Scary title, huh? But rest assured that I am not leaving my planet or any other (at least not in the near future). If that were the case, I'd have written about it by now or at least thrown a farewell party or something. The title of this post has to do with what may hold for my blog. The post itself was inspired by a recent post I made on Facebook regarding the need to buckle down and start doing some writing here. Last year, I managed to write 37 posts, but only wrote six this year (if you count this one). In November 2015, the 30-Day Writing Challenge got me hustling. Writing about my comings and goings, antics and feelings was the whole point of starting this blog waaay back in 2009. There's no point in having a blog if you're not going to right in it, write?
A few months ago, I published my 100th blog post. It took me nearly seven years to get that far. For the average Joe, that's not too bad, but for someone with a lot to write, it's horribly pathetic. I know others who reached 100 published blog posts in about 15 minutes. Not having a working computer really isn't an excuse because I can always go to the public library, a whole whopping mile-and-a-half away. And they always have at least one available computer to use for as long as you like (unless others are waiting; then it's 60 minutes). As I write this, I'm using my tablet at home because the library closes early on Sundays. Earlier this year, my friend Jeff Siegel gave me a computer that I have yet to get up and running. It's going to take some money to get the data transferred from my non-working hard drive to this newer computer. Money is an issue and will continue to be until I get back to work. It'll get done when it gets done.
But I can still write anyway, can't I? Eric's Planet isn't going anywhere. Does it ever? We're still trying to determine whether it even rotates on an axis, follows an orbit around some heavenly body, or both. No one will give us a key or the combination.
Well, it's way past midnight; before I get to work on my next post, let me feed that notorious, furry chinzilla critter so he'll quit staring me down. A 90-minute dinner delay only serves to endanger my fingers when I reach into the cage...
Monday, December 12, 2016
Monday, August 8, 2016
Eric's Gastronomical Transit Adventure
First off, it appears that this is my 100th blog post. It took me nearly seven years to get this far. Perhaps I'll get to my 200th post in about 15 years or so. Hopefully sooner, though.
Anyway, I took myself on yet another adventure the other day—last Saturday, if memory serves. August 6. And you have two choices: read this, or don't read this. See, I try to make things simple on my planet. It makes things...simple.
For whatever reason, I didn't take very many pictures, though I should have because I did some things that I've never done before and saw a few new things, too. I'm within a single-digit number of years of my supposed retirement age of 65 (some people think I'm that old already), so these impromptu and random adventures are just a warm-up for when retirement actually hits me.
As my title says, this particular adventure involved transit and eating, two of my favorite things to do even though I need to be careful with the latter because of my sugar-challenged condition. Everyone knows about that as I tend to repeat myself over and over again and again time after time...
Sometime recently, I saw a link to an article on Facebook about National Chili Dog Day and it listed several places to visit in order to celebrate. One place in particular stood out, most likely because it claims to be the place where the chili dog was invented. Art's Chili Dog. And just my luck, it happened to be in Los Angeles! So why not go there and give it a try?
Because I'm so...me...I always do things in the most complicated manner possible. Drive there? Pfft. I'm going to get there using public transit. Why not drive? Because I actually like to use public transit. With my lifelong interest in, fascination with, and enjoyment of riding buses, it's pretty much a given. And since L.A. is adding new lines to its Metro Rail system, a train ride or two gets into the mix. And you all know how much I like riding trains.
To me, the best way to start an adventure involving transit is to either drive from home to Chatsworth and take the Orange Line bus to North Hollywood and catch the Red Line subway or to just drive straight to North Hollywood Red Line station and go from there. For this adventure, I chose the latter. It gives me a few more options when I return to North Hollywood.
Down the escalalalalalator (it's a long one) into the ground, a $7 all-day pass purchase, and a scoot down a second and much shorter escalator. I stepped aboard a Red Line train whose doors pretty much closed before I was even all the way in. Talk about good timing! We were off to L.A. Normally, I get off at 7th St. Metro Center, go up a level, and catch a Blue or Expo Line train to wherever I'm going. Today, however, I got off at Vermont/Wilshire to take the Purple Line to Normandie. Once I got there, I returned to street level and got on a Line 206 bus that would take me south to the intersection of Florence Ave., which is where Art's Chili Dog is. Hmmm...Florence and Normandie... Haven't we heard about that intersection somewhere?
Indeed we have. Anyone who was in Southern California in 1992 will remember the riots that started after the four police officers accused of beating Rodney King during a traffic stop were found to be not guilty. The flashpoint of the riots was the intersection of Florence and Normandie. If you want to read about those riots, click here. If you want to read about Eric's adventure, keep reading...
At Wilshire and Normandie, bus 8603 sucked me in for the ride down south. When I got to Florence and Normandie, the bus opened its doors and spit me out. Across the street and off to the right was a small light blue building that said "Art's Chili Dog" on it. "Must be the place," thought Eric. So he went over there and went inside. There was only one other person inside at the time. No one was behind the counter but after stepping inside, a man who I assumed to be Art or a reasonable facsimile appeared and asked me what I'd like. I said that I needed to check my blood sugar first and see what would work for me. A turkey dog with chili and cheese only would work just fine. As for something to drink that would be suitable for diabetics, Art's only sold cans of Diet Pepsi. I would have to choke it down, but at least it was cold and wet. After eating, "Art" and I got into a conversation about diabetes and it turns out that he too is diabetic. He is also a Type 2, but is only taking metformin. I told him about my wild adventure and all he could say was "Damn!"
Not a big surprise, but there really isn't much to do at Florence and Normandie, so I went across to get on a bus to take me back to Wilshire Blvd. for the train ride home. Bus 8605 pulled up and made me get on. I fought it, but a giant 45-foot long bus is a lot bigger than I am so I gave in.
