Tuesday, April 7, 2020

In These Crazy Times


The COVID-19 virus is spreading out across the globe. It has become a pandemic and is causing major health, economic and social upheavals. Grocery store shelves are empty and a lot of people seem on the verge of panic. California Governor Newsom had just declared that all seniors and those with underlining health issues should stay at home and not go out. Isolation and social distancing are becoming the norm. So what’s an old guy supposed to do in this time of crisis? Go climb a mountain, what else.





As I’ve written in a number of past blogs, mountain hiking has become my own vision quest. For others, it might be a walk in the woods, a stroll along the beach or a quiet spot almost anywhere. This vision quest thing is hardly a new concept. The Indians got it right a long time ago and we don’t give them enough credit for it.

Since the beginning of time, mankind has always had a spiritual relationship with solitude. The first ancients to walk this country found it in their mountains. They left their mark around and on those granite sentinels of the ages. Nothing much has changed over the course of time. Although much of the mythology and ancient teachings associated with mountains has been lost over time, some examples still exist today.

The Blackfeet have their Chief Mountain. The Potawatomi have their Chequah Bikwaki Mountain. More recognizable is Tse’bit’ai (rock with wings.) We call it Shiprock and it’s located in the state of Arizona.


Anglo culture named this fascinating formation after a 19th century clipper ship because of the peak’s resemblance to a ship. Navajo legend believes that ghosts of the ancients are still buried on top of the mountain and must never be disturbed. Navajo police patrol the area to make sure their sacred mountain is never touched.


The Coachella Valley is surrounded by several mountain chains each laced with meandering hiking trails. These old mountain goat routes have imbued certain groups to seek solace, quiet reflection, exercise and release from their daily lives on their rocky trails. From desert rats to trail runners and even novice hikers, those mountains have been calling to us for centuries. The mountains provide a real sense of solitude especially in this time of crisis.


In Palm Springs, aside from the Tramway cable cars, the only way up the mountains is to walk.

Footpaths have cut through, circumvented, and traversed the foothills and mountains around here since the dawn of time. Long before the first whites came into the area, the ancients had been roaming the desert floor and traversing the mountains surrounding the Coachella Valley.


Something magical and almost spiritual can happen during a mountain hike. It’s a challenge to both the physical and mental state of being. Taken at face value, it can be an afternoon of hiking, climbing or finger-probing the rough crags and fissures of the mountain face. On a more spiritual level, it’s an assent into the vaulted realm of oxygen deprivation, aching muscles, sweat-drenched clothing and overall mental exhilaration…if your head is in the right place.

Palm Springs has an abundance of hiking trails for both the casual hiker and serious desert rat. A favorite of mine and closer to home is the South Lykken Trail. It’s part of the North and South Lykken Trail that stretches for nine miles and takes about five hours of moderate work to traverse the entire trial. The elevation gain is only about 800 feet and it’s considered a moderate hike by local standards.




I went up there with my kids about five years ago. Both are more athletic than myself. Melanie runs marathons and Brian eats Fourteeners for breakfast. But I held my own and we had a wonderful view at top.


There’s almost a culture among the small group of folks who hike those foothills and mountains all year round. They endure scorching summer heat and windy overcast winter days. Their skin looks like weathered copper or dried up old parchment. Most of them are skinny as a rail and lithe like an antelope. They’re the desert rats of the higher altitudes.

Following that elite group of desert denizens come another eccentric group of trail runners and new age meditators. They frequent the mountains like others hang out at Starbucks. Finally come the tourists, snowbirds, and occasional weekend explorer (many with families in tow.)




In the spring, the trail is accented with blooming yellow brittlebush and flowering cacti…and at times an abundance of rattlesnakes. These rattlesnakes are usually very difficult to see since their coloration blends in perfectly with the rocks and gravel on the trail. One bite and it’s off to the hospital for several vials of antivenin serum. It’s an expensive proposition at several thousand dollars per vial.

