28 January 2008
A Kiss to Build A Dream On
So there it was...that special plant. Growing heartily. And stationed conveniently near the dog-walking path. 
But as the story goes, I was all alone under that tree in the field. Only the Labs and Shepherd trio nearby. But the mistletoe gods demanded payment. I had to deliver. 
Thankfully Molly volunteered and saved the day. And I'm glad she didn't reciprocate. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not so keen on dirt-mouth kisses.
27 January 2008
Mardi Gras Blowout
The venerable 95th Division Army Reserve Band posted up in our annual showing at Shreveport's Krewe of Centaur mardi gras parade. Thankfully the temps were tame, making the six mile jaunt worthwhile. And it might be the last one we do there in Louisiana.
The entire army reserve is restructuring and reorganizing. So, soon our band will be in a new division and have a new geographic area to entertain. For us army bandsmen bearing the brunt of national defense, all that will change is our unit patch and the gigs we play. No biggie. 
The Mighty Mississipp. 
Parade route pass over. 
Dennis taking in some light reading before the parade. 
Loud warmup. 
Sort of awkward. 
Of course there was an LSU float. BOO, HISS. I realize, however, that I am bitter at them because A) I watched them beat OU in person at the Sugar Bowl, and B) they win bowl games at all. What a novelty...
Go O-U. We drew some stares...
Good times rolling.
Me and the Burger King...or something. Notice his cig and "coca-cola" in hand. The alcohol weighed heavily upon his breath. And other parts too. He was quite cheery though. Quite happy to have his picture taken with a lowly soldier. 
There were 89 floats in the thing. And the sidelines were pretty much packed the whole six miles of the procession. Tons of LSU fans, lots of backwater accents, some Stars and Bars and of course the cheap-A beer. If I had a nickel for every 40oz brew I saw. A veritable Tall Boy alley for sure. 
Post-game. Every quality army band needs some R&R to recharge following a raucous traipse in the South. Unfortunately, the old-school Clint Eastwood movies weren't helping me sleep on the way home. (that's why you don't let Tuba players pick the movies) I mean, A Fistful of Dollars...what a riveting display of cinematic excellence. How could you sleep through that?
But all in all not a bad way to carry out an army commitment. Seriously.
26 January 2008
Emotional Wreck(s)
I read in a journaling magazine once that you should write out every emotion you feel every day. It's supposed to help you know what's really going on in your life. Know exactly what you're feeling. Something like that.
I've never made an actual list before. For some reason I did today. I think it illustrates our active emotional lives. Or maybe I'm just an emotive 13-year-old girl in sheep's clothing.
No offense to the 13-year-old girls in the audience...
Emotional List, v. 1.0
Fatigue
Uncertainty
Impatience
Indifference
Brief Angst
Self disappointment
Disorganization
Hurriedness
Mild Gloom
Forgetfulness
Surprise
Intrigue
Wonder
Insecurity
Alienation
Interest
Distraction
Disappointment
Sudden Joy/Gratitude/Thankfulness/Encouragement
Aimless introspection (selfishness?)
Anticipation
Apathy
Anxiety
Brief Alienation
Fulfillment
Connection
Enjoyment
Intellectually adventurous (is that a feeling?)
Trust
Humility
Reverence
Contentedness
__________________________
So. Quite the gamut of feelings. Or just a normal day-in-the-life of J.S. Probably the latter. The list is nice though. I think I'll do it again. Maybe you could try it too.
In pondering the list though, I feel like we're all emotional fibbers. At least I often feel like one. For every emotion I feel, probably one fifth of them actually reaches the surface and finds an avenue of eruptive expression (peaceful or otherwise).
I'm not sure if that's normal or good, but I think it's fair to say a large portion of society's emotions are filtered on a regular basis (read: husbands answering the "how do you like my new haircut?" question). Though I'm curious how you would rate your level of emotional filtration...
And yet, we'd probably all agree that we feel many, many emotions on a regular basis. Every day. Each hour. Minute by minute. I'm certainly an emo power plant.
But what are we doing with all these excess, un-addressed feelings? I don't really know what I do with all of mine. Or exactly how they affect me. (if we could only turn them into kinetic energy somehow...wow...the real clean fuel solution).
And while we all feel these sundry emotions, we can be rather brusque with how we let others express theirs. Or uninterested. And/or perhaps overly self-conscious with how we share ours. Or not self-conscious enough. Interesting how all that works.
