Merry Christmas from the Family

The Kingwood Reeders

Yikes! Who let those people into Kingwood? The good part, I mean. Not those dumps off of Northpark. Full of my non-equals. As I recall, we first rolled into Kingwood in the spring of 1973, late at night during a huge storm. We used a long-successful Reeder family tactic: get in when no one's looking, stay until they get rid of you. Kind of like termites. Or Justin Bieber.

OK, that's not really relevant to anything. So I'll move on.

Haven't gotten to share nearly as many fun times with you this year as I'd like. Stupid work and life keeps interfering with the important stuff. Like writing in a blog. By the way, 2004 thinks blogging is way cutting edge. Eh. Well, still. It keeps me from hitting the Pabst Blue Ribbon too hard I guess.

Anyway, hopefully I can turn this trend around and focus less on my career and building a successful personal life, and more on solitary time spent spewing out riveting observations about the issues that grip the world. Like who wins a fight between Patrick Swayze's Road House character (Dalton) and his Dirty Dancing character (Johnny). Or the best way to see a bullfight. Or whether we should throw Hugh Grant or Jimmy Falloninto the saarlac pit first.

Tonight, now that all the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, I just thought I'd issue my Christmas Message. Actually, that's something the Queen does every year. You know. To all of her non-equals. This is more like a Christmas Message in a Bottle.

Let's get this out of the way. Hope all you Affirmers and others have a great Christmas. Enjoy your families, friends, bartenders, what have you. See everyone on the other side.

Frankly, I have kind of mixed feelings about Christmas. Its basically the Hot Cheerleader of the holiday calendar. Its totally beautiful and alluring and exciting on the outside. But when you get involved and dig deeper, you find its either empty and hollow or the shiny exterior masks a dark interior. Either way, eventually it takes away your will to live.

Oh, sure. There's the "peace and love and goodwill to man" vibe that flares up every now and then around Christmas. In between 50,000 Old Navy commercials and waiting two hours to find a parking place at the mall, someone might wish you Merry Christmas like they actually mean it and that gives you a little lift. Kids run around elated, counting the days until the toy and sugar bonanza coming their way. Families gathered round the TV, watching the same specials that the parents watched as children with their parents. Well, at least while their parents were mixing martinis for some of the Dad's work friends and their wives who'd come over for a little Christmas party. God the '70s were obnoxious. Enjoying the gleam in a child's eye on Christmas morning as they behold Santa's bounty and open their presents (on Christmas morning, not Christmas Eve or Christmas afternoon, like true Americans who really love their country).

Christmas in my family was a mixed bag. We'd go to the annual family get together and see our cousins (the sadistic older ones and the not-quite-right, cockeyed ones who live out on the farm) and our aunts and uncles (most of whom scared the living crap out of me, the rest of whom ignored us or happened to know every disgusting intimate little detail about our lives courtesy of the veritable "hotline" they'd established to keep current about such things). We'd go see Santa and have our pictures made, then go the old Borden Ice Cream shop, right next to the plant. Or in later years go to the House of Pies and...eat pie. We'd attend Christmas Eve church services, then go to a movie. Usually the only movie of the year we'd get to see. Dad made Mom go to K-Mart and buy candy (lemon drops...lame) to sneak in with her purse. She hated that. Then we'd go back home and eat and open one, and only one, present. Then Christmas we'd open our presents (see above...this is how real Americans do it). A 30-60 minute period of satisfaction would follow as we enjoyed our new toys. Then, like a margarita's buzz wearing off, the new toys or other stuff would fade into obscurity, and it would be back to waiting for next Christmas. Oh, and one of us would generally get sick. That's all normal, right?

Anyway, we all looked forward to it. Whatever it was. Family. Togetherness. Tradition. Spirituality. Ice cream. Christmas can engender these things among us. And, perhaps uniquely among all other religion based holidays, non-believers widely enjoy Christmas and enjoy many of the same attributes. Hey, that's cool. I'm not here to judge. As David Puddy once said, you want to go to hell, that's your business. You're more than welcome to enjoy our holiday.

But Christmas just as surely evokes a dark side. Just keeping up with all its social demands causes enormous strain. Finding time to buy all the gifts, obsessing over whether some people will like what you bought them, spending a fortune in the process. dealing with shopping traffic, enduring the "holiday party" slog, eating other people's near-toxic cooking, putting up with your no-boundaries relatives criticizing all your life choices, becoming engulfed in crass commercialism, wrapping presents, sending cards, and of course, the obligatory Full House marathon. Sheez!

Beyond just the inconvenience, Christmas can exact a heavy toll on the people suffering in life. The hurting, the lonely, the sick. As Stevie Ray Vaughan would have said, "for everyone who's still suffering." A time when everyone's running around all happy, and when everywhere you turn you see images of people having fun and cherishing their loved ones. When you don't have that, its pretty tough to take the relentless positivism. Christmas reinforces your problems.

Christmas still means something positive, on balance though. When you peel away the dozens of cracking paint layers that have covered over Christmas, it still dramatically symbolizes hope. Even for non-believers. Think of the original Christmas story. The one Linus recited in A Charlie Brown Christmas. The angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds, "and they were sore afraid." But the angel said "fear not." Well, and some other stuff. But that's what everyone can draw from Christmas. It embodies the fight back against the fear that inhibits you, crushes you, and steals your will. Christmas represents hope that something else awaits us besides the abyss. Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. Like, the Kardashians.

So when Christmas runs you down like an 18 wheelertaking out a deer on the highway, just forget all the surrounding nonsense, like the Sonny and Cher Christmas Special (replete with Cher's very moving rendition of O Holy Night). Think about the hope it symbolizes.

Hey, if nothing else, take comfort knowing that Pee Wee Herman wishes you a Merry Christmas.

 

Update on the Don and Birdie Reeder Global Emergency Fund

What an awful day. Does it seem like these "blaze of glory" mass shootings just keep happening and happening? More frequently even? I don't have kids but can't even imagine sending them off to school one day, like every other day, then knowing they'll never come home again. Ever. Little kids, who had their whole lives taken, just...because. How many more times will this happen? My lasting feeling is it just reinforces how our lives are so fleeting. Those parents, and the adults' spouses and loved ones, all assumed they had all the time in the world left with those who perished today. But they lost it in the blink of an eye. In circumstances they could never have expected. You can take every possible precaution, you can buckle up in the car, you can stay out of unsafe areas, you can watch your kids 24 hours a day. But when its your time, its your time. The apostle James wrote: "You do not know about tomorrow. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes." That's a fact. We can't know about tomorrow. We come and we go. Anything can happen any time. So treasure your time and those around you.

Tonight will contain no Dirty Dancing or Star Trek references or yuppies and Whole Foods jokes.

I've been meaning to update everyone about the Don and Birdie Reeder Global Emergency Fund's activities over the past year, and bizarrely perhaps, this seems like an appropriate night to talk about helping children. My family started the Fund, for those of you who may remember, in the wake of my mother's passing. We hoped to continue the work she and my father had done over many years to help children throughout the world. I first wrote about the Fund here. Basically, through our contributions and those of many others, the Fund has helped children and youths all over the world suffering through transitions making them vulnerable to such scourges as war, sex trafficking, hunger, lack of housing, or disease, which are so prevalent outside the "western world." Administered by Children's Emergency Relief International, the Fund has covered such expenses as college or apprenticeship tuition, rent or other basic living expenses, medicine, and other immediate threats to orphaned or vulnerable children.

Since its establishment in 2008, the Fund has expanded its brief and helped make possible more ambitious works. For example, it has helped build several homes for families, one of which is in Sri Lanka. Its hard to imagine that there's several "Reeder Houses" in this world, but there you go.

During the past two years, the Fund made possible several other projects, enabling CERI and its partners to provide:

• Medicine for a medical mission to the Central African Republic, which helped treat 1,100 patients in four days;
• Housing, supplies, and medicine to families and children in Moldova;
• Assistance with supplies and plants for new South African family farms;
• Food and water for 120 children suffering from Sri Lankan flooding; and
• Winter boots for 97 children in the republic of Georgia.

