Epilogue: Been there, seen a whole bunch

When you take a trip that covers more than 4,500 miles (so said the odometer but it was actually more when you factor walking and driving in other vehicles), you get to see plenty of sights unable to envision at the place you call “home.” There are no mountains or oceans anywhere near Plano, Texas, on the vast plains of North Texas; there are no sights that take your breath away or make you pause for an eternity to burn an impression into your brains.
You either forge that momentary memory into your mind and store it for permanent recall … or you take a photo to remind you of that frozen image. Between the two of us, we took photos totally more than a gigabyte of storage on our laptop. Perhaps close to 1,000 photos – give or take the hundred or so that were dumped along the way (out of focus, insufficient light, someone didn’t want her picture taken, etc.).
It’s like that on every trip we take and our files are growing with burned CD images of where we’ve been and what we’ve seen.
Well, almost…
There are some things that you just cannot forget; moments that WILL live forever inside your soul: seeing the Statue of Liberty in New York City, the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall in Philadelphia or the USS Arizona Memorial in Pearl Harbor; the magnificence of the Mackinac Bridge, the lush green rolling grounds of central Kentucky (where the champion thoroughbreds are nurtured) and the silent lands in Virginia and Tennessee where brother fought brother during the Civil War; the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. and the sound of the creeks along the roads leading to that shrine.
Here are some of the things we saw, and heard, and did, (and will remember) – often odd, but always unique:
seeing wildlife, such as elk, prairie dogs and a herd of bison;
finding orange trees located (and growing) in a city’s downtown plaza (Riverside, Calif.);
locating the world’s tallest thermometer (in Baker, Calif., and it read over 100 degrees that MORNING) next to a store selling “Alien Jerky;”
getting passed by a Smart car, on an Arizona freeway, doing OVER 75 miles per hour;
watching several $250,000 Lamborghinis zoom past us on Los Angeles roadways (along with the stray Aston-Martin or two);
seeing HOV lanes … on freeway entrance ramps?!?! (of course, it was in California);
facing police check points for traffic going over Hoover Dam;
two-cent slot machines … at a high-class joint like The Bellagio;
noticing traffic warning signs for elk, ram/sheep, mule and horse crossings, as well as one warning people NOT to step close to the edge of a cliff for fear of falling;
seeing traffic stop lights SOLELY for the purpose of allowing pedestrians to cross busy streets (in Tucson);
drinking mango margaritas or eating salads topped with pomegranate dressing;
viewing two rainbows over the right-field fences in different ballparks (Albuquerque and Las Vegas);
visiting a minor league ballpark situated within a residential development (instead of a municipal park in most other cases);
seeing two-time Olympic gold medalist Jennie Finch (as stunning as she is talented) sitting 20 feet from me in Oklahoma City and then watching Manny Ramirez during his rehab assignments in Albuquerque;
watching a full (one hour) local evening newscast … without a sportscaster (ask yourself when was the last time YOU saw that!);
looking at the sun set over the San Bernardino Mountains and mule teams train down in the Grand Canyon.
There are more of those memories and they will flash before our eyes with the mere mention of a word, song or thought. It’s how vacations should be for everyone.
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Things are back to “normal” at home; the dog chases the cat, the cat doesn’t like it and we both look at each other and shrug our shoulders. Jodie has to get up earlier to start her commute to Dallas City Hall for work, and I have to join her as chauffeur to the DART light rail station (to and from).
There are upcoming birthdays to remember, bills to be paid, problems around the house to be fixed and friends with whom to be reacquainted. We’ll complain about the heat, the roller-coaster cost of gasoline (please make up your damn minds on the price) and why a watermelon costs more than a steak.
In other words, life is back and we knew before the trip. But ... aha, for a brief second (or two or 10), we can flick the mouse on a folder containing photographic memories and for the shortest time, simply flash to that scene in the Grand Canyon or Isoptope Park or to a roadside along Route 66. It means we can “vacate” the present and go back to the “vacate-ion” ... and just smile.
For the final time … until we meet again … shalom!

YOU supply the words

As comedian Robert Wuhl says, "I shit you not."

Found in the Saguaro National Park, this obviously male cactus ...

