World Travel My Style

Mom:

I'll try to give you a call tomorrow or the day after. Slight change of plans... I want to see if you can fly down first, and a little earlier... say any time in Feb... beg, mid, or end. Shu Li has never been on an airplane before nor left the country and is moderately afraid. She would rather meet you first and have our families know each other before traveling across the ocean into an unknown world. That's not how she said it, but I'm pretty sure it's how she feels.

Maybe I can meet you at Harbin's airport and we stay for 4 or 5 days at Harbin's Holiday Inn, then fly home as a group? We'll crash in WA for 2 weeks probably, then head back. It'll be a very exciting gig for all of us.

You are probably numb to surprises at this point, but in 2-3 years she and I might be opening that restaurant in America. 'Eat Chinese food downstairs, learn the Chinese language upstairs. Hmm *ponders*

Love,

Your son, Rick

Rickshaw, Harbin style

Hey, Rick:

So you want your old mother to fly over the ocean to Bejing by myself and change planes to go North to Harbin without being able to speak a word of Chinese. Then you want me to stay only five days, which isn't much time to go porcelain shopping, but just enough time to get food poisoning, and get major trauma when Shu Li tells me I ate a dog or a horse as well.

I suppose the ice and snow sculpture is all taken down and I'd just have to freeze my butt off without the pretty scenery. What's the average temperature? Minus 20? I hear the air is heavily polluted with coal smoke in the winter.

Ok. I'll do it. Let me figure out how. Send me as much information as you can.

Love and miss you,

Mom

Letter From My Son, Rick, Harbin, China, December 2010

Harbin is known for it's Snow and Ice Festival every winter

I should probably write a slightly detailed note on some of the things that have happened to me during my China adventures.

Firstly, I would like to dispell some of the misconceptions I’ve heard floating around.

#1: China is a 3rd world country- Maybe; I’m not really sure. Harbin is not 3rd world. Everyone in my city has a job and everone has a bed. A common worker has enough money to eat good food every day and have some fun on the weekends, just like America. It may seem like average working wages are lower, but the cost of living is also much lower. It balances out.

#2: China is a dangerous place- Not true. China is safer than the U.S.; at least in Harbin. The homicide rate is about 200% less than Detroit, anyway. Because of the crowds and the contant construction, it appears dirty and dangerous; but no one has so far harrassed me. Occasionally a taxi driver or a street vendor will over charge me, but that doesn’t happen anymore now that I speak well and I don’t look lost.

#3: China has an oppressing government and human rights abuses are rampant- Although the laws sound strict, they are rarely enforced unless there is a complaint; and nobody does that. People here, based on what I’ve seen, take care of their own problems. Unfortunately, the media appreciates taking isolated incidents out of context and blowing them up, in spite of the fact that similar things happen in America.

#4: China is more socialistic than the U.S.- Tax rates for average citizens are actually lower; zero actually, if you’re below the 2000RMB mark. There aren’t any food stamps and there isn’t any subsidized housing. If you don’t work and you’ve got nobody to take care of you, you don’t eat. It may be a cruel system, but it is a fair one.

With that said, my adventures in China were (of course) scary at first, but I have very quickly fallen in love with the place. My first 3 days after arrival were spent in my hotel room, too terrified to explore Harbin’s loud, dirty streets alone; but when I finally lept in, I was filled with light. The people here are the most helpful, respectful, and interesting I have ever seen; and when I talk to them in their own language they are as thrilled as I.

Harbin has a population of about nine million. It doesn’t seem to be very big, but it is very dense. It also seems that every time I bend down to tie my shoes, I am in somebody’s way. Whenever I’m in a hurry, someone is in my way. It was fun and interesting at first, but it gets kind of annoying after awhile… not being able to take a casual walk down the sidewalk. It feels more like I’m a fish swimming upriver. Drivers beep their horns as often as they use their turn signals. It gave me a headache at first, but my ears have now grown numb to it.

Heilongjiang University, where I study, takes up an area about six times larger than Skagit Valley College. It’s about one mile long in all directions. 30,000 students live here with me, which I believe is about half the population of Anacortes? Regardless, students travel from class to class in giant rivers. Imagine needing to look both ways before crossing the street to avoid running into PEOPLE. This is Chinese life.

My dorm is the equivalent of a 3 star hotel, equipped with internet, a TV, room service, maid service, and a private bathroom. It’s a great luxury, compared to the packed-like-sardines Chinese student dorms that smell like rotting cabbage. It’s pretty cheap ($100 per month). The most delightful aspect is I can talk to students from all over the world here. Most of them are Russian or Korean, but there are also students from Africa, Italy, South America, and other parts of Europe. English speakers are quite rare, so most of the time we find ourselves talking in Chinese.

Dorm at college

My roommate is Russian, but he is of a different ethnicity, meaning he looks like he’s Chinese. He does not speak English but his Chinese is near-perfect. The guy is a clean freak and he sometimes has anger problems, but he’s very smart, very honorable, and we more often get along very well. That’s the #1: having a roommate that I know isn’t going to steal from me.

My Chinese classes are very difficult, primarily because (I think) nobody really knows how to effectively teach Chinese to foreigners. It’s being taught to us in a similar manner as it is taught to Chinese children, which doesn’t really work. I find myself preferring to learn by myself, writing the calligraphy and practice talking to actual people, and I’m very tempted to dismiss my classes very soon and do just that. I’ll skip the technicalities; I can go on and on.

A lot of very good things have happened to me here. #1, I’ve landed myself a relatively well-paying job teaching oral English to children. It’s a very enlightening experience for me as I get to help the little ones learn while gaining much needed skills. #2, I’ve landed myself a girlfriend, Shu Li. She’s 46 years old, and takes good care of me, as I do her. Someday, I’m going to go into business with her and make a lot of money. There are many ways on which her and I can help each other out. Maybe it is strange to be with an older woman, but I don’t care. I’m very happy, and it is what I want.

Rick in classroom where he teaches

Speaking of Shu Li, I’d better continue this later. I’d better head over and see what’s for dinner :D.

Shu Li

China Doll

This is Fancy Charlie with one of Liz's advanced students. Certainly not me.

I arrived a little bit late for my riding lesson on Thursday afternoon. Just bad management of my own time, which I pay for. My instructor, Liz, said someone would be waiting for a lesson on Terra at the top of the hour, so I should tack up Fancy Charlie, who is a retired racehorse.

Charlie is 16.2 hands high, a big guy, and as gentle as a kitten. I'd ridden him twice before, and I like him a lot. He's not quite as fine-tuned as Terra, but he is more responsive and has a faster pace. There is a bit of thrill in that, even at my beginner level.

My friend, Debby, came along with me to watch the lesson, so I knew with her help we could get Charlie ready to go quickly and I wouldn't lose very much of my instruction time. Debby is a friend of twenty years. She has been riding English for at least that long, the best expert I know. She prefers thoroughbred horses, like Charlie, so she admired him instantly.

I put on my helmet and we walked the big horse into the indoor arena. It's very nice. A full-sized venue, it is well-lit and has several inches of washed sand as flooring. It's as safe a place as you're going to find for learning all styles of riding, including gaits and jumping.

Liz announced that we'd be working on balance in the saddle this day. We did a quick recap of the skills I've learned up to this point: transitions from walk to trot, sitting trot to posting trot, changing diagonals, leg yields, etc. Then she said, "Take your feet out of the stirrips and we'll do transitions without them."

