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.

DAY ONE IN THE LAND OF THE STROLLER AND WET SUIT...

Today was my first full day as a genuine citizen of the realm and, with the acute absence of material things to hand, I elected to spend it sight-seeing.  First stop, of course, was a freshly made bagel & coffee… just because I could. Then a visit to the Post Office to establish by bonifides. And of course to the library to acquire a passport to frivolity and history. Full and moderately legitimized I headed out exploring.

Since I am now a coastal dweller I wandered my way west along the edge of the big water from New Brighton Beach to Natural Bridges Park. Very scenic, lots of winding streets making the most of overcoming the natural terrain and a tangle of one way grid down along the Boardwalk. Lots of view parking and every bit of it filled to excess with people eager to gather in the sunshine vitamin while thrashing about in the water below.

Surfing seems, to the novice viewer, to consist mainly of paddling out against the current in order to bob endlessly like a plastic penguin while awaiting a wave worthy of the challenge. Then one suddenly takes a heading downstream, leaping upright and winnowing back and forth through the rush until the wave gives up the ghost, whereupon the surfer appears to spend an inordinate amount of time underwater washing ever closer to the rocky shoreline. The effort to pleasure ratio seems a bit high to me, but it must truly enthrall some folks because, on a nice sunny day like today, they were thicker than bees in a cherry orchard.

I also became acutely aware of the living embodiment of Santa Cruz. Should the city fathers call for a new logo for the town I shall surely enter mine… a silhouette of a young mother, blonde ponytail flying, rail thin and dressed in black spandex, caught in mid-jogging stride while pushing an expensive three wheeled, European designed baby buggy filled to overflowing with DNA. Not as omnipresent as surfers but more on the radar since they pass you every time you have to stop at a damn crosswalk.

Tomorrow morning the movers arrive with my myriad of prized possessions… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise…

TODAY'S TOP TEN THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT QUINCY.

Let me qualify this entry from the beginning… this is my list of the top ten things I will miss when I leave la Quince. It is not in any particular order, specifically, it is not in order of “missing-ness” nor importance etc. They are listed in order of their appearance in my mind as I sit in front of my laptop at 4 o’clock in the morning.  Since, with a very few notable exceptions, I will miss everyone I have met in the last three years, I also refrain from listing people unless they are integrally attached to my top ten.

1. (or 10) Babs and the Drunk Brush.

If you aspire to a career as a housewife with a drinking problem you need a place you can call home that serves alcohol. I have spent my fair share at the Brush and do not regret a single penny nor moment.

2. (or 9) The gals at Plumas Arts.

Geez, what do you say? The staff, the gallery, the Town Hall, the generosity… not to mention their fear of having an empty square in their annual calendar.  And all of it free or pennies on the dollar.  Not gonna find that in the big city.

3. (or 8) Traci & Lina at Quincy Thrift

A happy mix of laughter and bargains… Any more the term “thrift store” has lost its meaning… hell the Salvation Army has a high end collectables store these days, so it’s a treat to have this one in town. I stocked my home from there and then they graciously took it all back when I began packing.

4. (or 7) Le Coq

You often hear of high profile chefs talking about tossing it all and opening an intimate, homey restaurant in a small town. Since the supply often exceeds demand, talk, as they say, is cheap. And even when they pull it off it’s almost never your home town. I think I ordered off the menu the first time we ate there, but quickly succumbed to the endless list of nightly specials until I learned that you could say, “Just have Patrick make me something good…” What a treat.  I’m sure there are nice restaurants everywhere but few better than this gem.

5. (or 6) Them BLTs

Since we first heard them at the Chester Art Fair 3 years ago we have been hard-core addicts.  Goofy, talented, versatile, and happy, they always put a smile on your lips and a tap in your toes… and besides, they let me sit in now and then.

6. (or 5) The big, yellow Southern Accent trailer

Hummm… a lot of it seems to be about food, eh? I am surely gonna miss Bug & Blinky and their BBQ. They are two tons-o-fun to hang with and the boy can whup up a pot of soup that would make the Gods on Mt. Olympus dump their ambrosia down the toilet.

7. (or4) The road to Meadow Valley

I accept that some people use this highway to actually get to and from work and have to make time. That being said, if it was up to me the speed limit would be 35 mph the whole way.  I love watching Spanish Creek pop in and out of view and one of our simple joys that first summer was to snag Tama from work and, five minutes later, have a gin and tonic below Snake Lake bridge with our camp chairs ankle deep in the cool creek water.

8. (or 3) The 10-2

What can I say? I like to eat and, if you check out some earlier postings, you’ll see that this is one of my favs.

9. (or 2) Working at Casa Fulton

After years of remodeling bathrooms and kitchens, it is all too seldom that you stand before a project and hear the words, “ I’d like… uummm, I think… Oh hell, just do what ever you want.” From the love shack to the chicken bordello this is the best job I’ve had in ages.

