes before the end. The worse part? The popcorn wasn't as good as usual. I even got a stomach ache from it later in the afternoon. Too bad...I had high hopes for this flick...and the popcorn.

Do you have eShopping Anxiety?

2006-07-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Not very long ago, I was asked a simple question by an elderly lady (a docent at our local art gallery) about eCommerce. I had just mentioned that I purchased (and sold) a lot of things through the internet, ie, eBay and other online stores. She asked, "Do you feel safe doing that?"
It was a legitimate question I suppose...10 years ago! But then, again, every person has not ventured into this realm...yet.

I realize there is a lot of eFraud going on nowadays, it's in the news every day. Credit card scams, stolen passwords, fraudulent eBay listings even. The latter of which I have been a victum of...once. I answered her question without too much thought (and only slightly fibbing), "Oh, sure. I have never had a problem in that area. Things have gotten so much more secure in recent years...(blah blah blah)...".

I do a lot of eBay shopping and perusing, too much really. It's not that I actually buy a lot of stuff, but I window shop a lot. This in itself is a bit Skip-contrary, because I absolutely hate to shop...in stores! Except for the grocery store, I detest having to "shop" for anything in brick and mortar stores. Yes, I do enjoy grocery shopping. Why...I don't know, I just do. Maybe it's because I love to eat, I love to cook...and this is a part of the planning process surrounding a passion of mine. Regarding my aversion to the other stores...I think it stems from my years and years in the Food Service industry (corporate restaurant management). To put it simply, I hate the people who work in the service industry...whether it be a restaurant, a hardware store, a pet supply store, DMV office, bank...you name it, I detest them with a passion. Why? Except for a very small percentage, maybe 1 %...they are all in the wrong business! They don't belong in this profession...they haven't a clue as to what their "job" is all about...and should be cane-whipped. Normally at this point, I would insert several paragraphs of ranting about the state of the service industry...but I'll table that for now.

Back to the old lady's question about feeling safe shopping on the internet. I did something of late that could be described as a leap of faith. I purchased an eBay item from fricking Hong Kong! Holy shit! I pledged I would never do that (again), ie, buy an item online that would come from another country, halfway around the world. You see...I did get "burned" a few years ago on a transaction from Europe. I'll spare the details because they are too embarassing to admit (basically, I lost $600). This latest Hong Kong purchase involved a name brand piece of camera equipment for $139 (retailing in US stores for $299) from an established eBay merchant. So...a good deal? Yes. A wise move? Yes. I received the piece yesterday, intact, as advertised, in a timely manner (shipping was about $15). The company from which I purchased this item has thousands of "positive feedback" transactions in their history, so I made the leap of international ecommerce faith. And all was well in eSkiptown.

But here a few footnotes to keep in mind when buying things via the internet. One - eBay sellers can be as nefarious as a back alley postcard salesman. Check their feedback comments and percentages. Two - try to pay only through a reputable online payment service such as Paypal (an online staple, now owned and operated by eBay itself). Never pay through Western Union or other such service, unless you personally know the merchant. Three - Caveat Emptor...may the buyer beware. Any really fantastic deal may in fact be just that: fantastic.

For the most part, I feel relatively secure with online transactions, especially with a credit card. At least with a credit card, there is some history and record of the sale. Sending cash, money order, or personal check? Not so safe in my book. Yes...there are plenty of shitheads in the world who work fervishly all day trying gleen your account numbers and steal from you. But, for the most part, eCommerce is fairly secure in this day and age.

Now, if I could just figure out how to unload that acre of land on the moon I purchased online a few years ago...I would have a lot more faith in merchants in general! I'll wait a while to sell it...the real estate market is pretty soft right now.

Lost in my dreams

2006-07-19T07:03:00.000-07:00

Do you dream? I do. I dream every night.

My dreams are long, complicated scenarios that often leave me feeling a bit exhausted and perplexed when I awake. They most often involve being somewhere far from home and my attempts to find my way back home. Sometimes I am lost, other times I know where I am and can't locate transportation. In others, I am simply late for the ride and find myself stranded in some undesireable locale. They also include me being under the charge of someone else, a subordinate of sorts...usually in the armed forces (I spent 4 years in the Navy). On occasion, my dreams put me in other situations that I don't really want to be in, ie, in search of something I have lost or can't find (from actual events in my past from 30 or 40 years ago). In any case, they are very frustrating short stories at best. Never resolved. I always wake up in the middle of the dream, relieved that it is over and that it was just a dream. Yes, once in a while I do have a somewhat pleasant dream, not very often though (the flying/sex deal for one). And, yes, some dreams are more than frustrating...they are nightmares, usually involving me trying to get away from someone or something horrid.

I have recurring dreams. One in particular is quite disturbing. Fortunately, I haven't experienced this one of late...but I did fairly often at times in my life.

The reason this came to mind is very interesting to me. I was watching TV last week, a certain home expert maven who shall remain anonymous to spare my dignity. OK...it was Martha fucking Stewart...alright! Anyway...fielding questions from her audience, someone asked if she dreamed and, if so, about what? She said, "Oh yes...I dream alot. They are mostly nightmares....well, not really nightmares...they are long, drawn out, complicated dreams that are a bit disturbing...not scarey, just uncomfortable situations...usually involving a lot of people and personal problem-solving"...(paraphrased). For some reason, it struck a chord with me and my dreams. "Hey", I said to myself, "that sounds like what I dream about!" So...why?

