Arizona Dreamin’

OK – I’ll admit it.  I’ve been to Arizona before.  Our home is in California’s desert in the Palm Springs area but there are things about crossing into the territory that comprises the USA’s 48^th State that are just so – different.  An icon of the southwest, the first thing that strikes a visitor crossing over the boundary between California and Arizona are the Saguaros – massive tree-like cacti with frames that extend as high as 70 feet.  They don’t exist naturally for the most part in California; they are everywhere in Arizona, acting as silent sentinels across the landscape seemingly understanding they are in a unique place to which end they are great contributors.  Each appears to have its own distinctive personality wrapped up in the multiple limbs that begin to spring from the massive succulent’s trunk when they reach their 75th year, or so, which is about half the plant’s life.  The cartoonish persona that emits from each of these Sonoran Desert giants is as wild as the imagination of the beholder.  Our visit in late May saw the Saguaros with great numbers of flowers in full bloom; delicate petals held by a rugged, thorny master creating yet another uniquely Arizonan dichotomy.

Then there’s the speed limit:  75 MPH on the Interstate Highway after you cross the border that transports visitors from California to Phoenix.  Although only 5 MPH higher than on the California side it just seems like one is travelling so much faster as the Sagebrush, Ocotillo and Saguaros whizz by.  Traffic always seems lighter, too, on the Arizona side; that is until you reach the outskirts of Phoenix as it springs up from the rugged landscape with miles and miles of rooftops.  After 4 hours and 55 tunes from our IPod “Travelin” playlist our target starts to come into focus as Bob Seger belts out his desire to not know that which he now knows. The Phoenix Metropolitan Area, known as “The Valley of the Sun” is a collection of cities, towns and communities spread across the Sonoran Desert encompassing nearly 253 square miles (37,000 km²) with more than 4 million inhabitants wrapped and intersected by rugged, up-thrusted mountains with names like Camelback, Pinnacle Peak, McDowell, White Tank, Superstition and Sierra Estrella. Town names in this expansive valley conjure images of the old west: Cave Creek, Buckeye, Surprise, Mesa, Ahwutukee and Gila Bend competing with Paradise Valley, Goodyear, Glendale and Scottsdale for tourist dollars. 

Our destination for this trip was Scottsdale; 35 miles after we ventured off the Interstate Highway by way of the appropriately named 101 “Loop” that bypasses the downtown Phoenix area as it circles toward the region’s northeast boundary.  Scottsdale, although maintaining an “Old Town” in an attempt to preserve its by-gone cowboy roots is the epitome of gentrification with some of the most expensive residential real estate in the USA slotted between endless hiking trails, golf courses, resorts and upscale shopping malls.  My wife, Mitzi, and I arrived at the Marriott McDowell Mountains hotel well before our appointed check-in time to be greeted by what was a steady succession of well-trained, refreshingly friendly staff persons who informed us we could certainly take possession of a room that was in a quiet location of the hotel property.  As we bounded through the door of our 2 room suite – secured at the bargain price of $98 per night with no resort fee or parking charges thanks to our AAA discount – we couldn’t help but be disappointed by the lack of a patio, or even a balcony.  In fact, there wasn’t a single window that could be opened to allow outside air to mix with that which was being conditioned by the hotel’s system.  Figuring we wouldn’t spend that much of our getaway in the room since we planned to get in plenty of pool time during these upcoming 4 sunny, spring days we took a stroll to the pool area to discover there were no empty loungers, chairs or frankly, a square meter of deck that wasn’t already occupied.  Weighing our options we concluded we were committed to spending at least the first night in our reserved room and decided to take a drive to experience some nearby shopping centers that would prove to be soothing for at least one of us.  After a few hours of shop perusal with a good amount of Husband Chair time we found ourselves dining, al fresco, at Lush Burger in the DC Ranch Crossing surrounded by Palo Verde trees in full bloom.  The burgers, sliders and homemade chips, turned out to be “de-lush”, just as the local proprietors promised in their marketing materials and the outdoor seating was absolutely delightful on such a warm night with the sunlight waxing into darkness helping to mitigate the disappointment of our initial hotel check-in.  We returned to our encapsulated suite to rest up for the day ahead to find the promise of a comfortable bed and quietness unbroken.

