New Year's Resolutions / Revolutions

Difficult subject, this.

I'd have hoped that we'd been able to buy that property in the west of Ireland, but it wasn't to be. 2008 would have been the year to cast aside the past; to create a whole new life away from the things that trouble me so much about my family, my life here, in short, all the past mistakes I have made. But, no. The revolution has been called off indefinitely, probably forever.

So 2008 is shaping up to be an even less exciting version of 2007. We certainly won't be taking two trips to Europe, or remodeling the kitchen. My infrequent employment seems certain to continue.

So is there anything worth resolving to do?

Ummmm. Thinking, thinking...

I resolve to change the oil in my car more frequently.

I resolve to maintain this blog, even though nobody reads it.

I resolve to maintain hope that this country, and this city, doesn't spiral further downward.

I resolve not to buy things at the Redlands antiques auction that I have no room for.

I resolve to read more books and read less Ebay listings.

I resolve.... well, that's all I can think of. A piss-poor list. Sorry.

More Thoughts On Gordon Ramsay

... Watched Ramsay rake another restaurateur over the coals last night. This idiot was buying their produce at the Tesco grocery store, rather than seeking out local wholesale suppliers. I got to thinking about our own restaurants in Redlands, and I realized we'll never see any Michelin stars posted in Our Town. Here's why:

Apparently, the Michelin Men aren't so impressed by elaborate cooking, as quality meals prepared with those fresh, local tidbits Ramsay keeps harping about. What do we have locally that can be made to impress?

I suppose there's still enough oranges to go around, but fine dining takes more than that. We have no ocean to fish in, or drag crustaceans from; there's no sheep, nor cow, nor goat to be had.

Then it hit me, the "ah-ha" inspiration that will make the restaurant of my imagination the talk of all California, and beyond. (This is where the screen blurs, and then refocuses. We see the inside of Chez Woody. A waiter approaches a table of Redlands matrons....)

"Good ev-en-ing, lade-eez; My name ez Francois, and I vill be your waiter dis ev-en-ing."

Francois passes out the menus, and continues.

"Az you know, Chez Woody features the finest in de locally-source in-gre-dee-unts. Too-night, ve have something extra special: Filet of ze Jock Rabbit, with a love lee zoop of ze tomb-bel-weed."

The old ladies look dubious, but know the Michelin Man cannot be wrong, having awarded Chez Woody three of the precious gold stars. They nod to one another politely.

Francois continues on. "And ve have a rare treat; Leg of ze Coyote; ez cooked over ze bark of ze recently harvested Or-ange twee. Veddy delicious."

"Perhaps for starters, you vovely lade-ez would enjoy our renown sagebrush salad, covered in ze juices of ze local cack-tus."

Fade to black.

Nah. I guess it wouldn't work. Even Ramsay would puke.

The Four Kinds of Blogs

There's a little toolbar provided across the top of my Blogger account screen. Never having blogged before a few days ago, I wondered what our friends at Google were offering up, so I started clicking buttons.

"Next Blog." Hmmm. What's that?

It's the Blogger random blog search engine, that's what, for the three of us who didn't know.

Big disappointment there, folks. Apparently Google's bloggers fall into roughly four categories.

The first, and most disturbing, is the Fake Blog. In my naivety, I assumed that blogs were all created by real people with real things to say. Uh-uh. Apparently, spammers have grown considerably more creative in recent years. They've created the Fake Blog Generating Program. The Fake Blog looks real enough, will have a reasonably well-written story heading it, with an equally realistic blog name. Then start looking further down the list of articles: Penis enhancement? Find a prostitute? Bigger Boobs in 90 Days? WTF?

Then there's the blogs using the wacky "Hello Kitty" motif, usually splashed in vivid pinks and reds, anime, and crazy type fonts. You can't understand a word written, unless you're fluent in Asian languages. I wouldn't be interested if there was a translation, because it would probably be akin to 1980's Valley Girl-speak. I'll, like, pass; like, totally...

