June 2006 Archives

Last Thursday, I was crowing about how the five-day air quality forecast for ozone and smog levels looked good. I thought it meant we might be spared from another Spare the Air day for a while. Later that day, the Bay Area Air Quality Management District revised its forecast and declared Friday a Spare the Air day. Soon afterwards, they went ahead and declared Monday one, too.

What that meant was three consecutive weekdays of free transit, which was great because, well, it meant free train rides, but sucked because I now have nothing to look forward to this summer... transit-wise. Unless you count the fare increase Caltrain soon plans to enact.

I heard about it on the news last night. There isn't much suspense surrounding the rate hike. It's happening. When it comes, it will be the third one in two years. It's now just a matter of learning when it will take effect and how big it will be.

Caltrain is considering two plans. Plan A calls for a 25-cent zone fare increase. Plan B calls for a 25-cent base fare increase in addition to the zone fare increase. Of the two plans, my wallet prefers the former, but fully expects them to implement the latter. If they choose Plan A, I imagine we'll hear rumblings of another fare increase six months down the line. With any luck, we might not experience another rate hike until next summer if they choose Plan B.

Just in case you're wondering how the Caltrain fare system works, here is how I understand it. The train line is divided into six zones. To travel in any one zone costs $2.25. That's called the base fare. For every additional zone traveled, they charge a zone fare of $1.50. Currently, I have a three-zone commute, so a single-ride ticket costs $5.25 ($2.25 + 2 * $1.50). If they adopt Plan B, that same one-way ticket will cost $6.00 ($2.50 + 2 * $1.75). That translates into an extra $1.50 per day or an additional $30 per month (assuming a month has twenty workdays and I rode every day).

Here's hoping they adopt Plan A.

For I don't know how long, I've wanted to return to Muir Woods National Monument. I was just a kid the last time I visited, so my memories of the redwood forest are distant ones. I chiefly remember trees, towering trees, the tops too high to see and the trunks too wide to hug (something parents advise children to do if they lose their way in the woods).

For all my desires to see the park, I hadn't made much of an effort to set aside time, but an impulsive decision on Saturday changed all that. Thank goodness for spontaneity. Of course, spontaneity does have a drawback, namely, it doesn't allow a great deal of time for preparation. Had I planned a visit even a day in advance, I would have worn proper attire and brought extra snacks and a camera with me.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on you like to experience nature), Muir Woods is very visitor friendly. It has a full-fledged visitor center, gift shop and cafe (with both indoor and outdoor seating). Paved asphalt and boardwalks cover the most heavily traveled trails, making them easily navigable by wheelchairs and sandaled feet alike. Every fifty yards or so, signs on the path ask visitors to stay on the path. Muir Woods isn't so much a walk in the woods as a walk in a well-groomed tree museum.

This isn't to say it wasn't an impressive tree museum. It was. The trees were as majestic as I remember them. After all this time, they haven't lost their ability to awe. It made my day to see people stop and gape at the magnificence of the California coast redwoods.

The weather was sunny and mild, a pleasant escape from the heat of last week. Benches in the sun were perfect places for basking. The trail was bustling with folks, but once one got beyond Cathedral Grove, the crowds vanished and it was possible to find a few minutes of solitude and silence, for which I'm grateful.

Before leaving, we stopped by the cafe for coffee. While waiting in line, I noticed a large jar of pickles on the counter. I've rarely seen pickles sold individually, but there they were, available for $1.25 apiece. Feeling a sudden craving, I gave spontaneity another go. When we reached the head of the line, I said, "Two coffees and a pickle, please."

The man behind the counter started to say okay, stopped suddenly, started to say something, stopped again and finally said with a puzzled look, “Really?"

The next time I visit (and I hope it's soon), I must bring a camera. I must also stop by the cafe for a pickle. It was pricey, but delicious.

Two weeks ago, I watched two baseball movies: Eight Men Out and 61*.

Eight Men Out was a film about the Black Sox scandal where players from the Chicago White Sox took money to throw the 1919 World Series. The most recognizable faces in the cast were John Cusack, Charlie Sheen, D.B. Sweeney, John Mahoney (from Fraser) and Studs Terkel.

