Grand Days in the Back Bay

I like it when I am in a place where everyone else is happy to be there. It's very easy not to have a problem with this. To look out and see grandma dancing without any worries, to feel a shared completeness in the belief that two people, together can lift each other up and bring family and friends with them. Allison and John, Congratulations and thank you, for this was a beautiful weekend.

Additional note about the aesthetics: cool lighting and touches for the reception. Nuance and dynamics abound. During the wedding ceremony at Old South Church I noticed what seemed to be an unattended camera up high, 2nd level, left aisle. Later at the reception dinner, we were invited to turn our attention to a slide show which was actually edited film from the rehearsal dinner, from the wedding, and the entry of the bride and groom just minutes before. Eerie, surprising, engaging. The eerie feeling is how up to the minute this was- perhaps leading into the future? Surprising as these screenings are rarely surprising but this was. Engaging as it pulled everyone in. The details, the extra touches. Ah, that unattended camera was running and that too, had a purpose. What a show!

I'M TOO HOT

This is not only how Maria feels about me but also a reason why I am sitting, typing at 5:30 in the morning. I always joke about the weather here, how we yearn for warm summer days but when it arrives, the inner west coast wimp within immediately begins complaining about how unbearably hot it is. Well, step aside peoples- the king of the club speaks; I am too hot.

It's one thing to be on vacation, anywhere- you can just sit down, have an ice cream, or a cool, cool beverage, jump in the pool or stay in the a/c and watch cable tv, but those luxuries are not present here. Okay I might have had an ice cream or two last night... and a beverage. This is also why I will go to work early today and sit in the temperature controlled environment (as in, not too hot). Have to say, the weather at the ballpark yesterday evening was not cold or windy making for an unusual game- PacBell Park (sorry new sponsers) is known as a pitchers park but last night, with the still warm air, the ball was flying out of there- 7 home runs. It was home run derby. For the record, "we" won, 16-5.

Since you brought up the topic of Sno-Balls, I'd like to close my eyes a bit and dream of having one. A Sno-ball is similar to shaved ice but the ice, softer and with toppings of creamy offerings and fruit. A Hansen's Sno-Blitz, in New Orleans, refers to the machine that Ernest Hansen invented in 1933 which provides a softer, pillow-like quality of snow. From Gumbo Tales (Sara
Roahen) she writes:

"While Hansen's shaved ice is by leagues the softest I've eaten, even the lowest grade New Orleans sno-balls shame their counterparts elsewhere. To elucidate:
snow cone : sno-ball :: squeeze-bottle supermarket honey : Sardinian corberzzola
honey, harvested from the blossoms of the rare evergreen strawberry tree "

Ernest and Mary Hansen ran their store together for nearly 70 years, beginning their days and ending them side by side dedicated to maintaining a level of quality in their niche of a market that continues with their granddaughter, Ashley to this day. There is just one Hansen's, on a quiet corner of Tchoupitoulas Street. It is only open during the summer, and both the season and daily operating hours are never set in stone, but from May through September the chances of having a sno-blitz (blizzard) are pretty good.
This year when we made Hansen's our destination point. We were impressed at how Ashley rejected her first attempt at producing ice as an inferior effort, and went at it again until she was satisfied with the results. Never mind that she was working alone because help was not yet there, she had to get it right. "There are no shortcuts to quality", her grandparent's motto, Ashley pointed out to us. During the hell of Katrina, Ashley took apart the Sno-Blitz machine and hid all the parts so thieves would not steal it. I also appreciate the dedication it takes to do this for so many years. Also from Gumbo Tales:

"When I asked Ashley whether she'd ever considered a life besides the sno-ball stand, she said that one winter in Chicago had been enough to keep her in New Orleans, devoted to her grandparents and their business: "There are too many benefits, there are too many memories, there are too many smells and scents that I couldn't live without in that place. There are too many friends we've made, there are too many customers, there are too many kids growing up that I can't wait to see every day".
In many ways, I've been there.

