Rainbow Brite Is Truly Dead

 This was my first time inside the new McDonalds buildings (I have ordered from drive up). The wooden paneling seems more natural, less plastic, but also exciting, less vivid, as though the abolition of the characters took away the joy of childhood fast food. Gone, too, was the germ-ridden plastic play area of my childhood, replaced by a more compact structure that retains all the colors of years past but none of the whimsy (or, depending on your experience with Grimace, whimsical terror). Perhaps this impression was magnified by this particular franchise’s location in Pacifica, but overall the world has grown duller, more frequently monochrome, a return to beige sans the illusion of smoking section.

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.

Nerd Nite #23: The Squid Boddhisattva

Last night, I went to Nerd Nite #23 at the Rickshaw Stop. The features were brain chemistry, Humboldt squid, and piracy (although I did not stay for the last).  I followed the brain chemistry talk fairly well - certainly the conclusions made sense to me, although I did start out with a bias against the mixture of Buddhist terms and neuropsychology. East and West, never the twain shall meet! It's the same feeling I get whenever scientists talk about the "God particle" - one shouldn't mix scientific and religious terms without precise definition (a precision which both chemistry and theology demand).

The second talk, on Humboldt squid, was my favorite. At this point, I should remind the audience of three things: first, that Humboldt squid are not giant squid; second, that Humboldt squid are named after the Humboldt current, not Humboldt county; third, Humboldt squid are not made into calamari. The cute marine biologist spoke about the "squid invasion," which has extended to Canadian waters from Mexican shores, and whether the squid were marauders or colonists (the difference is the presence of squid babies). Researching the answer proved challenging, since to find anything in the middle of the ocean, much less watery translucent squid eggs, is nearly impossible. Unlike some Nerd Nite presentations, this one left me with a few questions I want to e-mail to the researcher, such as the following: since bear-borne salmon guts are an important source of nitrogen for inland forests, do bear-borne squid (who have already eaten the salmon the bears would have) have the same nitrogen-movement impact as bear-borne salmon?

Pinnacles Trip

On March 4 and 5, the troop traveled to Pinnacles National Monument, which it had not visited for more than twenty years. The Scoutmaster could not attend, so Beck Diefenbach and I were the uniformed leaders. We left the city early, since the trip to Pinnacles National Monument was far away compared to other trail heads. The campsite lay between a broad parking lot and stream well-hidden by vegetation, so no hiking was required.

When we had struck camp and eaten lunch, we went up to Bear Gulch Day Use Area to meet the rock climbing instructors who would help us in the afternoon. Alas, we disembarked too early and therefore hiked up to the proper site. After the climbing instructors had given a brief orientation, they handed off the climbing gear to the Scouts. We hiked the Moses Spring Trail and Bear Gulch Cave trail, where the instructors split the Scouts into two groups. The less experienced Scouts went to the closer and easier climbing site, while the more ambitious went to a wall above Bear Gulch Reservoir. Some of the Scouts had climbed before and were naturals, one so much so that I compared him a spider monkey (apparently so did my colleague), while others were new to the sport but willing to challenge themselves - one of the latter group accomplished the highest-rated ascent of the day. The Scouts were having an enormous amount of fun, but soon it was time to leave and return to camp.

 
The campfire that night was short but lively.  The requisite skits and yells were done by food groups rather than patrols,  since there were not enough members of some patrols to sustain a skit. Each patrol within a food group received the full amount of points for the group, rather than the insane proportional distribution system briefly used during my Scout career. The skits were short, but I have to give credit for an effort to include as many of the group as possible within the skit. The Troop Staff began the acclimatization of the younger Scouts to the traditions of summer camp and Royaneh by teaching Gazalla. My contribution, The Chickens Get Into The Tomatos, was more frivolous, and the timing of the round was off. That round sometimes works and sometimes does not. The campfire closed rather early. Some Scouts went to their tents, but others remained around the fire for another hour. I told them about the importance of Venus, which was shining brightly that night, and regaled them with the story of how Orion ended up in the night sky.

On Sunday morning we woke up early; some of the Scouts woke up especially early and exercised. The energy of teenagers never ceases to amaze me. On a lighter note, one of the fathers who had set up his tent under a tree discovered that the quail roosting in the tree for the night had expelled their waste upon it. When I saw this, I was glad that I had moved my sleeping bag out from under the same tree!

