Monterey Quotes

It is the hour of pearl—the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

He felt like home.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitant are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gambler and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, "Saints and angels and martyrs and holymen" and he would have meant the same thing.

He remembered his mentor, Lou Kline, telling him in the nineties that rock and roll had peaked at Monterey Pop. They'd been in Lou's house in LA with its waterfalls, the pretty girls Lou always had, his car collection out front, and Bennie had looked into his idol's famous face and thought, You're finished. Nostalgia was the end - everyone knew that.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.

The wedding was in Monterey, a sombre boding ceremony in a little Protestant chapel. The church had so often seen two ripe bodies die by the process of marriage that it seemed to celebrate a mystic double death with its ritual.

The whole idea of losing one's virginity is kind of ridiculous. To lose something implies carelessness. A mistake that you can fix simply by recovering the lost object, like your cell phone or your glasses. Virginity is more like shedding something than losing it. As in, "Don't worry, Mom. You can call off the helicopters and police dogs. Turns out - get this - I didn't actually lose my virginity. I just cast it off somewhere between here and Monterey. Can you believe it? It could be anywhere by now, what with all that wind.

In Monterey, at the small airport rental agency, he hired a vomit-green Ford Tempo. It was an offense to his refined sense of color. The Tempo's tempo was satisfyingly allegro on flat roads but a bit adagio on the hills.

Monterey is a place, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.

They walked side by side along the dark beach toward Monterey, where the lights hung, necklace above necklace against the hill. The sand dunes crouched along the back of the beach like tired hounds, resting: and the waves gently practiced at striking, and hissed a little. The night was cold and aloof, and its warm life was withdrawn, so that it was full of bitter warnings to man that he is alone in the world, and alone among his fellows; that he has no comfort owing him from anywhere.

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

And it may be that a crowd at a particular moment of history creates the object to justify its gathering, as it did at the first Human Be-In and Monterey Pop and Woodstock. Or it may be that two generations of war and surveillance had left people craving the embodiment of their own unease in the form of a lone, unsteady man on a slide guitar.

He could not tell all of the California pines apart, the gray pine from the coulter, the bushop from the knobcone and the Monterey.

Myself, I couldn't help think of anything in the world better than stirring sharp white cheddar, smoked Gouda, creamy Havarti, Monterey Jack, and a touch of piquant Maytag blue cheese into a bubbling hot white sauce, stirring it to a thick honey consistency, and pouring it over al dente macaroni to toast to a crispy deep golden on top.

What would happen there she had no idea, but if Monterey had taught her anything, it was to make the best of things. Every ship that sailed into the bay had to do what the winds demanded, whatever the captain’s plans might be.

up in Pacific Grove, a coastal town on the Monterey Peninsula in California, I had spent many Sunday mornings combing beaches, hunting for sea glass. I once believed the surf-tumbled glass had come from mermaids when the mythical creatures wept for sailors lost at sea, their tears hardened and washed ashore by the latest storm front. Mermaid tears were treasure, meant to be guarded close to one’s heart. They brought wishes of true love and kept you safe

Flying to Monterey I had a sharp apprehension of the many times before when I had, like Lincoln Steffens, "come back," flown west, followed the sun, each time experiencing a lightening of spirit as the land below opened up, the checkerboards of the midwestern plains giving way to the vast empty reach between the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada; then home, there, where I was from, me, California. It would be a while before I realized that “me” is what we think when our parents die, even at my age, who will look out for me now, who will remember me as I was, who will know what happens to me now, where will I be from.

at California’s Monterey Bay Aquarium found a banana peel on the floor in front of the Shale Reef exhibit at 3 a.m. On closer inspection, the banana peel turned out to be a healthy, fist-size red octopus. The security officer followed the wet slime trail and replaced the octopus in the exhibit it had come from. But here’s the shocking part: The aquarium didn’t know it had a red octopus living in its Shale Reef exhibit. Apparently the octopus hitchhiked there as a juvenile, attached to a rock or sponge added to the exhibit, and grew up at the aquarium without anyone knowing it was there.

As the wine went down in the bottles, patriotism arose in the three men. And when the wine was gone they went down the hill arm in arm for comradeship and safety, and they walked into Monterey. In front of an enlistment station they cheered loudly for America and dared Germany to do her worst. They howled menaces at the German Empire until the enlistment sergeant awakened and put on his uniform and came into the street to silence them. He remained to enlist them.

California, Labor Day weekend...early, with ocean fog still in the streets, outlaw motorcyclists wearing chains, shades and greasy Levis roll out from damp garages, all-night diners and cast-off one-night pads in Fricso, Hollywood, Berdoo and East Oakland, heading for the Monterey peninsula, north of Big Sur...The Menace is loose again, the Hell's Angels, the hundred-carat headline, running fast and loud on the early morning freeway, low in the saddle, nobody smiles, jamming crazy through traffic and ninety miles an hour down the center stripe, missing by inches...like Genghis Khan on an iron horse, a monster steed with a fiery anus, flat out through the eye of a beer can and up your daughter's leg with no quarter asked and non given; show the squares some class, give em a whiff of those kicks they'll never know...Ah, these righteous dudes, they love to screw it on...Little Jesus, the Gimp, Chocolate George, Buzzard, Zorro, Hambone, Clean Cut, Tiny, Terry the Tramp, Frenchy, Mouldy Marvin, Mother Miles, Dirty Ed, Chuck the Duck, Fat Freddy, Filthy Phil, Charger Charley the Child Molester, Crazy Cross, Puff, Magoo, Animal and at least a hundred more...tense for the action, long hair in the wind, beards and bandanas flapping, earrings, armpits, chain whips, swastikas and stripped-down Harleys flashing chrome as traffic on 101 moves over, nervous, to let the formation pass like a burst of dirty thunder...

Perhaps an even more surprising case was reported in June 2012, when a security officer at California’s Monterey Bay Aquarium found a banana peel on the floor in front of the Shale Reef exhibit at 3 a.m. On closer inspection, the banana peel turned out to be a healthy, fist-size red octopus. The security officer followed the wet slime trail and replaced the octopus in the exhibit it had come from. But here’s the shocking part: The aquarium didn’t know it had a red octopus living in its Shale Reef exhibit. Apparently the octopus hitchhiked there as a juvenile, attached to a rock or sponge added to the exhibit, and grew up at the aquarium without anyone knowing it was there.

Monterey, as far as my observation goes, is decidedly the pleasantest and most civilized-looking place in California.

