2009, AMF

I don't know anyone who will miss 2009. It hasn't been the best of years. Most people claim that they are not superstitious. But in the same breath, they will own up to saying that a year has been bad. Think of it. A segment of time a line is unlucky? That's pure superstition. But being an old sailor, I can be as superstitious as I care to be. We sailors are, after all, a superstitious lot.

For me, 1981 was way worse. My father died that year. I was diagnosed with cancer. It was a false alarm, but needless to say it scared the crap out of me. My second marriage did die. I was trying to sell real estate and the prime rate rose to 23%. Try selling that. My 1979 diesel Cadillac turned into a rolling time bomb, literally. But I did quit smoking and I moved aboard my boat, so it wasn't all bad.

But I digress. Now, all we have to do is muddle through the next five days and by magic, it will all be over. The sun will come out from behind the clouds. People will start spending money again. Businesses will start hiring again. And then plastic forming machines will start selling again.

It could happen.

The British are coming.

In 1963, we heard about the Beatles, and later the Rolling Stones. To use the terms English and Rock & Roll in the same sentence seemed to be an oxymoron. The Brits were so, reserved. Guess again! The Beatles and the Stones and The Who were really good as were the other groups. But I stuck to my Jazz guns. I was living a half hour away from San Francisco and some of the best Jazz clubs on the planet were in North Beach. I went to town as often as I could considering I was carrying a extremely heavy academic load as a student at the Navy's Missile Technician's B School. It was an Electrical Engineering curriculum without the humanities crammed into nine months of 40 hour a week classroom time. Five years later, when I did get to go to college, a 14 hour week was a walk in the park. About November of 63, the Beatles and right behind them came the British Invasion. I was stationed on an aircraft carrier in San Diego, the USS Constellation, and spent a lot of time at sea. Still listening to Jazz.

Six months later in February of 64, I was sent up to new construction at Todd Shipyard in Seattle and found more Jazz clubs up there in Washington state. By November we were back down in Long Beach and life in So. Cal. kicked the pace yet up another notch. We found a lot of good Jazz clubs around.

From Pomona to Indiana

As I was saying, the Ed Sullivan Sixties retrospective took me back to that era which was unlike nothing before, or since. Music for me and probably most other folks is the definer of the various periods of our lives. Music up to about 1956 consisted of either old Swing Era stuff, Pop and Hill Billy Country with a little Western. There was some really good black R&B and Jazz around, but for the average white boy from Cleveland, it was hard to access. Although Allen Freed, the Moondog, was in Cleveland and started playing R&R in 1951, a term which he coined, he was long gone by 1956. Having moved on to New York.

All of a sudden, here was Elvis & Chuck Berry & Little Richard & Fats Domino & Buddy Holly and Bill Haily with his Comets. As quick as they came, they seemed to fade away. Elvis was drafted in 1958. Buddy Holly along with Richy Valens and The Big Bopper died in that plane crash in 1959 and things seemed to fade. Ray Charles started doing Country & Western and other things that lost my attention.

So I got hooked on Jazz. the Jazz of the late fifties and the early sixties is the best, in my humble but expert opinion. The names are to numerous to list right here. Maybe I will in another blog, but right now, I don't want my train of thought derailed.

After three months in Pomona Calif., the Navy stationed me at NAD Crane Indiana. One hundred and ten square miles of explosives in underground magazines situated in southern Indiana. Smack in the geographic center of nowhere. We were too far to get decent radio reception from Indianapolis or Louisville and the local stations aired more pork belly futures than music. It wasn't all that bad because when we were out and near a station, the radio sucked anyway. So when I was near a city, I stocked up on more Jazz LPs.

What the hell was that?

I was watching the local PBS TV station last night and they had on this Ed Sullivan 60's music retrospective. Do you remember the Sixties? As Nancy my third wife used to say, if you do remember the Sixties, you weren't really there. I was there. I graduated from Garfield Heights High School which is a suburb of Cleveland in June of 1960 and one month later, I was on a Pennsylvania RR train to Philadelphia. It was like being shot out of a canon. Cleveland was, and is, a fairly big city. But Philly was the big time. Maybe not the Big Apple, but maybe the big kumquat. It had a subway train running right down Broad Street to the Naval Station where I was billeted awaiting my trip to Virginia Beach and Guided Missile School. I rode down to Virginia Beach with this black sailor from Chicago in a Greyhound bus. He and I talked about what our new lives were going to be like in the Navy. He was off to Naval Air Station Oceana which was real close to Dam Neck where my school was located.

Dam Neck was located on the northern edge of The Great Dismal Swamp. What a wonderfully descriptive name, The Great Dismal Swamp. Those old Southerners didn't believe in sugar coating things. I particularly liked the big poisonous Cottonmouth Water Moccasins that swam around the waterways on the base. The guns were also nice. Dam Neck was also home to the FADTC, the Fleet Air Defense Training Center. About a quarter of a mile from the school was the gunline on the beach. While we were trying to learn the basics of guided missilery, there were about 25 five inch naval guns banging away at some poor unsuspecting remote control drone. What a din that was. Just down the beach from Dam Neck was the town of Virginia Beach. It was wonderful. Lots of girls strutting around in their bikinis and other grand sights, but the day after Labor Day, the place turned into a ghost town. Everybody went home, wherever that was. I also experienced my first hurricane, Donna, while there. It was the worst in fifty years and it let me know that I wasn't in Cleveland anymore.

After seven months in Virginia Beach, life speedshifted to the next gear, California.

Heretofore, I had never been on an airplane and in one day I got a full indoctrination. A DC-3 propeller plane took us from Norfolk to Norfolk airport. After taking off and getting slammed around for a half hour we returned back to where we started. We then got into another Capitol Airlines plane, this time a turboprop Viscount that got us to National airport in DC. The next leg was on another prop plane a DC-7 which took us all of the way from DC to Baltimore. A fifteen minute flight. We now were big-time and boarded a United DC-8 jet.

