Fighting Smoke with Smoke

I admit it. I smoke.

Picture taken in Fairfax last Tuesday. Yes, really.

Now, living in Marin County, I could be forgiven, even applauded for smoking weed. ("Hello, Fairfax!") I could be tolerated, though still get unfriendly glares, for smoking tobacco. Thankfully, I don't do either of those things, except for an annual cigar, usually with my father-in-law. What I do is much worse, much less forgivable in the San Francisco Bay Area. I burn wood in my fireplace.

On those rare nights when my cellphone does not have a message from the Bay Area Air Quality Management District telling me what not to do, I heat just the room my family is in with a fire in the fireplace, rather than heating an entire two-story house with the gas furnace. I realize this may be painful for many Marinites to read. ("He seemed like such a nice guy until I found out he was poisoning the air. Well,...actually, now that I think of it, he was really more sarcastic and snarky than a nice guy, but still...")

So, you can imagine how relieved I was to read in today's paper that the MENSA club over at the Bay Area Air Quality Management District has people out in Priuses patrolling looking for fires. That's right, folks. They are out in cars driving through neighborhoods looking for smoke.

Al Gore: "BAAQMD is a key driver of climate change."

Now, I realize that many people believe Priuses are hybrid vehicles that run on electricity and love, but they actually run on a gas-fueled, carbon-emitting engine that is used to charge up batteries and run the car. If you have driven in a hybrid around Marin with its hills and winding roads, then you know that the gas motor is usually running when the car has to navigate our hilly terrain here.

That means the BAAQMD is actually out polluting while they are out trying to prevent pollution. And, we are paying people to go out and pollute while pretty much every local, state and federal government organization is saying they don't have enough money to provide basic services anymore. Does this make sense to you?

Light'em if you've got'em!

Steve Young, Jerry Rice and the Tramp Stamp

Sometimes it takes a fake tattoo to really express your love of the sport.

Monday, I went with three other dads to see the 49ers play the Steelers. Since the game started at 5:30 p.m., we did the prudent thing and caught the 11:10 a.m. ferry into the city. I mean you don't want to be late! Now, I don't know about your ferries, but here in the SF Bay area our ferries have bars. Since the four or us hadn't had a guys' day out since Clinton, we headed straight for the bar.

Dads one through three ordered a Black Butte Porter. This is a microbrew gift from Oregon and we appreciate it. ("Thank you bearded, hemp-wearing, beer-making Oregonians!") Dad #4 wondered about the wine list. The ferry bartender, who at this point was thinking "What's the deal with the grey hairs in football jerseys having beer for breakfast?", could offer no wine list for the morning rush so Dad #4 ended up having a Pacifico and manning up and we were proud of him for doing so.

You have to wonder if the bartender on the ferry originally took the job picturing the lovable Isaac on The Love Boat. He'd board the ferry everyday and help aging celebrities find romance while Captain Stubing would navigate the bay. "Hey, look. It's Charo!...again." Unfortunately, being a bartender on a SF Ferry is a little more like being a bartender on a bus with better dressed passengers. So, I'm sure "Dads Gone Wild" really made his day.

At the other end of the ferry is the Ferry Building (yes, you probably could have figured that one out on your own) and there resides the Hog Island Oyster Company. This is where history was to be made. As an aside, those of us that live up in Marin know that the real Hog Island is over in Marshall. It's a place where you either bring a cooler (to bring a bag of 50 home) or a bottle of Tabasco and a bag of charcoal (to grill up your 50 right there on Tomales Bay.) At the Ferry Building, it's more of a restaurant with a large horseshoe oyster bar.

The manager was very cool and found us a spot next to some other football goers starting their own pub crawl as well. We ordered two dozen assorted and started chatting with some Pittsburgh fans next to us that had flown in just to see the game. One of the dads with our group is a huge Steelers fan and he had the jersey to prove it. The rest of us were in SF jerseys or t-shirt so I guess you could say our little group was sports integrated...sprintegrated.

It was then and there, at the full oyster bar, at the full Ferry Building, that our Steelers Dad had something to share. It turns out his wife had given him an official Pittsburgh Steelers "Tramp Stamp" tattoo for the day. Now really, how does that conversation go with the wife? "Hey, let's go upstairs with this temporary tattoo kit and..." So, after all of us had had beer 3, our Steelers Dad displayed his tramp stamp right there in the middle of the Hog Island Oyster Bar. I have to say it was well received.

Not Our Actual Steelers Dad

Now, if you don't know what a "tramp stamp" is, then let's explain. It's a tattoo that starts above the butt and then points south. In the case of our Steelers Dad, it meant "I'm open! I'm open! Throw me the ball...or whatever!"

After some great stops that we promised restaurants we wouldn't mention (but seriously, the sardines on kimchee at Waterbar are out of this world), we found our way to Candlestick. It turns out one of our dads' wives has a friend who runs security on the field. He called his wife's friend and the next thing we know a guy with a suit and an earpiece is handing us special badges and walking us onto the field. Many of the players are out there and they are setting up for the ESPN pregame show.

We walked around the field until we found a spot where we stepped into the 80s, at least that's what it felt like. Right in front of us, about five yards out onto the field, stood Steve Young in a suit without the jacket and he was throwing the ball, playing catch, with Jerry Rice. They were tossing around the ball like two buds from college who were killing a few minutes while the rest of the world was working. The ESPN guys were setting up the stage, getting microphones and lights ready, and next to them was Steve and Jerry just tossing the ball and making comments to each other, waiting until it was time to host the pregame show.

After "The Toss," Steve Young came to the sideline so close to me, I could have grabbed his shoulder and said, "Nice toss." Now, everyone I've told this story to has had the same reaction. "Why didn't you get his autograph?" they always say. It really wasn't that kind of moment. It would have ruined it. I wasn't thinking about selling my signed shirt on eBay the next day. I was just glad to be standing there briefly in the 80s and I think Steve Young and Jerry Rice were as well. It was a moment to respect and take in, not one to interrupt.

So, all I can tell you is that the next time you go out and it doesn't involve a temporary tattoo in your nether regions, then you haven't fully committed. You haven't embraced Guys Night Out or Girls Night Out. What's in store for the next Guys Day Out? Well, all I can tell you is that we haven't ruled out piercing.

Offending Santa: Part Deux: Public Statements of Merriness

"Merry Christmas."

Yup, that's what we did. The company I work for posted a message on our website announcing that the Monday after Christmas we will be closed and, oh, by the way, "Merry Christmas." That's when the complaint calls started coming in. How dare we put the word "Christmas" on our website?!

Now, I know this has been turned into some sort of pseudo political issue and the Republicans are supposedly the great defenders of Christmas and the Democrats are supposedly the group attacking Christmas with their evil "Happy Holidays" message, but really don't we have more pressing issues to focus on? The government is about to shut down due to a lack of an approved operating budget and today marks the official end of the war in Iraq and we are all stirred up about Christmas?

To be candid, we were not attempting to take a stand by posting our "Merry Christmas" message. We were simply saying that we will be closed in observance of Christmas and that "we too will be celebrating with our families." But now, it has become a thing. Our "Christmas e-mail message to customers" has become "Happy Holidays," so we don't get any additional complaint calls.

