Rolling Down the Road

There is something Norman Rockwell-esque about climbing into a vintage car for a holiday road trip. It evokes the spirit of Americana, that timeless, romantic, dreamy “thing” outside our readily identifiable experiences. The idea conjures up emotions and smells, feelings we reserve deep within ourselves. It is apple pie and exhaust, comfort and exhaustion. In a sense, everything good outweighing everything bad. It's wood-paneling in our mind, but laminate in reality.

For my holiday, it will be a special trip. Nothing could possibly bring more trepidation than a road trip in a vintage British sports car. Ordinarily, this trip would be the domain of my trusty and reliable 1966 Mustang. But this year, she is out of action. So, the journey falls into the hands of my newer car, a 1969 Triumph Spitfire named Pheona after the legendary Phoenix, which also liked to burst into flames periodically. Pheona came to me a little over a year ago when my long-time girlfriend was forced to retire her boring, tired Japanese sedan. My lady needed fun in her life, and this little convertible fit the bill. Maybe a little too much sometimes.

                                                   Pheona, our 1969 Triumph Spitfire Mk III

Our trip isn't a long one by modern standards, just to the East Bay area. In a modern car, one would turn on the radio, set the cruise control, and maybe the heater. Probably wouldn't even bother checking the tire pressure before leaving.

In our idealistic minds, we imagine the same thing in vintage iron. In reality, it's not like that at all. Few people today even remember what road trips in vintage cars were like. And throwing the British wrench into the cogs makes it even more dramatic. For starters, Pheona has neither a heater or a radio.

This week, little Phe started to stink of gas, not at all uncommon for British cars with multiple carburetors. I tested the fuel pressure, nothing abnormal there, so I tore apart the front carburetor fuel bowl, a standard procedure for vintage British cars. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I richened the carbs up, thinking maybe that would help. Now, she is running better, but still stinks.

In a modern car, the computer would do all of this, never even alarming the driver that anything was going wrong, and certainly never giving off a smell. But 40 years ago, this was normal.

So, the next step will be to recheck the valve adjustment, something that takes all of 10 minutes on the little car but would take a week on a modern car, reset the timing, something that is part of the process, but not possible on new cars, inspect and adjust the distributor points, parts that modern cars don't have, and then synchronize the carburetors for cold weather, in part something done entirely by computer on modern cars today, except that modern cars do not have carburetors. Normal. Then to check the brakes, tires, driveshaft, axleshafts, suspension, radiator, oil, belts, hoses, and lights. Nothing uncommon for vintage cars, something taken for granted by those who own modern ones.

And then comes driving. A road trip in a vintage British car can be as short as to Roseville, a distance I laugh at even in my 1966 Mustang, but can be serious in the little British car. Electrical problems can pop up at any moment. Just the other night, the headlights went out on the freeway. No big deal, just reach under the dash, pull the fuse, put it back in and Voila! Lights again. Normal. There is a reason Brits drink lots of warm beer. The same guy who designed the electrical system in this little car also designed the most common refrigerator in England.

The Norman Rockwell part happens somewhere along the road, where kids in SUV's give you the thumbs up, and despite the stench of exhaust and maybe burnt electrical wiring, you feel accomplished when you get where you are going. You look back down the road smiling, and think, that wasn't so bad, maybe we will do another trip in a couple weeks.

Pyramid Brewery

One of the best places in downtown Sacramento to people watch is Cathedral Square. And what could be better than hanging out with friends and having a beer or three while enjoying the scene?

It happens that Pyramid Brewery's Sacramento brew house sits right across from the cathedral and very near several of Sacramento's newest, hottest night spots, right in the heart of all the action. Gated outdoor seating invites, and when the weather isn't pleasant, large picture windows keep the brew house from seeming like a bar.

Pyramid does have the regular gastropub fare, but nobody goes there to eat. The brew house has the regular, year round brews on tap, but you can get those at Savemart. People go to Pyramid for the hand-crafted, small batch beers.

Walking in, one is greeted by a usually friendly and smiling hostess. In addition to the outdoor seating, the brewery has a full length wooden bar counter and numerous diner-style tables for larger groups or those who want a pizza with their beer.

