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.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
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.
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.
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