Somewhere en route, something started brewing in my head. Do I have to go back home? NO!!! What else could I do? Where else could I go? Well... there's this recently opened stretch of the Expo Line that takes riders to within a few blocks of the Santa Monica Pier. And it's the only Metro Rail track that I hadn't yet ridden. And I might get to ride on one of Metro's new Kinkisharyo rail cars. Decision made. To 7th St. Metro Center I go!
With Red and Purple Line subway trains running at the bottom and Blue and Expo Line light rail trains running in the middle at a right angle to the subway, 7th St. Metro Center is a pretty busy place. After my arrival there, I went up to catch the Expo Line for the trip to Santa Monica. Within a few minutes, the train pulled up. It was a Siemens train, not a Kinkisharyo. Oh well. Those are new; they'll be around for awhile. It took just over a half-hour to get out to Santa Monica.
While I could have walked over to the pier and perhaps taken a ride on the West Coaster, I chose not to. The old Sears store is just across the street from the train station and I hadn't been in there since about the mid-'70s, so I went in and walked around a bit. Nothing exciting there. If I had found Sears exciting, I would have myself examined—my head, anyway.
It was going on 5pm and I decided to start my trip back to North Hollywood. Driving might take 30-45 minutes, but transit would take longer so I had to allow extra time. I waited for my train and before long, a nice, new set of Kinkis pulled up. That would be the next train out, so finally here was my chance to ride one.
The car wash would take the least amount of time and was open for a couple more hours (I didn't know what Macy's hours were, but the car wash is just a quarter-mile away). Clean car, off to shop!
For me, it was the first time I'd been in the building since the Laurel Plaza mall was demolished about 20 years ago. They had signs all over announcing "STORE CLOSING!!!" with percentages of discounts on everything. The escalator leading to the basement wasn't operating (it had some steps missing, so they had customers use the other escalator as a stairway). I just took a ride up to the second floor, walked around a bit, then rode back down to the first floor. This was quite a store in its day, but its day was long, long ago.
Finally, the eating part. You can never go wrong at Fatburger (in my opinion, of course), so I stopped in. My blood sugar was on the low side, so I got a small order of fries (which I usually avoid). Once I was done eating, there was one more thing on my list: get a picture of the classic, neon Circus Liquor sign across the street.
I'm not a clown person, but I've always liked that sign and have wanted a picture of it before it goes away forever. Here was my chance to catch it on silicon. (Isn't that what memory cards are made of?) My phone isn't a pricey camera, so I did the best I could with what I had. Even though some of the blue spots on the clown's costume aren't lit up, this is one of the better shots:
So there you have it. Food. Train and bus rides. Photos. A visit to a department store of my childhood. And a clown.
See you next time!
Anyway, I took myself on yet another adventure the other day—last Saturday, if memory serves. August 6. And you have two choices: read this, or don't read this. See, I try to make things simple on my planet. It makes things...simple.
For whatever reason, I didn't take very many pictures, though I should have because I did some things that I've never done before and saw a few new things, too. I'm within a single-digit number of years of my supposed retirement age of 65 (some people think I'm that old already), so these impromptu and random adventures are just a warm-up for when retirement actually hits me.
As my title says, this particular adventure involved transit and eating, two of my favorite things to do even though I need to be careful with the latter because of my sugar-challenged condition. Everyone knows about that as I tend to repeat myself over and over again and again time after time...
Sometime recently, I saw a link to an article on Facebook about National Chili Dog Day and it listed several places to visit in order to celebrate. One place in particular stood out, most likely because it claims to be the place where the chili dog was invented. Art's Chili Dog. And just my luck, it happened to be in Los Angeles! So why not go there and give it a try?
Because I'm so...me...I always do things in the most complicated manner possible. Drive there? Pfft. I'm going to get there using public transit. Why not drive? Because I actually like to use public transit. With my lifelong interest in, fascination with, and enjoyment of riding buses, it's pretty much a given. And since L.A. is adding new lines to its Metro Rail system, a train ride or two gets into the mix. And you all know how much I like riding trains.
To me, the best way to start an adventure involving transit is to either drive from home to Chatsworth and take the Orange Line bus to North Hollywood and catch the Red Line subway or to just drive straight to North Hollywood Red Line station and go from there. For this adventure, I chose the latter. It gives me a few more options when I return to North Hollywood.
Down the escalalalalalator (it's a long one) into the ground, a $7 all-day pass purchase, and a scoot down a second and much shorter escalator. I stepped aboard a Red Line train whose doors pretty much closed before I was even all the way in. Talk about good timing! We were off to L.A. Normally, I get off at 7th St. Metro Center, go up a level, and catch a Blue or Expo Line train to wherever I'm going. Today, however, I got off at Vermont/Wilshire to take the Purple Line to Normandie. Once I got there, I returned to street level and got on a Line 206 bus that would take me south to the intersection of Florence Ave., which is where Art's Chili Dog is. Hmmm...Florence and Normandie... Haven't we heard about that intersection somewhere?
Indeed we have. Anyone who was in Southern California in 1992 will remember the riots that started after the four police officers accused of beating Rodney King during a traffic stop were found to be not guilty. The flashpoint of the riots was the intersection of Florence and Normandie. If you want to read about those riots, click here. If you want to read about Eric's adventure, keep reading...
At Wilshire and Normandie, bus 8603 sucked me in for the ride down south. When I got to Florence and Normandie, the bus opened its doors and spit me out. Across the street and off to the right was a small light blue building that said "Art's Chili Dog" on it. "Must be the place," thought Eric. So he went over there and went inside. There was only one other person inside at the time. No one was behind the counter but after stepping inside, a man who I assumed to be Art or a reasonable facsimile appeared and asked me what I'd like. I said that I needed to check my blood sugar first and see what would work for me. A turkey dog with chili and cheese only would work just fine. As for something to drink that would be suitable for diabetics, Art's only sold cans of Diet Pepsi. I would have to choke it down, but at least it was cold and wet. After eating, "Art" and I got into a conversation about diabetes and it turns out that he too is diabetic. He is also a Type 2, but is only taking metformin. I told him about my wild adventure and all he could say was "Damn!"
