Friday, January 30, 2004

Self-Denial

I had to get another little notebook.  The one I had, where at least a dozen valuable ideas and phone numbers were mouldering, waiting for me to switch them to a more permanent home, are lost.  I think I put it down when I was shopping for a camera, and I never picked it up again.  I’ve spent two weeks waiting for it to resurface, in case it was just in my coat pocket or under the sofa or something, but I couldn’t wait any longer.  Here’s why:

I’d been realizing that I hadn’t written any good fiction - any fiction, period - for a long time.  And as I realized this, at the princess party last weekend, surrounded by 4 year old girls and their tipsy and pork-addled parents, I had a great, great, great idea for a story.  No need to write it down, even if I hadn’t lost my notebook - an idea this good will automatically stick to the inside of my head. 

You can see this one coming, can’t you?  I have no idea what that story was about now.  No clue.  No setting, no theme, no sense of character - though I’m pretty sure there were only two of them… in frustration, I got a new notebook today for those special ideas that will only come to me when I lack the wherewithal to write them down.  But by way of making it up to you, let me share the one idea that did stick to my meninges while I was at the party:

I had been gorging and grazing with impugnity, stuffing myself at both the kids’ and adults’ tables.  A smoked pork-shoulder sandwich… a little pbj sandwich with the crusts cut off… some cole slaw.... then a cupcake… and back and forth for several hours.  At one point someone brushed past me to grab another little egg salad sandwich.  They seemed to be going like hotcakes (although no actual hotcakes were on the table for a comparative analysis).  However, this particular egg-salad-sandwich-eater feelingly told me, “these are really good.  You should have one, right away.”

I looked at the mound of little sandwiches with their smeary yellow filling, and at the other kinds of sandwiches and the other condiments, comestibles and sweetmeats piled on the groaning board.  I was feeling full and, frankly, my cholesterol doesn’t need any help in getting elevated (that’s right, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree).  I finished chewing whatever I’d stuffed in my mouth and replied, “I can’t deny myself much - but I can deny myself egg salad.”

Words to live by, for the next few days at least.  If I think of any more, I’ve got a snazzy new yellow notebook wherein to inscribe them.  For the record, I’ll be spending a nice chunk of my weekend programming my phone, so if I’m supposed to have your phone number or you’d just prefer if I did, email me.  If not, well, I didn’t want your stupid phone number anyway.  I’ll just sit in the dark and grouse.  (Not in a darkened grouse.  That would be very confining.  And what’s the plural of grouse - grice?  Greese?  To hell with it.  Have a happy weekend and don’t forget to tell me all about it.)

Thursday, January 29, 2004

Don’t Apologize

My boss was reading to me today from a document a law librarian had compiled.  They have an “ask a law librarian” service, where you can email a law librarian “24/7” - live during business hours, or you get a response the next day if you leave a message late.  One of these on-line law librarians just compiled all the inquiries and messages he got during a one-month period.  It looked like a lot of material.  My boss was going through some of the questions, wondering how he’d understood them well enough to offer an answer that was helpful while still being within the bounds of legal propriety. 

One question in particular affected me.  It was in the form of a long missive, larded with court language but used in an uncomfortable and stilted way, like a really bad fake foreign accent; he was asking for information about child custody and support under circumstances that were sketchy and vague in many ways - it sounded like it could have been very serious or totally bogus.  But he sounded sincere and more than a little desperate.  And then he caught me by surprise.  His last sentence was something I hadn’t been ready for.  He ended his message to the on-line law librarian by saying, “I’m sorry I type so slow.”

Dude - take your time.  Typing speed should be the least of your concerns.  And good luck getting back with your daughter.

Three from the Fish

Yesterday was not a bad day, and it got progressively better as it went.  I’m therefore privileged to share with you, THREE THINGS ABOUT SEEING HOT TUNA AT THE FILLMORE:

1) The phrase “souped up” has always meant, to me, “supercharged,” like a muscle car with extra muscles or a particularly high-powered version of anything.  Well now my cellphone is “souped up” too, in that last night as I knelt on the sidewalk while I waited in line, getting my big ol’ tub of udon soup out of a take-out bag , my phone slipped out of my coat pocket and fell neatly and cleanly into superheated broth.  I plucked it out instantly (my finger is even a little burned now, yes, that finger, the good one) but to no avail.  Amid general hilarity, I confirmed that the phone was and is dead. 

So here’s a request to blogsville: if I’m supposed to have your phone number, I probably don’t have it anymore.  Please feel free to bring me up to speed.  In fact, I’m going to solicit any phone numbers people want to share with me.  I will promise one personal chat for every working number I get.  I solemnly promise not to call you during my favorite television shows, but it would be so nice to be able to tell you that I’m thinking of you those late nights and early mornings when I just can’t sleep.  What, you didn’t have that problem?  Sorry to wake you up but since I’ve got you on the line… what’s cooking?  Not soup, I hope…

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Is This Supposed to Make Me Hungry?

She’s one of the neighbors who say “hi.” In this neighborhood we get a lot of shortimers and a lot of old-timers.  She’s an old-timer.  Small but not tiny; dark hair shot with white, but not actually grey; she lives in the pale green edwardian place up at the corner.  I see her many mornings, stomping her cute little way down the sidewalk with her black and crimson walking coat and a low conical straw hat ... she always gives me a big smile and a wave and a few words of garbled salutation: “Morning!  Bright!  Cold!  Work!  Good!” I’m just off to catch the bus, or sometimes I’m shlepping the dog around the block, so I don’t dally to test the limits of her fluency or her friendship - but her cheerful greetings have long been among my favorite things about living here.  She just seems so doggone authentic, yet she hails me as a fellow traveller.  Hell, grandma downstairs doesn’t even recognize me on the sidewalk and I’ve lived here under her roof for more than a decade.  It’s nice when the li’l old Chinese lady recognizes a white devil like me and says hello. 

A few days ago we encountered our friendly old neighbor outside as we walked the dog.  I didn’t recognize her at first - my comment to Kel was just “it appears we are entering the realm of the woman who squats.” For squat she did, in the middle of the sidewalk in a demure green sweater and baggy cotton pants.  As we walked closer I realized who she was, but that left another mystery: what was she squatting next to?  Out by the greenbelt I have seen more squatting than I’d care to relate or you’d care to read about, but it was usually either furtive or pissdrunk.  But this friendly neighbor had something else going on.  She was squatting by something, something she’d laid out on the sidewalk.  As we drew closer she glanced up at us and nimbly hopped to her feet, favoring us - not with her usual smile of yellow teeth and wide gaps, but rather with a serious demeanor. 

On the sidewalk, laid out on a series of squares of paper towel, were her breasts.  About ten or twelve chicken breasts, bone down, skinless, with pale lumps of fat glistening in the shaded and penetrating chill of the morning.  We said “good morning”; she did not return the greeting.  We walked past and she quickly dropped back to her haunches, closely observing her raw meat as it sat on its paper pads on the sidewalk.

