Thursday Night Adventures

    On a recent Thursday, I ventured to Mission Bay for a high school alumni function. I had believed that this event was, in fact, indoors. When my Lyft driver dropped me off, I noted with dismay that this was an area of the city where my phone did not work well. The pouring rain did not help. After a substantial wandering on both sides of a block, one well-maintained, the other shattered and uneven, and through a passageway, I established that the meeting spot was SF Social, a food park across from the shattered sidewalk. I crossed to it, but still failed to find my alleged party. I rechecked the invitation and belatedly noted that it was "casual." There was no note of cancellation, so I could only conclude that the event was stillborn due to the weather. I had already braved the weather and was in the midst of a food court, so I decided to reap some benefit from my journey. After I had eaten, I went to the stop for the 22, but I just missed it. I explored the longer block across from the food park, which turned out to be a minigolf course. The 22 home was less crowded and less questionable than I was accustomed to. The event may have been a bust, but I did learn about recreational places easily accessed.

Interstitial Highways

I was travelling on my birthday - alas, not in style - when a middle-aged Asian woman, possibly Chinese, pulling a grocery cart of the common kind although it did not (yet?) contain groceries, wandered to the back of the 33. This was not propitious but not unanticipated, since strange people flow to the back of the bus. The woman was not spewing profanities, but she had an urgent question to ask the other passengers. Surprisingly, this question was not "have you been saved?" or an invitation to a meditation session at some obscures church, temple, or center. By no means! She informed us that a Chinese real estate developer (no name provided) would die very soon, and if he couldn't agree (with whom?), everything would be demolished. Maybe God is Chinese? Gods in general don't die, but it's hard to argue that the results aren't spectacular and world-changing when they do. On to the question. The woman informed us that Buddhists believe what she believed (even though she was clear that she wasn't Buddhist). She wanted to know, quite urgently, if anybody knew which planet the border of Wisconsin and Michigan was on. Apparently, not Earth. Now I've heard Madison described as another planet, but not quite so literally. After a gentleman at the back of the bus fended off her question, the location of the interplanetary nexus (in which Buddhists believe) changed to the border of South Dakota and North Dakota.

Eventually, she wandered off to ask her urgent question of others. But if the world ends soon in a cosmic building dispute, now you know why.

Earth Days

It was a busy weekend, but that's normal for Earth Day. Although our merry band pioneered (pun intentional) the Good Turn, its adoption by the District and Council is a mixed blessing. The powers that be decreed that the Good Turn should take place on the weekend of Earth Day, so we went down to Milagra Ridge between South San Francisco and Linda Mar to remove Scotch broom. There were fewer of us than I had hoped, but I assume the absent contributed to Earth Day elsewhere. Scotch broom has vivid yellow flowers and is much prettier than the bane of my early service project days, ice plant, but it grows quickly and the native animals and insects do not recognize Scotch broom as a suitable habitat. The natural enemy of Scotch broom, sheep (Scottish or otherwise), are not a good solution, since they would eat much more than the Scotch broom. I remember when I first saw Scotch broom in its native Caledonian habitat - it took a moment to remember that in these lands it was not a weed to be exterminated. The sheep, with their heavy wool coats and tendency to block the road, were a much greater threat to humanity.

The ridge was steep, although not forbiddingly so, and covered in both Scotch broom and poison oak. Certain members of our party, being more sensitive to poison oak, were not eager to charge into the thicket, much less rig a hammock and nap there. I'm not terribly sensitive to poison oak, so I was not greatly worried, but the GGNRA volunteers had magic outerwear called TYVEK suits. These suits reminded of hazmat suits without helmets, but they were made of paper, albeit a sturdy kind. The clearing took more energy than I had anticipated, but the results of our labor were satisfyingly visible.

After we had finished our share of weeding, we hiked to the cliff edge and ate lunch. We could see Linda Mar, the controversial golf course, and Pacifica in the distance. The tunnel through the hill below us was not yet open, but its presence prompted much conversation. Our return to the city ended a simple outing, but one that has inspired the attendees.

On Sunday, I went to church, where one of our own, rather than the absent pastor, preached the Word. Apparently I am more comfortable than she with Atonement theology, but the ability to disagree is a wonderful feature of my home church. The one thing that really bothered me, however, and this is not the fault of the church per se, since the words were Bob Marley's, was the reference to "the Daughter" in the communion hymn. I have no problem with emphasizing the maternal qualities of the Godhead - it serves as a reminder that God "the Father" is way of describing God's behavior so that our finite minds can grasp it - nor do I object to the nurturing, maternal qualities of Jesus, who, after all, compared himself to a mother hen, and the Holy Ghost always seems too abstract (for lack of a better term) to cause gender-bending chaos, but I cannot understand why anyone would describe Jesus as "Daughter." Provocation? Perhaps I am looking at this through a prescriptivist lens, when it is meant as a stimulation to discussion.

After church, I went downtown for a concert at Notre Dame des Victoires (I had forgotten about the plural article). I stopped at the church, but not to pray - I could not see the crowd thronging into the church for the concert. As it turned out, the concert was in the school auditorium, not the church proper. I had never been inside NDV before, and never before had I realized how cramped the facilities were for jocks (I was a bookish child and would have been fine).