Next most popular: Moms in their thirties, who think they're either the next Rachel Ray or Samantha Brown, or who worse yet, really know everyone must be interested in the most minute details of their adorable children's activities. Why else would they blather on, paragraph after paragraph, after paragraph, photo after goddamn photo, on little Britney and Cody's latest exploits? Their stories are major news, Internet users. Pay attention! You'll find lots of italics in these blogs. And exclamation points!!!! Personally, I think these mothers need to take fewer drugs.

Then there's the People Who Think-What-They-Say-is-Important Blog. Self-proclaimed financial wizards who chart the growth of their penny stocks, the religious cultists, the folks who generate reams of impenetrable poetry. All of which is Very Important Stuff. To them....

I'd say my blog falls nearest to the latter category, except that I don't think my thoughts are all that freaking important, nor am I fixated on a certain topic I mull over and over. Besides, I'm smart enough to know realize that nobody is reading this, other than the few people I've either forced or begged.

The horror; the horror. I was expecting so much more out of blogging than this. So: go press that "Next Blog" button at your own risk, and good luck with that. I'll be right here, an island of sanity in the vast blogging wasteland.... oh, shit, I'm beginning to think what I say is important! Help me, before I start italicising every word and posting pink menus in Japanese!!!

Another Christmas in Redlands CA

Short, sweet, and to the point.

That's the way it is, when your kids are grown.

First, you have to coordinate the logistics of the celebration with The Ex, each kid's Special Someone, various family friends and so on, none of whom will attend "our" event. Once that's done, the rest is easy.

Plug in the Christmas tree. Greet arriving family. Wife cooks her usual fabulous breakfast. The kids chow down, make small talk (today's topic: the 1980's drug trade in south Florida) and move on to the living room.

Presents are exchanged. Photographs taken. Polite thank you's. Rush for the door. (After all, they each have at least three other parties to attend.) Unplug tree.

Merry Christmas. Only 365 shopping days until the next one. Enjoy.

Hot For Man-On-Man Auction Action

It was better than Disneyland, and a hell of a lot cheaper, too.

There was nothing more fun for a car-crazy teenager like me, than to go to the auto parts swap meets held around southern California. The big one at the Rose Bowl, the Roadster Show swap meet, Long Beach; but most of all, the nearly monthly pilgrimage to the LA Fairgrounds. I watched that swap meet grow and grow, until the rows of parts stretched for fifteen miles.

Rain or shine, blazing heat or freezing cold, my friends and I would dutifully march up and down the aisles. Woe to the one who found something heavy and irresistible at the farthest corner of the parking lot, miles and miles from the car. In those pre-cell phone days, you might never hook up with your buddies again until it was time to go.

The swap meets, most of them anyway, still carry on, but just as it has with so many other categories of used and collectible merchandise, the so-called "Ebay effect" has hit the antique auto parts market heavily.

Anybody with an Internet connection can track the market value and availability of, say, a virgin, new-in-the-box Porsche 356A tail lamp, or the trashiest '65 Mustang instrument cluster. No investment of half one's weekend, trolling through thousands of parts you didn't need, couldn't afford, or both, is required.

For someone who's had a lifetime affinity for other people's junk, the rise of Ebay is like giving a junkie the keys to Walgreen's. I may never come out into the daylight again. Maybe that's why they call the Internet the "Web," because I'm trapped.

Just because I have no place to put them, no time or money to repair one should I bid and win, I find myself tracking the action on rusted-out Model A Fords and finely restored Aston Martins. I search out obscure makes and models, delighting in my discoveries. I lust after the shattered remains of rare, deceased racing engines, and the of the every-day, obsolescent Chevy.

It's taken much of the fun out of swap meets for me; one must hunt through the rows, hoping beyond hope, that The Part You Want is waiting in the back of some computer-illiterate's trailer, but even then, I'll get the comment that "I heared they's worth a bundle on that there Internets" and you know your day is through; dreams dashed.

