Influence the Space

The Townie

2011-11-03T16:29:00.000-07:00

The Townie

Don't get me wrong. I can admire Ben Affleck's unshaven face like the next guy. I don't mind watching him walk the streets in his assortment of hoodies, brooding beneath his five o'clock shadow. If I did mind, or if you mind, forget "The Town," because Affleck's character Doug does this a lot. He hoofs about Charlestown Massachusetts looking good and feeling conflicted, all while wearing the de rigueur outfit of his fellow townies, though his, like his temperament, is comprised of more refined stuff, less outright sports apparel and more post-adolescent menswear, the kind he might don on a date to a fancy restaurant with, I don't know, a pretty assistant bank manager he robbed?

See, Doug's different. He's different than Other Guys, but he's also different from the guys he grew up with, too, the guys he's still hanging out and robbing banks with. He's also different than his bank-robbing father, and all the other criminals who call Charlestown home. Because Charlestown's legacy, it turns out, its claim to infamy—about which we learn in the film's opening credits—is thieving. Armed- and bank- robbery, to be specific, has a disproportional preponderance of occurring in, of all places, Charlestown, Massachusetts—aka The Town. Doug's a handsome-ass man, he's a criminal by birthright, and he's different. He's a nice bank robber. He doesn't want to hurt anybody.

In the opening scene, upon which the story pivots, it's nice bank robber Doug who tells the assistant bank manager in his nice take-your-time voice to take her time, as she trembles over the safe's combination while he and his posse wield semi-automatic weaponry over her head. See, Doug cares. He robs banks because, well, that's all he knows. If you're a kid like Doug, raised up in The Town, you rob banks. It's in the blood, like mining coal in West Virginia. We should understand Doug. Sensitive, conflicted bank robber, we're on your side!

And, Doug looks good. Did I mention that? He may not be mean, but he's lean. He demonstrates why in a scene in which we witness his brisk push-ups and pull-ups, à la Clubber Lang. Bank robber is ripped! Affleck also directs, and I always wonder. How are such vanity scenes actually shot? Okay, boys, I’m going to get up on the pull-up bar now and start cranking 'em out. Make sure to get in low, and get me from the crotch up. That's when I really look ripped! Make sure to highlight my lower abs, and don't make me have to shoot me again, these moves are hard. Lights!

Two nights later, I stumbled upon "Heat" with Robert De Niro, and thank god I did. Only then did I realize: "The Town" is a legacy piece on another level. It's an homage, another Hollywood vehicle where the savviest, most professional of all men are really criminals. And what do they really want? What we all really want, the love of a good woman. Duh! So profound is this need, for thief or honest man, we are asked to overlook what these men do for a living. Forget that they scare the bejeezus out of people, threaten, kill and steal from them. Forget that! They're handsome, dammit, and they need love. Where's your compassion?

In "The Town," Doug's feisty bank robber best friend (a menacing Jeremy Renner) gets wild (someone always does) during the robbery and in so doing decides he must take a hostage. You guessed right, it's the foxy assistant bank manager (Rebecca Hall) that Doug fell in love with as he coaxed her into dialing up the numbers of the bank vault without soiling her pretty panties. The gang lets her go, unharmed and unmolested, but soon discovers she lives too close to the gang's 'hood, and is therefore a Big Problem. Bad Bank Robber wants to kill her; Nice Bank Robber says he'll handle it. This is movie code for: I will now spend the rest of the film charming her into scratching my back tattoos during coitus.

Which begs the question: how big is Charlestown Massachusetts, anyway? This babe poses a should-be-killed problem because she lives nearby, but what about everybody else who keeps getting robbed in The Town? Who would keep living there, for crying out loud? It's raining thieves! And why do these savvy bank robbers keep robbing (for decorum's sake, I won't use another phrase) in their own backyards? I know one thing, if I lived in Charlestown, I'd do my banking in Mystic River. They got other issues, but my money would be safe.

The current trend of romantic efflorescence between participants in which one is hiding something from the other continues in "The Town," an engaging trope. The audience is smug knowing what the heroine doesn't about Doug. The key problem is why would this hot, virtuous woman fall so quickly for this dude, his handsomeness and hoody collection notwithstanding? He's not shy about guarding something from his past, and, doesn't she realize she lives in a town full of bank robbers?

Nevertheless, she falls hard enough for Nice Criminal Doug that even though he betrays her, she still holds a candle for that inexplicable love (was it the tats?), a tiny flame that gives her no trouble whatever in accepting the stolen money he leaves her after skipping town. I don't mean to be a stickler (okay, sure I do), but wasn't she once an assistant bank manager prepared to die defending its greenbacks?

In the end (spoiler alert?), we see handsome Ben, like Bobby De Niro before him, free but alone, gazing out over a melancholic vista. Don't we feel for him? Bank robbers are people too, you know.

Soundtrack For A Revolution

2010-01-20T12:27:00.000-08:00

No, I didn't want to write about "The Bachelor." But I did. Then, I watched some "American Idol."

This flavor of reality show would be equally intolerable except that many of the contestants are downright regular-normal, as my mother might say. Watching the auditions, which, I admit, I did last season as well, is a treat, truly, because the power of music, specifically song, trumps whatever TV hooha surrounds it. And despite the bizarre rudeness sometimes displayed by the judges--getting up from the table for a break while a final judgment is taking place, while the nervous kid still stands there, a golden ticket receiver, no less?--even they are often palatable, to a degree, as when "Evil" Simon (man is he riding that to the bank) says something like "I like you too, I like your energy," or Randy squawks a "Broham!" or the women, in this case Cara (who is she anyway?) and Anorexia Spice, I mean Victoria Beckam, veritably swoon. Song, and singing, can be like that. A kid gets up in front of you and out of that sweet face comes a songbird soul that can move the unmovable. It's the power, the essence of art. As I've said before, it's the only thing that really separates us from the other animals. A painting, for example, can move you, make you feel, and a song, well, songs can go straight into that emotional core wherein all the best things of humanity live. Not even weirdo American TV practices can mess that up. At least, not too badly. Those American Idol judges, they don't realize how good they've got it. Go ahead and roll your eyes, Evil Simon, but you get the opportunity, king-like, to sit on your arse and have an eager flock perform for you. And I'm here to tell you, many of those pure offerings, no matter how few, are pure gold. I'd love that gig. For shiz.

But no! I didn't really want to write about all that, the above (and the previous post) notwithstanding. But music, yes, that's something to write about. Rather than write about the irksome, let's Influence this Space with what inspires. And that's something else I saw last week, a documentary film called "Soundtrack For A Revolution."

A friend named Dylan Nelson is one of the producers and she invited me to a screening at the Embarcadero theatre. Attentive, diverse crowd in attendance, along with both directors and other producers, including executive producer Danny Glover, who joined them all up front afterward for Q and A, made for just the sort of *special screening* I like. Message to the world: invite me! I'm your champion. (For things I like and support, that is.)

The film's about the civil rights movement, a topic not undocumented, and I must admit I wasn't overly excited, at first, by the subject matter. I've been fortunate in my life, because of where I'm from and my age, to learn a lot about this time period and its impact on our American lives. I was intrigued, however, by the music. Both aspects, the topic and the music, happily, were well presented and inspiring. When the film was over, I realized there can be no limit to the retelling of the civil rights movement's story. Especially, when done so well. It's a story, indeed, that must be retold, again and again, so it's legacy is always fresh in our minds.

And the music. The central theme of this retelling is that the music was a sustaining, if not the sustaining force in all the actions the protesters, freedom fighters, etc. participated in. When they needed strength, they sang. When they needed a group to pull together, to finish a meeting in solidarity, they sang. When they were happy, when they were afraid, they sang. Song, therefore, was fundamental to liberation. To revolution. Soundtrack For A Revolution.

As part of this film, the creators asked musicians like John Legend, Mary Mary, Blind Boys Of Alabama, Wyclef Jean, and others, to perform, at intervals throughout, a version of one of these important songs. The result, in addition to the footage, new and familiar, and the strong interviews, adds an essential element to the otherwise familiar story. What a treat to watch these musicians, in private studio sessions, perform. Their songs reveal this quality of the human soul, and we feel the power. A power we can use to rise above obstacles as mean as racial oppression.

The film also did something I haven't seen in previous films, for example "Eyes On The Prize." Along with new footage of MLK, Jr. that I appreciated, it showed the wide range of people involved in the movement, old and young, black and white. It was moving to see the solidarity that existed among people of all colors who considered this issue, as we all should, a "no-brainer," as one of the producers, a participant in the movement more than forty years ago, and white, called it. He said he hasn't before, or since, had such a clear understanding of something he would give his life for. A cause worth dying for. MLK, Jr. preached about how fundamental that concept is to understanding the value of life, to know what you'd offer yours for.

The battles of the civil rights movement were being fought only forty years ago. And, despite the larger victories, MLK, Jr. was killed, as were so many others. We can never forget, especially the fact that this is something--human equality--that had to be fought for in America, where all men (and women) are, supposedly, created equal. Remember. And, remember that it took faces of all colors, many of them blended, to, these forty years later, elect a President with a black African father and a white American mother. There is no overstating this triumph, this significant moment, just as there can never be too much said, written and remembered about the heroes of the civil rights movement. Thank you for what you did for all of us. Thanks for the Soundtrack.

First, On "The Bachelor"

2010-01-17T14:15:00.000-08:00

I break the (typical) silence with a screed about "The Bachelor." Read at your own risk.

Despite my occasional interest in the reality TV phenomenon, a confession made easier when a friend described it that way, a phenomenon, at once acknowledging the absurdity and offering a less guilty rationale for watching, I still, like any thinking person, find it pathetic. Especially examples like "The Bachelor."

Ah, the myriad sources of writing inspiration.

In short, some boob named Jake, a pilot, a fact which seems to render everybody semi-gaga, as if, as a pilot (no way!), he flies to Caribbean islands and lives a life of glamour, (reality show reality check: pilots fly other people to these places), is the next contestant trying to find "true" love and a wife from among twenty-five TV producer selections. This Jake, with his toned abdominal muscles that we, the lucky American audience, were treated to, soft porn style, as he showered before meeting the phenomenal harem of mostly good-looking, quasi-interesting women, is a well-meaning pussy.

The concept of "The Bachelor" would be more fun if they didn't make such a big deal out of the "true" love element. Everybody, and I mean everybody, particularly this pilot named Jake, gets watery-eyed when they talk about their reasons for being on the show, how they're "ready for love" and copious amounts of other hooey. The irony, per usual, seems to be lost on everybody. Sure, the possibility exists that, given such an opportunity, a love connection (where are you, Chuck Woolery) could happen. Indeed, in a way, we all go through our twenty-five, or five, or whatever number, interviewing, if you will, for something more. My skills would've gone up markedly if some of those "interviews," TV Bachelor style, were on all-expense paid set-up dates to exotic locales. It's just those darn cameras. Could you turn that off for a second while I discover my life partner?

How can these people really believe anything close to love can happen under these circumstances? The answer is: they can't. It's a farce. Oh, you already knew that? Sorry. Unless, that is, they're delusional. And some of these people, including Jake, seem a bit, um, sweet. As in, people who might not truck with irony.

This was evidenced by Jake, handsome though he is, genuine though he seems to be, voting off, or, as the case may be, not giving a rose to the one woman who actually seemed like a real, composed (and beautiful) person. All the rest, specifically the ones he did give roses to, seemed either ditzy or shadowy or way too young or, as in the case of one "contestant," not even there for Jake but for any staffer who wanted to have a good time. In fact, she's the most real of them all, because she's hip to the gimmickry and decided to get her hump on while at the same time flirting with a good-looking pilot (wow!) on TV at a pimp mansion in L.A. with twenty-four other women. Get some, Rozlyn! This "jezebel," who had already received one of Jake's roses, was asked to leave the house, and the show, immediately for her transgressions by host Chris Harrison, another serious boob, with repugnant gravity. His dour overtures regarding misconduct and the fact that this had "never happened before in the history of the show," were silly.

How do people swallow so much baloney? Even if it is "reality TV" masquerading as "sincerity TV"? America: still an Oscar Mayer society.

Still, I'd take a crack at twenty-five women claiming, however disingenuously, to want to fall in love and marry me. What a fantasy show! Where's Mr. Roarke?

Glenn Beck

2009-12-22T14:46:00.000-08:00

This fool. (See picture in previous post, with tongue.) I've never seen his Fox News show, and I'm not familiar with his antics, or even him. But I read about something he said that was so inane, so ridiculous that I had to take a photograph of the text, and even engage in petty larceny.

This fool got me so pissed, he and he alone is responsible for holding up the Influence for these many weeks. And for that, I hurt. And I apologize. Seems his brand of livelihood, his "Extreme talk," is so effective he can even keep people from criticizing him because, well, we're so mad. How ironic! Anger's supposedly his bag. He employs the "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore" philosophy, the exact one I'd like to invoke when considering him. Am I stooping to his level when I say: Asshole?

Here's what he said: Obama "has a deep-seated hatred for white people." What? But here's what really takes the cake. He adds that this doesn't mean he actually thinks "Obama doesn't like white people."

What kind of bullshit doublespeak is that?

Supposedly, according to this Time article (Sept 28, 2009), which, I admit, I pilfered from the hospital waiting room where I discovered it, Beck often says, "I'm afraid. You should be afraid too."

You know who we should be afraid of? Him! Fox News! That's probably the most irksome aspect of any of this Fox News stuff, of the Limbaughs, the Becks--you know, the assholes--their penchant for telling us to be afraid. We should be afraid of them!

Please forgive this apostrophe-laden rant which, I realize, will not be the most elegant piece of writing as a consequence. But at least I'm getting to it because I've been stewing for weeks and I felt I couldn't post anything new until I dealt with this Beck Situation. So. I'm doing it. Now I can move on!

Thank God for Stephen King, quoted in the article for calling Beck "Satan's mentally challenged younger brother."

See, I just don't get it. These powerful talking heads say they have America at heart, and Americans in their best interests, but I don't see it. What I see is them fomenting vitriol (there's a potent word combo) and making money--LOTS of money--while taking ZERO responsibility for what they're doing to America, which is fucking it up. Sorry, but that's the best way I can think to phrase it. Fucking it up by doing one thing, and then claiming to be doing another. That is, saying they're on the side of "ordinary hard-working Americans" when, in fact, they're only on one side, and that one side is: their own. They don't care that there are people out there who listen to their programs--Glenn Beck supposedly has 3 million viewers--who are now considering this fallacious slander that Obama doesn't like white people. Wait. Scratch that. He likes white people, but he has a "deep-seated hatred" for them. What crap.

This issue is sensitive to me--and I think it should be to everyone, really--because I know people who watch Fox News. And I want to talk with these people, I want to have a meeting of the minds, to the extent we can, and I want, in my heart of hearts, for people in the country to really talk about their varying ideas. But the fomenting bullshit proffered by Beck, and Limbaugh, and that other asshole I've yet to mention, Sean Hannity, does NOTHING but divide us. I cannot believe how we perpetuate division in this country!

The Republicans are so resolute in their present obstructionist ways, the congress can make no progress about anything right now, namely healthcare. But why? Embarrassment over the Bush years? At the end of the day, the evaluation that must be made about George W. Bush and his administration is clear: terrible. This isn't up for debate, really. If a sports team plays poorly, even if it's your team, at some point you have to admit: we're bad. So why are Republicans doing what they're doing, as if to "get" Obama for winning the election? It's stupid, and it's unproductive. What they should get is better. Period. Contrary to popular belief (and U.S. history?) politics is not a game. Though maybe it should be, if that meant people would play fairly. Hell, even intelligently.

I am interested in their viewpoints. (Republicans' that is, not Fox News'.) I am. Like a good liberal, I'm not afraid to say that I'm interested in all opinions. For, I realize, this doesn't make me any less patriotic or loyal to my "party," or my religion, or anything! But when people do things just to get a reaction, just to make some money, like Glenn Beck (who, by the way, apparently cries often on camera because he loves America so hard), it's wrong. It's actually creating the very thing they're telling us to worry about. The hypocrisy kills me. In any other context, I'd bust out my Uncle Walt and talk about containing multitudes at this point, but in this case, I can't.

Ok, there. I got it out. Now I can move on. To my loyal Influencers, I leave my customary apology to the end. Serious mea culpa for neglecting the Influence for so long, as I too frequently do. Grad school writing and baby having notwithstanding, I'm remiss in my duties. Thanks for your forbearance.

Fools (cont.)

2009-10-23T19:31:00.001-07:00

I'm still trying to get text to follow...

Who Are These Fools?

2009-10-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

Another remote test

2009-10-20T13:49:00.001-07:00

Still trying...

Feel it

2009-10-09T00:05:00.001-07:00

Both photos had captions. When we solve that, we're in business.

Sent from my iPhone

Dos Hombes

2009-10-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

Testing 123

2009-10-08T23:57:00.001-07:00

Harvest Moon - Cal v. Usc - October 3rd, 2009

2009-10-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

(Still hopeful, good cheer felt by all as we approach the north gate of Memorial Stadium.)

By the time the harvest moon appeared over Strawberry Canyon, the indomitable Trojans of USC, with their irksome fans, had victory in hand. Actually, they’d had it in both hands for about three hours. The harvest moon, the same one my astrology-minded friends claimed carried with it the potential for new possibilities, augured, upon its rising, not much new for the Bears. How Berkeley of me, listening to the astrologers. Maybe I should’ve knelt down and praised Jesus like practically the entire Trojan team did pre-game, en masse, in our north end zone. I’m all for praying, mind you; in fact, I added a little something in my own about the Bears, despite my firm belief that it’s poor form to ask God, or any Higher Power for that matter, for good favor in a football game. Pray for the health of your children? Indeed. Pray for touchdowns? Well, with this Cal team, I might have to modify my principles. Zero touchdowns in eight quarters. A happy fan, this does not make.

It’s probably my fault. It wasn’t my choice of boxers, or T-shirt, I don’t think, and unlike the Oregon game, I remained sanguine and positive—but not too positive—straight up to kick off. And even after kick off, when, for two or three whole minutes, it looked like the Bears might score a touchdown, the first in five quarters. Boy, were we ready to let the ‘SC fans seated behind us have it, with their snooty, high-voiced chatter, already in full swing before the game started. “We are so good,” one said to the other. “Kick it into the end zone!” the other squawked. “We should go down and dominate them.”

The worst part is, they did just that. After intercepting our 3rd down pass in the end zone, when we were less than 10 yards from scoring, a soul-crushing twist of fate which allowed the collective voices of Troy to shout us down, they took the ball from our twenty all the way down, and into, the south end zone. Wait. A whistle had blown the runner down before scoring. The officials reviewed. “Oh,” said the ‘SC fan behind us, “that was totally in. No way his knee was down.” He said this, sitting where we sat, which was at the exact opposite side of the stadium. The play happened at the southwest corner; we sat at the northeast end.

This was too much for Jeff. I was already worried about him, as if the gods, these cruel, merciless gods that enjoy only to punish Bear fans, and him most of all, had seated us directly in front of this ‘SC fan in a classic test of wills, of good versus evil.

“You can see that from over here, huh?” said Jeff, seething with sarcasm.

“You don’t know me,” said the ‘SC fan, sounding like fighting words until he added, “I know the calls. I can see the field remarkably well.” He tittered with his friend. “You’ll see.”

Jeff remained facing forward, pulling hard on an imaginary tag of skin on his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger. I hoped he didn’t keel over from apoplexy.

“After review,” announced the referee, “the ruling on the field is reversed. The runner’s knee was not down. Touchdown.” It was going to be another one of those days.

Soon, when it was 17-0, this ‘SC fan, still chattering constantly, had modified his tone and now included such concessions as “that was a nice play,” or “ooh, we should watch out for that.” A tone, I might add, that would’ve been appreciated, from a visitor at our stadium, to begin with. But who decides rules of decorum in fandom? Believe you me, Jeff was filled with internal conflict about how rankled he was at this trickster sent by the gods to torment him. I know him too well. He didn’t want to react to coyote, but coyote is tricky. He cajoles. He needles. He says: “I’m in real estate investments,” as only an ‘SC coyote can, with that air of pomposity that’s so…so…Stanford.

The footballs gods said: Jeff, have you learned from years past that by letting such a quintessential ‘SC fan get under your skin you are again setting yourself up for failure?

O ye gods. It’s just so damn hard.

("Rub their noses in it," said the above 'SC fan, disappointed that Barkley took a knee with :47 to go.)

It was also probably my fault because earlier in the day, while I was happily doing chores and preparing myself for the game, bargaining with the Universe all the while, feeling into the experience, testing to see if I could tell if I’d be walking back in the door a victor, or the somber recipient of yet another loss, I’d resigned myself to no pre-game drinking. No, I thought, I should abstain in order to preserve the victory. By remaining sober, I’ll be better able to remain equanimous, and therefore less susceptible to the vagaries of the game. Won’t lose my cool. No ‘SC trickster fans are gonna get me. But also, in a kind of religious guilt context, I worried, even believed, that rectitude could be my Golden Bear salvation. By partying before the game, weren’t we just indulging for no reason, celebrating before there was anything to celebrate?

Then there’s Joey, in the Howard Room of the Faculty Club, who spots me in conversation, noticeably without a beer in hand. In an instant, he properly assesses my vulnerability. “What do you need,” he says, in that clear way which says he’s buying. “Oh,” I reply, suddenly aware of how good the beers look, that I’ve been contemplating one for quite some time now. “How about a shot of tequila and beer?” he says. Now I’m with him at the bar. “Well--” “C’mon, fire you up a little bit.” I say sure. “Two tequila shots and two Coronas,” says Joey. The bartender pours the white alcohol into squat clear-plastic cups. “Here,” says Joey, “do a double shot. I’ve already had too much. You need it.” The bartender pours one into the other. My mind reels, racing hard to arrive at self-permission for this backtrack on plans. Now I’m seeing the shot-and-a-beer as proper take-the-edge-off, don’t-be-superstitious fan behavior. It would be silly to refuse, is what my mind arrives at. Though I know, only too well, that to get drunk, and then lose, is one of the worst things going. Not only are you saddled with the gloom of defeat, but you’re self-defeated as well, filled with existential dread, questioning such profligate behavior.

I swig down the double shot, and suck a lime. Joey winks with approval. Maybe I did it to us, Bears.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re all outside throwing the football, a good leather college model with white stripes. It’s Matt and his fifteen year-old son Drew and I, it’s Paul, it’s Jeff and Dini and Joey and we’re excited. We’re attempting circumspection, while also trying to indulge our deeper hopes that we’ll finally prevail. The vibe is so jocular, so filled with bonhomie, it’s obvious that this is really what we enjoy, being together on a football Saturday, getting ready to watch our Bears play football. And that is what’s most important. Paul collaring us in a huddle and exclaiming, as he always does, that he loves us. It fills us, as it always does, with joy and fondness and brotherhood.

And still, we don’t want it to be only this. We want to feel this, as we have, for years, years when we had no business being hopeful. But now, when we believe, (though as I write, the reasons seem just as specious as before), we want to think we actually might win. That we’re finally ready to leave behind our reputation as a team prone to terrible letdown, for one that is actually, honest-to-goodness good, and worthy of a “rivalry” with a team like USC.

And we got to enjoy the fantasy for two or three whole minutes, before the Trojans played us like a big brother. A five-years-older big brother, the one that’s getting a little tired of you trying to do what you obviously cannot yet do, and are annoying him for being blind to reality, still swinging those silly little fists.

There I was, again with some Mercers, as I was two years ago for USC at Memorial. That game, in 2007, was played in a driving, cold rain and the Bears wore Joe Roth throwback jerseys, and we all held the hope that the ghost of #12 might materialize in the hallowed Strawberry Canyon environs and save a season teetering on the brink of disaster. Nope. Even Joanne Mercer was there in that rain, all game, hopeful and then disappointed and soaked. Boy we do a lot for these Bears.

This time it was just Big E, the patriarch, sweet natured and longer-suffering than all of us, Justin, Jeff and I. When Elliot left with Justin, with only a few minutes to go in a game that had been over after the first quarter, he said to me: “Good luck in the next three weeks. That’s what really matters.” He was referring to the fact that I’ll be a new father in three weeks, more or less.

And again I’m forced to agree. He’s right. More right than we realize. Righter than just the polite thing to say. Maybe, this is what we’re here for. Not really to win, but to hope to win, to at least be in the conversation, to be together at a time when the opportunities to do so are far and few between. What’s most important, is getting together on a Saturday with your college buddies and telling them you love them, to hear about their kids, to spend some time with family and let them know you’re expecting a family of your own. What’s most important is the harvest moon and the gusting winds twisting the flags, the glowing Technicolor sunset over the scoreboard to the west, and the talk of children. Because the Trojans, with their quasi-Fascist persona, the incessant droning of horns, over and over and over, simply have our number, whether we like it or not, whether we agree with their politics, their superstitions, their arrogance and piety and false-modesty, or not. They’ve got our number.

For now. I’ll continue to hold out, you Bears, and though I write of the larger perspective, you gotta come through for us someday. Just don’t let me die before it happens. Could the gods be that cruel?

Go, you maddening sloth (amazingly, the term for a group of) Bears.

Ps: Ishi’s brain has been identified inside a cupboard in Kroeber. Jeff, we must retrieve this and make amends. Only then will the curse be lifted. You were right.

I Must Say

2009-08-19T12:20:00.000-07:00

The conclusion I come to when writing these posts is often that we, as people in community and in relationship, must actively conjure a sense of compassion for each other. Funny, how compassion seems to have become a word of the weak, the jargon of the tree-hugger; it appears in the roots of my sentence like an effeminate Buddha, gentle and seemingly powerless. Au contraire.

I write again of compassion today because of one of these pop cultural items that just screams for me to do so. Yes, I'm actually going to write about compassion for Michael Vick.

This morning I watched the "60 Minutes" interview between James Brown (CBS sports' JB) and Vick. I was filled with a sense of understanding. I was filled with--yes, I'll say it--compassion for this man.

Because I love football? No, though I do love the game. Because I always jump on the side of star athletes, thinking they get scrutinized unfairly and made examples of? No, but they do receive an unfair amount of scrutiny. For every one Kenneth Lay, there are twenty Kobe Bryants.

I felt compassion for Michael Vick because I got the sense that there was more to the story. There's always more to the story. Midway through the interview, he talks about his childhood neighborhood and its relationship with dogs. Older men had these fighting dogs, and they were respected, worthy of a kind of admiration. And the dogs? Mere symbols of their ferocity, like an accoutrement. You can see it, can't you? The police were called once and did nothing when they learned that the ruckus was due to dog fighting. Vick says that gave him a distinct understanding.

There are entire communities out there which think dog fighting is acceptable. Does that make it any less odious? No. It means that the problem goes far deeper than Michael Vick. We live in a TV-dominated society that broadcasts, nightly, UFC fights "in the octagon" that pit humans against each other just like dogs. And people act as if this is unimaginable? Sadly, all this proves is that people get more riled up about the mistreatment of animals (and I'm not saying they shouldn't) than they do about the mistreatment of humans. I sometimes watch UFC fights. It's like violence pornography. I couldn't watch a dog fight, or a cock fight, or a bull fight, but people do.

The bloodlust is human. It's real. And in the case of dogs, there are many people out there that have not had a lovely, healthy experience with another person, let alone a dog. In my own experience with the black community in the Bay Area, I've encountered many more folks who regard dogs with trepidation than with calm affection. Why should that be? Because dogs are frequently used as protection, and there isn't a lot of experience otherwise. Imagine if all your experiences with dogs was of gnashing teeth and growling. What would you conclude?

Therefore, and kudos to the Humane Society of America, using Vick as a spokesperson is a great idea. If you don't learn it, how are you supposed to know it? If you've only seen dogs paraded around your neighborhood as fighting trophy beasts, how are you supposed to know the difference? You might even sense the difference, but you don't know or understand it.

But, Michael Vick did know. At a certain point, it becomes obvious. Not to a child, maybe, though children have natural compassion for animals, but to an adult, even a callous adult who has treated dogs this way his whole life. Humans have compassion in the hearts, even when it hasn't been properly nurtured. It would take a great effort to steel your heart time and again watching dogs fight and not see it for its cruelty. They know what's up.

Michael Vick knew it wasn't right. But, he was on top of the world. He had a contract for 130 million dollars. One hundred and thirty million dollars. Just read that again. He was a playboy, a gifted athlete who didn't really need to work at it. So he had that swagger. Not Michael Jordan swagger, where talent meets determination, but the begrudging swagger carried by the guy who doesn't work hard and still comes out on top. Not this time.

Vick surrounded himself with childhood friends, his posse. He was the kid who made it, the boy king. Did anyone see City of God about the favelas of Brazil? The toughest young boy--ruthless, actually--makes it to the top. But after he's there, who really loves him? The story is one of our oldest; it's archetypal.

Yes, I can see it all very clearly. Can't you? In this society? Vick made good. In fact, not just good, he's perhaps the best they've ever seen. He's hip to bringing you all along, his friends, and because of it you all start to feel like you've got a little say, a little piece. Remember that time I beat up that punk around the corner for you? When you were nine and scrawny? But I knew you had them quicks!

Dog fighting is a part of a subculture. If members of that subculture get more influence, then the stakes climb. It's just like any syndicate. More money exchanges hands, more power and influence and prestige becomes available. In the interview, Vick alludes to this. Sure, he enjoyed some of it. Maybe a lot of it. But it looks to me that it got a little out of hand, too. That's how it goes sometimes. He was the "leader," but maybe it was all spinning out of control. Maybe he felt above reproach. There sure are a lot of people in our society who feel similarly.

Can any of us say, or really know, what goes on between people in certain communities? Who has what power, what's owed, what's feared? Why do you suppose millionaire athletes get caught up in weird violence all the time? Because violence is in those communities. I don't mean to oversimplify the matter, but that's the truth. If you go back to your old neighborhood in a Mercedes, you're going to be confronted by the other guys who are just as eager to show you what they've achieved. You're the quarterback? O.K., I'm the musician. I'm the fighter, the dealer, and others. Like the jealous. In my own North Berkeley neighborhood of the early eighties there were punks barely old enough to drive who were dealing weed, starting fights, and acting crazy. That's how it is. That's how some people forever define themselves.

Who knows, maybe your neighborhood didn't have anything like this. Perhaps for this reason it's more difficult to understand, more difficult to find compassion. I guess that's why it's important to write about, because compassion needs to be fueled by understanding, and that comes from learning. Because Vick is a human being and he made mistakes. (Seems this statement is made a lot these days.) We all have. And he seems to have learned a big lesson from his mistakes. Sometimes, that's what it takes, to finally get caught, to finally look at yourself in the mirror and say: fool, you knew that wasn't right. Now look at yourself. After that, you're never the same. A moment of clarity.

Life, as some say God, moves in odd and mysterious ways. If you don't get the wake-up call, what happens? If you do get the wake-up call, you should be allowed to prove it. We all deserve that chance.

You might be thinking: so, does this apply to that Governor of South Carolina Mark Sanford, or that Evangelical preacher Ted Haggard? In principle, yes. But distinctions can be drawn. It's another kind of ballgame when someone actively preaches against something that they themselves are doing. But, that said, there's always more to the story. That's my point. Find out what the truth is, remember to summon compassion, and work from there. If Vick turns out to be an ass (or more of one), well, he's had his chance. But remember: He also went to jail for two years. Mark Sanford, for example, is still in office. Ted Haggard, while disgraced, didn't do any time. There are distinctions, yes. But that's for another day.

The Midsummer Mash, Part 1

2009-08-15T09:15:00.000-07:00

"Somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it." -Rainer Maria Rilke

I wanted to tell you about Moab Utah and the Fourth of July. This bit of ancient history might cause your eyes to roll, and if so, I apologize. Bad blogger. Lost audience. No biscuit.

But here it is: I was scolded, or perhaps scoffed at, by a strange, longhaired small-town Ute for saying to him, and his curious family, upon the conclusion of the fireworks we watched from the patio of the bed-and-breakfast (delightful place called Adobe Abode, if you're ever in Moab) we shared: "Happy Fourth of July."

This man, whom Tara and I first glimpsed through a pane of glass in his underwear as he watched us unload our bags from the rental car. Staring at us he was, rubbing his hairy torso, his head-cape of wispy, back-length hair about his shoulders, and in that underwear: a manboy pair of briefs, with thick crossings creating the Byzantine fly.

Perhaps he didn't realize he was visible to us, I thought, scrutinizing the new arrivals from the safety of his room. Perhaps he was European, it somehow occurred to me, of a kind less skittish about their naked boldness. Perhaps, it was a bad sign. I can't say what other kind of sign an underwear clad man watching you from his room would be, but I suppose it doesn't have to be bad one.

So, it follows that this man belonged to a party of three: a young male of ambiguous age, maybe twenty, with a shaved head and early moustache, and a woman, meek and plump, in that oh-so American way, were his companions. The younger man had a slight German accent when he spoke, and the woman, who didn't say much, also returned our pleasantries. The man, however, said nothing. Twice during the weekend I emerged into the common room and, when seeing him in all his hirsute glory, offered a nod, a good morning or a hello and received nothing in return. Though eye contact was made, this man, with a slight nostril exhalation in the manner of farm animals, would turn away and say nothing.

