27 December 2013
With a friend, I went to the Hockney exhibition at the De Young for my fifth visit, and his first (and only, probably). It was refreshing to be with someone unmoved by the art ("candy," he called it; "sweetness"), and unimpressed by The Great Man, of whom he had not heard previously. I admired his independent spirit, his refusal to be swept along by popular enthusiasm for Hockney. I've never been in such a large crowd at the gallery. The museum was busier than an airport before a holiday.
24 December 2013
When I first came to southern California, in 1990 after 22 years of Central Canadian winters, I found the weather on Christmas Day impossible to believe: 72F, sunny , flowers blooming in the gardens, green grass in the lawns, leaves on the trees! Nah! A movie set, surely! Not real. To complete the effect, I took myself to Santa Monica, to walk along the beach. Ever since, every Christmas Day, I head for the ocean, even in northern California. Tomorrow, I will visit Ocean Beach, only a few blocks from home. Ah, winter!
22 December 2013
Café Zephyr, my usual hangout in the neighborhood, has a new name: La Promenade Café. The interior walls are being painted, a little each day, to create a French street scene, as though the cafe were out of doors. The owners have another location, Café Enchanté, at 26th and Geary, embellished in the same way.
I went by Moishe's Pippic on Hayes this afternoon, intending to have a meal there, since I had heard that it would close December 31. But, alas, I discovered that it had closed on the 2nd. Workmen were dismantling the interior. Feeling rather melancholy, I took myself to Hayes & Kebab nearby. There's very little left of the Hayes Valley neighborhood as I knew it in the early 90s. Sic transit.
02 December 2013
27 November 2013
I was 17 when JFK was murdered. At first I didn't believe the news, since I imagined that such a thing would not be possible. But the agitation of my fellow high-schoolers and our teachers soon convinced me. For the past week or so, there have been many programs on radio and television about JFK's life and death, about his killer, and about the physics of the event itself. All this has brought the period back to me. At the time, I was impressed by the drama of the succession, the grandeur of great events in high places. The human dimension of it, its meaning for his family and others, reached me only later. Ever since, I've had a strong sense of the unpredictability of life, of what the old Prayer Book calls "the changes and chances of this fleeting world."
15 November 2013
This afternoon I took myself to the Legion of Honor, to look at the Anders Zorn exhibition, and a much smaller display of works by Matisse. The Zorn pieces are technically very impressive and interesting. There are many of them, watercolors, etchings, and oils, and a few small bronzes. The paintings are conservative in technique and subject matter: rich Americans and such, and a dollop of Swedish and other lower class types, and waterscapes and so on. Zorn clearly intended to make money, and he did. Pots of it, which he and his wife used to create a museum of his works and Swedish folk art. The pieces showing promise of becoming real art, since they weren't made to flatter rich patrons, are the small bronzes. Some of the paintings looked familiar to me; I must have seen them in Stockholm. The Matisse paintings are joyful, colorful, playful even, unselfconscious products of a free, creative mind, unbeholden to social ambition. A huge relief after the too-perfect Zorn pieces. I will see them again. And, as I always do when I visit the Legion, I went to one of the permanent galleries, to look at Konstantin Makovsky's 'The Russian Bride's Attire,' a piece from 1887. This massive work is a riot of interest, to me at least. Although it portrays well-to-do women (Romanov royalty of the 1600s) preparing for a wedding, it has none of the slickness of society portraiture. It has cultural depth, charm, and dignity. There is action in the picture: a mother combing her daughter's hair, a woman shooing the bridegroom away from the doorway, young women singing, and so on. The work is rich in historical detail, in the clothing, furnishings, headdresses, and more. A joy to behold.
09 November 2013
The Eve of All Hallows, When Spirits Walk the Earth. On the 31 bus in the early evening, a small boy humorously but resolutely would not let his mother anywhere near the bagful of candy he was hauling. He would not be parted from his loot. His charm won the day, or, at least, the occasion.
A Day in The Life, or, Vita Brevis, Ars Longa. I took myself this afternoon to the De Young, to look at the Hockney exhibition. This stunning show is worth several visits. The number and variety of pieces are beyond what I expected, most of them contributed by the artist himself. The most recent piece in the show is no more than a month old! I came out of the exhibition feeling invigorated and cheerful, thanks I'm sure to the energy and vision of the artist. In the museum shop, a nice Russian lady said to me, "Excuse me, sir. What kind of artist is David Hockney? Modernist? Surrealist?" "David Hockney is David Hockney," I replied; "I don't think that we can place him in any school!" The Russian lady appeared to be satisfied with my response.