Right now, I'm tracking a gas tank on Ebay for a 1963 Corvette. I don't own a Corvette, never mind one that needs a gas tank. This is, as it turns out, the holy grail of Corvette gas tanks. Supposedly, only 63 were produced. How anyone is certain of this is beyond me. You could easily lie to people, and say, "Why yes, I have THE gas tank," and they'd have to take you at your word, as you can't see it from outside, nor inside, the car. It's buried within the Corvette's superstructure. I mean, it's a bloody gas tank, not the Hope diamond.

And how much is this stamped metal, galvanized, oddly-shaped box that no one can see?

It's currently at SEVEN THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Reserve not met.

Do you see? Can you believe it? It's high drama, courtesy of Ebay. We never had that at the swap meet.

(Update, Dec. 29 - THE gas tank auction ended at $11,101 -- reserve not met!)

Presidency by Committee

One thing that strikes me about the '08 campaign is the quality of all the candidates, both Republican and Democrat. I find something to like about each one of them, even Hillary Clinton.

It's a pity that our political system is a winner-take-all deal. The losers are forced, not into the backgroud, but off the political map altogether. Al Gore had to make a movie, for God's sake, to get any attention.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if, somehow, we just elected them all to the presidency?

It would be a rather full Oval Office, to be sure. Maybe they could install cubicles. It would help give them a feeling for how the rest of America works.

If the Supreme Court can work as a group to reason through conflicts of opinion, why couldn't these people? I think they're all smart enough.

TV is all about so-called "reality shows" these days. Let's broadcast live from the White House every day. Let's see Hillary and Rudy scream at each other, and have Obama play peacemaker. Off in the corner, McCain and Huck would sip coffee and write campaign finance legislation. John Edwards could be seen charming the secretaries and chatting with foreign dignataries.

Things might get accomplished as a result.

Gordon Ramsay: A 3-Star Kick In The Butt

I'm not one to pay much attention to things like Michelin stars, unless they're printed on the sidewall of tires. Which they are not. I don't really like classy restaurants, where the portions are small and the bill is high. My idea of fine cuisine is a Double Double from In-And-Out. With fries, thank you.

So it comes as a shock that I am glued to the television every time I come across "Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares" on BBC America. Ramsay is so well known in the UK that the show doesn't bother to introduce him to uninitiated, unwashed Americans like myself. All the better, in fact, because what Ramsay does is not so much about 3-star cooking as it is about kicking ass.

The pretext of the series is simple. Ramsay comes to the aid of a struggling restaurant. Most of these are of the Michelin star category, and in some cases the cherished star has vanished, along with the customers. Ramsay introduces us to the restaurant, the staff, the menu, the town. And then the magic begins.

With a flurry of swear words, bleeped out for our Puritan American ears, Ramsay starts cutting into the owners and staff as if butchering a lamb. They stand wide-eyed, speechless, like young recruits just arriving at Marine basic training. Ramsay demands answers, issues challenges, yells more obscenities until he's broken their spirit. And then, just like a Marine drill Sargent, he starts building them up again. You get the sense that after a week, the owners, chef and staff will do anything to keep the 3-star monster off their backs. New menus. New decor. Even a change of name. (The restaurant's, though you get the sense that if Ramsay ordered it, they'd change their own.)

And look! It works. Ramsay pops in a few weeks later, and it's smiles all around. The tables are full. Customers are laughing; the wine flows. Three cheers for GR.

Now, were this an American horse opera from the 1950's, the last scene would be a man and woman watching Ramsay gallop out of town on a stallion. One would turn to the other and ask,
"Who was that masked man?"

Yet, I'm sure just the appearance of Gordon Ramsay in some European backwater restaurant would cause diners to line up outside for months. Afterall, the guy is a rock star; the highest-rated Michelin chef in England.

I'm sure there's a long que of so-so restaurants eager to be sworn at by the Chef. Don't miss his next nightmare.

Hollywood Hospitals

It's a sad fact that over the past decade, many hospitals in L.A. have closed due to lack of funding, particulary those that offered trauma care. Ambulances must travel farther to transport patients who may have only minutes to live.

At the same time, medical dramas on TV have never been more popular, and even medical oriented comedies have sprung up. The irony is that while the populace finds hospital shows ever more fascinating, they cannot find it within themselves to support the real thing that might save their lives.