After a short and inspirational Scout's Own, we traveled to the trail head for the Old Pinnacles Trail. There was a portable latrine, but I was worried (unnecessarily, as it turned out) about the possibilities for changing into uniform for traveling back to San Francisco. We hiked along West Fork Chalone Creek to Balconies Cave, where the trail passes through the cave. We ascended through the cave – the Scouts loved it! When I visited the caves many years ago, I had descended through the cave rather than ascended. It was a slippery experience, especially with the backpacks of the time, which were nowhere near as compact as those of today. Fortunately, all the Scouts helped each other with the backpacks. There were a few wet spots in the cave this time, but nothing that adequate footwear could not handle. When we had almost reached the end of the cave, one of the Scouts, who had experience climbing, could not stay away from the walls. Perhaps he has some gecko in his ancestry!

Here are some more photos taken by my colleague, Beck Diefenbach:

We exited the cave and walked beneath the Balconies Cliff, a massive rock formation with a vertical green channels from the spring rains. Several Scouts spotted people, tiny in perspective, perched upon the rocks above the caves through which we had come. They must have climbed there. One Scout expressed a desire to live atop the rock, while others made the morbid jokes so typical of youth and Classicists. The walk back to the cars felt much longer than the way in, but dreams of In N Out spurred the tired troop onward!

A Peaceful Sabbath

I'm recovering slowly, but I thought I should get some fresh air, so I went down to Japantown to poke around. I stared at the front of the Kabuki, debating whether I should go to a movie, but there was no way to tell non-electronically what the movies were, and my clunker of a phone can't deal with graphic overload (or scroll sideways). I poked about the mall, purifying myself of the last bad memories there. There were many cute shops, but most were not yet open.  I admired the scale model of Osaka Castle, home of the Toyotomi clan and then the following Tokugawa clan. I love castles, and it's a shame there are so few in the United States. Eventually, I sat in the sunshine in the Peace Plaza and ate my sandwich. The woman on the other side of the stone circle, who was sketching the sculpture in the center, had satchel with Watchmen characters on the flap; she had bought it in Chinatown. A bit later,  I had bought a cup of tea sans lid, so I was forced to walk a fragment of the way home. I passed a line of indigents in front of Macedonia Baptist Church; the Philadelphian Seventh Day Adventist Church lacked such a line, but was open for its service at 11:20. Clearly this corner of San Francisco has a metaphysical connection with the Aegean!

When I returned home, I took Puff the Dog-Sat to the park. I had worried he would have an accident in my apartment, but instead he slept for five hours straight and was ready to visit the nearby dog run.  He was very energetic, and a bit uncooperative, but he showed his age in his feeble dominance display. Even he did not seem convinced. (Right now he's hyper because I fed him several pizza crusts and now he refuses to believe there are no more).

Calvinist Psychology

I have been rereading The Rest of the Robots (a combination of I, Robot and Robot Visions), the authoritative volume of Asimov's robot stories with which I fell in love as a young nerd - I did choose I, Robot for my own book club, after all. I ignore the robot-themed boos not written by Asimov rather than angrily reject them, as so many fans do and thus set back the reputations of science fiction fans everywhere. I also recently read Science Fiction: What It's All About by Sam J. Lundwall, which I bought in early December from a peddlar in the Mission. While it was interesting to read about works which I consider classics described as new and exciting works, its primary contribution to this post is its characterization of golden age science fiction and golden age science fiction fans. I have read many criticisms of Asimov, some undeserved, including his inability to write women. I do not dispute the truth of this assertion, but he did write around his deficiencies. I could not avoid thinking about this while reading The Rest of Robots, in which Susan Calvin features prominently. When I was a boy, I read the stories as straightforward problem narratives, but this rereading revealed a different angle. Asimov's Calvin is not so much a portrayal of a woman as the portrayal of a computer geek (something of which Asimov could have had no knowledge). Calvin resembled no female nerd I've ever met, but her obsession with technology and her disdain for lesser human beings (in her case, the entire human race) matches the profile the more obnoxious hyperintelligent male nerds I have met. Calvin is the Other, not the Lady.

