Month: April 2019

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Mining

I have touched at least tangentially on the topic of online tracking before.  If you missed it, click here for a recap.  If you, like me, are fascinated by data mining and related issues of online privacy, information flow and control, there’s a current NY Times piece called “These Ads Think They Know You.”  The authors, from The Privacy Project, very cleverly expose some current tricks of the trade in targeted advertising:  By taking out such ads in the Times itself!  And if all of that doesn’t horrify you, or at least hook your interest, then please:  Don’t bother reading on.   Everybody else?  Follow me.

 

Data Mining and Click Bait - two tricks of the trade
Beware the hazards of click-bait…

 

Sample ad text:

This ad thinks you’re trying to lose weight & still love bakeries.

                   (from your browsing history)        (from your credit card history)

 

2nd frame of the ad:

You’re being watched.  Are you okay with that?

 

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This was an experiment in how far digital advertisers go to collect and use information about every part of our lives – for profit. But it’s also the story of how our information is used, not just to target us, but to manipulate others for economic and political ends — invisibly, and in ways that are difficult to scrutinize or even question. And it’s a warning sign about the real-world risks that come from this sophisticated guessing game which is played out in billions of transactions each day…

Today’s data providers can receive information from almost every imaginable part of your life: Your activity on the internet, the places you visit, the stores you walk through, the things you buy, the things you like, who your friends are, the places your friends go, the things your friends do, and on and on.

Just by browsing the web, you’re sending valuable data to trackers and ad platforms. Websites can also provide marketers specific things they know about you, like your date of birth or email address.

Ad companies often identify you when you load a website using trackers and cookies — small files containing information about you. Then your data is shared with multiple advertisers who bid to fill the ad space. The winning bid gets to fill the ad slot.

Companies today are mining private lives the same way they exploit natural resources:  By turning them into profitable goods.  That makes every “smart” device and “personalized” service just another way to collect data for the surveillance economy.

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Full disclosure:  This website – dewconsulting.net – does not buy, sell, share, trade in, or even much care about, information collected from your visit.  And if you will only please just take the one simple step of using a private browsing session, no cookies can be collected in any event. As for your other visits to Facebook, Google, Amazon, or Ashley Madison?  You should be so lucky!

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Tequila

It’s a fact of life in the gig economy:  There are gonna be reviews.  Whether it’s awarding 5 stars to your Uber driver for showing up on time and being both personable and presentable.  Or maybe it’s writing something on Yelp about your barista so you can either let off steam about bad service, or suck up to the powers-that-be so you get a free latte next time.  Either way, in today’s world, reviews are here to stay.

 

As you know…

 

If you’ve been following this blog and paying a modicum of attention, I do Airbnb with our townhouse in California.  Reviews aren’t only de rigeur on the Airbnb platform, they actually form the very heart and soul of the app.  Guests review hosts.  Hosts review guests. If you like, you can read what your counterpart wrote and reply to it for all the world to see. Fail to write anything at all and the app will keep prompting you to do so, all the way out to the 14-day limit.  At which point, I suppose, the “stay” falls off the app’s radar and into Airbnb’s version of purgatory.

I’m of two minds about this state of affairs.  On the one hand, it keeps everyone accountable.  VERY accountable. Accumulate too many negative reviews, either as a guest or as a host, and you can become a virtual Airbnb pariah.  Keep your nose clean, however, and – at least on the host side – you can become what’s known as a “Superhost.”  They don’t actually provide blue spandex leggings and a red cape to go along with this “honor.”   But they do superimpose a little Olympic style gold medal on a ribbon around your neck in the profile picture.  I kid you not.  More importantly, good reviews help you climb the ladder in the behind-the-scenes algorithm which puts your place out there for guests to search and choose. And that, of course, means more bookings, which means more money.

 

On the other hand….

 

What to do when you get a bad review?  I’m speaking here as a host, because I’ve only ever been an Airbnb guest twice, and one of those times was at a hotel in Dallas that had just opened.  Somehow they were able to get listed on Airbnb.  Don’t ask me how.  Most likely it will end up in a lawsuit.  But I digress.

