Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Slab City
For about 20 years now, I have wanted to visit Slab City and Salvation Mountain, located east of the Salton Sea in the southern California desert. (I'll write about Salvation Mtn. in another post.) A week and a half ago, I finally went. So very glad I did. Both are the kind of place you're going to see less and less of as the world becomes more controlled and more uniform. These are places that are certainly not for the conventional and the rule-oriented. These are the last of the free spirits. Perhaps the last free places left in the US.
Slab City occupies a tiny portion of the 631,345 acres on which Camp Dunlap was housed during World War II through the mid-'50s. Opened in 1942, the military installation was dismantled in 1956 and returned to the State of California in 1961. Somewhere around that time, the first civilians started moving in, in their recreational vehicles, trailers, and camper trucks. Slab City gets its name from the slabs of concrete that once served as the foundations for military buildings or driveways of one sort or another. Few are left, and most residents have their rigs on the desert floor, not on concrete. Some of today's residents are snowbirds, people from northern regions who want to escape the cold winters. Some are long-term residents who put up with the harsh summers. There's no electricity, no running water, no local government.
The people who live in Slab City are resourceful, friendly free spirits. They've got at least one trailer converted into a library, three clubs where residents can pay $20 for a year membership and get free coffee every morning. Internet service is $10/month, though it was a bit unclear how that system works. Residents bathe in a natural hot springs and either pay to have water delivered to their private water tanks or go into town (Niland's about three miles away) to get water from the store or gas station.
I had read that Slab City was deep in trash, but Aaron, who went with me, and I sure didn't see that. We saw the usual rusted metal and abandoned vehicles that you see in any remote enclave. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn't see any human or dog waste and no garbage. I wonder how order is maintained out there, seemingly without any police protection. I wonder how the retirees and others on fixed incomes who live there keep the druggies out.
I'm sorry that my photos of Crow, his mules, and his dog don't do them justice. When I first spied him and his crew walking down the road, I felt as if I had entered a time warp. He looked like someone who might have strayed from Pancho Villa's band in the late 1800s. He told me his camp was nearby and that he's been living with his mules for "12, maybe 15 years." He makes extra money by walking the 40-some miles to the Walmart in El Centro, where, for a fee, he poses for photos.
Two of the most remarkable things about Slab City are the abandoned water towers, one painted with corporate logos and dinosaurs, the other with animals in kama sutra poses. The former has a panel composed of colored shot gun shells with the message "Killing for God," a tribute to religious fanatacism. Both works of art give you the idea of the anti-establishment feel to the place.
The pet cemetary was touching. I can only imagine how much these dogs, cats, and rabbits meant to their human friends, many of whom, I'm sure were living out here alone.
I must admit that this life really appeals to me. Living off the grid, removed from government and corporate intrusion. A genuine sense of community and shared vision. If only I didn't need so much healthcare, I believe I'd be heading for Slab City right now.
Slab City occupies a tiny portion of the 631,345 acres on which Camp Dunlap was housed during World War II through the mid-'50s. Opened in 1942, the military installation was dismantled in 1956 and returned to the State of California in 1961. Somewhere around that time, the first civilians started moving in, in their recreational vehicles, trailers, and camper trucks. Slab City gets its name from the slabs of concrete that once served as the foundations for military buildings or driveways of one sort or another. Few are left, and most residents have their rigs on the desert floor, not on concrete. Some of today's residents are snowbirds, people from northern regions who want to escape the cold winters. Some are long-term residents who put up with the harsh summers. There's no electricity, no running water, no local government.
The people who live in Slab City are resourceful, friendly free spirits. They've got at least one trailer converted into a library, three clubs where residents can pay $20 for a year membership and get free coffee every morning. Internet service is $10/month, though it was a bit unclear how that system works. Residents bathe in a natural hot springs and either pay to have water delivered to their private water tanks or go into town (Niland's about three miles away) to get water from the store or gas station.
I had read that Slab City was deep in trash, but Aaron, who went with me, and I sure didn't see that. We saw the usual rusted metal and abandoned vehicles that you see in any remote enclave. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn't see any human or dog waste and no garbage. I wonder how order is maintained out there, seemingly without any police protection. I wonder how the retirees and others on fixed incomes who live there keep the druggies out.
