Ice Age Cometh

Do you remember that character named Dunbar from Joseph Heller's Catch 22? He was the guy who always walked backwards. For a while when I was in college in Ann Arbor in the late '60s, I occasionally used his technique to cut into the registration office, rather than wait in a long line; or to sneak into a movie theatre.

The idea is that whoever is checking sees only the back of you as you enter and that that is so counter-intuitive that (s)he simply cannot process this information quickly enough amidst all the other comings and goings to prevent you from having your way in the matter.

It was nothing more than a youthful phase; I got tired of the game after it worked too well, and my conscience kicked in. I've never been much of a cheater; cheap thrills leave me pretty cold, alas. But these days, I often feel as if I may be walking backwards through life, and I'm not exactly sure why.

There may not have been smoke on the water this morning but there sure as hell was ice on my car. The fat little control man from PG&E was standing out front, waiting for each of us pathetic working residents to emerge sleepily from our flats, our laptops tethered to our shoulders, as we march off to another day's work in the digital salt mines.

Actually, all he cared about was that we moved our cars, so his army in waiting could get back to work destroying our street. But I fooled him good. I emerged, yes, but only to fire up my metal lunchbox, defrost blasting, before retreating to the warmth of my breakfast table (coffee, cinnamon toast, the Chronicle*), while my car shed its icy coating.

(*) Congratulations, Phil, on the birth of your son this past weekend.


So, the ice melted off my Saturn in the bright winter sun, and the day proceeded to proceed as all days tend to, and so on and so forth. By night, on my way north to what Herb Caen used to call Baghdad by the Bay (he'd roll over in his grave if he had to contemplate what that actually means in the George W. Bush era), I received an unexpected phone call from my 8-year old princess that tonight was the school's annual holiday show, and that meant, of course, that her 12-year-old brother would be performing as one of the relatively few boys in the school choir.

If only in my Dad's memory (he loved choir singing), I knew had to rearrange my evening plans and attend this performance. I'd been planning to go to my final night as part of a group meeting on Bernal Hill, and then to a holiday party for one of my favorite startups in the East Bay, but instead, I parked the car, untethered myself from my laptop, quick-checked the mail, said hi to my 25-year-old son, who was also getting ready to head out for his evening, and set out in the general direction of my little kids' school.

It's a mile or so from here, and the night chill actually felt good. After all, as my children and lovers can attest, I am a walking "human furnace," with a metabolism that burns hot night and day. Peter and I walked to the Valencia Corridor, where he went his way and I went mine. It was a nice show, with songs in Hebrew, Yiddish, Latin, English, and African-Americanism.

Afterward, I walked back alone through the Mission. I saw lots of photo ops this night, but I wasn't in the mood to shoot them. I'm not sure anyone much likes my Sidewalk Images blog anyway, so maybe I should shelve my questionable photographic impulses and stick to what in Silicon Valley we call our "core competency," which, if not writing, is at least a rambling sort of story-telling, right?


The walk home, another mile, now felt colder, though I still wasn't bothered, really. I thought of how different it is to walk alone at night than with a woman by my side. A woman would be shivering, which is an excellent excuse to put my arm around her. Her face, her hands, her feet, and her butt would all be very cold, covered or uncovered. These extremities all present their own opportunities for a helpful hand, so to speak, on the walk or later on, back home.

But I digress. Tonight, regrettably, no woman was walking by my side. I was, as always these nights, quite alone. I saw many magical shapes and lights in these dark streets, however. As I approached the landing strip in front of my place, I saw that Peter had been following a parallel course, arriving home seconds before I did. Like father, like son.

Since I'd stopped by El Matate, my absolute all-time favorite neighborhood taqueria, and bought two items -- a super chicken burrito (with guacamole and sour cream) and a half pint of fresh guacamole -- we had some goodies to share.

Did I mention that I crave guacamole these days?

Suffice it to say we ate like kings, sharing these delicacies. Then, true to his stage in life, Peter went out clubbing, and I settled in to writing this blog.

***

Tomorrow, I intend to list some non-profit, grassroots groups in Mississippi that could really use donations of any size this holiday season to help with their hurricane recovery work. I hope that everyone who reads my words will consider making some sort of donation, however modest.

The first month of this year I had the privilege of surveying people in East Biloxi as part of an effort to distribute some aid to them. One question was about their annual household income. Most of them make between $10,000 and $20,000 a year.

So you can easily see how a donation of $25 or $50 could make a real difference to people living at that standard of living, especially now that most of them do not even have a real home to call their own, but only a temporary shelter like a FEMA trailer or a crowded room in the home of a relative.

I hope that anybody who has found any measure of comfort from my writing will give this season to the groups I identify tomorrow. I will be doing so myself.

Happy Hanukkah. Merry Christmas. May there be peace on earth, finally.

It is about time.

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