Monday, July 6, 2015
Nighttime Fun With Fruit
Once upon a time, on a dark night in the heart of the Tetons, hushed tones woke me from my light slumber. The previous evenings had been hot and sleep hard to come by. My roommate and I had decided to leave the front door open to welcome the cool night air. Only a thin screen door protected us from bears, bats, and boogie monsters. The first quiet words seeped into my drowsy ear, enough to let me know that the next hour or so might be interesting. My next door neighbor, a person named after some sort of fruit, was in trouble. As it turns out, Banana? had over-indulged on a variety of alcoholic delights over the course of several hours. The flashing lights of an ambulance attested to the extent of the damage. A park ranger interviewed those involved in her fall as I listened from my bunk. Grape?, a very small-statured woman checking in at less than five feet and a hundred pounds, had downed a fifth of vodka as part of an experiment to see how fast she could destroy her tiny body. Her body responded by showing her how fast it could expel the toxins, putting on an exhibition of Linda Blair quality vomiting before collapsing in a stupor. The ranger politely suggested to Canteloupe's? friends that maybe they should not allow her to drink all the booze in the world, at least in one night. Worry not those of kind heart, Kiwi? survived the incident unscathed, although her behavior resulted in collateral damage. Her suite mate was arrested for marijuana possession when the ranger noticed a skunky smell emanating from her room. The girl's boyfriend later claimed the weed and both were fired. Surely there is some bit of wisdom to be gleaned from the wreckage of this human train, but I'll just assume that for those of you literate enough to have read this far such lessons are too obvious to bother writing down.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Fantasy I Land
Fantasy football is an obsession of mine this time of year. The playoffs have arrived and even though nothing but pride is often on the line I am gripped by anxiety. Did I insert the right guy into my lineup or should I have stuck with the status quo? Maybe you don't get the concept of all this, and that's fine with me. How can I explain why grown men would spend time compiling imaginary teams of people playing a sport and then live vicariously through their successes and failures? I could recommend watching a few episodes of the fantasy football-centered TV program "The League", although I haven't seen any of the show myself. Maybe a citation of the money won in these artificial contests would interest some folks. I rarely play for wagers, however, and I haven't had many victories when I have, but still the game obsesses me. Instead I choose to relate a tale which took place last night as an example of the highs and lows, the kind of excitement and pain that can be found from few other sources outside of heavy drug abuse.
The Setup: My team, Dick Buttkiss, had squeaked into the playoffs and faced a first round matchup with Fatter Monkey, who I had lost to in a tight match-up two weeks previously when his RB scored a very late touchdown. The Thursday and Sunday games had set things up well for Phatter Monkey. Although he trailed by 20 points, he had the high-scoring Green Bay QB and WR duo of Aaron Rodgers and Randall Cobb going for him, while I had no one but the lowly Packers kicker left to generate me points.
The situation looked bleak after one half. Green Bay's offense ran over Atlanta's defense, the feeble linebackers corpses smashing like pumpkins under the tires of a Monster truck. I led by only three points in the 3rd quarter as the Packers again neared the end zone. Because 3's come in 3's it was third down when Rodgers looped a picture to his running back in the front of the end zone. As he gripped down on the ball the right hand of a defender lurched out like a zombie emerging from the earth and knocked the pass away. Instead of a touchdown for my opponent, I escaped with a field goal and expanded my lead to 6, giving me a glimmer of hope.
Reality came crashing down on me during the next Green Bay possession. In a hurry to reach the end zone because of tight scheduling or just impatience on his part, Rodgers threw a 60 yard TD pass. Combined with a ten yard catch from Cobb I now trailed by a little over 2 points. Bad went to worse moments later when my kicker failed to execute the extra point, a one point penalty that increased the Funky Monkey's lead to 3 and some change.
I had pretty much conceded defeat when the untrustworthy bastard called hope snuck up and bit me on the ass, but in a pleasant way. A short Packers drive stalled at the Atlanta 35. At this point in the game the Green Bay coach could have easily gone conservative and punted or aggressively chosen to go for the first down. Either choice was reasonable, but he picked the third option, kicking a field goal. I had trouble looking at the screen, knowing a make would give me a fighting chance with only 4 minutes to play left in the game. The ball floated in the air for what seemed an eternity, almost as long as watching an episode of "American Idol" while being water-boarded. When it arrived at its destination the refs pulled their arms into an upright position and I sighed in relief. But the drama was far from over.
I led by 1.5 pts when the Packers recovered a Falcons onside kick. The Atlanta foosballers had made an amazing second half comeback, catching up to a 43-37 score mainly based on the efforts of Julio "Down by the Schoolyard" Jones. With just over 2 minutes left Green Bay would be mainly running, in order to eviscerate all evidence of time from the clock. I should be good as long as Rodgers stuck to handing off. Fate had no interest in such a simple finish. On 2nd down Rodgers dropped back to pass. Seeing no one open he ran into space devoid of Falcon tacklers, hurtling forward for what seemed an eternity. He finally stopped 16 yards later, a single yard more than what Felonious Monk needed to beat me. That's right, I trailed by one tenth of a point.
The Falcons had a couple of time outs left so all was not yet lost. A couple of scenarios could save me. The first would be a Packers running Td. The extra point would put me back ahead. James Starks looked like he might do it on the next play, flying downfield to the Atlanta 10 before being stopped. The Packers gave him another chance. Stopped. Then a second. Halted. Then a third. No dice. Time had now all but expired. The play clock and game clock read almost exactly the same number. Would Green Bay have to run another play? Both clocks expired and I lay my head low, embracing the hopeless state of irrevocable doom. The refs had other ideas, however - pointing out to the hastily departing Packers that they could not leave quite yet. There was still one more second. Aaron Rodgers quickly dispensed with the formality, backing up a few yards and downing the ball as the game clock reached zero. The Packers had won - and so had I - his loss of three yards had cost Fitter Mook his slim lead. I stared at the screen of my TV and then my computer in disbelief. 113.52 to 113.25.
The Setup: My team, Dick Buttkiss, had squeaked into the playoffs and faced a first round matchup with Fatter Monkey, who I had lost to in a tight match-up two weeks previously when his RB scored a very late touchdown. The Thursday and Sunday games had set things up well for Phatter Monkey. Although he trailed by 20 points, he had the high-scoring Green Bay QB and WR duo of Aaron Rodgers and Randall Cobb going for him, while I had no one but the lowly Packers kicker left to generate me points.
The situation looked bleak after one half. Green Bay's offense ran over Atlanta's defense, the feeble linebackers corpses smashing like pumpkins under the tires of a Monster truck. I led by only three points in the 3rd quarter as the Packers again neared the end zone. Because 3's come in 3's it was third down when Rodgers looped a picture to his running back in the front of the end zone. As he gripped down on the ball the right hand of a defender lurched out like a zombie emerging from the earth and knocked the pass away. Instead of a touchdown for my opponent, I escaped with a field goal and expanded my lead to 6, giving me a glimmer of hope.
Reality came crashing down on me during the next Green Bay possession. In a hurry to reach the end zone because of tight scheduling or just impatience on his part, Rodgers threw a 60 yard TD pass. Combined with a ten yard catch from Cobb I now trailed by a little over 2 points. Bad went to worse moments later when my kicker failed to execute the extra point, a one point penalty that increased the Funky Monkey's lead to 3 and some change.
I had pretty much conceded defeat when the untrustworthy bastard called hope snuck up and bit me on the ass, but in a pleasant way. A short Packers drive stalled at the Atlanta 35. At this point in the game the Green Bay coach could have easily gone conservative and punted or aggressively chosen to go for the first down. Either choice was reasonable, but he picked the third option, kicking a field goal. I had trouble looking at the screen, knowing a make would give me a fighting chance with only 4 minutes to play left in the game. The ball floated in the air for what seemed an eternity, almost as long as watching an episode of "American Idol" while being water-boarded. When it arrived at its destination the refs pulled their arms into an upright position and I sighed in relief. But the drama was far from over.
I led by 1.5 pts when the Packers recovered a Falcons onside kick. The Atlanta foosballers had made an amazing second half comeback, catching up to a 43-37 score mainly based on the efforts of Julio "Down by the Schoolyard" Jones. With just over 2 minutes left Green Bay would be mainly running, in order to eviscerate all evidence of time from the clock. I should be good as long as Rodgers stuck to handing off. Fate had no interest in such a simple finish. On 2nd down Rodgers dropped back to pass. Seeing no one open he ran into space devoid of Falcon tacklers, hurtling forward for what seemed an eternity. He finally stopped 16 yards later, a single yard more than what Felonious Monk needed to beat me. That's right, I trailed by one tenth of a point.
The Falcons had a couple of time outs left so all was not yet lost. A couple of scenarios could save me. The first would be a Packers running Td. The extra point would put me back ahead. James Starks looked like he might do it on the next play, flying downfield to the Atlanta 10 before being stopped. The Packers gave him another chance. Stopped. Then a second. Halted. Then a third. No dice. Time had now all but expired. The play clock and game clock read almost exactly the same number. Would Green Bay have to run another play? Both clocks expired and I lay my head low, embracing the hopeless state of irrevocable doom. The refs had other ideas, however - pointing out to the hastily departing Packers that they could not leave quite yet. There was still one more second. Aaron Rodgers quickly dispensed with the formality, backing up a few yards and downing the ball as the game clock reached zero. The Packers had won - and so had I - his loss of three yards had cost Fitter Mook his slim lead. I stared at the screen of my TV and then my computer in disbelief. 113.52 to 113.25.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Karma Kicks and Does Other Things To My Ass
Here is a lesson on why you should not be an ass hole. The gods pay attention and can be quick to tap you on the shoulder. Their taps are like getting hit by a sledgehammer.
I went on a vacation to Moab recently with several friends. We planned to visit Arches and Canyonlands National Park, while camping and involving ourselves in other unsavory activities favored by the degenerates I hang about with. Before leaving I could not help but point out to my snowbound colleagues at the Eternal Winter Ranch YMCA in Granby how awesome it would be to experience the heretofore-only-rumored warmth of the sun. This cruelty turned out to be beyond the tolerance of the sexy and awesome man/woman/men/women in the sky that I have always had the most profound respect for.
Vengeance came within the first day. We drove down in the middle of the night, reaching Utah by early morning, where we gaped like drooling morons at the towering sandstone canyons dominating the horizon in every direction. Turning onto Potash Road we searched for campsites and had little trouble finding one we thought to be perfect, tucked underneath a high wall and shaded by small berry trees. This was a rare green spot in the midst of an arid and barren land. We probably should have thought to ponder what might bring about this lushness or why no one had claimed such an ideal location on a busy weekend. Alas, our keen deductive powers fail to equal those of Scooby Doo and the Gang. Cue the evil and ominous music.
There was rain scheduled for the forecast, but I thought little of it. Moab regularly receives 9 inches a year of precipitation, so I assumed any shower would be minor and of little concern. The skies did indeed open in the evening for short periods of time but we were inconvenienced little, hidden as we were underneath a canopy of leaves. The rainfall was intermittent and did not pick up seriously until I decided to go to bed. Crawling into my tent, I drifted off into sleep.