I'm sorry that my photos of Crow, his mules, and his dog don't do them justice. When I first spied him and his crew walking down the road, I felt as if I had entered a time warp. He looked like someone who might have strayed from Pancho Villa's band in the late 1800s. He told me his camp was nearby and that he's been living with his mules for "12, maybe 15 years." He makes extra money by walking the 40-some miles to the Walmart in El Centro, where, for a fee, he poses for photos.
Two of the most remarkable things about Slab City are the abandoned water towers, one painted with corporate logos and dinosaurs, the other with animals in kama sutra poses. The former has a panel composed of colored shot gun shells with the message "Killing for God," a tribute to religious fanatacism. Both works of art give you the idea of the anti-establishment feel to the place.
The pet cemetary was touching. I can only imagine how much these dogs, cats, and rabbits meant to their human friends, many of whom, I'm sure were living out here alone.
I must admit that this life really appeals to me. Living off the grid, removed from government and corporate intrusion. A genuine sense of community and shared vision. If only I didn't need so much healthcare, I believe I'd be heading for Slab City right now.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Caroling for Brandy, 2011
In general my fellow humans are a puzzlement to me, and caroling brings to the fore one of the many things I just don't understand about most Americans--why they buy into the Madison Avenue (advertising) BS about commercialism and unbridled spending. So many Americans say they hate Christmas because they HAVE to buy so many gifts and because it's so materialistic. Well, it's never been that way for me, and I live in the same country as they do. Caroling to strangers costs nothing, and it spreads far more Christmas cheer than an iPod or store gift card can ever hope to do.
Last year caroling for brandy was put on hiatus because of my kidney transplant surgery. But this year the tradition resumed on Friday, December 23, 7 p.m. We had seven carolers and three passersby who joined us--a first.
Othman had just finished his catering job, so he didn't take the time to go home and change but came in his tuxedo. Handsome as usual but a bit chilly, so I lent him a coat. I told him he was the Lebanese Oscar Wilde. He chuckled and said, "Oh, thanks, Heidi, now people have two reasons to hate me--Arab and gay." I reminded him that Wilde was an engaging personality as he is, and very intelligent too. Gay was certainly not his sole attribute.
Every year the energy is different because we've had as few as three carolers and as many as 10. Also, we go to different houses every year. Always the houses of strangers, unlike every other caroling group I've ever been in that just wants to carol on the doorsteps of people they know. What fun is that? One of the interesting things about our caroling for brandy is that we never know what lurks behind these strangers' doors. Perhaps wonder and awe. Perhaps anger. Perhaps indifference. One never knows.
Though we did receive beer at one house and spiced rum at another, drinking was not the main event. Three of us asked for water instead. Except for one guy who told us to go away and a woman who asked us to leave because she was putting her kids to bed, everyone else was positively thrilled to see us. It was downright magical for many of our listeners. That's such a wonderful feeling, going about and spreading Christmas cheer to unsuspecting strangers.
One groovy redhead in a metallic Egyptian princess mini-skirt invited us upstairs to her apartment. A small gathering was underway, complete with a life-sized manager against one wall. We attempted to place Rasputin in Baby Jesus' crib with the woman's cute, elfin daughter, but he wanted none of that.
I had two "Stille Nacht" solos. "Silent Night" in German. I am forever asking Othman to learn "Silent Night" in Arabic, but so far no luck. And Aaron and some of his buddies could surely do it in Spanish, but they don't.
Next year, folks, listen to your inner voice. Don't follow the herd. Ask everyone you know not to buy you gifts and let them know they're not getting gifts from you. Instead ask them to go caroling at the doors of strangers. Or come up with a loving, giving idea of your own. You might just begin to really enjoy the season.
Last year caroling for brandy was put on hiatus because of my kidney transplant surgery. But this year the tradition resumed on Friday, December 23, 7 p.m. We had seven carolers and three passersby who joined us--a first.
Othman had just finished his catering job, so he didn't take the time to go home and change but came in his tuxedo. Handsome as usual but a bit chilly, so I lent him a coat. I told him he was the Lebanese Oscar Wilde. He chuckled and said, "Oh, thanks, Heidi, now people have two reasons to hate me--Arab and gay." I reminded him that Wilde was an engaging personality as he is, and very intelligent too. Gay was certainly not his sole attribute.
