kellementology

life according to me

Tag: California

  • Douse ’em all!

    Douse ’em all!

     

    Ah, moisture in the atmosphere. Nothing like a thick blanket of fog to dampen things and cool a few tempers. A bucket of cold water would most likely work better for some.

    So here’s my list of recipients of the “Bucket of Cold Water in the Face” award for a flagrant display of ego during and after a catastrophe.

    • In a letter to the editor of the local paper, a woman from Imperial Beach (spitting distance to the Baja California border) for suggesting that “the power be shut down in the areas of high winds until they dissipate to the point that they pose little danger to the line.” Life is just so simple to some, isn’t it?
    • Our city attorney for suggesting that the entire city be evacuated to Yuma. Excuse me? Could someone — anyone — please oppose him in the next election. Please? He’s completely bonkers.
    • To the illustrious blow hard Rush Limbaugh for asking where all the “environmentalists wackos” are when the place is burning up and asking why they aren’t helping to fight the fires. What? Was he out of material that day? Oh, I forgot. He’s been out of material since Bill Clinton left office. Stupid me.
    • People who know their homes weren’t destroyed, but who were vociferously complaining that they couldn’t return to their own while their neighbors whose homes are in ashes keep their chins up, smile, and sift through what’s left of their belongings. Ugly Americans, indeed. Douse ’em again for just being a**holes. Okay, one more for the road. Losers.
    • Dub-yah’s motorcade and entourage for keeping people who had been told they could return to their homes sitting on the freeway for over four hours until he was done touring a burn area, and eating lunch at a fire command post. Sometimes, you just have to check your routines, right? Douse ’em good and then rub some mud on their faces.
    • Talk radio crazies who began stirring the pot about blame before the fires are out challenging why aircraft weren’t up in winds that exceeded 70 mph in some places dropping water and fire retardant. Skip the water on this one. Drop some fire retardant on their heads instead. Or give ’em a few pills to put them out of our misery.
    • A woman from Rancho Bernardo who felt that “the president picked a bad time to come.” Okay, so he could have waited a week, but Arnold was here for days, so Dub-yah had to be here, too, or he would have had egg on his face. Hmmm….No. Douse ‘er anyway for being self-centered.
    • To the woman who applied for food stamps because the power was out and the food in her refrigerator spoiled. How much food is that? And how big is that fridge? And how long does it take meat in a freezer to thaw out if no one opens the door?
    • To the media and their “helpful” public service advice with regard to the ash on our driveways and sidewalks: Don’t wash it off with the hose because it will end up in the water. (Um…has anyone noticed the large body of saltwater to the west? Do you actually think that it has remained remarkably free of ash to this point and that washing ash from our driveways will create a problem?) Oh, and absolutely don’t use leaf blowers. (Okay, so I agree with this simply because the make an annoying sound and do blow crap into the air — especially if someone hasn’t picked up after their dog.) Do use a broom. But sweep gently so the ash doesn’t go back into the air. By all means, do dispose of the ash in the garbage can. (Where it will go to the dump, get rained on sometime in the next century when it finally does rain, and then wash into the ocean.) Okay, so skip the water on this one. Just dump a truck-load of ash on her head. Or feed her to Rush Limbaugh for lunch.

    And that concludes yet another day of ranting.

     

  • Nearly Wordless on Wednesday

    The sunset was interesting last night. IMG_4446.JPG
    IMG_4445.JPG

    The troops became even more restless.

    And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with. IMG_4435.JPG

    But not natural gas.

    Teenagers.

    Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

    Okay, so now 41.

    Um…

  • Paradise is burning.

    Last night as we flew over San Diego county, the pilot said that if we looked out the windows we’d be able to see the fires burning out of control in several places below.  That if we smelled smoke in the cabin, we shouldn’t be worried.  Not too earlier, one of the MoH’s brothers called to say he and his family were leaving their home, and shortly after landing, we discovered their entire area was being evacuated.

    We arrived home after 9PM and began washing bedding and setting up the air mattress for their arrival at our house.  After being on the road stuck in the evacuation traffic for three hours, they arrived after 1AM, smokey-smelling and exhausted, but in surprisingly good spirits.  They’re pros.  This is the third time in about six years they’ve had to leave because of wild fires.

