I got an email this morning welcoming me to Xanga Premium.  For some unknown reason Xanga automatically charged my checking account for another six months, on top of the six months they automatically charged me when I voluntarily sent payment for a 12 month subscription. With the notice of subscription payment they sent me the welcome package.  I had never looked at all the features available to paid subscribers before and doing so explained a lot of things. 

For one thing, did you know that Google pays people to run those ads on their sites?  I was curious about those because they seem to be intuitive to the content of the post.  One of my subscriptions mentioned beer in his post and his site was plastered with ads for drug and alcohol rehab.  Can you just imagine the ads I'd get with my references to Larry Flynt, 'shrooms, and incontinence?

Then there are Plugz.  (This term should crack my sister up as she and my Mom refer to tampons as plugs.)  Evidently, one can buy Xanga page space to attract readers to their site.  I'm sure Curt's up on all of this but it's an eye opener for me.  One can plug her (Xanga's gender selection, not mine) entire site or a specific blog, however, the Xanga thought police have some strict guidelines of what may and may not be promoted.  For instance, your Plugz may not promote binge eating and hurling, nor may you Plugz someone else's site without their consent. 

And last, I learned what Gringottsbank meant by "I'm True!"  Being TRUE, for those of you who have not yet achieved your validating badge of trueness, means that you have sufficient postings to qualify as a TRUE Xangan.  THAT explains why so many people post so much mindless blather, my subscriptions excluded, of course.  And in my quest for my TRUE badge, I am now going to submit this mindless blather. 

I'm losing my popularity and it's starting to trouble me.  I couldn't find a single person (or a married one either) to ride with me today.  There was no choice but to simply throw the Intense into the back seat of the car and head for the hills on my own.

Initially, I thought I would ride the Santa Ana River Road to South Fork and return via the singletrack (2E03 or SART) but when I got to the top I felt like extending the ride a bit.  I followed the creek through the South Fork campground and then climbed a really rough two-track until I stumbled upon the singletrack again.  Though it was exceedingly rocky and uncomfortably steep, it was new to me and therefore interesting.  Eventually the rocks gave way to a wide, sandy rut, evidence of heavy horse traffic.  Stupidly, I had left the house without breakfast and had only a couple of little Australian biscuit things in my pack so I soon ran out of fuel and decided to return to the car via the most expedient trail.  A rocky, hoof pocked trail soon intersected the singletrack so I turned onto it as it seemed to be headed in the direction of the highway.  By the time I reached the section of the Santa Ana River Trail I had originally intended to ride, my hunger had subsided so I opted for all the fun instead of taking the river road back to the car.  At the connector trail to Barton Flats I noticed that there was a new trail going the opposite direction (down) with a sign indicating it went to 1N45 which is the river road I had come up.  I was faced with a difficult decision because, as you know, the section of the SART between there and Glass Road is about as good as singletrack gets but, a new trail is pretty tantalizing.  Of course, I chose the new trail.  It started out steep and rocky but totally rideable.  This trail has actually been here for years but it's one of those unofficial trails made by people hiking down from Barton Flats, who want to get to the river.  It looks like the Forest Service finally developed it into a more or less sustainable trail.   

Some sections were more thrilling than I cared to ride.  These areas are still loose and so narrow that I had to carry my bike because there wasn't room to walk next to it.

The entire trail is only a mile from 2E03 to

the river road and the lower sections are fairly easy to ride.   

At the end you have to carry your bike across the stream on a fallen-tree bridge.

The trail meets the road at the junction of  of 1N45 and 1N04 which is the river road and the road that goes to Converse Station.

From there it's an easy and beautiful ride back to the car. 

This is a great old tree that looks like it's losing the battle against the drought.  It appeared to have life left in one branch.

The forest is rapidly thinning as the pines succumb to the ravages of the spruce beetle.  Stumps like these are all that remain where dead trees have been removed.  This tree was probably too small to harvest when this area was logged over a hundred years ago.  It shows the scars of having survived at least two fires, only to be brought down by drought and bugs.