Not a big surprise, but there really isn't much to do at Florence and Normandie, so I went across to get on a bus to take me back to Wilshire Blvd. for the train ride home. Bus 8605 pulled up and made me get on. I fought it, but a giant 45-foot long bus is a lot bigger than I am so I gave in.
Somewhere en route, something started brewing in my head. Do I have to go back home? NO!!! What else could I do? Where else could I go? Well... there's this recently opened stretch of the Expo Line that takes riders to within a few blocks of the Santa Monica Pier. And it's the only Metro Rail track that I hadn't yet ridden. And I might get to ride on one of Metro's new Kinkisharyo rail cars. Decision made. To 7th St. Metro Center I go!
With Red and Purple Line subway trains running at the bottom and Blue and Expo Line light rail trains running in the middle at a right angle to the subway, 7th St. Metro Center is a pretty busy place. After my arrival there, I went up to catch the Expo Line for the trip to Santa Monica. Within a few minutes, the train pulled up. It was a Siemens train, not a Kinkisharyo. Oh well. Those are new; they'll be around for awhile. It took just over a half-hour to get out to Santa Monica.
While I could have walked over to the pier and perhaps taken a ride on the West Coaster, I chose not to. The old Sears store is just across the street from the train station and I hadn't been in there since about the mid-'70s, so I went in and walked around a bit. Nothing exciting there. If I had found Sears exciting, I would have myself examined—my head, anyway.
It was going on 5pm and I decided to start my trip back to North Hollywood. Driving might take 30-45 minutes, but transit would take longer so I had to allow extra time. I waited for my train and before long, a nice, new set of Kinkis pulled up. That would be the next train out, so finally here was my chance to ride one.
I climbed aboard car 1029 and found a seat. A few seats up a group of young men sat down. One of the guys was carrying a banjo so I figured that he and his friends had been playing at the beach or at the Santa Monica Place mall across from Sears. The banjo player appeared to be playing on the train, but if so it was too softly for me to hear.
I'm not sure if the guy holding the banjo knew I was taking pictures, but he never said anything. These guys got off sometime before we got back to downtown. Metro operates five types of railcars in L.A. After stepping off of 1029, I've now ridden on all five types.
At 7th St. Metro Center, I had to return to the bottom level to catch the Red Line train back to North Hollywood. Within a few minutes, the train pulled up and I got on. Even on a Saturday, the trains were packed. I was surprised to see them running six-car trains on the weekend. Normally rush hour trains are that long. But, I don't ride Metro Rail that often, so I could be wrong. I was wrong once...
In North Hollywood, I had a few things to do: hit the car wash; take one last walk through the Macy's/former May Co. building at long gone Laurel Plaza (it closes in less than a month and will be demolished or repurposed); and get something to eat.
 |
| By my estimation, I parked right about where I used to go ice skating many years ago. |
For me, it was the first time I'd been in the building since the Laurel Plaza mall was demolished about 20 years ago. They had signs all over announcing "STORE CLOSING!!!" with percentages of discounts on everything. The escalator leading to the basement wasn't operating (it had some steps missing, so they had customers use the other escalator as a stairway). I just took a ride up to the second floor, walked around a bit, then rode back down to the first floor. This was quite a store in its day, but its day was long, long ago.
Finally, the eating part. You can never go wrong at Fatburger (in my opinion, of course), so I stopped in. My blood sugar was on the low side, so I got a small order of fries (which I usually avoid). Once I was done eating, there was one more thing on my list: get a picture of the classic, neon Circus Liquor sign across the street.
I'm not a clown person, but I've always liked that sign and have wanted a picture of it before it goes away forever. Here was my chance to catch it on silicon. (Isn't that what memory cards are made of?) My phone isn't a pricey camera, so I did the best I could with what I had. Even though some of the blue spots on the clown's costume aren't lit up, this is one of the better shots:
See you next time!
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Why is my writing so...so different?
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I woke up on a Sunday morning, had breakfast, and read both papers by about 10am. Normally I'm still unconscious about that time, but today I managed to wake up by 7. The truth is that if I get to bed at a reasonable time as I did last night, I can get enough sleep and wake up not only refreshed, but early enough to get a few things done and/or get out to do something fun.
That first paragraph had nothing to do with the title of this post, huh? Actually, I'm getting there but will probably need a transfer. Let me ask the driver...
It is without any doubt that both of you have noticed that I write a bit...differently than most people. For instance, where most folks write a date as "May 15th," I write that same date as "May 15rd." I use the wrong ordinals because I simply don't like them in dates. Today's date of "May 15" is read as "May 15th" in real life, so there's no need to add one of those "th"s in there when you write it. Writing the uncorrect ordinals is my way of protesting.
"Uncorrect." That brings to mind another miserable habit I have: making up my own words or corrupting existing ones. Now, everyone on this planet and yours knows that I'm a dedicated officer on the Spelling and Grammar Police force. "To Correct and to Serve" is our motto. So why would an officer go out of his/her/its way to completely enbafflize our revered language? Simple. It makes for semi-amusing reading, and the WTF?!?!? looks are priceless.
Everything written here should explain why a seemingly intelligent person such as myself writes so bizarrely. Actually, for even less fun and more inconvenience, I should write posts like this once in awhile. Completely useless, utterly frustrating, but it gets me out and about, entertains you (maybe), and entertains me (definitely).
Thank you for reading. Got out of the house for a bit, did a little writing—nonsensical as it was—and had a little fun. Maybe sometime I'll actually answer the question in the title.
