Garden Soup on an Autumn Day

My friend noticed this as we arrived at the Polo Fields -- a shaft of sunlight in the woods near the soccer fields.



The field also looked surreal in the early morning light. The game didn't go well, for the girls. They lost, 0-3. But the playoffs are not over yet and they'll play again next week.



Back home, my 11-year player had an idea. "Let's cook something."

"Something" turned into an organic vegetable soup. We picked a few tomatoes, green onions, sweet basil leaves, and other plants, cooked them in a cream base with potatoes, carrots, garlic, and other ingredients into such a delicious comfort food that even my big, tall meat-eating boys snapped up their portions happily.

What is endlessly wonderful about parenting, as long as you're open to it, is all the things your kids teach you and introduce you to. I could write volumes about this topic. (I suppose, given all of my posts, I already have done that, actually.)

-30-

Back to Origins

Over three and a half years ago, I started this blog with a simple post:

Date: Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Headline: Heavy rains

Post: Here in the Bay Area, just back from New York, I miss the sunshine, as it has been raining ever since my return. The whole world around me seems to have turned dark. The light is gone.


***

For apparently the first time since I wrote those simple three sentences, I went back to reread them tonight, because I find myself, emotionally, at what feels like the exact same place in life as I was then, with all that old familiar pain.

But before getting to that, I was shocked to discover that in such a short post I could have failed to capitalize the first letter of the first word in the middle sentence!

I've corrected it above, as well as in the original, but it certainly shows that I got off on an inauspicious note, eh?

Of course, hardly anyone ever read that beginning entry, I'm sure.

And I was not at all explicit as to what was happening to me back then. It took awhile before I stopped relying on metaphors like rain and darkness and admitted that I was going through an extremely painful breakup with someone I loved and who loved me.

If I have grown at all since then, I have learned that breakups always involve people who love each other. Even in the white heat of seeming hate, revenge, anger, bitterness, there is the residual love that once ignited softer passions.

This week, the skies have again turned dark, the rains are falling (softly so far) and the same metaphors apply in my personal life. I have returned over the past few months, but explicitly and with finality only this week to the status of a single man, with no partner, mourning an extremely special relationship that just did not work out.

The reasons it didn't work, and the proximate behaviors involved, on her part and mine, will remain private. I've developed a new sensitivity toward all of our collective and individual privacy online over my years of writing here.

On the one hand, I want to be entirely honest, emotionally. And, as a writer, the more of any truth I can voice helps me heal the fastest. But, "truth" is a funny concept, as I've gradually come to appreciate over a lifetime of seeking it.

When a couple splits, there is (at least) her truth and his truth. And since mine is the only voice here, the least fair thing I could possibly do is reflect only my perspective.

I will not do that, not to someone I will always, on many levels, love so deeply, regardless of what the future holds.

Letting someone go is hard work. You have to do it when you lose a relationship; even more profoundly when someone you love dies.

Letting go of anyone seems to be especially hard for me. I still mourn work friendships that date back decades. I miss old friends who have somehow dropped away over the years.

I miss moments that can never return.

Most of all, I miss intimacy, probably the hardest state to achieve. Relationships involve a balance of power. It is almost impossible to get that part right. They also involve stages of life; the two have to have some way to balance their relative stages in a mutually satisfying way if they are to happily stay together.

Of course, I should define my idea of relationship. I don't mean "staying together for the kids;" or "one takes care of the other," or "it would be too scary to end up alone."

I fully accept and even expect that I will end up alone in my life. I've had my share of wonderful relationships, and I can honestly say I wish no one who has been an intimate partner harm. I wish each of them happiness and resolution before we pass on, as each and every one of us will do.

One of my ex's has a great boyfriend. I am very happy for her, she deserves that.

I have a lot of work to do. I wish it wasn't this dreariest of all times of year in which to do it. Every joyful face, with the exception of own children's, at the American holiday time sears my broken heart.

There's more. Deep within any person going through the loss of a relationship that once seemed so special and so hopeful is an awful gaping hole -- a place filled with so much agony that no other human being could possibly be expected to go there and witness it.

Perhaps, with people who write to survive, that place is even uglier and more frightening. Perhaps. I do not know for sure, but what empirical evidence lies before me, in the broken shards of my attempts to form new couplings, suggests that the bright red blood flowing (metaphorically) from my body flows for a reason, and these words must be its purpose.

So, if any of my long-time readers thought they would be rid of me in this space anytime soon, fear not.

A new wound has opened. I am alone, hurting, and needing to communicate. Because that is my only tool for healing and moving on. Those who become too sad at reading about another's pain may wish to vacate these premises for a while.

Take heart. Another season beckons. Spring time, the season of renewal.

But not for now.

-30-

Stopping by the Roadside on a Cloudy Afternoon

Weather like this always feels portentious. The air is fairly still, but the sky is filling with angry clouds. An hour north of the city, way up at the summit traversed by Lucas Valley Road, you come to Big Rock.



This stretch of Northern California has an other-worldly feel, which is not surprising given that the Star Wars movies draw heavily from this environment for their depictions.

In fact, just a hop, skip and a jump at far less than hyperspeed from Big Rock is Lucas's headquarters.

Though I think of myself, primarily, as a writer, a major way I process information of all types is through visual stimulation. Colors, angles, shadows, visual patterns of all sorts unleash my words. My continuous goal is to try and provoke visual images inside the heads of others with these words.

