President's Day

PRESIDENT, n. The leading figure in a small group of men of whom — and of whom only — it is positively known that immense numbers of their countrymen did not want any of them for President.

From The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Its President’s Day Weekend and once this holiday is over the next one is over the hills and far away; Memorial Day.  President’s Day has lost some of its stature; not everyone gets this one off.  I hear that on the East Coast they get Columbus Day instead of President’s Day.  Here in the Bay Area, especially Berkeley, Columbus Day is also known as bash European explorer day.  That's with the exception of San Francisco itself which because of it's large Italian community still holds a celebration.  Is it just me or is there something a little wrong with half the country celebrating a wayward Genovese explorer while snubbing the presidents?

Has the holiday lost some of its worth because some recent officeholders have lacked in quality?  I’m speaking specifically of a certain dumbass from Texas.  Meh, mediocrity in the White House is nothing particularly new.

We didn’t always have President’s Day.  In the good old days we celebrated Lincoln’s Birthday on February 12^th and Washington’s Birthday on February 22^nd; sweet.  In 1968 the two were consolidated into President’s Day and I’m sure businessmen nationwide rejoiced; one less day that, to paraphrase Scrooge, they wouldn’t feel “ill-used” to “pay a day’s wages for no work.”

There are other holidays that carry that quasi status, one of them being Veteran’s Day.  I remember when I was a child I got the day off while my father, a veteran of World War Two, dutifully went to work.  Some years back I shared an office with a fellow who spent a year of his young life in the bush in Vietnam.  Every Veteran’s Day he expressed some bitterness over the fact that everybody except veterans gets the day off.  Something is really out of kilter when vets have to work on the day set aside in their honor.  I’ve got a great idea.  Why don’t we get to the point to where we stop creating war vets?  For instance, we shouldn’t be creating one more single, solitary veteran of the war in Afghanistan.  Bin Laden is dead, mission accomplished and there is no nation to be built in Afghanistan; essentially a loose collection of tribes that seem content with the status quo. 

We’ll be selecting a president once again this year and the battle has shaped up to be the dirtiest and most un-American in recent or distant memory.  Let’s take Rick Santorum’s statement last Saturday in Ohio, chiding the current president for his theology; “It's about some phony ideal. Some phony theology. Oh, not a theology based on the Bible. A different theology," Why un-American?  I’ll answer your question with the question; what in the hell is the Bible doing in American political discourse?  A candidate’s personal theology should have no bearing on his electability and subsequent performance.  I don’t give a damn about a president’s theology as long as it stays within his domestic circle.  It’s when that theology becomes a matter of policy that I get more than a little squeamish.  In fact I don’t care if someone runs for president because God told him to.  Just keep that little secret between you, God and any other voices you hear.  This is personal stuff along the lines of what the president and first lady do in bed.  I suppose if Santorum gets elected we’ll know exactly what he and the missus do in the sack.  NOTHING.  It seems Mr. Santorum, a hidebound Roman Catholic, doesn’t believe in contraception so unless he wants more little Santorum’s running around (there’s a sobering thought) he’s going to have to keep that gun holstered.  One doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for Mrs. Santorum or rejoice in her good luck.   

And since we’re on the subject of things un-American on President’s Day, we started this holiday weekend with a letter from the local homeowner’s association.  It was a letter to the entire association chiding the lot of us for keeping what they consider to be squalid lots.  At the top of the list was the dreaded basketball hoop in the driveway.  For the life of me I can’t understand what in the hell is wrong with a basketball hoop.  To me it’s a symbol of that suburban American home where the neighborhood kids and a dad or two gather to shoot hoops on a summer evening.  This is just the kind of thing that would attract me to a neighborhood.  In the twisted minds of the HOA busybodies it’s a symbol of declining property values.  And I don’t really care if the house across the street still has Christmas lights up and I don’t care if the guy next door didn’t put his trash bin inside the fence and I don’t care if he parks his cars in his own driveway instead of the garage.  If there is any purpose to be served by an HOA it’s to keep that over exuberant Giants fan from painting his house bright orange with black trim (although it might serve a dual purpose come Halloween).  And yes it will keep the would be mechanic from storing a half built '53 Chevy on the front lawn.  But beyond that, leave us the fuck alone.  When I was growing up our HOA was a neighborhood busybody who circulated petitions against his neighbors.  Hell I’ll bet those stodgy HOA snoopers don’t do anything in bed either.

