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Writer's Block: I Can Relate

2009-06-19T05:31:24Z

What fictional character do you most identify with?

Lately -- "Walter Faber" in "Homo Faber: A Report".

Japan in 3 parts: 3. Kansai

2009-05-25T00:02:42Z

We left Fukuoka and Kyūshū with regret disproportionate to the amount of time that we spent there. Somehow the area came to embody the Japan that we hoped existed but had never seen. Fukuoka combined our love of the perfectly fluid anonymity of Japanese urban life with the appreciation for the rustic and wild, in a friendlier package than we found anywhere else.

The Hikari Shinkansen took us under the sea and back to Kyoto Station. We were late getting to our ryokan because we had thought it was within walking distance, but in fact it was about a mile and a half away; not a problem when one is unencumbered by almost 100 pounds of luggage, but not an appealing option in these circumstances. We caught a cab.

The next day was all about K's pilgrimage to the spiritual home of all things Super Dollfie: Tenshi no Sato. I confess that I don't equally share her zeal for resin ball-jointed dolls (although I appreciate them to a degree, on an aesthetic level), but I looked forward to this visit, since the setting is remarkable: the turn-of-the-century former home and traditional garden of an illustrious painter named Takeuchi Seihō. Covering about 4 acres of Kyoto's suburbs, the garden's location is priceless. And what a garden it is!

For me, the most special part of the day came at noon, when an on-line friend of K's -- a Japanese woman from Osaka -- and her family, took us to lunch. Knowing that we didn't eat meat, they took us to a vegetarian kaiseki ryōri restaurant across the street from a Buddhist temple. This was the sort of place that most gaikokujin could never visit, but in the company of the Japanese couple (and their two delightful little girls), we were welcomed into the traditional building by the wafuku-clad hostess. After shedding our shoes, we were led up-stairs and into a private dining room surrounded by antique, hand-painted screens. The tatami mat floors were a challenge to sit on comfortably, but the food (and excellent sake) more than made up for it.

I can safely say that this was one of the two or three best meals I've ever eaten. There were about ten dishes, each containing food that took no more than 4 or 5 bites to eat. Each dish was superficially simple looking (say, a little cube of what looked like tofu), each had a just-plucked blossom or herb sprig atop it, and each was a marvel of subtlety and complexity. The thing that looked like a cube of tofu was actually a pistachio mousseline, topped with a dollop of fresh wasabi and some tiny flowers that looked like heather. For those 4 bites, my mouth and nose were in heaven.

Every few minutes, the hostess would return with another tray of dishes for us. The final dish was unexpected: yutō, which is the slightly browned rice from the priests' lunch across the street, with hot water poured over it. Considered an auspicious (and very Zen Buddhist) ending to a meal, its simplicity belied its unique flavor -- a bit like genmaicha tea, but earthier and faintly salty.

After our meal, the hostess escorted us outside and bowed us off in our taxi.

The next two days were taken up with exploring Kyoto on foot.

oh, the things you can get from the corner vending machine!

very nice trusses supporting a carport canopy

a charming old sign

stylin' Buddhist priest

We hiked from our ryokan across town to Kiyomizu-dera, the sprawling Buddhist temple complex that stands on a shoulder of the mountain overlooking the valley where Kyoto lies. It's difficult to convey the scale of Kiyomizu-dera, but for its immense size, it's interesting to note that not a single nail, screw or bolt was used in its construction in 1633 (the temple's predecessor was built in 798). As always, it was thronging with people, but we did our best to get into shuffle mode and not become too frustrated by the crowds.

a view across at part of the main temple complex

One thing I really love about Kyoto is that, of all of Japan's cities, it is where wafuku (traditional Japanese clothing -- what most people think of when they say someone is wearing kimono) was never entirely replaced with yufuku (Western style clothing). As we detrained from the Shinkansen the previous night, there was a very stylish fellow in his early-20s wearing an amazing outfit -- kimono, haori (long jacket), zōri sandals, etc., all in interesting textured fabrics in indigo, black and light gray -- yet his hairstyle and demeanor would've fit right in in Shibuya. Great combination! It's times like that when I regret the prohibition against photographing people in Japan; he would've been perfect for FaceHunter or The Sartorialist. But I digress.

In general, wafuku in urban Japan is worn by a certain class of people -- not so much divided along political lines or economic lines (although it definitely skews to old money), but a convergence of traditionalism and style. Women outnumber men in wearing wafuku maybe 20 to 1, but its wearing seems to cover all age groups, from mid-teens to old age. There were dozens of teenage girls in wafuku (what is sometimes called the "kimono-hime" style) at Kiyomizu-dera that day, in little gaggles, giggling, chatting, taking pictures, seemingly oblivious to everyone else. They were like brightly colored little birds, flitting about in their own world. It was very difficult to discreetly get any pictures, but I managed.

Note the different knots their obi are tied in -- each of them has a specific name and an elaborate tying process that usually requires someone to help them. And look at the accessories -- the basket and bag purses, the up-dos with a single, perfect fresh flower tucked in. What is not to love about this?

As we usually do, we took the road less traveled -- this one from the top of the temple complex towards the east, and soon found ourselves on a seldom-used path winding through a canyon, alongside a creek. A chorus of frogs (singing flat) accompanied us. We stopped at an ancient Buddhist carving that visitors had left offerings (as in, cash) on top of. Retracing our steps, we followed another path at a fork and soon ended up at a hidden pond behind Kiyomizu-dera, where this marvelous ancient stone pagoda stood guard.

age-worn Jizō wearing smart new bibs

a tiny, rustic shrine with bark walls

As we walked back up to the temple complex, I noticed that the moss-bound pathway was filled with an aggregate of gravel and...bits of old ceramics. I pocketed a few pieces.

We wandered around the approach to the temple, although the sun was blinding and shade was in short supply. I liked the raven on this shop's noren.

At night, we wandered around the Gion District, which has some of the most appealing sights in Kyoto, day or night (as long as one can avoid the tourists).

We walked through Pontochō, the "red light district" (which is actually very tame; no visible sexworkers), including the gay district (again, extremely tame compared to what can see any night here in San Francisco). We saw quite a lot of Enjo-kōsai couples -- rich older men with beautiful girls who are compensated for their company (and, in some cases, perhaps sexual favors) with lavish gifts. The western bank of the Kamo river was thronging with young Kyoto-ites, but despite the hint of sex in the air, there was none of the machismo or edge of danger typical in American clubs or other places young people mix. The only douchebags I saw were three loud American guys in shorts and baseball caps, chatting up Japanese girls. I can't help but cringe whenever I see this.

As we passed an expensive restaurant, a family of diners were leaving. Lined up in a row on the sidewalk as the family got into their two taxis, were 7 or 8 of the restaurant staff (including the chef), bowing deeply and thanking the customers in chorus until the taxis were out of sight.

Here are some scenes from the next day's wanderings around the "Philosopher's Walk", Ginkaku-ji and other sights on that end of town.

an epic tree with ferns and other plants growing out of it

K climbing the steps at a temple

I stayed behind at the gate, a veritable cathedral of logs

amusing sign along the canal-side path

maple trees

Kyoto's space-age Tower, from the basement shopping complex a block away

The following day was our last full day in Japan. We caught the train to Nara, looking forward to two specific things. One was the marvelous Kasuga Shrine. And the other?

...and what do they want?

...and maybe a little skritchy

This was one of the odder things I saw -- quite by accident -- looking over the side of a bridge into the stream, far below. It's a blurry photo, but the white things that look like white kimono are pieces of paper, cut to that shape. They must've been thrown from the bridge. I've seen these in Japanese films like "Onmiyōji", and they're called "shikigami"; they're like spirit mediums used by Onmyōdō practitioners. I don't have any idea what the significance is here, tho'.

We walked along the edge of Nara towards the Shōsōin treasure repository, and by chance, ended up climbing the steps to Nigatsu-dō, a Buddhist temple remarkable (to us, anyway) for the dozens of pictures attached under the eaves of the roof, around 3 sides of the building. Unlike at so many other Buddhist temples, with their centuries-old historical and allegorical paintings, most of these are 20th century, and many are delightfully modernist and informal.

Although it was about 4 in the afternoon, the day was not over yet. We were debating going to see a Noh performance, but it didn't begin until 5:30 and was 4 hours long. We still wanted to visit Fushimi Inari, which would itself consume a few hours. And we still needed to pack our luggage before catching the Shinkansen back to Tokyo and onward to Narita for our flight home. In the end, we opted for heading for Fushimi. By the time we reached that station, the sun was near the horizon.

Fushimi Inari is the center of the veneration of Inari, the Shinto deity associated with harvests and commerce. It is a mountain covered with thousands of Inari votary shrines (each with a pair of kitsune -- the fox guardians associated with Inari), and paths covered with thousands of towering orange torii.

At this late hour, we had the mountain nearly to ourselves. The signage on the paths is mostly in kanji, which neither of us can read very well, so we managed to get lost, which added at least an hour to the time we spent there as we took wrong turns. Not that we minded, at first. It's a place that even this hard-boiled atheist would readily refer to as "magical". But finally, after dealing with treacherous steps, pitch-black stretches of the path and the occasional odd large animal noise nearby, we found our way back to the shrine complex and to the train station.

