…
A few months ago, I joined the Google Adsense program. That is where I let Google sell advertising space on my blog page and they eventually send me a small portion of their take. They have many rules. You may not click on advertisements on your own site because that is cheating. You cannot pay or induce someone else to click on your site. There were more. Many more. As far as I know, I complied with all the requirements. Then, I got this:
…
Hello,
After reviewing our records, we have determined that your Adsense account poses a risk of generating invalid activity. Because we have a responsibility to protect our AdWords advertisers from inflated costs due to invalid activity, we've found it necessary to disable your AdSense account. Your outstanding balance and Google's share of the revenue will both be fully refunded back to the affected advertisers.
Please understand that we need to take such steps to maintain the effectiveness of Google's advertising system, particularly the advertiser-publisher relationship. We understand the inconvenience that this may cause you, and we thank you in advance for your understanding and cooperation.
…
Cooperation? They went on to say I could appeal their expert’s decision if I chose, but they could not tell me what they found suspicious because the formulas they use for detection are proprietary.
I found it difficult to defend myself from these unspecified accusations. I sent an appeal that must have sounded like “WTF” to the reader, if any. It did no good. In less than 24 hours, I had my reply. I was out of the Adsense program.
I know this will be disappointing news to the throngs who relied upon my blog site as a principal source of shopping information, but I can do nothing. Worse, the pile of money I earned publishing Google’s ads was half way to paying for a mid-range dinner for two. You know, any dinner not involving a drive-through window.
Not to worry. I never intended to become a giant internet retailer. I shall look for something pleasant and possibly entertaining to fill the empty space.
Happy 2011, y’all.
…
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
A Lone Star Christmas
…
Each year around Christmas, I routinely receive offers from retailers of every kind. They each attempt to offer something so eye catching, so irresistible that you will be unable to restrain the urge to go to their store and shovel out money in exchange for some miraculous product or service. I routinely sail these offers into the round file and get on with my life.
I did, that is, until this one showed up. It is from an area auto dealer specializing in pickup trucks. Before I saw their flyer, I would have said, “I already have a good pickup truck and will not need another for the foreseeable future.”
Then, I looked at the coupon. I must admit, this man knows his market. The chance to win $25,000 is interesting, but we all know the chances are remote. Next, gift cards for some of the major retailers, Wal-Mart, Target, Bass Pro Shop, etc. could be very handy this time of year.
Last but by no means least, the dealer offers a FREE SHOTGUN with the purchase of every new vehicle. Who could resist such a gesture on the very eve of Christmas? I admit I was seriously tempted. Fortunately, self-control got the better of me and I’ll have to use one to my several existing shotguns in my Yuletide celebrations. (?) I will probably enjoy a simple Christmas Eve, driving through the neighborhood, shooting mailboxes and reindeer in the traditional Christmas in Texas way.
What kind of rube do you suppose those truck salesmen take me for, anyway?
Wishing y’all a Happy and Prosperous 2011!
Each year around Christmas, I routinely receive offers from retailers of every kind. They each attempt to offer something so eye catching, so irresistible that you will be unable to restrain the urge to go to their store and shovel out money in exchange for some miraculous product or service. I routinely sail these offers into the round file and get on with my life.
I did, that is, until this one showed up. It is from an area auto dealer specializing in pickup trucks. Before I saw their flyer, I would have said, “I already have a good pickup truck and will not need another for the foreseeable future.”
Then, I looked at the coupon. I must admit, this man knows his market. The chance to win $25,000 is interesting, but we all know the chances are remote. Next, gift cards for some of the major retailers, Wal-Mart, Target, Bass Pro Shop, etc. could be very handy this time of year.
 |
| An almost irresistable advertisement? |
What kind of rube do you suppose those truck salesmen take me for, anyway?
Wishing y’all a Happy and Prosperous 2011!
Putting Crisis Back Into Christmas
…
It was not all that bad. It is just that I awoke on Christmas Eve morning with a fever. Always considerate and cautious in such matters, I soon found myself in the local urgent care facility. They weighed, poked, choked and listened to my various internal noises. I even got X-rayed!
“Pneumonia,” said the slip of a girl who was my doctor.
I admit, it sounded glum for Christmas morning with the grandchildren. I asked, “Am I contagious?”
“Oh Herr yes.” The doctor was oriental, too.
“B-but Christmas…” I pleaded.
“You can stir have Christmas, but do not hug any grandchirdren or share food or drink with anyone.”
With that, a sweet, innocent looking nurse with a bundle of syringes under her arm replaced the doctor.
“Unzip your pants, loosen them and lie down on your stomach.”
I complied, but I was uncomfortable. I hardly knew her.
What happened next was awful. That sweet little nurse stabbed a needle into my backside and turned on the pump. “Ding, ding, ding went the pump indicating gallons of anti biotic delivered. In a few minutes, she unstabbed me.
“Boy, I glad that’s over,” I exclaimed.
Stab! “Ding, ding, ding” replied the other pump.
By this time, I thought my legs at least doubled in size. The discomfort was, well, eye watering.
