Cocktails with the Noonday Demon

Back Home, remembering Moab

2006-06-13T05:44:00.000-07:00

What is it, like, a month since I've been home from my trip? And still I haven't posted about one of my most favorite stops on the road. Sheesh!

My life is like that. I hop off of one thing, sometimes a hair too soon, and I'm ready to get cracking on another. Of course, the current 'another' is finding a job and settling down into my house. Not quite as alluring as a road trip, unless you've been on one for three months.

I had a choice while back up in Washington state of routes through Utah. One would have taken me to the Northern rim of the Grand Canyon, and for a while that was the plan. Then a friend called and told me she'd be in southern Colorado, and would I be into meeting up in Taos, NM. I said hell yeah, and so my new route would take me through Moab. Oh well, I thought, I'm sure it's pretty there, too.

Oh my God. Am I on Mars? This one's from Canyonlands National Park, a vast landscape of sandstone sculptures, winding riverbeds, buttes and canyons. I went on a six-mile hike in the Needles District on fine day, and it was amazing. Except for those kids...there was this young couple of yups and their two wild boys just ahead of me who all felt that the 'Stay on the Trail' did not apply to children, who were free to stomp up the delicate plant life to their heart's content. Little fuckers.

Now you know how I love my roadside attractions. Just about forty-five minutes south of Moab is Hole 'N The Rock, which delivered all the things I crave: a great story, endless kitsch, and emus. Albert and Gladys Christensen called this 5,000 square foot excavated sandstone home, and both were buried in a little grotto just outside of it (check out the website for photos of the inside.)
Ah, Albert was such a multitalented man: Frankenstein like taxidermy, oil paintings of FDR, Indians and Our Lord, and...well, blowing giant holes in rock. His wife favored beadery and doll collections. The two of them lived inside the rock and ran a cafe in front of the living quarters during the uranium boom. He was working on an elevator shaft that would access a desert rock garden at the top of the rock when he died in 1957. Gladys stayed in the house until her death in '74 and even fashioned herself a rock bathtub. It has since changed hands a couple of times and now belongs to a family from SLC whose youngest son---I'm guessing 13---was the consummate tour guide. Onsite emus will give you dirty looks for free. Don't pass it up if you're ever out there.

Arches National Park is just a hair north of Moab, and was the inspiration for all those Road Runner cartoons. The most famous formation, Delicate Arch, is the shamelessly ubiquitous image on every liscense plate, body shop sign and plastic cup in the city. I was determined to see it right at sunset, when everyone scrambles up a half mile of slickrock to see the play of deep orange light on the sandrock. I was so busy with my dinner at Buck's Grill House (which I recommend) that I lost track of the time and had to haul ass and still missed the Golden Moment. I sat in the waning light and watched an old man walk around the base of this gorgeous formation, and It Was Good.

Oh, man, what else? There was horseback riding and rafting and the German woman who took off her pants. A few of the local servers were surly, and for the love of God, do NOT eat at the Slickrock Cafe. The service will make you feel like killing someone.

T.

Please Stand By (Glass in Hand, Of Course)

2006-05-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

Some dastardly imp has wiggled into my system and taken out my Mobile Technology, dammit. But don't despair. I may even be able to get an adapter and post tonight after a scheduled interview today. To keep your spirits (and interest) aloft, here's a list of Coming Soons:

There are four categories of scenic beauty: Pretty, Beautiful, Gorgeous, and I Just Crapped Myself. Find out where in the world one can find that last category.
Crazy for Americana Roadside? How 'bout paintings of Jesus, blowing holes in sandstone, or taxidermy? Southern Utah's own Hole N The Rock Rules.

...And much, much more.

Now go have a nice glass of Mer-lott and relax. I'll be back soon!

Waitsburg, It's Gonna Happen

2006-05-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

So, you've been to all the wineries in Walla Walla, you've cruised Main Street for hot octogenarians, been to the coffee shops to listen to the teen gossip, and you've tripped on the balloon festival. Now what?

Drive half an hour's worth of east. Seriously. First of all, it's a jaw-dropper drive, especially now in the springtime when the big rolling hills are bright green with new wheat. You'll pass a few teeny picturesque villages with the requisite crumbling barns, then head into what looks like a freaking ghost town. Then you'll be pissed off at me, wondering wtf I made you drive out here for. But you gotta look a little closer.

Ah-hah. There's something. It looks like a cool dive bar. Sure 'nuff, you've found the Lyon's Den, a true specimen of the Renaissance Dive, having all the scruffy edges intact, but with a replenishment of spirit vis a vis a newly built, see-through cooler trimmed in polished wood. There's a good collection of local Washington vino, freshly made pizzas, pool tables for the brave who dare challenge the locals, and a growing list of live music. Really bitchin' tee shirts, too. Gotta have one of those.

So you now have your beer buzz on, and wanna know what else is up in this teeny town. Is it 3pm yet? Good--go on out the door, and jaunt your hungry ass over to the destination place all the Walla Wallans are rightfully screaming about.

The Whoopemup Hollow Cafe is--how do I say this properly?---The Shit. Not since Gramma have I had such tender corn fritters. Scratch that, they're better than hers. But what I really dug was that this place takes the essential ingredients of beloved Southern and Cajun cooking and reinvents them anew. I had a dish that simply blew me away: the sweet potato ravioli served in a tomato sauce with country ham and wilted greens. Familiar flavors rearranged into something completely unique. Excellent work, people.

So now I have to know what dessert's like. The Coca-Cola cake reminded me of all the crazy vintage Better Homes and Gardens magazines I so treasure, so I ordered that.

This is the kind of dessert that widens your eyes like when you were a tot, and the Baskin Robbins 7-scoop Matterhorn was laid before you. It makes you giggle. You dig in and find that the combination of chocolate, cola and super creamy meringue makes this baby way more than a cute presentation. Damn, that's good.

You're not going to find much more out of the ordinary in Waitsburg...yet. But there's a lot of buildings that have been bought up lately by key players like Charles Smith of K Vintners. You'll get the feeling, though, that this is a tiny town on the verge of becoming a bonafide destination. And you can say you were there in the old days, before the Starbucks moved in.

Better visit now.

Judd Cove Oysters

2006-05-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

I couldn't have told you how oysters were farmed, either, until I went to Orcas Island. Yeah, water's obviously involved--the average oyster filters fifty gallons of it through its body a day--but beyond that, I had no idea.

As you head east out of the small village of Eastsound, you turn a bend that suddenly reveals a picturesque cove lined around with a wide band of flotsam, mostly water-bleached tree trunks and abandoned clamshells, with a gull or two pecking around for scraps. You might mistake the oyster beds for sticks peeking out above the water at high tide, but when the tide's out, it's obvious...sort of.

Neat rows of what look like sticks lined with rope kinda look like the rows of vines I've been photographing this whole trip. Several rows seem only to be a single oyster shell attached to the yellow rope, while the others are gnarly, amorphous clumps of shell and barnacle; the individual oyster is hard to pick out. I'm all questions at this point: how many oysters are in that mess? How long do they take to grow? Do I get in a lot of trouble if I eat one?

As if by edict of the Cove God, a big yellow truck rolled up and out stepped Bill Bawden and his assistant Elijah. I'd been advised to look for "the tall fair-haired guy with the huge hands" by my friends at the Inn at Ship Bay. Lo, there he was. I shook one of those big hands, which were every bit as rough as the oyster shells that had rendered them so. "You're gorgeous!" he exclaimed to me with a big boyish grin.

Aw, shucks.

Bill and Elijah rolled gray wheelbarrows out to a lot of rows. Harvesting is done by sawing the oyster-heavy ropes off the pvc that holds them, and is done to-order rather than all at once. Bill names off the amount each restaurant has requested, including the Inn at Ship Bay, which has ordered several dozen. It's an approximate business, since it's difficult to tell exactly how many of the little guys are hiding in one big chunk. After they're harvested, they go to a separate processing plant to be separated, de-barnacled and sorted for delivery.