I haven't gone on any of the trips where volunteers help distribute this relief, or worked with CERI's in-country personnel who go into orphanages or villages and help children and parents. But the reports I've been provided sound like the volunteers quickly develop close bonds with these children and, where they remain together, with their families. Here's some scenes from those trips:

Developing a garden. Mpilonhle, South Africa

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Starving child, Central African Republic

You can see a video showing more scenes from the Central African Republic trip by clicking here.

Dr. Dearing Garner, who knew my mother closely for over 30 years, personally oversees the Fund and must approve every proposed expenditure. I meet with him a couple of times each year to review the Fund's activities and discuss its future. He ensures that every expenditure meets one test-would Miss Birdie have approved. I like to think that all this would have made her happy. Her life basically was all about helping children. Little kids by the hundreds all over the world flocked to her, pulled at her skirt, reached for her hands, even though they couldn't speak a word of english. They just knew she loved them and that was enough. She had a rare gift.

Mom

Many of you have contributed to the Fund through the years, and that's always very welcome. My family really appreciates those who have helped us in this cause. You can continue to do so on line at this link. Just hit the drop down menu for "Reeder Global Emergency Relief Fund." Or you can send something to





CERI
1406 Stonehollow Suite 400
Kingwood, TX 77339

And designate it for "Reeder Fund" or something along those lines.

Hopefully you will find it worthwhile.

Thanks for reading about how the Reeder Fund has helped children, on this dark day for children, teachers, and their families.

Merry Movie Christmas

Grace: Mr Cross, it's time for your Christmas list.

Frank: OK, let's get this over with.
Grace: Sammy Goldberg.
Frank:  Bath towel.
Grace: Lou Parker
Frank: VHS home video recorder.
Grace: Colonel Tom Parker.
Frank: The bath towel.
Grace:Tamara Forristal.
Frank: VHS.
Grace: Babalu Towloudes.
Frank: The bath towel.
Grace: Glenn Glenn Whitacre.
Frank: What was the last rating on "Police Zoo"?
Grace: 5.2  Nielsen and a 7 share.
Frank: Towel
Grace: Your brother?
Frank: Towel.
Grace: Your only brother.
Frank: Oh, God, give it to me! Get that.  - Towel, towel...
Grace: (answering phone) Mr Cross's office.
Frank: Towel... Most of these are towels, OK?
Frank: and Grace? Get yourself a towel. -
Grace: And my bonus?
Frank: Towel and a face cloth.

--Scrooged

Well I was going to talk about the Texas Longhorn football Factory of Sadness, but I'm still far too depressed to dwell on it, and that's hardly the way to promote Christmas cheer. Everyone knows I bring the Happiness, in spades (or is that "spates"?).

So its Christmas Presents now, Factory of Sadness later. 

Just about every comedian has a good Christmas rap. Some talk about Christmas customs, others about the whole concept. They've pretty much covered the weirdness we exhibit when celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I really like Jim Gaffigan's Christmas tree bit, for example. So that leaves me without much to add.

Though....

The gift giving tradition eludes me. "Hey, Jesus was born 2,000 years ago today, here's a Wal Mart gift card. Peace be with you." (spoiler alert, I'm giving someone a Wal Mart gift card). When you overlay the whole Santa thing as well, that makes even less sense. (oh, spoiler alert again...never mind). Its just one of those things that makes no sense when you dig deep, but you enjoy it anyway. Like the county fair. Or democracy.

Not everyone enjoys the holidays of course. Every year, celebrities up and down the fame pyramid interrupt Die Hard and Lethal Weapon reruns (two of the greatest Christmas movies ever, disputes not accepted), and get all preachy about the "less fortunate" and "those in need" and "those who are suffering" and blah, blah, blah. What, not everyone's getting his and her matching Ferraris? Losers. Or about all the depressed people whom the holidays drive to domestic abuse or suicide. I suppose if you just got divorced or you have no friends or money, or your kids hate you and won't talk to you, or you lost your job or something, one more time watching The Year Without a Santa Claus might just make you start looking for the nearest bridge. And in your case, unfortunately, Clarence the Angel won't be waiting to help out. Just the Heat Miser.

Not that its the same thing, but Christmas poses a lot of risks for a guy like me. You know, a socially awkward, narcissistic, sporadically mature loner with relationship and body image issues (but in a fun way). Basically, like the Fonz at 48 if he had never gotten married (I just assume that in the show world, the Fonz married Leather Tuscadero, had four kids, and owns a chain of muffler shops in the greater Milwaukee area. And that Potsie lives in their basement. I think about things like this you know.). Christmas always puts me in a sort of Bermuda Triangle, bounded by Poor Memory, Old Age, and Questionable Judgment. Its the damn presents. I do just fine for all the other holidays. No, Halloween is not a holiday. Roving gangs of pre-diabetal delinquents demanding candy, and adults dressing up in costumes do not make a holiday.

Presents have evolved beyond just a simple way to express affection or good will and celebrate Christmas. No, these days, a present really tells someone what you think of them. Sometimes this works (see jewelry ads). But more often than not this leads to disaster. You give her the 10 carat diamond tennis bracelet, and she hands you back a Wal Mart gift card. With generic wrapping paper. Or nothing. Message received. You give someone a diet book, they wonder "do I need to lose some weight?" You get the fruit cake, or the singing bass, or the Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer sweater. Am I retarded or something? (oh, sorry, that's cruel, I meant "an Aggie or something"). Or they give you something you originally gave them. My cousin's then fiance's first gift to her soon-to-be sister-in-law was an etiquette book. A big one. Subtle. Very subtle.

The aforementioned Bermuda Triangle boundaries combine to ruin my present selection game. Did I already give this person this as a gift? Maybe like 20 years ago for her birthday? Will he/she like this Rand Paul bobblehead doll? Or maybe the steak knives would be better?  The middle of the triangle? That whole body queasy feeling you get about five seconds after you realize you gave someone a present that you should not have. Or you didn't get them a present that you should have. Its the adult version of that sickening feeling when you broke some rule at home, the exact moment that it dawned on you what repercussions you would face. Or wrecked your dad's car.

Bermuda Triangle.

So since I've largely run out of present ideas (you reach a certain point where you've pretty much given people everything you can both afford and think of), and because I'm declaring a truce in the Christmas present war, I thought I'd at least have a little fun with giving gifts. Every year from now on I'll try to jazz it up somehow.

Here's the first idea. Oh, most of you can stop reading now. You're getting a towel.

The rest of you, you're getting your actual present, plus, a movie. Feel free to cheer now.

Why, you ask? Or, I will just pretend that you ask.

The movie will convey an implied message indicating something I think about you. Either some message to convey, or an opinion about you, or an impression I have of you. The "fun" is trying to figure out the meaning. Think of it as your very own message in a bottle. Or DVD case. The movie will "mean something."

So, for example, lets say you're a self-obsessed, overbearing mother scared of growing old and you resent your children's youth. Who dislikes wire hangers. You just might get a copy of Mommie Dearest. Though I'd never be so obvious. That's just to illustrate the principle. Or if you're an uptight, fussy, neat freak, or a slovenly lout, you might get The Odd Couple. Or if you're an underworld assassin, how about the Godfather? Pay close attention to Luca Brasi. Or if you're a black sheriff with a penchant for Gucci and Count Basie, Blazing Saddles.

Fun, huh? And, you know the movie will say something about you, just like all other gifts.

I'll make sure its not some dog movie or French New Wave thing either. You'll at least enjoy watching it, I hope, even if the whole "message thing" doesn't suit.

There you go. At least along with the awkwardness and trepidation, you'll get something at least remotely interesting to watch on a slow Sunday afternoon.

Or you'll stop speaking to me for the next eighteen months. Either one.

Merry Movie Christmas!

NEXT-I'm really not sure.

The Rules: Proper Locker Room Behavior

"That's what I call the Repo Code, kid. Don't forget it, etch it in your brain. Not many people got a code to live by anymore."

--Harry Dean Stanton, "Repo Man"

"My dear girl, there are some things that just aren't done, such as drinking Dom Perignon '53 above the temperature of 38 degrees Fahrenheit. That's just as bad as listening to the Beatles without earmuffs!"