We got back home ten or twenty minutes later to see she’d switched sides of the street - she now exhibited her mats of uncooked poultry on the east sidewalk where, it seemed to me, she might get more sunlight over the next several hours.  I’m not clear that that was why she moved, but it seemed to be a resonable hypothesis.  Frankly I don’t know what she was up to.  It was pretty surreal; even the dog didn’t seem to want much to do with the sidewalk meat display.  I’m thinking of asking her what she was doing next time I see her.  Then again, if life must endure in the face of mystery, maybe I’ll let this one resonate for a while, settle down into the mythology of my neighborhood.  I’ll just ruminate on sidewalk breasts a little longer on my own, and see if they lead me anywhere.  I mean, other than the obvious.

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Jesus Loves You, Baby

Mark Morford’s Daily Fix turned me on to this little slice of heaven, with a URL that’s worth cash money in the donation plate: CummingFirst.com.  I particularly recommend Rev Ron’s Pig Kissin’.  Makes you want to get right with god, doesn’t it?  And remember, there’s a lot of ways to interpret “it’s better to give than to receive.” If you need me, I’ll be up the rectory…

Monday, January 26, 2004

Moses Invests

I know that banking isn’t what it used to be.  I’m getting over it, but I still get a little disoriented around those supermarket banking stations or in the banks with coffeeshops and laundromats inside.  More different kinds of companies are doing banking, and banks are in more different kinds of business.  It’s a brave new banking world and I just have to get used to it.  But as of today, they’ve gone rather too far.

Where I work there is no shortage of impressive edifices.  There are plenty of big old buildings housing big old banks, with lofty coffered ceilings, a few serious-looking desks, and a velvet rope to help you know your place - which is to wait in line until one of the staff gestures you forward with a flick of a pristine finger; you approach one window in a row of windows like dull blank eyes staring out from the comforting security of a cell block… separated from staff and from the mysterious inner workings of the bank itself by the counter and divider, you supplicate, are eventually bestowed-upon, and leave silently and in peace like you’ve just taken fiscal communion.

Well my bank was just like that, but they moved across to the other side of the intersection and now they’ve gone neo on me.  No, the past wasn’t good enough for them.  They had to go get all involved in the future.  You enter, as I did, through double glass doors under an elaborate pre-quake cast-concrete entryway, and all you see is an arcade of beautifully appointed ATMs.  Well, I want a bit more personal attention, so I stroll around a corner to look for the main corpus of the bank branch.  Keep in mind, this is downtown San Francisco, a dense commercial realm that compares favorably in terms of architectural, economic and sociological intensity with any neighborhood except certain parts of Chicago, New York, and a handful of major international capitals.  I expect that, once I’ve left the ATM-atorium, I’ll be in a bank like every other bank I’ve ever visited.  The ATM lounge is weird, but I can take it in stride.  Just lead me to a nice austere temple where I can visit my money. 

That’s what I expect, anyway.  Obviously I’m a fool mired in a tired old worldview, harping on outmoded ideas like the relevance of the Ottoman empire and the importance of phlogiston and the dignity of the financial institution.  As I come around the corner the first thing I hit is the store.  The BANK store.  They sell piggy banks and t-shirts with cartoon characters I don’t recognize and mini-pinball machines and mannequins of coffeehouse personnel and a whole passel of other unrelated bogosity.  Maybe they think someone with a billfold full of crispy new Jacksons will be unable to resist the charm of a flocked plastic bobblehead kitten or a keychain that sings “this land is your land.” If that’s what they’re thinking, then they’re thinking of someone other than me.  As the sages held, that drek is farkhaktah. 

I keep strolling past the store with its tchochke-laden counters and its shelves burdened with cultural irrelevance, taking in the entirety of their collection of pre-consumer waste in a single sweeping glance, striding manfully into what I still for some reason (which now defies logic and experience) expect will be a bank bearing some resemblance to any bank I’ve ever seen before.  After all, I have entrusted them with my money, such as it is.  I should be entitled to have certain expectations satisfied.  I don’t expect much - but I expect a nice normal bank.

Well, those days are gone now. Dead and gone.  Instead of an organized formal nave of a bank, I find myself confronted by a random scattering of freestanding podiums with computers on them, like little altars to data processing.  People are gathered around some of them; some of them are vacant.  The general pattern of behavior seems to be “milling around.” The walls are punctuated only with unintentionally ironic posters urging me to dump more cash I don’t have into a bank in which I am rapidly losing confidence. 

Suddenly, a fresh young fellow whom I swear comes on like he’s auditioning for some backwater ripoff of Queer Eye pops up at my shoulder.  He’s acting like he’s my waiter - but I notice that he’s got a nametag with the bank’s logo on it.  Finally, I recognize something.  We sidle over to an available kiosk like we’re meeting for the first time where no one will recognize us.  I discretely transact a bit of business with him, hand him some cash; he discretely stuffs the cash into a horsehair-hidden slot in the tabletop and nobody’s the wiser.  I get a receipt, walk out - dazed, unfocused, through a roomful of people milling about with no discernable organization or priority.

I guess the money got into my account, it didn’t just drop into a hollow space under that little table and I have nothing to complain about.  But I still subscribe to the quaint delusion that money - especially my money - should be treated with a certain formality and respect.  I certainly don’t have enough of it to be getting all cavalier with how I handle it.  Call me old-fashioned but I’d rather stand in line, take my turn, and not be asked to buy a stuffed plush superhero on my way out the door.  That’s what coffeehouses are for.

Coherence is Overrated

Today will be one of those days I spend in confusing conferences as a “resident expert,” keeping a bunch of very sharp cookies on track and playing nicely with each other.  I get a free lunch out of the deal, though, and it cuts my commute about in half.  I’m prepared to do what The Man demands of me.  As long as it doesn’t involve me wearing evening gowns.  I’ve gone that route and I’m not getting paid enough to go there again. 

The weekend was sufficiently productive; along with attending two parties I assembled 2/3s of the new computer desk and moved a lot of decommissioned furniture from our office to the curb for Large Item Trash Collection tomorrow morning.  The office is thus well on its way to a stunning new look, with an accent wall just like famous actors and designers have on television.  The cat wanted to add a water feature but we moved the litterbox. 

With all these exciting decorating and conferencing issues whirling around my delicate head, I’m barely able to assemble coherent thoughts.  Luckily, I have some incoherent ones that have been mouldering in my notebook for a while, and this looks like a good time to disgorge them:

They cower underneath the arbor
like a toxic mold or snake
They’ve got you covered port and starboard
you don’t have what they can’t take
Outrageous urges rend asunder
all your efforts heretofore
consign yourself as living plunder
don’t forget to shut the door
Awakened by their thick-lipped snoring
Restively they toss and turn
Insensitive to your imploring
There are lessons some can’t learn
But you can stay beneath the covers
Helps you keep your thinking clear
Just bring some air so you don’t smother
Warm the bedsheets with your fear. 

