The Craziest Idea

“That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard!” laughed Bob McCulloch. He was the same McCulloch who’d made a fortune in manufacturing McCulloch chainsaws, so he knew the difference between a good idea and a crazy one. Nonetheless he cogitated on it for a while, and it grew on him. It occurred to him that sometimes crazy ideas can also be good ideas.

He’d come to Lake Havasu, on the Colorado River, to compete against his brother-in-law, Ralph Evinrude. Bob had excelled in chainsaws, and wanted to do the same with outboard motors, just like his B-I-L, Ralph. He planned to test the motors he developed, on the waters of the lake.

Little did Bob realize that his venture into outboard motors would drift over to real estate, and eventually take him to London.

The federal government had closed a military base at this lake, and returned the land to the state of Arizona. And the Arizona government was stuck trying to figure out what to do with these 26 square miles along the shore.

But Bob got an idea, he offered to purchase the land for less than $75 an acre, with a promise that he would develop it. In 1963 he cut a deal with the state, and suddenly found himself in the real estate business.

And now he faced the challenge of attracting buyers. Turned out, almost nobody wanted to live in that hell hole. Lake Havasu sits in the broiling hot, miserable, low desert. The average high exceeds 100 degrees from June through September. The record high is 128. And the waters from the lake make it a humid, sticky heat.

And besides, it was in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing going on at Lake Havasu except howling coyotes, sunbathing lizards, and chirping crickets. Few came to look. And most who did, left without buying any of McCulloch’s developed parcels.

London Bridge in the late 19th Century.

Meanwhile, in England, London Bridge was falling down. This famous, historic bridge had been built in 1831, and right from the start began sinking at the rate of one inch every eight years. Furthermore, it had not been designed to withstand 20th century motor vehicle traffic. The weight of such traffic accelerated and distorted the sinking. By 1924, the falling down London Bridge was three to four inches shorter on its east side, than on its west.

In 1967 the city of London decided they’d better build a new bridge, before the old one sank completely below the surface of the river Thames. But rather than demolish the old bridge, they put it up for sale.

And that’s when Bob McCulloch heard the craziest idea that ever encountered his ears. His real estate agent, Robert Plumer, suggested that he buy London Bridge and move it to Lake Havasu, as a way to attract curious tourists and potential customers.

McCulloch won the bid, at $2.46 million dollars. The historic structure was meticulously dismantled, and each stone was numbered, to assist in reconstruction. It was shipped through the Panama Canal, to Long Beach, California, where it was then trucked to Lake Havasu.

London Bridge at Lake Havasu, as it appeared from a paddle boat we rented last month. Many homeless ducks live here, that shamelessly panhandle for crackers from soft-hearted people such as my wife.

London Bridge was reassembled, by the numbers, on a peninsula that jutted into the lake. Then a canal was dug that passed beneath the bridge, and that turned the peninsula into an island, with the bridge connecting the newly-formed island to the Arizona mainland. And since it was reconstructed on solid earth, and fortified to withstand motor vehicle traffic, London Bridge would no longer be falling down.

Swallows make their mud nests beneath the edges of London Bridge. There are also divots in the stonework of the bridge, caused by Nazi strafing during the Blitz.

On October 10, 1971, London Bridge was officially rededicated, before a gobsmacked public. News of this incongruous relocation spread coast-to-coast. Curious, prospective buyers flooded in on free flights offered by McCulloch, to stand on this newsworthy bridge and take a tour of properties for sale. Soon, McCulloch recovered the entire cost of the bridge, in land sales, and transformed his red ink into a diluvium of black.

The underside of London Bridge. Rumor has it that unicorns have been sighted here.

In 1970, one year before the reconstruction of the bridge, Lake Havasu City had a population of just over 4,000 hardy souls. By 1980 it had swelled to 15,000. And today it boasts more than 53,000 residents.

Modern cars can now pass over the top of London Bridge, without creating a sinking feeling.

Bob McCulloch was almost sunk, from his purchase of worthless desert land. But a sinking bridge connected him to success. Sometimes, when you’re desperate, you have to strive very hard to dig yourself out of a hole. Sometimes you just have to be lucky.

An antiquarian lamppost atop the bridge, with Lake Havasu City in the background.

And sometimes you have to try the craziest idea you ever heard.

Here’s another crazy idea. You can bring your significant other to London Bridge, and lock your love together, at this railing.

Coffee Is Poison

Seems everyone drinks coffee except Mormons and Seventh-Day Adventists. I’m not a religious man, but I think those Morvantists have got it right. Coffee is poison. And an abomination.

My wife is addicted to coffee. When she wakes up to start the day, she never says to me, “Good morning.” And if I initiate by saying, “Good morning,” to her, she replies with a scrunched-up scowl and screechy, “Fuck you!” And that’s because nothing civil is allowed to happen in our house until she’s had her morning cup of Joe.

She once threatened to divorce me if I ever spoke to her in the a.m. again, before her lips have touched coffee.

And that’s the sort of madness that is brought on by this black poison brewed by the billions, around the world. It’s no wonder we live on such a crazy planet. No wonder we have wars, disasters, and global warming. Coffee is the culprit. It makes people behave irrationally. It causes dysfunction and disrupts public safety. And all that percolating java every morning has got to be what is heating up our atmosphere and melting the polar icecaps.

I can’t count the many times people have told me they can’t function without their morning coffee. Really? Why have folks allowed themselves to sink so low as to be that desperately dependent upon this drug? And why let yourself be at the mercy of an industry that cares more for its profits than on your ability to be productive? If you get so destitute you can’t afford to buy coffee, they don’t care if you lose your job and end up sleeping in a gutter. If you don’t have any money, you just don’t get your fix, plain and simple.

