Parking is Such Sweet Sorrow

I avoid crowds, like the ones you might expect Christmas shopping on a Saturday afternoon in Walnut Creek's Broadway Plaza. While I do enjoy seeing the decorations and sensing the joys of the season, too many people are, well, just plain cranky. The best display of this attitude is in parking lots where, for reasons I do not understand, ordinary people become filled with wrath.

So I rode ma moto to Walnut Creek, knowing that there are dedicated motorcycle parking places in the multi-story structure near Crate & Barrel. I did not gloat (visibly) as I passed a line of impatient drivers held up because someone far, far ahead was waiting for a vehicle to back out of their space. "Why was this particular space sought after?", I wondered. Anyway, I visited L'Occitane, Nordstrom and the Ecco shoe store, making purchases in all three. With my goods safely packed into my long and flexible backpack, I returned to find my bike one of 3 in the motorcycle area. "Nice ride" was written on a business card and stuck in my instrument cluster. I guess that's a compliment.

Leaving Walnut Creek, I noticed the drivers were beyond impatient, navigating erratically which is dangerous for those of us with less "buffer" to protect our bodies. So I took the back roads home, greeted by a wagging Roman in the front yard. We got inside just as the rain showers began. It was a very satisfying ride, especially the parking.

Snow on the Mountain

Mount Diablo often has a dusting of snow, but not to such low elevations as during last night's storm. Roman loved greeting all the people (especially the kids) who had the same idea we did: take a photo from the Dinosaur Park overlook off Taylor Boulevard.

We parked in the bike lane with everyone else and scurried up the hill while there was still some sunlight on the mountain. The array of camera equipment represented a pretty good cross section of photographers, from amateur to professional. Tripods and light meters abounded, but we just did some quick "point and shoots" to capture the moment. A nice gentleman took our photo, but couldn't get the horizon level, so I rotated the photo above.

During Christmas, we plan to document Roman's first encounter with snow...the climate he was bred for.

Mulberry Haiku

(The art of Japanese Haiku poetry involves three line stanzas, usually in lengths of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. This post is my humble attempt at a Haiku approach to every day chores.)

Evil Mulberry
Leathery leaves unwilling
To decompose now

Squirrel autobahn
You gave access to the house
For creekside varmints

We prune you early
Before the leaves turn and fall
Branches chopped, leaves gone

Yellow fibrous leaves
Packed into recycle bin

Make us smile in peace

And now the backstory: for years we have mulched birch tree and liquid amber leaves into the vegetable garden area to improve the soil. What was once nearly impenetrable clay is now cake-flour like soil in which vegetables thrive in summer.

Mulberry leaves are fibrous, leathery and very reluctant to decompose. In Spring when the rototiller is asked to do the heavy work of turning the layers of soil, leaves and other vegetable matter, the Mulberry leaves sneer in denial. They form a slimy, almost chamois-like layer which merely churns around in an ever-thickening wad on the rototiller's tines. The only remedy is to remove this mess by hand, a very unpleasant task indeed.

So we have learned to prune the Mulberry BEFORE the leaves fall. Cutting the branches into lengths which fit in the bin, green leaves and all, we eliminate the double handling of the nasty leaves. And we really upset the squirrels by denying them easy access to the roof of the house from their nests in the Buckeye trees along the creek.

I Miss My Dad

I miss my Dad. As an adult child of an elderly parent, I understand on many levels that it is the normal course of life for my father to precede me in most things, including the final transition out of this world. What I was not prepared for was the long, slow goodbye of dementia, a disease which gradually fades the substance and spirit of a person until an unfamiliar entity remains. So while he is still living, I am grieving the loss of his presence in my life, the connection that a father and son enjoy through love, conversation and shared experience.

Dad was always the go-to guy in the family, able to fix nearly anything mechanical or electrical. Often he devised unique solutions for tricky problems, and he even made his own tools or “jigs” for special woodworking challenges. His father was an electrician, and in WWII Dad was a B-29 flight engineer; so he came by his skills through legitimate life experience. Perhaps one of the most precious gifts he gave me was how to “get the feel” of something so that I could safely use power tools, ride a bicycle, gap a sparkplug and control a chain saw.

