A couple months ago I was in the secluded hills above Berkeley, having one of those only-in-California experiences. In the sprawling backyard behind the house, on the steep mountainside, four of us were sitting in a hot tub, watching the sunset over the San Francisco Bay towards the Marin headlands and the Golden Gate.
One of the women in the tub, a resident of Santa Cruz, was waxing about her recent travels. She mentioned having gone to Sedona, Arizona, where she had stayed several days while seeking out the locations of the "energy vortices" there.
I listened with somewhat detached bemusement. I'd never heard of the vortices. But I'm not one to judge how and where other people find inspiration and spiritual uplifting, even if it's not my thing.
Yet it did make me put Sedona on my list of places to visit. To be fair, I probably would have gone there anyway, since my aunt in Tucson insisted that I do while I was in Arizona, but I'm also fascinated by the places that other people find fascinating, for whatever reason. I'll use just about anything for an excuse for a mini-pilgrimmage. It makes for more interesting road trips, to pretend to give a damn about things.
Before leaving Flagstaff, I'd booked a couple nights at the Super 8 in Sedona. After coming down from my snowshoeing adventure on Humphreys Peak, I drove through Flagstaff one last time and guided the BMW onto the Interstate heading south for a few miles until exiting to follow the cutoff that heads through the mountains about thirty miles to Sedona.
I was not prepared for how quickly the road dropped in altitude, a couple thousand feet over the course of a couple miles of switchbacks. I could feel myself getting warmer in the car as I descended. Winter was receding in my rear view mirror quickly.
The road along the river valley into town reminded me so much of Boulder Canyon, I kept expecting to see Boulder itself emerge at any moment.
The comparison between Boulder and Sedona is not too strained, actually, on several counts. Once out of the canyon in Sedona, one is greeted by the spectacular site of the magnificent towering red rock formations that ring the town. As with the Flatirons in Boulder, it was immediately clear why many found in Sedona a center of mystical energy of some kind.
On the way through the little downtown I was amused at the names of the businesses. Every other building seemed to house a therapist of some kind---massage, yoga, psychic, crystal healing, etc.
My hotel was on the west edge of town, along the strip of traditional businesses that line the highway. All the signs for these various businesses were styled, by ordinance no doubt, to blend in to the colors of the landscape. The 'M' of the McDonalds was turquoise.
The Super 8 turned out to be a gem of a place. Not for nothing is it listed on the website as one of the "Pride of Super 8" locations. The Estonian woman at the front desk gave me a splendid room on the third floor, perhaps because I delighed her by knowing a little Estonian. The room reminded me of some of the better Best Western Plus rooms, and with a gorgeous view out towards the rock formations north of town. It even had TCM!
But just prove that "no room is perfect," the room was in the unfortunate category of having all its power outlets, save the one in the bathroom, devilishly concealed behind large pieces of furniture---a holdover from the days before ubiquitous laptops and smartphones. After the next renovation, the rooms will no doubt have the new style of lamps with convenient outlets in the base, but for now I found myself awkwardly climbing below a heavy table trying to get my laptop cord into the just-out-of-reach power strip behind the television cabinet.
As for Sedona itself, i was surprised at much I found myself enjoying it right from the start. Before arriving, I'd been reminded by Wikipedia about the "Harmonic Convergence" of 1987. Whether it was just my general feeling of well-being lately on the trip, or the energy vortices (for which one can buy maps around town), I was filled during my entire visit with a peaceful equilibrium, a warm tingling subtle excitement as if I were exactly where I was supposed to be.
Part of it was certainly that it was the off season for tourists. A film festival had just begun, bringing in extra crowds, but for the most part the town was very relaxed during my visit.
Without a Starbucks in town, I had to find a substitute location for work. The web directed me a local favorite coffee shop where I quickly found the same good table each morning with a power outlet. My table was right next to a ring of couches that were always full with people conversing, and it was during a morning of work that I had a quintessential Sedona experience.
I mostly tuned out what was going on around me, but during a moment's pause in work, I overhead one of the men at the couch telling a couple women something about the use of magnets. Given my background and expertise in electromagnetism, I couldn't help but eavesdrop a little.
"The best way to do it," he said, "is to put four magnets around in a ring. That's the best way to align the chakras."
Perfect, I thought. This is really Sedona.
If only there were a hot tub nearby.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Almost To the Summit of Arizona
On Saturday morning I checked out of the Flagstaff Days Inn after four nights, but I wasn't done yet with fun in the area.
After packing up the car, I threaded through town again, retracing my steps from the day before, and heading north on the highway, this time in full day light.
But I went only a couple miles this time before turning on the side road up to the Arizona Snowbowl, the ski area at the base of Humphreys Peak, the highest mountain in Arizona, in the cluster of small volcanic range that towers majestically above Flagstaff and the surrounding plateau.
After patiently waiting in the long line of cars to enter the gravel parking lot, I got waved into a spot by the attendant in an orange vest. I got out of my car amidst a hundred other people, all of whom were in the process of donning ski clothes, or taking their skis or snowboards off racks on their vehicles or from the backs of their pick-up trucks.
I felt a bit out-of-place when I took out my snowshoes and collapsible trekking poles from trunk. But there was some kind of pride in walking past them carrying my gear, and following the road further uphill to the Agassiz Lodge at the base of one of the ski runs.
From my research the night before, the trail up to the summit of Humphreys Peak went from the lodge across the face of one of the ski runs and into the wilderness area of the Coconino National Forest.
It was a brilliant sunny day, perfect for climbing in snow. I put on my snowshoes and starting walking down one of the side trails of the resort, then across the face of the wide ski run, as snowboarders and skiers whizzed past me. Given the number of amateur snowboarders flopped down in the middle of the slope while taking lessons, I couldn't have been much of a hazard as I crossed.
On the other side of the run, I located what I thought was the trailhead into the forest. I soon found myself in very deep powder in the thick forest, blazing my own trail through the recent snowfall. It was hard to believe that I could be the first one to be on the trail.
It turns out I wasn't. After about twenty minutes of very going around the trees, I stumbled on the obvious trail, which was well beaten down and easy to traverse. It was quite a relief to be out of the heavy-duty trekking in virgin powder. But in the process I learned that the MSR Lightning Ascents had plenty of flotation for my body weight.
I followed the trail through the trees along a gentle uphill slope until I reached the bottom of Dutchman's Glade, a long steep open field of snow that went directly upwards on the mountain. According to the trail directions I'd found, in summer this was an impassable rock slide area. It was usable as an ascent trail of the mountain only in winter, allowing one to shave off several miles of switchbacks on the official trail.
There were already a smattering of tracks up the steep glade in front of me, as well as sets of swishing ski tracks coming downward. A pair of college-age guys had passed me earlier in the forest trail and were already about halfway up the glade when I reached the bottom.
The path looked daunting. It was like climbing a very long set of steep stairs. But the MSRs, designed for exactly this type of slope, performed perfectly with their traction.
The only limitation was my energy reserve. Unfortunately the side trip through the deep forest powder had already left me worn out. Moreover I had stupidly forgotten to eat a hearty breakfast. Thankfully I had least packed a small Toblerone chocolate bar to replenish myself.
It took me over a half hour in shifts of climbing and heavy breathing to ascend the glade and begin following the trail further up the mountain into the forest. I stopped above the glade to finish off the chocolate while sitting on a rock. By the that time the college-age guys had already skied down the glade and had climbed back up to my position, on their way to the summit of the mountain.
The view out over the plateau was marvelous. Exhausted I found myself just wanting to linger and meditate. I had less than two miles to go to reach the summit above the tree line, but it was almost all straight upward on the mountain. After considering the day ahead, the little voice inside me said that my energy stores were too depleted to reach the summit that day. I knew I'd be risking some foolish injury if I continued. I'd already begun tripping on my snowshoes in my tired state.
So with a bit of regret, I started heading back down the trail, then down the steep glade along the path I'd followed coming up. I discovered it was in many ways more difficult to descend a steep slope in snowshoes than to ascend it. I kept having to remind myself to be careful and take it slow. I was in no hurry at this point.
In an all too short time, giving the effort of climbing, I was back at the Agassiz Lodge, tramping around the long lines of skiers and snowboarders waiting for the chairlift. Within ten minutes more I was back at my car and stripping off my snow pants and outer layers.
I'd given myself a good hike, but of course I couldn't escape the mild feeling of defeat. I would have been so good to stand on the peak that day, but reaching the summit of Arizona would have to wait until another time. I resolved to return and finish the task one day.
But it had been quite a victory in the sense of testing out the limits of my new snowshoes. They would surely cope with nearly any snowy terrain. I loved the feeling of flexibility that would give me.
Moreover, I'd been able to add Arizona to places where I'd snowshoed, something I didn't anticipate even a month ago.
After packing up the car, I threaded through town again, retracing my steps from the day before, and heading north on the highway, this time in full day light.
But I went only a couple miles this time before turning on the side road up to the Arizona Snowbowl, the ski area at the base of Humphreys Peak, the highest mountain in Arizona, in the cluster of small volcanic range that towers majestically above Flagstaff and the surrounding plateau.
After patiently waiting in the long line of cars to enter the gravel parking lot, I got waved into a spot by the attendant in an orange vest. I got out of my car amidst a hundred other people, all of whom were in the process of donning ski clothes, or taking their skis or snowboards off racks on their vehicles or from the backs of their pick-up trucks.
I felt a bit out-of-place when I took out my snowshoes and collapsible trekking poles from trunk. But there was some kind of pride in walking past them carrying my gear, and following the road further uphill to the Agassiz Lodge at the base of one of the ski runs.
From my research the night before, the trail up to the summit of Humphreys Peak went from the lodge across the face of one of the ski runs and into the wilderness area of the Coconino National Forest.
It was a brilliant sunny day, perfect for climbing in snow. I put on my snowshoes and starting walking down one of the side trails of the resort, then across the face of the wide ski run, as snowboarders and skiers whizzed past me. Given the number of amateur snowboarders flopped down in the middle of the slope while taking lessons, I couldn't have been much of a hazard as I crossed.