I always find this remarkable. An active, even aggressive, disregard to the most common of salutations. That's not easy to do! With some people, I might've assumed he was terribly shy. But with this man, I sensed it wasn't that.

We arrived on Friday July 3rd. That party of three, and Tara and I, were the only guests at the Adobe Abode all weekend. So on Saturday night, when this "family" joined Tara and I, along with the B&B owner and his lady friend, on the porch for fireworks from the town below, we weren't necessarily enthusiastic. Great, I thought. He comes the creepy S&M couple with their German whipping boy. But, in the manner of B&B relations, we did our best to adjust porch chairs, mutter greetings and welcome them to the viewing. This was, after all, the Great American Fireworks Exhibition symbolizing our break from Britain.

Needless to say, there wasn't much interaction. The arrival of the family snuffed out what was left of the light banter Tara and I had going with the owner and his friend. We concentrated on the town of Moab below, our vantage from this outskirt perch optimal, and waited for fireworks. When they appeared, the occasional "ooh" was offered by one of us, overcome with bonhomie. I believe one such outpouring was offered by the woman of the family.

After the finale's aftermath was given its proper waiting period, I offered, "Good night, all," and stood, indicating it was time for this swell party to break up. But, after a pause, and these people still lingering on that section of porch near our room, I added, "Happy Fourth of July." To which this odd, taciturn longhaired man replied, "You mean: 'Happy Independence Day.' You don't say 'Happy December twenty-five,' do you?" Everyone laughed politely. He chortled.

Inside the room, the echo of his comment bounced around my brain. Was I miffed? Did I care? I considered interactions it reminded me of, times when the silent ones finally pipe up. Often, it's a stoic male revealing his inner monologue, one which, more often than not, appears ugly. The stunting matter-of-factness of insecurity. Men whose reticence might betray a thoughtful soul instead, with their piping up, outs their inner arrogance. I remain quiet while you fools jabber around me. They think they're powerful, but no one recognizes it.

If you cannot tell, I have a problem with men like this. And it's almost always the men. I have a problem with impertinence. Someone who thinks they have a right to "place putting" when no opening, or call for such is necessary. Especially when the intended meaning, one extended to include you, my brother, is of general goodwill. Exactness is not required. Exactness is hardly the point.

But the next morning, Sunday, I was up early watching the finals of Wimbledon. By my early rising, I had wrested control of the TV from this family, which had dominated it all weekend, though each room was equipped with its own. When the family slowly emerged and noticed me, there in their living room watching tennis with the sound off, they were unsure how to proceed.

The young man, who, though shy, had at least returned our hellos and good mornings, was the first to encounter me. We exchanged a nod and he lingered around before finally deciding to sit. We exchanged another nod, and a little conversation. Then the woman came out and milled about, getting ready to leave I suspected, but she wanted to sit a minute, too. Finally the man came out, doing what was now his familiar strut, his head slightly forward of his body, his eyes darting around, his trailing mane of hair imperious as a lead singer's.

At other times, I may have harbored a bad feeling for him, feeling somewhat censured as I did by his comment of the night before. Instead, I just watched him. I've let these guys go. I assumed he didn't mean what he said to be confrontational. Suddenly, he stepped into the space between the coffee table and TV, but not blocking the screen, and he started to talk to me. Two days of no interactions, and now he's asking where I'm from. Go figure.

From this unexpected bit of conversation, I learned these things: it turns out the young man is the longhaired man's son, who has been living in Germany for sixteen years. He is now in the military there. The man and this woman, not the boy's mother, live five hours from Moab in another part of Utah. On numerous occasions they have visited the Adobe Abode, a show of good taste I'm obliged to acknowledge. When they left, Tara and I had the entire place to ourselves for Sunday night, and Monday morning I walked down the opposite wing of the property where they had stayed. There, three nice rooms are found, and I saw that in the room in which this family stayed there was an extra twin bed for the young man. That is, my Tarantino-esque master and servant fantasy was quickly debunked.

In the end, much of the mystery was removed, and the underwear flash was not, after all, a bad omen for our stay. It turned out these folks were just small-town, somewhat awkward people, and our only companions for the July 4th...um, Independence Day weekend.

There are so many people out there. Though my ache for common ground and understanding goes on, unabated, I realize, again and again, that assumptions are dangerous and people are unique. I wish we could always remember that, even after interactions we don't, at first, understand.

Check out this fun picture from our trip!

Off The Wall

2009-06-26T12:10:00.000-07:00

Michael Jackson has gone on.

Every so often a celebrity's passing seems particularly significant, and MJ's affected me deeply. One of the first records I ever owned, at nine years old, was "Off The Wall." I loved looking at the album cover, Michael's smile, his eyes. Today I looked at a picture of the Jackson 5 and there those eyes were, peering out from a little boy's face, the youngest one in the middle. His brothers' eyes look alive; Michael's look spirited.

When I listened, I was fascinated by who I thought Michael Jackson was, trying, as we do, to figure out this handsome young singer by his lyrics, his picture, his rhythmic soul. "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" might just be the best first song of any album (as we like to say so much in our culture), ever. It is impossible not to dance when that song drops, as it does in toto, when Michael's "whoo!" erupts. It makes me, to this day, right now, want to emerge upward, out of my skin and into an ether of joy. I want to be light, happy, smiling like he is on the album cover. But then "She's Out Of My Life" was so touching, so sincere, I felt I knew another side of him, like I understood something of his soul. Even my nine year-old ears could hear the suffering, the sincerity. It was mine too.

It was in him. I can see it in his child eyes, and hear it in his voice. I imagine everyone could. We watched this precocious boy evolve, watched him move from child star survivor to defining adolescent to bizarre adulthood. We thought we knew him, and sometimes, maybe we did. Other times, though, he remained a mystery, and as we tried to look for clues to later behavior we didn't understand--his face, his skin color, his antics--he moved further from us. But the music is there.

Thinking on it now, I will miss his quirky, old-style celebrity oddball antics. I remember hearing him say in an interview that, as an artist, he included his body and style among the things he might alter for affect. I thought, why not? Why must we judge him so harshly if this is what he wants to do with himself? It's because we assumed something about his soul, its trouble, that made us deem these eccentricities, well, off the wall. (See: friendship with Elizabeth Taylor.)

"Livin crazy, that's the only way." I wish we lived more by this advice. I wish I lived more by this advice. I already miss Michael Jackson's strangeness because, well, we need strangeness in this world. Yes, we might not understand it, and we might ridicule it, but power to the people who are courageous enough to live in the face of all that scorn and propriety. Power to the eccentrics who can buck trends, buck systems and thereby exist as brave paragons for individuality. For freedom.

Was Michael free? I know he wanted to be. His is a fascinating life precisely because of this: his desire to be free, how we heard and saw moments of its realization, and all the ways in which he wasn't free, trapped in a body, a culture, a history.

I will never forget watching the video for "Thriller," and the hackles-raising excitement I felt listening to Vincent Price's laugh at the end. I will never forget watching Michael Jackson moonwalk on the Motown 25th anniversary telecast, the way everybody--and I mean everybody--was trying to do it at my school the next day, and all the days after. That one dance move was a cultural phenomenon for years. I had a friend who could do it, not poorly like the rest of us, but well, the way it looked like gliding, as if the floor were a conveyor belt, and we'd ask him to do it again and again and again. "C'mon Mike, moonwalk."

The group dances, the "competition" with Prince, the glove, the crotch grab, the mystique. The fucking mystique. Sure, in his last years Michael was pretty hard for any of us to understand. I'd say most of us stopped trying, and fell back into the child star-troubled childhood-celebrity madness understanding. But we did, sometimes, think we knew him, think we understood, and maybe we never really did. His mystery makes his passing more affecting, because there's so much we couldn't know, let alone understand. All I know--and my heart registered a poignant thud when I learned of his death--is he played a big part in my life, especially my childhood. His music still makes me happy, and it makes me want to dance.

Michael Jackson's passing made me aware of my own mortality. Not just to think of it, but to feel it. I realize that's why certain deaths, celebrity or otherwise, are affecting: We are here together only for so long.

Michael: I don't know what your life was really like, but man, you sure influenced my space. Thank you, Michael Jackson. Rest easy, dancer. You're free.

***

Off The Wall
(Written and composed by Rod Temperton, 1979, whom I'd also like to thank.)

When the world is on your shoulder
Gotta straighten up your act and boogie down
If you can't hang with the feeling
Then there ain't no room for you in this part of town
cause we're the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five up on the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
Groove, let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

You can shout out all you want to
cause there ain't no sin in folks all getting loud
If you take the chance and do it
Then there ain't no one who's gonna put you down
cause were the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove, and let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all
If you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

Do what you want to do
There ain't no rules its up to you
It's time to come alive
And party on right through the night

Gotta hide your inhibitions
Gotta let that fool loose deep inside your soul
Want to see an exhibition
Better do it now before you get to old
cause were the party people night and day
Livin crazy that's the only way

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf and just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf and just enjoy yourself
C'mon and groove let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all if you live it off the wall
Life ain't so bad at all
Live your life off the wall

The Protagonist

2009-06-25T11:38:00.000-07:00

[From a journal entry dated 1.28.09, Mudraker Cafe]

I come from a long line. The pantheon is quite full, your Larry Darrells, your Franks, Wheeler and Bascombe, your Harry "Rabbit" Angstroms, your Ignatius J. Reillys and Robert Jordans. The protagonist hall of fame. It's not like I'm setting out to be some kind of Holden Caufield, or that I possess some or any of the characteristics of these literary ancestors, it's just that I read these books and I know them. They are me.

The beauty of the protagonist.

For example: Larry Darrell. (The Razor's Edge.) Granted, he was a lot younger when he said this, but he wanted to loaf, and I see a whole lot of merit in that. (Maugham did too.) Especially if by loafing he means what I mean by it, which is spending time thinking about Bigger things than buying stuff or keeping up with the Joneses, or, I don't know, looking good. (Though, sure, I like to look good. I primp. Not like some people I know, please, but I trim nose hairs and attempt to thwart unibrow.)

Maugham observed ol' loafin' Larry sitting in a chair and, get this, reading for ten or twelve hours. All day! Isn't that great? I don't see it as the least bit strange. In fact, I think it should be required. I read in the paper that most adult males read only one novel the rest of their lives after college. If this is indeed true, and I'm sure it is, then so-called loafing should be mandatory. (Unfortunately, not many agree. Maugham's book was published in 1943. We've been doing this for a while.)

I also read in the paper, today's in fact, that new President Obama thought that many Republicans he met with "may just not be as familiar with what's in the package as I would like." A polite way of saying that these jokers don't read. What kind of hooha is this when elected officials don't consider it their duty to read everything thoroughly? Even if a staffer does it--and I haven't a clue about how they really go about their business, so forgive me--at least they should be up to snuff. Right?

It's like these celebrities hawking stuff. Do they even care, as long as they get paid? I remember a time when it was considered shabby, shameless, and you were--remember this phrase?--a sell out when an artist stooped to advertising. Ok, so times have changed. Maybe the '70s derision was too harsh, but today's desired prostitution is too much. Especially rock/rap stars. Nowadays, they'll ok a song for damn-near anything: car, pill, computer.

"It's all about the money, baby." Don't they see it perpetuates the system? The system the Larry Darrells and Frank Wheelers tried to resist, in the 1940s and 50s? The system that has only grown stronger, more entrenched in this, my era.

So what do I try and do about it? I don't know, tell you about it?

Doesn't an ex-football player like Howie Long, whom I used to respect because he seemed direct and intelligent, realize that there are thousands of meat loafs (interesting new use of loaf) who watch his TV ads? The ads in which he mocks their manhood? These people actually go out and make choices based on how a Howie Long--flat-topped, bespectacled, rugged--views them. For the money, Howie, you're perpetuating all the worst male stereotypes. I guess what you care about is perpetuating Howie Long.

Well. What do I know. I'm just a cafe dweller. A loafer of the Darrell tradition. I stood in the shower this morning for several minutes just trying to work out a thought in my head. It had to do with this, how I might write it, but I kept losing my train, so, I continued to crank down the cold while I tried to think straight. These were minutes well spent, to me, but I bet not to others. Those looking for a Ford F150, maybe.

It's quite hard to come up with ways to tell a story. Especially one that hasn't been told before. Some say they've all been done. I say there's always room for more. Because they emerge through you: a new protagonist. Singular, as each individual soul, as each character.

***

School has started. The above is not school-related, but I found it in a journal as I was gearing up for the first weekend and got to thinking about protagonists, characters, us. The We of everyone. Thought I'd copy it into the Space.

First weekend, and first week of classes completed last night. Very intriguing. I am officially a USF Don, a graduate student. Still sinking in.

Here are a couple of random pics. I took these on Saturday June 20th as I walked from the parking lot to the main building on the Lone Mountain campus.

Jumping Into El Fuerte

2009-06-08T15:43:00.001-07:00

I like jumping. Like up to grab a crossbar that supports a telephone pole, or from cliffs into a river. I'm no daredevil, but, like water feels to the body when submerged, flying a little in air has that weightlessness. I dig the soar, however momentary. I also like the feel of the grab of the bar or branch or rim. Or the plunge into water or sand, as off a good swing set. Jumping from a cliff into a river? Best of both sensations.

I'm also a fan of jumping, as a concept. Into the fire, as they say. On stage. I've learned from experience that it's much better to just go ahead and jump, as the Van Halen boys suggested, rather than hesitate. At least, don't hesitate too much. Because those few, albeit practical, voices offering their timid warnings usually start to work against you and something you might've done easily is now hard because, oh yes, that fear is creeping in. Self-consciousness. Intimidation. Wait, how high did you say it was? Look over the edge long enough and you'll start talking yourself out of it. You might never jump. And who wants that?

This past weekend (June 6,7), I took a few jumps. And as always, they were rewarding. But here's what's fascinating: I'm not exactly sure I would've jumped--at least not so easily--knowing what I now know upon landing.

I was invited to attend a private gathering of musicians on a piece of land near the Yuba river, up in the foothills near Nevada City. Gorgeous property, with oaks and rock outcrops along a ridge with views down the hillsides to the thick river far below. When the sun set, or the full moon rose, with folks playing samba and singing in Portuguese, I was hardpressed to contain my swoon. (For those familiar with HSMF, picture a mini-High Sierra with simply one stage on a more remote and beautiful property for no more than say, 60 people.)

The owner of the place, a guitarist and singer named Kevin, plays in a local Bay Area band called Boca do Rio which plays Brazilian samba music, also categorized as Latin/Funk/Afro-beat. Many Brazilian musicians were there, quite well-known in these circles, guys my friend and drum teacher Robert, who invited me, and friend and fellow student Aaron, know from bay area music scenes and from previous "El Fuerte" gatherings. This year's event, and full moon bacchanalia, was edition number 7. Two of the Brazilian regulars are brothers, one of whom, Alex, is returning to Brazil after 14 years in the U.S. The party doubled as a farewell for him, what they call in Spanish, and I learned also in Portuguese, a despedida. Man, can that dude play the pandeiro. (Brazilian tamborine, click on Robert's video example to the right on Total Rhythm's homepage). Smile on his face, he smacked it and shook it and flipped it. He played that instrument like John Henry swung a hammer. Which is to say: born to it. His older brother Marcos, also warm-spirited, played guitar and sang in Portuguese. With Kevin up there on stage with them, his easy sway and handsome smile, and the others--funky bassist, drummers, etc.-- the swing of this music was enchanting. And with the friendly vibe and the early summer setting, in those environs, it was, in the immortal words of a Billy Ray Valentine reveler: a stone groove. Muito obrigado, Kevin!

Before we arrived at the hilltop estate, we stopped at the Yuba for a swim. The weather was overcast, but not too cold. The blessing in disguise was it kept the normal Saturday river crowd away, though that also included the party folks we thought would be there for the annual Saturday dip. So Robert, Aaron and I hiked in to the spot where the revelers usually go and the three of us enjoyed some river time alone before heading up to the party.

On the way down the trail to the river's edge, we hiked along the massive rocks carved smooth by the river's ancient masonry. They're the kind you might find at any big river, but the Yuba has some particularly prominent ones, characteristic of the area with their coloring and marbling. It's a great river for finding little swimming holes and diving/jumping spots. One spot in particular we passed on the way down was the perfect invitation for an ambitious cliff jump: high, but not no-way high; good launching ledge, and plenty of deep river in which to land. But also: a decent-sized rock shelf below that needed clearing to make water. In other words: no slipping. Just standing at the edge looking over, my heart raced with a combination of that weird sensation one gets to jump when overlooking ledges and edges--like, bizarrely, tall buildings: what malfunction of human survival instinct is that?--and a goading inner voice that said: you could do it. No, you should do it. Maybe right now! I was half-tempted, in a fleeting moment of male bravado, to just lay down my towel and water bottle and boom: leap out and down into the cold Yuba. Thankfully, we hiked on.

We got down to the river's edge, and swam across to the beach. It was a brisk swim, based more on necessity than a need for refreshment, since the beach lay on the other side and there isn't a dry way to cross. Like most swimming experiences I've had--and this is in complete accordance with my theory of jumping--once you're in, it's good. Even cold water holds a special exhilaration that, if you remember rightly, should always get you from the rock hesitation point to the plunge. Oh, the time we spend on the hesitation points of life! Hear me toe-dippers: get yo' body in there!

After drip-drying on the other side, with much arm swinging and warm-rock-clinging, Aaron left us and walked up-river aways and found some fat fish in the shallows near an inviting dive ledge. He came back and got me and we meandered up there, checked out the 2-foot (rainbow?) trout and contemplated a cliff dive. This wasn't nearly as high as the one we passed hiking in, but it required a good-sized leap-out and flat dive to make sure of clearing some submerged boulders. (They were probably not a real concern, but might've been easier to negotiate if the weather had been different and we could see them better.) This was clearly a dive spot, though, not a jump spot, on account of those fish-sheltering rocks. Couldn't risk going too deep. I looked at Aaron and said: "It's like we have to. It's just too inviting." He nodded; it was true.

I thought about my entry, wavered some, moved over a foot, picked my line, massaged down a quick fear thought, and dove. The rush of cold water and the force of it on my arms and chest and neck was powerful. Even this jump, once made, was more significant in actuality than initial assessment. Still, I was in and safe, it was over and really not that dangerous, and as I floated forward, supermanning down the current, I realized adrenaline's summoned presence, the risk ride reward, the aliveness and relief.

From down the river, I looked back toward Aaron. He was hesitating. My dive-and-success clearly said that, according to the most fundamental tenets of the man code, he must do it too. I stood up on a distant sandbar and watched him as he hovered up there on that polished gray rock in his yellow trunks, peering over the ledge into the rushing water. I noticed it was a more significant height than it had seemed when standing up there, since I now had the benefit of distance and perspective. Aaron readjusted. "What are you going to do with your glasses?" I shouted, worried he'd forgotten them on his face. He showed me how he planned to clutch them in his fist. He looked over again, gathering mojo. He knew I was watching. I had a fear thought: don't miss. I followed it with a prayer, or call it a quick blessing thought: Let him make it. Then I leaned into an even better mindset: he's got this. And then he dove. Perfectly, right on target. When his head returned to the surface, the smile he wore said it all: I did it!

Later, Robert and Aaron went for a walk and I stayed at the beach. I was alone; even the family down the river had packed up and gone. I decided to meander and enjoyed walking up and over the warm rocks with my bare feet, checking out new river vistas and remarkably sandy beaches. No wonder this was a popular hang spot, I thought, it almost had a quality like Hawaii, only without waves and a completely different vegetation. But of a similar nature, that was for certain. If the sun had been out, I doubt I would've been able to enjoy this spot by myself.

I started to get cold. I'd left my towel on the other side of the river after watching Aaron attempt a river crossing with towel extended skyward only to fail after slipping and dropping it. I scouted out an inviting river channel that led out from the beach and around a rock into the center depths and current and over to the other side. It looked like I'd have no real trouble climbing up onto the big, tall boulders on that side and could walk back up-river to where I'd stashed my stuff. I waded in a few yards and dove, swimming hard for several strokes, then paused to experience the current. After treading for a few seconds, I went all the way across.

I got out feeling great, found a route up the boulders, then discovered: there I was, standing at the big jump spot we passed earlier. Alone. I looked up-river toward the beach and beyond to see if the fellas were walking back yet. No trace of them. I looked back out over the ledge. It was calling me. I figured I could do it, yeah, no trouble. But I had to admit: it was a big leap. I looked again for Robert and Aaron, debating my intentions, then realized: it's not about them seeing me make this jump. I should just do it for myself, a self-challenge.

Swimsuit dripping onto the slick rock, I planted my foot on the very edge and decided I'd do a leaping one-footer. No need to risk slipping with a running foot plant. So that's what I did, the swinging one-footer. And just as I left the rock, my heart stopped: did I not clear it? My arms flapped, the river rose up to meet me, and quickly--and thankfully--I realized I had. I landed and submerged deep into the water, surprised by the force of the current immediately pushing me down-river. I found the shallows and stood up, shaking my head of water and with disbelief. I was satisfied, yes, but I was in possession of another, different feeling. This was not a fear-before-leaping sensation, this was a holy shit feeling of afterthought: that was actually kind of freaky!

I got out and climbed back over the boulders on my nicely negotiated path, more quickly now since I'd already trailblazed it, and stood again at the top. Whoa, I thought, looking over the ledge with newfound respect. I had done it, but I wasn't sure I'd do it again. (Ok, maybe. If you dare me.) I walked up-river further along the rock wall and descended from the top ledges and back toward the jump, where I could look up at it from below. Damn, I said to myself. That's actually pretty high. And the shelf below that must be cleared, well, it's a good distance out from the launch, which is to say the jump's ledge is set back aways. I hadn't experienced this feeling, at least not for a long time, of bigger fear after the fact, as opposed to before. Now, I felt more intimidated by the jump, not less so. But hey, you do it once, you can do it again. Right?

I told the guys about it when they came back down-river. It seemed ironic that I'd made the leap without them in order to have my own experience with it, but ended up talking about it incessantly because of what happened. They both said, as a first response: dude, you should've waited until one of us was around to watch a jump like that. And they're right. Aaron assessed it by my height compared to the ledge above, and concluded it was about 18-20 feet.

Yes: a good jump. It's good to jump.

Off we went up into the hills to the party. The evening's festivities had begun. The potluck was finished, and we arrived while a few moms and children were completing a play/performance for the crowd. Little squirts reading their lines from playbooks, while moms added energy and direction where needed. After it was over, the musicians took the stage and soon live Brazilian music flavored the whole scene. Robert was quickly called up to add his percussion skills to the mix, while Aaron and I mingled, drank beers and cooked food.

About an hour or two into the jam, the groove red-hot, Robert got Aaron's attention and summoned him to come join onstage to do one of the rhythms we know well from class. Aaron grabbed me, and without hesitation--just jumping--I left the conversation I was having and walked up to the stage. I got my djembe from its bag and a chair from backstage and sat down with all these professional musicians like I was somebody. (Do a Stanley Kowalski: I coulda been somebody.)

And that's it: there's just something about jumping into it. Leaping. I don't know why this particular set of circumstances created a space in which I could do it without hesitation, but there it was. Onstage, we were grooving immediately. Robert, Aaron and I had always enjoyed rare moments in class when we played together, just the three of us, and we'd long talked about an opportunity like this to really play together. It was my main reason for going to "El Fuerte." And, as it occasionally happens, we had something special going. I looked up at the other musicians, and they looked back at us, at me, smiling and nodding. We were locked in. More than that, rather than hiding behind the beat, which is somewhat possible with so many instruments and drums, I was adding flavors, and those flavors were being met with approval by these incredible musicians. And believe me, I know the opposite feeling. Most musicians, no matter how "big," won't completely freeze you out, but you know almost immediately if you've been deemed unworthy. You won't get any attention, no love. No smiles or nods come your way. But, this wasn't that kind of scene, which is to say nobody was going to be that rude anyway, and, it was just obvious. Something was happening. When we were in the middle heat of the jam, I looked out toward the crowd and everybody had come forward and was dancing. It was thrilling.

When the song ended, with a big euphoric finish conducted by the main singer, a dude in a black leather jacket and groovy en vogue fedora, all the musicians, including me, shook hands and congratulated each other. Every one. Me and the lead singer, me and Kevin, me and Alex, me and Robert and Aaron. Everybody. It was just dynamite. Even then, there was no freeze out. Everybody was warm. For a moment in time, we had come together as a team. I felt so included, and it was really exciting. Come to think of it, for all they knew, I might've actually been a more seasoned musician. (And I'm not saying I'm not a musician, only a minor leaguer compared to these pros.) Only I knew, and Robert and Aaron, this was a rare experience.

Afterwards, Aaron said to me: "So, how did it feel to play with Sila?" I said, who? "Wait," Aaron said. "You don't know Sila?" I looked at him sheepishly, shook my head. "Aw, man!" he cried. "Well, dude, you just played with Sila. How does that feel?"

It turns out Sila, the lead singer, the guy in the fedora who looks a bit like Miles Davis, was one of the heavy hitters up there, and the song we played was really the only one he joined in on. While we played, he turned back to us drummers with a big approving smile on his face, at one point dancing over and putting the mic down near our djembes.

Wow, I thought, considering it all anew.

And now, like the high cliff jump, I must wonder: would I have gone to the stage so easily, and played as loosely, with such joy and carefree, if I'd known beforehand that I was going onstage with this local music luminary?

Sometimes, it's just better to jump. Muito obrigado El Fuerte!

Goodbye Solo

2009-05-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

I met ML Spinrad at Yali's on Oxford street in Berkeley yesterday. He walked in just as I was finishing a letter. Yes, an actual handwritten letter that I will stamp and post. Imagine.

We had talked of seeing a matinee, of an afternoon, for several months, and of the documentary "Tyson" in particular. The 2:50pm show at the Shattuck would be the realization of our long sought aims. On a Friday no less. Life is good.

Both of us were excited for this film, which examines Mike Tyson's life and career. His is an amazing story, with all the elements of the modern tragic hero: childhood poverty, getting bullied, the wizened, gravelly-voiced trainer, the superstardom, the riches, the divorces, the ear biting. You'd be hardpressed to make this stuff up.

But while ML was at the Walgreens buying candy, I went to the ticket window only to discover: no 2:50 Tyson. Seems the schedule had changed that very morning. Our perfect plan foiled? I looked at the listings; nothing seemed good. In fact, only one film was playing that we could make in time. The 2:45 showing of "Goodbye Solo."

Wisdom is a cool thing when you apply it. I've certainly received my fair share in my 39 years, but it's the applying it part that can prove tricky. Lately, though, I've been getting better at this one piece, the kind that involves moving along with what is, rather than dwelling (oh, forever the dwelling) on what is not. In this case: seeing Tyson. The show at 2:50 was simply not an option. Move along, says the existential traffic cop. No rubber necking, son.

I walked away from the window and back out toward the doors to await ML and deliver this news. My mind was running the options. What would be our next, best play? Though disappointment kept popping into my head--I was geared up for the Tyson film, big-time--I kept having this thought: maybe we were meant to see something else. Maybe we were meant to see "Goodbye Solo." It felt like one of those moments when you know you should order the tasty vegetarian dish instead of the chicken parmesan, and just in the nick of time you do in fact order the veggies. And they're fabulous.

"The gods have cursed us," I said as ML approached. He gave me a quizzical look. "No Tyson." He frowned and his shoulders dropped, but only a little. Then, he brightened. It was the slightest cloud and his sun simply melted it. He seemed to have already made his peace with the inevitable. For some people, wisdom comes easy.

"We've got 'Goodbye Solo' at 2:45," I said. "You wanna see that?"

"Sure. That's actually another one I was interested in." For some reason, even as he was saying this, I knew this was the movie we would see. And it would be good.

The gods, in fact, had blessed us.

Like the dinner menu, films can be a weird choice. Fascinating character study or not, I was lamenting the fact that we wouldn't see a film in which (I imagine) there are lots of scenes of men pummelling each other. In other words: violence. Sure, it's a documentary, and one about a person I'm genuinely interested in. I also like boxing. So, it isn't Terminator Salvation violence and explosions, but it's still mainly about violence, pugilism and aggression, both in the ring and the world surrounding it. These are not in short supply in our culture.

Like eating your vegetables, sometimes it's good to go with the quiet film, the thoughtful film. Not everything is supposed to be Indiana Jones. At least, not all the time.

As the previews finished (good grief, like 7 previews, enough already) and the film started, I had competing impulses: a jolt of disappointment that this wasn't Tyson, and a flash of hope that because of this twist of fate, we were actually about to see something special. Something, perhaps, we may not have seen if not for this showtime switcharoo. Something, moreover, especially for the long-awaited matinee experience, that would fall in line with what my man ML, with whom I've talked at length about beautiful, quiet films like "Half Nelson" and "Old Joy," and I had wanted all along.

And indeed, "Goodbye Solo" was terrific. I hesitate to say much more, although I included the link above to the NY Times review which talks a lot about the film. I hope not too much. What I must say however is how delighted I feel, how edified and inspired, when seeing a film of quality and truth and complexity such as this one by Ramin Bahrani. Kudos to you, good sir.

Films like this allow me to consider the human condition and our cultural milieu in ways that make me feel compassion, actually experience it, in a way the aggressive films, sci-fi, action and comedy included, that dominate our screens never can. I'm encouraged to consider heartache, joy, disappointment, jealousy, happiness, confusion, serendipity. That is, I'm encouraged to consider real life, while also receiving the benefit of a story. I'm not actually experiencing these things, I'm watching characters do it, ones I don't know and might never because they live in different cities and different countries, but, when the tale is done, I do know them, like I know myself, like I know people close to me.

Goodbye Solo. Indeed.

***

After the film, ML and I walked across town back to Rockridge and to George & Walt's for a few beers and the Lakers v. Nuggets playoff game. Midway through our first pitcher of Stella Artois, we were approached by two elderly couples who wanted to fill in the four remaining seats at our table. Of course, we said, happy to have you. We didn't think much of it, in fact, were happy to have them with us, partly because they seemed so happy that we'd been so pleasant and welcoming to them. They ordered themselves martinis, and for most of their stay, we talked at short intervals. But occasionally they'd ask us something, or we'd include them in a conversation we were having, or they'd ask the score, and the interactions were very friendly. I realized how rare it is to be in a bar like G&W's, especially on a busy Friday night with big-time sports on TV, with people their age. Their absence is really rather sad. As Donne suggested, their absence diminishes me. We are all diminished by the lack of true diversity, and whatever forces are in place that make it rare for suchlike mingling to occur.

They didn't stay very long, and when they got up to head across the street to Rustica for a pizza, we shook hands and heartily bade farewells. I got a glimpse of what the good life might've been for them in their time, how people may have interacted in bars. Perhaps not all people, but maybe the overall vibe was more congenial than it tends to be today. One of the gents, who had sat next to me and told us about going over to the other couple's house one afternoon many years ago with a suitcase full of booze, and who, he confessed to me, drinks vodka martinis now because he can no longer take gin, tossed a $10 bill on the table in front of ML and me. "The next one's on me, boys," he said with a bright smile.

Man, that was cool. Thank you, good sir.

Reno 39: Revisited

2009-05-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

I know this has happened to you. Feel my pain.

I was working on this piece, tinkering, editing, feeling it out. Next day: gone. None of the changes took. I admit, I ignored a message saying I had unsaved changes, but I'd been working on the thing for hours. It was autosaving; I saved. I figured, at most, I'd lost the last few word changes. The program was just being persnickety. Nope. The ending, the last two paragraphs: gone. I tried to rewrite, but lost steam. I was discouraged. But then, (cue heavenly music) I realized: maybe this post wants to be something else?

I think what I really wanted to write about was not the night in Reno I spent with a few buddies, which happened to coincide with my 39th birthday, or familiar yarns about casinos and sin city scenes, but this:

A couple days ago I finished reading Anne Lamott's book called "Operating Instructions." I appreciate her stuff, and "Bird By Bird," a book about writing, is a staple on my shelf. (Though I can't seem to find it today. Anybody got my copy?) Operating Instructions is a diary of her son Sam's first year, and I liked it best when it reminded me of Bird. At times, I must say, it seemed a little neurotic. When I said this to my mom, she said: duh. Other times, though, I thought it was lovely.

I was curious about this book because I've been working on a memoir piece about my impending fatherhood. (Impending; sounds like waiting for the jury to deliver the sentence.) Some weeks ago, I had lunch with the writer Ethan Watters and he asked what I was working on. When I mentioned my memoir piece, he suggested, by way of examples on similar themes, O.I. by Lamott.