But I wonder how many people are hurting and we're simply unaware. Or people who are lonely, or in need. Or excited. Or joyful. But they're just stone faced. And we don't know it. I don't know it. And yet I do it sometimes too.
Certainly, I think we could do better at self-expression and also listening/accommodating others.
I like to think of it in terms of two simple declarations:
"Hey, big mouth, shut up and listen!"
"And you, mumbler, speak up!"
But I guess it's not quite so simple...
And I think about the importance of finding avenues of emotional expression. Finding your emo highway. Your stomping ground. Your sphere of influence. Your Tuesday night bowling league with the guys.
People, music, photography, writing, aerobic recreation. These avenues help me not a little. Others too.
Hmm. Been reading this book. Got me going on this topic.
So, yeah...the emotion post. Perhaps I should go do some thinking now.
25 January 2008
One Random Memory Per Day
"Fishing. Sort of."
I've always enjoyed fishing. It's relaxing. It's simple. It can be sociable. It can be lone wolf. You can think about other things while doing it. It's outside. You can get really dirty and it's okay. And sometimes...if the sand in the glass is right...you actually reel in something with a couple fins and some gills.
Growing up in Norman presented many fishing opportunities. My neighborhood in particular, with its three local ponds only a lure's cast from my house.
And so often we'd "go to the pond." My friend Daniel and I. We've been friends since we were five. He lived 256 steps from my house, give or take a shoe size.
The best days were the tube fishing days. We were about 15 probably.
We'd strap on our rubber flotation rounds and plod to the water. We'd see other tubers out there some days. Seriously casting with an air of professionalism. They would catch fish. We had no such pretensions. No stringers of fish. No loaves of bread.
But Mother Nature knows we didn't do it for the scaly, slimy booty. On a steamy summer day there's no better place to be than in a coolish, mirky pond, no? Eventually we'd get bored and drop the poles on shore along with the tubes and just swim around. Algae, reeds, frogs, snakes, turtles, non-catchable fish and all. Those were high times. Simple pleasures. I'd do it again today for sure.
And if you didn't know, nothing stains clothing quite like pond water tinted with hearty, red Oklahoma mud. Just ask my mom.
The End.
24 January 2008
Hungry Poopis
I think Abby was trying to communicate something... 
...I had an idea what she wanted...
...but I couldn't quite put my paw on it.
22 January 2008
Growths
Ailing Asian. But why is he ailing?
Because he had a cyst removed not long ago. Too bad I don't have a pre-surgery shot. Hopefully it won't come back again this time, my friend. An apple a day...
Or perhaps a durian a day...whatever's more natural...
Random 'Hood Life
The ol' sign/sunset/moonrise combo shot. 
21 January 2008
Dumpster Diving Dog
Molly gets into the trash a few times per month at least. Basically she'll go dumpster diving anytime there are tantalizing scents wafting and the hi-tech rubber bands aren't keeping the cabinet "locked."
She especially loves all foods in the poultry family. Makes her crazy. She's a big fan of the holidays too. Cause you know, lots of carvings on the people table means a smorgasbord in the trash heap.
So yeah, she went diving again today. A fairly dramatic dive too, mess wise. You'd think we don't feed her with her passion for rubbish. I suppose it's just instinctual.
Either way. Bad, Molly. B-a-d. 
Post dive. No mistaking what took place here. And she obviously never learned to eat her vegetables. Seems we've failed on multiple disciplinary fronts. 
Guilt trip. The face of a condemned waste monger.
19 January 2008
Frolf
The day struck three p.m. and I had to get outside. Just to be outside. My frisbee golf discs were strewn about on a pile of my stuff (I'm moving house this weekend) and in sight, so frisbee golf it was. George Costanza style.
A trip to Colonial Park was made and some discs "thrown." I'm so terrible. Like really. But it's still fun. And that's not why I do it. It's mostly for the girls.
Ask yourself how many hotties you see latched on to the sculpted arms of frisbee golf champions.
Exactly...
Lighting it up. 
Good lighting. 
FORE! It was an impulse round, so I didn't have time to muster other teammates. I had to set the timer to get some pics. I was pleasantly surprised with the results. Photographic results, that is. This shot landed in the soup. 
I find my frisbees to be equally well adjusted for life on the land AND in the water. Amphibians you could say. 
Majestic creek scenery. 
Creek scenery with improper white balancing. Rookie mistake...