An uncomfortably cold wetness ripped me from slumber. I groggily felt about my head and realized that my pillows were soaked. I was using an old tent that had been in storage for awhile, so I just figured the waterproofing had faded out of existence. I left my gear "safely" on top of the pillows and made for the truck to sleep out the rest of the night. After a half an hour or so, as my brain slowly awakened, it dawned on me I had made a mistake leaving my clothes in the tent. My T-shirt and sweatshirt were wetter than I had at first thought. I was starting to get a serious case of the chills. The rain had picked up further and I was loathe to make a run for what I had left in the tent. I took off the wet clothing, which slightly improved my condition, but there was another, more immediate problem.
Water clears out of the desert like an intestinal tract after the consumption of an entire bottle of ExLax. My own digestive system seemed to enjoy the concept, for it had decided to follow suit. Suddenly I needed to take a shit in the absolutely worst way. With nothing but a dry pair of boxers and jeans on I did not like what that might entail. I stayed inside, clenching my buttocks and wracking my brain for a solution. After minutes of searching and pleading out loud in vain to various deities to make the need to poo go away, I came upon a possible solution. A bag of napkins lay in a flimsy brown paper package - toilet paper and a toilet. My odds of cleanly executing this feat of evacuation within the confines of the vehicle were low, but I felt I had no other choice. I took off my pants and leaned onto my back, raising my legs and buttocks off the reclined seat. I held the small target underneath me with my left hand and prepared to let go. But I could not. The thought of fouling a friend's car was to much to deal with and I backed off. Besides, the rain continued to fall hard and the way the campsite was filling with water, my friends would be joining me in the truck soon. I didn't want them to escape the flood only to be stuck in my impromptu toilet.
Even so, my butt still demanded prompt attention. After a few more minutes of clenching and dithering I finally made the move. I took off my clothes to preserve them and stepped naked into the night, dashing out, planting my legs and firing, shitting so rapidly that one might have thought my hair was on fire and crap was water. I raced back inside and cleaned up, but I was still cold. Luckily, a little more searching turned up the bag of one of my friends, which contained a T reading "Bach is My Homeboy." This helped warm me a good deal and I managed to fall back to sleep.
Round two did not last very long either. I awoke to the screaming of my friends. They were standing in the downpour and shouting my name repeatedly. Jacob kicked forcefully at my tent. At this moment I also noticed the fall of water sounded particularly powerful from that direction. Squinting into the darkness I saw the source of all the commotion. A waterfall had formed on the wall against which I had set my tent and was relentlessly pounding it into non-existence like a boxer repeatedly bashing an opponent in the face despite the fact the man has already given up and passed out. I yelled to my friends from the truck to let them know I was okay and they fled to join me there. One might think I would have sat up all night lamenting the loss of so much gear (a lot of it did end up being salvageable) but I'm not a very good capitalist so I said fuck it. We were together and everyone was safe and that was the important part. I went back to sleep.
Postscript: later the next day when I told this story to my friends Jacob started to visible turn white when I mentioned the napkin container. Apparently he had picked up some similar looking trash the next morning. Needless to say, he was relieved at how the story ended.
I went on a vacation to Moab recently with several friends. We planned to visit Arches and Canyonlands National Park, while camping and involving ourselves in other unsavory activities favored by the degenerates I hang about with. Before leaving I could not help but point out to my snowbound colleagues at the Eternal Winter Ranch YMCA in Granby how awesome it would be to experience the heretofore-only-rumored warmth of the sun. This cruelty turned out to be beyond the tolerance of the sexy and awesome man/woman/men/women in the sky that I have always had the most profound respect for.
Vengeance came within the first day. We drove down in the middle of the night, reaching Utah by early morning, where we gaped like drooling morons at the towering sandstone canyons dominating the horizon in every direction. Turning onto Potash Road we searched for campsites and had little trouble finding one we thought to be perfect, tucked underneath a high wall and shaded by small berry trees. This was a rare green spot in the midst of an arid and barren land. We probably should have thought to ponder what might bring about this lushness or why no one had claimed such an ideal location on a busy weekend. Alas, our keen deductive powers fail to equal those of Scooby Doo and the Gang. Cue the evil and ominous music.
There was rain scheduled for the forecast, but I thought little of it. Moab regularly receives 9 inches a year of precipitation, so I assumed any shower would be minor and of little concern. The skies did indeed open in the evening for short periods of time but we were inconvenienced little, hidden as we were underneath a canopy of leaves. The rainfall was intermittent and did not pick up seriously until I decided to go to bed. Crawling into my tent, I drifted off into sleep.
An uncomfortably cold wetness ripped me from slumber. I groggily felt about my head and realized that my pillows were soaked. I was using an old tent that had been in storage for awhile, so I just figured the waterproofing had faded out of existence. I left my gear "safely" on top of the pillows and made for the truck to sleep out the rest of the night. After a half an hour or so, as my brain slowly awakened, it dawned on me I had made a mistake leaving my clothes in the tent. My T-shirt and sweatshirt were wetter than I had at first thought. I was starting to get a serious case of the chills. The rain had picked up further and I was loathe to make a run for what I had left in the tent. I took off the wet clothing, which slightly improved my condition, but there was another, more immediate problem.
Water clears out of the desert like an intestinal tract after the consumption of an entire bottle of ExLax. My own digestive system seemed to enjoy the concept, for it had decided to follow suit. Suddenly I needed to take a shit in the absolutely worst way. With nothing but a dry pair of boxers and jeans on I did not like what that might entail. I stayed inside, clenching my buttocks and wracking my brain for a solution. After minutes of searching and pleading out loud in vain to various deities to make the need to poo go away, I came upon a possible solution. A bag of napkins lay in a flimsy brown paper package - toilet paper and a toilet. My odds of cleanly executing this feat of evacuation within the confines of the vehicle were low, but I felt I had no other choice. I took off my pants and leaned onto my back, raising my legs and buttocks off the reclined seat. I held the small target underneath me with my left hand and prepared to let go. But I could not. The thought of fouling a friend's car was to much to deal with and I backed off. Besides, the rain continued to fall hard and the way the campsite was filling with water, my friends would be joining me in the truck soon. I didn't want them to escape the flood only to be stuck in my impromptu toilet.
Even so, my butt still demanded prompt attention. After a few more minutes of clenching and dithering I finally made the move. I took off my clothes to preserve them and stepped naked into the night, dashing out, planting my legs and firing, shitting so rapidly that one might have thought my hair was on fire and crap was water. I raced back inside and cleaned up, but I was still cold. Luckily, a little more searching turned up the bag of one of my friends, which contained a T reading "Bach is My Homeboy." This helped warm me a good deal and I managed to fall back to sleep.
Round two did not last very long either. I awoke to the screaming of my friends. They were standing in the downpour and shouting my name repeatedly. Jacob kicked forcefully at my tent. At this moment I also noticed the fall of water sounded particularly powerful from that direction. Squinting into the darkness I saw the source of all the commotion. A waterfall had formed on the wall against which I had set my tent and was relentlessly pounding it into non-existence like a boxer repeatedly bashing an opponent in the face despite the fact the man has already given up and passed out. I yelled to my friends from the truck to let them know I was okay and they fled to join me there. One might think I would have sat up all night lamenting the loss of so much gear (a lot of it did end up being salvageable) but I'm not a very good capitalist so I said fuck it. We were together and everyone was safe and that was the important part. I went back to sleep.
Postscript: later the next day when I told this story to my friends Jacob started to visible turn white when I mentioned the napkin container. Apparently he had picked up some similar looking trash the next morning. Needless to say, he was relieved at how the story ended.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Categorical Denial
I'm sick of categories. People can not be stuffed and sorted into little boxes and explained so easily. We are nuanced creatures and as such should escape these designations. For its need to separate us into groups science fails us here, as does the natural human instinct to make snap judgments about the people we meet. Yes, I'm gay but that does not begin to define me as a person. Every male I meet is not a potential sex partner. I am picky and don't consider most to be attractive. Even when I am smitten once I know a man is straight that door closes and I respect boundaries. There are many other facets of my life and as far as the social aspect, time spent playing sports, having an intelligent conversation, or quietly sharing a beer is just as important. Sadly, since I came out I find myself with more new female friends than male because of sexual tension that should not even exist.
These are my frustrations and I am sure you have yours. Our tendency to group the world into gender, race, sexual orientation, and other categories narrows our vision and blinds us to what we truly are: a bunch of individuals each shaped by unique experiences. I know I have fallen into these traps myself many times. Every day from now on I want to strive to improve my ability to understand and empathize with friends and co-workers. I want to challenge convention, not be trapped by the sort of thinking that attempts to simplify what is complex. I hope you will to.
These are my frustrations and I am sure you have yours. Our tendency to group the world into gender, race, sexual orientation, and other categories narrows our vision and blinds us to what we truly are: a bunch of individuals each shaped by unique experiences. I know I have fallen into these traps myself many times. Every day from now on I want to strive to improve my ability to understand and empathize with friends and co-workers. I want to challenge convention, not be trapped by the sort of thinking that attempts to simplify what is complex. I hope you will to.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
MLB All Name Team, The Finale: R-Z
C: Pop Swett and Pi Schwert - I haven't done a platoon in the past, but these names were so oddly similar and easily interchangeable it seemed appropriate to go with the combo platter. Pop Swett played one single season for the Boston Reds in 1890, smacking a single home run and batting .191. Pi Schwert was a .208 hitter in two years with Yankees, and might have gone on not to suck had World War I not interfered with his baseball career. After serving in the Navy, he went on to become the only former Bronx Bomber to date to serve in Congress, representing Western New York.
1b: Razor Shines -This was the hardest of choices for me and the fan vote didn't help matters by finishing in a three way tie. I have therefore played reluctant dictator and chosen this Expos scrub. Although his name does sound vaguely intimidating, his .183 career batting average and zero homers were not. Razor did achieve impressive longevity at the minor league level, forging a sixteen year career Bull Durham would have been proud of. Since retiring as a player he has managed several minor league teams and is currently with the Great Lake Loons. Honorable Mentions: Chicken Wolf, Ed Smartwood
2b: Mike Tyson - The inclusion of a celebrity has become a requirement for this list, and it is hard to beat the long series of bizarre incidents that are brought to mind when the name of a man as mentally balanced as a seesaw with a midget and a linebacker on either side is invoked. The baseball version of Iron Mike started for the Cardinals during the 1970s, hitting around .250 over eight seasons. The Northsiders in Chicago saw something they liked and signed him to a contract, probably for way more than what he was worth. That statement is true regardless of the sums as he proved to be worthless and was forcibly retired within two years of adding his name to the long list of terrible Cubs.
SS: Tony Suck - I try to let the great ones on this list speak for themselves so I will be brief. Believe it or not, Tony was actually born with the surname Zuck and intentionally changed his name to Suck. He lived up to the new name, striking out four times in eight National League plate appearances in 1884 while never managing to reach base via hit.
3b: Butts Wagner - The older brother of Hall of Famer Honus Wagner had it tough. While Honus spent nearly a quarter of a century manning the Pittsburgh Pirates infield, gaining renown as one of the best hitters to ever play the game, Butts managed only one season in the big leagues and only one career home run, which did happen to help win a game for the best named team in baseball history, the Brooklyn Bridgegrooms. The unfortunately nicknamed brother also managed to worm his way into popular culture. For some inexplicably reason Butts was depicted as an eccentric inventor during a boy's long (erotic?) dream sequence in the book The Mystery of the Wagner Whacker.
