The Paranormal Encounters Project (an AJ Hampton Production)

Last month, since it was October and I had all things spooky on the brain, I did my best to watch scary movies as much as possible until Halloween. By inundating myself with Netflix's selection of horror movies nearly every day for a month, I remembered a couple things:

1. I really enjoy "found footage" horror movies like The Blair Witch Project. 
2. Movies like The Blair Witch Project are, more often than not, garbage. Just straight up, steaming piles of garbage.

When The Blair Witch Project came out it was unique for being made with not much more than a camcorder and a shoestring budget-- but managing to be a box office hit. I think it's cool because there's something believable and unsettling about being lost in the woods and possibly being stalked by someone-- or something-- you never even see. The simplicity of its production, primal fears it played on, believability of an on-location film crew being turned around in a big wooded area, and sweet '90s grunge-era wardrobe make it fun for me to watch. 

Of course, since The Blair Witch Project there have been a lot of "found footage" type films, and some of them are pretty good in my book; I'm a big fan of the first Grave Encounters and the first few  Paranormal Activity movies, but, then again, I know they aren't really good; they do some spooky things well and I get a kick out of them for that if nothing else. However, a lot of movies of this genre missed the decent parts of what make a good movie but kept the shitty camera work and general premise of the movies before them.

If you want to write most "found footage" horror movies, follow this Mad-Lib:

A message like "The following footage from 2000-something was recovered last year. It is now available for viewing from the public" comes up on a black screen, with some context possibly sprinkled in.

A (documentary film crew/ paranormal investigation team/ a group of teens with a camcorder) goes to (abandoned mental hospital/ old apartment building/ unassuming house) to (perform an exorcism/ catch a ghost/ try to freak out some nerd), but then things go horribly wrong when (ghosts start moving things/ the building contains endlessly repeating hallways/ a demon-ghost-entity completely possesses someone). At some point someone gets (thrown into a wall and killed/ sucked down a dark hallway never to be seen alive again/ somehow stabbed to death) and a shaky camera running away scene commences. After the immediate threat is behind them, someone sets down the camera and (something moves on its own/ a shadow of the ghost passes by/ the possessed person is watching THE WHOLE TIME) but picks it back up just as soon as anything spooky is out of sight. BUT SUDDENLY (things in some room start to float in mid-air/ the ghost appears and kills someone/ some possessed person is crawling on the ceiling in a contorted fashion) so the remaining survivors rush toward the exit-- only to find it locked. The person with the camera gets knocked down and they are seen (being dragged through a pool of their own blood/ hovering with the possessed standing by/ staring blankly into the camera) until someone else grabs the camera and continues running toward a creepy place avoided earlier in the movie. Night vision is turned on, and shaky breathing and a green-and-black void are all that are picked up. Things seem okay for a moment, but then (the ghost finds the last survivor and kills them/ the camera light starts to die and flickers of the antagonist are the last thing to be seen/ the floor collapses and a dead body is seen through a broken camera lens). The screen abruptly goes to black, shitty generic hardcore music starts playing, and the credits roll.

~The End~

If I just made you the next best film director, you're welcome. If you were looking to watch any Paranormal Activity/Grave Encounters ripoff, I'm sorry for the spoilers.

"Is This Place Haunted?"

Old hotels are interesting. Old photos of forgotten people and paintings by unknown artists hang from the walls. Well-worn furnishings add to the aesthetic the hallways, reception, and rooms, acting as living history for days long gone. Ugly floral wallpaper and paisley print carpets add a quirky charm to old-timey lodging that helps you almost forget about the slight dusty-- and sometimes even musty-- smell old buildings gets.

Almost.

Above all else, old hotels end up having countless people coming in and out of them over the course of years. I work in a hotel that's about 92 years old, and I talk to at least a hundred people most days, ushering them to their rooms, showing them how to turn on their televisions, and muttering swear words under my breath when the WiFi goes out or when I have to clean up the horrors from overflowing toilets. The number of people that I've spoken to over the years that I've worked here is hard for me to think up. It's a lot of people. A lot of fixing TV, resetting modems, and seeing the poop of strangers. Most of all, a lot of repeated questions.

If it's not about availability, the WiFi password, or the adjoining doors between rooms, it's about ghosts. I usually tell people, "I can neither confirm nor deny that the place is haunted, but it's a matter of what you believe in," but sometimes I continue with, "Buuuuuut, I've heard some things from people if you want to hear some stories."

By this point half the people I talk to are stoked about it while the other half are slinking into the corner not wanting to be too spooked to go to bed. I continue with stories I've heard, and sometimes I get to hear new ones, but there's one underlying theme with all of them: this place can get a little fucking creepy.

One night I was tidying up around the front desk when a scruffy guy came up to the reception. He asked if the place was haunted, and he told me why he thought it might be. He and his hiking partner were staying in a room without an en suite bath (there are common baths throughout the hotel, blah, blah, blah) while they waited for the bus to take them back to Tuolumne Meadows outside Yosemite, so they'd been at the hotel for a night already. The first night they were there, he was in his bed dozing off when he felt a hand on his shoulder start to shake him, like someone trying to wake him up. He grumbled at his friend, "Fuck off, dude, I'm trying to sleep," but felt a little uneasy when his friend walked in the door after being in the shower the whole time. He said he was certain nobody else was in the room with him, and he slept uneasy his second night there.

Another night, when I lived in the hotel, I'd gotten off shift and made my way to my room. It was winter, and the boiler was broken, so nobody was staying in the place except for me. As I was laying in bed, curled up and shivering, I heard the sound of kids running up and down the halls, giggling up and down the stairs. I looked out my door to see what brats might be running amok, but no one was there. I went downstairs to see the graveyard clerk sitting, doing paperwork, and definitely not running up and down the halls. It was dead silent in the place after I went to check for who was making the racket after midnight, and I slept a little uneasy afterward.

Just the other night I got a phone call from a lady saying she'd experienced something terrifying during her stay in early 2011. She had been booked a room by her employer, so she didn't get much of a say when she entered the room and felt a sudden uneasiness. The unease didn't ebb off as the night went on, but she decided to close her laptop, shut off the light, and try and sleep regardless. Not long after turning in, she was startled by a bright light in her room. Seeing her laptop open and on didn't do much to put her mind at ease, but she tried to fall asleep again anyway. Soon after, she was awakened by what she thought was an earthquake, and immediately left when she felt someone-- or something, according to her-- grab her shoulder.

She said she never came back after running from her room at 4am, and that she'd never stay here again. I tried to convince her to reconsider, but she seemed pretty firm in her decision.

The hotel has undergone a few renovations and updates over the years, even since I started working there. In the fresh paint, updated furnishings, and new stucco walls, there's a little less of an old creepy haunted house feeling, but kicking up dust and ripping things out and off the building could stir up something in the walls. The rattling pipes of the boiler don't sound like footsteps. The wind doesn't shake you awake at night. I can neither confirm or deny the place is haunted, but it's all a matter of what you believe in.