Hole three. I find my frisbee golf game is sloppy and wholly unpredictable but with marked moments of standout, unexplainable feats of greatness. Miracles, really. 
Ice Catastrophe '07 hit the frolf course pretty hard too. Even more hazards for the novices to fight with. Glorious.
Sadly, when teeing off from hole 16 my entire arm flew off. You do the crime, you do the time, as we frolfers say. Notice the moon just beside my back. 
Fortunately it was just a superficial limb separation. And studies show that a good war face adds significant distance.
Parting shot.
But hey, I need some more peeps to play with, so you should come out. I promise I'll go easy on you. The first time.
One Random Memory Per Day
"Golden Glory"
In fourth grade I campaigned to be the school vice president. The whole thing is a joke anyway, but somewhere along the line, some administrators thought it would be fun to have class commanders-in-chief. It's all pomp and circumstance. A puppet organization. But whatever.
And I don't think I was ever interested in being Eisenhower Elementary's fourth grade vice-president (only fifth graders can go for president). But the challenge of the campaign appealed to me for some reason. (I'll occasionally get random projects and latch on like there's no tomorrow) And I wasn't too interested in making a name for myself on Elementary Hill.
So, I signed up to campaign. I wrote the speech, carefully memorizing every bit and bop. It was 24 karat stump-speech gold. It started with "Hi, I'm John Stuart..." and I don't remember the rest. But obviously a gripping oration.
Campaignees present their speeches in front of the whole school. One at a time. Down the line.
For my presentation, I cut out a two-dimensional sports car from a massive piece of cardboard. It was yellow with red flames. Kind of a '57 Chevy look.
For my entrance music, I had the DJ play 409 by the Beach Boys. "She's real fine, my 4-0-9..." Truly classic. And I borrowed my cousin's motorcycle helmet. The full get-up.
And so I shuffled out on stage, pretending to drive the cardboard ride with the music blasting. My friend Bryan was behind the car. He held it up during my golden keynote.
And I only messed up once. Mixed up some words. No biggie.
And that was it. My moment of fame. They tallied votes later that day.
I lost.
Teachers' kids won both the Prez and VP slots. Obviously it was rigged. My supporters called for a recount but their groanings fell on deaf ears. And there was an outcry for serious campaign finance reform, but it met a similar fate.
But honestly, I didn't care. I tried. And that's all I really wanted to do.
And thus, my political career went down in a blaze of golden glory. Cardboard cars, Beach Boys and all. And I haven't missed it since.
The End.
18 January 2008
Good Memories
Pictures are amazing things. So many thoughts and memories tied into small packages. And small frames. It's sad to think about life without them. *tear* I find I quite like revisiting my photo archives of previous happenings. Previous trips and gatherings. And I get pretty sentimental.
It's interesting to look back at old photos though. Invariably I critique myself. Technique, composition, subject matter, emotion, angles, action, creativity, human interest, story telling ability. Sometimes I'm disappointed. "What were you thinking with that one?" Things like this. But it's good to know where you've come from. How your eye's gotten a little sharper. Your execution a bit more efficient. Photographic sanctification. It's a good thing.
But anyway, that's not overly interesting. Here are some good times shots from a superb trip.
-Paris, Aug. '05-
Picturesque residentials. 
Arc de Tami. And she excels not only in mimicry. She's a bang-up tour guide to boot. And I'm glad somebody knew French. 
A boy and his pigeons in Notre Dame's shadow. 
Le Guide, choosing the next route. Notice her fearless stance and map-holding prowess. We followed her everywhere. If she said "jump!" we said "how high?" 
Narrow way. Such a great street. 
People watching. I like trying to guess where they're from. 
Street thrills.
16 January 2008
Death by Chocolate
Molly would kill herself if we let her. So, instead we just taunt her with the idea of eating pounds of old Christmas fudge we're throwing out. And that's more fun anyway. Nobody likes a dead dog lying around. Even if she is a little bratty sometimes. She's a good pooch.
One Random Memory Per Day (ORMPD)
We're all walking around with a lot of memories. Some memories more vivid than others. Some long narratives, others just tidbits. So, for me, I've decided that I'll share one random memory per day (ORMPD) here. Or if not every day, just whenever they come, and in fewer than 200 words.
So, we'll go ahead and start today. How nice.
