SPAM ENCHANTED EVENING...

Having already mastered Spam steaks in a port wine reduction sauce, I forged ahead deeper still into my SPAM cookbook. (and a tip of the processed meat chapeau to Traci for thinking of me when this fine literary tome came thru Quincy Thrift…)

After much perusal and indecision I settled on European Old School and made Chicken Cordon Spam served with french fries and a medley of legumes sautéed in butter.

I know, I know… you are all dying for the recipe, right?  Simple, really. You take a couple of boned and skinned chicken breasts and carefully slice a nice, deep pocket in the fat ends of each.  These caverns are then stuffed with a pan fried mixture of onions, peppers, mashed spam, fresh Thai basil and garlic pepper stirred into pepper jack & parmesan cheeses mixed with a little heavy cream.  Once the stuffing is in place fold the opening shut and flop the thin “tail” of the chicken breast up and over.  Logic dictates that you pin all these folds in place with toothpicks… use brightly colored ones and count them going in and coming out to avoid putting your eye out as it were… and let them set for a while in the fridge to firm up. 

Heat up some butter in a cast iron skillet, dust the chicken with flour, dip it into beaten egg mixed with a little salt, pepper and paprika, roll it in bread crumbs and pan fry until done.

Short of picking up an order of popcorn chicken at KFC and eating the Spam directly from the can, what could be easier?

OLD SCHOOL CHRISTMAS

Since I’ve never been one of those folks who see Jesus as a redneck, Southern Baptist, white guy from just south of Macon, Georgia but, rather, what he was… Jewish… this year we elected to celebrate the 25^th in the time honored tradition of Jews everywhere. We went out for Chinese food. 

We dined at the Golden Buddha in Soquel, a delightful and tasty dining experience completely devoid of Chinese zodiac placemats and hideous, shadowboxed, low relief landscapes done in faux mother-of-pearl.  Instead it is a veritable warren of small, low-ceiling rooms rather as one imagines exist in the back streets of Shanghai.  Lots of dark wood and bamboo accents, great service and killer food. 

Tama had Sizzling Concubine and I sampled something called Sunset Prawns… ummmm.  Sichuan/Hunan food so a little spicy, a small sampler bowl of boiled peanuts when we sat down, an appetizer of Tianjing potstickers and Tsingtao beer in the great big bottles… Happy Birthday, Jesus, indeed.

OH THE WEATHER OUTSIDE IS FRIGHTFUL... AND OTHER MUSINGS ON THE HOLIDAY...

Well, okay, not exactly frightful… yesterday we went down to Rio Del Mar beach and parked our chairs at the high water mark for a couple of hours while we sat in shorts & shirtsleeves reading and listening to the waves roll in. 

Today we braved the downtown main drag (again, sans coats…) to gawk at the locals.  Fortunately only one person Tama knew caught us at Starbutt’s using up the gift card Tama got from one of her underlings.

So far, without a doubt, the highlight of this holiday season, at least for me, was to come home today and see, on our street corner, a police officer chasing off a group of young men who had apparently been harassing our neighborhood. As is typical, they were wearing their gang “colors”… the dark slacks, white shirts and ties that all mormon missionaries sport. 

Happy birthday Jesus to one and all,

boltoonski

THE McELVIS

The other day I was casting about the kitchen for sustenance and, seeing that the larder held all the necessary ingredients, I took the plunge and whipped myself up a prototype copy of Elvis’ favorite sandwich… mashed bananas, peanut butter and bacon layered between two slices of cheap, spongy white bread and then buttered and pan fried.  Served hot, a sort of dessert, a tasty delight… thank you very much.

Yesterday we went downtown, wallowing in the holiday spirit, to see what Surf City had to offer.  Granted it was a lot more like Singing in the Rain  than Walking in a Winter Wonderland and the Barnes & Noble Bookstore where we planned to burn a hole in our holiday gift card magically transformed itself into a Borders Books but we had a rollicking good time and the lovely Tama bought me a dandy maroon snap-brim fedora for Jesus’ birthday.

Apparently that Elvis fave stuck to my mind as well as my ribs because, when we lunched late at the Surfrider Café, I threw caution to the wind and ordered their Skippyburger.  Fresh sourdough bun, hamburger, Monterey Jack cheese, bacon and peanut butter… served with shoestring fries and a pint of local beer it was a meal fit for a (the) king.

