Help wanted

Best "Help Wanted" ad in today's Davis Enterprise:

"People needed with experience in Caponizing chickens. Must have 2 years experience. Interviews between 8am-5pm all week. Contact Wong Farm."

I wonder what the interview consists of (and what happens to the chickens that "participate").

Smoke gets in your eyes

And in your lungs, which is much worse, healthwise. This morning the air seemed better; not good, but improved. At 6:30 I rode my bike to the athletic club, and at 9:30 to South Davis, and while the air wasn't anywhere close to being clear, it seemed possible that the worst of the smoke pollution was over.

I was wrong. Sitting at my computer here in the living room, all the windows open, about noon I began to smell smoke. Looking outside, the air was thick again, burning my eyes and giving me a headache. So it was back to closing the windows and turning on the air conditioner, and counting myself fortunate that I don't have a job that requires me to be outside in this stuff.

Whether that particular upsurge resulted from a new fire or just a wind shift that blew more our way, I don't know. But it's a bad start to the summer. Very bad.

Building better mousetraps

I have mice, or rats; something, anyway, that has left its calling card that says "A rodent was here." So I went looking for disposal methods.

Somewhere, there's a man whose path to his front door must be a six-lane highway, because there's a mousetrap to suit the preference of even the most fastidious rodent assassin. There are two major brands in the mouse-and-rat trap biz, Victor and d-Con. Both offer a wide line of killing tools, from baits that poison the little critters to traps ranging in sophistication from the classic snap trap ("proof of rodent death" being the major selling point here) to the slightly more upscale glue traps (ditto) and the d-Con "no see-a da mousie, no touch-a da mousie" disposable trap (bait it with peanut butter, rotate the top, set in place, and when the indicator on the top says "bingo!" (or something to that effect), you simply pick it up and throw it in the Dumpster) to the truly high-tech electronic mouse trap, which uses four AA batteries to electrocute the invaders.

I don't want to use poison (the victims die who knows where and then putrify) and spring traps are out of the question (the chances of simply maiming the poor beast by catching a foot or nose makes me weep), and even the "quick kill" feature of the electrocution method arouse the humanitarian in me. I don't want to kill the little guys; they're just trying to make a living like everybody else. I just don't want them doing it in my house.

Luckily, for the softies in the crowd, there is the Victor Sonic Pest Chaser, which uses high-frequency sound to repel them. (N.B.: Unless you want your gerbil to suffer a psychotic break, do not use this method.) Plug it into a wall socket and the rodents go elsewhere. That, anyway, is the idea. I bought a twin pack and put one in the kitchen and one in the living room. I have no idea if this will work, or, since it's high frequency, even if they're emitting anything at all, except perhaps a high-frequency laugh.

Games for your brain

"The Daily Overlook"  listed this yesterday. Try "Dragger."

Road trip

My friend Dorothy and her son John took John's daughters to camp yesterday, and two days earlier, Dorothy had invited me to come along. So Saturday evening I stuffed a few things in a daypack and joined them.

Camp Towonga is in the Sierra, near Yosemite, so following a stop in Groveland for a picnic lunch, we deposited the girls at camp and took Hwy 120 up to Tuolumne Meadows. We stopped first at the west end of the meadow and followed the trail over to Pothole Dome and walked up it about halfway. From there we had a great view of Cathedral, Unicorn and Cockscomb (sp?) peaks and the meadow below, ribboned with water. All that exfoliating granite encircling us . . . unlike any place else on earth.

Descending from there, we drove a bit farther and walked up the trail toward Soda Spring. The trail crosses the Tuolumne River, small at this elevation but moving quickly, a portent of its much stronger and swifter iteration as it drops down the mountain. At Soda Spring, I scooped up a handful of the carbonated water that bubbles mysteriously from the rock; it tasted a bit like Alka-Seltzer. On the way back to the road, encountered a half-dozen or so marmots, fat and sleek, snuffling through the grass. They look like sombody's pet, soft and furry and cute.

Once back to the car, we drove to Olmstead Point and gazed out over the valley (terribly hazy due to so many fires). Past Tenaya Lake and up and over Tioga Pass, elev. 9,943 ft., and I got a good look at Mt. Dana; some years ago I hiked to the very top of that mountain. It's 13,061 feet high, and other than as a passenger in an airplane, the highest place I've ever been.