Here endeth the travelogue. It was an exhausting, fascinating trip that disabused some of our notions about Japan, and perhaps created others. We're already looking forward to returning in October.

riding the rails to heaven and hell

2009-05-23T06:21:42Z

I've skipped a couple of days in Tokyo that didn't offer me many photo ops (Daikanyama, Nakano, Shimokitazawa, Setagaya), which were mostly spent searching for various record shops, zakka-ya, etc. One notable exception was an afternoon spent in Koishikawa Kōrakuen, a large nature park/traditional garden founded in 1629 by a son of Japan's first Shōgun. Although Koishikawa Kōrakuen is an important historic and cultural site, it was little peopled at the time, and blessedly free of gaijin (other than we two henna-gaijin). The weather was lovely, and we enjoyed a picnic overlooking the lake and its tiny island which, although inaccessible to humans, has a charming little Shinto shrine.

the model rice paddy's irrigation sluicegate looks like a torii

What I had supposed to be a thatched tea room turned out to have been a sake drinking room where the Daimyo could safely go to enjoy the pleasures of an average, humble drinking establishment. Shades of Marie-Antoinette and her Petit Trianon, albeit on a much smaller scale.

no one does building textures like the Japanese

a boom to control waterflow, made of smooth stones wrapped in bamboo basketwork

there's something about this moss and stone causeway that I found very peaceful

The only odd intrusion into the garden was the amusement park located just next door, as part of the Tokyo Dome complex. An immense roller-coaster wraps around the building and every few minutes, there would be a chorus of screams from the skies. What would the Daimyo have made of that?!

That brings us up to Monday, the day of K's big ball-jointed doll convention at Tokyo Big Sight, on the man-made island of Odaiba, in Tokyo Bay. This was the third DollParty I ~~was dragged to~~ gleefully attended, but it was more relaxed this time because I wasn't asked to get anything for anyone back in the States; just for K. After 4 hours of waiting in various lines, we finally got into the convention center (although not before the line was twice cut off right at us -- out of about 10,000 attendees) and I spent five minutes running from booth to booth, following K's map and instructions, to get things for her. My duty then having been discharged, I was free to go, while K stayed and shopped for the next 5 hours. I had my own plans, and they led me a mile or so away to the big shopping centers of "Decks Tokyo Beach" and "Venus Fort".

at Decks, I was greeted by some fine Engrish

there was even more inside, on a couple of '70s bicycles displayed in the "nostalgia mall"

a preserved specimen of the Japanese trash can. How does the cleanest society on earth manage to stay so litter-free, given the absence of trash cans?!

a view across the automobilia bookstore in Toyota's wonderful History Garage

their impossibly rare and sexy 2000GT from 1967

And now, onward. In all of our previous visits to Japan, we've stayed in central and southern Honshū. The main island of Honshū makes up about 60% of Japan's land mass and contains the major metropolitan areas of Tokyo and Kansai (metropolitan Kansai includes Kyoto, Nara, Osaka and Kobe and contains over 20 million people). But there's much more to Japan than Honshū, even though we'd not explored it. This time, we decided to visit the southern island of Kyūshū. My haircutter is from Tokyo, but his wife is from Fukuoka, the capital of Kyūshū. When I mentioned that we were going there, he gently corrected my pronunciation (somehow reducing my 4-syllable rendering of "FOO-koo-OH-kah" to the correct 2 syllables -- "FKWO-ka") and told me that it was "like Texas", which seemed improbable to me until he explained that is because its residents are inordinately proud of their "state" (or prefecture, to be accurate).

Anyway, since we had purchased Japan Rail Passes that allowed us unlimited use of Japan's superlative train network, we caught the Hikari Shinkansen from Tokyo Station down to Shin-Osaka where we transferred to another train for the remainder of the trip to Hakata Station in Fukuoka City, the capital of Kyūshū. It's difficult to convey the sensation of flying through cities and across countryside at 170 MPH (275 KPH), but flying it surely is. It's smoother and quieter than a jet, yet the sensation of speed is more visceral, due to the view flashing by. It's also FAR roomier than any jet -- large seats with unlimited legroom, individual armrests, lap tables, wide aisles, large bathrooms, and cart food and drink service. The high-speed Shinkansen trains very seldom change direction by more than a few degrees, and when they do, the track is substantially banked, so that lateral G-forces are barely discernible. Since the trains fly in a nearly straight line, this necessitates miles and miles of tunnels bored through any obstructions, including under the sea where it separates Honshū and Kyūshū. As opposed to a flight where one endures cramped legs, turbulence, near-claustrophobia and concerns about safe landings, one arrives at Hakata Station feeling well-rested and ready for adventure.

I didn't take this photo

When we emerged from the undersea tunnel and onto Kyūshū, it looked little different from Honshū. I should mention that Japan's origin is volcanic which, after millennia of rice cultivation has produced a relatively flat, agrarian landscape with heavily-forested mountains that rise steeply out of the plains, with few of the transitional hills or shrubs like those typical to California. And from the window of the "Shink", Fukuoka City looked little different from Kyoto, Osaka or for that matter, Tokyo.

It wasn't until we wrangled our luggage down to the station proper that we began to notice little differences. First, the agents at the information kiosk spoke excellent English (far better than our attempts at Japanese). Second, for it being a weekday afternoon in a big city (1.5 million residents), the wide sidewalks of the main streets were nowhere near as crowded as those of other Japanese cities. Third, the air quality was excellent, especially after Tokyo's smog. And finally, everyone looked good. Really: healthy, attractive, fit, happy. Their gene pool seemed to be outstanding. The beauty of Shibuya was "Stepford". This was "Summerisle".

We dragged our luggage to where our ryokan was supposed to be (according to the map that the information agent had marked), but could not find it. An elderly Japanese couple, out walking their dog, approached us and asked us -- in English -- if we were looking for Kashima Honkan (the name of our ryokan). Why, yes! -yes, we are. They led us there, bowing and smiling all the while. I got the feeling we weren't in Kansai anymore.

The ryokan turned out to be a lovely Taishō-era former teahouse, situated right between a large Shinto jinja and a Buddhist temple complex. Although by the time we were unpacked it was dark, we set out to explore the surrounding area. After spending some time in the jinja, we walked a few blocks to the massive "Canal City" complex, a complex of 250 shops and restaurants overlooking an extension of the Naka River and its old canal network.

I didn't take this photo

Canal City has a slightly Postmodern look to it that I can do without, but it was there that we were able to visit our first Muji store. For those who haven't heard of it, Muji is sometimes called the "Japanese Ikea". The comparison only goes so far; while their prices are similar, Muji's products are generally very well-made and simple to the point of being generic. They sell everything from food to clothes to bicycles to furniture to entire houses, all distinguished by their understatement, utilitarianism and lack of branding. Despite the utter simplicity of many of their products, Muji actually commissions a number of very famous designers to create them, although they're famously secretive about who they are (Yohji Yamamoto does some of their clothes). As I walked through the "Muji Labo" men's clothing section, I was surprised to find that -- snob and vintage aficionado though I am -- I'd be happy to wear most of their clothes.

I didn't take this photo

a wonderfully derelict house near the train tracks

A couple of days later found us boarding an old-fashioned train called the Yufuin-no-Mori, on our way to the mountain hot spring resort town of Yufu. Boarding with us was a group of about 30 young women in their early 20s, all wearing the uniform of young working women in Japan: black or very dark blue knee-length skirt suits and matching short suit coats, with white blouses. Every one of them was model-pretty. We didn't know why they were taking the train, but we joked that it must be the "Train Anthrax" (a nod to "Castle Anthrax" from "Monty Python's Holy Grail" -- a castle inhabited entirely by "eight score young blondes and brunettes, all between sixteen and nineteen-and-a-half, cut off in a castle with...a lonely life: bathing, dressing, undressing, making exciting underwear.") I don't mean to harp on how often we encountered beautiful people of both sexes in Japan, but it was odd enough to deserve explication.

The Yufuin-no-Mori is lovely inside, with lots of polished wood, comfortable seats, cart service and -- most importantly -- huge windows for taking in the spectacular views of dense forests of conifers and timber bamboo, waterfalls and rustic villages. Their sleek club car served an exceptional cup of coffee (for a mere 450 Yen).

the lounge car of the Yufuin-no-Mori

An hour and a half later, we reached the town of Yufu, which lies in the caldera of a long-extinct volcano, and at the foot of the nearly mile-tall Mount Yufu. At the base of the mountain, a small lake is fed by the hot springs that riddle the area, and on cooler days than the day we were there, steam hangs over the placid waters.

the upper part of Mount Yufu, lost in the clouds

views from opposite sides of the lake

The approach from the train station to the lake is lined with a mix of tourist shops and normal small town businesses. Many of the shops have basins in front that dispense the hot mineral water at its full temperature (maybe 120 degrees Fahrenheit).

water is everywhere in Yufu; even the drainage ditches that line the roads are picturesque

a Hello Kitty Shinto shrine on the roadside

a sacred cryptomeria tree on the far side of the lake

intriguing, long-unused steps up the mountain, begging to be explored

at the top: this old Buddhist shrine, spotlessly clean inside...

behind it, these ancient Buddhist figures carved into the living rock...

...and, inexplicably, this life-size sculpture of a collie!

just down the road, an old abandoned wooden house, slowly falling into itself

a little cafe near the lake, which looked to have been unused for decades

the charms of rust and lichen

the discreet entrance to a luxury onsen

a wonderfully decrepit wooden house -- this one, for sale

K relaxes under a wisteria bower

nice ducts! --a house near the station

we bought the makings of a picnic from locally-produced ingredients

Instead of taking the Yufuin-no-Mori back to Fukuoka City, we took a much smaller train line in the opposite direction toward Beppu, a coastal city pocked with hot springs, many of them with mineral deposits in wild colors, called "Jigoku" ("hell"). Their local specialty is "tamago no Beppu" -- eggs that have been hard-boiled in the springs. To get there, we took the tiniest train I've ever seen: the "Single-Man Diesel". More like a double bus on rails, the Single-Man Diesel is so called because (unlike most trains) it is operated by one person who collects fares as well as doing the driving, and because (unlike most trains in Japan, which are electrically-propelled) its motive power is diesel. This meant that uphill grades were slow, with the engine laboring at times. Downhill grades were roller-coaster fast as we whizzed through tunnels and took corners at fairly high-Gs. The stops we made were at literally wide spots in the road; little villages with names like Doi and Iga and Sue.

the little diesel single-man train we took

It was a truly memorable 90-minute ride; the train nearly empty but for a few bored-looking locals, and schoolgirls, wide-eyed at sharing the car with two foreign devils. We ate our picnic. By the time we got to Beppu, the main hot springs were closed and all of the day's tamago were sold. We caught a high-speed train back to Hakata and were back in our ryokan before 10 o'clock.

