Angels On My Barcalounger

I originally had about a hundred fifty titles for this post.  OK, at least six.  Or seven.  I may have a hundred fifty by the time I'm done.  More keep trampling my cranium every day.  What's wrong with me?

"Primal Tales of My Wicked Uncle Wiggley", "Knockin at the Dragon's Door", "There's Flying Monkeys in My Nightmares",  "Frankenbelly, the Absurd",  "There's Gangrene in My Soup?", "The Appendix-Why?"  But "Angels On My Barcalounger" won out because I did meet a few Angels on this particular journey, and without them my recovery would not have been what it has been.  Alex, Teresa, Kay, Delilah, Loree, Dee and Laura-I bow to you and humbly thank you.  You cared for this old wracked with pain body with such incredible kindness and compassion.  And humor.  Words cannot fully express my gratitude.

And of course, I would be wholesomely remiss if I did not mention my very own personal Angel, my lovely wife, whose undying love and support is a blessing EVERY SINGLE DAY.

I also have a new Superhero, my surgeon, Dr. William Statton. The hell with Batman.  Or Katman.  Du.  This man makes life and death decisions every single day.  As far as I'm concerned he saved my life, with skill, compassion and humor.  Thanks again Doc, words cannot express.

BTW, I have, apparently, dated myself with the "barcalounger" aspect of the title to this tale.  Barcalounger is another term for recliner.  As in furniture.  There is a Barcalounger web site and everything.  For any of you that didn't know.  And I just love saying the word, barcalounger.  It's a problem, I know.  But in the aspect of this tale, of course, it's an unorthodox metaphor for where I would be.  At any particular time and place.  And fortunately, in this particular time and space of immediate need, there happened to be some Angels.  How lucky is that?

How did I get to the point where I garnered Angels and a new superhero?  Well, let's first examine the nasty little rascal that caused all this uproar, my appendix, who I have confoundedly named Uncle Wiggley.  My very wicked Uncle Wiggley.

Extending from the inferior end of the large intestine’s cecum, the human appendix is a narrow pouch of tissue.  It is located in the right iliac region of the abdomen (in the lower right-hand abdominal area), measuring about four inches long and roughly a quarter of an inch in diameter.

The appendix is not a vital organ and medical researchers still debate its exact function in our bodies. One hypothesis suggests that it is a vestigial remnant of a once larger cecum. This larger cecum would have been used by vegetarian ancestors to digest cellulose from plants. Supporters of this hypothesis therefore conclude that the appendix no longer serves any purpose for us.

Another hypothesis suggests that the appendix acts as a storage area for beneficial bacteria during times of illness. Beneficial bacteria living in the appendix could survive being flushed out of the large intestine by diarrhea. The appendix would therefore help a person to recover more rapidly from illness by enabling the bacteria to re-colonize the intestines after the illness has passed.

Apparently it also serves an important role in fetus development.  Well, whatever Uncle Wiggley did at one point in time for me he decided not to do it anymore.  He apparently got upset me for whatever reason and decided to get all infected and stuff.  Like, what'd I ever do to him?  And let me tell ya, when an appendix decides to go south it definitely screws up your appetite.  For just about everything, including food.

My odyssey first began in the early morning hours of October 4th, when a sharp pain in my abdomen woke me from sleep.  The pain slowly gravitated towards my right side as the hours and weekend progressed.  I did my on-line duty, reading up as much as I could about appendicitis.  I was sure that was what was bothering me.  The pain was constant, but I did not have a fever, and I still had a small appetite, of sorts.

I called my doctor's office the first thing Monday morning, and that is when I discovered my GP had left the practice.  (I don't go to the doctor's office that often.  It's one of the LAST places on the planet where you'd be likely to find me.)  I was informed I could see the Physician's Assistant, or PA, at ten that morning.  Concerned that this could be appendicitis, I gladly took the appointment.

After the nurse checked me in, took my vittles and asked me why I was there, the PA finally came in.  She sat down in front of the computer and proceeded to ask me a litany of irrelevant questions about irrelevant symptoms, like leg cramps and hands swelling-when I was in there with abdominal pain.

She never even touched me once.  She never palpated the affected area, nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  It was like I had Ebola or something.  At that keyboard she came up with the conclusion I probably had pleurisy, a lung condition, primarily because I did say it hurt more when I took a deep breath.  Which it did.  It all hurt over there.  So she prescribed Ibuprofen 800's and sent me on my way.  She also did order some blood tests, just in case.

The tests came back negative.  For what I don't know, but they were negative.  I'd be willing to guess my appendix hadn't yet exploded and my white cell count was normal.  I bought in to the pleurisy diagnosis, primarily because I didn't have a temperature and still had an appetite.  Not huge, but I was still eating.  Those two issues are apparently huge red flag warnings when trying to diagnose appendicitis.  Especially the temperature thing, and mine had been running pretty much normal.  Everything was working somewhat soundly, albeit painful, so I continued on my way.  For days.

And then over the night of October 15th I developed the chills, knowing then I had a fever.  That morning I called the doc's office again, and garnered an appointment at 2:00 that afternoon.  With the same PA.  I inquired as to whether or not a real doctor was available, and the receptionist got a little miffed, stating "Our PA works under the direct supervision of a doctor."

Well, whatever.  I just hoped they'd get the diagnosis right this time.  Pleurisy?  In my abdomen?  Really?  That entire day was spent in growing agony, and I couldn't do much except hang out on the sofa and watch Hogan's Heroes reruns.  And laugh with the pain.

I presented myself at the doctor's office with a 101.5 temperature.  After the nurse took my vittles, the PA came in soon thereafter with a mortified look on her face.  This time she immediately palpated my rock hard right side and said I needed to go to the ER.  ASAP.  She thought my gall bladder had burst.

The problem I encountered, and what also helped lead me towards buying into the pleurisy diagnosis, was that the pain seemed to be higher than where the normal appendix would be.  And it was lower than where gall bladder pain is normally associated.  Well, fuck me.

After I checked in, I got to sit and wait in the ER waiting room for two and a half hours.  Doubled up on a chair.  It was a big day in the ER.  I don't do crowds or waiting well, which is why I would rather bleed to death than go to a hospital ER.  Which was probably why I was doubled up in agony on a chair.  That and a pleurisy diagnosis two weeks ago.  I almost got up and left, but the pain was getting worse and I'd just have to start all over. 

All the rooms were full, you know, ambulatory people with goiters and sniffles.

"Oh, I'm congested and maybe have a cold.  Got an aspirin?"

I was outside in the waiting room slowly dying while some people were inside the ER simply dying to get attention.  There's a difference, I'm sure.

I was finally ushered in and led to a bed in the hallway.  Hell, I didn't care.  I just so needed to lay down.  The floor would have been fine.  The ER nurse was great, unfortunately her name escapes me.  Another  unnamed Angel to be added to my list.  She was thorough, and the ER doc was soon by my side.  We talked, and then he palpated.  Boy did he ever palpate. 

He hit the spot and that jolt sent me beyond the moon.  Just the thought of that jolt still hurts today, a couple weeks later.  That's gotta be what a bullet feels like; a white hot, searing fireball of fury tearing deep inside the pillow soft down flesh of my abdomen.  YOW.  It had already been feeling like a slew of flying monkeys had been stabbing me relentlessly Manson style.  The Doc just dropped a bowling ball into the mix.  Death sounded good. 

He then ordered a cat scan, trying to rule out appendicitis, gall bladder problems or c a n c e r.

"Oh great", I thought, I hadn't really thought about that possibility yet.  Thanks Doc.  He also reiterated the obvious ongoing dilemma, the pain location seemed to be too low for the gall bladder and too high for the appendix.  The cat scan would tell the tale.

In the meantime he also ordered a shot of dilaudid, or hydromorphone, a synthetic morphine.  Maybe I had died and gone to heaven.  After sitting in agony for hours, days really, I was lying down and soon the pain would diminish.  A little bit.  That shot took the edge off, but them dang monkeys were still there, jabbering and poking me in the side with a red hot andiron, which amazingly felt better than being stabbed with a butcher knife.  Or so it seemed. 

It turned out to be a fun deal being in the hallway.  All kinds of shit house howdy things were going on.  And everybody, doctors and nurses alike, always had a smile on their face for me as they passed by on their urgent missions.

My lovely wife was there soon after I arrived in the ER.  Besides her love and compassion, she also had her IPhone, which enabled us to keep track of the Giants-Cardinals pennant game.  I've been a Giants fan since 1962, so even though I couldn't watch the game on TV I still had to keep track.  Even in a foggy ether.