On that cheerful note, I’m gonna feed the dog, get him outside, get myself all gussied up and step out to kick another five days’ asses in a row.  As Barney Gumble tells us, “it begins.....”

Friday, January 23, 2004

Get Me to the Matri-Shack on Time

Marriage is a sacred institution.  But who wants to live in an institution? Sen. Barney Frank

I’m hearing more and more these days about the sacred institution of marriage and the importance of protecting it with a constitutional amendment that will save Americans from the danger of two persons of the same gender building a life together, heaven forfend.  In that homosexuality is a heretofore-unknown creation of soft-minded one-worlders from the 1930s, the current moral establishment is having trouble coming to grips with this new threat, and is responding in the time-honored way of overreacting and overlegislating.  Or are they?

It’s pretty clear to me that the sacred aspect of marriage is sullied far more by heterosexual unions that flaunt or parody the institution of marriage than by gay couples who are committed to each other and constructive in their community.  But the proposed Constitutional Amendment is so brief and so riddled with omissions that it would do nothing to protect the tender youth of this great nation from the evils and dangers inherent in thoughtless, loveless marriages - even when they’re getting married to a person with complimentary, rather than redundant, plumbing.  (BTW “Redundant Plumbing” is now the name of my techno band that I will form later today.  Swipe it at your peril.) So I’ve canvassed a few clever people, masticated their advice, and come up with a few more points that should be included in any federal legislation concerning the sanctity of marriage:

1.  Marrying couples cannot be matched by any means relying on a contest, drawing, lottery, or votes from any third party or parties. All “prizes” or gifts of value propounded as an inducement to marriage shall be forfeit to the state.  True love needs no Fox TV special.
2.  Marriage is permanent - only one per lifetime, unless you are widowed by natural causes.  Serial monogamous unions dilute sanctity like ice dilutes bourbon.  Divorce shall be granted only upon completion of government-sponsored “marriage preservation” programs.  Failure to complete such a program will prohibit the issuance of any decree of divorce.
3. Married persons must live in the same house, under the same roof, sleeping in the same bed, 80% of the year.  If business calls you away more often than that, you are not contributing sufficiently to the relationship; this sullies sanctity and the marriage is a sham.  Luckily, it probably matches the shams on your hideously over-decorated country-livin’ bed. 
4.  Marriage should only be performed in licensed religious facilities or governmental edifices.  Hotels demean the sanctity of the experience.  Permits for “unauthorized” locations should be available only upon advance petition to the local governmental licensing agency by the parties to be married, and not by a facilitator, planner, hotel or other staff, or some guy who thinks getting married at the Space Needle would be “bitchin’.” Naturally, this represents a valuable source of revenue for local governments, but more importantly, it protects us from the spectacle of people getting married in drive-up matri-shacks and tacky ballrooms.  You can’t wind up sacred when you start so skanky.  (This is actually the subtitle to Madonna’s next book of photographs.)
5. Adultery should be converted from a civil tort to a federal crime, punishable by a term in a penitentiary.  Sentencing guidelines should mimic those for crack cocaine, since the evil we seek to extirpate is equally invidious. 
6. Married couples must report on the strength of their marriage annually and, if things are shaky, they should be compelled to attend government-sponsored counselling or lose tax benefits.  Keep those precious unions sound!
7. Persons getting married must be no less than 21 years of age and must attest under oath with penalties of perjury that they have known each other for more than six months.  We can’t go around having mere children falling in love and suddenly getting married after four months like my parents did.  That way madness lies. 

For the record, in case anyone is stumbling over this rant as an introduction to my feverish overresponses to current events, I’ve been very happily married to a person of the opposite sex for 14 years.  I don’t really think any of the rules I proposed are good ideas.  I just think that we need to make sure, if radical conservatives are trying to build a box to keep us all in rank and file, that the box should really constrain all of us.  If they get to design our matrimonial protocols, the only ones who’ll feel the chafe would be the powerless.  Let’s propose some legislation that nobody will like, that will get some real lobbying dollars behind a “defeat this flaming baggie of poo” campaign.  We can’t let them define this issue.  Your right to marry a stranger precipitously on national television for a big cash prize depends on it.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

I Wasn’t Laughing, Honestly

My powerful physique and astounding intellect notwithstanding, I’d like to think I’m a sensitive guy.  I don’t avoid commercial TV because I think it’s a cancer on the national prostate; I avoid it because commercials make me cry.  And weddings too.  Maybe that’s because, when I was a small boy, I got beat up by a wedding, but now that’s ancient history and all that remains is my tenuous emotional state.  All of which is to beg you to believe me - I care.  I feel.  I empathize. 

Part of my makeup as a guy who cares is cultural sensitivity.  I help to fund services for the Limited-English-Proficient, and embrace the diversity of my neighborhood (which is legion) with enthusiasm.  I like to try new cuisines, hear new languages, see films from countries where I didn’t know films were being made.  So of course it’s very much out of character for me to giggle at the revered and honorable names of any of these cultures or languages.  There are thousands of them, each unusual in its own way, and none of them meriting a cheap laugh.

HMOOB.  Every time I saw it I giggled. I’m sorry.  I’m fourteen years old.  Give me a freaking break.  Okay I’m more like forty but I insist: that’s a funny word, if you’ve never seen it before.  I myself first saw it at the ATM at the unusually convenient bank on Arguello.  The ATM arcade is outdoors, under a wisteria trellis; the machines are new and have a nice response to the inquisitive finger, and the screens are large and bright and easy to use. 

I’m used to being asked in what language I wish to bank; that’s par for the course.  English and Spanish are default options, and then, depending on the bank and the part of town, I’ve seen any number of other choices.  At this particular lovely and well-designed ATM location, I got a whole screen of language options: English, French, German, Russian (in cyrillic letters), Viet (in Latin letters with little diacriticals), what looked to me to be Chinese, Japanese and Korean, Hindi (in Hindi script, the consulate is only just across the street), and, written out in my familiar Latin letters, “Hmoob.”

My eyes tracked to it automatically, and I supressed a giggle.  I didn’t know who these people are, why the language they speak had this ... um ... comedophonious name. (There is a word for everything, once I make them all up).  So I stifled myself and conducted my transaction, put the matter out of my head.  Since then I’ve been to the Hmoob-friendly ATMs several times and each time I got a bit of a lift from that goofy word. I’d written it in my little “writing ideas” notebook and I was all set to write something all condescending and superior and juvenile about it.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Oiled and Ready

News on the fitness front: We finally got another set of wheels, nice skinny ones on an aluminum roadbike frame.  Kel’s been wanting a fast sled for a long time and now we can ride together, her on a roadbike and me on an ATB.  It’s old, it’s used, and it’s a bit archaic; on the other hand, it’s super clean, feather light, and damn fast.  She already handles it very well and we’re looking forward to a lot more jaunts and velocipidations.  Plus, it came with a mag trainer, on the rollers of which I have already mounted my old beater bike so I can do some serious resistance cycling training indoors on those rainy nights and early mornings.  Yay.