In my point of view, Christmas is about pausing once a year to do something nice for people. For friends and family, it's an opportuniity to say how much they mean to you and give them a little something that shows it. For customers, it's time to say, "Hey, thanks for your business." For those closest to you, it's an opportunity to break bread, have a little wine and reflect on the past year and state your hopes for the upcoming year.

And, for the kids, it's a time for magic, even when they get a little older and realize that Santa may have been assembling that bike in the garage with a martini instead of bringing it down the chimney. (My daughter, wisely sent us an e-mail for Santa this year with her request and then asked us to forward it to Santa, because she didn't have his e-mail address and thought that we might. Now that's thinking on your feet!) Even my Jewish friend down the street has Christmas lights on his house and he definitely qualifies as jolly. He has managed to have a Christmas tree and a menorah in his house at the same time for years without it spontaneously combusting or drawing any protesters out front.

So, when I say Merry Christmas, what I mean is "Be happy. Enjoy the season. Do something nice for your family and your friends." It's not meant as a recruiting drive for any particular religion. It's not meant to say "Go Newt! Go Rick!" It's not meant to say, "Wow, Glenn Beck really is right!" So please, lighten up, everyone. I am not trying to offend you or pigeon hole your religious or political beliefs when I wish you a Merry Christmas. Just be happy and enjoy the season.

So, whether this time of year involves a tree, a dradle, a Kwanzaa cake or a dim sum brunch on Christmas Day for you, I wish you the best. Be happy, be thankful and reflect on what's most important in your life. Other than that, don't stress on the details and don't get caught up on language. What you take as offensive might be someone just wishing you the best for this time of year.

Excuse Me, May I Please Have My Drone Back?

President Obama needs to watch some Bond movies.

You don't have your super-secret-state-of-the-art spy drone crash in Iraq and then say, "Hey, excuse me. A funny thing happened yesterday. Um, we crashed the drone we were using to spy on you guys and we noticed that you've been, like, putting it on television and we were wondering if we could have it back. It's really expensive and we'd rather you not put it on television for the Chinese to take a look at, because we have a few flying over them as well."

Here's how it is supposed to work, according to the world of Bond. The drone crashes in Iraq and president Aquavelvajad wheels it into his presidential crazy hanger and puts on his fake medals for "capturing" the drone. He poses standing in front of the drone for the television cameras. At that point, the drone goes "beep" and then about 10 pounds of C4 goes off and blows up the drone, president Ahmedinajad and his crazy hanger. "Beep"...BOOM! That's how it is supposed to go.

Really? Has no one in the CIA watched a Bond movie? This is pretty basic stuff. If you send a spy drone into another country, it needs to have some sort of a self destruct feature that goes off if the drone doesn't receive the magic code from headquarters every 12 hours. Sean Connery had this down in the 1960s and here we are in 2011 and all we can do is politely ask the crazy Iranian president if we can pretty please have our drone back.

Maybe this is a result of our video game culture. The pilot who was remotely flying the drone probably thought to himself when he crashed it, "No problem. I've still got two more drone lives before game over."

So, President Obama, Joint Chiefs, SecDef, please watch some Bond movies and remember, Next time a drone goes down..."Beep"...BOOM!

Frosty Has a Lei

I know you thought I was going to go with the "Frosty Got Lei-ed" headline, but I didn't want my 5th grade humor to be that predictable for you readers. There's a deeper, more complex side to my humor. Okay, maybe not. My son summed up my humor last night when he described a friend of his as having humor "like Dad's. You know, he tells jokes that most people don't think are funny." And...everyone in my family agreed! Talk about a tough room...

But seriously, Frosty does have a lei. Let me explain. As part of our "collage" of Christmas decorations outside (translation for "collage:" many years of accumulated decorations that do not match), we have a snowman. Now, being that we live in California, our snowman isn't made of ice, but of many toxic fabrics and stuffing assembled in some factory in China. Frosty spends most of the year up on a shelf in the garage and once a year we dust him off and perch him in front of our house.

This morning, I went outside to get the paper to find our Frosty sporting a lei, not a fake 10-cent party store lei, but an actual flower lei made with actual flowers. Obviously, Frosty had a much more exciting Sunday night than I did. I looked around to see if Frosty also had an empty martini glass and a half-smoked cigar, but the lei was the only evidence that Frosty got his groove on last night.

Now, I'm sure that the Hawaiin-themed holiday party (Mele Kalikimaka) held over at our local market, Paradise Foods, had absolutely nothing to do with my snowman ending up with an authentic Hawaiin lei. No, I'm sure it's unrelated.

Everyone should have a market like Paradise Foods, by the way. It's my Cheers. It's a local market where I live where many people in there actually know my name and I know their names. It turns a shopping trip into a visit with friends. I'm not sure what it says that my "Cheers" is a grocery store, instead of an actual bar. I guess it doesn't sound hugely manly.

By the way, if I'm forfeiting my manliness, I'll might as well share a recipe. I made a good batch of short ribs last night and so can you. Here's what you'll need:

• 2 tbls olive oil
• 4lbs short ribs (have your butcher saw them into thirds)
• 1 sweet onion chopped
• 2 leeks sliced (the white parts only)
• 6 carrots (sliced, but not peeled)
• 4 cloves garlic peeled and smashed
• 1 can San Marzano diced tomatoes (14 oz or bigger)
• 2 oz dried porcini mushrooms
• 1 cup freshly brewed coffee
• 3/4 bottle of Zinfandel wine  

And here's what you do: Preheat an oven to 300 degrees. Pour the olive oil into a dutch oven or other type of heavy pot with a lid. On your stove, brown the meatside of the ribs. Don't worry about the bone side. This will take about 3-4 minutes at high heat. Set the ribs aside. In the same oil, add the onion and leeks and cook until they get translucent, about 4-5 minutes. Turn off the stove. Add all of the remaining ingredients and then nestle the short ribs in the mixture so they are nearly submerged. Make sure all of the porcini mushrooms are submerged. Put the lid on, set it in the oven for about 5-8 hours (you can't overcook this dish at 300 degrees, so don't worry) and then serve over polenta or mashed potatoes.

So Frosty, all I can say is that the next time you go to the Hawaiin party at Cheers,...take me!

Who We Gonna Take to the New Planet?

NASA's Kepler space probe has found Kepler-22b. While not the most sexy brand name for a planet, Kepler-22b does have the advantage of being able to support life. In my mind, this raises two questions:

1. Why is NASA looking for a "back-up planet" and does that mean they are taking this climate change thing more seriously than Sean Hannity?

2. Who we gonna take?

Think about it. If we are moving to a new planet, then this is an excellent time to weed out some of the less than stellar members of our society. Obviously, if NASA has a probe out there looking for another life-supporting planet, then they must also have a secret shuttle ready to take select members to "KP-B" (the planet's rap name).

Okay, let's break this down by category, so we make sure we have everything we need.

Entertainment:

Spielberg, all aboard! Your in! Your movies continue to explore new ground and goodness knows we'll need the entertainment to put up with the 600-light-year trip to KP-B. Lucas, sorry, you are staying here. We'll just have to wait for the reviews to hear how Star Wars 14: Revenge of the Thong turns out.

Glee cast, sorry, but not everything in life is worth a song and your constant singing and dancing would get a little much by the time we were passing Mars. Piers and Simon, to answer your question, Yes, America does have talent and neither of you are American, so do the math. KP-B does not have "celebrity judges" nor fake puffed-up journalists.