"See this little guy here? He goes for about thirty dollars a dozen in New York," Bill says as he shucks one open for me. Wow. I had no idea I was in the presence of such oyster greatness. It's only right then that I realize the prestige of the farm I'm standing in: Jude Cove is one of the most beloved of the oyster beds on the Pacific Coast. Bill explains the price tag: these crustaceans are raised the old fashioned way, seeded on a 'mother shell' attached to the rope, rather than in mesh bags. The oysters that grow on the bottom of the clump have much thinner shells, and therefore spend more time growing their own bodies rather than worrying too much about protection. It takes around three years for the oysters to reach maturity, so seeding and harvesting are in constant cycle.

He hands the oyster to me. I knock it back. It tastes like seabreeze and butter. Fantastic.

I wondered why a famous restaurant on the opposite coast would be into buying from somplace so far away. Surely they've got an oyster or two over there. Water quality has a lot to do with the high regard for this farm. "I sent my water in to be tested, and they joked with me that I was cheating, it was so clean," Bill says.

I naturally had to have a dozen after my visit. I must testify: they're oysterlicious. And knowing where they're grown kinda makes me feel special. Like I'm in-the-know. I know the oyster farmer, so there.

I'm easily amused.

*****

I am so very far away from Orcas Island now. On the opposite end of the state, as a matter of fact. Give ya a hint: glowing balloons.

Shh...Don't Tell Anyone: I'm on an Island

2006-05-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

If you follow both this blog and The Cork and Demon wineblog, you're probably assuming I'm somewhere in Oregon still, photographing starfish and winemakers. I actually slipped off last week to Orcas Island, the largest of the San Juans, between the coasts of Victoria, BC and Washington state. It's an hour's ferry ride from Anacortes. I've been posting the wine stories at my leisure, fitting them in between hiking, beachcombing and stuffing my face with some of the best food I've had on this trip. My friend Luke, who I've known since we were eighth-grade troublemakers in Catholic school, is the innkeeper here at the Inn at Ship Bay, which is so very cool that it warrants its very own post which will come up soon.

The first full day I was here I spent the morning exploring the odd and amusing landscape revealed by the extreme low tide in Ship Bay. The first several yards of beach is covered with the ubiquitous barnacle encrusted rocks, creating an unsettling crunch underfoot. Being the softie I am, I'm all worried about what--or whom-- I'm crushing as I walk. But the petrified barnacles and abandoned clamshells are so much sea-junk at this point; the real activity is going on ahead of me in a wide band of green seaweed.

I didn't notice it until my leg got a suprise squirt of salt water. I sat down on a big rock in the middle of the mucky sand and watched as scores of little jets erupted everywhere, sending water in arches as high as several feet in the air. These are horse clams, or geoducks maybe, turns out; expressing their displeasure with the proximity of nosy seagulls.

For a local, the beach and its inhabitants might have already blended into the mundane, but not for me. I'm feeling like a wee tot on her first visit to the ocean, and I stop to inspect anything that moves, has color, or glints in the sunlight. There are dead crabs to turn over, more giddily fascinating purple starfish, and great big oyster shells laying open like expensive glass ashtrays, all usually hidden under the tide.

As I'm inspecting the underside of an ancient piece of metal, a man and his son greet me. He tells me they're searching for 'Captain Vancouver's Cannon', an artifact alleged to be visible at very low tide. He describes it to me before continuing his search, and I tell him I'll keep an eye peeled.

****

Luke wants to make sure I get Moran State Park under my belt a couple of days later, so we leash the collie and head off to a trail that will take us up Mount Constitution for one of the most fantabulous 360 views in the Northwest.

Redwoods are beautiful, and I've hiked through a lot of them on this trip, but there's something about the Washington pines that I love even better. The color palate of this forest is cooler, and I dig the soft, bright green fuzz of skinny saplings. It seems quieter, more remote. Luke tells me there are very few beasties that live in this area; no predators or badgers or snakes, but a few deer and scads of tiny birds. But even these are elusive, and the thickest part of the forest is uncannily still.

At the summit there's a stone tower, built as part of the New Deal/WPA as an observation deck. Closed for intense remodeling recently, it was open for us. I did my usual lazy thing where I skip the obligatory informational displays about Mr Moran and his legacy and blah blah blah and ran right up to the top. You can see all the islands, the shorelines, the Cascade and Olympic Mountains. On a more clear day, you can see Vancouver and Seattle.

****

The shore is irresistible. I went again and found new creatures washed up into the sand: moon jellyfish. Hundreds of them. Hard to spot at first, they look like discs of ice. Later, on my way back from the oyster farm down the beach, I found live purple sand dollars and spotted a juvenile bald eagle perched on a rock. I could stay out there for hours.

And...what's this? I stumbled over an ancient rusted tube about three feet long, covered in the barnacles of the ages. Nearby was a piece that looked like the end of a small cannon. Was it the famed Captain Vancouver's Cannon? Maybe. Or an old pipe, whatever. In the absence of proof, I get to decide.

More to come about this place. It's really amazing.

Random Special Moments in Portland

2006-04-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

Before moving to Portland, B. Deckert got pickled one night and extolled the virtues (read: went on and on) of the city: it was beautiful, it was clean, well placed within an hour's drive either way of stunning scenery, it was tolerant and friendly and intelligent and little faeries of happiness washed your ass for you every single day.

I had no doubt when I got here that I'd like the city a lot. And I really have. So I thought I'd share a few special moments.
The Japanese Garden is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. Apart from the groundskeeper, a loud guy who looked like he just stepped out of a Kurosawa movie barking at a little kid for running on the grass, it was quite serene. A bit lacking in the koi department, however, which is a drag.

Papa Haydn is a favored spot in the Pearl District for their desserts. It's a great yellow affair of a place, and Mrs. Deckert and I sat out on the patio for a bite. I had an asparagus/goat cheese ravioli with a tangle of pea tendrils on the top. Now, I ask you, can you resist a dish garnished with pea tendrils? I cannot. The ravioli....it was okay. Kinda lackluster. But the lemonade, now that was the stuff right there. Lemonade the way the Lord intended. After lunch we split a banana cream pie, made with a lot of chocolate and coconut and foo-foo. The waitress warned us about the dif in style, to be fair, but ultimately it didn't really scratch the banana cream pie itch. I'm a purist about these things. Maybe they should call it 'Chocolate Coconut Banana Foo-Foo Pie' for clarity. I'm just saying. It's not like you can actually bitch about eating pie in Portland on a sunny afternoon.Now Mother's Bistro's a fun joint, except for the intimidating wait. I had a simple lox bagel for brunch, but it was done as good as one could ask, and went one better by letting me put it together myself. See, I like the capers underneath the salmon, so they stick in the cream cheese and don't roll off. Kudos to Mother's for saving me the trouble of disassembly. I visited later on for a Mexican chopped salad. To the manager, I said, "This reminds me exactly of a salad my mom made when I was a kid." And of course, that's the idea.
Hooray for conveyor belt sushi! It's cheap, it's halfway decent (except for the canned corn roll...wtf???) and if you have no one to talk to, you can zone out on the gentle whir and clink of passing plastic plates.

This is only scratching the surface of my culinary discoveries, let alone the whole of Portland, but hey, I'm here for a few more days. I'll leave you with Multnomah Falls, and the assurance that yeah, Portland is as cool as they say.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Northern Oregon Coast

2006-04-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

I told B. Deckert, my Oregon host, that I needed Bald Eagle action before I left. He recommended a couple of hiking spots where the elusive raptor flies, but beyond that, it was all about being in the right place at the right time. Fine, I said, then let's hit the coast.

An hour's drive from Portland is the Ecola State Park, where the aquamarine licks black craggies for your viewing pleasure. Except for the requisite Pacific chill, the weather is flawless. Only the slight fogginess keeps distant objects from clear sight. Just beyond the parking lot and before you get to the vistas, there's a grassy picnic area dotted with teeny daisy-like flowers, as if spring could get any lovlier here.

