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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