Sno-Bliz Machine, Hansen's

Here is a photo from our first Sno-Ball experience, Baltimore, introduced to us by our friends Coco and Rex, 1992. If you take any meaning from the words behind us, you are truly not our friends. By the way, Rex hosts a great, great radio show on WFMU.org (New York) called
"Fools Paradise" WFMU has years of the show archived.

My Favorite Word

It isn't a word that has a particularly cool sound, such as "odious" or "obtuse" but it is a word that I enjoy saying, and revere, particularly for its meaning as I understand it.

Lagniappe.

I say it the way I wish to say it. In Louisiana it is often pronounced "lannie -up".

Lagniappe means to do something extra, beyond someone's expectations, particulary in the service industry. BP; not lagniappe. Insurance companies: not lagniappe. Joe, the guy at LeBeau Market; lagniappe. The act of it is a type of gift. It may be as simple as the 13th pastry- an addition to a dozen ordered; a baker's dozen. It may be care provided that is larger than a transaction of dollars for service; an act that brings with it something lasting that its recepient will not forget. In its best use, a giving act that encourages this deed in others, and in doing so encourages the best of us. (okay, I have some swear words that are really my favorites but I wish for my children to believe their father, noble.) Lagniappe creates community.

.............................am i going to have to pay for these images someday?

What A Week

It's been a busy week- kind of odd that my respite was Jaws, watching a shark chomp on people but you gotta take fun where fun is.
Dexter started middle school on Monday- a big change. I noticed that this is where children start withdrawing from public shows of affection; half hugs, a light tap on the back. I am somewhat relieved that it's not me who is pulling away (still a fear) but also saddened that culturally this is where we are. I suppose I can hope only for a head nod as best scenario for high school. Perhaps I can work on the parental cool fist bump.

Dext still reaches for my hand when we walk down the street but I sense that this will be changing, but a memory. Sometimes with Dexter's younger brother, Oliver, he and I perform a routine at the dinner table. I stick a cracker on my forehead and he eats it. I think it would be a nice ritual for us whenever he comes back to visit at spring break, or with a new girl or (and here I'm going to be politically cool)/boyfriend. However, I usually forget to do this when we have guests anyway although it really is funny especially when I say that this is the only way we can get him to eat.

It was a tough week for Dexter especially; the stress of a new big school, bordering on the teenage years and his best friend at his elementary school not with him. He is not alone for Dext has many friends but feels lonely I believe*. He would wake up everyday feeling ill and definitely stressed. We listened but he had to go; he had to face up to his fears. We found out that he needed to share one bad experience, and it took a day or so for this to come out. Also as a full on vegetarian, he needs to eat wiser and more consistently. We're working on this.

What do I do anyway if somebody beats him up? I'll be upset certainly- do I go into the school, find the guilty punk and tell him in my best Eastwood stare (one squinty throbbing eye, sometimes elevating to a two eye burn), "Stay away from my son. He's too good for scum like you. And by the way, how big are your parents?". Obviously I probably will not take that approach. I am a grown up and will seek solutions rather than risk getting my whole family beat up just because I throttled some surly eighth grader. I may instead find out when the delinquent's last class lets out and then egg him before he sees me. Let's reconsider. Dexter is a smart boy. He is resourceful and clever. I will just have to trust that he will find his way out from harm's way. But just in case, I'm going to stock up on some eggs.

Wow. Maria has already began her job as director of the preschool (a logical transition) back in July but the actual school year with all the children did not start until this past Monday.
Until she finds her rhythm/ comfort zone, much of her energy and time will be devoted to the school. We know that and accept it. This is a reversal of when I was the one working at the "career job" and financially keeping us going.** I need to remind myself that as a caretaker of others (the co-op, children, staff, parents) just as when I was a store manager of Peet's (the business, my staff, customers), it requires so much. Especially with Dexter, I missed some parts of his growing up, working Saturdays late into the next morning- and hours spent at home preparing business related items. At the end of a work day I remember being so tired, as Maria finds herself now.

