Monday Meanderings - 1.30.2012

Had a lot of thunder and lightening this past week. Very, very frightening. And a lot of rain - about 5 inches, overnight. Just down the road they had a tornado. Rain is good; roofs blown off not so much.

Busy week. Westover hosted the Stream worship conference, and there's a lot of fetching and carrying sound system-wise for Ken Young whenever he does one of these. The Stream conferences started back in the mid-nineties in Midland, Texas as "Stream in the Desert" - a reference both to the Isaiah passage and Midland's locale. When Ken began holding them in other cities, they became simply "Stream where ever." This weekend was Stream Austin. It's a great weekend, with a lot of behind-the-scenes effort involved to make it appear as a restful, refreshing weekend.

Mike Cope was the speaker; he was warming up for the Renew Conference in Fresno in two weeks. We sent him on with our blessing.

And Stream was my last official duty behind the sound desk. Off and on, for more than 30 years, I have been involved in church sound systems. It's time for some younger guys to take over that role, so this was the grand finale for me. I will not miss it.

Add Stephen Tyler to the list of aging rock stars that should no longer sing in public - especially the Star Spangled Banner. It's getting to be a long list of guys who no longer can hit the high notes. Of course, I'm still wondering who convinced Neil Young he should sing at all.

And speaking of National Anthems, I am seriously freaking out that there will be only one more football game; then it's the long drought until next Fall. Sigh.

Article in the AS about "Less drawl in 'y'all'." A research project at UT says Texas accents are fading away, along with a number of colloquial expressions, such as "yonder" (some distance away), "drouth" (drought), "rench" (rinse), "shinnery" (scrubby oak thicket), "snake doctor" (dragonfly), "light bread" (white bread), "clabber cheese" (cottage cheese), and "snap beans" (green beans). Hmm. Some of those I know, some I do not. How about you? On the other hand, they say Southern standbys such as "cup towel", "lightening bug" and "y'all" have not only endured, but are spreading beyond the South.

And can you tell me what is wrong with this placard we saw in the Bob Bullock Museum a couple of weeks ago?

The cars in my life (the Detroit Years) - stories for my grandchildren

The Detroit years...

Since the Dodge dealership in Abilene was also the Renault dealer, I visited their place of business often, trying to keep the Dauphine running. When it became obvious that it was a losing cause, the dealer made me a great offer on a low-mileage trade-in; a 1962 Dodge Dart. The price was right; the vehicle had been purchased up north but when the owner moved to Texas they found that they couldn't deal with our hot summers and immediately traded for an air conditioned car. We were used to cars with no A/C, so it was a good deal.

The Dodge Dart had a novel feature; an automatic transmission with gear selection through push buttons mounted on the dash. Took some getting used too, and I learned - when the tractor-trailer ahead of me started backing up - that you could easily get confused about how to quickly select reverse gear. Fortunately, the trucking company paid for my new hood.

It wasn't long before we felt the need to become a two-car  company; I had been looking at a Plymouth Sport Fury on a used-car lot owned by a man from church and somehow I talked myself into buying it.

It did have A/C, and it featured the forerunner of the legendary Hemi engine, with 407 cubic inches of displacement that developed 365 horsepower. There were twin air breather intakes, and two tailpipes as big around as my leg. It was very powerful and very fast - an ideal family car. As I recall, it had a 30 gallon fuel tank, which was a requirement to get you from one gas station to another. Gasoline was .35 cents a gallon in those days.

It had bucket seats with a console in the middle, and the gear shift knob in that console. Much easier to manipulate, as two-year-old Rob found out when he shifted out of gear and the car rolled backwards down the driveway into the street!

Barb took a break from teaching when the kids were very young, and it was hard to justify that muscle car under the circumstances (or any other circumstances), so I eventually sold it back to the same guy I bought it from. I notice that it didn't sit on his lot very long.

I worked for a man named Wyman Wilkerson, who bought a new Buick every year. When the new models came out, there was active bidding for Wyman's current car, because it was better than new; during that first year every little kink and problem had been taken care of by the dealer, Fred Hughes Buick. I begged and nagged Wyman until he sold me his 1970 Electra 225 hardtop.

