Left Coast Cowboys

I’m tickled pink. A group of Conservatives have asked me to join their blog as a Guest Liberal Commentator. Not that I’m going to become the wimpy Alan Colmes to a bunch of pitbull Sean Hannity wannabees. If I’m to be the Sacrificial Liberal Lamb, I’m dressing myself in garlic and rosemary.

I wish I could say it was my informed dissertation on foreign policy and how it affects the US economy that attracted them. Actually, it was my spirited defense of Brad Pitt. Whatever. Read my first post here. The subject: saving energy and drinking more cocktails. Believe me, they can be related.

Note: okay, my “cute puppy pictures” strategy worked. Yesterday’s post got the most traffic ever. I guess I should post a terrier picture with every entry. And maybe next week, some fluffy kittens.

Within days, we could, at last, be up to our full quota of terriers! Since the sad death in February of our beloved Charlie from a rare cancer, Two Terrier Vineyards just hasn’t had the same feeling. While we could never replace him (and he’s memorialized in Lake Charles), you just can’t run a decent vineyard, we think, without a brace of terriers. However, as I explained in an earlier post, getting a pure-bred Smooth Fox Terrier is just not that easy.

Once one of the most popular dogs in England and America in the late 1800s through the 1920s (check out old advertising if you don’t believe me. You’ll find gratuitous Smoothies in everything from toothpaste to insurance ads), Smoothies outlived their popular appeal. Originally used to administer the final coup de grace to the fox in fox hunting, Smoothies made the transition from rural to urban dog easily. They’re small, but they have big attitudes. And they are superb ratters, something Victorian city dwellers must have loved. Once World War I started, Fox Terriers (and all kinds of other small terriers) were embraced by soldiers living in rat-infested trenches. It became de rigeur on both sides of the trenches to have a Regimental or Company Terrier. (One terrier named Sargent Stubby even alerted his soldiers to incoming gas attacks and drove off an invading German soldier by biting him in the seat of his pants. He retired with a full pension, although in the interest of full disclosure, I have to report that he was a Pit Bull mix.) I’ve included two of my favorite WWI terrier pictures. The group picture includes Hitler (he’s the one on the bottom left) posing with his company’s terrier (that’s the one with the floppy ears.) In the other photo, a British regimental terrier proudly stands with his daily “kill”.

But, even as a terrier lover, I have to admit, these are big dogs in small packages. They don’t know they are only 20 pounds. They can be like the little scary guy in the pub that no one wants to mess with. (For exactly the type, refer to Ben Kingsley in “Sexy Beast”. He must weigh 140 pounds wringing wet, but he plays the scariest gangster/psychopath you’ve seen on the screen in years.)

Fox Terriers are also incredibly loud and that yapping can get very high-pitched. Both of these tendencies can be alleviated with lots and lots of continuous training. But most people haven’t got the patience. They’d rather get a semi-comatose Lab or Golden Retriever. (Okay, hold the hate mail, Lab and Goldie lovers. I know there are some wonderful smart ones out there, but there are also a lot of dim bulbs.) Dim bulbs, Fox Terriers are NOT. In fact, one of the challenges is that they are so smart, they’ve figured out all the “training techniques” before you even have a chance to try them. My dream is to have Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer, come to my house. Let’s see him try that Alpha Dog “calm assertive” act on a Smoothie!

Smooth Fox Terriers seem to be found now largely in the professional breeding circles and you almost have to be a “made” dog owner to get one. Only occasionally, when a dog is not deemed “show worthy” is it released to a “pet home.” To qualify as a pet home, you’ve got to have an in with a breeder. These dogs don’t just get posted on eBay. And expect your breeder to stay in your life, sort of like Open Adoption. They like to know at all times where their dogs are.

But, luck seems to be with us. The woman who bred Charlie (who was clearly not show quality with his droopy ears, curly tail and moochy walk) and Lucy (who has the conformation of a show dog, but not the attitude) has brokered a deal with the breeder of one of Charlie’s sisters. So we’ll have one of Charlie’s nephews. And he’s a little Chocolate Head as well.

My only hesitation: this dog was bred in New Jersey. Hmmmm. Little, tough, feisty, from Joisey. Could we be in danger of getting a canine Joe Pesci?

Here’s more proof that there is universal synergy. O.J. Simpson is back in the slammer, and I’ve got Jury Duty. Although getting Jury Duty, for me, is not that out of the ordinary. (Just like it’s not that unusual for OJ to be on the wrong side of the law.) Since I dutifully showed up for my first summons in San Francisco nearly 20 years ago, they call me back exactly one year to the day when they last called me. I don’t believe for a minute that in one calendar year they can run through every available juror in San Francisco and have to call me up again. Instead, I’m imagining there is a big red star next to my name at City Hall with a note that says, “Call this sucker. She’ll always show up.”