On the other side of the run, I located what I thought was the trailhead into the forest. I soon found myself in very deep powder in the thick forest, blazing my own trail through the recent snowfall. It was hard to believe that I could be the first one to be on the trail.
It turns out I wasn't. After about twenty minutes of very going around the trees, I stumbled on the obvious trail, which was well beaten down and easy to traverse. It was quite a relief to be out of the heavy-duty trekking in virgin powder. But in the process I learned that the MSR Lightning Ascents had plenty of flotation for my body weight.
I followed the trail through the trees along a gentle uphill slope until I reached the bottom of Dutchman's Glade, a long steep open field of snow that went directly upwards on the mountain. According to the trail directions I'd found, in summer this was an impassable rock slide area. It was usable as an ascent trail of the mountain only in winter, allowing one to shave off several miles of switchbacks on the official trail.
There were already a smattering of tracks up the steep glade in front of me, as well as sets of swishing ski tracks coming downward. A pair of college-age guys had passed me earlier in the forest trail and were already about halfway up the glade when I reached the bottom.
The path looked daunting. It was like climbing a very long set of steep stairs. But the MSRs, designed for exactly this type of slope, performed perfectly with their traction.
The only limitation was my energy reserve. Unfortunately the side trip through the deep forest powder had already left me worn out. Moreover I had stupidly forgotten to eat a hearty breakfast. Thankfully I had least packed a small Toblerone chocolate bar to replenish myself.
It took me over a half hour in shifts of climbing and heavy breathing to ascend the glade and begin following the trail further up the mountain into the forest. I stopped above the glade to finish off the chocolate while sitting on a rock. By the that time the college-age guys had already skied down the glade and had climbed back up to my position, on their way to the summit of the mountain.
The view out over the plateau was marvelous. Exhausted I found myself just wanting to linger and meditate. I had less than two miles to go to reach the summit above the tree line, but it was almost all straight upward on the mountain. After considering the day ahead, the little voice inside me said that my energy stores were too depleted to reach the summit that day. I knew I'd be risking some foolish injury if I continued. I'd already begun tripping on my snowshoes in my tired state.
So with a bit of regret, I started heading back down the trail, then down the steep glade along the path I'd followed coming up. I discovered it was in many ways more difficult to descend a steep slope in snowshoes than to ascend it. I kept having to remind myself to be careful and take it slow. I was in no hurry at this point.
In an all too short time, giving the effort of climbing, I was back at the Agassiz Lodge, tramping around the long lines of skiers and snowboarders waiting for the chairlift. Within ten minutes more I was back at my car and stripping off my snow pants and outer layers.
I'd given myself a good hike, but of course I couldn't escape the mild feeling of defeat. I would have been so good to stand on the peak that day, but reaching the summit of Arizona would have to wait until another time. I resolved to return and finish the task one day.
But it had been quite a victory in the sense of testing out the limits of my new snowshoes. They would surely cope with nearly any snowy terrain. I loved the feeling of flexibility that would give me.
Moreover, I'd been able to add Arizona to places where I'd snowshoed, something I didn't anticipate even a month ago.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Scouting the Grand Canyon at Sunrise
A couple solid days of work in Flagstaff allowed me the luxury of taking off most of Friday for the reward of a day trip. It was finally time to see the Grand Canyon, one of the last great American tourist destinations to escape me.
I wanted to go on a weekday to avoid any possible crowds, and to get there as early as possible. I was informed on Facebook that sunrise was a great time to see the canyon. Greg had called me from Memphis and told me that the canyon walls would be glistening right after a snowstorm. Everything was aligned for a perfect day.
With the idea of getting up there before dawn, I set my alarm for 0430 and prepared the car the night before by brushing off all the snow that had been sitting on it for three days. By ten minutes after five I was on the road, winding through the silent, empty streets of Flagstaff and then heading out into the pitch black on the two-lane highway heading north.
After a half hour I noticed how the dark sky was filled with stars, the kind of brilliant clear rich night where the galaxy is out in all its splendor and you seem to see ten time more stars than normal. Off to the right the stars were blotted out by the void of Humphreys Peak. There are things more ominously beautiful than the the dark outline of a mountain against the sky at night.
My early start paid off when I got to the gate of the park, with only a single other vehicle behind me. I asked the Native American woman ranger about a good place to watch the sunrise, and she pointed to a nearby overlook on the map. I noted the location but she didn't say the name, so I had to get out and hold the map in front of my headlights to find it.
I parked and followed a short trail to the overlook, at the very rim of the dark canyon, with a smattering of a dawn glow off to the east. There were about a dozen other already there, mostly Japanese tourists.
Even bundled up as I was in layers, I was soon freezing, standing in the snow, and had to withdraw my fingers into a fist in my gloves.
The sun seemed to take forever to come up, and when it did I quickly concluded that I had come needlessly early. "Sunrise" is a relative concept at the Grand Canyon. The official sunrise is of course only when the sun is visible from the rim. The recesses of the canyon stayed well dark for another hour or two.
By that time I had driven down the road to Hermit's Rest---the road being open to cars in the winter. The gift shop there had opened and I bought a mocha and warmed myself inside by the fire.
I had thought about doing some day hiking but decided to make it a driving day, skipping from one overlook to another along the South Rim, all the way down to Desert View and the tower there than affords one of the best views of the canyon in the mid morning.
The crowds were wonderfully sparse, both on the roads and on the overlook. At several, I was all by myself. At one, I find myself accompanied only by a young Japanese man who insisted we swap smartphones to self-portraits. Given the perfect clarity of the skies, it was probably the best possible day to visit the Canyon.
I was intrigued by how it is not just a "canyon," but a layered series of canyons. From many overlooks, it was clear that below the rim itself, there were several tiers of deeper and more narrowing "canyons with canyons," and then finally a narrow plunging gorge cut down to the river itself.
Of course it was overwhelming experience. I found myself simply trying to gather it in as a first approximation of appreciation, closing myself and taking mental photographs to burn into my memory, with a resolution to come back at a later day to hike down to the river.
I wanted to go on a weekday to avoid any possible crowds, and to get there as early as possible. I was informed on Facebook that sunrise was a great time to see the canyon. Greg had called me from Memphis and told me that the canyon walls would be glistening right after a snowstorm. Everything was aligned for a perfect day.
With the idea of getting up there before dawn, I set my alarm for 0430 and prepared the car the night before by brushing off all the snow that had been sitting on it for three days. By ten minutes after five I was on the road, winding through the silent, empty streets of Flagstaff and then heading out into the pitch black on the two-lane highway heading north.
After a half hour I noticed how the dark sky was filled with stars, the kind of brilliant clear rich night where the galaxy is out in all its splendor and you seem to see ten time more stars than normal. Off to the right the stars were blotted out by the void of Humphreys Peak. There are things more ominously beautiful than the the dark outline of a mountain against the sky at night.
My early start paid off when I got to the gate of the park, with only a single other vehicle behind me. I asked the Native American woman ranger about a good place to watch the sunrise, and she pointed to a nearby overlook on the map. I noted the location but she didn't say the name, so I had to get out and hold the map in front of my headlights to find it.
I parked and followed a short trail to the overlook, at the very rim of the dark canyon, with a smattering of a dawn glow off to the east. There were about a dozen other already there, mostly Japanese tourists.
Even bundled up as I was in layers, I was soon freezing, standing in the snow, and had to withdraw my fingers into a fist in my gloves.
The sun seemed to take forever to come up, and when it did I quickly concluded that I had come needlessly early. "Sunrise" is a relative concept at the Grand Canyon. The official sunrise is of course only when the sun is visible from the rim. The recesses of the canyon stayed well dark for another hour or two.
By that time I had driven down the road to Hermit's Rest---the road being open to cars in the winter. The gift shop there had opened and I bought a mocha and warmed myself inside by the fire.
I had thought about doing some day hiking but decided to make it a driving day, skipping from one overlook to another along the South Rim, all the way down to Desert View and the tower there than affords one of the best views of the canyon in the mid morning.
The crowds were wonderfully sparse, both on the roads and on the overlook. At several, I was all by myself. At one, I find myself accompanied only by a young Japanese man who insisted we swap smartphones to self-portraits. Given the perfect clarity of the skies, it was probably the best possible day to visit the Canyon.
I was intrigued by how it is not just a "canyon," but a layered series of canyons. From many overlooks, it was clear that below the rim itself, there were several tiers of deeper and more narrowing "canyons with canyons," and then finally a narrow plunging gorge cut down to the river itself.
Of course it was overwhelming experience. I found myself simply trying to gather it in as a first approximation of appreciation, closing myself and taking mental photographs to burn into my memory, with a resolution to come back at a later day to hike down to the river.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Winter Cometh to Flagstaff
After two days in Williams I checked out of the Super 8 and headed east on I-40, as there was no more Route 66 to follow for now.
The interstate climbed up further into the mountains, over the Arizona divide, and by the time I got into Flagstaff and checked into the Days Inn (on Route 66 again), I found myself surrounded by snow as if I were back in Colorado.
That night we got even more. When I woke up and opened the curtains, I was greeted by pure whiteness in the motel courtyard, with more flakes coming down. The tarp over the swimming sagged from the weight of the snow on it.
I once hated winter, but I was quite happy to see all the snow. Even though California had been chillier than I expected, I hadn't gotten any "real winter" for over a year except for detours up into the mountains for snowshoeing, and I was beginning to miss it a bit.
The nice, warm feeling lasted until I saw came downstairs outside and saw my car heaped with six inches of snow. I realized my scraper was buried deep in the trunk below my gear. The last thing I wanted to do was fish it out.
Fortunately I had no reason to use the car that day. A Starbucks, as well as many restaurants, were within walking distance, and it gave me a chance to wear the cold-weather boots I had recently picked up in REI in Reno. Having the right outfit and gear is definitely a huge prerequisite for my enjoying winter. I still hate being cold.
And being able to cope with sudden changes of plans, and to seamlessly adapt to new circumstances and carry on without missing a beat---any time I get a chance to do that makes me feel like I'm living in the real groove of life.