    We think their house if fine, but they’re still here with us while we watch the fires growing and spreading toward the coast, burning home after home.  Leveling one, skipping the next, then crossing the street.  The problem has been the Santa Ana winds, in some places, gusting at 60 mph.  The fire department hasn’t been able to use helicopters or winged support to douse flames.  The news stations have begun to run a tape across the bottom of the screen of the addresses of homes burned.

    Over 250,000 people have been asked to leave their homes around the county.    Thankfully, ours is not threatened.  But several of the MoH’s colleagues homes have been and they’ve been evacuated also.  

    No one is supposed to go out and breathe the air because of the toxicity.

    The Govvahnator just arrived.

    Dub-yah called.

    I’ll catch up later…

  • Okay, I kind of like it here. Sometimes.

    A couple of weekends ago, we went downtown to see the Red Bull Air Races. It seemed too interesting to let pass by. Besides, it was free.

    We walked out past the Midway to the embarcadero to stand on the pier with everyone else and gape at eight tiny planes fly at amazing speeds pulling heavy g’s through huge inflatable pylons arranged in an obstacle course. Red Bull Air Race IV

    It was incredible. Go figure.

    The nicest thing about it was that it was a gorgeous day and it was relaxing to yet again remind myself that I am developing a sort of fondness for the place where I’ve lived for nearly four decades. A tiny one. Begrudgingly. But only once in a while.

    Sure, the city coffers are empty, the city attorney is a complete lunatic, the Padres lost again, the Chargers can’t remember how to play football, and local paper thinks publishing too-lengthy-for-what-it-is pieces on cracked sidewalks, potholes in the road, and exposed tree roots are news, but hell.

    The weather’s great.

    San Diego Bay Bridge The vistas are gorgeous.

    The public art is interesting Public Art even if it isn’t exactly perfect.

    Public Art: Carlsbad, CA And at least one person has a sense of humor, caught here by Tom Mallory, a reporter for the San Diego Union-Tribune. It seems the locals don’t exactly think this particular piece of public art accurately depicts the stance of a surfer.

    Dudes. Get over it.

  • Wow.

    So what would you take if someone told you you had to leave your home immediately? I can’t imagine.

    Here’s what’s been happening a few blocks from our house this morning. Within an hour, this landslide went from a few large cracks in the asphalt to what is now a 15 foot depression. How frightening…

    And through it all, the ridiculous posturing exhibited by our City Attorney, Michael Aguirre, and our Mayor, Jerry Sanders continues. The Mayor is on his way to D.C., leaving Aguirre to seize yet another opportunity with television cameras taping, to insert his nose into business that has absolutely nothing to do with the job he was voted into office to do. Someone needs to ask him when and where he obtained his degree in geology. The man is completely out of control.

    They’re cutting off the water, the electricity, the waste drainage, have set up an evacuation area in a park very near by, and the helicopters haven’t stopped swirling since before 9 this morning. The police helicopter is using their loudspeaker to announce evacuations…

    It’s so bizarre. Many of the residents in this area are quite elderly and have lived in these homes most of their lives. Many others went to work this morning knowing that there was a problem, but never expecting that this would happen.

    This is why I take nothing for granted.

    Landslide

    ,,,Landslide II
    ,,,Landslide III

  • Just call me Ansel.

    Just call me Ansel.

    My husband and I went for a long hike yesterday. In high weekend gear, as usual, he stated that he wanted to go because I had been with a couple of friends the week before, and he thought it sounded fun. So, in the brilliant late afternoon sun, that’s just what we did.

    It felt good to get out and move around, enjoy the fresh air and be less than pleasantly reminded that I am horrible when it comes to hiking—that is, hiking when hills are involved. Yes, I know that hiking isn’t really hiking unless one has donned large boots with thick treaded soles to trudge up and down hills, climb rocks, and perhaps swing from trees.

    You’d think I’d been a smoker all my life for all the gasping I did. My husband barely worked up a sweat the entire time. How is that even possible? The guy is a desk jockey who doesn’t exercise—unless I count the times he jumps off the couch and rushes the television when he thinks there’s been a bad call made against a player who’s on his Fantasy Football Team. Pushing the buttons on the remote absolutely does not count.

