God May Be Making a Comeback

Having to go without any new written words by Him in thousands of years, fans of God’s work were delighted to hear the announcement today that there will be a new piece written by Him published later this year.  A previously unpublished work has recently been discovered by one of God’s many lawyers in a safe deposit box in the West Bank Bank and Loan, along with a copy of The Odyssey signed by the author, a dog-eared paperback version of Catcher in the Rye, and a dodo bird skeleton.  

When reached for comment God said, “Yea, looks like they found something I wrote very early in my career.  Sort of a draft really, and probably not something you’re going to be reading on the beach this summer.”

God goes on to say that when the document was shown to him and it was suggested he publish it, he was at first reluctant.  “I was afraid that people would think I was just doing it for the money.  And I doubted that anyone was clamoring for yet another previously unpublished work from someone who was famous years and years ago.  But then I found out that there are people who really want to hear from me, a lot of people apparently.  Who knew?  And if they can dredge up unpublished works by Harper Lee and Dr. Seuss, why not God?”

Later this year a sequel to To Kill a Mocking Bird called Go Set a Watchman and a Dr. Seuss work titled What Pet Should I Get? will be published years after they were written.

When asked about those other writer’s “new” publications God said, “I’m pretty excited about the new Dr. Seuss book to tell the truth.  That sucker could write!  You think I created some amazing stuff?  Try saying, ‘When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles...’  Ha, ha, man I still can’t get that right unless it’s written down right in front of me, and don’t get me started on turtle stacking.”  As for the Harper Lee book he says, “I’m going to adopt a wait and see attitude on that one.  I mean, it might be great or it might be like Johnny Depp’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  That movie kinda creeped me out.”

The new work from God is an early version of The Ten Commandments which was much shorter than what was delivered to Moses on Mt. Sanai.  As God puts it, “Originally I had just one commandment; Thou Shalt Not be a Dick.  I’m no Stephen King, but not bad right?  I thought it pretty much covered everything, and I should know because I created...you know...everything.  But Mo said I needed to be more specific.  So he and I hashed out the top ten.”  He seemed to reflect for a moment before going on, “You know, I still think it would work.  I mean if you kill, or steal, or lie, you’re kind of being a dick, right?”  He seemed to get a little angry when He said, “And did we really need to burn a whole commandment just to say you can’t say Goddammit?”  He eventually changed mood back and said, “I even had a great name for it,” as he drew his hand, fingers spread open, across his field of vision as if describing a marque and said, “The Commandment.”

When asked about the other items in the box He said, “I got that Odyssey signed the day before Homer died, but I kind of had the inside track on that one.  It’s probably worth a ton of money now, but I don’t need it.  I’m pretty comfortable financially.  Catcher in the Rye is only in there because I had to read it in high school.  Just forgot to throw it out.”  And the bird skeleton?  “I’m a little embarrassed about that.  It wasn’t a skeleton when I put it in there.  Poor little guy.”

The document will be published as a hardback book, a Kindle book, a special edition from the Franklin Mint on a stone tablet, and on vinyl narrated by Morgan Freeman.  It will not be available on Nook.

Tolerance Town

“...the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-travellers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.”

                                                                       -Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

There used to be this very funny commercial.  It featured the Earl of Sandwich, holding court in his castle or mansion out in the English countryside, as if he just sat around all day thinking up sandwiches.  They had this actor made up with the blue silk clothes, white hosiery, shiny black shoes with large buckles, powdered wig, the whole getup.  The similarly dressed court would be brought to silence and he would announce a new idea for what to put between two slices of bread.  When the sandwich was presented on a silver platter he would say something like, “Peanut butter...and banana,” pronouncing banana “ba-nah-nah” and delivering the line with a flourish and maybe a lacy handkerchief in his hand.  Very clever.  Probably too clever because I have no memory of the product they were selling.

I often think of this character, or caricature, when I hear the word tolerate.  Someone sitting on a throne, bored with the little problems of the little people, and having to tolerate behavior that is obviously far beneath his station and his important time.  Like he gives a shit.

These days we are told we need to show tolerance.  We are to tolerate political views, religious beliefs, and social behavior other than those to which we subscribe.  But who am I to tolerate, or judge for that matter?  I’m not a real fan of the thinking that there are levels of people.  I’m more in the all men created equal camp.  We’re all on the same journey.  I have no business judging my equals and I could care less how they judge me.  I’m neither the fictitious Earl of Sandwich nor the Grand High Poobah of Upper Buttcrack (Thank you Stephen King from Dolores Claiborne).

