Di and I have finally settled into our new home in Fort Mill, SC.
Yes, I know we were supposed to be heading for Las Vegas. But sometimes he who hesitates is saved instead of lost.
We made an offer on a house in Las Vegas, but that fell through when the seller discovered the buyer of our Corpus Christi condo had-----without our knowledge, and in breach of the sales contract-----taken out a second mortgage on the property, thus invalidating our representation to the Las Vegas seller.
But this incident did trigger some further discussions of where we should move. While Di had professional contacts in Las Vegas, she had no close personal friends or family. And I had neither in Las Vegas. But when death is looming, you need your family and friends more than ever.
It was Di who first suggested moving back to the Carolinas, and I readily agreed. We bought a condo on Highway 160 near Tega Cay, about a mile from the state line with North Carolina. I am just a few miles from the graves of my parents and grandparents; while it sounds illogical, I find this comforting.
My journey began here, and it will soon end here.
All the people I love most are now near me. I have often written here about how lucky I have been in my life, and the biggest stroke of luck has been my loving, generous, and kind aunts, uncles, and cousins. In particular. I want to thank my Aunt Polly for caring for me while Di handled the move back in Corpus Christi. Polly never had children of her own, and she lovingly babysat me when I was five or six years old. I'm now 56 years old, and she lovingly babysat me for the past three weeks. If I have ever known a saint, it is her. My Uncle Grady has two hobbies: golf and helping other people. He and his wife, my Aunt Betty, have been in daily contact, offering to take me places, bring me stuff, shop for me, etc.
My cousin Cheryl visited me often. While I love all of my cousins, Cheryl and I have long been tuned into a frequency the rest of the family can't receive. When she visited, she brought me reading material such as National Enquirer and, of course, The Elvis Encyclopedia. She and I share the same demented worldview, and she never failed to lift my spirits.
To all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, I love you more than I can express in words. Pure, unconditional love is a rare, miraculous thing. I am so lucky to have been bathed in it since my return.
Physically, I am declining fast. I can still eat, bathe, and generally care for myself, but I can't walk more than a few steps before becoming exhausted. I spend most of my time in bed or on the sofa. The only difference between me and a street junkie is that I have a doctor's prescription; we both need our periodic drug fix to get through the day.
But I am happier than I have been in a long time. I'm not going to live any longer here, but I will die surround by people who truly love me. That means a lot.
And this will be my final post here. One reason I started this blog was to keep my family informed about my status; now I can tell them face-to-face. As a writer, I hate to leave projects unfinished, and this blog is no exception. And frankly there are much bigger priorities in my life than this blog. So now it now ends (although one of my survivors may post my death notice).
I thank everyone who has read and followed this blog. I also thank everyone who read my books and articles over the years and the many people around the world I came to know from my radio hobbies. And my friends in the publishing industry have given me far more than I have given them.
To borrow the old Navy farewell, I wish you all fair winds and following seas.
Showing posts with label Oddities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oddities. Show all posts
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
July 4, 1982
I spent my first, and only, Fourth of July outside the United States on July 4, 1982. I was in London with my girlfriend (and future wife) Tina; she was in London on business for CBS Records International. I tagged along to do some business-----negotiating North American rights to books published by British publishers such as Granada and the Institution of Electrical Engineers-----but most of my time was being a tourist. On the morning of July 4, Tina was in the CBS offices while I was exploring the Egyptian section of the British Museum (yeah, mummies fascinate me). We had thought about going to the cook-out and baseball game held at the American Embassy in London each July 4, but instead decided to have dinner early that day and to meet in the Soho section of London.
We were both feeling a little homesick that day, and almost puzzled----why are these stupid Brits working today?? Don't they realize it's the Fourth of July?? The Soho area has several terrific Chinese restaurants, and we finally decided on one that had air conditioning (that's still a rarity in the UK). We ordered, and sat back to await the arrival of the spicy vegetables on crispy noodles. The background music in the restaurant was the instrumental, "Muzak" style you hear in elevators and doctor waiting rooms.
And then we both started laughing hysterically, because a syrupy version of "White Christmas" began playing over the restaurant's music system.
It was like a scene from a David Lynch film: I was in a Chinese restaurant in London, on the Fourth of July, listening to "White Christmas." And I wished, I really wished, I was back in the United States. Oh, I always enjoyed London, but on that particular day, at that moment, I was more conscious of being an American than I had ever been before in my life.
I often hate the American government and American politicians (both Republicans and Democrats), but I love the American nation. I consider being born an American citizen to have been the luckiest break of my life. And since July 4, 1982, this holiday has had a very special meaning for me. All it took was a Chinese restaurant and an instrumental version of "White Christmas."
We were both feeling a little homesick that day, and almost puzzled----why are these stupid Brits working today?? Don't they realize it's the Fourth of July?? The Soho area has several terrific Chinese restaurants, and we finally decided on one that had air conditioning (that's still a rarity in the UK). We ordered, and sat back to await the arrival of the spicy vegetables on crispy noodles. The background music in the restaurant was the instrumental, "Muzak" style you hear in elevators and doctor waiting rooms.
And then we both started laughing hysterically, because a syrupy version of "White Christmas" began playing over the restaurant's music system.
It was like a scene from a David Lynch film: I was in a Chinese restaurant in London, on the Fourth of July, listening to "White Christmas." And I wished, I really wished, I was back in the United States. Oh, I always enjoyed London, but on that particular day, at that moment, I was more conscious of being an American than I had ever been before in my life.
I often hate the American government and American politicians (both Republicans and Democrats), but I love the American nation. I consider being born an American citizen to have been the luckiest break of my life. And since July 4, 1982, this holiday has had a very special meaning for me. All it took was a Chinese restaurant and an instrumental version of "White Christmas."