Now all I have to do is to track down someplace called The Parish Publick House which, rumor has it, serves something called The Belushi.  A burger with bleu cheese, aged Irish cheddar, American cheese, and bacon… assembled and then beer battered and deep fried.  Either that or maybe the veggie burger and a salad.

Fleas Navidad…

A TREAT COMPLETE...

So, with the aid of the plethora of weekly events newspapers, we have been poking around the Santa Cruz music scene now and then.   With some due diligence one can find good music and one can find inexpensive music.  Sadly, of course, they are seldom the same venue.  Undeterred, we soldiered on knowing that the good generally outweighed the bad and that sooner or later we would be rewarded with some extra good.

Last Sunday we got all mountainy, and headed up the hill to beautiful downtown Felton for an evening amongst the tall and stately redwoods.  We had a delightful dinner at an Italian restaurant called Casa Bella Act II… an odd little converted house on Highway 9 up by Ben Lomond (next burg up from Felton).  After eats and drinks, bellies full and the night still young, we rolled back down to Felton and an established music roadhouse called Don Quixote’s.  This is a rambling old supper club from the 50’s that has changed into a Mexican restaurant and, in the back room, remodeled to accommodate a stage & sound system; an intimate music venue.

We had gone, on the recommendation of a local musician, to hear four women performing as Honeymoon.  We got there early to guarantee good seats so we had to sit there, drowsy with too much pasta, while the opening act played with the mikes and monitor balances, got their beers and played their set… actually not bad at all… Norway Rat outta Portland.

Then, after a mercifully short pause, Honeymoon took the stage and promptly knocked our socks off and half way back to Quincy.  The back of the stage held a couple of guys playing tight, creative bass and drums but they were completely overshadowed by the four young women who fronted the band.  Between them they played two guitars, a five string banjo, twin fiddles, keyboards, and accordion. Oh, and four stellar voices.  Yeah, this is not some gal with a great voice being propped up by some harmony singing… this is four individual lead singers, well steeped in their craft, who can gracefully pass the lead back and forth while the rest layer in tight and unique harmonies giving the group the sound of a dozen strong choir.

They jumped right in with original work and an a capella crescendo and never backed off.  They performed almost exclusively their own work (and it’s easy to see why...) except for a traditional medley of Wayfaring Stranger & I’ll Fly Away, both in a minor key, which left me wondering why anyone ever bothered to write the latter in a major key.

All too soon they had finished up their encores and we had purchased their only CD offering - a four tune EP release.  If you ever you get the chance to see them, don’t pass it up.  You can check out their website at honeymoonismusic.com and hear some snippets of their EP and you can probably find them on YouTube… but I have no idea how to do that…

The only issue I have with Honeymoon is that we continue to be disappointed by anyone we have heard since… the aforementioned reward of extra good.

A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER...

So, for almost two months now the weather box on my google homepage has looked just like this.  Sunny all week, clouding up on Friday and then rain pouring down like a cow peeing on a flat rock all weekend. Then Monday morning out pops Mr. Sol for another go 'round.  Ostensibly this week is different in that it has been rainy & cloudy all week and is supposed to be nice 'til the middle-o-next-week.  Ha.  This remains to be seen, but hope springs eternal... on the other hand, still no snow.

HOLIDAY CHEERS & CRAP LIKE THAT

JUST LIKE SPARKLE, BUT WITH RUNNING SEAS AND A SMALL CRAFT ADVISORY…

Since we were simply bereft over missing Sparkle in beautiful downtown Quincy, I was thrilled to notice a roadside banner announcing the Santa Cruz Yacht Club’s annual Marina Parade of Lights.  A quick call to the Club’s office bestowed upon me the knowledge that, indeed, on the evening of December 4^th a bevy of masted sailboats would sail into the night, a-glow from stem to stern.  The woman on their end said, “…they line up and sail out into the harbor and go in a circle… any place along the beaches there will afford you a spectacular view of the boats.”