On the visual side of my career, I've published photos offline, as well as here and on my companion blogs, especially Sidewalk Images.

But I think if I could be reborn as another type of time traveler, it would be as a painter.



Since that seems not likely to happen, let me tell you about the tours of not only Big Rock Ranch, but of Skywalker Ranch, which is a bit further down the road, that I was so kindly given today.

The 1890s Victorian mansion Lucas has had constructed as his home and office is one of the most impressive private buildings in California today. It is massive, but elegantly constructed with astounding portions of stained glass, in-laid wood, and curving walls. Every window looks out onto a separate vista: Only of the natural world; none of the other buildings on the Ranch can be so much as glimpsed.

Much of the artwork knocks you out, because he has originals, but in order to truly appreciate it, I'm afraid you have to be a big fan of Norman Rockwell. There is a heavy air of nostalgia for bygone eras in this place, which is very, very quiet.

You almost need to whisper.

I was reminded of another enormously influential figure: William Randolph Hearst. We Californians deliver such people to the world at large, even as we claim them as our own, identify with them on all sorts of levels, and expect them to be just like us.

Which of course, once they reach this level, they cannot possibly be.

There were many other impressive parts of the tour, including his world-class sound studio, his vineyard, the Inn, the organic gardens, and the herd of cattle. Most of the food in the cafes appears to be harvested onsite.

Let's return to the vineyard. Did you know that the grapes harvested here are bottled by Frances Ford Coppolla into his wildly popular line of wines? I didn't.

It makes sense, given that Lucas and Coppolla, as members of the small club of true non-Hollywood success stories in American film, have long been good friends.

(I've met both men over my life here, just in passing, but that is another story.)

My favorite part of the Lucas mansion is its two-story library, with a winding staircase in the center of the room, a fireplace, and a very large collection of books about mythology (Joseph Campbell, etc.)

The Star Wars stories are deeply ensconced in myths, of course, occasionally painfully so. But it is hard to fault an artist like Lucas who, in an age when fewer people study the classics -- or even read books! -- has devoted his life's work to updating and re-interpreting Oedipus particularly, but many other mythic characters so successfully, using modern technology and communication channels.

I'm a fan for that reason. George Lucas, in my eyes, is one of our great educators in the modern age. He's done what great teachers have tried to do for generations, by bringing our collective intellectual past into the classroom, making it all newly accessible, trying to seduce each successive generation of kids to locate the context for their pains, their trials, their successes, their failures, their dreams and aspirations.

We all go through all of this; none of us escapes any of it. That is a universal lesson. Today's visit, just at a particularly vulnerable time in my own life, was reminder of these essential truths.

-30-

Everything *Does* End

As the sun set over San Francisco this late autumn night, I walked alone to my car, got in and turned on the radio. It was set to my kids' favorite station ("Live 105") and the song playing was by Death Cab for Cutie, "Meet Me on the Equinox."

It's quite a beautiful, haunting song on the alt-rock circuit these days. The chorus for that song is "Everything Ends. Everything Ends."

All of which feels quite appropriate today, a day when quite a few important things in my life came to an end. My calendar, however, which I have been roundly criticized for, anticipated only one event -- my son's playoff soccer game, the first his high school has had in anyone's memory.

This season has been more like a fairy tale than any of his other sports successes over the years, if only because the odds seemed so long against them.

At the first "home" game, I was the only spectator as the game started who was not booing their own team! Mainly, the others in the stands were kids, calling out insults to their classmates on the field.

Later, I started learning that these observers were the kids who wished they could play on the team, but they "didn't have the grades." So they showed up to yell insults instead.

This is not a very promising start to my son's high school soccer "career," is all I could think to myself. But, on the pitch, he was doing fine. Even though a freshman in this inner-city high school, he became a starter and -- except for about ten minutes in the first game -- started and played every minute of every game until he injured his ankle, and had to miss last Thursday's season finale.

Game by game, this particular group of kids were visibly coming together as a team. A real team. They won games, lots of games.

Gradually, I began recognizing that there were other parents attending the games, and a small group of us, the regulars, bunched together, where by shouting loudly, we could imitate a real crowd.

The new principal of the school started showing up, plus a few teachers, counselors, and a small but more loyal group of students.

The cheerleaders started coming to certain games. More kids started coming.

The team kept winning, crafting an unlikely 8-game streak where they won seven, tied one, scored 31 goals and allowed 3.

During all of this, I started looking beyond my own kid and his story to empathize with the parents of seniors on this team. They had been the long-suffering attendees of games oozing with low morale for over three years.

The school's record over those three years was 12-30-4, and they never came close to making the playoffs, which in the San Francisco Public School System is dominated by huge schools like Mission and Lowell.

Balboa, by contrast is a third the size.

Nevertheless, today, as the team with the fourth-best record in the league, they finally got their chance. Their opponent was the team with the top record.



This game was to be a very different experience. Not only were us regulars out in force, we brought family members. Not only did the principal attend, he arranged for teachers to change their meeting schedule and attend.

The cheerleaders were all there. And many, many students were there. The girls' soccer team was there. (Note to self: Attend at least one girls' soccer team game next spring.)



As the team prepared for their showdown, the loudspeaker kicked in. We were in the City's professional soccer stadium, the nicest venue any of these kids have ever played in.

