They waddled out onto the sand, cigarillos in hand. The man was tall and fat. The women were short and fat. In their fifties. The redhead, the brave one, kicked off her shoes and went into the sea up to her ankles.
“The water's hawt, my Gawd!” she said.
“Is it,” said the brunette.
“Yeah!” The redhead laughed.
“Hey!” said the man. He took a puff. “Hey, whyn't you swim to Paris!”
They laughed again. Even the brunette.
I like when people laugh. But I ignored them and stared out to sea. Storms were passing by, and the sun was setting behind us, and the sky was painted with more shades of blue and green, violet and yellow, than I could ever have imagined. The sea was thirty different shades of iron gray blue, and a couple boats rode the horizon.
I turned and walked back to the 1A. A family came down the path through the plantlife that lines the highway. A chubby kid and his big sister and mom and dad, swimsuits, towels, an inflated floaty thing. Thongs slapped on their feet.
“Beach,” said the dad. “There it is.”
Their duckling line continued on down to the water. I went back to my car. I’d had the entire coast all to myself when I got there, for all of half a minute. No one else, just a line of empty beach chairs in perfect rows. A nice fresh beach for a family just off the plane from, what, Pennsylvania or somewhere, for their week’s Florida vacation. Awesome.
The sky was unbelievable. More variation, more color, more structure than I will see in a hundred California sunsets. The houses along the 1A, Ocean Blvd, were unbelievable too. Delray Beach, Highland Beach, Boca Raton. They got money, my Gawd! I always wonder: What did these people do to get so rich? Why the hell didn’t I do that too? But I was too lazy to start a record company or a luxury boat dealership or become a professional jazz-rock fusion musician who jams with Herbie Hancock as my plans in tenth grade had me doing. So someone else lives in those incredible houses. They are welcome.
You can picture them: Pink and orange stucco, Italian villa designs, immaculately landscaped despite the storms, palm trees, indirect outdoor lighting, tall windows, vaulted ceilings, a Bentley in the car park. Brilliant parties under the chandeliers, the rich and their hangers on, mostly the hangers on, rich kids visiting their richer friends so they can impress the panties off the college girl of the week. A good life, I’m glad someone’s living it. Seriously. I have nothing against the rich. I’m not jealous, I’m not angry, I’m not a socialist. They earned it, they can enjoy it. That they maybe earned it on the efforts of people living on a hundredth their income is not a problem. Success in this world isn’t about how much you sweat. It’s about how well you organize other people.
Until you break the law. At six this morning I was sailing down the channel towards Lake Boca and the sea. Five- and ten-million dollar homes lined the way, many of them with million-dollar boats tied up. One of them was pointed out to me.
“You remember that Tyco thing, that guy …?”
I nodded, even though I didn’t really. I knew about Tyco, big manufacturer, we buy stuff from them all the time. Vaguely remembered some hanky-panky or other.
“CFO used to live right there,” said my host, pointing at a very nice one-story house on the corner of one of the smaller inlets. “He’s in jail now.”
“Good,” I said. I’m a man of few words. It’s how I keep my reputation.
“His wife just sold,” he said.
Apropos of nothing, really. I hope she knows how to have fun with her (ex?) husband’s money while he’s cooling his heels. Bastard. Getting rich is fine. Getting rich while ripping people off is not.
“You know,” he said.
Doesn’t take much to warm some people up.
“I really love this country. Look at this. All these houses. There’s some serious money here.”
“Yeah.”
“The great thing about this country,” he said, “is it doesn’t matter who you are. There are no barriers. You can get rich, it’s all up to you. I don’t care if you’re white, black, immigrant,” he said, waving his hands around. “It’s all out there. You just gotta take it.”
“Yeah. It’s amazing. You gotta work pretty damn hard, though.”
“Well, you’ll never get rich working for someone else. Like us. Not a chance. Gotta start your own business.”
“And most of them fail.”
“Yep. Greater risk, greater reward. Yup,” he nodded looking around.
“You know what pisses me off,” he continued. “People who complain about living in the U.S.A. I mean, we had this guy at my last company. He was French. Hated the U.S. Always badmouthing, complaining, this, that. You know.”