Government:

Sorry, but you all have to stay on Earth and continue to do the "great job" you are doing running things. Okay, maybe the Prime Minister of Canada can come along and lend a hand. They seem to have a pretty stable economy and mostly friendly people up there. But, Boehner and Pelosi, you guys get to stay and do press interviews about each other. As far as the U.S. Presidential Race, do we really look that interested? Just send us an email and let us know how it all turns out.

Food:

Sorry Cinnabon, but we are trying to keep the average weight on KP-B under 200 lbs. In & Out, all aboard! You're in! There's always room for a good burger. I mean we aren't vegans or anything high maintenance like that on KP-B. And you Vietnamese folks, come on down. We need the Pho!

Guidance:



Craig Ferguson, The Oprah of Our New Planet

 Sorry, Oprah, but until you put someone else's picture on the cover of your magazine just once, you don't get to come to KP-B. We don't need the new planet crowded with 499 billboards with your face on it. KP-B is a NOprah Zone, though I hear the catch phrase "WWOD" ("What would Oprah Do?") is starting to catch on there. Craig Ferguson, welcome aboard. You are the Oprah of KP-B. Show us how to take ourselves less seriously in our new digs.

Industry:

Energy industry, are you really asking? I mean NASA did have to find a whole new planet for us. That sort of makes your resume read like "Destroyed first planet, but really feeling good about career prospects on KP-B!" Apple? Well, it's really not our decision since they've already trademarked "iPlanet."

Well, I guess that about does it. I'm headed home to start packing. I want to be ready when NASA calls. I mean they are calling right? I'm on the list right?

"Who is Bob Hope?"

There's probably no better illustration of the generation gap between myself and my son than The Muppets.

I took my son to a guy's night out last night to see The Muppets and then have appropriately manly (translation: unhealthy as possible) food at our local microbrewery while my wife and daughter were caroling in the city. So, I thought to myself, why not introduce my son to the Muppets. He's been spending a lot of time watching Bond movies on Netflix, so I thought it might be good to shift his attention from Pussy Galore (yes, real Bond girl name from Goldfinger) to Miss Piggy.

Well, it turns out The Muppets is kind of sad for those of us that actually watched The Muppet Show when it was on television. They spend the majority of the movie explaining how The Muppets just aren't relevant anymore. There's even a moment when Kermit pulls out his Rolodex to call for some help and attempts to reach "President Carter."

Has it really been that long since we watched the Swedish Chef prepare Chicken in a Basket?

There came a point in the movie where they play sound clips from old Muppet episodes and they make a reference to Bob Hope hosting. At this point, my son asks me, "Who is Bob Hope?"

Who is Bob Hope?

He knows who Justin Bieber is and who Kim Kardashian is and he doesn't know who Bob Hope is? He knows What Not to Wear and has seen Dwarf Farmers on the Discovery Channel and doesn't know who Bob Hope is? This can't be right. As a dad, how could I have gone 11 years and not mentioned who Bob Hope is. Let's not even get started about Dean Martin. What's Amore? That's Amore!

Here I thought we were just going to have a simple guys night out when right there in front of me is the thing I hadn't considered yet. The Generation Gap was right there between us in all of its Muppet glory. Geoffrey Moore, this chasm might not be able to be crossed! So, I tried to explain who Bob Hope was and who Jim Henson was and the history behind the Muppets and I realized I was getting a little sentimental about the whole thing. I found myself missing a time when we really had creative geniuses like Jim Henson breaking new ground.

Could there be a day when my son has to explain to his son with great reverence who Lady Gaga was? Let's hope not.

P.S. Kudos to Chris Cooper for shaking off his intense dramatic actor image and having fun as the rapping evil oil man on The Muppets.

P.S.S. A pretty amazing compilation of Bob Hope's Christmas visits to the troops can be found by clicking here.

Snap Is the New Dude

Last night, my 11-year-old son had one of his friends over for a sleepover. While they were hanging out playing video games in what has become our rec room (formerly the living room), one word kept emanating from the room.

"Snap!"

If something good happens in the game, then a boy would yell "Snap!" If something bad happened, then it was a more hushed-toned "Snap..." Either way, "Snap" is the 11-year-old boys' primary form of communication right now.

This "dialogue" reminded me of college in the late 80s when the all-purpose word was "Dude." This is perhaps the most versatile word on the planet for men. Let me give you some examples:

Pronoun: "Dude, you can't wear a Cyndi Lauper shirt on your date!"

Expletive: "Dude! Not cool! That totally hurt when you threw that lawn dart at me. Dude!"


Compliment: Attractive woman walks by two men. One man turns to the other and says quietly, "Dude." The other replies, "Dude." Communication has just taken place.

Threat: Man hits another man in the face accidentally while playing Frisbee Golf. "Dude!" (Implied message: "Once is funny, but if it happens again, there's going to be trouble.")

Adjective/Adverb: "He hit that ball right out of the park. I mean it was going so fast that...Dude!"

Emphatic: "This isn't just a story. I mean, Dude, this may have been one of the best beers I've ever tasted." "Dude?" "...Duuuuude." "Wow." "Oh ya."

I guess we have the now-serious Sean Penn to thank for the "Dude" in the American dialect. Remember when he used to appear to be a fun person? What did Clint say to him to make him so darn somber all the time? I imagine he probably winces every time some one calls him Spicoli these days. I hope I never take myself that seriously. Because, if I do, well...Dude!

Good Toys and Bad Toys

I was reading the paper this morning trying to get motivated to go into work on the day before Thanksgiving (really, can we just skip ahead to the turkey and football part?) when my son came down to watch television.

This is a special father/son bonding time for us. I wish him a good morning and he ignores me and stares at the television and, really, I have to admit that the Simpsons rerun he had Tivo'd was definitely more entertaining than me at 7 a.m.

I glanced up to see a commercial come on screen for Doggie Doo. If you haven't seen it, then you'll be impressed where ingenuity has brought our great nation. This is a toy dog that poops. And, when it poops, the children in the ad go wild with delight. Once again, and I know I say this too often, I'm not making this up. You can order your very own pooping toy by clicking right here.

This is when I glanced down at Roscoe, our mostly ignored dog who provides his own Doggy Doo sensation in our back yard on a daily basis. Could I be sitting on a Doggie Doo Disneyland franchise and not even know it? Could my back yard be the source of joy for thousands of children that want to see an actual dog poop complete with smellivision? If they can get $19.95 for a toy pooping dog, then Rosoe must be worth a fortune.

I have this great mental image of children lined up outside the gate to my back yard. Each one hands me a $20 bill and then I hand them our Pooper Scooper. They happily skip (Oh yes, skip!) into our back yard to pick up real live poop. I stand there with my stack of $20s and I admire my clean back yard. Maybe some of these visiting kids would actually like to play with our dog. How cool would that be?

Last night I saw some toys that actually made me excited. I went to the International Auto Show in San Francisco. I like to see what's coming to our highways next year. Usually, it's something similar to what's already on the highways. Not this year! There's a whole raft of new cars with new approaches coming. There were several plug-in electric and hybrid cars there and their body styling is downright exciting. I'm sorry, but if you own a Prius, your car is about to go from cool to ugly in a matter of months.