The number 225 referred to the car's length, 225 inches. The car was almost 19 feet long! And yes, it would fit in the garage but only because we had not yet enclosed the bonus room. You could also throw a dance on either the hood or the rear deck, and a small family could live in the trunk. It had electric windows and seats, and an even bigger engine than the Sport Fury, a 370 horsepower, 455 cubic inch V8. And now gasoline was .38 cents a gallon. I paid Wyman $5,000 for that car and we drove it till the wheels fell off.

When it was past time to trade for another car, the afterglow of the Electra clouded my vision and reasoning and we bought another Buick. A lesser, loser, Buick Century. There's no picture of that car because the sooner it is forgotten, the better. It was my last American-made automobile.

Next... The Honda years

Hanging with Joe Nick

Joe Nick Patoski, that is; the guy that has written biographies on Selena and Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Willie, and the coffee table books Texas Mountains, Texas Coast, and Big Bend National Park; the guy who was a staff writer for Texas Monthly for 18 years, and more recently has written for the Texas Observer, National Geographic, People magazine, Texas Parks & Wildlife Magazine, Field & Stream, the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, the Big Bend Sentinel, Southwest Spirit, American Way, the Austin Chronicle, Harp, TimeOut New York, and other publications. That Joe Nick.

Joe Nick is a football fan. So much so, that he was the curator of the recent exhibit "Texas High School Football: More than Just a Game" at the Bob Bullock Texas State History Museum. The promotional material for the exhibit reads:

"[Football] is the bond that holds together communities, from small burgs barely able to field a six-man team to 5A suburban schools that faithfully fill 20,000 seat stadiums to cheer their hometown heroes. It is the soul of Texas towns.

It is the caravans of cars that drive 200 miles on a Friday night to support the home team, the endless post-game analyses in coffee shops, the local pride in past victories and legendary players. It’s also marching bands, drill teams, pep rallies, mascots, cheerleaders, twirlers, booster clubs, fans and fanatics. For at least a few hours every week in the fall, Texas high school football is the glue that transcends cultural, ethnic, and spiritual differences to define us all as Texan."

 I went to the exhibit to look for mention of Breckenridge, of course, and I was not disappointed. The "team of the century" was listed; Emory Bellard was honored; there was a giant blow-up of a Basil Clemons photo of Buckaroo Field on the occasion of the 1929 State Championship. And Joe Nick was there.

I don't know if he came every weekend to "his" exhibit, but this was the closing weekend, and he was there, talking to anyone who paused near him. The man does love to talk, and talk about Texas High School football history. For the entire time we were there - probably more than two hours - he had someone cornered.

I heard him talk about Jerry Tubbs, a Breckenridge boy... "well, he was from Throckmorton, originally, but you know the stories about Breckenridge recruiting players..." who went on to play for the Dallas Cowboys. I heard him talk about Gordon Woods, the Brownwood coach, and about Joe Don Meridith, and about Emory Bellard. The man does love to talk.

But as we were leaving, I interrupted him, stuck my hand out and said, "Breckenridge High School, Class of '58."

And just for a few seconds, his jaw dropped and he didn't have anything to say. Then we talked for a few minutes about Breckenridge football, and Jerry Tubbs, and Emory Bellard, and even Basil Clemons.

Monday Meanderings - 1.23.2012

While the Northwest is being blanketed with snow, we are having spring-like weather here in ATX. It was so balmy the other morning I took my coffee to the patio - and discovered that if the trees are bare (it is still winter, after all), then the sun shines directly into your face. Oh, I get it! In the winter you do afternoon coffee on the patio. Works for me.

Medicare sends quarterly statements showing what they paid various doctors over the past few months. We got a statement this past week that was prepared in South Carolina, showing a charge from a doctor in Prarieville, Louisiana, for a service that was performed in Fresno, California.

And speaking of doctors and such, the surgical center where Barb had her procedure last week has called a couple of times, leaving messages that they wanted to follow up and make sure she was doing okay. Barb won't let me call them and apologize for missing their calls, "what with all the funeral plans, etc." No sense of humor.

Barb came home the other day with the newest in the series of the "Eat This, Not That" books. If you are not familiar with this series, the books contrast a healthier suggestion for what is usually a more popular (and less healthy) choice. This latest book is a guide to popular restaurants, with suggestions for best choices from the current menu. For instance, at Outback Steakhouse, choose the Teriyaki Marinated Sirloin (418 calories, 12g fat) as opposed to the Baby Back Ribs (3,021 calories, 242 g fat). I looked through the book, and discovered that all the things we like to eat at our favorite restaurants are on the right-hand page. You know, the one that starts, "Not That!"

