Fan Violence

My days of attending professional football games might have just come to an end this past weekend.  No I haven’t been priced out.  Well not yet anyway.  Once the 49ers get their new stadium they’ll likely do what other teams have done and that is to raise ticket prices to a level that only CEOs can afford along with levying a usury personal seat license which will allow me to pay thousands of dollars for the privilege to pay thousands of dollars.  And no I haven’t given up on the local club despite the fact that they’ve been horrible over the past decade.

I’m looking at bailing because the 49ers haven’t made a public offer of awarding hazard pay nor are they going to offer supplemental life insurance in the event that I don’t come home alive.  Last Saturday it became apparent that football is becoming more dangerous for the fans than for the players.  To paraphrase the old joke, last weekend the 49ers and Raiders staged a fight and a football game broke out.

Sad to say this was no joke.  During the game numerous fights broke out in the stadium (Google 49er-Raider fight for the blow by blow).  One man was beaten unconscious in a restroom and was hospitalized in serious condition.  One You Tube video shows a parking lot brawl lasting several minutes that sort of meandered around a section of the lot like a scrum gone insane.  Apparently is was ladies night in the lot as many of the brawlers there were women.  To their boyfriends and husbands I can only say, “You boys sure know how to pick ‘em.”  Those who escaped physically unscathed apparently had to deal with verbal abuse.  According to an L.A. Times article, “Callers to a Bay Area radio show Sunday described navigating a gauntlet of drunk and abusive fans in order to reach the restroom.”  And if you managed to escape the physical and verbal abuse there was just that feeling.  You know the feeling you get when you find yourself driving through the very worst part of town and the engine starts missing and sputtering?  Yeah that feeling.  The Chronicle’s Gwen Knapp described it perfectly, “When I drove in to the main lot, I headed way toward the back to avoid a group of people in 49ers gear who were blocking some open rows, yelling and striking intimidating poses. This was not the typical football rowdiness. In 16 years of covering games at Candlestick, I have never felt unnerved by a crowd, whether I've driven in, taken the game-day bus or ridden on Muni's T line. (Whether in a car or on BART, I've never felt the same level of hostility at the Coliseum, either.) Saturday was different.

But these were just the prelims.  The main event occurred in the parking lot after the game where there was not one, but two shootings.  Apparently both victims will survive, one after being shot several times in the stomach and the other having received relatively minor wounds.  I know that when I’m getting ready to go to the game I go through my checklist; Niner jacket, check; binoculars, check; seat cushion, check; ticket, check; gun, check and double check, lock and load.  Am I missing something here?  Was I out of the office for awhile and not get the memo about going to a sporting event strapped?

In the early eighties I got season tickets to the Forty Niners.  They were a successful team and tickets were impossible to come by if you didn’t hold a season ticket or know someone who did.  During those glory years the stands were peaceable places.  The joke around the league was that Niner fans were white wine sippers and quiche eaters.  Oh there were fights now and then but they were pretty rare occurrences.  There was some heckling that went on between fans of the 49ers and the visitors but for the most part we just dipped our quiche in a nice Chardonnay and enjoyed the games.  You see if you, your guest or someone using your ticket got overly unruly you ran the risk of losing your season ticket; for good.  By the late nineties I was taking my son to games and those were great times.  I had no qualms whatsoever about bringing him.  Yeah he was going to hear some rough language and “F” bombs but nothing that would physically endanger him or scare him.  I should add here that this was still a far cry from when I was a kid.  When I went to a game with my parents, baseball or football, if some fellow’s language went south of salty he was often shushed by those nearby, “Hey knucklehead there’s a kid there, watch the language.”

Some years back the tickets were sacrificed to the axe of the domestic budget.  A few years later the 49ers went from good to worse and tickets became available to the riffraff at best and the bullies and thugs at worse.  There was no waiting list of tens of thousands for season tickets and in a business decision the team apparently abandoned the behave badly and lose your ticket policy.  About three years ago I went to a game against the Cincinnati Bengals and was shocked by the experience.  In that one night there were probably more fights and near fights than I had seen in all of my years of being a season ticket holder.  As we left the game a fiftyish Bengal fan and his wife talked about the verbal abuse they took during the course of the game.  She had apparently been the target of personal insults.  Like Ms. Knapp, I came away feeling that something about the so called fan base had horribly mutated. 

That was the last game that I’ve been to and it might be the last game I go to in some time, if ever again.  When my son was still a child I looked forward to the day when he would be old enough to come to a game and appreciate it and I cherish the good times we had; great tailgate barbecues, memorable games and a ride home in a limo after the 49ers beat the Cowboys in a championship game.  But as things stand now I have no desire to run gauntlets let alone expose my wife or grandkids to louts, thugs, jerks and knot heads who think that a Glock is part of the game ensemble.   

This is where I can go on the tirade of we’re just a violent, rude; me first, in your face society and it’s just exacerbated by being an out of control gun crazed society.  And I believe all of that to be true.  But we’re also a money talks society and the NFL and the teams have shirked their responsibilities because they’re afraid of turning off loyal if “boisterous” fans who spend money.  Hopefully last Saturday’s violence orgy is the last wake-up call the league needs (they’ve been ignoring years of fan violence alarms).  But hell would I be surprised if the league just dropped all pretense, went all in and decided to start marketing body armor in team colors?  Not one whit.  After all I do keep hearing that "it's just a business."

