Coming Into Los Angeles

I haven't heard this song by Arlo Guthrie in decades, but the melody was stuck in my cranium ever since take off got close: Coming Into Los Angeles. 

I couldn't figure it out, because, you know, Los Angeles.  And then I finally listened to it and, duh, he mentions London in the first line.  But that doesn't make any sense.

"Coming in from London from over the pond
Flyin' in a big airliner
Chickens flyin' everywhere around the plane
Could we ever feel much finer?

Comin' into Los Angeles
Bringin' in a couple of keys
Don't touch my bags if you please mister customs man"

He's smuggling a couple of keys into Los Angeles, from London?  Shouldn't that have been the other way around?  I mean, we used to get most of our drugs here in California from Mexico.  And Los Angeles is a heck of a lot closer to Mexico than it is to London.  I don't think the UK was ever an export mecca for illicit drugs, was it?  Maybe I was too stoned to notice.  Bloody hell.

So my lovely wife and I just went to London.  We had a smashing good time.  Saw more gems, jewels, historical artifacts, paintings, plants, swords and chips than one could hardly surmise.  Met my FB namesake as well, in the quaint college hamlet of Cambridge.  Birthplace of DNA and all sorts of other great discoveries.

There's a lot to see and do in London.  We were asked by a number of folks if that was the only place we were going to.  And we said, "Um, yeah."

We were on the ground for ten full days, tried our very best but didn't see it all.  We couldn't possibly have done it all.  As I meander back through our Rick Steves London 2017 I reckon we could spend another week in the trenches and still not see it all.  It's a big city with a lot of history.  There's a lot to see and do there.

We hit the historical highlights, all the three star and most of the two star highlights as rated by Rick, our European travel guru.  We have found Rick has a great, down to earth approach to travel and have relied on his expertise now for three separate European vacations.   We met a couple other Rick Steve's disciples on our way to see the crown jewels, which, by the way, were opulently majestic. 

The jewels are located in a building at the Tower of London, which is an historic castle, palace and prison.  It's also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which is kind of a big deal.  To be included on the World Heritage List, sites must be of outstanding universal value and meet at least one out of ten selection criteria.  I'm not going to list them here cause that would take, like, forever.  If interested just click on the link.

Rick said as soon as you get there, and he's assuming you're not arriving mid afternoon but rather pretty darn close to opening time in the morning, make a beeline to the jewels.  The building they're in can get packed quick and the line to get in can be long.

We first witnessed this phenomena at the Louvre in Paris.  Rick said as soon as you get there make a beeline to the Mona Lisa, cause the same thing.  So we did, and sure enough, within a couple hours we noticed it was taking a couple hours just to get into the packed room.

So as soon as we got to the Tower grounds we started route finding and heading towards the jewels.  As were a couple of other women.  We zigged, they zigged.  We zagged, they zagged.  They were also chatting in English about the jewels in a short of breath fashion.

About half way through our short of breath zig-zagging I asked if they were Rick Steves disciples.  They laughed and said yes.  We shared some Louvre stories as we hustled along.  We all got in the building quite readily and within a couple hours guess what?  The line to get in was out the door.

We saw about thirty billion dollars worth of jewels that day.  Billion.  Jared and Kay's don't have nearly that much in all their stores on any given day.  I'm not sure every jewelry store in California can pony up that many carats.

Carats in crowns, carats in swords, carats in scepters and carats in orbs.  Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls.  Big ones too.  There were a couple famous diamonds as well.  Like the 106 carat Koh-I-Noor.  And the 530 carat Star of Africa, the largest diamond in the world.  You could just about bowl with that one.

We also stood on the location where Henry VIII beheaded two of his wives for having affairs on him.  From what I gather I can't really blame the women, especially the second one.  She was a good twenty years younger than the portly and disease ridden monarch, so, ewwwwwwww.  But he was King.  So off with her head.

The Beefeater guide at the Tower that conveyed this story to a wandering throng of tourists was very knowledgeable and quite witty.  If ever there and taking a look see, I highly recommend their ninety minute tour.  It's free and you'll have a good laugh.

Speaking of Henry VIII, his particular roundish suit of armor also contained a rather largish metal cod piece jutting out from that particular part of the anatomy where maybe a basketball player or a giant might have need for one.  It was that massively large.  Which Henry surely wasn't we were told.  I guess that sort of thing filled the bill back then like a Corvette does today.

After the Tower we shared some fish and chips at a nearby café and then strolled across the Thames on the Tower Bridge to the South Bank.  Past Shakespeare's Globe Theater and then into the quite colorful outdoor epicurean Borough Market. 

As a matter of fact, we had accidentally stumbled into Britain's most renowned food market, which has existed in one form or another at that location for over one thousand years. Who knew?  Items from all seventeen food groups were represented there in an artful Dickenesque fashion.  Fish, fruit, flowers.  Pheasant.  Traditional and Rare Breed Meats and Charcuterie.  Even if you couldn't pronounce it, it was edible.  Even if you never thought certain things could actually be food, they were.  It was all there. Whatever it was.   

Close by was a full size replica of Sir Francis Drake's ship "The Golden Hinde", on which he sailed around the world, raping and pillaging for God and Queen.  The first thing that struck us was that it was a pretty small ship.  And on it were a bunch of sweaty, smelly, unbathed men, circling the globe on a three year voyage. 

