Travels West

Virginia City, Bodie and the Sonora Pass

2011-07-17T08:11:00.000-07:00

In which we drive East to get out West

The story of how Virginia City, Nevada, got its name is one eccentrically typical of the American West and the mining camps and towns that sprung up after the Gold Rush of 1849. Legend has it the original discoverer of the Comstock Lode, a one James Finney (a.k.a. James Fenimore; a.k.a. James “Old Virginy” Finney) was walking along drunk one night with some friends when he slipped and fell, breaking the bottle of rot-gut whiskey he held on a rock. Without missing a beat, Old Virginy exclaimed, “I hereby christen this ground Virginia!”

Once home to 15,000 souls, 42 saloons, and a gold haul reputed to be worth $400 million at the time (about $6.9 trillion in 2011 currency), Virginia City today is a kind of living ghost town, a tourist destination with all that that implies. In its heyday as an up-jumped mining camp, Virginia City was a place of legend and character. Samuel Longhorne Clemens first took the pen name Mark Twain as a “reporter” for the Territorial Enterprise here---though what he reported was mostly fiction. Twain got the idea for his pen name from his experience on riverboats on the Mississippi, where the bar pilots would call the sounding of the depth, “mark twain,” meaning that the water was two fathoms deep. Later, at the infamous Bucket of Blood Saloon on C-Street (Virginia City’s main drag), Clemens, who like most regular customers at the time ran a tab, would say “mark twain” to the barkeep, meaning “mark me down for two drinks.” He must have liked the sound of it.

An abandoned mine near the Gold Hill Hotel

We lit out for Virginia City and other points East Saturday morning for the long Independence Day weekend. It was to be our first stop on a lengthy road trip through the Old West that would take us more than 700 miles all tolled. (And, frankly, it turned out to be a bit much.)

After struggling up Highway 50 in heavy holiday traffic, we finally arrived at the Gold Hill Hotel in Gold Hill, a mile outside of Virginia City, at about 4 p.m. Adjacent to the Yellow Jacket Mine, where 37 miners perished in 1873, the Gold Hill Hotel is the oldest hotel in Nevada and boasts at least two known ghosts, William and Rosie.

Our view from the balcony at the Gold Hill Hotel

Sadly, we did not experience any ghostly visitations during our one night stay. I did wake up in the middle of the night to see an eerie light shining in the mirrored closet door that seemed to resolve itself into a grinning face, but this turned out to be a trick of the light. Probably. It is a delightful little hotel, and we highly recommend it.

The land around Gold Hill and Virginia City is pocked and scared from all the mining. Still, it has a kind of beauty that is at once natural and industrial. There is romance in these ruins. You can feel history living here, even without the actors who stage mock shoot-outs for the delectation of us tourists.

Old No. 6 at the Gold Hill Depot

C Street, Virginia City

Virginia City mansion

Amy with Mark Twain

Lucius Beebe's house, Virginia City

From Virginia City, we ambled down I-395 toward Bodie and Mono Lake. Of all the highways that I have travelled in the U.S., I think I-395 is my favorite. You can see the land and how it formed and the landscape itself is ever changing: pine forest, lake, river-bottom, mountains, gulch, high desert, alluvial plain. The Sierras, which rise gradually from the Western side, on the Eastern side jut skyward like the edge of a gigantic saw blade. Geology laid bare.

After lunching at---naturally---the oldest inn in Bridgeport, we took a left on the road to the ghost town of Bodie. After 19 miles of bad road, the last five miles gravel and dirt, we arrived at the Bodie State Historic Park gates, paid our fee and got out to amble around.

"Downtown" Bodie

Gold was discovered here in 1859 by a man named Waterman S. Bodie (a.k.a. William S. Bodey), for whom the place was named. (The difference in spelling apparently had to do with a less-than-literate sign painter.) By 1879, Bodie, at an elevation of nearly 8,500 feet, was home to 10,000 people (and 65 saloons, a China Town, a baseball league and a red light district) who routinely suffered summer temperatures above 100 and winter temps well below freezing. (The day we were there a sign announced that the day’s high was 80F and the night-time low, 20F.) The State of California has held Bodie in what it calls a “state arrested decay” since 1962. The 170-odd structures that still stand are a sight to behold and well worth the bumpy trip up the mountain. You can peer into the windows of the buildings and see how the people lived. Many dwellings appear to have been simply abandoned smack in the middle of a meal, or while the occupants were getting dressed in the morning. It’s eerie. And very, very cool. In one building, a former saloon---the Sam Leon Bar & Barbershop---a roulette table sits as if waiting for the miners to return and take a chance.

The leaning shack of Bodie

I want that flag

A sherpherd on the road from Bodie

Back down the dirt track and Southward along 395 again, we passed through Lee Vining, which is unremarkable other than the fact that I like the name, and took a short hiatus at Mono Lake. Mono is the caldera of an ancient volcano that exploded, if geologists are to be believed, with many times the force of the Mt. St. Helens eruption in Washington in 1980.

Mono Lake

We spent Saturday night in Bishop, which was a good deal farther South than I remembered. On the way we were pulled over for doing 85 in a 65 zone, but the Highway Patrol officer gave us a break because, the Gopher thought, he liked the red, white and blue ribbon I had pinned to my shirt for the holiday. I find a pinch of patriotism now and then to be quite efficacious.

Leavitt Falls

Next day we decided to change our plans. Originally we had reckoned on returning over the Sierras through Yosemite. But, this being the 4th of July, we realized that John Muir’s magnificent valley would more likely resemble a parking lot with pine trees than a National Park. So we opted for the Sonora Pass. We motored back up the 395 to the 108 and hung a left. We were not disappointed.

Our first stop was the Leavitt Falls Vista Point. We took our time picking our way over the sometimes white-knuckle pass, stopping here and there when the mood struck us to take in the view or stroll around among the trees and peaks.

Once on the Western slope it was decidedly time for lunch. We stopped in at Twain Harte, a small town I had never heard of, this being my first time over the Sonora pass. The hamlet’s Independence Day festivities were in full swing, however, and there was nowhere to stop. Curious about the town’s name, I later looked up Twain Harte in the spider tubes. Of course, it’s well known that these were the stomping grounds of the afore-mentioned Mark Twain, and Bret Harte wrote about the Gold Country often. (The Mark Twain – Bret Harte trail meanders the Sierra foothills in a roughly North-South attitude near here.) I thought maybe the person who had named the town was making a pun on the two great writers’ names, “twain heart,” perhaps having once suffered a broken heart. Maybe the name owed its genesis to a story as colorful as that of Virginia City. But I wax too poetic for my own good. Turns out that real estate developer Keturah C. Wood bought the tract that would later become the town in 1924 and named it Twain Harte because he knew the famous names would draw attention---and help promote sales. A fine example of early marketing and “SEO.”

Sonora and Angels camp both seemed deserted with most of the shops and restaurants closed for the holiday (which surprised us). So we doubled back to Murphy’s, enjoying a delightful lunch, doing a little shopping and some wine tasting.

In all, far too much driving and too little relaxing. But we saw and learned.

If You Can’t Save It, Plaque It

2011-03-20T17:01:00.000-07:00

In which we wax nostalgic

Fire, flood, famine, pestilence and urban renewal.

These are just some of the forces that preservationists fight as they fight to preserve historical places from the forces of nature and “progress.”

In downtown San Francisco, this has been no easy slog, for the area itself is landfill, built on sunken ships and the hopes of those sailors who hoped to find gold in them thar hills. And much of what was built after that was burnt. And much to what survived that (or was rebuilt) was bulldozed to make way for the Manhattanization of San Francisco, aimed at turning dockside warehouses and maritime "slums" into the premier financial powerhouse of the Pacific Rim. Guess it worked. For the most part.

But that’s San Francisco, a city that’s never finished. C’est la Frisco.

In my walks around the Financial District and its surroundings, I’ve noticed many plaques and small monuments adorning edifices new and old which speak of times gone by. Here’s just a handful that I photographed recently. Sorry if these are not my usual photographic masterpieces. They’re just plaques, after all.

The Old Ship Saloon

The Old Ship's bona fides are questionable. In theory, the bar and the building above it rest on the bones of the Arkansas, a three-master shipwrecked here in 1849. If there's anything left of the old ship itself I haven't seen it. The building and the bar itself have gone through many iterations. But then we Clampers never let the truth get in the way of the good story.

What Cheer House
At the corner of Sacramento and an alley called Leidesdorff (formerly called Pauper Alley), is a dreary modern granite-faced building. But the corner boasts a cheery plaque for the "What Cheer House." Founded by R.B. Woodward of Woodward's Gardens fame, the What Cheer House was a hotel for respectable fellows from the sea -- no ladies and no liquor allowed but one of the first free lending libraries in San Francisco. (That's one part cheer, two parts drear in my book, but I quibble.)

William Leidesdorff
Right across from the What Cheer House plaque is another plaque commemorating William Leidesdorff, after whom the alley is named. Leidesdorff was one of the first black citizens of early California and one of its most successful early businessmen -- founding the town's first hotel, launching its first steamboat, and establishing its first shipping warehouse, among many other notable successes.

The Waterfront
Front Street is famously where San Francisco's first landfill began into Yerba Buena Cove. But the shoreline was never a straight line. As it ran north and south, it meandered east and west, the way shorelines do. This monument rests at the corner of Clay and Battery, next to the fairly new Club Quarters Hotel. The red line is meant to indicate the original shoreline; the brass curves ripples in the water. The post is meant represent an early, rope-bound piling.

Bummer and Lazarus
In the little garden at the foot of the Transamerica Pyramid is an ECV plaque to Bummer and Lazarus, San Francisco's First Dogs. Bummer and Lazarus were two strays who adopted Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico a local madman-come-savant, following His Imperial Majesty in his wanderings throughout the nascent city.

Hotaling's Whiskey
Across from the Transamerica Pyramid is Hotaling Place, a tiny, one-block alley now home to Villa Taverna, a private Italian American dining club. But it's also famed for being the home of the warehouse of A.P Hotaling which before the Great Earthquake and Fire was the largest liquor repository on the West Coast. During the fire, the U.S. Navy laid a mile-long fire hose to save the warehouse area in which Hotaling's building was located. The whiskey was saved. The fact that the whiskey was saved, rather than more wholesome goods, prompted clergymen to take umbrage (as is their wont). This, in turn, prompted one wag by the name of Field to pen the verse:

If, as they say, God spanked the town
For being over frisky,
Why did He burn the churches down
And save Hotaling’s whiskey?