Those of us in the crowd sat in stands so large we assumed they could never be filled for a mere afternoon (2:30 pm start!) public high school battle. But the kids kept pouring in, and by the time the action started, we had a loud, boisterous contingent on hand for both schools.



This is my favorite photograph from this season. This how a team looks. You rarely see people of so many races, cultures and classes together in this way, except in some of our proudest national institutions: The military, first and foremost, but also in our sports teams.

We are a rainbow nation, and this school happens to be the most diverse in San Francisco, which in turn is one of the most diverse in all of America.

In our common future, this is the face of America.



My son did not start. It was not about his ankle, which we had successfully healed. It's because he is a freshman, and this, potentially, was the last game the seniors on the team would ever get to play wearing their high school's colors.

Plus this season, with its tremendous and unexpected successes, really belonged to them -- and their families.

I was very nervous all day today getting prepared to watch this contest. As all of the other regulars, one by one arrived, they confided the same feelings. As a parent, while you watch your kid play a violent sport like soccer, you are always on edge.

First, you pray (s)he will not get hurt. Second, you hope they do well. Third, you hope don't feel bad afterward, no matter what happens.

Somewhere, down the list, you hope they win, too, because winning is and always will be by far more fun.



Although he didn't start, before the end of the first half, one of our seniors got injured, the first of many sad injuries today, so my son ran onto the field to a raucous cheer (he says that is only because he is friends with all the cheerleaders.)

He quite obviously had not gotten the team memo (cut your hair to a Mohawk) because his floppy red mop stood out, as always, in sharp contrast to everyone else out there on the pitch.

But he played very well. The first injury was to a midfielder, so he played midfield. When he was on the field, his team scored the game's first goal. It was very near the end of the first half, and our giant and very rowdy crowd went utterly crazy as result. We were besides ourselves.

I hope I didn't hurt anyone's hand as I jumped and screamed and slapped high fives in the stands. But even as this was happening, I knew, way deep inside, that this is as good as it ever gets, in this very brief life of ours.

It doesn't really matter what happened after that, although I will of course tell you. That moment was the kind of peak moment we all live for, I suspect.

Think about it. To succeed in any field in this world you have to work, unless of course you are born to privilege, in which case nothing I can write here will make any sort of sense at all.

There is no kid on the Balboa High School soccer team who was born to privilege. These are not a bunch of boys likely to be headed for Harvard Law School, either by class or by grades, with a few possible exceptions.

These are athletes, and many of them also have good grades, but they are not considered elite material by those who continue to dominate (and profit from) our economy and the political order that remains in place in this country.

(This, despite the efforts of our idealistic young President, himself a victim of hanging around too long, IMHO, with the elites.)

Nope, these are regular guys. And at halftime today they were on top of their world. They had the top team in their league on the ropes.

But we all knew that a second half had to be played. More injuries ensued, and my kid was rushed back in, now at center forward. Are you kidding me? He's never played offense, so how will he know what to do?

But his coach, who clearly cares a lot for these kids, was off the field helping his latest senior recover from a vicious blow that, for unknown reasons, was not called a foul. For a while, the injury looked quite serious, but I think he eventually was able to walk on his own again.

Meanwhile, the tall freshman was back to where he belonged, on defense, and he continued to play well until the final whistle.

What else can I say? They lost 2-1. Perhaps with better referees, they would have won. Perhaps, if the other team hadn't flopped and fouled less obviously, they would have won. Perhaps, with a few better bounces and a few other breaks, they would have won. Maybe the best team didn't win.

But that's the way life goes.

You know what I like best? After the game, walking with him to his mother's car, my son told me that he was happy about this game. "I didn't expect to play. It was the seniors' last chance. I only got in there when they got hurt. That's how it should be. We did very well. I played well."

And that is the lesson of sports. Someone has to lose and someone has to win. Afterward, you shake hands and move on.

Too bad the rest of life doesn't always work like that. Although I am very proud of my son, as I returned to my flat alone, I wondered what it is I have to be that proud of...

Have you ever felt that way?

-30-

Sole On Ice

Earlier this evening, remembering my years covering Eldridge Cleaver and others in the Black Panther Party for Rolling Stone, I also was continuing to ice my 15-year-old soccer player's injured left ankle, as we have been doing for a week now.

How weird is that? The author of Soul on Ice had very different objectives when he wrote his book than I have for my son, though then, as now, I have respect for his work as a writer.

Whatever. Life delivers its opportunities volley by volley. There is no chance to reflect about what it all means, or whether it means anything at all.

But tomorrow at 2:30 pm, in Boxer Stadium here in San Francisco, an unlikely playoff squad from Balboa High School will take to the pitch against O'Connell High School.

O'Connell had the better record during the regular season and won its only encounter with Balboa, 2-0. Plus they won their division and are therefore the heavy favorites.

May the better team win. Then, that team has the unenviable task of playing Mission High School, the perennial champion here in the City, on Saturday.

All I know is this much: My son is ready to compete. Win or lose, his ankle can hold up, he can play, he can defend, all thanks to ice, elevation and Ibuprofen. I'll be there.

-30-

Open Letter to Dean Neil Henry

Peter Richardson's book about Ramparts magazine, A Bomb in Every Issue, brought the early seventies in the Bay Area back to life for me as I finished reading it tonight.

Ramparts had enormous influence over those us at the University of Michigan in the late 1960s, with its combination of investigative reporting and idealistic left-wing politics.

