It’s been over a month now since that Sunday morning when the news broke that Kobe Bryant his daughter and seven others had perished in a helicopter crash. These things arrive like a sucker punch; the roundhouse that you never saw coming. You pick yourself up and wonder what the hell just happened. Regardless of how you feel about the man the news still leaves you breathless and exclaiming, “WHAT?”
Some were just settling down to Sunday breakfast. I was driving out to go for a run. I had sports talk on the radio and all the talk was about Bryant. No mention of a helicopter crash and so I thought it was all about Lebron James having passed Bryant on the all time scorers list in a game the night before. Talk had been that Bryant would be present at that game to honor James. It wasn’t until I was driving home after my run that I found out that all of the Bryant talk was about his death.
The internet tells us that 150,000 people die every day. Okay it is the internet and the internet is as often as not, a fraud. Suffice to say that a lot of people die every day. Death is often a close personal thing; family, friends, acquaintances. Death is often a sad, lonely thing; nobody to mark the passing but the undertaker and the grave digger. And then there are those times when death becomes a universal thing.
It’s over a month later and the tributes and the personal stories about Bryant continue and they will for some time to come. While the shock is mostly over, for some the dust will never settle. For some January 26, 2020 will be with them forever, a lifelong remembering of where they were when they heard the news. Most of us have similar days hidden away in our subconscious, just beneath the surface until a conversation, a story or an image brings back memories, sighs and the enduring why. Continue reading
This week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge presented by Pattiis “Change your perspective,” in other words look at an image or shot from a different point of view. Take a break from the tried, true and sometimes trite perspective of straight on from your standing eye level.
“Look up and down and round about you.” ~ John Muir
“I just think that humans were created to look upward”~ Catherine Hicks
The obvious alternative is a glance straight up.
Look! Up in the sky it’s…well it’s not Superman. But it might be…MIRA
If you happen to be walking just south of Market Street in San Francisco’s downtown and you just happen to look up you’ll meet MIRA. MIRA is a tower that looks like a portent of the next big earthquake, or maybe just the work of an architect on an acid trip. Maybe it’s a little of both but the firm Studio Gang put this design together on purpose.
Looking up at MIRA. Note that straight line going up the center.
A look straight up through the camera lends a greater impression of looming.
The magnificent church Oratoire Saint-Joseph du Mont-Royal in Montreal looms as if from heaven itself.
This week Tina’s Lens-Artists Challenge is Treasure Hunt. The mission should we choose to accept it (Yes that’s a nod to Mission Impossible) is to search for specific items from the list below and present our images of those items. Extra credit items are a bit more challenging.
Challenge Items: Sunrise and/or sunset, Something cold and/or hot, a bird, a dog, a funny sign, a bicycle, a seascape and/or mountain landscape, a rainbow, a church, a musical instrument, a boat, a plane, a waterfall
Extra Credit Items: An expressive portrait of one or more people, a very unusual place, knitting or sewing, a fish, an animal you don’t normally see, a bucket, a hammer, a street performer, a double rainbow, multiple challenge items in a single image.
Grand Teton National Park provides a mountain scape, a sunrise and a sunset.
“How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains! To behold this alone is worth the pains of any excursion a thousand times over.” ~ John Muir
Sunrise lights up the Moulton Barn and the Grand Tetons
My San Francisco is a series of posts that describes my own personal relationship with The City. My San Francisco pieces might be photo essays; they might be life stories or they could be commentaries. They might be a combination of some or all three. My impressions aren’t always paeans to San Francisco; it’s a beautiful city but like any beautiful city it has it’s dark side and its ugly stories. These pieces will always have one common theme; they are my expressions of my personal San Francisco experience.
My parents moved us to the suburban hills above San Mateo, California in the late 1950’s. 1958 if my memory serves me but as the years advance the memory’s service can be a bit lackluster and indifferent.
Our move was prompted largely by mom’s car accident. We’d been living on the east side of the bay in Hayward and both mom and dad were commuting across the San Mateo Bridge to work. In those days the bridge was a hazardous, narrow two lane affair and accidents weren’t uncommon.
And so as fate and a few too many drinks by another driver would have it, mom’s car got hit head on. I still have photos of her car. It was during the pre-seatbelt days and that she survived was miraculous. Looking at the photos I can’t even imagine how they got her out of the lump of steel that had once been a car. The aftermath of the accident, discomfort, a permanent limp and emotional complications remained with her until she passed in 1985. At the time though, the first order of business was to get a home on the same side of the bay as work.
