Sunday Cabinetmaker

We love our tools.

We're  building a workbench with a flip-up table extension for the garage. Above, Hai powers 2.5 inch pocket screws into their precision-cut sockets (see tool at right), assembling the legs and framework supporting the project, which will include adjustable shelving. The counter height bench will be topped with a generous eight foot by 24 inch sheet of 3/4 inch MDF. This smooth working area will double in size when auxiliary legs are flipped out and a second leaf swings up  to encroach the area normally occupied by a vehicle.
Big plans. Results soon.
Meanwhile, Stan is watching the Vikings whip Atlanta.

One of two kiosks that will anchor the ends of the bench. Plenty of
shelf space inside for tools. Might have to get some more.

Optimist

This potted stump with a single brave leaf will grow up to be a magnificent bougainvillea someday, Hai says confidently. Really? Guess you gotta believe. Looks more like a failed bonsai project.

Getting to the head of the line

It took two hours just to get to the sign that said "Enter Here." This was only the formal beginning of the line which was roped off to discourage  jumpers. This photo was transmitted to Kathleen back in Minnesota for vicarious enjoyment.

Lunch line integrity was paramount in high school. English teacher Ray Reuter earned meal money using his photographic memory and his index finger to instantly banish the rare jumper to the very end of the line, no exceptions, no excuses.

We derided “Sugar Ray” behind his back, but appreciated his important work when it was directed to others.

Mess hall chow lines are equally disciplined, self-policed mostly. In the field, military tradition dictates that officers eat last.

Those are the old rules. This is now.

The decline of Western Civilization has been hastened by the corruption of the queue. Waiting your turn has no value, patience no virtue. All things, apparently, no longer come to he who waits.

Amusement parks have contributed to this demise with special higher-priced line-jumping passes callously extending wait times for everyone else. You can get to the airport two hours early, but it makes no difference. Airlines, in their race to raise revenues, will sell you the right to make others wait while you board, this purchase allows you to spend extra time in that cramped seat but be first to stuff the overhead. . . and still arrive at your destination at the same time as everyone else.

It happened again last night, this time at the popular Pala Casino Spa and Resort where the line to enter the Thanksgiving Buffet looked like the scene from Exodus. Patrons were waiting untold hours to put down $46 for an orgy of culinary excess.

Our party of six remained undaunted.

Stan volunteered to anchor our place in line, which had been held for the past hour by Andy and his girlfriend. This practice seems woefully prone to abuse, but customs vary and you go with the flow. No Sugar Ray here.

Members of our party could circulate about the casino at will, checking back from time to time. Meanwhile, the anchor enjoyed an epic phone conversation with his wife back in Minnesota, who was watching the Bears beat the Pack. But after another hour or so, little headway had been made to the Pala Tribe’s Paradise.

“This line has to be corrupt,” Stan announced dismally to his host and dear friend, Hai Dang. “We’ll be here for at least another two hours.” The men were ready to bail, but not the ladies. So they meekly held their position, though now convinced that the line had huge leaks, that other patrons somehow were slipping in unseen in front of them.

Hai disappeared again into the jangling bowels of the casino. He’s a charming fellow, for some reason people instantly like him. Stan has received plenty of speeding tickets. A state trooper once stopped him on the way to International Falls, dead to rights. When the trooper saw Hai in the car, he politely issued Stan a warning ticket, Stan's first ever.

Hai had been gone about a half an hour when suddenly the wait was over. “This way, now,” our hostess gestured urgently. “Come!” Reluctant to leave the hard-won position in the forever line, Stan went anyway. Were we just giving up? Had someone slipped the line boss a twenty? After all the waiting, it couldn't be over.

But it was.

Somehow, in his travels about the casino, Hai had struck up a conversation with a slot machine junkie. After they got through the part about her son the doctor, an anesthesiologist, a Johns Hopkins graduate now practicing in Manhattan who doesn’t pay enough attention to his mother anymore, it was Hai's turn to tell her why he was here and how long the wait was, and she had the immediate solution.

From left, Hai's mom, our Angel, our hostess,
waiting momentarily on the padded Elite bench
while a table is prepared.

The woman must remain nameless, because, she chuckled, her husband didn’t know she was there. So we’ll just call her Angel, because she was. “I have lost so much money here I have earned an Elite Membership,” she laughed. Among her privileges, she has the right to go to the head of the buffet line, and bring her guests with her.

She quickly adopted us, and sure enough, her credentials opened a special side door marked with words like “Gold” “Platinum” and “Elite.” Inside, we received a big discount and were soon whisked to a private table set with huge silver buckets for discarded shells centered on a still-spotless white tablecloth.
Those ordinary folk outside would just have to wait. The elite were here to eat.

We thanked our Angel profusely, and she returned to her evening of inserting money into the noisy machines, faithfully paying for her special privileges.

As we joyously began the evening’s engorgement, we couldn’t help but ponder another life lesson: It seems that now the biggest losers go straight to the head of the line.

Very Unusual

Two rare phenomena in Southern California: A rainstorm -- and room to navigate it on the freeway.