Another gardening experiment turns golden:

Many months ago I stuck some pieces of sweet potato in the ground.  I didn't know which end to plant so I just cut one up a buried all the chunks.  The cats dug some of them up and nothing sprouted.  The squash vines grew over them and I forgot all about them.  Then a couple of months ago, I noticed a pretty, deep green vine emerging from under the squash.  Hoping it was sweet potato and not an opportunistic weed, I let it grow, didn't particularly nurture it, but left it alone.  So, today I started poking around where the dirt was mounding up around this lovely vine and voila!  I found big fat sweet potatoes! 

I went online to find out when to harvest them and learned that, quite by accident, I had done everything right for a good crop.  Evidently, they like hot weather and not too much water.  Hot weather I got.

There's nothing like a new success to restore enthusiasm.  I'm off to the nursery to buy my winter garden seeds.  Ciao for now.

Oh, here's a picture of my gopher patrol and one of my pretty peppers:

I've been trying to generate some enthusiasm for a trip out to Gooseberry Mesa before the weather gets too rough for camping but nobody seems able to take vacations this time of year.  Guy and Sally are teachers so they don't have any time until Thanksgiving by which time the days will be a bit too short to be ideal.  It's an eight hour drive from here so we really need at least a four day weekend and the traffic between here and Las Vegas is just impossible on a holiday weekend.  The last time we went, most of the folks who had planned to join us bailed out at the last minute.  That really spoiled the trip for Mike as he didn't have any fast guys to ride with.  Sally and I had fun together but she had to leave on Sunday so then it was just the two of us.  We ended up just packing up and heading home with her even though the weather was still good.

I'm eager to try out the new trailer so maybe we will have to just go it alone and hope we meet other competent riders out on the mesa.

It's been so long since we went on any bike trips that I'm having to reuse old pictures to illustrate my blog.  C'mon, you old RutRiders, dust off your bikes and join us!  Remember the fun we had in Moab and Brian Head?  We even had good times in Big Bear and Seven Oaks.  (except for the time the big earthquake hit in Seven Oaks)

There are some garden pests that sorely tempt the organic gardener to resort to extreme measures.  Throughout the summer I was very fortunate that the predatory insects found my little plot and provided protection against the hordes of invaders who would have liked to have raised their families amidst my abundance.  But now that fall has fallen, and the summer bloomers are on the wane, I have a new pest that seems immune to my benevolent management.  I fear chemical treatment may be my only option.

The pest of which I speak is my 83-year old mother who lives in a granny flat in my back yard adjacent to my garden.  From the moment a plant shows a wilted leaf, slows production, or fails to prosper in any fashion, she wants to tear it out.  Since I'm not quite ready to start my fall/winter garden, I'm inclined to allow the plants that I nurtured so carefully, die a more natural death.  Their feeble, last-ditch attempts to reproduce, provide me with a modest supply of mostly unattractive vegetables that taste better than anything I can find in the local markets.  I have tried begging, ranting and pouting with her, but nothing deters her from raping and pillaging my garden the moment I leave home.

While I was in Washington she pulled out most of my basil that was still blossoming and attracting many bees with its spicy fragrance.  Gone too were the last of the summer squash that were still producing lovely yellow flowers that turned to itty bitty squashes.  Then she turned her evil eye to the front yard where she began ripping out the daisies that weren't sporting as many flowers as they had earlier in the year. 

Today I left Mom home alone while I went to get groceries and returned to find my Lemon Boy tomato plant uprooted.  I had a special affection for this plant because he not only produced a prodigious crop last year, but continued to provide a tomato or two all winter long and then resumed normal production in the spring.  I had trimmed him back to a few main branches, as I had done last fall, and hoped to learn if he could be a perennial producer. 

I have to laugh because weeping is futile.  Our conversation went something like this:

Me:  I see you tore out my Lemon Boy

Mom:  It was dead

Me:  Detailed explanation of why I had left it...

Mom:  Well you should have told me.  You just don't communicate with me.

