Yesterday, as I was driving home from Las Vegas, I decided to stop in the little town of Baker, California. (For those keeping track, yes, this was the second consecutive weekend that I traveled to Las Vegas. The first was for Juliette's birthday, the second for the annual get-together of my college friends during the NCAA basketball tournament.) This wasn't the first time I've ever stopped in Baker, but it was the first time that I stopped for the express purpose of looking around and trying to see what was really there.

For those of you who have never driven Interstate 15 between Southern California and Nevada, Baker is a tiny little town about halfway between Barstow and Vegas. I say "town," but in most ways it seems like more of an overgrown truck stop—the main "drag" is just a few miles long and mainly consists of gas stations, fast food, a couple of seedy-looking motels, and a few diners.

And, of course, the "world's tallest thermometer," which isn't actually a thermometer at all but rather a 134-foot-tall electric sign:

There's not much else. Lonely desert stretches out for miles in every direction, broken up by a few volcanic hills.

I had always assumed that Baker really was just a truck stop, and that the gas stations and diners were staffed mostly by seasonal temporary workers. It caught me off-guard, then, when the first thing to greet me at the end of the off-ramp was a bunch of teenagers waving a carwash sign that read "Support the Class of 2010." Suddenly, this little spot out in the middle of nowhere seemed to be hiding a real community, and I found myself extremely curious to know what life there was like.

It turns out—as I was able to find via a little Googling when I got home—that Baker has a small, but apparently close-knit permanent community. There's an entire school district serving just that town, with about 200 K-12 students. And a community services district that manages things like garbage collection and water, as well as a public park, swimming pool, and community center. I drove around a bit and, sure enough, I found a teeny little public park where five or six kids were kicking a soccer ball around. I found a fire station, a post office, a ramshackle little church, and a whole bunch of trailers and small, run-down houses.

As I drove up and down the cracked pavement of the side streets, questions kept running through my head. Like "What do the kids in this town do for fun?" and "What do people do after work?" "What else am I not seeing?" I wish I had been able to stop and get my car washed, just so I could have asked some of the students what it was like to grow up there. Unfortunately, where they were set up was before the end of the very long off-ramp, where the road was still one lane, and I would have had to backtrack at least ten or fifteen miles up the freeway to try to come back around.

So, I guess I'm stuck wondering, for now, what life in Baker is like for the locals. Maybe some day I'll have the chance to stop in again, with the time to look around more to see if I could get anyone to talk to me. It seems like such a depressing, isolated life, but something tells me there's a story there.

The rest of my photos from this week's set:

A bit over a year ago, I managed to convince Juliette that we should try out our local Jollibee. It turned out not to have been a particularly good decision on my part, but, in my defense, I was just too overcome with curiosity when faced with this sign:

I mean, seriously, if you saw a sign like that, wouldn't you just have to go in and see what was up with the Crispy Chickenjoy? OK, well, probably not if you have good sense, which I don't. In any case, the chicken was actually not bad, though the burger was more strange than yummy.

My poor judgment isn't really the point of the story, though. See, I had this idea while I was eating, and maybe it's just the fact that I've been on a diet for the last couple of months, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that this is a million-dollar idea. I'll lay it on you in four words: bucket of chicken skin.

OK, so maybe if you actually called it that, it wouldn't sell so well. But everybody knows that the best part of a piece of fried chicken is the skin. About 90% (a number I freely admit I've completely made up) of the flavor is in the skin, not to mention the crispy texture.

I even have the perfect candidate for this idea: KFC. Not only is KFC practically synonomous with fried chicken, but this idea dovetails perfectly with their new Kentucky Grilled Chicken menu. You know all about that, I'm sure—in order to try to appeal to a more health-conscious audience, KFC has for a while now been offering a skinless, non-fried version of their chicken. You see where I'm going, right? For every piece of skinless chicken they sell, there's the skin they had to remove and throw away. The best part of the whole fried chicken experience—in fact, I would say the integral, the canonical part—and they are just throwing it away.