Tolerate?  I’ll go you one better and ignore you all together.  

I’m from the school of if it feels good, do it.  If it makes you feel good to pray to this god or that one, if you want to follow that leader or this one, or if you want to slice banahnahs and put them on peanut butter, do it.  Read what you want, write what you want, listen to the music you want, make the music you want, marry whomever you want, make laughless movies about the bat-crazy leaders of the northern half of countries on the other side of the world.  Let your freak flag fly.  I don’t believe it’s my job to tolerate your behavior.  Knock yourself out.  I just have one request; don’t knock anyone else out.

Don’t hurt anyone.  If you hurt someone with your behavior or in the name of your beliefs, whether physically, mentally, verbally, or maybe even financially, that’s the point where you’ve forced me into Tolerance Town.  It’s a place where I now have to decide how I feel about your behavior.  It’s a place where I have no business residing.  It’s a place where I don’t like to be, like Oxnard.  It’s a place from which I will be forced to make a decision on your entitlement to my tolerance and from which I will likely find your credentials sorely lacking.  Basically, by acting the way you did, you’ve made me become the parent and now I have to pull the car over.  And we were making such good time.

So here we all are, sitting in a hot car by the only stretch of California coast that isn’t even a little bit nice, I’m pissed at you and you’re pissed at who knows what, and now no one is happy.  Way to go.  Make me the bad guy?  No, that makes you the bad guy.  You’ve gone from a “fellow traveller” to “another creature” bound to...well to I really don’t give a shit, because now I am the Earl of Sandwich or the Great Grand Poobah...you get it.  You are wrong.  No matter who you “say” you are avenging and no matter how many thousand-plus year old quotes from some long dead court reporter you present to justify your behavior.  No shit will be given from me.  Besides, you’re lying about all that stuff anyway.

Artists and writers died this week in Paris.  Intelligent people who made jokes about everyone, leaving no one safe from their satirical pens.  Had the Earl of Sandwich been around today, and had the version from the commercial not been fictitious, they would have made fun of him.  Jokes.  Just jokes. They heaped ridicule upon the powerful, which is a newspaper's job.  

They died violently and suddenly because some men found their jokes offensive to their poorly tied, twisted-knot view of divinity.  Do you know what I find offensive?  People who walk around with an air of superiority, as if they’ve been given the divine right and duty to root out all those who cast even the slightest aspersion on what they hold dear, or are mildly interested in, or pretend to be devout to in order to quench some blood lust, and then celebrate when the imaginary line only they can see is crossed and they get to kill.  

The writers and cartoonists lives were taken by men who had to exert mere ounces of pressure on a trigger to kill so many (yea guns!).  Their lives were taken by men who faced almost zero threat to their own lives for their opinions, even when they strolled into an office building (on their second attempt because they went into the wrong place at first), clinging to guns and religion, to start their slaughter (there was a police bodyguard and two other French police officers, who were outgunned and stood no chance.  Good guys with a gun easily cut to zero by bad guys with a gun).

Those artists lives were taken by men who contributed ab-so-lute-ly zero in this world and I can only hope that they will receive a reciprocal reward in the next.  But then again, about those men, I don’t give a shit.

It’s Easy Until it Isn't. It Works Until it Doesn't

When it’s easy I walk to the BART station from our place in Walnut Creek.  I move past the shops and restaurants of downtown, most of which are too pricey for me to patronize.  I navigate around the men with leaf blowers, blowing sycamore and magnolia leaves off the sidewalk and into the street where they magically disappear.  (As a side note, what has a longer shelf live than a magnolia leaf, Twinkies?)  Most mornings there are so many people getting on the train, and already on the train, that I don’t get a seat.  When I do it’s a simple pleasure, unless someone more deserving than I comes along; the elderly, a pregnant women, blind people. If an elderly, pregnant, blind woman ever boards the train she'll probably get two seats. When that creepy guy with the filthy beret who won’t stop staring at people shows up, I let him stand.  At the Civic Center Station in San Francisco where I emerge out on to Market Street, if I look over my shoulder I can see the dome of City Hall.  I have a 15 minute walk down Seventh Street past far less pricey shops and restaurants than Walnut Creek, and then I’m at my office.  On the reverse trip when I get to the Civic Center Station I go to the far end of the platform where the train cars are less crowded.  The inexperienced BART rider just gets in line at the bottom of the escalator or steps and finds himself smushed with everyone else, including the creepy beret guy.

