Geez Us 1

Sitting in a coffee shop. Minimalistic, very zen. A stainless steel fountain consisting of a rectangular pedestal, pinched in the middle making a 3 dimensional X, topped with a sphere out of whose top slowly flows water. The faintest of sound. Thoughtful music by some Icelander band plays mournfully cheerful music.
I sip my coffee from the ceramic mug, fearless of possible lead contamination, more concerned with the taste of a paper cup ruining the flavor of the coffee.
Watching the Bottlebrush Tree out front waving in the breeze, I am in the zone. Content.
I am against the back wall in a low late 50's style vinyl and steel chair, the fountain to my right in the corner. In front of me sit two young men at a 4 top, babbling on about vectors and virtual reality. They wear T-shirts with a gaming company logo, jeans with wallet chains and leather shoes. Nice shoes. These guys are doing alright for themselves. Technicians discussing their triumph over a seemingly insoluble problem now nicely done. The pleasure of technical expertise. Only sex is better, good loving sex, or a really good dump, really good, the result of a balance of fiber and oils, no toilet paper necessary. Life can be exquisite.
Technicians, like Wernher Von Braun who mastered the first rocket missile for Hitler or his associate and enabler, Albert Speer, who keep the Nazi war industry purring despite devastating bombing raids. Insoluble problems solved.
Robert Oppenheimer, another technician, assembled a boat load of technicians like Bohr, Szilard, Fermi, and Teller to name a few. Together they solved the problem of creating one of those now famous WMDs, the atomic bomb.
Baby Boomers grew up learning how they would be vaporized if they didn't go to the basement and, sitting with backs against the wall, put their heads between their legs. Psychoanalysis thrived.

HOT?

San Francisco's summers are marked by fog and temperatures in the high 60's (on a good day). Mark Twain famously wrote that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.
In my youth, my friends and I would get a good chuckle from the tourists shivering on the Cable Cars. They thought they were going to California. Silly monkeys.
Yesterday and the day before brought temperatures above 80, 88 at the airport (but that's in California). It was very warm, single layer weather if layers were worn at all.
I was unfortunate enough to catch the local news whose lead story was, of course, how hot it was. The stories were written and reported by persons who obviously have not spent much time in the city because they were all agog over the sudden shift from fog to clear warm skies. Anyone who has paid attention over a year or two will have noticed that San Francisco experiences typically California weather in September and October before descending into a prolonged Fall until Spring.
I remember the first days of school after Summer Vacation being beautiful days of balmy weather. This is normal for San Francisco.
Yes, normal. Perhaps an odd word to describe this infamous city of tolerance but even oddities attain normalcy.
I've been back here a month, riding the buses and street cars, walking about and yesterday, the second day of plus 80 degrees fahrenheit, I saw more cranky and belligerent people than during the previous month. Normal. Some shops closed early, "because of the heat", others, without air conditioning, had borderline surly clerks.
Today is 79 with a nice breeze. All is well again. Normal.

Clouds

Wispy streams of white and gray flowing slowly, softly on the cool breeze. So unlike the dynamic shapes of the clouds in Boston and Chicago, these are more subtle, requiring more imagination to fit into definitive mythical shapes.
Wraiths and ghosts are not too tough but not as whimsical as a penis devouring a dragon. Perhaps when the weather warms in September the clouds will get more defined.
The fog rolls in overnight to cover the whole city, sometimes the whole area. Above the fog, from Mount Tamalpais, the low down cloud of fog is revealed. The sun shines on Tamalpais but not on Golden Gate Park or Twin Peaks or The Mission. The East Bay clears first, then east of Twin Peaks is bathed in sunlight. Golden Gate Park must wait, but today the fog recedes out to the ocean and seems to wait for it's chance to return.

ConAgra In Turners Falls

While eating on the go, I picked up a bar of Flax Tempeh. Imagine my surprise to notice it was made in Turners Falls, MA by Lightlife Foods. Happy scarfing followed.

Unable to leave well enough alone, I Googled Lightlife to find it has merged with ConAgra Foods to join Slim Jims, Chef Boyardee, Hebrew National, Parkay, and a pile of other brands.

Did the workers in Turners Falls get a raise or a pay cut? How does this bode?

I know I'm over reacting but I see the images from an old World War II propaganda flick showing the spread of the Nazis into Europe and the Mediterranean.

