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Crab and Whine–I Mean ‘Wine’–Days

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Fort Bragg, Pudding Creek in the foreground.

Our son Thom set up a weekend for us in Fort Bragg over the weekend–the beginning of Mendocino County’s annual Crab and Wine Days. The centerpiece event of the weekend was a crabcake cookoff in a big white tent on Fort Bragg’s Main Street. Attendees tried the various crabcakes on offer from local inns and eateries and voted on their favorite, then did the same for wines from county vintners. I will admit that after a while one crabcake seems much like another to me, but I did manage to savor and vote for both a favorite crabcake and a wine I thought was pretty good (neither my palate nor my appetite was improved by a mid-respiratory tract cold I seem to have come down with as soon as my time off from work started).

Much of the Mendocino Coast is given over to high-end tourism. Driving up Highway 1, you pass one small settlement after another that were once logging and fishing outposts and are now mostly given over to expensive inns and restaurants. A few places on the coast–Fort Bragg is one–are in the midst of a transition from dependence on timber and fisheries to tourism and nouveau agriculture (the latter term embracing both viticulture and winemaking and the not-legal marijuana industry). Fort Bragg’s past is everywhere, from its fishing port on the Noyo River (source of the crab harvest) to the barren, cleared parcels on the water side of the coast highway that used to house mills.

Anyway. What I forget in what might seem a bleak recitation of economic realities is the utter beauty of the place. Thom got reservations in The Beachcomber, a motel just north of town. Nice place, dog-friendly and not outrageously expensive, but its principal amenity is that it abuts parkland and beaches and looks right out on the Pacific. When Kate and I got there Friday night, we went out for a walk on the paved trail behind the place. Heading south into town, the path crosses a trestle over Pudding Creek, one of the few streams on this part of the coast said to still have a viable wild coho salmon run. Didn’t see any fish–this would be steelhead time, if any are showing up–but I saw plenty of opportunity for night-time picture experiments.

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Pudding Creek, moonlight.

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Bears Down

If graciousness were in my playbook, I’d say, “Go! You Packers! Go!” and wish them well in bringing home the bacon to old Green Bay. But that’s a big if. Instead, I’ll note that the sum total of my media experience for the game was turning on CBS Radio when we got back in range (we were driving home from a weekend outing to the Mendocino coast) and hearing, “So the Packers will move on to the Super Bowl, beating the Bears 21-14.” Which only left the suspense of how well or badly the game was actually played. I come away from the game stories I’ve seen feeling like the Packers needed luck to get out of there with the game and the Bears supplied it. Not a bitter disappointment–the Bears were clearly not a great team, but they were entertaining on their better days. It would have been a great story to see the third-string quarterback bring ’em home.

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Rooting Interest

I’m going to do what no Chicago sports fan should ever do—the great majority of us seem not to abide by this wisdom—and say I’m really hoping they win tomorrow. Beyond matters of vicarious athletic attainment and hometown pride, I hope they prevail for aesthetic reasons. In an anthem vs. anthem matchup, Chicago’s “Bear Down, Chicago Bears” must triumph over Green Bay’s polka-flavored, raccoon coat-evoking slop, “Go! You Packers! Go!” I submit lyrics and clips in support of my position, starting with “Bear Down”

Bear down, Chicago Bears,
make every play clear the way to victory.
Bear down, Chicago Bears,
Put up a fight with a might so fearlessly.

We’ll never forget the way you thrilled the nation
With your T formation.

Bear down, Chicago Bears,
And let them know why you’re wearing the crown.
You’re the pride and joy of Illinois,
Chicago Bears, bear down!

And here’s a representative performance of “Bear Down” :

Now, here’s the Green Bay hymn:

Hail, hail the gang’s all here to yell for you,
And keep you going in your winning ways,
Hail, hail the gang’s all here to tell you too,
That win or lose, we’ll always sing your praises Packers;
Go, you Packers, go and get ’em,
Go, you fighting fools upset ’em,
Smash their line with all your might,
A touchdown, Packers, Fight, Fight, Fight, Fight!
On, you Green and Gold, to glory,
Win this game the same old story,
Fight, you Packers,
Fight, and bring the bacon home to Old Green Bay.

