Category Archives: California

California; Land of the Lame. I live here though I’m not a native (Army Brat). I think most of the natives have moved out.

Queen Mary: Adventures in Shenanigans

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MEMORIAL DAY SPECIAL

In honor of Memorial Day 2018, the operators of The Queen Mary Hotel offered free admission to military service members and veterans all Memorial Day weekend long. With proper military ID or proof of service, that person could purchase up to six additional tickets at 20% off. Since I had never been and I chose to take a day off from work, I went with a friend down to visit The Grey Ghost.

 

THE SCORPION

Docked alongside the Queen is an old Soviet-era Foxtrot-class submarine. Unfortunately, visitors can no longer tour the Scorpion as detailed in a news article here. If you’ve ever been to the USS Pampanito in San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf area (article here), it’s significantly different. Just the observable size and shape show the technological advances in the thirty year span between the two. But the Scorpion was not the reason I was in Long Beach: it was the Queen Mary.

 

LUXURY LINER OR CRUISE SHIP?

As we walked alongside the ship towards the ticket booth, we both laughed about whether or not they had a “Gopher” (the ship’s purser from the 1970s show The Love Boat), or a “Doc”, a “Julie” (the cruise director) or an “Isaac” (a bartender who was one of the main characters). After all, there certainly must be a difference between a luxury liner like the Queen Mary and a cruise ship like the Love Boat, right?

 

TICKETS AND TOURS

I purchased tickets that included two tours: a Haunted History tour (not the paranormal version) and an Historical tour (but not the WW-II specific tour they just introduced). The tours included a free 4-D movie back near the engine room (a movie I missed, by the way, because they close that area at 6:00PM). This weekend they are also showing multiple instances of the 2017 Dunkirk movie (but I didn’t see that, either). A helpful individual scanned our tickets and we were off to the fourth floor entrance.

 

THE ADVENTURE BEGINS WITH A THUNK

We had time before our first tour and I wanted to see the radio room. I asked a guy I thought would know: an employee with four gold stripes on his epaulets. He told me to take two rights, go up the stairs and the radio room was forward on the deck above us. Easily done. From the starboard side of the ship, with the bar to our left and the first-class nursery to our right, we turned aft. We walked by all the cut-away models of other luxury liners from the Lusitania to the Queen Mary and then turned toward port into the first entryway we encountered. This satisfied the “two rights” command.

The only stairs we saw were to our left, which bore the sign “Historical Staircase”. Historical it was. You can only ascend in single file and they don’t provide the same level of comfort and sturdiness all the other stairs do (until you go on the Haunted tour and have to descend an almost ladder-like wooden staircase). Anyway, I made it to the top of the very dark staircase and pushed open the door at the top. Thunk! The door hit a large trash dumpster and only opened about two feet wide. This, my friends, should have been my first clue something was amiss.

 

THE FORBIDDEN WORDS “OOPS” AND “UH-OH”

My friend and I exited the staircase through the somewhat blocked door onto a deck covered in blue tarp. In any other circumstance this would clearly indicate to any casual pedestrian that something else had gone wrong, also. But, caught up in the emotion of exploration and history, it didn’t register. The adventure had deposited us onto the deck above where we started but not quite high enough. There was another flight of stairs we needed to take to get to the deck we wanted. A quick trot up the stairs brought me face-to-face with a solid wooden barricade. Clearly, this was not the path we sought. I made the “Opps” announcement to my friend who then added the “Uh-oh” statement to our situation. The door from which we exited did not have a handle on the outside and it locked upon closing. Suddenly, it all came together.

We were on whatever deck was above the Promenade but below the Sun deck in an enclosed construction area situated between lifeboat stations 3 and 5. Blue tarps covered the deck and eight to ten foot tall braced plywood blocked our exits. The exit door had no handle and we did not want to get booted off the ship for climbing over the barricade at the top of the outdoor staircase. My friend went back to the top of the stairs and called out to some other guests for help. I called the hotel’s front desk and was put on hold. Two women came to the railing above us and said they had called security. Meanwhile, the front desk finally answered and I described our location. As the woman was telling me we were in an area closed off to the public (really?) the security guy appeared on the deck above and let us know he would get us out.

Security Guy not only got us out but subtly showed us the sign telling us not to enter. Unfortunately, because there were no lights on the Historic Stairway you can only see the sign when the door is open. Security Guy then showed us the correct path to the radio room. Considering his knee was in a brace and he limped in a manner with which I’m well accustomed, my hat’s off to him for negotiating all the stairs he had to take for our sake, let alone everyone else.

 

CONFRONTING THE CAP’N

This first adventure put us dangerously close to missing the rendezvous time for the Haunted tour. When we arrived at the check-in desk, the same individual who had given us the “two rights and a left” set of instructions was there. With Security Guy right behind us, I informed “Captain Jack” (or whomever he was) that his instructions had landed us in a locked construction area and Security Guy had just rescued us. He gave me a blank look and said he wasn’t aware that the route was blocked off. I think the truth is that he had probably never gone the way I interpreted his instructions but I did, in fact, complete the “two rights and a left” exactly as he had said.

 

THE TOURS

Take the tours. I don’t want to spoil them. Robert was our guide for the Haunted tour and Cody was our guide for the History tour. I found both tours worth my time. They have a number of tours from which to choose, by the way.

 

COMING AND GOING

My friend brought lunch in a cooler left in the car. If you exit the ship you can reenter the same day by presenting your entry ticket again. If you do plan a visit and want to take lunch or snacks in your vehicle, just keep your tickets handy.

 

RADIO ROOM FAUX PAS

Properly navigating our way to the Sun deck, we went by the communications room and the radio room. Up until this point, any of the displays had been limited to “things”; not goofy displays with mannequins or stuffed animals. Books, models, photographs, antique receiver-set radios; that type of display. When we stood outside the glass of the radio room, however, it was different. My friend even said, “Look, they have a dummy in the radio room.” Turns out it wasn’t a dummy but a real amateur radio operator who was scanning through the channels listening for chatter. I apologize here and now for my friend’s comment if you were or know that radio operator. I know his call sign but I won’t disclose it. We spoke with the operator for a few minutes and went forward to the bridge.

 

THE BRIDGE

Again, I don’t want to spoil it. If you can get to the bridge and the officer’s quarters, do it. Take pictures.

 

THE BOW

We worked our way around and made our way to the bow of the ship. From the bow looking aft, this is the view:

 

UNINTENDED SHENANIGANS

We decided to have a drink outside the bar at a table overlooking the entire forward section of the ship. We sat down and waited for menus or a someone from the food service staff to help us. After a brief discussion it was determined that I would get menus and let the staff know where we were. I went in and spoke with an extremely helpful individual who said I should take a seat and he would be with me in a moment. This started a series of conversations which resulted in my laughing harder than I have in years. But first…

 

SENSITIVITY DISCLAIMER

Ages ago when I was in the military, we used to create an Electronic Order of Battle (EOB) overlay to our maps. Units we knew were TUDs (True Unit Designators) and units we did not know were AUDs (Arbitrary Unit Designators). I kept this system of identification in my head to help me remember details about someone in a kind of mental dossier. If you were a motorcycle enthusiast, I might call you Pauly (like Paul Teutul Sr. from American Chopper). If you were a mechanic and a bit scatterbrained, I might call you Iggy (like the character Jim Ingatowski from the 1970s TV Show Taxi). In my mind, I have assigned many, many people AUDs to help me associate them with something. Believe me, it’s not a derogatory thing, it’s a mechanism that helps me remember characteristics about someone that might be important later. Calling a tall guy “shorty” or a big guy “slim” is entirely different. I hope that makes sense. Anyway,…

 

PRETZELS AND BRIE

I returned to the table and said I had spoken with Isaac and we would have our menus soon. Who is Isaac? The lovable bartender from The Love Boat, of course! I did not realize at the time that my friend had already ejected the conversation we had about that show and had moved on to other things. We ordered drinks and an appetizer and took in the view of Long Beach. “Isaac” came back a couple of times to check on us which was very nice. On his last visit I told him we were ready to close the check. He validated my parking pass and returned the bill with my credit card for signature. Rather than leave it on the table, I asked my friend if we should just give it to “Isaac,” which became the plan.