The saved liquor was later sold under the name, Old Kirk. (Kirk is Scots for "Church." Get it?)

The Family Club
At the corner of Montgomery and Sacramento is another nondescript building which bears the plaque below. It says that "The Family" is "one of San Francisco's oldest and most distinctive social clubs." True enough, but it doesn't give you the back story. The Family is an offshoot of the Bohemian Club. Its members split from the Bohemian because the Bohemians had lost their, well, bohemian roots---the Bohemians originally being made up of journalists and writers, not money-men, bankers and grasping politicos. The current Family clubhouse is on Bush at Powell. Today it's not exactly what you would call bohemian in the strictest sense.

"Keep young."

More to come...

Jack London's Ranch & Post Costa

2011-01-01T15:44:00.000-08:00

In which we ramble through California history

The House that Jack Built

The author, activist, socialist and Bohemian Club honorary member, Jack London (1876-1916) has held a fascination for me ever since I read Call of the Wild when I was a kid. So Monday last, we motored up to Glen Ellen and Jack London State Historic Park, which stands on London’s experimental farm, the Beauty Ranch, in Sonoma County.

London was, to put it mildly, a barrel of contradictions. He came up from nothing – San Francisco Bay oyster pirate, Cannery Row worker, Pacific seal-hunter, Yukon gold seeker, etc. – to become one of the most famed novelists and essayists of his day. An avowed socialist, he became a rich man, albeit one who always struggled with money. A champion of the poor, he could be what we would now call racist and subscribed to bizarre beliefs in the primacy of the Anglo-Saxon “race” and social Darwinism, though he was nevertheless beloved of the Hawaiian royal family and often wrote kindly of the native peoples he encountered in his Pacific and Asian travels. He was a bohemian who became a haute bohemian, and the San Francisco journalistic and artistic club to which he was made an honorary member, the Bohemian Club, today boasts nearly every power-broker and “weaving spider” in the United States among its membership. A champion of temperance, even prohibition, he was an alcoholic who often started off his day with more than a wee dram. He lived a life of high adventure, yet suffered greatly from depression and anxiety. An evangelist of truth, he was not above telling a whopper when it suited his narrative. (For example, in John Barleycorn, he tells of falling off his boat, drunk, in San Francisco Bay in the middle of the night and being content to float along with the tide for hours. But, as any Coastie will tell you, the Bay averages about 53 degrees F year round. He would have succumbed to hypothermia and drowned within an hour had this actually happened.) He loved the strenuous life, as Theodore Roosevelt called it, yet died at the age of 40.

Window at the Jack London Lodge Saloon in Glenn Ellen

Well, never mind. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” as Emerson said. And London has left us not only with a redoubtable literary legacy but, in Jack London State Historic Park, a physical one as well.

Approach to the house that Jack built. Sadly, it was closed that day, so we ventured along the park's trails.

Here you can visit the cottage where he wrote his 1,000 words per day, planned out his experimental farming operation with no less an expert than Luther Burbank, lived and loved with his devoted wife, Charmian, and established his reputation for future generations.

You can bend a knee at Jack and Charmian’s graves, and visit the remains of the stone manse they were building and which burned down before it was complete. You can roam the house that Charmian built after Jack’s death, the House of the Happy Walls, dedicated to his memory. (It is now a museum chock full of memorabilia from the Londons’ travels aboard Jack's yacht, the Snark, in the South Pacific.)

And you can roam around the trails of the property, up to the little lake that Jack built, which is what we did. Here are a few snaps.

One of Jack's barns

View across a vineyard to Jack's silos

View from the hill behind Jack's house

Biggest damn mushroom I ever saw

More fungi

Thick moss -- it grows on trees you know

A white heron and a green one share a puddle in a meadow near Glen Ellen

Port Costa

Port Costa is a tiny hamlet on the shore of the Carquinez Strait buried at the end of a deep canyon not far from Crockett. In the late 1800’s it was a bustling place, a way station for goods and people traveling down the delta from Sacramento to San Francisco. Oscar Wilde even stopped there on his journey to “the occidental uttermost of American civilization.”

Today Port Costa is one of the last truly bohemian enclaves the in the San Francisco Bay Area, the haunt of recluses, artists, eccentrics, ne’er-do-wells and bikers. Its main attraction is the Warehouse Café and Bar, made out of an actual warehouse built in 1880 -- the first “fireproof structure in Northern California” and home to a breathtakingly large stuffed polar bear and lots of other bric-a-brac. On the weekends for the price of a drink you can enjoy complimentary soup or chili.

Not cutesy – no antique stores, jewelry shops or gift boutiques – but worth a visit to the truly curious road-tripper.

Part of the main drag -- the only drag -- in Port Costa

The Warehouse Café and Bar cat looks down on everyone from the oval window on the top floor

Mendocino

2011-01-01T13:28:00.000-08:00

In which we go hippy (and a little dippy)

In addition to motoring trough Fort Ross, Thanksgiving weekend we stayed in the old coastal town of Mendocino. Situated on a rugged, windblown bluff above the Pacific just North of Big River, Mendocino was established as a logging and fishing community in the 1850s. Many New England loggers and Portuguese fishermen settled there. Today it is a vibrant artist colony where local artists and craftspeople ply their wares to the weekend tourists who pass through and stay there on their getaways from the City.

Rainbow view from the deck of the Navarro Winery on Highway 129, not far inland from Mendocino

Mendocino is also famed for its many water towers. Though only three of these are still active, dozens have been converted into housing and B&B lodgings. In the 1970s and ’80s, rapacious developers had planned major hotels and other infill within the town’s borders, but this was thankfully blocked by the local citizenry. At just five blocks wide and 10 blocks long, Mendocino today is one of the most picturesque villages on the California coast.

View from our room at the Stanford Inn by the Sea

One of the Stanford Inn's two pet llamas

The old farmhouse on the grounds of the Stanford Inn

One of Mendocino's famed water towers, or "pump houses," converted into housing

A naked yet picturesque water tower

The interior of Crown Hall, where Mendocino's Portuguese community used to gather (and sometimes still do), often used for a craft fair on the weekends

A view of Main Street from the cliffs

Amy getting wind-blown just before we got soaked in a downpour

Amy explores an alley in Mendocino decorated in driftwood

Christmas angels (and a seagull) adorn the steeple on an old church, now, I believe, a bank

Lovely old red house with a Gothic window

Another charming house in the village

A couple whimsical weather vanes

Outrigger canoeing on the Big River

We made a little pal at the Stanford Inn

Fort Ross

2010-12-30T10:33:00.000-08:00

In which we go Ruski

Many Californians may not know it, but the Russian Empire of the Czars had a foothold in early California. In the time of Spanish, and later Mexican, rule the Russians – then in control of much of what is now the State of Alaska – had settlement in what is today Sonoma County, on the north coast about 60 miles North of San Francisco Bay.

We recently visited Fort Ross and other points north.

Krepost Ross was most active between 1812 and 1841. It was originally built to exploit the trade in otter pelts, but over-trapping brought the sea mammal to near extinction in just 20 years. The colony then set up shop growing food to export to Alaska. This enterprise did not last either and the colony was finally abandoned by the Russian-American Company and sold to California pioneer, John Sutter in 1849.

Although a Russian outpost, Fort Ross was quite cosomopilitan. The people who lived, worked and traded there came from all over – Russians (of course), Siberians, Chinese, American Indians, Spaniards and Mexicans.

Today, the partially restored Fort Ross is a California State Historic Park and an oddity among early 19th century imperial landmarks.

Part of the stockade and blockhouse

A corner blockhouse, a defensive position that dominates the surrounding countryside with canon

Inside the stockade, some canons of the type in use in the early 1800's

The armory

The Orthodox church

A detail of some of the woodwork in one of the fort's buildings

The St. Orrea Russian Hotel and Restaurant (up Highway 1 from the fort)

Road Trip

2010-07-10T11:30:00.000-07:00

In which we cruise California’s Central Coast

Motored south last weekend for a little R & R.

The first stop was Salinas, a town I have passed through many times – as many others have – but never stopped in. Salinas has a struggling, quaint little “historic” downtown that takes about 20 minutes to walk around, but which has recently gotten a boost from the National Steinbeck Center, which opened a few years ago. I didn’t venture into the museum itself – let’s face it, writers’ lives are spent at typewriters and are not all that interesting. But I did wander down to the Steinbeck House, a few blocks away.

Steinbeck House, Salinas, California

John Steinbeck and the Red Hat Ladies
This is the house where John Steinbeck came up. It’s a lovely old two-storey Queen Anne Victorian, built in 1897. It is now a restaurant with a funny little gift shop in the basement. It is, of course, an E Clampus Vitus literary landmark. Satisfactory!

Among the other bric-a-brac and books in the gift shop, I noticed a table full of ladies' hats, all red. I asked the chatty shop-keeper if Mrs. Steinbeck – that is, the author’s mother – used to wear a red hat...

Then I got an education. The red hats, she said, are for the “Red Hat Ladies…”

“The what?” I asked.

The Red Hat Society, she explained, is a club for women over the age of 50. Most of them are empty-nesters, widows, divorcees, etc. – basically women who have lived respectable lives who now just want to get out and have a little fun with the other gals. Their signature is that they all wear red hats.

Evidently, the Steinbeck House is a common stop for Red Hat Society tour busses, probably because Oprah Winfrey brought her show there back on 2003. In a sense, they’re kind of like the Clampers for women. I heartily approve. Go Red Hat Ladies! Still, it makes you wonder what ol’ Steinbeck would have thought…

On a mission from God
After buying some fresh cherries from a roadside stand, I proceeded southward to San Luis Obispo. I’ve been there before. My Pops took his journalism degree at Cal Poly and I have all kinds of pals from there. It is a lovely town with a delightful little river walk along San Luis Creek. Of course, I had to visit the historic Mission San Luis Obispo, built in 1772.

The mission is named for Saint Louis the Bishop, or Saint Louis of Toulouse, a French nobleman of the 13th century. I am hard pressed to understand exactly why he was canonized, but there it is. “Bishop’s Peak,” a lovely hill that was once an ancient volcano, is one of the town’s anchoring landmarks.