Once over the pass, the road descends steeply through a landscape completely different than that on the west side of the Sierra—drier, harsher, unglaciated. Found a place to stay in Lee Vining—a motel that has as one of its "rooms" a double-wide mobile home. For $150, we each had our own queen-sized bed in our own bedroom; two bathrooms. There was also a kitchen and a large living room (with a fireplace), but we took no advantage of those; instead, we went to dinner at the Whoa Nellie Deli, conveniently located inside the Mobil station at the foot of Tioga Pass—unprepossessing ambience, fantastic (and unlikely) menu, deliciously prepared. Dorothy and I had fish tacos; John had ahi tuna.

This morning John got on his bike and rode north on 395; Dorothy and I split a bear claw with coffee in the garden of the motel, then headed up the highway, meeting John at Walker Burger in Walker. From there we drove into Reno, where John lives; he took us to the Greyhound station and we boarded the 12:30 bus to Sacramento, arriving around 3:30. I'd left my car at the bus depot Sunday morning, and so drove Dorothy home before heading back to Davis.

Gone from home less than 36 hours . . . the best kind of road trip there is.

It's about time

Shelly Bailes and Ellen Pontes held their wedding reception this evening at the Vets Memorial Center. They invited everyone in town who wanted to wish them well and to celebrate and support the right of same-sex couples to marry. It's a good thing they held the event in the Vets, because it was packed. So many people, gay and straight, couples and singles, came to celebrate. They had five wedding cakes. Four were sheet cakes, each with a different phrase: "It's about love," "It's about marriage," and "It's about time!"; the last of the four said "Ellen and Shelly." The fifth cake was a "traditional" tiered cake; it was topped with two brides.

One of the best moments was when Shelly and Ellen asked all of the couples in attendance who planned to be married to come up and join them at the front of the room. There were so many, I couldn't count them all. Among them were my old friend Buzz and his partner, Sam, who will marry July 20, and Bob Bynum (who, in 1984, hired me to edit Staff News in the UC Davis Office of Public Affairs, thus inadvertently launching my career as a writer and editor) and his partner of 20 years, Peter, who got married this past week. If the voters in California could have seen the happiness in that room, the fate of the proposition banning same-sex marriage would be sealed. Mazel tov to them all!

Evening with friends

Arrived at Susan and Jim's about 5:45 bearing tortilla chips, salsa and a six-pack of Pacifico, which the three of us enjoyed out by the pool, chatting about U.S. immigration restrictions on bringing pork (in any form) into the U.S. from Mexico and skullduggery and intrigue in Elizabeth I's England. Jim eventually retired to the house to continue reading his book, and Susan and I took ourselves to Pasta Q?, where we had a lovely, leisurely dinner on the terrace (Susan had Caesar salad, I had the insalate alla mediterrane (tuna, green beans, hard-boiled egg, and tomatoes on a bed of greens--like salade nicoise minus the anchovies and potatoes). We both had a glass of pinot grigio, which went well with such a warm summer evening. And having such a charming Italian-speaking waiter was better than having dessert. Molto bene!

The Highway 99 Series

The Sacramento River Cats are playing the Fresno Grizzlies for the next few days, and the 'Cats promotion people are billing it as the Highway 99 Series. So far, the series is tied at one game apiece; last night's went in favor of the Grizz, but tonight it was all River Cats, who had 10 hits to Fresno's one and won the game 3-zip. [Correction: the final score was River Cats 4, Grizz 0.)

Usually, I root for the 'Cats, but when they're playing Fresno, the Giants' Triple A affiliate, it's a different story. Seems like nearly half of the Grizzly players are guys I know from the Bigs--many were with the Giants until just recently, while others have been back at Fresno since just after Spring Training ended. It's fun to see them in this smaller ballpark.

And tonight, thanks to Liese and a client of her firm's, we really got to see them, up close and personal. The tickets Liese had and shared with Susan and me were for the Founders Club. Translation: in the front row. And I mean The Front Row, right up against the screen that separates the field from the stands, right behind home plate. Padded chairs, chairside food and drink service, bird's eye (actually, nearly a worm's eye view) of the action. Quite a treat. We felt like rich people. And we saw a great baseball game.