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Barrack Of Arabia
I don't like to get into politics here, and God knows I have enough issues in my life already. But my mind is reeling from today's speech by President Obama in Cairo; the transcript is now on-line, and I can't believe what I'm reading. Yes, I know President Obama is a Harvard Law graduate, is obviously intelligent, projects a soothing public persona------hey, I not only voted for the guy, I donated money to his campaign------but it's clear that, while he may be intelligent, President Obama is not wise. In fact, he's starting to remind me of those "professional" graduate students-----you know, the ones who are 28 and working on their third masters degree-----who deal solely in abstractions and concepts and are totally lacking in pragmatism and common sense.
My fellow Americans, we are in terrible, terrible trouble with this guy in charge.
Let's start with the venue for his speech. Why a Middle Eastern Arab nation? While many people think Muslim = Arab, only slightly more than 25% of the world's Muslims are Arabs. The most populous Muslim nation in the world is Indonesia. There are more Muslims in central and southern Africa than in the Middle East. By speaking in Cairo, Obama reinforced the stereotype that all Muslims are Arabs.
Moreover, Islam is not a monolithic religion and its tenets are not observed as strenuously in all Muslim nations. For example, the Qu'ran forbids alcohol to Muslims, yet Indonesia has a thriving beer industry. Malaysia is another Muslim nation, yet their annual per-capita alcohol consumption is over 20 liters per person. In Saudi Arabia, possession of a single bottle of beer will get you a public flogging (if you're lucky). The Arab world is dominated by Saudi Arabia's wahhabist strain of Islam, a fundamentalist, primitive interpretation of Islam on par with Christianity's snake handlers and speakers in tongues. In other words, the wahhabists are full blown batshit crazy. Whether he realized it or not-----and he should have realized it-----speaking in Cairo gave an implicit endorsement to the fundamentalist versions of Islam practiced in the Arab world.
A city like Lagos or Jakarta would have been a much better venue than Cairo. Such a choice would have demonstrated that Islam is not the exclusive property of the Arab world. Frankly, the fundamentalist Muslims in the Middle East could learn much from nations such as Indonesia and Malaysia on how to cope with the modern world. That is a message that President Obama should have delivered today.
I am troubled by Obama's silence on the excesses of fundamentalist Islam as practiced in the Middle East. He has not hesitated to criticize Israel, yet in Saudi Arabia a couple of days ago he had nothing to say about certain aspects of Saudi life, such as the subjugation of women, stoning to death of gay people, banning all other religions but Islam (mere possession of a Bible is a crime in Saudi Arabia), amputations of hands and feet of criminals, restrictions on what clothes a man or woman may wear, etc. etc. In his speech today, the president vowed, "I consider it part of my responsibility as President of the United States to fight against negative stereotypes of Islam wherever they appear." Uh, that's good, Mr. President, but what if those negative stereotypes are, ya know, based on cold, hard, and indisputable facts?
An honest speech in Cairo today would have taken Muslim fundamentalists to task for their disregard of basic human rights. An honest speech would have told those fundamentalists they will never be accepted into the community of the 21st century until they leave the Middle Ages behind.
That sort of candor and honesty would have truly been change we could believe in. But instead today we got a spew of cultural relativism, the sort of aversion to making moral judgments that betrays an utter absence of principles and standards. It is Oprahism gone amok: I'm OK, you're OK, and those fundamentalist Muslims who stone gay people to death are OK too. After all, who are we to judge??
Barrack Obama seems to think kind words and a willingness to compromise are all a leader needs. Those are important tools for any leader. But a leader, especially a president, also needs the ability to make people shit in their pants with an angry look. A leader needs to understand it is more important to be respected, or even feared, than it is to be loved.
Barrack Obama doesn't get any of the above. Like other overly idealistic presidents-----Woodrow Wilson and Jimmy Carter come to mind-----he will fail because of a misplaced belief in the innate goodness of all people and an entirely unjustified faith in his own lofty assumptions about how the world works.
And the United States will pay the bill-----and it's going to be a hell of a bill----for Obama's learning curve.
My fellow Americans, we are in terrible, terrible trouble with this guy in charge.
Let's start with the venue for his speech. Why a Middle Eastern Arab nation? While many people think Muslim = Arab, only slightly more than 25% of the world's Muslims are Arabs. The most populous Muslim nation in the world is Indonesia. There are more Muslims in central and southern Africa than in the Middle East. By speaking in Cairo, Obama reinforced the stereotype that all Muslims are Arabs.
Moreover, Islam is not a monolithic religion and its tenets are not observed as strenuously in all Muslim nations. For example, the Qu'ran forbids alcohol to Muslims, yet Indonesia has a thriving beer industry. Malaysia is another Muslim nation, yet their annual per-capita alcohol consumption is over 20 liters per person. In Saudi Arabia, possession of a single bottle of beer will get you a public flogging (if you're lucky). The Arab world is dominated by Saudi Arabia's wahhabist strain of Islam, a fundamentalist, primitive interpretation of Islam on par with Christianity's snake handlers and speakers in tongues. In other words, the wahhabists are full blown batshit crazy. Whether he realized it or not-----and he should have realized it-----speaking in Cairo gave an implicit endorsement to the fundamentalist versions of Islam practiced in the Arab world.
A city like Lagos or Jakarta would have been a much better venue than Cairo. Such a choice would have demonstrated that Islam is not the exclusive property of the Arab world. Frankly, the fundamentalist Muslims in the Middle East could learn much from nations such as Indonesia and Malaysia on how to cope with the modern world. That is a message that President Obama should have delivered today.
I am troubled by Obama's silence on the excesses of fundamentalist Islam as practiced in the Middle East. He has not hesitated to criticize Israel, yet in Saudi Arabia a couple of days ago he had nothing to say about certain aspects of Saudi life, such as the subjugation of women, stoning to death of gay people, banning all other religions but Islam (mere possession of a Bible is a crime in Saudi Arabia), amputations of hands and feet of criminals, restrictions on what clothes a man or woman may wear, etc. etc. In his speech today, the president vowed, "I consider it part of my responsibility as President of the United States to fight against negative stereotypes of Islam wherever they appear." Uh, that's good, Mr. President, but what if those negative stereotypes are, ya know, based on cold, hard, and indisputable facts?