“Yeah.”
“We asked him, so, if it’s so bad here, why don’t you go back home? You know what he said?”
“What?”
“’Oh, I could never get a job there!’ Believe that? We just la-a-aughed!”
“Jeez.”
“Can’t even get a job in France, so he gets one here and complains.”
“All the way to the bank.”
“You got it. We never let him hear the end of it.”
He laughed. I laughed. I love Cuban-Americans. They really get it. Maybe a little too much sometimes. I think the embargo is stupid. But I didn’t feel the need to argue about that this morning.
We floated on the ocean a few hours, fishing but not catching. It was as calm as a lake. A really big lake, but still. Nothing like the inaptly named Pacific.
It was later that I went up to Delray, alone, to try a restaurant he recommended. The sky grabbed my attention, and NPR was presenting "Turandot". Against such real beauty, the big houses took on a tawdry shade. I was melancholy as I ate a grilled mahi-mahi sandwich. It was great, but expensive. My boss will approve the expense. But if I'd come out with my family for a week's Florida vacation, there'd be no expense account and damn few restaurants. We'd be loading up at the grocery store for most meals. I was too lazy to become a great musician or start that record company, and I accept that. But still.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Jett
Okay, as usual, my job today is as a sort of high-tech fireman, and I got emergencies and shit to deal with, but before I run off to the weight room and work off with sweat and screams my frustration with the idiots who run this division -- advice: If you're going to start a business that drives and depends on product development, fucking hire managers who have some experience, common sense and instinct related to product development, not a network of "IT professionals", whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean -- I feel for absolutely no reason at all like posting the fact that Joan Jett is über-hot and always has been. Let me count the ways.
She don't give a damn about her bad reputation. And she hasn't since wa-a-ay before Courtney Lovehole came along. Courtney's an insane crazy bitch and I respect that, but Joan was a rock and roller first and forevermore. She's a punk and a riot grrrl and a cherry bomb and doesn't do implants or any of that other fake b.s. and she's left-handed too. She's also a Democrat and a Vegan but hell, no one's perfect. She's a sports fan too and supports the US Armed Forces and does USO.
There. That was pointless, but inspired by fellow war-mongering rock-babe-fan Asbestos Dust and his tribute to Janis Joplin. Now I have to go scream and sweat, because I catch a plane at six in the freaking morning to spend the rest of the week solving technical problems of someone else's making in Boca Raton, of all the places to go in July, and all that sitting around and processed food and expensed beer makes my ass get soft.
She don't give a damn about her bad reputation. And she hasn't since wa-a-ay before Courtney Lovehole came along. Courtney's an insane crazy bitch and I respect that, but Joan was a rock and roller first and forevermore. She's a punk and a riot grrrl and a cherry bomb and doesn't do implants or any of that other fake b.s. and she's left-handed too. She's also a Democrat and a Vegan but hell, no one's perfect. She's a sports fan too and supports the US Armed Forces and does USO.
There. That was pointless, but inspired by fellow war-mongering rock-babe-fan Asbestos Dust and his tribute to Janis Joplin. Now I have to go scream and sweat, because I catch a plane at six in the freaking morning to spend the rest of the week solving technical problems of someone else's making in Boca Raton, of all the places to go in July, and all that sitting around and processed food and expensed beer makes my ass get soft.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Back Ink
I’m in the gym, changing. Guy asks, “What’s the tattoo mean?”
“Huh?” I said. “Uh, well …”
I’ve been doodling the triangle thing all my life. Recently I learned it’s known as a tribar, or a Penrose Triangle, depending on whom you ask. One of the simpler optical illusions to sketch. An impossible object, a never-ending circle, a Strange Loop, a three-pointed Möbius strip made of angle iron. However you want to think of it.
It has no beginning or end, but it does have three corners. What’s so special about three? It’s a mystical number, a powerful number. To me, it’s the first real prime (I always thought of one and two as cheap imitations of prime numbers). A three-legged table is the most stable. And you might say Man has three natures: Mind, Body and Spirit, distinct yet interdependent. A man is most integrated with himself and the world if he has these three parts of his nature in balance.
