zMerced County Sherfiff, Mark Pazin, and the Fugitive of the Year.
Credit: mouse from merced
The Honorable Jim Costa, Representative in Congress for Merced, and Sheriff Mark. They were already committed for lunch. I asked politely. Never up, never in.
Credit: mouse from merced
This is the secondary Beer tent, one other over by the band two blocks over. There were stories told over our lunch at Bella Luna about Sheriff Mark and my checkered past and about Gene's. We walked back to the course after lunch and the ladies' major race was going on. The wreck happened just as we came back to Middle Earth.
Gene called CosmicCragsman shortly after this wreck, when we got down N ST. to the Courthouse Park where the finish line was. The trees in the park started putting out buds like crazy as soon as they hung up. It was like Stark Trek the Movie...no, Gene don't play that thing. I was just reacting to what I'd like to have seen. More green on the trees.
Cosmice, it was spiffy to talk with you. Ciao.
Well, the next bunch is of the canines, who were universlly well-mannered and gentle. But first things first.
Winner of Don Mossman Best Apehangers Award, my neighbor Dottore Deep Purple, an Italian racing legend of the late nineties. He has the coolest set of tires on this rig, too.
Credit: mouse from merced
Winners of the last race of the day, a real close finish.
The Winner! In one hour four minutes five point whatever seconds on a one mile course, a tenth of a mile over what was raced last weekend.
Credit: mouse from merced
The next three finishers were decided by photos, they tied, then by count-backs in the race.
Then the leader's jersey (another race in the country tomorrow) was presented to Wonder Boy, who won a road race yesterday and placed second in his criterium category today.
The crew at the first beer tent, Steve Tinetti on the right, the lucky guy who married Joanie, and who had charge of the tent. It turned out he knows Gene from the realty business.
Credit: mouse from merced
Hey, would it be too much trouble to post some more dog photos?
Yes, Fido, it's time to flake out. Sit. Stay. Good boy.
Edit: This canine sequence is just my way of chaffing the Friday Night Cat Adoration Thread. :) LOL
There's no dog show, it's a dog shower,
Over on Gower, that's got the pack here now (now yesterdog).
As far as dogs roaming free, tell Bob none of these are free to roam, all are leashed and HAPPY TO BE ALIVE, eager to maybe go on a Roamin' Holiday, but likin' the food dish twice daily! Just like most of us should be!
Hepburn and lucky pet.
Credit: GI
Some of us are plainly "rescue dogs."
Others could be called real "mutts."
Still others revel in a piece of pedigree the rest would use to wipe their asses, if we were dawgs and dawggs bothered with such "niceties" as tp and spellin'.
Ask Johntp, not me.
edit: I overlooked these shots of a local boy and his dog, obvously into the racing.
The Mussed Beastress of Muddle Catheter V, 5.4, A0-, B4, +/-V8, a. m.7
Twinning my way through he foresty jungle
We approached the approach of the unapproachable giant Mount Harpunstrungg,
Not yet climbed by the feet of men.
And we are not men.
Of men.
Of women.*
Yet not men.
We are deboy.
Pissin' fear away with words.
The Muddle Catheter Glacier bounded through the below-freezing jungfrau
like a gazelle in a hell of a hurry, but only in its own mined:
This appeared to be normal behavior in real time;
Allthough
We thought hard about retreating in the face of such extreme ambition (hey, we had the glacier wired by expert texperts in the field of glacio-cranial imagery, we are not stupid deboy)
But each of us shrunk from such an alarming decision as
The Panicsonic was jungling like a mad monkey on the bells of St. Mary’s and I awoke alone, with a moan.
Monday, Monday!!
Crumba!
No de TJ!
* I “choosed to used” this term, the second-oldest noun. I’d love to frisk you if you don’t like the term or find it offensive. This is my dream, not yours.
The alien has landed. The Bircheff Bros. were highly-regarded as companeros and fellows-riding-low-&-slow. I'm glad, I'm glad, I'm glad to have found a picture of Phil at last. To go with Dave's.
Along with the cinematic feast, some take-home alambres from J & R's Tacos, only two days old, I presented Gloria with doggie-bagged Tuscan Scramble from Bella Luna from yesterday morning.
She agreed the Tuscan Scramble was the better of the two, so I gave her some of my tangerines from the Farmers' Market and she went home, taking my VCR with her. She's welcome to it, I doubt it works.
The Last Video Cassette Round-Up I tallied Tombstone, Miracle on 34th ST, It's a Wonderful Life, The Santa Claus, and Das Boot (a movie in German dubbed in American--I have no idea how Chairman Bob got this--in which over-acting is achieved by having the actors wear really tight footwear for several hours, I heard.)
Miss Ochoa said she'll be back. She'll bring tortilla chips for the pico de gallo that's been sitting for three days now. We can watch The Old Gringo with Greg Peck. Perfecto!
Blue Dream, VSOP.* My latest font of inspiration, imagination, and torpor.
*Vaporizor Stash Of Pleasure--better than brandy, too, hangover-wise
C'mon, Moosedrool: try it for the pain, you may be back again.
If smoke itself is an issue, buy a vaporizor. It's honest advice. Like you can choose Christ. But you need to give each a chance to see if it works for you.
OK, let's see what's doin' at the TP. I'm jonesing for some Bullets, Buns and Octane, but it's not on the Tube, only trailers. One of the best low-low-budget films I've seen, Joe Carnahan's debut film.
nita! How good of you to say. Mt. Clark is there, allright, and I'm glad you noticed. It's one of the best things about views, they have something to see a lot of times besides the subject. And people who are intimate with the places notice these things. It's like the violinist under the roses, in a way--see the art thread here lately.