Since I composed the preceding paragraph, I have learned about a new authorized trilogy featuring Susan Calvin. Ordinarily, I refuse to read books not written by the original demiurge - I made an exception for the later Dune books because Brian Herbert had been his father's co-conspirator in designing the Dune universe. The post-mortem Foundation books interested me not at all, and the off-planet Robot books were not interesting because I already ranked books such as Robots of Dawn and Robots and Empire low on my Asimov list. I like the simplicity of the robot stories. This new trilogy (of which only the first, I, Robot: To Protect, is out) is tempting, since Calvin is the only remotely fleshed-out character in the Asimovian canon. The other reason, which may well be dashed is this: I want to see how Calvin becomes who she is in the classic canon, just as I had high hopes for Episodes I-III.

Water, Water Everywhere and Not A Drop To Drink

I rarely read the New York Time, but on the last day of 2011 something drove me to glance to the right upon entering the coffee shop across the street. On the lower right corner, there was an article on fracking in South Aftica. Fracking, or hydraulic fracturing, is the process of using lubrication and pressure to reach previously unreachable oil reserves. If the process is artificially stimulated, there is a risk of permanently contaminating the water supply and sterilizing the land. (I shall resist the temptation to use sexual metaphors to describe the process). The region of South Africa in which American multimationals wish to engage in this practice is the Karoo Desert, the very name of which ('thirsty land') indicates the scarcity of water. The quoted opponent of the fracking, Chris Hayward, is from Beaufort West, and only recently had to slaughter 600 of his 2000 sheep for lack of water. Although I do take an occasional interest in South Africa, the explicit naming of a South African ordinarily would not elicit such a response, much less a blog post. The only son of a South African sheep farmer in the Karoo I have ever met, however, is named Stuart Hayward, a contributor to the South African-themed blog Southernwrite.




How did I meet a shepherd's son? It was a winter, quite a while ago, up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, which this year also lacked the requisite amount of winter water. We were on our way to a ski resort, and all along the road there were young employees from the other hemisphere seeking a ride to work. The long-standing dispute of the wisdom of picking up hitchikers was not an issue, and the young man came into our car. Thus began an association that continues to this day.



Now we ought to return to the Karoo and its dry environs. Water, especially fresh water, is limited throughout the world, as is oil. Human beings, however, cannot drink oil. Although this time the ones who will suffer in Africa are white rather than black, it is the American companies who stand to profit and the locals who stand to suffer. This is the human condition: even the quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles brought suffering and death to the ordinary soldiers. Another unfortunate psychological flaw of humanity is the sacrifice of long-term prosperity in exchange for short-term gain. The most egregious example I have seen lately (taken from the same article) is Indonesia's willingness to drill into an active mud volcano where the last attempt displaced 30,000 people. I do not know where the march of the thirty thousand went after their villages were destroyed, but surely it exacerbated some other domestic issue.



The combination of too many people and too few renewable resources will lead within the next fifty years to resource wars. Since the human race seems reluctant to decrease its numbers in a peaceful manner, we will need all the resources we can preserve. Corporate greed, particularly the unsustainable model of eternal capitalism, threatens the long-term survival of many of our species by poisoning the environment, but that's a post for another day

Parish Retreat 2011

On the first weekend of November, I went on the St James parish retreat. I rode up after work with Petrina and Roger, so I missed the cocktail hour (it was an Episcopal retreat, after all). As we came up the driveway to the Bishop's Ranch, a strong unidentified smell overwhelmed me, Finally, I realized that the smell was manure – I'd not visited the proper countryside for so long I'd forgotten the smell! There were four groups at the Ranch this weekend – our group from St James, one from St Ambrose, a group called Women of Wonder, and an AmeriCorp group stationed at the Ranch for six weeks. Although we'd missed cocktail hour, we hadn't missed Compline. For those unfamiliar with the term, Compline is a Christian evening service, the last of the day, in which one reflects and winds down.