Anyhow, I’ve had well in excess of 50 reviews as a host, the vast majority of them positive.  Early on, as I was just getting started, I kept the price low to attract guests to a place that essentially had no reviews.  And someone made the comment in a review that this was their “best value Airbnb experience ever, bar none.”  That’s code, of course, for “Your price is way too low.” So, I promptly raised my rate.  So as you can see, this system’s not all bad.  In some cases, it can be very useful.

But last week a guest of mine was in town for job interviews, and he complained about “the train noise” keeping him “wide awake, all night long, for two nights straight.” He said the place was “otherwise fine and dandy,” which sounded to me like maybe I was being damned by faint praise?  But there was no mistaking the implication when he went on to say that future guests should “beware,” and “bring earplugs.” How to respond to THAT?

 

My philosophy is…

 

It never pays to get into a pissing match with someone who is paying you their hard-earned money for goods or services.  But in this case, given the way Airbnb works, a review like that might well cut off the future flow of guests completely and permanently.  Well, except maybe for that subset of the population which has mild to moderate  hearing loss – of which number, I am one.  But anyway…. Rock?  Meet hard place.

My first thought was, how can over 50 previous guests not have noticed this? One other guest did mention the trains.  But his comment was phrased positively:  “The sound of train horns during the day seems to fade away at night, and I slept great!”  I wondered, had Amtrak or CSX maybe changed their schedule recently to include more late-night or early-morning runs? I checked with my buddy who’s a train engineer, and he confirmed it:  They had not.  Had my sleepless guest somehow left a window open?  The weather has warmed here recently, so an open window might account for increased interior noise. But no, I remembered that this guy had run the air conditioner all night long.  So scratch that bright idea.

I thought, maybe it’s likely that this guy was all worked up about his job interviews.  And maybe,  given that fact, he might even have had trouble sleeping had he been out in the middle of the National Forest – you know, due to ambient hoot owl noise, or something?  But if so, what could I do about it?  Slip the guy some Xanax?  Make him  drink a big shot of tequila before bed time? The last thing somebody who’s already on pins and needles wants to hear is somebody telling them to just please relax. That’s kind of the definition of counter-productive right there.

 

In my darker moments…

 

I thought maybe I should just tell the guy that he should insert his recommended ear plugs into some non-auditory orifice.  But then – after a few additional shots of tequila myself – sweet reason returned, and I was able to calm down.  Fact is, there’s just no delicate way to phrase some replies without sounding like an asshole. So, maybe no reply at all was the best way to go?  Still, I was concerned….

Then, I got a booking for the coming week.  And then, another.  And another, filling up the whole two weeks after that.  Pretty soon, I thought, “Hey! Waddaya know? It’s not a bug.  It’s a feature!” Maybe the thing to do is advertise the train noise.  I mean, the State Railroad Museum is right across the river, right?  So Sacramento, in addition to being known as the “River City” and  the “City of Trees,” might also one day – with my great help – come to be known as the “City of Trains?” Hear that lonesome whistle blow…  Kinda has a nostalgic ring to it,  doncha think? If Johnny Cash were still alive we could get him to do a PSA…

 

Nah. The bottom line is…

 

Reviews are, by nature, a mixed bag.  So too are the people who write them:  Some folks are all worked up.  Others?  They couldn’t care less. Over the long haul, it all tends to even out.  Best policy in light of that?  Tequila – for hosts as well as guests!  But seriously, folks… There’s just no sense wheeling out the big guns every time there’s negative feedback.  Not when a wee bit of tolerance, patience, and forbearance can work wonders. That’s my strategy and I’m sticking with it.

Well, that plus tequila, I guess.

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Trippy

Don’t get me wrong:  I’m happy for Anne Lamott.  Really I am.  Getting married for the first time at age 65? I mean, that’s almost as big of an accomplishment as getting sober and getting 18 books published.  Almost, I said.

