Our door was green and the cats hung out just inside the garden trying to kill movement. The woman bent over to pet one and the Calico scratched her. Specks of blood hit the rocks. The cat was Einstein and the victim was Trudy. Einstein was the first out of the box looking for food and water. Six sisters and brothers got scattered around town, but that’s the way of cats: here and there, putting up self-identity struggles with humans who don’t share the same vision.
Across town a second woman, a Mexican woman, was hiding from a house deal with Trudy. The Mexican had sold too cheaply or so said a few jealous relatives who kept their nails long and red. That might have passed, but then the real sadness set in when the old woman on the corner, who peeled oranges with one of those hand-cranked blade…
A warehouse door with obvious fire damage which a graffiti artist decided to cover up appropriately with a fire scene. Downtown Reno Nevada
Paris has the Eiffel Tower and New York City, the Statue of Liberty. But poor old Reno Nevada’s iconic landmark is a sign spanning the main drag that reads “Biggest Little City in The World.”
If you can’t figure out what the heck that means, don’t worry. No one can. The slogan is the result of a contest won by “one G.A. Burns of Sacramento” who was awarded $100 for his brilliance by the “City Fathers.” That was back in 1927 when Reno was being run by railroad men, merchants and ranchers. They had officially approved gambling and the town needed some glitz. Thus, a sign was born.
As an aside, the town’s original name was “River Crossing” but it was changed to Reno in honor of a Civil War general who was killed by friendly fire and whose last words were “Sam, I’m dead.”
There is no downtown Reno any more. Not really. Unlike Vegas, the casinos and resorts are spread out all around town.
Downtown Reno (seen from across the Truckee River) sometime in the 1960s
Once there was a downtown Reno, a stretch along the Truckee River where the casinos intermingled with banks, city offices and department stores. Today some of the older casinos remain (Harrahs and the El Dorado), cramped in between pawn shops and check-cashing places. It’s four blocks square that hold all the joy of an abortion clinic unless the Hells Angels and their buddies are holding their yearly jamboree. Then it feels a bit like Armageddon.
The casinos try to woo potential gamblers by creating magical and surreal environments where no one could possibly lose all their money but to me they feel like neon-lit fish tanks where I am the fish.
But it wasn’t always that way. Once upon time there was The Mapes.
The Maples Hotel had an old-fashioned coffee shop in its lobby. Red velvet booths and a counter where you could watch soda jerks create the greatest chocolate malts and floats. And the french fries, oh my! Trust me, the chocolate malt you buy with hard-earned baby-sitting money at age thirteen will forever be the best one on earth.
But the hotel had another claim to fame. For a stretch in the fifties and sixties it was a prime spot for catching a glimpse of celebrities such as Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Montgomery Cliff and the Rat Pack (Sinatra et al). Monroe stayed there with her husband Arthur Miller during the months of filming “The Misfits” which meant the hotel was always surrounded by news crews.
I always thought the Mapes’ marquee (above) represented the town far better that a sign no one understands. I can remember hitches outside the casinos for cowboys who would ride into town on the weekends from one of the many nearby ranches. Of course I’m not quite old enough to remember actual horses being attached to them. But I do remember stepping in cow dung on my way across the field between my house and the school.
Unfortunately, the so-called “city fathers” had no sacred memories of chocolate malts and no desire to preserve the room wherein Marilyn Monroe slept. Despite the all-out efforts of preservationists, this was the Mapes’ fate:
So famous was this building that it’s destruction was broadcast on the evening news here in San Francisco. I felt like I was watching an execution.
Last summer I was invited to a tea party. By that I mean, tea and crumpets with ladies in frocks and garden hats and not a group of people with teabags hanging from the rims of their hats screaming “Obama is an Arab.”
The Tea Party circa 1930
I hadn’t been to a tea party since my daughter was three and the teacups held apple juice. My first thought was “goodie, I get to pretend to be a lady again.” You see readers, I spend 90% of my time in baggy clothes and flip-flops and rarely wear jewelry. My mother describes my fashion IQ as “mid-century homeless.”
Therefore, what to wear was an immediate concern. It would have to be something I already owned (and fit into) because, even when I was very thin, the thought of being watched as I stripped to my panties always freaks me out. So, you could say my unwillingness to bare my butt to hidden security cameras lowered my frock candidates to two, both of which were bought for funerals but worn to any and all special occasions, including weddings.