Cusack played George "Buck" Weaver, Chicago's third baseman, who knew about, but refused it to participate in the fix. Hoping the others would come around before derailing the entire series, he kept quiet. His silence would cost him dearly.

After the scandal broke, baseball's first commissioner, the tough Kenesaw Mountain Landis (how I love that name), banned the seven conspirators and Weaver from baseball for life with the following statement:

"Regardless of the verdicts of juries, no player who entertains proposals or promises to throw a game, no player who sits in conference with a bunch of crooked players and gamblers where the ways and means of throwing games are discussed and does not promptly tell the club about it will ever play professional baseball."

The movie painted a sympathetic portrait of Weaver, so it was easy to feel that Landis punished him too severely. On the other hand, if Weaver had spoken up when he had the chance, he might have squashed the whole thing.

Before the Series began, his manager, William "Kid" Gleason, played by Mahoney, saw that something was distressing Weaver. With just the two of them staring out at the empty ballpark, Gleason gave him a chance to say something, say anything, but Weaver clammed up and essentially sealed his fate (at least, as the movie tells it).

Compared to Landis' swift and stern response to the threat gambling posed to the game, the current commissioner's response to the steroid threat seems even more indecisive. It has only been over the last year that baseball's leaders have seriously addressed the issue. Bud Selig recently released an open letter to fans outlining the sport's stance and response to the use of human growth hormones. I'm glad he at least said something officially, but it will be interesting to see what action will be taken and how forcefully it will be taken against those who attempt to cheat the game.

The second movie was Billy Crystal's inspiring 61*, the story of Roger Maris' and Mickey Mantle's historic 1961 season. Early in the year, both men were on pace to beat Ruth's record. As the season progressed, the single season home run record became the story of the year.

Here were two Yankee teammates chasing the Babe's record in the house he built. Mantle was the crowd-pleasing veteran. Maris was the reclusive youngster. Despite the media's claim of a feud or a rivalry, the men were actually good friends who helped each other deal with the pressures the additional attention brought. Just as people focused on every plate appearance when McGwire and Bonds threatened and eventually broke the previous single season record, the intensity was just as strong forty-five years ago.

One of the story's aspects I found interesting was how Yankee fans loved Mantle, but hated Maris. Mantle was handsome, friendly and outgoing. He was the media darling, the fan favorite. He had played in New York for a long time, so he was their man. Maris was quiet and never smiled. The media immediately disliked him and so did the fans. He had only spent a year with the team, so to them, he wasn't a "true" Yankee. Whenever Mantle hit a home run, they cheered. Whenever Maris hit one, they jeered.

As Maris got closer to the record, fans became more hostile. They started sending him death threats and hate mail. It didn't matter that Maris was a wholesome guy with a wife and kids. It didn't matter that Mantle partied too much or cheated on his wife. Who they were as men played no part in who people chose to be their hero.

All Maris wanted was to play baseball and the public punished him for it. Seeing how poorly fans treated him made his record-breaking home run even sweeter. It was a moment of exhilaration and relief; exhilaration for what he achieved and relief because his achievement also meant freedom from the inhospitable glare of the spotlight.

Crystal's love of the game was evident throughout the film, as was his admiration of both players, especially Mantle. I'm just glad he didn't whitewash the sport or lapse into simple hero worship. The film didn't shy away from the ugly side of the game and showed Maris and Mantle at their best and worst during that most amazing year in baseball history.

Earlier today, Ghana knocked the United States out of World Cup contention by a score of 2-1. When I heard the news, I had mixed feelings. I was bummed we lost, but stoked that Ghana advanced.

I was secretly hoping Ghana would win. The commentators dismissed them early on, before they even played their first match. Their loss to Italy seemed to secure the underdog label.

Then they took on second-ranked Czech Republic and beat them. In fact, they kept them scoreless. That victory endeared Ghana to me. They played with such spirit and didn’t allow the “superior” team to push them around.

They came into today’s match against the fifth-ranked United States as the labeled underdogs, but it felt like they were the favorites. Had this been the first group match of the tournament, both teams starting with a clean slate, I think the U.S. would have beaten them, just as Italy did. But this was the third match. Ghana was coming off a confidence-boosting win against a highly touted opponent, one that had already defeated the United States. The U.S. was coming off a disappointing draw with the Italians. It just felt like the momentum or the Force was with the Ghanaians.