Have you heard that Howard Schultz, the CEO of Starbucks, is plotting to destroy the world? He’s drank so much Espresso, it’s rewired the neurons in his brain, and turned him into a caffeine-crazed monster. The caffeine has tricked his brain into thinking he can run for president as an independent, and actually win. But what will really happen is that he will split the Democratic vote, and ensure a Trump reelection. And I doubt our planet can withstand another four years of comrade Trump in the White House.

Blame coffee. Coffee will be the death of us all.

Stop the madness! If you want to save yourself, and contribute to the salvation of our big, blue Earth, you must stop drinking big, black mugs of coffee. And you can do it if you put your mind to it. You can kick the coffee habit.

Sure, you may have to slap yourself around for a while, every morning, until your withdrawal symptoms recede. And you may get the shakes and shits and have to fight off the urge to commit mass murder. You may even have to check into a rehab clinic. But with self-discipline and determination, you can free yourself from the demon-pull of java juice.

Imagine how nice that would be. Think of the improvement you’ll realize in your relationships, including with your spouse. Consider all the money you’ll save. And reflect on how proud of yourself you’ll feel, knowing you’ve done your part to fight global warming and Trump reelection.

It won’t be easy for you to quit. So here’s a few motivational slogans to reflect upon, while fighting the urge:

• The best part of waking up is tapwater in your cup.
• You ban coffee, and have richness worth much more than a second cup.
• Fill yourself to the rim: Avoid Brim.
• Be good to your last drop, without one drop of coffee.
• You’ll be starved of bucks when you think work can wait.
• Juan Valdez is a drug dealer. The richest kind.
• A 100% Columbian never needs coffee.
• To be mountain grown, you must grow out of the coffee habit.
• Avoid coffee, and you’ll taste as good as you smell.

The sooner you kick the coffee habit, the better off you, and the whole world, will be. And you will never regret it.

Because coffee is poison.

Try watching this youtube video, for more motivation to quit the coffee habit:

Nazi Hunter Seeks Stone Certificate

I was surfing the computernet, when I ran across this curious news story:

Berlin (IP) – Nazi hunter Dreck Yeger, famed for bringing war criminals Dummkopf Scheisse and Hasslich Hintern to justice, has set his eyes on a new target. In a press briefing in front of the Holocaust Memorial on Sunday’s Holocaust Remembrance Day, Yeger announced he is seeking the birth certificate of embattled adviser to Trump, Roger Stone.

Yeger unveiled a shocking theory to a stunned crowd of reporters and admirers that hypothesizes Roger Stone might actually be the offspring of Nazi Germany propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels.

The intrepid Nazi hunter believes Goebbels did not die from suicide, as we have read in history books, but actually fled Nazi Germany during the last days of the war, and found refuge in Argentina.

According to Yeger, Goebbels and his wife murdered their children with cyanide, in Hitler’s bunker. Of course we all know this. But then, states Yeger, instead of committing suicide with his wife, as history tells us, he shot her, and then shot a man who looked like him. Or perhaps it was a ferret. He then fled the country, leaving authorities to believe he was actually dead.

When he settled in Argentina, he assumed the surname of “Stone” and started a new life and new family. And in 1952, his son Roger was born, according to Yeger.

Yeger next described a family trip to Mexico, where they sneaked across the U.S. border by climbing over a wall. Or perhaps a steel fence.

“Growing up in the U.S.A.,” alleged Yeger, “Roger was closely mentored by his dad, Joe, and from him developed a keen interest in politics. Especially the politics of propaganda.”

At age 20, he dropped out of college and went to work for the 1972 re-election campaign of his idol, Richard Nixon. He seemed a natural, and after the campaign was recruited by other political candidates, such as Ronald Reagan and Donald Trump, to assist with their messaging.

Yeger claims Stone has been instrumental in many dirty political tricks since 1972, that hauntingly remind us of his alleged dad, Joseph Goebbels. These tricks have involved oft-repeated barefaced lies, race-baiting, and whistling at dogs. We suspect Yeger meant “dog whistles”, but lost something in the translation.

And now Yeger wants to see Stone’s birth certificate.

“Is he really a natural born U.S. citizen?” Yeger muttered with a heavy tone of suspicion, “or was he born in Argentina? Let’s see the birth certificate.”

Then Yeger held up photos of Goebbels and Stone, side-by-side, and pointed to what he claims to be a strong family resemblance.

Yeger challenged, “Examine these two faces carefully. Notice how they both resemble the face of a ferret? Long head, beady eyes, narrow nose, thin lips. And then there is the behavior of a ferret, and the personality of a ferret. How can these two not be related?”

Ferret

It’s a good question. Check out the photos and decide for yourself. But to really know for sure, maybe Dreck Yeger is right. We must see the birth certificate.

This has been real, fake news. Satire. Nuh-uh, didn’t really happen.

Mission La Purisima Concepcion

Mission La Purisima Concepcion was founded in 1787, near present-day Lompoc, California. It’s the only California mission that is not named after a saint. Rather, its name is a promotional for artificial insemination, the pure manner in which Jesus was conceived.

In year of grace 1800, a whistleblower named Father Horra accused the Franciscan padres of Mission La Purisima Concepcion of mistreating the natives. This set off a real pain-in-the-ass sequence of events, requiring bureaucratic paper shuffling and feigned concern. California Governor Borcia was required to investigate. He sent an inquiry to the Father of the mission, and required a written reply.

Mission La Purisima Concepcion is one of three missions owned by the State of California. The other 18 belong to the Catholic Church.