 

WHO?

As we reentered the bar, I looked for “Isaac.” I did not see him anywhere. My friend suggested we give the packet to the female employee by the door, which I did. Unfortunately, I should have immediately engaged my friend in some type of conversation to divert her attention for the next two nanoseconds. My intent was to hand the paperwork off and walk away. Everything would have been clean and done. But my friend, trying to be helpful, said, “That’s for Isaac.” I freaking lost it. Did I mention one of the characteristics shared by our bar staff waiter and the actor from The Love Boat is they were both black? No? I honestly, honestly, honestly, referred to our guy as “Isaac” because he was a bar tender on the ship and my friend and I had been talking about The Love Boat earlier in the day. It was not because of the color of his skin; it was the job he performed. But when my friend said, “That’s for Isaac” and the waitress said, “Who?” I could not control it any more.

 

FIGHTING FOR AIR

I bolted around the corner from the bar and started laughing hysterically. When I calmed down enough, we went to see the continuous-loop 20 minute film about the ship. Every so often I would hear the woman in my head ask, “Who?” and I would have to hold back my immature giggles all over again. I explained the “Isaac from the Love Boat” rationale to my friend who didn’t think it was nearly as funny as I did. Then again, I wasn’t the one who said, “This is for Isaac,” either.

 

LEAVING

At this point we had been at the Queen Mary for over eight hours. It was time to go. We assumed the validation received at the bar would be good for three hours. You automatically receive 30 minutes free so I was looking at paying for about five hours worth of parking. I don’t know if it was my good looks and charm or the yellow sticker Isaac put on the parking pass, but we didn’t have to pay anything for parking. Which brings up an important point. If you visit the Queen Mary, bring your parking pass with you. The stores, restaurants and bars will validate but you have to have the ticket with you.

That’s it for now! I hope you enjoyed the story. It’s embarrassing but completely true.

A View from The Bridge Review

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My review of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge at the Ahmanson Theater.

My son purchased tickets for us to see this play. He made it a point to describe the difference between this performance (a play) and others we had seen (musicals). I very much appreciated his attempt to convince me I might enjoy this performance but all I could think of was Cats. I have no doubt everyone involved in the original concept of that winner wrote it while experiencing an extended hallucinogenic mind trip. People dressed as cats dressed as rats dressed as roaches. Seriously? And that worthless railroad cat? And the UFO-riding cat god? Anyway, my son was excited so I pasted the smile on my face and didn’t let on that I secretly expected this dramatic “play” to be nothing more than another Cats.

We had tickets to the 2:00PM show in Los Angeles. As I may have mentioned elsewhere, in Southern California you have to look at drive time, not distance. The theater was about 40 miles away but that translates into about a 90 minute ride. We met for breakfast and then, because we had to be somewhere at a specific time for a specific event, we went to the bank. Since that turned out to be a wasted trip (I forgot my ATM card) we went to Massage Envy to schedule massages. This did not sit well with my son since he was concerned about us being late. For the record, however, he did schedule a massage for himself so his argument was moot.

Jumping on the 10 (San Bernardino) freeway, we headed west. All was well until we came down the back side of Kellogg Hill. I had no idea CalTrans (California Department of Transportation) had the freeway torn up from Covina to the west end of Baldwin Park by the 605 (the San Gabriel River) freeway. This added to our drive time. Luckily, however, once we passed the 605 all was well until we got near the transition to the 710 (Long Beach) freeway. If you read my roller derby review, you’re familiar with my last experience in this area. But since it was broad daylight and we were headed for Highway 101 to the 110 (Harbor) freeway, we were able to avoid that nightmare.

I want to take a moment and make a note about referring to Southern California roadways. If you happen to drive into our area and listen to traffic reports, you need to know the nuances of traffic reporting descriptions. First off, freeway numbers are preceded with the word “the”. For example to get to the Ahmanson we took the 10 past the 57, past the 605, past the 710, to the 101 to the 110. Large interchanges of freeways are named. For example, the Four Level, the East LA Interchange and the Orange Crush. Finally, one section of freeway refers to a specific stretch. I was on the 10 freeway section known as the San Bernardino freeway. Had I remained on the 10 past its intersection with the 110, it would have been called the Santa Monica freeway. The freeway retains the same numeric nomenclature, but hearing there is a high-speed chase on the Santa Monica freeway is significantly different than hearing the same report on the San Bernardino freeway depending on where you are. If you noticed, I took the 10 to the 101 to the 110 but I also commented that the 10 intersected with the 110. Why didn’t I take the 10 to the 110? Because I didn’t want to go through the East LA Interchange. It makes sense when you’re here.

Anyway, we arrived at the Ahmanson about half an hour early because the traffic through downtown was uncharacteristically light, almost to the point of non-existence. Parking at the theater was ridiculously easy. I had done an internet search for parking near the location and all the results indicated paid lots about ½ mile away. My son told me not to worry about it because we could park at the theater itself, which was right freaking there. You exit the 110 north off of Grand, take a right and within ½ mile the theater is on the right. You pay before you enter the garage and everything is super-accessible.

Because it was our first time there we followed the signs to the theater from inside the underground parking structure. That was a mistake. We wound up at the far end of the theater complex which includes the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and something else I haven’t taken the time to figure out, yet. Had we exited the parking structure by the stairs immediately in front of us, we would have been right next to our destination. But it was no big deal as we were having fun.

The outdoor waiting area between the theater and the pavilion was very nice. It had cart vendors selling shrink-wrapped sandwiches and salads as well as sodas and alcohol. People varied from what I called “theater-types” to chuckleheads like me. I definitely noticed the people there were not the same types of people in whose company I usually find myself. No one called me “boss”. No one gave me the quick, knowing nod shared by shot callers, foot soldiers and bros. No one gave the Mighty Beard of Righteousness a second glance. In fact, it was quite refreshing! Everyone there was just there. If someone was putting on airs or fronting, I didn’t notice. I didn’t have to do a threat assessment every time someone new walked into my line of sight. The people were comfortable, calm and relaxed. I felt welcome and accepted which is not something that comes easy to me.

They opened the doors at about 1:45, which was fantastic. The coffee and water I had borrowed for breakfast wanted to be returned. After a quick briefing by the main door usher about this two-hour play not having an intermission, we bolted for the men’s room. The highly accurate directions we received were no more than, “it’s over there.” We descended a flight of stairs and approached another layer of ushers who told us the only restroom on their floor was the ladies room. Shockingly, rather than volunteer where the men’s room was we had to ask again. They told us it was one more floor down “to the left.” We went down the last flight of stairs and found it. It’s not “to the left” by the way, it’s straight in front of you. Whatever.

Business finished, we watched a lead usher instructing the door ushers on how to do their jobs. Smile, be polite, hand out programs, etc. In an odd WTF moment, the lead usher told the door ushers to stand at their posts. Then, in as long as it took her to draw a breath, she told them to come back because the meeting wasn’t over. I have no idea what that was about but it makes me think time travel does exist and the main usher phased out for a moment. It really was weird.

Since it was still early and they didn’t have the doors open yet, I examined my ticket. It said we were in section SRA, seats 22 and 24. We were to enter through door 9. Door 9, by the way, was all the way at the front of the theater; the last door by which you could enter. I made jokes about SRA meaning we had to stand in front of the stage and my son would reply that I was close. It was cryptic but I didn’t pay too much attention to it. Finally, the doors were opened and we were let in.

My son went first and turned towards the stage. At this point I was pretty excited. We were going to be close to the stage and not in the nosebleed sections where we usually sit when I buy the tickets. And then my excitement turned to concern when he walked up a set of stairs in front of the stage onto the stage itself. I stood at the bottom and told him to “get back down here” because I was worried we were going to be tossed out. The usher at the bottom of the stairs said, “are you together? Can I see your ticket?” and then told me to follow him; he was going in the right direction. So I followed him up the stairs. Oh. My. Gosh.

Our seats were ON THE STAGE FLOOR! We sat in a set of risers that had been erected on either side of the stage. We were on the first row, about five feet away from the edge of the stage just above the centerline. I could not believe it. I had him take pictures from our seats looking out into the general seating before the Praetorian Guard came and informed us that photography from our on-stage seats was highly discouraged. But I have a couple of photos I will cherish from that special day. Only about 60 people could sit on either side of the stage.

