L.A. Images

I posted a photo essay on Las Vegas and now I will post a short one on Los Angeles. I've been neck deep in things that are not so narcissistic as a blog and not interesting enough to write about. I'm also stuck in a deep rut of remorse, regret, despair and surrender. I refuse to be another gum flapping Washington pundit in a world of pundit and political spin whores. We're fucked, obviously, headed toward apocalypse but it's beneath me to add my opinion on these trivial matters. Still, fate is forcing me out of my hole and I will soar once more with the eagles and maybe write something worthy of this vain blog. Don't hold your breath.

Alligator Coin Purse

Step 1) Use a can of Salmon (tonight's dinner) to make circles on paper. Overlap paper on faux alligator leather that swap meet seller claimed was real. Your response to swap meet seller was, "Real alligators don't have two hornbacks."

Rock Bottom

The pain of the following event has been replaced by the pain of a different event, which is the signal that it is time to write of the preceding event. This event, this pinche pendejo crisis, set in motion a day of pure grief, travelers’ woes, “Once upon a time in Mexico…” Dios, this was a miserable day coming at the end of so many ups and downs over the span of years wandering Latin America. This was the lowest or nearly the lowest depending on how you look at it and what standards are used. Emotionally, it was not the lowest although it was very low. Physically and financially and legally it was the lowest. In terms of the van, my faithful steed El Conquistador, it was rock bottom, although the time the rear axle bearing disintegrated on a Guatemalan mountain road was awful. Being stranded between the borders of Costa Rica and Nicaragua with Cuban refugees was indeed a strain, but the chaos was manageable because I was basically ignored by all but my own demons. But this event, this chain of evil events in Mexico, was the opposite; the wolves came at me from all sides, the moment I thought I was safely on the other side of the storm another storm hit. It was one assault after another; there was no where to hide, nowhere to run, no safe harbor, survival was my victory. The relentless punishment all started with the horrible screams from hundreds of dying pigs.

PCT

Pacific Crest Trail

The one bright spot in my recent insanity.

The Last Dance

There is a story behind this broken performance. I'm slaving like an Egyptian clay farmer in the desert and get paid so little I must tell myself that it's an eco-volunteer retreat because it involves solar panels. The bigger lesson is that solar projects are as chaotic, if not more chaotic, than the chaotic oil field projects. Training is non-existent. But at least in the oil field there were teams and some vague orientation, plus more money. But on this solar project there is no orientation and no teams. It's simply 20 Workers Vs. The Project, which is a sure recipe for disaster and inefficiency. I don't have a problem with manual labor as long as the result is more than swollen knees. But I have no more idea of what our goal is then when I started. I already knew that wires must go from Point A to Point B. Yes. That much is clear. But there are some critical details such as What Wires, what gauge wires, what gauge conduit and finally, exactly where is Point A and Where is Point B in relation to all the other points in this vast world? This is not complicated stuff for a field technician but these answers are apparently state secrets so I have no clue and simply dig and compact with futile effort.

To dull the pain of my sagging ego I turned again to wine and music and invite you to the party.