Ohio!!...?

Yes friends, Ohio!!...? But Brian, didn’t you just return from Costa Rica? Yes, yes, but this entry was almost finished before I left so, here it is.

Our hero’s services were required up in the Buckeye state and so I was off. I was accompanied by my good friend, Becky the vegetarian. Becky also doesn’t eat. During our wondrous two day jaunt through the verdant Ohio countryside, Becky consumed 4 ounces of digestible material. This is not that alarming considering it’s approximately 20% of her body weight. What was alarming was when she unceremoniously returned 3.75 of those ounces to Mother Earth (via the kitchen sink) after one and a half glasses of vodka tonic Saturday night. For those of you unfamiliar with one and a half glasses of vodka tonic, it’s what is fed to Russian infants in their bottles.

Our droll adventure started in Cleveland, home of the Indians, Browns, and the worst subway system in the world (more on that later). Cleveland was once a bustling community specializing in bright steel and burning rivers (pollution does that). However, try as trade tariffs may, most of the steel and automotive jobs in that area were lost overseas. As a result, a very nice city with much to offer is inhabited primarily by those who originally grew up here, seeing most of the young population leave. I spoke with a lawyer who owned a 3500 sq ft house on an acre of land 10 minutes from downtown Cleveland. He estimated it was worth about $250-300,000. That is approximately equal to two months rent in an LA studio apartment.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum was an absolute must. Here I am standing in the Eerie dusk in front of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame after three hours inside.

I was rocked out.

After our time in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame we attempted to head to Shaker Square to enjoy some dinner. We spotted a stop for Cleveland’s subway, the RTA (Regional Transit Authority). “Ah! What a quick and painless way to reach our destination!” we emphatically exclaimed. Upon entering the station we found nobody at the ticket windows and the automatic ticket dispensers to be covered in the plastic, walking back to the entrance we inquired from the only uniformed worker to be found who was busy sweeping the floor. Initially it appeared that all the tendons on one side of her neck were severed. Upon closer inspection, however, she simply had formed a permanent cell phone sandwich between her ear and shoulder.

Us (mild as lambs): “Is this station open?”

Her (angrily removing cell phone sandwich from ear): “What? Yes!!”

Upon which she promptly replaced the cell phone sandwich and went back to sweeping. We walked through the turnstyles to the platform where a handful of people waited. “Ah, we must be in the right spot!”

So we waited, and waited, and waited. Finally our cell phone sandwich, severed-tendon sweeper arrived, busily sweeping and chatting when she was interrupted by a man.

Him (mild as a baby deer): “Excuse me, do you know when the train is arriving?”

Her (looking at him askew as if he were a rodent): “I saw it pass by a few minutes ago, it should be here in a few minutes.”

Evidently we were fortunate enough to have the singular honor of riding the only train on the line.

This story drags: the short version is that it took us an hour and 20 minutes to go 3 city blocks on the RTA in addition to being told to buy the wrong ticket and the wrong place to get off by the indifferent conductor. What could cause such a poorly run transit system to continue poorly running? I found my answer on the first train: An emblem of the Amalgamated Transit Union stuck to the driver’s booth. Ah, unions! Those bastions of apathy, pervasive sense of entitlement, and inverse proportionality between wages and productivity! Thank you for proving once again that the necessity of your existence ended 60+ years ago.

Please welcome the most ironic statement ever printed:

Evidently there’s even a union that gives awards to unions, though the sign probably was created over a period of 6 months by one new union member while nine others managed him while being paid at a rate 5 times the minimum wage with full benefits, after a strike. Enough, I’ve become embittered.

We also met up with Becky’s brother and sister in law in Toledo. Toledo is another nice city that makes me sad. Here they are standing on the shore of the Maumee River, which flows through Toledo to Lake Eerie in the north.

Toledo, like Cleveland, used to be a booming town of industry until the jobs went overseas and people left. As a result, the downtown skyline is populated with stately, early 20^th century buildings that stand completely abandoned, or with only a few floors of occupancy. Attempts by local government to attract new life and vitality to the city have fallen flat. The main industry, in fact, that northern Ohio now sports is medicine and hospitals, an industry that our young friends are being schooled in, with the plans to leave immediately upon graduation. We drove by a few of the nicer neighborhoods, viewing houses that had sat on the market for literally two years. Being a staunch capitalist doesn’t mean I can’t feel the depression of a city that has lost the battle with competitive advantage. Yes, the Asian markets that have taken the industry that once thrived here will, in the future, be in need of services from the United States and in the end most people will have more of everything. But that’s a long time coming, maybe not in the span of the lifetime of most of the occupants of Toledo.

A short hour’s drive north, however, found us in the piney town of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Oh now, that’s a nice little joint. We first patronized a tasty little vegetarian place: Sheva.