I did fine with in a walk, then she sent me to trot and I began sliding around in that shiny English saddle. "I'm going to fall!" I said to her, pulling Charlie to a stop. Liz said I would not fall if I allowed my legs to hang straight down, my feet would become anchors.

Liz is the boss, and I sent Charlie into a slow trot, determined to keep my legs straight and long. And I began to slip sideways in the saddle... and the world tilted, spun and came to an abrupt halt. Charlie did a little hop to the left so he wouldn't step on me, then he stood still.

I landed butt first followed by my shoulders and head. The helmet is a good thing. Oh, the pain! Oh man did I hurt! The two women, Liz and Debby came walking over to where I lay in the sand.

"Wriggle your fingers," said Liz, "Now wriggle your toes." I did as instructed. "Can you sit up?"

No, I told her, I want to be still for awhile. I'm dizzy. I'm seeing stars, and I know what that is.

"Adrenalin," said Liz. "But you have to stand up as soon as you feel that you can." She and Debby each took an arm and got me to my feet. There was so much pain in my lower back, it made me feel angry and frustrated. A woman of my advanced age has no business falling from such a height. That's for kids.

"This dirt smells like poo poo," I said to Liz.

She replied with a bit of sarcasm, "Would you like me to get you an air freshener?"

On my feet now, they helped me to take steps. "You're alright. I could see you landed just the way you should," said Debby. And she stayed with me while Liz went to get Charlie. She brought the horse to the mounting block.

"Now get back on," she said. And Debby agreed. I had to get back on Charlie immediately. "It's about your muscles," said Liz, "You'll heal better if you stretch them a bit right away."

Before I went up the steps, I put my arms around Charlie's neck and rubbed his face. "I'm not mad at you, Charlie. You didn't do anything wrong." He nuzzled me and put his head on my shoulder. He was concerned about me, and I found that to be amazing and touching.

And I didn't let myself think, but I put my foot in the stirrip and mounted up. Liz had me walk, then trot and walk again for maybe ten minutes. It's a psychological thing, she told me then. You have to get back on while you're still in shock so as it lifts you remember being safe on the horse. If you don't do it immediately, chances are you won't ride again after your first fall. And it's good for Charlie, too, he needs to know he didn't hurt you.

"Ok. Now you can get down and walk Charlie to the cross ties for untacking." After dismounting, I fondled Charlie again, telling him he's a good guy and we're still friends. His big soft eyes looked me over. His coat was soft and fuzzy as the cold weather has thickened it, and he smelled good. Like a horse.

It's dumb to wear jeans with an English saddle. I've ordered proper riding breeches with a full seat so I won't slide like that again.

I couldn't wait to get home and tell my cowgirl friend, Heidi. I said yeah, I'm ok. I'm in bed after taking four ibuprofen. John brought me tea. It really hurts and I'm surprised I'm not in a hospital.

"The weather's great tomorrow," said Heidi, "Want to ride Ginger through the woods? I can take Skip."

"Give me a week to heal up," I replied, "Give an old lady a break."

"China Doll," said Heidi, laughing at me.

There are worse nicknames, I suppose.

I Give Cathy the Finger

John and I spent the weekend on our boat. We took off Thursday afternoon and stayed the first two nights in Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. This is a nice little town, served by the Washington State Ferry and also well-visited by travelers in seaplanes and small jets. There are some world class marinas on each end of the island, and it has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. I like the city marina, and although it is basic moorage, you can walk easily into the town center where there are shops and many good restaurants. There is also the Whale Museum on the bluff with a great overlook of the islands and boat traffic. You can start at the Whale Museum to explore the local history. The docents will show you many paths to wander and wonder.

On the third night, we got a call from some friends who have a cabin on Decatur Island. That sounded good to me.

There's a real shower in Tom and Cathy's cabin. And real beds. Don't get me wrong, I like a little boat camping, but it is camping afterall. It is not the soft life that I am used to and prefer. I never sleep properly in a campground, RV park, or marina. Any seating surfaces are scaled down, the bed is usually hard, the other campers too close and too loud for privacy. In a marina you always get those early morning people who just want to peek into your boat because they are curious. And yes, they will knock on your door even if you have the windows covered.

Cathy and Tom made us all a nice dinner of grilled chicken, roasted sweet potatoes and spinach salad. We watched a movie from full-sized sofas and got a good nights' sleep. The morning brought full color views from their picture windows of marine layer lifting over bright blue water. The Anacortes to Lopez ferry scooted by and seemed to pull the curtain of fog in it's wake, revealing bright and sunny morning sky.

A day fit for picture postcards and scrapbook memories. The sun felt warm and comforting as we enjoyed a breakfast of biscuits and gravy with apple slices and good coffee. Let's walk the beaches, someone said.

The cabin sits on a long gravel beach dotted with summer cabins. There is a salt water lagoon, then a spit that you can cross to another long gravel beach with more views of evergreen islands and shipping lanes. Cathy likes to look for agates, and she has quite a collection of them.

My eyes aren't tuned into those. Somehow, decades have passed and I haven't found a single one. But there are so many treasures that wash up; we found several jellyfish the size of dinner plates, colored crimson and magenta at their centers. John tried to relaunch one, but it was quite dead and dissolved in the cold water. Tentacle pieces and pigment spread slowly, the jelly body sinking out of sight.

We walked by driftwood fortresses built by children and parents over the summer months. They have not yet been swept away by winter storms.Tom found an old crab pot buoy painted red and blue. It looks good hung above one of the forts.

There were footprints of island deer to follow along the waterline, sand fleas to stir up, flotsam and jetsam from boats to examine. There must be a Starbucks nearby, said Tom. Here is a smoothie cup with the cap and straw still in it. You are never far from Starbucks in the Northwest.

Cathy found two agates.

I found something else. It's a small bone, I said. Too heavy for a fish or a bird. Long and smooth, it had been tumbling and washing long enough to be turning a bit translucent, but it was solid.

I think it's a human finger.

No one believes me. Cathy took it and put it in her pocket. I'll show it to Kevin, she said, and see what he thinks. Kevin is her boss at the school district where she works as a teacher's aid.

I'm not sure how Kevin's authority extends into forensics, but maybe he knows how to use the internet.

I don't want it. I'd feel I'd have to find the owner or the next of kin.

Pretty sure it's a finger. Phalanx proximalis. Third one. What do you do with that?

Jack and Lisa

Jack and Lisa have lived in our apartments about three years. Jack showed up first. He is a large man in his fifties with some sort of deficit. I thought he might be mentally retarded and wondered how he could live independently, so I was skeptical of his application. He'd been living at Cascade West Apartments, which is notorious for poor management, criminal activity and disrepair. Pizza companies will not deliver there.

Jack told me he couldn't sleep at night because he was worried someone would break in and that he kept a baseball bat at every door and window. He said he had to get out of there before someone got hurt. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said, "But you can see I'm a big guy and I'll defend myself if I have to." Yes, he is a very big guy. I thought of Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk in late middle age.

I took his application and faxed it to Orca Information for screening. With three vacancies in our complex, I was hoping he'd be clear, but his appearance made me a little doubtful.

