The Rubik's Guy

He held the Rubik's cube easily in his hands, his long slender fingers wrapped around its edges, twisting first one way then another. He moved fast, his eyes focused on each new pattern, quickly seeing multiple sides. When he got close to solving the puzzle, he paused to look at each side before launching into a new series of twists and turns. I watched him surreptiously from my seat on New York City's Uptown 5 Express metro. I watched him because he was so engrossed in the process. He wasn't playing video games. He wasn't listening to music. No. He was the Rubik's Guy. Young. Slender. Confident. Absolutely intelligent. Kind of like Obama, only younger.

Before we reached 42nd Street - Grand Central, he solved the puzzle. He held it momentarily, a pause of satisfaction, then proceeded to completely randomize the cube before stuffing it away into his pocket. All ready, presumably, for the next subway ride. How fun!

Olympic Pick ‘Em Facebook App

During the Olympics, Facebook users could participate in predicting gold, silver, and bronze medal winners for every event. To play, you picked a country to represent and then you made selections. The game gave you an easy-to-use drag-and-drop interface for selecting the medal picks for each event (there were a lot of events). You were awarded 8 points for correct gold medal predictions, 4 points for silver, and 1 for bronze. In the end, there was an individual winner (the most points earned) and a country winner (the most points earned representing the same country).Well, I joined the fray a bit late (sort of like starting a marathon when the leaders were already at mile 8 or 9) and I fumbled about a bit before I figured out a good strategy. (For example, I quickly realized that, just like horse racing, predicting the actual gold-silver-bronze winners in the correct order was a lot harder than just identifying favorites. You get 0 points if you pick the top three in the wrong order.)

A game is meant to be competitive, so I wanted to give it a go. However, I couldn’t afford to spend hours researching the top 20, 10, or even 5 candidates. Well, after a few missteps (my pick rate was a dismal 20%), I developed a system that worked pretty well. I finished 22 overall and my pick rate improved to 31%. My country, Gabon, finished in 26th place. (I was the only player representing Gabon. Why I picked Gabon is a topic for another post.)

First of all, the quickest way to determine the top competitors is to use the online betting sites. Here you can see the odds. Of course, not all events have odds and I used 5 or 6 different sites. Now, here’s my system. If the top candidate was a clear favorite, I put the top pick for gold and the second pick for both silver and bronze. If the top candidate’s odds were only slightly better than the second-best odds, I put the top candidate in all three slots. There’s nothing worse in picking the top 2, but switching their order. So, I easily sacrificed the possibility of getting 12 points (all correct), by assuring I would probably just get 8, maybe only get 4, and possibly just get 1. And, sometimes, I still got 0 points.

For the tournament medals, such as soccer or basketball, you could change your final picks up to an hour before the medal matches. So, for basketball, for example, you already knew the gold medal match was between the U.S. and Argentina, and the bronze was also down to just two teams. In that case, I went ahead a made predictions for each medal. (Even a 50% choice wasn’t always good enough and some of them I chose the same team for both gold and silver.)

All and all, the system worked well and now I’m ready for myPicks London in 2012. The application was build using zembly. Here’s more about the application on zembly. Let the games conclude!

The San Diego Chicken

When the baseball boys disappoint (and the Padres have truly disappointed their fans this season), what reason is there to go to the ballpark? The answer is easy: when the San Diego Chicken is in the lineup. No matter how excruciating the play-by-play becomes, the Chicken can take away the pain and replace it with laughter. The Chicken kept up the visual antics, parodies, and skits throughout the game where the San Francisco Giants prevailed, 3-2.

How painful was the game? you ask. Here are several low lights.

• Giant fans to the left of me, Giant fans to the right of me, stuck in the middle with you (not you, it’s just the song).
• When the score was tied at 1-1, the Giants scored the go ahead run on a passed ball.
• When the score was tied at 2-2 in the 10th, the Giants scored the go ahead run with our hall of fame-bound closer who really should retire on the mound, trying to preserve the tie.
• In the bottom of the 10th, the Padres get 3 consecutive hits but can’t score. Note to Bud Black: When the game is on the line in the bottom of the 10th and your lead base runner isn’t fast enough to send home from scoring position on a hit, consider putting in a pinch runner. Oh wait! Do the Padres have anyone that could be used in that capacity besides Greg Maddux?