The next morning found us venturing forth to the same neighborhood where we had enjoyed our evening meal the day before as the hilly terrain and open desert areas promised a good location for a morning walk with some impressive vistas of the valley floor and collections of the desert flora and fauna that were delivered upon.  Afterwards, we found the pool to be much less crowded than the previous day and knowing we had a few hours before our scheduled attendance at the Arizona Diamondbacks’ MLB baseball game that afternoon suited up, slathered on some sunscreen and relaxed poolside for a couple of hours with books and magazines.  The disappointment of the previous day was slowly giving way to a feeling of well-being and comfort; not an unusual response to the warm, dry Sonoran desert climate.

 

Chase Field, the home of the Arizona Diamondbacks, is a beautiful fully-enclosed stadium with a retractable roof.  The stadium operators leave the roof open when there is no game to allow the natural turf to flourish while closing it for the comfort of the players and fans during scheduled contests as the sun in Arizona during baseball season can be quite intense.  Attendance at a game in this facility was on my bucket list as part of a lifetime goal to try to see an MLB game in every stadium in the USA and Canada.  I got to check off Attend a Diamondbacks Game at Chase Field while watching the home team whip the visiting Milwaukee Brewers from the 23^rd row directly behind home plate (tickets were scored through Stub Hub) and discovering that among the attractions of Chase Field are included a swimming pool (that can be reserved for parties just past right-center field) and a “Value Menu” at the concession stands that includes $4 beer and $1.50 hot dogs – unusually affordable by MLB standards.  We were also shocked to learn they allow gambling during the game; albeit a 50/50 raffle with the house split going to Diamondbacks Charitable Foundation and one lucky winner walking away from the game that day with over $8,000!  Needless to say our eventually ripped up entry met the identical fate as almost every bet I’ve ever made on anything that eats.  We returned to our now familiar hotel for a light dinner having filled up on hot dogs and garlic fries (Never Again!) at the game.

The following morning found us pointing our Honda Accord in the direction of Pinnacle Peak, a locally famous and very distinctive mountain that also serves as a convenient navigation reference point.  Having researched the “moderate” hike up to the highest point allowed on the trail which is not all that high by most standards but plenty challenging enough for a slightly overweight boomer 1 click shy of 60 we parked our vehicle and ventured forth on the meticulously maintained track up and down the mountainside with a fair number of other seekers of awesome views and exercise on this fine morning.  I knew I’d make the 4 miles or so out and back when I met a lady some 10+ years my senior headed down mountain with her purse draped over her shoulder and was then passed multiple times by a lithesome 15 year old wisp of a young lady that was running continuously up and down without breaking a sweat.  Nonetheless, just to be able to say we did it provided an ego boost and sense of communing with nature.  The trail head provides his and hers bathrooms and running water in a facility of which the folks at Disney would be proud.   We returned to our now very comfortable and “what the heck, so what if it doesn’t have a balcony” room to change into clothing more suitable for a couple of poolside hours under the brilliant Arizona sunshine.  Knowing I had a tee time just after noon at the TPC Scottsdale Stadium Course made me conserve the balance of my energy poolside in the shade of a very efficient umbrella.

Mitzi deposited me and my TaylorMades at the golf course bag drop an hour before my scheduled tee time on her way to explore the bounty of the Scottsdale Fashion Square (one of the largest enclosed mall shopping centers in the USA).  Met by a procession of outside service folks, pro shop attendants and starters who could not have been more accommodating or pleasant I proceeded to the practice range to prepare for the thrill of checking this adventure off my bucket list – playing the course where the PGA Tour stages the Phoenix Open (I can’t bring myself to call it by its “official” name, the Waste Management Open, for obvious reasons).  My hands weren’t shaking, not that I noticed anyway, but my recollection is that I started to snap fade nearly every other practice ball (ProV1s at that) while warming up to an eventual introduction to my playing partner, Jeff, from Toronto, Canada who brought along his wife, Melissa, to ride in the cart while he displayed his considerable talent for the game.  Not wanting to embarrass myself by opting for the shortest route possible around the course, I allowed him to pick the tees, Blue, and the two of us set out on one of the most enjoyable rounds of golf I’ve experienced in some time.  Melissa, on the other hand, suffered a pretty severe sunburn on her alabaster Canadian legs that were not used to the intense sunlight found mid-day in Arizona so I’m almost sure her level of enjoyment didn’t match mine.

