She wasn't family, not by blood, but she was such a facet of our lives that she certainly earned at least some kind of honorary position in it. Not that that really means anything, but she really didn't have anything else.

When I was young living out in Quartz Valley, 10 miles from the nearest recognized national population center (no kidding, we had one of the last rural free delivery addresses in the country, and had a "party line" for a phone, and I don't mean the 1-900 chat line types either), a quarter mile down the road there was a mini trailer park full of retirees. They all lived on at least a half acre of land, but it was a conglomeration of old folks living in the same place, in trailers.

Leonard and Margie Stanley were in the middle of them. They lived in a double wide with their miniature poodle TeddyX. I add X because I think it was "Teddy" number six or seven. One through six or five resided in cremated form neatly lined up over their faux-fireplace mantle. Each one was given his or her own distinctive urn and prominently displayed.

The reason for this was that... Leonard either left his first wife (the mother of his children) for Margie, or married her shortly after his first wife died. Either way, his kids refused to acknowledge her as a member of the family and disassociated themselves. For whatever reason, he and Margie never had kids, and the "Teddys" were all they had together.

Other than the creepy dog cre-mains over the mantle, the thing I remember about Leonard, or "Mister Stanley" as we knew him, was that he was overwhelmingly loud. Also that, Margie was pretty much a kept woman. They married when she was very young, and he never allowed her to learn how to drive, write a check, or use the phone. She merely cooked and cleaned.

When Leonard, "Mister Stanley", died in the late '80's, Margie was left with no life skills to get by, as well as 10 miles from town. My mom stepped in.

I wish I could stress how much I love my mom. Not just because she's my mom, but because of what an unselfish giving person she is. She took on Margie like she was her own mother. Took her to the store, to the doctor, to the hair stylist, and in later years for chemo and radiation therapy. Not just the 10 miles into town (they moved her into Etna so she could at least be in town), but the 50 miles up to Medford on a weekly basis. Not for a family member, or someone who had been extensively involved in our lives, but for some old lady who used to live down the street.

We really were all she had. She didn't have any siblings, and her late husband's kids had disowned her. She lived from social security check to social security check, so it wasn't like she even had con artists stopping by to swindle her. Mom watched out for her and cared for her when no one would have for the last 20 years.

So, time warp to this morning, I stopped by http://www.eatmyyard.com/ Coriander's house and she invited me out to see Ariel Gore's reading from her new book "Bluebird: Women and the New Psychology of Happiness". At this point, I hadn't heard that Margie Stanley had died, so I eagerly agreed to attend. I've read a couple of Ariel Gore's books and loved them. She's ultra-feminist, but without being a man-hating shrew (wow, little sexist term there), and does it with a relaxed sense of humor that I like. She is among those contemporary writers who write in a voice I know; the voice I hear in my own head, a voice that I hear coming from my own mouth.

Unfortunately, mom called me with the sad news of Margie's passing while I was waiting for Coriander and her husband to come pick me up to hear Ariel Gore speak on the "new happiness". I put on the brave public face, even though I had to wipe away some tears before I opened the door for them. Ariel Gore was as funny and witty in person as she is in print. But still, I had to sit there amongst that feminist throng, desperately trying not to cry.

Partly, due to Margie's death (which it's hard to be too broken up over someone who lived to 94, but you know what I mean), but mainly for two other reasons. Firstly, I realized what makes me happy are my friends (which in the end Margie really only had one, my mom), and two, that I can only hope to live up to the unselfish giving bar that my mom has set in her life. I don't think I ever can.

So here's to Margie Stanley! I raise my piece of "Totino's" pizza to you! I remember having to go with mom to Yreka early to get to a sale of Totino's pizza at Raley's (it was something like 30 for $25) so you could stock up on them. I also toast my mom, and hope that someday, I can be as good of a person as you are. I can only hope that in some small dosage that I've earned a few cosmic brownie points for this eulogy (undoubtedly, the only one Margie gets), and that when I come to that day, that there is someone as wonderful as my Mom comes along to care for me.

Damn, I'm getting as bad as a new parent clogging up my blog with pics of my kids.



That's a better picture. Although it looks like I rode the front tire through a pile of dog sh*t.




All three of them. Just like parents I know, three's more than enough.




When it comes to chrome, it's never tasteful, so might as well go overboard.








All right, I'm done.

Tags: scooter

Sometimes everything just clicks together in a temporal/material/spiritual manner that amazes me. Kind of like the universe is saying "Yeah, I've been f*cking with you pretty much for the last while, but here's a little something your way for a change."

Last year it was my trip to the Vegas scooter Rally that came together in such a way, this time around it was this...



