They're kinda cool, or I think at least...
This is the one in LA; notice the Spanish revival style:
This is the art-deco style one in LB; it was too dense to get the whole structure full on in a picture, but it's still pretty neat:
Friday, April 29, 2011
Western Terminus Post Offices
I'm going to share with everyone two pictures, one from Los Angeles and one from Long Beach, of those respective terminus post offices, the main postal depots in each of those cities that handle the most weight of US postal material. The respective hubs, if you will.
They're kinda cool, or I think at least...
This is the one in LA; notice the Spanish revival style:
This is the art-deco style one in LB; it was too dense to get the whole structure full on in a picture, but it's still pretty neat:
They're kinda cool, or I think at least...
This is the one in LA; notice the Spanish revival style:
This is the art-deco style one in LB; it was too dense to get the whole structure full on in a picture, but it's still pretty neat:
What a Different Time
Imagine an American football player; an offensive lineman, let's say. He guards the quarterback against the oncoming rush and blitzes of the defense. A professional, he's able to make a living and get decent time off during the year, but maybe he's also discontent. Maybe he has bad feelings about the violence in his sport, about the glorification of that violence in an ever-increasingly violent world. Imagine a war of choice occurring, a war on the other side of the planet that sends young boys off to inflict damage and have damage inflicted upon them, and that this war has effected this player's thoughts on his professional sport.
A six year veteran, this player could be coming from today's world. What would that player do? Right now, I imagine he'd be hoping the labor strife gets worked out in time (go players!), but he'd probably swallow the pill and collect as much money as possible.
He probably wouldn't write a letter to the owner of his team saying:
Someday you are going to have to decide what is most important to you, the profit you make and the property you own or the establishment of a democratic egalitarian society. In such a society football as a professional sports activity will no longer take place and I hope that when the barricades are drawn you will be on the right side.
Rick Sortun, a six year veteran with the St. Louis Cardinals (now Arizona Cardinals), wrote that in a letter to Stormy Bidwell, the Cardinal owner in 1970. As you might imagine, most of Rick's story has been erased from the internet, and unless you happen to read an obscure interview from Dave Zirin's blog site with Dave Meggyesy, you might never know his story.
Rick left pro football and joined a socialist movement, working toward a socialist revolution in America. He played football from sixth grade until he left for political reasons even though he "hated playing football. I stuck it out...because it was the only way I knew to make $30,000 a year and still have six months off."
He was the leader of the progressives on the Cardinals, and helped mentor the aforementioned Dave Meggyesy, who left pro football in a slightly more spectacular fashion, with a tell-all book, but for many of the same reasons. Sortun and Meggyesy organized a petition for their Missouri congressman to vote against escalating the conflict in Vietnam, and got most of their Cardinal teammates to sign it.
A third player labeled a "pro dropout" at the time was Chip Oliver. He was a growing star who discovered LSD (I imagine), and left the game to move in permanently to the San Francisco commune he'd been living at and rediscover himself. Chip got fed-up with, among other things, his teammates asking him to hook them up with the hippie chicks he was living with. It was a far less political reason that Rick and Dave, but he still left.
All three were happy to rid themselves of the game. They are the three main reasons that pro teams began to do extensive background checks into their draft choices; they don't want to be blindsided by choices that undermine their investments.
In today's age you have Ricky Williams, a running back chosen first overall in the draft nearly a decade ago. Ricky, after failing a few successive marijuana tests, announced that he was quitting football and moving to India to work with a famous Yogi. He left for a year, maybe two, but returned, and is a starter with the Miami Dolphins.
Integrity and politics making athletically gifted young men behave against the flow. How refreshing.
A six year veteran, this player could be coming from today's world. What would that player do? Right now, I imagine he'd be hoping the labor strife gets worked out in time (go players!), but he'd probably swallow the pill and collect as much money as possible.
He probably wouldn't write a letter to the owner of his team saying:
Someday you are going to have to decide what is most important to you, the profit you make and the property you own or the establishment of a democratic egalitarian society. In such a society football as a professional sports activity will no longer take place and I hope that when the barricades are drawn you will be on the right side.
Rick Sortun, a six year veteran with the St. Louis Cardinals (now Arizona Cardinals), wrote that in a letter to Stormy Bidwell, the Cardinal owner in 1970. As you might imagine, most of Rick's story has been erased from the internet, and unless you happen to read an obscure interview from Dave Zirin's blog site with Dave Meggyesy, you might never know his story.
Rick left pro football and joined a socialist movement, working toward a socialist revolution in America. He played football from sixth grade until he left for political reasons even though he "hated playing football. I stuck it out...because it was the only way I knew to make $30,000 a year and still have six months off."
He was the leader of the progressives on the Cardinals, and helped mentor the aforementioned Dave Meggyesy, who left pro football in a slightly more spectacular fashion, with a tell-all book, but for many of the same reasons. Sortun and Meggyesy organized a petition for their Missouri congressman to vote against escalating the conflict in Vietnam, and got most of their Cardinal teammates to sign it.
A third player labeled a "pro dropout" at the time was Chip Oliver. He was a growing star who discovered LSD (I imagine), and left the game to move in permanently to the San Francisco commune he'd been living at and rediscover himself. Chip got fed-up with, among other things, his teammates asking him to hook them up with the hippie chicks he was living with. It was a far less political reason that Rick and Dave, but he still left.
All three were happy to rid themselves of the game. They are the three main reasons that pro teams began to do extensive background checks into their draft choices; they don't want to be blindsided by choices that undermine their investments.
In today's age you have Ricky Williams, a running back chosen first overall in the draft nearly a decade ago. Ricky, after failing a few successive marijuana tests, announced that he was quitting football and moving to India to work with a famous Yogi. He left for a year, maybe two, but returned, and is a starter with the Miami Dolphins.
Integrity and politics making athletically gifted young men behave against the flow. How refreshing.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Quick Fuel Note
Question: who is the single largest consumer of petroleum products in the world?
Answer: the United States military, at a staggering 350,000 barrels of oil a day.
One F-15 fighter jet uses the same amount of oil in one hour that the average American uses in their car for an entire year.
Just a bit of environmental cost of war that doesn't get really discussed.
Another bit could be considered the lasting environmental legacy of WWII. Truk Lagoon, an atoll archipelago in the Pacific had been a mooring spot for the Japanese fleet, and was the scene of a bombing raid by American forces that destroyed nearly the entire force.
The bottom of Truk Lagoon is littered with the many corpses of battleships and fuel tankers. They are now beginning to leak, and beautiful Truk Lagoon, with the shared blue horizon of sky and sea, smells like a gas station.
Looking around a map of lagoons in the Pacific, around Indonesia and Malaysia, it begins to get scary; the spots where either a Japanese or an American ship was sank are many...very many, and the environmental toll from their eventually leaking oil and munitions into the surrounding ocean remains to be seen.