On our way down to the shore, Deckert points out areas where forest clearcutting (you know, that Bush Administration brain child where you strip the trees so they won't burn?) has cut unsightly chunks into the hills. Politics aside, the shit just looks wrong.

We make it to a vista point where a cheery couple in their late forties or so are taking photos with an enormous panoramic lens. I ask them what's the main attraction and the man points to the large viewfinder bolted to the ground and says, "Don't move it, just look straight through."

Far away, on yon big-ass craggy rock, are a pair of bald eagles, sitting pretty as you please.

"They mate for life, don't they?" I asked, wanting in my current personal circumstances to romanticize the birds for it.

"Yup," the man said. We all traded off staring at them through the lens, then passed on the tip to everyone who came up there after us. Its a times like this, in places like this, that people are with each other the way they're effin' supposed to be.

Hunger demanded to know why we didn't bother to bring a damn picnic lunch, so Deckert and I headed off to Cannon Beach. After much inquiry of passers by, we decided on a seafood joint that proved to be precisely what we were looking for: superfresh fish and steamer clams on paper plate for fair prices. Ecola Seafoods Restaurant and Market is the joint. We came back after our adventures and bought our fish for grilling later, and it was even better the second time.

A horrific stench hit us as we decended the steps to the beach, and there seemed to be this strange band of purple gunk running a long length of it. Upon closer inspection, the gunk seemed to be bazillions of tiny purple mollusks who had died en masse and created a thick reeking paste. Weird. We passed over that quickly and headed toward a great big rock down the beach.

"It's called Haystack Rock," Deckert informed me, "And it's the biggest...something or other kinda rock in the Pacific." I think he meant basalt, but who knows what goes on in that boy's mind. He's always eager to boast. What's completely fabulous about it is that, at low tide, it's a Marine tidepool garden brimming with the bizarre and beautiful creatures of the coast.

At this point, I'm giddy like a kid at the candy shop, snapping shots until Deckert assures me that fifteen images of the same anemone is probably enough.

We discovered a group of teens up on the rock beyond the 'CLOSED' sign, passing around some kind of mini bong with their ass cracks facing us like they're invisible. I dissuaded Deckert from messing with their heads, asking him to recall the days when they could've been us. We saw them later walking down the main street in town, their cheeks fat with taffy, looking for the pizza place, and we just about fell the fuck out. Ah, sweet, tolerant, mellow Oregon.

This place is the first that has tempted me to consider leaving Austin. That ain't sayin' I plan on it, 'cause I don't. But for a dyed-in-the-wool Texas gal like myself, that's saying a lot.

And BY THE WAY, if you're one of those annoying-ass people who feel like you just have to make a crack about my home state, please save us both the formalities and kiss my ass. I know damn well that some krazy shit happens in my state, but your preconceived notion of me and everyone who lives in Texas is unwelcome like a hot poker in your ass. Thank you.

T.

Hard Headed Woman Finds Pacific Wonderland

2006-04-20T11:53:00.000-07:00

I hit my head in the shower the day before Easter. And no, I was not liquored up on wine. I was perfectly sober, just dense enough to assume that the bath mat placed over the side of the tub was for Gramma.

I was fine at first, then started to feel nauseated, so I got a ride to the emergency room. A CT scan, three hours and many hundreds of dollars later, I was cheerfully informed that I had a minor concussion and sent about my merry way. What a thing to have happen in the middle of my little dream trip. Damn. C'est la life.

After a day in bed watching Lord of the Rings over and over again in between naps and another dreamily driving to Eureka after an interview, I arose and tried to pull it together Tuesday to make the trip north. I drank my coffee, took my vitamins, stretched and so forth but I could not clear my head. It felt like someone had poured several pounds of sand in it.

Just a few minutes out of town, I found Clam Beach. I shushed the voices in my head urging me to press on, get going, get to Portland before nightfall and stopped the car. I grabbed my Coleman chair, walked to the beach, planted it, and planted my ass, then watched the Pacific lap the land until I felt better. Now I was ready to go, ready to see more. Initially I passed the Trees of Mystery, but my inner brat threw a fit and I turned around. How, she insisted, can you resist a massive statue set of Paul Bunyan and the Blue Ox, especially when such time was taken to make sure the latter is hung in the correct anatomic proportions? Soooo glad I did. For nature fans and those who love roadside cheese, this place is the purest union of both. Nothing makes you feel the sweet flush of insignificance like a cluster of gigantimous redwoods that have grown together to create a 'Cathedral Tree', and nothing drives that feeling home than a soppy, lofty poem and piped in hymns from the fifties.
I took the 101 to 199 through the place where I crossed over the border into Oregon. In Oregon, by the way, you are not permitted to pump your own gas. A guy comes out, takes your card and does it for you, no charge. How sweet is that? Just don't make the mistake of forgetting, 'cause the same guy will jump your shit, as though you'd gone behind the bar and grabbed your own tequila. Anyhoo, the 199 is a stellar drive. The last time I saw a river this color I was on a log-shaped boat-on-a-track headed for the 'Spelunker's Cave' at Six Flags.

I'm in Portland now, where much to the chagrin of my Texas people, is cool and partly cloudy. I've got my game back now, post head trauma, and can't wait to check out Powell's Books and all the streets after which Matt Groenig named the Simpsons crew.

T.

Too much time alone, not enough time alone. Balls, chickenshit. Badass, loudmouth. Brilliant, clueless.

2006-04-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

I left the house knowing I'd have a moment like this. What, you think this whole trip is about wine?

Shee-it.

I'm in the Marie Callender's and the waitress has plunked down a big fucking plate of cold cornbread. I'm looking at this big hunk of cornbread and I'm thinking: what the fuck am I gonna do with that? Who the hell's gonna eat all that? Why did she put all that on my table? Now, because it's on my table, it's mine, and I've gotta deal with it. It'll go to waste if I don't eat it, and all the starving children will know. I could take it to go. Then it will sit in my hotel room and taunt me: you spend so much money on your fancy food, following your every whim, and here I am, perfectly good sustenance, rotting by the television while you fill your greedy hole with In and Out Burger. What a horror you are. So I toss it in the can. And now I've wasted cornbread, a styrofoam container, and half an hour of my life.

Oh, yeah. As much as wine, meeting people, and experiencing the wild blue yonder, this trip is about my head. And my head is full, people.

I can't seem to catch up with whatever agenda I'd set down for myself. What was it again? To write, to see the Western half of the Homeland and report back everything I've seen, take pictures of everything, talk to everyone, go to every winery, taste every wine, interview as many winemakers as possible while simultaneously working through my iminent divorce, death of my mother, come to terms with solitude and face my loss of faith in humanity....

Iminent. Was...was that a typo? Nice work.

So I'm at this wine dinner last night, and I'm looking through the wine list and notice that, under the category of Other World Reds is the 2004 Reverdy Sancerre. Thinking I've just spotting a heinous error, I quip to the table: "Wow. Who knew that the Reverdy Sancerre was a favorite in the 'old world red' category?"

"Actually," the winemaker for Cuvaison said, "Reverdy makes a Pinot Noir that's really nice."

Crap.

"Well, damn," I says, "Who knew I didn't know what I thought I knew?"

It earned me a laugh for being a sport.

Spending time away from a job, either with my self all on my own or interacting with other folks is teaching me more than I can process. It's both exausting and completely amazing. I just need to figure out how to slow down, let this stuff settle.

Sigh. I need a vacation.

T.

Rain on My Parade, but not on Theirs

2006-04-11T12:39:00.000-07:00

According to Allen Price, a winemaker for Casa Nuestra, all this effin' rain is supposed to be up in British Columbia. But it's here in Napa instead, raining on my head while I'm trying to do my thing. And the further North I go, the more I'm gonna get.

I know I shouldn't be complaining, since my guess is the Texas summer is going to kick our asses this year. I should be reveling in the not-ninety-plus degree climate. Sorry, but no: cold rain sucks no matter where you are.