A few brief hours later we landed in LA. It was February and it was cold when we boarded the plane in Baltimore. Back in the Stone Age of flight we had to walk outside across the, so called, tarmac and go up the boarding ladder. When we landed in LA, I bundled up. I had on my dress blue uniform with wool sweater underneath and over everything was my peacoat. I walked out the front door of the airplane and was hit in the face with 78 degree weather at ten PM, in February. I was from that minute on, a card carrying Californian. Off we went to learn about actual missiles, the Terrier/Tartars in my case.

But that's another part of my story, to be continued.

VETERAN'S DAY

Next week, Nov. 11th., is Veteran's Day. If you think about it between now and then, try to do something nice to show your gratitude for their service. I know when I got back from Nam in the late sixties, the reception was less than warm. Not that I really cared, I was as much against the war as most of the Hippies and other Peaceniks.

If the subject vet was Navy, why not buy the old sailor a beer or two, and then take him home and show him a good time.

If he was Army, maybe a hot meal is still a treat to an old soldier.

A can of Brasso will always get any ex-Marine excited.

And if he was Air Force, milkshakes are always proper.

CRANBERRY CHUTNEY

It's nearly Thanksgiving time once again. Most of us Americans look forward to the turkey with stuffing and all of the sides and pies. Cranberry sauce however seems to be like fruitcake. You either love it or hate it. If you want a cranberry change of life, try this.

It's CRANBERRY & RAISIN CHUTNEY

I got it out of a Bob Apatite magazine a zillion years ago.

Bring 2 cups of water to boil in a sauce pan and throw in a cup of raisins.

Remove from the heat and let stand 15 minutes. This will plump the little SOBs up.

Drain and reserve 1/2 cup of the raisin water and pour it back into the pan.

Add 2 cups sugar and 2 TBS white wine vinegar over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Up the heat and boil without stirring until syrup turns golden brown and delicious, GBD.

Remove from heat and add 1 cup orange juice 2 TBS orange zest and 2 TBS chopped fresh ginger.

Add two 12 Ounce bags of cranberries and cook until they begin to pop.

I like to pop some of the berries against the side of the pot with a wooden spoon, but that's just me.

Add the raisins back in and cook another minute.

Cover and let cool.

I'll bet you get requests for more next year.

OK kids, here's dad's recipe.

Esse gute.

But is is Satay?

A long, long time ago; when I actually had to work for a living, I flew a lot. By a lot I mean at least once a week. All over the place from LA to Mexico City and Tokyo and Sidney and Seoul and all over the USA. My favorite domestic airlines to fly on then were Continental & American, my least favorites were North West, Eastern and United. It wasn't that United was so bad. But I always liked to travel and traveling should be an adventure. Especially when you fly. Back in the dark ages, the nineteen seventies, flying was still fun on the aforementioned airlines. On the last three mentioned, it was more like taking a big bus. The airline food was usually best on American. The food on most of the others was normally not worth remembering. I was n a United flight one time however and it was time to slop the passengers. The flight attendant came by and asked what I wanted. The choices consisted of the usual like beef tips and noodles etc or maybe the Malay Peanut Chicken. "The what?" I asked. Something new and different on a airplane? They don't normally poison the paying passengers on the major airlines so I figured, why not. I ate, I enjoyed and I wanted more. After the dinner service, I went back to the galley on the airplane. I cranked up the charm setting to ten, smiled and asked "can you tell me who in your organization I would need to contact to get the recipe for that Malay chicken?" She smiled back at me, I thought I was really hitting pay dirt, and reached over my shoulder, pulled out a large printed card and said that so many people had asked for it, that the airline had it printed up.
So here it is. It is my oldest son's favorite food for me to make him.
I have deviated from the printed recipe some.
I cut up a whole chicken into breast, thigh, wing and leg pieces.
First season with some soy sauce.
Dust with flour, and saute. Keep the heat on. Add a teaspoon, or so, of dehydrated onions and 1/4 cup of white wine. Add a Tbs of soy sauce a can of chicken broth a 1/2 tsp of ground ginger and Turmeric and let simmer for 1/2 Hr. Lastly add a 1/2 cup of half & half adjust salt & pepper, if needed and serve over rice.
Yummers.

Veal Cordon Bleu

As I said in the last blog, we saw Julie & Julia and really enjoyed it. So much so that I went e-shopping for Julia Child's MASTERING THE ART OF FRENCH COOKING. I ended up getting a PDF version on line which is great with me.

I have way more books as it is then I have room for.

I thought that the first thing that I would try would be Veal Cordon Bleu. It's very French you know. Guess what, it's not in Julia's book. I have been making Veal Cordon Donnie for some time now. Over thirty years. I actually broke up with this girl from No. Carolina because of Cordon Bleu. I made these wonderful Veal Cordon Bleus on a two burner electric hot plate on my little 28 foot sailboat that I lived aboard in Redondo Beach in the mid-seventies. They were accompanied by these thin little potato pancakes topped with apple sauce and dusted with cinnamon. It's all about presentation you know.

Miss North Carolina proceeded to dump catchup all over my gastronomic creation thus ending the doomed relationship on the spot. In and Out squeeze bag catchup no less. It wasn't even Heinz.

When you make something for so long sometimes you stray further and further from the recipe.

Oh well, I have a copy of Le Cordon Blue, Complete Cook, home Collection. Left behind by one of the ex-wives.

You guessed it, aint there either. Hell, I have Google. I'll search it out.

Ah, here we are. First hit. Cooks.com, they'll know all right.

What have we here? First ingredient

1 can "Cedar Lake - Chops"

What in the hell is a can O "Cedar Lake - Chops"?

Cut halfway through, leave a flap-like a clam shell.

FILLING:

1 (8 oz.) pkg. cream cheese, softened - softened cream cheese?

What gives, is this a blintz?

1/2 c. grated Monterey Jack cheese.

Monterey Jack, maybe I stumbled onto a taco recipe.
1/2 c. grated mozzarella cheese.

Motz? Motz goes with anything, almost.
1 tbsp. Baco chips

Baco chips? That's it, I quit. I'm going back to Veal Cordon Donnie
1/4 c. diced green onions or scallions
1/4 tsp. fine herbs

Fill each chop and chill 2 to 3 hours or overnight.

