So, have you seen 400 goats grazing just to north of Edgewood Road in Redwood City? Seems as though the Public Utility Commission of San Francisco has hired the goats from a company called Goats-R-Us to mow down the overgrown weeds and grasses along the water pipeline that brings water into Crystal Springs Reservoir from the Hetch-Hetchy water system.
The goats are quite an impressive sight, especially if you are not expecting to see them. They are densely grouped just off the road and they come in many colors, shapes and sizes. Roll down your windows and carefully listen as you drive by and you can hear them be-he-he-ing as they work.
They won't be here for long, though. By the looks of things, they've almost finished their job.
Correction on my last post. I guess Mike Krukow was was calling the interfering fan a "YAY-Julio", you know, as opposted to a "YAY-hoo." I guess I misheard.
I don't know where baseball color commentator Mike Krukow gets some of his material, but I have to admit the guy makes me laugh hard sometimes. I've always been a big fan of the "Butcher Boy," a name that Krukow has associated with a fake bunt followed by a quick hack. And, of course, when batters pop a cheap hit into the short outfield, Krukow is always quick to label that type of hit a "Texas Leaguer."
In last night's Giants-Diamondbacks game Krukow unveiled some new material. After a young Latino fan reached onto the field and grabbed a live ball down the right field line, Krukow proclaimed, "... and some Gay Julio just interfered with the play."
This evening I decided to head down to the Guild Theater in Menlo Park to catch "Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room."
While I approached the ticket window located on El Camino Real, I heard some loud horns honking. As I looked up, I saw a white Honda Civic driving north on the wrong side of the road. The ticket attendant and I watched as the old lady driving pulled up parallel to the sidewalk next to the theater, then pulled back out away from the curb and continued north as cars waited just a few feet away at the stoplight. Finally, she made a left Menlo Avenue and got off El Camino without incident.
As I boarded my flight from Atlanta back to SFO, I noticed I my seat was at the bulkhead. I knew my seat was in the emergency exit row, but the bulkhead? Is this good? Let's see, I can't stetch out my legs all the way and my seat won't recline. What the... Oh, well.
The flight attendants make their rounds as they prepare the cabin for take-off.
"Sir, are you familiar with how to operate the emergency exit on the plane?," I'm asked.
"Uh, yeah," I say.
"Show me how to open it," she instructs.
"Um, you pull off this cover, hold here and pull in," I say, improvising.
"Good," she says. "And the exit ramp will automatically inflate when you open the door."
After the flight attendant leaves, the guy next to me starts laughing. "I can't belive she called you on it!"
Tanya was up early this morning for another flight, so Brian was again playing house husband. All of this was giving me a pretty good view on child rearing.
Sure, Brian & Tanya's kids are about as cute as you could imagine at ages 3 and 5, but man, they are a handful. Eat, shit, sleep, repeat.
However, there is a benefit to children. When Brian and I were out with the girls for breakfast, all the women were more than happy to flash long smiles to the "dads" out with their cute kids. I was happy to go along with the charade. After all, I'm used to the women passing me by as a dirty old man.
This morning I headed out of Charleston pretty quick as I had a lot of ground to cover. I drove back through Columbia and then all the way up around Atlanta to Roswell, GA, home of my old high school and college buddy, Brian.
Brian was home with his two daughters as his wife was busy at work. Ouch, house husbandry! But I guess it all works out. Brian's wife is a flight attendant, and he's a pilot, so they take their turns home with the kids.
After an impressive Georgia thunderstorm dampened the afternoon, we blew-off our mountain bike ride, popped a few beers and then Brian's wife, Tanya, made it home. With that we popped one of my now infamous bottles of Biltmore wine and Brian whipped up a batch of Cincinnati 5-way chili.
Five-way chili? I've heard of the girl with the four-way hips, but 5-way chili?
I shook-off my hangover and got down to the Daughters of the Confederacy Museum (a.k.a. Market Hall) at 11:00 a.m. for a historical walking tour of Charleston. This was one of the tours Kevin, the consierge, had set me up on yesterday.
I met up with the group and tour guide Tommy Dew and we hit the streets of Charleston. Tommy's two-hour tour was an enlightening look at a variety of architecture, historical sites, centuries-old churches and haunted buildings. But most impressive of all was the business lesson he subtly provided. You see, if you multiply the $18 tour cost with the twenty heads on the tour (plus a few tips), that's about $400 per tour. And Tommy gives these tours at least five times a week. That's $100,000 a year for working two hours a day.
I decided to walk down to Market Street to find a dinner venue. Before long I found T-Bonz Gill & Grill and bellied up to the bar. The bartender, Tamara, quickly greeted me and served me up a beer and a menu. After I ordered, I asked for and received a wine list. I asked Tamara if I could hang on to the wine list, as I wanted to enjoy another beer before switching gears to wine. She then asked me what type of wine I was looking for.