To be fair:  Although she’s never been married before, Lamott does have a son, Sam, age 29.  Also a grandson, Jax, who is 9.  And over the years she has written as much or more about family and relationships than almost anyone else on the planet.  Still, it’s nice to see someone like Lamott finally settle down and get to enjoy all the comforts of wedded bliss…

 

Uh…. yeah…. right!

 

If you haven’t already, you can read all about it in the NY Times, here.  Lamott’s new hubby, Neal Allen, is a retired Bay Area exec.  He is twice-divorced and has 4 kids of his own.  He describes his third wife this way:

 

…”casual prettiness,’ “trippy dreads,’ “kissable lips’ and a willingness to tell everything, absolutely everything, about herself. “That kind of openness, it was like being sucked into a spider web.”

 

The Times article goes on to mention that Mr. Allen is a writer in his own right.  And while he’s got the open hearted (some might call it “overly obsessive”) Lamott pretty much pegged with the above description (all the way down to the graying roots of her “trippy dreads”),  I will say only this:  “Sucked into a spider web? REALLY?  Since when does a spider web come equipped with an HVAC?”  C’mon, man:   Let’s keep those metaphors unmixed, shall we?

Mr. Allen adds that he gained 17 pounds in the first six months of his relationship with Lamott, mostly from eating too much chocolate.  For those of us in our 60’s, need I say it out loud?  This can’t possibly be a healthy sign.  Furthermore, he describes their new life together like this:

 

“I have never, ever spent time with somebody as funny, as brilliantly funny…  Living with Annie is like being in a comedy sketch.”

 

OK then.  Hey, I like SNL as much as the next guy – and it has been airing on NBC for over 40 years now.  But there is a reason why it’s only on once a week:  Word to the wise.  I know a number of couples who married relatively late in life, either for the first time, or in a later at-bat.  And I wish each and every one of them all the best for whatever comes in life’s last innings – honest and true, really I do.  Lord knows, each of us needs all the help we can get.

 

Last word goes to the new couple’s caterer.

Yep, you heard me.

Caterer.

 

 

Laura Neely catered the dinner along with her staff of mostly middle-age women who called themselves “the old gangster catering crew.” Ms. Neely said she particularly admired Ms. Lamott for not leaping into marriage until now. “Getting married now is the best thing ever, because that’s for sure going to be your toe-tag husband.”

 

“Old gangster catering crew?”  “Toe-tag husband?”  I love it!  And best of all?  No mixed metaphors.  Quick, somebody sign that woman to a book deal.

 

Speaking of which…

 

His and Her Books

 

Mr. Allen is working on an in-depth analysis of the platonic ideals, tentatively titled, “Shapes of Truth.” Ms. Lamott is working on a memoir about the last third of life, “when you stop squandering your life force on achieving, and focus on presence, being here, being real.” It includes two prayers:  A morning one she named “Whatever.”  And a bedtime one’s called “Oh well.”

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“Whatever,” and “Oh well?”  That’s vintage Lamott right there.

Namaste, guys!

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4H

Today’s Word of the Day comes straight from your high school English class…. and also from Merriam Webster’s Dictionary:

 

alliteration

 

noun
al·​lit·​er·​a·​tion | \ ə-ˌli-tə-ˈrā-shən

Definition of alliteration

 

:  the repetition of usually initial consonant sounds in two or more neighboring words or syllables (such as “wild and woolly,” “threatening throngs.” etc.)

— also called “head rhyme” or “initial rhyme,” though neither of those terms is, um, well…. actually alliterative.  <Ahem!>

 

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In alliteration, consonant sounds in two or more neighboring words or syllables are repeated. The repeated sounds are usually the first, or initial, sounds—as in “seven sisters”—but repetition of sounds in non-initial stressed, or accented, syllables is also common: “appear and report.”

Alliteration is a common feature in poetry, but it is also found in songs and raps and speeches and other kinds of writing, as well as in frequently used phrases, such as “pretty as a picture” and “dead as a doornail.”