Within the first 10 strokes I learned that Jeff, an obviously accomplished golfer, had recently completed a match at his home club in their President’s Cup, which he won 2 and 1 with a total of 72 shots.  “Gross or Net?”  I embarrassed myself with a query he answered with disdainful eyeshot.  As we traipsed over the 6,525 yards of the track enjoying the scenery, conditions and layout we both pointed toward the famous in professional golf circles 16^th hole, a benign appearing Par 3 that is transformed into a 50,000 +/- seat stadium of over-served golf fanatics one week each year just before the NFL’s Super Bowl.  Trying to imagine ourselves in that temporary arena we successively launched our tee shots:  Jeff’s hit the green but as we both had witnessed on TV more than a few times, bounded left into a waiting bunker that was deeper than Jeff was tall.  My tee shot was tracking straight toward the American Flag that had been substituted for the usual markers on every hole this Memorial Day and I started to envision my 2^nd lifetime hole-in-one when my Titleist abruptly fell from the sky, 10 feet short of the green.  I managed to scrape my chip shot to tap-in range and Jeff two-putted for bogey (one of only 3 scores he made over par all day) after extricating himself from the deep bunker.  His 3 birdies against my zero for the balance of the round meant nothing to me in the face of this triumph.  After playing the last 2 holes in one over par I was able to post an 83, appropriate for my 10.7 index on the Par 71 Tom Weiskopf layout but certainly 10 shots, or so, better than my expectations 4 hours earlier on the practice range.



Mitzi collected me after the round and we returned to our room to change for dinner where she showed me the treasures obtained during her shopping excursion that I did my best to admire.  We then drove the 5 miles or so to Fleming’s Steakhouse for a much anticipated steak dinner.  Now Fleming’s is not a uniquely Arizonan experience and in fact is a chain with outlets all over the country but the quality is consistent, you can order from a large variety of wines up and down the price scale by the glass and the ultimate decision point; we had a $50 gift card.  Not particularly busy this Memorial Day Monday evening the wait staff, chef and management put on an incredible show including excellently prepared Prime Beef, multiple scrapes of offending crumbs from our table with an appropriate tool and a parting gift of hand-made chocolate truffles for “later”.  I was so impressed I took the Operating Partner’s card with the intent to send an email complimenting him for the experience – it’s still on my “to do” list.

Tuesday morning saw us sadly packing for our 4 hour ride back to the California side and the inevitable reunion with reality.  We waived goodbye to the last of the Saguaros as we dropped down toward Blythe, then stopped for a ritualistic Frosty at the Wendy’s located at the last Arizonan Truckstop where the price of gas is 50 cents cheaper than just over the line.  As we reengaged with Interstate 10 and its 5 MPH slower speed limit back in California we couldn’t help but notice again that although we were still in the desert, it was just so - different.

Sometimes You Just Have to Look

To prepare myself for the event I decided to do some research about how previous civilizations explained the temporary occlusion of the Sun.  Living in the Palm Springs area of Southern California provides convenient insights to the customs and legends of the Native Americans that once were the lone human inhabitants of this valley as their influence is everywhere.  After finding stories about Bears, Mice and other creatures nibbling on the Sun for various reasons in attempts to explain the phenomena, I grabbed hold of one ancient explanation of a solar eclipse proffered by an Indian Tribe that was native to California.  The legend expresses the belief that an eclipse is caused by the spirits of the dead trying to eat the Sun.  During the eclipse, the shamans and ceremonial assistants sang and danced to appease the dead spirits while everyone else shouted to attempt to scare the spirits away. Perhaps this custom gave rise to the modern day “Eclipse Parties” where the predicted event is marked by the consumption of intoxicants and rock and roll music?  It kind of makes sense, in a nonsensical sort of way.   Nonetheless, I decided I would witness this historic event without the distraction of a party.

