Category Archives: Just Weird

Mind Games Update

Hey, loyal followers.  I was informed recently that my short story, Mind Games, that was accepted for web publication by Dime Show Review last February has also been selected to be included in the literary journal’s print edition, volume 2, issue 2.  The print edition was published on July 30, 2017 and is available for purchase on Amazon.com  Here is a link if you care to own a copy of the print edition.  Thank you for your consideration and continued support of my craft and my passion.  Now, back to the keyboard with me to breathe life into those that dwell within the realm of my somewhat eclectic imagination…

Dime Show Review, Volume. 2, Issue 2 2017

Dime Show Review, Volume 2, Issue 2

Featuring the short story

Mind Games

by Jeffrey L. Johnston

available NOW on Amazon.com

(CLICK HERE TO BUY NOW)

Memoir excerpt

This is a small excerpt of a memoir piece that I have been working on, literally for decades.  My bravery in submitting the entire work for publication falters at times, as it is rather revealing of a tumultuous time in my rather dysfunctional adolescence.  I am well into revision #3 of the final product which is a little over 27,000 words.  The tentative tittle is Valentines Day.   While there is a teenage love story involved, the title is more representative of the date in 1982 that the event of which the piece is based took place.

Will there be more to come?  Perhaps…

Enjoy.

J. L. Johnston

***

Settling into the cramped quarters of my mother’s 1972 Ford Pinto, the smell of stale cigarettes and motor oil enveloped our senses as me and my friend John primed ourselves to embark on an adventure; the climax of which neither of us could have possibly foreseen nor could have ever been fully prepared for. With the turn of the ignition key the tiny ten year old four-banger sputtered to life, belching a cloud of black smoke into the frigid night air. “We got away with it,” I said with an eager nervousness in my voice.

“Yeah, we did, huh,” John said, lighting a cigarette and sending a smoke ring sailing through the cab of the car before disappearing upon impact with the rear-view mirror. The car was dirty, the ashtray spilling over with crushed out Moore 120 menthol cigarette butts.   Mom said that she liked them because they lasted longer than the 100’s. The floor of the passenger side was littered with empty Styrofoam cups, fast food wrappers and a couple of old Tabloid magazines.

Thankfully the car was parked in the street. The only driving experience between the two of us was my recently completed 10th grade drivers training class, and backing out of a driveway was uncharted territory for both of us. I was 17 years old but I had yet to get my driver’s license or any actual driving experience outside of a joy-ride in a V12 Jaguar that we kind of borrowed from the parent of another buddy of ours one night.  There was also the occasional pilfering of my father’s ’78 Pontiac Firebird. John was 15 years old, still two years away from being able to even take the written driving test. Nevertheless, we were off and running. The plan was to swing by John’s house, drop him off and then I would proceed to drive around the neighborhood for a while with hopes of being recognized behind the wheel by a friend or two before eventually returning the car to my mother.

Putting the car into drive, I made a U turn on the small dimly lit dead-end street and pulled up to the traffic signal at the corner. Pulses racing with anticipation of our forbidden escapade, we gave each other another glance and nervously chuckled. The light changed and we headed toward the neighborhood where John and I both lived.

That traffic light at the corner of my mom’s street turning green would be the last thing I remember of that cold rainy February night. Unbeknownst to either of us, something terrible was about to happen; something so sudden and so violent it would change our young lives forever.

Running, GPS, and Honesty

Lies, lies I tell you! My GPS running app is telling lies!  Forgive me for posting another running related blog entry, but it seems that that is all I am filling my spare time with of late (that and writing these posts) and my experiences the past few times out have proven worthy of discussion. Or perhaps I am just venting… No matter. I’m maintaining a healthy balance of regular physical activity and sitting on my duff writing, so it’s all good, right?

Ok, now I am all for giving credit where credit is due, and when my GPS app decided to spoon feed me back some of the precious minutes and miles that it systematically robbed me of over the past two years, it was tempting to just say, OK, sweet; I’ll claim that as my own. I mean, who’s going to know, right? Well, that’s just not how I roll for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I am an honest person and I don’t claim that which is not mine. It’s like if someone visited my photography web site (jeffreyjohnstonphotography.com), and decided, hey… that picture’s purdy. I think I’ll save it to my computer and use it as my new wallpaper and I’ll tell people that I took it. No… that is NOT OK.

bridge and pyramid2_frame1

OK, OK. I’m stepping down from my soap box now, but the point that I am trying to make here is that it is not OK to claim that which is not yours, even if it is something as rudimentarily trivial as un-earned mileage, time, and corresponding pace while running. Yes, who’s going to know? Me, that’s who, and we all know the saying “oh what a tangled web we weave, when once we practice to deceive.” The bottom line is, who are we fooling most? Ourselves. So I keep it honest. Momma told me this was best.