Day 20 – Plano: home is where the La-Z-Boy is

When one writes these vacation travel blogs, perhaps it is a great idea to take a cleansing shower before hitting the keyboard. The water, rushing down your body, washing away the grim of the road, or from a scorching summer day, will also clean one’s thoughts before committing to eternity.
I WAS going to rant and rave about what we learned about hotels and motels, secretly hoping to communicate directly with the various hotel/motel owners on how to improve our stays with them.
I was going to admonish the lower-end entities (ones with numbers in their titles or whose rooms were slightly bigger than the normal closet at home) about making guests use postage stamp-sized towels with the consistency of sandpaper; or putting handicapped people on the second floor of a two-story property when there is NO elevator employed; or ignoring calls to the front desk seeking plungers for stopped-up commodes and never getting a response after 45 minutes; or making sure that plenty of signage and directions exist to point the weary traveler in the proper direction (both on the highway and online through websites); or making one wait to register for 10 minutes while the front desk girl ate pizza in the back with the tattooed boyfriend.
I’m NOT going to do that; it just spoils the magnificent memories of a splendid two weeks on the road – seeing the Grand Canyon, Joshua Tree and Saguaro National Parks, lots of baseball, two rainbows over right-field fences during game action, spending time with family, sampling terrific cuisine and never-before-sampled menus; gazing at sunsets over purple mountains and their majesty; enjoying a great tribute to The Beatles in Las Vegas and simply being together in a mode of total discovery.
But I am here to tell you “it’s good to be home.” And in a few days, life will return to its state of normal craziness. However, when things go slightly south, and the heat is making all of us nuttier than Corsicana fruit cake from Collin Street Bakery, we now possess new thoughts to cool us down – of oceans of sands and visions of tumbleweeds rolling past the highways.
We can remember seeing an elk foraging along the roadside as we slowly drove the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. We can remember the collective beauty of huge Dale Chihuly blown glass orchids, by the score, on the ceiling of The Bellagio main entrance.
We can remember having the best Chinese meal of our lives in The Mirage in Las Vegas or the best burrito in an old hotel (The Weatherford) in downtown Flagstaff.
We can remember laughing and crying (with joy at how mature my youngest daughter, Kelsey, has become) and standing with our mouths wide open at the first sight of the Grand Canyon.
We can remember all the good times over the past two weeks … and it should help deal with whatever happens from this point forward.
Yes, it’s always good to take a refreshing shower …
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We made three longer-than-a-fill-up stops during the 14-hour drive from Albuquerque to Plano. A sidenote: you need to have your brains checked thoroughly to make that lengthy of a drive in one single day. My checkup revealed nothing … which is the amount of cranial wattage I possessed most of the way …
First, we visited one of the nation’s top souvenir stands at Cline’s Corner, New Mexico (an hour east of Albuquerque). Once upon a time, anything and everything Route 66 was available there, but times have changed like every place else and visitors want different articles of cheap value.
Still, it was one final moment to enrich the New Mexico economy and take a photo beside a cigar store wooden Indian (we gladly resisted). Others did not.
Second, we visited the famous (and completely unmarked) Cadillac Ranch, along Interstate-40 in Amarillo. Despite not a single sign, marker or notation on any map, people by the hundreds appear daily on the frontage road on the city’s west side to see where millionaire Stanley Marsh 3 buried 10 used Cadillacs in the Panhandle ground.
They’ve been there since 1974 (although the original site is two miles from the current spot), at the same angle as the Cheops pyramids, Marsh once said, and honored the golden age of American automotive making (from 1949-63).
Not only do people take thousands of photos, but many of them come with cans of spray paint to add their marks to the cars. Marsh doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he probably encourages public participation in creating “public art.”
At least one person was slightly disturbed by the defacing – Jodie!
“It’s upsetting,” she said after walking back to the car. “Why would people do that?!? They wouldn’t do it to their OWN cars.”
Finally, I had promises Jodie a special dinner on her birthday but since it was a few hours away, I decided to keep the promise – in spirit. We turned the Escape off Interstate-20, west of Fort Worth into the tiny, tiny town of Strawn – where they play a mean brand of six-man football.
However, Strawn is BEST known for Mary’s Café, home of what many regard as the best chicken fried steak in Texas. Period. And since Jodie had New Mexico’s version a few nights before and found it seriously lacking in quality, it was time to make up.
In this one intersection town, with two other competitors, trucks and cars were three-deep in the parking lot on a hot Saturday night at 8:30 p.m. When we entered, you could hear the sounds of laughter and love – the kind of love that comes from silverware clanking against dinner plates and appetites being severely satisfied.
I am here to report that Mary’s serves up one outstanding chicken fried steak; the batter clings just right to the solid piece of quality meat. Instead of potatoes (both mashed and fried are made from fresh cut spuds, not frozen), I had a side order of nicely prepared pinto beans (not overcooked). The cream gravy was made from scratch because it was thick (you COULD eat it with a fork) and just the right touch of lumpy – the sign of a well-delivered covering.
The “medium” steak, “listed” at 8 ounces, covered most of the platter. Melinda, the waitress, said the large would have overlapped the plate. When I glanced at those who went with the grande size, I knew I had made the correct selection. My stomach could NOT have challenged such a meal.
Finally, on something akin to autopilot, we pulled into our alley and slowly eased our vehicle into the garage – some 4,800 after the initial start.
We immediately ran (not walked) to our respective sleep units and hit the hay as they say. I awoke 11 hours later; Jodie rose after 14 hours of sleep.
Today is her 49th birthday and it will be an impromptu birthday celebration with a few of her former work colleagues. Tomorrow will be a day for laundry, grabbing a few groceries, retrieving the boarded dog and cat (individually, of course) and one final night’s sleep before resuming life in North Texas when it is 104 degrees in the shade (the Sonora Desert has nothing on the plains of North Texas).
And as I wrote before, somewhere in the back of my demented mind, I will begin planning for another vacation: perhaps back to New Mexico to see the OTHER sites (Carlsbad, Las Cruses, Roswell, Los Alamos, Farmington, Silver City); perhaps to Colorado and Utah to see more national parks; perhaps to Arkansas, Mississippi and Tennessee to see Civil War battlefields.
But life without future prospects (for fun and love and family) is simply not much of a life worth living. Don’t you agree?
Until then … when we decide to visit America on one of its different routes … love, peace and happiness (where ARE the Chambers Brothers anyway?) … and shalom!

Day 19 – Santa Fe: Running on empty

In Homer’s “Odyssey,” the hero, Ulysses hears the songs of the sirens as he tries to bring his crew back home. I heard something almost like that and it convinced me that it was time for both of us to go home – no passing “go” (Amarillo and Palo Duro Canyon in this case) and no spending an extra $400.
Every part of my body was signing the same tune – “Hurt So Bad” (an old Little Anthony and the Imperials ditty as compared to the John Mellencamp number, “Hurts So Good.” Nothing feels good right now – my back is killing me, my right foot is still throbbing, my head aches, my butt is sore from sitting for more than 3,700 miles of driving and my eyes are red from all the Southwest sunshine. I’ve even got a sunburn on my bald head.
Collectively, they sang the same chorus, courtesy of Grand Funk Railroad: “I’m getting closer to my home.”
Normally, a couple of pain pills and some Tylenol quick release silence those voices. But it won’t work anymore. The voices have cracked the sound/medication barrier, and are threatening to go on a “non-work” strike if not heard loud and clear.
Hey, I’m no dummy. And when I broached the subject to Jodie, she raised her eyes to the skies, and said, “Thank you, Lord. You finally delivered the message to him.” Seems as if she was ready to return two days ago, but waited until we visited Santa Fe.
On paper, it all looked doable, but when the rubber met THAT much road, and a dozen sunsets came and went, it was more than just a “bridge too far.” It was a museum, national park, restaurant, jewelry-gift shop, hotel, motel, staircase, mountain top and canyon … too far.
“We can come back and do what didn’t get to see next time,” Jodie added.
I’ll start planning on Monday.
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We spent our final day of vacation in the artistic nirvana known as Santa Fe. Except I spent it on a bench outside the public library. My legs literally refused to move, or walk, more than a few feet, let alone several blocks.
So Jodie went and saw the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum – one of the items on her personal bucket list (although the ONE painting she wished to view was not on display). Still, it more than satisfied her passion for her favorite artist (mine is a tie between Peter Max, Jackson Pollock and George Rodrigue, who paints the famous “Blue Dog” series in Louisiana).
I passed the time doing a little people watching and in Santa Fe, that apparently could be a full-time piece of recreation. You see the entire spectrum walking the streets of the Santa Fe plaza.
Lots of street people carrying their own bedrolls; many of them with dogs. Lots of girls in their summer clothes and sundresses (like Bruce has sung) and other women draped from head to toe in turquoise. Lots of skinny old men in shorts with spindly legs. Lots of skater boys dodging unsuspecting tourists.
I kept an eye on four young people (perhaps college age) who were backpacking more stuff than any Marine or Army infantry soldier could carry. They parked themselves next to a pay phone and did a little dumpster diving for smokes.
What was worse was using the public library for its restroom facilities to do whatever (I dare not imagine for fear of losing all contents from dinnertime).
I also noticed something else: businessmen carry backpacks instead of briefcases. Times have certainly changed…
On the way out of town, we spotted a small shopping area with a needlecraft store and I finally bought something for myself – two Native American inspired needlepoint canvasses for future enjoyment. It doesn’t quite rank with the two bracelets for Jodie on her birthday (it’s Sunday and she remains a nifty Jack Benny age) … but it will do.
Besides, I’m a tough guy to buy for. Most of what I want I have. I just want to spend time with my granddaughter and my children.
I’m such a simple man to please.
We ended the day at the Sandia Peak Tramway, having dinner at Sandiago’s. We went TO the tram, but thought discretion would be the better part of valor and nixed the ride to the top of the 13,000-foot peak.
“It’s basically a tin can of death hanging on piano wire,” Jodie announced; I agreed, noting my prominent case of “slipapohbia” in full bloom.
Others did not agree; the line was long to reach the top and enjoy a dinner at a high-tone establishment.
But I looked to the west, saw a massive dust and rainstorm approaching, and decided that when it rains mud, it is not a good thing.
Besides, with MY luck, we’d be on the national news for being stuck in a storm 10,000 feet above the ground and swinging like a carnival ride. No, sir; I covered the news and rule number one was “never become the news.”
So this is it until we get home. The final blog will come on Sunday after a long night’s, and morning’s, sleep. Finally…
Until then … when each mile rolled on the odometer brings us one step closer to home and our own beds … shalom!