Lamott passes my how can you tell the writing's good? test because you feel it--that is, her voice, her style--in your mind. You find yourself crafting sentences like her. You try her humor, her italics, her confessional style. That's good writing, because it makes you want to write, or at least to consider the possibility contained in the discipline. To ask yourself: how did that sound? Could I have said it differently?

I've been ruminating on the confessional concept. I offer it out as food for thought to my good and true Influence the Spacers. I'm talking about very honest writing. (Many might say: is there any other kind?) In a memoir or diary, honesty or frankness might seem obvious, but think about the choices we make when we write. I was writing up stories of my trip to Reno. What details should I leave in, and which to leave out? (Got you curious now.) Discretion is the better part of valor, sayeth the proverb, and it's true that one must be very careful when considering telling tales that include others. Still, there's something very powerful, very humanizing about the real deal, all names and all activities included without veils, without code.

I was thinking about how much I like it when a writer talks about her life with that kind of truth. The real, honest details. If she had been out drinking, she'd write that she had three Ketel One martinis, not "a few drinks." And, of course, all the other luscious details, the olives and how many, the soggy beer coaster, the Marlboro Light she passed up because that particular brand hurts her soul. Writing, like life, is in the details. Otherwise, who are we fooling, ourselves? Who are we hiding from, our spouses? Our mothers? The details aren't just "naughty" things, either, they're emotions, anger and love, and they're juicy, like sex. We seem so busy disguising and code-naming, veiling threats and offers, that nobody knows exactly what people mean, or what, in fact, people are doing. It occurs to me: isn't much of homophobia a result of the unknown?

A writer's job is to say it true. Graciousness is fine, magnanimity is great. But so can be jealousy. So can be anger. When it's true. When it's hot and raw. Be honest, that's the point. You ask: at all times, in all situations? Here, in this context, I'm gonna say yes. I prefer to err on the side of honesty, not caution. I'm JDA. Do you know me?

But ok. Yes, it's among the trickiest of tasks, this detail decision-making, because these days the "confessional" form has gone so far toward that nitty-gritty, de rigueur basement-hovel-junkie thing that I sometimes wish folks would euphemize or metaphorize them details. A little subtlety, please! Consider: was that more than any of us really needed to know?

So, there's a paradox here. A contradiction. Yes, yes. I contain--we contain--multitudes. But you get my point.

Lamott, in this book, refers frequently to her past days of heavy drinking and cocaine use. While I appreciate her honesty (a virtue I daresay I've belabored) I do have a problem. I often found myself wondering if her particular honesty was made easier by hindsight. By which I mean, is she so forthcoming now (in the book) because the lifestyle she's referring to is in the past? Would she have written so frankly if she were in the middle of a serious bender, engaged with a serious habit or other (cue ominous music) debased phase of her life?

Perhaps. I'd like to think she would. And I do have to include this qualifier: when appropriate. I want to err on the side of honesty, of exposure, yes, but I'm not necessarily advocating a wanton indiscretion. Does that make sense?

Why I like the artful application of confession in writing is because I feel it connects more than exposes. We fear the confession because of the exposure, but as we realize from telling the truth--really being truthful--it connects us much more than it alienates us. That's my experience, anyway. It's the closeted stuff, the dark secrets in dark corners, the Unknown, where real problems germinate. And they grow because of the hiding, the suspicion and assumption inserted into that place of uncertainty. It's the filling in the blanks that happens, by all concerned, the hiding of the doer, the suspicion of the watcher, that creates separation and fear. Vicious cycle.

Would I not write something, even at the tender age of 39, because my mom might read it? Maybe. But I'd like to think no. What about my in-laws? I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I do. I love to tell the truth. (Cue my internal black man: tell it like it is!) But, I ain't no fool. I know when to apply the white lie. Or, do I? To be honest, har har, I've never been very good at lying. I have truth-told on many an occasion and regretted it, sometimes because I simply wasn't clever enough to fib, or devise somesuch clever subterfuge. It takes skill and practice to lie. It ain't my ballgame. I'd rather win with the truth. Ah, but have you ever bluffed in a poker game and won the hand? Delicious!

What am I after in this piece? Maybe in my deeper dedications as a writer I'm abolishing all forms of deception. From now on, I'm just gonna let it rip. Readers: beware. From now on, I'm using all your names! I'm telling on you!

It's a choice. One that must be made consciously and carefully, indeed. What I hear in Lamott's writing about her past behavior, albeit in hindsight, is something that I think comes from going all the way to someplace terrible, recovering, and then facing it. Reviewing it from the rescue platform. After that trip, honesty is all you have. You wear it. There is no cloak, the cloak is you. But it's good like that. She uses words like addict and alcoholic and thereby seems to give herself the freedom to just let fly, because the worst is already out there. And while it might not always make her feel great to remember certain things, or re-read something in all its (in)glorious detail, I bet she feels good, because it's true.

As the man said, the truth rings true. Or was it the woman?

Decision 2009

2009-04-30T14:03:00.000-07:00

It came down to the lesbians or the Jesuits.

Ok, that's crass, I know, but it's funny to think of that way. Of course, I got no problems with either. Which is to say: I'm down with the women, and I'm down with the black robes. In actual fact, I'm a whole lot more familiar with women, feminists, lesbians, moms, aunts, girlfriends, wives, than I am with Jesuits. But what I do know (or think I know) about Jesuits, I like. What I know, however, is very little and almost entirely based on a blend of Jeremy Irons' character in The Mission, and Lothaire Bluteau's in Black Robe. Film representations both, and of the 17th and 18th centuries, furthermore. (Both excellent, by the way. Two of my all-time favorites films. By the by, does anyone out there know of a good read re: Jesuits? Both these films were based on novels.)

I must say, despite the obvious problems of basing what you think you know on the movies, I sort of love my faux knowledge, that romantized version of the missionary interfacing with tribal people, the fascinating learning, the cultural exchange, the misunderstanding and cruelty. Oh, yes, always the cruelty. On both sides. I gather from friends who attended Catholic universities that the Jesuits are a most interesting faction, committed to education and social justice. By the way, did you realize that little "c" catholic means "Including a wide variety of things; all-encompassing"? I suppose, by that logic, Jesuits are the real catholic Catholics.

I suspect you might be thinking: where's he going with all this?

Well then, here's the point: it's grad school 2009, ladies and gents. Last fall, I applied to four schools for an MFA in writing. I was accepted by two. It so happens, I will not be a writing Minuteman, or a writing Duck. But, I may have been a writing Cyclone (the mascot of Mills College, which I didn't know before this writing, and saves me/you from an attempt at humor, probably of poor taste), or, a writing Don. Which is what I'll be. In fact, I gave my verbal commitment to the director of the program on the phone today. May Day. Quite auspicious.

Since I'm on a mascot theme, let's look up Don, shall we?

noun
1 ( Don) a Spanish title prefixed to a male forename.
• a Spanish gentleman; a Spaniard.
• informal a high-ranking member of the Mafia.
2 a university teacher, esp. a senior member of a college at Oxford or Cambridge. [ORIGIN: transferred colloquial use of the Spanish title (see above).]

Now that, I like. I hadn't realized a Don was a university teacher, thought it was a priest. Quite apropos, considering my future goals.

Wryness aside, this has been a difficult decision. Last year, before I went to Colorado to work on the Obama campaign, I visited USF for one of their writing program informational meetings. This was about the 3rd week of September. I liked it. When I got back to California, I set to work researching a few other programs and started the application process. I discovered I was about in the middle of the cycle; some schools had deadlines I just wasn't gonna make, but there were a few others I was interested in that were still in reach. Considering my finances, interests, living situations, the aforementioned deadlines and the GRE (I applied to schools that didn't require it), I settled on: USF, Amherst, Oregon and Mills. All different, all interesting.

As you may know (and can guess) these applications are a pain. I mean, the process is somewhat interesting, the statements of purpose, the writing samples, but tracking down and paying for school transcripts and finding recommenders and getting their letters and making copies and finding a fax machine that charges $1 a page, and completing everything...pain. I spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time working on my SOP (that's statement of purpose, in application speak), partially because USF's director told me it was definitely considered in their process. I liked that, and maybe that's a possible reason it's a good fit for me. I think who you are and how you're coming to a writing program is important to express, and if you can express that well, in writing, I think that should count. Other schools, though, as I discovered as I researched more, don't place a high value on the SOP. Amherst, and Oregon too, essentially said: everything is based on the writing sample. If it's liked, deemed up to par, then they review the rest of your application. And the thing was, I wasn't all that thrilled with my sample. It was ok, but not great. I've been writing for a long time, and I was pretty sure of this. Still, I had Tara read it one night and she pointed out things that she liked and when I reviewed it again with her comments in mind, through her eyes, I backed off my "this sucks" (so typical of the writer) attitude and saw it as having some potential. This is why I'm going to writing graduate school, right? To get better?

So, I got the apps in. I played a little game with myself on the day of the application deadline for Oregon and Amherst, printing at the very last possible moment and racing to the post office, trying my hardest to repeat what I'd done in high school which completely mucked up my first two years of college. But not this time. I made it with time to spare.

Then the waiting. This was a good kind, though, not anxious. Some things change when you get older. Good things. People said, invoking some of that undergrad anticipation energy: when do you find out? I was casual. Genuinely casual. Oh, around April, I said. Then I got my first envelope, the small kind, from Mills, which, at the time, I considered my "back-up" school. I thought to myself as I opened the envelope: I got rejected by Mills, my back-up school? But this letter, although small, was an acceptance. Back-up or not, getting accepted feels good. The process started with an acceptance, and that was nice. I decided to take a closer look at Mills College, this damn fine institution of learning with the great good sense to admit me.

Then I got another small envelope, this one from Amherst. Though I'd been fooled by Mills' acceptance, I had a feeling about this one. It was quite blunt. They said no. It didn't feel good, as it never does, so it was nice to have a yes already in my pocket. I was 1 for 1, and feeling fine about it all.

Some weeks passed, and I still hadn't heard from either Oregon or USF. I considered this a good sign, though I'm not really sure. It seems schools do their acceptances in rounds, so at some point not hearing is good because you're moving along the process, making the cuts, but then there might also be a period when they're waiting for other folks to decline so then they'll give you that spot. Actually, who knows how it really works? And by the way, once you start researching this MFA thing, it's a perfect "how far down the rabbit hole do you want to go" situation. I found a blog published by this guy with an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop (supposedly the best in the land) and a law degree from some ivy league, with rankings and scores and funding info and damn near everything. It was 1 part interesting to 2 parts totally daunting. Some people on this blog were writing in saying how they'd applied to 20 or 30 schools, all over the country. That's almost $1,500 on applications alone!

Rankings are in large part specious, too. You're drawn in by them, but they only say what they say. Sure, a highly ranked school doesn't get that way for nothing. But distinctions between 25 and 37? And what about the faculty, and what about the location, and on and on. I got caught up a little in the rankings thing, as Amherst was up near the top, even the top 5. I thought to myself: if I get in to Amherst, will I have to go? But were Tara and I really ready to move to Massachusetts? Maybe. But Amherst made the decision for me. Quickly. Oh, I'll show them.

I'd received a large envelope from Oregon that didn't really fool me (though a little) because it seemed too early for a decision. It was. This envelope included housing information. Just in case, I suppose. Finally I did get a letter, the small kind, saying no. This letter was more gracious than Amherst's, and informed me that they took only 7,8 students out of several hundred applicants in fiction. I hadn't quite realized the odds.

Then several more days passed, and by now I was up against the Mills deadline for yea or nay. I got a little worried about USF. The opening acceptance was great, but two rejections in a row had me down. Would I not get into USF as well? Then one morning, kinda out of the blue, I got a call from the director of the USF program, a man named Aaron Shurin, whom I'd met at the info meeting in September and talked with privately one afternoon during an informational interview they encourage (another feature of the program I like).

Aaron's message was saying he was pleased to tell me that the review committee had recommended me for admission, and he "hoped this comes to you as good news" or something to that effect, a gracious sort of turn of phrase that added to the sentiment. Hey, how about it? Getting a phone call was cool, and I'm in!

Finally I return to how I started: Decision 2009. The Dons, or the Cyclones? (For those still reading, bless you.) I really wanted to "do it right" and visit the schools and ask the right questions and feel it all out. As it happens, this is a "perfect" choice opportunity, contrasted like vanilla or chocolate. (Jesuit, or lesbian?) The programs are structured quite differently: Mills with a more traditional set-up, classes start in the fall, no summer classes, and a normal load of three classes per semester. You're a full-time, and often daytime, student. USF's classes are on a strict evening schedule. All classes throughout the program are Tuesday and Wednesday nights from 6:15 - 9pm. There's also a six-week summer workshop that kicks off the program, and every summer after you work on your major project. Just in terms of set-up, I liked USF's. It seemed more planned out, and more tailored toward working adults. Certainly the set schedule means that there isn't a lot of flexibility, should you need it, like taking a daytime class, but on the other hand, for working purposes (and man, will I need to work!) the known schedule is an advantage.

Mills has a tree-filled, retreat-like campus in the Oakland hills. USF is on a hilltop with sweeping views of the Golden Gate bridge and has a huge cathedral on the main campus. Mills felt very laid-back; I was able to come in and visit two workshops and one class. USF limits its visits; they allow only one, and then only a class and not a workshop, since workshops involve students' new works and they want to protect the safe space. They also feel too many visitations are disruptions to those in classes. I appreciated Mills' openness, but I respected USF's boundaries. I went to evening faculty and other readings at both schools, and found both interesting, but not necessarily overwhelming. Nothing that made me say, as I secretly hoped: here! I must go here! I walked the campuses, a tried to feel into my decision. I felt myself getting a bit confused, trying to find things to help me choose, like the conversation I had with one of the directors, or a comment of a student, or the feel of the library.

In the end, I kept thinking to myself: I sorta like USF better. But it was hard to trust it, because not everything felt "concrete" or objective. Some things, yes, but not everything. For example, I just liked being in San Francisco. I left a reading I attended, and the moon was rising and I looked off toward Sutro Tower and UCSF, and I thought: this is cool. But that hasn't anything to do with the actual school! But, it's something. USF will most likely be a pain to commute to sometimes, while Mills is much closer to home. Still, I lean USF-way. Both are very expensive (private schools) and I still wonder if it'll make sense when it's all said and done. But today, May 1st, was the verbal deadline. And I made the call. The Jesuits! The Dons!

A last thing I wanted to muse on. Again, if you're still with me, you're my friend. Part of this whole facetious Jesuit and Lesbian thing has something to do with my writing root, if you will. I know writing from an intimate place, from my upbringing in Berkeley, and from my mother, a writer herself, especially when I was young, who published stories and poems in a feminist journal called The Wild Iris. One of my all-time favorite memories of my childhood and my mother is waking up from bad dreams and wandering to the back of our house on Cedar street and finding her in her little office, typing on a typewriter. She had then this feeling of calm about her, she smelled pleasantly of cigarettes, and I'll just never forget how unique that space was. I just wanted to sit on her lap, maybe tell her about my dream, and just stay there for a little while. The mother of my daytimes was not there. This was a different woman, and it was good.

So, Mills brings my writing root up to me for consideration. But instead of being the natural choice, as it could be, it feels almost too familiar. It seems like I already know that part of myself. Or, that kind of relationship to writing and how I think about it is known. This is why, in contrast, I use the image of the Jesuits, though really knowing nothing about them. That's kind of the idea. And, the USF MFA writing program doesn't have much to do (if anything at all) with Jesuits. It's just a different image. It's an unfamiliar one. I'm intrigued by it. I've heard it termed "the growing edge," drawn to where you're not familiar. It's partly an idea of scholarly, or even monastic writing work, and it's somewhat paternal. I get images of the father-side of writing, if you will, compared to the mother-side, and it's something I haven't always had the most stable relationship with. These images, whether real or imagined, help. The fact is: I'm intrigued by USF, the Dons, something I'm seeing has "Jesuit" energy. A parternity side of writing. But that's not to say I don't know my roots.

So, that's the many parts of this decision, MFA 2009. Today, just before my phone call to Aaron, I decided I'd pick a rune. I often don't have a clear question when choosing one of these little stones, but today my question was very clear. Is USF the right decision for me? And, as is almost always the (uncanny) case, I picked one called: Breakthrough.

A Sense of Aww

2009-04-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

Went for a beautiful hike in Marin on Saturday with some of the fellas. We had a few beers down in Stinson before charging back up Mt. Davis toward the Bootjack parking lot. I'm tellin ya, that's how to do it. Fortify yourself. Fuel up.

I paused to take a few pictures as we meandered up Steep Ravine, realizing how the chatter of group hiking keeps you from the reflective pauses that happen when alone. And oh, what places to stop and reflect. Next to the clean, purling creek, the fallen redwoods crisscrossed making bridges upon which to sit and look at: the Nature, the new growth, the rock formations, the sunlight reaching in from the west.

I took a deep breath, as one might when taking in such sights, but it got caught a little bit in my throat. I usually, in such moments, take my inhale and get a powerful feeling of relief. I feel a sense of God. I relax into a deep knowing that it's all going to be ok. Old ancient Nature, Mother Earth herself, will come through it all ok. She'll be fine, even after us crazy monkeys have jettisoned ourselves. Normally, what I'm feeling is a sense of awe.

This, however, was a distinct sense of aww. As in: maybe she won't.

I needed to take a second to absorb this feeling. I wasn't reassured; I was saddened. I read an article recently (in the Chron I'm sure, but I can't seem to find it right now) that talked about how Americans rank environmental concerns lower than things like economic stability and health care. Without the article I'm not doing the logic justice, but, while the two other issues I mention are certainly important, how folks are feeling about the environment seems to be going down, especially in the past 30 years, rather than up. How can this be? If ever there was a nonpartisan issue, this is it. If the Earth dies, we die. That means our children, our grandchildren. Doesn't everybody GET this? We can't err on the side of caution on this one, people. In fact, we should err on the side of caution. So we "over-regulate" which "hurts" business--but ensures clean water and clean air. Who cares about the business interests if we're all dead? We've already seen what Big Business does with its exorbitant profit margins. A solid gold spaceship ain't what I'm lookin for. I want redwoods. I want clean, gorgeous creeks. I want clean, healthy oceans.

I thought: maybe that's my true purpose. To write for the trees. I'm Jamey Lorax.

I lined up my picture (#1, below). I was having these aww thoughts while doing it, and a feeling came over me, kinda like a voice: Don't be too sure you know Nature's nature, sonny boy. It wasn't admonishing, it was truthful. Kind of an inner knowing. The sun is warm, and the sun can burn your skin. I pursed my lips and squinted, having my private hmm moment. What was I sensing here? I leaned back a little and something brushed my hair. I looked above me, and a goateed piece of lichen had alerted me to the (rather sharp) point of rock upon which it grew. He seemed to be looking at me. He might've said: without me, son, that coulda smarted. I was having a bit of a Tom Hanks and Wilson volleyball moment. Smiling, I reached up with my thumb and two fingers to tug on the point of this lichen's goatee and, as if Nature was showing me its point, what I thought would be coarse to the touch was amazingly soft, and came away easily in my fingers like wispy cotton. Next, I "heard" my lichen Wilson say: "Try me." Bah, I thought. I ain't eatin' no lichen. But then I looked around. And suddenly I thought of all the shit we make our beautiful Nature eat: smoke, exhaust, garbage, chemicals.

I balled up the little piece, making it smaller and easier to swallow, thinking are you really going to eat this? and ate it. Rather tasty, actually, in an earthy sort of way.

Sign o' the Times

2009-04-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

It's silly, no?
When a rocket ship explodes
And everybody still wants 2 fly
Some say a man ain't happy
Unless a man truly dies
Oh why
Time, time

(Prince, "Sign o' the Times")

I cancelled the paper. I didn't want to, but seventy-five bucks every 13 weeks was starting to bother me. It's an expenditure I could make, but is it one I could avoid? I had to say yes. This must be a perfect example of economic "contraction." People pull back, even if they may not exactly have to. Sorry, darling, but we really mustn't purchase any BMWs right now, at least not until our recovery money is confirmed...

So, it's not that I absolutely can't afford the paper. I could make it work, and I'd certainly like to think I was helping the paper, the whole damn institution, from going under, as I'm told it very well might. But cancelling my subscription seemed a perfect opportunity to cut back, especially when I can get the information, almost exactly, for free online. I don't like it, but it's true. I find I have very little stamina for reading articles online, and I would certainly prefer my morning news on newsprint, holding it open in front of me in my leather chair, grandpa style, but free with a little bother, or $300 a year? You see the dilemma. Jon Carroll, I apologize.

The cancellation logic makes sense, but it sucks. I love the morning paper. Paired with a strong cup of coffee, is there really anything better? The surprise front page elements, the annoying inserts, the addictive box scores, the movie reviews? The morning newspaper, on newsprint, delivered to the door, is as sacred as American Apple Pie. I don't want to give it up.

But things are changing. I guess I have to accept it, like I accepted the transition from fun kid's job with a route of 50 papers, to adult job covering major swaths of cities. I'd love to return to the days when the San Francisco Chronicle, a paper I once slung from my bicycle toward porches at 6 a.m. (and loved it), was delivered to the door by a neighborhood kid (any paperboys out there?) and not slung through the window of a Toyota Tercel by an immigrant father working the route like a real job, probably one of three he holds.

Sign o' the Times.

Here's the thing: I don't really miss it. Part of my reasoning for letting it go was I wanted the hour or two hours I often spent reading the paper, back. What did I really have to show for it? When asked "what happened in the world" or "what was in the paper today," I usually couldn't remember. I love the feeling of being informed, yet I don't miss being removed from the repetitive clangor of politics and depressing world events. Suddenly, it's like I'm on an extended camping trip and I've realized: I don't miss the paper at all.

Ok, maybe just a little to see who's in first place.

The thought of something happening in the world that I don't know anything about is indeed disconcerting. I don't like feeling I've come upon something late. You know how it goes, someone at a party says to you: oh, you didn't read about that? You didn't know about that? Well, they say, after a pause. And with that one word your very credibility has been indicted.

I've been that person, sniffing ever so slightly, thinking: oh, you're just not very informed, are you? I guess that's me.

Sign o' the times mess with your mind.

Last week, when I was going through the first days of withdrawal, this TED talk went around. I found it quite interesting, though I'm not sure what it'll do for saving newsprint. The speaker basically says the same, though his talk is instructive and holds potential. Change the format? Radically rethink the product?

Sign o' the times mess with your mind
Hurry before it's 2 late
Let's fall in love, get married, have a baby
We'll call him Nate...if it's a boy

Gotta Be The Beard

2009-03-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago I had lunch with Ben Turman, an old high school and college friend. He's planning a trip to Spain this summer and wanted to see what I might recommend to him. Que me recomiendas, Jaime?

Ah, Spain...

Wait. That's another story.

My meeting with Ben happened to coincide with the start of some work I'm doing with a career coach named Carolyn Foster. She has reignited my desire to network, and she encourages the old-fashioned informational interview technique to facilitate this. I love networking; meeting new people and finding out what they do. Isn't it strange how we get untethered from the things we know? I daresay most of the good fortune I've experienced in life has come to me, one way or another, via networking. Despite this knowledge, whether present to me or lying around dormant somewhere in my head, I realize my disposition is matched by a dual philosophy: I can do it myself. Just leave me alone, here in my little room with a computer, and I'll figure it out!

With my "network aspect" reinvigorated and out-dueling the dual, I asked Ben, when we finished discussing the finer points of La Costa Brava, about his company. What does he do, and who does he work for? Turns out, a well-known company called Autodesk, which, I must add, has a sabbatical program, the reason Ben is able to visit Spain with his family for several weeks this summer.

Sabbatical programs = good.

Ben also told me about his older brother Dan, a writer, who currently works at a company called Organic. Seems Dan, like me, had tried some years ago to parlay his creative writing work into a situation where he might actually make a living. Ben offered to put me in touch with Dan since our interests seemed so well-matched, and true to his word, within days he'd set up some meetings. A few days after that I found myself in the lobby of the 4th floor of 555 Market visiting Organic.

Networking combined with solid follow-through = good.

A few quick notes before I get to the actual point of this post. As I've said, networking is cool. It's remarkable. Also about this time, I was invited to attend a "sailing mixer" with OCSC, a sailing school owned by Anthony Sandberg, whom I know through Max Fancher. Though it was gray and rainy, we, just a collection of people Anthony thought might enjoy each other, went sailing on the bay in the late morning of Sunday March 1st and had a blast. I thrilled, as I always do, in meeting so many interesting new people. One of whom happened to be the writer Ethan Watters, author of the book "Urban Tribes." From the brief chat I had with him that day, we arranged to meet the following week so I could visit the San Francisco Writers' Grotto, which he's a founding member of and I'd been reading about for years. Cool, huh?

Therefore, through this various networking, I met with the working writer Ethan Watters, a managing editor of Autodesk named Mark Tricarico, Dan Turman an associate creative director at Organic, and Guthrie Dolin the Director of Strategy at an awesome company called Odopod. And these are just the folks with whom I had a writing/career connection. There were other connections I'm not mentioning, like Ron Blatman, a guy making a documentary film about the bay. We watched a short clip of it after the sail, and it promises to be something special, including all the interesting details of the bay we tend to have scattered knowledge about. First settlers, redwood trees, gold rush. You name it.

All of this came, mainly, because I asked a few questions and possibilities opened up. Of the many reasons informational interviewing is rewarding, one is simple: you can take a look inside. Among the companies I visited, from an energy and vibe and size standpoint, Odopod took the cake. It was experiential evidence of something I already know, but love reaffirming: the small, creative, non-traditional companies are always my favorites.

What about beards, you say? Didn't the title of this piece say something about beards? My apologies, the route to making a point can be circuitous!

Ok. So, when going for an interview, informational or otherwise, what's one of the first things you consider? Appearance. You must decide: go with the suit, or casual? Haircut? What about this beard? No doubt we've all had the experience of choosing in one direction, say, showing up in the suit, and wishing we'd gone with the jeans. As for facial hair, I know the grandfathers of our collective soul would always advocate for the clean shave. But this isn't our grandfathers' workplace. Not to mention the fact that sometimes the recently shorn look doesn't work. Especially, when it's not a proper representation of you. And that's the key. Who are you? What do you want people to see, to know about you? Certainly, you want to be respectful, and your presentation is a big part of that. I'm not much of a shorts-and-sandals-to-the-workplace guy. But why don a tie when that's not really who you are? Aren't you sort of hiding? Cloaking yourself, faking it? Yes, it can depend on the situation, but it's important to remember where you're coming from. Like dating, do you want to pretend to be something you're not? It might work the first time, but from then on you're putting on airs.

Here's an apropos Spanish phrase: Ser Tu Mismo. Be yourself.

I went to these meetings in SF, then, full-bearded. Perhaps the "informational" nature of things helped. Probably; it's another of the many good aspects of this type of interview. By keeping the beard, though, it wasn't that I was trying to make a statement, or that I'm particularly committed to this look. I just wasn't ready yet to shave it off, and, well, I'm good with it right now. Tomorrow, who knows?

(Finally, here's the point!) And so there I was talking with Dan Turman. Right away , I was more comfortable with him (I'd been speaking previously with a recruiter), knowing he's a writer and the brother of a good friend and well, he's from Berkeley. How kindred can we be? Still, I was attempting to sound professional; I didn't want to come across as too cavalier, assuming a relationship we didn't yet have. But our conversation kept turning on fun points, and soon we were talking of creative writing, and writing about subjects we know. We got on about blogs, and related topics of interest, and I hesitated only momentarily before saying that I loved basketball and writing about it. The slight hesitation was because I worried basketball might seem like a lowbrow topic, not tech-oriented or hip or something. Maybe mentioning writing about basketball would seem unprofessional or puerile.

Dan's eyes flashed. "I write a blog about basketball," he says. And not just any old blog, either.

I'm tellin ya, this is the kind of stuff that makes life fun. And it gets better. What's his blog called? Fear The Beard. The coincidence, considering Mi Barba (more Spanish!), was obvious. Off our conversation went into basketball, and related hoop topics. Check it out; seems Dan started this site when Baron Davis was still a (bearded) Warrior. Man, I wish he still were. Before I left Organic, Dan gave me a T-shirt:

It was such a pleasure meeting these guys, and they were very generous with their time. My thanks out to them, and to my man Ben for the hook-up.

The Other

2009-03-18T13:06:00.000-07:00

There's a great scene in the film "Rachel Getting Married" in which members of the wedding party toast the bride and groom during the rehearsal dinner. Anne Hathaway's character Kym, the sister of the bride, gives the most memorable, if uncomfortable, toast; the scene is hers, really, and will be easily recalled because of her character, though several others give heartfelt and humorous tributes. The film, by the way, does an excellent job at portraying the many dynamics of such a "modern" wedding, with the presence and interaction of its satisfyingly diverse cast, and its exposure of subtle family issues, loves, joys and resentments.

When one character stood to give her toast, however, I felt myself stiffen. This was Emma, Rachel's best friend and maid-of-honor, played by the actress Anisa George, whom I'd noticed in an earlier scene has a cleft lip. Quite subtle, but there nonetheless. If there's one thing I've discovered as a fellow bearer of this superficial burden, it's that we recognize each other: instantly. That recognition is not friendly, nor is it mean. The merest flash of an eye, which has already noted the particular misalignment of lip or nostril, going to that area of the face like some radar, assessing severity and attractiveness, flashes away again. We don't nod; we don't smile. We aren't out to be "brothers." I sometimes wonder why not. Who else could understand our walk? Why alienate or avoid those of our particular stripe, however unwanted the color?

Instead, we avoid each other. I suspect it's because we mainly walk our individual paths without many suchlike encounters. We are unique; we are The Other. We pretend invisibility. Perhaps, we might even forget, and often do. When we encounter each other, we are abruptly pulled up from our sea of invisibility and forgetting. We are thrust face-to-face with not the mirror, which we're used to, which we've made be our friend, but with others. Others like us. We are forced to remember ourselves, and we are awakened to the reality: we are not the only ones.

I suspect everyone walks the world with a feeling of The Other more than they care to admit. And this was the beauty of my realization while watching this actress deliver her toast in the film. This realization is the font (at least, directions to it) of true compassion.

By the time of this scene in the film, Emma has already had a few uncomfortable interactions with Kym so we, as viewers, are starting to see Emma as somewhat annoying. Though Kym is clearly the bitter, insensitive character, her quips at Emma give her power and make us feel that Emma's too earnest, and maybe a bit of a lapdog to Rachel. It probably added to my feelings about her before the toast. Either way, when Emma stands up, I had this strong feeling: Don't Be Foolish. As in: Don't you, as a representative of my "kind," act a certain way that'll embarrass me.

Never before have I felt quite like this. Ol' Joaquin Phoenix is all over the silver screen with his scar, and what I feel watching him, usually, is just uncomfortable. I think to myself: how can people not stare? Even I'm staring! And I think (and here, up comes the virgin lava of insecurity): how can anyone find him truly attractive? How did this actor get the role? But the feeling I had watching Anisa George was somehow different. I realized that this is how people must feel all the time, especially when considering themselves different, out of their element or comfort zone, and being "represented" by someone.

I realized: All of us experience The Other feeling. Not just people who think they have a more justified "claim" to it, by race, or sexuality, or affliction, but everybody. How many times must a black person watch another black person, say a participant on Survivor, for example, and think: "Oh please, don't fuck up." They're worried this individual will be viewed as a "representative," for better or for worse, of millions of people. Sure, it feels good when the Denzel Washingtons of the world, in apropos parlance, represent, but consider all the Flava Flavs. How about when, by random miracle, an Asian person gets cast in a mainstream film? How must other Asians feel when they watch this character? (And think how inherently flawed, considering "Asian" (like black) has got to be one of the grossest generalizations of all-time.)

See, everybody feels The Other. You stand up to make a toast and you think everybody's staring at: your earring; your beard; your lovehandles; your race, your marital status, your fill-in-the-blank. Anne Hathaway's character feels so uncomfortably The Other that she veritably revels in it, using it as her tool, her armor. And who could blame her? She has been the cause of so much family embarrassment nobody completely trusts her anymore. She's an addict. When she stands, the room looks on with pained, worried expressions. She drinks it in, like the alcohol she can't have, because it's one of the few recourses available to her in the face of so much perceived, and real, scrutiny.

Watching Emma's toast, I understood, in my moment of embarrassment and then clarity, that human beings don't always know themselves, let alone how we appear to others. We can't. No matter what our particular situation, our bodies, our selves, our circumstances we are simply showing up and trying to make it work. Sometimes, we're doing it well. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes, despite any combination of the aforementioned, we feel: attractive, athletic, intelligent, free. Other times, we feel decidedly other things. That's the human experience. We have our nuances, but the basic essence is the same. The same.

The poet David Whyte describes the dichotomy. He asks: Do you belong, or feel abandoned? I refer to it in my mind again and again. Let's work toward belonging, and making others feel that they belong.