I've previously written about cowbells and their use at football games. I came across this the other day: empty propane tanks with a number of steel ball bearings inside.

 

Take that, SEC! 

The cars in my life (My First) - stories for my grandchildren

 

In my Sophomore year in college, I became quite enamored with a sporty little French-made Renault Dauphine. Like the very popular VW bug, it was a rear-engine car but had 4 doors, a 4 cylinder engine labeled the 4CV, or quatre chevaux, which quite literally translates as "four horses." All-in-all, that's a pretty good description of the power of this little vehicle. which on a straight-away (like the Winters Freeway) could achieve 67 miles-per-hour. Max.

The dealer let me drive the car for a weekend while I made up my mind, and I gathered 3 friends and took the car out to Abilene State Park for some fun in the windy roads and trails out there. That was also a weekend that the National Guard was engaged in some maneuvers at the Park. We had stopped mid-road to switch drivers when we heard the ominous clank of a half-track around a curve and we just got the car back in gear and moving before a big Army truck roared around the bend. I have often wondered just how I would have explained to the nice man at the dealership that his tiny little car was now a blip on a tank tread.

The Dauphine could seat four, but on occasion, a fifth person would curl up in the luggage compartment, which of course, was in the front of the car. My brother-in-law-to-be Thayne often drew this position. Since the "hood" tilted forward starting at the windshield, he could sit in the compartment with his head out, just in front of the windshield, and watch where were were going, waving at passers-by.

With mileage of better than 40 mpg, it was cheaper for me to drive home to Breckenridge, let my mother do my laundry, eat some home cooking, and drive back to the dorm than it was to go to the laundromat. Not that I ever went to the laundromat, mind you. Plus, with the gear shift floor-mounted, it was a great car for dating. Was it my fault that the girls knee was right where I needed to move the gear shift? I have to mention that when I demonstrated that particular move to Barb early in our dating, it almost changed the course of history, in that there almost was no history!

I'm happy to say that she married me anyway, but I almost didn't make it to the wedding. When I started out for Port Lavaca, the little Dauphine began to seriously overheat. We turned around (Thayne and my roommate Skeet were with me) and limped to Breckenridge and borrowed my parent's car. leaving the Renault in Breckenridge for repair. After we were established in Dallas, my folks drove the car to Dallas to swap. The thought of my Mom and Dad in that little car amuses me still.

Alas, the overheating was just the beginning of a slow but sure decline. Let me just say that while the French may have many skills, building automobiles is not one of them. The Dauphine disappeared from the marketplace by 1960.

Next, the Detroit years...

Dissidence, riots and other holiday behavior

I witnessed - nay, was part of, a couple of interesting crowd interactions recently. Both occurred at the Austin-Bergstrom International airport. Outbound, we had finally achieved the TSA Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, having performed all of the tricks required in the security theater of the absurd, and we were now comfortably waiting for our flight to be called.

All the sudden, a loud siren went off, followed by a recorded announcement that said, "An emergency has been reported. All occupants please locate the nearest stairway and proceed to the ground floor." Nobody moved. Not a twitch. We all sat there thinking, "If I have to leave, then come back through security again, I am not responsible for my actions." So we all just sat and looked at each other, wondering who was going to blink first.

Meanwhile the announcement was repeated over and over. We're all watching the Southwest gate agent, waiting to see what his reaction/action would be. He was on the phone, but didn't seem concerned, so we all took our cue from him and continued to cautiously, nervously sit there.

Finally, there was just a series of siren sounds, and the announcement stopped. So, at this point we're not sure if we are the only people left on the concourse, or the announcement equipment just went up in flames, or what. I'm looking at the exit gate, thinking, "If a wall of flame and smoke comes our way, we're going down the Jetway and taking the stairs down to the apron outside." Of course, doing that will probably land us in jail as terrorists, but at least we will not be crispy critters.

During all this, not one person made any move to leave. In about 5 minutes, someone came on the PA and said, "Nevermind. It was a false alarm" and we all looked smugly at each other, as if to say, "I knew that."