A 1964 TV175 Lambretta. There is only one or two more coveted scooters. This is the bike that mods enviously eyed from the back of their '61 GS150 or their '60Li2 back in the day of the mod.



As scooters go, this is a nice bike. Going to have to do some work cleaning out the fuel system (has sat since the last owners divorce 8 years ago), but that shouldn't prove to be too difficult (had to do it for my other lammy which sat for 25 years). Considering I got it for easily half what I see them go for on various on-line sites, I'm pretty happy.

Not too happy that it doesn't have the original engine (has a very pretty chromed up 125Li case and gear box with a 190cc cylinder conversion), and they cut some holes in the beautiful TV side panels, but still...

I spaced doing the partial mash on this one. Got too excited about the prospects of snagging a '65 Lambretta TV for $2800 (god, don't tell any of my scooter friends, cross fingers it's not from Vietnam).

6lbs Breis dark malt extract boiled with 4oz Yakima Golding hops and 1/2 oz licorice root in 2.5 gal Fred Meyer "Drinking Water" for 55 min. Added 2oz domestic Northern Brewer hops for 7 mins for flavor/aroma.

Siphoned int carboy with 2.5 more gal "Drinking Water". Allowed to cool, pitched in Wyeast "London Ale III" when cool.

I wonder what they get the different "London Ale" strains from?

Tags: beer, recipe

Hey that was fun wasn't it? Back to more modern, less genocidal, times. Here's a nice picture of buffalo from the buffalo farm near my parent's house to make it seem all better.



About a year ago, I had picked up my teenage niece in Etna (see previous post on the town of Etna) and was driving her over to her Dad's place in Yreka (another post someday). She's a nice christian country girl, also a complete smart-ass thanks to 14 years of catching hell from her father and uncle. She made the comment "I don't feel safe in Fort Jones. It's kinda sketchy feeling."

I didn't know what to say. This is place I went to junior high, where I would kick around with my friends drinking JOLT colas and throwing dirt clods at each other. Well those couple times I happened to be in town. On the rare occasion that I got left to my own devices. Still, a handful of fond memories are still such.

Here's the view from the south end of town.


The place with the flag is the U.S. Forest Service office where my Dad worked, and where my Brother now works. Across the street is Ray's grocery, which was Sentry Market, which was Gil's Market, which was a huge smoldering pile of rubble, which was Don Lees' tire store. Man I remember that day, massive black column of smoke, wish I could find a pic of that.

This is the Fort Business Center.


Not much there anymore. Used to have crappy bar, a nasty pizza place, and a bowling alley. Never was one much for bowling. Although, it did have the first video games in the Valley. A Tron game, a Centipede game, and a Ms. Pacman game. We figured out that if we lifted up the glass on the Ms. Pacman game and shoved a finger down deep somewhere in the exposed electrical system, it would short out the machine, reset the chipset and give us 3 free credits. All it took was one gullible kid who didn't mind an irregular heart beat, and we were in games for ever.

Maybe it's things like this that make my Niece think it's a down-grade from Etna.

Or.


The woman who lived in this house had a huge-ass collection of creepy dolls, thousands of them.

Still find dolls creepy. It was by private appointment only, my mom loved it, and at nine, I couldn't grasp the notion that "no, these toys are only to look at not play with". Still don't grasp it. She also had a huge bee's nest in one of those trees.

Scott Valley Bank

Got that mural from my last post

The river-rock building is the Fort Jones Museum


More on that in a sec, the business next to it is the hardware store that my friend Kyle's parent's owned. We would go down into the basement and he would point out the graffiti from the turn of the century. At some time, probably the '30's or '40's, a raging alcoholic worked there. We would take bent coat hangers and poke and prod out old bottles from under the shelves. Once we found a half full bottle of apricot brandy, which we gave to his Dad, who sucked it down with my Dad while they were out wood-cutting and managed to drop a tree straight across the cab of his Dad's truck. Ah, stream of consciousness memories.

Back to the Fort Jones Museum.

That's the rain rock. The local tribe (the Karuks) claim it has the power to bring rain as long as it's uncovered. The local chamber of commerce always covers it with a tarp for the parade to keep it from raining. The museum also features the stuffed carcass of a two-headed calf born in Scott Valley in the '40's. Pretty cool.

The bar in town.

Used to be called "Charlie Bob's" now it's something r*tarded, "Cold Stream" or something. Next to the old Mason's hall. For non-california types, "cock-tails off sale" means you can buy a bottle of liquor to go for an exorbitant amount of cash. At night it lights up with a broken neon sign to say "Cock Off Sale".