The rest of our stay on Kyūshū was equally memorable. Our Japanophilia already knew few bounds, despite being tempered by a certain amount of weariness from Tokyo's bustle and crowding, and the endless challenge of trying to communicate with Tokyo-ites who, it seems, have little enthusiasm for meeting us half-way. And here was Fukuoka, with its pleasantly-scaled cityscape, its handsome residents (who were eager to speak English), its deep woods just a few miles from the city center, its hot springs and its excellent air. We were left with an infatuation that is bittersweet from its inaccessibility to us for the moment. We intend to return in the autumn to experience more of its charms.

Tomorrow: back to Honshū -- Kyoto, Nara and Fushimi Inari.

Japan in 3 parts: 2. Laughing with the dead

2009-05-22T03:17:16Z

Anyone who has looked at my so-called blog for any length of time is aware of my affinity for cemeteries; so it shouldn't surprise anyone to see me seeking out cemeteries in other countries. Japan has two kinds of cemeteries -- the traditional type on the grounds of Buddhist temples, and the Western import. And the earliest of the latter is Aoyama Reien, the first public cemetery in Japan; established in 1872. Taking up about 7 acres of prime Tokyo real estate, the cemetery is probably best known as a popular springtime Ohanami spot, due to the hundreds of cherry trees that line the roads and paths. The sakura were long bloomed-out, but there were other trees in bloom, as well as many flowers.

We selected a quiet, untended gravesite for our picnic, and were surprised to be joined by a large, friendly raven, who seemed to be interested in our food. I tossed him a piece of nattō sushi, more as a joke than an offering. He snatched it up and flew to a post a few feet away where he proceeded to eat the nattō out of the middle, leaving the rice and nori wrapper uneaten. It was a sticky, stringy mess, and the raven's determination to get it all lent it a dignified yet absurd air. We had a difficult time keeping our laughter down so as to not spook the raven. Then again, Aoyama Reien has a huge flock of ravens, and their incessant caws sound like macabre laughter.

One of the things I find particularly interesting about Japanese gravestones is that they often incorporate natural elements in ways that Western graves would never consider. A relatively common example is that of a rough, irregular stone instead of a cut and polished one. The closest that the West has come to this is the "rustic style" headstones of the late-Victorian era, but they often come off as fussy and self-consciously styled.

Another unusual element of Japanese gravestones is that they very often incorporate brush writing, rather than the more formal block styles. I enjoy imagining the process by which these were carved -- with a calligrapher dipping their brush in water, wiping it over an inkstone, pausing to compose themself, then writing the words in flowing gestures. Once the ink has dried, the carver takes over, chiseling away the stone below the ink. The effect is particularly striking when the characters are then picked out with contrasting paint.

a minimum-security final resting place

this unusually grand grave must belong to some hero of the Russian Wars

this one, while also martial, was reduced to its essence: an artillery shell

some fascinating variations of the Western mausoleum vernacular

and, unusually for American cemeteries -- lots of cats

Another fascinating, mysterious grave. First, the scale is heroic, with a gravestone about 12 feet tall. But the English-language marker only describes Mr. Mishima as a "Chief Scout" in the Boy Scouts. And the Boy Scouts of America (and Britain) are infamously allied with Christianity, so the Shinto torii is yet another oddity. A little on-line sleuthing revealed that he was a bit more than that. Michiharu Mishima was a viscount, and his father was the 8th hereditary Custodian of the Bank of Japan. His mother's father was a marquis. Mishima himself was a member of the House of Peers and the House of Councillors, a Vice-Minister, an author, playwright and drama critic...and the first President of the Boy Scouts of Japan. Typical Japanese sell-effacement, even in death -- to list one's great accomplishment as belonging to a group.

a curious creature to have keeping one company for eternity

...and perhaps a more fitting one

graceful decay, Japanese style

another mystery: a torii leads into an isolated grove with strange monuments

clearly Shinto, but beyond that...?

the Masons are everywhere

...but what could this signify?

Aoyama Reien is also known for its section devoted to foreigners. Many of these were American and European Christian missionaries, but there are also some of those who were instrumental in modernizing Japan during the Meiji Restoration (rather than trying to drag it back to 33CE).

a miscellany

Next: part 2.5 -- the two islands previously mentioned

Japan in 3 parts: 1. The shortest, longest birthday

2009-05-20T17:57:37Z

As has become a tradition for us, K and I spent my birthday in Japan. Or more accurately this year -- on our way to Japan, since my birthday (April 27) fell on the day of our departure. Consequently, it was only my birthday until about 5pm (San Francisco time) before we crossed the international dateline and the day was forever lost. On the other hand, I traveled over 5,000 miles, so it's also my longest birthday. We've been back for a week now, and the jet-lag has subsided to the point where I can string two sentences together, so here it is: Japan in 3 parts, at about 5 days per entry.

Sitting at SFO, waiting to board, I glimpsed Virgin Airlines' "Unicorn Chaser" across the tarmac. That is exactly what I need!

We normally fly NorthWest, because their fares are generally cheapest by a couple hundred dollars, but this time, the price difference between them and Japan Air Lines was negligible, so we opted for the latter. We did not regret our choice! First, NW's stewardesses (I refuse to call them "cabin attendants" or whatever PC term is mandated this week) generally resemble "Lunch Lady Doris" from The Simpsons. JAL's stews, on the other hand, were uniformly lovely. Our section of the cabin was graced with the most flawless of the bunch. Really: if Hollywood put out a casting call for "perfect Japanese stewardess", they could not have done better. Beautiful, charming, graceful, solicitous to a fault -- K and I were beyond impressed. The sake flowed freely, the vegan meals were surprisingly good, and even the legroom in the 777 was much better than on the Airbuses NW uses. As usual, I still couldn't sleep, but I had enough movie choices to keep me diverted.

We landed at Narita on schedule, but were delayed by almost an hour by a team of a dozen people in sealed bio-suits, using strange gear (infrared cameras, scanning our faces for elevated temperatures). It was all a bit surreal; very "Andromeda Strain". Finally, they finished their sweep of the cabin and we were allowed to disembark. The rest of the journey to our ryokan was relatively uneventful, but for the wheels on my suitcase giving out, the result of the 60 lbs. of cargo stowed in it. It was wonderful to be back in Minowa, where nothing seemed to have changed since our last visit.

Tokyo approaches through the window of the Keisei Skyliner train

ye tiny ryokan room

Our first day in Tokyo began in Harajuku; not my favorite city, but the La Foret building with its dozens and dozens of little trendy boutiques (and choruses of "irrashaimase!") is always entertaining. For those familiar with the film "Shimotsuma Monogatari" (AKA "Kamakazi Girls"), here's an amusingly named shop.

"Double-name-o!"

...and a gratuitous shot of a shop with an amusing French-panese name

Then, on to my favorite city in Tokyo: Omotesando. (For those unfamiliar with its layout, Tokyo isn't a single city, but rather about 50 cities ranging in population from a few hundred thousand to a few million, all jammed up against each other.) There may be a few hipper cities in Tokyo (such as Daikanyama), but Omotesando has amenities that no other part of Tokyo can claim. On Omotesando-dori are all of the high-end boutiques one would expect, and there's Tadao Ando's impressive "Omotesando Hills" shopping building, but as soon as one heads south off of O'-dori, one leaves the throngs behind and the neighborhood shows off its true charms. Narrow, crooked, tree-lined lanes peppered with unique shops, salons, cafes and houses.

my favorite little antique shop, hidden on a back street

in a neighborhood where the lot that a small house sits on is worth well over a million dollars, it's odd to see not only humble little cottages but the occasional vacant lot

typical Omotesando contrasts

a forest in a hanging planter

the delightful "Tout le Monde"

the cats of Omotesando are not easily amused

Finally, our destination: Crayon House. Crayon House is a combination "health food" restaurant, bookstore, toy store, organic market and more, and one of my favorite places to eat in Tokyo.

the awnings that cover the subterranean dining patio

itadakimasu!

our musical accompanist

After lunch, we wandered around Omotesando's back streets a while, seeking out the unique little zakka-ya it holds. After this, K and I divided up; she to Shinjuku, and I to Shibuya, my second-favorite city in Tokyo.

Shibuya's reputation is as a playground for the young, hip and hedonistic. I was there for the record stores, but the scenery was no drawback; Shibuya attracts the most beautiful people in Japan, and thus, the entire eastern world. At first, you're slack-jawed. A girl just walked past who looked like Ayumi Hamasaki's cuter, younger sister. Then another; Namie Amuro's cuter, younger sister. Then Utada's cuter, younger sister. Then 3 girls who put the girls in Perfume to shame. Impossible-looking girls that seem to have stepped out of an illustration like this one by Kazuko Taniguchi. After a couple dozen of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen, it starts to get a little boring. . . . oh, who am I kidding?! For those interested in such things, the young men seem to be equally superlative, with every tenth guy looking like he's a pop star. Shibuya is a hotness magnet. Of course, I could not take pictures; that would be unforgivably rude. You'll have to take my word for it.