The afternoon began to wane and off we went, steadily on to the marina area.  Of course parking adjacent to the actual moorage was virtually non-existent, so we shot around and down a side street, parked and hoofed it a couple of blocks to the sandy shores of Monterey Bay, on an overlook with an unencumbered view of the lighthouse and breakwater at the mouth of the marina.  The minutes ticked by, the sun set and the skies grew dark with rain.  The offshore breezes carried the odd raindrop and the waves breaking on the beach picked up a bit.  Small clusters of friends and families strolled past in the direction of the festivities.  5:30, the announced start of the event, came and went.  Occasional crowd noises and a swelling of light occurred just beyond the small bluff that hid the marina from our view, but the waters of the harbor remained illuminated only by the lonely beacon of the Christmas light bedecked lighthouse.

Apparently the plan changed due to the conditions out on the water because every once in a while a boat, strung all over with jewels of light, would motor out from behind the bluff, bob up and down furiously on a bed of obviously rough swells in the mouth of the harbor and then turn back and race for the safety of their moorage and the counterpart of the 19^th hole for all fair weather sailors.

By 6:15 the family groups began dribbling back to their vehicles, the rain picked up a bit and we headed back to our parking spot.  As we inched along the bridge that crosses the back of the Yacht Club we could see all of the glory that was to have been the Light Parade… it was almost as bright as all of the auto lights in our traffic jam.

I’m sure that if I move from Santa Cruz, I won’t make an effort to come back for this one either…

NOW THAT’S IRONY…

"Gutter Ball"

Chris Bolton

digital photo

2010

GEEZ, WHY ARE THERE STILL TWO CONTAINERS OF CRANBERRY SAUCE IN THE FRIDGE?

LOOK AT ALL THE CRANBERRY SAUCE WE HAVE LEFT

Well, thanks to Tama, I finally found something to do with that big hunk of leftover cranberry sauce after the last of the turkey is gone. Now if you’re health conscious and just back from a long warm-up run for tomorrow’s 26K marathon, you might wanna skip this one and pour yourself a big bowl of  mucilage.  On the other hand, if you want to be a little decadent, make a big pot of your favorite style of coffee and call over a few friends. . . a perfect way to start a rainy Sunday morning.  It is a good idea to kind of do this one backwards. . . grease up a 9” x 9” baking dish, 10” cast iron skillet or a regular pie pan.  See below for instructions for making the streusel topping and make it up now so it’s on hand when the coffee cake batter goes into the pan.  Got all that done?  Good.

 Now take out your trusty mixing bowl and a sauce pan.  Warm the pan on the stove on medium heat.  Add the butter and let it soften to a nearly melted state.  Remove from the heat and pour it off into the bowl.  Now cream in the sugar, allspice, cinnamon and vanilla.  Once it’s a gooey, homogenous mix, add the milk, egg and orange juice and stir again until blended and the egg is fully broken and integrated.  If you want to add the optional stuff, now is the time for that. You were a good person and avoided the canned cranberry sauce – therefore your sauce has chunks of whole berries which you will pick out and mix into your batter.

 Okay, nothing left to do now except add the flour, salt and baking powder.  Pick up your fork and mix everything into a smooth, stiff batter.  Scrape it into the baking dish and smooth it out evenly to cover the pan. Glop on a nice layer of cranberry sauce over the top and then sprinkle on the streusel topping and bake it in the oven at 375°  for 25 minutes or so… until a knife comes out clean.  Take it out of the oven and let it cool for about 10 minutes.  Slice and serve smothered in butter. . .

INGREDIENTS  for  CAKE

1 ½ cups all purpose flour              1 egg

¼ teaspoon salt                                ½ stick of butter

1 tablespoon baking powder           ¼  cup milk

¼ cup brown sugar                          ¼ cup orange juice

pinch of allspice                                 ½ teaspoon vanilla

pinch of cinnamon                            some cooked cranberries

Optional Choices .. . walnuts, raisin or currants, chopped dates, dried fruit.

INGREDIENTS  for  TOPPING

2 tablespoons flour                           6 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons soft butter                2 teaspoons cinnamon

LETS  WHACK  OUT  SOME  STREUSEL. . .

You need to use room temperature, soft, but not melted butter.  Put it in the bottom of a small bowl, add the dry ingredients and work it all together with the back of a fork.  What you want is an evenly mixed blend that is dotted with little tiny lumps of butter everywhere.  Sprinkle  evenly over the top of your pan-o-batter just before you bake.

ALLOCATION OF BIRD BITS OVER 6 DAYS...

you can make images larger by clicking on them...