The written reply he received was historical, because it remains one of the few writings in existence that tell us about life at Mission La Purisima Concepcion.

The Father of the mission explained that the natives, whom he called neophytes, were all instructed in the principles of the Catholic religion, before being baptized. They were also taught to speak Castilian Spanish.

The State of California, and the National Park Service, has gone to great lengths to restore this mission as close to how it appeared 200 years ago, including this forerunner of the semi-tractor trailer truck.

They were fed a cornmeal dish called atole in the morning and evening, and for lunch they got pozole, which is a hominy dish, and which is almost homonymous with atole. They were allotted woolen blankets, and a set of clothing that was expected to last a full year. And they were housed in huts made of tules, similar to the kind of huts they lived in before the Spanish arrived. Yep, they lived way out there in the tules.

Today you can find the same farm and ranch animals at the mission that were raised by the missionaries, including this longhorn steer.

The workday of neophytes never exceeded five hours, and children, the old, the infirm, and the pregnant were all required to do at least a small amount of work. Even the fetuses were required to pitch in, even if it was just kicking a belly or tossing some water down a deep, dark chute.

Neophytes did not like working for the soldiers, because the soldiers overburdened them, or deprived them of necessities enjoyed by those at the mission. They were the real hardasses.

In 1804, the mission baptized 1,520 natives. About that same time, nearly 500 succumbed to outbreaks of smallpox and measles. I guess Jesus saveth, and Jesus taketh away.

The neophytes were punished if they left the mission furtively, especially at night. Other peccadillos the padres punished the neophytes for included concubinage and theft. Punishments for both sexes included whippings, shackles, stocks and being locked up. Crimes against the common good, such as killing cattle or sheep, or setting fire to pastures, were given to the corporal of the guard.

The main altar of the church. The mission was destroyed by a great earthquake in 1812 (along with a bunch of other missions). It was then relocated four miles away, and rebuilt. This church, and the rest of the mission buildings, were constructed with walls four-and-a-half feet thick, reinforced with stones, to withstand any future temblors.

The governor studied this written reply and concluded that the charges against the missionaries were unfounded. Apparently, whippings, shackles, and stocks did not fall under the rubric of “mistreatment” in those days. Or perhaps everyone at that time was into BDSM.

By the way, the natives were never asked for their own opinion on how they thought they were being treated. But what could those ignorant souls know?

I assume this is the tallow candle-making shop, and not some sick adult toy factory.

But in 1824, they finally did give their opinion. After years of whippings, shackles, and stocks, the natives at three missions, including Mission La Purisima Concepcion, rose up and went to war against the missionaries.

This appears to be a three-legged stool factory. After 1834, the mission was sold to some non-Mexican white dude, who let it continue to fall into ruins. Then, in 1903, he or his family, or whoever owned it after him, sold it to the Union Oil Company. The company realized the historical importance of the mission, and collaborated with the National Park Service to restore it to its original state. Just as you’d restore an old piece of furniture, I guess.

At La Purisima, a Chumash carpenter named Pacomio led the revolt. They ran off the padres, soldiers, and their families. 1,200 Chumash natives, including 400 warriors, occupied the mission compound. But after about a month of occupation, a detachment of 109 Mexican soldiers laid siege upon the mission.

As usual, the natives had no exit plan, so they decided to fight. They deployed musket fire, arrows, and a cannon, and the Mexicans matched them with the same, except the arrows. But the Mexicans were more skilled with the use of cannons. When the dust cleared, 16 natives had lost their lives, with many more wounded, while the Mexicans lost five soldiers, with many wounded.

The missionaries were good for the natives, instilling hard work as part of the warp and weft of their character.

The Chumash surrendered, marking the end of the bloodiest Native American uprising in California history. A tribunal was held by the Mexican Army, which resulted in the executions of seven of the rebels. Pacomio and three other leaders were sentenced to 10 years hard labor on a chain gang. Two of these leaders managed to escape and return to their tribe, but Pacomio and one other had to serve their sentence.

There were rules to follow at the mission, and those natives caught disobeying were really put through the mill.

But of course, these were good, wholesome lessons that were being taught to the natives, and were not mistreatment at all. And they learned their lessons well. After the rebellion, more and more of them abandoned the mission, seeking their own way with their newly smartened brains.

And with less and less natives attending to its welfare, Mission La Purisima Concepcion gradually fell into ruins.

Ye Olde Blacksmith Shop.

Today it stands rebuilt, and is considered the most authentically rebuilt of all the California missions. Visitors will find atavistic tools, a blacksmith shop, a tallow candle shop, a loom with real wool, and much more. It even sports real, live farm animals of the kind raised at the mission 200 years ago.

But the one thing not present are tortured natives. Today nobody works at the mission with striped backs or hobbled ankles. Eventually someone finally heard Father Horra and all those native rebels. And their own definition of mistreatment was wisely accepted.

Today Mission La Purisima Concepcion is a State Historical Monument, and is considered to be the most completely reconstructed of the 21 California Missions.

Pasquala

I’ve taken a few jabs, in the past, at the Catholic missionaries who settled California. That’s because we all know they held natives prisoner in their missions. And they treated them like slaves and made them work the fields, weave baskets, and shine their shoes. And they forced them under penalty of torture to adopt Christianity.

Right?

Ahhhnnnkkk! Wrong answer, according to Catholics.

Catholics have a way of painting halos over the heads of the old missionaries. They point the finger at the conquistadors. It was the fault of the Spanish soldiers, they say. They’re supposedly the ones who exploited the natives and so badly mistreated them.

The priests were actually saints and heros, according to the Catholic Church. They were always intervening, pressuring the soldiers to back off and leave the innocent natives alone.