We get treated good here [in Monterey]. Most other places we get thrown out of town. —Frenchy from Berdoo talking to a reporter not many hours before the Angels were thrown out of town

De bruiloft was in Monterey, een sombere, dreigende plechtigheid in een klein, Protestants kerkje. De kerk had al zo dikwijls twee rijpe lichamen zien afsterven door middel van het huwelijk, dat zij in het ritueel een mystieke, dubbele dood scheen te vieren. Jozef en Elizabeth voelden beiden de gemelijkheid van het vonnis. 'Gij zult verduren" zei de kerk; en haar muziek was een profetie zonder een sprankje zon.

Mack and the boys, too, spinning in their orbits. They are the Virtues, the Graces, the Beauties of the hurried mangled craziness of Monterey and the cosmic Monterey where men in fear and hunger destroy their stomachs in the fight to secure certain food, where men hungering for love destroy everthing lovable about them. Mack and the boys are the Beauties, the Virtues, the Graces. In a world ruled by tigers with ulcers, rutted by strictured bulls, scavenged by blind jackals, Mack and the boys dine delicately with the tigers, fondle the frantic heifers, and wrap up the crumbs to feed the sea gulls of Cannery Row. What can it profit a man to gain the whole world and come to his property with a gastric ulcer, a blown prostate, and bifocals? Mack and the boys avoid the trap, walk around the poison, step over the noose while a generation of trapped, poisoned, and trussed-up men scream at them and call them no-goods, come-to-bad-ends, blots-on-the-town, thieves, rascals, bums. Our father who art in nature, who has given the gift of survival to the coyote, the common brown rat, the English sparrow, the house fly and the moth, must have a great and overwhelming love for no-goods and blots-on-the-town and bums, and Mack and the boys. Virtues and graces and laziness and zest. Our Father who art in nature.

When you reach a certain age, you see that time is all we have. By which I mean, moments like those springing deer this morning, and watching your mother be born, and sitting at the dining room table here waiting for the phone to ring and announce that a certain baby (you) had been born, or that day when all of us hiked out at Point Lobos. That extremely loud seal, your sister's scarf drifting down, down to that black, briny boulder, the replacement you so generously bought her in Monterey, how pleased you made her with your kindness. Those things were real. That is what (that is all) one gets. All this other stuff is real only to the extent that it interferes with those moments.

The trouble is you can only “live” once you’ve filmed. That feeling of freedom and release comes only after you’ve worked very hard for it. Years after making Hotel Monterey, you remembered the feeling: “I can breathe, I’m really a filmmaker.

And it may be that a crowd at a particular moment of history creates the object to justify its gathering, as it did at the first Human Be-In and Monterey Pop and Woodstock. Or it may be that two generations of war and surveillance had left people craving the embodiment of their own unease in the form of a lone, unsteady man on a slide guitar. Whatever

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses.

At any rate, Clark was not given to notoriety, public acclaim and applause for the event, nor for any other - though he and his family figured large in central Oregon's history - as was Howard Maupin, who never tired of receiving credit that was nor was not his, commencing with his distinguished career in the Army. Who but he would have claimed he stormed Monterey and was awarded a Henry rifle by General George Crook for his service in the Mexican War when he had never left Missouri?

Firther evidence of the difficulties of reduced-gravity-sex comes from the sea otter. To help hold the female in place, the male will typically pull the female's head back and grab onto her nose with his teeth. "Our vets have had to do rhinoplasty on some of the females", says Michaelle Stadler, a sea otter reseach coordinator at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Sex can also be traumatic for the male otter, who endures aerial pecking attacks by sea gulls mistaking his erect penis for a novel ocean delicacy.

MRS. BENTLEY’S CHORIZO BREAKFAST BURRITOS Servings: 4 INGREDIENTS FOR THE AVOCADO-TOMATO SALSA 1 large avocado, peeled, pitted, and diced ½ cup diced seeded tomatoes, from 1 to 2 tomatoes 1 small shallot, minced (about 2 tablespoons) 1 clove garlic, minced 1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and minced 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice, from 1 lime ½ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon ground cumin ¼ cup fresh chopped cilantro FOR THE BURRITOS 4 large eggs ¼ teaspoon smoked paprika ¼ teaspoon salt ½ lb spicy chorizo removed from casings 1⅓ cups (6 oz) shredded Monterey Jack cheese 4 (10-in) burrito-size flour tortillas Vegetable oil INSTRUCTIONS Make the Avocado-Tomato Salsa: Place all of the ingredients in a medium bowl and mix to combine. Set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs with the smoked paprika and salt. Set aside. Heat a large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook, stirring frequently, until browned, 4 to 5 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage from the pan to a plate, leaving the drippings in the pan. Reduce the heat to low. Add the eggs and scramble until just cooked

About a week earlier I had finished a book (on the Hell’s Angels, scheduled this fall by Random House) and I felt that I needed about a week of total degeneration to cool out my system. To this end I went clown to Big Sur and Monterey and filled my body with every variety of booze and drug available to modern man. For six or seven days I ran happily amok—spending money, sitting in baths, and futilely hunting wild boar with a .44 Magnum revolver. At one point I gave my car away to a man who paid $25 for the privilege of pushing it off a 400-foot cliff.

But there's only one other person besides me in the Monterey Bay area who could pick up on spectral sound waves-especially now that Jesse is going to school so far away-and that person happened to be away at a seminarian retreat in New Mexico. I knew because Father Dominic likes to keep his present (and former) students up to date on his daily activities on Facebook. The day my old high school principal started his own Facebook account was the day I swore off social media forever. So far this has worked out fine since I prefer face-to-face interactions. It's easier to tell when people are lying.

Swords were brought out, guns oiled and made ready, and everything was in a bustle when the old Lexington dropped her anchor on January 26, 1847, in Monterey Bay, after a voyage of one hundred and ninety-eight days from New York. Everything on shore looked bright and beautiful, the hills covered with grass and flowers, the live oaks so serene and homelike, and the low adobe houses, with red-tiled roofs and whitened walls, contrasted well with the dark pine trees behind, making a decidedly good impression upon us who had come so far to spy out the land. Nothing could be more peaceful in its looks than Monterey in January, 1847.