I won’t ruin the play by describing the action but I will make some comments about the stage and the actors. Regarding the stage, they had created a smaller self-contained performance area on the main stage. The white floor of the performance area was ringed by a series of clear lexan or some other clear glass-like material that also had a bench built along the top of the entire rim of the material. The performance area itself was probably 28’ x 20’. Since we were sitting right there, sometimes the actors were no more than 4’ away from us. I was so blown away by everything; the seats, the acting and the stage construction, I could not have had a better time.

Regarding the actors, I’m not a theater critic. All I know is that I thoroughly enjoyed every single one of the performances by each actor through I do have a couple of comments (of course). At one point, a character asks, “Are you my cousin?” to which the other replies, “Yes, I am.” That is immediately followed by, “This is my brother.” So I’m no genealogist, but my question is this: if you and I are cousins and you have a brother, wouldn’t he be my cousin, also? Also, there is a point where another character comes onto the performance stage. He comes less than a third of the way onto the stage and much of this person’s “dialog” is narrated by someone else. They are on the stage for not more than ten minutes. Yet at the end of the play, when the cast is receiving a standing ovation, there’s that actor taking a bow with the rest of the troupe. I thought that was odd. Yes, they did a good job and all that, but come on! Again, I’m not criticizing. I enjoyed their performance.

But the women. Both were very beautiful. I know that sounds shallow but they were. And one of them gave us a special treat! I highly doubt anyone who reads this is in her circle of friends or acquaintances, but I don’t say this to embarrass her. At one point, when she was standing about five feet in front of us, she and another actor have a scene where they are in close proximity to each other. By an honest accident, her short skirt lifted up and we had a full-on butt shot of her underwear. Seconds later she removed her top and stood in front of us in a flesh-colored bra. So, what’s the first thing I do? If you know me, you know the answer. I looked away. So while all the other “gentlemen” in our section were getting an eyeful, I was checking out my shoes. And you know what? I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to admit it. I’m old enough to be her father. I’m certain the last thing she thought about when she took the role was how I was going to react to her being (for the most part) topless. But I did think it was funny.

I told my son afterward that there used to be a time when a father would take his son to a brothel and have one of the “ladies” make a “man” out of him. Now, in 2016, the tables had turned. My son had taken me to a legitimate theater to watch semi-nude acting! I know, I know; it wasn’t semi-nude because she still had her bra on. But still.

And then there was the lead actor, Frederick Weller. He was in a TV show I used to watch called “In Plain Sight.” Dude, I really, really enjoyed your performance. However, I am an ass. Every time you put on your scowl face to show you were pissed off, I chuckled. A few years ago when I did Tae Kwon Do, I competed. I had an instructor at an event who told me my “fighting face” wasn’t aggressive enough. Hello! I have a round Charlie Brown face. I don’t know how aggressive you can make it! He told me I needed to practice my fighting face in the mirror. That was one of the funniest things I had heard. So when I saw you making your scowl face I imagined how long you must have spent in front of a mirror trying to make it right. The first time I saw it I almost laughed out loud. Not because of you but because of the memory.

The play ended and everyone applauded. Then they started standing up. Again, I am not a regular theater-type, so I don’t know the rules. When do you give a standing ovation? It was neither the opening night nor the closing night. It was a really enjoyable performance but where’s the line between enthusiastic clapping and a standing ovation? Plus, being on the first row with pretty much everyone else behind you, it’s hard to know when a standing ovation is happening. So while I’m applauding away with all the fine young actors standing an arm’s length in front of me, everyone behind me is standing up. It wasn’t until I looked across to the other side that I noticed they were almost all standing. Their first row was still seated, also. So I guess I need to brush up on when to stand or not.

The ride home was uneventful although I did piss off a couple of drivers through the Rosemead and Temple City areas who thought that because of the cars they drove they should have unimpeded access to any lane they chose without using a turn indicator of any sort. If you’re familiar with the areas and recognize those that drive with over-sized green banker’s visors covering their faces and left arm-only sleeves, you know exactly to which group I refer. I can tailgate like a NASCAR driver if properly motivated and watching you and your Mercedes or Lexus lose in a battle of wills doesn’t make me a man but it does make me feel better in the automobile culture that is Los Angeles.

I highly recommend going to see this play. I was thankful it was not a musical and now I honestly can say I know the difference. I was told it was strictly a drama but there were parts that were very funny. The end does have a twist everyone might enjoy. If I had to say anything less than glowing about the play it would be this: I have no idea what time period the play occurred. I’m assuming the 1940s or 50s. All of the actor’s clothing could have been from that period except for the young girl. Her dress and her hair were very modern. It was slightly confusing but not enough for me to flag it and call B.S. on the performance.

If you see this play you won’t be disappointed.

Roller Derby!

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I recently went to a roller derby bout in Los Angeles. I remember watching the Los Angeles Thunderbirds on television in the 1970s and the mid-70s movie Rollerball (James Caan, Maud Adams) is one of my favorite movies. But today’s roller derby is nothing like what I thought I remembered.

My son and I went to the L.A. Derby Dolls at the Dollhouse. You can find a ton of information about roller derby and the L.A. Derby Dolls here. But if you’ve read this blog before, you know I need to tell the story.

Finding this area of Los Angeles is not that difficult. You jump on the 10 freeway and head west. But then the “you’d better know where you’re going” phase hits. Miss the turns and you either wind up in the East L.A. Interchange (heaven help you no matter what time of day it is) or in downtown Los Angeles.

I knew, but the Google Maps app did not clearly state, that the exit I needed was hidden in the exit for the 710 freeway south. If you’re familiar with the Cal State Los Angeles area you know exactly where I’m talking about. We exited the 10 west and approached the 710 south and then at the last minute, as you’re about to execute the 270 degree turn to head south, you bail off the transition road and wind up on the correct road. And then it got hairy.

Unless you have some super high-speed data connection with your cell phone, you can easily out-drive your Google Maps connection. As we negotiated the “keep left” and “bear right” directions from my iPhone, we wound up in an anonymous section of Los Angeles where they apparently lost funding to post street signs. We flipped a U-turn in an odd industrial neighborhood where an unusual amount of primer painted old-school Rivieras and Monte Carlos were parked (and I use that term loosely, as they were just kind of all over the place). I told my son to remember I loved him and his sisters and departed the area as quickly as my Fred Flintstone feet could carry us.

But the foray into the turf battle between the Sharks and the Jets (without the musical accompaniment) gave my phone enough time to relocate where we were and let us refresh our “get us the frickity frick out of Dodge” setting, aka “from current location to destination”. We were within a mile. Awesome.

Do you know what a roller derby venue looks like? Me neither, at the time. Now I know it to be a nondescript warehouse with a big banner on the side. More on this, later.

Since we had already missed the first bout, all the parking places available at the venue and within the legal parking areas on the street were taken. We drove through the neighborhood and quickly realized that we did not belong there. I don’t care what you say about racism or profiling or whatever. My comment isn’t about that. Simply put, the vehicle I drive would stand out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. First and foremost: the reflective “San Bernardino County Fire Department” sticker I have in my back window. It’s not a California State Firefighter’s Association helmet which might have been okay. It’s in the shape of a shoulder patch. If absolutely everything else was equal, the fact that it was from the “wrong” county would have targeted me as an outsider. So we moved on.

We found a very helpful security guard on the street corner across from the venue that told us not to park in the neighborhood (duh!) but down the at a mini-mall parking lot they had reserved for visitors. We headed in the direction the guard indicated and then immediately we both suffered from short-term memory loss. Did he say, “Turn right” or “Turn left” at the light? It didn’t matter. I turned right into an empty mini-mall parking lot with a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Dominos and a Carl’s Junior. I parked in a handicapped spot and displayed my handicapped placard. I figured if I got towed I got towed but I was counting on them being a little more lenient with the vehicles displaying the blue placard. Then we headed back to the venue.