                Yup, it’s usually easy and it usually works.  Then history happens, both bright and grim.

                The bright history was the Giants winning their third World Series in the past five years, which prompted a parade down Market Street that ended at City Hall.  The parade started at noonish and ended when the speeches in front of that beautiful dome ended.  Whereupon it was supposed that the fans would make their way to whatever transportation they used to get there.  When five o’clock rolled around and I left my office to go home that day, the speeches were winding down.  My guess was I would be heading for the Civic Center BART Station from the south side just as 100,000 fans were heading to it from the north.  It would be like walking into a tsunami of baseball jackets, caps, and panda hats. 

                When I got to the bottom of the stairs and looked across the station, it was a sea of orange and black.  My first thought was that I’d be lucky to see my front door by midnight.  So I girded my loins and pushed through to the turnstiles, fully expecting to get in a line that moved with all the enthusiasm of a school of fish but the speed of a DMV queue, but then a miracle occurred.  The majority of those in line weren’t waiting to get to the platform, they were waiting to purchase tickets.  For some reason they hadn’t thought to buy the round-trip ticket in advance.  Rookie mistake.

                After I got to the escalator, which was shut off for some reason, I walked slowly toward the platform.  At the bottom an elderly woman was being helped off the last, irregular steps and toward a waiting train.  Someone above me yelled, “Hurry the fuck up!”

                Someone below me responded, “It’s an old lady, shut the fuck up!”

                His reply, “You shut the fuck up.”

                “No, you shut the fuck up.”

                After I got to the bottom and moved to the far end of the platform, they were still volleying no-you-shut-the-fuck-ups, off in the distance.  The BART signage let me know my train, the Pittsburg/Bay Point would be there in a few minutes.

                When that train showed up a second miracle occurred. It was empty.  Not who put the milk back in the fridge with just one gulp kind of empty, but completely empty.  Not a single seat taken.  not a living soul aboard.  It’s the urban myth of the Bay Area commuter; an empty train, fresh out of its original packing, plucked from some sidetrack hidden deep in the tunnels under the city, and put into service because of the unusual circumstances of the parade.  I got on, moved to the back of my car, and – get this - sat down.  When the train left the station it was about 90% full, and about 99% orange and black, it was Halloween after all.  At the next three stations before the Trans-Bay Tunnel people smashed themselves in, stuck together like MilkDuds.  None more deserving than I came close to my seat.

When we popped up in West Oakland we were feeling pretty good until the conductor announced that the train would be taken out of service at Rock Ridge station.  Once there we all de-boarded and stood as the again empty train pulled away.  It was probably a 20 minute wait until the next, fully crowded train show up.  I rode the last few stops standing which wasn’t too bad, but filthy beret guy got a seat.  You can just throw those in the washer right?

The grim history grew out of the shooting of a man by police in the Midwest, and the decision by the grand jury there not to indict that officer for that shooting.  Protests erupted across the country and eventually got to Oakland.

On the Friday after Thanksgiving I was taking both boys to San Francisco to meet their aunt and cousin who were touring the ballpark.  We would have lunch and then come back.  It was the boys’ first ride on BART but we only got as far as Rock Ridge.  The same station where I was kicked out on Halloween.  The announcement said trains were stopped at the downtown Oakland station by civil protests.   We waited, waited, and waited. 

The Oakland protests, like other protests across the country, have been coat tailed with violence and looting, so I figured I wouldn’t ride a train with my sons through there, even if they started heading west again.  Eventually a train came from Oakland and took us back to Walnut Creek.  We ended up seeing Auntie Donna and Cousin Sarah that evening at our place and instead of eating at Super Duper Burger in San Francisco, we just got pizza.  As it turned out, the BART closure protests were marked by their peacefulness and the quiet acceptance those that were arrested displayed.  They made their point and moved on.