And there’s some truth to this. It was hard to recruit soldiers for mission-protecting work. As a result, many of the recruits had tainted pasts, and some were even recruited straight out of prisons. The Spanish government often had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find volunteers for such remote frontier work.

These low-life soldiers resented the priests and all their rules, while the priests kept a wary eye on the soldiers. The tension between these two groups could have been sliced with a sword.

And yet the two depended on each other. Four or five soldiers were stationed at every mission. Their job was to drink, wassail, gamble, fornicate, and occasionally defend the mission whenever the natives became hostile. They were scorned by the priests for their debauchery. And in return the soldiers despised the goody two shoes priests, whom they were entrusted to defend.

This dysfunctional relationship existed at every mission, including Mission Santa Ines.

Mission Santa Ines was established in 1804, in the middle of Chumash country, about 10 miles northwest of Mission Santa Barbara. The Chumash tribe was every priest’s dream come true. They were friendly, industrious, and welcoming to the missionaries. And they were always eager to help out these strangers from a foreign land, whom they thought they were hosting.

Danish immigrants settled next to Mission Santa Ines in the early 1900s. They named the town Solvang (meaning “sunny field” in Danish), and they constructed their buildings using authentic Danish architecture. This Danish windmill stands just a few hundred feet from the mission walls. Today Solvang is a major tourist trap destination, attracting a million visitors a year, who enjoy the photogenic buildings and Danish bakeries.

The Chumash were like Li’l Abner’s shmoos. They happily went to work building the mission, an aqueduct system, and agricultural enterprise. Their sacrifices made the mission a rocking success. And so the mission thrived, raising bumper crops, and growing vast herds of livestock.

And that attracted other tribes. Soon the Tulare tribe joined the mission activities. These folks were tough hombres, always making war and causing trouble. But at Mission Santa Ines everyone lived together in peace. It was kum ba yah time.

Mission Santa Ines was named for Saint Agnes. She was a 13-year-old Christian martyr of ancient Rome, who struck men blind when they tried to rape her. I wonder if this is how groping got started.

The priests felt righteous and satisfied. The soldiers were spoiled with abundance, belching, farting, and wallowing about like fat hogs. And the natives learned new ways to support themselves, living off the land.

Perhaps the good harmony continued because the natives were unable to decipher and translate a book one of the priests had sitting around, entitled, “How to Serve Man.” That’s what I suspect, anyway.

But in 1821 the good times went off the rails and tumbled down a rocky arroyo. Mexico won its independence from Spain. And the new Mexican government wasn’t as much into religion as the Spanish Royal Court. They said, “screw the goddamned Catholics,” and cut off support to the California missions.

The front portico of Mission Santa Ines. This mission was one of several that were destroyed by an earthquake in 1812. It was rebuilt in 1817 with thicker walls, in order to pass stricter building codes for earthquake protection.

Now the soldiers were left unchecked by the priests, and unpaychecked by the new government. They had to make a living somehow, so at Mission Santa Ines they began forcing the natives to work long, hard hours without pay, against the wishes of the missionaries. And no one came to their rescue. Not even Zorro.

One day in 1824, a soldier beat a Chumash woman. Or rather, he tried to “encourage” her to work harder. This cowardly act was the last straw. It felt revolting to the natives. And so the Chumash and Tulare tribes did just that. They revolted, and confirmed the soldiers’ beliefs that the natives were, indeed, revolting.

These indigenes were soon joined by Chumash and Tulare natives at nearby Mission Santa Barbara and Mission La Purisima Concepcion. And it became the largest organized uprising during the Spanish and Mexican periods in California. The day of reconciliation had arrived.

The mission fell into ruins after 1824, then restored more than a century later. Except for this column, which shows off the original adobe bricks.

Buildings were burned to the ground, and those that weren’t, were occupied by angry tribe members. They evicted the soldiers, priests, and their family members, forcing them to flee.

But surprisingly, few lives were lost during this revolt. This may be due, in part, to a little native girl named Pasquala.

Pasquala belonged to the Tulare tribe. This young girl got sick one day, from food poisoning. That’s right, even Native Americans occasionally eat the wrong berry or mushroom. She was brought by her loving parents to Mission Santa Ines, and the missionaries kindly helped her recover.

The entrance to the church.

The Tulare tribe didn’t like this. Not one bit. They were already getting tired of the padres, and they wanted to break off the tribe’s friendship. And maybe they were missing all the great fun that comes from making war and causing problems. So they decided to force Pasquala’s parents to return to the tribe.

One day they attacked the mission and killed Pasquala’s father while he was working in the vineyards. Then they kidnapped Pasquala and her mother and hauled them back to the Tulare village some miles away. They must have been rough on the little girl’s mother during all this action, because soon after, she died.

This was at the same time, in 1824, that the great revolt against the missions was fomenting. Pasquala was a nosy little girl, and she overheard her people discussing plans for a much larger attack on Mission Santa Ines.

She’d had enough. They’d killed her parents. And now they were going to kill the very people who saved her life. So as soon as she could, she slipped away from the village and ran back to the mission to warn the padres.

This is what you see after you enter the church. Especially when mass is not being held.

The Padres happened to be playing against the Dodgers at the time, but when Pasquala arrived, looking frantic and disheveled, they dropped their bats and balls and gave her their complete attention.

She cried out, “Padre! Padre! War! War!” She breathlessly warned them about the imminent attack, then collapsed and died from exhaustion.

This was too bad for Pasquala, but just peachy for everyone at the mission. Her warning came just in the nick of time. The padres and soldiers quickly prepared for battle and were able to repel the attack. Had it not been for Pasquala’s warning, the whole mission would have been completely destroyed and everyone inside massacred.