I got a sheaf of prescriptions and managed to walk out of the place feeling pneumonia was a trifle compared to my backside and legs.
“Owww!” I said with each step.
Christmas morning arrived on time and the children and grandchildren showed up bright and early. Everyone waded into the pile of gifts. Grandfather sat quietly in his chair, hoping not to attract undue notice. I felt much better, except for that bottom stabbing business, but remained weak – probably due to the aforementioned stab wounds. I still felt some bloat in the antibiotic department.
Soon all the gifts were opened. Children’s toys covered the floor and filled the air.
The ‘girls’ set two tables; one for those over age six and one for those under age 6. I sat at the old table and enjoyed baked ham and all the trimmings. The mashed potatoes and deviled eggs were among my favorites – at least they were until I met the pecan pie. It was wonderful.
Eventually everyone went to his or her own home and I stretched out on the sofa – tummy side down – to doze through “A Christmas Story” for the ninety-third time.
Today, I am a picture of health.
Overall, it was a wonderful Christmas. I sincerely hope yours was as good.
It was not all that bad. It is just that I awoke on Christmas Eve morning with a fever. Always considerate and cautious in such matters, I soon found myself in the local urgent care facility. They weighed, poked, choked and listened to my various internal noises. I even got X-rayed!
“Pneumonia,” said the slip of a girl who was my doctor.
I admit, it sounded glum for Christmas morning with the grandchildren. I asked, “Am I contagious?”
“Oh Herr yes.” The doctor was oriental, too.
“B-but Christmas…” I pleaded.
“You can stir have Christmas, but do not hug any grandchirdren or share food or drink with anyone.”
With that, a sweet, innocent looking nurse with a bundle of syringes under her arm replaced the doctor.
“Unzip your pants, loosen them and lie down on your stomach.”
I complied, but I was uncomfortable. I hardly knew her.
What happened next was awful. That sweet little nurse stabbed a needle into my backside and turned on the pump. “Ding, ding, ding went the pump indicating gallons of anti biotic delivered. In a few minutes, she unstabbed me.
“Boy, I glad that’s over,” I exclaimed.
Stab! “Ding, ding, ding” replied the other pump.
By this time, I thought my legs at least doubled in size. The discomfort was, well, eye watering.
I got a sheaf of prescriptions and managed to walk out of the place feeling pneumonia was a trifle compared to my backside and legs.
“Owww!” I said with each step.
Christmas morning arrived on time and the children and grandchildren showed up bright and early. Everyone waded into the pile of gifts. Grandfather sat quietly in his chair, hoping not to attract undue notice. I felt much better, except for that bottom stabbing business, but remained weak – probably due to the aforementioned stab wounds. I still felt some bloat in the antibiotic department.
Soon all the gifts were opened. Children’s toys covered the floor and filled the air.
The ‘girls’ set two tables; one for those over age six and one for those under age 6. I sat at the old table and enjoyed baked ham and all the trimmings. The mashed potatoes and deviled eggs were among my favorites – at least they were until I met the pecan pie. It was wonderful.
Eventually everyone went to his or her own home and I stretched out on the sofa – tummy side down – to doze through “A Christmas Story” for the ninety-third time.
Today, I am a picture of health.
Overall, it was a wonderful Christmas. I sincerely hope yours was as good.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Rockin Around the Christmas Tree
…
Here is the original deal. I promised to retrieve the antique family Christmas tree from storage and assemble it. In addition, I would endure the annual agony of making all the tiny lights light. I believe it would be simpler to re-wire my cell phone, but that was not part of the bargain.
In return, my daughter would bring a few grandchildren over. Then, in a frenzy of holiday togetherness, we would decorate the tree. The plan had a few flaws from the beginning.
Flaw number one is the tree, itself. It is stored in a 6’ long cardboard sarcophagus when not in use. The box is decrepit and may have seen its last Christmas. The tree comes out of the box in sections. Each section has a basic string of lights permanently installed and ready to plug into the wall. It never works the first two or three attempts, but they do not mention that in the instructions.
I attacked the problem early on Saturday morning. The first pass, I got the sections out of order and the tree looked like a pagoda. I took it apart and began again. As I re-stacked the sections, I made careful note of the location of the electrical connections between each string.
Then, two hours later, I was ready to throw the switch. (Try to recall Clark Griswold and his Christmas lights in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.) I made all the connections and stabbed the cord into the outlet. Ta-Da! The top third of the tree blazed into life.
Okay, I must have missed something. I disassembled it and began again. Ta-Da!
Now, the top and middle lit, but the bottom remained dark.
On the third attempt and just before pitching the tree into the creek, all the lights lit. I had crawled around on the floor and stuck myself with potentially toxic fake pine needles for over four hours.
Then my daughter and the assembled Ant Hill Mob arrived. My daughter began artfully hanging ornaments, while the g’children were content with emptying the boxes containing the ornaments. They wanted to find the good ones.
Me? I collapsed in my chair, spent.
In time, one grandson discovered the Christmas tree box and, after glancing around furtively, slipped inside. He was in there for a few minutes before he called out “Hey, somebody find me!”