By the time Oliver was born, I was more honest in what I needed to do and duties I was doing because I wanted the control of it. But giving up the family just for something that only benefits work was really my shortsighted error. This is something Maria is not doing- I write this not only because there's a possibility that she might read this but to acknowledge that Maria is not trading one for the other but adding more to an already full plate. She will be a great director if she does not get a heart attack. (don't worry, I'll feed the cats).

*kind of cool when your kids use your phrasing. When Dext explains things he often ends his discussion with "I believe"

**for those of you keeping score we have both had two rounds of "career jobs" and in both, Maria has drawn the bigger salary. I'm more than happy to declare this. I'd write more but I have to go buy something on Amazon now.

JAWS On A Boat

Last night aboard the good ship Eureka, Hyde Street Pier, silly fog loving citizens gathered on the starboard bow to witness, amass, Jaws, the movie. Based on a true story (with some alterations: the name of the actual town, names of the victims, kill vehicle -substitute big fish for tea party spirit killers) in which the island of Amity's ("Amity means friendship") summer of tourism is threatened with attacks of a very aggressive dorsal finned fellow. Improbable? Probably. Great Whites, having tasted human usually do not desire more (think of elephant seals as a big yummy ice cream cones, and we be asparagus). This is a great film, more suspense than horror or monster, holding up as a Hitchcock movie. All the elements are in place and there are no weak moments. Spielberg is not usually a master of economy but here, he uses implicit terror, character development, a John Williams evocative score, and a nod that despite very large obstacles, getting through them, we have a pretty nice gig.

Some movies are great community movies; hearing the roar of an audience of shared screams, whoops of joy, and laughter can not be replaced at home, or on a little computer screen. During Quint's speech about his experience on the US Indianapolis, the place was very quiet. At one point the Mac broke down and the big screen froze. The maritime stewards got the film going again but skipped a key scene and some of the audience called this out.
"Get over it- you're watching Jaws on A Boat" called out one of the staff. The evening had the feeling of a big pajama party. Taking a short walk on the Pier with the cityscape standing regal between sea and fog, with night sky and moonlight only added to the majestic silliness.

Spielberg's third motion picture- the first "Duel", the second "the Sugarland Express" were both small films. Jaws was not a big budget film. The actors and the director were not the first choices for their parts. A name director originally had the assignment but continually said he was making a movie about a whale. Smarter people knew how troubled filming on the water (third act of the film) would be. Shark rarely worked; would sink or suffer spasms, sailboats would be in the background passing for hours, lighting and movement were always changing and not controllable-managed to only a minimal degree. A later, perhaps worst movie ever candidate, the fourth Jaws, the Revenge ("This Time It's Personal") featured Oscar winner/great actor Michael Caine, who admittedly did it for the money, travel (Bahamas) and on the condition that he would never film any sequence with the shark. The movie has a climax with the principal actor never in a shot with the shark. Jaws 3-D is not as bad, but reeks a bit of dead fish, or dead concept.

The second movie, with the clever title, "Jaws 2" was in trouble from early in production-although Spielberg offered to direct it if the studios would give him more time to finish Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but they did not. It does offer Roy Scheider and another nice score by Williams but is weakened by a group of whining teenagers (less water time for Scheider) which ultimately has you hoping the shark gets every single one of them.

Hey, Scribe

Have you held a gun? I think that you have, of sorts. Seems to me that being in a car can bring out the worst in normally calm people. Reiki and Zen are zoned out, tossed out the window. The power and aggressiveness that one may feel when they hold a gun is not so different from when one is behind the wheel of a big two ton vehicle. Power is the solution to those who do not meet the standard, and patience is a forgotten virtue.