The walk to the Dollhouse was, in hindsight, uneventful. However, as we walked down the street we could hear but not see voices of people on the other side moving in the same direction as us. It turned out they had actually parked where we should have parked (by taking a right and then an immediate left and leaving our car in the lot with the security staff). But we didn’t know that.

We made it to the venue and walked down the four or five steps from the sidewalk through the gate into the parking lot. Wow. What a change. The parking lot was clean, well marked and had benches, chairs and tables to either rest upon or to eat if you purchased food from the on-site food truck. Food trucks are big in Los Angeles county but not so much in San Bernardino county, by the way. I know the truck that was there had a huge Twitter following and they were selling all the wearable advertising they could sell but since I’m not that much of a foodie it didn’t matter to me.

My military ID and my son’s school ID meant we got into the venue for $20. That’s a heck of a sight better than the $40 I was expecting. The ladies at the point of entry were very nice and clearly wanted to make sure we spoke with them if we had any questions, issues or problems.

We took a lap around the outside of the track to see the vendors. In addition to all the obvious L.A. Derby Doll merchandise they had all kinds of goods available. I was really impressed not only at the variety but also by the fact that everything was reasonable. You could buy a calendar for $5 or Derby Dolls socks for $8. It seemed designed to encourage repeat customers rather than the once-in-a-lifetime sale like vendors at the Renaissance Faire or the County Fair. I purchased a cup of steaming hot coffee from a local coffee vendor’s booth that was awe-freaking-some. It was sweetened with orange and cinnamon and tasted delicious. The large cup, probably 12 ounces, was less than $2.00. Nice.

As I mentioned, we missed the first bout. Who skated: Kids. Young kids. I’m telling you, this is not the roller derby I thought I knew. In fact, we saw a number of women walking around who were clearly roller derby team members from other teams that were not skating that night. They carried signs saying that if you had a question you could talk to her. Once my son and I got settled into one of the standing risers (premium prices charged for seats, by the way), we called over one of the sign girls.

Lucrettia Mott, an obvious alias, spent about ten minutes with us explaining the rules, the scoring and the skaters. On the track that night were an off-duty police officer and a teacher. Many of the women were office employees, students and housewives. I asked about fighting and throwing elbows and whatnot and she told us that two bouts prior to that night, two women were expelled not just from the game but from the league and organized roller derby as a whole because they got into a fight. Fascinating. Clearly not what I was expecting.

My son made a comment about the venue itself. Do you remember the Seinfeld episode where George met lots of fantastically beautiful women at a club that by day was a meat-packing plant? That’s what this place reminded us of. Except for the banked rink, everything else looked like it was built for rapid dis-assembly and movement. Don’t get me wrong! The risers were rock-solid and nothing seemed illicit or anything like that at all! It was just funny to us that by day the warehouse could be an auto parts distribution facility but at 5:00 all the parts are trucked out and the rink and risers put in.

Security was not an issue. They have clearly marked walkways which you cannot block. They have one level of security which is the girls with the “ask me” signs. If they see you doing something (like standing) where you shouldn’t be, they’ll ask you to move. If you don’t move, the second level of security gets involved, which appeared to be the off-duty referees who were walking around the track. If you really screwed up, they called the yellow-shirt “SECURITY” guys over. I only saw three or four of those guys. In fact, I interacted with one when I unknowingly was standing in a clearly marked (on the floor) “Do Not Stand Here” space and I could not understand what the security guy was saying. I thought he wanted to see my wristband. I kept showing him my wristband but he kept pointing at my shoes. A very odd man. Until I realized he was pointing at the “Do Not Stand Here” marking. Then I felt like an idiot.

They do sell alcohol and they do check IDs. If you didn’t pay for an alcohol pass at the front desk and receive an Age Verified wristband, you’re not buying or drinking. And they had plenty of people watching. I felt very comfortable and safe the entire time I was there. And the people? Oh my gosh.

First of all, when my son and I first took up a position in the risers, we were standing right behind two young girls. They were over 21 (based on the wristbands) but probably not much older. During a break in the action the announcer said they were welcoming “whozit” and “whatzit” (I didn’t catch their names) from Vivid Video. The two girls did a hoop and a holler and everyone looked at them and clapped, some taking pictures. I don’t know if you know what Vivid Video is but look it up. If you knew me even five or six years ago I would have photo-bombed the crap out of that opportunity. Now I’m embarrassed that my face might appear on Vivid’s Facebook page (if they have one) standing right there with the girls. But also there was a sitting City Council member from Los Angeles and a guy from the TV show Sleepy Hollow. Being Los Angeles, everyone was represented, that’s for certain.

But the guys. Seriously. If you take out the low-rider driving individuals with their Panama hats and booty-short wearing wives and girlfriends, you’re left with a bakery store’s worth of man-buns. You’ve seen the new man-bun trend; it’s a version of the mullet except you don’t let your hair fall over your shoulders. You tie it up into a shogun-inspired hair bun. I don’t know if this is a hipster doofus hair style or just a generic doofus hair style but it was very funny. Me being me I openly laughed at them. What are they going to do? Argue with The Beard of Righteousness? Not bloody likely! Would I mock one of the Panama-hat, Low Rider brand wearing individuals? Not on your life. I’m not completely stupid. I just picked on the man-buns. Even the most-buff bun-sporting doofus was not immune. Am I a bully by nature? Not hardly. But put me in the middle of a pack of hipsters (like anywhere in Flagstaff) or in a field of man-buns and I have a field day. One day some doof will let down his bun like the Capuera instructor on Bob’s Burgers and I’ll get my butt kicked, but I’d only have myself to blame.

You need to make time to stay for the entire bout and the after party. We started our day at 7:00AM attending an eight-hour First Aid/CPR/AED certification course so I was dog-tired. We stayed for the end of the bout and left with most of the guests. Since we were moving as a pack back in the direction of where I parked my car and because we could see security staff along the route I felt very comfortable walking back to my car. My car, by the way, was still parked where I left it and appeared in relatively the same shape in which I left it. It was only as we were leaving that we discovered where the secure parking lot had been located. I know it costs $10 to park there but that’s where I’ll park when I go back if I can’t get anything closer.

But back to the topic. I had an absolute blast at the Dollhouse. I see this as good, clean wholesome fun for the whole family. Well, kids over eight or so. I didn’t see a single stroller, infant or toddler anywhere in sight but there were lots of kids and couples. I didn’t hear any swearing at all. I didn’t see anything which might give me pause and not want me to take my kids. Smoking was restricted to two specific areas outside, away from the food and rest areas and one of the outside bars. I know this is shallow and uniformed, but no one looked like a drug dealer or looked like they were on drugs. I think between the ladies at the front desk and the multiple layers of security those people are quickly dealt with and removed.

If you live in the Los Angeles area and want to check it out, you need to act quickly! I think the last bout is coming up in the next couple of weeks. Check the schedule on-line at the link above.

I really think you’ll have a good time.

Museum of Tolerance

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This post reviews my Museum of Tolerance (Los Angeles, California, USA) experience. The views remain my own and do not represent those of any group or organization other than myself.

Bottom line: If you can go, go. They close early on Fridays and are not open on Saturdays. I went on the AFC/NFC playoff Sunday and had no issues with traffic or crowds. I spoke with others I know who said it was quite crowded when they arrived, so I guess be prepared either way.

Arrival: The free underground parking doesn’t open until 10:00AM. For those of you who do not set your time pieces to the atomic clock, do so. Security does not remove the cones from the parking structure until 9:59AM. Not 9:58AM, not 9:34AM (when I actually arrived) but 9:59AM in time to make a 10:00AM opening. If you arrive as early as I did, you can park right in front of the place on Pico on Sundays. The light poles have four or five different signs regarding parking, but both my son and I read them as carefully as we could and determined that yes, you can park on the street in front of the building on Pico on Sunday. If you choose to park in the parking structure, you will need to pass an interview with a security guard in the driveway who will also do a cursory inspection of your vehicle. If you get a “go” from the guard, you’re sent down into the bowels of the building where I understand (but did not witness) they will put mirrors under your vehicle and might ask you to open your trunk. I did not experience that personally but a Yelp commenter posted about it.