    It’s not fair with all the walking and swimming and stretching and complaining (jaw exercise…?) I do. One would think that I’d be the athlete in the house.

    The determination behind this particular hike is that once you’ve dragged yourself up the enormous hill, wandered off the main road and down through the winding paths, then schlepped back up the crude steps built into the hillside, you get to trek down, down, down to the ocean. At least someone figured out that there should be some redemption for people who think looking at indigenous scrub on eroding bluffs after months with no rain is not beautiful. “Oh, look honey…A black sage. I wonder if its twigs ever have leaves on them?” Or aren’t too thrilled by the concept of waiting for a rattler to spring out and chomp on your ankle for interrupting his afternoon nap.

    <alt img="Ocean Bluffs Torrey Pines"/>

    Sarcasm aside, I do think the landscape is quite interesting in all its unique beauty, but it definitely falls into the acquired taste category—at least at this time of year. Now, I would be interested in coming again when it rains. If it rains. I could also be convinced to think differently about returning if I didn’t have to concentrate on how to keep air in my lungs. It sort of takes the fun out of trying to remember all the botanical names.

    Yes, thankfully, there’s an ocean at the end of it all. You get to rip off your shoes, peel off your sweaty socks, and walk through the refreshingly clear surf. Very nice, and more than motivating.

    It’s such a stark looking reserve at this time of year; most of the native plants look quite dead. The occasional pine’s long needles add a bit of green to the scenery, and termites busy digesting fallen trees uncover rich shades of gold within the trunk. But dust covers everything, and I can’t help but wonder how anyone would have wanted to settle here like they did hundreds of years ago. You know. The people who anchored their sailing vessels off the coast and decided to call this home. Not a palm tree in sight. Just the torrey pines, wild sumac and other plants that magically eke out an existence in the arid environment that is Torrey Pines State Reserve.

    I did seize the opportunity to look a bit through Ansel Adams’ eyes and examine the contrasts of light and dark created by the sun. I know little about photography, so can’t tell if any of my photos “work,” but it was a pleasant change of pace and I do like a few of them.

    <alt img="Ocean Ripples on Shore"/>

    As we approached the shore, the saltiness of the air refreshed our dusty nostrils, and my attention was directed to the interesting striations of color in the bluffs. As much as erosion is rarely a good thing, the effects of it can certainly be beautiful.

    The tide was nearly at its lowest by the time we ventured down the stairs, so we knew we could hike back to our car from the beach. Good thing or my husband would have had to call for an air lift. I was exhausted.

    The beach is firm and flat, and the waves push gently toward the shore, so it’s easy to walk in the water and cool down. Smooth rocks and shells lie here and there. Birds with long beaks search for a briny morsel to eat.

    <alt img="Man on a Beach"/>

    A man and a woman walked toward us in their bathing suits, eyes averted as they passed, no doubt wondering about the layer of dirt on my upper lip stuck to my sweat. Or maybe it was that I’d thrown myself belly first into the water, kissing the sand much like Kevin Costner did as Robin Hood after setting foot in England once again.

    It must have been the dirt mustache.

    No matter. At least I got my exercise in for the day, and I’m thankful for my husband who is ever so tolerant in more ways than I can count.

    And this is what it looks like in color. How could I change it to black and white, Ansel? Tell me what you would have done.

    <alt img="Bluffs at Torrey Pines"/>

     

  • Salt Lamps and Earthquakes in Paradise

    My oldest son gave me a halite rock salt crystal lamp ionizer last year. I was pleasantly surprised because I had seen the lamps glowing eerily in shops I’d strolled through before, wondering what they were, and thought them beautiful. I knew absolutely nothing about them however, and was fascinated to find sources that report that the lamps can improve the number of negative ions in the air of a room when lit. And that they can also assist in the improvement of respiratory allergies and other conditions such as asthma. That they can increase alertness. Create an atmosphere of calming, balancing, refreshing…clean. Clearly, this young man took one look at his mom, and detecting an impending implosion, got a salt lamp to me as quickly as possible.