Speaking about real power, as opposed to power by force, we lament the passing of a great San Franciscan, Ed Moose. Ed was a fun loving character who operated the Washington Bar and Grill, frequented by writers, journalists, politicos and old time San Franciscans, the "Washbag" he called it. Where Ed was, a community would gather and a hub was born . After selling the place he reappeared as the proprietor of Moose's, just across the street in North Beach. We enjoyed Ed in later years as he would pop into our coffee shop. Upon first sighting, the call "Mooooose". When he received his giant mocha (no shortcuts with lighter fat milk), he would wink and tell us, "this is as far uptown as I go". Rest well, Ed. You set a high standard.

Somewhat distressed to find that after nearly five decades of living life as an Ox in the Chinese Zodiac Calender, it has been pointed out to me (after a year of denial) that I am in fact, a Rat. No longer dependable and determined but more of a spirited schemer. Feel as if I've been living a double identity. Hope that's the last secret I'll keep from myself. If I start signing off this as "Shirley", you'll know that I saved the best for last.

Cleaning up the Hand Sanitizers: Dr. Hackenbush informs about the increasing number of infections that are showing up in hospitals and doctor's offices have some correlation to the increased use of hand sanitizers. Even when your good doctor pumps that stuff on and rubs it in minimally, all he or she is doing is creating a sludge and layer of germs just waiting to pass on and develop somewhere, or on someone else. Most people do not rub the Purell for anywhere near the length of time necessary says the good doctor. The end result are these germs are only temporarily sedated, pushed over to other parts of their hands. Nothing better than good old soap and water. There's a lot of medical evidence to back this up but that's not my column.

Our boys lost a big series to those sunshine kids, the Padres. Torturous as the outcome turned out to be, you have to hand it to a team nobody believed in- not the experts, the fans, even theirs. The belief was in the clubhouse. Stick to your guns, unless you're driving a car of course. Mix that in with their relatively low payroll, and this is a team to admire. At least until we play them next.

Before I reach my ending, I am reminded of a story told by Groucho Marx; a man on his way to his own hanging is asked by the warden if he has any last words. He looks to the big boss and says, "Warden, this thing doesn't look safe to me". This entire thing doesn't look to safe to me: Soon to a dear friend's 40th birthday party where I'm to dance to salsa, meringue, cumbia and the mambo. Speaking to my own sense of rhythm, I've been told that I couldn't swing if I was hanging on a rope. Hope it doesn't come to that.

If A Monster has me in his mouth, what should I do?

Of course, what constitutes what a "monster" is, is very subjective; who is a monster? My Eva, a Great White Shark might be somebody's monster. However since I'm writing this, I will lay determine what constitutes a monster for this discussion. That is, less of who/what, but more of who/what is doing what to whom. Because I'm not so self obsessed (never mind 22 blogs in one month), the reference of whom won't be me, might be you, the reader. Boys, on the day you're reading this- this is a good one to read together for you might be thinking that Dad's going obtuse. The truth be obtuse. Speaking of teeth, go see a dentist. I'll wait.

Here's the gig. May it never be yours. But just in case. I have the feeling you guys might like camping, and bike riding. Since I'm such a city dad, seems logical that you all might find the great outdoors as appealing as I did, but in your case- not only from the pages of a book. You might also spend plenty of time in the city, some city, somewhere. Going out or working late at night, strolling home at an hour when most people are asleep. Here's the crazy worst case scenarios: You're out on your own- usually not a problem, except Whoa-hey, there's a mountain lion on my back. Whoa-ouch, it's not Uncle Regis unshaven, it's a frackin' bear. Oh shit, there's a bunch of guys coming out of a car with lead pipes. This can't be happening- Why me?

This is the thing that you have to let go; this feeling that freezes people up- of hopelessness. What have you done to deserve this- nothing- it is nothing personal. If it is personal then you've really got problems (a return visit). You're just the poor sucker who is in the wrong place, wrong time. Okay? Wrong place, wrong time. Just as a tiny fish swims into target range, you my friend are tonight's special feature: prey item #1. Now immediately throw the "why me" question out of the way. Reach for the simple enough solution: using all the lessons you've learned (make good decisions) to find a way to get to tomorow. Of course the difficult part is the act of getting out which will may also involve pain and discomfort- (yours).