He actually set out with five ships and one hundred sixty-four men.  The Golden Hinde was the only ship to make it home.  With fifty-six men.  But they made it home with a fabulous hoard of gold, silver, emeralds, diamonds, pearls, silk and spices. 

Three years ago we took a hike that ran above Drakes Bay in Point Reyes National Park in Northern California.  That's a long ways from the Thames.  We were very impressed that little ship went all that way.  There's a lot of water and big waves between here and there.

We made another left or right and soon stumbled across the Southwark Cathedral, another simply marvelous piece of architecture.  Not as large or as imposing as Westminster or St Paul's, it nevertheless commands your respect for artistic beauty and amazing architecture.  Especially considering the times it was built.

We strolled, explored, marveled, and discovered.  Just soaking up the wonderful, bustling atmosphere in a foreign land, with the chattering of foreign languages echoing everywhere. 

And that's pretty much a typical day when we're on location in a thriving, foreign, cultural metropolis.  Hit a museum, art gallery or some other historic site, spend the morning, then have lunch and wander.  Many of the absolute best discoveries happen just by wandering and getting lost.

Have I ever mentioned the stoned out Willie Nelson polaroid a good friend and I espied on a coffee shop billboard somewhere in Amsterdam?  I say somewhere because we were hopelessly lost. And probably just a little bit stoned.  I don't think I could ever find my way back.  I don't think Willie could either.  But I do know this, we were there, and so was Willie, apparently, once. 

And the almost naked really fit old man doing his aerial acrobatics above a courtyard full of afternoon diners in Amsterdam.  Had we not been lost and wandering we would have totally missed that "holy shit can you believe this?" R-rated Cirque de Soleil style solo show.

That afternoon in London we weren't actually lost, we had set out with a street map and a tube map that morning.  And since we had logged in a good six to seven miles we were ready to put our feet up.  We found the nearest station and caught the tube back to our boutique hotel, The Mayflower. 

We really lucked out with this booking, it turned out to be much better than anticipated.  It didn't hurt that we were upgraded to an apartment unit with kitchen when we got there.  Even though we didn't cook, having a fridge and microwave available was very convenient. 

They also had Wi-Fi available in the room.  That was also very convenient because I didn't have to go to the lobby at four AM to update my fantasy baseball team.  Even more so because I didn't have to put my pants on either. 

My lovely wife also purchased a universal electronic plug adapter kit prior to departure.  It included USB ports as well as plugs and handled all our electronic and charging needs.

I booked the trip through Hotwire, one of my two go to travel sites.   Priceline is the other.  I booked it last fall after another excursion to Cabo with some friends fell through due to schedule conflicts.  Hell, with Brexit dropping the value of the pound it made absolute financial sense to go to London. 

My initial requirements were excellent flight times and four star minimum accommodations in a good location.  I even purchased travel insurance and upgraded the room before it was upgraded again.  It was still a grand cheaper than Cabo, and Cabo is like, next door to us here in California.

I booked the trip, then forgot about until late March, about forty days before we took off.  Then I started my research with Rick and his London guide.  I drafted an excel spread sheet and started filling in two and three star sights pertaining to their location within the city.  I also allowed for a couple short train trips outside the city just so we could rest our feet for a few minutes.

I know it sounds completely OCD, which I totally am, to draft a vacation excel spreadsheet.  Don't get me wrong, I don't do it when we're on a tropical getaway.  But when you're going to a foreign city with tons of sights, it's easy to get overwhelmed.  Drafting the spread sheet gives me an idea of the possibilities while also allowing for down time.  The schedule usually gets kicked the first day, but so what.  We're on vacation.   Here's an excerpt:

Sun	Mon 5/1	Tues 5/2	Weds 5/3	Thurs 5/4	Fri 5/5	Sat 5/6
	1:15 Robert w/ NC Airporter	Arrive LHR 1:42 PM	Bus Tour (L50)	Westminster Abbey (L40)	Tower of London (L45)	Kings Cross Station to
	to pick up and take to				Tower Bridge (L18)	Cambridge
	Airport $95 530-575-7011	Transfer via ihatetaxis.com	Hyde Park	Buckingham Palace/	St Pauls Cathedral (L36)
		$66.42		Guards 11:30 AM	Tate Modern (FreeL4)
	Depart SMF 4:42 PM on		Harrods		Shakespeare Globe (L30)	Hitchins Dinner?
	Delta 3652	Check into Mayflower		Big Ben/Parliament
	Arrive SLC 7:24 PM	Book Banquet	Kensington Palace (L32) &
		Book Ripper Walk	Gardens	Churchill War Rooms (L35)
		Orient to Earls Ct Station
	Depart SLC 8:15PM om
	Delta 4020	Exchange dollars @
		Moneycorp		shockinglondon.com	Medieval Banquet (L80)
		113 Gloucester Rd		(L16) Meet @ 7:00pm
Sun 5/7	Mon 5/8	Tues 5/9	Weds 5/10	Thurs 5/11	Fri 5/12	Sat 5/13
					Depart LHR 12:55 PM on
Oxford, Stratford,	West End Walk-	British Library		Victoria & Albert	Delta 4041
Cotswolds & Warwick	National Gallery (FreeL10)		Leeds Castle,	Museum (Free L10)	Arrive Minn @ 4:05 PM
Castle	Trafalgar Square	British Museum (Free L10)	Canterbury & Dover
Tour (L153)	Covent Garden		Tour-L157		Depart MSP @ 6:01 PM on
	Opera House	Sherlock Holmes Museum			Delta 5587
	Picadilly Circus	Beatles Store	Windsor Castle?		Arrive SMF 8:08 PM
the-cotswolds.org	Soho	Abbey Road
	Courtlaud Gallery (L14)				JT to PU
		Dickens Museum (L18)