Here’s the proverbial bottom line.  Team loyalty and fan exuberance notwithstanding, going to a sporting event is supposed to be a fun, family friendly activity like going to the movies, the aquarium or the amusement park.  We shouldn’t have to consider personal safety as a major factor when deciding on an outing.  Traditionally a dad looks forward to that first pro sports game with his son and he shouldn’t have to get in a moral wrestling match with himself over whether he’s exposing his boy to a dangerous situation.  What is wrong with us? 

Sunday Coffee IV

Most of us spend the first six days of each week sowing wild oats; then we go to church on Sunday and pray for a crop failure.
                Fred Allen (comedian)

Another change of venue this Sunday.  At the other Starbuck’s in Hercules, right on the border with Rodeo.  I guess you could say that Rodeo is the ugly stepsister of Hercules.  You could say it, but I won’t.  I think that Rodeo has more charm than Hercules, even with its Conoco-Phillips oil refinery.  Rodeo has a lonely downtown that’s maybe 50 percent vacant.  The face of the downtown doesn’t look like it’s had a lift in 50 years.  I think that’s part of the charm of the place.  In some places it seems that the murky San Pablo Bay waters lap right up to Parker Ave, the main drag.  I just wish there were more businesses here.  There are some venerable old places here though.  El Sol is a Mexican joint that’s been around for fifty years.  The anecdotal evidence is that it’s authentic and authentically good.  Ricky’s Corner is a local dive bar which I’m told offers some killer broasted chicken.  As best I can tell broasted chicken is kind of a kissing cousin to fried chicken.  I think once I’m off the blood thinners I’ll pay a visit to Ricky's.  Be fun to go into a dark, dank tavern with Kessler gracing the back bar.

Broasted chicken was once one of our Friday night staples.  I would pick up a bucket from a restaurant called Tommy’s in next door Pinole.  Tommy’s was a diner with a bar off to the side.  The bar is where you went to order your chicken.  It was dimly lit and decorated with owner Tommy Prather’s hobby memorabilia; hunting, fishing and golf.  Decorated is a kind way of saying that a new memento was hung on an unoccupied patch of wall.  I would go in of a Friday evening, nurse a martini or two and wait for my chicken, sitting at the bar amongst the regulars; retired blue collar guys and brassy blue haired women.   Bulging plain white bucket, potato wedges on the bottom, chicken on the top and grease seeping through the bucket.  With a spritz of hot sauce, nothing better.  Portly Tommy Prather who prowled behind the bar sharing anecdotes with the regulars passed away many years ago.  The restaurant is gone now replaced by something un-memorable.  Tommy was charitable to a fault and the community is much the worse for his passing.

Listening to Janis singing Me and Bobby McGee.  It’s revered as one of the great songs of all time.  She still sounds to me like the cat that unwisely swished her tail underneath that rocking chair.

This is strictly a generational thing and I’m going to come off as an unrepentant geezer but it seems to me that slang today lacks something.

 For instance, I often hear, “word.”  According to the Urban Dictionary, “word” means well said or is a statement of agreement.  “Word”.  There’s nothing there; just a word.  Word. 

Now consider the many colorful terms I used to hear to describe a jail; calaboose, the joint, the can, the cooler, stir, up the river and my favorite, the stony lonesome.

“Broseph” according to the Urban Dictionary describes a good friend.  Yeeeaaah, it’s okay I suppose but not up to, pal, pard, side kick, chum and buddy (which I call my grandson all the time).

It’s not that all of today’s slang is bland but much of it seems to lack imagination and color.  Just sayin’…

They're playing Cab Calloway’s Minnie the Moocher, being covered by a pretender. 

Speaking of moochers, yesterday’s big news is that Kim Kardashian got married yesterday.  Who in the bleep (and I’d really like to drop the “F” bomb here) cares?  I say moocher because she’s one of those rich socialites who feed off the fame trough for doing basically, well, nothing.  She is as the Bible scripture says, like the lilies of the field; “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.” 

The manager of this Starbuck’s is working this morning.  She looks strikingly like Sandra Bullock.  And that’s pretty dad gum striking.

Kimmie’s wedding apparently trumped the news that two hikers being held by Iran were sentenced for spying by a religious zealot, kangaroo court.  They’re going to spend the next 6 to 8 years of their young lives in an Iranian calaboose.  And this is why I preach (pun intended) that we need to beware of politicians who wear their religion on their sleeves; who make decisions because they “prayed on” the issue or, God forbid, God told them to make that decision.  It’s not a liberal/conservative issue.  It’s a first amendment issue and yes I do consider myself a Christian.

Kim also was more important news than your paycheck if you’re a working stiff.  Seems the GOP is actually considering raising a tax.  No we aren’t taxing the rich or an oil company.  A payroll tax deduction that was temporarily reduced last year from 6.2 percent to 4.2 percent is due to expire and the GOP is hatching a plan to let it die.  We don’t want the rich and business to pay more taxes because they’re the “job creators”.  I’m still waiting to see them create all those jobs.  So is the legion of jobless.