Alliteration can, in its simplest form, reinforce one or two consonant sounds, as in this line from a Shakespeare Sonnet:

 

When I do count the clock that tells the time

 

A more complex pattern of alliteration can be created when consonants both at the beginning of words, and at the beginning of stressed syllables within words, are repeated.  Note the following from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples”:

 

The City’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s

 

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See how many examples of alliteration you can find in the “About DEW” tab of this blog.  Extra credit if you can identify every one of the 4H ‘s.   And no, “4H” here does not refer to Head, Heart, Hands, and Health.   <Nice try, though.>

 

4H emblem
4H:   Hint, Hint, Hint, Hint…………….  Hiker, Hoopster, Hugger, Host!

 

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Your Bonus Word of the Day, also from the dictionary, is “onomatopoeia.”  <Just because I happen to like it!>

 

onomatopoeia

noun
on·​o·​mato·​poe·​ia | \ ˌä-nə-ˌmä-tə-ˈpē-ə
 

Definition of onomatopoeia

1 :  the naming of a thing or action by a vocal imitation of the sound associated with it (such as “buzz” or “hiss”)
2 :  the use of words whose sound suggests the sense

Did You Know?

 

People have been creating words from the sounds heard around them for a very long time.  In fact, the presence of so many imitative words in language spawned the linguistic “Bowwow Theory,” which postulates that language originated in imitation of natural sounds.

 

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“Bowwow?”  Holy cow!  Just gotta love it!

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Normal

The first thing wrong with Tom Bissell’s current New Yorker review of Adam Morris’ new book, “American Messiahs,” is that there’s not even one mention of Mormonism.  But hold on South Park fans, there’s more.  The review is titled “How Cults Made America.”  If you so choose, you can read it here.  But I don’t recommend it:  It’s spotty coverage of an uneven topic balanced at the apex of a precarious premise:  That there is something peculiarly “American” about messianic cults and religious extremism.  In a word, “Really?

And in another word: “REALLY?”

Gimme a break, man.

 

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Every measurable phenomenon in the natural world can be said to conform to some variant of a Gaussian distribution.  Another name for this distribution is “normal.”  When plotted on a graph, it looks something like this:

 

Normal distribution function
Gaussian – or normal – distribution

 

The vertical line peaking at 1.0 on the y-axis is known as the “mean.” The 1-2-or-3 numbers on the x-axis represent “standard deviations” from the mean.  Of course, not all distributions are perfectly “normal.”  Sometimes the curve is skewed right or left.  Sometimes the peak, i.e. the “max,” is higher or lower, thus making the hill-shaped-curve either sharper for flatter.  But you get the picture.

Way out on the 3-standard-deviation horizontal ends where the Gaussian tails approach the x-axis are what are called the “asymptotes.”  The data points lying way out here are known as “outliers.”  (That’s a book title – which I hate – by Malcolm Gladwell… but that’s another story for another day.)  Suffice to say, the asymptotes are also where the most virulently messianic strains of American Christianity – indeed, of all extremism, religious and otherwise – are to be found.  But to hear these guys tell it, Jim Jones and his ilk are square in the middle. Talk about skewed.

 

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Do I even need to point out the world-wide span of religions?  Or of extremism? Or of the unhealthily large overlap in the Venn diagram of these two subsets of normal human activity?  I will grant the author’s point that the average Puritan arriving at Plymouth Rock in 1620 was more extremist than not.  Further, it’s true that his descendants in American evangelicalism today share a good bit of the same cultural DNA.  But as a defining character of what it means to be American, I contend it’s “freedom” rather than “exceptionalism” that holds sway.  And choosing Jim Jones as class representative? That’s just crazy-talk.

The thing about freedom?  Its effect on human behavior across the spread of a normal distribution tends to push the peak downward and inflate the curve at the asymptotes.  In plain English:  Freedom – by definition – encourages diversity.  And not just “diversity” in the conventional progressive political sense, but in every sense.   Remove the strictures usually held in place by culture, tradition, and history, and what happens? The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.  The smart get smarter and the dumb get dumber.  And the crazy?  You guessed it.  They get crazier.