Blog Update 10-21-15

Surprise! I'm not dead! Yay!

Sorry for the months of silence. Work and life have had me distracted from writing, and this summer has been an exceptionally busy one for me. With the off-season coming up, I might get back on the blogging train since it'd be easier to get creative juices flowing without being inundated with hundreds of tourists sapping my soul. Posts could get more regular again too, but I can't guarantee a post every week since, I'll be honest, I'm easily distracted as well as busy in my personal life.

But, since I've been gone, I've run a couple races and done okay-ish. Last weekend I ran a 10K and got first! For men in my age group! Out of two people! With a 26 second lead! If I ever ran for time I'd be pretty stoked, but I'm just glad I got to run a 10K in a wizard hat (it was a Halloween-themed run, so hopefully someone got a picture of me running in that hat because it was fucking awesome). I also went camping with my girlfriend without getting rained out, went to a friend's wedding up north, and ate a lot of Taco Bell, so it's been pretty great.

Next week I plan to write about some of the ghost stories from the hotel instead of an apology for lacking content, so look forward to that.

So, uh... see you next week?

Tune In, Turn On, and Hike Out

Between late spring and mid-summer, like bears coming out of hibernation or birds migrating south for the winter, hundreds of exhausted, dirt-caked hikers from the Pacific Crest Trail come into the front country and resupply in Lone Pine. You see their gaunt frames in the post office light up as they open packages of food like Christmas presents. They congregate outside the local bar and swap stories about their time on the trail, drunk and cocksure. I meet and greet them more often than not as they traverse Main Street for a cheap hotel room.

After about 750 miles of hiking the 2660 mile trail, I'd imagine someone would appreciate a break from eating dehydrated food, pooping in bags, and wearing the same pair of socks for days at a time. It's safe to assume that other thru-hikers, whether on the Appalachian Trail, John Muir Trail, and so on, don't mind a reprieve from the great outdoors, but I nevertheless ask people why they decided to thru-hike. The answers are generally similar; to escape, to let go, get out of the rat race and re-learn how to live.

It's a romantic notion, Hippie bullshit for sure, but still romantic.

I talked to a couple of self-proclaimed "hiker trash" the other night out by the hot tub at my place of work, and I asked about life on the trail and what they thought of it so far. Over the sound of singing and an off-tuned guitar, they drunkenly rambled about how beautiful the scenery is, how blue the sky is every day, and how amazing the people they meet are. One guy tried to convince me to go out myself.

"I used to work corporate, man," he began, "I lived out on the East Coast working for a big company, y'know, climbing that corporate ladder and shit, when I decided, 'Fuck it, I want something different.' So I sold my stuff and got on the trail. Anyone can do it, man. It's so worthwhile to do it, and you totally should!"

I said I'd think about it. I'll probably stick to shorter trips though since I have bills and responsibilities, but I didn't tell him that part.

The PCT is almost like a wilderness version of 1960s Haight-Ashbury, full of backcountry beatniks and hiker hippies. Jaded by the expectations of modern society, hundreds of people decide to make their mark on the world by abandoning it. They migrate from all over the world to join the new way of living, only instead of tuning in, turning on, and dropping out in tiny apartments in San Francisco the people on the trail are doing it in tiny tents. The hippie community isn't confined to a city, either; it spans thousands of miles and changes every day.

As far as counter-culture movements go, the PCT is pretty different. The Summer of Love types protested the Vietnam War, made movements in the arts, and evolved thinking about gender and race, and the echos of their impact on modern society. The PCT, though, seem more of a personal evolution rather than a social-political one. The 1960s counter-culture movement worked toward changing the world, but the PCT seems more of a means to change the self and to encourage others to do the same. Instead of communal living in an urban setting or in an established location, the PCT does so in a nomadic way like a sort of ancient tribe. They've swapped bell bottom pants and suede vests for nylon short-shorts and t-shirts, but at least they both kept the trait of being smelly and dirty I guess.

Living in a society that puts so much emphasis on social media, 24-hour news, constant streams of information thanks to the internet, and living constantly at full throttle, a counter-culture based on walking in the woods for long periods of time makes sense. With the recent release of the film adaptation of the novel Wild, a lot of people are hitting the trail, but I think the underlying need to break away and find yourself still seems to be the main reason people have for hiking the PCT and other thru-trails.

Yards

I took a walk around town earlier today and looked at the houses on the various streets. Lone Pine has a eclectic mix of architectural styles, so it's sometimes kind of interesting to see modular homes next to century-old houses next to ranch styles from the '60s. A lot of things stand out when looking at any house; how the paint looks, the stucco holds up, the whole of the building is maintained, and the yard appears, and since we're in a drought here in California I spent a lot of my focus on the latter. Some are weed patches, others are overgrown, and a few actually look pretty great, but one question wouldn't leave my mind:

What's even the point of a yard?

A common thing I'd noticed with the most manicured yards in town was their... blandness. A swath of solid green, uninterrupted except for possibly a cement walkway, a row of bushes or flowers in front and a house in the background, and the evidence of it being meticulously mowed and watered are all that's left to show for the work and resources put into it. It's like a blank wall; there's so much ignored potential to actually make it interesting but it's left as just a boring empty space. It's something someone can look at and say, "I'm proud of that monochromatic patch of land, even though it's automatically watered and tended to by gardeners and serves no purpose other than... I don't know, status, I guess."

I don't get it. I mowed lawns for a long time, and aside from using a lot of water and harboring mosquitos in the summer I never really grasped what the appeal in a big yard was. According to the Association of California Water Agencies a 1,000 square foot lawn can use up to 75,000 gallons of water a year, which is bad enough even if one doesn't consider that it's 75,000 gallons use on growing something that's actually literally useless. It's water that's not used for drinking, cooking, washing, or pooping (unless you're a dog, I guess); it's used as a sacrifice to potentially impress your neighbors and maybe keep some dust down in the least efficient manner possible.

Opting for smaller lawns, planting local and drought-resistant flora, utilizing rock work, planting an actual garden instead of a lawn, and other more creative landscaping ideas would help save water and potentially better utilize the water used outside residential homes. Plus, it can help a home look a hell of a lot more interesting than some 1950s idyllic image of what a place should look like, which can at least help make a block look a bit more in touch with the reality of the state's situation.

Basically, all I ask of you, dear reader, is to consider what the point of your yard is. Save some money, save a lot of water, and get creative with your landscaping.

A Camping Gear Catalog

When I was a kid in Cub Scouts I had a subscription to Boy's Life Magazine. To be honest, I don't remember much about the magazine. It probably had articles on being an active member of the community, being physically fit, and other stuff that Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts are supposed to be, but one thing I remember about it is one of their sponsors: Campmor.