OF: Pussy Tebeau - Nuff ced. Pussy played two major league games for the Cleveland Spiders and I would like to personally thank God for allowing his awesomeness into the annals of Major League Baseball history. I might even Tebeau.
OF: Count Sensenderfer- Unlike most players on this list, Sensenderfer was not utterly terrible. Nicknamed Count for his aristocratic bearing rather than a desire to drink blood after the sun goes down, Sensenderfer played in some of the first recorded professional games in baseball history, scoring an unbelievable 200 runs during the 1868 season. He played his entire career in Philadelphia and later went on to a career in politics, serving as Count Sensenderfer, Philadelphia County Commissioner.
OF: Chappie Snodgrass- Chappie was a nickname, but his real name wasn't that great either. Born Arnzie Beal Snodgrass, Chappie gets this team back on track in the useless turd department. He managed only one career hit in ten major league at bats for a whopping. .100 batting average. OF Honorable Mention: Live Oak Taylor, Homer Summa, Rip Repulski, Chick Shorten.
P: Crazy Schmit - My research came up with two possible reasons for Schmit's nickname. The first theory is that he was released from a mental institution prior to his Major League Career. Another tidbit I found suggested Crazy was a wee bit fond of alcohol and his behavior train would remove itself from the rails of civility after a round of overindulgent imbibing. He played for the Cleveland Spiders 1898 team, which is considered the worst in the history of baseball. A major contributor, Schmit managed to win two games while losing only eighteen.
P: Mysterious Walker - What is the opposite of a sandwich? Walker's career was successful at the beginning and the end, but hit a bit of a lull in the middle. As a college athlete he starred in football, baseball, and basketball at the University of Chicago. After graduating he chose a career in professional baseball, earning his nickname by playing incognito for the minor league San Francisco Seals. This is the part that did not go so well. The Mysterious One went 7-24 over five seasons, finishing his career in 1915 with the Brooklyn side, who had now ingeniously changed their name to the Tip-Tops (they also performed for a time as the Superbas, whatever the hell those are). Following his playing career Walker went into collegiate coaching, manning the helm as a football, baseball, basketball coach, and once serving as athletic director. He certainly made the rounds leading teams at Utah St, Mississippi, Oregon St, Williams, DePauw, Carnegie Tech, Washington & Jefferson, Texas, Dartmouth, Wheaton, Loyola (LA), Rhode Island, and Michigan St - all in a span of less than twenty five years!
P: Cy Slapnicka - Like Walker, Slapnicka was another unsuccessful pitcher either unable to cope with an odd name or just burdened with a lack of talent. The man must have known something about the game, however, as he was able to parlay it into a 50+ year career. Mainly a minor leaguer, Slapnicka played at the lower levels for eighteen years and compiled a 1-6 during short stints in the big leagues. Over his decades of service he learned enough to gain employment in the Indians organization, acting as General Manager from 1935-1940, then spending the next twenty years as a scout for the franchise. His most famous signing? Hall of Famer and fellow Iowan Bob Feller.
P: Lil Stoner - Jung Bong now has a partner on the all marijuana team. Apparently the weed assisted his pitching, as the Tiger hurler managed a 50-58 career record, rather impressive when compared to the other losers on this list. He was said to have a wicked curve thanks to a deformity on his pitching hand, which he received after his brother nearly chopped the digit off. His brother was also the source of his nickname, since the young boy was unable to pronounce Ulysses or any of the other eight presidents Lil Stoner was named after. Even Stoner's great breaking ball could sometimes fail - Babe Ruth is said to have hit his longest home run off the pitcher, an epic 600+ foot blast.
P: Cannonball Titcomb - A combination of the vaguely sexual and outright bizarre, Titcomb's name exemplifies everything we look for in a great name. He is also the ace of this sorry staff, barely managing a career winning record of 30-29 and also pitching a no hitter in 1890 versus Syracuse. His minor league career included stints with the Jersey City Skeeters, the Rochester Hop Bitters, and the Providence Clamdiggers. Honorable Mentions: Phenomenal Smith, Charlie Wacker, Pete Rambo, Biff Schlitzer.
Well that's it folks, except for one last late addition to one of our earlier teams. Sometimes the nicknames aren't listed unless you go to a player's page so oversights can easily occur. While researching this list I came up a bit of nickname greatness I had overlooked. This player not only had one great moniker, he had three, and they are way too good not to be included retroactively: Arlie Latham, AKA the Dude, AKA The Hustler from Hustletown, AKA...wait for it....."the Freshest Man on Earth."
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
We Have Nothing to Beer Except Beer Itself
Earlier today, while exercising on a fake bicycle, I began thinking back upon one of the saddest days of my life. I had just entered Ohio on my cross country hike, and was excited about the prospect of having a beer or two to celebrate the completion of West Virginia. The town of Belpre did not boast many choices, so I made my way to the local Pizza Hut. To my shock and horror they did not serve beer. In fact, the entire county was dry.
The scars from this discovery have yet to heal. I have racked my brain since to solve the problem, which is bigger than mere local prohibition of alcohol. Despite evolving a great deal since Gwynzoggg invented fire and Boltroggg used it to burn down the Great Artrusian Forest in 25078 BC, mankind has not learned impulse control. As a result society has been forced to come up with half measures, laws which attempt to govern our use of alcohol, fire arms, drugs, and other useful items.
I admit, even from a personal perspective, it is very hard to perceive someone's ability to act responsibly. As a twenty year old I had no idea how to properly ingest alcohol. I'd use a bowl, funnel, can, bottle, syringe, or any other object near at hand to introduce the liquid to my liver as quickly and efficiently as possible, with no regard for the amount of consumption beside what my body chose to reject. The next day I would usually feel horrible, questioning the sanity of such mass consumption. Amnesia would thankfully offset feelings of regret and another binge was soon underway.
Or so I thought in those days. I now know as a responsible adult that drinking should be properly regulated. My youthful indiscretions are regretful, and I was lucky to survive this period of my life without following in the footsteps of the great artist and alcoholic Edgard Allen Poe, who finished up his final session by passing out in a gutter dead.
Should someone have stopped me? Maybe, but I sure would have a lot less funny stories to tell. I am not an angry drunk and no one was ever hurt physically by my actions while intoxicated. I did, however, occasionally operate a motor vehicle when I shouldn't have.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
The Baseball All Name Team: M-P
Now done with wandering the countryside momentarily, I'd like to wish the Thoughts Askew readership a Happy New Year. I would like to inaugurate 2013 by welcoming back our standard drivel, the continuation of a project I have been working on intermittently for a period of time bordering on forever, the greatest names in Major League Baseball history. We have seen an amazing list of candidates so far, from Rusty Kuntz to Ugly Dickshot to Stubby Clapp. Amazingly, only half of the players have been named Dick. Don't expect a notable rise in maturity level amongst the choices below, especially since I've allowed several of you degenerates to vote. With no further procrastination, I present to you the most apt appellations sandwiched in the directory between Duke Maas and Tim Pyznarski. You'll probably notice the high rate of alcoholism amongst our contestants.
Catcher: Chick Manlove - Our world would be a much less happy place if Manlove had not been deemed worthy of seventeen major league at bats in 1884. Never has a name sounded so ineffably gay while also retaining a tinge of heterosexuality. The extra impetus of the odd nickname gives Chick the edge over second place finisher, Kurt Manwaring.
First Base: Jackie Mayo - In an effort to avoid being gross or sophomoric, mainly to keep the audience confused, I will refrain from making any comments on the discharge brought to mind here. Mayo managed to spooge out (okay I lied) over fifty base hits for the Phillies during a short career in the late 40s and early 50s. Honorable Mention: Talmadge Nunnari
Second Base: Frank "Scat" Metha - I believe guano is an ingredient in Methamphetamine, which is without a doubt how Scat obtained his nickname. I base this stone cold fact on absolutely nothing, except that after such a short career (36 total at bats) Frank was probably in need of another source of income. Honorable Mention: Dick Padden.
Shortstop: Chick Naleway - with two Chicks on this team, I feel it likely we will have a menage a trois. Naleway surely must have gotten into porn, because like the rest of the fellows so far, he did not have a long, majestic stay in the big leagues. Two measly plate appearances in 1924 and it was all over. From a sociological perspective, I imagine the relentless heckling these players must have endured did not lend itself to great success. Predestined failure: is it all in the name? Postscript: Chick is buried in Resurrection Cemetery, leading me to think first of zombies, then of this classic scene.
Third Base: George "Doggie" Miller - Pickings were slim at third base to be perfectly honest. Miller actually had quite a long career, which according to the previously stated theory, means fans were not able to make much hay from his name. In fact, he was the first player in Pirates history to finish ten full seasons for the franchise. What sets him above the other weak contestants are his two other odd nicknames: Foghorn and Calliope.
According to Baseball Reference, he earned his most commonly used moniker by breeding dogs. The article goes on to mention he is the only player ever named Calliope (but not Foghorn) and that he was somewhat fond of obliterating his liver.
Outfield: Les Mann - Let's sing Hedwig and the Angry Inch together now! Les was also nicknamed Major, but that was before the surgery. Or was it a horrible hedge-trimming accident? Either way, he went on to have a long major league career, playing outfield for the Cubs in the days before they became consistently terrible.
Outfield: Dizzie Nutter - Some of these can only be ruined by comment. I'll let you sit back and savor the comedic possibilities of sexual vertigo on your own. Nutter played one brief season for the 1919 Boston Braves.
Outfield: Angel Pagan - Angel currently plays for the World Champion San Francisco Giants. I have not been able to confirm whether he is an atheist, but wow would that be a wonderful bit of irony. Honorable Mention: Queenie O'Rourke.
Pitcher: Dick Pole - I think by now we are all aware I can't make one of these lists without including a man named Dick somewhere. Assign the blame to my proclivities if you will, but I think if we are honest with ourselves we can all agree that a name just can't have too many wiener inferences. Dick Pole lasted six seasons in the mid 1970s, with a nicely inflated ERA above five, which he no doubt blamed on Carter's economic policies. Proving the old Shaw axiom about those that can't do, teach, Pole went on to become a pitching coach for the Cincinnati Reds.
Pitcher: Wedo Martini - Wedo wanted to prove that an Italian could go on to become something besides a gangster or a priest. With a career ERA of over 17 I'll let you decide for yourself how well that turned out for him.
Pitcher: Doug "Buzz" McWeeny - Chicagoan McWeeny, (which is something that should definitely be on the McDonald's menu), was a lot more successful than Martini, winning 37 games for his hometown White Stockings, which is a mere 37 more than Martini won. Doug also had a bit of luck in that the term Weinie did not enter the American lexicon until twenty years after he retired. It makes me want to travel back in time and give him the heckling he missed out on.
Pitcher: Cletus "Boots" Poffenberger: What determines the course of a man's life? Is he predetermined to fall thanks to a terrible name choice by his parents? Does the intemperate life of baseball carry him down into the depths of disgrace? What happened to form Boots, who had a short three year major league career, is uncertain, but we do know the result:
*During one game in Nashville the free-spirited ballplayer had a few shots of gin before he first took the mound. It didn’t take long before Boots became angry after some calls that did not go his way, and decided to fire the ball at the umpire that resulted in a 90-day suspension. In retrospect Boots admitted that he had previously taken a few beers before scheduled to pitch, and said of the umpire incident, “It just slipped up on me this time.”