The morning was cold and misty, unlike many I remember from BREAD (at least the misty part – I've been at the Ranch when it's cold.). After an organic breakfast, there was a plenary session led by Anna Eng, whom I had met before, on the Art of the Relational Meeting – the sort that leads to progress towards a goal and that is sorely lacking in the contemporary political sphere. Eng's use of the term “agitation” for “stirring of the imagination” seemed a little strange, just as the term “enable” in the EDGE method acronym reminds me of Alcoholics Anonymous. The blacksmithing workshop had filled up well before, so I went on a hike with Ullrich the jovial German and several others. Since we were out in the field when we decided to take an extended hike, and the map was hardly to scale, there was some debate where we were. We took Treehouse Hill Loop to Turtle Creek Lane, and up the dirt road towards the lake (which I have yet to reach). We crossed Turtle Creek, but had to stop at the second ridge because there was a dead sow on a truck. Apparently the sow had been tearing up the grounds of the Ranch and the management had called the pig hunters from Swine Country (company name) to eliminate her. So we chatted a while, and I took some pictures for the Scouts. It had begun to rain, and we couldn't have reached Lower Lake and returned in time for lunch, so we headed back to the refectory. We passed the gate to the Russell Ranch, went past the Peace Pole (what a bizarre structure) and back to the refectory.



After lunch, during which I bought a book by an Episcopal female priest on Marian devotionals (the book itself is difficult to describe, especially since I have not started to read it properly), I chatted with a fellow parishioner. Our philosophies differed dramatically, as you might expect from a dedicated Scout leader and a conscientious objector. It reminded me a little of the Hard-Travelling Heroes, except that I'm inclined to side with Hal than Ollie. Later, I went to the Ranch House. I found Carole Jan Lee's book of show tunes on the open piano. I couldn't resist. After a few false starts, I chose a song and began to teach myself how to play “I don't know how to love him” from “Jesus Christ Superstar”. The song resonated with me, but I'm scarcely the first to empathize with the Magdalene. Even later, I played Bananagrams (R) with some other parishioners, but the faults of Scrabble (R) which the former game aims to correct seem to me the strengths of the latter.



After dinner, the main event was square dancing: square dancing is an excellent activity for a church retreat – it's family-friendly, but still allows every level of public behavior up to flirting. The man and women of each couple were of compatible height, but the very family-friendliness of square dancing made a right-and-left grand with six adults and two short children. The caller explained the origin of the periodic stomp: although stomping is extremely satisfying, its original intent was to remove the manure from your boot. After we had covered the basics, the caller taught the grand square. I was dragged (not wholly unwillingly) into the grand square with a woman I'll call Blonde, Busty, and Beaming for lack of an actual name. A grand square is quite complicated, and probably becomes more difficult with sufficient imbibing, but BBB and I managed our part well. Other couples were significantly more confused. H., one of our St James parishioners, injured herself during the Cotton-Eyed Joe that followed the square dancing and preceded the evening's closing waltz.

Father David led Saturday Compline, using a poorly mimeographed sheet from the infamous New Zealand Prayer Book. The New Zealand Prayer Book can be disorienting, since it incorporates Maori traditional oratory, which differs greatly from English rhetoric. The New Zealand Our Father is called a translation, but expands to much for me to call it such. It is an exegesis, and one which I would like to examine further before endorsing it.



After Compline, several parishioners retired to the ranch house living room to play the game Celebrities. I had never played this game before. It was something like a cross between Charades and Musical Chairs. The game mechanics were fine, but a combination of the age divide among the players and a paucity of contributors to the pot threw the match.



On Sunday, we attended a more conventional service in the chapel. Every time I have gone to the Bishop's Ranch, I have forgotten that it is a functioning parish church and has its own congregation. I kicked a ball around with one of the kids. Then it was time to go home to the city with Ryszard and Elia.

WorldCon Reno

Last weekend, I went to WorldCon in Reno (for which I had signed up due to proximity). I had a blast! I'd been to WonderCon in San Francisco several times, but I'd never committed to a con before. It was amazing. I met several folks (especially from the Language Creation Society) whom I only knew from online, and could fully relax the guardedness of the science fiction fan among the general populace. The authors were friendlier than I expected, but I guess that comes of being a fan before a writer. I certainly didn't expect to meet a Vatican City astronomer! I also saw Paul and Rosemary, whom I will see again in the fall. The Hugo Awards were fantsstic, although the comedy was mediocre. My only regret is that I only went for Saturday and Sunday, but next year I'll go to Chicago for the entire con.