An honest speech in Cairo today would have taken Muslim fundamentalists to task for their disregard of basic human rights. An honest speech would have told those fundamentalists they will never be accepted into the community of the 21st century until they leave the Middle Ages behind.
That sort of candor and honesty would have truly been change we could believe in. But instead today we got a spew of cultural relativism, the sort of aversion to making moral judgments that betrays an utter absence of principles and standards. It is Oprahism gone amok: I'm OK, you're OK, and those fundamentalist Muslims who stone gay people to death are OK too. After all, who are we to judge??
Barrack Obama seems to think kind words and a willingness to compromise are all a leader needs. Those are important tools for any leader. But a leader, especially a president, also needs the ability to make people shit in their pants with an angry look. A leader needs to understand it is more important to be respected, or even feared, than it is to be loved.
Barrack Obama doesn't get any of the above. Like other overly idealistic presidents-----Woodrow Wilson and Jimmy Carter come to mind-----he will fail because of a misplaced belief in the innate goodness of all people and an entirely unjustified faith in his own lofty assumptions about how the world works.
And the United States will pay the bill-----and it's going to be a hell of a bill----for Obama's learning curve.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Signs That Stopped Me In My Tracks
When I was doing the research for Top Secret Tourism, I made several visits to the boundaries of restricted sites in the western United States. And while I couldn't actually get inside those places, I could at least take photos of the signs warning me to stay away.
Let's start with America's favorite top secret facility, Area 51. Below is a sign I photographed at its border. Maybe it's just me, but there is something irresistible about a "Photography of this Area is Prohibited" sign-----I just have to take a photo of it! If the sign had read "Photography of this Area is Mandatory," I would've taken no pictures. With people like me, you sometimes must employ reverse psychology:
Here's another sign forbidding photography of Area 51. That orange post at right is how the border is marked beyond the main road; they are spaced about 100 feet apart in the desert. As I discovered, the security guards get very interested in what you're doing once you hike away from the main road and start traveling in the open desert:
Plant 42 in Palmdale, CA is where top secret aircraft are built before their existence becomes known. The U-2 and SR-71 spy planes, along with the B-2 and F-117 Stealth aircraft, were built here along with all sorts of prototypes that never became operational. If it flies and Uncle Sam doesn't want you to know about it, it's built here. Of course, photography is prohibited at Plant 42, and of course I had to photograph the sign informing me about that:
The Nevada Test Site is the most heavily nuked piece of real estate on the planet. 126 above-ground tests and over 800 underground tests have been conducted here; it's also been the site of chemical and biological weapons tests. That's why I wasn't too offended by the sign below telling me to stay out; I guess they were just concerned about my welfare:
Prior to the September 11, 2001 attacks, the security at the Nevada Test Site was often amazingly lax. For example, I discovered one unmanned, and unlocked, entrance gate a few miles north of the sign above. I actually got to drive about a mile inside the facility before I decided not to press my luck too far and retreated. The shot below is of an old Atomic Energy Commission sign on that road; it apparently led to the site of several 1950s above-ground nuclear tests:
I wrote more about my travels to the places above on a blog at the Feral House web site; here's the link and some interesting comments by listeners and readers.
Let's start with America's favorite top secret facility, Area 51. Below is a sign I photographed at its border. Maybe it's just me, but there is something irresistible about a "Photography of this Area is Prohibited" sign-----I just have to take a photo of it! If the sign had read "Photography of this Area is Mandatory," I would've taken no pictures. With people like me, you sometimes must employ reverse psychology:
Here's another sign forbidding photography of Area 51. That orange post at right is how the border is marked beyond the main road; they are spaced about 100 feet apart in the desert. As I discovered, the security guards get very interested in what you're doing once you hike away from the main road and start traveling in the open desert:
Plant 42 in Palmdale, CA is where top secret aircraft are built before their existence becomes known. The U-2 and SR-71 spy planes, along with the B-2 and F-117 Stealth aircraft, were built here along with all sorts of prototypes that never became operational. If it flies and Uncle Sam doesn't want you to know about it, it's built here. Of course, photography is prohibited at Plant 42, and of course I had to photograph the sign informing me about that:
The Nevada Test Site is the most heavily nuked piece of real estate on the planet. 126 above-ground tests and over 800 underground tests have been conducted here; it's also been the site of chemical and biological weapons tests. That's why I wasn't too offended by the sign below telling me to stay out; I guess they were just concerned about my welfare:
Prior to the September 11, 2001 attacks, the security at the Nevada Test Site was often amazingly lax. For example, I discovered one unmanned, and unlocked, entrance gate a few miles north of the sign above. I actually got to drive about a mile inside the facility before I decided not to press my luck too far and retreated. The shot below is of an old Atomic Energy Commission sign on that road; it apparently led to the site of several 1950s above-ground nuclear tests:
I wrote more about my travels to the places above on a blog at the Feral House web site; here's the link and some interesting comments by listeners and readers.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I Wrestle Indiana Jones On YouTube
I do Google and Yahoo searches on my name, and sometimes I come up with surprising links.
Like this one.
Is there really a professional wrestler out there named "Harry Helms"? Do I have a secret life I am not aware of? Would I really wear a tie and all-white in my professional wrestling matches? What significance do I have in the life of "carddealer758"?
I report. You decide.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
N.O. On The Mountains
All the excitement about Hurricane Gustav hitting New Orleans reminded me about N.O., the world famous mountain-climbing stuffed toy penguin.
"N.O." stood for "New Orleans," and was a gift from my previous wife Tina. He got his name because Tina surreptitiously hid him in my luggage on a trip we took to New Orleans, and thereafter he became my traveling companion on various trips, including mountain climbs. And taking a photo of N.O. on the summit soon became a ritual for me.
