“You play to win the game. Hello? You play to win the game. You don’t play to just play it.” ~ Herman Edwards.
I’ve been watching the second Trump impeachment trial, nearly gavel to gavel. I did bail out on some Friday’s session and the arguments being laid out by Trump’s attorney Michael van der Veen who was trying to make the unmakeable case by inserting falsehoods, using deflection and making a mockery of himself and the proceedings.
I suppose that van der Veen can be excused for looking like a boy trying to play in the men’s court. Not a Constitutional lawyer, van der Veen is a personal injury attorney by trade, what we used to derisively call an “ambulance chaser.” He’s the guy you call if you want to squeeze a million dollars out of the owner of the dog that nipped you in the leg and drew a drop of blood. He’s not the guy you want fighting legal brief to legal brief against the likes of Jaime Raskin, a former professor of Constitutional Law. Van der Veen’s method of operation of feigned indignation, overacting and accusatory rhetoric is probably more suited to a civil case than a Constitutionally based trial in the Senate Chamber. (In one telling moment during Saturday’s session, the Senate chamber erupted in derisive laughter at the counselor’s rhetoric). Continue reading
Anyone who’s visited San Francisco, since 1972 has seen the Transamerica Pyramid, one of The City’s most iconic structures.
I was in my teens when the building design was unveiled and quickly met with derision from the media and from public officials. It was criticized as something that would be more appropriate on the Las Vegas skyline than San Francisco’s.
The original plan called for the building to 1148 feet (350m) in height, effectively blocking views of the bay and skyline from Nob Hill, home to The City’s monied and exalted. In order to pacify the upper crust, the designers changed the height of the pyramid to its current 853 feet (260m).
I took a recent Sunday excursion to San Francisco’s Downtown to photograph this once detested structure. (On Sundays Downtown and the Financial District are nearly deserted).
From the building’s base and rising four stories, the pyramid features a web of beams that support the structure and also adds to the uniqueness of the building.
Peeking through the beams at a neighboring building
Monday morning in America. Not just any Monday morning in America. The day after Super Bowl Sunday, Monday. The annual Monday when a good portion of America is recovering from some variety of hangover. Hungover from a full season of football now ended, looking at months of withdrawal until the next season begins, and the sunken knowledge that golf, basketball, hockey and half a baseball season could never replace the cracking of plastic pads and occasional broken bones. Hungover from too many nachos or slices of pepperoni pizza. Most certainly hungover from far too many Margaritas chased with beer and a few Hennesseys as a little digestive.
There was no Super Bowl party here. No snack foods, no booze and no crowds of people. I barely watched any of the game. Cora of all people was the only one who watched from opening kickoff to the cascading confetti at game’s end. But there were plenty of Super Bowl parties.
How would I know this?
Sunday morning Cora asked me to stop at the store for some odds and ends. She gave me that questioning look when I got home with no odds and not a scant end.
“No, I didn’t go to the store. No, wait, I take that back. I went to the store, peeked in and it was jam packed with people buying stuff for the Super Bowl parties that we’ve all been asked to not throw.”
How do I know they weren’t just buying for their own house?
Well, if so many people are going out and stocking up on giant economy sized jugs of vodka and tequila and cases of beer then America has another problem beyond COVID.
I know there were Super Bowl parties because the evening news showed those parties to the rebuking narration of indignant newscasters.
Let’s just be philosophical about it; we were overdue for a national super spreader event anyway. It’s been more than a month since New Years Eve. We’ve been far too lax in our bad behavior. If it wasn’t for Super Bowl Sunday we’d be going a full 2 ½ months of being moderately responsible. Remember the next opportunity for the lunacy of a super spreader event is until St. Patrick’s Day. Six weeks or so of sanity. How will we possibly manage?
Ironic, in a ghoulish sort of way that we decide to have a super spreader on the anniversary of the first known COVID death in the United States.
At some time during her 57 years I imagine she’d wanted to achieve fame in something or another. Through her mortality when her heart ruptured on February 6th 2020 she achieved immortality. Tissue samples analyzed months later revealed that her death was caused by COVID. This was not the moment of fame she would have been looking for. Patricia Dowd, remember her name. Might just as well remember her name because there’s no way that anyone can remember the names of the other 465,000. Most of them will be remembered only by the ones they left behind.
If I’m sounding a bit bitter it’s because I am. We’re closing in on the one year anniversary when things began to shut down; a year since we first hopped on this treadmill. And we know where treadmills lead to; N-O-W-H-E-R-E. Continue reading
“There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” Everything has a price. I’m not giving away anything really tangible here. The “free” in the title of this piece refers to “free-flowing.” Random thoughts; aimless; catch as catch can; spitballing. Even remnants o’stuff that never made it into posts. But bear in mind that everything has a cost. In this case the cost is your time. I hope that it’s time well spent.
Free time says the title. That can have different meanings. There’s the good notion; the unallocated block to do whatever you want.