As I said, it usually gets shot to hell on the first day.  I think we did the V&A Museum on Sunday the 7th, as well as Kensington Palace since we missed that on the 3rd.  (We omitted the items in red.)  And the items on the 9th were lateraled to the 11th cause we went to Kew Gardens on the 9th.  I think the 8th went as planned, as well as the 5th, 6th and 10th.  So four out of nine days hit the mark.  Don't ask about the color or L codes, I'm not giving up all my OCD secrets.

The missing Friday the 5th was the Tower of London day described above, with the Medieval Banquet for dinner.  Saturday the 6th was Cambridge.  Friday the 12th was our flight home.  In case you really, really wanted to know.

We also missed out on the Jack the Ripper walk, or Shocking London walk scheduled the night of the 4th.  Unfortunately the guide had to cancel due to an accident he encountered on the way.  And unfortunately we could not reschedule during this trip.

Based on what we had in mind as far as sight seeing, I also purchased this little item called The London Pass, which I highly recommend.  More on that in an upcoming post.

I also booked a transfer from Heathrow to our hotel through I hate taxis.com.  I stumbled on this site a couple foreign trips ago.  It's a vacation preplan must!  The site has info on every airport on the planet and it also offers transfers from the airports to wherever.  A driver meets you at the airport with a sign with your name on it.  He then helps put your bulky suitcases in the car.

This beats the ever loving living hell out of arriving in a foreign city for the first time and trying to finagle a cab.  Cause you never know when they might be toying with the meter.  And then when you try to call him on it all he speaks is Kazakhastanian.  Which really confuses the hell out of you because you're in Guatemala and expecting to hear some form of Japanese. 

The transfer also beats the ever loving living hell out of trying to figure out the train or tube system immediately after you land.  Cause once you finally figure out the correct train you've already missed two because you originally thought you were on the wrong platform and moved to another and then finally figure out you were on the right platform to begin with.  Just as the second train was leaving.

And once you get to the local train station, then you have to figure what bus or subway is going to get you closest to your hotel or apartment.  Oh yeah, and lest I forget, all this while you are lugging around your overstuffed big ass suitcase because you're old and think you need a lot of clothes.  So this big ass suitcase is in and out and up and down and then there's stairs and escalators and once you finally get close you've got to roll that fucker down the crowded sidewalk for a few to twenty blocks until you're really finally really there.

A booked transfer, with a knowledgeable and trustworthy driver, is so much easier.

Our hotel, The Mayflower, sits on a lovely, quiet street in the upscale suburb of Kensington.  But two blocks down we had a bustling six block commercial neighborhood with about twenty restaurants, three grocery stores, a couple pubs and many other assorted shops.  It was also home to our tube stop, Earl's Court.












 

I'm Breaking Up with Little Debbie

Many of you who know me or have been following this blog have an idea (by now) of my affinity for sugar.  As a matter of fact, my exploits into Sugarland are legendary.  One venture into my version of Sugarland can turn an entire pro football team into raging diabetics.  Moderation?  Moderation??  What's that?  Moderation has never been part of my vocabulary.

I don't eat sugar all day.  I don't wake up and consume a box of Trix for breakfast, nor do I eat a basket of bear claws.  I don't even have a doughnut for breakfast because I don't eat breakfast.  I drink it, just like I used to.  Only now it's usually about three cups of black coffee instead of a half dozen vodka and lemonades.

I don't have a Snickers Bar for lunch, nor do I have a milkshake cause I pretty much don't eat lunch either.  Still not hungry.  I mean, I may get enough of a hunger pang so that I devour an entire apple.  Or an orange.  Have a handful of trail mix.  But that's about it.

I do eat a sensible, nutritious meal at dinner.  And then I would venture into Sugarland, population me.  There was NOTHING sensible or nutritious about my excursions into Sugarland.  Every.  Single.  Night.  I think I wrote in great detail about my sugar affliction with Doughnut Delirium. 

To recap, instead of just, like, you know, having one doughnut for dessert, I would usually have an apple fritter, maple bar, then one or two old fashioned's.  Maybe a bear claw.  Then I'd top that off with a bowl of ice cream, cause, like, it's there.  And it's ice cream.

Hell, I would have an entire philharmonic orchestra playing Souza marches through my veins, every single night.  No wonder I wasn't hungry until late afternoon the following day.  My system was still blazing from all the sugar shenanigans consumed the night before.

So I recently went to the Doc for my every other year annual check-up.  Because one year in my life is like six months anymore.

One of the primary components of the check-up is to see what's going on in the blood stream.  I mean, that's like 95% of the deal, right?

The results came back and everything's fine, except I have a bit of an elevated fasting blood sugar level.  It was like 120, with the optimum range being 70-99.  So it's up there, but just a little bit.  It hasn't really changed in the last couple years either, but the Doc says he'd like to see that number go down. 

And so, knowing what you do about my confection for Sugarland, and knowing the wanton sweet gluttony I have so brazenly confessed to all across the universe via this inter web thingy, I hope you are smiling when I say I then asked the Doc, "So, do you think me having four or five portions of dessert every single night might have anything to do with it?"

