But what about menudo?

Quote of the day: "All they're selling is food. Carne asada is not a crime."

(Phil Greenwald, attorney for Los Angeles taco truck vendors who successfully fought a law requiring the trucks to move every hour or face $1,000 fines and possible jail time. The law was passed last spring after restaurateurs complained that taco trucks parking on the streets near their businesses were drawing away customers. A judge threw out the law in August.)

Winky-Dink and us

I've been harboring a suspicion this past week or so, and now that I've seen Sarah Palin's performance in the Vice-Presidential debate, those suspicions have been confirmed: There is no Sarah Palin; Tina Fey is Sarah Palin. This ruse will be revealed two days before election day and will be judged to be such a hoot that the McCain-Palin/Fey ticket will win the White House by a landslide.

If you think this idea is completely wacko, take a look:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Y7E235ujJ4

Murder of crows

The clouds this evening made for a nice sunset, so I stepped out on my deck to watch. The color faded quickly, but I stayed out anyway, watching the crows come home from work. There must be as many of them during the other seasons, but they always seem more numerous as fall draws near. My house is surrounded by big trees, and watching the crows cruise in, wheel around and find a spot in one of them is a sight I never tire of. They jostle each other, caw raucously, always reminding me of people meeting up after work at the local pub. They just keep coming and coming; watching over the roof my house, it seems as though there's a crow-generating machine just to the west, cranking them out and sending them sailing over my rooftop. If I ever moved away from Davis, I'd miss a lot of things, but I think I'd miss the crows the most.

Aaarrrgh!

Lost my wallet yesterday. Getting ready to leave the house on yet another errand, couldn't find it. Go downstairs, look in car. No wallet. Call Neil, where I'd been just 30 minutes before. "Is my wallet at your house, by any chance?" Neil looks around in all the places I'd been. "No, it's not here." First intimation that this will not have a happy ending. Next, I call Nugget, where I'd stopped before going to Neil's, to get flowers and an almond croissant for Lisa (it was her birthday). "Did anyone turn in a wallet? It's dark gray, Eagle Creek or some such brand . . ." "No, I'm sorry; if you'll give me your phone number, I'll call you if it does show up." Second intimation . . . Hoping against hope (and even reason), I get back in the car and drive up to Nugget to look in the parking lot, on the off chance (Hah!) the wallet got kicked under something and no one (Hah! Hah!) had seen it. Guess how that went . . .

OK, so now I know I'm in for it, "it" being cancelling my debit/check card, trying to remember what, exactly, was in my wallet, what else do I need to cancel and/or replace (driver's license, library card, UCD retiree ID card, Triple A card, and on and on). Go to bank, cancel debit/check card and order a new one. (Golden 1 staff person: "Do you have your ID with you?" Me: "Um, I lost my wallet. That's why I'm here, remember?")

Back home, call Triple A, order a replacement card. Call my gasoline credit card company to cancel the card in my wallet and order a replacement. (Automated system: "Please enter the number embossed on the card." Me: "Hello?! I don't HAVE the card, you @%?!*&! idiot!" I do finally encounter a human . . .)

Now the real chore: I pay many of my recurring expenses by means of—guess what—my debit card, things like my public radio/TV pledge, my Sierra Club and other organization dues, my monthly contribution to the Obama campaign, my copper.net account . . . I now have to contact each of them and give them my new debit card number. It's a lengthy list. And I can't start calling until I receive the new card, because I don't know the new expiration date. But I begin making the list and finding phone numbers.

About three hours later, the phone rings. It's Neil: "Found it!" Me: "Oh, no! I mean, oh, good!" Neil: "I suppose you've already cancelled your cards." Me: "Uh-huh. Guess I'll still be making all those phone calls . . ."

Oh, well; at least I have the wallet back, and my library and Co-op and retiree ID cards, AND my driver's license, not to mention my "frequent eater" card from Mariachi and "frequent shopper" card from Avid Reader. Those are way more valuable than the $2 I had in there.

Home again . . .

New York, New York

Tonight, the New York Yankees played their last game in Yankee Stadium. I've never been a huge Yankee fan, but I am absolutely a baseball fan. And watching that final game in that—OK, I'll say it—almost hallowed piece of ground, I felt such a love for the game, for its traditions, for that essence that no other sport captures and distills.