Arriving Early: The doors were wide open when we arrived. DO NOT, however, make the mistake I made when I thought to go into the building and ask if I purchased tickets at that desk or somewhere else. When one of the four women at the desk finally decided to acknowledge my presence, I was told the museum did not open until ten and I needed to wait outside. I asked if this was the correct place to purchase tickets and was told the museum did not open until ten. I again asked if this was the place, after ten o’clock, where I would buy tickets. She said it was but that the museum did not open until ten and I needed to wait outside until then. So, unless you’re in an organized group, like the dozen or so high school students who were there before us, you will not be given admission until ten. In fact, once the second security guard told them what they could and could not bring into the building, they wouldn’t admit the student group until everyone returned from putting stuff back into their cars. You can’t bring anything in, by the way. No food, no coffee, no water bottles, no cameras, no back packs.

Ticket Purchase: Remember the rules Jerry gave George when they were going to buy soup on an episode of Seinfeld? Stand by. Know how many are in your party, have your cash or credit card ready with your ID, make the purchase and step immediately to your right. Do not ask any questions of the ladies behind the counter. Do not ask where to go next. Step to the freaking right and keep moving to the next security station.

Entrance: The TSA/El AL-trained security specialist was very specific and matter-of-fact. Place all metal and cell phones in the tray and walk through the check point. All bags are subject to search. You will have the opportunity to dispose of any unauthorized items immediately. If you choose to return them to your vehicle you will lose your place in line. I was not subjected to a cavity search but it was obvious the security guy either took his job seriously or was entirely bored with the routine. He, as well as almost every other person we encountered, was not too receptive to our saying “Good Morning” or “Hello.” The staff has been trained to respond with unintelligible grunts and scowls. I think it’s in their employment contracts.

Grouping: Heaven help you if you’re not with a group. They will sequester you in a lobby area until they decide they have enough to start a tour. Then you are paired up with someone who begins your tour. We had the most remarkable host. She greeted us in 12 different languages. She even commented to someone that she had to learn 12 different languages to do it. A woman asked her exactly how many languages she spoke. She was bilingual in English and Spanish but “[she] was learning some of each language every day.” That bugged the crap out of me. I’m a native English speaker and I can hold my own in Spanish and German. I’ve taken Greek, Russian and Korean. I have a hard enough time conjugating words in English let alone remembering if this article is Spanish or German, whether I properly stressed the accent in Greek or formatted the sentence properly in Russian or Korean. Learning a word every day in a foreign language does not make you a linguist. Her comment bothered me far more than it should have because it was so deceptive. “I speak twelve languages” really meant “I know how to say hello in twelve languages.” If she said hello in Klingon, could she work at ComiCon? Okay, rant over.

Exhibits: Once we were free of the self-absorbed host (who, by the way, let us know she used to be on Sesame Street and other kid’s shows), we started the exhibits. I have nothing but highly positive things to say about any of the exhibits we saw. I’ve been to Dachau a few times as a kid but that was more in-your-face than the holocaust exhibit here. This museum’s exhibit was far more engaging. It neither accused nor excused what happened. It explained German antisemitism from basically 1865 through the death of Simon Wiesenthal. It was educational, factual and engaging. The exhibits on current hate issues, like LGBT rights, women’s issues, racial equality, freedom of speech and others were also very interesting. I was not able to view the video program they had on other genocide and hate events in the 20th century (like Ireland, Turkey, Palestine, Serbia, etc.) but the photos they had for the slide show build-up to the video looked interesting. Why didn’t I stay for the movie? My daughter sent me a photo-message that she had broken her ankle. Awesome.

Grouping: Did I already mention groups? Lordy-Lou. One lady from our group wandered into the group ahead of us. She was escorted back to our group and told to stay with us. The guy was not polite about it. “This is your group. Stay with your group. Do not wander off.” Know that when you go. Stay with your freaking group or pay the price if you don’t.

Bookstore: I wandered into the third floor bookstore. From out of nowhere, the clerk slash security professional appeared. There’s no way this guy was not a Krav Maga master. He looked innocent enough, but I was in martial arts for a number of years and there’s no way this guy’s thighs could fill out his slack pants if they weren’t honed and toned. So I screwed with him. When my son went down one aisle, I went down another. When my son switched aisles, I would go down another. He couldn’t watch both of us so he chose me. It was fun but quite immature of me.

Guest Speaker: We heard from a survivor of three different death camps and a Polish ghetto. The guy is 85 years old and sharp as a tack. He was the absolute best part of the entire day, bar none. He told his story in a matter-of-fact way which seemed to help him recount the events. Unfortunately, his time was interrupted by a fire alarm and we had to evacuate the building for about a half hour. When we returned he picked up where he left off. Because of the interruption, the speaker scheduled to follow him was put into another venue so we had extra time with our speaker. All was good until during a question-and-answer session he was asked to summarize his life and his religious beliefs. The next few minutes were intensely personal and emotional for him and a number of guests. They have guest speakers scheduled for every day they’re open. If at all possible, attend one of their seminars. It would have been worth the price of admission by itself.

Anne Frank: We did not check out the Anne Frank exhibit. Sorry. Someone will have to check it out and let me know.

Fire Alarm: The fire alarm was an unfortunate event. It interrupted everything. However, before they blindly sent people tumbling into the street, they did confirm it was real and not just some chuckle-head having fun. I wonder if the very hot and smokey smell coming out of the elevator was a clue.

Common Sense: I had my son research to see if there was a dress code. Apparently there isn’t one. In this specific case I chose to err on the side of good taste and respect so I wore long pants and a button-down shirt. Some of the high school girls and chaperones looked like they had just clocked out of one of Los Angeles’ many strip clubs. Booty shorts and tight tank tops should not be appropriate attire when interacting with genocide survivors, but who am I? Someone said I needed to be more tolerant. Another thing which almost caused me to put the smack-down on either a high school kid or his chaperone was the kid’s mouth. Yes, the elevator was putting out a foul odor. But no, it is never appropriate when you’re in the presence of a holocaust survivor to start yelling out how they’re going to gas us or burn us alive. I wanted to take the little piece of crap and shove him down the elevator shaft. No one in his group said anything to him. I was both embarrassed and angry at the same time. Anyway, I didn’t have to crush the little turd because we were led into the seating area for the speaker to begin and motor-mouth didn’t have anything else to say.

Summary: Go and enjoy the museum and its exhibits but do not expect the staff to be pleasant or friendly in any way. At least that was my experience today.

Utah Trip – The Road To SLC

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This is the third blog of the series on my recent trip to Salt Lake City, Utah from Ontario, California. Here I’ll deal with weather and the clearly distinct differences between California and Utah as they relate specifically to road travel (excluding speed limits, which I already discussed).

Southern California has a lot issues related to highway and interstate roadways. By way of example, let me point to the section of Interstate 15 north of Barstow to the agricultural inspection station in Yermo. That stretch of highway crosses over a number of dry washes, creeks, wadis, arroyos, whatever you want to call them. The whole area is considered a construction zone (with traffic fines doubled throughout) as the orange signs indicate. But as you approach one of the insignificant “bridges” over a dry creek bed you’ll see a sign that says, “Bump”. Stand by. Depending on what you’re driving, that “bump” could cost you some ground-effect bolt-on molding, it could launch you off the pavement or you might not feel anything at all.

For whatever reason, the spirits that possessed the highway workers deemed the asphalt over the concrete bridge should be removed. Okay, I’ll go with that. Well, I would have gone with that about a year ago but nothing seems to have changed. Heck, the signs have been there so long they’re blanching more white than orange. So I guess I’m not as enthusiastic about the repairs now then I might have been a year ago. Regardless, I’m certain that the highway repair people work hand-in-hand with the civil engineers that know all about road repair. Or maybe not.

I am not an engineer. I don’t know what’s right or wrong, acceptable or not, when it comes to road gradients, construction materials, surfacing or anything technically specific with respect to roadways. What I have picked up on, though, is a small amount of common sense.