The best proof is to look at what has happened to some of those hospitals that have shut their doors to patients. They have reopened them for the filming of TV shows based around the lives and loves of medical personnel and their patients.

There are at least three former hospitals that I know of that offer full-time care to medical shows. A visit to one of these facilities is, to say the least, creepy. Enter the lobby, and you'll find magazines on the tables, a reception area stocked with forms, telephones, computers. The signs will welcome you to the hospital, direct you to various departments, warn that your actions are being monitored on CCTV. The gift shop has stuffed animals, USA Today and the Times, candy bars and get-well cards. Only the fact that there is no staff, no patients, no background noise from conversation, nor wheel chairs and carts squeeking through the halls makes one uneasy.

Pass the big double doors, and there are the nurse's stations and patient rooms. The pharmacy is stocked with (empty) packages of drugs. Emergency rooms, surgeries, even the morgue are all available for film crews. Gurneys and portable X-ray machines sit in the halls. Charts lie on counters, seemingly ready for review.

Flip open one of those charts and you might be surprised to find that they are real. Most date back a quarter-century, but inside there is real information on real people. They are not from the hospital's days as a operational facility; instead they have been purchased from other sources to act as set dressing.

There have been medical dramas on television almost from the day television was born. Until recently, all were shot on sound stages, and a few still do, the most notably "ER," filmed on the Warner Bros. lot. But in the economics of the entertainment industry, it's often easier to rent a real location than create one on a stage. Enter the real, live, dead hospital.

Now, I suppose it is the right of whoever owns these abandoned medical centers to use it as they see fit, and it should come as no surprise that Hollywood is eager to take advantage of our region's inability to provide decent health care.

But: has it occurred to anybody that about 12 million people in southern California are sitting on a gridwork of active earthquake faults? That sooner or later, "the big one" is going to hit, and we'll be needing every hosptial bed we can find?

While these old hospitals may look like they could be drafted into service on a moment's notice, it's far from the truth. They're not the least bit sterile, for one thing. The equipment, all neatly displayed for the camera, is inoperative. No oxygen, no medicine, not even running water in the rooms. There's an old joke that goes, "I'm not a doctor; I just play one on TV". As it turns out, these former hospitals just play one on TV, too.

I wish someone would wake up and decide that if we can mothball aircraft carriers for future national need, we can do the same with hospitals we can't fund. We don't know if we'll ever fight a big enough war where we'll need another aircraft carrier, but we do know "the big one" is coming. Invest some of that "homeland security" money on something other than traffic cameras. And maybe, TV can do what it does best, recreating reality, back on sound stages again.

An Unreasonable Man

Ralph Nader gets no respect.

The political right subverted him; the left abandoned him; both for the same reason: Nader's objectives in protecting the public were at dead odds with both parties need to raise campaign funds. Worst of all, his closest allies now blame him for Al Gore's defeat in 2000.

The public television series "Independent Lens" aired a two hour documentary last night on Ralph Nader, called "An Unreasonable Man," which they have seen fit to show just once in this dead zone of broadcast time before the holidays.

I hope you have digital cable, because you won't find it on the regular PBS stations again this year. Nader himself would find this interesting, as public television has become as commercial as the networks, constantly flogging music specials and documentaries with the widest possible appeal, all in the name of raising operating capital.

It's an amazing piece; well balanced, with lots of interviews and file tape that covers Nader's career, his achievements and failures. Unlike Nader himself, the film is riveting.

It must really kill Nader to watch Al Gore win the Nobel Prize, when the documentary shows how much the Clinton/Gore administration stonewalled Nader's efforts on the environment and consumer protection. Nader, whose efforts have probably saved more American lives than anyone else, couldn't get a meeting with Clinton or Gore while they were in office! And Gore gets the Nobel for a stinking, inaccurate movie?

Someday, some President will give a dying Ralph Nader the Medal of Freedom and put his image on a postage stamp. Ralph would be the first to point out that neither would do a damn thing to help the average American. So it goes.

Earthquake!

Well, we had another one.

The dead of night, as usual. (Why is it they always seem to come at night?)