    A year later, I’m wondering if my son owns one. He can’t breathe, is allergic to just about everything, and has asthma. He has a job he detests and is trying to go to school. I’m thinking he needs one of these lamps.

    I recently moved the lamp from our family room to my bedside table. I noticed that because I hadn’t kept it lit, it began to sweat as I had read it would — especially in humid conditions. It sweat so much, I had to place a saucer beneath it to keep it from ruining the shelf it was sitting on. Now, it serves as a night light of sorts. The amber colored light it casts is much more pleasant to fall asleep by, and since the weather is still warm enough to require all our windows be open at night, it prevents anyone from looking into our room after dark. They may wonder what the unearthly glow is, however.
    Rock Salt Lamp I know there are sources which will contradict the stated benefits of salt lamps. I also know there are sources that will question just how the salt is mined, and whether the conditions for the workers are safe. I have to admit I wondered about those things as well. I believe many of us are just wired in that fashion. But I also know that the lamp is gorgeous, and does bring a sense of calm just by lighting it — much the same way that lighting a candle brings.

    Skeptics always have and will continue to poo-poo anything that isn’t explainable by cold hard facts. They rely on logic and science for everything. I do when it’s convenient, or I feel the need to win an argument, but once in a while, it’s lovely to wonder and to give in to other possibilities. To feel grateful for a thoughtful gift from someone you love without having to think about logic.

    I’m now wondering about the difference in life span between hard-nosed skeptics, and dreamers. I think that being on a cranky quest to squash everyone else’s beliefs has got to be something that creates quite a few positive ions. And in much the same way those tiny personal fans were created for individuals who wanted to blow away another’s cigarette smoke, I think tiny, portable salt lamps just may be necessary to ward off the evils of chronic naysayers.

    Besides, I’ve discovered yet another benefit of using a rock salt lamp.

    Yesterday, in one of my myriad toss and turn sessions during the night, I heard a distinctive sound. It was a persistent, steady light dinging — one seeming to be very close. I instantly recognized it, and after a second of recognizing, opening my eyes, stopping my breathing to rise on an elbow, knew that it wasn’t The Big scratching a flea. The salt lamp doesn’t fit quite snugly into its saucer, so it was rocking steadily to the movement of the earth. I looked at the MoH, who hadn’t removed the arm he likes to position over his face. Earthquake, I told him, and laid back down to go back to sleep.

    Later in the day we did see on a news commercial that there had been a mild earthquake just off the coast where we live — with a magnitude of only 3.7… “You were right,” the MoH confirmed, granting me credit for my knowledge. The MoH is a skeptic at heart, although would disagree with that, finding it to be a criticism or flaw in his character instead of one of the many idiosyncrasies we all have as less than perfect humans. I had intended to check the US Geological Survey website earlier in the day, but forgot.

    Earthquake Sunday 9-9

    Cal Tech’s So Cal Shake Movie

    After the news commercial, my father-in-law said mentioned he’d read the “big one” was coming. I remembered years ago reading Last Days of the Late, Great State of California by Curt Gentry in which much of the Left Coast breaks off and either separates from the continent, or sinks into the Pacific. My father-in-law continued by saying that the date for the occurrence had been moved up by ten years or so and we had a bit of discussion on the number and intensity of earthquakes in the Pacific Rim over the past couple of months. But the discussion wasn’t enough to distract any of the others visiting my sister-in-law’s home for a nephew’s birthday from the football game they were watching.

    Later last night, I asked my middle son if he had felt the earthquake. There was an earthquake? he answered, and then told me The Big One was coming. I wondered whether he’d been talking to my father-in-law and whether I was the only one who didn’t think this was new information. I did try to find recent information about The Big One, but nothing more recent than last year came up. Somehow, I’m more concerned about getting out of this chair and getting some exercise, or reorganizing my kitchen cupboards. Or something. Put together emergency earthquake kits?

    A family disaster plan? Well, we’ve talked about it.

    But not today. I can breathe more easily dreaming that while my salt rock is improving the air in my bedroom, it will also let me know that The Big One has arrived before my house falls into the one within spitting distance of either next door. And increase the likelihood that I will be more calm. And alert.
    More calm while alert.