It used to be that people would drive their Priuseses (what is the plural of Prius, anyhow?) in the Novato 4th of July Parade to show how cutting edge and environmentally aware they were. It was sort of bizarre seeing this group of Priuseses go by before the veterans riding on tanks. Based on what I saw last night, the Prius is a dinosaur. New cars like the Nissan Leaf are going to demonstrate that cars can be both efficient and, yes, fun and stylish.

Now, if I had to pick a toy for myself this holiday season, it would have to be the Fisker Karma. This is a hybrid that has two electric motors on board that generate more than 400 horsepower. It also gets 100 miles to the gallon should you need the motor to kick in and extend your range. And it looks like a Bond car! Really, I would be surprised if the next James Bond movie does not have a Fisker in it. Oh, by the way, it costs $109,000 and I'm not sure if that includes the floor mats. And, hey, it's four doors so this is the perfect car for our middle school carpool. It's not like I'd be buying this car for myself. It's for the kids!

So, I guess today's message is sometimes you don't know when you have a toy that's in demand ("Keep up the good work, Roscoe!") and sometimes the toy you want is just a little out of your reach.

Mile High Club for One?

Having been on four flights in the span of three days last week, I was particularly concerned to read today's announcement by European discount carrier Ryanair.

Ryanair's CEO Michael O'Leary wants to offer in-flight adult movies. No really, I'm not making this up. You can read about it on the official MSN Money site here.

In an effort to alleviate any concerns about this new approach to flying, O'Leary manages to make an awkward situation sound even worse. "I'm not talking about having it on screens on the back of seats for everyone to see," said O'Leary. "It would be on handheld devices."

Handheld devices?!?!?! I think that's exactly the kind of thing we want to avoid while watching naughty movies at 38,000 feet. No handholding devices! Stop that!

Flying is already intimate enough. There's already that guy who is a little too big for the airline seat that decides to tuck away the armrest between his seat and yours so you can be in full contact the entire flight. And, there's that guy who decided that bringing on board an order of fajitas to eat in flight next to you was a really great idea. Do I want these guys also having "handheld devices" connected to in-flight porn? I don't think so...especially since Ryanair is also installing pay toilets on its planes. What if my seatmate is too cheap to use the pay restroom when he "needs a moment" after (or during) watching the in-flight entertainment? No. No. No. No.

This is where I draw a line. I already take off my shoes, belt and jacket and have my hands swabbed after standing in line just to get to the plane that's then been delayed. When I get on the plane, I just want to read my book and not have to worry about just how much the guy next to me is enjoying his flight.

So, to all you guys getting ready to book your tickets on Ryanair, I have just one bit of information for you. Your "Mile High Club" should have more than one member.

Offending Santa

It's time to think of the strategy for decorating the front yard for Christmas and I think I've come up with a winner...something that will truly make a statement. But, is my neighborhood ready for it?

Occupy North Pole

It's a simple concept. I'll build a protest site on the front yard with "Occupy North Pole" signs with little tents for the elves. The idea is that the elves have finally rose up against North Pole's CEO, Santa. They've had enough and instead of making toys they are occupying the Pole with a little tent city with a variety of signs talking about "The Man," who is indeed Santa.

I can already see the signs:

Sleigh Destroying Ozone Layer
...Santa Doesn't Care!

No Toys for Slave Wages!

Deers Eat Better Than Elves Here!

We Are the 32%...at least measured by height!

Okay, admittedly I'm not sure if I'm ready for this. One of my neighbors is far to the left of left in his views and my guess is he would be very offended by an Occupy Parody in the neighborhood. This is the neighbor that has regaled us with a variety of interesting bumper stickers over the years. This is the neighbor who hangs his American flag upside down when he's displeased with election results. So, my guess is he might actually set up his own tent to Occupy my Occupy North Pole.

And then what do you do? I mean is he considered a guest if he pops up a tent in the front yard? Do I have to bring him tea in the morning and wine at night? And then there's the sanitation issue. I mean what would I say when the planter by the front door starts looking a little unhealthy? And there would be that awkward moment in the mornings when I'm leaving for work in my suit and he'd pop his head out of his tent and spit in my general direction. 

Well, I guess I'll have to give this some more thought. If you think i should go ahead with Occupy North Pole or that it would be horribly offensive, then please feel free to post a comment. The neighborhood you save from disgrace may be your own. 

Time for Men to Man Up?

Is it time for American men to man up?

This seems to be a reoccurring theme this week. Just yesterday, I saw a commercial from the folks at Dove showing that they now have a new soap just for men, because normal Dove is just too hard on their skin. Seriously? Isn't normal Dove the soap that used to be advertised by them forming a bar of soap out of hand lotion and now it's just too harsh for us sensitive guys? 

Last night, I was one of the bartenders at our county's annual Veteran's Day dinner. It's where we honor hundreds of veterans and some active duty service men. The bar is the place to be. This may come as a shock to you, but veterans can drink. What struck me was the way they order. First of all, there's the eye contact. They look you square in the eye and ask you how you are doing. Then, there's the order. It's either "What kind of beer to you have?" or it's "Red wine" or "White wine." There's nothing complicated and no questions about where the wine came from or anything like that. This is unusual for the area I live in.

You see, in Marin, being so close to the wine country, we talk a lot about wine. We don't drink "White wine." We drink "Viognier mixed with Chenin Blanc" or we drink "Pinot with Grenache." And how we describe the wine to each other at social events is as elaborate as it is embarrassing. "I'm getting a hint of cherry with an oak finish, yet there's an earthy quality to it...wait, perhaps some burnt cedar as well." And, we like to pare wine. "This Merlot would really shine with a wild mushroom risotto with a little white truffle oil." Now, I'm as guilty as any of my friends of this. But really, sometimes we just need to shut up and drink.

So, it's pretty darn refreshing to be around a group of veterans that wants "Red wine" without the elaborate description of the varietal and the bathing habits of the winemaker who crafted the wine. Just make eye contact, smile, pour it and save your review of the wine for your hairdresser.

Many years ago, my wife and I were biking through the wine country (pre-kids, of course) and being new to the whole California Wine Country experience, we went to a winery where the man doing the tasting was in his denim overalls. He seemed approachable, though he turned out to be the winery's owner, Vincent Arroyo. We asked our approachable denim-clad host our novice question, "How do you pick out a good wine? What should we look for?" He replied simply, "A good wine is a wine you like." It's not about price, brand or an earthy turnip quality. If you like a wine, then that makes it a "good wine."

So, inspired by Vincent Arroyo and all those veterans last night, this Veteran's Day I will attempt to man up. Today, I will push the testosterone envelope by:

• Not shaving (okay, admittedly, that was already in the plan for today)
• Doing laundry without using the fabric softener sheet in the dryer. Go ahead, bring on the static cling. I am man and I am ready.
• Using shampoo that does not contain tea tree oil and forgoing the conditioner completely.
• Driving our car without activating the heated seats (Don't laugh. It's supposed to get down into the lower 50s today. True Grit!)
• Watch television this evening without using the Tivo to skip through the beer and Cialis commercials (Four hours? Really? I'm not sure if that's cause for concern or applause.)

So, there you have it: Five small steps to manhood. Bring on the applause.

Costco Book Tour

Have you noticed the ads in the Marin IJ advertising the authors who will be on hand to sign his or her book at Costco over the weekend? They format them like a theater performance, so it looks like we are ever so lucky to have the author come to such a prestigious location. They even say, "Members only." Only the 67% of Marin that are Costco members get to meet the author. That way they keep the riff raff out.