The church altar. Saint Agnes is the large figure at the top. Don’t touch her, guys, or she’ll be the last thing you’ll ever see.

Mission Santa Ines declined rapidly after the revolt of 1824. Most of the natives said, “ah, to hell with it.” They lost their enthusiasm for helping the mission, and few remained to keep it maintained. It soon fell into ruins and became a fixer-upper for the real estate market.

But let’s be fair. And I’ll even eat part of my hat. This was not due to the Catholic priests. It was the fault of the soldiers who mistreated the natives and who sparked the revolt.

Madonna, with baby Jesus, adorns this nook in the church wall.

Okay, I’ll admit it. Perhaps the Catholic Church has been unfairly maligned in the portrayal of their treatment of Native Americans. Perhaps even by me, although it’s not my fault. I must have been drinking at the time I wrote all those mean posts.

It’s a controversial issue, and maybe there’s been hyperbole on both sides. But one thing is certain. At least some of the natives were very impressed with the padres, and treated them with a love and hospitality that was reciprocated. There’s evidence of this. And some of the evidence can be found in the life of a young girl.

A little Tulare child who ran her heart out, named Pasquala.

Pasquala was buried with honors at Mission Santa Ines.

Saint Barbara

My first sort-of girlfriend was named Barbara. She and I were in the third-grade, and she also lived just down the street from me. We laughed and played together, and had plenty of fun, until the day I called her a whore. I didn’t know what that word meant, but I thought it was funny because I’d heard other people laughing when they said that word.

Barbara didn’t think it was funny.

It would have been better had I called her a saint. Just like Mission Santa Barbara, which my wife and I visited a few weeks ago. By the way, I’ve never called my wife a whore, and we’ve had a long, happy marriage.

Mission Santa Barbara is unique in a number of distinct ways. For instance, it was the first of the old California missions to be founded by Father Fermin Lasuen, who was the successor to Father Junipero Serra.

It’s located in Santa Barbara, California, which is arguably the most beautiful coastal town in the entire Golden State.

It’s the only mission with two bell towers. Smart. It’s always wise to have a backup. Legend has it that Saint Barbara was locked up in a tower by her pagan-worshiping father, from which she miraculously escaped. So perhaps this is why two bell towers were built at this particular mission.

The twin bell towers of Mission Santa Barbara. Seems the Catholics invented the world’s first stereo.

It’s been destroyed or severely damaged by earthquakes, twice, in 1812 and 1925.

The mission architecture is beautiful, but no place to stand near during an earthquake.

The Mexican government secularized the California missions in 1834, threatening the total loss of the mission system. But Father Presidente Narciso Duran came to the rescue. He transferred his headquarters to Mission Santa Barbara, and brought with him over 3,000 original documents that pertained to all the missions. This is the oldest archive in California, and remains a priceless treasure for historic research. And these documents have been used for the accurate restoration of the other missions, after they fell into ruins.

An old, out-of-use gateway to the Mission cemetery.

Mission Santa Barbara is the only one of the 21 California missions to remain under perpetual control of the Franciscan Order, from its founding in 1786, to the present day. The rest were sold off by the Mexican government after 1834, to Californios.

This side entrance, from the cemetery to the church, was reserved for pirates only.

Californios were the original Mexican landowners in California. They were unfortunate in several ways. First, their land was coveted by white settlers after the United States stole California from Mexico, during the Mexican War. The treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo guaranteed they could keep their land. However, the Californios violated this treaty when they sided with the Confederacy during the Civil War.

A basin of holy water at the main entrance to the church. Or maybe it’s God’s eyeball. I’m not sure.

Therefore, on March 18, 1865, Abraham Lincoln decided to grant a petition by a Catholic bishop, to return all the California missions back to the Catholic Church. The Californios lost out, but historical preservationists won a big victory.

Jesus asking a woman at Jacob’s Well for a drink of water. She was a Samaritan, considered one of the lesser races of people. And she’d had five husbands already, and was shacking up with her sixth lover. I mean, for Christ’s sake, what the hell was he talking to a woman like that for?

I can’t speak for my first girlfriend, because I lost track of her after grade school. So I don’t know what line of work she eventually pursued. But history speaks favorably to Barbara, the mission. It has always been run by a religious order. And it has been very instrumental in the restoration of all the other California missions.

This little niche is so colorful and inviting, I hardly feel sorry for the “poor” box.

Mission Santa Barbara has lived up to its first name. It truly is a Saint.

The church altar, in all its refulgent splendor.

The True Meaning of Christmas

A traditional nativity set on the church altar, at Mission San Gabriel, California.

Today is the real day of Christmas, so Merry Christmas everyone! Actually, today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. After today, our days will grow longer and longer.

This was the favorite holiday of pagans. They loved the sun. Worshiped it, in fact. And they got pie-eyed drunk every year, to celebrate its return from its southern retreat.

A recrudescent sun, peeking through clouds.

The early Catholics had a hell of a time converting pagans to Christianity. They tried torture, drowning, and mass murder. But apparently, many pagans would rather attend a mass murder than a Catholic mass. This had a lot to do with the bacchanal celebrations of the winter solstice. They were such a blast, nobody wanted to give them up.

This nativity set at Mission Santa Barbara, California, seems to have come from the Stone Age.

Finally the Catholics compromised and moved the celebration of Christ’s birthday to the winter solstice date. Nobody could agree on when Jesus was born anyway, so this was an easy move to make.

A modern nativity set, complete with hippies, at Mission Santa Barbara, California.