In my opinion the early Christians used this powerful fact to inject some truth into their teaching. The Holy Trinity is a translation of the above into Christian mysticism. Patris, God, the Father, the mind, wisdom, logic, rationality; Filius, the Son, the body, the physical experience of life, passion, love, sensuality, pain, our animal nature; and Spiritus Sanctus, the Holy Ghost, the spirit, the soul, the ineffable mystery that we know is real yet is not of the other two.
It might be a worthy goal for a person to get these three into balance. How he does that, I’m not sure. I’m doing all right on the Body part but the other two, well, I don’t know. But I like to think that if I do get it all into balance, the result will be an outpouring of beauty, of love, of creativity. Something positive, anyway. I signify that belief with a cascade of musical notations. For me, music is the purest form of creation and love and beauty. For others it will be something else but for me, it’s music.
“Huh,” he says. “I only asked cuz I play bass and I have like a bass clef on my arm. OK, see ya.”
I have other comments, too. First, the tattooist pissed me off. I wanted the proportions exactly right and used CAD software to create the template the first guy used. Later on I went to a local parlor for the shading. He didn’t shade it like I sketched it. He got all creative on me and fucked it up. But what the hell. A tattoo isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s a collaboration between the artist and the easel, the needle and the skin, the idea and the moment. It is what it is and just as there is meaning in the intent, there is also meaning in the unintended consequences.
Second, someone out on the internet says the Penrose Triangle “is used as a symbol in the religion of Empirical Universalism, asserting the need to transcend any system of belief” but I think they just made that up cause it sounded good. The usual half-meaningful gobbledygook. I’m all for transcending systems of belief, of course, but you can’t transcend them all. Each new transcendence is a new system. There’s simply no escaping the strange loops you’ll get caught up in. Like an ant on a Möbius strip, you’ll twist and turn and end up in the same place no matter how hard you try to convince yourself you’re really getting somewhere. Best thing is to accept you have beliefs and go from there. I have beliefs. I have an entire system of beliefs. It doesn’t happen to include God. But it definitely includes belief in God (i.e. belief in belief playing a real and active part in this world).
Last, I tried to work Earth, Wind and Fire into my mystical trinity thing too but I don’t know if they exactly fit. Well, they do: Wind, Earth and Fire can signify Mind, Body and Spirit once you realize my Mind is mainly spewing out a bunch of Wind on this subject anyway.
“Huh?” I said. “Uh, well …”
I’ve been doodling the triangle thing all my life. Recently I learned it’s known as a tribar, or a Penrose Triangle, depending on whom you ask. One of the simpler optical illusions to sketch. An impossible object, a never-ending circle, a Strange Loop, a three-pointed Möbius strip made of angle iron. However you want to think of it.It has no beginning or end, but it does have three corners. What’s so special about three? It’s a mystical number, a powerful number. To me, it’s the first real prime (I always thought of one and two as cheap imitations of prime numbers). A three-legged table is the most stable. And you might say Man has three natures: Mind, Body and Spirit, distinct yet interdependent. A man is most integrated with himself and the world if he has these three parts of his nature in balance.
In my opinion the early Christians used this powerful fact to inject some truth into their teaching. The Holy Trinity is a translation of the above into Christian mysticism. Patris, God, the Father, the mind, wisdom, logic, rationality; Filius, the Son, the body, the physical experience of life, passion, love, sensuality, pain, our animal nature; and Spiritus Sanctus, the Holy Ghost, the spirit, the soul, the ineffable mystery that we know is real yet is not of the other two.
It might be a worthy goal for a person to get these three into balance. How he does that, I’m not sure. I’m doing all right on the Body part but the other two, well, I don’t know. But I like to think that if I do get it all into balance, the result will be an outpouring of beauty, of love, of creativity. Something positive, anyway. I signify that belief with a cascade of musical notations. For me, music is the purest form of creation and love and beauty. For others it will be something else but for me, it’s music.
“Huh,” he says. “I only asked cuz I play bass and I have like a bass clef on my arm. OK, see ya.”