I'm telling you, KFC, you are sitting on a gold mine here.

Jason stayed with Juliette's parents this past weekend while we were in Las Vegas for her birthday. They were kind enough to drive the 400 miles from Big Sur to San Diego so that Jason could be home, for which I can't thank them enough. I've been really glad that they've been able to be present in his life so much, and that he's gotten to know and love them so well. This time, as always, Jason had a great time, which if I hadn't already known would have been evident from the conversation I had with him tonight.

Jason: (pointing toward the kitchen) Aba?

Me: Oh, Aba? No, sweetie, Nana and Aba aren't here right now.

Jason: (pointing to the front window) Aba?

Me: Nana and Aba went home, honey. They went to their home in Big Sur. Do you remember Big Sur?

Jason: Hum.

Me: That's right, they went home.

Jason: Ga.

Me: Yep, they went home in a car. In their car. Do you remember Nana and Aba's car?

Jason: (runs to the window and points) Ga. Mo ga. Ga!

Me: Their car isn't here anymore, Jason. They drove it away when they went home.

Jason: Dada, Nana. Aba.

Me: I know you want to see them, Jason, but they went to their home. You know, their home? Mommy and Daddy and Jason and Cooper live in this home, our home, and Nana and Aba live in their home in Big Sur. Different people live in different homes. Elliott and Margo live at their home, and Caleb lives at his home, and Allie lives at her home. They all have their own homes, just like us. Do you understand?

Jason: No.

Me: Yeah, I didn't think so.

Reading Forever immediately after The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay made for an interesting comparison, since both books are about New York, both written by men who obviously have deep and abiding love for the city. But where Kavalier & Klay is more a portrait, a snapshot of the city at a particular moment, Forever is more like a time-lapse film. And while Michael Chabon's novel exudes the vigor and excitement of the post-war era, Pete Hamill's book has that sense of solemnity that I associate with Old-World legends and, perhaps, magic realism. Actually, Forever probably fits that latter camp pretty well, given both its premise and its execution.

Forever is the story of Cormac O'Connor, born in 1723 outside of Belfast. At the age of 17, Cormac makes his way across the Atlantic to New York to avenge his father's murder, in the process of which he's mortally wounded. He's brought back from the brink of death by an African shaman, who gives him the "gift" of eternal life, though with the condition that he can never leave the island of Manhattan. Thereafter, we follow Cormac through the history of the city, straight through until the present day. Cormac sees the Revolutionary War, the Great Fire of New York in 1835, the corruption of Tammany Hall, and the destruction of 9/11, and Hamill presents it all with a sharp eye for history.

I found this book interesting for a lot of reasons, not least of which was the main character. In some ways it's tempting to see Cormac as heroic for his moral stance against slavery and injustice and his actions in helping the little guy. He appreciates art and music, accumulates a wealth of knowledge, and loves the city that he's watched grow from its infancy. Too, the tragic nature of his solitude plays on our sympathies. And yet, the genius of Hamill's characterization is that as alluring a character as Cormac is, he's more complex than that. He reveals himself to be selfish, even mean at times. And his adherence to the code of his Gaelic ancestors—requiring him to seek revenge not only on his father's murderer, but also all of the man's descendants—leaves an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Or mine, anyway.

All in all, Forever is a great read, the prose constantly evolving and changing along with the history it recounts—the opening chapters, recounting Cormac's youth, read like a fable, but before the end of the book the style catches up to the modern day. The whole thing is just beautiful.

Pete Hamill seems to get called "a New York legend" with some frequency—which you'd expect of a man who was editor-in-chief of both the New York Post and the New York Daily News. I'd say, though, that even if he'd done nothing else, the strength of this book alone might just be enough to earn him that title.

Started: 2010-02-23 | Finished: 2010-03-05

Purchase from Amazon

In celebration of Juliette's birthday, the two of us took a little trip to Las Vegas this past weekend. We ate some great food, won some money, and just generally enjoyed the heck out of ourselves.

