Category: Berkeley

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Modern Marketing, March 2010 Edition

One of my private convictions, or delusions, is that I’d be a great marketing writer given the right outlet. The right outlet would have no rules: no house style, no retail “voice,” no lifestyle image to promote. In fact, it probably wouldn’t have merchandise except for the stuff you’re trying to get out of the house; stuff that might not be fun but that could be fun to sell. It turns out I’m talking about Craigslist. We’ve managed to sell stray household items there for years, and writing the item descriptions is always the most engaging part of the process.

Here’s the current item on offer (as posted on Craigslist):

Ikea Henrik student desk, with chair

An Ikea classic that may or may not have been named after a famous Scandinavian literary figure. This desk played a prominent role in a student’s career at Berkeley High School and may even be partly responsible for his successful completion of studies at the University of Oregon.

Features:
–Classic Ikea design: a Scandinavian thought this up. ‘Nuff said.
–Classic Ikea construction: manufacture of this item caused minimal rain forest destruction
–Conforms fully to U.S. and international safety standards, including Newton’s laws of motion

And check out these extras:
–Recently dusted
–Family friendly
–Desk chair may be comfortable for hours on end

We got three responses within an hour. Since no one commented on the brilliance of the sales pitch, I have to conclude they were moved by price ($60, with vague offer of delivery).

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After Christmas, Calaveras Road

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A couple days after Christmas, we were driving up I-880, the Nimitz Freeway, from San Jose back to Berkeley. The Nimitz is a grind. Lots of traffic; lots of fast traffic; lots of trucks; long stretches of heavily built-up suburbs, malls, strip malls, big-box centers, and auto rows. But even from the Nimitz, you glimpse what a gorgeous piece of territory we’ve converted into a metropolis. A long line of hills runs parallel to the highway. High hills, up to about 2,500 feet. When it’s clear, they’re beautiful. They’re beautiful in the winter, when they’re green. After a storm–they’re beautiful then, too, with a backdrop of towering, dramatically lit clouds.  

So, a couple days after Christmas. We were driving north, and little gray shreds of cloud were hanging onto the top of the ridge to the east. It was late in the afternoon. I asked Kate whether she’d ever been up in those hills. No, she hadn’t. There’s a road up there I’ve cycled on long rides–Calaveras Road. Among other times: some other riders and I ended up out there, going from Berkeley down to the edge of San Jose, then back up to Fremont to catch BART home. I asked Kate whether she’d like to see the place if I could find it. She was game, so we got off at the Montague Expressway in Milpitas, then headed east, toward the hills, until we couldn’t go any farther, the intersection of Piedmont Road. Then we went left, north, until we hit Calaveras, then went right and up hill for a long time. Eventually we hit a steep uphill left into a steep, narrow ravine–still on Calaveras–and shortly popped up on the east side of a ridge above Calaveras Reservoir.

The light was fading, but we found a place to get out and walk. Oaks were silhouetted on the hillsides, and cold-looking gray clouds were starting to slide down the ridge across the lake.

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Sunday Morning Walk: Hats

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The Sunday morning walk consists of a stroll from our place, across a corner Ohlone Park, over to University Avenue, and down to a restaurant called Fellini. The place does pretty good, pretty cheap dinners. In the morning, it’s winning because it has a walk-up cafe window and the coffee there is pretty good, too. As a plus, they give The Dog a treat. He knows that and begins getting enthused about the impending visit when we’re two or three blocks away. This morning’s walk featured these two hats, and people, who were in line ahead of us. I tend to think most of the hipster headgear in our current Hat Renaissance is a sign of a New Meathead Age. These two chapeaux–is that the plural?–did nothing to change my mind, though I will allow it’s an interesting pairing.  

After we got our coffee, we headed down to the old Santa Fe Railroad right-of-way. On our way back home from there, we encountered a mockingbird in full virtuoso voice. Wish I’d brought a sound recorder.

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UC-Berkeley: Our Trashy Campus

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Presidents Day newsflash from just outside the hallowed halls of academe: UC-Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza is (or was when we visited, anyway) a friggin’ mess. We’ve lived here a while–our passports mention a date in the ’70s–and we have never seen the plaza, the gateway to the pride of our state’s system of higher education, trashed to this degree. The main symptom: numerous overflowing garbage cans and lots of refuse strewn every which way (yes, you heard me right). Our guess (fact-finding has not been initiated) is that maintenance cutbacks at the university meant that no one was available to haul away the rubbish during the long weekend. Hell of an impression for visitors and townspeople alike, but a holiday feast for the pigeons.  