I've been posting less the last couple of weeks. I gotta admit, between the craziness of the SF leg and the physical demands of interviewing, writing, hiking and power drinking, I burned out. I realized that I was desperate for normalcy, a chance to sleep late, do laundry in a residence, pet cats, and read. I finally got the opportunity to do that with my friends in Napa, and it's been refreshing.

Napa (the actual city, that is) is an old farmer's town. Prior to wine fame, this area was known for its prunes. There's a significant population of Mexican immigrants here, and on Monday many marched to the local park dressed in white tee shirts, trailing the American and Mexican flags behind them. Whole families filed along Jackson Street, some chanting and others strolling, taking the opportunity to enjoy the few precious hours of partial sunlight while they made themselves visible to the community.

I've encountered a lot of the protests, since I'm in the smack-dab middle of where immigrant labor--both legal and illegal, I'm sure--has a tremendous impact on economics. The issue of illegal immegration is profoundly complex right now, and doesn't lend itself to easy solutions regardless to which side of politics you might lean. I understand that 11 million illegals in the country is a big problem and a drain against already dwindling economic resources, but the idea of making it a felony is rediculous and counterproductive. Mostly, when I see these people walking down the streets is the desire for due respect, recognition that they have put their asses and elbows into the work they've found, and deserve more than to be sneered at or refered to as a "drain" on a society to which they have contributed.

Beats the shit out of me what the answer is. I haven't been able to delve far enough into the options since I've been on the road, and I hate to put my half assed theory out there and get it mangled by someone who knows the details better than I do. What I do know is that I want what's going to work best for them because I respect what they do.

I'm feeling better now, and as long as I can find freakin' wireless access (not so easy to find here; there's here at Ana's Cantina and some Burger King in Napa proper, and Starfuck's but they have that T-Mobile bullshit you have to pay for. WTF??) I'll be keeping up better.

T.

Catching Up: Lost in the City, Lost in the Woods

2006-04-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

Where the hell have I been? Where's all the amazing pictures of the City?

I arrived in San Francisco exausted, excited, and frankly a little burnt out on wine. I decided to put down the camera and the laptop and walk all around the City, get to know some chunks of it I hadn't seen before.

I stayed in the Castro, historic haven of tolerance for not only our gay and lesbian bretheren and sisteren, but just about any variation thereof. Upon my arrival, the innkeeper noticed my saucer-eyed meandering up and down Market Street, so he pointed me in the right direction for some great chow. Chow, as a matter of fact, a slender, hip little bistro on Church Street with magnificent and well-priced food and a killer por la gente winelist.

I had to make a second trip to Japantown. Love me some Japantown. Love that the cherry blossoms are out and the Cherry Blossom Festival is underway for the whole of Northern California. The Japan Center is always hiding some little treasure. Any graphic novel or anime fans? There's an eight volume series of graphic novels based on the life of the Buddha by Osamu Tezuka that looked fantastic. At $25 a volume, tho', I was a little priced out, but they're cheaper on Amazon. Off to Mifune after that, of course, for one o' those big cast iron pots of udon with egg, fishcake, pork and tempura shrimp. See, I figured I could get away with a big lunch if I walked the City afterwards. Sheeeit. Maybe if I walked to Portland.

I gotta tell you, there was so much stimuli that it was all a blur. I met so many people, both very cool and very pretentious, was shuttled around from one venue to another by groups of people...saw so much stuff, drank so very much beer...
Above is a photo of one of my favorite spots. This was the Amber Lounge, the only bar in San Francisco where you can smoke inside. All the bartenders are also the owners, and since the smoking law is there to protect employees rather than patrons, these guys can decide for themselves.
Phil was unafraid to crank up the tunes. Early Rush, Metal bands from Austin, Roots Punk. Fantastic. And what a cutie, no?

Another groovy stop was Wild Side West, a mixed crowd saloon with a great two-level outdoor space. It was here that I met a newly formed a cappella group who broke spontaneously into Pat Benetar's "We Belong" while the small crowd stomped out a beat. Very special City moment.

After all that night, I longed for trees and birdies and stuff. There's nothing like hiking with a hangover to bring you back to reality. After doubling back fifty times looking for the effing entrance to the 101 (only to realize it was a block from where I started), I made my way across the Golden Gate to the Muir Woods.

Not one to take the Grandma tour across the boardwalks, I headed up a trail that led through the thick of beautiful redwoods and ascended to a vista where you can see the ocean over the tops of the mountains. My wee camera doesn't hack it for this kind of expansive vista, but you get the idea.

I'm in Napa now, still reeling from my SF days. This trip...damn. I can barely keep up with myself. The proportion of this adventure is overwhelming sometimes. I knew this would happen: I'd get tired, have to slow down a little. It's part of the plan.

T.

Man, Nature and Cocktails

2006-04-01T09:50:00.000-08:00

So there was this California Baby Boomer couple in the breakfast nook of the Sands hotel in San Luis Obispo, talking about where they wanted to go next. "Hearst Castle?" says the guy. His wife sneers. "I'm not so much into man-made things. They don't interest me. I like the beach, the mountains, the slopes. The waves call to me, the wind calls to me."

Well, Mrs. Gaia McWheatgrass, the Hearst Castle calls to me. I was so excited at my first glimpse of the great Fortress of Hubris that I giggled aloud. The story of W.R. Hearst is one of the great twentieth century Power Broker tales, and the only thing that would have made me happier touring the house is if I'd been able to wander it on my own. See, tour guides are great and all, especially if you're not familiar with the history. Me, I don't give a rat's dingle how many pounds of concrete were hoisted up the mountain or how long the polar bears stayed on the property. I just want to look out over the electrically lit tennis courts and imagine all of Marion Davies' "trashy" Hollywood friends hanging out.
I want to inspect the artifacts for signs of Hearst's involvement in secret societies. I want to sit in the billiards room and see the dirty-rich bastards making power deals and talking shit about women. I could make the whole movie in my head, were it not for a tour guide filling me in on the age of some tapistry. Someday, when I'm rich, I'll have myself a private tour, with a docent who will follow close behind silently until I ask a question. Or need my cocktail refreshed.

Oh, and by the way, Molly McBirkenstock, Big Sur also calls to me. I did a day and a half powering through as much as I could take of the pants-crappingly beautiful* scenery. I watched a herd (Herd? Group? Gaggle?) of plump seals frolicking amongst the craggy rocks, laughed as they hoisted themselves ashore and plopped down for a nap.
Jade Cove and Sand Dollar Beach were spectacular, even in the off-and-on drizzle. At Jade Cove, I climbed underneath a massive boulder and sat about a foot from where the foam washed over the rocks. I had a nice conversation with the sea. I asked permission to take the fist-sized chunk of jade I found, and it said sure, go ahead, I got tons of the stuff. You fully understand the color aquamarine once you've sat so close, as well as the power of water. I was both enchanted and a little afraid.

The Henry Miller Memorial Library is nestled into a grove of tall redwoods, it's little chimney puffing away. I spent an hour reading and smoking while the "curator" played Stevie Wonder on the guitar. A Perfect Moment.

Ate lunch at the Nepenthe, a 60-some-odd year old restaurant where Orson Wells, Rita Heyworth and later a host of beat-generation personalities hung out. Today, it's a destination restaurant for the Beautiful People. Still a gorgeous view, though, great food; the Bloody Marys are wildly popular and the wine list does not suck at all.

Hiking at the Pfiffer/Big Sur State Park was cut short by the rain once it really started to pour. My entire 2-ish mile hike was wet and muddy, but I didn't mind. It felt invigorating to be trudging up the hill on my own amongst the redwoods. I felt like Survivorwoman again. But once your jeans are soaked through, it's time to give it up.

I would have loved to continue my adventure in Big Sur; I didn't get nearly enough. But the lodgings are muy expensivo, and scarce due to a concert going on at a local venue. Plus the rain was settling in, and so I've moved on. I'm definitely coming back, both to spend more time at the Castle and more time with the whales and the seals. Life is lovely, especially when you don't limit yourself to only one category of experience.