And then there’s the other notion of free time; that it has no cost. This is a canard. The cost of time is time and there’s really nothing more valuable. Take it from an aging guy who’s got less time on the horizon than in the rearview mirror.
This of course mostly puts the lie to the old saying, “Time is money.” Money is pieces of paper with pictures of famous dead people. You can usually get those pictures back. Time is irreplaceable.
Time. Time was the topic of the week in the domestic circle.
Late Friday afternoon and the week was winding down. Do COVID era weeks really wind up? Today it’s the day to day to day, Drudge. Monotony. Colorless repetition.
CNN’s Erin Burnett was interviewing a couple of the big giant medical heads who’ve held sway on damn near every aspect of our daily lives. That’s not necessarily a bad thing given our situation. I put it this way because I think that we’d all like to return to the days when the big giant medical heads fade back into the relative obscurity of research and writing articles in medical journals that everyday people never read.
Cora and I were only half listening to Dr. William Haseltine a regular big giant medical head on CNN. And then he started in on masks and for some reason this caught our attention. Haseltine in the now familiar pedagogic, voice from on high of big giant medical heads suggested (paraphrasing here), “We need to start thinking about wearing two masks and a face shield.”
I – lost – my – shit.
“What the actual fuck did he just say? TWO masks AND a face shield?”
The atmospheric river was flowing earlier this week. Atmospheric river; that’s weather reporter speak for a gully washer that slams in from the Pacific. Before the storm hit I put whatever I could in a shed or in the garage. Whatever was left I covered with tarps. The storm crashed in and the tarps flapped and slapped as if they were taking out some anger over being left out in the gale.
It was a good night to be indoors. I had a fire going. The smell of the fire mixed with the aroma of a meatloaf in the oven and a pan of roasting Brussels sprouts. There was a cast iron skillet brimming with scalloped potatoes sitting on the stove. Cora and I sat on the couch, she in a sweatshirt and muffler and me in a Pendleton shirt, close together in front of the fireplace. I love the Pendletons, they look, feel and speak of cozy winter warmth.
I was buried in a book and Cora was sewing. Lexi, was in a half sleep curled into a hairy black and tan ball on her dog bed in front of the fireplace. But for Lexi’s occasional dream spasms and the crackling fire it was stone quiet. There we were, a living Norman Rockwell, warm and comfy dandy on a winter’s night.
I’m not a fan of winter. Given the choice I’d be sitting in front of the pool with a good book but if we had to go through the seasonal routine I’d take it. It’s warm and spiritual by a fire, sitting with my partner and my dog while outside the wind is slamming sheets of rain against the windows.
At nine-ish Cora toddled off to bed and Lexi followed while I stayed in front of the fire with my book. Jackson came out of his room to ask what all the noise outside was about. I told him that he was probably hearing the tarps being thrashed around by the wind, adding, “If your great grandfather were around he’d say, ‘T’isn’t a fit night out for man nor beast.’”
A little while later and the tarps had blown off the grills they were supposed to protect. I tried to fasten them down but the wind wasn’t having it.
“Fuck this.”
I gathered up the tarps and tossed them in the garage so I wouldn’t have to fetch them from down the street in the morning and went back inside to get dry and warm.
Back to my book. The rain and wind were pummeling the windows and the pool just about to overflow. I went upstairs to check on Cora. She looked up from her reading.
“My god it’s really windy.”
“Yeah….I know. I’m thinking about all those homeless in the camps.”
Back downstairs – throw another log on the fire. Lexi followed and went back to her dog bed and groaned with doggy pleasure, droopy eyes looking lazily into the warmth. Continue reading
The Bay Area awoke to a New Year that was bright, beautiful, crisp and clean. We took a walk at Crissy Field where the Golden Gate Bridge is in full view. During our walk we came upon a beached boat with no apparent owner besides nature to do it’s inevitable work.
I took a few photos of the old vessel (including the banner image, a close up from the bow) but the one that I really wanted was made impossible by the many people walking the shoreline, enjoying a break from politics and pandemics. I loitered hoping for the clean shot that never happened.
As if the weather gods had just given us a one day tease, January 2nd was cold, misty and gray. The image of that boat and the disappointment of the missed shot had stayed with me and the gloomy weather inspired a return to the beach.
The beach was nearly empty and the tide was up – way up. The bridge was shrouded within a misty veil.
As I walked the shoreline dodging the surging bay water I wondered if the boat would still be there or if the risen bay might have snatched the little craft from its sandy berth. About a half mile up the beach lay the boat, unmoved in the wet sand surrounded by puddles. Not a person in sight. I had my shot and the gloomy weather lent what I thought was an extra portion of drama.
I took a number of images, all in color, and edited them into monochrome using different filters.
