Maps

Are you old enough to remember the days when to get around a city you’d never visited before you stopped at a gas station and bought a street map?   A street map mysteriously folded so that once you unfolded it, it could never be properly folded again?   Or, if you were staying longer you’d buy a Thomas guide, 300 pages of detailed maps with print so small you needed a microscope to distinguish between Lake Avenue and Lark Avenue?  Do you remember trying to drive with with the map unfurled on your lap or getting frustrated with your navigator because she kept telling you to turn left at Redwood Avenue a block after you passed it.   Since we arrived in Utah shortly before Christmas, we have depended on maps to find our way to just about everyplace (and our way home again).  Fortunately, we have a remarkable bit of technology at our disposal … GPS navigation.   It is a distinct possibility that I’ve talked more to our GPS (which, by the way, I’ve nicknamed Myrtle) than I’ve talked to my wife since we’ve been here.   Yes, it is amazing, indispensable technology.   Except when it’s not.

P.A.D.D.

I walk four or five times a week in Yorba Regional Park, one of the gems of the Orange County Regional Park System.   It is one of the places I will miss most when we move to Utah late this year.   During the week, the park is sparsely populated so I get to pay attention mostly to the natural beauty of the place, the lakes and the greenery and the assorted fauna that call it home.  There are ducks and squirrels and geese, hawks and osprey, herons and terns circling above the lakes.   Yes, and the small cadre of mostly older humans who inhabit the park on weekdays.   On weekends, particularly once spring has arrived, the park is crowded with picnickers and partiers, some of them large family reunions and my walking pastime becomes people watching.  I will admit that my sometimes curmudgeonly nature makes people watching more of a mixed bag (as we used to say).  I can find myself smiling at the joys a huge family has in being together or grumping at the behavior of certain individuals, whether it be someone playing music so loud it can be heard in Santa Ana, a bunch of adolescents annoying the ducks, or people leaving trash around.   In my heart of hearts, I know that the music hurts no one, the ducks will be fine and the park staff will be by to clean up the mess.

Almost Eric

My love of music goes back as far as I can remember (and that, my friends, is a stretch of time). But as much as I love listening to music, I have never been proficient at making music. Oh, yes I’ve dabbled with guitars since high school and got to the point where I could play well enough to accompany myself singing popular songs. Singing wasn’t my strong suit either. Twenty or so years ago we bought a piano and the whole family started taking lessons. I lasted the longest and could play a dozen or so of my favorite songs before, inexplicably, I gave it up. Now, the piano sits quietly (and out of tune) in our living room. The same can be said for the three guitars I accumulated in my guitar dabbling days. On the shelf in my office is a native American flute that hasn’t uttered a note since the last time my grandkids were here and just had to try it.

Nowhere to Go

I found this post languishing nearly finished in my draft folder.   I think it’s pretty funny as long as you don’t take it too seriously.

So, you’re driving on the freeway. Yes, depending where you live, it might be the turnpike, throughway, parkway, highway or expressway. Just assume lots of lanes, speed limit, say, 65 mph. Traffic is moderate but moving along, heavy 18-wheelers mostly hanging out in the right lane. If you are a driver like me, you are in the second lane from the right where you can move along at a few mph above the speed limit, but not deal with crazies in the speed lanes. As you begin an incline, the eighteen wheeler ahead of you begins to slow and you are gaining on it steadily. Out of the corner of your eye in your right side mirror you see a Honda Civic coming up fast, clearly trying to get by you before you catch up with the truck. Do you: (a) slow down and let him pass then cut ahead of you; or, (b) slowly accelerate so that he can’t? Me? These days I’m almost always the (a)-guy but every once in while, the (b)-guy sneaks out. When I’m the (a)-guy, I think, Now where does he think he’s going? before letting the Civic slide by. If I think, Where the hell do you think you’re going, idiot? the (b)-guy is in charge.

The (b)-guy isn’t satisfied just to keep him from passing. He accelerates gradually so the Civic driver on his right keeps thinking he can make it. The (b)-guy knows if he times it perfectly, not only will the Honda not be able to cut ahead, the car behind him will catch enough up keep it trapped behind the truck. Points are accumulated for each minute the would be right-side-passer has Nowhere to Go. The question is, how long will the sensible (a)-guy let the (b)-guy keep it up. The record is five minutes. That’s because my friend, Gary, says if you miss your exit playing a road game, you are really crazy. Even my (b)-guy doesn’t want to be considered really crazy so he zips past the truck and bails when our exit comes up. Some day I’ll tell you about the (c)-guy. He’s really crazy.