That is not to stay that I haven’t over my lifetime lost my way, trekked a few miles down the road to the dark side, we all have at some point in our lives. In fact, one time in particular still resonates with me because it caused me so much shame, yet I never took corrective action to see to it that the truth be known. When I was in pre-school. I know, you’re probably saying: “Dude, really? Preschool?” Yes. We lived in Chico California and my father was attending college. I was in preschool and there was an art project assigned to us in which we each were to draw a picture of a Christmas Tree, decorated with bulbs, lights and whatever else we thought a Christmas tree should look like in pre-freedom of religious expression sensitivity 1968. At the age of four, my artistic abilities were rather limited and were obviously far inferior to that of the girl to my immediate right of me at the table we were working on. So, in effort to secure the highest accolades and win over my teacher, I swapped out my crummy tree with my neighbors when she got up to get more paste to eat. She was always eating paste… loved the stuff, and her addiction to the tasty mixture of flour and water was clearly to my benefit on that particular day. An acquired taste, this paste; one which I could never quite wrap my young mind around.

gotta run_frame1

So, anyway, I claimed my neighbor’s artwork as my own, slapped my name on the back in a scarcely legible four-year-olds crayon scrawl, and turned it in. How this fraudulent crime was not discovered is beyond me, perhaps the rightful owner was so stoned on paste that she just didn’t notice that her once Rembrandt caliber work of art had vanished and was replaced with my barely recognizable work of crap.

That work of art, immorally attained as it was, still adorns my late grandmothers scrap book. Shameful, I know. I did confess to this act of blatant thievery and dishonesty to my mother thirty or forty years later, though. At least I think I did. Confession or not, it was wrong. I knew it then, but just didn’t have the courage to do anything about it at the time. Whew…I feel so much better now that that is off my chest. Sorry, Grandma. I never came clean with that while you were here.

Bridge tower_frame1

Sure, I think that many of us have embellished on the truth a bit in order to tilt the scales of achievement in our favor for one reason or another. However, for me, the days of dishonesty, no matter how seemingly insignificant are over. Oh yeah… if anyone looks closely enough at the splits on this particular run (pictured below) it will become quite evident that at one point around mile #2 my trajectory magically leapt from 13th & N to 9th & E in the matter of seconds, and then deposited me briefly at 11th & J before magically circumventing about a half mile of my route and continuing on my original course. One will also notice that my pace for mile #2 was a lightning-fast 1:13 minute mile. What! That’s just crazy! I have never run that fast, even on a good day with plenty of Starbucks and C4 coursing through my veins, this middle aged novice runner is just not that fast, nor do I aspire to be. For if I were, I fear that I would surely be found on the pages of a comic book, hanging among the ranks of Flash, or recruited by local law enforcement to chase down bad guys, or perhaps become the next celebrity star of the Olympic track team earning well deserved gold for our country. Ahh, yes. I can see it now. Fame, fortune, celebrity status. Uh… No. Alas I am just some old guy trying not to die prematurely because he sat in front of the TV watching re-runs of shows that he already saw thirty years earlier instead of getting outside moving around a little each day.

9-23 7.01 mile error map

As I post these little running route screenshots, I have to believe that some of my keen-eyed blog followers, whether skeptical of my claims or honestly interested in my fitness aspirations, are clicking on the actual route on MapMyRun.com and examining my splits for both accuracy and my correlating scrupulousness. Yeah, that’s the other reason for the honesty… it’s traceable, and no one wants to earn the objectionable reputation of reporting falsehoods as it pertains to performance in fitness achievements or anything else, for that matter. With that said, GPS is not a perfect science, as is evident with the errors which are the basis of this particular post, but there are limits to that which is deemed a feasible margin for error, the apparent teleportation over several city blocks and logging an implausible 1:13 minute mile pace during an evening run, notwithstanding.