To finish: Beat 2 eggs in small bowl. Place 1 1/2 cups Contadina seasoned bread crumbs in bowl. Bread each chop in egg then roll in bread crumbs. Place in frying pan (use Puritan oil) and brown on each side. Turn ONLY once. May be kept warm in oven until ready to serve. Serve hot.

This recipe must have been written by Mr. North Carolina.

Too bad he left the opossum and grits out.

The search goes on.

Julie & Julia

We went to the moving pictures yesterday and saw Julie & Julia. If you're a foodie as I am, and you used to watch Julia Child on PBS, as I did, before being a "foodie" was hip, you're going to really like this movie.

Why all of a sudden do I feel like Rex Reed, or Gene Shalit without the silly mustache?

I've never been a big fan of Meryl Streep, even though I know she's truly is a great actor. I think it is because when I saw Kramer verses Kramer I was going through my own private divorce hell, and to me, she was the bad guy. But moving right along, I gotta say. She nailed Julia.

Jamie Fox nailed Ray Charles in Ray and Meryl got Julia.

I've always liked to eat and one of the best ways that I found to get food to be just the way you like it is to prepare it yourself. So I took to cooking. I wasn't worried about being thought of as a sissy or anything. I had no issues with my masculinity. There were a few good cooking shows on back in the sixties. The two that I remember the best were Graham Kerr and Julia Child. Julia was hands down, my favorite, She was as real as they come. Back in the sixties, after the era of live TV, on air talent stood in front of a camera and let it rip. Not much editing back then. If Julia dropped a chicken on the floor she would just pick it up, brush it off and put it back on the serving platter and explain that these thing happen in the real world. If she burnt something, she'd show how to rescue it if at all passable.

Pre-Julia, I always thought of the French and their cooking as being way over pretentious. I still think of the French as being over pretentious snobs, but at least Julia made their food a lot more accessible. Every now and then, I try to make something from my Le Cordon Blue Complete Cook, Home Collection, but it is a reach for me. So now, I just bought an E-edition of Mastering The Art of French Cooking and I'll try a few things Julia fashion. But not them all, I still like my BBQ, Italian sausage & peppers and Linguine with white clam sauce.Esse gut.

It's thirty years this month.

In Sept of 1979 I bought a sailboat.

A schooner, Merrymaid, Downeaster hull #1.

Me and this boat have been through a lot together. I've lived on her, full time, for twenty seven years. She and I have been through three wives, three cats, three diesel engines, two kids, a Golden Retriever and several long term significant others.

Thirty years, that's a long time.

Here's hoping that the next thirty is as much fun as the last thirty.

It's 9/11, again.

This gets personal for me. Maybe not as personal as someone who was in NYC eight years ago today. But it still pisses me off.

In 2001, I was married to Nancy (wife #3) who was a TWA flight attendant.
Her brother lives in Clinton, NJ and she had her vacation to visit him planned nine months in advance.
We flew back to Newark NJ on about 9/15, one of the first days that the airplanes started flying again.
After three days in NJ, I said that I couldn't be this close to an event of this magnitude and not go to see it.
And so we did. We spent the day in Manhattan. Down where the WTC was, it was horrible. It was still burning at the site. I expected to smell rotting human flesh. After all, over three thousand American souls were strewn all over the place only a few days before. It smelled like an electrical motor that had overheated and burned up. Every time that a fire truck went by, which was often, everybody stopped and applauded them as they went by. It brought tears to my eyes. It still does, even now, just thinking about that very emotional event. Everywhere that you went, there were flyers posted on walls and telephone poles. On every surface available there were all of these pleas with pictures on them asking whether you had seen so-n-so in a hospital or wherever. It was really hard to cope with. Almost as hard as being in Viet Nam.
All I really want to know is, after eight years, why in the hell is Osama's ass not tacked up on some Seal Team's shithouse wall yet?

Pyrocumulus

A new word to me, but easy enough to figure out. Most of the last two weeks, although most of us couldn't see the fire area, we So. Californians have been seeing these large white clouds over the fire area. You can see the inversion layer below and the updraft from the flames as they poke this gigantic cloud 20,000 feet up through the layer.

We damn near lost the Mt. Wilson observatory which I've always wanted to go see but just never seemed to have the time to. You can bet when things settle down, I'm saddling up the motorcycle and taking a jaunt up there very soon.

That's a DC-10 dumping PhosCheck on the fire,

a real exciting thing to be seen.

Watching Skycranes suck up a few tons of water out of the local creek

is also a thrill.

The LA bason as seen from space.

The island in the bottom of the picture is Catalina.

Long Beach is at about one o:clock of the island

at the top of the crook in the land.

All too soon, fire season will be over

and earthquake season will arrive once again.

Close Encounter of the Third Ton, I'm Mister Blue

On 9 August, when we were sailing back from Catalina, we happened to come upon a whale basking on the surface. I have been sailing these waters now for over 37 years and seeing whales is not a too uncommon event. In fact, I have even gone to whale watching school at the Cabrillo Marine Museum in San Pedro, twice, in order to act as a docent on the local whale watch boats. This was no common garden variety California Gray Whale. It was way bigger and it had a "moat" around it's blowholes. Now I have seen Blue Whales out here but only at a distance of maybe a half mile at best. They usually sound, or dive, as you approach. We were under sail and as such, we were silent running. I don't know, maybe this big boy was snoozing on the surface but Heber, our trusty autopilot, stayed on course and we ended up on a collision course with this big boy. I eventually turned to port to avoid hitting him.

He looked like a Blue to me.

CPA was probably less than 20 feet. Damn, where the hell did I put my harpoon?