I’m walking with a cane these days.  That’s a big step for me.  I’ve gotten rid of the crutch which was an improvement over the two crutches, which was much better than two crutches and a cast.  I won’t burden you with my problems but the short version is that I broke my ankle in May.  When the therapist told me I would be getting a cane I felt like it would be much more distinguished than the crutch.  I asked him if it came with a deerstalker hat and a pipe.  He wasn’t amused, “Just take the cane.”  For the uninitiated a deerstalker hat is also known as a Sherlock Holmes hat.  Now you have something to share at cocktail parties.  Do they still have cocktail parties?  They did when I was a kid.  Best described as happy hour at somebody’s house.  Anyway, I got the cane and was very disappointed.  It’s a black, sterile aluminum thing with a button and notches to adjust the height.  I’m hoping that this cane arrangement is very temporary but I’m still tempted to get a nice polished wooden one topped with an artistic porcelain or pewter knob.  They even have canes which hold a hidden brandy flask.  I could see myself with one of those.  Be a nice way to fortify the morning coffee.  A beret would be a great accessory.

My daughter and the grandkids are visiting today.  They should be getting up anytime now.  Time to go home for some quality time.

Finally I would like to thank my good friend Scott for pushing this little rag of mine.  I’ll remember him when I’ve become a rich and famous writer.  I would love to write a book.  Working on an idea about a bespectacled British kid named Harry who dabbles in magic and consorts with wizards. Nah, it’ll never fly.

American Dreaming

"Kill my boss?  Do I dare live out the American Dream?"
                                                              Homer Simpson

We hear about this thing called the American Dream on almost a daily basis.  A fellow wins the lottery, it’s the American Dream.  An athlete signs a pro contract; he’s achieved the American Dream.  A young family moves into their first home and they’ve bought into the American Dream.  An immigrant gets his citizenship and with it, a shot at the American Dream.

What is the American Dream? Is it success, is it wealth, is it fame?  Is it something you can lay your hands on or is it an ideal?

In 1931, James Truslow Adams, in his book, Epic of America, coined the phrase and gave it his own definition.  Adams described The American Dream as “that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for every man, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement. It is a difficult dream for the European upper classes to interpret adequately, also too many of us ourselves have grown weary and mistrustful of it. It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.” Expanding on the idea Adams wrote, “The American Dream that has lured tens of millions of all nations to our shores in the past century has not been a dream of material plenty, though that has doubtlessly counted heavily. It has been a dream of being able to grow to fullest development as a man and woman, unhampered by the barriers which had slowly been erected in the older civilizations, unrepressed by social orders which had developed for the benefit of classes rather than for the simple human being of any and every class.”

James Adams coined the phrase, the American Dream in 1931 but what he did was merely to attach a name to an ethos that was described 100 years before when a young Frenchman, Alexis de Tocqueville arrived in the United States to study American democracy and culture. His subsequent book, Democracy in America was his seminal commentary and the first major study, one that was both laudatory and critical, of American Society and what would eventually become known as The American Dream. More than 200 years before Tocqueville, Puritan minister John Winthrop had his own American Dream, one of a New World settlement which would become Plymouth Massachusetts. In his dream, the Puritan community would be a “city upon a hill” with “the eyes of all people upon” them.  In the intervening years between Winthrop and Tocqueville and Adams and in the period since Adams the American Dream has become different things to different people.

I don’t think that in his wildest dream, American or otherwise would Adams have thought those three little words would be so widely used, by such a broad range of people and with so many different connotations.  Its mention seems almost indispensable in a presidential speech.

Jimmy Carter in his inaugural, “The American dream endures. We must once again have full faith in our country—and in one another. I believe America can be better. We can be even stronger than before.”

Ronald Reagan in his State of the Union, “As we work to make the American Dream real for all, we must also look to the condition of America's families. Struggling parents today worry how they will provide their children the advantages that their parents gave them. In the welfare culture, the breakdown of the family, the most basic support system, has reached crisis proportions — in female and child poverty, child abandonment, horrible crimes and deteriorating schools.”

Bill Clinton in his State of the Union, “Martin Luther King’s dream was the American Dream. His quest is our quest: the ceaseless striving to live out our true creed. Our history has been built on such dreams and labors. And by our dreams and labors we will redeem the promise of America in the 21st century.”

Barack Obama in his State of the Union, “As Robert Kennedy told us, "The future is not a gift. It is an achievement." Sustaining the American Dream has never been about standing pat. It has required each generation to sacrifice, and struggle, and meet the demands of a new age.”

I'm sensing a common theme in these speeches that the American Dream, is there, it’s out there, we haven’t reached it yet so we have to keep striving.  And oh by the way if you give me another four years I pledge to get us there.  Maybe I'm just an old cynic.

At least presidents see it in a positive if distant light as opposed to say, George Carlin who in condemning a society he saw ruled by big business said, “The owners of this country know the truth.  It’s called the American Dream, cause you have to be asleep to believe it.”

And song writers?  Well they can be a curmudgeonly lot when it comes to matters of American culture.  Neil Young’s American Dream is about a crooked politician while Christian rock group Casting Crowns portrays a man’s quest for the American Dream as the cause of the breakup of his family.