The next big decision was which piece of jewelry to wear. Oh my, the true test of whether or not you’re a sentimentalist lies in the jewelry you’ve carted all over the country. I like to think I’m not but below are pieces I haven’t been able to part with so you tell me:
Buttons – from the assortment above you’d think my political inclinations swing wildly but the Nixon, Rockefeller and Bush buttons I inherited from my father. They’re a reminder of all those arguments we had around the dining room table, many of which resulted in my expulsion to my bedroom sans dessert. They also remind me of one of the last things Dad ever said to me before his death “Republicans really aren’t nice people.” I have no idea what prompted him to say that, probably the swift boating of John Kerry. I’m sure Trump would have mortified him.
This cheap plastic pendant was given to me by a sixteen year old boy who lived with his foster parents in a trailer park in Ridgecrest California. All three raced dirt bikes out in the desert at a time when movies like The Wild One depicted motorcyclists as thugs. But they were good people. They taught me a valuable lesson about rushing to judgement. The pendant always reminds me of a spaghetti dinner, the drive-in movies and what it’s like to be sixteen and forbidden to ride on the back of a motorcycle.
The charm bracelet was from my Aunt Elvira who had no children of her own and used to take us to Disneyland. Until I was about thirty-five, it was my dream to live in FantasyLand. Guess what – I’m having that same dream all over again.
Whose jewelry drawer doesn’t contain an assortment of oddball keys? You can’t throw them away because one might unlock a diary that’s been hidden in the back of a closet for decades, full of childhood stories you’ve long forgotten.
Other treasures include earrings without mates (they’ll show up), my grandmother’s charm bracelet, the odd pendant or two, and a couple of unpolished garnets. It might surprise you to know that my jewelry collection is not insured.
Back to my ensemble, I decided that wearing old campaign buttons and just one earring might make me look even kookier than I generally do. They were definitely on the what not to wearto a Tea Party list. Instead I wore a simple set of hand strung beads and clip on pearl earrings that had belonged to my grandmother.
You may wonder why I’m telling this story now. Well, months ago I predicted Trump would eventually go to war with the Pope not really believing it would ever happen. Well, it’s beginning and I’m moving to Wonderland to have tea with the Mad Hatter.
Aside from a few freelance gigs, when people ask me what my last “real” job was and I answer “process analyst,” they either scratch their heads because they’ve no idea what I’m talking about or they scrunch their faces in disgust because they do.
In the software industry, a process analyst’s main job is to figure out why projects either 1.) spiral over-budget 2.) take months longer than promised, or 3.) produce an end product so full of bugs that customer support runs screaming to the executive boardroom demanding the project manager’s head. If a project is guilty of all three, water-boarding would be a breeze compared to the verbal abuse and humiliation they face from a CEO schooled in the social graces by Donald Trump.
This project manager’s not going to make it out of the room alive!
I didn’t have any training in “process analysis” and was hired primarily because I could write coherently, pull together a reasonable web site and I was too dumb to realize what I was getting myself into. You see, process analysts are expected to develop checks and balances to make sure projects run on schedule, on budget and as bug free as possible. And the worst part – we are expected to accomplish this task without armor and weaponry while the executives trot off to conduct business sessions at golf courses. Right!
My first task as a process analyst was to reformat a set of templates used by project teams to gain approval of their plans. Many of them lacked coherent structure which drove the execs crazy. So I tried to make it easy for them to find key projections such as ROI (return on investment) without having to actually read the darned things. You know how busy and important execs are!
Should really read: “our processes aren’t complicated enough.
After approval, the plans were reviewed at quarterly meetings. The stated objective of these meetings was to see how far off track the teams were and help them back on target. Sounds friendly, doesn’t it? Not really. These meetings required a project manager to either song and dance around issues, point the blame at another group, or beg for more resources. And they went on for days. I know because I was required to attend each whip-lashing.
Before a product was released, the project had one last hurdle: the “release readiness review.” At this meeting the results of testing were revealed, deadliest bugs discussed and a decision made: Could marketing put a good spin on the release despite known issues or would they have to come up with a reasonable story for the delay?