Grace Cathedral's stained glass

This President’s Day Sunday we ventured to San Francisco to attend church service at Grace Cathedral.  It’s the one time every month when we go to church together.  My wife, bless her soul, accompanies me to the Episcopal Cathedral instead of going to her usual Roman Catholic service.  Her mind and soul are much more open than mine because I refuse to go into a Roman Catholic Church.  The service at Grace is always stirring and impressive.  It is, to me anyway, a deeply spiritual experience; the lofty nave, the stained glass filtered light, the harmonious voices of the choirs, the dramatic timber of that grand pipe organ and on this Sunday the homily by Reverend, Doctor Jane Shaw delivered in her stately British accent (can it get more Anglican than that?).  On this day we didn’t walk and meditate in one of the two labyrinths as have in the past. 

The view from Pier 39 can be stunning

No, on this day we decided to walk a different labyrinth after church; Pier 39.  Cora suggested that we go to one of the hotels for brunch but I came up with the ridiculous idea of going to Pier 39.  Ridiculous because Pier 39 is a tourist attraction/shopping mall located on the bay front.  Going to Pier 39 isn’t like visiting that other attraction, the Golden Gate Bridge and taking a refreshing, breathtaking walk across the span.  While there are some nice bay views from Pier 39 it is still just a collection of shops hawking touristy junk, video game arcades, street performers and restaurants gouging tourists for bad food.  Case in point is a place called Hook and Cook which sits under a large figure of Captain Hook (how long before Disney sues over that sign) holding a pan with a pissed off looking fish.  The sign just screams, “Do not eat here.”  The fish is probably pissed off over being badly cooked. There are only three reasons why locals go to Pier 39:

                To take out of town visitors who insist on going because a mis-guided, guide book said it is a must see.

                They have children still in their teens or younger.

                They are themselves still in their teens or younger.

The schlocky glory of Pier 39

Okay so now there are four reasons; the last being an adult who should know better gets a wild hair and says, “Hey instead of walking across the street from church for brunch at the Fairmont lets go to Pier 39.”  There really isn’t any charm, culture or history to Pier 39.  Approaching it from the pedestrian bridge over Beach Street you’re assaulted by an overpowering sickeningly sweet smell that must be a mixture of chocolate, waffle cones, cotton candy and churros.  The sounds are mostly those of tourist families enjoying their time in The City; “Leave your sister alone!”  “Dammit, stop climbing that railing!”  “Finish your food!” “Stop teasing the sea lions and get over here.”  And then there’s my favorite, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you a real reason to cry!”  Ah the joys of family vacations.  The other sound is the one that is now ubiquitous in every tourist attraction; the Bolivian/Peruvian/Chilean/Columbian or whateverotherSouthAmerican, pan flute street musician.  It isn’t bad music and is in fact often quite good.  I’m just wondering how they came to be so common at tourist sites.  They seem to be as necessary as t-shirt shops.  But let’s face it they are still much more talented than the young men who spray paint themselves and strike a pose.  I guess after having seen Michelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s I’m indifferent to a kid who’s spray painted himself gold.  Okay, so I’m a statue snob. 

We took a brief walk in a biting bay wind.  I stepped into the candy store and was sorely tempted by the tubs of salt water taffy but, at five bucks a pound, resisted.  We came very close to going into one of the sit down restaurants but decided that we would be paying top dollar for mediocre seafood.  I opted for a hot dog and Cora for the ever popular chowder in a bread bowl from a street vendor.  It wasn’t a miserable time.  It was something of a remembrance, maybe bittersweet, of times past when we brought our children and watched them ride the carousel or waited for what seemed hours as they played in the video game arcade and yet it was a reminder that we really aren’t in the market for an “I escaped from Alcatraz” t-shirt and don't need to visit again.  Maybe next time we’ll have brunch at one of the hotels or get some Korean food over on Clement Street. 

