July 2005 Archives

This (imagine me pointing vaguely at the photo) is the result of the ceramic painting session I mentioned a few entries ago. It is not a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination. Actually, it's the antonym of a masterpiece. But, for whatever reason, I felt it would be fun to share. Considering that the last time I tried something like this was never, it didn't turn out too bad. What you don't see in this photo is the tiny Christmas tree on one side and the tiny mission church on the other. I thought the additions would give the lighthouse a personal, unconventional touch. I considered painting Half Dome on it, but then I remembered that I'm not that talented.

Since last week, I've been rereading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, the fifth book in J.K. Rowling's seven-book series, as a primer and memory refresher. It's been a couple years since I first read it and it's amazing how much of the 870-page tome I've forgotten. Actually, it's more amazing that there are parts I haven't forgotten. As of this morning, I'm twenty-five pages from the end and nearly ready to start the sixth Potter book. Once I complete the Half-Blood Prince, I'll have spent little more than a week and nearly (square the eight, divide by seven, carry the zero) 1,522 pages in the world of wizards, muggles and magical creatures.

Books, especially like the ones in the Harry Potter series, are magical. In a way, writers are wizards and their pens (or word processors) are wands. Depending on their skill and ability to concentrate, they cast spells on their books to make them portkeys. Yet, not even the most powerful wizard can tell if his or her spell will turn out to be a charm or a curse. The only ones who can make that call are professional critics and Amazon reviewers.

I think your average wizard/writer, like your average driver, is barely competent (and much less so on rainy days). Coincidentally, the same can be said for critics and Amazon reviewers. Some wizards can only manage to transport the reader (along with bits of the sofa) a few feet away without assurances that a few feet away will be free of walls, people or other solid objects. Some are able to send the reader far away, but can't guarantee that all or any of the reader will end up in the same place at the same time. Quite a few wizards are simply incapable of moving readers anywhere without readers performing disbeliefum suspensia on themselves.

The highly skilled wizard/writer is not only able to transport the reader across time and space safely, but is able to create a richly populated world for the reader to inhabit and enjoy. If the writer asks the reader to leave reality behind, he or she replaces reality with something better: a vivid imagination. The greater wizards not only draw readers into their story, but into their world, and Rowling is such a wizard (technically a witch, I suppose). When she writes, she does more than put thoughts down on paper. It's as if she puts her memories into a pensieve and allows us to dip our heads in to experience them ourselves.

As I write this, I'm imagining myself sitting at the office, wanting to take a break from work. Since the building has anti-disapparating jinxes in place, I have to find another way out. I check over my shoulder to make sure nobody is looking. Once assured, I pull out a blank, letter-sized sheet of recycled paper from under my keyboard. I tap it lightly with my green Sanford Sharpie (fine point) and softly say, "I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good." The office layout appears on the paper along with names and locations of coworkers. Once I see the coast is clear, I grab my copy of the latest Harry Potter and don my invisibility cloak, which I've kept hidden in my snack drawer along with my special bag of Every Flavor Skittles. I make a beeline for the stairwell and escape for some fresh air and an uninterrupted fifteen-minute visit to Hogwarts. If only.

A few Thursdays ago, I tried my hand at "do nothing" by attending the release of Barry Eisler's Killing Rain at Kepler's in Menlo Park. It was a pleasant surprise to see three friendly and familiar faces in the crowd. This was actually my second visit to Kepler's. I was there last year for the release of his third book, Rain Storm.

The series centers around John Rain, a Japanese-American "natural causes" assassin who primarily operates in Asia. From a Californian's perspective, the stories are set in remote and exotic locations like Manila, Bangkok, Phuket and Tokyo. Because Eisler visits and writes from these places, he's able to add a sense of realism. Luckily, Rain likes coffeehouses, so if I ever visit Japan, I'll have a quick reference guide to some good coffee spots. I can then bug patrons there with, "Hey, did you know that John Rain had coffee here?" And they'll be like, "John who?" And I'll say, "John Rain. You know, he's Japanese-American, in his fifties, kind of imaginary."

The book focused more on character development (both main and secondary) and wasn't as violent as the previous installment. This isn't to say that bad guys didn't suffer and die. They did, but the number of broken necks was down. This coincided with a sharp rise in stabbings and shootings. Realizing that this is a series about an assassin, I can't say that I was hoping for less murder and mayhem, but I was hoping for something more sophisticated. None of Rain's killings came anywhere close to looking like "natural causes". In previous stories, guns and knives seemed like methods below his usual standards, but he seems to have no qualms using them now, even if they're sloppy and crude. Rain seems to have lost his edge this time around. I'd like it if he would get it back by the next book.