Answer: the United States military, at a staggering 350,000 barrels of oil a day.
One F-15 fighter jet uses the same amount of oil in one hour that the average American uses in their car for an entire year.
Just a bit of environmental cost of war that doesn't get really discussed.
Another bit could be considered the lasting environmental legacy of WWII. Truk Lagoon, an atoll archipelago in the Pacific had been a mooring spot for the Japanese fleet, and was the scene of a bombing raid by American forces that destroyed nearly the entire force.
The bottom of Truk Lagoon is littered with the many corpses of battleships and fuel tankers. They are now beginning to leak, and beautiful Truk Lagoon, with the shared blue horizon of sky and sea, smells like a gas station.
Looking around a map of lagoons in the Pacific, around Indonesia and Malaysia, it begins to get scary; the spots where either a Japanese or an American ship was sank are many...very many, and the environmental toll from their eventually leaking oil and munitions into the surrounding ocean remains to be seen.
Ai Weiwei Missing
A Chinese artist and outspoken critic of the Chinese government living mostly in Berlin returned to China for an exhibition and was promptly arrested, and has now gone missing.
Ai Weiwei (pn "I way-way") has made a living as a contemporary artist who tackles controversial topics through paint and sculpture. He lived in China for many years, though he enjoyed a sizable fan base, and eventually a second home, in Berlin. He routinely made trips to China for rallies to support the release of intellectuals who'd been arrested.
His wife hasn't been able to see him, or even speak to him since his arrest. The arrest came at an awkward time for Chinese/German relations, as the German government has a large Enlightenment exhibition going in Beijing.
The irony isn't lost on some of the hand wringing German officials: an exhibition detailing the love of freedom above all coming at a time when an artist has lost his because of his art.
Some of that work is visible here.
This is the latest in an alarming wave of intellectual, artist, and dissident arrests that the Chinese government has made. Some in Germany have called for the government to bring the exhibition home, while others have called for an Ai Weiwei piece to be added. Neither of those things seem likely to be done.
Let's hope he's returned soon, or at least charged with some kind of crime using actual evidence against him.
Ai Weiwei (pn "I way-way") has made a living as a contemporary artist who tackles controversial topics through paint and sculpture. He lived in China for many years, though he enjoyed a sizable fan base, and eventually a second home, in Berlin. He routinely made trips to China for rallies to support the release of intellectuals who'd been arrested.
His wife hasn't been able to see him, or even speak to him since his arrest. The arrest came at an awkward time for Chinese/German relations, as the German government has a large Enlightenment exhibition going in Beijing.
The irony isn't lost on some of the hand wringing German officials: an exhibition detailing the love of freedom above all coming at a time when an artist has lost his because of his art.
Some of that work is visible here.
This is the latest in an alarming wave of intellectual, artist, and dissident arrests that the Chinese government has made. Some in Germany have called for the government to bring the exhibition home, while others have called for an Ai Weiwei piece to be added. Neither of those things seem likely to be done.
Let's hope he's returned soon, or at least charged with some kind of crime using actual evidence against him.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Commuting in LA
Traffic? Sure.
I have been driving to work in the mornings, early, and home in the afternoons, early enough before it gets too messy.
Where we live, in Long Beach, and where I work, in Costa Mesa, is connected by I-405. A stretch of 405 happens to be the busiest stretch of US interstate in the country, but that's not this stretch. This is probably in the top ten, though.
It's dark when I go to work in the morning, and on the occasions of going to work in the afternoon, the sun's out, but the traffic is the same. I usually drive in the third lane, at, um, let's just say rather high speeds.
One thing any driver arriving here notices is that these people know how to drive. In New York, you figure out how to walk with a purpose, and New Yorkers walk like that every moment of every jaunt. In LA, it's almost the same, but in a car.
There are seven lanes, pretty much full, and everyone is jamming; the slowest driver is at, like, 73 miles an hour. Awesome.
In Austin, the driving on the freeway is different. Timid isn't the right word, rather, it's more Texan. Texas is filled with individuals, and they drive like they're the only people on the road, doing whatever they feel like. Sometimes you'll get people jamming at 90 in the slow lane, and others cruising at 58 in the fast lane, causing more trouble than the kid in the slow lane.
Driving home is different. It's slow for a quarter of the way, then it picks up, and is like the drive in the morning. Unfortunately my exit home, State Route 22 to 7th St in Long Beach, has just closed for the next year. Boo. I had just discovered it, and it had shaved a serious chunk of time off the drive through Long Beach.
I have been driving to work in the mornings, early, and home in the afternoons, early enough before it gets too messy.
Where we live, in Long Beach, and where I work, in Costa Mesa, is connected by I-405. A stretch of 405 happens to be the busiest stretch of US interstate in the country, but that's not this stretch. This is probably in the top ten, though.
It's dark when I go to work in the morning, and on the occasions of going to work in the afternoon, the sun's out, but the traffic is the same. I usually drive in the third lane, at, um, let's just say rather high speeds.
One thing any driver arriving here notices is that these people know how to drive. In New York, you figure out how to walk with a purpose, and New Yorkers walk like that every moment of every jaunt. In LA, it's almost the same, but in a car.
There are seven lanes, pretty much full, and everyone is jamming; the slowest driver is at, like, 73 miles an hour. Awesome.
In Austin, the driving on the freeway is different. Timid isn't the right word, rather, it's more Texan. Texas is filled with individuals, and they drive like they're the only people on the road, doing whatever they feel like. Sometimes you'll get people jamming at 90 in the slow lane, and others cruising at 58 in the fast lane, causing more trouble than the kid in the slow lane.
Driving home is different. It's slow for a quarter of the way, then it picks up, and is like the drive in the morning. Unfortunately my exit home, State Route 22 to 7th St in Long Beach, has just closed for the next year. Boo. I had just discovered it, and it had shaved a serious chunk of time off the drive through Long Beach.
Exploring Downtown LA from the Subway
This building is an iconic one from old downtown LA, and I remember it from when I was a kid, and have always associated it with Los Angeles.
Here is a picture of Union Station, a stop on most of the subway lines and still a fully functioning train station, servicing rail commuters from all over the region.
This is the oldest surviving house in LA, from 1847. It's in the Mercato area of the original settlement.
This is the commemorative seal of the twelve founding families of the settlement that turned into today's LA, placed in the vicinity of the original settlement.
This is the remaining dense neighborhood from that settlement, now a thriving market for tourist money.
This is the Sepulveda House. Sepulveda was a colonel in the Alta-Californian Mexican army, and the family was prominent in the area for years.
This is the Pico Building, named for Pio Pico, the last Mexican governor of Alta-California.
Here is a picture of Union Station, a stop on most of the subway lines and still a fully functioning train station, servicing rail commuters from all over the region.