The new Mason's hall

Don't know why there are all those ominous antennae and microwave dishes are sticking out of it. Must be how they beam messages into our heads to control the price of oil or to buy Milie Cyrus albums. Who knows.

Willard's Grocery.

Closed sometime in the mid '80's when Mr. Willard died of cancer. The thing I remember about the place was that the Willards were mormans, so no booze, no tobacco, no caffeine. Yet the largest collection of pornographic magazines in the Scott Valley area. Now that I look closely at this pic, it says tobacco and cigars, maybe I'm wrong, not about the porn though. I distinctly remember being yanked away from it by the collar. Mexican restaurant, only restaurant in town, there now.

A couple more cool buildings I like.


Like the brickwork


I think there's a trail of bread crumbs leading to this one.


'Nuther Church, Presbyterian, I think.

'Nuther Catholic one. There's a story there, but I can't quite remember it.

I got a few more random ones from out around Scott Valley, but another time.

Tags: general personal stupidity, nostalgia, scott valley

Down at the "Bar willie_randolph pours drinks at" or else known as "bar of the losers", I was reminded by the aforementioned of my semi-abandoned photo essay of my home town. So here goes... Fort Jones

This is the "downtown"


There was actually a U.S. Army fort there in the mid 1800's. Several famous Civil war Generals were posted there throughout the years leading up the war. Phillip Sheridan, John B. Hood, and George Pickett were stationed there. Ulysses S. Grant was ordered to take command of it, but resigned his commission rather than be stationed so far from civilization, later to return to the Army for the War. It was created in 1852 to protect against, or eradicate depending on your point of view, the local native tribes.


This is an image I culled from a web site on California military history. Don't know when it was taken, but it had obviously been abandoned for some time. I believe it was abandoned prior to the civil war.

Growing up I always heard of the Fort Jones Indian Massacre. There isn't any historical documentation, but only oral tradition among the locals (both white and native). It is something that's been spread by word of mouth on playgrounds and over beers in bars in Scott Valley for 150 years. The stripped down story I heard as a kid (on the playground) was that the Army had a party and invited the local tribe (the Shastas). There were two pots of stew, one for the white soldiers, and one for the Indians laced with poison.

So that was the nine year old's version of the events. From what I've pieced together from my own half-assed research is this. White settlers began moving into what was then known as "Beaver Valley" (yeah, snicker snicker, shut up) in the late 1830's. There seemed to be sporadic violence between the local tribes and the settlers throughout the next decade. In 1848 the region was ceded to the U.S. from Mexico at the end of the Mexican-American War.

In 1850 gold was discovered in Siskiyou county and miners poured in by the thousands (more on that another time). This influx of gold seekers led to an explosion of violence between local tribes and whites.

On November 4, 1851, the Shasta signed a treaty of peace and friendship with U.S. government officials. It was designed to create a reservation for the Shasta, Karuk, Yurok, and other bands living in the area, and official recognition by the U.S. government. The treaty was never ratified by the U.S. Congress. This is were it gets historically dicey, although I have no reason to doubt this, there is no historical documentation on the incident.



Allegedly, during the party for the treaty signing, venison stew laced with strychnine was fed to the 3000 Shastas that showed up. Many refused to eat, and managed to escape into the wilderness. In the week that followed, vigilantes rode through the woods searching out any survivors, killing off many more.

I recently read the journal of one of the U.S. officials present at the time (can be found here:http://www.klamathbucketbrigade.org/Gibbs_1851JournalMcKeeExpedition040406.htm) and he mentions the signing ceremony, but not unexpectedly, makes no mention of the mass poisoning. Naysayers claim it is a myth created by Shasta tribe members to win sympathy and get officially recognized as a Tribe by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Perhaps it happened later, after word got back to white settlers that the treaty hadn't been ratified, but then that's pure speculation on an event for which there is no evidence other than oral history.




It's such a pervasive story, related by everyone. Not just Native Americans, but white people as well. I heard it my entire life. And not just from namby-pamby liberals bent on tarnishing the image of America's past (like my self), but by staunch conservatives as well. Hell, I even heard it told by my ultra-right wing teacher in fifth grade history class.

The only details that I have found to be different from the legend I heard at nine years old is where it occurred. I always heard it happened at the Fort, but later research seems to have it take place further down Scott River. The fort wasn't established until the following year. But the core always stays the same, a treaty party thrown by U.S. representatives whereat the Indians are fed poisoned venison stew.

I admit to being the most hard-line skeptic when it comes to such things. But it's still just as hard for me to discount something related to me as a pure fact all my life. It certainly fits my personal view of U.S. history, but yet... I don't suppose the truth can ever really be known after 150 years.