We also had a doctor that was keeping track of the score through us.  We were his score source.  At one point I was signaling the score by hand to him waaay down the hall in between his bed calls.  It was hilarious.  Or maybe that was the dilaidid.  With or without drugs, I crack myself up all the time.

Which is different than cracking up.

I think.

It took about an hour to get the cat scan, but then a scant fifteen minutes later my ER Doc was smiling and waving at me from down the hall.

"It's acute appendicitis!" he hollered through the din, gesticulating and smiling. 

I smiled, gave him two thumbs up and said, "Great!"

I think.

Actually, it was good news.  It definitely beat the Big C as far as I was concerned.  And it was something that could be taken care of with relative ease.  No uncharted territory here.  The Doc was down by my side in another couple minutes, explaining how Uncle Wiggley had kind of wrapped himself up around and in with my large intestine.  That's why his location was abdominally abnormal.

Fortunately I had not eaten that day.  I had reread a bunch of stuff about appendicitis that morning while I was down for the count, and the specter of surgery loomed.  If it truly turned out to be appendicitis, surgery was really the only option.  Get that bugger out of there, before it gets all pus-e and bursts.  I had a cup or two of coffee and maybe a glass of water that morning, but I gotta tell ya, nothing down there in that region was feeling right.  It was like something had died and the noxious vapors were filling the void, which, in a way, turned out to be kinda true.  I mean, the gangrene was festering.

 Appendicitis is a medical emergency that requires prompt surgery to remove the appendix. Left untreated, an inflamed appendix will eventually burst, or perforate, spilling infectious materials into the abdominal cavity. This can lead to peritonitis, a serious inflammation of the abdominal cavity's lining (the peritoneum) that can be fatal unless it is treated quickly with strong antibiotics.

The most frequent complication of appendicitis is perforation. Perforation of the appendix can lead to a peri-appendiceal abscess (a collection of infected pus) or diffuse peritonitis (infection of the entire lining of the abdomen and the pelvis). The major reason for appendiceal perforation is delay in diagnosis and treatment. In general, the longer the delay between diagnosis and surgery, the more likely is perforation. The risk of perforation 36 hours after the onset of symptoms is at least 15%. Therefore, once appendicitis is diagnosed, surgery should be done without unnecessary delay.

Since I hadn't eaten, he said, they could get going with surgery right away.  And I mean, things got moving really fast at that point.  A burst appendix can be life threatening.  It was then around 7:00 PM.  An EKG was ordered, a chest x-ray.   More blood tests.  Bam.  Bam.  Bam. 

Somewhere in there, it is a little bit sketchy, I met my Super Hero and the Anesthesia Kid.  Then I was wheeled down and around quiet, dimly lit hallways, through passages and corridors until I landed at a pre-surgery party down area.  There I met two lovely surgical nurses, whose names also escape me.  More unnamed angels.  My surgeon and the Anesthesia Kid were also there.  I think it was around 9:00 to 9:30 PM at this point.

My Super Hero, the surgeon, Dr.Statton, explained the intended laparoscopic procedure, which is much less invasive than open surgery.  He would make 3 small incisions, one through the navel, and see if he could do the deed that way.  But he also stated since it had been more than a few days since the pain started and most appendix burst within 24-48 hours it would more than likely be a full blown open surgical procedure.  He even expressed concern for my bikini line, but since I am a 60 year old male and my beach roving days are way behind me, I said it was OK.  Slice away.  It'll just be another wound upon my visage.  Another tale to be told.

I kissed my lovely wife good night, and our hands touched good bye, lingering for an extra moment, perhaps a lifetime.  I remember transferring from the gurney to the operating table, wincing in pain with any movement.

They put a mask over my nose and mouth.  "Count backwards from ten!"

"Ten."

I awoke on a space ship.  "Innerspace, the final frontier.  These are the voyages of the Starship Dave..."

I looked around.  I was soaring high in orbit, somewhere.  The command center seemed fairly quiet and dark, but then there were all sorts of strange colored lights on all sorts of intricate contraptions.  Some blinked, some were steady.  Once in a while a contraption would make an otherworldly space ship noise, kinda like Yoko Ono singing.  If you call it that.  It appeared I was the only one in the command center, until a young lad named Alex strode in.  I liked the shuck of his jive immediately.  I was also stoned to the bejeezus.  I appeared to be on a happy journey.

Alex, the self-proclaimed navigator for this leg of my journey was a sure fire hired gun on a trajectory to the stars.  In his early twenties, he was off and running on a career in service for all us rapidly aging old poop farts.  An admirable young man with such care and concern, and he's just now on his way.  He turned out to be an adept accomplice.

He steered my spaceship through a couple galaxies, always keeping me in a constant state of conscience drool, or planetary exploration.   IV hits of Dilaudid every couple hours.  We were always trying to stay ahead of them dang flying monkeys with their freakish butcher knives.  They were chasing me.  Always after me.  I was running, and running hard.  I think we were getting close to the rings of Saturn.

Or Buick.

As dawn crept upon our side of the Milky Way, I was introduced to a new navigator, an angelic creature named Teresa.  My initial navigator had to head off rest, repast and refueling.  But the hand off went well and Teresa and I became acquainted quite intimately, her care and professional demeanor lessening much of the humiliation one can feel when their aging old poop fart body is on display.  With my once proud WWE physique now resembling a soft white belly by Truman Capote, modesty could only go out the window.  And laughter could only ensue.  Amen.

Except when she preformed one excruciating procedure which allowed a certain part of my anatomy to function properly.   Without that dicey, white knuckle intervention the weight of the world on my abdomen (and bladder) would only increase until the point where it burst.  And then a shit house howdy bunch of pain and tears would ensue.  And probably my intestines too.  Teresa was a darling, and she kept the Starship Dave in orbit throughout the day.

That morning the Galaxy Commander, my surgeon, came in and gave me the travel scoop thus far.  He did initially try laparoscopic surgery, but then had to convert to an open appendectomy.  The appendix had perforated.  Burst.  Poof.  Lucky me.  I would need to stay in orbit for 4 or 5 days while they kept my system lubricated with IV antibiotics.  And pain medication, you know, trans-dimensional rocket fuel.  

Minutes crept into hours, and hours into light years.  There were visitors.  Phone calls.  Apparently there were people out there who were interested in what I was doing.  Where I was going.  I told them I'd just passed the Milky Way, left Uncle Wiggley on Mars, and was on my way towards Pluto.  The friendly planet.  Just trying to stay ahead of the flying monkeys.  And Tom Jones.  In leopard print briefs and playing trombone.

Ya, I was experiencing some weird, wicked dreams.  I'm sure they understood. 

When the witching hour once again came upon my vessel, Teresa handed me off to Kay, my next night time navigator.  Kay and I got along quite well, sharing some of the most wonderfully silly and insipid jokes ever known to deranged lunatics or elementary school children.  But we laughed, or giggled, a lot.  It was a bit painful to laugh, but it was also another necessary form of healing.  Kay was a delight and kept my star ship on course through the night.  We laughed together in the face of those damn monkeys.

The next morning I was introduced to Delilah, another young, enchanting creature.  She was a traveling RN for hire.  13 weeks here, 13 weeks there.  What a great way to explore the country until maybe finding an ideal location to land.  Delilah preformed another quite intimate procedure for me, removing that certain item that Teresa had set in place the morning before.  The Galaxy Commander felt that certain part of my anatomy could now function properly, so Delilah was the lucky girl who got to remove it.

Sigh.  Another lovely girl to witness me in my not so perfect prime.  But what a doll, all accomplished with compassion and humor.  Which humor was probably initiated by me.  But she played along.  I mean, if ya can't laugh at yourself and the predicaments ya find yourself in from time to time, then maybe you're too darn serious.  This was a hell of a predicament.  I was pretty much helpless.  And hapless.  I had to laugh.

Sweet little Dee was one of the co-pilots, there was always a co-pilot behind the main navigator.  She was a sweetheart, I know we had several conversations.  About what I have no idea, it's possible this memory lapse could be due to the drugs.  Flight fuel.  Keeping me in orbit.  Ahead of them monkeys.

And then came Loree, one fantabulous night time navigator.  She was the mother of twins if I recall, and a son out of state that was a comedian like me.  I was flattered.  She thought I was funny.  My dear Loree was the navigator who finally got a decent oral dose of flight fuel down for me.