Campmor had a catalog, and growing up in the age before Backcountry.com meant the catalog was the only way elementary school me could ogle at outdoor gear, so I convinced my mom to get me a subscription. Most of the images in the newsprint catalog were illustrations of products, and the product descriptions weren't the most descriptive, but I loved imagining what it'd be like if I could be outfitted with the Campmor packs, tents, and clothes I could never afford. Aside from a t-shirt printed with multicolored frogs (it was the 90s, I was a kid, and that shirt was hella rad), I never bought anything from them, but they sent catalogs all throughout my childhood and well into my teen years.

At some point, the catalogs stopped coming. I discovered online shopping, and I became well acquainted with the gear shop in town. I have backpacking gear, a car camping kit, hiking stuff, climbing equipment, and trail running accessories, and I'm pretty content with what I have. It's been awhile since I've been in the market for a new pack or tent, but I still check out the latest additions to Backcountry's inventory and the new stuff at Elevation here in Lone Pine, because it's fun to see what I can add to or upgrade in my inventory. That's been the case for me ever since I started getting the Campmor catalog.

It's getting close to a couple decades since I talked my mom into subscribing to the catalog, and since that point I've moved to a few different addresses, moved away from home, and never bothered to re-up my subscription to Campmor. However, when I checked the mail today, the little newsprint catalog for Summer 2015 was sitting in my post office box. I thumbed through it when I got home, seeing some of the items I wanted as a kid were taken out and some stuff in it were things I already own, but the illustrations and vague descriptions are just how I remember them from childhood.

How did it find me, though? How has it managed to follow me for nearly 20 years now? Should I be worried?

Are the deals in the "Super Special Deals" section really that special? Were they ever?

Should I finally get the crap I wanted as a kid?

Update on Last Week's Post

I can't think about anything interesting to write about this week, so I'll give a short follow-up on last week's post:

After posting this and sharing the link on Facebook, a few of my friends shared the post, and that might be part of why it's currently the most viewed post on this blog. It was suggested that I share the post with the superintendent of LPUSD, or even print it and mail it to the school, but... I spaced that. I wasn't sure anyone from the school would read it, nor did I really think anyone would actually care about the post, so I pitched it to the world and waited to see if any surprises would come up.

Then, a couple nights ago, I was walking home and noticed the sprinklers of the Lone Pine High School lawn weren't soaking the streets and were barely hitting the sidewalks. Last night was the same thing; all the sprinklers started at 11:05 PM, all watering the grass, no jets of water shooting up 20 feet in the air and into the street like they used to.

Was it just coincidental that they dealt with the sprinkler system less than a week after I called them out on wasting water? Did I make a difference in my community with the open letter? Did my writing actually influence someone or something?

I don't know. It's probably just a coincidence.

Still, it's nice they dealt with the water park in front of the high school.

An Open Letter to Lone Pine Unified School District

To whom it may concern:

Happy Earth Day! As you may know, today is a day to recognize conservation and reduction of waste and pollution, and our current day and age is a prime example of the importance of protecting our environment and natural resources. Being where we are-- in the beautiful Owens Valley of California-- means we have a pretty strong sense of human impact on the environment; the Los Angeles DWP water projects that dried up the Owens Lake over a century ago, the alkali dust from the lake bed that hangs in the air during the all-too-common windy days, and the aquifers that have yet to be repaired from groundwater pumping are things we see all around us pretty regularly. Along with the entire state in a drought crisis--all while the City of Los Angeles still diverts water from here to the LA Basin-- it's up to all of us to be conscious of what we do with such a precious and finite resource.

Which brings me to why I am writing this letter: Please fix the damn sprinklers in front of Lone Pine High.

I live near the school, and pass it every day on my way to work. Every night when I come home, huge torrents of water gush out of the sprinkler heads and water the sidewalks and streets. Awhile back I assumed it was simply sprinklers that had been damaged by a lawn mower or a bored student, but after a few years it seems to me it's just negligence with the system. Sure, the grass in front of the high school looks nice most of the time, but to dump water into the street during a statewide crisis-- and in a place with its own history of water and riparian issues-- is pretty dumb. It makes you look bad to people driving by on Highway 395, and it's probably costing you a lot of money that you should probably hold on to (state funding for education is never great, y'know).

I don't feel my request is a big one, nor do I believe it to be impossible or too costly to make minor repairs and adjustments to your sprinkler system. The school is a fixture in town, and it's one of the first things you see driving in from the south, so I believe it'd be worthwhile for the image of our community, and in the benefit of our local environment, to stop watering the sidewalks so much. They don't need the water. We do.

Thank you for your consideration,


A.J. Hampton

Hikin' (pt. 2)

I decided to go hiking last Sunday. The weather was great, my day was free, and I was curious if the roads to the trailheads in the Sierras were open, so I threw some stuff in my CamelBak and headed toward Onion Valley, outside of my old home town of Independence. Sure enough, the "ROAD CLOSED" sign was flipped around and the road was mostly clear, so I drove up a ways to an old dirt road. I walked along the old road-turned-foot-trail, not really sure if I'd bother getting to the end of it or not, and took in the sights and sounds of the day.

I forget where that road goes, but I'm pretty sure there was a mine at the end of it that was destroyed by an avalanche over a century ago. One point along the road is a wash with a few twisted and rusted remnants of mining equipment, so I think the avalanche thing might be right. Either that, or a flash flood took everything out. Maybe they just got fed up with mining and threw their mine carts off a cliff.

I should brush up on my local history.

Anyway, as I was walking along I got the sense that something was watching me. Thoughts of mountain lions popped into my head and every boulder, hill, and bush seemed to hide a big cat waiting for me to be dinner. It was most likely just paranoid thinking; there weren't any signs there was one in the area, no paw prints, no poop, nothing. Still, that paranoia hung around, and I'd started to wish I had invited someone to come along with me.

I heard a rustling in the bushes. Grabbing a rock, I stood in the middle of the trail and stared at the brush, waiting to see what critter was hanging out.

Deer began piling out from behind the brush like it was a clown car. At least a dozen does sprinted up the hillside, probably thinking I was the mountain lion I was so paranoid about. I laughed to myself and watched the deer, a mere stones throw away (I had a stone but I didn't actually test the distance with it), dart up higher and blend in to the scrub foliage above. I felt a little bad for spooking them; they were probably just hanging out, doing deer stuff, but I had to come along and rain on their parade. Sure, they scared me too, but I was kind of barging around their home and all.

I moseyed around that area awhile, then headed up to Onion Valley to run around (and slip in patches of snow, and nearly twist my ankle). On my way back down into the valley, driving down the winding road, a bunch of deer ran across the road. I moved at a snails pace as a dozen or more deer scampered further up the hillside. I thought to myself, Are they the same deer from earlier? Are they following me? but remembered there are a lot of deer, and even if they were the same deer I was, like I said, in their home, so I just smiled and watched them trot out of eyesight.