--Sean Connery, "Goldfinger"

Remember that book The Rules? It came out in the early '90s or so and was a huge seller. No one much remembers it now and certainly no one practices its message. I never read it, of course (better things to do), but it basically was a bunch of past their prime sorority girls who couldn't get married, telling other women that they could best get married by rigorously following certain rules. I recall it as a bunch of practices Contemporary Single Man abandoned right around the Kennedy Administration. Things like: don't call men make them call you, make him pay on dates, insist that men make concrete plans in advance and not just wing it...basically one long way of saying don't give it up until you're married or engaged or something.

I don't particularly endorse those rules, but I absolutely endorse living your life by some rules. "Repo Man's got a code" as it were. One of many things separating me from you non-equals out there is I believe that in every situation, problem, and place, there's a right way to behave and a wrong way. Most of you hippies think "hey! Live and let live!" or "every choice is valid, man!" or "Don't judge me bro!" While, of course, you judge others and condemn various life choices with the other side of your mouth. But that's another story. For now though, The Captain follows a very stringent life code;  some things just aren't done. And on the flip side. If you're going to do something, do it the right way.  This covers just about every situation. Like, never vote for a lawyer. For anything. Not even for a judgeship. Never eat at a chain restaurant while on a trip. Never at a restaurant next to the freeway, no matter where. Never date a woman who owns a pair of white dress shoes (for non-ironic reasons or for some sort of nurse costume). Always hold the door for ladies. I've got about a million of these. Its not that I'm fussy or anything. OK. I'm fussy. Rules mean you never doubt how to behave. You always know what to do.

Vitally important reasons warrant raising this issue. Its finally dawned on me that you're behaving unacceptably in gym locker rooms. Yes. That's right. Unacceptably. Access denied.

People. Dammit. Look. Your local gym or health club's locker room, or wherever you go for pilates and hot yoga and power lifting...that's not your home. You should engage in three activities, and only three, in a locker room. To wit:

1. Changing into and out of your workout clothes.
2. Showering and cleaning.
3. Using the restroom.

What should not occur in the locker room:

1. Anything else.

Especially no conversations. Don't roll up on me half undressed, or more, asking whether I thought these are the end times that Jesus mentioned. Which happened. One week ago. Don't ask me if I'm a preacher or if I'm on television. Which happened. In 1991. Don't ask me how I've gotten so much leaner. Which happened. Three months ago. Don't talk to me about anything, and don't ask me to talk to you. Especially don't talk to me about my body or anything having to do with it.

But its not just the inexplicable penchant for chatting up men in various states of undress and sweat. The locker room is not the Men's Lounge. Don't hang around like its a Starbuck's or the bar at the Four Seasons. Don't hang around on the bench, filling out your workout log. Don't mix up your super-intense Beefcake!! protein shake. Don't be playing video games on your phone, or making calls for that matter. Do not wear, or keep in your locker, workout clothes that you last washed in 1985 and which can stand on their own. Wrap yourself in a suitably sized towel, rather than parading around for all to see. You're not the Emperor and we don't want to admire your new clothes.

And for God's sake, at least wear some shorts when you sit on the bench. And some flip flops or shower thongs. Anything to stop from coming into contact with the room. Or the room from coming into contact with your sweaty carcass.

Go into the locker room. Change your clothes. Put your gym bag away. Then leave. When you finish working out, go back into the locker room. Change again or quickly take a shower and change. Comb your hair. Look down the whole time. If you must speak, a simple "hi" or "enjoy your workout" will suffice. Then leave.

Why?

Well, two reasons.

Mostly because, you know who hangs around in locker rooms? Maverick and Iceman and all their little buddies, preening and posing ever so suggestively in their skimpy towels. Uttering double entendres like "that's right, Ice...Man. I AM dangerous!" or "You may not like who's flying with you, but whose side are you on?" Or with Hollywood hanging around in his shorty towel watching Goose prepare to mount Wolfman. See above. Geez, get a room fellas. See, those guys hang around in the locker room. A bunch of man-hugging, feelings sharing, hand towel instead of full towel using ballerinas. That should be enough, right there. Hey, this isn't a gay thing. Its a don't emulate Top Gun thing. (The "Best of the Best").

The other, equally compelling reason not to hang around in the locker room is that locker rooms are the most disgusting, vile, and filthiest place on earth where Kardashians don't routinely visit or reside. Given the choice between spending time in a locker room or the CDC Bioterror Germ Research Lab, I'd pick the lab every time. Cholera thinks locker rooms are dirty.  The Chernobyl Exclusion Zone stays out of locker rooms. Short of diverting raw sewage right down the middle of the floor like the Chocolate River running through the Wonka Chocolate Factory (only, not chocolate), there's not much more you could do to toxify the average locker room. Why in the hell anyone would spend one more second there than necessary escapes me. Don't you have homes?

So there you have it. Quickly get in and get out of locker rooms. Hold the conversation to the bare minimum. No pun intended. Do not contact each other or any room surfaces.

Finally, these rules only apply to men's locker rooms.  Women should of course feel free to linger in their locker rooms in various states of undress, comforting and reassuring one another, complimenting each other's training results, and arranging to meet later after their husbands or boyfriends leave for work. The hot ones that is. Don't you people know anything?

NEXT-either the "Texas Longhorn season round up," or "Merry Christmas, here's your movie!"

Escape From New York



Waiting in a seven block long gas line

Several people have asked me to write about my recent New York experience. By which I mean, one guy I think may have in a Facebook comment. Same thing.

As most of you know, I'm both a xenophobe and a world traveler. Which makes for an interesting mix. Like drinking Red Bull and NyQuil to see which one will win out. But I love visiting New York. Its got everything you can imagine all within a short subway or taxi ride: irreplaceable art and architectural treasures, rapacious and vulgar displays of wealth (what up, Carlyle Hotel?), vigorous and intense capitalism, third world hovels, middle American utilitarian functionalism (who in the hell goes to New York and eats at the Times Square Red Lobster? I guess if your life consists of living in Terre Haute, you're basically just marking time til you die, so the Times Square Red Lobster would seem like making it to French Laundry to you or me. Well, to me, mainly...most of you aren't nearly as cool as The Captain). And there's people from all walks of life; the proverbial sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads.... rich people, poor people, people hunched over carrying 17 plastic bags as they walk down the street talking to themselves and yelling at pigeons. I always see people from all over the world, often dressed in their colorful native garb (and who, inexplicably, continue the same lifestyles as if they were still back in Boogerglob, Yugoslavia or whereever the hell they're from; one of these days I just know I'm gonna see one of them herding sheep near the Reservoir). So I like to go to New York every now and then. Just to check out the rest of the world.

But this was New York in a crisis. I was interested to see how they would cope. Plus I spent a small fortune on tickets to the Giants vs. Steelers game, and didn't want to see that go up in smoke.

I arrived on the Thursday after the storm, which hit late Monday night. The airports were closed until that Wednesday afternoon. The trains between Newark (where I flew) and Manhattan were off line, but I was able to take a shuttle van (although it took about three hours between the airport chaos and the traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel). My hotel in the Flatiron District, the Nomad (really good place, actually, check it out), was open, fully staffed, and had electricity. That was one thing about the areas with electricity. Even if they could open, many of their employees lived in Brooklyn or Queens or New Jersey, and faced a nightmare coming in to work. I heard reports of people waiting up to three hours in Brooklyn to get a bus into the city, since the subways had been flooded. Mayor Bloomberg ordered all bridges between New Jersey and Manhattan closed to all vehicles with less than three riders. Though designed to ease the traffic flow and conserve gasoline, it actually made the traffic worse as the cops had to slow everyone down to verify compliance.  Within most of Manhattan, things were pretty good actually. Above 26th Street, or so, most people had electricity could cling to something of a sense of normalcy. Though some city services had shut down (like parks), trains and buses were running, and taxis were available.

I followed the news reports pretty closely while I was there. And, walking around the city I could observe a lot. A number of things struck me as I took in the storm's aftermath, which I recount below. I can't prove I'm right about any of these opinions, and haven't even tried. But having been through some hurricanes, having known a lot of people who've been through even more hurricanes, and having been walking around New York in the immediate recovery period, here's just some things that seemed to stand out.