The other good news of the day was Australia’s advancement to the second round. With a nickname like the Socceroos and fans that are willing to don kangaroo suits in the boiling heat or wear inflatable kangaroos on their heads, it’s hard not to root for the Aussies.

Thanks to a friendly reader who reminded me that today was a Spare the Air day, I'm on the train instead of the bus, which means a shorter, cleaner and more comfortable commute. Typically, it would also mean a more expensive commute, but because it's the first Spare the Air day of the season, the train is free.

Unlike last year's campaign, which only offered free rides in the morning for the first five Spare the Air days, this year's campaign is offering free rides all day for the first three Spare the Air days.

The new promotion makes more sense. Who wants a free trip to work only to be stuck at the office unless he or she pays to get home? It made sense if you were a transit agency trying to make money on an environmental cause, but it made little sense if you were a commuter.

If the number of fellow passengers is any indication, the promotion seems to be working. Although the train is still rather empty as we approach downtown San Jose, it's less empty than usual. By Mountain View, I'm guessing the train will be well on its way to full occupancy. I've seen the crowds at the Mountain View station and it puts the south county communities to shame.

As a note, last year's first Spare the Air day came at the end of July, one month later than this year's first smoggier-than-usual day. That can't be a good sign, but on a positive note, the five-day air quality forecast shows lower smog and ozone levels for the weekend. I hope they remain low. I prefer clean air to free rides.

By the way, somebody just started trimming his nails on the train. That is nasty. I'm cringing at the sound of his clippers. Ugh! I can't tell you how happy I am that my stop is coming right up.

Many things make me nervous. I wish they didn't, but they do. I thought I'd take a minute to take a snapshot of them so I would have something to laugh at in a few years. I'm sure this list will look silly when compared to whatever makes me nervous then. Here we go:

• Panhandlers who emerge from dark doorways
• Panhandlers who recognize you
• Bus riders who like to discuss bible verses with complete strangers and by complete strangers, I mean me
• People who get you to sign a petition and then ambush you with eight other petitions (complete with clipboard and pen) they've somehow managed to hide from view
• People who don't blink
• More than speaking in public, the anticipation of speaking in public
• Magicians who ask for volunteers from the audience
• News reports related to terrorists and our preparedness for terrorist attacks
• World leaders who seek nuclear capability
• World leaders who have nuclear capability and plan to test a long-range missile
• World leaders who have nuclear capability, but can't pronounce "nuclear capability"
• Odd specks of an unidentified substance in my coffee
• Cups filled to the brim with hot liquid
• Sharp knives in the dishwasher (A long time ago, I slashed a finger reaching in for a spoon)
• Having to pass cars on a two-lane road
• Big rig trucks that tend to drift
• More than mosquitoes, the sound of mosquitoes
• Mosquitoes who can pronounce "nuclear capability"

Song on my mind... "My Cubicle" (a parody of "You're Beautiful") by somebody who sounds a lot like James Blunt. It's been on the web for a while, but you can find the song in a couple of places, if you want to hear it for yourself. It's a great laugh for those who know what it's like to be one of the cube crowd. Weird Al has his own parody of Blunt's ubiquitous song. It's called "You're Pitiful" and it's hilarious, too.

My job is stupid
My day's a bore
Inside this office
From eight to four

Well, nothing ever happens
My life is pretty bland
Pretending that I'm working
Pray I don't get canned

My cubicle
My cubicle
It's one of sixty-two
It's my small space
In a crowded place
Just a six by six board booth
And I hate it
That's the truth

Well, I give a sigh
As the boss walks by
No one ever talks to me
Or looks me in the eye
And I really should work, but instead
I just sit here and surf the internet

In, my cubicle
My cubicle
It doesn't have a view
It's my small space
In a crowded place
I sit in solitude
And sometimes
I sit here nude

• Guaranteed or your next weekend recap is free.)

I probably watched more World Cup soccer than should legally be allowed. Once I started, I couldn't stop. I think I saw part of at least five games, including the one where Italy and the US finished in a draw because the Italians accidentally kicked the ball into their own net and scored America's only goal. I'm rooting for Ghana to score at least two goals for us on Thursday.

