My Left Write Hand Left

I lost my left write hand the other day, he left me.  Actually he left all of us, destined for greater glory in some off-shoot alien dive bar, no doubt.  Hanging out with Cliff and Norm, tossing a few back.

My Left Collaborative Hand was known by a  number of pen names.  Dr. Ruddy Foodmart, Marturo, Rud, the Martiqulous Martin Q, The Amazing Martin Q, Mudnick McFudnick, Augie McDoogle, but mostly, the Amazing Martin Q.

And amazing he was.  I cut my writing teeth with Marty, waaay back in the early 1970's, when we were seniors in high school.  We'd sit around the table at the end of class in Boy's Chef and work on my assignment for the next class, Creative Writing.

By the way, our inspirations at the time were the Firesign Theater, a radio troupe that recorded such gems as "How Can You Be In Two Places At Once When You're Not Anywhere At All," "I Think We're All Bozos On This Bus" and "Don't Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers" among many others.  We were also big fans of the National nee Harvard Lampoon.  With those derelicts as our guiding light, how could we not be funny?

We penned a few stupid ditty's back then, but then later became quite legendary and renowned among at least a couple hundred people for our party invitations.  I'm not quite sure how that all came about, but the first one was for a Christmas party circa December, 1974, called, "Joyeux Noel Fantastique" or "Drunken Christmas." 

And then followed the "Let Me Call You Sweetheart Levi Ball" on Valentine's Day, 1975.  Many more invitations chock full of obnoxious and tasteless humor followed, mostly for formal Christmas parties my wife and I threw back when.

Marty always said I was the train of thought in our duo, or more to the point I was the straight man.  I would generally start out somewhere in left field, because I'm a little bent too.  Marty would then chime in, sometimes he'd be on the ball field, but more often than not he'd come in from somewhere in another galaxy, funnier than hell.  And then we'd puddle up in laughter for a few minutes and have a heck of a time recalling what just happened.  We finally started tape recording our sessions so we wouldn't lose valuable tidbits of lunacy.

Marty also assisted me with a laundry list of life event spoken word necessities for which I needed less sanity.  A speech for the firefighter's association I was president of, a speech for my daughter's wedding, a speech for a while.  There were a couple of roasts of hapless friends at their bachelor parties as well.

But Marty was not only a writing co-conspirator, we were buddies.  We chummed, we bummed.  We drank more than a few beers together, smoked a bit of weed together and yes, we might have dropped acid together a few times as well.

In one of my last phone conversations with him he asked if I remembered the "Red Mountain Incident."

How could I not?  It is infamous within our own little circle of two.  That I now share with you.

I'm pretty sure this happened during our senior year of high school.  That year my mom ran away from home.  Or more to the point she started her long-awaited relocation to San Diego.  Leaving me, a senior, and my older brother by two years in charge of the house.

She paid all the bills and came home for a weekend a month.  She was a whiz typist and had landed a job for the guy that invented the soft contact lens.  It was her job to type up the multi thousand page submission to the FDA.  In a hurry.

So that left my brother and me the opportunity of hosting probably more than one party.  And we did.  Pretty much all year.  We didn't quite hit an "Animal House" stage of affairs, but without knowing it we gave it a pretty decent shot.

There wasn't a dead horse, but a black cat died.  And a there was a giant chicken lurking around.  Lots and lots and lots of beer.  Plenty of weed.  A little LSD now and then.  The cops came a couple times too.

Actually, looking back, there's a number of pretty hilarious stories that happened that year at 6363 Rainbow Drive, San Jose, California, suburbia USA, and this is one of them.

In preparation for one of the many, Marty and I had just come back from the liquor store after scoring a gallon bottle of Red Mountain Burgundy.  At the ridiculous price of $1.99.  For a gallon.  You can tell not only is this story vintage, but so was not the wine.  But it did the job.  Especially if there were chicks involved.

We were sneaking in the back door, I'm not sure why.  Right next to the screen door was an old toilet, including the tank, that my mother had turned into a planter with dead flowers.  But the porcelain was alive, and stone cold intact.

Marty was the designated wine carrier, I was the designated sneaker inner.  I still have no idea why were sneaking in.  Unless the front door was locked and I didn't have the key.

Which is probably why we used the back door.  At any rate,who cares?  Irrelevant to the story, except as Marty came in behind me the gallon bottle (still in the bag) was accidentally introduced to Mr. Stone Cold Porcelain Toilet Tank.

There was a loud "clang", and both Marty and I immediately looked at each other in apprehensive horror, fearing the worst.  After a couple of seconds (like two) the fear in our face softened to relief and our hearts were filled with unbelievable good luck and fortune.

Which was all dashed at about the fifth second when a resounding "whoosh" erupted from the bottom of the bag and red wine went everywhere.  Fortunately it was a linoleum and not carpeted floor, so we only ruined a couple of old towels.  And then went off immediately to score some more cheap red wine.

