Thursday, August 31, 2006

Parkzak, Tablezak

I’ve felt a bit under the weather lately, which is a bitch because the weather has been gorgeous and I’d like to be out in it rather than skulking under it, but as the ancients told us, that sand’s for pounding, son.  Meantime I have been doing less writing of new stuff because my work duties are particularly intense this time of year, and because of a variety of other amusing little projects that have been sapping my strength and vigor, or at least my free time.  In lieu of a full-on essay or my rant about businesses that have chosen ill-advised names or ad slogans (yeah I did it once before but, somehow, stupidity has re-emerged like crabgrass on the lawn of wisdom), I figgered I’d just share a little piece of the main event, in a segment I’d like to call “Flashing on Zach.”

But first, a brief return to a subject addressed in the last post: my porn name.  As my mom (hi, mom!) points out in the comments, I never lived on Formosa street - that was Aunt Arline and Uncle Morris. We lived nearby, on Sycamore.  Unfortunately, all the coolness that is “Bozo Formosa” is utterly lost in the lameness of “Thumper Sycamore.” However, I think, if I were permitted to break the algorithim and use the street name first and the pet name second, “Sycamore Thumper” may just be marketable, pornwise.  Updates will be provided as they become available.

Also, two posts down, I mentioned an iPod mix I was listening to, and someone berated me for failing to mention what was on it.  Ever eager to please, a week or so after I should have done, here’s the “Drummer’s Choice” playlist:

* Mike Doughty: Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well
* Kenny Wayne Shepherd: Chase the Rainbow
* Beastie Boys: In 3’s
* Mofro and John JJ Grey: Ho Cake
* Chico Hamilton: For Mods Only
* David “Fathead” Newman: 13th Floor
* Particle: Shoe Goo (live)
* Grant Green: The Final Countdown
* Derek and the Dominos: Evil (live)
* Pearl Jam: Animal (live
* moe.: Plane Crash (live)
* Robert Walter and the 20th Congress: Instant Death (live)
* Trout Fishing in America: Not Fade Away

This mix was set up on behalf of a good friend who played drums back when we went to college together.  I’ve been wanting to send him some music for a long time and today, goddamn it, I’m going to the post office and I’m mailing that sucker.  All the songs were chosen because they have strong percussion lines which are either mindblowingly complex, or are solid and straight and clean in case you want to drum along.  The last song has no percussion at all, but takes an acoustically trippy take on a classic tune and begs to be drummed to. 

Okay, Sawni, I hope that satisfies your curiosity.  Now, let’s Flash on Zak!

Over the weekend we went to the Japanese Tea Garden in GG Park.  It’s a very popular and beautifully-landscaped little subzone between the museum concourse, Stow Lake, and the Arboretum.  Z-man had a great time wandering around and picking up mulch.  Eventually he got whiny because we had to carry him around when we were anywhere near water, and there’s watercourses all over the T*garden, so we had to carry him a lot.... once we got tired of that we walked home via the concourse, which Zak found, as always, to be an endless garden of mulchy delights.  Here’s a few frozen moments of him enjoying his mulchtastic self:

It also deserves well to be reiterated that the abovereferenced Sawni found and arranged to transport to us a fantastic hand-made mid-cent table and chair set built for tiny people, of whom Zadok is indubitably one.  We picked it up on Monday evening and unpacked it immediately, much to Z-meister’s delight - to wit:

Okay my blogly buddies, that’s going to have to be enough for right now.  I’ve got doings afoot and it’s time to get to’em.  Enjoy your Thursday and grab something organic or handmade today - both, if you’ve got time!

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

What Sticks to the Wall

I feel as if I ought to get a post up here but I don’t really have much energy to put into it.  I’ve got a few pre-written, of course, but that requires a lot of typing and reading my crappy chickenscratch writing and paying attention to the same subject for way too long for me today.  Let me just see what the little notebook has for us today.  Warning: this is totally disjointed. 

A major SHOUT OUT to Sawni the amazing and fabulous!  She saw a kid’s table and chair set at a lawn sale in freaking RURAL OREGON and arranged to get the whole shooting match packaged and shipped down to my charming Zacharoid.  We picked it up last night.  Photos of the delighted new owner to follow, but in the meantime, this is the hippest mid-cent aesthetic that any 18-month-old could desire.  Take my word for it, he loves it, and so do we.  Thanks, Sawni!

Additional shout out to Beard Papa and the tastiest cream puff I’ve had in recorded history.  The line stretched out the door, down the steps and to the sidewalk, but it was worth it.  Plus, we visited the Zeum playground which totally made me resentful of how cool playgrounds have gotten since I was told to go out and entertain myself with a mop handle and a broken dream in the asphalt rec yards of my youth.  Little wankers don’t know how good they’ve got it.

Shifting gears slightly: It occurred to me that my porn name - my first pet, plus the first street where I lived - was really lame: Bozo Wortser.  Then I realized that, though I don’t remember it, I actually lived first on Formosa Avenue, and Bozo Formosa is a great porn name.  But now I realize that my first pet, when I was really little, was a little dog named Thumper, and that would make me Thumper Formosa.  I think I’ll stick with Bozo Formosa, though.  It seems confident, cosmopolitan, and maybe a bit less self-referential. 