You see, eventually I would be going home and would not have access to IV drugs, like the Dilaudid that was slowly replacing my blood.  They had given me a couple NorCo's, or Vicodin's, to mix with the Dilaudid, but those did not even touch the pain.  It was like popping a sugar cube.  Without the acid..  Even the Dilaudid left me at a 3-4 level of pain.  But without it for too long a time, I would lose my orbit and get excruciatingly close to the sun, heading into the 8-9 pain range.  And then the monkeys would come. 

At any rate, Loree talked with the Doc and landed on a 10 mg Percocet.  I took that around 10:00 PM, think I began to feel a rush and then I woke up around 4 hours later.  It was amazing!  I had finally slept for more than an hour or two for the first time in WEEKS!   That was the first drug that actually dropped the pain level enough so that I could sleep.  For at least the four hours it was "live".    

Loree hit me again at 2:00 AM and again at 6:00 AM.  I was in full blown orbital ecstasy.  And I could sleep again!  We had finally landed on something that worked, and should work when I went home. 

And then I was handed off to Laura, another wonderful Angel of the most fabulous kind. We engaged in many heartfelt conversations throughout the day, whenever she would come a calling.  At east I'm pretty sure I think we did.  And of course, we laughed a lot too.

That evening I was visited by Loree again, it was old times!  Our bond just got stronger.  And then my final day in Jello Land I was flying with Laura again.  When I finally got my walking papers and into some reasonable street clothes, we hugged good bye.   Thank you again my dear.

I did get up the first day after surgery for a ten foot stroll to the door.  Then I had to rest.  The next day I made it into the hall, and the next day I was doing cart wheels around the football field.  Actually, I've never been coordinated enough to do cartwheels.  I think you need longer legs than I have to do cartwheels.  I would look like a penguin if I tried them today.  And then probably get dizzy.

My fine young son steered my space ship home that Monday afternoon, five days after I initially went into orbit.  I camped out on the sofa for a few days and nights, still unable to crack a full night without waking up for some pain meds.  And I did not want to be a bother for my lovely wife.

I had the drain removed four days after I had returned home and seven days after the surgery.  Apparently when Uncle Wiggley burst he spewed pus and gangrene all round my abdomen.  This is the big problem, infection, and why it's usually better to get the dang thing out before it decides to explode, or perforate.

Yeah, so I had this little drain pump thing with a tube going into my belly.  Wonderfully colored liquid would drain into this vessel which would then be drained every 8-10 hours while in the hospital.  The amount of viscous liquid gradually diminished, yet I still had to have the dang thing inside me when I went home.  Then, when I went to the Doc's office to have it removed, I discovered the tube went in about 18 inches!  18 inches!!  I was thinkin it went in about 2 inches.  Just 2.  And when he pulled the tube out...I hollered a quite explosive expletive.  He said it wouldn't hurt, only feel weird.  Well, it was both.  Fortunately it was a little after 5:00 PM and most of his offices were bereft of patients at that point.  Otherwise, my holler of "OW, FUCK!" might have made them wonder what the office and doctor were all about.

And immediately after he pulled it out and I hollered, the good doctor looked down and quite calmly said, "I'm sorry.  Did that hurt?  Much?"

I love my doctor.

Ten days after the surgery I was still in pain.  Diminishing, but there none the less.  I did note though that staple discomfort was still a heck of a lot better than burst appendix screaming pain discomfort.  A lot better as a matter of fact.  I had about seventeen staples total.  Two were in one of the lower lapiroscopic locations, three were in me naval, and twelve were along the Mason Dixon line.

I also have discovered that even though an appendix only weighs in the neighborhood of an ounce or two, depending on the volume of pus involved, having it removed under extreme circumstances is good for at least a ten pound overall weight loss.  I didn't really eat anything for the first couple days, and then it was quite minimal for the next few days after that.  The first piece of lightly buttered toast I ate was the most amazing food item I have ever eaten in my life.

Well, my sand kicking days at the beach are definitely gone.  I probably won't be hitting up very many of those egocentric weight lifting poses either.  I'm sporting a Frankenbelly now to be sure.  I kinda look like I had a 40 acre pasture barbed wire fence strand tattooed across the right side of my belly.  And that's a OK by me.  I think there's a few more miles left on this little planetary venture and I can make that all happen without Uncle Wiggley.   Good riddance.

Once again, words cannot express my gratitude enough for the angelic intervention I was fortunate enough to receive during this inter galactic journey.  I humbly bow to all the caring doctors and lovely ladies of healing, heart and light.  May peace and love always be with you.

Small Town Rock and Roll

First of all, I must apologize that it has taken so dang long to get another post up here.  My life's flow was exquisitely interrupted a couple weeks back by a little physical malady called a perforated appendix.  Or more colloquially known as a burst appendix.  Pus.  Gangrene.  Flying monkeys with butcher knives.  Emergency night time surgery.  All up inside my belly.  What a world, what a world.

Rest assured there is a story here, a real fun stunner too!  But that's gonna take a little more time since I'm not quite up to sitting down for any extended period of time at this here keyboard quite yet.  "Angels On My Barcalounger" will be appearing as soon as it will. 

This little malady also interrupted a major ongoing late summer project I had hoped to have completed by this time, or Thanksgiving at the latest.  This may or may not happen by that deadline since I really need to take it easy for a while, especially at my tender young age.  However, "Wilson Pickett Fence Land" will also be forth coming before too long as well.

I have been working on a couple other offerings which have been primarily drafted for my second book, which will be a regurgitated compendium of certain Rooster posts along with a lot of new additions.  BTW, if you haven't picked up book one yet, there's still time and there's also a link for it somewhere around here.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy "Small Town Rock and Roll".  

Honestly, I can't constantly write about home improvement projects around the old homestead here, can I?  You're probably going to think that's all I do.

OK, it's just about all of what I do.  If you're not a home improver, my life's gotta sound boring as hell.  But there is a method to my madness.  I don't think we're out of this international economic mess yet and I do believe food and the transportation thereof will potentially become a problem in these here United States.  It is with this urgency in mind that I continue to strive for as much self sufficiency as is physically possible for me to attain for my family.  There's also a lot of ground to cover around here, and from what I can tell it ain't had a going over for just about, oh, forever. 

I do actually let me out of here every once in a while.  Last May, a scant 5 months ago, we took some friends of ours to see the international renowned musical artist Johnny Clegg at our local Center for the Arts.  Yes, South Africa's Johnny Clegg at a 300 seat venue.  This guy has played a sold out Royal Albert Hall for crying out loud.  What's he doing coming to our little Northern California Sierra Foothill town?

I must say our non-profit Center for the Arts has really been bringing some talent to the area over the last couple years.  Artists like Graham Nash, David Crosby, Kris Kristofferson, Chris Issac, Bela Fleck, David Wilcox, Jewell, Steve Earle, John Mayall, Melissa Etheridge, Joan Baez, Marc Cohn, and of course Johnny Clegg.  To name a few.  Sure beats having Blaine Tidswell playing accordion at the Holiday Inn as the only source of musical entertainment for miles around.  Right Des Moines?

This is a small country town, about 50 miles outside of Sacramento, the California state capital.  There have been a number of concerts, shows and events here over the years.  Some fairly large acts have stopped by, folks like Johnny Cash, CS&N, and The Band to name a few.  Our lovely county fairgrounds also hosts a World Music Fest every year, they just picked up the Strawberry Music Fest and there is a world famous blue grass festival held here every Father's Day weekend.

There's also several local bars that feature live music.  There's fewer today than when I was haunting the neighborhood.  Back then a few folks like Elvin Bishop would mosey on up and play this one place that was called Big Al's.   You could definitely get up close and personal in that type of atmosphere.  Plus, an old school chum of mine was then doing Elvin's sound board so I got a back party pass with the boys.  Back in the drinking days.  Poking fun at Elvin with way too many beers under my belt.  Ah, memories...

But the Center for the Arts is the first full time event coordinator we've had around here in like, forever.  If the artist is too large for the 300 seat Center venue, they get moved down the street to the Veteran's Auditorium, which seats 950.  That's where we saw Crosby and Nash a couple years ago.

We have seen that duo and all their many formats numerous times.  I mean, we were originally from the Bay Area in California, which I think had one of the best music scenes anywhere in the world in the 1960's and 70's.  Hell, they still do.

Back in that day we used to drive up to SF from our South Bay haunts and catch shows at Winterland as well as new artists a a night club called the Boarding House.  We caught Jimmy Buffet there a couple times just after Come Monday came out and before he went parabolic.  John Stewart, Arlo Guthrie, David Bromberg, Jesse Colin Young, Barry Manilow. To name a few.