On the down side, this is all going to lead to some sore muscles and tired joints.  And that’s good - that’s okay - that shows we’re pushing ourselves, being the best we can be… and thankfully we found balm, or a balm, that seems to suck the ache right out of our flesh.  Let’s hear it for Johnson’s Emu Oil!  About time, you say, that the international shame of emu-glut was addressed in this ecoconscious, win-win way.  Finally, a use for those emus clogging our national byways and flyways.  The thing is, it works really well.  None of that topical searing/chilling from blue ice or the traditional mentholated linements - it’s just cool and goopy, and then about five minutes later you notice the aching has gone away.  It’s a great product, and I also enjoy saying the name: “Johnson’s Emu Oil.” Just rolls off the tongue doesn’t it, euphonious as a murmur.  I actually can’t get it out of my mind.  That’s not so bad, except I also start switching the words around as I mumble it to myself on my way down the street.  “Johnson’s Emu Oil.  Johnson’s Oiled Emu.  Emu’s Johnson Oil.  Emu’s Oiled Johnson.  Oiled Emu Johnson.” Needless to say, I hit a mental cul-de-sac and then get stuck there.  Stuck with Emu Oil and no place to go.  Well, other than the obvious.

To my credit, there’s another commercial name I’m able to invoke to dispel the spell that Johnson’s Emu Oil has cast over me: the EuroWiz.  I can’t find a web link for this clever product that my mom gave us for the holidays but the general idea is that it’s two flat wire whisks that connect at a hinge at the bottom of the handle with a spring so they pop apart unless latched together.  They’re great for turning frying food, whipping up sauces, stirring thick soups, and a variety of other uses, both culinary and not.  There’s a reason why they call it the “Euro-Whiz.” Although any tool with both the words “uro” and “wiz” in the name might not make it into every american kitchen, I’m not going to let a bit of linguistic squeamishness stand in my way.  I’m oiled and ready, Johnson.  EuroWiz me!

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Cold Comfort

The block is loaded with comestibles.  My off-the-cuff recollection, just for the one block where I work, is: one italian restaurant; one japanese restaurant; one sandwich deli; one variety deli; one mediterranean take-out place; one bakery sandwich shop; two coffeehouse cafes, plus a coffee shop and two coffee stands.  We’re across the street from a food court, cattycorner to another and I can think of eight more restaurants and ten more coffeeshops within two blocks of my office door.  That’s a slightly outdated total, though.  When yet another coffeehouse cafe on the block shut its doorws a few months ago, it was not a great surprise.  Even though this place had a special feng shui tea room for ceremonies of good luck and mellowness, it was for sure they weren’t staying open thanks to my paltry purchases there.  They were usually empty, and then one day they were gone. 

Sometimes retail space sits vacant in my part of town for a while, so I was happy to see remodelling work at the erstwhile Cozy Cafe Thai Tea Spot.  But recently I saw a sign that chilled that happiness.  That sign read SUBWAY. 

This storefront is right at the end of an interior pedestrian alley that runs along the side of my building, so the tatters of the defunct Cozy Cafe were pretty much right in my face every time I walked down Main to get to work.  Now that soothing (if unsuccessful) shop has been transformed into a garrish, neon-lit prefab sandwich gorgatorium.  And it’s not like we don’t already have two Quiznos and an existing Subway within a few hundred yards’ walk.  Rather, the block teems with artisan-baked, gourmet-stuffed, thoughtfully crafted sandwiches, and plenty of drek is already available too for anyone who so desires.  Yet now this.  Another Subway Sandwich Shoppe.  It’s not just an insult to sandwiches, to restaurants - to food itself.  It besmirches the block where I work.  That’s pretty personal, Jared.  You’re taking unwarranted liberties.  I’m not going to firebomb you or anything like that (I’ll leave that to the undertrained “baker’s helpers” you have working there), but I’m disappointed that you’ve settled your portly cheeks down next to my slender organically-fed ones.  If I were you, Jared, I wouldn’t expect me to be choking down any of your six-inchers anytime soon.

Monday, January 19, 2004

A Man Has To Have Direction in His Life

In all fairness, I cultivated the persona. I wore outrageous tie dies and mardi gras beads, tattered shoes and a felix the cat hat on backwards and I tied a mysterious pouch to my beltloop… so I can understand his skepticism on first encountering me.

Also, it was a rather austere, unfriendly part of Walnut Street where we met.  One block north lay wide lawns, treelined brick walks, a sculpture garden and many really fine buildings that somehow blended welcome with gravitas.  You couldn’t see that from this part of Walnut Street.  All you saw was the quad to the south and, to the north, the streetside blankness of a series of dull academic edifices.  The quad, though an indisputable masterpiece of neogothic masonry, was clearly off limits to visitors - the tall wrought-iron javelins that fenced it and the security guards at the gates made that clear.  So they were stuck on a rather unfriendly street and had probably been so for longer than they should have been.

And there he was, with wife and two sons, the eldest clearly a high school senior considering going to the school I was attending.  The whole family was visiting to check it out; I could read them all at a glance: his eldest, trying hard to look intelligent and openminded; his younger brother, bored stiff and whiny, ready to start being disrespectful any second now; and mom, who put a brave face on her numerous apprehensions.  Dad was in a regulation preppy uniform - I don’t recall what it was but he looked studiously casual and completely uptight.  His chiseled jaw was clenched and his patrician neck strained mightily to look relaxed as he hailed me - obviously a reprobate, outlandish and likely incapable of coherent thought - but by the same token, equally obviously a student of this dingy, inhospitable, and now questionable institution.  He’d had enough of this nonsense, wandering about looking like a fool in front of his children.  So he stopped the biggest fool he could find - me - and asked with a verbal sneer: “Does this school have some sort of central campus area?”

I swung on him with a tractor beam of concentration and transfixed him for a moment as his face began to flush with anxiety.  And then: “Yes,” I replied, “there are many ways to reach it from here but I would recommend that you take this road east (pointing) until you see an iron gate surmounted with a latin inscription to your left.  It’s about one block down and the gate is unbarred.  Pass through it and up a series of broad shallow steps.  You’ll find yourself on a slate and brick path, which will lead you north to Levy Park and the heart of the University.”

He stood stock still; his eyes focused on mine.  I could see him processing inconsistent data: a motley fool at an unsavory intersection had given him utterly precise and courteous assistance, speaking in complete sentences which were, moreover, grammatically correct.  He seemed incredulous.  He looked to his eldest, who shrugged.  Returning his eyes to me, his face was a bit less florid but his brow had furrowed slightly.  “You’re welcome,” I anticipated, and proceeded along my giddy way.  I felt sure that he’d been testing me, to establish for himself and his son whether students at this purported institution of higher education were up to the challenge of dealing with real people.  Once I’d met that challenge, thrown it back in his face, he really didn’t seem to know how to handle it.