Indecent Propositions

The other day, I dedicated some time to actually reading the San Francisco voters' pamphlet. A lot of people want to be mayor of San Francisco. The number of propositions is fairly low, but every one of them must be read carefully. In one of them, the final line of the proposal sheds a different light on the preceding sentences, a light which reversed my decision. Such surprises are good in drama, but in politics, and particularly in a system allegedly designed to be friendly to the public, such surprises are dishonest and sneaky. Only in government is it good form to attach unrelated matters to a bill on a different subject. The other feature of propositions which confuses and annoys me is the number of opposing propositions. Even if I understand and agree that Proposition X is a good idea, it is impossible to tell what the interaction of Proposition X and Proposition Y will be. I vote on individual propositions, but the effects are multiple.

Chorus Girls!

On Thursday night, I accompanied my mother to the University Club to hear the San Francisco Girls' Chorus, since my progenitor was feeling indisposed and two tickets had already been purchased. The University Club is located near my original alma mater, Cathedral School for Boys, whose construction proceeds apace. This Club looks like a real Club, complete with cute hatcheck girls, although the secret door from the library to the former brothel has been closed forever. I'm glad to see that they finally labeled (for the sexes) the restrooms which they have disguised as, or converted from, mirrored coat closets, even if the handles are forbiddingly stiff. I have to confess that after I had stopped at the restroom on the 3rd floor, I got confused and initially entered the wrong holiday party (the Princeton one). I could have sworn I had heard or read the name of the person (L., One of the Levi-Strauss line?) behind me in the check-in line of the Princeton party.

Once I had ascended to the fourth floor, where the party I was supposed to be attending was, I found the bar and ordered a wine spritzer. I  met a member of the Club, a white-haired gentleman named Murray. He regularly attends the Charles Fracchia lectures on the history of San Francisco, which I cannot attend (to my regret) because the Troop meets the same night. He, too, is an Eagle Scout (even many Scouts forget that Eagle is the only rank you retain as a adult).

The San Francisco Girls' Chorus event was a participatory event, a sing-along, but they must have been singing quietly or taken a break from singing, since I knew we had arrived in the middle of the event yet I did not hear them when I first arrived. There were some sing-along sheets, but the extras were placed, rather unwisely, directly in front of the chorus, where no latecomer (who would be most in need of a quick update) could possibly grab one. The chorus performed with quality, which is no less than I expect from San Francisco artistic institutions. Speculation on whether any of the chorus members were relatives of one of my Scouts (and if so, which ones) briefly distracted me. This is a small city, after all.

After the singing had ended and the singers had filed out one by one, I went out to the south-facing (downhill) balcony so I could take in the sights of the downtown. The balcony is sufficiently vertiginous from the slope of Nob Hill without alcoholic contributions.One of the towers, possibly one of the Embarcadero Center ones, was lit up in green,  outshining the building outlined in yellow and the relatively tiny red pinprick of the Transamerica Pyramid, still visible from Presidio Heights in my childhood.

Rain, Rain Go Away: An Economic Perspective

As I sit here, peering out my window at the precipitous skies, I naturally fall towards this thought: my misery here is my benefit elsewhere. My migratory work habits have allowed me to witness this phenomenon. When it rains here in the city in winter, I dislike traveling and try to find bus stops which have shelters and the MUNI feed, but I cannot resent the weather too much on a personal level. The rain which passes over this fair City, casting a kind of melancholic beauty provided one is inside, becomes ethereally beautiful snow in the Sierra Nevada, where shoveling the pathways on the property of my clients provides extra income in a dry economic season.

Lost Landscapes 4

On Friday, I went down to Lost Landscapes 4, at the Herbst Theater, on the protest-unfriendly side of City Hall. I only had one ticket, which illustrates a vexing conundrum: when I want to go to an event where tickets are scarce, I need to buy the tickets early, but I don't like paying the price of two tickets without trustworthy confirmation that I will have a companion for the event. Some people might suggest scalping the extra ticket, but I have neither the talent nor the inclination to do this successfully. So I bought one ticket - but it was numbered so that I could not add a companion at a later date in an adjacent seat.

The actual presentation of Lost Landscapes was an intriguing mix of event footage and home films. I may have been better prepared in some regards than other members of the audience thanks to many talks with senior alumni of my troop, but there were plenty of surprises, and sights of things known but never seen. San Francisco archivists have benefited from the nearly concurrent development of early photography and the expansion of San Francisco, as well as the ubiquitous desire of tourists to document their holiday. Several things which I learned from this: the traffic on Market has always been bad; the first transportation battle in the city was between horses and horseless carriages; hats used to be an acceptable substitute (predecessor?) for placards. I really do wonder at that last point: did the strikers feel that waving a hat was sufficient to indicate their cause?

O Plastic Tree, thy leaves are so unchanging!

