29 Days Of Vacation

Day 2: Star Trek The Experience, NV

If ever there was a place to indulge your inner geek, this is it. Located inside the Hilton resort near the Strip, this has all the elements of hyperbolic, over the top, gee whiz sci-fi excess, all with a Las Vegas twist. You enter the large area devoted to dorkitude through, of course, a themed casino and bar area. Various light-up zappy things are everywhere, the decor a furious and curious collision of depression era Logan's Run combined with Forbidden Planet on acid. Even if you're not a gambler, it's worth a dollar bet just to pass your hand through a light beam that activates the slot machine tumblers. Neato!

The Promenade, although shorter than I'd like, is a vague representation of the Deep Space Nine set. Here you can peruse various Star Trek souvenirs, from action figures to Starfleet wear to expensive gadgets like phasers and starship models. Once, I even saw a replica of Captain Kirk's command chair, complete with a detailed painted cutout of good ol' James T. From 30 feet away, it looked pretty cool. If you can't find something to covet or roll your eyes at, leave now. It only gets worse.

Across from the Promenade is Quark's Bar and Restaurant. It is here you're likely to be fleeced by a Ferengi or accosted by a Klingon. Sidle up to the bar (more zappy stuff) and demand a Tranya, or a Romulan Ale, or a Warp Core Breach. Order up some targ ribs, or Holy Rings of Betazed, or a hamborger. Seriously, go to the website, click on the restaurant link under "What is..." and check out the menu. It's insane in its unapologetic geekiness. At this point, NASCAR fans will bitterly berate Star Trek nerds with epithets strong enough to break the Organian Peace Treaty. For true and unabashed Trekophiles like me, the inside jokes, self-deprecation, trivia drops, and absurd coolness cannot be matched by any other attraction.

Most likely, though, the reason you're here is the two rides: Klingon Encounter and Borg Invasion. I won't say much about these, other than they are not rides in the conventional sense, but total sensory immersion into the Trek universe. Painstaking set details, costumed actors with a script, and holy sh-- special effects make either of these unforgettable. The transporter effect that sends you into the future is one of most baffling and surprising things I've ever experienced. At that moment you can almost believe you really are being "beamed up."

For my money, however, the best thing about Star Trek: The Experience is the area leading up to the rides. Rather than just wait in a boring line, you wander through the world's largest collection of all things Trek. Costume pieces, props, stills, you name it, line the balcony walkway, all presented in a sort of future museum exhibiting relics from Federation history. Many a fan has stood gaping at stuff they saw on their favorite show, amazed at how cool or cheesy it is in real life. Easily the best part of the trip, tickets can be purchased separately, and you can exit before the rides. Also here are LARGE models of starships suspended from the ceiling. The original Enterprise, Enterprise-D, Voyager, and others are all here, suspended in mid warp, glowing and blinking in a way that communicates with the adventurous "what-if" in us. Flanking these are large screens which periodically show retrospectives of the franchise: a piece on the Captains, or starships, or aliens, or some other wow-I-loved-that memory. Wistful, inspiring, and familiar; my inner twelve year old loves this place.

Unfortunately, this ultimate Trekkie Mecca is scheduled to close on Labor Day this year. Even if they relocate the displays somewhere else, I doubt the environment will be as all-encompassing as it is now. Plus, you'll undoubtedly have to pay more.

Teasers on this trip: Shark Reef, Red Rock Canyon, Hoover Dam, Fremont Street light show

30 Days Of Vacation

It seems everyone I know is taking a summer vacation. For the first time in 10+ years, I won't be. I will take one by myself after the remaining kids go back to high school, but it's not the same as the family week-long summer vacation in a rented house, or motels, or camping. Plus, with starting up two new radio stations we purchased in the last five months, I really couldn't get away anyhow. I've been overwhelmed with helping steer our corporate ship. It's been rewarding, to be sure, but I haven't had much time to reflect on just "me" stuff. What could I possibly write about that's of interest to anyone, if I'm not interested myself?

Then, while quietly jealousizing over Tiff's and others' vacations, it hit me. Time for a change-up, and set myself a challenge. Every day for the next 30 days, I will visit a favorite place I have found on family vacations or private wanderings. Some are lifetime favorites, others are pleasant surprises you won't find if you look for them. Please join me on a virtual vacation. Heck, write about some of your own so we can all relish in the wonder of places unvisited!