ORMPD No. 1:
In sixth grade (c. 1996) I was among the most naive kids around. Wide eyed, kind of oblivious, nerdy, really quiet (at school at least), decidedly out of the loop. One day on recess at Norman's Irving Middle School, I saw a cigarette carton on the ground. Huh. Curious, I picked it up. Egad! It had some un-smoked smokes inside! My programming kicked in. I dropped it, shocked, and stepped back. I looked around guiltily. Cigarettes were the devil.
As I backed farther away from the evil-emitting cigs, I spotted two guys sitting on the bleachers nearby. "There's a pack of half-smoked cigarettes over there!" I proclaimed to them, relaying my disbelief, as if tragedy had just struck.
This information sunk in with the bleacher boys, Chris Debusk and another dude (hooligans in their own right). Then, to my disbelief, they jumped off the bleachers and made a dash for the carton. They scooped it up and the smokes disappeared into a ridiculously large JNCO jean pocket (I NEVER wore JNCOs, for the record).
And so, just as quickly as I found those devilish tobacco sticks, they disappeared. With the hooligans, and along with my ignorance of mid-90s middle-schooler tobacco use.
The End.
Music Theory
I found an old music theory quiz from sophomore year, back in my music major days. We were studying fugues. I don't remember anything on the quiz really. It's sad. I miss those music theory classes. It's one of a small handful of things I missed after changing majors to journalism. But I'll say I did not miss practicing t-bone two hours a day by myself in a drab practice room. The musician life can be quite isolated...
But perhaps you could get some questions right. Especially you Bach superfans. Here are a few from the quiz:
1. A fugue is _____________.
2. "Fuga" means _____________.
3. What is the usual number of voices in a fugue? _____________
4. What is a subject? _____________
5. A recurring melodic line or fragment that accompanies the entrance of the subject throughout the fugue is called the _____________.
~Bonus~
What is the coolest, hot-dogginest symphony orchestra instrument in all the land?
a. Trombone
b. T-bone
c. Slide horn
d. Sackbut
Answers:
1) a fugue is the contrapuntal working out of most often a single thing called a subject over the course of the movement.
2) fuga means flight
3) the usual number of voices in a fugue is 3-4
4) a subject is the main motive in a fugue
5) counter subject
15 January 2008
Thing 1 and Thing 2
Got milk. 
The "Racing Game."
14 January 2008
Portraits
Dan.
'Dina. And welcome home, Dina. (she's been in China for six months, studying in Kunming) Photo by D. Ling.
D & D. 
Juancholo. Photo by D. Ling. 
Singapore Holidays: The Ling family Christmas photo (plus honorary guest). I all but lost it when I saw this masterpiece. So good. Mr. Ling is proving an excellent photo understudy. Not a better padawan learner in all the Southeast. Or the West. Now, if we can only get him to re-ignite his blogging practices of old. We can merely hope and pray...
Photo by D. Ling.
13 January 2008
Kansas, I'm Sorry...
West Kansas has a pretty bad rap for its less-than-stimulating topographical features. And sometimes driving through it is close to excruciating. But I didn't mind the trip through the expansive plains too much this time as we headed back Oklahomaside. Even thought it was downright scenic on several occasions. I know.
So, Kansas, I'm sorry. Every place has its Shangri-La. You just have to see it in the right light. Literally. 
...reminds me of the airplane scene in North by Northwest...
Merrily we Shoe Along
Family Vacation came to an end. We went snowshoeing the second to last night. Went to a remote location at the base of Breck Mtn. and traipsed around with a guide for a few hours. I find I quite like 'shoeing. I could also really get into cross-country skiing if I lived in an accommodating climate. 
Lotta snow. The guide took this one. It was dark. 
Alex rammed a tree. Fortunately he sustained no injuries. 
Icicle shenanigans. Mama Stu salute. 
PREPARE TO FIRE! 
Tom, the guide. He lives in Breck during the winter and is a bush pilot in Alaska during the summer. Pretty cool. 
Warming filter. Or just a foggy camera lens.
11 January 2008
Snowed In, Burned Out
It happened again to me today. The age-old problem:
I was tired. I decided, "Hmm, I need a nap," and so I took one. But, as I bedded down, the invariable cold spirits were upon me. After consulting the micro heat pack, I burrowed under the down layers and the slumber took over.
But then the problem struck. The usual one. I woke up an hour later and I was on fire. With a quick unfurling of the covers, I rolled out of the sack, sweating and only partially awake. I moved by instinct, realizing my imminent incineration with continued time under the once necessary coverings.