I had to go out yesterday and find a stationery store. Luckily, it was in exactly the same place. 

There was a toy by Ideal in the 1970s called Bing Bang Boing.  This was not a game with rules and winners; it was more like pieces for crafting complex constructions that would move a metal marble in entertaining ways - up long inclines, around spinning spindles, bouncing across a series of taut drum-like membranes.... This toy had the following names for its component parts:
* Bingle Flinger
* Hum Drums
* Bangelator
* Flicker-Dicker
* Boingle Bucket
I can’t even start to imagine what kind of game would have parts with those names today.  It’s sad, I think, when I can look back to the 1970s as a time of naieve innocence. 

That will have to be enough of a brain-dump for me right now.  I’ve got some work to get to and all that.  Hope your Tuesday pulls itself together a little and starts acting respectfully.  I mean, really. 

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

The SHHNing

It was really a short walk – just three blocks; and by the time I was heading home, most folk had already cleared out.  It’s not really an “after hours” part of town where I work.  But even in that short distance, amidst that diffuse enpeoplement, I got the shavehead headnod a fulsome thrice.

So, you ask fragmentally: shavehead headnod? And I, shinywise, smile and nod my shaven head – but not with the SHHN.  It’s just a regular nod for you fuzzpates. 

Permit me to expound:

First of all, a shaved head is a bald head, but not necessarily vice versa.  Some guys go bald, but don’t shave.  Then again, some guys shave full heads of hair.  It’s a choice, shaveheadedness is, that seems to be influenced by (but not dependent on) alopecia.  It’s not the right choice for everybody, regardless of hair-growing capacities, but for the last few years it’s been the right choice for me. 

Lately, now, my choice has gotten a lot more popular.  At times I find myself at a bar or street corner (okay, drinking under a streetlight, you caught me and I hope you’re proud of yourself) and there’s two or three or four other shaveheads coincidentally right there with me.  Sort of makes it seem pedestrian, in the pejorative sense.  Yet I and my gleaming clerestory persevere. 

It’s also worth mentioning that shaveheadedness is distinct from skinheadedness.  The latter is a polticial statement, a sneering slap at an overcoiffed world. But shaveheadedness is content-neutral; it argues no brief and stakes no claim.  It’s an aesthetic, nothing more.  It can be hard to discern the difference at a distance, but after a few minutes in close proximity, it becomes much more obvious.  Shaveheads may sometimes scowl, but they don’t sneer. 

So: I’m walking to the bus stop in my suit and my casually untucked stripy shirt.  I’ve got my messenger saq over one shoulder and my naked head over both shoulders.  I’ve had a long day.  I’m not out to connect with my fellow man - I just want to get the hell home.

The “drummer’s choice” iPod mix is pounding my tympani and I walk with loping strides, jaw set and spine erect.  I am watching the sidewalk for people I need to avoid or evade, and that’s when I see him: my height, solid build, suede blazer and expensively frayed pants.  His complexion is coffee and his features are set in a scowl with which personal experience has made me familiar.  Also, his head is shaved.  He, too, walks tall and strides wide. His eyes, too, are on the oncoming world. 

As we pass each other our eyes briefly – very briefly – lock, and we both clamp our jaws just a little more tightly and dip our brows two degrees down. It’s a tiny gesture, which we make simultaneously.  It’s something I very much doubt anyone else even saw, much less noticed.  It was the SHHN.  Our fraternal handshake. We briefly presented our frontal lobes to each other in a display of mutual recognition and non-involvement.  “Yo, shavehead.” That’s all it was.  We were both too tightly wound and slickscalped to bother with more.  We moved smoothly in our mutual opposite directions.  The moment was destined to fade rapidly in my selectively porous memory. 

But one block further along, it happens again.  This dude had chocolate skin-tone, a nice suit and shirt (all tucked in with a dimpled necktie), and an attaché case.  He’s a little softer in the gut but his jaw is properly locked down and his eyes are properly wary.  As we pass, we drop a mutual nod.  Just a little one. That’s all it takes.  That makes two, and it gets me thinking.

One more block and I’m at the bus stop, which occupies a small island in the middle of traffic in the middle of the street at a busy intersection at the feet of a fistful of tall buildings.  A bay wind pushes the cars and trucks along and I stand with my fellow commuters waiting for our common ride.  Jaywalkers occasionally stride through our patient assembly as we wait.  One, I sense as soon as he steps off the curb behind me: Tall and burly in a tough overshirt, brown denim pants and heavy, pristine workboots.  His pale jaw is stubbly with scruff and a Carhartt’s cap rides low on his brow.  I can tell instantly that his hat covers an otherwise naked scalp.

He’s just passing through, our concrete island a mere way-station for him on his trip from the east sidewalk to the west.  He doesn’t slow down as he cruises through.  But he does take a brief moment, without breaking stride, to glance my way, clamp his molars, and give me the nod.  The SHHN.  Per regulation, it’s a quickie.  That’s how we smoothies prefer it. 