Immediately, I surmised the reason why I dream like Martha Stewart. I may be way off, but here goes. My mind is always going 100 mph thinking about things to do, places to visit, projects I'd like to complete. More often than not, they are daydreams about lofty projects way beyond my financial means. Not beyond my skills and abilities, just beyond the possibility to afford. As I have self-analyzed before, I believe that I am a right and left brain person: artistic as well as analytical. These hemispheres are in constant conflict with one another. I am always in "deep thought" making it difficult to concentrate on the moment and the tasks at hand. Maybe I have (and always have had) A.A.D.D. Not what I was hoping to find out, but at least it's a possible explanation!

It reminds of a scene from the movie Slingblade. John Ritter's character, Vaughan, asks Billy Bob Thornton's character, Karl..."You always appear to be in deep thought. What are you thinking about right now?" Karl gazes out the window of the Frosty Cream diner for a moment, dips one of his french fries in the mustard, then responds, "I was thinking on asking if you got any more of that canned meat for sale." Vaughan slowly knods his head, eyes looking down at the table, and takes a sip of his soda..."Hmmm". Fade to the next scene. BTW...for anyone not familiar with Slingblade...Karl is a mentally-challenged individual who killed his mother (and his mother's lover) when he was 12 years old (with a slingblade, hence the title)...having spent the previous 25 years or so in a mental insitution. Vaughan is a middle-aged gay man living in the same small, southern town.

Last night's nightmare, ie, drawn out, disturbing, unresolved dream, was like so many others I have had...I ponder what resolution would be like for me in one of these dreams. Will I even "see" an ending sequence? Will I find what I am searching for (in the dreams or in life)? Might that occur in my final dream, just before I die?

Yesterday, I purchased a couple of small books from a sale table at Borders. One is a book on Zen, the other on Tao. Without getting into an overly-involved explanation, Tao concerns the yin and yang of life...and how the most important part of life is the journey, not the destination. It's funny that the Harley-Davidson company adopted this philosophy and saying in their marketing program. Myself, having been nearly obsessed with goal setting the majority of my adult life (thanks to Tony Robbins and other self-proclaimed keepers-of-the-answers to life's questions!), it may be time to re-evaluate a little. The Harley-Davidson journey versus destination thing is very profound. The little Tao book I got at Borders yesterday also includes many photos...pictures of inanimate objects, bubbling streams, ponds, feng shui decor, landscapes, and plants. All, presumably, representing various states of Zen and Tao...the balance! If I could explain it all with one word...that word would be balance.

So what does this have to do with my dreams? Nothing...and everything.

I have always thought that these dreams I have are a burden of sorts. I have even laid down to sleep and feared having another dream. I have feared having that horrid nightmare that pops up once in a while. But, I also fear...or anticipate, or expect, or over-think, or stress out over most everything in my life! The dentist (who doesn't?), an interview, a task, a job, a business meeting, a deadline, a decision...the list is endless. I worry about everything! I concern myself with things and events in the future...and the past as well. The concern, the concentration...the focus should be on the present.

I certainly cannot control what I dream about, only how a react afterwards...and, how I not anticipate such uncontrollable mental activities. Worrying about anything, past or future, is not a fruitful use of energy.

Regarding my self-comparison with Martha? Just another thing about myself I must accept. You gotta admit, despite all her legal shenanigans the past few years...everyone still loves her! She is a survivor, albeit megabucks in the bank makes that rebound a bit easier. Her fan base is a big as ever since the investment fiasco that landed her in the pokey. I kind of like her...man-hands and all!

Now if I could just stop worrying about the fact that I have never made a successful soufle. Maybe I'll give it another try this weekend...I'm sure there is a recipe on martha.com.

Balance: the yin and yang...the good with the bad. And, as the header of this blog states...the Foo King Ugg Lee.

Are you a dog person?

2006-07-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Being a dog person is one of those hard-to-explain things like being a Harley person...if I have to explain, you won't understand (the saying found on some Harley shirts). You either are one or you are not one...A or B...black or white...an objective choice...no gray area.

My daugher Jenifer and I reside (separately) with dogs that are spoiled to say the least. It's not that the pets always get their way, certainly not in my household. But they do live pristine, laid back, easy, mostly indoor lives.

Jenifer's one canine indulgence (so far) is a Beagle named Sierra. This fortunate pooch, being an only "child", is a sweet dog who has lived a life of loving patronization and tolerance. Sierra is very protective of her digs and lets everyone know about it (a barker), despite long-time usage of anti-barking collar electronics. She is also a "sleep in the owner's bed" dog...and, at times, rendering her keepers perplexed as to where the terd in the sheets came from! Jenifer does realize that the errant poops are from Sierra, although she believes that these little morning surprizes are inadvertent, ie, fell out of the dog's ass by mistake while asleep. All this after a few years of peeing and barfing on the bed as a puppy, an occasional nocturnal fecal indiscretion as an adult dog is acceptable. Afterall, Beagles are soooo cute! And Sierra is no exception...under-the-sheet terds and all.