Detail from inside the Mission at San Luis Obispo

San Luis Creek River Walk, San Luis Obispo, California

The flower garden at the Madonna Inn

The Gold Rush Steak House at the Madonna Inn

One of the local crazy ladies and her parakeet in downtown SLO

Hearst What?

Hearst Castle isn’t.

That is, it is not a castle at all. It has no ramparts, no defenses except for its commanding position on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific.

It is, rather, architect Julia Morgan’s greatest aesthetic failure. The place is a nightmare of wretched excess and abject consumerist vulgarity – a hodge-podge treasures looted from the world over.

And I loved it.

Do yourself a favor, though. If you go on a tour, take one late in the day, or the twilight tour. Otherwise you will be surrounded by screaming brats who don’t know how to shut the hell up while the adults are talking.

Hearst Castle front porch

Wm. Randolph Hearst's view

Hearst Castle north belltower. Get your damned head out of my shot.

Guest house at Hearst Castle, with a copy of Donatello's David on top of the fountain

Fountain made from statuary plundered from ancient Egypt

Diving platform in the indoor pool

How do you get out of a Roman bath? With a marble ladder, of course!

The ceiling of the "refectory" at Hearst Castle. The panels came from a 14th century church wall, which is why their heads are all leaning to the right.

Bunny caught on camera at the Botanical Gardens in SLO

My first ever pic of a California quail. They're usually too quick to capture on pixels. Also at the Botanical Gardens in SLO.

This little fellow is very fond of fresh bing cherries

Morro Bay marshes from Black Hill

Morro Rock from Black Hill

One Up

Though a forth or fifth generation Californian, I’ve never travelled Highway 1 between SLO and Monterey, so I decided to do it on this trip. I was not disappointed. Big Sur – the sometime home of Henry Miller and Ken Kesey – did not disappoint.

Island of the Lighthouse at Big Sur

The lighthouse at Big Sur

Don't Forget What Country You Live in This Weekend

2010-07-02T10:43:00.001-07:00

In which we go all patriotic

Happy 233. That is all for now. Stay tuned for my weekend report from San Simeon, better known as Hearst Castle.

Random Snaps

2010-06-20T16:39:00.000-07:00

In which we share a few shots taken around The City

Took this on the roof of my building last week. It's a red tailed hawk. It's quite common that these birds -- between 18" and 2' tall -- nest on the taller buildings downtown, but it is rare to see one up close. I got very lucky with this shot.

The U.S.S. Bunker Hill, a 9,600 ton, Ticonderoga class cruiser, slips under the Golden Gate Bridge. She joins the Russian guided missile cruiser, Varyag, along with a Japanese training squadron, on a goodwill, port-of-call tour. I hope to take a tour of the Varyag tomorrow.

I curious gull eyes me on the shore of the bay. He is probably eying my sandwich, thinking "Mine, mine, mine!"

Some artistes have put up several Andy Goldsworthy-style rock sculptures (or rock piles if you prefer) on the bay shore.

People practicing Kung Fu sword near the band shell in Golden Gate Park.

Turtles getting a little sun in Stowe Lake, Golden Gate Park.

Kaiwo Maru!

2010-05-10T09:12:00.000-07:00

In which we go all nautical (again)

The Japanese training vessel, Kaiwo Maru II glided into port last week. This full-rigged four-masted ship, used for training by the Japanese Navy, was built in 1889. She came into San Francisco Bay to commemorate the 150 anniversary of the 1860 voyage of the Kanrin Maru, the first Japanese vessel to call officially at a U.S. port.

The ship's wheel used when she's under sail.

I spent several hours Saturday and Sunday aboard and around her, taking snaps and chatting with the Japanese sailors. It gave me a chance to use the few words in Japanese I remembered from watching the “Shogun” miniseries back in the 1970s---Konnichiwa (howdy!), hai (yes) and domo arigato (thank you), the limit of my Japanese. They were so nice they even had me bowing at the end.

She’s truly one of the largest and most lavishly appointed square-riggers I’ve ever had the privilege to come aboard.

Kaiwo Maru II

Displacement: 2,556 tons
Length: 361 ft.
Beam: 45 ft.
Height at mainmast: 142 feet
Complement: 199 souls

A crewman makes an announcement over the ship's PA. While the officers wear traditional navy blazers and white combination caps (and very smart they look) the men wear these kimono-style outfits. I rather liked them. At least they don't have to wear the little white beanies American sailors are forced to wear.

Just before she's pushed out into the channel by tugboats, the Japanese sailors climb the rigging and offer up their version of "three cheers" to the city and people of San Francisco. It was actually quite moving and brought several Japanese-American onlookers nearly to tears.

The San Francisco Fire Department fireboat, Guardian, offers its salute to the Kaiwo Maru II

Escorted by tugs and civilian yachts, the Kaiwo Maru II moves out toward the Gate.

Another shot of the Kaiwo Maru II, this one as she motors past Alcatraz. The spray in the background is from the SFFD Guardian. I'm sorry I wasn't able to see her under full sail. That would have been a sight to remember.

Truly, peace is better than war.

Also, read Carl Nolte’s excellent piece in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Bring the Boys Home

2010-03-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

It's time.

According to CNN:

There have been 4,707 coalition deaths [In Iraq since the invasion] -- 4,390 Americans, two Australians, one Azerbaijani, 179 Britons, 13 Bulgarians, one Czech, seven Danes, two Dutch, two Estonians, one Fijian, five Georgians, one Hungarian, 33 Italians, one Kazakh, three Latvians, 22 Poles, three Romanians, five Salvadoran, four Slovaks, one South Korean, 11 Spaniards, two Thai and 18 Ukrainians.

It's not just 4,707 dead. It's 4,707 families shattered.

The Iraqis have had their bloody election. It's time to bring our boys and girls home and cover them in the love and glory that they rightly deserve.

Bring them home, Mr. President. Soon.

Oh, I've just come
From the land of the sun
From a war that must be won
In the name of truth

With our soldiers so brave
Your freedom we will save
With our rifles and grenades
And some help from God

I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
I've got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

You just can't believe
The joy I did recieve
When I finally got my leave
And I was going home

Oh, I flew through the sky
My convictions could not lie
For my country I would die
And I will see it soon

I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
I've got to go home
I've been so alone, you see

When I walked through the door
My wife she lay upon the floor
And with tears her eyes were sore
I did not know why

Then I looked into her hand
And I saw the telegram
That said that I was a brave, brave man
But that I was dead...

The Pacific, The Colonel and The Bomb

2010-03-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

In which we relate a little family history about the Second World War

Tonight I am looking forward, albeit with some trepidation, to watching the first episode of new HBO series, “The Pacific.”

I say “trepidation” because when I contemplate the War in the Pacific, I must confess to feeling a kind of deep-seated, seething anger. I don’t know if Mr. Hanks’ film will provide some catharsis for this, or if it will only invoke further unhappy feelings. For the same reason I have thus far avoided seeing the film “Flight 93” -- the rage is still too recent. I am, however, going to take the plunge into “The Pacific.”

The War in the Pacific makes me especially angry because my family — admittedly long before I was born — was deeply enmeshed in the conflict. My grandfather, my father’s father, served in the Pacific all through the war, and later served in Korea. The war cast a long, deep shadow over the family, one that continues to shade us, even now. Because of the war, my grandfather spent many years away from his wife, his sons, and his daughters. What an awful price to pay for the folly of others.

Many younger Americans today seem to be under the misapprehension that the war began with the attack on Pearl Harbor. It began much earlier, with out-and-out wars of conquest by Japan against the countries of Asia— China, Korea, Manchuria (Manchukuo), French Indochina, Burma, Malaya, et al. Eventually, the Western powers recognized Japanese militarism for what it was and agreed to stop selling Japan the materials it needed to continue its Asian conquests — things like oil, iron ore and steel. Realizing that they had not the material to pursue their imperial dreams, the Japanese government set about making their plans for a wider war into a reality. (After all, why buy your materials when you can just take them?) The attack on Pearl Harbor was their first, bold move against the United States — an arrogant, stupid mistake.

Some revisionist historians — some quite respectable — have tried to re-imagine the war as merely another clash of empires. That’s partly true — but not “merely.” Certainly the British, the Dutch, the French and, yes, even the Americans all wanted a piece of the Asia pie.

But the actions of the forces of Empire of Japan stand for themselves. Japanese atrocities during its colonial expansion and WWII include the Rape of Nanking, Laha, Banka Island, Parit Sulong, Palawa, Chongde, Manila and the Bataan Death March, to name merely the most prominent. There were the hideous medical experiments carried out against American and other prisoners of war. And then there were the “comfort women.” Fed by a wildly racist ideology and a twisted sense of Samurai honor, the Japanese soldier evinced a daily cruelty against enemy soldiers and civilians alike so casual in its nature that it is utterly staggering to contemplate.

The Japanese war machine caused the deaths of an estimated nine million civilians in China alone – one of the highest tallies in a greater global war that killed more than 52 million people, soldier and civilian. But these aren’t the only reasons for feeling angry. During the war, American bombers killed an estimated 350,000 Japanese civilians. This is a tragedy for our country as well as theirs, for just as sure as the victims were blown limb from limb, incinerated, suffocated, buried alive, or faced long, slow, agonizing deaths from radiation poisoning, their executioners were brutalized, made callous, by the terrible outcome of the action. (For more, read John Hersey’s “Hiroshima.”)

Was the firebombing and the subsequent atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki justified? I don’t know. But I know that the timely end of the war may have saved the lives of 20,000 American servicemen geared up and ready to invade the Japanese homeland – and perhaps even the life of my grandfather. Without the bomb, it seems highly unlikely that I would ever have been born and be alive today to write this.

What I also know is that the actions of political leaders deeply and often tragically affect the lives of the people they sometimes so vainly and arrogantly claim to represent. Recent history is a case in point.

Recently, my father has been going through a cache of my grandfather’s letters to my grandmother during the war. My grandfather, always affectionately known in the family as “The Colonel,” was involved in logistics in the B-29 program. Late in the war, he was stationed on the Island of Tinian, from where the Enola Gay, the B-29 bomber that dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, took off. For his service and valor, The Colonel was awarded the Bronze Star, the Army Soldier’s Medal for Heroism and many other medals and citations.

Below is a selection of excerpts from some of The Colonel’s more interesting letters. I hope they may be of interest to scholars and other families connected to the War in the Pacific.