And here’s a specimen rendition of the above:

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The Humbling, or: Whine of the Solo Blogger

I’ll admit to blog pretensions. There have been plenty of moments in the seven-plus years I’ve sat down to write this whatever-it-is that I’ve thought I’ve hit on some unique perspective that might–no, should–attract attention. And of course we all want attention, don’t we?

But for the most part, what I do here is part of what I once called “staying poor doing something you love.” It’s pleasing when there’s a story or picture to share with my small group of regular visitors and the words or images fall into place. On occasion, curiosity has turned me into a specialist of the arcane and then drawn visitors to the site: Illinois’s remarkable record of electing governors and sending them to court; the failings of a local TV news show; the history of a bicycle-related art piece. And lots of other things, including weather and climate, water and fish in California, my dog, my travels, and my family. This week, I’m one of the leading sources on the Web, maybe, for those looking for sheet music for “Bear Down, Chicago Bears.” Glad to be of service.

I watch the number of visitors who visit the blog. Without going into sad details, I can tell you the number isn’t billions and billions served. This is definitely more of a street-vendor operation than a worldwide mega-franchise. That’s OK. Patrons here tend to be forgiving and they definitely seem to tolerate and maybe even appreciate the fact the portions here are a little inconsistent, ingredients are freely substituted, and the proprietor may or may not remember to give you the drink you ordered or supply utensils.

Still, numbers are numbers. Before Google did something to its algorithm a few years ago, there were days when I happened upon the right subject–papal embalming, say–and a couple thousand visitors showed up. Roughly speaking, traffic’s at about one-tenth where it was at its height in 2007. If I did this full time, had an actual focus, really reported things, spent some time and perhaps money networking and marketing, approached this blogs (or some blog) as a business–maybe then I could eventually generate some big numbers and perhaps even a little money from the effort. That’s the dream in the back of nearly every blogger’s brain.

Or maybe I’m just thinking too much. It recently came to my attention that a guy I know in the newsroom at the major Bay Area public radio station where I work has a lucrative sideline in YouTube videos. When I say lucrative, I’m talking about grocery and gas money, not a summer place in the mountains. And when I say YouTube videos, I don’t mean anything you couldn’t play at work and tell all your friends to come and watch. The guy posts videos of his funny-looking dog doing basically nothing–just looking funny. That’s it. The one below, representative of my coworker’s oeuvre, has drawn about 10 times more traffic by itself than this blog has in its entire existence. Watch the video, though. It’s cute as all get out. (How does it make money? Check out the ads.)

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Toilettes au Clair de Lune

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We had a brilliant, clear evening last night, and a full moon. Turning the lights out before I went to bed, I noticed the way the moonlight was coming into the house, especially through the skylights. And this–this was the scene in the bathroom, which I couldn’t quite pass up. I’ve never seen the toilet in quite this light before. Toilet by moonlight; toilettes au claire de lune; toilet as seen by a real loon.

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Dog Walk Confidential

Today was the first day of two weeks of time off from my job at the major Bay Area public radio station. I celebrated first by going back to bed after Kate left for work this morning, then getting up and doing a work project for my employer that I had promised to do before my vacation started but couldn’t fit in to my normal hours. I understand from a colleague who was home sick that it was a really nice day today. I saw at various points of the late morning and afternoon that it was sunny and clear outside, but by the time I had finished the project, the sun had set in a coral blaze and the moon had risen. The Dog had yet to be taken for a walk.

So as the dusk deepened, we headed out, as soon as I rustled up a check I had to mail. As we walked up the adjacent block on our street, I realized that although I had brought a leash and a light–the latter to help me locate any waste the revered dog might leave along our path–I had forgotten to bring plastic bags to remove said revered waste. “The hell with it,” I thought. “Maybe I won’t need the bags.”

We walked down to the nearby shopping area, where there’s a mailbox. I mailed the check, and we walked up the block. In front of a very nice-looking salon, at the base of a tree directly in front of a window where a woman was getting done up, I saw The Dog assume his waste-dropping position. Perfect. I didn’t have bags, and I wasn’t going to pick up what was being deposited without them. I thought, “Of course I assume everyone’s looking at this when no one really is.” Nonetheless, I got between the window and The Dog and bent over as if I was about to do the civic duty incumbent upon me after the biological duty that had just been performed. Then I stood up straight and walked away, The leavings weren’t on the sidewalk, and I resolved to come back, maybe, and look for the crap in the dark.