The interstate climbed up further into the mountains, over the Arizona divide, and by the time I got into Flagstaff and checked into the Days Inn (on Route 66 again), I found myself surrounded by snow as if I were back in Colorado.
That night we got even more. When I woke up and opened the curtains, I was greeted by pure whiteness in the motel courtyard, with more flakes coming down. The tarp over the swimming sagged from the weight of the snow on it.
I once hated winter, but I was quite happy to see all the snow. Even though California had been chillier than I expected, I hadn't gotten any "real winter" for over a year except for detours up into the mountains for snowshoeing, and I was beginning to miss it a bit.
The nice, warm feeling lasted until I saw came downstairs outside and saw my car heaped with six inches of snow. I realized my scraper was buried deep in the trunk below my gear. The last thing I wanted to do was fish it out.
Fortunately I had no reason to use the car that day. A Starbucks, as well as many restaurants, were within walking distance, and it gave me a chance to wear the cold-weather boots I had recently picked up in REI in Reno. Having the right outfit and gear is definitely a huge prerequisite for my enjoying winter. I still hate being cold.
And being able to cope with sudden changes of plans, and to seamlessly adapt to new circumstances and carry on without missing a beat---any time I get a chance to do that makes me feel like I'm living in the real groove of life.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Love Matches in Williams
From Kingman, whistling Nelson Riddle theme song of Route 66, I bypassed the Interstate and headed east away from the afternoon sun into the desert, over the two-lane stretch of asphalt that was yet a remnant of the once-great "America's Highway."
About a hour before sundown I reached Williams, where snow and a chill temperature awaited me in the foothills of the mountains. There I checked into the Super 8 on the east edge of town for two nights. I didn't have anything particular to do in Williams, but I felt like making gradual movements.
That evening I found myself explaining my "gradual movements" in an email to a woman I had met via on an online dating site. I had made the profile over a year ago, when I was a thousand miles away from where I was, and had since left it dormant, keeping my location underaltered. So the website kept sending me matches from that location, even though I hadn't been there in quite some time.
For some reason I'd felt like responding to one of the matches, and had quickly gotten addicted again to the high of correspondence with strangers of the opposite sex. But of course I found it necessary to explain why I couldn't meet up with them, at least for the next couple months.
Like Kingman, Williams was bestride the old route of U.S. 66, and many of the businesses in town took advantage of the marketing. In fact it was even more intense than in Kingman, since Williams turned out to be the very last town bypassed by the Interstate, and thus lays claim to being the last holdout along "America's Highway" before it was decommissioned.
I spent a couple days of working there, using a local coffeeshop in lieu of Starbucks, and watched movies on TCM in the evenings while fielding more messages from the dating website. I felt as if I were truly in the vibe of the road. It was a zenlike feeling of everything in balance, everything functioned, a well-humming engine.
The only thing I had to complain about was that the steakhouse I wanted to eat at, a local institution called Rod's, was closed the first night, forcing me to eat at the one at the Holiday Inn. But Rod's opened the second night and I enjoyed the rustic dining experience appropriate to the road on which I was traveling.
I even got a follow-up call from my great-uncle in Reno, whom I'd recently visited. His last name is Williams, and I greeted him with "Hey, I'm in your town." He told me stories from the war about flight school in Kingman. He hated Kingman, he told me.
"My sister came out from Los Angeles to visit me and we tried to eat at a local diner. The manager said I wasn't welcome there---because of my uniform."
His sister was my late grandmother. I loved hearing these long-lost family stories.
"Williams is much better," I told him.
About a hour before sundown I reached Williams, where snow and a chill temperature awaited me in the foothills of the mountains. There I checked into the Super 8 on the east edge of town for two nights. I didn't have anything particular to do in Williams, but I felt like making gradual movements.
That evening I found myself explaining my "gradual movements" in an email to a woman I had met via on an online dating site. I had made the profile over a year ago, when I was a thousand miles away from where I was, and had since left it dormant, keeping my location underaltered. So the website kept sending me matches from that location, even though I hadn't been there in quite some time.
For some reason I'd felt like responding to one of the matches, and had quickly gotten addicted again to the high of correspondence with strangers of the opposite sex. But of course I found it necessary to explain why I couldn't meet up with them, at least for the next couple months.
Like Kingman, Williams was bestride the old route of U.S. 66, and many of the businesses in town took advantage of the marketing. In fact it was even more intense than in Kingman, since Williams turned out to be the very last town bypassed by the Interstate, and thus lays claim to being the last holdout along "America's Highway" before it was decommissioned.
I spent a couple days of working there, using a local coffeeshop in lieu of Starbucks, and watched movies on TCM in the evenings while fielding more messages from the dating website. I felt as if I were truly in the vibe of the road. It was a zenlike feeling of everything in balance, everything functioned, a well-humming engine.
The only thing I had to complain about was that the steakhouse I wanted to eat at, a local institution called Rod's, was closed the first night, forcing me to eat at the one at the Holiday Inn. But Rod's opened the second night and I enjoyed the rustic dining experience appropriate to the road on which I was traveling.
I even got a follow-up call from my great-uncle in Reno, whom I'd recently visited. His last name is Williams, and I greeted him with "Hey, I'm in your town." He told me stories from the war about flight school in Kingman. He hated Kingman, he told me.
"My sister came out from Los Angeles to visit me and we tried to eat at a local diner. The manager said I wasn't welcome there---because of my uniform."
His sister was my late grandmother. I loved hearing these long-lost family stories.
"Williams is much better," I told him.
Friday, February 22, 2013
In Search of Buz and Tod on Route 66
Driving down the main street of Kingman, Arizona, it was impossible not to notice a theme: almost every other business in town had a sign that was based on theme of the former highway U.S. 66, which once ran from Chicago to Los Angeles, and became emblematic of the westward migration of Americans to California in the 1930's and afterward.
Of course the reason was that the street through town was once part of the highway before it was decommissioned, having been largely replaced along its route by various parts of the Interstate system.
But from Kingman eastward to Williams, a stretch of the old route remained, renamed as Arizona State Highway 66 officially, but adorned conspicuously with "U.S. 66" signs, with the added monicker "historic" at the top of the sign.
At the Route 66 museum in Kingman, where I rested for a half hour, the nostalgia was on full display in the gift shop: key chains, t-shirts, posters, and other paraphernalia adorned with the famous highway sign, as well as other icons of the Great American Road.
It was about more than road itself, of course. It was about a feeling of freedom of movement and travel, without guilt or worry, and the endless ribbon of asphalt that always brought newness, and allowed one to reinvent oneself over and over.
Seeing all of this gave me a warm feeling, but not so much about the road itself. Rather I thought immediately of my all-time favorite television show, Route 66, which aired on CBS from 1960 to 1964.
Up until three years ago, I had not seen one single episode of the show. But I had heard my friends Agnes and Thor talking about it. They had seen episodes of it, and always had wanted to see more.
So in fall 2009, after returning to Fort Collins from a year-long trip to the East Coast, I proposed to them that we begin watching the series from its beginnings, episode-by-episode (this kind of thoroughness appeals to Thor especially).
Thus we began a series of weekly dates at their house. The routine was always the same: I would bring over the Netflix disk with the next episodes in sequence, as well as a bottle or two of wine of my choosing. Agnes would cook dinner. Thor would load up the disk in the machine and take car of the viewing experience.
As I said, I knew nothing about the series itself. For example, I thought it was a half-hour situation comedy! To my surprise, as we watched the first episode (which aired in September 1960), I discovered it was an hour-long drama.
In the weeks and months that followed, as we worked out way through season one (1960-1961) and then into season two (1961-1962), I quickly came up to speed as an expert on the series.
In case you've never seen it, the premise of Route 66 is this: two young men, both from New York City, travel the country together in the late model Corvette convertible owned by one of them. The owner of the Corvette is Tod Styles (Martin Milner), a straight-laced clean-cut blond Yale-educated rich kid who was left with only the car as his inheritance after his father passed away, right as the family business failed.
His partner is Buz Murdock (George Maharis), a swarthy rough-hewn ethnic-of-some-kind streetwise orphan who grew up on the tough streets of Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan. They are the only two regular characters* in the series (after the mid third season, for reasons that are still controversial, Buz was replaced by Linc Case by played by Glen Corbett).
Together the two of them travel rather aimlessly around the country, their bags tied to the back of the car. In each week's episode, they arrive (or have arrived) in a new location. Somehow they get involved in some kind of drama involving the locals (often played by various guest stars), one that is resolved somehow by their participation. At times they are the main characters in the week's story. At times they are peripheral, almost like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in Hamlet.
That the show debuted in 1960 is no accident of timing. Something about the show seems to utterly capture the New Frontier of the Kennedy era, and the way that Sixties themselves were so revolutionary. In various episodes, one can see almost the birth of the Sixties itself, and of the hippie movement, and the counterculture. Even the name of the show doubles up on the concept of the Sixties, as if to reinforce the theme.
I once remarked to Agnes and Thor that seeing the Corvette roll into a town at the beginning of an episode (with the iconic Nelson Riddle theme playing) felt like seeing a spaceship landing on a new alien planet (as in Star Trek), as if Buz and Tod were bringing the ultra-modern Space Age Sixties with them wherever they went in America.
And of course there is the freedom implied in the main characters' movements---no matter how deep the drama of an any particular episode, it will of course be resolved at the end of the hour, and the Buz and Tod will take to the road again, and the air rushing through the convertible will sweep it all behind them into the past. Their future is reinvented each week. It is the epitome of the freedom of the road, over and over each week.
And of course there is the freedom implied in the main characters' movements---no matter how deep the drama of an any particular episode, it will of course be resolved at the end of the hour, and the Buz and Tod will take to the road again, and the air rushing through the convertible will sweep it all behind them into the past. Their future is reinvented each week. It is the epitome of the freedom of the road, over and over each week.
From a television history standpoint, perhaps the most wonderfully revolutionary aspect of the show was the use of shooting locales. The creator of the show, Stirling Silliphant, had previously broken new artistic ground with the television version of The Naked City (1958-1963), which featured crime-driven stories about New York City shot entirely on location in Gotham, using real streets and gritty neighborhoods, instead of back lots and sound stages.