I succeeded in cleaning the house. I realize that normal people do this regularly, but it felt like such an accomplishment that it needed mentioning. It's a wondrous feeling when clutter disappears, I mean, really disappears. Instead of huddling in a stack and hiding in a closet (like it usually does), I was actually able to coax the clutter into the recycling bin.

I managed to fit in some cafe reading over the weekend, which helped me get back on target with my book-a-week goal without affecting my coffee intake. I'm currently reading my 22nd book of the year: George MacDonald Fraser's Olive Garden isn't one of them, but since my dad wanted to eat there, we waited. At the end of dinner, he was kind enough not to wrestle me for the bill, which probably had more to do with his sore back than his desire to pay the check. He did try to cover the tip, though, but I flatly refused the offer.

It made me wonder if I'm going to be like my dad when I have a kid. Will I attempt to pay for meals even when I'm the one being treated? I have a feeling I will, but I hope I'll remember to let the kid pay every once in a while, just to give him or her the satisfaction I felt last night of being able to show a little appreciation.

And that, in less than five minutes, was my weekend.

I recently finished watching the first season of Foyle's War, a British detective series that takes places on the south coast of England during World War II. Michael Kitchen stars as Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, an experienced police officer, who continues to solve murders and fight crime while the war goes on.

Most of the episodes are reminiscent of Agatha Christie mysteries. The writer takes the time to cultivate the setting and characters to produce a healthy crop of suspects people of interest and motives for our detective to investigate after the crime is committed. It's a pleasant change from the Law & Order formula where the crime usually occurs before the episode even begins.

Besides Detective Foyle, the show features three regular characters: Samantha Stewart, a military driver assigned to Foyle (he can't drive); Sergeant Milner, a police officer, who returned to duty after losing a leg fighting in the war; and Andrew Foyle, his son, who is serving in the Royal Air Force.

What makes the show different from your standard whodunit is the war. It complicates every case, adding social and political tension to already personally charged situations. The writer is also able to incorporate historical events into the stories. In the case of the first season, set in 1940, this includes the detainment of Germans in England, coastal air raids, the Battle of Dunkirk and the British pro-Nazi/anti-war movement.

My only complaint about the show is that there are only four episodes per season. While it's true that each episode is 100-minutes long (which is the equivalent of 2.5 American episodes), there just aren't enough of them. The good news is that there are two more seasons already on DVD and a fourth season and fifth season on their way to PBS later this year.

This weekend, I watched three World Cup matches on television:

1. England vs. Paraguay (1-0)
2. Trinidad & Tobago vs. Sweden (0-0)
3. Mexico vs. Iran (3-1)

I missed the United States vs. Czech Republic game on television, but thanks to the wonders of technology, I was able to follow a real-time feed of the game on my computer and see my country's team go down in flames while I worked. The best feature of the simulcast was the sound effect alerts. Whenever I heard the roar of the crowd, I switched over to see what minute the Czechs scored a goal against us. For the curious, the Czech Republic won 3-0.

Admittedly, I don't follow professional soccer with any regularity and I don't know why. If I were to rank sports I like, soccer would come in third, behind baseball and hockey. Basketball and football would round out my top five.

I like soccer for many reasons, but the first three that come to mind would be:

1. Limited substitutions. Each team is only allowed three substitutions per game. Unlike basketball, where coaches can replace players on a whim or players can choose to rest whenever they feel the need, soccer imposes consequences for changing the line-up. It forces teams to consider the optimal time to take out or bring in players. It recognizes the significance of fresh players with fresh legs that can spark a goal or provide a more vigorous defense.
2. No time outs. Time outs in basketball and football are intrusive momentum killers. Instead of trying to shift the momentum on the court or on the field, the coach tries to affect the momentum from the sidelines. In soccer, the players must shift it themselves, while the game is going.
3. The clock doesn't stop. When there is a foul, a penalty kick, a corner kick or a player change, the clock keeps running. None of it happens outside of the game time, outside of the reality of the game. If there are too many interruptions, the officials simply tack time on at the end of the half. Unlike football, where a sixty-minute game takes two hours to play, a ninety-minute soccer match really lasts ninety minutes.