I fell for it. I tiptoed over to the box calling “Where’s William?” Small chuckles issued from the box.
“Well, I guess I better put up this old box before someone gets trapped inside,” I said loudly.
Then I picked up the box by the two top handles and began swinging it around and bouncing it off the various upholstered furniture. Squeals of delight and mock terror filled the room and the box. After a long time of flinging my heavy grandson about, I put it down, allowing him a chance to escape. Flushed with excitement, he said “That was great, Grandfather. Can we do it again?”
“Oh no,” I thought, “what have I done?”
“No, Grandfather, do me, do me,” echoed the chorus.
Sure enough, everyone wanted a nice long ride, just like his or her brother/cousin got.
I managed it, but it took a heavy toll. I have been on an Advil diet ever since.
You would think I would learn after five years of this how these things can get out of control. Apparently, I have some sort of mental or character defect preventing me from growing up and from engaging in self-preservation behavior.
Oh, what the heck. It IS Christmas, after all.
…
Here is the original deal. I promised to retrieve the antique family Christmas tree from storage and assemble it. In addition, I would endure the annual agony of making all the tiny lights light. I believe it would be simpler to re-wire my cell phone, but that was not part of the bargain.
In return, my daughter would bring a few grandchildren over. Then, in a frenzy of holiday togetherness, we would decorate the tree. The plan had a few flaws from the beginning.
Flaw number one is the tree, itself. It is stored in a 6’ long cardboard sarcophagus when not in use. The box is decrepit and may have seen its last Christmas. The tree comes out of the box in sections. Each section has a basic string of lights permanently installed and ready to plug into the wall. It never works the first two or three attempts, but they do not mention that in the instructions.
I attacked the problem early on Saturday morning. The first pass, I got the sections out of order and the tree looked like a pagoda. I took it apart and began again. As I re-stacked the sections, I made careful note of the location of the electrical connections between each string.
Then, two hours later, I was ready to throw the switch. (Try to recall Clark Griswold and his Christmas lights in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.) I made all the connections and stabbed the cord into the outlet. Ta-Da! The top third of the tree blazed into life.
Okay, I must have missed something. I disassembled it and began again. Ta-Da!
Now, the top and middle lit, but the bottom remained dark.
On the third attempt and just before pitching the tree into the creek, all the lights lit. I had crawled around on the floor and stuck myself with potentially toxic fake pine needles for over four hours.
Then my daughter and the assembled Ant Hill Mob arrived. My daughter began artfully hanging ornaments, while the g’children were content with emptying the boxes containing the ornaments. They wanted to find the good ones.
Me? I collapsed in my chair, spent.
In time, one grandson discovered the Christmas tree box and, after glancing around furtively, slipped inside. He was in there for a few minutes before he called out “Hey, somebody find me!”
I fell for it. I tiptoed over to the box calling “Where’s William?” Small chuckles issued from the box.
“Well, I guess I better put up this old box before someone gets trapped inside,” I said loudly.
Then I picked up the box by the two top handles and began swinging it around and bouncing it off the various upholstered furniture. Squeals of delight and mock terror filled the room and the box. After a long time of flinging my heavy grandson about, I put it down, allowing him a chance to escape. Flushed with excitement, he said “That was great, Grandfather. Can we do it again?”
“Oh no,” I thought, “what have I done?”
“No, Grandfather, do me, do me,” echoed the chorus.
Sure enough, everyone wanted a nice long ride, just like his or her brother/cousin got.
I managed it, but it took a heavy toll. I have been on an Advil diet ever since.
You would think I would learn after five years of this how these things can get out of control. Apparently, I have some sort of mental or character defect preventing me from growing up and from engaging in self-preservation behavior.
Oh, what the heck. It IS Christmas, after all.
…
Monday, December 20, 2010
Another Christmas Spirit
…
Over the decades, I have experienced many sorts of what we might call “Christmas Spirit.” When I was a boy, the spirit was magical and wondrous. I will never forget the Sears & Roebuck Christmas Wish Book as long as I draw breath. It was the scripture of Christmas.
A decade or so later, my Christmas spirit broadened to include the joys of parties with friends, visits with distant relatives, meeting new people and making new friends. I began getting out into the world.
Time passed. I found myself sipping adult beverages while assembling fiendishly complicated toys on the kitchen floor at a wee small hour of the morning. “Does this look like a tricycle to you?” I asked my wife.
“No. Have some coffee and try again.”
Those days seemed to drag on forever, but in retrospect, they were brief. Soon, the children were only home for a week or so during the Christmas season and the toys gave way to travel tickets and cars.
For the past twenty years or so, my Christmas spirit has been stable. You might even say it has grown stale. That changed last year.
Yesterday, I telephoned my son.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, son! I just wanted to call and congratulate you. It’s been one year today since your re-birth!”
“Yes, it has.”
We chatted for a minute and hung up. It was December 19, 2009, a Saturday, when I received the call that my son was gravely ill. He was in emergency surgery. He had peritonitis. The odds of survival were around 50-50, give or take. He was lucky. He survived.