Adding to the excitement of rattlesnakes in spring and fall are slippery rocks, loose gravel, and rough footing. It’s not a climb for the faint of heart. Not quite like the Costa Rican rainforest but not that far from it either. (What I Learned from Howling Monkeys)

It’s as special place as you want it to be. Not exactly like trial running back home in the Minnesota woods but the same kind of methodical, slow easy practiced stroll that is tougher than most long runs. It’s a place to look at the craziness around us and take a deep breath to exhale all the nonsense and access the reality of it all.


Along with one’s dreams and meandering what-ifs, it’s a perfect place to escape inside your head and do some exploring. It’s a place to celebrate old age and hold on to the memories there.

This too shall past. Life is good.

Enjoy it while you can.

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Historical Docs Laced with Skin


I’m neither an archivist nor a researcher. I don’t save collectibles or search the internet for the latest trendy thing to put on my back or in a shelf. I do, however, have an insatiable interest in the late 50s and the decade of the 60s. In past blogs, I’ve described the 60’s as my ‘lost years.’ Nearly ten years wandering and wondering through a turbulent period of growth amid this country’s many changes.


Growing up during that period, Playboy magazine was the ‘dirty magazine’ hidden behind drug store counters. Retailers dared not display it on the regular magazine racks unless the magazine came with its standardized strip of modesty covering up her bottom. Of course, that only ignited a young boy’s imagination up another dozen notches.


Back then, the cliché went: I was supposed to claim that I read Playboy for the articles, not the pictures. Actually I did neither. I can’t remember if it was the cost that was prohibitive or where to stash it that hindered my ever purchasing one. It could also have been the fact that I was too embarrassed to actually drop a Playboy on the counter in front of an adult and buy it.


That all changed recently. With the power of E-Bay, I now have a very limited collection of Playboy magazines from 1968 and 1969 with a few extra months thrown in. It’s been an absolutely fascinating journey back in time and I’m not talking about the centerfolds. Nowadays I can honestly say I read my old Playboys for the articles instead of perusing the pictures.

Taken within the context of their time, I think the articles accurately reflect the mindset, morals and mores of that (my) generation. Back then, each monthly column seemed to raise a different group of concerns but all of them relevant to the times.



The Playboy Advisor seemed to focus on dating advice, job advancement, personal hygiene and the like. The Playboy Forum covered the topics of homosexuality, pornography, premarital sex and sex education. The Playboy Philosophy column was Hugh Hefner’s private platform to rail against the prudish old society standards of morality. He challenged the hypocrisy of our social, civic and political leaders against the changing times.

While seeming to cover different topics of interest, the columns all backed a solid philosophy that reflected Hugh Hefner’s take on present-day issues facing Americans in the late fifties and early sixties. What struck me was the sincerity and honest probing of moral standards handed down through the generations that were now being challenged by magazines like Playboy, comedians like Lenny Bruce and young college students no longer willing to quietly embrace the status quo their parents had readily accepted after the war.

The older generation, alarmed by the subtle yet pervasive changes bubbling up among the younger set, voiced their opposition to anything that challenged their well-established way of life. There was, among other things, a genuine alarm about the growth of sex education classes in schools. Their old familiar fear of a ‘communist plot’ against the moral thread of American society was raised. In their mind, challenges to authority were not to be tolerated if this country was to survive, they argued. Hippies and other radicals were labeled subversive because they seemed intent on overthrowing the government. Rock and rollers, especially those in the psychedelic movement, were among the worst offenders. Adding to this growing alarm at new thoughts and ideas was a burgeoning concern for the ‘negro cause,’ rights for the ‘homosexual’, ‘women’s liberation’ and the legalization of marijuana.


But along with the sometimes amusing, always serious concerns of the day came an onslaught of old familiar advertising that I hadn’t seen in many years. The advertising, as much as the various columns, truly painted an accurate picture of life in America in the sixties. Only this time I was able to peruse and enjoy the images and copy lines with a little more miles and maturity under my belt.