Marty and I went to our first rock show together.  We were big fans of Poco, the country rock band of the 1970's.  And they were sandwiched in between the opening act of Focus, an English yodeling group, and Yes, the powerhouse space age thunderously melodious progressively psychedelic rock group.  We had never heard of Yes, but became enraptured, especially with the blond chick behind the keyboards, until we found out later her name was Rick Wakeman. 

I also went to my first and only movie theater matinee on mescaline with Marty, we saw Live and Let Die.  I'm pretty sure we felt it was about the most fantastic movie we'd ever seen.  And with a theme song by Paul McCartney, how could we go wrong?

Besides music, psychedelics and beer, we shared a love for sports, especially our close to hometown team, the San Francisco Giants.  We were at Candlestick Park together when they defeated the Chicago Cubs for the pennant in 1989, right before the Loma Prieta earthquake-fated Bay Bridge World Series.

And before that, back in the 1970's, when my Dear Old Dad had season's tickets along the third base line, three rows up and right behind the opposing teams dugout, we went to a few games.  One very memorable one was against the Dodgers.

Somewhere along the line there was a questionable call concerning the Dodgers right fielder, Lee Lacy, that went his way.  And that got a couple beer fueled Giants fans more than a little riled up and verbally hostile.  My dear pal Marty was relentless (and hilarious) in his hammering of Lacy, so much so he (Lacy) had to be restrained by team mates.  He was ready to jump into the stands to take us on.

Which only got my dear pal more riled up.

Marty was quick, very smart, very funny.  He probably would have made a good debater, but I think he might have ended up off point and his version of winning would have been to see everyone on the floor dying of laughter.

Besides all that, Marty was also a gifted singer-songwriter and musician.  He put out a few CD's, one that has been featured on a radio station in Maui for years.  He worked with a number of higher profile Bay Area musicians, and also collaborated with a number of other music people internationally.

I'm a music appreciator, so his exploits into that particular world were without me. Here is a link to a much more concise recollection of his music years: Time Machine Radio Blog.

Not only did we laugh a lot and do a number of things together, we also just hung out.  OMG, I just remembered another great story!

Back in our day, when a really huge artist came to town we had to wait in lines in front of a ticket store (like Ticketmaster or ?).  Sometimes, if the artist was really big, like, say, George Harrison for instance, one might have to wait in line overnight, kinda like some folks do now for a big screen TV at Walmart on Black Friday.

So when George Harrison at the Cow Palace was announced, it was a no brainer.  We brought our sleeping bags and a cooler of beer.   I think we were both twenty at the time.  We got to the ticket place about 7:00 PM and ended up somewhere in the teens in line.  There were at least a hundred people in line by the end of the night.

And somewhere before the end of the night, like about two, when all the bars close and you're not supposed to sell alcohol, we decided we needed more beer.  Especially if we were to stay awake the rest of the night.

So off we went (in his car), finding a convenience store not too far from the ticket place.  We went in, bought a couple three six-packs from the guy behind the counter and sashayed back to the car.  Happy with our good fortune at not being carded, we were putting on our seat belts when there came a "rap rap rap" at both our side windows.

It was the POlice.

"Would you please step out of the car?"

Marty and I looked at each other, "Uh-oh."

So we get out of the car,with our ill-gotten gain and the cops take us back into the store.  There they started in on the poor checker guy, who had sold us the alcohol after 2:00 AM.  And they started in on the license to sell, called the store owner etc.

They never looked at our ID's.  We had to sit in there, talking with the checker guy while the two beat cops conducted their investigation.  We learned the checker had just moved to California from New York, where you can sell booze 24 hours a day.  He didn't really know about the booze curfew law in California.

"You guys are 21, right?" he nervously asked on the sly.

"Oh yeah, of course," we lied.

In the meantime, the cops did their thing.  We kept waiting for the other boot to kick, but it never did.  They never asked for our ID's.

Even with Marty constantly tossing out gems like, "Can I wear your hat?" and "Are those bullets real?"

After about twenty minutes they sent us on our way.  We asked if we could take the beer.  They said no.  We were OK with that, we weren't going to jail.  We're calling that a win.  They must've figured we were of age just because of all the joking and lack of concern we had about the whole affair.

George Harrison was great by the way.

You know, besides all the funny, fun and light-hearted stuff we lived, Marty was a true friend.  A couple decades ago, when my life had taken an odd turn to the south, Marty was instrumental in guiding me back in the right direction.  He is featured in my recollection of those dark years "Late Night Letters to the Moon", and since all the names have been changed to protect virtually everyone, and since Marty has left this plane, I can safely tell you his name in the book is Miguel.  Not that he was Hispanic by any means, he was Lutheran.  But we did go to Mexico together with another friend, which you can read about right here, "Baja or Bust."

