Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 31

New 'Monterey Noir' review

'Monterey Noir' is currently available
for download on Amazon.com
Thrilled to find this review for 'Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries' on Amazon this morning!Thank you, Billierosie!

BARKER: FROM PATRICK WHITEHURST: A TALENTED WORDSMITH!

Patrick Whitehurst’s love of the detective novel, is well documented. This talented writer has an insatiable passion for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes. Great literature stimulates the imagination, and Patrick Whitehurst brings the contemporary reader’s attention to his own creation; the detective, Barker.
Patrick Whitehurst is a superb wordsmith and through careful, delicately honed language, the Pacific coast of the United States comes alive. He writes evocatively of damp, rainy nights, foggy evenings and wispy clouds, with a pale, midday sun trying to break through.

Barker, the detective stands alone on the page; alone, but for the dogs that are his disciples. Barker is tall, broad shouldered, handsome and enigmatic. He is also completely unattainable. The reader senses that Barker has a tragic past. We don’t know what that can be; what terrible event has made him shun his own species, we are kept in the dark; the writer doesn’t tell us. Barker is an enigma; he has charisma too. Good people are attracted to him. In loaded prose, the reader learns that the evil doer is instinctively afraid. He senses that he is teetering on the edge of danger.

But what is really important, is that the reader is already seeing this strange figure, crafted carefully and carved with precision, as a fully rounded character. This fictional character, Barker, is real. Through a clever, conscientious choice of words, Barker exists in the reader’s mind.

In this first book of the Barker mysteries, Patrick Whitehurst writes about the underbelly of society; a subclass, the homeless. His detective, Barker, is at home with the dispossessed, he does not fear them. He is tall and broad of shoulder; he is fast and moves like an accomplished athlete, yet he looks like a vagabond with his shabby clothes and his preferred companions, a pack of always hungry dogs. He is elemental, blending easily with his surroundings as he sets things straight.

Barker lives his life with laconic ease with his pack of hounds. They move, seemingly aimless, from one dumpster to another, scavenging for food. Patrick Whitehurst shows his knowledge of language and he reflects this supposed, indolent lifestyle through uncomplicated prose. But when Barker does move, he is fast and the pace quickens. Barker is high voltage elegance, so is the prose. And all this is achieved without contrivance; the images are seamlessly crafted for the reader’s pleasure. Each chapter is a self contained tale and gradually, the mystery that is Barker unfolds.

Barker is kind, compassionate, but he is capable of ruthless vengeance too; he is hard. He is complex and is a perilous man to cross.

In keeping with the detective genre, it appears that Barker has a sort of sixth sense. But this is not so. In the tradition of all great detectives, Barker solves mysteries through a refined intellect; he dissects mysteries that would baffle ordinary mortals. The reader can see the influence of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s great detective, Sherlock Holmes:

“…when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth.”

The elusive Barker is a deserving member of an exclusive society; that of the great detective. He uses his intellect in a way that most people fail to do and cuts through to the heart of the mystery with precision.

Patrick Whitehurst is an elegant and economic writer. Words are never wasted. He understands language and conveys sentiment, atmosphere and character, with an ease that other writers will envy. This novel will delight and intrigue the reader.

There is mystery here in the great tradition of the detective genre. Conan Doyle and that other great Victorian writer of detective fiction, Wilkie Collins -- both of them would approve of Barker.

Barker has his own page within Patrick Whitehurst’s blog. You will be further intrigued -- visit Barker at www.patrickwhitehurst.blogspot.com

Patrick Whitehurst previously published works are “Williams” and “Grand Canyon’s Tusayan Village”

Patrick is also an internationally established artist and his paintings have sold in the US and here in the UK. You can view his paintings at http://www.borispaintings.blogspot.co... and at http://billierosie.blogspot.co.uk/201...