In one sense this notion runs counter to my argument.  There’s no denying American freedom has made us exceptionally adept at stuff like technological innovation, entrepreneurial drive, and artistic creativity.  It also has encouraged less laudatory stuff like the bloviators of talk radio with various axes to grind.  Conspiracy theorists on the Internet, set free by the First Amendment, are now blessed with a world-wide platform and all-too-gullible online constituencies.  Oh, and let’s not forget your garden-variety Second Amendment wing-nut bearing an assault-rifle with a high-capacity magazine and a bump-stock:  Not to put too fine a point on it.

 

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Into this bubbling melting-pot, throw in a healthy spoonful of the Cayenne-pepper of religion, and waddaya get?  Well, Jim Jones, for one thing – there’s no denying it.  But my point is, however wide and flat the Gaussian distribution becomes, a guy like Jim Jones is not now, never was, and never will be anywhere near the middle, the mean, the average. How-many-ever fringe followers he has, or had, they are all still – always and forever – out at the end of the asymptotes.

Furthermore, how-ever-good a story-spinner Adam Morris (or Malcolm Gladwell) might be, the case for normalizing cult practice just won’t fly.  Not even in a country as free-wheeling – or in times as tumultuous – as ours.  It’s like saying that, just because they both lived in early 20th century America and both presented ideas the general public at first found exotic, therefore Madame Blavatsky (the great psychic) and Albert Einstein (the great physicist) are  equivalent.  Sorry, no.  One ended up a farcical footnote in the history of science.  The other authored the Theory of General Relativity.  “Physics” and “psychics” may sound alike.  But all other similarities are purely coincidental.

 

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So, what’s the bottom line?  If you’ve followed me this far, you’re probably persistent and astute enough to realize that human behavior is a rich stew. Settling for an easy answer like “Cults Made America” is dumb.  But maybe it’s not so surprising, given how diverse (some might say “lazy“) our discourse has become?  That’s freedom for you:  Lots of leeway allows more inhabitants of the Gaussian curve to loiter out on the extremes… <wait for it>… sitting contentedly on their fat asymptotes.  (And to quote Forrest Gump:  “That’s all I’ve got to say about that!”)

 

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Pop

OK, I admit it.  I’m tearing up a little as I finish this very long article from ESPN.com about Coach Pop.  And I can already hear you saying, “ESPN.com?  Was that Pop, as in Coach Popovich?”  And also, “Tearing UP?  What gives?”

Sometimes it pays to skip to the end of a meal and have dessert first. So, here are the last couple paragraphs of the piece, just so you can see what I mean…

 

********

 

Jienna Basaldu looks at her boss and nods. She’s grown up watching the NBA, especially her hometown Kings, and, of course, knows about Popovich.  But what she mostly knows — aside from the notion that he’s good at his job — is the steely stare that’s chilled the spine of many a sideline reporter. And now she, a 29-year-old sommelier who passed the exam to earn that title a few months prior, will be taking care of him.

She’s nervous to begin with. And that’s before Popovich strolls into Ella Dining Room and Bar with five staffers, like a scene from “Reservoir Dogs.” But immediately, he’s kind, courteous. He explains that they’d like to do side-by-side comparisons of Old World wines vs. New World wines.  A white Burgundy from France versus a chardonnay from California.  A French red Burgundy against a California pinot noir.

Basaldu loves the idea. It’s a wine geek’s delight. Throughout, Popovich turns to Basaldu, asking her to explain elements of each — the region, producer, vineyard, why it’s best served in this type of wine glass. “Oh, repeat that,” he says, gesturing toward his staff. “Tell everyone at the table.” Basaldu feels empowered. So much of what he orders happen to be wines that she’s studied for her recent exam. She catches a rhythm, like a shooter who can’t miss. And toward the meal’s end, Popovich says, “Oh, save all the bottles. Give them all to my assistant. They’re going to scrapbook them. We need to make sure we have everything.”