I’m half hippie, so I enjoyed Sheva's organic, locally grown ingredients in a symphony of sustainable sustenance. Here we are, after the rondo.

Post consumption, we meandered about the streets and shops in Ann Arbor. Google even has a little shop here, though I don't know if there's room for the Google pool, gourmet chefs, or massage parlours that glamorize their other locations.

At first I was perfectly peeved at this picture as the speeding bus zipped right in front of the pillared arcade/alleyway.

But then I realized that this serendipitously captured the ambience of the Ann Arbor. A standing man, an old fashioned arcade eclipsed by a bus blurred in transit. What marvelous juxtaposition! What does it all mean? You decide (translation: I don’t know and I’m trying to end the topic before I stop sounding intelligent).

Here’s the picture without the layered meaning:

Our cheeks rosy with the glow of Ann Arbor’s evergreen air, we returned to Toledo, then to Cleveland, then to Austin. Next stop, Costa Rica!

Labo(u)r Day in Toronto

The great, all-American holiday of Labor Day heralded the end of summer and so I, like Bill Clinton in wartime, headed up to Canada. I had heard the legend of Toronto from many of my Canadian friends so I had to see to believe. I met my good buddy, Andrew the Canadian, at the Toronto airport. Andrew the Canadian is a baller and now drives a BMW like all ballers. Riding in the BMW, I became a baller by association. My associated ballerness lasted the entire 45 minutes from the airport, where we parked the car and didn’t use it again until my Monday evening homeward journey. You see, the streets of Toronto are well laid out boasting excellent public transport, making them, like the Canadian Army, very easy to walk on.

As honorary Canadian baller I checked into the Sheraton downtown. Here are the luscious waterfulls of our hotel.

Then we took a walk along the famous Yonge Street, supposedly the longest street in the world as it turns in a highway stretching to the other side of Canada. We were tired after a few blocks so decided to cut the journey short, instead we turned into the lovely Bloor-Yorkville area of town. Here is Andrew the Canadian in Bloor-Yorkville.

Where we enjoyed an empty table together

Having eaten our fill, Andrew the Canadian found us some lovely ladies. Here I am, clearly delighted in Andrew the Canadian’s exquisite taste in Canadiennes.

That evening we decided to hit Little Italy for our entertainment. We sat on an outdoor patio enjoying the cool evening of the waning Canadian summer, then danced in the clubs until stumbling out around 2 in the chill morning. Andrew the Canadian had found another, doubtlessly equally lovely Canadienne, whom he escorted home. Meanwhile, I passed by the bossa nova club of my new friend, Steve Dempster. Watching the rhythmic dancing of the last club goers I was soon beckoned in by one of the managers with whom I quickly took up the dance. Then I was handed maracas, tambourines, drinks, and other various instruments as we kept up the beat. Steve and I discussed the glory of engineering (he was designing a hospital), listening to beautiful music, eating good food, and being excellent dancers in the near empty club. Around 4 I bade him a fond fairwell and cabbed it back to the tinkling waterfalls of our beloved Sheraton.

The Toronto Islands used to be part of the mainland until a huge storm blew through way back in 1858 and made the islands into islands. Today the islands act like Central Park for the Canadians. Here is Andrew the Canadian dutifully watching the downtown coastline, much like God.

We ferried over in the morning and enjoyed the beaches until Andrew the Canadian spotted the “clothing optional” beach on our handy map of the Toronto Islands. Within seconds we were strolling along this “clothing optional” beach. I guess it’s not politically correct to correctly label a “clothing optional” beach as “flaming gay clothing optional” beach. Needless to say I, found my feet to be extraordinarily worthy of attention for the remainder of our beachside stroll. Thankfully, there are no pictures of this event.

Then we saw the Canadian Air Force practicing.

After a relaxing/horrifying few hours we returned to the mainland to join Andrew the Canadian’s friends on a tour of the Steam Whistle Brewery, then up to a high rise condo. Here is downtown Toronto from the home of one of Andrew the Canadian’s friends.

Sunday brought us to the old ball park to watch the Toronto Blue Jays battle it out with the Seattle Mariners, and to meet up with another buddy, Evan the Canadian. This landmark event brought to an even five the number of pro sports events I’ve attended in my life. I simply don’t believe in supporting them. It’s a nice park and the game was relaxing. Here is the famed CN Tower looming over the park.

Later, Andrew the Canadian and I checked out the historic Second City comedy club, training ground for such famous funny Canadians as John Candy and Dan Aykroyd.

Labour Day found us visiting a Labour Day parade with such favorites as trade unions, the New Socialist Group, and Young Communists. Somehow, the American in me just couldn’t join in the red flag/gold star waving…

We rounded out our Toronto experience with a visit to the University of Toronto and their illustrious Department of Household Science which I am Vanna Whiting here:

Kind of hard to see the name above those lovely Ionic columns, but they're there. It would make a perfect study abroad opportunity for some lucky Brigham Young University coeds.