To which he responded, somewhat aghast and quite emphatically, "Uh, yeah."

So, the ball was placed squarely in my court.  It's up to me. Diabetes or Little Debbie?  You know Little Debbie.  That smiling, sultry sweet purveyor of all sorts of sugary delights. 

What's it gonna be? Make some dietary changes, feel better and stay off medications?  Or the Highway to Hostess Twinkie Hell?

Well, if you know me or have read Late Night Letters to the Moon, you'll know I've already endured a couple little challenges on this walk upon the planet.  Will it be possible for me to cut down on my sugar, maybe just have one dessert a night instead of five?  Can I possibly survive such an ordeal?

It's been about three weeks now.  Instead of two pieces of cake, a few cookies, a bowl of ice cream and some pudding I had one piece of cake.  Instead of a half dozen cookies, some pie and a candy bar I had two cookies.  And so on.  It's actually been pretty easy.

I've also lost five pounds, bam!  That's a good thing cause the slacks I slid into Easter Sunday were a bit tight around the waist.  Hadn't been tucked into them for about a year.

Bloody hell.

Next stop: London

I'd Go Anywhere With You Honey. I think..

I accidentally swallowed a piece of gum the other day.  Slithered down real easy.  I haven't swallowed any gum since high school, or 45 some years ago.  Peppermint burps ensued, but I figured they were a heck of a lot better than gas, or puke burps.

I was concerned it was going to add about two grams of weight to my torso for the next seven years, but it turns out that's just an old wives tale.  You know, scare the bejezus out of the kids so they don't eat their gum.  Kinda like the worms and raw sugar thing.

A miniscule amount of those two grams of masticatory substance do digest, like the sweetening agent, but the rest of the synthetic elastomers, or rubberlike materials, as well as plasticizing softeners, resins and preservative antioxidizing agents are going to remain intact.  Hopefully slithering out as easily as they slithered on in.  Fortunately I only swallowed one piece and not a truck load.

I definitely try to not get political on this blog, I think I only went rabid once.  And that was to point out that it's hard to have a discussion with someone when the facts they are espousing aren't really facts at all.  You know, alternative facts.  It's imperative, especially NOW, that everyone gets their facts from reliable sources.  And if you're not sure if it's a fact or propaganda, then check a few sources.  Please.  The future of our country depends on it.

And speaking of our country, you know things have gotten potently weird when Senator Lindsay Graham makes sense.  And you see George W on TV and wistfully harken back to the good old days... 

"I'd go anywhere with you Honey."

I made that comment one evening to my lovely wife, and I meant it.  But then, later that same evening, I got to thinkin that there may be a few places I'd probably not want to go.

We've already established somewhere, sometime in a previous post that I'm only good for an hour of shopping.  I don't care what it is.  Clothes, food, hardware, furniture.  One hour. 

No, I take that back.  I'm only good at furniture shipping for oh, say, about seven minutes.  After that, I don't care.  She can buy whatever she wants.  I'd rather do crossword puzzles in the car.  Maybe stare at some air for a while.

There's also a number of planetary locations I can pass on.  Iraq and Iran come to mind.  So does Syria.  And Mozambique.  The entire continent of Africa for that matter.  Kansas.  Los Angeles.

Other than the aforementioned, I'm probably good to go.  She already bamboozled me into a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit, I mean, how much more challenging and daring could it get?

I just FINALLY finished completing the plantation of the orchard.  That little project only took six years.  In addition to the white nectarine, yellow nectarine, peach, and plum that are now fruit bearing four year olds, we have added: two pears, two apples, a cherry, an apricot, a white peach and a pomegranate.  One more cherry is still on tap.

One of the reasons it took so long is there's a whole bunch of stuff I do when they go in.  First there's the hole, then the positioning of the bare root tree, then the entire hole gets filled with real good top soil, then several layers of wood chips go on, then I introduce a few worms to each tree basin, then a couple T-posts go in and then each little darling gets wrapped with five foot high wire so that them damn flea infested mule deer don't rape and pillage.  And of course, I will now have to dote on them during the hot, dry summer months.

I just made an investment in a new computer.  The old one, I mean ten years really old, running the Windows Vista platform, finally crashed.  For good.  I've been nursing it along for a couple years now, and everyone, I mean everyone who touched the thing told me I needed to get a new one.  Aw shucks, darn.  I'm the fool on this here hill, what do I know about new?

My biggest concern about the crash was my ITunes song collection, close to a thousand hand picked songs.  I routinely back up documents and photos, but ITunes is a bit of a different animal.  Without going into a multi-paragraph diatribe about the cloud, the Geek Squad and the missing close to a hundred tunes, I am happy to say all is now safe and sound and found. 

This new computer is markedly faster, and the screen is massive.  It's also a touchscreen, which I haven't really used yet.  Old dog, new tricks.  My basic writing motus operandi is sitting back with my feet on the desk, remote key board on my lap, looking at the screen from about two to three feet away.  I'd need pretty long arms if I was going to be using the touch screen, know what I mean?

The other night I watched a bit of the epically colossal blockbuster 1963 movie, "Cleopatra", starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.  I say watched a bit because the movie is just over four hours long.  I can't sit still for four minutes let alone four hours.