Something's happening here

I certainly wouldn't call myself a linguist, but in addition to my passable English, I can converse in German and Spanish. And I can get around in Japanese. So, here we are. We've been soaking the many wonderful sights in Big Sur and have developed major appetites. There aren't a whole lot of places to stop and dine along Big Sur. You have your choice of really over priced high-end restaurants or tourist oriented burger huts. Niether of which interests us. Calif. highway #1 turns east from the coast at Morro Bay and heads towards San Louis Obispo and as we drive through SLO we find a sushi joint. It looks OK from the outside.OK we get out of the car and are greeted by two nice looking Oriental gentlemen. I give them an ohio guzamus, I speak it, I don't spell it, and we all bow in greeting. Very nice. We are seated and I order two Japanese beers, nichi Kurin beeru koo da sai. So far so good. We order food. Cyn gets a combo plate with tempura and sashimi. I get a katsu don. The guy gives me a blank look. Donburri is a Japanese rice bowl and a katsu donburri is with pork. When done right, it is wonderful. A breaded pork cutlet on top. Next grilled onions and usually some egg. The juices from the above all seep down to the rice on the bottom. Yum. Nobody, but nobody in Japan calls it a katsu donburri. It is a katsu don. Even on the menus. On thier menu however, it is listed as a donburri. OK, I try again. This time I say katsu donburri koo da sai. Hai hai, yes yes, katsu donburri. OK, what's up here. We drink some beer and wait for the food and I ask the waiter, doja deska binjo. Where is the restroom? I get this blank look. I repeat. Doja, where, deska, is, the ka attached to des makes it a question. Binjo? Still nothing. In English, I ask where is the restroom. This he understands. It isn't like the guy was born and raised in Cleveland, he has an authentic oriental accent. He is the younger of the two Oriental gentlemen who greeted us and as I go to the head to jettison some Kurin beer, he scurries off to the kitchen. When I come back, he is back. I ask "did somebody change the Japanese language on me? I didn't get the memo." He says hai, it now is called toire. As we leave, I stop and chat with the older gent. He asks how I come to speak Japanese. I guess most round eyes don't. I tell him I spent eight years in the Navy and I also worked, for a while, in Kobe at Kawasaki Steel. I ask where he is from and he tells me he's from Korea. Ah so. Japanese isn't either of our first tongues. That explains why the confusion.

Post script. Just for the halibut, I Googled Where is the toilet in Japanese. It came back on a site called japaneselifestyle.com, Toire wa doko desu ka?

Son of a bitch. They must have changed the language because when I searched binjo on the site, it came back, Your search - binjo - did not match any documents.

I wonder why I didn't get the memo?

Road trip

One of my favorite things is to get in my truck or car, or get on my motorcycle or boat and take a trip and be gone for a few days, or weeks. We made a trek to No Cal this last week. I worked in Benicia for a few days and Cyn worked in So. San Fran. By Friday, both of us were done, so we did a bit of touring. I've been driving through and around San Jose for the last forty years now and have often wondered about the Winchester House.

The Winchester House, in case you don't know about it was built and rebuilt continuously over and over by Winchester, the gun maker's widow. she was a class A, world class nutcase. Apparently some psychic told her to never stop working on the house or bad things will happen to her. I believe in live and let live, but please keep the psychic advisers and other Voodoo practitioners away from me. I'm a firm believer of religious freedom. Freedom of religion and freedom from religion, but I do think that most paranaturals are charlatans. And, having said that, should be shot on sight.

Anyway, after all of these years, I finally went to see it. Yup. It's bizarre. Yup. It's pretty big. OK, I've been there and done that. I also took lots of picture to bore the crap out of unsuspecting friends. Thanks to the digital camera, I now take way more pictures than I ever used to. I spent six weeks in Europe and only took maybe 20-25 pictures. The usual stuff, pictures from the Eiffel Tower, gondolas in Venice castles on the Rhine. I do know the secret of professional photographers. Take lots of shots. It's part of the If you throw enough shit on a wall, some of it's bound to stick theory. With the digital camera, you can just shoot away, my chip holds about 800 pictures. Review them when you have a chance, and then erase the crap. It works for me.

Afterwards, we drove up to the Lick Observatory late in the day. Too late actually do it justice. Gotta go back when I can devote at least half a day, if not a full day.

Now let's head on down the road to Big Sur.

The best road trip in America, if not the world.

Every year, or two, I have to do it. I like to do it best alone. In a very fast sports car that can really handle the road. Alone because I don't get distracted by passengers screaming and pleading for me to spare their lives. Fast is good. It is also almost as good to be a passenger to a driver who values their own life and drives sanely enough to allow you to view the spectacular scenery.

Huell Howser & Marsha Yockey

I just watched, once again, one of my favorite TV people last night. I am speaking of Huell Howser right now. More on Marsha Yockey later.

Huell, in case you don't know about him, is this Tennesse gomer who produces and hosts various TV shows like California's Gold and Visiting with Huell Howser on KCET, the local LA educational channel. He's like some Mayberry RFD throwback. Full of golly gees, aw shucks and howdys. He goes around California with a microphone in his hand followed by a cameraman and visits various famous, infamous and some of the more obscure places around our vast state. Last night, he did a half hour on the Transamerica Building in San Fran. Or as us So. Calers like to call the place, Frisco. As usual, lots of history about what was there and when it was built. And by whom. But the best part is ole Heull gee wizzed his way clear to the top with his cameraman. Above the top floor, the fourty eighth, is another 125, or so, feet of open ladder/staircase leading to the very top 800 and some feet above the street. Very cool.

Oh by the way, those big ugly rectangles sticking out of the sides near the top of the TA building in SF house the elevator shafts. In 1972, they couldn't build an elevator that wasn't vertical. Maybe they still can't make 'em tilt.

And who the hell is Marsha Yockey you're still mumbling to yourself?

When I was in the Navy in the sixties, and the bastards stationed me in Southern Indiana. Yeah Indiana. Yeah Southern. Those bastards.

In Evansville, on the evening news was the most unpretentious TV personality you will ever see. She's probably dead by now. Often, she would do the weather segment in a stuffed armchair with one of her legs dangling over the arm and a big coon hound sitting in her lap.

No airhead back-combed blonde was she.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdLrRqg1VPw

Jack Parr and Dorthy Fultheim were two other great TV icons,

but sadly they are both gone to the big studio in the sky.

Oil Island White. Gettin' to like the place.