The interface between human and tool can be powerful when understood and deftly used. Dad demonstrated infinite patience with me while under his careful observation I learned to solder, make precise wood cuts with a band saw or correctly mount and position the work at hand in a bench vise. For as long as I can remember, he encouraged me to observe, participate, practice and finally master many tasks by hand. No doubt about it, this is greatest gift he has given me, freely and without judgment or expectation.

The understanding of “how to” goes far beyond mere coordination: it is the ability to produce the intended result by anticipating how the human-tool system will behave. Application of this awareness, this sense of being able to select the correct approach, act with intention and respond to any unintended consequences has paid huge dividends in my life. I have successfully applied this acquired sense to many activities my father never attempted or mastered like snow skiing or playing the piano.

Now 91, Dad’s capacity for understanding the world around him has diminished to the point where simple tasks seem insurmountable one day and familiar the next. His memory fails him in ways far worse than merely forgetting: he sometimes blends memories of people and events into a new reality which never really existed. When he is aware of this having happened, he is understandably upset and frustrated. So our family tends to just go along with whatever spontaneous comments he makes to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he is slipping. This is an uncomfortable but necessary accommodation.

The notion of pre-grieving a parent’s passing may seem odd to some. I find it allows me to embrace the reality of his decreasing presence in this world without being in denial about the inevitable. I have stopped railing at the Furies over his unfortunate path which helps me focus on making whatever time he has left as healthy an experience as possible. I don’t know whether any true healing can start yet for the loss of my father, but I am confident that having integrity around what is and what is yet to come keeps me grounded.

Someday soon there will be a eulogy to write. I have no idea what will come to me as suitable for his memorial. Perhaps I’ll get the feel of it, just as Dad taught me.

Out of the fog and into the frying pan

I am Molly’s wingman. From a moto enthusiast perspective, we are an odd couple: an Italian naked street bike and a high-performance motard. From a rider perspective, we are cut from the same cloth, seeking a safe and exhilarating ride while improving our skills and confidence.

We have had two great excursions on our motos. During an unusually warm spell in January, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge together, riding safely in formation to appear as a “unit” to other motorists. We toured the Marin Headlands and looped back across the GG Bridge for a delicious lunch in the Avenues.

Our 2nd excursion to Moss Beach Distillery included many microclimates relatively short trip. We experienced calm sunshine in the Avenues, blowing fog on Skyline, crosswinds near the beaches, heavy overcast at Devil’s slide. I noted the lowest temperature at Skyline, about 52 degrees, much cooler than I expected for July. The ever-changing lighting, wind and road surface conditions offered many opportunities to be a better rider. Even though traffic was not particularly heavy, we had an ample supply of drivers with poor judgment to keep us on our toes anticipating our next defensive maneuver.

After a wonderful lunch in the City and time spent reflecting on the day, I headed across the Bay Bridge toward home where I knew it would be much hotter. The temperature in San Francisco was in the low 70s mid-afternoon, and by the time I reached the Bay Bridge the air temperature had dropped to the 60s. Approaching the Caldecott tunnel which connects the cooler Bay Area to the warmer inland Diablo Valley, I noted the gage read 72. Exiting the tunnel, my air temperature gage behaved more like the second hand of a watch as the indication read 80, 81, 82, 83 and kept going. In less than a mile it read 90, 91, 92, 93 and by the time I reached my exit at Lafayette, the reading peaked at 103 degrees.

The effect of dry, hot air on my body was powerful, even through my protective gear. I realized how quickly the moisture was leaving me, and that soon I would be a mummy if I didn’t reach home to rehydrate. The last temperature I saw was 105 degrees when turning into my driveway, relieved to have made it. So in a mere 30 miles, I drove out of the fog and into the frying pan.