When you’ve taken a couple of inches of asphalt roadway off to return it to the concrete base, adding a short asphalt ramp (or apron or “lip”) from the elevated road to the concrete and back again can’t be done at random. I’m certain someone with a slide rule and basic trigonometry knowledge can tell you that at 55 MPH you need an apron of “X” inches to go from the concrete to the asphalt with minimum vehicular damage. Sometimes you have a 12″ apron and you don’t feel a thing but a slight undulation. The next bump might only have 6″ of apron which gives you a fairly strong jolt and then the sensation that all of your car’s weight has been suspended for a split second before you nearly bottom-out. And then you have my favorite, the 3″ apron after-thought.

I swear the roadway workers use the exact same amount of asphalt for each apron they make. The difference is how it’s distributed. When you’re dealing with one of the after-thought aprons, they have to figure out how to get a predetermined volume of asphalt into a space 3″ wide. Since they don’t seem to want to make the apron wider, it goes taller. It’s like a freaking speed bump. It’s not uncommon to see bits of air dams, rigid mud flaps or large pieces of low-hanging bumpers or plastic ground effects along the side of the road at one of these killer sites. For me, at least, the whole apron concept seems rather random and hit-or-miss. Especially since no one really drives 55 MPH like the sign says. Except me.

Afraid of a double-the-fine speeding ticket and the cost of a front-end alignment, I’ll drive the posted speed limit when I can and when it’s safe. Sometimes I’ll even punch it up to 4 miles an hour faster than the posted limit. I am a speed demon.

Once you clear the Minneola off-ramp, it’s pretty much clear sailing into the downtown Las Vegas construction area. Even there the roadway itself isn’t bad at all, just the volume of traffic. When you leave Mesquite, Nevada and get into the Virgin River section of Arizona the roadway definitely needs to be resurfaced but it’s still fine. And then you get to St. George, Utah.

I encountered one “Bump” sign as I left St. George. Expecting the worst, I was on the alert. I passed over what amounted to nothing more than a tar bubble and did not see any more warning signs regarding a bump. Awesome. Utah had a totally different standard when it came to highway maintenance and I was thrilled to death. I didn’t encounter any pot holes, tire-eaters or launch ramps as I got closer to Provo. And then it started raining.

I had been driving for a number of hours by the time I got to Provo. I was tired and road-weary. It was getting dark, the rain was picking up, the city was the largest I’d encountered since St. George and more local drivers were entering the roadway.

Not familiar with the area at all, I reduced my speed from the posted 75 MPH and fell in line behind a line of cars headed in my direction. All I had to do was start looking for the off-ramp I needed to get me to my hotel in Salt Lake City. The rain got heavier.

The first thing I noticed after all the cars I was following left the freeway was the highway itself. In California, we have hard composite “dots” fixed onto the road. We jokingly refer to people who run over the dots (because they’re not paying attention while they’re texting) as “driving by Braille.” Even in the rain you can see the dots. At specific intervals, the dots are supplemented by a rectangular reflector that helps identify your lane. In areas that experience snowfall and use snowplows to clear the roadway, dots are not used because they’d be scraped off by the snowplow blade. The rectangular reflectors are still used, however, in a rather unique way: the roadway is contoured and the reflectors are recessed. When driving, you can still see the reflectors. When operating a snowplow, the reflectors are below the road surface and are safe from the blade. But this was Utah. And it was raining hard.

Without the aid of dots or reflectors, totally unfamiliar with the area, in the dark and in the rain, my next-best hope was to follow the white lane stripes on the road. Uh, no. Perhaps because it’s California and our line painters are all union or something, you can pretty easily see the reflective paint they’ve sprayed on layer upon layer of white stripes. The layers of paint on the stripes give the road a contour of their own. But I guess when a snowplow might scrape the surface clean you can’t rely on the “feel” of the road. No dot, no reflectors, no stripes, no one to follow. I was down to easily 55 MPH, thinking that I was experiencing the “driving lanes are just a suggestion” attitude of Afghan drivers. I was pissing off the locals like a boss.

I would know when a local was coming. Easily going the posted 75 MPH or better, they’d swerve out from behind me and be gone in an instant. Had I not been looking for my exit, I would have followed them. I know I was creating a traffic hazard. All I needed to do was find the exit for the highway I needed and I would be safe. All I needed was the correct highway. And then I realized the second major difference between California and Utah: state highway signs.

In California, a lot of our larger, high-volume highways have green and white signs. The background is green and the white logo and highway number are done with reflective paint and white reflectors. They’re fairly easy to see. Even many of the older highways have signs with white backgrounds and black numbering that are pretty easy to see. The highway logo looks like a fat triangle and the numbers use a non-serif font. But this was Utah.

The logo for a state highway in Utah is a beehive. California’s a triangle, Utah’s a beehive: I’m okay with that. Except when it’s raining and dark, I don’t know how far it is to the correct exit and I’m creating a traffic hazard. Then the beehive looks like a pile of dog crap. Inside that pile of dog crap I’m supposed to make out the numbers for the highway I need. Great. It’s raining and the idea of using any type of reflective materials in the construction of the road sign completely escaped the drawing board phase of their highway safety commission. You can’t see the freaking numbers in the middle of the dog crap until you’re already under the sign, which means you missed the exit by about 50 feet.

Having caught a glimpse of the correct exit I needed, I knew it was only a couple of miles down the road. I could not take my eyes off the road to glance at the odometer on the rental car I had as it would have taken me precious moments just to remember where the odometer was in the first place. Since I couldn’t do the odometer/trip meter countdown to the exit I chose to base my freeway departure on time. The time would be a guestimate, however, since I didn’t want to run the risk of looking at the digital clock. So I started counting. Two miles, two minutes, no problem.

Basically, in order for you to go two miles in two minutes you have to maintain a constant speed of 60 MPH. If you go less than 60 MPH, you won’t go two miles. You’ll get off at the exit BEFORE the exit you need and wind up all by yourself on a transition road about 50 feet above the highway wondering where in the heck you are. But that’s simple enough, you just take the next off-ramp and get your bearings. Unless that off-ramp is 900th Street.

I will abbreviate this long story by telling you that only because of my daughter and her iPhone was I able to finally make it to my room. Well, my daughter and the night clerk at the hotel. Nothing my daughter did could have prepared me for the heavy construction detours around the hotel. Even the hotel clerk had to guide me in not by streets and cardinal directions but by landmarks and flashing barricade lights. Seriously. “When you get to the Radisson, turn right at the yellow flashing lights and then go straight through the flashing red lights.”

So, when I’m in charge, the people responsible for maintaining the condition of Utah’s roads will be supplemented by the people responsible for creating the signage for California’s roads. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the California Department of Transportation (CalTrans) responsible for actually posting the highway signs. If they can’t get Route 66 right, who knows what they’d do.

If you plan on driving anywhere between Salt Lake City and south of Provo, just be aware that the whole Interstate 15 area is a huge construction site. I didn’t see it on the way to Salt Lake City because I was locked in behind a row a cars in the dark and the rain. You’d never know it, though, because it was smooth sailing all the way. Those guys know how to build a road. Except for the dots. And the reflectors. And the white stripes. Other than that, it was awesome.

Utah Trip – The Primm Experience

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As previously announced on this blog, I do not watch television nor do I listen to the radio. I stream NetFlix almost exclusively (no commercials) and stream old time radio programs via the Internet if I want to listen to the radio. This post will cover the first and the last legs of my recent trip from Ontario, California to Ogden, Utah.

I left the Ontario International Airport area on the morning of Wednesday, March 28th. A few hours later I was passing the California / Nevada state line in Primm, Nevada. I saw a rather puzzling sight on the east side of the freeway.

As I headed out of the dry lake bed and into Primm, I noticed there were a lot of people–hundreds of people–standing at the south side of the fashion outlet mall. I got closer and realized that there was an order to the madness: The people were standing in a line. My first thought was that some studio had put out a casting call and this is where they were conducting auditions.

If you are not familiar with the location, Primm, Nevada (aka State Line) is the first town you encounter after you leave Baker, California (home of the world’s tallest thermometer) northbound on Interstate 15. It has three casinos, one of which (Buffalo Bill’s) has a high-thrill roller coaster that winds its way through the casino itself. Anyway, the southeast side of Primm has a casino with a huge factory outlet mall.