My final good-bye to my dear Pal, the Amazing Martin Q:

A cavalcade
       of endless escapades
             cascades across my brow,

The mighty ship Hallucitania has set sail,
              with you upon her prow,

No time left for merriment
        or share tales of our jovial past

For you are off on another quest

       Aaah, fifty years went by so fast.

I thank you for the time we spent,
       the adventures far and wide,

The crazy antics that accompanied us,

        It was indeed a hallowed ride.

Rest assured old chum the fabled stories will live

       long into the star studded night,

When we together rode the range

        and laughed so hard we peed.

Amen.

The Golden Bidet

We just had our master bath remodeled.  We were going to do it a year or two after we moved in, leaving that particular room, our own personal bathroom, without baseboard and curling linoleum until we could catch our breath after the major renovation push we endured when we first moved in.  You can read all about that adventure, which first aired on September 19, 2012, right here:Refreshing Refurbishment.

Apparently one year turns into nine real easy around here.

My lovely wife had been talking about redoing it for a while now, and then when an erstwhile contractor with reasonable credentials entered our world late last year it was pull the trigger time.

My lovely wife poured through hundreds of thousands of decorating books and magazines to come up with her vision of the perfect, lovely powder room.  She discussed them at length with Mr. Erstwhile and a plan developed.  Measurements were made.  Tile was procured.  As were plumbing apparatus, mirrors, and a whole lot of this and that.

As you many of you long time readers know by now, the indoor decorating arena around here is entirely hers.  I gave that up early on when it was apparent she wasn't into cowboys, unicorns or velvet nudes.  She has uncompromising cat class, impeccable taste and understated elegance within every whim of her design imagination and vision.  Why on earth would I want to meddle with that?

Mr. Erstwhile was going to start right after the first of the year.  He has been known to not entirely be that punctual, but his work was quality and his rates good.  Every couple weeks she'd touch base with him and he'd say he was still on a job and it would be two more weeks.  This went on until June.

Then he gave her a real firm start date, which he missed again because he had to fly to Oklahoma for a job interview.

Well, right there we knew we'd lost him.  We knew whoever was interviewing him was going to throw gobs of money at him and of course relay how much cheaper the cost of living was.  There, in Oklahoma.  Which they did.  And of course, he bit, hook, line and sinker.  The stinker.

Then the asshole actually had the audacity to refer another flake to us.  The guy never called, my lovely wife had to call him.  Twice.  And then he missed the first appointment. 

Flakes of a feather...

Through another much more realistic friend referral we landed on another local contractor, Brian Childers, who we would refer to anyone out there for a similar type smaller type job.  Brian is our age, you know, older, and prefers jobs that only last four to six weeks.

He ended up doing a fabulous job, but initially I had to deal with a little dodge and stray attempt on his part.  After he took the job with relatively strict time perimeters he started hedging with my lovely wife that maybe we should wait and that he might not be able to make the deadline.  Something about the plumber...

Now I had pretty much kept myself out of the bathroom loop.  I got plenty of stuff to do.  Don't need to go there.  I like curly linoleum.  But my lovely wife asked me to engage.  She is just, quite simply, too nice.  Whereas I have an innate ability to turn into a perfectly belligerent asshole if necessary.

I'd have given Mr. Erstwhile Homeboy six weeks, not six months.  And we wouldn't have been up against such a deadline. Sigh, details.

In a brief phone conversation I stated to Brian that, "our deadline was not flexible, and that when we signed the paperwork in our living room he stated he would have no problem meeting that deadline.  That's why we were paying him a few hundred dollars more than the other guy..."

The simple reminder of that conversation was all that was needed.

He jumped on it, figured out the plumber snafu and the project could not have gone smoother.  He actually came in a week ahead of schedule, which never happens in the construction world. And the bathroom is perfect, much to my lovely wife's delight.

It's taking me some time to get used to the fancy new room.  We used to have a tile shower that would fit two comfortably.  And right in front of that was a large, sunken but single tub.  The grand kids have been using that tub for almost a decade.  That cast iron monolith is now gone.

Brian had to saw it into three pieces so he could get it out of here.  Apparently it weighed almost as much as a Volkswagen.

So that entire tub and shower space has now been replaced with a showpiece tile shower with two massive heads.  Where two people could have showered before, now an entire men's rugby team can.

Or women's softball team.  Your choice.

And then there's the toilet.  I'm still scared of it.

A couple years ago we spent a long five day weekend at The Landing Resort and Spa at South Shore Tahoe.  You can read all about that right here: Another Lake Tahoe Offensive.

If you do read that post you'll note I made a note about the fancy, heated toilet seat.  My lovely wife loved that, especially with the snowy cold in an early Tahoe November.  So that became necessary.  And since she was going with that option, why not get a few more?  And then when Lowe's messed up the order, they upgraded the darn thing.

How do you upgrade a heated seat, bidet squirting, odor hiding talking toilet?

Get one with a remote control.

So you can flush it from the living room I guess.

