September 2005 Archives

The new television season began a few weeks ago and I've done my best to see some of the premieres. A few look promising, but many look bland and unwatchable. Of course, I might be tempted to view them if I'm provided with a plasma television, a comfortable recliner and an endless supply of coffee and Skittles.

This season seems to be inundated with police procedurals (a term TV Guide overuses this year that I've never seen before), science fiction dramas (Lost, Surface, Invasion, Night Stalker, Threshold, Medium, Ghost Whisperer, Supernatural and Charmed) and movie stars (Martin Sheen, Charlie Sheen, Glenn Close, James Spader, Kiefer Sutherland, Donald Sutherland, Geena Davis, Dennis Hopper, Chris O'Donnell, Melanie Griffith and Freddie Prinze, Jr.). I suppose I shouldn't complain. It could be worse. There could be more "reality" shows.

Anyway, it's always fun to make a list of the shows I plan to watch and then review it next season to see how many were canceled. The following are the stop-and-drop-everything-I-must-vegetate-now shows:

• How I Met Your Mother
• My Name is Earl
• The Office
• Scrubs
• Lost
• Desperate Housewives
• Grey's Anatomy

That's five hours of television a week, three hours of comedy, two hours of drama. Other shows I wouldn't mind seeing (if they happened to be on while I was in the same vicinity of a set) would include Arrested Development, Bones, ER, The OC, Law & Order and Law & Order: SVU. I know Smallville and Everwood already began, but this year, I'm just not interested in seeing them. I might catch an episode or two when repeats roll around, but that's all.

Of the new shows I've seen, my favorite is My Name is Earl. I don't know why I remember the following exchange from the premiere. It's not exactly funny, but it sums up the premise nicely:

Earl: You see, Kenny, my life sucks and it's because I've been a bad person. I'm hoping if I can do some good things, then maybe some good things might finally happen to me.
Kenny: You're talking about karma.
Earl: You're a Carson Daly fan, too, huh? Yeah, I'm talking about karma.
Kenny: You're really trying to change?
Earl: If I don't, I think life's going to kill me.

Attach a paper clip to my ear, walk around downtown and talk to myself loudly, like those folks with the new cell phones they wear on their ear. If anyone gave me a strange look, I would say, "Hey, Joe, can you hang on a moment. You, sir, what are you looking at? Haven't you seen the latest in wireless hands-free phone technology? You haven't? Well, lucky for you, I have a whole box of them. Oh, I also have a few in jumbo size that get better reception. Want one? You sure? Okay, have a nice day. Joe? You still there? Sorry about that. This guy was just looking at me as though I was crazy and talking into a paper clip or something. How rude!"

Song on my mind... "Make Your Own Kind of Music" by The Mamas And The Papas

Nobody can tell ya
There's only one song worth singing
They may try and sell ya
Cause it hangs them up
To see someone like you

You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind of music
Even if nobody else sings along

Two episodes into its second season and Lost doesn't seem to have lost any momentum or mystery. As the show answers old questions, it asks new ones that are as intriguing as the ones that had me hooked last year.

I think one of the keys of the show is its sense of pacing. The writers have a difficult task of maintaining mystery while maintaining interest. When should they introduce or resolve certain issues? How much should they reveal? For me, they aren't always successful. There are times when I wish they would move faster, but I don't know if it's because they're slow or I'm impatient. All I know is that I can't get the song from the premiere out of my head.

I thought Alphonse's reaction to the news of Barry's return (in last Sunday's Farley) typified the reaction of Giants fans everywhere. Although Bonds hasn't quite lived up to my modest expectations, he has hit four home runs in four consecutive games, drawn seven walks (thereby tallying a few more rubber chickens) and boosted fan morale, giving them a ray of hope at the end of a dreary season.

Since his return, the Giants have gained three games on the Padres, placing them three games behind. Sadly, San Diego's magic number is down to four. Essentially, that means the Giants are running out of time. They need to win the next three games against the Padres and then continue to win until the end of the season if they want a chance at the championship.