The Center for the Arts brings back memories of the Boarding House.  It's about the same size, the sound is good and for folks who imbibe you can have cocktails.  I personally had to quit drinking a couple decades back.  At the rate it was going I was going to drink up all the alcohol in the universe.  Then there would not have been any left for you if you went to see a show at the Center, for instance.

You're welcome.

Going to a rock show these days is just about the same as back in the day when we'd lace up a watermelon with vodka and spend the day in Oakland at one of Bill Graham's Day on the Green concerts.   Maybe drop some stuff.  Smoke some stuff.   Eat some stuff.  Rock and roll baby.

Today everybody still rocks, everybody still rolls.  We probably don't drink, drop or smoke as many things though anymore.  Primarily because many of us have grey hair and are still here.  Those that continued on their hell bent lust for maximum overdrive generally aren't here anymore.  Or only speak in one syllable sentences accompanied by a look of satisfied confusion.

As I mentioned, my lovely wife and I have seen David and Graham numerous times in various formats.  But this was the first time we could see the color of their corneas since we were sitting about fifteen feet from the stage.   They opened with a stellar "8 Miles High", after which Graham commented that "the acid must be kicking in" when pointing out a girl who had already begun to dance.

Then David interjected, "No, I don't think it's acid.  This area's better known for it's agricultural pursuits."

Which, of course, brought resounding cheers from the audience.  This foothill locale actually does a remarkable amount of medicinal marijuana growing.  In fall, where ever you drive, the air is redolent with the scent of Cannabis.  Or Sativa.  Possibly both.   

It was a fabulous show.  And I have to say, kudos to our gray haired music loving mature audience up here in the hills.  I have heard Graham and David sing "Guinevere" live four or five times.  Every single time some putz in the audience has to let loose a coyote cat call somewhere in the middle of one of their soft, soaring harmonies.  There's always some Putz.  But that night was the first night I was able to enjoy that song in it's entirety without any type of putz intervention.  Here's to maturity!

I also must say that during intermission the parking lot was ablaze with glory.  The cloud of smoke was so thick they were diverting air traffic from Des Moines to Mars.  A Grateful Dead show had nothing over this scene.  Other dimensional UFO's were sputtering when trying to travel though the air space.  The low, thick fog at ground level was rife with gray hair and white rabbits with snorkels on their kazoos.

Ahem.  Where was I?

If you are not familiar with Johnny Clegg or his music, do yourself a favor and hit one of these links on You Tube: "Dela", "Take My Heart Away", "I Call Your Name", and "Asimbonanga".  I dare you not to tap your toes.  What you won't get from the videos is the amazing love and energy this man possesses.

His opening salvo blasted my heart chakra open like a power lawn mower would a tin can of sardines.  Gold fluorescence cascaded round the filigree like a kaleidoscope rainbow on the 4th of July.  The caress of  rhythm was transcendent.  My spirit danced, frolicked and cavorted like a puppy dog chasing a butterfly on a warm summer afternoon.

Did I mention I thought it was a good show?  I first saw Johnny Clegg on Johnny Carson around 1989 during a very dark period of my life.  His music was inspirational, and the one time I tried to see him in 1990, an outdoor show, was canceled due to rain.  I went home and faced some music of my own that day.  But that's a whole nother story, which can actually be found right here: Late Night Letters to the Moon.

There were a few folks under age 40 at Johnny's show up here, but I'd say 90% of the audience was over 50.  Most of them, men and women, were looking effervescently distinguished and gracefully cosmopolitan. You know, older and gray.  But that didn't matter as far as the groove went.  I would say that less than 5% of the crowd was NOT moving.  It was impossible not to move.  Such joyous sound, it lifted your caboose and turned it loose. 

And most of the crowd actually had decent rhythm.  That could be a testament to the artist, it could also be a testament to the experience of the audience.  I mean, I'm certain our friends and us were not the only ones that went to a few rock shows over the years with a vodka laced watermelon.  Or some acid.

My first show was actually a shared experience with good pal I shall call Miguel.  We went to school together and chummed around in the suburbs of the south bay area, which was a scant hour drive from the San Francisco music scene.  Every rock artist at the time came to San Francisco.  Or was from San Francisco.

It would have been tough to be a rock fan in the 1960's-70's if you lived in the middle of Montana.  Or Topeka.

We were big fans of Poco, one of the seminal country rock bands of the time.  They were playing at Winterland and were the 2nd act on a 3 bill show.  The opening band was a group called Focus, whose last yodeling song just didn't quite segue into Poco's country rock flavor.  Yep, yodeling.  And then country rock Poco didn't quite segue into the headliner Yes's unique sound.  Nevertheless, it was a fabulous experience for a first concert and it also turned me into a Yes fanatic for a number of years.

Miguel and I went to many many many shows together over the years, we were Boarding House buddies too.  Miguel is also a critically acclaimed musician as well as a bright and funny guy.  You can check out his music here at Sandbox Records.  OK, his real name is not Miguel.

One of the absolute best parts of having a music scene locally here is the lack of driving to get there.  Even back in the day it was an hour cruise up to the city.  Which wasn't too bad unless you discover you left all the tickets at home once you've almost arrived in the City and everybody in the car is just coming on to the acid you dropped on the way.  That makes the drive back home and then back up again quite arduous, extenuating and more than a little bit white knuckle interesting for the driver.  Quite colorful and usually funny as hell for the passengers.

Now we have a scant ten to fifteen minute ride to town, and there is generally ample and FREE parking within a short walking distance.  Who would have ever figured a rock and roll show could get this easy?

Small town rock and roll.  I'm a fan, for sure.

Fowl Update

Our little original flock of 8 has now grown to a robust 14, plus that rooster.  Besides the 3 surviving pullets I started this spring, a friend, who recently moved to one of the most loveliest spots on the planet, Late Tahoe, also gave me 3 laying Blue Andalusian hens.

Andalusian.  Sounds straight out of Star Trek.  But they're not, as far as I can tell.  Or maybe we are eating some space age eggs.   

 With our 3 self raised newbies now laying as well as the Andalusians, we are getting quite an assortment of colors and sizes of eggs these days.  The Blue Andalusians lay the white eggs.  The small, browner egg in the middle is from our Rhody, Rosy Posy Josie.  Guess who named her?  Our Americana and Speckled Sussex are also both laying a lighter brown egg.  And we're still getting a good assortment of AAA Large from the more established ladies of the flock.

The Speckled Sussex, who is named Flash, or Beatrix, depending on who you are talking to, has turned into the most amazingly loving hen we have yet met.  She is cute as hell, greeting us at the gate, even when all the rest of the flock is already perched up for the night.  She loves to be held and petted, and would easily come into the house, sit on the sofa and be treated like a cat.  If she were invited of course.  And maybe had fur instead of feathers.  OK, this drug addled brain appears to be heading off track again.

Happy  Fall Y'all.

Lemurs, Lemmings, Dorothy Lamour - Our March on Versailles

It was Tuesday morning.  The air was damp and cool, it had rained briefly the night before.  The weather was forecast to be cooler with a chance of rain.  I'll tell you what, this little excursion was one of the gosh darn hardest to pack for since our Everest ascent.

Just kidding.  Packing for Everest was easy.

We thought we did our due diligence.  I scoured the internet, checked with Rick Steve's, consulted with Al Roker, chatted with Paula Deen, all that.  Everybody and everything pretty much said the average temperature was in the high 70's-low 80's.  But then one source said it could be a wide swing, from the high 60's to mid 90's.  Apparently during the summer months rain could happen at almost any time.  It all seemed as unpredictable as, say, the weather.

So we sort of planned accordingly.  But as I think I previously mentioned in a previous Paris post I ended up wearing one pair of shorts, my snappy cargo shorts, five of seven days on the street.  And as it so happened, I decided to wear them this day, the day of our march on Versailles.  Good thing too, one always needs an extra pocket or two when going on a march.  You know, extra room for a fife and a fiddle.  I also wore a T-shirt under my regular good enough to be seen in public shirt, just so I had another layer.

As any good travel troop should, we did a fairly decent route recon for our journey into the luxurious lap of French royalty.  Versailles, as you may or may not know, was the residence of French monarchs and the cultural heartbeat of Europe for about 100 years, until the revolution of 1789 changed all that.  You know, "Let them eat cake and maybe I'll lose my head."  That sort of thing.  It is a MUST SEE apparently if ever one gets within its vicinity.