I shall never forget that Christmas day. After a hasty trip to the hospital in New Mexico, I managed to catch influenza. I returned home Christmas Eve and collapsed on the sofa.
A few nerve-wracking weeks later, everything changed. Family filled the house and Christmas dinner was underway. My son, thin, weak and grumpy, sat in the den and watched as his children joined in the Christmas melee under the tree.
At that moment, I wanted for nothing. Better still, I have all the Christmas spirit I shall ever need.
May Providence smile on you every day.
…
Over the decades, I have experienced many sorts of what we might call “Christmas Spirit.” When I was a boy, the spirit was magical and wondrous. I will never forget the Sears & Roebuck Christmas Wish Book as long as I draw breath. It was the scripture of Christmas.
A decade or so later, my Christmas spirit broadened to include the joys of parties with friends, visits with distant relatives, meeting new people and making new friends. I began getting out into the world.
Time passed. I found myself sipping adult beverages while assembling fiendishly complicated toys on the kitchen floor at a wee small hour of the morning. “Does this look like a tricycle to you?” I asked my wife.
“No. Have some coffee and try again.”
Those days seemed to drag on forever, but in retrospect, they were brief. Soon, the children were only home for a week or so during the Christmas season and the toys gave way to travel tickets and cars.
For the past twenty years or so, my Christmas spirit has been stable. You might even say it has grown stale. That changed last year.
Yesterday, I telephoned my son.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, son! I just wanted to call and congratulate you. It’s been one year today since your re-birth!”
“Yes, it has.”
We chatted for a minute and hung up. It was December 19, 2009, a Saturday, when I received the call that my son was gravely ill. He was in emergency surgery. He had peritonitis. The odds of survival were around 50-50, give or take. He was lucky. He survived.
I shall never forget that Christmas day. After a hasty trip to the hospital in New Mexico, I managed to catch influenza. I returned home Christmas Eve and collapsed on the sofa.
 |
| Ben |
I awoke early on Christmas morning. The house was silent and empty. There were no decorations or presents. No Christmas dinner baked in the oven or bubbled on the stove. The light from the picture window revealed a heavy snowfall was underway. It was beautiful and healing. This might have been my first or second “white Christmas” ever. Yet I was numb, inert. All I could do was lie there in silent prayer that, in the fullness of time, my son would return to me.
A few nerve-wracking weeks later, everything changed. Family filled the house and Christmas dinner was underway. My son, thin, weak and grumpy, sat in the den and watched as his children joined in the Christmas melee under the tree.
At that moment, I wanted for nothing. Better still, I have all the Christmas spirit I shall ever need.
May Providence smile on you every day.
…
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Last 2000 Miles
…
I apologize for the long delay in finishing this story. The truth is the trip almost finished me. It is only recently I regained the ability to stand erect. When relaxed, my hands still resume the form used to grip the steering wheel. My shutter finger is numb. The entire episode covered 4,560 miles. I covered the Shoreline Highway miles at great emotional and physical expense. The vast desert delivered miles in an uninterrupted stream. I occasionally thumped my speedometer with my thumb, just to see if it was stuck. It might have been an episode from the Twilight Zone. Hmm.
After running the entire length of Highway 1 as far south as San Francisco, I decided I had had enough. Fatigue was overtaking me and I was ready for a real, ecologically irresponsible shower and a night in my own bed. I determined at that moment the photo shoot was over and the journey home had begun.
Stopping in Orange County for fuel and souvenirs for the grandchildren, I raced south. It was nightfall when I reached my limit in Yuma, Arizona. I slept the sleep of the just that night and was ninety percent rested when I resumed my journey before dawn.
Speaking of journeys, I asked my GPS to take the shortest route home. Accordingly, I spent the next night in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I could not have been more surprised if I were in East Oatmeal, Indiana. That night, I treated myself to a bucket of chicken and a kidney busting size Dr Pepper. I understand how truckers get that way. Round. On those long desert highways, there is little opportunity for exercise. Yet, at the end of the day, comfort food seems essential.
The next day was a continuation of the GPS’s whimsical navigation. I saw a dozen places I had never seen before. I did not dream they existed. I am sure they felt the same about me.
As I travelled, scene after scene taunted to stop and capture it. I was exhausted at my core, so I pretended I did not see them. They will be there in spring. I may give them another look. Sadly, there is no shortage of decline and decay in the country. It is easier to see in the sparsely populated and economically marginal communities. My journey may get shorter each year.
At the end of my second 600-mile day in a row, I pulled into my driveway and waited in the car while the garage door descended. It shut out the world. Finally.
I went inside and crashed on my favorite napping sofa. I earned the rest. Unpacking could wait. As I write this, I have only one garment bag left to unload. There is no urgency.
I included more pictures in the two preceding posts. I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I did finding them. They are “draft quality,” so any worth keeping may be cropped (or something) before they go on canvas. Click on the photos – twice for largest image.
Enjoy, and
Merry Christmas to all!