The dream is seen through the cynical eyes of a character called The Engineer in the musical, Miss Saigon.

what's that I smell in the air?
the American dream
sweet as a suite in Bel-air
the American dream
girls can buy tits by the pair
the American dream
bald people think they'll grow hair
the American dream
call girls are lining time square
the American dream
bums there have money to spare
the American dream
cars that have bars take you there
the American dream
on stage each night: Fred Astaire
the American dream

Writer Ursula K. DeGuin in a 1983 commencement address at Mills College in Oakland Ca, "Success is somebody else's failure.  Success is the American Dream we can keep dreaming because most people in most places, including thirty million of ourselves, live wide awake in the terrible reality of poverty."

Journalism professor David Abrahamson has an idea that the quest for the dream leads to crime, "The American Dream is in part, responsible for a great deal of crime and violence because people feel that the country owes them not only a living but a good living.”  

Novelist J.G. Ballard took Abrahamson a step further with assertion that the dream isn't just a national problem, its a global problem, "The American Dream has run out of gas. The car has stopped. It no longer supplies the world with its images, its dreams, its fantasies. No more. It's over. It supplies the world with its nightmares now: the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, Vietnam." 

To hear all these folks tell it why in the hell are any of us working, striving, saving, cheating, robbing, gambling and finagling to get a piece of that broken promise?  And make no mistake most of us are trying mightily to get as big a piece of the dream as we can.  Do you know anybody who actually buys a lottery ticket because he wants to support the schools?

Are Neil Young, J.G. Ballard, et al, correct in their derision of the dream?  I suspect that most, if not all of those folks who so roundly and cavalierly castigate the American Dream are living pretty American Dreamy lives themselves.  And if they aren't living the dream in the traditional sense I would bet my little slice of the dream that they have the means to do so it they so wish.  It's an easy thing to look down your nose at what you consider bourgeois materialism when the old stock portfolio is secure and the wolves aren't baying at the door.

What's most important, to my purposes here and to my readership (Scant as it may be. Hey share the wealth, pass the link to this blog around), is what everyday America thinks of the American Dream and not what a comfortable rock star thinks is his uniquely clever criticism.  This blogger hopes to cover on a fairly irregular basis in the forms of interviews, my own personal experiences some comments from readers and some historical perspectives that oft coveted and elusive of dreams, the American Dream. 

Sunday Coffee 3

I’ve gone for a change of scenery for this morning’s Sunday coffee; Peet’s in neighboring Pinole.  Peet’s is largely a California chain although there are a few locations in Oregon, Colorado and of course, Seattle.  Walking in, I noticed that there are outlets galore here.  Ah, more computer friendly than Starbucks.  Logging onto the web I found that I needed an access code which I was kindly provided.  One hour; hmm, not so user friendly.  I'm just going to have to break down and get 4G and the Luddite in me is going to chafe at that notion.

Peet's tries to be a bit more highbrow than Starbucks.  The mood music is jazz or classical whereas Starbuck's leans towards pop.  Peet likes wood paneling and leather(ette) and the lighting is on the dim side.  If Starbuck's is the family room of coffeehouses then Peet's is dad's den.

Dad's den.  For the uninitiated, the best way to describe dad's den is that it was the man cave of fifties and sixties television.  For discussion purposes lets consider Ward Cleaver's (Of Leave it to Beaver) den/man cave.  While a common theme seems to be leather(ette) and wood there are some important generational distinctions to be noted.  Today's man caves are highly infused with sports and games, technology and testosterone; pool tables, sports team memorabilia, computers, big screen TVs, sound systems and weaponry.  Ward Cleaver's, den was simple, wood paneling, leather chairs, bound books and a big desk.  It veritably screamed for a crystal decanter of scotch but Ward didn't drink; well at least not on TV.  Another generational difference is dad himself.  Today's dad hangs out in his man cave sporting flip flops and a baseball cap worn backwards (guys, unless you're under 12 or a catcher you might want to consider turning that cap with the bill facing front).  Ward Cleaver didn't "hang out" in his den (beatniks hung out). Ward, in a manly, dignified manner read the newspaper or did important paperwork while wearing a business suit.  If he was dressing down Ward would be in slacks and cardigan, but would never lose that tie.  I don't know if I ever saw Ward crack one of those books. Maybe they were all for show.  I'd be a well read guy if I ever, you know, opened a book.  Ward's den was nothing if not a reminder of a fifties male dominated society.  It was here in his patient Solomonic wisdom that Ward dispensed sage advise, passed sentence on the offspring's misdemeanors or made a final decision on important household legislation.  Ward in his den was familial chairman of the board, the tribal judge in his chambers and the president of the house all rolled in to one.
 

I've digressed horribly from Peet. When I was handed my coffee the young woman behind the counter said, “We brewed Major Dickason today.”  I offered that it didn’t seem like such good news for the major. After all what had he ever done to them?  She didn’t seem at all amused.  Like I said, they're highbrow at Peet’s.  Major Dickason is the Peet’s flagship blend.  Just for fun I Googled Major Dickason, uh, so to speak.  Is it my prurient little mind working overtime or does that sound kind of kinky?  Googling Major Dickason.