I embarked upon this run in full faith that my consistency-lacking GPS running app, coupled with my circa 2005 smart phone, its actual intelligence rightfully disputable, would, at least start at the same time that I started running and at least provide me with a relatively accurate reporting of distance, time and pace. I don’t know what happened. Alien interference, perhaps? Solar flare? Who really knows for sure? I know what distance I ran that night, as it is a route I have run before and shaving about 1.5 miles off of my distance, and adding a couple of minutes to my pace, is a relatively fair representation of my actual performance on this night fueled by mystery and intrigue… and apparently, my newly-acquired supernatural powers.

May your momentum be perpetual, and your integrity held high, my friends!

The Running Life

Medals2

Funny thing, this running life. Addictive in nature, yet the desire to get out there and put in work is fleeting if not outright evasive at times… much of the time. Even those who have been at it for years, have confided in me that deep down, they really don’t want to do it. But the more that they do get out there and put in mileage, the more they are compelled to do it… they NEED to do it.  For the running devotee, this regimental practice of dressing out, lacing up the exorbitantly priced shoes with their color coordinated laces and running, whether three times per week, five times week, or whatever frequency is psychologically gratifying, usually involves getting up really early in the morning, eating a small portion of something that you would not ordinarily consume for breakfast—high carbs, grains, rocks and sticks, what have you—at an hour far earlier than the body is accustomed, or for some, race day means eating nothing at all.  Foregoing ones regular intake of coffee and its associated diuretic properties is also advisable—a learned practice, one that is tussled with tooth-and-nail by newbies, but one every runner adopts eventually if they value their beloved running time and its accompanying, and equally cherished pace.

Parkway Half 600x600

I’ve only been at this running thing for two and a half years. In fact, this month it will be exactly two and a half years since I ran my first race; a 5K dubbed “No Excuses,” held in Sacramento.  It was a blast!  The camaraderie, the people cheering on the sidelines, the free food at the end of the race, the announcer calling your name as you crossed the finish line; official race time posted on-line… what a rush!  I was officially hooked on this new and exciting approach to staying healthy and active, and on my way to becoming part of a huge community of like-minded people of all ages and from all walks of life.

Last Sunday, I ran my third half marathon.  It was the San Francisco Giants race. The course left from in front of AT&T Park, ran down the Embarcadero and beneath the San Francisco Bay Bridge to the Presidio before turning around and returning and finishing inside of AT&T Park to the roar of spectators (family and friends of other runners… none of them mine, unfortunately).  Rounding the corner and heading to the finish line inside the park was quite an experience.  I wore my GoPro Camera during the race, but unbeknownst to me, the battery died an hour into the race, so I didn’t get footage of the finish, or the last eight miles, for that matter.

Last night I went for a run on the Sacramento River—an eight mile out and back from the River Promenade near Tower Bridge to the Weston Hotel, the one with Scott’s Seafood imbedded in its left hip (or its right, depending on whether you’re facing the river or I-5).  This out and pack route of mine is on a relatively flat paved bike path with only one hill as the trail dips into the boat launch area of Miller Park before climbing back up onto the levy parallel to the railroad tracks and I-5 just beyond a barrier of evergreen trees.  I have run this route before—one of several out and backs and loops that I run with varying mileage and degrees of difficulty associated to them—and I typically do my running during the late afternoon or dusk.

I don’t mind running in hot weather.  It’s not the heat that gets to me, it’s the slathering on of sunblock before a run, just to sweat if off and have it run into my eyes while running… that I’m not to thrilled about.  I also find fewer people on the trails later in the day and fewer cars on the road when my running loop takes me occasionally onto residential streets, or traffic metered intersections.

About two miles into this run, I encountered a small cloud of insects that just happened to be hovering at head level directly in my path. I should mention that during one of my early running training courses that I had taken in preparation of my new running life, we were taught, contrary to previously learned behavior, to breathe through our mouths, and not through our nose.  As my breathing had not quite leveled out yet, I ran directly into this cloud of insects, or bugnado, as I have christened this phenomenon, mouth open and promptly sucked in a mouth full of the tiny black bugs.  With my mouth rapidly filling with natures crunchy protein supplement, I snapped my eyes closed and frantically blinked the tiny black monsters out of my vision and kept running… I was on a mission. I was not going to let being force-fed a few thousand bugs stop me from reaching my mileage and pace goals of my first post-half marathon run.  No sir.

