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By Kernut, on November 15th, 2011%
Announcer’s voice: “We interrupt our regularly scheduled post on Lake Havasu to bring you a more pressing issue. The post on Lake Havasu will air shortly. No posts will be missed.”
 Slab City, California. An oasis in the desert. You won’t find Slab City, California on a Google map. A place in the middle of the southern California desert, it is not recognized by the government as a city or town. There are no sidewalks, no electrical power lines, and there’s no running water. From November to April approximately 3,000 snowbirding RVers arrive to camp out the winter. There are an estimated 100 year-round residents.
It’s a land with no rules where the residents rely on a code of honor. Not everyone is honorable.
For all it lacks in amenities, Slab City, aka “The Slabs”, has quite a bit to offer: two libraries, two night clubs, two churches, several kitchens providing free meals, and five social clubs. There’s an 18-hole golf course, although the back nine are a bit rough. There’s a hot springs pool and a “shower”. The shower is the drainage-ditch runoff that comes out of the hot springs.
I’ve been golfing everyday on the grassless sand and gravel course. My golf buddies and I are most appreciative to Bob and Nancy Unden, a couple from San Diego who built the wonderful 18-holed oasis in the desert.
But from now on I’ll stay far away from the hot springs.
Don’t stop now! Continue reading A Death in Slab City
By Kernut, on December 11th, 2010%
When we left off, I had just realized I was being followed by some stranger in a beat-up pickup truck with dark tinted windows. If you missed part one you can read it here: The Time Martin Sheen Saved My Life. Part three (the conclusion) coming soon.
Trying to lose the strange vehicle stalking me, I quickly drove around corners and waited for him to pass by. Whenever he realized I was no longer in front of him, he would search the short streets for me. When he’d spot my car, I’d pull out and speed off in another direction. After one such turn, I got stuck in a dead end culdesac with him right behind me! I think it surprised him, too. Oddly enough, he didn’t block my exit, instead backing up to let me out of the narrow dead end.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after passing him I sped down another street.
Thinking I’m safer in this small neighborhood of nice houses, I’ve become afraid to return to the main highway that pretty much goes nowhere for 27 miles. But I’m frantically trying to call the police. Cell service on Point Dume? Damn near non-existent.
My calls to 911 kept getting cut off part way through. Unlike the police in Northern California, the 911 operators in LA just don’t give a shit, probably jaded by the many horrendous calls they get. They made no attempt to call me back when we got cut off. None. Had this been Northern California, the 911 operators would have blown up the phone trying to call back a terrified woman cut off during a 911 call. (To give you a little better idea of the police mentality down in LA, if you ever get pulled over for a DUI, just make a $2,500 donation to the police department and there will be no DUI. Heard stories of police brutality? All true. You’re not famous? Oh, no help for you until after your murder. That’s the treatment I was getting from 911. This probably also explains the high rate of homicide in LA: 911 is apathetic to your pleas for help.) Don’t stop now! Continue reading Martin Sheen Saved My Life (For Reals), Part 2
By Kernut, on October 23rd, 2010%
I was immediately pulled over by the cops. Normally, a short skirt and long blond hair are enough to get you out of trouble in L.A. It helps if you’re also a celebrity or able to make a large “donation” to the police department. They didn’t even give me a chance to run over a stop sign or drive crooked. Mighty unfair of them. . . . → Read More: I Break Out in Handcuffs When I Drink Alcohol
By Kernut, on September 20th, 2010%
The cop goes to uncuff him, but he can’t find his handcuff key. It’s gone. Totally lost. He asks if I have mine. Nope. Didn’t expect to be doing the handcuffing on this one. Plus my key was taken away from me. But that’s another story. So the cop leaves me alone in the apartment with the handcuffed BIG dude. Who could head-butt me to death with one blow. Who is innocent of skipping bail. But not cop-killing. . . . → Read More: Cuff Em Danno
By Kernut, on May 1st, 2010%
Me, to the bartender, “I’d like a carafe of Margaritas, salt the rim of the carafe, and stick a straw in it.” . . . → Read More: 18 With A Fake ID
By Kernut, on April 28th, 2010%
I learned to mix drinks, quite well actually, and we all had a grand time drinking up the liquor cabinet after school. When the booze would run low, Dad would just replace it. Awesome. *hiccup* . . . → Read More: Drinking and Smoking: My Childhood Memories
By Kernut, on April 22nd, 2010%
  ... In honor of Wicked Girls Think It’s “NPD” on Saturday, April 24th this post is about underwear. (If you don’t know what ‘NPD’ is yet, check out Wicked Shawn’s post Wicked Wednesday Q&A from 4/14. Scroll to Question #1, by yours truly. Note that the date IS Saturday, April 24th, not the 23rd as in my comment.)