Would I get slapped if I went to a bar and asked a woman if she would like to get together and google?  I shouldn’t offer to google with strange women; I am married.  I never had any luck at that sort of thing anyway.  Except for one time and that one didn’t really work out as planned.  Linda, my significant other at the time (it isn't PC to say girlfriend anymore is it?), and I decided to play out a little fantasy and go to Perry’s near the San Francisco Marina.  Perry’s on Union Street was a fern bar, well-known as the “meat market” as the saying goes, in San Francisco.  Henry Africa’s another fern bar over on Van Ness Avenue was the other popular bar where you might meet your next match.  And then there was always the Safeway in the Marina District.  No Match Dot Com, and Neil Warren hadn’t the vaguest idea yet that he would launch eHarmony. The little game with Linda was to go into Perry’s separately as strangers, “meet”, chat and go home together.  Place was packed on a Friday night and it took forever to get a drink and then forever again to spot Linda in the crowd.  Finally found her, sidled on up, and got ready to hit her with a clever pre-googling line when she latched on  like a leach and said, “Don’t you ever leave me in here alone.”  While I'd dawdled over my drink she'd apparently had some offers to google.  We stayed for a bit and decided it really wasn’t our type of place.  Perry’s was yuppie.  Working retail, Linda and I were well below yuppie pay grade.  Yuppies were materialistic and could afford to be.  We were just living paycheck to paycheck and for us materialism was a new pair of jeans.  We finished our drinks and went home.  I won’t say whether we googled or not.  A true gentleman doesn’t google and brag about it.

I digressed again didn't I.  Major Dickason was a real fellow who lived in Berkeley and helped Peet develop the blend of coffee that bears his name.  It’s a pretty potent brew with a good sturdy backbone.  Not something the frou-frou frappa-crappa crowd would go for.  I like the taste of my coffee so I order mine black, no room for cream or sugar.  I think us no frills folks should have our own express line at the coffee joints.  Standing in line and listening to someone order one of those “blended drinks” is like getting a root canal; “Yes I would like a caramel brule frappuchino, ½ soy, ¼ half and half and ¼ 2%, steam it for 12 seconds please with a 2 count spray of cream and just a dash of chocolate powder and it has to be at 198.3 degrees.”  And then the barista has to do it over because it was at 201 degrees.  Seriously?  It’s a coffee drink not a 60 dollar Porterhouse at Mortons  ordered medium rare.  Now that’s something to be anal about.

A family comes in looking like they're dressed for church.  Even the little boy is dressed in a natty gray suit.  Poor kid. 

Let’s consider coffee.  When I was a child coffee was brewed on the stove top in a pot, called a percolator.  Grounds went into a basket in the top of the pot; water went into a bottom chamber, was boiled and forced through a tube that distributed the hot water into the basket holding the coffee.  A little clear glass bubble on the top of the pot would let you see the color of the coffee as the blackening liquid continued to flow through the tube.  When the liquid was the color of coffee it was time to pour.  At some point my parents upgraded to an electric percolator.  Same theory, different heat source.  Either way, those baskets weren’t fine filters, making coffee some pretty tough, gritty stuff; especially that last crunchy cup.  

As I was just getting out of high school and starting to drink coffee in small amounts, Mr. Coffee made his debut.  Mr. Coffee was shilled by former baseball great Joe DiMaggio who unfortunately is probably best known by most Americans for being a coffee maker pitchman and the subject of a lyric in a Paul Simon song.  Do people outside of the San Francisco Bay Area where he was born and New York where he played for the Yanks know he was a hall of famer who went by the nicknames, “Joltin’ Joe” and “The Yankee Clipper?”

Joe became the face of Mr. Coffee of his own volition. But what about those famous folks whose names have been purloined by entrepreneurs with a questionable sense of propriety? The thought occurred to me as I was driving down highway 880 through Oakland when I was passed by a van emblazoned, LONDON JACK’S CLEANERS.  No, that’s just not right.  I pulled up alongside and there under the name was an image of the great writer himself.  A slap in the face that the great local writer, amateur boxer might have responded to with a solid right cross to the proprietor’s jaw.  I’ve also seen that a plumbing company has appropriated Benjamin Franklin’s name and likeness; a founding father relegated to stopping leaks and rooting toilet lines.  And then there’s Mark Twain Redi-mix in Twain’s own town of Hannibal, Missouri.

My hour of wi-fi is about to run out.  This post has bounced around like one of those old Super Balls we used to play with as kids.  Blame it on Peet's coffee. I told you its strong stuff.

America 2

(a continuation on dichotomy and change in America)
 
I grew up in middle class suburbia, the embodiment of the dream for all Americans, white and not so white.  But in the fifties and sixties only white dreamers were invited to the American garden.  Even the great Willie Mays couldn’t break into the tony enclave of Hillsboro, which bordered San Mateo where I grew up.  Say hey Willie, thanks for the baseball thrills but you really don’t belong here.  The only black men that I ever saw were in service jobs or on TV playing someone in a service job.  We never saw Hispanics and most of the Asians we saw were gardeners, although Asians were beginning to make inroads.  Diversity has hit the middle class but just in time to see the middle class headed for the endangered species list.  Out here in Contra Costa County comfortable opulence lives a mere ten minute BMW ride away from crushing poverty; opulence remains comfortably oblivious to poverty.  We're poised at the edge of a social structure that we once looked down our comfortable noses at; the one we thought was relegated to the banana republics that we tsk, tsked.  Are we becoming banana republicans?