Parrott Drive begins near downtown San Mateo, rolls west through and up the hills above the city and then swings south taking you into unincorporated San Mateo. My parents bought a three bedroom ranch style house on a sizable lot for 16 thousand dollars (worth 1.9 million today) on Parrott Drive across the street from what would in a few years become the College of San Mateo. When we moved in it was open space, oak trees on rolling hillocks that were green in winter and spring, turning brown in summer; brown, dry and drab with an annual summer brush fire or two until the winter rains returned to shower the land back to green. It was prime land for the cattle that grazed there and for my friends and I to play army when we dallied on the walk home from school.
Early 1960’s San Mateo, 20 miles south of San Francisco, was typical suburban America; a movie theater on the main street that screened a cartoon and a newsreel before showing two feature films; an ice cream parlor; a family owned toy store and a Chinese restaurant that served Americanized Chinese food.
El Camino Real was the main drag where teens cruised behind whatever wheel they could get behind; a VW Bug, the family station wagon or for those few lucky ones a bright, chrome laden muscle car; they cruised the 30 miles or so from South San Francisco all the way to Santa Clara if they chose and once I got a car, a Chevy Nova, I joined the show. And why not when gas sat at around $0.35 per gallon.
At the north end near South City you could get a burrito at The Jumping Bean and in San Mateo it was the A&W where carhops served Coney Dogs and root beer floats on trays that hung neatly on car windows; all to the Friday night sounds of V8’s revving, horns honking and 8 track players blaring rock music. I still have an A&W mug courtesy of a carhop named Dusty, who, after some flirting and some brazen begging on my part reached into the car and dropped a brand new mug into my lap.
The neighborhood where we lived could have been taken straight out of a Leave it to Beaver TV script. We walked the mile to school past ranch style homes with green, groomed lawns and basketball hoops mounted above garage doors. On Saturdays we rode our bikes to the strip mall to buy candy at the pharmacy. We caught frogs in a nearby creek and poison oak on the creek bank and trick or treated without parental escort every Halloween.
In the evenings we played wiffle ball on the front lawn, basketball in the driveway or romped around the fields while the parents sipped their pre-dinner martinis. As the sun dipped behind the hills to the west, the parents would emerge on front porches to call out for their kids. One of the parents had a shrill whistle while Mrs. Davis on the opposite corner would howl, “BAWWWW-BEEEE!”
“Hey Bobby, your mom’s calling,” we would snicker. Continue reading
Water creates its own path through the narrowest of spaces, eventually eroding cracks and making them channels. Below are images of California’s Stanislaus River from a narrow rapid to the narrowest of passages.
Below, a narrow section of waterfall cuts through Oregon’s greenery to the Umpqua River
San Francisco is home to many alleys, some with their own unique claim to fame. Below is narrow Ross Alley, San Francisco’s oldest alley.
Two views through a narrow hole in a cactus pad.
Flying with as little separation as 18 inches (45.2 cm) at speeds of 450 to 500 mph (720 to 800 km/h) the margin for error for the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds is NARROW.
“I don’t get why this is so fucking difficult.” That was the gist of my daughter’s text message to me last Saturday morning.
What was it that was so fucking difficult? A new transmitter for her diabetes monitor still had not shipped and without the transmitter the monitor was just useless hardware. Monitors can give the diabetic real time glucose numbers to help regulate blood sugar levels without spikes. Without the monitor my daughter’s blood sugars were all over the place and she was getting up every night to take in some sugars to compensate for a low or she was stressing over spikes; stress that exacerbates spiking glucose levels.
Two weeks of the customer service runaround; two weeks of calls being passed from CSR’s to supervisors to supervisors of supervisors and two weeks of the almost always required inordinate amount of time on hold. Promises made, promises broken; the “it should ship anytime now” song and dance. The request had been entered into the system but the transmitter hadn’t shipped and nobody had an answer for the all important question, why? Why was it so fucking difficult?
On reading her text I called her up, she was crying; frustration and some fear of what this was doing to her health. We talked it out. It was mostly her wanting to vent. She does that at times. Calls dad and lets loose. Hey, at least I serve some purpose – right?
I offered my help. Would she like me to call the company? Given that I’m retired I have all the time in the world to be put on interminable hold. As a former purchasing agent it used to be part of my job to unstick a stuck shipment. She thanked me but said she’d handle it, “I just needed to vent.”.
“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”
This week’s Lens-Artists Photo Challenge from Ann-Christine is “Future.” Ann-Christine writes, “The future is the period of time that will come after the present, or the things that will happen then. Maybe a second away, a week, a year, a decade.” I’m playing very fast and loose with this week’s theme.