Wildlife is pretty neat.

Runnin' (pt. 3)

The silence from a sleepless night of laying in bed was broken by the alarm on my phone. It was early in the morning-- well before sunrise-- and I lazily pulled on shorts and a pair of running shoes while Stephanie woke up. After getting ready, we walked to her car, drove through the Jack In The Box drive-thru for coffee, and headed down the freeway to Agoura Hills for our very first half marathon.

When Stephanie pitched the idea of running a half marathon to me, I was a bit unsure if it was a good idea. When she told me she'd signed the both of us up I was a little bit terrified. She and I have ran a few 5k fun runs, and we both run pretty regularly, but 13.1 miles of running was really, really, really daunting. Running is something I do casually; I generally don't really care about what time I get per mile, how far I go, or if I place any higher than second-to-last in a race, but knowing I would be up against a longer course than I've ever tried to run before freaked me out. All I wanted to do was finish the race in once piece.

And, surprisingly enough, I did finish in one piece!

But it still felt like I was falling apart by the end.

We got registered, pinned our bibs to our shirts, stretched out a little, and made our way to the starting line. With the countdown, the race began and the mob of people began to run. The sun was just getting over the hills, my breath still fogging, so I was happy to get moving to warm up. It didn't take too long for me to start to zone out on my breathing and the sound and feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, so aside from a couple water stops the first few miles blurred out of my memory. The sun got higher in the sky and the green hillsides lit up as the morning unfolded. I was so happy to be in such a lovely new place with my girlfriend, and I was so happy to share that moment with her.

That is, except I wasn't sure where she was. I stopped for a little while and looked back, wondering if she'd passed me or if I'd passed her. I waited for a little bit in hopes of getting to her again, but realized I'd lost ten minutes of my run time by standing around. I didn't realize it at that moment, but that was the one time I honestly gave a shit about my final time. I'd been following the two-hour-forty-five-minute pacer from the get-go, occasionally passing her and watching her pass me, because that's who Stephanie and I opted to follow at first, so I got the lead out and caught up to that pacer while looking around for my missing girlfriend.

It was getting hotter, and I was trying to get as much water from my CamelBak as I could. After charging up a hill for what seemed like forever and getting to a narrower, winding downhill stretch, it seemed like my water was leaking. I was concerned; I wasn't sure if I could keep going if I only got a tiny cup of water every few miles. I kept going, drinking what I could, and realized water was getting all over my face. Was there something wrong with the nozzle? Was that why it seemed like it was leaking?

No. It was sweat. I was just really, really sweaty. My beard and mustache held in the sweat like a sponge, and my back was drenched with it too. After inspecting my CamelBak and realizing my gear was fine (and I was just an idiot) I slung it back on my back, and the shock of cold sweat on a pack hitting the cold sweat on my back propelled me further down the road.

By mile nine or ten-- I stopped paying much attention well before that point-- the cramping began. My right leg, sides, arms (for some reason), muscles I didn't even know I had, and muscles I'm not even sure I had were screaming at me to stop. Every hill seemed more and more vertical. Every GU pouch and tiny paper cup of Gatorade tasted like manna from heaven. The bonked out limping-then-running-then-walking world I found myself in was... well, actually kind of pretty with the rolling green hills and the sun hanging in the sky, but my brain screaming for my body to quit distracted me a little bit from the gorgeous day.

I continued on, bonked, sore, sweating, and beautifully miserable, thinking about how great passing out in a comfy bed would be and how long it'd been since I'd eaten Burger King, when one of the many high school kids that had been serving as a sort of cheer squad yelled, "You're almost there! It's, like, less than a mile!"

A dirt path leading up a hill and toward the final stretch greeted me. I thanked the kid and pushed myself to run a little harder, my muscles caught fire, my soul started to consider ditching the earthly vessel that kept running despite all protest. I wasn't going fast, but I was moving quicker than I thought I could considering how bad I ached, and once the finish line came into view I ran like I'd just gotten out of the gate. I walked as normally as I could to a booth where they gave me a medal. I stared at it, then got my true reward; a bottle of water and a shady spot to sit for a couple minutes. Once I met up with Stephanie, we hobbled to the shuttle back to her car, got Burger King, went home, showered, and died for the rest of the weekend.

Somehow, even after

the race, my legs never

got any more tan.

My time wasn't great, but I'm glad to have even finished (plus, I met the goal I'd originally set on Twitter! I win!). Thirteen miles in almost three hours isn't lightning fast, but I'll roll with it because I ran it for the sake of running it. The experience was enlightening, humbling, and kind of fun in a sadistic sort of way. I learned I can push myself beyond what I thought I could do, that sometimes it's okay to take a quick breather, and that it probably is a lot better to run, sleep, eat, and stretch before running that much. I'm very much okay with sticking to races under 10K from here on out, but maybe one day I'll get a half marathon in under two-and-a-half hours or better.

Until then, though, I'll keep my running casual.

Quick Update 3-25-15

Hi reader! Sorry I haven't updated this blog in awhile, I've been really busy with life and work and everything in-between.

Because of unseasonably warm weather, people have been travelling to the area and staying at the hotel and I've been getting out of town (or at least out of the house) on the weekends. I only just caught up on sleep last night after going nearly nonstop doing stuff since Friday morning. Coffee has been my savior, sleep has been a star crossed lover, and my schedule has been-- and continues to be-- full.

I plan to go camping and hiking a lot more once I get a free weekend, I have a half marathon to run this weekend that I'm horribly unprepared for (I'll try to write on that next week), I went to Disneyland and the coast in the last month, there are weddings and various other events to attend, and... yeah. It's been a busy few weeks and it doesn't show any signs of letting up.

I'll continue to write the same flowery, prosaic bullshit I always do soon.

In the meantime, I have to build up more stuff to write about.

And hopefully I can get a restful night's sleep one of these weeks.

The Legend of Barry

Stephanie, with snacks and a unicorn

Last weekend I was in Santa Barbara with my girlfriend. We were going to see a movie with a friend and had some time to kill before showtime, so we went to a Toys-R-Us to look for a gift for my niece's upcoming birthday. Among the countless movie franchised crap, sci-fi action figures, standard board games, badass LEGO sets, and things I wish I had as a kid but never got, there sat exactly what I was looking for; a stuffed unicorn. My mom had mentioned my niece wanted one, so I got it without hesitation (and I got fruit snacks, because hey; fruit snacks). The stuffed thing is little and purple, covered in daisy print, and is something that a seven year old girl with more toys than anything would probably appreciate for a bit. I hope she likes it, because that thing has traveled some miles with me now and I looked really hard for that specific thing.

