travel

Chasing Dolly

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Neither the clone sheep, nor Dolly Levi, but the Dolly…Parton. On Monday, I learned that the Dolly was going to perform in Las Vegas in December, and tickets for her six shows would go on sale Wednesday morning. Some of you probably are wondering why I would care, but it’s a family thing. My maternal grandparents were from a small holler, Kodak, in east Tennessee, where my great grandfather was the Sevier County sheriff. The county seat is Sevierville and home to the Parton family. Given the size of the community my relatives knew the Partons, and until my grandmother’s death she was an avid follower of Dolly’s rising success. (My youngest kid somehow inherited my grandmother’s admiration for Dolly and exclusively uses her cake and brownie mixes.) Given this quasi-familial relationship, I set out on a mission to get concert tickets. Just 8 tickets, which according to the website would cost $600 at the high end, and $25 at the low.

Wednesday morning, 9:00 AM: I entered the queue. WTF? 54,569 folk in front of me! My kid was in the queue with 13,000 ahead. Thank God. We’d score tickets for sure. 10:00 AM the sale began. 10:30 AM all six concerts were sold out! By 11:00AM, the alleged $600 seats were being sold by brokers for $13,929!

Talk about shock and awe for this old broad. My dreams of spectacular Christmas presents shattered, I schlepped away with a determination to figure out what happened. After too many hours of research, I’m still not an authority on what happened. My simplistic explanation is: ticket scalping in the digital age due to (ro)bots. If you want to further understand, consider reading Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped by Budnick and Baron. Supposedly, His Highness, at the urging of Kid Rock, issued an Executive Order in March to curtail this practice, but obviously that’s yet to come to fruition.

When a nation is run by billionaires, the rest of us don’t matter. Sorry. I’ve got to go. I’m late for the Bezos’s wedding!

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

I’ve just completed my fourth, and perhaps final novel, which is primarily set in several of these establishments. In order to infuse a dose of reality, I had to refresh my experiences in bars since my college days, and I discovered some of them are much classier than those I hung out in almost sixty years ago.

Upon entry, the first thing that struck me was they were lighter–I could actually see who was in there. Of course, this may be due to better lighting and the no smoking policy. Or it could be because these neighborhood bars don’t cater to the underage, fake ID, college crowds. Secondly, unlike college hangouts, food is served–not bags of potato chips and peanuts–real food, like veggie burgers, wings, club sandwiches, soups, and salads. (Yes, some of it is greasy food, but it’s quality fried pickles, zucchini, and mushrooms.) Thirdly, and most importantly, the bathrooms are immaculately clean. Gone are the phone numbers, the graffiti, and the lipstick smudges. The toilets aren’t clogged; the sinks and mirrors are clean, the waste cans are empty, and toilet paper doesn’t decorate the floor.

Over the last year, I’ve researched this industry and can honestly conclude the owners I interviewed were primarily in their 40’s, some of them were women, and all of them were very customer-service focused. In fact, the bartender immediately uncaps the customer’s favored beer or pours the “usual” before he/she take their seat. Some servers are so adept they can take dinner orders from a table of ten without the benefit paper and pencil–truly amazing what they can remember! (Which is why, at my age, I can’t be a server!)

Finally, my last word of advice, is don’t judge a neighborhood bar and grill by its exterior. Some of these establishments have been around for thirty or forty years. Instead, check out the parked cars, you may see high-end vehicles and fancy sports models. As long as the neighborhood is safe, you may become as fascinated as I am with this industry. Cheers!

WTH Is That?

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Last week my Texas niece, her husband, and their children came to Phoenix for a whirlwind fifty-five hour visit. Since their kids had never been to Arizona, we crammed an Arizona experience into a very tight time frame, including a dip in my 68-degree swimming pool, a hike in the Mountain Preserve, dinner at a Mexican restaurant, and a trip to the zoo.

Now, the zoo trip did not focus on primarily on the lions, tigers, and monkeys, but on the fauna indigenous to the desert. My five-year-old great nephew, D-Dog, particularly enjoyed the creepy crawly exhibit of snakes, lizards, scorpions, and such, which he explained to me in great detail. (I wouldn’t have known, since I refuse to look at those creatures.) His sister liked the roadrunner who was munching on a white mouse and the Mexican wolves who were devouring rabbit entrails.

I was dawdling along attempting to avoid being caught in the midst of an elementary school trip when I saw it. At first, I thought it was a submerged black bear when it suddenly rose out of the man-made creek and took to the air, flapping its wings and dousing me with water. WTH is that? A freaking California Condor with an over eight-foot wing span. Now even though this massive bird was in a netted habitat I ducked. I flashed back to my terror of watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Admittedly, I was less worried about having my eyes pecked out than I was of it snatching me in his talons and carrying me off to Papago Buttes.