Letter to surfing Santa

Marina State Beach in Calif
 
Dear grandstander,
You’re such a goddamn caricature. Years ago my ex wife bought me a Christmas ornament of Santa riding a porcelain blue wave. He was shirtless, wearing cute red and white Hawaiian board shorts, and tearing that porcelain wave up. Just like you did in Marina, you bastard.
It went down nearly a decade ago, off Reservation Road, on Marina State Beach. I’m sure you remember it. There was a slight breeze off the bay that day, wet sunshine, white sand all over the asphalt parking lot, and few people out on the curve of the bay. But you were there with your white-ass beard and your skinny-ass wetsuit, tearing it up on the four-foot swells barreling to shore. Kelp lay dried and crunchy all over the beach. The tide dropped them off long ago, but hadn’t come back to pick them up for days. Some of it even looked black. Could have been all the little flies covering them I suppose.
I’ve thought about that day a lot, badass Santa. Thought about how you taught me a lesson, schooled me, and how I never wanted to be schooled – still don’t. No one likes that. Eight years later I’m thinking about trying that beach again. I’ve nearly drowned there, explored the gobbled carcass of a dead grey whale there, and came across your Santa ass there.
That day eight years back, my son held a few plastic dump trucks against his tiny, powerful chest. His Arizona-born, three-year-old eyes drank in the stark, blue peninsula laid out before him. Whether it awed him it or not is hard to tell. He couldn’t express it then and he can’t remember it now.
I’d no sooner pulled my foam top long board from the back of the Chevy Z71 when he ambled into the dunes, hardly noticing Monterey and Pacific Grove in the distance, across the fog-shrouded length of ocean. His mind resolved itself to the task at hand - to load up and rebuild all one-hundred-seventy acres of the state beach one plastic dump truck at a time. And I wanted to impress him with my skills on the water.
I wore my 3M gray and black wetsuit, had my Dakine leash attached to my pale white ankle, and navigated around the broken beer bottles onto the hot sand of the beach. Folks don’t drink from cans on Marina State Beach after all. It doesn’t make sense to pack out trash either, especially when you’re buzzed. What makes sense at that point in the game is to go somewhere where there’s more beer. We made it down the drop, past the smelly old kelp, and I laid my eyes on you.
Monterey Bay can be a tricky mistress. She made you look so close; maybe within spitting distance, but at the time I didn’t want to spit on you. I did later. You popped up, carved to your right, and got a sweet ride. Your white beard clung to your wetsuit and I felt like I could say hello without raising my voice at all. But you were out there. You wouldn’t hear me. It just seemed like it. Just like you can’t hear me now, you bastard. You could be dead for all I know.
The swells smiled coyly, beckoned me to enter, and whispered soft lullabies into my ears. And there you were, old man Santa. You didn’t seem to have an issue out there. You likely survived wars, had a list of lovers longer than my board, and you surfed leisurely. The undertow that nearly killed me twenty years before, when I had less belly and more speed, hung out three miles closer to Monterey. I’d learned since then, understood riptides and danger signs. And I am younger than you, hot rod Santa, so what the hell?
But you tricked me, Santa man. Deep water hit me when I stepped off an unseen drop-off, before my first duck dive. Slop crammed into my surprised mouth. Froth beat me around like a little bitch and dropped me straight down as deep as the weight of the water could shove me. My dainty feet crunched into rock and sand, my knee jacked over to the left, a wave of pain bigger than the one that dropped on me pummeled a journey up my spine. I let my board go and followed it back to shore, cussing like a sailor under the water, limping like a baby back to my boy on shore.
He hadn’t seen it, but still.
My eyes narrowed as I watched you. You paddled out, hit it, and paddled out again. I’d been benched with only a swallow of Marina’s sea and needed a handful of aspirin to keep the throb out of my head. Thanks for making me feel like a buster, surfing Santa. I hate you. I may try Marina State Beach again and pray you don’t see me there.

Ratnuts Peninsula

Ratnuts in action.
Did Monterey Bay ever notice Ratnuts? Did the ghosts of Cannery Row ever hear the wheels of his skateboard when he dashed down the bike trail, disappearing into the misty fog at two o'clock in the morning, his trucks clicking over the seam of each concrete slab like a metal heartbeat? Did the American Tin Cannery building smirk every time he blurted the word "dude," sometimes more than once, sometimes in dizzying machine gun bursts - those times when he jonesed for a smoke or needed a buck or two - did the peninsula hear him when he played his music?

The bay is a cold place, full of indifferent marine life and rocky to the bone. Donny exhaled warmth, his moods rose and fell with the tide - the ying to Monterey's yang. There couldn't be one without the other. Ratnuts stressed on everything, while the sea couldn't be bothered. Monterey Bay gives life by showing up; it's in the tendrils of orange kelp soaking diffused sunshine into its fleshy bulbs, to the food it sprays onto the trees by Dennis the Menace park.  It provides a reason for the young gulls that pick though the sand and fuels the crops of Salinas Valley. It gives and gives.