For Route 66, Silliphant continued the use of real locales, but took the idea out of New York City into the country at large. Settings for the episodes range from Alabama, Texas, California, Oregon, Ohio, Massachusetts, Montana Utah, Pennsylvania, and Florida. Buz and Tod seem to get around all over the country.
The episode location---be it Cleveland, or Austin, or Butte, Montana, Oregon City, Oregon---is the actual real place it is supposed to be. The production was "on the road" during much of the year in a way that no television series before had ever been. Thus many episodes capture amazing black-and-white cinematography of American towns and cities from the early 1960's, under direction of some of the great directors of that era, who took their turns at the helm of the most cutting-edge series of its day.
Yet one of the great ironies of the show is that it has almost nothing to do with the actual highway U.S. 66! Only three episodes of the series take place at locales along the road, and the highway is mentioned explicitly only once in the series. Instead the name "Route 66" is used as a more general reference, a state-of-mind that includes freedom of travel on the highway system as-a-whole, and the unique Americanness of it all, especially at that instant in our history.
But you wouldn't know that from the iconography in Kingman, and along the old route as it threads across the Mojave in northern Arizona. Although explicit references to the series and the characters are rare, pictures of red Corvettes seem to be everywhere along the way. Somehow the car from the series has embedded itself into the mythology of that once-great road.
Yet as anyone who is a deep fan of television series knows, the actual Corvette wasn't red. For one thing, the car was different every season, as Chevrolet (a sponsor of the show) donated a new Corvette with each new model year. According to George Maharis, the car they drove was actually green or blue.
But who cares, really. That's like saying Norma Jeane Baker was really a natural brunette (plenty of images of her along the road as well). Sometimes the image is better than the reality.
*One might propose that Vicki, played by Julie Newmar, was a recurring character. By "one," I mean yours truly. But that's caused me enough problems already...
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Doesn't Anybody Know How to Pray?
On my fifth and last afternoon in Las Vegas, having just come down from a day of snowshoeing on Mt. Charleston, I was feeling quite good about being. "I sorta like this place," I thought to myself.
Within a few hours, however, all of that good feeling had vanished. Somehow I had I hit my "Las Vegas Wall," probably due to a combination of the horrendous traffic near the strip (which forced me to cancel out going to another show), and the long lines at the restaurants.
The thin veneer of my compassion for my fellow man had burned away and I began to look at everyone on the sidewalk with the jaundiced eye of what do you want from me? I knew I was getting out of there just in time.
So on Sunday morning, under the bright warm sun, I packed up my car joyfully and checked out of the Super 8. Scuttling any remaining plans about giving myself architectural tours of casinos, I beat it up Las Vegas Boulevard, then turned on Fremont Street and headed southeast on the Boulder Highway. Forgoing the quick escape of the Interstate was my last concession to exploration of Las Vegas for now. Thankfully the stop lights were merciful in letting me roll down the wide thoroughfare past (one of) the famous "Welcome to Las Vegas" signs and towards the suburb of Henderson.
It was a beautiful day, not just in the bright blue sky and the perfect bathwater temperature, but in how I felt in my soul. Everything seemed perfect. The car was moving down the road with the deep warming rumbling that felt like an airplane engine, and the wind was coming gently through the open window.
I had a growing feeling of overwhelming contentment, one that I rarely have lately. It reminded me so much of the unbridled and undiluted happiness I felt years ago while embarking on one of the great road trips of my youth. I had flashbacks to Austin, driving with my then-girlfriend on weekend trips to the Texas backcountry or across the South.
I felt as if I were twenty-four years old again, as young as freedom itself. Gone was all of the ennui of so many miles under my tires, and so many wrong turns and disappointments about what was at the end of the road. Restored was a feeling throughout my entire being---my shoulders, legs, and arms---that all was new again, and all was possible.
I knew how rare and fleeting this feeling was, one that Lord in His mercy grants to us poor sinners only from time to time. I knew not to expect this state to last even the day. It wasn't the natural state of being, to stay this way.
Thus I consciously tried to savord every second of feeling this way. As if to preserve the fragility of it, I glided gently to a stop at each stoplight, and then just as gently came up to speed again as the asphalt rolled underneath me like a magic carpet made just for my enjoyment.
Within an hour, I had piloted the BMW over the stark hills southwest of Las Vegas and through downtown Boulder City, the one-time encampment of the workers who built Hoover Dam in the 1930s.
As I approached Hoover Dam, I knew I should stop and take the tour, but in truth the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt the magic carpet ride I was on.
Thus when I pulled off the exit for the dam and discovered a several-mile-long line of cars waiting to clear the "security checkpoint," I quickly made an executive decision to forgo the dam tour for now. The last thing I needed to do on that day was wait for an hour letting my car overheat just to endorse the Cosmodemonic Police State of Amerikkka.
So I wheeled my car around on the narrow road (how it turns so tightly) and within a minute I was back on the highway, crossing the gorge of the Colorado River on the Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge. The desert hills of Nevada receded in my rearview mirror.
There was nothing left on the day's agenda except to drive until I reached my motel. All was in perfect equilibrium. I was in zenlike bliss of the road on the ample four lane highway that ran straight as arrow SSE across the Mojave Desert.
The traffic moved fast and soon we were all going almost 85 mph. The BMW's tachometer was at almost 3000 in fifth gear, something I rarely see. But that engine warms up like nothing else, and it was purring as if at half the rpm.
When I reached Kingman after an hour, the sun was still well high in the sky. I pulled the car over to rest for a few minutes, and give the car a cool down before going onward.
As I sat behind the wheel, I picked up my smartphone and send a quick text to my friend in California whom I keep abreast about my whereabouts, especially whenever I cross a state line.
I like to use obscure musical references, ones that I know he will get, to inform him of my whereabouts. My text read:
Within a few hours, however, all of that good feeling had vanished. Somehow I had I hit my "Las Vegas Wall," probably due to a combination of the horrendous traffic near the strip (which forced me to cancel out going to another show), and the long lines at the restaurants.
The thin veneer of my compassion for my fellow man had burned away and I began to look at everyone on the sidewalk with the jaundiced eye of what do you want from me? I knew I was getting out of there just in time.
So on Sunday morning, under the bright warm sun, I packed up my car joyfully and checked out of the Super 8. Scuttling any remaining plans about giving myself architectural tours of casinos, I beat it up Las Vegas Boulevard, then turned on Fremont Street and headed southeast on the Boulder Highway. Forgoing the quick escape of the Interstate was my last concession to exploration of Las Vegas for now. Thankfully the stop lights were merciful in letting me roll down the wide thoroughfare past (one of) the famous "Welcome to Las Vegas" signs and towards the suburb of Henderson.
It was a beautiful day, not just in the bright blue sky and the perfect bathwater temperature, but in how I felt in my soul. Everything seemed perfect. The car was moving down the road with the deep warming rumbling that felt like an airplane engine, and the wind was coming gently through the open window.
I had a growing feeling of overwhelming contentment, one that I rarely have lately. It reminded me so much of the unbridled and undiluted happiness I felt years ago while embarking on one of the great road trips of my youth. I had flashbacks to Austin, driving with my then-girlfriend on weekend trips to the Texas backcountry or across the South.
I felt as if I were twenty-four years old again, as young as freedom itself. Gone was all of the ennui of so many miles under my tires, and so many wrong turns and disappointments about what was at the end of the road. Restored was a feeling throughout my entire being---my shoulders, legs, and arms---that all was new again, and all was possible.
I knew how rare and fleeting this feeling was, one that Lord in His mercy grants to us poor sinners only from time to time. I knew not to expect this state to last even the day. It wasn't the natural state of being, to stay this way.
Thus I consciously tried to savord every second of feeling this way. As if to preserve the fragility of it, I glided gently to a stop at each stoplight, and then just as gently came up to speed again as the asphalt rolled underneath me like a magic carpet made just for my enjoyment.
Within an hour, I had piloted the BMW over the stark hills southwest of Las Vegas and through downtown Boulder City, the one-time encampment of the workers who built Hoover Dam in the 1930s.
As I approached Hoover Dam, I knew I should stop and take the tour, but in truth the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt the magic carpet ride I was on.
Thus when I pulled off the exit for the dam and discovered a several-mile-long line of cars waiting to clear the "security checkpoint," I quickly made an executive decision to forgo the dam tour for now. The last thing I needed to do on that day was wait for an hour letting my car overheat just to endorse the Cosmodemonic Police State of Amerikkka.
So I wheeled my car around on the narrow road (how it turns so tightly) and within a minute I was back on the highway, crossing the gorge of the Colorado River on the Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge. The desert hills of Nevada receded in my rearview mirror.
There was nothing left on the day's agenda except to drive until I reached my motel. All was in perfect equilibrium. I was in zenlike bliss of the road on the ample four lane highway that ran straight as arrow SSE across the Mojave Desert.
The traffic moved fast and soon we were all going almost 85 mph. The BMW's tachometer was at almost 3000 in fifth gear, something I rarely see. But that engine warms up like nothing else, and it was purring as if at half the rpm.
When I reached Kingman after an hour, the sun was still well high in the sky. I pulled the car over to rest for a few minutes, and give the car a cool down before going onward.
As I sat behind the wheel, I picked up my smartphone and send a quick text to my friend in California whom I keep abreast about my whereabouts, especially whenever I cross a state line.
I like to use obscure musical references, ones that I know he will get, to inform him of my whereabouts. My text read:
She believes in Robin Hood and brotherhood and colors of green and grayWithin a minute, the phone made the telltale sound of an incoming text message. I picked up and read his reply:
And all you can do is laugh at herI smiled, knowing that he had got the reference and understood the meaning of my text.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Crazy Girls @ the Riviera Hotel, Las Vegas
Well, you didn't think I would leave Las Vegas without seeing a show, now did you?
Actually the thought of going to one of the many shows hadn't occurred to me during my first couple days there, but by third day, having walked by so many half-price ticket brokers, and having seen so many posters for the dozens of choices available, I realized that to really have gone to Las Vegas, I had to see at least one show.