But, Holy Cow!  What a lavish extravaganza.  It cost forty-four million to make back then, which would be equivalent to roughly three hundred fifty million today.  The sets were incredible, the costumes magnificent.  It's no wonder the movie took home Oscars for both those categories.

The movie went way over budget, which is not surprising when you have from fifty to a thousand extras in every other scene.  Plus those beasts need to eat.  And half the costumes on the principal actors contained actual gold.  As a matter of fact, one of Liz's sixty-five costumes was made from twenty-four carat gold cloth.

Seventy-nine massive, amazing sets.  Twenty-six thousand colorful costumes.

And Liz's eye shadow was epically incredible.  Her face was a double sided mural, bright beautiful colors illuminating from what seemed like a football field between her cornea and brow.  She could have provided the entire light show at a rock concert.  Just by blinking.

Liz also showed off her ample cleavage with just about every offering.  And every once in a while an entire naked leg peeked through her many times quite sheer gown.  As a matter of fact, there were numerous scenes with bikinily clad women dancing around as entertainment for the royalty.  It had all the trappings of, say, a PG rated Roman orgy, including over intoxication and ribald laughter.

And then there was this scene between Richard (Mark Antony) and Liz (Cleo).  She's wearing a sheer lavender gown open to her navel, he's wearing a turquoise, gold,  leather and leopard print tunic type thing that's short.  I mean, showing a helluva lot of leg really short.  Like 1980's OP shorts short.  I mean, his tunic was shorter than Taylor Swift's hot pants.

And thusly attired, Mark Antony says, while walking behind Cleopatra, "I have a fondness for all things Greek."

What does this mean???  Do you think he was talking about salad?

Speaking of Liz and Dick, this was the first of eleven movies they starred in together.  It was also the beginning of a real life love hate relationship between them that lasted until Burton's death.

"May I never be free of you," says Mark Antony to Cleopatra after a tender kiss.  Or was that Dick to Liz? 

And speaking of Richard Burton, that man possessed amazing oratory skills.  He also had remarkable knees.  As a matter of fact, most all the men in the movie were attired in short, leather whatsits when they weren't wearing robes.  There was more visible bare male thigh in this movie than any Annette Funacello and Frankie Avalon beach romp.

Rex Harrison is also in the film as Caesar.  But he gets stabbed, a lot, by almost everybody, about midway through the movie.  I have to admit it was strange to see Rex playing a Roman emperor.  I kept waiting for him to teach Cleopatra vowels and about the rain in Spain.

How does the movie end?  I have no idea.  As I first mentioned, it's over four hours long.

I am currently in the planning stages of an upcoming excursion over land and sea to London, England.  Brexit was a pretty good thing for the dollar, apparently.  We're going to London for ten days for a thousand bucks less than a seven day junket to Cabo.  And trust me, Cabo is a heck of a lot closer to us than London is.  And it's, I mean, in Mexico.

Not only will it be a wonderful adventure, it will also give me a travel subject to write about.  I have discovered it's difficult to be a travel writer if you're not going anywhere. 

I'm going to make a note of that.

I have already been to the London Bridge, which is weird, because it's in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.  I think they sell a lot of fish and chips there, in Arizona, in the middle of the desert.  Doesn't anybody else think that's weird?

So I am in the process of working on an Excel spread sheet for the excursion, figuring what sights work best with particular days.  It's a problem, I know.

Here's some good information for just about everybody.  I was recently gnawed on by a tick.  The last time this happened was about fifty-six years ago, when I was six.  I don't think there's a pattern here, but if there is, I'll take it. 

I had just sat down on that one seat in the house where a lot of folks first sit in the morning and something innocently drew my hand to scratch my right upper torso.  A couple light scratches and whatever it was tumbled off and into the toilet.  At first I thought it was a little scab because it came off so easily.

But when I got up and looked in the mirror, holy cow!  There was one big, red, round circle the size of a quarter with a little crater in the middle. Bastard!  Fortunately I already had a scheduled appointment with my doctor for that afternoon.  He confirmed it was a tick bite, and here's the kicker.  The tick HAS to be in there and actively sucking your blood for at least 30 HOURS before they can transmit the bad stuff, like Lyme Disease.

I'm pretty sure I picked him up that night from one of our cats, so I'd give him from six to ten hours feasting upon my flesh.  Bastard.  I usually burn them when I pull them from the cats, but at least this guy got to go to a shitty demise.

Homestead Update

I was talking with one of my neighbors the other day.  She, like me, loathe day-light savings and the long summer hours.  Our short winter break is over.  Back to non-stop fun and frolic for seeming ever.  We may be getting too old for this.  I already need two of me just to keep up.

I had to put down my first chicken this morning.  I've had plenty of them die on me, or just disappear, but I haven't had to dust one on purpose, until now.  She got sick, or maybe injured, and I actually nursed her back to health over a week or so.  She was eating and drinking on her own.  But one of her legs possibly had atrophied while she was still and her foot had turned black.  She couldn't move on her own.  Sigh. 

It was Josie Rosie Posie too, the girl who survived the ringtail attack a couple years back.  It was the total humane action to take, but that did not make it easier.  She is now buried near the picket fence and will provide excellent fertilizer for the many flowers that will be taking over the area in the coming months.

The rest of the flock is fine, including that damn rooster.  And we have four new chicks in the brooder, two of which are Guinea Hens. 

Let's see; burn piles, cut flower boxes to build, brick planter box to create, brick entry and rose sea, weeds, weed whacking, corn, melons, tomatoes, firewood.  2017.  It's on.  