The newspapers were full of advice leading up to the event.  Tips on just the right way to view the eclipse so as to avoid damage to one’s eyes; how to capture the image (or a mirror thereof) on film or a digital camera; how best to use common household objects to project the image on to a less eye-damaging surface where the shadows could be observed.  When it came right down to it I decided my curiosity would only be sated by being able to see this majestic natural occurrence by looking it right in the eye.  I deferred a purchase of impossible to find, special solar eclipse glasses in favor of my darkest lenses and a back-up paper and plastic pair that my optometrist gave to me when I had my pupils dilated a few weeks ago.  I headed out to some open land near my home that provided an unobstructed view to the West where the two heavenly bodies were to cross paths.  I rigged my SONY Super Steady Cybershot DSC-W150 digital camera with its Carl Zeiss Lense to its tripod so as to make sure I could get the least amount of vibration possible and pointed it toward the still blazing orb.  I donned my tripbucket lid (YOU KNOW YOU WANT ONE!), forced my wife to accompany me and waited for the show.

Now maybe it had something to do with the fact it was 104F (40C) when the show began.   In direct defiance of every recommendation to NOT LOOK DIRECTLY AT THE SUN I did just that.  Two pairs of stacked sunglasses and the bill of my cap did virtually nothing to block the energy that seared temporary dark spots into my eyes. It took me about 10 minutes to recover but knowing I had some time before the ultimate event at precisely 6:39 p.m. I frantically started racking my brain for alternatives and after some experimentation with angles and dark glass configurations found that the combination of looking through the light-refractive branches of a mature Chilean Mesquite Tree with my paper/plastic complimentary shades, folded in 2, held about arm’s length in front of my Ray-Ban shrouded eye-balls gave me the best perspective; albeit for only a few seconds at a time.  My camera was less successful than I as it apparently isn’t smart enough to actually look THROUGH the tree branches but chose to focus right on them.  Nonetheless, I have a few images that will serve to remind me of my exposure to this epic event, even if they will never find their way into anyone else’s catalog.

As the Moon made its journey over the face of the Sun I couldn’t help but wonder about the ancient cultures and how they dealt with this rare occurrence.  There were no scientists or newspapers or a Wikipedia to help explain what they were witnessing hundreds and thousands of years ago.  No dark glasses or reports from other places to the East where the event had just taken place in astronomical harmony.  The people only had ancestral stories about spirits and bears and mice to soothe their concerns that the one thing that provided their heat, light and ability to survive on what would otherwise be a dark planet was only allowing a distant neighbor to pass by.

I returned to my home and checked this one off my Bucket List; I’m happy that I did.

It was on my Bucket List – to See a Solar Eclipse.  I was stoked when I first heard there would be one visible in the Western USA on May 20, 2012. This Annular Solar Eclipse (not “Annual”), not seen since in the USA since 1994, is commonly referred to as “The Ring of Fire” due to the totality of the moon’s shape obscuring  the Sun in such a way that a fiery-looking band is obvious around the perimeter of the blocking Moon . The "path of annularity" where the eclipse was to occur was only going to be about 320 kilometers (200 miles) wide.  However, it would stretch nearly halfway around the world beginning in Tokyo, Japan, crossing over the Pacific Ocean on a path though Oregon, California, Nevada, New Mexico and finally, Texas. In those locations the ring of fire phenomenon was be to visible for as much as 4 and a half minutes but the show was predicted to last nearly 2 hours, start to finish.

My Friend Jacques

I remember the twinkle in his eye as he danced with nearly all the women at the French Canadian New Year's party a couple of years ago.  Not because he was a ladies man, rather he felt it was his duty to make sure each and every woman had their opportunity to be waltzed around to the tunes of the orchestra under his careful guidance.  After all, many of the old gals had lost their husbands and their time on the hardwood floor with Jacques might be the only chance they would have to trip the light fantastic at this denouement of the year gone by.

When the local Homeowner's Association needed a leader Jacques stepped up to the plate.  When the Cathedral City Police Department's Citizen's on Patrol unit needed a Captain, Jacques said "I will".  When a neighbor needed a garage door fixed, a garbage disposal unplugged, a fence repaired or any number of other tasks for which others could charge hundreds, Jacques said "I can" without expectation of compensation.  He was good at any and everything and had a peculiar habit of estimating the length of time a job might take not in hours but in beers;  "Sounds like a 4 beer job if you ask me".