What must that be like for the author?

The author has toiled for years to produce a work of art, a view into his or her deepest thoughts. All along, the author is watching other authors appear on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, who either actually reads books written by his guests or has a writer on loan from Cliff's Notes to give him a great briefing about the book.

Jon: "What inspired you to use Yasser Arafat as a metaphor for the struggle of school children fighting oppression throughout the Middle East?"

Author: "It came to me when I was demonstrating against Global Warming outside of a styrofoam cup manufacturing plant in Darfur that Arafat's struggle to be understood as a leader typecast him in the same way that children can be."

So, our author finally finishes her book and and is ready to chat it up with Jon and the publisher calls with news of the first big book tour. "Someone wants you to tour the country to promote your book!" Virgin Megastore? No. Borders? Out of Business. Barnes & Noble? Nope. It's Costco, and that tour will take you from Fresno to Novato. This has to be a blow to the author. I mean the Costco in Kona is at least a bright spot during the tour, but it's still Costco that you are touring to promote your book.

Imagine what the experience is like for the author inside of each Costco.

Shopper: "Is this where they are handing out samples of chicken apple sausage?"

Author: "No, I wrote this book as a deep expression of my soul and I'm here to talk about it and sign it."

Shopper: "Oh. Do you know where they are handing out samples of chicken apple sausage? This is my lunch."

Author: "Go past the guy demonstrating the juicer and turn right when you see the display of Ensure."

And, what does the author say to the other authors when they get together for pipe-smoke-filled, brandy-sipping social engagements? The other authors are popping off about traveling to New York, Venice and Paris to promote their books and your publisher has you booked to spend the weekend at the Vacaville Costco. How do you spin that to make it sound like you've finally made it as a writer?

So, dear Costco Book Tour Author, keep in mind that things could be worse. It could be Walmart calling.

Halloween: Dads Gone Wild

What does it say when a trick-or-treating dad is way more dressed up than his kid?

I guess there's really two ways one could look at this. In the "glass half full" world view, you could say that these dads are the most fun fathers on the planet and everyday in their homes is like being in a Disney Lindsay Lohan movie before she grew up and became a whole lot less fun. I'm talking about Parent Trap/Herbie the Love Bug Lindsay, not judge-mandated rehab Lindsay. You could make the point that if a dad dresses up that big time for Halloween, then he's probably a blast at home.

Or, you could look at it from the view of a middle schooler dealing with middle school peer issues. "Hey Ryan, I saw you out trick-or-treating with your Pirate Father last night. Arrrrrrrgh, matie!" "Hey Sinclaire, was your mother trying to dress like Lady Gaga's Grandma last night or what?"

Last night we had not one, but two pirate dads come by...and no, they were not together. These guys fully-committed. I'm talking frilly shirts with ruffly sleaves and hats with feathers. I couldn't quite tell if their kids were thrilled to be with such fun-loving parents or terrified that they might run into someone from school who would wait until lunch the next day to ask them in front of their friends, "How's Capt. Sparrow doing?"

My favorite costumes last night were on two twins that came to the door in jeans and t-shirts. Since they seemed to be lacking costumes, my wife asked them what they were. They pointed at each other said simply, "I'm him." Classic!

As a parent of a teen and a nearly teen, I learned something new about Halloween last night. I'm not invited. It wasn't even dark and both kids were out of the house and out with their friends trick-or-treating in other neighborhoods. Gone are the days where I'd walk along with other dads and moms chatting while the kids ran from door to door. Gone are the days of being invited up to a neighbor's porch to accept the occassional glass of wine. Gone is the visit to the house on the street below us that had a garage haunted house and a "cauldron" of Bloody Marys for visiting parents. At their tweeny, teeny age, my kids still want to be out amongst them on Halloween, but God forbid a parent be in tow. Parents should be no closer than a text message away.

Still, my kids came home telling tales that reminded me of my childhood. There's the "Healthy House" that attempts to debunk the tradition of handing out cavity inducing treats by handing out fruit or carrot sticks. Coincidentally, that's also the house where the owners find a pile of fruit and carrot sticks in their bushes by the front stoop about a week later. Then, there's the house that hands out some sort of toy instead of candy. This year it turned out to be a deck of cards, so kids are now able to play solitaire with quivering fingers as they ride the sugar rush from eating the candy that fills the rest of their bags. And lastly, there's the most special house of all. It's the one that kids, even before texting, find ways to notify each other about right in the middle of trick-or-treating. It's the house that gives away the full-sized candy...not the mini candy bars or the packs with three Hot Tamales. They give out the real deal and kids going through their loot later that evening hold up the bar and talk in hushed reverence about the house that gave away the full-sized Hershey.

So, to my kids, I say "You're Welcome." Daddy was not a pirate this year and you can go to school today without fear. I can't make any promises about next year, though.

Parent Bonding Through Incompetence

It was bright and early on a San Rafael soccer field that we gathered for Game 2 of the U12 soccer playoffs. As you can imagine, tension was in the air as the stakes were high. One of these teams could possibly advance to the level of receiving a trophy or medal that would soon become lost in players' rooms or used as a hat rack. Stakes were high.

By U12, parents are pretty tuned in with the rules of the game. Many of us have already brought up older sibblings through the ranks of soccer, so we've all taken our turn at being a line judge for a game. Unfortunately, the referee we had running the field for the game did not know the rules of the game...at all.

It's not pretty to see a referee lose control of a game, but that's what happened yesterday. The 20-something guy just stood there on the field as mayhem errupted around him. Players yelled at him. Parents yelled at him. Even his own line judges stared at him with disdain. His complete incompetence actually led to something kind of cool, though. Parents from both teams came together and started yelling calls into the ref...even if those calls were against their own childrens' team.

A group of 10-15 parents would scream "Offsides" and the ref would eventually blow his whistle with the realization that maybe, possibly, something whistle-worthy had happened on the field. The parents would make the call and eventually the ref would catch up.

Before we get too critical of the ref, keep in mind that this is a $15/game employee we have here. Burgermeister turned down his application and, thankfully, the San Rafael Youth Soccer Association called with a back-up plan. You can bet at halftime he was texting his friend, "Dude, Parents Up Tite 2Day." And yes, I'm sure that's exactly how he spelled it.

We're lucky in Novato that we have some older dudes that ref because they love it. They really know the rules and they take command of the field. It seems to me that they do it for the game and not the money. I guess that's why we get a little spun up when we go to another city and find a ref that's sort of just phoning it in. I mean, doesn't he get it? This is the U12 playoffs that could possibly lead to the U12 championship that could possibly lead to a trophy that will support a hat until the little soccer player's diecast plast-faux-metalic arm is accidentally broken off about three weeks in the future.

So what is offsides? Oh, come on. This is just a blog that no one knows you are reading. You can admit here that you don't really know what offsides is. It's okay. It only took me about four years on the town's soccer board to understand offsides. Here's a simple explanation you can take to your next youth soccer game. If an offensive player (by offensive, I mean going for the goal, not a player that refuses to bathe) runs behind the defense, he is in an offsides position. Wait, don't blow the whistle yet. Don't scream at the ref yet. Offsides only gets called if the ball is passed to the player in the offsides position or if that player interferes with the goalie in some way. So, a player can be offsides, but the ref will wait to call offsides until the player becomes involved in the play. See, wasn't that easy? Now you can scream your heart out at the next soccer game when you are confronted with the injustice of a missed offsides call.