Oh, and seriously: check out the photos with the badge on the right. Good lookin' stuff.

T.

*(thanks, Maggie)

Highlights of, like, SLO

2006-03-27T17:27:00.000-08:00

I'm into my cups here at the Sands in SLO, wondering whether I will ever learn to spit. Spit wine, that is; when you taste 38 wines a day, you're supposed to spit from the get-go, but somehow I've managed to take my cue from the multitudes of tourists for whom spitting was never an option.

San Luis Obispo is a college town. My tour guide, John, believes there's a missing demographic here. There's plenty of twentysomethings, and a good bit of those over forty, but the middle, being, say, 26-40, are priced out of the real estate. This might be true. I still see joggers that look like they might belong in that demographic, but far more who belong to the Cal Poly set--good looking young 'uns who eat tofu by day and drink microbrews by night.

By accident I stumbled on Bubble Gum Alley, and no matter what you might read about its history, it's just straight-up gross. Impressive and all, but ultimately, it arose the gorge. Since 1960 or some-odd, people have stuck their gumwads on the wall here, creating a long corridor of chewy horror.

But even as there's stuff to squelch your apetite, there's a good bite that'll bring it right on back.

The Big Sky Cafe does the food right. Down to the vine ripened tomato on your burger, they make the details count. I've had two meals here so far, and both satisfied me to my soul. Pictured here is the odd but delicious 'Red Flannel Turkey Hash', a mix of turkey sausage, beets and carmelized onions nestled next to a couple of perfect over-medium egglets. That's a good layer of food for a long day's wine tasting, for sure.

John, my tour guide, led me to a most interesting stop: the San Luis Fish and BBQ, where you can purchase a basket of fried fish goodness, or... a 1998 Beaux Freres Pinot Noir. Somehow, the proprietors have amassed a large, revolving inventory of older wines. They're hit and miss, but so worth checking out, if only for the sheer amazement at finding the odd, ten year old Northern Rhone.

Lots more to check out. I'll keep you abreast.

Andersen's Pea-ple Pleasin' Soup

2006-03-24T08:13:00.000-08:00

It's usually the intrepid adventurer's wont to avoid the tourist traps, but in some cases, the tourist traps are a great reminiscence of childhood roadtrip wackiness. Remember those stops you made in the restaurants that had the big gift shop crammed full of cheap toys and novelties (which you begged for), figurines, peanut brittle, and the local "homeade" jam? And no, I don't mean the effin' Cracker Barrel, which is to these places as Wal-Mart is to the local specialty shop. I mean places that had been there since the golden age of the American Road Trip in the mid-fifties, luring weary drivers and their cranky kids in for eggs, bacon, and marble fudge. These places are a dying breed, losing their places to chain joints and Tiger Marts, or just rotting in the desert sun.

I, personally, love when I find one that's still going strong, and Andersen's is a cheesy roadside stop lover's dream. Not only do they have the requisite gift shop, but they have the kraziest specialty-of-the-house I've ever seen.
Homeade Pea Soup.

There's the all-you-can-eat Pea Soup, complete with toppings and cheese onion bread, or the Pea Soup and Sandwich, or the Pea Soup and Salad combo. I mean, they have all the other stuff, too, but c'mon, you know you want some.

Any tourist restaurant worth it's table salt simply must have its mascots. Andersen's spokes-peas are Hap-Pea and Pea-Wee, usually depicted laboring over the task of splitting the main ingredient. They're on the walls, in the gift shop as salt-and-pepper shakers (must...resist...) and, most alarmingly, awaiting your last spoon stroke on the bottom of your bowl.

As the waiter, a nice-looking young guy, set before me my platter of green goodness, I couldn't help but ask him: "Do you get sick of this color?" The look of relief that at last he was able to admit it was priceless. "Oh, God, yeah," he said. He never charged me for my extra plate of Pea Soup Toppin's...

I overheard two tables ask their servers what the other soup of the day was. WTF? Is it just that you've already had your life's portion of nummy pea-ple pleasin' soup, or what? You're one of those people who go to a Mexican restaurant and order off the 'Gringo' menu, aintcha?

The soup is pretty straightforward, and it tastes exactly like it looks. Perhaps a hint of smoky ham? Andersen's has been making this soup, most likely the same way, for over eighty years, so it's a comfort food. Once you dump all the toppin's in, it's pretty good eatin'.

Long live roadside cheese! My advice to those who, like me, really dig this kind of Americana: follow the elderly. Like moths to a flame, they'll take you to the hotspots.

La Purisma Mission

2006-03-22T18:14:00.000-08:00

IMG_0762
Originally uploaded by cork demon.

Finding myself a little fatter than I was when I left Austin, I decided to get some hiking in. Just outside of Lompoc is a Mission State Park. The weather was purrrr-fect, so I stopped the car.

The founder of this sprawling Mission, Father Presidente Fermin de Lasuen, wanted to make really, really sure that the Chumash Indians understood how Holy the Holy Mother was, so he named it Mission of The Immaculate Conception of the Most Holy Mary. She's not just Holy, she's the Most Holy.

The way they've reconstucted this place is amazing. I was lucky with my timing, as all of the schoolchildren were well ahead of me, so I had time to contemplate the rooms.

Yeah, I said contemplate. I'm a geek like that, I admit it. I love to visit places like this and imagine what it was like for the Missionaries, for the Soldiers stationed there and alloted tiny two room apartments for themselves and their wives and children, for the Chumash Indians, both converted and reluctant, who resided there.

This Mission was the second built; the first one, four miles to the Southeast, was destroyed in 1812 by an earthquake. Once the new one was up and running, it flourished, with over 1,000 Chumash neophytes, 20,000 head of livestock, and shops for weaving, leather and ironwork, and clay tiles.

The spread is at once idyllic and a little creepy. One building served as a cramped open room dormitory for Chumash girls who had reached the age of eleven but had not yet married. A five-ish foot wide wooden shelf wraps around the room and hosts thin straw mats and dingy pillows. Gotta keep 'em away from the soldiers while you're teaching 'em how to cook. Eeek.

In the middle of the main area is a garden full of typical Mission plantings, and a large corral with lazily grazing donkeys, horses, longhorns, and strutting turkeys. And since I'd caught up with them, screaming children. Interestingly, there's a outside bath nearby, intended to allow the Chumash to bathe and wash their clothes the way they normally would, despite the fact that the whole bathing thing was frowned upon by their Spaniard hosts. Nice touch, I guess.

This place is a great half-day walk and picnic, if you're ever in the area. I highly recommend doing the Las Zanjas Trail around the wide green field for exercise prior to checking out the main grounds, just watch out for the abundant poison oak on either side of the trail. Exploring the reproduced apartments, chapels and workshops will at the very least give you ideas for your minimalist Mission-style interior decoration project. You can have lunch with the retired tourists and pet the horseys. What else could you ask for?

Here's a clue as to my current whereabouts: Smorgaasbord. Oh, dear God, my stomach.

T

Corona Del Mar

2006-03-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

There it is, in all its glory: my $18 martini, shining with the last rays of the Laguna Beach sunset.
I totally took that picture, all by myself! Doesn't it look like a travel poster? Pamper yourself in Laguna. Wrap yourself in luxury. Enjoy the finest cuisine in the most opulent surroundings money can buy.
I stayed with a friend in Corona Del Mar a few days ago. It's the Beautiful Life: waves crashing on the rocks, the smell of fresh sea air, some dickless jerk weaving in and out of traffic in his silver Carrera. Everything you could hope for. We had a great time, ate our weight in oysters and had our toes done...kinda fun to pretend you're rich for a couple days.

On my way to California, I listened to the first half of Jack Kerouac's On The Road, read by Matt Dillon. I couldn't help wonder if my little road trip was going to yield the kind of personal insight I'd hoped for. There's no miles of walking, no long inebriated conversations with hoboes, no sleeping in boxcars. I can make reservations from one Motel 6 to another without leaving my room. I'm organized, funded, and centered on a single project. Not that that's a bad thing. It's just different from what I'd thought I needed when I was a twentysomething.