And finally on this President’s Day I’m reminded of the President of Taiwan; not so much the fellow himself but his recent election to office.  In my work, I deal on almost a daily basis with a young woman who is from Taiwan but works in Qingdao on the mainland.  Last month she missed a regular conference call because she chose to fly from Qingdao to Taiwan for the sole purpose of casting her vote in the election.  She holds that right of suffrage so dear that she is willing to take the two hour flight and pay the over 500 dollar air fare to exercise it. Meanwhile here in the so called cradle of democracy we are looking at low voter turnouts in the presidential primaries.  The more that we take our suffrage for granted the more we put it at risk.  Have a happy President’s Day and celebrate the fact that whatever you think of the man who holds the office (at any given time), he was, after all, freely elected.  

Comments are greatly appreciated and encouraged and may be left in the comments section below.  Unrepentant spam will be deleted and sent to spam hell. 

Perspective

This morning Cora called me at the office.  She was sobbing and I felt down in my gut that I knew the reason.  She told me, through sobs, “I just want to cry.” She’d received a call from the oncologist at Kaiser.  I was about to cut her off and tell her that I’d be on my way home.  The oncologist, she went on, told her that she didn’t have to go to her appointment on the 14^th of this month.  Huh?  Wait, you’re telling me that you got a call from the oncologist, you’re crying, and they told you NOT to show up?  When the oncologist calls and tells you not to bother showing up and tears are involved the news has to be the worst possible. And then she told me how she was so thankful for the people that prayed.

She went on, “The oncologist said it was stage one cancer.”

“Wait.  Are you telling me good news or bad?”

“Good news.  The tumor in the kidney that was removed was stage one.  All of the lymph nodes were clear.”

Sigh of relief.  More details of the conversation that I frankly don't recall.  Some tears running down my cheeks.  She asked me to call the kids and tell them.  "You know you scared the shit out of me?"

And here is where perspective comes into play.  A short time before Cora’s call I’d been in a departmental meeting in which a petulant salesman decided it would be good sport to brutalize me.  Following the meeting I went into my office, shut the door and stewed.

And then the call came from Cora that jolted the world back into perspective.  This is what I hate about the business world and what I’ve hated for years; the tragedies of seeming galactic proportions that are so horribly out of proportion to what is really important.  A quote is wrong, a salesperson takes down an order wrong, shipping sends out the wrong item or an invoice is over paid by 50 bucks.  All hell breaks loose, someone calls for heads to roll and it’s all hands on deck for managers at various levels to launch investigations on how it happened and how can we prevent it from happening again. 

I once worked at a company that produces parts for gaming machines for casinos.  There were times that managers ran around acting like their pants were on fire because a customer was shorted something or an order was running a day or two late.  You would think that we were supplying ammunition for the troops in Afghanistan or shipping organs for transplant.  Oh hell no – slot machine parts. 

And while salesmen deliver petty rants and executives raise hell and berate the staff over some delayed slot machine parts other events take place.

                My wife is told she doesn’t have cancer anymore.         

                Someone's spouse somewhere is being told she has terminal cancer.

                A mother is told her son won’t come home from Afghanistan.

Cora and her grandson Jackson

                A father arrives home from Afghanistan to see his baby child for the first time.

                A new life enters the world.

                A grandmother and grandfather mourn the deaths of their grandchildren at the hands of the kids’ crazed father.

                People perform meaningful work teaching, finding cures, saving lives, enriching lives, working to free the oppressed and feed the hungry.

In retrospect maybe I'd allowed my own perspective to be skewed. What I should have done was to recognize the gift I'd been given and gone home to be with my wife. 

               

                  

Get Well Soon

I’d just fetched the mail from the box down the street and walking back to the house, sorted through it.  Let’s see, coupons, card for Cora, card for Cora, credit card offer, card for Cora, letter from the homeowners association – “fuck those busybodies”, more coupons, card for Cora, card for Cora and finally, oh, look at this, a card for Cora.  Walked into the house, “Look at you,” as I handed her the cards.

Four of the cards came from her workplace, Clif Bar.

Cora, I hope you feel better fast.  I miss seeing your stylish and beautiful self in the office!  I don’t know what I’m going to do when you retire.

They were covered inside and out with well wishes.  Just for the hell of it I started counting messages.

Cora, my friend, please feel better soon.  It doesn’t feel right for me to come into the office and not get a hug from you.

I stopped counting at 100.

Corazon (her real name)!! Mi amor…feel better, rest up and bring that smile back to the office soon! Much love y besos.