Tags: general personal stupidity nostalgia, scott valley

Pretty much the same as the last pilsner, just with a yeast packet called "Munich Lager". I wonder how much they actually vary in terms of body or taste. Some day I might actually put it to the test and make two identical beers with different yeasts.

6lbs Briess light DME
2 oz domestic Tetnanger hops boiled 50 min in 2.5 gal Fred Meyer "Drinking Water".

2oz Haltertauer for 10 min for aroma/flavor

siphoned into 2 gal Fred Meyer "Distilled Water". Allowed to cool, set in ice water bath in garage, pitched in Wyeast #2308 "Munich Lager".

Tags: beer

I know from the look on willie_randolph's face when I go into the bar he works at that he has a good story to tell. I know also that when I ask him "What's new?" and he answers with "not much", barely containing himself, that I've sat down in the middle of it.

After the inadvertent psychological flanking of my new "fight the power!" ambivalent workplace attitude by my supervisor, I spent most of yesterday reading my book, some of it in the tub, to wash the memory of ego trouncing out of my brain. A nicely absurd and engaging Jonathan Letham novel.

I eventually ingested enough caffeine to tip myself into what I call "doing something more productive", which is usually something as pointless as laundry, or going to the DMV to argue with them yet again about the title to my Vespa, or going to the store, or bottling a batch of beer. I really live a rich full life. I actually have a list on my fridge titled in Sharpie ink "Sh*t I Need to do". I've had it for ever.

The task I selected was to finally get around to calling, let's see, my brother's wife's aunt to ask her when I could drop off the stuff they had sent along with me for her. I procrastinated mainly because I knew I would be gently coerced into having dinner with them.

I was, and it was pleasant in a nice sort of way. We chatted about the weather, their various relatives, that kind of civilized talk that spills easily from the mouths of people in their 60's. I suppose they've had more practice than I. It feels unnatural to me to have dinner party conversation in Portland with out engaging in some snarkiness, or dripping with detached irony, or at least whether anyone has seen the latest stupid-ass LOL/OMG/WTF youtube clip that I loathe so much, but loathe even more for having to admit actually watching.

It was a decent meal. First time since my folk's house at christmas that I've had a meal that included more than two components. Chicken (the meat), mashed potatoes (the starch), and steamed carrots (the vegetable). I was a visitor in Joy of Cooking world and no longer in the land microwaveable Budget Gourmet. Probably the first time since I've been back that I ate something off a plate, and not out of the vessel in which it was cooked.

Eerily domestic. Quiet too. I'm used to dinner parties with ten kids running around and their parents drinking themselves stupid on low mid-range priced wines. Loudly exclaiming why or why not Lady Gaga is a genius, if the Pope is merely evil, but an ass-h*le as well, or how I need a girlfriend, my own house, kids, new job, et c. I usually try to divert the conversation towards books I've read read recently or how f*cking cool I am for owning a classic scooter, which I rode there, and is right outside, and super cool, cause I'm cool for owning it, despite being 40 and single with a stupid factory job.

This no, the weather, various kin's children's antics, how crazy the weather has been, and how difficult it is to drive when the weather is acting this crazy. I made it through the dessert of devil's food cake, but declined their invitation to stay and watch "Jeopardy" with them, awkwardly making the excuse of meeting people later.

I needed intoxication, cheap intoxication, and scenery not so serene. So I piloted the Li150 to my default hangout, where I was greeted with the bar-keep's aforementioned devilish grin. It's in the way he's simultaneously trying not to laugh out loud and gritting his teeth in annoyance that pegs it.

Didn't take me long to get the joke. Seated two stools away was some gal loudly and drunkenly proclaiming her insatiable need "to have a dick in my mouth", and "I haven't had sex since october, that's the longest I've gone since I was 15!" It's actually that kind of dialog that makes me mute whatever porn clip I'm watching. Really not all that sexy in pretend land nor in reality two seats away.

After she and her companion left, it continued. The baby-faced semi-hipster sitting next to me recounted all the places he'd lived, how he felt about Portland, and what he felt was the deal with women. He was strangely insightful in some of his observations ("all the women in this town are either on some medication or are authorities on the subject" was a good one), but kept repeating his insights over and over, and trying to get me to agree with him over and over. He seemed to be getting annoyed at me for not showing the proper amount of interest in the same sentence.

Luckily, his attention was deflected by another patron (who asked willie what his name was every time he ordered another drink) who was looking for some weed, and I was able turn the other direction to some uber-hipster gal blathering about movies I've never heard of until her mega-hipster boyfriend pulled her away before I could tell her I'd never heard of them.