Former Pirate Dock Ellis, who once pitched a no hitter on acid, was unimpressed.
Pitcher: Heine Meine - Known as the Count of Luxembourg (the area of St. Louis in which he lived), Meine was a feisty hurler who managed to survive on wits and control, as he lacked velocity. Baseball made him many connections in the world of alcoholism, which he parlayed into a second career as the owner of a speakeasy. The bar served a variety of moose milk (a combination of vanilla ice cream and several liquors) which was supposedly potent enough to peel the paint off of a battleship. Honorable Mentions: Jeff Manship, Ossie Ozborn, The Only Nolan, and Limb "Big Pete" McHenry.
*Reprinted from Chatter From the Dugout.
Catcher: Chick Manlove - Our world would be a much less happy place if Manlove had not been deemed worthy of seventeen major league at bats in 1884. Never has a name sounded so ineffably gay while also retaining a tinge of heterosexuality. The extra impetus of the odd nickname gives Chick the edge over second place finisher, Kurt Manwaring.
First Base: Jackie Mayo - In an effort to avoid being gross or sophomoric, mainly to keep the audience confused, I will refrain from making any comments on the discharge brought to mind here. Mayo managed to spooge out (okay I lied) over fifty base hits for the Phillies during a short career in the late 40s and early 50s. Honorable Mention: Talmadge Nunnari
Second Base: Frank "Scat" Metha - I believe guano is an ingredient in Methamphetamine, which is without a doubt how Scat obtained his nickname. I base this stone cold fact on absolutely nothing, except that after such a short career (36 total at bats) Frank was probably in need of another source of income. Honorable Mention: Dick Padden.
Shortstop: Chick Naleway - with two Chicks on this team, I feel it likely we will have a menage a trois. Naleway surely must have gotten into porn, because like the rest of the fellows so far, he did not have a long, majestic stay in the big leagues. Two measly plate appearances in 1924 and it was all over. From a sociological perspective, I imagine the relentless heckling these players must have endured did not lend itself to great success. Predestined failure: is it all in the name? Postscript: Chick is buried in Resurrection Cemetery, leading me to think first of zombies, then of this classic scene.
Third Base: George "Doggie" Miller - Pickings were slim at third base to be perfectly honest. Miller actually had quite a long career, which according to the previously stated theory, means fans were not able to make much hay from his name. In fact, he was the first player in Pirates history to finish ten full seasons for the franchise. What sets him above the other weak contestants are his two other odd nicknames: Foghorn and Calliope.
According to Baseball Reference, he earned his most commonly used moniker by breeding dogs. The article goes on to mention he is the only player ever named Calliope (but not Foghorn) and that he was somewhat fond of obliterating his liver.
Outfield: Les Mann - Let's sing Hedwig and the Angry Inch together now! Les was also nicknamed Major, but that was before the surgery. Or was it a horrible hedge-trimming accident? Either way, he went on to have a long major league career, playing outfield for the Cubs in the days before they became consistently terrible.
Outfield: Dizzie Nutter - Some of these can only be ruined by comment. I'll let you sit back and savor the comedic possibilities of sexual vertigo on your own. Nutter played one brief season for the 1919 Boston Braves.
Outfield: Angel Pagan - Angel currently plays for the World Champion San Francisco Giants. I have not been able to confirm whether he is an atheist, but wow would that be a wonderful bit of irony. Honorable Mention: Queenie O'Rourke.
Pitcher: Dick Pole - I think by now we are all aware I can't make one of these lists without including a man named Dick somewhere. Assign the blame to my proclivities if you will, but I think if we are honest with ourselves we can all agree that a name just can't have too many wiener inferences. Dick Pole lasted six seasons in the mid 1970s, with a nicely inflated ERA above five, which he no doubt blamed on Carter's economic policies. Proving the old Shaw axiom about those that can't do, teach, Pole went on to become a pitching coach for the Cincinnati Reds.
Pitcher: Wedo Martini - Wedo wanted to prove that an Italian could go on to become something besides a gangster or a priest. With a career ERA of over 17 I'll let you decide for yourself how well that turned out for him.
Pitcher: Doug "Buzz" McWeeny - Chicagoan McWeeny, (which is something that should definitely be on the McDonald's menu), was a lot more successful than Martini, winning 37 games for his hometown White Stockings, which is a mere 37 more than Martini won. Doug also had a bit of luck in that the term Weinie did not enter the American lexicon until twenty years after he retired. It makes me want to travel back in time and give him the heckling he missed out on.
Pitcher: Cletus "Boots" Poffenberger: What determines the course of a man's life? Is he predetermined to fall thanks to a terrible name choice by his parents? Does the intemperate life of baseball carry him down into the depths of disgrace? What happened to form Boots, who had a short three year major league career, is uncertain, but we do know the result:
*During one game in Nashville the free-spirited ballplayer had a few shots of gin before he first took the mound. It didn’t take long before Boots became angry after some calls that did not go his way, and decided to fire the ball at the umpire that resulted in a 90-day suspension. In retrospect Boots admitted that he had previously taken a few beers before scheduled to pitch, and said of the umpire incident, “It just slipped up on me this time.”
Former Pirate Dock Ellis, who once pitched a no hitter on acid, was unimpressed.
Pitcher: Heine Meine - Known as the Count of Luxembourg (the area of St. Louis in which he lived), Meine was a feisty hurler who managed to survive on wits and control, as he lacked velocity. Baseball made him many connections in the world of alcoholism, which he parlayed into a second career as the owner of a speakeasy. The bar served a variety of moose milk (a combination of vanilla ice cream and several liquors) which was supposedly potent enough to peel the paint off of a battleship. Honorable Mentions: Jeff Manship, Ossie Ozborn, The Only Nolan, and Limb "Big Pete" McHenry.
*Reprinted from Chatter From the Dugout.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Epilogue Jammin'
October 15
There is always a day after. No matter how momentous the occasion life does not stop, except in case of death. Mark, Colin, and John left Saturday night on the red eye. Ken took off the next morning. I was alone once more, my flight not scheduled until Tuesday.
San Francisco surrounded me on all sides and I had some time to kill. I figured I would stick to what I do best. I went for a walk.
I was based once more at the Fort Mason hostel. Departing from there i headed inland to Lombard Street. San Francisco is known to have roads which challenge a car to defy gravity. None are more precipitous than one block of Lombard, which is composed of a series of hairpin turns. The speed limit is five miles an hour and I suggest you adhere if you care to live through the experience*.
Next up was a trip to the cable car museum. Trolleys once operated in cities all over the United States. The introduction of bus lines after World War II led to their demise all over the country. Three lines continued to function in San Francisco, defying the onslaught of technological advances in favor of attracting tourists. One hundred and forty years later after the first bell rang, passengers are still being summoned for yet another magical ride.
I won't ever know any of that stuff from the last paragraph, because the museum wasn't actually planning to open until 10 and I arrived at 8:30. I didn't want to wait around.
The Chinese don't sleep in since they have a world to conquer, so I moseyed over to their little town. Lanterns hung above the streets as if in preparation for a parade, but a multitude of dragons never materialized. I trod quietly by storefronts decorated with Oriental characters, wondering at the mystery of what lay behind the doors. I never gathered the courage to venture inside, the sidewalk carrying me inexorably onward like a river. Only food could have pushed me ashore and he restaurants were not yet open either.
I rolled on, past numerous city blocks, thousands of steps adding themselves to the millions that had gone before. I stopped at the Mission district, where the Spaniards had first set up shop centuries before. Father Juniper Serra established the Mision de San Francisco Asis here in 1776, although the first actual building was not completed until fifteen years later. A larger church was constructed next door in 1918.
The mission remains a major center of Papist sentiment to this day. Pope John Paul II himself gave the sanctuary a visit in 1987. You too can walk right up to the altar where J.P. prayed for the destruction of the Protestant faith#. The basilica, chapel, and sanctuary are all open to the public, as is the cemetery where all the famous local Catholics rot in peace.
Leaving the holy I went amongst the sinners in the Castro section of San Francisco. This district is home to thousands of gays, lesbians, transgenders, bisexuals, and trisexuals. Maybe you knew the city has a large gay population, but what caused the same sex loving masses to flock here?
Even before "In the Navy" was written, an extensive segment of that branch of our armed forces was infested with man love. When during World War II the military decided to expose and expel these deviants, many of them were off-loaded in San Francisco. Once outed, the ex-soldiers were frightened to return to their small communities in Minnesota, Texas, North Carolina, etc. They opted to stay where they were and start a new life free from prejudice.
Castro became the unofficial capital of rainbow and fairy land in the late 60s, just as nearby Haight Ashbury was being overrun by the hippie hordes. Artists, musicians, and homosexuals alike were drawn by the low real estate prices in the wake of white flight. They created vibrant communities which still flourish today. My only quibble with the Haight is the preponderance of head shops. I appreciate mother nature as much as the next guy, but dedicating the square footage of a super Walmart to bong sales is going a bit overboard.
I had a disappointing lunch at one of the restaurants in the Haight. Mea culpa, I should have figured the standards would be low. People with the munchies are not exactly what one would call a discerning clientele.
Circling back towards the Presidio, I found one of the great architectural wonders of San Francisco. The Palace of Fine Arts is the kind of public building we don't make anymore. The mammoth Roman/Greek rotunda and the accompanying columned halls soar above. They are surrounded by immaculate gardens , the landscaping equal to any monument in Europe. I was particularly reminded of the Crystal Palace in Madrid's Buen Retiro Park. Originally designed for the Pan Pacific International Exposition in 1915, the Palace was so beloved that citizens petitioned to prevent its demolition after the fair ended. I'm elated at their success; the Palace of Fine Arts was easily the highlight of the day's stroll.
My happy balloon burst next door at the Exploratorium. A hands-on science museum, the Exploratorium had delighted a younger me when the family and I had visited it twenty five years ago. I wanted a nostalgia fix, but I was denied when the doors were locked. Monday is the staff's sabbath it seems.
Unable to get my learn on I was thrown into a cyclone of dazed confusion, uncertain where to go next. Barely avoiding epilogue epilepsy I regrouped at the hostel, where I showered and ran into my idols.
Karen and Jerry were only a few days from finishing their own epic three year journey across America. They were also staying at the hostel that night, so we decided to have a premature^ celebration at restaurant Asqew. The meal was excellent, a fabulous utilization of the cosmopolitan cuisine available in San Francisco. I can't exactly walk around the corner in South Carolina and grab restaurant quality shish kebab.
The conversation with Karen and Jerry was equally enchanting. We have shared experiences that few humans can even comprehend, much less have the opportunity to undertake. Needless to say, we have quite a bit to say to one another. We took our blabbering back to Fort Mason, where we unwound by watching the hometown Giants defeat the steroid shooting St. Louis Cardinals in Game Two of the National League Championship Series. I have a funny feeling the Giants are a team of destiny. I believe they will go on to defeat the impotent Cardinals and then sweep the World Series. Anyone want to bet?
*Steve McQueen excepted
# I recommend texting God instead, I hear he is a bit of a technophile
^Post-mature in my case
Miles: Don't care. Total miles: doesn't matter. I'm done.
 |
| Its always 4:20 in Haight Ashbury |
San Francisco surrounded me on all sides and I had some time to kill. I figured I would stick to what I do best. I went for a walk.
