Ride The Bling

Depending upon where one is in the Bay Area, one thing is certain bicycle enthusiasts are a different breed-At least in zip codes south of San Francisco, and north of Santa Cruz.  A recent bike dodge on Sandhill road would have left a brightly colored smudge upon my hood. It made me think about the recent trend of expensive bike enthusiasts peddling while angry, or with an anti-auto agenda.

 Don't peddle angry is the thought that typically radiates from my brain. An encounter from one's comfy car makes these colorful angst ridden riders offer up a game of vehicular chicken. Rhetorically one's brain says: enjoy the ride, in reality it's seems to be a reason to rumble with whatever crosses paths with these spandex wrappers of corporate logos.

Gotta admit that nothing can showcase the package like spandex bike shorts.

The detached aura of spandex clad bikers made me think about what riding a bike means to different people. Menlo park and Shallow Alto rider's seem to covet the expensive bike as bling where as Santa Cruz cycling seems nirvana like for true bike riding enthusiasts where cars share the road respectfully. Bikes are less of a wealth statement and more of transportation. In a place where funky is a statement, it's tough to even make it on to the radar screen with so much fantabulous funkyness.

This weekend IS different as those spandex packages make their way over the rivers, through the big basin woods and into sleepy Santa Cruz. Even that one ball wonder (you know the live strong one of yellow spandex fame) will grace our sun burnished beaches as locals glimpse the greatness of  sherbet colored swirls of testosterone  and platform toe shoes.

Ooh la la- bike seat envy from the cheap seats.

News at 11:Neanderthal Discovered in Dio Deka Hotel Bar

Sometimes the most fun to be had is sans alcohol. This is a new found skill set for me, and certainly not one that comes naturally as an Irish-Catholic spawn of naturally effervescent drunks.

In a past life working in radio, the afternoon cocktail was akin to what a yoga class is today. So as my liver says thank-you and takes a well deserved rest, I continue to play fly on the wall in situations never before imagined. The first step in any bar/pub/nightclub journey is always deciding which direction to head when entering a boozy circle of friends, this important piece lately is to find the drunkest of the bunch and chat about mind bending antics like "wow did I ever door ding the shit of this 7 series in the valet lot" then watch four or five of the group run out to look around.

My most recent outing this past week could have been a sociological study on that suburban trifecta: money, boredom and booze. The place: the ever busy Dio Deka bar in the ritzy burb of Los Gatos.
As hotel bars go, it's got a bit of antiseptic charm mixed with sparkly spandex clad ladies. Eye candy in various shades of large to extra large plasticized cleavage. Beautiful Barbie wanna bees to even out the gaggle of Y chromosome that seemed to be Neanderthal in origin. This is where the real fun of nursing a glass of wine while secretly making fun of mental midgets parading as the big swinging dicks of the valley.

This isn't the only enclave that is as inbred as it seems. Conversations with the well-heeled hotel bar patrons excitedly describing recent travels to exotic hotspots like Cabo and the ever popular and culturally deep seek out the yearly Magic Kingdom trek, which makes the pedestrian nature of this hotel bar even more surprising, as most of the wine list would make for an interesting pub quiz.
Think geographically challenged.

If this is shoal ground mentally speaking, Thursday night I ran aground.

Surveying the wreckage became less amusing and more like work as Mr. Neanderthal and his cave man club members came to rest wrists and empty beer bottles on our table ala a frat party with french cuffs. A few simple "can you please set your empty glasses and beer bottles upon the bar, as I'm not your barmaid" garnered curious sideways looks and stares. Maybe I used large words, or perhaps the request should have been delivered as a series of grunts and hand gestures.

The lack of manners combined with the lack of simple social graces painted the picture of the simple life, sans the whipet-esque Paris Hilton. I can't write about the who-said what's, who hooked up, or why I was even there. Suffice to say I would rather eat roadkill than return to the 95030 zip code anytime soon.

Theater Of The Mind

One of my favorite sports heroes Ernie Harwell, has past. Ernie was the voice of Tiger baseball.