The baby-face semi-hipster and the drunk weed seeker got into some kind of debate whether the baby-face actually had weed back at his place or was just looking for a ride home to 80th and Fremont. I don't know if it was actually settled, but it allowed me to engage the Steve Buscemi sounding regular who's name I can never remember in a conversation about movies I've actually seen.

We were interrupted by another youngling-hipster from the breakfast place next door who wanted to by beer off-sale. Why he just didn't walk the three extra blocks in either direction to one of two convenience stores, and what they were doing in a place at nine pm that closes at one pm, who knows, but he spent 9 bucks on a six of Hamms.

I'd had enough aberrant behavior to feel un-grounded again. Started up the bike in three kicks only to find, or rather not find first gear. Sat on the curb and somehow managed to reset the pinch bolt successfully on the gear selector cable in the dark with cold numbed fingers and a cheap beer buzzed brain. It was then the aforementioned uber-hipster girl tottered by and sobbingly tore off in her SUV.

I rode home pondering why it is I feel more comfortable sitting in a bar watching people behave like jackasses, than at a nice quiet evening watching Jeopardy with quasi-relatives.

Tags: general personal stupidity

Spent yesterday recovering from the two previous days of work. At least the day portion of it. I, after nearly ten years, have finally reached a level of apathy there that allows me get through the day without raising my blood pressure to beyond that which exists in creatures living at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Once upon a time, I would come in to work and mentally calculate how hard I would have to hustle to get the amount of work I needed to get done for that day.

Back then, when we had eight people working in slicing, most days were fairly mellow. I could get all my saws set up and running, go out to the break room, read my book for an extended length of time, come back in and get the next run going again.

Occasionally, I would really have to hustle. Not take that extra break, maybe trim my lunch short, or even skip a break to get everything done. I took it in stride as just a busy day, knowing that the next day would probably be mellow.

In fact, one of the first things my old supervisor told me was, "If you got all your saws running and singling doesn't need any help, just go hang out in the break room. I don't want management seeing you guys standing around with your hands in your pockets out on the production floor." Man I miss him as a boss.

Not like that anymore. Reduced staffing, increasing production per unit (I'm a unit! Mom look at me! I'm a unit! Mom are you watching? I'm a unit!), cross training, and natural attrition are the buzz words now. Basically, as people, I mean production resource units, retire, or in my area, die, we don't replace them with fresh resource units. We just train the next poor schmuck (me) to do the work that former resource (corpse) formerly preformed. Natural attrition certainly is an apt term.

So where there were eight people working there are now only three production resource units. I think I'm now doing the work of 2.5 people five years ago.

At some point I had this epiphany; I can be written up for breaking procedure, I can't be written up for not doing something. I shared this with several of my coworkers, and their attitude mirrored mine. So starting about a couple of months ago, I've just been plodding along at a moderate rate, doing what I feel I can do without destroying my will to live or any of my body parts, in the r*tardedly inefficient manner that the written procedures spell out. I don't get half as much done as I used to, but I don't give a handful of cr*p either. No one else, even the formerly most sycophantic d*ck-kissers, I work with does either.

So, the new mission statement of shift 5 slicing is "If it doesn't get done, leave it for night shift. If they don't get it done tonight, It'll be there tomorrow for us to not do." That and "What-ever.", which is amusing to hear over pronounced by my Vietnamese coworkers.

Bad attitude? I would think so. At my biannual evaluation (which for the last two years has always been prefaced with the statement "As you know, there's no budget for raises this time") earlier this week I was completely ready to be called on it. I even had my best "what-ever" noncommittal shrug ready to be as obnoxiously obtuse as possible. But no, my supervisor commended me on how well and improved my attitude is now. How she is happy that I am better in control of my emotions and that she is pleased with my new work ethic. She even gave me the highest evaluation I've ever gotten.

I didn't know how to react. I would have thought that my leaving scads of work for the next shift to do, that I could have with a little effort accomplished myself, would have earned a stern prediction of future joblessness. But no, only praise. I think she took my no longer arguing with her to see some form of logic, as a sign that I was now a real team player.

I suppose that's the lesson the modern business world has been trying to drill into my thick skull all along. It doesn't matter how hard you work, or how much you accomplish, just keep your mouth shut and you'll be A-Number-One Team Player.

Tags: general personal stupidity, my stupid factory job, ongoing annoyances

No hangover, a decent night's sleep. I must be getting old.

Listened to idiots shoot off fireworks and out screaming in the street. Watched someone go through a sobriety test across the street (they must have passed the cops let them go), about it.

Yeah, old.