UNDER THE GENERAL HEADING OF SARCASM...

GET OFF MY BACK?

WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT CIVILIZED.

So, there it was… the great American holiday season looming large on the event horizon like a rampaging moose on steroids.  Half the good parking spaces in front of every grocery store have been commandeered for christmas tree concentration camps and isle end caps are filled with useless seasonal dreck.

Shoppers still allow you to cut ahead of them at the checkout because you have just a lime and a bag of Fritos while they have two carts loaded down with pre-packaged holiday cheer but, of course, these self same people would cut your granny’s throat with a rusty straight razor if you attempted to take up space in their lane on the drive home…

In spite of the fact that we are strangers in town, had nobody headed our way for Turkey Day and really didn’t have enough disposable income to head for Mexico, we thought, “What the hell… we can always eat leftovers.”  That decision having been made, off we went in search of a bird of reasonable dimensions. This proved to be a daunting task since apparently the fast food industry is not the sole proponent of super-sizing and even Trader Joe’s, that bastion of singles and childless couples, had nothing weighing in at less than a moderately scaled side-by-side refrigerator.  Not having an oven big enough to parallel park a VW beetle, it took much snooping, poking around and cursing to finally find an eleven pound weakling that I was sure I could successfully wrestle to the table.  After shopping my favorite vegetable stand and another grocery store, we had amassed a pile of calories suitable for the occasion.

Up early on the official day to bake fresh rolls while Tama whipped out her annual scratch-made pumpkin pie.  Then prepping the turkey by cramming it into a baking pan and sloshing it inside and out with good Kentucky bourbon (ah, the joys of owning a giant basting syringe…), massaging its breasts and thighs gently with butter before covering them with spices and thick sliced pepper bacon.  11 o’clock rolled around and it was time for Tom to do his Hansel & Gretel impersonation in the hot box.   Plenty of time now for making the sausage-apple stuffing with dates, currants, cranberries and walnuts and boiling up yam to make mashed yams baked with brown sugar and fresh ginger root (and starting to cook down the mole sauce for Saturday’s leftovers variation).  Baste the turkey with the pan bourbon. Baste the cook’s stomach with the leftover bourbon. Repeat as needed. Finally we boiled the taters, steamed the veggie medley and sliced up a small avocado, tomato & cilantro salad.  Picking up the pace now… mash the taters, pull the bird, make the pan gravy, plate the cranberry sauce, slice the turkey and throw it all at the table.

It being so very sunny and warm we elected to dine out on the deck.  It proved to be so bright and warm that we were forced to put up our patio umbrella to keep from sweltering as we enjoyed the fruits (and vegetables…) of our labors.

We wanted to eat rather early so we could watch the game… but then I realized a couple of things.  1.) I hate sports, and, 2.) We don’t have TV reception. Damn it anyway.

I guess we could have forced our presence on our next door neighbors, Bob & Pam, who own two - count ‘em, two – humongous, ‘leventy trillion inch plasma-screen TV’s.  However, I hadn’t seem Bob since last week when he whipped off his shirt in the driveway and asked me my opinion of the rash in his armpit and I didn’t know what his plans were vis-a-vis after dinner entertainment.

Therefore I elected instead to engage in the manly pastime of making Christmas ornaments.

Geez, I am such a fag.

OOOOOOHM...

WHAT DO YOU GET AFTER TWO DAYS OF RAIN IN SANTA CRUZ? MONDAY.

Well, it was an action packed, adventure week last couple of weeks… house full of guests and lots of eating and drinking.

Two weeks ago Thursday Lance popped in on his way home with his new doggie Roo (Rou? Roux? Rū? Rough… as in through?) Anyway you spell it he’s a dandy dog and a boon companion for Lance. Just an overnighter so we ordered Chinese food and yacked the night away.

Saturday and Sunday our friends Jodi and Alex did a quick run away from their busy, urban lifestyle in San Francisco. Tama was out of town so it fell to me to give them the 10¢ tour which, oddly enough, kept circling the dual concepts of beer and food. After the proper (rain drenched…) auto wander past the high points and tourist sights we had to stop (they are blog followers…) at Shadowbrook for the finest in central coast dining.  Soft-shell crab, wood fired pizza, some salad and beers. We caught the little tram car back to the parking lot and, almost immediately decided that we could still go for a little Mexican food (Jodi is currently eating for two, as it were…) Since they had to be back to work on Monday we figured this would be the best time for them to try Casa Rosita, my other top pick for eating… I mean, there is always room for one of those seafood enchiladas smothered in her white, Mexican curry sauce, washed down with some beers. At this point we decided we didn’t have enough room or interest to haul down to the Saturn Café for their truly decadent multi-chocolate dessert so we just waddled to the car and headed back to the ranch for an early night.