Day 1: Samoa Cookhouse, CA

We start our trip with a meal at the Samoa Cookhouse near Eureka, California. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner? Take your pick, but bring your appetite, because the Samoa Cookhouse serves food like nowhere else I've ever been. Dating back over 100 years, this old building was used to feed the lumber industry employees, many of whom lived in the tiny company town of Samoa just down the street. The appetites of lumberjacks and sawmill workers are legendary, so it's no surprise that the Cookhouse continues in that tradition.

The first thing you notice upon entering is the chalkboard menu. The second thing you notice is the wood-floored hall with rows and rows of picnic tables. If you are the linens and sommelier type, this is your first and only clue to hightail your pretentious butt back south to San Francisco. Because, here? You're gonna sit where you're put and eat what you're given. On Wednesday night it might be fried chicken and potatoes with green salad and bread and butter. On Friday it might be fried fish with corn on the cob and minestrone soup and bread and butter. On Monday it might be thick slabs of pork or beef roast with mixed vegetables and bean salad and bread and butter. All washed down with icy frothy milk and the best black coffee in the history of history. Don't like what they're serving that night? Tough. Go hungry.

Oh, but what you will miss. Plastic table cloths laid out with thick cream-colored ceramic plates and bowls. Giant salt shakers and creamers and coffee cans stuffed with napkins. Silverware you could used to repair an RV engine. Sharing your bench with a coupla Harley dudes. Rubbing elbows with a shy lanky teen. Helping the kindly senior lady across the table to servings of apple pie. Chatting across, down, behind you with folks you've never seen before, and probably have next to nothing in common except this desire for REAL food, dammit, and the desire to share in our most primal ritual with others of an extended tribe. And all around you little kids chase each other around the lumber-era museum pieces, babies bounce on laps, grandparents revel in the closeness of their families, tourists recount the day's escapades, and always always always the super efficient and strong waitresses pass huge stainless steel pots and melamine bowls back and forth from the huge kitchen, everything steaming and clanking and clattering and giving rise to aromas that make you want to eat twice your weight in simple stuff you never thought could taste so good. And it never stops. You keep eating, they keep bringing.

The Samoa Cookhouse is one of the the best restaurants in America. I have driven three hours, each way, in a day just to eat there. I've been in fancier, older, more heralded eateries across this country, but none better or more original. Go and enjoy. Stop by again on your way back home for breakfast, and pay closer attention to the history that soaks into you from the sturdy planks and sawmill memorabilia. It'll last you all the way home.

From here, you can go north or south to enjoy the spectacular northern California coastline and superlative sequoia sempervirens. I'll let you discover those on your own. But a few teasers: salmon fisheries, Avenue of the Giants, Paul Bunyan, and Roosevelt elk!

Another Random Saturday

My wife's best friend moved away today. She lamented that she has no friends in town any more. It made me sad, because I haven't had a friend for 20 years or so. I'm not sure why. My 2 semi-lifelong bosom buddies and I drifted apart in our mid-twenties, and they have never been replaced. Oh, I have friendly people I know, and we know some personal details about each other. But there is no one over the last 2 decades that I can just call on the phone for help with a broken car, or watch football with every weekend, or plan a fishing trip, or go on combined family picnics. I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm reasonably sure the fault lies with me.

The difference is: my wife is a wonderful person who will have little difficulty finding another friend.

* * * * *

Another little piece of my youth was swallowed by history with Jim McKay's death. I was never a rabid sports fan, but he was a staple of television in my younger days. Who could forget "The thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat?" He WAS the Olympics, especially with the life changing 1972 Munich games, punctuated by his succinct and poignant coda "They're all gone." In an industry of testosterone, arrogance, and ego, he was a gentle man that made sports accessible to us non-jocks.

Goodbye, Jim. Everyone liked you, and that is rare.

* * * * *

Middle age is a capricious bitch. One day you are at the top of your game, the respected mentor. The next day you are the dismissed out-of-touch dork barraged by medical tests. It's aggravating in the extreme, but somehow the bitch gives you the resilience to ignore it all.

But she's still a bitch.