That first paragraph had nothing to do with the title of this post, huh? Actually, I'm getting there but will probably need a transfer. Let me ask the driver...
It is without any doubt that both of you have noticed that I write a bit...differently than most people. For instance, where most folks write a date as "May 15th," I write that same date as "May 15rd." I use the wrong ordinals because I simply don't like them in dates. Today's date of "May 15" is read as "May 15th" in real life, so there's no need to add one of those "th"s in there when you write it. Writing the uncorrect ordinals is my way of protesting.
"Uncorrect." That brings to mind another miserable habit I have: making up my own words or corrupting existing ones. Now, everyone on this planet and yours knows that I'm a dedicated officer on the Spelling and Grammar Police force. "To Correct and to Serve" is our motto. So why would an officer go out of his/her/its way to completely enbafflize our revered language? Simple. It makes for semi-amusing reading, and the WTF?!?!? looks are priceless.
Everything written here should explain why a seemingly intelligent person such as myself writes so bizarrely. Actually, for even less fun and more inconvenience, I should write posts like this once in awhile. Completely useless, utterly frustrating, but it gets me out and about, entertains you (maybe), and entertains me (definitely).
Thank you for reading. Got out of the house for a bit, did a little writing—nonsensical as it was—and had a little fun. Maybe sometime I'll actually answer the question in the title.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Time to kick this blog up a notch—or 12...
As of this post, I've published only 98 posts total over the six-and-a-half years that I've been writing Welcome to Eric's Planet. That works out to a mere 16 posts per year. Beyond pathetic in my opinion. But what's even patheticker (I added a "k" for ease of mispronunciation) is that there is so much out there to write about. With so many things polluting my brain, why haven't those things made it as far as a blog post?
There's no valid explanation, really. It's just plain old laziness on my part. I could say that since my computer up and died last fall, I have no way of writing. That's a bald-faced lie. I do have a tablet, or I can go to our local public library and use one of their computers as I'm doing now. In fact, unbeknownst to both of my readers (I had three, but one unfriended me and blocked me, too), I wrote many of the posts from last fall's 30-Day Writing Challenge on my tablet. And you couldn't even tell the difference, huh?
With all that gibberishment out of the way, let me say that with just over half of 2016 left, I'm going to make some kind of effort to get this thing going. My 57rd birthday is in less than three months and perhaps an early birthday present to myself will be to write some good stories. When all is said and dumb, it's all about effort, and I need to make that effort or die trying.
So consider yourselves warned. Eric's Planet is still out there in the blogosphere and it's just waiting for clearance to land. But there's a giant plane called "Life" in front of it.
There's no valid explanation, really. It's just plain old laziness on my part. I could say that since my computer up and died last fall, I have no way of writing. That's a bald-faced lie. I do have a tablet, or I can go to our local public library and use one of their computers as I'm doing now. In fact, unbeknownst to both of my readers (I had three, but one unfriended me and blocked me, too), I wrote many of the posts from last fall's 30-Day Writing Challenge on my tablet. And you couldn't even tell the difference, huh?
With all that gibberishment out of the way, let me say that with just over half of 2016 left, I'm going to make some kind of effort to get this thing going. My 57rd birthday is in less than three months and perhaps an early birthday present to myself will be to write some good stories. When all is said and dumb, it's all about effort, and I need to make that effort or die trying.
So consider yourselves warned. Eric's Planet is still out there in the blogosphere and it's just waiting for clearance to land. But there's a giant plane called "Life" in front of it.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Yosemite: another unplanned adventure
In my life, one thing is always true—uncertainty is certain. Think in terms of heading out for pizza and ending up having one heck of a meal at the sushi bar. This is how I spent a recent weekend, and now you get to read all about it. A trip to Yosemite, that is, not pizza or sushi.
Every year at the end of April or thereabouts, I spend the better part of a day out at the Ojai Valley Gun Club with a few friends, and we enjoy some shootin', some eatin', and just a good time with the boys. (Actually, girls are more than welcome to attend, but we can't find any who'll go with us.)
When I got back on Saturday afternoon, no one was home. I assumed that Lori had taken off to Yosemite for something called the Moonbow. That's a natural phenomenon where the bright full moon generates a rainbow of colors in the mist over one of the waterfalls in Yosemite. She had mentioned going, so when I saw that Diana's car was gone, I assumed she had in fact gone to Yosemite. (Lori's car had a problem with the radiator, making it less than roadworthy, so taking a 600-mile or more trip would have been somewhat risky.) Having gotten up at 6:30am for the Ojai event, I was pretty tired so I sat down and promptly fell asleep.
Around 4:30, I was awakened by the front door opening. Diana was away for the weekend, so it had to be Lori coming in. With the Moonbow just six or seven hours away, I didn't understand why she hadn't yet gotten on the road, being that it takes six hours just to drive to Yosemite, let alone getting to the spot in the park where the Moonbow was visible. She said that she was still debating as to whether to go, and the next thing I knew, we were putting together stuff for both of us to spend the night if need be.
Honestly, I hadn't planned on taking such a trip, but it looked like once again, I was going to Yosemite. My last trip to Yosemite in 2013 was sort of spur-of-the-moment. Read about that here.
We piled everything into Diana's car and got set to go. We could have just as well taken my car, but since our neighbors think the space in front of our house is an overflow lot for their multitude of vehicles, we decided to let my car be a placeholder. (The neighbor thing is a story in itself. Another blog entry, perhaps?)
Like our last trip, we headed up I-5 over the Grapevine and landed in the Central Valley. Being dinnertime, we looked for somewhere to eat and were surprised to find The Habit in a shopping center in Wheeler Ridge. Saying this may offend the In-N-Out fans out there, but I think The Habit has a better burger. Just my 'pinion.