Monday, August 21, 2006

Recollections and Admissions

I haven’t said much about my vacation that ended last week.  I had a great time.  It was a very low-key affair, but that’s exactly what I needed.  The weather was perfect and Zach got his first swimming pool experiences.  Even the flights were not much of a problem.  I’m so glad we went.  Here’s a few mental images that I particularly cherish:

* Kel’s folks having gotten me a box of booberry cereal all for myself.
* swimming with zack, both of us screaming with delight.
* staying up too late to watch All the President’s Men with Kel’s parents.
* going out to take photos downtown at dusk.
* garden-fresh tomatoes every morning with breakfast.
* helping Zach learn to go “up a dow” the stairs, for hours at a time.
* wearing only sandals for six days straight.
* reacquainting myself with the world’s most powerful showerbath.
* making a panzanella salad for lunch and impressing Kel’s grandmother
* flying home with Zach’s head in my lap.

And here’s a few visual ones:

Kel’s gradmother’s front-lawn madonna (with “mystery rosaries")

Kel’s dad’s classic:

on a walk near the river:

at a public grotto near the courthouse:

lunch:

dinner (actually, the pig ain’t what it was; we went with pizza l’oven and ricci’s, but I love the sign):

trestle over the susquehana:

a railtie from the trestlebridge:

and of course, one of the boy - this time, with grandpa:

and finally, the lie was: cutting class ("defending the faith").  thanks for playing.  see ya next year. 

Friday, August 18, 2006

Movie Madness - Fuscations Ahoy!

Welcome, Fuscators!  Today is Official Obfuscation day!  I’m playing, once again, a game with y’all: can you catch me in a lie?  Read this post and the last two carefully - two are true but I’ve made ONE of them up.  Try to guess which one, and I’ll post the answer on Monday.  The prize?  Negotiable!  Till then, don’t take any wooden nickels….

And here’s a link to a page that will, eventually, identify everyone who’s playing.  As of this moment, it looks like just me, but I bet that’ll change… unless someone is pulling my leg….

Movie Madness

We were enthusiastic those first few weeks of college.  I tried out for the crew squad.  I considered pledging a fraternity, or pursuing a seat in student government.  I figured I’d be large and in charge within a month or so, just like I’d been in high school. The other students?  They didn’t concern me.  Then I discovered that I was, in fact, up against a very formidable obstacle: my own damn self. 

We - my suitemate Jon and I - started small, by joining the steering committee for our 25-story dormitory tower.  They had an entertainment subcommittee and we joined that too.  We knew how to have a good time and we were happy to show everybody else how it was done. 

Within the first fortnight of our secondary education, we got our chance to shine.  Movie night was starting - a weekly screening of a commercially popular feature, open to the entire student body campus-wide.  The first one was going to be in our own dorm’s top-floor lounge.  Jon and I volunteered to manage the affair.

Of course, that didn’t really mean much.  All we had to do was arrange for the AV equipment to be delivered, get a copy of Murder by Death, and make sure the various campus PR organs knew the particulars.  Frankly, the advertising was not so important to us.  We just wanted to see a funny movie, impress our new classmates, and come out smelling like a couple of prize-winning roses. 

Came the vaunted night, and Jon and I had everything all ready.  The AV equipment showed up an hour early and we babysat it as the big glass-walled room began to fill - first slowly, but then at an alarming rate, till the place was packed with cynical upperclassmen, supercilious grad students, and short-tempered jocks.  I guess we’d attracted about 150 people to the event. 

It was ten minutes to showtime - time for me to go fetch the star attraction.  I’d picked up the video the day before and stored it in my untidy private room, a place newly filled-up with furniture and possessions.  My little desk teetered with stacks of textbooks and binders; my bed was a chaos of clothes and my floor was liberally sprinkled with critical paraphernalia.  I rifled the bed for the video box but I didn’t find it there.  I didn’t find it on the desk, either, or on the bookshelves.  I checked under the bed: nada, not even dust bunnies.  I began to get a little concerned.

I caught the elevator and rode 15 floors up to where Jon was holding an increasingly impatient crowd at bay.  I told him my predicament, with some panic in my voice, and none too quietly.  Some big florid dude shouted up to me, “Whaddaya sayin’, ya lost th’movie?” Many eyes turned coldly upon me.  “No, not lost - I just can’t find it yet.... I’ll take another look....” I retreated to the elevators again and rode down for a final hard-core search. 

My room was, by now, completely trashed, as my frantic pursuit of the tape led me to tear the freaking place apart.  No tape. No goddamned tape.  I was sweating, hyperventilating.  It was now 8:10, ten minutes past showtime, and the show was officially late.  To hell with the adage - it would not be going on.  I stood up in the wreckage of my room, took a deep breath, and went back again to the lounge with defeat in my marrow. 

Jon was waiting expectantly, as were those of the crowd who had given me the benefit of the doubt.  “I’m afraid we have to cancel the movie tonight,” I announced in what I hoped was a firm, authoritative voice.  “The film is missing.  It’s not where I left it.  I think it’s been stolen.” This explanation was met with varying responses - some sympathetic, but mostly doubtful.  One guy from the entertainment subcommittee came up to me as the disappointed crowd filtered aimlessly out: “You only had to show up with a videotape.  You couldn’t handle that?  I don’t think you’ll be managing any more events for this dorm....”

He turned and walked away.  I thought as I watched him leaving, how curious it was that he was receding but I was the one who felt so damn small. 