Our dogs? Sparky the Dauschund, Lucy the Boxer, and Sammy the Greyhound. They all have their own issues as well. The list is long, but here are some highlights. Sparky is 10 years old. As a puppy, he lived a solitary life during the day while we were at work (much like Jen's Sierra does now), as we hadn't adopted the other two yet. During that time, our not-so-miniature Dauschund ate the door frame in one of our bathrooms and tore up the linoleum in another.
Lucy is 7 years old. Early on, she escaped the house a few times and was a cloud of dust down the street and around the neighborhood...the only capture method: drive the car after her and open the door, she jumps right in. Sammy is 5 years old. He has managed to tear and few chunks out of his thin skin, one incident involving his toe required minor surgery.

Sparky still manages to sneek in an indoor pee pee once in a while (usually found later as a yellow stain in the carpet next to some other vertical structure). Lucy tried to eat a wasp causing her rather large boxer jowls to swell up and out resembling huge wing-like structures (a brief treatment of benedryl remedied that). And Sammy's long tail has destroyed a few coffee table nic nacs and removed plaster from the walls during moments of exhuberance.

So, being a dog person does entail a lot more than just a love of the furry domestic creatures. It takes a lot of work, a lot of tolerance, and lot of having the ability to accept the love they have to offer. That last characteristic is the most important. One must appreciate all that dogs have to offer: unqualified devotion, love, and companionship. They solicit attention from us at all times. Why? Because that is the way we have raised them. Despite my barking back at them when they bug us, I am still amazed at how this most popular domesticated animal requires so little. They only require your love in return...not being tied to a stake in the backyard and sleeping in an indentation in the dirt. Do our dogs realize how lucky they are? I haven't quite decided whether or not dogs actually know the difference. Probably.

Now, if I could just get one of them to open the fridge and bring me a beer...it would truly be a perfect symbiotic relationship!

The Devil Frogs From Hell

2006-07-13T07:53:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, Loretta comes home from work (Gottschalks) with a nick nack or two that she found on sale. Factor in her employee discount and other daily sale-type reductions and the monetary pain is not too bad. Usually these little gems are simple, unobtrusive decorative home things she scatters around the house and yard and never pose any fodder for discussion between herself and yours truly. But...yesterday she dragged home a couple of items that even she admitted, "Wow...what was I thinking?"

May I introduce to you, The Devil Frogs From Hell!

Yes, they are, to say the least, quite disturbing. Probably spawned from some Malaysian sweat shop, they are made of wicker and (what appears to be) old Yugo parts. Loretta and I agree, besides the weird-ass, bulging glass eyes suspended above their heads, it's the rusty metal tridents that put them into the demon genre. What the heck are the tridents for? Well...we hypothesized a series of possibilities, ripe with ideas for a Night Gallery script. Here's one scenario...

A housewife brings home these two grotesque figures from a garage sale she visited at a spooky house. Of course, the garage sale seller (a creepy old lady) offers up a little history about where the frogs came from...let's say Asia since Eastern Europe has been overused in supernatural storylines. "They are ancient Tibetan Guard Frogs...meant to keep bad karma from entering your home...", and so on. She goes on, "...but never, ever allow them to exist in a darkened area...they must have light...". At this point, the creepy garage sale lady is distracted by another customer and doesn't finish her story. Housewife drives home with the frogs sitting in the backseat.

Cut to the chase. The housewife and reluctant husband place the figures in their garden, lit by a couple of yard lights...late at night, the yard lights mysteriously (and conveniently) burn out. Strange sounds insue while the couple is sleeping. You know...tapping on the sliding glass doors, the pitter patter of little feet, splashing in the pool, etc. When the couple awakes in the morning, they find the frogs in another location in the yard, footprints in the dirt...blah, blah, blah. Eventually, the two possessed amphibians kill the family dog with their tridents, chase away the cat, and terrorize the home's human inhabitants. The ending? A slow dolly shot from the kitchen, into the family room showing the frogs sitting in barcaloungers, watching TV (Threes Company or something similar), eating popcorn, drinking beer, and laughing. The dolly shot continues to the window to the backyard revealing the couple (now reduced to frog size) standing in the garden with tridents in their hands and big glass eyes extending above their heads. The husband turns to the wife and says, "You and your fucking garage sales!"

What do you think?

We were going to return them and get our money back. But, they're just too bizarre and interesting. They now reside on top of our kitchen cupboards (with many of Loretta's other nick nack "finds"). Besides...I would be affraid that they might come back on their own!

Johnny Depp -1, Pirates II - 0

2006-07-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

'Nuff said? Not quite.

Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man's Chest was a clinker. Not that the whole movie was a clinker by no means. To coin a phrase: it had its moments...namely, scenes with Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

Depp's comic timing and sense of humor are what carries the film. Beyond that, it is just another CG overkill cartoon.

Filled with over-the-top movie effects that overwhelm one's simple enjoyment of the "ride", ie, big screen, big sound, sequel anticipation, and butter-dripping popcorn with a 98 ounce Diet Pepsi...it just didn't do it for me (or most anyone else who saw it). The last time I dosed off during a big movie premier was during Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. Granted that was after midnight...but we saw Pirates on a Monday afternoon! "What! What happened (as I was startled from a brief nap)? Did I miss anything?" It was just too long and too...too...cartoonish and goofy.