"Anything red," I said. "But I have a preference for Zins."
"I like the heartier reds, too," said Tamara. "But I prefer Cabs. Why don't I pour you a taste of this one?"
Tamara pours me a taste of the Trinchero Cabernet Sauvingnon.
Seeing only a Rabbit Ridge Zinfandel on their limited by-the-glass menu, I ask about the Duck Pond Pinot Noir.
"Well, it's from Oregon. But you know Pinots. They are lighter than Zins and Cabs, but why don't you try it anyway?"
She then pours me a taste of the Duck Pond. Then a third tasting glass shows up.
"What's that," I asked. "Oh, that's the Mondavi Merlot, I just thought I'd round out a flight for you."
There I was. Almost a full beer in front of me and a three-glass flight of tastings. I couldn't complain.
About this time a woman next to me asks what is going on. Little do I know, she and Tamara are friends.
"Oh, Tamara just poured me a flight of wines."
"She never does that for me," the woman said.
Tamara quickly fixes that problem and the woman introduces herself as Susan. Apparently Susan owns a shop on Market Street and frequents T-Bonz and Tamara's bar.
Before you know it, all three of us are BSing about wines, South Carolina and California. Drinks are being drunk and things are getting loud. By 10:00 p.m. T-Bonz is getting crowded and I ask for my tab. Susan does the same. Next thing you know I'm in Susan's car heading to the Holiday Inn. We both enter the hotel and hit the Holiday Inn bar. We are the only people there besides the bartender on this, a Sunday evening.
Susan orders a glass of wine, I order a beer. Before long, the bartender tells us he's closing at 11:00 p.m.
I inform Susan I have some wine up in my hotel room that I bought at the Biltmore Winery. She says she needs to get home, after all she has to work early the next morning.
Excited for my next stop, I got up by 8:30 a.m., quickly got my stuff together, grabbed a bite at the continental breakfast and checked out of the Hampton Inn in Columbia. I hit I-26 and headed south to Charleston, South Carolina. In less than 2 hours, I was in this historical port city.
Even though it was still before noon, I pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot to see if I could get an early check-in. As I assumed, I could not, but they gave me a parking pass so at least I had a spot to park my wheels.
As I was walking back out of the hotel, I could hear a man chasing after me saying, "Sir, excuse me sir."
The man introduced himself as Kevin McQuade, the hotel concierge. He asked me if he could help with any activities while I was in Charleston. Before I knew it, he had me booked on two walking tours of the city and had given me instructions on many other hot spots.
I took his advice and walked a historical route down to the waterfront, passing countless historical homes and churches dating as far back at the late 1600's. I had not realized the true extent of the historical significance of this city prior to getting here.
After reaching the waterfront, I walked up to the ferry terminal and caught a boat over to Fort Sumter, a strategic fort in Charleston Harbor for the United States and the Confederate States of America. In fact, the first shots of the Civil War were made by Confederate troops upon the fort, which they quickly captured and held until the end of the four-year war.
Fort Sumter was actually somewhat of a historical disappointment, because the fort was virtually destroyed by constant shelling during the Civil War. What you see today was mostly rebuilt after the war, but I suppose still interesting.
After returning from Fort Sumter, I officially checked into the Holiday Inn and got cleaned up for dinner.
After heading up to my room and getting cleaned up a bit, I decided to head out and learn the lay of the land of Columbia. I walked a few blocks, saw several interesting watering holes and other nice scenery and discovered I had worked-up quite a sweat in no time. I decided to cool my jets in the Wild Hare Sports Bar right near the hotel. Even though it was only 4:00 in the afternoon, the place was packed. I quickly discovered everyone was there to watch the USC-Georgia Tech baseball game, part of the NCAA baseball tournament. Conceding my age, I headed out of the college haunt to find more appropriate surroundings.
It didn't take me long to find the Liberty Tap Room and Grille. At the door, I was once again greeted by beautiful hostesses, and they showed me to the bar. I tried a Liberty IPA, and soon discovered that my favorite beer was on tap. Then I settled in and enjoyed several Sierra Nevada Pale Ales and watched the old Muhammad Ali-Chuck Wepner fight on ESPN classics. I was refreshed!
Eventually I was good and lubed and went to Damon's Grille for dinner and a nightcap.
After escaping Blowing Rock and it's mountainous surroundings, I headed to the flatlands and drove past Charlotte, NC, and into South Carolina. I'm shocked that after all of the miles I clocked in North Carolina, I didn't see one hog farm. In fact, I don't even think I saw a pig, well, not unless you count the pig in the logo at Piggly Wiggly stores.