A day in The City

My friend Dorothy and I took the train this morning to the new Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco. The architecture is striking, starkly modern elements juxtaposed with a 19th century brick powerhouse, a blend made necessary by the latter's being listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But the architect, Daniel Liebskind, made it work beautifully, both outside and (especially) in. The interior space is broken up in interesting ways, each area feeling both cozy and spacious. The current exhibitions (there is no permanent collection) include "Being Jewish: A Bay Area Portrait," a photo montage accompanying various items ranging from Jewish ritual items (menorahs both modern and old, a spice box in the shape of the Transamerica pyramid) to the whimsical—a denim yarmulke made by Levi Strauss complete with the rivet at the top and, my favorite, the Rally Rabbi bobblehead handed out to fans at the Giants' 2007 Jewish Heritage Night—a Hassidic rabbi blowing a shofar and wearing a typical wide-brimmed black hat emblazoned with the orange intertwined "SF" logo. If I can find one on eBay, I'll buy it, money (almost) no object. There's also an exhibit entitled "In the Beginning: Artists Respond to Genesis" (plenty to see and think about in this one) and "From The New Yorker to Shrek: The Art of William Steig."

We had a lovely day; fun train ride, great weather, and a delicious lunch at the museum cafe, lots of time to talk, and I was back home in Davis by 7:15.

Father's Day

Some things my father gave me:

The enjoyment of baseball, not only the game itself but the things that go with it: the words to "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," the seventh-inning stretch, booing the umpires.

My nickname, "Cuccie," short for Cuccinello, as in Tony Cuccinello (nickname "Cooch"), an infielder with the Chicago White Sox who, while my mother was pregnant with me, made some amazing play or hit a home run or some such feat; said feat played a pivotal role in my father's winning a bet and resulted in his bestowing the nickname on me in utero. I shed it forceably at age 11, which I think hurt my father's feelings greatly.

The ability to play gin rummy, which I haven't played in years. I actually like to play cards, period, and used to do it a lot. Pinochle, anyone?

Brown eyes.

Nightmare in St. Louis

The Philadelphia Phillies are leading the St. Louis Cardinals 20-2 (no, that's not a typo; the score is Phils 20, Cards 2). And it's the 8th inning . . . or maybe the third quarter . . .

Notes on a bike ride

Short ride on the Tour de Trash-plus-Wastewater Treatment Plant loop, ca. 9:30 a.m. . . . Northwest wind presenting a small challenge heading north and west, lending a push going east and south . . . Along Rd 28H (aka The Dump Road), egrets small and large in the field to the north, and, on a wire to the south, astonishingly, an owl; no binoculars with me, so couldn't see what kind, but its ears were clearly visible . . . down past the wastewater treatment plant with its pungent scent of sulphur and a lovely view to the south . . .

Returning to Rd. 106, an encounter with another group of bikers, these a bit bigger (and louder) than mine . . .

One more photo, this one to the west from the bridge, then home . . .

N.B.: These pix taken with my cell phone and e-mailed from same to my computer. Ain't technology grand?

Running hot and cold (and windy)

A week ago today, the temperature was in triple digits. Midweek, we had gale-force winds. Today, the high was forecast to hit a whopping 61 degrees, with lots of chance of rain. I'm sure climate change is more complex than this, but if you ask me, this past week may be the phenomenon's seven-day cameo appearance.

Test case

My car is a 1985 Honda Accord LX. By virtue of its advanced age, every two years the DMV requires me to take it to a "test only" place to be smogged. In every previous instance, the car has passed the test with good marks, but every time it's due for another test, I wonder, will this be the year it fails? And if it fails, will I be able to get it repaired so it'll pass the second time around?

This has been a great car. I bought it used in 1987, when it had 25,000 miles on the odometer, and from then until now, just a few miles shy of 170,000, it's been everything I'd want in a vehicle. It's reliable, starts every time, is economical to run, and can hold a surprising amount of stuff, especially with the back seats folded down. Like its owner, it's showing its age a bit—some things don't work any more (I carry bottles of water to dump on the windshield because the window washer tank has a leak; the power assist steering cylinder leaks, too, so when I realize I'm working hard to crank into a parking space, I go get that filled; and there's a hammer on the floor in the front seat to whack the AC/heater fan housing when it gets stuck), and there are some places that could use a cosmtic touchup (driver's side upholstery worn down to the foam interior, sun visor fabric shredding . . .) But it runs, it's paid for, the registration is $60 a year, and my insurance is laughably cheap. So even though I occasionally think that, gee, having a newer car would be nice (and have a lot more safety features on it than my current car), I can't see any good reason to give this one up.

