Who Deserves $1 Million?

...Besides yours truly, of course.

One of the web's most popular travel sites is giving away $1 million to a charity to be chosen by its users. Vote today! So far, two children's charities are in the lead. I'm sure those are worthy causes and all that, but I'd love to see The Nature Conservancy win, as I've read that its organization gives a very high percentage of its donations to the actual cause, rather than spending it on overhead.

Vote early, vote often

Anthropomorphism: The Panda Sneeze

I don't know why this cracked me up so much. Maybe it's because the mom panda is munching away like white trash on beef jerky while her offspring is chilling at her feet. Maybe it's because pandas are so humanlike that they've always looked to me like people dressed in panda costumes, and not like actual animals. Either way, this vid just kills me.
Panda Sneezes

Holiday Card Retrospective

Blame it on the Photoshop class I took at SMC back in 2002. It was the end of the semester, and I was so swamped that I had to choose between finishing my final project or sending out Christmas cards. While throwing together a composite of my cats surfing, I realized I could just add a few holiday elements to the image and voilà! I could have my card and final, too.

Now my personalized holiday card -- no matter how bad the graphics may be -- is almost expected by most of my friends. They get a kick out of the inanity of my cats' disparate religions and the amateurish compositing of images that are only a step up from Colorforms. And, I have to say, I enjoy coming up with such absurd concepts, even during one of the biggest time crunches of the year.

So, without further ado, here's a look back at the cards from years' past.

2002: Cats Surfing
This took far longer to put together than it should have. I already had the ocean shots from a previous surfing photo project, but when I decided to add the cats, I learned why they say never to work with kids or children. The shot of Koshka was actually one of her going downstairs, which only took about, oh, 15 tries. Chandler never did cooperate in posing properly, which is why he looks like a dufus. This was mailed as a single-sided postcard.

2003: Feline Diversity
After the response from my hastily put-together card the year before, I felt pressured to do it again. This time, however, I heeded the lesson learned the previous year and opted not to try to get them to pose. This was a shot I already had lying around, so all that remained was to throw some headwear on them. Many people were shocked to find that Chandler was the Jewish one of the two.

2004: Sans Chats
Wishing to avoid the Crazy Cat Lady label, I switched to a feline-free card in '04. I learned that the adage should be amended to read "Never work with cats, kids, or nature." Getting this shot just right took almost as many snaps as with the fluffy children, and in the end I did just as much Photoshop work.

2005: The Lost Year
I don't recall not sending a card this year, but I can't seem to find any evidence that proves otherwise -- no files on my computer, no recollection of some Photoshopped cat zaniness. Alas, the collection shall have to go incomplete.

2006: On-the-Fly, Web-Only E-Card
I didn't even get around to snail-mailing cards last year, so I had to settle for a hastily assembled card that wasn't even emailed until just around New Year's. Moments after hitting the send button, I realized I could have made this a tad more festive with hornblowers, champagne, and confetti. Neither cat looks very amused.

2007: Having a Ball
I actually had a moment to put a little extra effort into this year's card, both the snail mail and online versions. View 2007's e-card here.

To Fly or Not to Fly (Hawaii, Day 7)

I'm not a morning person. Anyone who even slightly knows me that I just don't function in the a.m. hours, no matter what the time zone. So for me to wake at 5:30 a.m. -- during my vacation, no less -- you know I meant business. And business on this, my last full day on the island, was to get on an aircraft and see some friggin' lava.

I drove the two-plus hours back to Hilo, through rain, wind, fog, and multiple inefficient traffic stops, to be at the airstrip by 9 a.m. After getting somewhat lost and being assured by the airline operator that the pilot would be waiting for me, I arrived 10 minutes early to find an empty airstrip. No one. Nada. Pas d'avion. After staying on the line with the operator a while longer, I was assured that my flight would not take off without me. A member of the grounds maintenance staff confirmed that my ride would be back shortly, from what I understood through the thick Hawaiian accent and noise of the airport. Shortly after the plane emerged in the low-ceilinged sky 15 minutes later, I learned that my flight was, again, canceled due to inclement weather. Dammit.