For example, here's N.O.at the summit of Humphrey's Peak, the highest point in Arizona at 12,633 feet. Somewhere down behind him is the town of Flagstaff:
San Bernardino Peak rises to 10,649 feet in the-----surprise!------San Bernardino Mountains of southern California. Here N.O. relaxes below the summit marker after reaching the top:
Telescope Peak towers 11,049 feet above the floor of Death Valley, and N.O. looks down on the summit register for that peak:
N.O. also accompanied me on my climb of White Mountain Peak, and got his photo taken at 14,266 feet as a result:
And finally here is N.O.at Trail Crest on the Mount Whitney summit trail; this is at 13,777 feet with Trail Camp, the main overnight camping spot for Mount Whitney climbers, below at 12,039 feet near the lake at right:
Somewhere in all my moves from California to Nevada to Texas, I lost N.O. But if there's an afterlife, N.O. will be waiting for me there!
"N.O." stood for "New Orleans," and was a gift from my previous wife Tina. He got his name because Tina surreptitiously hid him in my luggage on a trip we took to New Orleans, and thereafter he became my traveling companion on various trips, including mountain climbs. And taking a photo of N.O. on the summit soon became a ritual for me.
For example, here's N.O.at the summit of Humphrey's Peak, the highest point in Arizona at 12,633 feet. Somewhere down behind him is the town of Flagstaff:
San Bernardino Peak rises to 10,649 feet in the-----surprise!------San Bernardino Mountains of southern California. Here N.O. relaxes below the summit marker after reaching the top:
Telescope Peak towers 11,049 feet above the floor of Death Valley, and N.O. looks down on the summit register for that peak:
N.O. also accompanied me on my climb of White Mountain Peak, and got his photo taken at 14,266 feet as a result:
And finally here is N.O.at Trail Crest on the Mount Whitney summit trail; this is at 13,777 feet with Trail Camp, the main overnight camping spot for Mount Whitney climbers, below at 12,039 feet near the lake at right:
Somewhere in all my moves from California to Nevada to Texas, I lost N.O. But if there's an afterlife, N.O. will be waiting for me there!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
A Visit To Nevada's Area 51
Since I seem to be writing a lot lately about my visits to odd places in the desert, I guess I might as well recount my trips to Nevada's Area 51. It was one of my favorite day trips when I lived in Las Vegas. There is so much to love about the place: the stark beauty of the area, the surreal feeling of stopping at the heavily guarded boundary of a place that officially doesn't even exist, and the parade of the simply curious and somewhat deranged to it is a circus in and of itself. Area 51 is as American as apple pie.
Area 51 is not so much a specific place as it is a region. It is located northeast of Las Vegas and is reached by taking Interstate 15 east to U.S. Highway93. You then follow 93 north to the small town of Crystal Springs, where you then take Highway 375. The sign for Highway 375 lets you know what you're in for over the next several miles:
Highway 375 is an "open range" road, meaning cattle can (and do) wander around freely in the middle of the road. Cattle mutilations are a frequent occurrence here, although SUVs and trucks do the mutilating instead of UFOs. The open range warning signs have a UFO theme:
Ground zero for the Area 51 phenomenon is the small town of Rachel, located about 40 miles north of the intersection of Highways 93 and 375. The permanent population of Rachel seems to be about 100 people, and almost all structures are mobile homes. Signs like those below give you a clue what the main "industry" of Rachel is:
The Little Ale Inn is a must-see in Rachel; in fact, it's about the only thing to see in Rachel (the "Area 51 Research Center" pictured above is now closed). It offers the only food and drink in town, sells UFO-related souvenirs and other merchandise, and has plenty of right-wing paranoia on display over the bar (I took the third photo below on a visit back in 1999). What's not to love about the Little Ale Inn??
The "real" action concerning Area 51 actually takes place north and south of Rachel. A favorite spot for UFO watchers is the White (formerly "Black") Mailbox located about 11.5 miles south on Highway 375. This area is supposedly the best place to see UFOs as they rise, hover, and materialize/dematerialize over the mountains in the background; you haven't lived until you've encountered a busload of Japanese tourists waiting here around midnight! In truth, there are some spectacular and unusual lights to be seen here many nights----I've seen them myself-----but I think I was watching tests of the next generation of military aircraft and weapons systems instead of UFOs. But hey, believe whatever you want to believe. . . . .
No visit to Area 51 is complete without a trip to the border of the base that doesn't exist. The turn-off for the base is located five miles south of the White Mailbox----in other words, about 24.5 miles south of Rachel----and while the road is unmarked, it's unmistakable. It's well-graded and arrow-straight:
The Area 51 boundary lies almost 14 miles away. When you drive to it, you see only the warning signs below at the boundary. You don't even get to see the guardhouse, as it lies around a bend in the road and is out of sight, as is the rest of the base behind the hills you see in the distance. However, it's always fun to take a photo of a "Photography Of This Area Is Prohibited" sign, and there always seems to be a few German or Italian tourists around who are Deeply Serious about the meaning of it all and are just begging to have their chains jerked ("Excuse me, sir, but do you think George Bush is watching our movements right now?" "Oh, you bet your ass he is, Gunther!!").
Kidding aside, they are damn serious about security at the border. Anyone and everyone who crosses over the border is arrested and fined----currently about $600----when they are turned over to the local sheriff's department. While at the border, you're under continuous surveillance by the Area 51 security forces-----the so-called "Cammo Dudes"----who watch from hilltops from just inside the border, as shown in the photo below. I've checked these guys out with binoculars, and have noted them looking back through their binoculars. (I once waved at them, and they waved back----for real!) I've also observed them using a video camera on border visitors.