Unless it doesn't pass its smog test. So when I took it to E-Z Smog this morning, I focused on thinking positively, remembering how it passed all those other years, but worrying nonetheless—would this be The Year It Failed?

I needn't have worried. My little Honda passed, and not just by a hair; all the scores were good ones. So the two of us are good for another couple of years. I'm lucky to have her.

In honor of passing the smog test, I put the Obama bumper sticker on. It joins Clinton/Gore 96, there on the left, and John Kerry in the center. I'm hoping Barack does as well with his challenge as my little Honda did with its today.

While I was waiting for the test to be run, I copied down some of the signs in E-Z Smog shop:
On a sign headed "Anything broken? Altered?":
Malfunctions examples: Added ground effects/running boards/air damn
On a sign detailing types of payment accepted:
"The only restriction on cash is that it not be counterfeit. (If you are a counterfeiter, we apologize for the inconvenience.)"

Going (sort of) public

I've never been terribly "out there" with this blog, meaning I haven't distributed the URL far and wide. I don't include it in my e-mail signature, for instance, or otherwise refer to it. I shared it with family and a few friends, and if they read it, great. Sometimes they comment on a particular post, and I recognize their names when they appear in the moderation section.

So I was utterly disconcerted when, a couple of days ago, two comments on my Double Century post appeared from two people I don't know and who had read what I wrote without my knowing it. It felt downright Peeping Tom-ish. I guess those two bloggers have some search thing they do to find posts on cycling, as both of their sites have to do with riding, but I'm so unsophisticated in the ways of blogging that I have no idea how that works, or even that there is such a thing.

With the possible exception of a grocery list (and I can make a good argument that a grocery list reveals a lot), writing makes the writer vulnerable. Discovering that I've been read by unknown readers was a reminder of how comfortable it is to be anonymous, and how important it is, sometimes, not to be.

Yarhzeit

My mother died 35 years ago today, just a few weeks shy of her 61st birthday. Trying to write about her life and my feelings for and about her runs up against the dam holding back the words—fragments of sentences, whole paragraphs, inchoate emotions that swirl and churn, rise to the surface and are pulled deep again. It's like a rapid below a steep drop in the river, too much turbulence to stay there long. Better to get downstream a bit . . . I miss my mom. Most of all, I think, I miss what I missed.

Today is also the 31st anniversary of the day I quit smoking—May 18, 1987. The occasion was a 3-day whitewater trip on the Cal Salmon River. The coincidence of it being the same date as my mother's death is just that—a coincidence. I think.

Double Century

I'm sitting in the Davis Double Century HQ room, aka the Games Room at Vets Memorial, listening to the radio guys talk to the sags out on the course and watching the real-time map projected on the wall that shows where our last rider is. It's been a blisteringly hot day—at one point I checked the Web and the temp in Davis showed 106 degrees—and many more riders than usual are folding and needing to be sagged back to Davis. But many more continued to ride, despite the scorching temperature, which is made even more brutal from the heat reflecting off the asphalt. Riding in these conditions is exactly like riding in a Brobdinagian pizza oven.

I've been here since 4 a.m. after being here last night until around 10. I'm registration coordinator again this year, meaning I'm in charge of making sure those who registered get processed properly and that I get late-entry people into the system. It's fun but exhausting, especially at this point (10:15pm) when I've been up for so long and know that there is still much to do before I can go home and go to bed. There's all the rest stop food that's been brought back here to deal with, cleanup in general, plus waiting for the last riders to come in, which sometimes isn't until nearly 1 a.m. So, I'm tired, and getting tireder, and will be tireder still. But I'm glad to be here. Really. And the riders are so appreciative it's humbling. So I'll be here next year, if they'll let me.

I scream, you scream . . .

Today's L.A. Times carried the obituary of Irvine Robbins, who, along with his brother-in-law Burton Baskin, founded the Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors ice cream stores. Nowadays there are lots of specialty ice creams around, featuring plenty of exotic flavors (along with astronomically high fat content), but for me, starting when I was a kid, 31 Flavors (as I've always called it) has remained the definitive ice cream shop. Not only did they have lots of flavors (I was partial to coffee, butterscotch ribbon and lemon custard) but they made ice cream cakes, some of which graced the birthday parties of my two boys.

This evening, I walked down to 31 Flavors in the E Street Plaza to buy a cone and raise it in tribute to Mr. Robbins. When I got there, the place was mobbed, the line stretching out the door. While I'd like to think this crowd was due to everyone having had the same idea as I, I have a feeling it had more to do with the warm evening. Not willing to stand in that line, I walked home coneless. But I'll be back.