To kill the few hours before my horseback ride in the Waipi'o Valley shortly after noon, I stopped in at Ken's House of Pancakes in Hilo, a local joint with an enormous menu to rival even that of a New York diner. From there I headed straight to the Valley, driving through a town that looked like the Old West relocated to a tropical isle. Our main guide, Keone (who told us his name was Hawaiian for "John") liked to crack jokes and make us smell rancid fruit (in this case, the noni, which has a scent reminiscent of a monkey's butt crack and resembles a bloated wart), took us down the steep incline into the valley, picking up a wayward bodyboarder along the way. (How he hung onto the back of the bucking van I'll never know.) Less than an hour later, we were saddled up and cantering into a valley of waterfalls, hippies, and mist-covered taro fields.

My riding companions -- most much more skilled at horseback than I -- were a motley crew of tourists from throughout the continental U.S., the loudest of who insisted on leading the pack and hootin' and hollerin' about every aspect of her life so that she almost scared off one of the wild horses who roamed Waipi'o. The haze lifted so that we didn't need the rain gear we'd brought, and our band made its merry way past the leased homes and squatters (an "inordinate amount" of which are named Dave, per The Book and seconded by Keone). I snapped almost as many shots as I had at Pololu, but few were as spectacular, given the fickle lighting and constant movement of my ride. Although I didn't get to ride over a volcano, this excursion made up for the flight in terms of shear spectacle. The perfectly ripe avocados, hand picked as we trotted along, made for a delightfully delicious end of the day, for both me and my trusty steed.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Back From a BLIFF-ful Weekend

It's been years since I've been up to Big Bear, and I honestly hadn't given the place much thought recently until a friend of mine mentioned his film was in the Big Bear International Film Festival (the BLIFF of the post title). So up I trekked, taking the back road, CA-38, since the front was closed due to massive fires.

I pulled into the small mountain town less than half an hour before the screening to find the sky brimming with smoke, which seemed to grow closer by the second. Should we screen or should we evacuate? We chose to screen, and I'm glad we did. After a night of cheese-filled buffets and Oktoberfest chicken dances, I said goodbye to my friend and the actors from the film, who were on their way back to Temecula for yet another fest. I, however, was left to roam the hillsides of Big Bear in search of Swiss-inspired chalets, alpine slides, and abandoned animals.

After a decent sandwich at The Mandoline, a picturesque chalet-styled restaurant on the edge of Big Bear Village, I figured it was time to make good on my promise to myself to take on the alpine slide. As I rode the gondola up to the top, I watched other riders whizz down at varying speeds, some so fast I'm surprised they didn't leap off the track. (Note to self: Any ride that makes you sign a liability waiver without letting you read the contract might be iffy.) My ride was much tamer than the daredevil whose wheels curled just over the lip of the slide as I rode the gondola above him, and I probably should have given it another whirl after getting the hang of it the first time. But instead, I opted to try to squeeze in some more mountain fun before having to return to Metropolis.

With the fire raging on the north side of the lake, I had to ditch the idea of kayaking at the Discovery Center and so instead opted for a visit to Moonridge, the area zoo. Now, I'm not a huge fan of zoos, and especially not local zoos, since the animals' confines tend to be a great deal smaller than those at cash cows like the San Diego Zoo or The Bronx Zoo. So I was hesitant to give my money to an organization that profits off the misfortune of animals. I'm happy to be proven wrong.