The next day began in Aki'ba (the city best known for its glitzy electronics stores), after which we walked over to Kanda-myojin, a large Shinto shrine nearby. Along with a lovely wisteria bower (just beginning to blossom), a coin-operated oni that tells your fortune, and other attractions, Kanda bosts some of the most impressive ginkgo trees I've ever seen.

Now it was time for an experience we'd not had before: a neko cafe. Tokyo has every manner of cafe, including "maid cafes" where teenage girls dressed in frilly maid outfits serve drinks and sweets, but this was a bit different. This was a cat cafe. It's name: "Ja-la-la".

We entered behind another fellow who seemed to know the protocol, and we waited for him to be processed and to go through the cat-proof double-door. Once we convinced the proprietor that we were neither lost nor likely to trash the place, we were shown to the genkan where we traded our shoes for slippers. We followed him to the back of the long, narrow room where his wife got drinks for us while we thoroughly scrubbed our hands with disinfectant. We read over the rules and signed them, to show that we understood (no disturbing sleeping cats, no picking them up, no loud noises, etc.). There were already two men in the cafe. One, an older fellow, seemed to be a regular, and was playing with a Persian cat. A younger fellow just sat near a cat, seemingly absorbing calm from it. In a country where pure-bred kittens start at $1,000 and most apartments don't allow them, cat cafes make good sense. Ja-la-la is one of quite a few such cat cafes in urban Japan. At $5 for a half-hour, it's cheaper than psychoanalysis. And it helped us miss our cats less.

The next day was our customary excursion to Kamakura, less than an hour away by local train, but very rural for being so close to Tokyo. Usually we make a circuit of the various shrines and temples, but this time, we decided to ride the old-fashioned Eno-den single-track train to the end of the line. The end of the line turned out to be a boring suburban sprawl, so we caught the Eno-den back to Enoshima Station where we walked out across the causeway that attaches the island of that name to the mainland. We'd never been to Enoshima before, and we found it utterly fascinating.

weather-bitten iron railing

tidepool heaven

a temple seemingly popular with lovers, with locks attached to the fencing around it, with names written on the locks

this one was locked to a tree

somewhere out there is where we came from, a half-world away

fisherman's shacks on the far end of the island

We caught a tiny motorboat taxi back to the mainland and rode the Eno-den to Hase Station, where we trekked up to the wonderful Hase-dera Temple complex.

we stopped in for a light meal at Hase-dera's restaurant

leaving Hase-dera, we walked past this interesting alley...

this former Eno-den traincar that has been incorporated into a storefront...

and these two tiny Japanese Catholic nuns

tomorrow: a cemetery, a near-by island, and a far-away island

Running out the door...

2009-04-27T16:06:31Z

to Japan!

If anyone needs to reach me over the next 2+ weeks, they can send me a message through LJ or write to bricolage at mail dot com.

Ittekimasu!

travel plans and final destinations

2009-03-18T06:03:38Z

Inspired by skank_all_day's recent post about visiting the Neptune Society Columbarium here in San Francisco, K. and I finally got around to visiting it ourselves. It's a rather odd thing that the two of us -- so into cemeteries and local history, and her having been born here, and I having lived here for the past 23 years -- hadn't visited it sooner, but there it is.

And there we were, last week on a lovely spring day.

The Columbarium is situated, appropriately, on a dead-end street at the foot of Lone Mountain in the Richmond District. It's impossible to tell from the grounds that bustling Geary Boulevard lies less than a block to the north. The building is a fine Neoclassical confection, built in 1898. When the City of San Francisco essentially evicted all cemeteries (other than the military cemetery in the Presidio and the small graveyard at Mission Dolores), the Columbarium fell into a prolonged disrepair that lasted for decades. Fortunately, the Neptune Society acquired it in 1980 and did an excellent job of restoring it.

Typical of Neoclassical architecture, the building is highly symmetrical and formal. The floors are laid out in segmentary apses, with about 5 rows of niches from floor to ceiling. Some of the apses have charming stained glass windows, such as this elaborate monument to a woman, complete with bronze grotesqueries and a memento mori.

Sexy angels, FTW!

This window had a peculiar dream-like quality to it. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was installed backwards. The painted details of the faces are softened by being viewed through the colored glass. A very pleasing effect, even if unintended.

many of the apses also had stained glass ceilings

As might be expected, the late-Victorian niches, original to the building, were at times spectacular. Couched silk moiré wallcoverings, swags, ribbons and tassels, elaborate artificial foliage, reverse-gilding -- these were tableaux mortes intended to be taken seriously.

a silver urn containing the remains of a ship's captain

the remains of a nameless baby

monumental vert-de-gris

Masons are in the house, yo. Pike -- a name immediately familiar to any American Freemason; I believe this would be Albert Pike's great-nephew. Interestingly (well, to me anyway), Albert Pike's great-great-great-great-nephew was recently made a Mason. My friend Barry, who brought me into Masonry, was in attendance at the ceremony.

Woodmen of the World are well-represented here too

a former stage driver for Wells, Fargo?

unfortunately, the inside of this intriguing porthole had been covered with copper foil

A problem I had throughout the building was of reflections in the glass fronts of the niches. Behind this one is a fascinating casket stuffed with coral and seashells. The niche itself was decorated in plaster to resemble the interior of a giant clam shell.

nautical themes seem to have been popular

a fantastic bas-relief of a figure beneath the spread wings of some supernatural being

I have no idea what this is all about, but it looks like a party in there!

the opposite end of the scale from the heroic figures

Containing another Mason, this casket reads "My Love for Woodworking will Hold Me Forever"

Newer niches tended to be far less formal. This touching monument depicts a gay couple who both died fairly young, in the mid-'90s. This must've been their vision of themselves, had they grown old together.

some niches raise more questions than they answer

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Oh -- and as for those travel plans? Today, we picked up our airline tickets and rail passes for Japan. Flying out on my birthday (as has become a tradition), we'll be spending a couple of weeks immersing ourselves in our favorite place on earth, meeting some of our Japanese heroes and working on "Project X". We'll also be crossing the Inland Sea for the first time, to visit the island of Kyushu.

Can. Not. Wait.

History repeats -- and doesn't

2009-01-27T00:21:06Z

I'm beginning to recognize that any annual event has a lifespan that is usually past long before the organizers and attendees get the memo to that effect. Consider Burning Man. Founded 23 years ago as something interesting to do, it soon became redefined as a "counter-culture movement" before mutating into a commercial juggernaut and hippie Mardi Gras with its own orthodoxy and lingo.

I actually attended Burning Mans ("Men"?) numbers two and three, out on the north end of Baker Beach, near the nude area. They were diverting and improvisational, and not at all nude. I shudder to consider what it's turned into, but the fact that it's now intentionally held in one of the most inhospitable, bleak landscapes in the Lower 48 is sufficient to keep me ignorant of its "charms".

The first of any such event is chaotic, inspired, unique. The second year allows more preparation and greater ambition. The third year is the full flowering, but a few slack-jawed gawkers are certain to turn up and put everyone off a bit. By this time, the media will have caught on, which does no one any good but the ticket-sellers. From then on, it's usually all downhill.

When I first heard of The Edwardian Ball, I thought -- "genius!" I'd long been a fan of Edward Gorey (I once telephoned and told him this, even though that information did not seem to much impress him), and I think that the Edwardian era produced some fabulous fashions. Given that Gorey's constructed universe is vaguely set in that era, it seemed an inspired combination. And indeed, the first Ball was a delight. The second one was a mixed bag, although my suffering from a delirium-inducing cold didn't help. But we decided to give it one more try.

And here is where history repeats. Like last time, we decided to portray characters from a Gorey book; this time, The Gilded Bat. Like last time, we put a considerable amount of effort into it. And like last time, the organizers, performers, and many of the attendees were largely disappointing. At least we didn't spring for the 3-day VIP pass this time. Wanting to maximize our chance of experiencing Gorey goodness, we just bought tickets to "Sunday, Gorey Sunday", which had the bonus of being the only night held in the beautiful Lodge of the Regency Center, once a Masonic lodge, with amazing painted scrims behind the stage. I cannot fault the location. Being patted down by Gangstas-R-Us Security Co. as we entered, however, I could've done very well without.

But once we entered the venue, we had guardedly high hopes. Then we noticed that there was no seating in the main room. Three hundred guests and no seating. For a four hour event. We found some carpeted steps to sit on. The people-watching was uneven, but at least a significant percentage of attendees were dressed in vaguely Edwardian costume; another significant percentage were utter punters, with rented tuxedos. There was a sizable steampunk contingent, in varying degrees of success, and a half-dozen vendors with their wares set up on tables in a side room. But one thing there wasn't, at least as far as I could see, was anything to do with Edward Gorey. I did not see one other person out of the 300 in the sold-out crowd who was dressed as a Gorey character. Perhaps a few were there; I did not see them, despite walking throughout the venue five or six times.

Mounted on the wall of the hallway was a cut-out of "Mirella Splatova", dressed in her costume as "the Gilded Bat". Kelly, in costume as Mlle. Splatova as "the Gilded Bat", happened to be standing in front of it at one point, when she was approached by some nameless drone. "Hey, are you from that movie 'Sleeper'?" he asked. As she stood in front of the picture of the character she portrayed. Of course, I didn't expect anyone to recognize my character, "Plastikoff", since he only appears in one frame of the story, but I was identifiably Gorey, right down to the dark lines drawn under my eyes. But "The Gilded Bat"? Surely anyone with any knowledge of Gorey would be familiar with that story, and would recognize her character. Apparently not.