Water baby

My synagogue held a fund-raiser a few weeks ago, and I ended up being the high bidder for a one-month membership at the Davis Athletic Club ($30—woo hoo!), so yesterday morning I activated it and went to the 8 a.m. aqua aerobics class. I'd been to it before, a few years ago when I was a regular DAC member, and my body has been wanting to get back to it.

This early-morning class is taught in what DAC calls the functional therapy pool. It's considerably smaller than the lap pool and—much the best feature—the water is warm; yesterday the announced temp was 88 degrees. So even if the air is chilly, entering the water feels wonderful. And you can get a good workout, or at least you can if you're not chit-chatting with your classmates the entire time; that element hasn't changed since I was last there. Clearly, some people see the class as a chance to catch up on their friends' lives and fill them in on their own. I know several of the women (and most of the class is female, though there are a few men), and I'm sure they think I'm antisocial because I don't engage with them when they greet me, but I don't want to multi-task during a workout, and besides, I'm concentrating too much on following the instructor (who is quite good and has the patience of Job; if I were she, I'd banish all the talkers to the far corner of the pool and tell 'em to yak out of the way of other people who are there to actually exercise. Harrumph.).

On the other hand, it's a good place to get your head on straight regarding body image. Like many women, I've spent a good deal of my life being critical of various parts of my body—legs too big, breasts too small, upper arms too flabby, blah blah blah—the only variations on the theme being the parts currently under the microscope. But spend some time watching older women emerge from the locker room and enter the pool. Talk about your variations in size and shape. As you might expect, given the time of this class, nearly all the students are "mature"; i.e., well into their 60s, some in their 70s, maybe a few 80-year-olds. Looking at them, with all their lumps, veins, and bulges, I felt simultaneous relief and humility. Relieved that despite my less-than-ideal weight and fitness level I'm in way, way better shape than most of them, and humbled (and a bit ashamed ) to think that I'm so damned vain. Good time to get over myself.

P.S. As promised, here are a couple of pictures of the results of Sunday's planting spree:

Salvia (foreground), Moroccan mint and lavender
(non-working fountain visible in background)

The herb pot
(basil, parsley, oregano, chives)
Blue Moon lobelia

Babz' Bistro

Dust Bowl goes green

Well, a little bit green, anyway. Time was, I had a lot of plants growing in pots and planters on my deck, but over the past few years, for reasons circumstantial (my landlord tore the deck off to fix the leak in the ceiling of the flat downstairs and it didn't get rebuilt for nearly 18 months) and whimsical (I had no energy for it), I've let it languish. Seeing all those pots out there, many half-full of bone-dry planting soil, began to get to me, and I've been promising myself that I'd get something in them soon.

Today was the day. I went to Davis Lumber and picked up little pots of basil, parsley (curley and flat-leaf), chives, oregano, and mint; a pony pack of Blue Moon lobelia, and two 4-in. pots, one holding a salvia, the other a lavender plant, along with two bags of potting soil. The herbs (except for the mint) went into a strawberry pot I've had for years; the lobelia I stuck in the small places around said pot. The mint got its own pot; ditto the salvia and the lavender.

This doesn't sound like much to plant, and if you just think about the number of plants, it's not. But I had to empty dirt out of each pot into a big plastic tub I brought upstairs for the purpose (being upstairs has its drawbacks), mix new potting soil in with some old, refill the pots after cleaning them up, shlep unused pots to a less conspicuous spot on the deck, sweep up dirt and other various bits, move the newly filled pots to where I want them, move them again when I decide that's not the place, after all, fetch water from the kitchen sink in a gallon milk container (no hose upstairs), repot a couple of languishing succulents and hope for the best, futz with decorative fountain that seems to be clogged (probably by pine needles) and will need to be taken apart, just not today, sweep some more, haul excess dirt downstairs and dump in alley . . . well, you get the idea. Luckily, the Giants-Phillies game was on, and my portable radio had fresh batteries, so it was pleasat, if tiring, work. Would have been more pleasant if the Giants had managed to win, but so it goes.

By the time I was done, it was time to shower and get ready to go to the Woodland Chamber Singers spring concert in Woodland (it was terrific!), so there wasn't time to take any photos. But I'll do that tomorrow and post them then. Tonight I'm just uttering small prayers that it all survives.