Jan. 3, 1945 – (Marianas Islands): I am still the dial twitter [radio operator?] and keep up pretty well what is going on. And if Europe is not too careful we will beat them finishing the war. As it does not look too good over there." [This probably reference to Battle of Bulge underway at that time.]

Jan. 23, 1945 – (M.I.): They were about to send me to Oahu for a while, but something changed their minds . . . it would be great to see a building and sidewalks, with store windows, even a few females wouldn’t hurt.The news from the European front is looking much better, for a change, altho that could end there in a hurry or take two years, as is the case here." [This would probably be news of the Bulge break-out.]

Jan. 25, 1945 – (M.I.): The war in Europe is certainly going fine and if it keeps up in that fashion we may both be home before you know it, but it is.The war in Europe is certainly going fine and if it keeps up in that fashion we may both be home before you know it, but it is hard to tell what may happen.

Feb. 5, 1945 – (M.I.): I sure have been sticking close to the radio the last few weeks, as the news is so good. And a great victory in the Philippines will hasten this end. And I believe it (will) come sooner than was expected.

April 25, 1945 – (M.I.): Was too bad about F.D.R. He was a great man and we have lost a fine leader. And its most unfortunate he could not have seen the end, which we all hope is very near. Berlin today is half taken, tho thats not quite the end, as it will take months to round them all up and large armies to keep them under control.

May ??, 1945 – (Oahu): I too have been sitting on pins and needles the last few weeks. The E.T.O. [European Theater of Operations] has been about to finish them then seems to hit a snag, but the Japs are getting real trouble from us — in large doses and many are of the opinion they may fall.

We are very much enthused over the war situation which finally is beginning to close in very close. (cq)

The ribbons came yesterday to Cal [???] which was his birthday, and we had a party for him, so they came at the right time. While we were there we heard the war was over in Germany. I celebrated, two drinks, made me dizzy and I could not sleep. Disgusting! The rumble on the war being over turned out phony. Tho we had a very good time and good eats." [I am not sure what is going on here — the war in Europe ended on May 8, 1945.]

May 27, 1945 – (Oahu): V.E. Day was wonderful, tho’ very quiet here as it’s not anywhere near finished but we are sure doing some excellent work with the 29s.

Aug. 8, 1945 – (Tinian): We are still putting out the labor in very grand style, and doing something real wonderful to win the war. Which may come to end almost any day…

[Two paragraphas later:]

The announcement has just come thru over the radio of the new atomic bomb. Whatta deal. Its our hope for a quick end to the war. You have no doubt heard all the details.

Aug. 9, 1945 – (Tinian): The news is something beyond all manner of control; Russia today again joined us so its to be over, I hope. Before even this reaches you. Tho we will still have a great amount of work to do.The new bomb must have really given the Nips a great jolt, as they are not in the least as radio cocky as before. And now with the Ruskies, they are even more "so sorry prease."

Undated – (Tinian): At last the war is over and I can write you how much I love and have missed you, my dear. I guess I have been waiting for this censorship to end so I could really tell you, without some snooping S. O. Brick reading my mails.

You no doubt had an idea I was wrapped up in the atomic work which I have been for the past three months, and still have a little to finish yet.

[Same letter:]

I have been negotiating peace terms with an Island call Agrugon [probably “Aguijan,” a rock about the size of my dad’s house situated between Tinian and Saipan] about five miles from here. Takes about two to three days a week. And we will start putting a few troops on it next week. One Shib Lt. [???] is in command, who looks like one out of the cartoon, Harold Lloyd specs, buck teeth, field glasses, sword, canteen, map case and bow legged. I about took a sock at him when he came aboard our landing boat. We then took him to another ship to talk to the general.

He howled like hell when he found the war was over and we were the masters.

The Russ Building at Sunset

2010-03-11T07:19:00.000-08:00

In which we talk architecture

I live near the Russ Building. Built in 1927 and 32 storeys tall, it was the tallest building in San Francisco until 1964, and for 30 years was the tallest buildings in the American West. Designed by architect George Kelham, the style of the building is usually referred to as "Neo-Gothic," but I think a more approriate apellation would be "Art Deco Gothic." Its details harken back to the late gothic period of the Middle Ages -- pointed arches, shields and finials -- but the maginifcent lobby is pure deco. As a building it soars. Looking at it you feel uplifted into the clouds.

It's owned by the mighty Shorenstein family, who I must say keep her in fine repair. (I know because they're banging away on the facade day and night, and sometimes it keeps me up.)

Recently, I've noticed two pairs of hawks circling its top in the afternoon. I don't know if they live there or nearby, but they seem to like to play in the building's up-drafts.

Travels Around

2010-03-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

In which we catch up just a bit

Haven't posted here in a while -- there's just no time -- but I thought I'd catch up with a few photos from recent trips around the Napa / Winters / Davis area. No long explication, just a few photos and captions.

Proud as a peacock... on the road between Winters and the Napa Valley...

Great nephew Nate stands by the wheel of a steam locomotive at the California State Railroad Museum, Sacramento...

Nate shows us how the steam locomotive works...

A burro at a small ranch off of Olive School Road near Winters...

More burros... If you "chk-chk" at them, they come right up to you for a scratch behind the ears. They love that...

An emu also at a ranch off Olive School Road. Pet emu. Fancy that...

One of several lamas at a farm between Winters and Napa...

Castello di Amorosa, a winery and tourist attraction in the Napa Valley. This is the most authentic reproduction of a medieval castle I have seen in the U.S. -- and I've seen a lot of castles in England and Scotland...

Lone tower at the Castello...

A horse and rider at my friends' horse ranch, Somerset Farm, near Winters...

A small lake on the road between Winters and the Napa Valley... Not sure which one...

E Clampus Vitus plaque outside the Robert Louis Stevenson Silverado Museum in St. Helena, in the Napa Valley... Kind of a crappy photo, but you can't take pictures inside the museum, sadly. It's worth the trip if you're an RLS fan, though.

Where I was

2009-10-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

October 17, 1989, 5:04 P.M.

Twenty years ago yesterday.

I was on the 43 Masonic bus, which wends its way from City College of San Francisco through St. Francis Wood, through Forest Hill, down through the Haight and up Masonic Street to the Presidio. I was living near 3rd Avenue and Balboa at the time. From City College, I would alight from the coach perhaps on Haight Street and walk home. That was the plan.

I was coming back from my sabre fencing class at City College, taught by my mentor Joe Manzano. I was then an avid fencer and continued to be so for some years afterward. The bus was winding through St. Francis Wood, home to many lovely old houses, each in some borrowed historical style – mock Tudor, Mission Revival, classical Roman, Cinderella Castle and so forth. I have always admired them. A friend from my fencing class was with me, a U.S. Army veteran and a really nice guy. I am ashamed to say that, after so many years, I have forgotten his name.
The bus was crowded with students and lively. Some were listening to the World Series lead-up on portable radios.

As we were making our way through St. Francis Wood, I remember my friend pointing out some of the houses perched on the hillside. He was commenting on how lovely they were, but that he’d hate to own when “the big one hit.” I’m not kidding. He actually said that five minutes or so before 5:04 P.M., October 17, 1989.

At Forest Hill Station, where the Muni (that is, the subway) hits its deepest point underground and has a fine old station, we came to a stop to let more passengers on. They filed in and the bus got even more crowded. I was pointing out to my friend an apartment building that I admired. It was – and is – mock Tudor and stands next to the station, across the street from the North-bound bus stop. I always liked it, though today it is not quite the same. He agreed it was a nice building and, up in Forest Hill, one could feel as if one lived in Sherwood Forest rather than in the middle of the City.

Outside the bus was a large group of raucous high school students, doing what high school students do – shouting at one another and generally making noise. Then the bus began to roll back and forth, gently at first, and then becoming more violent. My friend and I thought it was these high school kids playing a prank on the driver, rocking the bus back and forth. I even shouted through the window, “Hey, you kids, stop rockin’ the bus!”

Then my friend pointed across the street and said, “Man, look at your building!” I followed his gaze to see my admired mock Tudor quiver. It was actually undulating, like a Thanksgiving Jell-O tower. Cracks formed along its sides, shooting down from its roof to its foundation. Masonry began to fall off of it, a piece here and a piece there. It was the damndest thing I ever saw.

People began to scream.

It was at that point that I felt what I can only describe as “the rising panic.” I will never forget it. I don’t know what I was thinking, because I probably wasn’t. I began to rise out of my seat. My friend, evidently sensing my move, gently put his hand on my knee and gave me one, simple, forceful command: “DON’T.” It stands the test of time as the single best piece of advice any person has ever given me. I sat back down.

This all happened in 15 seconds.

When the rocking stopped, and we were all alive, a great cheer went up in the bus. We high-fived one another.

The bus, being diesel rather than one of the electric trolley coaches, simply moved on. We wound our way down the hill, and that was when the gravity of what had happened at last hit us. One fellow bus rider on a transistor radio reported to us that the Bay Bridge had “collapsed.” To us at the time this meant that the whole structure had toppled over, crashing into the Bay, perhaps killing hundreds. We couldn’t know otherwise. Nearing Cole Street, we saw brick facades that had toppled, crushing parked cars. Windows were shattered. Dust was everywhere. The lights were out.

My friend said, “We need to get a drink.” I agreed.

At Haight Street, now nearing dark with no street lights, we got off. We went to Nightbreak, a punk club near Haight and Stanyan that served beer, wine and saki. I can’t say we had a bad time. Every cute, gothie-punkie Haight Street shop girl was in there, their shops closed for lack of power. In a way, it was kind of heaven. The only light was candlelight and, since the power was out, they had no cash registers. If you had a $10 bill, you gave it to them with the promise that you would drink $10 worth of beer. Sorry, no change. I don’t know how they kept track, but they did. (In those days a beer cost a buck-fifty, so you do the math.)

After we’d drunk our fill, it was dark, and my friend and I parted, gazing curiously at the glow of the fires coming over the hill from the Marina. I made my way home, stopping at a corner store to buy a bottle of cheap vodka and some orange juice. I remember one fellow was in a panic, screaming at me and the other liquor buying patrons that we should be buying water, not booze, and that we’d all be starving in a few days. With typical San Francisco aplomb, we ignored him. At one busy intersection – Arguello and Anza, maybe? – I directed traffic with another guy for about a half-hour until a policeman arrived. My room was a disaster: books thrown everywhere, my favorite lamp shattered. Eventually we were “yellow tagged” and had to move out, though to this day I think our landlord hoodwinked us to get us to move so she could up the rent.