As Popovich prepares to leave, Basaldu stands near the door. He stops and turns to her. “You’re too good for this place,” he says. “You’re going to do big things.”  Pop isn’t knocking Sacramento, or the restaurant where she’s worked for 2½ years, a place he’s visited many times. He’s referencing her promise.  “You’re so young, and you’re so well-spoken, and you’re so knowledgeable. It’s clear that you love this. When you love something like this, you hold on to it. You hear me?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Popovich,” she tells him.

 

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Deep down, she’s always dreamed of going to San Francisco, among the biggest stages in her industry.  But the leap from Sacramento has felt huge. She figures she might just stay in Sacramento forever. But his words resonate: “I will see you again. It will be somewhere else.”  Being a young woman in a male-dominated industry is daunting. Still, she tells herself, “Gregg Popovich sees something in me.”

Four years later, when Basaldu makes the leap and lands at The Morris, an acclaimed eatery in San Francisco’s Potrero Flats neighborhood, she looks back on that night with Popovich. And her voice will crack, recalling the time when this famous coach, known for his gruff exterior, gave her the push she needed.  How he walked into her restaurant, recognized her game, and helped change the course of her life.

 

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There.  Dessert first.  Yer welcome. Though a bit longish, the full article’s still worth reading.  What, you think you can get away with eating JUST dessert? Think again! With Coach Pop around, there are no shortcuts.

The Nuggets play the Spurs Tuesday night in a Game 5 match up of the NBA’s Western Conference first round playoffs.  The series is tied 2-2.  I’ll be rooting for the Nuggets, of course.  But the way I see it, I can’t lose, because while the Nuggets may be my home-town team, I’ll always love Coach Pop.  Oh, and also? Fine wine. Let’s not forget that.

Props to frequent dewconsulting.net contributor BRG for pointing me in the direction of this story.  I gotta admit, ESPN.com isn’t one of my usual online destinations.  But maybe it should be!

 

Bonus FB funny:

Coach Pop and the Spurs sit down to dinner...
That’s Coach Pop in the middle there!
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Happy Easter

Forget the title of Nick Kristof’s op-ed in today’s NY Times:  It’s dumb.  But his interview with Serene Jones, president of Union Theological Seminary?  It’s worth a read.  If you so choose, you can do that here.  And if not?  Well, hey, have fun hunting Easter eggs I guess.

In the pie-chart representing responses to the interview with Reverend Jones, about a third of my readers will smile and nod knowingly.  Another third will have smoke coming out their ears.  And the remaining third?  They’ll say, “Easter?  EASTER?  I thought it was Passover!”

Happy Easter anyway, y’all!

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Noir

I am a great lover of detective fiction:  Murder mysteries, missing persons cases, whodunits.  And as far as I’m concerned, the more noir the better.  Right now I’m reading one of the “Leonid McGill” mysteries of the great black author Walter Mosely.  I’ve already read the complete canon of his “Easy Rawlins” series, so this transition seems only natural to me.

Come to think of it, an awful lot of mystery writers seem to have multiple protagonists.  Les Roberts did his “Milan Jacovich” series set in Cleveland, and his (less famous) “Saxon” series set in L.A.  James Lee Burke has the Louisiana detective “Dave Robicheaux,” along with his Montana counterpart “Hackberry Holland.”  Michael Connelly has his Mickey Haller “Lincoln Lawyer” series, and his private eye Hieronymous “Harry” Bosch series – though, to be fair, in that case, the two men are half-brothers and tend to pop up from time to time in each others’ stories.

 

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A noir writer like Robert Crais really has only one “series,” but two main characters, so it often ends up feeling like two different series.  There’s mild-mannered detective Elvis Cole, plus his mysterious and violent side-kick, Joe Pike.  That same dual-protagonist theme pervades the iconic work of Tony Hillerman.  His legendary Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn of the Navajo Tribal Police is paired with Sgt. Jim Chee, a sometime traditional healer and live-in boyfriend of Bernadette “Bernie” Manuelito, with Chee following along as second fiddle in both cases.  Once Hillerman died, his daughter Anne took over writing the series.  Leaphorn then faded off into retirement and Bernie took over center stage, with Chee forever relegated to the side-kick role. There are worse fates in life I guess.