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Red Car

On the way back home from a short bike ride yesterday, I passed the home of a family friend. Someone who has had a major influence on our lives in a number of ways–through great personal generosity, mostly–but not someone I'd say we are very close to.

This person has a red car to which he has always seemed attached. It's a little European sports job, something of a classic. I think the car has been refurbished–new paint, new interior, maybe new engine and power train–at least twice since this person became an acquaintance in the mid-1980s. More than anything, I think his attachment to the car bespeaks a critical love of fine things. He shows the same appreciation for books, for art, for music, for furniture, for food and drink, for baseball. And for people, too, though his critical appraisal can be uncomfortable. I have on occasion felt I didn't quite measure up to standards, and I know of plenty of refined people whom this person has sent away muttering about what a curmudgeon he is, except they weren't saying "curmudgeon."

Passing this person's home yesterday, I noticed the red car, parked as usual at the front curb. I noticed, too, that a couple of women were stopped on the sidewalk, reading a piece of paper taped to one of the car windows. I thought I saw a for-sale sign on the back. I didn't stop myself, but the scene made an impression. I know this person has had some health problems, and I thought maybe they had decided to let the car go. Not a decision he would make lightly. I thought I'd mention this at home later, but it slipped my mind.

But later Sunday, we chanced to drive past the house again. I said, "Hey, it looks like there's a for-sale sign on the red car." I slowed to a stop, and we looked at the car and this person's home, which was dark. Well, it turned out that my driving partner had news. She'd heard earlier in the day that this person is very ill. Very ill.

I can't presume to know what this person or his family are thinking. And I don't want to eulogize: it's a sunny day, and life is as good, as difficult, and as provocative as ever, with plenty to feed and sate the critical eye. But from afar–from a distance respectful but not too respectful–I'd like to say thanks, thanks so much, for all you've done for us and for the parts of your life that you have shared.

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Winter Oak

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Kate and I went on a walk (sans dog!) in Briones Regional Park yesterday. The park is part of what was once a big Spanish land-grant ranch, east of the Berkeley Hills. It was cloudy, foggy, sunny, and gorgeous out there.  

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2 February, FYI

Happy James Joyce’s Birthday (born 1882).

Happy Groundhog Day. I arose before dawn and saw the International Space Station cross the southern sky. Not sure what that means in terms of how many weeks of winter we have left.

Happy Halfway from Winter Solstice to Spring Equinox Day.

There — that’s enough to celebrate for one day.

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Altercation

Here’s one I was only a spectator at: About 10:30 this morning, a small delivery van is parallel parking into a space at 17th and Bryant streets, on the seam between Potrero Hill and the Mission. The space the driver is trying to get into is one of those tight ones. Maybe 6 inches longer than the van is. At the back end of the space, a car is parked with the driver at the wheel. She’s got maybe 18 inches or 2 feet between her and the corner red zone behind her. Now think carefully about what you’d do if you were the driver of that car and see how closely it matches what happened.

The van driver, apparently committed to wedging his vehicle into the space, does a couple back-and-forths. On his second pass, inevitably, he bumps the front end of the car, the one sitting there with the driver at the wheel. She has not backed up even an inch. But when the van makes contact with her car, a Toyota Yaris or similar (as the rental companies would style it), she leans on the horn. The van pulls up. The Toyota driver honks some more. The van driver honks, then backs up and bumps the Toyota again — lightly, I thought. The van is in its space, and the driver, a pony-tailed middle-age guy of medium stature and build, gets out and walks back to the Toyota, whose driver has finally been stirred to move, though not to back up. Instead, she gets out of the car to inspect the non-existant damage to her front bumper. The van driver is angry and is raising his voice, but I can’t hear any of what he’s saying. The woman gets in the car.

At this point, a passing cyclist enters the scene. He’s about four or five inches taller than the van driver and maybe 25 years younger. I didn’t see how he first became engaged, but he’s shouting and draws attention. “That’s a lady, you piece of shit! A lady!” The intensity of his rage seems unconnected to the events that have just transpired, but he’s seen or heard something that offends him deeply. His tirade about the van driver’s transgressions against “the lady” driving the Toyota quickly escalates. He swings the back end of his bike toward the van driver to back him up, then pushes the bike against the older man, and finally throws the bike down and sort of slap-punches the van driver once, maybe twice. At this point, the van man looks unnerved and is trying to back away, and the cyclist picks up his bike and swings it at the van guy again.