Amazingly, dandy_gregory somehow managed to recognize me as me (which is to say, "bricology"), in a cavernous, darkened room, and while I was in costume. Don't know how he did it, but it was nice to finally meet him in person, and the lovely palefemme who was with him. They both looked perfectly suited to the evening. Kelly bumped into missorangegirl whom, I have no doubt, was likewise perfectly turned out.

Of the performances we saw, the less I can say about them, the kinder. And I realize that Jim Sweeney is friends with friends of mine, and he may well be a perfectly lovely fellow in person, but why they ask him to emcee the Edwardian Ball, I shall never understand. At the very least, I wish that he didn't feel compelled to try to lead the audience in shouting "hip-hip-hooray!" every time he took the stage between acts (and on at least one occasion, twice in the same break!) There is only one thing more embarrassing than eliciting an unenthusiastic response to a call, and that's eliciting an enthusiastic response from rental tux-wearing frat boys from El Sobrante who are hoping to "hook up with one of those hot gothic girls". We did our best to drink away the lame, but the only reward for our efforts was an evil hangover this morning. And so we walked out during some nonsense or other, vowing that next year, history may well repeat itself again, but that we would not be there to witness it.

Anyway, I've used up a month's worth of venting credits. Here are some photos of the setting and our costumes, and I thank you for your patience in wading through the screed above.

Plastikoff, the creator of the ballet "The Gilded Bat"

Prima ballerina Mirella Splatova, as "the Gilded Bat"

weird scenes inside the Lodge

Post-impressions

2008-12-23T08:39:50Z

I haven't been in love with San Francisco for a very long time. Perhaps love for a city cannot survive long when one is relentlessly faced with the sort of street life for which our neighborhood has become infamous.

But in my new spirit of attempting to focus on the positive, today I decided to try to seek out some of the City's redeeming features as I walked nine blocks of Post Street, from a block from where I live, to the foot of Post, at Market Street.

Traversing the Tenderloin/Nob Hill border, passing through Union Square (and past Prada, Tiffany, Cartier, etc.) and ending up in the Financial District -- all in just nine blocks -- gives one a sense of how extremely compact San Francisco is.

the Warrington Apartments building, with some fine detailing and a graceful circular staircase

above my dry cleaners, these astonishing figures that I had never noticed during my ten years of patronage

on the side of the Bohemian Club, a bronze bas-relief bears these rather graceless yet intriguing figures (part of a larger grouping)

one of San Francisco's unknown treasures, this large and wonderful painting by Arthur Matthews from about 1915 is hidden inside of a narrow office entryway (note the roof of the Palace of Fine Arts in the lower-right corner)

high over Union Square, Timothy Pflueger and Robert Aitkin's Dewey Monument (modeled for by the 18 year-old Alma de Bretteville), aligned here with one of the very few open sight-lines that remain around the Square

Shreve's windows are disappointing compared to last year's exceptional displays; this was the best of the 13

another Arthur Matthews, this is one of his largest and most ambitious paintings, from about 1907, in the entry of The Mechanics' Institute (which I half-jokingly refer to as "my gentlemen's club here)

the temple of money: the expansive, lavishly coffered ceiling of the 1908 Wells Fargo building at the foot of Post Street

walking back home in the dark a few hours later, windows reveal the second floor of the Mechanics' Institute

one of those art galleries that tends to look better at night, and even then, mostly because of the dramatic lighting

an interesting handmade jacket in the window of an atelier

the window of couturier Joseph Domingo's workshop

...and right next-door: the excellent Kayo Books, with stacks of smutty vintage pulps spread out on the counter, waiting to be priced

and now, a block from home -- the former apartment of Dashiell Hammett (top floor, corner), where he wrote "The Maltese Falcon" and other classics

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

While I may never manage to reclaim my original infatuation with San Francisco, I often find myself surprised by how many overlooked treasures it contains. Until I'm able to move to Tokyo/Périgord/Moonbase One, I might as well try to appreciate what I have.

Happy Birthday, andrea_sperelli!

2008-12-08T22:25:20Z

In honor of the anniversary of your birth, twenty scenes of good wishes and happy returns.

Alcatraz without Baedeker

2008-11-16T20:35:11Z

Normally, I go to lengths to avoid tourists or going anywhere or doing anything touristy. (After 23 years of living in San Francisco, this is almost a survival tactic.) In all that time, I had never set foot on the island of Alcatraz, a mile off-shore. When I worked nights on the WWII submarine at Pier 45, the island looked startlingly close across that stretch of water. Still, the prospect of being crowded onto it with thousands of tourists appealed to me only slightly more than doing time there. Nevertheless, Alcatraz holds a certain fascination for nearly everyone, and since Kelly had been given a pair of tickets, we decided to make the trip yesterday.

Approaching on the ferry, Alcatraz looks very like a left-over chunk of San Francisco, tossed into the Bay. Note the small white rectangle by the shore; you'll see it closer later.

the only landing area is on the east shore...

...watched over by this tower

to reach the main complex of buildings, one walks up a road with series of switchbacks

Alcatraz: the Saint Michael's Mount of America. Security & salvation

roof of the 1880s indoor shooting range

As we were walking up, a British couple was walking down. The man sarcastically said something like "Oh good; the Austrians are here"; apparently in reference to my clothing. His female companion said something quietly to him, to which he loudly replied "If they didn't want to be noticed, why would they dress like that?!"

Moving on, we entered the Civil War-era fortifications that remain, about halfway up the island. These, to me, were Alcatraz's most interesting buildings. We have few buildings in Northern California with the gravity of Medieval architecture; Fort Point, under the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge is the other main example.

I've always been fascinated by architectural ghosts -- things that have been changed, but of which a physical memory remains

looking one direction down a long arcade

...and the other

shades of a Gordon Matta-Clark intervention

outside again, it was often difficult to tell where the natural stone of the island left off and the masonry began

either way, nature was winning, as it always does

a little free-standing morgue and crematory greets you as you approach the main complex

When it was first built, in the 1920s, it was the largest steel-reinforced concrete building in the world. I almost expected to see "Arbeit Macht Frei" above the doorway.

the gate into "A Block", obsolete almost as soon as it was completed

looking down "A Block"

the view down the more modern "B" and "C Blocks"

the modular cast-iron staircase

cantelevered floor details

"D Block", with its view of San Francisco (from the upper level), and the view-less solitary confinement cells below

substantial window grills

the view, through the thick, weather-bitten glass

a typical cell

the very neat folding chair and table arrangement

The cell of one of the three men who escaped in 1962 (and dramatized in the 1979 Clint Eastwood film). The men dug through the concrete walls using a spoon handle fashioned into a drill bit, and a vacuum cleaner motor. The preparation for the escape took a year.

ultimately, they gained access to this utility corridor...

...which they scaled to the roof and continued on to freedom (perhaps)

the kitchen had this lovely little structure in the center. A Streamline Moderne guard shack?

the dining hall's walls revealed a history of color schemes

...the linoleum floor, a history of wear

I admired the uniforms of guards and prisoners

note the expansion gusset behind the shoulder; so much more comfortable when shouldering a rifle

the sculptural forward section of the guard's rifle of choice: the Thompson

The Warden's House was, sadly, burned by the Native Americans who occupied the island from 1969 to 1971 (they burned down a number of buildings, vandalized others, stripped out and sold the copper wire, and committed other destructive acts)

the hearth still bears its Arts & Crafts tiles (Claycraft?)

the island's lighthouse stands on the site of the earlier one, built in 1847; the oldest on the West Coast

the entrance to the exercise yard

the Forum-like steps at the opposite end

through the yard's iron door, the Golden Gate Bridge is visible

massive water tower

a guard's cage

details

All Blues

the interesting Modernist hulk of the Model Industries Building

just how "off limits" is "off limits", I wonder

a fig tree, just starting to bear (in November?!)

the most inhospitable corner of an inhospitable 22-acre boulder

almost Medieval form to the gun emplacement of a guard building

that little white rectangle, close-up -- about fifteen feet tall

agave plants cover the south end of the island

the remains of a steamship engine at the tide-line

a ruin with a view

Let the poppies fall!

2008-11-09T03:36:54Z

To any of you folks here in ~~Sin City~~ San Francisco: tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon at 3 is the annual Festival of Remembrance (otherwise known as "Poppy Day") at Grace Cathedral, atop Nob Hill. Pomp, ceremony, incense, a bagpipe and drum corps, representatives fromall branches of the US military (and our allies), a greeting from the Queen delivered by the British Consul General, great stories from WWII vets, a superlative military orchestra, military re-enacters, and tens of thousands of red poppies scattered from the peak of the Cathedral's ceiling and fluttering down upon the audience. Sublime! I blogged about it here last year. It's well worth the trip, and advisable to arrive at least an hour early for decent seats (it fills up quickly). The seats of choice are as far forward as possible, on the center aisle.

For those who have a taste for Mozart (me, not so much), the choir of men and boys and a full orchestra will be performing Mozart's Requiem Mass at 11am.

unofficial portrait of a nation

2008-11-05T08:25:50Z

I feel rather like someone who's just had a tumor removed that's been growing in their gut for 8 years. I keep mentally pinching myself. Is it over yet? We've heard the concession speech, the acceptance speech, the analysis by Brooks & Shields, we've dabbed our eyes a few times, we're getting used to the incessant honking and whooping from out on the street. Is it over?

I admit that I was a late-adopter when it came to Obama (my ideal candidate would've actually have been a hybrid of Ron Paul and Dennis Kucinich). I was wary of the oratory, the narrative, the seeming lack of substance, the effusive media praise. But Obama steadily grew on me, and his candidacy was so preferable to that of McCain/PALIN as to be in another time zone.