I was based once more at the Fort Mason hostel. Departing from there i headed inland to Lombard Street. San Francisco is known to have roads which challenge a car to defy gravity. None are more precipitous than one block of Lombard, which is composed of a series of hairpin turns. The speed limit is five miles an hour and I suggest you adhere if you care to live through the experience*.
Next up was a trip to the cable car museum. Trolleys once operated in cities all over the United States. The introduction of bus lines after World War II led to their demise all over the country. Three lines continued to function in San Francisco, defying the onslaught of technological advances in favor of attracting tourists. One hundred and forty years later after the first bell rang, passengers are still being summoned for yet another magical ride.
I won't ever know any of that stuff from the last paragraph, because the museum wasn't actually planning to open until 10 and I arrived at 8:30. I didn't want to wait around.
The Chinese don't sleep in since they have a world to conquer, so I moseyed over to their little town. Lanterns hung above the streets as if in preparation for a parade, but a multitude of dragons never materialized. I trod quietly by storefronts decorated with Oriental characters, wondering at the mystery of what lay behind the doors. I never gathered the courage to venture inside, the sidewalk carrying me inexorably onward like a river. Only food could have pushed me ashore and he restaurants were not yet open either.
I rolled on, past numerous city blocks, thousands of steps adding themselves to the millions that had gone before. I stopped at the Mission district, where the Spaniards had first set up shop centuries before. Father Juniper Serra established the Mision de San Francisco Asis here in 1776, although the first actual building was not completed until fifteen years later. A larger church was constructed next door in 1918.
The mission remains a major center of Papist sentiment to this day. Pope John Paul II himself gave the sanctuary a visit in 1987. You too can walk right up to the altar where J.P. prayed for the destruction of the Protestant faith#. The basilica, chapel, and sanctuary are all open to the public, as is the cemetery where all the famous local Catholics rot in peace.
 |
| The Mission, with the Basilica looming to the right |
Leaving the holy I went amongst the sinners in the Castro section of San Francisco. This district is home to thousands of gays, lesbians, transgenders, bisexuals, and trisexuals. Maybe you knew the city has a large gay population, but what caused the same sex loving masses to flock here?
Even before "In the Navy" was written, an extensive segment of that branch of our armed forces was infested with man love. When during World War II the military decided to expose and expel these deviants, many of them were off-loaded in San Francisco. Once outed, the ex-soldiers were frightened to return to their small communities in Minnesota, Texas, North Carolina, etc. They opted to stay where they were and start a new life free from prejudice.
Castro became the unofficial capital of rainbow and fairy land in the late 60s, just as nearby Haight Ashbury was being overrun by the hippie hordes. Artists, musicians, and homosexuals alike were drawn by the low real estate prices in the wake of white flight. They created vibrant communities which still flourish today. My only quibble with the Haight is the preponderance of head shops. I appreciate mother nature as much as the next guy, but dedicating the square footage of a super Walmart to bong sales is going a bit overboard.
I had a disappointing lunch at one of the restaurants in the Haight. Mea culpa, I should have figured the standards would be low. People with the munchies are not exactly what one would call a discerning clientele.
Circling back towards the Presidio, I found one of the great architectural wonders of San Francisco. The Palace of Fine Arts is the kind of public building we don't make anymore. The mammoth Roman/Greek rotunda and the accompanying columned halls soar above. They are surrounded by immaculate gardens , the landscaping equal to any monument in Europe. I was particularly reminded of the Crystal Palace in Madrid's Buen Retiro Park. Originally designed for the Pan Pacific International Exposition in 1915, the Palace was so beloved that citizens petitioned to prevent its demolition after the fair ended. I'm elated at their success; the Palace of Fine Arts was easily the highlight of the day's stroll.
My happy balloon burst next door at the Exploratorium. A hands-on science museum, the Exploratorium had delighted a younger me when the family and I had visited it twenty five years ago. I wanted a nostalgia fix, but I was denied when the doors were locked. Monday is the staff's sabbath it seems.
Unable to get my learn on I was thrown into a cyclone of dazed confusion, uncertain where to go next. Barely avoiding epilogue epilepsy I regrouped at the hostel, where I showered and ran into my idols.
Karen and Jerry were only a few days from finishing their own epic three year journey across America. They were also staying at the hostel that night, so we decided to have a premature^ celebration at restaurant Asqew. The meal was excellent, a fabulous utilization of the cosmopolitan cuisine available in San Francisco. I can't exactly walk around the corner in South Carolina and grab restaurant quality shish kebab.
The conversation with Karen and Jerry was equally enchanting. We have shared experiences that few humans can even comprehend, much less have the opportunity to undertake. Needless to say, we have quite a bit to say to one another. We took our blabbering back to Fort Mason, where we unwound by watching the hometown Giants defeat the steroid shooting St. Louis Cardinals in Game Two of the National League Championship Series. I have a funny feeling the Giants are a team of destiny. I believe they will go on to defeat the impotent Cardinals and then sweep the World Series. Anyone want to bet?
*Steve McQueen excepted
# I recommend texting God instead, I hear he is a bit of a technophile
^Post-mature in my case
Miles: Don't care. Total miles: doesn't matter. I'm done.
Monday, November 12, 2012
A Fitting Climax
October 13
I had come to the last walk. Point Reyes lay merely fourteen more miles away. After nearly ten months of hard work the finish line was in sight.
As if I needed any more inspiration, Ken had shown up in the middle of the night, set to join me for the end run. You may know Ken from our two days together in Ohio last June or because I am kind of doing the trek in honor of him. It was somewhat of a big deal having him there. My feet didn't touch ground much all day. I was too busy floating.
Colin completed our squad and we set out on the trail towards the Pacific. Time flew by despite my best efforts. I wanted to linger over every last step, but our momentum carried us on in a blur. Unsurprisingly, having people to talk to does tend to speed the process. Ken filled our ears with his usual litany of penis jokes as well as the newest version of how he lost his arm.
When you are missing an appendage or two, people tend to ask you how the loss was incurred. Ken had told one recent inquisitor, a young child, that he had been in a light saber duel with Darth Vader and the showdown had not gone his way. The child fell for the ruse. No shame there, Ken convinced a man in Las Vegas that he had his arm amputated after being caught cheating while gambling in Dubai.
Before I knew it, Point Reyes was in sight, although still a few miles away. We had been blessed with a clear, cool, sunny day. The Point jutted out into the Pacific, a thin finger of land indicating the way to Asia. At this juncture we were supposed to call Mark, who had recovered somewhat from death and wanted to meet us for the last couple of miles. We all had multiple bars on our phones, but were unable to call or text him. No matter, Mark had the same problem, so he ventured out on his own to meet us.
The fellowship now consisting of four, we came to the southern edge of Limantour Beach. One could simply walk out to the ocean from there, but that would be contrary to the very essence of the American Discovery Trail, which looks at hiking as the Tantric practitioner views sex, something to savor as long as possible, the climax delayed interminably. The trail headed inland and I took it, worried we would miss the post signaling the end of the ADT, or perhaps one last magnificent vista.
The detour turned out to be pointless. There was no sign and the path didn't take us to a grand overlook. We wondered after thirty minutes whether we were even going to turn back towards the ocean. Defeat was not be snatched from the jaws of victory, for eventually we did get going in the right direction.
My heart began to race as the runway approached the sand dunes. I surmounted that one last, small barrier. The ocean was only one hundred yards away. I stripped down to my shorts and took off with an exultant yell, the eloquent speeches forgotten in my ecstasy. A movie of the ten months I spent on trail, scored by Vangelis, played in my mind as I rushed towards the water. As the crashing waves and I collided, the magnitude of what I'd done struck and I collapsed into the Pacific, then rose, waving my arms in triumph. Suddenly, a great white shark came along and ate me.
There was a celebration that night. Fortunately, it was not the shark who was exultant. He found my flavor profile not to his liking and spit me out upon the beach. After I spilled a few tears in the sand, Mark, Ken, Colin, John*, and I were able to enjoy one last supper together. We devoured a Brazilian feast at Pizza Orgasmico in San Rafael. A fitting climax.
*John joined us after we finished taking a few last pictures. He had wandered over to where the ADT would have hit into Limantour Beach if the trail made any sense whatsoever.
14 miles/4116 total miles THE END
As if I needed any more inspiration, Ken had shown up in the middle of the night, set to join me for the end run. You may know Ken from our two days together in Ohio last June or because I am kind of doing the trek in honor of him. It was somewhat of a big deal having him there. My feet didn't touch ground much all day. I was too busy floating.
Colin completed our squad and we set out on the trail towards the Pacific. Time flew by despite my best efforts. I wanted to linger over every last step, but our momentum carried us on in a blur. Unsurprisingly, having people to talk to does tend to speed the process. Ken filled our ears with his usual litany of penis jokes as well as the newest version of how he lost his arm.
When you are missing an appendage or two, people tend to ask you how the loss was incurred. Ken had told one recent inquisitor, a young child, that he had been in a light saber duel with Darth Vader and the showdown had not gone his way. The child fell for the ruse. No shame there, Ken convinced a man in Las Vegas that he had his arm amputated after being caught cheating while gambling in Dubai.
Before I knew it, Point Reyes was in sight, although still a few miles away. We had been blessed with a clear, cool, sunny day. The Point jutted out into the Pacific, a thin finger of land indicating the way to Asia. At this juncture we were supposed to call Mark, who had recovered somewhat from death and wanted to meet us for the last couple of miles. We all had multiple bars on our phones, but were unable to call or text him. No matter, Mark had the same problem, so he ventured out on his own to meet us.
The fellowship now consisting of four, we came to the southern edge of Limantour Beach. One could simply walk out to the ocean from there, but that would be contrary to the very essence of the American Discovery Trail, which looks at hiking as the Tantric practitioner views sex, something to savor as long as possible, the climax delayed interminably. The trail headed inland and I took it, worried we would miss the post signaling the end of the ADT, or perhaps one last magnificent vista.
The detour turned out to be pointless. There was no sign and the path didn't take us to a grand overlook. We wondered after thirty minutes whether we were even going to turn back towards the ocean. Defeat was not be snatched from the jaws of victory, for eventually we did get going in the right direction.
My heart began to race as the runway approached the sand dunes. I surmounted that one last, small barrier. The ocean was only one hundred yards away. I stripped down to my shorts and took off with an exultant yell, the eloquent speeches forgotten in my ecstasy. A movie of the ten months I spent on trail, scored by Vangelis, played in my mind as I rushed towards the water. As the crashing waves and I collided, the magnitude of what I'd done struck and I collapsed into the Pacific, then rose, waving my arms in triumph. Suddenly, a great white shark came along and ate me.
There was a celebration that night. Fortunately, it was not the shark who was exultant. He found my flavor profile not to his liking and spit me out upon the beach. After I spilled a few tears in the sand, Mark, Ken, Colin, John*, and I were able to enjoy one last supper together. We devoured a Brazilian feast at Pizza Orgasmico in San Rafael. A fitting climax.
*John joined us after we finished taking a few last pictures. He had wandered over to where the ADT would have hit into Limantour Beach if the trail made any sense whatsoever.