If that sounds like an unlikely scenario, that's only because it is. Realistically, San Diego will clinch the division. Of course, deep down, I'm hoping the Giants have a miracle winning streak that lasts until the commissioner tells them to stop winning and wear their rings already, but I know better. Hope for this season dwindles. Now is a good time to start finding hope in the 2006 season.

On another baseball note: Last week, the evening news reported that Barry hit his 707th homer. I only remember that because they used a graphic of Bonds with the caption, "Homerun Qwest". I'm not sure what a "homerun qwest" is, but I'm guessing it's like a home run quest, but with more typos. I hope they do a better job of spellchecking. Otherwise, viewers can expect to see coverage of the "American Leg Pendant Race" and the "Whirl Ceres" in October.

Autumn is here today and I'm happy about it. True, the days are growing shorter, but they're also growing cooler, which is a welcome change for someone who believes that baking and boiling aren't outdoor activities. It's also planting season or so the sign in the gardening section of my local home improvement store claimed. It remains to be seen if they're telling the truth or not.

So far, we've planted a group of delphiniums and day lilies. They look alive, but barely. It's hard to say if their ragged appearance is due to shock or the season. I fear it's the former, but hope it's the latter. We won't know until spring. If they don't bounce back, then I guess we'll be buying and planting a new group in another six months.

Just a quick aside: I had no idea that plants could go into shock. I mean, I know fish can go into shock when placed in a new tank. I also know that San Diego fans can go into shock, especially when their baseball team loses by nineteen runs. But flowers freaking out? That's new to me.

Anyway, we also planted lavender (lavandula grosso) just to see how it takes to the tough soil conditions. If it flourishes, then we'll put in more. The delphiniums, by the way, have small flowers that range in color from blue to purple. The day lilies, in contrast, have bright yellow flowers that are bigger. The lavender should go nicely with both.

This week, we planted an angel's trumpet (brugmansia candida). It currently stands less than a foot tall, but according to the gardening book, it should eventually grow to be ten to twelve feet tall and just as wide. In the spring or summer, long, fragrant flowers of white will bloom. My main concern is the wind and the cold weather that will come this winter. We will have to be inventive to protect it from the harsh conditions.

So far, the toughest part has been digging through the dense, rocky soil. Part of the problem has to do with not having the right tools. A six-inch deep hole becomes a whole afternoon project when excavating with a plastic spoon and two stir sticks. Purchasing something sturdier before doing any more planting would probably be a good idea. I'm thinking metal spoons and stir sticks should do the trick - preferably rustproof.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to finish the primary planting so that everything will be in place and ready to blossom next spring.

"A garden is never so good as it will be next year."
- Thomas Cooper

"Your first job is to prepare the soil. The best tool for this is your neighbor's garden tiller. If your neighbor does not own a garden tiller, suggest that he buy one."
- Dave Barry

On Sunday, I awoke early, made a fresh pot of coffee (Sumatra), opened the blinds to let in the morning light, sat on the couch and eagerly read Thud!, the latest Discworld novel by Terry Pratchett. I had been anticipating his book since June and had initially intended to order the British version online, but once I learned that he would be speaking and signing books in Capitola on Sunday, my plans changed and I bought the American version at the bookstore. My goal was to finish the book before he signed it.

The event took place Sunday afternoon, at the Capitola Book Cafe, an independent bookstore on 41st Avenue. Some of its memorable features include a metal elephant head on the wall, a skylight above the cafe area and a small stage and podium built specifically for speaking engagements.

We arrived an hour early and found decent seats to the left of the podium, behind a book table and display. Well, they were decent seats until a man decided to stand in front of M and lean on the book display, blocking her view with a strategically placed elbow.