Some of those who wrote for the magazine, including Tom Hayden and Robert Scheer, were important influences on me, as a younger journalist and activist, as I developed my own reasons for opposition to the war in Vietnam.

After I moved to San Francisco, Scheer wrote for us at SunDance magazine, and I edited his pieces, there and elsewhere during the '70s.

Hayden I got to know through his then wife Jane Fonda, when we worked on movies together. I had interactions with the famously eye-patched drinker Warren Hinckle, as well as writer Hunter Thompson, in my Rolling Stone days, but no friendships sparked with them.

Others from that era whom I worked with closely include Adam Hochschild, Richard Parker, and David Horowitz, Lowell Bergman, Kathleen Cleaver, Mark Dowie, Eve Pell, Stanley Sheinbaum, and Jann Wenner.

People I got to know through interviews included a host of others, like Eldridge Cleaver, Huey Newton and Elaine Brown.

But, for me, the most satisfying part of Richardson's book was his unblinking analysis of the support roles Betty Van Patter and her daughter Tamara Baltar played for many of the key organizations that made up a decade's worth of journalism gone wild, from Ramparts to SunDance to the Center for Investigative Reporting to Mother Jones to the dubious outcome of the Black Panther Party.

These two remarkable women were idealists but pragmatists, who used their talents to keep these mostly wild, out-of-control organizations as grounded as possible. For her contributions, Van Patter was murdered, and as Richardson's careful analysis clearly documents, the only credible killers with both motive and means were the Panthers, for whom she was loyally working as accountant at the time -- a time that even Brown has acknowledged that the Party was breaking all sorts of laws by its financial shenanigans.

That happened 35 years ago now, and still no one has been charged with the crime. This has marked the life of Baltar, who has been on a long, lonely quest to bring the killers of her mother to justice.

Many cold cases have been solved in recent years, most via DNA and/or the concerted efforts of groups of journalism students led by committed professors in various venues.

May I tonight gently suggest that the well-endowed Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California, Berkeley, which has attracted all sorts of funders in recent years, and now has more resources on the ground than most traditional Bay Area media companies, should open an investigation into who killed Betty Van Patter.

Peter Richardson's excellent work includes as definitive a version of this tragedy as has ever appeared in a book. Now it's time for someone with the resources to solve the case to get involved.

Thus, I am addressing this post to the man who can make it happen: Dean Neil Henry.

P.S. I would be happy to help.

A Moon Rises Over Day of the Dead

As a massive Harvest Moon rises over San Francisco tonight, it is the annual Day of the Dead celebration. It also was an exceedingly hot day, for this time of year.

Driving out to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park, intending to watch my 13-year-old runner compete in the City championship race, I was stunned by the clear view of the Pacific Ocean along Lincoln Avenue, starting 30 blocks east of Ocean Beach.

But when I arrived, my little guy was hunched on the sidelines, feeling ill: Headache, stomach ache, sore throat. In this season of swine flu, of course, all such symptoms are cause for alarm, but my main feeling was sadness at how sad he felt for letting down his cross-country team.

After all, until today, he has been one of the school's fastest 8th-grade boy runners, though not an athlete by choice. "I love to run fast," he told me. "But I don't like the races at all, actually."

Enjoying competition is not for everybody. Way across town in the Excelsior, his 15-year-old brother was making a different set of choices. After days of icing and elevating his injured ankle, he decided to test it out today in PE and on the soccer pitch, in a light practice.

"It felt good," he told me when I picked him up, just as that moon was rising and the night's cool was replacing the day's heat. "I mean it still hurts, but I think I can run on it."

So, roughly 48 hours before the City playoffs begin for the next chapter in his remarkable soccer team's story, Aidee appears ready to go. And I am sure he will play, because that is how competitive athletes are built.

If you wonder whether I have a preference for the type of son God has delivered me, my answer is, honestly and bluntly, no. I love them just the way they are. They are perfect, whether they like to compete or they don't like to compete. These are their choices, not mine. I am only their witness, equally proud with whatever they choose.

***

On NPR this afternoon, during my driving trips around this city, I heard that 115 banks have now failed this year, the most since 1992. The economic pain continues for many people all over this land, including us.

-30-

Mill Valley Strollers

This was the home of S.I. Hayakawa, the controversial former President of San Francisco State University and a Republican U.S. Senator (from the Bay Area!) and also, less famously, a brilliant expert on the English language, and the dangers of propaganda and the difficulties of translation between hostile parties.

One of my personal characteristics that I've come to finally appreciate (among a whole host of aspects I despise) is my open-mindedness. For this, I have my journalistic training to thank, in a small way, but some other tendencies, perhaps genetic, or perhaps genetic in a mutational way.

Whatever the origin of this tendency of mine may be, let me at least try to describe it: I love discovering sides of people that my usual set of friends and colleagues dismiss because of their political leanings.

Hayakawa is that kind of guy. My leftist friends revile him to this day because he suppressed a famous strike at SF State in the '60s. I, too, once reviled him for that, but that was before I knew who he truly was, intellectually.

Once his academic work on English, and translation came to my attention, during a period when I sought out obscure books on the origin of this wonderful language, I developed a deep appreciation of him, and a new comprehension of why he felt as loyal to his country and its dominant language as he did.

