Category: Berkeley

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The Packing List

I have a big ride coming up Saturday: The Terrible Two, one of the toughest double centuries in California and probably the entire country. What makes it tough is the combination of hard climbs — 16,000 feet in all, including long stretches at 8 percent and steeper, much steeper — and hot summer solstice weather — the past couple of days it has topped 100 degrees on much of the course, though there’s supposed to be a cooldown Saturday morning.

Going on a ride like this isn’t a matter of jumping on the bike and heading out the door. You want to make sure you’ve got everything you need for a long, tough day on the road. It takes hours to get everything ready, and the process seems endless. Kate has urged me to put together a checklist of everything I need. For years, I’ve said, “Great idea, honey!” and done nothing about it.

Until now. I put together a gear checklist yesterday. Looking at it, I see why everything takes so long. In fact, it amazes me that anyone manages to carry all this stuff with them on their bikes. But we do. The list, for your edification and enjoyment, is after the jump.

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Walkers for Gravel

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It figures that in Berkeley, where people are most comfortable communicating with their fellow citizens by bumper sticker and placard, that someone is going through the neighborhood with hand-scrawled flyers urging local pedestrians (these things would be invisible to drivers unless they decide to motor down the sidewalk, which come to think of it is not out of the question here) to check out the Democratic candidate who makes Dennis Kucinich look like an Eisenhower Republican.

I did as the signs commanded and visited a few Mike Gravel-related sites. Well, listen, first of all it’s been jarring to hear his name. I’ve been thinking that the Mike Gravel (the last name is gruh-VELL, emphasis on the second syllable) seeking the Democratic nomination must be the son of the old Mike Gravel, the senator from Alaska first elected in the misty 1960s. But no, the old and new Mike Gravel are the same guy. So going online has already been educational.

Beyond that I’ve got mixed feelings. The guy advocates so much I think makes sense or at least ought to be discussed seriously: a reform of the federal tax system to spread the pain (hey, in my heart I’ll really hurt for Halliburton); a move to guaranteed national health care; an aggressive policy on climate change; and in the shorter term, a switch from the practice of shooting first and asking questions later the Bush regime has employed to such wonderful effect in Iraq and elsewhere.

I don’t care for one of his big initiatives, though: a proposal to create a system of national voter referendums similar to those that California and many other states use more and more to decide big policy and budget questions. I don’t like the proposal because I think it’s proving to be a practical, political and constitutional disaster in California.

Among other things: Each ballot is longer than the last; huge amounts of money are spent to sway the voters to one side or other on questions that the Legislature and governor have punted on; the elections are decided by a non-representative slice of the state’s people (the older, more affluent white folks who go to the polls in the largest numbers); and the results suck: thanks to the initiative process we have seen passage of Proposition 13, which limits property taxes and has led to the slow strangulation of public services across the state; Proposition 187, a cynical and heartless attempt to cut off social services to illegal immigrants; Proposition 209, a measure designed to kill affirmative action in public institutions. (Oh, gosh: Is my distaste for lunkhead conservatism showing?)

Take money out of the process and make participation universal, and I’m all for it.

Back to Gravel (who would try to take money out of the political campaign process, by the way): Probably the saddest thing about our system is that it’s so hard for someone like him, someone who has staked out positions away from the safe center, to get anything like a serious hearing. It’s as if even the people who might agree with some of what he says agree that it’s just too goofy to believe that anyone running on these issues could ever have a chance to govern. That’s what I find myself thinking, anyway. Where’s the hope or the heart in the system when you feel that the same old crap is the only “realistic” option for the future?

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Port

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Friday evening, on the 7:55 ferry from Oakland to San Francisco. Looking back up the estuary past the Port of Oakland’s inner harbor. The ferry’s rear deck is set up with overhead radiant heaters, so even in the winter during a storm, it’s tolerable to ride back there; in fact, in all the dozens of times I’ve taken this trip, I don’t think I’ve ever sat inside the boat.

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1st Annual Berkeley International Car (and Truck) Show

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Parked on California Street, about a block from Infospigot World Headquarters. This truck has been in the same spot for as long as I’ve been paying attention (we’ve lived in the neighborhood 19 years now, though I can’t remember the first time I saw this vehicle; I’ve never seen anyone working on it or driving it, though that that looks like fresh oil on the pavement under the front end). It’s an old International, though I can’t say how old. The 1956 model at the bottom left of the ad below (click for a bigger image) looks pretty close to this one. The license plate dates back to the late ’60s or a little after, when California switched from its old gold on black pattern to gold on blue (the switch to the current standard blue on white started in the early ’80s).