We've been there a lot lately. Either as a jumping off point for Catalina, or just to hank on the hook and enjoy life. And this last weekend was no exception. We did a nice overnighter Saturday & Sunday. It's almost like a fifteen minute trip to Catalina. We motor out to The Oil Island and drop the hook in front of "The Waterfall". We call it that because it is a waterfall. A fake waterfall on a fake island with fake condos on it, of course. The condos are actually oil derricks which move around because they are on rails. Most locals don't even realize that they actually move. If you take a picture of The Oil island from the bluffs on a Monday and come back on Wednesday and compare. You will see that somebody moved the condo. How perfect. It's the essence of Southern California living. But do you know what? I'll take it. They actually turn The Waterfall on and off. It's usually on between 1900 and 2300. And it's lit up for our viewing enjoyment. How swell is that?

White's Cove, Santa Catalina

Well, we did it again. Two trips to "the island" in two weeks. Just like the good old days. Maybe these really are the good old days. We left the marina Friday morning, but being there were reports of bad weather over at the island, we went and anchored at Oil Island White in LB Harbor once again. Yah, yah, I know. What us wusses in So. Cal. call "bad weather" most people call Tee shirt weather. So be it. Even so, it did blow like hell in LB. So I'm glad we stayed there. Anyway, Saturday we got under way early and motored over to the island.

We anchored in 65 feet of water just east of White's Cove up against the cliffs, and there we stayed. It was very nice. Peaceful and quiet. Sunday morning we sailed back. About 8 miles out of Alimitos Jetty, we came up on a very huge whale that we recon was a Fin Whale. Huge thing and very close. About 40 feet. He, or she, was not at all intimidated by us. We were under sail and as we drew very close I did alter course to the left to keep a bit of respectable distance. I'm ready to go back any time now.

Avalon

Well we finally made it to Catalina Island this weekend. Thanks to a confluence of a few unhappy events, it had been a long, long time since I was there on Merrymaid. But bad times don't last and we got on with things, like sailing. We went to Oil Island White and anchored Friday evening and did basically, nothing. Saturday morning we were up at first light, hoisted the Japanese spinnaker, weighed anchor and were off on a course of 180 to Long Point. The Japanese spinnaker, in case you don't speak sailor, is the Yanmar diesel engine. A real little beauty. It's relatively small, 3 cylinders, and light. It sips fuel and is environmentally compliant even in pinko areas like Sweden and France. It is less than a year old and only has 55, or so, hours on it so far. It starts as quickly as a Chevy six and is a real joy after it's Ferryman and Volvo predecessors. Anyway, we motored all the way to Long Point and did a little coastal cruise up to Avalon. We tried to get a mooring in either Descanso Bay or Hamilton Cove but being it was a Saturday morning in late July, of course that was out of the question. So we anchored in 110 ft. of water between Descanso and Hamilton. We got to visit with our friends George and Melinda who are working in Avalon and living on a mooring and have decided to live there year round. We had a nice dinner at the Lobster Trap a new place, to me at least, in Avalon and took a stroll around town. Melinda is currently driving a tour bus around the island and when someone would point out some house, building or other point of interest, she would go into tour guide mode and spout out the pertinent facts. It was a lot of fun. Being we were anchored out, I was antsy about being ashore so we went back to the boat a bit early, and bounce about most of the night every time a shoreboat would pass by. Carl and his friend Freda were supposed to take the cattleboat from Long Beach over to Avalon for the sail back, but we got a text message that they were whimping out. Too bad for them. The sail back was a Nantucket sleigh ride. Lots of good reaching wind, lots of sun. We had a blast.

We're planning on going back Thursday morning and staying until Sunday. The plan, such as it is, is for G&M to return with us.

Elvis had it all

I'm listening to Elvis while banging away at this f*%#ing computer. I actually forgot how good he was, and still is. I'm sure he's working behind some 7-11 counter in Encino with an Abdul nametag pinned to his polyester shirt flipping off the paparazzi when they come in for coffee.

That SOB sure could sing and gyrate.

Hell, he invented gyrating.

And he had the looks.

That bad boy look, with the sneer.

Every girl between 14 and 54 likes bad boys. I know a lot of girls won't admit it, but deep down inside, where they do their secret craving, they want a bad boy. Not too bad, mind you. No sense in getting raped, or arrested, or beat up. But bad enough to get on the back of a motorcycle or in a hot rod or sports car, and be seen with Elvis. Or one of his millions of wanna-bes.

I was an Elvis wanna-be, who the hell wasn't.

Dark slicked back hair, collar up in the back. Levis. No cheap shit imitations. You had to wear honest to goodness Levis. No rolled up farmer cuffs.

Life was easy back in the fiftys. You either looked like Elvis, or you were a homo. How do I dare say that? Easy. Straight guys wanted girls and girls wanted Elvis. Ergo, you became an Elvis clone. The guys who didn't care about getting a girl? They wore chinos with the stupid belt in the back and pastels.

Maybe the King of Pop is dead, but the King of Rock and Roll just keeps rolling along.

And a good portmanteau to you too sir.

Portmantau and chiasmus are two words worth knowing. Especially, if you're like me and pride yourself on a vast knowledge of totally useless information. Obviously, I'm not going to just figuratively pull down my pants and show you what the hell I'm talking about. If you hate running DFL in the one-upsmanship derby, you will probably quit reading right here and go look them both up.

Go ahead, we'll wait.

Ah, now that you're back, we'll resume.

I hope by now that it is not the size of the dog in the fight,

but the size of the fight in the dog.

That should tweek your jetavators.

Sorry, no pictures.

Well maybe this old one

Orange juice

I have lived in California most of my life by now.

Being I was in the Navy for over eight years, I moved around like some sort of Gypsy. But since I first moved here in 1961, I have considered this place home. I still feel, however, like an astronaut visiting a strange planet. At heart, I suppose, I am still this guy from Cleveland. Let me define Cleveland. Cleveland, like I explained to my kids, is everyplace between New York and Chicago. In Cleveland, you don't see forty year old cars whizzing down Pacific Coast Highway with surfboards on the roofs. Nor do you see 57 year old grandmothers with killer bodies and boob jobs in shorts and halter tops. And you don't see trees that have oranges growing on them. I can, and do, walk out of my girlfriend's house in the morning and pick three oranges from one of the trees and squeeze what has to be the freshest juice I have ever tasted. OK. I have had my morning rant. I'll get on with my morning chores. Like skimming the pool etc.