However giving up can hurt a whole lot worse; know that I'm now referring to all the predators with big teeth (see Dr. Stanley Tong 415-441-8622) and metal sticks in these situations as monsters.
Know that bears and mountain lions like to gnaw on heads and just as they do with fish, enjoy eating pumping hearts. Human monsters are probably much worse.
Bears and mountain lions you don't turn your back on, and frankly I am no expert on how to deal with these guys. Move slow? Look big? Make noise? Throw rocks? Super strong pepper spray? Human monsters you probably can turn your back on, and if you're a runner- run uphill if you can (human monsters are inherently lazy and hate putting in extra effort).

What is all this rambling about? Well, if you've read any of my other posts, you've already asked this question. I just believe that life is always worth living for. All things are worth considering as each day we're learning how to live and how to make the best decisions to live. I will live with my wife and children, I will live with this great cup of coffee, I will live when I am resting and working, I will live when my life is in peril. I will live. But don't neglect a good dentist.

In 1979 I wore $100 Pants

I know I can't write much before I go back, so let's re-enter the time travel machine once again and go...back, back.
At my first real job (I'm not counting years of newspaper routes where might I add, I had the professional pride to zing the papers to the top of every stair. My apologies to the neighbors whose doors I pounded). Sylvia's Continental Restaurant, home of fine dining and pizza (the original Smash dining concept) featuring Red Boy Pizza, owned and run by the very unorthodox Chris Kelly. Chris built and named this restaurant after the much younger lust of his life, Sylvia C.(she was very nice) - who left only five months from when I started. Chris gave me many opportunities to do many things, from prep cook (lost a piece of finger in the mushroom slicer- don't worry- it went into someone's pizza) to the eventual pizza chef, with my signature mandarin orange finish. Chris also left me to answer to his construction crew when he neglected to pay them. I think they might have throttled anyone else if I didn't look fifteen, did not weigh less than a twelve year old girl and probably wasn't getting paid myself. Oh yeah, back to the pants.

I was able to drag my friends to work in the restaurant at one time or another; at least five of them. (10 sentence countdown to the pants) Chris certainly liked the gang and he certainly liked the wages you could pay seventeen year olds. And there is no other staff that you would want in your fine dining establishment than seventeen year olds that have zero food experience. But most of my crowd was in back, prepping, driving, cleaning. In the front of the house was a more experienced troupe. The waiter with the most style and elan was a young man, then in his twenties, Shahri. Shahri helped transition me to have the ability to relate to people that were different in age, culture, interests. To this point, my friends and I attempted to be the same. Any departure from the collective was not appreciated. Shahri smiled like the cheshire cat of Alice in Wonderland and with long hair and an earring. A crazy laugh. My friends tried to persuade me that Shahri was gay-different. I thought the flamboyance was because he was from Malaysia.

Shahri took me under his wing; perhaps he viewed me as a younger brother that he could confide in and laugh with. And so he felt the need to have me dress better. Having a bit of money- remember I was making a whole $2.65 an hour (before overtime!). Shahri took me to his favorite place to buy slacks; a boutique store near Union Square. A French boutique and in little time, I was equipped with the tightest, sleekest, woolest pairs of French dress slacks- $100 plus each. I should have asked them to sell me a butt first. The funny thing is is that I can not recall buying nice shirts, or jackets, or shoes- just having these navy blue, black and beige slacks. In 1979 to be a swanky dude, all you needed were swanky pants. My parents really must have been busy with their jobs back then.

We hung out. I met many of his friends. All of them were great to me. Other than having nice pants, there didn't seem to be any concern about acting cool, or being a jerk to others. One man always wanted me to try the other side, he would encourage. However not having tried any sides to that point, I really did not know what he was talking about. In truth, I understood the concept but I didn't think I could go to Vancouver until I'd been to Vacaville first, if that makes any sense. Got to get to Vacaville. Shahri would sometimes call me at my parents house during one of the crazy parties he would attend. It often sounded as if people were jumping on sofas and trampolines. We stayed in contact for 10 years or so but as time and distance works its magic, the rabbit vanishes into the hat.