So, yesterday's lesson was that when a group of adults is confronted with sheer incompetence, they will somehow band together to fill the void. Hopefully, the same is true in other situations, such as nuclear power plant management or microbrewing.

Today's Blind Ignorance Award Goes to (drum roll)...

From time to time this blog will bestow its highest lowest honor, the Blind Ignorance Award. This is not an award given lightly. One has to be truly out of touch to receive this award.

Today's award goes to the mercifully unnamed headline writer at the Marin Independent Journal. He (or she) took a story about women journalists finally getting their recognition as serious journalists and not objects of desire and titled it "Sexy Socialization." Really, I'm not making this up. The headline is in at least 72-point type as it looms beneath images of Lisa Ling, Rachel Maddow, Nancy Pelosi (journalist?) and Jane Fonda (another journalist?). By the way, how could anyone write a story about female journalists and not include Lesley Stahl of 60 Minutes. Jane Fonda, journalist, really?

The article, which is about the film "Miss Representation" about female journalists (get it, pun lovers?), actually has the phrase "...in which she excoriates the media for its demeaning portrayals of women as sexual objects, consequently damaging the self-esteem of young girls and blunting their aspirations for leadership roles in American society." This would be a powerful statement if it wasn't under the umbrella of a huge banner reading "SEXY SOCIALIZATION."

One of my first jobs, after spending five years in home construction, was as a reporter at my hometown paper, The Turlock Daily Journal.  I started as an intern while I was in college and returned after graduation as a reporter. To give you a sense of that paper's focus, I can refer you to one of today's headlines on their website, "Farmers Seek Longer Irrigation Season." It was there I was first exposed to the headline writer. This is a person more obsessed with finding something catchy that fits in the space available on the page than actually linking the headline to the content of the story.

I once wrote a story for the lifestyle section that was a profile of a "chiropractor" who only worked on dairy cows. (Still not making this up.) The dairy would call the chiropractor and he would go out there and literally whack the cow with a rubber mallet and a stick and the dairymen would swear that the afflicted cow would then produce more milk. I wrote the story a bit tongue in cheek. I didn't trash the "doctor," but I wrote more about the image of a guy on a step-stool whacking a cow with a rubber mallet than an actual miracle cure for cows.

Sure enough, the headline writer puts something up like "Chiropractor Cures Cattle" over the story and the next thing I know my story is picked up by the Associated Press and printed across the state...well, at least across the Central Valley. My guess is the Los Angeles Times probably skipped the big "cow chiropractor story" that week. The next thing I know I'm getting calls from television news stations wanting to know how to get in touch with this cow miracle worker. The guy ended up being famous and, most likely, pretty well off due to a headline writer not actually reading the story for which she was writing the headline.

Working at a small town, rural paper in the late '80s was interesting. I was fresh out of college and thought that I was going to find and write about my own Watergate someday. I actually ended up writing more about life in the country. I had a brief stint on the "crime beat" and after viewing a car accident with children badly injured as the first-responders arrived, I realized I didn't have the stomach for that. So, I found my niche writing about people and I guess I still enjoy that even though it's not my day job.

The paper had a real live press in the back. It was immense and it really was a rush when it would kick into gear at about 2 p.m. (we were an evening paper) and vibrate the entire building. The entire crew managing the press were drunk. There was a bar behind the Turlock Journal and most of the press crew would be in the bar until someone went over to let them know that the paper was ready to be printed. It's a wonder I never saw someone seriously injured back there. Even drunk, these guys had been doing this so long that they managed to keep their limbs out of the whirring gears and belts that made up the press.

So, dear Marin IJ headline writer, I look forward to tomorrow's story about a five-car pile up on Highway 101 with the headline "Reduced Speed Results in Reduced Emissions on Green Highway."

Porch Terrorist

Halloween is around the corner and it's time once again to figure out just how far to go in creating our haunted porch.

In past years, I've gotten a little carried away and that has led to some uncomfortable situations. The one that comes to mind is my first attempt at the haunted porch. I built a black widow spider that was three feet in diameter with eyes lit by glowsticks. I suspended it from our second story above the porch with fishing line and a little pully.

Not My Porch, But Still Spooky


The idea was that the spider would lower down after the unsuspecting trick-or-treaters had come up to the front door. They take their candy and turn around and, boo, there's a spider with glowing eyes hovering there at their eye level between them and the street.

Okay, admittedly, I was so enthusiastic about the engineering aspect of this that I hadn't thought about the impact it would have on little kids. Though it was nearly ten years ago, I can still picture the two little girls, maybe third-graders or so, that were at the front porch and completely lost it when they turned around to see the spider hovering there behind them. Candy flew as they ditched their plastic pumkins and just stood their screaming.

It didn't take long for the girls' father to come running up to gather the girls up and give me his opinion of my spider surprise. His opinion was along the lines of: (language edited for blog) "Golly, jeepers, why on Earth would you lower a spider down in front of two elementary students?" He was right, of course. It was a dumb thing for me to do. I was so excited that I could do it that I hadn't thought about whether or not I should do it.

In following years, I toned it down a bit. There was the 4-foot ghost that ran down a wire line from the top of the street light across the street to the second story of my house. Glowsticks were again involved and it just sort of non-threateningly whisped through the air above the heads of tricker treaters. This worked great until about an hour after dark, when the wire broke and the ghost plunged into the tricker treaters below. Thankfully, they were older at that hour so it didn't turn out to be Spider: Part Deux. They actually wanted to me to set it up and kill the ghost again, but sadly the ghost had given his all on his first plunge to the concrete.

Another attempt that faired a little better was "Area 51." This consisted of an 8-foot in diameter flying saucer that had "crashed" on our front lawn. It was wood-framed and wrapped an a whole lot of Costco aluminum foil. Since it didn't move or sneak up on people, it seemed to be better received than previous years. As long as the aliens stayed inside of the flying saucer, all was well.

Why do I do these things around Halloween? Well, it comes from my childhood. Halloween was always more about our porch than going trick-or-treating. My dad and I had a routine. We'd set up a speaker in a bush by the front porch and add some scary lighting. My dad would be in my room, which overlooked the porch, with a microphone. While scary "haunted house sounds" (remember that cassette you'd buy at the supermarket?) would play in the background, my dad would use his scary guy voice and make random comments over the fake screams and organ music playing.

When trick-or-treaters would approach, my dad would yell, "Monster, Monster" and I would come running out of another bush costumed as a monster with ripped clothes and a freaky rubber mask. I'd run around, kids would scream, and then I'd pull candy out of my pockets and give it to the kids. Either kids were more sturdy then or I just wasn't very convincing as a monster, because we never had a single parent complain. We were actually kind of a draw.

This year, I've toned it down. The bushes outside of our porch have the obligatory fake spider webs and we have a rubber head on a stake where I've helpfully added a "We're Open" sign to the stake. That's about as scary as we plan to be this year.

Here's hoping your Halloween is free of hovering spiders, plunging ghosts, crashed flying saucers and carried away people like me in general.

Earthquake Etiquette

How polite is one supposed to be in an earthquake?