This concludes my Labour of Love in Toronto. Stay tuned for whatever former trip I feel like updating!

Nor’wester

Seattle

I’m going to write about an incredible little trip I took to the Northwest. Being a Northeasterner myself, I always considered the Northwest as a more rustic, lumberjack version of the Northeast. It’s close enough to Canada to be entirely alarming. I consider Canada to be somewhat like an bigger brother to the US. We can always look up and see him above us, bigger, colder (temperature wise (in Celcius, eh)), a bit more laid back and good natured, fantastically less successful, and utterly unwilling to be anything other than the eternal nice guy.

This is about the nicest thing I can say about Canada and Canadians, as I dislike them all.

I arrived in Seattle on a cloudy Friday to meet my good buddy Minh, the Canadian. To be more specific, he’s a Canasian, that is, he’s a Canadian Asian. I have many Canasian friends, all are special.

There are so many Seattle things I’ve longed to do, like visit the famed Seattle space needle. Here it is:

I’m not too sure what the big deal is, though I hear there’s a wondrously overrated revolving restaurant up top. We decided to stick with some good diner grub.

Minh’s quite the photographer and his food shots rival those found in the best issues of Better Homes and Gardens and The Betty Crocker Cookbook.

For more shots of food, people, oddities, and cartoon boobs, check out his insightful blog.

Gotta give a huge shout out to Minh’s college buddies: Marc and Nicole who let us crash on their lovely floor after a rockin night in Seattle’s bars and clubs. Holla (that's the shout out)!

And there's Nicole to my left at the diner

Microsoft moguls don’t just enjoy C programming and days without bathing, they’re also fond of sponsoring overpriced rock museums. Not rock in the geological sense, though the museum resembles some igneous formation, but rock and roll. I believe it was something like $20 to enter, but free to play the drums in the kiddie area.

Here’s a classic Seattle afternoon spent in Pikes market while raining.

This is the quintessence of Seattle tourism, and being the quintessential tourist I had to see it. Here you can see fish flying through the air as the talented fish tossers fill customers’ orders by yelling loudly and throwing fish into waiting brown wrapping paper. This is, I believe, how one makes flying fish. Squeezing eggs out of the fish as they fly is what creates flying fish roe, a very popular ingredient in sushi. I think the flying aerates the eggs and gives them more flavor. I labeled the flying fish in the accompanying picture. You'll have to look closely, I'm an extremely poor labeler.

When we tired of flying fish (and roe raining on us), we moved on to rotating sculptures. Here’s a rotating, neon ampersand which I feel is an excellent name for an alternative rock band.

This reminds me of my African safari with Colin when we decided that Giraffe Skull would be the name of our band if we ever started a hardcore death/thrash/acid/suicide-promoting/punk/metal band. Here is an artist’s depiction of the Giraffe Skull handsign held aloft by millions of future hardcore groupies.

Artist: Brian

Medium: Microsoft Paint

The inspiration, needless to say, is an actual giraffe skull:

Big Bend

Now I’ve wanted to go to Big Bend National Park since I moved to Texas a few years back. It’s found in the southwest of Texas, in the “Big Bend” of the Rio Grande. Big Bend is a desert, so I assembled a cadre of hearty desert-goers to attack the vast, dry, nomadic expanse. So after packing up our canteens, snake-bite kits, straw hats, burqas, and camels into our dune buggy we set out for west Texas.

When most people think of Texas, they imagine cowpoke, tumbleweeds, cacti, and single-toothed brothel employees. Actually this is west Texas. Fortunately, we brought our enlightened Austin culture with us.

You’ll note that the chess pieces had a standing mission to make a suicidal leap from the board due to the vibrations from the lonely Texas roads.

On the way we stopped at Sonora. Sonora is a lovely stop on the griddle-flat, dusty moonscape of our drive. We stopped for some local Mexican food and were alarmed to find that Sonora seems to be under a trade embargo specifically targeting green food coloring. Here you see them getting by coloring their guacamole dip with unsold cans of Ghostbusters® Ectoplasm from 1984. In all actuality, once the neon body paint had been removed from our palates, the ensuing “comida Mexicana” was a delight.

Our one weekend, two night outdoor camping trip was abruptly shortened to one night when DQ (that’s what I love about Texas*) made the call to stay in a motel due to “moist earth”. So instead of watching the big and bright stars of Texas, we watched Letterman.

The next morning we embarked on our river trip. Here are some fantastic shots of us in a Deliverance-like setting.

The cool thing about the Rio Grande is that it spans two nations, bringing them together in a river of understanding that could never be muddied by fences, legislation or mass deportation, ever.

