Loser's Bar

Warning: This post does not contain beautiful coastal images and soulful poetry. Instead it is a random musing from time spent landlocked in Las Vegas during 117 degree heat.

In Vegas there is a bar called, Loser's Bar. It was between my hotel room and the convention center so I had the opportunity to pass by at least 4 times a day for 3 days.

It wasn't open at 6:00 am when I went to work, but by early afternoon every day there was "entertainment." A duo, on a rickety stage, drinking cheap beer while cigarettes smoked away in the ashtrays, singing the saddest country-western ballads ever written. They dug deep to find the most depressing songs and keep them coming one after another.

The first time I passed by, I thought it odd that any place in Las Vegas was named for losers, as the town's party line is all about winners and winning. Then, apparently, my fertile imagination took hold.

My next trip, I looked into the window and saw one lone soul at the bar. My ex was propped up on a stool, drowning his sorrows. He looked up from his drink and nodded as I passed by.

Later in the afternoon, a few more people had checked in to the Losers Bar. Each one of them was familiar to me and we had a negative encounter in the past. People who had done me wrong, just like in the songs. They acknowledged me through the window as well.

Each time I walked back and peered in the windows, a new patron appeared. Always someone I knew, always someone with whom I had a history, always acknowledging me with a raised shot glass or beer can. The phenomena lasted for three days. The bar was filling up.

It would have been laughable if it wasn't so very real. Okay, okay, it was pretty laughable. None to soon, my business trip ended and I quickly headed home. Luckily, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

This experience will be written off as a mirage in the desert during record-breaking heat and never mentioned again.

I now return you to our regular programming from the Oregon Coast.

Love Kills Slowly

The spider in this glass found out the hard way!

Allow Me to Explain

It wasn't my fault

It was a full moon and

I was left unsupervised!

Cream, Sugar or Shrimp?

Every drive-thru coffee stand we passed this week here on the Oregon Coast featured a hand-painted sign offering sand shrimp.  Every single one.

Yes, it's spring fishing season and the local entrepreneurs are making it easy for fisherman to grab a cup of joe and fresh bait without ever leaving their warm, dry cars. Let's hope they don't get the two mixed up in their early morning grogginess.

Do You Ever Wonder Why?

In this election year, there is no shortage of craziness to wonder about.  It just keeps flying at us from all directions, assailing our senses and rational thought.  Something as simple as a cup of coffee at a local diner should not torment the mind.

Yet, as I look down at the table I wonder...

Why...please tell me why...here in Tillamook, Oregon,

...a town where dairy cows outnumber humans many times over

...a town that is home to the seventh largest creamery association in the entire country

...a town where, on the street outside the diner, milk trucks go by all day long

...a town where dairy farmers are sitting in the next booth (right now in fact)

...a town that produces the best milk products you will ever taste (e.g. Tillamook Mudslide Ice Cream)


...why, in heaven's name, are there little individual plastic containers of creamer that have been shipped from DALLAS, TEXAS?

Cabin Fever Creates Crab Racing

The long, stormy winters here on the Oregon Coast really separate the locals from the tourists. To put this in perspective, it has rained 68.86 inches in the first 9 weeks of this year and last week's wind storm topped out with gusts of 92 mph.

It is really helpful if you are an indoors introvert and like to read, do puzzles and generally spend time alone.  For the more social, drinking (a lot) is another answer as people move from bar to bar on inclement afternoons to catch up with friends.  Luckily, the town is small enough to walk between the establishments and then back home.  Either way, along about this time, cabin fever has been known to set in.

With the tourists long gone and no one to harass, even the locals get a little stir crazy. You know, a little something to look forward to, thus the Annual Garibaldi Crab Races became the social event of the season.  How I wish I had been there the night this wild jamboree was invented. Imagine the conversation at the tavern when the gauntlet was thrown down, "My crab is faster than your crab."  "Say's who?" shouted from the other end of the bar.

As crab is plentiful during the winter, it didn't take long to gather the starting line up and the cheering (gambling) for the quickest crustacean followed.  The crab are motivated by the fact that the losers will be eaten before the next round of racing begins.  An excellent example of human's ability to adapt to their environment and utilize what is available. The crab didn't see it coming.