    I did not get in line for calm when I was being made.

    It’s on my list for next time.

  • B.L.O.B. News

    Now that I’ve been ripped a new a**hole by two very lovely folks from New Hampshire, let’s move on to discuss the great things happening in “other news…”

    Right now, my mother is thinking, “News? If I wanted to know what was going on in the world, I’d watch the news.” Sorry, Mom. I’m not in the mood to write about why one of my cats peed on the floor next to the catbox instead of in the catbox last night, but I am still scratching my head because it’s never happened before. Well, at least with respect to the catbox. I am quite used to boys missing the toilet, but I don’t feel like writing about that, either. Or why the Yack Star is on an “attach her fat self to the side of the leather chair before hoisting herself up to the arm” kick right now.

    She’s. Going. To. DIE. Yack Star

    I’m also not feeling like grousing about neighbors, issues with the new school year, housekeeping — or the lack thereof — or food. Mmmm…food.

    But I am interested in — because it’s my B.L.O.B.* and I can write about it if I want to:

    From the Detroit Free Press: “State gas prices 37-cents higher than national average, no reason why”

    Uh…welcome to our neighborhood. Seriously. I feel for you. For about three seconds. It’s about freaking time someone else had crappy gasoline prices. Any time now, “THEY” will tell us that they’re switching to winter gasoline, whatever the hell that is and we’ll be right back there with yah.Oil Prices

    Western Farm Press: “California hiding behind tiny smelt, not facing reality”

    “Makes you wonder what DWR leaders were thinking when they shut down Delta transfer pumps and told everyone: no big deal. People would just quit drinking water and farmers would stop farming while fish biologists count needles (tiny minnows) in a haystack (the vast California Delta)?”

    OMG — this guy is hilarious. Whatsisname? Harry Cline. Fuh-neeeeee.

    “The easy save-the-smelt target is the pumps. You can turn them off and on.”

    I just love this guy and his completely irreverent attitude toward our illustrious politicians. Smelt Hook, anyone?

    BBC News: “Markets fall after dip in US jobs”

    “The surprise 4,000 reduction in the US workforce in August sent the main Dow Jones index down 211 points…”

    Hmmm…how many college students quit their jobs before going back to school each fall? Or which giant, struggling US company released employees instead of being able to renegotiate labor contracts? Wait, it was that huge mortgage company…

    “Analysts fear the job cuts show that the recent market turmoil has spread to the wider US economy.”

    The sky is falling, the sky is falling…I’ve always wondered what “analysts” actually do. You know…work wise..?

    “Michael Metz, chief investment strategist at Oppenheimer & Co in New York, reacted to the latest employment figures with gloom.”

    “It’s dreadful…it seems to me almost inevitable we’re heading for recession,” Mr Metz said.”

    Doom. Gloom. Chicken Little Sorry. I couldn’t resist. No, I didn’t make it. Image credit to: Internet Weekly [dot] org

    Market Watch: “Assessing Maria Bartiromo and Erin Burnett”

    “Today, the media biz’s juciest smackdown is taking place inside the hallowed halls of CNBC. Maria Bartiromo is fending off Erin Burnett, who is about nine years her junior.”

    I like BOTH of them and what the hell does AGE have to do with it? If this was about two men, there would be NO mention of age. They’re both great — well, except Maria does get a bit worked up on the floor and yells…’Money Honey?’ Now that’s just wrong.

    The Motley Fool: “Curse You, Steve Jobs!” iPhone Brainwash Ad courtesy of iPhone Matters

    “I work hard for my money, and shelling out the $600 for the phone wasn’t easy. But it felt cool having a phone that everyone wanted but not everyone could have. However, with the phone now retailing for $400, the device will be financially accessible to a wider audience. Apple has to know this decision would frustrate its customers who paid nearly 33% more for the phone just over two months ago. So why would it do this?”

    Uh…I get that there are people who get a rush over having the latest and greatest…but to actually write it. Like this? What? You’re expecting positive attention for this? She’s joking, right?