I grew up listening to Yankee games. In the '40s and early '50s, there was no Major League baseball in California, and my father always listened to the Game of the Week. I heard the names DiMaggio, Mantle, Maris, Berra; I knew who they were and what good baseball players they were. They were Yankees. Tonight, after the last out—fittingly, the Yankees won, beating the Orioles 7-3—Derek Jeter, surrounded by the rest of his team, took the microphone and paid tribute to the fans, saying what a privilege and an honor it is to wear the Yankee uniform and play for such devoted and loyal fans. When he finished speaking, to the sounds of Sinatra singing "New York, New York," the players circled the field, waving and tipping their hats to the fans, who clapped and cheered and cried.

Next year, the Yankees will play in their brand-new ballpark across the street from the old one. They'll still be the Yankees, still the love-'em-or-hate-'em team, but the Yankee Stadium that for me existed only on radio and television (I never got there in person) will always be the "real" one. And though the Giants are my team, and if they ever again play the Yankees in a World Series, or even an interleague game, I will want passionately for them to win, tonight, the Yankees were my baseball team; more than that, they were baseball.

A new neighbor/Feline dreams

Last night I dreamed about kittens, four of them, that had been born to a cat I lived with. I was taking care of them in their odd circumstances (not worth going into; it was a dream, after all), but despite the slight concern that there were four of them, I was happy to have them.

Today, I returned home about noon from a bike ride to find a moving van in front of my house and a new neighbor moving in. Her name is Lisa, she's a licensed marriage, family and child counselor who works for Sacramento County, and she has two cats, both boys, named C.J. and Jake. I haven't met them yet (they won't arrive until all the moving-in is done), but I'll be glad to welcome them to the neighborhood, as I am equally glad to welcome their "mom."

I think I may be getting closer to getting a cat of my own.

Aunt Reba

My cousin called yesterday from Boise with the news that my aunt Reba had died that morning. She was 91, and pretty much up until her last week was still full of spunk, at least in spirit. She was my father's only sister, the next to the youngest of six, all the rest boys. She was the first to tell you that she had been spoiled by her brothers, then by her wonderful husband, my uncle Beck. But she would also be the first to tell you how grateful she was for all that, and what a good life she had had. She always found a way to have fun, was always smartly dressed and made up, and had a wonderful sense of humor.

I lost track of her and my cousins for many years, only reconnecting about seven or eight years ago. Once I did, I went to Boise to visit, got caught up on her and the rest of that side of the family, and thoroughly enjoyed her company. I'm thankful I got to see her while she was still doing well; in many ways, she hadn't changed a bit from the times we used to visit when I was a kid. She had a good life, and a good death, and I'm sure she would have approved.

Five-finger exercises

I had my first piano lesson today. For 30 minutes I practiced some scales (two hands, please) and sight-read the first few songs in "The Joy of First Year Piano." Now it's practice, practice, practice here at home, hoping that my arthritic fingers are up to the task.

Signspotting

Posters in the window of a bakery/coffeehouse, Yachats, Oregon:

Offerings at Olalla Summer Camp: 

Papermaking with invasive weeks

Stealth and nature awareness games

Forest exercise and kayaking

Announcement of auditions for a play at the local community theater:

"A redblooded all-American boy and his bodacious grandmother reluctantly join forces with an impudent librarian and lead their isolated coastal village into a ruthless scufle with . . . THE GHOUL FROM HELL!"

An invitation to local citizens . . .

Meet our recently appointed Curcuit Court judge, Sheryl Bachart . . .

And lastly, a notice on the door of La Prima Pizza, in Calistoga:

Please note: Restrooms are for use by costumers only.

When I'm 64

As long as I can remember, I've wanted to learn to play the piano. But growing up, we didn't have a piano (it, along with most of our other furniture, was sold when my father's bakery failed and my parents lost our house), and without an instrument to practice on, it hardly made sense to take lessons.

But even at age 64, I still want to learn to play, and on Monday, I'll have my first piano lesson at my teacher's house. Then I'll come home and practice on my new electronic keyboard!


You will notice this keyboard has a full complement of keys, the same number as are on a real piano. When I first inquired about getting a keyboard (a piano was out of the question, both financially and logistically), I discovered that most of them come with a truncated keyboard—55 or so—apparently on the theory that the electronic gizmos will compensate for the lack. But I've always thought that God and Mr. Steinway put 88 keys on a piano for a reason—so what if those top and bottom ones get little attention; they're there when you need them—so I was very glad to find this one at Watermelon Music here in Davis. It, too, has a gazillion possible permutations, which I may never discover all the secrets of, but that's fine; it just takes one button to make it sound like a piano, which is exactly perfect.