I apologize for the long delay in finishing this story. The truth is the trip almost finished me. It is only recently I regained the ability to stand erect. When relaxed, my hands still resume the form used to grip the steering wheel. My shutter finger is numb. The entire episode covered 4,560 miles. I covered the Shoreline Highway miles at great emotional and physical expense. The vast desert delivered miles in an uninterrupted stream. I occasionally thumped my speedometer with my thumb, just to see if it was stuck. It might have been an episode from the Twilight Zone. Hmm.
After running the entire length of Highway 1 as far south as San Francisco, I decided I had had enough. Fatigue was overtaking me and I was ready for a real, ecologically irresponsible shower and a night in my own bed. I determined at that moment the photo shoot was over and the journey home had begun.
Stopping in Orange County for fuel and souvenirs for the grandchildren, I raced south. It was nightfall when I reached my limit in Yuma, Arizona. I slept the sleep of the just that night and was ninety percent rested when I resumed my journey before dawn.
Speaking of journeys, I asked my GPS to take the shortest route home. Accordingly, I spent the next night in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I could not have been more surprised if I were in East Oatmeal, Indiana. That night, I treated myself to a bucket of chicken and a kidney busting size Dr Pepper. I understand how truckers get that way. Round. On those long desert highways, there is little opportunity for exercise. Yet, at the end of the day, comfort food seems essential.
The next day was a continuation of the GPS’s whimsical navigation. I saw a dozen places I had never seen before. I did not dream they existed. I am sure they felt the same about me.
As I travelled, scene after scene taunted to stop and capture it. I was exhausted at my core, so I pretended I did not see them. They will be there in spring. I may give them another look. Sadly, there is no shortage of decline and decay in the country. It is easier to see in the sparsely populated and economically marginal communities. My journey may get shorter each year.
At the end of my second 600-mile day in a row, I pulled into my driveway and waited in the car while the garage door descended. It shut out the world. Finally.
I went inside and crashed on my favorite napping sofa. I earned the rest. Unpacking could wait. As I write this, I have only one garment bag left to unload. There is no urgency.
I included more pictures in the two preceding posts. I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I did finding them. They are “draft quality,” so any worth keeping may be cropped (or something) before they go on canvas. Click on the photos – twice for largest image.
Enjoy, and
Merry Christmas to all!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Travel Into the Expanse.
...
It is difficult to describe the immensity of the southwestern United States. High plains, deserts and mountains are all there, as if they were spread on a banquet table. It is a place to feast your eyes and rest your spirit. I shall always be drawn there.
On my journey, I was lucky to get photos of dozens of formerly useful structures. I shall try to share a civilised number of them here. Frankly, I imagine me working on this collection for months to come, looking for the most poignant fraction of each image. I'm sure it will keep me out of trouble...
Out here, a house of stone is only temporary. The heat can be merciless. Long droughts are punctuated with flooding rains. The "economy" doesn't mean much here. Subsistence is more important.
I bet many merry Christmases, birthdays, weddings and funerals were celebrated here. How could they not?
I wonder if any spirits from those times might remain. They could stay here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the cemetery.
I raced along the highway in Arizona keeping a watchful eye on those distant clouds. They were suspended just above the mountains, directly in front of me. As I hurried to beat the storm, snowplows pulled over to let me by.
I wondered if they were laughing and saying "We'll see him - in the Spring!" If I were them, that is what I would've said. I chuckled a bit and opened the throttle a bit wider. This was no time for lallygagging about.
I survived my dash through the snow, but not because I got by before the storm arrived. No, the blizzard and I waltzed through the mountains of Arizona together. I found refuge in the town of "Snow Flake." I might have taken a clue from the name, but I was too spent from the long climb to the top of the mountain. Next morning, the outdoor air was 9 degrees. It was so cold, I went back to sleep for an extra hour. When I awoke, my car alerted me that the two tires on the north side of the car were low on air.
I looked for a long time before finding a Jiffy Lube willing to inflate my tires. I was puzzled because these tires never lost pressure before. Then, I realized the air was squirted into the tires at 85 degrees. Now, it was probably shrivelled with cold.
It is difficult to describe the immensity of the southwestern United States. High plains, deserts and mountains are all there, as if they were spread on a banquet table. It is a place to feast your eyes and rest your spirit. I shall always be drawn there.
 |
| Another Desert Home |
On my journey, I was lucky to get photos of dozens of formerly useful structures. I shall try to share a civilised number of them here. Frankly, I imagine me working on this collection for months to come, looking for the most poignant fraction of each image. I'm sure it will keep me out of trouble...
 |
| Tumbledown Home - NM |
Out here, a house of stone is only temporary. The heat can be merciless. Long droughts are punctuated with flooding rains. The "economy" doesn't mean much here. Subsistence is more important.
I bet many merry Christmases, birthdays, weddings and funerals were celebrated here. How could they not?
I wonder if any spirits from those times might remain. They could stay here to get away from the hustle and bustle of the cemetery.
 |
| Snowfall on the Mountain - Directly in front of me. Dang. |
I raced along the highway in Arizona keeping a watchful eye on those distant clouds. They were suspended just above the mountains, directly in front of me. As I hurried to beat the storm, snowplows pulled over to let me by.