    “Apple figured that it could significantly mark up the price initially, as the phone attracted gadget enthusiasts willing to pay premium prices for the phone. But now it feels that it has maximized profits from that market and is now tapping into the lower market in order to keep expanding sales.

    Lower market? Would that be the common folk? Who is this person? I hope I’m supposed to be laughing right now, because otherwise…It reminds me of the sanctimonious attitude of those who, after paying premium prices for real estate, are disgruntled to find that “RENTERS” have moved in next door. The horror of it all.

    “I absolutely love my iPhone, and I may be a bit overzealous about the price drop since it directly affects me…”

    Okay, so I’m laughing?

    MSNBC: “Apple responds to backlash, offers apology”

    “Apple Inc. CEO Steve Jobs apologized and offered $100 credits Thursday to cusomers who shelled out $599 for the most advanced model of the iPhone this summer, only to have the company unexpectedly slash the price $200 in a push to boost holiday sales.”

    So this is a bit like the mortgage default problem — people in California, Arizona, Nevada, and Florida who bought homes with zero percent down loans and never intended to live in them (read Flip That House) are now whining, getting ready to dump the load on everyone else, and hell, if they wait long enough, have Uncle Sam bail their sorry asses out. Yah, I think that sounds about right. They’ll turn around and purchase something else that’s risky. The people who receive the iPhone rebates will go to the Apple store and buy more Apple products.

    iTnews: “Storm worm botnet more powerful than top supercomputers”

    “Sergeant said researchers at MessageLabs see about 2 million different computers in the botnet sending out spam on any given day, and he adds that he estimates the botnet generally is operating at about 10 percent of capacity.”

    Great. At least I can rest easy knowing that I’ll have the opportunity to purchase cheap Viagra, vibrators, knock-off Gucci purses, and no point loans.

    Garlic Spam

    Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, stay tuned for our regularly scheduled programming.

    *B.L.O.B

    Beleaguered Labour of Bullsh*t

  • Celebrating with the kellenator

    I know it’s not Wednesday, but still. I couldn’t resist. Well, actually I must have, because there aren’t supposed to be words here, right? Feh. I so don’t know how to not say anything. It’s a genetic problem. But I had to in some way celebrate that I:

    • was not at school on the First Day of School for the first time in over 20 years — give or take one or two;
    • was not sick with worry about whether we’d have enough students to keep all our teachers (i.e., tell one who has prepared very hard to get ready for a school year that he/she would have to leave);
    • did not have to be concerned that we had a vacancy for a position necessary to run the business part of the school — or have to train a new one who has absolutely no idea how to do his/her job;
    • did not have to act like it mattered that NCLB may seem great on paper but will never really work, and that YES! we’re all revved up about those test scores;
    • didn’t have to work the kinks out of a new lunch schedule, or bell schedule, or bus schedule, or duty schedule, or master schedule, or budget, or any of that.
    • I didn’t have to wonder for the 8,000th time why boys think pants that hang off their rear ends are comfortable to walk around in, and adolescent girls think everyone wants to stare at their cleavage and bellies;

    I have many very good friends who do think and wonder and worry about these things — today more than most other days — and they are very good at making sure it’s all taken care of with no discernible sign of angst.

    Instead, I:

    • joked gleefully with my new captive carpool kids, who didn’t laugh, even though I thought I was captivating;
    • drove down the hill past a good friend of mine who was on cross walk duty at her school — I did beep and wave, and I’ll bet she wishes she could have given me a special wave as I cruised past;
    • cheered with glee (well, not really) that the temperature here (77 today! and shhhhh….maybe the humidity?) dropped at least 10-15 degrees, and I can now thaw out my brains by turning off the AC;
    • successfully avoided doing anything I should do on this very special day;
    • obsessively thought about doing something I should be doing while I was doing what I wanted to do;
    • spent a lot of time going through blogs to get them on my netvibes feeder and was dismayed to find that many won’t go…;
    • waited anxiously for the RT to come home and tell me all about his first day back at Paradise High;
    • waited until the last minute to do this truly thoughtful and well-written post;
    • couldn’t resist and instead of writing about how The Govvenator is going to save those of us in SoCal from dying of thirst after that stupid ruling that is designed to protect a fish that most use as bait when they go fishing, I’d don his visage just for hoots;

    Kellenator

    • thought about the last two Halloweens the RT wore this mask and wondered if he had blown his nose….