The Drowned World

On the lake, the water levels varies from year to year, no longer regulated by nature, but by artifice and treaty. The snows of this winter which filled the coffers also filled the lake, so much so that most of the rocky beaches are underwater and the woody plants of yesteryear stand, slowly drowning. Down at Bristlecone Beach, where Christ the King holds its Bible study, where banks of rich purple flowers bloomed last year, there is no longer a peninsula, not even an island, but only green and dying trees and a sign forlornly sticking out of the water like ruined tower off the Anglian coast.

Birthday

That was quite a birthday! My cousin, Zach, and his girlfriend, Katie, came up for the festivities on Thursday. On Friday, we tried for the river, but in the morning the raft company had not opened, so we decided to go on the boat around the lake. Katie had never been on the lake, although her friend had been to Tahoe may times. We went over to Thunderbird Lodge, the stately manor founded by the heir to PG&E and Richmond/Sunset real estate, former circus performer, and 1905 earthquake hero. The old woodie Thunderbird II was nowhere in sight.

We continued down the Nevada side of the lake and stopped at a cove and a group of rocks. Three of us jumped, and as usual, were stripped of our breath by the bone-chilling temperature. Two of us adjusted fairly quickly. We swam to the rocks and climbed up on them. The rocks were as warm as the water was cold; unfortunately, somebody had tagged the back of the rock.

Once we were back on the boat, we went southward, past the clothing-free beach. Since we had enough gas, we headed across the lake to Emerald Bay. The heavy snowfall of this winter, still abundantly evident in the peaks of the Tahoe Rim, had filled Emerald Bay nearly to its greatest extent, so that the water was a marine blue rather than emerald green. The waterfall behind Vikingsholm, usually a trickle at this time of year, was visible from the mouth of the bay as a foaming white spray. As we travelled around Fannette Island, I told the others about Mrs. Knight, who owned Vikingsholm, and her predecessor Cap'n Dick, who used to row to Tahoe City for drinks and rowed back drunk every night. Nobody wanted to swim to the island with me! The one unfortunate effect of the high water was this: the travel lanes in and out of Emerald Bay were not as idiot-proof as usual (and a lot of idiots go on vacation). The return trip was uneventful, except for gas.

Since we had missed lunch altogether, Zach, Katie, and I went into town and got a slice of pizza to tide us over. Later, Mom, Dad, Zach, Katie, Aidan, Kirsten, and I went to the recently reopened Hacienda del Lago. It was nice to have the place back, although the bar that they built for the (former) tapas bar places takes up a lot of room that used to be seating.

After dinner, Zach, Katie, and I went to The Blue Agave to kill some time before the movie, and ran into Aidan and Kirsten. Zach, Katie, and I then watched Captain America, which all of us (even Katie) enjoyed. Marvel is doing a good job of tranferring its interwoven narrative to the screen.

On Saturday, Aidan, Kirsten, Zach, Katie, and I floated down the Truckee (since the rafting had opened the afternoon of the previous day). The extra water that had been added that morning made navigation more hazardous, since the rocks which usually showed were underwater and all the gunk which heretofore had lain on dry, or least slight damp, land, had risen up and headed downstream in the current. Several groups of enormous size hit the river, so we had to avoid the logjams. I got suburnt, but it was a great last part to my birthday "weekend".

Summer Hike

On Saturday morning in the parking lot, the sky over the City was gray, and there was some doubt whether it would lift in the East Bay as well. The intrepid hiing group, nonetheless, set off. It was still cool by the time we reach the Little Farm in Tilden Park, but not truly overcast. We hiked up to Memorial Grove, which was very windy and seemed distinctly ungrovelike to me. It resembled more strongly Dun Aonghas in Inishmore, although the viewing platform was in better shape. From the viewing platform, one could vast swaths of the East Bay and at least two reservoirs. After we had rested there, we descended to the actual grove, planted by the Rotary Club (an organization I know little about). Then we completed the short loop via a path that provided more shade. All of us went over to the Little Farm and patted the cows, although some were less than happy about cow slobber and the surprising sharpness of cow tongue.

