State of Washington Photos

Gig Harbor, Washington.

La Jolla: Land of Sea and Lego

Hardly any sleep the last two nights because of sinus blockage. But I'm tired enough now to sleep through not breathing. Here are more Lego creations: the Hollywood Bowl and a unionized state employee goofing off.

La Jolla

Down there last week. Beautiful shoreline chock full of sea lions and one of those places were you can buy polo attire. (I resisted.) There's also Legoland, Sea World, the San Diego Zoo, and Tiajuna all within EZ driving distance. But enough of this brochure writing.

Death of a Quasi-Famous Grandmother

Back from Pismo Beach (between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo.) attending my wife's grandma's funeral service. Virginia reached 98,  once debating Richard Nixon as a sophomore at Whittier High School in, say, 1927? She claimed to have lost a close decision and nursed a grudge against the future president for many decades. Recently declassified White House documents indicate Virginia had, indeed, been robbed as Nixon paid another student to plant evidence with the principal that Virginia was insane. This effected the final tally, throwing the debate Nixon's way and convincing him that winning was more fun than high school.

 In any case, God bless Virginia. She outlived Nixon by fifteen years and certainly got her money's worth from this life. 

View from a Window

What lay outside my Windy City hotel room.

Snow Place Like Chicago

Snow flurries last night with a few inches accumulation this morning. Temps were in the 20s as I arrived at O'Hara Airport. My flight home was delayed because hydraulic fluid spilled under the plane and they had to mop it up. Back in LA with temperatures in the 70s the way they're supposed to be in February.

A few pictures to post from my cousin's wedding, but not just now.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

Vienna Againa

Scraping ice off the windshield of my rental car, driving in torrential rains, cold, snow flurries all in less than 24 hours. Ah, Chicago weather! Drove out to Lake County to see Oakner and few old friends from St. George days. Oakner was there and Head, and Steve.  Now we're pasty old men, but from age 14 to 16 we ran around Chicago's Roger's Park engaging in various fun projects. Head could imitate his father's gruff Hungarian accent and was able to order booze from the liquor store at will. The delivery man was in on the score, and accepted very large tips for keeping teenagers awash in quart bottles of Old Style and half-pints. (As a freshman, Head told me about the set-up. I didn't believe him. It seemed too impossibly good. But sometimes there is a Santa Claus. In fact, on Thursdays, Head would roam the halls of St. George taking drink orders for the weekend.)

Head reminded me of the time Oakner and I arrived at his house to find bullet holes in the front porch. The police had been there and shot Head's dog after she'd gotten out of the yard and snarled at a passing woman. (These particular Chicago cops were neither subtle nor especially keen marksmen.) Head was broken up. Oakner and I were too, since he couldn't go drinking.

Our late friend Rocco was mentioned often. Rocco's basement was the first we ever saw with surround-sound stereo speakers, rigged up from scratch. (Rocco went on to work as an electrician.) Rocco had a facility for improvisational mayhem and probably would've excelled as a political dirty trickster or internet hacker. One dawn after we had spent the night washing down Dexedrine with Bud tall boys, we were walking along Clark Street when Rocco opened the base of a stop light, hit something inside and left the light stuck on red. I didn't even know you could open stop lights.

We did many dumb, violent, laughable things together. And it doesn't seem that long ago, yet it was. Two generations. In 1969, St. George closed at the end of our sophomore year. We were no longer classmates, scattering to different high schools. I lived in suburban Skokie and ended up at Notre Dame in Niles, even further away from Roger's Park. Into the service and back to town, then out to California; there would always be time to hook up again. Luckily, Oakner realized years were zipping past faster than telephone poles seen from a speeding car. Thanks to the web, we're back in touch, Facebook classmates with no more tests or curfews. We can stay out as late as we want . . . we just don't anymore. 1969: Rocco in the chair. Oakner in center frame and myself to the right.
2009: Head, Steve, Oakner and myself.
(Photos: Oakner)

Thoughts on American Facism

With a suitcase full of wool sweaters and socks, I got off the plane in Chicago to 50 degree temperatures. Earlier today, it had rained and been cold, but I arrived to a balmy clime.

Went to Mass in the evening where I got my Ash Wednesday ashes in Chicago for the first time in decades. How many decades, I can't say as I had jettisoned religion - at least any active participation in religion - long before I left. 

An odd thought occurred to me while traveling: if fascism reigns in America, the entire country will be like the airport. You can do pretty much whatever you want as long as you stand in the right lines, have the correct documents, and don't make jokes about the system. There will be signs to the tenth power telling you what is prohibited and the police will be everywhere in pairs. I hope I'm wrong. But you really have no rights in an airport. Or cheap bottled water. Or leg room. Or food onboard. Or decent movies. Going to the airport and taking a plane used to be cool. Now it's a metaphor for laid back American fascism. 

Enough. Many people to see tomorrow. 

In Wind-Swept Chicago

Last time in Chicago, the weather was unseasonably warm. According to Tim, my high school chum, this time it'll be hellishly cold. Fortunately, my Christmas trip to the chilly northwest has prepared me for the weather, though I recall Windy City winters being the worst. In any case, I'll be traveling for the third time in three months. (Phoenix Marathon was the other.) Mirth awaits, along with soggy bites by Maz and fun with family and friends, Chicago-style pizza and Italian beef sandwiches.

(Note to Narwhal: If you're still stopping by the blog, I'll be wearing the down-lined jacket from Sears you got me, ohhhhh, say, 30 years ago. Still the best.)

Pre Post-Marathon Post

I'm posting in the lobby of my Phoenix Hotel because it's free down here, but costs fourteen bucks a day up in my room. Also I enjoy watching yesterday's runners do the marathon shuffle toward the front desk. (The marathon shuffle is a funky hitch-and-a-hop caused by lactic acid and other exercise waste products that looks a lot like the way Redd Foxx walked in Sanford and Son.)

On the road in an hour back to LA. It's been a stressful trip as illness, travel and marathon coaching do not mix. I didn't get to visit any of my Phoenix friends and barely had time to call home.

But I did get to ride the shiny new Metro Rail. Public rail is a lot like public housing: there's a brief spring of neatness and order before an immediate plunge into the winter of neglect, graffiti and unknown substances stuck to the furniture.

More in a bit.