Every year the energy is different because we've had as few as three carolers and as many as 10. Also, we go to different houses every year. Always the houses of strangers, unlike every other caroling group I've ever been in that just wants to carol on the doorsteps of people they know. What fun is that? One of the interesting things about our caroling for brandy is that we never know what lurks behind these strangers' doors. Perhaps wonder and awe. Perhaps anger. Perhaps indifference. One never knows.
Though we did receive beer at one house and spiced rum at another, drinking was not the main event. Three of us asked for water instead. Except for one guy who told us to go away and a woman who asked us to leave because she was putting her kids to bed, everyone else was positively thrilled to see us. It was downright magical for many of our listeners. That's such a wonderful feeling, going about and spreading Christmas cheer to unsuspecting strangers.
One groovy redhead in a metallic Egyptian princess mini-skirt invited us upstairs to her apartment. A small gathering was underway, complete with a life-sized manager against one wall. We attempted to place Rasputin in Baby Jesus' crib with the woman's cute, elfin daughter, but he wanted none of that.
I had two "Stille Nacht" solos. "Silent Night" in German. I am forever asking Othman to learn "Silent Night" in Arabic, but so far no luck. And Aaron and some of his buddies could surely do it in Spanish, but they don't.
Next year, folks, listen to your inner voice. Don't follow the herd. Ask everyone you know not to buy you gifts and let them know they're not getting gifts from you. Instead ask them to go caroling at the doors of strangers. Or come up with a loving, giving idea of your own. You might just begin to really enjoy the season.
Friday, December 09, 2011
My Kidney's First Birthday!
Yesterday was one year since my kidney transplant. Hooray! Life without nightly dialysis and a foot or so of tubing sticking out of my mid-section is so wonderful.
My neighbors, Janet and Dana, and their dog, Arrow, greeted me at my doorstep early yesterday morning with a present for Pinky, the name I gave my new kidney because the surgeon said that when he placed it in my body it "pinked up." Janet was part of the donor chain that involved four patients and four donor, none of whom were matched to their friend or family member but who were matched to a stranger. So, Janet donated her kidney on my behalf to someone in Virginia, and I received a kidney from a woman who was not matched to her husband but she was to me. Her husband received a kidney from a man in Pennsylvania who simply wanted to donate to the next person on the list. The person in Virgina's friend or family member (we never heard from him/her) donated to a man in San Francisco. Thereby four lives were saved, whereas just a short time ago, we would have died for lack of a compatible donor. What a beautiful chain of life.
So, Dana and Janet gave me this beautiful, pink glass and glitter seahorse. It is so me! I have it hanging from a lamp next to a window so it can catch the sunlight.
I also happened to have an appointment with my dear nephrologist, Dr. Butman, yesterday. I brought wine glasses and a small bottle of Martinelli's sparkling apple juice to the appointment. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I dropped the Martinelli's bottle and it shattered over his office floor. Aw, oh, well, the spirit of celebration was in the room nonetheless.
So, Pinky, congratulations on making it through your first year. Many, many more to come.
My neighbors, Janet and Dana, and their dog, Arrow, greeted me at my doorstep early yesterday morning with a present for Pinky, the name I gave my new kidney because the surgeon said that when he placed it in my body it "pinked up." Janet was part of the donor chain that involved four patients and four donor, none of whom were matched to their friend or family member but who were matched to a stranger. So, Janet donated her kidney on my behalf to someone in Virginia, and I received a kidney from a woman who was not matched to her husband but she was to me. Her husband received a kidney from a man in Pennsylvania who simply wanted to donate to the next person on the list. The person in Virgina's friend or family member (we never heard from him/her) donated to a man in San Francisco. Thereby four lives were saved, whereas just a short time ago, we would have died for lack of a compatible donor. What a beautiful chain of life.
So, Dana and Janet gave me this beautiful, pink glass and glitter seahorse. It is so me! I have it hanging from a lamp next to a window so it can catch the sunlight.
I also happened to have an appointment with my dear nephrologist, Dr. Butman, yesterday. I brought wine glasses and a small bottle of Martinelli's sparkling apple juice to the appointment. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I dropped the Martinelli's bottle and it shattered over his office floor. Aw, oh, well, the spirit of celebration was in the room nonetheless.
So, Pinky, congratulations on making it through your first year. Many, many more to come.
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