When they tell you to get out, get out. Now! I read so many comments from locals, before the storm hit, saying that they had always ridden out storms and didn't see any reason to leave now. People, look, storms aren't all the same. Some are bigger than others. The fact that the last one didn't hit you that hard says nothing about what the next one will do. Plus, since when did everyone become a meteorologist? I know it looks like anyone could do it, given all the Weather Bimbettes that often do the local weather. [Sidebar: Jillian Barberie was a weather girl on local LA television. 'Nuff said.]. Don't you think all those NOAA and Weather Channel people may know a little more about the storm than you do? Say what you want about the "local authorities." I know they're all out to take your money and spy on you. Whatever. But usually they're so in the tank with the Chamber of Commerce about promoting local business that if they're telling you to get out of town, you should pretty much get out of town. They're not just saying that to hear themselves talk.

Don't count on the government for anything. Count on yourself. I don't care how much they promise, the government can't do anything in less than a week. You'll die of dehydration, or looting, or benzene exposure, or whatever, about three days before the first government supplies arrive. Five days after the storm hit, I saw lots of soldiers and pallets full of MREs and water...in the Village. NOT in Staten Island or Brooklyn or New Jersey where people actually needed it. The government can reasonably effectively help people get out ahead of the storm, it can help with long-term recovery, and it can to some extent hold down the looting and immediate post-storm perils (like downed power lines). But as far as bailing you out of the danger zone (which you should have evacuated before the storm), or feeding and clothing you in your flooded out ruin that used to be your home, I wouldn't count on the Federales being of much help. All over the hardest hit areas, people were complaining that they hadn't received any government help. Hell, they were even complaining that the Red Cross was only handing out blankets, not water. The problem is these people had the bizarre notion that the government was going to come in the day after the storm, and fix everything with its magic governmental wand. You know, since everything else the government touches turns to gold. It just doesn't work that way. I don't care what politicians promise.

Make sure you're in the South or in Texas when the shit goes down. Look, you may know all about how to drive and land planes in a snow storm, but y'all don't know what the hell you're doing in a hurricane. Everyone thought it would be the same as some tropical storm they had last year. It wasn't. The local and state governments were lackadaisical about urging evacuations, telling people the storm wouldn't be that bad. It was. As far as I could tell, based solely on reading accounts and talking to people, no one did the "usual" preparation: boarding up windows, moving belongings upstairs, getting batteries and candles, running water into storage, filling your gas tank. Nor did the government pre-position its resources. The stupid utility, Consolidated Edison, didn't even think to shut down a key substation serving lower Manhattan. When it got flooded out, the results were...anti-awesome. After the storm knocked everything out, people were wondering around waiting for the government or "someone" to come in and save them. Instantly. Uh, it doesn't work that way. Ask New Orleans.

It takes society about six hours after the event to start breaking down. Lord of the Flies is pretty much a documentary. Reports of looting throughout lower Manhattan, Staten Island, and New Jersey started rolling in not too long after daybreak on that Tuesday. People were pretty much helping themselves to whatever was in deserted stores. And, predictably, later that day, photos of "looters shot on sight" signs posted in Staten Island, Brooklyn, and lower Manhattan began popping up. So much for Bloomberg's treasured gun ban. How were these people going to shoot looters? Didn't they know guns were illegal in New York City?

Whether its New Ulm, Texas, New Orleans, Louisiana, or New York, New York, local government is all the same. Basically hucksters for their town, more concerned about image than substance. That idiot Bloomberg hung on to running the New York Marathon like a fat kid hanging on to the very last Twinkie. And he downplayed the impending storm's severity, not wanting to scare away tourists and business travelers. Then when it was painfully obvious things were a whole lot worse than he predicted, he and his army of sycophants spread out to all the local media outlets to talk about how the city government was completely on top of things, how help was even now on the way, and how reports of danger were baseless. These guys had nothing on the Iraqi Information Minister. "We are POUNDING the Americans! There are NO Americans at the airport!"  That guy. Over in Jersey, Chris Christie looked like he hadn't slept in about four days, and was directing resources 24/7, while every time Bloomberg went on camera he looked like he was pissed that people weren't asking about all his pet projects, like downsizing soda portions, or banning trans fat. You could practically see the thought bubble above his head: "stupid storm...stupid people...the Marathon is gonna be AWESOME!!! You just wait and see!" 

Society can't exist without electricity. Which is weird because we basically had a highly advanced society before power. People settled continents, traveled the world, performed surgery, built incredible homes and buildings, built the railroads...etc. The Pyramids? The Parthenon? The Eiffel Tower? Yeah, those people didn't have electricity. But in 2012, outside of, I don't know...the Amazon Rain Forest, nothing works in our world without electricity. Its like Sister Morphine. Elevators stopped working, so a lot of people, particularly the elderly, became trapped in high rises. Trains wouldn't work. Nor street lights, traffic lights, computers, TVs, cell phones...even if battery operated they couldn't recharge. Automatic gates meant to keep out the riff raff, wouldn't work. Sorry Yoko.  Security cameras, garage doors, and most critically...gasoline pumps, wouldn't work. In short, strip 2012 humans of electricity, and all the technology and machines we rely upon every day suddenly becomes useless.

The electric companies deserve thanks. An electric system is an extraordinarily complicated thing. It consists of generation plants, substations, transmission and distribution lines, and various circuit breakers and other elements designed to shut portions of the system down to protect it from faults at other areas. The system is extraordinarily vulnerable to storms: trees and branches fall on lines, winds knock over poles or blow other objects into poles, flooding can cause ground faults in underground lines, and so forth. The system is all interconnected as well. That gives it strength, because resources in other locations can make up for local faults or outages in particular locations. But it also means you can't just "spot restore" power. The utility has to start at the generation plants and basically work outward from there along the lines. And with widespread damage, that can strain the available supply of workers and replacement parts. It just takes a long time to get the system back up and running, and the more distant a particular location is from generation, the longer it takes. Con Ed, Long Island Lighting, and other local utilities may not have planned for the storm very well, but they certainly threw themselves into restoration. Crews worked round the clock for days on end. Hospitals and other critical public facilities came back on line very quickly. Plus, other companies from all over came to New York to help. The nation's electric utilities have a lot of problems, but one thing they do very well is to support each other in times of disaster. Utilities from around the country, large and small, sent crews and replacement parts to New York. I saw their staging area in Union Square. Trucks bearing company logos from all over the country were massing in that spot, checking in with Con Ed, receiving instructions, and coordinating with each other. We pay for this in our electric rates. But we reap the benefit when the storm hits our own city, when other utilities come help us too.

Diverse transit options help guard against damage. On an average day, people move around New York by many different means: subways, trains, taxis, private cars, buses, boats, bicycles even. There's an inherent advantage in this respect over somewhere like Houston, where its pretty much your own car, and maybe a bus depending on where you live. The storm knocked out the trains, and the subways in part, for a couple of days. But the other means continued running. People just shifted over to them temporarily. This didn't lack inconvenience of course; many people faced lengthy waits. But the diversity ensured that some transportation options survived even a major storm. As contrasted to somewhere like Houston, where a storm only has to knock out some key highways to throw the entire city into chaos.

Its time we rethought people living right next to the water. This one issue warrants a much longer post. We all subsidize the flood insurance business. We're all going to pay billions to rebuild right next to the water. Where it will just get flooded or blown out in another few years. At some point, after we've rebuilt infrastructure and housing right next to the water several times, just so a bunch of rich people can enjoy their "bay views," we need to ask ourselves whether its reasonable to spend all this money so people can live in flood zones. I know, I know, lots of you think its really cool living right on the beach. I'm sure it would be really cool living on the lip of Mt. St. Helens, but I wouldn't want the government spending millions for me to do so, rebuilding my house every time the thing erupted.

Finally, its time to stop "engineering" flood control. Time to let God and Mother Nature do it. We've spent billions on flood control projects, and I'm thinking particularly of South Louisiana, where we've let the coastal marshes and wetlands disappear over the years (as Mississippi River silt gets channeled into the Gulf instead of through the marshes). Those wetlands protect inner coastal areas from storm surges just like the one that hit New York so hard. If you look at Manhattan, its just water butting right up against Battery Park and South Street Seaport. Whatever natural wetlands may have existed at one time have long since given way to development, particularly port development. So nothing lay between the mammoth storm surge and lower Manhattan. Just like in Biloxi, there was nothing between downtown and the Gulf except a thin strip of beach. In Galveston, where Ike smashed much of the town, the ancient Seawall did protect some of the town from the storm surge, but did nothing to help the areas closer to the highly dredged and developed Galveston Bay, which were developed in the aforementioned "right next to the water" style. You can't fight City Hall, but not even City Hall can fight Mother Nature. Time to go "organic" when it comes to future coastal planning. That might mean we catch less shrimp, or we have to move the container facilities a little further up or down river, or have to move the awesome bayside clubs back some feet, but with rising sea levels an inevitability, however caused, we're never going to engineer our way out of this problem.