(A rare fogless day from the Marin Headlands)

Zealotry in any form is dangerous

On November 5, 2009 at Fort Hood military base in Texas, thirteen people were killed and 30 injured in a massacre by Major Nidal Malik Hasan. News of the tragedy has dominated the US media, and the debates over the Major Hasan's motives are likely to consume all the political oxygen for the foreseeable future. The collateral societal damage is predictable: grieving and angry people will ascribe the tragedy to religion, challenging the patriotism of American Muslims serving our country because we have been engaged in a war on Islamist terrorism for most of this decade. Instead of jumping to "furious and intemperate conclusions" about why this occurred, I was struck by the vivid, almost inherent conflict in the fabric of the perpetrator.

What has been revealed to us is that this person is a man, an American, a soldier, a psychiatrist, and a Muslim. He was also scheduled to be dispatched to the war in Afghanistan. Certainly there are other important attributes of who he was at the moment he made the decision to use violence against fellow soldiers and fellow Americans. What perplexes me is how any single vector of one's being could so completely overpower the integrity of the entire person so that violence of this magnitude results. Call it radical fanaticism or extreme zealotry, my tenet is that any form of this mindset is unjustified and tragically dangerous.

Stepping back from the Fort Hood events, I ask myself a broader question: how might each of us explore ourselves, our own personal philosophies, beliefs and principles, to determine if we might be motivated to act with a singular purpose? I'm not suggesting confining the examination to violent outcomes, but any unthinking, unreasoned one without considering the consequences. Sadly, one doesn't have to look far to see how we treat one another when motivated by prejudice, hatred or greed. What if instead we treated each other with respect, integrity and generosity? Can we agree to replace fear with understanding?

Returning to the tragedy at hand, I offer the BBC link as an access way for more editorial from the global press:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8347361.stm

Oktoberfest in zwei Nächten

The Oktoberfest weekend was like a mini-vacation for us. Friday night we attended a fundraiser at St. Stephen's where the Friars (pun intended) made the most delicious sauerbraten and warm potato salad I have ever eaten. Apparently they began the process days ago by soaking meat in brine and performing other time-consuming steps to yield the most tender and flavorful meal ever served in a church fellowship hall. I wore my lederhosen (buckskin) from Bavaria to support the theme of the party and, quite frankly, because they are comfortable.

On Saturday we had SFO Symphony tickets to hear Yefim Bronfman play Brahms' 2nd piano concerto, a magnificent and difficult work. We chose to continue the German theme by eating at Suppenkuche (soup kitchen http://www.suppenkuche.com/dinner.html) at the corner of Laguna and Hayes. Normally if you are there by 6pm, you can be seated right away. But because of Fleet Week, Oktoberfest, Columbus Day and the President's Cup Golf event, the restaurant was packed and a 45-minute wait faced us. Undaunted, we each downed 1/2 liter of Erdinger Hefeweizen, a light wheat beer, while waiting for our table. Our meal was extraordinary with tender venison, the mandatory red cabbage and spaetzle. And then we shared one order of apfel strudel. Yum!

I love the serendipity of sitting family style at Suppenkuche. We sat with five thirty-somethings who were celebrating the near-ready launch of their new business. In these tough economic times, it's delightful and motivating to discuss possibilities with brilliant, enthusiastic and smart people who are turning their vision into reality. Perhaps they shared with us a glimpse of "...the next big thing..." in technology.

Our symphony seats provide a good vantage point for the soloist's hands, so I was in heaven listening to Brahms while watching the amazing technique required. The gracious performer signed CDs after the concert, and we drove home happy, well fed and feeling as if we had a mini-vacation without the jet lag.

Sunday was a day to do absolutely nothing, and that's just what we did because we are good at it! Right now there is a eucalyptus fire in the fireplace, burning hot and clean, and the pasta is nearly ready for dinner. Dennis harvested what may be the next-to-the-last batch of organic tomatoes from the garden. Along with his tender basil and some fresh mozzarella, the feast continues.

Turns Out You Can't Get Anything You Want....