Back on the road, we continued our northward journey. By the time we got to Yosemite, it was past midnight and the Moonbow was long since over. But here we were, at Yosemite National Park at almost the middle of the night, so it was time to find somewhere to stay. We'd made our way toCamp Curry Half Dome Village. The folks at Aramark were kind enough to take over all of the concessions and lodging at Yosemite, so they've gone around changing the names of some very famous places, including the landmark Ahwahnee Hotel, which dates to 1927. (It's now known as the Majestic Yosemite Hotel). Completely stupid in my opinion.
Note that in the last paragraph I struck out "Camp Curry" and replaced it with "Half Dome Village." Same idea. Here's a picture of the soon-to-be-modified sign with a temporary sign tied over it:
Anyway, we stopped in at thecheck-in desk lodging availability counter to see if any of the tent cabins were available. We were surprised to learn that Cabin 691 was free of guests and that we could have it. The next trick was to find a place to park close to where our cabin was, as well as finding it in the middle of the night. We found ours, and it was just 100 feet from the restrooms. You can't complain about that.
For some reason, I didn't take a picture of good ol' 691. But I did find a picture online of the tent cabins:
A quick stop in the gift shop and packing up our stuff to check out concluded our morning, and we decided to head on out. Of course leaving Yosemite isn't just a matter of ZOOOM!!! out of the park. We took our time to take in as much as we could.
Plenty of room for passengers, and with two or three of these cars on the train, there'll be a lot of people going into the woods. When we boarded, we chose to sit outside, which meant sitting on these logs.
Heading into the woods, there was a lot to see. Plenty of trees and flowers, but no sign of wildlife (at least we didn't see anything).
Once we resumed, it didn't take long to return to the depot. When we got off the train, we picked up a brochure for this railroad and headed south again on Highway 41. Like last time, we stopped at Bravo Farms in Traver to get stuff we don't need, then back on 99 for home.
Every year at the end of April or thereabouts, I spend the better part of a day out at the Ojai Valley Gun Club with a few friends, and we enjoy some shootin', some eatin', and just a good time with the boys. (Actually, girls are more than welcome to attend, but we can't find any who'll go with us.)
When I got back on Saturday afternoon, no one was home. I assumed that Lori had taken off to Yosemite for something called the Moonbow. That's a natural phenomenon where the bright full moon generates a rainbow of colors in the mist over one of the waterfalls in Yosemite. She had mentioned going, so when I saw that Diana's car was gone, I assumed she had in fact gone to Yosemite. (Lori's car had a problem with the radiator, making it less than roadworthy, so taking a 600-mile or more trip would have been somewhat risky.) Having gotten up at 6:30am for the Ojai event, I was pretty tired so I sat down and promptly fell asleep.
Around 4:30, I was awakened by the front door opening. Diana was away for the weekend, so it had to be Lori coming in. With the Moonbow just six or seven hours away, I didn't understand why she hadn't yet gotten on the road, being that it takes six hours just to drive to Yosemite, let alone getting to the spot in the park where the Moonbow was visible. She said that she was still debating as to whether to go, and the next thing I knew, we were putting together stuff for both of us to spend the night if need be.
Honestly, I hadn't planned on taking such a trip, but it looked like once again, I was going to Yosemite. My last trip to Yosemite in 2013 was sort of spur-of-the-moment. Read about that here.
We piled everything into Diana's car and got set to go. We could have just as well taken my car, but since our neighbors think the space in front of our house is an overflow lot for their multitude of vehicles, we decided to let my car be a placeholder. (The neighbor thing is a story in itself. Another blog entry, perhaps?)
Like our last trip, we headed up I-5 over the Grapevine and landed in the Central Valley. Being dinnertime, we looked for somewhere to eat and were surprised to find The Habit in a shopping center in Wheeler Ridge. Saying this may offend the In-N-Out fans out there, but I think The Habit has a better burger. Just my 'pinion.
Back on the road, we continued our northward journey. By the time we got to Yosemite, it was past midnight and the Moonbow was long since over. But here we were, at Yosemite National Park at almost the middle of the night, so it was time to find somewhere to stay. We'd made our way to
Note that in the last paragraph I struck out "Camp Curry" and replaced it with "Half Dome Village." Same idea. Here's a picture of the soon-to-be-modified sign with a temporary sign tied over it:
Anyway, we stopped in at the
For some reason, I didn't take a picture of good ol' 691. But I did find a picture online of the tent cabins:
As accommodations go, these really aren't too bad. The bunk inside is reasonably comfy, there's a heater in most of the tents, a chair, some shelves, and a light with a pull chain. Our light didn't work, but Lori had brought a battery-powered light that she hung from the ceiling. We were well lit.
By the time we got to bed it was just after 2am, which is about when we usually get to bed at home. For reasons unknown to me, I woke up sometime between 6 and 7. After we both were up, washed up, dressed and ready to go, we headed over to the restaurant for breakfast.
Not the World's Greatest Breakfast™ or anything, but not too bad either. We walked all over Half Dome Village taking in the blooming dogwood trees with their white, pink, yellow, and magenta flowers.
By the time we got to bed it was just after 2am, which is about when we usually get to bed at home. For reasons unknown to me, I woke up sometime between 6 and 7. After we both were up, washed up, dressed and ready to go, we headed over to the restaurant for breakfast.
Not the World's Greatest Breakfast™ or anything, but not too bad either. We walked all over Half Dome Village taking in the blooming dogwood trees with their white, pink, yellow, and magenta flowers.
A quick stop in the gift shop and packing up our stuff to check out concluded our morning, and we decided to head on out. Of course leaving Yosemite isn't just a matter of ZOOOM!!! out of the park. We took our time to take in as much as we could.
