Balboa Park Really Does Have It All

Let me start by pointing out that San Diego, CA doesn't get very much rain.  Among the fifty major cities in the U.S, San Diego ranks in a tie for third, behind Las Vegas and Phoenix.  Further, its rainiest months generally run from November to March.  So, with that said, how likely is it that idt will rain on a day in late April in San Diego?  Well, here it is, Jaime's wedding day and it's raining.  Well, into each life, a little rain...

Well, it's raining, and we have an open day until the wedding happens at 5:00 PM.  We head for San Diego's Balboa Park.  By reputation, Balboa Park is the biggest attraction in San Diego.  It is the home of the San Diego Zoo, and it contains fifteen museums, ten gardens and horticulture exhibits, and six centers for the performing arts.

One of the Museums is called the Museum of Man.  My wife observed that a museum containing exhibits like Instruments of Torture and Monsters and BEER-ology could not be called anything but a Man’s Museum.  Very droll.

When we visited, we learned Balboa Park has something else, too.  We walked along a path connecting two gardens and came upon a group of mothers with babies in those heavy-duty strollers they can run behind—Jogging Strollers.  They were being led through a series of exercises by a trainer with her own Jogging Stroller and baby.  As we skirted the next building, we entered a square with more than a dozen senior citizens tooling along behind their walkers.  I guess Balboa really does have it all.  At least it has people covered--from strollers to walkers, with everyone in between.   

Catalina Contrasts

To a 'rube' from Carolina (by way of Chicago), Catalina was a big surprise.  I was blind to any number of things about Catalina Island.   That it was last owned by the Wrigley's of Chicago's Wrigley Field, and its Cubs.  The Wrigley's donated 42,000 of the island's 48,000 acres to a conservancy which is charged with protecting the island and its animal and plant inhabitants.  Nonetheless, it remains a tourist attraction, not only for its natural beauty, but its history.  Me?  All I knew was that it was a beautiful island, and probably, not unlike most tourist traps, a place with lots of souvenir shops and restaurants.  Instead I found an island that served as spring training headquarters for the Cubs for thirty years before I was born.  I also found a place with a history as a landing spot for the stars.  The Cubs may not be a team with a track record as "stars," at least not in my lifetime.  So that makes two contrasts--tourist trap vs. wildlife refuge, and stars vs. Cubs.

Here's another--in the island's museum, I found an old photo of two stars of their day enjoying a game of golf--Johnny Weismuller and Mickey Rooney.  Weismuller, the star of so many Tarzan movies playing against baby-faced Rooney, looking about twelve years old, and a couple of feet shorter than his opponent.  Stars dropped into Mr. Wrigley's playground to enjoy golf, tennis, sailing and--most of all--fishing.

Charlie Chaplin is shown with Paulette Goddard, the hot young starlet he hung around with (Catch A), and with a huge swordfish he had just reeled in --did it say 200 lbs.? (Catch B).  I wasn't looking at the numbers, I was just looking at the size of that fish.  The biggest fish I caught (by myself) in all my efforts to learn how to fish so I could teach my grandkids how to fish was probably not more than eight inches long, and weighed less than half a pound.  Yes--I am trying to teach them how to fish, after failing miserably at teaching them how to play putt-putt golf.  They seem a lot more motivated this time, really...  But, back to contrasts.  What a contrast between the catches, eh?

There's more--consider Norma Jean Baker and Marilyn Monroe.  Norma Jean and her first husband lived on Catalina while he was in the military during WW II.  In a rare interview, Mr. Baker says:"I never knew Marilyn Monroe.  I was married to Norma Jean.  I don't know who Marilyn Monroe was>'  Another contrast.  But among the mysteries of Catalina Island, consider this: Many of you have probably heard the old saw about that curse laid on Mr. Wrigley and the Cubs by restaurateur
George Siania, the owner of the Billy Goat Tavern, when the Cubs 'DISSED' his goat and made him leave the stadium.  But consider this, the Cubs haven't won since leaving Catalina Island behind as their spring training ground.. Maaybe the curse can be traced to the wild creatures of the island who will never forget being deserted by the Cubs.  Think about it--it's no stranger than the one about the Billy Goat Tavern.  