The Lincoln Lawyer

I rented this on a misunderstanding: I thought this was the film, recently lauded on NPR, about the trial of the woman who sheltered John Wilkes Booth and his conspirators. By the time I realized my error, I had already returned home. The Lincoln Lawyer is a tightly scripted thriller about a defense lawyer whose cases intertwine. I especially enjoyed this film for two reasons: firstly, I come from a family infested with defense lawyers; secondly, said defense lawyers know Hell's Angels (some came to my aunt's funeral), and the group features prominently and more or less positively in the film.

Canoeing

This summer, in view of the absent Canoe Training trip in the late spring, I've pulled out my wooden canoe and taken in out in varying conditions. I welcome the shelter provided by the point and the boat field, but a lake (especially this one) does not have a direction of flow, which means you have work to move in any direction. The swells and winds are unpredictable, but there are enough obstacles (birds, boats, and rocks) to challenge my navigation skills.

The usual course is southwards first, between the rocks at the lakeside tennis courts and buoy field, outside the buoys at the pier which (in theory) prevent boats from ramming into the pier at high speed, down to the old pier near the end of the point, and back almost to the starting point. From there, I go around a smaller point that used to have rocks jutting out of the water, past the summer swimming raft off which I used to push my cousin Victoria, past the other summer swimming raft, and around back to the starting point. The round trip is a third to half a mile. Sometimes I reverse the direction.

In calm waters, I'll often overestimate the power of my strokes and have to correct for it; my old sailing instructor used to say the same of my tacking. The canoe, fortunately, has no draft whatsoever, so any rocks lurking six inches under the surface cannot threaten my craft.

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!

Michael and Me: A Personal Story

On Saturday night, I went with Georgina to the prophetically named Michael Jackson vehicle This Is It. I had forgotten how charismatic Jackson was on-screen, and I especially appreciated the exposure which the footage gave to all the people who work so hard on set and (at best) are reduced to a name in the list, which nobody except their grandmother notices. Several of the interviewees displayed a peculiar, yet not unexpected, mix of adulation and professionalism.

My first exposure to the Gloved One was in the early eighties, before his disgrace. This period saw the birth of MTV, but my parents were and are conservative in their judgments of how much television a child should watch, so the first really big impression of Jackson I received occurred during my first visit to Disneyland. At that time, Jackson had made a short music video (new and exciting technology at the time) called Captain Eo, in which he played a space captain contesting against an evil, loveless alien queen. It would be prudent, perhaps, to point out that Jackson was hardly the only pop star of the day who could portray an androgynous space captain convincingly. Captain Eo, naturally, vanquishes the queen through the power of music/love - Jackson appears to have conflated the two. This video disappeared from Disneyland, although I couldn't tell you whether this occurred before or after charges were levied against Jackson. If it was after the charges, the cause for removal is clear; the most mercantile land on Earth, however, has a habit of periodically demolishing and replacing its attractions.

After the infamous Neverland charges, I began to feel uncomfortable saying anything about Michael Jackson. Although my interest in his music had started at the height of his solo fame and my youthful impressionability, I was concerned, as a youth leader, and particularly as a Boy Scout leader, I would be misinterpreted and ostracized (although the current meaning of that word lacks the implication of temporary exile). One of the factors which has always bothered me about any charges involving misconduct against youth is the presumption not of "innocent, until proven guilty", but rather "guilty, even if proven innocent". I'd rather save that argument for later. I've wondered why the family accepted an out-of-court settlement, but I shall be discreet and avoid possible libel charges. This blog, after, is merely a personal one.

I was surprised as much as anyone by Jackson's marriages and procreation. This surprise does not derive from an assumption of homosexuality, but rather from an assumption that Jackson filled his own niche of sexuality. Years of reading Savage Love have educated me to the existence of many "perversions", from those common to much of the human race down to exceedingly rare fetishes.

They say the best promotional tool for an artist is dying, and in this case it's also freed me from one of my many insecurities that prevented me from enjoying the soundtrack of my youth.