That was the question on my mind yesterday afternoon. I was crammed into a fairly small library at a law firm with six people having a meeting. About halfway through the meeting an earthquake hit. It was only a 3.8, so not a biggie, but it turned out the epicenter was in nearby Berkeley, so we could really feel it.

The quake came as two sharp jolts and I could actually feel the bookcase that my chair was against move back and forth. At the time, I was wondering if this is the start or the end of the quake. Are we all done or is this going to be like Loma Prieta and keep building and building? While I'm thinking this I'm looking at the little conference table in the middle of the room. It has room for maybe three people under it at the most. So, if things really start shaking, it's three people under the table and the rest fend for themselves in the library.

Now if this was the movie version of my life, the scene would work out like this: Matt Damon, playing me of course, would immediately insist that everyone else get under the table. He would stand on top of the table as the rest quiver below and deflect ceiling tiles and law books as they started raining down while saying what would certainly become the movie's catch phrase, "Bring it on, Tectonic Plate. Bring it on!" Once the quake subsides, he would deflect an unexpected Ninja attack and everyone would be safe.

As this wasn't the movie version, but my actual life, I was in a sort of a quandry. Should I push the people next to me under the table if things start shaking again? Or, should I dive under the table. Really, how much politeness is required during an earthquake. I mean I really don't know these people. I could always say I thought I had dropped my pen under the table and was just retrieving it.

Well, the earthquake didn't return and rather than having to dig down deep and answer the question about who would end up under that table I instead spent the rest of the meeting trying not to stare at the ring pierced through the center of the nose of the woman facing me. It was kind of hard to stay focused with my brain spending more time analyzing the nose ring than the meeting conversation. ("That had to hurt. What if she has a cold? Does it get caught on stuff? If she had her nose pierced, then what else...")

I guess maybe the message is that chivalry isn't dead. It just gets a little strained at times.

Ocupado

Today, I had my own little personal episode of What Not to Wear.

You see, I had some appointments in San Francisco, so I took the ferry down from Larkspur. Tough duty, I know. I walk out of the Ferry Building and between me and the Financial District, where my meetings are, is Occupy San Francisco. It's a tent city that appears to be growing from what I've seen in the newspaper. (It's now much bigger than the picture you see with this blog posting.)

Now, I had a choice. I could go around and avoid the protest or I could go right through the middle. Curiousity got the better of me and I decided to go right threw it. I stopped in the middle to read some signs they had out to try and figure out their main focus. Why are they here? What exactly are they protesting? The signs didn't really help as they were about every topic under the sun from war to greed to the environment. When I looked up from the signs, I realized I had about four people around me and not looking real friendly.

It turns out that a navy pinstriped suit and a yellow "power tie" are not really the appropriate attire for a visit to Occupy San Francisco. I had unknowingly become "The Man." I was the embodiment of what they were there to protest. So, we had a little discussion and I explained to them that I'm more of a "Vendor to The Man" than actually "The Man" myself. They got a little more friendly at that point, so I got to ask them some questions about how things are going at the protest.

Who are they? Are they unemployed San Franciscans? Actually, no. The ones I spoke with were from Humboldt State and told me that others were also "occupying" that campus. Does the city provide bathrooms, showers any type of sanitation? No. They say they find other ways to deal with those needs. (I didn't ask them to elaborate because I was afraid the answer would ruin me for lunch later in the day.)

How do they pass the time? Well, this question I didn't need to ask, because my nose already had the answer. Occupy San Francisco smells a lot like pot...like a lot of pot, actually. I guess that explains why they are all just sitting around. Actually, it's a combination of pot and people who have been without a shower for a while. The combined scent is a lot like mulch. It's not really bad, it's just earthy.

That didn't end my experience as "The Man" today. Later, I was eating a salad with a coworker at a table outside of Mona Lisa on Columbus. We're sitting there crunching and chatting and the next thing I know I've got a guy yelling at me that I should "Go back to check my stocks and raping workers accounts!" I"m not sure I've got that completely right, but the words "stocks, workers" and "raping" were all definitely part of that.

Thankfully, my return trip back through Occupy San Francisco was relatively boring and this time I decided maybe stopping in the middle to read the signs and try and figure out just what they are protesting wouldn't be a smart move.

So, the next time you hear them protesting "The Man," just remember this. Who Da Man? I'm Da Man!

A Plea for Sean

Today's Marin Independent Journal reports that there has been a rash of vehicle break-ins in Ross. And really, if you are going to break into cars, you might as well pick the toniest part of Marin to do that. One can imagine the carnage of broken glass next to the Range Rovers and Priuses lining the mean streets of Ross as their detectives decked out in Armani try to figure out what's going on. "Hmmm. You say there is a bridge from here to Richmond? Hmmm. This is truly a mystery."

So, as a plea for someone I don't actually know, I just want to ask the thieves to please bring back Sean Penn's bong. The guy looks stressed out enough without having to deal with this. His wife left him and from the looks of Vanity Faire is actually doing a whole lot better without him. All he probably does is sit there with his bong at his Ross home waiting for Clint Eastwood to call and say, "Sean, I've got an idea for another movie and this time you are a bad boy, but instead of being a bad boy in Boston you are going to be a bad boy in Chicago. Kevin is already in and it's going to be great."

So, Ross car thieves, you can keep his Prius, but please bring back Sean Penn's bong so Southern Marin can relax again and not worry about Sean showing up at Woodland's Market in a tirade. They're a peaceful group down there, unless of course you break into their Priuses and take their stuff.

It's All In the Details

Hair is not something I think a lot about. Over the past year or so, I was going to a person who would consider himself a "stylist." He was pretty earnest in his effort to give me a hair style of my own...something that says, "This soccer dad, desk jockey has an exciting stylish side that's beyond carrying the folding chairs to and from the soccer field." His own hair is pretty long and somewhat suspended in midair. It's a cool look for him, but not really a fit for me.

What I ended up with was sort of a natural hair turbin. I had grown long enough hair to basically wrap it around my head for warmth and protection. It was gray, long and would really take flight when I'd drive my Midlife Crisis Convertible around town.

So, the time came to end the Long Hair Experiment and go back to my former look. It was time to go back to Supercuts and get the $18 special. The haircut took about 8 minutes and involved electric clippers. I left with about a quarter of the hair I had when I went in there and I was good with that.

I came back to the office and one of the guys who just moved here to work in the home office from conservative Southern California asked me where I got my hair cut. He's new to town and didn't know where to go. So, I sent him to Supercuts.

It honestly just slipped by mind to give him the extra detail about the Supercuts in Novato. I mean when I first went it caught me off guard, but now I just accept it as part of the whole experience. I mean every place has its unique character and our Novato Supercuts is no exception. So, I never thought to mention to my coworker that the guy who cuts hair over at Supercuts is a crossdresser wearing a dress.

Well, my coworker returned to the office a little shell-shocked. "I walked in and there was a guy wearing a dress and I thought this can't be where he goes, so I walked back out and looked around and that was the only Supercuts there," he sort of babbled as he described his adventure in Bay area crossdressing. He did eventually "Man-up" and sit in the chair to get his haircut.