I wondered if they were laughing and saying "We'll see him - in the Spring!" If I were them, that is what I would've said. I chuckled a bit and opened the throttle a bit wider. This was no time for lallygagging about.
I survived my dash through the snow, but not because I got by before the storm arrived. No, the blizzard and I waltzed through the mountains of Arizona together. I found refuge in the town of "Snow Flake." I might have taken a clue from the name, but I was too spent from the long climb to the top of the mountain. Next morning, the outdoor air was 9 degrees. It was so cold, I went back to sleep for an extra hour. When I awoke, my car alerted me that the two tires on the north side of the car were low on air.
I looked for a long time before finding a Jiffy Lube willing to inflate my tires. I was puzzled because these tires never lost pressure before. Then, I realized the air was squirted into the tires at 85 degrees. Now, it was probably shrivelled with cold. When I arrived at Yuma that afternoon, I took a couple of blizzard pictures of my car. It was the only evidence the storm ever existed. I hit the car wash right after taking this shot.
...
Scenes of the Desert
It was dawn when this train rumbled into view. It struck me as a creature of the vast desert. Fast and powerful, it swept by, looking neither right nor left.
This mobile home has not gotten around much in recent decades. It might be of 1950s manufacture. Certainly it is no newer than the early 60s.
Whatever it was in the past, it is now a refuge for wildlife. I think it is an artificial land reef.
I found this ancient church in far west Texas. The surrounding village still showed signs of life, but this derelict has moved on to the after life, if any.
It was stark and empty, but so well preserved in the main I felt there might be some hope for it in future. It was fascinating.
I wonder how many prayers were offered here. It appears the final answer was "no."
Perhaps in another incarnation circumstances will be better.
This place is so isolated, there is no grafitti anywhere on the building.
Out the window and in the distance rests a tiny cottage. It might be occupied. I wonder if the people living there are religious.
 |
| Passing Train |
 |
| Antique Mobile Home |
Whatever it was in the past, it is now a refuge for wildlife. I think it is an artificial land reef.
 |
| House of Worship. |
I found this ancient church in far west Texas. The surrounding village still showed signs of life, but this derelict has moved on to the after life, if any.
It was stark and empty, but so well preserved in the main I felt there might be some hope for it in future. It was fascinating.
 |
| Sanctuary |
I wonder how many prayers were offered here. It appears the final answer was "no."
Perhaps in another incarnation circumstances will be better.
This place is so isolated, there is no grafitti anywhere on the building.
 |
| Prairie Dwelling Outside |
Out the window and in the distance rests a tiny cottage. It might be occupied. I wonder if the people living there are religious.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Crawl across the West with Me
...
This is a huge country!
The challenges began when I reached the “Shoreline Highway.” Long time readers know I cannot resist a tight corner. Shoreline Highway is CA-1 on LSD. It is a constant series of tight, hairpin turns. Many either went uphill or downhill, sharply, or even seemed to go both way at the same time. I was able to average about 45 mph through here and I earned every inch of it. It was the upper body workout of the century for me.
When the road finally let me go, I was exhilarated and limp as a rag from the experience.
I will stick a couple photos in here for a glimpse of the scenery. No, the photos do not do the place justice.
Lots more to come...
PS: Click on the photos to see a larger version.
This is a huge country!
I awoke in Fortuna, California, a pleasant town on the northern end of CA-1. I puttered about until first light. Then I drove south. Through the evergreen forests, over the streams and rivers I marveled at the view. Naturally, it was overcast and raining (why does it ALWAYS have to rain?) the entire trip. The effect was to give the country a secret, hidden feeling. It was as if I were there all alone. I soaked it up.
 |
| Sunset in La Jolla |
The roads have few (read zero) shoulders in the forested places, so extensive exploration on foot was out of the question. I shot from the hip and on the move many times. Naturally, I have a dozen photos with scenery seeming to rush toward me. It happens.
 |
| Sunset in La Jolla II |
 |
| Cloud in the Mountains |
 |
| A Mountain Cabin |
I will stick a couple photos in here for a glimpse of the scenery. No, the photos do not do the place justice.
Lots more to come...
PS: Click on the photos to see a larger version.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Travelling Over the Hills and Through the Woods
…
Yesterday, “BR” gave me a great tip about old time California. Over lunch, he suggested I try Hwy. 99 north. I did. Sort of. I saw nothing right on 99 except the mega vegetable farms and vineyards associated with the agriculture of northern California. This condition lasted all the way to Fresno, where I collapsed in a heap last evening.
At 0600 PST this morning, I took a chance. I knew I wanted to go to Fortuna, CA as the minimum northern destination for my safari. I could struggle with the map. I could calculate the distances. On the other hand, I could push a couple of buttons on the GPS, sit back, and enjoy the ride. That is what I did.
GPS computers do not think like the rest of us. I merely told the machine where I wanted to go and to take the shortest route, please. I expected something like the route I had scanned on my physical map. What I got was much better.
The total distance from Fresno to Fortuna came up as 440 miles, +/-. I can do that in a day on a motorcycle. In the car, it would be a piece of cake.
