Category Archives: Travel

Squeezed to Death

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If you have to evacuate an airliner in a hurry, can you get out of your extremely cramped seat and row fast enough? Probably not. And then you have to dodge all the idiots trying to save all their luggage and personal electronic devices at glacial paces.

But it’s the ever-shrinking seat and row size that will probably be the deadliest problem if there’s a problem with the over-stuffed aluminum tube in which you’re squeezed because most of the country is too damn cheap to pay more than $29 to get from Dubuque to Miami. « At least one editorial » (which was probably ignored and forgotten faster than that flight took to get from Dubuque to Miami) sounded an alarm:

“Given how passengers have grown in inverse proportion to the spaciousness of airliner seats, anything like ‘expeditious’ evacuation of an entire airliner seems doubtful. … Under such constraints, can today’s jets be evacuated in the 90 seconds mandated by the F.A.A.? Not according to passenger advocacy groups like Flyers Rights, which has repeatedly and unsuccessfully petitioned the F.A.A. to use its rule-making authority to stop airlines from shrinking seats and passenger space. Not according to Representatives Peter DeFazio, Democrat of Oregon, and Rick Larsen, Democrat of Washington, who have asked the Transportation Department’s inspector general to investigate F.A.A. safety standards that haven’t been updated in decades. Incredibly, it will require an act of Congress to ensure that the F.A.A. does something, because the agency has denied that seat sizes and body mass index are factors in emergencies. The agency has even denied that it has the authority to regulate airliner seat size.”

The New York Times

As always in this country, it will take a massive tragedy and lots of unnecessarily burned/maimed/dead people before we do something about this. Pity.

Shuttling Between Failures

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Turning Sows’ Ears into Silk Purses

This one truth we know: 2017 was disastrous on many levels, including in commercial aviation. Airline corporate boards’ are ever ramping up on their war on passengers, pilots and cabin crew. But there was a very tiny yet significant bright spot noted in The Washington Post and elsewhere: « 2017 was the first year since the advent of passenger air travel that no one died in a commercial airline accident ».

“The Aviation Safety Network estimated there were nearly 37 million flights in 2017, more than any year in history, meaning that aircraft mishaps are declining even as the number of flights continues to rise. The last commercial jet airline crash in which more than 100 people were killed was Oct. 31, 2015, when 224 lives were lost after a flight from Russia broke apart in Egypt. The ASN, which tracks crashes using different metrics from those to70 uses, showed 10 recorded crashes involving small propeller planes and cargo aircraft, killing 44 passengers and 35 people on the ground in 2017. In 2016, the group counted 16 accidents with 303 dead.”
—The Washington Post, 2-Jan-18

But in true 2017-was-an-asshole form, even that tiny bright spot was tarnished when the Personality-in-Chief who shuttles between golf courses and Pennsylvania Avenue on a pimped-out Boeing 747 at considerable taxpayer expense, took credit for last year’s remarkable airline safety record. Urk.

For the Golfer-in-Chief to take credit for this is beyond offensive and insensitive and a lie. It blackens the names of people like Eastern 304’s Grant Newby and Braniff 250’s Don Pauley and Jim Hilliker and Ruth and Mitchell Kuhr and USAirways 1549’s Sully Sullenberger and Jeff Skiles and those dead and injured on Southern 242 and Delta 191 and Air Florida 90, plus all the CAB/NTSB investigators, FAA enforcers and weather experts like Dr. Ted Fujita and Dr. Fernando Caracena … and on and on. And especially all the flight crews who thousands of times a day implement what was learned in the past and get us safely to Lawton and Houston and Milwaukee and Paris and Hong Kong and Lagos.

Let’s be clear: The Ego-in-Chief had absolutely nothing to do with the absence of death on the airways last year. And it was a slap in the face and highly offensive to the memories of all the people who died and all the people who worked so hard to prevent future recurrences. Their great sacrifices are the real reason why we can fly from Dubuque to Fort Myers … Without. Dying. In. A. Plane. Crash. Now you are admittedly shoved into a tiny space with little air and subject to appalling treatment, but you are more likely to be killed by being beaten up by rogue security forces (or being shot by a toddler with Granny’s gun) than you are from Dying. In. A. Plane. Crash. Airlines, airports, police and corporate boards have much work to do on the ground to equal the safety record in the air.

In fact, the record of the former deadbeat owner of the “Trump Shuttle” is pretty clearly the opposite of admirable airline operation, safety and responsibility. The Boston Globe did « a very through review in 2016 » of how the pioneering Eastern Airlines Shuttle was destroyed by Frank Lorenzo and the man who appears to be the current incarnation of P.T. Barnum.

These two Vandals have the same egos and desire to destroy, but Lorenzo actually had some brains to carry it out. Unlike his business partner.

The story is sordid and long, but the details were made clear by Matt Viser’s excellent Globe piece. To wit: Lorenzo sold the Donald the Eastern Shuttle for an overvalued $365 million (if DT had created a brand-new shuttle from the ground up with brand-new planes, not old worn-out 727s, estimates were that he could have done it for $300 million.) Of course, the money was all borrowed. It was 1989; Eastern (and Continental) were already almost dead from Lorenzo’s sledgehammer and the economy was tanking. Pan Am 103 was bombed, the first Gulf War was about to begin. It was incredibly bad judgement to overpay a bunch of other peoples’ money for something that was guaranteed to tank.

The now-decades-old D.T. playbook was followed from the beginning. D.T. started his airline foray by … snarking about Pan American, which had put in more hard work and suffering and pioneering effort into air travel than D.T. would ever be capable of mustering:

“He suggested Pan Am’s flights were unsafe, that the company was strapped for cash and couldn’t spend as much to maintain planes as Trump Shuttle.”
—The Boston Globe, 27-May-16

And, heavy foreshadowing here, true professionals expressed their disgust over his statement, which, both then and now, is like pissing in the wind:

“We said, ‘Donald, don’t ever do that again,'” recalled Henry Harteveldt, who was the company’s marketing director. “It was wrong. We had no proof to back that up. And there’s an unwritten rule in the airline business that you don’t attack someone else’s safety record. There but for the grace of God go I.”
—Ibid

In other words, D.T. (and countless weak attempts to contain his insanity) has never changed. He was just given 21st century tools to broadcast his uninformed and misguided vitriol to a wider audience, i.e. Twitter. And this time, he has nuclear annihilation capabilities instead of a piddly little failing airline.

But back to 1989. As Harteveldt stated, “There but for the grace of God go I.” The Shuttle was pretty crappy safety-wise from the beginning, and he did nothing to improve it, partly because he had zero aviation experience. The grace of God was apparently withdrawn:

“And Trump’s unfounded remarks about Pan Am safety? They almost immediately came back to bite him. Trump’s own airline was struck by a near-tragedy within its first three months, when the nose gear failed on one of his jets and forced a crash landing at Logan.”
—Ibid

As is noted, investigators found the nose gear failure cause: A “mechanic had used the wrong part in the gear mechanism, and it eventually disintegrated and locked the gear in place,” a safety failure that had happened under Lorenzo’s watch.

“Trump — who weeks earlier had made claims that he would send all of his own planes through X-rays to make sure they were safe — turned on the TV and watched as CNN showed a Trump Shuttle flight circling the air. “After several attempts to jar the nose gear loose, and after circling around to burn fuel, the pilot landed on the back two wheels, slowing the plane down as much as possible before lowering the nose of the plane onto the runway.”
—Ibid

He then flew up to Boston on a Trump Shuttle flight. Hilariously tragic: He “was kind of a nervous flier” and asked one of his airline executives, “Is this thing safe?” I can’t think of a more perfect illustration of his public-huckster/private-doofus personality … and oh, the foreshadowing!

Once in Boston, he praised the “maestro” pilot who sucessfully landed the flight, Robert Smith. And in another bit of foreshadowing, Smith loved D.T. right back:

“The ‘maestro’ that day, pilot Robert Smith, said Trump had been advised not to come up — so as not to draw attention to the crash — but Trump disregarded it. “He was very happy with the crew,” said Smith, who after decades in the airline industry called Trump “the best boss I’ve ever had.” “And I think he was very happy with the exposure he got that day. He handled it beautifully.”
—Ibid

I smell Stockholm Syndrome and future Trumpista voters; you know, the ones who voted for him but who will bear the full brunt of his destructive con. But I digress. I love the followup to “He handled it beautifully”:

“One of the passengers on that flight — who recalls sliding out the aircraft and into a pile of foam — was Mike Murphy, a veteran Republican strategist who worked for Jeb Bush and his super PAC to try to defeat Trump. “Afterward,” he said, “all I got was a form letter and a drink coupon.”
—Ibid

While Murphy is, like myself, biased against him (or rather his con jobs and inability to grasp reality), facts are facts. A drink coupon for an emergency evac is hardly handling things “beautifully.”

In fact, his own marketing executive at the Shuttle summed up this “beautifully handled” situation:

“‘He certainly was a man known for his bravado. He promised people a diamond in the sky when we had 21 of some of the oldest, worst maintained 727s then flying,’ said Harteveldt, the marketing director. ‘He’s giving a press conference promising a diamond in the sky. I’m saying, “You may have to settle for cubic zirconium to start.””
—Ibid

Perhaps if he had “x-rayed” (!) all those 727s and found the gear part problem the whole situation would not have had to be “beautifully managed” in the first place.

Ultimately, the shuttle was “successful enough to cover operating costs but not enough to pay down the debt.” Meanwhile, D.T. was divorcing his wife and marrying his mistress, something which happened twice, but does not bother the opportunistic evangelicals flitting around his head. But I digress.

