Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Daddy of All Father’s Days, plus LOW RES MADNESS!
Father’s Day: the world’s most ancient, most powerful holiday. Going back, literally, to days of “yore,” it has been hallowed since time immemorial and honored even by the most primitive and funny-looking peoples. And this year was, indeed, no exception. This was my first F-Day as a double dad; it was only fitting that it be observed with properly doubled delights. And if we perhaps exceeded our mark, well, perhaps, that was just as well. Let me bring you along on our ceremonial peregrinations, in word and, where words fail me, as verily they sometimes do, in photos. ‘cause I’m good that way, dig?
The day began with me getting woken up a little earlier than I’d have wanted by a squirmy interloper to my bed, and I reacted with ill humor, followed shortly thereafter by apologetic remorse. Let’s move on, then, to breakfast. We’ve been doing a good bit of kitchening lately, from baking home-made bagels (fun and sort of tasty, but not nearly as good as the ones available commercially just a block from home), to a strawberry-rhubarb crumble (which TOTALLY ROCKED), to real-to-goodness buttermilk pancakes from the lab-tested recipe in Cook’s Illustrated magazine. For D-Day breakfast, how would Kel meet this ridiculously high bar? Eggles, of course, to which I have no resistance whatsoever. They were delicious; I had two-and-a-half, thanks to Zach petering out before he came close to finishing his.
Next on the agenda, we strapped on our carabiners and crampons for a no-holds-barred trek downtown to the Yerba Buena center. We started at the Children’s Circle playground, which is full of tunnel-slides and talking-tubes and water-courses and a lovely hedge maze - the kids ripped the place up and had a blast doing it. We dragged them out of the sandy mud after about an hour, through the YB gardens and across Mission Street to the Contemporary Jewish Museum, where I’d specially requested a viewing of their exhibit of art from the Russian Jewish Theater from the early 20th century. But let’s linger for a moment outside and appreciate this exceptional building, first:
This image is a reflection of the museum from the window of the jukebox Marriot next door. The CJM started life in the early 1900s as an electrical generating station, then spent many years in langurous desuitude before being totally re-visioned and re-purposed by Daniel Liebskind, who grafted huge blocky additions to the side and top that resemble hebrew letters signifying “life.” It’s a dramatic space from the east face, and a traditionally restrained Willis Polk facade from the south. Here, let me show you:
This photo doesn’t really reveal that much of the old building, but does give you an idea of how the new and old are linked together. It’s very cool, and one of the best marriages of architectural styles I’ve ever seen. Most of my photos of the interior just don’t cut the kosher mustard, but I did get this decent shot of the portal into the gift shop(pe), under a pendulous angular balcony from which a gracious stairwell descends. It’s a nice blending of massive geometries and delicate spaces. Anyway, it works for me.
Our first stop was in the “yod,” which is the room that occupies the interior of the huge dark mass of the east face. This room is currently the location of the “Jews on Vinyl” exhibit, which was understated and fascinating: a soaring space in which a generic Jewish grandma’s living room had been set up with standard 1962 couches and a massive phonographic console; a few low tables were laid out with mp3 players loaded with scads of music performed by Jews, or Jewish music by non-Jews (Eartha Kitt singing “Shalom Alechim?” Mee-yow!), or music on Jewish themes…
On one wall was an arresting display of album sleeves:
It was a great scene, magnetic and comforting. Once Zach got the mp3 player cued up to some Rashaan Kirk, it was almost impossible to dislodge him from the room.
And just since it was such a gorgeous space, here’s another architecture shot - a window, looking out to the St Patrick’s Church across the courtyard (about which, more later). It’s not a great photo but it’s a great building so I’m going to give it all the exposure I can stand.
Then we got to the exhibit of theater art, which I wish I could have lingered over longer but the kids were getting antsy already. There was loads of design materials, some set mock-ups, costumes, theater murals by Chagall, and even video of actual performances which were eerie and fascinating. Sadly, we whipped through it quickly, and then scampered downstairs for a tasty lunch at the in-house cafe (I recommend the latkes - strongly.) We concluded with a visit to the Jew Street Project exhibit, 300+ photos of streets and lanes and alleys in Germany with the word “jew” ("Juden") in their names, all pre-dating WWII. Some were gritty urban thoroughfares, some were small suburban lanes, and some were just unpaved country roads in the middle of nowhere. It was a surprisingly powerful display, seeing them all stacked up in front of me, many with street-signs in that heavy German gothic type.