The King is Dead, Long Live the King

The King is Dead, Long Live the King. I always thought that was a peculiar turn of

words.

But here we are.

Wacko Jacko, as the Aussies called him went to the big venue in the sky yesterday

and who is going to replace The King of Pop?

Some rapper who wants to pop a cap in some mother

fucker's ass? I don't think so.

I wasn't a big MJ fan. I never bought one of his LPs or CDs.

I did buy Thriller on a cassette, but who didn't?

Like him or not, you have to admit that they guy had enormous talent.

Was he about as screwed up as any individual still walking free in society?

Hell yes, of course.

You couldn't be in the national public eye at such an early age as him

and not pay a very large price.

So that's it. No more Micheal to laugh and snicker at.

Is he black or white? Is he a boy or a girl?

It's over, so be it. Amen.

The King is Dead, Long Live the King

New York Food, Big Deal

We've been in the New York area for the last five days now. There was a few things that I wanted to try while I'm here. Pizza, Corned Beef and "New York" Chinese.

I've said all along that you just can't get good pizza west of Chicago. New York has the thin crust and Chicago has the thick. In Cleveland, where I arguably "grew up", which is approximately half-way between these two standards of pizza, the crust is not so thin. And not so thick. I tried a slice, or two, near Times Square a few years ago. It was, in a word, pizza. Not manna, but not bad either. I tried another pie again last night, same same. What the hell is going on here? Do I have to go to Cleveland just to reset my pizza benchmark? That's an awfully big price to pay for pizza enlightenment. The so called "New York" Chinese that we had the night before was, how should I say? Chinese. Not much different than what you'd get in Long Beach or even, God forbid, Cleveland.

We were given a jar of Sabrett's Red Onion sauce a while back.

To a native New Yorker, this stuff brings back sweet memories of the hot dogs off of the Sabrett push carts back in Brooklyn.

Ya know what? Maybe this is what drove the Dodgers clear across the country until they ran to the end of the road and settled in LA. La La Land. The red onion sauce isn't what you'd think it was. It doesn't contain red onions at all. What it really is, is basically onions dredged in catchup. Thanks, but I'll pass. Gimme some good mustard, on a good dog like a Nathan's. And maybe a dab of relish. That's it. Don't get your fingers in the way because I'm grinding it up.

We did have a Nathan's hot dog at the Newark airport coming in. Just to get in the New York state of mind. They are pretty good. But not world class. Forget the "combo meal" with the fries. The fries are terrible. Gag me with that little plastic spoon over there.

I've also heard all of the hype about the NY water. Now water and my mouth are close-to-perfect strainers. But what the hell. When in Rome--- Maybe in the morning I'll venture up to the tap and sample a glass of the stuff. I've been laughing for years at people who pay over a buck for a bottle of water. Water? You twist a knob and get a virtually unlimited supply practically for free and you willing to pay a buck to get 12 ounces in a creepy plastic bottle leaching PCBs and maybe toenail clippings of snakes for over a buck? I have to admit that back in Signal Hill the water there is so bad that when I brewed beer there, I did pay a buck for five gallons in my trusty reusable Arrowhead bottle at the water store. By the way, the Gourmet Water Store in Orange CA has gone out of business. I guess the demand for "gourmet water" didn't live up to expectations.

OK New York, you've been warned. I'm going to get a corned beef sandwich to take on the plane tomorrow and the honor of the whole region is going to be riding on this one sandwich.

You better not fail me, or I'm going to tell rat you out!

Beer, Rolling Rock

Near and dear to my heart is beer. It's a genetic thing I think. My, dad being of German decent sure drank his share. I do and so does one of my sons. I always liked "good" beer. Coors, Olympia and Rainer were good beers. Not great beers, but good beers. Coors still is. Budweiser never was, too sweet and the barley malt was cut with rice. Which probably was a cost cutting measure and added to the sweetness. Beer alcoholics drink Bud. I don't. ABB, anything but Bud. After spending time in Germany, I "stepped up" from good beers to better beers. The Germans not only make good stuff like Sham-Wows, they arguably brew the best beer in the world. Good American beers like Sierra Nevada and Sam Adams. It didn't hurt things for me that Jim Koch is the owner of Sam Adams. Rolling Rock was always, to me, a pretty good beer. If not a great one. If somebody offered me a beer and the choices were Bud or Rolling Rock. I'd choose the Rock, ABB. I'm in New York state this week and was offered a beer and sure as hell the choice was, you know what and RR. ABB, I opt for the Rock. I hadn't had a RR for some time now and it seemed to taste about the same. I read the painted on label as I had a hundred times before and, Oh Oh. Instead of saying Latrobe Brewing Co., Latrobe PA. It said St. Louis. I hope you know by now that any beer, regardless of what brewing company the label says, if it's from St. Louis, it's Anheiser-Busch. If some the label of some beer like Killians says Golden Colorado, it's a Coors product. The same goes for wine. If the label says Modesto CA, it's a Gallo product. Gallo probably has more than twenty different brands that don't reference Gallo on the label. But if it says Modesto, it's Gallo. To get back to the point, I Googled Rolling Rock and did a little homework on Wickapedia. It turns out that AB bought RR from InBev in 2006 and promptly shut down the Latrobe PA brewery and moved the label to it's Newark NJ mega-plant. Ironically, two years later, InBev bought AB and acquired RR back again. Moral of this story is this. I like to patronise the little guys like Latrobe. AB and InBev aren't going to miss the couple of hundred dollars that I spend on beer every year. That paltry sum does impact the little guys a lot more. So, I am never going to spend another dime on this AB product unless I see Latrobe PA on the label and know that all of those people in PA who were pushed into the unemployment lines are once again painting Latrobe PA on the bottles.