Posters appealed for volunteers in Massachusetts: “Men of old Essex! Men of Newburyport! Rally around the bold, gallant and lionhearted Cushing. He will lead you to victory and to glory!” They promised pay of $7 to $10 a month, and spoke of a federal bounty of $24 and 160 acres of land. But one young man wrote anonymously to the Cambridge Chronicle: Neither have I the least idea of “joining” you, or in any way assisting the unjust war waging against Mexico. I have no wish to participate in such “glorious” butcheries of women and children as were displayed in the capture of Monterey, etc. Neither have I any desire to place myself under the dictation of a petty military tyrant, to every caprice of whose will I must yield implicit obedience. No sir-ee! As long as I can work, beg, or go to the poor house, I won’t go to Mexico, to be lodged on the damp ground, half starved, half roasted, bitten by mosquitoes and centipedes, stung by scorpions and tarantulas—marched, drilled, and flogged, and then stuck up to be shot at, for eight dollars a month and putrid rations. Well, I won’t. . . . Human butchery has had its day. . . . And the time is rapidly approaching when the professional soldier will be placed on the same level as a bandit, the Bedouin, and the Thug.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky-tonks, restaurants and whore-houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flop-houses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, "whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches," by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peep-hole he might have said: "Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men," and he would have meant the same thing. In the morning when the sardine fleet has made a catch, the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay blowing their whistles. The deep-laden boats pull in against the coast where the canneries dip their tails into the bay. The figure is advisedly chosen, for if the canneries dipped their mouths into the bay the canned sardines which emerge from the other end would be metaphorically, at least, even more horrifying. Then cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the Row to go to work. Then shining cars bring the upper classes down: superintendents, accountants, owners who disappear into offices. Then from the town pour Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women in trousers and rubber coats and oilcloth aprons. They come running to clean and cut and pack and cook and can the fish. The whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats and the boats rise higher and higher in the water until they are empty. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeak until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women, straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again-quiet and magical. Its normal life returns. The bums who retired in disgust under the black cypress-tree come out to sit on the rusty pipes in the vacant lot. The girls from Dora's emerge for a bit of sun if there is any. Doc strolls from the Western Biological Laboratory and crosses the street to Lee Chong's grocery for two quarts of beer. Henri the painter noses like an Airedale through the junk in the grass-grown lot for some pan or piece of wood or metal he needs for the boat he is building. Then the darkness edges in and the street light comes on in front of Dora's-- the lamp which makes perpetual moonlight in Cannery Row. Callers arrive at Western Biological to see Doc, and he crosses the street to Lee Chong's for five quarts of beer. How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise-- the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-- be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will on to a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book-- to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves.

Queen of the Night Salsa 2.0 This is a jazzed-up version of an earlier recipe from our Precious Darlin’ George. He is ever seeking new and more delicious ways to please us and we adore him for this and other reasons.   MIX ALL THIS stuff together—1 15-ounce can drained and rinsed black beans, 1 11-ounce can Niblets corn, 1 small can chopped green chilis, 1 small can chopped black olives, 2 to 3 chopped fresh tomatoes, at least 8 ounces shredded Monterey Jack, 1 bunch chopped green onions, some cilantro (fresh or dried, to taste), 1/2 teaspoon chili powder, 1/2 teaspoon cumin, 1/2 to 3/4 of a 16-ounce bottle of Wishbone Robusto Italian dressing, and a whole big lot of chopped-up bacon. Obviously, the more bacon, the better—duh. Chill all that overnight in the refrigerator and then eat it all at one sitting the next day with Fritos.

Why were hippies such a threat, from the President on down to local levels, objects for surveillance and disruptions? Many of the musicians had the potential to become political. There were racial overtones to the black-white sounds, harmony between Janis Joplin, Otis Redding and Jimi Hendrix. Black music was the impetus that drove the Rolling Stones into composing and performing. The war in Vietnam we escalated. What if they stopped protesting the war in Southeast Asia and turned to expose domestic policies at home with the same energy? One of the Byrds stopped singing at Monterey Pop to question the official Warren Report conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald was a “lone assassin.” Bob Dylan’s Bringing it All Back Home album features a picture of Lyndon Johnson on the cover of Time. By 1966, LBJ had ordered writers and critics of his commission report on the JFK murder under surveillance. That research was hurting him. Rock concerts and Oswald. What next?

A balanced (rather than exploitative) relationship with the environment; an economic system based on sharing rather than competing; a strong sense of family and community; social moderation and restraint; the opportunity for widespread artistic creativity; a way of governing that serves without oppressing; a deeply spiritual sense of the world: these are the very things many of us are currently striving to attain in our own culture. The irony is that while we look forward to a dimly-perceived future when such values might be realized, we have failed to understand that they existed in the not-so-distant past as the accomplishments not only of the Ohlones, but of Stone-Age people the world over.

That afternoon I say about five thousand cars or probably three thousand passed me not one of them ever dreamed of stopping -- Which didnt bother me anyway because at first seeing that gorgeous long coast up to Monterey I thought "Well I'll just hike right in, it's only fourteen miles, I oughta do that easy" -- And on the way there's all kindsa interesting things to see anyway like the seals barking on rocks below, or quiet old farms made of logs on the hills across the highway, or sudden upstretches that go along dreamy seaside meadows where cows grace and graze in full sight of endless blue Pacific -- But because I'm wearing desert boots with their fairly thin soles, and the sun is beating hot on the tar road, the heat finally gets through the soles and I begin to deliver heat blisters inmy sockiboos -- I'm limping along wondering what's the matter with me when I realize I've got blisters -- I sit by the side of the road and look -- I take out my first aid kit from the pack and apply unguents and put on cornpads and carry on -- But the combination of the heavy pack and the heat of the road increases the pain of the blisters until finally I realize I've got to hitch hike a ride or never make it to Monterey at all. But the tourists bless their hearts after all, they couldnt know, only think I'm having a big happy hike with my rucksack and they drive on, even tho I stick out my thumb

Another former chess player shared his own fond memory of Thiel from this era. Around the spring of 1988, the team was driving to Monterey for a tournament, with Thiel behind the wheel of the Rabbit. They took California’s Route 17, a four-lane highway that crosses the Santa Cruz Mountains and is regarded as one of the state’s most dangerous. The team was in no particular hurry, but Thiel drove as if he were a man possessed. He navigated the turns like Michael Andretti, weaving in and out of lanes, nearly rear-ending cars as he slipped past them, and seemed to be flooring the accelerator for large portions of the trip. Somewhat predictably, the lights of a California Highway Patrol cruiser eventually appeared in his rearview. Thiel was pulled over, and the trooper asked if he knew how fast he was going. The young men in the rest of the car, simultaneously relieved to have been stopped and scared of the trooper, looked at each other nervously. “Well,” Thiel responded, in his calmest, most measured baritone. “I’m not sure if the concept of a speed limit makes sense.” The officer said nothing. Thiel continued: “It may be unconstitutional. And it’s definitely an infringement on liberty.” The officer looked at Thiel and the geeks in the beater car and decided the whole thing wasn’t worth his time. He told Thiel to slow down and have a nice day. “I don’t remember any of the games we played,” said the man, now in his fifties, who’d been in the passenger seat. “But I will never forget that drive.