I had a big chance to give it a try very, very recently.  It was that special colonospic time of my life that happens every five or so years once you turn fifty.  You know, when you get to start prepping and cleaning the night before to get your back side probed the next morning.

They make you drink this gawd awful stuff that takes about two and a half hours to get rolling.  It begins with gas and bloating, but once it gets rolling that damn whoosh train keeps powering down the tracks, if you know what I mean.

Then after your SECOND prep at four in the fucking morning, there's no gas or bloating because there's nothing left inside you.  I think my kidneys were even gone.  So instead you start squirting crystal clear seltzer water.  Out your backside.  At four in the morning! 

I shoulda used the gosh darn fancy toilet and then I could have had something squirt back at me.  Start a little contest, for early morning amusement only, of course.  But I didn't.  It still scares me.

One of these days I'll get brave and give it a try.  Until then I'll continue to wander down the hall to the guest bath.  There's an old fashioned toilet in there that doesn't talk to you and doesn't require reading a manual before operating.  It's just got a handle that goes up and down, and I can handle that.

From Bocelli to Baseball

My lovely wife and I have been to a lot of shows over the years.  From the Grateful Dead to Glen Campbell, Allman Brothers to Shirley MacLaine, Paul McCartney to Stevie Wonder, Bob Dylan to Cher.  From rock to pop to country to jazz, small town venues to sold out arena rock.  We could probably fill a suitcase with all the ticket stubs, if we still had them.  We've been to a lot of shows. 

But one type of live venue had eluded us until now...opera.

I'm not sure I could do a complete opera, you know, where they sing the entire story line.  In a foreign language.  That would be weird and I probably wouldn't understand.  Unless I was on mushrooms.

But in lieu of that happening anytime soon, my lovely wife and I just saw Andrea Bocelli at the Golden One Center in Sacramento.  It was a bucket list sort of thing, and came about rather serendipitously as bucket list things seem to do for us.

When we heard he was coming to a town near us, I immediately looked for tickets.  At this stage of our game we're not nose bleed section folks anymore.  We never really were, but now if we're gonna do a show we want pretty good seats.  Which for Bocelli cost a small fortune.  So it was, like, well, maybe not.

And about that same time on a Sunday afternoon in January a Bocelli special appeared on our local PBS station.  And in-between Bocelli tunes they proceeded to offer a special price for floor seats for the upcoming Sacramento show.  Sacr'e Bleu!

Apparently in every city he appears he donates some tickets to the local PBS affiliate.  They get to make some money and we got to pay less than we would have.  Plus we get to write off a portion of the cost.  Whoopee!

I also booked us a room at the Sterling Hotel, a Victorian B&B nine blocks from the venue.  At this stage of our game I'm not fond of driving an hour after a show to get home.  Plus venue traffic.  Plus parking.  I'd rather walk.  Or shoot myself.

At $200 per night the Sterling was the least expensive nice hotel in the area.  There's a Hyatt and Sheraton also very close by, but their rooms were running twice what we paid.

The Sterling did not disappoint, it was old and antique-y.  Our room had a nice king bed, a double jacuzzi tub and a bright, effervescent green arm chair that belonged in a St. Patrick's Day parade rather than a Victorian bedroom.  My lovely wife thought the decorator might have been decorating like she had spent the entire day celebrating at a St. Patrick's Day parade.  Too.

The serve yourself continental breakfast Sunday morning left a bit to be desired, I've seen better at a Comfort Inn.  But the location for the price could simply not be beat.

We checked in around 3:00 PM and then went on a recon mission stroll to the Golden One, just in case we had to walk to or from later.  We did our stroll, also checking for potential eatery's.

I actually started the dinner hunt the previous Wednesday, but that was apparently too late for this country bumpkin to make a connection ANYWHERE within a few light years of the Golden One.  We could eat at 4:30 or 8:00 PM.  Everything in-between was booked.  Gee, I wonder why?

We found a couple potentials, then proceeded to get an iced coffee and stroll the California state capitol grounds, which were only a couple blocks away.  It had been a while since we'd been to downtown Sacramento, we're usually blazing through on our way anywhere but Sacramento.

The expansive grounds wrap the capital building and are several blocks long and wide.  They are quite lovely and have an extensive collection of large, heritage trees dotting the lawn.  There's also a pretty decent rose garden at the east end, which, of course, we had to stroll.  We just made it too, one of about a half dozen weddings happening that afternoon was just amping up as we strolled in.

Our appointed 5:00 dinner time came, and rather than back track about six blocks to the BBQ joint we had been considering, we slipped into the Sheraton and each had a salad.  How healthy could we be?  Then we went back to our room for a brief rest and then to get dressed.

Now I know some folks won't even get dressed up to die, that's screamingly apparent to me now.  I've bitched about this before.  You're dining in a formal restaurant and some tool is in there wearing cargo shorts and a Tshirt.