One of the reasons I don't like soccer is the bad acting that occurs whenever players are fouled or believe they've been fouled. For a good ten seconds, they are in pure agony, sprawled on the ground, exhibiting enough distress to convince any reasonable onlooker that they'll never walk, let alone play soccer, ever again. Moments later, they're miraculously back on their feet, running around as though nothing ever happened. When little kids pull similar stunts, it's somewhat adorable. When grown men do it, it drives me crazy.

There were only two baristas working behind the counter at the busy Starbucks I visited this morning. Although they were rushing around, they were smiling. Their disposition was so cheerful, it worried me. It seemed unnatural, as though I had entered The Outer Limits.

Busy baristas aren't supposed to be happy. They're supposed to be impersonal and rude. They aren't supposed to say your name with a smile and a thank you. They're supposed to shout your name, avoid eye contact and start the next drink. I've seen it enough times to know how these things work.

So when I saw the happy baristas, I immediately knew something was wrong. I tried to determine the cause of their suspicious behavior, but couldn't place my finger on it until I took a moment to listen to the music playing in the background.

It was Tony Bennett. He was singing “The Way You Look Tonight”, an old standard that never fails to lift my spirits. I love playing it on the piano, something I regrettably don’t make time for these days.

It was obvious the crooner had charmed the baristas with his velvet voice. My only hope was that his spell would last until I left the coffee shop. Luckily, it did. I barely made it out the door with my grande caramel macchiato when the song ended.

Of course, their happiness may have been due to it being Friday, but that seems like such a dull reason. I would much rather believe it was due to the music.

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you,
And the way you look tonight.

It always shocks me when people say they hate cake frosting. How can anyone hate frosting? It's the best part of the cake! The only reason for a cake to exist is so the frosting won’t collapse under its own weight. Okay, that’s not the only reason. The other reason is that frosting isn’t structurally strong enough to support candles and cake is a more socially acceptable and edible reinforcing material than wood.

Yesterday

> was Election Day in California. I didn't vote, which I feel somewhat bad about because I know every vote counts. A couple of people were actually kind enough to remind me of that fact after I told them I hadn't visited my polling place. Of course, neither of them could tell me how much my vote would count and I have a feeling it wasn't because they didn't know, but because they didn't want to admit that it wouldn't count for much.

> was also June 6, 2006, which in its numerical form is 6-6-2006, the number of the beast's lesser-known cousin, Walbert, whose latest foray into evil resulted in the production of Garfield: A Tail of Two Kitties. What's truly evil is the temptation I feel to watch the movie just to see if it's as atrocious as it looks in the previews.

> I hung out at the blogger gathering at Barefoot Coffee Roasters. The conversation covered a wide range of topics including rabbis, copyright laws, unpacked moving boxes, Kathleen Harris, metrics of fame, ethanol, mycereal.com and outsourcing, which may sound boring in a list, but is a hoot in a coffee shop. It is... really.

> San Francisco's Jason Schmidt struck out 16 batters in a complete game victory over the Florida Marlins. He tied the team record set back in 1904 by the great Christy Mathewson. The Giants are in a three-game winning streak and are three games out of first place in their division. With Moises Alou returning to the lineup, they will hopefully keep the streak going and gain more ground.

I attended Barry Eisler's book release at Kepler's in Menlo Park last Thursday. The Last Assassin is the fifth book in his six-book John Rain series. I wasn't going to mention it until I finished reading the novel, but with a stack of unread library books accumulating dust (and potential late fees) at home, I have no idea when that will be. June would be nice. July is more likely.

One reason why the books remain unread is that I watched two baseball movies on Friday and Saturday. The first was Eight Men Out, a film about the Black Sox scandal where players from the unstoppable Chicago White Sox took money from gamblers to lose the 1919 World Series. The second was Billy Crystal's 61*, the story of Roger Maris' and Mickey Mantle's 1961 pursuit of Babe Ruth's single season home run record. I want to write more about both films, but feel rather pressed for time now, so I'll just say I enjoyed them.