It’s said that a red sky in the morning portends a storm. If that’s true then a clear golden sunrise must mean bright sun for the future hours of the day. Here the future is measured in hours. San Francisco Skyline taken from Point Cavallo.
In sports the future outcome can hang in the balance seconds away or quicker than the blink of any eye. Gregor Blanco breaks for second base. His future success or failure is about 3.3 to 3.4 seconds away.
The future outcome can be even shorter than a second. A fastball takes .4 seconds to reach home plate after it leaves a pitcher’s hand, but a hitter needs a full .25 seconds to see the ball and react. Brandon Crawford watches a pitch.
In hockey the future is decided at 90-miles-per-hour (144 km per hour). The difference between a goal and save can come down to fractions of a second. Antti Niemi eyes the puck.
Kari Lehtonen’s future fortune or misfortune is measured in milliseconds
The future can be indefinite as in the case of sage advice. A mural on Vesuvio’s wall offers some wisdom to keep in mind for the future. Vesuvio’s Cafe, Jack Kerouac Alley, North Beach, San Francisco CA.
My San Francisco is a series of posts that describes my own personal relationship with The City. My San Francisco pieces might be photo essays; they might be life stories or they could be commentaries. They might be a combination of some or all three. My impressions won’t necessarily be paeans to San Francisco; it’s a beautiful city that often dons an ugly mask. These pieces will always have one common theme; they are my expressions of my personal San Francisco experience.
Fourth Street between Mission and Market Streets in San Francisco’s downtown is a crowded, frantic place that moves at a breakneck pace. Walking up Fourth towards Market you find that there’s really no straight line so you zig zag your way through the darting crowd. You don’t stroll here; neither do you meander or shuffle; you simply let yourself get caught up in the swirling, boiling maelstrom of people who have places to go and had to get there yesterday.
You’re walking north-ish and once you’ve snaked your way through the rushing throng to Market Street you’ve arrived. This is the main channel that carries the fleets of busses above and the subway trains below; all expelling the masses, the schools of humanity into the urban sea. Market is the eye of the public storm. It’s the grand stage, the center ring, the headliner of the show; the place where you can catch the diversity, the poverty and riches and the clean and corrupt. Here’s where, with a single glance you can catch sight of the charm and the misery, and the plain and eccentric. It’s all here, The City in a nutshell, or as visitors from the less avant-garde climes might call it, just plain nutty. Take any random afternoon:
Smack on the corner of Fourth and Market sits a big red canopy. It’s Annie’s hot dog stand where Annie, or more likely one of her minions, is doing a brisk business selling hot dogs, pretzels and other salty grub. Between customers Annie, or more likely one of her minions, is immersed in her cell phone, oblivious to the hastening multitudes that churn around her. She caters to a wide range of the urban herd that stampedes past; shoppers, tourists and that businessman who’s careful to skip the mustard in favor of avoiding a stained tie. All except the wheelchair bound man parked next to the canopy. Like many of The City’s unfortunates he holds a worn cardboard sign that asks for a handout and wishes you the blessings of the god who’s abandoned him.
A few feet away from the hot dog stand a guy is running a shell game. Look, there’s a winner. He picked the shell hiding the pea. The man behind the shells hands the player a wad of money and they play again. The operator swishes the shells around and when he stops the player picks the correct shell and collects another wad of bills. The player’s skill is amazing. He makes it look easy, and it is easy if you’re a shill and nothing is really won or lost. This player isn’t here to play, he’s hard at work; bait to attract the minnows to the shark’s jaws. He’s looking for the gullibles who think they can beat the game that can’t be beat; to strike it rich on a downtown city street. One of the shell guy’s crew approaches me and gives me a friendly but ominous warning to refrain from taking pictures. Understandable I guess. If you’re running an illegal shell game you probably don’t want your image taken.
On the other side of Fourth Street a small crowd sways to a trio playing some lively blues and further on a Michael Jackson impersonator twirls, moonwalks and lip syncs to recordings of the King of Pop. He’s good at his craft but let’s face it – he looks kinda creepy.
A pair of Hispanic women peddle bacon wrapped hot dogs cooked over a small propane grill. From the looks of it, their little operation doesn’t have the city’s official stamp of approval but that doesn’t matter to the customers who stop for a dog and a soda. The smell at this tiny operation is much more enticing than the smell coming from Annie’s big red tent; these two ladies have bacon. It’s that heavenly and seductive siren of bacon and sausage on a grill and it takes all the willpower I can muster to keep from buying. After all what could be better than nitrites wrapped in yet more nitrites. Pork fat rules, baby!