I have other comments, too. First, the tattooist pissed me off. I wanted the proportions exactly right and used CAD software to create the template the first guy used. Later on I went to a local parlor for the shading. He didn’t shade it like I sketched it. He got all creative on me and fucked it up. But what the hell. A tattoo isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s a collaboration between the artist and the easel, the needle and the skin, the idea and the moment. It is what it is and just as there is meaning in the intent, there is also meaning in the unintended consequences.
Second, someone out on the internet says the Penrose Triangle “is used as a symbol in the religion of Empirical Universalism, asserting the need to transcend any system of belief” but I think they just made that up cause it sounded good. The usual half-meaningful gobbledygook. I’m all for transcending systems of belief, of course, but you can’t transcend them all. Each new transcendence is a new system. There’s simply no escaping the strange loops you’ll get caught up in. Like an ant on a Möbius strip, you’ll twist and turn and end up in the same place no matter how hard you try to convince yourself you’re really getting somewhere. Best thing is to accept you have beliefs and go from there. I have beliefs. I have an entire system of beliefs. It doesn’t happen to include God. But it definitely includes belief in God (i.e. belief in belief playing a real and active part in this world).
Last, I tried to work Earth, Wind and Fire into my mystical trinity thing too but I don’t know if they exactly fit. Well, they do: Wind, Earth and Fire can signify Mind, Body and Spirit once you realize my Mind is mainly spewing out a bunch of Wind on this subject anyway.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Holy Rocks
My opinion, the single greatest threat to humanity is religious devotion. I didn’t use to feel that way but I do now. Disagree? Why?
So we got holy rocks at Jerusalem and Mecca and dog knows where else, all over the place, I imagine. People will throw everything, their own survival, the survival of their children, everything, down the drain to defend ideas made tangible by their chosen holy rocks. Freakin’ human beings.
But here are some holey rocks with style. Saw them a few weeks ago down in Utah. Best thing is, no one will ever kill anyone else to defend ‘em. Better not. I'll kill 'em.
So we got holy rocks at Jerusalem and Mecca and dog knows where else, all over the place, I imagine. People will throw everything, their own survival, the survival of their children, everything, down the drain to defend ideas made tangible by their chosen holy rocks. Freakin’ human beings.
But here are some holey rocks with style. Saw them a few weeks ago down in Utah. Best thing is, no one will ever kill anyone else to defend ‘em. Better not. I'll kill 'em.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Two For You
As a break from my random travel pics, let me turn you on (whoever you are) to two neat-o things found on a brief lunchtime turn around my tiny little cloud within the blogosphere:
A nice little reminder essay on the virtues of republicanism over democracy, of the American system over some others, and that we are not immune to tyranny either, so watch it.
A brilliant preview for a movie that should strike terror into the hearts of children (all of us) everywhere.
A nice little reminder essay on the virtues of republicanism over democracy, of the American system over some others, and that we are not immune to tyranny either, so watch it.
A brilliant preview for a movie that should strike terror into the hearts of children (all of us) everywhere.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Pastime
July 1st we went down to the City. Nice view.
View courtesy of tickets I get from a friend of Sal's.
Giants were all over the D-Backs. Sun was all over the Bay. I was all over the garlic fries. Can you beat the view? No. Where else can you watch an ocean-going freighter steam by during a baseball game?
Here's another view of the ballpark.
View courtesy of tickets I get from a friend of Sal's.
Giants were all over the D-Backs. Sun was all over the Bay. I was all over the garlic fries. Can you beat the view? No. Where else can you watch an ocean-going freighter steam by during a baseball game?
Here's another view of the ballpark.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Crossing Utah
Some of us first think of Mormons. A residual trace of religious prejudice, perhaps. Fact is, Mormons are the quintessential Americans, the nicest people, hard-working, well-organized, trustworthy. But in their homeland I suspect they can get a little weird. Just over the border from Nevada there is a billboard. On the Nevada-to-Utah side is an ad for a business opportunity, a smiling man in a suit, a number to call, verbiage suggestive of some sort of Mormonized Amway® scheme. This for the people coming into the promised land. On the reverse, the Utah-to-Nevada side, is an ad for an adult novelty and lingerie shop. This for the people visiting outside the promised land. An interesting statement of the apparent expectations of the people going both directions.