Friday, January 16, 2004

a few pics to set the mood

Time to call it a day, but not without a little visual dessert for you all who made it through another week.  The originals of these photos are a bit less dark than these, but you’ll just have to live with what I’ve got right now or I will stop this car and turn it around right now.  And stop hitting your sister. 

This one is from the Hendy Woods Demonstration Forest outside Philo.  The trees are redwoods and the air is pristine.  This forest can make a reasonable person believe in greater forces than himself. 

This one is the doorknob at my cousin Simon’s artist’s residence in Sonoma, which is next door to his own lovely and luxurious home.  I loved how everything up there seemed to have so much texture.  There was also a lot of wine to sample.  There may have been a connection, actually. 

That’s enough for now, and then some.  Have a great weekend!

List: strange, curious, partial

Now that I know another strange and surprising thing, I’m motivated to unburden myself of a short list of strange and surprising things that have presented themselves to me over time.  You all probably know all this stuff already, but I thought it was pretty cool. 

* Potassium has the atomic symbol “K” because it’s named after the latin word Kalium, though authorities have been unable thus far to explain how that word was derived.  On the other hand, Lead has the atomic symbol Pb, for Plumbum, as our wise correspondent advises us - an element named after its relationship to the Roman plumbing industry, in which pipes and fixtures were made out of lead.  The word itself is a reference to a trait of the plumbing profession predating even the use of lead - the prominent display of the upper transgluteal crevasse by individuals engaged in work on pipes and drains. 

Okay, no more jokes.  Other things I, at one time or another, found surprising:

* The best kielbasa I ever ate was made out of roadkill.

* Berlin is north of London.  Lake Tahoe is west of Los Angeles.

* Eighty percent of all structures ever built in the US have been built within the last fifty years.

* Electric streetcars are connected to overhead wires with long arms that pivot and swivel.  These are called “trollers,” after trolling for fish by dragging a hook behind a slowly moving boat.  Coaches powered with trollers are called trolleys. 

* A pound of feathers actually does weigh more than a pound of gold.

Well I’m spent.  It seems incomplete, though.  Feel free to pitch any other surprising facts to include in this list.  Thanking you in advance; I remain, etc etc.  (unintelligible mumbling slowly fading into the rustling of ever-increading numbers of papers....)

Thursday, January 15, 2004

A little tradition, a little innovation….

Supper with Sha and Helena is always a pleasure, but that pleasure was significantly compounded by the presence of Helena’s dad, visiting from Berlin where he works with an international aid agency.  He greeted us warmly and his English was excellent, which I appreciated because my German is nonexistent.  I hope he enjoyed meeting us but we certainly enjoyed meeting him.

Upon arriving, we were ushered into the kitchen to sit around a circular table for a traditional Russian new year’s celebration.  First, I was made to wear a heavy woolen cap that came to a point at the top and had earflaps and a broad brim, with a red star and hammer-sickle emblem in the front.  It’s sort of what I imagine an elf might ware if conscripted into the soviet army.  It was both warm and hysterical at once; all evidence has been destroyed.  Once I was humiliatingly haberdashed we peeled and cut in half three semi-hard-boiled eggs and each of us set half an egg, yolk-up, on a spoon.  We then each seasoned our eggs, in ritualistic turn, with salt, cumin, curry, paprika, worestershire sauce, mustard, and pepper, and we poured each other a shot of vodka.  We ate the seasoned eggs and chased them with a shot, ensuring a curried and boozy new year in the storied soviet tradition. 

Our conversation that evening covered all the territory from the difference between European religious fundamentalism and the US version, to the origins of various chemical names (and if anyone out there can fill me in on why Potassium is “K” I’d be grateful), to the impact of physical geography on local sociology, and ending with a rousing and compelling discussion of early 20th century art, focusing in particular on symbolism in Chagall and Kandinsky.  We ate indulgently of eurochocs and KinderRiegels and authentic Berlin stollen, with pear-cinnamon-basil sorbet and red ginger-red port sorbet to revive our palettes. 

But for me the highlight was Helena’s demonstration of her company’s forthcoming invention, which is a system that uses a laser to project a keyboard onto any flat surface, and a sensor that reads when any “key” is struck.  We cheerfully typed at length on their wooden dining table and watched our words appear on-screen.  What a trip.  Considering as my keyboard is where I store little souvenirs of all the lunches I eat at my desk, which is most of them, a 2-D system without room to hide oakcake crumbs and yogurt splashes can only be an improvement.  I may not have much worth saying but at least I might as well keep my hands clean as I say it.

We Hadn’t Seen Anything Yet

The great hall was cavernous and imposing, but strangely comforting in its rich brown tones and proletarian intention.  It still hearkened to a day when public transportation and public space bespoke, respectively, something of divine omnipresence and the cult of the cathedral.  I’d never been there before and not too may others were there with us - the wide corridors and lofty archways were clearly proportioned for much larger crowds.  But this was the early 70’s, pre-embargo, the height of car culture.  The train, as a mode of common carriage, was as good as dead, certainly where I was in southern California; society positively disincentivized any option but the private automobile and, of course, air travel.  So Union Station stood as something of an anachronism to me even as an 8 year old. 

Many parts of the grand Mission-style terminal were tired and desuitudinous.  But the grand concourse looked impressive still, as if some impending important or glamorous entourage was about to barrel beneath its heavy electroliers and beamed ceilings.  But I couldn’t help but notice, as I scanned the grand waiting room, that, in one corner, a small group had gathered.  Pretty much everyone in the room was huddled around one little area against the back wall.  I was a curious tyke so I wandered over to take a look.

Here’s the Good Boy

Clyde‘s photo didn’t seem to be coming up when I linked to them in the comments to a post a few days ago called “Good Boy.” Maybe by posting this, I can end the seething controversy as to whether he really was as solid a piece of canine manufacture as I mentioned.  A dog like Clyde doesn’t deserve the disrespect of a broken link.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Eat Me

Damn. Some girls fret about their weight.  Some just eat 65 hard-boiled eggs in seven minutes.  I don’t know if I could even watch that.  A mouth like this one holds great promise - and even greater risk.  A wise man will keep his hands and arms inside the viewing platform at all times.  Didn’t you see what happened to that turducken?

What a Relief: the World’s Easiest Instructions and Best Name Ever

First, the receipt reads, “I’m RELIEF PHARMACIST.  I’m here to serve you with our ‘7 Service Basics.’” Well howdy, Relief, that’s an embarassing handle you’ve got there but thanks for ringing me up.  And about those seven basics, I noticed 1 through 4, and 6, but both 5 and - my personal favorite - 7 were notably absent.  To say I’m disappointed would be a tragic understatement.  Nobody does good 7 anymore, not like when I was coming of age.  And between you and me, Relief, despite that your name tag tells me you’re an intern from Heald College next door, I bet you know your way around a bit more service than the mere “basics.” Let’s stretch our limitations, shall we? 