Another reason I didn't read is that I saw X-Men: The Last Stand on Sunday. I went in with high hopes, but came out rather disappointed. From the previews, I thought the film had potential. A government-funded laboratory announces a "cure" for the mutant gene. At the same time, Jean Grey (a.k.a. The Phoenix) returns. What happens next? Well, to me, what happened next was a muddled mess. If the two plotlines were dance partners, they were stepping all over each other's toes. They didn't move well together and actually seemed to hinder one another. Certain elements that worked in the previous installments seemed diluted in this one: the rivalry between Charles Xavier and Magneto, the love triangle involving Jean Grey, Cyclops and Wolverine. Even the tension between the government and mutants seemed watered down. And at times, it felt as though events unfolded a specific way, not for the sake of the story, but for the sake of showing off mutant abilities.

Song on my mind... "Celebrity" by Brad Paisley

Someday I'm gonna be famous, do I have talent, well no
These days you don't really need it thanks to reality shows
Can't wait to date a supermodel, can't wait to sue my dad
Can't wait to wreck a Ferrari on my way to rehab

I'll get to cry to Barbara Walters when things don't go my way
And I'll get community service no matter which law I break
I'll make the supermarket tabloids, they'll write some awful stuff
But the more they run my name down the more my price goes up

'Cause when you're a celebrity
It's adios reality
No matter what you do
People think you're cool
Just 'cause you're on TV
I can fall in and out of love
Have marriages that barely last a month
When they go down the drain
I'll blame it on the fame
And say it's just so tough
Being a celebrity

I caught him singing it at the end of The Today Show and thought it was the most hilarious song.

As a friendly reminder, it's June, so don't forget to flip your wall calendar to the next month. That sentence is based on five assumptions:

1. You're reading this journal.
2. You're reading this some time during the month of June. What's nice is that the sentence works regardless of the year.
3. You have a wall calendar. A wall would be good, but it isn't required.
4. Your calendar is currently showing the month of May.
5. You have a hand, foot, mouth, friend or pet capable of flipping your wall calendar.

This morning at the train station, I noticed a cyclist sitting on the edge of the platform with his feet planted on the rocks between the platform and tracks. If he didn't move and the train pulled in, it would pin his thighs to the platform. I knew the chances of that happening were remote, but it still made me nervous to see him sitting there.

It took me back to the episode from Homicide: Life on the Street where Vincent D'Onofrio was pushed in front of a subway train and was trapped between the train and the platform. When the medics arrived to help him, they discovered that if they moved him, he would die. D'Onofrio was so convincing and moving in the role that the memory of him trapped there has stayed with me ever since.

Anyway, the sitting cyclist remained seated until the train was perhaps a hundred yards from the platform. He then stood up on the rocks, nonchalantly adjusted his helmet and, with two hundred feet to spare, took a big step up onto the platform. Nobody seemed to be concerned about him, not even the two or three other cyclists standing near him, so maybe my uneasiness was unwarranted.

Because I didn't make a sandwich last night, I went out for lunch today. My stomach said sushi, so I walked over to Smile Sushi on First Street, but when I saw their Bento box prices ($8-10), my wallet balked. My stomach and wallet got into argument. While the two bickered, I decided to try a new restaurant a few doors down.

It's called Dog House and it serves gourmet hot dogs that range in price from $3 (Classic Dog) to $6 (The All Day Breakfast Dog). They sell fifteen types of hot dogs, four types of salads, a host of sides, sodas and beer. Like The Pita Pit and University Chicken (another downtown newcomer, formerly called Cluck U), Dog House is a great college joint, which is why I'm surprised it isn't closer to campus.

The place itself is rather narrow, but deep. It's also clean, well-lit and has two large flat screen televisions on the wall showing sports (they were showing golf today). It has plenty of indoor seating with one or two tables on the sidewalk. Unless you like a light rail rolling five feet away from you every seven or eight minutes, I would recommend sitting indoors. Like The Pita Pit, Dog House is open until 3:00 am Thursday through Saturday, a novelty in downtown San Jose. I wonder how long the late hours will last.

I tried The Pit Bull, a sizable hot dog with a hot link sausage, jalapeno peppers, nacho cheese and salsa. I know the combination might not sound very good, but it was one of the better hot dogs I've had in a while.