I've never read a psychological assessment of S.I. Hayakawa, so I am not sure whether there may have been some sort of self-hating component to his makeup. But since his origins were as a Japanese person, not as one of the more conventionally self-hating ethnic, religious, or racial groups, I accept him at face value.

Intellectually, he remains one of my heroes.



That said, my companions today are also heroes in my eyes. A small group of old friends, not one of which would in any way agree with the part of me on display above.



We are a progressive community here in the Bay Area. I also share their values and hopes and political leanings, most of the time.



But, as always, I never really fit in.



Whatever, even though this is ostensibly a memoir of some weird sort, what interests me far more is the reaction of you, who may visit to the ideas expressed here.



I have some pretty big news.



No, I do not have a new girlfriend, I am not getting married, I am not expecting yet another child, nor do I have a new book about to appear.

Nothing that big, just something rather small, actually. Small in the overall scheme of things, for sure. But for me, as a writer, a rather big thing, or at least maybe a medium kind of sized-thing.



Here are my companions today on our hike. Obviously I lagged far behind. That is, of course, only appropriate. (Hint: If you click on these images, you will see them at a far larger -- and clearer -- size.)

-30-

Scary?

I had to warn my 13-year-old son, who is quite possibly the most gentle being on the planet, that he has grown so tall lately that his choice of a black Israeli gas mask to complement his all-black Halloween outfit might actually frighten a parent here or there along his route tonight.

Still, if anyone looks through this scary mask to his eyes, he or she will sense his essential sweetness, I trust.

So my question is, why does such a sweet boy choose such a scary outfit? Maybe the answer is too obvious.



Meanwhile, what is going on with his little sister's soccer team? These are the kids who lost 19 straight until a couple weeks ago when they won a game 1-0. Then they tried another team 0-0, in their final regular season game.



That allowed them to make the playoffs. Today they beat their opponents 4-0. Huh? Do things change that fast. Are they now a powerhouse?

Apparently, in the world of kids, anything is possible.

Maybe us oldsters should think about that. When was the last time you thought anything was still possible for you?

A Slave's Revolt

Yesterday I went downtown for a meeting with an idea in my head.

That idea was to carry my broken sunglasses in the pocket of my suit coat and hope to find an eyeglasses place that could fix them.(*) I had about 15 extra minutes in my travel plans to make this happen.

Why only fifteen minutes?

Because that is, sadly, in this modern world of ours, about as much padding as a busy urban professional can ever spare for something so...unprofessional.

Many people, I suspect, find themselves looking at a broken pair of sunglasses as an opportunity to try their basketball moves, you know, a hook shot to the trash can.

Fewer, probably, when the sunglasses are prescription models (as are mine) but even then, given that everything is made of plastic these days, it's arguable whether you are better off tossing the crap once it breaks vs. replacing it with a new style the cute Asian girl at your eye doctor's office will inevitably recommend to you.

Tradeoffs.

In the middle of all of this drama, or at least what passes for drama in my little life (as Monte Python would say), I started recalling an exercise I once participated in at a teachers' retreat. The predication for the exercise was John Hersey's classic book, Hiroshima, which if you have never read, you simply must.

As I recall the work, he posits that six people who survive that horrific bomb find themselves in a raft or small boat, bouncing around the ocean, and suddenly realize their complete inter-dependence on one another for their continued survival.

In the intellectual exercise I participated in, all of us were newly sensitive to how valuable those of us with concrete skills -- like plumbers, carpenters, electricians, nurses, farmers, welders -- are when our very life depends on them being here for us.

I do not recall any role, however, for story-tellers, photographers, comedians, painters, poets, or technicians, which actually puts a huge proportion of us in our modern culture at risk of being eaten, should calamity strike, once you begin to think about this in any determined way.

Me and myself, the son of a working class man, have both always been modest in our heart(s) about what (we) have to offer you, our fellow occupants of that metaphorical boat. The very best I, for instance, can ever do is to tell you a story. Every time I keystroke in words here, at this virtual space, that is what I am trying to do.

I have no other value to you. If you like the story, you will feel better for the experience. Maybe you will even come back. Maybe you will even comment, or (God Forbid!) take a more useful action, those actions that must not be spoken, according to the terms of being a blogger with ads on his site.

The Blog Police are watching. If I even hinted at what would help me to keep doing this work, I would be exterminated.

Such is what the world of a marginal member of that vulnerable human raft is, circa 2009. We are not even allowed to suggest what others could do to help us keep going, even as one of the richest companies in the world benefits from our content work.

If this blog ever disappears, that will be why. Or else that I have died. I am just one of many slaves of the 21st Century, and only you, dear visitor, can cut our chains.

(*) Assuming I do not forget, which is a major assumption, I will soon tell you how my sunglasses got fixed, not at an eyeglasses company, which in turn is a very relevant conversation we all should be having...

-30-

Loving and Watching

You know, as a writer, that your "voice" is back when you start dreaming entire stories, blog posts, even books at night. I've been "writing" so many things in my mind these past 24 hours that no matter how much (or little) time I actually have left as a sentient being on this planet, only a portion of these writings will ever achieve a form that anyone else can experience.

That's a good problem to have, if you are me. Better to have too much inventory than too little, eh?

Much of these unwritten writings in my mind are about love of all kinds. I think we sometimes are too limited in our definition of love, and how we express it to one another.

Some loving acts hurt -- badly. These can take the form of truth-telling when the recipient doesn't want to hear that truth.