Electrifying Baptism

Here's the full story about my cell phone. On Friday, I was in my dining room, reading (aloud, per my project/new blog) my bilingual Novum Testamentum Graece et Latine. I'd gone into the kitchen and fetched a glass of water, for reading aloud is thirsty work. My cell was also on the table. I knocked over the glass, and the water flowed over my phone, the newspaper which Andrew had left on the table, and part of my Novum Testamentum. The water on the table and on the paper was easy enough to handle; the Novum Testamentum was more difficult, but I'm sure my friends and family can believe that this is not the first time I've spilled something on a book - at least it was just water. The cell phone, however, although I have dropped it multiple times, had avoid contact with liquid (again, at least it was drinking water, not toilet water), so I did what I could to take care of it. Fortunately, I had very few pictures on it, and most of the phone numbers were of family, friends, or very frequent business contacts.

One of the things I noticed on Saturday was how dependent people have become on their cell phones. I didn't know where my watch was, so the only clock I had was part of my camera. I use the bus to get around San Francisco, so I am accustomed to having something to read on my person - in this case, a pocketbook of Shakespeare's Sonnets (I didn't realize one sonnet was a complaint against lousy English weather).
Even I, however, have been using my cell phone as a calendar, alarm clock, and address book without backup. Today I pulled out my Utah Navajo Partnership 2009 Calendar from St Aidan's, Boulder, and started to reconstruct my schedule. Some have suggested additional electronic backup, but what if that malfunctions? It seems to me that pen and paper remain the most reliable way of preserving critical informantion from an electric Asphodel Fields.

Bible Reading: Suffocating Debt

<sup>In Matthew 18:23-34, Jesus tells the parable of the unforgiving debtor. The servile debtor, who owes the equivalent of millions of dollars, appeals to his master to commute the sentence of slavery, and the king yields. When the debtor is departing from the manor, he encounters a fellow servant who owes him the equivalent of twenty bucks. This man pleads in the same way as the debtor had done, but the debtor is unforgiving, chokes him, and throws the other man in prison. When the other servants witness this, they report the debtor's actions to the master, who orders the debtor to be handed over to the torturers until he repays his debt in full. As usual, the parable refers the divine consequences of human interactions. Then, Jesus caps his parable by saying, "My heavenly father will do this to you, if each one of you does not have mercy on your brother from your hearts." (Personal translation, from the Vulgate).



This parable could be applied to certain recent events, and almost certainly has, but that's not my interest here. When I was in Confirmation Class (which I took very seriously, unlike some of my fellow students), we had to memorize, understand, and paraphrase the Our Father, Nicene Creed, and various instruments of faith of the Episcopal Church to the best of our ability. In the process of studying the Our Father, I had an insight which was deep for my early teenage psyche: "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive the trespasses of others". This segment of the Our Father was not a statement of desire for the Heavenly Father, nor a straightforward request for sustenance, be it material or spiritual; rather, it required explicit action on the part of individuals. It was the first time I understood my individual role as a member of the body of Christ. I also think that this act of human forgiveness, and the difficulty which many people experience in doing it, drives home what an incredible deal Christians have received.



It's worth noting that the language of the Our Father does not deny the seriousness of the trespasses; "forgiveness" in secular parlance has come to mean, in certain times and places, a diminution of the gravity of the offense, or even pretending the offense never occurred. If that is the way someone understands "forgiveness", it is small wonder they are loathe to forgive! Christians who are unable to forgive the peccadilloes of their fellow men, while accepting divine forgiveness for themselves, are worse than Pharisees, although the attitude is similar; at least the Pharisees placed the same (absolute) price on their sins as the same sins of the Judaean peasants. The other reason, I suspect, that this phrase receives such prominence, is that the Christian who cannot forgive others out of love also cannot understand the greater love which prompts God to forgive him.

That's my testimony and understanding. Feel free to elucidate, critique, dispute, as long as it's civil.</sup>

The Dog That Came In From The Road

I shall not speak of work today, not because of privacy issues, but because little of interest occurred in the workplace. When Dad and I had stopped at the Dollar Hill 7-11, he for certain unmentionables, I for a coffee that I might proceed straightway to the tasks at hand (namely payroll) once I had arrived at the office, a Husky, big, shaggy, and silent, wandered into the store and casually inspected his surroundings and lay down. We marvelled at this, but the clerk seemed non-chalant. It turned out that the dog was more the store dog than the companion of any particular employee. Such behavior seems to be in the nature of Huskies, who prefer to roam at will and are large enough to spare their owners worry over bear encounters. I heard a tale recently, in which a female Husky left her house each morning, walked north to meet up with her "boyfriends", went south again past her house, and returned when evening was nigh. I suppose each breed has its own predilections.