The advertising images came rushing back, primarily from cigarette, car and beer ads. In an era when smoking was still thought to be cool and not harmful, cigarette makers all vied for a place in front of cool hip young men. Among the relics of that era were ads for Pall Mall Gold, Camel, Lark, Winston, Tareyton, Tiparillo LP, Silva Thin, and Chesterfield.






Beer ads were just as prominent with Colt 45 Malt Liquor, Schlitz, Michelob and Heineken. For world travelers TWA and Braniff painted colorful pictures of foreign travel, always with a beautiful blond in the seat next-door. The Triumph Spitfire ($2199) and Compact Dodge Dart were offered up as affordable means of transportation with sex appeal.





Cricketeer, h.i.s. , Wembley, Jaymar slacks and Botany 500 were aimed at the college crowd while London Fog, Hathaway (the eye patch guy) and Hart Schaffner & Marx were aimed at those with more discretionary tastes in clothing. Both demographics were exposed to the Columbia Stereo tape club, the Encyclopedia Britannica and who can forget a library full of Great Books. Of course, no date would be ready to go without a liberal sprinkling of Old Spice and/or English Leather cologne.

Some of those advertising lines have been cemented in advertising history.  ‘I’d walk a mile for a Camel.’ ‘Come to where the flavor is. Come to Marlboro Country.’ and  ‘Real gusto in a great light beer (Schlitz)’ have all stood the test of time.




There were several recurring segments including solid business advice by J. Paul Getty, image-making by LeRoy Neiman with his ‘Man at his Leisure’ series of paintings and sketches and, of course, a history of celluloid sex.


But the best advertisement that summarized the whole playboy philosophy was their monthly ad entitled ‘Who reads Playboy magazine.’ It never showed a horny eighteen year old boy; their real target reader. Instead it displayed a thirty year old male model draped in the latest fashion duds with a girl (never a woman) wrapped around his arm.

By the early 70s, reaction to the feminist movement was raising its ever curious and alarmed head. It seemed to be the militant feminists who were causing the greatest concerns among the stanch old guard who felt threatened by the daughters of the ‘little woman’ back home. The unwillingness of these brave young women to not accept the status quo of the last twenty years of Playboy brought the magazine to its zenith and then inevitable decline.





With the strength of time, I can see now that ‘if’ the Playboy centerfold was supposed to be the girl next door, as Hef used to exclaim, then that explains my confusion at reality. Unfortunately that magazine as well as many others continued that exploitation of women until just recently. Playboy may have started it all but nowadays their centerfolds are far less exploitative than something you might see in any one of a dozen fashion magazines, the internet, the cinema or cable television.

Social, sexual, and political differences aside, these magazines provide an insightful journey back in time with their advice columns and Playboy Philosophy sections that plum the most definitive explanations of the country’s mindset and political and moral forces fighting against the myriad of changes during that time period.

As much as the federal government, most southern states, neighborhood moral harbingers of faith and local politicians wanted to turn back the tide of change, they couldn’t. Playboy in its editorial themes, personality interviews and revealing pictorials represented those changes sweeping the country. It wasn’t just the sexual revolution or civil rights or distrust of the war in Vietnam, it was an awakening of the youth that they didn’t have to follow in the footsteps of their parents… and they probably wouldn’t go to hell if they didn’t.



These old magazines are a time capsule of my political, social, sexual, and cultural wallpaper back in the Sixties. Those ‘real world’ anthropological studies reflected many of our country’s morals, hang-ups, misconceptions, prejudices, assumptions and naivete most of which have all been washed away by time and fact.


What is both insightful and pathetic at the same time was their advertising campaign bolstering the Playboy image. It was that imaginative facade of the cool sophisticated male in his Playboy penthouse, driving fast cars, going on exotic vacations and having nightly rendezvous at some dark, smoky jazz club where ‘lucky’ was the constant number, that propelled this multi-million dollar industry. Carefully crafted, it was all part of the mystic, lore, stories, lies, wet dreams and rampant imagination that Hefner had his readers connect with. With a monthly circulation of just under three million and at .60 cents a pop, the man/publisher/image-maker was clearly on to something.