Crossing into South Carolina, I felt a little less secure than I felt in Georgia, Tennessee or North Carolina. But soon enough I discovered this was all mental. For some reason I assumed that South Carolina was the nastier state of the of the forementioned group, but I discovered I was wrong. Driving through remote sections of South Carolina I encountered little poverty and beautiful countryside. Sure, there were some trailers and pre-fab homes, but I saw those in the other states, too. In Georgia, Tennessee and North Carolina, I was driving primarily in the scenic areas frequented by tourists. Now I was now driving in the bowels of South Carolina headed even deeper into the deep south, and the land was beautiful. It was clean. And the old homes were amazing. South Carolina is an interesting place.
As I drove south, the weather cleared and it was getting hot and humid. For the first time on this trip I had to turn on the air conditioning. And even after I missed my planned route, I made it to historic Columbia, SC, home of Hootie & the Blowfish and the University of South Carolina Gamecocks, 'Cocks for short. Makes for some interesting USC souvenirs.
My venue for the night was the Hampton Inn, and it turned out to be a great hotel. As I entered the hotel, I was greeted by two gorgeous women at the reception desk who must have been USC students. And the place was in the heart of the historic district, flanked by bars an restaurants. My room was on the top floor of the hotel, and I was at the end of the wing. I really didn't expect much from Columbia, especially at $125 a night, but I could get used to this. I'm beginning to think I'm learning the definition of southern hospitality.
Yesterday, after descending down the Blue Ridge Parkway near Blowing Rock, I turned north and drove a few miles into Boone, NC. My pre-road trip research revealed that Boone would be more happening than the town of Blowing Rock, but I couldn't find much when I got there. Sure, Appalachian State University is in Boone, but the town was dead. My guess is that school is already out for the summer.
I found my way to the Best Western hotel, only to find that it was peculiarly perched on the top of a hill with a view of the Boone mall. Not exactly what I was looking for. This particular location was not convenient to the bar and restaurants of town, either, so I was going to have to drive to fetch dinner, which I did. Boone was pretty much a bust. I don't recommend this town.
This morning I checked e-mail at the Boone library and hit the road as quickly as possible. As I headed out of town, I again drove through Blowing Rock and couldn't help but stop at the attraction after which the town is named. After paying my $6 entry fee into enter the Blowing Rock facility, I walked out to see the attraction. There was some fog, but the view was nice. Soon I was leaning over the edge of Blowing Rock, which the brochure claims, "the rocky walls of the gorge form a flume through which the northwest wind sweeps with such force that it returns light objects cast over the void."
Upon checking out this morning, I headed out for a quick view of downtown Asheville and then went over to the Biltmore Estate, the largest "home" in America, at least so I'm told. Since I had not researched much about this attraction, I had no idea what to expect or what it would cost.
After driving about a mile onto the estate, I came to the estate's headquarters to purchase a ticket to see the rest of the property. The $39 price tag seemed a bit much, but I shelled it out and continued the next two miles up to the main attraction, the Biltmore House.
Construction on the mansion began in 1889 when owner George Washington Vanderbilt was only 27 years old. Seems that Mr. Vanderbilt inherited his fortune and worked little, if ever, during his life. The Biltmore house is a spectacle to behold, indeed. It is amazing to imagine this being designed in the late 1800's, much less believing they built it in six years. The place is huge, and well conceptualized with evident thought having been put into its design. It's definitely impossible to describe, you just have to see it for yourself. Amazing!
After spending far longer than I expected in the house due to it's expansive size and amazing history and collection of artifacts, I drove six miles from the mansion to the Biltmore Winery. The winery was originally where cows were milked as part of the estate's on site food production facilities. But now much of the estate's farmland has now been turned to a vineyard, and the cow milking facility is now the tasting room and wine cellar. Unfortunately, Asheville isn't the the best wine growing region, so the best wines produced by the Biltmore Winery come from grapes grown in California. In fact, many of the Biltmore wines are not even vintaged because the extensive blending done at the winery surpasses what the government allows for vintage wines. However, any wine tasting is good wine tasting in my book, so I took full advantage.
From the Biltmore Winery, I headed out of Asheville and drove back up to the Blue Ridge Parkway and headed northeast. Wouldn't you know it, once I gained altitude, the fog and drizzle returned. It was a foggy and rainy haze all the way to my next stop for the night, Boone, NC, home of Appalachian State University.
When I got up this morning I immediately looked out my back porch and saw the rain had finally stopped. So I quickly got my stuff together and checked out. Leaving my car in the hotel parking lot, I walked downtown again to check out the t-shirt shops. I was hoping to find some good redneck paraphenilia, but I had no such luck. Seems the John Deere and Harley Davidson t-shirts were the big sellers.