14 miles/4116 total miles THE END
Monday, November 5, 2012
Me Walk, You Walk, Ewok
October 12
Sadly I have lost a portion of my crew, at least for today. Mark's legs may never work again and the damage done him caused John to think walking with me may not be in his best interest. John does not normally participate in day time activities anyway, so we left him at the hotel. Mark was kind enough to drop Colin and I back at Pan Toll Campground, where we resumed the march at eight P.M. Bangladeshi time.
The trails took us north, paralleling the coast, although the reappearance of the mist prevented us from getting more than an occasional glimpse. Nonetheless, the scenery did provide topics of conversation. First we came upon a rusted car, lying upside down and unlikely to ever get up again. The location of the vehicle, only a foot off the trail, left us bewildered. The trail was too narrow to have driven down. The state of the car indicated it must have been thrown from the bluffs above, but how did it get there? There was no road in sight.
We had nearly ceased speculating and given up the case as an unsolved mystery when we heard a string of curses coming from the forest. An angry man was yelling so loud and frantically we though him to be in a manic state. I was reminded of some moments I'd had when lost on the trail. What would my outbursts have sounded like to someone unlucky enough to overhear them? Ah, nostalgia...
Later, we heard the squeaky wheels of a bicycle coming up behind us. We heartily waved at our trail mate, the first human we had seen in some time. We received no greeting in return from the middle aged man, who grimly pedaled by, head down. I looked at Colin. "I think we just met Angry Man."
These oddities aside, the forest surrounding us was the main attraction. Conversations about a sequel to "The Passion of Christ" subtitled "Up in Your Ass With a Resurrection" could not compare to the ancient trees reaching high into the sky above us. Colin and Mark had talked the day before of a resemblance to the Ewok Forest from "The Return of the Jedi." As it turns out, the analogy was spot on - Mark later discovered George Lucas lived nearby and had used these very woods in the movie. The name Ewok was surely plucked from this region as well. The Native American tribe which once inhabited Marin County was known as the Miwoks.
Another stretch of forest reminded me of a different fictional creature. A bright green moss clung to these trees, thickly matted to the trunks like a fur pelt. Were these the coats of the Grinch and his family, taken as trophies? If so Whoville's vengeance was indeed swift and mighty.
By the last few miles I worried Colin might be the next casualty. His right leg had locked up and it swung clumsily forward like a rusty gate. He limped well behind, but continued to soldier on despite the pain, until we finally reached the day's ending point at Five Brooks. I was quite proud of the lad.
Mark met us a quarter of an hour later with a story of his own. He had been driving around the San Rafael area, killing time while Colin and I forged up the coast. While stopped at a red light he ran into this man:
Mark had wanted to give the man money to reward his creativity, even though, as Chris Rock says, "a homeless man with a funny sign hasn't been homeless very long." I countered with a different version of events. Consider this: an illiterate homeless man unknowingly approaches a smart ass and asks him if he would write him a sign. Ah, the possibilities of such a blank canvas...
16 miles/4102 total miles
Sadly I have lost a portion of my crew, at least for today. Mark's legs may never work again and the damage done him caused John to think walking with me may not be in his best interest. John does not normally participate in day time activities anyway, so we left him at the hotel. Mark was kind enough to drop Colin and I back at Pan Toll Campground, where we resumed the march at eight P.M. Bangladeshi time.
The trails took us north, paralleling the coast, although the reappearance of the mist prevented us from getting more than an occasional glimpse. Nonetheless, the scenery did provide topics of conversation. First we came upon a rusted car, lying upside down and unlikely to ever get up again. The location of the vehicle, only a foot off the trail, left us bewildered. The trail was too narrow to have driven down. The state of the car indicated it must have been thrown from the bluffs above, but how did it get there? There was no road in sight.
 |
| Mad man blocking view of the mystery car |
We had nearly ceased speculating and given up the case as an unsolved mystery when we heard a string of curses coming from the forest. An angry man was yelling so loud and frantically we though him to be in a manic state. I was reminded of some moments I'd had when lost on the trail. What would my outbursts have sounded like to someone unlucky enough to overhear them? Ah, nostalgia...
Later, we heard the squeaky wheels of a bicycle coming up behind us. We heartily waved at our trail mate, the first human we had seen in some time. We received no greeting in return from the middle aged man, who grimly pedaled by, head down. I looked at Colin. "I think we just met Angry Man."
These oddities aside, the forest surrounding us was the main attraction. Conversations about a sequel to "The Passion of Christ" subtitled "Up in Your Ass With a Resurrection" could not compare to the ancient trees reaching high into the sky above us. Colin and Mark had talked the day before of a resemblance to the Ewok Forest from "The Return of the Jedi." As it turns out, the analogy was spot on - Mark later discovered George Lucas lived nearby and had used these very woods in the movie. The name Ewok was surely plucked from this region as well. The Native American tribe which once inhabited Marin County was known as the Miwoks.
Another stretch of forest reminded me of a different fictional creature. A bright green moss clung to these trees, thickly matted to the trunks like a fur pelt. Were these the coats of the Grinch and his family, taken as trophies? If so Whoville's vengeance was indeed swift and mighty.
By the last few miles I worried Colin might be the next casualty. His right leg had locked up and it swung clumsily forward like a rusty gate. He limped well behind, but continued to soldier on despite the pain, until we finally reached the day's ending point at Five Brooks. I was quite proud of the lad.
Mark met us a quarter of an hour later with a story of his own. He had been driving around the San Rafael area, killing time while Colin and I forged up the coast. While stopped at a red light he ran into this man:
16 miles/4102 total miles
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Are We There Yet?
October 11
I no longer walk alone. I was joined this morning by Joel, one of my roommates at the hostel last night. His background as the son of a career Navy man made him a fitting companion as the north end of San Francisco is steeped in military history. We left the Fort Mason, which served as a Civil War barracks, passing the docks from which the Navy shipped supplies to the Pacific fleet during World War II. A few blocks onward was Crissy Field, a former Army facility used as an airfield from 1921 to 1936.
The land was in high demand after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The 30th infantry set up headquarters at Crissy along with the Military Intelligence Service Language School. The airstrip itself returned to prominence after the war, since the small field was useful for helicopter and light airplane take offs and landings, particularly Medevac flights bringing in casualties from Vietnam. Crissy Field finally closed amidst a series of national budget cuts in 1994.
Joel and I soon approached the Golden Gate bridge, whose 1937 construction conceals a choke point once vital to the defense of the harbor. Here is the only entrance to the bay. The Spanish established earthworks on the hills above, known as the Presidio. Gun batteries dotted the shore thereafter and additional artillery was later placed at Fort Point (now tucked underneath the bridge) by American forces.
Enough with the sex and violence, I was ready for my showdown with the Golden Gate. The crossing is one of the most significant milestones over the long course of the American Discovery Trail. I was blessed to have additional company for the momentous occasion. My friend Mark Normington met me up top, along with my brother Colin, whose visit would have been a surprise if everyone involved hadn't contributed to botching the operation.
Before 1937 the only way to get your car to Marin County was via the ferry, an inefficient means of transport given the demand. The country was in a crushing Depression that even Paxil would not cure and the bridge would be terribly expensive. Economic necessity drove California to act on the plan of engineer Joseph Strauss, who did not invent blue jeans. Strauss was able to formulate a functioning yet artistic design which surmounted the what supposedly could not be mounted - "strong, swirling tides and currents, with water 372 ft deep at the center of the channel, and frequent strong winds. Experts said that ferocious winds and blinding fogs would prevent construction and operation."
The bright red bridge is now one of the symbols of San Francisco. In fact, Frommer's lists the Golden Gate as the most photographed bridge in the world. I was honored to have the opportunity to view the Bay Area and the city from her heights. The ubiquitous fog was kind enough to dissipate long enough to accommodate me.
The end of the Golden Gate bridge would seem to make an excellent finishing line for the ADT, but major trails in the United States simply do not begin or end in a major city. A much more remote location is required. The Appalachian Trail runs from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine, while the Pacific Crescent and Continental Divide Trails run from isolated spots on the Mexican border to other places you have never heard of on the Canadian border. The ADT ends at Limantour Beach in Point Reyes, meaning I still had forty miles to go.
Nothing for it but to complete another dozen miles before ending the day. I was glad to have Colin and Mark tagging along. We proceeded onto a series of trails, up and down numerous grassy hills, all the while being slowly consumed by a shroud of mist. After we snatched a quick peek at Sausalito, the veil closed completely and we had to satisfy ourselves with staring at nearby objects. The terrain changed to thick forest and we reveled in the glory of the massive redwoods, whose trunks disappeared into the sky. Another marvel lay at our feet, the mascot of the University of California at Santa Cruz, the banana slug. The mollusks were omnipresent in the damp, dark woods and Mark was especially adept at spotting the slimy greenish-yellow creatures, which can move at a lightning fast rate of six inches a minute.
As we neared the day's goal, Pan Toll Campground, Mark began to move a bit sluggishly himself. His knees, in dire need of surgical repair, began to fail him and he was forced to halt whenever the pain became too great. I ran ahead to meet our friend John Byrd, who had also flown in today and was scheduled to pick us up. This turned into a bit of a fiasco as John was not where he was supposed to be and I had no cel service as usual. After nearly an hour of trying to shake a text message out of my one bar, Mark finally limped into Pan Toll and collapsed on the ground. Colin was able to contact John and we managed to figure out where he was and explain where he actually needed to be.
We hit a great taco joint for dinner, then took Mark back to the hotel in San Rafael so he could die in a bed. Colin, John, and I visited the hotel bar, where we enjoyed celebratory pints of beer before realizing they cost twelve dollars a pop. Sport stadiums and concert venues would have been envious of such vicious overcharging. We beat a hasty retreat before being driven into bankruptcy*. Unbelievably I have only two more days left to walk.
*His friends paid, the author is already bankrupt - Editor
17 miles/4086 miles total
I no longer walk alone. I was joined this morning by Joel, one of my roommates at the hostel last night. His background as the son of a career Navy man made him a fitting companion as the north end of San Francisco is steeped in military history. We left the Fort Mason, which served as a Civil War barracks, passing the docks from which the Navy shipped supplies to the Pacific fleet during World War II. A few blocks onward was Crissy Field, a former Army facility used as an airfield from 1921 to 1936.
The land was in high demand after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The 30th infantry set up headquarters at Crissy along with the Military Intelligence Service Language School. The airstrip itself returned to prominence after the war, since the small field was useful for helicopter and light airplane take offs and landings, particularly Medevac flights bringing in casualties from Vietnam. Crissy Field finally closed amidst a series of national budget cuts in 1994.
Joel and I soon approached the Golden Gate bridge, whose 1937 construction conceals a choke point once vital to the defense of the harbor. Here is the only entrance to the bay. The Spanish established earthworks on the hills above, known as the Presidio. Gun batteries dotted the shore thereafter and additional artillery was later placed at Fort Point (now tucked underneath the bridge) by American forces.
 |
| Fort Point, hiding under the Golden Gate |
Enough with the sex and violence, I was ready for my showdown with the Golden Gate. The crossing is one of the most significant milestones over the long course of the American Discovery Trail. I was blessed to have additional company for the momentous occasion. My friend Mark Normington met me up top, along with my brother Colin, whose visit would have been a surprise if everyone involved hadn't contributed to botching the operation.