There's another approach to the Area 51 boundary that's far less known and visited even though it's closer to Rachel. This so-called "north gate" is reached by traveling about a mile and a half south of Rachel and then turning right on to the unmarked road below:
This road is wider than the other entrance road to Area 51, and is used by trucks carrying supplies into the site. After about 10 miles, you come to the boundary and the guardhouse below. Like the other Area 51 entrance, the guardhouse is actually inside the border and you have to stop short of it. As I related in my book Top Secret Tourism, this entrance seems to be more "sensitive" and the guards----and official traffic, judging from the "brushback" I got from a truck with U.S. government plates----seem a lot more "touchy" here than at the other entrance:
Area 51 is a place everyone should make time for on a visit to Las Vegas. It's a combination of the New Age goofiness of a place like Sedona, Arizona, the earnest, high-tech seriousness of NASA headquarters in Houston, and a pervasive feeling of bewilderment and alienation (no pun intended).
Area 51 is not so much a specific place as it is a region. It is located northeast of Las Vegas and is reached by taking Interstate 15 east to U.S. Highway93. You then follow 93 north to the small town of Crystal Springs, where you then take Highway 375. The sign for Highway 375 lets you know what you're in for over the next several miles:
Highway 375 is an "open range" road, meaning cattle can (and do) wander around freely in the middle of the road. Cattle mutilations are a frequent occurrence here, although SUVs and trucks do the mutilating instead of UFOs. The open range warning signs have a UFO theme:
Ground zero for the Area 51 phenomenon is the small town of Rachel, located about 40 miles north of the intersection of Highways 93 and 375. The permanent population of Rachel seems to be about 100 people, and almost all structures are mobile homes. Signs like those below give you a clue what the main "industry" of Rachel is:
The Little Ale Inn is a must-see in Rachel; in fact, it's about the only thing to see in Rachel (the "Area 51 Research Center" pictured above is now closed). It offers the only food and drink in town, sells UFO-related souvenirs and other merchandise, and has plenty of right-wing paranoia on display over the bar (I took the third photo below on a visit back in 1999). What's not to love about the Little Ale Inn??
The "real" action concerning Area 51 actually takes place north and south of Rachel. A favorite spot for UFO watchers is the White (formerly "Black") Mailbox located about 11.5 miles south on Highway 375. This area is supposedly the best place to see UFOs as they rise, hover, and materialize/dematerialize over the mountains in the background; you haven't lived until you've encountered a busload of Japanese tourists waiting here around midnight! In truth, there are some spectacular and unusual lights to be seen here many nights----I've seen them myself-----but I think I was watching tests of the next generation of military aircraft and weapons systems instead of UFOs. But hey, believe whatever you want to believe. . . . .
No visit to Area 51 is complete without a trip to the border of the base that doesn't exist. The turn-off for the base is located five miles south of the White Mailbox----in other words, about 24.5 miles south of Rachel----and while the road is unmarked, it's unmistakable. It's well-graded and arrow-straight:
The Area 51 boundary lies almost 14 miles away. When you drive to it, you see only the warning signs below at the boundary. You don't even get to see the guardhouse, as it lies around a bend in the road and is out of sight, as is the rest of the base behind the hills you see in the distance. However, it's always fun to take a photo of a "Photography Of This Area Is Prohibited" sign, and there always seems to be a few German or Italian tourists around who are Deeply Serious about the meaning of it all and are just begging to have their chains jerked ("Excuse me, sir, but do you think George Bush is watching our movements right now?" "Oh, you bet your ass he is, Gunther!!").
Kidding aside, they are damn serious about security at the border. Anyone and everyone who crosses over the border is arrested and fined----currently about $600----when they are turned over to the local sheriff's department. While at the border, you're under continuous surveillance by the Area 51 security forces-----the so-called "Cammo Dudes"----who watch from hilltops from just inside the border, as shown in the photo below. I've checked these guys out with binoculars, and have noted them looking back through their binoculars. (I once waved at them, and they waved back----for real!) I've also observed them using a video camera on border visitors.
There's another approach to the Area 51 boundary that's far less known and visited even though it's closer to Rachel. This so-called "north gate" is reached by traveling about a mile and a half south of Rachel and then turning right on to the unmarked road below:
This road is wider than the other entrance road to Area 51, and is used by trucks carrying supplies into the site. After about 10 miles, you come to the boundary and the guardhouse below. Like the other Area 51 entrance, the guardhouse is actually inside the border and you have to stop short of it. As I related in my book Top Secret Tourism, this entrance seems to be more "sensitive" and the guards----and official traffic, judging from the "brushback" I got from a truck with U.S. government plates----seem a lot more "touchy" here than at the other entrance:
Area 51 is a place everyone should make time for on a visit to Las Vegas. It's a combination of the New Age goofiness of a place like Sedona, Arizona, the earnest, high-tech seriousness of NASA headquarters in Houston, and a pervasive feeling of bewilderment and alienation (no pun intended).
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Memories Of Red Mountain, California's "Desert Museum"
California highway 395 runs from Interstate 15, paralleling the eastern face of the Sierra Nevada range, until it finally crosses into Nevada somewhere north of Bridgeport. I've driven that road dozens and dozens of times on my visits to the Sierras and Death Valley, and it's probably my favorite highway in the United States. Not only do you get spectacular scenery, you also see interesting man-made sights, like the late, great "Desert Museum" in the semi-ghost town of Red Mountain, California.
Red Mountain is in the high desert at about 3500 feet, and is named for Red Mountain----an oxidized volcanic cone-----which looms another couple of thousand feet above it. It has scattered mobile homes for miners and a couple of abandoned stores and gas stations. And, until 2002, it was the home of the "Desert Museum."
I drove by this place for years until I finally stopped in 2001. There was no hint from the road that visitors were wanted, but I quickly learned I was welcome as long as I made a "donation" to help with expenses. I tossed $5 into the "tip jar" and was admitted to the wonders within.
The "docent" for the museum was a guy who looked to be in his late thirties; I was introduced to an elderly gentleman who was his father. I learned this "museum" was actually stuff his father and a friend had found abandoned/dumped in the desert regions of southern California. They had started taking the stuff back to their homes in Riverside (or was it San Bernardino??) but their wives eventually insisted they store it somewhere else. They found some land cheap in Red Mountain, and that land was actually in the desert. In short order, the "Desert Museum" was born!
