Thursday 8/30/18 Pics and video

Coyote in the shade

Waking this side of Nippinawasse

Waking this side of Nippinawasse, I realize I had dreamed about being trapped in ‘70s, wearing puka shells, boots, and pants so tight people could tell my blood type. I think that’s why I don’t recall much about the ‘80s—the contrast, the relief was so complete and subtle I refer to it as the “beige decade.” People had to take lessons on how to button up their shirts and deny those chain necklaces were ever theirs. It made me cautious and led me to think about trends and fads a bit more. I tried looking in advance back at myself—it doesn’t work; it’s not supposed to. Still, I worry that I’m becoming an involuntary player in something I don’t understand and that, at the end, someone will tap me on the shoulder and tell me it’s all been one long pyramid scheme. 

Waking this side of Nippinawasse.

The Gland Men

sweet·bread
ˈswētˌbred/
noun
plural noun: sweetbreads
The thymus gland (or, rarely, the pancreas) of an animal, especially as used for food.

“Hey, Raggio, try this …” Joe is positioned over a vast tray of barbequed meats. He has stabbed a small bite and has extended it to me in front of a small audience seated around his kitchen counter. Quiet has taken over the room and faces turn to me with raised eyebrows and curiosity. The pride on Joe’s face is second only to his reassuring nod.

1954 
My mother has inserted her fork into an alien object that looks suspiciously like the broccoli she attempted to foist on me the week before, only this one looks like white broccoli. She’s wearing the same reassuring smile and I’m wearing the same suspicious one. My mouth reluctantly opens and I crunch down on what my mother proudly announces is something called cauliflower. Second crunch and my face has turned to stone, my wince has started, and my mother’s face is now all threat; I’m going to have to finish this … this thing in my mouth. I’m scarred for life; broccoli, cauliflower, lentils, liver, lima beans … the list is long and it grows.  I am to stodgy what an Oreo is to milk. Seven decades haven’t changed the boy or the man.


All I see in Joe’s hand is the familiar fork. The four-tined devil holds a dare that appears to look perfectly innocent, disguised as a meat entrée.  I open my mouth to accommodate the small offering and note that the flavor is familiar but the texture (and that is the rub with every listed no-no my mouth has ever revolted from) is not familiar. The alarm in my mouth has begun its code-3 scream, and somehow, some way, I have maintained my almost smile and found myself able to nod in false approval.

“So, Joe…  That was different.”

“You like sweetbreads?” Joe says.  
I can’t answer; I only smile and wonder what my teeth, esophagus, and stomach are thinking. I grab a deviled egg (no, two) and shove them both in my mouth as I walk to the patio in near panic. Seated next to Lyle, I’m eager to share my experience when he says, “Joe makes the best sweetbreads on the planet.” Suddenly I realize neither one of them is from this planet! I nod, still chewing and wondering if a Drano mouthwash would kill me. They’re not from the planet, they’re Gland Men. I did some research that revealed Santa Maria as the capital of sweetbread consumption—no coincidence, both men grew up in Santa Maria.


Playing golf with Lyle (The Hat) today, and sweetbreads came up about 100 times. He can’t even say it without his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Three golfers were completely destroyed today thanks to those sweetbreads.  Laughter was completely out of bounds on nearly every hole. Score didn’t matter. The “sweetbread” conversation was like verbal laughing gas. Poor Coach kept pointing out, “You realize how shitty we’re all playing—looks like we’re going backwards again.” (We all break up.) “And by the by, I’d rather eat sand than a gland!”

By the tenth hole all was lost. Oh, Coach doesn’t own any quit, so we smiled and nodded at his verbal cheerleading and then fell back into unnecessary sweetbread ridicule—all but Lyle, that is, who at least admitted it was an “acquired” taste. I truly love Joe and Lyle, but clearly they fell off the same skateboard! Horrible round today, but likely the most enjoyable four hours I’ve spent golfing in years.

Bulletin:  Dick was seen in Von’s produce section interrupting female shoppers with: “Hi, my name’s Dick. I’m new in town—sure like to have you for a friend.”  

                                                                       Is that Greg??

Joe's 6 inch miss from an ace! (14)

                                                                                          Joe!

Don't ask...

The bear on number 2 fairway...

Something caught my eye out on what used to be number two fairway. A damn tree hugger!                  

Pete Peters and his buddy Darryl

Pete Peters joined the Eagle challenge on Thursday last.  Known for having his cigarette "before" he and his friend had a ball! 
(pun intended) 

Note: Pete tempered his pace for his friends sake and never once tried to out run his cart!

The tree we all love to hate (the oak on 16) still houses a white orb presumably assumed loss by the golfer to hit it there! We know this is quite possible since Coach did it months ago on 13. 

A rare bird indeed!

                                    Dick on a cell phone; his own cell phone!

Nostalgia...

Some images of us ... if I missed you, I'll get you next time.

(stay for the whole 8 plus minutes!)

The "Hoax"

You believe it's all a hoax? Check this out: Your blog has had 41 hits from Russia in the past 5 days.... 9 from the United States and 1 from Indonesia...

Doo Doo Doo, lookin' out my back door ... 1970, Creedence

I keep thinking of Charlton Heston in "Soylent Green.” The sky is completely obliterated in fog, smog, and smoke throughout the entire movie. Heston is always bathed in sweat; his fetid, stained clothes never change their appearance, all conveying: “It’s fucking hot, it’s been fucking hot, and it’s going to be fucking hot.” The only high spot in the whole movie is Leigh Taylor-Young—I still own obscene ideas about her.

So here we are in the “Soylent” sky and air, waiting for this movie to end or Leigh to come over to borrow a cup of sugar, the former being more likely. I feel like I need an iron lung after going to Raley’s, and my utility bill is at war with my wallet, which seemed bad enough until I heard an angler near Fish Camp say he heard trout coughing. 



Waking to “the world is my barbecue” is not the way to start the day! I know there are hills behind that opaque smoke, firemen looking much like Heston without a Leigh Taylor-Young reward when the day ends. Still, there are no trucks pulling up to hoards and hoards seeking their share, or more, of the green wafer, and the tourist-free aisles of Raley’s mean shorter checkout lines. All the while, satellite pictures disguise any indication that Oakhurst really exists under all that gray foam; chances are, when it clears, Leigh Taylor-Young still will not be my caddy, and Heston won’t be trying to part the waters at Bass Lake. 





It’s Oakhurst, a “coincidental” city made by intersecting arteries. It ain’t Paris, the Bronx, or Bora Bora; of late, it conjures images more like Pompeii. But one thing is for sure about us coincidental residents: we’ll know a green wafer when we see it. 



Besides, I figure when it comes to that, the city folk will go “Donner Party” long before us!

                             Don't be fooled; they're here!

The Soylent sky outside my window