Ratnuts popped the tab on humor and toked on the pipe of adventure. Like the bay itself, he birthed liveliness wherever he went. The rumors could go to hell, true or not: herpes, heroin, the sad reason behind his nickname, his busted-ass guitar and all the rest. They stayed near Donny's coast, but never made it to the deeper waters at the heart of the man. He would help when he could. He would sleep on a bench when he had to. He would split from the cops if he had the energy. And he would fall in total love every week. The soul of Monterey Bay can chill a guy to the marrow, but Ratnuts kept it from us by being alive.

The fertile peninsula may not hear him, may never have cared that he stood upon her breast, but we shall all go deaf without him.

'Small Rocks Rising' a vivid, spiritual tale

'Small Rocks Rising' by Susan Lang; 2002,
of Nevada Press. There's something about vivid detail some writers get and others don't.

And Susan Lang has it down. Her debut novel "Small Rocks Rising," part of the University of Nevada's Western Literature series, is the sort of book where prose and linguistic elegance take center stage - a solid work that builds a rhythym and a soul before it builds on plot and character development. Those ingredients are there of course, but they cook gradually. The focus here is on emotional evolution, of painting the landscape through gentle and informed verse. It's not a potboiler, a crime drama, or a novel filled with fast scenes, but a silky tale of creative writing, and a tale of hardship in a world brimming with adventure, sexism and racism.

Ruth Farley plops her heart's desire on a tract of beautiful, yet inhospitable land in California's Mojave desert. She's determined to conquer the wild tangle of earth she finds there and build her meager home, for the most part, by her own hands - no small feat for a alluring single woman in the late 1920s. Through this she experiences her own inner awakening, both sexually and spiritually, as she gets to know the earth and her new place in the world.

I particularly enjoyed Ruth's struggles with a boulder she finds on her chunk of property and how she subsequently deals with the rather large distraction. For me, that boulder was as much a character in the tale, albeit stoic and silent, as the humans were. And even in the wilderness, where nature holds court, the spectre of racism against Native Americans and the raised eyebrows of sexism, have found a foothold.

Since it's publication in 2002, Lang has written others in the Western Literature series. Farley herself appears in "Juniper Blue," published in 2006 by the University of Nevada Press and in the 2008 novel "Moon Lily." Besides writing, Lang (who celebrates a birthday this month) is also quite involved in the writing world and hosts scribes of all kinds, on a weekly basis, through her work with the Peregrine Book Company in Prescott, Arizona. She helped found the Hassayampa Institute for Creative Writing and also taught English - among her many other notable achievements.
her work with the

Readers of Jane Kirkpatrick, author of "What Once We Loved" and other tales of courageous women, as well as fans of author Sandra Dallas, and of course Bronte, will find the perfect author in Lang's well-scripted tales. And she is well worth the time.

Inspiration for villains – just go outside

The Dickens character of Ebenezer Scrooge
is rumored to be based on an 18th century
politician named John Elwes.
Influences come easy when you’re searching for the right kind of asshole to put in your creative writing. Many of the best villains are right outside your front door, or sitting in the cubicle next to you at work.
They’re the inspiration for Stephen King’s baddies I imagine - regular buttstinks the author likely encountered here and there in his day-to-day activities, or politicians he found too nasty to keep out of print. The James “Big Jim” Renni character in his novel turned television series “Under the Dome” is said to be based on Vice President Dick Cheney.
Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick” was based on a real albino sperm whale named Mocha Dick that frequented Chile. Writer Robert Louis Stevenson based his “Treasure Island” character of Long John Silver on a friend of his named William Ernest Henley. Dracula, as nearly everyone who’s ever read a book knows, comes from real life dolt Vlad the Impaler. It’s commonly believed that Charles Dickens based his “Christmas Carol” character of Ebenezer Scrooge, who even non-book readers know, on an 18th century politician named John Elwes.
In the tri-city area around Prescott Valley and Prescott, villains aren’t hard to come by. There one need only to take a drive down the street. Get out and about for a minute, sometime between the end of the pot of black coffee and the open bottle of Crown Royal – and an hour or so into your Xanax. Then just let your eyes wander.
Many writers fear the outdoors for this very reason. There are a lot of buttheads out there, guys who blow up when a car doesn’t use its turn signal or brake early enough, guys that blow up when someone brakes WAY too early, and guys that blow up when an ambulance goes by and keeps speeding along despite the sirens. Everyone else can stop, they think, but I’m in a fucking hurry. Driving behavior is the best way to spot an idiot. On Highway 69 through Prescott Valley and Prescott, bad drivers rule the roadway. Drivers honk every few seconds, drivers swerve into the lane next to them without looking, then swing back when they nearly hit someone, every couple of minutes. There are shouts, there are raised middle fingers, and last week some dude even flashed a handgun to a driver who cut him off.
A walk down the heart of town won’t hurt either. Women yelling at their husbands, women scamming on other guys while their husbands aren’t there, homeless men luring young girls into parks, it’s happening right outside the house, or blocks away.
Those are just daytime observations of course. Most writers are too drunk to stumble out after dark, which is when shit gets really crazy.