The bar has a dazzling array of colorful tap-handles displaying names like Hum'buger and Red Rye Ale. Brews can be ordered in sampler flights of five tasters, by the pint, or by the pitcher. They also sell six-packs to go, t-shirts, and they offer tours of the brewery for those who want to see how beer goes from grain and water to good stuff.

The first beer that caught my eye was called Outburst Imperial IPA. IPA stands for India Pale Ale, and it refers to a style of beer that uses lots and lots of hops, little cone-like flowers that give beer its bitterness and foaming properties. IPA's developed in the 19^th century as a way for British merchants to transport beer long distances without the beer spoiling. Hops are the key. Once the water had gone rancid, and the rum had all been drunk, there was still the IPA.

Pyramids Imperial IPA pours a rich, warm reddish color with a thin touch chalky-colored head. The hops are very forward, greeting the nose like a rose bush on a warm summer evening. The first sip reveals a surprisingly approachable beer, smooth and almost sweet, with a grapefruity bitter finish that leaves your lips curled in a smile. The brew is not overly carbonated, and one glass really isn't enough. This is the kind of IPA that could be ordered by the pitcher.

Next, I had a glass of Goose Bump Stout, a seasonal dark brew that is scary good and brewed with real coffee. Stouts are dark beers created by using dark roasted barley. Stouts and Porters are closely related, and the names are often interchangeable. The style originated in England in the 18^th century, but lost popularity in the late 19^th century. In England, stouts and porters are often drunk at room temperature.

The Goose Bump is smooth and rich, with smoky notes and a soft, tan head. Pyramid serves this brew in a fancy tulip-shaped glass that enhances the aroma of the hop character. In the glass, this beer seems to draw the light out of the room it is so dark. From the first sip the alcohol is very present, and a glass or two of this brew might be a bit much for the person not looking to get loaded. The finish is smooth and dark, like the night sky in October. This is a beer that, like the IPA, goes down all too fast.

A new style I was hoping to try is a dark IPA. This is a style that is currently becoming popular. It originated in Northern California and the north-east because of specialty hops grown nowhere else in the world. Unfortunately, Pyramid did not have this brew on tap yet, so I will have to go back again.

A pint at Pyramid is about $5, depending on what style you try. Taster flights range from $10-15, and a pitcher can be had for $10.50 during the weekday happy hour.

Pyramid Brewery, Sacramento

1029 K Street
Sacramento, CA 95814
(916) 498-9800

pyramidbrew.com

The Car Show Fail

I am a classic car enthusiast.

I wish I could explain what all that sentence entails for me, for my life. The truth is I have shaped my life around my lust. I have been physically and emotionally involved with old cars since before I can actually remember, thanks to my dad, who still is the best mechanic I have ever met.

I can't remember where most of my friends in high school lived, let alone their names, but I can tell you exactly what the interior of a 1969 Chevrolet Pick-up smells like, even though I haven't spent time in one since 1995.

I listened to Adam Carolla on Love Line every night when I was 18 or 19, working night shift at a Chevron gas station. I can remember laughing until I had tears in my eyes at the ridiculous, juvenile horseplay on the show. The show was innuendo and fart jokes and silliness, and I understood it.

I probably watch significantly less TV than most Americans my age, largely because I don't own a TV. My car hasn't had radio in about 8 years, so I haven't really followed Adam Carolla's career since those nights.

I was pretty pumped when I saw a car show hosted by Adam Carolla. I'm a long time fan of Top Gear UK, and I always thought there was no way a car show like Top Gear could be done in the US.

Top Gear is a show in which three average British car enthusiasts discuss, drive, and do ridiculous challenges, stunts, and driving escapades in a variety of cars, ranging from budget to super-exotic. What makes the show brilliant is the sheer British-ness of it. To take away that essence would be like a Jaguar made by Ford. It might look the part, but you know that underneath, it's just a Taurus.

Indeed, The Car Show is overly flashy, ashamedly cheap, and annoyingly American, just like the Ford-produced Jaguar. The intro, the hosts, the music... it's all just too much. The humor, funny when I was 19, isn't anymore. The stunts? Race around some $500 cars for 24 hours. Not that funny. Not that much fun to do, either. I drove a $500 car for a year and a half myself.

I kept hoping the show would get better. I really wanted it too, but it never did. Americans, it seems, aren't funny when it comes to cars. Perhaps we become too invested in our cars. I think they matter too much to us sometimes.