It’s been 17 days since Cora had her kidney removed and she’s been home for 14.  The first few days were spent mostly in bed with a fair amount of pain, mostly in her left shoulder.  Have a kidney removed and get a sore shoulder; makes sense, right?  Turns out that in order to create a little workspace where the kidney is located they pump some gas in the area to be operated on.  You know as we grow older we all get a little gassier and now they're adding extra?  Anyway this gas kind of lingers in the system and causes a pain spike in the shoulder.  The shoulder is fine now.  There is still some discomfort around the surgical site but she's done with pain meds.  Those first fitful nights are gone now and we sleep soundly; and a little closer together.  

Cora!  You put up with all of us so I know you will recover just fine.  You are a true beauty.

I get into my office at 6:30 and around 9:00 make it a point to give Cora a call to see how she’s doing.  When she answered during those first few days that I was back to work I was struck by how frail her voice sounded.  Hanging up I found myself staring down; boring a hole in my desk.  I suppose that I knew that weakness in her voice was a residual of that tube that went down her throat during surgery but that was small comfort.  As the days have gone by, her voice is about back to normal but that doesn’t stop me from pausing for a minute or two after hanging up.

Cora, My fashion princess.  You are greatly missed.  Take care.

Our kitchen and family room are starting to look like a flower shop.  Two dozen organic pink roses, an orchid, a fortune plant and various arrangements. Early last week the package from Harry and David arrived, sent from her department at Clif.  I posted a blog about Cora and her surgery; it rocketed to number one in number of hits, passing the one about North Beach in a matter of, oh, a day.  The North Beach post, published last October, was the most popular but in less than two weeks Cora’s story had double the amount of hits.  When you’re bright and cheerful and light up a room and make people happy you reap some unsought after rewards.  When you’re a curmudgeonly old bastard you get the corporate flowers and the message that HR requested to be put on the card – like when I had minor surgery last year.  And I’m still wondering how I didn’t even get a bite of one of those Harry and David pears, not one.  Even the dog got some.  Damn. 

Dear Cora, I miss your smiling face and speaking Italian with you.  Please take care and get well soon. (Someone’s been holding out on me because I didn’t know Cora could speak Italian; well, maybe fractured Italian).

During the early recuperative period I’m supposed to be taking care of the house; and I am -- sort of.  But that doesn’t mean that the house isn’t suffering for it.  I’m also doing the shopping and that’s going to raise hell with the checking account.  Cora uses coupons, gets supplies and canned goods from Target and then goes to Food Max for meat and produce.  I go to the local Lucky which I’m guessing got its name because if you come away with what you were looking for then you were damned lucky.  Or maybe it’s just lucky for the grocer’s shareholders because I spend as much on three bags of groceries as Cora does on about ten – I swallowed hard when a bag of grapes was scanned at over eleven bucks.

Cora, You are so missed!  Get well soon-come back strong-don’t retire.  

 

We’ve found out that cooking isn’t exactly like riding a bike; you do forget as I apparently have.  I used to be a pretty fair cook.  Now that I’ve taken over the cooking duties we’re finding, to our palates’ dismay that my cooking skills have taken on a fair amount of rust; as has the taste of our food.  There was the meal of pork chops with tomato sauce; went a little overboard on the tomato.  I would describe it as pork chops bathed in seasoned ketchup.  And then there was the Nicoise Salad with salmon.  The smell of burnt salmon lingered long into the evening, though I was able to salvage enough for the meal. 

Cora, Miss your smiling face.  Can’t wait to have you back. 

There’s been great progress.  While she’s still moving slowly, Cora has been moving around regularly now.  No heavy lifting for a while and contact sports like football and martial arts are absolutely out of the question.  She’s going to be able to cook simple meals which will give the smoke alarm a break. 

Miss Beautiful, I can’t work here without you.  Come back soon. 

And then there’s the silent, menacing specter that’s taken up residence.  We pretend to ignore it but we both know it’s there.  It even has a name – pathology report.  Its presence will make itself more apparent in about a week when Cora has a follow up at which time we hope it will be exorcised for good and forever.  It lingers in our thoughts but we avoid talking about it.  We discussed it briefly the other evening and quickly moved on to something else. 

Cora, My heart and prayers are with you.

Cora, I’ll be keeping you in my thoughts and prayers.  With love

….Amen to that.