But first, before it gets too crazy, London.  Look for that first travel post near the end of May.

Happy Spring Y'all.

The Last Time I Got Hammered

The last time I got hammered was Valentine's Day, 1991.  No, it's not nearly as romantic as it sounds.  I got hammered all by myself, on the most desolate and lonely road trip one could imagine.   You can read all about that right here: Late Night Letters to the Moon, cause this post is not about that particular excursion.  It's about getting hammered, in general.

The first time I got a little hammered was over at my soon to be step-mother's house for dinner.  Only I didn't know it.  Either one actually.  I didn't go over there with the intention of catching a buzz and I had no idea she was to be our new step-mother.  At the time I figured she was merely dating Dear Old Dad.

And she had this lovely blond daughter, whom I endeavored to pick up after I caught a buzz.  Only she knew we were gonna be step-siblings, so she wanted no part of making out with a soon to be brother.  Or a drunk for that matter.

I caught a buzz that first time drinking a little glass of suicide.  You know, mix a half dozen kinds of alcohol together and then guzzle.  I probably only had about three shots by volume, but it was enough to set this fourteen year old's hair on fire.

I only did suicides a few times.  I mean, drinking suicides is like playing with puke fire.  It seemed much easier on my teenage constitution to down a six pack of Burgie.  Or a couple tall malt liquors.

Then came the age of cocktails.  Mine was Tanquerey and tonic. With a twist.  Mmmm, thirst quenching good.

And of course wine.  Chardonnay and Cabernet.  What can I say?

And then of course Cognac.  

Drinks before dinner, wine with dinner, after-dinner drinks.  Rode that train all the way into my early thirties.  And then, a few life situations and inebriations landed me pretty much towards the bottom of a quite hellish barrel. 

At that time I was drinking a half gallon, or handle of Popov vodka every single day.  Got it in the cheap plastic bottle so I could squeeze it out quicker.  Mixed that up with lemonade.  Drank that until the fateful bus trip to the desert.  My liver, at the time, was the size of Montana.

I have a lot of wonderful memories of the early hammer years.  Actually, I have a fair amount of decent memories from the later hammer years.  In between the puking and shaking.

But now I have been waking up pretty much every single morning feeling good for about twenty-six years.  Hell, that's a longer span of time than my hammer years were.

Do I miss having a cocktail?  A glass of wine?  An ice cold beer?  

No, not really.  After all this time I've learned to live life and have a ball, without alcohol.  There was a time I thought I'd never have a good time without it.  Now I can't imagine life with it.

I still enjoy the aroma of alcohol.  I use it in baking and cooking all the time.  I can also take a real deep inhalation off an open bottle every once in a while and feel that permeation all the way down to my core.  It makes me smile. 

It also reminds me a very special moment with Dear Old Dad.  He'd had a couple of strokes and was interred at a local nursing home.  On one of our visits I smuggled in a little airline bottle of Jack Daniels, his favorite.  It wasn't hard to smuggle in, you know, I just put it my pocket.  The first thing he did was take a whiff, and the glow that came across his face bespoke of warm, golden memories from days gone past.

How can I get away with this?  Inhaling and baking and making very dirty Martinis once in a while for my lovely wife?  It's not an issue.  Hasn't been for decades.

Did I join AA?  No, I decided I'd rather become dependent upon myself rather than a group of other suffering individuals.  Nothing against the group, they've helped a lot of people.  Just not for me.

I have done some internal work.  Read a few books.  Dug in the dirt.  Read a few more books.  Identified a few detrimental issues then screamed and howled at the moon.  It will still be an ongoing process, forever, but I am usually quite happy and at peace most of the time.  Unless I'm in a car behind a moron who flips their turn signal on just as they begin their turn.  Or never. 

I was behind a gal the other day that turned on her blinker a long hundred yards before she started slowing to make her turn.  I wept.  I wanted to follow her into her driveway and get on my knees to thank her.  Only she'd probably think I was a little crazy, call the cops and they'd shoot me fifteen times.  Cause if they're gonna shoot once anymore they're gonna empty their service revolver.  Then reload and fire again.

Whatever happened to just "winging" an unarmed suspect?

I still have a few sideline life diversions.  Like cookies for instance.  And gardening.  Chickens.  Writing.  I've also been known to spark up a little alternative tobacco now and then.  But I could walk away from all that tomorrow as long as I was able to keep one thing.

Some of you older readers may remember the "I found it" bumper stickers from the early seventies.  I think they were mostly religious in nature and soon spawned a number of follow-ups.

"I  smelled it"
"I concocted it"
"I ate it"

I think my favorite, on the bumper of a convertible sports car driven by a pretty blonde, "I fondled it."

Although I'm not a religious guy, I do believe in God or a higher power, a spiritual essence de la orange.  A group of lizards sittin around playing video games.  I know there's some sort of bright, burning, mystically energetic and  frolicsome force that blazes out there though, because I have danced in the bright white light.  I swam in the vast ocean of serenity; a seeming endless dream. 

Or was that the acid?

I love a good mystery.


I have also been fortunate enough to lose pretty much everything in my mid thirties, so I have that going for me as well.  I was able to keep my record collection, which I later sold for $50.00.  And some clothes, which I later threw away cause they didn't fit anymore.  It felt pretty lousy at the time, but as I continued further down the road I was on I discovered all that crap was meaningless anyway. 