Tim Tigner began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he led prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare. Moving to Brussels during the formation of the EU, Tim ran Europe, Middle East, and Africa for a Johnson & Johnson company and traveled like a character in a Robert Ludlum novel. He eventually landed in Silicon Valley, where he launched new medical technologies as a startup CEO. In his free time, Tim has climbed the peaks of Mount Olympus, hang glided from the cliffs of Rio de Janeiro, and ballooned over Belgium. He earned scuba certification in Turkey, learned to ski in Slovenia, and ran the Serengeti with a Maasai warrior. He acted on stage in Portugal, taught negotiations in Germany, and chaired a healthcare conference in Holland. Tim studied psychology in France, radiology in England, and philosophy in Greece. He has enjoyed ballet at the Bolshoi, the opera on Lake Como, and the symphony in Vienna. He’s been a marathoner, paratrooper, triathlete, and yogi.  Intent on combining his creativity with his experience, Tim began writing thrillers in 1996 from an apartment overlooking Moscow’s Gorky Park. Decades later, his passion for creative writing continues to grow every day. His home office now overlooks a vineyard in Northern California, where he lives with his wife Elena and their two daughters. Tim grew up in the Midwest, and graduated from Hanover College with a BA in Philosophy and Mathematics. After military service and work as a financial analyst and foreign-exchange trader, he earned an MBA in Finance and an MA in International Studies from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton and Lauder Schools.  Thank you for taking the time to read about the author. Tim is most grateful for his loyal fans, and loves to correspond with readers like you. You are welcome to reach him directly at tim@timtigner.com.

There is no fault that can’t be corrected [in natural wine] with one powder or another; no feature that can’t be engineered from a bottle, box, or bag. Wine too tannic? Fine it with Ovo-Pure (powdered egg whites), isinglass (granulate from fish bladders), gelatin (often derived from cow bones and pigskins), or if it’s a white, strip out pesky proteins that cause haziness with Puri-Bent (bentonite clay, the ingredient in kitty litter). Not tannic enough? Replace $1,000 barrels with a bag of oak chips (small wood nuggets toasted for flavor), “tank planks” (long oak staves), oak dust (what it sounds like), or a few drops of liquid oak tannin (pick between “mocha” and “vanilla”). Or simulate the texture of barrel-aged wines with powdered tannin, then double what you charge. (““Typically, the $8 to $12 bottle can be brought up to $15 to $20 per bottle because it gives you more of a barrel quality. . . . You’re dressing it up,” a sales rep explained.) Wine too thin? Build fullness in the mouth with gum arabic (an ingredient also found in frosting and watercolor paint). Too frothy? Add a few drops of antifoaming agent (food-grade silicone oil). Cut acidity with potassium carbonate (a white salt) or calcium carbonate (chalk). Crank it up again with a bag of tartaric acid (aka cream of tartar). Increase alcohol by mixing the pressed grape must with sugary grape concentrate, or just add sugar. Decrease alcohol with ConeTech’s spinning cone, or Vinovation’s reverse-osmosis machine, or water. Fake an aged Bordeaux with Lesaffre’s yeast and yeast derivative. Boost “fresh butter” and “honey” aromas by ordering the CY3079 designer yeast from a catalog, or go for “cherry-cola” with the Rhône 2226. Or just ask the “Yeast Whisperer,” a man with thick sideburns at the Lallemand stand, for the best yeast to meet your “stylistic goals.” (For a Sauvignon Blanc with citrus aromas, use the Uvaferm SVG. For pear and melon, do Lalvin Ba11. For passion fruit, add Vitilevure Elixir.) Kill off microbes with Velcorin (just be careful, because it’s toxic). And preserve the whole thing with sulfur dioxide. When it’s all over, if you still don’t like the wine, just add a few drops of Mega Purple—thick grape-juice concentrate that’s been called a “magical potion.” It can plump up a wine, make it sweeter on the finish, add richer color, cover up greenness, mask the horsey stink of Brett, and make fruit flavors pop. No one will admit to using it, but it ends up in an estimated 25 million bottles of red each year. “Virtually everyone is using it,” the president of a Monterey County winery confided to Wines and Vines magazine. “In just about every wine up to $20 a bottle anyway, but maybe not as much over that.

Cheesy Spicy Corn Muffins This recipe is from Danielle Watson. She argued that it really isn’t a recipe since it’s not made from scratch, but we told her that didn’t matter.   1 package corn muffin mix, enough to make 12 muffins 4-ounce can well-drained diced green chilies (Danielle uses Ortega brand) ½ cup finely shredded sharp cheddar cheese (or Monterey Jack)   Preheat oven according to the directions on the corn muffin package. Prepare the corn muffin mix according to package directions. Add the green chilies and the shredded cheese, and stir well. Line muffin pans with a double layer of cupcake papers and spray the inside with Pam. Spoon the batter into the cupcake papers. Bake according to corn muffin package directions. Danielle says to tell you that if you have visiting relatives who don’t like any spice at all, you can substitute a half can of well-drained whole-kernel corn for the peppers. Yield: Whatever it says on the package and a little more.

Cream of Cheat Mushroom Soup (This is one of Edna Ferguson’s recipes and she named it herself.)   2 cups chicken broth 8-ounce package sliced mushrooms (fresh, from the grocery store) with 12 perfect slices reserved for garnish 1 can (10 ¾ ounces) condensed Cream of Chicken Soup (undiluted) 2 cans (10 ¾ ounces each) condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup (undiluted) 1 cup heavy cream 8 oz. shredded Gruyere (or any good Swiss cheese, or even Monterey Jack) ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper   Combine the chicken broth and the package of mushrooms (remember to reserve those 12 perfect slices for the garnish) in a blender. Zoop them up. Add the can of Cream of Chicken soup to the blender. Zoop it all up. Spray the inside of a 4-quart slow cooker with Pam. Add the contents of the blender to the crock-pot. Add the cans of Cream of Mushroom soup to the crock-pot. Stir. Add the heavy cream, shredded cheese, and ground black pepper. Stir again. Cook on LOW for 4 to 5 hours. Ladle into bowls. Sprinkle with parsley and float

Jack was meeting with Larry the Lawnmower....the most notorious hitman in the Monterey area.' 'There are hitmen in town?' 'Brad, a lot of things go on in this town besides surfing and cold beer.