Fellow Pilgrims

2009-02-22T14:21:00.000-08:00

On a recent quest for the next book to read, I happened into Walden Pond Books on Grand Avenue where I bought a used copy of Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," which has orbited my sphere of consciousness since I read "The Writing Life." Her writing had reappeared to me last fall, when I read the first half of "For The Time Being" which I found on the bookshelf of friends I was staying with in Boulder during the election. That's right, I remembered when scanning the page of previous works, she won a Pulitzer for Pilgrim at Tinker Creek...

In chapter 2, called "Seeing," she writes: "It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get."

The above is preceded by a story of when she was a little girl in Pittsburgh, and how she used to plant pennies in "secret" places, trees and sidewalks, for other people to discover. She sometimes drew chalk arrows pointing to their locations. SURPRISE AHEAD, she enticed the would-be discoverers.

I got to thinking about magic with these hidden pennies, how oftentimes the magic we seek in the world is actually planted, perpetrated somehow, by someone. Magic's in the seeing, yes, but magic, I realized, is also in the doing. I was no less than thrilled, ecstatic even, when adults during my childhood created an aura of magic about me and our interactions. Coin from behind the ear trick? Loved it. Suggestion that we set off on a magical mystery adventure down the trail with monsters and a princess to save? I'm in. All of it; anything. Even a twinkle-eyed wink delivered me the frisson I wanted the whole world to be filled with.

Here's what I'm talking about: If finding a letter in your mailbox is thrilling, send someone a letter. That's creating the world magic.

In high school, my best friend's mom had a saying: spread a little magic out there. At the time, with my callow ears, I got it, but it sounded so flaky. The poet and storyteller Utah Phillips once remarked about his teenage daughter, cross with him for some public antics: "Why are teenagers so conservative?" Spread a little magic out there resonated in me, but my high school sensibility winced at it.

Now I know what she meant. So many aspects of the world we want to see, the world we want to live in, are predicated on our creation of them, our effort. And why not? Creating magic for children is a hoot. Creating magic for adults, even total strangers, is no less fun or satisfying. Ok, you may winkwink at the wrong person, creating a difficult "magic" from which to extricate yourself, but you get the picture. Try it.

I suppose this sounds like the pay it forward thing, a concept which I like, but didn't see the movie of that title or understand why the idea was mocked after its release. You know those commercials (I think for insurance) where someone observes a stranger helping a stranger and thus decides to help another stranger and the cycle continues? It's like that. Advertisement or not, I love that concept. You walk by some trash on the ground right next to a garbage can? You pick it up. Sure, it's not your trash. You're well within your "rights" to pass it on by. But what if you did pick it up, thereby contributing a little to the whole? Maybe the person who left it there got a distressing phone call and was rendered momentarily careless, but otherwise would never have left such a thing on the ground. You're picking them up. The examples are endless.

It was in this magic sort of mindset, then, that I found myself on the Rockridge BART platform at midday, standing alone at the west end listening to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough." I was feeling sort of conspicuous up there with the traffic of Hwy 24 wizzing by on either side. However, the song was, as it always is, irresistible, and I kept fighting an urge to pull a step and spin move, right there on the platform. Nah, my mind said. Who are you, fruitcake dancing iPod boy? But I kept getting the urge. Come on, just one random move. Bust it, and that's all. I started thinking of the drivers, glancing up casually at the platform people, at me, as they journeyed toward a lunch meeting in SF, or a friend's house in Orinda. I thought: what if I were driving by, looking at the people waiting for the train in their normal stolid fashion, and suddenly one of them pulled a Michael Jackson spin move?

So, giggling to myself and slightly embarrassed, I suddenly stepped to the right, picked up the left heel, shoulder to the ear, and spun. Wooh!

And that was it. Back to standing. I wondered if anyone looked up to see my one spin, and if, by that random move, my one "magical" display, it influenced anybody. "Honey, you'll never guess what happened. I was driving by the BART platform, and I was thinking how I really wish we went out dancing more, and suddenly this guy on the platform did a little random dance move. It was crazy!" I'll tell you this: I certainly felt like I was having fun, creating some magic out there.

Come on, fellow pilgrims. Create a little magic out there. Don't stop 'til you get enough.

A Wanderer's Beginnings

2009-02-17T13:05:00.000-08:00

During my sixth grade year, in response to a spate of classroom mischief of which I was a principal culprit, Mrs. Culpepper relegated me to my own desk in the corner by a window. Her purpose was ostensibly punitive, but I suspect, looking back, it had more to do with keeping order than pure punishment. Either way, I was delighted. Sure, I hammed up the banishment angle, sulking, albeit briefly, in my new place away from everybody else. But once I was there and set-up, secretly I was delighted.

First, there was the window. I could now look out onto the playground and do the next best thing to P.E.: watch other kids do P.E. I'd evaluate kickball kickers and decide if Mr. Richie was treating our class as fairly as those outside. Did we play the same games, for the same amount of time? If the playground was empty, though, and I was in a thoughtful mood, I would simply stare out at the asphalt expanse, like a charcoal sea, with its intermittent seagulls and yellow temporary classroom bungalows like junks, and indulge my inchoate introspection.

Second, I had no table-mates. No snooping classmate eyes on me or my activities. If Mrs. Culpepper needed to see me, either I went to her desk or was called over to a group table. Thereby liberated, I set about that year to read books. I'm not exactly sure where the desire came from, but I suddenly wanted to read, and not much of what I was supposed to read. I decided to enact what I thought was a clever, albeit unoriginal, ploy. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I would go to Mrs. Culpepper to get my next assignment, meted out to me now in separate, individual portions since I no longer belonged to an official table-group. She'd give me, say, pages 11 through 17 of the workbook to read and the quiz on 18; I was to return to her when completed. Marching orders in hand, I would beeline to my desk, industriousness falling off me like sparks, and prop the large workbook open. But rather than read its contents, inside that partition I would spread other books: the Garfield series; The Hobbit; A Wrinkle In Time.

You'd imagine my subterfuge more clever if my desk actually faced Mrs. Culpepper's, thereby hiding my contraband; instead, with my back to her and the classroom, I somehow figured the outside workbook cover was sufficient to disguise my activities. Nonetheless, I was never caught, and relished every minute of my personal reading. When I gauged a proper period of time had elapsed, I would return to Mrs. Culpepper for more pages. I remember showing her the book, and fibbing about the previous assignment. I must've done the quizzes, which were easy, but maybe not. My detailed rap seemed to satisfy her. She once remarked on a report card: "James will make a great salesman someday." With pages 19-27, and the quiz on 28, I was on to another book, maybe A Wind in the Door.

Thinking back on this from an adult perspective, I realize Mrs. Culpepper must've observed me over there reading my books-inside-the-workbook. I suppose she considered it productive, if not incorrigible: at least I was reading.

At about the time of my new seating assignment, I'd begun to realize that class was often intensely boring. I wanted to go outside for P.E., and if we couldn't do that, wasn't there anything more interesting to do in class? Certain activities I enjoyed, like reading out loud in groups with Mrs. Culpepper. Sitting next to her as I read, she once stroked my hair, quite maternally, and said: "James, your hair is so soft!" But the rest of the sixth grade curriculum? It was either too easy or too boring. Who could stay focused? This attitude had unfortunately contributed to my present seating arrangement, which meant now there were no nearby classmates for me to tease or otherwise engage with. So I turned my attention outside the classroom, and had another in what seemed a series of sixth grade epiphanies: I'll employ the "go to the bathroom" ruse! I'd never even attempted this without really having to go, but, just like that, I tried it. And it worked. That bathroom pass made me feel like an army private on his first furlough. Free! Where would I go first?

I thus began daily wanderings throughout the school. I wandered the third floor, peering into classrooms; I wandered near the main office and studied the huge bulletin board of pictures of "students of the month." Often I'd head over to the auditorium, where the Gilbert & Sullivan troupe rehearsed. Mr. Klute's fifth grade and Mrs. Lynch's sixth grade classes had the added, exotic activity of rehearsing and performing plays during the school year, along with the regular curriculum. They seemed special, and I was fascinated. A couple of my neighborhood friends were in the troupe. I'd sit in the audience by myself and watch like a talent scout. I'd make small mental notes: "Erika is actually a good singer." "Tom looks uncomfortable up there." Sometimes, I don't think I was doing much at all besides looking, and listening to the songs fill up the cavernous auditorium, a sixth grade boy alone in a metal folding chair in an inconspicuous row, pondering. When I was sorta tired of wandering about, I'd return to Mrs. Culpepper's class.

And she never said a word! I thought I had her so fooled. Every day I asked "to go to the bathroom" and wouldn't return for what seemed like hours. Which, of course, for those older than 11 years, was probably no longer than an hour. Still, a kid outside the classroom for an hour? You might suspect some kind of negligence here. But I don't think Mrs. Culpepper was careless. This was 1982, after all. Kids still played outside until dusk, by god, without parental supervision or helmets. I think she was the opposite of careless, actually, I think she was quite astute. She was trying to perform that unenviable teacher's task of treating students as individuals, and deciding what works best for the group. And, as for Mrs. Culpepper's level of engagement, let me add this: she appeared recently at my 20th high school reunion, and said she remembered most of her students, 26 years later! Still, I think it had less to do with the era, or a teacher's lack of protocol, and more with the fact that I think she knew I needed out, and so she let me go. She knew I'd come back.

I consider now the self-absorption of that age. I had no idea that Mrs. Lynch might've reported back to Mrs. Culpepper that she saw me in the auditorium. Or the librarian, or any number of teachers or administrators I encountered. It just didn't occur to me. Perhaps they did, and that's why Mrs. Culpepper didn't worry. Perhaps they didn't. Either way, I was in my own world, and she let me experience it. It was an unspoken agreement between Mrs. Culpepper and me.

What's interesting now, in retrospect, is the fact that this need, to wander, and this attitude, that I'd like to do what I want, (and not what you're paying me to do), in many regards, hasn't changed much. I still want to read, and when that's finished, I want to wander. Around the bookstore or the library, or go down to the shoreline or up in the hills or along any streets and listen and look. Who doesn't? And like the sixth grader, there's a self-absorption that must be equally honored and reformed. I, like many in my generation, struggle with finding this balance in adult life. We are inundated with the message follow your dreams, which who can argue with? But the dream to write or to play music or to paint or, hell, to wander, isn't always as easy as it seems. We know this; still, we must address it. There's no shortage of Larry Darrells in the pantheon, literary or otherwise, those who simply desire to loaf. Which meant, we came to understand, not wanting to do it the "normal" way. Then, how? It still must be done.

The more practical-minded (within whose number I count myself on certain matters) say it should be a simple matter of assiduous dream-following, and in some cases I suppose it is. We all have responsibilites, to ourselves, to our partners and our families. Letting oneself wander, and knowing when it's time to return to class, is the crux of the matter.

Finally, a note. It occurred to me as I remembered my sixth grade self that it was a wonderful time of self-possession. I was blissfully unselfconscious, liked what I liked and did what I wanted to do. Mrs. Culpepper let me be me, in fact I think she championed my self-assurredness. I certainly had a lot of sparkle and enthusiasm for an 11 year old, was cocky even, and I think she saw it and knew to let it be. I cringe thinking about what a different personality might've done in the face of my exuberance, because change was coming only too quickly. In just a few short months, I experienced one of the worst summers of my young life, filled by emotional stress and the first body changes associated with the onset of puberty. In the wink of an eye, I became self-conscious, and entered that fall into the 7th grade and a whole new phase of life and development that would take years to recover from, periods of doubt, self-loathing, insecurity and awkwardness. Knowing that was coming, I offer my thanks to Mrs. Culpepper for her leniency, for letting me wander. And, I think, we should allow ourselves, and the people in our lives, more room, because who knows what's next, and who knows what a great opportunity this could be.

The Rainbow Portends

2009-02-13T11:25:00.000-08:00

During the night I awoke from a dream. Immediately, I could recall nothing; my memory seemed erased. Hobbling tiredly off toward the bathroom, my right hamstring registering a pain, my bare feet audible on the hardwood, I was slowly filled by the relief that all of what I'd just been through was only a dream. It was 3:10am.

Back in bed, I laid there on my back with the covers to my chin. Outside the winds were howling at the creases, rain battering the glass in gusts as if sections of the downpour were being taken out in chunks by the storm and heaved at our bedroom. Perhaps this is why I was dreaming, I thought. All this outside activity making my mind fitful.

Tara rolled over, tugging the blankets, which caused my head to jerk to the side as I was drifting off. "What'd you do that for?" I snapped. It wasn't a stop snoring movement, any of the several methods--an emphasized turn, a light tap of elbow or calf, once even a good but gentle chuck to my chin--we employ to quiet the other from snoring, snuffling and the like. "You jerked my head," I added, turning over on my stomach. "I'm sorry," she said. We went back to sleep. I could tell the intermittent gusts were unsettling her.

In the morning, I playfully hugged the blanket tyrant, as I think of my wife. She reminded me of my scold in the night, and added it was my fault because I'd woken her up by going to the bathroom. All was benign; there were no bad feelings. A night's sleep with your partner is sometimes, often times, adventurous. We greeted the dog in the kitchen. Through the window of the alcove where our refrigerator resides, I saw an enormous rainbow.

Like the power of a dream to unsettle, or how the realization of no longer dreaming can relieve, or the beauty of magnanimity in a relationship, a rainbow has its own feeling. It seems to portend something special, remind me of something. Magic, maybe. In an instant, catching the moon reminds me we are hurtling through space; catching a rainbow reminds me of magic. From gray clouds and white overcast skies, with a little shot of sunlight, comes an arc band of ROY G. BIV.

But a question: Good magic, or bad magic? Leprechauns are mischievous. I imagine them at the filled pot, the gold glistening, but that grin? There is uncertainty; getting that treasure is not guaranteed. I think rainbows have a little of that duality in them. They say: magic is happening, can happen, might happen. The world is charged, there's more than meets the eye, and there's more going on than you know. But, that's not necessarily to say that, by seeing the rainbow, some particular magic is coming your way. But maybe. Look sharp.

Isis (our dog) and I trotted off to the Hudson Bay Cafe for coffee. It's a very routine walk; I didn't take her leash. She's smart enough, but also old enough, where this is at once fine and occasionally problematic. Some days she's on voice command and waiting at curbs and coming when she's really called and I couldn't praise her enough. Other days, a bit too excited for fresh air, perhaps a bit too far ahead of me, or expressing the unique dog thrill of completing a bowel movement, she might decide to go full retard. Well, she never quite does that, but she suddenly thinks "come" or "stay" are words I use for describing the neighborhood flora to some imaginary companion when entranced by another dog.

But I'm ahead of myself. The skies clouded up again as we got going on Coronado, and soon enough we were walking in a decent drizzle. Nevertheless, Isis was with me happily all the way to the side door of the HBC, and waited there patiently, sans leash, while I went inside. I greeted Tanya, the HBC proprietor and recent subject of a Chronicle profile, and got my coffee. Tanya said: "Your coffee is on the lady." Huh, I thought? "Oh, you mean Tara?" I asked, knowing she'd just come in ahead of me, driving to school. But Tanya said no, and starts to describe our friend Mary, who I'd seen across the street, just leaving from getting her coffee. Turns out, she'd thought to repay us for grabbing her coffee last Friday when she'd forgotten her money.

Experience congeniality with your spouse, see a rainbow, and get an unexpected free coffee? This is good magic.

Ah, but walking back down Manila, just one block shy of home, I lose Isis behind me. Well, I know where she is, and I know the cause of her delay: the morning poop. She's in a yard back there, hidden by some fronds. But up ahead I see another dog walker, and she's already tensing with her dog. She's choking up on the leash and moving toward a quick cross of the street. Shit, I'm thinking, let's get this one worked out. Isis is still back there, though, finishing up, and I can tell the timing's not going to be favorable. If she'd not stopped to poop, we'd have crossed over Manila to our block safely before any real interest in this dog began. Isis would've stayed with me, under my command. Oh, she'd be lookin', but she'd be stayin'. Now she's done, and feeling that sublime canine relief, and, as if to indicate that she'd registered my earlier hails of come! comes sprinting down the sidewalk, past me, and straight into a hypnotized trance for this new dog. I hate to use the phrase, but it was the perfect storm.

The woman, scowling at me know and pulling hard on her dog's leash enough to lift it's forepaws off the ground, has now entered the middle of the street. Isis is not listening to me, and follows, right into the street after them. This is my absolute no-no rule with Isis. No street. She also has the friendly and stupid habit of approaching leashed dogs aggressively, as if she's aware that they're shackled. She has no fighting intentions whatsoever, but other dogs think she does. This dog, a pit mix, was skittish and gnashed its teeth, but not nearly as bad as I thought possible based on how the owner was acting. By now I was out in the street too, in-between the dogs, and was soon moving Isis off toward the other side of the street. A tense moment, but already finished. I set about scolding Isis, but realized the woman was still standing in the street glowering at me. "Do you have a leash?" she demanded. Uh-oh, I think. I'm already not liking this. "Look," I said, "we don't need to get into this--" "It's the law!" she cries. "You are so stupid!" She is still standing in the middle of the street. She has a prominent mouth with big teeth, darkened at the roots by cigarettes and poor denistry. She has black hair, dark eyes and is wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans. I would say she's from Spain, her Spanish accent is definitely not Mexican. From her posture, I stereotypically assume she likes a run-in now and again. "Hey!" I yell. "Why are you making an issue out of this? It's over! Nothing happened!"

I've had this experience with other dog owners. My feelings are mixed. I'm embarrassed, but I'm pissed because this whole leash issue drives me crazy. She is scolding me about leashes, but I could just as easily scold her about the way she's treating her dog, the immediate rigid posture, the way she's yanking on the leash. How else is her dog going to react? True, I'm technically in the wrong, but many would argue that lots of the aggression in dogs comes from their owners. Besides, they meet noses, discover they don't like each other, they move on. What's the problem? It's not like the owners aren't present, or the dogs aren't controlled. One's even on a leash!

We hurl a few more comments at each other (and I wonder how the neighborhood is reacting to hearing this yelling altercation on their street at 8am), her calling me stupid a few more times, me using the "you have a nice day" sarcasm tactic on her.

Then I make Isis sit, and while curtly yanking her collar, scold her. Her eyes are wild; she slips into abject fear in situations like these. I try to talk to her, but have no idea if she's getting any of what just happened in her doggie mind. Maybe. We get home and I drop her off inside. I need to run back with a plastic baggie to the spot where Isis popped. I look around for the woman while there, feeling like I could go a few more rounds if she were up for it. She isn't. There is a guy near my apartment collecting bottles, muttering to himself. I passed him three times, and on the final pass, returning from blocks away collecting the poop, I could swear he mutters: There goes the hero.

So: let it go. Altercation on the street. Bad magic? I was having that feeling like something's gone wrong but I've forgotten, and when I remember I'll be bummed out. But when I remember, and realize it's just the aftereffects of scuffling with this dog owner, I realize: it's all good. Everything's fine. The feeling has passed.

Maybe the rainbow magic is like chocolates: you never know what you're gonna get. It's energy; it's both. Dance on.

E. B. White & The Blue Dot Cafe

2009-02-11T15:23:00.000-08:00

The kind of blog entries I dig, the kind that mostly Influence this Space, are like essays or columns. I endeavor to make them a rewarding, (perhaps one day) daily experience. (Yes, I admit: I'm jealous as hell of Jon Carroll and would love his job. Pass the mantle to me, won't you JC? Sure, sure, we'll transition it slowly. I'll take Wednesdays to start. By 2012, which I believe will be 30 years for you, I'll happily man the desk full-time. Agreed?) I state this knowing full well of the dangers. Of the difficulties. The big one: who will find this entry, or any suchlike essay, at all worthy of their reading time?

It was apropos, then, that I picked up my copy of Essays of E. B. White. Here's what he says, right there in the foreword:

“The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs. Each new excursion of the essayist, each new “attempt,” differs from the last and takes him into new country. This delights him. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.”

Man, I guess that about says it!

Well, hana hou, as the Hawaiians say. Do it again, back to work. Or, encore! The latest excursion, then, took me to Alameda, that island hunk of land to the west and south of Oakland. I was there yesterday for a meeting at The Blue Dot Cafe. Let me just say: what is up with Alameda? (I must query Queen Fong on this one.) Every time I'm there I'm a bit baffled by it. Some neighborhoods are veritably teeming with beautiful Victorian houses. They're everywhere, spruced up and gigantic. But there are also lots of cute, small adobe and terra cotta cottages and other small homes, perfect for a young couple. But do I want to live in Alameda? It's certainly Bay Area proper, but when I'm there I feel like I'm in...Napa. Or some small Podunk. It feels completely unlike Oakland or Berkeley, and, despite the Victorians, feels nothing like San Francisco. It's rather bizarre.

Maybe it's just that I don't know it very well. I certainly enjoyed riding the 51 AC Transit down Broadway, through the Webster tunnel and along Santa Clara Avenue, checking out the area. Later, I walked past St. Joseph's to the end of Chestnut Street, which dead ends in a series of canals. Yes, you read right: there are several neighborhoods with waterways in the backyards like fairways. Many of the houses, especially those at the edges before the canals, look out low over the bay toward wide S.F. and south S.F. vistas. Very curious!

(Quick aside: I mentioned 2012 above. Isn't that the apocalypse prediction year? I must be obsessed. If so, I guess I'm just a product of the culture at large, which, if you hadn't noticed, is equally obsessed with doomsday. Dear Reader: do you know anything about this 2012 business? Could you catch a brother up? Something about Mayans and Nostradamus?)

That's it. Oh, there's a shot of me as I'm arriving at The Blue Dot.

Follow Me Down To Jingletown

2009-02-06T15:26:00.000-08:00

[I explored a unique neighborhood of Oakland yesterday, really quite delightful, and I cursed myself, once again, for not having my too-easy-to-carry-not-to-have camera with me. Pictures would really enhance this post. I apologize. iPhone? Instead, I've included several links.]

My drum teacher Robert found a new studio space at the Institute of Mosaic Art. It's in a neighborhood of Oakland near Fruitvale BART sometimes called Jingletown. I gather the name comes from a bygone era when local workers rattled the change in their pockets after payday, looking for action. Jingletown.

The story Robert tells about finding this place is a good one. He says he'd been driving nearby on several occasions, every time getting this feeling he should turn left rather than continue as usual over the bridge from Alameda. Finally he followed the impulse, and as these things go (and these things are remarkable) he saw the Institute, stopped, inquired about studio space sorta out-of-the-blue and the woman who oversees the collective said: are you serious? We were just about to post a listing on Craigslist for a studio space we have that needs a tenant next week.

Boom. Just like that, Robert has his first real home for Total Rhythm, and, knowing about some of his aspirations and hopes for his teaching and community organizing, it's a treat to see him ascend another rung on his envisioned career ladder. I said to him, someday we'll be talking about the "old days" when we used to play in your living room on Jordan Road in the Oakland hills. (You want more cosmic activity? Address for the erstwhile Total Rhythm? 3001 Jordan. Address for the new Jingletown studio? 3001 Chapman. Coincidence?)

I took BART down there to help Robert paint. I was hoping the train could be my new mode of transport for drum class, and I wanted to check out the situation. As you may or may not know, Fruitvale BART is in one of those curious Oakland/big city areas that largely appears seedy, particularly to the outsider, near freeway overpasses and replete with vacant lots, and unless you've got somewhere to go near there, you probably wouldn't go anywhere near there. Jingletown is right there.

I love situations like this, because as I walked toward 3001 Chapman, the first several blocks were indeed sketchy. By the time I got to the studio, though, I had begun to recognize the signs of something else going on in this neighborhood. Open garage doors revealed artists' studios; brick facades of industrial pasts were now intriguing live/work spaces. By the time I found the Institute, I was already getting the sense of what Robert was soon telling me: this area was more than meets the eye. There's actually a little something happening in olde Jingletown.

Before jumping into the painting, we had a quick bite at Viola, a fresh juice company with a little cafe in its factory there. The vibe inside seemed to support what Robert had been saying about the neighborhood. Friendly people, fresh food, good prices. A piano sat in the corner under the skylights of the high ceiling, and I noodled on it while awaiting my coffee. The soup and sandwiches were huge, served in surprisingly attractive dishware. It seemed a place that existed to support artists, and other folks, with good, healthy and inexpensive food.

I'm thrilled by deception. I assume something, and then the whole picture changes with new and better information. My walk from Fruitvale BART to Jingletown is the perfect example. At first, it's everything I suspected. All signs support the initial hypothesis. But continue, keep going, and suddenly it's: wait a minute, here, this is actually starting to look kinda cool. It's like the neighborhood is a big, somewhat mangy-looking dog that's barking but doesn't appear to want to bite. If you don't let the bark scare you off, you'll discover something unexpected: the dog is cool. Much of life is just like this. Keep going.

When it was time to leave after the painting, I considered my route home. Because I sensed the neighborhood held more to discover, I wanted to wander around some. But I asked Robert for a ride, and though he wasn't going my way, he said he was more than happy to give me one. I was still considering when we stepped out onto the street and looked up at a huge rainbow stretched across the Oakland hills, brilliant among the gray dissipating rainclouds. Walk around, my mind said. Don't just leave this place. And still I hesitated a few minutes more while Robert did the last of the straightening up. But then I told him: My man, I'm off to wander. What a blissful thing to say!

With iPod accompaniment I set out on the puddled, train-tracked and worn streets and within two blocks started finding attractive condo/loft apartment complexes. I noticed the names of the buildings and other signage had maritime themes. One said: Public Shore. I started to realize, there really was more to this neighborhood. Then I came upon one of those official little lecturns set-up by historical societies to mark a site of significance, right there on the sidewalk. It so happened I stood at the Cal crew team's boathouse, now called the "T. Gary Rogers Rowing Center." Man, I thought, I know this place! This is where my roommates sophomore year came every morning at some ungodly 5am, the boathouse on the Oakland Estuary. I'd seen pictures, and now I'd just stumbled upon it. I called Brooks to leave him a message about how the magical winds and complex polarities had led me to this spot on the corner of Glascock and Derby.

As I completed the message, a girl passed behind me. I was saying something like "a memory of your crew history" to Brooks before I closed the phone. She seemed lost, examining the large, closed iron gates with uncertainty. I identified her as a rower immediately, which wasn't hard to do: even at a distance I knew she was taller than me. She walked back toward where I was standing and asked me about the boathouse. I told her I didn't really know much but I could confirm that this was, in fact, the Cal crew team's boathouse. We chatted briefly, and it turns out she was the stroke on the women's 2008 Olympic gold medal team. That is some serious rowing! (I remembered her name, Caryn, and looked her up online. 6'4"!) I congratulated her, and tried to learn a bit more about the Olympic experience. She said something about how they'd been expected to win, and that going to China was like "going to get a job done." She modified the sentiment a bit when I registered a look of dismay at her matter-of-factness, and then she was off. Not much chitchat in these focussed crew types, I suppose. Not much for wandering, marveling-at-the-majesty dude by the sign, at least.

Behind that historical sign and the building of the rowing center was perhaps my favorite part of the walk. The Oakland Estuary was back there, newly lined by a pretty esplanade and more fancy condos. Gazing at the old bridges, the water after the rain in the fresh sunshine, the birds standing on floating tires with their wings outstretched toward to dry, was really quite something. I felt that familiar and strong pang: explore more, explore the area in which you live!

I passed through another complex of live/work spaces called the Waterpark Lofts on my way out, and wandered around a few more streets. I noted the restored Victorian houses with huge fences to the sidewalk like compounds, a funky bar, several mechanics, and a gym. I also observed many empty condo complexes with real estate signs, casualities of the bust. On one street, taking up the entire intersection of Peterson and Ford, was painted a huge red and yellow compass rose.

Walking back along E 7th street, there were quite a few abandoned-looking houses, dilapidated, fenced, barbed-wired, and there was one house about which many Latinos, men and women, loitered, filling the front yard, the steps and a balcony with people looking like something might be going on, but not threateningly so. All of it, the artsy, run-down and renovated, was interesting, and combined to give Jingletown a special appeal. I look forward to returning. Maybe you should too.

XLIII

2009-02-04T09:34:00.000-08:00

Are you like me with the years of these things? The 43rd Super Bowl, the 135th Kentucky Derby. Does it just go on and on? World Series 975, Big Game 1,000? I dunno. I don't think I'm suggesting Armageddon will intervene. As The Marty would say: I'm just saying.

How long to you think it will last?

Super Bowl Sunday, America's greatest unofficial holiday, has passed us by once again. Prez 43, and now SB XLIII, in the proper parlance, is in the books. Bring on 44. American culture ad infinitum!

Usually when I watch the Super Bowl, at some point during its spectacle, the advertising, the hype, the halftime rock stars, I catch myself thinking: Whoa, American Culture. Even this year I had to text my man CR with those very words: American Culture. It was strange, because normally I have this overwhelming feeling of American cultural decadence. In fact, some years this feeling has been so strong that I've sort of praised the Super Bowl, ipso facto, and relished the quickening mind of observation, the outrage and wonder, it gave me. This time 'round, though, it all seemed rather blase. Busty women selling products? Celebrities, shiny and sere, pushing brands? All is as it always has been. What's to change? Let's just go on. And on.

It's not just that I've become inured to it all, though that's certainly part of it. I am getting older, and used to it all, and sometimes my shaking fist of indignation isn't thrust skyward with quite the same, well, vigor. (Maybe they have a pill for me: "Are your social critiques feeling, well, flaccid lately? Try OuTragz, and return to those youthful feelings of revolution! Use only as directed. If inclination to commit seditious acts lasts longer than 2 hours, call your doctor.")

But I also felt the tone of this Super Bowl was a bit more low-key. A little less oh-my-god-its-big-and-wonderful and I rather appreciated it. Certainly didn't affect the game, and maybe even helped it. I'm not sure what's going on in the control room, but we've now had two great Super Bowls in a row. When the tone is less strident, I see the game as an incredible display of human ability, physical and mental. When it's full tilt, high-octane hooha, and despite my everlasting respect for the athleticism, I see it all as this wild gladitorial machine, a clear indication that we've really made no great leaps since the Coliseum's Christians and jungle cats, except, obviously, in sales and promotion.

Not that edition XLIII didn't have all the usual components, but it was said the "economic times" cast a pall over the event and advert/promote folks tried to, um, tone it down. Actually, the person best equipped to speak into this "climate" would've been halftime musical guest Bruce Springsteen, but word on the internets, passed along to me by the reliable JBJ, is he missed his opportunity. I hadn't considered it that way, but thinking back I would have to agree. Bruce kinda went Vegas with it, and in doing so seemed a little like caricature to me. Too bad, really, because if the reason the whole shebang seemed more low-key is that people really are somber, the working class people, the real Steelers, The Boss could've really used it to his advantage. Instead, he was just having himself a hoot up there, telling people to "put down the guacamole dip" and watch him look nothing at all like a man of 60 as he rocked. Which I suppose is ok too. Maybe he was just going for escapism. Forget about your problems and your 9-to-5 and just sail along. That's what you do. (I wish that were a Springsteen line. I wonder, if he had gone low-key Bruce on us--"woke up this morning the house was cold, check the furnace she wasn't burnin'"--maybe everybody would've just, well, cried.)

I'll spin a yarn here, try to weave something else into this. The last two books I've read had the word road in the title. It didn't occur to me until I finished "Revolutionary Road" two nights ago and found myself staring at the book's cover, eyes blurring and refocusing as I considered the story, and there it was: road. And I realized the book I read just before (ok, two back) was Cormac's "The Road." (You say: Ooh, trippy.) But I yarn on: "Revolutionary Road" feels uncomfortably like our road, by which I mean countless descriptions of American culture still true today. The road we were on, you see, and the road we're still on. Cormac's road (and here's the fine crochet) is the road we might get on. Maybe this is about the apocalypse?

The Super Bowl really should be its own holiday, a truly secular one. Despite it's lack of political or religious significance, the normal criteria for holidays, it is the one holiday-like event that all of America (and many other places) enjoys, or at least is aware of, with few "major" objections. (Major being the key word here, because I often feel my objections to marketing gone mad are pretty darn major.) It's the celebration of two of our greatest American achievements: sports and products. (And what really twists my noodle is when those slick guys refer to a team, or even an athlete, as a "good product.")

Though "American Culture" is certainly about many and noble qualities, it is also fundamentally about capitalism and consumerism, which I think need to be considered plainly, dispassionately, more than reverentially and adoringly. I certainly get why our "free" market system could be an ideal form for modern civilization, but I don't get why, or even how, the consuming freight train that we're on, and have been on for 43 or 135 years, can just keep barrelling down the line. Do you? How many new ads can they come up with? I guess by this rationale you might wonder how many more football games, with its fixed rules and boundaries, we can watch. But they differ, always, and there is evolution from Bradshaw to Roethlisberger. Ok, maybe it's not linear evolution.

It's funny. I enjoyed the game and the company I was in, avoided most of the commercials, observed only few examples of the gaudy Americana I usually revile, and thought something outside the game was superb: Jennifer Hudson's national anthem. And still I found myself wondering. On and on and on we go. Is it the interminable search for something more, something better?