Thursday next Tama and I zipped up to San Joe and snagged the first born, Trent, from the areopuerto.  We got back home just in time to heat up a giant pot of homemade pośole and set places for Michelle and Lovely and the elder statesman, Pépe who had motored down on a road trip.  We put Trent in the guest room and the others hung their cooler at the campground half a mile away at New Brighten Beach. The campers showed up with doughnuts next morning so, with a belly full of sinkers and joe, we went off in search of the perfect antique/junk store scores. We saw some cute stuff, some hideously massive price stickers and a couple of take-me-homes and afterwards, since we were just killing time until the series game started at 4:00 and the sugar fix from the pastries was wearing thin, we fed the munchies by going to Casa Rosita for… wait for it now… seafood enchiladas with white sauce.

There were, of course, multiple options for viewing the game, including a bar in Soquel which has chosen to flaunt authority by asking everyone to smoke in the bar, congregated under a large sign which declares, ‘Absolutely No Smoking by Order of The Sheriff’. In spite of Lovely’s penchant for tobacco, we feared that the chimney-like atmosphere might occlude the view of a critical double play or such and so we chose to avail ourselves of the big screen TV at… wait for it now… Shadowbrook, which opened just at game time. Lovely got to see the first pitch (through the door of the bar as we entered…) we got primo seats and went through several cocktails and a variety of appetizers while we watch the Giants edge that much closer to the brass ring.

The Quincy contingent left Sunday morning late and Trent stayed with us through Thursday last and, as they say in cheap screenplays, a good time was had by all…

LIKE LAZARUS ‘RIZ FROM THE GRAVE OR NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD ROOFTOP DOLLS…

Now most of us are too old to still believe in boogers and witches and haints and whatnot, but last Friday morning when I went out to get in my car… there,  duct taped to the roof rack, covered in the still earth of the grave, splattered in gore and grinning hideously through a mouth disfigured by gunfire, sat Waldo. How he tore himself from the confines of the crypt, how he traveled so far on his quest for revenge, hell, how he even tracked us down, in spite of the best efforts of the federal witness relocation program, will probably never be known.

It is enough that he has returned to shadow our lives and there are now countless innocent folks in Santa Fair Oaks Capitola Soquel Aptos Cruz who, ignorant of the events leading up to this day, smile as they cast a glance our way never having an inkling of the horrors once buried and now regenerate…

THE NEW STANDINGS:

Lance ......................................... 2

Michelle & Lovely ........................1
ptrent ..........................................1

Visitors from the grave................ 1

everyone else ............................. 0


but who's keeping score...

QUINCY VISITORS-

Lance ---------------------------------------------------2
Everybody else  ---------------------------------------0


but who's keeping score...

"Soquel Creek Estuary"
Chris Bolton
digital photo

One of the joys of being a recent arrival somewhere is that you can stumble across interesting things without knowledge that the locals consider said things to carry the onerous cachet of being "touristy" and, therefore, to be ignored. . .

LIKE MY MOMMA SAID, I'M BUSIER THAN A CAT TRYIN' TO COVER UP SHIT ON A TIN ROOF.