This is the oldest surviving house in LA, from 1847. It's in the Mercato area of the original settlement.
This is the commemorative seal of the twelve founding families of the settlement that turned into today's LA, placed in the vicinity of the original settlement.
This is the remaining dense neighborhood from that settlement, now a thriving market for tourist money.
This is the Sepulveda House. Sepulveda was a colonel in the Alta-Californian Mexican army, and the family was prominent in the area for years.
This is the Pico Building, named for Pio Pico, the last Mexican governor of Alta-California.
Los Angeles Subway
Los Angeles is notorious for traffic; cars everywhere, on everything, in every place, hiding in the bushes...I once got stuck in a traffic jam at 3 AM trying to get back to San Luis Obispo after a concert.
What is far less well known is that LA has a public transportation rail system, a subway if you will, called, like so many in Europe, the Metro.
We live three blocks from the Blue Line, which connects Long Beach and Downtown LA by a combination of Long Beach Blvd, Washington Street, and some other characters I'm not aware of yet. Our Blue Line resembles a light rail system, but more specifically, it resembles either Sacramento's or Amsterdam's trams.
There is a Red Line that connects with the Blue and travels off to Hollywood; a Purple Line that shares the Red Line's track before heading to Korea Town; a Green Line that goes to LAX; a Yellow Line that goes from Pasadena to Downtown and then off to East LA; and an Orange Line that extends the Red Line off into the San Fernando Valley (the famous "Valley" that people around the country refer to unwittingly). The Orange and Yellow may not be a part of the LA Metro proper, but they are train cars.
Before the Blue meets up with the Red and Purple, it heads down under the ground, and the connections from then on are like proper NYC Subway stations.
The train cars from the Red and Purple are more like a hybrid of New York's and Chicago's, and less like the light rail tram feel of the Blue. They're larger and grimier than Chicago's train cars, but still smaller than New York's, but carpeted like Chicago's. They're strangely familiar.
It's all very interesting. We're out here, basically in LA, and can get around like back in the City. Not so great, of course, but it's serviceable, and for any touring friends...we can get to the Staples Center, or Chavez Ravine, or historic Victoria Station and the historic la Reina de los Angeles settlement area, all by train.
What is far less well known is that LA has a public transportation rail system, a subway if you will, called, like so many in Europe, the Metro.
We live three blocks from the Blue Line, which connects Long Beach and Downtown LA by a combination of Long Beach Blvd, Washington Street, and some other characters I'm not aware of yet. Our Blue Line resembles a light rail system, but more specifically, it resembles either Sacramento's or Amsterdam's trams.
There is a Red Line that connects with the Blue and travels off to Hollywood; a Purple Line that shares the Red Line's track before heading to Korea Town; a Green Line that goes to LAX; a Yellow Line that goes from Pasadena to Downtown and then off to East LA; and an Orange Line that extends the Red Line off into the San Fernando Valley (the famous "Valley" that people around the country refer to unwittingly). The Orange and Yellow may not be a part of the LA Metro proper, but they are train cars.
Before the Blue meets up with the Red and Purple, it heads down under the ground, and the connections from then on are like proper NYC Subway stations.
The train cars from the Red and Purple are more like a hybrid of New York's and Chicago's, and less like the light rail tram feel of the Blue. They're larger and grimier than Chicago's train cars, but still smaller than New York's, but carpeted like Chicago's. They're strangely familiar.
It's all very interesting. We're out here, basically in LA, and can get around like back in the City. Not so great, of course, but it's serviceable, and for any touring friends...we can get to the Staples Center, or Chavez Ravine, or historic Victoria Station and the historic la Reina de los Angeles settlement area, all by train.
Grand Prix of Long Beach
When Carol, my mother-in-law, and I arrived in Long Beach and met Corrie, we started our search for our new place. People we were meeting with kept saying "Picked a nice time to move here...race weekend and all..." and we were confused, smiling and nodding. That's when you notice the banners all over everywhere, plus every establishment that's selling food, souvenirs, rooms in the short-term, or anything else imaginable had signs saying "Welcome Race Fans!".
After doing a little research, I'm almost embarrassed to say that I'd never heard of America's second largest Formula One (Indycar) race. (The Indy 500 is the biggest race in America, and is usually the only one people have heard of if they've heard of any of them.)
This year marked the 35th running of the Grand Prix of Long Beach. "Grand Prix" is French for "big prize", and racing in motor cars developed in France as soon as motor cars arrived in France. The open-fender (exposed wheel) style of racecar dates back to the origin of automobiles, which also has open-fenders, but not because of styling, rather because that's how you built a cart. Box; check, attach wheels; check, engine instead of horse; check.
Nowadays F-One style races fall into three categories: controlled oval races (the Indy 500); the closed track carved from a city scape (races like the Monaco Grand Prix); and the open course city track. Open course city tracks don't let in cross traffic or anything dangerous, they just use existing thoroughfares without the benefit of concrete barriers that provide a modicum of protection to spectators.
The Long Beach Grand Prix is of the Monaco style; a closed course consisted of actual streets, carved out of a actual city and surrounded with concrete barriers.
The course traveled along Shoreline Drive for a good stretch, a sweeping arc that's lined with palm trees and would sparkle the imagination of many a mid-westerner. Before we'd found our apartment, Corrie, Carol, and I were tooling around downtown Long Beach when we came to a "Must Turn Right" sign, and entered what appeared to be a racetrack of some kind. We were confused, and felt like we shouldn't be there, but sped along like a couple of goons anyway. That was before, of course, we knew what was going on...
I have some pictures of what it all kinda looked like, from our neighborhood vantage, since we didn't purchase any tickets to attend any of the three-days of festivities. They had all sorts of races: an Indy Lights race, the IRL minor leagues; local personalities going out for a spin (real fast); and even a celebrity race, featuring former actor turned racer Freddie Munoz (Malcolm from the Middle).
Before I get to those few pictures, let me say that those cars are LOUD. I'm not talking about something like my old Datsun 240Z, or my pal Dennis' Mustang Cobra. I mean bouncing off every surface in the entire beach community, reverberating off your head and chest, the screaming whine piercing every facet of life for literally miles. How something could be both a whine and a deep-throated roar was strange, but real. You could hear when almost each driver would get to one of the eleven (11!) turns.
This first picture captures a few cool things if you look close. This is taken down a hill on Linden Street, two streets down from us. The track is visible on Seaside Ave, and the barricade is there. This is, like, two minutes from our place. Also visible, slightly left of center if you zoom in, is Danica Patric's crew/travelling eighteen wheeler. Tecate was a big sponsor. The Aquarium of the Pacific rounds out the right side.
This is up close at the barricade at Linden and Seaside. This was sort of an illegal shot, and the crew was not too happy that I wanted to shoot the picture. They let me do it anyway.