The town of Versailles is about a half hour train ride from Paris, depending on where in the city you pick up the train.  The RER train is available at 6 different metro stops and runs on 3 different lines.  But by this time we were subterranean pros and took the metro to one of the appropriate stops, paid the E6.60 each for the round trip train ticket and then my lovely wife and I hopped on the appropriate train in a rush of people, leaving our favorite traveling companions standing on the platform in a crowd of foreigners. 

I was a little irked because we had been herded on in a mass of humanity by some lady who had on a hat and badge and looked official.  Now, as I looked around, I discovered there weren't even two seats for my lovely wife and I to sit upon.  Had we been ushered on to a slow train to hell?

Fortunately, not everybody on the train was on the 30 minute ride to Versailles.  At the first stop two seats became available on the lower deck.  Two stops later almost the entire upper deck became available as about 56 college aged females departed for either a rugby match or science contest.

We moseyed upstairs and then enjoyed a picturesque ride the rest of the way to Versailles.  The train goes way too fast to enjoy the scenery if you're sitting on the lower level.  Greenery just whooshes by.  But on the upper level you get a pretty decent view of just about everywhere.

Once we arrived in Versailles we waited at the station for the next train.  It soon arrived and there were our companions.  And there, at the station, we also quickly discovered the multitudes had risen.  Orderly hordes and a mass confusion of humanity were everywhere.  There weren't just thousands of people, there were TENS of thousands of people.  Everywhere.  Nobody even remotely famous was around.  The Pope wasn't even there.  Everyone was on a pilgrimage to see old fashioned glitter.

The palace is about a quarter to  half mile from the train station, with an endless ant trail of folks going back and forth.  Across the street a wild horde had gathered around some sort of travel agency.  Some nice lady with a name tag and hat told one of our companions that we needed to get in that line.  It was like, a couple hundred strong at that point.  Why would we want to stand in that line?  Because some lady with a name tag said we should?  What was up with official looking ladies in hats telling us what to do, anyway?

So we got in the ant trail and followed the horde up the street and around the corner.  And then, wait for it, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."  (An angelic hosts sings.)

Our eyes were almost blinded  by an incredible array of light from all the gold gilding upon the front gate.  Rays of light were shining up through the cloud dotted sky and into the heavens.  You could almost hear the departed Monarch spirits singing like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  Or Lynyrd Skynyrd. 

That was about the only thing we saw.  Other than people.  I have never seen that many people in any one place at any one time.  Except for maybe Bo Belinski's debut in the Bay Area in 1966.

According to Rick Steve's, the absolute worst day of the week to visit Versailles is a Tuesday.  He said it was really crowded on Tuesdays.  He didn't say why, but he said it.  I took this into consideration when I drafted the ESS, originally planning to assault Versailles on Saturday.  Rick Steve's, the Tuesday thing, he is right.  Boy is he right.  I don't know what Versailles is like on any other day of the week, but I can most certainly say that just about everyone in Europe and Japan was at Versailles on the day we visited.  Which was a Tuesday by the way.

By this time I really, really, really had to pee.  I still had morning coffee trying to make a break, and it was getting extremely uncomfortable.  There are no restrooms at metro stations, I didn't see one at the train station either.  And then we'd been wandering aimlessly among the hordes for almost an hour, trying to figure out which way was up.  And I really, really, really had to pee.

Even our magical museum pass would not get us through the security line to get in.  That was the main cause of the immense line.  They want to make sure no one is carrying any C4 that might blow up, you know, beautiful, priceless, culturally beneficial objects of glitter and art.

We looked at the line again, it was still immense.  Like a line from California to Kansas would be, only wound up like a serpent so they could all fit within a football field or two.  A big, sweaty football field.  I knew I would never make it another ten minutes let alone the four days it was going to take us to get in via that line.

While we were consternating our next move, my next move was to the parking lot.  On one side of the lot were about 100 tour buses, I'm not exaggerating.  Probably tens of thousands more.  Now I'm exaggerating.  But that was out since most of the bus drivers were sitting in their seats reading newspapers.  I'm sure they wouldn't have liked it if some dude went out and started marking their wheels.

In another area was a regular parking lot with cars, vans and scooters.  I waltzed out there, not really.  It was pretty painful by this point.  I staggered out there like a short Frankenstein who'd just been hit with a thousand volts of hot buttered elasticity.  Or just recently hit in the private region with a really big toaster.  That probably makes more sense.  Once safely ensconced within the garden of vehicles, I became one with the cars and vans and managed to relieve myself without getting intercepted by a single witness.  That I know of.  Hopefully a video won't surface any time soon.

Instead of standing in line FOREVER, we opted for a look see at the gardens, which was recommended by Rick Steve's (in case the palace line was massive.)  These grounds aren't just like a patch of vegetables on the corner block, these are miles and acres of gardens.  Apparently royalty back then rather enjoyed endless artistically manicured wilderness.

We basically strolled on down to the Grand Trianon, the royals home away from home, which lies near the end of that lake in the center of the above photo.  That's about a mile or so away.  Near the Grand Trianon, we also visited the Petit Trianon, Marie Antoinette's party place when she wanted to be away from the ball.

The gardens were endlessly immense, exquisitely manicured, and fun fun fun if you were in a golf cart, which we weren't.  We did stroll down to the lake, but then picked up a shuttle bus that took us to all the remaining pertinent locations, even bringing us back up to the garden entrance by the palace.

We thought our three hour detour would have made a dent in the line, it hadn't.  Even a male tour guide with a hat and a name tag said the huge square would be half empty by 3PM.  It wasn't.  It was still full and sweaty.  We were getting absolutely no satisfaction this day from anybody that looked official.  Apparently.

The sisters decided they had to hit the gift shop at the very least.  After burning up fifteen minutes there, we all decided to walk back to the town of Versailles to grab a late lunch.  The town of course sprang up around the palace just to house and provide services to the hundreds of folks who provided services at the palace.

Once again we found a lovely outdoor brassiere, sat down for more awesome cuisine and burned up an hour.  It was now 4:00 PM.  The palace closed at 5:30.  There was still a pretty long line, like from California to Colorado.  You'd think some people would have gone home by now, but apparently some had just moved to the gardens while half the orderly horde yet remained.  

A little more than dismayed, the sisters decided to hit the gift shop one more time.  I sat outside and watched the line.  It was moving and was actually shortening.  About 5 minutes later the good Doc joined me and we decided to get in line, just because why not.  We were hanging out anyway.  There were still about a hundred folks in front of us, but the line was moving fairly quickly.  The lovely sisters soon joined us, and before we knew it we were in.

It was, how can I say this, incredibly, extremely crowded.  There's only one direction to go, and once you're in you pretty much have to go that direction.  It's a human tide.  If you tried to turn back it would be like a salmon swimming upstream.  It'd be like Richard Pryor with his hair on fire trying to run through a parade of circus clowns and elephants.  Uh-oh, flashback again.

The four of we intrepid explorers were together for a while, but then somehow it was just me and my lovely wife.  And four thousand other people in one room.  We did see the largest chandelier ever known to man though.  It was the size of the Empire State Building, or at least as big as a really large watermelon.  It would take half a day to dust that puppy if it took a minute.

Somewhere along the way my lovely wife and I got separated.  It wasn't difficult.  There were hundreds of people politely jostling along.  One misstep and you could be separated for life.  I am talking the shoulder to shoulder shuffle, your own personal space limited to about 2 inches.  Everywhere.  You are shuffling along in an endless parade of people.  There was no going back.

Somewhere along the line there was a little off shoot heading into maybe a parlor, or bedroom, or some other incredibly lavish situation.  I was simply swept in that direction and my lovely wife was shuffled forward.  I have no idea.  My life was not my own at that point.

I was enveloped by a huge throng of foreign speaking tourists.  They all wanted a look see at the luxury.  I no longer cared.  I just wanted out.  I was almost there before I was whooshed away and ushered in another direction, but now it was imperative.  I had to get out.  Minutes shuffled by.  Hundreds of people all crushing about.  It was hot, it was stifling.  I was in a slow shuffling crowd of about 400 tourists, probably.  I was shoulder to shoulder with a cacophony of people, no way out in front, back or sides.  

This was, then, surely hell.  Where else could it be?  I was alone and in hell with hundreds, nay thousands of other people.  And then my lovely sister-in-law grabbed me from behind.  Ah!  Thank God.  I knew she'd end up here too.  Through the onerous din, I indicated I needed to get out.  She, too, thought it insane.  We slowly moved with the crowd, through the off-shoot parlor detour and then merging back with the main crowd.  The shuffle was now slowed to about six inches per second, maybe ten feet per minute.  Maybe not.