But the receipt wasn’t what really entertained me.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

Good Boy

As I mentioned recently, I just finished Blair Jackson’s biography of Jerry Garcia. He’s not the most compelling writer I’ve ever read, and the book went into rather more detail in some matters than I’d have preferred; I could sum it up by saying, if you thought Return of the King ended rather too abrupty, you’d find this a gripping read.  I did learn a great deal, though, about a thoroughly fascinating man and a true creative genius.  And it’s an unusual experience for me to be reading a thick volume of significant journalistic and investigative research, and recognize in it incidents from my own life.  “Oh yeah, Spectrum ‘86, I brought hamentashen to the parking lot that year.” “Oh yeah, Dylan and the Dead in Anaheim; that’s when I sunburned my head so badly I was sick for a week and never went out without a hat again.” “Oh yeah, the memorial concert at the Polo Grounds.  What an overwhelming outpouring; what great music; what a great party.”

One reference in particular rang a bell for me - an offhand mention of some security problems at Irvine Meadows ‘89.  But I remembered a lot more than the book mentioned.  I, after all, had been there - and not alone.

Monday, January 12, 2004

Getting Mushy

Last week one of my favorite bloggers put up a post that was, frankly, opinionated and harsh.  Now, I’ve grown used to some strong opinions being voiced on the internet, and sometimes I even agree with them - but this time I was just shocked.  The subject of this rant was the humble, well-meaning mushroom.  I’ve mentioned in passing, on occasion, a few foods I don’t like to eat, and why, but I’ve never gone so far as Greg did to malign a member of the vegetable kingdom.  Over the past few days I’ve returned in my mind to his cruel disparagements, again and again, wondering how such an ostensibly reasonable person could lash out so visciously at these cheerful little denizens of the forest floor.  In the final analysis, I can only imagine that he’s been misinformed.  I therefore take it on myself to share the following ten reasons why mushrooms are really okay, and I hope that they make some dent in his negative mindset.  Otherwise, I’ll be forced to take more drastic measures, like forgetting about the whole thing. 

* Not actually mushy, but sufficiently roomy.
* Useful for providing seating to hookah-smoking caterpillars, who abound in local woodlands and clearly need to take a load off their numerous feet.
* When dried, can also be used as weapons.
* They giggle when you pee on them.
* The world’s largest living thing is a fungus, and it’s always smart to make friends with the big boys.
* Hallucinogenic. (Potentially.) (In your face, space coyote!)
* Once when my dad was cross-country skiing in the Trinity Alps, a thunderclap caused an avalanche that buried him and could have killed him, but he was saved by a family of mushrooms who rescued and sheltered him till the spring thaw, during which time they taught him their dances and mythology (or “mycology").
* They grow, like the lotus, from decay, but they’re not caught up with all that buddhist crap.
* Gives you the opportunity to talk about fairy rings without offending anybody.
* Provides me with unfettered opportunity to eat entire pizza as against Greg.

Damn, now I’m hungry.  Time to go out foraging.  Of course, where I work, I’m more likely to forage up a papaya and chicken salad or a burrito or a cheesesteak.  But those cheesesteaks go great with grilled mushies.  I’m just saying.

Masthead Editorial

I saw “Master and Commander” (finally) last night.  My thumbnail review: the female lead was a bit wooden.

Saturday, January 10, 2004

Submit!

I just got an email asking me if I wanted to be listed in a webbrowsing system called “globalsubmit." I said yes.  Let’s face it, I’m toasted.  My question now: have I made a terrible mistake?  If you have any dirt on GlobalSubmit.com, let’s hear it.  Submission sounds dirty enough as it is.

Friday, January 09, 2004

Epigram

Found in an old notebook and I don’t know if I thought it or read it: “The artisan spends a career remaking his first vase.”

This Stuff’ll Kill You

It started when I recently finished Blair Jackson’s biography of Jerry Garcia.  A friend was moving and I think he wanted to lighten the number of things he’d have to pack, so he lent me this 500 page book and I read it.  I really enjoyed the book.  I have some issues with it, but that’s not my point.  The thing it really made me think about was Robert Hunter’s lyrics, many of which I’d never seen written out before.  Damn that man could paint pictures, the kind where you often weren’t sure what you were looking at, superficially simple but with complex depths.  And of course I learned a lot more about the Dead than I’d known before.  For what it’s worth I’d seen about 30 or so shows before the scene turned me off.  And not the deadhead scene, but the burgeoning frat party scene of drunken brawling oglers.  The stoners were fine; the boozers were the buzzkill.  And in a similar vein, the first member of the band to die died of alcoholic cirrhosis; the longtime bass player was also an abuser, and underwent a liver transplant in the years since Jerry’s death.  Brent died from a speedball; he was a hardcore smack user and that’s a pity.  Jerry died of heart failure and coronary obstructive disease from years of sloth and malign neglect, but he sure didn’t die of an overdose. 

I do not raise all this crap to suggest that Jerry was clean, or sober, or anything like that, but I do notice that alcohol played as destructive a role in the lives of these artists, and in so many others, as has any other form of intoxicant.  Certainly, it’s very unusual for anyone to die from using hallucinogens, but I do know that those substances can lead to hospitalizations, whether for a calming-down or to address injuries suffered when high.  Nobody dies from using pot.  It’s just a medical chimera; those mortalities do not exist. 

So: my point is that we are now getting the daily paper.  (I guess this isn’t my point yet, but I assure you, it’s probably coming soon.) We didn’t ask for it but it’s being delivered, and since the landlady downstairs isn’t picking it up, I sometimes do, and when I do I sometimes read bits of it.  Today I read a bit of the Opinion page, on which appeared a byline editorial regarding Jerry, the Dead, and the drug culture.  The author’s gist is that, because of their promotion of drug use and a drug culture, liking the Dead is essentially immoral.  And having read that, I had to sit up for a moment and recall what had actually been the most dangerous abused substance by the members of that band and its fans and the subjects of medical research and empirical statistical studies, and I found it ludicrous that alcohol was completely omitted from this article.  That’ll kill you faster than heroin, and you’re more likely to take someone else with you, too.  I found myself remembering Robert Hunter’s great lyrics from Wharf Rat and Jack Straw and so many ballads of lost drunkards… and thinking how long it had been since I’d tried a lyric… and suddenly I’d written one. 

This one wrote itself so quickly that I was wondering what had happened.  Typing it into the computer I realized I’d basically taken Ship of Fools and written new words and a different bridge to it, but I still like it and if you care to read it it’s in the expanded text below.

I’m sitting here alone at 10 pm with a bottle of Merlot that was full when I started this and will probably be empty by the time I shut this computer off tonight.  I bought it legally, in a store dedicated solely for that purpose.  I’m drinking from a glass tumbler that has a picture of a big cartoony fireplug on one side and a big yellow cartoony dog pacing about with shifty eyes on the other side.  I’m no poster boy for self-control or responsibility.  But at least I don’t go blaming hallucinogens and tetracannabanols for the harm done by perfectly legal alcohol.  And remember: guns don’t kill people.  Bullets kill people. 