The rumble that both awakens and paralyses the body in fear.

The sharp jolt that rattles the glassware and photos on the wall.

The roller coaster heaving of the bed; the groan of the wall joists.

The silence.

"Hey that was a good one," the experienced Californian will state. "About 4.3. From the North."

And then we roll over and go back to sleep.

The next morning we pop on the TV. If Mr. and Mrs. Anchorman are smiling, as they were today, we know either it wasn't a big quake, or it didn't happen within the confines of Los Angeles County. In this case, it was both; the 4.0 shaker was in Big Bear, about 65 air miles from their studio.

The anchors go on to the really important news. Jamie-Lynn Spears' pregnancy; the quarter-inch of rain last night that might ("we have live cameras standing by") result in a mudslide.

I make a note to add rain gear to my non-existent earthquake survival kit, and move on.

Follow The Money...

Am I the only one who questioned why the Pechanga tribe have run so many institutional spots on TV these last months? You know the ones -- the rugged guy with long hair, dressed in a native motif, walks through the verdant field... a young native kid pets the horse, etc.?

Well, as Deep Throat told Woodward and Bernstein, "follow the money."

We're coming up on another election, folks, and guess what? Our friends the Pechangas, along with the other tribes with gaming interests, are wanting our vote. There's four, yes four, ballot initiatives that will allow more slot machines on Indian land. They say that the state will receive something like $9 billion in additional revenue if we tick the right boxes.

So, those 30 second infomercials we've been sitting through? They're designed to build good feelings toward our simple living native friends. They don't mention the election, so they're immune from any election law. Only now are we seeing real ballot-oriented ads paid for by the tribes.

I don't have a problem with Indian gaming, mind you, or gaming of any kind. Just because I'm too cheap to blow my hard-earned money that way, doesn't mean I don't think that you can't.

What does bug me is the way the Pechanga tribe depicts itself to the general population. That simple living, look-at-us-bond-with-nature spiel irks me to no end. Ask someone who has worked on homes for the tribal leaders, and you'll learn the houses are massive. Massive.

Their ads are as disingenuous as certain Hollywood types who are all for cramming environmental messages down our throats, while defiling the planet in the sake of art. And yes, Robert Redford, I'm talking about you, and the parkland you destroyed to make "Lions For Lambs." But that's another story...

News Flash -- Dateline Hollywood

I've been rolling on the floor laughing for the past half-hour.

Jamie-Lynn Spears is pregnant. Preggers. Preggo. Knocked-up.

Nickelodeon TV's darling is 16 and "with child."

Too bad she'll have to wait until she's 18 to get the money she made on TV, thanks to the Jackie Cooper laws. I guess she'll have to borrow her big sister's maternity clothes, not to mention those cute baby outfits Britney's kids have worn in the tabloids for the past couple of years.

Gee, wasn't her mother Lynn a mom at 17, too? I try not to keep up on such things.

You've got to feel for Lynn though; I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing, allowing Jamie-Lynn to follow in her older sister's footsteps. And now, she's in for a new round of "What were you thinking?" questions from the media. Lynn, the nice, simple gal that she is, will just dig herself an even bigger hole. Time to go back to Louisiana for good, we hope.

Merry Christmas! Let's Offend Somebody, Today.

Seems like every year "we" meaning these United States, gets more and more politically correct when it comes to celebrating Christmas.

Now, it used to be that if you were ran the cash register in a store, and said "Merry Christmas" the Boss would compliment you for your great attitude and holiday spirit. I'm guessing that stopped about the time that "It's A Wonderful Life" started turning up on TV -- the 1960's.

The Bosses ordered "Merry Christmas" replaced with "Happy Holidays" in deference to their non-Christian customers. OK, I was down with that, as the kids say. Let's be inclusive...

Now, if you look at the Sunday newspaper inserts, you'll find that Christmas sales have been replaced with Holiday sales. Yeah, but....

Then, at work, the guys strung the lights on the building (with care) as they've always done, only to be told to take them down, 'cause The Bosses didn't want to offend anyone. Huh?