Studied at length the magazines paint a primitive yet persuasive picture of the typical ‘man about town.’ It was a wonderful caricature imagined in the mind of Hugh Hefner and visualized in photographs, paintings, suggestive cartoons and the ever-present ‘girl next door’ sans her clothing. Unfortunately, I bought into Hef’s dream - hook, line and sinker, especially the sinker part.


The most impactful of these delusions about the Playboy image occurred in the fall of 1964 when I was stationed at the Presidio of San Francisco. While lounging in the enlisted men’s rec. room, I happened upon the Fall Campus Edition of Playboy. There, spread out before my envious eyes, were beautiful coeds, Mustang convertibles and fashion-conscious jocks lounging about the quad in their latest duds and school flags. It was a world that seemed a million miles away and a lifetime out of reach. It made me sad, envious, and just a little bit lecherous looking at those beautiful girls.





As I learned over time, the girls or really the carefully crafted manikins’ of the same persuasion were wonderful dangling carrots to dream about as I carved out an existence while serving Uncle Sam. Upon my discharge, the illusions disappeared and reality with all of its warts, dreams and reality-bites took its place. As we used to say: ‘Welcome back to the real world.’ Then I would add with a grin ‘but thanks for the dreams along the way.’


The dreams have long since faded and reality has painted a much more honest, realistic portrait of those turbulent years. Now with a pillow of time to rest on, I can go back with an open mind and comfort-with-self to look with amusement at the pictorials, advertisements, philosophies, and righteous stands on morality and ask ‘what has changed?’

The moral indignities of some will always confuse and amuse others. The quest for freedom will never end. Hopefully we’ve learned to be kinder to others, more accepting and willing to stand up to the myriad of challenges we still face. As the quote goes: ‘That was another time and place.’ While its fun to look over the fast cars, inhale the soft skin and seductive smile, reality is a much better way to live in the end.


For to live any other way is not to live…and who wants to exist that way.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Art City



Art and Palm Springs go together like the chemical reaction of alcohol ink spread out on a canvas. It’s a strange cornucopia of harsh geography, colorful history, and strange transplants that have transformed this stretch of desert into a playground for artists of every ilk.

On the surface, Palm Springs is known as a desert oasis, fashionable resort town, and global mecca for innovative modern architecture. The first settlers came here and built adobe huts to live in. These eventually grew to include resorts with high ceilings, swimming pools and tennis courts. Gradually a synergism grew between the arid setting of the desert and the dwellings within it.



Among the founders of Desert Modernism were Bauhaus-influenced architects Albert Frey and E. Stewart Williams, whose legacies can still be seen in numerous public and private structures around town. Yet beneath that façade of blue skies and bright white modern buildings is an environment bubbling over with creative endeavors from all the arts.



From the outrageously expensive art pieces on El Paseo Drive in Palm Desert to the rudimentary scratch pieces at the East Jesus outdoor gallery in Slab City, artistic endeavors have taken on every imaginable form and fashion, shape and design, subtle and in your face expressions of thought and ideas. Over time, Palm Springs and its surrounding communities have carved out their own hotbeds of artistic expression.


The Backstreet Art district is located several miles from downtown Palm Springs in an old strip shopping mall. There are dozens of artist-owned galleries and working studios, which feature paintings, sculpture, photography, jewelry, ceramics, as well as performing arts.



A much larger area for artists is located at the Palm Springs Art Museum and north of downtown in the Art and Design District. At one time this area was a barren stretch of boarded up storefronts and half empty motels that offered none of the glamor and cache of old or new Palm Springs. Over time that changed and now the Uptown Art and Design District is a true enclave of galleries, design shops, restaurants, and housing for the creative minded types.