So the campaign is over, the honeymoon is about to begin, followed by the period of disillusionment and eventually, the pragmatic dealing-with. Americans may soon be able to face their peers in other lands without handing out apologies and disclaimers. We may soon be dealing with just one war, not three. And oh, the novelty of a President smarter than most of us!

But for now, I just want to sleep for 8 weeks.

Californians: Save Traditional Marriage!

2008-11-04T01:21:35Z

Tomorrow, voters in California will be faced with one of the most important electoral decisions in U.S. history. At stake is nothing less than the institution of marriage itself! On one side is a liberal effort to rewrite the definition of marriage to include spouses of the same sex. On the other side -- the defenders of traditional marriage. The choice is crystal clear: we must save marriage from those who would transform it into some bizarre, modern travesty. That is why I call upon you to vote for Proposition 8, to change the California State Constitution to allow marriage only between a man and a woman.

America is a nation of believers, a godly nation. And when godly people are in need of moral guidance, they turn to the infallible examples provided by their particular faiths. The Jews have the mighty men of the Old Testament, whose examples in marriage are still relevant today. The first great example is, of course, that of Adam himself; the first man. Adam's bride, Eve, was literally created out of his body! But despite her owing Adam her life, Eve sinned, causing the downfall of all mankind. Still, Adam stood with her through a marriage that lasted for over 900 years. (And by the way: the traditional 900th anniversary gift material is Kryptonite.)

Then there is the godly example of the Father of Israel himself, Abraham. Abraham and his wife Sarai were unable to conceive, so she generously gave her maid Hagar to Abraham, as a sex ~~slave~~ servant. Abraham's son Isaac followed in dad's footsteps with his wife's servant, although his grandson Jacob went one righteous step further, marrying two sisters and having sex with both of their maids as well (in an entirely godly manner). With the steadfast marriages like those of the Patriarchs of Israel, what better example might be desired?

Well, how about that of King David, with his eight wives and many other baby-mommas? Or better yet: Solomon, who is generally considered to have been the wisest of men? Solomon had no less than seven hundred wives, and three hundred concubines! (Concubines, for those unfamiliar with the job description, are sort of legal mistresses, or junior-wives -- a sort of sacred harem, or if you can imagine Hugh Hefner as a high priest.)

Christians are no less blessed with upstanding and practical examples of traditional marriage. Jesus himself may not have married (or did he?), but that didn't stop him from setting the perfect example for husbands, as well as occasionally providing bartending services at weddings. Jesus' judgment was likewise exemplary in other matters, from handling demonic possession to dealing with out-of-season fig trees. And the founder of the Catholic Church, Paul -- while himself a bachelor -- had only the soundest advice for success in marriage: ~~utter silence and subjugation~~ devotion from the godly wife.

Certainly, Islam is not to be left out! Muhammad knew more about traditional marriage than most, having been married to at least eleven women (that we know of). But even polygamists have favorites, and surely his was Aisha. No doubt she was the most virtuous of 6 year-old brides when they married (although, displaying godly patience, the 52 year-old Muhammad waited until she was 9 years old before he played "hide the salaam" with her). And since Muhammad was the perfect man and the perfect example, all Muslim men would do well to follow his example in this tradition of marriage that is no less than thirteen centuries old! It certainly worked for the Mormons, who are drawing upon their rich history of being persecuted for polygamy to bankroll Proposition 8 and defend marriage from being changed to benefit one small group.

Thirteen centuries is a good, long tradition, but certainly not as old as they come. The earliest recorded marriages occurred in Ancient Egypt, where the Pharaohs themselves entered into the holy bonds of matrimony. True, it was usually with their own sisters, but who are we to judge when traditions are at stake? We must dismiss as irrelevant the fact that men also married other men in Ancient Egypt; 4,500 years of tradition shouldn't count for some things. Nor should we pay any attention to the same-sex marriage traditions of Ming Dynasty China, nor of Classical Greece and Rome, nor of Sub-Saharan Africa, nor of Native American tribes, all of which stretch back many centuries, if not millennia.

No, we cannot consider them to be true "traditions", because they were not as we are: good, upstanding, god-fearing people. Who, throughout history, have sometimes preferred to marry more than one woman at a time. Who have traditionally left the selection of spouses up to the parents who traditionally used marriages to form strategic alliances, gain fortunes or engage in social climbing, and who have traditionally required "bride price" from the girl's parents. Who traditionally required wives to be totally subject to the ~~whims~~ wise and prudent leadership of the husband. And who have traditionally (indeed, until about 150 years ago), set the age of marriageability at twelve years old for girls.

Our beloved traditional marriage is under attack from those who would diminish the godly seriousness of an institution that we heterosexuals are entitled to enter into after ~~drunkenly proposing to a stripper in Reno~~ sober deliberation. Under attack from those who would use for their own political gain the quibbling detail that 4 out of 10 California marriages already end in divorce. And from those who would deny the right of husbands and wives to seek comfort outside of the marital bed, should it become necessary to do so. No, when it comes to traditional marriage, no threat is so real as the threat of extending it to include those who very likely could do a better job of marriage than we have. So please, Californians -- help save traditional marriage! When you vote tomorrow, remember the many centuries of proud and godly tradition that are at stake.

A History of Bad Ideas

2008-11-02T01:27:42Z

Given that Hallowe'en here in San Francisco was largely rained-out last night, and that none of the events available to us were overly compelling, we decided to stay home. While K. made a supremely excellent pumpkin curry, I carved a jack o'lantern with the face of an oni.

As the rain piddled down outside, we ate and watched an utterly fascinating documentary on PBS about the history and evolution of the mythical figures of Satan, the devil and other related archetypes.

Now, I consider myself to be relatively educated about Judeo-Christian mythology, but I learned more from this one hour presentation than I had ever known before about this particular aspect of it. It was noteworthy not only for its subject matter, but also in the way it demonstrated that the entire concept of dualism in Western religions is an artifact of Zoroastrianism, taken to a preposterous extreme.

Simply put: this one-hour show should be sufficient to cure any open-minded viewer of belief in Yahwehism.

Two things about the presentation itself struck me:

1. As a BBC presentation, it was probably aired during prime-time in Britain. That shouldn't be an amazing thing, but it is to this god-weary American.

2. The only way such a thing could be shown in the US is (a) on PBS and (b) in the context of Hallowe'en (any normal time would smack of blasphemy).

Thankfully, the show is on GoogleVideo, and can be watched in its entirety here. Hugely recommended!

Muse, muse, muse

2008-10-21T16:52:03Z

On Sunday, we walked down to see the John Zorn exhibition at Daniel Libeskind's newly-opened Contemporary Jewish Museum. I have to confess that I'm not much of a fan of Libeskind; much of his work seems like exercises in formal novelty, rather than Good Architecture. The Museum is composed of two elements: the existing shell of Willis Polk's dignified 1907 Jesse St. Substation, and Libeskind's hyperactive geometrical addition to the top and west side. It's certainly striking, but I don't think it makes for a good neighbor.

Such are the excesses of "starchitects".

The interior was oddly divided up, with awkward traffic flow. And I have to say that interior spaces that give the impression that a 40 foot-tall wall is trying to fall on top of me are not my cup of tea.

Nevertheless, I tried to shush my inner architect and get on with appreciating the show.

(note: the view here is nearly straight up)

the flooring is nice; end-grain tropical hardwood of some sort (cocobolo?)

this was one of the best things I've seen in a while: a sculpture by Ben Rubin titled "His Master's Voice", inspired by the great Horn Antenna of 1959, which Rubin appropriates as a method by which to "listen to god".
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
From there, we went to SFMoMA for the exhibition "Brought to Light: Photography and the Invisible, 1840-1900". It was utterly fascinating. Victorian photography is interesting enough on its own, but 150 year-old pictures of lightning? Century-old X-rays? Daguerreotypes of the moon? I was in antique geek heaven. I cannot recommend this show highly enough. If you're in the Bay Area and this sounds even mildly intriguing, you must see it. It runs through January 4.

a lovely collection of mounted photomicrographs from 1871

Trouvelot Figures from a spark generated by a Wimshurst Machine, of course. 1888

a solar eclipse from 1889

snowflakes? Nope. A photomicrograph of "ferments of sweet urine" from 1844

a Roentgen-ray image from 1895, the year it all began

a few of the lunar Daguerreotypes. Very tricky to photograph. I want one to carry in my pocket
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we had to stop in and see some of the wonderful Klees in the Djerassi Collection

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a block away, we took a ride on the 1905 carousel saved from Playland-at-the-Beach
fascinating overhead mechanism and the chaos around the kingpost

K. handles her camel with aplomb

...but mine seems a bit dicey

if that isn't a malevolent gleam in his eye, I don't know what is

eeeeeeee-viiiiiiil

...and we're being pursued by Baphomet! I thought he preferred children and templars

...and that goat is clearly ill-tempered

flee, little girl!

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roses next to the carousel

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walking home, we stopped in at Anthropologie, where they had transformed old books into mobiles

inside, they had an immense old wooden rack with bottles wired to both sides, some of them containing botanical specimens

...which I've been pining over ever since

we welcome our new reptilian overlords

2008-10-16T22:10:35Z

No, it's not PhotoShopped. Courtesy of Reuters News Service.

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And now, a unicorn chaser:

from our permanent collection

2008-10-11T04:11:58Z

...well, not perhaps ours personally, but we like to think of the Palace of the Legion of Honor as being the closest thing we have to a private museum. Today it was blessedly free of tourists and we had most of it to ourselves. Finally an excuse to try out the new (well, 40 year-old) Fléchet for Cardin hat and the '64 Worlds Fair neckerchief with a '60s Norfolk suit.