I'm not convinced," Dodds said. It was Thursday morning, just six hours after Bosch and Chu had ended their surveillance of Chang, with the suspect going to an apartment in Monterey Park and apparently retiring for the night. "Well, Cap, you shouldn't be convinced yet," Bosch said. "That's why we want to continue the surveillance and get the wire." "What I mean is, I'm not convinced it's the way to go," Dodds said, "Surveillance is fine. But a wire is a lot of work and effort for long-shot results." Bosch understood. Dodds had an excellent repu tation as a detective, but he was now an administrator and about as far removed from the detective work in his division as a Houston oil executive is from the gas pump, He now worked with personnel numbers and budgets, He had to find ways of doing more with less and never allowing a dip in the statistics of arrests made and cases closed. That made him a realist and the reality was that electronic surveillance was very expensive. Not only did it take double-digit man hours to carefully draft a fifty plus-page affidavit secking court permission, but once permission was granted, a wiretap room had to be staffed twenty-four hours a day with a detective monitoring the line. Often a single-number tap led to other numbers needing to be tapped and under the law each line had to have its own monitor. Such an operation quickly sucked up overtime like a giant sponge. With the RHD's OT budget seriously down because of economic constraints on the department, Dodds was reluctant to give any of it up for what amounted to an investigation of the mur der of a South Side liquor store clerk. He would rather save it for a rainy day-a big-time media case that might come up and that would demand it.

Then the center of influence shifted to London, with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Cream, the Who, the Kinks, and all the bands that orbited them. San Francisco, with the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Santana, had its moment in a psychedelic spotlight around the Summer of Love and the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, but as the 1960s gave way to the '70s, the center of the musical universe shifted unmistakably to Los Angeles. "It was incredibly vital," said Jonathan Taplin, who first came to LA as the tour manager for Bob Dylan and the Band and later relocated there to produce Martin Scorsese's breakthrough movie, Mean Streets. "The nexus of the music business had really moved from New York to Los Angeles. That had been a profound shift . . . It was very clear that something big had changed."'' For a breathtaking few years, the stars aligned to glittering effect in Los Angeles. The city attracted brilliant artists; skilled session musicians; soulful songwriters; shrewd managers, agents, and record executives; and buzz-building clubs. From this dense constellation of talent, a shimmering new sound emerged, a smooth blend of rock and folk with country influences. Talented young people from all over the country began descending on Los Angeles with their guitar cases or dreams of becoming the next Geffen. Irving Azoff, a hyper-ambitious young agent and manager who arrived in Los Angeles in 1972, remembered, "It was like the gold rush. You've never seen anything like it in the entertainment business. The place was exploding. I was here—right place, right time. I tell everybody, `If you're really good in this business, you only have to be right once,' so you kind of make your own luck, but it is luck, too. It was hard to be in LA in that time and have any talent whatsoever in the music business—whether you were a manager, an agent, an artist, a producer, or writer—[and] not to make it, because it was boom times. It was the gold rush, and it was fucking fun.

An article in this month’s National Geographic magazine quotes a scientist referring to the “undistractibility” of these animals on their journeys. “An arctic tern on its way from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska, for instance, will ignore a nice smelly herring offered from a bird-watcher’s boat in Monterey Bay. Local gulls will dive voraciously for such handouts, while the tern flies on. Why?” The article’s author, David Quammen, attempts an answer, saying “the arctic tern resists distraction because it is driven at that moment by an instinctive sense of something we humans find admirable: larger purpose.” In the same article, biologist Hugh Dingle notes that these migratory patterns reveal five shared characteristics: the journeys take the animals outside their natural habitat; they follow a straight path and do not zigzag; they involve advance preparation, such as overfeeding; they require careful allocations of energy; and finally, “migrating animals maintain a fervid attentiveness to the greater mission, which keeps them undistracted by temptations and undeterred by challenges that would turn other animals aside.” In other words, they are pilgrims with a purpose. In the case of the arctic tern, whose journey is 28,000 miles, “it senses it can eat later.” It can rest later. It can mate later. Its implacable focus is the journey; its singular intent is arrival. Elephants, snakes, sea snakes, sea turtles, myriad species of birds, butterflies, whales, dolphins, bison, bees, insects, antelopes, wildebeests, eels, great white sharks, tree frogs, dragon flies, crabs, Pacific blue tuna, bats, and even microorganisms – all of them have distinct migratory patterns, and all of them congregate in a special place, even if, as individuals, they have never been there before. -Hamza Yusuf on the Hajj of Community

CP/M—for Control Program for Microcomputers—it had been created by thirty-three-year-old Gary Kildall, a computer-science teacher at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California.

A crane can't buy a piece of ass Or hang itself at noon in Monterey Those are some of the things Humans can do Besides stand on one leg

That was another way in which Monterey was agreeable—no one pried, no one asked unpleasant questions. Perhaps the reason for that was that there were few churches, and most of those Catholic.

if Monterey had taught her anything, it was to make the best of things. Every ship that sailed into the bay had to do what the winds demanded, whatever the captain’s plans might be.

She gazed across the veranda to a formal garden beyond. An area of green lawn was set up with chairs and tables, while behind them a fountain shot water high and splashed those sitting too close to it. Behind the fountain, parterre hedges were clipped to perfection. People milled about or stood in groups chatting.

KELLY’S QUICHE  Ingredients: 8 oz. can refrigerator crescent rolls 2 eggs, slightly beaten 1 cup half and half 1 tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese 1 tbsp. minced onion Salt and pepper to taste 8 oz. shredded Monterey Jack cheese 1 to 1 1/2 cups cubed cooked meat (I like bacon or ham – if using bacon, crumble it) Directions:

fishing boat pulls in – three pelicans wait with their mouths open

Damning documentation of LSD experimentation should not have been left in the hands of CIA Director Richard Helms. On January 31, 1973, one day before retiring from the CIA, Helms destroyed files on the fates of minds shattered over the previous ten years. Helms supported the mind-altering projects—Operation Chatter, Operation Bluebird/Artichoke, Operations Mknaomi, Mkultra and Mkdelta. By 1963, four years before Monterey Pop, the combined efforts of the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology, Army Intelligence and U.S. Chemical Corps launched covert operations that seemed necessary. U.S. agents were able to destroy any reputation by inducing hysteria or excessive emotional response, temporary or permanent insanity, encouraging suicide, erasing memory, inventing double or triple personalities inside one mind, prolonging lapses of memory, teaching racism and hatred against specific groups, causing subjects to obey instructions on the telephone or in person, hypnotically assuring that no memory remains of their assignments. The CIA has poison dart guns to kill from a distance, tranquilizers for pets so the household or neighborhood is not alerted by entry or exit. While pure LSD is typically 160 micrograms, the CIA issued 1,600 micrograms. Some of the LSD was administered to patients at Tulane University, who already had wired electrodes in their brain. Was insanity an occupational disease in the music industry? Or does this LSD, tested and described in Army documents, explain how a cultural happening that took place place in 1967-68 could be altered radically and halted?

Economically, Pinus is the most important of all the genera of trees. There are vast plantations worldwide of several species, in the Southern Hemisphere as well as the Northern, like those of Caribbean pine (Pinus caribaea) near Brasilia and Monterey pine (Pinus radiata) just about everywhere.