“So just don’t show up,” my friend, Rob said. He’s got that certain English attitude against authority. “How can they prove that you even received the summons if they didn’t send it Registered Mail?”

But I tend to believe the dire threats of bench warrents and large fines. So every year, I show up at the Hall of Justice. At least at some point they got free Wi-Fi for the waiting room. But if you get called into a courtroom with a potential jury pool, it’s no phones, no iPods, no laptops and no reading material (also no talking, no gum chewing and no wearing hats!). It’s like being stuck in a bad episode of Law & Order (although I have yet to see a bad episode of Law & Order!) Then the judge comes in and gives you a stern lecture about the Constitution and your civic duty. Which you think at the time, “How interesting!” But then you realize: after 45 minutes without talking, cell phone, iPod or reading, anything would be interesting.

Not that I wouldn’t like to serve on a trial if it were an interesting trial. I’d definitely serve on any upcoming O.J. trial. It would be a blast and then there would be all those talk show appearances afterwards. And the book deal I most certainly would get. I’d love to be on a good juicy Morman Polygamist trial. But I digress. I have a terrible feeling I’ll most likely get on some boring traffic violation or dispute with Nordstroms about returned merchandise. That wouldn’t even allow me to jump up and yell, “Point of Order” or some other great line I’ve learned from years of watching Law & Order. However, since I’m at the Hall of Justice and Superior Court, I’m definitely at the Court of Scumbags. Only criminal cases get heard here, so I’m at least guaranteed some sleeze and perhaps a defendant dragged in in chains.

So just when I thought I’d escape a trial yet again, I was picked for a jury pool. Tomorrow, the lawyers start to quiz us and decide if they want to use us or eliminate us. That’s when I realized, I’d played this all wrong. In my batik pants and ethnic embroidered shirt, I looked like what I was: a San Francisco Liberal who would be likely to give a defendant the benefit of the doubt, especially if he had a disadvantaged childhood, dyslexia or a hangnail. What I really needed to look like was a grumpy judgmental Republican. Someone who was quick to remind everyone that her parents worked their way up to membership in Darien’s most exclusive country club so why should any kid with the bad sense to be named Julio or Rhashad get cut any slack just because his parents were Meth addicts.

Tomorrow, I’m teasing my hair into a helmet as starched and inflexible as Bush’s policies. We’re talking pearls, pumps and a-line skirts. It’s goodbye Jane Fonda, hello Lynn Cheney.

See if some overworked, underpaid public attorney wants ME on his jury.

NOTE: If you are roped into Jury Duty at SF’s Hall of Justice, the best lunch can be had at Deli Deleon. Real roasted turkey sandwiches! And check out the row of bail bonds offices right across the street. Who knows when you might need one?

There aren’t many times — especially in this day and age — when I’m prepared to take a hard line defending America. But on one subject, I’ll wave the flag all day long yelling, “America RUUUUUUULLLEESSS!” I can confidently say, in the world, maybe even in the Universe, America, hands down does bathrooms better than anyone else. It’s an epiphany I have after every weekend in Sonoma spent using an Incinolet toilet (see how it works to left) and showering outdoors. Actually, our set up is about as convenient and sanitary as you can expect out in the woods. And it’s not that bad, except on a cold morning like this one where you really start to debate the merits of a shower a day when faced with toweling off in 45 degree weather with two deer looking on.

But deprived of the full superiority of normal American plumbing, I do get very ready to slap on an American flag lapel pin, switch on Bill O’Reilly and blast Liberals who run down our troops. Say it loud and proud, America does bathrooms best! And I have the authority to make this statement, having sampled plumbing — and kept meticulous notes — across the globe.

Okay, the Victorian English pretty much invented the concept of the modern bathroom as we know it. But British plumbing, even if you are in a good hotel, is always just a little bit cranky and somewhat eccentric. Sort of like the British themselves.

You’d think Germans, with their Teutonic efficiency, would master bathrooms. No, they’re efficient, all right, but a little bit cold and impersonal. Sort of like the Germans themselves.

I’m not an Ugly American. When I go to a Third World or developing country, I make allowances. I’ve seen some horrific bathroom situations in Bali, Asia and North Africa. But the only people I can’t forgive are the French. How can they strut around acting like they are the arbiters of taste and fine living when even the rest rooms in the Louvre would send a Calcutta street person screaming in horror? In France, you learn to go in the morning, in the barely adequate but somewhat controlled environment of your hotel, then hold it all day long, lest you lose whatever wonderful lunch you just ate in that cute bistro. In fact, the cute bistro that produced that wonderful meal is probably where you will find a particularly horrible and odiferous cellpit of an alleged public toilet. Sorry, but it makes me wonder about kitchen hygiene. I guess, when in France, as in when eating street food in Asia, it’s better not to think about it.