I haven't been to Vegas in a couple of years, and it was interesting to see how things have changed in that time. In a lot of ways the city seemed a little darker, more seedy. I've been there seven or eight times, probably, but before tonight I can't recall seeing any homeless people on the strip—this time they were everywhere. And the crowds walking up and down the sidewalk seemed a little meaner, maybe. I've come to take it for granted that most everyone walking along the strip at night will be drunk, but the general mood before has always seemed pretty convivial. This time, though, it seemed like there were a lot of people who, if I had accidentally bumped into them, might have tried to take a swing at me like belligerent frat boys might.

You might be able to chalk all that up to the recession, but, on the other hand, there's also been kind of an astounding amount of new construction since I last saw it. At Juliette's dad's recommendation, we took some time to check out the new city center, which was really interesting architecturally:

The crowds inside the casinos, too, seemed just as lively as ever, though perhaps a bit less densely packed. What all that adds up to, I'm not really sure. I can say, though, that I don't know if I'll ever stop thinking it's funny to see people drinking 100-ounce margaritas out of plastic guitars that they have hanging from their necks.

Today being Juliette's actual birthday—and it's a big one this year—I'd like to take a moment to say a few things that maybe I don't say often enough. Juliette is the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's a loving, caring, beautiful, wonderful person, not to mention an amazing mother, and I count myself more than lucky to get to spend my life with her.

Thanks for everything, honey, and happy birthday.

Heard on the PA as I was waiting for my plane last night:

"Paging Las Vegas passenger James... Walker. James Walker, please come to the podium."

"Paging Las Vegas passenger James Walker. Your flight is now boarding."

"Passenger James Walker, please come to gate 2, your flight will be departing soon."

"Passenger James Walker, this is your final boarding call for flight [whatever] to Las Vegas. This is your final boarding call."

"Final boarding call for Las Vegas passenger James Walker at gate 2."

"This will be the final boarding call for Las Vegas passenger James Walker. Please come to gate 2 to board your flight. James Walker."

At this point I started waiting for an Ultimate Final Boarding Call or maybe a Last Final Omega Boarding Call.

I mentioned before that I've been going to a spin class at my gym. I'm enjoying it pretty well, or, rather, I enjoy having done it but think it's akin to torture while actually doing it. I've come to terms with wearing bike shorts and having special shoes, and I think I'm even relatively comfortable with the fact that I'm sure I make ridiculous faces when I'm working hard. There's still one thing that's weird, though, and that's that I don't know where to point my eyes.

This class, like most group exercise classes, is mostly women. Most of whom don't wear a lot, and most of what they do wear is either tight-fitting or revealing, or both. Which, when you're working and sweating as hard as you do in that class only makes sense—sometimes I wish I could wear that little. But the upshot of all this is that there are very few places I can look where I won't be staring at someone's butt or cleavage. I'm not actually ogling anyone, and, actually, I couldn't even if I wanted to because I can't conveniently wear my glasses during that class. And without my glasses I can really only make out vaguely human-shaped forms around me, with little in the way of detail.

I try to get to class a few minutes early, wearing my glasses as I walk in. And I keep my glasses on while I warm up, only taking them off when we really get going. The idea is to let everyone see that I'm nearsighted so hopefully they won't think I'm a pervert if I accidentally stare at them. I know this is a ridiculous thing to think about, but it seriously does go through my head every time. I even make a show of squinting when I look up at the instructor.

I often wonder if I'm the only person at my gym who has these kinds of anxieties. It seems like there must be someone else thinking about it, but to all outward appearances everyone is just completely nonchalant about everything. I mean, take the locker room for example. I'm used to there being nudity in a locker room. I mean, this is the place specially sectioned off for people to change and shower in. Of course people are going to be naked in there. But for whatever reason, guys aren't just incidentally naked in this locker room. It's like a little miniature nudist colony in there. There are guys just relaxing, sitting around naked. Guys watch TV in there, totally naked—at any given time there will be two to five guys standing and sitting around the TV in the buff. No more than one of them will even be holding a towel, much less have it wrapped around himself. And guys will be standing around having long naked conversations, standing closer than I'm comfortable standing near people even when all parties are clothed. There's one guy that seems to be on a similar schedule to me, who every day has something like a ten-minute conversation with his friends, one foot up on a table while he rubs lotion on his legs and groin area.