Imperfections in the calendar caused Christmas to eventually slide a few days past the solstice. But it’s still close enough, and besides, there aren’t many fundamentalist pagans around anymore to complain.

Solar eclipse shadow patterns projecting through tree leaves. Eclipses were more worrisome to pagans than the winter solstice, as they occurred unexpectedly, and unlike the winter solstice, nobody was sure the sun would return.

The Christmas compromise makes sense in some ways. The birth of Christ symbolizes new life for those who die, just like the returning sun melts away winter and brings new life to the land. And Christ is supposedly the “light” of this world, just like the sun.

This nativity set at Mission Santa Ines, in Solvang, California, is about 400 years old. I guess over the years, the three wise men, sheep, and angels must have all been dropped and broken.

I’m an atheist, but I like the sun as much as any drunken pagan. So I like what the winter solstice symbolizes. And after the winter of my life is over, I like to assume that there’s new life on the other side.

This nativity set at Mission Santa Barbara, California, depicts Christ being born in a canoe. Tsk, such a small place to be born. Perhaps there was no room at the ship.

I also like that we don’t have to be pagans to enjoy the benefits of our returning sun. And on the same token I doubt we have to be Christians to have eternal life. If there is such a thing as eternal life, then we’re living it right now. And we will always live it. There’s no getting out of something as enduring as eternal life. Just as there’s no keeping the sun from shining on earth.

The promise of a nice, warm sun, and eternal life. For me, that’s the true meaning of Christmas.

Sunrise over Long Beach, California, with an oil tanker promising warm furnaces, and eternal mobility for our cars.

2019: The End is Near!

If you hate politics as much as me, you’re gonna love this political post. I predict that the end is near!

My prediction for the year 2019 is that at some blessed moment, on some blessed day of next year, Donald Trump will leave office and no longer be our president. He will either be impeached and convicted, or he will resign.

But that’s not the end I’m prophesying. I’m prognosticating that within a few months after Trump leaves office, you’ll be able to tune into any cable news channel and watch for at least ten minutes without hearing the T-word.

Yes, the dreaded T-word is on the way out. No more Trump this, Trump that, Trump all the time, 24/7. And many news anchors and reporters will be laid off, because the T-word seems to be the extent of their vocabulary.

Finally we’ll be able to watch news covering other subjects besides our beloved president. And I do mean beloved, because we do so love to hate him.

Here’s why I think Trump is soon to be history. It’s all in the math:

Last month the Republicans got their red asses whipped by the Democrats, in the mid-terms. They lost at least 40 seats in the House of Representatives, to the Dems, and thus lost control of the House. And their bowels. And their bladders.

Yes, they did gain two Senate seats, as Trump is quick to crow, but conditions were very favorable for them in the Senate this election cycle. 26 Democratic senate seats were up for reelection, but only 9 Republican seats. The Republicans should have picked up a lot more than just two seats. And if Trump hadn’t been out campaigning so hard for them, they probably would have.

In the next election, Senate prospects will be far less favorable for the Republicans, because they will be defending 22 seats, while the Dems will try to keep their asses planted in just 12.

Right now, Republican senators must be shitting a brick every time they think about the upcoming 2020 elections. Donald Trump is highly unpopular in America. And with each new scandal, and each new revelation from the many investigations, his popularity treads on thinner and thinner ice. The elections of 2020 will likely be a massacre for the GOP in the Senate if something isn’t done about Trump, now.

Impeachment is a two step process. The House of Representatives does the impeaching. A simple majority of 218 votes is required to impeach. And there will be at least 235 Democrats sharpening their knives in the House next year. So the votes are there. Let the stabbing begin.

But Step 2 requires the Senate to do the convicting and removing. After the House votes for impeachment, Trump will be put on trial in the Senate. After the trial, two-thirds of the Senate will have to vote to convict and evict Trump from the White House. That means 67 out of our 100 senators will have to vote against Trump, on at least one of the many expected counts of impeachment.

Next year there will be 45 Democratic senators, and 2 Independent senators, that can be expected to vote for removal. Unless an asteroid strikes our planet. Or unless Yellowstone blows up and sinks North America. Or unless glacial ice-melting submerges Washington D.C.

Thus, at least 20 of the 53 Republican senators will also have to vote for removal, to rid cable news of the T-word.

I believe the Senate will have no trouble mustering those 20 Republican votes. Remember, 22 Republican senators will be up for reelection in 2020. And 22 more will face reelection in 2022. And so I suspect there are at least 44 nervous Republicans in the Senate who are secretly hoping and praying for the president’s early political demise, in spite of all the lickspittle public praise they heap upon him.

Otherwise their political careers may go straight down Trump’s golden crapper.

What they need is a premise. Some red meat. Something they can show to their fanatics, er, voters, that Trump really is the terrible person his new Chief of Staff said he is. You know, a con artist. A liar. And a corrupt sellout to countries like Russia and Saudi Arabia. The kind of stuff everyone who is not a Republican, or Donald’s Chief of Staff, is already aware of.

That way they’ll have an excuse to vote for his removal, while standing a chance at getting enough votes to win their Republican primary elections.

And we already have some red meat. Trump has been implicated in a scheme to violate campaign finance laws, by paying off the National Enquirer to silence women he’s had extramarital affairs with.

Remember Bill Clinton? He survived removal after he was impeached, when zero Democratic Senators, but 50 Republican senators, voted to convict and evict over charges stemming from a sex scandal. Yep, where Democrats have no morality, Republicans are loaded with it. They will not stand for any president to have illicit sex. Regardless of political party. Right? Uh, ahem. R-r-right.