The mall’s parking lot includes a couple of gas stations, a McDonald’s, a Taco Bell, a Greek Restaurant and a liquor store. The liquor store is the farthest southern point of the whole paved area. Anyway, this place had a line of people coming out the door, circling the building, snaking through the parking lot and continuing inside the doors of the mall. Again, hundreds and hundreds of people were in line. Why? I had no idea, nor did I care. I don’t gamble.

That was Wednesday. I returned from Ogden, Utah on Friday, March 30th and I made the critically bad decision to stop for gas at Primm and maybe grab a bite to eat. Not thinking, I opted for the Texaco station on the southeast side of the freeway by the McDonald’s and the fashion mall. I chose poorly.

Once locked into the parking lot traffic I could not escape. I knew I had made an error in judgment and wanted nothing more than to escape from the traffic nightmare in which I found myself and head to the Chevron on the west side of the interstate. But I couldn’t. I finally made it to Texaco and filled up. I noticed the little liquor store had even more traffic on Friday than it had on Wednesday. The lines were HUGE! Why? Once again, I had no idea nor did I care. I figured what I was seeing was a flood of people returning from their Southern California spring break and for whatever reason, that liquor store was important as the first one in Nevada.

Anyway, when I finally left Primm headed south-bound on the 15 again, I noticed the traffic: bumper-to-bumper. I didn’t see any accidents, highway patrol, chupacabras or armadillos, just traffic. Lots and lots of bumper-to-bumper traffic, all headed north, all exiting at Primm. I passed Zzyzx Road doing the speed limit. The north side was still bumper-to-bumper. In fact, it remained bumper-to-bumper all the way from BEFORE Baker! That’s over 50 miles! Clearly, something was happening.

It was then I decided to remove the boxed set of Sam Spade, Private Detective CDs I’d been listening to since Ogden and tune into the radio. Huh. Apparently, there was some huge half-a-billion dollar plus lottery happening of which I was unaware. The drawing didn’t matter to me at all. As I indicated earlier, I don’t gamble. But I did some research into what the fuss was over that seemingly insignificant liquor store.

I was surprised to learn that the liquor store isn’t really in the mall’s parking lot, it’s across the street. In fact, the liquor store isn’t really in Primm, nor is it in Nevada at all. It’s in a little slice of heaven all by itself with a street address in Nipton, California. Its parking lot is literally on the border between California and Nevada; the street is the physical state border. The “liquor store” is actually a well-known Mega-Millions Lottery retailer in California. The place: Terrible’s Lotto Sales. I hear it’s more like a 7-11 than a liquor store with the focus on California Lottery sales of quick-picks and scratchers. I also understand it’s *THE* place to go if you live in sourthern Nevada and want to play the California lottery.

I read an article from another blogger who said she stood in line for three hours to get her Mega-Millions tickets and that was through the automated machines! The person-to-person quick picks took even longer. Who would do that? Gamblers, apparently. I know next to nothing about the lottery system but it seems to me that if the jackpot is only one million dollars, fewer people play so your odds of winning go up. The higher the jackpot the more players so your odds go down. I think I’d rather play when the lottery is not as loaded as the most-recent game. I know for certain I wouldn’t waste my time driving to Primm if it was only to buy a ticket. I’d take my chances at the local Qwik-E-Mart.

California Sucks – Reason 3

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This state needs a serious change in leadership. People laughed when it was proposed the southern California counties (specifically excluding Los Angeles) split from the existing state and form a new state of Southern California.

If you look at California’s voting demographics, you’ll see all the tree-hugging, socialist, “You Owe Me”, peaceniks live along the coasts from Los Angeles on up. Sacramento has a huge cluster of pod people there also, but they’re too far north (and too far out there) to care about the rest of us. The vast majority of inland California voters are conservative, law-abiding, “stand for something or you’ll fall for anything” people. This can best be summarized by looking at one of California’s most divisive election issues, Proposition 8.

Prop 8 was a voter initiative that wanted to firmly establish and retain the concept of marriage as a union between one male and one female. Unhappy with the near identical language in the “civil union” statutes that guaranteed equality for same-sex partners, the state devolved into throwing stones back-and-forth over the word “marriage” and, for me at least, it’s religious connotations. Regardless, check the map. If you have an image blocker on your browser you can see the image here.

See the green? If we were to change that color to red, what would that represent to you? If we changed the yellow to blue, does that change your perspective? Yes, I’m trying to draw a parallel here between Republicans and Democrats and no, they didn’t vote along party lines for or against Prop 8. My purpose here is to graphically illustrate how the population centers that would tend to be red or blue are divided between the coast and the inland valley, mountain areas. Los Angeles county is the lowest patch of yellow on the coast and the Mono Lake lovers are hugging Nevada.

So we have a problem. Check the numbers. The reason why California is a political wasteland is because the numbers are so close. True, the example shown is Prop 8, but the numbers pretty much ring true for just about any state issue. We can’t get anything done here. If we were to split the state and allow the southern counties to keep their tax revenues rather than sending them off to Sacramento so they can subsidize Oakland and San Francisco’s social service programs, we’d be doing a lot better. The San Bernardino / Riverside County areas known as the Inland Empire have one of the highest unemployment rates in the state but because the population density is less than Oakland, we lose. It ticks me off. It grinds my gears.

But why, specifically, does California suck today? Yes, it’s that old theme of illegals, drivers licenses and political pandering. There was an article today (here) in which the Los Angeles City police chief said his officers were not going to enforce the current law that requires them to impound vehicles of unlicensed drivers. Why? Because it’s not fair. It might limit or restrict their ability to get to or search for work. Uhhh…what?

California already turns a blind eye to illegal immigration. It’s a Federal issue and the State doesn’t have the right to enforce Federal immigration laws. Let me take that one step farther and say the state wouldn’t enforce those laws even if required to do so. Unlike Arizona, California would never consider laws that would require illegal aliens seeking to enter our public school system to show they live in the local district. Pay the same tuition at a college or university? Are you insane? That would mean undermining the DREAM Act.

I have had the immigration rant with just about everyone that knows me. I believe in immigration the way it was run even as late as the 1950s. If you want to come here, fill out the forms and get in line. Have a sponsor. Get a job. Two of my grandmothers had to do that and they were married to a U.S. born-and-raised citizen! They tried to deport one grandmother back to Australia and my Peruvian grandmother had issues because my grandfather was often out of the country flying aircraft between Los Angeles; Lima, Peru, and; Sao Paulo, Brazil. I’m not going to go into my overall feelings on this but I will say it’s highly disingenuous of our country to require people from countries with whom we do not share a common border to process through the system yet we pander to others.

But back to today’s issue. I have no doubt in my military mind that if I was pulled over in the People’s Republic of Los Angeles and produced my insurance card, my registration card and my Disneyland season pass from last year as a photo ID, they’d impound my car. It wouldn’t matter that I could recite to them my driver’s license number, my home address or my height and weight. My car would be on the back of a tow truck on the way to the revenue station impound yard in a heartbeat. I really don’t understand the reasoning behind the decision.

We’re told constantly it may be illegal to hire day laborers from the street corners. Forgetting the personal safety and risk you take, the state loses tax revenue. If we want to stop complaining about the number of jobs citizens have lost to illegals, stop hiring them. Some organizations post lists on the internet of companies known to hire or cater to the “undocumented” crowd. If you want to keep your job or create a job, boycott those businesses. If we get enough economic sanctions against employers (either by increasing penalties or citizen boycotts), they won’t hire illegals and they will magically self-emigrate back to their homeland.

But no amount of pushing an employer will seriously induce an individual to act now and act with decisive finality. If you know you cannot obtain a driver’s license in this state unless you can prove you have a right to be here, that’s a concern. If you know you might be subject to Federal identity theft laws if you use a false or stolen social security number to obtain employment, that’s a concern. But concerns really don’t mean anything. Every time you stuff a cigarette in your face you might be concerned about lung cancer but it doesn’t stop you from lighting up.

Just because I might get caught doesn’t really mean I need to lose any sleep over it. However, if I’m on my way home and I get pulled over and I have my car towed and impounded, THAT gets my attention. If I have to pay the tow charges AND the impound charges for my vehicle as well as a fine for driving the car without a license, I’m impacted directly. How will I work? Who freaking cares, as far as I’m concerned. How will you pick up the little ones from day care? Not my problem.