....at Alice's Restaurant. But that's okay because just the experience of being there was, to use a '60s phrase, "Cool!". Yup, I'm a Bay Area Native who had never been to this infamous place before Sunday. But thanks to my Riding Buddy, Molly, we found ourselves heading south on Skyline to the little berg of Woodside. At an odd sort of confluence of small, country paved roads, one finds a collection of restaurants with many motos parked in front. To my casual eye, I was the only Italian sport bike in the lot. But that's okay because I'm used to being the outlier.


Molly and I have the same approach to riding: have fun and arrive safely with all body and bike parts in good order. We thoroughly enjoyed the road winding through the redwoods, despite the 49-degree air temperature. The sun came out which kept us comfortable while we enjoyed our lunch outdoors (the propane heater at our table did not work). I enjoyed holding on to my cup of hot apple cider as much as I enjoyed raising my core temperature by drinking it.

On the ride home, we found ourselves behind an inexperienced rider which concerned me for safety reasons. One never, ever applies the brakes on a moto while banked in a curve; however, this person did so repeatedly which told me that s/he did not really know how to ride. At the first legal and safe place to pass, I did so, but Molly chose to hang back.

We met up at the Scenic Overlook where Hwy 92 took us on separate paths home.

My trip home took me across the San Mateo Bridge, then up 880 briefly to 580, then 13 and the Caldecott Tunnel to 24. The total saddle time was 2-1/2 hours, my longest to-date. And I arrived comfortable, yearning for more. I am not sure where Molly and I will end up next...perhaps at the Beach during a window of nice autumn weather when the wind is not blowing sand across the Great Highway.

Here's Molly's account of the trip:

http://m-dash.blogspot.com/2009/10/alices-restaurant.html

Bird Strike

Recently some large birds, Canada geese I believe, flew into the engines of a commercial jetliner causing the pilot to perform an amazing emergency landing in the Hudson river. While everyone survived, there were injuries for some on board. And for the next several weeks, any tidbit of a story that involved birds, airports and jets was trotted out as "news".

I have found that some species of birds fly in unpredictable paths during their takeoff. Most notably, doves seem to fly erratically whether taking off because they were finished eating or to avoid being eaten. I marvel at what sounds like squeaky wings when they suddenly depart from beneath our birch trees in the front yard.

On a motorcycle, one must anticipate the trajectory of any object on the freeway so that appropriate changes in course and speed can be made to avoid a collision. Sometimes, very large bugs become visible with less than a second to spare, and I know that my leather jacket will protect me from harm as the insect ends its life on my torso. Almost as soon as my brain identifies the object, it calculates and compares our relative paths to alert me whether a collision is inevitable. For these smaller critters, I do not intend to swerve or put myself or other drivers at risk. But how would I react if the "critter" was a bird?

A few weeks ago, I was commuting to work on a particularly clear and bright morning. My route takes me past a beautiful wetland along Highway 680, a wetland frequented by many kinds of birds. I will never know the reason the group of doves (hardly a flock) decided to launch as I approached them at 66 mph, but they did and my brain did its calculation. Riding as a commuter in the diamond lane, I have more flexibility than motorists to my right; however, one stragling bird was unable to gain enough altitude across 3 lanes of traffic and it was clear we were going to meet violently. I held on to the handlebars tightly and leaned my torso forward to be a low and as battering ram-like as possible.

Full-face helmets have their advantages, not the least of which is keeping all debris out of the driver's eyes, nose and mouth. Shaped like the nose of a 747, my helmet tends to deflect most things caught in the breeze as it divides around me. The clumsy dove, however, was too large to be influenced by my eddies as it slammed into the brow of my helmet just above the visor. When you consider that the dove was hit broadside by a solid object traveling 66 mph, well, the outcome is clear.



My moto did not waiver in its course, my helmet was easily cleaned, I was not injured, nor did I have to make an emergency landing. Survival of the fittest indeed applied as the herd of doves was thinned by one that day.