NEXT-the men's locker room demands a certain code of behavior. You people aren't observing it. I tell you why.

Doing it The Right Way: Remembering Coach Darrell K Royal

We don't keep up with the Joneses. We are the Joneses.

 

--DeLoss Dodds, University of Texas Athletic Director

The University of Texas athletics program consistently ranks among the top in the country. It possesses state of the art facilities, nearly limitless resources, one of the largest fan bases, and the highest revenues of any other program. It routinely competes for and wins championships, not just in football but all sports.

We can thank one man for the modern UT program. For the fact that we don’t recruit players, we select them. That we have our own television network. Why we don’t play on Thursday night. Or wear ridiculous, gimmicky alternate uniforms. Or have stadium "white outs." And for the fact that we see playing in the stupid ridiculous Holiday Bowl as a disappointment, not an achievement. For making us the Joneses.

That one man is Darrell K Royal.

Today he passed away at age 88. Today, the University of Texas family came together in sadness over the passing of one of its greatest legends. Gabriel has blown his horn for the Coach.

By any possible measure, Coach Royal is one of the greatest coaches of all time. A native Oklahoman, he played at and graduated from OU, where he also coached under Bud Wilkinson. Coach Royal still holds the OU record for most interceptions in a season, and longest interception return. He recruited Mickey Mantle to play football there, unsuccessfully, and remained friends with Mantle until his death. After stops at Washington, North Carolina State and the Canadian Football League, he took over the Texas program in 1957, after a 1956 1-9 record. He was 32 years old. Then he won the next nine against OU.

Coach Royal’s teams won three national championships, 11 Southwest Conference championships. Texas at one time in 1970 held the longest NCAA win streak (30-0). Under Coach Royal, Texas beat a Roger Staubach led Navy team in the 1964 Cotton Bowl. One of the most famous goal line stands in Texas history helped defeat Joe Namath’s Alabama team in the 1965 Orange Bowl. He holds the record for most wins by any Texas football coach.

Coach Royal and his staff pioneered various formations, most notably, the Wishbone, and made other innovations that transformed college football. He introduced quarterback reads and short passes, just like the ones modern spread offenses use. No one could stop Texas’ power running game, and it annually fielded crushing defenses. Though he regarded the forward pass as anathema, he called for a pass at the most critical time of the greatest college football game of 20^th Century, the famous 4^th and 3 streak pass from James Street to Randy Peschel. He was unique in stressing the importance of special teams, and Texas was always among the most balanced teams in college football.

But while Texas would honor Coach Royal just for achievement, plenty of football coaches have met with success. The Texas family loved Coach Royal because he did it the right way. With integrity, fairness, and honesty.

Coach Royal wouldn’t cheat. As he ended his coaching career, an era of rampant cheating was enveloping college football, particularly the Southwest Conference. Alumni were passing out Trans Ams like Tic Tacs and players got envelopes. Royal refused to do it, and why former Governor and then-current UT Regent Allen Shivers ran him off. More than that, college football was becoming downright sleazy. Barry Switzer and OU were spying on Texas’ practices. Switzer and others tolerated rampant criminality and academic fraud among their players, as "cost of doing business." It would have been inconceivable for Coach Royal to have tolerated such conduct.

Coach Royal ran a clean, respectable program. Texas players had no suspensions, no fines, no criminals running around the campus. Players didn’t dance and style after scoring, because they had already been there. They didn’t wear fatigues when arriving for a bowl game. They didn’t taunt other teams players or get in fights before games. Under Coach Royal, Texas set a sterling example of excellence at a time when Barry Switzer ran all over Norman around drunk, having affairs with his defensive coordinator’s wife, among others. Coach Royal set the example, as true leaders do. Unlike other programs at the time, Texas was never on probation under Coach Royal, and his legacy of honesty and compliance has lasted to this day at Texas, thanks in no small measure to Coach Brown and DeLoss Dodds. He created a program that inspired every Texas boy to idolize not only Coach Royal, but the Texas Longhorns. My best friend, Darrell Keith Ryne, was named after Coach Royal.

Royal was not only the football coach, but the athletic director. He was among the first to employ academic counselors to work with the athletes, and he strongly emphasized academic achievement. This included instituting the prestigious "T" ring for those who graduated.

On the troubling matter of integration, or the lack thereof, Coach Royal admittedly was slow to accept integrating his teams. He had coached integrated teams in Washington and in Canada, but was late in pushing for changes at Texas. While no one should overlook this, I believe he should be judged according to those times, not those of today. Simply put, integrating the Texas Longhorns would not have been possible in 1960s. And he wasn’t only coach that took time to integrate. To his credit, he took former President Lyndon Johnson’s counsel to heart, and recognized that he should press for change. When he finally brought in black players, he was very loyal to them and helped them succeed. You can’t in all fairness press people to change their attitudes, then reward that change by trashing them. Why would anyone ever change if they would remain forever ostracized and a target for contempt? Former segregationist George Wallace, for example, earned great respect and affection among black Alabamans, years after dropping his segregation policies. We should view Coach Royal as other Southern men of that generation who realized that change was needed and responded to the changing times.

Coach Royal retired at 52, which these days seems amazingly premature. He lived another 35 years. During that time, he focused on charitable work, mentoring, and enjoying friendships and living life. He befriended a diverse group of people, such as Ben Crenshaw, Willie Nelson, and Ray Benson. He was friends with a number of sports writers, a vestige of a bygone time when coaches were actually honest with the media, and the media didn’t relentlessly pursue "gotcha" stories. He became friends with his former nemesis, Arkansas coach Frank Broyles. He remained loyal to Texas though, staying a few more years as athletic director after being pushed aside and having his recommendation for his replacement, Mike Campbell, passed over in favor of Fred Akers. He remained on campus even as John Mackovic basically excluded him from the program. He made sure to be available to Mack Brown and David Campbell whenever they wanted.

Former players and others had glowing tributes today. One by one on Austin sports radio, Texas legends such as Tommy Nobis, James Street, Randy Peschel, Jerry Sizemore, Doug English, Bill Bradley, Roosevelt Leaks, Jerry Gray, and even players who played after Coach Royal retired (Brian Jones and Dusty Renfro) spoke with reverence about Coach Royal. They uniformly talked about how his first goal with any team was to build men with integrity and commitment. He felt playing the game came second, and if his players had the right character they would play the game well. OU's athletic director, remarkably, issued a very respectful statement.

Coach Mack Brown issued a deeply emotional and heartfelt statement, talking about how Coach Royal filled the void left by his father’s passing, and how he would not even be at Texas were it not for Coach Royal. Today on the radio, I heard that if asked to autograph a football or something else that Coach Royal had previously autographed, Coach Brown would never sign his name above Coach Royal’s. One of the first things Coach Brown did when he came to Texas was to befriend Coach Royal and bring him back to the program (after years in which John Mackovic kept him away). When Dusty Renfro wanted to wear number 60 (Tommy Nobis’ and Britt Hager's old number) in the Cotton Bowl to honor the Texas linebackers in the 1960s and 70s, Coach Brown made him call Coach Royal and ask his permission. Coach Royal said yes but he’d better play well. Coach Brown made sure the stadium was named after Coach Royal, not after some fat cat alumni donor. That is entirely appropriate; the stadium should be named after the most important figure in Texas football history.

Coach Royal was famous for his sayings. Here are some of the best:

• "They (TCU, who had just upset Texas) are like a cockroach. It isn't what he eats or totes off but what he falls into and messes up."
• "We were as average as everyday laundry. "
• Dance with who brung ya.
• (At halftime) There’s a hell of a fight going on out there, we ought to get in it.
• "He’s (Walter Fondren) as quick as a hiccup."
• "He could run like small town gossip."
• "I've always felt that three things can happen to you whenever you throw the football, and two of them are bad."
• "Football doesn’t build character it eliminates the weak ones."