Yep, I had surely died and gone to hell, because, well.   I was in hell with all it's crowded multitudes, wishing they had guild in their bathrooms while they were living.  I thought the devil was chiding me.

I muttered, "There's got to be a fu*king way out of here."

And then I heard a deep voice above my head say, "There is no way out."

The voice had a Scottish brogue.

Apparently the devil was from Scotland and was a very tall fellow.

The voice continued, "All these people you see, they have been here since six this morning trying to find their way out.  It's hopeless.  There is no way out.  Got a bagel?"

And then I looked up and discovered a rather tall chap in a baseball cap with a kid by his side.  He was smiling.  He had heard me mutter there was no way out.  At least my lovely sister in law and I had an allay.  And one who could see where we were all shuffling.  It was another ten to fifteen minutes though before we found our way to an exit.  Once outside we exulted like butterflies on a soft summer breeze.

There was certainly endless, unbelievable opulence to be seen, maybe that's why it's such a big draw.   I think it's a much better draw than say, Disneyland Paris.  And I can definitely say, with utmost authority, if you have read this passage and ever visit Versailles on a Tuesday then you would be a bona fide fool.  Unless, of course, you really want to see more people in one place than you've ever seen before in your life.

That evening, in preparation for their departure, the good Doc and I did some research regarding airport transfers.  We ended up finding a place that was about $15 less expensive than ihatetaxis.com.  We both ended up booking our return transfers from them, which was great.  But I do want to say it was rather important (for us) to be in the presiding country of travel to book that transfer.  I am still a HUGE ihatetaxis.com fan as far as initial airport to location transfer.  I think it's just too iffy to try and initially book internationally.  Before you take off for any foreign country, I would definitely put ihatetaxis.com down as one of your first research sites.

That night, our last night all together, we ate, drank and sang more sailing songs.  Off key and off kilter, of course.

The next morn our companions departed.  There were sister tears, there always are.  The good Doc and I are accustomed to this.  It happens every time.  Once the tears had subsided, my lovely wife and I were off for our final day of Paris exploration.

In doing a little more on site research, I noticed a neighborhood fairly close that we had not yet visited.  We strolled on down to le Grands, about ten blocks away and discovered an incredible array of fashion icons and edible wonders, among other things.  There was, of course Chanel.

And then there was Fauchon, founded in 1886, a bastion of over the top edibles like tea, caviar and foie gras.  There's Hediard, another gourmet shop founded in 1854.  Caviar, candy, truffles.  And while you're eating all that luxury you can be wearing the fashion you've also purchased at shops like Ralph Lauren, Gucci and Hugo Boss.  All of which places have security at the front and side doors.

We picked up a few gourmet goodies for gifts and then meandered back to the Eiffel Tower, where we took several selfies-

That last evening my lovely wife and dined at yet another wonderful brasserie.  My lovely wife, always the adventurous diner, decided to go for a little steak tartare.  When she ordered it the waiter looked straight at her and asked in marginal English, "You know what it is?"   To which she nodded her ascent.

Steak Tartare seems like a pretty big deal in France.  It's not really what you see here in America, you know, a raw beef patty with raw egg on top.  Mmmmm, yum?

No, not at all.  In France the meat is actually very finely cut up steak.  Nice cuts too.  Not a gram of fat.  Many brasseries had very special recipes for their Tartare, adding herbs and spices to make it their own.

The waiter was very pleased my lovely wife almost finished her steak.  I, too, had a bite.  I'll try anything once.  I was a little more food adventurous when I drank alcohol.  Hmmh.  Probably gonna be tough to get me to eat bugs or lizard gizzard anymore.

We thoroughly enjoyed our last dining experience together in Paris, the food and street ambiance were supreme.  Here is my lovely wife feeling a satisfied, happy melancholy.

That last day while shopping we also went in to a store to buy my lovely wife a lovely pair of lovely, renowned Parisian underwear.  If you know what I mean.  I think every woman who goes to Paris surely must buy at least one pair.  It should be a law.

Me?  I do not need a macho pair of renowned Paris underwear.  I got a pair of butt enhancing briefs to remember the trip.

Epilogue

Travel, for the most part, is fun.  Except for the travel part.  Most all exotic destinations are generally fantabulous, but getting there and back, unless you're traveling by burro, can be quite boring.  And scary.  Flying scares the hell out of me.  How does that dang couple ton hunk of metal get in the air and stay there anyway?  Same thing with a fax.  How did that letter go through that wire?  I just don't get it.  But I digress.

So we're on our way home, the flight via Air Canada from Paris to Montreal was just peachy.  Then upon our three hour layover in Montreal-which was a good thing since Montreal is an entrance point for the US-I came down with a little tickle in my nose.

But let me retreat.  Customs is quite exacting in Montreal.  Holy cow.  First they usher you into a smallish room, all the passengers on the Air Canada flight who were going into the US, about 50 of us.  So we're all just sitting in this room, waiting, and video surveillance was EVERYWHERE.  I could feel ten pairs of eyes watching my every move.

"Don't pick your nose now Homeboy," I said to myself.  It could make Canadian news.

Then we finally get up to the guy, and he looks at our ticket, punches in some numbers on the computer and then pulls up a picture of our luggage on the video screen in front of him.  WTF?  Could they also see my lovely wife's new underwear from Paris?

We verify it's ours, and then go into ANOTHER waiting room with video surveillance cameras everywhere.  Dang, I still couldn't pick my nose.  We waited there another thirty minutes or so before finally standing in front of a customs agent in a booth.  It was kind of like confession.  Only different.

He asked if we were bringing back regular type tourist stuff, to which we replied yes, which was true.  Mustard, wine, candies, scarfs and other knick knacks like that.  An Eiffel Tower replica.  Tourist stuff.  Hell, they'd probably already looked at everything anyway.  It was a quick stamp of the passport and we were off and free to roam the Montreal airport. 

It was there, after my dinner which included Canadian French Fries, I felt this little tickle in my nose.  It felt like an allergy thing.  I usually carry some antihistamine in my magic back pack, but I had switched packs for Europe and the little yellow pills that stop Niagara Falls were left behind.  Dang.

So I ran the gauntlet past the two or three book store mini marts seeking antihistamine, and I could not find a thing.  I said OK, I can handle this.  I have a hanky.

It must've been the Canadian fries.  By the time we were in flight for an hour I had a soggy hanky.  At one point water was dripping out my right eye while it was also running out my nose, doubling my liquid pleasure.

Upon landing in SF, after the mandatory wait while all the rude travel bubs get their too many sad sacks of crap out of the overhead bins, I raced to a magazine stand.  There I found 2 Claritan's for almost $6, a helluva deal.  I'd have paid $20.

We had a real quick layover in SF, and after a real quick fifty minute flight we were back at our local quasi international airport.   Our son and fabulous girlfriend were there for the airport to house transfer, and we were home around 1:00 AM (PST), or 10:00 AM (Paris time).  Hell, it was just about time to get out on the street for the day's adventures.  

It will hopefully be a birthday my lovely wife will remember and cherish for the rest of her life.

Double Epilogue

The only reason Dorothy Lamour is in the title of this post is because I think her last name sounds so good with the first couple words of the title.  I like words - it's a problem, I know.

Flagrantly Fragrant French Fromage

One thing sure seemed relatively certain to all four of we traveling foreign foodies, the French folk sure seemed to be serious about their food.  From our first encounter in the grocery market to all the restaurants we visited thereafter, we did not encounter anything that even remotely tasted eh.  Apparently we could not find any bad food in Paris.  And we also discovered right away they were very flagrant about their fragrant fromage, or cheese.

I am lactose intolerant, have been for over a decade now.  Yeah, I can take them lactose enzyme things, but for me, they only work so much.  And cheese, for me, is the absolute worst as far as milk products go.  I have gone without or adapted to many milk products over the years, and actually have found a way to make many cream desserts without the cream.  I'll have to save that for another post actually, but a definite game changer for lactose intolerant folks who love desserts.  Stay tuned.

Ah, where was I?  Oh yes, lactose intolerance and the tons of gourmet cheeses in France.  When I first became aware of my intolerance and started changing my diet, it was initially difficult to stop eating cheese.  But I adapted over time and I haven't really missed it in years.  My other three traveling companions, however, are not so afflicted.  When they first encountered the cheese section at the market I could have sworn I heard chirps of ecstasy.  And then some yodeling.