I’ll wait, but come back after you’ve read about NPD. (I’d say what it is here, but you know, my parents still read my blog. Although, they’ll probably stop after reading this post.)
As I was saying, in honor of NPD, I’ve decided to share a few embarrassing underwear moments, not all of them mine. Heh heh.
I’ll show you mine, you can show me yours later. In the comments, or by email: swtrpnzl (at) aim (dot) com. Pictures are accepted.
I reserve the right to repost your pictures and blog about them. So if you send ‘em, you’d better be proud of ‘em.
For your pleasure, three embarrassing underwear moments… Don’t stop now! Continue reading Embarrassing Moments in Underwear – I’ll show you mine…
By Kernut, on April 2nd, 2010%
 The Rispin Mansion, Capitola, CA. Front entry way. The Time Penny Was Attacked by The Killer Bees
When I was a delinquent young teenager in Capitola, I had some friends with whom I regularly got into trouble had adventures. (See: My First Brush With The Law). One of the places we would regularly go to find trouble was the colloquially named ‘monastery’, formally know as The Rispin Mansion.
(Side note: If you view the more recent photos, note we did NOT spray paint the place, or destroy the statues, and were quick to lecture those who did. We loved that place. I would like to see it restored but it’s going to be torn down and turned into a Bed & Breakfast or something.)
The monestary/Rispin Mansion was once a beautiful mansion built in 1922 by a wealthy man, reported to have transported liquor during the Prohibition.
It seemed only fitting we should go there to drink illegally.
The place once had beautiful parquet floors and statues. It still had secret hidden rooms, and a sliding bookcase. People, I couldn’t make this shit up – I’m not that imaginative. IT WAS AWESOME!
The place was abandoned around 1958, and it’s considered trespassing to be on the grounds.
Yet another good reason for us to go there. Regularly. Don’t stop now! Continue reading Penny and The Attack of The Killer Bees
By Kernut, on March 29th, 2010%
 The Four Seasons Golf Resort - probably not the one we were at. Golf Carts Don’t Float, But Golf Tees Do – Who Knew?!
For a little while after my parents got divorced my father stayed in the general Santa Barbara, CA area. My sister, Chickenbone, and I would spend weekends and long summers with him where we would learn all kinds of grown-up things (much against my mother’s wishes) like playing poker, driving before we were even in our teens, and eating junk food all day long.
My father raised us very differently than my mother: My mother was a fairly strict and conservative parent who raised us on health food, while my father pretty much let us do absolutely anything we wanted. (See My First Brush With The Law for an example.)
And he would often help us cover up the crime.
We were too young to be legally left alone (not because we couldn’t take care of ourselves, but more likely we’d have burnt down the house). But my father liked playing golf, so he had to bring us along.
Just imagine two independent, but restrained-9-months-out-of-the year-then-suddenly-unleashed kids running amok on the golf course. Don’t stop now! Continue reading The Time I Learned Golf Carts Don’t Float
By Kernut, on March 25th, 2010%
It was a match made in heaven: Three gals, three guys, a wee party, and an illegal bonfire. . . . → Read More: My First Brush With The Law
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