I have such a profound sense of sadness even though I have not attended or streamed a broadcast of the Detroit Tigers in many moons.  My introduction to baseball attributable to the magic of AM radio.

As a ten year-old Mideastern mutt of a tom boy my window to the world was my mono ear plug. A life-line to the world loomed just after dark as many local radio stations powered down, and the clear booming 50,000 w channel big stick Am stations came booming into my bedroom and transporting me to another place and space. WJR was the "local" station over 400 miles away and home to the Detroit Tigers and the voice of Ernie Harwell. Imprints from big city powerhouse stations like WGN  and WLS to the south west in Chicago, KMOX mixed jazz and baseball from St.Louis where even the call letters were exotically spelled with K's, being west of the Mississippi.

Connected to a tiny transistor radio that I hid under my pillow, that plug of a mono ear piece opened my world and helped focus my sights on the greener grass of the city, any city. Theater of the mind.

Twelve years later I found myself sitting in a posh mahogany board room in the Fisher Building home to WJR-760.
Sports autographs and smiling athletes adorned the walls of the GM's offices at WJR. Pitching my love of radio, pitching for a job, I shared the story of my beloved transistor radio whispering baseball games into my ear on sultry summer evenings. Many a bedtime came and went while the last batters made the final push for runs. Theater of the mind: the lost art of A.M radio.

Later that same year I spent time with a then newbie superstar from the Japanese leagues, Cecil Fielder. I drank iced tea in the heat of the dugout, hobnobbing with Ernie Harwell himself at a WJR fantasy camp in Lake land Florida. He told me to be careful in the sun, my freckles might burn. Fantasy Camp  was a day spent with deep pocketed advertising agencies and clients flown down to that sleepy Orlando swamp of a suburb.

Fantasy baseball camp cost big bucks, and the wait list was always longer that the open slots. Many a middle-aged man longed to sport a real Tigers uniform, hang with Allan Trammel and swing bats with the old timers who also tagged along for added color. Denny McClain made a brief, but ham fisted appearance shunning autographs.

Harwell was the star  even in the heat of the day, making friends with everyone. Refilling Iced tea glasses.

Radio has always been my favorite medium. Nothing can fill the shoes of radio as the backdrop for quintessential summertime afternoons. Listening to Ernie Harwell spew factoids about Americas' sport always left me with walk around knowledge that I could apply like currency to real-life boys club sports radio, and for that I thank him.

Dog Eared Truth

Ahh-it's that time of year again when spring cleaning gleans treasures from house and garage to yard sale. Craigslist is currently a bastion of people selling crap, as well as people advertising yard sales to people in need of extra crap.

The very best of these sales offer a glimpse of fly-on the wall truth. Think impromptu Sociology project as more often than not dusty paperbacks offer up subject matter that speaks volumes about the seller. How you ask? Take a quick scan from the book bins at any yard sale, then let's discuss. Books color a pretty realistic view of the inner-workings of family dynamics and turmoil. Personal drama isn't just for television reality any longer. Reading junk and how to books can be beach friendly.

 Used book bins are the windows to the soul, no need to look deeply into ones' eyes- just do a bit of digging thru used book bins at yard sales and take note. Finding health books owned by the wanna bees of healthy living as they circulate the yard sale soft-drink in hand. Perhaps it's the hypochondriac neighbor with the latest and greatest medical journals and how-to-live germ free. Another popular subject matter of dog-eared hope: Marital strife. How to fix_________ seems to always be popular in the yard sale book bin.

I like fix-it themes. More so boat and yoga . Most recently VW Manuals.

On the east coast yard sales are a contact sport. Here in Santa Cruz the theme can be a bit more spiritual with more than enough natural fiber clothing and hemp shoes to encourage anyone shopping to be a kind gentler version of themselves while sporting alpaca sweaters. Locally harvested of course.

So as you shop, remember that bargaining at yard sales here in Santa Cruz is considered a faux pas.
Be politically correct and pay the full boat price and walk away knowing more about your neighbors than you ever thought possible.