Day 17 – Albuquerque: Sight for sore eyes

I’d like to stand up (actually sit UP since my foot still throbs) and place a vote for New Mexico as one of America’s hidden gems. It certainly lives up to its slogan and license plate tagline as the “Land of Enchantment.”
Being in this state of mind is certainly enchanting – from the majestic peaks that encircle Albuquerque to the clear waters of the many mountain lakes. Instead of desolation, the open space that accounts for most of the New Mexico terrain is inspiring.
The roads wind over canyons of volcanic rocks and forests; they pass by some of the best national wildlife refuges in the nation. And there is nary a speck of trash on the shoulders.
New Mexico has its share of national parks and monuments, telling a story of the inhabitants from centuries past – through petroglyphs drawn by Native Americans and the remnants of their dwellings. Modern history is found in the white sands of southern New Mexico where the atomic era was ushered into be.
Culturally, “New” “Mexico” embodies both of its names; it is undoubtedly the most Hispanic state among the American 50 without having the largest Spanish-speaking population. It has successfully blended the Hispanic and Native American influences into almost all factors – from its architecture to its music.
You can see it everywhere, especially when it comes to public art. It isn’t forced upon you; it appears as naturally as the clouds in the sky or the winds blowing through the canyons. Instead of the forced eyesores that dot the landscape of places like Frisco, the artistic renderings, especially in the largest city (Albuquerque), blend into the surroundings.
It also comes in the most unlikely places. Bus stops aren’t mere benches but thoughtful and pleasing places for waiting. Highway overpasses are not masses of concrete and fencing but a place for artistic expression of New Mexican heritage. Sound walls along the interstate become stone carving murals in eye-pleasing desert colors.
Even fast food restaurants and hospitals coordinate in gentle pastel sandstones.
Aside from Hawai’i and Oregon, this is one of the most beautiful states in America. Obviously, it has its share of commonly-held problems – unemployment, crime, poverty and a big problem with drunk driving fatalities (which has become a cause célèbre among the citizenry searching for some legislative answers).
But it is a state where you can have fun (skiing in Taos, horse racing in Ruidoso), festive celebrations (ballooning in Albuquerque), inspiration (the art of Georgia O’Keeffe in Santa Fe), exploration (searching through Carlsbad Caverns), advance your education (in Las Cruses and Albuquerque) or simply admire (everywhere you look).
Hopefully, Jodie and I will experience almost all of that tomorrow when we drive one hour north to Santa Fe. To paraphrase Billy Joel, we’ll be in a turquoise state of mind.
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Here is a recommendation for dinner while in Albuquerque – the famed El Pinto in the northwest part of town. Reasonably priced, especially when compared to Tex-Mex joints in Dallas, the service was excellent, the ambience was relaxing and the food was outstanding.
Jodie found the pestole to be near perfect and the restaurant’s famous Hatch red chile sauce is worth bringing home by the jar.
And here was a nice twist: instead of serving flour or corn tortillas with the meal, El Pinto offers … soppapillas, piping hot and ready for either butter or honey to be poured inside.
Jodie said her house margarita was as strong as any she’s had in the DFW area; her happy disposition for the next few hours was testament to its quality – for just $6.50!
So when was the last time you made your significant other happy for only $6.50??? Beats the cost of jewelry or Godiva chocolate…
Until then … when we have completed the “Twins” celebrity tour of Santa Fe (Arnold was here???) … shalom!

