.PACIFICA, CA. My sister Fannie's surgery is tomorrow, but, until then, she's determined to have fun. She's a member of the
Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band, in Berkeley, and so, last night, we headed to their clubhouse, the
Temple Bar, a Hawaiian bar 'n' grill on University, a hop, skip, and a jump from Cal.
.I've never been to the Temple Bar, nor have I met any of Fannie's ukulele (pronounced
oo-koo-LEH-leh, Brudda) pals, so I didn't know quite what to expect. Fannie clearly expected
big fun.
.From her home in dreary Pathetica (as she calls this soggy town), we headed north on Highway 1, then through the city and across the bay. Pretty soon, we were in Berkeley, who's name should be pronounced "BAR-klee," but isn't.
.Berkeley, of course, is the home of "Cal." It takes some nerve to call your university "Cal." I mean, there are other universities in California, not just that one.
.My friend Kris (aka
My Own Private Idaho), like all UCB graduates I've known, calls the campus Cal, and one gets the feeling that complainers are destined to pay dearly for their clueless temerity. So "Cal" it is!
.The Temple Bar doesn't take up much space along University, and, despite being next to a
Jiffy Lube, it manages to look pretty attractive. I love the old buildings of the neighborhood. Even that fucking
Jiffy Lube somehow manages to look old and funkular and generally Berkeleyesque. Don't know how.
.As Fannie and I entered the bar, we were immediately greeted by several patrons and virtually all Temple employees. Every one of 'em knew that I had come up north to take care of my little sister. They seemed genuinely glad about that and genuinely grateful to me.
.Gosh.
.The actual bar (see picture), I'm told, was transported via ship around the Horn, many years ago.
.Hawaiians aren't vegetarians, that's for sure, but, if you're willing to eat seafood, you can do all right at the Temple Bar. I recommend the shrimp rolls.
.The place is owned by two Hawaiians, "Uncle" Kem and "Auntie" Roz. They were away in Hawaii, but their son Kemmy and his wife Carmen were holding the pupu. Terrific people.
.Evidently, in Hawaiian culture, the titles "uncle" and "aunt" are bound up with honor and respect. Only older and substantial people are called uncle or auntie, near as I can tell. I'm told that Uncle Kem is pure Hawaiian, and he's of royal blood to boot. He gets shitloads of respect, in part because he's a Ukulele Master, which seems to be something like one of those Kung Fu masters, only kindlier and with fewer burns.
.Everybody's "Grasshoppa" to Uncle Kem.
.Despite my advanced years, I do believe that I was immediately placed in the lowly "Brudda" category, fifteen notches below "Uncle." Still, everybody in that place was phenomenally friendly. Each visitor got a very deliberate and apparently sincere "Aloha." The bartender spent most of the night happily conversing with patrons. The conversations were very wholesome, but not in a sickening way--at least
I didn't get sick. It was the same at my table.
.Fannie and I sat with one of her bandmates, John, a non-Hawaiian who is, or was, a Math prof at Cal, I think. But he doesn't talk about math. Nope. Reportedly an accomplished guitarist—probably a jazz player—John seems focused on ukulele music and on the Temple Bar scene in particular.
.How is that possible?
.The same seemed true for his anglo friend Kat, who visibly
swooned to some of the music she heard or played that night. Swoonage is good. And it's all done without drugs or alcohol!
.Ukulele music is more substantial, I think, than it is usually given credit for being—by me, anyway—but still, as a life-long music guy who's been around the block, musicwise, I am surprised that so many serious musicians are drawn to this particular music, which is pretty simple.
.No doubt aficianados will cry foul. In any case, it appears that the uke scene, unlike, say, the blues or jazz or goth or classical scenes, is infused with Hawaiian values of respect, good cheer, and friendliness. There's something seriously
brotherly (er,
bruddaly) going on in it. And that's mighty attractive.
.Hey, between songs, Kemmy (aka Kem, Jr.), who plays bass, started up a conversation with me and then gave me a free beer, a special Hawaiian brew that was hidden away in the back room. What a guy!
.Later, his wife gave me a big hug. I don't know who payed for everything. I tried to pay, but John nixed that.
.This morning, my sister still had a massive buzz from her night of singing and playing with her bandmates and fellow "Hawaiians."
.And I'm done with trashing the ukulele. Hell, I think I'll buy one.
.Aloha!
.Next time:
the Bay Area: lunatic drivers and killer fog
FANNIE keeps saying that I'm having "an affair" with Tiger-Ann. That's cuz I had to leave Sunny Girl (aka the Pocket Puma) at home for this here road trip, and Fannie's cat, Tiger-Ann, insists on sleeping on my bed all day here in my temp digs in Pacifica, CA.
Up here in soggy Pacifica, I don't really have a big, brass bed. It's more like a semi-rectangular beach ball, with a colorful sheet over it. I saw the box it came in in the corner. I had no idea they made beds that you just blow up with your mouth. It must've taken Fannie all afternoon.
Down south, Mamma Sierra is watchin' over Sunny. I talked to Mamma S earlier today, and she reports that Sunny is flourishing down there in the land of goddam sunshine. It's like I never left. Better even, cuz Sunny and Mamma S have staring contests.