Hey, Mouse! What's up with Risk?
Well, long time back we played several games of world domination between Larry and his lady Chris, Long Tall Bob, and myself in the dome tent in JT that lasted ages; and much liquor was consumed by all but Chris, and many alliances made and broken, and the air became foul with tobacco smoke and gun smoke and fun smoke and often as not the players would resort to GASSING about climbing, would you believe...
And of late, the LaFrances and myself have contested (Tanya's hooked, George had the most crappy luck, and once with a fourth player, I had to retire and let the ladies fight over the remains. We'll be rolling more peace games shortly, I assure you.)
It's all in your perspective--you are either perpetually at war with outbreaks of peace, or you are pepetually at peace with outbreaks of Elvis.
Scrabble is so passe, UC and Stanford.
"It's time for a CHANGE...makeyafeelallright...FREEDOM!"--le dwig, van mo
Risk is trending.
Outbreak leads back the other way.
A new line on Notorious Boxcar.
Pound that #, rule the world. O O DomiNO. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25LhUHKVYMo
Diesels are built to work, Evel. Look at Clint Cummins: he seems to have the energy of a Everybunny battery.
Is that a cheep shot, PhilG, or what? More...nest please! Phil in the holes.
Any more Bircheff Bros. photos out there?
The Bros B had a place on Avenida de las Pulgas in the Peninsula, one of those hillside towns. It puts me in mind of a lady I knew back in the days of Flower Power.
I have the interview I did yesterday here someplace. I'll find it and post it later. She had an affair with one of us.
Found it! From the dusty files of yesteryear, not yesterday--what was I thinking?
WHERE WERE YOU DURING THE DAWNING OF THE AGE OF AQUARIUS?
Part One of a series of interviews with Old Hipsters from the Bay Area
Subject: Melmel Melonsugar, doyenne of the Hive, an old buddy of mine
Interviewed by Eyore S. Trully.
Credit: GI
The view from Bogg on Skyline Boulevard.
Credit: GI
Alice’s Restaurant on Skyline Boulevard. Part of Bogg. “It’s not around the back anymore.”
Where you were has nothing to do with it. Ask rather, “Where am I NOW?”--Baba Rum-Sauce
If I were a rich hippie, I’d be this person. Not a yuppie, a hippie. Go ahead and laugh, Aquarians. But, the facts are in:
We are all beads on a string. We are all melon seeds on a sinew. We may not last. We may last a long time. But sooner or later there will be a scattering and I’m really not afraid.
“That’s what I like about you, Mousey, you’re so full of bullshit I don’t need no compost.”--Melanie Melonsugar (my ideal--and the only one who calls me Mousey, not Mousie, bless her)
Melanie Melonsugar. New Age guru.
Credit: mouse from merced
Melanie (“Everyone calls me Melmel”) Melonsugar
Melmel came to the SF peninsula in the late sixties from NOLA and hasn’t left since, a flowering child of no small influence in her community, Bogg, a very tiny place in the Skyline Drive area, almost in Pacifica? or so it seems when you park in the very tiny lot among the trees. This is an old commune, which has been turned into a field of watermelons and pot plants. It’s Nirvana to her and her friends. It’s an older, Mission-style home made from local dark brown adobe clay walls and traditional ess-curved tiles called pantiles, http://www.mca-tile.com/history.htm and is full of delicious odors overlain by a strong sea-breeze accent. It is enclosed by Monterey Pines and a screen of yews that are so old they even look used. Ranks of dank are arranged all around in a pattern that is just plain, lines of plants in rectangles set inside of larger rectangles, like mirror frames into infinity. They are separated by rows of watermelon plants, of course, and other low-growing types of plants, berries, some squash, but mostly melons—cantaloupes and honeydews and Cranshaws
Melmel is a chubby redhead in a dark green dress striped in white. She has a necklace of plain red beads separated by plain clear beads with one large red bead centered. Her face is wedge-shaped and she has a strange set of black tatts—off-set by eyes that are full of “Hey howya doin/?”, and not “Namaste,” as you might expect in an ashram. This is no ashram. It is simply a haven and generally the home or home address of a bunch of people like Melmel. Wedge-heads all.
She is the Queen of the Hive. For a time, she entertained a series of encounters with Drone, a dirtbag from Camp 4 in Yosemite Valley who ended up at the Hive during several winters. She is totally off of men as a result, and happily shed of all that. “Too clingy, and I have trouble with that myself. It just wasn’t in the stars for Drone and myself. there’s lots of things to keep me happy here.”
“Sugaree.”
“Don’t just don’t tell me; don’t tell them you know me.”--BilK the Wilberry, in a somewhat illucid interview with yours truly and Robert de Niro, 1971
“Who knew this was me? I’m coming out of myself like a river of sweet sweat! AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!”--Norwegian
You might think this commune gained its sustenance from the carefully cultivated crops. Not at all. Melmel’s father, a well-respected amateur pomologist, happened upon a strain of hops which he then genetically altered to taste sweet but tart and the hops secret now is part of High Sierry’s Pale Ale! She’s wealthy and shares the wealth with the commune, all of whom have gigs, not jobs. It truly is Nirvana .
And I Wanna Be Like Her. But I cannot be. So I don’t really wanna be.
Let us know!