(And, no, it isn't Choo Choo.)

Two tones sounded, low then high. A recorded female voice announced over the speakers, "Caution! The doors are about to close." On any other day, the doors would close. Today, they stayed open.

The train was still at the station and we were a minute from departure. I was sitting at one of the tables on the split-level and had a clear view of the doors and the lower level where commuters sat patiently, waiting for the ride home to get underway. The chimes and voice sounded again, but the doors remained open. On any other day, they would have certainly shut by the third time, but today, they didn't budge, even after the sixth time.

Bong bing. "Caution! The doors are about to close." The man sitting behind me was starting to get annoyed. He shifted in his seat, but didn't attempt to move to another car. He grumbled and continued reading his Wall Street Journal. I pulled out my Palm V and began to chronicle what was going on.

Bong bing. The doors hadn't closed, but the train began pulling out of the station. I checked my watch. We were leaving on time. The baby bullet gradually accelerated to full speed, the perception of its considerable velocity enhanced by the wind tunnel on the lower level. Abandoned newspapers near the doors whipped around violently and people scooted to the other side of the train to avoid the gusts. The only thing preventing the wind from blowing me around was a thin glass partition.

A few more chimes and two conductors came hurtling into the car, keys in hand, rushing for the doors nearest me. The dark-haired one, fictitiously named Thelma, opened the hatch while the lighter-haired Louise gathered the newspapers and stuffed them into the trash receptacle by the partition.

Thelma fiddled with the controls in an attempt to release the doors. They shuddered and after another courteous announcement that the doors were really closing this time, they began to shut slowly. Six inches from closing completely, they stopped abruptly, paused and then reopened swiftly. The recorded voice came on and politely exclaimed, "Suckers!" Okay, in real life, it didn't, but if it had, the moment would have been perfect. Louise looked at Thelma, who gave her a helpless shrug and got a blast of fresh air.

Bong bing. Louise tried to speak into her radio, but couldn't hear anything with the noise of the wind and chimes. She slipped by Thelma and went into the adjoining car. As she disappeared, one of the passengers, a thin, middle-aged man with a goatee and baseball cap, figuring he could accomplish what trained conductors could not, stood up and strolled over to the hatch. Thelma seemed stunned at first and watched as the man ignored her and poked his nose around the various gears and levers. He was just about to reach for one when Thelma tapped him on the shoulder and kindly told him that everything was under control and he could sit his ass back down. He gave her a confused look and she had to repeat herself before he reluctantly took his seat.

Bong bing. The recorded voice continued to make false claims about the doors closing. It was beginning to sound less like a statement of fact and more like wishful thinking. I had lost count of the number of times the chimes had sounded, but by my estimate, dozens seemed like an appropriate measure of quantity.

Bong bing. Louise reappeared holding another set of keys. Thelma threw her hands up as if to say, "Where have you been?" Louise gave her a determined look as she climbed the steps to the split-level, asked the man behind me to move and opened another access hatch. He complied and she gave the controls a good working over, finalizing the sequence with a solid jab to a black button. She then looked over her shoulder to see if it had any effect.

Bong bing. "Caution! The doors are about to close," the recorded voice announced in the same tireless tone, as if this was still news to anybody. Suddenly and surprisingly, the doors did one of the two things they do best. They closed. The roar and ventilation of the wind tunnel on the lower level ceased immediately. For the first time, calm came over the train. Louise sighed in relief and Thelma gave her a thumbs up. If we had been in a movie, somebody would have started the clapping that would have grown into appreciative applause that would have built into an endless standing ovation for the two heroes who had restored peace and order to our world on rails. But this being fictionalized real life, everybody went back to doing whatever he or she were doing without a single sign of gratitude.

Two minutes later, we reached the next station and the doors on the opposite side of the train opened. One or two passengers exited while at least thirty people, completely unaware of what had previously transpired, boarded. I held my breath and waited. Two tones sounded, low then high. A recorded female voice announced over the speakers, "Caution! The doors are about to close." Thankfully, they closed and we traveled on.

Song on my mind... "Night Drive" by The All-American Rejects

Take me
Break me
Every mile further there’s a part of me that slips away
One day
You'll see
Even if you got down on your knees you couldn't make me stay

Drive all night
Never gonna get me
Night by night
To get away from it all
Fight fight fight
All you wanna do is hurt me
You wrecked my life
So I'm gonna have to drive all night

Last week, I began shaking the music from their new album through my audio sieves to separate out the songs into ones I loathe, tolerate, like and love. Like your typical soil sieve, it took some time and a number of passes to achieve proper gradation. I have this nasty tendency of loving everything I hear the first few times. That leaning is probably due to the underlying hope that I paid good money for good music. I try not to dismiss anything as tolerable or loathsome without giving it a fair shake.