It’s a battered old classic in any case, with all the rust and dings and oxidized paint. I like the way the wheels are turned to the curb (it’s facing downhill) and the rear wheels are chocked. I wonder when the engine started last.

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[Update: Checking further online, I found a great collection of International truck pictures — this year is the 100th anniversary of the International Harvester Company producing its first truck — at the Wisconsin Historical Society site. And going through the collection, one model — the 1950 L-160 — looks like a dead ringer for the truck on California Street. I’m also waiting for an expert opinion from a guy over in San Bruno who’s organizing a cross-country International truck convoy this summer to celebrate the centennial.

Update 2: My expert’s opinion: “That truck is a 50 – 52 “L” series and is probably the 160 but may be a 150. The130 – 180 designation was determined by chassis strength and axles weight rating.”]

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1st Annual Berkeley International Auto Show

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Parked outside Martin Luther King Jr. Middle School last night, while some (undoubtedly politically enlightened) community event was going on in the auditorium. I’ve seen this car around, but have never found myself driving behind it. I love the fact the owner/driver has left flyers on the windshield (the picture below is an excerpt). When you read the pitch, this really doesn’t seem like a bad option for an around-town runabout (“around town” in Berkeley means an area of about four miles (north to south) and a couple miles west (the bay shore) to east (the hills).

[And if you’re interested in this machine, it’s made by Global Electric Motorcars of Fargo, North Dakota. When I was at Wired, we ran a long feature on Dan Sturges, the guy who developed the vehicle that became the GEM.]

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Integrity: Our Most Important Product

Here’s an item I like: Three teachers in Oakland have been forced to resign over “clarifying” a question for a student taking California’s high school exit exam. For now, let’s not get into the subject of the testing mania that has taken root in public education as a method of leaving no child behind and holding teachers and schools accountable for making sure kids are learning what they need to learn. Instead, just consider the nature of the incident: A school administrator witnessed the “clarification” and ratted the three teachers out. No details are forthcoming yet about what the student asked that prompted the “clarification” or what help the teachers offered in response; all that’s known is that the teachers will lose their jobs and the test results for the students involved may be invalidated.

Crikey. We’ve got an attorney general who won’t accept responsibility for anything happening on his watch and who would probably tell you he can’t remember if you ask whether he’s wearing underwear or not. He’s just the latest line in a long series of lying, bumbling Bush higher-ups who have disgraced their offices, screwed up the jobs they were given, and won the undying gratitude of their boss. On occasion, they have blundered so badly that the president has had to send them out the door with a handshake and a Medal of Freedom. Not to worry — they all come back with books telling us what great jobs they did, what a refined sense of duty they share, how clear their consciences are, and how everyone else let them and us down.

Somehow that’s all tolerable, judging by the fact the rascals are conducting business pretty much as usual and the torch-carrying mobs you’d expect on the streets have yet to appear.

But teachers who might have helped out a kid on a state test? They’ve got to go. We can’t let anything interfere with the integrity of a system set up to provide a fig leaf for the criminal lack of concern for what happens to kids in the worst schools or for why those schools are so bad in the first place.

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Practically Tuesday Monday Notebook

Home truths: If someone is explaining to you that they’re not an asshole — like the animal control officer who stopped me just around the corner and told me that if were an asshole, he’d write me a ticket for walking The Dog off leash and more than six feet away from me (per city ordinance) — the someone is probably an asshole. And if someone apologizes for being an asshole, they’re probably not one. I said probably. Thus concludes this adult language interlude.

Dog moment: Speaking of The Dog, a year ago today we brought him home from his Central California wanderings; since he’s still not talking, we don’t know anything about that adventure except the way it ended. And now he has his own pet: a mildewed rawhide chew-thing that he buried in the backyard for some weeks or months and recently uncovered for his renewed canine enjoyment. He’s very protective of the rawhide chew, which we’ve named Filthy Bone. As in: “Scout, you can’t play with Filthy Bone in the house.”

Read and wonder: A long piece in The New York Times Magazine about the Iraqi diaspora — the flow of refugees all over the Middle East — and the unhappy consequences present and perhaps future of same. A much shorter piece in today’s San Francisco Chronicle on an Indiana teacher fired for suggesting in class that she’s not for the Iraq war. That story begins:

“When one of Deborah Mayer’s elementary school students asked her on the eve of the Iraq war whether she would ever take part in a peace march, the veteran teacher recalls answering, “I honk for peace.”