Two days later I found the movie, under a stack of paperwork on my desk.  I had to pay late fines when I returned it but that seemed only fair. I’d like to say I’ve been tidier since that night, but honestly all I can say is that I haven’t lost any more videotapes since then.  I’ve also never seen Murder by Death since it came out in the theaters.  The whole idea of renting it again makes me a little anxious. 

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Defending the Faith

Religious education wasn’t really a matter of choice for me.  Religion was woven through much of my life and I soaked it up like I soaked up all the rest of it.  Dad’s status as uber-rebbe gave me instant shul cred, and I could kibbitz mishna pretty good for a 15-year-old.  I was, basically, a clever little weiner, and I milked it. 

However, to be honest, the religious schooling was not really such a problem for me.  I rather enjoyed it, actually.  People there were supportive, answers always raised new questions that I was encouraged to pursue, and the idiom of the liturgy was sweetly benign.  I liked the music and, most importantly, I liked the people.  There were some good kids in those classes with me.  I even hung out with some of them on my own time sometimes.  They were funny and smart and local, and they never messed with me except to the extent that I deserved it. 

A bunch of us had all taken Sunday School classes together till 6th grade, and then we switched to nights - Mondays for general education and Wednesdays for Hebrew.  I liked Monday Night School.  I liked my teacher and whatever the hell he was teaching.  It was really no big deal for me to go.  To this day I don’t know why I decided not to.

I never cut class.  Not high school or hebrew or any of it. It’s not that I was particularly virtuous; I just couldn’t figure out how to make it work without getting into trouble.  I was sure it’d come back to bite my ass off somehow or other.  I didn’t want to risk it.  Yet, for some reason, I just knew I was up to no good when I got to the synagogue that particular Monday night.  The dusk was purple and magenta and the air was sweet and crisp.  I remember regretting that I was going inside for two hours.  And then, suddenly, there was Alan. 

Alan was probably my closest friend from kindergogue.  He was funny as hell and a rock-n-roll guitar player.  It was fun to hang out with him.  As I approached him on the sidewalk leading to the doors of the classroom building, he looked devilish – more even than usual.  I don’t remember what he said; I didn’t need much convincing anyway.  He didn’t want to go inside and neither did I.  He wanted to take a walk down to Hazeltine Street and visit a little liquor store where they had a cool game he wanted to play.  I fell in beside him and we headed out toward the shabby little shop. 

I knew that I was making a momentous, potentially calamitous, decision.  I was cutting class.  I was disobeying authority, maybe throwing away my future. And dammit, it felt good.

We laughed a lot on our short walk.  The shop was waiting for us, an independent liquor retailer with a few groceries, lots of beer, and a nice cabinet version of Defender.  Alan dropped a quarter and showed me how to play.  I didn’t care for it much - I gave the controls back over to him after a few minutes.  He played that quarter for over half an hour. 

A little after 8, the liquor store door swung open and our rabbi walked in.  He took two steps, saw us at the video console, and all three of us froze.  Alan’s space ship smashed itself to bits on a mountain but we didn’t even look.  This was a bad situation. 

“Hell-ooooo....,” Rabbi Jim ventured curiously.  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I turned to Alan.  Did he have a story to get us out of this?

“Um, yep.  We came here instead,” he admitted.  I was disappointed that he didn’t have a better line to offer, but I accepted that once we’d been busted, fighting fate would only make things worse.  “Did you walk here?” “Yep,” we both answered.  “I’ll give you a ride back,” he told us, humorlessly.  Alan had another few spaceships left on his game but we walked away from them, followed the Rabbi as he got a couple large bottles of soda, and then got into his modest little sedan for the short ride back to temple. 

Once there, he pulled into his reserved space, walked us to his office, and asked us to call our parents to pick us up.  He listened as we spoke.  My mom answered; it wasn’t a comfortable conversation.  I told her she needed to get me - I was in the Rabbi’s office because I’d been found off the school grounds.  Alan called home next and his conversation was very similar to mine.  The Rabbi then walked us out to the parking lot and waited with us silently till our rides arrived.  Within a few minutes, my dad was there, alone in his clunky car, scowling darkly.  I really didn’t want to ride with him, but I had no choice. 

He said nothing to me during the five-minute drive, said nothing to me till we got back into the house - at which point he directed me with a hand on my shoulder into the dining room, where serious conversations took place.

“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to think hard about how you answer me,” he started, his voice steely and a little strained.  “How many times have you skipped school?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Dad,” I replied, “but if I were in your shoes I’m not sure I’d believe it.  The truth is that I’ve never cut class before in my life.  I just knew it wouldn’t turn out well.  I’m so uncomfortable and sorry about doing it tonight that I’m just grateful that I’ve never tried it before.  And you can be sure that I will never try it again.”

He stared me down for a few minutes, biting his tongue thoughtfully. “Fair enough, my man,” he concluded, getting up from his chair.  “Stand up and give me a hug.” I did, and it was a very good hug indeed, warm and lingering.  There were no further repercussions, but I never, ever, cut class again.  I mean, until I was in college. 