After just 12 months, he fired an executive (who had insisted that the 727 needs two pilots and a flight engineer, even though D.T. wanted to fly them with just two pilots to save money) and laid off 100 employees. After 18 months, the shuttle lost $128 million dollars. After 30 months, he golden parachuted out:

“In late 1991, about 2½ years after Trump had purchased the airline, Trump gave up control of his prize in order to get out from a pile of debt. As part of the deal, Trump was no longer responsible for some $245 million in loans left on the shuttle airline. In addition, out of the $135 million that Trump had personally guaranteed, at least $100 million was forgiven, according to news reports at the time.”
—Ibid

Absolved from $245 million in loans and welshing on $100 million which he had “personally guaranteed.” He was out only $35 million while banks and others were left holding the bag. Said he: “I felt successful. The market had crashed. I didn’t lose anything. It was a good thing,” he said.

A very good thing for him indeed. The human wreckage he left? Not so much.

Apologies to The Globe and Matt Viser for so extensively quoting from the article, but it needs rebroadcasting to as many people as possible. Kudos.

But instead of focusing on D.T.’s usual nonsense, we should focus on remembering and honoring the memory of the thousands of casualties and millions of worrkers who made 2017 the safest commercial aviation year in history. May 2018 continue the trend.

[Text by HawkEye. Photo by Rob Potter via Unsplash]

East Bound and Down

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One week from tonight, we will have begun our journey out of California … for the third, and hopefully last, time.

We’ll be on our way to Nashville, Tennessee, to take up a new, and hopefully less stressful way of life. Frank starts a new job with Vanderbilt University on 15 Dec. I will start the Tennessee teacher certification process and then look for a new job of my own, hopefully with grades K-2, nothing higher than that.

The last two years and four months here in California have been a real struggle. Very tough on all fronts, especially medically/physically (see posts below). It’s been good for our careers, but very hard on our bodies and minds and emotions.

We’re in the midst of packing and cleaning and getting ready. One week from right now, we’ll be in Bakersfield, then heading on west down I-40/US 70 to our new home. I was born and raised a block from US 70, lived most of my life fairly near it (in New Mexico and Oklahoma), and now will be living, again, a block from US 70, this time in Tennessee. I seem to be bound to this road somehow.

We’ve sort of let this blog go black, mainly due to the exhaustion of living in California, as well as being thoroughly disgusted with the state and not wanting to even write about it or think about it more than necessary. But I think we can be a little more enthusiastic about Tennessee. It is, if nothing else, a blank slate for us, and our discoveries can be charted here.

At any rate, we’re off on yet another adventure cross country. Should be interesting!

Heading West — Day Five

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Last Long Leg
Written @ 08:35 MST | Saturday 15-Jul-06 | Salt Lake City, UT

This morning after the usual breakfast and loading of the car and checking out and making the dog mad that we’re back in the car for another long day, we went to the Beehive Sinclair station, where gas was $2.77. As I was filling up, a car drove up behind me. The man got out and said, “Wow, you’re a long way from home! Where in Michigan are you from?”

I said, “Ann Arbor.”

He said, “We’re from Tecumseh.”

We talked about what a long way it was and how he didn’t like to drive it now that they had small kids. He was Michigan real friendly, not Michigan standoffish friendly. And friends, there IS a difference.

We’re now on I-80 skirting the south end of the Great Salt Lake and the north end of Deseret Peak and the Oquirrh Mountains. The part we’ve been dreading is coming up: 500 miles of nothing all the way to Reno. It’s 100 miles to the border, then 400 to Reno. A very long day. But we gain an hour at the border. We left the hotel at 08:17, or 07:17 Pacific time, and it’s nine hours, so we should be in the hotel around 16:30 or 17:00.

We did this route eastbound to Denver in February of 1998. The desert and lake were frozen white and it was beautiful. After we arrived at the Days Inn in Salt Lake and got the dog settled, a huge snowfall came and buried us under 17 inches of the white stuff. Today, we’re doing everything opposite; it’s July, it’ll be 100+ degrees today, the desert is baking and yellow, Salt Lake has fires and green trees and we’re westbound back to the East Bay instead of eastbound out of it.

The landscape is gorgeous and I still admit that I’m a southwestern desert boy. Utah is a beautiful state, in spite of the religious insanity here. If it weren’t for said insanity, I could probably live here happily. Maybe even happier in the southeastern corner of the state, around Moab, towards Colorado and New Mexico and Arizona. That is truly gorgeous country.

We just entered Skull Valley west of Salt Lake, 70 miles from the border. The temperature was 84 when we entered it and Jeepy says it jumped up to 92 as we started crossing the valley floor. When we went over the Cedar Mountains pass and into the Salt Lake Desert, the temp fell back to 89.

Next up: Bonneville Salt Flats and the Nevada border and Pacific time.

Worn Out
Written @ 13:46 PST | Saturday 15-Jul-06 | Humboldt, NV

We’re getting pretty tired of this road and this endless drive. We’re still about 125 miles from the hotel, so in about two hours, we should be done with all of the nastiness of the drive. But we’re pretty road weary and this last hundred miles will drag on.

We stopped at a rest area south of Winnemucca and walked the dog. He wasn’t all that thrilled about getting out in the 99-degree heat, but he did it anyway. He’s had some Arby’s curly fries and a nice long walk in a nice grassy park at Elko and he’s pretty road-weary and worn out too. But the good news is that he gets to see Unca Frankie finally tomorrow afternoon.

I dropped the key in the rest area while walking to the restroom, and Unca David said a nice Mexican man picked up and gave it to him, but not before hitting the panic button and causing the Jeep horn and lights to go off. I didn’t even know it had fallen out of my pocket.

We’re going to make another pit stop at Lovelock. We just saw the first mileage sign for Sacramento: 258 miles away, which means we’re about 300 miles from Brentwood. Yay.

But we’re stopping in Reno, because 518 miles is far enough for us and the dog. We’ll get some rest, then it’s off to Sacramento tomorrow morning. We have to pick up a small U-Haul trailer in East Sacramento so we can take Unca Frankie and our Ikea shopping trip haul back to Brentwood. Unca Frankie arrives at the Sacramento station on Amtrak at 17:47 tomorrow. We can’t wait to see him. The dog will be very surprised and happy.

I’ve done lots of planning, getting some procedures and discipline plans and the syllabus and homework policies, etc., down on paper, ready to go. I imagine I’ll need the two teacher work days to organize, clean and decorate the classroom, so the more of this other stuff as I can do in the next week, the better. So, I’ll get back to it.

Almost Done
Written @ 20:35 PST | Saturday 15-Jul-06 | Reno, NV

We’re in Reno. Which is not a garden spot, let me tell you. It seems crowded and slightly ridiculous and scruffy. But it’s home for the night and we’re very happy to get off the road.

After our pitstop in Lovelock, there was some frustration with a long stretch of construction. The last 80 miles or so was kind of agony. But it was finally over.

As a matter of fact, most of the trip is over; there’s only about 194 miles left, about three hours of driving time.

Tomorrow, we go to Sacramento and meet Unca Frankie. Monday, we shop at Ikea and go home to Brentwood to the new house. Can’t wait.

For now, I’m going to Flickr today’s pictures and go to bed.

Night, y’all.

Heading West — Day Four

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Wyoming is Almost Done
Written @ 12:00 MST | Friday 14-Jul-06 | Little America, WY

Last night, we went through downtown Cheyenne to get some pizza. Downtown itself is kinda cute, but a few blocks east is rather scruffy. The pizza was good though, and I also found a gas station, “Smoker Friendly Gasmart,” that had gas for a cheap-sounding $2.64 a gallon. It was a very redneck-type of place. We scurried back to the hotel with the pizza.

The dog had some pizza crusts and finally ate some kibble after three days. We then got some rest. I took a short swim, which was marred by swarms of mosquitoes and other unidentified insects and by a blond California woman in a straw cowboy hat who trotted into the pool area (which I had to myself before her arrival) with a Target shopping bag and plopped down onto a lounger and proceeded to have a loud and long cell phone conversation, complaining to the person on the other end about an encounter with some woman in Montana. The water felt good, however, and I did enjoy the swim.

After a nice night’s sleep, we got up at 06:30 and left the hotel at 07:56. Next stop: Salt Lake City, 433 miles away.

A short drive saw us flying through Laramie. I can’t ever see or think of that name without thinking of Matthew Shephard. On a fence somewhere close by, Matthew was pistol whipped and tied up and left to die. Has anything much changed since that evil day in 1998? Not really. Hate to be pessimistic, but another Matthew will happen. In fact, other Matthews happen with depressing regularity in this country. Most of them are just not as dramatic. And most of the homophobes who commit the crimes will try to get off on “gay panic” defenses.

With apologies to all my straight male friends, I’ve always been curious; why do most straight men go around thinking that gay guys want them so bad? I’ll grant you that there is a subcommunity in the gay world that chases unavailable straight men, but that’s hardly a norm. I think they need to relax. If I’m in a foxhole in Iraq and mortars are dropping in, the last thing in the world I’ll be thinking about is touching my foxhole mate’s butt. One of the most un-sexy places I’ve ever been was a locker room after a football game. For many of us gay boys, the locker room fantasy only works if there are well-built Falcon models populating the scene.

Meanwhile, back in Laramie, I doubt anything much has changed in the last eight years, the Laramie Project notwithstanding. We pass on through without stopping.

Salt Lake City is about 150 miles away. Mormon land presents a whole new set of conundrums and questions. I won’t be able to drive through the place without hearing the famous South Park song in my head: “Joseph Smith Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum.”