Remembering Sept. 11, 2001

Seven years ago today, I woke as usual to NPR's "Morning Edition," and listened with half my brain while getting ready for work. But something was going on, and Bob Edwards' voice was telling me, telling us all, the terrible, horrifying events taking place in Manhattan, in Washington, and in Pennsylvania. I turned on the television and watched in confusion and disbelief as New York seemed to be coming apart before my eyes. And then, because I didn't know what else to do, I went to work.

None of us knew what to do, really, and in the seven years since then, I'm not sure we know any better now. For months after that day, I grieved for the people in the towers, in the Pentagon, and probably most vividly, for those who that day drew the death card and boarded one of those airplanes. How, I wondered, could the men who planned and carried out that nightmare, how could they stand in line with those innocent people, those children, hear the ordinary conversations of ordinary people, and not falter?

Seven years has made the rawness of that day and the following days less sharp, but the physicality of those events still vibrates quietly inside me. And, in one way or another, I imagine it does in every American who bore witness to the loss of our naivite, our collective hubris, our innocence.

Audacity springs eternal

In the nearly one month since I wrote here, both parties have held their conventions, both have nominated their candidates, and Sarah Palin has become the right wing's new best friend. I'm horrified by her, horrified by the possibility that she could actually end up in the White House, appalled and disgusted at the cynicism shown by the McCain people in their cravenness. I've had disturbing dreams since her nomination, wake up feeling a mix of disbelief and dread, something that feels akin to grief.

Some people I know think it's over, that faced with Palin's appeal Obama can't win. But not me. Those feelings of horror, disbelief and dread have galvanized me to do more than just send Obama money. Saturday morning, I worked in the Obama-Biden booth at the farmers' market. Yesterday afternoon, I went to the Democratic headquarters office in Davis, picked up an ironing board, some signs and some voter registration forms, and stood out in front of SaveMart for an hour, asking passsersby if they were registered. I got three takers; the best one being a man of about 35 who told me that this year, he was voting, that always before, it had been "garbage." But not this time; this time, there was hope. And I think so, too.

If you haven't seen this Web site, check it out; reading the words of these women will give you hope, too. We must not be paralyzed.

Small businessmen

Summer morning, South Davis, corner of Cowell Blvd. and Washoe St. Four boys, ages maybe 8 to 11, two signs, a card table. Two of the boys hold the brown cardboard signs over their heads; as I get closer, I can read the hand-lettered words and hear them shouting as they walk toward my car: "Free lemonade!" "Free cookies!" I can't resist. I pull over and roll down the passenger-side window.

"What's the catch?" I ask. "It's free," one of the boys answers. "Free?" "Yes. But you can leave a tip if you want."

They had two flavors of lemonade (raspberry and regular) and chocolate chip cookies arranged on the cloth-covered table. The fresh lemons were a nice touch. And, I was informed by one boy, I could also get a discount card good for discounts at local businesses. All free.

I wanted to hug them. Instead, I accepted a glass of regular lemonade and left them a $2 tip. It may have been the only money they earned, because business didn't look to be too brisk. As I drove away, the boys resumed their sign-waving and shouting, but car after car drove past without a look, and each time the signs would come down, only to rise again as the next vehicle hove into sight. I should have left them a tenner.

Youth movement

This evening, I had dinner in Central Park with 31 young men and women who are on the last legs of a cross-country bicycling journey. Starting in June from Rhode Island, the group has ridden every day, on roads over you-name-it terrain and in the kinds of weather you might expect during the summer months (i.e., hot, humid, hot, dry, hot . . .), staying the night in church social halls, school gymnasiums, even in private homes, packed in like sardines in their sleeping bags. They're having fun, but the purpose of the ride isn't entirely for the fun of it: as their name implies, Bike to Build is raising money for Habitat for Humanity. Many of the riders have volunteered on Habitat projects in their own areas; joining up with this ride was another way they could support that worthy cause.

And they are such fun to be with—bright, exuberant (even after 3,000 miles or so of pushing the pedals), fresh-faced, and young, young, young; the three or four I talked a good deal with are in their early (and I do mean early) 20s (I mentioned that in 1988 I'd done a 1,000 mile ride; Rachel said, "That's the year I was born!" Sigh . . .). They're from all over: Florida, Rhode Island, Illinois, Kansas . . . Tuesday, they'll reach San Francisco, ride across the Golden Gate Bridge and come to the end of their adventure as a group. Some will fly home the next day, others will spend a few days in San Francisco ("What's good to see?" asked one; answer: "What's your pleasure—art? museums? music? food? ethnic communities? Take your pick; the City has it all and more.")