 

Chockablock With Houses, SONGS And Giant Rocks

When you go looking for wineries, rocks are probably not the first thing you think of.  On the way to Temecula's wine country, we saw quite a lot.  We ventured south, then west, spending another hour on the Pacific Coast Highway, then the 5 and then headed west to Temecula.  As I mentioned, I have had to apologize for badmouthing the above-mentioned highway for failing to meet my expectations.   The portion I first encountered was way too crowded.  But when I started heading south at least we caught the occasional spectacular view that people have crammed in to see.

The overcrowding is still an issue   We ventured through the rest of Laguna Beach, learning that we had only seen less than half of it yesterday.  The hills and bluffs and cliffs are so full of houses it defies description.  A lot is said to cost $15MM, which reminds me--Kobe Bryant built himself a home nearby, for a reported $51MM (Think of the poor guy's house payment--my mortgage rate calculator would not even go up that high, but, by taking 40.8 times the monthly payment on a million dollar mortgage, i came up with a mortgage payment of $1,947,854.42.  It's a darn good thing that playing basketball pays what it does....but that's another story).  Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the hillsides are crammed with houses, even at extreme prices like these.  Leaving Laguna Beach, we came immediately upon Dana's Point, which is yet another collection of houses overlooking the Pacific (and the hairs on the top of each orher's heads, I'm sure).

After hopping over to the 5, we took in a few sights we hadn't expected--a huge tract of land, empty land--that turned out to be part of Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps base.  If the Marines ever run short of dough, they might want to think about selling a few lots--they might be able to get a few million dollars a lot, and they appear to have acres and acres.  On second thought, military bases are pretty sensitive about their privacy, so...

Next, as we looked west at the Pacific Ocean, we could see a giant piece of overhead that Californians must be having to cover when paying their electric bill.  There sits the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station (SONGS).  It's a giant nuclear power plant right on the shoreline in San Diego County that has been shut down due to the discovery of failure of newly replaced steam generating equipment in 2013.  Running a plant like that to generate electricity is expensive enough, it's hard to imagine how expensive it is to be trying to mothball it while generating no electricity.  That's a SONG nobody wants to hear.

Finally, we turned east and headed toward the wine country of Temecula, and some wide open spaces.  As we approached, we could see the mountains on either side of the highway.  The very impressive sight there was how the mountains rising on either side of the road were covered with huge rocks, for miles.  The rocks are giant-sized.  Three or four times as large as the van we were riding in.  It seems the hills around here are overflowing with either houses or rocks.  To me, the ones chockablock with rocks looked lots better, but that's just me.  

A Beach Comb-Over?

On Friday--our first full day here--we went on a guided beach tour with Kelly, who has a degree Journalism.  Despite her degree, she was a pleasant enough guide.  She answered all the questions we had, and she made the trip down the cliff and along the beach for a mile or so enjoyable. Despite this, we declined the return trip, opting instead for a ride back on the shuttle bus.  The walk had tired us some, and we figured the return trip would end with a climb back up the cliff.  We bypassed a breakfast at the Beachcomber Cafe with a nod in the direction of not rewarding ourselves when we were taking the easy way out.  Nevertheless, we enjoyed it, and had no regrets bout forgoing the return hike.  The beach itself was narrowed by the high tide, so a fair amount of the walk along the beach was on soft sand that shifter when you stepped and provided little reliable surface for proper stepping (oh, yes--we are proper steppers, we have been trained to do so).