Days 15 & 16 – Albuquerque: Pep(to) talk

When a marathon runner competes, he or she faces something known as “The Wall” – the point of physical exhaustion that a competitor must crash through in order to finish the race. Any student who has pulled an all-nighter to study for a final exam also knows this hurdle well.
In the middle of last night, I hit the vacation “wall” – the point where all those miles I have driven (almost 3,000 to this point), all the mountains I’ve driven past, over and around, all the road food I’ve consumed (from yummy In-and-Out Burgers to the worst pastrami sandwich in the middle of nowhere Arizona), all the orange construction cones I’ve had to dodge and 18-wheelers I’ve had to pass … all converged in my head and stomach.
And I knew exactly what road kill felt like. I was exhausted, yawning every 10 seconds, but unable to close my eyes and sleep. I was in pain from head to heel, but no amount of medication could relieve it. I tossed and turned on the bed (a rarity for a sleep location these days) and on the Hyatt Place couch (no couch in ANY hotel can be labeled as comfortable) like a rotisserie chicken.
My heel throbbed for the sixth straight day, ever since I stepped on a litter trap in my sister’s bathroom in the dark of night (where she keeps the litter box for her feline, Cleo). I not only stomped on it once in the blackness of night, I did it the next day despite taking great pains to avoid it.
It was exactly what resulted – great PAIN! Apparently, upon closer examination by my wife, Jodie, the heel is nicely bruised and there’s no way you can avoid NOT using it.
I also felt nauseous after the last supper consumed, at a place called the Standard Diner, which was discovered totally by accident. It turned out the eatery had been featured on The Food Network by chef-host Guy Fiori on his show, “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.”
This was NOT anyone’s standard diner; it was far too upscale for that simple definition (any place that serves aioli is NOT a blue plate special joint). The first thing received – ice water – told me that; it had a slice of … cucumber in it (not lemon or lime). It was a first for me.
The meal was good, although the house dressing of oil, vinaigrette and pomegranate was a little too heavy and the New Mexican burger, complete with Hatch green chiles and a homemade bun with rosemary in it, wound up sitting in the old tummy like a hockey puck lodged behind Marty Turco.
And around 2 a.m. (with all the changing within time zones and who is or isn’t on daylight time, my internal clock is totally out of whack), all of it simply crashed with a thud.
Or should I say a burp. I immediately reached for a fistful of Pepto-Bismol tablets and simply sat there for Lord knows how long … waiting … and waiting … for something, or rather for nothing (hopefully) to happen.
I spent most of the time wondering on which side of the “wall” I’d land – either on all fours in front of the porcelain throne or watching to sun peek through the drawn curtains, still not knowing the time of day (or early morning in that situation).
Luckily, Pepto-Bismol worked as advertised (and it is one of the most disgusting jingles/slogans out there). Everything settled “down” to a relative state of normal so that I will leave this blog, take a shower, and proceed to find a “light” lunch and tour the Petroglyph National Monument in Albuquerque and the Old Town section for a possible jewelry/pottery purchase.
But, as Jodie is now fond of saying, after all the fun and sight-seeing, home, sweet, home, is sounding more and more like Heaven.
Who would ever have believed that we’d actually WANT to get back to Plano?
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In our search for dinner, we “toured” the Nob Hill section of Albuquerque, which runs along E. Central Avenue, also known as Route 66. Our fruitless search for a simple Chinese restaurant (sorry, Vietnamese and Thai are NOT suitable substitutes for a good Cantonese menu) did reveal some interesting observations.
Of all the states that comprise the ancient (and legendary) highway, New Mexico might be the one with the most pride about the road’s past history. There is a magazine and organization devoted solely to the promotion of Route 66 history and legacy. There are events held annually to highlight what a simple two-lane ribbon of asphalt meant in post-World War II America.
And if you visit the burgh of Clime’s Corner, N.M., out in the middle of nowhere east of Albuquerque, you will find one of THE largest gift shops dedicated to Route 66 memorabilia in the country (if you’ve ever been to Honolulu and know of Hilo Hattie’s, this place is on the same level as that store). It will be a “must-see” on Saturday when we head to Amarillo.
However, the old girl ain’t what she used to be – at least not in the Nob Hill section of town. Central Avenue runs through the center of Albuquerque and is where the University of New Mexico is located. Those blocks of Route 66 surrounding the campus resemble any other university area (think Austin’s Guadalupe in the 1970s or Ann Arbor’s State Street at that same time period).
There are lots of coffee houses, book stores, sandwich shops and exotic eateries featuring international cuisine (heavy on Mediterranean and countries like Egypt and Turkey). Tattoo shops have replaced the 70s head shops although one or two of those relics still exist.
There are still signs (literally) of the old Route 66, with the names of former hotels still hanging over the roadway. Sadly, most of them are rotten corpses of the past. They stand along in empty lots where the grass grows untended among concrete forms, inside fenced off barriers.
Others oversee piles of garbage and mounds of debris from bulldozed structures. Out of 10 old hotels, perhaps one or two still exist as active businesses, none of which seem to be acceptable places for the well-worn Route 66 traveler to visit (most appear to be long-term residences for the downtrodden and poor).
“Closed for business” signs appear far too often among the storefronts, surrounded by lots of national fast food eateries and the occasional high-end Italian bistros or steakhouses.
The drive along Route 66, on our visit, is interrupted by the thunderous roar of motorcyclists, scores of them, revving their machines as they pull into one old-time restaurant for what must have been a pre-planned soiree. Yes, there IS a Route 66 biker club, as well.
When Tod and Buzz drove their Corvette in the famed TV show, “Route 66,” it was definitely a different nation to visit. When the American interstate highway system was constructed, people’s travel plans, habits and methods changed; it was more of a direct assault on your destination rather than a journey of means of exploration.
Part of our trip has been a small attempt to explore places we had not seen before; to taste things not tried in the past; and make long lists of places to visit in the future, based on mere glances out our window. It is (and was) the whole purpose of driving, rather than flying. It allows us to say, “Hey let’s look over there,” and doing an emotional u-turn to see something new.
I only wish Route 66 looked more like its past than its present state; we’d be diverting even more to see what would be offered.
It is really how one’s life should be lived, don’t you agree?
Until then …waiting for my senses to clear and head tomorrow to Santa Fe … shalom!

Day 14 – Tucson: hot enough for ya?