We’re beginning to see the snow-covered peaks of the Uinta Mountains in Utah to the south. The border is 59 miles away. I’ve been looking forward to seeing mountains again.

Utah
Written @ 13:10 MST | Friday 14-Jul-06 | Utah State Line

We just hit Mormon Land, although it was hard to tell, since the area was under construction and all the signs have disappeared. The Utah side is greener and more mountainous and that’s about the only way to tell. Plus the mile markers went from 3 to 191. Salt Lake City is 70 miles away, so we’ll be in the hotel room inside two hours, thank goodness.

Unca David is still doing all the driving. I drive around the cities we stop in hunting for dinner, but he handles the long distance stuff, freeing me to plan and create stuff for school. I’ve got a newsletter started, a calendar, lesson plans, syllabus, and first- and second-day student surveys already to go, for the most part.

Over Air America, we’re hearing the news that King George was asked in Germany about the situations in Beirut and Iran, he replied, “I thought you were gonna ask me about the pig.”

Anyhoo.

Back in Rawlins, WY, I was asleep when suddenly I was poked in the side of the face by a moist beagle nose. Before I was fully awake, Bayley had come over the center console and plopped himself in my lap. Talk about a rude awakening. He then proceeded to arrange himself comfortably on top of me, and that’s where he stayed. For 108 miles until we got to Rock Springs, our gas stop for the day.

You haven’t lived until you’ve traveled the worst (to me) stretch of Wyoming I-80 for 108 miles with a 55-pound snoring beagle lying across your body.

After our stop in Rock Springs, there was much garrumphing about having to get back in his spot so that I could use the laptop and get some work done.

We still have 723 miles left after Salt Lake City, and I’ll be danged if I’m gonna ride the whole way with a huge ox in my lap.

I’m so cruel to dogs.

Frank asked me last night if I missed Michigan. I said, “Who-igan?” Truth is, I miss the great friends we met in Michigan, but not the state. I miss the intellectual workout I got in class, but not the university. I miss the kids I taught and had fun with last year at Burns Park, but not the school system. I miss the trees and river, but not the roads and drivers. In October, I will miss the flaming reds, oranges and yellows of the trees, but in November I will not miss the freezing gray cold.

We’re heading into the Wasatch above Salt Lake City. It reminds me that at heart I am a southwestern boy. I love canyons and skies and scrub brush and tumbleweeds and high mountain passes and snow-capped peaks and varied landscapes.

I want my Michigan friends to move southwest with me. I’m grateful for a quality Michigan education. But I don’t really miss Michigan itself. Sorry.

Swim
Written @ 16:13 MST | Friday 14-Jul-06 | Salt Lake City, UT

We arrived just fine at the hotel at 14:45 MST. Checkin was quick and we got a second floor room. The best thing is the pool; indoors, very warm, accompanied by a hot tub. And when we got here, it was empty. I swam for almost an hour and had the place to myself. It was very, very lovely. Helped the joints a great deal.

It’s hot and dry here; the temp is 101, although Jeepy claims it’s 105. It doesn’t feel as bad as Oklahoma or Michigan because there’s almost no humidity. It’s still hot, though.

This evening’s agenda is about finding some dinner and then getting plenty of rest. The longest day of the trip is ahead of us: 518 miles across the Great Salt Desert and the entire state of Nevada to Reno. We’ve done this drive once before and it’s not the most fun thing to do on the planet.

But after tomorrow, there’s only 132 miles to Sacramento and then 72 miles to Brentwood and we’re done with the cross-country odyssey. We can’t wait to be reunited with Unca Frankie. Dogs are very exhausted and need to get home to their nice, new, huge back yard. Yay!

Later, y’all!

Heading West — Day Three

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Rainy Again
Written @ 11:42 CST | Thursday 13-Jul-06 | Gothenberg, NE

We hit a small spot of rain, but it’s nothing like day one. We’re 36 miles from North Platte, NE, which will be our first stop of the day. Jeepy needs gas and beagle needs walkies.

I’ve been sleeping since Lincoln. Nebraska is flat and it is green and has some trees and that’s about it. The road is flat and straight and goes on and on. We’re about halfway to Cheyenne.

I’ve started some lesson planning for the first week of school, but it’s a bit hard to do, since I don’t know my schedule of classes or the curriculum. I know I want the first week to be relaxed and all about getting to know each other and learning the procedures and my expectations. So I’ll leave it at that and plan for activities that do that. I’ll ease into the language arts stuff during week two, if I can.

Rest Stop
Written @ 13:00 CST/12:00 MST | Thursday 13-Jul-06 | Sutherland, NE

After stopping at a Mirastar gas station (which turns out to be some sort of weird partnership between Texaco and Wal-Mart) in North Platte, NE, we made a brief lunch stop at Sonic then drove 20 miles west to a rest area so that beagles could do beagle things. They had a designated pet area with “pooch plugs,” which were fake fire hydrants. Bayley added his own mark to the vicinity of the plug. When Unca David came out of the restroom, I went inside while he held the beagle. When I came out, Bayley was waiting and began wiggling and howling like I had been gone for three years. The whole rest area stopped and looked at the commotion.

We’re back on I-80, with about 195 miles left today. Nebraska is pretty much what I expected … flat, farms, scrubby trees, low barren hills, never-ending. We just passed into Keith County and the Mountain Time Zone, so we gained an hour, which will help. Cheyenne is about three-and-a-half hours away, so we should be at the hotel by 16:00 Wyoming time.

At the rest area, I picked up three out of the plethora of ubiquitous tourist brochures (rack cards) which are in piles in places up and down the interstate highway system. One was for Father Flanagan’s Boys Town, where it is noted that, in addition to Father Flanagan’s house, the museum, the Garden of the Bible, Father’s grave and the chapel, you can see the “World’s Largest Ball of Stamps” in the Leon Myers Stamp Center, which includes exhibits on the history of postage stamps, a collector’s corner and, of course, the four-cent Father Flanagan Stamp. Don’t forget the gift shop and cafe on your way out and admission is free.

Let’s be clear, I’m not disparaging Boys Town, but the touristy aspects thereof. Just hope the proceeds go to make things better for the boys.

Coming up is Bridgeport, NE, where you can exit I-80 and venture 34 miles north to Alliance. The claim to fame of Alliance is … Carhenge, a replica of Stonehenge created from vintage automobiles from the 50s and 60s. The cars are “planted trunk down and rise 15 to 17 feet … [and] are approximately 7 feet wide; the same size as the standings [sic] stones of Stonehenge … all 38 of the majors [sic] stones are cleverly represented at Carhenge.”

Carhenge is enthusiastically recommended by someone from Farmington, MN, who is quoted on the rack card as saying, “This place is incredible, I love it! We went 100 miles out of the way to see Carhenge and it was worth every mile and moan and groan from my children.”

We decided not to detour 68 miles out of our way to see it.

I went to sleep shortly after passing Lincoln, where I apparently missed the International Quilt Study Center at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. The mission of said center is “to study, to collect, to preserve, and to exhibit quilts.” Pretty straightforward.

There are more than 1,650 quilts in the center, including the largest known collection of Amish and Mennonite quilts. Here’s some grad school language for ya: “… quilts are studied using an interdisciplinary approach in which the tradition is examined in its historical, social, artistic, technical, and spiritual environments. The … Department of Textiles, Clothing and Design, College of Education and Human Sciences, offers masters degree programs for students interested in analyzing the complex ways in which gender, class, ethnicity, aesthetics, politics, religion and technology find expression in the textile arts, especially quiltmaking traditions.”

Wow. Why doesn’t the University of Michigan School of Education have that? They suck.

Back to planning. I need to create a fun student information survey for the kids to work on in the first ten minutes of the first class.

Wyoming
Written @ 14:11 MST | Thursday 13-Jul-06 | Pinebluff, WY

We’ve reached the Wyoming border and are just a mere 36 miles from our stop. We’ll be at the hotel by 15:00 mountain time. Thank goodness. Also, we’re just passing the halfway point of the trip: 1,176 miles. Thank goodness, part II. We’re also out of Nebraska. Thank goodness, part III.

As we entered the panhandle of Nebraska and the I-76 split which heads for Denver, the land dramatically changed. No longer the rolling green farmland with trees, it has become the browner, flatter, wider open vistas of the true American west. You can see oil well pumping units dotting the landscape and the area is dotted with ranches, not farms. Union Pacific trains pass each other on double tracks, hauling cross-continent freight. It’s 93 degrees outside under a bright sun, with just a few high puffy clouds. Traffic has also thinned out; there aren’t as many cars on the road, leaving the interstate mostly to the long-haul truckers.

Watching the trucks and the trains makes you realize just how dependent on fossil fuels this country really is. Our entire lives are on those trains and trucks. 12,000 pounds of my own life is in a truck somewhere on this road. Everything we need (especially food) comes from far away. If that infrastructure of rail and road and train and truck is ever disrupted or destroyed, we’d be in deep doo-doo. We would see a retreat back to a civilization like it existed before the Civil War. Not that I’m an apocalyptic thinker, I’m just sayin’. We’re dependent on a thin thread that seems rather tenuous in the big picture of things.

I’ve been working up the first week’s lesson plans, creating two student surveys and an interview sheet, and working on the class syllabus. Yes, I plan to give seventh graders a syllabus. I want the expectations and what we’re doing clearly laid out. In the dim recesses of my age-addled memory, I seem to remember that a few of my junior high teachers gave them out and I know my high school teachers did. So, these kids should get used to them.