Anyway, "Night Drive" came out as one of the songs I love. The lyrics are laughable, but they express the way I've felt on certain days. The melody is rather monotonous, but the energy and beat are exhilarating. It's in standard time with a long-long-short-short-long drum rhythm. They throw in handclaps during the intro and bridge to give the jam a rally song feel. It reminded me of "Crash and Burn" by The Bangles or the beginning of "I So Hate Consequences" by Relient K.

Not so long ago, I received this Calvin and Hobbes comic in my inbox. It's one of those that made me laugh and nod knowingly. For those not inclined to click on the link, here's the text:

Dad: It's getting dark, Calvin. Time to come in and go to bed!
Calvin: But Hobbes and I were catching fireflies. Can't we stay out a little longer?
Dad: Ha! First you didn't want to go out, and now you don't want to come in! See, by not watching TV, you had more fun, and now you'll have memories of something real you did, instead of something fake you just watched.
Calvin: Nothing spoils fun like finding out it builds character.

Growing up, I remember playing in the park across the street until it was too dark to see anything. We would be hitting fly balls or shooting baskets long after the light had left. Unlike the neighbors who would yell for their kids from their driveways, my dad would walk over and tell us in a calm voice, "Dinner's ready. Time to come home." There would be the usual protests ("But I'm so close to winning, I just need to score nine more three-pointers!") or stalling tactics ("Okay, I'll be right there after I hit this one into the street."). We would eventually surrender to the darkness and my dad. If we had known we were building character, we might have been less resistant and more eager to rush back inside for an unhealthy dose of television, but we didn't know any better. As far as we knew, tomorrow would bring another evening of bad swings, air balls and fun (with some character building slipped in on the side).

On Saturday, we went to the Connoisseur's Marketplace in Menlo Park. We parked by the Caltrain station behind Kepler's and walked a block over to Santa Cruz Avenue.

The Marketplace is essentially an art and wine festival. Every town, big or small, seems to have one and they're all pretty much the same. Of course, being the same isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's a great way for towns to bring the community together and boost commerce in their downtown districts. It's a way for families to spend the day in a kid-friendly environment without having to travel great distances or spend lots of money. It's like bringing the circus to town without the caged animals or creepy clowns.

Like most festivals, the Marketplace offered food, refreshments and live entertainment. Unlike most, it also had free cooking demonstrations. It was probably one of the larger festivals I've attended. On Santa Cruz Avenue, it started from the El Camino Real and continued westward for what seemed like miles. In reality, it was probably less than a half-mile, but pungent odors, abstract art and dogs wearing hats have a way of distorting my sense of distance.

In addition to the food and drink vendors, most of the restaurants and cafes were open for business. After perusing the food choices, I settled for a four-dollar hot dog on a sesame bun. Considering the price, it didn't taste bad.

To ease my guilt over devouring a hot dog, I followed it up with a bag of carrots and some applesauce. They were delicious and, more importantly, free. An organic food tent was handing out samples to the curious and health-conscious on hand. As a reward for eating vegetables, I had a double scoop of Tin Roof Sundae from Baskin-Robbins.

If one attends enough of these festivals, it becomes apparent which vendors are regulars. There is one photographer (I can't recall his name) whose work I must have seen previously in Pacifica and Half Moon Bay. I can always tell that it's the same one by a particular aerial shot of San Francisco. The entire photo is black and white with the exception of SBC Park, which is in vivid color. I wonder how many copies of that print he has actually sold.

Along with a number of booths selling photographs (everybody has a camera nowadays), vendors were selling paintings, ceramics, clothing, jewelry, sculptures and an eclectic assortment of other knickknacks that I can only classify as "stuff". I somehow managed to navigate through the sea of stuff without accidentally buying any of it.

Afterwards, we stopped in at Color Me Mine for a quick ceramic painting session. It was the first time I had ever been to one of these studios, so the whole process was new to me. On their site, they provide a handy six-step how-to guide, but as far as I can tell, these are the real six steps involved:

1. Select the object you want to make into a masterpiece.
2. Think up a design or theme for your masterpiece.
3. If nothing comes to you, don't let it stop you from selecting a color palette.
4. Begin defacing painting the object in the hopes that an epiphany will strike before you can't cover up what you've already painted. (Hint: Start with light colors)
5. Hand over what was to be your piece de resistance for them to fire in the kiln and hope that it's a magic kiln that can transform your handiwork into something that is at least presentable.
6. Five days later, bring it home and show it only to people willing to sign away their rights to make fun of or giggle at your artwork. Alternatively, take a photo of it and shamelessly post it on the web.