The next day, Lisa came into the office. She's probably in her late forties and also presents with a deficit of some kind. About 5'2" dark haired, blue-eyed, stoop-shouldered and a bit heavy. Lisa looks like an aging child with a constant what-me-worry smile. She had her mother, named Leona, with her. Leona explained that Lisa had been living in Cascade West and had problems with some of the other residents and she was concerned for her safety there. I assured Leona that we ran a pretty tight ship and we'd be happy to show her around.

Leona explained that Lisa's rent was guaranteed and that she kept in close contact with Lisa. That always sounds good to me, so I gave them an application (everybody gets screened) and asked them to check back in a couple hours. Leona asked me if Jack had been approved. Jack? Yes, Lisa's friend Jack had also applied, and although Jack is not a relative, she kinda looks after him, too. Jack and Lisa met in a group home ten years ago and they've been friends ever since. Not boyfriend and girlfriend, just friends, but they keep each other company. They tried sharing an apartment once but that didn't work, so they each need their own place.

Well. Leona saw me looking a little doubtful and said, "You're worried about Jack. He's ok. The problem at Cascade West is he's on the third floor and stairs make him nervous. He doesn't like walking up that high. And some of the neighbors taunt him. There was an attempted break in a few months ago and he doesn't know who it was, so he's afraid of everyone there. It's a bad place for him and Lisa, so we're looking around for something better. He and Lisa both have financial aid and you don't have to worry about the rent."

Orca Information said they were ok, so I approved them and they got to move in the next weekend. Two out of three vacancies filled quickly. That felt good.

Neither of them drive. They take the bus or Leona drives them. I see them walk by the office quite often, and sometimes they stop in and talk to me. Of course, I cannot diagnose them, but I can sure tell when medication is adjusted. There are days when one or the other of them cannot shut up. It's happy banter, though, not about any topic in particular. It just takes up time, and I have to shoo them off after awhile so I can work.

Not long ago, Jack came into the office with a miniature poodle. DSHS gave him the dog for "therapy." He has "someone" to care for and keep him from feeling lonely and frightened at night. He paid the pet deposit as agreed, and we talked about the goofy things pets do to entertain us. I mentioned America's Funniest Home Videos. Jack said, "It's funny you should mention that show because I've been on it. But you probably didn't recognize me because I was a horse that day." He went on to describe a scene in which a horse did some clever math with his hoof.

I raised my eyebrows.

"You probably don't believe me but I've been turned into a horse lots of times. I had a girlfriend when I lived at Cascade West who got really mad at me when I broke up with her. She learned how to cast spells and for about three years there I'd turn into a horse for a few hours at a time. The Catholic Church finally found out about her and took her book of spells away. But let me tell you, it's pretty scary when you don't know when it's going to happen. Once I lost my job and got arrested all in the same day." He paused, and looked carefully at my face to see if I was paying attention.

I was.

"I was driving a delivery truck with another guy on the passenger side. We were on the freeway to go drop off some packages. I felt the spell coming on and I said to the guy, "You'd better take the wheel while I figure out how to get to the side of the road. And the guy wouldn't listen, so I had to practically scream at him that I was about to turn into a horse and I wouldn't have any hands. He finally took the wheel and scooted over as I crawled into the back of the van. We must have been driving erratically, because the police pulled the van over and that's when I got arrested."

"You got arrested for driving erratically?" I asked.

"No, it wasn't for that," he explained. "When they looked into the back of the van they found me, and you know what horses wear."

Not everyone needs a driver's license. Not everyone should have a driver's license.

The SKAT buses are good-sized and can accommodate people of all sizes and shapes. Even the occasional horse.

What if Jack's poodle turned into a horse?

Rebel

It was the third rain of the fall season in Livermore, CA. This was semi-arid country about forty miles east of San Francisco. Rolling hills of working cattle and sheep ranches and a scientific community associated with the University of California supported a nice little town.

But three rains between September and November was a lot.

I sat quietly at my desk in Mrs. Mettler's second grade class, twirling my hair and trying not to get caught looking out the window instead of at the frumpy teacher with the brightly dyed red hair. I didn't like looking at her because she had strong features, that awful red hair and her eye makeup was always sliding into the deep wrinkles in her pasty skin. Her voice was grating.

On rainy days, she took delight in turning the day away from spelling and math lessons to story telling and games. Like it was a holiday or something just because we couldn't go outside for recess. But on this third inclement day in as many months, it was apparent one story took precedence over any others.

She was telling the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Mrs. Mettler was narrator, all three Billy Goats Gruff, as well as the troll beneath the bridge. Two desk chairs, the only prop, represented the bridge that crossed the stream between where the goats started out and the lush green pastures they wanted to go to.

"Who's that crossing my bridge?" I remember her bellowing, as the troll confronted the first billy goat. Clop, clop, clop and she stomped her feet on the thin plywood chair seat.

Leslee, my new best friend, stood up and went to the water faucet at the back of the room. She took a long drink, wiped her face with her sleeve, and smiled at the rest of us.

"Leslee, sit down," said Mrs. Mettler in her Mrs. Mettler voice. Back to the show, she continued in a cartoon voice, "It is me, Billy Goat Gruff. I'm traveling to the lush meadow where I can become fat."

Leslee worked her pencil eraser around the formica top of her desk. It made bright marks on the surface. "Preacher Creature Teacher," she pointed and made me read it. I giggled, but stopped when Mrs. Mettler shot me a look in her evil troll character.

"You don't want to eat me. My brother is coming next, and he is bigger and tastier than I am." Mrs. Mettler hiked up her dress and stepped off the make-believe bridge. "Off with you, then, I'll eat your brother," in the troll's voice.

Leslee got up again and took a long drink from the fountain.

The second Billy Goat Gruff looked down at her from the bridge and said, "I told you to sit down."

Leslee said, "I have the hiccups. Mom says to take a drink of water when I get the hiccups." She smiled at the whole room this time.

"Sit down, Leslee. I won't tell you again."

The story of the goats and the troll continued, not a word different from the other two times we'd been subjected to it. The troll was going to get his butt kicked by the same oldest and biggest Billy Goat Gruff again.

"Leslee if you get up one more time, I'm going to tie you to your chair."

The seven year old girl hiccupped loudly and started for the faucet. Mrs. Mettler, true to her word, found three jump ropes in the closet next to the entry door, and Leslee was secured to her desk. Except for her right leg. She reached out with it and tripped Mrs. Mettler, causing her to fall with her dress rising almost to her waist.

I laughed out loud. The other children had the good sense to be quiet.

That was the first time Leslee and I went to the principal's office together. There would be repeat vists from time to time over some great idea she would come up with.

"It's not running in the hall if you're skipping."

"We can't go back to class if we're not wearing shoes. Let's throw them over the fence and say some boys did it."

"It's not destroying the Weekly Reader if you only wad it up. We can call it the Wrinkly Reader."

"Calling her Tub of Lard is not cursing. And she called me Shitass first. You saw what happened. You tell the Duty."

I think about Leslee sometimes when I've been very especially well-behaved and feel unappreciated.

She would laugh if she saw me push the walk button at a cross walk and wait for the light even with no cars in sight.

I had a particularly stressful day today, but I kept my composure every minute. I could feel my heart pounding and my temper rising up into my throat. When it was over, I left my office and walked the few blocks to my car, wishing I could let go of the knots that seem to hold me together these days.