This is a picture up Shoreline Drive, and they still haven't taken down the barricades. It is pretty cool to drive it. I tell people that me and mi Bandita Roja, my little Saturn, would have placed fourth in the main competition. I mean it, too. Maybe seventh...
here are the grand stands where fans could watch the drama around the hairpin turn 11.
It's too bad this picture doesn't have any sound, since the celebrity race was going on right now, and the sound was reverberating off everything. You might not be able to tell, but we're facing the race itself.
This year's winner was Mike Conway, a Briton who last year had a horrific crash at the Indy 500. After the crash, when he came to, he immediately asked how soon before he could race again. They told him he'd be lucky to walk again. This was his third race back.
After doing a little research, I'm almost embarrassed to say that I'd never heard of America's second largest Formula One (Indycar) race. (The Indy 500 is the biggest race in America, and is usually the only one people have heard of if they've heard of any of them.)
This year marked the 35th running of the Grand Prix of Long Beach. "Grand Prix" is French for "big prize", and racing in motor cars developed in France as soon as motor cars arrived in France. The open-fender (exposed wheel) style of racecar dates back to the origin of automobiles, which also has open-fenders, but not because of styling, rather because that's how you built a cart. Box; check, attach wheels; check, engine instead of horse; check.
Nowadays F-One style races fall into three categories: controlled oval races (the Indy 500); the closed track carved from a city scape (races like the Monaco Grand Prix); and the open course city track. Open course city tracks don't let in cross traffic or anything dangerous, they just use existing thoroughfares without the benefit of concrete barriers that provide a modicum of protection to spectators.
The Long Beach Grand Prix is of the Monaco style; a closed course consisted of actual streets, carved out of a actual city and surrounded with concrete barriers.
The course traveled along Shoreline Drive for a good stretch, a sweeping arc that's lined with palm trees and would sparkle the imagination of many a mid-westerner. Before we'd found our apartment, Corrie, Carol, and I were tooling around downtown Long Beach when we came to a "Must Turn Right" sign, and entered what appeared to be a racetrack of some kind. We were confused, and felt like we shouldn't be there, but sped along like a couple of goons anyway. That was before, of course, we knew what was going on...
I have some pictures of what it all kinda looked like, from our neighborhood vantage, since we didn't purchase any tickets to attend any of the three-days of festivities. They had all sorts of races: an Indy Lights race, the IRL minor leagues; local personalities going out for a spin (real fast); and even a celebrity race, featuring former actor turned racer Freddie Munoz (Malcolm from the Middle).
Before I get to those few pictures, let me say that those cars are LOUD. I'm not talking about something like my old Datsun 240Z, or my pal Dennis' Mustang Cobra. I mean bouncing off every surface in the entire beach community, reverberating off your head and chest, the screaming whine piercing every facet of life for literally miles. How something could be both a whine and a deep-throated roar was strange, but real. You could hear when almost each driver would get to one of the eleven (11!) turns.
This first picture captures a few cool things if you look close. This is taken down a hill on Linden Street, two streets down from us. The track is visible on Seaside Ave, and the barricade is there. This is, like, two minutes from our place. Also visible, slightly left of center if you zoom in, is Danica Patric's crew/travelling eighteen wheeler. Tecate was a big sponsor. The Aquarium of the Pacific rounds out the right side.
This is up close at the barricade at Linden and Seaside. This was sort of an illegal shot, and the crew was not too happy that I wanted to shoot the picture. They let me do it anyway.
This is a picture up Shoreline Drive, and they still haven't taken down the barricades. It is pretty cool to drive it. I tell people that me and mi Bandita Roja, my little Saturn, would have placed fourth in the main competition. I mean it, too. Maybe seventh...
here are the grand stands where fans could watch the drama around the hairpin turn 11.
It's too bad this picture doesn't have any sound, since the celebrity race was going on right now, and the sound was reverberating off everything. You might not be able to tell, but we're facing the race itself.
This year's winner was Mike Conway, a Briton who last year had a horrific crash at the Indy 500. After the crash, when he came to, he immediately asked how soon before he could race again. They told him he'd be lucky to walk again. This was his third race back.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
News From Around the World
I have a few stories that I heard about that I wanted share with my few readers. I have a notebook that I scribble down blog posts ideas in, and I've been falling behind in putting them up on the site, so I'll squish the mostly international news stuff into one post, along with...
What's up with my mom's beloved Dodgers? MLB has taken control of the day-to-day operations of the team, and even installed a chairman to make sure the money trail is transparent. The owners, the McCourts, Frank and Jamie, are involved in a very messy divorce, and have been dragging the team through a pile for more than a year now. In the past, random checks would leave the Dodgers payroll account and get deposited into some personal account of Frank McCourt, maybe allegedly, which is why Bud Selig wanted an overseer (also los Doyers had to borrow money from Fox to make a recent payroll). (Sigh) Dark days ahead for a proud flagship franchise...
The Finnish parliament has been reshaped in the latest local elections with the emergence of the True Finn party, an ultra nationalistic party looking to divest the Finnish involvement with the EU's bailout of Greece, since it looks like Greece will have to restructure their debt. I made a comment in a post earlier (about the divorce of Belgium into Flanders and Wallonia) about how the spectre of a united Europe has brought out many groups nationalistic tendencies...here we see it again in Finland.
Those crazy Magyars...the Hungarian people call themselves Magyars, even their country is locally known as Magyarorszag. The Magyars were the last ethnic group to settle in Europe, and it was a tough forced settling...they were terrorizing marauders for a few centuries...Vlad Dracul, Vlad the Impaler, the historical basis for Dracula? Yup, Magyar...Well, they have ratified a new constitution that has angered half the country. It speaks too much about the role of religion in the state the opponents say, and will prove only temporary.
The bailout of Portugal is planned, and will be a practice run for Spain, a much larger economy and a more complicated situation.
Burkina Faso has had a military mutiny, and has been run for almost a month now by the Army.
I will put a full post up on Ai Weiwei, a Chinese artist and outspoken critic of the current leadership, who's been arrested and has gone missing...
What's up with my mom's beloved Dodgers? MLB has taken control of the day-to-day operations of the team, and even installed a chairman to make sure the money trail is transparent. The owners, the McCourts, Frank and Jamie, are involved in a very messy divorce, and have been dragging the team through a pile for more than a year now. In the past, random checks would leave the Dodgers payroll account and get deposited into some personal account of Frank McCourt, maybe allegedly, which is why Bud Selig wanted an overseer (also los Doyers had to borrow money from Fox to make a recent payroll). (Sigh) Dark days ahead for a proud flagship franchise...
The Finnish parliament has been reshaped in the latest local elections with the emergence of the True Finn party, an ultra nationalistic party looking to divest the Finnish involvement with the EU's bailout of Greece, since it looks like Greece will have to restructure their debt. I made a comment in a post earlier (about the divorce of Belgium into Flanders and Wallonia) about how the spectre of a united Europe has brought out many groups nationalistic tendencies...here we see it again in Finland.