But which one to see? So many looked appealing, including the half dozen or more incarnations of Cirque de Soleil. I was tempted for a while to splurge for the Donny and Marie Osmond show at the Flamingo, considering it was the closest to the classic entertainer venues of Yestervegas, but it didn't seem right.
Then on the last night at the Elara, I was watching television and happened to land on an old rerun of the 1970's television show, Charlie's Angels. It was the episode "Angels in Vegas," in which the angels have to go undergo at the Tropicana casino to solve a series of murders. One of the angels (Jaclyn Smith) had to audition and become a dancer in the house show, which was a classic showgirl line-up in shepherdess costumes from the Folies Bergère.
That's what I want to see! I thought to myself. "a classic showgirl line-up."
Of course I knew it wasn't going to be the same as back then. We live in a much cruder time. There are no more shepherdess costumes, at least not in any wholesome way.
The next morning I found myself standing in line at a ticket broker, and when I got to front, having perused the listings on the television screen mounted from the ceiling as I waited, I bypassed all the higher priced offerings and laid out twenty-six bucks for a ticket to see Crazy Girls at the Riviera Hotel and Casino on the Strip. The poster showed a line of nude women from the rear.
Of course I knew it was a topless show. The thought of it didn't really excite me very much, but I figured it was the most Vegasy show to see in Vegas.
By the time the show rolled around that evening, I barely wanted to go at all. But I figured it was part of the whole experience of being in Las Vegas, so I forced myself out of my room at the Super 8 and walked down Las Vegas Boulevard all the way to the Riviera.
The Riviera is one of the the "classic" casinos from Rat Pack days of Las Vegas, and although it has been renovated, as all the remaining ones have, it nevertheless retains a simpler more unrefined feeling than its more glamorous and newer siblings further down the Strip.
But that was somehow just what I wanted. I killed time before the show putting quarters not into a slot machine but one of the vintage pinball machines near the casino floor, the kind seemed old when I was a kid.
But when I got in line outside the theater, I began to feel a bit icky. What the hell am I doing? I asked myself. Thank god it wasn't all men in line, I thought. About a third of the people waiting were female.
When I got inside the tiny theater I felt even ickier. The dark empty stage had two stripper poles on it, and the VIP section was circular booths. This is just a strip club, I thought. And I hate strip clubs. I detest the pointless titillation of it all.
The usher had seated us all right next to each other in the first rows of general admission, leaving all the empty rows behind us. I wound up next to a guy from Cleveland holding two beers, one in each hand. He chatted me up for a while. He was in town for a seminar on construction techniques. "This is the kind of show I couldn't see if my wife were with me," he said, in somewhat of an innocent tone.
He didn't quite understand when I explained my own lifestyle and job. But soon enough our conversation was over when the usher offered him a seat in the VIP section, because of the beers he had bought.
As showtime approached, I told myself that if I didn't like the show, I'd leave after the second number. But when the show began I found myself enjoying it much more than I imagined.
First off, it started with a male emcee in the form who did a crude, old-time stand-up comedy routine to warm up the audience. It felt like Old Vegas in spades. He announced that the show was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary this year---the longest running topless show in Las Vegas. That made me glad I had come.
Then the dancers all came out and filled up the stage, and then came out into the audience for the initial "Crazy Girls" number. One of them was standing only a foot away from me, but it would have been weird to turn and watch her.
I was amazed at how all the dancers looked almost the same---all of them rather slender with the same build and height, and all wearing blonde wigs for the opening numbers. I noted that they all seemed "natural" in the figures---no apparent implants, at least not egregious ones. Thor would approve.
For the most of the rest of the numbers, the dancers were either solo, or in pairs, threes or fours. In a few of them, they lip-synched to classic musical numbers, or simply danced with various costumes and props.
So it wasn't a strip club after all. It was a real show. The stripper poles were part of the set, but the numbers were real dance numbers. The age of the show (and the theater) was apparent, especially when compared to the newer elaborate show. The dancers were good and well-rehearsed, but they couldn't compare to Cirque de Soleil. This was definitely a holdover show from an earlier bygone era of Las Vegas. When the show finally closes, it will be the end of an era.
As far as the nudity part, I found myself enjoying the show when I forgot about the topless aspect, although some of the numbers, such as "You Gotta Have Boobs" forced one's attention on the subject. But I would have enjoyed most of the numbers more without the nudity, I thought. I say this not as some kind of "White Knight Male Feminist" (God knows I am not that), but simply as an observation of what I enjoy personally, and what I find erotic.
I kept thinking back to those wonderful shepherdess costumes in "Angels in Vegas." It reminded me again of what a crude time we live in, and what a shame it is that in order to get attention, a show has to put the nudity front and center. It is the plight of women of our time, that to get attention (and love), one must "give it away" in the most forward way. All this is the fruit of "liberation."
Yet, as I said, I was able to overcome the topless part and enjoy the numbers. I had great respect for the dancers at the end. It was clear they earned they paycheck with the show.
When it was clear that the last number had arrived, I was actually a bit disappointed. I actually wanted more. Crazy, indeed!
After the show, I realized that seeing shows was what Las Vegas was about. The next time I come, if that happens, I'm planning on splurging on as many as possible. Why else come?
Actually the thought of going to one of the many shows hadn't occurred to me during my first couple days there, but by third day, having walked by so many half-price ticket brokers, and having seen so many posters for the dozens of choices available, I realized that to really have gone to Las Vegas, I had to see at least one show.
But which one to see? So many looked appealing, including the half dozen or more incarnations of Cirque de Soleil. I was tempted for a while to splurge for the Donny and Marie Osmond show at the Flamingo, considering it was the closest to the classic entertainer venues of Yestervegas, but it didn't seem right.
Then on the last night at the Elara, I was watching television and happened to land on an old rerun of the 1970's television show, Charlie's Angels. It was the episode "Angels in Vegas," in which the angels have to go undergo at the Tropicana casino to solve a series of murders. One of the angels (Jaclyn Smith) had to audition and become a dancer in the house show, which was a classic showgirl line-up in shepherdess costumes from the Folies Bergère.
That's what I want to see! I thought to myself. "a classic showgirl line-up."
Of course I knew it wasn't going to be the same as back then. We live in a much cruder time. There are no more shepherdess costumes, at least not in any wholesome way.
The next morning I found myself standing in line at a ticket broker, and when I got to front, having perused the listings on the television screen mounted from the ceiling as I waited, I bypassed all the higher priced offerings and laid out twenty-six bucks for a ticket to see Crazy Girls at the Riviera Hotel and Casino on the Strip. The poster showed a line of nude women from the rear.
Of course I knew it was a topless show. The thought of it didn't really excite me very much, but I figured it was the most Vegasy show to see in Vegas.
By the time the show rolled around that evening, I barely wanted to go at all. But I figured it was part of the whole experience of being in Las Vegas, so I forced myself out of my room at the Super 8 and walked down Las Vegas Boulevard all the way to the Riviera.
The Riviera is one of the the "classic" casinos from Rat Pack days of Las Vegas, and although it has been renovated, as all the remaining ones have, it nevertheless retains a simpler more unrefined feeling than its more glamorous and newer siblings further down the Strip.
But that was somehow just what I wanted. I killed time before the show putting quarters not into a slot machine but one of the vintage pinball machines near the casino floor, the kind seemed old when I was a kid.
But when I got in line outside the theater, I began to feel a bit icky. What the hell am I doing? I asked myself. Thank god it wasn't all men in line, I thought. About a third of the people waiting were female.
When I got inside the tiny theater I felt even ickier. The dark empty stage had two stripper poles on it, and the VIP section was circular booths. This is just a strip club, I thought. And I hate strip clubs. I detest the pointless titillation of it all.
The usher had seated us all right next to each other in the first rows of general admission, leaving all the empty rows behind us. I wound up next to a guy from Cleveland holding two beers, one in each hand. He chatted me up for a while. He was in town for a seminar on construction techniques. "This is the kind of show I couldn't see if my wife were with me," he said, in somewhat of an innocent tone.
He didn't quite understand when I explained my own lifestyle and job. But soon enough our conversation was over when the usher offered him a seat in the VIP section, because of the beers he had bought.
As showtime approached, I told myself that if I didn't like the show, I'd leave after the second number. But when the show began I found myself enjoying it much more than I imagined.
First off, it started with a male emcee in the form who did a crude, old-time stand-up comedy routine to warm up the audience. It felt like Old Vegas in spades. He announced that the show was celebrating its twenty-fifth anniversary this year---the longest running topless show in Las Vegas. That made me glad I had come.
Then the dancers all came out and filled up the stage, and then came out into the audience for the initial "Crazy Girls" number. One of them was standing only a foot away from me, but it would have been weird to turn and watch her.
I was amazed at how all the dancers looked almost the same---all of them rather slender with the same build and height, and all wearing blonde wigs for the opening numbers. I noted that they all seemed "natural" in the figures---no apparent implants, at least not egregious ones. Thor would approve.
For the most of the rest of the numbers, the dancers were either solo, or in pairs, threes or fours. In a few of them, they lip-synched to classic musical numbers, or simply danced with various costumes and props.
So it wasn't a strip club after all. It was a real show. The stripper poles were part of the set, but the numbers were real dance numbers. The age of the show (and the theater) was apparent, especially when compared to the newer elaborate show. The dancers were good and well-rehearsed, but they couldn't compare to Cirque de Soleil. This was definitely a holdover show from an earlier bygone era of Las Vegas. When the show finally closes, it will be the end of an era.
As far as the nudity part, I found myself enjoying the show when I forgot about the topless aspect, although some of the numbers, such as "You Gotta Have Boobs" forced one's attention on the subject. But I would have enjoyed most of the numbers more without the nudity, I thought. I say this not as some kind of "White Knight Male Feminist" (God knows I am not that), but simply as an observation of what I enjoy personally, and what I find erotic.
I kept thinking back to those wonderful shepherdess costumes in "Angels in Vegas." It reminded me again of what a crude time we live in, and what a shame it is that in order to get attention, a show has to put the nudity front and center. It is the plight of women of our time, that to get attention (and love), one must "give it away" in the most forward way. All this is the fruit of "liberation."
