California Dreaming

I mentioned in my previous post that I had just returned from a brief trip down the coast to lovely San Diego. My wife and I had a wonderful time--taking in a Padre's game a Petco (a great venue for watching baseball, by the way); strolling the historical streets of Old Town (while pigging out on authentic and delicious Mexican food); enjoying the greenery and people-watching our way through Balboa Park, among other things. And even though we reside in this massive state, some 600 miles to the north of S.D., and once called southern Cal our home, I came to this conclusion while sitting on the Southwest jet, gazing out the window as millions of people crammed together in 25 square miles turned into acres and acres of vast pastureland: things are different down there!

Hey, I'm not saying people here in Chico, my hometown for the past ten years, are not friendly--they are very cordial and I consider this college town one of the nicest places I have resided in my five decades of life. But never have I seen someone wandering down the center of downtown holding a sign stating: FREE HUGS. Of course, I do avoid downtown during St. Patrick's Day and Halloween, when the kids go a bit wild. My point is: free hugs is a southern Cal thing. Not that it's a bad thing. In fact, it felt kind of nice.

People often have the misconception that all Californians are the same, act the same, seem the same. That it's all swimming pools and movie stars, money and fame, peace, love, and "Have a nice day." One need only consider the size of this state to realize the absurdity of that notion. California spans over 160,000 square miles; on its own it would be the 59th largest country in the world. And it is long, stretching from Oregon to Mexico. By comparison, one would have to traverse through almost a dozen states on the East Coast to accumulate the same mileage as one trip from Weed (way up north) to Chula Vista (almost in Mexico). My point being: No one ever compares a North Carolinian with someone from Maryland.

We here in Chico are very relaxed and laid back, to a point. But I doubt thousands of locals would dare arrive in the middle of the second inning of a baseball game, wandering into the park, la-di-dah, cell phone glued to an ear, cocktail in hand, meandering over to their $75.00 seats without a care. No, I've been to a ballgame here and these fans are serious about their home team. I'm sure Padre fans love their team, they just don't love them for the full nine innings.

I am originally from Back East, New England, where I learned how to mispronounce Bucky Dent's name while understanding pain and misery at being a die hard Red Sox fan since 1967. I moved Out West almost 25 years ago and it took me a while to find my place, to fit in. For the longest time, I was a man without a country, or state, or neighborhood. I was too harsh and loud and uptight for the easy going, mellow, polite Californians. But, even after only a few months, I was losing my East Coast attitude, not all of it, never all of it, but a lot of it. And to my family and freinds back in New England, I was different, changing, becoming, gulp, a Californian! You see my conundrum, right? Still too rough around the edges to be accepted here, but becoming less so to remain true to my I'll-run-you-off-the-road-if-you-look-at-me-like-that-again roots. I remember an incident that occurred during my first week in southern Cal, while I was driving through a parking lot. A pedestrian walked right in front of my car and I almost hit him. After a few choice words directed his way, the passenger in my car, a local, asked me what I was doing. I told him, adding a few more choice words, that that idiot almost got himself killed, walking in front of my car like that. "He was on a crosswalk," my mellow friend informed me, "he has the right of way." I looked at him, then at the man in the crosswalk, then back at my friend. Then shook my head and thought to myself, "Not Back East he does."

It took me a while, but I learned, eventually mellowed out to the point of fitting in, for the most part, out here. I now consider myself more of a Californian than a New Englander, though those roots will always remain close to my heart. But after my trip down to San Diego, I realized that I still have a lot to learn, still, at times, can be a man caught in the middle, a man without a country or state, even while residing within its borders. Think about it...

peace,

Mike

Odds and Ends...

"If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete."--Buddha

I think I will call today: Pat Yourself On The Back Day. Cut yourself some slack, take a deep breath and show yourself a little compassion. Sure, spread that compassion around to others, but save a bit for yourself. I like that quote. Let me know what you think of it.

When In Doubt, Go To Vegas!

That quote is all mine, and my meaning is along the same lines with the words of wisdom from our good friend Buddha. Treat yourself to a getaway from what ails you. And if nothing ails you...then you are not human. We all need a break from the routine of life, and what better place to escape from the real world than Vegas? My lovely wife and I are by no means major gamblers, but we enjoy a trip at least once a year to Sin City. While we're there we think of little but having a good time, dining well, shopping (books for me; lots of stuff for her!), and getting lost inside the never-ending world of the casinos. Try it, you may like it. If not, go to Maui. I know you'll love that.

Why Am I Screaming At A Robotic Voice!

I don't know about you, but I have zero patience when it comes to those automated voices that try to talk to you like they are real people. You know the one's I'm talking about: you're calling customer service for something that nine times out of ten already has you a bit tweaked off. Now, while waiting patiently through a queue of recordings and lists and misdirection and bad music, you expect to be greeted by someone human, a person, a living being that can engage in conversation, no matter how primitive. But instead, all too often, we get this fake, robotic voice, programed to ask questions, pretend to understand your answer, than try to converse with you. AND THE WHOLE TIME WE ALL KNOW THAT THIS IS NOT A PERSON! Why do they do this to us? Do they really think that we don't know that this is not a real person? Is it just me, or do you feel silly talking to this automated voice? I hope it's not just me. Invariably, I find myself poking an angry finger at the Zero on the phone pad, begging, crying, pleading for a human voice to rescue me from this robotic one that is misunderstanding everything I am telling it. Please, customer service centers, get rid of this evil device and you will save the few remaining brown hairs on my head, as well as a handful of fast eroding brain cells.

Why Can't The Red Sox Win On The Road?

I haven't blogged about my favorite sports team in a long time. Sadly, I must report that the Sawks, as they call them back in New England, while owning the best home record in baseball, are dismal on the road, away from friendly Fenway Park. There are lots of theories, including travel, comfort, fatigue, fan support. All those contribute, I'm sure, but in baseball it often comes down to pitching. And on the road, the visiting team seems to blow out their bullpens more often than the home ball club. Or maybe their road uniforms fit funny. No matter the reason, they are not a lot of fun to watch while in their visiting grays.

That's all for now. I hope everyone has a stellar day.

Until next time...

peace,
Mike