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Pet Peeve

I was doing the best, and the worst, part of my SPCA gig.  I loved to go on TV with the animals - it was a good change of pace for me, a great way to meet some interesting people; I enjoyed seeing local tv personalities in person one-on-one, and the organized chaos of live broadcasting was exciting.  Plus, it was really good for the dogs and cats I brought out - we’d pick the ones that were languisng and they’d almost always get adopted that very day. I was okay with the “limelight” aspect, too - I never got nervous about being on air.  It really felt unreal, for the most part.  It wasn’t like being on stage, where I could see the audience waiting for me to screw up; it was more like a dress rehearsal, but for real.  Even so, I knew that mistakes could have very far-reaching repurcussions. 

On the down side, it was tough to be at work once every two weeks at 5:30 am.  That’s when I’d need to be at the shelter to get a dog, if I was taking one.  Cats, I could bring home overnight and leave’em locked in the can.  That wouldn’t work with dogs, though - our Cosmo wouldn’t have stood for it.  Cat mornings were a bit easier, but dog mornings meant early wake-up calls. 

Thus it was that I found myself manhandling a small frantic dog into a collar before sunrise one dark morning.  This animal was going plumb crazy - hopping and jumping, yelping aqnd spinning and snapping with fear and joy that rapidly shifted back and forth into each other.  It was hard to get the collar on, harder yet to snap on the leash.  I finally got the hardware secure and we went outside for a formal pre-car-trip relief session; the dog leapt on me instantly with furious enthusiasm.  Within seconds I felt a warmth on my pants that boded poorly: Skippy had peed all over me, and I had only half an hour before airtime.  I bundled the clearly now-empty dog into the foul old company car, and hoped for the best. 

The dog was crazy in the car on our short drive over to the tv station, and when I opened the door I found the protective towels I’d put down had all been kicked to the floorboards and there were fresh puddles on the seats.  Great.  We wrestled each other into the studio and someone got me a blow dryer for my pants and the somewhat damp dog. As I dried out, I made sure that the features producer knew my name, where I was from, and the kind of animal I’d brought; all too quickly we were called to the set to get in position for our segment.  I got the nod and hit my spot; Skippy started getting jumpy again with the cameras lumbering in and the soundbooms swaying and bobbing. 

The features reported came over and greeted me; we knew each other from prior spots.  Lights - camera - explain yerself:  “Skippy’s a sweet dog from a broken home.  She’s been with us for nearly a month.  She’s a terrier mix, and as you can see she’s full of energy.  If you’ve got a backyard and a child in grade school, she’s just begging to move in with you.  She’ll be a great friend.” And so it went for a few congenial minutes, talking back and forth about tick control and training and crap like that as I struggled with occasional success to keep our guest star in line.  She kept standing up on her hind legs and I’d have to hold her in place while I tried to answer questions and look professional.  But eventually our three minutes of airtime were up and I got off the set with the dog and my hairy pee-stained self, relieved that the ordeal was over. 

I was greeted at the edge of the set by the floor manager.  “We’re getting a lot of phone calls about Skippy.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes and no.” A pregnant pause ensued; I wondered what had gone wrong.  “The lady I just talked to was typical.  She said I should tell the nice man that his girl doggie has a big wee-wee.”

I closed my eyes in disbelief but it was too late to block out reality: hundreds of thousands of early morning viewers had already gotten an eyeful of Skippy’s dickie.  I reran the events of the morning in my mind and realized, with all the jumping and snapping and peeing, that I’d never done the obviously critical nard-check.  Lucky for me, Skippy was more in tune with truth-in-advertising laws than I was.  And ever since that fateful urine-soaked broadcast, I’ve never overlooked another opportunity for gonad confirmation.  Sometimes it’s a dirty job, but knowledge is power. 

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Fighting Traffic

Greetings from the Poconos, where I’m having a great time.  Zach is enjoying the family and the swimming pool, and I’ve gotten some nice photos and some killer brats and cheesesteaks.  I may soon have something relevant to say about all this idyllic wonderfulness but I’m finding it harder and harder to get the time to organize my thoughts into something worth writing out, much less reading.  SO, instead of letting a whole freaking week go by without a post, I figgered I’d just share some pre-written-out thoughts.  And, as luck would have it, I have some, so here they are:

My first thought, when my bus pulled up, was that this was an unusually attractive bus driver.  She had on her Muni browns and her traffic face, but nonetheless she was cute: petite, with high cheekbones and large expressive eyes.  “Hmm,” I thought as I flashed my pass and boarded the big articulated bus, “cute driver.” I don’t believe she so much as glanced at me as I trudged past her toward my usual seat. 

I’m ashamed to admit that my next thought was, “They’re gonna take advantage.  They’re gonna hand her cute ass back to her.” As I took my seat I berated myself: she’s a professional, I reminded me.  She wouldn’t have been assigned this route if she couldn’t handle it.  Don’t worry about her ass.  I’m sure it is, and will continue to be, just fine. 

I’d boarded at the second stop on the line.  By the fifth the seats were all occupado and the aisle was filling up.  From the square all the way out to Diviz, every stop was choked with folk seeking passage and the mob on board churned each time the doors opened as people struggled like salmon for exits and newly-vacated seats.  I sat in my special select spot a little less than halfway back, bobbing my head to the tunes in my ears and splitting my attention between my notebook and the sea of humanity ebbing and flowing around me.  Our hot little bus driver was weaving through tight traffic, managing the stops, doing a great job.  I’d sold her short.  Lesson learned. 