Before long I was driving south on Hwy 441 through Smoky Mountains National Park. I had planned to stop and do some hiking, but once I had gained a few thousand feet of altitude, the thick fog I had experienced yesterday returned. When I reached the summit, the big parking lot was filled cars as everyone was clamoring to see the view that wasn't there. It was just too foggy. What a disappointment.
I continued back down the other side of the mountains back into North Carolina. Then I turned northeast on the famous Blue Ridge Parkway, a scenic 400-mile road that runs from the Smoky Mountains all the way up to Virginia along the ridge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The was supposed to be a spectacular drive, but still fog and rain persisted.
Eventually I landed at my next destination, Asheville, NC. It was about 5 p.m. when I got there, so after I checked into my hotel, I cleaned up and headed back out the door to the local TGI Friday's for dinner. The beer was cold, which is one nice thing about TGI Fridays. And somehow I held off the temptation to order fried cheese. After I ate my black bean soup and chicken fettuccini, I drank one more beer and headed in for the night. I'm tired, and I have a lot planned for tomorrow.
I've been trying to shake off that senior citizen comment for the last 100 miles. Finally, the Smokies get to me. I've meandered up to them, then paralleled them, then I headed straight in. I'm now in Tennessee, the home of Daniel Boone and Babe the Blue Ox. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I am in the Smoky Mountains.
They call the Smokies "smoky" because the Cherokee Indians made note of the blue haze that often hangs over them. Latelty I've heard the "haze" is more of a smog that Tennessee and North Carolina isn't too proud of. Fucking tourists.
Finally, I make it to my home for the night, Gatlinburg, TN. I knew this was a tourist town when I booked my room a few weeks ago, but boy is it. There's a chairlift and a tram that are apparently used in ski season and to entertain summertime guests. And there's a space needle about 350 feet high. And a million shops and restaurants.
I tour the tourist loop. Making note of what I can, I return to "Blaines Bar & Grille," hoping to catch the Giants/Phillies game. Or not. When I get there, I quickly see the Giants have lost their 5th game in a row. Then I try watching the basketball playoffs. After a few brews and a bite, I head out, remembering that the state run wine & booze shop closes at 10 p.m. I get to the wine shop at around 9:50 and quickly head to the reds. I find a Renwood Zin for $14, which seems to be a deal considering my current geography. I grab a bottle and head to the cashier.
"I'll need a bottle opener with that," I say to the cashier.
"That's illegal," she responds.
"What?," I say.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot sell you a bottle opener," she said.
"You've got to be kidding," says I.
"Honestly, I cannot sell you a bottle opener. It's against the law. I can't sell you mixers, either. Or ice. Or glasses. Nothing that makes all of this work. It's against Tennessee state law.
"Well, where can I get an opener?," I ask.
"Down at the Gatlinburg market," I'm told.
I walk two blocks down to the market and grab a wine bottle opener which are prominently displayed by the cash register. The attendant approaches me.
"Is that all?" she says.
"Yes. After all, I had to buy the wine down the street. Which begs the question, if I buy a pack of smokes from you here now, will you sell me a lighter?"
I woke up around 9:00 this morning and the rain that was falling last night was still coming down. Damn! Maybe the weather will be better up north. I packed-up my stuff and got into my rented Ford Taurus. It kinda reminded me of the old days in the company car.
After getting out of Atlanta and heading north for about an hour and a half, I decided that it would be a good time to get a styrofoam cooler and some snacks and beverages for the trip. I stopped off in Dillard, GA at the local Piggly Wiggly just off the highway.
When I stepped up to the cash register, the young cashier asked me how I was.
"Good," I said. "And you?"
"All right," she said in a heavy southern twang. "But I might get a whole lot worse."
"Why," I asked.
"Because yesterday was my first day and it's just me and the owner working today and he's usually to busy to help me," she responded.
I could see she was having some trouble with the cash register. She picked up the box of Wheat Thins I had and tried to scan them. Nothing. She then asked me how much they were and manually entered that amount. She did the same for my other items.
I was getting ready to pay when she said, "Um, are you a sss...?"
"Pardon," I said.
"You aren't a senior citizen are you?"
"Do I look that old?," I asked.
"No," she said. "But the last lady who was just in here asked me why I didn't give her a senior citizen's discount, and I told her I didn't think she was that old. Now I just ask everybody."
Huh. I'm still stunned and I don't know if I'll ever recover.
She may have made a nice recovery, but I guess I gotta say it happened for the first time. And to think I actually got carded about two years ago when buying some beer. Both may be unbelieveable, but true.