Of sailing ships and sealing wax. This afternoon I took myself to Pier 40, to look at the Lady Washington, berthed there. Her sister ship, the Hawaiian Chieftain, was out on the Bay, I believe. Four young sailors, in their 18th-century clothes, were aloft on the Lady Washington, furling sails and tightening ropes and whatnot. A few years ago, I met one of the crew of this vessel, a young man with a bright red Mohawk haircut and an eagerness to visit the "cool" Mission district. God bless the young people who sail in these ships.
In Leah Garchik's column in today's Chronicle, appears the following quote in her 'Public Eavesdropping' feature: "There are two ways you can live in San Francisco. You can be very rich or have nothing at all. I choose to have nothing at all." I live close to the 'nothing at all' side of this demographic spread. Soaring rents and increasing numbers of evictions have ordinary folk looking nervously over their shoulders. My building and neighborhood appear not to be attractive to hipsters and overpaid techies, so far.
Some days ago, I was walking near Land's End, on my way to meet a friend, with whom I later walked along the coastal trail. I was approached by two tourists, a couple from Australia, who asked advice on a good place to eat. Since we were near the Seal Rock Inn, I pointed in its direction, and said, "You'll get a decent meal there. I've eaten there many times. You won't find it in the Michelin Guide, but you'll be satisfied." "Honest food?" the husband asked. "Yes, honest food!" I replied.
A few days ago, I noticed, in a parking lot at Stonestown, a VW bus, probably from the 60s or 70s. It looked like it was well taken care of. Painted red, white, and blue, it was adorned with peace signs, little flags, a smiley face or two, and so on. I saw it again this afternoon, on Geary Boulevard. The sight cheered me, and reminded me of the summer of 1968, when I and four friends travelled in a VW bus down the west coast, from Vancouver to Los Angeles, and on across the United States, to Detroit, where the three of us who remained, returned to Canada. We dropped one person off in Hamilton, and went on to Montreal, where I got off. The owner, the last person in the VW, drove on. The trip included one very wet night along the Oregon coast, when the five of us crammed into the van and tried to sleep, unsuccessfully. There was a breakdown early one morning on a very lonely highway in Arizona, a layover of several days in Seligman AZ, while we waited for parts to come from Phoenix, and a 54-hour non-stop dash across the country, to get the van's owner as close as possible to Yale U, where he had to register for a PhD program in a few days. He made it. I've never had a road trip like it since, although I had a driving adventure in Sweden a few years ago, which featured a blow-out, a brake failure, and other excitements. But that is another story.
A week or two ago, at Palo Alto Caltrain station, as I was purchasing a ticket, a young girl at the machine next to me said, "Can I have a quarter?" "Well," I said, "why not?" as I handed her a coin. After she completed her purchase, she turned to me with nickels in her hand and said, "Want the change?" "Sure," I said, "why not?"
At Aardvark Books the other day I came across M J Chatsworth's translation and edition of Anselm's 'Proslogion,' with Latin and English text, and commentary by the translator. All this for $5. How can I go wrong? "Sed heu me miserum,... quid incepi, quid effeci? Quo tendebam, quo deveni? Ad quid aspirabam, in quibus suspiro?" I know the feeling, believe me I do.
At The Creamery in Palo Alto, an old-style soda fountain and coffee shop, the three counter staff wore T-shirts emblazoned with encouragements. The first proclaimed: Fuhgetaboutit. The second announced: It's going to be all right. The third said: It really does matter. Thus fortified, and having refueled on iced tea and apple pie, I walked a few doors up the street, to Bell's Books, where I bought Teilhard de Chardin's 'The Future of Man.' $7.50. I read Teilhard in my student days, and always wanted to study him more deeply. His understanding of evolution in theological terms (and of theology in evolutionary terms) appeals to me, and convinces me that the reductionist scientistic delusion (the notion that science "explains" everything) of our time is not the last word in our understanding of the universe.
This morning I attended the funeral of Jose Sarria, "the Widow Norton," at Grace Cathedral. The church was full. I have never before seen so much black lace, black tulle, black satin and silk, black taffeta, and so many elaborately veiled mourners, in one place. And there were more diadems, tiaras, yards of necklaces, ribbons, chains of office, pendants, brooches, and more, than anyone will ever see at a royal funeral, anywhere. A man in the pew in front of me said, "I would love to have the rhinestone concession!" But, over-the-top as the outfits and accoutrements were, the event was dignified, sober, respectful, and laced with humor in several eulogies, all in all a splendid tribute to the creative and courageous life of Jose Julio Sarria. RIP.