Finally, after a quick run through the gift shop(pe), we were ready for sunlight again. Our first stop, though, was St Pat’s, a gorgeous pre-quake neogothic masonry Pilipino Catholic church. (Wow, six modifiers in a row. Might be a record, even for me.) Zach has been interested in churches lately so we thought we’d take a peek. Given his behavior in the museum I wasn’t sure how he’d handle it, but he was, as it were, a perfect cherub… no wait, that’s pagan… let’s go with “seraph.” He was a perfect seraph, crossing his forehead unprompted with holy water from the font, sitting quietly in a rear pew to listen to the hymns and homilie, gazing serenely at the sculptures and stained glass, testing out the padded kneeler with careful measured movements… it was really a very refreshing little pit-stop with Jesus.
Next, we went across the street to see some Native American dancing at a big festival on the YB lawn, on our way to my chosen Father’s Day dessert - halo halo at Jollibee, where they do a really good job of it for a really good price. I can’t recommend anything else on the menu, but their halo halo is worth the trip if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am. However, Zach decided half-way through mine that he’d rather have chocolate than ube (which is a purple yam that makes awesome ice cream), so we promised him a trip to a fro-yo place in the ground floor of our parking garage. However, on our way there, we noticed some interesting activity at the carousel at Howard and Fourth, so we crossed the street to check it out.
At the little curbside plaza had gathered several dozen bicycle riders with pronounced urban sensibilities. They wore hoodies and knit caps, torn shorts and wallet-chains. Their bikes were all pared-down trick rides with pegs in odd places for standing while doing velocepidal acrobatics. As we watched, the crowd grew - dozens more riders swarmed in, pulling up with a flourish of squealing brakes and laying down quotation marks of skids on the sidewalk. A few locals stood around too, shouting cheers and encouragement as the crowd swelled; every so often one would zip past the front of the big concrete steps leading to the carousel, doing 360s or hopping on a rear tire. One got a bit of a head start and jumped the whole set of about 20 steps, making a tidy landing at the bottom much to the approbation of those gathered there. It felt as if something big was going to happen. Then, suddenly, one voice rang out in the crowd: “He’s got a radio!” The cry was taken up by several others and suddenly the exodus was on. In groups of three or ten or thirty the riders absquatulated, burning rubber as fast as they could pedal, racing away from the corner where we stood. Within five minutes of our arrival we were basically alone, so we walked a block back to the garage and got some fro-yo, much to Z (and K)’s gratification. We were in the car by three pm and the kids were asleep by 3:02, and they stayed asleep till nearly suppertime. A finer Dad-day could not be imagined, and I got to enjoy every minute of it. Truly, one for the legends - and you read it here first.
(me and J at the YB waterfall - just gearing up for the good times, yeah baby)
BUT THAT’S NOT ALL. Not by a long shot, buddy. I also have a nice fistful of cellphone photos from the past few weeks and there’s no time like the present to dump them on you. GET READY FOR LOW-RES MADNESS!
Back in the early part of this month I attended the “Burger of the Month Club” meeting, which was at Big Mouth Burgers down at 24th near Valencia. They looked to have decent fare, but next door was the Phat Philly cheesesteak emporium and I could not pass it up: kobe beef, Amororso rolls, plenty of provolone on the sammy and a beer-cheddar sauce on the cris-cut fries, plus suds on tap. Charles derided my choice, saying that, as a Philly boy himself, he couldn’t settle for the “less” this place surely would offer. I feel the same way about burgers as an Angeleno, so I was happy to give PP a try - and even happier once I did so. For your delectation: hot meat and cold beer:
The following weekend we attended an annual picnic put on by the agency that managed both of our adoptions. This time they had a woman in clown makeup who blew up balloon animals (with her breath, or sometime a plastic pump - sadly, there was no C4 involved). Zach was near the end of the line on this gig, but when he got his turn, he COMPLETELY scored with the “Mad Earth-Scientist Hat” balloon. Wear it proudly, son. Not everybody gets one. And of those that do, not everyone can pull it off like you.
And now, returning to the neighborhood, here’s a little graffiti from the corner of 18th and Geary. On the south-east side, there’s a small patch of sidewalk that has survived even where everything around it has been torn out and replaced any number of times. And why? It must be the historical significance of this cryptic message, left for us to ponder by our forebears lo these forty years ago. The Family Dog is a real piece of san francisco lore. God willing, this sidewalk has never been hosed down since that fateful day they hosed it down themselves.
Good times should never be forgotten, no? Or no? Well, in some cases, no. But not this time, I guess. A little white paint, and a good wizz can live on forever.
And finally, just across the street, a modern message of love gone terribly, terribly wrong. Reminiscent of Tom Lehrer’s “I Hold Your Hand in Mine,” we have a record of a passion so intense it seems literally to be bleeding through the walls of the donut shop on the corner. I see this inscription every time I take the boys to the playground nearest our house, and it never fails to impress me. Exactly how, I cannot say. But I am certainly impressed.
Sam, I hope you know what to do with a love like this: RUN. As I will now, for that’s all for today. Coming up soon: weirdo on the beach! You won’t want to miss it!
