Fools of the trade

Jeff and I worked in advertising for many years. Then he decided to make an honest living as a comic, juggler, magician and clown. Jeff is always working on new material for his various acts and trying it out on friends. Much of his schtick depends upon puns. So did his advertising work. It’s a transferable skill (or curse).

I, too, walked away from advertising with a skill/habit that’s either useful or annoying, depending on how and where I use it. One way to come up with new ideas is to try turning a statement around. For example, someone says, “There are too many hats.” And I reply, “Or maybe there are just too few heads.”

This or maybe trick might spark an idea. It might only be silliness to keep my brain from locking up. Sometimes (rarely) it leads to great truths.

But like Jeff’s incessant punning, I forget there’s a proper time and place for my or maybe habit. And it’s seldom in social situations or online discussions. Used among people who don’t get what I’m doing, or maybe can seem like criticism of the other person’s ideas, values or perception of reality instead of a fun way to keep a conversation going.

Or maybe is also about exploring options. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Or maybe we could do it this way. Or this way. Or this way…” I really like options. But unless the author of the first idea has thick skin and knows how or maybe is used, they could take it as rejection. Or a waste of time if we end up going with the original idea after all.

What does this have to do with wandering around in the Rolling Steel Tent? Nothing. Or maybe everything.

Up and away

I woke at 5:12. Not sort of awake. I was you’re-totally-done-for-the-night awake. What to do? Fidget in bed and stare at the darkness? I was going to hit the road at sunrise anyway. Might as well get an earlier start.

So, out to southbound I-5 toward San Diego. Traffic never really stops on California freeways, but pre-dawn traffic was flying along. Next thing I knew I was taking the 805 fork and then I-8 east. Now I was going the opposite way of the earliest commute traffic. I waved at the unfortunate drivers. “You’re going to work but I’m going to the desert, to do nothing much. Sorry.” (Not really sorry.)

Also, if I’d left later, I wouldn’t have seen the Blue Angels practicing over El Centro. They made a low level pass right over the highway. Good morning.

Back at last

A few years ago I learned about overnight camping in lots 11 and 12 on the jetty in Oceanside. It gets crowded on weekends when the weather is nice, but I still like it. It makes me feel like I’m a young dude partying at the beach.

The past few times I tried staying here, the lots were shut down for either some type of construction or for events. Rats. But the construction is done and there are no events at the moment, so here I am.

One thing has changed since the last time I was here. This lot—lot 12, the one with the view—is now closed between 2 AM and 5 AM, even if you have an overnight permit. So I’ll be moving to the less scenic lot 11 before I go to sleep. No big deal. There’s no view anyway when my eyes are closed.

Later

My own beach (sortta)

A beach in Laguna Beach with a parking lot? I’m so there. No doubt the locals resent outsiders having easy beach access, but they have plenty of others we riff-raff avoid because we don’t want to navigate nineteen feet of van through the jumble of narrow streets hoping to find a spot. Ugh, parallel parking and meter feeding.

It was Monday morning, and not very sunny, so I had the beach pretty much to myself. I walked to the end of the beach where I could pretend I owned one of the houses on the bluff. Rich guy for a day.

I didn't find a single crystal

I used to live about two miles from Crystal Cove State Beach, but I never went to it. I preferred Corona del Mar Beach, a few blocks from my apartment. It was past time I visited there.

It wasn’t classic beach weather, and the surf was almost nonexistent, but it was an excellent time to avoid the crowds and be alone with my memories.

Sand and sleep

I came into a little extra money this month, so I splurged on a beach-front site at Doheny State Beach. My wee van has lots of room in a site meant for a 40-foot RV and towd. Nice bushes for privacy, too.

Traveling light

The couple next to me at the beach—Ray and Lori from Vancouver BC—have this hand-built trailer. It’s about the size of a small truck camper but weighs only 1,300 pounds. They tow it easily with a Toyota RAV4, averaging about 22 MPG. The chassis is a boat trailer. The refrigerator runs on propane and the lights and TV run on three 18-volt power tool batteries. Pretty slick.

True word

Indeed, the beach can clarify many things in my muddled head. It’s one reason I need to visit the ocean a few times a year. And today’s weather cooperated nicely.

A little before hitting the road

Blossoms in winter

On my way from Quartzsite to the Pacific (again) I decided to camp at the BLM area just outside the south entrance to Joshua Tree National Park. Maybe someone can tell me what this flower is.

But the weather was perfect for it

It had been a couple of hours since I’d done anything stupid, so I decided to cross the border at Los Algodones to replenish my meds. Never mind it was the height of snowbird medical tourism season. Never mind it was about 2:45 and the hundreds (thousands?) who came much earlier in the day would be lined up to get back into the United States.

Just walk right into Mexico

Some diabolic villain must have designed the entry point into Mexico. You can’t see the line to return to the US, and thereby judge whether you want to endure the wait, until you pass through the one-way turnstile into Mexico. Of course, you could ask those who just returned what the wait is like, but that would mean talking to people. Ew.

I came out of the Turnstile of Doom and…

¡Holy mierda!

The line was the longest I’d ever seen in all my visits to Los Algodones. Several blocks down the street, over the crest of the hill and out of sight.

On the plus side, the dental and optical hawkers had hustled themselves dry, and the farmacias were practically deserted. Everyone had already gotten their ultra-low-cost prescriptions filled and now they were queued up at the border. I was in and out of the shop in five minutes.

As I trudged to the end of the immigration line I worked at getting my mellow on. Breathe deeply. Release all care. Absorb peace and love. Be a Zen master.

