A favorite sign, at 10th and Bryant streets in San Francisco. Part of a series by muralist Rigo 23.
Triptych, 17th Street
From the “broken mirrors abandoned on the street” file. 17th Street at Treat Avenue. Lunchtime last Tuesday.
Who You Calling Rosy-Fingered?
Dawn. This morning. Berkeley, California.
Pirate Cat
21st and Florida streets, the Mission, San Francisco. I like the sign. Who wouldn’t. There was a chalkboard on the sidewalk in front advertising “Maple Bacon Latte.” If it’s a caffeinated beverage, it’s a flavor I haven’t yet sampled. I’ll go in and find out next time.
I happened to be walking by this corner because I fell asleep on BART–an old trick I have that dates back to days and nights on the Illinois Central in Chicagoland–and rode past my usual stop at 16th and Mission and wound up at 24th. It’s happened once before since I’ve worked at KQED, and maybe I should make it a habit. The walk from 24th is immensely more interesting and pleasant–more life in the neighborhood, less of a feeling of a place that’s been pounded flat by poverty, crime, indifference and desultory redevelopment–than the one from 16th Street. Such are the impressions of the work-bound walker, anyway. You need to sleep in a place, hear the street noise at night, spend a while seeing who’s going where during the day to get even the faintest sense of a neighborhood.
A Fan’s Notes on Water Supply
When you first move to California from someplace where rain is just a normal part of life all year round, some of the information that shows up on the newspaper weather page seems a little odd. I'm thinking especially of the rainfall totals, calculated between July 1 and June 30, and of the reservoir and snow-depth reports. Yeah, it's vaguely comforting to know some big lake somewhere is nearly full of water, and it's troubling when it's not. The snow report makes sense when you, the auslander, learn that a lot of the water that will wind up in the reservoirs starts out as vast quantities of white stuff in the higher reaches of the Sierra Nevada. The snow and water tables in the paper generally include references to the total for a year ago and to what's "normal" for the date. If you spend any time at all on the weather page, you develop a sort of rooting interest. Wet years with more than 100 percent of the expected rain and snow can make you feel like the home team is playoff bound. Dry years resemble those lost seasons when all the supposed stars flop and nothing quite goes right.
If the precipitation and snowfall reports are the daily standings of the water year, then meteorologists serve as both play-by-play announcers and analysts. If you're a serious fan and want to go beyond the entertainment offered by most TV weather presenters or the few vague words that make up most newspaper and online forecasts, then you have to go to the meteorological analyses published online by government weather services. Even in that world, there are circles within circles: for the interested generalist, there's the Area Forecast Discussion posted several times daily by most National Weather Service offices (for example, here's the AFD from the Monterey, California office). Informing those discussions are weather models–vastly complex, supercomputed pictures of the weather many days into the future; the true weather fanatic learns at least the rudiments of the models, their individual peculiarities, and what they might mean in terms of observable local weather.
Me, I haven't pushed the geek level much. I'm pondering the meaning of terms like "500mb heights" and "pressure surfaces" but don't employ them in polite company or even bar-room conversation. However, my interest is real. We're nearing a key date in our water year–the California Department of Water Resources will take its first formal snow measurements of the season in a couple of days. Fans will be watching closely because frankly our 2009-2010 water year hasn't gotten off to a great start; while most reservoirs are a little fuller than they were a year ago, most are also well under average levels.
Now, while I'm waiting for the pre-measurement festivities to begin, I'm consulting the oracles of the sport. Among my newer winter weather reading is the California-Nevada River Forecast Center's daily "Hydrometeorological Discussion." Issued at 9:30 a.m. every morning, it summarizes rainfall and snowfall for the last 24 hours, then reviews what the weather models are saying about incoming storms for the next three days. Whereas the Area Forecast Discussion focuses on conditions in the geographic districts they cover, the CNRFC discussion looks at conditions in watersheds and river drainages. If you live in California and you're preoccupied with water supply, the rain falling in the mountains above Lakes Shasta and Oroville, the state's two biggest reservoirs, probably means a lot more than whatever happens to fall on your neighborhood–where there's no place to store all the water that's coming down.
Christmas Buddha
Christmas Eve, on Vine Street in Berkeley. Try to untangle all the religious/cultural traditions here. I just like the fact someone so artfully lit the sleeping Buddha.
‘Always on Christmas Night …’
… Always on Christmas night there was music.
An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang
‘Cherry Ripe,’ and another uncle sang ‘Drake’s Drum.’
It was very warm in the little house.
Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death,
and then another in which she said her heart
was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody
laughed again; and then I went to bed.“Looking out my bedroom window, out into
the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow,
I could see the lights in the windows
of all the other houses on our hill and hear
the music rising from them up the long, steadily
falling night. I turned the gas down, I got
into bed. I said some words to the close and
holy darkness, and then I slept.”
News of the Holiday World
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.
Air Blog: Takeoff Moment
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 off 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.
Air Blog: The Prequel
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.