Party Clan

(All photos by Junko Sasaki.)

It's begun. As the enormous number of details involved in pulling off a wedding of this size (latest RSVP count: 181) converge, appropriately enough, on the dwindling hours until the exchange of "I do's," much like the words, sentences, paragraphs, ledes, transitions, and kickers bury a journalist on deadline, we all -- my harried family and I -- take on the haunted look of caffeine-fueled foreign correspondents, outsiders at our own party.



I've always loved the image, so romantic, of Kipling in the window, late into the sweltering Indian night, typing his story, sipping an icy drink, savoring the tiniest of breezes, rendolent, as always of the spices of the east.

Or Conrad.

Here, in San Francisco, one of the cities where east and west mingle effortlessly, our partiers tonight were speaking their native languages -- French, Japanese, and English with some Spanish, Yiddish, and Tagalog tossed in for good luck. Just to make it an even 7 :) in terms of the languages that reached my ears, I mumbled a bit of Farsi under my breath.

I do things that way, superstitiously.

Baseball is the sport of superstition. Today, our superstitions all paid off as Barry Bonds had a day for the ages, even though his pathetic Giants lost, once again. Bonds went 3-3 with a walk, two HRs and six RBIs, 3 runs scored to break out of the worst slump of his long career. He is now only two homeruns behind Hank Aaron's all-time career record of 755.



The little boys got their tuxedos today. I want them to wear sunglasses on Saturday and pose as the Blues Brothers. They'll be escorting two flower girls each on Saturday.

***

Night time in the Mission. It's past midnight, all is quiet. Then, a sharp sound breaks the night. I know immediately it is a small caliber handgun, quite close by. Within minutes, the street is criss-crossed with cop cars, their lights rotating, an ambulence, yellow hazard tape demarkating the scene, but no additional sounds. Officers walk here and there with flashlights and cameras.

A couple was robbed at gunpoint, something went awry. A gun was fired, a man was hit in his side or maybe only his arm. His companion, a woman, was unharmed. The two victims fled south; the gunman fled north. The Chinese couple across the way saw all three; I saw no one.

But they stayed inside, whereas I went out front to talk with the police. I gave a statement and my name, address, phone number. My philosophy as a citizen is the same as my approach to blogging. No secrecy, no lies. If they catch the guy, my evidence will be only marginaly helpful, but since I know the Chinese couple, perhaps I can eliccit some useful information if it comes to that.

This morning, up early, I walked the streets, searching for a bullet that may have eluded the police. I did not find that but I did find three splotches of blood between here and there, where the victim collapsed down the street.

***

It's hot in the city. You don't need clothes, you don't need blankets, you don't need the windows closed, and you certainly don't need gunshots. But all stories have their own arc; I am only the witness.

Life, death, hope, love, sex, happiness, loss and gain all converge around us. The air is heavy, the fog is light. The day is sweet, and so is the night. Nothing is wrong and nothing is right. Once I was blind but now I have sight.

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