Those crazy Magyars...the Hungarian people call themselves Magyars, even their country is locally known as Magyarorszag. The Magyars were the last ethnic group to settle in Europe, and it was a tough forced settling...they were terrorizing marauders for a few centuries...Vlad Dracul, Vlad the Impaler, the historical basis for Dracula? Yup, Magyar...Well, they have ratified a new constitution that has angered half the country. It speaks too much about the role of religion in the state the opponents say, and will prove only temporary.
The bailout of Portugal is planned, and will be a practice run for Spain, a much larger economy and a more complicated situation.
Burkina Faso has had a military mutiny, and has been run for almost a month now by the Army.
I will put a full post up on Ai Weiwei, a Chinese artist and outspoken critic of the current leadership, who's been arrested and has gone missing...
An Easter Story to Warm the Heart
This Easter Sunday it rained in Long Beach. It had been chilly on occasion since we moved here, but rarely dipping below 60, and it had been overcast longer than the usual marine-layer burnoff, but it hadn't rained.
The house/building next door is occupied, much like ours, with groups of people unknown to each other by and large. One set of folks next door are girls, maybe two, maybe three, and they are in their early twenties. They entertain on the weekends and the occasional evenings, and they and their guests drink.
They drink like we used to drink (we know who we are). We probably used to get obnoxious like they do--alcohol has a way of dissolving one's personal volume control. During the Grand Prix weekend the Led Zeppelin son "Black Dog", a well regarded Zep song by many fans, began playing in the girls' place. What followed would have produced mixed feelings for Zeppelin fans: the enthusiasm was great, but the execution was lacking...the drunken guy guests next door began yelling the words, mostly ruining the classic.
In any case, I find myself, as does Corrie, occasionally wanting to holler "Shut the hell up!" out my window, followed with a trip downstairs to force compliance. We try and remember that there's a time and a place for that, and we were just the same, and that we should only intervene when it's really bad, which is hasn't ever gotten.
The Saturday before Easter was another loud night, and then next morning some of the previous night's debris was left out on their porch: beer can(s), cigarette pack...here's a picture:
What don't you see? A pack of smokes.
Corrie had noticed the trash, and made a joke about Easter. As I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for work, she started to laugh, and then began to relay to me what was transpiring.
A guy had been walking down the street through the rain, noticed the pack of cigarettes on the covered banister, picked it up, shook it, which indicated it wasn't empty, then stuck them in his pocket and moved along.
He crossed the street and went to the church on the corner.
Karma has a way of evening out annoyances, or so I'm told.
The house/building next door is occupied, much like ours, with groups of people unknown to each other by and large. One set of folks next door are girls, maybe two, maybe three, and they are in their early twenties. They entertain on the weekends and the occasional evenings, and they and their guests drink.
They drink like we used to drink (we know who we are). We probably used to get obnoxious like they do--alcohol has a way of dissolving one's personal volume control. During the Grand Prix weekend the Led Zeppelin son "Black Dog", a well regarded Zep song by many fans, began playing in the girls' place. What followed would have produced mixed feelings for Zeppelin fans: the enthusiasm was great, but the execution was lacking...the drunken guy guests next door began yelling the words, mostly ruining the classic.
In any case, I find myself, as does Corrie, occasionally wanting to holler "Shut the hell up!" out my window, followed with a trip downstairs to force compliance. We try and remember that there's a time and a place for that, and we were just the same, and that we should only intervene when it's really bad, which is hasn't ever gotten.
The Saturday before Easter was another loud night, and then next morning some of the previous night's debris was left out on their porch: beer can(s), cigarette pack...here's a picture:
What don't you see? A pack of smokes.
Corrie had noticed the trash, and made a joke about Easter. As I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for work, she started to laugh, and then began to relay to me what was transpiring.
A guy had been walking down the street through the rain, noticed the pack of cigarettes on the covered banister, picked it up, shook it, which indicated it wasn't empty, then stuck them in his pocket and moved along.
He crossed the street and went to the church on the corner.
Karma has a way of evening out annoyances, or so I'm told.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Port of Long Beach Series: Traffic Jam on the Sea
The Port of Long Beach is the largest and busiest on America's west coast. In the city I've found a few places that cater to sailors and seamen only, and turn away people without credentials.
In any case, I saw a traffic jam of sorts as ships seemed to be lining up to get access to be uunloaded. Here are a series of pictures:
There will be some overlap...
That last picture shows a cruise ship off in the distance on the left side. I saw that cruise ship, a Carnival Cruise liner, docked this morning when I went on my run (I'm trying to take advantage of having the ocean so close).
In any case, I saw a traffic jam of sorts as ships seemed to be lining up to get access to be uunloaded. Here are a series of pictures:
There will be some overlap...
That last picture shows a cruise ship off in the distance on the left side. I saw that cruise ship, a Carnival Cruise liner, docked this morning when I went on my run (I'm trying to take advantage of having the ocean so close).
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Living on the Pacific Ocean
Our new city may be Long Beach, home to Long Beach State University, a rival of my alma mater; home to America's second most prestigious Indycar race; and home to America's second largest port sending $140 billion dollars worth of goods onshore, but we don't really live on the beach.
Our proximity to the beach can be illustrated thus...
This is a building seen from our shared balcony:
Here is is again, straight on, to get an idea how the other three-percent live:
And here's the back of it, with the sand visible:
A better name might be "Calm Beach", since a natural breaker puts the beach facing south, and the crash of the waves is nearly silent with a max height of four inches...
Our proximity to the beach can be illustrated thus...
This is a building seen from our shared balcony:
Here is is again, straight on, to get an idea how the other three-percent live:
And here's the back of it, with the sand visible:
A better name might be "Calm Beach", since a natural breaker puts the beach facing south, and the crash of the waves is nearly silent with a max height of four inches...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Happy 420
To all my current and erstwhile heads I wish a Happy 420!
On the drive home from work today I decided to take the Pacific Coast Highway, which, while moderately slower than my commute would have otherwise been, was breezy and beautiful.
This marks my first 420 back in California in five years. Back in 2006 we knew that we'd be leaving soon for New York, and we tried to make the most of it. I went to the beach early, and later we had to move Tux's babysitter Victor's stuff out of our shed.
It was foggy at the beach that morning, reminding me of my first 420 in the dorms, when at the stroke of midnight (it seemed) the marine layer of fog rolled down off the hills behind the parking lot, and our crew, sitting outside on the Stairs, just quietly nodded and accepted the sign.
But five years ago, at Avila Beach, I took this picture, which has been one of my most favorites since then:
Enjoy the day, Heads, in whatever way you feel like. It's our day.
On the drive home from work today I decided to take the Pacific Coast Highway, which, while moderately slower than my commute would have otherwise been, was breezy and beautiful.