I was at one such meeting when the CEO made the following comment to his team of execs.
“I didn’t know you all spoke fluent German.”
There was silence. They looked around perplexed. What was he talking about? Well, readers, on this particular project all the testers were German thus their report to the execs was – you guessed it – in German.
“Perhaps one of you can tell me what this document you’ve all approved actually says. Unlike you I do not speak German.” Ah, ah, ah. Quickly the other execs whipped out their finely honed excuse generators. None of them spoke German either.
I’m amazed I lasted as long as I did. It wasn’t easy being the “process police” or witnessing daily evidence of the Peter Principle. But, because it was a multi-national company I enjoyed getting to know people from other cultures and perhaps that’s why I was able to stick it out. Sometimes it’s the people you work with and not the job.
Besides, thanks to my boss (who really should have been running the company) I learned how to bring groups together who are dependent upon each other for success but acted like they were at war (remind you of Capitol Hill perhaps?). On a team the objective should be to sail across the finish line together and not drive each other off the cliff.Eventually the company was sold and the new owners had their own processes so my group, along with about one third of the company, found ourselves saying good-bye in the parking lot while pathetically holding our boxes of personal items. We were the lucky ones. I heard from friends who survived the slaughter that the new owners had no process analysts and few development checks and balances. Eventually everyone escaped. Except for a few managers. They were the sort of people to have tossed children from lifeboats into the icy water and then bragged about surviving the Titanic. On January 20th we’ll find out what it’s like to live in a country governed by people who increasingly have no need for process analysts, morality, decency or even checks and balances on their unconstitutional behavior. To quote Mr. Trump “Sad.”
Over Christmas I got an out-of-the-blue email from someone I rarely hear from and have little in common with however he and I have one of those bonds that cannot be explained and will never be broken.You see,we knew and loved the same person.A woman whose crystal heart broke early on, leaving her to unsuccessfully limp through life trying to avoid emotional landmines.
I met her in the brief moment of innocence allotted her and we bonded over Tolkien and all things Middle Earth. When he met her it was too late, but at first he suited her needs like a Tums would the winner of a hot dog eating contest.However, gradually she realized you cannot go from a great albeit deadly passion to warm milk and cookies.
This door is around the corner from Trump International Hotel in Washington DC. Its message is ominous, don’t you think?
From Bing images
In case you haven’t heard, Trump bought Washington DC’s Main Post office and converted it into a hotel.
From Bing Images
Built in 1899 the Old Post Office is a 12 minute walk to the Capital. Before Trump decided to run for president, his plan was to make this building into the jewel in his crown. Every head of state would want to stay in a Trump hotel, don’t you know? Lather in golden bubbles while munching on Trump chocolates and drinking Trump wine. However early reviews are not glowing:
From the outside, it responds to a growing need, serves an audience, and looks quite grand. But on the inside, it is a complete disaster, mostly empty inside, riddled with nonsense. From Vanity Fair
Of course when he brought the property he was told if he went into office there would be a conflict of interest but I don’t think he thought he would get into office. Now I’m sure he thinks the rules don’t apply to him. After all, look at all he’s gotten away with so far.
Here’s a door of a different sort which I pray is never made into a Trump resort or golf course but in this crazy world, who knows?
This is one of the many archways at the outdoor stadium in Arlington Cemetery where Memorial Day tributes to our veterans take place. I didn’t take too many pictures at Arlington. I always find it such an overwhelming experience that snapping pictures seems wrong.
Well, if you’d been launched into orbit 39 times in the space of 27 years, you’d be looking a little funky too. America’s oldest space shuttle, Discovery, is currently in retirement at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center outside of Washington DC. Udvar-Hazy is the Smithstonian’s air and space museum. Besides Discovery, there are hundreds of planes and jets – both military and civilian – however, if you decide to visit do so on a full stomach. The only place to get something to eat or drink is an overcrowded McDonalds.
Puny mortals beneath the thrusters
Our guide was a retired Air Force pilot who peppered his dialogue with non-stop stories of famous generals and senators he’d flown hither and yon. I imagine his wife was quite happy to get him out of the house so she didn’t have to keep listening to them!