Boy howdy, this here big city living tends to fill up yer day purty damn quick.  Yesterday (Saturday) I jumped up around 6 o’clock so I could hose off, get dressed and get down to the bus stop in time to catch the 71 headed for the Santa Cruz Flea market.  Now I don’t know about you, but when I hear the words “flea market” I immediately thing more along the lines of a full set of vintage dishes for a buck and a half and not so much in the realm of $3 for a used ice cube tray or 2 for $5… apparently the only reason I haven’t gotten fleas here is because they can afford a higher rent district than I can.  Since I didn’t need any used tools or baby clothes that was pretty much of a bust and I caught the bus back to the casa where I routed out sleeping beauty on her day off by tempting her with breakfast at Café Brasil.  She leapt at the chance (both figuratively and literally) and there we were looking for parking where there was none.  Hike a couple of short blocks and we were waiting for a table just like any good place to eat. Short wait, really good breakfast, waddle back to the car, a left turn and we were headed for the Boardwalk area.  Oops, look.  It’s a free muscle car show in front of the boardwalk and, lookie there, a parking space just opened up.  Stroll, gawk, look, listen and wonder how much that paint job cost and how much to chrome everything in the engine compartment… Fun but time to give our space to the hovering parking vultures and wander down to the bottom of Capitola Avenue for a walk along Soquel Creek to show Tama some cool, funky houses that Lance showed me last week.  That was fun, boy I’m kinda thirsty, hey look a coffee shop, damn… look at them pastries, whouldja?

So now we are headed home for a bit of a rest and Tama says, “Turn left instead and I will show you my favorite antique shop.” We head away from the house and roll into Echo Eclec-tibles.  Just the place if you should happen to need, oh, say, a 12 foot, 3-D slice of an orange or a box of wooden shoe stretchers.  Of course, while there, the owner insists that we need to motor up the coast to check out the monstrous dead whale just north of Davenport.  Well, there goes the nap idea and off we go whale watching/smelling (see post below)

Now that adventure puts us back into town just in time to meet up with a new friend of Tama’s so they can go off on an artist’s studio tour.

An hour later and we all meet up again for the first annual Santa Cruz Sausage and Beer Festival.  So those of you who missed me at the Brewfest in la Quince can rest assured that I was toasting you from afar.  You had to pay for the beer but it was in big boy glasses and it was free to get in so I figured out that I saved three bucks overall.  There was a good, serious Rockabilly band and all it needed was people I knew.

No doubt about it. I gotta stop reading the weekly events newspaper if I’m ever gonna get any rest.

FREE SUSHI ON ME... BUT YOU KINDA WANT TO GET THERE REAL SOON...

Today we went to see the very newest local tourist attraction… everywhere you went people were asking, “have you been to see the whale?” So, this afternoon we threw out our plans for a nap and drove 24 miles up the coast, via Highway 1, to gawk at the moldering carcass of a Blue Whale that has washed up onto the beach just a tick north of Bean Hollow State Beach.

Okay, so Monday it looked a lot more like a whale than it did today (day 6)… that being said, it was a really impressive chunk of meat.  The marine biologists had already visited and determined several things of import… 80 feet long, 75 tons, pregnant female who lost a duel with a large ship before washing ashore.  The “viewing” was a trifle odiferous but, unless I change my name to Geppetto, this is probably as close as I’m ever going to get to a mammal this size.

Without getting too organic I can tell you that there was also a 17 foot long fetus available for viewing on the rocks close by.  Sad, but well worth the drive and a chance to say, “I seen it.” The general consensus is that it would be too hard to pull it free and they will most likely leave it there to dissolve back into the salt, salt sea (the ocean, the ultimate solution…). I doubt I will go back for a progress report since the skull will prove to be too big for our Subaru roof rack.

JUST ANOTHER HAPLESS DUNG BEETLE MOVING ALL HIS SHIT FROM ONE PLACE TO ANOTHER.

And the unpacking continues unabated...

LIFE IN THE SCHLEPER COLONY

Since the ever lovely Tama was already down slaving for wages in Santa Cruz, it fell unto me to box up everything we owned in readiness for the movers.

At first things go smoothly… you’ve got two months so let’s start with making sure to pack at least one box every day.  That lasted about a week.  Okay, two boxes every day… no, wait… better make that a minimum of four boxes every day.  The last box is still on the far horizon.

Eventually you begin muttering that some bastard is sneaking into your house late at night and leaving more things for you to pack.  You rail against the Gods and cry aloud, “Who owns all this shit?”  You begin counting coup… “geez, 19 boxes of books”… “there, the bedroom is completely packed”, etc. In the final stages you begin to worry that it won’t all fit in the gigantic truck soon to back down your driveway.

As you near the end, knowing that two other shlubs are going to have to do the actual loading and unloading, you begin to wax philosophical and marvel at the sobering concept that in the last 60 days you have touched everything you own.  Each and every thing.  You assess, after the fact, and rest assured in the knowledge that you edited out the detritus and packed only that which you need to live in the manner to which you have become accustomed.