VIDEO: Whitehurst reads from 'Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries'

VIDEO: "Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries" author Patrick Whitehurst reads from his latest novel. Monterey Noir, from Deerstalker Editions, is now available on Amazon.com for the Kindle, and will soon be available for other e-reading devices. Click here to order your copy.

Review: 'The Perfect Submissive Trilogy'

'Hidden Agenda: Book One
of the Perfect Submissive Trilogy'Author Kay Jaybee has a knack for sexy prose - and it can often come quick, fast, and dirty.

Her "Perfect Submissive Trilogy," from Xcite Books, is a shining example of to-the-point lustful prose, penned in an unshakable style, and hitting all the marks expected from a well respected author. Reading her work leaves no doubt she is in control - both in her craft and in her knowledge of what readers want when it comes to sexy BDSM material. In adult literature, most want something scandalous, they want a turn on, and an escape into a lifestyle many would never try outside of their own kinky imagination.

'The Art of Submissive
Survival' by Kay JaybeeBook one of the trilogy, "Hidden Agenda," introduces us to the Fables Country Hotel, a spot that offers much more than a bed to crash on for a night. Manageress Laura Peters operates the cozy locale and runs what is appropriately called the "adult leisure department."

Peters is personally responsible for what goes on inside the hotel's legendary fifth floor. And adult activities of all sorts can be found within the rooms there. From the kinky Victorian room to a modern day school room, where naughty "students" get punished in a special kind of way; the sky is truly the limit under Laura's skilled guidance. The first of the trilogy also introduces readers to Jess, a wet-behind-the-ears clerk, who learns the ropes of the BDSM lifestyle whether she wants to or not. Jess's story, as well as that of artist Samuel Wheeler - a visitor to the hotel who cannot bear life without Peters and her dominating games - carry on in book two, "The Art of Submissive Survival" and book three "Room 54."

Other books in the series are forthcoming and a collected Perfect Submissive edition is already available.

'Room 54' is the third
installment in the
Xcite Books seriesStories of kinky hotels are almost a sub genre of the erotic literature industry. The series "Tales from the Hotel Bentmore" by Shelby Cross, "Fantasy Hotel" by Victoria Young and a score of others book overnight stays to passionate levels. It takes a deft mind to make the check-in fresh and appealing. Here such a mind can be found, as Jaybee's strong popularity in the field of erotica can attest.

Jaybee is the author of "Not Her Type," "The Collector," "Punished" and an assortment of other titles, including the anthologies "Best Bondage Erotica 2012," "Gotta Have It," "Sweet Love" and many more. Her work, in both print and ebook format, can be found by clicking here.

Visit her website here.

'Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries’ now available on Amazon

'Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries'
By Patrick Whitehurst
Author Billierosie wrote: “The elusive Barker is a deserving member of an exclusive society; that of the great detective. He uses his intellect in a way that most people fail to do and cuts through to the heart of the mystery with precision.”
Not every hero lives in a mansion or works from a smoky, hard-boiled office.
Enter Barker, a mysterious man with no memory of his past. Ferociously handsome and acutely observant, Barker makes his home under the soggy planks of Old Fisherman's Wharf along California's foggy Central Coast. His closest friends are an assortment of stray dogs, ranging from a large Rottweiler to a tiny Shih-Tzu, who live with him.
Adventure and intrigue have an uncanny knack for crossing Barker's path.
In the first entry of the series; Nickel, Barker’s sole human friend, bestows his makeshift home upon the man and his dogs just before dropping dead. It’s up to Barker to honor Nickel’s last wish, to atone for his sins, which doesn’t prove an easy task. Meanwhile, forces are at work in other parts of the fog-swept city, which will lead the homeless detective and his dogs to a deadly confrontation in the heart of Monterey Bay itself.
Author Patrick Whitehurst's new book, “Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries,” explores heroism in both human and canine incarnations. As a homeless man, Barker never seeks pity or hand-outs from those he helps. His independence serves as a strength to his character.
“I didn't want to make Barker's homelessness into something depressing, but highlight it as a strength. Too many novels focus on telling a story from the rut of depression. Monterey Noir is told in the form of an action-adventure tale, similar to pulps of the 1940s,” Whitehurst said.
Barker's canine companions also serve in the role of hero throughout the novella. Whitehurst, who's been a dog owner most of his life, created Barker's furry companions as a way to honor his longtime pet, Kerouac, who passed away in January of 2012. He adopted his newest companion, Lucy, in September of 2012 from the Humane Society of Sedona.
“To me, the love of a pet is the most sincere form of affection there is,” he said. “And dogs have always been heroes to me.”
Monterey Noir is currently available in ebook format on Amazon.com. Click here to order your copy now.
Whitehurst is the author of two non-fiction books as well: “Williams” and “Grand Canyon's Tusayan Village.” Both are available from Arcadia Publishing in their Images of America Series. He's worked for various newspapers in northern Arizona, including The Arizona Daily Sun, The Grand Canyon News and the Sedona Red Rock News. Monterey Noir is his first published fiction novella. Whitehurst currently lives in the Red Rocks of Sedona. 
Visit patrickwhitehurst.blogspot.com for more information.

The Arizona Getaway – Cambria, Monterey

Cover for the Daily Courier following the
deaths of 19 hotshots at the Yarnell Hill fire.
  Prescott, Arizona, on July 1 at 10:21 am

The community is quietly reeling from the deaths of nineteen firefighters who lived here. Many are preparing for memorial services and seeking whatever solace they can find to smack the grief away. Fundraisers, candlelight vigils, and media crews are spreading faster than the deadly Yarnell Hill fire that killed these souls.
This is the atmosphere today. Tears fall as the temperature snakes back into the high 90s and the monsoons flex their muscles in the sky. Lightning and rain may just return to the area this afternoon. And my thoughts drift to the sea, away from the news stories I've written, past the waves of heat and glazed eyes blinking off beads of sweat. My thoughts become Cambria and Monterey, my home, as my body yearns to vanish in a chilly fog, my feet in the sand. I've considered biting into a sandy gnarl of kelp on the beach, just to get a taste of home. If only I could hole up there longer and hide from the last twenty years – mom's death, divorce, grandfather's death, foreclosure, custody battles, my beautiful daughter who considers me nothing more than a sack of shit – these won't fit in a coastal hole. My son, Natalia, my beloved pets and books – these make it in. And I am thankful for them – and to get to Cambria on the Fourth of July with Natalia.