And then the Salt Flat. What a horrific thing for the first pioneers to stumble into. But a lot of fun for teenage boys who’ve been cooped up in a car for nine hours. It’s an interesting natural phenomenon but its edges are worn and torn near the freeway. Tracks where people have driven out onto the salt pan. Ruts where people drove out onto the salt pan when it was wet and no doubt got stuck and yelled at. Train tracks, telephone lines, and a huge object we never figured out, looked like a rusty rocket engine mounted to concrete pylons. We figured either a memorial to some land speed record-breaker or the boiler from an old salt refinery.
(map)
The rest stop water wasn’t working. Nowhere to wash the salt off our shoes before getting back into the trucks, and nowhere to pee. We drove for what seemed like hours but was probably twenty minutes to the next rest stop. It was much more intelligently designed.
Hours later, into the southern desert, flat and mountainous all at once. Price Canyon was a full-scale model railroad set, complete with coal mines. We emerged through the cut after dark to see the great structure squatting between cliffs in the river, brightly lit and ten stories tall, obscured by its own steam, vast machines crawling about like cave trolls under the whip.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Eight Things You Never Needed To Know About Me
I got tagged and I have decided to respond. Mainly because it’s all about ME. Nothing about this blog has any meaning if it isn’t about ME. Rules are at the link, I don’t feel like repeating them, they're pretty self-evident. I’m not tagging anyone, either. Why should I? Whatever they say, it won’t be about ME.
1. I have a tiny scar in the thumb-web of my right hand, thanks to placing a pencil point-upwards in my pocket when I was ten.
2. I have a little scar on my left bird-flip finger from playing some stupid game with a knife while camping up in the Desolation Wilderness when I was a teenager. It bled a lot.
3. A scar on my stomach has almost faded away (no doubt absorbed by fat) which I got in a gas welding class in my early twenties. When writing something, do you ever use the writing surface to adjust the position of your pencil in your fingers to a comfortable position? If there’s no surface I will tend to push it against my stomach. Well, I was holding a white-hot welding rod and ...
4. Of the three cars I owned before merging fortunes with my marital partner, I bought two from my parents (not so the motorcycles). That was so long ago they would now be classics, and I miss them both.
5. I am seriously left-handed, right down to the left-leg field goal kick, left-eyed target shooting, and tendency to lose my footing when going down stairs. My wife is also a leftie. Genetics and fortune did not shine a light of the same hue on our children, however, for they are both doomed to a lifetime of being right-handed. (I’m not thoroughly left-dominant, come to think of it, because I dress right. I think. Wait, let me check.)*
6. I once spent a night in Mexico City with a girl I felt I was in love with — tightly bundled up in separate sheets, on the same bed with her and her aunt, while her grandmother and her uncle slept in the other bed, and two small children and a dog rolled about on the floor. Twenty-three years later I still can’t really explain this.
7. I’m a fifth-generation native Californian. Throughout my life, my family has to my knowledge had no social contact at all with any relatives outside the state, except those that have moved away. I think that's kind of weird, because most people have relatives in other states. But whatever. If an earthquake drops everyone east of Verdi, Nevada, into the Atlantic, well, sorry.
8. And finally, I too don’t care for California’s fabled fruit the avocado (OK, lots of other places grow it too), unless it’s in guacamole, but avocado by itself is nasty. It looks and feels like mushy green banana to me. Gag. I like raw onions and will eat a tomato fresh off the vine like an apple but you can keep your avos.
* — I have since discovered that this is typical for left-handers.
1. I have a tiny scar in the thumb-web of my right hand, thanks to placing a pencil point-upwards in my pocket when I was ten.
2. I have a little scar on my left bird-flip finger from playing some stupid game with a knife while camping up in the Desolation Wilderness when I was a teenager. It bled a lot.
3. A scar on my stomach has almost faded away (no doubt absorbed by fat) which I got in a gas welding class in my early twenties. When writing something, do you ever use the writing surface to adjust the position of your pencil in your fingers to a comfortable position? If there’s no surface I will tend to push it against my stomach. Well, I was holding a white-hot welding rod and ...