I am fortunate.  My lovely wife is always appropriately dressed.  It's going to say so on her head stone.  And because she is I have also become.  And half the time she buys the clothes, which makes it really easy for my.  Plus she has really great taste.  I don't ever have to worry about wearing something with sequins and pastel unicorns on it.

ZZ Top called it way back when , "Women go crazy about a Sharp Dressed Man."  I mean, who's more likely to get lucky-A guy dressed up in a suit or some tool wearing cargo shorts, long socks and orthotics?  

Even the cheap seats weren't very cheap for this show, nevertheless there were a number of guys in shorts.  Fortunately, most folks got it and the majority were trying their finery.  And there were many couples dressed like we were, sport coat and slacks for the gents and dresses, gowns and some bling bling for the ladies.

I mean, the artist and entire orchestra were preforming in tuxedos.  It wasn't a summertime Jimmy Buffet show.

We took a Lyft to the show, arriving about 7:30, which was the exact same time that everyone else arrived.  It was a complete and utter cluster fuck to say the least to get through the security.  Which apparently is the case at the Golden One no matter the event we later discovered.  (Make a note of that!)

And there we were, smack dab in the middle of a wild horde of several thousand opera buffs.  Everyone attired in all their finery, except for, well, you know, as we patiently and silently clamored to get in the gate. No one can ever say opera buffs aren't civilized.  The show started thirty minutes late because of the civilized crush.

After we got in, I ordered a $6.00 bottle of water for me and a $38.00 Ketel One for my lovely wife.  Vodka was a hell of a lot cheaper when we used to smuggle it in to concerts inside a watermelon.  But once again, this wasn't an outdoor summertime Jimmy Buffet show.  The folks at Golden One might have been a bit suspicious if we tried to bring a watermelon in to an opera show.

While not dressed in shorts.

Once drinks were in tow, we ambled down to our floor seats, towards the rear but near the middle of the room.  The acoustics were phenomenal.

About five minutes before showtime the orchestra and chorus entered the stage.  We were originally thinking Andrea had about a five bus massive entourage, but then we discovered it was the Sacramento Philharmonic and Opera. Some of them probably ride bikes to work.

I'm not tremendously knowledgeable about orchestras and what not, but these guys sure seemed pretty darn good to me.  I'd let them back me up anyday.  They warmed up with a tune, and then the conductor escorted the blind tenor from the stage stairs to the microphone.

Bocelli sang two tunes, then took a break while a female opera singer, Larisa Martinez took the stage and belted out a tune.  Then she escorted him back onstage for a couple of duets.  Then he took another one song break and so on.   He only sang six tunes the first half of the show, but it was still pretty amazing.  Apparently he has to treat his vocal chords very carefully.  And considering some of the impossible notes he hits, I understand.

All the songs of his first set were sung in a foreign tongue, probably Italian, because that's the opera language.  Or so I'm told.  I didn't understand the any of the lyrics because the only Italian words I know are food.  Spaghetti.  Lasagna.  Ravioli.  I think he was singing about love, or loss, and probably not dinner.

Never did I hear him utter the word, "Gelato".

I know why venues only serve drinks in plastic for sporting events and rowdy rock shows.  It's totally so the besotted or otherwise can't lob weapons of inebriation towards the entertainer or other patrons.  Not so with this civilized crowd.  No one present, no matter how sloshed, would ever consider something as gauche as tossing a bottle or glass, even if it was going into the garbage.  The reason they don't serve refreshments in glass at a Bocelli concert is that they would shatter when he hits those long, impossibly sustained high notes.  My goose bumps had goose bumps.

Kevin Costner once said that Whitney Houston was a "still" singer.  He said her voice was so powerful that she didn't need to do anything other than just stand there and sing.  I've seen that with many of the great guitarists; Clapton, Garcia, Betts, Harrison.  They just stood there and played.

Bocelli didn't even move his arms.

He took a thirty minute break, and then the second set had a few more recognizable tunes.  One was even in English.  He also had a few more guest artists.  He brought out a guest fiddler, Caroline Campbell, and wow.  Besides being quite a looker, that girl can play some violin.

There was also another blond singer, Pia Toscana, who, besides being another looker had an astounding voice.  Apparently she was a finalist on American Idol in 2011.  The guy that won that year is some country singer named Scott McCreery.  I'll bet he's never going to be asked to sing a duet with Bocelli.

There was also a male and female dance duet, and they spun Flamenco style to a couple tunes.  One in particular led many in the audience, at least my lovely wife and I, to believe that the female had to have had a really good recent wax job in her princess region, if you know what I mean.  Her very tight fitting, almost not there leotard underneath her flashy dress left little to the imagination.

We have experienced quite a few transcendent moments at shows over the years.  You know, when the artist plays that one song you really love and completely nails it.  Opens up the heart chakra and the energy just explodes?

One for me that has withstood the test of time was Clapton's screaming guitar solo right after Bobby Whitlock's inspired piano fusillade on "Let it Rain".   When Eric hit those notes I think half the audience in the Cow Palace (in San Francisco-circa 1975) was ten feet off the ground.  Could have been the acid, but I don't think so.