Mr. Pratchett arrived ten minutes beforehand and by himself. He spoke and answered questions for nearly forty-five minutes, talking about himself, his writing method, his inspiration for Thud! and Where's My Cow? (its companion book), and his future projects. Through it all, he was entertaining and engaging.

Afterwards, I stood in line to get my book signed. Not surprisingly, Mr. Elbow elbowed his way ahead of me with six books tucked under his arm. When he reached the front of the line, Mr. Pratchett personalized the first two books, pausing before the second one to verify the spelling of the name on the sticky note. "Baladhir?" he asked the man, "What an unusual name. Where are you from? Middle Earth?" "No, no," the man replied, oblivious to the joke, "Turkey."

Finally, when it was my turn, I slid my book in front of Mr. Pratchett and fell into mute and dumb mode (or my default mode, some would say). That is when he asked if I knew anything about Pocket PCs. He was seeking a good keyboard for his unit. For the next minute or so, he threw me for such a loop that I completely forgot to look at M, who was standing off to the side, waiting to take a posed photo of us. In a weird way, I'm happy that I wound up with pictures of me in various states of confusion and not one of the oh-so-typical smile-for-the-camera shots.

If you're a Terry Pratchett fan or would like to meet the man behind Discworld, he will be in the San Francisco Bay Area through Thursday. Here's a quick list of his local appearances clipped from his posted itinerary:

Tuesday, September 20, 7:30 P.M.
Books Inc., 301 Castro Street, Mountain View, CA 94041

Wednesday, September 21, 2005 07:30 P.M.
Cody's Books, 2454 Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94704

Thursday, September 22, 2005 07:00 P.M.
The Booksmith, 1644 Haight Street, San Francisco, CA 94117

I've been sporadically following NPR's coverage of the John Roberts confirmation hearing. Listening to the proceedings has been fascinating and exhausting. Fascinating because it's the first time I ever paid any attention to a Supreme Court nomination. Exhausting because there is only so much political rhetoric and legalese that I can handle before my brain screams for sanity. As I listened to yesterday's witness testimonies for and against the nominee, my imagination grew bored and wandered into this scene…

Seventeen senators, wearing baseball uniforms, sit on leather chairs placed in the dugouts of Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium in the District of Columbia. John Roberts, wearing judicial robes, a chest protector and a facemask, sits behind home plate. The media huddles on the infield grass, cameras poised, ready to capture every sound bite, every furrowed brow and every drooping eyelid. With the exception of the beer-bellied man banging thunder sticks with the words stare decisis on them, three bloggers sitting in the outfield bleachers blogging about the hearings, two bloggers aggregating everything the bloggers blog, two journalists reporting on the bloggers and the one journalist blogging about the journalists' coverage of the bloggers, the stadium is empty.

After many hours of unsuccessful attempts to extract answers or opinions, beyond generalities, from the nominee, the committee's final hopes rest with its eighteenth member, Joseph Biden, the senator from Delaware. With most of his thirty minutes on the mound spent, Biden makes one last assault on the mystery man known as John Roberts.

Biden: I'm sure you're not going to answer this, Ump, but I'm going to try anyway. Looking back at the pitch that Randy Johnson threw over the head of John Kruk in the 1993 All-Star Game, would you agree that it was a ball?
Roberts: Yes.
Biden: Yes? Wait. You answered a question. I'm confused. Can you elaborate?
Roberts: Yes.
Biden: Uh, then please elaborate.
Roberts: Yes, I agree that what he pitched was a ball.
Biden: Let me rephrase. Was that particular pitch in or out of the strike zone, as you understand it, in a physical sense?
Roberts: Well, the umpire in that instance declared it out of the strike zone. I believe most umpires would say it was not a strike and as the rulebook defines the strike zone, so would I.
Biden: That was rather vague, but since I used most of my questioning time to eloquently articulate the importance of clean helmets, let us move on. How do you feel about the pitch Johnson threw?
Roberts: I feel that it wasn't in the strike zone.
Biden: I get that, Ump, but how do you feel about that pitch, not as an umpire, not based on any rulebook, but as a shortstop, a right-handed hitter, somebody named John?
Roberts: I don't see how that is rele-
Biden: You're not answering the question.
Arlen Specter: (from the top step of the home dugout) Now, come on, Joe, let him finish!
Biden: Fine. Go on. Go on and continue not to answer.
Roberts: -vant.
Biden: Okay, let me ask it this way, with your permission. What is your view, based on "the rules", of the strike zone if John Kruk were my father?
Roberts: Well, I can't speak to that specific plate appearance.
Biden: Of course you can't. You dirty rotten -
Specter: Thank you, Senator Biden. You are out of time.