The Bee

The Knoll Pool at The Ridge is aptly named because the desert community of Minden, NV is visible to the southeast while the green Lake Tahoe basin is visible to the north. At 7800' of elevation, I chose to gently glide through the pool rather than doing laps, taking my time to acclimate to the reduced oxygen.

What summertime and pools have in common at most elevations is the inevitable discovery of a drowning insect. The honeybee was nearing the end of his struggle, legs flailing uselessly as his body bobbed wherever the children's waves sent him. I paused, remembering the two times I was stung, and the fact that I'm allergic to bee stings and did not have my Epipen handy. In less time that it takes to read this sentence, I remembered that nasty yellow jackets had stung me without provocation, which is how I learned of my severe allergy. This honeybee was probably just doing his job when he became stranded by an errant splash of pool water.

I cupped my hands under water to ensure adequate cushion for the bee, and then I lifted my make-shift bowl and set him on the pool deck. Initially, he walked, staggered really, in an erratic path. Perhaps this was the remnant of his frantic attempt at swimming. Then he abruptly stopped walking and stood still on the warm pool deck in the full sun. I stayed in the water, watching him, cautioning approaching barefoot humans to give him a wide berth.

After several motionless minutes warming in the sun, the bee began to "groom" himself, forelegs wiping over his head like a fly, tentative movement of wings, abdomen noticeably flexing. I thought this was good news and hoped a hungry Bluejay did not intend to appear and ruin the moment.

When the bee suddenly lifted off and flew away, I felt a sense of connectedness to creation. What a perfect way to ease into a summer nap.

2 Bucks a Stem

The flower market in Los Angeles is 2nd in size only to the one in Amsterdam. Our amazing host Wally used his professional credential and took us at 6am to select flowers for the rehearsal dinner which will occur outside in their magnificently manicured garden. Exotic flowers of all types tempted us, but the blossoms that won out were deep purple and coral peonies.

Donald and Wally's home is a magnificent 1920s mansion in Los Feliz, formerly owned by Basil Rathbone and the prizefighter Jack Dempsey. The party of 70 people will easily fit around 8 tables on the expansive lawn. I toured the garden with Wally, admiring all kinds of blooming plants from complex hibiscus to dalias. Seeing Donald's garden of succlents reminded me of my mother who grew Hens and Chicks as well as roses and dalias, until the deer ate everything. The pool is the original shape, but the diving board has been removed in favor of a solar cover which raised to provide shade. Pretty neat design!

The slate roof and bow windows compliment the original timbers on the interior. Only the plumbing, heating and air conditioning have been updated. The original structure is maintained in an authentic style. Donald and Wally have selected furniture which completes the sensation of being present in a much different and special era.

Our guest quarters are right next to the pool, and we look out at the beautiful setting beyond. What a great way to destress, sip coffee (or wine depending on the time of day) and just "be".

Preparation for this event has been a joy-filled experience! Friday is the rehearsal dinner, and Saturday is the wedding. Jon and Eva will begin their lives together with the best send-off we can give them.

The Dog

When I come home, Roman is always happy to see me. His tail wags enthusiastically as if we have been apart months instead of hours. Sometimes his entire body bends in the middle as if to emphasize his silent greeting. No matter my mood, no matter how good or tough the day has been, the Dog is steadfast in his acceptance of our pack, and in his joy at my return. Writers with much better vocabulary have penned some thoughtful reflections which I wish to share.

The dog is the only animal that is capable of disinterested affection. He is the only creature that regards the human being in his compassion, and follows him as his friend; the only one that seems to possess a natural desire to be useful to him, or from a spontaneous impulse attaches himself to man. We take the bridle from the mouth of the horse, and turn him free into the pasture, and he testifies his joy in his partially recovered liberty. We exact from the dog the service that is required of him, and still he follows us. He solicits to be continued as our companion and our friend. Many an expressive action tells us how much he is pleased and thankful. He shares in our abundance, and he is content with the scantiest and most humble fare. He loves us while living, and has been known to pine away on the grave of his master.