On the 5 Fulton bus, a young man and woman at the back of the bus, were entwined in a passionate embrace. "Excuse me, young lady," said the driver, somewhat loudly. This remark easily got her attention, since, unusually for a Saturday night, the bus was more than half empty. "Young lady," he said; "you told me that he was your uncle!" "Yeah!" she replied. "That," said the driver, "was not an uncle kiss!"
O tempora! O mores! On Caltrain this afternoon, a charming young man began a conversation by remarking on the unusual humidity. The young man works for a new startup, which he is eager to leave. "It's hard to sell a product that doesn't exist!" he said.
A Theme in The Life. A few weeks ago, I bought a chess set, in a standard modern style. The pieces are magnetic, and adhere nicely to the board, which folds into a handsome box to carry them. I played chess, badly, when I was young, and gave it up in my university days. I resolved that one day I would turn my attention to it again. That day has arrived. At Aardvark, I bought a splendid book, dating from 1935, on the game. I love the old notation. Modern chess notation is unreadable, and reminds me of the metalogic matrices I studied in school. This afternoon, at the Mechanics' Institute Library, I watched awhile a young man play chess online. And of course, there's the chess club, on the 5th floor, which I will visit one day. Outside, as I passed through the Crocker Galleria, I came upon a very large chess set, in which the kings and queens were between 3 and 4 feet tall. A group of young people were playing. One sporting young fellow was standing on the white queen's square, evidently replacing her. They were a few moves into the opening.
For years I have known that the world that "conservatives" describe is not there. It does not exist. I simply don't recognize the world that they live in. I'm not an imperceptive person. Surely there is something, somewhere. But there isn't.
A Moment in The Life: At the Caltrain station this morning, the newsvendor sold me the Chronicle (only $.50; the usual price elsewhere is $1.00) and said, "I'll give you the [free] Examiner, so you can do the puzzles." "Puzzles?" I queried; "I'm not that clever!" "Guess!" he replied.
I worked in the Yukon Territory, in my student days, as a geologist's assistant with a mining company looking for molybdenum and copper. Worked there two summers, out in the bush, in various places along the Yukon River and elsewhere, in tents in the forests, doing magnetometer surveys up and down mountainsides, collecting soil and rock samples along creeks, mapping magnetic anomalies, flying in helicopters from camp to camp, etc etc.. I spent very little time in towns. I was briefly in Whitehorse and Dawson and other places. My team got lost along some mountain ridge, trying to find our way to a road back to the mine where we were headquartered (I'm the hero of that story......I'll tell you about it sometime). Long , long time before GPS. We used paper maps, geological surveys, compasses almost useless thanks to the deflections of the magnetic field, and so on. A great adventure, really. In my day, Dawson was small, decaying, with one or two small hotels, neither of which would be out of place in the Tenderloin today. There were some tourists and trekkers, but not many. I remember a tiny cinema (a quonset hut, perhaps?). Mostly I recall ruined buildings, empty lots, a population too poor to live anywhere else, gravel roads, and so on. Generally, the ambience was one of a ruined past, and hopeless present.
This afternoon, a uniformed security guard boarded the 31 bus. He was carrying a gun (a Glock) in a holster. "That's a serious weapon you have," I said, as I was leaving the bus. "I use it only when I have to," he said with a smile. "Good to know!" I replied.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (see 'drab,' 'nondescript' below). From Caffe Zephyr this afternoon, I saw, and heard, two lion dancers, with accompanying drummers and fireworks, spread their good luck and drive away demons, up and down the block between 37th and 38th. A short time later, a young man in a wetsuit, carrying a surfboard, rolled by on a skateboard, on his way to Ocean Beach. A man and his daughter walked by, carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows, brilliantly fletched. Summer in The City.
A Day In The Llfe, or, What Comes Around Goes Around. After exiting the Muni Underground at Montgomery Street, I came across a dime on the sidewalk. I picked up the coin and pocketed it. I proceeded on my way to the bank, and made a few other stops. On my way back down Montgomery, I observed an older gent, briskly walking north, dressed as Emperor Norton, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico. The uniform and beard were accurate, resembling photos of the Emperor. This older gent is Norton II, I presume. Cheered by the realization that What Is Old Is New Again, I went on to Stonestown, to shop at Trader Joe's. After I had finished shopping, and was waiting for a bus (the 18) I was approached by two teen boys, one of whom asked me for a dime. After a brief admonition on the perils of begging on the streets, I gave him the dime I had found. He handed it off to his friend. They went happily on their way. No doubt The Universe Is Unfolding As It Should.
