Ethnically incorrect artistic assumptions

I recently had an appraisal by a bank loan officer.  His name, given to me beforehand,  was recognizably Japanese.  So, in addition to trying to 'unclutter' every room and make sure the surroundings looked spacious as possible, I polished my three tansus, pulled out additional Japanese artifacts, and awaited favorable comment.  (I even stuffed several large dog beds into my car, front and back, because there was no other place to get them out of the way.)

Lesson learned.  After entering my "Japanese" bedroom, and getting no response.  I pointed out one of the tansus.  "Oh, I thought it might be Craftsman," was the reply.  I nodded at another tansu and the pottery tanuki on top, adding "they're vintage Japanese." All I got was a puzzled shrug.

Then my visitor told me all about a home he appraised in Pasadena which was electronically wired against intrusion because the owner had an entire wall of valuable Japanese paintings.  "They must have been old woodblock prints," I suggested.

Later, when he referred to "those block pictures," and told me that the Mexican food in Sedona was the best he had ever had, it became clear that a Japanese heritage does not mean either an appreciation of, or an interest in things decidedly "of a place."

The same must hold true of any culturally-specific artifact, or food, or clothing -  not necessarily appreciated nor recognized by someone from the culture.

More on Sierra Madre's new Farmer's Market

A few weeks ago I blogged in dismay about the reopening of the farmer's market in Sierra Madre.
Location much improved - tree-lined street, easy access.  But, only a four or five farms with produce, the rest - prepared foods, and predictable clothing.

Things have picked up.  More farms, fresh bread, baked goods, fresh fish, and variety of merchants.
Still a 'work in progress' but obvious improvement.

Fingers crossed that it survives, and thrives.

More about children and dogs

Two little boys, aged three and five, approached us on our daily walk, with the proper greeting, "May we pet your dogs?"

Then the older surprised me by asking if MaeRose had fangs (at first I thought he said 'stains') -
and then he asked me if she was a vampire.  The final question, which he posed seriously, pointing to Darby, "Can I pull his tail?"

That is the first time a child has asked that.  We have met literally hundreds of young children with our volunteer activities for the Pasadena Humane Society - all ages from infancy to teenaged.  Even tho' some are afraid of dogs, none has asked about vampires, or permission to pull a tail.  There is always a first.

Another morning in Sierra Madre and surroundings

This morning a large coyote raced past me and my two dogs  - on a tree-lined residential street - another ho hum moment for seasoned residents.  I wonder where it was going in such a hurry.  Or where it hides out in these many blocks of homes and commercial buildings.

In 1984, months prior to the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles.  newscasters, newspapers (yes, there were several) and local pundits predicted a massive traffic jam from the beaches to the foothills.  Warnings, alternate route directions, stay at home pleas, overwhelmed.  And, then the two weeks arrived - to the joy and wonderment of those of us who traveled everywhere by automobile - blissfully enjoying clogless freeways, and the cachet of bragging about getting from Pasadena to Santa Monica in less than 30 minutes.

And now, July 2011, comes a repeat - carmageddon, cartastrophe, carmania - all because for a weekend the 405 Freeway is going to be closed for a ten mile stretch.  For weeks we have been promised round the clock news coverage, traffic officers working triple overtime, speculations of major never before seen bumper to bumper jams - interviews with brides choosing alternate routes for wedding guests, interviews with families fleeing on vacation, interviews with construction crews threatened with $72000 an hour fines for every hour past the deadline for freeway reopening.

Next week we will know - another 1984 summer?  Who knows?

Yesterday the new Sierra Madre Farmer's Market opened - what a disappointment - two vendors with vegetables, two with fruit, one with fish, one with almonds (expensive!) two ethnic food stalls, four booths with limp unappealing flea-market style clothing, one with pseudo-vintage pillow covers and frayed straw hats.

All the pre-opening publicity led me to expect much more. I will, instead, join the throngs at the Saturday market in Pasadena.

Guess you can tell this is a morning of partial venting.

Another dog tale - two living happily in a truck cab

An enormous shiny red Volvo truck cab minus its trailer parked outside the Pasadena Dog Park last week.

It is state of the art - no manually shifted gears, just an automatic shift resembling a small baseball bat with a selection knob on top.

Traveling cross country from Colorado to southern California every week  were the the two drivers (man and wife), and their two larger-than-average-size dogs - a Sharpei named Winston and an Italian mastiff named Paolo.  Their first stop in Pasadena is at the dog park, where the four-legged occupants romp happily and the two-legged drivers stretch their legs before heading to 24-hour Fitness - part of their regular routine.

The two truckers share the 17 hour drive to Breckenridge and back  - each driving halfway.  They recently acquired the mastiff - a replacement for one who died a few months ago.  The Sharpei looks old and a little weather-beaten.  Paolo, on the other hand, has a long way to grow into his extremely floppy loose skin.  He flops around, skin sagging and drooping from chin, chest, hindquarters.  When it's time to get back in the cab, he puts his paws on the first step, and gets lifted up and shoved in.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying their 'life on the road' - the dogs sleep, the drivers drive, the products get delivered.

Summertime and the fruit is tasty

The Saturday morning Farmer's Market in Pasadena draws enormous crowds, especially during summer months. Every third or fourth vendor offers strawberries - very much in season, and all advertised unashamedly as 'the sweetest.'  Stone fruits, berries, even a few apples - along with a glum-faced farmer whose booth promises that his hydroponically grown tomatoes are 'like a tomato should taste.' When I saw this legend on a banner over his booth I started to laugh.  I have yet to find a really good tomato (other than from a backyard garden) in any grocery, high-priced or tumble-down, anywhere on the west coast.

The beefsteak tomatoes grown in the southeast are beyond compare.

Haven't tasted the tomatoes I purchased from the cheerless farmer yet.  I'm counting on them having a happy taste - despite his gloom.

A year or two ago the parking lot at the market was redesigned.  Apparently in order to make every driver crazed.  Bumper cars in a maze.  Each entrance overflowing with long lines led by a gas-guzzling vehicle, blinker on, unmoving - waiting forever to squeeze into a too-small space.  Exiting is as difficult. Every driver in a moving car maneuvers triumphantly down a single lane,  while all the other lanes merge to a standstill.

Post script - the tomatoes did not 'taste like a tomato should' - no big surprise.  The next time I went to the market the crowds were as big, and the drivers were just as impatient.

He's in the dryer

Rose, our mobile groomer, knocked on the door to pick up MaeRose.  I asked where Darby was -
the response - "He's in the dryer, and he really seems to like it."

For the next hour I sat and giggled at the idea of Darby being 'in the dryer.'  Sort of like imagining him in the oven, or the dishwasher.

Of course, I had to see for myself.  The dryer is a large glass enclosed rectangle, with sliding doors -
which wafts a gentle breeze.  Much nicer than a loud electric blower.