I should be the target audience for this show. Not only do I have a huge interest in the subject matter, I am familiar with the hosts. This show should have been like starting a newly rebuilt engine for the first time for me. Instead, it bored me. It was too scripted. Carolla looked old and sounded crotchety. The other hosts were lackluster at best and just as annoying as Carolla at times.

I don't know if anything could have saved this show for me. A key component of this type of show is having compelling cars, which they did not. In my mind, the first show of the first season should have had really spectacular cars. Don't get me wrong, a Porsche GT3 RS is a hot car, and a Rolls-Royce Ghost is a great touring car, they just have no sizzle. Maybe drag racing Jay Leno's tank-powered roadster instead of the Porsche. Or setting off on a road trip in a 1909 Peerless. 

After I watched The Car Show, I put an old episode of Top Gear on. Top Gear is a really well made car enthusiast show and deserves to be the benchmark all other car shows are tested against. The Car Show falls short by a mile.

Exhaustion Sets In

A flush of rose pink warms the window in front of me. The machine gun rat-tat-tat of my fingers on the keyboard has stopped. I stare at them, useless sausages now. They seem detached from me somehow, the way a zombie must feel. I can't make sense of why they aren't typing. Staring at the screen, I can see there is plainly more typing to do, but nothing happens. Slowly, the warm rose light dies and the harsh concrete gray of daytime takes over.

I remember being younger and pulling all-nighters. It always seemed like such an accomplishment, pounding away on the coffee and the keyboard, blazing through the work. Feeling like I won a prize at the end of it all. Gloating the next day as my mind tried to make sense of things.

May be I got old the last few years because right now, there is no victory bugle in my ears. Only the day coming to life, shrieking onward into the light. Its not pleasing. Having gotten older, shouldn't I have learned not to do this to myself?

I worked for more than nine years at night. The last night job I had was the best shift of all. My shift began at 7:00 pm and ended at 7:00 am. Twelve hours on, twelve hours off; four days on, three days off. Routine.

It's been a few years since I worked like that. It's probably been that long since I saw the sun come up before I went to bed. It's been at least a decade since I sat before my computer, knowing that in an hour, I will have to go to class on no sleep and take a midterm. What in the world am I thinking?

Normally, I am one of the most relaxed people when it comes to midterm exams. I go to class, I do my reading, I ask questions. I do all the things to be prepared. So, how did things get like they are this semester?

I decided that I need to finish my degree, and that I need to do it as quickly as humanly possible. This means taking a large class load, nearly double full-time. It's a lot of work.

For anyone who has not taken more than 19 units in college, imagine working two full time jobs and a part time job. Now imagine that at each of those three jobs, you have a different boss. Further, you have a different boss each day and often several times each day. All of these bosses have specific jobs they want you to do, but they are only going to give you the tools to do the job slowly over a period of weeks.

Once the tools have been given, your bosses expect the job to be done promptly. And then you get paid. Except, unlike a real job where you have a fixed amount of money you receive, in school your payment is a grade. Do a good job, get a good grade. Do a lousy job, and you get a lousy grade.

Now, it happens to work out that each of the three jobs overlaps, and most of the tasks that are given for each job need to be done roughly at the same time as all other jobs. Call it a bottleneck of progress. Long periods of doing little followed by short bursts of frantic energy.

Midterms happen to be one of those glorious times when all the bosses want all the best work at the same time. My bottleneck this week began last Thursday when instructors distributed the prompts for the take-home written portion of the exams. Being prepared didn't save me from the all nighter this time.

Now, 36 pages later, I think about all those long nights at work, slaving for the man, getting paid in real American dollars. I think about seeing the sun coming up and wanting to go back to school so that I wouldn't have to see it happen again. Now I wonder how I fooled myself.

At least it won't happen again until finals week.

Infest Sacramento

      This week I got to experience what life must be like for the one percent, looking down from their posh penthouse suites, wondering when the angry horde might appear.

      It is usually a sign of impending inconvenience when I see a door tag hanging from my apartment door. It means someone I don't know has to come into my home for one reason or another. It's an old building, and I understand the point, but it is still inconvenient.

      Oh, this was different though. This was inconvenience on a whole new level.