Because of my natural tendency to be easy-going and laid-back, the first week will be critical in terms of setting limits and expectations and procedures. It will make or break my entire first year as a teacher. Research indicates that there should be no more than 3-5 rules, and it’s also preferable if the students create and sign off on the rules themselves. I’ll think about that one. It worked well last year with 22 rather exceptional second graders; these 125 seventh graders I’m going to meet in less than three weeks are an unknown quantity. I like the three F’s: firm, fair, fun. The three KISses, too: Keep it simple, keep it safe, keep it sane.

I better get back to it. We’re 11 miles from the hotel.

Rest Stop
Written @ 15:55 MST | Thursday 13-Jul-06 | Cheyenne, WY

We arrived at the hotel an hour ago and unloaded the car. The dog had a long drink of water and a treat and watched the proceedings. He then had a scratch of the ear and settled down onto my bed. He is now loudly snoring away, a totally worn-out dog.

Cheyenne looks very small, smaller than Ann Arbor. I-80 skirts it on the south and looks down on it, so you get a pretty good view. I continue to be impressed by the speedy checkin/checkout and service at LaQuinta. The rooms have been good, the wireless internet connections great and there’s been no fuss at all about the dog or anything else.

The pool is inviting, since it’s over 90 degrees here, but it’s full of women and kids at the moment. I’ll have to wait, probably ‘til dinnertime to get some water therapy.

We’re not sure what we’ll do for dinner, but we need a nap first.

Later, y’all.

Heading West — Day Two

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Field of Opportunity
Written @ 12:44 CST | Wednesday 12-Jul-06 | West Des Moines, IA

After getting up at 08:00 and having a little breakfast and loading the car, we left Davenport this morning at 09:55 and we’re now just west of Des Moines, which we didn’t really see because I-80 runs around the northern and western edges. What we did see reminded me of Kansas City and Oklahoma City.

Iowa is just gently rolling hills. It’s flat, but not West Texas flat. The best thing about is that the rest stops on I-80 have wireless internet access. Iowa rocks! We’re stopping at the next one to check it out.

Omaha is about 110 miles or so away and then we’ll stop and get rested up for tomorrow’s nastiness: 450 miles of Nebraska. Right now, David has driven the whole way again and says he’s fine, and the dog is sacked out once again in the back seat.

We’re just passing touristy stuff: signs announce DeSoto, John Wayne’s birthplace, and the covered bridges of Madison County. The road is reminding me of I-44, the Turner Turnpike, between Oklahoma City and Tulsa.

And that’s about as exciting as this day gets, folks. Go ahead and yawn, you won’t offend me. I’m pretty bored too. It’s time to pull out the books on those ever-important first weeks of school, since 125 seventh graders will be looking at me for instruction in a mere 18 days, 18 hours, 58 minutes and 14 seconds. Yow.

We just crossed into Madison County. No, I’ve never read the book. I don’t see any bridges, but I do see a heckuva lotta corn. Omaha is 108 miles away.

The wireless internet connections are FABULOUS! Sitting in a cornfield on the side of I-80, updating the blog. Technogeek heaven!

I love Iowa!

Later at the Hotel
Written @ 01:30 CST | Thursday 13-Jul-06 | Omaha, NE

We arrived safely in Omaha, checked into the hotel, then went in search of dinner. We gassed up the Jeep and spotted a Sonic, which made me very happy. A quick trip over to the drive in, then back to the hotel for dinner was followed by a five-hour nap. It was lovely. I was very tired.

The beagle is refusing his food, although he did accept a tater tot. After my nap, I took him out for walkies and a sniff at the night air. When we came back in, we followed the usual routine of getting a treat, making him wait and then saying, “Go!” He slowly got up, went to the treat and sniffed it and walked away.

It was earth-shaking. The beagle refusing a treat?? Holy cow, what’s next, frogs from the sky?

I went to get some ice and a Coke and when I came back, the beagle had tried to bury the treat under the desk before giving up and eating it. He is very pointedly refusing the food in his bowl.

After updating Flickr, I took my bath and am now in bed. Tomorrow will be the trying day, the one I’ve dreaded, 488 miles of Nebraska. We’ll end up in Cheyenne Thursday night; the hotel has an outdoor pool, which this one does not, so I can get in some more water therapy. But it’s a very long drive away and I’m off to bed.

Good night, y’all.

Where's My Reference Librarian?

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Frank usually handles these things and does a far, far better job of it. I’m pretty stream-of-consciousness on my trip writing, while he does the reference librarian thing and provides all the great writing and details that really make the blog great. But I’ll give it a slight shot, and he should feel free to chime in here as we pass through various places (hint, hint).

Iowa
According to the state’s website, “Iowa became the 29th State in 1846. It is known as the Hawkeye State, and Des Moines is the capital city. Iowa is bordered by two great American rivers (the Mississippi and the Missouri) on its east and west sides. It has a rich agricultural tradition and ranks first in the nation with corn and soybean production as well as in hog production from its 93,000 farms.”

Yeah, we’ve had a couple of whiffs of the hog production during our ride.

Iowa was home to John Wayne, Herbert Hoover, Glenn Miller and Grant Wood. The state website says it was part of the Lewis and Clark expedition “and many other historic events” but doesn’t bother to name them.

Davenport, IA
“The Quad Cities rests on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi River and share a population of 400,000. The region is made up of Davenport and Bettendorf in Iowa and Moline/East Moline and Rock Island in Illinois, and surrounding communities.”—VisitQuadCities.com

This area is home to « John Deere » and there is lots of green and yellow here. There is the world headquarters, the John Deere Pavilion, the John Deere Store, the John Deere Historic Site, the Deere Run golf course, the John Deere Collectors Center and the John Deere Historic Homes and Gardens. There’s also a restored 620 LP Standard tractor on display and you can buy a toy replica of it. If that’s your thing.

Downtown Moline is getting the redevelopment fix with more than $40 million of new development around the Mississippi waterfront.

The River Music Experience boasts local and regional R&B, jazz, and other related music; the VisitQuadCities website boasts that visitors can interact with “larger-than-life video performances of icons like Tina Turner, B.B. King and Johnny Cash. Visitors can also take a ride on the Mississippi on the “Riversong,” a former New York canal tour boat. Which sort of all makes me go, “Huh.”

Middle America. What a country.

Des Moines, IA

According to the city’s website, the history of “Des Moines can be traced to 1834, when John Dougherty, an Indian Agent at Fort Leavenworth, Ks, recommended that a military post be established at the point where the Des Moines and Raccoon Rivers merge. Nine years later, May 1843, Captain James Allen and a company of dragoons from Fort Sanford arrived on the site. Captain Allen proposed to name the
garrison Fort Raccoon but was directed by the War Department to use the name Fort Des Moines.”

Raccoon, IA. That would have been interesting.

The city continues, “Some people feel that ‘Des Moines’ is derived from the Indian word ‘moingona’ meaning
river of the mounds which referred to the burial mounds that were located near the banks of the river. Others are of the opinion that name applies to the Trappist Monks (Moines de la Trappe) who lived in huts at the mouth of the Des Moines river. French voyagers referred to the river as La Riviere
des Moines. The consensus seems to be that Des Moines is a variation of Moingona, Moingonan, Moingoun, Mohingona, or Moningounas, as shown on early maps.”

Okay, glad to have that cleared up.

There are now more than 200,000 people in Raccoon, er, I mean Des Moines, which bills itself as the third largest major insurance center in the world. The other claim to fame is the city’s climate-controlled skywalk system, which makes up more blocks per capita than in any other city of comparable size in the U.S.

Well, there ya go.

Nebraska

Nebraska is the home of the nation’s only unicameral legislature. The website « On Unicameralism » notes that the state was bicameral for 68 years until Nebraskans voted to get rid of half of their state legislature in 1934, in the depths of the Great Depression, ostensibly for class reasons: “… The constitutions of our various states are built upon the idea that there is but one class. If this be true, there is no sense or reason in having the same thing done twice, especially if it is to be done by two bodies of men elected in the same way and having the same jurisdiction.” The influence of New Deal Republican senator George Norris, who wore out two sets of tires while he drove around campaigning for the ballot measure, along with the Depression and two other ballot issues on local prohibition and pari-mutuel betting, resulted in a 286,086 to 193,152 vote in favor of unicameralism. The Senate was the body retained and legislators are referred to as senators.

Nebraska’s other Unicameral claim to fame is that it is the only nonpartisan legislature in the country. “… a candidate’s political party is not listed on the election ballot. The two candidates who obtain the most votes in the primary election face each other in the general election. Also unlike other states, Nebraska’s legislative leadership is not based on party affiliation.”

Nebraska has numerous official state symbols, including the “state motto, seal, flag, flower, bird, tree, fossil, gemstone, rock, grass, insect, soil, mammal, fish, American folk dance, ballad, baseball capitol, village of lights, river, soft drink, beverage, poet laureate, poet, [and] song.” Makes you wonder if Senator Norris was really right about a one-house legislature concentrating on the people’s business and being more efficient and cheaper to run.

Omaha, NE

Omaha’s claim to fame is Boys Town, Father Flanagan’s place immortalized by Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy. It’s also home to Offutt Field, the former SAC Air Force Base, which isn’t mentioned much on the convention bureau’s website, nor is the fact that Omaha is the rabbit hole where King George fled on 9/11.

Moving right along.

The « Strategic Air and Space Museum » is home to 300,000 square feet of WWII and Cold War aircraft and artifacts. The museum’s website is proud of SAC’s role in “keeping the peace,” but doesn’t mention nuclear weapons scattered in silos around the place or any of that kind of stuff.