All those minds and hearts focussed on this one thing, the game, the broadcasting of it, the performances around it, and the sponsoring of it. Maybe it could be something else? Or, in pop philosophy: It is what it is. You gotta wonder. Here come 44.

Hipsters

2009-01-30T14:28:00.000-08:00

I find myself musing about hipster culture. I offer a few observations here. Upon reflection, I must admit, they would seem to be saying just as much about me as anybody else. I guess that's what writing is, the examination of the interface between inner and outer worlds, the perceived and the real. Hopefully you'll see what I mean when I'm done. And, as always, if after reading my thoughts you're inspired to share yours, please do.

Let me attempt to link some of the bits that, when pieced together, got me on this full-fledged rumination. First, it was during lunch last Thursday with D at Cafe Rouge where we chatted briefly with a bartender he knew who happened by our table. I noticed the empty spaces in his earlobes where thick plugs might normally reside. When I mentioned it to D, we got off and running on a conversation about the commonality of suchlike adornments these days, especially in the "service industry." (A phrase I dislike.) In D's many years as a bartender in San Francisco, he said he was often the most clean-cut behind the bar. Strange, coming from a guy I've known to mess around with facial hair that would make a grandmother squawk, but likely true. D has no tattoos, no piercings, not even one earring.

There's a feeling I get in the bay area--and isn't this beautifully ironic--that if you're not a little hipster, or perhaps a little gay, you're kinda out of the club. At least, D and I agreed that in certain situations, and not only in restaurants and bars but software and tech companies and elsewhere, it would seem that being more cleanly cut, less "alternative" or too obviously straight, in the square sense of the word, might work against you somehow. In, say, an interview. Curious, right? Do you notice this?

Then I was reading a New Yorker article by Tad Friend called "The Cobra" about movie marketing and an executive named Tim Palen. A detail Friend included about Palen struck me: "Palen, who is forty-seven, has a shaved head, a graying beard, and the bulging, tattooed arms of a steamfitter." I thought to myself: isn't it such a sign of the times that throughout the working world, and even the big money, highly conservative movie industry, the decision makers are now hipsters. Or at least, they can be.

I'm not a hipster. But I realize, like with all groups and subcultures, I want to be accepted by hipsters. I want to be thought of as cool, even though I don't sport any of the de rigueur accoutrements. Ok, I like to wear rings (you know, the finger kind) and I do have an earring, or at least the hole for one, which I recently discovered can still accommodate an inhabitant. Does any of this count? Or the fact that I can certainly get that wearing certain items, sporting certain fashions, can feel and look good. Like the feel of a good pair of boots, or the flash of silver in the mirror. Do tattoos, or nose rings, or fill in the blank, have a feel? I bet they do. Perhaps that's the hipster's secret. You never know how good you'll feel until...

But here's the thing: in talking about this topic with AT last night, a very interesing observation surfaced. I realized a lot of this was simply about me. I've always had worries that, to certain groups especially, I won't be perceived as cool. Not just cool, but that I understand. That I'm not judging them. Is my need for acceptance that strong?

Isn't it fascinating that we all do this, play the cool game, wonder about how we're perceived, at some point or other, in the constant playing out of our lives? If you had, say, full sleeves of tattoos, perhaps even some on your face and hands (which, as a side topic, AT says is the new boundary point. First it was simply tattoos, now it's where they're located. Face and hands: very big statement. Always drawing new lines, I guess.), it's not hard to imagine the situations in which you'd feel, well, unique. You'd stand out. But the opposite is now also true. If I had a meeting with the studio execs and I showed up in a suit and they were all dressed fashionably casually, and not only that but wearing various jewelry, flashing tattoos, and any other items of this certain look, I'd feel supremely square and out of my element. Is it weird to want to be accepted by everyone? Does true acceptance have nothing to do with appearance, in the end, despite the frequent usage of appearances to assess like-mindedness?

Yesterday I went to write at Pizzaiolo. It was recommended to me by Ayelet Waldman (yes, I'll name drop here for the fun of it) for just this purpose. As a space, I liked it. Brick walls and dark wood tables, high ceilings. But my experience felt a little off, I didn't quite feel welcomed. Granted, I was new to the place and didn't have my bearings, but the counter girl wasn't really vibing me. She wasn't a "hipster" either, by the way, but had a look about her that told me she was clearly accepted by that culture, which, in my estimation, was the prevailing bent of the place, worker and client alike. Her reception, combined with my unfamiliarity with the place and it's flow (it's a restaurant, not a cafe, so the ordering is done at a corner of the bar and it takes a second to sort of get the idea), got my mind humming with a sort of hipster judgment.

Now, as AT informed me during our conversation later that evening, Pizzaiolo isn't really hipster, per se. Lanesplitters down the street, especially the clientele, would be considered much more hipster. (Please note: hipster is a wild generalization and I know it. Like any culture or subculture, there are vast nuances. But for musing's sake, we'll just use the general term.) So, we fell into discussion about the various distinctions of the hipster concept.

Remember high school? Sure you do. There were the cool kids. Sometimes, you might've included yourself in their number. Sometimes, not. I felt cool in certain circles, and very uncool in others. There was a hipster vibe at my high school, it was pre-tattoo and major piercings, but it included lots of the other, still current fashions. Grown-out mohawks or somesuch retro 50s fused with 70s punk hairdos, thrift store clothing (now called "vintage"), and so many other things. These days in the Bay Area, and especially in the hipster mecca that is Temescal and North Oakland, I occasionally get that uncool, high school feeling. I sometimes think hipsters act aloof, even haughty and a bit imperious. Isn't it bizarre how this happens? It's perfectly ironic how those who once felt that they didn't fit in with the "mainstream" create a subculture in which they do relate, and then ostracize mainstreamers. I suppose this is human nature. It's certainly a major component of the interface between white (sometimes called mainstream) and black culture.

AT pointed out that the origins of hipster vary. He brought up an original thrift element, which made me consider something I hadn't, which is that some of the looks come from a forced frugality. And, clever wonderful creative humans we are, people made it into a look, which, wonderful creative insidious humans we are, is now marketed as "vintage" for big money.

Like everything, there are the pure and creative practitioners. Those who do it well, they're being sincere. It's the difference between great hip-hop and the crap on popular radio, for example. Authentic versus phony. Thoughtful versus contrived. My friend CC isn't a hipster, per se, but he certainly demonstrates some good, pure hipster ethic sometimes. He'll rock a white belt with a virgin Mary buckle and it's downright arty, if not necessarily hipster (or is it?) and that's what makes it unique, even cool. He'll also make himself a "hipster" bike, using a found Schwinn frame, and assemble a single-gear set-up with one handbrake and it's downright groovy. But actually buying a bike, fashioned a la hipster, is that not somehow wrong? Buying "vintage" clothing for hundreds of dollars so that you look "hipster." Gotta call foul on that, right? Are "pure" hipsters ostracizing faux-hipsters? And at some point, isn't defining what's "pure" increasingly muddled? "I made this!" "You bought that!" Tsk.

What surprised me most was the realization I had about acceptance. It was the same essential feeling I've had when entering what I perceive as all-black situations. I immediately want not to be considered as "some white boy," and I feel a deep inner need for acceptance. Acceptance for who I am--genuine, familiar, down--and not who I may look like: blond, straight, slightly preppy whiteboy. Someone who doesn't get it. I'm usually pretty self-possessed, sensitive but not insecure. I love it best when I get that instant feeling of acceptance. It's much harder to wait people out. But, I've also learned that in the waiting out there can be a lot of good feeling later, when the discovery is made despite initial potential prejudice. The thing is, I do get it, and I look the way I look. What can I do? That's how it is for all of us, in one way or another.

True, I must admit feeling some attitude at certain times from certain groups, hipster or other. I suppose we all do. What I realized, ultimately, was it has so much less to do with others and more to do with me. So much of what is perceived is either your own trip and not the other person's, or something that you can't control. There's only one thing you can control: be true to yourself, stay home in your soul, and everything be everything.

Later that night, when AT and I were at a bar on Lakeshore Avenue called Easy, I was aware of myself grooving in front of the d.j., he seemed to appreciate that I was digging his vibe. There I was, though, a tall whiteboy grooving easily (at Easy) and we'd just showed up. I had a flash of self-consciousness: I hope I don't seem like happy-whiteboy dancing immediately up near the d.j., no sense of propriety. But was I really getting that from anybody? Wasn't I just dancing? And wasn't I sincere in my heart, being there, being out with all kinds of people, loving all people?

Yes. Then that's all you need to concern yourself with. Be yourself.

The Sheik at The Bulb

2009-01-28T10:57:00.000-08:00

Someday We'll All Be Free - Berkeley Rocks

2009-01-24T13:03:00.000-08:00

One of the neat things about Berkeley is the rocks in its parks. Hours of entertainment and wonder when you're a kid can increase and deepen when you're an adult. The rock as universe, climbing structure and hide and seek spot transforms into the rock as lookout, sunset spot and contemplative zone, though it may exist in any of these combinations no matter what age.

These rock formations are just cool, fun and mysterious and inviting. I've been climbing on several, littered about the hills of north Berkeley, for practically my whole life. So, imagine my delight when I stood upon one that I'd never seen before, and mere blocks from where I grew up. It's Contra Costa Rock Park, above, and standing up there is D, a fellow Berkeley native and erstwhile roommate of mine at Cal.

Bit of a story here. The day before the above pics were taken, I was browsing around Moe's. Ah, the fine and rare day when one can putter about in a good bookstore. I was in Berkeley for the Bears game, killing some time before meeting Paul at Raleigh's. On the second floor of Moe's, searching for a special copy of Revolutionary Road, I happened upon a coffee table book called "Berkeley Rocks." Thinking of my love of Berkeley outcrops, the way early architects used them in their constructions and how properties were sighted with them in mind, I flipped through the book with relish and came upon some old maps with rocks in neighborhoods I didn't know. For me, it's pure joy to learn about something in my own "backyard" that I didn't know about, and I'm always surprised by how little I explore knowing this, taking familiar roads, walking once-newly discovered paths over and over as if I'd completely forgotten how fun it was when I first found them.

The next day, I happened to be having lunch with D at Cafe Rouge on 4th street, an activity that seemed very Manhattan (who goes out for lunch in the Bay Area), and when we finished I asked if he might like to take a drive to find one of these rocks I'd seen in the book. Turns out, he knew exactly where I wanted to go because he grew up a little north of me in Berkeley and took me straight there. Coincidence? I think not.

Speaking of coincidence, I've got another one for the Arsenio Hall-index finger-to-the-temple hmm files. The morning of inauguration day, I pressed play on my iPod shuffle before mounting my bike to ride over to a friend's house to watch the ceremony. The first, and only, song to play, one I didn't even know I had in my iPod, was Aretha Franklin singing "Someday We'll All Be Free." It lasted the exact length of my bike ride. When I got to Monty's house, I said to him, and the assembled group, in very excited tones: can you believe Aretha Franklin came on my iPod on the way to watch Obama's swearing in? I didn't even know I had any Aretha Franklin! And then: Aretha Franklin steps up to sing at the ceremony. Something I did not know, taking this crazy coincidence a step further. Coincidence? Never!

1.20.09 - Inauguration Day

2009-01-20T15:48:00.000-08:00

The pomp and pageantry now complete, the real pleasure of this day settles in. Barack Obama is our president. It is the dawning of a new era, and I look greatly forward to observing and experiencing the effects of his leadership. His poise and determination are truly inspiring. Let these be happy, healthy and just times for all.

Again and again
Someone in the crowd wakes up
He has no ground in the crowd
and he emerges according to much broader laws
he carries strange customs with him
and demands room for bold gestures
The future speaks ruthlessly through him.
--Rilke

From Blue River, CO

2009-01-18T11:33:00.000-08:00

Derelicte! (In your best Mugatu.) But this isn't fashion, this is blogging. Again I am derelict in my duties!

Let us move past the familiar opening of self-beratement and I'll get to the point. In the wee hours of last night, I finished the excellent memoir "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls. My mind pleasantly aglow with the aftereffects of good writing, I couldn't sleep and thought about the Space. So, this a.m., here in a Colorado vacation house in a place called Blue River, outside Breckenridge, I decided I'd get back to it. (Before I shut down this laptop and watch some NFL playoffs.)

Mainly, for these reasons: to recommend the last two books I've read: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy and The Glass Castle. To share the funky photo above, which might make your visit here worthwhile. And, as a teaser: I'm in the process of hatching a project that I hope will start Influencing this Space very soon. Stay tuned...

It Is Written

2008-12-15T15:40:00.000-08:00

Apologies, Dear Reader, for the hiatus of the Influence. A topic in itself: such tremendous build-up before events, but afterwards where does the energy go? Gone are the daily text messages from friends grumbling about Fox news. Gone is the outrage. Yet the problems, and their architect, Herr Bush the Shoe Dodger, are still with us. It's understandable, I suppose. We won. Obama will be our next President, and there is a general feeling of satisfaction, now even among those who opposed him. Still, isn't it amazing how things change once A Decision is made? When a topic ceases to be topical? McCain ain't nothing but a footnote; Palin strapped on her (Bloomies?) snowshoes and went back to the A, stumping along her way at those sanctified turkey slaughter houses. That other one shot wolves from a helicopter? I'm still not over it.

But I digress. And forgive me for my dereliction. It was so very fine to have a daily topic upon which to muse. (And to receive your comments!) Without the theme of the election and Obama, and all the juicy related themes, what influence am I bringin' to the space?

Slumdog Millionaire, that's what. It's always a delight to be moved to the page by something wonderful. Too often the opposite is the motivator, such as cases of outrage and indignation. Yet I praise all motivators to the page, be they of either electric charge. With the constant threat of eternal sleep at all sides, take ye, gentlemen and gentlewomen, any inspiration y'can.

B and I caught the 1pm matinee of "Slumdog Millionaire" at the Albany Twin on Sunday. Let me point out that ours is a track record to be envied. Together, he and I saw "Pulp Fiction" in Washington DC in 1994 and knew, by the opening credits, when, as the large yellow font appeared onscreen, the static sound of changing the radio dial switched the soundtrack to Jungle Boogie, we were about to experience something special. We glanced at each other: whoa. And it was special. Or how about "The Matrix" at the California on Kittridge in 1999? It was then just an obscure sci-fi movie we'd heard a little about. We left that theatre forever altered, wildly jumping in the Berkeley night air imitating jujitsu kicks the style of which the Wachowski brothers made de rigueur. Heck, I just recalled: B and I saw "Fatal Attraction" on opening night in 1987 at the since-shuttered Berkeley theatre. Boiled rabbits, and I'm Not Gonna Be Ignored, Dan. Yowza, who saw that one coming?

And now: Slumdog Millionaire, a ride equal parts thriller, fairy tale and documentary. As for this last, at least that's how it feels. A testament to the storytelling. How personally satisfying it was to spend two hours inside this fable, journeying to India and observing its culture, viewing its unbelievable slums from above, hearing its language, considering its existence. This is the same planet? Danny Boyle, the director, who also did "Trainspotting," which I loved, but also a couple, "Millions" and "28 Days Later" which I didn't, has really captured something special. The film is based on a novel called "Q & A" by Vikas Swarup, whose name will not stay in my head. Vikas Swarup, Vikas Swarup.

So, I repeat: the film was simply delightful. It was an adventure and an education. It was a good story, exciting and interesting, and man, does that seem rare. See it, and tell me what you think. Ol' Mick LaSalle of the Chron, and Anthony Lane at the NYer did not respond as I would've expected. LaSalle seems to have missed something, and Lane opted for an odd angle for his review, so it's hard to tell exactly what he was up to. Neither review was, shall we say, glowing, which is how I'd characterize my response, and that of many of my friends. (It is also the most highly rated film nationally.) So you go.

Addendum (Some yang to the above yin): Seated to my right were three women in their late 40s or early 50s. The one who occupied the middle seat of their aisle triumvirate cautioned me somewhat brusquely when I attempted to take the seat immediately to her left, whose eventual inhabitant would become my neighbor. When she arrived, B and I both rose up our long-boned selves to allow her to pass and she did so with what I would characterize as polite sweetness. When she did get settled, though, she proceeded to lean in toward the middle and speak with both friends at normal conversational volume. In truth, I couldn't always hear it; when I did, however, it was distracting. Anyone who knows me knows I'm a theatre nazi. I like to think I'm not SO bad--of course, everybody has to open their candy; sure, sometimes you have to ask the person next to you what was just said--but when it comes to the opening of a film, when the previews are done and the delicious pre-start pause arrives: shut the hell up. I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I mean it. I want to get into the mood of the film, and I want to enjoy every nuance. I want silence! If you're gonna gab, rent the DVD, capiche? At the very least, whisper in your best church mouse or you'll be hearing from me.

Throughout the previews these ladies chatted. Not loud, but not whispers. The middle lady seemed to be the ringleader, and because of her position between her friends, and, I suppose, desire to have both ladies hear her every last trenchant comment, she spoke forward toward the screen so that lady right and lady left could hear her erudition. I started to get nervous, but I'd never shush a chatty group during previews. It may be annoying, but it's allowable. (Check theatre etiquette guidebook rule 47.) But soon the time came, the pause arrived, and lady my neighbor had to quickly lean in to say something to lady of the middle. Uh-oh. Of course middle lady has a response. Opening credits have appeared, soundtrack has begun. I'm talking to myself now. It's cool, dude, I say. Just let it go. But I'm nervous. Already the movie is pulling me in, is already looking like it's going to be a good one, and what's that? More talking over there? "C'mon, you guys!" I say, a bit shrilly. They hear, so I quickly sit back. The movie continues. But I don't feel so great about it. Never do. I don't feel bad, like some theatre interations, but uneasy. Was that a scoffing sound from one of them?

Their banter does in fact stop and the movie unfolds in beautiful theatre-quiet and I fall deeper into the spell. Later I realized something: sometimes, when people are chatters, they get kind of stuck in "chat mode." It's like pillow talk at camp. Who will make the very last comment in the dark before actual sleep? Then, sure enough, middle lady has got something else to ask, and suddenly they all start to murmur again. I ignore it, but start to wonder if I should just move my seat. By now the movie is so good, and includes themes of compassion within a harsh cultural milieu, I resolve to stick it out. Question: why can't people work this out better in society? Why the defensiveness (which I've shown) when reprimanded? Why the extreme difficulty to ask a stranger to help accommodate a mutual experience? Can't this be worked out better?

And the movie ends. We're a happy group; I have the remnants of a tear on my check. Yet the woman next to me turns and says, while the playful "Bollywood" dance routine proceeds as the credits roll, "Is it ok to talk now?" She laughs a quick little laugh, and I don't think she means, necessarily, to be bitchy. So I gave her a faint profile smile--I'm still watching the goddam movie, you see--and nod a little. Inside, I'm digesting this comment. Is a riposte going to emerge? I think: Couldn't she have just let it go, like I did? The movie is over, the mood is joyous, and now she has decided to make a comment to...me? The nerve!

I quickly suggest to B that we exit out the side door. I want to leave quickly, because I don't want to respond, in fact have determined, in the spirit of the movie, that responding would be counter to the film's essence. I don't want to say anything, despite what I'm rehearsing in my head, and I don't want to be forced into it by some other trigger if we all walk out together, lumbering up the aisle, listening to more of their tittering. Out into the cold December rain we emerge, and we are free.

But curiously, the sting I felt from her comment stayed with me for over an hour, at least. It flavored my after experience breaking the movie down with B. I couldn't completely focus on my pleasure without this subsequent pain, this sense that something had happened that I didn't appreciate, that my fairness meter had been tweaked, and so I kept having to retreat into my mind to right it. Strange world. Later I realized that she very well might have meant it only as a joke, and I started, with that change of perspective, to relax.

Addendum 2 (Back to positive yin!): After the movie I was on my way to a drum/dance event in downtown Oakland. My car, the ever-trusty P-rizm, which my trusty readers (are you down this far, E, B, surprise eyes?) will know shuttled me to Colorado and back without a hitch, flittered and stopped dead at Broadway and 28th. Alternator, I'm gathering. I mention this because, despite my displeasure with the talking women--which didn't take away from my enjoyment of the film, luckily--and the ease with which I could extrapolate commentary about "the public," not less than five people stopped to help me! At first I declined help, not knowing exactly what I needed. But then nobody was there when I realized I did in fact need a push and a jump. But then Paul, a stranger in a tan Volvo, appeared and offered to give me a jump. Mind you, this is a rainy Sunday afternoon and we're standing on the middle of Broadway. Is there any better feeling than strangers helping each other? That's the spirit of Slumdog Millionaire!

I got home no problem, wishing Paul, as well as the others who stopped, great good fortune. Thanks Paul! And to the ladies: I'm sorry to be a stickler, but please also remember that you're not the only people in the space. We shall compromise next time?

Like this... (See previous post)

2008-11-15T11:07:00.000-08:00

Five Days Before Obama

2008-11-12T15:39:00.000-08:00

[I wrote this piece the day before the big GOTV weekend, Halloween 2008]

On a walk I was taking around Gold Lake, outside the tiny mountain hamlet of Ward, Colorado, it came to me. I was naked under a robe, padding along in flipflops with my arms crossed behind my back, feeling a bit like Socrates. Near the opposite boundary of the property I carefully stepped down behind a release gate, a tiered construction of light-colored cement, the utility of which my city self could only guess at, and across to the other side. Imagine, I thought: a class picture of the past Presidents of the United States. Imagine one of those fraternity roster photos, with each member’s head a postage stamp. Think: Washington, Adams, Grant, Roosevelt, and then Carter, Clinton, Bush. Now Obama. White guys, gray haired and white, middle-aged. Now Obama. I envisioned looking at this line-up, going on down the line from the inception of the country to the present. All basically the same despite perhaps a few scant differences. The same, essentially, in age and mien and quality. In my mind, I was just going along each picture, saying white guy, white guy, white guy, Obama. 43 white guys, but here comes #44.

And there he is: a young face, a handsome face, the hair short and a little graying, the expression proud and statesmanlike. In other words, very like many of the other pictures except one, stark contrast: the darker hue of skin. In a country that has always promised safe haven to any person from anywhere, come one, come all, your tired and your poor, we have never even come close to anything but white men in our highest office. No women, no Chinese, no Jews, and certainly no black people. When, please note, our society was largely built on the backs of immigrants, of slave labor and indentured servitude, of women, and all the rest. Certainly, we’ve had Presidents with Italian blood, with Irish blood, other bloods. How could we not? We were all of us once immigrants to this continent. Yet it was strange in 1960 to have elected a Catholic, and now, with a mere five days left, we may in fact see the apotheosis of the civil and equal rights movements: a dark skinned President. Strange? It’s downright revolutionary.

I thought to myself, there at Gold Lake, with the outlines of the distant Rocky mountains rising and falling like a graph of the current economy, among the tranquil water and stone embankments, together among the pines: this is something that must happen. It has to happen, because what kind of country can we ever be if we don’t truly represent all our people? How can we champion, in our vaunted constitution, ‘all men are created equal,’ yet add, sotto voce, that if you’re non-white, and non-male, you most likely will never be able to seek the highest office in our land. That incredible symbol we hold out like a carrot on a stick to all pursuers: the President of the United States. We Americans consider ourselves the dreamers, believe big and believe strong and, by virtue of that equality of belief, you, yes you, can do anything you like, can become anyone or anything you want to be. We tell our children this.

Or do we? I had to wonder: how many disadvantaged or immigrant or “foreign” families in fact tell their children: you too could be President some day? Of course, there are restrictions to foreign-born people, see: Schwarzenegger, A. But we live in a society not simply of recent immigrants or of 1st generation peoples, but of 3rd and 4th and even 5th generation peoples. How can we continue to show this face to them, the face of Mt. Rushmore, the face of dead history, the vestiges of old Brits with powdered wigs?

We’ve sent our soldiers to foreign lands. Some of them came home with wives from those lands and here, in our land of freedom, they raised families together. These children are our American sons and daughters, too. Are we saying, hey you, Stanford grad, all-American kid, you show a bit too much of your mom’s Vietnamese heritage, therefore you cannot now, nor ever join the class picture? You will never be on the roll, the roster of photos of members of the club will never include you. No. We cannot now, nor ever again promote, implicitly or explicitly, the exclusivity of this club. In fact, any such notion shall now and forevermore be abolished. Whatever images that needed to be in place when the nation was born, ones that promoted a certain membership, a familiarity, an easily recognized nationalism or tribalism, however narrow, they are now forever changed. At least, they will be forever changed on Nov. 4th. They must be. The barrier must be broken, the ceiling, glass and otherwise, must be shattered.

It simply must not stand. The measure of a man is his character. The measure of a person. We pride ourselves on such statements, and then defy them in practice. During WWII, a Japanese American was believed to have some type of allegiance to Japan. But this notion was borne out to be specious; the world finally understood not to be simply about race, and allegiance to that shaky delineation, but about culture, about heart, about a brotherhood which might ease your human suffering. The human allegiance. For the beacon of freedom shines just as brightly to anyone wishing to be seen, understood, and taken for who they are not what they look like or where they’re from. American children of Japanese decent, for example, may in fact adhere to American “culture” more than white (however ambiguously defined) children ever will, based solely on the perspective, a closer connection, to what the opposite means, to not to have freedom, to live in tyranny.

Let’s be clear: the leaders and politicians of “different” heritage, and I’m thinking specifically of people with darker skin color, have almost always had to have a skin tone lighter than black to ascend to any level of stature. This is borne out again and again, in fact to such an alarming degree that often within the black community there is discrimination based on skin color. Indeed, Barack Obama’s candidacy would not be where it is if he didn’t have the racially mixed heritage he does, his Kansan roots, his white grandparents and white mother. It is almost as if his paternity is an anomaly, and in many ways it must be in order for so many in our country to accept, if not embrace, him fully. Conversely, though, his blood’s mixture is precisely the reason why he speaks for us all, that while his is more obvious than others’, we all have mixed blood of some sort, and that is why skin color or racial designation does not mean what it has come to mean to most people. The color of skin does not matter, since, in a larger sense, we are all of us immigrants to this world. Who knows what starlight and magic, what Creator, conspired to inspire our individual sparks initiated by our two parents. None of us. We arrive here on this planet we call Earth as we are: white, black, tall, female, healthy, curious, fill-in-the-blank. We cannot ever again in our glorious futures limit ourselves, our very thinking, by divisions based on skin color.

We must, and we will, rise above that history. Five days before Obama. Let this class picture change forever for the better, the best, and finally the brightest. Now the change in color means everything. Someday, it will mean much less.

Victory, and Coming Home

2008-11-08T12:20:00.001-08:00

I wrote a poem once called "Chariots of Fire." It was a reflection on winning, a subtle aspect about which I learned from the movie, and journeys, the reality of the end. They are not always what you might imagine. This end, however, was satisfying to the core. And, though I hooted and celebrated and smiled a lot, I must also add that I experienced a sort of sober fulfillment, a calmness, much like what was observable on Barack's face when he gave his acceptance speech. Not a giddy reaction, but a focussed, pleased and determined one. A job well done, and a lot of work still to do. Yes we did.

One of the best aspects of the victory was how quickly we knew. As supporters, we stayed tensed and uncertain until the very last minute, yet another strong contributing factor to the win, but as soon as the polls closed and results started to come in, we didn't have to worry for even one minute. New Hampshire, Pennsylvania...Ohio? Man, it was over! I left the NW Longmont staging location and joined some of my fellow workers at the Pump House on Main Street and the first TV screen I saw said Obama 207, McCain 89. It was really going to happen! In fact, it was already happening! By the time I left campaign people and arrived at Terri and Dan's house in Boulder to watch the returns, McCain was already giving his concession speech. What a great night, and a monumental victory. Everyone should feel proud, and indeed hopeful. I've seen video of celebrants in Portland, Oregon breaking out in spontaneous renditions of the Star Spangled Banner. This was America at one of its finest hours, and I'm proud.

Wednesday morning I was up early and on the road home to California. I had fantasized about my drive, chasing NPR, soaking in all of what had just happened. I got my wish. One of my favorite reports was on the show "The World" and hearing the international response to Obama's victory. People across the globe were not only celebrating with us, but expressing hope for our mutual futures, and saying how proud of America they felt. What fun it was to listen to these perspectives from the United Kingdom, Germany, Kenya, South Africa, and so many other countries. Yes...we...did!

My friend Colin created an amazingly detailed itinerary for my journey home. I'd taken Hwy 80 on my way out to Colorado, but he strongly suggested I take a different route back. I agreed, and am so glad I did. I started out from Boulder south on the 93 to 70 west through Vail and Grand Junction and into Utah, eventually connecting with the 15 and the 50, and sticking with Hwy 50, "The Loneliest Highway in America," all the way to just outside Reno where I caught the 80 again. Man, the 50 is cool! For miles and miles, hours and hours, I was often the only car on the road. I had total freedom to check out these incredible valley and mountain vistas. America is beautiful. And the whole time, when I needed a little boost, I would think to myself: we won.

This is the Hotel Nevada in tiny Ely, Nevada that Colin recommended. Arriving at night is always a little unsettling, and this place is somewhat intimidating, especially to the weary traveler looking for a bed after 12 hours on the road, as you walk into the ringing of slot machines and the thick smell of cigarette smoke. But I held the trust of CC's recommendation, and my 45 dollar stay in room #515 was just fine. The WiFi didn't work, but the bed was clean and pretty comfortable, the shower hot, and the TV decent. Best of all, it was quiet and not smoky. At 7am, I was up and back on the road.

Just shy of, yes, Austin, Nevada, Colin instructed that I left at Hwy 376, take another left about 100 yards down onto a dirt road, and backtrack about 5 miles to a natural hot springs. Though I'm not much for exploring when I'm on a long drive, this was *required* by Colin and so I was game. Sure enough, the directions were excellent, and the soak was delightful.

And there I am, back on the porch of my mom's house in Nevada City, CA. Five weeks to the day. Full circle.

November 4th, 2008 - Election Day

2008-11-06T22:29:00.000-08:00

I arrived Election Day at the NW Longmont staging location at 1131 Francis Street in my blue suede blazer. Look sharp, boy, it's time to...dare I say it? Get it done?

All the point people in the office turned up in coats, it so happened, as if an unwritten memo had been mutually received. I felt good, ready, like the feeling of sitting for a test after many hours of agonizing preparation: the time was now, a decision was coming, the endless waiting would soon be over. I realized I had been talking about Barack Obama, reading his books, promoting him to people I met in Ohio while visiting my dad...since February! All that primary business, and now all this main campaign. Tuesday I woke up, in the parlance of Obama: fired up and ready to GO already!

My role for the GOTV weekend was called "canvass captain." Phyllis and Dani were my canvass captaining partners. We essentially organized and orchestrated all the canvassing that went on in our staging location. On Tuesday, our rhythms were down and though the large influx of volunteers, albeit anticipated, added to the heightened intensity, we adapted sufficiently and trained and motivated, signed and sent out several waves of canvassers. I had a distinct moment, looking down at myself from above, while training a large group of eager, new and semi-new and experienced Obama canvassers, of being in my element, feeling knowledgeable and in charge, clear but also flexible, and I thought: this is why I came out to do this. This is why I stayed through the election.

That's Phyllis and Dani below. We shared the sweetest threesome hug when, at 7:10pm and the polls officially closed, we thanked each other for working together. I ran out to get my camera. The "Victory" I'm flashing I was aware of; I knew nothing then, and I'm superstitious, but I let it flash anyway. I was happy to be finished, but I felt good about something too. Not long after this picture, we heard about Ohio and the rout was on. It all happened so fast. I couldn't believe this information--and the best kind--was coming in so quickly. All the "battleground" states...ours!

Dani and I, just 20 minutes before, were out in the P-rizm, driving around chasing the very last votes. Dani would study the beat up canvass address pack, names scratched off now after hours of use, waves of canvassing and poll reporting, and direct me to a straggler house, reach out my passenger window in order to let herself out (my lovely wife, perhaps in an unconscious attempt to inspire more chivalry, has destroyed the inside handle) and run with her 16 year old legs up to the door: "Did you vote?" Yes. Onward we went, P-rizm's hazards blinking, door ajar for the overhead light that only lights when the door is open. By the time we got back to the office, at 6:50pm, all we could do was wait. We'd done all we could, and it felt good.

What's strange is to think about how I felt when I tried to gauge what the outcome would be. For many days leading up to the election, I must admit that I felt pretty confident. It was a quiet, mostly unspoken good feeling. I'm sure all the positive polling reinforced this. How would I have felt if the polls said McCain was up? But I always tempered it, partly because of judicious humility, and partly because, no matter how good it feels to be told you're "leading," you just never know until it's over. When your team is said to be favored by a wide margin, it can often be the kiss of death. We have seen stranger, and awful things. And so even with all the rallies, the huge turnouts, the polls, the no complacency videos, all of it, I remained uneasy. We had to. I even tried to imagine what it would feel like, and how I would cope, with a McCain win. I needed to, though I couldn't really believe it, the impossible letdown it would be for so many. Midday someone said something (not sure where or how) about republicans outvoting dems 2 to 1. I said, in Happy Days lingo: pshaw. And at about 3ish, as I walked into the middle of the office, the second wave of canvassing out and things running smoothly, I said to my cohorts: I'm gettin' a good feeling.