Wait a minute? Why did I name Greg Maddux? How many bases did the San Diego Padres steal in July 2008? The answer is 1. Who stole it? The answer is Maddux. Aaaaaaaah!

Old VW Bus

I guess I'm somehow collecting photos of old cars. This VW bus circa 1967-1968 is iconic representation of a laid-back hippie lifestyle. And where was this picture taken? On Kauai on Alealea Road, just a few miles before the road deadends at the Kalalau Trail.

Pattern Recognition - Gate Recognition - Gait Recognition

Patterns are everywhere.

There’s something to be said about knowing the people you love. Of course, you know what they look like. You know their expressions, their gestures, and their body language. What amazes me is how we internalize intricate patterns which we use to recognize people we know from very far away. Far enough away that although you can’t see a face or the details of their clothing, you can still pick them out of a crowd. I have done this numerous times. We all have.

At the airport I watch throngs of people trudge from the arrival gate to the descending escalator that will take them to baggage claim. People are clumped in arbitrary groups. Yet, I still recognize the one I’ve come to collect. I see his gait. It’s him. No question.

Waiting for my daughter at the finish line of one of her races, I scan the pockets of runners finishing. Runners come to the finish in clumps, making it hard to pick out individuals. Yet, without fail, I always spot my daughter. Again, my pattern recognition hones in and lets me identify my target.

Yards and yards down the beach, I watch my husband finishing up his run. From way far I away I see him. I know it’s him.

Gait recognition. Gate Recognition. Pattern Recognition.

Surfer School of Protocol

Wednesday afternoon and the Grandview parking lot was nearly full. Sure, it was a toasty 75 degrees, not bad for February, not bad at all. But, that’s not what brought the crowds. No, you can always tell when the waves are good by the lot. Word gets out and spreads throughout surfdom. Good waves, lots of cars.

I love watching the surfer routine. It’s so consistent and so pervasive. All the guy surfers seemingly went to the same surfer school of protocol. Here it is.
You drive a light truck or sport utility car that will easily fit your board, your towel, your wet suit, and your trunks (which I am convinced you never wear). You stand behind your parked vehicle and undress, taking everything off except your pants. Then you wrap your beach towel around your middle and surreptitiously scan the lot. You’re basically modest and you don’t want anyone watching you. You carefully reach under the towel—you don’t want to lose your cover or, goodness, show too much—and remove the rest of your clothes. You’re now naked except for the towel. With wet suit handy, you step into each leg and pull up the suit to your waist. You can now safely remove the towel.
Now you prepare your board. You pull it out and place it gently on the ground next to the trunk of the car. You attach the leash (if it’s not already attached) and apply the right wax. You grab any cold-water extras: booties, gloves, or cap and place them next to your board. You lock up the car and take only what you need to surf. Surfers are minimalists. No chair, no towel, no sun glasses. Anything that can’t be used while surfing stays in the car.

You walk briskly through the parking lot and down the stars. You may pause at one or more of the landings to study the break and the crowds. When you get down to the beach, you walk to the water’s edge. Here, you’ll put down your board and attach the leash to your ankle. You may rinse the board. You put on any extra cold-water garb and then you’re off into the waves.
The return has its matching, symmetrical tasks. Detach the leash from your ankle and take off any extras. Back at the car, you place the board lovingly inside the back. You strip down to your waist and grab the trusty towel. Once again, you carefully inch down the (now wet and uncooperative) wet suit. You grab your ready dry street clothes and once you’re again minimally clothed, it’s safe to remove the towel. You’re set.

Oh, and Happy Leap Day (and Happy Birthday, Jon).