The Ultimate in artistic regeneration and commercial display is located down the valley in Palm Desert. El Paseo Drive is a mile long commercial strip that is generations and millions of dollars from the mud huts of early painters deep in the desert. It is meant to embody the style and elegance of high society in the desert. This art-strung boulevard houses over 250 retailers, professional services, renowned restaurants and locally owned boutiques. It is the ultimate avenue for anything and everything you never knew you needed or wanted.


Desert art has come a long ways from those first ancient petroglyphs through ‘en plein air’ to the rich tapestry of creative talent that resides here now. There are a plethora of art shows, film festivals, world-class gallery and museum events, rotating exhibitions, national touring and locally produced theater, classical to contemporary music concerts, couture fashion shows and architecture and design tours.  The Southwest Arts Festival is just one of a dozen or more art festivals throughout ‘the season.’


South of Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley lies a cluster of primeval ancient relics of art that confuse, shock and amuse the errant wanderer who happens upon their grounds. I discovered that several years ago when I stumbled upon several enclaves of mystery just south of the Salton Sea. It was a ‘Mad Max’ holiday replete with mummies at East Jesus, flying dune buggies, a conflagration in Slab City and a death stare at Bombay Beach.


The Salton Sea is California’s largest lake measuring more than 35 miles long and 15 miles wide in spots. It has a surface area of over 380 square miles and sits at 332 feet below sea level. Today the salinity level of the sea stands at 45 ppt. Only the tilapia fish is able to survive in such waters. While fishing is still good for the tilapia, fish kills continue to plague the area with their harsh smells.


It will take years, perhaps decades before the sea might possibly return to its past glory. More feasibility studies will be made, more funding sought and grand schemes hatched. The possibilities for commerce, recreation and development are enormous. Until then the Salton Sea is a magical place for walk the shoreline, observe the birds, and time your visit to avoid the smell of dead fish littering the beaches.


Down the dusty road from the Salton Sea is Salvation Mountain. This strange collection of painted hills is one of the premiere examples of folk art in the middle of nowhere America. The site has become a mecca for those influenced by and intrigued with this kaleidoscope of painted hills, crude cave dwellings and religious scripture. The cave’s paint can and hay bale construction would challenge even the most daring of spelunkers. Who knew that such a place would continue to draw visitors long after its creator had passed away?


The artwork is made from adobe, straw and thousands of gallons of lead-free paint. It was created by the late Leonard Knight (1931-2014). A deeply religious man, Knight created an art piece that encompasses numerous murals and areas painted with Christian sayings and Bible verses. Knight’s philosophy was built around the ‘Sinners Prayer.’


Slab City, otherwise known as ‘The Slabs’ is a snowbird campsite used by recreational vehicle owners alongside squatters from across North America. It takes its name from the concrete slabs that remain from an abandoned World War II Marine barracks of Camp Dunlap.

It’s estimated that there are about one and fifty permanent residents (squatters) who live in the slabs year around. Some live on government checks, others just want to live ‘off the grid’ and a few come to stretch out their retirement income. The camp has no electricity, no running water, no sewers or toilets and no trash pickup service. Sounds like a dry run for the apocalypse.



Despite the free shoe tree on the way into town and the free library, most of the residents have sectioned off their trailers, tents, and sleeping bags with tires, pallets, or barbwire. Free is free unless it comes to their piece of the desert then even squatters want their personal space recognized.


No trip to Slab City would be complete with a swing by East Jesus.  East Jesus has been described as an experimental, sustainable art installation. East Jesus is a colloquialism for the middle of nowhere beyond the edge of services. Made from discarded material that has been reused, recycled or repurposed, East Jesus encourages visitors to imagine a world without waste in which every action is an opportunity for self-expression.


West Satan is a simply a suburb of East Jesus. I found the art gallery there fascinating and mind-expanding. It was tripping out without the acid and a glimpse into the lives of those who don’t want to be a part of ‘any scene’ here in fantasyland or the rest of the world.