For instance...the new villain is Davey Jones (piloting the Flying Dutchman, the ancient ghost ship doomed to sail the Seven Seas in search of...well, I'm not sure). Jones, played by respected English actor Bill Nighy, is a half CG/half live action octopus man in charge of a crew of half CG/half live action fish/crab/urchin/barnacle men bent on...on, something...still not sure here either. The Jones characher has tentacles for hair and tentacles for a mustache. He smokes a pipe and blows the smoke out the octopus blowhole on the side of his face. Anyway...it all gets a bit tedious to watch after a while, especially for 2 1/2 hours. Yes, at least 2 1/2 hours (although it seemed like much longer).

Again, Johnny Depp's portrayal of Captain Jack Sparrow ( a Depp self-admitted characture of Rolling Stone Keith Richards) is fun to watch and appears that Depp himself is having fun playing him. The others...Bloom, Knightly, etc? To coin a movie catch phrase: performances were phoned in!

Since this second installment of the movie version of the Disney E-Ticket ride was filmed back to back (and sometimes simultaneously) with Pirates 3...the audience was left holding their breath for the next one. Just like all the other movie trilogies, number 2 needs to leave them coming back for more. Spoiler coming in the next paragraph...

Captain Jack is eaten by Davey Jones' Kraken sea monster thing. Bloom, Knightly, and a few of the other Black Pearl crew members (the few left not eaten by the Kraken), go up some foggy Carribbean island river to visit the voodoo lady from the beginning of the movie. These scenes, by the way, are nicely reminiscent of the Disneyland ride at the start, ie, fireflies flitting around mangrove trees, spooky river huts, fog...well, you know. By the way, they really overdid the dog-with-jail-keys thing for good in this one. In the last scene at the voodoo lady's shack, she presents a challenge to the crew of the Black Pearl, which, by the way, was eaten as well by the Kraken: "What would you all do to bring Captain Jack Sparrow back? Would you sail to the ends of the Earth?" Of course, they all cheerfully agree. "Then you will need a captain", says the voodoo lady. At this point, boots are seen clomping down some stairs...to reveal Captain Barbossa (Jeffrey Rush) from the first movie. You know, the ghost guy from whom Captain Sparrow stole the Black Pearl? "Aaarrrrgh...indeed maties!" (or something to that affect). His monkey lets out a screech in closeup. Fade to black, then credits...Directed by Gore Verbinski...etc, etc.

Now...'nuff said?

All in all...what an incredible job of marketing. We really wanted to see this sequel to a so-so first offering! Geeze...I was really excited. And the silly thing is...after a more-than-so-so second offering...I really want to see the fucking third installment! Man, I hope Depp has some back-end on these. In spite of the wildly fantastic computer generated special effects, Johnny Depp still carried the film.

I assume the third one will come late next year. We'll be there...not opening night, but soon after.

Yes...Orlando Bloom is somewhat of a low-testosterone hunk...and Kiera Knightley is a cute, whiney English babe waif. Johnny Depp? Well, Depp is really akin to Charlie Chaplin. Despite his off-screen ecsentricity and laid back demeanor...I think he is a good actor. And did a great job with an outrageous character in Pirates of the Carribbean. I am looking forward to his eminent return in Pirates 3.

Maybe for the next one, I'll load up on caffein before the movie starts. Or...take a nap first!

For What It's Worth...

2006-07-08T22:13:00.000-07:00

I just couldn't resist doing a 4th of July piece.

I realize that it is a few days late...better late than never.

So...for what it's worth...

There are some pretty fucked up places and countries in the world right now...maybe it's kind of cool to live in the good ol' U. S. of A.

Being one of the fortunate ones

2006-07-07T06:29:00.000-07:00

I consider myself one of the fortunate ones.

I realize that statement may entail a world of explanation, so here goes.

That's me in middle in a recent photo surrounded by my friend Bob (on my right) and Gary (on my left). They were both here at our home for a reunion of sorts this past weekend. Bob I've known since I was 15...Gary since I was 10. Bob lives in Albuquerque, about 1100 miles away, Gary in L.A., about 500 miles away.

When you talk about old friends, it is not often that you can refer to 40 years ago...but I can.

We haven't always stayed close in touch. There were stretches of many years when our contact was very fleeting. All three of us managed to meet up at our 20th high school reunion in 1987, then again at our 35th in 2002. On this stretch I hadn't seen Gary since 2002, before that we hadn't seen each other since 1987. But in the last few years we at least emailed each other once in a while. As for Bob, we have been emailing and phone chatting at least weekly for several years now. He came out to California for my daughter Jenifer's wedding last July.

So what does this mean to me? I really do consider myself one of the fortunate ones. Fortunate enough to have a couple of buddies like this for such a long time. Buddies with whom I shared a lot of memories...

Riding our bikes to far off places, playing army in the dirt, building forts in our rooms and spending the night. Celebrating birthdays, barmitzvahs, and holidays. Getting our driver's licenses, working on beat up old cars, and double-dating to Bob's Big Boy. Going camping with my family, watching The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights, and cruising Sunset Boulevard in the sixties. Graduating from high school, listening to the Beatles, and going away to college and the Navy.