For me, this is not a humanitarian issue. Don’t cry to me about how as a Christian I’m charged with saving the world and all the people in it. This is not the same. Requiring foreigners to obtain documentation for admission into this country gives them certain rights and responsibilities. Knowing and obeying our laws keeps the playing field level. Breaking a law and claiming ignorance of the law because you didn’t know about it is the wrong answer. But let’s move on.

If the requirement is that you either pay-to-play (by getting a driver’s license legally) or you don’t drive, you don’t drive. Using the new Los Angeles philosophy, it seems any high school student 16 or older could tour around the county without having to have a license. All they need is their school I.D. Mom and Dad have their name on the registration and insurance, so the car shouldn’t be towed, right? True, they might fine the student for driving without a license but how can they do that to Betty Sue or LaTonia when they won’t do it to Belinda? Obviously, my comment has racial overtones, but my point is this: How can you say all you have to do is provide a picture ID and they won’t tow your car? Idiots.

California sucks.

John Carter

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Bottom Line: I enjoyed the John Carter movie. Now you don’t have to read this whole thing.

I don’t have a television or a radio. I use an iPad to stream NetFlix and my computer to stream either old time radio (here) or contemporary Christian radio (here). Once or twice a day I’ll visit news sites that include Drudge Report and World Net Daily. As an aside to this story, if you think Drudge is a tool of the right-wing bunker-builders, you haven’t actually been to the site. If you scroll down to the bottom of the page you can link directly to just about any media outlet you’d like. This includes “real” news outlets. Funny thing, what’s a “real” news outlet? I’ve had this discussion a few times with one of the contributors here. Apparently, World Net Daily doesn’t qualify as a “real” news agency. I’m still unclear as to what the delimiters are, but I like them and like their new online format. Regardless, I’ll move on.

From a Drudge link (here) I learned this film is Disney’s largest loss to date. Millions of dollars in disappointment short at the box office. Why? I don’t know. My son and I went in the middle of the day on a Wednesday and the theater, though not shoulder-to-shoulder, was quite nicely filled. I went for four reasons. First, my thirteen year old son asked to see it. Second, I wanted to see what Disney had spent so much money on only to call it a loss. Third, from the WND site’s review of the movie (here, which will link you back to the original post on Slate here), I wanted to see for myself the comparisons being drawn between John Carter and Jesus. Fourth and finally, I read the original Edgar Rice Burroughs series in high school and wanted to see it on the big screen.

I enjoyed it and recommend it but I can see a few similarities to other movies. If you haven’t seen the movie and don’t want me to ruin it, stop reading. Otherwise, please continue.

In the scenes where they’re paddling down the river, I was reminded of the original Planet of the Apes movie with a similar scene. I could also see a lot of Star Wars similarities, also. The flying machines reminded me of the Star Wars Episode VI when they were trying to throw Han and Luke into the Sarlacc. The large arena fight reminds me of another Star Wars battle scene, where the Jedi are being attacked en masse.

That’s it for now. See the movie if you haven’t yet and let me know what you think.

California Sucks – Reason 2

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On a recent return trip from Flagstaff, Arizona, my kids and I agreed it would be fun to travel Route 66 as much as we could. We entered “The Mother Road” just west of Flagstaff and stayed with it. Before I continue let me state that if you don’t have either a ham radio or a C.B. radio, get one before you head out on this road. There were vast areas where my Verizon and my daughter’s AT&T cell phone services did not exist.

I enjoyed the old Berma-Shave ads they still have on the side of the road. I also enjoyed the cattle-guards, the tumbleweeds and the feeling you get when a semi-truck passes you in the other direction and your car swerves from the forces of the wind. Seriously, that was fun.

We passed towns (like Seligman, AZ) that are still close enough to Interstate 40 that if you chose to, you could ditch the highway and go back to the freeway. As I think many people know, the creator of Disney’s “Cars” received his inspiration for the movies after speaking with a barber from Seligman who talked about the “old” days, when Route 66 was the only game in town. So, with that in mind, we continued down the road.

We came across Peach Springs (speed limit 25 MPH) which could have been Radiator Springs? Who knows. We saw huge rock formations very similar to the hoods of the cars seen in the movie. Then again, we were probably seeing what we wanted to see. Except for the two or three towns where the speed limit went from 55 to 25, the countryside was beautiful and uneventful all the way to Kingman.

Once you leave Kingman, stand by. They don’t have any signs posted, but if you’re in a large motor home or pulling a trailer, or if you’re either afraid of heights or mountain driving, DO NOT TAKE Route 66 between Kingman and the California state border.

As we wound our way along the narrow road through the mountain pass, the view was spectacular. Well, you had to look over all the crosses placed on the side of the road where people had gone over the edge and apparently died, but still, the view was fantastic. If you’ve ever driven to or from Big Bear Lake, CA the back way from Victorville, it’s very similar to that except it’s steeper with sharper turns, more narrow, and they don’t have railings on the side of the road.

Not too long after we passed the Gold Road mine, we turned the corner to Oatman, AZ. If you have ever been to Calico, CA, imagine Calico with about 200 residents. I have links here and here if you want to check it out. We stopped the car, stayed for the gunfight, fed some burros and made a friend or two. I would go back in a heartbeat.

So, why does California suck (reason number two)? Route 66. In Arizona, there is no limit to the number of signs pointing you to Route 66 and in which direction you must travel to get there. To cross into CA from AZ you must re-link with I-40, but as soon as you’re across the river they have a sign for Route 66. Don’t fall for the lie. You will take the exit but it leads nowhere. That’s not true. It leads to some touristy boat dock area that doesn’t have a single through street anywhere. So we went back to I-40.

As we came closer to Needles, there was another sign for Route 66. We decided to try our luck and took the exit. Here’s the thing: I know we were on Route 66 because it was painted on the highway itself. However, at some point it became something else (Route 95) and no one bothered to post a sign. You know, something like Route 95 with a sign beneath it reading Historic Route 66. Nothing. I went from being on Route 66 to being on another road headed for Searchlight, Nevada.

Headed down the road trying to loosen my load with seven women on my mind, we came to a decision point. A regular street sign indicated we were at the intersection of Goffs Road and the 95. Straight or turn? There was nary a Route 66 sign to be seen anywhere. Bastidges. So my daughter did the next-best thing: Used her iPhone.

Interesting thing about an iPhone, or maybe it was because of where we were, but if you’re at the intersection of Goffs Road and Highway 95, you’re guaranteed to confuse the crap out of Siri. A simple request like, “Route 66 from my location” will give you two abortion clinics and a Chik-fil-A in Portland, Maine. Ask something like, “nearest gas station” and you’ll be asked if you want to make a spa appointment at Madame Wong’s Day Spa in Vancouver, British Columbia. I don’t think it was until my son shifted just to the correct angle that we had sufficient signal for the GPS map to appear and realize that Goffs Road is, in fact, Route 66.

Once you leave Goffs, CA (be careful of the 90 degree, 10 MPH turn from north to west), put it on auto pilot and take a nap. Unlike Arizona’s small towns still alive along the road, California’s small towns all died–except where they intersect with I-40.

I guess to be fair, California doesn’t suck *because* of Route 66, it sucks because it’s hard to find. The freeway signs do a good job of teasing you off the freeway to relive the days of old, but once you’re off the freeway you’re on your own. I really felt AZ did a great job keeping you on the road and encouraging you to stay there even if it was to feed the speed traps and tourist towns along the way.

California was more like a card from one of those adult phone sex operations. They tease you with the promise of a good time. On the surface, it’s sexy and appealing–Route 66: The Mother Road. It even has it’s own song! And then reality hits. Candice really isn’t a 22 year old fit-and-trim, blonde-haired, blue-eyed co-ed who walks around in short-shorts and a too-tight tank top just like Route 66 (in CA) isn’t full of nostalgia. Candice’s name is really Betty and she works in a cubical at a call center when she’s not serving beers at the local bar. Route 66 (in CA) is really just a pseudonym for a hyped-up road (when you can find it–thank you CalTrans) that cuts a path of loneliness and despair through the desert.

And that, my friends, is why California sucks (reason number two).