I do see that the justice system is not applied fairly to all races, in all places.  I fully support everyone’s right to gather, march, and cause disruptions to get their cause noticed.  I don’t support broken windows and looted businesses; people are human and flawed.  I didn’t rant and rave when our trip to the City was curtailed and I told my boy who did that sometimes things happen and we just have to accept that a small inconvenience to us is necessary for a larger point to be made by someone else.  I pointed out that it is historic and likely will not happen the next time we make that trip.

Every morning when I arrive at work I walk past the plaques for officers who have died in the line of service.  Some by accident and some by the violence of others.  The most in one year was 5 in 1906.  All while protecting their neighbors.  Are all cops paragons of virtue? Nope; two San Francisco cops just got sent to prison for theft.  Again, flawed.  Some of the people in my officer are what we call Sworns.  These are sworn police officers who just happen to work on computers and phones.  They joke around, they were bummed when Robin Williams died, and they get frustrated by train delays.

Everything is easier when it works.  Figuring out how to make it work?  Not so much.

Blech

             Okay, I’ve been to sea.  I’ve experienced seasickness, or if you prefer, the more pleasant French term, mal de mer.  I’ve been in and around the flu and drunkenness, and I’ve held her hair.  In other words, I’ve seen it.  And by it I mean emesis…you know, barfing, throwing up, making a Cosby sweater, blowing chunks, airing out a Jackson Pollack, going to sea by rail, the Technicolor yawn, sowing Dodgers*, paging Wyatt Erp, or selling Buicks. 

                I was watching the TV when a commercial came on for some other show.  I’m not sure what the other show was about, maybe building choppers, or hunting Bigfoot, or growing beards, but from what I could tell it involved plenty of the aforementioned facial hair along with camouflage clothes, being outside in the woods, being inside a garage, and shoulder punching.  Some older gentlemen were making fun of a younger gentleman for reasons I never figured out, when to everyone’s surprise he…well he compromised his camouflage if you will.  In living color in my living room.

                It used to be that when it was necessary for someone to perform this action on TV, in comedies for instance, he would throw one hand over his mouth and bolt from the room.  He had to “act” as if he were going to throw up.  Sort of how like making funny euphemisms for that particular expulsatory function is cleverer** than just showing it, and less gross.  Now they just, I suppose, hold a pint or so of some special effect semi-liquid, or Beef-A-Roni, in their mouths until it’s time to spill it on the couch, the floor, or the person in the scene to whom it would be most embarrassing.  On reality shows they needn’t pretend at all, thus making the special effects guy unnecessary and taking food from his children’s mouths.  Irony fully intended.

                “But Mark, just don’t watch those shows if you don’t like it.”

                I don’t, but it’s hard to tell if you’ll have to endure this activity until it’s on the screen.  Then there is the bearded Bigfoot hunter or chopper builder from the commercial.  How am I to not watch him and his cronies dirtying up the forest floor when I’m not watching their show?  I’m like that Clockwork Orange guy with his eyes clamped open but without the need of nausea inducing medicine for him to associate what he is watching with sickness.  Clockwork Orange Guy eventually made that association, so I suppose, perhaps, the people who insist on showing nausea inducing programming are conditioning us not to watch their shows.  Maybe I’m over thinking this.  Maybe they’re under thinking it.

But are people clamoring for this?  Are e-mails shooting across the Internets to the makers of these programs demanding more vomit, more bile, more of whatever you can take from inside the body and put outside?  Are there angry letter writers submitting the following?:

Dear Masterpiece Theatre***,

                It is with a heavy hand and great sadness that I pen this letter.  I have watched your exemplary programming for a number of years, but I cannot in good conscience continue to both be a viewer and supporter public broadcasting.  This is in response to the gross lack of vomit and other body fluids displayed on screen during your programming.  I can no longer ignore your mindboggling refusal to show a single person evacuating their wafer-thin mints upon the local vicar or Victorian villain.  It shows me that it is as if you think dialog and plot are superior to gratuitous shots of pavement pizza. 

Sincerely,

Former viewer who has switched to The Real Housewives of Broadbottom****

If the producers of these shows are only responding to viewer demands, I suppose I’ll have to monitor whatever is shown during the commercial breaks of the programs I’m watching, with my finger hovering over the remote control, so I can switch to another channel or even turn the thing off when I detect an imminent evacuation.  Thanks The History Channel.