I never thought the day would come when I would look forward to a shot. Hold on – let me clarify that. I never thought the day would come when I would look forward to an injection. Shots? Many were the times during the working years when a string of time sucking, worthless meetings would have me looking forward to a healthy shot of Maker’s Mark at day’s end – and I didn’t wait four weeks for a second shot. Continue reading
Today, for only the second time that I can remember I watched a Presidential Inauguration. That wasn’t necessarily by design. This is the first inauguration held since I went into retirement. The other inauguration that I watched was in 2008, the inauguration of Barack Obama, America’s first Black president. I was working that day but the historical moment compelled us all to pause. The office was silent as the staff gazed up at the television and that seminal moment.
There’s a recipe for a Presidential Inauguration. It’s a few parts hope; a few parts pride; a large measure of tradition and there’s always a dash of doubt. When it’s all done it’s topped with an icing of celebration; balls, parades, fireworks, speeches and patriotic pomp and ceremony. A lot of that icing was left out of today’s inauguration. A once in a century pandemic had already forced a change in the formula before the violence and insecurity of recent days forced the nation to leave off a lot of the icing. But just as we jerryrig the cake that turns out lopsided or dry and cracked, we work around the difficulty and continue with the business and the tradition of our Democracy.
Over the past two days I’ve experienced something that I haven’t known in four years – optimism. It started yesterday with a ceremony to honor those lost due to the pandemic. Even before taking office, on the day before their swearing in, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris delivered to the nation something it has not seen in four years. In a short, touching and heartfelt ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool the President and Vice President elect honored the 400,000 lives that have been lost in one short and paradoxically interminable year.
We’ve been gutting out four years of a president for the few. Yesterday Joe Biden took the first step in becoming a president for all Americans. Sadly his presidency for all, started with being the man for the departed; those who the outgoing president hardly bothered to acknowledge or mourn.
This nation has passed through four years of a presidency that’s lacked the grace, humanity, compassion and depth of feeling that Americans and people around the world rightfully expect from the President of the United States.
The words of Vice President Elect Kamala Harris echoed in the chill evening air, the cold reality of the past year in which the citizens have almost literally had to go it alone, abandoned by a leader who cared more about his reelection bid and subsequent loss than for the nation in his charge. “We gather tonight, a nation in mourning, to pay tribute to the lives we lost,” said Ms. Harris. “For many months, we have grieved by ourselves.” She ended with a statement of unity, “Tonight we grieve together.”
President Elect Biden, a man who has known loss and who’s character of compassion has been formed by personal grief, followed with a few brief words, most poignantly, “It’s hard sometimes to remember. But that’s how we heal. It’s important to do that as a nation. That’s why we’re here.”
At the conclusion of his remarks 400 lights, each representing 1000 departed Americans, were illuminated along the length of the pool.
I didn’t see the ceremony as it happened. I was on the way to a doctor’s appointment and I listened on the radio. When I heard the words of Kamala Harris, I was overcome by a wave of emotion; sadness and yes, anger. “What a waste,” I said to myself. My anger quickly gave way to cautious hope. On that cold evening I could feel a whisper of warmth in the nation’s capitol.
For starters, let’s not jump to the conclusion that the title implies I’m giving stuff away. As Milton Friedman liked to say, “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” Everything has a price.
The “free” in the title of this piece refers to “free-flowing;” you know, random thoughts, aimless, catch as catch can, spitballing. Remnants that never made it into posts.
And just as the old “free lunch” saying goes this post, like all posts by all bloggers, carries with it a price; your time. I hope it’s well spent. This post is an experiment of sorts. If Fabulous Friday Free Stuff falls flat (say that 3 times) then this will be a collectors item as the first and last edition.
Getting a poke
A week from today I’ll be getting my first COVID vaccination. California just expanded the eligibility for that coveted nectar to those 65 and over. You see, there is some advantage to getting older, though I’d gladly trade age for a lower spot on the injection hierarchy.
I managed to get my appointment in relatively easy fashion. A friend of mine texted me that he was at the dog park with his dog Jessi. The dog park is our semi-regular meeting place, where we get a chance to chat, tell tall tales and discuss the issues of the day. And while I have a dog I go to the DP without Lexi, who’s been put on a lifetime ban, by me, from going to the park.
Lexi was a regular at the DP until she got into the habit of sniffing out a spot where she would stop, drop and roll; turning herself into a glob of hair, mud, brambles and brush (and on one occasion – poop). It takes a good hour or more to brush all that crap out of a long haired dog. The only exception to her DP ban is on days when she’s going to get a bath. Below: Portrait of a dog park criminal.
Nothing like a comfortable shoe
When I arrived at the DP yesterday, my friend was on hold with Kaiser (our HMO). He’d been on hold for an hour and a half, listening to a loop of elevator music, Kaiser PSAs and a repeated warning, accentuating the obvious, of “longer than usual hold time.”
He finally got through to a real person. After setting up his own appointment he passed his phone over to me. Got my appointment with zero hold time.
I don’t know whether I’m getting the Moderna shot or the Pfizer. Does anyone out there know which shot has the Bill Gates microchip and which one has the George Soros microchip? And as a follow-up is 5G required for the chips to be activated? Asking for a friend.
The Life in My Years 