  • The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles

    I have been knighted, or princessed, or smacked upside the head with yet another honor. Phil at Thought Sparks, the extraordinary guy who helped save me from ripping out my eyeballs when I switched over to my own domain, has dubbed me “Inspirational,” and that is a very cool honor. It means that Phil is willing to weed through my writer’s moods, confusing musings, and contradictory thought trajectories enough to find glimmers of purpose. It’s kind of like a roller coaster ride from one post to the next, dipping and spinning. Then rolling along smoothly until a sudden drop you didn’t anticipate sends your stomach up into your throat. Like Phil said, Inspirational. Woot! Thanks, Phil. And thanks to Christy at Writer’s Reviews whose ingenuity gave birth to a variety of positive recognitions for those in Bloggsville. I will dub those I believe are inspirational, but plan to do so over a period of time as I get back into the saddle again after being on vacation. I’m evidence that one can actually not blog for more than five days…

    And to celebrate my new accolade, I will launch into the first of “The Sunshine Vacation Chronicles.” Actually, they began last night in the wee hours, as I needed to flush my attitude a bit. And having dragged my rear end out of bed somewhere around 10am today to the scent of something….ahhh….smelling not quite right, and the steady roar of the exhaust fan over our stove, I am quite rested, and ready to roll — although I’m glad I missed breakfast. The MoH saved the evidence. Sunday Toast

    Now, this is the part where you may want to take a seat in the back row and catch some zzz’s. You know. Like when you’re forced to watch a slide show of someone else’s vacation shots? Like that. Kay? For those of you inclined to stay, gird your loins and prepare for a glimpse of the more easily overlooked, but very best gems on our way to Tahoe.

    High Points on the Trip Up.

    We didn’t hit the road until 1:30. On a Friday. If that doesn’t sound the alarm, then you might as well give up, lay down and close your eyes. So Cal. Mid Day. The last week of July. Friday. So we’ll donate our brains to science, okay? Because no one in his or her right mind would actually PLAN to do this. But we’re the adventuresome sort. Right. So HP #1 is having ridiculously optimistic attitudes.

    Downright giddy, actually.

    We covered 70 miles before we had to stop on the parking lot that was supposed to be the I-15 North. We’d been driving 1 hour and 7 minutes. I could probably tell you how many gallons of gas we’d burned, the average speed, and miles per gallon our car was getting, but I’ll spare you. Yes, the MoH knows all of this and will report immediately upon request. You don’t even have to insert a quarter. Font of Information Oh. I forgot. The temperature was also being tracked: it was hovering at about 100 degrees. Swell, huh? Well, my ankles and wrists did, loving excessive heat the way they do. So HP #2 is managing to get out of San Diego county before parking on the freeway in scorching afternoon heat. This traffic jam was sponsored by a minivan that didn’t quite stop when the fast lane traffic must have, so veered off the road and flipped a few hundred times. There were no ambulances, so there must have been a flock of angels hovering in the vicinity. It caused just enough commotion to stop both sides of the freeway with rubberneckers gawking at the wreckage. Eyes not on road + heavy traffic = crash.

    HP #3 is creatively busying ourselves with mindless activity and pithy games to keep from paying attention to the less than interesting, scrub-covered landscape that stretches to the horizon. We keep track of license plates. I know. It’s so ’50’s, but it passes the time. Kind of like when I was a kid on road trips, my brother, sister, and I would whack each other when we saw one of those pseudo wood paneled station cars and scream, “BEAVER CAR.” Uh, no, I don’t know why they were called that particular term. Then my dad would launch a low flying whack to the side of one of our heads in retaliation. We’d resort to stealth pinching or poking from that point on until my sister whined about it and we’d get whacked again. A father’s arm reaches pretty far in a VW Beetle. Far. If you try to escape the whack, you bonk your head into the side window, then you get whacked for moving away from the oncoming whack. I guess that means we were double whacked. This is true and today, I think it’s called child abuse. So the MoH, the RT and I count license plates. We aren’t quite June and Ward, but we garnered 20 of the 50 states with Massachusetts being the one from farthest away. Poor saps. They won’t even find Dorothy or Toto in this place.