This day, with no cars in sight and no one looking... I jaywalked in the middle of the block. But I didn't walk and I didn't run... I skipped. I got in the car, took off my shoes and threw them into the backseat.

That's better.

Where there's smoke...

Got a call from a downtown businessman about four teenagers in John's car. It was parked behind the man's shop and he wanted us to know they were smoking marijuana in it. John's car, you see, has his business logo and phone number on it.

"I don't understand why they would do this in full view of myself and my employees, but I'm letting you know instead of just calling the police."

I sent a text message to Ross: "whaddaryadoin? call me"

He did, and I asked him where he had been in the last hour or so. His tracks went through the parking lot identified earlier.

"Were you smoking dope in your dad's car? Someone called and said he saw you all doing that. He is certain he saw you pass a small pipe around. I want you to come home immediately."

"We didn't have marijuana, Mom. I'm telling you the truth."

"Yeah, sure you are. Kids never lie to their parents. You are going to lose your car privilege and I'm gonna get a buncha grief from some parents because of your stupidity and indiscretion."

"No, Mom. Remember I told you Ethan is hooked bad on cigarettes and he's trying to quit? His dad gave him this electronic nictotine device and that's what we were passing around. I'll come right home and show it to you."

First thing I did was the sniff test inside John's car, but I didn't smell anything. I looked into the four angelic faces, eyes clear and not dialated.

The device is about 5" long and silver in color. It is a battery-driven nebulizer and makes a mist out of flavored nicotine drops. The mist could be mistaken for smoke.

I tried it myself. It hits the throat quite a bit like smoke does, a surprisingly fair immitation. I could feel the nicotine buzz my brain a bit.

"What flavor is in it?" I asked.

"Kiwi lime."

"Weird."

"You can get forty different flavors. We like the blackberry."

"Got chocolate?"

"No, but we can get it."

I was so relieved, I hugged all four of them and sent them out for McDonalds, all expenses paid.

Now they are over at Tyler's house showing the device to Tyler's mom. She has COPD and is also hooked hard on cigarettes and one other flammable substance. An aging hippie (true California-style) I bet she thinks she's seen everything.

Not yet.

Free Willie

We came home last night to the news that our cat, Willie, had not been seen for three days. Our neighbor, Katy, was appointed to Keeper of the Cats and the Bird while we were vacationing in Denver over a long weekend (she fed same twice a day). She is very apologetic, although it is certainly not her fault.

Not knowing which preditor is involved, I have taken the perimeter collars off of the two miniature pinschers and they only go outside on leash now.

Good thing. This morning, twice, a golden eagle has swooped over the lawn between the house and the pond. I went into the game room to tell Ross, and that's when I saw Dustin, the other cat, on the patio. Ross did the math quickly and got Dustin inside pronto.

With it's seven foot wingspan, a golden eagle can carry away about three times it's own weight. When they're really hungry, they are known to attack deer and goats (although they can't carry them).

Ross sits in a reclining chair with Dustin in his arms as I write this.

He remembers when we got each cat. Dustin first around five years ago at the Skagit Humane Society, and Willie three years ago at South Whidbey Humane Society.

The animals you buy at shelters are microchipped and usually named by the volunteers. It was especially important to these people that Willie keep his name. He'd been received the first time as a six day old kitten that they bottle-fed, then as a one year old given up because of allergies in the family.

"That usually means they got a new kitten," said the young girl who presented him. "This is such a nice cat. I've seen one so well-adjusted."

Well-adjusted? That's a description I hadn't heard before.

"Let's Free Willie then," I said. Money was exchanged and he came home us. The first thing he did was get stuck on the roof. Apparently he had no experience with two-story explorations. I have a photo of him I've posted here. He looks like a gargoyle, doesn't he? Two teenaged boys managed to pull him in through a window, but not without shedding some blood.




Cats are very good rodent control, as well as clean pets. We have never had a mouse enter the house with these two guys on the job. Both of them were declawed, but could still pull a bird out of mid-flight (we have discouraged this practice, but no amount of lecturing seems to be effective).

Some people are going to tell me I sent Willie to his death because I let the cats outside. It's nearly impossible to keep them in, even if it was my intent. They are animals and preditors by nature and design. We will try very hard to keep Dustin inside during the daylight hours eagles navigate in.

Coyotes have not been a problem, I think because our house site is open space without much cover. Tough for coyotes to sneak around in, but great touch and go landing strips for eagles, apparently.

So, I feel a little sad today. Can't feel as sad as I would if I knew that eagle or other preditor took Willie, because I didn't see it happen. There's always hope he'll show up at the patio door any minute.

Willie is free again, I think. Free of his cat suit. Not the kind of freedom he'd want. I hope it was quick.

It'll be a little while before I buy another cat. They serve a purpose, but they are affectionate and friendly companions. Willie deserves a mourning period, and I have to think about whether a box of Decon is a better replacement.
I miss you, Willie.

Portland Road Trip

Our son, Ross, is seventeen years old. His older brothers have been out of the house for over ten years. That makes him more or less an only child. As anyone who's raised teenagers knows, these creatures are a sullen lot who do not like to be seen with parents. Family vacations are mandatory attendance, and even a trip to someplace like Disneyland can be regarded the same way school detention is.

We've always encouraged Ross and his friends to hang around our house. I keep lots of soda and snack food here, and there are six acres including a pond with an island to play on. There are pinball and shuffleboard in the game room and a big screen TV they can play video games on.

Even so, we've confronted drug and alcohol use, scholastic negligence and all the other evils of a permissive society. There seem to be few consequences for aberrant behavior. Maybe because there is so much bad behavior there's not enough consequence to go around. Certainly that's the case with the so-called War Against Drugs. It would be better named The Occassional Skirmishes With Particularly Stupid and Obvious Users/Dealers.

Ross smoked marijuana for the first time with members of a Christian youth group in junior high school.

What's a parent to do? The boys know they are welcome here but that anyone smelling of intoxicants will be asked to leave. There are about eight boys who respect that rule and are "regulars" around here. I was a little surprised who toes the line. One boy's mother allows parties in her house while she is home and even parties with them. But he respects my rules.

The contrast between the smoky house where nobody does anything and the non-smoky house where there is lots of activity could make a guy think, I hope.

A couple of weekends ago, we took four teenaged boys on a car trip to Portland from our home north of Seattle. This had been in the planning since about February, when I told a group of doubters we could could make the trip when school was out.

Really? You'll take us all to Portland?

Sure, I'll borrow you all from your parents. Ross will have instant brothers to travel with.

The destination was Daddies Boardshop. The be-all and end-all of the skateboard and longboard retail experience. Daddies signature t-shirt says "Giving Portland Police Something to Do Since 1994." Our particular group of boys are longboarders. They will proudly inform you that longboarding is about distance and speed while skateboarding is about tricks and stunts in a park setting.

Portland is one of the most liberal cities on the Left Coast. Somebody convinced the city council that a longboard is a means of transportation just like a bicycle or a car, and so boarders should have the same right to travel. But police don't like it when longboarder casually scoots through 25 mile per hour posted areas at 35 mph plus.

The stuff fantasies are built on in teenaged minds.

The best way I know to find out what's going on with teenagers is to take them on a long car trip. They kinda forget you're there after awhile and talk freely. It's very entertaining, the stream of consciousness style of conversation. It goes something like this:

"Cody, I told you not to wear that Got Purple? t-shirt. Mom doesn't like it."