Some love is subversive. It erupts spontaneously in ways and at times that could not be more inconvenient. But it still is love.

Some is predictable. If you devote yourself to another, through thick and thin, as the cliche goes, you may not experience the highs and lows of romantic love all that often in your life, but you may find a deeper meaning by staying connected to your soul-mate.

Perhaps no one knows about the "inside of love" (Nada Surf) as much as two ninety-year-olds who have been together seventy years. At least that is my fantasy idea, one utterly unconnected from my kind of life.

***

Then there is the ache of the love of a father for his son who his hurt and cannot compete.



That's him, with the red hair, between his coaches. His swollen, twisted ankle precluded play today, but he was with his team as they accomplished something no one associated with the school's soccer program can recall happening -- they beat the mighty Lowell team 1-0 -- at Lowell.

They did this with less than half as many players. And with about six of us as fans against maybe 50 from Lowell. (Nobody attends high school soccer games in San Francisco.)



So the regular season is over and now they go to the city playoffs next Wednesday.

I'm trying to ice my son's ankle tonight in order to get him ready to play next week.

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Who I Am

Maybe it's funny.

From many of the comments I get on these posts, visitors seem more worked up by my random political views or my business opinions than my personal concerns, but when it comes to my personal passions, they remain diametrically opposed to this sort of world view.

I know any of my children, at whatever age, could put any visitor straight.

That when I embrace liberal, conservative, radical, libertarian, mainstream, or outlier views, I am really only engaging intellectually. Like many people who have worked as professors in colleges for years, I tend to indulge in the exchange of ideas mostly as an educational process.

Any good teacher knows that when you venture into territory where you maintain some uncertainty yourself, you will likely prove more effective in the classroom.

On the other hand, if you adopt a know-it-all approach, and just lecture, your students will probably become bored, and let their attention wander.

In addition, as a journalist, I have spent a professional lifetime cultivating an informed state of uncertainty -- of not really deciding, you might say -- about issues that others feel passionate about.

It is important for me to do so, because it is important for some people in a society like ours to keep channels open with all sides on the issues that divide us. And to remind all of us that, like it or not, we are all in this thing together.

So, if you ever scroll down to read some of the comments my posts elicit, you will find that often people seem quite opposed, or angry with what I've written. Does this bother me?

Never. I welcome the debate over ideas, although I admit to not share enough passion about the particulars to engage at that level of true-believer stuff. If I had anything close to that strong a belief about abstract issues like the amount of government that is needed, or the degree of market freedom that is optimal, I would not be me.

I would not be a journalist.

More importantly, I would not be David.

Tonight, David remains unconvinced about the administration's health-care reforms or its financial system reforms. He remains uncertain about most of the great issues of our day.

But he is very worried that his 15-year-old son's ankle injury may be worse than he originally believed. The pain and swelling today were substantial. After all this kid has accomplished, the idea that he may not play tomorrow in the final regular season game, or even worse, next week in the city playoffs for the championship, is utterly heart-breaking.

There is nobody else in this kid's life who is going to lift a finger to help him in this matter. It is uniquely his father's role. And that would be David. If not for me, today he would have walked many blocks up and down a steep hill, no doubt ending his season in the process. He deserves a better fate.

So today at dawn, after a fitful sleep, David went to the boy's mother's house and drove him to school. At one, David drove back and picked him up. He bought him a brace. Later, he gave him Ibuprofen.

He talked with the boy, reminding him about the importance of rest, ice, elevation. Of not walking uphill or downhill, of not trying to do too much too soon.

Finally he warned him that his season could be over. A father has to tell the truth, even when it hurts.

I'm no hero. I am nobody but just somebody like anybody trying to be a good Dad. That is all I strive to be, pure and simple, because it is so hard and it is such a heavy responsibility.

In the process, I did no real work, which always carries dire consequences in this world we have to live in. Were my own needs met? In no way. They seldom are. This was in fact a bad day, for me, especially in any professional sense. A very bad day. But it would have been far worse, in the end, if I didn't do what I did, for him.

I don't give a damn, right now, about health care reform (Sorry, Obama) or bailouts, or the war in Afghanistan, or any other national issue. There are many of you who can worry and debate about those very worthy issues and others.

All I care about is that my kid's ankle heals enough so he can participate in the game next Wednesday afternoon that will help determine who is the San Francisco Unified Public School District's varsity high school soccer champion.

That's it. Politics, economics, theory, money, the right or the left -- they can all wait.




That is who David is. And also his son.

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Goodbye to Saturn: My Car's Company

Six years ago I bought a new car for the first time in my life. I bought it the American way -- on time. I didn't feel I could afford a full up-front payment on my paycheck at the time, but I figured I could afford $300/month, which included 60,000 miles of "bumper-to-bumper" maintenance.

It's been a pretty good deal.

But yesterday the car company sent me a letter that confirms this brand is being discontinued.

The name of the company?

Saturn, a former part of GM.

That's America, circa 2009. In a nutshell. My youngest son saw the letter and asked me what it meant tonight.

As I was explaining it to him, he asked me what I was going to do. Financially (without a job for nine months now), the option to buy another car is not there for us. We are ponying up some $800/month just to get health coverage for the kids and me.

At least next month is the final installment of that $300 auto payment.

