In the Heat; In the Night

As the heat has settled in over this city last night, today, and tonight, my windows are open and the redolence of jasmine and other plants drifts casually in on a soft western breeze.

People's voices also slip through the bars that guard my apartment from the threats of a previous era. This neighborhood feels safe nowadays. Despite the prolonged recession, we know how to cope.

My youngest knows so little about my past. Last night, she discovered (in her words) that I am "famous." She had only been vaguely aware of my journalistic past -- the articles, awards, books, screenplays, speeches, and the rest -- all of which, apparently, equates to "fame," whereas to me it equates only to "work."

If you work you accomplish things. It's as simple as that. If your work happens to be in the field of journalism, from time to time something you do draws widespread attention. I suppose that equates to "fame."

But if the reason you did that work was to seek fame, you are a fraud. So the concept of fame carries a decidedly mixed message to journalists. Of course, some of the most famous people in present day America are positioned as journalists, but frankly if you know their name, they probably aren't.

More likely they have a pretty face, are good at reading teleprompters, and over-estimating their role as witnesses (not participants!) in the great events of our time.

Alas, the great evil (television) has propelled many exhibitionists (as opposed to journalists) into the public eye.

So, you can perhaps appreciate that according to my code, the last thing I want my precious daughter to conclude is that I am "famous."

Yet she is 12, and she has to interpret the world as she can, and I know in her eyes, whether I am "famous" or a bum in the gutter, either way, I'm her Dad, and that is all that really matters.

We have no confusion over things like that.

She wants a new pair of boots, and here I have been struggling as a father. I don't know where they sell women's boots, exactly. We went to Ross. No luck. Then to Nordstrom Rack. Again, no luck.

Now where? This is when it is frustrating to not have a woman around. I'm a fairly clueless shopper, only going where women have taught me to go, as in the above examples.

But no woman lives here. Nor will one ever again. It's just me, so my daughter is stuck with our collective ignorance. But I'm sure we will find out where they sell boots one of these days. Maybe, as I suggested to her today, this is the wrong season for boots.

At that, she raised an eyebrow at me. As a native San Franciscan, she well knows we are headed into our coldest season -- summer. What boot vendor around here wouldn't know that, too, Dad?

In other words, being famous doesn't mean you can't still say something pretty obviously stupid from time to time. :) I'm glad we got that straight, so that I can go back to just being me.

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