And that’s Day Two’s travelogue.

Heading West — Day One

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The Very Rough Last Night in A2
Written @ 13:30 EST | Tuesday, 11-Jul-06 | Ann Arbor, MI

The beagle gave me a rough night. After the farewell party, I went and gassed up the Jeep and then back to Ann’s to spend the night. I was informed he had howled at the kitty several times and generally been a bit of a pain. We went up to bed at midnight, David taking the spare room and the beagle heading to Rachel’s. The drama began.

He paced and panted and whined at the door. I put him up on the bed twice to settle him down and twice he jumped down. Finally, I gave up, took a couple of pillows down the couch and prepared to settle in.

Bayley took a long drink of water and flopped on the kitchen tile. He then ate his breakfast from the previous morning at 01:30 and flopped back down again. My head was throbbing and I waited for the Alavert to kick in. Suddenly at 02:12, Bayley jumped up off the kitchen floor and ran to the front door, howling his head off. Scared the crap out of me. I jumped up and almost killed myself on the loveseat and hissed at him. I thought everyone would wake up, but only David heard him, fortunately.

I chased him, but he ran up the stairs and in the dim light from the bathroom window behind him, I could see him staring down at me. I was too tired and sore to run upstairs, so I went back to the couch to wrestle with the insomnia.

The next morning, we said goodbye to the girls and went to Burger King for breakfast and to Dunham’s to buy a Thule rooftop canvas bag to haul crap to California so the beagle wouldn’t have to ride up near roof in the backseat. Then it was off to the townhouse to do the final cleaning and turn in the keys. It took three hours to get things ready to go. It was hell.

We turned in the keys to the sourpuss apartment manager, left the forwarding address, got a coke one last time at Circle K, then headed out onto I-94.

When I saw the sign on south State pointing west for I-94 to Jackson, I admit I got a little choked up.

Goodbye, Ann Arbor.

Scattershots
Written @ 15:00 EST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Battle Creek, MI

Random thoughts while sitting shotgun for the first couple of hundred miles:

Near Battle Creek is a sign for the “Moonraker Restaurant.” What’s that all about? Is it part of Drax Industries?

The beagle has been noshin’ on pretzels and Chex Mix from time-to-time since we left Ann Arbor. Yesterday, he had French fries and Auntie Ann and Cousin Rachel gave him some Cheez-Its. After 106 miles, he’s finally settling down into his VERY cushy back seat and having a nap. He has the whole back seat to himself and it’s piled with his beagle bed and blankies. His treats are handy, he has his own a/c vents, there’s a water bowl close by and everyone is pampering him shamefully, which he is accepting shamelessly. Now THAT’s the way to travel to California. I SO wish I were a beagle!

As we head into Kalamazoo County, I see a sign for “Fort Custer National Cemetery Industrial Park.” Huh? What’s that all about?

I turn XM Satellite Radio to ABC Talk Radio and get a full-blown earful of Sean Hannity spewing nonsense in full-bore screaming, vein-popping, red-faced mode. I quickly find Air America. If I’m gonna sit on an American Interstate Highway and listen to screaming, vein-popping, red-faced radio, it’s gonna be screaming, vein-popping, red-faced radio that affirms and confirms my own political and worldview prejudices and conceptions.

Paw Paw, MI? Any Relation to Quapaw, OK
Written @ 15:30 EST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Paw Paw, MI

Approaching Paw Paw, MI. Paw Paw Days will be 15-Jul. Sorry I’m gonna miss that. America, what a country.

Still listening to Air America, I hear a sort of weird, deja-vu ad that gets my attention. It’s for a website for “middle school teachers, featuring inquiry-based learning curriculum for science education from the National Institutes for Health.” Which gives me a bad acid flashback to my science methods course from last January, which, I might add, was the only blemish on my grad school grade record, an 89% B+. The ad sort of gives me chills.

But the weirdest thing is when the announcer repeats “middle school teachers.” It hits me at mile marker 60 on Interstate 94 West near Paw Paw, MI, that the announcer is speaking to me. I. Am. A. Middle School. Teacher.

Good lord and holy freakin’ cow.

Don’t you hate those sudden, jarring, unexpected epiphanies at odd moments in odd places? It’s almost like when you open your mouth and you hear your mom or dad speaking phrases that you used to hate, which I mentioned before I refer to as the “Whippersnapper Routine:” “When I was your age …” etc. But this was even more jarring, I think. Over the last couple of weeks, things have been happening so quickly that I’ve lost track of time and feel like I’ve just been floating through the summer like an old leaf on a fast-moving stream. It will all gel, but it’s quite weird.

We’re approaching Benton Harbor and Lake Michigan and the Indiana state line. In a few minutes, we say goodbye to Michigan and the eastern time zone and start feeling like we’re really on a road trip. We’ll be making a quick stop in La Porte, IN, to visit Wells Fargo and take care of the final piece of the moving puzzle, the financial details of the house rental. The lease is signed, the goods are headed west, the car is loaded and we’re on the road. Ann Arbor is 158 miles behind us.

Have I said holy freakin’ cow already?

Farewell, Michigan, the “Pleasant Peninsula”
Written @ 16:00 EST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Approaching Lake Michigan

The rain looks like settling in for a very long stay. It started raining around 14:30. A minivan with Alaska plates just suddenly hit the brakes and pulled into the right lane in the heavy rain, right in front of a semi. The trucker was not pleased. Haven’t heard an airhorn blast like that since I last went to an Oklahoma Sooners game. The goober in the minivan was fairly oblivious that he had a very large and very angry trucker breathing up his rear. Wonder if he’ll make it all the way home to Fairbanks or Anchorage or wherever.

The rain is so hard that it’s unlikely I’ll get a very good pic of the “Leaving Michigan” and “Welcome to Indiana” signs. How gooberish is that?

How do I feel about leaving Michigan? Well, it was tough last night saying goodbye to everyone. Very sad. I will miss everyone terribly. I got a big lump in my throat taking one last, long look at the empty townhouse as we left. It was the first place that Frank and I shared together, our first home as a couple. We got married nearby, in Windsor, Canada. We had three amazing years. Met wonderful people, friends for life. Had great experiences at the university and in school. And some not-so-great ones, but that’s life. Michigan was good for us in some ways, bad in others. I mentioned before that I find “Michigan Lefts,” where you turn right-left-left in order to turn left, as well as aggressive Michigan drivers, and 42-wheel semi-trucks, aggravating and baffling. I found some teachers I dealt with baffling and aggravating as well.

Speaking of baffling, the state motto is, “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.” That is just … kinda awkward and weird. Why would I be seeking a pleasant peninsula? Whatever.

It’s 16:22 EST, or 15:22 EST, and we just crossed the Indiana line.

Well, shut my mouth.

Goodbye, Michigan.

Sidetrip
Written @ 15:45 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | La Porte, IN

Our first stop of the trip is in the rain. Indiana looks much like Michigan. Horses in the field, green trees. Beagle is asleep in the back, snoring softly. When we get to the bank, I’ll give him a walk in the rain. He’ll be hacked.

We pass under the Indiana Turnpike, which is actually I-80, our first glimpse of the road we’ll become intimately acquainted with between now and Sunday.

I’m writing all this stuff while David drives. I’m a total technogeek and have been known to do many odd things while driving, including studying for exams, reading Shakespeare, eating a Sonic hickory cheeseburger (Mmmmmmmm, Sonic!), etc. But I’ve never actually used a laptop and typed while driving. I don’t think I’ll start now. So, there will be gaps in the journal when I’m driving or sleeping. Which is like saying the sun rises in the east, I know. I have no idea why I’m even writing this stuff, but it passes the time.

Pine Lake is pretty in the rain. It’s 72 degrees. Downtown is busy and bigger than expected. It’s small town America at its best, and there are some real goobers in pickup trucks on the streets.

Time for a break.

The Beagle Poops on Indiana, his 15th State
Written @ 16:05 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | La Porte, IN

The beagle had a nice walk in the rain, around the block. La Porte was a surprise; being this close to the nastiness that I have seen from Amtrak around Gary, I was expecting something less … than stellar. La Porte is actually a quaint, middle American town. Quintessential as the saying goes. There does tend to be quite a few American flags all higgledy-piggledy, but there are also “End the War Now” and “Bring the Troops Home” bumper stickers, interestingly enough. It’s only 20 miles from South Bend, yet I see no Fightin’ Irish stickers, although there is a lone Catholic church with children out front having a blast playing in the rain while adults watch from the open, lighted doorway. There are big brick planters on every street corner downtown with great flowers in them and signs reading “Adopt a Planter.” One is adopted by a school bus driver, another by a married couple, another by the United Homosexuals of Indiana. Just kidding, just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

We just passed the Thunderbird Lanes bowling alley, pub, and fishing tackle store, which seems to be interesting because I’ve never seen a combination bowling alley and fishing tackle shop. Wonder if you can buy bait while waiting your turn in the fifth frame? Also, I haven’t seen many things named “Thunderbird” this side of New Mexico. It makes me homesick. Lots of things between my hometown, Roswell, and up in the mountains of Ruidoso are named Thunderbird. When I was a wee lad, I once took an old white sheet and created my own Thunderbird flag and went out in the woods near Clovis and played War. Not sure what army I was supposed to be in, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. Good times, good times.

Jammed Up With Boston Boy
Written @ 15:24 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Chicago, IL

We’re in the thick of it now. Traffic backed up like a clogged drain at Cher’s house. We’re stop-and-go trying to get to the toll gates on the I-80 tollway. Plus, it’s 17:30, rush hour. We have XM tuned to Chicago weather and traffic, which is getting old and not giving us any good news.