My favorite quote isn’t even a quote. Texas was losing at halftime to A&M on Thanksgiving Day 1965, 17-0. Coach Royal gathered the team around a blackboard and wrote "17-0" on the board. Without saying a word, he erased the "0" and wrote "21" so that it read "17-21." He then sent his players back out on the field. Texas won the game, 21-17.

I never met Coach Royal, but I saw him once in my doctor’s waiting room several years ago. I didn’t want to bother him and his wife by saying anything, but smiled at him. He smiled back with a smile of a truly happy man. I should have talked to him. Today on the radio, several people told stories of how he answers every question, talked to anyone that spoke to him, and was incredibly gracious.

Let me leave with this thought. As many wins as other modern mercenary-coaches like Steve Spurrier, Nick Saban, Lane Kiffin, Butch Davis, Bobby Petrino, Lou Holtz, or even Bob Stoops may have, I would never send my son to play for any of them. They treat players as cogs in the machine. Men like Darrell Royal took boys and made them into men. He inspired lifetime loyalty, because he was loyal. He garnered respect because he had respect. Players played hard for him because he was honest with them. No one will ever remember Nick Saban for anything but victories. We remember Darrell Royal with love for being a great man who also happened to be an excellent coach.

The photos above are of the statute of Coach Royal outside Royal Memorial Stadium. The other is of the Texas Tower, lit fully orange tonight in Coach Royal's honor.

Vacation 2012: San Francisco

First I'll buy some beads
And then perhaps a leather band
To go around my head
Some feathers and bells
And a book of Indian lore
I will ask the Chamber Of Commerce how to get to Haight Street
And smoke an awful lot of dope
I will wander around barefoot
I will have a psychedelic gleam in my eye at all times
I will love everyone
I will love the police as they kick the shit out of me on the street
I will sleep . . . I will, I will go to a house
That's, that's what I will do I will go to a house
Where there's a rock & roll band
'Cause the groups all live together
And I will join a rock & roll band I will be their road manager
And I will stay there with them
And I will get the crabs but I won't care

--Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, "Who Needs the Peace Corps?" (1968)

Ah, San Francisco. The romance! The joie d'vivre! World Series Champions! Cultural Beacon of the West. Oasis of Civilization.

Yeah, about 10 seconds after I got off the 101 onto 7th Street, I almost ran over a few dozen zombie street people walking into traffic demanding money and just generally screaming at cars and people. Walking Dead thinks this town is jacked up. Welcome to San Francisco. Now empty your wallet, cause its going to cost you here.

How in the hell does anyone actually live here? Granted, the city boasts some breathtaking views, spectacular architecture, and incredible food. But. Prices are astronomical. There's nowhere to park, yet there's cars everywhere. Parts of town look like the aforementioned zombie apocalypse, and the other parts cost the gross national product of Singapore to live there. Its warmish when it should be cold, and cold when it should be warm. "Business" is a dirty word, and unless you made your money doing something cool, like working on Star Wars movies or designing shoes, you better not let anyone know that you have any money. The two most famous landmarks are a bridge and a federal prison. Put it this way. This is the town where the newspaper editor married Sharon Stone and had his foot nearly eaten off by a Komodo dragon (not sure which was more painful). That kind of says it all.

By the way, I just heard from the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, which wants you to know it disassociates itself from this post and is considering filing charges against the author (that's me!).

But I'm a veteran traveler who's, you know, been around. Like, to the mean streets of Christchurch, New Zealand. So I can hang. Plus, sightseeing is a horse of a different color from living somewhere. I wasn't going to let that grimy introduction ruin the next couple of days in San Francisco. Particularly when the next couple of days would bring the most gorgeous weather I've ever seen in this city.

I headed straight for my hotel, the ubiquitous White Swan Inn, close to Union Square. I've stayed there before; it tries to evoke the style of an old English inn, with a creaky "lift" style elevator (that couldn't possibly comply with modern building codes...I assume someone's been paid off), an afternoon wine and tea service, and a nice little basement library/fireplace sitting area. The valet parking charge seems like a huge BOHICA, but the Inn doesn't charge too much more than many downtown and French Quarter New Orleans hotels, so I just thought of it as part of the room rate. Which, for the area, wasn't especially outrageous. And I scored a fairly large room, at least for San Francisco. It had a sitting area (I do like to sit, you know), a small fireplace, a small sink and refrigerator, and lots of windows (which viewed only other hotel windows, but it let in some natural light). I generally like old hotels, even if they don't offer quite the same amenities as the chains. They may have a little peeling paint and some other rough edges, but the chains are just so antiseptic. And they give you nothing to talk about later. "How was the Hyatt where you stayed in St. Louis?" "Oh, it was exactly like the Hyatt in Austin in every single possible way." Yeah, great). Generally the staffs are a little more personable, and even in cases where they're not, at least they're not corporate automatons. Like at the Hyatt.

After arriving in town around 5 or so and getting settled in, I tried to take in as much of the area as I could before sunset. This part of town seemed seedier than the last time I was here. By that I mean more obvious street hustlers and panhandlers, more garbage, more graffiti, more decaying buildings...just generally more Cleveland-esque. [The Cleveland Chamber of Commerce wishes you to know Cleveland is a fine city with lots of friendly people, good schools, and competitively priced real estate, and without too many personal appearance hangups]. Walking around the area made me feel unsafe. New York used to make me feel that way, but after Giuliani cleaned up the town, its much better. New York pretty ruthlessly cleaned out all the street-level detritus, and while doing so did lose some color and, in some ways, urban charm, New York's tourism revenues (and jobs) no doubt exploded once people felt safe visiting the city again. While New York actually enforces its laws, I didn't see one San Francisco police officer the whole time I was there. The resulting Escape From New York street charm reflects what happens when government tries to run a town like its a Montessori school. I suppose if I were a real Texan, I could have just been packing some Walker, Texas Ranger style heat and blown away any attackers. Problem solved. But while there's some things I do well...a few things at least, I think I'd make Barney Fife look like Dirty Harry if I tried to use a gun to fend off some sort of attack. I'd reach for my gun and drop it, or not get it out of the holster, or shoot my little toe off, or it would backfire on me. Better to be wary (thanks Jen Jen) of my surroundings and avoid threats altogether. But my point is...what kind of vacation is this anyway? Can't I go somewhere that the biggest  personal safety issue comes from the fact that I'm the only man within 50 miles of dozens of unruly Hawaiian Tropic bikini contestants all mad at their boyfriends and looking to get a little payback?  Note to self: carefully research Lonely Planet guides for such a place.

The next morning I made my way over to Golden Gate Park, the Jewel in San Francisco's Crown. The Park spans slightly more than a thousand acres, abutting on its far west boundary against the Pacific Ocean. It features Dutch windmills and a spectacular tulip garden, buffalo, a Japanese garden, the Conservatory of Flowers, a rhododendron garden, several rose gardens, and lovely little trails leading into the thicket. I made it about five miles, on a soupy, foggy, chilly morning. Just the sort of morning you'd hope to have on a San Francisco trip. After a surprisingly good hotel breakfast, I got on the bus. The open air tour bus that is. Some of you may recall that I've relaxed my normally well-advised rule against engaging in any organized vacation activities so as to allow taking these on/off buses. [One of these days I'll write about my travel rules. They're a little...fussy]. They go by the main scenic points, there's usually some semi-knowledgeable person (usually some student type wasting his or her life getting a graduate degree in some useless field like law, or business) narrating the tour and passing along interesting information. You can get off at any stop and explore a particular area further, then catch another bus to resume the tour. That's how I spent most of my first day. This allowed me to cover a lot of ground and learn a few facts I didn't already know (shocking, right?) along the way. Fortunately, the fog burned off and it turned into a lovely, breezy day with clear skies.