I'll cut it off there since my imagination continued incoherently into confirmation hearing oblivion. All I know is that with another Bush nominee on the way, I can't wait to see the excitement and heat that one generates.

Barry Bonds is coming back tonight. I would say I'm ecstatic, but the media hype has sucked every ounce of excitement from the news. Since before the season began, they've been doggedly reporting rumors of his prospective return.

First, it was after the All-Star break. Then, it was before the All-Star break. One day they showed Barry training at the park. The next day they reported he had undergone his third knee surgery. Later, Barry said he might not play this season. Now he is preparing to play in the first of twenty remaining games. Maybe.

Trying to keep track of Bonds has been more challenging than playing that find-the-ball-under-the-cap game at the ballpark after drinking one-too-many beers. The best strategy in both cases is to ignore the fuss and wait until somebody inevitably yells the final result. ("Middle! It’s under the middle one!")

All that aside, the fact remains that Barry is back and seeing how he is Mr. Bonds, Living Legend, his fans and the Giants have certain expectations of him. What are they? Well, I don't know about other people, but here is my short list of modest expectations. I expect him to:

1. Make a minimum of 80 plate appearances.
2. Get on base every time.
3. Hit at least 20 home runs.
4. Take San Francisco on a twenty-game winning streak to beat San Diego and Los Angeles for the lead in the National League West.
5. Do it all without injuring himself again.
6. Behave in a polite and friendly manner towards his fans and the press.

With the exception of the sixth item, I don't think I’m asking too much.

We drove to Yosemite on Sunday morning. Despite it being Labor Day weekend, we didn't encounter any traffic. High gas prices must have kept everybody off the roads and close to home.

Instead of heading directly for the valley, we drove to Tuolumne Grove, which is near Crane Flat, off Big Oak Flat Road. We hiked amongst the giant sequoias, some reaching into the sky, some stretching across the ground. While walking along, we came upon the remnants of a towering tunnel tree. It looked as though lightning had struck it, leaving little more than the archway cut through the trunk.

Next, we stopped by Siesta Lake, a dying pond by Tioga Road. It looked more like a marsh than a lake. Eventually, it will look more like a meadow than a marsh. We didn't stay long, but I thought the spot would be ideal on a cool day, when mosquitoes weren't as likely to be about.

We continued to White Wolf, one of the popular lodging areas in Yosemite's high country. It has a dining hall, market, four cabins and twenty-four canvas tent cabins. Because it's open less than three months a year - July through September - obtaining reservations is difficult. I hope we can stay there next summer.

Later, we registered at Housekeeping Camp where we relaxed the rest of the day. To be able to stop and do nothing but appreciate nature was a blessing. As darkness came, it grew chilly, but we braved the cold, bundled up, grabbed our star guide and searched for constellations in the clear night sky.

On Monday, the morning began brisk, but it warmed quickly. We brewed a pot of macadamia nut coffee and ate our customary Deg muffins from Degnan's Deli. We read by the Merced River and, for a while, had the entire beach to ourselves. The river was so calm. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago the same river was several feet higher and rushing by us. It seemed as though nature had shut off the water supply, allowing the waterfalls and streams to run dry.

