Waiting For News

Oakland got to be the place where all the satellite trucks parked this past weekend. On Friday night, there was a party, a concert, a rave inside a warehouse not too far from my home. It happened after my bedtime, so it was no surprise that I missed it. It was also one of those social events promulgated via Al Gore's Internet and spread through the use of smart phone applications that would conflict with my generally feeble use of my own smart phone. As a fifty-four year old school teacher, I'm not in the target demographic for dance parties in artist collectives held after dark inside a warehouse. But now I am suddenly caught up in the events of that night because they ended in tragedy.
Dozens of people died in a fire that  broke out inside that warehouse and the exits were inadequate and flames too fast and fierce to avert the disaster that was best described as a "fire trap." The nature of the party in all its creativity and under the radar excitement was what made it so dangerous. Days later, there were still dozens missing. Their whereabouts were unclear because they were the type of young folks who lived in that demographic: whereabouts unknown. With the potential for dozens to be eventually discovered in the rubble of a building whose roof collapsed on the makeshift second floor which pancaked again on the ground floor below, this will become the deadliest day in Oakland since the Loma Prieta earthquake back in 1989.
As a result, the coverage for this tragedy has been non-stop. We had friends and relatives call to check on our well-being, even though they had mostly ruled us out because of that whole bedtime thing. It was the long-distance version of what my father described as "The Potbelly Syndrome." All those means of communications that made the party possible in the first place became the way we could gather and discuss and question. Most of the messages were of the "are you okay?" variety. And then there were the others. The comments.
Because of the sudden and pervasive coverage, the cretins with keyboards have come out. Now, amid the prayers and voices of concern are the vicious attacks by those who feel the need to grind their axes on a moment in time that needed no further pain. "wait,,,, calif liberals break into a warehouse illegally,,, throw a illegal rave,,,,,,, cause a fire,,,, burn themselves up with "criminal" antics and you want me to shed a tear? ,,,,,,,, nope,,,,, I always hear liberals talk of 'karma',,, well,,,,,, THERE IT IS." Or "Trespassing junkies. Just bulldoze it in a pile. Get a few front end loaders and haul off the mess." Ugly, sweeping generalizations made from the comfort and safety of the commentator's home or cubicle. While it is true that we probably shouldn't go looking for comfort at the end of a news story, it does make me wonder how and when we all will come back together. Or if. God rest all of our souls. 

Bye Bay Burger

Tom's Tavern closed. All those Saturday lunches with my dad, sitting in a booth and hoping that I didn't end up with a scoop of that godawful macaroni salad which would stand in stark contrast to one of the most amazing burgers on the planet, done. Over. It was the dimly lit corner just north of Boulder's pedestrian mall, a holdover from a simpler time when a burger and fries solved problems. It was where my brothers and I met after my father's memorial service. It was not just the aforementioned heavenly hamburgers. It was a destination, and later when I was a little older, I learned that you could ask for potato salad instead of the macaroni salad. It was a place that cured hangovers and helped me say goodbye. Tom's went away in 2007.
At that time, I was already living in California, and a trip to Tom;s was part of any homecoming. In the meantime, I found myself living, by happy coincidence, around the corner from a shoebox of a cafe called Hamburger Dave's. It was a place for me to go after a long day working in the book warehouse when my legs wouldn't carry me further up the street for more exotic fare. It was the first place in Oakland where I felt truly comfortable. The guy who ran the grill saw me coming and would throw a patty on the grill, and when I ran low on my large Coke, he didn't mind me reaching over the counter to pour myself a refill. That apostrophe s made a difference to me. It was my place. Until it closed, too.
There are plenty of places that want to tell you that they are selling you a hamburger, but so many of them get caught up in making them unique or trendy. Please stop this. I don't want kale mixed into my ground beef no matter how many years this will add to my life. Don't use the term "artisan" to describe the bun or anything else that will be squirted with ketchup and chewed up by me in a matter of minutes, right after I finish my fries. The ones made with potatoes. Straight or twisty or crinkle cut, just make them a little crispy, please. Artisan. Who are we kidding?
That's why I was so very much in love with Bay Burger in the Emeryville Public Market Food Court. It met all those criteria, and even though I had to hop on and off a highway to get from one side of the town to the other, it was totally worth it. They knew my order, and over the years, they got to know me and when my son wasn't there at the counter ordering a cheeseburger with me, they asked after him. The hamburgers were exceptional, and brought me briefly back to those that gave me so much comfort at Tom's. The familiarity put me in mind of Hamburger Dave's. When I stopped drinking Coca Cola, they were as surprised as anyone because I had made such a reputation for myself and my standard order.
Now it's gone. Last Friday, after a week of rebounding back into the world of public education, I was eager to have the comfort food that put the pause button on the week. I could relax with a warm gut and a smile on my face. There was no Bay Burger. Just an empty stall in the Food Court. All the fixtures had been removed. Not even a sign saying goodbye. You might think I would be used to this heartbreak by now.
I'm not. But when one burger joint closes, another one opens. Just hold the artisan, please.