So what's the one thing?  What have I found that's so dang important?  Why that would be the love, laughter, and tears shared with  family, friends and maybe complete strangers.
 
Sunsets are nice too.

Grandchildren are even better.

Looking deep into your lover's eyes.  That right there is what's important, that's the Good Stuff.   The rest of it is irrelevant.

Sure, go on out and pursue the grandeur.  Toys are fun.  Why the hell not?

But don't forget the good stuff.  All the grandeur, memory foam and flat screen TVs will fade away some day, and all you'll be left with will be the only thing that matters anyway. Bright, burning, shining, love.

Unless you're Dick Cheney.  Cause that dude is one loveless, evil looking son of a bitch.

Getting hammered was easy, and for a time seemed to quell the questions.  But it always seemed there was something missing.  Alcohol could only fill the hole in the soul for so long.  Only when I gave it up and let it all go did I really find what I was looking for.  Pure.  Sweet.  Simple.  Love.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Who On Earth Would Name Their Cat "Bob"?

Well, I suppose anyone could name their cat Bob.  Out most recent cats have been named Tom, Joe, Sam, Frank, Daisy and Lily.  So why not Bob, especially since the wilderness and his tail selected this cat's specific name?

A couple days ago a few weeks back last November I was helping our son with a few projects around his homestead.  Gets me off the hill here and I am grateful he can utilize my aging expertise.  Plus we get to spend time together.  It doesn't get much better than that.

Except for that darn retaining wall behind his place.  Apparently I'm pretty good at alignment, slope and level, and apparently I volunteered to lay down the first row.  In the muck.  And the mire.  And blasting, with a pick, several inches deep in some places, an underground boulder the size of Colorado.

See what I did there?

My back hurt for days after that eighty foot experience. But I digress. 

I always "release the hounds" in the morning here, my slang for letting the chickens out of their secure night quarters.  I always get in a quick survey of the territory immediately surrounding their fenced in yard when I do this.  I also get in a survey when I lock them up in the evening, but it's hard to do if I lock them up after dark.  Without a floodlight of course.  Or ten thousand Aborigines with candles.

So I locked them up on a Wednesday night after dark, no survey.  The next morning, when I went up to release them for their all day romp in their yard, I noticed a tell tale crime scene of feathers just outside the fence.

Tell tale crime scene of feathers?  Well... I've seen a few of those scenes now.

See what I did there?

This scene wasn't just a random feather or six.  Nor was it a gargantuan, gruesome head-missing mess a raccoon, ringtail or skunk might leave, like what happened in Massacre at Keet Creek.   Or Raider in the Night.  This was a very neat, roundish collection of about ten gold feathers. This was not a raunchy, cold-blooded, Manson style blood-thirsty free for all party bash 'em up slaying; this was a cool, calculating predatory kill.

It was also a day time attack.  The feather tuft was not there Wednesday morning.  I would have seen it, it was too obvious.  So it happened some time between 8:30 AM and 5:30 PM on Wednesday.

Just to make sure, I went back in and counted the birds.  Actually, I only looked for two because of the feather color.  I knew exactly which breed had been hit.  Sure enough, I had only one remaining Buff Orpington.  If there is any silver lining in this, at least she was a four year old bird, way past her prime egg laying age.

But she was part of our family and one of the original flock.  There are only three hens left now from the original flock of twelve, started in 2012.  One more Buff and two Barred Rocks.  And that damn rooster.  And this is why we add two to four new chicks every year. 

I was a little mystified, not sure what the heck the predator could be.  Most of your chicken predators are night aggressors, a day attack is rather unusual.  I had seen a hawk sitting on the fence edge some weeks before.  I'm pretty sure he was calculating as I had.  He could hop on in but would not be able to get out of the clothesline covered area with his wings spanned.  I chased him away anyway.

But still, I'm not convinced a hawk could get a hen up and over a six foot fence.  He could go in for a kill, but never get the hen out.  A fox couldn't climb over the fence, that species was out.  A bobcat could probably get in and get a hen out.  Hmmh.  I needed to cogitate.

The day after the crime occurred I was outdoors all day catching up on maintenance.  Weed whacking, lawn mower, leaf blower.  Loud power tools all day.  And as I played I cogitated away.  And kept a wary eye up at Chicken Fantasia Land.   No action, no threat.  Nothing was going on.

Had I been hallucinating again?  No, a bird was missing.  Something had happened.

Friday morning I released the hounds as usual.  Then I went grocery shopping.  When I returned the chickens were out in their yard, eating bugs and yakking.  Sun bathing in the dirt.  Doing stuff that chickens do.  I proceeded to put the groceries away and then commenced some house cleaning.

I figured all the outside activity the previous day would have kept any predator away, even Jehovah's Witnesses.  But now I was inside and a bad guy might not know I was around.  I kept a wary eye out, making sure I glanced up there every ten to fifteen minutes or so.  I figured if the girls were out clucking in the yard everything was fine.  Plus they have a very loud and distinctive "mortal danger" alert cluck.  I am so in tune with those birds I can hear that cluck even if I'm in a car with ACDC playing at volume ten.  Six miles away.

As I moseyed along on my cleaning morning, I went out the side utility door for no specific reason at all I recall.  Might have been to toss something in the garbage.  Might have been cosmic.  But as soon as I took one step out the door I glanced up the hill and not twenty feet away stood a frozen in mid stride beautiful brown and grey cat.  It was heading in the direction of Chicken Fantasia Land, about forty feet away.