I’ve always been intrigued by a dark cluster of trailer homes strewn alongside the Salton Sea half way to Slab City. ‘Bombay Beach, North Shore’ always seemed like the perfect title for a play. With apologies to Slab City, Bombay Beach isn’t much of an alternative. Its housing seems beaten down by the harsh summers and its distance from civilization. I drove down its main street and intended to stop to ask directions until I looked into the dead eyes of one young woman shuffling down the gravel roadway. One stare was enough for me to gun the engine and ‘get out of Dodge'.



Some artists choose to express themselves and show their wares in galleries in the valley or in remote spots like Slab City. Others are off radar and like it that way. Whispers come from the mountains surrounding the Salton Sea as do siren calls from the high desert.

The high desert communities of the Morongo Valley, Yucca Valley, and Joshua tree continue to attract musicians now as it has since the turn of the century. This is another world of vast nothingness peppered with the sad remnants of past lives. It’s a place where stillness thunders louder than the wind and God did some of his finest paintings. It is a vast virtual sound studio for the creative musician and blank canvas for artists of every discipline.


The area is a mecca for aging rock stars and modern-day bohemians along with ordinary people all in search of a new beginning. It’s the place where people go to get lost and be creative.

Joshua tree and these surrounding communities embrace another form of existence - all of which is surrounded by endless horizons.


The high desert of the Morongo Basin is like a modern day outback of more than 9.5 million acres of public land in the California desert. Its home to old walking trails first used by Native Americans between seasonal encampments then followed by Spanish explorers and finally 19th century gold seekers and pioneers. Reminders of past human lives are everywhere.

Facing the Morongo Basin across the valley floor is a little mountaintop community called Idyllwild. On the surface it seems little different from the dozens of other villages that lay scattered about the San Jacinto’s, San Bernardino’s or Santa Rosa Mountains nearby.


There is the usual façade of cute craft shops and art stores. Three-two taverns and mom and pop restaurants lay hidden among the pines. Bait stores and gas stations line the mountain lakes. But in Idyllwild something is different from the norm. Behind the scenes live the hundreds of real artists who make up the character of Idyllwild. It isn’t Greenwich Village or North Beach or the Uptown Design District but it still has a unique character all of its own.


Idyllwild’s artistic history goes back to the early 1940’s when the first artists came and stayed to live and hone their craft. About that time Idyllwild became home to a summer camp offering education in all forms of art and music. Over time other artists arrived in the hamlet with their paints and sketch pads and well-worn guitars. They carved a living out of the pine and granite and overwhelming beauty of the place.

Complementing the visual arts, other disciplines began to hone their craft and grow their own businesses there. Film makers, theatrical entrepreneurs, actors and musicians all added to that cauldron of creativity. Like some spontaneous combustion of talent and mindset, Idyllwild became a mecca for those seeking the solitude of the forest and the comradery of like-minded souls.


“Art is a language that everyone speaks in one form or another.” So says Cat Orlando, just one of a number of artists who have opened galleries or their own exhibits recently in Idyllwild. Together they present a kaleidoscope of form and function, color and texture, whimsical and serious, composition and symbolism. There are works of art in acrylics, oils, stained glass, pottery, metal works, alcohol ink, pencil drawings, photographs, 3-D and dottilism objects…to name a few.

With over eighteen different arts organizations, Idyllwild hosts a number of festivals each year that focus on the arts and nature. Complementing the visual arts scene is a plethora of live music and theater events. Film festival fanatics find a perfect venue in the January Idyllwild Inter-national Film Festival with between 175 and 180 films playing at different venues throughout the community.


Yet as much as time changes the flavor of art, Sharon and I still get to immerse ourselves in the daily show all around us. Each morning, sunlight still dances off the mountainsides, and then casts imaginative shadows over our lives.


It’s like a new show that takes place every day and we get to be in the audience and live it along with that celestial talent from above.