There was some serious French fromage in that there market cheese section.  There's actually entire French Fromage shops, selling nothing but kaboodles of the pungent stuff.  Hell, back in Amsterdam the market we went to there had a cheese wheel the size of a semi tire.  In France the big wheels of cheese were the size of a semi truck.   You know, like, if there were big rectangular wheels for instance.

So at that first foray into the market, a couple different cheeses made it into the basket.  Not my basket, but
somebody's.  There was other stuff in my basket, like meat and chocolates.  And the good Doctor always made sure we had a baguette of true French bread.  Every day.  Wine and French Bread.  Did not go home without it.


The second afternoon of our stay somebody noticed that the fridge was starting to smell a little frommagy.  Like all of us.  It wasn't hard.  It seems the blue cheese my lovely wife bought, the stuff that was growing new mold on the already blue mold, was affecting everything else in the fridge with it's odorous vintage.  The only thing saving us all from a full on bio assault was the three inch thick metal casing surrounding the cold air inside the fridge.  But once that door was opened, you had to duck.

Everything inside the fridge smelled of fromage.  Peaches, chocolate, wine.  Now, cheese and wine typically go pretty good together, but not out of the same bottle.  Ah yes, here we have a nice bottle of vintage Bordeaux.  A classic varietal, with subtle notes of cheddar and jack.

Cheesy chocolate?  No thanks.  Something had to be done.  We could toss in on a neighbor's porch...

That does remind me of a high school senior prank an old school chum and I pulled one day.  On our own.  We took a first period cooking class together, and one morning the class was about different kinds of cheese.  One of them happened to be Limburger, a cheese with a particularity heightened brand of odor.  My chum and I took a bit of that cheese along with us to our next class, which we took together, creative writing.  There we wrote a funny little sonnet by sticking small amounts of Limburger cheese underneath about ten desks.  By mid afternoon the doors and windows of that room were all open and about ten desks were out in the plaza, having been recently cleaned.  Class was being held in the library.  We never got caught.

On our way out that day, as always, we took down the garbage.  That day we also dropped off the cheese.  It was actually growing.  The blue was begetting more blue and it was getting cheesier all the time.  I don't know what's going to happen to it now that it's been sent to a landfill somewhere around Paris.  Hopefully a nice French rat, like Ratatouille, or a nice French skunk, like PePe Le Pew, will find it and eat it before it frommages up the entire country.

The day after my lovely wife's birthday had to be a mellow one.  Are you kidding?  Was once a time we never slept through entire weekends, now and then.  Staying up past nine is a big event anymore, 1:00 AM?  Way big doings, that's for sure.  And for sure, everyone needed to sleep in.

So, rather than do the Louvre, which would be an all day affair and was on the ESS for that particular day, we all opted to go to the Musee d'Orsay, which would only be a half a day at best.  We decided to lateral the Louvre a couple days out.

The d' Orsay houses French art from 1848-1914, which covered the most important part of art history for us, Impressionism.  As a matter of fact, the d' Orsay houses one of the largest collections of Impressionist art in the world.   Universe even.

As always, we strolled down to the museum.  Our apartment was in a wonderful location, with no large historical venue more than a couple miles away. We would typically start our daily adventures with a stroll, or city hike, and then see what fortunes the day might bring along before deciding how to return.

On the way to the d' Orsay, which is across the Seine from the Louvre, we accidentally happened upon the Pont des Arts, or bridge between the museums. This bridge is moderately famous because of all the locks that have been placed on the chain link fence.  And I quote from somewhere,

 

"Some years ago, a new fad started when love-struck sweethearts began locking padlocks onto the chain link fence of the Pont des Arts, which crosses from the left bank to the Louvre museum. The love padlocks, called cadenas d’amour, multiplied until there were thousands of love tokens on the bridge, each engraved with a message of love. After locking the love padlock onto the fence, lovers toss the keys into the Seine river – a sign of their eternal devotion."

Both us traveling couples became high school sweethearts once again, forty some years of ups and downs erased in a couple youthful heartbeats.  Fortunately a couple young enterprising vendors made it easy for we star struck lovers to join in the fun.  One young man sold locks, quite reasonable as a matter of fact (a couple euros) and a young lady would engrave the lock for a fee.  If you didn't want to pay (or wait) for engraving, the lock seller also had a Sharpee with which to inscribe the lock.

Both we couples bought a lock, one couple had their lock engraved.  The other couple wrote their initials on their lock with a Sharpee.  For our part, my lovely wife and I placed our lock on the chain link fence together and then kissed, our left legs rising in unison at the knee.  Then we tossed the key in the river and Cha Cha Cha'd across the bridge.  We all felt like high school kids again, which is actually where both couples first met and began dating, so many wonderful years ago.  Jeez, dare I say decades?

There was a French accordion master playing a few wonderful versions of old French standards, which  added a nice, romantic touch to the ambiance.   Then there was an old gypsy hag in a bundle of haphazardly thrown together shawls, bandanas and pup tents who was limping along like she was dragging a two hundred pound wooden canary beneath her shroud.  Her head was usually down and she muttered about for change as she dragged her cannon leg along.

"Eggs for the poor," she muttered.  Only it sounded different in French.

What struck me though about Hag-zilla was that every now and then she would lift her head up and her clear, sharp eyes would dart about, deftly surveying her surroundings.  And then in an instant her head was down and she was back to muttering form.  I tossed the accordion master some change.  I stayed as far away from Hag-zilla as possible, she scared the hell out of me.

Once we were through with our high school sweetheart regression, hand in hand we strolled over the bridge and into the Musee d'Orsay.

The d' Orsay is not quite as well known as the Louvre, so there was not nearly as much of a crowd. There was still, however, a good fifty person line waiting to get in.  Happily our little traveling party with our Paris Museum Pass's walked right in through another entrance, NO waiting at all.

Since we had worked up quite an appetite rekindling our high school romance(s) along the way, and since we figured we'd need a little sustenance before engaging the Impressionists, we decided to engage the dining room.  And boy howdy were we happy we did!

Everything in that room was a work of art.  From the ceiling and fifteen layers of guilded crown molding to

what they put on the plates, it was all a work of art.

Here's some fabulous Pate de Foie Gras, served on a plate with several different types of peas and some sort of art nouveau cracker.

I mean, how can you not like ground up fowl organ meat when it looks like that?  Yum.

After our sumptuous dining excursion we delved right on in for a few hours of incredible culture.

If you really wanted to see everything in the museum, you should probably allow all day.  The place might not be the football stadium(s) that are the Louvre, but it's still pretty darn big.  We all focused on our favorite period, which was good, because after a few hours we got to hear the final cattle call of the day, "The museum is closing in fifteen minutes.  Get the hell out."  Or something like that.  What do I know?  I don't speak French.

On the way out, my lovely wife entered the absolutely PACKED gift shop.  It was closing time and it was sardine time.  I motioned that I would mosey outside and catch her there.  Where there was air.  I'm not much of a sardine guy.  Anchovies either.

I stepped outside, the entrance square was alive with the hustle and bustle of happy tourists at play.  A dozen different languages  in the background chitter chatter.  People watching in Europe, it does not get better.  As I scanned the late afternoon arty exit ambiance, I noticed a small crowd gathering and sitting on the long steps of the square, which rose up from a pedestrian thoroughfare.  I wandered over and discovered a solo male violinist in his thirties holding court, playing real good.  For change.  He sounded like a symphony player, or at least first chair in a high school band.  His audience grew as he quite melodically sashayed through some Paganini, Puccini and Pet Shop Boys.

Then there was this tall, almost homeless looking man who had set up camp within close proximity of the violinist.  Mr. Mimic, who looked like a cross between Gerard Depardieu and Marty Feldman, would spy an unsuspecting approaching human and then mimic their walk and demeanor in a rather humorous and sardonic fashion.  In some instances he was not very kind.  Funny, but not very kind to many of the the innocent passersby.  Some of the victims played back, some ignored him, several fled.  The audience all laughed.  Although he was quite vigorous in his comical assaults, he was also quite gracious, sincerely adopting a "Wai" gratitude pose when gifted with change.

The rest of the party soon joined me, and before long there were about eighty people enjoying both shows.  We watched another ten minutes or so and then walked over to the metro since we had become seasoned metro commuters.  When we exited at the Bourse, we accidentally discovered an even closer market, like only three blocks from the apartment.  Instead of ten.  Viola!  We picked up the usual stuff, including baguette, returned to the apartment, ate, drank and sang more sailing songs into the heart of the night.  