Before 1937 the only way to get your car to Marin County was via the ferry, an inefficient means of transport given the demand. The country was in a crushing Depression that even Paxil would not cure and the bridge would be terribly expensive. Economic necessity drove California to act on the plan of engineer Joseph Strauss, who did not invent blue jeans. Strauss was able to formulate a functioning yet artistic design which surmounted the what supposedly could not be mounted - "strong, swirling tides and currents, with water 372 ft deep at the center of the channel, and frequent strong winds. Experts said that ferocious winds and blinding fogs would prevent construction and operation."
The bright red bridge is now one of the symbols of San Francisco. In fact, Frommer's lists the Golden Gate as the most photographed bridge in the world. I was honored to have the opportunity to view the Bay Area and the city from her heights. The ubiquitous fog was kind enough to dissipate long enough to accommodate me.
The end of the Golden Gate bridge would seem to make an excellent finishing line for the ADT, but major trails in the United States simply do not begin or end in a major city. A much more remote location is required. The Appalachian Trail runs from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine, while the Pacific Crescent and Continental Divide Trails run from isolated spots on the Mexican border to other places you have never heard of on the Canadian border. The ADT ends at Limantour Beach in Point Reyes, meaning I still had forty miles to go.
Nothing for it but to complete another dozen miles before ending the day. I was glad to have Colin and Mark tagging along. We proceeded onto a series of trails, up and down numerous grassy hills, all the while being slowly consumed by a shroud of mist. After we snatched a quick peek at Sausalito, the veil closed completely and we had to satisfy ourselves with staring at nearby objects. The terrain changed to thick forest and we reveled in the glory of the massive redwoods, whose trunks disappeared into the sky. Another marvel lay at our feet, the mascot of the University of California at Santa Cruz, the banana slug. The mollusks were omnipresent in the damp, dark woods and Mark was especially adept at spotting the slimy greenish-yellow creatures, which can move at a lightning fast rate of six inches a minute.
 |
| Banana slug, the Usain Bolt of the animal kingdom |
As we neared the day's goal, Pan Toll Campground, Mark began to move a bit sluggishly himself. His knees, in dire need of surgical repair, began to fail him and he was forced to halt whenever the pain became too great. I ran ahead to meet our friend John Byrd, who had also flown in today and was scheduled to pick us up. This turned into a bit of a fiasco as John was not where he was supposed to be and I had no cel service as usual. After nearly an hour of trying to shake a text message out of my one bar, Mark finally limped into Pan Toll and collapsed on the ground. Colin was able to contact John and we managed to figure out where he was and explain where he actually needed to be.
We hit a great taco joint for dinner, then took Mark back to the hotel in San Rafael so he could die in a bed. Colin, John, and I visited the hotel bar, where we enjoyed celebratory pints of beer before realizing they cost twelve dollars a pop. Sport stadiums and concert venues would have been envious of such vicious overcharging. We beat a hasty retreat before being driven into bankruptcy*. Unbelievably I have only two more days left to walk.
*His friends paid, the author is already bankrupt - Editor
17 miles/4086 miles total
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Ferry Queen
October 10
Litter can tell you a lot about a place. Discarded Sierra Nevadas and Haagen Dazs wrappers indicated Berkeley was slightly more upscale than the average American city. A return to Bud Light and used condoms let me know I was entering Oakland.
Oakland does have a reputation as a fearsome place. The city conjures images of Hell's Angels running wild or Raiders fans dressed up in costumes better suited to a medieval battle. Oakland recently topped the FBI's list of most dangerous cities in California. The reality for me was quite different. I enjoyed a rather pleasant stroll down Broadway to the Bay. I would have been tempted to stop at numerous bookstores and restaurants if the early hour had not meant that they were closed.
My experience at Cafe Gratitude had left me eager to try more Bay Area cuisine, so when the open for lunch signs were finally lit, I immediately pounced. My target was the Chicken and Waffle, a spin off of Los Angeles' famed Roscoe's Chicken and Waffle. The diner was packed, soul food in demand these days from people of all colors. I examined the varied menu, most of the choices pictured on a mural covering the wall behind the counter top where I sat. My decision was easy. I had never tried the unlikely combination after which the restaurant is named.
The meal was at first disappointing, the fried chicken and macaroni failed to ignite a passionate response in my mouth. There did seem a method to the pairing, though, as I discovered when I bit into the waffles, the contrast of salty and sweet delivering an extremely pleasant taste sensation. I wouldn't want the duo for every meal, but i now understand the allure.
The impatience of my stomach was punished upon reaching Jack London Square and the Ferry Terminal. I had just missed the previous ferry and would have to wait two hours for the next.
Don't worry, I'm not cheating and then rubbing it in your face. The boat is part of the ADT - pedestrians aren't even permitted on the Bay Bridge to the best of my knowledge. I didn't mind the rare opportunity to sit and rest. When the ferry finally showed I appreciated even more the chance to advance effortlessly. Seven miles of no effort whatsoever and suddenly the captain was directing us to disembark.
Months of work had finally brought me to San Francisco. A Spanish name, but a very American town, filled with a vibrant array of peoples and cultures. Interestingly enough, however, the name did not come from the mind of a Spaniard. The original settlement had been known as Yerba Buena*. Colonel Bartlett, who liberated California from Mexican disinterest during the Mexican-American War, picked the current name during a brief stint as mayor.
There were few visitors in those days, but that changed only a couple of years later, when the Gold Rush turned San Francisco Bay into a bustling port virtually overnight. Evidence of the Bay's usefulness was everywhere along the shoreline. Piers, marinas, boats old and new crowded the water. Fish, shrimp, and dungeoness crab sat in various stages of preparation at an endless string of seafood restaurants. Even the lonely island out in the harbor, Alcatraz, had once served a purpose in the maritime economy, as the site of the first lighthouse on the West coast. Later on the island adversely effected the shipping interests of certain members of the criminal class, as Al Capone could have attested had his syphilitic brain not melted into a pile of pus.
I spent the night at Fort Mason, where Hosteling International gives the less than wealthy traveler a chance to stay in the heart of downtown San Francisco. Mason has had many uses over its 150 year history, defending the city from possible attack, hosting exhibits for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, and operating as a storage facility and staging area during World War II. Now the Fort is stuck with me and a gaggle of smelly Europeans as house guests. Oh how the mighty have fallen down, cracked their head on the sidewalk, and bled out.
10 miles/4069 total miles
*Which means dank herb in Spanish, I believe
Litter can tell you a lot about a place. Discarded Sierra Nevadas and Haagen Dazs wrappers indicated Berkeley was slightly more upscale than the average American city. A return to Bud Light and used condoms let me know I was entering Oakland.
Oakland does have a reputation as a fearsome place. The city conjures images of Hell's Angels running wild or Raiders fans dressed up in costumes better suited to a medieval battle. Oakland recently topped the FBI's list of most dangerous cities in California. The reality for me was quite different. I enjoyed a rather pleasant stroll down Broadway to the Bay. I would have been tempted to stop at numerous bookstores and restaurants if the early hour had not meant that they were closed.
My experience at Cafe Gratitude had left me eager to try more Bay Area cuisine, so when the open for lunch signs were finally lit, I immediately pounced. My target was the Chicken and Waffle, a spin off of Los Angeles' famed Roscoe's Chicken and Waffle. The diner was packed, soul food in demand these days from people of all colors. I examined the varied menu, most of the choices pictured on a mural covering the wall behind the counter top where I sat. My decision was easy. I had never tried the unlikely combination after which the restaurant is named.
The meal was at first disappointing, the fried chicken and macaroni failed to ignite a passionate response in my mouth. There did seem a method to the pairing, though, as I discovered when I bit into the waffles, the contrast of salty and sweet delivering an extremely pleasant taste sensation. I wouldn't want the duo for every meal, but i now understand the allure.
The impatience of my stomach was punished upon reaching Jack London Square and the Ferry Terminal. I had just missed the previous ferry and would have to wait two hours for the next.
Don't worry, I'm not cheating and then rubbing it in your face. The boat is part of the ADT - pedestrians aren't even permitted on the Bay Bridge to the best of my knowledge. I didn't mind the rare opportunity to sit and rest. When the ferry finally showed I appreciated even more the chance to advance effortlessly. Seven miles of no effort whatsoever and suddenly the captain was directing us to disembark.
Months of work had finally brought me to San Francisco. A Spanish name, but a very American town, filled with a vibrant array of peoples and cultures. Interestingly enough, however, the name did not come from the mind of a Spaniard. The original settlement had been known as Yerba Buena*. Colonel Bartlett, who liberated California from Mexican disinterest during the Mexican-American War, picked the current name during a brief stint as mayor.
There were few visitors in those days, but that changed only a couple of years later, when the Gold Rush turned San Francisco Bay into a bustling port virtually overnight. Evidence of the Bay's usefulness was everywhere along the shoreline. Piers, marinas, boats old and new crowded the water. Fish, shrimp, and dungeoness crab sat in various stages of preparation at an endless string of seafood restaurants. Even the lonely island out in the harbor, Alcatraz, had once served a purpose in the maritime economy, as the site of the first lighthouse on the West coast. Later on the island adversely effected the shipping interests of certain members of the criminal class, as Al Capone could have attested had his syphilitic brain not melted into a pile of pus.
I spent the night at Fort Mason, where Hosteling International gives the less than wealthy traveler a chance to stay in the heart of downtown San Francisco. Mason has had many uses over its 150 year history, defending the city from possible attack, hosting exhibits for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, and operating as a storage facility and staging area during World War II. Now the Fort is stuck with me and a gaggle of smelly Europeans as house guests. Oh how the mighty have fallen down, cracked their head on the sidewalk, and bled out.
10 miles/4069 total miles
*Which means dank herb in Spanish, I believe
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
I Am Vegetable
October 9
I packed the tent away, perhaps for the last time. The REI Halfdome 2 has served me well. Very little of my original gear has made the cross country journey intact. The tent is an exception, with only a minuscule crack in one of the poles to show for many months of wear and tear.
My body has hung together just as well. At this point last year I was suffering from back spasms and shin splints. As of today my feet feel like I could do another thousand miles. My brain, on the other hand, has told me that is a terrible idea.
We comprised and aimed for the University of California-Berkeley, only ten miles or so away on the ADT, one block away as the crow flies. The advantage of the ADT is the views and there could have been plenty between Inspiration Point and the Cal campus. The early morning mist had other ideas, drawing a curtain over the Bay Area, leaving me to imagine what lay below. Probably a duel to the death between King Kong and Godzilla, I conjectured.
I spent some of the morning getting lost and falling on the ground, but these foibles are part of my regular routine now, like brushing my teeth and taking a shower*. I shan't bore you with those details. Suffice it to say at some juncture I was spat out onto Grizzly Peak Road, where I was stunned to realize I knew where I was.
As I proceeded toward Cal-Berkeley I ran into a friendly bicyclist named Lovejoy. Curious as to why I looked like Santa Claus fallen on hard times, he asked for my story. He was intrigued, especially since he had recently met a Wounded Warrior in need of help while walking in San Francisco. Lovejoy found the man naked on the sidewalk, curled up in the fetal position. "R," as we will call him, was at first unwilling or unable to speak. With some gentle prodding he admitted to having done "terrible things" in Iraq, actions for which he felt he would never be forgiven. Ever since their run-in Lovejoy had been working to get R the assistance he needs. I promised to inform the WWP about R's situation if Lovejoy would send me the man's information. We parted shortly thereafter, but not before making dinner plans for that evening.
