Chunk and Elroy go downtown

Walk on, talk on,
baby tell no lies.
Don't you be caught
with a tear in your eye.

Come on, baby, let's go downtown,
Let's go, let's go,
let's go downtown.

—Whitten & Young's "Come on Baby, Let's Go Downtown"

CLICK ON THE IMAGES to make them larger:

Sister Fannie is doing lots better today--although she isn't feeling lots better: she says she's at seven on the ten scale, painwise, which ain't good. I felt bad.

Elroy and I visited her just before noon, but she had just achieved a kind of sleepiness, so we left her to try to catch some ZZZZs. Meanwhile, we went into the city.

I took these snaps mostly from the driver's side of my Chrysler, so they're a little wacky, but I like wacky.

These pics might not be very good, but they are fresh. I just took 'em a few hours ago!

We blundered our way over to Coit Tower, where I half expected to see Clint Eastwood hotfooting it up the hill with his 44 Magnum. It was a nice day, so we got our tickets, crowded into the tiny elevator, and went straight up twenty-one floors.

I tried to speak German to a German family, but they just stared at me. Later, Elroy noted that they were indeed a German family, but they were a deaf German family. Oh.

Elroy knows some sign language, owing to his stint as a cop in Brisbane. He signed something to me, but I did not dare ask what he was saying. "Asshole," probably.

Weatherwise, this is one seriously fucked-up city. But I've got to admit that it is also one seriously beautiful city. I loved driving through downtown and through the nearby neighborhoods.

Take it from me: a Chrysler 300 is perfect for racing through the streets of San Francisco. You don't need no stinkin' Mustang.

Do bring a jacket, though. Burr.

I didn't spot anybody with goddam flowers in their hair.

Here's that famous Pyramid building. It looks pretty good, I guess. I wonder if anybody's ever sat on the point?

OK, there isn't much that's cooler than an old Studebaker. I do believe that this is a 1955 Studebaker Commander Coupe. It's a dilapidated specimen, but I'll take what I can get.

After the Studebaker, we headed back to the hospital. We visited Fannie for a good three hours. She says, "Hey."

Robin Williams says "Hey," too.

Dispatch #8: A Place Like This

ON MONDAY, a trip into nearby Truckee found me jaywalking to kill some time at the outlet mall while my colleague got her hair cut. The mall featured the usual collection of clothing stores whose mark-downs of up to 70% still couldn't lure me to part with my money. The styles were too tailored or too sporty or both. Geofrrey Beene, Van Heusen, Bass, Izod and then an absolutely frightening collection of lingerie manufacturers all jammed together into one storefront. Gleaming white headless female torsos clad in matching flouresecent bra and panty sets.

As I found the crosswalk to return to the beauty parlor, I noticed (how could I not?) a ten foot white cross at the corner of of the lawn that bordered the Izod shop. Closer inspection revealed a large rock at its base adorned with a plaque. According to the local historical society who sponsored the plaque, many years before the outlet mall was erected, the Graves cabin stood at the very same place. The Graves family was part of the ill-fated Donner-Reed party whose tribulations have transfixed generations of California school children and others.

California author, James D. Houston wrote a fine account of the Donner-Reed party in his novel "Snow Mountain Passage." I recommend it. Houston's refusal to dwell on the cannabalism aspect delighted me but disappointed a writer in the NY Times, whose review was titled, "Meals on Wheels."

Houston's most recent novel, "Bird of Another Heaven" traces the links between Hawaii and California through the lives of a California woman, Nani Keala, half-Hawaiian, half-Indian, who becomes a mistress of the last king of Hawaii and her great-grandson, Sheridan Brody, a Bay Area radio talk show host whose quest for his identity changes how he sees the past, the present and the future.

Of interest to our college community is Brody's observation near the end of the book:

"A while back I'd met a fellow from the English department at UC Berkeley. 'I have been around campuses for years,' he told me, 'but I've never seen a place like this. I mean, you're used to people stabbing each other in the back. That just comes with the territory, I guess. But here, they walk right up to you and make eye contact and stab you in the chest.' "

Because the night

I'M STILL REELING from the news of Tom Snyder's death. Snyder lived in Tiburon, which is near Sausilito, and so there seems to be a hightened interest in the gabby fellow in these parts (I'm in Pacifica right now, just south of San Francisco).