Today, we decided to try the trip again, promising ourselves we would stop for breakfast at the Beachcomber Cafe at the end of the beach as a reward for our effort (we are also experts in motivational psychology).  This time, we ventured out without Kelly, figuring the route had not been too complicated, and that there would be some signs, etc.  As we headed down the cliff path, we noted there was apparently a path that ran along the top of the bluff and might be easier to tolerate when we headed back.

As we moved on down and trekking along the beach, we took in the sights, and steeled ourselves to have the courage to walk all the way back as well.  A bit prematurely, we rewarded ourselves with the breakfast at the bottom of the cliff at the Beachcomber Cafe.  We headed up the path, passing the pickup point for the shuttle bus.  As we reached the top of the cliff, we found there was indeed a path along the top that avoided the arduous trip up the cliff at the conclusion.  With courage and determination, we made it back.  We noted also that we had walked a total of an hour and forty-five minutes.  Given that we had successfully walked both ways and had our breakfast as intended, I noted that we had successfully executed a Beach-Comb-Over, and took a nap.    

One Way Or Another

OK, yesterday I mentioned some disappointment in the scenic Pacific Coast Highway.  We headed north on good old Highway 1, and we saw a crowded place.  We knew, and later conformed by walking all the way out to the sea, that the water and the beach itself were beautiful.  But, as we drove along yesterday, we could see very little from the road.  All those houses side-by-side, like row houses blocked the view we had anticipated.  The beach towns have grown and cover up more of nature's beauty as well.  

But today, we turned left (south) and headed for Laguna Beach.  What we anticipated was finding another beach town, this one a little more fun to walk around in; but sprawling, just the same.  But on the way, we saw several stretches of gorgeous beach, and even a few actual surfers.  It was a beautiful sight, but as we made that drive, we also saw the hills rising up on our left--away from the beach.  These steep hills are covered with houses, hanging onto the side of the hills.  All of their owners probably relish the view from their porches or giant windows.  But they have to wonder at times if it will all come tumbling down--we sure did.  

In the end, I concluded there are still spots where the view from the Pacific Coast Highway is magical.  I have also concluded I like my own coast.  It seems a bit less crowded to me, and the very hills that rise from the beaches of the Pacific in southern California actually contribute greatly to the crowding.  Hundreds of homes can be built on the hills and "own" a part of the magnificent view.  The Low Country of the Southeastern coast, by contrast, allows only the first two or three rows of houses to even catch a glimpse of the ocean.  Hence, once past the third row in, there is no need for everyone to crowd into the limited space there in order to "own" some of that view.  It is simply physically impossible.  

As I mentioned, we headed for Laguna Beach in order to see the town as well.  It is a long, rambling beachfront, and its main drag goes up and down the hills and bluffs.  There is hardly a time when you can say "it's all downhill from here."  Every block has an up and a down stretch, perhaps two.  We parked at one end of the town and backtracked for a couple of miles from there, going up and down every hundred steps or so.  Once we tired of all that walking and headed back to our car, we quite naturally hoped to reach a point where "it all downhill from there."  We reached that point about fifty yards from the car, and not until then.  

I re-learned an important fact I probably learned when I was a toddler, there are times you need to look where your feet are going.  On reflection, the lesson I re-learned can be explained like this: 

Gawking and walking should not be combined.

Very soon you can expect to be on your behind.  

As I gawked and walked both at the same time,

I had so many close calls, I made up this rhyme.  

Fragment of A New Poem

These sound like the last few verses of a much longer piece, so we'll call it a fragment.

Life's like a stage play of sorts
with cheerful freckles and some fretful warts.

Now I look at my life with its up and downside potential
and recall all those upsides that have been providential

At moments like this, I know things could easily worsen
So I'm tryin' to become a much better person

Coasting

Coasting

My first taste of the Pacific Coast Highway came along yesterday.  It was a not-so-scenic trip along a  crowded boulevard connecting one beach town to the next, mostly with no space between, crowded with row houses overlooking the beaches.  Once we ventured into the beach towns, we found them to be a little more upscale than the beach towns occupying the barrier islands that dot the coast of Georgia and the Carolinas.