Yet, as I said, I was able to overcome the topless part and enjoy the numbers. I had great respect for the dancers at the end. It was clear they earned they paycheck with the show.
When it was clear that the last number had arrived, I was actually a bit disappointed. I actually wanted more. Crazy, indeed!
After the show, I realized that seeing shows was what Las Vegas was about. The next time I come, if that happens, I'm planning on splurging on as many as possible. Why else come?
Wedding Bells in Vegas
After the intense experience of shooting a Glock at human-figure targets for four days in the desert, I decided that a change of pace was in order. So on my last day in Pahrump, I went onlne and booked three nights at the Hilton Grand Vacations Elara, a high-rise hotel on the Las Vegas strip.
It was a short drive over the mountains into Vegas. On the way I detoured off into Red Rock canyon, a park just west of the city, which turns out to be good for hiking. Just to give myself an extra reason for relaxation, I spent much of the afternoon climbing a steep trail a couple thousand feet up to the top of Turtle Mountain, which looks down over the city. From there the hotels of the Strip were visible, a thin line of buildings in the metropolis.
After all these travels, I'd never really been to Las Vegas, except passing through a couple times. As I drove into town, I remembered many years ago when I was in Eastern Europe, before the fall of Communism. After a couple brutal weeks in Romania, I was finally crossing the Bulgarian border. For reasons too long to explain here, I was extremely eager to get out of Romania, and I was all by myself in the train compartment.
The young Bulgarian passport control officer came into my compartment. He was very amused to find an American---a novelty back then. A couple other officers came in with him to look on while he asked me questions. He was very friendly, thankfully, and just wanted to know about my life.
"Have you ever been to...Las Vegas?" he asked me, in a thick accent. Regretfully I had to say no. "Have you ever been to...Grand Canyon?" Again I said no. I felt like I'd let him down.
So finally I was fulfilling that ambitions of that Bulgarian passport officer.
The hotel turned out to be a dream. As the Thai-born man at the front desk told me while I checked in, it was one of the few hotels on the Strip without a casino. "Just fine by me," I told him. He also wanted to know why I wasn't staying at the Trump Tower instead. "Maybe next time," I told him.
He noticed I was wearing outdoor gear and proceeded to keep me fifteen minutes at the front desk with stories about his outdoor adventures as a young man in Thailand. He asked me if I wanted to climb the Himalayas. "You should do that while you're young," he told me. That was amusing since he didn't seem much older than me.
After hunting in the computer, he gave me a corner two-room suite on the 27th Floor. The elevator zipped me right up. The room was first-rate, with a view out over the Strip towards the "Eiffel Tower" of the Paris casino nearby. On the wall was a print of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. I was really in the heart of Las Vegas, no doubt this time.
From a Vegas perspective, there was only one thing wrong with the room---it was so nice that I didn't want to leave. Actually that was quite good for me, since I needed to catch up on my work. Moreover I didn't have the least interest in gambling, and any the fun Vegas stuff I might have enjoyed with companions was little interest to me on my own. But I did get out a few times to explore the Strip and to people watch. And just for fun, at the moment that the giant asteroid was making its closest approach to earth, I went out and stood right in front of the "Statue of Liberty" by the New York, New York casino. Just for old time's sake.
It was all fun, to be sure, but there was definitely something about it that was creepy to me. First off, the room, and the Strip itself, kept giving me flashbacks to my corporate apartment in Canary Wharf in 2000 when I worked for the Big British Bank. There was something so Londonish about the Strip, and not in a good way. I kept trying to place my finger on what irked me about it so much, but without success.
What was it about London and Las Vegas that was so off-putting to me? Part of it was not just not the ads for prostitutes and escorts, but the feeling that everyone there was in some sense a prostitute. But most of all it was a sense of the fake exclusivity, one that creates a class system of privilege of access to things, just so you can charge people more money. People pay for things just because other people can't afford it. It's phony somehow.
I was thankful to be happy with my usual pursuit of turning the city into an open-air architectural museum, all for free. In that sense, Las Vegas was certainly amusing (I can hear my neo-urbanist architect friend in Fort Collins throwing up as I write this).
After three nights at the Elara, I decided it was time to move on. But I didn't want to leave Las Vegas yet. So for the weekend (when hotel rates went up) I decided to slum it by seeing the "other side" of Vegas. So I booked two nights at the Super 8 on Las Vegas Boulevard just on the edge of downtown.
As a budget hotel, it wasn't so bad---although it was quite a transition from the Elara. The room was a standard Super 8 room (although at first they checked me into a room that was not made up). But the clientelle was quite different from the Strip. And instead of a view down on super-modern hotels reminiscent of Times Square, my window looked out on a grimy parking lot.
But the fun part was that the Super 8 turned out to be smack in the middle of the Las Vegas wedding chapel belt. There were at least half a dozen on the same block, and the hotel shared a parking lot directly with the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. I personally saw at least eight weddings in progress during my short say (perhaps more than usual because it was the weekend after Valentine's Day).
Moreover, there was one huge advantage that the Super 8 had that the Elara lacked---Turner Classic Movies!
My extended stay in Las Vegas also afforded me the pleasure of a Saturday of snowshoeing on the trails on nearby Mount Charleston. I gave my MSRs a workout over a five-mile trail.
After all, who goes to Las Vegas without doing a little snowshoeing?
So if I've done nothing else on this voyage, at least I've fulfilled the ambitions of a young Bulgarian passport officer from 1985. One guess as to where I'm heading now...
It was a short drive over the mountains into Vegas. On the way I detoured off into Red Rock canyon, a park just west of the city, which turns out to be good for hiking. Just to give myself an extra reason for relaxation, I spent much of the afternoon climbing a steep trail a couple thousand feet up to the top of Turtle Mountain, which looks down over the city. From there the hotels of the Strip were visible, a thin line of buildings in the metropolis.
After all these travels, I'd never really been to Las Vegas, except passing through a couple times. As I drove into town, I remembered many years ago when I was in Eastern Europe, before the fall of Communism. After a couple brutal weeks in Romania, I was finally crossing the Bulgarian border. For reasons too long to explain here, I was extremely eager to get out of Romania, and I was all by myself in the train compartment.
The young Bulgarian passport control officer came into my compartment. He was very amused to find an American---a novelty back then. A couple other officers came in with him to look on while he asked me questions. He was very friendly, thankfully, and just wanted to know about my life.
"Have you ever been to...Las Vegas?" he asked me, in a thick accent. Regretfully I had to say no. "Have you ever been to...Grand Canyon?" Again I said no. I felt like I'd let him down.
So finally I was fulfilling that ambitions of that Bulgarian passport officer.
The hotel turned out to be a dream. As the Thai-born man at the front desk told me while I checked in, it was one of the few hotels on the Strip without a casino. "Just fine by me," I told him. He also wanted to know why I wasn't staying at the Trump Tower instead. "Maybe next time," I told him.
He noticed I was wearing outdoor gear and proceeded to keep me fifteen minutes at the front desk with stories about his outdoor adventures as a young man in Thailand. He asked me if I wanted to climb the Himalayas. "You should do that while you're young," he told me. That was amusing since he didn't seem much older than me.
After hunting in the computer, he gave me a corner two-room suite on the 27th Floor. The elevator zipped me right up. The room was first-rate, with a view out over the Strip towards the "Eiffel Tower" of the Paris casino nearby. On the wall was a print of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. I was really in the heart of Las Vegas, no doubt this time.
From a Vegas perspective, there was only one thing wrong with the room---it was so nice that I didn't want to leave. Actually that was quite good for me, since I needed to catch up on my work. Moreover I didn't have the least interest in gambling, and any the fun Vegas stuff I might have enjoyed with companions was little interest to me on my own. But I did get out a few times to explore the Strip and to people watch. And just for fun, at the moment that the giant asteroid was making its closest approach to earth, I went out and stood right in front of the "Statue of Liberty" by the New York, New York casino. Just for old time's sake.
It was all fun, to be sure, but there was definitely something about it that was creepy to me. First off, the room, and the Strip itself, kept giving me flashbacks to my corporate apartment in Canary Wharf in 2000 when I worked for the Big British Bank. There was something so Londonish about the Strip, and not in a good way. I kept trying to place my finger on what irked me about it so much, but without success.
What was it about London and Las Vegas that was so off-putting to me? Part of it was not just not the ads for prostitutes and escorts, but the feeling that everyone there was in some sense a prostitute. But most of all it was a sense of the fake exclusivity, one that creates a class system of privilege of access to things, just so you can charge people more money. People pay for things just because other people can't afford it. It's phony somehow.
I was thankful to be happy with my usual pursuit of turning the city into an open-air architectural museum, all for free. In that sense, Las Vegas was certainly amusing (I can hear my neo-urbanist architect friend in Fort Collins throwing up as I write this).
After three nights at the Elara, I decided it was time to move on. But I didn't want to leave Las Vegas yet. So for the weekend (when hotel rates went up) I decided to slum it by seeing the "other side" of Vegas. So I booked two nights at the Super 8 on Las Vegas Boulevard just on the edge of downtown.
As a budget hotel, it wasn't so bad---although it was quite a transition from the Elara. The room was a standard Super 8 room (although at first they checked me into a room that was not made up). But the clientelle was quite different from the Strip. And instead of a view down on super-modern hotels reminiscent of Times Square, my window looked out on a grimy parking lot.
But the fun part was that the Super 8 turned out to be smack in the middle of the Las Vegas wedding chapel belt. There were at least half a dozen on the same block, and the hotel shared a parking lot directly with the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. I personally saw at least eight weddings in progress during my short say (perhaps more than usual because it was the weekend after Valentine's Day).
Moreover, there was one huge advantage that the Super 8 had that the Elara lacked---Turner Classic Movies!
My extended stay in Las Vegas also afforded me the pleasure of a Saturday of snowshoeing on the trails on nearby Mount Charleston. I gave my MSRs a workout over a five-mile trail.
After all, who goes to Las Vegas without doing a little snowshoeing?