4. Of the three cars I owned before merging fortunes with my marital partner, I bought two from my parents (not so the motorcycles). That was so long ago they would now be classics, and I miss them both.
5. I am seriously left-handed, right down to the left-leg field goal kick, left-eyed target shooting, and tendency to lose my footing when going down stairs. My wife is also a leftie. Genetics and fortune did not shine a light of the same hue on our children, however, for they are both doomed to a lifetime of being right-handed. (I’m not thoroughly left-dominant, come to think of it, because I dress right. I think. Wait, let me check.)*
6. I once spent a night in Mexico City with a girl I felt I was in love with — tightly bundled up in separate sheets, on the same bed with her and her aunt, while her grandmother and her uncle slept in the other bed, and two small children and a dog rolled about on the floor. Twenty-three years later I still can’t really explain this.
7. I’m a fifth-generation native Californian. Throughout my life, my family has to my knowledge had no social contact at all with any relatives outside the state, except those that have moved away. I think that's kind of weird, because most people have relatives in other states. But whatever. If an earthquake drops everyone east of Verdi, Nevada, into the Atlantic, well, sorry.
8. And finally, I too don’t care for California’s fabled fruit the avocado (OK, lots of other places grow it too), unless it’s in guacamole, but avocado by itself is nasty. It looks and feels like mushy green banana to me. Gag. I like raw onions and will eat a tomato fresh off the vine like an apple but you can keep your avos.
* — I have since discovered that this is typical for left-handers.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Crossing Nevada
Nevada ought to be popular today, Lucky Day, 07/07/07. If I owned a casino I'd set all the slot machines to go jackpot at 7:07:07am and 7:07:07pm, give or take half a second. Wouldn't hurt business to encourage people.
Myself, never been east of Sparks (on the ground) until a few weeks ago. There is high culture in that high desert.
There is the hideaway of an arch-villain of the 1960s, concealed in an old tungsten mine, open to the sky since the world-famous secret agent's climactic victory.
There is the Lovelock Retirement Home for Arch-Villains, Minions and Henchmen.
And thank Goodness for MP3 players.
Myself, never been east of Sparks (on the ground) until a few weeks ago. There is high culture in that high desert.
There is the hideaway of an arch-villain of the 1960s, concealed in an old tungsten mine, open to the sky since the world-famous secret agent's climactic victory.
There is the Lovelock Retirement Home for Arch-Villains, Minions and Henchmen.
And thank Goodness for MP3 players.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Fourth
My bed of steel and rags shook and woke me. Endless gray night surrounded me. A junkyard spaceship flew by, creaking and roaring, all odd angles and rust stains and random rattling objects. I was annoyed at the spaceship. I didn’t want to wake up. And then another one roared right at me, roared in my ear, and that woke me up even more. I opened my eyes and remembered I was in the bed of my pickup.
I looked out the window of the camper shell. Some chick with a long blonde ponytail was next to me gunning the engine of her Harley. A big truck had just passed and was swaying down the street. With one more roar she left the parking lot and disappeared into the night. It wasn’t really night. Towards the mountains the sky was a beautiful sort of early morning blue. But it was dark enough I could justify sleeping some more. I managed about another hour. No more dreams. I woke up again and it was almost six and time to go home.
My job had been to sleep in my truck from ten until six and guard the booth. My relief’s job was to sit in a chair from six until ten and guard the booth. The booth was open for business between ten and ten, selling fireworks. The booth can’t be left unattended. Most years some organization or other loses all their fundraising when they leave their booth unguarded and some fun-loving kids either set it on fire or break in and take everything.
I drove home debating whether to go to bed or not. Not: The day had begun, a beautiful Valley summer day, and it was nice and cool yet and I could theoretically get lots done. To: Someone special was still in it who was warm and smelled of sleep.
* * * * *
The Fourth of July is the perfect holiday. You can sit and drink, or you can set things on fire. What else is there? You can eat, too, and you don’t have to work, and it’s nice and warm all night long. We took a walk at dusk and kept going well past dark, looking at the fireworks displays of families and block parties and enjoying the night air. The night air was heavy with smoke some places and smelled of gunpowder. It was battlefield air, celebration air, heavy with the incense of an American ritual loved by girls and boys and by their grandkids alike.