The winter sport took off and soon it became an annual tradition complete with colorful crab hats, exciting prizes and another reason to gather (drink) in the winter.  So melt the butter and pour a beer, it is time for the Annual Crab Races as the weekend weather will be dark and stormy yet again.

Note: My apologies to the crab, luckily the sport wasn't invented by the local dairy farmers.

From Our Home to Yours

Tis the season to receive delightful Christmas letters from friends far and wide.  Letters that eloquently describe their lives filled with fantastic vacations, children becoming doctors and new homes in gated communities.  In the spirit of the “holiday letter,” we offer our own newsy communiqué…

We hope this letter finds you as happy and healthy as we are, grateful for so much as we enjoy the beauty of the season.   Living the dream and wanting some help around the house, this year we were fortunate enough to secure the services of a personal monkey butler named, Mr. Jeeves. 

While it took us a while to understand each other, things have worked out swimmingly.  This summer, Mr. Jeeves was quite a help around the yard too.  On warm summer days when Bob was busy clearing brush and cutting back blackberry bushes, Mr. Jeeves jockeyed on the front of the riding lawnmower, drinking PBR with his little aviator hat flapping in the breeze.

Mr. Jeeves’ domestic skills have improved dramatically.  He learned how to set a beautiful table, pour the wine, and serve each course from left to right.  Although he is terribly shy and won’t actually perform any of those duties when we have guests, retreating to the comfort of his bunk and cable shows when they arrive.  Who doesn’t want to binge on Sister Wives from time to time?

This fall was a busy one with back-to-back events in Las Vegas.   Imagine my surprise when I checked into the fancy casino hotel, opened my suitcase and out popped a stowaway, Mr. Jeeves!  Dressed in an outfit that would have made Liberace jealous, he bolted for the door saying something about showgirls.   A few days later, I was getting dressed for work as the sun was rising when I heard a knock at the door.  Mr. Jeeves was back looking exhausted and a bit under the weather.  He ambled in, pulled the blackout shades closed, put on his satin sleep mask and climbed into bed. 

He was still there when I returned 14 hours later although the room service trays led me to believe he had been awake at some point.  The little scalawag had run up quite a bill, but nothing compared to the mini-bar charges I saw upon checkout.  Anyway, we will write that off to a well-deserved vacation for our favorite personal monkey butler.

Back in Netarts, Mr. Jeeves has been on his best behavior, now that Tillamook County has arranged to drop the charges for an earlier misunderstanding with several tourists.  He has agreed to sign on for another year and we are thrilled. 

From Our Home to Yours, Here’s to an Exciting 2016! 

Food AND Shelter

A huge toadstool has taken up residence in the Alder grove here at Netarts.  It is the biggest one I have ever seen (the accompanying sand dollar is for scale),

This perfectly shaped mushroom conjures up visions of fairies (and, well...toads) taking cover underneath it's wide brim or making it their home during the pouring rain.  Large enough for an entire family, the possibilities are endless.

Upon closer inspection, I notice there are bite marks on the top probably made by a hungry woodland critter.  He may have stopped by for a snack and devoured his fill. Stuffed and moving slowly from his self-imposed "food coma," he considered taking the whole thing back to his nest for later.  He tugged and tugged but it wouldn't budge.

Alas, it was the waitress's day off and he couldn't even get a doggie bag.

It's MR. Jeeves to You!

I always wanted a Personal Monkey Butler.   How long I have wished for a sweet, little servant to bring me a tall glass of iced tea on a silver tray, to answer the door and alert me to guests, or even to change the television channel back in the day (you see, it is a very old wish).  When not waiting on me, he could entertain me with tricks or gossip from the next town over.

He could sit on the back of my tall armchair and watch as I hold court in the afternoon, whispering in my ear from time to time.  I would be amused and give him a treat for his efforts.

As I grow older, this fantasy has rekindled itself.  Now I picture myself at Netarts in my Adirondack chair overlooking the Bay.  My Personal Monkey Butler is fetching me a pillow, feeding Goldie and dusting the sand dollars.   Yes, a Personal Monkey Butler has definitely on my bucket list…that is, until a month ago when I got one.