I descended to the Berkeley campus where I ran smack into a bear. The beast was a bronze statue of the school's mascot, thankfully not prone to moving, much less devouring hikers. I was hungry myself and headed to the International House^ for lunch. I wolfed down a lamb and hummus pita sandwich, as if anyone gives a flying fornication.
There was plenty of day left, so I decided to take advantage by checking into the hostel where I had reservations and doing absolutely nothing. The Piedmont House is a relic of Berkeley's days as a bastion of left-leaning thought. The 60s at Cal were a cloud of marijuana smoke occasionally interrupted by a hit of acid, a line of Ginsberg poetry, or a Free Speech Movement.
The Free Speech Movement was a student uprising in the middle of the hippie decade which began in response to the University administration's ban on political demonstrations. When an activist was arrested for defying the ban, huge sit-ins and protests resulted. Mario Savio summed up the feelings of those involved:
"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part. And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all."
The evil Dean Wormer eventually backed down. Cal students continued to rage against the machine throughout the 60s. They were at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement and later led student opposition to war in Vietnam.
The man who appeared to run Piedmont House could have easily been transported from that era yesterday. Yow was at times a brilliant philosopher and at others a flaky burnout case. Paranoid of bed bugs, he had my sleeping bag frozen. I wondered what sense this made since he left me my pack. My sleeping bag is normally stored inside, if one is infected surely the other is as well.
I hung out at the hostel, over the course of the afternoon meeting a few college students in residence as well as a middle aged man who had clearly overindulged in hallucinogens himself. I was retrieved by Lovejoy around six and we rode in his car to Cafe Gratitude.
The restaurant is more like a collective, growing organically out of the strongest of roots. Lovejoy explained to me that its origins lay in a game, the Abounding River, which the owners invented. Abounding River allows participants to examine their lives while receiving positive affirmation, free from judgments, from other players. Cafe Gratitude started simply as a place to host the game.
I found that story quite unusual, but you may find it even harder to believe my reaction to the Vegan fare they served. I am a committed carnivore. Until my twenties I found most vegetables repulsive and I have no love for raw vegetables even as an adult. When Lovejoy told me what Cafe Gratitude's menu was like I cringed inwardly. Be polite, I thought, just enjoy the atmosphere, socialize, and don't insult your host by spitting the food on the floor.
When the appetizer, I Am Grounded#, arrived I was stunned. The dish was essentially patatas bravas, but the sauce was not made from cheese, but cashews instead. I could not have told the difference blind-folded, except that the flavor was superior to any examples I had sampled in Spain.
I still doubted my entree would be much more than edible. When I Am Hearty landed in front of me, I admitted otherwise. Of all the experiences I've had on this trip, enjoying a Vegan meal would have seemed the least likely of them all not too long ago. At least I'm getting pretty used to being wrong.
10 miles/4059 total miles
*He actually does not shower very often - Editor
^Not affiliated with the shithole in Austin.
#All the dish titles relate to the positive reinforcement aspect of the Abounding River game: I Am Bold, I Am Dazzling, I Am Thriving, for example.
I packed the tent away, perhaps for the last time. The REI Halfdome 2 has served me well. Very little of my original gear has made the cross country journey intact. The tent is an exception, with only a minuscule crack in one of the poles to show for many months of wear and tear.
My body has hung together just as well. At this point last year I was suffering from back spasms and shin splints. As of today my feet feel like I could do another thousand miles. My brain, on the other hand, has told me that is a terrible idea.
We comprised and aimed for the University of California-Berkeley, only ten miles or so away on the ADT, one block away as the crow flies. The advantage of the ADT is the views and there could have been plenty between Inspiration Point and the Cal campus. The early morning mist had other ideas, drawing a curtain over the Bay Area, leaving me to imagine what lay below. Probably a duel to the death between King Kong and Godzilla, I conjectured.
I spent some of the morning getting lost and falling on the ground, but these foibles are part of my regular routine now, like brushing my teeth and taking a shower*. I shan't bore you with those details. Suffice it to say at some juncture I was spat out onto Grizzly Peak Road, where I was stunned to realize I knew where I was.
As I proceeded toward Cal-Berkeley I ran into a friendly bicyclist named Lovejoy. Curious as to why I looked like Santa Claus fallen on hard times, he asked for my story. He was intrigued, especially since he had recently met a Wounded Warrior in need of help while walking in San Francisco. Lovejoy found the man naked on the sidewalk, curled up in the fetal position. "R," as we will call him, was at first unwilling or unable to speak. With some gentle prodding he admitted to having done "terrible things" in Iraq, actions for which he felt he would never be forgiven. Ever since their run-in Lovejoy had been working to get R the assistance he needs. I promised to inform the WWP about R's situation if Lovejoy would send me the man's information. We parted shortly thereafter, but not before making dinner plans for that evening.
I descended to the Berkeley campus where I ran smack into a bear. The beast was a bronze statue of the school's mascot, thankfully not prone to moving, much less devouring hikers. I was hungry myself and headed to the International House^ for lunch. I wolfed down a lamb and hummus pita sandwich, as if anyone gives a flying fornication.
There was plenty of day left, so I decided to take advantage by checking into the hostel where I had reservations and doing absolutely nothing. The Piedmont House is a relic of Berkeley's days as a bastion of left-leaning thought. The 60s at Cal were a cloud of marijuana smoke occasionally interrupted by a hit of acid, a line of Ginsberg poetry, or a Free Speech Movement.
The Free Speech Movement was a student uprising in the middle of the hippie decade which began in response to the University administration's ban on political demonstrations. When an activist was arrested for defying the ban, huge sit-ins and protests resulted. Mario Savio summed up the feelings of those involved:
"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part. And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all."
The evil Dean Wormer eventually backed down. Cal students continued to rage against the machine throughout the 60s. They were at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement and later led student opposition to war in Vietnam.
The man who appeared to run Piedmont House could have easily been transported from that era yesterday. Yow was at times a brilliant philosopher and at others a flaky burnout case. Paranoid of bed bugs, he had my sleeping bag frozen. I wondered what sense this made since he left me my pack. My sleeping bag is normally stored inside, if one is infected surely the other is as well.
I hung out at the hostel, over the course of the afternoon meeting a few college students in residence as well as a middle aged man who had clearly overindulged in hallucinogens himself. I was retrieved by Lovejoy around six and we rode in his car to Cafe Gratitude.
The restaurant is more like a collective, growing organically out of the strongest of roots. Lovejoy explained to me that its origins lay in a game, the Abounding River, which the owners invented. Abounding River allows participants to examine their lives while receiving positive affirmation, free from judgments, from other players. Cafe Gratitude started simply as a place to host the game.
I found that story quite unusual, but you may find it even harder to believe my reaction to the Vegan fare they served. I am a committed carnivore. Until my twenties I found most vegetables repulsive and I have no love for raw vegetables even as an adult. When Lovejoy told me what Cafe Gratitude's menu was like I cringed inwardly. Be polite, I thought, just enjoy the atmosphere, socialize, and don't insult your host by spitting the food on the floor.
When the appetizer, I Am Grounded#, arrived I was stunned. The dish was essentially patatas bravas, but the sauce was not made from cheese, but cashews instead. I could not have told the difference blind-folded, except that the flavor was superior to any examples I had sampled in Spain.
I still doubted my entree would be much more than edible. When I Am Hearty landed in front of me, I admitted otherwise. Of all the experiences I've had on this trip, enjoying a Vegan meal would have seemed the least likely of them all not too long ago. At least I'm getting pretty used to being wrong.
10 miles/4059 total miles
*He actually does not shower very often - Editor
^Not affiliated with the shithole in Austin.
#All the dish titles relate to the positive reinforcement aspect of the Abounding River game: I Am Bold, I Am Dazzling, I Am Thriving, for example.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
The Great Escapes
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October 8
I have to say no to the devil. I have a meeting with my friend Mark on Thursday in San Francisco, so there is just not enough time to
fit him in to my busy schedule.
The ADT takes a long detour over Mt. Diablo, whose heights
allegedly provide a fantastic view of the Bay Area. I condensed these twenty four miles into
merely eight by taking the less scenic route to Walnut Creek.
The shortcut put me back on pace to make my rendezvous. I felt free to sally forth on the ADT again
and headed into a new labyrinth of trails amidst the hills. I managed to go a few miles without making a
wrong turn, but eventually my extraordinary winning streak came to an end.
When I ran into a road I knew I was lost again. At least there
was a neighborhood visible below. I
figured I would venture down there, find a main street in Lafayette and
reorient myself. A gate to the right was
marked private, so I decided left was a grand plan. A few hundred yards further on I ran smack
into another enclosed property. A normal
person would have turned around, but thankfully I don’t suffer from that
particular disorder.
I could see an escape route – black tarmac ready to release
me from this private property trap. I
responded by sliding down the steep hill on my butt, putting freedom only
twenty feet away. There was still a
major problem. A fence running behind
the neighborhood blocked further progress.
I looked for a home owner, but early on a weekday afternoon no one was
present. Since I was still unwilling to
trespass, I decided to see if the fence would lead me to an exit.
I started along a ditch, but the intercession of a culvert
forced me back onto the treacherous hill, where I repeatedly slipped and fell
on the slick surface. As I came to my
feet I saw an older woman in her backyard, sitting poolside with a book. I opened my mouth to explain that I was not a
burglar or serial murderer before she panicked and called the police. Then I paused. She was asleep. Simultaneously, I noticed a gap in the
fence. I sprinted through in a flash.
I was unfettered, but where should I go next? I moved south, towards Lafayette, finding the
BART* station there. I consulted their map, discovering that Happy
Valley Road, which lay on the other side of the parking lot, would lead me
straight back to the ADT. The road name
sounded ominous, but I assumed I was too old to elicit much interest from Sandusky.
Two hours on Happy Valley and I met the ADt and was face
with another decision. The trail
ventures into East Bay Municipal Utilities District (EBMUD) territory and a
permit is required to hike there.
Lacking permission and fearing the fine, I picked a parallel course. My choice meant there was a high fence
between me and Briones Reservoir and I was nearly out of water. A bicyclist stopped and gave me a few ounces,
delaying dehydration only slightly.
 |
| Briones Reservoir |
By six thirty I was desperate. When an opportunity arose in the form of a
stream, I pounced. In my haste for water
I never saw the “No Trespassing “sign or the barbed wire I must have stepped
over on my way in and out. I braved the
inclined bank, picking my way down to the water’s edge. I filled the bottles, then proceeded up the
difficult grade. Only steps from the top
I grabbed a sapling for purchase. The
wood snapped, my shoes slid, and I prepared for the long fall to the
bottom. It never came. Somehow I stayed upright, lunging in one
stride to safety.
I had to answer one more question before I could rest for
the night. Where was I going to rest for
the night? Tindal Park was the logical
choice, but how should I get there? The
ADT went via Inspiration Point, via more EBMUD land. Other options were longer and dusk was
beginning to settle. I couldn’t read the
warning sign at the entrance to EBMUD, so I decided to chance ignorance as an
excuse. I assumed I would see or hear
any vehicles long before they would spot me.
The gambit paid.
Forty minutes of walking with only the flashlight to guide me and I made
the gate exiting EBMUD. Houdini was an
amateur.
22 miles/4049 total miles
*Bay Area Rapid Transit
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