That night, I sat on the roof of my flat with my roommates, sipping screwdrivers and watching the dark, silent night, our only light from candles, the helicopters overhead and the eerie glow of the fires away Northward, wondering if we were all going to burn.

Days past and things happened. I made $200 cash – a fortune to me at that time – guarding my workplace, the vintage clothing store, American Rag, then on Bush Street, against looters for two nights, armed with a sword. No joke.

When I look back at this event, my story isn’t much compared with that of others’ who really suffered. But it’s the one I have. And I will never forget.

This post is dedicated to the men and women of the San Francisco Fire Department, who do yeomans’ in this town every single day.

Sky High

2009-10-09T11:21:00.000-07:00

In which we zoom-zoom

The U.S. Navy Blue Angels as they rehearse over North Beach, San Francisco, for the annual Fleet Week air show, taken from the roof of my 7th floor apartment, looking down Kearny Street to the North.

2009-09-11T09:22:00.001-07:00

Sunday Blather

2009-07-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

In which we talk newspaper

It is considered a faux pas in the blogging world to link to articles in "the newspaper." However, two stories in today's Chronicle caught me eye and are worth a mention.

The first is by the inimitable Carl Nolte, who writes the "Native Son" column each Sunday. In it, he talks about how native San Franciscans identify one another by place and social status by the high school they went to.

"Two old San Francisco types meet by chance at a party, maybe in Marin, or the mysterious East Bay. They don't know many people at the party, but somebody across the room looks vaguely familiar. So they start a conversation and it goes like this:

"Hi, howareya? Don't I know you from someplace? Whereya from?" The other person is a little wary; everybody seems to be from somewhere else these days. "From?" the other person says, "I'm from here. From the City."

"Oh yeah?" the first person says. "Where didja go to school?" Though the other person sounds like a San Franciscan - talks fast, runs words together, refers to San Francisco as the City - the question about school is the key. It doesn't make any difference if the person has a Ph.D. from Harvard, or used to be the president of Stanford. What we want to know is where you went to high school.

This is the way San Franciscans of a certain age recognize other San Franciscans; the password, the secret handshake. It tells everything: class, status, maybe religion, who your family is and who your friends are."

Read the rest...

The second talks about the Chronicle's presses' last day. The last Chronicle rolled off the old, 50-year-old presses that were owned by the newspaper early this morning. Henceforth, an outside firm will handle the printing. The good news is that the new presses will allow for a more colorful and "crease-free" read, and may allow the company, which lost $50 million last year, to save enough cash to continue operations for a few more years. I hope it does, because I don't look forward to the day when I have to do without my local daily. The bad news is that a lot of long-time Chronicle press men are now out of work.

Brave new world? Feh!

Have You Heard About the Bird?

2009-05-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

In which we get all Audubon

My friends' kitchen window in the O-Town Hills looks out under a driveway deck up against the hill. Not much of a view except that several pairs of birds appear to have nests there. This little chap (above) and his wife seem to planning a family under the rafters nearest the house. What kind of bird is that, I wonder? He's got a very bright and colorful chest.

Remember the Fallen

2009-05-25T12:58:00.001-07:00

That is all

Comin' Up! Comin' Up, Aye!

2009-05-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

In which we relate a Coast Guard adventure

Speeding across the Bay

Our Coast Guard Auxiliary crew met at 0800 and tripped over the Golden Gate Bridge to the Presidio Yacht Club, where the Auxiliary vessel Sunrise awaited us. We were under orders to assist the regular Coast Guard in a Helo Ops (helicopter operations) training mission. Helicopter teams must perform a certain number of training exercises each year in order maintain their flying status.

Today we were to assist in cage drop rescue operations, in which a cage is lowered onto a boat from a helicopter, simulating an emergency evacuation of a sick or injured person.

This was my second on-the-water training, and my first Helo Ops exercise. Any initial nervousness I felt was quickly allayed by the professionalism of our Auxiliarist crew – Flotilla Commander Dave, our Coxswain, Rae, and my fellow crewmen, Leonard and Bill. Honestly, I can't say enough about how much these mentors are patiently teaching me about seamanship. They are truly amazing .

After readying the Sunrise, a beautiful, tricked-out 38-foot cabin cruiser complete with sirens, emergency “cop lights,” radar, depth finder, GPS, etc., and after we had hoisted the Coast Guard ensign, we set off for our rendezvous in the Eastern half of San Francisco Bay.

Whenever a Coast Guard power boat accelerates, the Coxswain calls out “Comin’ up!” and the crew answers back, “Comin’ up, aye!” so that he knows everyone’s prepared for the sudden acceleration. It’s a smart protocol that helps ensure no one falls overboard, but it’s also one that gives the operation a sense of community, like a church ritual.

While awaiting the rendezvous, we underwent a drop anchor / raise anchor drill. It’s not as easy as it sounds.

The Dolphin comes in for a low pass

We were to assist four different helo crews – each consisting of a pilot, co-pilot and an engineer (in charge of lowering and raising the cage) in two different types of cage drops, plus observe a few man-in-the-water drills, helping ensure the safety of the diver.

The day was warm and calm – the Bay almost like glass in the morning – and we quickly grew hot in our “Mustangs” – flotation/survival suits Coast Guard crews are required to wear during on-the-water missions.

We didn’t have to wait long before our helo, an H-65 Dolphin short range recovery aircraft, radioed us, signaling that they were ready to come in. The Dolphin is a beautiful, powerful 9,500 lb. beast, with two Turbomeca 2C2-CG Turboshaft engines boasting 934 horsepower. It has a top speed of 160 knots per hour (184 mph) and a rescue hoist capacity of 900 lbs. It’s a freakin’ high performance demon.

The Dolphin's engineer moves the boom into place and makes ready to lower the cage

The Dolphin came in for a low pass, circumnavigating our boat as per protocol to check out our overall situation and make sure we were safe for a cage drop. The helo crew then radioed the Sunrise that they were coming in for their first drop. This was to be a straight drop into the cockpit of our boat. I observed while Bill showed me how it was done. There isn’t a lot of finesse to a straight drop: The cage comes down and you catch it and haul 'er in. On humid days, the protocol is to let the cage touch the hull of the boat first in order to discharge any static electricity, which can cause serious injury.

Unlike other helicopters, the Dolphin doesn’t make that “whop-whop-whop” sound but, because of its turbojet engines and because the tail rotor is encased in a cowling, it makes this cloyingly loud buzz, like a giant, angry hornet out of The Land That Time Forgot. It’s so loud, in fact, that when it was right overhead at perhaps 20 feet it seemed to give me an auditory hallucination, as if I could hear voices whispering underneath the din. Damned strange, that.

Getting ready to bring in the cage

Then the real work started. Bill and I teamed up to handle the line-drop exercises. This entails the helo engineer dropping a weighted line while the pilot edges the Dolphin toward the boat. One man catches the line and tosses the weight to the other man. As the first man gently brings the line in, the other coils it so that it doesn’t get caught up in anything. At the last second, the hauler pulls fast and hard as the cage is dropped, bringing the cage into the cockpit of the boat – usually banging the hell out of the transom or fantail in the process. (Sorry, Rae!)

It’s rough and potentially dangerous work – everything is in motion: the aircraft, the boat, the waves, and the cage, which is just heavy enough to knock you out or overboard if you are not careful. At one point, as the cage was being raised out of the cockpit, my leg got caught in the line. I had a moment there when I was sure I was going to get pulled up and out, leg first. Luckily, I untangled myself in the nick ‘o time. Whew!

In all, we did 20 cage drops with four different air crews, two in the morning, two after lunch. We also did man-overboard drills and I was taught radio protocol and manned the helm to boot.

Dropping the cage

Our second-to-last helo team of the day was so pleased with our performance the pilot buzzed us by way of salute, coming in so low I thought he was going to scratch our paint.

Then we observed the man-in-the-water drills, in which a diver leaps from the helicopter at a height of perhaps 20 feet and is then plucked out of the water on a rescue line. Talk about drama.

Hauling in. I recommend gloves next time.

I’ve done a lot of things you could call adventurous in the last 20 years – surfing, snowboarding, skydiving, etc. – but this takes it. That’s because this is real. There is no script, no groomed runs, no lift chairs, no beer in the lodge at noon, no sexy girls on the beach. You’re doing an important job at service to your community and your country. It was one whole hell of a lot of work, but I loved every second of it. It's about the most fun you can have with your pants on.

Lifting the diver out of the water

And, in the unlikely event that I happen to be aboard a vessel in need of a helicopter evacuation, I’ll likely be the only guy on board who knows how to do it. That's a pretty exhilarating feeling.

Quake Day Cameo

2009-04-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

In which we're in the news

Attended the 103rd memorial of the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 Saturday morning at Lotta's Fountain on Market Street at 5:15. Quite the festive occasion, with re-enactors, Clampers, politicians, siren-blaring fire trucks and various and sundry San Franciscans with a historical bent. The local TV news media was there, of course, and it appears that both yours truly and my friend, Gregory, made it into a little cameo on the b-roll.

Joke's on Buckley in Latitude 30

2009-04-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

In which we chortle

Not sure what prompted this letter to Latitude 38, the sailing magazine, but the magazine's editors sure had fun with it. William F. Buckley Jr. liked to fancy himself a great sailor. Latitude 38's editors didn't think we was all that.

A Helpful Prescription

In his series of books on sailing and chartering, the late William F. Buckley, Jr. concluded that a vessel could only have one captain, and that it was best when he, Buckley, was it. Well, we've seen a lot of bossy male crew over the years, and have been leaving more and more of them back at the dock when we make our sailing trips. We've found that Swedish nurses, on the other hand, make excellent crew. We advise that anyone leaving on a voyage take at least one Swedish nurse with them.

Erik Westgard
Minnesota

Erik — We're a little fuzzy on the logical connection between William Buckley saying a vessel should only have one captain, preferably him, and you and the rest of your crew recommending that one or more Swedish nurses be brought along on all sailing trips. But whatever.