The Blues

"Dear Customers," the letter began, "The debate in the U.S. over gun safety and gun rights is as complex as it is divisive. As a former army officer, a father and business leader, I’ve heard the arguments from all sides." This comes from Chip Bergh, President and CEO of Levi Strauss, the company responsible for keeping my bottom half covered for most of my life. It seems that a customer who was carrying a gun in one of their retail outlets had a little accident and it went off, injuring the patron who was packing heat. Bergh suggested, without calling for a ban on firearms, that shoppers at his stores leave the guns at home when trying on jeans.
What about those who need to figure out just how baggy their trousers need to be to fit a pistol in their waistband? Maybe dressing rooms could be equipped with mock weapons, chained to the mirrors, for just such a purpose.
Or maybe it's time to boycott Levis. Of course it is. We're not going to let the man tell us when and where we can exercise our Second Amendment rights. Of course this is what Al Gore's Internet was filled with last week after the letter was placed online. Yes, there was some common sense responses that suggested that there might be another more reasonable way to view the situation, but for the most part comments immediately equated this request with being un-American. 
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have our winner: As of November 30, 2016, there is no sense left to be made. Levis are no longer the blue part of red, white and blue. It remains to be seen if those who participate in such things will be able to simultaneously maintain a boycott against Chipotle, Panera, Whataburger and Levi Strauss. Not to mention Sonic, Chili's and Target. Target? How terribly, awfully, amusingly ironic. 
Yes, those who feel most strongly about their denim as a support system for their holsters are going to have to find a new place to buy their jeans. I'm no marketing genius, but it seems like the exact right time to bring the design team in to prepare that new, relaxed fit, gun-totin' fashion statement that simply screams, "I want to bear arms, and I don't care who knows it!" Sadly, it probably won't be Levis that puts these on the shelves, but it would be fun to see the new 357s sitting right next to the 501s. Button fly and incredibly straight fit. 

Winners And Losers

As the terribly flawed and illegal count of popular votes continues to expand in favor of the loser, the new world order continues to line up at the door of Trump Tower. Who do you suppose showed up for dinner at Jean Georges? None other than once and future presidential non-elect Mitt Romney. It is worth pointing out at this moment that Donald Trump and Mitt Romney have not always had a lot in common. Mitt lost the popular vote in his election too. That gave them some basis for discussion, as well as the groveling that one might expect in such an encounter.
"Donald!"
"Mitt."
"Nice tie."
"Thanks."
"It really sets off your, um, your uh..."
"Eyes?"
"Yes. That's exactly it. I wasn't going to say 'fake tan.'"
"Right. So let's get down to business."
The business of governance. Maybe the former governor of Massachusetts wants to be our new Secretary of State. He has something in common with our current Secretary of State, John Kerry. They both did their public service in the state of Massachusetts. And they both lost the popular vote in their bid for the presidency. If that was the only qualification, then he'd be in. But that's not always the way things work. My guess is there were several very uncomfortable moments while the two millionaires made small talk about family, friends, and those they may have casually oppressed. Then things got serious.
"How bad do you want this job?"
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"What would you be willing to do?"
"To do?"
"For me."
"For you?"
"Yes."
Then we can only imagine what may have taken place. Who knows how much further Mister Romney may have felt he needed to debase himself in order to get that position that he so desperately craves. Whatever foul ideas the host of TV's Celebrity Apprentice might have come up with, it would probably be more appropriate for a very special episode of Shark Tank. I wonder if Mitt could make that jump on water skis.

Recollection

On yet another early Wednesday morning, I was mulling my ride to work. Wednesday is trash day in the neighborhood through which I ride, and there are times when I pause while the collection truck stops short to toss another can's content from the curb into the back. I approach cautiously because I don't know who might be on the other side, getting ready to swoop through that narrow passage to get past these early morning rounds. Riding a bicycle gives me the flexibility of squeezing by in the slimmest of gaps. Still, it's never fun seeing that pair of headlights glaring back at me as I move to pass the trash truck. Or the recycling truck. Or the compost truck.
This whole operation is compounded by the number of vehicles involved. By having multiple trucks in a small area, you are almost assured of being trapped behind one of these hulking machines on a Wednesday. And it only gets worse in the rain, when stopping for just a moment or two can be the difference between being a little damp or being soaked. That's when riding on the sidewalk becomes a viable option. Normally I try to avoid this intrusion, preferring instead to play the game via the rules of the road.
Trapped behind a garbage truck on my way to work in the wee hours of the morning with the rain pouring down on me, my Gore-tex, my bike and all that smelly refuse that used to belong to the neighbors along the way: Not my favorite ride. Still, it doesn't quite add up to being my least favorite bike ride.
That distinction belongs to the trip I used to make late on the summer nights when I worked as a dishwasher at the legendary Boulder Mexican restaurant, Tico's. This was one of the first jobs I ever had, and certainly the first time I ever worked more than five hours at a stretch. This was six to seven hours in the steamy back room, where the only contact with the outside world was the thin portal through which the busboys shoved dirty plates, glasses and silverware at us. As the dinner rush peaked, we couldn't distinguish the sweat from the grease from the water that sprayed back at us from the sterilizing Hobart and the incessant splashback from the hose that we used to peel back that first layer of baked on cheese and dried guacamole. At the end of a shift, I dragged myself to the back room, changed out of my ersatz uniform, pulled on my street clothes and squished on out to the bike rack to unlock my trusty Schwinn Collegiate five-speed and begin the trek back home. I suppose I could take solace in the lack of traffic or the calm of the residential streets I rolled through, but the thin coating of grease reminded me of the day I had. Pedaling home, I had visions of a nice hot shower upon my return, but often exhaustion pushed that to the following morning when last night's special had already adhered itself forever to my DNA.
Wednesday morning bike rides aren't always fun, but at least I don't need to hose off afterward.