On Monday, the Calvary bible study group which I attend (although I confess my absence at the previous meeting) participated in the "Hanging of the Greens", a tradition with which I was not familiar. Apparently, it's a fancy term for Christmas decoration volunteer labor. Don't get the wrong idea: working on a task together is highly enjoyable, but it's still labor. I'm no cook, so my contribution to the potluck was made by others. The amount of decoration provided seemed excessive to me, but this is a thought I have every year. The leader of the work detail, however, was an expert Christmas tree decorator, and knew how to drape the voluminous ribbons.
Decoration, of course, is easier when the tree is made of plastic. I understand the appeal of a fake tree for institutions (such as Calvary) which need to vacuum acres of carpet and respect the sensitivities of the hypoallergenic congregants, but it still doesn't provide the same satisfaction.

Not My Thuper Thweet Thirteen

There are certain distasteful elements which I had anticipated I would encounter when I agreed to go to a bar on Eddy, but I did not expect to find a birthday party for twin 13-year-olds in the reserved part of the bar, leading me to believe that I had been misinformed by the organizer of the group I had come to meet. Although the confusion over my meeting did not last too long, I remain baffled by the presence of 13-year-olds in the reserved section of the bar and the lack of wisdom of their parents. I am assuming that it was a legitimate party, and not one of the teen solicitation parties which I have heard about from TV programs on urban teen prostitution rings in the Bay Area, even if the girls (according to one of the members of my party) were dolled up in a manner similar to Britney Spears: the extreme propinquity of a hotel does raise my suspicions, since I did pass a massage parlor, the Century Theater, and a streetwalker before I climbed on the 38 Geary.

If it was a legitimate operation (which seemed to be the explicit thesis of my companions), what combination of coddling parents and self-involved teenagers leads to a celebration in a bar? It occurred to me that it could be some cut-rate double post-bat-mitzvah party, but I have no proof either way.  I am assuming this party was an indication of the solipsistic seeping down of the "super sweet sixteen" and the quinceañera, without any redeeming rite-of-passage value. Such parties, however, do seem consonant with the pandemic of minors in YouTube videos acting inappropriately. It almost makes you think that Grammie from Hounddog has a valid point!

Training for the Mister Babel Competition

My strength has always been languages, ancient or modern (although I did drop and run from the Russian orals), but it took me a while to formulate the most effective plan for acquiring new ones and resuscitating old ones. Ever since I went into business with Aidan, I've thought that I needed to learn Spanish as a business skill (he certainly won't), but was too preoccupied with amending my dearth of business courses.

When I was a little kid at Cathedral, I did learn some Spanish, albeit in a disorganized fashion, but when I received a choice, I chose to take French instead; in those days, not everywhere offered Chinese. I have forgotten much.

Some of you may have noticed my abortive attempts to jump start language acquisition. This was the case before I got a new public library card and discovered the foreign language CDs. I concede that these might not be the highest-rated programs, but I can't justify the expense of buying the more extensive programs such as Rosetta.

So here's the plan as it stands: I will learn to speak Spanish as a business skill, at a micro and macro business level. I will learn to speak Mandarin Chinese, because China is one of the big economies, and it might be useful in Berkeley and San Francisco. I have studied some Sanskrit, but learning Hindi, while potentially fun, is not a priority since Indians who are businessmen (no, teledrones don't count) already speak English, and frequently do so better than some of the riff-raff littering American cities. So what's language Number 3? That would be Russian - one of the sources of labor at Tahoe; last summer I surprised one of our Russian employees by spelling her name in Cyrillic! French, sadly, does not pass the expediency test, since I also need to review my Latin and Greek.

New Digs

I fear I may have confused some people at church today, so I wanted to avoid that situation in a broader context. I am moving to a cottage at Tahoe because my brother has moved to his new house with his wife, but it's a bit more complicated than that. Aidan and I own a property maintenance business at Tahoe: we provide maintenance and supply and manage the summer recreation staff for the homeowners' associations. On one of these properties is a cottage, in which one of the owners of the company may dwell. Aidan has been living there with Kacie, but they have bought a new house and moved into it; so now I am living there when I am at Tahoe - working. When I am in San Francisco, I will still be the smartest man at 8th Avenue.

The Imber-or and I

My entire relationship with rain is sprinkled with contradictions. When I was growing up in San Francisco, I developed a fondness for the morning fog, which has the pleasant habit of remaining for a while, then dissipating. A continuous sheet has no immediately pleasant aspect, nor is the 'drought of March' desirable year-round. I have studied at St Andrews in Scotland and traveled to Newfoundland in Canada: on both occasions I found the fog and the wind commensurate with that of my own hometown. Now, after I have bought a business at Tahoe but remain in the City in the winter, my contradictory relationship with precipitation has grown stronger. When it rains in the City, it will often snow in the mountains. Many of our contracts involve removal of that same snow. The consequence of the conjunction of meteorology and my employ is that while I may suffer the sheeting rain and the treacherous invisible puddles that gather at the slopes of the crosswalks, I also profit from the more heavenly result of the rain that falls to the east of "America's Sodom" (a misinterpretation of the Bible, by the way) in the mountains where my brother and I once played. I no longer say "rain, rain, go away": not only because I am no longer a child, but also because I have come to appreciate the future benefits of a temporary inconvenience and obstacle.