Highlights included the major scenic areas you probably associate with San Francisco. Golden Gate Bridge and the Presidio, Civic Center area, Haight Ashbury, the Park, Pacific Heights, the cable car lines, North Beach, Chinatown, Coit Tower, the Embarcadero and the Ferry Building, and so forth. I've seen these places many times, but usually shrouded in clammy fog that leaves me looking for the nearest warm, dry place I can find, wondering why the hell I left Texas in the first place. This truly was a spectacular day, in the upper 60s, with brilliant sun. All these San Francisco landmarks take on a new dimension when you're not shivering and can see them from more than 100 yards away. On this day, the Bridge really stood out. I'd never walked across it or even opened my car windows, so I'd never experienced just how strong the winds are going through the bay. Its really an architectural miracle.

As for other interesting facts, I learned that San Francisco has over 13,000 homeless people within the city limits, which strikes me as being incredibly high. But this confirms I wasn't just being all Kingwood about the thing. I learned that the Sunset area, close to the Park, has the cheapest home values, while nearby Pacific Heights has the highest. I learned that much older architecture survived the 1906 earthquake west of Van Ness than east of it because the Mayor blew up all the structures along a corridor east of Van Ness to act as a firebreak, stopping the rapidly advancing fires from consuming all of the city. And then he lied to all the insurance companies who couldn't know any better because of communication difficulties, and told them San Francisco had not suffered an earthquake, just a big fire (because no one had purchased earthquake insurance). I learned that the former base housing at the Presidio now fetches as much as $8,000/month in rental (you can't buy; the Federal Government still owns the Presidio property but leases it to private companies and others). I learned the Russian cemetery near Russian Hill was founded by Spanish explorers. I learned the Golden Gate Bridge was originally intended to be painted silver (like the Bay Bridge), but people liked the red undercoat so much they left it red. And I learned that San Francisco named a street in Golden Gate Park after Nancy Pelosi. Vomit.

Somewhere around 1 or so, I got off the bus in the horrible Fisherman's Wharf area. Did you know the dictionary (do people still use dictionaries?) has a photo of Fisherman's Wharf next to "tacky." The farthest edge of the Embarcadero, however, offers tremendous Bay and Bridge views on a sunny day (like today). Unless you've come to shop at t-shirt shops, eat at chain restaurants, and do the same stuff you could do at home makes for the perfect vacation, however, tourists should avoid the area like it was plague zone. Or a Clay Aiken concert. But I got off the bus to walk over to McCormick and Kuleto's restaurant, in Ghirardelli Square. That's the first place Kimberly took me to the first time I visited her in San Francisco. It has spectacular Bay views, and a really nice seafood menu (it was the original restaurant on which the McCormick and Schmick chain was founded). So it has a certain sentimental quality, and I enjoyed a nice seafood lunch before getting back on the bus.

That night I got in some culture, attending a performance of My Fair Lady at the San Francisco Playhouse, happily located two blocks from the White Swan Inn. My friend Donna's cousin Monique Hafen played Eliza, and Donna recommended that I check it out. I'm really glad I did; both the overall performance and Monique's Eliza were fantastic. It garnered some very good reviews as well. Doing a show like that, where everyone will inevitably compare to the landmark movie, strikes me as a real challenge. How can you play Higgins without the audience automatically gauging whether you're "as good" as Rex Harrison, for example? Some productions deal with this factor by twisting the show into something you would barely recognize. Like when my brother starred in a lesbian version of Romeo and Juliet (no, he didn't have a title role, I don't think). They could have set it in a different time. Like that horrible Ethan Hawke version of Hamlet set in modern day New York (the "Denmark Corporation"? ugh...). Or had Col. Pickering swish about like Jack McFarland (although I guess that's pretty much how the movie version played it). But they this seemed fairly close to the original. I'm no expert of course (although, really, I am an expert...), but I really enjoyed Monique's performance, particularly her excellent singing. I was almost disappointed to meet her after the show, breaking the illusion of her Eliza. What was not disappointing was my shocking and unexpected encounter with Donna's cousin Jude Bourque, whom I've known for years, in the men's room no less. I was washing my hands and glanced up to see Jude walking in. I had no idea he'd be there. He'd planned to fly out from Baton Rouge to see the Saturday show, but changed to the Friday night show when Donna told him I'd be there. He had just flown in and no doubt was really tired, but it was a lot of fun seeing him again and catching up. Donna, you minx!

The next day was not as intense. After waking up and running in the park again, I ate and got cleaned up, then walked the 20-30 minutes or so down to the Ferry Building to check out what Jude told me was a really fine farmer's market. Because, as we've established earlier, white people dig on farmer's markets. Happily, the angry and aggressive panhandler crowd was still asleep or making plans for the day, so the walk along the empty downtown building canyon wasn't as scary as nighttime. And Jude was right. The Ferry Building farmer's market had a little bit of everything, and lots of samples of each. All the yuppies were out enjoying the sun and the cornucopia of organic produce. Walking inside, I found the Building has become what amounts to an extremely upscale, gourmet food mall with several small restaurants. The awesome Point Reyes cheese company Cowgirl Creamery maintains a store bigger than at its factory. Other shops sold meat and fish, breads and baking items, ice cream, cheese, and other dairy products, flowers, coffee and tea...hell there's even two different olive oil stores. Recession? What recession? The place was buzzing too. Tourists and locals both had descended upon the Ferry Building, all looking for nitrate free meat and fair trade coffee. [Cough! douchy Cough!]

After getting my fill, I ambitiously walked back up Russian Hill to check out the magnificent Grace Cathedral, another city landmark yesterday's bus tour missed. Russian Hill is a beast hill, but it offers some great downtown and cable car views (see above photo). Grace Cathedral (Episcopal) sits across the street from a nice little park, and one block over from the Fairmont and Mark Hopkins hotels (the latter being home of the famous "Top of the Mark" lounge). From there I walked back to the hotel and got into the Red Shark, and headed over to Alamo Square in the Western Addition to check out the famous "Painted Ladies." These Victorian row houses set against the city skyline appear on countless postcards and San Francisco travel brochures. In fact, the entire area boasts many well preserved classic Victorian homes. The square itself is nothing special, though it offers great views of downtown and Twin Peaks, and certainly residents must enjoy the open space within the intense urban area.

After that I pretty much killed time driving around the city and environs. Chief among the tour destinations was the Palace of Fine Arts, the Italianate rotunda and lagoon in the Marina District. I ate lunch at Mel's Drive In.  Review: meh.  Nothing special. I guess the one in American Graffiti was pretty cool. But that one had roller-skating waitresses and Suzanne Somers in that white Thunderbird. This one just had mediocre food. The main highlight was rejoining Kimberly and Terry and their friends Allison and Tom. We went to Barbacco, an Italian place, on California Street downtown. A great meal was had by all; its been two months so I can't quite remember what I had, but recall it was a really excellent fish dish. I just remember we ordered tons of food for the table. Allison and Tom had planned just to meet us for a drink and then go to the opera (they simulcast the SF Opera on the big screens at AT&T Park for free), but they couldn't seem to extricate themselves from the meal. I know the feeling.

The next morning I had to wake up at what Kimberly elegantly calls the "butt crack of dawn" to get from the city over to the Oakland Airport, return the Red Shark, then make it over to the terminal with enough time to spare for a good TSA rodgering. It was a special experience. What can I say?

OK, so two months after the fact, that's it. Won't be too long before my next vacation. All you East Coasters stay safe these next few days. Hurricanes are serious business. Hang loose, blood.

ACL Music Festival 2012: Saturday. Rust Never Sleeps

You'll have to bear with me. I didn't plan on writing this so I didn't take notes or try to commit much to memory. And I don't really have the time to spare either. But I'm still riding the wave of exhilaration after tonight's Neil Young and Crazy Horse performance at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, and wanted to say something about it. Maybe you should just skip past the pompous freshman literature babble at the start and get to the review.

But here's what I was thinking as the Horse washed over Zilker Park just now.