That last event capped our childhood...for good. The Wonder Years were over almost before they began, at least that is how I feel about it 40 years later. It was such a great time in our lives...and it ended all too soon.

When you are 14 years old, you can't wait for the next day, for the next milestone or adventure in your life. "Why is it taking so long to be 16? I hate being 15". By the time you reach your 50's, you are wishing time will slow down somehow, so you can savor each moment in time.

I still dream about what the next day will hold in store for me, but with a different perspective now. How can I enjoy what I have and what I am to the fullest? That is how I try to live life now. So, in some ways, I haven't changed much since those Wonder Years. To quote Sheryl Crow, "I just wanna have some fun!"...again.

Regarding my most fortunate relationship with Bob and Gary...that won't end. It will last forever, or at least until we make that final trip to the big playground in the sky. And maybe then, will we be able to ride our bikes to far off places again...or build a fort...or find some new adventure. All those memories are still there.

And, even better yet...how about all those memories ahead of us yet to happen? We are all planning on getting together again for a week at a beach house next Spring.

Hey, we could build a really bitchen fort in the sand! This time, we just need to make sure we are wearing a hat of some sort...so we don't get a sunburn on our bald spots!

Ten ugly pounds. Dieting. Veganism...hmmm?

2006-06-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

There is an old joke that most of us old-timers remember well. There are many old jokes that us old-timers have heard over the years, but only a handful can we remember, let's put it that way.

This one goes like this: You wanna know how to lose ten ugly pounds? Cut off your head.

I think that one goes back to vaudeville days, at least that far back. Maybe it was something I heard in a Marx Brothers movie. I don't remember where.

Anyway. For me, it is way past the point of wanting to lose those ten extra (ugly) pounds. In fact, for me to lose those extra (ugly) pounds by cutting off someting (like my head)...I would need at least five heads to get to where I should be...got the picture?

Realistically, cutting off a body part or two is not gonna happen. Besides, how would one do that, especially one's head? Obviously, this joke refers to suicide...and I am not quite ready for that. Although it has been food for thought at various times in my life...suicide that is. But...I wouldn't know how to do it (the best, least-messy way)...I'm certainly too chicken to do it...and, I definetly don't want to go to hell! (Insert the Elaine Benice exorcist/devil impression here then laugh at it). So that it is out...for now.

Historically speaking, I have tried almost every diet. Some for months, some for weeks, some for only hours. Nutri-System (lost a lot of weight, too expensive)...Jenny Craig (lost some weight, too expensive, quit early on)...Atkins (lost a lot of weight, got tired of bacon, dreamed about pasta)...and every other one that has come down the pike!

Fact is, I've gained so much weight in the last two years (here's another joke, Rodney Dangerfield I think), that I need my own zip code. So there is no doubt...something must be done...now. Herein lies my biggest problem: instant gratification. Yes friends...instant gratification...that male-inherent trait that holds many of us (female as well) from accomplishing many wants and goals in life. Instead of cutting off my head, I would prefer to have instant gratification surgically removed from myself... along with procrastination, vanity, and self-doubt. Now that operation would set me in the right direction!

While driving back from an over-nighter to Pismo Beach last week, my wife Loretta casually made this statement to me (right after we both finished a load of In-N-Out and were passing by the massive, shit-stinky Harris Ranch cattle lot): "Could you be a vegetarian?". We've had many converations about this vegetarian thing. The answer is a resounding "No! Not possible...right now". Not that it wouldn't be a good, practical idea after some sort of transition period. Many doctors have told me that switching to a vegetarian diet cold-turkey (bad choice of words) could make you sick, especially if you have been on a screwed up, meat and fat non-diet for many years. They all suggested that one should "ease" into it gradually. Leave a day or day per week of chicken or fish, stay on dairy products for a period of time. Try an Ovo-Lacto Vegetarian approach. Then, and only then, step entirely out of the "dark side".

So, the plan for me is exactly that. I will do it. Limit myself to one serving a week of chicken (not KFC), one serving a week of fish (not fish and chips), and one serving a week of some other lean meat (the meat serving will be an option). That's the easy part, identifying and limiting the bad stuff. The hard part: finding out what I can and will eat to replace all the shitty stuff I will be giving up.

Most of the so-called bad stuff is non-negotiable, ie, on the "never" list. That list is long. But let's say this: fast food, deep fried foods, fatty meat, white sugar sweets. Bad stuff? Hell, this is all the good stuff!

Wish me luck. Better yet...wish Loretta and my friends luck...I will be one grumpy fuck for (at least) the first few days!

The Pink Panther stinks

2006-06-24T08:19:00.000-07:00

Well...I did something I pledged not to do. Hang on, doing something I pledged not to do is not unusual for me, I thought I would mention it beforehand for everyone shaking their heads already. What I did was rent (Netflix) The Pink Panther (2006 version) with Steve Martin.

Now, being a complete, dyed-in-the-wool Peter Sellars/Pink Panther fan already puts me into a prejudicial frame of mind in this area from the start. In other words, I had a bad feeling about this re-make of an all-time classic movie long before it came out.