Bocelli did it again for me the other night.  And I know it wasn't acid this time.  This is also one of his most well known tunes and he appropriately closed the show with it, "Time To Say Good-Bye".

It was a mess getting out of there for most folks.  There were lines twenty deep just to get cars out of any of the many parking garages that were close by.  We strolled the nine blocks home.

Good thing I wasn't in shorts and a T-shirt.  The delta breeze came in after the sun set and made the outdoor atmosphere rather windy and chilly.  My sport coat ended up on my lovely wife's shoulders, right where it should have been.  Brrr.

The next day, Father's Day, after a very leisurely morning and cheap continental breakfast, we went to Old Town Sacramento.  It had probably been a couple decades (or more) since we last strolled them streets.  There's over a hundred shops and eateries there and it's right on the riverfront, a pretty decent tourist destination.  So we played tourist for a couple hours.

At noon we drove the quarter mile over the bridge spanning the Sacramento River and met our son and fiancé at Raley's Field for a River Cat AAA baseball game.  He bought us some great seats behind home plate, but without the benefit of any breeze whatsoever it was probably over a hundred degrees.

We'd sit for a couple innings, then run up to the concourse where there was a breeze and shade.  And food and drink.  Then we'd go back down, sit, bake, retreat, repeat.  We did that a couple times, then just stayed up in the shade.  It was an easy fifteen degrees cooler.

We left at the top of the ninth, behind 1-0.  The Alamar Marina Restaurant and Bar on the Sacramento River was calling us for an early dinner and cool down.

It was a weekend that ranks right up there with the all time best.  World class entertainment followed by time spent with world class family.  Can't get much better that that.

Conquering the Wild Hillsborough

When we go visit family we don't just sit around and visit.  Plus, I mean, we were visiting our favorite European traveling companions, you had to know we were up for some adventure.

And since the last time we were in Florida we never saw an alligator we were becoming suspicious.  Sure, we have heard that Florida has gators, but come on. The world is full of picture books that aren't necessarily true.

So just to prove it's true our lovely sister-in-law booked us on an adventure called "Canoe Escapes",
where you can rent a two person canoe and cruise from two to eight hours downstream.  Since we're old poops we just went on the first leg of the overall journey, from Sargent Park to Morris Bridge Park.

It's a good thing too.  The website states each leg is about two hours, and that the river is from twenty to sixty feet wide.  I got news for them.  Some canoeable spots we went through were only four feet wide at best.  I have a feeling the river was running at low tide.  It made for a much longer and no doubt interesting journey.

We embarked from the park headquarters after a brief instructional by one of the guys, who reminded me of Gunga Din.  You know, if Gunga looked like a 20 year old single surfer dude living in Florida.

He went over basics; like if you paddle on the left side you go right, paddle right you go left.  Up is down and down is up.  And then if you do a swift, deft and shallow swat you can splash your partner with water.  Which isn't necessarily something you should do if you want to get lucky later.

Just sayin.  However, if you're going downstream with an old army buddy then swift swat away.  Unless, of course, Brokeback Mountain.  Then who knows?

Gunga told us to head out from our launch point a few hundred yards and then head right at about a three o'clock angle when the water opened up.  Paddle in another couple hundred yards and it becomes like a nature preserve.  When we were satiated with serene, wildlife viewing, we were to paddle back and sort of hit the river at about an eleven o'clock angle so that we would be headed downstream.

If we made a really hard right at about four o'clock we'd be headed up stream, and if we made an acute hard left, say about eight o'clock, at that point we'd return to base.  So it was important that we make the correct choice.  He said there'd orange flags to light the way and ensure we were heading in the right direction.

"Great," thought I.  "Not only do we have to know left from right and right from left and where the hands are on a clock when everything now is digital, but we also need to know geometry.  I barely passed high school geometry, and that was almost fifty years ago.  Like I'd remember anything from that long ago let alone an isosceles triangle.  I can't even pronounce isosceles let alone spell it.  All I wanted to do was see a gator.  Don't they have a zoo around here?"

"Speaking of gators and the potential of getting lost in a jungle forever," I began to think again, "Maybe we should be bringing along a bazooka and a flugelhorn.  Where's my safari hat?"

I know.  I have no idea where this stuff come from.  I, like you, am just along for the ride most of the time.  

Instead of wearing proper safari attire, I embarked in sandals, shorts, shirt, shades and baseball hat and hoped for the best should we actually encounter one of the big guys. Gunga shoved us off and then said he'd be seeing us at the pick up spot at Morris Bridge in a couple hours.

Both us gentlemen took the rear where most of the work was going to be done, and we were off in search of adventure.  A few hundred yards out sure enough a right was available at three o'clock and we paddled into a wide open lake-ish affair where wildlife galore was popping.  Exotic birds, happy sunning turtles and yes, gators.  Plenty of brazen gators!