Before leaving, we stopped by the bookstore and gift shop to inspect the latest merchandise. I bought a 2006 Yosemite desk calendar, the Yosemite Road Guide - a book about the road markers placed throughout the park - and Fur and Loafing in Yosemite, a collection of Farley comics set in - you guessed it - Yosemite.

Farley is a comic strip by Phil Frank that the San Francisco Chronicle features every weekday. My favorite character is Alphonse, an urbanized black bear who loves the S.F. Giants. He wears a baseball jersey and raids campsites for the sports section to see how his team is doing. He's my type of bear. I wonder what he thinks about Bonds returning tonight.

The man or woman snoozing in a chair with a magazine or a book is a person who has been given too much unnecessary trouble by the writer.

Yesterday, during lunch, I came across a review of William Zinsser's book, On Writing Well. Just from the title, I knew I wanted to read it. Five minutes later, I had borrowed a copy from the library across the street. By the time I got home, I had read fifty pages.

It's a book that makes me smile, not only as someone who reads, but also as someone who attempts to write. It's a book about writing that is actually readable because the author follows his own principles. Zinsser urges simplicity and discourages clutter. He champions short words over long ones, promotes direct language over euphemisms and encourages the use of a thesaurus. What he says is obvious and common sense, but he says it so well and with warmth and humor.

It's a book that makes me want to go through everything I ever wrote here, rewrite it, read it aloud and rewrite it again. It makes me want to write more, but with greater thought to how I write. It bugs me how careless I can be with words and sentence structure. I blame it on time constraints and laziness.

I don't want my writing to cause readers any "unnecessary trouble" or boredom and when I say readers, I mostly mean me, since I'm supposedly writing for myself. And while I'm sure we would all appreciate more sleep, I would prefer it if what I wrote didn't induce it.

If I can help it, I also want to avoid writing in what Zinsser calls "journalese".

There is a kind of writing that might be called journalese, and it's the death of freshness in anybody's style. It's the common currency of newspapers and of magazines like People – a mixture of cheap words, made-up words and cliches that have become so pervasive that a writer can hardly help using them.

I'm glad I came across this book. I'm sure I'm the last one to ever hear of it, but for me, it's a find. I can't wait to continue it on the train ride home. I only hope that I'll be able to retain and apply what I read, so that someday, I'll be able to write well, too.

Technically, my sister and I were born two years and one week apart. Celebrationally, we share the same birthday. I suspect the practice was born out of convenience, a way for my parents to achieve a certain economy of scale. We each receive a gift, but we split a cake and a birthday song. While the idea of two cakes sounds appealing, the threat of a second birthday song keeps me from being greedy.

On Saturday, we had our traditional joint birthday celebration with immediate family. By "celebration", I mean we blew out candles, opened gifts and then had dinner at a Chinese restaurant.

The theme of the birthday cake was supposed to be based on Lost, a television show my sister and I both appreciate. My sister requested a plane broken in half (the front section where the survivors were located and the missing tail section). I requested a polar bear and a hatch leading down to the core of the cake.

What Aki's Bakery delivered was a modified tropical theme. The cake had an island, an ocean, a surfer, a hula girl, two dolphins and three palm trees. Sunk into opposite ends of the island were two planes, one with only the tail showing. I knew a hatch was unlikely, but I thought there would at least be a polar bear. Instead, there was that hairy blue monster from Monsters, Inc. (Sully played by John Goodman). Apparently, Lost is not one of their standard themes.

Next year, I might have better luck asking for choo-choo train decorations.

Reading Mark's entry, I was shocked to learn the sad news that Kepler's in Menlo Park closed last week. Although I only visited a handful of times, I had taken a liking to the bookstore. It seemed to be in the perfect location, next to the popular Cafe Barrone and at the end of busy Santa Cruz Avenue. It's hard to believe a place that always seemed to be bustling with book lovers would fall on hard times and shut its doors.