Milk Cow Blues

We were opposites
Attracted to each other
Like magnets in a puzzle
Complementing one another
Filling each other’s empty spaces
She traditional, planning ahead
I spontaneous, in the moment
For years I shared her bed
We lasted quite a while but
Somewhere in those 30 years
Our evolution changed us
As we grew older
We grew separately
Not together as before
Once full spaces emptied
We grew
Apart
She grew one way
And I grew an udder
That’s the Milk Cow Blues
Milk Cow Blues
Milk Cow Blues
I give 6 gallons a day
I may be unusual but
You know I’ve earned my pay
Milk Cow Blues
Milk Cow Blues
That farmers hands are rough
But at least I’m alive and useful
And somehow that’s enough

Pretentious & Self-Indulgent

So it seems
So it is
For me
Nothing is certain
Nothing lasts
But life
And change
My line began with many others
In what is now Kenya
It continues through so many places
Specificity
Makes me
Greek
German
Italian
African
And everything in between
How ridiculous racial pride is
How ridiculous national pride is
We are all one race
Human
Carbon based life forms
More alike than different
Revenge stirs us to action
More than love
Greed
Anger
Lust
Hold sway over the mind
The mind which can sway all
With effort
Much effort
Some difficulty
It’s easier to be angry
Primal instincts lead us there
The tough
Hard-assed
Men
Women
Are weak
Their weakness lies in their ideas of
Strength
Power
Happiness
Might makes right is wrong
The mighty may write history
Though history is
Dwarfed by the universe
Dwarfed by 11 dimensions of physicality
Dwarfed by an idea of the infinite
Energy transformed
Not destroyed
Happy transformation

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot July 4, 2010

Looking for a place to be. A nice place with a baseball game on TV. All my usual places are closed. I venture to Norwood even though the wonderful Perks is closed. I turn the corner and Napper Tandy's is open with parking out front even though Norwood is having their parade today, down Washington St. (the main st. through town), a quarter of a block away.
I settle down with a Magners and an ice water. I intend to limit my alcohol intake to a trickle.
To my pleasure, they have free Wi-Fi. I find a cozy corner with an electrical outlet and fire up my iBook. Baseball seems to be the Yankees so I catch up on my mail and Facebook connections.
After an hour or so, I've finished my Magners and two glasses of water. Things are fine except I need to use the Men's room. The parade has started and it's on the TV showing events from an angle about two blocks away. Time to potty.
Happily finished and washing my hands when a 50 caliber machine gun opens up, very close. To the floor I go. It's sticky and I'm confused because the 50 continues like there's serious shit going on. His bursts a a bit long and I figure his a newbie, a cherry boy getting his busted.
Fuck! I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood, but the 50 continues it's long bursts, small arms join in, no AKs, then a big explosion, outgoing and definitely not a mortar.
Going outside I see a little Sherman tank going by. The fucking assholes are playing war. There goes another 50 to the left and what I assume was the first resumes to the right, further down Washington St. Fuck!
I squat in the doorway peering around the edge to see cheering people waving flags and a WWII Halftrack with a 50 on it firing.
Fuck!
I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood, Massachusetts. Fuck! I'm shaking as I quickly move inside and collect my things. The firing has moved down the street further. I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood.
I get the fuck out of there, fighting the urge to run in a low crouch. There's my car, I'm in Norwood, I'm in Norwood.
Off I go heading west, away from the firing, more salvos from the tanks, there are at least two of them. Fuck! Tears come, images flash, I'm taking back streets to get away and avoid the parade route.
Finally, no more firing but I'm shook. The images come, laughing dipshits in green. Camouflaged pinatas hanging from the ceiling. Bits of shit flying through the night air, flashes and explosions, the smell of rotting meat. Fuck! I'm in Massachusetts, I'm in the world, I am not there! Fuck! Fuck! Tears! Fuck!
I pull into the parking lot of my favorite hang-out. Closed. "Have a nice holiday".
Tears flow bringing relief and the sureness of where I am. I need to be around people, people without war stories.
I end up at the BBC (British Beer Company) on Route 1, across from the Walpole Mall. I find a place in the back where there are no servers but electrical outlets. It's the stage area when bands play here but no bands tonight. Write!
Baseball highlights on the TV. Crappy 70s and Country hits play on the PA. I think of Fresno.
I'm heading for home in a week and 3 days. Much more packing to do and feathers not to ruffle too badly as I rely on the kindness of friends, actually one true friend so stressed with his own situation, I'm wondering about the state of my karma.
What The Fuck! Over.