Back then I had that ache to disappear for a while. To drive away from everything and everyone familiar. To wake up, as Sal Paradise did, not knowing who you are for a few minutes while you watch the light change. Once, in my late teens, I was upset by something, jumped in my car, and drove east for a couple of hours, past Dallas, past the outskirts, past everything I knew. I realized that not only was I in new territory, no one knew where I was. No one could even guess. It was a little rush. What if I kept going? Whoever it was that had pissed me off might miss me, wonder where I was, worry. I felt independent, free, and courageous. Until I ran almost ran out of gas. Then I felt like an asshole.

Oh, man, I had it all planned out--hitchhike to Haight-Ashbury or New York or wherever, meet all these amazing writers and intellectuals I imagined were parked on every corner who'd recognize me for the budding genius I was, take me under their wing, and feed me while I typed in a candlelit corner of someone's shoddy flat. My deep, brooding tales would enchant the most arrogant literary circles, and I'd be a sensation. Then I'd overdose on heroin and die. OMG, that would be perfect!

So anyway, I grew out of that shit, obviously. But there's still that teensy urge...I think to myself: I'm not going to call anyone all week. Let 'em miss me. Let 'em wonder where I am.

After I've relished that thought for a while, I think: I wonder how my kitties are? And I call Jerry. And then Carmie. And then Gwen. Total disappearance time: 45 minutes.

So worry not, folks. I couldn't disappear, even if I wanted to.

There's loads of photos to look at, but right now blogger's not working with me. Check out my flickr account by clicking on the Flickr flash badge below the links on the right.

Cheers!

Survivorwoman: Tuscon to El Cajon in 7 Hours

2006-03-12T08:33:00.000-08:00

No breakfast. No phone coverage. No wine. No proper weather tires. I have seven hours to get from Tucson, Arizona to El Cajon, California. My name is Taj, and I'm the Survivorwoman.

All I've been allowed to take on my journey is a compact car, clothes, peanut butter, two stuffed animal companions, thirty CD's, an IPod, caffeinated aspirin, and a tankful of gas. There is no camera crew. I have to take all the photos myself.

Hour One: Highway 10

Things look pretty bleak from the get-go. The winds are fierce and the sky's threatening rain. I have a long way to go in this foreboding environment. Will I survive?

I've fashioned a backrest out of...well, a foam backrest, for support. Otherwise, my back will ache, and I could die. So far so good, cruising at around 80 mph...and if I can just get my foot up on the dash...

ARRRRGH! Suddenly the car spins out, I do a double 360 and land in the gravel. Holy sh*t. Thank God no one was driving near me. Miraculously, the car is okay, and I'm okay. Out here on the road, one little moment can bring disaster. You have got to know exactly what you're doing.

As I catch my breath, I realize that I am dangerously low on calories. It's some 2 hours until I reach the town of Yuma, AZ. I survive by munching on white cheddar rice crackers that I found stuck in between the seats.

Yuma at last! I scan the horizon for possible food sources. Unfortunately, all I see is an Applebee's. Not normally a place for proper sustenance, it may be my only hope for survival. I venture in. My worse fears are realized: a family of six children is in line in front of me. All girls, all dressed in pink. I must duck quickly into the bar...somehow, they follow me into the bar! This puts me in the precarious position of having to smoke in front of the children, which you don't want to do in an environment like this. It may cause the male of the pack to throw dirty looks my way.

I'm in a store, which is good, unfortunately, it's packed to the hilt with snowbirds. Even the self-service checkout. The trouble is, the elderly often don't know how the checkout machine works. I may be in this line for a long, long time.

While we're stopped: I have found something that will be extremely useful in maintaining my survival: this is a half-pound Hershey's Dark chocolate bar. While not truly dark chocolate, it will sustain me in this harsh environment.

Hour 4: California Border

I've been driving through intense patches of rain off and on since I began. Looks like there's more ahead. I pass the sand dunes, where local wildlife is engaged in the ritual of "dune riding".

Up in the mountains, I encounter snow. Wow. Snow is so rare in Texas, it's a real treat. Just look at that beautiful snow.

Uh, okay, well, there's a lot of snow. So much, traffic has slowed to a crawl. There must be an accident or something.

Hour 6: Cleveland National Forest

You can't see it very well, but the line of cars disappears into the distance. This'll take a while. It looks like I'm not going to make El Cajon in the allotted seven hours, but right now, my survival is all that matters.

Hour 7: Cleveland National Forest

We've moved about a quarter of a mile in the last hour. Folks are getting out of their cars to see how far the jam goes. I'm going to stay here. I have no phone coverage here, so this is going to be a serious survival challenge. My best bet is to take another caffeinated aspirin and hope for the best.

Hour 8: Cleveland National Forest

The traffic continues to move at a frighteningly slow pace. For the first time, I'm genuinely worried. We're losing daylight here, people. You'll recall I picked up a large dark chocolate bar back in Yuma. This is what will keep me from succumbing to exhaustion.

Hour 9: Cleveland National Forest

I hate to report this, but one of the worst things possible has happened. My feminine protection has sprung a leak. The traffic is headed uphill on what's basically a sheet of ice. The sleet is coming in sideways. Visibility is limited to the red tail lights in front of me. I'm out of water. I'm out of chocolate. I'm utterly exhausted. The Jeep Cherokee in front of me, spooked by the passing of another suv, has begun skidding out of control, and can't seem to maintain it's direction. Any one of these cars could hit me, or if I lose control I could also hit them, and then it's game over. At this point, it's all I can do to focus on the ice-slicked road. If my mind wanders just a tad, I could die.

Hour 10: El Cajon, California

Thank the Christ child, I've made it. Beer and a hot bath will replenish my strength. I flip on the teevee, just in time to watch Survivorman on the Discovery Channel. He's in the arctic circle or something, eating raw seal meat. What a pussy.

Bisbee, AZ: A Fortunate Diversion From The Plan

2006-03-09T15:32:00.000-08:00

Once I'd enjoyed my stay at Bob Johnson's Colibri Vineyards in a beautiful canyon in the Chiricahuas, I had a choice either to endure another hour's worth of primitive road back to I-10, or to take Bob's advice: fuck that, take Highway 80 and stay in Bisbee. Since the sky couldn't decide whether to threaten rain or not (which would've basically trapped my wee little car), I had to abandon my plan to spend another night at the vineyards and go hiking in the monument. Well, shit. Why not take the scenic route?

Lemme testify here, that XM Satellite Radio effin' rules. All the way through the southern side of the Chiricahuas, I listened to Hank's Place--all kickass old-school C&W, all the time. And even as the love-gone-wrong songs began to do a number on my heart, the tunes were perfect for the scenery.

So I get to the outskirts of Bisbee with high expectations, only to learn that the road out of the old mining town has been closed, due to a pretty serious accident involving a propane truck. Thinking at first that I can't go any farther, I turn back, follow a road called 'Bisbee', and found this little treasure:

Buffalo Bill's Bargain Basement

You walk into this place and think, oh, cool! A funky little junk shop/coffee house. Then you catch sight of the proprietor. He's dressed like Buffalo Bill. Exactly. He looks like he just stepped straight out of the set of Deadwood, leathery skin, twitchy eyes and all. And then he offers you coffee. And asks if it's okay if he changes the music to Van Morrison. I kinda regret not taking a straight up picture of Michael (his real name), but I just couldn't ask. It seemed too...touristy.

You can see Michael up by the coffee pots

He makes a bitchin' cup o' joe, and I sit, smoke, drink my cupful, and yicky-yack with a guy who looks like Donald Sutherland on a bender. He fills me in on the Bisbee skinny, tells me I can actually go ahead and drive up to the historic part of town before I get to the road closing.
As we chat, Michael fusses endlessly with notebooks, nicknacks, and the coffee pot, stopping only to roll himself a cig.

Buffalo Bill not a fan of clowns

The place is less like a business and more like Michael's personal
museum-slash-krazier-than-shit living room. The mix is old west meets Gore Vidal meets softcore porn, and is an absolute must-see if you're ever in the area.