Me:  I have communicated with you previously that you should check with me before you pull out anything that I planted.

Mom:  Well, I wouldn't remember anyway.

AGHH!!!!  Give me the Prozac! 

Greetings from Bainbridge Island, Washington, U.S.A.  I flew up for a conjugal visit with MT who is working here for the summer.  What a difference a two hour flight north makes! 

Leaving behind 100° weather, bumper to bumper traffic, loud motorcycles & offensive music for life in the slooooow lane that winds through the trees.  I packed polar fleece that I hadn't worn since last March and I've worn it every day so far.  September in the Pacific Northwest is as close to perfect as one can imagine. 

We are staying with friends who own a lovely home overlooking the sound, with a killer view of the Seattle skyline.  It's so quiet here, nestled under the three-hundred year old trees, that the chugging motor of a fishing boat trawling the sound in the wee hours of the morning woke us.  Yesterday we rode bicycles to the south end of the island by way of a park that consisted of a natural wilderness laced with manicured hiking paths.  The borrowed town-bike made the tame paths quite interesting as the narrow tires lost traction in the slightly steep sections and the lack of any real suspension pummeled my behind.  Accustomed to having my feet affixed to the pedals by cleats, running shoes balanced precariously on flat pedals added a degree of difficulty as well.  It was fun!

Our destination was the workshop of a local woodworker, Bob Spangler, who creates custom furniture.  I had discovered his open house online at the Northwest Fine Woodworking website, www.nwfinewoodworking.com, while researching things to do in Seattle. MT is and avid woodworker so I knew he would enjoy meeting the artist and seeing his workshop.  In addition to the fine furniture on exhibit, there was a wall that displayed the woodcut prints of Gary Groves, another local artist and member of the Northwest Fine Woodworking co-op.  Both men were gracious and modest.  We swapped stories for nearly and hour before resuming out ride home. 

We meandered at a tourist pace along the southern shore until MT instructed me to downshift indicating we had reached the bottom of Toe Jam Hill.  I was prepared for a hideous climb, both from MT's description and from the looks of horror on the faces of the locals when I mentioned that MT was going to make me climb it on the way home.  One lady even kindly gave me a map with directions to a more biker friendly ascent.  Indeed, the incline took everything I had, even in the lowest gear, but quitting was not an option as there was a man ahead of us riding a road bike.  Road bikes have higher gears which require more effort and he was even older that we are.  By the time I reached the top the old dude was completely out of site, whizzing down the other side of the hill. 

Other than hiking and biking, there isn't much to do on the island so I've turned to napping and drinking red wine.  Thankfully our hosts have an expensive and carefully chosen wine collection which they are happy to share.  They also have two beautiful Belgian Sheep dogs who keep me amused with their enthusiastic doggie activities.  As relaxing as it is, I'll be happy to get home to my projects tomorrow.

Doncha' just love a good joke?  Now admit it, you really love a bad joke too and you remember them twice as long.  And a joke that you don't get, you remember it forever because you ponder it so long trying to figure out why the teller thought it was funny. 

What makes a joke funny to someone tells something about the person telling the joke too, so it's interesting on that level as well.  Okay, maybe now I'm taking the fun out of a simple form of entertainment but I've always been interested in what other people are really thinking behind their public facade.  (Sorry, I couldn't figure out how to get the correct symbol there)  For example, I infer that a person who cleverly employs puns is intelligent and someone who enjoys mean spirited jokes is insecure.  Conversely, someone who makes jokes at his own expense is content with himself.  These might be overly simplistic examples but you catch my drift.

So, I'm going to stand naked before you.  I'm going to reveal my innermost self by telling you my all-time favorite jokes (at least the ones that come to mind).  If that doesn't generate too much negative response, I may get even more personal by listing my favorite movies which will really expose my twisted side.

A horse walks into a bar.  The bartender says, "Why the long face?"

Two guys walk into a bar.  The third one ducks.

And of course you've heard the one about the dyslexic, agnostic insomniac who laid awake nights wondering if there really was a dog.