Journal Entry: August 25th, 2008

On Monday, I woke in my apartment in San Francisco. I did not go to Kaju, however, since Mom lured me over to her place (where I was going next anyway) with a fruit smoothie. I packed up all of Amy’s belongings which I could find, including some items I was reluctant to send back – the PanTech Duo and the Kensington Saddlebag in particular. I made note of these brands that I might purchase them later without the emotional attachment. I was particularly fond of the Saddlebag, because it was a satchel/backpack designed with the needs of laptop owner in mind. heading downtown to renew my me. Then I walked down to the bank to sort out certain matters. I had to return after leaving because I had forgotten my second item of business there. Then I took the bus downtown to sort out my memberships in the Commonwealth Club and the Mechanic’s Institute. On the bus, there was a dispute between an angry black man and an an angry Italian man. But it was the 1 California, not the 38 Geary, so there was no profanity or serious threat of violence.

I went to the Mechanics Institute first: I entered the lobby, which still retains its molding from an era in which buildings were designed ornately, instead of unadorned functionalty. The exterior decoration of the sealed former mail chute particularly pleased me.I jocularly saluted the doorman, and took the elevator to the fifth floor, where the membership office turned out to be closed for lunch, even though the sign on the door suggested that membership secretary ought to have been back.

I went back down, crossed the street, and ascended the escalator to the Commonwealth Club desk. This was more complicated than one might have expected, since the escalator which usually provided a descent was cordoned off and not working. I explained my problem to the woman behind the desk. When she saw my address, she asked me whether I had grown up in that neighborhood (she had). I said that I had lived in Presidio Heights. She’d gone to Convent, and turned out to Catherine Morris, younger sister of Michael Morris ’89, the class above me at Cathedral. The last time I could have ever seen her (if ever) was when her brothers were in school with me; she would have been nine at most, so it was no wonder I didn’t recognize her. It was extremely refreshing to have a conversation with someone with whom I shared a background. I also registered for the Pinker lecture on September 12^th. Although Pinker is a famous linguist, there is a distinct possibility that his writing skill exceeds that of his speaking. I can forgive that, if he’s less of a pompous ass than the late Steven Jay Gould.

I returned to the Mechanic’s Institute, but the door was still shut. By this time’s I’d been hungry for a while, so I decided to go to Lori’s Diner (right next to my dentist’s office!). The till was malfunctioning at Lori’s, so everything was being done manually. The principal waitress, a (justifiably, in this case) cross middle-aged woman from New Jersey, was frustrated with the inability of many patrons to pay with anything other than a credit card. I, of course, had some cash on me. My waitress was Yoana from Guatemala, although the first time I saw her tag, I thought her name was Yoana Guatemala. She was shorter and considerably younger and cuter than Ms New Jersey, although nowhere near as diminutive as the wife of my cousin’s brother and their tiny but precocious children.

After lunch, I first went to Border’s on Powell. I browsed for a while, searching in vain for anything by Naomi Kritzer (I still haven’t found the book she was writing when I last talked with her) and ended up buying Bryson’s Thunderbolt Kid. Then I returned to the Mechanic’s Institute, whose office was finally open. The woman behind .the desk kindly waivcd the replacement fee when she learned the previous one was stolen.

I returned by bus to my apartment, where I took an afternoon nap (because I could) after a brief stop and drink at Kaju to say hello. Then I walked over to my parents’ place, where Dad was recovering from his epidural he had received that morning. I mowed the lawn, but there was little I could do beyond basic maintenance, since it had been ruined by many weeks of workmen repairing and renovating the house. The brown rectangular patch marked quite clearly where the lumber had been placed. I later accompanied Mom to the nursery to carry plants and potting soil to Mom’s car. Mom and I went out for pizza at Georgio’s since Dad was not feeling well enough to go out, but we brought some back for him. Then I returned to my apartment and watched Comedy Central.