Moonridge, unlike most zoos, doesn't buy the animals they exhibit. Instead, they take in animals who might otherwise have to be euthanized, for reasons ranging from being unreleasable due to injuries (many human-inflicted) to being too tame to be able to fend for themselves. One of Moonridge's bobcats was found declawed, apparently the result of some stupid human trying to keep an unpredictable wild cat as a pet. All of the bald eagles, save one who is blind, were shooting victims. And the zoo's family of three grizzlies were victims of Yellowstone's three-strike rule, having ventured one to many times into human domain. They'd been scheduled to be put down until Harley Davidson came to the rescue and forked up the dough for their enclosure at Moonridge, where they've lived ever since. Mama Bear was named Harley in honor of the Hog organization's kindness.

After Moonridge, I reluctantly headed back down the hill, through the winding passes of San Bernardino National Forest, where I stopped repeatedly to snap shots of the misty -- not smoky -- hills that folded over each other in fading succession. Unfortunately, Blogger is currently being a pain in my ass and not letting me upload any other photos, which bums me out since I had some good ones. Alas, they'll have to wait. You'll have to settle for my lame-ass alpine slide vid.

My Outer Daemon

How is it that Europe is always so far ahead of us? Let's forget organic produce and the ever diminishing dollar. The true test of culture is in the arts, and the His Dark Materials series is high art at its finest, even if some want to relegate it to kiddie lit.

For the more enlightened among us, check out my daemon. Think it fits me? You have about a week to vote before Sergius the ocelot takes on a permanent form.

Ode to the Channel Islands

(With apologies to anyone with any literary sensibility.)

They were well underway
On a bright August day
With a bearing set for Santa Cruz.
Their craft was nigh full
From the mast to the hull
With provisions for two or three crews.

At the Sun Soleil's wheel,
On an uneven keel,
Stood their captain, of skill set unknown.
Quick to temper was he,
As they sailed the calm sea,
If they so much as cut off his drone.

But the insouciant crew --
Of each sex, there were two --
Would not let him rankle their mood.
After all, it was true:
What else could they do?
Piss him off and they'd surely be screwed.

So they hoisted the main
And cleared the head's drain
And prepped for the weekend ahead.
On their first trip ashore
"Holy shit!" they all swore
When they found a huge carcass quite dead.

After snaring a tooth
And playing the sleuth
They returned to the boat Sun Soleil.
What a tirade they got
From the doddy old sot:
"You left me alone here all day!"

"Grab the halyard, yank the sheet!
Tie the line to that cleat!"
Came the orders from morning to night.
Had they known had to sail
They'd all now be in jail
For lobbing the perv in the bight.

But their sails did not luff
For their nerves remained tough
When misfortune hit them full speed.
They bore flies by the reams,
An old skipper sans jeans,
And survived a sea lion stampede.

They had chocolate a plenty,
And bananas ten or twenty,
And they came to malign the poor fruit
For the hardships endured
Once they'd set foot aboard
The boat with a nasty old coot.

On the bow late at night
They observed quite a sight,
A gift from the heavens on high --
Quick flashes of light
Quite brilliant and bright
Like a vestige of Fourth of July.

"Anacapa, ahoy!"
Cried the four crew with joy,
As the lighthouse soon came into view.
They hopped into their dinghy --
A flimsy old thingy --
And skedaddled from old you-know-who.

But no shore trip for they,
Only "anchors aweigh!"
Due to Cap'n's pleas for more help.
For their trip was cut short --
They but made it to port --
By a harmless ol' bed of sea kelp.

Soon stolid park rangers
Became more than strangers
As they rolled back to the Sun Soleil.
Then for shore they set sail
With the wind at their tail
For the cap'n'd again had his say.

No more spinnakers for they,
As they cruised through the spray,
For a self-furling sail they had naught.
Wing and wing brought them forth
Amid salty air froth
As their dread soon begin to allay.

With the chocolate now gone,
Just how could they sail on?
But Oxnard soon loomed up ahead.
As they jumped on the pier
Disappeared all their fear
As they kissed the ground on which they tread.

They knew why they'd received
Such a little reprieve
And a trip of such great bargain rate.
Now once more ashore
They would say never more,
"This damn boat just will not macerate!"