How about the blonde who was overjoyed to learn she was pregnant with twins because she had bought a two-pack pregnancy test kit and both of them read positive.

And I promise this is the last, and most offensive:

After dating for two years, the relationship between the thirty-something couple still had not progressed beyond heavy petting.  The woman, who ultimately hoped for children, grew increasingly concerned about her boyfriend's reticence to consummate their union.  (am I making this clean enough for a general audience rating?)  At last she screwed up her courage and asked him why he faltered at the final act.  He blushed deeply as he explained that his widowed mother, with whom he still lived, had told him that women had teeth in their vagina that would bite off anything that ventured too closely.  Incredulous that he would actually believe such a ludicrous tale, she assumed a Hustler magazine pose and forced him to face his fears.  "Look," she demanded, "Do you see any teeth?"  With a look of shear horror and disgust he replied, "Good heavens, no!  Look at the condition of those gums."

Now it's your turn to self-disclose.  Send me your favorites.  Remember, the gentlest of hands will sift the wheat from the chaff. 

Don't hate me for being beautiful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dUaYkiHFLVY

When I was a young woman, in my twenties, I came across a copy of Hustler magazine and I remember being grossed out.  There were photos of unattractive women in poses most of us assume only for our gynecologist.  I never got as far as reading any of the articles.  I simply dismissed the whole publication as being geared toward the graduates of Mad magazine.  I couldn't imagine why anyone would look at a disgusting rag like that when Playboy and Penthouse offered lovely, airbrushed models who professed to be turned on by walks on the beach, candlelight dinners and men who made them laugh and were turned off by rude people and litter.

Sometime later I heard about Larry Flynt being shot.  By this time I was aware of his battles with the U.S. courts over freedom of expression and while I still thought his porn empire was disgusting, I openly admired his courage. 

Tonight I saw a documentary about him, The Right to be Left Alone, and realized what an intelligent man of principle he is.  He may be crude, vulgar, and uncultured but he is the ideal American.  He is fearless in his pursuit of the truth and willing to risk everything he owns, including his life, to inform the rest of us.  I was inspired by his patriotic zeal and his belief that one's educated vote can influence our government.  (Interestingly, the documentary included a clip of Ron Paul, the former Libertarian turned Republican candidate for president whose campaign is still flourishing on the internet.) 

They say that politics make strange bedfellows and this is a classic example.  I never would have envisioned myself in bed with Larry Flynt of all people.  Even though I don't have much of anything offensive to say (others may disagree), I think it is of paramount importance that we have absolute freedom to access whatever information we choose.  I don't choose to read Hustler but if you do, I don't have any interest in your interest.  The folks who feel the need to control others forget that with every freedom they sacrifice for others they sacrifice for themselves as well.  You may very well think Larry Flynt is offensive but if you censor him, under the law, the powers that be may censor anyone.  Think about that when you vote for people who would strip away our civil rights.  You can't count on the people in power to always be in agreement with you.  Regimes change and you could be an outsider tomorrow.  Do you want me to be able to control you?  Then be careful about legislating control over me today.  I might make you eat tofu and wear tutus or mumus, depending upon your size. 

I recommend you watch the documentary "The Right to be Left Alone" if it interests you and if you can stomach Mr. Flynt's coarse language.  He's a man for our time. 

And I promise, if elected...

This is for one of my favorite subscriptions, Gringottsbank, who shares my love of cooking and cats.  If you haven't read her blog yet, you should check it out because she's really cute.

As my garden winds down, I still find that I'm harvesting more squash than I can use, mainly because I'm just sick of squash.  So, I was delighted to find this recipe in The Week magazine for Yellow Squash Soup with Scallion Salad.  The credit belongs to Chef Champe Speidel of Persimmon, Bristol, R.I., USA.  I confess, I made some substitutions, utilizing things I had, and it still turned out worthy of any four star restaurant.