I have a specific number at which I reach me own “boiling point” – 98.6. Anytime the temperature exceeds my body temp, then it’s too damn hot!!!!!
Others might revel in it, but I cannot take it – only in small bits and pieces. Hence, we only spent as couple of hours (all of them inside the air conditioned Ford Escape) driving around Saguaro National Park in west Tucson, smack dab in the middle of the Sonora Desert.
All bank thermometers read 100 degrees or more at 1 p.m. and were heading higher at the clock ticked down. In the coming days, it would be “muy caliente” with higher highs and higher low temperatures.
And, ladies and gentlemen, Tucson is 10 degrees cooler than … Phoenix – truly America’s hottest major city (hot as in caliente, not hipness). When we watched the 9 p.m. news last night, Phoenix had YET to drop below 100 degrees (even with the sun having set) and hit 110 as a high.
Is THAT hot enough for you? Because the forecast intimated that Phoenix would see even HIGHER figures heading to the weekend – 115 would not be unusual in the next few days.
Folks, that’s NUTS! If heat is your thing, central and southern Arizona is the place for you! And Phoenix, along with Las Vegas, was among the fastest growing metro populations in the past decade … so misery (in the heat) must love company.
But not me. Dallas is bad enough but at least it tends to stop being an inferno at some point in September. When I last visited Phoenix, it came on a September day and it was 105.
I was raised in the cold and a little nip in the air doesn’t faze me at all. I continue to wear short sleeve shirts even when its 45 degrees … because, to me, that IS NOT cold. Below freezing (32 degrees) begins to become COLD.
Where is it that the weather never really changes and is considered perfect climate? The answer is …
Hawai’i. It seldom gets below 82 degrees at daytime and 68-70 at night. The ocean breeze gently washes over you and … well, it’s simply paradise. But it’s kinda hard to drive to Honolulu, and airlines have yet to make themselves “Chuck-friendly” in order for me to return for a luau.
I have resolved to re-visit Arizona at a more appropriate time – in February for Major League baseball spring training. It will be a heavenly 70-80 degrees and games will be played throughout the Phoenix metro area and in Tucson.
Until then, you can keep your heat!
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We purposely avoided watching any coverage (or the actual event) of the Michael Jackson memorial service in Los Angeles. The lead-up to this service, while we were in California, drowned out all other news event, including the state’s dire fiscal problems or even the return of suspended Dodger outfielder Manny Ramirez.
And that was hard to do.
Sitting in The Bellagio in Las Vegas reminded me of a scene from the recent “Ocean’s 13” movie. When the crew triggered an earthquake inside the Bank hotel, all gamblers suddenly stopped in stunned silence … for about five seconds. Then someone at the craps table shouted, “Give me a winner!” (or some such line of encouragement) and the noise inside the casino returned to its perfect pitch.
I can imagine how much of that city stopped, for just an instant, to contemplate the death of entertainer Michael Jackson last week at the age of 50. After the briefest moments of silence, things returned to normal, with roulette wheels spinning, dice crashing on the ends of craps tables and hollering filling the air when big slot machines rang out winners.
Life marched forward. I was somewhere between Show Low, Ariz. and Who Know Where, N.M. when I heard the news. I had ejected my Best of Joe Walsh CD burn and got the only AM station within range that didn’t speak Navajo. Jackson’s death notice instantly obliterated the other real news of the day, including gubernatorial infidelity, the national health care debate and Congressional action of President Obama’s climate bill.
Oddly, conservative radio talkers downgraded his talent and impact upon modern culture and focused, like a laser beam, on his troubled personal life, legal battles and family background. And just like the public’s reaction when O.J. Simpson was acquitted of his ex-wife’s murder, support and adoration for Jackson split heavily along racial lines – a sad truth about our society. African-Americans mostly saw him as an iconic performer who broke barriers; white folks saw him as a perverted man-child freak.
The truth is probably located somewhere in the middle.
Unlike Elvis Presley, to whom Jackson will now be compared, Jackson wrote much of his own material (Elvis sang other people’s songs), including many that became important forces to change people’s thinking. MJ was the driving force behind “We Are the World,” which raised millions for starving children around the world.
I had wished that his former wife, Lisa Marie Presley, would have been the executor of his estate because she has first-hand experience at the process of canonizing an iconic entertainer’s image – her father, Elvis. Presley had his own peccadilloes and myriad of destructive behavioral habits, including drug and weight abuse. Elvis, in his later years, became a shell and a caricature of his former self, but today, he is almost revered like a saint.
It CAN happen for Jackson, despite all of the harsh negative press of the past; despite the unfulfilled charges of child molestation, which never could be proven in a court of law by a jury (even after years of multiple investigations).
My suggestion would be a conversion of Jackson’s California home, Neverland, in the west coast version of Graceland (in Memphis). The estate could control all exhibits and presentations to the smallest degree. The man’s legacy would then slowly turn in the family’s direction – away from the bad into only memories of the stage personality.
And decades from now, a long stream of visitors will keep Jackson’s memory alive. His music will still sell (as does Presley’s efforts … into the hundreds of thousands annually; it just isn’t recorded on the Billboard charts) and the legacy will love on and on.
We just didn’t want to hear about all of it today.
Until tomorrow … and the start of a long line of New Mexican cuisine samplings (yes, we have plenty of Pepto-Bismol and Imodium) … shalom!