I’ve spotted a fellow traveller with Massachusetts plates, towing a small U-Haul trailer behind a small SUV of some sort. And I mean fellow traveller in the “gay old time” sense. He’s quite lovely to look at while sitting here on the concrete at Western and 171st on the south side.

At least the rain has stopped for now.

The toll is 60 cents. The way ahead is clear and we’re chasing Boston boy. Unfortunately, someone else is in the passenger seat, slumped down asleep. Still, he made things pretty for a little while, since he was sitting there all Jake Gyllenhaal-ish.

Have I been away from my husband too long? Yup.

Keep the Internet Connection On for Us
Written @ 15:46 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Chicago, IL

I call the hotel in Davenport to confirm our reservations. “We’ll see you when you get here.”

Well, at least she didn’t say, “We’ll keep the light on for you.” Ain’t ever stayin’ at THAT place.

Nope, LaQuinta has the two requirements we have when we travel: they like beagles and their rooms are wired with highspeed ethernet connections. It ain’t the Ritz Carlton, but it beats a tent on the side of the road.

And it’s still 130 miles away. Roughly about the distance between Duncan and Dallas, so about two-and-a-half hours before the beagle gets his dinner.

David is still driving after 273 miles and seems content to do it. As far as I’m concerned, he can do the whole 2,300. But that’s asking a bit much. I’m grateful for as much as possible. I’ve done the cross-country to California thing way too many times. I’d rather sit and play voyeur, peering at weird stuff by the side of the road and cuties in hot SUVs.

Corn, Prisons, and Stan
Written @ 18:40 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | La Salle, IL

Shortly after crossing the Des Plaines river at Joliet, the land stretches and flattens out. We saw our first corn fields west of Joliet. We didn’t see the prison, however, which is mostly what Joliet is known for, Al Capone and all that.

Talked to my friend Stan in DC for a few miles as he drove home from work. We noted that it’s been almost 30 years that we’ve known each other.

For the last three years, almost at least once a week or more, he’s called me as he leaves work in Bethesda, MD, and commutes home on the Beltway and I-66 to home in Chantilly, VA. I’ve kept him company, but the move to California will affect that, since we’re three hours behind. When he’s going home in the evening now, I’ll still be in my last period with the seventh graders. And that’s gonna suck.

Not sure how those are all connected, but my brain is pretty much on autopilot today.

By the way, more and more corn is appearing. There’s a helluva lotta corn out there.

Mississippi River
Written @ 19:49 CST | Tuesday 11-Jul-06 | Moline, IL

Illinois is almost finished. We just entered Rock Island County, last one before the Mississippi River and Iowa. The hotel is about 30 minutes away. The dog is completely zonked, but he’ll be ready for his dinner when we get in place. The road is flat and mostly straight and there are very few people on it; the crowd has thinned out considerably. There is still intermittent rain from time to time, but it has been a mostly pleasant trip on Day One.

I’ve finally run out of things to say. Next up: Mississippi River pictures and a much-needed stop. More later.

Worn Out Dogs
Written @ 01:29 CST | Wednesday 12-Jul-06 | Davenport, IA

We’re pooped. We got into the hotel after a beagle walk, then went back out and picked up dinner. I then swam for thirty minutes, talked to the hubby for awhile while doing laundry and walking on the treadmill, then it was back to the room to sort all the stuff I brought because there wasn’t time to do it in Ann Arbor.

I’m going to post some pics from day one on Flickr, then it’s off to bed. Tomorrow’s agenda: Up at 8, breakfast in the hotel, then it’s back to I-80 westbound, headed the 304 miles to Omaha, By God Nebraska.

I miss my fellow ELMAC’ers. It feels like I’m heading off into the unknown by myself and have suddenly lost the support of my homies. This sucks.

I’m not quite ready to say I miss the actual University of Michigan yet. Maybe next week. But I do miss the gang I spent the last year with.

Off to bed. Catch ya on down the road.

Night, y’all.

On Restless Beagles and Night-Before-Road-Trip Insomnia

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Okay, so I thought the next post would be from Davenport, IA, but, thanks to one of the most wonderful women in the world, I have a nicer place to sleep than my empty townhouse, as well as a working internet connection, so what they hey. I also have insomnia; it’s 1:30 a.m., my last few hours in Ann Arbor, and I should be asleep, given the work we have to do in the morning and the cleaning and the driving to Iowa.

But I’m still up, with an allergy attack and a very restless beagle, who refuses to sleep in the bedroom in my friend Ann’s house, who so graciously opened her home to us on our tonight so we wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.

Bayley just will not sleep in Ann’s daughter’s room, so we came back downstairs, where he had a long drink of water and finished off his dinner, which had been waiting for him since around 3 p.m. He finally has plopped down on the kitchen tile and is snoring. I have no idea why he prefers the cool, hard kitchen floor to a bed, but I have never pretended to understand the inner workings of beagles.

His world, for the 15th time in his short life, is topsy-turvy again and he’s about to spend seven longs days in the Jeep and seven long nights in strange LaQuinta hotels. Poor dog has lived in five states and visited 14 others. He’s gotten around quite a bit in 12 years.

But he looks good to go for another round, which is a good thing. In a short six hours, Ann will wake us up and we’ll head back to the apartment, where we still have to clean the ‘fridge and mop the floor and vacuum the living room and basement. I also have to finish packing and loading the Jeep, which was looking like a hopeless cause this evening, until I realized you can get rooftop bags that attach to the luggage rack and free up much needed space inside the car. Our first mission in the morning will be to search out such a thing.

Instead of sleeping, I’m waiting for the Alavert to take over and the head to stop pounding. Naturally, the internet beckoned. My niece in Fort Worth(less) tried to IM me earlier in the evening and show me pics of her fiance, who I’ve never met and probably won’t until the wedding next June. It’s a weird, strange thing to be 42 and have young nieces who are getting married.

Viewing her website led me to her brother’s MySpace site, which has strange and wonderful pictures and weird and mystical writings. Which loops my thinking right around to the recurring theme of my teaching: internet safety/privacy.

(Warning: Favorite subject/broken record rant follows. Scroll down and ignore. I’m a harmless ol’ coot complainin’ ‘bout the whippersnappers for the next couple of paragraphs.)

Does my nephew’s generation really think that ANYthing they post on MySpace, etc., is really private? That only their friends see their … interesting (given my family’s hyper-religious background) pictures, comments, and other postings? Maybe they think us old fogies are terminally clueless and don’t know how to use the internets, forgetting that at least one of their uncles is young enough to have been creating websites and doing web consulting (and, for that matter, trading naughty IMs with guys from New York to California) since they were little bitty snot-nosed kids in elementary school. And that said uncle is married to a research librarian and knows a thing or two about how to use the new-fangled Inter-netty thang to find out some v-e-r-y interesting things.

Or, in this particular case, have I been so distant from the Texhoma nexus of the family that I’m off the radar, a non-entity who jets in occasionally from the faggy, er, I mean, foggy place, bitches about Oklahoma, and then jets back to his fabulous social life of slurping Jello shooters off the taut, muscle-rippled bodies of 21-year-old gym bunnies on Gay Pride Parade floats every weekend? Or so they seem to think when the reality is so much more … boring?

I can do little about the family thing, save sending a little smack-down IM or e-mail, but I will have to do something at the new job. Middle school teachers, particularly in language arts and social studies, have to not only get ON the band wagon, but get out in front and lead the band. Or else terminally un-hip and un-cool uncles 2,500 miles away might just run across pictures better left to dark desk drawers. Trouble is, most teachers not only are not leading the band, but they haven’t a clue that a band just went through town, although they have heard tell that some contraption called a wagon might have been spotted in the neighborhood.

It does make me wonder a bit if I shouldn’t be educating teachers and parents instead of seventh graders.

‘Nuff. 30 minutes have gone by, the Alavert is beginning to work, I’m starting to bore even myself with what I call the “Whippersnapper Routine;” you know the one, where your dad’s standard phrases like, “kids today,” and “you young whippersnappers,” and “when I was your age” come out of your mouth and you mean them. I have renewed a vow to shut my mouth, forcibly with my hand if necessary, this year in the classroom if I feel the “Whippersnapper Routine” coming on.

And now I have to go smack down another sort of whippersnapper; it’s 2:12 a.m. and the beagle just jumped off the kitchen tile and starting howling. God only knows at what, but I’m pretty sure he woke up the longsuffering friends who are putting up with us today/tonight (not to mention the entire frickin’ neighborhood) and gave them a heart attack. Beagle baying at 2 a.m. wakes the dead and scares the living to death.

Ann, I owe you, big time!

Now where did I put that muzzle??

Night, y’all.

Countdown Begins

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No, not of the shuttle Discovery, of my final week in Ann Arbor.

It now seems like an amazingly fast three years. I’ve so many wonderful friends and accomplished some incredible (for me) things and I don’t regret our time here at all.

But new jobs, houses and vistas await. Time to get on to the next phase of life.

At this point, the Beagle and I will be driving to Davenport, IA, a week from today, Tuesday the 11th. Then it’s up to Mitchell, SD, then over to Mount Rushmore and Casper, WY, on the 13th. The 14th will see the Beagle posed in front of Old Faithful and spending the night in West Yellowstone, MT. On the 15th, we point it towards home, heading south to Twin Falls, ID. On the 16th, we’ll do the Nevada thing, ending up in downtown Reno. The 17th will see us back in Yosemite National Park. Finally, on the 18th, we’ll pull into Brentwood and start the unpacking. I have new teacher orientation the following Monday, the 24th, and I’ll be teaching 125 7th graders the Monday after that, the 31st.