The second behavior event occurred outside the terminal after we returned, when we participated in a riot. Well, I did, anyway; Barb showed a lot more restraint. Some 3 or 4 flights had all arrived within minutes of each other, and the baggage area was jam- packed. It took a while to claim our bags and then we went outside to join the throng waiting for a shuttle bus to remote parking. It was late, approaching midnight, cold, and it appeared there were only a few buses in operation, covering the Near lots, the Remote lots, and during peak travel periods, such as this, the Cargo lot. I don't know the capacity of each bus, probably no more than 16 passengers, and there were probably 50 in our Remote lot queue alone, with more arriving by the minute.

As we waited and shivered, the muttering grew louder, and when a bus would appear and turn out to be for a lot other than Remote, the mutterings would turn to angry groans. After a period, I heard one side of several phone conversations, no doubt in response to a recorded message on the Airport Shuttle number, stating pleasantries, such as "I'll never ride your bleep shuttle again!" A couple of women had taken a more active role, stepping out into traffic to direct a bus, any bus, to our loading point, or going down to the Cargo lot bus to deliver in person messages similar to those being left on the phone.

The tipping point occurred when a Remote lot bus stopped - not at our queue - but at the end of the line closest to the Cargo lot and began taking on passengers down the way! The two vocal women immediately ran down to the bus and verbally assaulted the driver and possibly the boarding passengers. It was hard to tell what was being said to whom; I just know it was loud and angry.

It was apparently effective, because the driver closed the door and drove up to our load point, whereupon about 20 people stormed aboard. The driver is yelling at the excess passengers, the two women are giving the driver what for, and it's possible that I quietly and politely suggested to the driver that it would be prudent to get a manager on the radio, if only for her safety!

The excess passengers were off-loaded, the angry driver drove away, and we all held our breath in anticipation of what was going to happen next. Fortunately, the next bus was also Remote lot; the driver immediately took charge of the situation, 16 more of us, including one of the shouting ladies climbed aboard, and if there was a riot, we didn't read about in the paper the following morning.

Which all goes to show that people are the strangest folks I know. And Holiday cheer can be stretched to a breaking point.

Monday Meanderings - 1.16.2011

Checking my notes, it would appear that I didn't wander all that much this weak. Pretty sparse on things to report.

A couple of days were invested in getting the spouse through a certain medical procedure - the one that shall not be named, but involves drinking a few gallons of foul tasting liquids ahead of time. She's pretty happy that since everything is OK, she's done with that unpleasantness, since 10 years puts her beyond the time range that they recommend the procedure. I, on the other hand...

And speaking of doctor visits, I really wanted to tell my eye doctor that if he is going to spend 20 minutes on the phone arranging to lease or buy a hunting lodge in Montana while I am waiting on him in the exam room, he should at least shut his door so I think he's doing something important during that time.

I've mentioned this event before, but here's your chance to participate in a real iconic bit of Austin weirdness. Sign up now for the Austin Gorilla Run next Saturday. The registration fee for the 5K fund raiser includes a full gorilla costume, which you get to keep. I'm pretty sure no one else wants a gorilla suit after you have run a 5K race in it, so that makes good sense.

Went to a funeral home for a visitation the other evening. That seems to be an event that happens with increasing frequency, by the way. We sort of figured that we were in the wrong section of the funeral home when everyone we saw had a white sash tied around his head. Not our tradition.

And it's rare to have an orchid bloom in the middle of the winter. What is even more rare is for the bloom to have leaves! Look at this bloom, and the stem behind it. Leaves!

I learned that this is a Keiki - the beginnings of a new orchid. It will put out air roots, as well as leaves, and can be removed and potted. Cool!

Enjoy Martin Luther King day. I hope it's a holiday for you, as it is for me. Oh, wait...

The cars in my life - stories for my grandchildren. Part 1

The early years:

According to popular journalism, the male of the human species maintains a life-long love affair with automobiles. He recalls each one of them with more fondness than that reserved for old girl friends, and if the literature is to be believed, sometimes the current women in his life. I am not that male. It has taken me a while to reconstruct my automobile history, and I'm frankly a little vague about certain years and models. A true auto-aficionado would not be as hesitant as I am.