Ironically, Buckley, who often chartered Ocean 71s, sisterships to Latitude's Big O, apparently wasn't the most careful of skippers. According to the captain of one of the Ocean 71s Buckley chartered, the author of God and Man at Yale not only drove the boat onto a well-charted reef but, along with his friends, spilled red wine all over the salon cushions. The ever imperious Buckley told the captain to just send him a bill, missing the point that there was no time to get the cushions cleaned or replaced prior to the arrival of the next charter party.

We editorially stuck it to Buckley from time to time because we thought his sailing books were pedestrian and because we thought he comported himself like an arrogant ass. As a result, we were pleased when Buckley, who suffered from delusions of erudition, and having missed our point entirely, referred to us as "dyspeptic" in one of his sailing books.

San Francisco No. 3 City for Guys

2009-03-31T11:16:00.000-07:00

In which we claim braggin' rights

I wrote a San Francisco profile piece that appeared today in AskMen.com's "29 Best Cities for Guys to Live In" series, which was also written up in today's Insider in the San Francisco Chronicle by Heather Knight and is getting good pick-up elsewhere, including the HuffPo.

Not everyone agrees with some of our recommendations, however. I'll continue to update reactions to this post throughout the day.

Character Satisfactory!

2009-03-29T10:54:00.000-07:00

In which we talk up the Ancient and Honorable Order...

So it turns out that one of my mentors in the United States Coast Guard Auxiliary, Rick Saber, is an important member of the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, also known as The Clampers. Rick plays the role of Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico (that's him above) at Clamper ceremonies, called "Doins'." I have technically been a Clamper since my initiation at San Quentin in 1995 (no, I was not an inmate but a guest of the warden at that time, who was also a Clamper.) Variously described as a historical drinking society or as a drinking historical society, The Clampers' raison d'etre is to commemorate the forgotten bits of Western history. They do this most prominently by placing plaques at various historical sites around the West. These aren't usually the sort of history one would read in a textbook, but rather peoples' history. The Clampers will commemorate the house of a well-known Belle of the Evening, or a fight with Indians, a bawdy house, a prison breakout, a gunfight, or a famed saloon (The Old Ship and the San Francisco Brewing Company are two San Francisco landmarks "plaqued" by the Ancient and Honorable Order.)

I was inactive for some years, however, and so my name fell off the Great Rolls of the Order. I've been interested in re-upping my membership in recent years, and meeting Rick was a double boon. Not only is he a highly competent brother officer in the Auxiliary, but he also helped me get re-instated as a brother Clamper.

So yesterday was my first Clamper doin's in many years. And what a homecoming it was. The event was the unveiling of a monument -- called, in Clamper parlance, a "plaquin'" -- that commemorates the very last stage coach hold-up in San Francisco Bay Area history.

The monument

The hold-up occurred in 1905, on a lonely stretch of highway now known as Crystal Springs Road in San Mateo County. The stone plaque takes some text from a San Francisco Call article that appeared shortly after the event. It reads:

Near this spot on August 17, 1905, a masked desperado described as "nine feettall and armed with a small canon stopped the Half Moon Bay stagecoach and angrily demanded driver Ed Campbell throw down the Wells Fargo Co.'s treasurebox, Levy Bros. strongbox and the U.S. Mail bag. No valuables here but the five passengers hid their gold and only gave $4.30."

A "poet," Michael Williams, later commemorated the event:
Huzza! romance returns again,
Once more as in the days of old,
Disdaining banks or Chu-chu train,
A robber stops a stage for gold,
And meets adventures manifold!
Hurrah! Such news is great, immense -
But softly, what is this I’m told?
This robber robbed for thirty cents!

I’ve reveled in the tales - like you -
Of Daring Dan and Nervy Nat,
And others of the gallant crew
Who on the highway passed the hat,
And spent robbed fortunes on a bat -
They were the boys of no pretense -
You never heard it hinted that
Such robbers robbed for thirty cents!

Oh, pshaw, tut, tut, alas, alack!
From out the dreary East I came
To get upon Adventure’s track
And view the “Woolly West” aflame,
With deeds that should go down to fame -

Now must I sadly hie me hence
From out a land where bandits shame
Their art by taking thirty cents?

L’Envoi

“O princes of the gallant game
Of standing folks up for their pence!
What words are harsh enough to blame
Robbers that look like thirty cents?”

Two of Hillsborough's finest pose with a motley crew of brother Clampers. The big one on the right demanded an application to join on the spot. That's good; we need more big Clampers.

His Majesty Norton I poses with Her Excellency, Mayoress Christine M. Krolik of Hillsborough, who is hot

Oddly enough, the prime mover for this event was not a Clamper at all, but none other than the celebrated futurist, Paul Saffo, who lives on the hill behind the site and who had been researching the stage coach robbery for some years. I had spoken to Paul on a number of occasions years back while working for Upside and Business 2.0 magazines. He was so out of context that I at first did not recognize him. When he started his speech, however, I quickly realized that this Paul and that Paul were in fact the same Paul. Paul was initiated into the Clampers later that afternoon and we had a nice chat and promised to catch up.

Big Smokey: A Brother Clamper lights a stoagie.

Here is the text of Paul's speech:

"The last stagecoach hold-up in San Mateo County took place on August 17, 1905 on Crystal Springs Road in what is now Hillsborough, near the bridge west of the Woodbridge intersection close to the old Casey rock Quarry now occupied by SF Water’s tunnel facility. The Levy Brothers Stagecoach had left the Occidental Hotel in Half Moon Bay at 6:30am and was heading east down the canyon towards San Mateo when a highwayman leapt from the brush and demanded they throw down the strong-box.

Though the robber appeared formidable -- one passenger declared that he was “nine feet tall and armed with a small cannon.” -- the robbery was interrupted by the arrival of a passing wagon driven by a local gardener, and the event quickly devolved into a comedy of errors. Though shots were fired, no one was injured and the hapless robber made off with a mere $4.30* collected from a reluctant hat-passing among the passengers.

When the stage arrived in San Mateo just after 9:00am, word of the robbery attempt spread and a motley volunteer posse took off up the canyon in hot pursuit of the fleeing robber. As the San Mateo Weekly Times described the event two days later:

“Bartlett with his graceful wobble, Boland with mighty strides, and Sheehan with the kangaroo hop of Bob Fitzsimmons, turned their faces westward. They were accompanied by a motley crew of volunteers. Postmaster Byrnes carried his perennial smile along and Weller began mopping his brow before Taylor Park was passed. Jack Pease was there with his head well to the front, Ben Race grim and silent, Frank Corbett swinging his arms like a professional sprinter, Underhill using his club like a baton (all these) with a large assortment of other detectives and thief-takers took to the timber and the robber would have died of fright had he seen the formidable gathering.”

The robber was never caught, and for all we know, may still be at large in Hillsborough today...

As this suggests, even before the posse returned to town, the robbery quickly passed into county history as a charming farce, memorialized in a poem published in a San Francisco paper a few days later."

Strike up the band: Music at Clamper doin's is always good.

World's cleanest mountain man

While some Clampers wear historic costume (as above), others wear outlandish outfits. This ensemble elicited this comment from one wag: "Hey, Mister, there's a man standing under your bird!"

You can see many Clamper plaques across the American West. Many look just like the state historic plaques one finds in out-of-the-way places. Look for the legend at the bottom, "Dedicated... by the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus."

Credo Quia Absurdum!

Literary Privateer

2009-03-18T21:47:00.000-07:00

In which we hail a local celeb

So I went to go see a movie on the Lumiere's postage stamp-sized screen and, alighting from the 47, checked in at the 101 Bar on Van Ness avenue to see who was stabbing whom. First person I see is the man with the eye patch and the Basset hound, hunched over a big stack of papers, which he's marking up.

I said, "Always good to see you, Mr. Hinckle," and we shook hands, even though I'm sure he doesn't remember that we ever met before. (I've bought him several drinks at various bars around the city over the last 20-odd years, but then so have a lot of other people.) I asked after the dog and he said, "He's alright," and proceeded to feed the sad-sack-looking but happy pup bits of hot dog.

"He doesn't mind cold hot dogs," Hinckle growled, grinning.

"What are you working on?" I asked, pointing to the stack of papers. "Are those proofs?"

"Yeah... It's my book on Hunter S. Thompson," he replied. "They cut the hell out of it, of course... "

We will stay tuned for said tome.

The movie was "Harvard Beats Yale, 29-29," about the famed 1968 game. It's an excellent renter if you can stand to watch a football movie. (Actually, football documentaries are often better than the real games.) Several of the players were models for Gary Trudeau's "Doonesbury" cartoon characters, including B.D. The Hollywood actor, Tommy Lee Jones (No Country for Old Men, etc.), was on the team that year, and another one of the players dated Meryl Streep. (Must be kind of awkward now.)

Pictures from a Bike Ride

2009-02-27T16:23:00.000-08:00

In which we go for a pedal through the woods and over the bay

A hummingbird explores the outside of an old bunker at Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg

Took a chance in between rain storms the other day and went on a bike-and-hike to the Marin Headlands. I pedaled up the hill along Arguello past Senator Diane Feinstein's old place and stopped in at the Presidio Golf Course Grill for a spot of lunch. (The food is superb there.) Afterward I rode up through the woods and over the hill along Washington Blvd. past some military housing that has been converted civilian apartments.

A historical photo of Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg, courtesy the Nat'l Park Service

I looked right and noticed for the first time a row of old concrete bunkers behind a block of apartments. I rounded the corner for a closer look. This, I found out later, is Battery McKinnon-Stotsenberg, which around the turn of the century was home to the battery of enormous 12-inch mortars pictured above.

Outside the gate I noticed a sign reading "Presidio Wine Bunker." I wondered if this was a historical site -- was this where the Presidio's commanders stored wine for the Officer's Club? The gate was open so I ventured in for a look around.

You've heard of swords to ploughshares? Here we have gun barrels to wine barrels

I found a little portable kiosk inside the gate knocked on the door. A man answered and I asked about the wine bunker. He said that it is a private business started after the U.S. Army had quit the base. Wineries and individuals pay to use the bunkers as a cave. Seems like nice work, if you can get it.

A steel ring rusts away on the bunker wall

A container ship passes into the Gate past the Point Bonita lighthouse

I pedaled on over the Golden Gate and through the tunnel and down Bunker Road into the headlands. I alighted at the Marine Mammal Center and hiked up the Coast Trail on foot.

I hiked up the trail to Battery Townsley, built in 1938 in preparation for the then still-gathering storm.