First, let me say this. Any and all attempts to recreate the comic genius of Peter Sellars/Blake Edwards material in the past have failed miserably. They have all pretty much stunk to high heaven. Even when I tried to watch these remakes (Pink Panther material) with an open mind (not really possible for me, but I tried) they would just fall short. I would slap myself in the face a few times during the opening credits, drink alcohol while watching, or force myself to look at it as a stand-alone movie...nah good! I'm tainted when it comes to, in particular, Peter Sellars. He was one of the funniest actors to ever grace the silver screen...period.

Yes, Steve Martin is also one of the funniest...I've been a huge fan of his since he was standing in front of crowds at Pier 39 in San Francisco with a fake arrow through his head and doing simple magic tricks. "Well...excuuuuuuse me!" "We are...two wild...and crazy guys." "Waiter...there are snails on her plate!" And so on and so on. 'Nuff said there.

But Steve Martin trying be Inspector Clousseau just doesn't cut it. Reasons? Everything in the movie seems so contrived. Like an episode of the Twilight Zone set in a parallel universe where Steve was chosen instead of Peter for this role. Almost as if there was no respect for the former Inspector Clousseau, the movie makers in this clunker should be ashamed of themselves. The so-called gags and laughs are forced at best, ie, "I think this part is supposed to be funny".

I found myself saying, "Now...is that supposed to be Inspector Clousseau? I know it's Steve Martin. Maybe it's his brother". You just don't make the connection. The "magic" is just not there. It is not funny. More than that, it is difficult to watch, ie, you squirm in your seat from time to time looking at your watch to see how much of this gak is left.

Unfortunately, most remakes have had the same fate. In fact, even most movies where a "recent" real person is played by an actor fall way short as well...Walk the Line and Ray are recent examples. But, both of those films as stand-alone pieces of cinema art are quite good...ya' just don't buy into well-known actors portraying other well-known people.

Again, as a near-rabid Peter Sellars fan, I suppose I am not a fair judge. There has just been too much Clousseau water under the bridge. It is over. It is all on DVD in its original form to enjoy many, many times as it was meant to be.

But please...if there is a God in heaven, He will not allow anyone to attempt a remake of The Party (Peter Sellars, 1969). If it is remade, my prediction is that Jim Carrey will do it... for he is another rabid Sellars fan and has enough money to do pretty much anything he wants!

By the way, in the words of Inspector Clousseau, "...that's...Chief Inspector".

fence post in life...gotta keep changing

2006-06-05T06:34:00.000-07:00

I think one of my biggest fears in life is becoming a fence post. One of those forgotten, old, wooden standards you see on the side of some road...helping to hold up one of the other fence posts down the line. Serving a purpose? Yes. Doing something worthwhile and satisfying. No.

On the road next to the fence post? All the movers and shakers and self-actualized "people" on the move...on the move to another destination.

Maybe the real fear I have is being forgotten, like that fence post...the one that holds no real purpose an longer, except to help hold up the one next to it. The end post may have served another purpose at one time: either holding up a gate, or anchoring a corner. So, quite possibly this fence post might also be considered a "cornerstone"...certainly an important part of the structure. But still, it is stuck in the ground, never moving forward, or backward. It is just there now to be admired on occassion.

Van Gogh chose to cut off his ear when he got to the point where no one was paying any attention to what he was doing. Quite a change there. So, my next questions are: What really is "attention"? And...How important is this fleeting recognition?

I know many people at this point in my life who are "fence posts". These are folks who have done the same thing, day in and day out, for a long time. Not just professionally, but personally as well. Same job, same life, same space, same partner for 30 years or more. My envy has always been obvious. I have never hidden the fact that I do appreciate and wonder if their lifestyle would have been better than the one I have chosen. Yes...the one I have chosen.

The "choices in life" philosophy has been beaten to death I feel. Whether it be Tony Robbins or Doctor Phil...their millions have been made exploiting this human "weakness". What weakness? The one that somehow allows humans to regret...one of the many exclusive "abilities" that we possess over the rest of all living things on this planet. The fact that we can choose is another aspect of human nature that goes hand in hand in our little club. Do other living organisms actually make choices? Not hardly. They operate solely on instinct, never on emotion. Some in the scientific community seem to think that certain higher forms of life near us on the evo-scale possess emotions and the ability to reason, ie, make choices. I'm not convinced. They most certainly do not have the capability to worry...or do they?

At some point in the distant future...when chimpanzees are allowed to borrow money, own a credit card and a mortgage, and are then given these options in life as choices...then we may indeed know whether or not they worry, or regret. They will tell us about it and describe how they really feel.

One thing I do know. Chimpanzees do possess the ability to be happy or unhappy. And when they are unhappy, they express this in the most obvious ways. They scream and pound, letting others around them know they are unhappy. And, if they are unhappy with their surroundings (not enough food, bad weather, shitty neighbors), they don't stew or over...they don't worry about it...they move on. They change their environment...they get the hell out of there.

Our closet relatives in the animal world are not fence posts and never will be. Maybe they just don't give a shit about what others of their kind think about them. They simply do what they want to do based on a criteria that we, as humans, may never know about...until we teach them to speak to us of course. Then, we'll all be in trouble!

Damn dirty apes! I guess I envy them as well.