Steam of Consciousness

A perfectly made cappuccino with just the right amount of steamed milk sits on my desk. I find the dark espresso lurking beneath the steamed milk, and as the caffeine speeds to my head, I know I can focus on today’s world. Caffeine. We’re all on some sort of drugs.

I use a pen for the morning crossword and Sudoku. God, I love those. Gets me going almost as well as that perfect cappuccino.

Have you ever noticed that color defines your mood—soft or bright, rough, smooth, melodic. Color is so much. Color is music. No! That’s backwards. Music is color.

Damn, this cappuccino is good.

Where was I? Ah, music. I can write about loving you as you are, coming to visit me, sharing the day or the evening, but maybe Nirvana can help me do it better:

“Come
As you are
As you were
As I want you to be . . .”

Yes, that’s it. Be yourself, but be the self I mean you to be in my head.

And I can’t resist a good Beatles tune that evokes just the right amount of . . . of what? Coolness? Nostalgia? Come on! If Eleanor Rigby can wear her face that she keeps in a jar by the door, just think of the possibilities. Or, if Maxwell wields his silver hammer or Daniel is hot and Rocky collapses in the corner (Doc, it’s only a scratch). . .Gosh! I hope Maxwell doesn’t break Eleanor Rigby’s jar. That could be ugly.

And the Eagles. Such cheekiness of, you know, putting me on the shelf like that. That is the heart of the matter. Indeed, you’ll have to eat your lunch all by yourself. All I can do is think of poor Charlie Brown and a squished peanut butter sandwich. Jack Tempchin probably ate something real nice that day (no doubt a California Burrito from Juanita’s). Note to self. Today. Juanitas. Where’s a post-it?

That cappuccino is gone. So is the hour.

Maiden Voyage

It’s always the little things that stay with you.

We’re going through a learning experience. We’ve recently bought a motorhome—not a new one, mind you, but one that’s about 15 years old: 23-feet of instant coziness. That is, if you know how to make her sing. And that’s what we’re learning: how to make her sing.

Of course, we’re learning from the previous captain, who assures us he’ll take us through her paces. And he does. Around the outside: here’s the propane, here’s the outside electrical outlet, here’s the outside storage that holds the lego-like levelers. Here’s under the hood, the shore water hook up, the shore electrical hook up, the back of the water heater, the rear bumper that stores the holding tank dump hose (oh, yuck!). Then the inside. Here’s how to light the stove burners and the oven. Here’s how to turn on the refrigerator, here’s the shower and the head. And the bed, it’s quite comfortable, actually. We listened, we took notes, we asked questions. And then the day of reckoning arrived. It was time to take out this boat for more than a dry run. It was time to get our feet wet and lay out our astro-turf mat. (It’s a requirement to have an astro-turf mat, didn’t you know?)

So we got ourselves an ocean-front campsite at San Elijo State Beach. It’s all of five miles from our house. Yep, that means if we forget something we can return home to get it. It’s also (well, besides being a stairway away from the beach), walking distance to a great food market, walking distance to the best donuts in San Diego County (VG’s), and a short drive to any number of great restaurants (wait, we’re camping, remember?).
Camping. We have experience with camping. So, imagine my delight when later in the afternoon on the day we arrived, I turned on the sink's hot water faucet and there was hot water! (In my previous life, if you want hot water, you go set up the stove, pump and prime the tank, light the stove, fill a pan with water, and wait 15 minutes for that water to heat up.) Yeah, it’s the little things.

What are the other little things? Walking down to the beach and watching the sun set. Walking around at night and seeing a gazillion stars. Making a roaring fire and having your fleece smell like smoke for days. Making French press coffee and having it with one of those wonderful chocolate old fashions in the morning. (I said VG's had the best donuts in San Diego County—I wasn’t kidding!)

Rain Drop Pearls Grace a Tidy-Bowl Day

Tidy Bowl day is here and we are looking at a rain-soaked event.

'I can't cancel Tidy Bowl,' laments Paul. 'It's a contradiction in terms.'

Stay tuned for an update.