(Full journal, with pics and video, here.)

Anacapa: Unbagged (Channel Islands, Day 3)

The few bananas still on board didn't faze us, although at least one person tried to attribute the shape and yellow color of the kayak to Chris' unusual incident. After breakfast, during which we fended off the swarm of flies that had come aboard some time during the night, we took turns paddling the sheltered coves of Little Scorpion, dipping into narrow crevices and enjoying the roller coaster-like effect of the tide in such a tight squeeze. We’d seen a few pelicans at other anchorages, but at Little Scorpion they teemed on any open face of rock, so that we began to wonder why our first day’s cove had been named for the brown seabird and not here. We also spotted a sleek, black, red-billed bird (which I’ve since discovered is a black oystercatcher), but I could never get my kayak close enough to allow for a good shot. Sea lions made frequent appearances, sometimes frolicking close enough to the kayak I could make out their bemused facial expressions.

Kayaking through caves was a bit anticlimactic after Painted Cave, but it was still quite a thrill to navigate through open-ended caverns and launch out through the other side. The water was clear enough to see twenty feet to the bottom, illuminating the purple sea urchins, multi-armed sunflower stars, ochre sea stars, and the occasional skittish Garibaldi.

After turning over the kayak to Sally, I somehow got suckered into going snorkeling. Now, normally I’d jump at the chance to flipper around and ogle sea creatures, but the decidedly frigid water temperature – just about 60 degrees – and my lack of an adequate wetsuit made me hesitate. But soon Chris had convinced me that I’d regret not going, and that even if the water was cold, I’d remember the sights more than the bone-numbing coldness, so I acquiesced. Gary chauffeured us over in the dinghy to the mouth of a small sea cave, where I overcame my trepidation to plunge into the water. When I emerged, it was to spout a mouthful of expletives as the cold shot through every limb like darts. But I was already submerged, so I followed Chris, my limbs hugging my body, into the cave.

Perhaps he hadn’t learned from yesterday’s encounter with the cascade of blubbery bodies, but Chris swam well ahead into the darkness, intent on hitting the end of the cave, sea lion stampede be damned. I hung back at a slightly less risky location, just within sight of sunlight but not close enough for it to aid me in viewing my surroundings. I clung to the barnacled cave wall as the tide swelled in and out, raising me upwards sometimes two or three feet, as I saw the dim beam of Chris’ flashlight poke about ahead. He’d found another beach and was fixed on flopping ashore, his flippers still on. I imagined various creatures trolling the floor below me, but clung fast, telling myself they’d eat him before me.

Finally he returned, and we swam around a rocky outcropping to the sea cave we individually kayaked through that morning. I spotted a spider crab dozing on the sea floor, then allowed the tide to push me forward into the cave, where the seabed rose to present a mesmerizing pattern of sand. The currents popped us out through the other end, and we explored the critters on the outside of the cave before hauling ourselves, me shivering, back into the dinghy for our return trip to the Sun Soleil.


Soon we had raised anchor and, now completely under sail power, we set our bearing for the lighthouse on Anacapa, which is actually comprised of three small islands which in total are still far smaller than Santa Cruz. Despite its size, Anacapa is a main stopping point for many visitors to the Channel Islands, due in part to the lighthouse and visitor’s center, as well as its system of moderate hiking trails. In rough waves, the four of us managed to get situated in the dinghy, while Gary navigated through the massive kelp beds just offshore. While the others took charge of bringing the dinghy on land, with the help of a pulley, I marched up the steps in search of a true flush toilet, pausing halfway up to admire the stark blue waters of the cove and the kelp pulsing in the surf.

None of us ever set foot on the true island though, because soon I was fetched to return to my friends, who had been sought out by park rangers. We soon learned that there was a problem back on the Sun Soleil and that we were to be shuttled back, now donning NPS life jackets. As a few island visitors – more than we’d seen in our previous two days – snapped shots of us refugees, we looked sadly back at Anacapa, unvisited its lighthouse, and unconquered sea arch, each vowing to return and bag the island. We received some solace in learning from the rangers exactly what it was that we'd discovered at Pelicans: a 26-foot basking shark.