On Sunday, they'll start riding at 7:30 a.m. from the Davis Community Church, and some of us from the Davis Bike Club will ride with them for a while, out to Winters, up to Monticello Dam, maybe farther, maybe not so far. However far we go, it will be a treat and a privilege to join them.

Re-entry

Home after eight days away on a bike tour in Oregon. Spent yesterday just being here, working my way back into the rhythm of the day-to-day. Washed my breakfast dishes; hadn't washed a dish in more than a week. Looked through the accumulated mail; ditto the newspapers (the ones that somehow got delivered even though I'd put a vacation hold on them). Enjoying the peace and solitude after spending eight days with 17 other people; this feeling will soon devolve into feelings of isolation and loneliness, which will soon reverse as my ordinary life reinserts itself.

Glad to have been away . . . glad to be home.

Eye to eye

A juvenile robin (thanks, Pica, for helping me to identify him!) in the grapevine outside my kitchen window this evening, eating the ripe grapes. I got a good look at him with my binoculars, and as I watched, he plucked a grape, held it briefly in his bill, then—gulp!—down it went. It was so wonderful to see him so clearly without disturbing him in the slightest. I don't have a camera with a telephoto lens, so I wasn't able to take a picture, but I did find this one on the Web; it's close, but doesn't show the beautiful markings on the back of "my" fine young fellow . . .


I'm off to Oregon early tomorrow morning to do a week-long bicycle trip. Hope the robin is still around when I get back. There ertainly are plenty of grapes for him to eat.

Local commentary

Bumper sticker spotted this afternoon on a car parked on F Street . . .

Keep Davis Boring

Buzz and Sam

My old friend Buzz married his partner, Sam, yesterday evening in Sacramento. It was a wonderful wedding, full of hilarity, a bit of camp, some tears and lots and lots of joy. The ceremony was officiated by state Sen. Darrell Steinberg, and the guests included Heather Fargo, the current mayor of Sacramento, and many other local Democratic party notables. They were there as friends of the couple—Sam has long been active in Democratic circles, as both a legislative aide and an activist for equal rights for gays and lesbians—and to celebrate what all of us there knew is a huge, huge step out of the dark ages for same-sex couples.

So after Sen. Steinberg said those words so many thought they would not live to hear ("By the power vested in me by the State of California and before these witnesses, I now pronounce you husband and husband!") there was music, and dancing (the newlyweds' first dance was to Etta James' "At Last"), and food and wine and champagne and wedding cake. And at some point in the celebrating, maybe it was when the best men were offering a toast, or when Buzz and Sam were dancing, or maybe just standing together talking, I was struck almost physically with the reality: They are married. This hadn't been play-acting, or pretending and hoping, or even a commitment ceremony—Buzz and Sam are married. It seems at once so logical and natural and so odd and unreal. I try (and so far have failed) to conjure up an analogy, some situation that would evoke in me the same mix of happiness and disbelief. But who cares? It's enough to know that despite the utter improbability of it all, it really is true. Hell is freezing over, and not a moment too soon.

Grandkids' tchotchkelehs

At Long's this afternoon browsing around for some little things to take to my granddaughters tomorrow, I found these: miniature (but working) school supplies—pencil sharpener in the shape of a mouse, scotch tape dispenser, stapler (and staples), tiny pens, a tiny notebook on a ring chain, two caribiners, a retractable eraser, magnetic clip, scissors, folding ruler, and a pack of post-its. And the best part: They were two for $1!

Growing up Mongol

Saw Mongol yesterday, a recounting of the youth of Genghis Kahn. Here's what I learned about the requirements for growing up as a successful Mongolian male: a) ride a horse well; b) love fur hats; c) be ready to fight any one of a random number of enemy clans at any time; and d) choose a good wife (make sure she has strong legs). You should also be prepared to be enslaved, tortured, run long distances, and find someplace to get those fur hats.

The film has plenty of blood—swords slashing, long sharp impaling things impaling, etc., etc.—but it seemed so stylized that it didn't make me cringe or even feel any squeamishness. What the movie does have in great quantity is loads of magnificent scenery, each landscape different than the last, all photographed beautifully. The land is so large, so vast, that the human figures look small and insignificant by contrast. Maybe that feeling of inconsequence in comparison to their surroundings was what made the Mongols so fierce . . . I did laugh, though, at the name of one of Khan's enemy clans, the Merkits. All I could think of was that Animal Planet show, Meerkat Manor.