Sierra Trail Run photo0_150dpi

No sooner did my vision clear and I thought I had the last of the tiny creatures spat from my now hacking throat, I ran into another one of these bugnado’s… then another.  My process of eliminating these heinous flying monsters from my system was repeated two more times before I was able to regain my composure and take a breath of fresh air.  Thankfully, the remainder of my run was relatively bug free.

I continued my run, mindful of my GPS running apps declaration of my time and pace yammering from my cell phone each half mile to ensure that I was maintaining an active pursuit of my goals for the evening.  Passing a few meandering walkers near the Westin Hotel who decided to stop and take a selfie right in front of me, I approached the turn-around point.  They will likely be none too pleased to find that I had inadvertently photo-bombed their shot as I approached from the rear just before passing them on the left.  My turnaround point came at mile number four just beyond the Weston Hotel adjacent two large fire pits with lounge chairs encircling them with a wonderful view of the river.  I made my turn, and headed back from whence I came, passing the fire pits and the two women still fussing with their now increasing number of selfies, which, from the direction that they were taking them, had nothing in the background but a parking lot full of varying eras of automobiles and the occasional maintenance worker cruising by in his golf cart, smoking a filterless Pall Mall cigarette while attempting to conduct an intelligible conversation on his walkie-talkie between uncontrollable phlegm-rattling coughing spells.

The back-side of any out and back run invariably carries with it a level of fear and discomfort for me.  The fear is that I will abandon my goals altogether and walk.  The discomfort comes with I invariably make the conscious decision to stay the course and keep running, only to find that in doing so the pain in whichever muscle group is hindering me the most that week has been amplified ten fold with the psychological awareness that I am still only half way into my run, and that the hard part of this passionate endeavor is just beginning.  This usually passes, as by this time my breathing has leveled out, hitting the proverbial wall, as it is termed in the running community and its time to suck it up and cruise.

7 mile run map

On my return trip as I made my way back toward downtown Sacramento, the sun had all but set, leaving an orange hue of reflective light on the river to my left, and with the diminishing light, came a different populous of travelers on the bike trail on which I was running.  Typically, if I know that I will be out past dark during a run, I will wear a head lamp to light my way and to also let others know that I am there so that and can avoid running head on into me on the trail, or to enable cars to see me when I find the need to cross a residential street after I drop off the levy back into the neighborhood.  This was not one of those times.  I left my head lamp at home and had to rely on my store-bought vision (Lasik circa 2009) and the sporadic courtesy of oncoming runners and cyclists to either have a headlight of their own turned on or at least make an effort to move over once I enter their field of view.  I did most of the moving over, though, and I was grateful that I did not encounter any snakes on the trail as I had on previous runs along that same stretch of the river trail.

Intermingled with this new post-sunset populous of river trail walkers, runners and cyclists, at times can be found those who use the cover of darkness and relative isolation of this area to participate in activities that they would not ordinarily bring into the light… not in public, anyway.  About five miles into this run, as I approached the gap in the fence that accesses the Sutterville Road exit off of I-5; I spied far up in the distance, a walker in front of me. Ordinarily, I would not have been aware of this walker so far ahead of me, especially as dark as it was, had it not been for the aroma that was trailing several yards behind him, a pungent wake within which I was hopelessly trapped with no real means of escape.  This individual, after running behind him for several minutes I learned was a little paunch of a man with a thick black mustache and a ball cap mashed so far down upon his fat head that it was a wonder he had any ears at all.  He was strolling down the pathway practicing his no doubt newly attained card-carrying California—yet still against federal law—right, puffing away on some extraordinarily pungent and apparently high quality marijuana.  At first, I thought that someone had encountered and inadvertently startled a skunk on the trail, which in some parts, especially Miller Park, there are dozens.  But as I advanced on this pudgy little pot-head it became clear that it was not a skunk, but some quality pot, the smoke from which had trailed behind him in a translucent blue veil for several yards.