Suddenly, it’s all moving so fast.

But first, a farewell party with my fellow ELMACers next Monday night will be a celebration of my final Michigan moments. It will definitely be bittersweet, just like our time here.

I’ll start posting lots of things here during our trip. I’m not the researcher and interesting writer that Frank is and since he’s not going to be on this trip, it might be a bit dull (in more ways than one). But I’ll give it my best shot.

Traffic Nightmare

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I get homesick for the Bay Area every now and then, but not on days like this:

Officials are continuing their negotiations with a man who has been standing on a railing on the westbound side of the Bay Bridge near Treasure Island since about 11 a.m. today, according to California Highway Patrol Officer Virgil Aguilar.

Westbound traffic is backed up to Highway 880 and Highway 92 and is getting worse by the minute as people aim to avoid the Bay Bridge snarl, Aguilar said.

“It’s Friday, people want to go home, and they’ve been working all week. This is causing major delays, especially because there is a Giants game tonight at SBC Park,’’ Aguilar said.

Drivers on the Golden Gate and San Mateo bridges are facing backups too.

Your Travel Guide to Baghdad-By-The-Bay (2002)

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‘I sat in the Delhi airport and watched the big electric clock in the departure hall that tells passengers when to board. I thought I imagined that time was moving in fits and starts: 1:12 a.m. for fifteen minutes, then 1:27 for another twenty, 1:47 … Closer inspection revealed that the clock was not plugged in, and its digits were being flipped manually by a little man in gray overalls whenever the mood took him.’

— Jonah Blank, Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God: Retracing the Ramayana Through India

‘SF is what the freedom-inducing utopian metropolis was mapped out to be: which is to say, more open, tolerant, funked-out, colorful, strange, unorthodox, thoughtful, nature aware, baffled, contradictory, and kaleidoscopic than any other city in the nation. It is equal parts beautiful and annoying, frustrating and wonderful. Perhaps this is why we seem to be so hated by sundry hunks of ‘Merka. We get it right, even in how frequently we get it wrong.’

— Mark Morford, SFGate.com

Hmmmmm. Slumming in SF for a vacation. Interesting choice. If you’re lucky this summer of 2002, you might arrive just in time for both « Barry Bond’s 600th career home run » or « Oakland’s 70th murder of the year ». Or maybe both.

My first advice is that, SF being just like downtown Washington, DC, where buses tend to wipe out the old and the slow, be very careful crossing the streets. Our smack-the-pedestrian rate is down this year, but still appears to be trying to keep pace with Oak-town’s homicide rate. And, as always, one should certainly watch out for those DWA’s (I’ll let others explain that acronym to non-Californians), to wit:

True story: This afternoon, I was sitting in my chair, doing what I do every afternoon at 3, namely, scattering resumes from « Seattle » to « Vermont » like so much bird seed while being endlessly amazed at just how much trouble « a little boy named Beaver » can get himself into, as well as endlessly pondering what would possess a woman to vacuum while wearing high heels and a string of pearls (not to mention allow her youngest child to be named after a swimming rodent – and just why is Ward always so friggin’ uptight?), when I heard a short screech, followed by an almighty and hellacious bang.

Well, I thought, it’s someone else’s turn to visit « the fine UCSF trauma center », rated the eighth best hospital in the empire! Sure enough, David came panting up the hill shortly thereafter; he had been in « a Muni bus » down the hill coming home, when a little old DWA man decided to make a left-hand turn from northbound Seventh onto westbound Lawton.

From the far right lane. Across four lanes of traffic. On a red light. In front of the northbound oncoming #44 Muni bus.

While the bus driver had quick reflexes and managed to stop the beast in time (thus sparing us all a scene of neighborhood carnage), the oncoming southbound cars on Seventh did not. Result: Squished Daihatsu and simply higgledy-piggledy afternoon traffic – the loony bin – er, I mean ’« Laguna Honda Adult Rehabilitation Center »’ – having just let out the shift change of Nurse Ratcheds – er, I mean, ‘mental health care professionals’ – a few blocks south.

Yet, undaunted by the scene confronting him, the Muni driver waited for the green light and then simply maneuvered his bus gallantly around the accordioned Daihatsu, let out David at the appropriate stop around the corner and went on his merry way. Which is possibly the first time in recorded history that a Muni driver was concerned about keeping to schedule. But I digress.

Not knowing where (or indeed if) you, dear reader, visited in SF before, I have a few suggestions:

First, take a look at « SFGate ». They always have something there interesting for turistas.

Even better, be sure and investigate « The SF Bay Area Guardian’s ‘Best of the Bay 2002 ».’ There’s a plethora of recommendations, including, if one is so inclined, the best nude beaches.

Hint: One of the best of the nude beaches is just to the west of the GGB and goes by the name of « Baker Beach ». Just be sure and remember the BB rules:

First, the beach runs below a high cliff, on top of which are tourists with cameras and binoculars who are supposedly there to ‘catch the spectacular view of the GGB’ [wink, wink]. If you don’t mind possibly ending up on the internet, well, then go ahead and « doff the CKs ».

Second, the beach is segmented by groups. Running from west to east, with the furthest eastern section being the closest to the GGB, you will find: First, clothed families and SF’s very few, very lonely Republicans; Second, clothed adults (moderate twenty-somethings who recently moved here from the Midwest and are still too inhibited to visit the areas to the east); Third, unclothed straight people (evenly divided between true believing nudists and folks who are obviously uncomfortable but determined to push on regardless – oh, and don’t be scared, but this group enjoys playing volleyball); Fourth, unclothed lesbians and their retrievers; and Fifth, unclothed gay men. Those fully clothed people walking east along the beach visiting each section are just engaging in prurient and surreptitious plain old ogling.

Then there’s that secret sixth section, over the rocks and snuggled up against the bridge, but what happens there would, if described in this missive, probably highly annoy the Imperial censors. Not to mention scare you. Let’s just say that there are more reasons than the sunsets why the view off the western side of the GGB can be quite spectacular. Unfortunately, the western sidewalk is usable only by bicyclists – no pedestrians, no gawkers with Nikons and telephoto lenses – despite what I alluded to above.

Just remember that San Francisco beaches are notoriously deadly affairs; a few months back, an « entire Japanese youth tour group », standing with their backs to the Gate at Baker Beach (the western, Republican, end) for picture-taking purposes, were swept out to sea by a large rogue wave, which only the camera man saw approaching. One of them did not return to shore and has never been found. Kinda like those Alcatraz escapees back in the ‘50s.

The western side of SF is « Ocean Beach », but the gray (yes, I said “gray”) sand is often unappetizing, and the notorious cold, riptides, rogue waves and the occasional shark or angry sea lion combine to … well, rival Oakland’s homocide rate. In short, beaches are for sunning, dog walking, frisbee-flying or kite flying, not for swimming (see above photo).

What else? Well, I always recommend the drive up 101 to Santa Rosa, where you can have great « Tex-Mex at La Cantina » (on the courthouse square downtown) and « visit Snoopy’s home ice, the Redwood Ice Arena, opened by Charles Schulz in 1969 and which now houses a Peanuts museum and gift shop ». This is where Sparky hung out when he wasn’t drawing. « This past weekend saw the grand opening of his great new museum ». It’s a dilly and will attract hundreds of thousands of visitors each year.

While in SR, there’s also « a nice indie bookstore, Copperfield’s, » in downtown SR that gives much-needed relief from the big, bad corporate chains like Bore-doors and No-Brains & IgNoble. One can also drop by McDonald Avenue, the fairly unchanged neighborhood seen in Hitchcock’s 1943’s « Shadow of a Doubt », as well as « Scream » and « Pollyanna ». (What an interesting trio that is. A friend just bought Pollyanna on DVD; beyond the shadow of a doubt, it made me want to scream. Hyuck. Hyuck. Hyuck.)

Anyway. The stairs down which Joseph Cotton pushed Theresa Wright in SoaD are said to still be there, relatively unscathed. Santa Rosa was more recently the locale for the excellent Coen Brothers’ noir-ish « The Man Who Wasn’t There », starring Billy Bob Thornton and Frances McDormand. It didn’t have a body being pushed through a wood-chipper in mid-winter like « Fargo », but it did have an execution, drunken hog-riding, and a roll-over car wreck caused by a blowjob. So hey.

If one’s visit stretches out toward the end of August, one shouldn’t miss the Tall Ships sailing through the Gate, part of the « Tall Ships Challenge », which will feature sailing vessels from around the world. It started Aug. 8 in Richmond, BC, and concludes Sept. 14 in San Diego, with simultaneous celebrations in Seattle, San Francisco and Los Angeles.

I always highly recommend « Fort Point », the 1850’s fortress underneath the GGB. It’s a well-preserved fort with spectacular views. Just don’t stand too close to the edge of the Bay. The rogue waves which hit the tourists at Baker Beach hit Fort Point sometimes too. And no, you can’t get to Baker Beach from there. A chain link fence prohibits what happens on the west side from being viewed by the tourists from Dubuque on the east side.

Fort Point is most famous as the spot where Kim Novak jumps into the Bay and Jimmy Stewart has to rescue her in Hitchcock’s « Vertigo ». Those steps are still there. And by the way, ain’t no way Jimmy coulda rescued that crazy wench; either she would have been immediately swept out into the Gate, or he would never have been able to hoist her back up the steps – I mean, lord, he was a thin thing and she was a rather … buxom woman.