The Headland cliffs looking West-by-North-West

Pebble Henge

Wandering the hills I found someone's idea of Stonehenge. The arrow points due North while the rock opposite seems to indicate South. I decided to call it "Pebble Henge."

Does dining down by the site of the new Marine Mammal Center

Park Update

2009-02-22T16:21:00.000-08:00

In which we keep you abreast of threats to civilization

It was a very busy day before the Parks & Rec Commission at City Hall last week. There was some very noisy and controversial business – something about the Dept. of Parks & Rec wanting privatize certain functions – that overshadowed the parking meters issue. Nevertheless we parking meter naysayers made an impressive showing. Several of us showed up in our croquet outfits – white dresses, seersucker suits, navy blazers – and made quite an impression in the room and at City Hall in general. When the parking meter issue was brought to the fore, my old friend Eileen, who previously lead the charge so that people could enjoy a glass of wine in the park without fear of arrest, spoke. Here are her remarks, taken from her notes:

Good afternoon. My name is Eileen Hoyt and I live in San Francisco.

I am here to protest the proposal for metered parking in Golden Gate Park.
The Park we know has been free to visitors. It has always been free and should remain that way. Paid parking will make certain parts of the park inaccessible to scores of low and fixed income residents. The threat of a parking ticket is too severe for many families to risk for an afternoon outing.

Please keep Golden Gate Park accessible to all.

Thank you.

(Read also the brief and, er, interestingly-written piece in the Chronicle about it.)

In the end, the Commission voted to install metering kiosks in the Eastern end of Park, in Balboa Park and at the Lincoln Park Golf Course. These kiosks are the kind that allow you to pay with a credit card or coin for a fixed number of hours of parking. That’s great, I suppose, assuming you have a credit card or enough change in your pocket at the time. But it adds yet another hassle that San Franciscans, already hassled enough, have to deal with, and in a place where they shouldn’t have to deal with it. And they are yet another aesthetic blight on our cityscape.

I should note that while there were many voices raised against metering, not a single voice was raised in favor. (I wonder where the supporters were?) It was clear that the Commission had already cut a deal prior to its unanimous vote in favor of the resolution, and that the public comment portion of the proceedings was just the usual circus.

Now to our critics
A fellow San Francisco blogger going by the name of Sam Spade – no kidding – commented my original call to arms that:

William Hammond Hall was a state engineer who designed much of Golden Gate Park. Mr. Hammond, who was born in 1846 and did [sic] in 1934. Hall did not include vehicular parking because public transportation and NOT vehicle parking was preferred by the people of San Francisco at the time. It is entirely unlikely that Hall would approve of Golden gate [sic] Park being used as a daily parking lot for out-of-town commuters.

(I love how this guy, by stating Hall’s birth and death dates, tries to set himself up as an instant expert. It’s on Wikipedia, for Pete's sake.)

So Hall included no vehicular parking? Really? Are you sure? Because, as the Museum and San Francisco notes:

The legacy of Mr. Hall can still be seen and felt in Golden Gate Park because he deliberately designed roads and pathways with curves and bends to discourage fast horse-and-buggy drivers, and to shelter visitors from the wind.

And, another writer wrote a few years after the park was opened it was:

"…traversed by promenades, bridle paths and drives, invites the pedestrian, equestrian, or driver to follow their mazy windings into the labyrinths of hedges and borders."

One wonders where these horse-and-buggy drivers were to meant alight once they had found their ideal picnicking spot.

Of course, as Mr. Spade notes, public transportation was the “preferred” way of getting to the park in the 19th century, because there were few roads good roads out to the Outside Lands, most families could not afford a carriage-and-two to drive on them, and these conveyances were besides a rather risky way of navigating the hills between downtown and the Park.

Interesting to note that road races were once held in the Park.

I also think Mr. Spade is overstating the case when he suggests that the Park is “used as a daily parking lot for out-of-town commuters.” It isn't. I live quite near the Park and luckily have the luxury of being able to bike through it on many weekdays. Monday through Friday, there are surprisingly few parked cars to be seen on John F. Kennedy Drive, except near the major attractions, and it’s all but deserted toward the West end. Think about it: Very few out-of-towners are going to park their cars in the Park and then spend another bumpy 50 minutes on the 5-Fulton just to get to their offices downtown.

The tireless Mr. Spade goes on:

It is even more ridiculouas [sic] to suggest that John McLaren, who spent a lifetime in disapproval of automobiles in general and the emerging automotive lifestyle that existed during his lifetime. McLaren was born in 1846 and died in 1943.

(Again with the birth and death dates.)

I think I understand what Mr. Spade is trying to say, despite the sentence fragment. But, for more than half of the Park’s history, automobiles have been around in San Francisco and have been used to get to the Park by families on outings. Parking meters are not the answer to urban traffic congestion. Sound public transit policy and good urban planning are, and I believe that McLaren, were he alive today, would concur. If you want families to take public transit to the Park then extend BART to the De Young Museum basement.

And, for the record, I don’t even own a car and rely on public transit, my trusty bike and the occasional cab to get around.

And Mr. S., yet again:

Herb Caen would be horrified to hear that M2 so grossly misunderstands Herbs [sic] life. I knew Herb caen [sic] personally and I knew him for many years. Herb hated cars, congestion, traffic, smog, and everything associtated [sic] with it. M2 just plain doesn't have a clue what he is talking about.

(But what were Herb's birth and death dates?)

Yes, Herb Caen hated traffic, but not enough to give up the Jag, right? I wasn’t as chummy with Caen as Mr. Spade, but I did know him a bit and even fed him items on occasion from behind the plank at Enrico’s, and I know that along with congestion, traffic and smog that he also hated parking meters, parking tickets and meter maids. They were frequent targets in his column.

Parks & Rec. believes it can glean $500,000 per year from these metering kiosks. I hope they are right. It’s just too bad they have to get it by further vulgarizing the City and making scofflaws of its residents.

Save Golden Gate Park

2009-02-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

In which we take up the cause of civilization

San Franciscans! Man the barricades!

The San Francisco Board of Stupidvisors is meeting today to consider installing parking meters in Golden Gate Park in an effort to balance the City's budget and "encourage" use of mass transit.

This is the worst idea I've heard in a long while in a city famed for bad ideas.

Ever tried to ride the bus with a large picnic hamper full of nosh and wine -- and then carry it through the park for a half-mile or so to your picnic site? It ain't easy. How about parents with kids? It is completely unfair to the people who need the Park the most -- City families with little or no outdoor space to call their own. And how are you supposed to enjoy a relaxing stroll around Stow Lake while worried about feeding a meter?

Besides these obvious drawbacks, parking meters in the Park are simply barbaric and completely outside the spirit of what the park's original champions, William Hammond Hall and John McLaren, had in mind.

Do not let the Board of Supervisors or the Department of Parks and Recreation brutalize Golden Gate Park for the sake of a few pennies.

Please join our well-dressed protest at City Hall today, Feb. 19, 2pm, Room 416 -- or call or write your Supervisor!

Don't Call It...

2009-02-16T06:08:00.000-08:00

In which we talk city

My Pops, over at the Yolo Papers, collects and deals in, among every other kind of junk, paper ephemera. Recently he purchased a photo album that included the snap above. Evidently, the "Linebarqer Bros" went on a long hike -- mayhap for charity? -- all the way from Fort Worth, in Texas, to "Frisco."

The sailor's term "Frisco" has historically been much maligned among San Franciscans. The late great Herb Caen even wrote a book called Don't Call It Frisco. But even he came around to the term's charm before he died. I have decided that I am fond of it and even use it on occasion. What bugs me more is the appellation "San Fran," usually intoned with a nasal Midwest accent.

But whatever. Apparently, the previous owner of the photo album was a die-hard San Franciscan, because the hand-written note at bottom of the photo reads "I don't care how damn cute your dog is, don' t call in Frisco!"

View Finder

2009-02-15T09:17:00.000-08:00

In which we ogle the urban scenery

The San Francisco skyline, taken from my friends' home in the Oakland Hills.

Rainbow Detection

2009-02-13T09:51:00.000-08:00

In which we enjoy what passes for Winter in San Francisco (suck it, East Coast)

Snapped this rainbow over Ashbury Heights early this morning while cycling up to the gym. My next post will be all about puppies and unicorns.

200

2009-02-12T11:21:00.000-08:00

Who is in charge? The man in the big hat.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the dock my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

--Walt Whitman

A San Francisco Sort of Day

2009-02-07T18:13:00.000-08:00

In which we revel in the eccentric city... just a bit

This day was actually a few weeks back when the weather was still good. But it's still worth sharing.

- 2pm: Lunch with old friends at Sam's (Est. 1867); martini, real sourdough bread, Sam's Fillet of Sole, glass of Sauvignon Blanc

- 3pm: Tour of the Cable Car Museum and Winding House (I'd never been); a fascinating, underground look at how the world's most profitable and efficient public transit system works

The cables on the wheels they go round and round, round and round, round and round...

- 4pm: Cafe Americano and chat with friends at a cafe across the street from the Winding House; watched gripmen replace a worn grip on a Hyde Street Line car

- 6pm: Attended memorial for P.J. Corkery, author of a bio of Johnny Carson, Hollywood writer, and a sometime SF Examiner columnist. Speakers included the Honorable Willie Brown, the eye-patched and hound-toting literary privateer Warren Hinckle, restauranteur Ed Moose, Mrs. Dewson (the infamous hatter) and writer and gadfly Bruce Bellingham.

- 9:30pm: Date with an adorable Asian chanteuse; went to burlesque night at Annie's Social Club; late night cheap dinner at The Grubstake.

It's like therapy.

Goodbye to All That

2009-02-06T10:48:00.000-08:00

In which we hail the last survivor

Read in today's colorful new San Francisco Comical that Herb Hamrol, the last survivor of the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 died yesterday, aged 106. Hamrol, reporter Kevin Fagan's warmly written obit noted, was also the world's oldest grocery clerk, who worked at the Andronico's on Irving Street right up to the time he was hospitalized for complications from pneumonia last week.

Back when I lived out in the Richmond I went to Andronico's frequently and had often seen Herb working in the store. I didn't know he was an '06 survivor. I remember wondering what dire circumstances the fellow was in that he could not retire. Evidently, none at all; he just liked to work.