This morning, Tim Goodman of the San Francisco Chronicle offers a lovely column about Snyder. Check it out.

Goodman mentions a DVD that was released a year or so ago: The Tomorrow Show with Tom Snyder: Punk & New Wave. I had remembered some of those shows, with Johnny Rotten, the Plasmatics, Iggy Pop, the Ramones, Elvis Costello, Patti Smith (that one was amazing!), et al. As soon as the DVD was released, I snatched it up. It's wonderful!

Is this a sign that I've become an oldster, a geezer, an old-timer? Somehow, it's wonderful reliving those odd moments, twenty-five or thirty years ago, watching those late-night collisions of world-views (Snyder's vs. Smith's; the audience's vs. Smith's; the audience's vs. Snyder's) on more-or-less live TV. Little did I know at the time that I was watching something that would seem so wonderful so many years later.

Come on now try and understand
The way I feel when I'm in your hands
Take my hand come undercover
They can't hurt you now,
Can't hurt you now, can't hurt you now

Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to lust
Because the night belongs to lovers
Because the night belongs to us

Plastic features and hollow eyes (Bay Area adventures)

WADDA DAY. After Fannie’s 8-hour surgery yesterday, she seemed fine, but then, this morning, her BP plummeted to 70 over 30 or something. To make a long story short, her doctors decided to move her to ICU where they pumped her full of drugs and new blood. Her BP had crawled up to more normal levels by the time (Fannie's friend) Elroy and I left the hospital two hours ago.

Whew!

Naturally, my folks called Fannie (from OC) this morning, only to hear their groggy daughter baldly state her BP numbers plus the fact that she was being moved to ICU. That’s when she faded out. My parents freaked. They left a panicked voicemail on my phone.

With a phonecall, I managed to de-freak them. I'm trying to encourage them not to talk to Fannie directly. Not at least until she emerges from her post-surgery groggitude.


GRUFF BUT GOOD. Elroy and I visited Fannie at about noon. That's when I observed Fannie's very gruff eastern European (Russian?) nurse, in whose way I managed to stand. “Vat is deh matter vit you, eh? Seet down over dehr! Be now out of trau-ble!”

OK, so I exaggerate. A leetle.

Just then, Fannie’s doctor showed up and happened to mention that nurse Natasha (or whatever her name was) was “the best nurse in the hospital.” She was standing right there, inspecting the previous nurse's work with the IVs and whatnot.

“Oh, please. Now you shaut aup,” muttered Natasha.

Later, my sister confirmed that Natasha was indeed a great nurse. “I like you,” said Natasha to Fannie, after Elroy and my first visit today. “Remember, dough,” she added, “Deh [namely, Elroy and I] are s’posed to entertain you, not you dem!”

OK, so probably she IS a great nurse.

At one point, I saw Natasha glaring at the Tower of IVs next to Fannie's bed. Something was wrong. Soon, Natasha grabbed one of the IV tubes and pointed to a section of it. She announced, "Dees tube ees keenked. You getting nutting! I feex!" And she did.


It was another dreary day, mostly, here in Fogland, though there were patches of sunlight, at least over in South San Fran, where Elroy and I visited the local Costco to buy Fannie a portable DVD player with video iPod thingamabob. It’s nice, but it looks like she won’t be using it any time soon. She can barely move.

I TOOK SOME TIME this evening to catch up on the news in OC, but that only managed to piss me off.

GRATUITOUS COUGAR KILLAGE. Evidently, last Friday, some assholes from the Department of Fish and Game shotgunned a cougar to death out near the fucking Coto De Caza Gold & Racquet Club. Evidently, two cougars were spotted there earlier, so the Fish & Game assholes went out there to check it out. According to the OC Register, “When the two big cats approached [the] wardens, one cat was shot and killed.”

That’s just fucking great.

A few hours earlier, says the Reg, a 14-year-old kid spotted a cougar at the golf course. The beast was quietly sitting in the grass, minding its own cougular business. The kid came within 25 feet of the cat and took dozens of pictures. He told the Reg, “I wasn't really scared or anything because (the lion) just seemed to be really calm and kind of reserved.”

Yeah, reserved.

Other people were with the kid, gawking and yammering, but that didn’t inspire feline aggression. Eventually, the creature got up and “wandered away down the golf course.”

