Name dropping, animal droppings, but no ball dropping

The past week rounded out pretty well. Competence at work was up 50% with 4th-week expected-performance indicators signaling a significant shift toward independent signing-out of run-of-the-mill smears. Hand surgery fellow admitted to "textbook" placement of scaphoid screw, made jokes at orthopedic resident's expense, and assured the injured that there was no other fracture--just a ligament tear that would heal over time.

I got a new thumb splint and a prescription for physical therapy--first appointment Tuesday at 8AM. I can take off the splint to shower, giving me the opportunity to remove the 1/4 inch of dead skin that has accumulated on my right hand. Ick.

I spent most of Saturday running errands and found that wherever I go, I can find an accident. Riding, seated, on the 38 Geary bus to downtown, I suddenly found myself bruised, thrown into a neighboring seat against a pole. The bus driver had slammed on the brakes to avoid smashing an over-zealous convertible in search of a parallel-parking space. A little old lady got smashed against a wall and filed a complaint, so the rest of the passengers hopped the bus and chased down the next one. Still, it doesn't come close the time I saw an octogenarian stab a septuagenarian on a SEPTA bus in South Philly.

Saturday night, George and headed south to Santa Cruz. Before we left, he gave me a tour of the 18th green, bunkers, and fairway that he's building, and we pushed around a pile of dirt with a bulldozer. He has the job little boys dream of having. Apparently there's an art behind the diesel powered machinery and laser levels--and I believe it--but it's probably most appreciated once the drainage layers, sod, and turf are laid in precision above the sculpted dirt piles.

The drive to Santa Cruz, 20 miles outside of South San Francisco, starts as curving highway that is like Schuylkill Expressway wrapped the around a mountain. We checked into what may be the foulest-smelling hotel room I have ever stayed in. I won't even discuss the pricetag, but it was some event weekend there, and we refused to pay $400 for a nice room. We had dinner at a mexican restaurant in downtown Santa Cruz, a strange little place that mixes California crazies, young and trashy clubbers, and yuppy restaurant-goers. We followed dinner with drinks at a cool bar that lacked the omnipresent neck tattoos George promised me but which possessed cool retro-red lighting and super comfy swivel club chairs in red leather. Hipster quotient was high, but not unpleasant.

The next morning we watched Padraig Harrington blow his 2 stroke lead at the British Open but headed south for Monterey instead of watching the playoff. We drove along the coast through miles of agricultural land with ocean views--avocados and strawberries and lettuce. We checked out the adorable town of Pacific Grove and drove along to Pebble Beach to scope out the course and associated mansions. I learned a lot about good and bad golf course design, to say the least. George dropped some course superintendent's name so we wouldn't have to pay the $8 toll to drive through Pebble Beach.

We continued on to Big Sur, driving along the Pacific Ocean with incredible views of sheer cliff faces, deep blue water, rocks, and kelp. Fog swirled inland and then back out to sea, and we found the luckiest cows on earth. George explained to me at length his preferred use of their pasture--an incredible links course. Words don't really do justice to the precariousness of the depression-era highway and the ridiculous views it affords--pictures are a must.

In the camping region of Big Sur, we stopped for a drink at a bar-restaurant and drank our beverages on the back porch amidst the lovely and fragrant Redwoods. We were surprised there were no other aromas, considering there was a 5 person reggae band getting ready to perform. These white guys must have had over 50 years of serious dreadlock dedication between them. The irony that we were in the whitest place (outside of Iowa) imaginable that is farthest away from Africa was not lost upon us.

We headed back to Monterey and sneaked onto the municipal course at Pacific Grove for George to take some photographs. Apparently the course has remarkable natural sand dunes for hazards, and he is convinced that a "eco-restoration" project will result in their eventual destruction. He wanted this on the photographic record. I concentrated on not stepping in deer, goose, or rabbit shit and kept my eyes out for lost golf balls (recovered 6).

George made a valiant attempt at getting the guard to let us tool around the Naval Postgraduate School: "her brother's on a submarine." Guard: "Do you have military ID?" George: "No." Guard: "You'll have to turn around and leave."

Our dinner at the Fish House was highlighted by a fat man in a Playboy t-shirt interpreting "first-come, first-served" as "I'll sit my fat gut where I want and reserve a seat for someone who's not here yet." But we got a table. My dish had two of the grossest mussels I've ever eaten--they must not have been too rotten since I didn't get sick. We decided to boogie when one of the servers almost flambed half the restaurant when preparing bananas Foster. We said farewell to the Thomas Kincaid National Archive (picture tear-filled sobbing), and headed back north.