A unit in your building is being treated for bed bugs.

An inspector will be checking your unit on Thursday, September 29.

      The inspection turned up no bed bugs. A few disgruntled carpet beetles, yes, but nothing else.

      In the first days of the protests, it must have been easy for the 1% to deny the reality of what was happening all around them. The long-haired, dirty people living in the park and protesting against people who have money and jobs must have been good for a laugh from the office windows.

      A few days before the inspection, I killed a small bug. I didn't recognize it, but it was a dark brown color, and tear drop shaped. It had an ugly triangular head like a tick, but it wasn't. I denied the reality of what it was.

      The Fat Cats probably got angry in the first week. Probably when their children started asking questions. It must be frightening to be the spouse or relative of one of the 1%, out in public, never knowing who recognizes you from Google searches, who is lying in wait plotting some horrid demonstration against your way of life. Protestors are forcing them to wear their wealth like a badge of shame and there is no clear remedy.

      The inspector recommended that we go through all of our items and throw out cardboard. He left glue traps for us to set out at night and told us about the treatment, an elaborate process with sketchy results. The unit next door was scheduled to be treated Friday, Oct. 7.

      The thought of an infestation of parasites feasting on my blood while I slept in the safety of my home grew into a paranoia. We started sleeping on the floor of the living room, the farthest point from the infested unit, spending twenty minutes each night moving plastic tubs making room to lie down. Even then, the thought of hungry parasites would send six-legged tingling down the inside of my arm. Day by day, I became more defeated and bed bug dread caused me to lose more sleep.

      The treatment for our unit was scheduled for Tuesday Oct. 12, a grueling twelve days after the first inspection.

      Emotionally, this process had taken a steep toll. The grinding exhaustion of constant vacuuming, cleaning, boxing and bagging wore me down. The hopelessness and inescapably of the infestation smothered me. Every dark spot on the carpet, in the sheets, or on the wall made my blood go cold. Bed bugs became the only thing on my mind.

      If the protests continue, they will drive the 1% into chaotic depression, eroding their families and their wealth. They will stop working and start spending money in every creative, useless way to strike back at the parasites. I mean protestors.

      So far, we found four bed bugs in our unit, the one I killed, a dead adult, a larva molt, and another live one that appeared in a trap the day after the next door unit was treated. Our unit was treated once and will get treated again in two weeks.

      It wasn't the parasites themselves, but rather the thought of them feeding on me, and what I had to go through that caused stress in my life. And for the 1%, the images of protestors on Facebook with signs saying “Eat the Rich” is probably enough to start a cold sweat under their black Armani suits.

Not Driving Me Crazy

  When I started college, and for the first three semesters I attended, I drove myself to school every day. I went to trade school for a while, and I drove there every day too. When I went back to college at a small rural school, I drove there almost every day. That's another story all together.

  Judging by the lots and parking structures around campus any weekday, that is the story for many of my fellow students today just as it was back then for me. Not me, though. Not any more. I was robbed for parking fees once by Sac State, but it's not happening to me again.

Maybe I should explain.

  My car broke down three weeks before finals the first semester after I transferred to Sac State. I had no idea what to do. I had no money, and no time. Searching for options, I found out about the free RT sleeve for my Sac State One card. Genius!

  For those that, like me back then, who may not know about the RT sleeve, it is just what it sounds like, a paper sleeve for your One card. What it does is allow you to get on any RT bus or light rail, anywhere the RT system runs, at any time- Free.

  My second semester on campus, I did not buy a parking permit. That semester I didn't spend a single dollar on gas driving back and forth to school. No door dings, no parking tickets, no breakdowns.

I ride RT every day.

  I have noticed some positive changes in my educational experience riding RT.

  One, I tend to go to more of my classes. It just seems as though it is less convenient to leave campus than when I had a car nearby.

  Two, I am better prepared in class. Instead of driving, I read and review before class every day. I'd be even better prepared if I spent my time wisely on the way home. Sadly, Angry Birds usually wins out.

  Three, I am generally more relaxed. The stress that driving to campus causes is tremendous. Hassling with traffic, searching for parking both at school and again at home, and watching feebly as my bank account dwindles creates a lot of pressure. Not having that extra stress makes my classes less stressful, and improves my experience.