I'm one reflective son-of-a-bitch I guess...

2006-05-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

It appears that I may be in my photographic "reflective period". Quite possibly.

The reflecting I do could mean a couple things. One, that I am continually thinking of that mirror image of myself. Not the one actually in the bathroom mirror everyday, but the one that represents something or someone I should have been. Or, two, the one that represents my wishes, daydreams, and aspirations...the hoped-for aspects of my life that are yet to be realized...the image of what I still can be. In either case, it was time for a blog entry!

Not that anyone reads this blog other than myself, I suppose I do it for "exercise". And, in reality, I don't really expect anyone else to be reading this. I have made no effort to cultivate a following, as my daughter Jenifer has, ie, reading other people's blogs, posting comments, inviting people to read hers, and actually writing new posts on a daily basis!

This post was originally for a bit of blather about our daytrip to Yosemite yesterday, hence the reflective shot of Yosemite Falls in the Merced River. Since I did drive away from there with a minor revelation or two, here goes.

My first observation about one of our most glorious national parks is that it is just that: glorious. From the moment we came around one of the sharp turns on Highway 120 inside the park (there is about a 20 mile drive from the West entrance to Yosemite Village) and I saw this huge canyon, the river, and the granite walls leading away from Half Dome in the distance...we realized that this would be well worth the 107 mile drive. Not that we had any doubts that it would be worthwhile. But that everything was going to be more impactful than we had imagined over the years...and it was.

From that first vision after rounding the bend in the road, I was feeling a little like when we used to go to Disneyland when I was a kid. "Wow...look, there's Half Dome, Loretta!", I blurted out gleefully. "There's one of the falls...Bridalveil I think!" We drove on, closer now. "And...and...check it out...there's...there's...what the heck is that? El Capitan? I don't think so". We could've looked at one of the maps and brochures they gave us at the gate, but Loretta was driving (so I could take pictures and act like a kid) and I was hyperventilating a bit by then.

Despite my excitement about finally being in Yosemite, I did manage to take a few pictures as well as some video. Loretta had to remind me a few times that one afternoon in Yosemite does not a photographic study make. There will be other times. Other times to explore some less travelled locations and camera angles. But for then, it was right.

We were there on the Thursday before Memorial Day Weekend. The people were starting to arrive for the first big summer holiday weekend of the year. Tour busses, over-priced motorhomes, church group busses, campers, and foreign tourists. This aspect of Yosemite will be it's own photographic study at a later time...the throngs of visitors from all over the world. These bustling crowds could just as easily have been at Disneyland, or Seaworld, or New York City...instead, they are moving along in cattle-like lines in the shadows of El Capitan, Half Dome, and all the other natural wonders. At times, it seemed as though they were not really aware of where they were. They were just on vacation...and it just happened to be in this famous national park.

For me, our brief visit to Yosemite was a chance to walk in the footsteps of one of America's most famous photographers: Ansel Adams. From this fact comes my feeling of unworthiness. When I think about the conditions and the time period in which Ansel Adams worked, it is amazing how he did it. Traveling from San Francisco (some 200 miles away) in the early part of the 1900's, it must have required such effort and sacrifice compared to the smooth pavement and air-conditioned comfort I experienced the other day. Not to mention the difference in equipment from then till now.

If you do get a chance to visit this place, definely bring your camera, a box lunch (the prices for food and lodging are outrageous), and mosquito repellant. I was nearly eaten alive by the little buggers while trying to take pictures near the river in the picnic areas. The late snow had left many wet spots near the banks. And the river level itself was very high from the Spring runoff occurring while we were there. This runoff also provided quite a spectacle at Yosemite (lower) Falls. The spray was quite heavy near the viewing bridge, akin to taking a Lady of the Mist boatride at Niagra Falls! It is a very cleansing-like experience standing on that bridge, letting the ice cold mist hit you in the face (as well as every other part of your body and camera equipment). It creates its own wind, blowing through the little gorge at the bottom of the falls...very intense.

The cost for a trip or two to Yosemite? Well, I day pass (actually good for one week) is $20 per car. An annual car pass
to Yosemite is $40 (good for an entire 12 month period
following). An annual pass to all national parks: $50. We opted for the annual Yosemite-only pass as we will certainly return within the next 12 months at least once.

My last trip to Yosemite was when I was about 12 years old with my family...I think my Dad's mother came as well. I don't remember an awful lot about it...I was mostly concerned with having to sit in the backseat next to my grandmother who kept telling to stop fidgeting.

We'll be back soon.

I was fidgeting a bit this time as
well.

Loretta was much more tolerant though...lucky me!

Note to self: bring more money!

reflectivity

2006-05-05T08:42:00.000-07:00

Reflect.

Reflections.

Reflecting.

Reflectivity.

Obsessing with the past?

I don't think so. I am one who tends to "reflect" on the past a lot.

Reflecting can be a cleansing exercise for some...a stifling exercise in futility to others. Herein lies the obsession part. Whether some people know it or not, thinking about the past too much is what limits them from moving on...in relationships or business. It is what can keep them from thinking outside their box, or accepting new ideas, or finding a new mate.

