Saturday Heat

Summer keeps coming back around here; if it weren't for worries about global warming, we might enjoy this more than we are, so far.



Still, as humans also tend to live in the moment when we can, this is rather nice. By early evening, all of our windows and doors can be open, we can dress lightly, and whatever sweet smells remain in the trees and bushes in this area drift heavily on the early night air.



Saturdays, still, for a bit, are soccer days. Today, my 13-year-old and his teammates lost their first playoff game, 3-1, to the Maroon Team. Then, they watched when the Green Team beat the Maroons, 1-0. Then, in the third game, our guys whipped the Green Team, 2-0.




So, if you've been able to track all of this, all three teams finished the day with a record of 1-1. Under the rules, the top two teams are determined by goals. So, the final standings are:

Maroon 3-2
Fusion(us) 3-3
Green 1-2




Therefore, our guys are going to the championship game next Saturday, against (of course) the Maroon Team.



You know, if you are easily deluded, this column could easily be interpreted as about kids' sports. But it's worth remembering that along the sidelines are the parents. This one is trying to survive cancer. That one is a widow, because her husband committed suicide. This couple has just fallen part. That one is getting divorced. That guy just lost his job. So did that woman. This guy's wife is having psychological problems. He can never stop worrying. This woman's ex is drinking heavily, and she can never stop worrying.

Maybe one cliche that contains a grain of truth is "there is no free lunch." If you interpret this metaphorically, none of us get out of here alive.

Therefore, as we stand on the sidelines and cheer our children on, maybe what we are really doing is living in our moment, even as it more obviously their moment, that of our precious sons.

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The Time of Meaning

"Yesterday everything was going too fast
Today, it's moving too slow..."




You know it's a weird week when one of the highlights was being served a subpoena in your second divorce. It's the start of the holiday season here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, which means no one is hiring anybody.



But I did have a nice meeting with my buddy, Richard, one of the most brilliant people in Silicon Valley (hands down), and he encouraged me to continue developing my ideas about how to save the traditional journalistic values that I have always held dear.



This is a rough patch for journalists, as you may have gathered. You could say we are in a Bear market, not a Bull. Around here, hundreds of journalists have lost their jobs this year, courtesy of downsizing at the San Francisco Chronicle and the San Jose Mercury News.




Newspaper people can be forgiven if they feel the rest of us, in this society, have not only taken them for granted, but abandoned them in their hour of greatest need.




The tragedy of it all is that we are the ones who need them. Without reporters, locally, regionally, and nationally, and globally, we are doomed. We cannot have "democracy" without the checks and balances of an aggressive press.

Investigative reporters are the truest of heroes in a democratic society.

But this one is not heaaded toward greater democratization. Since 9/11, we are headed in the opposite direction.

Enough. Why did I "enjoy" getting served? Because my buddy Carol handled the dirty deed. It's always nice to see a friend, even under the grimmest of circumstances...


"...It always means so much
Even the softest touch."

--Standing in the Doorway
Bob Dylan, 1997

The Meaning of Time

Human life proceeds on two tracks: structured or unstructured.



The structured life includes a regular job, with the requisite regularized schedule, and a regular home. You always know where you are going and why.



The unstructured lives are led by everyone else. Maybe you have a job but no stable home. Or, maybe you have a place to live, but no stable job.



In the case of this second group, the perceptions of time vary greatly. If you do not have to be anywhere specific on a certain day, you might find yourself wandering about, talking to yourself.



Odd thoughts may flood your disengaged brain.



Ideas that challenge the normal order of things.

Artists vs. bureaucrats?

Maybe. Probably. Then again, I'm not quite sure.

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Halloween: A Photo Essay

What if they gave a Halloween and nobody came?



That's what happened in the Castro District tonight.



Those at the center of our city's main craziness the past quarter-century simply did not show up tonight.



There were clusters of cops on every corner, but no revelers. Zero!



Thus, Halloween here, like in most places, reverted to what it used to be -- a kids' night out.



And, out there they were, in impressive numbers in neighborhoods like family-friendly Bernal Heights.



My guys came home with bags full of goodies, as well as a bunch of money raised for Unicef. Still, it was a decidedly low-key night, compared to years past. Some things do change, it turns out.

For those of us old timers, who remember, for example the Polk Street scene in the early '70s (before there even was a Castro), the wildest times have indeed passed.

Now, around here, it feels more like the '50s in Detroit's suburbs, where I grew up. Only difference is I don't see any of those sweet wax mustaches and lips anymore.

That's a pity. Those things tasted so good!

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Night of the Druids

John Kerry walked into a bar.

"Why the long face?" asked the bartender.