About the only modern American mystery writers I can think of with purely single protagonists are both women.  The first is Nevada Barr, who did a series of National Park themed mysteries featuring Park Ranger Anna Pigeon.  The other is Sue Grafton, who wrote the alphabet-themed “A is for Alibi,” “B is for Burglar,” and so forth, all featuring the wisecracking Santa-Theresa-based detective Kinsey Millhone.  Sadly for Millhone and for us all, Grafton died recently.  That left her one novel shy of a perfect 26-novel hat trick. “Z is for…”  will remain forever unwritten I suppose.

 

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The other thing about most successful writers is the “divides his-or-her time…” phenomenon.  Read the blurb on any book jacket, and there you will find, down near the end of the telegraphic details of the writer’s biography, a statement that goes something like this:  “The author divides her time between her Manhattan brownstone and the rustic country inn she runs with her paramour in the wilds of Vermont.”  Or, “The author, his wife, their five children, and their two golden retrievers divide their time between their surf-side cabana on the white sands of Florida’s Gulf Coast, and their working sheep ranch on the windswept plains of Wyoming.”  I defy you to find even one of these that says “The author lives in only one place – Baltimore – and likes it well enough not to live anywhere else, not even in the icy death-grip of winter!”

Go on.  Prove me wrong.  I dare ya.

 

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The writer of this blog divides his time between two condos:  One’s on a golf course tucked behind the red rocks of Roxborough in far southwest Denver.  The other’s just across a railroad bridge from downtown Sacramento, hard by the levee, under cerulean California skies.  Hey, neither one of ’em is Nirvana, but neither one is all that noir either. I like to call ’em both home.

 

Noir - Midstream Flag Day on Surrey

 

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I Kid You Not

Last year around this time, as we were waiting to close on our house in West Sac, we stayed nearby in an Airbnb with a guy named “Ken.” If I were writing a novel or a short story, at this point I’d make some snide reference to a “Ken doll”, because the guy does in fact look like that.  You know:  The bleached-blonde, plastic-counterpart-of-Barbie look.  A male model type who should be on the pages of a fashion magazine or a menswear catalog or something?

Turns out, Ken’s a great guy.  In fact, he’s the one who turned me on to doing Airbnb.  Also turns out, Ken’s an “engineer.”  When he first told me this, I thought, “Oh, okay, he’s a software engineer like me.”   But I was wrong.  Ken works for Amtrak.  He drives a train.  I kid you not, he’s actually a member of the Teamsters Union.  But, rest easy, he’s nothing like Jimmy Hoffa.  I mean, c’mon:  Jimmy Hoffa and a Ken doll?  Two different species, like night and day.  Capische?

 

 

One looks says, “I’ll tear your liver out.”  The other? “Drinks.  My place.  At 5.”

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Back yard pots and plants
My back yard, planted and ready.

 

These days in California it’s planting season, already in the mid-80’s.  So yesterday I went down to Lowes – which happens to be near Ken’s house – to buy some plants to replace the ones that didn’t survive the winter. Then I headed on over to Target for my yearly supply of razor blades, toilet paper, and Old Spice deodorant.  <Hey, I’m efficient – okay? – so sue me!>  Anyway, Target is practically right next to Ken’s, so I decided to swing by and see how the old place was holding up.  <When you do Airbnb, it always pays to keep tabs on the friendly competition, see.>

As I was driving past – yep, you guessed it – there was Ken, standing out front, trash bag in hand, wearing his “day-off, summer-time uniform.”  Said “uniform” consists of tattered cutoff jeans, a pressed oxford shirt unbuttoned all the way down (the better to show off his six-pack), and flip-flop sandals.  Only Ken can make taking out the trash look like a GQ photo shoot.