I took my place at the tail of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses of aging Americans and Canadians yearning to breathe free. I exhaled. I settled in to wait. And I resolved to remain standing. I wouldn’t sit on one of the benches. I wouldn’t even lean against the fence or trees. I would tough it out. Serenely.

One does not simply walk into Mordor

But at least the line was moving. A few paces and wait. A few paces and wait. Whenever I wondered if the line would ever move again, it always did.

I had only my light sack of pills. A few others (obviously novices at this border crossing game) were lugging things like life-sized plaster desert tortoises, steel-and-stone wading birds, hand-painted satellite dishes, four inch thick solid wood coffee table tops…

Well into the second hour I was near where the line makes a sharp right turn into the high-fenced chute. There’s a one-way turnstile at the end of the chute that opens into the roofed and fenced courtyard of the immigration building. Immigration officers were at the beginning of the chute to check if folks had their passports. Despite two hours in line, some still had to fumble for their documents. Officers pulled them aside so they and their concrete Aztec calendars wouldn’t block those who had their mierda together. Keep the line moving.

The line splits in two in the courtyard. Two lines for two doors. This is where veteran travelers suss out the crowd. Which of their fellow supplicants is more likely to clog the flow? I spotted a guy with a bulging rucksack. He’s going to get searched. In the other line was a frail man who seemed disoriented despite his wife’s help. Hmmm, rucksack or disoriented… rucksack or disoriented… I chose disoriented. It was the right call.

It was finally my turn with a gatekeeper of freedom. She scarcely took time to compare my face with the photo, swipe my passport and see I was clean before waving me on. Keep the line moving.

As I strolled calmly out of the facility and back to the Rolling Steel Tent, I wondered what stupid thing I could do next.

Please speak clearly into the van

When I have the windows closed and the stereo off I sometimes hear a soft staticy, scritchy, hissing sound that comes and goes. Is it a critter in the dash again? Broadcasts from space? Just a new tinnitus sound in my head?

I finally tracked it down. Or, rather discovered it by accident. It turns out my rear-view camera has a built-in microphone.

Okay, but why? So I can better hear my bumper crunching when I back into a tree or rock? So I can hear a pedestrian shout, “Hey, I’m walking here?” So I can hear him scream in agony as I back over him anyway?

I’d rather have a speaker back there. A big loud one. I’d like to be able to tell tailgaters to either pass me or back off. Or tell someone their turn signal has been on for the past eleven miles. Or even to thank someone for letting me merge. (Like that's ever going to happen.) It would be nice if it had a processor to make me sound like God. Or James Earl Jones. (God would probably like to sound like James Earl Jones.)

Meanwhile, I’ll just listen. They say you don’t hear the bullet that gets you. But maybe I’ll hear the howling brakes of the semi that’s about to plow into me. (Sent by God as punishment for the wisecrack above.)

Shadow man

Off American Girl Mine Road, Ogilby CA. Again.

Problem, solution

As the Rolling Steel Tent ages, I’m ever more diligent about watching the gauges. (It’s a good thing the van has actual gauges instead of just idiot lights.) How’s the temperature? How’s the oil pressure? How’s the charging system?

Ever since I bought the van the oil pressure has read between 40 and 50 PSI while cruising along. Nice and normal. But this past weekend I noticed it creeping below 40, down toward 30 PSI. Hmmm, was something going wrong?

I pulled off the highway and checked the oil level. It was hard to read because the oil was very clear. I’d just gotten an oil change the week before. As near as I could tell the level was down just a bit, so I topped it off.

The pressure remained low. Rats. I continued on to my campsite, driving lightly.

I spent the rest of the day and all of the next researching possible causes. Oil pump going bad? Worn main, rod and cam bearings? Worn rings? Clogged oil pickup? Maybe. Any of them would be an expensive pain in the mechanical ass to repair, requiring the engine to be hauled kicking and screaming from its hidey-hole under the dash. If the engine was going to be pulled, would it be cheaper to rebuild it or to replace it. And if I replaced it, would a lower mileage junk yard motor serve my purposes, or should I play it safe and go with a freshly rebuilt engine? Or should I just start looking for a replacement vehicle? Whichever way I went, where would the bucks to do any of it appear from? I’ve had no luck with the lottery or money falling from the sky.

I consulted with my mechanic friend, Forrest. He replied, “The most common issue is an O-ring at the oil pump. But again unless you drop to zero I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I’m not good at not worrying about the fate of my home.

Well, one of the basic principles of auto repair, when you’re not sure of the cause, is to try the least expensive solution first. That got me thinking back to that recent oil change—the one where I decided to switch from conventional oil to synthetic, thanks to something I’d read about extending the life of older engines. Could the synthetic be causing the pressure drop? I did more googling and found a mention that oil pressure might decrease “a little.” Okay. Forty bucks for another oil change sure beat thousands for any of the other fixes.

So bright and early this morning I went to an oil change place and specified conventional oil. Fifteen minutes later I had the results of my experiment. Yup, it was just the synthetic oil. That probably means the lower pressure wouldn’t have been a problem. It just would’ve been the new normal. But I feel better having things back to the old normal. Long may it last.

It’s the 99¢ of temperature

Forty degrees seems so much warmer (or less cold) than thirty-nine degrees. “Oh, it’ll be in the 40s, not the 30s. That’s way better.”

I know it’s just a stupid mind trick—one of many I play on myself. Does thinking it’s warmer make me feel warmer? Perception is reality, right?

But where would I be if I didn’t lie to myself once in a while? Or lie to myself constantly in a low level way? Slightly grumpier and more disappointed, no doubt. And shivering more.