Every block or so we found a lawn turned amphitheater full of folding chairs and content citizens who had eaten too much watching their husbands and brothers build dangerous displays out of ladders and sawhorses and set off countless Chinese-made fireworks while little kids with open-toed sandals ran around chasing sparks. Here and there some profligate soul had invested in illegal airborne fireworks brought up from Mexico that launched with a satisfying boom and exploded high overhead with a whistle and a bang. The law doesn’t allow these but the sheriff doesn’t seem to care, nor should he, because these are the kinds of neighborhoods sheriff’s deputies live in and if they weren’t on duty they’d be doing the same damn thing themselves.
It isn’t uniquely American to celebrate by blowing things up but I suspect our particular pyromaniac holiday is calmer than some. There is never any hurry in these driveway and streetfront gatherings. Men calmly hold a fused device in the same hand as their beer and light it, set it on the street or on a makeshift platform, stand back a few feet, watch the sparks, stand back a few more, take a drink, watch the kids to see that no one’s hair will catch fire, laugh at something stupid their brother in law says, take another drink, stare into the sparks lost in a pink and orange reverie, then reach into the box for another one. It is always the men. I have never seen a woman set off more than a handful of fireworks. I don’t think this is because women aren’t as prone as men to the pure joy of igniting things. I don’t why it is, actually. Maybe the chance to do nothing but drink your neighbor’s specialty margaritas and watch the grown-up boyfolk set themselves ablaze is too precious a thing to disturb with the relative work of joining in, I don’t know. All I know is these gatherings, as dangerous as they are, especially at the large block parties where someone is sending roman candles up into the night sky to rain hot ash down on everyone’s dry rooftops and drier weed-choked back yards, these gatherings are always extremely low-key. Everyone’s mildly drunk but no one’s pissed, as it were, and the only argument is between brothers fighting over who gets to use the propane lighter.
I looked out the window of the camper shell. Some chick with a long blonde ponytail was next to me gunning the engine of her Harley. A big truck had just passed and was swaying down the street. With one more roar she left the parking lot and disappeared into the night. It wasn’t really night. Towards the mountains the sky was a beautiful sort of early morning blue. But it was dark enough I could justify sleeping some more. I managed about another hour. No more dreams. I woke up again and it was almost six and time to go home.
My job had been to sleep in my truck from ten until six and guard the booth. My relief’s job was to sit in a chair from six until ten and guard the booth. The booth was open for business between ten and ten, selling fireworks. The booth can’t be left unattended. Most years some organization or other loses all their fundraising when they leave their booth unguarded and some fun-loving kids either set it on fire or break in and take everything.
I drove home debating whether to go to bed or not. Not: The day had begun, a beautiful Valley summer day, and it was nice and cool yet and I could theoretically get lots done. To: Someone special was still in it who was warm and smelled of sleep.
* * * * *
The Fourth of July is the perfect holiday. You can sit and drink, or you can set things on fire. What else is there? You can eat, too, and you don’t have to work, and it’s nice and warm all night long. We took a walk at dusk and kept going well past dark, looking at the fireworks displays of families and block parties and enjoying the night air. The night air was heavy with smoke some places and smelled of gunpowder. It was battlefield air, celebration air, heavy with the incense of an American ritual loved by girls and boys and by their grandkids alike.
Every block or so we found a lawn turned amphitheater full of folding chairs and content citizens who had eaten too much watching their husbands and brothers build dangerous displays out of ladders and sawhorses and set off countless Chinese-made fireworks while little kids with open-toed sandals ran around chasing sparks. Here and there some profligate soul had invested in illegal airborne fireworks brought up from Mexico that launched with a satisfying boom and exploded high overhead with a whistle and a bang. The law doesn’t allow these but the sheriff doesn’t seem to care, nor should he, because these are the kinds of neighborhoods sheriff’s deputies live in and if they weren’t on duty they’d be doing the same damn thing themselves.