You will need for the soup:

1 tbsp unsalted butter; 1 lb small yellow squash, cut into 1-inch pieces; 2 fresh bay leaves (I used dried); 1 1/2 cups low-sodium chicken broth; 1 1/2 cups water; 6 scallions, white and tender green parts only; 1tbsp plus 1 tsp extra-virgin olive oil; 1 cup buttermilk; salt and freshly ground white pepper; 3/4 cup finely grated Manchego cheese (2 oz.); 1 cup grape tomatoes, quartered (I used the little yellow pear-shaped ones from Barb's garden); 1 tbsp minced tarragon; 1tbsp minced flat-leaf parsley; 1/4 cup finely diced peeled cucumber; and 1 tsp lemon juice.

In a saucepan, melt butter.  Add yellow squash and bay leaves, cook over moderate heat 8 minutes.  Add Broth and water; bring to boil.  Simmer until squash is tender.  Preheat grill pan.  Rub scallions with 1 teaspoon oil; grill over high heat, turning occasionally, until lightly charred, 5 minutes.  Let cool; cut into 1/2" pieces.  Transfer to bowl.  Transfer squash and 1/2 cup of broth to blender (discard bay leaves).  Puree soup; blend in buttermilk.  Season with salt and pepper.

Heat nonstick skillet over moderate heat.  Spoon twelve 2" side mounds of Manchego into skillet; cook over moderate heat until browned on bottom. flip cheese crisps, cook until browned.  Transfer crisps to rack and let cool.  Add tomatoes, tarragon, parsley, cucumber, lemon juice, remaining 1 tablespoon oil to scallions; toss.  Season salad with salt and pepper.  Ladle soup into bowls; garnish with scallion salad.  Serve warm or chilled with cheese crisps.

Notes:  I don't know why the author wants you to add water and 1 1/2 cups chicken broth and then use only 1/2 cup in the soup.  I saved the remaining broth for another dish but I would eliminate the water and reduce the amount of broth next time.  The recipe said it made six servings but we cleaned up the entire pot with the three of us.  We're just pigs, I guess.

Sally emailed me her take on the Sunday ride and she expressed it so perfectly that I just had to share it here.  She's a high school teacher facing the end of summer break.

This from Sally:

That was quite a conversation today.  I’m going to try to put words to my response to it, though perhaps music would fit better.  First a ride under towering pines and through sun-baked chaparral, bittersweet incense of late summer curling around the march of hours until school starts tomorrow… summer drawing to a close, drinking the last draughts of freedom… the last couple weeks have been excessively fun and most of it centered around mountain biking.  Here’s an example (last weekend):

Biking is good.  My bike ride yesterday was delightful.  We – my favorite mtn biking buddy, Judy, and I – rode on our favorite section of the Santa Ana River Trail, which (is) a misnomer.  Where we rode, the trail clings to the side of a mountain.  The trail is about a foot wide and slopes steeply up on one side and equally steeply down on the other. 

Anxiety management is always an issue for me under these conditions; “look where you want to go” and “focus, focus, focus” are my mantras for this ride.  We rode faster yesterday, though, since we had just ridden the trail Sunday am.  We finished off the ride with a dip in a chilly mountain stream.  I love that feeling of mind and body working in concert, and rinsing off in a cold stream wasn’t bad either. If only I could figure how to mtn bike for a living. 

Today’s ride was fun, but the spiritual quality was missing from the ride for me. Luckily we culminated the ride at La Costa for lunch where we had a funny, connected, intoxicating, invigorating conversation that resonated for hours.  You’d think we’d been smoking drugs, not just talking.

Our idle talk drifted in and out of biking, relationships, love, the search for identity, and finally landed on ‘shrooms.  Something in the mix of people present and thoughts shared transcended an ordinary exchange of words and left us (me at least) giddy with the intoxication of having connected with kindred spirits in deeper, richer way than usually evolves in the ebb and flow of casual conversation. Drug-induced visions, mysticism and metaphysics come to mind – yet I had nothing more than water and a tasty bean and vegetable burrito. 

I think the above gives a glimpse of why we have so much fun cycling together.  Too bad she doesn't have the time to maintain a Xanga site.