I was more interested in the auto as a means of independent transportation than I was as an expression of my identity, or manhood, or charisma, and that started at an early age. In those days, a parental word to a friendly magistrate got you a driver's license at age 14. Not a cheater's permit - a full fledged license. You still had to take the driving test, which I did. Twice. But at 14, I was on the road.

The family auto at the time was a 1955 Pontiac Star Chief. It was far and away more auto than my father expected to buy, and he probably would have passed it over for something plainer but for the fact that while he was test driving it, he and five other gentlemen from church were asked to be pall-bearers at a funeral. He and the others all rode together, in air conditioned comfort, from the church to a remote cemetery on a blistering hot Texas afternoon, and by the time he got back, the deal was done. Air conditioning was new, and it was a big deal in those days.

I admit that this auto did help my self image as a fledgling driver; it was big, fancy-looking, and it could take most of my friend's cars in the quarter mile. In theory, at least; I'm neither admitting nor denying anything. It was slow off the line, but the engine was bigger than most, and by the end of the race, I usually overtook all comers. And that big engine made it very fast, if the road was straight and long. Or so I assume. It had bench seats (and no seat belts) so it was a good car for dating, as well. Again, in theory.

 

And yes, it was blue and white - though the blue was more sky blue than this picture shows.

Alas, this was not the only family car. My father acquired an older model Plymouth - probably a 1950 model - with the super-sharp external visor. THIS car became my primary means of transportation. Perhaps because of the alarming number of miles being added to the Pontiac. Surely it couldn't have been the prodigious amount of fuel used; gasoline was only 16 cents a gallon in those days!

The Plymouth needed a ring job, and my father and I did this ourselves. Well, he did it and I fetched. Afterwards, the rings were so tight that the starter could not crank a cold engine, so it was necessary to park the car on a hill so as to get a rolling start. If one parked nose-in, you either had to leave the engine running while you ran your errand, or you had to be back out in mere minutes before the engine cooled.

I learned an important lesson while driving this car. It was common knowledge that if you turned off the engine of an auto and coasted down the hill on East Walker, when you turned the key back on, the car would backfire. Did you know that if you waited a very, very long time to turn the key back on, the resulting backfire was capable of blowing the muffler right off the car? Split that sucker right down the seam and blew fiberglass packing all over the road! Theoretically.

But the car I took to school was a Chevy coupe, painted Bell Grey, with a round shiny spot on each door where the Bell Telephone logo had been rubbed off and the spot painted over. Surplus company cars were auctioned off, and it was common for the men who drove them, and were familiar with them, to buy them at auction.

As you might suspect, there aren't many "Bell Telephone Grey" photos out there. You'll just have to use your imagination!

Next: My First...

Stalking the wild tangerine

I've mentioned Barb's quest for the tangerine of old - the loose-skinned, easily-peeled fruit of Christmas past. We've searched the usual places and the markets that carry more exotic fare, as well. A produce manager at Central Market told us that it was highly unlikely that we would find the classic tangerine in any store in this day and time.
During our Coastal California excursion, we happened to tour a section of the Cal Poly campus in San Luis Obispo (no, I was not in the lead, nor were we receiving directions from the GPS Lady, Preventer of Driving Directions). This particular detour passed through some citrus orchards, and at one there was a market set up with "Pick your own" signs.
Sure enough, at the market table they handed you a bucket, a pair of clippers (clippers?), and pointed you down a path between rows of fruit- laden trees. Help yourself.

If you pull the fruit off the tree, the easy-peel skin tears; thus the clippers.

This particular orchard was of the "Satsuma" variety of citrus fruit. Loose-skinned, easily peeled, seedless fruit that tasted sweet with just a little tang. Just like... tangerines!

We've seen Satsumas in the store, but paid them little attention. After enjoying a bucket of can't-get-any-fresher fruit over the next few days, we wondered if the Satsumas in our local store would be as good. They are, but if you pick them yourself, you pay only $1.50 a pound; if you buy them at Central Market in Austin, they are $2.40 a pound. I guess we'll just have to go back to California.

Monday Meanderings - 1.9.2011

Drove by one of those clothing collection boxes that sit on street corners and there was a single snow ski propped up against the box. No sign of the mate, and it made you wonder if there were some ski togs inside the box; say a bib and some long johns. It really set me to wondering about the back story here, and where the other ski was. Somehow, I think this pertained to a story with an unhappy ending.