  Now, I know the first thing most students say is that the bus takes too long, and doesn't go where they live. Hogwash. Google maps can show the RT route to and from anywhere in Sacramento. As for time, see points one through three above. 

Click Here for a Full RT System Map!  Click here for the RT Central City Map!

  In April this year, a national study was released by the American Public Transportation Association that revealed trends about public transportation in the US. I read the study, and I learned a few things that make riding RT to school even more intelligent.

  For every 1 million miles of road driven by cars, 1.42 people are killed. For buses, that number drops to .02 people dead.

  Even considering the fuel and electricity used by public transportation systems, 1.38 billion gallons of fossil fuel are saved each year.

  According to the study, Americans are getting out of their cars and onto public transportation en mass. Not surprisingly, 69.8% of the more than 400,000 people surveyed use public transportation to get to work or school.

  I wonder what a difference riding the bus to school might have made when I first started college, before my GPA sank to a number so low I won't even admit it publicly. I wonder how many years of my life might have been different.

  And when I glance up from my textbook on the #30 bus first thing in the morning, I chuckle, watching fellow students strangle the steering wheel in frustration trying to find the elusive space before class starts.

I'm glad it isn't me anymore.

Sex and the City or Getting Screwed?

I can't help but wonder why every semester journalism classes seem to fill quickly.

Simultaneously, it seems newspapers are shedding writers and shuttering doors right and left. If there is such dismal outlook for work post-graduation, why are so many young people forging ahead into journalism careers?

Are we reaching for the stars or are we just dreaming?

I think it is commonly understood that there is no glory in being a writer for a newspaper. Even if the paper is a huge, national paper and the writer is prominent, chances are good no one will remember the name on the by line. Writing is long hours of stress, too much coffee and microwaved entrees. It's frantic phone calls to 20 people to get a nine word quote. And it's swallowing ones pride when those nine words are left on the cutting room table by an editor who is more interested in making advertising space.

The exception might be the newspaper columnist. And maybe this career is the driving force behind so many journalism students flooding the educational scene.

If television is taken seriously, and we all know it is, being a newspaper columnist is one of the most glorious jobs around. Take “Sex and the City” as an example. Fame and fortune, posh parties, free stuff, respect. That's what we are shown, what we have been told is the life of the newspaper columnist.

We have been told that a successful columnist gets fast-tracked into A-List parties and swanky restaurant openings. We are convinced that columnists work a few hours a week and party the rest of the time. The phenomenal pay is enough to squander on weekly Manolo Blahniks. Rent? No problem. There will be plenty of money left over for the flat in Manhattan.

It seems the biggest challenge presented to a columnist is who to date this week.

Since being a columnist is being a celebrity, dating is no problem. Perfectly eligible partners come out of the wood works for the chance to entangle with a newspaper columnist. Artists, politicians, investment banker millionaires, they line up for the chance to be with a columnist.

"Sex and the City" may be just a TV show in it's most recognizable format, but it was also a real newspaper column once. The show is based, somewhat loosely, on Candace Bushnell's column, and the movies, are based on the show. The column itself was published by the New York Observer, an odd-ball paper in it's own right. The salmon-colored tabloid is published every Wednesday in New York.

Tabloid columnists have a great job. It is a job where a person is encouraged to have opinions. There is little oversight and often, columnists escape the hell of the modern cubicle-office labyrinth to work at home. I think HBO has hoodwinked us into believing the glory of column writing by ignoring the reality.

According to schoolsintheusa.com, median income for a columnist in the US is around $30,000 annually. The highest paid columnists are often advice columnists who typically have a Ph.D. or Masters degree in psychology.

Consider also the competition. There are an estimated 20,000 newspaper columnists in the US today, writing for about 1,400 papers, fewer than existed in 1960.

No one has any illusions about rent in Manhattan. A person is going to have to fork over between $3,000 and $4,000 monthly for a one bedroom apartment. This seasons Minolo Blahniks? Try $645. That's for one pair. I don't know what designer clothing costs, but I can imagine it falls in line with the price of those shoes. And a taxi from TriBeCa to the Upper East Side? Ouch.

Maybe being a newspaper columnist isn't the HBO portrayal, but rather something real and gritty. Maybe it is actually the dream of reaching for the stars that draws people to writing instead of the dream of being a star.