A half-block farther up, same routine, except not in front of a nice salon. The dark, steaming canine waste nuggets came to rest on the sidewalk, so I covered them with leaves and brushed them with my foot to the base of a tree. Out of harm’s way from a human pedestrian’s point of view; and objects of immense interest from the perspective of other dogs that would soon happen that way.

I sometimes wonder, as I pick up bag after bag of dog byproduct on our daily walks, how come so much of it doesn’t get picked up. Well, this is how: You forget to bring a bag, or you honestly don’t see what’s going on in the dark, or you figure it’s out of everyone’s way. I figure it’s OK. There’ll be more to scoop up tomorrow, and tomorrow might be another sunny day, and I won’t have any work-type work projects in front of me.

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Dog Walk Confidential

Today was the first day of two weeks of time off from my job at the major Bay Area public radio station. I celebrated first by going back to bed after Kate left for work this morning, then getting up and doing a work project for my employer that I had promised to do before my vacation started but couldn’t fit in to my normal hours. I understand from a colleague who was home sick that it was a really nice day today. I saw at various points of the late morning and afternoon that it was sunny and clear outside, but by the time I had finished the project, the sun had set in a coral blaze and the moon had risen. The Dog had yet to be taken for a walk.

So as the dusk deepened, we headed out, as soon as I rustled up a check I had to mail. As we walked up the adjacent block on our street, I realized that although I had brought a leash and a light–the latter to help me locate any waste the revered dog might leave along our path–I had forgotten to bring plastic bags to remove said revered waste. “The hell with it,” I thought. “Maybe I won’t need the bags.”

We walked down to the nearby shopping area, where there’s a mailbox. I mailed the check, and we walked up the block. In front of a very nice-looking salon, at the base of a tree directly in front of a window where a woman was getting done up, I saw The Dog assume his waste-dropping position. Perfect. I didn’t have bags, and I wasn’t going to pick up what was being deposited without them. I thought, “Of course I assume everyone’s looking at this when no one really is.” Nonetheless, I got between the window and The Dog and bent over as if I was about to do the civic duty incumbent upon me after the biological duty that had just been performed. Then I stood up straight and walked away, The leavings weren’t on the sidewalk, and I resolved to come back, maybe, and look for the crap in the dark.

A half-block farther up, same routine, except not in front of a nice salon. The dark, steaming canine waste nuggets came to rest on the sidewalk, so I covered them with leaves and brushed them with my foot to the base of a tree. Out of harm’s way from a human pedestrian’s point of view; and objects of immense interest from the perspective of other dogs that would soon happen that way.

I sometimes wonder, as I pick up bag after bag of dog byproduct on our daily walks, how come so much of it doesn’t get picked up. Well, this is how: You forget to bring a bag, or you honestly don’t see what’s going on in the dark, or you figure it’s out of everyone’s way. I figure it’s OK. There’ll be more to scoop up tomorrow, and tomorrow might be another sunny day, and I won’t have any work-type work projects in front of me.

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Objet d’Art

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Bouquet. Placed on exterior window sill of the Edible Schoolyard toolshed, perhaps for the enjoyment of the residents of the adjacent chicken coop (not all chickens, by the way). This beats any creative impulse or accomplishment I could take credit for this weekend.

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Muni Yard, Mariposa Street, Fog

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Left work about 10 last night and was surprised to see that fog had descended after a warm, showery afternoon. The light everywhere was beautiful–soft, eerie, with a sheen on the streets from the still-evaporating rain. The scene above is immediately across the street from KQED, on Mariposa Street.

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Infotainment Tonight

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Screenshot from the January 13, 2011, “10 O’Clock News” (a.k.a, “The Used-to-Be Really Good Bay Area News Show”). By way of explanation, whoever was in charge of doing this graphic left the placeholder label in place for all the audience to see. How does stuff like this happen? Staff cuts, mostly. I’ve heard that many of the artists and producers who used to make and oversee graphics like this have been reassigned or let go and that writers have been given this job–in addition to continuing to write the news and find, pull, and edit videotape. The unfortunate on-air result notwithstanding, cutting these corners makes the station owner’s bottom line look great.