On the long, sleepy drive back to Lone Pine late Sunday night, I started thinking up a story about the plush unicorn. It goes a little something like this:

Once upon a time, there lived a purple unicorn named Mr. Sparkles, although he'd tell you, "Please, call me Barry, Mr. Sparkles is my fathers name."

Barry lived by the seaside in a cozy-- but tastefully decorated-- condo in the sleepy beach town Prettycool. He worked as a notary for a local law firm during the week, and enjoyed local concerts on weekends. Every day after work, and every night after a show, Barry would spend an hour or so sitting on the beach, staring at the ocean waves as they crashed onto the shore. He dreamed of adventures beyond the horizon, far away from the home he always knew and away from the dramatics that came from the Law Office of Henry C. Glitterflutter, Esq. He wanted to see the world beyond the horizon, so after working hard and managing his finances, Barry finally saved up enough to set out on an adventure on the high seas.

He sailed on a boat for weeks toward destinations unknown, braving harsh storms, great swells, low provisions, and the realization that he knew nothing of sailing, but as luck would have it he found himself headed toward an archipelago that he could anchor at for awhile. He explored the seemingly abandoned island, giving an occasional, "Hmm," and, "Oh,"at things he found intriguing. He made camp in the pine forest a few miles from the bay he'd left his boat, and he spent his first night in the unknown land staring at the bright night sky through the trees. 

When morning came, Barry clomped around the island to a trailhead, and headed up the steep mountainside on an old and winding path. The trees around him became more and more sparse, until all that surrounded him was cold rock and glacier. The air was becoming thinner the higher he went, but Barry continued his ascent to the summit until... he made it. From the top of the peak he could see not only the other islands of the archipelago, but other islands far off in the misty horizon. He chuckled to himself, sure he would explore every island in short order, and started his descent to the beach.  

Down, down, down he hiked, sure of his abilities and feeling more invincible than ever, when suddenly he slipped! The loose rock of the old trail gave way under his hooves and he began to slide down the mountainside and toward a steep cliff. He tried to stop sliding toward his doom, but all hope seemed to be lost. He cried for help, and right before he slid off the side of the mountain a hand grabbed his leg and pulled him to safety.

Barry looked up and saw a mighty centaur. She wore a ball cap with the Prettycool Park Service logo and carried a walkie talkie, and explained that she was on a patrol when she noticed an unoccupied boat, empty camp, and a note that read "went to hike that big mountain over there totally alone" signed by a Mr. Barry Sparkles. Ranger Mona (her actual name was "Mona of the Terror Woods of Darkness, but she usually went by Ranger Mona for simplicity's sake) gave Barry a stern talking to, and said, "Sir, you're seriously lucky to even be alive. There's nothing wrong with adventure, but you have to be smart about it."

He made his way back to camp with the help of Ranger Mona, and made his way back to his boat after a quick rest. He sat on the beach, watching the waves roll in, and thought to himself, Dang. I've gone all this way, and even though this is a different beach I'm still staring at the same waves. I've traveled the high seas, scaled tall mountains, worked for a lawyer, and despite all those dangerous exploits I'm still staring at the same water.

He wondered if it was a waste of time, all the traveling and scares he'd  had along the way, but then he thought, I guess it's more the journey than the destination, right? I could've just stayed home, but I've had more fun looking at the waves on this island than I ever did out of my condo's kitchen window, and staring at the sky from my camp here than from the walk home from a show. This was worth it. 

Barry broke camp, resupplied at the ranger station, thanked Ranger Mona for saving his life, and set sail for home. He came back to the office, his horn chipped and rugged, mane longer and shaggier than ever, and he told story after story about the high seas, the mountains he climbed, the dangers he faced, and his plans to do it all over again smarter and better. 

 The End

It's not exactly what I'd thought up in the car, and it's not really that great, but it's a story.

A grizzled adventurer

That little plush has traveled from the coast, through valleys, mountains, and deserts, and soon it'll be in harshest landscape of all; the bedroom of a seven-year-old girl. I know one day she'll forget about it. After all, it's just a stuffed animal from her uncle, it's not some priceless heirloom. Hell, I'm sure I'll forget about it and this story I typed out before too long, but it's all for fun. You can never tell what a kid will remember though, or what stupid stories you'll make up while driving home in the dark, but I'm sure the adventures Mr. Barry Sparkles will have with my niece will be even better than his sailing and mountaineering for awhile.

A Necktie

My grandma Bette has given me a wide assortment of vintage and novelty neckties for awhile now. They come in a wide array of patterns, themes, ages, and styles, and they all make a statement. There's one tie she'd given me awhile back that I thought was a little unassuming, but it ended up being one of my favorites; it's a slim tie that's brown with a feather design. It's not quite as loud or eye-catching as some of the ties Grandma Bette has given me in the past, so I figured it would go under the radar with other folks too.

However, a few times at work I've been approached about that tie. Quite a few people over the course of months have asked me where I'd gotten it, and explained that their grandfather "had a tie exactly like that one!" before telling me to hold onto it for as long as I can. Mind you, the people telling me this are mostly middle-aged and older, so to hear I'm dressing like a grandpa from the 1960s is pretty awesome. Go figure that the least conspicuous accessory I have at work gets the most attention.

It makes me wonder what people are going to dress like in the future, though. Will bolo ties come back? Will the 1990s look of oversized shoulder pads, giant ties, and generally loose-fitting clothes be the pinnacle of dressy attire again? Are frosted tips going to rear their ugly head back into relevance? Will the short, broad ties and high-waisted slacks of the 30s be a thing again? Will rest homes of the future be filled with old women in Uggs and leggings, and old men in ugly Ed Hardy bullshit?

Will my theoretical grandchildren, 60 years down the line, see someone that dresses like me and comment on that handsome future man's handsome tie?

How often do fashion trends reoccur?

And why did all these people apparently have such handsome and well-dressed grandpas?

It's a mystery.

Delicious Duality

There is a crock pot cooking chicken and beans in my kitchen right now. My workplace meal (Is it lunch? Dinner? Who knows! Guessing is half the fun!) consists of salmon, whole grains, kale and other greens. Most days involve lots of veggies, lean protein, and various other nutritious and delicious stuff on my plate or packed for my shift, and when there's food in my cupboards and fridge it's generally pretty good for me. I give some credit to this not-so-terrible diet for getting over the cold I caught a couple weeks ago, and I think it's why I'm feeling unnecessarily energetic today.

Earlier, I walked my energetic butt to work like I usually do during the week, taking in the warm weather and the brief moment of quiet before manning the desk. The sun was shining, the mountains to either side of the valley glistened with much needed snow, and everything was pretty alright... but something sinister hung in the air. It got my attention as soon as it hit my nose, and it barged into my nostrils like an uninvited house guest.