Kauai Bridge Etiquette

Perhaps nothing symbolizes the laid-back atmosphere of Kauai more than its many single-lane bridges along the road heading west out of Hanalei to road’s end. The road ends at Ke’e Beach and the famed Kalalau Trailhead. Driving this rural, curvy road that sometimes hugs the coast and sometimes affords lofty views high upon the bluff, you learn patience and you learn to take your time. Kauai is the most unhurried of the four main Hawaiian Islands. If you insist on living life at mainland pace, you’ll miss the point. And this brings me to the single-lane bridges.

The two-lane road simply collapses into a single lane at numerous bridges. Here’s what you do.

First, you’re hopefully not driving more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. As you approach the bridge, if there are no cars approaching from the other direction, you’re free to go. Once you’re on the bridge, any opposing traffic will (there’s really no choice here) wait for you to cross.

If a car is already on the bridge coming towards you, you wait behind the point that the road becomes a single lane. This is where the etiquette part kicks in. Drivers are not expected to alternate—that would slow things and produce confusion. Instead, cars considered in the flow are expected to cross with the lead car. Perhaps 3 or 5 cars will go. When this number starts to grow large, a polite Kauaian will defer to the opposing traffic and become first in line for the next crossing. Now, as you wait, you see that there indeed is an end to the stream of automobiles advancing over the bridge. After the last one passes, you can cross. While you were waiting, chances are others have lined up behind you. They too have become part of the flow and will cross with you.

Much of the time, the entire line of waiting cars will proceed across the bridge. If a straggling car now approaches the bridge, there is an obvious break in the flow. A polite driver will recognize this and stop so that the opposing traffic, still waiting, can proceed.

Amazingly enough, this works pretty well, but with 6 or 7 bridges, you can see how your travel time the last 6 miles of the highway is slow. And that’s partially the point. If you can’t slow down your pace and take your turn, well, politely speaking, you should just probably stay at a resort in the airport city of Lihue. But for those who want to see the end of the world, one-lane bridges are a great introduction to island life.

Christmas Cactus for the Holidays

Every year my Christmas Cactus blooms in time for the holidays and every year I marvel at its timeliness.

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

I Have Become One of the Paparazzi

The story: while strolling the beach (Playa Medano) in Cabo San Lucas just to the left of Pueblo Bonito Rose, we stumbled upon the active filming of You Don't Mess With the Zohan, a 2008 Adam Sandler film. He is a Mossad agent who fakes his death so he can re-emerge in New York City as a hair stylist. Here is the video of one small shoot: Adam Sandler doing a push-up on the beach and then, his work finished for the time being, walking off the set.

Kayak Surfer

Once October arrives and Labor Day is behind us, most of the tourists are gone. The beach once again becomes ours and it's time to reclaim it. Early morning or late day, low tide or disappearing beach, the beach is a playground for fishing, surfing, walking, or running.

So here I am. The clouds are blocking the setting sun, leaving an antique finish across the sky and the darkened sand. The sea is muted, absorbing the fading light. Even the waves are quiet, relentlessly depositing their gifts upon the beach. The water carries bits of shells and lonely strands of seaweed which remain strewn upon the wet sand. The tide is receding and ravenous gulls scrounge for morsels amid low-tide deposits.

I have just finished my run, some thirty minutes of rhythmic pounding, and I raise my arms to help open up gasping lungs. A breeze full of the smells of the sea fills my nostrils, mixing with the dried sweat and salt on my skin and sweat-moistened hair. I welcome this invasion.

I notice a lone kayak, empty of its driver, patiently waiting in the wet sand. I suck more air and turn my back on the kayak. Coming down the beach is its owner, identified by his paddle, full wet suit and helmet. I continue gasping for air and briskly walk for my cool-down. The kayaker and I pass each other, but he doesn’t see me or notice me. His focus is his craft, his intentions are honed in on the melding of his body with this unassuming little floatation device. He looks west to the ocean.