"Sorry, dude. It's the only clean one I had. Is there a washing machine at the hotel?"

"Dunno. You can wear one of mine till we get to Daddies and then you can buy one."

"I think I'll buy one from a brewpub. That way I can give it to my stepdad. I owe him money anyway."

"Did you see that movie, Brewfest? That was funny! Willie Nelson tells this joke at the end: "A dad walks into his son's room and says, 'Son, if you keep masturbating you'll go blind.' The son says, 'I'm over here, Dad.'"

"My mom says eating carrots makes you see better."

"So, Tyler, I suppose you eat carrots when you masturbate."

John and I try not to laugh too loud, so they don't remember that we can hear them.

We stopped at South Center Mall for lunch because there's a food frolic there with something for everyone at cheap prices. They wisely chose Johnny Rockets for burger combos for the good quantity at the $7 limit imposed on them.

Back in the car for the three hours remaining on the road to Portland.

The boys were happy to see that the hotel was in a developing area with lots of vacant lots and clean asphalt. The longboards came out of the Tahoe's boot and away they went to explore while John and I navigated the on-ramps and off-ramps to the Jantzen Beach Safeway for provisions.

We did not see a beach at Jantzen Beach. But the Marriott Residence Inn there is a great place to bring a bunch of kids. Two bedrooms, two baths with three TVs and a kitchen. When the boys got back from the exploration, they were kept busy with a pool, spa, and work-out room. Good thing, because it was too late in the day to go to Daddies.

I think Daddies does three times as much mail order as walk-up business because they are so well-established and savvy with the kids. Some of the "kids" are in their thirties.

We got there the next morning a little early, so we left the boys milling around in front of the entrance while we visited the donut shop on the other side of the parking lot. The Asian owner picked up his phone and called Daddies, "Better open up, you've got customers." We are in a recession, after all.

Ross asked for Dan (Daddie himself) at the front counter. He briefed Dan on the expected purchases and negotiated a cash discount. That's my boy! It looked like things were under control, so John and I left them to go explore the Hollywood and Old Town neighborhoods of Portland.

On the way out the door I noticed a poster advertising the Rose City Rollers. There were a couple of championship bouts set for the next evening. I remembered roller derby from my childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Bay City Rollers in Oakland were very popular in the 1960s. We'd watch the bouts on Sunday afternoon television, mostly because the cartoons were over. It was wild and intense. I thought the boys would like it.

From the Rose City Rollers MySpace page:

"Rose City Rollers (RCR) was founded by a small band of gritty, gutsy, nostalgic gals who decided to dust off their quad skates and hit the pavement in August of 2004. Since then, the league has expanded tremendously and now is home to 130+ skaters, four home teams, a junior derby team for high school girls, and a nationally-ranked all-star team."

We drove through the Hollywood neighborhood and across the Willamette River. A few blocks later we found a brewpub called Tug Boat Brewery. It's a small, darkish, definitely owner-run establishment. Looked like a good place to try a hand-crafted beer. Not much of a beer drinker myself, I encouraged John to ask the barkeep, a pretty young woman of about 26 what she recommended. She and I struck up a conversation about small business and economy. She said she was the owner of the brewery/restaurant and introduced me to a female friend while John chatted with a few male beer drinkers.

"What do you know about the Rose City Rollers?" I asked.

Big smiles.

"We're on the Heartless Heathers team!" said the barkeep, nodding toward her friend. I explained that we were thinking of treating four teenaged boys to the event.

"Barfly" (nickname) told us to be sure they got there early so they could see the drum corps and some other pre-game entertainment. There would be instruction on the history of the game and how it is scored. We were assured the boys would have a great time.

It's a colorful sport, alright. The players have nicknames like "Miss Behavior," "Vominatrix," "Apocalypstick," and "Tara Heartout." Costumes include ripped fishnet stockings, satin fabric, dayglow colored hair and tiaras.

I showed the poster to the boys when we met later. These are tough chicks, but some of them are good looking, I informed them. The kids were very willing to be dropped off at the arena while John and I went out to find a nice dinner.

The boys got back to the hotel before we did. Somewhat of a surprise. They told us the intensity does not stop on the roller rink, but goes all the way up the stands. The crowd is as passionate as the players, and although they cheered for the Heartless Heathers (of course), the fans of the other team, the Break Neck Betties, outshouted them and wore them to a frazzle. They were too pooped to stay for the second bout.

The next morning I asked if anyone wanted to see the Portland Zoo or any of the other attractions in Portland. No, they said, they wanted to go back to Daddies to try out the bungee contraption Dan showed them. Bungee? It's a braided cord about ten feet long with two handles on it. You stand on your skateboard and a couple of your friends arrange it like a slingshot on a light pole or street sign and pull you back. Then you turn loose of it and go from zero to 35 mph in an instant.

I was thinking about the short parking lot and the four lanes of traffic on Sandy Boulevard in front of Daddies Boardshop. I was assured that they'd meet at an elementary school playground so I gave consent. Well, ok, but I'm not gonna watch.

I knew they didn't have $225 remaining in their pockets to buy the damned thing, so I wasn't going to worry about it.

I quietly bought four Daddies logo t-shirts, away from John's sight. He'd think I was spoiling the boys.

After the bungee demonstration, we took them to Mt Tabor Park so they could try out their new boards. It's a really nice place with the walking and biking trail chained off so there are no cars. Good hills, curves and straights. Good pavement. We were a day early for "Bomb the Zoo," at which the City of Portland baracades off about three miles of city street including the road passing through the zoo itself. Just for bicycles and longboarders, one Sunday a month. Big disappointment there, but many vows to return someday.

On the way back home, the boys were happy and sleepy. We dropped the last one off at his house and pulled into the driveway.

I went to unload Ross' backpack and miscellany out of the Tahoe.

"What's this? Who does this red backpack belong to?"

Ross looked down at his shoes, and John quickly went into the house.

"It's the bungee." Ross said quietly, "We bought it together. Dad loaned us the money for it."

I suppose we all spoil kids differently. I thought they would look cool in matching t-shirts while they skate around Skyline. With the addition of the bungee, at least the ER docs will know they're together, and that should make it easier to round up parents to sign consent forms.

Overheard at Doc in the Box

Some time ago, I'd been bothered by stuffy ears with no other symptoms. I thought it must be a virus and toughed it out a few months. A little antihistamine eased it, but you can't take that during the daytime because it makes you drowsy. My regular doctor is in Mount Vernon. I could call and make an appointment, but I hate the wait. I remembered another option.

Anacortes has a walk-in clinic. It's run by nurse-practioners and is loosely associated with the local hospital. It's an inexpensive alternative to the emergency room, if you're not near death. It's great for families who don't have insurance, although they do require payment upon treatment.

It was on a Monday morning when my ears were really starting to hurt, and I thought I could let an RN look and get them cleared, or at least get started toward some kind of relief. There were maybe seven people ahead of me when I checked in, so I got a People magazine and got settled in the far corner of the waiting room.

Two women, one blonde and one red haired, in their early thirties were trying to keep a toddler with a green nose still. The little guy looked pretty feverish, and I was glad to be a comfortable distance from him. They were so busy settling and wiping that they weren't paying attention to the volume of their conversation.