I might still have those pants (never mind the blog about Stuff for now). Never know when the boys might need fancy pants. Might bring them back for myself. Might show my youthfulness by fitting in them again. And that my friends is the most horrible thought I leave us all with, before I say goodnight. Goodnight.

My Life Aquatic #1

I've always envisioned myself as a marine biologist. Skills of observation and of an ability to sit patently for inordinate amounts of time. I can wait and observe for hours. Eerie perhaps. It is just something that I can do. It may not seem as if I am breathing. And once in awhile, I have fallen asleep doing this until the weight of my large cranium forces my head to land on the floor. It began during games of hide and seek when my friends, despite knowing the general area I was hiding could not specifically pinpoint which bush I was in (because I did not move), and frustrated, would quit.

Additionally fascinated with creatures of the sea- often it is the voice of Jacques Costeau speaking to me to buy more coffee (oddly, Italian Roast) or to restock the orange juice. It was his love of the oceans and all life within that enabled me to see through the media frenzy whenever there was a rare predation of a human in the sea. This, not a malicious crime of intent but unfortunate timing. The mysteries of the sea and its great creatures; the monstrous whales, tiny but dangerous jellyfish, the grace of the manta ray (shark), and mysteries still unanswered; the birth of a great white shark, why Orcas have never harmed a human in the open sea. The days these are answered, even discussed are days I am online reading every article that I can. And yet, one major obstacle kept me from pursuing my life long passion: I am afraid of water.

We all have our contradictions. I just view myself as Jane Goodall if she didn't particularly like camping or was allergic to African plants. Otherwise, in heart and soul, I am there. There, in the ocean searching, observing, waiting.

But why wait? Why not accept my limitations and search in our urban landscape for the wonders of the Aquatic? And I have my found place of study. Mission Creek, alongside a row of houseboats just a short distance from a ballpark and a library, breathes the life of a salt marsh; egrets, herons, fish, crabs, leopard sharks, and its most notable and visible residents, bat rays.
It was two years ago that my energetic family chose to go a hike in this area while I decided to nap in the car. Some time later, my oldest Team Explorer member wakes me in rambling, excited declarations: "Daddy, there's a giant ray in the water!". What madness does he speak of? This is the city and I was having a perfectly good rest. Would this turn out to be as the time I was walking and saw two people rocking on a seesaw on Howard Street when I realized they were not on a seesaw? Pray not. Slumbering but curious, I dragged myself off the lush vinyl bed to view what most certainly would end up being a big rock.

But it wasn't. It was who we would later know as, Omar, a bat ray comfortably resting (not unlike me, I should add). just feet from the shore. The water was clear and beneath a slight incline of dirt was the large creature five feet wide from wing to wing. I was stunned and invigorated! Discovery! The meaning of life! Ten or so subsequent visits resulted in various degrees of success; views that lasted only seconds or the reward of minutes of glides, with activity from three or more rays. We identified three; Omar, Pablo, the most active about 3 feet wide, and Barry, possibly a baby but definitely the smallest with an orange hue.

Not since the early spring have I been out to see what state the habitat was in, and if our friends still reside. Our goal would be to pick the time of day where the water was highest and calmest and visually, clearest. In the late afternoon, the water is too shallow and murky. Arriving at a mid- morning hour and alternating between two locations sitting and waiting. Watching for air bubbles or movement to come to one spot. If they showed, they came slowly into view. Gliding up into an area just beneath the surface of the water. No sound, call, or announcement. Just present. Perhaps in turning, a flicker of a wing would break the surface providing the smallest of splashes.

After our longest bike ride ever (not very long for most humans), Dext and I pulled into Mission Bay and laid our transport by the creek. The water was at a good height, visibility was also promising. In ten minutes Dexter spotted Pablo about fifteen feet from shore swimming up toward the surface. Pablo is larger now. He spun once, twice, then submerged. One more view and he was gone. But I was back to my life aquatic.