10. (or1) The Plumas County Museum

I have always had a penchant for history and volunteering and this was one of the best opportunities to mix them both together. A great resource, an inside track on the local history factoids and a chance to spend time with people who are creative, dedicated and a laugh riot.

So there’s my boo-hoo list as I order a dumpster delivered and await the arrival of the movers.

If you take exception to any entries or feel slighted by your absence I can only suggest that you start your own blog where you can write any opinions you want.

SIGMUND FREUD TAKES COMMUNION WEARING ONLY HIS SLIP...

A little something I caught on the internet news this morning... 

News RSS Feed

Pope Apologizes for Sex Abuse Victims of Church

VOA News | London18 September 2010

Kinda reminds me of the old line: into the bed is a propositional phrase...

THERE AR PLENTY OF THINGS TO FILL IN THE SPACES WHERE THERE AREN'T ANY STOPLIGHTS...

Like four of a kind there ain’t much can beat a western weekend.  And like all really good western weekends this one involved a couple of beautiful gals, a pickup truck and a tailgate full of mixed breed dogs.  We, the two legged trio, were all recently rehabbed from chest colds and the mutts, like good dogs everywhere, couldn’t believe their luck in being chosen to ride along.  Now the ground rules for a good western weekend are painfully simple… start time must be in a window no smaller than, oh, say, four hours.  The majority of the drive time must be on unpaved roadbeds.  You have to have, at the very least, a minimum of two destinations, any or all of which are expendable and, even though you need to have something you really should be doing instead, you can’t have a set time you need to be back amongst the civilized folks.  Extra credit for having coffee and doughnuts for breakfast and for bringing beers.

This adventure was based on hitting the high points of Plumas County; specifically the lookouts on Mount Hough and Argentine Rock and we made it to both with hours to spare.  The views from both were, of course, no less than spectacular and it was fun to stand at the edge of the world on Mount Hough and look down with an Olympian eye upon Crystal Lake, Indian Valley, Taylorsville and, on the far horizon, Mt. Lassen.  Okay, everybody back in the truck, down to Chandler Road then along 70 east with a left hand turn across from Williams Loop.  Along Squirrel Creek for a few miles to a fork in the road… always taking the one that goes uphill the most.  Slow down (and integral part of a western weekend…) and then turn left at Brady Camp campground. You then proceed up a narrow, bumpy track through pines and Manzanita ‘til the road runs out.  Stop. Get out.  Crack a brewski and yank your hat on a little tighter ‘cuz I’m guessing the wind blows through there pretty much all the time.  You can see the abandoned watchtower up along the skyline and all you have to do is locate the lovely hand laid stone stairway (most likely a WPA or CCC work project…) that winds its way up through the brush to what is left of the lookout. There is enough of a walkway along the side and front of the building to let you get a windblown view of pretty much everything between Mt. Lassen and the Sierra Buttes in Lakes Basin.

Now I’ve gotten shit before and will probably get it again for this, but interesting as the aforementioned vista is, that’s all it is to me is interesting.  Good for a sense of place and a game of name that peak… hummm.  Now, if you want beauty just walk back around to the top of the stairs and cast about for the stunning views of the crescent tor that is Argentine Rock.  From the back of the lookout you can see down and across several high alpine meadows, covered in low manzanita, deerbrush and the occasional evergreen.  These meadows are surrounded by and interrupted by upthrusts of basalt; fractured, worn, the color of an old bruise and speckled with white and pale yellow-green lichens.  These are magnificent old geezers who are keepers of the secrets known only to themselves and the lives they harbor… now that is what a real, jim-dandy western weekend is all about.  Getting yourself right up next to a place where you come in second place if you’re lucky.

Alright. Water those dogs and load ‘em up.  Back to town for a burger and fries and a tip of the metaphorical ten gallon hat to Michelle, Lovely, Sally O’Malley, Pepe and Chuck.

THE FIRST HORROR STORY FROM MY MOVE TO SANTA CRUZ...

SANTA CRUZ, Calif. -- A truck carrying 43,000 pounds of beer that overturned Thursday on Highway 17 blocked lanes for nearly four hours at the summit in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The tractor-trailer from Oakland headed to Watsonville overturned on the highway just after 6 a.m. north of Glenwood Drive. The driver of the beer truck was not injured. The California Highway Patrol had to divert traffic onto Summit Road as crews cleared the roadways.

The bottled beer was shrink wrapped onto pallets that had been loaded in the truck.  During the cleanup, southbound traffic was backed up to the Lexington Reservoir and northbound traffic was backed up to the Glenwood cutoff. 

CHP said it appears the truck driver was speeding when he lost control of the vehicle. "According to our only witness and some of the physical evidence it appears that the driver pulled into a turnout and tried to stop but wasn't able to. (He) lost control of the rig and went off the road up an embankment and slid 200 feet," Davide Bruestle of the California Highway Patrol said.

CHP said the driver could be cited but an investigation is ongoing.

43,000 pounds of beer.... now that's alcohol abuse.