This marks my first 420 back in California in five years. Back in 2006 we knew that we'd be leaving soon for New York, and we tried to make the most of it. I went to the beach early, and later we had to move Tux's babysitter Victor's stuff out of our shed.
It was foggy at the beach that morning, reminding me of my first 420 in the dorms, when at the stroke of midnight (it seemed) the marine layer of fog rolled down off the hills behind the parking lot, and our crew, sitting outside on the Stairs, just quietly nodded and accepted the sign.
But five years ago, at Avila Beach, I took this picture, which has been one of my most favorites since then:
Enjoy the day, Heads, in whatever way you feel like. It's our day.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Local Variety
While living in Austin, we decided to upgrade our television to better enjoy cinema. When our friends Marc and Linda came to visit, we decided to get the digital antenna so to better watch Giants/Texans game (Marc and I are Giants fans) on the local CBS affiliate.
To get any channels, we had to activate the "Auto Program" function from the menu. A prompt then comes onscreen with the picture of a satellite dish informing us that it could take up to fifty minutes to find all the channels, but in Austin it only took about two. We supposedly had 22 channels. By our count, there were at most a dozen English channels and a half dozen Spanish.
"Auto Program" also meant that by the time we got the teevee unpacked, set up, and plugged into the newly unearthed antenna, we had only the same Austin channels showing up. They were trying to detect data over those frequencies.
So we activated the apparently necessary function again. This time it took eleven minutes. This time we supposedly have 94 channels. Ninety-four.
Television is still a novelty to me. Corrie and I haven't had a proper teevee presence in our home since we moved in together, in aught-4. For Decemberween one year living in Brooklyn I was gifted a four-inch Radio Shack style portable television. The channel knob was exactly like a radio's dial, tuning through frequencies. An AM/FM-like switch was used to go between the the main broadcast channels, the VHF (very high frequencies), and the UHF (ultra high frequencies). Remember when UHF was on the second dial, the one that satisfyingly dudududududududududed the whole way 'round?
I watched Yankee games when they appeared on Channel 9 (MY 9 in the City). I had the sound turned off since the best the picture could made the sound unbearable. I even watched Peyton's Super Bowl triumph on the little guy. I thought what a crazy tool that little telly would be in places like Romania, or India. It was essentially a radio that showed pictures. Turn it on and see what's out there.
So now I have a movie screen that told me that just plugging it in gives me 94 channels. Still a novelty to me.
Exploring those broadcast channels produced some obvious discoveries. "94 channels" doesn't allot for copies. Like channels 18.1 through 18.9 are all the same, yet counted as nine. Another thing was that they weren't going to all be crazy unique English-speaking channels.
That's where I'm going with this. Guesses anyone? Obvious first pick: Spanish. There is, to quote the exasperated El Guapo, a plethora of choices for the Spanish speaking viewer. The largest number of non-English speaking channels in LA is Spanish, but it's not overwhelming. The next largest segment? My guess was Korean, after a handful of channels early on, but in reality it's Vietnamese. There is far more Vietnamese television here that I would have ever imagined. There is plenty of Korean as well. There is also a noticeable smattering of Chinese channels.
The last language presence that's here in LA is something I would never have guessed: Armenian. There are three or four Armenian channels, showing a wide range of Armenian programming. You've got sit-coms, hour long dramas, hour long action serials, news, all spread over multiple channels. How wealthy or how populous must the Armenian population be to be able to sustain multiple television channels?
Listening to Vietnamese is my favorite so far. The tonal changes are soothing and exotic.
To get any channels, we had to activate the "Auto Program" function from the menu. A prompt then comes onscreen with the picture of a satellite dish informing us that it could take up to fifty minutes to find all the channels, but in Austin it only took about two. We supposedly had 22 channels. By our count, there were at most a dozen English channels and a half dozen Spanish.
"Auto Program" also meant that by the time we got the teevee unpacked, set up, and plugged into the newly unearthed antenna, we had only the same Austin channels showing up. They were trying to detect data over those frequencies.
So we activated the apparently necessary function again. This time it took eleven minutes. This time we supposedly have 94 channels. Ninety-four.
Television is still a novelty to me. Corrie and I haven't had a proper teevee presence in our home since we moved in together, in aught-4. For Decemberween one year living in Brooklyn I was gifted a four-inch Radio Shack style portable television. The channel knob was exactly like a radio's dial, tuning through frequencies. An AM/FM-like switch was used to go between the the main broadcast channels, the VHF (very high frequencies), and the UHF (ultra high frequencies). Remember when UHF was on the second dial, the one that satisfyingly dudududududududududed the whole way 'round?
I watched Yankee games when they appeared on Channel 9 (MY 9 in the City). I had the sound turned off since the best the picture could made the sound unbearable. I even watched Peyton's Super Bowl triumph on the little guy. I thought what a crazy tool that little telly would be in places like Romania, or India. It was essentially a radio that showed pictures. Turn it on and see what's out there.
So now I have a movie screen that told me that just plugging it in gives me 94 channels. Still a novelty to me.
Exploring those broadcast channels produced some obvious discoveries. "94 channels" doesn't allot for copies. Like channels 18.1 through 18.9 are all the same, yet counted as nine. Another thing was that they weren't going to all be crazy unique English-speaking channels.
That's where I'm going with this. Guesses anyone? Obvious first pick: Spanish. There is, to quote the exasperated El Guapo, a plethora of choices for the Spanish speaking viewer. The largest number of non-English speaking channels in LA is Spanish, but it's not overwhelming. The next largest segment? My guess was Korean, after a handful of channels early on, but in reality it's Vietnamese. There is far more Vietnamese television here that I would have ever imagined. There is plenty of Korean as well. There is also a noticeable smattering of Chinese channels.
The last language presence that's here in LA is something I would never have guessed: Armenian. There are three or four Armenian channels, showing a wide range of Armenian programming. You've got sit-coms, hour long dramas, hour long action serials, news, all spread over multiple channels. How wealthy or how populous must the Armenian population be to be able to sustain multiple television channels?
Listening to Vietnamese is my favorite so far. The tonal changes are soothing and exotic.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
New Photograph Contest
An easy one this time...
The prize is also the clue:
What is the name of the real Chester Lampwick?
The prize is also the clue:
What is the name of the real Chester Lampwick?
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Exploring Hollywood by Subway
We took the train from Long Beach into downtown LA, and then off into Hollywood, a trip so Carol could explore the "walk" and see some of the downtown LA stuff.
These are my tourist pictures (no Hollywood sign shots yet).
This is the only star I could bring myself to photograph (there were too many people around the Buster Keaton star).
This is the ceiling to the foyer of the Pentanges Theater, a famous venue on Hollywood Blvd for musicals. I saw the Lion King there many years ago.