Jacques had a habit of saying he would only concern himself with today, today; that spending time gnashing one's teeth about that which was past or projecting into the future those things unknown was counterproductive and a waste of precious time.  How right he was now that I realize we will all need to move forward without his wise counsel, his great caring for his friends and neighbors and his take charge attitude.

What I know about today is that I no longer have my friend, my neighbor, my consigliere, my teacher, electrician, plumber, carpenter, mechanic and moral compass.  Taken by the ravages of metastatic prostate cancer he acquired as a result of his service in Vietnam in the United States Navy and exposure to Agent Orange, Jacques fought the good fight as he did with all things but this time he was defeated by an invisible, heartless, silent foe.

Rest in Peace Jacques Jean-Paul Lefebvre, I will miss you so much.

Anniversary

When I awoke this morning I had a vivid memory of exactly one year ago as the alarm sounded in the cramped hotel room on the campus of Loma Linda University Hospital prodding me to get dressed and present myself to the pre-op department in preparation for Dr. Paul Kim to remove a good portion of my tongue, 30 or so lymph nodes from my neck and shoulder and rebuild the organ that is so vital for communication and nutrition with a hunk of my own flesh taken from beneath my chin.  Tongue Cancer they said; why or how we'll never know.  I'd never heard of the disease before I got it.   A hemiglossectomy and radical neck dissection with a submental island flap is the technical term for the surgery, my memorization of which always brings a smile to the surgeon's face.

I had to laugh over this most recent New Year's holiday observing all the conversation and journalistic proliferation for Resolutions being put forth.   What could possibly compare to 2011 for me in the way of accomplishments?  I lost 25 pounds;  gave up a 40 year love affair with alcohol; whipped a devastating disease; maintained my handicap index at 10.6.   All worthy goals but if the truth be told none the result of a Resolution (OK, maybe the golf index was).  More than likely, it was my attempt to fight back against an opponent I couldn't see, could not communicate with and frankly, didn't understand.

A good friend of mine that is some years my senior and a person I have considered a mentor of sorts for the past 20 odd years recently said to me:  "You know, Craig, the older I get the more I realize I don't know a lot about anything anymore.  I just know a little about a lot of things."  And of course, it made me stop and think; made me realize that everything in our world moves so fast that the more we try to control events the less likely we are to be successful.

So back to my accomplishments in 2011 and my Resolutions:  Did I consciously resolve to achieve any of those results?  I don't think I did but more than anything I reacted to an incredible display of love and support from those around me:  my wife with her unending love and caring; my 3 incredible daughters; my parents and siblings; in-laws and friends; business acquaintances and medical care providers.  I only hope I can repay the debt for the motivation all of those important people in my life provided to do what was apparently necessary to move beyond this mind-numbing chapter.

Thank you all.

Sheep's Clothing

The Obama Administration announced yet another new program designed to get our collapsing housing industry back on its feet.  They want to sell huge numbers of foreclosed properties to Big Time Investors on a wholesale basis to be converted to rentals with the stated belief that by doing so, stability will magically return to the housing market in this country.  You can read the gist of the announcement here READ ARTICLE .

On its face this might seem like a good idea but as with most things the devil will be in the details.  As a Boomer, a Homeowner, a Father and Grandfather I have serious concerns about the benefits of this program as they relate to me, my children and grandchildren.  I see a few winners:  Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, the FHA, FDIC, Ginnie Mae and our dear friends, the Too Big to Fail Banks.  However, my friends, I also see many, many losers and as with most of the financial bailouts that have occurred since the collapse of our economy the losers will be the common folks:  you and me.

What I know is that the only reason Big Time Investors will get involved will be to make a profit.  Can't blame them for that; its a fundamental goal of being an investor.  However, this profit will be made on the backs of all of us that have attempted to weather this devastating decline in real estate values in the country, effectively transferring more of what is left of our declining wealth, once again, from us to them.

Reading between the lines Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, the FHA and the Banks have thrown up their hands and admitted they can't slug their way through the foreclosure mess by dealing with the properties one at a time, frankly, because they aren't very good at it.  They know that a profit motivated private enterprise will do a much better job.  Besides, at least for the banks, they would prefer to move on to more interesting transactions; those by which they could continue to profit by and therefor increase the value of their stock which in turn creates significant rewards for the managers of the institutions.  Essentially, they are bored with cleaning up the mess they created and want to do things that are more "fun".