But just to be on the safe side, I’m sure much more meat will be put on display at the butcher shop. Special Counsel Bob Mueller will issue his report, and the House of Representatives will complete a few investigations of their own. And the Southern District Court of New York will also do some snooping. Soon we’ll see meat on display with labels such as, “The Putin Penthouse Steak”, “Obstruction Sausage”, and “Trump Roast Tax Returns”.

And maybe there’ll be some “Collusion Calimari” on the side.

I predict that will be enough. That kind of meat is what Republican senators need, to satisfy their party. That is what they are secretly praying for, even while openly defending our orange oligarch.

And the sooner the better. Because the sooner they can get rid of Trump, the sooner they can get on with the business most important to them. Their reelection campaigns.

You heard it here first. My prediction for 2019. No more Trump, and the T-word is on its way out. The end is near!

God I hope I’m right.

The Life and Philosophy of Seagulls

My wife and I cannot visit the ocean without buying a loaf of day-old bread. Or box of crackers. Or bag of pretzels. We don’t buy it for ourselves. No, we prefer donuts. We buy it for the seagulls. My wife loves feeding these white-winged scavengers, and so every walk on the beach involves being mobbed by gulls, circling and diving and fighting for a free handout.

My wife feeding seagulls at Will Rogers State Beach, in Santa Monica, California. “For most gulls, it is not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

You have to be careful when feeding seagulls. I advise wearing a hat, and maybe a raincoat. And be quick. If you hold the food too long in your hand, a gull may fly straight into your face and snatch it away, while grabbing a finger in the process.

Some seagulls trust they won’t be grabbed by humans who offer food. And some humans trust they won’t lose their fingers while offering food. “Don’t believe what your eyes are telling you. All they show is limitation. Look with your understanding, find out what you already know, and you’ll see the way to fly.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

We like seagulls, so it’s nice to know that they thrive on every continent. Most are migratory and don’t give a damn about borders. Some travel all the way from South America to Canada, and back again, without ever acquiring a visa. One time we visited the Mexican Riviera during the summer, and noticed with disappointment that there were no seagulls. Hell, they’d all flown north, enjoying the cooler climes of such resort towns as San Francisco and Seattle.

“The gulls who scorn perfection for the sake of travel go nowhere, slowly. Those who put aside travel for the sake of perfection go anywhere, instantly.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Seagulls have very smart bird brains. Their communication skills are more complex than any teenage girl’s. And they gather in colonies, where they yap and yawp and squawk at each other, while establishing an intricate social order. Kind of how committees work. They do this once per year, during their breeding and nesting season.

A Ring-billed Gull during a light rain, at Hammonasset Beach State Park, in Madison, Connecticut. “With the same inner control, he flew through heavy sea-fogs and climbed above them into dazzling clear skies . . . in the very times when every other gull stood on the ground, knowing nothing but mist and rain.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Marriage is a sacred institution for seagulls. They are monogamous, tying the knot for life. On rare occasions a colony will allow a couple to divorce, but afterwards those poor divorced seagulls are treated like pariahs. They aren’t even allowed inside singles bars. It’s worthy to note, by the way, that over 800 years ago, Saint Francis of Assisi converted all seagulls to Roman Catholicism.

A California Gull against the Santa Ynez mountains, at Santa Barbara, California. “His one sorrow was not solitude, it was that other gulls refused to believe the glory of flight that awaited them; they refused to open their eyes and see.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Their political form of government is Socialist. When seagulls gather together in their colonies, they are all apportioned a circular plot of land, sometimes up to 30 feet in diameter, and mortgage-free, for nest-building and raising their brood. And the whole community pitches in at child-rearing, because the parents will often receive outside help to sit on their eggs. It’s called Seagull Daycare, and is an official government program of the Democratic Seagulls Republic of Oceania.

This Western Gull appears to be delivering a speech, on the taffrail of a cruise ship docked at Ensenada, Mexico. “I have no wish to be leader. I want only to share what I’ve found, to show those horizons out ahead for us all.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

All seagulls are required to join the Air Force while living in their colonies. And when a predator dares to venture near, the alarm goes out, and squadrons upon squadrons of seagulls are scrambled, which dive-bomb the intruder until it dies or runs the hell away.

“Each of us is in truth an idea of the Great Gull, an unlimited idea of freedom.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Seagulling doesn’t come easy. It takes a long time to learn how to be a seagull. Seagull school is very challenging, because these birds must learn how to acquire their food in countless different ways. Here’s a list of some of the food-gathering techniques employed by gulls:

• Dumpster-diving.
• Stealing fish from other birds.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Killing and eating other birds.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Stealing eggs.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Pecking out the flesh of whales, as they surface.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Baiting fish, with food scraps.
• Dumpster diving.
• Catching crabs.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Hawking insects in mid-air.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Digging for worms.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Pecking seeds and fruit.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Cleaning up road-kill.
• Dumpster-diving.
• Begging food from my wife.
• Dumpster-diving.

Seagulls can be omnivorous. They can learn to eat just about anything, such as these remains of a cracker box we emptied on the beach. “We choose our next world through what we learn in this one. Learn nothing, and the next world is the same as this one, all the same limitations and lead weights to overcome.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Seagulls are also one of the few birds that know how to open a clam shell. They fly it up to a great height, and then drop the clam onto rocks, or some other hard surface. What a horrifying elevator ride for the poor damn clam. This is the most difficult skill of all, for seagulls to learn, and so older gulls tend to be more successful with it than younger ones. Or maybe it’s because when the youngsters try to get the oldsters to teach them this skill, the oldsters clam up.