*I made this one up.

** I’m not comfortable with this word, but spellcheck is.

*** I switched the “r” and the “e” because it’s classier.

**** Real town in England.

Six Flags Over California

Are you worried about the people of Mississippi?  Do you agonize over the fact that they are the poorest state in our glorious Union?  Are you unable to sleep at night trying to come up with ways to give the downtrodden Mississippians a self-esteem boost?  In other words, do you want to make Mississippi happy?  If you answered yes to any of these questions, then have I got a deal for you.

There is this guy up in the Bay Area named Tim Draper who used the gigantic pile of money he worked so hard inheriting to make himself an extra-gigantic pile of money in the venture capitalist racket. Since, as we all know, extreme wealth equals extreme intelligence, Mr. Draper realizing that his is a genius, has decided that California has become too large and unruly to govern, so he proposes cutting it up into smaller more governable states.  Sort of a reverse Yertle the Turtle.  Let’s see, how many would work?  Two?  Three?  No, better make it six.

But Mark, how does this help Mississippi?

Hang on, I’m getting to that.

So back to six.  Converting California into six states, adding five to The Union, is the way to go according to Mr. Draper.  He even says he has enough signatures to add it to the November ballot which I guess proves that people will sign anything if you’re a good enough salesman. (Turns out he doesn’t have enough, even after paying college students $2 per signature). Five more stars on the flag, five more governors, ten more senators, and who knows how many congresspersons.  He’s even drawn the borders and named them, although I don’t get why he gets to name the states in which he will not reside.  There is a saying that goes something like, from the ridiculous to the sublime.  The names Draper has picked for the six new states, there will no longer be a simple California, range from the ridiculous to the snooze fest.  Mostly snooze fest.

Mississippi?

Patience.

Anyway, the names (their position on ridiculous / snooze fest scale) and general boundaries of the proposed new states are as follows:

South California (Snooze fest).  Pretty much San Diego and all the rest of Southern California that isn’t exactly L.A.  Mostly desert really, with some nice beaches along the coast.  San Diego would most likely be the capital of this new state unless Disneyland lobbies really hard.  And trust me, you don’t want to get into any litigation with the Disney people.  (Disney is a registered trademark of the Walt Disney Corporation and should not be used without explicit, written permission of the Walt Disney Corporation or their legal representatives).

                West California. (Snooze fest).  Here is where you’d find L.A., Hollywood of course, Santa Barbara, the Hated Dodgers, somehow San Luis Obispo, and very little water.  (More on that later). It’s called West California even though most of the current California, and even Reno are further west than Los Angeles, which would likely be the capital, but don’t let that enter into naming the place.

                Helloooo?  Mississippi?

    It’s coming.

                North California. (Snooze fest).  They get Tahoe, Napa wineries, the Gold Rush country, a little bit of coast, and Sacramento.  Sacramento would probably be the capital since they already have a capital building and a bunch of politicians running around the grounds like squirrels.  But Auburn has a pretty nice courthouse too and it became California’s capital in the book “The Last Days of the Late Great State of California.”  North California would have most of the water currently used by the rest of the state.  In fact they have so much water they have to build levees to keep it away from the places they don’t want to have water.  This actually sounds like a pretty nice state, it’s just that every time I look at it I almost read it as North Carolina.

Jefferson. (Ridiculous)  Yes, there will be no North, South, East, West, or Outer California here.  Everything between the new North California and Oregon (and maybe even some of Oregon) would be called Jefferson.  These guys have wanted to be their own state since long before Dapper Draper showed up on the scene, citing the old standard; taxation without representation.  Talk about your callbacks.  Don’t know why they want to name it after Jefferson other than he is beloved and Washington is already taken, twice, but I suppose could think of less popular President’s names to hang on it.  Nixonland anyone?  Fillmoria? As an article in Slate.com says, it consist of “both weed and Weed.”  It would be the capital of the former but not use as its capital the latter. 

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi?

Soon Grasshopper.