Our story started when a travel-weary monkey, clad in a worn pirate suit came wandering down our lane.  He was dragging his little hobo pack behind him along the gravel road.  You see, we are the last stop on the road, in fact, the last stop on the continent.  He pushed up his false eye patch, scratched his furry head and asked if I might be able to employ him.  A dream come true, I scooped him up and took him inside.

I washed and mended his miniature pirate outfit and put a new feather in his cap.  I gave him food and water before tucking him into the top bunk in our spare room.  He nestled down on the pillows under the chenille blanket and began to snore.  I quietly tip-toed down the hall to tell Bob my wishes had been granted.

The next morning the little guy wandered into the kitchen looking for a “cup of joe.”   While brewing it, I asked him to watch closely because coffee making/serving would be one of his daily duties.  We went through a list of other responsibilities before I asked him if I could call him Jeeves.  He seemed fine with that, but preferred I call him Mr. Jeeves.  I was fine with that too; after all, a good Personal Butler Monkey demands a little respect.

The first week his probation training period went pretty well.  A few little misunderstandings are to be expected after all.  Dishes go in the dishwasher, clothes go in the clothes washer, and the garden hose is for watering the garden not the local wildlife.  He did, however, sit on my Adirondack chair and amuse me in the afternoon breeze.

Along about Day 10, when I asked Jeeves to bring us a few snacks to enjoy on the lawn, he haughtily responded, “It’s Mr.  Jeeves to you!”  as he threw down his linen napkin and stomped to his room.  Fair enough, I had forgotten to use his formal name.  He seemed much better the next day.  In fact, he was so happy that when he requested his first evening off, I couldn’t deny him.  Somehow Bob and I would fend for ourselves.

It was late that night when Mr. Jeeves returned and came weaving down the hallway only to miss his bed completely and pass out on the floor.  The next morning, he was nursing a terrible headache and helped himself to the coffee before pouring ours.  He did share all of the town gossip he learned the night before, so I forgave him.

Two days later I read in the Tillamook paper about an unruly monkey (dressed in a pirate costume) who was terrorizing the tourists at the boat ramp.  Said monkey had been allegedly sitting on a dumpster, fiercely throwing old crab bait, while laughing hysterically at the vacationers attempts to launch their fishing boats.  Mr. Jeeves denied everything but wasn’t able to furnish an alibi.

I am sad to report, things have further deteriorated.  When last seen, Mr. Jeeves had taken up residence at the Upstairs Tavern; beer in one hand, ash-laden cigarette in the other, playing video poker with his tail.  His pirate costume is disheveled, his hat lost its feather and the false eye patch is back.  He won’t come home, even when I call him Mr. Jeeves and offer to get him help or a new feather.

My dream butler has become a crazy nightmare and I am forced to get up and wait on myself.

*Note: no monkeys were harmed in the writing of this story.  The names were not changed to protect the innocent, because he is not innocent!

Snail's Pace

Some days (aka today) this little guy could beat me in a race to the finish line.  It has been one of those weeks/months with too many projects and too little relaxation.  I am worn out.

This morning when I saw this snail crossing the porch on his way to my newly-budding geraniums, my first response was to relocate him...quickly.  Instead, I sat down in the wicker rocking chair, leaned back and watched him creep along toward his pink and red destination.  His pace was slow yet straight and determined, taking advantage of the morning dew.

I was reminded of a fortune, from a long-ago cookie, which sits on my desk simply stating, "You will obtain your goal if you maintain your course."   These words have rung true in my life, yet I appear to have forgotten them during the recent flurry of activity.  The Universe apparently decided I needed a visual reminder, so along he came.

Seeing it as a sign* I slowed my own pace today and am thankful for his presence.

*I wasn't always such a firm believer in "signs."  In an earlier life chapter, I was engaged on May 18th.  Later that day, Mt. St. Helens violently erupted.  Unaware I should be paying attention to the sign, I went ahead and married the guy which ended badly.  Enough said, I now pay attention.