Tough 2 Be Buff

The manly Man, a brute force dose of testosterone or simply a guy with a grumble against humanity (and so we all pay with dick like behavior to all living beings.) Why is that? I suppose it has to do with a myriad of problems that most likely started in tadpole stage. So why write about manly men? Because thank goodness Virgina, there is a Santa and he is a metro sexual.

The traits of the meto sexual male? I'll start with the good stuff: he will buy tampons, wear earrings, be found drinking hot tea with honey while getting waxed. The last one of course is my personal favorite. For as long as Wilma Flinstone has shaved we girls have had to undergo the torturous task of having our short hairs yanked out with waxing.

Welcome to the club Barney Rubble.

Manly men drive beef cake cars and ride fatboys. The metro sexual man drives piously in a Prius.

Put your yoga mats down ladies, news is out as the once zen oasis of the ever posh spa-beauty industry has changed the last bastion of female refuge. Yes, now the spa chairs are filled with hetro-metros receiving nail treatments.

Fighting for a spa chair is tough enough on a Saturday morning. But wait.... the yoga studio has made me very un'zen in the arm-wrestling asana for mat real-estate. Yoga guys stretch before getting to nails- wax- trim. The world is a softer place now literally with these guys. Yes, we like.
btw..... I only found that shaving vid as I dug deep with a proper search for a proper nickname for such smoothness.

The Here & Zen

So it's true what they say about a beach town mentality. A few choice adjectives come to mind like bum, slacker, and my personal favorite: surf savant. But what if there was a laundry list of good monikers. Praiseworthy list of lists with a bright and shiny badge to be worn as proudly as sunscreen and flip-flops?

The reason there has yet to be a revival of all things beach zen makes me believe in a theory (ok, yes it is MY own theory: If everyone else knew how low -keyed delight plays on the corporate/professional step ladder in our wi-fi saturated, skype plump world my wait for my morning latte here in Santa Cruz would be much longer.

I will never be a true convert/transplant of Beach town hang. My affinity toward stilettos runs deep as does my taste for the big city. But I am smitten with the gentle rhythm of things sand centric. When life gets too complex and overwhelming, the best RX is gonna be toes in the sand and a drink in hand (or just toes and some beach yoga for those of us on the wagon as of late.)

I like to spend my mornings tooling around town on my beach cruiser. The trees are in bloom and morning air fog free. It's like a little piece of the Truman Show but with an influx of Medicinal 420 and spiritual namiste thrown in for good measure. Now if I could just find a place that sold my beloved Sunday New York Times, within my bike routine I really could be living in the Truman Show. Zen has a name. Just keep it safe or we'll be complaining about our morning wait for coffee.

Hippy Dippy

You decide.
The magic of a new place always makes me fall in love in a kinda-now-kinda -wow way. Shiny new faces and places all mixed into a dee-licious way of looking at the world.

That rose colored glasses thing-it's a real phenomenon. Just wish they woulda' worked longer in Toronto, but pink layered atop of mono chromatic gray scale is just a different shade of grey.

Fast forward to hippy dippy Santa Cruz.
Beach cruiser-eye candy central minus the 'tude and tats of Venice beach.

Luscious ocean breeze and the Seabright Brewery is my answer to "yes Virginia there IS a Santa Claus..and he surfs a Softops board" (santa needs serious stability.)
The real gift this past week? While my Subaru was rock-star parked at an unfed meter in front of a local bike repair, I was tapped on the shoulder by a lovely woman who reminded me to feed the meter. Of course I thanked her and walked to the meter quarter in hand. The dropping of the quarter drown out by the meter maid mobile wheeling away with her pony tail blowing in the ocean breeze, recognizing the pony tail as the same one belonging to the shoulder tapper.. My heart felt like the Grinch heart when it expanded to three sizes too big. Thump thump.

True love is hard to find. Even tougher to sustain but I have a good sense of well being at the moment totally attributable to this sandy little beach town. Let's hope the love will last. Or I can find groovy pink glasses to match my surfboard.