My San Francisco is a series of posts that describes my own personal relationship with The City. My San Francisco pieces might be photo essays; they might be life stories or they could be commentaries. They might be a combination of some or all three. My impressions won’t necessarily be paeans to San Francisco; it’s a beautiful city that often dons an ugly mask. These pieces will always have one common theme; they are my expressions of my personal San Francisco experience.
I know a lot of people who avoid Downtown San Francisco as if it were a Trump rally (Sorry, that’s how most of the people who I know roll). Me, I love it. As a prequel to another commentary on San Francisco, specifically downtown, here’s a little photo essay.
On the move.
Downtown is where people and things always seem to be on the move and in a hurry to get somewhere. Below, the 30 Stockton Bus just out of the Stockton Street tunnel heads past Union Square
Below, reflections from a speeding commuter bus.
Below, a Powell Street cable car crosses Geary Street.
Below a woman rushes past a department store window on Stockton Street. I guess the prices were too high for her liking.
My San Francisco is a series of posts that describes my own personal relationship with The City. My San Francisco pieces might be photo essays; they might be life stories or they could be commentaries. They might be a combination of some or all three. My impressions won’t necessarily be paeans to San Francisco; it’s a beautiful city that often dons an ugly mask. These pieces will always have one common theme; they are my expressions of my personal San Francisco experience.
It was nearly a year ago, March in fact, that I wrote a piece in which I described my love/hate relationship with San Francisco. At the time The City and I were back on good terms. It was just after the Chinese New Year celebration when Cora and I had spent some afternoons enjoying the festive atmosphere. Chinatown is one of my favorite places in The City, not for cheap trinkets or for schmoozing with the multitudes of tourists but for the food, walks through historic alleys and the general feel of the place. And then there’s a long ago personal history that I have with Chinatown, back before I was married.
Now, ten months later, I find myself revisiting the whole notion of love and hate in San Francisco. Not because we’ve had another falling out; things have been just ducky between us. It’s a movie, The Last Black Man in San Francisco that’s sent me back to rehash that old piece and review my fickle relationship with The City.
The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a hybrid of drama and real life but then that description can mean almost nothing. How many times have I seen a World War II movie that opens with the credit, “Based on true events,” and then come away feeling like the only true event that the movie recalled was a big war in which a lot of people got killed.
The details of what is true and not true in The Last Black Man, are unimportant to this piece. The story revolves around a young black man, Jimmie Fails (played by Jimmie Fails) and his good friend Montgomery Allen ( Jonathan Majors). The two men share cramped quarters in a single garage turned bedroom in San Francisco’s Bayview-Hunter’s Point District. The district, the poorest and most neglected of The City’s neighborhoods is geographically isolated from the rest of San Francisco and located near the old Hunter’s Point Naval Shipyard which the Navy abandoned in 1974. As a not so friendly parting gift The Navy left The City and its residents with a toxic dump, something that is not lost on the angry residents of the area.
The two men, particularly Fails, see the garage and the blighted neighborhood as temporary digs until they can move into Fails’ old family home, a stately wood panelled Victorian located in San Francisco’s Fillmore District; a section of town which during and after World War II became a largely African American district (the home that was used for the shoot actually sits on South Van Ness Avenue in a district called SOMA ).
Early in the movie the two men periodically show up at the house to make minor repairs, touch up the paint and envision what Fails sees as their future in the old home. All this is to the chagrin of the white couple who occupy the house. It’s the twenty first century and money and gentrification are pushing the original residents out and the Fillmore is starting to take on a distinctly WASPish flavor.
Further into the film the white couple is forced to move out and the home, left vacant, is ripe for the two men to become squatters. Jimmie’s plan is to establish his residence in the home and take possession but the plan hits a snag when the home is put up for sale. Fails visits a real estate agent who informs him that the house is worth seven figures, about 6 figures more than Jimmie can lay his hands on.
The film is rife with nuance. It’s able to deliver a message without hitting the viewer across the face with it. The closest that we come to a villain is the real estate agent who takes on the role of metaphor for all that’s going wrong with The City. Without a mention we know that the evil geniuses are the tech companies, the techies and the investors who trade real estate like kids trade baseball cards. Free of flashbacks the film delivers a sobering dose of nostalgia without being maudlin.
For me there was one striking scene in the movie. Continue reading
The Life in My Years 