It was the scent of the McDonald's across the street. It smelled like greasy mystery meat products, dubiously edible and definitely not good for you. As I made my way up the street, the smells from the other restaurants in town blew my way; burgers, pizza, things fried and grilled and liable to cause a heart attack in the long run wafted at me like a tidal wave of delicious, and my packed sandwich seemed a little less appealing.

I'm a big fan of health foods, sure, but I'm also kind of a junk food junkie.

I've talked about my love of pizza, and anyone who knows me knows my fixation on Taco Bell and cheeseburgers. Maybe it's because of being restricted from the crap as a kid, and maybe it's because years of science backs that the shit's addictive, but every now and then I get a pretty strong urge to get down on something processed and bad for me. I eat a balanced diet most of the week, conscious of what I'm stuffing my face with, but sometimes there's nothing I want more than an entire frozen pizza and some chicken nuggets washed down with a Mountain Dew. Some baked mahi-mahi with quinoa makes for a good dinner, but something from the drive-thru is both easy and tasty.

Luckily for me, though, I don't go overboard with the crap all the time. After gorging myself with copious amounts of junk I get lazy, and even though I don't mind being lazy every now and then it still makes me feel bad. There's so much more I could do other than loafing around to digest a bag of McDonald's cheeseburgers that when I end up in a state of McHibernation I feel guilty. After having a daily fast-food diet for a number of reasons for awhile, and being lucky enough now to not have to eat the crap all the time, learning the balance of eating food and eating "food" has been a slippery slope.

I'm stoked on the food slow cooking at home, and I'm pretty excited for the sandwich in the fridge here at work, but I'm also excited for the prospect of a bunch of fast food and junk at some point later this weekend.

On Los Angeles Freeways

Last Saturday I had the privilege to visit the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History with my girlfriend for Valentine's Day. After all, nothing says "I love you!" quite like a megamouth shark preserved in alcohol (rad), taxidermy bears and rhinos (also rad), and dinosaur fossils (hella rad), so Stephanie and I had a really good time. A couple nerds doing nerd shit on a mushy holiday is more than I could've asked for. In fact, I'd go as far as to say it was one of the best dates I've ever had ever.

However, it wasn't without a challenge.

Now, I like to think I'm a patient man. I do my best to accept most things, and it's helped me in my professional and personal life for many years. Empathy is my middle name, and I strive to keep a level head when it comes to people and most situations.

But dammit, I really hate Los Angeles freeways.

Like, a lot. A lot a lot.

Hate.

The last year or so has lead me to the roadways of the greater Los Angeles area more often than I'd ever had or wanted to before. As if my opinion on the City of Angels wasn't so high before (that water thieving bastard Mulholland is to blame for that), having to navigate--or even to just sit in a car-- through the I-5, 405, 110, and the myriad of other roadways too horrible for actual names is a real life nightmare. Throw in holiday traffic and my less-than-stellar navigation skills and you have yourself a challenge. It's amazing I made it with all (or most) of my hair. Worth it to spend the day with my girlfriend, but still, President's Day traffic is evil.

Southern California traffic sucks even without a three-day-weekend though. The roads always have junk in them consistently, even though they should have work crews on them constantly since they seem to be perpetually doing road construction. Despite people commuting on the freeways every day, nobody seems to know how to use a blinker or accelerator properly, and the concept of staying in one lane is apparently lost on too many in the Southland. God forbid a cop car or fire truck needs to get through, because almost no one is perceptive enough to give two steaming shits about their surroundings while driving on the 5.

I've never been a fan of LA. I'm not opposed to freeways in general, but I would much rather stay away from the swirling mess of concrete that leads into the heart of LA if I can help it. I'm glad Stephanie drives when we go down below because I'd probably end up in an accident after having a stroke from stress (or after Stephanie kicks my ass for driving too slow). I've been spoiled with where I live because of the lack of real traffic and how straightforward the 395 is in this neck of the woods. I do like maneuvering through some freeway traffic because the ease of driving at home makes actual driving a little more challenging, but it's a little different when the assholes on the road are moving either at lightning speed three inches away from you or cutting you off before dropping your speed in half.

Anyway, check out the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History because the museum is way awesome and informative, and do so sometime before rush hour and not on a holiday weekend because the 110 is bullshit.

Seriously, City of Los Angeles, get your shit together.

I Got A Peaceful, Icky Feeling

Monday morning started off pretty well. I was well rested, full of energy, and ready to tackle the work week that was sure to be a breeze. The weather outside was warm and clear after raining during the weekend, and I soaked in the sun and fresh air before going in for work later in the day. Work was the same as it always is, but I was clear-headed and energetic enough to do my work as well as possible. It was a good sign that the week was going to be promising, so I went to bed on Monday with plans to knock out my to-do list by Friday.

Tuesday morning came, and I woke up feeling like dog shit.

Where did this cold come from? Why is it not bad enough to call in to work but also not mild enough to ignore? When was the last time I even actually got sick?

It's my second day feeling icky from whatever bug I managed to pick up from last weekend, and while I'm feeling a little better than yesterday I'm still coughing up half a lung every other minute and aching all over. When a big part of your job is speaking to people, both over the phone and in person, plugged up ears and a sore throat don't make things easy, and being tired and cranky makes wearing a smile for eight or nine hours a superhuman feat. I still managed to go through yesterday as well as ever but I would have rather been laying on my couch with some soup and Netflix instead of rushing around the desk and answering phones.

I shouldn't be complaining too much. If anything, I'm getting off lucky so far. A fair chunk of people I know have been getting bronchitis, some so bad they've been sent to the ER. While my ailment should be able to get cleared up with patience and sucking it up, my friends have to take antibiotics and confine themselves to bed. Some people are getting the flu ('tis the season after all) and are stuck waiting by a bucket or the toilet for something less than desirable and all kinds of gross. Kids of terrible parents are getting measles from Disneyland too, which doesn't even mention the other kinds of diseases theme parks full of children can carry.

Basically, I'm not doing too bad by comparison, and as long as I remember that fact I might be able to ignore the congestion headache and the raspy feeling in my throat. If I manage to convince myself I feel fine it should come true.

If you're feeling ill today, get well soon. Get plenty of rest, drink plenty of fluids, intake plenty of vitamins and stuff to help your body out, and catch up on some TV shows. If you feel bad enough to take a day off-- and you're able to-- do it.

Otherwise, take my lead and pretend to be in perfect health in-between coughing fits and groans.

My Wristwatch

I had a few minutes before I had to leave for work earlier today, so I grabbed my lunch from the fridge, tied my tie, and put on my watch. I glanced down at my wrist to see what time frame I was working with, but realized the watch read half past noon. I looked at my phone, which said the time was a quarter 'til three. Glancing between the watch and the phone, I let out a groan at the realization that my favorite watch had died. I tossed it onto the chair next to my bed, grabbed another watch from the dresser, and made my way to work.