Seriously, though, it was a lot of fun to simply sit and paint. I haven't an ounce of artistic ability, but I don't think that should prevent me from pretending I do for an hour or two. It was a nice way to venture outside of my creative comfort zone and I wouldn't mind doing again.

One would think that after seven consecutive victories by the American League, I would learn my lesson and root for the league with the designated hitter. But going into Tuesday's All-Star Game, I still had faith in the National League. It never failed.

Okay, it might have flinched when Miguel Tejada launched John Smoltz's pitch over the outfield fence in the second inning. It may have wobbled slightly after Ichiro Suzuki slapped a single for two runs in the fourth. It might have blinked and mispronounced Mark Teixeira's name after he hit a two-run homer off of Oakland native, Dontrell Willis. But my faith never failed.

The National League was down by seven runs going into the seventh inning, but battled back belatedly. They scored at least one run in each of the last three innings. Moises Alou, San Francisco's lone representative, doubled and scored one of the N.L.'s five runs. He also walked. (The other Bay Area player, Oakland's Justin Duchscherer, didn't make an appearance.) They're late-inning comeback boosted my faith and kept it afloat until the last miserable and predictable out.

For better or worse, the All-Star Game now "means something". The winning American League earns home field advantage in the World Series. I don't understand it. If it's supposed to help boost fan interest and television ratings, it isn't working. They should simply flip a coin to decide which team receives the postseason advantage. It's a lot cheaper and allows the Midsummer Classic to be more like the exhibition game it's supposed to be and less like a World Series game played two and a half months before the World Series. Until it reverts back to a superstar showcase, I have to keep hoping the National League will break the eight-game streak and take next year's game.

This is the "ancient" pavilion (as it's called in the assembly instructions) we erected on Independence Day. As far as I can tell, there's nothing ancient about it. I figure the adjective is a nifty marketing ploy aimed at folks who want to impress their neighbors when talking about home improvements.

Neighbor #1: (peeking over the backyard fence) Heigh-dee-ho, good neighbor. How would you like to join me for a glass of pinot noir in my ancient pavilion?
Neighbor #2: (gets up from a patio chair and walks over to the fence) Hey there, Wilson. You have an ancient pavilion?
Wilson: Why, yes I do, Tim. I acquired it while on an archeological expedition in Turkey.
Tim: Wow! I'm impressed! Really?
Wilson: No. I bought it at Target.
Tim: In Turkey?
Wilson: No.
Tim: Oh. Well, I'll still have a glass of that peanut nur if it's all the same. Let me put on some pants and I'll be right over.

Thankfully, unlike that old show, the backyard fence is too tall for anybody to peek over and have those types of exchanges. Of course, if Wilson lived next door, I might lower a panel because one can never have too many pearls of wisdom, bits of trivia or memorable quotes.

This weekend, I spent more time than usual looking at plants, which is to say, I actually spent time looking at plants. Normally, I don't pay them much attention. In those freak instances when I do notice them, I’m typically thinking, "Oh, that's a pretty plant." As I perused row after row of greenery, rare and random thoughts crossed my brain:

• Is this a perennial or an annual?
• Will it do well in my zone?
• What the heck is my zone again?
• Does it need full or partial sun?
• Is it drought resistant?
• How big will it be when fully grown?
• Will its colors complement my current landscaping concept?

These just aren't things I usually think about. According to the gardening book I borrowed, I live in Zone 14, but honestly, I think I'm living in The Twilight Zone. How else does one explain my sudden interest in P. Allen Smith, nurseries and Sunset: Life in the West? My world has become a very scary place filled with terms like dahlia, deciduous and deadheading.

Just so you and I know what types of plants and trees I'm thinking about, here is the tentative list so far:

• lavender
• coreopsis
• day lilies (yellow, white or orange)
• japanese maple (oshio beni or oshu beni)
• tulips
• delphinium
• plumbago
• roses (Heirloom, Mister Lincoln and Pearl Essence)
• bird of paradise
• a dwarf conifer, possibly a false cypress of some sort

The impatiens already in the yard will provide plenty of color as they grow and bloom, but I'm beginning to think they might be too bright and colorful for the garden I'm envisioning. They may eventually have to find a new home.

Besides visiting three nurseries, I bought an iron arbor with a gate and two side shelves. It will make a charming entrance into the garden. I will take a picture of it after it's been assembled. I still need to post a photo of the pavilion. Next tasks for the yard: pegging down the weed cover and mixing topsoil into the planting areas.