"Well, Tricia. You know I've been worried Rich was cheating on me. I'd been pretty sure something was going on and now he's got fired from work."

"Rich was fired?" said the blonde one, apparently Tricia. "When did that happen?"

"Weeks ago."

"When did you find that out? How come you didn't say anything to me about that?"

The redhead rolled her eyes. "Just because something happened doesn't mean I have to know. I make his lunch every morning. He leaves with it every day at fifteen to seven and I don't see him until five thirty. Friday morning was just like all the other mornings, except he left his tool belt in the garage. I called the company office to find out which site he was at so I could bring the tools to him. Ada laughed and told me he hadn't been to work in over three weeks. He was shit canned!"

The blonde sat back in her chair, speechless. She twisted her hair with her forefinger.

The redhead continued. "So when he walked in the door after work, " she made quote marks with her fingers, "I was waiting for him. 'What were you doing all day then? What am I going to pay the bills with? Are we getting unemployment money? What the fuck is wrong with you?'

"He had no answers for me and walked back to his truck and drove off.

"I did a little investigating. I called Ada at home and asked her what she knew. She said she heard he had a little something on the side and he'd been pretty flaky on the job. Couldn't give me a name, though. So, I thought, there's gotta be some way to find out if this is true.

"He came home around 1:30 in the morning. Drunk on his ass. Passed out on the living room rug. I was just so angry, so pissed off! I opened his fly and put green food coloring all over you-know-where, then I dragged his body out into the front lawn and put down his keys halfway to the front door, went inside and locked up. I couldn't sleep, I just sat in our room and read books until I heard him come in around five. I heard him go into the bathroom, and then into the kitchen."

"Well?" said the blonde. "Did he say anything?"

"No, not a word. He won't even look at me. We haven't said two words to each other since Friday night.

"But I guess I know."

(time and place are changed)

Huh? And Beggorah!

Ah, middle age...

At a dinner party last week, a bunch of us females decided we'd put a feast together for St. Patrick's Day. Ronelle said she'd make the corned beef and cabbage, Clang is making soda bread, Paula's making dessert. She's an expert baker, and she's committed to bring us sour cream coconut cake.

That heavenly dessert is all I can think about because the main course, like so many ethnic dishes, is too much salt and too much fat, mostly cheap calories. Ceremonial purpose cooking.

I got an email this morning from Paula asking if I'd be home today so she could drop some stuff off... "Sure," I said. "It's going to be a great time tonight. I'll get off work early."

"Tonight?" she replied, "I thought St. Pat's is tomorrow night." She is seven years younger than me and is kind.

Ah, yes. Today is Monday, March 16th.

Quick recovery from me: "Well, then... even better. We can save the cake for that."

Paula said, "Good. Because I'm baking it tonight. And the dinner's at Ronelle's house."

I think I'm bringing an appetizer... or a salad... or... I hope I can just find the car keys.

Steve and the Gypsy Woman

Livermore lies about 40 miles east of San Francisco, and in 1966 it was still a pretty small town. The downtown core was surrounded with middle class neighborhoods of the three bedroom, one and three-quarter bath, twelve hundred square foot rambler plans.The streets and cul de sacs ran back-to-back with no alleys, and boys often walked the fence lines to get to each other's houses. That really got on my mom's nerves because sometimes she'd still be in her house coat when a kid jumped down in front of the kitchen window, startling her.

"Can't you tell your friends to go to the front door and ring the bell?"

One 95 degree July afternoon, my friend Leslee and I were out in the cool garage inside a cardboard refrigerator box. We were playing, "Grapes of Wrath" after a book and movie our parents couldn't stop talking about. Her mother's and my mother's families had arrived in California when the dust bowl hit Oklahoma in the late 1930s and they couldn't remind us often enough of the hard times they lived through and how good we kids had it. Nine years old each, Leslee and I made entertainment out of it.

A cardboard refrigerator box became a tent at the edge of a sugar beet field somewhere in the Central Valley. We were "suffering," complaining of our empty stomachs and dirty faces. Leslee had taken two packages of Jello mix from her mom's kitchen,and we were dipping our fingers in it, licking it off, and proclaiming our good fortune in finding a meal for the day. She called me "Malcolm" and I called her "Clem," and we talked in phony Okie accents about the Mexicans who stole the gasoline out of our pitiful truck and left us stuck in an empty crop field. We were going to miss the hops harvest in Fresno.

We heard the gate open and close. Then the man-door of the garage opened, and in walked Annette. She found us. Annette was the five year old girl who lived next door. She was a very sweet little girl with the dark eyes, olive skin and wavy brown hair of her Sicilian family. Her brother and sister were in high school, so she had no siblings to play with, and her mother wouldn't let her leave the yard. Mrs. Certa was in her late 40s, at least. Always tired looking, stooped shouldered and baggy-eyed, she ambled along with her slip showing below a calico skirt. She usually wore a colorful apron with ruffles and seemed to be always cooking something. Mom complained that Mrs. Certa couldn't understand English, so didn't seem to get it when Mom sent Annette home several times a day.

"I tell Annette to go home and she won't stay home. I tell Mrs. Certa to keep her daughter at home, and she just smiles and nods at me. Annette walks into my house without knocking and always looks and smells like she needs a bath."

Certa's backyard was filled with tomato plants, strawberries and basil in very tidy rows. A small cement patio held two metal adirondack chairs with a small table stood in the middle, with gardening tools leaning against the house siding.

Annette wanted to play with us in the Stockton migrant workers' camp. She didn't want to go home.

"Tell you what," said Leslee, offering her soggy box of Jello. "You can play with us if we can go in your back yard and look at your garden. That was agreeable to Annette. So the three of us sat in the shade of an imaginary oak tree reminising about Oklahoma in the days of glory before the drought. Annette smiled at her orange Jello stained finger, and smiled at Leslee and me.

"Let's see that garden." said Leslee.

Annette said we should be quiet and not wake up her mother.

We crept through the mirror image of our own gate and tiptoed along the side path. The tomatoes were as tall as we were! There were bell shaped fruits we hadn't seen before, some huge red ones, ("Beefsteaks," pronounced Leslee), and some small round cherry tomatoes. At the far side of the yard in the semi shade was the basil, but we didn't know what that was. And in between the two crops were three rows of big, glistening strawberries.

I walked into a row of the pear shaped tomatoes and took a big whiff of herbaceous air. Leslee followed and held up a branch.

"Lookit!" She cried, then crouched down quickly realizing she'd breached the hush.

She held in her hand a big caterpillar-worm-looking creature. It was three inches long, bright green with red and yellow spots. There was a horn-like hook at the tail end. We easily found more and put them inside a terra cotta planting pot. They began to crawl out. By that time, we'd remembered the strawberries.

Annette said, "No! No! Can't have!" But Leslee and I already had our mouths full and we were filling the bottoms of our t shirts like pouches.

"I'll take some tomatoes to my mom," said Leslee, remembering the dust bowl.

Just then, my little brother, Steve came walking along the fence top. Pestier even than Annette, he wanted to see what we were doing.

"HEY!" He shouted at us.

Just then, Mrs. Certa began to open the patio door, her voice ahead of her, talking loudly in Italian. Steve hightailed it, and that distraction allowed Leslee, Annette and I to creep out the gate unnoticed. All the woman could see was the back side of my brother before he dropped into another back yard for safety.