A Day in the Life. Tuesday afternoon, I was offered a bag of chocolate-covered bacon, obtained from a county fair nearby. This confection was new to me. Delicious. There were several other items, like deep-fried chocolate bars, but I forbore.
Zephyr changed hands June 1. The surfboard and the teapots disappeared, along with a large collection of posters and framed photos and prints that were on offer. The disintegrating wicker chairs, which I remember from the first time I visited the cafe, in 1992, vanished. This afternoon, a workman was tearing up the equally ancient carpet. Meanwhile, the new owners continue to serve lattes and regular coffees, and the posted menus are intact, so far.
Lunch at a restaurant in Hayes Valley. My tea bag read, "Smooth green tea leaves harmoniously blend with sweet tropical fruits of pineapple and guava. Fragrant and uplifting, this bouquet will transport you to tropical bliss." ....I'm waiting..
On the 31 bus this afternoon, I overhead a young man, on his mobile phone, explain to his father just why, and how, his place of employment (a large, hip retail store) is haunted. Poltergeists, evidently. The building was a hospital in a former existence.
29 October 2013
Turn Back, Turn Back, O Time In Thy Flight! This afternoon a shopkeeper, from whom I bought a lottery ticket, addressed me as 'Pops!' And routinely, as they have done for several years, young people offer me seats on buses and streetcars. I'm still not used to it.
22 October 2013
It is significant that no other pope since St Francis's time ever (apparently) considered taking his name. This papacy is going to be interesting.
What Pope Francis did not wear on the balcony is also significant. He did not wear the red mozetta (shoulder cape) and with it the embroidered papal stole, that new popes usually wear at their first appearance. He put on the stole only when he gave his blessing, and took it off again immediately after. Strong signals of a new, simple style. We're not likely to see Pope Francis in the triple tiara.
I was leaning in the direction of the Archbishop of Milan, which is the direction that most speculation I was reading went. And now it transpires that Pope Francis had been runner-up to Benedict in 2005.
It is also interesting that he referred to himself as "Bishop of Rome"....I don't think he'll be wearing the very costly red shoes either.
Yesterday, I saw on Church Street a young man carrying two large exotic birds, cockatoos I think, one on his right shoulder, the other on his left arm. The birds were brilliantly colored, with red, green, blue, yellow and orange feathers. The bird on his shoulder nuzzled and nibbled at the young man's ear.
26 September 2013
This just in from Sodom-by-the-Sea, Family Values Department, in today's Chronicle:
Blessed city: San Francisco's long-standing reputation as a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah has taken a serious hit.
The conservative Family Research Council's Marriage and Religion
Research Institute has just issued a report ranking San Francisco third
among the 45 largest cities when it comes to "the health of the U.S.
family." Fifty-three percent of San Francisco's 15- to 17-year-olds are
in households with their biological married parents, according to the
Family Research Council. At the bottom, by the way, was Cleveland -
where just 15 percent of teens are being raised by their biological,
Wednesday, at Kaplan's on Market, I bought two new wool berets, of the type I usually wear, to replace my worn and faded beret, which I bought at the same shop at least 10 years ago. The new caps should last as long as I do, probably longer.
16 September 2013
At the moment, on this sunny, clear, rather chilly and windy afternoon, three helicopters are flying over Ocean Beach, one or two hovering here and there, another patrolling close to the water, up and down the Beach. The surf is high, and, presumably, the rip currents are strong. The water is no place for a surfer, or a swimmer, or anyone in a small boat.
This evening, on the 5 Fulton bus, a young man gestured toward my faded black beret and said, "Dude, I like your hat!" Thanks!" I replied. He took off his baseball cap, held it out to me, and said, "Wanna trade?" "No thanks," I said. "My hat keeps my head warm." "You have a nice head," he replied, as he left the bus.
This afternoon, outside an entrance to Lake Merritt BART station, a middle-aged couple were dancing a slow waltz, in elegant, slow, formal, ballroom style, to music audible only in their imaginations. They stepped and swirled and flowed around the space, unworried and unhindered by others passing by.