- William Youatt, from The Dog, 1845


Calm though not mean, courageous without rage,
Serious not dull, and without thinking sage;
Pleas’d at the lot that Nature has assign’d.
Snarl as I list, and freely bark my mind;
As churchman wrangle not with jarring spite,
Nor statesman-like caressing whom I bite;
View all the canine kind with equal eyes,
I dread no mastiff, and no cur despise;
True from the first, and faithful to the end.
My days and nights one equal tenour keep.
Fast but to eat, and only wake to sleep;
Thus stealing along life I live incog,
A very plain and downright honest dog.

- William Hamilton, 18th century from On a Dog

3 Bridges

The Bay Bridge is actually a double-decker bridge-tunnel-bridge spanning the San Francisco Bay from Oakland to "The City". The tunnel is on Treasure Island (Alcatraz is in the foreground).

Depending on what you consider the boundaries of San Francisco Bay, there are from 5 to 9 bridges which cross it. From south to north: Dumbarton, San Mateo, Bay Bridge, Golden Gate, San Rafael, Crockett (2 spans) and Benicia (2 spans). Today I celebrated the beautiful clear, mid-60s weather by riding ma moto across 3 bridges: Bay Bridge into San Francisco, the Golden Gate to Marin County, and then the San Rafael to complete the loop and return home.

Parking at any of the vista points in the Marin Headlands just north of the Golden Gate resulted in the Shiver becoming a conversation starter with locals and tourists alike. A very nice fellow named "Mack" took my picture (below).

The San Rafael bridge is also a double-decker, just like the Bay Bridge; however, it has recently been renovated and the driving surface is uncommonly smooth. Most of the Bay Area highways are in poor condition, but driving across this bridge was an unusually smooth trip.

Everyone has seen the Golden Gate in person or in movies. Still, there is nothing quite as impressive as standing on the Marin Headlands and seeing this magnificent span with "The City" in the background. Can you belive it's January? Drought concerns aside, it was an exciting and relaxing trip.

Aliens on Mt. Shasta

Sundown on Mt. Shasta

Driving south on Interstate 5 returning from Ashland, one can't help but notice how often there are odd cloud formations near the top of Mount Shasta. As the sun set one January afternoon, I was struck by the clouds shaped like rings of Saturn near the summit. My friend Sue thinks that the Lunarians live in the mountain, so probably these special clouds give them cover to land undetected.

The trip back to the Bay Area is visually interesting through the Siskiyou mountains, then you arrive in Redding. Sigh. Continuing south is rather dull, flat, many miles of straight uninspired Interstate with such exciting exits as "Proberta", "Balls Ferry" and the ever popular "Zamora". Often these exits do not provide any services, so one wonders why there is an exit at all. Once I reach the Hwy 505 cutoff back to I-80, the nonsense exits continue. My favorite paradox is Exit 17 to a destination called "Road 8".

More Scents

This warmer-than-necessary January has caused plants to bloom prematurely. We have a small daphne bush in a large pot near the front door. The blooms give off a delicious scent, most noticeable at night and in the morning. As you walk past the plant a gentle but persistent scent is presented to your nose. Scents can be difficult to describe because they are unique and any description is subjective. Daphne is not pungent like gardenia, nor sweet like citrus, but it is a pleasant and unique experience.

We can post photos and videos to the Internet to share a visual experience. What a shame there is no way (yet) to post a scent file to share the olfactory experience.

Growing up near Seattle, mom used to grow daphne and put just one cut sprig in water on the kitchen windowsill. That one sprig with perhaps 2 or 3 small blossoms was all it took to bring the outdoors into the kitchen. The scent takes me back to that image of her at the window, as if I'm truly there with her. What a wonderful comforting memory!

Miles to Nowhere

Interstate 40 crosses the Tehachapi Mountains and the Mojave Desert before entering AZ

We took a 1,100 mile road trip to Lake Havasu, Arizona to visit Dennis' mom last week. The Colorado river widens into a man-made lake at this location because of a downstream dam. So the location is popular with the boating community and those who want to see the London Bridge which was relocated brick by brick to become a tourist attraction. In summer, the temperature can easily reach over 115 degrees, cooling down at night to a mere 104. At least that was our experience when we visited 3 years ago for mom's 75th birthday, and so we nicknamed the barren area "Gates of Hell".