Shamefully, I didn't take many pictures at Yosemite. But I made up for it at our next stop.
By about 11:30, we were checked out, cleaned out, and on our way back down Highway 41. The last time we came up here, I noticed a sign for something called the Yosemite Mountain Sugar Pine Railroad. Being the railfan that I am, I was surprised that I'd never heard of it. At that time it was closed, but I'd always planned to get back up there and ride it. Since we were in the vicinity once again—and it was open—here was a chance to check it out.
A Reader's Digest description of this railroad: it's about four miles of track with a 500-foot difference in elevation that was once used to help transport logs from where the trees were cut to where they were loaded into a flume for their trip to the sawmill. Locomotives used on these trains are built by Shay. Steam-powered like the familiar ones seen all over, but a different mechanical configuration enabled all of the wheels to drive the train. Because of that, Shay locomotives were used wherever lots of power and torque were needed. Climbing steep grades with heavy loads made these ideal to do the job. Here's a video of one passing by the depot:
To protect your sanity and keep your eyes open, I won't get too technical about the equipment used on this line, but I'll throw in a few things just to make sure you're still reading. If you really want to get into the technical stuff, visit the YMSP Railroad page on Wikipedia. But I did take some good photos here.
One thing that I noticed right away was how they used real logs for the sides of some of the passenger cars, and cut about a quarter of them away to form seats.
One thing that I noticed right away was how they used real logs for the sides of some of the passenger cars, and cut about a quarter of them away to form seats.
Plenty of room for passengers, and with two or three of these cars on the train, there'll be a lot of people going into the woods. When we boarded, we chose to sit outside, which meant sitting on these logs.
Heading into the woods, there was a lot to see. Plenty of trees and flowers, but no sign of wildlife (at least we didn't see anything).
We made a 15-minute stop about halfway through the ride so that the crew could add water to the locomotive.
Get offa there, you!!! Oh...wait...that's the engineer. Never mind...
Once we resumed, it didn't take long to return to the depot. When we got off the train, we picked up a brochure for this railroad and headed south again on Highway 41. Like last time, we stopped at Bravo Farms in Traver to get stuff we don't need, then back on 99 for home.
Diana got home not long after we did, and we exchanged tales from our respective weekend activities.
When unexpected activities arise, they can be stressful, but this one turned out to be a lot of fun.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Where did my car go? I know I parked right here...
Earlier today I learned that a friend had had her car stolen sometime yesterday. The feeling of going out to get in your car to go somewhere and not finding it where you left it is a pretty sinking feeling. This news upset me, not only for her, but it brought back some memories of a few adventures I had with my previous car. And not the kind I liked.
I had to write about this. Just a fair warning, this is a fairly long read. If you drink coffee, make yourself a strong pot because just a cup won't do.
As I wrote in another post, I've only had three cars in my entire life (not counting the ones purchased since I've been married). My second car was my first new one—a 1983 Toyota Celica Supra. The car in this photo isn't mine (nor is the photo itself), but my car looked exactly like it. I do have some photos of my car, and someday I'll get them scanned into an electronical format.
In the '80s, these cars were quite popular. Nice looking, good performance (a fuel injected, 2.8L inline six-cylinder engine with 150 HP and a five-speed manual transmission that got you to 60 mph in about ten seconds was THE BOMB!). Many of today's cars perform much better (even my CR-V has 160 HP), but that was then, this is now. I suppose that you could say this car was a chick magnet, though at the time I wasn't thinking like that. To me, it was just a fun car to drive. However, the chick magnet part did come true. It was because of this car that I met the woman whom I would eventually marry. Read about that here.
At the time of purchase, I had not planned to purchase another car, let alone a brand new one. My 1975 Olds Cutlass was getting...old...and a replacement would likely be in the not-too-distant future. Here's how I came to buy this car:
My friend Bill Hackett showed up at my front door one fine Palm Sunday morning (March 27, 1983) and suggested that we "go look at new Supras" since I had expressed a like for the car. We headed over to Longo Toyota in El Monte because they were the largest Toyota dealership anywhere at the time (and still may be) and would be more willing to make a good deal. As always happens when you step onto a car lot, the sensors trigger an alarm that sends a salesperson hustling out to meet you. One such salesman showed up, right on schedule, and asked what I was looking for. I told him; he showed me what he had. He even suggested that I take one out for a test drive. Sure, why not? We didn't go far, just a few miles on what was likely a big, pre-determined loop that all prospective car buyers take. Tony (the salesman) was impressed with how I handled the manual transmission and got the feel of the car.
Back at the dealership, we went inside to start working out the details on the purchase. Wait—the PURCHASE? This was a $16,000 car (about $50,000 in today's dollars) and I was a 23-year-old drafter making $5.50 an hour at a small company in Burbank. How was I going to afford this? I had nothing to put down, but they did knock $2000 off of the price. Long afternoon and major headache later, and after having written my initials or signature on about a hundredteen thousand documents, I was handed the keys to my new car. Since I had not come prepared to purchase anything, Tony had to follow me back home to seal the deal. I've forgotten what I needed to give him. Time does that to you. That I remembered Tony's name is a miracle in itself. Bill followed us back to the house in my old car back since it was not suitable as a trade-in. That car went to my sister Barbara to drive.
The first time Mom laid eyes on my new toy, she gave me a look that would melt the sun. Don't know why, but so it goes.
On September 1, 1984, about a year after Lori and I had started dating, we went over to the Glendale Galleria to do some shopping on a sunny Saturday afternoon. We were in the mall less than an hour when we decided to head home. I know where I parked. We went up and down the aisles in the parking structure looking for my car. It had to be in there somewhere, right? We never did find it and went to the police sub-station in the mall. The officer told us that they couldn't file a report until they were sure that we didn't just forget where we parked (some people actually do that). About two hours later after security checked every parking space in Glendale (and probably Pasadena, too, because, you know, it's right next door...), it was clear that my car was indeed missing. No, really? A report was filed, and we called Lori's dad to pick us up for a ride home.