I stopped, said “Hi,” and we traded Airbnb war stories for a while. He’d recently had a guest with a service dog which attacked – in fact, almost killed – his cat. This caused him a great deal of ill will with the Airbnb “Dispute Resolution Team.” <Nothing kills Airbnb bookings faster than that kind of negative publicity. >  I told him of the Russian pastor who came to my place for a week with his wife.  They cooked me fish stew, then insisted I put up black-out curtains so they and their “flock” could hold bible studies in my living room in complete secrecy.  Maybe in Russia that sort of thing’s necessary?  I dunno,  seems a little like overkill to me.  But what do I know?  I’m just the host.

 

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Anyway, we talked ourselves out, I went on my way, and – come sundown – I set out on my daily walk.  Lately I’ve been walking the levee from 7 to 8 PM. There’s been a small trashy-looking travel trailer parked up there near the boat ramp which I’ve avoided until now.  I thought maybe it was the homeless guys, moving up in the world with an upgrade from their usual army surplus tent.  But I was also a little leery because it has started to smell a bit like a barnyard over there.  And now I know why.

 

Goats eating weeds near Ken's place
The Goats of Spring, doing what they do best.

 

Last year when we stayed with Ken there was a big flock of goats in the field next door.  They’d been brought in by a company that specializes in weed control.  This is a common technique municipalities often use to keep things from getting over-grown in otherwise untended public green-space.

Well, this year those goats are all up here near me, on the river side of the levee behind a mobile electric fence.  They’re accompanied by one great big white Pyrenees herding dog who sniffed and took on a slightly superior air, stately and sedate, as I walked past. There must be close to a thousand goats over there.  It’s uncanny, almost surreal, that many goats (and one dog), all packed into such a small space.  A few of the younger ones were butting heads and literally leaping in the air even though it was getting dark.  Some of the more adventurous ones seemed to be trying to climb trees down by the river in order to get at the leaves further up – I kid you not.   <And yes, that pun’s intended.>

 

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What are the odds I’d run into Ken – and a thousand goats – exactly one year later? Do ya think it’s greater, or less than, the odds of Jimmy Hoffa turning up with some Teamster buddies living in an army surplus tent along the river after going missing all those years ago?  You be the judge… but remember this:   Truth is often stranger than fiction.

And yep, you guessed it:   I kid you not.

 

Posted on

OMG

Oh. My. God.  This one (from outsideonline.com) is going to take me the whole rest of my life to complete.   Best Hike in Every State?  I mean, the looping graphic at the top (I think it’s Hawaii) is worth the price of admission all by itself.

 

Oh. My. God. Best Hike in Every State? I'm all in!
Kalalau Trail, Hawaii.

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Harding Icefield in Alaska’s Kenai Fjords National Park looks like a helluva lotta fun.  And Rim-to-rim in Arizona’s Grand Canyon?  I’m all in.  (But not Rim-to-rim-to-rim.  No sense getting carried away here.)  As for Nevada’s Tahoe Rim Trail, I can vouch for only a small portion of the complete 165-mile circuit.  (Add that to the bucket list!)

The one they chose for Colorado (La Plata Peak) is at least a fourteener.  But IMHO it’s pretty ho-hum as Colorado hikes go.  Maybe because in this case they limited themselves to a 10 mile round trip, i.e. what you can do in a single day?  But I definitely prefer the 14-miles each way of the Barr Trail up Pike’s Peak, with an optional overnight stay at Barr Camp.  Spaghetti for supper and pancakes for breakfast, both cooked by the caretaker couple?   Mmmmm, carbs!  Then after you reach the Summit House at the top and buy some kitschy trinkets – plus a cup of the world’s finest hot cocoa –  you can hitch-hike back down to your car in Manitou Springs via the Pikes Peak Highway.  Why not meet some new people in the process?  But hey, that’s just me.

 

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Pick your favorite state, click the link to check out the supposedly “best hike,” and report back here with your findings.  C’mon, don’t delay.  The trail awaits!