You may think this one of the oddest pumpkins you've ever seen displayed on Halloween. I like him. I voted for him. His nick is johnkerry san, which is pronounced "John Kaylie San." He once was almost the President of the U.S.



This morning, with lights low (thus the fuzzy image), my newly minted 9-year-old waved to me from her place in the Halloween Band.

Children told jokes, like this one:

Q: "What does a skeleton say when he's about to start eating a meal?"

A: "Bon appetit!"

***

There was a request for jokes from adults, as long as they were not R-rated, and damn it to hell if I couldn't think of single fucking one. Here's the one that popped into my mind (courtesy of Garrison Keillor.)

The chicken and the egg were lying back on the bed, spent, smoking cigarettes.

The egg said, "Well, I guess that answers that question!"

Keillor was a columnist for us at Salon.com. For some reason, he insisted that we all call him "Mister Blue," which was his pseudonym. My buddy David Talbot's genius included getting people like Mister Blue onto our site. Every time I visit a bookstore, I see another Salonista in print.

Recently, I ran into the brilliant Gary Kamiya, who has one of the most startlingly original writing voices I have ever encountered in real life, walking with his lovely wife, Kate Moses, whom I first met at California magazine ~17 years ago, and their daughter, Celeste. Kate was (and is) an extremely serious student of literature, and several years ago, she published an excellent book about Sylvia Plath, which you can eaasily locate by searching Google or Amazon.

I first met David Talbot's lovely wife, Camille Peri, a very long time ago indeed. My memory grows hazy but I am guessing some 26 years ago when I was teaching a writing course for U-C, extension. There were two true writers in that class of 30 or so adults, and Camille was one of them.

She and David got married not long before Connie and I got married. I don't think I'm talking out of school by saying the minister who married them counseled them before hand that their marriage stood only a low chance of surviving.

Happily, he was wrong.

The minister that married Connie and me expressed concern that I already had three children from my first marriage, and that matters were not well enough resolved for them to attend our wedding. In retrospect, that minister (a woman) was right. Our marriage was doomed from the start, though neither of us realized it then.

Such is life. Tragedies abound. Love is a difficult situation in which to find yourself. Someone is almost guaranteed to get hurt. Don't read me wrong. I am a big fan of love, despite my history of relationships that ultimately failed.

As much as I hate cliches, there's one I can support:

"Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

Getting There

News Break: Around 20 minutes ago, we had an earthquake here in Northern California. It measured 5.6 on the Richter scale, and felt unusually strong here in the Mission district.



Beauty's all around, even as winter has struck this region. Northern California is strange. The seasons are all out of synch here, from a Midwesterner's perspective. Summer is cold and foggy; late Spring and early Fall are hot and sunny; then the rainy season takes over (or doesn't, in a drought year) and it's quite a dark, chilled Wintry world we inhabit.



You know it's not really your day when your cell phone rings while your jaw is getting numb in the dentist's chair, prior to repair of yet another loose filling, and it's your wife's lawyer, letting you know papers have been filed and you'll be served tomorrow.



Oh well, divorces are never fun, and better when you're unemployed, with time on your hands, than when you are in high demand, with nary a moment to yourself.



Still, after a separation of four or five years, it's simply the natural progression of things. Yet, a sense of sadness will remain. There is no doubt that when a marriage has failed, the world gets a little dimmer.



Why? Because some of us actually believe in love. But fewer of us achieve it, or are able to sustain the relationships born of love.



And then, of course, there are the children, but that subject is too sad for words, and always will be.



Today, I also had the distinctly unpleasant chore of exploring the "unemployment insurance benefits" in this jurisdiction. It's sobering to realize that the state only feels responsible to make up one-eighth of your previous income.



I suppose one is expected to gather one's food from the parks and median strips, where edible weeds grow; to take on roommates; and cut back on all non-essentials.

I wonder how the rich guys feel -- you know the type. The ones who run companies, hiring and firing people at will, without any concern whatsoever happens to those who so loyally served them over the years. Do they sleep well at night?

Of course, because no one can touch them; no one can destroy the careful balance a person tries to maintain between home and work. They just go on, living their gilded lives, shaking their heads at how everyone else turns out.


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Sometimes my burden seems more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

-- Not Dark Yet by Bob Dylan

The Day My Grandfather Arrived

24 January, 1923



Built by Germania Werft, Kiel, Germany, 1908. 8,072 gross tons; 449 (bp) feet long; 54 feet wide. Steam quadruple expansion engines, twin screw. Service speed 13.5 knots. 1,260 passengers (100 first class, 1,160 third class).

Built for Anchor Line, British flag, in 1921 and renamed Assyria. Glasgow-New York service. Built as YPIRANGA for Hamburg-American Line. Sold to Companhia Colonial, Portuguese flag; renamed COLONIAL in 1929.