I was there merely a week ago, on the last Sunday of August. I went in on a mission to buy a copy of Jane Austen's Emma. The place was alive with people perusing the shelves and standing in line to pay. There was no sign of an impending closure. As I left, I was already looking forward to returning, but I guess that won't be a possibility.

So long, Kepler's.

Maybe one way I could help other independent bookstores is to provide book links using Booksense instead of Amazon. So, if you want to buy Emma online from somewhere local (if you live in the SF Bay Area), then you might try Hicklebee's instead.

Today was the first time I ever paid more than three dollars a gallon for gas in Smallville ($3.09 per gallon to be specific). I suspect prices will rise another thirty to fifty cents over the heavily traveled Labor Day weekend. Naturally, as I passed other gas stations on my way to work this morning, I saw one selling regular unleaded for $2.94 a gallon, a bargain rate by comparison.

I have plans to visit Yosemite this holiday weekend. It will be the first of two journeys to the park this month. I know the government has asked people to conserve fuel, but I rationalize my usage by saying the tank I'm filling is the tank I saved by taking public transit to work. Of course, this only helps to alleviate part of the guilt, but doesn't change the fact that I'm negating any good I've done. If I'm going to allow myself to drive such distances, I need to conserve even more.

I also realize this weekend's escape is a luxury. The money spent on gas and lodging could have been additional money donated to the Katrina disaster relief. As it is, I don't know how much good the money I've already donated will do. How will the Red Cross truly spend it? Will they really use it to buy medicine, ice, water and food? If so, how soon will the survivors receive those items?

Of course, if the gas prices in California suffer the same fate as the prices in Georgia and North Carolina, then this type of weekend excursion may soon be unfeasible. If that's the case, then I had better savor the time I spend in the valleys and meadows of the park. The more expensive everything gets, the more precious the experiences become.

I like riding elevators by myself. I know it's selfish, but it brings a tiny smile to my face when I push the call button, the elevator arrives promptly and the doors open to reveal an empty cab. Riding solo is a luxury. It's a peaceful express ride. There are no awkward silences or disturbing conversations. No one can invade your space. No one can overpower you with perfume or obnoxious odors. If you ride alone and there is an odd smell, it's all you.

This morning, I had a tiny smile on my face as I entered the elevator. I was just about to choose my floor when I saw a man racing for the lift. He was in his fifties, short and portly. His hair was pale red and his face was pink, likely made pinker by running. He wore tan slacks, brown loafers, a green collared shirt and a navy blue windbreaker. He also carried a black leather portfolio with yellow sheets of paper sloppily mashed inside.

At the sight of him, my smile faded. Without a second thought, I stabbed the button for my floor and repeatedly pressed the close button. He said something unintelligible as he waved his arm in the hopes that I would hold the elevator. I smirked, pretended not to hear his cries and watched the doors shut before he could reach them.

Okay, I didn't really do that, but I've seen people who have and it isn't cool.

At the sight of him, I searched frantically for the open button, but failed to find it, so I quickly set my coffee tumbler down and kept the doors open with my hand. He was somewhat out of breath as he rushed into the elevator, but managed a mild smile.

"Hi there," I said. "Which floor?"

"One, please," he gasped.

I gave him a bewildered look and said, "Wait. One? But we're on the first floor."

I don't think he liked the idea of being questioned. As the doors began to close, he shook his head and pressed the button himself. The doors sprang back open.

Confused, he asked, "What floor are we on?"

"One," I said as though I hadn't mentioned it before.

"Oh. Really? Okay," he said as he stepped off the lift. Without looking back, he shrugged and wandered away.

It was my turn to shake my head. The man must have been in some type of hurry not to realize where he was. I hope the rest of his day improves. Anyway, I picked up my coffee and pushed the button for my floor. My thoughts were so preoccupied with the perplexed man that I almost forgot that I was riding the elevator by myself. When it finally hit me, I sighed and the tiny smile returned.