Day 13 – Tucson: Getting to know family again

Visiting relatives while on a trip is an iffy proposition, especially if you are inconveniencing them by plopping down for a multi-day stay. Normally, relatives (or in-laws), like fish, stink after three days – both in odor and temperament.
But staying with family is different. And by “family,” I mean direct blood – brother, sister, your children, grandparent, mother, father. And “different” means you take them in – few questions asked. At least, it is how it should be and it is the manner I believe it should exist. You care for your own unless it is physically or medically impossible; or they request otherwise (in no uncertain terms).
My family is quite small; both my parents passed away some time ago (my mother while I was in college and my father in 1993). When my father was alive, he chose to retire from Detroit, Mich., to Montgomery, Ala., and live on his own. Whenever I asked him to move to South Texas to be closer to his grandchildren, he politely but stubbornly refused. Sadly, he died without seeing either of his granddaughters, and only saw his grandson (Robert) twice.
My divorce drove a wedge through the father-son communications, but he was already in the grip of what probably was a form of Alzheimer’s (he often did not know or recognize my voice over the phone). That final year went without a word exchanged until I was notified of his death – oddly on my 41th birthday. My final act as his son was to sign a document permitting his remains to be cremated in Alabama (state law apparently demanded it from the oldest living relative).
I have only one sister, Vicki, who has been in Riverside, Calif. for the last 15 years or so as a librarian in the UC-Riverside system. To say our past relationship was volatile is an understatement; years went by without speaking to each other. Anger was replaced by resentment and stubbornness and each of us did our damnest to erect a wall that neither Ronald Reagan nor Mikhail Gorbechov could tear down.
But the sands of time DID wither away those bricks. Time does try to heal all wounds; it doesn’t always succeed and there are still some scabs that need more time to disintegrate). Stubbornness flows out of the body like waste and is eventually replaced with kernels of wisdom that should have been elevated long before. On both ends.
I have changed drastically since I remarried and underwent a major open-heart surgical procedure (and subsequent heart attacks a year ago). Vicki changed shortly after my operation when she adopted a daughter, Alissa Marie (5 at that time, I think).
It’s funny how life-changing experienced DO alter one’s perspective on life its ownself (to quote the great B.J. Puckett in “Semi-Tough”). The little crap that was SOOOOOO annoying just isn’t so freaking important anymore. Goals are different; priorities are altered in different directions; “I” is replaced by “we.” There’s less “me” and more “you.”
You begin to see the values and talents of others and how you can utilize your experiences and talents to help others. Perhaps it explains how retired people can bring a needed perspective to various charities; they have been there and seen it all and have less needs for themselves and a stronger desire to help others.
While in Riverside, I got my first real up-close and personal observation of Vicki’s life as a single mother. Like every parent, raising a child is a balancing act; not having a spouse just makes that juggle more difficult (just from a logistics point of view). And, at times, she and Alissa have engaged in a heavyweight battle of wills, which can be emotionally draining as anything imaginable.
It probably stems from their individual creative abilities. As I discovered, each woman is VERY talented in various fields – neither of which I was fully aware.
Alissa is a potential starring athlete; in volleyball, perhaps tennis, basketball, or anything else she puts her mind to. And she LOVES music and could be outstanding in that field as well.
Best of all, she LOVES to read (which should be expected as the daughter of a librarian but isn’t taken for granted). A young person who devours books like our dog devours pillows has a thirst for knowledge and will never be satisfied with any particular answer until she has fully read and researched all pertinent information.
That will do her well for her future. She will only accept that which she can prove herself and discover as fact/truth. Hopefully, her journey of discovery will only take her down safe paths; the steering is in the hands of her mother, Vicki.
Meanwhile, it was a total revelation to me that my sister was a magnificent artist. Hell, the last thing I remember in terms of her artwork involved crayons. I knew she studied art history in college (at The University of Michigan), but, honestly, I had never seen any of her work since then … until this past week.
I was literally stunned. There was enough sitting on her walls at home to do justice to a galleried one-woman shop anywhere and she seemed more than proficient in all mediums (watercolors, oils, pastels, charcoal). I was actually jealous of her ability; it made my forays into needlepoint seem small in comparison. She was able to express her emotions, expectations, insight and dreams through a canvas – something I could only dream about in the recesses of my mind.
She was also an effective parent; making mistakes just like everyone but having a complete, long-term game plan for Alissa’s future, rather than just a week-to-week activity calendar. Everything is done, purchased and said (even when disciplining) with the eventual goal of producing the best functioning adult possible when it is time to cast the girl into the real world as an adult.
Sometimes you need to open your eyes completely in order to see the completeness of people around you. It could happen during a five-day vacation on their couch and recliner; it could happen during a phone conversation; it could happen merely by imagining yourself in their shoes.
Despite the miles (and I felt everyone of them on my backside from Plano to Riverside), I am hoping this relationship grows closer over the years – that our family doesn’t stay so “small.” Perhaps alternating visits to Plano and Riverside (they came to our home last year) will become a steady and regular happening.
Personally, I’d like that. I would enjoy charting Alissa’s progress and imparting any slight knowledge that would be beneficial to her.
I might even get to teach her what Motown sounded like BEFORE Michael Jackson.
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I thought driving the route from Las Vegas to Riverside involved desolation and solitude; it has nothing on the trip from Riverside to Tucson. We ducked off Interstate-10 on U.S. 95, through the Yuma Proving Grounds, to Yuma itself and then eastward on I-8 (it just sounded cool to say I-8) along the southern Arizona-Mexico border. Man, talk about miles and miles of nowhere!
All the eye could see from hundreds of miles were rotting cactuses, scores of dust devils and wind spouts, splashing the Ford Escape with gusts of sand and searing heat. A massive high pressure center is hunkered down in the Desert Southwest and temperatures reached triple digits before noon.
Along the 8, towns were as infrequent as clouds in the clear blue sky. Gila Bend is the biggest population center between Yuma and the I-10 intersection (between Phoenix and Tucson), so any chance for bathroom breaks were strictly hit and miss.
My bladder held out until we reached the Tucson hotel; Jodie was not as lucky. But each time we pulled off the 8 to accommodate her need, the truck stop or café looked like Norman Bates was the proprietor.
Finally, she could wait no more and some hole in the wall desert way station was the winner! Sort of. Restrooms were only available to “paying” customers (two Cokes and two waters became the toll) and the rest room itself had its own “rules.”
Basically, since the commode tank was attached to a septic system, the management politely requested that ALL paper utilized in the visit, regardless of condition of said paper, be deposited in a basket next to the commode.
YUCK! The mind boggles at the mere thought of the disposal method for THAT!
Even worse, the person preceding Jodie into that women’s unit (four stalls; two out-of-order) failed to follow the direction, found the bottom of the commode and did not flush … double, triple, and quadruple YUCK!
“I’d never seen such a sign except for Mexico,” she sheepishly said upon returning to the Escape. “I guess we’re close enough.”
Ah, the advantage of a larger-than-usual bladder.
Last night’s dinner hunt was a success as we found a hole-in-the-wall, Italian family-operated place (Mamma Luisa’s) with excellent veal scaloppini and handmade linguine. It was better food, atmosphere and service than a chain restaurant, which is the dream of every traveler (I would think).
Tonight is a dinner with a former business colleague of Jodie’s at a classic Tucson Mexican restaurant and back on the road to Albuquerque. We’ll brave the heat this afternoon to visit Saguaro National Park and see lots of cacti, indigenous only to the Sonoran Desert
Until then …waiting for the image in that rest room to disappear … shalom!

Day 11 – Celebrating the 4th of July

This Saturday felt like a Sunday because of the 4^th of July holiday and not much was happening. Everyone in my sister’s house, here in Riverside, slept late and breakfast morphed into brunch.

My sister, Vicki, had dug out two boxes of old photos of my late father and I spent some time examining them. Most of them I remembered; a few I had never seen (including one of my grandfather from 1907) and others of my son, Robert, sent to Dad when Robert was a small child.

Tucked in between the Kodachrome prints were old newspaper clippings of my early works as sports editor in Conroe, Texas (for the Conroe Daily Courier), which began in June, 1976. I must have arranged for a subscription of the paper to be sent to him, although 33 years is a long time to remember small details like that. The fact that he kept certain articles was pretty startling and I will never know why he chose what he chose.

I had been on the new job for about three weeks and my daily offering of opinions were simply called “column.” Imagine the marketing time it took to derive that name. They used the photo shot of me after the 36-hour bus ride from Detroit to Conroe, which was equivalent to a deer in the crosshairs.

In 1976, the 4^th of July fell on a Sunday and I penned a piece about America based on one of the few subjects I knew well: baseball. I have returned to that topic often over the ensuing 33 years in Texas, even though things and circumstances of employment have changed. I am retired and the hair I had on top of my head back then has retreated to oblivion.

On this 4^th of July, I also returned to my favorite subject, attending a sold-out California League Class A game at San Bernardino between the Lancaster JetHawks (who had Roger Clemens’ son, Koby, playing at catcher) and the hometown Inland Empire 66ers.

The game lasted three hours and was won by the Sixers on a two-out drag bunt with the winning run on third for a 4-3 victory. We then sat back and enjoyed a rousing fireworks display in the cool High Desert night, with Sousa marches and other patriotic music blaring over the public address system.

It WAS a feel good night as it should be every Independence Day holiday – fireworks, family and baseball.

So when I found this particular “column,” I wanted to share it with people reading this blog; something my father found worthy of keeping. This is what I wrote 33 years ago (my writing needed much polishing and I was a tad naïve about the world):

“In 1967, many people gathered in the streets of Detroit. The flames of destruction leaped higher into the sky as the nights wore on. The city and its reputation burned beyond recognition.

In 1968, people again gathered in the streets of Detroit. This time, flames were replaced by a joyful spirit which grew higher in the night. Blacks and whites were not at each other’s throats as before. Instead they roamed arm-in-arm; the Detroit Tigers had won the 1968 World Series. A baseball team had united a battle-torn city like never before.

I guess there are more patriotic people than me. I have rather deep convictions about what can be done to make the United States better. Many involve changes that some people may not want. But I’m proud to be an American. Not better than anyone else, but proud, nevertheless.