So if I've done nothing else on this voyage, at least I've fulfilled the ambitions of a young Bulgarian passport officer from 1985. One guess as to where I'm heading now...
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
My Four Days at Front Sight Nevada
copied over from a photo essay on my Facebook page
Last week I had the pleasure of taking a 4-day defensive handgun course outside Pahrump, NV at Front Sight, the largest private weapons training school in the nation. It was a very intense and rewarding experience, one that I would recommend to anyone.
The object of the course is straightforward: to learn to stop bad guys with a semi-automatic handgun. More specifically, one is trained to present from a concealed holster and fire a controlled pair (two rounds) to the thoracic cavity of the attacker in less than two seconds. If that doesn't stop the bad guy, one is trained to fire a single round to the cranio-ocular cavity of the attackers's head, which if done correctly will always put an immediate end to it.
For the course, I rented a Glock 17 and all necessary accessories from the Front Sight pro shop. Here I am out on the range with my weapon holstered on my hip. Unfortunately, presenting it for the camera behind the line would have been against the range rules.
During the course run, we got a couple menacing winter storms rolling in from Death Valley that left a dusting of snow on the nearby mountains. Out on the range we had to stay bundled up most of the time. The free hot coffee was quite welcome when we got indoors. The instructors joked that the adverse weather "came at no extra charge."
The Front Sight instructors were amazingly skilled at providing training without a "drill instructor attitude," as they say. They were extremely patient with all of us, including yours truly, all the while getting us as close as possible to "perfect" in the techniques. These included safe weapons handling, "after action drills", tactical reloading, and how to clear various weapons malfunctions in the middle of a gunfight. I'll certainly never forget "brass low!!...look, move, check, lock, strip, rack-rack-rack, insert, rack, point in to the target!"
I got extremely lucky in my draw of a range partner, a guy named Chuck who turned out to be a police chaplain for the San Diego PD. He was much more skilled than I was, and was able to coach me with many excellent pointers in weapons handling and marksmanship beyond what the instructors were providing.
In addition to the range work, we attended several classroom lectures on such things as the ethics and legalities of using deadly force to stop an attack, how to determine one's personal "line in the sand," and even what to say to the police after an incident. The basic message: even if you survive unscathed and victorious, nothing good is going to happen to you after a gunfight. Even if you are declared a "hero," you still might go to prison, or get sued to oblivion, or lose your livelihood from public opprobrium. The best you can hope for is that someday you might get your normal life back.
Overall I was quite proud of myself in how much progress I made over the four days of the course. Although I didn't make the stringent cut for "distinguished graduate" (very few people do on their first time through the course), I still delivered the majority of my shots correctly on the final proficiency test, only missing at the farthest distance, and didn't screw up too badly on the malfunction clearing part.
At the end of the course, I was more than a little exhausted and sore. Upon first registering, I had purchased their standard student package of 650 9mm cartridges. After the last day, I found a single round in my back pocket, and would have put that in my magazine too if I had known it was there.
Although I only occasionally make it out to this part of the country, I am definitely looking forward to returning to Front Sight in the near future to take another course, perhaps to repeat the 4-day handgun course, or maybe to take their tactical rifle or tactical shotgun course. In the meantime, I'm treating myself to three days of (working) relaxation in a suite on the Las Vegas strip!
Last week I had the pleasure of taking a 4-day defensive handgun course outside Pahrump, NV at Front Sight, the largest private weapons training school in the nation. It was a very intense and rewarding experience, one that I would recommend to anyone.
The object of the course is straightforward: to learn to stop bad guys with a semi-automatic handgun. More specifically, one is trained to present from a concealed holster and fire a controlled pair (two rounds) to the thoracic cavity of the attacker in less than two seconds. If that doesn't stop the bad guy, one is trained to fire a single round to the cranio-ocular cavity of the attackers's head, which if done correctly will always put an immediate end to it.
For the course, I rented a Glock 17 and all necessary accessories from the Front Sight pro shop. Here I am out on the range with my weapon holstered on my hip. Unfortunately, presenting it for the camera behind the line would have been against the range rules.
During the course run, we got a couple menacing winter storms rolling in from Death Valley that left a dusting of snow on the nearby mountains. Out on the range we had to stay bundled up most of the time. The free hot coffee was quite welcome when we got indoors. The instructors joked that the adverse weather "came at no extra charge."
The Front Sight instructors were amazingly skilled at providing training without a "drill instructor attitude," as they say. They were extremely patient with all of us, including yours truly, all the while getting us as close as possible to "perfect" in the techniques. These included safe weapons handling, "after action drills", tactical reloading, and how to clear various weapons malfunctions in the middle of a gunfight. I'll certainly never forget "brass low!!...look, move, check, lock, strip, rack-rack-rack, insert, rack, point in to the target!"
I got extremely lucky in my draw of a range partner, a guy named Chuck who turned out to be a police chaplain for the San Diego PD. He was much more skilled than I was, and was able to coach me with many excellent pointers in weapons handling and marksmanship beyond what the instructors were providing.
In addition to the range work, we attended several classroom lectures on such things as the ethics and legalities of using deadly force to stop an attack, how to determine one's personal "line in the sand," and even what to say to the police after an incident. The basic message: even if you survive unscathed and victorious, nothing good is going to happen to you after a gunfight. Even if you are declared a "hero," you still might go to prison, or get sued to oblivion, or lose your livelihood from public opprobrium. The best you can hope for is that someday you might get your normal life back.
Overall I was quite proud of myself in how much progress I made over the four days of the course. Although I didn't make the stringent cut for "distinguished graduate" (very few people do on their first time through the course), I still delivered the majority of my shots correctly on the final proficiency test, only missing at the farthest distance, and didn't screw up too badly on the malfunction clearing part.
At the end of the course, I was more than a little exhausted and sore. Upon first registering, I had purchased their standard student package of 650 9mm cartridges. After the last day, I found a single round in my back pocket, and would have put that in my magazine too if I had known it was there.
Although I only occasionally make it out to this part of the country, I am definitely looking forward to returning to Front Sight in the near future to take another course, perhaps to repeat the 4-day handgun course, or maybe to take their tactical rifle or tactical shotgun course. In the meantime, I'm treating myself to three days of (working) relaxation in a suite on the Las Vegas strip!
Through the Wilderness to Tonopah
After saying good-bye to my friends in the Carson Valley, I headed southeast on U.S. 95 across Nevada, through some of the most isolated valleys of the state. At sunset I reached the mining town of Tonopah (supposedly one of the best places in the U.S. to stargaze because of its location) and checked into the Jim Butler Inn and Suites, where I'd made a reservation.
The next day I continued my isolated journey and by late afternoon had reached Pahrump, a sprawling town of casinos along the highway just on the other side of the mountains from Death Valley, where I had been only a few weeks ago. There I checked into the Saddle West Casino Hotel for the next five nights, as I had planned. They gave me the course discount, just as they said they would.
The next morning I had to be up early. I set my alarm for 4:00 A.M. and was already awake when it went off, giving me plenty of time for my morning routine. When the breakfast buffet of the casino opened at 5 A.M., I was one of the first ones in there, and loaded up on the scrambled eggs and bacon.
The email I had received said I had to be checked in at 6:30. I certainly wasn't going to be late. There were to be no excuses.
So here it is, I said to myself as I headed south on the highway in the darkness. For the next four days I was going to be out in the middle of the Nevada desert shooting a Glock 17 semi-automatic handgun into a target.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Interview with a Waist Gunner in Reno
Perhaps the best part of my recent return to Reno was yet another reunion with someone I hadn't seen in decades---my 87-year-old great-uncle Dick, the brother of my grandmother, whom I had last seen in the mid 1970s.
I had been coming through Reno since the the summer of 1988, when I wound up there during an impromptu motorcycle trip, and each time I had thought to myself "I should look up Uncle Dick." But I never had his contact info, and his name is a very common one.
Finally I decided enough was enough. I might not ever get the chance again, given his advanced age. So after emailing everyone around the family, and finally getting to speak to his sister in Nebraska, I got his phone number and address. His sister, my great-aunt, warned me that he didn't like surprises, however.
I called his cellphone number and said: "Uncle Dick?" and started to explain who I was, thinking he might not remember me. After thirty seconds I realized the phone was dead. So I called back again, and when he answered, I started talking again, only to realize the phone was dead again.
I concluded that he had hung up on me, and that maybe he didn't remember me, or want to talk to anyone. It made me quite sad for the next couple days.
On Friday I went into Reno to work from a coffee shop there, which was only a few blocks from his house. I had bought a card at Raley's and during a break in work I wrote out a friendly message in the card explaining who I was and leaving my phone number.
After finishing work I drove by his house. I parked in front and could see someone inside. I walked up and dropped the card in his mailbox and quickly drove off.
Before I even left Reno, my cell phone rang. I pulled over and answered it. It was Uncle Dick---he was very enthusiastic and happy to hear from me. Evidently the exchange on the phone had been because his phone battery was dead.
We arranged to meet early the next week before I left town. When I came back to his house, I received a very warm welcome. He was as exactly as fun and full-of-life as I remembered him from decades before. His wits were still very sharp.
We spent a marvelous afternoon together, talking about present times and old ones. Among other things he has done in his life, he was waist gunner in a B-17 in Italy during World War II, and flew 35 missions over the alps to Germany and Austria. He said that it was just like in Catch-22, where they kept upping the number you needed to fly before you got to go home.
He has lived in Reno since the mid 1950s, working most as a successful court reporter. He still reviews legal documents in his spare time for local judges, to keep my mind sharp. He told me some fun stories about his experiences from the days when Reno was the marriage and divorce capital of the U.S, and the courthouse in which he worked was one of the most famous buildings in the world.
I had once seen Reno featured in an old TravelTalks from the 1940s, called "Romantic Nevada," which showed recently divorced women kissing the pillar of the courthouse and throwing their wedding rings into the Truckee River. He said he never saw them kiss the courthouse, but that the ring-throwing actually did happen on a regular basis.
He also said he once got to meet Marilyn Monroe, when she was in town with Clark Gable making The Misfits (1960). They were shooting on the courthouse steps and he accidentally walked through the doors right onto the set without realizing it. Later he saw her waving from a hotel window.