Back to Civilization

This development was of no help to my diminishing energy level as I approached the last quarter of my run. I must have taken in enough of his toxic haze that for a moment I briefly envisioned this new chemical element that had involuntarily been introduced into my drug-free system would somehow give me the boost that I needed for the last part of my run. You know, like when you hit the nitrous button in one of those computer racing games, sending you blasting along the raceway, barely maintaining control as you negotiate the next turn, knowing full well that you’ll never make it and you are destined to hit the wall, but you don’t care ‘cause you gots you some nitrous. Yeah, you know… like that.  Alas, this was not the case.  Alternately, it seemed to have the opposite effect on me, slowing my pace and leaving me longing for… something.  Perhaps another tasty encounter with the bugnado insect cloud that I passed through on the first leg of this run for no other reason than because now… I had the munchies.

I would be remiss if I did not lend a little advice related to the nose-rocket practice that is popular with seasoned runners, and unsuccessfully attempted by many newbies.  It is the practice of clearing the nasal passages during a run to get more oxygen to your euphoria fueled brain.  Seasoned runners, you know what I am talking about, but for those who don’t, it is exactly as it sounds… the practice of effectively launching that which is inhibiting the flow of oxygen to the brain, out… (a nose rocket) so the runner can breathe better.  There is a technique, one that should be adhered to if one is to ensure at least a relatively accurate aim. It goes something like this:  The idea is to cover one nostril with a finger and launch your projectile beneath the opposing arm and onto the pathway, street, or trail below without too much lateral velocity as to avoid nailing a neighboring runner in the process.  Never try to send your projectile over the top of your arm.  Nine out of ten times, you will fail miserably, lacquering your own shoulder in the process. This technique (the former, not the latter) has been thoroughly tested over an unknown period of trial and error, and if done properly, should render the runner with a new-found boost of oxygen infused energy.  If done improperly… well, let the chips fall where they may (pun intended) and with any luck you won’t be followed back to your car at the end of your race by some red-faced, runner wielding his newly acquired finishing medal like a weapon demanding that you wipe down his calf.

With this in mind I must add, as I learned last night during my run, this time-tested sinus clearing procedure should never be attempted two days into recovery from a bad head cold… If you do, you will find yourself frantically batting away at your own DNA as it stubbornly dangles to waist level before gently wrapping itself around your forearm, like some alien creature latching onto its long-lost mother.

San Jose Giants Race2

All kidding aside, running, if practiced properly utilizing time-tested proper form and wearing appropriate gear (supportive running shoes, moisture wicking socks and other gear) is a great way for one to stay active and attain a level of fitness that for some (myself included) was thought to be unattainable.

Running is also very therapeutic and is a proven natural antidepressant.  I have benefited from these latter properties on many occasions in the early days of my aspiration to become a runner.  When I embarked on this journey of fitness, solitary bonding with my thoughts and my environment, and entered into a lifestyle of physical, psychological, and spiritual well-being, I was at a turning point in my personal life.  Through the medicinal properties of running I was able to get through those emotionally trying times relatively unscathed.

Ultimately, I run because, by the grace of God, I can… there was a time in my life when, for many years, I could not.

Keep the forward momentum, my friends… The alternative is unacceptable.

J. Johnston

“The Hall” an excerpt

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The Hall

It was clogged with bodies.  The hall.  None of them were hers but who could be sure.  This has been her life, her way for so many generations that sometimes she loses track of her kills, her conquests, her food.  She needs them.  Each and every one of them to survive, in order to exist at all.  There are times when everything is just a blur, one scream, one frantic imploration for salvation after another, for life, for saving.  The pleas meld into one another.  Over time, the years, the centuries the screams, the pleas all begin to sound the same.  The imploring voices all possess the same acoustic tonalities, the same pitch, the same sound carrying with them the same urgency… all saying the same things over and over and over again:  “please, go away.  You scare me.  They tell me that you are not real—that you don’t really exist, yet I see you day in and day out.  I have for years.  Please, just leave me alone!”

But these pleas, these solicitations for mercy always fall upon deaf ears, for you see… it is not up to her to select who is saved and who is not.  It is not her decision who is spared her madness, who lives and who dies in this dark, dark world from whence she dwells.  The role of God is not hers to play.  But, is that not the role she adopts when she does not answer the multitudes of requests to spare life, and instead, takes it?