Christmas trees are appearing on the curbs around town, waiting for the city to pick them up for recycling. That makes me think of my youth, when we would roam the neighborhood after Christmas, gathering up all the trees that had been set out, dragging them to some central location for an annual bonfire. Sometimes, before the big bonfire, we divided them up into tree forts and had roman candle wars with other neighborhood kids, but don't tell anyone that we did that because it definitely wasn't a safe thing to do.

He said (noting the recent 15 cent increase in the price of gasoline): "They said on the news last night that the cost of gasoline is headed for record highs."
She said: "Ummm."
He said: "I guess it's time to buy a couple of bicycles."
She said: "Too expensive."
He said: "No, I'm not talking high-dollar bikes, here. If gas costs..."
She said: "No. What you are forgetting is the cost of the emergency room."

I guess we do eat at Fran's too much. Our favorite waitress pointed out which table was hers, but before she let us sit down she walked over and tested it to see if it wobbled - something we always do, but didn't know it was that obvious.

I have featured the miss-spellings and malaprops of the Crestview Baptist Church sign before. Recently it read, "Welcome to our warship." Glad to know that is a problem with the Baptists, too.

And yes, I have weighed myself now that the holidays are over, and yes, my weight did reverse direction SINCE I SHOWED NO RESTRAINT WHATSOEVER!! But it was not as bad as I expected, and I should be back on track in, oh, say another 6 months, or 10,000 miles - whichever comes first.

The car from... Gothenburg!

Another episode from our California adventure -

It is my understanding that Volvo makes good cars. Dependable, safe cars. So when the car rental agent told me that she was going to upgrade us to an "elite Volvo" I thought that would be a good thing. What she did not tell us was that it would be a Volvo S60, a snazzy-looking little car about the size of a roller skate. So the first part of our journey, with 5 passengers and all our luggage, was, to say the least, painful. Especially for Jana, who shared her space with some of the luggage.

Setting aside the lack of room, there were other issues with the car; most notably the "control center," that video screen in the dash that - depending on your point of view - either kept one informed about current conditions, or taunted you with information you could do nothing about. For example, for many miles, the screen displayed the cryptic statement, "There is one car message." Okay, the car is texting me. How do I see this message? Push this? No. This? Uh-oh. This? Okay, I don't really need to know what the car message is. Or do I? Let's see, there are only 36 buttons and knobs on the control console. Surely one of them fetches the message. Many miles later, I found that a dial on the left-hand steering column thingy shows the message text, which was, and I quote, "Rear left, center and right seat belts are in use."

OK. How about the radio? According to a decal on the window the car was equipped with satellite radio. Alright, let's cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway listening to the Beach Boys on Classic Rock! Barb and I spent 30 minutes (while stopped) fiddling with buttons that suggested that they would actually produce radio choices. Finally the console indicated that we had indeed selected XM Classic Rock - and that if we called an 800 number they could set up a paid subscription in place of the one that had expired. Okay, I'll just flip over to an FM station. Or not.

There were other problems, to be sure. Among them finding the button that opened the gas filler lid, the switch that turned on the headlights (actually I never found that, but the lights seemed to be on when I needed them). There were certainly buttons enough to try, including 4 on the sun visor! Never did figure those out. But the most aggravating behavior of the car was to rotate the rear-view mirrors downward whenever you put the car in reverse. Want to see behind you? Sorry, the mirrors are pointed to the ground. Am I going to back into something? With the restricted view out the windows, the only way to find out is to open the moon roof (assuming you can figure out which button to push to do that) and stick your head out and look behind you!

I'm told this is a "feature" of high-dollar cars; the mirrors rotate so that you can see the curb when you are parallel parking. I ask you - when was the last time you had to parallel park? When was the last time you backed up and needed to see behind you? I rest my case, your Honor.

So the message is clear. I'm just not an "elite Volvo" sort of person. Next time, I think I'll ask for an old pick-up truck. I'll bet I can get the radio to work on an old F-150.

Recalculating!

I have blogged before about misadventures with GPS devices. In fact, it was while traveling in this very same area a couple of years ago I learned that you can't always trust the GPS for the best way to go. On this trip, however, we learned that you can't even trust the GPS to get you out of town, let alone point you in the right direction!