As we blast off into this crazy year, let’s hope like Discovery we return to an intact world safely.
Today I am still recovering from a combination of too much sugar and ears that never popped after the plane I was on made a nose drive to escape nasty weather. It was such a rough flight that stewardesses remained in their seats the whole way. We didn’t even get peanuts!
The winds pushed ashore monsoon rains, making my dream of Christmas Eve at the Cantina seem more like a nightmare. Instead we stayed close to home and made Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses.
Not bad for two five year olds and a three year old!
Love means going through a security checkpoint with a special present handmade by five year old Audrey for Pretty Kitty.
He seemed pleased, however he didn’t know exactly what it was. A scratching post, silly kitty!
Flying home I sat on the western side of the plane and watched the sun set over marshes at the southern tip of the San Francisco Bay.
I hope you all had a magical Christmas! Onward we march towards 2017. God help us all. Perhaps homemade cookies and milk will save us. Well, it couldn’t hurt.
I don’t have many pictures of Christmas mornings when my kids were small because let’s face it – who wants to have their picture taken after you’ve stayed up until 5 am putting together a bicycle using instructions written by someone of dubious technical skills and then been woken at 6:30 AM by children anxious to see what Santa brought?
The above picture was taken the year my Aunt Gloria knitted us all brightly colored beanies. Didn’t help – I still look like a bloodless vampire.
This picture was taken after I’d opened a box of fortune cookies from my “Secret Santa.” Look at how excited and happy I was. Thanks Cousin Penny; exactly what I wanted! Of course that was the year my sister and I drank a bottle (or two) of wine while making our contribution to dinner: scalloped potatoes. Dinner time came, everything was ready to go but whoops! We’d forgotten to turn on the oven. My step mother was not amused.
Eventually your kids become teens and it becomes impossible to wake them before noon, even on Christmas morn. When you finally get them out of bed, they look like this all day long.
At least Boo was attempting a smile.
At one time I was so good at the Christmas thing that my children got into fights at school with non-believers. Now Christmas Eve my daughter and I have been spotted enjoying Happy Hour at the local vegan, gluten-free beach shack as the sun sinks into the Pacific. Shhhh, don’t tell Santa.
Can you see my daughter Boo in the above picture? I’d gotten her up early and started taking pictures before her shower and beauty regimen so she refused to have her picture taken. What do you think Cam was excited about getting?
Happy Christmas from Boo, Cam, and their buddy Bobart (a nickname).
I’ll be away for Christmas – here are a few posts from past Christmases in case you miss me:
War won’t be over; fear won’t be a thing of the past but all is not lost. Down at Henri’s Beach Shack wine will be five dollars a glass until 7 PM. There might even be a jazz band.
On our final day in Charleston I decided to take a leisurely walk around the neighborhood where our hotel was located – the French Quarter – before packing up and calling an Uber for the airport. The homes in this area aren’t nearly as grand as those south of Broad street (the SOBs), probably because it’s home to the Old Slave Mart, the City Market (est. in 1790) and many restaurants and museums.
When I first saw the plaque next to the above door I thought the name of the house was “Carolopolis” but I was wrong. Every year one of these plaques is presented to a structure originally built in Charleston’s colonial days that has been properly preserved. Carolopolis is a combination of Carolus, greek for “Charles” and polis meaning “city.”
Also common are plaques which describe the historic significance of the structure.
This salmon colored house is typical of homes in the French Quarter. As you can see, the balconies are off to the side and draped to insure privacy. And of course, the garden is surrounded by a cast iron picket fence. (These fences made it difficult to trespass to get better pictures of the doors!)
You see a lot of old gas lamps in the historic districts of Charleston. They’re quite romantic which is one of the reasons you also see a lot of advertisements for wedding venues.
I’m not exaggerating when I say there are hundreds of historic structures in Charleston. One of the reasons has to do with that dastardly War of Northern Aggression. Ironically, the city in which the Civil War began missed undergoing the fate of other southern cities, many of which were burnt to the ground by Union soldiers.
That’s the last of my pics from Charleston, a city which, if you want to visit, you’d better go soon. It’s on a list of the 14 American cities that could soon be underwater as tides continue to rise.
“Tree” by Connemoira circa 1980 
Saying nothing in particular 