All you can eat shellfish, if you can eat shellfish

Kathleen is still in Minnesota today, so it’s a good time to hit the legendary seafood buffet at the Pala Casino Spa and Resort near San Diego. Shrimp, Lobster Tails, Crab Legs and other steamy hot shellfish in buttery abundance. But first, dear friends, a cautionary tale:
—————
In the fall of 1983, our friends Hannah and Mark were to be married in Washington, D.C. We took time off of work for an adventure in our nation’s capital to see the wedding and take in the sights. Ted Mondale, a mutual friend, had made arrangements for us to stay with his father in the D.C. home the family had purchased when he was a Minnesota Senator.
The former vice president was in the early stages of his unsuccessful bid for the presidency, so Kathleen and Stan were warned to keep a low-profile because it was important for the candidate to be able to maintain his tight schedule. He needs his sleep, Ted cautioned, and we would be staying in the bedroom next to him. And don’t disturb the dog in the front room, he added. \
We promised to be perfect guests and we really meant to be, honored and fortunate to enjoy such distinguished hospitality.
Our jovial host greeted us in the modest kitchen. We shared a fun-sized box of Poppycock and a light-hearted conversation with the candidate, most gracious at the end of what must have been a demanding day. We managed a keepsake photo (below) before departing for an evening out.
The Secret Service had not yet been assigned to the residence, which was probably a good thing, considering what was ahead.

In the kitchen... before The Incident.

Nearby Baltimore is known for its Orioles and for its seafood. The next day we found a famous shack where they dump steaming mounds of boiled crab on newsprint-covered tables. We cracked away at them, slaking the tender morsels in melted butter and washing them down with cold beverages, discarded shells crunched under foot. Sated, we hurried to meet friends for treats at a popular D.C. restaurant near the capitol.
The first obvious hint of trouble accompanied the dessert tray piled with chocolates, cakes and other sweet temptations. Kathleen wasn’t interested. In fact, she had disappeared.
We found her outside with some sketchy street people, “getting some fresh air.” She was miserable, sick and confused, with no idea what was going on, but she didn’t want to spoil the party, ruin the fun. Kathleen rarely drinks alcohol and she hadn’t been drinking that day. So it couldn’t be that, we knew. We didn’t know anything about any allergy to shellfish. Was it the flu? Upset stomach? Why all of a sudden?
Windows were wide open, allowing in the cool breeze this pleasant evening as our taxi dropped us back at the house on the quiet D.C. street. The inside lights were off, our kind host had retired, but had thoughtfully left the porch light on. Beneath his open upstairs window were two large bushes framing the entry.

Food allergies are a wretched business.

As we emerged from the cab, Kathleen headed straight for the bush directly beneath the window where the candidate for the Presidency of the United States of America lay in repose. She was not quiet. She was not quiet at all.
We do not know about our good host, but for sure we awakened the dog, who began barking furiously at this rude night intrusion.
We had to just wait there and suffer until the final essence of boiled and buttered crab had been totally rejected. Meanwhile, we wanted to shout “Really, she hasn’t been drinking at all tonight! We don’t understand what is happening! We can’t help it! We’re so sorry! We’re so ashamed!” but that would have only added to the unfortunate cacophony we had already generated and had so solemnly promised to avoid.
Years have passed and nary a shrimp nor a crab leg nor a lobster tail has crossed Kathleen’s lips. This situation has provided a small benefit. Now at a courtesy buffet, or wedding reception or other polite event, Kathleen has standing instructions to take a full allotment of seafood to dish off later, allowing Stan to avoid looking like the pig he can be when opportunity presents itself.

“The incident” itself was not soon forgotten, becoming part of our forever Washington Wedding trip lore. At occasions for years to come, Ted would remark with a wink, “You know, that bush on one side of the house is growing a lot faster than the other.”

Yowsa! Now that's a monster grasshopper

Never seen such a whopper. Looked to be four inches long. Examining the new Mandella vine. Hope he leaves soon so we don't have to give him a name.

Up, Up and Away

Bottom of the shelf is six feet one inch off the ground, making it the perfect height.

A couple more turns of the winch on the right and
this kayak will be up and in position.

Hai's ocean-going kayak is a beast. Unlike an ordinary kayak, it is broader, heavier and accommodates two with lots of fishing gear. It's 14 feet long so if you want to use the garage for anything else, it poses a problem. The solution is to raise it over the hoods of the cars, but that's not easy when there's only one man to lift it.
Today we put final touches on a lifting system that uses a standard trailer winch to help hoist the Hobie into the wooden dock lagged into the I-beam joists overhead. It is going to take some practice and finesse, but it's now easily tucked neatly out of the way making it possible to use the garage for other things: like a wood shop.

Christmas Compost, come and get it!

Some folks make fudge or bake cookies. Or knit a scarf. Lots of traditional things you can do for the neighbors at Christmas time. None of that for Sister Sosie. She orders a big batch of compost and invites her California neighbors to come and help themselves.
Feliz Navidad, everybody.
Hmmm. Wonder how the mailman would feel about this?

Keeping up with the neighbors

Meanwhile, in Florida, Tom and Sandy Story installed a fan in their winter condo. Tom and Sandy are our neighbors in Shakopee, so when Sandy saw the previous post of Stan installing a fan in California, she updated us. Hope Tom's Florida installation was easier than ours. Tom doesn't ordinarily like ladder work, glad to see he's overcome his avoidance of heights.