Mrs The Fyd alerted me to this blog, where the blogger is transcribing his father’s family journal a day at a time.  The entries start in February 1945 in New York City.  I was almost startled to read this:

Eugene saw “Heil Hitler” written on a bus by some prankster and wanted to know what it meant.

It almost seems anachronistic to think of some disaffected teenager toward the end of WWII hoping to shock the normals in that fashion, but I suppose every age had such types.   I look forward to the series, and to more adjustments to my notions of the past.

I came across this post recently, and must admit that these peeks into strangers’ lives is also fascinating to me. I’m not sure I agree with the poster about these glimpses being poor substitutes for social interaction; instead I think that just as a motivation (certainly minor, probably unacknowledged) for visiting our friends and neighbors is not just to see them, but the chance to see how they live, so these views are part of what makes us connected, not surrogates.

That said, the most interesting to me is the link to the simple desks.  Those are beautiful pictures, but as peaceful and elegant as they are, I doubt I would get much work done at them.  At my day job I sit at a desk, but working at home I prefer to use my laptop with a lap desk, while relaxing in an armchair or on the sofa. So my setup is pretty simple, but definitely doesn’t quite have that refined air:

However, it does have a Mac, just like those other photos, and best of all it has a dog whose behind can just be seen to the right of the screen.

If this is true, then Kent Arnold should be charged with the attempted murder of Damien Echols.

I recall sitting at Candlestick Park behind the Giants’ dugout a few minutes before an evening game was going to begin.  This was a couple of decades ago, exactly which season I don’t recall, but I was staring at the trio of Will Clark, Kevin Mitchell, and Matt Williams standing together, probably at least a couple of them with bats on their shoulders, chatting and joking.  I realised then that I was looking at three men with a collective worth of some multiple of millions of dollars, modest by today’s baseball standards but by any other an obscene amount of money for grown men to make playing a game.  So I understand that the fortunes of a group of men, utter strangers to me, possibly indifferent to the city of my birth and the baseball team of that city except as an employer, are not the same as my fortunes.  Their success is not my success.

Unfortunately, their failures have felt like mine.  After 2002 I made myself understand that it is unreasonable to act so, and thereafter I tried to distance myself somewhat from the experiences of any of my favorites sports teams.  But allegiances die hard, and so I will not feel any twinge of inconsistency if I acknowledge that THE SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS HAVE WON THE FREAKIN’ WORLD SERIES.

I had 1989 and 2002, and my father had 1962 as well.  For all that thought this, or this, it’s finally over.

From my annual trip to see the Giants this summer, here is a superb action shot of Matt Cain, the hero of Game Two:

I was in San Francisco again earlier this month, on a visit with my father.  It’s easy to become attached to the city, even if you weren’t born there.  Here is a picture I took from Treasure Island:

And just to the left of that:

Earlier that morning we went to visit the Mission Dolores in the city.  It’s hard to imagine that time, when the mission was the most substantial structure around.  Now of course it’s all urban, and right nearby I came across by a chance a bar immortalized in one of my favorite songs, by Steel  Pole Bath Tub, in which the singer lists a series of misadventures that befell him the night before, but he can’t remember any of them:

I don’t remember being on the floor
I don’t remember how it smelled
I don’t remember how they’ve been there before
I don’t remember when I fell

…

I don’t remember why I woke up alone
With no more memory of you
I don’t remember

that we were in love
That’s only one thing that I recall
I was singing at the 500 Club
I don’t remember her at all

Lo, the 500 Club:

This week we lost an important and lovable member of our family, our Medea.  Happy hunting, Doodle.

South America’s Savage Wars of Freedom, 1810-30 Robert Harvey

About a Boy Nick Hornby

The Road Cormac McCarthy

Why Sinatra Matters Pete Hammil

Augustine: A Very Short Introduction Henry Chadwick

Dead Reign T.A. Pratt

The Civilization of the Middle Ages Norman F. Cantor

The Soul of Latin America: The Cultural and Political Tradition Howard J. Wiarda

Modern European History, 1871-2000 David Welch

The 42nd Parallel, 1919, The Big Money John Dos Passos

Worst Song, Played on Ugliest Guitar Chris Onstad

The Fires of Vesuvius: Pompeii Lost and Found Mary Beard

Anansi Boys Neil Gaiman

American Colonies: The Settling of North America Alan Taylor

Empires at War: The French and Indian War and the Struggle for North America, 1754-1763 William M. Fowler, Jr.

Africans: The History of a Continent John Iliffe

History of Africa Kevin Shillington

The sign below is posted about a half-block down the street from a couple of these churches.  I guess there are some folks who don’t like the infusion of cars every Sunday (and Wednesday as well, apparently).

Dogs lolling in the shade of the dogwood tree:

Reminds me of one of my favorite poems in the Poetry in Motion series on TriMet.

I was at the bus stop on the northeast corner of the Bank of America building during this, but didn’t see this:

The protest left some damage in its wake, police said, with windows broken at the Bank of America building on Southwest Fifth Avenue.

I was at Fifth and Salmon; maybe the windows were further up Fifth, but I didn’t hear glass breaking.  I will go and check it out.

If I’d had the presence of mind, I would have taken a picture of the moment when the anarchists tried to break away from their police escort, but as they swirled around me and the others at the bus stop, they were stopped in their tracks by the wall of mounted police on Salmon St.  It was quite a tableau, with the black flags on one side, mounted cops on the other, cops on foot blocking off the street to the north.  That’s when I moved into the bus shelter, in case there was a charge by either side.  The situation was fluid, in respect both to how quickly the scene changed and the manner in which the crowd changed direction and flowed east, channeled in that direction by the pressure of the cops.  Then I stood for awhile, waiting for my bus home, but the cops still had Salmon blocked off to the west.  I used my PDXBus app to figure out where they had re-routed it to and set off to meet it.  I saw no more, heard no more, of the protest.