The last straw was in my neighborhood Lowes home improvement center. They didn't have Christmas trees. They weren't even "holiday trees." No, they had "family trees."

Gimme a break. I'm forming a revolt.

EVERY employee I meet in a store will be greeted with "Merry Christmas" and if I don't get the same in return, I won't spend any money there. Now, I'm no big religious holier-than-thou windbag. I just want my Christmas back.

If you want to greet everyone with "Happy Quanza," go right ahead. At least you're being honest about it, and can deal with the consequences. We live in a land of religious tolerance.

Tolerance doesn't mean I have to accept your belief, nor can you deny mine. But, Goddamn it, (!) if you want me to buy Christmas gifts, accept that I probably am in some small way Christian, or at least somebody who doesn't care what Christmas is really about, so long as it includes Santa Claus and reindeer.

Don't be a wuss and be afraid to take the small chance you might offend me in some small way. Say "Merry Christmas" for Christ's sake.

The Road to Hell is Paved With Good Intentions

The Wife says the expression is "The road to Heaven is paved with good intentions." I seem to recall otherwise. Here's the proof:

My wife's best friend here in Redlands is a real estate agent. Certainly, you know that the market for real estate is something akin to the market for fresh snow in Buffalo. So, the Best Friend's fifteen-year old imported car won't run well, and could I please take a look, since she's hard pressed for cash these days?

Do I consider myself a mechanic? I have my days. Most of my days were back in the 1970's, however, when cars didn't have computers or fuel injection. I shun those like Michael Jackson avoids the sun. Give me an old Chevy V8 and I can make it fly. Imports? Eweeuw.

But, armed with a handful of those funny metric wrenches that have sat, shiny and untouched, in my toolbox for years, I dug in.

I trolled my favorite junkyard for two hours, looking for the part Wifey's best friend said was bad. I passed an even dozen of the same model as hers, all missing that exact part. I took that as a bad sign. Why not buy a new part, you may ask? The little lump of aluminum no bigger than my fist lists for 200 bucks. Here, it would be $17 -- assuming I found it. And assuming it worked better than the one already on the car.

At last, armed with The Part, an IAVC, or IVAC, or some combination of vowels and consonants that has to do with the fuel injection system, I was ready to have a go. Said IAVC is happily right on top of the engine. Oh, but wait -- there's a ton of - let me use the technical term here - CRAP running interference that has to be moved out of the way before I can get to my target. Two hours later, success! I got the old hunk of aluminum off the car. I just had to hope I could remember how it all went back. Reinstalling it all took another two. The light is failing. I start the car, and behold!

It runs worse than before.

So... I spent another two hours this morning piecing it all back the way it was, and handed it back to The Friend. I wrote a long note for her real mechanic detailing what I done, and gave it to her with my apologies. I'm out two days and about $30 in parts and supplies, and yet, I feel horrible.

She wants to give me cookies. I refuse them; I'm too guilt ridden. For all I know, I've made the car even more expensive to repair. In retrospect, I did perform a true mechanic's duties. I left her seat out of adjustment and her stereo's presets deleted.

To quote Clint Eastwood, in a Dirty Harry movie, "a man's got to know his limitations." Or another favorite, from the Bible: Pride goeth before the fall.

I still think I'm right about the road to Hell, though.

Welcome To "Another Day..."

Gulp.

I've been wanting to start a blog for a long while now, and as it turns out, it's easy. I'd figured it would be some huge hassle, and...surprise! Google to the rescue. So: I ask myself, what do I do now?

How about an introduction?

My name's Dave. (What's yours?)

Been here long?

I'm 53, almost 54.

Family, Dave?

Yup. Wife, 3 semi-grown kids.

So, what do you want to blog about?

My life... in Redlands, California, US of A, the third rock from the sun. A blog filled with pride, anger, joy, fear, memories, opportunities taken and missed. Hope. Rage. Dreams....

So, why should anybody care, Dave?

Another good question. Guess we'll see about that. My guess is, they won't. But, to quote some unnamed Gaelic author of the distant past: Pogue mo Thoin.

What's mean, Dave?

Kiss my ass.