Now for a burned Pop Tart before work.
Itinerary: July 4 Cambria, by the Sea and their fireworks display on Moonstone Beach, July 5, drive Highway One up to Monterey, July 6, visit a surf shop and tour Hearst Castle, July 7, stop for wine in Paso Robles and drive back to Arizona. Monterey itinerary: See my brother, Josh, walk Cannery Row, visit thrift shops with Natalia, see old homes where I grew up, possibly go on a whale watching trip, go to Fisherman's Wharf.
Prescott, Arizona, on July 3 at 8:32 am
My bed - where the wild bugs dwell.Poured my second cup of coffee and still finding it tough to feel completely awake. I'll get there in an hour or so.
As I was falling asleep last night I felt something crawl on my elbow. I reached down and swiped it off the bed. It felt as though it had a hard shell. A beetle perhaps? That happened around 10 pm. Later, after some sleep, I was awakened a second time by the feeling of something crawling on my neck. I reached behind my head and again felt a hard shape, which crunched a little in my fingers, and tossed it from the bed. That was around 4 am. The frustrating part, besides being an insect jungle gym, is I twisted my neck ejecting the bug and have a sore shoulder this morning – just as I prepare to head into work after a long week. I've hit my allotted hours at work covering the hotshots story – what I do today will all be time and a half. I'm hoping it will be half a day, so I can get home to nap off this pulled neck muscle and pack for the road trip to Cambria. Natalia and I plan to leave at 4 am in order to get to the coast in time see the fireworks over the ocean. Those damn beetles should be a distant memory by then. The Bluebird Inn in Cambria, Calif.
Note: It's entirely possible these were not beetles at all, but some other form of monstrous insect.
Things to get on the trip: surf shop t-shirt, Old Fisherman's Wharf souvenir, Hearst Castle souvenir
Cambria and Monterey, California, on July 4 and July 5 – no time recorded
CAMBRIA
We left Prescott under cover of darkness and drove through the baking desert all day – hitting the California coast with just enough time to get checked in. From there we turned from regular people into a whirlwind of controlled chaos.
The drive blew by. I remember only fragments along the way – panting crows at a gas station outside of Kingman – a woman picking at the back of a fat, shirtless man at a gas station in Needles – trash and overgrown weeds along the highway through Bakersfield – beautiful crops and vineyards in Paso Robles – then the sight of low foggy clouds settling over Cypress trees, pines and oak, windswept blonde hills rolling toward shore – and we were in Cambria – with hours to spare before night.
Natalia and I on Moonstone Beach.The Bluebird Inn is a quaint lodge off Cambria's main street, called Main Street, if I remember right. It's a white building with blue trim, garnished throughout with flowers of all shapes and sizes. Natalia named many of them, but I am drawing a blank at the moment on what they were, other than colorful and bright. Birds chirped everywhere. A red-headed, black-bodied woodpecker with a white breast rammed its beak into a bird feeder hanging at the pull-through driveway near the front office. Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and others sang from the speakers in the cozy lobby – and they will, every day, until place closes once and for all.
Cambria itself is a small beach front town, nestled into the rolling hills and valleys at the edge of the nation, comfortable in the sea spray and moisture from the Pacific coast. The store fronts on the main drag were probably homes once, now turned to tourist tricks for the sheets of visitors who rain down onto the little town weekly. The streets are filled with bumper to bumper traffic, particularly on holiday weekends like the Fourth.
The beach, made of dark sand and gravelly rock, is home to dried and wet kelp strands. Rocks, jagged and solid, rise up just past the surf in one or two spots – adding just the right touch of flavor to the view.
Cambria firemen prep the beach fireworks July 4.It was there the action could be found for the Fourth of July – at a little park a stone's throw from the water. I never did get the name of the park. Thousands filled it for Independence Day. Teens, tweens, couples, old people, thugs and veterans rubbed elbows amidst $4 hamburgers and $3 hot dogs – not to mention expensive alcohol. A display honoring the Prescott firefighters could be seen right as we entered the park – bringing the reality of the tragedy with us all the way to California. I told the firefighter we lived there as we made our way to the display. “Oh yeah?” he said, then turned to continue his conversation with a little blonde woman.
Live music came from the Rough Riders (surely Cambria's local cover band), people played horseshoes and beach blankets lay everywhere – all creating a concoction of homegrown American cheer. And then a gold and orange sun sank into the Pacific Ocean and the explosions began.
They started fifteen minutes late, but were beautiful. Reds, blues and greens shimmered atop the four foot swells rolling onto Moonstone Beach – golds, whites, fizzers and bangers marked America's independence within tufts of cold fog – adding a layer of subtlety to the not-so-subtle independence show – and illuminating the thousands gathered on the beach – like disco lights over a miniature action figure collection.
MONTEREY
My brother, Josh, and I near Old Fisherman's Wharf
in Monterey, Calif.Natalia's red Ford Ranger, called El Tomato, made the winding hills of Highway One like a champ. Heavy white fog challenged us to see the sea on our left, but heavy kelp beds were out there, sitting under the gray surface, as we revved into Monterey.
Once there the gray skies and chill continued, rekindling long lost memories of the many years I spent there and tethering me once more to my home soil – as the many trips I once took there did. We made our way past one of my teen homes on Lawton Avenue in upper Pacific Grove – then swung into Holly's Lighthouse Cafe in Pacific Grove.
Julio stares out from his liquid coffin.From there we picked up my brother, Josh, in New Monterey and ventured over to Sunshine Freestyle, my favorite local surf shop – where I fell in lust with a new surfboard per usual. I'll have to get back into shape before I think about riding one. My fat ass would sink it at this point. Our trip went into Pacific Grove, into Monterey and further into Seaside, my childhood home. From there we trekked to Old Fisherman's Wharf, where I found a shark in a formaldehyde bottle. Not sure if it's a baby shark or a smaller member of the shark family. I'll have to Google it. I did name it Julio, which seemed fitting for the little guy. Natalia said she thinks it's a hoax and said Julio is undoubtedly made of rubber. With him in hand we made our way beneath the wharf to see its underbelly. It's a dark spot, full of cold shadows and lapping surf, and a spot where no tourists can be found. This is where I created the home for my fictional character Barker – called Bernie's Camelot.
After hanging at the wharf we went to Cannery Row – more tourists than ever there. Or perhaps it simply seemed that way. We made our way to Gianni's Pizza, where I used to eat in my younger days. While the pizza was fair, the memories, the sensations were delicious. I only wonder if it all was enough to infuse me with the energy and inspiration I am lacking of late.
After saying bye to my brother and two of his friends he introduced to us, Natalia and I drove into Salinas Valley and onto Highway 101 down to Paso Robles and back to Cambria. While on the 101 we zipped by a large number of black and white Highway Patrol vehicles. They were clustered around a silver four-door vehicle with its trunk open. Further ahead, on the northbound side, were other Highway Patrol vehicles. A helicopter dropped from the sky nearby, preparing to land near the highway. There were officers off the shoulder on that side, looking around for something in the bushes. While I saw only a white sheet in the silver vehicle's trunk, Natalia swears she saw the body of a young woman in there.
Cambria, California, on July 6 at 7 pm
Elephant seals bashing chests for
dominance near San Simeon.Rested for much of the chilly, yet sunny day. Had a nice chorizo and Havarti omelet at the Redwood Cafe, found within walking distance of the Bluebird Inn. The place is a cool, old style diner, complete with a long counter and a low wooden ceiling overhead. We then walked to some of the tourist shops in town before coming back to the room for a warm, long nap. Even Natalia slept, so we must have needed the rest. Following that we drove north on Highway One, past San Simeon, to the Elephant Seal Sanctuary. Hearst Castle sat atop the billowy yellow wheat grass, far in the horizon, east of the sanctuary. As soon as we climbed from El Tomato, we heard the guttural coughs of the creatures. The low sounds of the Elephant seals are somewhere between a stalled Harley-Davidson and a tub as the last of a full bath drains out. There were approximately seventy of the magnificent beasts on the warm beach and still others lumbering in the surf. Their sanctuary is fenced off, protected from us prying people, and set aside for them alone. This time of year, according to locals, only the males were about. When they weren't flipping hot sand onto their backs with their finger-like flippers, they were mostly sleeping – but fitfully and half awake much of the time. Many were molting, which gave them the effect of having spots. They also fought, arching their backs and throwing their chests at each other. We could hear their bodies slap together across the beach – probably with enough force to knock over a telephone pole. And these guys slapped chests, fighting for beach sand hierarchy, about once a minute. The view of Cambria from Moonstone Beach.
That evening, after dinner at Round Up Pizza in Cambria's West Village, we came across two medium-sized deer and a small fawn. The three were walking along the sidewalk and turning into the parking lot behind the pizza joint just as we were. Natalia chased them into the darkness offering hugs.
Prescott, Arizona, on July 7 at 6:49 pm
Missing linguica and eggs – was very surprised to see them offered on the menu at Holly's the other day – and then again on the menu (linguica only) at Round Up Pizza. Both were awesome.