Annette quietly went home, out the gate and through her own front door. Leslee walked down the street to share the produce bounty with her family.

Steve came home a few hours later after playing somewhere with his friends. He'd left his skateboard behind a previous visit, so was traveling via sidewalk rather than fenceline. He came running up from Hillcrest Avenue all sweaty and excited.

"Some Gyspy lady was following me!" he said. "I started up our street from Madeira Way and she was walking behind me. I didn't want to come all the way home because then she'd know where I live. I went around Duke Way and there she was again!"

He looked at Mom and Dad, who were a little doubtful. Steve was supposed to be home an hour earlier to clean his room, and it seemed a likely story.

"I went around Pestana Way and down to East Avenue, then up Hillcrest to get away from her. I think she's trying to kidnap me!"

Mom gave him chocolate milk to calm his nerves, then he went off to his room. Leslee and I had moved to the kitchen by then, and were examing a bottle of baby aspirin next to the toaster. She was just about to suggest we eat a few of those, when the doorbell rang. Mom yelled at Steve to answer the door.

He performed the duty and gave a loud scream, "It's her! Mom! It's the Gypsy and she's here to get me!"

We ran to the front room to rescue my little brother and see the Gypsy.

Little brown-eyed Annette peeked out from behind the colorful skirt of Mrs. Certa.

"She thinks he stole her strawberries," Annette said, eyes downcast.

The next time Annette came into our house without knocking, Mom put her in our bathtub.

I Know Why the Magtag Man is Lonely

Rick: "Mom, three of the dryers are acting up, and I can't get Don on the phone. Last week, his message said his voicemail box is full, this week it says the number is disconnected."

Mom: "Hmmmm. You remember last time we were able to get ahold of him, he apologized about being away from his phone so long. He said he'd been in jail."

Rick: "Jail?"

Mom: "Yep. And no, I didn't ask."

Don has been taking care of appliances around Anacortes for twenty years or more. He's not always on time, but his fixes are sure and his prices fair.

Mom: "Call around and see if we can find a new guy. Try the Yellow Pages, Craigslist, the want ads, whatever you can think of."

We bought the laundry machines from a small local dealer who has let his business deteriorate, making him hard to contact for parts, templates, and that sort of stuff. The last thing we'd heard was his bookkeeper had embezzled several thousand dollars or so and he was facing bankruptcy. We figured he had his hands full, so skipped him.

Thompson Appliance has a great showroom and good sales staff. We'd bought quite a few finer appliances from them, mostly for our residence, and they had serviced some of them. All were under warranty but one, and the charge seemed reasonable. One of their salesmen, Robin, was trying to woo our commercial business, but so far John has been happy with Lowes. They are right down the street from the apartments and they are rock bottom cheap. You don't want to put fancy stuff in apartments because of the abuses you can pretty much count on. Sometimes it's cheaper to replace one than bother fixing it. We figure a $299 range has a lifespan of seven years and then if it has to be replaced we don't cry about it.

Thompson's technician, a guy of about 24, Rick tells me, did arrive as scheduled and spent about two hours tinkering and cleaning lint out of hoses. New parts were discussed and written down on a pad.

The presentation of the charges frightened Rick, and he said he plead for mercy, but to no avail.
Rick: "You're not going to believe this bill, Mom. $525! The tech was a guy younger than me, all by himself and he wrote three separate invoices."

Mom: "I can't wait to hear how he came up with that number."

I still haven't seen the invoices, but I understand it goes something like this: First invoice is a $79 diagnostic charge plus some coded charges, second and third invoices have $40 diagnostic charges and more codes. When you add them all up you get $525 plus some change, and that does include 8% sales tax.

Mom to Thompson's service department: "Please explain your billing today for Mayfair Apartments' three commercial dryers."

Nancy (appointments and billing): "You had three appliances on the calendar. The invoicing is separated according to policy."

Mom: "So the service call is $79 plus $40 plus $40? You can stand in the center of the room and touch all three dryers!"

Nancy: "Not exactly. Those are diagnosis charges. Once we see the trouble, we bill from there."
Mom: "Each charge is for taking the panel off the box of each dryer? So, if you found a cat with a litter of kittens inside each, it would be $79, $40, $40, plus labor for the time spent counting the cats? What is your shop rate?"

Nancy: "We don't have a shop rate. We use book rates that are coded by the work performed."

Mom: "We don't know anything about your book. How do you justify $525 for 2 hours of work? That looks to me like over $225 an hour for labor no matter how you dress it."

Nancy: "You were not charged for the four screws we supplied."

Mom: "That depends on how you look at it. Where is your owner or manager? I'd like to talk to him."
Nancy: "Sharon is not here. She's out on a service call, but she'll call you back. I haven't charged your credit card yet, though."

Mom: "You'd better not!"

I transcribed the above and sent it to a website called Angie's List. That helped blow off a little steam. Then I thought, maybe I should talk to our guy, Robin, in sales.

Mom: "Robin, you should know what's going on with a repair order. It impacts you guys because we've been good customers and we're feeling a little alienated."

I told Robin the story.

Mom: "I know you don't set policy in the service department and it runs by separate ownership, but it does have the Thompson name on it, so I'm telling you as a courtesy. This kind of business does not reflect well on you."

Robin: "Service is separate from sales. But I will ask questions. I'm glad you told me about this because we usually find out about a service problem when it's too late. For instance, I can straighten out an installation glitch if I know about it. I can get a new unit to replace a faulty unit, but no one tells me until the customer is beyond rage."

Sharon called early in the afternoon to explain that she'd talk to her appointment secretary to see if she was lying about informing Rick of the charges and offering an estimate ahead of the appointment.

Mom: "Well, I don't know if anyone is lying, but I do believe Rick when he tells me the billing was a surprise at the end of the visit."

Sharon: "I'll get back to you. When can I reach you?"

Mom: "I'm getting a haircut but I'll be back by 5:00."

Sharon: "I'll be out on a service call."

Mom: "I can't fault you for that. For $225 an hour, I'd go on a service call, too. Would you like me to do it?"

Click.

This afternoon I got a call from someone named Joe. Joe cares about his customers and says Thompson is number one in quality and satisfaction. Cal Worthington spoke those words from his Ford dealership in South Seattle while posing with "His dog, Spot" on live tv until the Washington State Attorney General's Office chased him back to Long Beach, CA. (He's still there!)

I replayed the speach I gave to both women in service and to Robin.

Mom: "If someone had informed Rick how your billing works, and Rick could have told me, I could have directed Rick to call someone else. This appears less than straightforward to me. I'll pay the bill but I will not be happy about it and I will stay in communication with Angie's List until this matter is closed."

Joe: "You should understand as a service business we consider the diagnostic and coding charges as a matter of simplifying billing for our tech and ease of understanding for our customers.

Mom: "We have a service business ourselves as electrical contractors. We bill $115 for a service call. That's a minimum charge, but it includes the first hour of labor at the job site. We do not separate one fee for a light fixture, another fee for a circuit breaker and another fee for a wall outlet. The customer knows what the first hour will cost and we don't need codes for that. We'd never get away with what you do in our industry. We'd be out of business."

I doubt there will be a change of heart with these people. If they give us any kind of a break they will make it up with the next in-coming call.