                Silicon Valley. (Ridiculous).  Here’s the rub, to misquote Hamlet.  This is where the architect of this brilliant plan would live and presumably where the government would be friendlier to Mr. Draper and his business associates.  Hell, the government would probably be Mr. Draper and his business associates.  This is all he really wants out of this grand plan, to live in a (his) business friendly state that doesn’t include Oxnard or those Dancing Raisins.  It comprises San Francisco, the East Bay, Marin, San Jose and the rest of the currently named Silicon Valley, and Monterey Bay.  It would instantly become the wealthiest state in the union.  Pretty nice digs for the most part but I don’t know how he gets Monterey.  Weirdly named though for a region where only a small percentage could be correctly described as a valley.  The name Silicon Valley dates back to the early 80’s and the silicon chips used in computer manufacturing, plus the valley where San Jose is located.   So for about 130 years before that this was called Santa Clara Valley.  But Saint Clara (the patron of eye disease, telephones, and laundry) is out and Silicon is in so I guess we need to name a whole state after it, albeit a small one that kind of looks like Bart Simpson.  Using this convention they should name Jefferson “Trees and Weed,” North California “If it Keeps on Raining the Levee’s Gonna’ Break,” Western California “Kardashinia,” and South California “You want sand? We got sand.”  The capital would likely be San Francisco.

                MISS-ISS-IPP-I!!!!???

    But a moment to go.

                Which brings me to the sixth and final state in our little experiment, and the area from which I hale; Central California (Snooze fest).  Central California would be the largest of the six new states.  It would have Yosemite, a big chunk of the rest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and both Fresno and Bakersfield.  It would also have some of the most productive farmland in the world.  I read an article that stated if you ate three meals today, and that you were in the United States, there is a 90% chance that something on your plate came from what is and what would become Central California.  Also, this new state has a valley, the San Joaquin Valley, which is about 15 times bigger than Silicon Valley.  So who should really get “valley” in their name?  Plus what fun we would have watching those on the East Coast mispronouncing Joaquin?  (Jo-a-quin? Jock-u-in?) But here’s another rub; Central California would have about 90% of West California’s water, in the Owens Valley. 

                Speaking of water; water rights are argued, fought over, and generally the biggest legal and political headache in the current state of California.  Imagine what those arguments, fights and headaches would be like when six different governments are involved.  The term Herding Cats comes to mind.  Didn’t think about that one did you Timmy Boy?

                Em-eye-ess-ess-eye-ess-ess-eye-pee-pee-eye.

    Okay; Mississippi.  Thought I forgot didn’t you.  If this split happens, the state of Central California replaces The Magnolia State as the poorest in the nation.  Yup, the people of Mississippi, overnight, have their self-esteem rejuvenated and their power ranking moved up a slot.  Hear footsteps West Virginia?  Not only would Central California be the poorest state out of the new 55, it would actually share a border with the wealthiest.  How’s that for contrast?  Hey, but at least they’d be a strong conservative state, like most of the current poorer states.

 

                Now, what about the flag?  I think California has the best flag of the fifty.  Love the bear, love the patch of grass, and love how the red star hangs up there like a mysterious little icon to befuddle those who don’t understand its origin (something to do with solidarity with Texas, I think).  The bear is actually modeled after a real grizzly bear that lived in captivity in Golden Gate Park for 22 years until his death in 1911, when he was stuffed and put on display in the Academy of Sciences, which is a story on its own.  He’s still there.

By the way Mississippi, if you want to get some respect in the world, in case this six Californias thing doesn’t work out, which it probably won’t, perhaps you should consider taking that Confederate flag off of your state flag.  I’m just saying it seems silly to have an image flying over your capital that is usually reserved for the wife-beater T-shirts and truck bumpers of people on TV reality shows catching catfish with their feet. 

                Yes, the ship SS California has problems, but breaking her up into six lifeboats won’t fix any of them. 

Robin Williams

          San Francisco is not where I was supposed to be when Robin Williams died.  I’m not a San Franciscan, I just work here.  But around me on Monday afternoon were plenty of San Franciscans.  These people grew up with Robin Williams in a different manner than I.  I saw him on TV and in movies, they saw him in their hometown.  Just minutes after we learned of his death, stories of him winking at someone in a coffee shop, smiling as they passed on the sidewalk, or delivering a surprise routine at a local comedy club started circulating.  On Monday it was like I was the guy at a wake who is not a member of the family, and didn’t know the deceased.  I could smile and enjoy the stories, but I could not really participate in the remembrances.