Back in Clemens's office, he and I talk about the proliferation of disciplines with the word studies in their names. "Anything with studies in it, avoid!" Clemens says. What about Cultural Studies? "That bullshit comes into the classroom in papers." He mentions Monterey's Sign Language Program, which was "founded with the best intentions" but which actually "promotes deafness" in the name of political correctness. "Just think of not healing a child who can't hear because it's an offense against deaf culture!

In the context of the violent repression unleashed by Pinochet and the radical socioeconomic inequalities produced by his dictatorship's free-market policies, pine came to represent an alien commodity that was responsible for campesinos' loss of land and livelihood. The brief moment when Monterey pine and forestry held the promise of equitable development vanished, along with peasants' small plots, engulfed by a swelling sea of tree plantations held by the most powerful financial groups in Chile.

MEKSYKAŃSKA ZUPA Z TORTILLĄ W tej meksykańskiej zupie z tortillą nie ma tortilli – tu chodzi o sugestię, o produkty, które podaje się z tortillami. Kiedy przygotowałem tę zupę dla mojej rodziny, żałowałem, że nie podwoiłem ilości składników, bo wszyscy poprosili o dokładkę. Na 4 porcje 4 szklanki niskosodowego bulionu z kurczaka ¼ szklanki oliwy extra virgin ½ kg piersi z kurczaka, bez skóry i kości, pokrojonych w kawałki o boku 1,5 cm 2–3 ząbki czosnku, rozgniecione 1 duża hiszpańska cebula, drobno posiekana 1 papryka, drobno posiekana 2 pomidory, drobno posiekane 3–4 papryczki jalapeño, pozbawione nasion i drobno posiekane drobna sól morska i mielony czarny pieprz 2 awokado odmiany Hass 1 szklanka (110 g) pokruszonego sera Monterey Jack albo cheddar ½ szklanki posiekanej kolendry 4 łyżki stołowe kwaśnej śmietany Doprowadź bulion do wrzenia w dużym rondlu na średnim ogniu; nie pozwól mu wystygnąć. W tym czasie rozgrzej oliwę na dużej patelni, na średnim ogniu. Dodaj kurczaka oraz czosnek i smaż do czasu, aż kurczak się zrumieni (5–6 minut). Dodaj do wywaru podsmażonego kurczaka, cebulę, paprykę, pomidory i papryczki jalapeño. Ponownie doprowadź do wrzenia i gotuj na małym ogniu przez 30 minut. Posól i popieprz do smaku. Przekrój awokado wzdłuż na dwie części, usuń pestkę i obierz. Miąższ pokrój w plasterki o grubości 6–7 mm. Nalej zupę do talerzy. Dodaj do każdej porcji plasterki awokado, ser, kolendrę i łyżkę kwaśnej śmietany.

Intermodality brought such extreme efficiency that Monterey shrimp is now shipped to China to be processed, before coming back to be sold not far from where it was caught.

Jack must have looked confused, and Sienna leaned closer to him as she explained. Her perfume was sharp and floral, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh fragrance after a day on the road smelling dust and tar. “When we were in high school, Uncle Renzo brought us down here to the pier at Monterey for a birthday dinner, and he spun Georgie a story about his grandmother going to sleep at the table when he was a little boy, and drowning in her chowder.” Jack grinned as Sienna continued the story. “He had her sucked in, hook line and sinker, for the whole night until she started to cry, and then he took pity on her.” Sienna smiled as she looked at Jack. Her long, delicate neck arched gracefully as her head turned slowly from side to side, and Jack got another whiff of her perfume. Her eyes were hooded and Jack sensed she was waiting for something.

For as we stretch & strain to look through the various windows into the past, we do not merely see a bygone people hunting, fishing, painting their bodies, & dancing their dances. If we look long enough, if we dwell on their joy, fear, & reverence, we may in the end catch glimpses of almost forgotten aspects of our own selves.

These are my own simple quotes: "God can orchestrate things far better than we can." and "Enthusiasm generates enthusiasm.

Los Angeles counties, Pacific Grove, Monterey and at Natural Bridges State Beach in Santa Cruz. They can normally be seen between November and March, but experts say the majority have already left the groves, partly due to warm winter temperatures. How many monarchs are left:

Nora looked without appetite at the cheese selection Adam was putting on the table- insipid white cheddar, blue that wasn't half blue enough, Camembert that looked too firm to have been out of the fridge for very long- and thought with yearning of chunks of Monterey Jack scattered with toasted pecans, melting slices of Swiss draped over prosciutto, Neufchatel spread thickly on a warm bagel, scarmoza drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with black pepper.

opening of the world-renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium on October 20, 1984.

Any Monterey wharf rat, even reluctant ones like Jay, knows the legend, set in Russia in the far-fetched year of 1972: twenty-eight thousand squid beaks found inside a single sperm. More common are a few thousand.

The pizza was fresh and hot, made with local ingredients by a pizzeria that had been a part of Monterey’s landscape for more than thirty years. The price of pork had more than tripled in the last ten years, taking mainstays like sausage and pepperoni to the “deluxe toppings” menu, replacing them with salmon and ground hamburger. Brian looked mournfully at his slice of the daily special—farm-raised shrimp, pineapple, garlic, and mushroom—and said, “I would commit serious crimes for a real meat lover’s pizza.

What do you have against Monterey Jack?” “It’s fine, I suppose,” he says with a faint air of disdain. “If you like that sort of thing.” “By ‘that sort of thing,’ do you mean cheese? Because I like cheese.” He lifts the fingers

What do you have against Monterey Jack?” “It’s fine, I suppose,” he says with a faint air of disdain. “If you like that sort of thing.” “By ‘that sort of thing,’ do you mean cheese? Because I like cheese.

Smart Choice Junk Removal specializes in junk removal and hauling in Salinas, Monterey and Santa Cruz Counties. We provide a professional service backed with quality customer service.

My lifelong hero Gordon Moore, the aforementioned author of Moore’s Law, has thrown his talent and capital into the Bay Foundation’s efforts to restore the underwater kelp forests of California’s Monterey Coast. Sea kelp absorbs twenty times more CO2 than a comparably sized land forest.

I breakfasted with the crapulent major a week later. It was an earthy, quotidian scene, the kind Walt Whitman would have loved to write about, a sketch of the new America featuring hot rice porridge and fried crullers at a Monterey Park noodle shop crammed full of unrepentantly unassimilated Chinese and a few other assorted Asians.

Nobody can agree which tree is the most photographed in the world. Some say it’s a Cypress in Monterey, California, others a Jeffry Pine in nearby Yosemite and others still a Willow in Lake Wanaka, New Zealand. Even if you’ve never seen them, you can probably guess what these trees look like. They stand alone in endless vistas of water, sky or rock. Millions of brains have been attracted to the hidden and half-hidden truths that emit from these solitary trees. They triggered something in the photographers’ subconscious which responded by giving their owners a pleasurable hit of feeling. Lonely, brave, relentless and beautiful, those who stop and snap are not taking pictures of trees, but of themselves.