* * * * *

I love my new dog, Poppy. She occasionally succeeds in stealing a butter tub from the counter, or finds a stray remote control to chew, but she is sweet. She is affectionate, smart, and eager to please. She's learning, and LOVES Princessfisher and me. She's okay with Queenfisher. For once, the alpha female of the house is not the favorite.

That makes me laugh.

* * * * *

Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" was on the jukebox, and it really really really really really really really sucks the vomit hose.

If you like modern R&B/Rap/Hip Hop/Dance to the exclusion of all else, you are either to young to appreciate music or you are a fucking retard.

* * * * *

Right now I am in the mood for a Cobb salad with bleu cheese that would barely fit in the trunk of my car.

Pay attention to your cravings, they usually mean something. Even the "bad" ones.

* * * * *

Fireworks stands will go up soon. Cannot wait. Bonus: July 4 is on a Friday this year. My house will be beer and barbecue and blowing shit up central. I will get to use the word "punk" around my teenage son and his friends about 47 times.

If you don't understand the dual definition, your Independence Day party is gonna suck.

* * * * *

Hillary finally gave up. Shutup feminists. The majority of us have no problem with a female president. It was her entitlement attitude, even before her run for president, that turned many of us off. If you truly believe the national persona/focus/spirit will fundamentally change with a female in the White House, you are hopelessly naive. Politics is politics. Different players, same chess game.

BTW, "Clinton" re-arranged is "nonclit."

* * * * *

Gardening in the Mojave is one of the biggest challenges I've ever faced. So far, I've failed miserably at my favorites: cut flowers, vegetables, herbs, and succulents. My daughter has expressed an interest. Given her femaleness and her mother's gifts, I have no doubt she'll do better.

She better grow some damn good Roma tomatoes to overcome my jealousy.

* * * * *

I guess that's it for now. Go Big Brown!

(And by extension, Fuck you, PETA!)

Kingfisher's Cultural Poker Hands

9 Best Hands

Lost child beats: Pregnant woman
Pregnant woman beats: Frail senior
Frail senior beats: Mentally impaired
Mentally impaired beats: Blind
Blind beats: Wheelchair
Wheelchair beats: Broken down car woman
Broken down car woman beats: Stray dog
Stray dog beats: Hitch hiker
Hitch hiker beats: Panhandler

Anything (a dead cockroach, for example) beats these 9

Winning season Little League coach
Humvee soccer mom
Discovery Channel know-it-all
Initials on tailored shirt cuff salesman
Obese bitch/bastard with handicapped plates
“Will work for…” parking lot sign guy
Sour grandma on power scooter
High speed lane changing motorcycle prick
Don’t-dare-look-at-my-obvious-implant-cleavage-presented-for-your-approval chick

Tardy

I was inspired to write something about this photo presented by Wordsmiths Unlimited in February. At the time, I was too busy, lazy, and tired to contribute. I had the idea for a prayer, which I now present much too late, much too short, much too contrived, and blasphemous in between.

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2008 Bolt, Ink.
All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted,
reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without
the express written approval of the author.


Prayer of Sacrilege

Mother Mary, Full of Grace
Hear my plea
I too am young in life and love
Am I ignored in my sighs?

Mother Mary, Full of Hope
See my tears
I too have no place to call home
Am I alone in my cries?

Mother Mary, Full of Truth
Feel my rage
I too am conceived without husband
Am I unworthy in Heavenly eyes?

Mother Mary Full of Lies
We are the same between our thighs

9 Guys That Annoy Me

"I only need three hours of sleep. I get up at 3:30 every morning."
Um, remind me not join you on any long distance road trips. I'd love to see the quality consistence of whatever work it is that you do. Here's a clue for ya: you may feel superior; I think you're lying blowhard.

"Kingfisher's next drink is on my tab."
Look, you drunken fool, I don't like you. We're not friends. Everyone else may take advantage of you, but I'm gentleman enough not to in your daily inebriated state, and not bring attention to your hypochondriac opinionated boorishness. I hate feeling obligated, but if you sneak one in on your tab, I won't feel guilty for not buying you one.

"Can you get this report for my client?"
Sure. But if I bring it to you an hour later and you have already given them one, and it's wrong, I will break your teeth with my staple remover.