I turn around so I can face the kayaker now reunited with his craft. With the paddle in one hand, he drags the boat towards the water, choosing a position not quite in the water, but within the waves’ reach. He positions the boat carefully and climbs in. He busies himself with some attachments or fittings and then uses the paddle as a lever to push himself towards the water. He strains as sandy goop sucks his craft and tries to prevent his leaving. He stops and waits for a wave to arrive.

I chuckle. The man reminds me of a small child sitting in a wagon, waiting for someone to come by and give him a pull. The kayaker turns impatient and once again begins to push against the sand to inch his way seaward.

At last, the sea relents and a wave lifts the little craft made heavy with its cargo, ever so slightly. He is working furiously now to paddle through the inch or two of liquid before the wave can take back its gift. One side, then the other, the paddle dips into the water, and the little kayak takes on a new wave. After each wave the kayaker responds by paddling with a burst of energy. He is fighting the incoming surf and working to get through the onslaught. The deeper he goes, the bigger the waves become that battle against him.

I am now completely drawn into his playful mastery of the sea. While I had expected the kayaker to work through the waves and reach outside, I now realize that this struggle is but the setup. The real goal is catching an incoming wave, controlling the kayak through the surf. Agile, sharp turns allow him to move up and down the wave.

I continue watching him as he once again battles the incoming waves and struggles to reach outside. He squirrels around a bit, looking for a promising swell. He sees a wave that he likes and attacks it, paddling with the surge to catch his ride. Once caught, the kayak becomes an extension of his body. He works the wave, using paddle, body, and kayak. He rides the shoulder and twirls in the surf.

He is the kayak surfer. He releases the wave and manuvers free to fight the battle once again. He is as relentless as the sea itself.

Wedding Shoes

Leisure Time on Labor Day

Southern California baked over Labor Day weekend. Cool down Rx included beach time in both Del Mar and closer to home in Leucadia. The waves were pumping the whole weekend with mist forming occasionally as the cool water met the sizzling air. Absolutely no complaints. Here the sun sets in Del Mar as two surfers catch one more wave.
Leucadia was relatively peaceful, as the number of people sharply diminished the further you walked from the nearest access point.

Hey Joel! Put it in the garage.

I wanted to post a picture of my neighbor’s urinal—it’s in his garage and he added it when he built his custom-designed home. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask. “Hi, Pat. Happy Labor Day. How’s it going?”

“Yeah, I was wondering if I could take a picture of your urinal? . . . No, you don’t need to be in the picture . . . No, no, I don’t want an action shot . . . ” So, instead I show you a lovely urinal culled from the internet here.

But getting back to the point of the post. Recently the Los Angeles Times published an op-ed piece by Joel Stein who laments that perhaps his home value will diminish if he installs a urinal in his bathroom. He gives reasons why installing one is great

Toilet seat is always down
Decreased water use
Time-saving device

With opposing views from women he consulted that included

Urinals are found in large, impersonal institutions (think prisons)
Lidlessness is unsanitary
Urinals diminish the real estate value of the home

Here is a reason for putting one in. I recently attended a college graduation party that included both college-age kids (sorry, they’re kids to me) and members of the “parental generation” (relative to the college-age kids). A mean game of beer pong took place in the back yard with much beer consumed. While there were some young ladies, the ladies did not consume as much beer as the young men. As happens at cross-generational parties, the youngsters congregated outside to play beer pong, while we parental units huddled inside (watching an exciting Padres game on TV, as I recall).

And as the beer goes in, it must also come out. Many of the young men could not be bothered to enter to house (and walk nonchalantly past the leering adults) to use the bathroom. They found discreet (and as the night wore on, less and less discreet) corners of the garden to water the plants. Had they had access to a convenient urinal in the garage, I am sure they would have used it.

The garage is the perfect place for the urinal because the garage is the domain of the man. I don’t know if I really believe that. I do try to stay away from gender stereotypes, but as Joel pointed out, one of the complaints that women had with putting a urinal in the home bathroom was that a urinal is just too “aggressively male.” Unfair, he says. The house is already way too slanted towards the dominion of the woman. I agree. It is unfair. But, the garage has been the man’s domain: his tools, his car, his precious stuff from his previous life, and all his stuff that doesn’t go with the décor of the home.