Hawking is the practice of snatching insects in mid-flight, from a perch, as this keen-eyed Western Gull is preparing to do. “Why is it,” Jonathan puzzled, “that the hardest thing in the world is to convince a bird that he is free, and that he can prove it for himself if he’d just spend a little time practicing?” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Eating may pose a learning curve for seagulls, but drinking does not. They possess glands in their skulls that filter out salt. So that leaves the entire ocean available to them, for slaking thirst. You’ll never encounter a seagull at the beach trying to bum a drink from you.

This Ring-billed Gull at Lake Champlain, Vermont, must have been very drunk or very brave. It allowed me to approach within a few feet, to steal a closeup. “Jonathan sighed. The price of being misunderstood, he thought. They call you devil or they call you god.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

There are many different species of seagulls. Which, by the way, are scientifically called “gulls”. As far as ornithologists are concerned, there’s no such thing as a “seagull”.

The “Little Gull” is, coincidentally, the smallest of the gulls. It weighs just 4.2 ounces, and is only 11 inches long. The largest gull species is the “Great Black-Backed Gull”, which weighs 3.9 pounds, and is 30 inches long. And it has a black back, in case you weren’t aware.

Now that you know all about seagulls, perhaps you may want to take a trip to the beach, where you can observe them more closely. Seagull watching can be fun, so I’m sure your trip will be worth every dollar you spend on expensive motel rooms and parking meters. But while you’re packing your swimsuit and setting your GPS, my wife would like to remind you of something. Please, don’t forget to run down to the grocery store and buy a loaf of day-old bread.

“The only true law is that which leads to freedom,” Jonathan said. “There is no other.” ~ Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

If you’re still not clear about the philosophy of seagulls, perhaps Neil Diamond can help you, with his soundtrack from the movie, Jonathan Livingston Seagull:

The Arm of Cape Cod

The Pilgrim Monument, in Provincetown, Massachusetts. At 252 feet, this is the tallest all-granite structure in America. It was completed in 1910, and commemorates the pilgrims’ first landing. Yes, the pilgrims first landed at the tip of Cape Cod, in 1620. But they couldn’t find any unicorns, so they got back on the Mayflower and headed for Plymouth, where unicorns thrived in abundance.

My damned unicorns have forsaken me. They don’t come out to play anymore. They’ve all run off. Headed for the hills. And no matter how much I chase them, I can’t run fast enough to catch the bastards.

That’s because I’ve been in a lot of pain lately, and unicorns hate pain.

Pain makes my brain as murky as a Cape Cod fog.

Pain is sameness, and sameness is the opposite of a unique experience. My pain happens to be physical. I have one bad neck and two bad shoulders, which have given me a lot of trouble over the past five or so years.

I woke up about three weeks ago with a neck as stiff as a zombie’s. And a Great White Shark was chomping down on my neck. And, goddamnit, there was a sadistic carpenter driving a large nail through my left shoulder and arm.

Great White Sharks use Cape Cod as a tourist destination. They’re attracted by the fine food, that is often garnished with surfboards, bikini tops, and other decorative plate arrangements.

This pain has not relented, and has no end in sight. And that’s why my unicorns have run off.

Where or where did my unicorns go?

It’s the sameness that drives my unicorns away. The same unrelenting shark bite and piercing nail, over and over again. They distract my mind. They keep my mind on the sameness, and away from new, different, unique experiences. It’s the same, same, same, pain, pain, pain.

So for me these days, there is no such thing as a unicorn. I can’t have any fun. Nor can I be any fun.

Provincetown, Massachusetts at the end of the clouds, from the shores of North Truro, on Cape Cod. Provincetown is where all the tourists go for fun, so maybe that’s where my unicorns went.

But that’s not going to stop me from trying. My pain-crazed brain has come up with an idea. I’d like to propose the world’s first geophysical transplant. I think I need a new shoulder and arm, and I have just the shoulder and arm in mind:

The arm of Cape Cod from outer space.

Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

I know it sounds crazy, but check it out on a map. You’ll see that Cape Cod is shaped just like a person’s brachial appendage.

My wife and I visited Cape Cod a few months ago, and we had a memorable time. I remember a cool breeze blowing across the dunes of the Cape, at Cape Cod National Seashore. That cool breeze would feel so refreshing right now, curving over my burning shoulder.

A cool breeze was stirring up this large, American flag. I wish I had bottled that breeze up and taken it home.

The surf also felt cool. I can imagine right now pouring that sparkling Atlantic water, like soothing unguent oil, deep into the dried out bursa sacs of my shoulder joint.

The cool, clear surf of Cape Cod.

I remember the wet sand of the beach squeezing between toes, gently massaging bare feet. I’d like to press that same wet sand between the glenohumeral joints of my shoulder, and feel it snuff out the fiery coals, and smoothen and slicken the rough, bone-spurred surfaces.

This Unicorn Bird is enjoying a cool foot massage as it wades through the wet sands of Cape Cod.

And I recall that the weather was overcast, giving the water and sky the same color. It conveyed a continuum. A sense of harmony and peace. A blending in with the universe. An infinite vista of surrender to serenity.

Shoes against the horizon.

My favorite memory was when we lounged upon the beach of Cape Cod that lazy, overcast afternoon. We gazed sleepily at the invisible horizon, and allowed our thoughts and cares to surcease and dissolve into the peace this peninsular arm offered.

Race Point Lighthouse, built in 1876, at the entrance to Cape Cod Bay. This is where seagulls congregate for peaceful communion and meditative reflection.

This is the sort of arm I want right now, if it was somehow possible to perform a geophysical transplant.

For it’s the only kind of arm that can catch a unicorn.

A grounds-eye view of birds, and the bending arm of Cape Cod.