Dark Again

I miss him today. Truth is, I miss him most every day, but when the days go short and there is more darkness around, I think of him more often. I have had more than twenty years to manage my grief, but when I look out the window into the black, I remember the light that was my father.
To be fair, it should be noted from the very beginning that my father was no saint. He made mistakes and errors in judgement that I can see clearly now that I am managing my own adult path and assuming parental chores that he once tumbled through. He gets all kinds of easy accolades because he is gone. I can remember those years before I got married and moved to California, feeling responsible for his aimless wandering after he left my mother. I took the naive stance that I could somehow affect his trajectory by going out to dinner with him on a regular basis and asking over and over where he felt his life was taking him. I never got a straight answer. He was lost in ways that I can only now begin to comprehend.
All that being said, I couldn't have asked for a better dad when I was a kid. My mom might have wished for a more consistent and thoughtful source of authority, but the laughs and warmth I felt in my house as a child was the envy of my friends. I have tried to straddle the line a little as a grownup parent of a son, being the "bad cop" in as many situations as necessary and keeping it light whenever possible.
It is a crying shame that my son never got to meet his namesake. I want to believe that they would have gotten along, but then again I can't remember anyone my father couldn't cozy up to. He was that kind of guy. I want to believe that all those years of hanging around with my dad allowed me to send just a taste of what the pater familas was like. The songs and stories he dragged along with him into the warehouse of my mind get repeated now and then, along with the adventures of my father and his brave family of five, on endless station wagon road trips and long summer afternoons at the cabin sawing wood for the fire that ended on the front porch with a vodka and tonic or down at the horseshoe pit where he would work on his technique in hopes of one day besting Uncle Marvin.
One of the last things I shared with my father was a screenplay I wrote. One hundred twenty-three pages of my best attempt at romantic comedy. He read it with the appreciative eyes of a father who was amazed at the things his kids could do. He was a fan. It could have been one hundred twenty-three pages of typing exercises, and he would have been awestruck.
That's when he would call me "Davy."
Nobody else did that. And neither did he until I turned twenty-one, and suddenly I got this new, more affectionate variation on my name. It bothered me at the time, because I was yearning to break free of the bounds of youth. I understand now why my father was so anxious to have me remain a child. His child. It all happens so fast.
It's dark again. And I miss him.

Beat By A Girl

At last! Something upon which Donald Trump and I can agree: There was massive fraud perpetrated during the 2016 Presidential Election. How else are we to explain the results? Except for the fact that Ethel Merman's forgotten son and I are probably viewing things from opposite sides of the fence. Or wall, if you prefer.
It was around ten o'clock on November 8 that I first started wondering about the number of votes cast for various candidates and the multitudes of paper turning into digits on TV screens across America. The phrase "early returns" still rings in my ears as I wondered how fast and accurate all of that ballot counting could possibly be done overnight. I could understand how the box that was busy keeping track of votes in the hallway at my elementary school could easily be rolled into whatever port that was open for dissemination of all the ballots cast by all the folks in our precinct. That would be around eight thirty or nine o'clock at night. Where were these "early returns" coming from? Maybe from exit polls. Who wouldn't feel good about shouting out to any microphone shoved in your face after you have just completed doing your democratic duty, "I voted for..." They might have been talking about me, since I voted by mail weeks before Election Day.
But telling me who the next President of the United States will be before all the votes have been counted? That sounds like a scam to me. It does to Donald Trump, too, but for other reasons. The presumptive winner of the 2016 presidential election is now tweeting that, "Serious voter fraud in Virginia, New Hampshire and California – so why isn't the media reporting on this? Serious bias – big problem!" Feel free to file this under Mister Trump's plan to "bring the country together." This is coming from the guy who won, by most accounts. Jill Stein, the Green Party candidate is asking for a recount in Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania. Is anybody keeping track of all this?
Yes, there are still those who hold out hope that a petition to change the votes of those in the Electoral College or massive swings in the results of any of the six states mentioned above will somehow alter the destiny which we are all currently facing. Jill Stein has raised seven million dollars to help fund the recount effort. The billionaire who won and is pointing without facts to back himself up at voter fraud has done nothing but tweet his accusations from the relative safety of the winner's circle. 
We've been down this path before, people. The winner of the presidential election may not be the one with the most popular votes, and vice versa. "In addition to winning the Electoral College in a landslide, I won the popular vote if you deduct the millions of people who voted illegally." Could it be that he just doesn't understand the problem here?