He, or more than likely she, was just on the high side of the drip line and those silver bushes. Right.  There.  I could have kissed her.

At first I thought it was one of our long haired tabbies, who are both looking glorious now in their full winter coats.

Daisy Cat

And then I thought if this was Daisy or Lily they had to have been taking some steroids.  Whichever they were sure looked bigger than usual.

And then I said to no one in particular, "This is a fucking bobcat."

 Fucking Bobcat

All this thinking actually took about two seconds.  But right then I knew.  And right then she knew I knew.  We stared at each other for about seven seconds. 

Then she ever so slowly started a retreat.  I slowly moved forward and grabbed a rock.  Then I threw the rock in her direction, started shouting and clapping.  She hastened her retreat and scampered off up the hill into the thick underbrush.

Clapping and shouting worked in this particular instance.  It might not work in every instance.  Like if you're confronted with a bear.  Or zombies.  I would recommend a big gun if confronted by either of these two creatures.  Like an AK-47.  Or a howitzer, for instance. 

She was big as far as bobcats go.  I was almost thinking she might be a small mountain lion until I witnessed her retreat and saw her bobbed tail.  She was a big, beautiful cat.  She was also a big, beautiful and extreme threat to my chicken's well being.  I had a problem.

I obviously couldn't watch the hen house all day, every day.  I'd be like the great hen protector Fog Horn Leghorn of Looney Tunes cartoon fame..  All day.  They don't make enough of anything to cover that kind of boredom therapy type situation.

Goldie, our rooster, might have the best intentions, but he would be no match for a bobcat.  And I wasn't going to keep them locked up all day. 

We could get a dog.  We've been talking about that.  But then that would be one.  More. Thing to take care of.  I already don't have ten spare seconds.  Add another dimension to that?  What to do, what to do?

As I did my Bobcat research amid completing house cleaning, I kept a wary eye out.  About the time I finished the house and was going to start researching in earnest up here, I glanced up in their yard.  No chickens were visible.  I immediately went out and found them all inside the hen house, looking rather spooked.  The rooster, to his credit, was standing guard at the door.

I figured they knew more than I did.  I had been watching the hill since I scared her away and hadn't seen a thing.  But then, I was dealing with one of the smartest predators in the wild.  She wasn't going to be seen again.  I decided to go with the chicken's instinct and locked them up in their secure cage.

Then I came back up here and started researching the potential of going electric.  It almost sounds like Dylan going electric at the Newport Folk Festival, but it's not quite that entertaining.  Or historic.

It wasn't ten minutes before I heard the distress cluck chorus.  LOUD.  I jumped up and ran to the appropriate upstairs window.

"Holy shit," I exclaimed, to no one in particular.

That big beautiful cat was inside the chicken's yard, running around the pickle barrel, trying to figure out how to get into their secure cage, which I had closed and locked not ten minutes earlier.  He was actively prowling and the birds were singing.  Not happily either.

I dashed downstairs.  As soon as she heard the door open she turned and looked at me.  Within a quarter of a second she leapt effortlessly about fifteen feet to the top of the back fence.  She was on top of the fence for another quarter of a second and then was down and gone.  It took about four seconds from the door opening to her completely disappearing.  Boom.  Gone.

I shouted and clapped for good measure.  Just to show who's boss.  Threw another rock.

Again, not sure if this would work for a bear.  Or zombies.  Might need back-up.  Like that howitzer.  And a machete. 

She's been back, that beautiful cat.  I have found evidence of her lurking.  Yeah, I'm not ashamed to say I am becoming knowledgeable about wildlife scat in these here hills.  It helps to know what has been prowling about, especially when one has delicious chickens.

But the girls are safe.  I went electric.  Just like Dylan.

Amazon.com.  A lifeline for folks in the country.  It cost about $90.00 and took me about two hours to get it all dialed in.  A lot cheaper than a dog and much less time involved too!

The juice runs all round the perimeter fence.  You'll also notice the clothesline, put up to deter aerial assaults from hawks.  So far, so good.  Animals seem to sense there's something actively engaging and alive right there.  Humans seem to want to test first hand.  So to speak.  At least I did.  Twice even.

The first time was a nice little nip to the hand right after I installed it.  Not too bad, but enough to let you know you wanted no future part of it.  In fairness to my stupidity, I did kind of want to know what strength of jolt it offered.  The second time, right after a rain, with water still standing on the wire, was more like a taser.  Ah chi mama, that lit my entire arm up like the 4th of July.  In fairness, I have no idea why.  That was just plain stupid.

Never again.  However, if you're ever over and want to test it yourself go right on ahead.  After you sign a waiver of course.  And next of kin have been notified.   

There hasn't been another attack since we went electric. I currently believe the flock is safe from predators.  But then, I did before.  This is the country after all.  Who knows what form a beast will take to be the next to try and feast on our girls? 

Drought Update

There is no drought, here at least.  Our little slice of heaven, along with most of Northern California has been officially declared drought free.  And why not, we've received 23.25 inches of rain just this month, which brings the total to 51.75 inches already this season.  To compare, we received a total of 51.25 inches last year.  And only received around 32 inches in each of the previous drought years.  56 inches is normal.

Cheers to almost being normal.

Rain wise, that is.