I feel American sports are unlike any others in the world. Perhaps other countries have surpassed the U.S. in talent but the type of games played here are unique. Nowhere on this earth can you find the enthusiasm generated by football, basketball and most of all, the American pastime – baseball.

Football symbolizes the ruggedness of the nation. I hear in Texas it is an experience all its own. The beauty of movement, which is the essence of basketball, is also American. Basketball appeals to the underdog spirit, as a poor man can become a success overnight with nothing but sneakers and talent.

But everything this country is, was or will be is wrapped up in the game of baseball. Nothing can set a city on fire like a pennant contender, or a single player, as when 50,000 fans showed up in Detroit’s Tiger Stadium to see gangling 21-year-old Mark Fidrych, nicknamed “The Bird,” pitch. Only in such a country can the imagination and hearts of the people be captured by an individual.

So much of the language which is truly American is baseball-oriented. Think about it. He who fails “strikes out,” yet a “pitch” that a salesman uses hopefully will “hit.” A fellow under a handicap has “two strikes against him,” but someone who cooperates is “willing to play ball.”

A screwball, blooper, caught in a squeeze play, touching all the bases, teamwork … all can be associated with an institution in the U.S. other than baseball, which originated them all.

Culturally, baseball has meant more to great American authors than any other sport. Men like Damon Runyon, William Faulkner and Mark Twain all wrote about the game. Great literary critics like Alexander Woolcott could often be found with celebrities like Groucho Marx at a Yankee or Dodger game.

A place like Brooklyn became immortal because of Ebbets Field and “Da Darlin’ Bums.” Every World War II picture has someone who dreamed of the centerfield bleachers in the New York borough. The hot dog, the staple of the baseball fun, became an American institution. As Peanuts’ creator Charles Schulz said, “A hot dog doesn’t taste the same without a ball game in front of it.”

History has recorded the names in its Hall of Fame like Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, Willie Mays, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle. And what sport had, until a short time ago, the President of the United States officially open its season?

Youth. The key to this country and the key to baseball. Kids playing the game in all forms. They play stickball, sewerball, hardball, T-ball, slowpitch, fastpitch, Little League, American Legion, Babe Ruth, Pony and Pee Wee. It’s all the same game.

It is an intellectual game full of “ifs” for the armchair manager to dwell upon. It is a team game; it is an individual game; it is man against man; it is man against himself.

It is America.

As I said, my work needed lots of Turtle Wax; but I was just 24 and still reeling from finding my first professional writing job. I was eager and easy to please.

Oddly, the last game I saw in Detroit involved Mark Fidrych, who, like my father, is enjoying his favorite pastime in heaven.

But for some reason, my father chose to keep this particular piece of fading newsprint with him until he passed away. So I carried thoughts of my Dad to the game in San Bernardino.

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Much to the satisfaction of my wife, Jodie, Sunday night will be the last ballgame for me/us. In fact, she isn’t going to Lake Elsinore to see the Storm face the Quakes from Rancho Cucamonga in the dreaded cross I-215/15/10/5 rivalry (honestly, the huge number of freeways and names would drive most traffic reporters nuts and certainly can’t be good for the sanity of Southern California motorists who rival Texans in their display of poor driving habits).

I will be the adult chaperone for Alissa (our niece) and two of her male-type friends. And it will be lots of loud AC/DC to and from the ballpark. It will demonstrate that I am hip and relevant; of which I am neither (but I DO like my rock and roll).

Until then … after the “Storm” and when we arrive Monday in Tuscon … Shalom!

Days 9-10 – Down by the Riverside, Calif.

Today is a day of doing nothing for me. My sister, Vicki, her daughter, Alissa, and Jodie have headed westward to the Pacific Ocean for some beach time (Laguna Beach like the old Beach Boys, “Surfin’ USA”). I have chosen to remain behind, away from that warm California sun (I’ve got a thousand song lyrics applicable to all that is happening around me).

After nine days on driving and sight-seeing, it’s just good to do nothing for a few hours. Adjusting to the constant change of altitudes and changing of attitudes (and latitudes) can be taxing upon one’s body and soul. My eating habits, in terms of time and substance, have long since gone by the wayside. I’ve tried hard to stick to the diet (no pasta, no starches, no rice, no potatoes) but on the West Coast, that is difficult. Almost everything involves French fried potatoes (In-and-Out makes the best, cut from fresh spuds), or pasta (it seems as if breakfast cereal has pasta in it in the Golden State). And people here order everything imaginable on a pizza, from sushi to salad. I don’t get it, I don’t order it … but to each his own.

Riverside is a very pleasant community, in the High Desert region of California, about an hour or so east of Los Angeles. In fact, it is as close to San Diego as it is to L.A. and if I had my druthers, I’d go to San Diego all the time – one of America’s hidden gems.

The downtown area centers around an old mission and the restored Mission Inn (where we will have dinner tonight). Workers continue to convert many of the streets into a walking plaza between quaint shops with names like Mrs. TiddyWinkles or a sandwich shop called Simple Simon. As you stroll past the shops, you need to watch out for falling fruit from the many orange trees populating the community. My sister has lemon and apricot trees in her yard, which is wonderfully convenient for canning preserves or just plain snacking. The neighborhoods appear to be clean and green.

The city also houses a state university (UC-Riverside) and a handful of private schools, a state citrus park and great scenery (mountains, a river and bright stars at night). A philharmonic orchestra performs on a regular basis and among the festivals held here one those featuring jazz and the works of Charles Dickens. Heck, the mail service is actually door-to-door instead of street side mailboxes.

Of course, this IS California – not the land of kooks and weirdoes but the state of faltering economy and massive debt in the state budget. Things have gotten so dire, so divided, that IOUs have now been issued to debtors in lieu or payment and state employees are being forced to take unpaid furloughs, running into weeks instead of a handful of days.

The voters can change the party affiliation of the lawmakers in Sacramento all they want but the situation runs deeper than campaign promises. It’s fine and dandy to make pronouncements in speech after speech, but when push comes to shove, reality speaks a cruel truth – whether it applies to California or Texas or the city of Dallas or Washington, D.C.

The real problem lies in the fact that people want the other guy to do the sacrificing in terms of jobs, services, taxes and entitlements. We want our complete freedom to act as we wish yet pay as little as possible for that privilege. And when the waiter delivers the bill, we look around for someone – anyone – to take care of it. Nowadays, there is no one else to flash an American Express card; it is now our debt and our responsibility.

California isn’t alone – most major cities and states face similar fiscal time bombs. California, because of its size (stand alone, it is the seventh largest economy in the world), is just the biggest problem outside of the federal deficit.

Texas talks and walks big about its surplus (which is true), but it comes at the expense of being last in terms of health care provided to its children, near the bottom in percentage of population below the poverty level and almost last in every other social service. Texas’ funding of public education remains a joke and the funding of highway repair and future construction (on a course for all new roads to be tolled) causes every Texan to be upset.