In an age where people carry veritable computers in their pockets, it's not really all that necessary to even wear a watch; if you want to know the time you can look at your phone, and while you're at it you can check your email, calendar, Facebook, bank statements, and essentially run circles around the arm clock. Regardless, I like them. I didn't always wear one, but dressing for work doesn't seem complete until that slight weight is on my wrist. I'd say it "makes the look" but that's probably just my imagination, even though it might be more professional looking than reaching at my back pocket whenever someone asks for the time.

I bought the watch about three years ago. I don't remember why; probably because I thought it looked cool or I had some extra cash, but it was a good investment as far as I was concerned. I wore it rock climbing and cracked the face, during hikes and got it dirty and dusty under the glass, and occasionally while sleeping and stretched the holes on the band. It was a little worse for wear, but I still liked it best. I've worn it to work almost every day for the last three years regardless of the dirt and cracks because it served its purpose of keeping time and being super comfy on my arm.

I might find a jeweler to replace the battery or whatever at some point, but I'm not in that big a rush. Besides, with how beat to death it looks it might be worth investing in another one. Now that I only have one working wristwatch it'd be a good idea to have another backup for when the other croaks.

Plus, it'll help me look sharp for work.

That's important I guess.

Postcards

I went to the post office this afternoon. I don't get mail that often aside from bills and junk mail disguised as "community announcements" showcasing events I can't attend, so when I saw a small stack of post cards sitting in the box I was kind of excited. They were from a friend of mine living in North Dakota, the cards being from a brewery that apparently has awesome food and beer. She doodled animals and other silly things on the cards, and I couldn't help but laugh at the surprise the mail gave me. The thought was really nice, and I was happy to finally solve the mystery of why she wanted my post office box number, so I put them on display on the fridge.

Postcards are interesting. There isn't enough space on them to convey a very long message, nor are can the messages on them be private since they're just on the backside of the card. Generally the front is a picture of a place or event or whatever-- sort of like a snapshot the sender took except taken by someone else at some point beforehand at a very flattering angle. They serve their purpose well as a "Wish You Were Here!" gesture, or at least a "Check Out The Cool Shit I'm Doing!" one. If nothing else, it shows that someone is thinking enough about me to spend a couple minutes on a short message and thirty-four cents on postage on me. It's the pre-internet era of a "Hey you!" Facebook wall post, and I think that's swell.

I think people should send post cards more often. It's not to say social media messages are a bad thing or that the occasional surprise text isn't worthwhile, but there's something about jotting down a little message on the back of a photo card and sending it through the mail that feels more personal. I received three in a row with pictures of a bar in front and drawings of a capybara, a moose, and a hippo on the back (respectively), and they made my day. The post office shouldn't have to be just the bill pick-up station. Have some fun with postage every now and again.

Snail mail something nice to someone sometime.

That Time With That Bear: Campin', pt. 2

Like I've said before, living along the Eastern Sierras means I grew up with plenty of camping trips. There's nothing finer than waking up with the sun and cold morning dew, stiff and dirty, and ready to seize the day after seizing a strong cup of coffee made over a fire. Making camp miles from anywhere opens up great opportunities to see things dreams are made of, like unobstructed sunrises through tall pine trees or views of the Milky Way suspended above the mesh roof of a tent in the desert. It's the kind of adventure that helps a person appreciate the natural world-- or, at the very least, a hot shower and a comfortable bed. It's something stories are made of.

Even if those stories are actually misadventures, they still make for a story.

I like to tell this one. I'm sure I've written about it before in at least one of the blogs I've lost to the sands of time and forgotten passwords, but it's one from my time as a kid in Bridgeport, California. It's a little town known for trout fishing, hunting, winter sports like snowshoeing, and other recreation in its immediate area, including camping. One summer day my father decided to take me camping, and I happily tagged along. We took his truck to a place called Buckeye Canyon, about 20 miles west of town with at least a quarter of the drive being a winding dirt road. A creek ran through the canyon, and scrub brush and pines covered the narrow expanse and campsite he decided to settle. We hiked, set up camp, and all that other father-son bonding stuff. Once it got dark we started a fire, made some food, cleaned up, and turned in for the night.

I insisted that I break in my "new" tent since I'd just bought the dusty $5 army surplus antique, so I laid in the stuffy canvas thing awake with a headache and a sinking feeling that my five spot could have been better spent. The night dragged on, and I could hear my father snoring a few yards away in his nice nylon tent. Pride kept me in my mildewy prison, so the night dragged on. The sounds of the creek and the little woodland creatures melded with the silence, which made the sounds of huge lumbering footsteps all the more obvious sometime around midnight.

We assumed leaving the cooler with the milk and eggs wouldn't garner any attention. We locked the one with the bacon and other tasty stuff away, all of our trash was properly disposed of, and the milk and eggs were in sealed containers inside a sealed container. However, as our luck would have it, the big black bear that came across our camp saw the cooler and was curious to know what was inside. I saw the thing through the mesh door of my tent-- massive, black, grumbling while sniffing at the old metal ice chest. She lifted the box over her head with one paw-- that box, mind you, being a pretty heavy metal thing full of stuff that she lifted with one paw-- and dropped it to the ground effortlessly. I heard my dad rush out of his tent, shouting at the bear to leave (along with other colorful language I'm pretty sure came out but I forgot) only to have the bear look at him in a "What do you think you're going to do?" way. My dad went back into his tent, and we waited the bear out until she left.

It was quiet after awhile. My heart was racing, and my headache was pretty much forgotten about. I saw the light from my dads lantern glowing through the walls of his tent.

"Hey, Aaron?" My dad said calmly.

"Yeah?" I responded.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You want to just go home for the night?"

"Yeah."

We left the camp as it was, not too concerned about anything being stolen since the huge hungry bear hanging around the camp was a bit more of an issue at the time. We got back home hours before the dawn, and once my head met my pillow I was down for the count. After a hearty breakfast and a much more cushy morning than what I'd expected, we drove back to our camp to assess the damage the bear had caused.

The old Coleman cooler was open on the ground, with claw marks punctured into the corner of the lid, eggs cracked all around, and the paper milk carton ripped open and drained. We weren't aware bears could be so crazy about milk (marketing executives for dairy farming, I'll be waiting for an advertising position, I have some ideas for commercials) but other than the mess from the cooler, the camp was serene. Our tents stood untouched. The fire ring was cold and full of the ashes from the night before. The morning sun, tall pine trees, and scattered scrub set the beautiful backdrop to what had been the scene of a black bear food robbery the night before, and as we broke camp I couldn't wait to get back out again.