The bus was already pretty crowded when all those middle school kids got on at Larkin.  It was a group of seven or twelve or so; they boarded at all three doors at once with howling laughter and skewed ballcaps and baggy trousers, tumbling raucously to the back of the bus - which suddenly seemed much more crowded than it even was.

It happened again at Van Ness: a whole passel of yutes loaded in at all three doors, shoving each other and shouting insults that were probably good-natured but were definitely obscene.  Some settled in around me and some made space for themselves a little further back.  One who sat adjacent to me seemed to be the kingpin - he must have been six foot, 220, with guarded eyes and an impassive mien; his friends who sat and stood around him seemed tiny and positively hyperactive by contrast.  The ambient noise level instantly rose high enough to overwhelm the music from my earbuds.  I felt like I’d better start paying closer attention.

An office-weary young woman sitting across from me in a severely tailored suit knit her brow with disapproval at the rowdies who suddenly surrounded us, rummaging in her purse for a pack of gum.  As she discreetly pulled out a stick, one of the kids leapt forward, telling her to give him one too.  She tensed up visibly but did the courteous and sensible thing—she proffered the pack.  He steadied her grip by taking her hand in his, and selected a stick.  This prompted two of his noisy cohorts to shout to him that they wanted some of this woman’s gum as well.  He grinned and complied, pulled two more sticks from the suddenly-depleted pack. 

Without acknowledging his benefactrix, he started to head over to his other buddies further back in the bus.  The two kids who’d told him to take extra for them got agitated and tried to slap him down or get the gum from him.  He twisted away, hollering, bumping other passengers as he tried to escape.  The other kids knocked his ill-gotten gum to the floor of the bus.  He picked up a stick, now without its wrapper, and threw it at them.  They fought over the remaining gumlitter till all the pieces had been soiled and wasted and hurled.  Then they laughed, loudly.  The big kid next to me did not join them.  Neither did any of the rest of us, though we glanced to each other in nervous acknowledgment of the rapidly-deteriorating situation.  Things were getting out of control. 

The bus was pulling away at Fillmore and the many folk who’d just boarded were trying to find room to settle in among the other commuters and the two juvenile posses.  The kids were jumping into and out of and over seats, playing grabass, throwing garbage out the windows and shouting at each other, when suddenly there was a big commotion.  Even relative to the prior chaos, this seemed pretty disruptive.  The whole second gang of kids rushed toward the rear of the bus.  The first group was all standing already and the pushing back and forth between them quickly grew frantic. 

One of the black kids was flailing; his buddies were all over him, pulling him away from the asian kids, who had formed a human shield and started moving up the bus.  Just as we reached the stop at Diviz the black kids got this one friend of theirs who was really going batshit down into the doorwell.  The shouting on both sides jumped suddenly into a much higher gear.  The doors opened and the mass of black kids forced the one dude off the bus; he was thrashing out and resisting with everything he had, but once they got him to the sidewalk they all ran like chickens.  Even the big one. 

Afterwards the bus felt palpably roomier and quieter, but the asian kids in the back were still all standing in a protective huddle and occasionally shouting out.  Somebody was being cursed; something was missing, or broken.  The bus was just sitting at the stop, doors open.  Eventually one of the kids from the rear started walking up toward the driver.  He had the lowered brow and baggy chic of a gangsta, but in his eyes I immediately saw that he was scared and embarrassed.  He definitely wasn’t playing grabass like before.

He huddled with the cute little driver for a few moments.  He pointed back into the bus; they both peered around for a peek so we all turned to look too.  The huddle had broken up a little.  One kid in the back of the pack struggled to look cool and relaxed as blood poured from his mouth and down the front of his shirt.  He was pale and sweaty and seemed very uncomfortable.  Word filtered back—he had lost a tooth in the scuffle, and they couldn’t find it.  The dude from up front came walking back again, not sauntering or sashaying but just sort of regular walking.  In a flat, polite voice he apologized to random people down the aisle without really making eye contact.  I asked him as he passed what had happened.  Avoiding my gaze, he replied: “guess dude wanted to play wi’hiz playstat’n.  dude didn’ wanna share.  tha’s when they decided to fight.” He slunk as he spoke, so by the time he was done talking he was well down the aisle past me. After all, his cousin in the back was still bleeding.  He rejoined his friends and they all sat down together in attitudes of unfeigned resignation.

The bus driver’s voice crackled across overamplified speakers.  She didn’t sound little or cute—she sounded pissed.  “This bus ain’t goin’ nowheah,” she announced coldly.  “Police have been called.  Y’all gotta get off this bus.  This was th’last limited.  There’s a reguluh comin’ up ‘bout five minutes behin’ me.”

We’d expected this announcement so we quickly gathered our things and got up, accepting our mass exodus from the stilled bus down onto an abruptly real curbside with commendable goodwill and fortitude.  That guy drooling blood down his chest had priority. We were willing to live with this minor inconvenience, in light of his disfigurement. 