A court hearing held in the city of Monterey in 1820 illustrates what was required of escaped slaves hoping to stay in Mexico. To be emancipated and allowed to become immigrants, they had to demonstrate good character and convince a judge or audiencia that they had suffered intolerable cruelty at the hands of their masters. The Monterey hearing dealt with five emancipated African Americans who were given asylum in Texas but were later charged with being part of a band of thieves and stealing a horse. If found guilty, they were to be extradited to the United States.

As we were to be here over Sunday, and Monterey was the best place to go ashore on the whole coast, and we had had no liberty-day for nearly three months, every one was for going ashore. On Sunday morning, as soon as the decks were washed, and we had got breakfast, those who had obtained liberty began to clean themselves, as it is called, to go ashore. A bucket of fresh water apiece, a cake of soap, a large coarse towel, and we went to work scrubbing one another, on the forecastle. Having gone through this, the next thing was to get into the head,—one on each side—with a bucket apiece, and duck one another, by drawing up water and heaving over each other, while we were stripped to a pair of trowsers. Then came the rigging-up. The usual outfit of pumps, white stockings, loose white duck trowsers, blue jackets, clean checked shirts, black kerchiefs, hats well varnished, with a fathom of black ribbon over the left eye, a silk handkerchief flying from the outside jacket pocket, and four or five dollars tied up in the back of the neckerchief, and we were “all right.” One of the quarter-boats pulled us ashore, and we steamed up to the town. I

Mattie saw herself and Angela as the trees that grew out of cliffs and boulders above the ocean near Monterey—evergreen creatures, windswept, magnificent, twisty, gnarled pines growing out of the layers of rock, where maybe there had once been some nutrition, maybe there had once been soil from which the trees had sprung, but then the soil had blown away, and they still grew.

A stately row of Monterey pines lined the highway on either side of the security gates.

Pacific Grove and Monterey sit side by side on a hill bordering the bay. The two towns touch shoulders but they are not alike. Whereas Monterey was founded a long time ago by foreigners, Indians and Spaniards and such, and the town grew up higgledy-piggledy without plan or purpose, Pacific Grove sprang full blown from the iron heart of a psycho-ideo-legal religion.

Pacific Grove: Sedate Pacific Grove, Monterey’s next-door neighbor on the Peninsula, began in 1875 as a summer Methodist tent camp and religious retreat (on property owned by land baron David Jack), then in 1879 became the site of a Pacific Coast arm of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, modeled on the Methodist Sunday school teachers’ training camp established in 1874 at Lake Chautauqua, New York. Pacific Grove’s roots, as Steinbeck notes, were religiously, philosophically, and politically conservative.

Anderson’s depth of research, paired with a natural proclivity for vivid descriptive detail, yielded a work of historical fiction, in 39 chapters, that’s hard to put down.

It took Doc longer to go places than other people. He didn’t drive fast and he stopped and ate hamburgers very often. Driving up to Lighthouse Avenue he waved at a dog that looked around and smiled at him. In Monterey before he even started, he felt hungry and stopped at Herman’s for a hamburger and beer. While he ate his sandwich and sipped his beer, a bit of conversation came back to him. Blaisedell, the poet, had said to him, “You love beer so much. I’ll bet some day you’ll go in and order a beer milk shake.” It was a simple piece of foolery but it had bothered Doc ever since. He wondered what a beer milk shake would taste like. The idea gagged him but he couldn’t let it alone. It cropped up every time he had a glass of beer. Would it curdle the milk? Would you add sugar? It was like a shrimp ice cream. Once the thing got into your head you couldn’t forget it. He finished his sandwich and paid Herman. He purposely didn’t look at the milk shake machines lined up so shiny against the back wall. If a man ordered a beer milk shake, he thought, he’d better do it in a town where he wasn’t known. But then, a man with a beard, ordering a beer milk shake in a town where he wasn’t known—they might call the police. A man with a beard

As was the custom with big events in the mid- to late-1960s, particularly in the northern California area, Altamont was drenched in acid. And as was also the custom at that time, that acid was provided free-of-charge by Mr. Augustus Owsley Stanley III, also known as The Bear. At the so-called “Human Be-In” staged in January of 1967, for example, Owsley had kindly distributed 10,000 tabs of potent LSD. For the Monterey Pop Festival just five months later, he had cooked up and distributed 14,000 tabs. For Altamont, he did likewise. Also present that day, and featured in the Maysles brothers’ film gyrating atop a raised platform near the stage, was the King of the Freaks himself, Vito Paulekas.

The Monterey Pop Festival, held June 16 through 18 at the seaside town’s fairgrounds, proved to be a seminal event in rock history. Considering the hoopla it generated, especially after the release of filmmaker D. A. Pennebaker’s marvelous documentary, it should have boosted Nyro to celebrity status. It certainly did so for Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. But instead, not only was Nyro absent from the film Monterey Pop—at her own request, according to Pennebaker—but the festival proved more a setback than a launch.

She pulled out a few tortilla chips from a nearby shelf, dipping one deeply and popping it in her mouth, then holding out the jar so Daniel could do the same. She was hit with the summery peach and brown sugar that sweetened the tomatoes, and then the heat built, numbing her tongue from the back to the front. She swallowed, eyes watering, and looked at Daniel, who already had his mouth open trying to cool it off. Most Wisconsinites couldn't hold their heat, so she wouldn't be able to use it straight, but there were some nice flavors in there. "Here." She handed him a yogurt smoothie she kept in the fridge for days when she didn't have time to make a sandwich for herself. "Sorry, G. I thought it would be delicious." He had an easy manner, bordering on shy, but with a strong thoughtful streak. Gina appreciated his amiable company. "Ye of little faith. It has great flavor. It would be a shame to waste it. Have a seat and give me a few minutes." Daniel settled on the overturned five-gallon bucket she used as a chair when it was slow. "Tell me about what you were doing in Texas," she said. "My sister and her family live near Austin. I try to get down and visit her once a winter. It's a nice break from the cold." While he spoke she worked, mixing the salsa into cream cheese to cut the heat. She had some cornbread that she had made herself so it was the right texture to cut into slices- it would be the perfect accompaniment. She warmed up a little slow-cooked pork, tossing it with the peach salsa cream cheese mix, and put it between the cornbread slices with some shredded Monterey Jack, grilling it with butter to give the bread a crisp crunch.