After the first 10 or 20 minutes of milling about the office, people returning to the fold and wondering what we were supposed to do now, the lines of the polling places complete, the good news started to roll in. Another 20 minutes, and people were cheering. New Hampshire, Ohio, Nevada...Florida even? We were feeling it immediately...and it felt GREAT.

Here's Mark and Curtis, a few of our canvassing volunteers. Mark, on the left, had come in before GOTV for a few shifts. He turned out to be a solid helper, though at first his slow manner had me wondering if he had all 52 in his deck. At one point on Sunday night, I sent Curtis and Mark out together, feeling slightly guilty that I'd stuck Curtis with Mark. Instead, they seemed to do just fine together, even stopping for a beer in order to wait an extra half an hour so that more people might be home from work and better for canvassing. Mark was a great teacher, my favorite kind, in accepting and having patience for all people. When you listened and gave him a chance, as I did, though a bit slowly, as we all did, it turned out he was right there with you. As I've said before: my experience with Obama campaigning is about meeting the people, first and foremost.

Here below are a few others. That's Jacob's family, whom I hadn't met yet, in the center. They live in Nederland. Bookends are Ira and Kathy, the cutest hippie couple you definitely know, even if you don't know them, if you know what I mean.

GOTV and Gold Lake

2008-11-02T18:06:00.001-08:00

The Get Out The Vote weekend has begun. Yesterday I enjoyed a great morning "canvass captaining" our lovely Longmont volunteers, training them to chase the last votes. At game time (Golden Bears, you know) I skipped out and watched Cal out-slog Oregon in a rain soaked college football contest at Berkeley's Memorial stadium. Ooh, how I love it when the Bears win. Let's roll the dice again and get a double!

Back at the office today, Sunday, people were excited, and anxious. Many of us tend to stay away from the brouhaha of the radio and TV. It's almost better to, because once I'm in the car driving home and the NPR is on, man, do I start getting tense. Tonight I heard Obama's "lead" has changed from 53-38 to 49-42, according to those Pew folks. What does it mean? Means we need to Barack this mofoin vote!

Spent all day at 1131 Francis Street today, and we had a solid showing of volunteers. Not huge groups, but a steady stream of engaged folks. We're hoping for a huge response Monday and Tuesday. One woman appeared with a take charge attitude, and was soon on her cell phone ordering, and treating the office to some sandwiches. Then she was asking for a walk packet (a stapled booklet of names and addresses with a map that we send canvassers with into the neighborhoods) and I was getting her ready to go. Her name, Ayelet, seemed familiar. She said to me, "I'm from Berkeley, too" because someone at the front desk told her where I'm from. Well, two and two together and I said: are you Michael Chabon's wife? (He's an author I admire who lives in Berkeley and is the writer of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay.) Indeed she is. How about that? We shared some good Obama campaigning solidarity vibes and put in a good, long day. 2 days left?

Below are some pictures from a spectacular spot Carrie and Mark took me to called Gold Lake. I hesitated a bit before going, but once in the car and on my way to this peaceful place, wending my way through outback Colorado roads, I knew it was going to be good. Then I was soaking my body in a hot springs tub and staring out at the lake, the Rocky Mountain vistas, and I relaxed. I had time to reflect on this experience. Man, it was good.

Can't Always Be Campaignin'

2008-10-31T10:19:00.001-07:00

This rock outcrop is called "The Devil's Thumb." Notice the eerie similarities! These pics are from Wednesday morning, my walk to get coffee before hiking with Greg and Ali. (Baby Orijah is nestled with Ali in a Snugglewrap. She hiked easily with him and he didn't make a peep until we were almost back to the car a few hours later.) Beautiful area this is, indeed.

Say "Obama"!

2008-10-29T13:15:00.000-07:00

That above is Scott, a frequent volunteer in Longmont. I asked him to take a picture of Jacob and me. The first, a quick shot. The second: Say "Obama"!

Final Week

2008-10-28T12:06:00.000-07:00

The experience of time is a fascinating thing. I love thinking about it, the ways we attempt to manipulate time, the way an hour can feel like an eternity or a week goes by in a flash. Ever sat and tried to gauge what five minutes is? Surprisingly long, that's what. When I was a kid, I spent the summers with my dad. Those three months, sometimes fun and other times not so much, felt like lifetimes. Three months in Chadron, Nebraska. I'm tellin ya. Now three months can go by and it feels like nothing. Time.

Interesting how I've been comparing my Obama experience with my El Camino de Santiago trek of 2000. Very different, really, but the consideration of time has been similar at times. It's the getting through, the today's Tuesday, which means tomorrow's Wednesday and then, well, we're almost at the weekend and then...Election Day. Homeward bound.

As it so happens, I left the Pekoe "Sip House" (why do I like that so much?) yesterday after writing, and in doing so deciding, to stay here until E-Day. (Yo E, this is your day, man!) I walked outside into the crisp and sunny Boulder air and out of habit checked my cell phone, though the ringer was off and I hadn't felt any vibrations. A call was coming in with a 720 area code--someone from the campaign, no doubt--and I tried to pick it up but it had already gone through to voicemail. I receive calls occasionally from other volunteers reminding me that I have a shift coming up. Figured it was one of them. Bought some delicious-on-a-cold-day tomato~chipotle soup from Ideal Market and a baguette, and while walking back to Carrie and Mark's I picked up the message. It was from Jacob, the Field Organizer I work under in NW Longmont, telling me how much he appreciated the work I've been doing for the campaign, and though he realizes I have a wife and a life back home, he hoped I would stay through the election. Serendipity, like time, is fabulous. Suchlike words of encouragement and praise sure do go a long way. When I saw Jake later at the office I let him know how much it meant, as well as how coincidental it turned out to be.

Unfortunately, last night was also the first real time when it seemed like my being away from home and my life there was upsetting TC. She sounded tired, somewhat frustrated and said she wanted me to come home. By the time I do head home, it will have been five weeks in Colorado to the day. Though we've been missing each other a lot, the first two weeks didn't seem too long, the passage of time relatively quick. But somehow the difference between Friday to Monday feels like a lot. Suddenly it seems like I've been away from home for a long time. And while my lady, after we talked and connected for a while, understands my reasons for staying and is cool with it, I also feel where she's coming from. Hey, Dear Readers: if you get the chance, will you give my lovely wife a call and say hello to her? Support feels good from all directions. I certainly would appreciate it.

Finally, a quick commentary about another aspect of volunteerism. Last night in the office, a good one by the way, I realized another unique aspect of this endeavor: there's no turning away of volunteers. This is great, but sometimes that does mean a person will walk in off the street and you think to yourself: we're gonna send this person out to canvass? Hmm... Last night it was a somewhat crabby, slightly obtuse elderly gent who came in to help us out by making phone calls. But as soon as you tried to explain the system to him, he'd interrupt: well, I don't want to make any calls like that. When he first arrived, he was very preoccupied by explaining to us how he'd originally come to the office, that he'd done something for some Sierra Club volunteers a few days back. He felt the need to assert his importance, to control the situation somewhat. I could feel myself becoming frustrated, losing my patience, and luckily another guy I work with named Andy, a paid deputy to Jacob, took over the training and he was much more gentle. When they finished, the older gent got on the phone and seemed to be doing just fine. I told Andy great job, because overhearing his training explanations I really felt he'd risen to the occasion and I wasn't sure I would've been able to.

Berkeley, Barack, Back and Forth

2008-10-27T10:32:00.000-07:00

Fun story. So, there I was in The Lazy Dog sports bar in Boulder, nestled under a corner, out-of-the-way TV to catch the Cal v. UCLA game. There are screens all over the place, big and wide HD set-ups, but those were reserved for the Georgia v. LSU game, as if that's better college football. People, I'm tellin ya. They tucked ol' Berkeley boy away with my obscure game, on a smaller, regular TV, but hey, not a problem at all. I'll take anything as long as I can see it. I thought the set up was dandy.

I had Baracked in the new NW Longmont staging location for the morning and then slipped out to find a place to watch the Bears. Arrived in time to see our first drive stall out and result in a disappointing field goal, though I later found out we'd picked off the first pass on the very first play for the Bruins, so you take the good with the bad. I ordered a pint of Bud Light ("You came all the way out from California and all you want is light beer?") and settled in. I've been out here almost a month, and it'll be five weeks by the time I roll back westward. I need a Saturday Bears game to watch. I need home cookin'.

Sits near me an older gent. He's given the table next to mine, but closer and more tucked up under the TV which hangs from a high wall mount. I note him, but don't think much more. He seems a bit lost, looking around, not sure which game to watch and his angle on my TV isn't so great. Outside there are lots of Boulder peeps roaming about, stoner skate kids and cute coeds and yuppie shoppers and vagabonds. This guy seemed like a misplaced tourist, perhaps a vagabond. He leans over and asks me about the Texas game. Texas? I'm thinking this dude is completely out of it. That game is on somewhere in the place, but nowhere near where we're sitting. I glance around politely, but tell him I really have no idea. Which game are you watching? he asks. I point to the TV directly in front of us and tell him the Cal/UCLA game. Oh, he says. Cal, or UCLA? I tell him.

And thus begins a very pleasant, and serendipitous, interaction. Turns out this gent is from Berkeley, lives on Russell street very near my uncle Bob, and is the father of a girl I went to Berkeley High with, someone I know quite well. He's out here for the Barack Obama campaign as well, invited by a senior member/organizer of the Boulder staff (also from Berkeley, in fact) who thought he could help, especially with legal advice. This gent, Stan, went to Bolt in the early sixties and is a Cal fan from the old school. Well, in short order I'd invited him to sit at my table with me, and he was on the phone to California to tell his daughter who he was sitting with in a sports bar in Boulder watching the Bears. Then there I was holding Stan's iPhone saying hello to Tamara, telling her I was sitting there with her dad. I told her we missed her at our recent 20 year reunion, which she missed because she was about to have her second baby. It was very cool. Stan told me several stories about his life, his career and his current, retired Berkeley existence. He plays tennis, guitar, sponsors outreach programs for local schools and hangs with his grandchildren. Really good guy, and had some great stories. A couple times he apologized for getting on into another story about his life, but he needn't worry. I love that stuff. I really had the feeling of being with someone from home, and I needed it. I gave him my rap about "true diversity" too (Bud Lights going to my head?), which I explain as creating friendships with people not your age, as well as black/white etc. The best part was being able to watch the game with another fan, rather than alone as I did last week against Arizona, occasionally hooting and looking glum by turns, and essentially playing the part of alone bar football watching dude. Stan picked up the tab, too. Good on ye, friend.

When Stan and I started talking about our experiences with campaigning (he's been out here since Wednesday) it was interesting to note that we had some very similar observations. He, like me and so many others, has had to adjust from the expectation of the work, the newly arrived gung-ho let's make a difference for Barack thing we all bring, and the work itself. I gather he's been invited to a few meetings and has hung around the Boulder office some, but has also been put to work doing data entry like any other volunteer, and hasn't really done much legal consultation at all. He seemed to be where I was at about 2 weeks ago, a bit discouraged and missing home. It did seem odd that this guy with obvious other skills wasn't really being used for them. But you could say that about many of us. He also expressed a bit of my own disappointment with the occasional feeling of people being scattered in the office, not necessarily the most accommodating, and therefore a feeling of being left out, or not that important. As I've written several times, this volunteer organization thing is tricky. I think part of what Stan's feeling is a function of being here. The more you're here and the more you show up, the less left out you can feel. But the energies are scattered, and it's really difficult to feel you yourself are making a difference doing the basics that everybody does: phone calls, canvassing. The thing is, yes, it's important, it's the work of the campaign; it has it's design and each individual adds their own personal quality. It's true, and many times I feel it. But you can lose the feeling of it, too. There are times, as I've expressed in the past, when it's really hard to see that you're making a personal difference. So, I understood where Stan was coming from. It was good to share similar observations. He seemed to want permission to head home and see his grandkids. I think he, like I've been, was a little homesick. He asked my advice on a good line of reasoning to tell the guy who invited him out here how it didn't really seem like he was needed. Then he asked after me, the status of my very new marriage, and suggested I might think about heading home myself. I've considered it now after the fact quite deeply. He said that, sometimes, hanging in for "superstitious" or other reasons, especially when you know the basic realities, might even be a bit narcissistic. He makes a point.

I spent the better part of Sunday, after a fun evening hanging with my current hosts Carrie and Mark, feeling a little hungover and wondering if I should in fact venture home before the election. I'd tossed this idea around a lot a few weeks ago, partly because I came out here with no real goal set about how long I'd stay. My only "goal" was to feel effective, and as I say, it's not always easy to tell. But as recently as a few days ago, I'd settled on just staying through the election. Once I made that decision, I felt a certain tension related to indecision lift. Stick it out, see it through. And I've certainly been a recent preacher of the "can't give up now" attitude, worried that all these recent positive reports will lead us into complacency. Can't let it happen.

But I entertained the indecision again. I evaluated my time out here again, back and forth, the pro and con, I thought about my inclination for "gritting things out," my innate thing about following things to the letter, to be a "pure" pilgrim. I wrestled with this a lot on my trek across Spain, fiercely committed to being a "pure peregrino," carrying out my daily trekking activities in a strict, ascetic way, as if by doing so I would be, not necessarily intentionally but also by virtue of, a better or truer follower and yes perhaps more so than others. Indeed, if I heard someone say they'd had a really rough day and decided to stay another night in the town, I'd scoff. That's not how you're supposed to do it. Or can you? Ultimately, you've got to follow your own rules. It's just you and the Great Beyond. And that dialogue is tricky sometimes.

So I recognize this aspect of me. It's shadow, and it's light. The light side is, in a very real way, about "sticking it out." The sense of accomplishment you feel, when you set up your own parameters and follow them, realizing the difficulty and sacrifice, is often sublime. Yet it can also feel troubling, especially if you set yourself up for some special reward and it doesn't come. When I walked, finally, into Santiago de Compostela there were no ribbons to breast, no bugles announcing my presence. Seeing things through is a fundamental test for all of us. If you decide "I won't do this for a month" and then, two days later, someone you'd never expect calls and says: "You won't believe what I have, you've gotta come do this" you must decide what you're committed to, what you can bend, and what you must hold strong around. Do you dance, or do you say I'm not dancing this month? I've always maintained that it's much easier to be a firm no or yes than it is to be a maybe. Maybe?

The truth is, there are aspects to my volunteering here that seem redundant or repetitive, that there are actually plenty of people here who in fact live here and are quite capable of doing the work that needs doing. My presence doesn't always feel necessary. On the other hand, this is so important, and my presence does make a difference, even when I don't necessarily feel it. I returned to canvassing and phone calling last Friday, and it was so-so. But on Saturday I did some training, and that felt pretty good. The new NW office is starting to coalesce around some key members, so a bit of the desired team feeling is growing.

Stan made an interesting point. I'm glad I've considered it. I don't like the idea that simple stubbornness keeps me from evaluating things with an even mind. I need to guard against this in my life. On the other hand, Tara is supportive of me and my decisions, and though she'd like me to come home sooner, she gets the dilemma. She also gets the feeling I have of wanting to see this through. Though there is a difference between perception and reality in terms of what campaigns do and how they feel, it's a good experience. Only 1 more week. I made it this far. I told Stan that though he made a good point, and that my relationship is far more important than sticking this out for sometimes-uncertain reasons, there is also great value, especially to my wife, to seeing something through. It's important to finish the job. Completion, despite some examples to the contrary, isn't always my strongest suit. I'll be home soon enough.

Nederland, CO

2008-10-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

I employed the trusty P-rism to carry me up to Nederland yesterday in order to give it a look-see. The drive was very pretty, west out Boulder Canyon Road which twists gently between rock walls. Lots of turnouts for hiking trails, one which I hope to explore again.

Seems a major part of Nederland's appeal (from a tourist pov) is that you suddenly come over a slight ridge and there on your left, at 8,200 feet, is Barker reservoir. The tiny hamlet of Nederland sits at the opposite end. I drove around a bit, but there really isn't all that much to see. I had a coffee in a little cafe to the right of the town hall (see below) and read some of the book I've just finished: Three Cups of Tea. (Essential message of book: promote peace via education.)

This morning I hiked up Mt. Sanitas and there were some great photo opps but when I pulled out the Cannon...dead battery. Dog it!

Off to campaign. Big weekends, this and next. Don't believe the hype. Supposedly an article was going around that McCain was pulling resources out of Colorado. In fact, the opposite is true. Sneak tactics bug me!

Pep Talk

2008-10-23T11:58:00.000-07:00

Forgive the cliche, but what a difference a day makes. After two nights of excitement, a buzz about the office, Wednesday night brought it all to a screeching halt. Snow threatened to fall outside, printers weren't working, the network kept crashing, and the boys in charge seemed burned out and humorless. Us regular volunteers tried to plug in, but there didn't seem to be much to do. The steady stream of new, off-the-street volunteers slowed to a trickle, perhaps due to the cold. Could be we're staring at the final push and gearing up our mojos, preparing for the frenzy of the next two weekends. Analogy time: Marching the trail toward the mountain top, you round the bend to discover the steepest climb to the summit still lies ahead. Take a deep breath, stretch it out, get ready to push on, and marshall your Marshall.

It was a bit of a jolt for me, after experiencing two inspiring days, feeling like I was having a very tangible personal impact on the campaign. I feel a sense of that when I'm canvassing or phoning, but to a lesser degree. Training new volunteers, being able to explain the work we're doing based on my experiences and connect to them, really suits my strengths and more directly relates to what I thought I might do when I came out here.

I've mentioned before that volunteer organizations are tricky entities. One expression of that I've noticed is that often times people in the office forget, or remove from the forefront of their awareness, that we're all there for a common purpose, and a mighty good one at that. Some folks act as though they're a bit more important to the campaign, or seem to be saying with their eyes and body language: I've been here since 9am, somebody give me a medal! Sure people are tired, and some people really are working very long hours without much direct recognition. But that still doesn't excuse what I believe should be the overwhelming attitude in the office: unrelenting positive energy. All volunteers walking in should be greeted, all 2nd or 3rd time volunteers should be greeted exactly the same way, in fact more so. If you see someone who attended a meeting we had about GOTV come wandering into the office, we all should look up, smile or nod, and offer greetings to our comrades. The sporadic nature of this irks me. The exception is my man Jacob, who as a leader holds this important understanding very close to his awareness. He always greets me with a handshake, a "thanks for coming in" and always does something similar when I'm leaving. His counterpart in the office, the other young Field Organizer, Ben from Brooklyn, who he "competes" with, lapses in and out of this attitude. Now that I'm more of an assigned asset to Jacob's team, Ben has cooled considerably. I often get the sense that he's needing someone to tell him good job, and I bet he does. And I do. I tell all these hard-working youngsters that they're doing a helluva job. But they have to keep the energy high, to get over themselves a little bit, and remember that the good, positive energy spreading around the office really helps, especially with new volunteers. If it feels like that "buzz" I described yesterday, you bet they'll consider coming back and offering more time. And we're getting down to it!

Oh, an interesting thing also happened yesterday. I came back into the office after collecting New York Dirk from the PumpHouse, a nearby Longmont pub where he likes to make calls, before heading out for the night. Just arriving was Betsy Markey, the area democratic congressional hopeful. I shook her hand, said hello. Seemed quite pleasant, though I didn't talk to her and don't know much about her, save a quick synopsis of her candidacy I was given some days ago. When we canvass or phone, we ask not only about Obama support, but for that of Mark Udall (democratic senate race) and Betsy Markey.

I might take a journey to Nederland, CO soon and hopefully will have some pictures to share. It's a little town west of Boulder nestled in the mountains that everyone says is unique and funky. Stay tuned. Until then, I'll post a few pics below for fun.

Buzz Picking Up

2008-10-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

The past few days I've stayed in the office to help Jacob, the Field Organizer for North Longmont who I've been assigned to assist (picture soon), rather than heading out immediately to canvass. He's got me making volunteer recruitment calls, and acting as a point person in the office when walk-in volunteers appear and need phoning/canvassing training so he can focus on other things. Kid has a lot on his plate, and does a remarkably good job answering everyone's constant questions with poise.

Last night had that stereotyped campaign office buzz, with lots of people coming in and a busy, excited atmosphere all around. "You have any extra phones?" "Can you train her on phones while I get this guy set up to go out and canvass?" "Have you seen the clipboard I put right here with the copies of the early voting sheets?"

I like it. It feels more team-oriented, more of a community feel, lots of people around working on a common project, wanting to help. I especially enjoy the training new volunteers part. Last night I worked with several new volunteers, mainly training them to make "early voting" phone calls, the latest initiative to encourage voter turnout. I've mentioned often that most of the paid staff, including Jacob, are quite young. But almost all of the volunteers I trained and talked with last night were older folks, the youngest probably a couple of women and one man all in their mid-40s. There was an older African-American man named Sam, probably near 60, tall, stout and soft-spoken, who made calls for about 2 hours. I liked encountering him in the Longmont office, and our interaction was pleasant, though his soft-spokenness made it brief. Two gents, Atom and Mark, both probably in their early 50s, also stayed quite long making lots of calls. I thoroughly enjoyed training and interacting with them, giving them an overview of what we're doing, answering their questions. I discovered it's really effective to roam by their desk or corner or wherever they've found space to make calls and give them a thumbs-up or ask "how's it going?" Atom, for example, upon my first fly-by, opened his mouth, tongue out and a little slack, the universal sign of repetition fatigue. I winked and said "doing great," and when he was done with his first call sheets, he asked for more.

There was an older white couple, Kevin and Mary, who seemed to me at first dedicated and precise people, but a little watchful. Maybe nervous? Especially Kevin, who I couldn't quite tell if he was enjoying the training or just wanted to get through with it. Was he there because his wife talked him into it? Was he the type who likes to tell you he understands everything before he actually understands everything? I hung in there with them, though, and I must say I like the training role. With volunteers, the key is to continue to encourage and thank them...a lot. It's like you have to remind them, and yourself, what's going on here. Thanks just for stopping by, for any questions or concerns, for anything you'd like to do or discuss. And it's not b.s., it's true. (Max Fancher would be a natural.) Like I wrote before, Jacob said "volunteers are gold" and I believe him. You gotta keep them fired up and encouraged--they just want to feel like they're doing something.

Kevin and Mary wrestled with our somewhat lousy Cricket cell phones, made their calls, talked to just a few people (quite normal, and something we've all had to get used to, and something "green" volunteers can't get discouraged by...you've gotta keep making the calls because people don't answer or aren't home and you simply repeat the next day) and later when I checked back in with them, they seemed more light-hearted, perhaps pleased that their shift was done, that they'd contributed to the campaign. It feels good. We chatted a bit before they left, and I made sure to try and sign them up for GOTV (Get Out The Vote), something we try to get every volunteer to commit to before they leave the office. Well, sure enough Kevin and Mary signed up for practically every shift we have, and all day long. Kevin, who as I talked with longer revealed his Boston accent, became quite chatty. He told me he'd been doing this type of grassroots politics since "befah you wah barn" and was hearing very good things about the campaign's chances. I enjoyed the rah-rah vibe, though the good things he said he was hearing, like the results of the Pew Research Center, made me nervous. Obviously I like hearing good news, but I can't stand the idea of people getting too confident or complacent. None of it matters until the final results are in. C'mon Barack!

One of my favorite interactions came near the end of my evening. A polite, earnest and somewhat timid woman was directed to me by our front desk volunteer. She was ready to make some phone calls. She'd volunteered a bit already and knew the general approach, so I just needed to catch her up on the few new items related to early voting. We sat down together and quickly slipping into a conversation about the election. "How are the attacks affecting him?" she asked. "My mother says she saw on t.v. where the negative calls are working." I said I didn't think that approach was going to work, that in fact I'd heard it was backfiring. Bringing the entire dialogue to a lower level, and backfiring. "Really? Ok, I heard that too. Ok, good." When I mentioned the silliness of the William Ayers tactic, or the terrorist ploy, her eyes flashed with anger. "I know!" she said. "I've been trying to recruit people at work, telling them how dishonest that is." Then quietly, but with urgency, she leaned closer to me: "Do you think he's going to win?" Her light blue eyes were beseeching; she really wanted to know if I knew. I could only give her my spiel, my confidences and reservations, and I think that sufficed. Not much more I could offer, but I included saying that beyond my own examples, I'd talked with a few people with some higher connections in politics, and people who know Barack say what you see is what you get. That is, he is in fact thoughtful, even-tempered and honest. She liked that.

As I sat with her longer, I responded to cues I was observing from her dress, her manner and conversation. She wore a navy blue sweater, and had an enormous, many-diamond wedding ring ensemble. Her fingernails were unpainted and very short. Her brown hair was thinning such that I could see a bit of her scalp. She told me that she came from a family of past Republicans, but that this year almost everyone was voting for Barack. She said she just felt he was sincere, a truly honest person, and that her 73 year-old mother felt the same way. I touched her shoulder lightly and told her that she was the type of person I admired the most, able to evaluate and choose a candidate not based solely on party. Not only choose a new candidate, but volunteer in support of him. She mentioned the different economic situations in her family, gently referring to herself at the upper end, but felt Barack really knew better how to address them all. She also mentioned knowing many Christian folks, and how that element--that religion is the domain of the right--of the campaign bothered her. I told her I wrestled with this too, that what I couldn't understand about the negative catcalling and the robo-calling of the McCain campaign is that it seems so anti-light, anti-hope. And wouldn't that be anti-Christian? They're promoting fear and darkness, so why would Christian folks support that association? She nodded furiously in agreement. We like Barack because he gives us a sense of hope, not because we buy into a sense of fear or suspicion.

When I left her to make her calls, there was a charged energy between us: We were working together to support someone we both feel represents the hope we have, the ideals we believe in, and that a bridge was made between us, people perhaps not always politically aligned in the past. That's cool.

Oh yes, and picture rewards! This is me and CC at Live Oak Park on my 38th birthday. Election relevance? Nah, just cool picture.

Continued Tales, Scenery

2008-10-21T12:01:00.000-07:00

As promised, a few more tales from my canvassing experiences. People certainly are curious; I frequently leave houses, even after ascertaining Obama support and considering the interaction "positive," with an urge to lift a long Arsenio Hall index finger to my temple and say: Hmm.

One guy popped open his door, stuck his skinny face out, bugged his eyes at me and said: Uh-huh? I said I was looking for his wife. He thought about this for a second, looked back inside at some indeterminate thing in there, and then looked at me again and said: No, don't think so.

Hmm?

I met a woman named Barbara who lives in an apartment building complex on the outskirts of Longmont. She was very receptive to my presence, which always feels good. Quickly she explained her Obama support, often touching her chest with her hand. I told her I was from California and had come out to help in this hotly contested state and she looked at me with such kind affection. "Thank you so much for what you're doing," she said. Before I left, she sort of waved me closer and, sotto voce, wondered if I might have a yard sign for her. In fact I did (we don't usually have these, or distribute them), an extra I'd taken from the Boulder office that happened to be in my trunk. I told her I would get it for her right then, and she about fell down with surprise. So down the several flights of stairs I went and back to my car, and when I got back up there and knocked on her door again, she greeted me with a 3 Musketeers bar she'd retrieved from her freezer. "Would you eat this?" she said. "Sorry it's not more, but I thought you might like it." I appreciated the gesture, and gave the candy to Dirk when I met up with him later back at my car.

I met another woman who lives in an imposing colonial house. This was on Saturday. I've come to worry slightly about big or fancy houses, occasionally the "upper rent" areas reveal more McCain supporters. I'm often in search of the children of these residents, who still list their parents' address as their permanent. When I got to the door, I could see a rather large woman through a basement window. Her size worried me a little, I'm not sure why. Do large people realize that sometimes their girth is imposing, even intimidating? I wonder if it's an unconscious way to exert strength or power in their lives? Another reason for out-of-control obesity, people feel powerless? She answered the door and appraised me sternly, but not with malice. I discovered she was an Obama supporter, but this fact seemed to be quite new. At first, she wished to be identified as "leaning" Obama rather than a full supporter. Then we got to talking, which is to say she began to tell me everything she thought about Obama, Bush, McCain, etc. By the end of our "visit," I felt comfortable enough with her to say: you still want that leaning applied to you? She smiled, a small smile but a smile, and said, "No. I'm for Obama. And I'm working on my husband." She was the kind of woman who suffers no fools, was perhaps a little too stern or humorless for a great sense of connection, but also someone you'd like to have on your side. The senate race here in Colorado features a Democrat named Mark Udall who most people have told me is excellent. This woman, however, said about him: "No, I wouldn't vote for Udall. He's the most two-faced person I know." Yikes. (After Obama identification, we ask about the other Dem races.) I was glad she wasn't a McCain supporter, that's for sure. During our conversation I noticed she was wearing small, silver American Indian feather earrings, a curious affect I wouldn't have associated with her. At one point she was talking about how disastrous the Iraq war is, how she can't stand how young people are dying, and how she doesn't agree with us imposing our beliefs or will on other countries unnecessarily. She talked about Vietnam and all its tragedies, which led her to a point about Native Americans, how "we did the same thing to them," which suddenly made her tear up. I said, by way of comfort and understanding, "it makes me sad, too." One of her final comments, which I've heard from a lot of people and I agree with: "We have too many problems here in America that we need to solve and help people with." Yes indeed.

I met a very affable man named Ezra, about 74 years young, as my dad would say, who, I'm tellin ya, could've easily been the opposite in a different situation. Meaning, I've met other older men who look just like him and their eyes narrow with distrust when I get into my spiel. But Ezra's eyes brightened, and he said: "Oh, I was just down at the office volunteering yesterday!" We chatted there on his driveway, exchanging anecdotes, laughing, enjoying the pleasantness of a stranger with shared beliefs. He told me he had been a strong Bush supporter. Now he was so clearly Obama, and we were in agreement about so many aspects of the campaign and political scene, I found it hard to believe he used to be for Bush. I liked that; I liked that Ezra has the ability to reevaluate and change his mind accordingly. I wish others would do this and not consider it some sort of retreat or betrayal. Encountering stubborn illogic is probably the worst thing, someone who's just gonna do it that way, and that's it, reasons to the contrary be damned! If they say they will listen and consider anyone as the potential best candidate, sometimes that person is going to come from another party, and will be better for America at this point in time, and it is up to them to make the right choice, not the stubborn, unthinking one. I wonder if I'll do that and vote Republican someday? Interesting.

Not long after my run-in with Scary I knocked on the door of an elderly Latina woman, her brown eyes bluish with cataracts, who said after my spiel: "Oh, I don't want a black man in there." I had the knee-jerk reaction: oh no, she's racist? I considered the reports I'd heard that people in the Latino community can be racist against black people, that they often tend to vote Republican. But this was quite the opposite. In fact she was just scared. She continued: "I was for Kennedy, you know." She put her hand on her chest. "That was such a terrible tragedy. I don't want something to happen to him. You know they tried to get him in Denver!" I felt such compassion for this sweethearted grandmother, who said her granddaughter was coming to help her complete her mail-in ballot because she can't write.

People are fascinating, wonderful. All.

Here's your reward for getting this far! Who doesn't love pictures? The first is a Boulder street view shot of the Flat Irons, the next three are from Longmont neighborhoods, west toward the mountains/Boulder.

Colin Powell, Alfred E. Smith

2008-10-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share a few links which you may have already seen. If not, definitely worth your time. The first is Colin Powell's endorsement of Barack Obama. Though I can't say I've always agreed with Colin Powell's politics, I have always felt he was a man of integrity and worthy of great respect. His measured, thoughtful endorsement of Obama, which includes due praise of McCain, made me feel good. It gave me hope. I know Republicans who admire Colin Powell, and who have even said to me that if Colin Powell were running for President, and if he were the first African-American with such an opportunity, they'd vote for him. I wonder if his endorsement of Obama will make a difference? I think it should.

This second link includes video of both Obama and McCain giving roast speeches at something called the Alfred E. Smith Memorial dinner. I was quite taken aback after watching both candidates, especially McCain. His speech (obviously, he has a very good writer) was clever, funny and filled with a remarkable awareness of the many inconsistent and negative elements of his own campaign. I thought: where has this guy been during the campaign? Barack's speech was equally amusing, though it's more than obvious his strength isn't comedy as he finishes with a thoughtful, heartfelt conclusion which is serious. Click here to see both videos.

A final note: isn't it somewhat curious that the who's who in American politics and media are hobnobbing at this dinner? In one sense it's cool, an event that transcends the campaign and partisanship. In another, however, it bothers me. It was hard to see the candidates joking so easily about very serious elements, mischaracterizations and negativity, of the campaign as if it were all just an aspect of a big game. And it made me consider again those accusations of extreme factions of both parties which maintain that there isn't much difference between either party, that they're all just members of one big club. I don't really believe that, but seeing them all in this very clubby atmosphere, two weeks before a major election, gave me pause.