“Soon afterward, Mayer lost her job and her home in Indiana. She was out of work for nearly three years. And when she complained to federal courts that her free-speech rights had been violated, the courts replied, essentially, that as a public school teacher she didn’t have any. ”

She has appealed, but without much hope of a reversal, to the Supreme Court of the United States. The 7th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals decision upholding her firing is available here as a PDF file.

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Friday Notes

Honor America, damn it: The New York Times had a story yesterday on the measures the Yankees take to get ballpark patrons to pay attention to the playing of the national anthem and “God Bless America.” It’s simple, actually: The team has ushers block the aisles with chains during the ritual musical moments. That prevents people from proceeding to their seats (during the anthem) or getting up to buy a hot dog or beer or to take a leak (during “GBA”), until the last strains of the patriotic airs have wafted out over the Bronx. I like the Yankees’ explanation: It’s not that the team wants to force its customers attention to the business of honoring America; it’s just that the team is responding to complaints from fans who were scandalized that other fans weren’t showing proper deference during this quasi-religious exercise. (Personally, I admire my fellow citizens who take time out from honoring America to make sure the rest of us are, too. I also believe the seventh inning of major league games and half-time of pro football and basketball games should be suspended forthwith for the mandatory playing of, and listening to, patriotic songs and speeches. Medals to be awarded to those who spot and report those whose attention wanders.)

Today’s jay report: Two scrub jays — not knowing any different and influenced by my straight upbringing I assume a male and female pair as opposed to a same-sex couple — are still attending their little nest in our back-porch trellis. The number and condition of the nest’s occupants are mysteries; they seem to be completely silent till the adults show up, then they give out with enthusiastic though wheezy chirping. The only drama to date of which nearby humans are aware: the appearance of a black cat prowling the backyard in the early morning. The apparent parent jays get pretty excited about the cat, which is wearing a bell. This morning, we let out Scout, resident dog, to try to send a message to the jaguarine visitor; but Scout’s not given to chasing cats — digging up pigs’ ears he has buried around the yard is more his speed — and I’m not sure our intent was clear.

‘Death Ray’ inventor dies: Really.

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Ballpark Jesus

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Monday night, on the Left O’Doul Bridge, Third Street, just outside the Giants’ ballpark. Among other apparent bridge fixtures: A panhandler with a sign reading “Will Kidnap/Torture Your Boss for a Buck.”

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Please, Just Let Me Go

Trying to reduce the volume of paper coming into the house, I just called to cancel subscriptions to Wired, New York Magazine, and MIT’s Technology Review.

The first two were easy to get rid of. The Wired and New York websites don’t let you cancel — they make you call to do that. So I called, and it took all of two minutes to become a former subscriber. Technology Review was another matter.

I can’t honestly remember when I first subscribed; I’ve been seeing the magazine for years, and it makes fascinating bathroom reading. Somewhere along the line, my subscription renewal became automatic, meaning the publisher just signs you up for another tour of duty as long as they have a current credit card for you. You can see the beauty of that arrangement from the magazine’s viewpoint, and how insidious it is for the subscriber: You get a courtesy notice that you’re getting another year of two of the magazine; you actually have to read the notice and get off your ass and make a phone call to stop it from happening.

I called the Technology Review number and got into an automated voice system that after a few questions and answers informed me that since my payment had already been processed, I needed to call another number. I called that number and was greeted by the same automated voice. This time, I had the option of canceling the magazine — but not before the voice offered me a series of bribes: first, a free extension of my Technology Review subscription; when I said no to that, my choice of a travel mug or 20 bucks in gasoline rebates — that’s five and a half gallons at current Bay Area prices; when I said no, the voice offered me free subscriptions to Wired and ESPN, the Magazine. When I declined — politely, but wondering how the voice system would handle a scream — the voice said, “I’m sorry you weren’t interested in more magazines today,” told me I’d get a refund, then said goodbye.

Next chore is tracking down the rest of the stuff I automatically pay for and getting rid of what I don’t use. I’ve thought of publishing the complete list but decided it’s both depressing and maybe a little more revealing than even I think prudent (lots of hot charity action on our debit cards — we give $25 a month to the American Red Cross, automatically).

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