Sunday morning we actually returned to the ESS, or Excel Spread Sheet.  Sunday had always been the 2nd most important day of the trip, flea market day.  My lovely wife loves flea markets, and Paris hosts the MOTHER of all flea markets, the Puces St. Ouen (pronounced "Huh?"), which hosts over 2,000 vendors.

From Rick Steves: "Paris' sprawling flea markets are over-sized garage sales.  They started in the Middle Ages, when middlemen sold old, flea-infested clothes and discarded possessions of the wealthy at bargain prices to eager peasants.  Buyers were allowed to rummage through piles of aristocratic garbage."

The Puces St. Ouen lies on the outskirts of Paris, definitely not within strolling distance.  So we took the metro out, making a couple underground changes along the way.  Once we arrived top side we followed the crowd and eventually entered acres and acres and blocks and miles and oodles of vendors.  This really wasn't a parking lot where pick-ups drove up and folks plopped their wares on the asphalt.  Most of the vendors had their own stalls, some were pop-up tents, some were within huge warehouses.  Certain areas specialized in certain items, so if you were looking for something specific you could narrow down your search area.  You know, like down to a square mile.

We soon discovered there was the typical every day flea market cheap stuff and then there were fourteen thousand Louis the Whatever chairs that were all for sale in excess of thousands of dollars.  A lot of stuff was BIG, and none of it seemed to be whispering a sweet take me home sonnet.

We wandered and strolled and got lost, finding ourselves once again on a nondescript corner somewhere in and around the madcap mayhem that is the Puces St Ouen.  There was but another charming sidewalk brasserie and we plopped ourselves right on down.

This brasserie was owned and operated by a very gracious and entertaining gentleman who also happened to be our waiter.  He spoke decent enough English, substantially better than any of our French.  We found out his parents first opened the place after WWII and it had pretty much been his life for sixty years.

There was an eight by ten black and white of him as a kid waiting tables.  It was on the wall, along with many other old photos of life back when on the block.  An entire life spent in one building, really.  I found him a fascinating story and individual.

By the way, did I mention you pretty much get French Fries with everything?  Burger?  Fries.  Steak?  Fries.  Ice cream?  Fries.  I ate a lot of fries while I was in France.  Basic, thick cut fries.  Everywhere.  I think they standardized them just like they did the baguette of bread.  They seemed to be French institutions.

Sometimes they served mayo as a condiment with the fries, sometimes not.  They definitely don't serve ketchup with them, and don't ask.  My lovely sister-in-law was politely accosted by our waiter when she asked for some.  He then proceeded to ask her, quite humorously, if she wanted ketchup with her salad.  And then with her ice cream.

After we had been sitting for a few minutes, outside of course, some classic French accordion music began inside.  Soon it was joined by a most lovely, alluring female voice.  I could see the gentleman playing the accordion through the open door, but I could not see the singer.

The simple background music set a most delightful ambiance.  We were sitting outside in a brasserie on a lovely afternoon in Paris, listening to a wonderful version of "C'est Magnifique".

When the music stopped, an utterly charming seventies something Chanteuse in a leopard print mini-skirt came by our table with a hat.  I gave her a ten for the table, for which she responded with an enchanting smile.  For being seventies something, that girl looked great and sounded like Lady Gaga on steroids.

After lunch we once again embarked, searching for the prefect antique to bring home.  But alas, the antique angels were not apparently with my lovely wife that day.  She really didn't find anything that sang to her.  Not like the candle Abra she found our last day in Amsterdam.  And boy howdy did that ever NOT fire my rockets when faced with the challenge of getting it home.  In a suitcase.

 

Actually, that little puppy can break down and just about fit in a shoe box.  Really.

And now a news bulletin:  The night before in Paris, unbeknownst to most of the real world, there was some Muslim rioting in the streets over the Israel-Gaza affair.  My lovely sister in law discovered this factoid online on the Huffington Post that morning and we took note.

Then, as we were wandering along in the amazing maze of vendors and antiques, we noticed there was a large group of young men starting to coagulate under an overpass, by a corner, not very far away.  Like, right over there not far away!  You know, like fifty feet.  When I say large group, I'm not talking ten to fifteen.  No, there were at least a hundred young men and they were being joined by more and more young men every minute.  With the riots in mind from the night before and the intersection not looking like a likely scenario for a soccer match, and not quite wanting to get involved in a potentially heightened foreign affair, we decided it was time to go.  Like, anywhere but there.  The thing was, like, we were lost again and had to figure out where the train station was.

I found the route, (not covered by the Moon Map Guide-there's a separate map for the flea market) which unfortunately took us kitty corner across from the impending insurgency.  And as we walked, I noticed a couple cop cars blazing into the scene, four coppers to each small sedan.  It didn't look like they were armed.  Maybe they were going to just going to flail and kick.  Or they carried some magic sauce somewhere.

Our pace quickened, and now we were in the thick of the less expensive side of things, the cheap stuff you see at all the flea markets over here.  Made in China.  The Dollar Store.  And the walkway was thick with young, foreign speaking potential agitators.  It was a long, hard football field and more of zigging and zagging, but we wound our way through the crowd and got to the metro and eventually home.

The next day, a Monday, was going to be our assault on the Louvre.  We had to, we were running out of time.  Our companions were departing in two days, we in three.  And we still had Versailles to see.

After another festive night of wine, fromage and sailing songs, we left the next morning with our standard stroll from the apartment.  Actually at a decent hour this time.  The Louvre was still packed, but we entered via the pass line and this time had to wait behind four or five other people.  Sheesh.

Once inside, the place looked even bigger than it did from the outside.  One of the main reasons to hit the Louvre is to see the Mona Lisa, which seems to be a mass favorite amongst all speaking peoples.  And according to Rick Steves, the room in which she is housed can get quite crowded at times, with lines and everything.  We decided to immediately make a beeline to the Mona Lisa and get that smirking, docile little wench out of the way.

We looked at the museum map, Mona appeared to be about a mile from where we entered.  Not in a straight line either. We just had to go down a couple corridors, make a right, then pass through a couple interconnected rooms  Then walk down a wide hallway and make a left.  Now that we were at the stairs we went up to the 2nd floor, made a right and walked down a corridor.  From there it was another right, or left, another hall, another room, hell, who cares at this point?  We finally found her, somehow.

Mona is actually a tiny little painting setting by herself on a HUGE wall.  Meh.  But she was a must see, kinda like the Eiffel Tower.  Even though we made a wounded bee line to the masterpiece, there was still quite a crowd.  I couldn't imagine what the room would have been like in an other hour.

With Mona out of the way, what next?   Our companions had a couple things they really wanted to see, and my lovely wife really wanted to see some Etruscan things.  Not crusty things like I first thought.  Really really old things.  Like the oldest things ever.  Older than most crusty things even.

To get to the Etruscan scene, I think we had to cross the river Rhine and then come back via Spain.  Over the Alps.  Something like that.  It took us about an hour to find the exhibit, getting lost a couple dozen times along the way.  Fortunately there's priceless art all along the way, so it wasn't like we were missing out on too much.  Just 7/8 of the rest of the stuff in the place.  The Louvre is huge, massive.  You can take a guided tour, but that would still only hit the high points.  If you really want to explore the whole museum, allow at least three days.  And bring some extra food and water just in case.  And a flash light.  You never know.

I think we randomly stumbled upon a couple Reuban's along the way, saw a couple French Dips too.  Tuna Salad anyone? 

Sorry.

After a few hours we were through.  Even though we hadn't really been on a wildly urgent art museum kick, we were still getting a little culture burn.  Besides, it was brasserie time.  We hooked up with our companions and off we went in search of that afternoons repast.

Amazingly we didn't have to travel very far.  There's just about one on every corner.  Our waiter there didn't speak a lot of English and at first seemed annoyed we Americans had arrived within his sphere.  But then he broke the ice by playfully tossing cloth napkins on everybody's lap.  It was another enjoyable French meal, and again we had fries.

From there we wandered over to a neighborhood recommended by Rick Steve's and, even though we never really found it, we had a nice afternoon stroll nonetheless.  That night we did the usual, actually earning the disdain from one of our neighbors for the second time.

"Louder please," I believe was the sardonic response to our apparently ever elevating decibel level.  She had an almost vulgar French accent.  Gutteral baby.  Probably enhanced by French wine.  Probably a lot of it.  We sang the last few tunes quietly and retired early.  We had to be ready for the next day, our March on Versailles.