Thus I found myself walking away from the young cute bus driver, who couldn’t possibly have done anything to stop what had happened, no matter who she might have been.  Those little thugs were bound to get into a fight—among themselves, if not with each other.  They just happened to get to each other on her bus.  She didn’t make any more impression on them than I had made on her.  But I’ll tell you what: I ride that line most every day, morning and evening.  I know the route, the riders, and the drivers.  The drivers do tend to have regular routes—if I’ve seen them once, most likely I’ve seen them a dozen times at least: but I’ve never seen that cute bus driver drive my outbound 38 again.

Refreshing, eh wot?  Well I enjoyed it.  And now it’s time to pull on my natation knickers, grab my flotation baby, and soak up some chlorine and happiness.  Hope your weekend is relaxing, too. 

Monday, August 07, 2006

Plum Tasty

I’ve been a bit too busy lately, and with a trip to NEPA coming up in less than 48 hours, I anticipate more busyness downstream.  It’s not a bad thing – I rather like keeping busy, especially when I’m also keeping up with the house and seeing cool movies and even getting a bit of sleep and exercise on occasion.  These are good days, though I have to force myself to raise my head sometimes to notice it.  And that, typically, reminds me of a story….

This one happened just a few weeks ago.  My mood was so sour that day that my face was probably puckered.  Work wasn’t going well; I felt like I was missing out on all the fun life had to offer but I was still getting stuck with a crapload of crap work anyways.  The days that I spent in laborious isolation were long and hot, and the nights got so terribly dark so terribly fast.  I felt it all getting away from me.  I’d lost that connection between what I was doing, and why.  I was starting to carry a grudge around with me at work, which was unwise.  I was starting to take it out on other people, which was unforgivable.  And I didn’t really see a way out.

What I did see, that particular evening, was another chore I had to do before my day ended: get off the bus in a veritable blast of summer heat, go home, pick up the clothes for the cleaners, and head out again to drop them off.  O my woeful fate.  Yeah, I actually thought this was proof that I had a hard life – that’s how much perspective I’d lost. 

So, at 6:30 on a warm weekday eve, I stepped out with my laundry and my sourpucker face.  It was a short walk with a light load out to Bluebird Cleaners, where friendly clerks attended to me and my soiled garments quickly and courteously.  I stepped out again, then, back into the warmth and light of the evening, my shoulders involuntarily hunched against the burden of my scowl.  But at least I was finally really going home.

Over, then, on the other side of both the boulevard and the parkway, I stomped toward my humble abode– when I noticed a goddamn mess on the sidewalk.  I’d just wanted to walk quietly, without impediment, as if something that day could be easy for a change.  Instead, this.  What the hell?  Loads of brown goo, little rocks, scraps of… something….

And then I figured it out - it was plums.  Dozens of them, hundreds of them.  They’d fallen, wine-ripe, from the thick leafy canopy overhead.  Most of the year those trees are just trees, but at that very moment they were powerful plum delivery devices.  The air was thick with syrup and my feet slipped on the soft jelly carpet.  I usually watched for the ripening of the feral plums in my neighborhood, tasting and sampling them as the season matured to fructifection.  This year, though, plum season had caught me by surprise.  The blanket of sweet compost through in which I stood told me that I’d have missed the season completely in another week.  Even so, all the easy pickins had been picked clean – but way up high, back away from the sidewalk, the boughs creaked with bite-sized jewels at the apex of their succulence.  From the stained sidewalk I couldn’t reach any of them.  But if I worked a little and got up into the underbrush, just maybe….

I stepped gingerly; brambles tore and pulled at my pantlegs.  I picked my way among chaotic tumbles of prickervines to a spot… the spot… where a single branch laden with plums dangled within my grasp.  It was tricky work but I had to have that fruit. I reached for it; one fell heavily into my palm.  The sun’s warmth radiated from its crimson skin.  I spat into my hand and wiped off the dust and the residue of urban whatever.  With no superfluous thoughts in my head, I popped it whole into my mouth.  I couldn’t move from the spot – I’d sunk in among the thick twisted vines.  I just stood there, in the middle of a bramble in the middle of the greenbelt in the middle of the block, in the early evening in the early summer, and I ate that blessed plum.  In the warm air its nectar was cool inside my mouth; the flesh was luscious and yielding; the vital essence it embodied rocked my body and its rich sweet perfume filled my senses.  It was truly a perfect little plum, and I was lucky enough to get my hands on it at the perfect moment.  Maybe – just maybe – this summer still had something worthwhile on offer.

I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and glanced down to the viney trap in which I’d insinuated myself.  I’d have to be careful to get out without falling into the stickers.  My eyes focused on the vines with their myriad spines of different shapes.  That put me in mind of something: I looked to the leaves, the flowers, the budding fruit…. This was a blackberry bush I’d tromped into.  In a month or so, the season would have a whole new mouthful of breathtaking intensity for my appreciation.  I just had to keep my eyes open for it to show up.  It’ll be right there in front of me, if I remember to let myself see it.  And if I’m attentive, maybe this summer will have another refreshing surprise or two in store for me before then.

More later, maybe.  Otherwise, more later on after that.  Either way, eat ‘em when they’re ripe.  It usually only happens once, you know. 

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Chicano Power!