Stuff

I saw George Carlin do a long piece about "stuff" once. Didn't think much of it at the time but it stayed with me. Makes a lot of sense now. When you think of it- maybe it's just me thinking of it- the day comes when you take your exit from this life and what do you leave behind?

Memories, of course and stuff. Whose stuff? Your stuff. Who wants your stuff? Perhaps the kids will gather the old vinyl LP's (they better!), one of your odd pieces of clothing; pork pie hat? old time suspenders? polka dotted ohmygodoutfit?. But no one is going to want the bulk of your old clothes, books, furniture- so where does most of your stuff go to? Landfill. Got to be a better solution.

This is not for a sensitivity to being greener. It just occurs to me that all this stuff, my stuff, I've been collecting- I don't really need. The snow domes that I've been gathering for years and placing all over the apartment...while not forgetting the afternoon I dragged Maria to several gas stations in Mississippi to find one or the crazy day we spent in the strange shops of South of the Border in South Carolina, I've brought nearly all of my snow domes to work. Setting up a display one Saturday afternoon with the help of my boys made a nice presentation of, stuff I don't need. And months later, I really don't miss them.

Gotten to this day collecting a lot of things but now there is a liberating feeling that I don't really need to collect these things. (note: I wrote this thought twice as I am having to remind myself).
Yes, I'll still purchase records and books but i know that what I have is enough. Most of the stuff I have can be given away (or brought to work for displays no one asked for, but are too lazy to remove). I've included pictures of my two work displays of what was once, my stuff. I go by them everyday, give a knowing nod and happily move on. Getting free of stuff. Working on it.

My Favorite Things

2. Ice Cream and 1. Sometimes when I am stressed and feeling down, my oldest son will seek me out with a ball. He knows that my favorite thing -without exception, is playing catch. It relaxes me, gets me to the moment and out of the past or the future. There is (I'm making up all the following terms) casual catch, much as sitting and having a conversation, and task catch where we set a goal to toss back and forth 200 times without dropping the ball or piece of molded foil... And then there is catch in the wide open: in a park or field with room to run.

This year I had the most fun after one of Dexter's Little League games, the coaches and their sons stayed late to hit and field. I was out there running, rolling, flopping (not quite my younger seeking, gliding, getting) but it felt great. I was Wilie Mays at 78, or Omar Vizquel with a broken leg; limited but still having fun. Hit me fly balls on my birthday and my wishes are answered.

I hold the memories of playing catch with my father close to me. I remember waiting for Dad to ask after he came home from work. He would only do this sometimes but without having to talk, this was his way of staying connected. Even today with him nearing 90 and with restricted mobility, I kind of hope that he will ask again. I'll be ready.

My youngest is content with letting a soft ball plunk him in the bean, then laying out as a cartoon character but it's about the value of the ritual, and that's his ritual. I am thrilled when Maria wants in the game. Whenever the family goes on road trips, we pack a ball or two and if forgetting to do so look immediately to find one. It drives me nuts that some general stores do not stock balls!

Every year during the closing Steve Earle Saturday set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, with the sun setting and the food booths shutting down, Dexter and I run and find open spaces to float a ball back and forth against the dark blue sky. This is heaven to me.

You Should Know: I Am A Spy

It's been sometime that I have operated under a guise protected by my journalistic integrities but truth submerged is a conscience's bitter burden. Confessional. I am indeed a spy, a plant, a splinterhead. For years I have continued my research in a phenomena that has sucked in millions of intelligent people into an odd singular vision. This is not about Scientology (could never operate the E meter properly -although in my 20's, I was approached several times to go to a "friendly dinner". Was I looking lost as I strained to count the number of floors of the Hyatt Hotel? My eyes would blur around 20 or 21 floors, and I would have to start counting again. However, this is about my searching for the answers of those that follow the...(insert gasp here)...the cult of Star Trek.