Now, again, I know that there's going to be some amount of nudity in a locker room. I just don't know how it happens that people are so completely casual about it. Like, do you just get to a certain age or something and completely stop caring? I mean, if I'm naked there is no person on this Earth, male or female, old or young, familiar or a total stranger, who I could talk to while standing within arm's reach without being painfully aware of my nudity the entire time. And it has nothing to do with sexuality, either—when I don't have any clothes on, I feel... well, I feel naked. Isn't that where that expression comes from, "feeling naked"?

The thing I want to know is if people really are that nonchalant or if it's just that no one wants to be the only one to admit that he's not. I certainly try to act like it's all completely normal for me, just so I'm not the one to make it weird. Maybe everybody else is secretly thinking "I'mnakedi'mnakedi'mnakedi'mnaked" while they're talking about stocks or worrying about not accidentally ogling some woman during spin class. I have this sneaking suspicion, though, that it's really just me.

What do you think?

For the past month or two Juliette and I have been trying to teach Jason about numbers. Previously he ignored us most of the time when we showed him how to count—the best we'd get was a laugh. But it's funny how things tend to happen all at once with kids because over the past week or so he's been a counting machine.

Well, sort of. Right now he can only count to two. And I'm not sure whether he gets the concept of numbers or if he's just repeating the sequence of words. Whatever it is, though, he's got a fever, and the only prescription is more counting. He counts all the time. When we read, he counts things in the pictures. (When there are more than two of something in a picture he just starts over from one. "One. Two. One. Two." Sometimes he loses track of where he is, so I guess it's more like "One. Two. One. Two. Two. One. DADDY." But I digress.) He counts noses. He loves counting our eyes. So much so that carrying him around can be a somewhat dangerous proposition—you're liable to wind up with a tiny little fingernail poking you in the cornea. (This is one of the few things I like about wearing glasses: they provide some measure of protection for my eyes against unwanted baby fingers and drool and what have you.) Sometimes he just walks around, holding up both index fingers and shouting "TWOOOOOO!"

I've been trying to introduce three to him, but so far he remains uninterested. I'm thinking, though, that when he makes that discovery it may very well blow his mind.

Sunday night, as is our annual tradition, Juliette and I watched the Academy Awards. There were a number of moments that caught my attention for being nice or interesting, heartwarming or funny or cringe-worthy. Sandra Bullock’s acceptance speech, for example, which was simultaneously heartfelt and funny. Or Gabourey Sidibe’s tears after being introduced by Oprah. Or Jeff Bridges finally winning. The one that I’ve been thinking about the most over the past couple of days, though, was Kathryn Bigelow’s win of Best Director. It turns out that Bigelow was the first woman to win that award, something that was pointed out a lot leading up to the ceremony, and even several times during it. What I can't stop wondering, though, is just how important her win is.

Before I go any further I should say that I'm sure that it was well-deserved. Although I haven't seen The Hurt Locker, I have only heard excellent things about it. Literally every person I've heard speak about it, whether a friend or a reviewer, has said it was a great movie. And I also thought that Bigelow's acceptance speech was nice. True, she may have made some small political statement, but she presented herself with respect and humility, and what seemed to be genuine gratitude.

It was actually the speech itself that really got me to thinking, because I couldn't help comparing it to Halle Berry's acceptance speech when she won for Monster's Ball. That speech really rubbed me the wrong way, and it's stayed in my mind over the years. The part I always come back to is this:

This moment is so much bigger than me. This moment is for Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne, Diahann Carroll. It's for the women that stand beside me, Jada Pinkett, Angela Bassett, Vivica Fox. And it's for every nameless, faceless woman of color who now has a chance because this door tonight has been opened.