America is the country where “money talks and bullshit walks” yet bullshit is often the wellspring of money.  If you have your doubts take a peek at a television commercial for a miracle diet plan or Google Bernie Madoff; two glowing examples of BS raking in the dollars.  We covet riches and at the same time proclaim that money is the root of all evil and that greed is the cause of our national ills.  Alexis de Tocqueville observed, “As one digs deeper into the national character of the Americans, one sees that they have sought the value of everything in this world only in the answer to this single question: how much money will it bring in?”  In other words, “what’s in it for me.”  Yet amidst the greed and the selfishness we can be the most charitable people on Earth.  In America, “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” Darwinism exists, albeit uncomfortably at times, with the notion of giving a guy a second chance, a third chance, even a fourth.  When a disaster strikes somewhere Americans are quick to pull out the checkbook or show up at the disaster site with sleeves rolled up or food for the victims.

This baby boomer has seen a lot of change over nearly 60 years and it isn’t just the obvious technological booms like the evolution of the phone from a big, black, clunky rotary device to something you carry in your pocket: a device that can cause a traffic accident, that you can take a picture of the damage with and then use to pay off the repair bill.  The first car I knew was my dad’s Studebaker and just about every car on the road was some variation of Ford, GM or American Motors and nobody had any idea that the Japanese could build a car.  The staple American diet was meat and potatoes and when we ate fish it was cooked and there was no such thing as a “food police.”  You went out for drinks at a place that was dark and didn’t allow anyone under the age of 21, offered hard boiled eggs at the bar and the bottles behind that bar were labeled Fleischmann’s and Old Grand Dad; no froufrou Kettle One or Maker’s Mark.  The only “tini” was a MARtini and it was gin, a wave of vermouth and one olive.  Booze was hard, not designer.  Teachers were respected by parents, students and society and woe to the kid who pissed off the teacher.  God was an angry, old, white Christian guy who every good American believed in and who carried the government stamp of approval, by God.  It’s changed now and most of that change is good.  We’ve become a more accepting, better-rounded society.  On the other hand, along the way we’ve come to the conclusion that rudeness is justified by calling it assertiveness and some values that now seem quaint and archaic should never have gone the way of that clunky phone.  We’re a busy, stressed out bunch now and when we work we work scared, afraid that we might only last as long as our next mistake.  Does anyone work for a company for twenty years anymore?   

There are those of my generation and generations past who remember and yearn for the good old days.  Even Michael Moore in a recent article bemoaned the passing of the “good old days.”  But Mr. Moore and the truth are often estranged.  I remember one old timer who said of the “good old days”, “they never were.” That was my dad and he was right of course.  Every generation creates its mythological “good old days”.  I suppose my generation’s was the fifties.  You know the fifties?  That was when everyone lived in fear of the “Red menace” and nuclear holocaust and part of the grade school routine was ducking under your desk in a tuck when the air raid siren went off.  We later joked that the tuck was the ideal position for kissing your ass goodbye.  And if you were a person of color those "good old days" weren't so good.  

Oh you’ll read this and you’ll say, “What a dreary look at a great country.”  It really isn’t that way though.  If you can stomach it, reread the America posts.  You’ll see that I’ve found so much of the change to be refreshing and progressive.  Now what I like might be exactly what you don’t like and vice versa.  But isn’t that the essence of America’s greatness?  So many different notions of what we should be are what make America free.  The vitriolic ideologies and the angry bile would have us all be of one mind and on one single minded course.  We’ve seen those societies throughout history and we’ve seen their failures.  My father risked his young life in Europe fighting against a nation that adopted a single mindedness.

 Do Republicans piss me off?  Oh hell yes.  Do I want to banish them to perdition?  In my angrier moments yes, but on reflection they belong, just as liberals like I belong.  Those who I damn to perdition are the ideologues that leave no room for dissent, have no inclination to compromise and avoid negotiation like a child avoids broccoli.

I’ve been critical of this country.  I’m critical of my children, to and beyond a fault if you were to ask my daughter.  As Americans we often pride ourselves on being critical because it’s how we demand and achieve excellence.  Americans lionize the late Vince Lombardi who spared no criticism and consistently challenged his players to never accept complacency.  As good Americans we should challenge our nation to be great and most importantly to be good and honorable and never accept that old slogan, “My country, right or wrong.”

Sunday Coffee 2

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.

    Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson from Sunday Morning Coming Down

It’s a windy, cold, steel gray morning.  Seven A.M.  It looks like seven A.M. Hercules is still asleep as less than a handful are here at Starbucks. 

Someone has been up for a while this morning.  The sweet, smoky aroma of barbecue from the Kinder’s Barbecue next door is seeping into the coffee shop.  A hot link sandwich slathered in a tangy, spicy sauce for lunch is sounding pretty good.

The fellow next to me isn’t asleep either.  He’s Skyping with someone, taking the rudeness of the public cell phone conversation to a new level.  Meanwhile John Lee Hooker and Bonnie Raitt are “In the Mood for Love” on the in-house music.

A quick look at the news tells me that a lot of folks haven’t been in the mood for love.