And the Award Goes To...

In the world of "garbage washing ashore during winter storms," this recent entry may take the Artistic Design Award. I can imagine the art critic's review now...

"Given the large, three-dimensional nature and the necessarily bold visual language of this installation, the work has a strong sense of place, but at the same time, the depictions of fabric and rope produce a feeling of impermanence and shape-shifting evocative of transient lives where landscape, language and a sense of self are forever being renegotiated.  Although mute, textiles are an almost inexhaustible mine of cultural and scientific information. The secret is in knowing how to read the signs. These physical qualities of endurance, adaptability and evidential power also have great metaphoric potential."

Beachcombing Bonanza

Wandering down the beach yesterday after the big storm, we saw broken shells, plastic debris and even part of a dock washed ashore.  Then, in a remote part of the beach, we happened upon this...

A nice 20-foot fishing boat complete with a depth finder.  The hull is smooth and clean outside, as all of the barnacles and sand are on the inside. There were no bodies or other creepy things aboard. If a little crime scene tape doesn't bother you, it could be yours for the taking.  That is, if the high tide doesn't beat you to it.

Coastal Humor

When you live in place where the rain, wind, sand and water are constantly conspiring against you, a sense of humor is important.  It may also be a little twisted and we like that about each other.

You just have to chuckle when a coastal town names their local fun run, "Race the Wave"  in an attempt to raise awareness for tsunamis and other possible hazards of living so close to an ocean.

While I am not very fast, I do expect to compete when The Big One hits our community.

I will be out of the starting gate and ahead of the competition in my own exhilarating race I'd like to call...

"Run FROM the Wave"

Half Past, High Tide

When you no longer schedule your day by the clock, but instead use a tide table to make plans, you've gone "Coastal."  Coastal is probably the polar opposite of "postal" because your stress level is so low, it is impossible to even imagine committing a violent act.

Let me explain.  We spend copious amounts of time in September at the Oregon Coast, as the winds die down and the sun is still nice and warm.  During this time, I began to noticed myself arranging plans according to the tide...when to walk the dog, the best time for boating, and when to manifest fresh crab for dinner. 

Then the kitchen clock stopped and, while at first frantic to find a replacement battery, I quickly adapted.  By the time new batteries were purchased, it was obvious the clock was no longer necessary.  In fact, it is still on a shelf.
 
On Sunday, when I looked outside, quickly checking the bay, to decide if it was time for an errand and knew the transformation was complete,  I had gone Coastal.  So if you are trying to schedule a time to get together, consult a tide table and then give me a call.  I will be available at half past, high tide.

Rainbows in Her Hair

You know everything is going to be alright when you look down to see rainbows in your hair. 

As quickly as they appeared, they were gone.  I do so hope they come back and stay a little longer.

Dead Men's Hotel

In honor of Halloween I present to you a true tale of shipwrecks, mysterious dreams and watery graves...http://www.offbeatoregon.com/o1107c-mariners-dream-eerily-predicted-shipmates-deaths.html

I See a Dragon

As we strolled the beach, my good friend Colleen, told me Twin Rocks looks like a dragon or a sea monster.  With it's head in the water, neck arched and serpent hump following along, the creature heads south down the Pacific Coast just beyond the breakers.

Now I see the dragon each and every time walk along the shore and the two rocks have ceased to exist.

Colorful Words

It appears as though my great-grandfather's Underwood No. 5 Typewriter thinks it is a perfect day to capture my thoughts on paper.  You just can't argue with a sign like that!

A Sign You Need a Little Lovin'

I Miss You, Mother Nature

I love New York City with its pulsing energy, cultural abundance, 

delicious food, and fabulous architecture.

There is just something that sings to the creative side of me.

However, truth be told, I am a nature girl and struggle with not seeing any plants, animals (except pigeons) or even the horizon for days on end.  I think it would be grand if they would move New York City a little closer to Rockaway Beach, Oregon, so I could have the best of both worlds.  

As that is highly unlikely, I do believe I shall wander home to Salt Air Station 

to cozy up to my favorite seashore.