This visit was very nice, including delicious meals and play time with siblings, cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews and (of course) dogs. A paved 4-mile trail is well organized with bicycles going clockwise and walkers going counterclockwise. On skates with dogs, we considered ourselves walkers. Roman actually sustained a 4-mile trot as I skated beside him on the second day. The family members who walked completed the loop in about 1 hr and 20 minutes, a pretty good pace indeed.

Cyndie, Paula, Roman and Josie on the 4-mile path

Cousin Paula made the most hilarious observations of the topography and local community:

• "This place is just like Afghanistan, only without the bullets!" (referring to the rugged, treeless terrain)




• "Bin Laden is probably hiding in the Model homes!" (as we passed an abandoned new housing development with only 3 model homes built and no activity whatsoever, who would think to look for terrorists there?)


Abandoned new housing development with 3 hearty palm trees attempting to survive




• "Mr. Bunny was surprised!" (referring to the cottontail rabbits who routinely traverse mom's backyard and did not expect two dogs to be there, the rabbits left quickly and dashed into the "wash", a gully designed for flash floods. Perhaps the coyotes got them.)




• "It's time for pee-pee NOW!" (this is the universally understood road-trip cry when there are no rest areas for extended periods while crossing the desert)

I was struck by the lack of solar panels on homes. Of all the places I have visited, Lake Havasu would be the ideal location to generate electricity from the sun, especially with the heavy use of residential air conditioning (even the garages have their own, separate swamp coolers!).

On the ride home, I took the snapshot below of the airplane storage area in the Mojave desert. Presumably, planes are stored here because of the low humidity....they don't deteriorate as quickly as they might in a wetter location.



Roman is a great traveler and never once complained about the long stretches. He just slept in doggie business class, the entire backseat being given over to him.

Sticks and Stones

Day 3 of roller blading: Roman can run longer and faster each outing. He understands that we need to pause when the trail meets city streets. I am at my least graceful at these intersections, trying desperately to stop. The all-but-useless brake on the heel of the right skate taunts me as it gives the impression of slowing. Normally I step off into the grass, making a few high stepping moves to come to rest. Or, if there's a handy road sign with a galvanized pole, I grab it and spin until my momentum is gone. Either way, I throw the leash and Roman knows to stop and observe his awkward human finding a way to stop upright.

The childhood rhyme of "sticks and stones may break my bones" came to mind today because the tiniest twig on the asphalt can cause a roller blade wheel to stop abruptly. The same is true for a pebble. When this happens, the body lurches forward, hopefully landing on the other foot to stay upright. Now I've become more cognisant of debris on the path, and I avoid all that I can by stepping carefully over and around it.

Roman's toenails are nicely smoothed from running on pavement. No more wrestling to clip them at home. His pads are toughened to avoid injury, and he is visibly excited when he sees us struggle to get the protective pads on because he knows that leads to an outing when he can run beside me and tow me. Let's hope our injury-free record continues!

Pug with a Chicken Wing

Ground raw chicken, bones and all, defrosted and ready to eat!

Camp Four Paws http://campfourpaws.com/ is a wonderful place for dogs and their human companions. The facility provides a safe, supervised setting for dogs to have play and stimulating activities under the amazing care of the owner, Troy, and her dedicated staff. They screen dogs based on behavior to ensure that everyone gets along. Roman loves going there when we cannot take him with us on trips, and judging by how tired he is when we pick him up, he plays to his heart's delight.

I asked Troy about the merits of feeding dogs raw chicken, having learned recently that the bones and other non-flesh bits provide needed nutrients which may not be in commercial dog food. Apparently, there is a range of opinions on this topic; however, I trust Troy completely and she assured me that the occasional treat of raw chicken is not only healthy, but allows the dog to be, well, a dog! I think what she said to me was, "You haven't lived until you see a Pug with a chicken wing!" That mental image has stuck with me, perhaps longer than necessary.