So, not an uncommon napping experience this afternoon. But I still don't get it. Why can't I just take a nap and avoid accidental spontaneous combustion? Maybe I'll never know. But I don't think there's any way to avoid this napping woe. I'm obviously not going to give up napping...
And it's still snowing a lot here. A lot. Up to the eaves on the basement windows. Quite nice. If you're a snowy kind of person.
10 January 2008
Thursday on the Mountain
I skied today. I fell, and did it sort of dramatically. Ouch. And this relates to my theory:
Many people ski once per year. I am one of these people. Usually I ski three days, as do many others it seems. I feel the three day mountain-warrior experience has unique themes for each day.
Day No. 1: "Hesitant Revitalization"
You step into your snow-sport devices and apply sunscreen. You get on the slopes and marvel at all you remember. "WOW," you think. "I'm awesome! And I haven't skied in a whole year!" You find your muscle memory happy place but are mostly cautious. You have fun and revel in the experience (especially if you're from a non-mountainous land). You walk away feelin' good.
Day No. 2: "Too Big for Your Britches"
The day dawns and you step up to the plate. "I'm the bomb dot com," you think. You are arrogant, and mentally, if not verbally, berate other "rookies" on the mountain as you pass them. You act like you own the place. No, you do. You slide down the hill in a mostly out of control state. Speed and flippancy are your allies. The envelop is pushed. Disaster narrowly avoided. You get sunburned. You ski all day and on the last run at four o'clock you bite it. Hard. You might curse.
Day No. 3: "Who Am I?"
You rethink everything. Your body screams at you when you de-sack after your previous day of foolishness. Doubt is your best friend. You realize you ski once a year and have serious skill deficits. You are laid low. Penitence is paid to the mountain upon boarding the lift. Speed is exchanged with control. Arrogance for reality. You throttle back to 80 percent. You apply sunscreen to your virgin epidermis and then aloe to the burned hide. "Clearheaded Enjoyment" is your motto. You go for broke, but realize your place in the world. You leave some for next year, knowing that you will have the same three-pronged experience. Oh well. You walk away with a limp, but have a pocketful of quality memories.
So this is my theory. Maybe it's just a personal testimony. But I'm sticking by it.
Peak panoramic. 
First-run-of-the-day excitement. Dinah is uninterested and focusing all mental power on body-heat generation. It was cold today. 
D n'A. 
I got longer skis today. *reader feels sense of foreboding* The 182s. Amazing what 8 centimeters of additional length earns you on the slopes (read: less control, more (too much) speed).
So about my crash today: my ski tips crossed while I sliced down the hill. My brain informed me I was in trouble just before the problem reached critical mass. I hurtled forward, poles strewn hither then yon. My face struck snow and bounced lightly off the snowy earth. Right shoulder dug into the pitch. Slid to a stop, all systems momentarily off-line. *three seconds pass* Reboot.
"OWWWWW..." I realized what happened.
A kind Samaritan helped me to my snow covered feet. He complimented my gravitationally challenged performance. I shook my head, clearing the cobwebs. I thanked him for the aid and continued (at a retarded pace) toward the base, a broken and aching man (until the next run). 
Day No. 2 hubris in action. 
Goggle Cam™
Some cloud shots. Very nice skies early in the day, despite formidable, blasting gales. 
Cold Glory. huh huh...
None shall pass. It clouded over after noon, the wind mounted and things got REAL cold in a hurry. I do like the dramatic weather though. The power. The intensity. Pretty impressive to comprehend. And photograph. And then go inside and hot-chocolate yourself. 
Lil' Cabin.
Sunrise Kiss
'Morning, Honey...
Around Town
Big dog, little owner. His name is Szyslak, as in Moe Szyslak, the bartender on the Simpsons. He weighs 130 and was mostly uninterested in my paparazzoing. I like how everybody's got their dogs with them wherever they go. 
Wonder if there's really booze in the jug...
I think they want us off the grass. 
No crap. 
Viking townie. Breckenridge had its annual winter parade today. Some costumery and pomp. Pretty fun atmosphere. Got some free paper viking horns too.
Just the Scenery
Cabin fever struck in the early postmeridian. The snowshoes were affixed and a jaunt in the still-falling white ensued. There has been a complaint about the yellow snow shot from a reader. "Why if you have all that scenery do you show the dog pee?" So, perhaps this will make up for that. I just like to show everything that's happening, you know?