It wasn't my first time camping and dealing with bears, and it certainly wasn't the last. It's nice when everything goes without a hitch, but dealing with the local wildlife and unfavorable weather make for good stories. Misadventures, like having breakfast stolen by a bear in the night or being run out of camp by a lightning storm, keep things exciting. They mix things up! Of course, it's nice not having the ever-living shit scared out of me by a massive black bear that could have easily mauled my face off and stolen my breakfast, but because I experienced that trip I gained an even greater respect for the outdoors and a better understanding of how strong and badass bears can be (even if they aren't ghost warriors with a thirst for vengeance).

Remember: don't feed the bears, and have fun regardless if things go as planned or not.

Adventures in Amateur Plumbing

I spent most of yesterday morning cleaning house like I typically do on mornings when I need to focus the energy from my daily coffee binge. Sweeping, vacuuming, taking out the trash, and all the other usual chores were attended to until I reached the most arduous chore of all; cleaning the bathroom. I'm not much of a fan of it since it's a cold, tiny tile room that never seems to stay clean for long, and being in that poorly ventilated cubbyhole with cleaning chemical fumes makes it a drag. Nevertheless, armed with a spray bottle of lemon scented cleaner and a rag, I started to clean.

After scrubbing the toilet and taking out the bathroom trash, I began to wipe down the sink and noticed a drip... drip... drip coming from underneath. Puzzled, since the sink had been mostly clogged for awhile at that point, I looked underneath and saw droplets of water from the trap pipe hitting my scale. I felt underneath to see where the leak was coming from, but as I brushed my fingers over the base of the pipe, they caught something and gross drain water began to spew out. After cursing a lot about the added mess, I sopped up the water and thought about how to fix the issue. I could call a plumber, but that requires more money for a relatively simple fix. I could call the landlord, but that seems like a lot more hassle for a relatively simple fix. I opted for the best solution (in my mind) and decided to fix the bastard myself. It's just one busted drain pipe, after all.

How hard of a fix could that be?

I went to the hardware store, picked up a new pipe, went home, went back to the hardware store to get a new pipe that wasn't too big, went home, and went to swapping the pipes out. After struggling to get the old trap pipe off it finally budged. "Oh," I mumbled to myself before shouting, "OHHH gross... UGH! Agh!" as years of gunk and grossness spilled onto the floor and myself. If the ghost from The Grudge was real and doll-sized it would probably have looked like the mess that splashed on me and hung in the pipes. I'd go into detail, but... you don't want details. I took a much deserved break from the biohazardous nightmare fuel, and proceeded to work.

After some time everything seemed to be connected. The floor and sink basin were a muddy mess, sure, but the pipes were all there, the connections were nice and tight, and everything was going to work out wonderfully. Except, y'know, once I got the water running and water leaked from every conceivable nook and cranny. I was a bit miffed at the situation, especially after spending so much time on a simple fix that wasn't even fixed, but I was also running late for work, so I put the project on hold, brushed my teeth while I took a shower, and went on with my day.

Today I enlisted my dad, either for his wisdom and experience in being so handy with home improvements or for confirmation that I wasn't as stupid as I thought and that the drain issue was a mystery. We got more pipes, gaskets, cuts and scrapes, only to find that the pipes weren't so much the issue as was the sink itself; being from the 1930s or 1940s, some structural things with it don't match up with the more standardized hardware of today. That might explain why nobody's probably messed with the plumbing for so many years, but hard water and countless tenants is bound to rust out a cheap metal pipe after a couple decades, so it was inevitable. Either way, the gaskets wouldn't seal off the hole in the sink enough because it was wider and wonkier than they could handle. The whole project, as my father repeated a number of times throughout the day, was "caddywampus". I settled with calling it "fucked" but he was right too.

I'll call the property manager tomorrow. I mean, I already have most of the needed parts, but I think it'd be more productive to get professionals in to look at it and say, "What the fuck?" instead of doing the same thing myself. I don't care to work in the bathroom more than I have to, and go figure it's been two days of dismantling it and putting it back together. I'm cool with letting someone else do it.

The moral of the story is this; don't bother cleaning the bathroom because something might break and ruin your Tuesday.

Or, maybe, sometimes you might need to break down and ask for actual help. I don't know.

That sink pisses me off so much.

The Scenic Route

Bakersfield faded off in the distance while I made my way through a river of headlights. I'd left the city after dark, and was making my way south to Lancaster amid the post-rush hour traffic. Usually the 58 freeway would be my go-to choice to get out of Bakersfield, but I wanted to try something different so I opted for the 99 to the I-5, which would send me over the Grapevine and into the far western reaches of the Antelope Valley via Highway 138. It'd been years since I'd gone that way, and the only two times I had gone that route were during daylight and in the opposite direction, so I excitedly weaved my way through the trucks and commuters on their way to destinations unknown.

By the time I got on the 138 the road became empty. I'd gotten used to oncoming headlights from the other lane, slow moving trucks to my right, and luxury cars going breakneck speeds to my left, so the pale and washed out landscape at the base of the Los Padres National Forest was a surreal sight. The moon hung overhead and cast long shadows from the sagebrush and occasional tree. The water off Quail Lake glinted in the breeze, and the big white mansion to the south of it sat as stately as ever. A tiny roadside gas station near the town of Neenach had a lonely neon "OPEN" sign and a couple old timers talking out front. Signs warning of flooded roads sat unneeded in the silty shoulder of the road. The occasional big rig passed by. A pickup passed me and turned toward Rosamond. All was calm before heading back to the freeway into Lancaster.

After a great and well-deserved relaxed weekend with my girlfriend (Jack in the Box burgers and "Ultimate Survival Alaska" are never as good without you, Stephanie) I made my way back home the next evening. Driving down Highway 395 so often, and usually driving at night, I forget to take in the scenery more often than not, but seeing Red Rock Canyon bathed in the moonlight caught my attention. Every canyon looked to be filled with inky darkness, and the grayscale moonscape stretched on for what seemed like forever. Even though I've driven through that canyon a hundred times at least at all hours of the day, it still seemed otherworldly, I guess. Interesting. Foreign. Like I'd made a wrong turn and ended up in a black-and-white photo.

It was pretty.

I used to take longer routes to places a lot, and I'd get lost... a lot. Desert backroads were constantly frequented places before I completely destroyed the Jeep, but now that I have a more economical car I can go down the dark desert highways like The Eagles sang about. Even if it's a road I've been on before-- or been on a lot-- I can still get the beauty out of the trip if I allow a shift in perspective. Maybe it's because I'm spoiled with the view from my front room or from the office; the east side of the Sierra Nevadas juts up jaggedly right outside my window, and seeing some of the most dramatic mountains in the state can make everything else seem kinda... meh. That's why I like taking the scenic route and looking at places in (literally) a different light. It mixes things up and keeps aesthetics interesting.

I hope to have more adventures as the year continues, and to see the world as beautifully as possible.