Just for an example, when we stepped up to the door of a small eatery to look at the menu, we found buckets of seafood available for $35 apiece, a far cry from fish and chips on Tybee.  The beaches, and the piers that marked the main streets of the towns, were still beautiful to see.  Mirabile visu, I think, was the Latin expression--they offered a glimpse of the Pacific, but no surfers.

Crowded it was, too.  Bicycles, skateboards and us ordinary walkers more than filled the sidewalks and some of the streets.  Interesting sights were all over as well.  We were walking up toward a corner bar, wondering if the large cowboy-hatted figure beside the door was a statue or what.  It was huge, arms as big around as legs, a beard covering much of its face and arms folded as it leaned against the wall beside the door.  Our question was answered as a group of young ladies approached the door and he held up his massive hand and asked for ID's.  He was the daytime bouncer, and he towered over everyone.  

We're planning to head the other way today.   So much to see, so little time.

Can't Help Myself

Can't Help Myself

I just have to get this over with, I can hardly breathe.   I spent the day in San Juan Capistrano yesterday, and today I can hardly swallow.

Whew, now I can breathe.  If you can get over that swallow thing, Capistrano is really worth seeing.  Flowers of all shapes and sizes dot the courtyard.  Much history resides in these old Spanish missions, and I am told by people I know who have visited several that this is the nicest of those that remain.

On one side it is surrounded by hills as far as the eye can see, in the other direction are the restored bells.  The original mission, founded in 1776, was destroyed by an earthquake in 1812, killing forty-two worshippers in the church.  It has been rebuilt, and much restoration work has been done over the years.  In the early twentieth century, the mission would allow artists to live in rooms there in exchange for pieces of the art work they did while living there. This Spring, an exhibition of early 20th century depictions of the mission as it looked in those days, many done in the Impressionist style, is on display.

The tallest palm trees I've ever seen are on the grounds there, along with a giant aloe plant.   TTFN.

Learning Has An End?

Learning Has An End?

I recently engaged in a short-lived debate about learning.  It seems I ran into someone who believes that learning can only be complete (and perhaps should only be attempted) when one can become an expert.  This meant, to him at least, that only a growing brain can adequately study something completely enough to be fully informed.  

I told him that one went out with the theory that we cease to produce new brain cells in adolescence and gradually lose brain cells over time.  This glib assumption made by some for years has been repeatedly disproven in recent brain studies.  Growth can continue into the mid to late 20's (but only if you assume that structural changes are the truest sign of brain growth).  

In any event, the last area to develop structure in most humans is the pre-frontal cortex, which holds our most abstract representations and thoughts that require the lower areas to develop first so that it can integrate their output.  "It's mostly about growing up, you know," I told him. "The later you grow up, the later your brain stops growing." 

But there is another way to look at it.  Learning is not just brain growth, it's brain change.   The brain may stop growing earlier than that, but it keeps changing throughout life. All learning is brain change, everything that you experience changes your brain.

His idea was that to learn something is to know it.  "To know it, is to know it in all its very depths," he said, "and you just don't have enough time left for that much study."  He didn't endear himself with this characterization of my stage in life either.  In a very few words I assured him he was full of it, and walked away without providing any argument to support my assertion.  

In the first place, I will admit I may be too old to remember what I learned yesterday, but that doesn't mean I didn't learn it.  So, do I give up trying to learn anything at all?  Does my every thought have to be that of an expert in the field, or is my point of view part of the learning that occurs?  My addition to the discourse on the subject at hand can simply be my perspective on it, which is, by definition, unique.  Further, it may not be available to the person with the complete and in depth knowledge, unless I share it.  I will only share it if I take enough of an interest in the subject to learn a few things about it.  

As a conscious being, I learn the texture, the sounds and the hues the world displays to me.  Sharing that consciousness is enough, I think.