Of course, D-Dog was most amused by his great aunt’s fear, and he even had the audacity to label me a fraidy cat. I’m okay with that; I’m just happy to have survived and lived to write about my condor encounter. In fact, this old gal is happy to have survived their whirlwind visit.

Road Trip

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

“Do you want to go on a road trip with me, Sue? I’ll drive.” No, I thought. I’ve ridden with her on a few occasions and while her car is luxurious, her driving skills are not the best–in my humble opinion!

“Sure, but I’ll drive.” Now, I’d not been on a road trip as the sole driver for over forty years and had long since forgotten how arduous it can be. My road trips were simply flying into an airport, picking up a rental car, and driving not more than an hour to my destination. I failed to realize my offer to drive on this over 400-mile journey was something I hadn’t done in at least forty years.

I wasn’t prepared for the high-speed, bumper-to-bumper interstate traffic, where I remained on high alert. Cars wove in and out, as did the speeding semi-trucks. “Sue, what’s the place over there?”

“I CAN’T LOOK, I am trying to avoid getting an accident with that maniac trucker that just cut me off!” I clung to the steering wheel with my sweaty palms. When we reached the hotel, I said, “I need a shower and a drink, and not necessarily in that order.” The next two days of this adventure were primarily on two-lane state highways involving twists and turns and ups and downs. I’m no fan of these; I like flat, straight highways so I can see where I’m going. Of course, these damned roads were marked with warning signs: Watch for animals and Watch for falling rocks. Hell, that’s all I needed is to have a mountain slide down on my car!

Further, I know these small towns thrive on tourists: Tombstone, Bisbee, Tubac, Patagonia, etc. There’s certainly not much industry once the mines closed. We chose to only eat and/or drink at local establishments. (I’ve no recommendations; it was all equally terrible.) Of course, local government also survives on tourists by stationing police hiding around the curve, at the end of the tunnel, or wedged into the side of a canyon. No, I didn’t get a ticket. I played particular attention to speed; I knew that game.

Yesterday, I was less than forty miles from my casa when the interstate traffic came to a halt. I’d seen the warning signs: Crash ahead. Slow down. However, there was no crash. It was a normal Saturday when the interstate abruptly closes for road work. For the next hour, I crept along to the mandated exit and eventually wended my perspiring self home–again, in need of a shower and a drink. I turned to my friend and said, “Ask someone else to ride along with you the next time you want to do a road trip.”

Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Home Alone?

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

My apologies to the movie. But for the most part of the last thirteen years, I’ve been the only human in my casa. Granted I’ve had visitors and weekend guests, but again it’s mostly just me who talks to me, who cooks for me, and who entertains me. However, recently I had an epiphany! I AM NOT ALONE.

Now, if my kids read this blog (doubtful), they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. In fact, I’m NEVER alone with five, needy dogs who are always hungry and in need of a belly rub. They also frequently forget to use their inside barks when the Amazon driver comes to the front door or when they’re absolutely sure there’s a boogie man in my backyard at three AM. Alas, I’m forced to scold their behavior, thank them for their vigilance, and urge them back to slumber.

Secondly, I AM NOT ALONE. There’s laundry. Laundry is always there for me. Since it’s currently sweltering in Phoenix, I’ve the absolute minimum of clothes to launder and oodles of beach towels. Further, I’ve a number of children and their parents who hang out in my pool, who forget their swim attire and towels when they leave, so I do their laundry too.

Finally, one of my long time Ohio friends reminded me this week of the third reason I AM NOT ALONE: garbage. Garbage is always there for me with an added benefit. Benefit? It demands I follow the schedule. Monday is pick up day, meaning Sunday night I must rid my refrigerator of expired food and clean up and bag dog poop. Obviously, one does not want to leave the shells from shrimp cocktail in 110-degree-heat for weeks in the trash can. It must go out on Sunday. Unfortunately, my friend owns two houses four hours apart, demanding a rigorous garbage schedule. She can head to her beach house on Wednesday afternoon to enjoy the weekend on Lake Erie, but she must return to the city by Tuesday evening in time to place her trash can at the curb. (After hearing her story, I’m very glad I only own one home. With my luck, I’d forget what day of the week it is and be left with sizzling stench.)

I offer this word of advice to my single friends. Life is all in how one looks at it. One can wallow in a broken marriage, an early death of a spouse or partner, or the loss of a best friend. Yet, no one is ever solely alone, even without pets. There’s always laundry and garbage….They are there for YOU!