The Big Apple

Were off in the morning to NYC. The City, The Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. If we can make it there, we can make it anywhere except where we are actually going. Which is Montrose NY, just a headless horseyback ride north of Sleepy Hollow. Yeah, there really is a Sleepy Hollow. Lots of history there. Churches built in the 1600s- West Point, if you're queer for Army cadets. You know, cultural crap like that. It's actually pretty nice there, good pizza everywhere. Not like most of the crap you get west of the Mississippi. But most of the wine there really sucks. It's all like Manachevitz. sweet Concord grape stuff. It's like Welches grape juice spiked with Sterno. So after about for or five days, I do get Jonesing for a burrito and a Dos Exxes and the sound of surf. But for now, let the trip begin.

Oil Island White

We were planning on either going to the Isthmus at Catalina for the Summer Wine Festival or failing that, sail to Long Point and anchor either at White's Landing or Hamilton Cove. The weather sucked so we didn't do either. Instead, we just motorsailed out to Oil Island White in Long Beach harbor and dropped the hook overnight.

It was Cynthia's first time on an overnight anchor out but all went well and there were no disasters.

Dawn broke nicely and we had a leisurely coffee and breakfast. These two pictures were taken with my "phone". They call it a cell phone and you can actually call people up with it. But the damned thing also has a camera on it and also is a Walkman and has a bunch of games with it as well. All very noble things to try doing while barrelling down the San diego Freeway at 75 MPH. 

This is the waterfall at the island which is as phony as the island itself. But when the fall is "on", and illuminated with the white lights, it's well worth showing up for.

We would have like to stay a bit longer but Miss Sadie hadn't done her toilet ritual for over a day and she looked like she was really suffering. As soon as we hit the marina dock. she jumped off and promptly made up for lost time, several times.

Sadie is four and a half now and apart from all of the hair that she sheds, she is the perfect boat dog. I've been trying to train her to go on the boat. But no deal. What kind of lady do you think I am she must wonder. She would rather breed with a Rottweiler that is owned by Nancy Palosi than do dirty on the boat. I even tried making a small puddle up on the bow by the anchor windless which would be the ideal spot, but she shot me a very dirty look and promptly dived down the ladder into the cabin below in order to distance herself, like I'm not getting blamed for this one smart guy.

I think I'd like to be reincarnated as a Golden Retriever. Life sure is good. Now let's go find some ducks to chase.

We went.

As you can see, we went. Cynthia and myself, plus the kids. Dave, Amy, Marcus Dilday and Sadie.

We did the usual sail around Oil Island White, out Queens Gate out five or eight miles, Polish Jibe and back in Queens Gate. Ran down the inside of LB Breakwater and down the jetty. Boring? Hardly. Just like the good old days. The dog was in her element, as was the captain. We drank lots of beer, nobody got hurt and we didn't sink. I'll take it.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho

My younger son Dave and his wife Amy have come in from SFO for a wedding this weekend. We get to see them today and are going out for a day sail. The first day sail in too damned long. The weather looks promising and the beer box is bulging and "the old man" here, is a happy boy.

They're back!

My good friends and neighbors George and Melinda Aaron returned back from Mexico this morning. They headed out on their Cal 39 sloop Tenacious in early November and cruised mainly around the La Paz area in the lower Sea of Cortez. I am sure that we are in for a lot of good stories to hear about their travels and hope to kick things off tomorrow with a dock party. Salud. BDA will follow on Sunday morning.

Yelp

Thanks to my son Dave, I've been Yelping.

What's that you ask?

Have a look.

http://schoonermon.yelp.com/

For a rough idea, look at the sidebar to the right.

Maybe down a bit.

Well I'll be damned.

For over ten years now in my emails, I've been using

Comic Sans MS as my standard type font.

Blue 14 point. A bit whimsical, not too formal.

That's what your actually looking at right now.

I actually picked the font by it's appearance,

not it's name. A font by any other name would still be as silly.

Actually it's a bit of a misnomer.

San serif means no serifs and this font uses serifs on the bottoms and tops of the

uppercase I. See. A trivial point however. They should call it almost Sans.

Or 98% Sans Serif. But once again I digress.

Hey, I used to be a printer in another life. 

I lived and died by the font. Back in the stone ages,

we had few choices and they were all costly.

You literally rubbed your letters, one at a time, from this waxy sheet on to

your camera ready artwork. And don't screw it up. You couldn't cut and paste back then.

Actually that's exactly what you did. Literally cut and paste.

Scissors and library paste were standard issue when setting "type" for your offset press.

That's where the term came from.

Now I see on the front page of today's WSJ that

I'm right in the line of fire of a raging controversy.

I appears that people who use Comic Sans MS are the type who would " show up

for a black-tie event in a clown costume".

Who me?

I appears some Comic Sans users are giving the rest of us stand-up types a bad name.

In my humble opinion, it seems to be a another case of persons with too much idle time on their hands. 

Now, where in the hell did I put my red rubber nose?

Well we did it. We left Good Old Long Beach at 3:30 Am Friday the third morning. Good, but intermittent wind. When we had wind, it was blowing  nicely off shore at 12 to 15 knots. 

But as soon as we would shut down the engine, it would die. So we

 motorsailed down at 6 to 7.2 knots on a nice reach. We got to Silver Gate Yacht Club at about 1700, 5:00 PM. It was a nice gentle reach and so was a good introduction into offshore sailing for Cyn and Deb. Scott and I were as happy as two supposed adults could be. Saturday Carl and Freda joined up and off to the races we all went. I am more than a little rusty and blew the start big time. Ten minutes late getting over the line. By the third mark, we had gone from DFL to the middle of the fleet. 

And there we stayed. We just couldn't catch the big schooners in the heavy air. But the wind died for a while near the finish and we had an opportunity to move up some. All in all, I can't complain. In a fleet of fifteen schooners, crappy start and all, we finished fifth corrected. I came to have fun. The race was just an excuse to get out of town for a few days and put a few hours on the new diesel engine. And we certainly did that.