My neighbor and his wife think that having the urinal in the garage is a great compromise. It’s great for beer pong. And so, Joel: put it in the garage!

More Signs of Summer

I can't help it. The beach has been the needed oasis of cool. Water temperatures have reached bath tub levels—the high side of 75—allowing me to stay waterside for a good hour. Wave after wave—when the shoulder right (or left) is there, you take it.Serenity.Follow the footsteps in the sand.The fishermen, the sea gulls, the surfers, the swimmers. We all share the glories of the seashore.

Signs of Summer

Mimosa, a summertime drink
Shades of summer
Bike power at the beach
The OB Pier
Sticks on parade

Family Reunion at Weslemkoon Lake

Somewhere between Toronto and Ottawa in beautiful Ontario “cottage country” lies Weslemkoon Lake. My cousin Patti and husband Chris’ family has owned a cottage there for 40 years. Over a year ago Patti organized a family reunion for her siblings, cousins (first, second, once-removed, twice-removed and any combination thereof), nieces and nephews, and aunts and uncles. Over 25 people attended. Beds were provided for all who were over 50; tents and sleeping bags were arranged for the youngsters. Weslemkoon Lake proved a wonderful spot for the week-long affair. With skiing, tubing, swimming, sailing, sail boarding, canoeing, kayaking, and hiking, no one was bored and everyone who wanted to got their fill of exercise and fun.

Also, there is no road access to the cottage; it's a 10-minute boat ride from the marina. It is also out of cell-phone range, there is one land line, and no television. This is heaven!

Dinner for 26? No problem. Enough people pitched in to chop, sauté, grill, whip up, and griddle that no one went hungry. Clean up? Group participation ensured that all dishes were cleaned and the work load was spread about.
But all this was possible due to the incredible organization skills of our hosts Chris and Patti.
And while the setting was wonderful, the true wonder was visiting with cousins I haven’t seen in years and meeting cousins for the first time. From a six-year old first cousin once-removed cutie-pie to my aunt and uncle 80-years young, we shared a few days packed full of action, peppered with conversations long overdue.

Anza-Borrego Pull

And thank you all for dropping by today. Let’s give the band a hand . . . yes, yes—aren’t they wonderful! I hope you are enjoying the food; I spent hours picking out today’s menu. My friends all said “You better choose something with a bit of ham. People always like a little ham.” Okay, okay.

Today is my one year blogiversary. So I am celebrating. (Here is my first post.)

Yeah, yeah. Thanks so much. And as such, I’d like to say a few words about the glowing silver cholla cactus that sits atop my blog header (a larger version of the same photo appears above).Back in March of 2005 when the California deserts were experiencing a centennial rainfall year, the desert wildflowers bloomed like never before. I saw whole valleys covered with yellow Desert Sunflowers, purple Sand Verbena and white Dune Primrose. The Ocotillo produce gorgeous red blooms that fly like flags against the blue sky. Jimson weed grows white trumpet-like flowers and cacti of all kinds sprout colorful flowers that emerge from the cactus spikes.
I love the Anza-Borrego desert. It glows in its own starkness. It’s big and clean. I have never seen more stars than the night I slept outside in the desert. It was August and it didn’t cool down until about 3:00 in the morning. Since I couldn’t sleep anyway, I just looked up. No moon. But the sky was littered with diamonds and the Milky Way arced across the heavens.
The next day my friends wanted to go hiking (they were obviously delirious from lack of sleep), but I talked them into retreating to the cool mountains for breakfast instead. Day time temperatures would sore to over 110 degrees F and ground temperatures can reach 140. I didn’t think we could carry enough water. I didn't think it was safe.
The only time to see wild flowers in the desert (there are none in August) is in spring, which can start as early as February. Things are pretty much gone by the end of April, but it always depends on the winter’s rainfall.