Okay, so all the stuff there was junk------it suggested a yard sale in the post-apocalyptic world of those Mad Max movies-----but it was carefully and even lovingly arranged for display. And these photos are misleading, because it all started to make an odd sort of sense after a while. It was like looking at grains of salt through a microscope; the seeming chaos resolved itself into order and even beauty.
I was told that a couple of music groups had asked about shooting videos at the museum, and they got far more European and Asian visitors than American ones. I couldn't figure out whether all this was serious or a big put-on; were those European and Asian visitors possessed of superior aesthetic sensibilities or just suckers----a bunch of cultured rubes with exotic accents----for a con job pulled by a pair of grizzled desert coots? It didn't matter, because I got a kick out of two guys following their own demented passion to its (il)logical conclusion.
Driving by a couple of times in the fall of 2002, I noticed the "Desert Museum" sign had been replaced by a "No Trespassing" one and the gate was padlocked; many of the items seemed to be gone. In January, 2003, I drove by the site again and noticed a big new sign reading "Okie Ray's Desert Museum" out front. However, even more stuff seemed to be missing. My guess is that one or both of the elderly proprietors had either called it quits (or died), and the place was under new ownership/management. But it didn't seem the same. I haven't been back in the last five years, and I can't find any reference to it on Google. Maybe it still exists; maybe it doesn't. Sic transit gloria, which is Latin for "Gloria has motion sickness."
Red Mountain is in the high desert at about 3500 feet, and is named for Red Mountain----an oxidized volcanic cone-----which looms another couple of thousand feet above it. It has scattered mobile homes for miners and a couple of abandoned stores and gas stations. And, until 2002, it was the home of the "Desert Museum."
I drove by this place for years until I finally stopped in 2001. There was no hint from the road that visitors were wanted, but I quickly learned I was welcome as long as I made a "donation" to help with expenses. I tossed $5 into the "tip jar" and was admitted to the wonders within.
The "docent" for the museum was a guy who looked to be in his late thirties; I was introduced to an elderly gentleman who was his father. I learned this "museum" was actually stuff his father and a friend had found abandoned/dumped in the desert regions of southern California. They had started taking the stuff back to their homes in Riverside (or was it San Bernardino??) but their wives eventually insisted they store it somewhere else. They found some land cheap in Red Mountain, and that land was actually in the desert. In short order, the "Desert Museum" was born!
Okay, so all the stuff there was junk------it suggested a yard sale in the post-apocalyptic world of those Mad Max movies-----but it was carefully and even lovingly arranged for display. And these photos are misleading, because it all started to make an odd sort of sense after a while. It was like looking at grains of salt through a microscope; the seeming chaos resolved itself into order and even beauty.
I was told that a couple of music groups had asked about shooting videos at the museum, and they got far more European and Asian visitors than American ones. I couldn't figure out whether all this was serious or a big put-on; were those European and Asian visitors possessed of superior aesthetic sensibilities or just suckers----a bunch of cultured rubes with exotic accents----for a con job pulled by a pair of grizzled desert coots? It didn't matter, because I got a kick out of two guys following their own demented passion to its (il)logical conclusion.
Driving by a couple of times in the fall of 2002, I noticed the "Desert Museum" sign had been replaced by a "No Trespassing" one and the gate was padlocked; many of the items seemed to be gone. In January, 2003, I drove by the site again and noticed a big new sign reading "Okie Ray's Desert Museum" out front. However, even more stuff seemed to be missing. My guess is that one or both of the elderly proprietors had either called it quits (or died), and the place was under new ownership/management. But it didn't seem the same. I haven't been back in the last five years, and I can't find any reference to it on Google. Maybe it still exists; maybe it doesn't. Sic transit gloria, which is Latin for "Gloria has motion sickness."
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Trona Pinnacles: Like A Visit To Another Planet
You have probably seen the Trona Pinnacles in several science fiction movies, like the 2001 remake of Planet of the Apes and numerous episodes of the old Twilight Zone TV series. It is a truly surreal landscape and one I always tried to visit on my trips to Death Valley. They are reached from California route 178, which connects California Highway 395 (the Eastern Sierra highway) with the Panamint Springs entrance to Death Valley National Park.
The "town" of Trona is the very definition of the adjective bleak. It consists of a huge dry lake bed----that of old Searles Lake----which is now mined (or maybe "scooped" is a better word) for minerals, mainly potash. A mineral processing plant in Trona belches out a foul smell that fills the entire town. Other than the processing plant, the only surviving businesses appear to be a couple of gas stations, a small grocery store, two small short-order restaurants, and a hardware store. Several homes and businesses are abandoned, while most others are in serious disrepair. Trona seems to be a ghost town in the making; it is difficult to describe what a grim, depressing place it is.
But just before arriving in Trona, there is a clearly marked dirt road to the right which leads to the Trona Pinnacles. Until a little over 10,000 years ago, the Trona area was underwater----the old Lake Searles-----and the area was geothermally active; the bottom of Lake Searles had many hot, mineral-rich springs. As the hot spring water cooled after being released, the minerals (mainly calcium carbonate) precipitated and collected around the vents, accumulating in some cases to heights over 100 feet. When the climate changed and Lake Searles evaporated, the Trona Pinnacles were left behind.