So what's wrong with that?  I can already hear you thinking; why wouldn't pushing this problem off the entities that caused it all in the first place be a good thing for all of us homeowners?  Where is the downside?

Restating my belief that the only reason Big Time Investors will tie up their capital, invest their personnel and intellectual resources will be with the goal of much greater than average profit margins.  In its simplest context, this means they will need to purchase these properties at highly discounted prices compared to the current market to allow for the inefficiencies of these Really Big Companies that will now be in the business of buying individual homes in neighborhoods scattered throughout the country and then spending the time, effort and energy to rehabilitate those homes so that they can be considered liveable and rentable. 

Connecting the dots:  the predicted result is that these "sales" will initially further erode current property values because the Big Time Investors will have factored in the rehab costs, holding costs, administration, overhead, soft costs and the inevitable "profit margin" needed for the Big Time Investor.  This can have no effect in the short term but to further depress property values in neighborhoods where these "sales" take place.  The losses incurred by government agencies recognized as a result of the discounted sales will just get added to the Multi-Trillion dollar tab already saddled on the backs of our fellow citizens.  Any current homeowner that wants to sell their home during this next period of time will incur even further losses in their equity.

If you want to understand more, take a look at the history of One West Bank and the outrageous profits these "smart" investors have made on the taxpayer's account with their acquisition of IndyMac Bank.  My acute sense of smell tells me its the same recipe.  Read About One West Bank .  The consortium  that purchased One West is headed by Steven Mnuchin of Dune Capital Management in New York and includes J. Christopher Flowers, George Soros and John Paulson.  Any of those names sound familiar?

Some Fiction for a Change

If you want to be a writer, you have to write.  This is a fictional short, short story I wrote for a contest (I didn't win).  I would love some feedback ...

LOCKED IN

“Sergeant Mizzoli, Sergeant Mizzoli”   My eyes slowly focused on the face of a middle aged woman opposite my gaze. This was not the time she called my name. “Doctor, Doctor; he opened his eyes”.

My head was as if in a vise. I felt nothing but the rhythmic batting of my eyelids. A new face appeared before my fixed gaze displaying a serious five o’clock shadow and nose hair badly in need of trimming. “It is Sergeant, isn’t it?” the affirmation wouldn’t come and my head didn’t nod.

The hirsute face continued speaking emotionlessly, distinctly accented: “I’m Dr. Vashani. You are in Hospital. You’ve been here for 3 days in a coma while we have been stabilizing your injuries. You have a broken tibia and both your forearms have compound fractures. The paramedics found you in a sand trap at Vista Jacinto Country Club under a badly wrecked golf cart. Your brother was found on the grass nearby and is just fine, save for a badly sprained ankle. We believe you have a complete C4 injury.”

My mind was spinning. Grandpa and Nan had given permission to use their condo at the Club upon my return from a 3rd tour of Iraq and Afghanistan. My brother, Dave, my 2 best friends, Buster and Randy and I left San Diego on Friday afternoon motoring to the condo in Dave’s Cayenne just in time to squeeze in 18 holes before dark. Dave and Randy then made a beer and pizza run. There weren’t many days of lollygagging during my 13 years in the Marine Corps and I was enjoying this relaxation. After dinner we cracked a bottle of Grandpa’s Jose Cuervo and matched shooters while playing 5 card stud. Randy pulled a small baggie with a couple of joints out of his windbreaker’s pocket and the four of us shared the spleef, just like the old days. Then, Fucking Dave and his need for speed needled me into a race with Grandpa and Nan’s matching golf carts on a moonless night with stars one only sees in the desert as our singular light source.

“C’mon; I’ll race you to the 15th tee box” Dave hollered. The hill running from the condo to the 14th green was at least 2 extra clubs steep. The last thing I remember was being slightly in front of Dave nearing the 14th green with him trying to cut me off between the green and the bunker that lay alongside.

My goal during my duty in the Middle East was to keep my men safe. Safe from the roadside bombs; safe from the IEDs. Three trips over; three trips back; never a serious injury in my platoon. I knew what a complete C4 meant. I was struggling to wiggle my toes, move my fingers, hell, move my mouth but I couldn’t make it happen.

“not me. Not Me! NOT ME!!!” I screamed only in my mind.