No trip to the Hollywood strip is complete without a trip to Graumann's Chinese Theater and Sid Graumann's courtyard with the foot- and hand-prints of the stars through the ages.
This guy, when not defacing wet cement, signed Bachelor's of Science degrees. He signed mine, anyway...
These are my tourist pictures (no Hollywood sign shots yet).
This is the only star I could bring myself to photograph (there were too many people around the Buster Keaton star).
This is the ceiling to the foyer of the Pentanges Theater, a famous venue on Hollywood Blvd for musicals. I saw the Lion King there many years ago.
No trip to the Hollywood strip is complete without a trip to Graumann's Chinese Theater and Sid Graumann's courtyard with the foot- and hand-prints of the stars through the ages.
This guy, when not defacing wet cement, signed Bachelor's of Science degrees. He signed mine, anyway...
Skylines: Driving West Part 3
Driving this most recent time I began to develop a theory about Texas and the "American Southwest". While Texas has its own flavor of Southwest-ness, which is undeniable, its still almost an identity that's feels more "Texas" than "American Southwest". Except for...
If you look at a map of Texas, and mentally sever the northern panhandle and the western pointy nub, you almost get a square. Those cut places have one large town each, and being in each of those cities, Amarillo in the panhandle, and El Paso in the western nub, you get a sense that that's precisely how they feel: Texan, but almost forgotten and detached. Amarillo identifies as Texan, but they're almost a plains/cotton farming core.
El Paso, on the other hand, is what I consider the eastern boundary of the "American Southwest". It's the Texan part of the "American Southwest", like Barstow is the Californian part of the same region, and what I consider the western boundary. LA might be in the southwest, but it's not part of some larger region that holds the romantic spot in the imagination of the masses as being "Southwest". El Paso is a large population center, and more than doubles in size when Juarez, directly across the Rio Grande and in Mexico, is considered. It's in Mountain time instead of Central time. They just have a dynamic that is Texan, but unlike every other major Texan city.
Maybe I'll make a post about that concept on it's own...
In any case, here are some skylines from the drive. This first one is Austin. The pink capitol building is visible, as well as the UT football stadium. That's the reason I used this (rather crappy) picture: the stadium, inspired by the earlier shot of LSU's stadium a few weeks ago.
Here's El Paso, with Juarez in the background. Even the skyline is brown and dull.
Here's Tuscon. Tuscon, like it's bigger sister Phoenix, as the two large metropolises in Arizona, are very new and awash with money. Streets and highways are well manicured, the cars are overwhelmingly new and nice, and the skyline is handsome and freshly painted.
This is our contraption taking up six spots, while I have a chuckle, at our hotel in Long Beach.
If you look at a map of Texas, and mentally sever the northern panhandle and the western pointy nub, you almost get a square. Those cut places have one large town each, and being in each of those cities, Amarillo in the panhandle, and El Paso in the western nub, you get a sense that that's precisely how they feel: Texan, but almost forgotten and detached. Amarillo identifies as Texan, but they're almost a plains/cotton farming core.
El Paso, on the other hand, is what I consider the eastern boundary of the "American Southwest". It's the Texan part of the "American Southwest", like Barstow is the Californian part of the same region, and what I consider the western boundary. LA might be in the southwest, but it's not part of some larger region that holds the romantic spot in the imagination of the masses as being "Southwest". El Paso is a large population center, and more than doubles in size when Juarez, directly across the Rio Grande and in Mexico, is considered. It's in Mountain time instead of Central time. They just have a dynamic that is Texan, but unlike every other major Texan city.
Maybe I'll make a post about that concept on it's own...
In any case, here are some skylines from the drive. This first one is Austin. The pink capitol building is visible, as well as the UT football stadium. That's the reason I used this (rather crappy) picture: the stadium, inspired by the earlier shot of LSU's stadium a few weeks ago.
Here's El Paso, with Juarez in the background. Even the skyline is brown and dull.
Here's Tuscon. Tuscon, like it's bigger sister Phoenix, as the two large metropolises in Arizona, are very new and awash with money. Streets and highways are well manicured, the cars are overwhelmingly new and nice, and the skyline is handsome and freshly painted.
This is our contraption taking up six spots, while I have a chuckle, at our hotel in Long Beach.
Scottsdale: Driving West Part 2
My mother lives in Scottsdale, a wealthy enclave of the greater Phoenix area, and this was our destination for our second night. We left from Ft. Stockton (two hundred miles short of our original first night's destination of El Paso) at half past seven in the morning, and arrived at half past five in the afternoon, a twelve hour drive that crossed two time zones and landed us before dinner.
We ate at a nice restaurant named Floyd's, a spot I'll be taking Corrie when we go out to visit.
I took this picture of a random scary clown that my brother painted as a youngster. I think it's so spooky that it's great.
It was the first birthday (basically) I was able to be with my mom in many years, and she got a sign and some balloons:
This is the cool saguaro in her front yard. They don't start to grow their first arm until they're seventy-five years old. This one has a mama bird living inside with her chicks, dive bombing anyone who gets too close.
Here is a picture of Tuxedo and his two grandmas:
We ate at a nice restaurant named Floyd's, a spot I'll be taking Corrie when we go out to visit.
I took this picture of a random scary clown that my brother painted as a youngster. I think it's so spooky that it's great.
It was the first birthday (basically) I was able to be with my mom in many years, and she got a sign and some balloons:
This is the cool saguaro in her front yard. They don't start to grow their first arm until they're seventy-five years old. This one has a mama bird living inside with her chicks, dive bombing anyone who gets too close.
Here is a picture of Tuxedo and his two grandmas:
Getting Ready and Going: Driving West Part 1
I'm starting out with a half dozen pictures (that will eventually be on the bottom of the "Driving West" series) that tell the beginning of the story.
The 17 ft truck they assigned to me was a regular gas truck, and with the tow hitch, pulling our little Saturn behind, we got maybe seven to ten miles per gallon, and with a thirty-plus gallon tank, I was putting eighty bucks of gas in every few hours. This was not good, but gas is expensable.
In any case, after taking Corrie to the airport on the morning of my birthday, I went with the full truck over to the Uhaul place to get the tow hitch. Getting the Saturn on it was no problem, but getting out was, since the doors were blocked. The driver side window is too unsafe to climb out of.
Here's a glimpse of our slow caravan before we got out onto the highway. Me up front with Tux and towing the Saturn, and Carol, my mother-in-law following behind with our Passat wagon.
That first day was slow going and hot. The plan was to take I-10 all the way; through Texas and New Mexico, to my mother's outside of Phoenix, and eventually into Los Angeles.
It took a few hours of sputtering along US HWY 290 heading west before meeting up with I-10, which comes west out of San Antonio, and is south of Austin. On I-10 though, in Texas, between San Antonio and El Paso, they don't mess around: this is the highest posted speed limit I think I've ever seen.