There are three separate regions of the Pinnacles, based on their age. The newest ones----some only 10,000 years old----are also the biggest and highest:
Depending on the lighting and time of the day, the views of the Pinnacles can be especially dramatic:
While most of the Pinnacles occur in groups, there are some "lone wolves" like the one below. The dirt road at its base gives you some idea of how large it is:
The Middle Pinnacles were formed about 50,000 years ago. Because of erosion, they are not as high or spectacular as the younger ones:
The Old Pinnacles were formed as much as 100,000 years ago and are heavily eroded as a result, as you can see in the two photos below:
The road through the Pinnacles is kept well-graded and shouldn't pose a problem for most 2WD vehicles, except in wet weather. The view below represents my vision of paradise; a road leading to places I've never been and plenty of gas in my 4Runner to get me there! Some of my happiest times have been spent on roads like the one below, consulting my USGS maps and GPS receiver to find the hidden treasures-----not buried gold, but historical and geological sites----in the deserts of the American southwest:
The "town" of Trona is the very definition of the adjective bleak. It consists of a huge dry lake bed----that of old Searles Lake----which is now mined (or maybe "scooped" is a better word) for minerals, mainly potash. A mineral processing plant in Trona belches out a foul smell that fills the entire town. Other than the processing plant, the only surviving businesses appear to be a couple of gas stations, a small grocery store, two small short-order restaurants, and a hardware store. Several homes and businesses are abandoned, while most others are in serious disrepair. Trona seems to be a ghost town in the making; it is difficult to describe what a grim, depressing place it is.
But just before arriving in Trona, there is a clearly marked dirt road to the right which leads to the Trona Pinnacles. Until a little over 10,000 years ago, the Trona area was underwater----the old Lake Searles-----and the area was geothermally active; the bottom of Lake Searles had many hot, mineral-rich springs. As the hot spring water cooled after being released, the minerals (mainly calcium carbonate) precipitated and collected around the vents, accumulating in some cases to heights over 100 feet. When the climate changed and Lake Searles evaporated, the Trona Pinnacles were left behind.
There are three separate regions of the Pinnacles, based on their age. The newest ones----some only 10,000 years old----are also the biggest and highest:
Depending on the lighting and time of the day, the views of the Pinnacles can be especially dramatic:
While most of the Pinnacles occur in groups, there are some "lone wolves" like the one below. The dirt road at its base gives you some idea of how large it is:
The Middle Pinnacles were formed about 50,000 years ago. Because of erosion, they are not as high or spectacular as the younger ones:
The Old Pinnacles were formed as much as 100,000 years ago and are heavily eroded as a result, as you can see in the two photos below:
The road through the Pinnacles is kept well-graded and shouldn't pose a problem for most 2WD vehicles, except in wet weather. The view below represents my vision of paradise; a road leading to places I've never been and plenty of gas in my 4Runner to get me there! Some of my happiest times have been spent on roads like the one below, consulting my USGS maps and GPS receiver to find the hidden treasures-----not buried gold, but historical and geological sites----in the deserts of the American southwest:
Monday, January 7, 2008
More Visual Weirdness
More strange .JPEGs I found hiding somewhere on my hard drive. . . .
It's good to know school administrators in Sandy Valley, NV have their priorities straight when it comes to attracting students:
At this gas station on Interstate 20 near the Louisiana/Mississippi state line, I noted Jerry Garcia's solution to petroleum shortages:
As some of you know, I have a weakness-----much like others have for alcohol or junk food-----for Mexican "lucha libre" movies. These movies star actual masked Mexican wrestlers; when they're not battling sundry would-be usurpers of their wrestling belts, they battle werewolves, Aztec mummies, space aliens, vampires, etc. One of the biggest stars of lucha libre movies is Mil Mascaras. "Mil Mascaras" means "1000 masks" in the Se Habla language; Mil would enter the ring wearing one mask and dramatically remove it to reveal another mask underneath. After (naturally!) defeating his scummy opponent, Mil would give the first mask he wore to some child (usually handicapped) siting near ringside; he would never wear the first mask again. (This is in stark contrast to American politicians, who repeatedly wear the same mask in public.) My favorite film starring Mil is Los Campeones Justicieros, in which Mil and other masked wrestlers (including Blue Demon, another of my faves) battle a team of super-powered midgets from outer space; it's the Godfather Part II of lucha libre movies.
In 2000, I was lucky enough to meet Mil in San Francisco; the documentary proof is below. Note the expression on my face. It is not one of hip, ironic detachment but instead pure, boyish delight. I'll admit it: I was thrilled to shake Mil's hand!
I've been to the Louvre a couple of times, but I never stopped by Pahrump, NV's "brothel art museum." When I consider I will go to my grave without having seen it, I am filled with this deep, abiding sadness. . . .
Pearsonville, CA has an odd claim to fame:
And if you're ever midway between Las Vegas and Los Angeles on Interstate 15, the Bun Boy Restaurant and Motel beckons! I've never stayed in the motel, but I've ate there a few times and the food isn't too bad; it's like an upscale Denny's. (Is he being serious or sarcastic??)
It's good to know school administrators in Sandy Valley, NV have their priorities straight when it comes to attracting students:
At this gas station on Interstate 20 near the Louisiana/Mississippi state line, I noted Jerry Garcia's solution to petroleum shortages:
As some of you know, I have a weakness-----much like others have for alcohol or junk food-----for Mexican "lucha libre" movies. These movies star actual masked Mexican wrestlers; when they're not battling sundry would-be usurpers of their wrestling belts, they battle werewolves, Aztec mummies, space aliens, vampires, etc. One of the biggest stars of lucha libre movies is Mil Mascaras. "Mil Mascaras" means "1000 masks" in the Se Habla language; Mil would enter the ring wearing one mask and dramatically remove it to reveal another mask underneath. After (naturally!) defeating his scummy opponent, Mil would give the first mask he wore to some child (usually handicapped) siting near ringside; he would never wear the first mask again. (This is in stark contrast to American politicians, who repeatedly wear the same mask in public.) My favorite film starring Mil is Los Campeones Justicieros, in which Mil and other masked wrestlers (including Blue Demon, another of my faves) battle a team of super-powered midgets from outer space; it's the Godfather Part II of lucha libre movies.
In 2000, I was lucky enough to meet Mil in San Francisco; the documentary proof is below. Note the expression on my face. It is not one of hip, ironic detachment but instead pure, boyish delight. I'll admit it: I was thrilled to shake Mil's hand!