You throw a bunch of things in the car, wave goodbye to the moving van, leave a check for the cleaning lady and head down the pike and into the bowels of the beast where, nearly effortlessly, you sit in a folding chair and conduct the unloading process… “uhmmm, that one goes in the garage… that one goes upstairs… all those go in the downstairs closet…” It goes quickly and all seems to be well and good.

Ah, well then, yes.  Comes the day of reckoning and the grand unpacking begins.  Almost immediately you realize that two practiced movers can unload your shit faster than you can track it and boxes, even labeled, can find a home most any place.  Shifting, shoving, sorting and swearing you develop a vague uneasiness that perhaps you should have made maybe one more run to Quincy Thrift in the pickup.  The 19 boxes of books, though heavier than a dead preacher, begin to fade into inconsequence as you unpack all 27 boxes with the word ‘kitchen” scrawled across the top in black marker… (okay, in truth that includes two full boxes of booze and several filled with cocktail glasses…)

The mover’s words come back to haunt you, “6000 pounds…” Yes, that’s three, count ‘em, three tons of things and you are charged with finding room for all of it.  You want nothing more than to abandon the project, fling yourselves onto the bed and watch your Netflix offerings.  Everything is hooked up but, unfortunately, technology dictates that in order to get from play feature to actually playing feature… you need the goddamn remote. 

Back to the stacks and a relentless search begins.  You begin tearing open boxes just for a peek inside and finally, after a process of elimination; you can close your eyes and visualize exactly the contents of that elusive box.  It is nowhere to be found.  You review nearly every box again, even opening the boxes marked ‘books’ to assure yourself that is true.  Finally, in desperation, you rumble thru the garage one last time and, lo and behold… there, buried under several plastic tubs of drills and sanders and such, hidden from cursory view, sits one lone box that should have gone into the house. Well, sonofabitch…

IT AIN'T THE WEEKEND 'TIL THERE'S COMIX IN COLOR...

Apparently you are never to old to consider yourself a surf bum. You will see an aging geezer on the sidewalk and, though they may be bent and wrinkled, wizened, supported by a cane or walker, by God, they still sport a full, razor cut, blow dried, blonde-dyed casual dude hairdo.

This guy may well have a double mortgage as well as a double by-pass, but when he paddles out to meet that final wave, old St. Pete will not mistake him for a "townie".  

I have also made an observation about many the women over 50 here in Santa Cruz.  They generally fall into one of two categories with only a handful of exceptions.  First there is the aging surfer girl.  Starting at about 15, this gal started hanging on the beach with the board crowd and, for the next 35 years, spent every waking hour catching a wave and buffing her tan.  As a result, she now still has the body (more or less, depending on the skill of her surgeon...) but her skin-tone is dark mahogany and it has the texture and surface of that old boot you found when you were hiking thru that old ghost town last summer.  On the other end of the spectrum is the aging flowerchild who, apparently, shunned direct sunshine like a novice vampire.  Bedecked with broad-brimmed, flower strewn  straw hat, eye protection and turtleneck, she trails a swirling collection of multi-colored scarves, jackets and voluminous skirts.  Her skin has the color and texture of a fresh marshmallow as she glides, ghost-like, thru the Farmers' Market and Save-Mart.

"tuther day I went to a delightful little breakfast spot called Cafe Brasil after a hot tip from the always lovely Eva Rocke & Elizabeth Powell.  This is a great place, with walls in every color and menu fresh from far south of the border.  After perusing the menu, the copious liquifaction of my tastebuds was rapidly filling my drool cup as I awaited the arrival of my eggs, gallo pinto and fried plantains & tortillas... Oh, the anticipation. 

Then, I swear to God, I hear some woman sitting behind me say to the waitress, "I will have scrambled eggs, sausage and dry wheat toast." I held myself in check, however, and she still lives and I am not in need of a Get Out Of Jail Free Card...  

Who lets these people out of the house?

So, I may have mentioned to several of you that I

shuddered to discover that I had to pack 19 boxes 

of books when leaving la Quince.  Well, believe it or

don't, that pales when I begin unpacking at the

other end only to discover that I am facing 25 boxes

labeled "kitchen". No clue as to contents yet... but

geez, no wonder I'm overweight.