Somehow, in the rough chop, we made it back aboard the Sun Soleil without getting squished between the NPS vessel. Gary told us of his engine problems, which he assumed may have been from cruising through a bed of gnarly kelp, and said our trip would have to be cut short. We reluctantly headed back towards the mainland, each taking turns at the helm. It wasn’t without irony that Sally pointed out that there were still a few bananas on board.




Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Stampede of the Sea Lions (Channel Islands, Day 2)

We slept well last night -- almost nine hours, in fact -- fatigued by our many encounters with rotting animals and the unending activity of hauling anchors, hoisting halyards, and searching for the perpetually elusive "bag of bags" in the chaos of the galley. After a breakfast of omelets, the Sun Soleil headed towards Painted Cave, which, depending on which source you read, is either the world's largest sea cave or one of the largest. Cap'n Gary sent us off in our vessels -- Chris in the inflatable kayak, Robert, Sally, and I in the dinghy -- and circled about in the cove awaiting our return.

As we paddled into the opening -- 160 feet tall, according to the National Park Service site -- we met up with a small flotilla of kayaks on their way out, having ventured only halfway into the quarter-mile long tunnel due to lack of sufficient lighting. When they saw our giant beacon, they followed us back inside, hoping to see more of the lichen- and algae-painted interior.

Just inside the entrance, on a ledge on the right wall of the cave, perched a few smaller sea lions, who slept on, seemingly oblivious to our presence. But as we ventured further inwards, their blubbery friends splashed down from rock outcroppings on either side as we passed their resting places, only to bob up as silhouettes now and again. The sound of the surging surf subsided the further we went back, until, after rounding a corner, it was a soft droning hum, accompanied by the soft dripping of water from the cave’s roof. We paddled as far towards the back as we could, now completely dependent on the uber-beacon’s light. Chris, in the faster and more agile craft, led the way, warning us of protruding rocks and steering us away from dead ends.

Finally, we reached the back wall of the cave, which ended in a rocky beach that sloped precipitously upwards. Intent on seeing the farthest reaches of the world’s largest sea cave, Chris positioned his kayak parallel to shore, ready to hop out and explore on foot. From the dinghy, roughly 15 yards behind him, I shone the spotlight for him to see, while Sally and Robert steered us. When the rocks suddenly began spilling into the water like a stone waterfall, I had visions of the whole cavern collapsing – something akin to the ending of The Goonies, only much, much darker. In the light of our beacon we watched as a stampede of sea lions poured down the slope, leaping over and under Chris and nearly swamping his inflatable kayak. Their eyes shone like laser pointers in the darkness, then disappeared as they flopped into the water, their dark shapes flying towards us and creating a small current of waves as they disappeared into the dark.

Once the chaos was over, we noticed that our tagalong friends had beat a swift retreat away from the marauding pinnipeds, and Chris related how the sea lions had been so close he could smell and feel them, that they had bumped him from beneath as they darted into the watery depths. Although we hadn’t spotted the cave’s resident elephant seal, we’d had quite an adventure to tell when we returned to the mainland. On our way out of the cave, we spotted another “floaty dead thing,” then ran into two members of the Synapse, who seemed tickled pink by our story of the sea lion stampede.

We returned to the Sun Soleil, which we now steered towards Little Scorpion, on the lee side of the east end of Santa Cruz. There, Gary told us, we’d have ample time for kayaking and snorkeling before our evening meal. But we first wanted to give our sea legs a little land time, so back in the dinghy we went, heading towards a small inlet that, we were told, would lead to some pleasant hiking trails. We strolled upwards for some time, but after seeing nothing of note except endless grassy hills, we rested a bit, enjoying the stability of solid ground beneath us.