Them gators, they're crafty buggers.  They hang out around logs and trees, blending in really well.  Sometimes all you can see is the top of their big round eye lids popping out of the water.  Sometimes they're just hanging out in the flora and fauna, waiting for a delicate human hand lightly tickling the water as a canoe passes by...

Where the hell is my bazooka?

After we thoroughly enjoyed our little nature preserve detour we returned to the point of departure, got out our slide rule, geometric calculus and kitchen wall clock and determined the correct juncture to take.  At least we hoped we did.

As I mentioned, the river was not quite as wide as portrayed in their literature.  Plus, the current was very slight.  We began to constantly wonder if we had made the right angle.  Or the correct hour.

"Anybody see an orange flag yet?"

As I also mentioned, the river got quite narrow in some spots.  Both our canoes hit and got stuck on partially submerged trees.  And since left was right and starboard was keel both canoes ended up backwards and in circles a couple times.  It turned out to be quite an exercise in tandem synchronization for both canoes.  Or lack thereof.

I think we needed one of those guys on the rowing team.  The one with the bull horn.

"Left.  Right.  Left.  Right.  No, not you.  You.  Left!  You, right!  No.  What?  Left you idiot!  Not you!  Right. "

And so on.

But wildlife and nature were at every turn, it was a fiesta for our eyes, even if they were looking backwards sometimes.  We probably saw about forty-five gators, ranging from one to eight feet in length.  Many were out sunning themselves, many were pretending to be logs because they were hungry.

That of course was paramount on my mind when it was our turn to get stuck on a log.  I couldn't just pop out of the canoe and sashay it off the timber.  No, we had to push, jockey and shove with our paddles til we got free.

"Anybody see an orange flag yet?"

I mean, we were pretty sure we were on the right track.  There was a slight, teeny weeny little current, and we were heading down stream, albeit quite slowly. Doubt persisted, yet we pressed on.  The thought of turning around and regurgitating submerged logs did not seem too appealing.

So we leisurely pressed on.  And then finally, about two hours down river, we espied our first orange flag.  Halleluiah brother, we weren't going to have to worry about being gator bait at dusk anymore.  Or hiking through the mosquito and snake infested jungle while wailing on the flugelhorn.  Or hillbilly redneck rape, neither.

After the first flag, we saw several more until we finally hit our portage spot at Morris Bridge.  It's possible we missed a couple flags, I suppose it's possible nature took care of a few.  I spose it's also possible some hillbilly moved them to one of the several tributaries that were off the main river...

I hadn't used a few of those upper torso arm muscles for a decade or two and ended up just a bit stiff for a couple weeks thereafter.  Might have had something to do with my lack of long bicep tendon in said arms as well.  Gettin old is not for sissies.

As all good things do our Florida visit and vacation came to an end.  We had a great time (as always)and are buoyed about the fact we'll be rejoining our companions again fairly soon on another European adventure.

Arrivederci.  Baby.

I Hate Flying Too

OK.  So I guess there are two things I hate.  I hate to wait and I hate to fly.

If God had intended for me to fly he would have given me feathers.  And probably wings.

But to get any place far away in any sort of time frame that makes any sort of sense one has to fly.  And then besides the fact we are herded onto a heavy metal tomb that somehow gets way up into the air for an extended period of time, I usually have to wait somewhere along the line too.  Double hate whammy.

I used to do airport bars, really well as a matter of fact.  But since I haven't had a drink in a couple decades I have had to alter my get on an airplane substance subsistence.  Now I usually travel with baked goods that are infused with a wonderful little calming ingredient.  And my lovely wife always has Xanax as a back up.

And since I hate to be herded (I guess there's three things I hate) and can't yet afford my own private plane, I have added an extra service onto our flight itinerary that limits our exposure a bit to herding and waiting.

Rather than driving down ourselves and parking in long term parking 800 miles from the terminal, and then waiting for the airport's shuttle service where we then get to be herded on board (with our big fat luggage) and drive around the parking lot like a Pac Man chewing up other travelers until we finally get to go in slow motion towards the terminal, we now do "The Foxen Shuttle" right here at our front door step.

It's a little different than "The Foxen Shuffle", which I'm not even sure is a real thing.  Though it probably could be.

Deb Foxen drives us down and picks us up.  Ninety bucks each way.  I figure we're really only out of pocket for one way, depending on the length of our travel because gas and long term parking easily eats up a hundred if we're gone for a week.  If gone for longer we're making money by utilizing her service.  She drops us off at the curb and picks us up at the curb.  With a smile no less.

If you're local and want a great airport shuttle, call Deb Foxen at 530-263-9669.  She's licensed and insured and good people too!  She's also on time, spot on, which is sort of important when flying.

I'm also a fan of using a transfer service at the other end of a trip, unless you have family or a friend picking you up.  If you've read any of my Europe travel blogs, you'll know I'm a HUGE fan of ihatetaxis.com.  Besides having very useful information on every airport in the galaxy, you can also safely and securely book a transfer from your destination airport to wherever you want to go.