Grant said. "I've already told you too much," Evers replied. It struck Grant that suddenly Evers looked very old. "It won't be long now," he said quietly. Grant's mind was racing too fast to catch the remark, but once he did, he came crashing to a stop. "Not long until what?" "There's more," Evers said, urgency rising into his voice, "much more you need to know; I'm sorry I won't get a chance to tell you. But you don't last as long as I have in this business without planning for every possible contingency, and trust me, I have. So did your father." "I don't understand," said Grant. "How long has it been, son?" Evers asked, wistful. "How long since you were there? Your parents' old house?" Grant blinked. "I don't know. More than twenty-five years, I guess." "Go back." "What? Why?" The first home he'd ever known-where his father and sister lived with him, before the orphanage-was military housing on an old Army base north of Monterey. Only vague images remained as his memory of the place. "Would the house even

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries and laboratories and flophouses.

We passed a big white two storied Monterey house that must have cost $70,000

Cream 1 cup butter and 3/4 cup sugar in a mixer. Add 4 eggs, beating well after each addition. With mixer on low speed, blend in 1 1/2 cups creamed corn, 1/4 cup crushed pineapple, 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, 1 cup flour, 1 cup cornmeal, 2 tablespoons baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt. Pour into a buttered 9-inch-square cake pan and bake at 325° for about an hour, or until golden brown. Serves eight.

Ingredients: 1 tbsp. olive oil 1 lb. boneless chicken breast, cut into cubes ¼ cup chopped white onion 1 cup chicken broth 4-oz. can chopped green chilies 1 tsp. garlic powder 1 tsp. ground cumin ½ tsp. oregano ½ tsp. cilantro leaves ¼ tsp. ground red pepper 16-oz. can Great Northern beans, undrained   (Topping) Shredded Monterey jack cheese Chopped scallion Cilantro Directions: -In saucepan, sauté chicken in oil for five minutes, stirring often.

SHOPPING LIST PANTRY •Balsamic vinegar •Bay leaves •Black beans, low-sodium (1 [15-ounce] can) •Black pepper, freshly ground •Broth, low-sodium vegetable (4 cups) •Brown sugar •Canola oil •Capers •Cayenne pepper •Chili powder •Cornstarch •Crackers, whole-grain •Cumin, ground •Lentils (1 [15-ounce] can) •Olive oil •Paprika •Quinoa •Rice, long-grain brown •Salsa •Salt •Soy sauce, low-sodium FRESH PRODUCE •Basil (1 bunch) •Cucumbers, Kirby or Persian (4) •Garlic (3 cloves) •Ginger (2-inch piece) •Lemons (2) •Mushrooms, brown cremini or baby bella (10 ounces) •Onions, yellow (2) •Parsley (1 bunch) •Peppers, red bell (4) •Scallions (1 bunch) •Tomatoes, plum (1 pound) PROTEIN •Beef, top sirloin (1 pound) •Chicken, skinless, boneless breast (6 ounces) •Eggs, large (5) •Salmon, smoked (5 ounces) DAIRY •Cheese, Monterey Jack or Cheddar (5 ounces)

Thus a pattern of migratory labor grew up in California—starting with the wheat ranches—in which large numbers of migrant workers would converge on an area at harvesttime, perform the work, then move on to another crop. It was a world of single men, bunking in barracks while on the job, then shoving off, their belongings and bedrolls slung across their shoulders. Photographs from the 1880s and 1890s reveal these men to be predominantly whites and Chinese. Photographs from the early 1900s show that Japanese and East Indian workers were now in the fields. Photographs from the 1920s show even further diversification: Filipinos, especially on the Monterey Peninsula; African Americans in the southern San Joaquin; Mexicans throughout Southern California, including the newly irrigated Imperial Valley.

And it may be that a crowd at a particular moment of history creates the object to justify its gathering, as it did at the first Human Bi-In and Monterey Pop and Woodstock. Or it may be that two generations of war and surveillance had left people craving the embodiment of their own unease in the form of a lone, unsteady man on a slide guitar. Whatever the reason, a swell of approval palpable as rain lifted from the center of the crowd and rolled out toward its edges, where it crashed against buildings and water wall and rolled back at Scotty with redoubled force, lifting him off his stool, onto his feet (the roadies quickly adjusting the microphones), exploding the quavering husk Scotty had appeared to be just moments before and unleashing something strong, charismatic, and fierce. Anyone who was there that day will tell you the concert really started when Scotty stood up." (p. 332)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tim Tigner began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he led prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare. Moving to Brussels during the formation of the EU, Tim ran Europe, Middle East and Africa for a Johnson & Johnson company and traveled like a character in a Robert Ludlum novel. He eventually landed in Silicon Valley, where he launched new medical technologies as a startup CEO. In his free time, Tim has climbed the peaks of Mount Olympus, hang glided from the cliffs of Rio de Janeiro, and ballooned over Belgium. He earned scuba certification in Turkey, learned to ski in Slovenia, and ran the Serengeti with a Maasai warrior. He acted on stage in Portugal, taught negotiations in Germany, and chaired a healthcare conference in Holland. Tim studied psychology in France, radiology in England, and philosophy in Greece. He has enjoyed ballet at the Bolshoi, the opera on Lake Como, and the symphony in Vienna. He’s been a marathoner, paratrooper, triathlete, and yogi.

Hazel felt so bad that he walked to Monterey and picked a fight with a soldier and lost it on purpose. That made him feel a little better to be utterly beaten by a man Hazel could have licked without half trying.

All in all it was a terrific month and right in the middle of it the influenza epidemic had to break out. It came to the whole town. Mrs. Talbot and her daughter of the San Carlos Hotel had it. Tom Work had it. Benjamin Peabody and his wife had it. Excelentísima Maria Antonia Field had it. The whole Gross family came down with it. The doctors of Monterey—and there were enough of them to take care of the ordinary diseases, accidents and neuroses—were running crazy. They had more business than they could do among clients who if they didn’t pay their bills, at least had the money to pay them. Cannery Row which produces a tougher breed than the rest of the town was late in contracting it, but finally it got them too. The schools were closed. There wasn’t a house that hadn’t feverish children and sick parents. It was not a deadly disease as it was in 1917 but with children it had a tendency to go into the mastoids. The medical profession was very busy, and besides, Cannery Row was not considered a very good financial risk.

By 1870, roughly 284,000 blacks accounted for 12 percent of the population of sixteen Western states and territories. But Negroes actually show up as early as 1790, in a Spanish census, where roughly 20 percent of the populations of San Francisco, San Jose, Santa Barbara, and Monterey acknowledged African ancestry. Until the United States’ conquest of the Mexican territory, about 15 percent of Californians continued to acknowledge African heritage. But with the coming of US rule, the incentive to deny Negro blood resulted in the large-scale “disappearance” of that population. These largely mixed-race people were still there, of course. But now they had stronger reasons to disclaim their African roots.