    Old 395 I also take note of strange things like small fenced areas in the middle of nowhere with nothing different inside the fence than what can be seen outside the fence. Areas with hand-painted signs that say, “Stop the FTAA dot org.” Hmmm… What could have been inside that crude fence at one time? And whose land was it? Only cars speeding anxiously toward the next passing lane and a series of enormous power lines were visible for miles. Whose attention could the organizers be wanting here? And why? I had to wonder about this for seven whole days until Google put me out of my misery. But I would have forgotten about it if I hadn’t seen it on the other side of the road on the way back, or been enthralled with our mindless activity. Of course, now I have to wonder about those folks and their campaign.
    HP #4 was seeing all those solar collectors out in the high desert while we were racing up and over the ribbon-like road and thinking that someone had a freaking clue. According to Wikipedia,

    Boron [near Four Corners] is also the home of the worlds largest solar power production facility. Florida Power and Light operates five thermal trough technology Solar Electric Generating Stations (SEGS) plants. These units generate enough electricity to provide the electrical needs of 30,000 to 40,000 homes without the use of fossil fuels.

    Four Corners Collectors There must have been a million of them shining in the searing heat and sending power back to a sort of conversion station at Four Corners (which had the most unbelievably long traffic light and endless number of semis mixed with racing cars waiting to pass through.) Sorry. I missed the photo of the Ferrari. But seeing the collectors just stirs up my attitude about why, why, why there can’t be more. About why it’s so difficult to push those who keep steering us toward the use of non-renewable energy. Four Corners Traffic

    Oh, how foolish of me. It’s money — just not ours. Their Money

    Well, it was ours, and now it’s theirs. Funny how that works, don’t you think?
    HP #5 was staying overnight at Mammoth. We juiced up at Starbucks in Bishop (no, there wasn’t a mom & pop coffee place open…) at about 9PM in the still sweltering heat before ending our day at a condo kindly offered by an acquaintance at the last minute. So no motels in lonely places for us. It made for a restful night, and a seriously cool trip up Mammoth Mountain on the gondolas the next day to gawk at the view and gasp in the thin air. Literally breathtaking up there on that humongous chunk of volcanic rock more than 11,ooo feet in the air.

    Mammoth Mountain

    HP #6 was thanking our lucky stars that my car managed the dirt road to Bodie, CA, a bonafide ghost town left over from the gold rush. What a stark, but beautiful place. I’m still wondering why that particular area was where Bodie decided to dig for gold at an altitude of 8400 ft., with daytime temperatures peaking in the 80’s and plummeting into the 30’s even at this time of the year. Desolate. A bit creepy even with visitors walking among the decaying buildings on a sunny day. I suppose I should read the guide we bought, huh? I was too busy taking photos.

    Bodie Ghost Town

    HP #7 is that we actually made it to Lake Tahoe without a map. This was by design since it was one very long road all the way there. How hard could that be? A total of five turns were made. The bummer is that maps often can explain strange things you see on the side of the road. Like odd black rocks that rise up from the earth and gather into a formidable ridge that just ends after reaching a height of hundreds of feet. What the hell were those things, and how old were they? If it was an ancient lava flow, where the hell was the volcano? I somewhat recognized the basalt structure thanks to that geology professor at SDSU, I think. Maybe. And that very odd looking red hill jutting from the earth. Was that a fissure, or something. What was the redness about? Iron? Simply stimulating, don’t you think? Rocks completely fascinate me. Of course, so does Google, because thanks to this intelligent source, I now “get it.” Simply spectacular. Truly. You can tell I’m a nerd, right?

    HP #8 is that my VBF was already at the rental in Tahoe when we arrived at 5PM and was getting chicken and sausage kabobs ready for the grill. The wine was cold, and a hammock was waiting between two pines just behind the house.  And in less than another day, my VGF was due to arrive.

    Gentle folk….start your engines…Hammock upon Arrival