The next two pictures show how I kinda kept my wits during the boredom (the radio pissed both me and Tux off). I took the first at dusk on my birthday, shortly before we stopped driving. It didn't really come out, but I was trying to get the orange of the setting sun sky contrasted with the blue of the other horizon. The next picture is of the next morning, with the rising sun in the mirror being bright contrasting with the nighttime blue...the windows are dirty, but the idea is there (I like to believe, anyway).
This mountain tip is known as Picacho Peak. It pops up out of the abyss like so many other peaks and driving you watch it grow for almost two hours before going past. I love the name, like that famous pocket monster...Camping is allowed at the base, and the spots were well attended.
The 17 ft truck they assigned to me was a regular gas truck, and with the tow hitch, pulling our little Saturn behind, we got maybe seven to ten miles per gallon, and with a thirty-plus gallon tank, I was putting eighty bucks of gas in every few hours. This was not good, but gas is expensable.
In any case, after taking Corrie to the airport on the morning of my birthday, I went with the full truck over to the Uhaul place to get the tow hitch. Getting the Saturn on it was no problem, but getting out was, since the doors were blocked. The driver side window is too unsafe to climb out of.
Here's a glimpse of our slow caravan before we got out onto the highway. Me up front with Tux and towing the Saturn, and Carol, my mother-in-law following behind with our Passat wagon.
That first day was slow going and hot. The plan was to take I-10 all the way; through Texas and New Mexico, to my mother's outside of Phoenix, and eventually into Los Angeles.
It took a few hours of sputtering along US HWY 290 heading west before meeting up with I-10, which comes west out of San Antonio, and is south of Austin. On I-10 though, in Texas, between San Antonio and El Paso, they don't mess around: this is the highest posted speed limit I think I've ever seen.
The next two pictures show how I kinda kept my wits during the boredom (the radio pissed both me and Tux off). I took the first at dusk on my birthday, shortly before we stopped driving. It didn't really come out, but I was trying to get the orange of the setting sun sky contrasted with the blue of the other horizon. The next picture is of the next morning, with the rising sun in the mirror being bright contrasting with the nighttime blue...the windows are dirty, but the idea is there (I like to believe, anyway).
This mountain tip is known as Picacho Peak. It pops up out of the abyss like so many other peaks and driving you watch it grow for almost two hours before going past. I love the name, like that famous pocket monster...Camping is allowed at the base, and the spots were well attended.
Refugee Soccer Game
I finally brought my camera to a game, the last game it turns out I would be able to get to, of Hassan's Multicultural Refugee Coalition soccer team. I was forced to leave at halftime because of prior engagements, but the first half was fraught with tension and action, as our guys went down 2-1 by the end of the first forty-five.
Players on the MRC team have cards that give their country of origin, a picture, and a registration number. The team manager, Casey, keeps the cards so none will be forgotten or get lost, and the cards are what get presented with a long team roster sheet to the refs before the game. This is supposed stop any perceived notion of bringing along a ringer. Sometimes it might happen. At this game I guess a guy was getting suited up for the MRC team that their opponents knew was from Africa but also knew he wasn't on the team, so they pressed the reluctant ref to ID everybody.
Here's Casey and a Congolese player pointing out players to the ref:
Here are some action shots of the game:
The opposing goalie making a risky decision, but it pays off for them...
Here's Hassan and me. The next day an article ran in the Austin newspaper about the MRC team, and among pictures of Hassan and the guys, there's a picture of me, jogging with the group on the day I went to play with them.
I do miss those guys, and I plan on eventually taking Alaa up on his offer of a guided trip to Iraq and Lebanon.
Players on the MRC team have cards that give their country of origin, a picture, and a registration number. The team manager, Casey, keeps the cards so none will be forgotten or get lost, and the cards are what get presented with a long team roster sheet to the refs before the game. This is supposed stop any perceived notion of bringing along a ringer. Sometimes it might happen. At this game I guess a guy was getting suited up for the MRC team that their opponents knew was from Africa but also knew he wasn't on the team, so they pressed the reluctant ref to ID everybody.
Here's Casey and a Congolese player pointing out players to the ref:
Here are some action shots of the game:
The opposing goalie making a risky decision, but it pays off for them...
Here's Hassan and me. The next day an article ran in the Austin newspaper about the MRC team, and among pictures of Hassan and the guys, there's a picture of me, jogging with the group on the day I went to play with them.
I do miss those guys, and I plan on eventually taking Alaa up on his offer of a guided trip to Iraq and Lebanon.
Slow--but Abrupt--Transformation of Rural Austin
By "Slow" I mean it's taking some time to happen, and by "Abrupt" I mean that the transition from one section to another is rather jarring.
Wells Branch Parkway, the street we lived on in northern Austin, makes a rather accurate sinusoidal wave--an S-curve--between I-35 and Mopac, the two Austin north-south highways. Along the street live all sorts of apartment complexes, and just south of our complex, closer to Mopac, lives a still rural area of what used to be considered "the sticks" of north Austin. Streets named Pansy and Daisy mark small ribbons of asphalt, nearly overgrown with greenery. Here's a street with the driveways on either side barely visible behind overgrowth.
Fences made of chainlink are rare; brush does that for you. In the blasting humidity and heat of the summer, everyone sweats until the AC gets turned on, which is always will be.
Making a turn out of the small lush and slightly hill-billy neighborhood one drives a few hundred feet as arrows guide the road off to the left. The last arrow is visible in the next picture...
Directly adjacent to that rural style neighborhood is this cookie cutter affluence. Sidewalks and manicured lawns mark well-off and predominantly white neighborhoods, and the shapes of the homes speak to their newness.
The tech and television industry have many effects on Austin, and here's one that's only ever talked about by heady naturalists like me.
Wells Branch Parkway, the street we lived on in northern Austin, makes a rather accurate sinusoidal wave--an S-curve--between I-35 and Mopac, the two Austin north-south highways. Along the street live all sorts of apartment complexes, and just south of our complex, closer to Mopac, lives a still rural area of what used to be considered "the sticks" of north Austin. Streets named Pansy and Daisy mark small ribbons of asphalt, nearly overgrown with greenery. Here's a street with the driveways on either side barely visible behind overgrowth.
Fences made of chainlink are rare; brush does that for you. In the blasting humidity and heat of the summer, everyone sweats until the AC gets turned on, which is always will be.
Making a turn out of the small lush and slightly hill-billy neighborhood one drives a few hundred feet as arrows guide the road off to the left. The last arrow is visible in the next picture...
Directly adjacent to that rural style neighborhood is this cookie cutter affluence. Sidewalks and manicured lawns mark well-off and predominantly white neighborhoods, and the shapes of the homes speak to their newness.
The tech and television industry have many effects on Austin, and here's one that's only ever talked about by heady naturalists like me.
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