I've been to the Louvre a couple of times, but I never stopped by Pahrump, NV's "brothel art museum." When I consider I will go to my grave without having seen it, I am filled with this deep, abiding sadness. . . .
Pearsonville, CA has an odd claim to fame:
And if you're ever midway between Las Vegas and Los Angeles on Interstate 15, the Bun Boy Restaurant and Motel beckons! I've never stayed in the motel, but I've ate there a few times and the food isn't too bad; it's like an upscale Denny's. (Is he being serious or sarcastic??)
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
If He's Serious, Let's Take Him Outside And Bullwhip Some Sense Into Him
Ye shall know them by their iPods, so says the Bible. And, as always, the Good Book is right. Look at my iPod-----right there, between The Knack and Link Wray, is Led Zeppelin. Got all the Zep classics. . . . . Communication Breakdown, Whole Lotta Love, Good Times Bad Times, and, of course, Stairway to Heaven, all encoded at a glorious 256 kbps for my listening pleasure.
I loved Led Zeppelin because their music was what rock and roll was supposed to be: loud and stupid. It was glorious to lay a vinyl copy of Led Zeppelin II on the turntable, crank up the volume to max, and listen until your eardrums bled. It was profoundly anti-intellectual, and that was what made it so much fun: Led Zeppelin was chewing gum for the mind, music to be to stupid to.
And that's why it's so damn funny when an oh-so-serious academic tries to find Great Truth and Cosmic Importance in the music of a band like Led Zeppelin. Andrew Goodwin is professor of media studies at the University of San Francisco (wouldn't you just know it??) who has studied Led Zeppelin in great detail, thought Great Thoughts about them, and, sadly, doesn't realize he's full of shit. How do I know the latter? Because of his essay at Slate about the band that is full of unintentionally hilarious passages like this:
Does "Stairway to Heaven" possess these qualities? Absolutely not. The guitar army, yes, that is there. But this song is not just atypical of Zeppelin's music, it is unique among their epic tracks in that it privileges melodic/lyrical development at the expense of rhythmic exploration and timbral/psychoacoustic experimentation.
I laughed out loud when I read that, and there are several other howlers scattered throughout his piece. In fact, I actually wondered if I wasn't reading some sort of parody, but the piece----and Goodwin----seems to be exactly what it purports to be, namely a serious analysis of the inherently idiotic. I know the academically-inclined always try to find Great Meaning in everything, even the most ridiculous and mundane aspects of life, but Goodwin really goes off the deep end here. I liked Stairway to Heaven not because of its "melodic/lyrical development" but because of Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar playing (or was that the "guitar army"?). And I suspect almost every other Zep fan felt the same.
Maybe Mao had the right idea when he closed China's universities during the Cultural Revolution and sent their professors out to work on the farms. (Such an idea is obviously impractical here because it would disrupt NCAA football and basketball.)
I loved Led Zeppelin because their music was what rock and roll was supposed to be: loud and stupid. It was glorious to lay a vinyl copy of Led Zeppelin II on the turntable, crank up the volume to max, and listen until your eardrums bled. It was profoundly anti-intellectual, and that was what made it so much fun: Led Zeppelin was chewing gum for the mind, music to be to stupid to.
And that's why it's so damn funny when an oh-so-serious academic tries to find Great Truth and Cosmic Importance in the music of a band like Led Zeppelin. Andrew Goodwin is professor of media studies at the University of San Francisco (wouldn't you just know it??) who has studied Led Zeppelin in great detail, thought Great Thoughts about them, and, sadly, doesn't realize he's full of shit. How do I know the latter? Because of his essay at Slate about the band that is full of unintentionally hilarious passages like this:
Does "Stairway to Heaven" possess these qualities? Absolutely not. The guitar army, yes, that is there. But this song is not just atypical of Zeppelin's music, it is unique among their epic tracks in that it privileges melodic/lyrical development at the expense of rhythmic exploration and timbral/psychoacoustic experimentation.
I laughed out loud when I read that, and there are several other howlers scattered throughout his piece. In fact, I actually wondered if I wasn't reading some sort of parody, but the piece----and Goodwin----seems to be exactly what it purports to be, namely a serious analysis of the inherently idiotic. I know the academically-inclined always try to find Great Meaning in everything, even the most ridiculous and mundane aspects of life, but Goodwin really goes off the deep end here. I liked Stairway to Heaven not because of its "melodic/lyrical development" but because of Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar playing (or was that the "guitar army"?). And I suspect almost every other Zep fan felt the same.
Maybe Mao had the right idea when he closed China's universities during the Cultural Revolution and sent their professors out to work on the farms. (Such an idea is obviously impractical here because it would disrupt NCAA football and basketball.)
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Odd Photos That I Have Taken
Back in the bad old days of film photography, I used to think quite a bit before taking a photo-----after all, Kodacolor was too precious to waste! But thanks to digital photography and cheap gigabit memory cards, I now snap away at anything that catches my attention. The result is a hard drive packed with visual oddities, like this snazzy little ice cream parlor I saw on the outskirts of Pahrump, Nevada:
Pahrump also has some oddly-named streets, as this photo attests:
I'm not sure what this is supposed to represent; it appears to be a whale bearing a cross across the desert. No doubt a heated debate is going on this very moment in the College of Cardinals about its theological implications:
Green glow-in-the-dark condoms! Who says true romance is dead???
I snapped this in the Sunset District of San Francisco; I've never seen or heard anything about "Golden Bridge Cola." Was this some sort of regional delicacy, much like Cheerwine and Sun Drop colas back in the Carolinas??
Who says Reno, Nevada is exciting? Apparently not the fine folks at the Ho-Hum Motel!
First the outlaw motorcycle gang descended upon their fair city, and then came. . . . . . the bowlers!!
Finally, a lonely voice crying out in the wilderness:
I have a lot of crap like the above, and I'll post more of them in the months ahead.
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