Cosmocorps and monorails are On The Heath, yo!

San Francisco is getting its usual Indian Summer, although today wasn't quite as warm as yesterday. The air was so clean it felt almost disinfectant.

we paused to rest on the way up the hill

the unfairly ignored back of the museum

no one does gilt coffered ceilings anymore

this huge Louis XV rock crystal chandelier (each drop the size of an aubergine) has such presence!

a limestone bas-relief from Persepolis, 5th C. BCE

a charming portrait of the Countess of Plymouth by Sir Thos. Lawrence, c.1817

of what use is a sedan chair with no bearers?

I admired this view of the falls at Tivoli (c. 1826) by the unfairly obscure French woman paiter ("paintress"?) Louise-Joséphine Sarazin de Belmont

in the "stone" Rodin forecourt, I discovered this ravishing Rodin of Mary the Magdalene and Jesus

in the "bronze" forecourt, the shadows behind a life-size Rodin caught me by surprise

the world's smallest Whistler? it was about 6" across

an utterly delightful bust of Diana (c. 1882) by Jean-Alexandre-Joseph Falguière

it's hard to believe that this masterful study of Masada was done by the master of nonsense, Edward Lear

the craftsmanship on this little Spanish niello mirror frame was astonishing

good to see an old friend again. I wonder if he knows where I can get a decent cup of coffee around here...

in praise of Glenda Jackson, and blasphemy

2008-10-10T06:02:56Z

At a store year or so ago, I picked up a used videocassette of a film from 1978 I'd never heard of before, due entirely to the fact that it starred Glenda Jackson. I have to admit that I haven't seen that many of the films she made before she retired, but I favorably remembered her performances in Ken Russell's "Women in Love" and "Salome's Last Dance", "Hopscotch" and "Turtle Diary". It wasn't until last night that I finally got around to watching the film, which was opaquely titled "Stevie".

As a semi-literate American, I confess I'd never heard of Stevie Smith, the British poetess. Of course, it's entirely possible that even literate Britons may not be familiar with Smith's American counterparts like Anne Sexton or Elizabeth Bishop (they're welcome to correct me if I'm mistaken.) But as I watched "Stevie", I developed not only an appreciation for Smith's writing but also an infatuation for Miss Jackson. I found myself unable to take my eyes away from her on the screen. There's something about her face that fascinates me as few living actresses can. The nearest peer I can think of would be Tilda Swinton; both are fine actresses with a preference for challenging roles, and they share an odd androgyny that comes and goes. With all due respect to Ms. Swinton, I find Jackson much more appealing with her Slavic cheekbones, cupid's bow lips and bob haircut (or, at other times, a pixie cut). And there's such bright light behind those feline eyes!

"Women in Love", 1969

(in her mid-50s)

Apparently I'm not Jackson's only fan. She's won the Oscar twice, and been knighted. She retired from acting in the early-'90s to enter politics, serving as a member of Parliament for the past 16 years, as well as recently being Britain's Transport Minister.

"Stevie" is a modest little film with limited locations and just four actors, but two of them (in addition to Jackson) are superb -- Trevor Howard and Mona Washbourne. The film is based upon a stageplay, and it shows. Howard and Jackson routinely break the fourth wall, and it's a slowly-measured and talky film, but it is never less than engaging; sometimes deeply affecting. Stevie Smith was a keen intellect, an extravagant smoker and drinker, a lifelong spinster, a suburban homebody, and an associate (and perhaps lover) of George Orwell. Mid-life, she had a nervous breakdown and attempted suicide, but it was a brain tumor that eventually brought death, whom she referred to as "the only god who must come when he is called".

Not Waving, but Drowning (1957)

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

(for any interested in a slightly longer example of Smith's poetry, here is her piece titled "Pretty")

If you have the opportunity to watch "Stevie", I recommend that you take it. Jackson is flawless, turning in a performance that is perfectly nuanced. She's also (to my taste, anyway) quite fetching, with a sort of gamine-librarian chic.

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Sharing two qualities with "Stevie" (namely being a film and frequently referencing death) is something I saw in the theater a few days ago: Bill Maher's "Religulous". I can think of few films I've watched in the past few years that caused me to laugh out of control in the theater. "Religulous" was one. Of course, Maher had a sympathetic audience in me given that I'm an atheist of 6.5 on the Dawkins Scale, and I could really use a laugh right now about the political morass we're in. Maher delivered the goods with a film that makes you laugh, think and even question the host. It's a chilling exposé of the Yahwehist movement that seeks to rule (and destroy) the earth, wrapped in some of the most absurd and hilarious costume imaginable. One might say that religiosity is an easy target, but the fact is that it's very seldom actually fired at, given the absurd deference given to beliefs and believers. Maher's film won't tip the scales by itself, but it will provide a nudge in that direction. I hope.

show & tell

2008-10-06T03:34:10Z

today, we took the ferry to Alameda for the monthly antiques & collectibles fair
the ferry afforded an uncommon view of the Bay Bridge,
an aesthetically underappreciated structure;
the Golden Gate Bridge's older but less celebrated sister

I'm still trying to figure out what this structure on the ways is for
(no, it's not a building under construction)

something I didn't get: a combination phonograph/radio/organ from the '70s

something I did get: an old letterpress
I haven't had a letterpress since our Arts & Crafts period,
when we lived in a bungalow and did everything by hand.
True, this is a small one, but large enough to make
tiny books, bookplates, cards and so forth.

some more things: a record and booklets from the 1964 World's Fair

old Tinkertoys

these very strange little children's cards

...with verse on the backs

something Kelly got: a little, old lamb

something that was waiting at home: flowers in my father's old labware

and now I must go help prepare dinner

inside out / outside in

2008-10-04T04:57:55Z

A few days ago, K. and I finally made it to the butterfly exhibit at San Francisco's Conservatory of Flowers, preceded by a lovely picnic in the Strybing Arboretum. The weather was flawless.

a native, or an escapee?

inside the butterfly nursery

some were fearless

I had to resist the urge to give it an exploratory twirl

I'd like to warn you that some of the floral arrangements at tonight's performance have dangerously low hanging vines and may be poisonous. So please, whatever you do, don't eat 'em and don't become entangled in them or trip, please.

the dahlia garden outside was in full-bloom

just behind it were perched two enormous ravens

K. attempted détente, but with little success

Always merry and bright

2008-09-30T04:57:40Z

I owe Henry Miller a dollar for borrowing his phrase. Or, I could just watch "Henry & June" again, strictly for gratitude (and perhaps for the ethereal Maria de Medeiros). Either way, that's the mindset I'm working my way into right now. This pint of dunkelweissen is helping. So is the traditional Japanese breakfast K. fixed this morning. I was halfway through the natto and rice before I thought to myself "hey! -I should take a picture of this!"

Always merry and bright -- in breakfast form

I've spent the past 2 days trying to organize my storeroom. Five hundred square feet of all manner of things that've been thrown in there over the past few years.

One disassembled motorcycle
One disassembled Vespa
A truck-load of lumber
Stacks of hardware bits and pieces
About 15 power tools
Maybe 50 linear feet of magazines and books
An entire mad scientist's laboratory-worth of old electrical gear
A few organs
8 or 9 guitars and basses
One cello, one vibraphone, one pair of tympani
An old theater lighting control panel
Stacks of LPs
Too damned many toys from the '50s through '70s
Empty Zero-Halliburton cases
Probably 40 empty cardboard boxes; the relics of eBay purchases which may be pressed into future service for shipping stuff that I get rid of on eBay.

Speaking of eBay: in trying to organize the room, I found something I bought on eBay probably a year ago and promptly forgot, once it arrived: a "Benjamin Franklin clock". Apparently, Franklin believed that two hands on a clock were one too many, so he developed a clock with a single hand and a spiral face. This is a 1950s electric version of that design.

I have yet to figure out how to read it (I'll bet Whimsy knows how), but at least it's no longer in danger of being crushed by a falling stack of Lite-Brite boxes.

A couple of nights ago, we watched "Twin Falls, Idaho"; I'd not seen it before. Co-writers/directors/stars the Polish Twins were fantastic as the titular conjoined twins. I had mixed feelings about the film, but I was utterly charmed by their little song:

Finally, I had to share this incredible site. Be prepared to spend an hour navigating around its magical landscape (particularly the upper-right quadrant called "Park").

Reliquary

2008-09-29T05:03:31Z

As I mentioned in my last post (6 weeks ago), I was likely to be tied up for a while, dealing with my father's funeral, going through his belongings and helping my mother cope with the chaos into which she was thrown. I am just now getting back to what I like to call "normal", although I've had to recalibrate that standard.

The funeral was well-attended; many, many well-wishers and thoughtful people. Long-lost friend Ayo flew in from New York just for the occasion, which was quite a surprise. It was also a surprise when, during the time when the minister invited anyone who wanted to say a few words about my father to step to the podium, she stood up. She told an anecdote about my father, remarking upon what an open-minded person he was. "I'm an atheist, and he never held that against me or was judgmental about it", she said, apparently outing herself to her parents in the process. I never "came out" as an atheist to my father; I was certain it would hurt him too much. Well, perhaps not.

At one point the minister said something like "He was perhaps the best person I've ever known; just about perfect. Of course, we didn't live with him, so I don't know if he was like that in private." I then surprised myself by getting up and saying that my father was exactly the same in his private life as in public life. I couldn't manage to say much more; it was a challenge to keep it together. The majority of the service was maudlin, often veering into embarrassing, but as they say -- funerals are for the living, not the dead, and no one asked me to take charge of it. I would've preferred simply playing "The Lark Ascending" and serving the attendees Talisker and water -- the drink of tears.