I set off along 99 and eventually merged onto I-5 north. I smugly rolled along with traffic, knowing I would reach my goal at a reasonable hour. I was already planning my return leg south and toward home.
The GPS directed me to get off the comfortable, swift I-5 and head west on CA-16. That is when BR’s advice kicked it. It was beautiful. A continuous supply of quaint villages and settlements streamed by my windshield. Huge trees shaded the tiny road and stood guard in the morning fog and the morning rain. I choked the throttle down to something like a legal speed and turned on the windshield wipers. Then, I watched helplessly as photo opportunity after opportunity slid by in the wet, cold and gloom.
My depression was relieved somewhat when CA-16 merged with CA-20 and then US-101. Photos aside, I had as much fun as a child riding the rollercoaster at the State Fair of Texas. On a few occasions, fellow road-racing celebrants slipped up beside me for a particularly tight curve. I have still not wiped the smile from my face. The adrenalin rush was almost continuous, especially when we discovered CHP cars on the side of the road, lights flashing. Fortunately, they already had a “customer” and seemed not to notice the 100 mph passers-by. I attribute this to the fact my mother prays to all the Saints in Heaven on my behalf. You go, Mom!
The 200-mile drive through the mountains carried my thoughts far away from photos and toward navigating the pavement through jaw-dropping scenery, including many 300’ redwoods. I gained a little empathy for the tree-huggers as I contemplated their average age of 1000 years. What majestic creatures they are!
Eventually, I found Fortuna. (Really) It became my Shangri-la. I am as far north as I need to be. I am ready to creep south – camera in hand taking the photos that present themselves. Frankly, I hope a strong storm at sea…
Storm or no storm, I am heading south on 101/1 tomorrow morning. I am excited about what I might see – especially in the early morning fog. Wet cold and gloom shall not save them tomorrow! Heh, heh.
I can hardly wait!
More soon.
…
Yesterday, “BR” gave me a great tip about old time California. Over lunch, he suggested I try Hwy. 99 north. I did. Sort of. I saw nothing right on 99 except the mega vegetable farms and vineyards associated with the agriculture of northern California. This condition lasted all the way to Fresno, where I collapsed in a heap last evening.
At 0600 PST this morning, I took a chance. I knew I wanted to go to Fortuna, CA as the minimum northern destination for my safari. I could struggle with the map. I could calculate the distances. On the other hand, I could push a couple of buttons on the GPS, sit back, and enjoy the ride. That is what I did.
GPS computers do not think like the rest of us. I merely told the machine where I wanted to go and to take the shortest route, please. I expected something like the route I had scanned on my physical map. What I got was much better.
The total distance from Fresno to Fortuna came up as 440 miles, +/-. I can do that in a day on a motorcycle. In the car, it would be a piece of cake.
I set off along 99 and eventually merged onto I-5 north. I smugly rolled along with traffic, knowing I would reach my goal at a reasonable hour. I was already planning my return leg south and toward home.
The GPS directed me to get off the comfortable, swift I-5 and head west on CA-16. That is when BR’s advice kicked it. It was beautiful. A continuous supply of quaint villages and settlements streamed by my windshield. Huge trees shaded the tiny road and stood guard in the morning fog and the morning rain. I choked the throttle down to something like a legal speed and turned on the windshield wipers. Then, I watched helplessly as photo opportunity after opportunity slid by in the wet, cold and gloom.
My depression was relieved somewhat when CA-16 merged with CA-20 and then US-101. Photos aside, I had as much fun as a child riding the rollercoaster at the State Fair of Texas. On a few occasions, fellow road-racing celebrants slipped up beside me for a particularly tight curve. I have still not wiped the smile from my face. The adrenalin rush was almost continuous, especially when we discovered CHP cars on the side of the road, lights flashing. Fortunately, they already had a “customer” and seemed not to notice the 100 mph passers-by. I attribute this to the fact my mother prays to all the Saints in Heaven on my behalf. You go, Mom!
The 200-mile drive through the mountains carried my thoughts far away from photos and toward navigating the pavement through jaw-dropping scenery, including many 300’ redwoods. I gained a little empathy for the tree-huggers as I contemplated their average age of 1000 years. What majestic creatures they are!
Eventually, I found Fortuna. (Really) It became my Shangri-la. I am as far north as I need to be. I am ready to creep south – camera in hand taking the photos that present themselves. Frankly, I hope a strong storm at sea…
Storm or no storm, I am heading south on 101/1 tomorrow morning. I am excited about what I might see – especially in the early morning fog. Wet cold and gloom shall not save them tomorrow! Heh, heh.
I can hardly wait!
More soon.
…
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Worst Western
….
I enjoyed a wonderful visit with my old friend Ron and his wife, Kathy in La Jolla last evening. Ron and I are of an age that permits us to tell long, rambling stories with uncertain ends. As a result, it was bedtime before Ron threw me out of his house. I did not mind. He was out of beer, anyway. Naturally, I sought shelter in the nearby Best Western Motel.