I felt bad. Had I been thinking, all I had to do was say,  "Oh, by the way, one or both of the Asian guys in there will likely be wearing a dress. Just go with it." I would have saved my conservative coworker much angst. Who knows what he was thinking while he was in that chair. "Is it wrong to get a haircut from a guy in a dress? Where does he buy dresses for men in Novato? Is there a Men's Dress Warehouse over next to the Old Navy?" Knowing this particular coworker, he must have been at near panic level while sitting in that chair.

So, the moral of the story is that what may seem like a minor detail to one person might actually be a major issue to someone else. One man's dress may in fact become another man's anxiety attack. I must do a better job of covering the details in the future.

Poor Us

There it was on the front of the Marin Indepent Journal this morning. The group "Occupy Marin" has formed to address the deep economic oppression we all face as residents of Marin.

There was a picture with the article denouncing corporate greed, military spending, as well as a plea to move away from fossil fuels. So which is it? What you they demonstrating against? What are you for? Focus, people, focus!

Can you imagine the issues they had to deal with at the "Occupy Marin" rally in San Rafael? First of all, there's the parking. Where are you going to put all of those BMWs, Lexuseses (what is the plural of Lexus, anyhow?) and Mercedes? My guess is some of those protesters were driving cars that were more than three years old. Then of course, there's the basics. Water would have to be provided in BPA-free reusable water bottles. It's not like Marin protesters are going to drink out of a hose. Then, of course, there's the rest room issue. My guess is the downtown Starbucks had a banner day yesterday. They were probably lined up out the door for a pit stop and a latte.

I've lived in Marin off and on for nearly 20 years. One thing I've noticed is people have a lot of time. Drive through Mill Valley at 11 a.m. and you'll notice people out everywhere. They are jogging, biking, sipping, eating, chatting. What they don't seem to be doing is working. Somehow, they've found a way to fund the other "ings" without the bother of going to an office. So, my guess is when the word was put out that there's going to be an "Occupy Marin" protest that they were grappling with issues like moving their pilates appointment so they could make the protest.

Who exactly are they protesting? If it's the bankers and CEOs that live in Marin, then you might want to march on down to San Francisco where they are working and do your protest there. They're not in Marin in the middle of the day when you do your protest between carpools and a mani/pedi. The only people in Marin that fit your "Nation Ruled by Corporate Greed" sign is the manager of the Starbucks where you just took a pit stop and bought a $4 coffee.

I'm a little suspicious that it's the same folks demonstrating in San Rafael over and over for various issues. The Tweet goes out, "Hey, the weather is great. What are we pissed about today?" I was in San Rafael a few months back to get something at Mike's Bikes and I walked by a group of four protestors with signs depicting President Obama with Hitler's mustache. I have no idea what they were for or against. I just thought to myself that no matter how you differ from the President due to your political views or racial preferences, it's going way too far to depict him as Hitler.

I look at the protesters, the arguing politicians that can't find a middle ground to get anything at all done, and I can't help think that there's just a lot of angry people in the world right now. Is our generation somehow less adept at dealing with adversity and challenges? Our parents went through the Great Depression and yet they still came through it able to raise a generation to be relatively optimistic about the future. Have we lost that?

I don't think we have. I think we all need just a little more Burt Bacharach right now.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love
It's the only thing that there's just too little of
What the world needs now is love, sweet love,
No not just for some but for everyone.
Cheesey song or good advice. You be the judge.

Battling Obscurity

I was listening to the radio on the way into work this morning and I heard that, in San Francisco, Columbus Day is now celebrated as "Italian Heritage Day" with its own "Italian Heritage Day Parade."

So, Christopher Columbus has joined Pluto in the "I was once relevant club." Remember Pluto? When I was growing up it was a full-fledged planet, a far away cold place that would likely be the first stop for any invasionary force from another galaxy. Then, just a few years ago, they decided that Pluto was just sort of a gas cloud out there in the galaxy, a galactic flatulence of sorts.

Now, it's Columbus. Okay, don't try and pursuade me with facts. We all know that Christopher Columbus probably arrived to find a carving on a tree that said, "The Vikings Were Here," and just chose to ignore it. His crew was Spanish, not Italian. So, the edited version of discovering America is that an Italian dude with boats and crew supplied by Spain "discovered" America after the Vikings got here to look around a bit. Okay, granted, that's less compelling as a national holiday and parade than the version I learned when I was in elementary school. But still, it's Columbus. I even know someone named "Nina." Think of how hard this must be on her.

As poor Christopher Columbus falls in status, Steve Jobs rises to Gandhi like status this week. Now of course I wish they had a cure for cancer and Steve Jobs was still alive. I wished him no harm. But, CNN has him personally inventing Pixar, the iPod, the iPhone, the iPad, etc. Having worked in the Silicon Valley, my guess is some very talented design teams came up with those Apple devices and then pitched them to Jobs and the rest of the executive team as something that would be cool to build. As for Pixar, John Lasseter may just have a little to do with the success of that company. To me, it's ironic that the same week we have protesters demonstrating against the greed of corporate America, we also have impromptu memorials being set up for a departed CEO. What does that say about America? "Greed is bad unless we get cool gadgets?" I don't know.

So, whether it's poor flatulent Pluto, Christopher Columbus or those unnamed designers that came up with the iPod, I guess we are all battling obscurity in our own way.

But Is It Art?

Dude, where's the righteous indignation? Where's the contempt? You're an artist.

Okay, let me back up a step. Last Sunday, I came home from a bike ride to find my wife very excited about an art sale nearby. We went down to one of our local shopping centers and sure enough there was an artist set up in front of the Italian restaurant showing off his art for sale. My wife was right. Most of it was really good stuff with the types of European settings that already occupy many walls in our house.

We avoided the cliche "Oh look, it's the Eiffel Tower, so it must be Paris" and the "Oh look, it's a guy in a gondola, so it must be Venice" paintings and settled on one that over looks a little village on the sea. It's a place I've never been, but would like to visit some day, which sort of fits the theme of the art in our home.

We were all ready to make a purchase when my wife brought up the issue. One of the walls in the room where the painting will reside is purple...really, really purple. It's nearly 30 feet tall and the majority of it is purple. The painting under consideration had red flowers, yellow flowers, but no purple flowers...none at all.

So, in order to bring the painting into alignment with our home, my wife asked the artist if he could add some purple flowers to the painting. This is when I expected the outburst from the artist. After all, he's an artist! This would be like going to a chef and saying "I'd like to have the Osso Bucco, but could you make it with chicken?" The chef would grab the butcher knife and threaten bodily harm. So, I waited for the artist to say, "Dis (implied French accent) is de painting of de place I was at and there were no purple fleurs!"

But, it turned out our artist was from Ashland, Oregon and a really, really happy guy. Really, I can't emphasize enough how happy this guys was. If you look up "blind enthusiasm" in the dictionary, you will see a picture of this artist. My guess is when he is not painting, he is tending to a pretty good sized herb garden up there in Southern Oregon. He didn't blink an eye. He whipped out his paints, did a little mixing and soon there were purple flowers in the village where previously none existed. He did a great job and it is on our wall in our home.

Still, I have to say I was a little disappointed. I mean he's an artist. He shouldn't paint to match furniture. Where's the tempor tantrum? Where's the "How dare you change my artistic perspective" type of talk? Where's the flinging of paint in our direction as we are chased from the porch of the Italian restaurant?

Oh well, I guess times are tough and if it takes a few purple flowers to sell some art, then I guess we can all be a little flexible.