I have not seen the Maytag Man in television advertisements for several years. I've heard he passed away, but I suspect he was murdered or is doing prison time somewhere.

If Joe calls back with more BS, I'll tell him to go see Cal.




(names have been changed)

A Night in Santa Monica

We are back from the Land of the Beautiful People. It was an impulsive decision based upon opportunity, air fares, and that Paul and Cindy have a beautiful home in a great area. Huntington Beach is removed from the congestion that is Orange County and the Greater Los Angeles area, but you can get to fantastic sights and venues within a half hour or so on the famous freeways. They were our next door neighbors when we lived in Parkside. Paul is a chemical engineer and was employed at Tesoro, Anacortes. When we met them, they were just back in the U.S. after seven years in Saudi Arabia on assignment. That made for lots of storytelling, and we got to know them as very interesting people.

Our plane landed at John Wayne International in torrents of rain. As the plane circled around the county airspace we could see a reservoir in the Anaheim Hills overflowing with muddy water toward a wash. Southern Californians don't handle rain very well. Hills slide downward and the roads become slick as water floats on oily asphalt. Nothing gets the regular rinsing we are used to in Western Washington. It stopped raining around days' end, though, and we were treated to a bright sunny day when we awoke on Saturday.
Paul took us to downtown Huntington Beach, along with Mabry their border collie, and we walked the commercial district, then along the beach for a couple miles, and back to the car through a residential neighborhood. Everybody in town was at the beach, celebrating that the Biblical floods had not returned and all was as it should be. The beaches are several blocks wide in some places, and carefully groomed. Law enforcement keeps a close eye on every cigarette butt, dog discharge, and might-be alcohol container. There are strict statutory limits to the fun you can have, but considering the population density, there are hardly grounds for complaint.
Cindy told me about some kind of raid that took place in their gated community a week or so ago. There were about five police cars and a helicopter participating about two blocks from their house. She said law enforcement is prompt and legion at most any complaint a citizen wants to call in. Just outside the city limits are the great unwashed, who are strongly encouraged to keep their mayhem on their side of the line.

When we returned to the house after the beach walk, Cindy was finished with her business and ready for a jaunt to Santa Monica and places trendy. We had tickets to a comedy club called the Groundlings, and the plan was to start at the Santa Monica Pier and work our way up Santa Monica Boulevard, through Beverly Hills on Melrose Avenue where the theatre is. They hadn't been up that way yet, so it was adventure for all four of us.
We passed the house that had entertained law enforcment the week before. There were balloons and crepe paper hung around the yard. "A birthday party?" Cindy asked. "More likely a Released Pending Trial party," said Paul.
We did not see the Bluth family frozen banana stand at the Pier. You can get your name written on a grain of rice, have your image sculpted with modeling clay, buy a churro, ride on a carousel, and enjoy all of the attractions California's pier parks are famous for. The amusement park looks a little tired, so do most of the vendors and performers along the walk. A man with a marionette called feebly to the passersby... his companion's strings were tangled and all they could muster was standing up and sitting down (an occasional turn) to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" on a boom box. One fairly well-dressed black man played Jimmy Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn compositions on an out-of-tune electric guitar. A Japanese-American had the big spot at the end of the pier (past the greasy waterfront seafood restaurant) with a rythym ace and synthesizer. His guitar played one melody while the rythym ace and synthesizer seemed to be set to their own melodies. He sang in Spanish with an Asian accent. No one seemed to mind. The few tourists sitting in the bleachers applauded and tipped him. John said we needed to move on before he got carsick.

A dozen people fished at the end of the dock while sail boats zigged and zagged out in the ocean. Some seals and pelicans sat on rocks that jutted here and there.

We left that idyllic scene for the Third Street Promenade that Cindy had heard about. While stepping away from the boardwalk, I was thinking where is the fantastic talent I hear about this close to Hollywood? Why is this famous Pier so sleezy? And just then, in the shadow of the Pier's police station was a young man with a guitar in tune and a very good voice singing something, probably original, with a small appreciative audience. But the march was on, so I couldn't stop.There are lots of Promenades in Southern California. That is what they call a sort of outdoor mall that is a transformed section of downtown retail blocks. The downtown cores that once died because of exciting new shopping malls are finding new life by turning the streets into wide pedestrian avenues. Restaurants have sidewalk seating and stores can display enticing samples of merchandise in front of their windows.
Street performers are of a better quality than at the Santa Monica Pier. A little bit of everything... a Flamenco guitarist, a high school jazz band, and a puzzling gymnastic performance by an amputee. This is not high-end retail, but what you might see at a small town mall: Crate and Barrel, Victoria's Secret, Baskin Robbins... that sort of thing.
Marching and promenading had taken us past lunch and we were all getting a little hungry. It was a little too cold, even by Washington standards, to sit at a sidewalk table. We found a pretty nice Italian restaurant that had some window tables. It was Valentines Day, and a Saturday, but only 4:00, so we inquired about one of the window tables. Yes, said the hostess, but I need the table at 5:15 or so.
Dinner was very good, and we enjoyed watching the people walking by. Some tourists, some locals in varying degrees of wonder and boredom.
Behind us in the dining room, two busboys carried a deuce table and two chairs, then plunked it down between two others, reducing the gap. Then came another. And another. Just like in the Marx Brothers movie, "A Night in Casablanca." Harpo and Chico were trying to find money for Groucho's bail. They discovered that the nightclub Maitre'd received a big tip each time he seated a couple. Harpo and Chico quickly began bringing in one table after another until the dance floor shrank to nothing while the patrons became dismayed. Chico flourished the wad of currency, shook hands with a grinning Harpo, and they rushed off to free Groucho.
I can't say much about Beverly Hills except that it looks fantastic, even in the dark. There are valet stands in the middle of each block, sometimes one on each corner. I counted three Pilates studios among the boutiques and bistros. This is clearly a neighborhood of elegance and convenience. You will not see a McDonald's or Blockbuster here.
Melrose Avenue is for the elegant eccentrics. The chic dining and valet stands continue, but are also stores called "Retail Slut," "The Freak Show Tattoo and Body Piercing Studio," and the "Snake Pit Ale House." But these are not the kind you find at Venice Beach... no, you need a platinum Visa card in your wallet.
That is where the Groundlings' theater is. Down the street a half mile or so is the Improv and some other famous places. I think someone said Paramount Pictures is nearby. The Groundlings perform in a very small venue. Maybe it seats seventy five people. There is a three-piece band tucked into a corner and a semi-circle wooden stage with a center curtain and a stage door on either side.
From Wikipedia: "The Groundlings is an improvisational comedy troupe based in Los Angeles, California, USA. The troupe was formed by Gary Austin in 1974 and uses an improv format influenced by Viola Spolin to produce sketches and improvised scenes. Many Groundlings performers have found success in movies and television, including several who have become cast members and writers on Saturday Night Live, MADtv, and Reno 911!."
I'm not going to write a review, but I will say this is one of the best shows I've seen in years. It was funny without being dirty... there was a little nautiness, but you could take your auntie to it.

After the show, as we stood at the valet stand waiting for the car, I looked around and said, "It's 10:00 and this street is just getting started!" Paul said it would stay festive until 2 a.m. He and John looked over toward El Guapo Rock & Roll Cantina. Cindy and I shook our heads. Overstimulated and worn out, we climbed into the car to close the evening.