(I should say at this point that none of the dozen or so people near the corner, including me, made a move to intervene. If a full-on beating had gotten started, I would have tried to stop it. But the thought of getting into a dispute with the crazy bike rider made me keep my distance.)

That’s as far as things go. The van driver pulls out his phone and makes a call–undoubtedly to the police. The bike rider tells him that if he doesn’t leave, he’s going to fuck him up. Then the bike rider walks his bike slowly away. The Toyota driver watches what she helped wreak, then pulls out of her piece of curb space and drives away. I don’t wait to see if the police show up.

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Altercation

Here’s one I was only a spectator at: About 10:30 this morning, a small delivery van is parallel parking into a space at 17th and Bryant streets, on the seam between Potrero Hill and the Mission. The space the driver is trying to get into is one of those tight ones. Maybe 6 inches longer than the van is. At the back end of the space, a car is parked with the driver at the wheel. She’s got maybe 18 inches or 2 feet between her and the corner red zone behind her. Now think carefully about what you’d do if you were the driver of that car and see how closely it matches what happened.

The van driver, apparently committed to wedging his vehicle into the space, does a couple back-and-forths. On his second pass, inevitably, he bumps the front end of the car, the one sitting there with the driver at the wheel. She has not backed up even an inch. But when the van makes contact with her car, a Toyota Yaris or similar (as the rental companies would style it), she leans on the horn. The van pulls up. The Toyota driver honks some more. The van driver honks, then backs up and bumps the Toyota again — lightly, I thought. The van is in its space, and the driver, a pony-tailed middle-age guy of medium stature and build, gets out and walks back to the Toyota, whose driver has finally been stirred to move, though not to back up. Instead, she gets out of the car to inspect the non-existant damage to her front bumper. The van driver is angry and is raising his voice, but I can’t hear any of what he’s saying. The woman gets in the car.

At this point, a passing cyclist enters the scene. He’s about four or five inches taller than the van driver and maybe 25 years younger. I didn’t see how he first became engaged, but he’s shouting and draws attention. “That’s a lady, you piece of shit! A lady!” The intensity of his rage seems unconnected to the events that have just transpired, but he’s seen or heard something that offends him deeply. His tirade about the van driver’s transgressions against “the lady” driving the Toyota quickly escalates. He swings the back end of his bike toward the van driver to back him up, then pushes the bike against the older man, and finally throws the bike down and sort of slap-punches the van driver once, maybe twice. At this point, the van man looks unnerved and is trying to back away, and the cyclist picks up his bike and swings it at the van guy again.

(I should say at this point that none of the dozen or so people near the corner, including me, made a move to intervene. If a full-on beating had gotten started, I would have tried to stop it. But the thought of getting into a dispute with the crazy bike rider made me keep my distance.)

That’s as far as things go. The van driver pulls out his phone and makes a call–undoubtedly to the police. The bike rider tells him that if he doesn’t leave, he’s going to fuck him up. Then the bike rider walks his bike slowly away. The Toyota driver watches what she helped wreak, then pulls out of her piece of curb space and drives away. I don’t wait to see if the police show up.

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Storms: Promised and Delivered

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After light showers Friday and Saturday and a steadier drizzling rain much of Sunday, we got heavy rain Monday morning. Just like the weather forecasters and their models predicted. But the summary of coming weather rarely does justice to the reality. In Monday’s case, a pounding early morning rain gave way to showers and then a long, windy break complete with a few flying patches of blue sky. We went out to the Albany Bulb–the old garbage dump of the little suburb just north of us that protrudes into the bay–and gave the dog a run. How was it out there? Blustery, windy enough that a little swell had come up on the Bay and waves were driving all the way up the pocket beach near the Golden Gate Fields racetrack. It started showering again pretty soon after we got back to the car. The next storm arrived, as predicted, early, early this morning, Tuesday. It was heralded by long, deep peals of thunder that at first only The Dog was hearing–he growled every time one sounded. Just before daybreak, the sky opened up for about four hours of thundering, pounding rain. Water shot down the gutters, and all day after and tonight, too, water seems to be flowing everywhere. We had some heavy showers through the day, and tonight the next storm is moving in. It’s supposed to be more intense than today’s. On my last walk with The Dog this morning, I could have sworn I heard a rumbling in the distance, something gathering itself to roll in across the coast; either that, or a string of diesel engines getting ready to roll up the Southern Pacific tracks just west of here.