It isn’t uniquely American to celebrate by blowing things up but I suspect our particular pyromaniac holiday is calmer than some. There is never any hurry in these driveway and streetfront gatherings. Men calmly hold a fused device in the same hand as their beer and light it, set it on the street or on a makeshift platform, stand back a few feet, watch the sparks, stand back a few more, take a drink, watch the kids to see that no one’s hair will catch fire, laugh at something stupid their brother in law says, take another drink, stare into the sparks lost in a pink and orange reverie, then reach into the box for another one. It is always the men. I have never seen a woman set off more than a handful of fireworks. I don’t think this is because women aren’t as prone as men to the pure joy of igniting things. I don’t why it is, actually. Maybe the chance to do nothing but drink your neighbor’s specialty margaritas and watch the grown-up boyfolk set themselves ablaze is too precious a thing to disturb with the relative work of joining in, I don’t know. All I know is these gatherings, as dangerous as they are, especially at the large block parties where someone is sending roman candles up into the night sky to rain hot ash down on everyone’s dry rooftops and drier weed-choked back yards, these gatherings are always extremely low-key. Everyone’s mildly drunk but no one’s pissed, as it were, and the only argument is between brothers fighting over who gets to use the propane lighter.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Field of Dreams
One of my dreams has been to sing the National Anthem for a professional baseball game. I love baseball, I love to sing, I love to sing outdoors, baseball is outdoors, and the National Anthem isn’t so bad a song. The controversial swirl of current events notwithstanding, it is an honor to sing for the flag and for the crowd.
A few months ago my workplace quartet went to an audition. We did all right. For Friday June 22nd they gave us tickets and parking and told us to be there at five thirty for a sound check. Raley Field was empty of fans but people were scurrying about getting ready for the show and we sang our song down on the field and the guy looked bored and said it sounded fine and we hung out for an hour and watched the shadows creep across the seats.
Later on the seats were filled and we sat down by the field awaiting our turn. Every game is preceded by a ceremony and tonight’s was to honor the region’s best high school baseball and softball players. Two of them were from my kids’ high school and I yahooed. One of the others had already been drafted by a major league team. The kids stood in two rows looking like normal kids who also happen to be top-notch athletes. A handful of old pros and dignitaries were set in chairs for decoration, including Dusty Baker’s dad, representing his son’s local baseball academy. He had huge eyeglasses and I felt like he was staring at me the whole time. Probably everyone within six rows of home plate felt the same way.
Around seven we were ushered to the microphone, arranged ourselves around it, and did our thing. People cheered, we went to our seats, sat with family, ate too much, and watched the Sacramento Rivercats beat the Tacoma Rainiers 12 to 4. AAA baseball is the best. The atmosphere is relaxed, and every seat is a good seat.
The Cats sent us a DVD of the entire game. Here I've clipped out our part. The Mrs also took a video, and it has better sound.
It was a trip. And it was a privilege.
MRS:
DVD:
A few months ago my workplace quartet went to an audition. We did all right. For Friday June 22nd they gave us tickets and parking and told us to be there at five thirty for a sound check. Raley Field was empty of fans but people were scurrying about getting ready for the show and we sang our song down on the field and the guy looked bored and said it sounded fine and we hung out for an hour and watched the shadows creep across the seats.
Later on the seats were filled and we sat down by the field awaiting our turn. Every game is preceded by a ceremony and tonight’s was to honor the region’s best high school baseball and softball players. Two of them were from my kids’ high school and I yahooed. One of the others had already been drafted by a major league team. The kids stood in two rows looking like normal kids who also happen to be top-notch athletes. A handful of old pros and dignitaries were set in chairs for decoration, including Dusty Baker’s dad, representing his son’s local baseball academy. He had huge eyeglasses and I felt like he was staring at me the whole time. Probably everyone within six rows of home plate felt the same way.
Around seven we were ushered to the microphone, arranged ourselves around it, and did our thing. People cheered, we went to our seats, sat with family, ate too much, and watched the Sacramento Rivercats beat the Tacoma Rainiers 12 to 4. AAA baseball is the best. The atmosphere is relaxed, and every seat is a good seat.
The Cats sent us a DVD of the entire game. Here I've clipped out our part. The Mrs also took a video, and it has better sound.
It was a trip. And it was a privilege.
MRS:
DVD:
