What got my attention as I stood on the corner of Howard and Western in the 17-degree cold: The list of accessories. Specifically the AM-FM radio. Some people know how to roll in style. Bike was posted in August, though, so it's probably sold.
"You want it to be one way. But it's the other way."
I've never been much for big parties. I think it comes from the questionable idea that somehow I need to have something to say to whoever is there–to justify my presence, to prove that I'm a real bon vivant, to show I'm clever–even before the first glass of wine takes hold. Exceptions are made, though: I'll go when there are some good friends around, or when there's some compelling draw. An example: In my first years at The San Francisco Examiner, William Randolph Hearst's first purchase, which occasionally published under the legend "The Monarch of the Dailies," the paper put on a fabulously generous holiday fete. The paper would rent out the Convent of the Sacred Heart–the old Daniel Flood mansion in Pacific Heights–and spare no expense for food, drink, or entertainment. It was so nice, everyone dressed up. Even me. Alas, the party vanished as the paper entered the era of reduced circumstances in the early '90s.
Last Friday, my office held its holiday party. Actually, a few employees put it on for the rest of us. A colleague who lives a few blocks away makes his place available, and the staff does a pot luck. In its own way, its every bit as generous and enjoyable as the Hearst extravaganza ever was. I didn't make it this year, though. Stuff came up, as we like to say. Instead, I found myself over at Lanesplitter, the North Oakland pizza and beer place where our son Thom works. I spent the time marveling as I usually do at how hard everyone's working and how much business comes in the door even as the hour gets late. Eventually, we said goodbye and headed for home.
On the way to the car, I passed Smokey's Tangle, the little audience-participation art gallery on the next block. There's always something fun going on in the storefront window. This time, there was a sign inviting passers-by to come in and have their picture taken with Santa. The place was closed, though I could see the proprietors inside. They must have heard me laughing at the window display, because they came to the door and invited me in. "You want to have your picture taken with Santa?" they asked. I was all for it. So I went to the back room where "Santina" was hanging out, waiting for visitors. You can judge the result. I have to say I don't look entirely persuaded about the good cheer impending this holiday season or the quality of the new year. I guess we'll just wait and see.
We took off from San Francisco yesterday in weak sunshine, with lots of clouds left over from Sunday’s rain. Heading north and east across the Bay, the clouds billowing up to the west, out toward the ocean, were beautiful I did what I normally do from my window seat: reach for my camera, advisories to keep electronic devices notwithstanding. When I tried to switch it on, the screen said, “Change the battery pack.” Damn. So you’ll have to take my word for it: a long line of what looked like low, low cumulus rising up along the spine of the Peninsula, shrouding the ocean side and leaving the bay side clear.
In the morning, I’m up and off to Chicago for the week. Family visit–not work. Packing consists of counting, and I try to make sure the number of shirts, socks and underwear-things I bring matches the number of days I expect to be away, with maybe an extra pair of everything in case I’m in a rodeo or a tackle football game. The hardest part, simply because I’ve lived in a two-season climate for so long where winter gear is totally optional: remembering to bring gloves and a hat. That is all. Tomorrow, SFO to ORD.
Kate and I dropped into Brennan’s last night–the undead version that has opened in Berkeley’s old Southern Pacific train station across the parking lot from the old location. The old location was razed to make way for a massive block of condominiums, the top floors of which will have an intimate view of traffic on the University Avenue overpass. Maybe the condos atop the former Brennan’s site will experience some unquiet moments as tipsy patrons from ages past try to find their way to the old bar. If so, it will be the most lively after-dark activity in the neighborhood.
The new Brennan’s has one or two things going for it. The station is a beautiful Mission-style building and the bar’s proprietors went to great lengths to recreate a replica of the old, barnlike dining room in their new, more confined space. The place features Brennan’s familiar inexpensive meat-and-mashed potatoes menu, served from steam tables along a cafeteria line. It’s got beaucoups high-def big-screen TVs for sports fans, and the bar still has the best Irish coffees anywhere.*
But for myriad reasons, Brennan’s night-time business has died. Last night, we walked in about 10:30, an hour when you might expect to find a bar still revving up. There were about half a dozen people in the place. From what I’ve heard about the profit margin in bar alchohol sales, the gradual disappearance of that trade has got to have eaten into the owners’ income from the place. But they seem content to just let it continue dwindling. The Saturday night bartender is a taciturn sort, maybe given to sad contemplation of the absence of customers and consequent dearth of tips. In the two or three times I’ve done business with him, he gives the impression of rendering service glumly and a little unwillingly; the only act I saw him perform with any alacrity was switching off the “open” sign and most of the bar lights at 11 p.m. on the dot. He did not have to chase us out–we got the message.
We sat and talked in the car for awhile. The rain that had been falling on and off all evening started again as we started up the car. I stopped around the corner from Brennan’s to take a picture of the Spenger’s sign in the rain. Haven’t eaten there for ages, though we used to get takeout chowder from there regularly. Acquaintances who have partaken of Spenger’s fare have suggested that the sign may be the restaurant’s best offering.
*Statement not based on actual research.
As part of my job as a news editor at KQED, I’ve become a sort of part-time water watcher. In that capacity, I’ve done a couple of maps and a couple of posts for KQED’s Climate Watch blog. The latest post just went up yesterday: Everything You Know (About Water) Is Wrong. It’s a short writeup on a new report from the Public Policy Institute of California called “California Water Myths.” The institute is mostly trying to remind us opinionated Californians that we have a lot of misconceptions about how much water we have and how it’s used.
It was cold enough in the Bay Area Tuesday that we saw the rare phenomenon of visible midday respiration (translation: you could see your breath in broad daylight). After dark, the temperature fell into the 30s again here in Berkeley (into the lower 20s farther from the bay, and below zero up in the Sierra Nevada–but that’s not our neighborhood). Last night, we saw billowing clouds of Midwest-style breath steam just like the one captured above in a dramatic candid photograph.
As related in earlier winters , sometimes Berkeley gets cold enough that frost settles over the town. Well, settle isn’t really the right word, since the frost crystals actually grows in what appears to the layperson to be a magical process of sublimation. The crystals are called spicules, which resemble little spikes or hairs when they form on a cold surface.
Speaking of our weather, one of our local TV weatherfolk, KTVU’s Bill Martin, referred to it as “Chicago cold” last night. And not once but twice he advised viewers that they’d want to take action to make sure plants, pets and “the elderly” were protected from the weather’s effects. The elderly? We brought our own resident grandparent in from the unheated shed in the backyard.
The following comes from a 1905 essay by Colonel Sir Thomas Holdridge, a British soldier and geographer, in a book titled, “The Empire and the Century: A series of essays on imperial problems and possibilities by various writers. With an introducton by Charles Sydney Goldman, author of ‘With General French and the Cavalry in South African,’ and a poem by Rudyard Kipling, entitled ‘The Heritage.’ With seven maps.”
Holdrich’s subject: What would happen if the Russians threatened the northwestern frontier of British India (in modern terms, the northwestern border of Pakistan) by way of an attack through Afghanistan. I haven’t found details of his earlier career, but he writes as if he’d served in Afghanistan during earlier British adventures. Here’s a little of what he has to say about the Afghans of his age:
“… It is a matter of history that patriotism, unity of sentiment, and devotion to duty, have hitherto been lamentably deficient in Afghan armies; but if the morale is bad, the material is excellent; and nothing but the utter ineptitude of Afghan leaders prevents the Amir from possessing as efficient a fighting force as any in the East. We do not know, indeed, at the present time what the result of twenty-five years of careful nursing may be. The impulse of religious belief and inborn love of independence may have easily developed something akin to real patriotism. I worked with Afghan troops on the borders of Kafristan in 1895, and I could mark a distinct change, both in sentiment and discipline, which had been effected by fifteen years of peace amongst men of the same clan as those who had formed my escort in Herat in 1856, or who had acted as friendly guides in 1879. The metier of the Afghan is that of the irregular marksman. He is often a splendid shot, and no European troops could ever hope to compete with Ghilzai or Hazara mountaineers amongst their own hills in a defensive campaign. Ten thousand Afridis [Pashtuns], it may be remembered (I had special opportunities for estimating their numbers), kept 40,000 British and Indian troops well employed in Tirah, and there is little to choose between the Afridi and his Afghan neighbour. The Amir of Afghanistan could certainly put 200,000 irregular riflemen (armed with modern weapons) into the field if he chose to do so, and he has at his command a very efficient force of mounted artillery to support them. In short, it would be a serious mistake for us to imagine that we could make our way to Kabul now with the same comparative ease that we did in 1878. …”
“… At present Afghan troops, however excellent the raw material may be, want discipline, drill, and leading; and that they can only obtain by the importation of instructors from outside Afghanistan. These they will probably get, either in the form of British or Japanese officers, but time will be required for such outsiders to get on good terms with their men, and for the men to understand their instructors. The young British officer is unmatched in the world for his capacity to turn raw material into good fighting stuff; and here probably is foreshadowed the chief difficulty in the solution of the frontier problem. Where are officers to come from ? The supply which a few years ago seemed to be inexhaustible already shows signs of failing. The spirit of unrest and discontent which now pervades the service in India is such as has never before been known, and it is ominous of future difficulty in filling up vacancies which will rapidly occur. Indeed, there are notwanting symptoms on all sides that it is the ranks of the officers, rather than those of the men, that are likely to fail in numbers.”