Now, to be sure, it is important that a woman of color finally won Best Actress, just as it's important that a woman won Best Director. But I just can't help but feel that neither is quite the same as, for example, Hattie McDaniel's Best Supporting Actress win in 1939. I don't even really think it's the same as Dorothy Dandridge's nomination for Best Actress in 1954.

Don't mistake me as saying that Berry's and Bigelow's wins don't matter, and especially don't mistake me as saying that we're past racism and sexism these days. Race and gender inequalities are real and serious problems. They are problems that, while we certainly have made gains on them over the past 50 years, we are not through with. I doubt we'll be through with them in my lifetime. Sometimes I doubt we ever will be. So, yes, it is important that a black woman can be Best Actress and that a woman can be Best Director. It's something that we should be proud of, that we live and participate in a society where things like that can happen.

Why, then, am I so set on Berry being different from McDaniel or Dandridge? The main thing is that I'm not sure that Berry's win really did open any doors. How much more of a chance does an unknown young woman of color have at becoming a Hollywood star now than she did before 2002? And now that Bigelow has won Best Director, does that really mean that women will have an easier time becoming movie directors?

Even before Halle Berry won her Oscar, I don't think it can really be said that minorities are underrepresented in acting. Just off the top of my head I can think of a number of well-respected black actors and actresses: Angela Bassett, Morgan Freeman, James Earl Jones, Whoopi Goldberg, Sidney Poitier, to name a few. And while it does seem that more directors are men than women, I don't know that I think that's due to some sort of institutional bias against women as directors. In fact, one of the earliest directors of a narrative film was a woman (Alice Guy-Blaché), and women have been making hugely successful films since at least the 80's (Big, directed by Penny Marshall, made over $100 million in 1988).

I can't help feeling that what I'm saying is going to bother people, but I really don't mean to denigrate Halle Berry or Kathryn Bigelow or their accomplishments. (And, to be fair, Bigelow doesn't seem to be trying to make her award into something more than that.) And I know that there's a natural tendency to make a big deal out of firsts. I just can't help feeling that Kathryn Bigelow's and Halle Berry's awards don't mean much more than that they did a good job in their work.

What do you think?

Yesterday, Juliette and I walked five miles in the rain with some friends (and 2,108 strangers) in order to help find a cure for literacy. I placed fourth to last in the "Male 30-34" bracket (just barely beating out a blind woman, a woman nine months into her pregnancy, and an 89-year-old man), picked up two new blisters, and had the skin worn off the back of my left ankle by a shoe that is sorely in need of replacement. And a fun time was had by all.

All kidding aside, we had a great time. It was, indeed, raining, but it felt good to participate in something for a good cause. We opted to walk instead of run, which meant that we got wetter and colder than we might have otherwise, but it also meant that it wasn't particularly strenuous, and we spent the time talking and laughing, which is a pretty good way to spend a Sunday morning, if you ask me.

Between the event and the weather, Jason had to stay in the stroller the entire time, and all things considered he stayed in a pretty good mood the whole time. Maybe he found the prospect of walking on the freeway as exciting as the rest of us did, I don't know. But for the most part he seemed pretty content, though he did keep trying to find ways to stick his feet out from under the big umbrella that we propped up in between him and his friend Amalea (our race partners' daughter). For her part, Amalea wisely chose to spend most of the race asleep.

Two years ago if you'd asked me if I would ever participate in an event like this I'd have looked at you like you were out of your mind. At breakfast after the race yesterday, though, I was talking about training for a marathon or a century bike race. Most likely I won't be doing either any time soon, since the training requires a bit too much of a regular time commitment for me at the moment. Still, old me would likely be smacking new me upside the head.

Anyway, I'd just like to say thanks to our friends James and Melanie for getting us to come along and walk with them (and to congratulate Mel for doing this just five months after having had a fibrosarcoma removed from her thigh). Also thanks to Emily and Ari for the loan of their stroller. Right on!