            I think making someone laugh is hard.  Really hard, but man, when it happens it’s like a drug.  I didn’t pay a lot of attention to Robin Williams.  Although he is in one of my all-time favorite movies; The Fisher King, I was only aware of him when he was actually on the big or small screen in front of me.  But there was one time he made me laugh.  One time, he killed me.  As the genie in Aladdin he was, in my opinion, perfect.  As soon as he was released from the lamp, he owned that movie (“he” being both the genie and Robin Williams).  If the Disney animators were smart, they would have waited until he was completely done before drawing a single cell of his character.  It gave me the kind of enjoyment where I miss something like a third of what he was saying because I could not hear over my own laughter.  That to me is Robin Williams, and while all the accolades he’s received for his dramatic work are well deserved, it’s the blue cartoon with no feet who will embody him from now on.  For me.  I hope he experienced some of the enjoyment making that character as I did watching it.   

          That's it.

Car Pool

I am a member of the San Francisco Police Department, but as my ID boldly states across the top, a civilian employee.  I’m not a sworn officer.  Not even close.  I don’t wear a uniform, badge, or firearm and I most certainly do not travel in a black-and-white squad car.  I do travel around The City maintaining and configuring the SFPD computer systems and infrastructure, but in a far less interesting manner.  Occasionally we walk from my office to the closer buildings, but usually we drive.             

There is a pool of cars available to those who don’t belong in a black-and-white.  Most of these have been seized.  That means that an arrested and convicted felon not only lost his freedom, he also lost, in one case, his silver 2003 four-door Pontiac Grand Prix.  This is the car the engineer I’m shadowing over the next few weeks and I have been assigned a few times when we head out.  Grand Prix is French for grand prize, but the car we’ve been driving around in is hardly grand and certainly no prize.  If this is the return on their hard work that local drug dealers aspire to, then perhaps it’s not as rewarding a profession the countless movies and television shows have led me to believe.

The Grand Prix, the 2003 model we’re using anyway, is about an unremarkable car as can be found.  It has a 6 cylinder engine that gives it about as much pickup as a street sweeper heading uphill on California from Grant (it’s very steep there), a dashboard that sags to the right as if the glove compartment has been filled with lead or stuffed with a body that was filled with lead.  It has a long scratch along the right side that may have been caused by a close brush with an iceberg, no hubcaps, no rearview mirror, a battery-powered plastic light like the kind that you stick on the wall of your closet that has been “attached” to the headliner because the factory light stopped working and no one was interested in fixing it, and a dishwater gray paintjob that is so dull it’s guaranteed to send Bobby McFerrin into a spiral of depression from which only years of therapy will extract him.*  

That’s how we roll.

We head down to the basement, past the evidence locker that has so much pot in it that the entire floor smells like unwashed skunks, into the large parking garage where motorcycles with the SFPD logo are lined up like a Harley Davison showroom, to an office where we are assigned a car by parking space number so we don’t know what we’re getting until we go to the lot under Highway 80 and find it. This lot is surrounded by 15 foot high chain link topped by barbed wire and holds about 50 cars.  The Grand Prix sits in spot 21, under what I can only assume is a nest of incontinent pigeons. 

Driving around San Francisco in this car kind of makes you wish the felon from which it was seized was out of prison and upon finding the car of his dreams parked outside a nondescript office building, would steal it back.  No such luck.

Once we were assigned a Ford Crown Victoria, the stereotypical cop car. It was more platinum than gray and had no scratches or aftermarket non-automotive light fixtures, and sat under pigeons who were more “regular.”  Like the Grand Prix it had no hubcaps but somehow that made it look more… bad ass.  I don’t know if this car was seized or just never got the paint job for a patrol car.  We took this car to Hunters Point where the Police Crime Lab is housed.  Rolling across town and then meandering through ancient and abandoned buildings on the former Navy base with the windows down, I finally felt I worked for the police instead of a tier two drug dealer with low ambitions when it comes to his ride. 

I can’t help it but someday, I’d like to walk out to the parking lot and find the 21^st parking spot occupied by either Steve McQueen’s 1968 390 V8 Ford Mustang GT Fastback (325 horsepower) or Karl Malden’s brown 1970 Ford LTD (horsepower unknown but probably less than McQueen’s).  But I suppose there are cars even drug dealers can’t get anymore.

*Bobby McFerrin sang the song Don’t Worry, Be Happy.