Song on my mind… "My Paper Heart" by The All-American Rejects

Summertime, the nights they are so long.
The leaves fall down, and so do I into the arms of a friend.
Winter nights. My bedside is cold, for I am gone.
And spring blossoms you to me.

Their self-titled debut came out two years ago and it's one of the few albums I can listen to repeatedly from beginning to end. The band has a knack for writing upbeat sad songs. I've been waiting for them to come out with new material for a while and the wait is nearly over. Their second album, Move Along, hits physical and virtual shelves tomorrow. Maybe they'll surprise me with some upbeat happy songs this time around.

As I sit on the train, it's hard not to think about the London subway and bus bombings that took place a short time ago. The damage looked horrendous. Dozens of ordinary people were killed and hundreds more were injured. I can't even imagine the terror they experienced. My thoughts are with the victims and their families.

My first reaction upon seeing the news was disbelief. Then my stomach started to ache and my blood began to boil. Just yesterday, the city was celebrating its selection as host for the 2012 Summer Olympics. Today, the city is reeling from these brutal attacks. Such a sudden shift of events and emotions is unsettling. I only hope British officials make quick progress in their investigations and find a way to make their transit systems more secure. It's still to be seen what effect these blasts will have on the G8 Summit that has received more than the usual attention thanks to those tiny musical gatherings around the world.

Like the targeted subway cars, the train I'm riding is packed with ordinary people, most of them seemingly unaware or unconcerned about the events in London. If I said I wasn't worried, I'd be lying. Both BART and Caltrain claimed they were increasing security in response to the bombings, but there weren't any additional patrols on the station platform and there aren't any extra personnel onboard. The Powers That Be are failing to make me feel safe. I understand it would be all for show, but sometimes, people like the show.

Most everybody in America was celebrating his or her independence yesterday. Some showed their patriotism by firing up the grill and downing a cold one (or four). Some displayed the red, white and blue in the form of fashionable flags or not so fashionable clothing. Some watched parades, were in parades, or were thoroughly frustrated by the street closures and traffic jams caused by parades. And some, not so keen about the whole freedom thing, put on forced smiles and set off illegal fireworks to keep up appearances.

All in all, people were doing what they wanted because other people, a few years back, jotted down a couple thoughts about unalienable rights on a piece of parchment, signed it and sent it to somebody who hated the idea of losing an income source over something petty like rights. Battles ensued and people fought and died for those rights. To be fair, not all that fought died. Some only received minor contusions in the war for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Yesterday, I celebrated the Fourth of July by building a 10'×10' pavilion in the backyard. Thanks to the least stretchable canopy fabric in northern California, the assembly took longer than expected. The fabric finally succumbed after I disassembled part of the structure and used safety pins to secure a corner accidentally ripped trying to extend the super top canopy (N) over the end of the super top connector (K). This evening, before the blogger meetup, I hope to move the patio table, chairs and citronella candle into the pavilion to enjoy some outdoor dining.

After finishing the backyard project, I visited the folks for a family barbecue. It was a mellow event involving eating (salad, zucchini, barbecue chicken and kahlua cream pie), croquet and time trial croquet. The objective of time trial croquet is a simple one: get the croquet ball through the hoop course and peg out as fast as possible without tripping or destroying any solar lamps. The current course record is 42 seconds using the blue ball and mallet.

Once we got home, we watched a portion of New York's and San Jose's celebrations on television. We also saw some of Smallville's own fireworks from the front yard. From where we stood, they were barely visible above the rooftops. Note to self: Stand on roof next year.

Since I'm here, let me briefly recap the rest of the three-day weekend. On Saturday, I spent part of the day poring over a gardening magazine and book for some ideas on landscaping the backyard. In between staring at illustrations and photos of plants, I stared at the television and watched a few episodes of Futurama's first season on DVD.

In the evening, I drove to San Francisco for a wedding reception in Chinatown. Beyond the usual table toasts and bouquet toss, there was a lion dance and a hula dance. The lions were quite impressive, but we were sitting so close to the percussionists that my right ear couldn't hear anything for about five minutes.

On Sunday, I installed some spray bubblers along the drip irrigation system for the impatiens growing in the planter lining the back fence. The pipe is now hooked up to an electronic timer so that the plants receive five minutes of water every morning to help them grow big and strong.

Later in the day, I bought a copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I'm hoping to finish the book before the end of July, long before I see the movie on DVD. I started reading it over a cup of coffee from It's A Grind in Gilroy. Artwork of jazz legends adorned the walls and it had cushioned armchairs set around coffee tables. It's a coffee franchise, but I liked the feel of the place. It would be cool to visit again.

And that pretty much sums up my holiday weekend.