Desert Lust Barbie says "Hi!"

But I have yet to see all the kraziness that Bisbee has to offer. When I asked where I should lodge, Michael said "The Inn at Castle Rock. Everything else is shit." I don't know that everything else was shit, but the Inn is very cool. So long as you don't mind a somewhat disorganized innkeeper, the kitsch-tacular factor pays off.

Wack-tacular, baby

One important caveat about the town: it's not a good place to give it up to the panhandlers. According to a girl who's lived here almost all her life, there's an underbelly of meth problems here. The panhandlers, she warned, could very possibly be tweakers in search of funding for a fix. I realize this can be true of any city, but I'd still recommend shutting down the urge here. The only dollar I gave out was to a man who had trained two mice to sit on the back of a cat, who sat on the back of a dog. Check out my flickr account for that pic (there's a Flickr badge on my Cork and Demon blog).

Main Street. Kinda empty because of the closed road.

The shops and bars are...well, touristy, with a few cool spots like VaVoom and Hotlicks Bar. I ate every meal at the Prickly Pear Cafe, a little sandwich/salad joint with a love for wasabi sauces.

My new friend and I pitch back a beer at Hotlick's.

I learned from a local that the propane accident was pretty bad, although the driver had survived. But it would take twenty some-odd hours for the clean up crew to burn off all the propane. Otherwise, the highway I hope to take will be closed, and I'll have to take an alternate route. I'm gonna wait it out; the flow's telling me I need to.

Notice to Science-Haters: For a clue, go see Carlsbad Caverns

2006-03-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

The first thing that blows you away when you tour the Big Room of Carlsbad Caverns is the unfathomable amount of time it takes for single drops of mineral-laden water to form massive formations.

The second thing is that no one understands what the fuck the word 'whisper' means.

But back to the first. Why, Lord, are there people who believe that the earth was formed 10,000 years ago? That might seem like a really, really, really long time to a simple mind, but for the love of Jehosephat, we're talking about drops of water making gigantimous formations formed over rock that is already millions of years old. Drops. Of. Water. You do the math.

Do these folks visit the Caverns? Do they stand there and think "Gee, this stuff is almost as old as Jesus!"

Anticipating this, the National Park Service has provided the public with informative diagrams so that you can revel in the beauty of nature:

But still, I'm sure, Bubba Fundamentalist guffaws as his wife sheilds their children's eyes. Another mind boggler.

Now, I realize that for those of you who read this blog, making fun of said people is shooting fish in a barrel, but I just can't help wondering how you can ignore evidence like the caverns. Besides, they're frickin' beautiful! Wouldn't you rather believe that God is so all-powerful that a million-gajillion years is nothing at all?

Another pre-Jesus formation

When I was a kid, there was no conflict whatsoever in my mind with the idea that God created the world, that it took a shitload of time, and that the whole Genesis thing was, like other creation stories, passed down by humans who had only their imaginations to devise answers to such mysteries. Why do some fundamentalists feel so threatened these days that they feel they need to turn the clock back to the Dark Ages?

Awright, I'm done with the fish-shooting. I'm really glad the giddy little tot in me finally got to see the Big Room. And having done so makes me want to check out all the National Parks and Monuments. Ah, the original American Road Trip is on, baby. Stay tuned.

Way down in the hole

2006-03-04T10:28:00.000-08:00

On a road trip to see Gramma once, when I was about five or so, I saw a billboard that said 'Carlsbad Caverns, Next Exit (then go back 235 miles)". I didn't have any concept of what kind of distance that was, but I do now. And yesterday, I was able to fulfill my childhood dream of visiting them.

And of course, me being who I am and all, the pedestrian tour of the 'Big Room' simply would not do. I wanted to spelunk, with the hats and the gloves and the pretending that I'm a little slinky lizard, slipping through the dark squeezes.

I was advised not to attempt the Hall of the White Giant spelunking tour because of its advanced challenges, so I signed up for the more unathletic-friendly Lower Cave. Still rather strenuous, but way closer to my comfort level.

Caves for me are very soothing. Knowing that the only things crawling around down there are a few blind crickets and some random patches of bacteria makes the darkness feel calm and protective. I wondered if that's the way Jim White felt when he spent nights down there after a long day of climbing, crawling and exploring. I'd love to be able to spend the night in a cave someday and enjoy the profound quiet of age old earth, expressing itself with water and mineral formations over the millenia, with no cares whatsoever about the land above.

I highly recommend visiting the Caverns on the off season, as the summertime sometimes sees several thousand visitors a day in the Big Room. Our tour guide told us they once had to divert the Lower Cave tour when a baby in the room above was screaming so loudly that the ear-splitting echo was insufferable. On the other hand, yesterday's tours were sparsely populated, making for a much more one-with-the-cave sort o' vibe.

Having a great time, wish you were all here.

Twinkle, twinkle, little Marfa Light

2006-03-02T06:54:00.000-08:00

The Marfa Lights viewing observatory

No, the Marfa Lights aren't cars. They might be bursts of methane gas. Or maybe they're the ghosts of the Conquistadors. Whatever. The important part is they're there. And when a random group of travelers show up to see them, it's a blast.

I don't have any pictures of the lights themselves. They're too far away and buried in the calm, deep desert night for my camera. Too bad, 'cause I'd love to be able to prove I saw them. The only way you're gonna believe is to see them yourself.

I arrived about half an hour before sunset, and watched an older couple walk around the ground in an unimpressed way, then return to their RV to wait. After checking out the little trail of information stations, there wasn't much to do but take pictures of the cheeky rabbits rustling in the grass. I was messing around later with one of the squeaky mounted binoculars when a sudden salutation in a Georgian drawl scared the beejezus outta me. Thus I met Michelle and Paul, who have been traveling across the country in a bus that runs on vegetable oil.

Yeah. Vegetable oil. Used oil, in fact, that Paul gets from Chinese restaurants. He walks in and offers to haul it off for free, and the confused owner usually says yes. Paul, a nice looking guy in his twenties and a UMASS tee, has managed to modify the fuel system of this old school bus to warm up with diesel, then run on the oil. Brilliant.

What was it Michelle called herself? A literary jock? Literary dork? Anyhoo, she's the one who aptly named the bus after Don Quixote's horse. Later in the evening, after many Lone Star Longnecks, she performed a rousing spoken-word version of Carl Sandburg's Grass. Very cool moment.

So we sat at sunset, longnecks in hand, waiting for something to happen on the horizon, exchanging stories. The RV couple came out of hiding after a while, and we all sat peering into the distance between us and the Chisos mountains, trying to find little dancing balls of light. We all established the given lights---a flashing FAA tower, the actual headlights of cars, and steady lights---so we could tell them apart from the real Marfa lights. Of course, every time a car passed, we perked up, and made endless jokes about the people running around in the distance with really big flashlights.

An amusing note for Texans: did you know that the lovely observatory pictured above was funded by Clayton Williams, who lost a gubernatorial race to Ann Richards after he made a joke about rape? A female relative of his was one of the first to write about the Lights way back when. Trivia-tacular.

The area to watch, at sunset

So we're yicky-yacking, drinking, having a ball, and just as we decide that it was worth the drive to see the sunset, the lady from the RV points at three lights that have appeared in the dim post-sunset. "Nah, those are cars," says her husband, and we all agree.

Until the one in front glides straight up in the air and starts going backwards.

Yay! The show has begun!

The Marfa lights look like balls of white light that occassionally change to green or red. They pop up well above the level of the road beyond (or well below) and then disappear. They sometimes seem to wander over to the west, then show back up where they were before. Often, they'd disappear for a while, then suddenly reappear in a cluster. One light was such a little showoff, I named him 'Disco Boy'. He liked to pop out really bright white, then twinkle red and green. He appeared several times through the night. At one moment, when several people had gathered, five lights appeared in a row.

I found myself not fretting over what the hell they were. There's a lot of theories, most of them very lame. My verdict was, who cares? The lights are playful, mischievious, and a great deal of fun to watch.