Meter and Me--A Would-be Poets Lament Part Two

Meter and Me--A Would-be Poets Lament Part Two

I’m trying to learn something of meter

But it still runs me ‘round and around.

I know there’s one rhythm and then a repeater.

But it’s often instead I’m drawn instead to a sound,

And rhyming just seems so much sweeter.

I believe that one day soon I will learn,

And avoid all the meaningless struggle

that causes me all too often to burn.

There’s meaning intended but lost as I juggle

and count out each syllable at every turn.

But alas now she finally tells me

About syllables accented and un-

Now, though my stubborn pride still impels me

And my odds of success approach none,

Even thinking of quitting eludes me.

Reasoning With Rhyme--A Would-be Poet's Lament Part One

Reasoning With Rhyme--A Would-be Poet's Lament Part One

They say brevity is the soul of wit,

But I just can't find any of it. 

The rhymes come in bunches

And my poetry it crunches

Every line word or syllable limit

So let's just not propose

Any  limits like those. 

This way when we're done

You can know I had fun,

And reading  won't cause you to doze

The Case For Changing One's Name

The Case For Changing One's Name

They had a dog, a "min-pin," it's called.  They named him Rex, and he was the king of their house.  Whenever I was there, he greeted us enthusiastically, he paid us all the attention he thought we might be worth.  After all, we might occasionally come in with doggie treats in our pockets.  Ever the conscientious canine, he would allow us to get close enough to sniff our pockets and draw the preliminary conclusion that we would not be a good prospect for providing his next treat.

His next treat was, for the most part, the focus of all of his attention.  His next location for a treat was only one of his ideas for focus.  His next concern-- where am I gonna take a pee?  Then there is always, where should I scratch, just in case I feel the need?  Now, the human-canine connection deals with these needs, as it has for centuries, by providing humans.  Humans, it seems, are capable of providing for every need and anticipated need of the canine species, having learned how to do so when dealing with canines for centuries. We carry treats in our pockets, we walk, caress, and otherwise pamper our pests (oops, pets) as often as we remember to do so, which is not nearly as often as our dogs do--every millisecond--think of their last treats.

Somewhere long the line, we notice the change.  We observe that the phones we have are more and more often a means to let people know we still exist--that we are on the way, and will soon be back where they expected us to be.  However, I know of no dogs that answer cell phones, text us what they want is to know.  I submit that they are faster than us, without exception.  They know at once, instinctively.  a sniff, a shake,  yawn, then they know.  But us, we have come to rely on our phones can tell us when we are out of sync with the universe.

We can learn the motions and actions of Tai Chi, but do we really learn how to stay in sync?  Can our dogs (or other pets) help us stay in touch with the energy and soul of the universe in which we reside?  
We do lose touch with the vibrations of this universe in which we live.  We sometimes need to work hard to get back in touch--to re-learn that we have a connection all of the time.  We obtain this on only a very few occasions.  Instead, we willingly accept the notion that we are not connected, that we are named just as we should be--named as humans, Jim, Mary, Sheila, Sharon, Claudia, Diane, Adrienne, Cindy, Jack, Alan, Bob, Dan, Ron; who knows how many names we use to establish our unique existence.  

But back to my friends with the "min-pin," they have a dog, named "Rex,"  But when they had friends come to visit, they learned something about Rex.  He slept in the bed of their house guests.  Instead of sleeping, as he almost always did, with his home parents. He slept with the house guests.  He earned his new name, "Benedict," as he is no longer a tried and true following companion.  He is now Benedict Arnold, who betrayed his masters, Benedict Arnold.  "Benny" will get up tomorrow and be fed, walked, nourished and loved as if he were still "Rex,"  But he will still be "Benny," won't he?  There is a case for changing one's name, don't let it be Judas, or Benedict.  Try "Scout," or "Walter;' something affectionate, not desperate.  Our dogs might still respect us, even if they deserve less.