Once upon in America, everything sucked. Culturally that is. Art and music, as such, existed within a narrow post-war strait jacket, in which anything the slightest bit unusual risked being smeared as Red, and sent off to Leavenworth, or blacklisted. Doris Day and Perry Como topped the pop charts. Hank Williams was incomparable, but burned out quickly. Whatever art existed was forgettable at best. Women stayed at home and raised kids. Men went to school and got jobs. Everyone did what they were expected to do. Blacks could barely vote, and couldn't mix, so they had long developed their own art and music. Jazz and blues, primarily. But whites had no regard for it. Then, white kids started listening to "race music." In small numbers at first, but it began to grow. Alan Freed sponsored the very first rock concert in Cleveland in 1952, which ended in a riot after three minutes. Writers, artists, even comedians started questioning this cultural conformity, with "subversive" expressions. A lot of it was ridiculous, but it started moving this country's cultural needle. Then this Memphis huckster named Sam Phillips had the idea that he could make huge money if he could find a white guy who could sing black music. He did...Elvis Presley. That sparked the first wave of the revolution. All of the sudden, the established cultural order was under siege. The new music was raw, animalistic, guttural, desperate, and sexual. The Man fought back of course. Chuck Berry was jailed. Jerry Lee Lewis was ruined. Elvis was drafted, then tamed. It didn't take long before Ricky Nelson was the top "rock star." Oy.

But the fuse had been lit. And a bunch of British kids of all things, not much more than street punks, started playing rock and roll the way it originally came out of the Sun and Chess studios. These kids didn't care about movie deals or opening for Sinatra, or "making it." They played rock and roll because it moved them. It said something to them that no one else in the 1950s would or could. They exploded along with the Beatles, and as Dylan wrote, they "brought it all back home." In turn they inspired other kids in the States to pick up the guitar and change things. These kids weren't necessarily trying to become famous rock stars. Or "just" becoming rock stars. They wanted to change the world. They wanted to tear down that cultural straight jacket. They didn't just write some pretty tunes. They went after America's ugly dark side: racism, sexism, discrimination, inequality, conformity. Hence...the Sixties. Still the only time in history where popular music often had a political or social message, and the stars didn't feel content just to write a number one song. They wanted it to matter. Dylan, Lennon, Brian Wilson, Crosby, Stills and Nash, George Harrison, Joan Baez, Hendrix, the Who, the Stones, the Dead, the Airplane...these people wanted to change things.

At least at first. Then, of course, the inevitable happened. The money started flowing in hand over fist, the rules no longer applied, the drugs had their effect, they all became Rock Gods playing to sold out houses full of sycophants who couldn't hear the message ("play My Generation!") and after a decade of wrenching social change, people just wanted to hear something nice. Enter Fleetwood Mac. Now days, pop stars are born on some TV show like American Idol, or the Disney Channel. It only matters how you look, and whether you've released a sex tape or been on the View. The only way any of these people want to matter is by hanging with Beyonce and P. Diddy, or getting on Dancing With the Stars.

 The old War Horses who managed to survive the times intact either moved on, or found they could live out the rest of their lives very comfortably on the summer tour circuit, raking in cash as they rolled from town to town. You know. The Eagles. All the yuppies eagerly turn out to relive the old times, and listen to bloated old Mick Jagger sing "Satisfaction" for the 20,000th time. I've seen just about all these shows, of course. One or two of the original band members get together, so they can use the old name, hire a bunch of back up musicians so they don't really have to do much during concerts, and they hit the road. Play a couple of hours, making sure to work in all the old hits, then pick up your check and move on to the next town. Some times these shows are really good, but these performers generally have a kind of "mail it in" attitude. Like they're thinking "where's my check and what time does the town car get here?" during the second part of the show. In most cases, its been 30 years since they did anything artistically relevant, so like Miss America going to every mall opening in the country, these people spend most of their lives chucking up tunes that actually meant something decades ago. When they were actually trying to create something.

Then there's Neil Young and Crazy Horse.

 Neil came down from Canada to meet up with his friend Stephen Stills, and joined his band Buffalo Springfield. In 1966. Then, when they were poised to take the world by storm, Neil quit and the band broke up. Neil pursued a solo career until Stills invited him to join this new band he and David Crosby were putting together with a guy from the Hollies, Graham Nash. They recorded an absolute monster album, played Woodstock, and toured America. Then Neil quit the band and resumed his solo career. Every time Neil Young has been poised to hit the big time, he's followed his inner muse and gone where the music called. Not where fame and fortune lay. So, Neil has had phases where he's been the folkie singer, country artist, 50s rockabilly throwback, electronica, and hard core star. He's succeeded, in a manner of sorts, in just about every such vein. Not because he sought success, but because he followed his own path.

Since 1970 or so, he's collaborated with Crazy Horse, a straight line, straight up rock band. The relationship somewhat confounds me. He's not a band member, as such, but thinks of himself as one of the band, not treating them like hired help. They genuinely collaborate. And, together they've produced some seminal rock records. Its long been about the chunkiest music in rock. Neil told an interviewer recently that when he distributed the Live Rust album to radio stations, some of them returned it saying there was something wrong with the recording. What was "wrong" was the incredibly intense distortion that fueled that record's energy and impact. Neil and Crazy Horse, heavily influenced by punk rock's fleeting effort to drive commercialism back out of rock, put out maybe THE defining statement of rock and roll history: "its better to burn out, than it is to rust," or "to fade away." How many rockers have gone down that path? But is fading away any more noble? Eric Clapton circa 2012 may be able to write some nice little tunes, but in his day, this guy played for the Yardbirds. With Cream! He held his own with Duane Allman. Now you can pay $75 to hear him play "After Midnight" for the 10 zillionth time. Very nicely done.

I've seen Neil Young perform many times. I've seen his folkie show, his rockabilly show, and his country show. At Jazz Festival, I saw him rock for the first time, really. I even saw the Buffalo Springfield reunion show in Oakland last year, with him joining Richie Furay and Stephen Stills. All these shows have had special moments, and I've never seen such a thing as a ho-hum Neil Young show.

But I've never seen him with Crazy Horse.  They hadn't recorded or toured together, to my knowledge, for more than 10 years. But they recently put out a new album with American "standards," ("Americana") and were touring to support it. Incredibly, they have a second album due out later this month.

Simply put, nothing prepared me for this show. This wasn't a bloated old rock star cashing in with a nostalgia tour. This was like a door had opened up from 1970 and these guys stepped through, complete with what looked to be their original Fender amps that they probably once stacked up at the Fillmore East. They looked different of course, but this was like Godzilla set loose upon the land, destroying every living creature and every structure in their path. New songs and old, they attacked every note with the ferocity of men playing the last notes they would ever play, taking every fan there by the throat and desperately shaking them to the core until everyone understood what was happening. In the words of one of the new songs, this was "giants walking the Earth." About half the crowd were geezers like me, but the other half were much younger, who, interestingly, didn't go see the Jack White show at the other end of the park, which was scheduled opposite Crazy Horse.

Love and Only Love was the opener, and they stretched it to 17 minutes. Down By the River, an over 40 year old song, stretched to a monumental 16 minutes. Along the way, the band crushed Cinnamon Girl, Fuckin' Up, did a 13 minute version of Powderfinger, and Neil soloed on Needle and the Damage Done, his paean against the heroin abuse that claimed the life of his close friend and original Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whidden so long ago. They played some new songs as well. In addition to the aforementioned Walk With a Giant, we heard Born in Ontario and Psychedelic Pill. The complete set list is available here. Hey Hey, My My was the closer. Neil virtually spit out the lyrics, as if every word was the difference between life and death. He wrote it in 1979, responding to the punk rock movement, but as incredibly overplayed as "classic rock radio" has made them, a field full of people from all over the country screaming "rock and roll can never die" and "rock and roll is here to stay" along with Neil Young just was a really poignant moment. Simply put, rock and roll is on the wane. Other music styles have risen to prominence, and pushed rock to the edges. Neil sang that song like he was still on a mission, to show that the music he's pursued with Crazy Horse most of his adult life still means something. That while many of his contemporaries long ago rested on their laurels, he and Crazy Horse are still creating, still mining that vein where the Giants walk. They didn't play an encore, which was appropriate. Nothing, not even Rocking In The Free World, could have topped that moment.

Kids, THIS was and is what a rock and roll band can accomplish.

OK, now I'm just rambling.

Other bands played at ACL today, of course. They were all really cute. They had musical instruments and everything.

Oh, and it rained like buckets off and on through the afternoon. I may be starting to develop swamp butt.

Too much info? I thought so. I'll give you that one.

Not sure whether I'll write anything tomorrow. But on the docket is the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Iggy Pop and the Stooges. I'm expecting a good show.