We left the Bluebird Inn at 4 am. A creeping fog hung over the dark stillness at that hour, while we loaded up and hit the road. El Tomato came upon that fog bank big time on the way through the foothills into Paso Robles – a monster soup of moisture that can kill. One miss on a curve and off a cliff you go.
Sticker bling for my crappy POS.But the drive went fast. I remember little of it, just like the drive coming in for the little four day excursion. Natalia and I traded off driving. Needles felt like a hellish oven of heat. We saw, being towed by a white pickup, an exact replica of the 1960s Batmobile Adam West drove around to WAP bad guys. Earlier, in the vast desert between Barstow and Needles, we found ourselves circled by an airplane. Natalia thought at first we were seeing a UFO in the distance. I told her to expect a ticket in the mail. We made good time on the return trip. That last leg, however, from Kingman into Prescott, seemed to last an eternity. As we got into town we noticed hordes of people along Highway 89. They were gathered on camping chairs as if waiting for a parade or tailgating party to begin. American flags hung from many of the vehicles. I learned later in the afternoon the crowds were awaiting a procession of nineteen white hearses containing the fallen Yarnell Hill hotshots. Their bodies were returned to Prescott this afternoon for burials on Tuesday. Vice President Joe Biden is expected to attend. We got home at 2:30 pm and both crashed for about two hours as soon as we put our crap down. I'm now drinking coffee to wash the weighty dregs of travel from my system, but it isn't doing jack. Nor will it help clear my sunburned complexion. Natalia has returned to Sedona.
Prescott, Arizona, on July 8 at 7:47 pm
Newspapers from California's central coast.Sitting in my little kitchen. Today I return to the normalcy of life and, with any luck, it won't suck. Not counting on it, but I will keep my fingers crossed and memories of Cambria and Monterey tucked in the back of my head. As of right now, however, I feel old. The vacation is over.
Work starts at noon for me. It begins with gathering police reports at the Prescott Police Department. Thankfully I felt no hard-shelled insect visitors, beetles or otherwise, last night.
I'm bringing two California newspapers to the office. Not sure why, other than the fact I find them interesting – for layout style and story content. Also bringing in a bag of salt water taffy from Old Fisherman's Wharf for my coworkers. With any luck all will be decent there – not counting my sunburned face and sluggy vacation hangover.
Salt water taffy treats for my coworkers.My cell phone died this morning. It held out until the end of the California trip – and may kick back on tomorrow. Odd how reliant I am on it. But these twenty-four hours or so without it may prove that I can do fine without one – as I proved with home Internet and cable television. That or I'll jones for my phone like a drug addict's cracked and busted teeth hoping for a taste of meth.
My plants Kazar, Uni and Herbert weathered my absence with some grace. All but Kazar – he inherited some yellowing while I was away. Ben called to say hi before the phone died. Like me checking on my three plants, he wanted to make sure his old man was alright. We'd not spoken since Wednesday. He went to Williams with his mom on the day Natalia and I left for Cambria, and returned to the Cottonwood heat party around the same time we made it into Prescott. Ben has no clue about my trip to my home state and I plan to keep it that way. His nine-year-old anger at not being brought along would last for weeks – being he's a young man that holds grudges far longer than his old man.
Am I reinvigorated? It's possible I'll know after another cup of coffee. Or tomorrow.