Love ice cream? Well, one can hit four legendary ice cream stores, which were recently « part of a unique, only-in-San-Francisco, bike-around-the-city-and-eat-ice-cream, tour ». Yum, yum, yum.

Like to skateboard or rollerblade? Well, one might just have the brand-new, half-a-million-dollar skate park near the Cow Palace all to one’s self. Built recently for ‘boarders who were tearing up city sidewalks, it’s now being shunned by them: ‘It sits in a wind-rush so ‘hella cold’ that it’s been dubbed ‘The Chilly Bowl.’ Most boarders still prefer the broad sidewalk near Pier 7 on the Embarcadero, next to the ritzy Waterfront restaurant. Which, of course, is hella illegal.’

By the way, « ‘hella’ is a California colloquialism » which I first heard from high school girls on the aforementioned #44 Muni bus (‘That was a hella rave last night, Britney!’ ‘I know, LaQuisha! That Ecstasy gave me a hella buzz!’). ‘Hella’ can be used in other situations, as well: ‘That flight was hella bumpy!’ ‘That flight attendant was hella rude when she threw that Salisbury steak at me!’ And so on.

If one is into movies, check out the venerable, ever-fascinating « Castro Theater » with a terrific and eclectic, ever-changing series of great films, the movie fan’s Mecca. It’s located on Castro between 17th and 18th, which is, by the way, the geographical center of the queer universe. If you’re lucky, you’ll be treated to a performance of the Mighty Wurlitzer, the restored organ which rises out of the pit before some showings. The Castro was completely restored to its original glory not too long ago; it’s worth going just for the architecture. It also had a role in a scene of « EdTV »; Matthew McConaughey chased Jenna Elfman into one of the Castro’s restrooms. (We natives laughed at that scene; those crazy LA movie people had the chase begin in North Beach and end in the Castro – it would have been an uphill foot race of over five miles lasting, on-screen, about 30 seconds. I mean Matthew’s in pretty good shape, but I doubt he’s in THAT good shape.)

More standard, touristy suggestions:

« 1. Walk the Golden Gate Bridge » (do it now; they’re considering charging walkers $1 a piece in the future, and the toll for drivers will soon be raised to $5 bucks a car – charged to southbound drivers only). Walking the GGB is always fun; you can feel it bounce and sway as cars and trucks fly past you at 75 miles an hour close on one side and, on the other, there’s that sheer drop down to one of the world’s most treacherous ocean currents.

I admit that the bridge is beautiful and makes for perfect postcards; however, the charm and wonder of walking it escapes me. I find it about as thrilling as walking along, say, the Metro bridge over the Potomac in DC – while Orange line trains come at you from both directions. But hey! If you’re lucky, you might witness one of the many deadly head-on collisions that happen on the GGB all too often, or maybe even one of the estimated 200+-a-year suicide plunges into the Gate. Those in the know report that impact forces do the deed, not drowning, and that most victims end up, how do we say this? Several inches shorter than they were in life. Now THERE’S a vacation story to tell the folks back home!

« 2. Take the $23 Alcatraz After Dark tour ». It’s a totally different place in the sunset, less tourists, more mystery, more shadows. Colder than Laura Bush after she’s dragged Jenna home from yet another bout of underage DC bar hopping, but still well worth the trip. Be sure and go to D block, where the isolation cells are; a ranger puts you in a cell and closes the door. Fun, fun, fun. I wasn’t aware that dark could be so … well, dark. Not recommended for those afraid of blackness, tightly closed and confined spaces, 60-year-old toilets, or large, indigenous rodents. Or the ghosts of Al Capone, ‘Creepy’ Karpis or the Birdman of Alcatraz.

Bonus attraction in D block: Shrapnel and bullet scars from the 1941 prison takeover are still visible, created by an all-out Marine assault from the Bay on the rioting prisoners. Also be sure and see the papier-mache’ heads used in the Clint Eastwood movie, « Escape From Alcatraz » and the spot where ol’ ‘Scarface’ Capone gave haircuts.

Also, if you’re lucky, one of Alcatraz’s aging inmates might be on hand with a few interesting tales. The night my NorthPoint Field Operations field engineer trainee group and I went, we heard, from a nice man who was 90 if he was a day, an interesting (and surely physically improbable) tale of how one becomes a prison ‘bitch.’ Needless to say, some of the more … less-travelled … engineers were a bit … startled at the tale.

« 3. Visit Golden Gate Park » (in my neighborhood). Stay on the paths and try not to look too closely at what goes on in the bushes. GGP is safer than DC’s Rock Creek Park (at least during the day) – you’re unlikely to run into the bones of dead Congressional interns (although I do hear that Mr. Condit is back home in nearby Modesto during the Congressional break, so you just never know).

It’s also home to the « California Academy of Sciences », where you, too, can stand on a platform and experience what it felt like during the « 1906 earthquake ». In other words, it jiggles you up and down really fast and makes your lunch come out of your nose. No word on whether they also drop bricks on your head and then set you on fire so you can experience the aftermath of the 1906 ‘quake as well, but that might be included in upcoming museum renovations.

Afterwards, you can sit in the Japanese Tea Garden to collect your wits, or even use the pedal boats or canoes on Stow Lake. Caution! A dead elderly man was discovered floating on the lake face down a few months back, so, if one has a heart condition and is 88, one probably shouldn’t be pedaling or rowing boats around Stow Lake.

« 4. Shop the newly rejuvenated Union Square ». After a multi-year, multi-million-dollar face lift, the center of all things shopping recently reopened to tourists and its usual contingent of mimes and bums. It’s all there: Disney and Prada and Macys and Saks and Levis and Niketown and North Face and Virgin Megastore … as well as the piquancy of fresh bum urine and tourists buying every piece of made-in-Taiwan schlock they can get their hands on as they wait in patient herds for the « Powell Cable Car line ». (Hint: Catch the « California Street line » in front of the « Hyatt Regency Embarcadero » near the « Ferry Building » on « Market Street »; no lines, no crowds, few tourists, much more spectacular views. From the Ferry Building, a relaxing ride on the « Golden Gate Ferries line » to « Sausalito » or « Tiburon » is also a very wonderful thing.)

Union Square is where, by the way, a year ago this week I was dodging some x%x*^&# tourists from Dubuque and severely sprained my ankle. While it was potentially embarassing, none of them apparently noticed that I was sprawled on the ground; they either thought I was a bum or they were too busy craning red necks upwards, sayin’, “MA! Look at all them tall buildin’s!”

« 5. Take a walk down Second Street from Market to PacHell Park, home of the Giants ». This was my commute every morning when I was still actually part of the American work force. I love this quote in the article linked above about the area on the south side of the building where NorthPoint was located: ‘Look up the word “bleak” in the dictionary and this is what you should see.’

Still, at the end of the road is PacHell Park with it’s « SF Giants » store and museum and tribute to the Say-Hey Kid, « Willie Mays » (if you’re into baseball). It’s a beautiful facility, and unlike the corporate welfare given out to sports teams in the rest of Amurrica, it was built entirely with private funds – particularly from that evil phone company, hence its name.

Proud recent moment: « SF supervisors just voted earlier this month » not to sell out to corporate interests the right to rename « Candlestick Park ». The Park, ugly and nasty as it is, was built and is maintained by the taxpayers of the city. A rare, proud moment: Principle triumphing over the almighty corporate dollar.

« 6. Sixth Street ». Here is where you will find a richly layered, multicultural experience with sights, sounds, tastes and smells unparalleled anywhere.

It’s a veritable bazaar: Need a serial-less firearm? We got that. Counterfeit Nikes? We got that too. Cheap whores made up to look like Princess Leia in “Star Wars: Episode 4” and of indeterminate gender? Got ‘em in spades. More pharmaceuticals than Bayer, Wal-Green’s and « SF General Hospital » combined? Oh, yeah. Human drama? « Colorfully decorated pimp mobiles »? Movies which you can enjoy in the privacy of your own personal booth? Expert tutellage in « Ebonics »? We’re down with ‘em all, baby. Come see us.

Lastly, please allow me to offer my services as tour guide/chaffeur, if so needed. Lord knows I have the time. Just remember I drive as if the very demons of hell are chasing me and they’re rather hacked off about something or other. And you’re welcome to visit a rather more sedate tourist spot: My apartment. It’s not as exciting as Sixth Street or Baker Beach, not as famous as the « Crooked Street » or « Coit Tower », but it’s a heckuva lot calmer than all of the above. The most dangerous thing here is the « Beagle’s breath ». And the occasional DWA.

So, take your shoes off, set a spell. Ya’ll come back, now, y’hear?

A Few San Francisco Links:

Arts and Culture
• Asian Art Museum
• Exploratorium
• Music Conservatory
• SF Bike Coalition
• SF MOMA
• SF Museums
• SF Opera
• SF Pride
• SF Symphony
• Zen Center

Government | Industry
• C of C
• Police Dept.
• Port of SF
• SF City Gov.
• SF Fed. Res. Bank
• SF Library

History
• 1906 Quake
• SF Stories

Media
• Bay Area Guardian
• KQED
• SF Examiner
• SFGate
• SF Magazine
• SF Weekly

Sports
• SF 49ers
• SF Giants

Tourism
• Alcatraz
• Bay City Guide
• City Guide
• Conv.&Vis. Bureau
• Golden Gate Bridge
• Golden Gate NRA
• SF.com

Transportation
• Bay Area Transit Info
• SF International Airport
• SF Muni

Universities
• City College
• SFSU
• Stanford
• UCSF
• USF

Weather/Cams
• Live Cams
• SF Weather