I relish a good reflecting session, often times the so-called daydream. Truthfully though, my daydreams are more often futurecasts of where I need to go or where I would rather be. Ah huh! Futurecasting...another productive exercise or the evil twin of obsessive reflectivity? The latter tends to stifle my here-and-now energy, my productivity, my ability to complete on-going tasks if you will.

My own personal challenge: use this "talent" for futurecasting as the useful tool that it can be...and not let it mire my steps into non-movement and depression.

Don't forget...a reflection is not a realistic view of one's self. It is another dimension altogether. It is indeed your reflective twin with everything visually reversed, flip-flopped, opposite.

If you want to see what it looks like to be a left handed person (assuming you are a righty at the present)...just jot something down on the bathroom mirror with a dry erase marker.

No wonder I rarely complete those mirror reminder notes! I didn't really write them...my left-handed twin from the other dimension did!

Pacific Grove, view from Seaside Avenue

2006-04-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

Dreams of where we would rather be.

It's a fantasy of ours, just like this photo.

Just waiting for the next visit...maybe with different gulls.

2006-04-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

This is one of the shots I took on our recent overnighter to Monterey.

Standing on the bluff next to Seaside Drive in Pacific Grove (just up the street from the Monterey Aquarium), this is the view one is afforded. Behind us is one of the B & B's we've heard so much about...the Green Gables Inn...or was it the Seven Gables Inn? No matter...it's just a beautiful, serene atmosphere here.

There are many other rustic homes along this roadway, all privately-owned and most-likely occupied only on weekends by people who can afford these dwellings.

This is where Loretta and I would like to splurge some of our MegaBucks Millions when we win. Since that hasn't happened as yet, we will still be able to enjoy this view on occassion for free, save for the cost of a tank of gas and an overnight stay at the Holiday Inn Express back up the road in Monterey.

Since we live a scant 140 miles from this tract of California coastal real estate, we have pledged to show up here more often in the future. This relatively short drive from Modesto is not at all unpleasant in itself. After a few miles on that nasty Highway 5, we wind our way through Highway 152 and Pacheco Pass, meander through some farmland around Hollister and San Juan Bautista to hook up with Highway 101. After passing the little town of Fruitland (and totally avoiding the armpit of Salinas), we turn right onto the road to Monterey, Laguna Seca, Carmel, and eventually Highway 1, Big Sur and beyond.

It is still there waiting for us...the waves, the rocky coast, the seagulls...all of it. We will be back. Me with camera in hand, and Loretta following me with the nicest company a guy could ask for.

time to ponder

2006-03-26T09:47:00.000-08:00

...time to ponder...the past...more importantly the future...

Spring cleaning, Spring fever

2006-03-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

Loretta and I got outside yesterday and enjoyed the nice weather. We enjoyed it by mowing and edging the lawn (I actually did the mowing!) and giving the Harley a good Spring cleaning.

The break in the rain patterns was short-lived as it is raining cats and dogs this morning (Saturday) and is expected to continue for the weekend....but, Spring is here.

Spring Fever? Well, when I was in radio I used to make note of it every year and use it as fodder for humor on my radio show. Of course, the humor may have been a subjective thing...as I recall, I skirted the fine line of off-color as often as possible. Scientists and other scholarly types related so-called Spring Fever behavior as something based on hormonal changes in humans. After spending the winter sequestered in the old cabin, we ventured outside when the weather changed from rotten to nice. In the animal world, this signaled the time to "hook up", to find a mate and propagate the species. It has been happening since the dawn of time.

In the human world, there are other things to consider when Spring has sprung (like taxes, spring cleaning, and weight loss programs), but the primal urges are still there. The hormones begin to flow a bit more and we homo sapiens transform. It isn't coincidental that weddings are most often in the Spring and early Summer. Please note that most babies are not born nine months after Spring...statistically they arrive nine months after Winter. Those long, cold, dark months in the cabin produce most offspring...humans would typically have to wait until Spring to tie the knot! It's all good.

Be that as it may, Spring is here...and I don't really feel the Spring Fever thing anymore, maybe it just hasn't arrived in me yet.

More accurately I think it is a hormone thing at my age. Let's face it, when I was 24 years old the testosterone was flowing much more freely than it is now at 56! I don't care how macho a guy you are, it's a function of nature and old age...if you are over 50, you are at least a quart low by now.

I do believe that a reduction in testosterone brings about an equal rise in the level of cynacism one has about life. I know this may be a generalization. It may be a totally inaccurate statement...maybe it's just me. I just don't feel it anymore...that Spring Fever thing.

So, in my case, I must work on it...I must make a conscientious effort to pull out of the Winter Funk (that's my term for the opposite of Spring Fever). Winter Funk has traditionally been called Cabin Fever. Since most of us don't live in a cabin any longer, well...you get the idea. So, we must venture out into the surrounding forest...soak up the sun's healing rays...hunt for something to eat...forage for building materials to repair the nest...burn off that winter fat...clean the Harley, start it up, and get on it!

And, if time permits, grab hold of your mate and kick start what hormones you have left. Afterall...she has hormones as well!

"Honey...have I told you I love you yet today? How 'bout a ride...on the Harley?"

God Bless America

2006-03-20T18:02:00.000-08:00

...or, if you're not into that:

May the Force Be With Us.