Here are some other shots from a different perspective. Dinah finally updated her blog. It's like, some people just don't take their blogging lives seriously. Seriously! 
Sorta sunset. An A for effort. 
So you don't lose it. 
Trunks. 
Tops.
Nearby scene. 
Nearby scene with more weather. 
Neighborhood limits. 
Resting position. One quickly learns one's fitness level when breaking trail at 10,000 feet. Especially if you're a native flatlander. My lungs fill to capacity over and over with seeming little effect. Almost like breathing thinner air with less oxygen...
Bigfeet. 
Dollop. 
Cabinscape (from the resting position).
09 January 2008
Don't Eat the Yellow Snow
Courtesy the dogs.
08 January 2008
Slacker's Slalom
A short clip featuring Breckenridge's Cashier run. There weren't a lot of speed-diminishing turns. The weather proved enjoyable today. High in the mid-20s, mostly sunny, windy, chance of being really cold on the lift. A good day to ski.
Real Winter
Rearview Alex. 
Breckenridge F.D. truck No. 6
Neglected Westy. 
Colorado pines. Tall and skinny. In light of the tree damage from Oklahoma's recent ice storm, I feel those Mid-Western trees could learn from these Rockies timbers: short branches = light branches = intact branches. 
F-350 vs. Nature. 
Witty Dumpster. 
And I got my camera to work again, mysteriously and magically. And thankfully! So, here's the aforementioned shot of the honky jumping in the snow bank. Not overly exciting for the viewer, but hey, you do what you can to embrace your environment. 
Post dive. Snow everywhere it shouldn't be. 
Stumbling out of the drift. I've never before experienced the advent of snow in the facial hair. Kind of weird.
07 January 2008
Edible Textures
George (the mutt)
He weighs 150 easily. A gentle giant.
06 January 2008
More Promising Scenery
We rolled safely into the Colorado snowland this aft, having driven through increasingly poor weather conditions on the 70 from Denver. But no matter, the cabin is warm, the chamomile tea steaming, and the snow banks deep and beckoning. A hot tub as well. That will be sampled post-blogging I reckon. Priorities, people...
I would show some pics of me diving in a feet-deep snow bank and the subsequent ice-in-the-pants flounderings, but there's a problem. My camera died tonight. Yes, that's right. My backup camera. The side arm. The .44 mag. Apparently I'm hard on cameras or something. So, in the end, you'll have to envision a 20-something honky barreling into a snow drift and all that the feat entails. It's imagination time.
The foretold improved landscape is below (in comparison to Kansas, for example). 
Potential hazard. 
These runaway truck ramps have always intrigued me. I mean how scary would that be? Imagine manning an out-of-control semi truck headed downhill on a 10 percent grade. And the ramps are there, so such brakeless mishaps must happen... 
Eisenhower's tunnel. 
Toward Breckenridge. Our cabin rests at 10,000 ft. That's pretty high. It was about 75° F (23° C) in Oklahoma today. It's 11° F (-11° C) here in Breckenridge tonight. Woolen mittens recommended. 
Papa Stu wandering around as he is wont to do. 
Colorful Rachel. 
Jowl adjustment.
05 January 2008
Dinah Bess
Life's not too bad at the bottom of the ladder with older sibs like this.
Scenic wonderland of the Mid-West:
...Western Kansas. On I-70 headed toward the mountains. Thankfully there's more promising terrain ahead with a few days in Breckenridge with la familia.
Hermosa Beach, Ferarris and Puking Celebrities (among other things)
Landed back in the homeland today from out West. Back to the place where local football fans are mourning a powerful loss. Aye-ba-lye-bah. Our performance was shadier than a willow tree in the noon-day sun. But I've pretty much stopped caring. I'm numb. An emotional defense mechanism most likely.
Anyway, here are some more scenes from life in the big city. I'm glad I got out when I did though. The locals were predicting a storm of Noahic proportions, which in Mid-Western terms is a mild sprinkling. Those So Calians and their desert life...
But I guess the storm was actually pretty bad as there are about a million peeps without power in No Cal currently. Mudslides too. Eesh. That's not good. Perhaps their fears are justified. 
Big city downtown. 
Not enough light. Times like this made me miss my still-out-of-order Excaliber. But kind of a cool end result I thought. 
Highway rolling. 
Los Angeles proper. 