 When we left, the engine had about 15 hours on it. When we got back it, the Hobbs showed about 52 hours. The trip back alone  was 18 hours. According to the newly installed fuel gauge, we used a quarter tank of fuel or about 15 gallons. Or a little less than 1/2 gallon per hour. The trip back was a real bitch. I contacted a cold in Dago and we motored uphill into the wind for the entire 18 hours back.                                                                                     Oh well, wait until next year. Right now I have to decide whether I want to eat, drink or sleep.

I think I'll take a nap. Right after I have a sandwich and a beer.

American Schooner Cup Races

I have been competing in the American Schooner Cup Races in San Diego, off and on, since about 1988. Needless to say, it's lots of fun. And you should know how much I hate to have fun. 

Scott & Deb Douglas are flying in this year from Atlanta. We, Cyn & I, and plus S & D are sailing down very early Friday morning 3 April. It's 79 miles from Alamitos Bay jetty to Point Loma channel entrance buoy. This will be the first real run with the brand new Yanmar. I don't anticipate any problems with a <10>

The race is Saturday 4 April. Carl Mitrak & Freda will meet us in Dago as should Chris Rabb and his wife Maria. The way it's worked in the past, everybody races on Saturday. We used to be in class C. Not because of our rig or rating, just because we are a fiberglass schooner. And it just used to bother the crap out of the old farts to allow a Tupperware boat in their race. A few years, if it wasn't for the glass boats, there probably wouldn't have been a race. So I think because of that, and that a lot of the old farts died off, we're not quite the Unclean Ones that we once were.

But I digress. The way it worked in the past. All of the boats, in all of the classes raced on Saturday. On Sunday the top two finishers in each class, including us Untouchables in class D. The glass boats, raced to claim our cup. We usually raced on Sunday and took home some smart looking trophies a few times. There has been a Pirates Ball on Saturday night at the yacht club. That's always good for a few chuckles.

Assuming we race again on Sunday, we'll come back to good old Long Beach on Monday.

Should we show miserably however, we'll probably head for Avalon, or even the Isthmus Sunday and console ourselves with Buffalo Milks.

I hate cilantro.

Just a quickie, I like quickies. 

I was talking to my son David and he mentioned something about a study done by some people who hate cilantro. If you don't know that I absolutely hate, despise, loath and am disgusted by cilantro. It's probably because you've been up on the International Space station for the last 35 years. Or maybe you've been meditating in a cave high in the Himalayas. Because you're probably the only person, on Earth, who doesn't know. I have been, let's say, a tad vocal in my dislike of the evil stuff. 

To come to the point, after I got off of the phone with Dave, I Googled "I hate cilantro".

Viola, there it is. A I hate cilantro web site. I found a home. A place where I can be myself and bitch about cilantro to understanding ears. Free at last, free at last. Good God in heaven, I'm part of a very important movement.

I hate cilantro. There, now I've said it.

Maybe for the billionth time.

Merrymaid

The one constant throughout my life for the last thirty years is my schooner Merrymaid.

She has been with me through three of my four wives and a very long term relationship.

She is a Downeaster 38 schooner and we have been together for almost thirty years now.

Since Feb. of 1982, she has been my home afloat. 

I raised my two sons on her and she is my lifeboat. When all else turns to shit, I can take her to sea and feel better about things. I suppose that some would say that a grown man shouldn't get so attached to an inanimate object. But she has always been there for me.

What else is there to say. 

Febuary of this year will mark my 27th. year of living aboard her. That is a lot of history.

Road Food

One of the pleasures of being on the road is eating at some new or other place not normally frequented.

On this trip San Luis Obispo, we stopped at Fat Cats Cafe in Avila Beach on Wednesday evening. 

This is a very pleasurable spot to stuff your pie hole sitting at the base of the pier that serves Port San Luis. Cyn and I shared an ubiquitous "fisherman's platter". Clams, oysters, fish; calamari rings, tubes & steak, all fried. All good except for the oysters. I only like the suckers raw. As a healthy appetizer, we had fried onion rings. Very good and very different from the burger shack variety.

After dinner we strolled down the pier and around the boatyard. Much different than LA/Long Beach.

Thursday evening we ate ate the Apple Farm's restaurant. We both had a course of three different red blends from the JanKris Winery in Templeton, CA. 

There was 

Crossfire 50% Cab, 25% Syrah & 25% Merlot.

Picaro which was a blend of Merlot, Zinfandel & Cab.

And Riatta 50% Sangiovese, 25% Cab & 25% Zin.

Three 3 oz. glasses of each for $10. Not bad, about a buck an ounce.

All very good the next trip up in the Templeton area, I'm going to stock up.

The food was only good but the ambiance was very nice.

I had Schweiner Schnitzel and Cyn had a huge trout.

Friday late afternoon was The Sea Shanty in Cayucos.

Nice little sea side cafe. Grilled fish sandwich Cyn had a fried veggy san.

Saturday afternoon we strolled the beach at San Simeon and had several close encounters with 5,000 bull Elephant seals who appeared to be on their last flippers, we ate at Sebastian's General Store and Cafe. These poor old guys had harems of 30 to 40 cow seals and had fought hundreds, if not thousands, of battles with would be competitors and now that the old bull had been ousted.

This is where they end up. All alone on a sunny spot of beach five miles away from their old harems. Barking about the good old days and how cool it was to service 15 or 20 bitches a day.

Who knows what beach I may end up on reliving when life was really good in my feeble mind.

About Sebastion's. It is a real General Store that has been run by the same family for a hundred, or more, years. I had a meatloaf sandwich. Or should I say I had a meatloaf betw

een the top & bottom of a small loaf of Chabatta. You name it, it had it on it. Lettuce, tomato, pickles and lots of it all. Cyn had a club sandwich which she could only finish half at one sitting.

While waiting for our food I reconnoitered around the store and lo and behold, I found a brand new Whizzer motorbike for sale. Big frigging deal, you may say? If you were born before Eisenhower became pres. , and you're from Cleveland. It is a big woop de doo. Of course the preceding criteria does thin out the herd a bit, big time.