It’s become a time of “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” in our country. No choice is wrong and no choice is right. All we can do is pray and hope it all works out in the end.

Until then??????? Let’s PLAY BALL!

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Last night was spent in the confines of the Epicenter (cute nickname for a minor league ballpark) in Rancho Cucamonga to see the hometown Quakes fall to the High Desert Mavericks in a California League clash.

The scenery with beautiful, with the mountains majestic over the left field wall, and the weather was absolutely perfect – cool breeze, temperature in the low 80s and a few fluffy clouds against a blue sky giving way to an orange sunset.

At this level, you see future MLB stars (perhaps 3-4 years away from the Show) and a majority of young men unsuccessfully attempting to live out their major league dreams. Some plays ranked at the big league level and some mistakes were as high school as it got.

It was a good night’s entertainment for the family at a nice affordable price (our seats behind the plate cost just $10 apiece). There were silly games between innings and the usual minor league presentation, which means light-hearted and family-friendly.

At each minor league stadium, there is a mascot; in Frisco, it is Deuce the Prairie Dog and in Rancho Cucamonga, it (he/she???) is a dinosaur named Tremor. The job of a good, quality mascot is to entertain and make people laugh, while getting them to root, root, root for the home team.

When they are among the best – the Phillie Fanatic or the San Diego Chicken – they are as much part of the game presentation attraction as the players themselves. The Chicken (Ted Giannoulus) should be up for Hall of Fame consideration; he has been THAT critical to baseball (along with the legendary Max Pipkin). The Cooperstown people should seriously ponder adding a mascot wing to the Hall and add one mascot per year in the same manner as the HOF does for sportswriters and broadcasters.

Meteor, however, won’t be there for some time. It needs to work on its game a tad. Among the rules of mascoting include making between-inning schtick be funny when involving umpires and children and (most important) when you “air-gun” souvenir T-shirts to the crowd, they actually REACH the crowd. Poor Tremor fired its first T-shirt over the stadium wall, into the parking lot, and couldn’t clear the home plate screen on its second effort.

But as the game proceeded, Tremor showed its true form through dancing on the dugout. This was the first mascot I’ve seen that danced to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” (Harry Carey would roll over in his grave if he knew).

And here is another rule that parents need to follow: Mascots do NOT (and should NOT) sign autographs. Kids should not seek it because that “X” won’t be remembered years later and since when do dinosaurs carry Sharpies?

Please, be realistic. Crayons at best.

The final two games of the vacation will happen in San Bernardino (for the 4^th of July) and Lake Elsinore. After that, it will be museums, canyons, shows, dinners and national parks. The trip meter, which cannot move about 999.9 miles has flown past 2,400 miles – and today, I am trying to recharge my batteries after seeing every ONE of them.

Until then … when we celebrate America’s birthday in the proper manner (baseball, fireworks, overcooked hot dogs and tennis from England) … Shalom!

Day 8 – The middle of nowhere

We’ve settled for the next five days at my sister’s home in Riverside, Calif., located in the High Desert region, at the very edge of the Los Angeles metro area. On a clear day, you can see the heavy haze descend upon the citizenry like a toxic fog.

It will be a LONG weekend of fireworks, baseball (mostly for my benefit), a little sightseeing and mostly relaxing. The evenings are much milder than in Vegas where it had difficulty getting below 88.

Frankly, we’d had enough of long waits, crowds and too many people who forgot their manners at the front desk. People just cannot move in a proper manner at casinos or hotels – choosing often to meander around and always in front of me as I choose to move forward.

And they do NOT want to move. I quickly discovered that the words, “Excuse me!” – the universal comment to mean, “Hey dude, scoot over; you’re in my way,” is meaningless when the recipient doesn’t speak English.

Which in Vegas now applies to a growing number of visitors. I heard dialects from all over the globe – from Spanish to Chinese to Japanese to German to Eastern European. And none of them know that in America, we walk and drive on the RIGHT side.

Such is NOT the problem when driving in the Mojave Desert. Traveling through the Mojave Natural Preserve, from Baker, Calif. (home of the World’s Largest Thermometer and usually topping well past 100 degrees at noontime) to Kelso, and eventually Yucca Valley (outside Joshua Tree National Park), there are 200 miles of solitude in all directions.

The starkness of the scenery is striking. Sand dunes are shaped by centuries of desert winds; salt beds glisten against the burning glaze of the sun; and scruffy vegetation strains to grow through the cracks of dried lake beds. When you think of the middle of nowhere, this is it!

Which brings me to one of the hypothetical questions that can only be contemplated when you been on the road for what seems to be an eternity: would you rather live in an urban setting, among people, with just the bare minimum of living standards (no extras, no perks, no bells or whistles) … OR would you live in the middle of the desert without a soul around BUT in a mansion with all the amenities of life (cable/satellite, endless food, pool, games, etc.)???

Which one would you pick?

OK, that’s a little too deep to contemplate while chewing on some Alien Beef Jerky from Baker, but when the CD player is knocking out U2’s “The Joshua Tree,” as you see endless rows of this growth unique to the desert region, it helps put things into perspective.

By the way, I am the type of person that actually coordinates music to the place he visits – Frede Grofe’s “Grand Canyon Suite” was heard as we drove along the South Rim and there will be some Beach Boys heard in California.

Yes, I AM strange…

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In a city of more than 1 million people, where sports betting is one of the major outlets for the gaming industry, and where the NBA is seriously thinking of establishing a franchise, you’d think that the Triple-A baseball team could draw more than 3,820 people for a warm summer evening.

You’d think that an event which provided three hours of family entertainment, for around $10 a ticket – making it the absolutely cheapest thing in town to do (including a movie at the Vegas Cineplex) – would draw more than that!

Yet the Cashman Center was more than half empty for the contest between the local 51s (named for the mythical Area 51 in southern Nevada) and the Sacramento River Cats. In fact, there was very little energy provided by the home fans and it had nothing to do with the 100-degree temperatures.

Basketball MIGHT work in Vegas as a franchise; after all, the NBA is in Oklahoma City and one would have to classify that as a “reach” as a pro sports market. But the “regulars” in Las Vegas aren’t necessarily season-ticket holders or walkup buyers. It has always been the argument by the NFL against a franchise being located in San Antonio – too transient of a population. And with Las Vegas being one of the three cities most affected by housing foreclosures, it doesn’t make for a rosy outlook.

Besides, one All-Star Game is NOT enough of a launching pad and any past success at UNLV means nothing.

Until then … from sunny California where the state legislature will do everything it can to tax the sunshine to alleviate its dismal fiscal condition … Shalom!