The unmuddy waters of the Rio Grande:

Out of reverence, I sang “Ol’ Man River” repeatedly, much to the delight of my hearty companions who didn’t have the heart (or knowledge) to tell me that the song actually referred to the Mississippi, and that I wasn’t black.

The park website warned us not to approach immigrants crossing the border for our own safety. So we left this one alone.

Here we are in Mexico!

The river having been floated we shot over to the center of Big Bend: the Chisos Basin. Here we are setting up camp. I’m eating trail mix.

After setting camp we went for an evening hike to the Window. Here are beautiful shots along the way.

Here are shots from the Window, which we assume is about a 1000 foot sheer drop. A breathtaking view awaits the hiker as he nears the slick rock lined edge of the Window. I’ve gone back and edited this blog post to remove references to our 6^th hearty companion who, unfortunately, achieved a much better view out of the Window than safety dictates. The removal of references to him will hopefully console grieving relatives. This paragraph, however, will not.

Mystical, eh?

Camping allowed us to relax and bond. Here’s a picture of Mike spying on Brian during a gay magazine photo shoot. I think Mike's a pervert!

In the middle of the night I was awakened, not by Brian trying to spoon with me (he did that so slyly I never awoke), but by a fantastic display of thunder and lightning. There’s not much more of a cooler feeling in the world than sitting in a tent in the middle of a mile-wide basin hearing the thunder cracking and rolling across the moonless, star and thundercloud sprinkled sky, listening to the rain cadence down on your tent roof as a brilliant flash occasionally explodes the desertscape into midday brightness.

The next morning found us hiking up this guy.

A mere 4 miles of slight incline hiking

found us here:

Sitting on top of the world we enjoyed our last breaths of Big Bend sun, hot, dry air, and profuse ladybugs (they were there in droves for some reason, I could have started a very lucrative organic farm).

With Big Bend in our rearview mirror we successfully passed a border checkpoint in under 45 seconds. As we drove through it became apparent that these border guards didn’t have much to worry about. Look out illegal aliens, God's building our walls!

Well that's Big Bend. Pretty soon I will release a post on my fantastic Northwest trip that is only approximately 3 months late.

Cheers folks.

*This parenthetical reference will only make sense if you’ve heard Dairy Queen advertisements in Texas, or if you just really love my friend, Dan Quinn.

Korean Smattering

Following is a smattering of pictures and clever accompanying comments from Korea. Think of it as a photo montage, like the type they show after the Olympics, World Cup, and major natural disasters.

Korea is cold, and as we all know, trees get cold as well. These trees are bundled up for the winter. They will provide the cherry blossoms in the next Cherry Blossom Festival.



Here are a few pictures of palaces and royal shrines. After a while they all kind of run together, much like runners in the New York Marathon.




Korean food doesn't agree with everyone. Here I am comforting my little bro as he seeks comfort in a large palace urn.



Here's a picture capturing the pageantry of the changing of the guard.



Koreans drink water out of little envelopes! They’re so funny!





One of the cool places we went was Isadong, which is old town Korea. It was biting cold the first night so we dropped into a traditional Teahouse. It looked like a little hobbit hole.



On the street vendors sell little cakes filled with sweetened red beans.



They’re quite tasty and they quickly became the only thing my father would eat. He began to look for them in the strangest places.



Koreans like to put up signs. This street is well signed.



Koreans also like to exercise and you don’t see many fat Koreans. These pieces of exercise equipment are clearly the reason why:



Even though the weather was about 30 degrees F, a very common activity is to see tons of old men out playing Chinese chess or Go.
Here my brother is being taught Chinese chess by a man that does not speak English. They had to communicate through the international language, love.





Here is my new niece in law, Harang (yes, that’s an official relation). She likes to bow to you.



Here we are at a market.



This kimchi is called bachelor kimchi, not because the radishes look like penises, but because…oh wait, no that’s why.



I really didn’t make that one up.

Here we are in front of the great south gate of the wall that used to surround Seoul



Korean Ginseng is put into everything. It’s a natural aphrodisiac, like me.



We visited a couple Buddhist temples (you know how I love those). These lanterns seem to hang over the entrance to most complexes.



Here’s the whole clan headin home after a day spent walking ‘til the seouls of our feet ached.



Here we are being captured by a huge wicker dragon.



The etiquette bell is the greatest modern Korean invention. They are located in many ladies’ restrooms. It makes a sound like a flushing toilet. When a lady uses the toilet, it is considered improper to make…sounds. Thus the etiquette bell is pushed when sounds are being made. I’m thinking of making it portable and marketing it in the US, any venture capitalists reading this??



That’ll about do it for Korea. I wrote this as I was suspended somewhere over the Rocky Moutains on my way back to Austin. So it's time I hang up my keyboard 'til the next trip.