All that said we just went to Florida to see our favorite Europe travel companion in-laws, with a quick change plane stop over in St. Louis .  We saw the fabled arch from the air and saw a few mid-western old men in shorts and white tennis shoes.  Going somewhere.  Probably Branson.  I'm sure there's more to Missouri and St. Louis, but we only had fifty minutes.  Not sure we'll be back.  We've only got so much travel time left and that state is not high on the bucket list.

Upon landing in Tampa we immediately discovered  Florida is a lot more comfortable climate wise in April than it is in June.  Just saying.  The last time we were there it was ridiculously hot, and moronically humid.  And yuck sweaty.  This time, in April, the air was sultry and silky smooth, lightly caressing your skin better that any Oil of Olay commercial ever could.

We went to Florida primarily to visit family, but we also threw in a day road trip 180 miles or south to Naples to visit some old friends.  It's always great to catch up, even if it was only for a few hours.  And we discovered a couple things on this road trip.

One, most Floridians drive fast on the freeways.  And if you're in the far left (fast) lane, 80 MPH is the average speed.  You have to move over for now and then for a 90.  None of this 65 in the fast lane so that cars that want to go faster have to start passing in the center and slow lanes.  Nope, they're serious in Florida.  If you get in that left lane you better be prepared to giddy-up.

The other thing we discovered is that when it rains there it does not mess around.  The skies can bust loose with a deluge sometimes, simply drenching the surroundings.  They can get more rain in forty-five seconds than we do in a week.

Since we were visiting our favorite Europe travel companions the subject of another trip had to come up.  And it did.  We have tentatively set a date for next year, or maybe 2021, to go to Italy with them.
Why Italy?  Well, there was some culinary TV show on in the background one afternoon, and they were talking about Florentine Steak.  Which of course hails from Florence.  Which is in Italy.  It is supposedly the best steak in the universe.  According to them.  Special cows, special sauce.

We figured, "Hey!  If there ever was a reason we needed to go to Italy it might as well be to have a Florentine Steak."

There's also probably a few historic artifacts and priceless art we can view too, but if there ever was a reason to get us off our duffs it might as well be food.

Plus, I will  get an opportunity to say "Arrivederci" in the actual country where the language is spoken.   See: "Bon Jour, Arrivederci, Por Favor, Where the Hell Am I?"

Before we take off for Italy, which (especially for me) will require a shit ton of pre-planning, we decided to go to the Morse Museum in Winter Park, which only took a few minutes to plan.

The Morse Museum?  Why what?  What's that?  Some place filled with dots and dashes?

Actually, it's not full of codes.  The Morse Museum houses the largest collection of Tiffany objects in the world.  That's why.  What.

On the way to Winter Park we passed through Orlando, where, apparently, every amusement park in the world exists.  According to Travel Advisor there's forty-five water and amusement parks in and around Orlando, including but certainly not limited to Universal Studios, Sea World, Disney World, Epcot, Magic Kingdom, Hollywood Studios, a Harry Potter Park and the Holy Land Experience.

The Holy who what?

Yes.  Someone has apparently turned the bible into an amusement park.

The amount of construction going on is insane.  Buildings, roads, hotels, warehouses.  And not small jobs either.  I counted thirty-two active high rise cranes in and around Orlando.

According to my lovely sister in law a thousand people a day are moving to Florida.  I can believe it.  Every single commercial building is a hundred percent occupied.  Four lane highways are becoming six lane.  And the roads are quite lovely by the way, lacking the potholes, cracked pavement and rough surfaces that are everywhere here in California.

And there are vacant commercial properties for rent everywhere here in California, from our small little country town to the state capital and beyond.  Maybe all that tax money is moving from here to Florida.

The Morse Museum is a smallish museum has a number of galleries featuring American art, but their primary exhibit is the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany.  Every Antiques Roadshow fan will recognize that name.

From expensive, dazzling and classy diamond jewelry to an amazing array of glass work, the Tiffany name is synonymous with style, elegance and excellence.  The museum has a small collection of jewelry, but it does have an extensive collection of glasswork, including lamps and stained glass windows.  There's also an incredible "chapel interior" mosaic and glass exhibition that was featured at the Chicago World's Fair in 1893.

Intricately and ornately resplendent, there are thousands upon thousands of small bits and pieces of tile and glass that are interwoven in complex patterns and designs I could only hope to imagine with a decent hit of LSD.  The scope and scale are almost beyond comprehension.

If you're ever in Winter Park, possibly for a little baseball (Winter Park is spring training home to many east coast MLB Teams) take a break and check out a little culture.  You can see the entire museum in a couple hours and just the Tiffany collection in an hour or so, unless you get lost in a flashback at the chapel interior.

If you're prone to such occurrences you might consider bringing a sandwich, because you might be there all day.