We took the light rail to downtown Phoenix last Saturday. No event to attend, nothing we needed to do, no particular sight we wanted to see. We were simply conducting an experiment.
If it took us between 50 to 60 minutes to travel from our Airbnb in Queens to Manhattan, and once there we never lacked for interesting things to do, and after doing said things, we never lacked for good things to eat, we intended to find:
- Is the Phoenix Light Rail an efficient and reliable form of transportation for reaching our downtown area?
- Is there an interesting assortment of things to do in downtown Phoenix, enough to settle my post-NYC trip blues?
- Can we find an eatery with not only good food, but in an interesting building with charming atmosphere like every, single, flippin’ place we ate at in Manhattan?
Here’s what we found:
Continue reading “Gotta Cure My Post-NYC Blues”
Note: Since I’m on vacation, I’m giving you a rerun. This first appeared on June 3, 2015, back when I was new to blogging and had about 10 followers. It relates a childhood memory of mine that involved murder and explosives, as all good memories do. Also, the post includes a recipe because when I first started blogging, that was supposed to be my schtick. Then I forgot my schtick.
That’s the trouble with schticks. They only work if you remember them.
Oh well. Enjoy.
Growing up in the 70s was great. I’m not even talking about the movies and music from that era, although we had some darn fine ones.
What I’m talking about is the total lack of parental involvement. Even if a parent stayed home, they pretty much left us to our own devices. It was great.
Brother and I had it even better, as both Older Sisters and Older Brother were out of the house.
We’re talking complete lack of supervision, baby! Frankly, it’s a wonder we didn’t burn the whole place down.
Though we came close. Continue reading “My Glorious Summer of ’76”
Daughter and I went to the art museum last week.
You know. To appreciate the finer things in life.
As did many other Fine People in Phoenix, including at least one couple who did it while stoned.
I’ll tell you about my stoner friends later. First, let’s talk about the museum…
Continue reading “Appreciating Art: Best Done Sober or Stoned?”
One look at that little rodent corpse, the serene look on his face, and I knew. It was a clear case of mouse suicide.
My family lived in west Phoenix in a square cinderblock home, painted turquoise. And the thing to know about cinderblock homes, however unattractive they might appear, a splash of turquoise paint makes them nearly… less unattractive.
In any case, cinderblock keeps out rodents and reptiles, and for desert living that’s darn smart.
Although about the time I was 12-years old, my dad built a garage in our backyard.
Actually, it wasn’t so much a garage as a giant workshop/sanctuary. It took up nearly half our backyard and was made primarily of wood.
That’s when the mice moved in.
The reason we knew we had mice is that every so often, about once a week or so, we’d find one floating in Pepper’s water dish.
Pepper being our family dog.
Continue reading “The Suicidal Mice of 40th Drive”
So far on our trip, we’ve been in Utah, Nevada, Idaho, Oregon & California, and in each state we’ve seen truly beautiful places. Places worthy to call home, should we ever care to move.
One such place is the coastal town of Crescent City, California. A charming place, just a stone’s throw from the redwood forest. Redwoods!
It’s not a fancy town. I doubt any millionaires will be building vacation homes there any time soon. This is an honest-to-goodness coastal town, with real working fishermen, shopkeepers and restaurant owners.
But gosh, even so, I couldn’t help thinking they must be happy people.
I even said it to Husband. I said, “Gosh, these people must be happy.”
I bet every morning they wake up, take a deep breath, smell the salt air and think to themselves, “I must be the luckiest person in the world, because I live in Crescent City, California.” Continue reading “Bloom Where You’re Planted”