A cyclist was struck and killed by a Chevrolet Avalanche in Los Angeles.  The driver of the truck was in a road rage confrontation with the driver of a Kia and cut over onto the shoulder to pass, striking and killing the 62 year old rider.  Some cyclists are cruising past the strip mall right now.  Good luck guys and girls.  I’m what you would call a part time cyclist.  I pick and choose my ride carefully.  There are some country roads around here that are very popular with cyclists but I stay off of them; they’re narrow and very winding.  I figure riding is a crapshoot to begin with.  I don’t feel like stacking more odds against me.  That poor guy in L.A. rolled snake eyes.  This isn’t to say that cyclists don’t piss me off.  The ones that cruise through stop signs and ride about three abreast regardless of the traffic annoy the hell out of me.  It’s not just because of the unsafe riding; it’s mostly because those idiots are making it harder for those of us who try to do it safely and legally.  There are already plenty of tensions bubbling between riders and drivers.

It’s like people who carry their little dogs into Starbucks or the grocery store making it hard for those dog owners among us who do it right and responsibly.  Just because little Fifi can fit in the palm of your hand doesn’t mean you get to carry her into places where she's not supposed to be.  Every time that I see some knot head pack Muffy in a bag into the local super and get away with it I wish that I could go fetch my 70 pound Gordon Setter, put her under my arm and parade around the market with her big squirming self.  Do you think I’d get away with it? 

One day I'm carrying her into Starbucks

It was a bad day in Afghanistan yesterday.  Thirty American and seven Afghan soldiers were killed when their helicopter was shot down.  Six French soldiers were killed in another incident.  Did I miss something?  Wasn’t the mission to get Bin Laden?  Can we get out now?  Hasn’t it dawned on this president and the last that Afghanistan is known as “the graveyard of armies?”

A woman was killed in a shootout in Oakland last night.  According to The Chronicle the shooters were gunning for people in a rival group but hit the victims (the deceased woman and her aunt who was wounded) who were not involved in the dispute.  It looks like as a society we’ve decided that there is going to be a limitless supply of guns.  Anybody can have as many as he wants.  If that’s the course we’ve decided to take can we just get firearms training for everyone? Yes, everyone, even the criminals.  That way maybe a few less innocent bystanders, many of them children, will get hit.  Not trying to be flippant here, just pragmatic.

In other news,  “A politician who emailed a woman nude photos of himself that were later posted on a GOP activist's website announced his resignation Tuesday and said he'll consider all legal options to have the pictures taken down.”  The pictures show the 53 year old politician standing naked in front of a mirror.  He sent them to a woman who he had been corresponding online with for several years.  She asked for them and he did what any straight thinking fellow would do; he sent them.  I might be going out on a limb here but my guess is that nobody, N-O-B-O-D-Y, wants to see pictures of a 53 year old politician showing what he was born with and what’s grown since.  Nobody that is except for a political foe.  Is it just me or do politicians (usually male ones) seem to be getting more and more galactically STUPID?

DC has a high rate of drinking!!

The Chron. has a link to a “Map of Sins” posted on The Daily.  Washington D.C. has the highest rate of alcohol abuse.  No. Really?  What a shocking revelation.  I wonder if that correlates to all of the middle aged naked politicians on the web.  Utah has the lowest rate of alcohol and drug abuse but at 5.4% the highest rate of folks who’ve considered suicide.  You know, maybe an occasional Maker’s on the rocks isn’t such a bad thing.  Alaska has the highest rate of people who’ve smoked weed in the past month.  Double the nationwide rate.  I’m not making any Palin jokes here.  You can, but I won’t.

I should actually be on my work computer this Sunday morning.  Too much work at the office and not enough time.  My wife is getting ready to retire in a year and a half.  Theoretically I’m up in 7 more years, that is until the government pushes it out again.  I’m tired of it.  I’m seriously considering retiring early, way early, packing up the wife and a few belongings and moving to her native Philippines.  Try my hand at more serious writing.  Teach, maybe?  I know she wants to do volunteer work.  Between the news and just being tired of doing something that I no longer enjoy, The PI is looking pretty sweet.

It’s a chilly Sunday, but it is Sunday.  A good day to set aside the war, the budget bickering, the shootings and naked politicians, have that hot link sandwich and spend some nice quiet time with my wife.  It really doesn’t get any better than that.

America I

 In a progressive country change is constant; change is inevitable.  Benjamin Disraeli.


What a country”, Yakov Smirnoff used to say.  For those who don’t recall, Yakov is the comedian from the (now former) Soviet Union who made his living comparing his homeland with America. “I left Russia, and then I got to New York, I got off the plane and I see my name written, Smirnoff. America loves Smirnoff, I said to myself, what a country.”

What a country indeed.  It’s the land of my birth, the only home I’ve known for nearly sixty years.  During his much shorter time here I wonder if Yakov has found it to be the paradox that I’ve found it to be.  It’s a country that not only hasn’t figured out what it is; it doesn’t seem to know what it wants to be or what it should be.  What change I've seen in six decades.  And I'm not talking about the television evolving from a big console to a pocket sized device that does everything but grind your coffee.  I'm talking about the tough change; the cultural, societal change. The change that creates conflict.

When I was in grade school, we were taught that America is a “melting pot”, a place where people from different countries, backgrounds and cultures all come together to add their own ingredients to a uniquely American stew.  But the key ingredient in the recipe for this melting pot has always been assimilation.  Park your culture and your language at Ellis Island and you’re welcome.    