The next day, I called Mercury Insurance to fill them in and they set me up with a rental car. I drove that Plymouth Reliant K ("K" for "krud," no doubt, if you're familiar with those automoboxes) for almost two weeks. And then they canceled my insurance policy. Later in September, we took a day trip over to Catalina to visit my brother. When we got home later on, there was something very interesting in my mail from the Montebello Police Department. THEY FOUND MY CAR IN MONTEBELLO AND MADE AN ARREST!!! Eventually, I got notice that I had to appear in court and testify under oath that I did not give Mr. Jesus Isias permission to drive my car. By the way, according to my odometer reading, this guy and/or his band of merry men racked up some 1200 miles in their misadventures. I suspect that they went up to Reno because I found a matchbook from Circus Circus in the car later. In the meantime, I put my car in to make the minor repairs to return it to its previous state—a new starter and a couple of small things pretty much. But at some point, Mr. Isias and/or one of his cohorts made off with my bowling ball which was stored in the hatch. On the other hand, if you've ever seen me bowl, you'd consider this a favor.
An interesting plot twist, not too long after this, I happened to read in the local paper that Mr. Isias apparently walked away from a work detail while in jail. Seems that his infant daughter had passed away and he walked off to go make funeral arrangements. I don't know whatever became of him.
Everything was pretty much back to normal. In late April 1985, I was still going to Los Angeles Valley College to work on my Associate degree in engineering. On April 25, I went to school in the evening and parked in a small lot across Burbank Blvd. where some students parked. When class was over, I walked back to the lot to get in my car and head home. One slight problem...there were no Toyota Supras in the lot. You guessed it! Thieves struck again! I went to the fire station down the street to call the police and Lori to let her know what happened. In a repeat performance, I contacted my insurance company to let them know what happened. I got a VW Rabbit to drive this time so I could keep hopping to work. I was notified by LAPD that my car was found a few days later near North Hollywood Park, missing its front seats, stereo, and a couple of wheels. When I went to look at my car, there was a big paint can in place of the driver's seat. As for repairs, insurance again paid to restore the car because it cost less. I was a happy camper, despite no camping being involved.
In October 1985 I began a new job in Oxnard with a nice 52-mile commute each way from North Hollywood. I was still going to Valley College to finish my Associate degree. On the evening of October 28, 1985, I drove to school and parked in that same cursed lot that I parked in when Theft No. 2 occurred. And just like six months earlier, I left class only to return to a lot with no Supras parked in it. Theft No. 3 unfolds! Back to the fire station, a couple of calls later...
My car was found the very next day with pretty much everything gone except for the body, engine, and transmission (oh, and the steering wheel). Car stolen, rinse, repeat. I got a Mustang this time to keep me galloping to work (not very fast, though. It was only a four-cylinder model), but I had it an extra long time because once again, the insurance company decided that totaling the car was more expensive than putting it back together. They chose a shop near the Coliseum in L.A. for some reason. I guess they were the cheapest. But after a few weeks, I got my car back, good as used. I say that because in order to save money, the insurance company required the use of used parts wherever possible.
As I said, these cars were quite popular. Unfortunately, they were not only popular with drivers, but also with car thieves. There were two things that attracted the thieves: the Recaro-like front seats with a little squeeze bulb that inflated cushions in the lower part of the seat for lumbar support (bet that paint can didn't have this), and the trendsetting stereo system with a graphic equalizer—better than the basic bass and treble controls that most units have even now.
After that third theft, my car was never stolen again. One thing that I'm sure helped was getting out of the San Fernando Valley. I managed to drive that car another 16 years and reach about 250,000 miles before it finally quit for good.
Cars are stolen mostly for parts, though a few joyrides do take place. Hondas and Toyotas are prime targets because there are so many of them on the road, which means that a lot of them will need parts. So why not steal cars and strip them of parts so that you create a market, right? And how much heartache do these thieves cause?
I've always said that if they dealt with car thieves the same way that they used to deal with horse thieves in the Old West, then the problem just might go away...
I had to write about this. Just a fair warning, this is a fairly long read. If you drink coffee, make yourself a strong pot because just a cup won't do.
As I wrote in another post, I've only had three cars in my entire life (not counting the ones purchased since I've been married). My second car was my first new one—a 1983 Toyota Celica Supra. The car in this photo isn't mine (nor is the photo itself), but my car looked exactly like it. I do have some photos of my car, and someday I'll get them scanned into an electronical format.
In the '80s, these cars were quite popular. Nice looking, good performance (a fuel injected, 2.8L inline six-cylinder engine with 150 HP and a five-speed manual transmission that got you to 60 mph in about ten seconds was THE BOMB!). Many of today's cars perform much better (even my CR-V has 160 HP), but that was then, this is now. I suppose that you could say this car was a chick magnet, though at the time I wasn't thinking like that. To me, it was just a fun car to drive. However, the chick magnet part did come true. It was because of this car that I met the woman whom I would eventually marry. Read about that here.
At the time of purchase, I had not planned to purchase another car, let alone a brand new one. My 1975 Olds Cutlass was getting...old...and a replacement would likely be in the not-too-distant future. Here's how I came to buy this car:
My friend Bill Hackett showed up at my front door one fine Palm Sunday morning (March 27, 1983) and suggested that we "go look at new Supras" since I had expressed a like for the car. We headed over to Longo Toyota in El Monte because they were the largest Toyota dealership anywhere at the time (and still may be) and would be more willing to make a good deal. As always happens when you step onto a car lot, the sensors trigger an alarm that sends a salesperson hustling out to meet you. One such salesman showed up, right on schedule, and asked what I was looking for. I told him; he showed me what he had. He even suggested that I take one out for a test drive. Sure, why not? We didn't go far, just a few miles on what was likely a big, pre-determined loop that all prospective car buyers take. Tony (the salesman) was impressed with how I handled the manual transmission and got the feel of the car.