Door-to-Door: Canvassing Tales

2008-10-19T12:45:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd share some tales from "on the ground" in Longmont, Co., going door-to-door for the good Senator Obama. Canvassing certainly feels like doing the hard work, the nitty-gritty, and I'm happy to report that most of the interactions are positive. But not all. And those negative experiences, not surprisingly, tend to stand out. (Again, the attention given to the negative.)

It's amazing to me how many faces I've encountered, how many energies I've negotiated, how many doorsteps, screen doors, cluttered foyers, dogs, doorbells and "No Solicitor" signs I've seen. Each door presents the possibility of something new and strange, friendly or otherwise, and with each door knock or ring of a doorbell, I take a breath, readjust my stance, and prepare for whomever, or whatever, may appear. Immediately friendly people. Barking dogs that slam into the door. Small children who stare at me as if I were an alien. People missing teeth and smelling strongly of cigarettes. Handsome people. Very elderly people. People who seem to me friendly at first but their faces and demeanor soon change. People who size me up warily at first but I leave their porch with happy waves goodbye.

It's a helluva taxing experience, I'm tellin ya. And I'm not talking about my achy feet and legs. I rather like the walking part. But I am learning about myself, my style of interacting with people. I afterwards consider other approaches, but ultimately realize mine is my own, and it works or doesn't work depending on many factors. I sometimes feel on my game, and sometimes I feel like I bricked, like I could've said or done more for Obama's cause, or like I'm too easily hurt by rejection. But basically I feel okay because of one underlying premise: I'm being sincere. If there's something I've got in spades, it's sincerity.

I've never been a particularly good "hard" seller. I don't want to bug people, to give a manipulative impression, and I have trouble standing in there when I get the evil eye. But when my style works, it's rewarding. The common manifestation is I become an ear for people who want to tell me everything they've been thinking regarding this election. That's cool, especially when I know it's the type of person who's rethinking a lot of what's been going on the past 8 years, and who may be changing their vote for Obama from an independent or otherwise Republican-leaning orientation.

[A quick note about the campaign's canvassing approach: We don't go after dyed-in-the-wool types of either party. Properly identified, long-voting Dems or Repubs are essentially assumed to stick with their party affiliation. We count on those Dems, and consider any of the Repubs from this group a boon. In the middle, however, are many thousands of sporadic voters, lapsed Dems, independents (lots here in CO), undecideds and newly registered voters. We go after them. Therefore the chance of encountering serious hardcore Repubs is lessened, but that certainly doesn't mean it doesn't happen. When it does, sometimes it's perfectly polite. "Sorry hon, but I already voted for McCain. But thanks for stopping by." Other times, it can be really weird. ]

Like the elderly gent who pulled into his garage just as I was approaching his house. I waited patiently for him to exit his car, which took him quite some time as he used his fragile leg strength to kick open the door without hitting the other car, presumably his wife's. He was also trying to do this while at the same time collecting his few plastic shopping bags with his right hand. I considered offering to help him, but hesitated thinking he might perceive it as overly ingratiating. With older folks, I attempt to adjust my posture to my most complete stance of respect and politeness. I notice my voice goes up a register. I feel a bit like a little kid. I wish to elicit no scorn or suspicion. I seek approval. I tend to credit my Ohio roots for this aspect of my being, the inveterate sincerity, like all things a strength and a weakness. A strength because I've often been credited for being a "polite boy" and I truly mean respect with all my gestures and intentions. A weakness because I am not a little boy, and there's nothing disrespectful about standing a bit firmer in yourself, whoever you are, approval or not, if that makes sense.

Outside of the car, finally, the gentleman notices me standing there at the foot of his drive. I perk up my spirit, straighten my spine. "Hello sir," I begin. "Sorry to trouble you. I'm a volunteer with Barack Obama's campaign and we're just stopping by--"

"You're with Obama?" He says, cutting me off. My approach seemed to be working until I said Obama. His eyes were softening, his brow unfurrowing with my polite attitude. "Why yes, yes I am." I beam sincerity at him. The old gent, fist balled up holding his keys, raises that hand high and brings it back down saying: "Obama? Why, he's the biggest crook there is!"

Shocked dumb, taken aback by such a bizarre comment, I manage to say only that I was sorry he felt that way, thanks and goodbye, and walk away. Even a mild encounter like this takes at least 5 minutes to digest, to let go of. You have to get good and saying to yourself: well, that's his problem. And: it's not personal. But it ain't easy. At least not for me.

Here's a good one. Let's call it The Scary Dude tale. The most negative so far (and ever, hopefully). Or we can call it The Time When I was Most Freaked Out While Cavanvassing for Barack. Or, Tripped Out in Longmont.

I was in a funkier section of Longmont, though still surprisingly pleasant. There are a good few blocks near the Longmont HQ at 372 Main Street that are downright elegant. Think of the Elmwood neighborhood of Berkeley, with more trees and wider streets. This was NE Longmont, however, and the houses are more modest, some apartments mixed in, but still a quite nice area. As these things tend to go, I had a strange premonition when I stepped up onto the small cement rectangle of Scary's porch. I was somehow very aware of where I stood in relation to his screen door. I usually knock, and then backstep a foot or two, giving the answerer plenty of physical space so as not to intimidate or frighten them. At the same time, I've realized that it's not good to back too far off either, so opening a door is required to find me out there. People want to see you before they do any such door-opening.

Wood door opens, appraising me through the upper glass pane of the screen door is a pallid male face slightly pockmarked with very intense eyes. "Yeah, what do you want?" The man, roughly my age (I know this from my data sheets, and a fact I usually think will be positive), is wearing a black leather cowboy hat, and after my first few words he takes a quick drag on his cigarette and opens the door toward me. He offers a derisive chuckle when, continuing, I get to the Obama part of my spiel and brushes past me to check his mailbox, a black metal box affixed to the brick of his house. Puffing again on his cigarette, and puffing up his aggressive vibe, he says "Not your guy" as he fingers his mail. I'm quickly realizing this is a good time to cut this one short, and retreat a step away from the door as he returns past me to reenter his place. I decide to keep walking in an away direction, but he comments to me from his door, poking his head back out: "Your guy wants to put government in EVERYthing." I pause on the walk, it seems he wants to engage and I consider the opportunity. I can now still hear the quality of his voice, raspy from smoking and containing a venomous certitude I've encountered before. I say I disagree, I say something about the current state of the economy, the government intervention, something like that, but I really don't get much of it out before he starts shaking his head and waving that cigarette. "No, no way man. You must be high." Pissed, I blurt: "Maybe you're high." Well, that did it. I harken back to my halcyon days of waiting tables at The Kahana Falls Outback Steakhouse on the island of Maui when I similarly returned an asshole's comment. What is it with assholes calling you something, and completely freaking out when you say it right back to them?

His eyes enlarged, and he roared "What?" He comes out of his door. "Get the fuck off my property! And don't come back. I'm telling you, get the fuck out of here. And I don't want any more of that mail. I'm warning you. Don't contact me again." I recover with a "didn't mean to bother you" and walk on. Quickly. I was reeling a bit, and I still had a few houses to go near his. I could feel his dark presence watching me head up the street. I go to my next house, and while I'm waiting for someone to open the door (I hear tv and voices inside, but nobody's coming), all of a sudden Scary appears at my side, out of nowhere like one of those speedy vampires, making my heart skip. He isn't aggressive with me, however, he just bangs on the door harder, with the confidence of a known neighbor, and when the 19 year old, stocky Mexican kid opens it, Scary jabs a thumb back toward me and announces: "This guy wants to talk to you about Obama." He chuckles dismissively and stalks off back toward his house. The kid looks at me then, probably seeing the shock in my eyes, and I begin with my lame "I'm with the Obama campaign, do we have your support..." stuff (my list indicated that he'd said yes verbally to someone on the phone) but he just says: "Nah." "It isn't because of him," I say, pointing back toward Scary, "is it?" "Nah, I just changed my mind." "So, you're voting for McCain?" "Uh-huh." "And your sister?" (I had another name at this address.) "Uh," he takes a bored look into the noisy room, "I don't know. Probably not."

Thanks, bro. And I will be happily leaving now. That episode took a good hour to recover from, and it made me want to ask New York Dirk for one of his Newports when I got back to the office, but I refrained. Freaked out in Longmont. C'mon Barack.

(Canvass tales...To be continued.)

The Final Debate of 2008

2008-10-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

As I waited for the DVR to cue up the final presidential debate, I thought: more Obama v. McCain? Ack. I'd retured from another canvassing shift in Longmont (this one thankfully without run-ins with scary leather cowboy hat-wearing dudes--more on that soon) and I was spent. This whole enterprise has been swingy for me. It takes a lot of effort emotionally. On the one hand, I'm inspired, I'm doing the good Obama work, I'm in a new, beautiful area. On the other, the work can be repetitive and redundant, I feel a bit out of place, I'm living in the spare rooms of friends, and I'd like to be home with my wife. Highs and lows--but overall a very rewarding experience.

The recording didn't take. As we searched in vain for it, I realized that despite my fatigue I wanted to see it, in fact had to see it. I looked online to no avail and then saw it was soon to be rebroadcast. So I ended up watching Current.tv's version, complete with somewhat annoying, somewhat interesting "twitters" along the bottom. (Quick commentaries from viewers along the bottom of the screen, with the sentences splitting apart and words floating up and disappearing before the next comment appears. The continuing crossbreeding of traditional television and online information delivery. New; weird.)

Again it's difficult to decide which are the most salient points for me to make without repeating what's being written in editorials, said on the radio, etc. I remain in awe of Barack Obama's composure, grace and clarity. In these respects alone he blows McCain out of the water. He's what we need in a President, a calm and thoughtful presence. An unmovable "mountain," as David Brooks described, somewhat begrudgingly, on Charlie Rose's show afterward. Attributes which are true and consistent with his character. In a world of war and a floundering economy, what kind of temperament do we need? Steady, or erratic? It's a simple choice.

McCain was cantankerous, and I sometimes had trouble following the logic of his comments. Again. He says Obama is running a negative campaign? That he, McCain, "repudiates" every negative comment made by his supporters? Does that include those of his running mate Palin, who is going around saying Obama "pals around with terrorists"? I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it's absurd. Best part: the strategy is failing. How can people who support McCain tolerate being in league with others who yell out "terrorist" and "Muslim"?

McCain likes to say things like "I know how to do that" or "I'll fix that" without giving any details. A simple fact: certain things cost money. It's what we do with our money that's problematic. McCain brought up the issue of childhood autism. Barack astutely countered: how do you suggest we pay for programs for children with needs? How many times can it be said? Trickle-down, top-down economics don't work. How often can McCain simply repeat "cut taxes and eliminate spending" and look at himself in the mirror? Why has that strategy worked in the past? It's just not that simple, and it doesn't work. That's what George Bush said, and was elected, and re-elected, and look where we are: government is bigger, not smaller, the deficit is astronomical, unemployment is high, the economy is in shambles. Actually, the economy is now partly government owned, which is to say tax-payer owned. Isn't that...socialism? It's time for the smoke and mirrors efforts of Republicans to stop.

How is the rest of America seeing the benefit of tax breaks to giant oil corporations? With their "windfall profits," are they doing anything for the fabric of society? Doesn't it make sense that some of the billions they're raking in be taxed?

The middle class is the engine of America. When the middle class is strong, the economy moves. Call me dyed-in-the-wool, but I believe that. Social programs, well-administered and well-funded help people. We can't just freeze everything. We can examine it, even overhaul it, but the Republican clarion call of no government is silly. It's in fact pointless now with the bailout in place. How can we have the idealized society we envision if the concentration of wealth at the top is so severe it creates instability elsewhere? I certainly understand a dislike of taxes. I don't particularly like giving up my money either. But if I know it's for the greater good (read: not war), I'll gladly do it. And rich folks: if you have dinner table conversations and cry "pull yourselves up" and "what's going on in our public schools and in our neighborhoods," without admitting these issues need support, you're existing in an ignorant bubble. You can't have one without the other. If you want to concentrate the wealth, and hoard it, other systems will suffer. Does this mean that we have to tax the rich unfairly? No. But tax cuts to the wealthiest Americans is absurd.

What's ironic is that if our society were better educated, more supported, we'd be better consumers for the capitalists. Oops! I used the "c" word. Hey capitalists, hey free marketers, how many vehement arguments of yours have I had to suffer over the years? Welcome to our current government-owned financial system!

How about healthcare? Barack's plan makes sense. If you've got coverage you like, keep it. Others can join a larger pool, like federal employees. Even if it's not perfect, people will have coverage! That means that if you have an accident, you can go get help without worrying you'll go bankrupt by doing so. Whether health care is a "right" or not is inconsequential. Decent healthcare should not be the privilege of the wealthy, the employed, the fortunate. We taxpayers pay for uninsured emergency room visits anyway, so why not create a better system which would address all these issues?

Why are Republicans so afraid of a bigger system? Hasn't everyone heard of the excellent Canadian, British and French healthcare systems? They're not "socialist," but they utilize the power and efficacy of the state. Of course, problems can arise. Yes, abuses happen. But our current insurance-dominated system sucks. Most of the people I met at Camp Obama were supporters in part because they had a horrific healthcare story and they wanted something done. The horror stories you hear now are much worse than they'll be with a smart, well-developed all-encompassing national system. Especially one that works in concert with other systems. The 5k, buy-your-own McCain concept scares me. I know that won't be good, or work.

The finger-pointing and lack of statesmanship from a venerable senator like McCain enrages me. He's the one with the negative campaign, with the groupies crying out "kill him" at rallies. And no, John, we're not talking about the praise-worthy veterans who support you. You know better than that. And nobody at an Obama rally says anything even close to "kill him." You said you were above partisan politics and a maverick, but I've seen none of it. The pundits, notably David Brooks, point out what you used to be like, and what you could've been, but you opted away from that. You haven't run a campaign worthy of respect. And I simply love that Barack Obama won't engage you in that kind of tit-for-tat dialogue you seem to be begging for. I suppose it's all you've got left. "That One" is beating you by taking the high road, and good on him.

Finally, some said they felt Barack missed an opportunity to comment on Sarah Palin. I was surprised he wasn't more praised for passing on it. It's simply too easy. What can he say that we don't already know? She's an absolute boob, and Republicans know it. She was a purely "political" choice and it backfired. That didn't stop McCain from criticizing Biden, another tact that made him look nothing but angry and petty.

The choice is clear, and most of the Americans I've met in Colorado feel the same.

Longmont Office

2008-10-15T09:57:00.001-07:00

Thought I'd post a few photos of the Longmont office. Can't say they offer much of a sense of the place, but a little. Main Street, where the office is located, is an unexpected mix of quaint and hip. Well, not exactly hip, but has a little somethin' going on, a few cafes, restaurants, guitar shops, etc. Don't underestimate "small town" USA.

The picture in the center shows two seated guys. Nearer the stairs is Ben, a Field Organizer for the Longmont office. He's from Brooklyn which pleased Dirk (in scarf and cashmere coat) to no end. Who knew New Yorkers felt like such fish out of water when they leave New York? The three of us drove together in the P-rizm one day and young Ben could not stop asking questions of Dirk about trading. Seems Dirk spent some time in that bizarre-sounding world ("19 year-old punks dropping $400 on lunch, bags of blow and personal drivers you can call if you're out wasted in the city at any time"), hence the cashmere. To hear Dirk tell it, he's done or knows someone who has done just about everything. He's the kind of guy who'll say, "Oh food? Yeah, my dad owned two four-star restaurants for a while." Somehow he went to Syracuse, traded for 6 years, spent some time at NYU getting an MFA in film but dropped out, and various other things and businesses, all some years ago. I'm not saying it isn't true, but his timelines and details get my head to spinning.

Ben graduated from Macalester (like my cousin Annie!) little more than a year ago and spent some time in Spain, then working at one of those big New York firms I can never remember the name of but which is, you know, big and deals in finance. What the hell do those places do, anyway? He seemed as disillusioned as a 23 year-old gets with the business world after college, but still couldn't keep himself from asking Dirk many trading questions. Seems the thought of that kind of money always entices. Ben seems to be doing his campaign job well, is harried a lot but is polite and appreciative of our volunteerism, if not exactly warm.

Next to Ben is Will, from England. Although he can't vote, he's very involved with Obama's campaign. He's friendly and yes, young, (I must be feeling my age) and I'm tellin ya, that accent sure works wonders on stop-by volunteers and when he's on the phone.

Hadn't seen the bottom Hope image before. Can you see me in the reflection?

Speaking of cool images check out this one, passed to me from the lovely Strehorn family.

Campaigning, Cont.

2008-10-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

Friday began with another data session, saying hello to increasingly familiar faces in the campaign office and negotiating the slightly mixed vibe therein. Seems a tricky balance to strike; nobody wants to be too rah-rah, yet being overly serious doesn't evince the proper mood or match the feelings most of us have either. Everyone is gracious, but deeper bonding doesn't seem to be happening. I attribute most of it to the volunteer environment. It's transient. It's territorial. These people are mixed in with others who are paid staffers and charged with real, get-your-numbers responsibilities. I'm amazed by how young most of these staffers are, and how long their days are. They want as much from volunteers as they can squeeze, yet they must remember volunteers have differing commitments. Any and all offered help should be praised, and for the most part, it is. Occasionally stress seems to compromise that positive attitude. But a field organizer named Jacob, all of 23 and quite precocious, said to me: we have to remember volunteers are gold.

'Round about lunchtime Jenna asked me if I wanted a sandwich. A nice gesture from the campaign--or her, since most of the snacks and bottled water are donated or purchased out of pocket. I wouldn't realize how nice a gesture, however, until she returned with my turkey sandwich from Boulder's own Snarf's. Yikes, now that's a good sando. Anyone out there had a Snarf's turkey sandwich? You know what I'm talking about. After, she invited me to a 4pm meeting which seemed like a first nod toward more involvement in the campaign's activities.

At 4pm we gathered, mainly us out-of-state volunteers and a few others. Sara, Judd, Dirk and I were there, along with others, a few just arriving. Several people from Texas, one woman from Portland OR, one from Ohio, one from Idaho, and some others. We listened to a talk by Meredith, a Regional Field Director in Boulder, and all of 22. She's sharp, worked on campaigns before, and seems to me to be trying to hold it all together. Big job. Meredith passed it over to Jenna, the out-of-state volunteer coordinator, who, we discovered, had new assignments for all of us.

Dirk and I learned we were now assigned to Longmont, CO. This is a city on the outskirts of Boulder known to be more "red" than Boulder. I'd assumed when I first arrived here that we'd all be focussing more on places like Longmont, but it turns out a lot of work still needs to be done in liberal-leaning Boulder, regardless of leaning, because there's a big opportunity to capture a large number of new voters. But Longmont is where the action is. In fact, Dirk had been saying how he wanted to do more in Longmont, even before we knew anything about the possibility of being assigned there. Yet once the decision was made, he and I both were a little apprehensive. It sounded good, but what exactly did this mean? What would be our new schedule? How would we get out there everyday, and would there be any gas incentive? Was this a "promotion" or a demotion of sorts? Dirk, as I've described before, a strong New York personality, even for me, wondered openly if it was some kind of "banishment." His worry got me to wondering. Was it? But after milling about and taking it all in, we talked with both Meredith and Jenna and it turns out quite the opposite. They felt we were the best suited from the out-of-staters to go to a place like Longmont and make an impact. The two of us had only been around for 3,4 days, and yet I had to commend these two young campaign organizers on their assessment: it's a good call.

And so, on a very gray and rainy Saturday afternoon, Dirk, Prudence (a student volunteer who I met doing data entry) and I drove out to Longmont. Actually, Prudence and I had already decided, before the "reassignment," to drive to Longmont on Saturday to try a canvassing shift there. She'd done it before and told me about it while we chatted at the data entry station. It seemed a perfect already-scheduled opportunity to get to know the Longmont office, and I invited Dirk along with us.

After another canvassing training in the Longmont office, we got our packets and paired up. Me luckily with Prudence, who is sweet and on the ball and mellow. Dirk, though I'm enjoying getting to know him, occasionally drives me nuts with his constant nervous banter, sometimes raunchy jokes, and cigarette stank. He means well, but when he's anxious, he chats and chats, and keeps poking me to say something and, cat, I'm trying to listen! For a brief moment it seemed we were being paired up, Dirk and I, but then another Longmont volunteer and Dirk somehow hooked up, leaving Prudence and I as a team...phew, what a relief. And there she and I went, into the cold and misting rain, to knock on the Saturday doors of the citizens of Longmont. What would we encounter?

(That's Prudence and I there, after our almost four hour canvassing session. This picture was taken by Dirk after we'd returned to Boulder. We made a good team, splitting up the houses and meeting a few blocks later. My hands were so cold by the end, and my clipboard's pages so damp, I couldn't get my fingers to work properly in order to separate the stuck-together pages. Quite maddening.)

And, after many doors, I'm happy to report many more were positive experiences than negative. One gent answered his door, looked at me in my wet knit hat and dripping coat, and kinda grinned. I took this to be a positive sign. But when I asked who he was supporting in November, he replied rather curtly that he felt a vote was a private matter. (An attitude which is more than fair, and which I've now encountered several times. But this was my first.) I acknowledged this, and then rather dimly decided to ask him again, albeit in a slightly different manner. I suppose his initial grin still had me thinking Obama. He said: "Didn't you hear what I just said?" Yes, I said. Yes I did. And off I slunk.

I must note the one family that invited me in out of the cold. As I say, by mid-shift I was red-hand cold and my coat was visibly dripping from gathered mist. Most folks, even the sweetest of pro-Obama supporters, chatted with me as they held their screen doors open while the heat from their homes streamed tauntingly past my face. I can't blame them. Who wants to have dripping wet canvassing guy dripping on their floor? Can't say I would. But one gentleman, a stocky Mexican man with a moustache who didn't seem to speak much English, was quick with a grin when I announced who I was and who I was seeking, and despite the several people already crowding their small front room, young children and various other family members, he invited me in. I accepted. Maria, the mom, the voter I was seeking, told me, with translation help from her daughter, that she'd already voted via mail-in ballot (what we're promoting) for Barack Obama. Yes!

Longmont is surprisingly pretty, with big tree-lined streets, nice homes, and several neighborhood parks. Can't judge a book by it's cover, for the millionth time. On Main St., where the campaign office is located, there are signs on center-divider light poles with somewhat ominous American flag-like crests and the rubric: Longmont, An All-American City. Without the experiences I've had, I might've assumed something else about Longmont. I'm also happy to report, for what it's worth, that there appear to be many more Obama-Biden signs on the lawns of Longmont, CO.

When did "All-American" get co-opted by the conservative and religious right such that its usage now gives me pause, rather than pride? I think that sucks. "All-American" should mean many things, all the things that make America and Americans great, not just a narrow set of beliefs held by a group with claims to "truth." Proud to be Red, Blue, White...Black, Yellow...Hi/Low, Rainbow, Candy Stripe!

Barackin in Boulder - Day 2

2008-10-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: Much like a broadcast delay, sometimes called a seven-second delay, Influence the Space adheres to delays, often several days long, for proper rumination. All of which is to say that the date upon which these posts appear are not necessarily the date they happened.]

Last Thursday was my second full day at the Boulder campaign office. In keeping with the triad of campaign training, this was my day, after phoning and canvassing the day before, to data enter. That there to the left is Judd, from San Francisco, who taught me how. The phoning and canvassing yields all sorts of data that needs to be inputted, and so once trained I spent the better part of 7 hours clickin and tappin. And though many of you might groan at the thought of this job, and despite my iPod's dead battery, I rather liked it.

A few reasons: Canvassing without meeting many people (something that as of this writing has changed), and phoning without talking to many people can feel discouraging. With only my first day's experience under my belt, working the data with Sara (the "Data Mother") actually felt quite satisfying. We collaborated to make sure things were being entered properly, and after a few hours it really seemed like we were getting things done. I'm still not sure why certain people, especially ardent Barack supporters, get called again and again, but hopefully this work will mitigate that potential annoyance.

I left the office that day fired up, feeling like I'd done something. But also, I had to remind myself, and be reminded: it was only my second day! People were already beginning to see that I wanted to be involved, and would take on a leadership role if asked. As I noted in my post after attending Camp Obama, volunteer operations are unique. Everyone has good intentions, but everyone also has different time commitments, different responsibilities (with some of a more official capacity), and the offices are a constant stream of different faces and new questions. Managing all the activity and energy is tricky. But we're doing it, and, after this entire year (and practically 2/3rds of last), the election is only 23 days away!

Vote! This article proves that snafus and errors are possible. More than anything, including who you vote for (subliminal flash: Barack Obama), we should all be able to vote, easily and without problems.

This New Yorker piece by its editors called "The Choice" is a must read.

Not In Berkeley Anymore...

2008-10-11T11:33:00.001-07:00

Walking down Alpine St. from where I'm staying in Boulder to Ideal Market I came across the women in the top photo. Familiar as a Berkeley boy might be with protest of various kinds, at first I thought it was some sort of labor dispute. As I drew closer, the fleeting thought I had that they might have something to do with the Obama campaign was replaced by the summation of various details: nearby to a hospital, the women very somber and holding rosaries, the heavy energy passersby tried to avoid or ignore.

An abortion clinic, and these women (the second photo from another day) holding vigils out front. Hadn't seen this before, and quite the surprise to me on my morning walk to buy an apple and yogurt.

Obama Time - Day 1

2008-10-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

That there is Sara and her pooch Paco. She's from Austin, Texas and trained me on phone banking my first day. She arrived at the Boulder office some weeks ago and says she loves being apart of the action. Good peoples, and has an exactitude that I appreciate.

We work from spreadsheet/scripts and mark down various responses. I've done suchlike phone calling before, cold calls and the like, but I always forget how discouraging it can be. That sounds a bit strong, because it's infinitely easier to make a call on behalf of Barack Obama than, say, ZipRealty. But you just want to have all these influential conversations.

As we said along the Camino: poco a poco. Or is it Paco a Paco?

This here's Dirk from NY, NY. He's a cool cat, smokes like a chimney, seems sensitive to being mistaken for a rougher character than he is. He frequently says to me: You're a cool guy, I like you man!

We're all just making are way, aren't we?

It's the afternoon of my first day and we're off on a canvassing mission. Mission; interesting word choice. I had the thought while climbing up and down apartment building staircases: are we sort of Barack missionaries? Hmm. Knocked on about 50 doors, spoke to one person. An Obama man at least! Gotta keep it up.

Obama v. McCain, Round 2 - Cafe Analysis

2008-10-09T17:33:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you what: Boulder, CO ain't hurtin for good cafes. And that, my friends (do your best McCain there--didn't that start to sound creepy after a while?), is a fine thing indeed. Tonight I write to you from Pekoe in North Boulder, which calls itself a "Sip House." Delightful. This morning, on my way into the campaign office, I grabbed a cup at The Cup. And I'm just getting started! First it was Saxy's, The Cup, Pekoe...who needs politics when you can drink coffee everywhere. Or is it, with so much coffee to be had, we need politics. Yes, I think that's it. Very Parisian. Or something.

So I'm stalling. I'm sitting in cozy places drinking caffeine and wondering what I might write that's worth your eyeballs' time and patience beyond that I think Barack walloped McCain't somethin' good on Tuesday night in Nashville. I thought he was more composed, more compassionate, more gracious and stately. I agreed with his positions, and how he presented them. Shall I go on? When McCain stood up to speak, I was surprised by how difficult it was to watch him and follow his points of view. This was supposedly his milieu, the Town Hall style, but I did not observe him to be necessarily comfortable in the setting or connecting particularly well with audience members. Did you?

A few of you have expressed to me that you also considered the event a blowout for Barack, but some others said they didn't think so. A win, maybe, but not a blowout. I can't tell you how many times I turned to the group with whom I was watching, hands thrust upward in incredulity, Jamey-style, saying emphatic whats? to various things McCain offered. I'll take full responsibility for my clear bias, but I like to pride myself on giving anyone and anything at least an attempt at a fair glance and I just wasn't seeing anything.

You heard the "that one" comment too, didn't you? If that doesn't expose McCain's true viewpoint--which without further judgment I'll simply describe as out of touch, perhaps a bit snide--I'm not sure what does.

I guess that's the overwhelming impression I'm left with, aside from the terrible VP choice, the continuation of the Bush tax cuts, the attitude toward war, the grumpiness, the vitriol within his camp: he's in another world. The son of navy admirals who married into the life of an heiress is not in touch with regular folks. Neither is Bush. And they call us "elitist." They claim to be representing the "common man"! It's absurd, and I've said that before.

When did people become suspicious of intelligence? It's our highest ideal. (Or was, or should be.) I've heard it said that people don't trust Obama, partly because of his intellect, but does that mean they do trust McCain? You can't figure out where he's coming from! He makes obvious "political" moves all the time, the most egregious of which was his choice for VP. His "campaign suspension"? His antics around the talks regarding the "bail-out"? His "the fundamentals of the economy are sound" reversals? Slippery, and lame.

And on and on. Everyone I've met here at the Obama HQ shares the same feelings, the same exasperation. We tend not to let ourselves get going because, well, where should we start?

Politicians have certainly found themselves on shaky footing these past many years. And they should be, when they obviously say and do things for political gain without any indication that that's how they truly feel or will act. How should we trust such people?

But let me ask you (and I realize I'm preaching to the choir here): has Barack Obama given you the impression of a "slick" politician? I'm not saying he's perfect, but I trust him. And that means a lot to me. Perhaps everything.

I do not trust John McCain, or Sarah Palin. I think McCain believes it's his "right" to be President, and he's frustrated that he's losing. His actions seem desperate and even spiteful at times, and certainly not stately. Erratic behavior does not become a future President.

Palin winked and joked her way through a debate and was actually praised for it because the expectations about how she would perform were so low. What is that? How is that allowed to let stand? That's coddling, and it seems even the media is complicit.

I was passed an article by Michelle Goldberg Friday from my friend Gabi Condie, and I want to include a bit here. And with it, I'll bring my cafe caffeinated digressions to a close. (Phew!)

From Michelle Goldberg Friday's piece:

Early on, she made the astonishing
announcement that she had no intentions of actually answering the queries
put to her. "I may not answer the questions that either the moderator or you
want to hear, but I'm going to talk straight to the American people and let
them know my track record also," she said.

And so she preceded, with an almost surreal disregard for the subjects she
was supposed to be discussing, to unleash fusillades of scripted attack
lines, platitudes, lies, gibberish and grating references to her own
pseudo-folksy authenticity.

It was an appalling display. The only reason it was not widely described as
such is that too many American pundits don't even try to judge the truth,
wisdom or reasonableness of the political rhetoric they are paid to
pronounce upon. Instead, they imagine themselves as interpreters of a
mythical mass of "average Americans" who they both venerate and despise.

And this quote I just have to include:

"Say it ain't so, Joe, there you go again pointing backwards again. You preferenced [sic] your whole comment with the Bush administration. Now doggone it, let's look ahead and tell Americans what we have to plan to do for them in the future. You mentioned education, and I'm glad you did. I know education you are passionate about with your wife being a teacher for 30 years, and god bless her. Her reward is in heaven, right? ... My brother, who I think is the best schoolteacher in the year, and here's a shout-out to all those third graders at Gladys Wood Elementary School, you get extra credit for watching the debate."

Obama HQ, Boulder CO

2008-10-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

A few pictures from the Obama campaign headquarters in Boulder, located at 19th and Pearl streets, for those of you who might know Boulder. That's Jenna in the center, she's the out-of-state volunteer coordinator. She's a student at Stanford and tells me she typically puts in 12 to 14 hour days working for "that one." (Yes E, wasn't that comment revealing of the true McCain't?)

These pics are from a few days ago when I first checked in. Today, Oct. 8 was my first full day volunteering here. I'll write about that soon. Also must add a few thoughts about last night's Round 2 debate. Sounds like most people scoring at home gave it to Barack...but I scored it a KO!

Thanks for reading, and stay tuned...more to come from Jama for Obama in Colorada. (Good one, G!)

Obama Inspiration

2008-10-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

I thought this by MC Yogi was very cool. In fact, it even choked me up a little bit. Thanks for the original pass, Tim Page!

Blogging in Boulder

2008-10-06T11:19:00.000-07:00

Monday October 6th

Arrived in Colorado on Saturday, right on schedule. Left the Rock Springs, WY Quality Inn at just past 8am and stepped into a billiards bar in Longmont, CO at 1:30pm to catch the first half of the Cal v. ASU game. I love it when a plan comes together. Just before halftime, a dude who had sat down near me and I struck up a conversation. He'd been playing poker and was knocked from the table. He asked about the game, and we chatted a bit about poker. After a pause, I decided to venture into the political realm. In fact, just before he and I started talking, I had been contemplating standing on my bar stool and making a voting pitch to the entirety of the bar. (No, not drunk.) I thought: Is that what the truly committed would do? (Perhaps in the insane sense.) I mean, here I am, travelling to a new area in order to influence folks to get involved in this election. Make it happen, man!