Billy Boaz, confidently commanding the helm. 
Tintin.
Hippie quality exhaust. 
Hermosa Beach.
Drab beach shanty. Yours for only $100k down and $10k a month. 
Trash day. Kind of a random shot, but I like to paint the whole picture.
Nice sandcastle. You'll notice the black beauty in the driveway...
Ol' Enzo would be proud. I might take it for a test drive if offered. Strange and beautiful all at once: $250k incarnate in such a small package. 
Seven dogs for every girl. 
Boardwalk. Quite a lovely scene. What I would've given for a two-wheeler and a free hour to pedal. 
Hum. 
Token blog appearance. I lapsed into a front-seat slumber about 30 seconds after this was taken.
This man is puking. Let me explain. This is Paul, a friend of a friend. He lives in L.A. An aspiring screen writer on all accounts. Among other things, he can make himself throw up on command. Pure mental power. No fingers necessary. I find this spectacular and mind blowing. Such bodily control. Kind of gross, but certainly captivating. I questioned him about his ability and he obliged a demonstration. This is what you see. I have no explanation for the shirt.
If he looks familiar, Paul was also featured on an M-TV reality TV show that ran in 2006. Hence the celebrity puking. The show is, well...you'll have to check it out yourself.
04 January 2008
Wigwam Village and driving toward the coast
The Wigwam Village proved a hit for sure. We slept in Wigwam No. 12. I bought a t-shirt. It's gaudy as all get-out (GAAG), but I feel it's a worthwhile addition to the short sleeve lineup.
The woman at the front desk said her dad built the 'Wams back in the 50s. After he died they went dormant for a few years before she and her fam started the operation back up in the 80s. And here she is today, still wamming like there's no tomorrow.
The sign for the place reads: HAVE YOU SLEPT IN A WIGWAM LATELY?
Now I can thankfully say, YES, I certainly have. And perhaps every Oklahoman should have a similar experience, to stay in the spirit of the state's history. But that's for you to decide.
Oprah stayed at the Wigwam Village at some point. She didn't like them, so the story goes. I guess concrete teepees in rural Arizona can't match up to five-star accommodations. Understandable, I suppose. But perhaps Oprah's just culturally insensitive.
I bought fireworks (read: roman candles, blackcats) for New Year's Eve celebrations, but we had zero matches to light them. Sad. And the town's only Safeway was already closed (Holbrook, Ariz. is a small place you see). We thought about the cigarette lighter, but did you know they stopped putting them in new cars? Lame. That's always a brilliant source of on-the-go fire.
So, the teepees were a hit, people. If you're in the neighborhood, I recommend a visit. Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?
Sunrise over Wamlandia. Northeastern AZ is a right cold place, too. 
They're located off the old Route 66, just a few miles from I-40. And the petrified forest is a short drive away. A veritable smattering of recreate options. 
Inside No. 12. These are the lavish accomodations we experienced. Oprah is wack. Though a beefier heater would've been nice. It seems those wigwams aren't the most supremely insulated of edifices. 
The trusty walrus U-haul in the 'wam lot. Thankfully there were ZERO mechanical problems en route. Truly a blessing. 
We spotted this U-haul after reaching L.A. Yep, that's a Native American squaw (can I say that?) on the side. We were super jealous. How cool would a squaw U-haul have looked at the Wigwam Village? I guess it wasn't meant to be. 
Roadwarrior No. 1 
Getting close...
AZ mountains west of Flagstaff. One forgets that the desert can be quite frigid if not uniquely beautiful. 
More AZ peaks. And don't worry, I'm sure U-haul doesn't mind its renters taking pictures while driving...
Token food shot. Chicken fried steak at a shady place in Wigwam Village town. Nothing like New Year's Eve in a backwaterish town of 5,000 in Arizona. 
Three-pound stowaway.
...more Cali shots coming soon. i go back to the Sooner State on the 4th, but look for some post-trip blogging action including beach shots, ferarris, mansions, skylines, apartment searchers and puking celebrities.
02 January 2008
So, Cal...
Practically there...almost. Shortly after this, a border checkpoint attendant asked us if we had any fruits or vegetables. Nope. He also checked the back of the U-haul, presumably for Mexicanos. None of those either. 
Mojave-scape. There's a sign on the 40 after you enter Cali that reads "NO SERVICES 55 MILES." A no potty/gas up zone, to be sure. Cool dust storms though. 
Welcome to California.