EPILOGUE: 12:35 am
That wine is now gone.  Wait - now it’s gone.  A Montpellier Merlot, 2001.  Rotgut would be an uncalled-for aspersion.  But I’ve had better.  Loads better.  Didn’t slow me down much.  And with that, I bid ye goodnight.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Who Thought This was a Good Idea, Again?

I’ve noticed two dumb looking things that demand public excoriation.  Mainly, I just like the word “excoriation” and haven’t had a chance to use it since I took out my kitchen counters.  (Ba-Dum!) But when you see the following, now, I want you all to notice it and point it out and then giggle and make other people realize how dumb it looks.  Because it’s not enough to be smart - you have to make fun of what’s not. 

* Fat Flagpoles: They’re starting to make flagpoles that are like five feet in diameter and five stories tall.  It’s like a skinny smokestack, but it’s really a fat flagpole.  It’s so fat that the flag itself has to hang from a rotating arm that swings around the enormous girth of the pole, so it doesn’t just wrap around and get plastered in place.  It’s so fat that the flag itself looks pathetic and limp, dangling like ... well, all the analogies I can think of would have me up on charges under the patriot act so I’ll leave it at this: If having a flag is not enough for you, try a laser show or a staging of the signing of the declaration of independence.  But these fat flagpoles say nothing to me about patriotism.  They say something about genital inadequacy, but I’m not really up on that subject so I’ll leave it to others to expound. 

* I’ve already made my position clear about bleached “worn spots” on jeans.  But I understand that one person with aesthetic sensitivity cannot undo a fashion juggernaught like this passion for staining one’s clothes with pale smears remotely reminiscent of the evidence of strenuous physical labor.  For what it’s worth, I wear my jeans till Ol’ Levi Strauss himself descends from his heavenly lair to complain that I’m making him look bad, but I’ve never gotten a pale patch over the tops of my thighs and each of my asscheeks like I see on the pants worn by any number of delicate flowers on Union Square every day.  But I can be bigger than this.  I thought so, anyway.  But now I see that some bleach-pattern jeans are coming out with a little bleach ring on the back pocket.  This can, I think, only be intended to replicate the pattern worn by a tin of chaw.  Isn’t that fashionable?  Look cool - look like your oral addiction to nicotine is wearing you out from both ends at once!  If oral cancer, discolored teeth, and a prediliction to spit wads of toxic wastewater isn’t enough, you can buy pants that reflect your twisted ethic! and if you aren’t cool enough to chew, the little ring won’t give away your secret.  The damn things ought to come with a Mullet wig. 

* Finally, there’s a big billboard right at a freeway offramp I often use.  It shows a house decorated for the holidays, and in the foreground is a huge bottle of booze with a full highball glass, half buried in snow as if they were set in someone’s front lawn and then a blizzard blew through.  The text says, “Here’s to outdoing the neighbors.” Every goddamn time, I read it as “Here’s to Outing the Neighbors.” Yeah, their decorations do look a little gay, but come on, they have the nicest flower border on the block!  Can’t we all just get along?

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

If They Could All Be Like This

Some days nothing goes right.  Monday January 5 was not one of those days.  To wit:

Check or Charge?

I guess the first thing I need to make clear is that I am not in charge.  Of anything.  Okay, sometimes Kel lets me hold the remote when I’m tubing out, but I’m only allowed to use the mute button, and sometimes I’m denied even that degree of autonomy - and for good reason.  I get distracted.  I dither.  I forget my responsibilities.  I do try to participate in the decision-making process when I can, but then again, I tend to let myself be swayed by group preferences.  I follow a lot more orders than I give - domestically, socially, professionally.  I’m a good little worker bee.  Tell me what to do - it gets done.  Ask me what to do, and we could be here a while.

This is interesting to me because I apparently give rather the opposite impression.  More often than not, strangers seeking direction or wanting to know how the group wishes to proceed will look to me for enlightenment.  I can be wandering lost and aimless in a space I’ve never visited before, and someone will come up to ask me for directions.  When I tell them I’m lost too, they often react as if I’m lying to them, willfully withholding critical information out of selfishness, or the desire to gain some vague advantage over them.  “No, really, I’m lost too, just trying to get my bearings,” I assure them.  They look on me with equal parts of disgust and anger.  I obviously know, I’m just not telling them.  Because I’m evil.  Anyway, that’s what they seem to think.

Similarly, when my small office (Director, three staffers (including me), clerk and AA) venture out for the occasional luncheon together to celebrate a birthday or something, I find myself seated at a table with three women who all outrank me at work with a minimum of 18 years of seniority over me.  The waiter invariably asks me if we are ready to order; the check arrives at my elbow when we’re done.  They just assume the bald, stressed-out guy is in charge.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

One more quick example: the bachelor party I went to while in law school was a tawdry and distasteful affair that taught me many lessons: money really is filthy; I don’t enjoy paying to watch women lick dollops of whipped cream off of each other; and people think I’m in charge.  At the magical moment when the back bedroom door slammed open and two dancers - one of them, pretty - strutted out into the middle of a circle of 20 guys on folding chairs, none of us sober or differing from our peers in any obvious way, they both immediately trotted up to me and “occupied the field”, to evoke Clausewitz.  They were all over my Maginot line before one bothered to ask if I was the groom.  I was happy to deflect their attentions elsewhere. 

It’s true that occasionally I can take a situation in hand and ramrod it to its appropriate conclusion.  I can place everybody’s orders with a waiter in a restaurant if they’ve told me what they want; I can select beer or wine; I can reject a movie or tv show for a better option. These superficialities sometimes lend me a false appearance of dominion over my circumstances.  But don’t be fooled. I may know full well that people will prefer the feijoada with sangria, but I won’t step in to assert my will unless everyone else defers and the evening teeters at the verge of stalling out.  I just want the orders in, correctly, efficiently.  I want to stop ordering and start partying.  If that means I’m a little assertive, I can handle that.  But I try to make sure that I’m ordering what people want.  If they have no clue, I can offer guidance.  But that’s a lot different than assuming the mantle of the Guy in Charge.

A little while ago I went to a local pub where I saw a table of six or seven guys in their 20s and 30s, dressed for a nice modern office, shiny as buttons and twice as sharp.  They sat with workplace smiles stapled to their lips; their eyes and faces were respectively furtive and parboiled.  At the head of their round table was a man in his 50s, I’d say.  He was the boss.  In the hour and twenty minutes or so that I spent there chatting with my friend, the boss never shut up.  He expounded and joked and described and regaled, but it was always his story, always his party at his table with his minions (all men) gathered around to sop up his every word.  Their silent smiles and subtle seat-shifting did nothing to mask - for my friend and me, at least - their boredom and discomfort at spending valuable pub time with the boss.  They were manifestly subordinate; he, superordinate.  I have to ask myself, is that what people see when they see me?  Is that why I am presumed to be the man in charge so often?  Because if it is, I need help, and fast.  That guy may have been the biggest weiner in the sausage bag, but he was still indispuably a weiner.