Niceness account running dry

Pretending is overrated.
Is it a good idea to be kind to others all the time, to be nice to others even when your eyes feel like they’re going to bleed? Does niceness ever run dry? And what’s the payoff? Is it so I can tell myself that I did something nice for someone who wanted to use me, but otherwise could give a shit whether I was dead, decapitated or non-existent? That’s not much of a payoff, but those users sure hope it’s enough to get what they want.
Rudeness is as easy as kindness, easier perhaps, as more people seem to choose that over understanding and compassion – and a lot of people seem to get ahead in life when they opt for attitude over compassion.
Liberals and conservatives are awesomely guilty of this knee-jerk frame of mind. Both, when they want something, turn on the well-rehearsed charm. So-called free-thinkers, spiritual glow-worms, rarely learn to use the warmth of spirituality to understand the opinions of those who don’t suffer from the addiction of constant self-improvement. Those who cling to their religions like a two-year-old to a stuffed, slobbery Teddy Bear, do the same damn thing.
So many Yoga-sweating, moon-worshipping, enlightened personalities are the first to exhibit their supreme elitism, and to loudly gasp in total astonishment when someone’s niceness budget runs dry. And maybe, because benevolence is expected from them, their indignation is the ugliest. Some on the far right of conservatism, who think their religion is the only true path, are as frustrating – for them ignorance of other beliefs is expected, and still ugly.
Every day, my drug dealer neighbors bum cigarettes from me. Every other day they come for something else: to borrow my cell phone, for coffee grounds, a crescent wrench that I never saw again. Every day they ask for smokes – it’s a given.
These guys are not my friends, nor have they ever pretended to be. And I usually accommodate their requests. Why? Because I have those things and they don’t.
What’s funny is they never slide on the mask of friendship, and later they bring three packs of smokes to pay me back, they bring pizza slices wrapped in aluminum foil, and a newspaper. And that’s more than some friends offer.
But friendship is a different story of course. There are the fake friends, the fair weather friends, and the friends who ask for nothing in return. Do users deserve friends who ask for nothing in return? Do they deserve a payout from the niceness account? Of course not. That account, when hit every day by those who lay with selfishness and narcissism, should be closed down and reopened for those who ask how you’re doing, who laugh with you, and let you know they’re thinking about you once in a while - for people who appreciate your ear more than what you can do for them.
The idea of getting niceness for giving niceness is, of course, bullshit. We are not that kind of species. And pretending doesn’t count. But giving niceness can still make a person feel better about themselves and that is where the true glow forms. Just don’t expect it in return. And don’t give it to those who love themselves more than others.