The back story is that on our trip to California we rented a car and I added a GPS to the rental because we were driving to unvisited places on unfamiliar roads. Makes sense, right? So we pick up the rental car and I start off while Barb plugged our destination into the device. That's the way you do it right?

Let me just stop right here and state that if I had not been in such a hurry; if I had waited, or pulled over while everything got set up; if I had given Barb adequate time to get everything operable, I might not be writing this blog. But I did not, and let me be perfectly clear about the fact that I am the one that missed the crucial on-ramp to the freeway and started the whole mess.

 Having said all that, the normal expectation of a GPS unit, or "the GPS Lady" as the disembodied voice came to be known, would be to recalculate and direct us to the next opportunity to get on the freeway. But this was not a normal GPS Lady. This was more like "Mordac the Preventer of Information Services" in the Dilbert cartoons. The GPS Lady, Preventer of Driving Directions. It took us an hour to find our way out of San Jose! We toured the San Jose State Campus, we toured the barrios (are the doors locked?), we were directed into the middle of a street carnival, we were directed North, when our destination was South! At every misstep, when it was obvious we were not achieving our goal, the GPS Lady would say, "Recalculating" and send us off in a different direction!

Finally, we escaped into the countryside on a secondary road that was going in approximately the right direction. All the while, we could see Highway 101, our destination, paralleling us off to our left! We made several attempts to cut across to that highway, but did not succeed until we finally came to a small community that nestled between the two roads. There, a seventeen-year-old working at the McDonalds gave us clear and succinct directions to our target highway. At last, we pulled onto 101 and felt certain that we could get clear GPS navigation help from that point. We were so naive, so gullible.

The GPS Lady had her heart set on taking us down the old road. So much so, that she pointed out every opportunity:
    "In 1,7 miles, exit right."
    "Exit right!"  and when we did not do so...
    "Recalculating. In 3.2 miles exit right."

And this went on for 70 or so miles, until we finally got tired of her whining and turned her off. Not once! Not once, did the GPS Lady consider, "You know, they seem to want to take this other route. Let me recalculate and find them the best way to proceed down 101 instead of this little road off to the West that I do so love!"

Let me give a clear picture of just how obstinate and obtuse the GPS Lady was. Check out this map:

See the little pin at "A"? That's where we were when Barb decided to give the GPS Lady another chance. Our destination is Fresno, on highway 41, that straight stretch that heads off toward the top of the map. YOU CAN ALMOST SEE FRESNO FROM THERE! So, she plugs in the address in Fresno, presses GO and the GPS Lady says.... Wait. I'm going to let you guess. Do you see another highway on the map? The big one that goes AWAY from Fresno?

    "Recalculating."

Monday Meanderings - 1.2.2012

Welcome to the New Year and the new, revised Monday Meanderings. Of course, it's exactly like the old Monday Meanderings, but with every new year we pretend we're going to be better, right?

With the good Doctor's approval, we did indeed spend some time exploring Coastal California - from Pismo Beach to the south, up the Pacific Coast Highway, past San Simeon and the Big Sur to Monterey Bay. Breathtaking scenery.  Toured the Hearst Castle, went back to the aquarium in Monterey, saw sea lions and elephant seals, ate clam chowder at the Splash Cafe, ate steak at Jocko's, got to hang with my favorite people. It was good.

But since I was supposed to be taking it easy, here's my favorite view, just a short stroll from the house we were staying in.

Came back by way of Las Vegas. My plans for underwriting the cost of the trip with a little slot machine action were foiled by a very tight connection at opposite ends of the airport. My previous visit to Las Vegas was as a teenager, when my family and the Woods family were camping at Lake Mead. We drove in one evening to see the lights. So now I have seen the lights of the Strip by drive-by and by fly-over without ever having set foot in the city itself.

Spending a week two time zones away requires a little adjustment. When it's time to get up or go to bed I always seem to be in the wrong time zone.

It's Capital Bowl Week(s) and if you are a football fan there's no better time. The downside is that you have to listen to Lou Holtz and Mark May arguing at half times. However, with careful planning you can work in some real life segments during those periods. Like my annual tradition of sorting out all the bills and junk to get ready for the tax process.

Another year has passed, and a lot has happened in the last 365 days. Like the character Earl in the comic strip "Pickles" said, "I kinda wish I could remember what it was."

Happy New Year!