You might argue that the Japanese with their addiction to new gizmos and obsession with cleanliness would have the best bathrooms. But you would be wrong. Sure, in Japan I’ve seen public toilets that warmed the seat and varied the pressure as you sat on them, sprayed you with minty fresh disinfectant as you flushed, then proceeded to sanitize the entire stall before the next patron arrived. But there’s more to a good bathroom than technology. In fact, there is such a thing as TOO MUCH technology. Especially when, like Japanese facilities, it starts to invade your very, very personal space.

Nope, Americans understand that bathrooms have to have high functionality, but still the sort of hominess and intimacy that encourages you to . . .uh, relax.

So let’s hear it for American bathrooms. The world may be appalled at Bush’s war and our invasive Pop culture. But we sure as hell are getting something right.

At some point I need to tally up how much of my disposable income each year goes directly to Steve Jobs. It may be somewhere between our grocery bill and our combined clothing purchases.

The latest Apple gadget is the iPod Nano. Not that I don’t already have an iPod. Two, in fact. I have one of the first generation iPods that’s still functioning very well, thank you. Except that the electronics world has moved on and now I can’t buy any accessories that fit it. At some point, it was decided that we were all staggering under the weight of our iPods and later models were made lighter and thinner. I like to think I’m strong enough to lug around a 7 ounce iPod. It was the color video screen that suckered me into the sleek black 3rd Generation model. Which, I might add, I’m perfectly happy with. I’d be using it today every day if someone at Apple hadn’t come up with this tie in with Nike. Seems you can make your iPod function as a pedometer and running coach. All it takes is a little $24 adapter kit.

But here’s the rub. It’s not enough to have an iPod and a pair of running shoes. The system only works with an iPod Nano. And you can only fit the sensor into a specially designed pair of Nike shoes. So my perfectly serviceable iPod and my extremely comfortable ASICs have to be retired, at least for the purposes of my daily walks. Nearly $250 later, I’ve got the set up that allows my $24 adaptor kit to work.

Was it worth it? I’ll have to say, with a slightly embarrassed downcast look, that it is. First there’s the Apple factor. It takes minutes to master with no manual. Having blown my way through at least three pedometers – all of which involved reading manuals that were clearly written by people with English for a second language and who had never even seen the product – the time savings alone were worth it. And that’s if I’m assuming my time is worth about the hourly wage paid by McDonald’s.

Secondly, it really works. None of my pedometers ever measured my walking speed correctly – at least judging by the wide discrepancy between what any of my pedometers said when I was on any treadmill at the gym set to 3.9 MPH. And again, the pedometers required precious days of my time to calibrate, understand and operate. The iPod Nano system was pretty much pop the sensor in your shoe, turn on the Pod and start walking. On the treadmill, it’s spot on. So either every treadmill at the gym is out of calibration at the same rate or there is a vast conspiracy of electronic devices and my Nano and the treadmills are in cahoots.

Third, the Nano uploads all the details of my exercise session up to my personal Nike workout page– including nifty graphic representations of my varying speeds, distances and calories burned. Again, I pretty much plug it into the computer with a USB cable and it happens automatically.

But the best part of the set up didn’t become apparent until I’d walked with it for about a week or two. I decided to do a long walk and set the Nano for 10 miles. As always, each mile was marked by a cheerful, if slightly robotic, voice that said something to the effect of “you’ve completed 2 miles, 8 miles to go.” When I’d finished my 10 miles I pressed the button to officially end and save the workout data. All of a sudden I hear: “Hi, this is Lance Armstrong. Congratulations. You’ve just reached a personal best for distance.” Wow! Now I’m motivated to walk beyond 10 miles to see what other Nike athlete cheers me on. Tiger Woods? Mia Hamm? David Beckham?

It was all optimism and motivation until I mistakenly selected a 5 mile walk when I’d only intended to go 3 miles that day. No problem, I thought, I’ll just end early. But when I pressed stop, Robot Lady sternly admonished me, “Are you SURE you want to stop? You haven’t completed your goal.” I’m not sure I like being hassled by my electronics. Or at the very least, couldn’t it have been a particularly tough Nike athlete like Serena Williams saying “Get yo’ lazy ass in gear and finish that workout!”

Anyway, get the Nikes and the Nano. You won’t regret it. And, Steve, give me a call. You need to put me on the payroll. I have to support my Apple habit somehow now that I’m transitioning into farmerhood.