As I was growing up, a notion came along that maybe the melting pot wasn’t such a good thing.  That idea gained traction in 1968, when students at San Francisco State demanded and got the nation’s first Ethnic Studies program.  The whole idea of Ethnic Studies was ridiculed of course; basket weaving with a sort of ethno-sociological twist.  At the time I was one of the cynics posing that oft asked question; “What in the hell could anybody hope to do with an Ethnic Studies degree?”  I long ago changed my opinion and since 1968 many colleges and universities have done the same, offering their own Ethnic Studies programs.  But that’s not to say that the discipline isn’t free of detractors.  I only need look to my neighboring state of Arizona which recently enacted a law that takes deliberate aim at Ethnic Studies.  The most salient provision prohibits classes which "promote resentment toward a race or class of people, are designed for particular ethnic groups or advocate ethnic solidarity instead of treatment of pupils as individuals.”  Folks clinging to that “melting pot” idea, trying to push the pendulum the other way.  Anger at those who refuse assimilation.

Shortly after I graduated college I started living and working in the City of San Francisco and was horrified to board the 38 Geary to hear the babbling Chinese, Spanish, Tagalog, Russian and who knew what other foreign tongue. This is after all, America I reasoned; let’s all speak American. Thirty some years later I find that mixture as American as apple pie; or maybe I should say as American as chow fun, menudo, adobo or piroshky.  From my perspective we’ve broadened our horizons, enriched our culture and even added a measure of charm.  But there are plenty reading this who’ll argue that America as a culture is becoming watered down and bastardized.  Could some of those folk be the tourists visiting San Francisco's Chinatown to see China in America?  Isn’t it quaint to hear Chinese spoken in America and see those pagoda style buildings, buy some cheap jade or a tee shirt with Chinese characters that say who knows what?  Just so long as it doesn’t go beyond the boundaries of that little ghetto.  Japanese is ichiban in Japantown and Italian so old world in Little Italy but let’s just leave those languages within their enclaves.  They're a sort of real life Epcot and the residents not so much people as attractions.  An American conflict.  Are we a “melting pot” or an international potluck?  Do other nations have such a conflict?  Do they worry enough about it to have a conflict?

  

In America depending on your god of choice you can go to the mosque that sits in proximity to the temple near the cathedral down the block from the Baptist Church which is cattycorner to the Methodist Church that sits a couple doors down from the tavern that’s next door to the bank. We pride ourselves on religious freedom except when, “Your religion stinks," as one of my wife’s co-workers once told a Jehovah’s Witness officemate.  It’s in the First Amendment; that oft quoted and frequently misunderstood clause which says you can worship anyone or anything you like from Jesus to Allah to Buddha to John Barleycorn and even that other almighty, the dollar.  Religious freedom is a simple concept unless you’re a pizza magnate who would be president; a president who would see nothing at all wrong with banning mosques.  The pizza monger who would be king?  Just another case of failing to put the theory of The Constitution into practice.  There seems to be a lot of that going around these days; trampling The Constitution.  Trampling The Constitution is all over the internet.  If you doubt that just Google, “trampling The Constitution.”  Most of it is ideological rhetoric about one president or another “trampling The Constitution.”  No, trampling is the everyday stuff, like the guy who’s going to invite me to leave “his” country for writing this stuff.  Or the “good neighbor” who etched a swastika in a Jewish woman’s car here in Hercules.  Or the legion of folks across the nation who are willing to drag Casey Anthony to the gallows even after a jury acquitted her.  We cherish The Constitution until it becomes an inconvenience.  And then we're willing to do some serious trampling.  Isn't it when the going gets tough, when we're ready to give in to our baser emotions that the very value of that document becomes most apparent?  

In his 1831 work, Democracy in America, the French aristocrat Alexi de Tocqueville wrote that discussing politics is “the only pleasure an American knows.”  Nearly two centuries later that still holds true; or maybe it doesn’t.  It’s become very trendy these days to say that civility in pursuing that “pleasure” (as Tocqueville put it) of political discourse has disappeared.   I’d like to take the opportunity to disagree.  No, not that civility has disappeared.  I disagree with the premise that civility in political discourse ever existed.   Civility has been absent from politics since Caesar gasped “Et tu Brute” after being shivved by his erstwhile pal, Marcus Brutus.  And was there any civility in calling Andrew Jackson’s mother a whore in the middle of a presidential election?  Maybe she was a whore but it still wasn’t very civil to put it out there like that.   No sir, I hold no delusions about American political discourse; it’s mean and nasty and as for myself I can be as uncivil and uncouth as a radio talk show host with friend, family or stranger and then sit down with my counterpart over a cold beer.  Isn’t that really the way it should be?  Unfortunately we’ve let discourse harden into ideological walls and created a nation stalled, divided and, many would say, in some real trouble.  In this electronic, information age, free speech, a cornerstone of our liberty has run amok and turned us into supplicants to ideologies that seek to stifle that self-same freedom in others.  And to all of this let’s add the irony that we’re all in all a politically apathetic lot. The last time that 60% of the voting age population turned out for a national election I was a junior in high school and not since I was in grade school has the voting eligible turnout even touched 40% in a mid-term election.  We have an electoral system that is the envy of other countries yet we take it for granted, tune out, drop out, complain that we elect crooks to office and then blame someone else for our woes.  Maybe Tocqueville had it all wrong.  To be continued...