"Sir, do you know how fast you were going?"
What is this? Cash Cab? Do I win something if I get it right? Or are you just asserting your God-complex jerkoff coppitude? Just gimme the chicken shit ticket for going 60 in a 55 while everyone else whizzes by at 80. Remember when a policeman was your friend? Not no more.

"Yeah, I hit the gym before work this morning. (stretch) Got a tennis game tonight. Got a mountain bike ride on Saturday. (flex) Going kayaking Sunday."
Great! I'll say hi to your wife at the bar later. If I wasn't married, I'd be riding her implants within 2 hours.

"Income taxes are unconstitutional. The IRS can't force you."
Sigh. 100 years of this argument hasn't worked, buddy. Take off the tinfoil hat and PAY YOUR GODDAM TAXES you worthless pile of ignorant sludge. Then I wouldn't have to process your wage levy. All three of them. Idiot.

"God bless you." (after I sneeze)
Arrggh! Why do you insist on perpetuating this stupid superstitious pagan ritual? Isn't it a little condescending to assume I want your God's blessing? Do expect me to say the same? I sometimes do, but only when someone belches or farts.

"BBLLLBBBRRRBRRRBLLBRRRRR"
Middle-aged Harley guy, with your bondage outfit and German WWII helmet and white nicotine stained mustache and your hey-this-is-america-freedom-is-mine arrogance, I was enjoying this quiet Grand Canyon rim with ravens' calls and wind in the pines until you FUCKED EVERYTHING UP WITH YOUR GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO BE A LOUD ASSHOLE. Impinging on everyone else's space with whatever you want to do because it isn't physically threatening is not Freedom. It is rude, irritating, arrogant, and the exact antithesis of liberty and civility. And you are not a rebel. You are, however, a huge donkey sucking asstard fuckhat. It is my fervent wish that road pizza is in your immediate future.

"F-R-E-E that spells free, credit report dot com BAY BEE"
Everybody in that car deserves to die. Especially the non-guitar playing pothead qwerbo in the back.

Q: What Do You Do...

...when someone you love needs help and won't take it?

A: Not a damn thing. And it sucks.

Where The Hell Is Kingfisher?

2008 has been booooooring so far. I haven't had much to write about. Besides which, I've been working my butt off. So to show that I am, in fact, still alive, I present some pictures of recent Kingfisher life in a lame imitation of a post.

This is my office at the radio stations. Kinda cool, huh? The amount of energy spent here this year gets most of the blame for my absence in the blogosphere.

Here is the nerve center where I preside over numbers and pretend to be a manager. The screen saver shows a picture of one of my favorite joints on the Santa Cruz municipal pier. Note the coffee cup with a picture of the Pupfish, the nifty Las Vegas 51's baseball (yes, our local team is actually called that), and the aquarium in the back, which my boss calls "a stroke of genius." Why, I don't know. I think he was surprised with my decorating scheme.

Here's a close up of some of the fishies in said aquarium. They're the smartest occupants in the office.

This is the dead animal head across from my desk. He creeps out the hippie chick who hosts our weekly adpot a pet segment on the rock station. The creeping out makes me laugh. He is also a target for practical jokes. He has been decorated at various times with cigarettes, a fake mustache, a sign promoting pot smoking, and training bras.

Princefisher II was asked to the prom. Here he is in his best Men in Black impersonation. Note the young man expression of nonchalant cool while clutching a corsage. Heh.

After a winter and spring of atrocious winds that has everybody in Las Vegas wheezing, complaining, and hornking out a bloody nose in the shower every morning, we were finally able to spend a day on the Pupfish. Here is my daughter with the newest addition to our family. Aren't they cute?

She's a 1-year-old shepherd/chow mix (the dog, not my daughter.) She was the featured dog on the rock station 2 weeks ago. She was rescued from a drug house, had been at the shelter for almost 2 months, and was slated for euthanasia. I saw her in the lobby, she licked my face, and another sucker was born. I named her Poppy. She is learning about family life for the very first time. Boy, is she smart.

That's about it. We're going to the boat for a relaxing Mother's Day. Maybe I'll write some more at my watering hole tomorrow.

Be nice and send Mom some flowers on Sunday. Or at least call her and let her know you're wearing clean underwear.

Now, for no reason at all, here's a picture of frogs playing poker.

Happy Hallmark Day