The merits of raw chicken were reinforced by various people at the dog parks who had painstakingly researched the nutritional and health benefits before offering up a raw chicken back to their pets. I was not surprised to learn from our local butcher shop at Lunardi's that one can purchase frozen blocks of ground up chicken backs and wings for only 99 cents a pound. To serve, merely defrost in the microwave, place before hungry dog, stand back and watch.

Because the bones aren't cooked, they don't become sharp or brittle which could risk internal puncture or other health problem. Judging by the satisfied nap (coma, really) Roman takes after a meal of raw chicken, I'd say that the benefits go beyond taste and any ancient need to eat raw meat. He is now sound asleep, dreaming doggie dreams which make his feet, legs and body twitch as he plays in his own imaginary world where squirrels are slow and clumsy.

Scents

Today I drove across the San Francisco Bay Bridge into the City for the first time on my moto. Driving a car deprives one of many sensual experiences, especially the scents in the air. And I suppose sensory deprivation is an objective of automotive design. How did luxury come to mean being separate from the world around you?

Besides sitting much higher on my Aprilia than I do in a car, I am keenly aware of the scent, temperature and character of the air. My full-face helmet is vented in the front, and a steady stream of fresh, ambient air is provided to me to keep the visor clear for safety. But the real joy of a clear visor is found in the nose, not the eyes.

January 10th was remarkable in many ways: the weather was crystal clear, the air was transparent yet savory, and I found myself seeing things with a new relevance, a new perspective. I was going to join my dear friends for lunch in the Mission, but my adventure began when I crossed the Bay Bridge on my way to their home in the Avenues.

As I drove through City streets, I could detect specific smells which easily overpowered automotive and diesel exhaust. Nearing Golden Gate Park, I distinctly smelled Eucalyptus, as if I was in the grove myself. Along Fell Street, I was suddenly in an unmistakable cloud of cannabis, that sickly sweet smell which is unpleasant to non-smokers like me. Passing restaurants and bakeries, I smelled garlic, yeast and sugar. Each City block brought different scents, some new and some familiar.

I find it amazing how familiar scents can take one's memory back to a very specific event in time, perhaps a memorable meal, a "comfort" memory of one' s childhood, or even college days. The nose is deprived when in a car. But on my moto, I am more closely connected to the world.

Lipos

My friend Deborah coined the word "lipo". Just as "typo" refers to a misspelled word when typing, a "lipo" is a misspoken word or phrase which occurs when speaking. It's not a matter of mere mispronunciation, but truly an inadvertent substitution that often produces a great laugh. Both of us have agreed to keep track when they occur, but often we forget the lipo and just remember how hard we laughed!

Here's a sampling of lipos which I will update from time to time. The intended word or phrase appears in italics after the lipo.

• After David (affidavit)
• Racial ipecac (racial epithet)
• Use genetic drugs in your medication regiment (use generic drugs in your regimen)
• Cinco me dayo (Cinco de Mayo)
• A paragram shift (a paradigm shift)
• Have a glass of J.O. (glass of O.J. or "orange juice")
• Mabel-sized hail! (marble sized hail)

Check back in a month or so for more lipos!

Bonne Année!

Happy New Year Everyone! Cousin Paula and her mother Angie joined Joy, Dennis and me for a New Year's Feast at our local French restaraunt, The Left Bank. We were lucky to be seated in Sophie's section. She is a marvelously fun server, and although she was very busy, we snagged a few seconds of her time to take the photo below.

Dennis still fits into his wedding tux, but I don't. So I wore the kilt which is very forgiving of expanding waist lines. Honestly, you don't go to the Left Bank to diet. We enjoyed the prix fixte menu of lobster bisque, duck confit, beef tenderloin, and various desserts. Dennis chose creme brulée and I enjoyed profiterolles. The champagne flowed and we all made it past mid-night thanks to a mid-afternoon nap!

Wishing everyone a peaceful, healthy and exciting New Year full of new possibilities!