I have something in mind to write, but I forgot to bring the document I intend to make fun of, so it gets to continue germinating in what passes for my mind these days, sprouting either moss, wings, or that weird grey mold you get on the tomato sauce in the fridge that you thought you’d finished three weeks ago but it actually wound up behind the big container of leftovers that sort of scares you, so something has formed a colony in it that wants to be penicillin but will never cure anything but “edibility of tomato sauce.” Upshot: no essay today about the drone investments.  Maybe that means it’ll be better when I do get around to it; maybe that means I’ll realize there’s nothing to say there and I’ll find something else to grouse about down the line. 

However, I have a spare few minutes right now and since the world of domestic bliss has been so damn full of vacuuming, groceries, trips to the laundry and a little bit of fun with a wild child of my acquaintance, I’m going to make this an easy one.  For me, anyway.  I can’t imagine how you read this crap, but it seems increasingly likely that you don’t, so there’s my answer.  But my point is, as if I had one, that I’m going to share a few words about the exhibit of Chicano art I saw a few weekends ago at the De Young. 

The museum itself has not grown on me in terms of how it fits in with the surrounding parkland – it’s an unadorned brown box with a big squared-off tower sticking out of one end.  Sure, the tower is provocatively twisted and the big brown box has some nicely-worked copper cladding, but when you consider the other serious pieces of architecture already in the park, or being built there, it’s as aesthetically-inspirational as a pizza box on a bus bench.  Except, no bonus cheese scraps.

However, the landscaping around the museum, especially the garden on the east end, is really nice, and the interior is beautifully designed and laid-out.  Plus, it’s free to go up in the tower and get a view of the western part of the city from nine stories up.  So, summing it up, I’m okay having the main fine arts museum in the city a few blocks from my own personal abode.  And that’s especially true when they’ve got a cool exhibit that’s being shown for free, which is how they were showing the Chicano art exhibit on the day it opened. 

K, Z and I all went for a few hours and were roundly entertained in the lobby by Dr Loco’s Rockin Jalepeno Band.  (Zak is a dancing fool.  It’s fun to watch him shake his moneymaker, which in his case is some very small change.)

Lunch was taken al fresco (i.e., with Fresca) in the sculpture garden, where we were serenaded by a more traditional Mexican polka band, and then we wandered through the exhibit itself.  I’d seen an exhibit of Chicano art years ago in LA, and it had really impressed me.  However, this one was better.  There was a lot of multimedia, lots of poster art and lithos, and buttloads of really powerful canvases. 

Items that particularly struck me, in a positive way:

· The perspectives and colors in many of the canvases were fantastic.  Some of them looked convex, some looked concave, and some seemed to undulate.  That’s no excuse, of course, for the older lady who sort of dragged her hand along them as she walked past.  Everybody was looking on, aghast, but no one said anything.  That old broad looked pretty tough, and not very amused.

· The faces in the paintings and posters were exceptionally powerful.  I lost myself in several of them.  Whether painstakingly realistic, hyper-realistic, simplistic, or abstract, they seemed to be imbued with amazing energy and intensity.

· The painting “Heaven and Hell” featured an upper section with several men and women, nicely dressed, dancing at a garden party – in the center of their chests, each bore a gold corazon.  Below them was a rocky ledge, under which labored several men and women in a dank cave, each burdened with a unique torture device – rocks, cages, barbed-wire suits… they all dragged and carried boulders.  In the ceiling and one wall were portholes into the world they did not occupy – so they never forgot where they were.  And instead of a gold heart, they each had a dark hole punched through the center of their chests. 

· Many of the paintings had titles in spanglish, with some words in English and some in Spanish.  The cards that described the artwork were written in English and Spanish, too, and it was interesting to see the spanglish translated into Spanish: all words were translated, so what I’d understood before was now foreign, but the foreign words were now familiar.  Cool.

· Many of the pieces on display were from the collection of Cheech Marin ("Hey gargoyle, more art!").  One of the patrons, seeing a wall of work attributed to his collection, said disparagingly, “I bet nobody here even knows who he is.” Dude, he was on a tv show with Doc Johnson!  He was in a movie about a hippie!  Do you think I’m entirely without culture? 

· One of the multimedia displays featured some artistically-replicated lowrider cars under glass, with buttons to activate hydraulics and make them bounce.  Z and I watched a few folk work the knob and bounce the chevys, and then I let the little man give it a try.  HE IS A NATURAL.  That sucker was humping the pavement like nobody’s business.  Zak-a-ree – is a little higha....

And now, my question for the wide, wide world of blog: as part of our free admission to the exhibit, Kel and I got commemorative bandanas.  They’re brown, with a pattern of red concentric circles (familiar to patrons of Target, the corporate sponsor of the exhibit) and white script that, if you fold it in half corner to corner, repeatedly says “chicano power” on one side, and “chicana power” on the other side.  I happen to be a robust user of bandanas, because they keep me from sweating painfully into my own tender eyeballs when I exercise, and furthermore protect my gleaming pale brainlid from Sol, bringer of scalpscald.  However, I don’t know if my pale jewish self can get away with wearing a “chicano power” headrag.  What do you think, multitudes?  Is it patronizing or supportive?  Or does it not even make a goddamn difference?  Pending your advice, I’m sticking with the regular green, blue, and black bandanas I usually wear.  I would hate to offend.  And with that, I’m done with you.  Begone.