It was such a short visit with him and over quickly. It made me wish I had been resolute in finding him years ago. But better late than too late, as they say. Gives me another reason to come back to Reno soon.
I had been coming through Reno since the the summer of 1988, when I wound up there during an impromptu motorcycle trip, and each time I had thought to myself "I should look up Uncle Dick." But I never had his contact info, and his name is a very common one.
Finally I decided enough was enough. I might not ever get the chance again, given his advanced age. So after emailing everyone around the family, and finally getting to speak to his sister in Nebraska, I got his phone number and address. His sister, my great-aunt, warned me that he didn't like surprises, however.
I called his cellphone number and said: "Uncle Dick?" and started to explain who I was, thinking he might not remember me. After thirty seconds I realized the phone was dead. So I called back again, and when he answered, I started talking again, only to realize the phone was dead again.
I concluded that he had hung up on me, and that maybe he didn't remember me, or want to talk to anyone. It made me quite sad for the next couple days.
On Friday I went into Reno to work from a coffee shop there, which was only a few blocks from his house. I had bought a card at Raley's and during a break in work I wrote out a friendly message in the card explaining who I was and leaving my phone number.
After finishing work I drove by his house. I parked in front and could see someone inside. I walked up and dropped the card in his mailbox and quickly drove off.
Before I even left Reno, my cell phone rang. I pulled over and answered it. It was Uncle Dick---he was very enthusiastic and happy to hear from me. Evidently the exchange on the phone had been because his phone battery was dead.
We arranged to meet early the next week before I left town. When I came back to his house, I received a very warm welcome. He was as exactly as fun and full-of-life as I remembered him from decades before. His wits were still very sharp.
We spent a marvelous afternoon together, talking about present times and old ones. Among other things he has done in his life, he was waist gunner in a B-17 in Italy during World War II, and flew 35 missions over the alps to Germany and Austria. He said that it was just like in Catch-22, where they kept upping the number you needed to fly before you got to go home.
He has lived in Reno since the mid 1950s, working most as a successful court reporter. He still reviews legal documents in his spare time for local judges, to keep my mind sharp. He told me some fun stories about his experiences from the days when Reno was the marriage and divorce capital of the U.S, and the courthouse in which he worked was one of the most famous buildings in the world.
I had once seen Reno featured in an old TravelTalks from the 1940s, called "Romantic Nevada," which showed recently divorced women kissing the pillar of the courthouse and throwing their wedding rings into the Truckee River. He said he never saw them kiss the courthouse, but that the ring-throwing actually did happen on a regular basis.
He also said he once got to meet Marilyn Monroe, when she was in town with Clark Gable making The Misfits (1960). They were shooting on the courthouse steps and he accidentally walked through the doors right onto the set without realizing it. Later he saw her waving from a hotel window.
It was such a short visit with him and over quickly. It made me wish I had been resolute in finding him years ago. But better late than too late, as they say. Gives me another reason to come back to Reno soon.
Bonanza in the Carson Valley
My recent return trip to the Reno area, for the third time in the last year and half, was a bit out of my way but was undertaken with enthusiasm.
The purpose was a week-long housesitting assignment in the small town of Gardnerville, about twenty miles south of Carson City in one of the few green valleys in the entire state.
My hosts were my old college friend Randy J. and wife Gail and their teenage son Eric. I had met-up with Randy again after nearly thirty years over Christmas, when they were down in Thousand Oaks. I had spent the holidays as a dinner guest at Gail's parents' house. It had been a marvelous reunion.
Randy had called me a week after that, asking me if I'd stay in their place while they were on vacation in Oahu. "Hawaii?" I laughter. Ironically I had been planning on going there myself. The housesitting assignment would be a pleasant consolation prize, and I would also get to spend more time with my old friend, with whom I was having some very nice conversations about spirituality and life in general.
After they left for Hawaii, I was left by myself in the house with their dog Shasta, who instantly became my best friend. With no television in the house, I got much undistracted time to concentrate on work during the day and evenings, which turned out to be a good thing, since it was a hectic week "at the office" due to a chain of bug fixes I needed to make for the software update that I had just uploaded.
The only glitch in the television-free week was the airing of the Super Bowl on the second weekend I was there. After scouting around for possible places to watch, I settled on a local fancy casino. But when I went there just before game time, I realized that a casino is a terrible place to watch a sporting event, since although they have many large televisions, they keep the sound turned down so as not to distract anyone from gambling as much as possible.
After trying a second casino and finding out this rule, I wound up at a local strip mall bar called Hamdogs on U.S. 395, somewhat seedy with lots of pennants of sports teams on the wall. I took a seat at the bar and put my hat on top of the video poker machine screening in front of me.
Going to Hamdog's turned out to be a good decision. I was befriended by multiple people there, and a had a good time watching the game. Part of the reason was that I didn't care who won, in contrast to everyone else in the bar, who were not only 49ers fans but were rooting for their hometown University of Nevada-Reno starting quarterback, whom everyone just called by his nickname"Kap".
Despite my disinterest in the outcome, I decided to adopt the "local" team, at least for outward purposes, and clapped and cheered when the 49ers scored. In the last minute of the game, when all of my fellow barmates had lost hope of a miracle comeback, I was the one cheering and yelling with never-say-die vigor, "ONE MORE PLAY!! THEY CAN DO IT!!".
All the people I met there seemed to think I'd be back the next day. They really took a shine to me. But to be honest, part of the reason was that I kept winning the free raffle of prizes that the bar was handing out during commercial breaks. Although I didn't wind up with the bar-b-que grill or the snowboard (neither of which I could have taken in my car at this point), I did snag the following: four matching beer glasses (two of which I decided I had to give away), a foam Jack Daniels #1 finger, a DonQ t-shirt with a picture of Don Quixote on it, and a cup holder.
But the biggest snag was when I won the halftime special prize---a full size bottle of Bushmills Black Bush whiskey. I was told I couldn't open it in the bar, so I just kept it front of me during the game. Its presence made me very popular and I kept getting repeated offers for a trade, all of which I politely declined.
Ironically I don't really drink---at least not by myself. The five beers I had during the telecast (one purchased per quarter, plus an extra one purchased for me by the drunk guy next to me who claimed to be dating an ex-Raiderette) were the most alcohol I'd imbibed in many months. The next day was a bit slow.
As I type this, the whiskey is still buried deep in my trunk shrouded by camping gear. I told a playwright friend in Oregon, who is a drinker and had recently sold me raffle tickets for his Catholic school, that I owed all my luck to him and that we would split it, providing the bottle made it to Oregon intact.
The purpose was a week-long housesitting assignment in the small town of Gardnerville, about twenty miles south of Carson City in one of the few green valleys in the entire state.
My hosts were my old college friend Randy J. and wife Gail and their teenage son Eric. I had met-up with Randy again after nearly thirty years over Christmas, when they were down in Thousand Oaks. I had spent the holidays as a dinner guest at Gail's parents' house. It had been a marvelous reunion.
Randy had called me a week after that, asking me if I'd stay in their place while they were on vacation in Oahu. "Hawaii?" I laughter. Ironically I had been planning on going there myself. The housesitting assignment would be a pleasant consolation prize, and I would also get to spend more time with my old friend, with whom I was having some very nice conversations about spirituality and life in general.
After they left for Hawaii, I was left by myself in the house with their dog Shasta, who instantly became my best friend. With no television in the house, I got much undistracted time to concentrate on work during the day and evenings, which turned out to be a good thing, since it was a hectic week "at the office" due to a chain of bug fixes I needed to make for the software update that I had just uploaded.
The only glitch in the television-free week was the airing of the Super Bowl on the second weekend I was there. After scouting around for possible places to watch, I settled on a local fancy casino. But when I went there just before game time, I realized that a casino is a terrible place to watch a sporting event, since although they have many large televisions, they keep the sound turned down so as not to distract anyone from gambling as much as possible.
After trying a second casino and finding out this rule, I wound up at a local strip mall bar called Hamdogs on U.S. 395, somewhat seedy with lots of pennants of sports teams on the wall. I took a seat at the bar and put my hat on top of the video poker machine screening in front of me.
Going to Hamdog's turned out to be a good decision. I was befriended by multiple people there, and a had a good time watching the game. Part of the reason was that I didn't care who won, in contrast to everyone else in the bar, who were not only 49ers fans but were rooting for their hometown University of Nevada-Reno starting quarterback, whom everyone just called by his nickname"Kap".
Despite my disinterest in the outcome, I decided to adopt the "local" team, at least for outward purposes, and clapped and cheered when the 49ers scored. In the last minute of the game, when all of my fellow barmates had lost hope of a miracle comeback, I was the one cheering and yelling with never-say-die vigor, "ONE MORE PLAY!! THEY CAN DO IT!!".
All the people I met there seemed to think I'd be back the next day. They really took a shine to me. But to be honest, part of the reason was that I kept winning the free raffle of prizes that the bar was handing out during commercial breaks. Although I didn't wind up with the bar-b-que grill or the snowboard (neither of which I could have taken in my car at this point), I did snag the following: four matching beer glasses (two of which I decided I had to give away), a foam Jack Daniels #1 finger, a DonQ t-shirt with a picture of Don Quixote on it, and a cup holder.
But the biggest snag was when I won the halftime special prize---a full size bottle of Bushmills Black Bush whiskey. I was told I couldn't open it in the bar, so I just kept it front of me during the game. Its presence made me very popular and I kept getting repeated offers for a trade, all of which I politely declined.
Ironically I don't really drink---at least not by myself. The five beers I had during the telecast (one purchased per quarter, plus an extra one purchased for me by the drunk guy next to me who claimed to be dating an ex-Raiderette) were the most alcohol I'd imbibed in many months. The next day was a bit slow.
As I type this, the whiskey is still buried deep in my trunk shrouded by camping gear. I told a playwright friend in Oregon, who is a drinker and had recently sold me raffle tickets for his Catholic school, that I owed all my luck to him and that we would split it, providing the bottle made it to Oregon intact.
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