After that night’s dinner of spaghetti, we once again headed topside for a reprise of the Perseids. Although the sky was even clearer than yesterday, we didn’t see as many fireworks, although the few we did see were quite spectacular, lasting for several seconds as they streaked across the sky. One final day, then it’s back to the mainland for good.






Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Barbarians of the Indian Ocean

We all know I love sharks, but not so far as to feed them live domesticated animals as bait. Yes, some South Seas sickos are doing just that, actually hooking live animals through the nose and paws and letting them float -- alive and suffering -- as bait for sharks. I thought this was just one of those Internet rumors, until I saw the story on the National Geographic news site. Who are these people who come up with such vicious ideas?

Sign the petition.

And for the box that asks what you think should be done with the people who are caught, use your barbaric little imagination as to what their punishment should be.

I'll Dive With Sharks, But Not With This Freak of Nature

Yeah, I've gone overboard (pun intended) on the whole shark thang, but I've recently gone eyeball to eyeball with an even freakier ocean denizen. Seriously, this abnormality has given me nightmares in recent weeks.

After living in Cali nearly 10 years (well past my personal deadline), I finally made the trek to the world-renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium. At last count, I've been to more than 10 aquariums around the globe (including my all-time fave, the Ring of Fire Aquarium in Osaka, which had a whale shark when I visited), and the Monterey promised to deliver more splash than any I'd previously visited. Unfortunately, my visit came after the release of the aquarium's most recently captive great white, but I was still lured by the promise of a state-of-the-art institution that refiltered salt water from the neighboring bay.

Because I got a late start out of Marin County, I had about an hour to view all the exhibits, so I made sure to devote the bulk of my time to the Outer Bay, which boasts a million gallons of free-floating marine amusement behind 13 inches of acrylic window space. Sure, the hammerheads and turtles were mesmerizing, but it was the ocean sunfish -- the first I'd ever viewed in real life -- that startled me to the point of transfixion.

These creatures never should have made it this far through evolution. Their poorly designed, flattened bodies are so hydrodynamically inept that they seem to drift helplessly with the current more so than any oceanic invertebrate (See: jellies). As young'uns, they appear normal enough, with the requisite fins and gills in all the right places, but once they get bigger, Mola mola takes on a grotesque form normally reserved for burn victims. Its tail takes on cauliflower characteristics, to the point of serving little purpose. Its "facial" features seem almost amorphous, with only a small orifice for a mouth. And its dorsal and anal fins seem ineffective when the current assumes strengths stronger than that of a bath tap.

I lingered at the Outer Bay exhibit longer than usual solely because of the two ocean sunfish specimens (six and ten feet tall, by the docent's estimates; Wikipedia has a good shot of their freakish size). Through the blue-gray gloom, one made its way towards the window at an awkward angle, as if emulating some inanimate piece of flotsam, until it was only feet away. Its eye looked cartoonish, as if it had been dreamed up by some freebaser in the basement of Henson Creature Studios, a sliced ping-pong ball granted the wish of orbital movement. It was ghastly, ghostly, too much for me to handle, and I backed away into the crowd until I was safely behind the docent and a maraudering band of Japanese tourists.

The hammerheads continued to circle the tank. My pals, the sea turtles, flitted by and high-fived me with their flippers after each circuit. The 300-pound tuna -- confined to below-average temperatures due to their need to breed at NASCAR speeds when the mercury rises to the mid-70s -- lapped the tank as if making for the next Guinness record. But they all sped by in comparison to the sunfish, who, like some gelatinous monster from the '50s, glided amiably by as if they had all the time in the world. If the meek shall indeed inherit the Earth, then the sunfish is going to be signing your timesheets come the next stock plunge. Stick me in a tank with carniverous sharks anyday. I'm certain these freakazoids would gum you to death, if given the chance.

Oh, and if you get the chance when in Monterey, stop by For Garlic Lovers in the nearby arcade. Decadent halitosis-inducing edibles await.