Cheeky Bunny

The three of us stayed the longest, as groups or couples came and went. Michelle took the task of pointing out the lights to newcomers. I especially loved the roudy group of retirees who sang 'Redneck Mother' for us.

The Egg Roll Lovin' Tour Bus

The very last family came around midnight. The lights had called it a night about half an hour before. They had just arrived, the mother hoping to catch them before they were due at a funeral the next day. Mom and dad had sleeping children draped over their shoulder. I'm really sorry they missed them.

Turns out Michelle and Paul are on their way to Carlsbad about the same time I am. I hope to see them there. Their company, the gorgeous sunset, and all the trimmings were enough to have enjoyed the evening, even if the Marfa lights really had been cars.

CORK AND DEMON WESTERN WINE TOUR 2006

2006-02-28T10:16:00.000-08:00

I'm leaving tomorrow, March 1st at 4:30 in the freakin' morning. Wow. Why, you ask, am I getting up at the crack of ass? Because I looooove to start driving early, so that after I've gone five hours, it's still 10 am, and I've got the whole day ahead of me. Otherwise, the day becomes about getting there, and while that'll be unavoidable sometimes, it's so much cooler the other way.

I can NOT wait to wake up in west Texas. West Texas is one of the most beeyootiful spots in the country, don't care what you say. I fully expect to be tripping on the Marfa lights very soon. I can't believe I've been out there twice and haven't check 'em out. We'll fix that. Also on my list of non-vino related destinations: the Guadalupe Mountains, Carlsbad Caverns (always wanted to go since I was a wee little shit!), and the Chiricahua National Monument in Arizona. There's a whole lotta stuff to see, and I want to get it done before we all die of the avian flu.

The Cork and Demon, my wine-centric blog will host my wine adventures, and this blog will be my headquarters for posts about my travels. And yeah, there'll be pictures. Lots of pictures. You'll totally be like, stop posting kickass pictures already, I'm not getting any work done.
Here's a link to an explanation of the tour.

Please check back, and please post any and all of your comments and suggestions, and wish me well.

Holy Damn, here I go!

Two Punk Proclamations

2006-02-26T05:58:00.000-08:00

I watched, finally, End of The Century: The Story of the Ramones the other night, and have since then been collecting punk classics for my road trip. Punk classics. There's sooo something wrong with that title. Oh, but try this one, from ITunes: 'Roots Punk'. How's that?

I met Dee Dee Ramone when I was 14. It was at a record store called 'Peaches', a wooden-crate and disco themed place left over from the seventies. The Ramones were there for a record signing. I remember being astounded by Joey's physique and totally crushed out on Dee Dee, who was in his closer cropped eighties punk revival 'do. The current album was 'Subterranean Jungle', a return-to-raw album with one of my favorite later songs: 'Psychotherapy'.

Anyhoo, the movie reminded me of the fascinating transition from glam rock to punk that happened during the dismal early '70's in New York, and how so many people think of the Sex Pistols as the undisputed sires of punk. Weeeeel, they ain't. They share the title with America's bands across the pond: The Stooges, Ramones, Television.

American punk rock makes me feel a little....patriotic. Is that kinda weird?

An interesting irony: There's the scene in the movie where they're accepting---gracefully---their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Johnny Ramone startles the crowd with "God Bless President Bush, and God Bless America." And I'm thinking, wow, that's as punk as it gets: Fuck You, I'm a conservative. The whole Conservative Punk movement still astounds me (how do you say Fuck You to The Man if your party's the one in power?) but Johnny was always a Republican, proudly declaring that he'd been "a Nixon man" and had never wavered. He sticks to his core beliefs despite the expectations or assumptions surrounding the whole punk thing. That, my friend, is punk, too, whether you (or I, for that matter) like it or not.

Yes, I just defended a conservative. And I'll do it again, if I ever see one worth defending.

The Sex Pistols have announced their own statement to being inducted to the R&R HOF: Fuck You, period. Above is a handwritten note declaring their intent to skip the proceedings, because it's a bunch of rich recording industry gladhanders paying rediculous amounts of money for tickets. I especially like the 'urine in wine' line. Not sure exactly what that means, but you get the idea. This, too, is a classic Fuck You punk move, just like Johnny's, but more predictable. Naturally, one of the rich recording industry members just looooved it:

Susan Evans, executive director of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation, said of the band's announcement, "They're being the outrageous punksters that they are, and that's rock 'n' roll."

It makes me sad that the legacy of American punk rock is getting forgotten, except that everyone's gotta have a Ramones tee shirt to go with their expensive jeans. Punk was always more than power chords, and more than "fuck the government". It was a way for kids to express all the fury and anger and disgust that goes with learning how the world works. This is a primary function of rock and roll.

Five More Days

2006-02-24T06:59:00.000-08:00

I said goodbye to Jerry today. He's off to Mardi Gras for a four day weekend. I suppose I could be a little hurt that he won't be around to see me off when I leave for the three month wine tour, but who could be upset with someone for going to Mardi Gras this year? It's a pilgrimage, hell, almost a patriotic duty. I'd go, too, but I'm headed west. We spent the evening together, and while I thought: wow, this is it, we're getting divorced, I'm going away for so long...shit: I should be really upset, I wasn't. Instead of some sit-down, talk-about goodbye tearfest, we ate canned field peas and collard greens then snoozed together in front of teevee. I rubbed a knot in his back. We didn't say much, but smiled at one another a lot. It was peaceful and reassuring, and there wasn't room for anger or sadness.

I leave in five days.

Nothing will be the same when I return. I won't be married. I'll own a house. I will have changed. But I haven't the faintest idea how yet. Right now, I'm just thankin' the Christ Child that I've passed through the Free Floating Anxiety period. That was a bitch, thinking that there was all this stuff I was forgetting to do when there wasn't. I'm pretty calm now, gettin' down to thinking of which food bars I wanna buy for the road.

Cork and Demon Western Wine Tour is nigh

2006-02-17T10:23:00.000-08:00

Eleven days. That's like, tomorrow, man.

In eleven days, I'm going off in my car for three months.

D.K., the owner of Seoul Korea and as Austinites will know, the Sushi Pimp Host for Karaoke Mondays, gave me some suprisingly fatherly advice for my trip. Suprising, because this man puts on a leopard trimmed pimp suit and giant afro and makes Howard Stern look like Mother Theresa with his foul mouth. But for a moment, I was his kid, and he wanted to make sure I'd be safe. "Take mace with you, and don't travel at night, and if someone has you in a chokehold, shift your weight to the side and hit 'em in the balls."

But it's not the Boogey Man I'm scared of.

I've been slowly hyping this trip, which will take me all the way across the Western US and back again to taste good wine and meet people, for a few months now. What if I don't live up to my own hype? What if I haven't hyped it enough and no one reads about it? What if I run out of money? What if I get out there and it turns into a death march, trying to keep up with my self-imposed ambition of talking to all these winemakers? Or worse, what if I find myself in the middle of the Guadalupe Mountains and say, "Fuck it, I'm gonna stay here and commune with the Lord instead"?

Okay, that probably won't happen. Far as I know, there's no wireless coverage out there.

And why, pray, am I doing this krazier-than-shit thing again? Especially now, that I'm in the middle of the most heartbreakingly friendly divorce on the fucking planet? Shouldn't I be staying around, finding a new job, getting back to the grind and getting on with my life instead of traipsing off like a trust fund dilettante into the wild blue yonder? Who do I think I am? I'm no real journalist, why should these people talk to me?

Thing is, this is me, getting on with my life. It's me taking an opportunity to invest in what I love most: writing. There's probably a lot of winemakers out there who did the same damn thing, and left their unfulfilling jobs to pursue something their family might have thought was nuts.

That, by the way, is one of the reasons I think people should talk to me.

Ultimately, this trip is to test a belief that I hold very dear: if you make a bold step, the Universe rises to meet you. If this is true, I can't possibly fail.

Whew.