What is it about this hokey franchise that pulls in so many? Social outcasts that now have a club that accepts them? ($25 general admission, $150 Gold Admission, $249 touch Sir Patrick Stewart's head)Many years have I studied the writings and words of those that follow Spock and Shatner, viewing nearly 700 hours of cinematic propaganda, attending in disguise,(so difficult to conceal one's coolness) at what is called "conventions" but I choose to reveal as "The Conventions" I have eased into a transition from this self to one who can pass freely amongst those of pointy ears and shiny polyester uniforms. I do so knowing and accepting the risks of discovery. I can speak the language (not "do you know where the bathroom is", instead ask, "computer, show me the carbon waste extractor unit"), am down with the secret handshakes and advice, "don't drop out, beam up!". The importance of having one's own preferences as I
chose the dark themes of Deep Space Nine, espousing in depth about its first concept of how we should exist in linear time yet often are lost in one brutal moment in our lives. DS9's examination of religion in society was probed (good Star Trek word) further in the "re-imagined" Battlestar Galactica. On occasion and to the dismay of my wife, I have chosen to take my children undercover with me as to thicken my disguise, my commitment. My ruse, my chef's menu plan, my roux is very thick indeed.


Once in Los Angeles, did I not raise my hands together at the conclusion of lecture? Did I not play the part of the good Star Trekker when sharing the elevator with he, who is Chewbacca (no personal relation) in Star Wars, stumbled upon buckling legs and catching him- saving him from a fate or floor worse than Vader- look upon this giant of a once Wookie and think, you guys are so plot driven, not character crucial as the Treks? Off of me, hairy beast. And yet it is our ability to confront these deficiencies, and the drive that spurs us to overcome them...ah, in the role. Star Trek speak. To be or not to be, a geeky fop and in choosing so, to be a part of a wacked out cult. My conclusions are thus: this is a wacked out cult. I saw it in episode #122.

It is of course, best to be open/honest/full disclosure but some goods can take a bit of time to proof before this bread of truth has risen. Not unlike that secret sixth toe or third nipple that is eventually revealed, my sons are advised to cook their roux thoroughly before the meal is served; for the taste is bittersweet upon discovery, and future mates will attempt to exit really, really quick. Fortunately Maria knew the brave endeavor, this brave mission of exploration of seeking new answers and new ways, of boldly going where no....she knew I was undercover. Really. Research. Soon will come the year's biggest The Conventions in the USA where nearly 80% of every cast member of every Star Trek show will be present- in Vegas, home of Trek. My research would be enriched by this undertaking but this year, I think I will go to Seattle instead. As they say, live long and prosper, y'all.

Hey, it's not the Oh, there's hope for mankind stuff that I like about the Trek (because that's bogus- i can do without a third world war). I simply enjoy the production values and the better stories.

The Guy At The Bus Stop

Today at the bus stop, waiting with my two young 'ens, an older guy wearing a WebTv cap caught my gaze and immediately started to tell story after story. Tangents led to other stories; wearing a Giants costume as a greeter in front of Lefty O'Douls, being the spotlight guy 7 days a week at a Girlie Theatre in Chinatown, keeping strangers off a sleeping Judy Garland- okay, that one got my interest, and on, and on, and on...this continued on the bus, and off the bus. It was not threatening in the least- it was simply, a solitary man finding an audience. Even my oldest boy said to me, "he seemed lonely". Spot on.
These folks often find their way to me; perhaps I seem to be more audience than performer, more listener than talker...I don't know. This gentleman was so enthused, he seemed to double time his stories, layering one over others not yet finished. I worry about this type of loneliness; people who find themselves disconnected at some later point of their lives (perhaps their small circle shrinks to one, or very few because of age) . I hope not to be in the same boat. Not so much as a judgement of anyone else but just as recognition of the other side; when there is no willing audience. Also, it is a bit difficult to engage in this cadenza of free time speaking. Well, the boys said that I need not worry; despite the paths their lives will take them, they will be around. I might hold them to it.