Well, didn't quite pull that off, and despite my hesitation that J.R. (that's him below) might be a strong right-winger, as I hear many Coloradans are, I ventured forward and mentioned politics, leaving as much room for difference of opinion as possible so as to create no friction. He quickly proceeded, I'm pleased to report, to tell me about his Michigan roots, his independent streak, and how he feels the current administration's antics will still be costing us four generations from now. In other words, rather like-minded. I asked him about driving into Boulder the rest of the way, and he asked for a ride.

So, it was back into the car with my bar friend JR for the short 15 minute ride into Boulder and Jeffrey and Catherine's ring ceremony. I dropped him off at another bar in Boulder, and I was left with the positive good feeling of the traveler, the experience of being out on the road and meeting new people.

As I was driving into town I received a call from Steven Gordon in SF, a travel coordinator for the Obama campaign. What excellent, dare I say fortuitous timing. He put me in touch with a person in the Boulder campaign office named Jenna who I will check in with soon.

Everything has come together perfectly so far. The drive, connecting with friends, the ceremony and after party. I hope it continues with the work I plan to do on the campaign. Still not sure how long I'll stay in Colorado. Mainly, I want to feel that my presence here makes a difference for Obama's campaign.

***

A side note or two, the kind that occur when in a political mindframe and travelling across country: Are Americans suspicious of other Americans? We love to generalize about each other, there's "liberal America" and "middle America" etc., but how much of that is based on experience, something real, and how much is based on hearsay, on media and television characterization? I feel an immense satisfaction when I'm away from the bay area, my comfort zone, and I meet someone from an area I'm not familiar with and the interaction is pleasant. Because the opposite is also true, when you're travelling and the interactions with folks feel strained somehow, and you tend to wonder: are we just different? Like the woman in the gas station about 40 miles from Laramie, WY, who hardly responded to my attempts at friendliness. Not mean, just disinterested. Or the front desk girl at the Quality Inn in Rock Springs, WY. Our interactions were very polite and satisfying.

Is this politics, true grassroots politics? Finding common ground among all people? Letting people be who there are without further speculation?

How much do we assume about each other? How much does sequestering ourselves in our lives, our familiar spheres with televisions, inform our perceptions of the rest of the people in this country? Are we easily suspicious of each other? A fear begat by unfamiliarity? Is there any reason we should be? If the gas station lady didn't like me for some reason, why? Was she responding to cues? Was I?

I suppose I'm an idealist. I squirm when I feel misunderstood, and I want all people to make an effort at communication and understanding. To possess the confidence to take everything at face value, to trust their instincts and intuition, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, at least at first, and go from there. I think, as Americans, we should enjoy and embrace each other more.

Journey to CO - Leaving CA

2008-10-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

Friday October 3rd

There's The Marty, my sweet mom, waving goodbye this morning.

Adorning my ride with a fresh Obama '08 sticker. Tonight I write from the Rock Springs, Wyoming Quality Inn at 11:23 MST. Let me tell ya: 12 hours of straight driving is long. All praise to the P-rizm and it's cruise control.

Journey to CO - Biden vs. Palin

2008-10-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

Nevada City, CA - Thursday October 2nd

Arrived tonight with 15 minutes to spare before the one and only Vice-Presidential debate. Mom and I settled in, exchanged a few anxious glances, and prepared to cringe. Who knew what Palin might say, and how would Biden deal with her?

Now it's almost midnight, and though I'm getting up early to resume my drive to Colorado, I felt compelled to make some notes about my observations. For most of the "debate," a misnomer applied to these events, I felt tense and somewhat sick. On a few occasions, I thought to myself: Sarah Palin is what's wrong with America. At the same time, there were moments in the early going that, begrudgingly, I thought she was faring better than Biden. At least, I could see the potential effectiveness of the things she's known to do well. She looked at the camera directly, used her folksy speech and anecdotes and winks to strong (if annoying) effect, and when Biden responded he seemed to come across, in juxtaposition, as somewhat staid. Sarah would say her pat, rehearsed answer, look into the camera like a flirty Fox Newscaster, I'd squirm and wait for Joe to respond, but when he did it wasn't as strong or powerful as I'd hoped, and as a result I had the similar distressed feeling to watching my football team lose. You know you're better, but somehow the other side's gaining ground, and even the referee isn't helping. You get the ball back, but it's 3 and out.

But by the end, I (happily) felt that Biden's control and sincerity had won out. Yes, I was surprised to discover that Palin has some skill. But the things she's good at are not, by themselves, qualities we need in our leaders. Without, that is, a true knowledge base to support the charms. Why are so many Americans attracted to this folksy nonsense? Oh, the many painful years of George Bush, and now we have the GOP's next anti-intellectual replacement: Sarah Palin. You just have to wonder: what are people seeing?

In political conversations, we often use the phrase "the average American" to hazard guesses about the general consensus of our populace. I tend to think that "average" Americans are more intelligent than credited for, that we can be persuaded by polling and marketing data into believing the opposite, but in reality, to a man, middle or coastal or your phrase here-Americans are thoughtful, honest and capable of reasoned decision-making. But when people watch a speech by Bush and are not downright mortified, and when they watch Sarah Palin's cutesy antics and say things like "I think she speaks for me" I begin to wonder. Really, really wonder.

The combo of folksy demeanor and corporate smiley mask is scary. It's dangerous. What kills me is that they're praised by "average" folks for these things, but in actuality these things are the quintessence of the "slick politician." They're being duped by the very qualities they're said to admire. Why isn't that more obvious? And Barack Obama's intelligence is seen as suspicious, not admirable! I'm just baffled by the stark contrast. I acknowledge it, but I can't understand it.

What's more: this is not first and foremost a personality contest. This isn't a beauty pageant, a game to see who's more congenial. Palin's "Say It Ain't So, Joe"s are inappropriate for the dialogue. We are talking about the highest offices in the land, and times are grave. Her attitude is disrespectful to the importance of the position she finds herself in. We have a floundering economy, a wall street bail-out of 700 billion taxpayer dollars, a war (for which both VP candidates are offering sons) destabilizing the middle east going on 6 years at a cost of more billions of taxpayer money monthly, serious global warming issues, etc., and Sarah Palin is winking and flirting and bullshitting her way along, and, worst of all: being praised for it! Staunch Republican men I know say they like her, and follow it up with a wink of their own about how "hot" she is. These same men that argue vehemently about their political positions and act as if they're really in possession of the facts.

One issue cannot be glossed over: Palin was coached into everything she said. She had far too many notes in front of her to be fair or allowable, she completely evaded questions in order to return to her talking points, and left me with the worst sense of mistrust. I don't trust Sarah Palin. I mean, I have absolutely no idea what she actually thinks or believes. At this point, she seems like she'd say anything she was told. Anyone who allows themselves to be manipulated in such a way is phony and inauthentic, regardless of how "down-home" or cute. I have to hand it to her, though. I don't know how she can stand in there and suffer the internal embarrassment trying to fudge answers, talking around questions, trying to sound informed or stately or qualified when she's not. She may be a "great gal" and a tough "hockey mom," whatever that really means, and perhaps even an emerging politician, but right now she's nothing but lame.

I must say too that I wasn't all that pleased with Gwen Ifill's performance. She let Sarah ramble on and on, seeming overly concerned that cutting her off would appear partial. I mean, she is writing something that includes Barack Obama, so she's gotta be biased! And no "gotcha questions" for poor Sarah. The media elite are out to get her! It's absurd. Ifill made sure to follow-up her questions directed to Sarah with additional information so the poor, uninformed Governor of Alaska wouldn't be at a loss. She's running for Vice-President! She's a "72 year-old man's heartbeat" away from the Presidency, and we let them get away with characterizing questions which ask her for simple clarifications as "gotcha" questions. Like what, Sarah? Can you think of any examples? No.

Why can't the moderators assert themselves more in these "debates"? How are we to know which are "facts" and which is spin when candidates continuously say the same things over and over, no matter how many times the point is refuted. Palin mentioned tax raises repeatedly, no matter how many times Biden explained the Obama/Biden plan. How is that possible or acceptable? Where's the integrity in that? I thought the "mavericks" that McCain/Palin claim to be were against "politics as usual"? Yet they, and their campaigns, make the most egregious transgressions. As always, they say one thing and do another. The hypocrisy in McCain's campaign is shocking. I can't stand how they've co-opted the messages of change, renewable energy, and even betterment of schools--Palin even said women's rights (!)--without explaining what they mean, or how they'll pay for any of these things. They are proving one thing to me: they're willing to do anything to win an election, including sacrificing their integrity and credibility.

I thought: I need to get to Colorado not only to campaign for Barack, I need to do whatever I can to make sure Sarah Palin gets nowhere near the White House.

Camp Obama and Beyond

2008-10-02T10:57:00.000-07:00

I wrote an email about my Camp Obama experience on September 21, held at Hastings in SF, but didn't post here, as I'd planned. The quick synopsis: it was a positive experience on the whole, with parts very inspiring and others less so. It was a long day--12 hours on a Sunday in an auditorium sitting in plastic chairs. The true joy of meeting fellow Obama supporters was tempered by fatigue, the difficulty of rallying to your feet for another speaker trying to fire-up the crowd. An early and quite good speaker, a young professor from SFSU, clearly was enjoying his Ceasar Chavez moment of political motivation and for the most part I had to acquiesce to his influence, realizing that bringing energy is important and people, even those with the best intentions like everyone in that room, can often hang back in polite applause. That said, it's not easy to bring sincere energy, or begin another "Yes We Can" chant after doing so for 9 hours. But we tried. And as all volunteer events organized by volunteers for more volunteers, there were bound to be elements that were more effective than others. Focussing on our personal stories, a major tenet of grassroots movements, and the reasons why we are personally inspired by Barack Obama, was very effective and moving. We also learned some important campaign techniques. But we also could've used more instruction on how to use the many resources, especially online, available to us. Most speakers were dynamic and engaging, a couple weren't. I was pleased to have attended.

And the most salient point for me was this: there are amazing people involved with this campaign, and meeting them made me all the more proud to be a Barack Obama supporter, and all the more clear that this really is our time. YES WE CAN. This country is about all of us, not just the few. In many ways, despite our idealism, sometimes used against us, the USA has always been about power in the hands of the few, the landed, the wealthy. Let's continue to try to move beyond this as a fundamental characteristic. Let's recognize diversity within unity. United we stand, divided we fall.

Thus deputized a "Deputy Field Organizer," today I'm driving to Colorado to see what I can do for the Obama campaign in that "swing" state. By lucky chance, this first weekend also happens to be the wedding/ring ceremony of a good friend, so it's a win/win...and hopefully a WIN. I plan to post as many reflections as I can along my Obama campaign trail, hopefully supplemented with pictures. Stay tuned.

Tonight I'm stopping in Nevada City to say hello to my mom and watch the Vice Presidential debate between Joe Biden and Sarah Palin. Will almost certainly have something to say about this "historic" debate.

Be At Peace, DFW.

2008-09-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

SF Chronicle columnist Jon Carroll brought my attention to the untimely passing of writer David Foster Wallace. I don't know very much about his work, but I did read an essay he wrote called "Host" in Ira Glass's compilation called "The New Kings of Nonfiction" that was quite good. It was about today's era of talk radio, and a host named John Ziegler. In the piece, Wallace uses an innovative, somewhat distracting technique of highlighting and boxing portions of the text for asides and definitions. A bit like reading a web page, with the text from things you clicked on also included. Lots of information, but slow reading. The subject of the piece is fascinating nonetheless, and illuminates many aspects of talk radio in the post-Limbaugh world.

Carroll included in his column a portion of a commencement address Wallace gave to the 2005 class of Kenyon college. I really liked the portion, so I looked up the piece in its entirety and thought it was excellent. Check it out, it's worth the time.

Thanks DFW for the words you put down, the thoughts and ideas you expressed. Be at peace, brother.

The Dark(est) (K)night

2008-09-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

I've been having some trouble lately calming my mind down. We're 8 weeks from the election. The government bailed out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. (Those stupid names!) The Wire is over. Berkeley protestors are no longer sitting in trees. Football season has begun.

There's a lot going on.

I, and I assume many of you, often fantasize, of a day, about going to a matinee. It usually starts when I'm feeling the first effects of my morning coffee: Maybe I'll have time today to skip out and catch a matinee...

It never happens. But yesterday when the fog hadn't lifted by 2:30pm in Oakland, a first in some weeks, and the day was decidedly chilly, I checked the movie listings on a whim and saw that "The Dark Knight," the second in the latest, revamped Batman series, was playing at the UA Berkeley. And at the 3:30pm showtime, I'd be able to observe this fine piece of cinema for the bargain matinee price of $7.75. I hopped on my bike and went.

I left my apartment in Rockridge at 3pm and was parking my bike on Shattuck Ave. by 3:20pm. I purchased my ticket, then took a quick stroll around the block to properly enhance my movie-going mood. I entered the dimmed, closed-door theatre #1 just before showtime. What I entered into was this: the blaring, hard-rock cacophony of a video by Kid Rock. He was singing somesuch raging anthem to Americana called "Warrior." I know this because he screamed the, um, chorus, over and over again. But I also confirmed this on the website. (See more below.) The imagery of this video included scenes of Rock, in de rigueur "wife beater" and fedora, "rocking" on a makeshift stage in some airplane hangar, with various cuts to scenes of Nascar racing and soliders. Lots and lots of soldiers, scenes of desert-camouflaged, boot-stomping, gun wielding soldiers conducting all manner of Warrior duty, in accordance with the song. Nascar and soldiering, it's the new baseball and apple pie!

In one particular scene, a tank is hauling ass through narrow dusty Afghan streets, turning corners while the innocent passersby recoil, not so much in fear but shocked awe (shock and awe, remember?), and halts when a young boy's soccer ball rolls into the street. A tense moment passes, cut to the boy's frightful eyes, then out from the tank emerges G.I. Joe, who, with gritted teeth and wary eye, assesses the situation and finally decides to take pity on these poor, helpless subhumans and kicks the ball back into their alleyway, Mean Joe Green Coca-Cola style, except without pleasure, just tense relief. This is war, you know, and WE are the WARRIORS, protecting these peasants.

Or, back at home racing cars. Yee haw!

Either way, Kid Rock says we are the WARRIORS and he's giving all of himself, how about you? He says he's also bleeding red, white and blue, and there's this part about if you ain't gonna fight get outta the way. Gotcha, Kid. You sure seem like Mr. America to me. I'm certainly getting out of your way, especially if you're driving a race car or toting anything other than a guitar. (Side note: below I'm talking about the apotheosis of the criminal. How about the apotheosis of a total scrub like Kid Rock?)

Along the bottom of the screen: National Guard. Ok, so you have to see it for yourself, but be prepared to have your skin crawl. It's so blatantly gung-ho it's damn near fascist. Does Kid Rock understand that? I wonder if Dale Earnhardt, Jr. does? (He's the Nascar "Warrior.")

The sound was so loud in the theatre, the imagery so intense, I looked around to see if any of the seven of us was feelin' it. You know, psyched about "Warrior" and how that's what we are, us Americans...WARRIORS! However, it seemed what we wanted to do was to get outta the way. Which is to say, get Kid Rock and the National Guard off the screen so we can enjoy a damn violent, dark movie.

When it was finally over and ol' Mr. Rock had stepped away from his reverberating guitar, there was a fine and pleasant moment of peace. Then I booed, which thankfully received a few chuckles. In the Berkeley days of my youth, nobody would've tolerated movie theatre advertising, let alone warmongering, militaristic crap from the National Guard. At least not without some type of catcall. I booed, but for the briefest of seconds wondered if someone might take offense to my response. Like they actually enjoy and support this ridiculousness. In Berkeley! Imagine, if I'm hesitant to offer my one meager boo to an audience of 7 people--3 young teens, an amorous couple, another dude and myself--what's it like being bombarded with this shit in some staunchly pro-military town's theatre?

I thought: it really has come to this. We're afraid to voice dissent, we're afraid to question the motivation behind suchlike propaganda. And don't be fooled: Propaganda is what it is. I'd be willing to wager that actual military personnel aren't so similarly gung-ho about what they're doing. And I, like them, am not anti-military. Not at all. I'm anti-glorification of a job and a situation that is complex and involves killing. I'm anti-glorification of war. But military advertising and recruiting has been questionable for a long time.

Then, after several previews, most of which involved the end of the earth (man how we're fascinated by doomsday), the movie started. The lights, however, didn't go down, remaining in their Kid Rock propaganda/preview/you-still-have-time-open-that-candy dimmed state. I had flashbacks of my stepfather yelling up to the projectionist "lights!" whenever this happened in my youth, but again I was hesitant to do so. Maybe I'm just timid? I hestitated, thinking that maybe in the gung-ho, watch-out-everybody's-a-potential-terrorist world we're living in, they stopped turning the lights out completely in movie theatres. Or perhaps it's a matinee thing?

But sure enough, as The Joker is completing his first shenanigan, the lights suddenly popped out. Perhaps the projectionist was out talking to his girlfriend. Or on a smoke break. In the end, screaming "lights!" wasn't really necessary. He got around to it, and I spared myself the potential stress. With the theatre properly darkened, and no chatterboxes seated directly behind me (my current curmudgeonly complaint) I rested further back into my seat and observed this decidedly dark version of the Batman tale. I shan't say much about it, save that it was indeed dark, inconsistently so I felt, from the more comic book tones it begins with to the rather gruesome ones at the end, and, ultimately not that good. I'd heard such great things, and I thought Batman Begins, the first in this series, was pretty decent. This sequel was by turns hard to understand, hard to hear, and finally, maybe a little too edgy for its own good. I like taking the Batman story to a darker place, and I like the idea that he's (the Batman, that is) not without a certain complexity. All good and proper superheroes are conflicted. But the film ran far too long, Christian Bale's Batman voice is far too gravelly to comprehend, and the emotional tones in the film are inconsistent. As I said above, it begins somewhat comic book-like, of which some is necessary, but finishes with killings and drama that are played far too real. It's not a thumbs up or down, it's a sideways.

There is one bright spot, which, in a way, is odd. Heath Ledger's Joker is pretty darn good. He's captured an intriguing, and dark, mixture of maniacal and psychopathic that, unlike the rest of the film, remains consistent. He's part Nicholson, and part Hannibal Lector, with a dash of Cesar Romero and a sprinkle of Frank Gorshin. It is dark though, like crime-drama dark, and as Ledger's Joker escapes, speeding away in a stolen police cruiser with his head out the window, hair fanning back, I wondered about the apotheosis of the criminal, but not in a comic book way, which the story of Batman is...but in a far too real one.

Doom and gloom in Gotham. The Dark(est) (K)night has our attention.

BM 2008

2008-08-30T00:07:00.000-07:00

Friday eve the good Mr. Fancher and I entertained ourselves by checking on Burning Man 2008 online.

Man it was cool. Check out this link.

I was surprised by how inspired I felt when seeing the videos of what people are doing up there. A robotic, metal hand able to lift and drop a car controlled by a hand in a special glove, available, as everything at BM, to anyone interested in trying. A photo collage van with pictures of the owner's journey on the outside. A 10-story BM skyscraper with metal girders!

The dedication, innovation and artistry at BM is unlike anything else I've encountered. When I think of my two Burning Man experiences, in 2000 and 2003, I tend to focus a bit too much on my personal experience. Yet always present is BM's core ethos, comprised of several factors, but generally involved with the creation of a unique community called Black Rock City with principles like freedom of expression, sharing, and incredible art.

I sometimes find myself worrying about how "middle America" would view these videos and regard these "freaky" denizens of BRC, dressed in their Mad Maxian gear (or no gear at all), caked in playa dust. Could they see past the surface distractions, like the nakedness, which some consider aberrance, and recognize the beauty? The ingenuity? The celebration of human creativity, possibility and community that is Burning Man at its best?

It's the power of human potential. Man, it's just amazing. Aimed in the right directions, we can do anything. And for the easily distracted, remember: it's the message not the messenger.

Hey Roddick, Sign This!

2008-08-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

The 2008 U.S. Open is underway and I'm catching a few of these first round matches. On Monday night I watched James Blake pull out a 1st round win 6-4 in the fifth set against 19-year old Donald Young. 19! I can never get over how good these cats are in their teens. The women are often even younger.

For the purposes of my point today, let me mention that Donald Young, the loser of a close match and clearly dejected and ready to disappear into the New York night, stayed around to sign not only the requisite three balls handed to him by some U.S. Open lackey, but to appease autograph seeking fans at the wall of the stands, some of them extending those ridiculous basketball-sized tennis balls for the youngster's J. Hancock. Young looked nonplussed, as they all seem to, the de rigueur attitude of the modern athlete, but I observed this in Young as mere posture, so as to appear familiar with the scene when deep down he was digging it. In other words, I think he was enjoying his nascent role as big-time athlete and soaking in the fact that people are playing money to see you play, and not only that, they're staying past midnight to watch your lowly first round match in order to catch a glimpse of you and perhaps even get you to sign a ridiculous basketball-sized tennis ball!

My point: sign everything that's thrust in your face, homes! You won't be signing autographs for long, and not very many people EVER get that, albeit bizarre, opportunity.

But this isn't a piece about Donald Young. This is a piece about Andy "perhaps I will deign to offer my mark upon your outstretched souvenirs" Roddick. I mean, what is it with these guys?

To wit: I watched Roddick play 35-year old Fabrice Santoro and crush him in straights sets, each by a score of 6-2. I want to like Roddick more than I do when I see him play. He's an intriguing person to listen to interviewed, has a certain intelligence and wit, and has the flash of his powerhouse serve and power game. He's a past champ of the U.S. Open, and every year seems to express how much he enjoys being and playing in New York. All good. But here's the problem: his game lacks a certain...je ne sais quoi. I'll use the French so my boy Fabrice (the 35-year old, still got some game son!), who seemed outmatched by the second game, gets some props. Homes (maisons?), you have some serious quadriceps!

Santoro's game appeared to have an arsenal of slick and trick shots, always fun to watch in a pro match, but against Roddick, when he's hittin' that boomer, there aren't many chances to use it. The Frenchman didn't seem to be having much fun. Roddick seemed pleased, as someone with the power game does when the power is working. The thought bubbles weren't hard to read floating up as they were from Roddick's baseball-capped head in bold: I am crushing you, big thighs. Crushing you!

So, ok. Roddick crushed this French dude Santoro. Good for him. What's the big deal, you ask? He seemed gracious enough after the win (ever gracious winners, we) and I'm sure it felt good. But when the interviews were over, he quickly signed those three required lackey balls and smashed them with his racket into the upper reaches of the stands with an expression on his face that said, what? Feel my muscles? And he packed up his bag and started to walk by those selfsame fans extending those accursed yellow basketballs, regular-sized tennis balls, hats, programs, and whatever else they wished to have Roddick's imprimatur on, and ol' Andy could barely bring himself, could barely muster the energy to sign but a few things. In fact, he grabbed one outstretched keepsake, hastily scribbled his mark on it, and while continuing to walk onward and away handed it back to no one in particular, never actually looking at the fan in either exchange.

What's with these guys? I was similarly outraged this year while watching a Warriors game. There the team goes into the tunnel after a sweet win, and fans are climbing all over themselves to reach their hands down for the merest touch of a player, let alone an actual high-five. Most of the players didn't even look up, and only a couple actually reached up or acknowledged the people praising their very existence! It would've been one thing if this had been an opponent's arena and their fans were hurling epithets. No, these were the Warriors' fans screaming positive things and yet most of the players ignored them.

What is the reasoning behind this? I mean, sure, there are weirdo fans that are freaking out and making a strong case that humans lag behind apes in intelligence, but I'm here to say that for the most part fans are people, often children, getting their first and maybe only chance to arrive at the game early, get a good seat, and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get some, however small, time with you, the big-time athlete.

Message: GET SOME PERSPECTIVE.

Hey, Roddick: what would fifteen minutes really mean to you? In that time, you could've stayed around and satisfied the entire (and small!) throng, you might've solidified a fan bond that endures beyond what you could ever imagine with the gesture, and you still would've had plenty of time to shower, go to interviews, get decked out and take your model girlfriend from North Carolina with a name like Brooklyn to the clubs. Or whatever exactly it was you were racing off to do instead of show some appreciation.

So that's my point: Get some perspective. Nobody in this culture seems to truly understand their privilege. Nobody. We've got a world full of rich people calling themselves "middle-class." We've got masses of people who still believe the old corporate American saw that owning a car (and 2 or 3 SUVs, at that) is a "right" not a privilege and to hell with the environment. Get...some...perspective. Ask yourself: are you eating? Are you sleeping in a bedroom, in a warm bed every night? You're doing better than 2/3rds of the people on the planet.

So, Andy Roddick, and all you lucky, rich athletes hear this: Enjoy it! I, like so many other fans, sure wish I could trade places with you. In a heartbeat, son. Do I know all the ins-and-outs of your life? No. Does it get tedious, frustrating, etc.? I'm sure it does. Nevertheless, I still would love the opportunity to CHOOSE to stay on the court as long as I needed to signing autographs, especially after a satisfying win in my home state, in my home country.

This blase attitude of the modern athlete has to change. Fans should demand better treatment. Like politicians who recognize who ultimately pays their bills, athletes need to remember who ultimately helps create their image, who pays for the tickets to support the events which invite you play and gain sponsors because of how many tickets sold. Get some perspective.

Horace Grant may have said it best. He said, and I paraphrase here: "Hey, I know that if I didn't have basketball, I'd be back home in Georgia digging ditches. All this is a lot better than digging ditches."

You got the picture, Andy? Even if you've got connections (and maybe always did, owing to different kinds of privilege than, say, a Horace Grant might have) and could land a job as an investment banker if tennis doesn't work out, believe me: Tennis is a lot better. Enjoy it. Sign some autographs after you win. Look people in the eye. Get some perspective.

Outside Lands

2008-08-25T14:20:00.000-07:00

Continuing the collection of items in the That, I Did Not Know file, it turns out Golden Gate Park in the 19th century, or the area which would one day become GG Park, was called Outside Lands. Oh satisfying factoid. Quite tasty.

This past weekend a three-day "music and art" festival of that bygone name was held in the park. Though concerts are held in the park frequently, I gather this was the first time music was allowed to continue into the night. Everybody out, out, out at 10pm, however, and just as well. Masses of humanity en masse is a wonderfully crazy occurence; faces and arms and legs and eyeballs and hair going by, running by, laughing and smoking and yelling and cellphoning nearby, and I could only think of the misfortunate souls living and running businesses alongside the park when our humanity spread out roach-like in their goodnight. I also kept thinking: when not at suchlike gatherings, the vast majority of us see about two handfuls of people on a weekly basis. Yet there we were, packed in and pushing, while our various human trains made for various destinations, and generally, we seemed fine with the endeavor. What a fascinating thing this would be to view from above. I say, the aliens must enjoy our human gatherings. Outside Lands to Burning man, what a good summer in the west for the ETs.

The main attraction Friday, the night I and my posse lit out for these lands outside, was Radiohead. Before I offer my impressions of their show, however, let me entertain you with our journey to the park, the main stage for which was in the Polo Fields near the west end. As we are instructed by NBC and its Olympic coverage: "It's not the Triumph, but the Struggle." Indeed.

Running late, our 8 person crew plus one Dave (who DP picked up outside our Bart disembarkation point at 16th and Mission) excitedly flagged down an airport shuttle van, which, miraculously, pulled over. Out jumped Victor the driver who seemed to know exactly what we were trying to do. In Spanish-accented English he said: going to the concert? Because our 1/2 hour of unsuccessful cab hunting was leading us toward desperation, and with the Beck show only 30 minutes away, Victor's van and offer of $5 bucks per capita was, how do you say, an immaculate conception. Again life goes from vista of the bleak to deliverance of the perfect. Or something like this.

Which is to say, we went from worrying about just how we were going to make it all the way out to the Polo Fields, from the Mission to damn near Ocean Beach, to finding ourselves in a van able to carry our entire group, chatting excitedly, sneaking drinks from our concealed backpack beers and praising Victor's name, who, it must be said, claimed to be doing this for us on the sly from his boss. Gracias hombre mio!

We entered the park with the masses, and mused about the displacement of homeless a function like this must create. Just what is that figure, anyway? We eight (sans our Dave, who jumped out from our savior-van a block before we did and hit the ground running for his show compadres with an over-the-shoulder "enjoy your show" or something vaguely Grateful Deadian) circled up before the entry turnstiles, finished the last of the Maker's Mark, and were delighted to discover security of what I like to call the "just and real" variety. To wit: I wasn't carrying anything alcoholic (we'd just finished it; although afterward we all mentioned how we could've) but I also wasn't carrying my water in the allowable "2 factory-sealed bottles" either. I had a large Nalgene, which I took out and showed the guard. I said, with honesty: "I've got nothing but this water bottle, which contains water." He said: All good. I love it when it works like that. Spirit of the law, not letter of the law.

And then we were in, and already surprised by how many people were around. Manu Chao played on the main stage but we hustled by his appealing reggae sound toward Beck, since we still had time before his show was supposed to start. However, through a Polo Fields tunnel and out the other side and up a trail, we met masses of folks trying to do the same thing we were, which was get from where we stood on the trail, to what we could see through makeshift chainlink fence: an already jam-packed field of people down below. What became clear soon enough: we weren't getting in there. The crowd was light and festive despite this realization (and the general shock of seeing so many people in attendance), and so all seemed to enjoy the spectacle for its spectacle rather than express frustration. We regrouped and decided to catch the Lyrics Born show which was starting on the opposite side, back within the Polo Fields. What a great call it proved to be. We stood center stage directly in front of the sound board and took in at least four jumping tunes from the Berkeley rapper and his clicking band. Callin' out!

It was on then to the main attraction: Radiohead. I had the sense that this kind of scene would create an ideal atmosphere for their apocalyptic, melody-meets-cacophony sound and I was right. I'd also heard from friends that they put on a great live show and this seemed the place for them to solidify the reputation: hordes of Bay Area folks, antiquated Polo Fields with miler track, gray San Francisco fog reflecting red lights and adding texture to the sky beyond, the banners flying, the cypress trees. Looking around me from our final position, which was about the 2/3rds mark (far from the stage, but not so far that tall people couldn't extend on tiptoes and see that, lo, musicians were actually playing musical instruments on a stage up there), I saw a sea of people that almost completely filled the interior of the grounds. I heard an announced attendance of 60k, but my guess would've been twice as many.

Radiohead certainly has their gig down. The triptych of screens surrounding them, two great video boards divided into quadrants on either side and a centerpiece with alternating light designs, all with ever-changing color schemes and camera angles, greatly added to a characterization of their sound, and provided a strong example of this new era of rock & roll, which is to say one intertwined with its digital presentation. It seemed much like Radiohead itself, as a redefinition of the genre, nerds and outcasts become the gods, rather than, say, handsome hillbillies with sex appeal and groove. With one quadrant of the left and right-side video screens always trained on Thom Yorke's head, from spooky and unflattering angles, he sometimes appeared to me as a marionette of rock decadence, a sad, wailing puppet laughing and crying inside and holding a secret that the apotheosis of the Rock God is actually the last dance before the entrance to oblivion, or hell.

Yes, the chocolate I ate was quite good.

My mind swirled thusly the whole show, which, for the non-fan, with so many people crushing in from the sides, I gather might not have been exactly pleasant. For the fan, however, this is what we were looking for, this is why we enjoy the band. The sound quality was quite good for such a huge venue (despite two instances of complete sound loss, the second episode lasting as long as a minute, all the while ol' Thom up there serpentining his head on the video screens, Yorke-like) and fan and non-fan alike could feel nothing but reverence and that ethereal quality Yorke inspires when he reaches the point in his tunes when he emotes to us with such sad sweet melancholy: "It wears her out"; "Rain down on me, from a great height"; "For a minute there, I lost myself." Sing any of those lines to yourself, right now, you'll be singing all day.

The always astute Mr. Baker commented that Radiohead has reached a place where they can indulge themselves in pure art. We laymen would love to find a melody of our own creation and cry into it from our sad souls, but we can't. At least, not like Thom Yorke can--and is allowed to. And therein lies the beauty of their creation, the line they walk between angels and devils, best friends and outcasts. Thom Yorke told us, during an apology for some technical failings during the set, in the end "it was all about the music, right?" It seemed a rather trite line from a so-called Rock God, yet the underlying sincerity, like his music, lingered underneath. What happens when you can no longer find that purity, or understand what it's about, what you got into it for? You know, the classic cliched Rock Lament. How to hold all the surrounding elements--the video screens, the lights, the imagery, the fuss--in perspective while still just trying to be a young nerd from England with melody? In the end I realized, as Forrest Gump did, maybe it's both. Maybe, while I stood on my tiptoes and looked over thousands of heads to the outstretched arms of those musicians, silhouetted in ice blue radiant light, and beseeching us, we play our roll as well: we come to worship.

And someone has to be strong enough to stand before us.