Back at the dealership, we went inside to start working out the details on the purchase. Wait—the PURCHASE? This was a $16,000 car (about $50,000 in today's dollars) and I was a 23-year-old drafter making $5.50 an hour at a small company in Burbank. How was I going to afford this? I had nothing to put down, but they did knock $2000 off of the price. Long afternoon and major headache later, and after having written my initials or signature on about a hundredteen thousand documents, I was handed the keys to my new car. Since I had not come prepared to purchase anything, Tony had to follow me back home to seal the deal. I've forgotten what I needed to give him. Time does that to you. That I remembered Tony's name is a miracle in itself. Bill followed us back to the house in my old car back since it was not suitable as a trade-in. That car went to my sister Barbara to drive.
The first time Mom laid eyes on my new toy, she gave me a look that would melt the sun. Don't know why, but so it goes.
On September 1, 1984, about a year after Lori and I had started dating, we went over to the Glendale Galleria to do some shopping on a sunny Saturday afternoon. We were in the mall less than an hour when we decided to head home. I know where I parked. We went up and down the aisles in the parking structure looking for my car. It had to be in there somewhere, right? We never did find it and went to the police sub-station in the mall. The officer told us that they couldn't file a report until they were sure that we didn't just forget where we parked (some people actually do that). About two hours later after security checked every parking space in Glendale (and probably Pasadena, too, because, you know, it's right next door...), it was clear that my car was indeed missing. No, really? A report was filed, and we called Lori's dad to pick us up for a ride home.
The next day, I called Mercury Insurance to fill them in and they set me up with a rental car. I drove that Plymouth Reliant K ("K" for "krud," no doubt, if you're familiar with those automoboxes) for almost two weeks. And then they canceled my insurance policy. Later in September, we took a day trip over to Catalina to visit my brother. When we got home later on, there was something very interesting in my mail from the Montebello Police Department. THEY FOUND MY CAR IN MONTEBELLO AND MADE AN ARREST!!! Eventually, I got notice that I had to appear in court and testify under oath that I did not give Mr. Jesus Isias permission to drive my car. By the way, according to my odometer reading, this guy and/or his band of merry men racked up some 1200 miles in their misadventures. I suspect that they went up to Reno because I found a matchbook from Circus Circus in the car later. In the meantime, I put my car in to make the minor repairs to return it to its previous state—a new starter and a couple of small things pretty much. But at some point, Mr. Isias and/or one of his cohorts made off with my bowling ball which was stored in the hatch. On the other hand, if you've ever seen me bowl, you'd consider this a favor.
An interesting plot twist, not too long after this, I happened to read in the local paper that Mr. Isias apparently walked away from a work detail while in jail. Seems that his infant daughter had passed away and he walked off to go make funeral arrangements. I don't know whatever became of him.
Everything was pretty much back to normal. In late April 1985, I was still going to Los Angeles Valley College to work on my Associate degree in engineering. On April 25, I went to school in the evening and parked in a small lot across Burbank Blvd. where some students parked. When class was over, I walked back to the lot to get in my car and head home. One slight problem...there were no Toyota Supras in the lot. You guessed it! Thieves struck again! I went to the fire station down the street to call the police and Lori to let her know what happened. In a repeat performance, I contacted my insurance company to let them know what happened. I got a VW Rabbit to drive this time so I could keep hopping to work. I was notified by LAPD that my car was found a few days later near North Hollywood Park, missing its front seats, stereo, and a couple of wheels. When I went to look at my car, there was a big paint can in place of the driver's seat. As for repairs, insurance again paid to restore the car because it cost less. I was a happy camper, despite no camping being involved.
In October 1985 I began a new job in Oxnard with a nice 52-mile commute each way from North Hollywood. I was still going to Valley College to finish my Associate degree. On the evening of October 28, 1985, I drove to school and parked in that same cursed lot that I parked in when Theft No. 2 occurred. And just like six months earlier, I left class only to return to a lot with no Supras parked in it. Theft No. 3 unfolds! Back to the fire station, a couple of calls later...
My car was found the very next day with pretty much everything gone except for the body, engine, and transmission (oh, and the steering wheel). Car stolen, rinse, repeat. I got a Mustang this time to keep me galloping to work (not very fast, though. It was only a four-cylinder model), but I had it an extra long time because once again, the insurance company decided that totaling the car was more expensive than putting it back together. They chose a shop near the Coliseum in L.A. for some reason. I guess they were the cheapest. But after a few weeks, I got my car back, good as used. I say that because in order to save money, the insurance company required the use of used parts wherever possible.
As I said, these cars were quite popular. Unfortunately, they were not only popular with drivers, but also with car thieves. There were two things that attracted the thieves: the Recaro-like front seats with a little squeeze bulb that inflated cushions in the lower part of the seat for lumbar support (bet that paint can didn't have this), and the trendsetting stereo system with a graphic equalizer—better than the basic bass and treble controls that most units have even now.
After that third theft, my car was never stolen again. One thing that I'm sure helped was getting out of the San Fernando Valley. I managed to drive that car another 16 years and reach about 250,000 miles before it finally quit for good.
Cars are stolen mostly for parts, though a few joyrides do take place. Hondas and Toyotas are prime targets because there are so many of them on the road, which means that a lot of them will need parts. So why not steal cars and strip them of parts so that you create a market, right? And how much heartache do these thieves cause?
I've always said that if they dealt with car thieves the same way that they used to deal with horse thieves in the Old West, then the problem just might go away...
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