The hall could, however, be filled with the carrion of another.  There are others like her you know; the ones that dwell in the dark.  The ones that thrive in the void of night conducting their business as if it were the appropriate thing to do.  Annoying—disturbing–Killing.  It is however, unlikely that the rotting flesh piling up in the hall belongs to anyone but she, for this is her house.  This is her realm.  Here, she makes the rules and in this house is where those who know her or are at least acquainted with her ways and give respect to her techniques because she is not only the ruler of the night but the day.  She is the ruler of lives, when those lives are unwilling or unable to contain her.

Beneath Evenly spaced cones of soft amber light she hunts.  That is the stage from whence the curtain of tonight’s performance will be raised.  Shadows dissolve and then solidify again as if in not doing so would negate their very existence as she traverses the intersecting alleys of the urban jungle that is her downtown Sacramento home on this night.  Perpetually, she makes her rounds.  Her nocturnal activities have gone undetected in so far as she could tell.  Except for that one incident on the east end of Capitol Park; the forty acres of lush flora that surround the California State Capitol building.  It was there, crumpled beneath the bronze statue of a soldier at the military memorial next to the rose garden he was found, as if freshly slain by the lifeless metal figure itself, its gaze fixed upon the bloody and equally lifeless man at its feet.  A blood splattered bronze bayonet clutched tightly in his right hand told the tale.  For all intents and purposes, this was an exceptionally brutal form of suicide, but she knew better and so did he… wherever he now was.  The events of that warm summer night in August of 2013 were unfortunate, but the night could not have concluded in any other way.  The deed had to be done.

Whatever the origin of their encounter with one another, he too was on a quest –trolling—when he happened upon her on that dark downtown street in the appropriately christened neighborhood of Alkali Flat.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, they strolled.  Hand and hand as if they were familiar, and they were—intimately in fact, but not in the physical sense, although the heat of their pressed palms with fingers interlaced like high school sweethearts would suggest this.  To the outside world they were strangers in the night.  They strolled several blocks southwest until they came upon the old historic Biltmore Hotel.  Long ago abandoned she will never again know the folly of her heyday, the late nineteenth century… the Biltmore and her alike.  Hesitating momentarily before the ancient entrance, once grand and ornate but now a crumbling shell of her former self, she cast a glance over a shoulder as if in anticipation of receiving a sight… perchance a sound with which to reminisce.  Alas there was none.  Only fond memories of an era long ago lost to the industrial revolution and the never-ending march of progress.  The unfamiliar strangers, in expectation of becoming familiar if only for a few moments—hours perhaps, resumed their promenade.

What happened that night was wholly unintended, but compulsory…  unavoidable.  It had to be done.  The gavel fell.  The law of nature called her infinite courtroom to order setting in motion the events of a dark and metaphysical encounter, the likes of which would prove unprecedented for these streets.  For this city.  For the unsuspecting of these two formerly unfamiliar strangers.   For one, the evening’s journey had reached its destination.  The other, well… his journey’s end was reached as well… or perhaps, for him it had only just begun.

Book Launch

If Walls Could Write Cover - Jeffrey Johnston

Greetings friends, family, Web-based acquaintances and classmates of scholastic endeavors recent and yesteryear alike.  At long last my fevered writing pace has decelerated if only momentarily, but with it comes the product of my efforts.  I am pleased to announce that my debut fiction short story collection is finally complete and has been released.  If Walls Could Write and Other Stories is a collection of fifteen stories related to the human condition.

To my fellow Willow Glen High School alumni, it may interest you to learn that some of these stories are set in the Willow Glen neighborhood where I grew up.  One story in particular Driver’s Training, revolves around a W.G.H.S. Driver’s Training class that went horribly wrong.  A synopsis of the stories and a link to purchase both print and Kindle editions can be found by clicking on the “Books” page tab of my blog above and is also located on my Amazon Author Page.

My blog: www.jeffreyjohnston.net/books

Purchase from my Amazon author page (HERE).

To those of you who endured my MIA status from social events and my sporadic lack of attention to your needs, I offer my most sincere request for forgiveness.  I hope that you understand… I am a writer.  While a very gratifying existence, it is also a very solitary one.

Cheers

Jeffrey L. Johnston

Gallery

SuperMoon 2013

This gallery contains 6 photos.

When I learned of the Supermoon celestial event this year, I had to try to capture it. I decided to find something iconic for the foreground and took a short trip to the Rancho Secco Nuclear Plant in the nearby … Continue reading