Money. Some people have more of it than they know what to do with. Most of us have been cutting corners for so long we wouldn't know the next corner if it flashed us from our odometer.

GMAC, the financial arm of GM has already been bailed out by the Feds and is asking for more help. I don't think they should get it.

Plus I know this much: They are not in the red because of my loan. I've repaid every installment, over all 71 months since they kicked in.

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Health Care = Soccer Defense (Trust Me)

In my effort to regain my writing voice, tonight I'll return to familiar territory. No more sexy garden stories, for now! But stick around if you don't like sports. I'll get to health care reform, I promise.

My freshman soccer star and his teammates did something that hasn't been done at his large urban high school in a long time, apparently almost three decades. They won their tenth game -- against three losses and two ties.

And in case you think there is anything at all sexy about high school sports, look at those stands.

Empty. That's right. Nobody supports this team, just a tiny cadre of us parents who are either unemployed or retired, and therefore available to root for our kids at 3:45 in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

He's a defender by choice. For those who are not familiar with soccer, there is nothing particularly sexy about being a defender. The best shooters ("strikers") are always closing in on you with their best moves intended to outwit you so they get a clear shot at your goal, and your lone keeper, who will have to make a play if you fail to stop their advance.

The bad news is my kid got hurt today. He twisted his ankle, an ankle that he has injured in the past. So, I do not know how much of the rest of this season he will be able to play (one regular season game and one or two playoff games for the city championship.)

The good news is he again played well, as he has all season, and his team has that record of 10-3-2 after a long period of frustrating, losing seasons.

He's been a big part of this success. He and his fellow defenders have given up only 1.3 goals per game, while their offense has scored 3.2 goals.

That is how you win games.

In the larger world of life, other formulas are relevant. The national health care reform effort now revolves around what kind of relief (or lack thereof) working people will get under the massive reform package now working its way inexorably through Congress, which is to say, through the offices of fat lobbyists, on both sides of the aisle.

I am disgusted, particularly by Democrats, and of course also by Republicans, because they are all on the take.

At the present state of play, the great majority of Americans, who work hard but earn only $40-70,000 or so, will face prohibitive health insurance costs under the current plans.

This is simply unacceptable. Though it is unfair to blame the President, who got this whole thing rolling, it is now on him to get things back on track.

After all, as the father of a defender, I know a few things about how a big-time player, under pressure, learns how to deliver.

It is time for you, Mr. President, to stand and deliver -- not to the poor or the rich but to the vast majority of us stuck in the middle, struggling just to get by. BTW, we are the ones who got you elected.

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Sexy Garden Story

Probably, I suppose, whatever it is you do for a living can sometimes elude you; you may feel your skills have departed, or that the world has changed in ways that renders you less relevant.

For a writer, losing your voice is scary. It's as if someone turned the (very loud) music off inside your head, and all that remains is silence.

That's what has been going on with me lately. I'm aware of some of the reasons I've gone silent, but other causes exist that mystify me. Usually, I'm pretty good at cutting through noise and chaos around me to tell a story.

Not lately.

So, tonight, let me try to tell you a little story. I'll turn to several elements that usually work for me: Nostalgia, love, sex, change, aging and youth.

Turning a familiar corner recently, at the bottom of Cortland Street on Bernal Hill, I looked at the long-vacant Goodman's Lumber Co. building, and remembered a summer 15 years ago, when I was getting married.

My best friend Howard had come out to be my best man. He came out about a week early, I think, stayed in our spare room, and helped me garden. He also helped my friends Camille and David establish their garden that week.

We lived on the south side of Bernal; they lived on the north side. We had a tiny yard; they had a massive one.

Howard and I commuted between Floorcraft, a garden center across Bayshore from Goodman's, and their yard for a number of days, as he carefully designed a garden plan based on Camille's wishes for an English-type theme. We planted heather, lavender, and the like.

Today, I turned at that corner again, and suddenly Goodman's was gone! In the space of a few days, its old building has been demolished. The other day, I thought about stopping to photograph it. Now it is too late.

***

I bumped into some old photos of a girlfriend, when we were very new at dating. We were up in Gold Country, picnicking and sunbathing next to a river. In my favorite photo, she is looking over her shoulder at me, smiling. She looks like she feels adored.

I also remember having sex back in our hotel. Before we left to return to San Francisco, she said, "Please let's do that again."

Love is a fragile companion. It is there, as it was when I married and when I was in Gold Country. Sex goes along with love, not always of course, but at the best times, it's there.

Why everything has to fade and break is a mystery. Slowly, love fades away.

***

I don't get this aging process. My oldest son tells me that if I make it to age 90, I'll never get sick again. By then, he claims, I will have basically developed immunity to everything out there.



My youngest son ran in a race today. Competing does not come naturally to him but he did just fine. The venue was a private school where his big sisters studied for some years in their elementary years.

Next to the school is a city golf course where I used to play the game with my father. He always loved to tell about the hole where he'd overshot the fairway, parted some bushes to search for his golf ball, only to see the mighty Pacific Ocean churning below.

Every story has to end. I think I'll end this one with that image.

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Climbing Toward 11

Birthday party day for my youngest daughter: She chose a rock-climbing venue.



The girls climbed up again and again; one of her brothers did also.



They're all getting so strong; her teammates from her soccer team, whether this was one of their first attempts or the latest of many, all did well.