The weather was, as one might expect of the San Joaquin Valley in August, hellishly hot. The day before the funeral, it was 107. "At least it's a dry heat", people love to say. After obligations were taken care of, Kelly and I drove around town for a little while, and I tried to find anything that remained of the town I grew up in. The town's population has quadrupled since I left, and all for the worst. Most landmarks were gone; whatever bits of rustic charm remained were clearly living on borrowed time.

We drove to the airfield, my main hangout when I was a boy, since it was just a mile from home. The lattice tower that I used to climb was still there; the highest point for miles around when I was 13.

The landscape across the runway looked much the same, although it had been widened and re-striped. A few more hangars had been added, but it was still just a sleepy country airfield. The lovely T-33 that once stood guard at the entrance was gone -- hopefully to be restored and flown. When I was about 12, I climbed into its exhaust nozzle, naively trying to gain access to the cockpit, and very nearly got stuck. That would've been a fatal mistake; one of a few dangerous moments in my life whose recollection can still send a shiver down my back.

Kelly sat patiently in her self-provided shade while I poked around.

My father was always a reticent man when it came to himself. He was not his favorite subject. The few times that I tried to draw him out about his boyhood and youth, he would answer matter-of-factly, but never elaborated unless asked specific questions. It's not that he was hiding anything, he just didn't think it could possibly be interesting to anyone else.

He was a child of the Great Depression. Never knowing the world before it, his expectations were probably low during much of his childhood. His generation learned to love what they had and not expect much more. This was his much-repaired stuffed dog, "Pudgy". If there was ever a real-life "Velveteen Dog", Pudgy is he.

at 7 years old, with his younger brother, John, getting dirty

a year later, in cleaner circumstances. That's his mother Clara on the right; the other couple is his uncle John and wife Francis. John was the manager of Ebbett's Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers

a year later still

age 12

There were a few things that I learned about him over the years, but more that I've been able to tease out about him since going through his effects. I knew that he and his pals rode around on motorscooters before they were old enough to drive cars. Here he is at 14, on "Boomer", his Cushman.

...but I had no idea that he "lettered" in baseball in high school. It's typical that he'd never mention such a thing.

I knew that he had been in the Air Force, although I only recently learned that he lied about his age to be able to join when he was 16 (that's him on the wing of a Mustang, back-right)

...but I had never seen his uniform

I haven't been able to discover what the "Lockheed Award" is, but since the Lockheed factory was at the Van Nuys Airport, where my father's unit was stationed, there must be some connection.

My father seems to have had a "thing" for Carole Landis. I was totally unfamiliar with the actress (other than having heard her name), so I was surprised to find that she had committed suicide at the age of 29, when my father was 16. A first star-crush? In addition to photographs, he had an inscribed script that had belonged to her, and an inscribed playbill (neither inscribed to him) with her lipstick print on it.

I just learned that my father had been in love with a girl before my mother came along. Her name was Mavis; she was his age, the daughter of a very successful surgeon. My father hadn't yet expressed his feelings to her, despite being around her quite a bit; he felt too far below her to be taken seriously. Somehow, she knew his feelings anyway. Then one day a military pilot returned home from his tour of duty overseas, and swept Mavis off her feet. My father lost his chance.

Mavis came up from Santa Barbara to the funeral with her husband (her second husband; the first marriage to the pilot had been rocky and he left her). She told of her and my father driving around Southern California, singing the pop songs of the day at the top of their lungs (the Four Freshmen, likely). It was difficult to feature my dignified father doing such a thing! She also said she had always regretted not having chosen my father instead of the military pilot.

I wonder if Mavis used to look a bit like Carole Landis?

I'm still uncovering new pieces of the puzzle that is my father, mostly through the things he left me:

somewhere around 1,000 old books and magazines on aircraft; mostly World War Two

the instrument panel from a WWII airplane

his gold watch. His father's presentation gold watch from his company, and pocket watch. His uncle's gold watch, presented to him by the Brooklyn Dodgers

his father's cigarette case

a baseball signed by all of the Dodgers in 1948. It's the only thing of his I'll be selling

He didn't leave it to me, per se, but I'll be keeping his lab coat anyway, and his Hippocratic Oath

There are many more things of his I've kept -- hundreds of books and magazines on trains, hundreds of pieces of sheet music from the '30s and '40s, a WWII practice bomb, a bent propeller blade off of a crashed B-24 bomber, and so on. I have a lot of organizing to do. And I'll need more bookshelves.

My father was seldom photographed, since he was usually holding the camera, but this is perhaps my favorite late photo of him. His expression never changed from when he was a boy.

So there it is. Thank you, anyone who has survived reading this far! Tomorrow's journal entry will be considerably shorter and, I promise, much cheerier.

The journal that wasn't

2008-08-08T04:22:33Z

Can it really be almost 4 months since I've posted anything of substance?! It's not for lack of significant events in my life. I place the blame on having gradually accumulated membership in about 150 LJ Groups, which meant that I was having to spend a couple of hours on it every day just to keep up!

And so, overwhelmed by it all, one day I just walked away from LJ. Theoretically this freed up time for real-life projects. Indeed, I was able to finish some of the things I'd been tinkering with over the months, but at the same time, I started new projects. It seems that "real life" projects are just like having 150 LJ Groups on ones fList: they expand to fill whatever time is available.

It was my birthday back in late April; one of those that ends with a "5". Normally we would be in Japan, but finances dictated otherwise, so I decided to spend the day at two of my favorite local haunts: The Exploratorium and The Musée Mécanique. It was a fine, fine day. Here are a few video clips from it. I apologize for the distortion in some of the clips; I really must remember that my little pocket camera shouldn't be turned perpendicular when taking video clips. Also, your speakers should be turned down, as I have no control over the audio in the clips.

clip 1
clip 2
clip 3
clip 4
clip 5
clip 6
clip 7
clip 8

I'm trying to remember other events that transpired between April and now, but I'm presently a bit scattered, due in part to having a cold, but due to a much larger part to my father unexpectedly passing away on Friday. My mother called to tell me, but I was down at the studio so poor Kelly had to come break the news to me.

My father had been in fine health, but a couple of weeks ago decided to go into the hospital for a routine outpatient surgery. During the operation, the surgeon made a mistake, which necessitated an additional surgery. All the same, he seemed to be recovering well afterwards.

I telephoned and spoke with him at length a little over a week ago; he sounded strong and optimistic. A few hours later, unexplained and severe abdominal pain. He passed out and fell, breaking his nose and cutting up his face on a picture on the wall he fell against. My mother called an ambulance. They got him back into the hospital, and he seemed to be stable. They had him on a gurney to be taken in for a CAT scan, but when the orderly went to wheel him into the room, he was dead. The preliminary postmortem doesn't indicate anything being wrong with him.

This wasn't supposed to happen. He was in good health, hauling around 100-lb railroad ties for one of my mother's landscaping projects just the day before surgery. He never smoked or drank, he got reasonable exercise, was a vegetarian for much of his life. After retiring a few years ago, he was enjoying being a volunteer docent at a historic military aircraft museum; his great passion (last month, they awarded him "docent of the year", out of 140 docents). His mother lived to be 94; his grandmother, 103. He should've had another 15-20 years of time. And his temperance and good genes notwithstanding, if there was one person whose full lifespan I would've wanted to guarantee (besides my wife's), it would've been my father. Apparently they didn't get the word at Kaiser.

My father was, in his own quiet way, an exceptional man. He is the only person I've ever known who never said or did anything that he would have reason to regret afterwards; his ethical compass was faultless. I never heard him complain, never heard him say an unkind word about any person. He exemplified old-fashioned gentlemanly manners. Modest, self-effacing, utterly reliable, a tireless provider, faithful husband and a rock of stability. He and my mother had a wonderful marriage; it would've been 52 years next week. Of course, now I keep thinking about all of the things I wish I had said to him, all of the father-son projects that I had intended to do with him.

We were similar in many ways (although I won't flatter myself that I inherited his character). We were the same height, the same build, similar faces. Anyone looking at us would know we were father and son. We both loved old vehicles -- especially airplanes. He was too young to have served in World War Two (to his everlasting disappointment), although he grew up right next to the Van Nuys Airport, which was used by a number of airplane manufacturers, and he dreamed of being a pilot. He idolized men like Claire Chennault and the Flying Tigers (many of whom he would eventually get to meet in his role as docent).

Unfortunately, by the time the war ended, my father was just 13. And so, when he was 16, he told the only lie I've ever heard of him telling: he said he was 18, to be able to get into the Air Force Reserves (that way he could stay in school while learning to fly). Unfortunately, there was a glut of pilots after the War. However, they did need technicians to install state-of-the-art navigation and communication gear in F-51 Mustangs and the new F-80 jet fighters. And so he spent the next 8 years working on fighter planes, while never actually learning how to fly them. On the other hand, his service kept him out of the Korean conflict.

I won't go into the details of the rest of his life -- working for IBM, putting himself through medical school, marriage, fatherhood, three decades of working for the same medical group -- the biographical details of anyone's life aren't what a person is. He was my father, and I'm his genetic product, his namesake, his life-long understudy. He's gone far too soon, but I was fortunate to have him at all.

So I suppose that this is a long-winded way of explaining why I've been absent, and saying that I hope to be back, in some form. I'll be preoccupied for a while still (both mentally and dealing with the funeral, helping my mother adjust to her circumstances, etc.), but I'm still here. For how long...well, none of us really know, do we?

Darwin, for the win!

2008-05-22T03:28:48Z

Amazing.

In a million years (presuming we haven't killed them all off), flying fish will be building nests atop palm trees and begging handouts from picnickers on the beach.