I have spent hundreds, if not thousands of nights in Best Western Motels over three decades. I have moderate expectations of them, but a generally positive feeling toward the chain, except for this one.
I drove to the Best Western Inn by the Sea in La Jolla and crashed for the night. I could not make the heat work. I just pulled up the blanket and was gone.
It seemed like I slept for only a few minutes before my eyes opened. The little red numbers on the clock said 5:30 a.m. Perfect! I would get an early start.
Stumbling into the bathroom, I flipped the wall switch. “Oh no! I’ve gone blind,” I thought.
No lights came on. I called the front desk and they send a well-mannered technician to change the lights. He brought the wrong size. When he came back later, he had two fluorescent tubes. He stuck them in the fixture and fiddled with them for a few minutes. It was becoming very clear I would be shaving in the dark this morning.
The tech left to find a new fixture. I think he was going to Home Depot.
No matter, he did manage to get the heat running. That meant I would not be getting any frost on my pumpkin when I stepped out of the shower. There was light and heat in the bath, so I hopped in and turned on the water.
Drip, drip, trickle went the showerhead. I wrestled with it for a while before deciding I would simply take the best shower I could with the moisture available. It took well over half an hour. When I turned off the water, it leaked more out the spigot than I had to wash in.
Okay, I was awake, cleaned and miraculously uncut from my shaving experience. I headed out for the free breakfast. Three men came out of the room as I arrived.
“Is there anything good on the menu? I asked.
They looked at each other blankly. “Well, it IS food,” said one without enthusiasm. He was right. No one actually went down with his or her face in the plate, so I count breakfast a success.
In the end, I packed and left as quickly as I could. I had a large day ahead of me.
Then, the little receipt on the dashboard reminded me of the $12 charge I paid to park on the hallowed grounds of this fun house motel. When I questioned the silly charge, the man behind the desk said, “You must remember, THIS is La Jolla,” as if that explained everything. To me it sounded more like “Remember, we are all money grubbing thieves!”
Tonight, I am in Fresno. Yes, I am in a Best Western. I already checked and the heat, water and lights work. I am already ahead, and there’s no “parking fee.” I am a wee bit concerned about the Tatoo Parlor next door. Nobody's perfect.
Now, to sleep. Tomorrow, I try to find Highway 1 at Fortuna, CA. Wish me luck!
I am reminded this is all part of the adventure I signed up for all those days ago.
What was I thinking!?!
…
I enjoyed a wonderful visit with my old friend Ron and his wife, Kathy in La Jolla last evening. Ron and I are of an age that permits us to tell long, rambling stories with uncertain ends. As a result, it was bedtime before Ron threw me out of his house. I did not mind. He was out of beer, anyway. Naturally, I sought shelter in the nearby Best Western Motel.
I have spent hundreds, if not thousands of nights in Best Western Motels over three decades. I have moderate expectations of them, but a generally positive feeling toward the chain, except for this one.
I drove to the Best Western Inn by the Sea in La Jolla and crashed for the night. I could not make the heat work. I just pulled up the blanket and was gone.
It seemed like I slept for only a few minutes before my eyes opened. The little red numbers on the clock said 5:30 a.m. Perfect! I would get an early start.
Stumbling into the bathroom, I flipped the wall switch. “Oh no! I’ve gone blind,” I thought.
No lights came on. I called the front desk and they send a well-mannered technician to change the lights. He brought the wrong size. When he came back later, he had two fluorescent tubes. He stuck them in the fixture and fiddled with them for a few minutes. It was becoming very clear I would be shaving in the dark this morning.
The tech left to find a new fixture. I think he was going to Home Depot.
No matter, he did manage to get the heat running. That meant I would not be getting any frost on my pumpkin when I stepped out of the shower. There was light and heat in the bath, so I hopped in and turned on the water.
Drip, drip, trickle went the showerhead. I wrestled with it for a while before deciding I would simply take the best shower I could with the moisture available. It took well over half an hour. When I turned off the water, it leaked more out the spigot than I had to wash in.
Okay, I was awake, cleaned and miraculously uncut from my shaving experience. I headed out for the free breakfast. Three men came out of the room as I arrived.
“Is there anything good on the menu? I asked.
They looked at each other blankly. “Well, it IS food,” said one without enthusiasm. He was right. No one actually went down with his or her face in the plate, so I count breakfast a success.
In the end, I packed and left as quickly as I could. I had a large day ahead of me.
Then, the little receipt on the dashboard reminded me of the $12 charge I paid to park on the hallowed grounds of this fun house motel. When I questioned the silly charge, the man behind the desk said, “You must remember, THIS is La Jolla,” as if that explained everything. To me it sounded more like “Remember, we are all money grubbing thieves!”
Tonight, I am in Fresno. Yes, I am in a Best Western. I already checked and the heat, water and lights work. I am already ahead, and there’s no “parking fee.” I am a wee bit concerned about the Tatoo Parlor next door. Nobody's perfect.
Now, to sleep. Tomorrow, I try to find Highway 1 at Fortuna, CA. Wish me luck!
I am reminded this is all part of the adventure I signed up for all those days ago.
What was I thinking!?!
…
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