As listed at the Ellis Island site.



Ship's Manifest



First Name: Alexander Mc Kechnie
Last Name: Anderson
Ethnicity: Britain, Scotch
Last Place of Residence: Eaglesham, Scotland
Date of Arrival: Jan 24, 1923
Age at Arrival: 37y
Gender: M
Marital Status: M
Ship of Travel: Assyria
Port of Departure: Glasgow
Manifest Line Number: 0004

Note: Thank you, Anonymous, with leading me to this information. Anyone else whose relatives immigrated to America should check out this site, which has 25 million records.

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Eyes of the Immigrants

So many of us here in America arrived from somewhere else. Or, our parents did, or our grandparents. As we settle in, we remake this land. One of my favorite spots on the continent, in this context, is the Immigrant Museum on the Lower East Side of New York, which charts the history of the Jewish immigrants who built the garment industry in that great city.

Then there are the twin coastal points of entry -- Ellis Island in New York, where the records of my Scottish grandfather may be preserved -- and Angel Island, here in San Francisco Bay, where so many Asians first came ashore.

The stories of our ancestors are written on the walls or in the books at such places, though their real stories probably remain well between the lines. It has not always been safe to tell your true story, and in fact, it remains so to this day.

Have you heard of Paper Sons? Those are the Chinese immigrants who arrived here during the many decades when it was illegal for Chinese to come unless they were related to someone already here.

If you happen to know anyone in Chinatown, you probably know a grandchild of just such a Paper Son. This was a person who assumed another identity, in order to get here.

Our country has been built by people with the courage and chutzpah to break the rules and create opportunities.

May it always be so!

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Birthday Number Nine

Every week or so, a new article appears here or there about the significance of birth order, i.e., the characteristics of oldest (or only) kids, middle kids, and younger kids. Science being what it is, and pop psychology being what it is, it's probably too much to hope for insight into a cluster of kids greater than three; that is, whatever subtleties differentiate kids 2-9, for example.

One of the things that's obvious to all of us adults but not necessarily to children is that the youngest child can never catch up to those who came previously. (S)he is stuck permanently as the youngest in the family. My father was the youngest child of six (equally split boys and girls.) The only one of his 14 grandchildren he never met is my youngest daughter, who this weekend has been celebrating her ninth birthday.

My Dad died of a massive stroke a few hours before he was supposed to meet her. We'd flown across the country, and we were all looking forward to the occasion. I'm sure he was anticipating that moment the most of all. But he didn't get to experience it. I kissed him goodbye just a tender few hours before the reunion was to have taken place.

Instead of being held by her grandpa, Julia was present at his funeral. At two months+ of age, she had no way of knowing how closely they had missed meeting, passing ships in the night. He left as she arrived.



Now, she's a big little girl, probably the child with the sunniest personality of all of my kids. She amazes me in all sorts of ways. She's not only happy, lovely, smart, charming, kind, and funny; she's empathic, sensitive, powerful, and brave.

At her birthday party at a public swimming pool, she was the first girl to try the water slide; later, the first to try the rope swing. Her friends chanted, "Julia, Julia, Julia" as she grasped the rope and swung out over the pool.



Watching her do this, and more, my eyes filled with tears. I know my father would have been proud. She knows that I am, too.

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Friday's Apple is Saturday's Virgin

Michi & Jeff

The cold and rains persisted into this weekend in New York, driving us and our friends inside for a warm meal on Columbus Avenue. From the park west, this is the first of three great boulevards (the others being Amsterdam Ave. and Broadway) that run the length of this residential area, and they are all chock full of restaurants and shops.


Junkikun

Earlier Friday was out biannual Nation edit board meeting -- always a highlight of my year. This year, progressives are anticipating next year's national elections, and the opportunity for a strong Democratic sweep of both the White House and Congress.

It's been a while, since Clinton won in 1992, that the more progressive of the two centrist parties that control the U.S. government has had this good a chance to consolidate power. It's been pretty much all Bush all the time this millennium so far.



Fred enjoyed his subway rides, but what really got him going was...




...reading the first edition of the country's oldest and best news magazine. The year was 1865, and the Civil War has just concluded. President Lincoln had been murdered. It was a time to rebuild the nation.

***

Saturday, I rode Virgin America back to this coast. Fred's namesake, CEO Fred Reid, was again onboard. (Maybe he takes every Virgin flight?) No Presidential candidates this time, however. Just a boatload of folks happy to shed their winter coats to let in California's sunshine.

For me, it was a most special date, the 9th birthday of my youngest child. More on that soon...

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