—Yeah, only to be shotgunned to death by MORONS a few hours later.

Here’s one of the pics.


SEAL STABBAGE. As if that weren’t bad enough, yesterday, the Reg reported that a court hearing had been set for a local ASSHOLE who (“allegedly”) stabbed a sea lion to death with a steak knife:

Police arrested Hai Nguyen [aka TOTAL FUCKING ASSHOLE FROM HELL], 24, on charges of attacking a 150-pound, female sea lion near the 'M' Street Pier in Newport Beach, stabbing the animal repeatedly with a steak knife after it had taken bait fish from his fishing pole, Newport Beach police Sgt. Evan Sailor said…The wounds proved fatal, with veterinarians at the Pacific Marine Mammal Center electing to euthanize the animal after it was found the several chest wounds could not be treated, Richard Evans, the center's medical director, said.

Knife Boy is facing charges of cruelty to an animal. But he could face federal charges as well. Hope so.


UNBELIEVABLY STUPID WOMAN SCARED. One animal story managed to cheer me up:

Self-described psychic scared by 'unbelievably large man'

A woman who described herself as a psychic told police on Sunday that a large "crazy" man was on her balcony Saturday night…The woman described the man as "unbelievably large God-like man" with "plastic features and hollow eyes." She told police the man used her phone and then told her "thanks."…The woman reported that her cat is now terrified because of the experience.

I wouldn’t take the woman’s word for that last bit of info. I’d talk to the cat directly.

(All photos above taken today by Chunk from Elroy's car. —'Ceptin' for the cougar shot, which was taken by that kid.)

City lights

WE GOT UP at 6:00 a.m., left for the hospital at 7:15. Went up Highway 1 to Skyline and then along the coast on the "Great Highway" all the way up to the Cliff House. It was mighty foggy and cold.

Fannie didn't say a thing. She was worried.

Soon, we were on Geary, which took us past Mel's Diner (yes, that one) and well into the city. We drove past St. Mark's and St. Mary's. At last, at about 8:00, we reached the hospital and then headed for the Ambulatory Surgical area on the 4th floor.

At 9:00, they finally called for Fannie, and off she went to prep for surgery. An hour later, they wheeled her toward the operating room. We didn't hear anything the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. We waited. All we had were two newspapers and Fannie's video iPod, which seemed to be filled with Dog the Bounty Hunter episodes and Hawaiian music. I opted for Dog.

At about 2:00, a fire alarm sounded. That entailed the usual obnoxious ring sound plus the flashing of very bright lights throughout the hospital. Over the intercom, we heard, "This is a red alert." Evidently, something on the roof was on fire. "That's just fucking great," I said.

Hospital employees looked concerned but did exactly nothing. We asked, "Is this serious, or what?" They shrugged. After about ten minutes, the alarm just stopped. Soon, it was as though nothing had happened.

We continued our vigil. I watched Dog. Some little kid came around and stared at me. I waved at him.

At 6:30, the oncologist came out and announced that the surgery was a success. They had removed various organs, but they had found no cancer in them.

While they were in there, they took out Fannie's appendix, too.

We said: "her appendix?"

"She requested that."

We waited around until 9:00 so that we could be there for Fannie when she came to. She was pretty groggy, boy. But she was glad to hear the good news.

She told us to go home and take care of Tiger-Ann, which we did. On the trip back, the fog had cleared, and we could actually see the ocean and the city lights.

"Wow," I said.

P.S. (11:00 a.m., Tuesday):

I let Tiger-Ann out on the deck, and she went out there and ate some grass. Then she stared at me. Something was wrong. I'm guessin' she misses her Mama Fannie who likely does stuff, like play with her ear tips or rub her chin. Who knows. I took a pic. This is how she stares at me.

I just went out there again, and she was soakin' up the sun (when it appears, intermittently) and mist (which never stops). Cats know how to roll with the punches.

Be a cat.

The peevish Tiger-Ann, layin' across my big brass bed

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.

I've gotta be careful to sleep exactly in the middle of this thing so I don't roll off or pop it—and then fall into the cat box. That would be bad, cuz that Tiger-Ann doesn't like to share space.

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.

Mostly, of course, Sunny, like the Tiger, is layin' across my big brass bed.

Chunk's Hawaiian adventure, in Berkeley

.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