Here We Go … Again

This week, during  podcast titled Winging It, Steph Currie asserted that he didn’t believe we had ever landed a man on the moon.   Of course, three other NBA players, Vince Carter, Kent Bazemore, and Andre Iguodala agreed with him.   As the biggest star of the group, Currie is getting the most attention for what the press is calling his mental air ball.   Given Kyrie Irving’s even more outlandish declaration the the earth is flat, I am wondering whether the NBA has ever produced an educated player.  Easy folks.  I’m just joking.  I was tempted to cite Bill Bradley as an educated NBA player, but given that he is white, and our country’s penchant for political correctness, I’d probably be called a racist.  So, instead, I’ll cite a post on Reddit, All-Time Nerd Squad: The Most Educated NBA Players  which offers a mixed race selection of NBA scholars.  Mr. Currie and Mr. Irving are not among them.

Singin’ (in the Car)

Almost fifty years ago, my wife Muri and I moved to a new house in a new neighborhood in Yorba Linda, California. We quickly became good friends with our next door neighbors, Rex and Bettie, and almost as quickly, Rex and I discovered we both liked to play the guitar and sing. One weekend when we were camping together, singing by the campfire, Rex started to sing the Kingston Trio’s Remember the Alamo.

He’s a Cat

My new friend, Claude, that I adopted from Cats in Need – Yorba Linda, has been with us for just about a month now.   And the results are in: He’s a Cat.  I present the following in evidence.

Talking to Animals

I have always been a fan of Gary Larson’s Far Side and  this cartoon is one of my favorites.  It comes to mind every time I see someone having a long, one-sided conversation with their dog.  Really? my Inner Curmudgeon says.   It’s a dog.  Then I find myself at the cat rescue, where I volunteer, talking to the cats awaiting adoption.  Of course, I tell them all they are beautiful, but to the feisty  ones, I explain that they have to learn to be nicer if they want to find a home.   I tell the frightened or shy ones, We all love kitties here … there’s nothing to be afraid of.   And in the park, I talk to most of the animals, too, but especially the squirrels.   When a squirrel runs up, begging for a treat, I say, Hello, Little Man, then either offer them a peanut or apologize for not having any today.   Do you think its sexist that I call them all Little Man?   It’s hard to tell with squirrels with the evidence hidden behind that fluffy tail, and Hello Little Man / Girl, is so awkward.  I suppose I could say, Hello, Little Bushy Tailed One.  I talk to my grand-dogs, Roxy, Darla and Agnes, too, mostly to tell them what good dogs they are and to learn a few secrets about my daughter and son-in-law.    You know what they say … Out of the mouth of dogs.

Being Bud

This week, three people posted on my Facebook page about the latest hurricane being named Hurricane Bud. My first thought was, Really? When did they start naming Hurricanes after men? After all, one of the riddles of my childhood was, Why do they only name Hurricanes after women? The (hilarious) answer was, of course, Because if they named them after men, they’d be himmicanes. Actually, they started using men’s names (along with women’s) in 1978. So here’s a thought … given the general confusion our species seems to be undergoing about gender, how long is it before we have gender-neutral names. And will we then have to use those names for tropical storms. And will they be called theyicanes?    Having a hurricane named after me left me feeling a bit conflicted. Most of my life I’ve been a very good student … A’s were preferable, as long as they didn’t take too much work, and anything below a B embarassing. So, shouldn’t I want my hurricane to be a Category 5 (156 mph winds), or at least a Category 4?  But do I want to have to see the devastation I caused on the evening news? I felt a little relieved when I read that I would probably blow myself out before I made land fall … but the notion was a little deflating, too. I was pleased to read this morning that I may bring desirable rainfall to Southern California in the next few days. Who doesn’t want to be desirable?

Twelve …

Sunday, a friend posted a video on Facebook offering Twelve Tough Truths About Life No One Wants to Admit.  To me, it seemed to pretty much summarize how I’d like to live my life.    Here it is, in case you are interested.

Hmm, my Inner Mystic thought as we watched it.  There’s that number again.  Twelve truths.  Twelve Steps.  Twelve apostles.  Twelve days of Christmas.  Twelve months in a year.  I wonder if there’s any numerological significance to the number twelve.