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Lovely Spam

Today I got 17 pieces of spam, which is far from a record.  It’s pretty average, really, for me.  But instead of deleting it all site unseen (see that’s an internet pun, very subtle I am), I actually tallied up what kind of crap I’m being asked to buy into.  Here’s a rundown of the spoiled milk flowing to me from the internet’s puckered teat today:

* Sales pitch for tech equipment (1)
* African bank scam (1)
* Weight loss (1)
* Investment opportunity (1)
* Refinancing opportunity (1)
* University diploma’s in less than one week (2, and yes, that apostrophe was in both the emails I got, must be from the University of Illiterate Wankers)
* Prescriptions for cheap (3)
* Paris Hilton and her unclad adventures on video (7)

Total = 17.  If this tally is a good indicator of what is really important in the world, I’m not paying attention to the right stuff.  And I’m wondering, there must actually be a Hilton hotel in Paris.  Their website must be completely overwhelmed.  Well, maybe they’ll get some university diploma’s out of it.  Or some Xanax.  God knows they probably need it by now.

Monday, January 05, 2004

Scotch Guard for Weirdos

To keep the dog off the furniture, we scared him - about 12 years ago.  We put some pennies in a soda can and when he hopped on the couch we shook it at him.  He freaked and now avoids soda cans on furniture with a seriousness I reserve for the “seafood surprise.” Over the years we’ve put together a particularly strange collection of cans for the three pieces of furniture we want to keep dog-free: the green couch, the brown couch, and Zerline’s club chair.  These are all significant and personable hunks of upholstery, and deserve better than an old diet coke or generic lime soda can.  So our current stock of “anti-dog cans” is as follows:

Vilac Shikhye Rice Punch (shake before serving)
Coco Palm Grape Juice Drink (Muscat)
“New" Sac Sac Orange

Frankly, I’m starting to get a little worried about sitting on those sofas myself.  That’s some damn weird beverage cans huddling out there.  I’m just going to hunker down over here in the back of the house with my nice normal rice milk and hope they don’t notice me.  The dog, once again, seems to have the right idea.

A Little Light Reading

Jules just posted about her reading and her “library.” I’ve been thinking along similar lines myself, though I can’t pretend to match her voracity.  I just try to read a little poetry every day.  That’s not to suggest that I have a keen litcrit mind, or that I keep up with modern poetry trends, or that I key in on favorite poets, or that I even read the stuff carefully. But pretty much every day I have a few minutes of solitude in my salle des bains, and that’s where I keep my old copy of Norton’s Anthology of Modern Poetry.  I found it in a pile of discarded books on the sidewalk on Clement street near Green Apple a few years ago.  It’s the 1975 edition so it’s not even totally “modern” anymore, but it’s not like Hart Crane or Yvor Winters are doing much new work these days anyway.  There’s about 1400 pages of verse - rhyming, blank and free.  Sometimes it’s inspiring, or depressing, or inpenetrable.  I don’t care.  I just like to dip and sample randomly from a little Yeats or Wakoski.  It soothes my mind.  Typically I wind up thinking, these guys are pretty good - too bad I usually write such unmitigated drek.  But sometimes I don’t think too much of what I’ve read, and that gives me a little hope.  It makes me think that maybe drek mitigation is in the eye of the beholder.

The thing I enjoy most about this book, though, is not the poety itself. I can pound Pound and dicker with Dickenson forever, but I have noticed that the thing my eye always seeks out first when I pick up the dense flopeared volume is not the poetry itself.  Rather, I go to the introductory material for some random poet, and look for the biographical data.  There’s a page or four of critical analysis, affiliations and such professional profundities to start each poet’s section of the text, and somewehre in there is always a few sentences about that person’s life: where born; how employed; whether formally educated or an autodidact; whether emotionally stable or suicidal; whether happy in relationships, or bitter and lonely; where and how they lived and worked.  I read these biographettes and imagine genius in development, or atrophying.  I consider whether Sasoon or Day Lewis knew what would become of their lives, their work. I can envision the creative process playing out on a cliff in Big Sur or in a Welsh vale or on a merchant steamer way the hell out in the ocean somewhere.  I wonder how these tortured souls felt about their military service or their grey dusty day jobs.  And I wind up thinking, This could easily have been me.  Perhaps it even was.  Pound, H.D., and W. C. Williams met at my college and got clever haunting Hamilton Walk together.  Sure, I missed them by about 80 years, but who’s to say that all the decent developmental impetus was exhausted before I showed up on campus? 

I’m not deluding myself.  I’m not going to appear in anybody’s anthology of anything, unless Norton comes out with a volume of “Bogus Crap from the Net.” But at least I can close the book and walk out of the bathroom without being unduly depressed by the genius of others.  Some of them were pretty screwed up, and some of them were not too different than I am.  For some reason I find that comforting.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

HANGING OUT WITH THE COOL KIDS

I was on my way to an international blogger fest, which is to say, to meet some bloggy friends who’d come in from out of town, and in one case, from out of the country.  (Canada is still foreign, isn’t it?  Radio Shack didn’t buy it or anything, right?) So I’m on my way downtown in the soob, which has styling positioned neatly between “cute” and “tough.” I don’t know if that’s “tute” or “cough;” neither really seems to fit.  But anyway, I’m cruising down Golden Gate Avenue with the high-energy Thanksgiving 03 mix at pretty high volume.  I have the windows down; I’m singing, and not quietly.  I’m trying to get my voice loud enough to imprint itself on the CD.  I’m in my black watchcap and my indian blanket jacket (the world’s most powerful piece of outerware).  I come to a red light and stop, still singing loudly and doing the head-n-neck dance from my heated seat. 

On the sidewalk I see someone else - or two someones, really.  She’s tall, blonde, slim and leggy, in a pink sweater and tight jeans.  She looks like a Gap ad, in the nicest possible way.  He’s with her and she’s all over him.  He’s a tough-looking, muscular guy, dressed casually but expensively with a leather pea coat like I want, a sophisticated goatee like I could never maintain, classy loafers like I pretend I am wearing (but I’m really not).  He moves with confident grace and joyful abandon, sort of cavorting down the sidewalk.  I think they’re drunk, maybe, a little.  And he hears me.

I keep singing along to the disk as he glances toward my car.  That’s when the moment happens.  Tough, handsome, male-model type guy with hot blonde girlfriend locks eyes with me.  I’m bobbing my head like a cobra and singing in my most dude-worthy hat and a coat of pure energy.  Sure, I’m in a car that doesn’t automatically turn me into a style icon, but I’m riding it with some independent style of my own, such as it is.  And the dude extends his arm - burly, leatherclad - and gives me