These are the kids who had lost 19 straight games before winning last weekend 1-0, and tying yesterday 0-0. Like her big brother, my daughter plays defense, so she is part of this extended scoreless play against more experienced teams.

I guess I raise defenders, as opposed to defended people.

San Francisco turned extremely hot this weekend, which makes the cool evenings welcome. My writing has fallen off lately; I'll try to regain my rhythm this week. Writing depends on moods and enough private time.

Neither dependency has been optimal lately. Let's see if I can begin to provide better material in the days ahead.

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Empty Nest

All of a sudden, it is quiet here.

After probably the most intense and active four weeks since I moved in here, with people coming, going, and staying, suddenly my place is silent.

A half moon shines over the city.

My friend and I ate dinner at one of the diviest of dive bars in these parts, the 150-year-old 7 Mile House way out on Old Bayshore.

Best burgers anywhere.

My soccer players did us well this week, winning four and tying one, outscoring their opponents collectively 17-2. That represents a lot of parental cheering over roughly seven hours.

I am exhausted.

The national battle over health care reform is tipping in the right direction. Obama continues to provide the only adult leadership in Washington. Not only the Republicans but the Democrats in Congress are corrupt and disgusting.

I doubt I will ever vote for anyone for Congress ever again. Only if a true leader, like Obama, should emerge from this district.

Pelosi? A joke.

Amidst these selfish little people, the President continues to stand tall.

But one other thing. In my laundry room, I have boxes of possessions so old that they read "U-Haul, Check your white pages under 'U-Haul'."

White pages? What the hell are those?

I really gotta clean up this place...

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Feels Like Teen/Team Spirit

Lots of action today at Hotweir World Headquarters.

First, the sports report: Balboa High's varsity soccer team defeated Galileo 3-0 this afternoon and now is guaranteed a playoff berth for the first time in a long, long time.

How long nobody seems to know, but the last time they were San Francisco City Champions was in 1981.



The only freshman member of the squad who has started and played every game was a happy (if exhausted) young man (#2 above) tonight, as were the parents of the seniors, who have never had a winning season until now. Their record is 8-3-2, with three games left in the regular season.


But we had another reason to celebrate in our family this evening. My youngest is turning 11 in a few days, maybe not a teenager in numbers, but as I am sure many others can appreciate, most definitely a teenager in spirit.

We held a little family party for her, and as the indulgent Dad I am, I gave her a bag of goodies, none of which were politically correct, health foods, or recommended by a certified nutritionist.

All of which, however, are certifiably delicious.

You know, the longer my run as a parent extends, the more I appreciate how hard all of this is for all of us, this work trying to raise responsible citizens who might in the future make contributions to help our society develop in a more responsible direction, as opposed to other, less desirable outcomes.

That so much can hinge on just one person doing one thing at one time is no relief for any parent. We do not want to make mistakes; we realize our kids are tomorrow's participants, perhaps even tomorrow's leaders.

Speaking only for myself, and as modestly as possible, all I have tried to do is help raise good people who respect others and are willing to work with anyone else to try and make things better.

The problems around us transcend sports triumphs or family birthday celebrations, of course. These are private moments, of definite meaning within our nuclear units but otherwise not at all significant in the great patterns of time, which is also one of the lessons we try to convey to our kids.

Later on, I know that none of us will necessarily remember this particular soccer victory or this particular birthday party. These are but the daily trivia of our collective present. But we are all down together in whether this year, 2009, yields a new national health care system, or an economic recovery, or a peace process in the Middle East.

None of us can ever let immediate concerns replace larger issues. Yet, none of us can afford to skip celebrating our little victories, minor though they may be, in the meantime.

So, that is simply what I am doing here tonight.

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Fall Sky Above; Uncles & Nephews Below

This is the time of year that it is good to look up at the trees and notice how they fit into the sky. Those that lose their leaves reveal their essential patterns in autumn; those that don't show their explicit skeletal shapes year-round; either way, you learn something useful about where our shade comes from.



Balboa High's soccer team now is assured that it will not have a losing season for at least the first time since 2002, and probably much longer.

This, despite losing its two top scorers due to GPA issues. It is an ongoing tragedy in America that historically under-performing groups, including Latino boys, continue to do very badly in school.

Nevertheless, the team played well today and won 5-2. Their record is now 7-3-2 with four game left. If they win two of those games, they should also make the playoffs, for the first time in memory.

Beyond winning, losing, GPAs and other issues for me today was the delightful sight of a 2 1/2-year-old nephew cheering on his 15-year-old uncle today. "Go Bal!" he shrieked in his high-pitched voice.

After the game, uncle and nephew scrimmaged for a while.



Meanwhile, the rest of the family locally showed up by game's end and his 13-year-old uncle raced across the green to embrace the little guy.

Goodnight to a Special Mother

My friend's Mom in Michigan is down to her last day or two tonight, according to an email he sent me today. She was the hard-working wife of a German Lutheran farmer, the kind of person who never complained about anything.

She grew lots of crops in her garden in the warm months, canned them for the cold months, and always had plenty to share when someone like me showed up.

Everything she served was delicious.

She had an infectious optimism, the kind of outlook that even in the midst of a long Michigan winter taught us younger ones that the sun would indeed be returning one day, warming the seeds, sending new sprouts upward, for yet another season here on earth.

Good night, Clara Kohn. May your passing be peaceful and may you rest in peace, eternally. And my love to your entire, wonderful family.

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