Fagan relates Hamrol's advice for young men:

Don't spend every dime you get
Stay away from wild women
Don't smoke, drink or do drugs
Wear a tie when you go to work, also a nice shirt

Next April 18 at 5:18 a.m. I'll be at Lotta's Fountain, ignoring rule three as a lift a glass of sparkling wine in ol' Herb's honor. Afterward, I'll ignore one and two for good measure.

(Photo courtesy the San Francisco Chronicle, used entirely without permission)

Philadelphia

2009-01-18T11:40:00.001-08:00

In which we visit the City of Brotherly Love, yo?

Christ Church spire alight amid the gloaming

Took a short time-out and headed East to visit a friend in Philadelphia, cradle of American Liberty. Among our first stops was my friend's church, Christ Church, in the Old City. Founded in 1695 and built between 1727 and 1744, Christ Church was attended by William Penn -- who was baptized in the church's historic font, which had been brought over from England, where it had already served baptismal duty for some two centuries -- Benjamin Franklin (buried in the churchyard), Betsy Ross, George Washington and 15 signers of the Declaration of Independence.

The evening light casts elegant tracery upon Christ Church's ceiling

An Episcopal church, Christ Church represented the Church of England in America, and its plain, brick-and-white, lightly neoclassical design -- a perfect example of the early Georgian -- shows it. It is a hallowed place the evokes a kind of reverence in even the most skeptical heart, as well as a swell of patriotism and a feeling of continuity: the gift of generations.

We strolled through the Old City, down the little Georgian side streets past 18th century row houses like the one above, whose crooked door and window attests to the passage of time and the simple beauty of traditional architecture. In fact, I'd like to have a little chat with the city fathers about their decision to allow skyscrapers taller that William Penn's hat, atop Philly's Victorian City Hall. It was a bad decision, one that may have give the city a modern "skyline," but also overshadowed and diminished this old town's glorious architectural and historic heritage.

Betsy Ross's house is now a quaint little museum

San Franciscans, used to ornate, brightly-trimmed, gingerbread-laden, timber-built Victorians, my be disappointed at first with Philadelphia's seemingly endless rows of red brick houses. They also may find that the city, surrounded as it is by a rather vast industrial wasteland of power plants, oil refineries and shipping, lacks vistas or much of the kind of natural drama that we are used to. But then we are lucky enough to be surrounded by water -- two sides by bay, with picturesque Pacific to the West. Our industrial wasteland has been ghettoized to the Southeastern corner of the City. But Philly's history nevertheless peeks through almost everywhere, from the old stone horse trough on the sidewalk in the Old City to the Indian place names of the surrounding towns, like "Conshohocken," and colonial names, such as "King of Prussia," which took its name in the 18th century from a local tavern named "The King of Prussia Inn," which may in turn have been named for Benjamin Franklin's patriotic political satire, "An Edict by the King of Prussia." (Sadly, the tavern, which has been relocated from its original spot, no longer serves hooch but is now the offices of the King of Prussia Chamber of Commerce.)

The USS New Jersey's 16-inch guns could hurl a high explosive shell weighing more than a Volkswagen a dozen miles

Speaking of history, there's a really nice bit of it moored on the Camden, New Jersey, side of the Schuylkill River from downtown Philadelphia. (That's "skookle," my Californios, not "shoe-kill" or "shool-kill." ) The USS New Jersey, the brochure tells us, is the most decorated battleship in U.S. history. First launched from the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard exactly one year to the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor by the Imperial Japanese Navy, the New Jersey fought in most the the Pacific campaigns, was active in both the Korean and Vietnam wars and served off the shore of Lebanon, where she shelled Syrian positions after the Beirut Marine Barracks suicide bombing there killed some 400 U.S. Marines on peacekeeping duty, including one member of the New Jersey's ship's company.

One of he USS New Jersey's 5-inch guns takes a bead on some of the ugly glass towers of downtown Philly. If only.

During her service, only one crewman died while aboard. She was finally decommissioned for the last time in 1991. She's now a fascinating floating museum. I highly recommend the self-guided audio tour. Be sure to go into one of the 16-inch gun turrets and peer through one of the still operative sighting lenses.

In the 1980s, San Francisco had the chance to "home port" the USS Missouri, the "Mighty Mo," the historic battleship aboard which representatives from the Empire of Japan formally signed the "instruments of surrender," ending the Second World War. The City's so-called "progressives" balked, however, not wanting to have anything more to do with the "military-industrial complex" and noting that the then-still active Missouri was "nuclear capable." (Never mind that it never actually carried nukes.) Because home porting the Missouri would have meant more Bay Area jobs, and eventually the possibility that the ship might become a new San Francisco museum after its decommissioning, I was strongly in favor of home porting. But the City's far left, blindly anti-military establishment would have none of it. I've never forgiven them.

Today, the USS Iowa, around whose design the New Jersey and Missouri were built, sits in mothballs in Suisun Bay, north of San Francisco. There were plans afoot to bring the Iowa to the City as a museum ship, like the New Jersey and the Missouri (now a museum in Hawaii). But, once again, citing resistance to the Iraq war, the San Francisco Board of Stupervisors voted in 2005 against maintaining the Iowa in the City. Fools.

One of my favorite neighborhoods that we visited in Philadelphia is called the Italian Marke t. A few blocks square, the Italian Market is chock full of Italian food and produce stalls, little, old fashioned Italian restaurants, bakeries and coffee houses. But among the area's finer attractions is a mural of the... er... celebrated Italian-American, Frank Rizzo, mayor of Philadelphia from 1972 to 1980. Rizzo is perhaps best remembered, by non-Philadelphians at least, for the line, "I'm gonna make Attila the Hun look like a faggot."

Yo! Why don' choo take a pitcha a dis?

We arrived in the Italian Market during the first snow. It was the first time I had ever seen guys standing around a burning trash can to keep themselves warm. As I raised my camera, one of the local gentry saw me and shouted, "Yo! Why don' choo take a pitcha a dis?" accompanied with a gesture I will only describe as a "Philly Salute." (This is, after all, a family blog.) Well, you can take the goombah out of Philly...

The new Constitution Center is also well worth looking into. Before going into the museum, you're treated to a part-live, part-interactive multimedia show, in which an actor takes you through the early constitutional process and the issues of the day, including slavery. The program struck just the right balance between patriotic zeal and reality, and, I have to admit, it left me fighting back the mist once or twice.

Gettysburg

2009-01-08T12:37:00.001-08:00

In which we visit the site of the battle that turned the tide

Winter is, I think, the best time to visit the site of the great Battle of Gettysburg. Though the battle took place on a hot summer's day, the Pennsylvania wintertime, with its slanted light that gleams through the spidery branches of the slumbering trees, offers the hallowed feel of the inside of a great cathedral. One cannot help but feel reverence here, especially at this time of year.
Of the 165,620 men who fought at Gettysburg, on both the Union and Confederate sides, between July 1 and July 4, 1863, 7,863 were killed outright, 27,224 were wounded (many to die of their wounds later) and 11,199 went missing or were captured. The National Park Service's Gettysburg National Military Park is a fitting memorial to their sacrifice.

You enter the park through the spiffy new Visitor's Center, where helpful park volunteers show you the various tours and educational offerings available. Be sure and see the multimedia film presentation and by all means don't miss the Gettysburg Cyclorama. This is a massive, 540-foot long circular canvas painted by the French artist, Paul Philippoteaux, in the 1880s. It depicts the battle at the time of Pickett's Charge and includes more than 20,000 painted characters. A brief but moving presentation of changing light and sound takes viewers through the battle and the painting, highlighting many of its details. Apparently, cycloramas like these were a popular form of entertainment in the 1800s -- the iMax of the Victorian age, if you will. It was said that when veteran survivors of the battle first viewed the Cyclorama, many broke down and wept. I can see why.

After the Cyclorama presentation, visitors are ushered into the museum, which takes you through the political issues at stake, traces the saga of the war and then goes into detail about the battle and the lives of some of its key participants. Both the multimedia presentation at the beginning and the opening exhibits in the museum stress, rightly, the centrality of the slavery issue as the lead cause of the war. It's very fashionable today among some to say that the Civil War was not really about slavery; that there were other issues more pertinent, such as tariffs. But, as I once heard historian and documentary film maker, Ken Burns, say during a radio interview in which he was asked this question (and I paraphrase): "The Civil War was absolutely about slavery. It was the central issue of the time and the thing that tore the Union apart. In order to preserve the Union, slavery had to end."

But one can only see so many Sharp's Carbines, cavalry sabres and sets of epaulets before one grows weary, so we sped through the latter half of the museum and headed out to the battlefield, recently restored "as closely as possible" to its 1863 appearance. The Battlefield at Gettysburg is huge, stretching for miles. You would need days, a backpack, a tent and a good pair of hiking boots to see it all on foot. The self-guided auto tour is best. This snakes around some 14 miles of road to all the various points of interest -- Little Round Top, Devil's Den, Culp's Hill, the Bloody Wheatfield and so on.

Be sure to stop at the Lee statue. There, you can you can look directly across to where General Mead sat his horse -- and see the depression in the ground across which Lee flung his men in the gambit that would one day come to be known as Pickett's Charge, Lee's last, desperate -- and ultimately futile -- attempt to win the day for Old Dix. You can see what a horrible cauldron of death this shallow little depression in the ground must have become that day as Pickett's doomed men trudged slowly through the smoke and heat into the withering fire of Union rifle and canon. Food for powder.

Along the route, each unit, Blue and Gray alike, has its own monument, a tribute to the honor, courage and sacrifice of the men who fought and fell.

So moving in the eerie winter's twilight.

Frisco 1, Philly 0

2009-01-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

In which we claim bragging rights

Took a brief sojourn back east over the New Year to visit the City of Brotherly Love: Philadelphia, PA (of which more anon). While gallivanting around the Old City I got to thinking that I should find and visit Philly's oldest tavern. Philadelphia being as old as it is -- and the very cradle of American liberty itself -- I reckoned that the city's oldest tavern must be venerable indeed, perhaps dating back to the 18th, or even the late 17th, century.

So I stopped in at the first bar I came to and asked the question, "What's the oldest bar in Philadelphia and were may I find it?" The universal response from this pleasant, working class dive's patronage was "McGillin's Old Ale House on Drury Street."

A couple days later we found the joint on the corner of Drury and 13th, between Sansom and Chestnut. Over the bar hangs the original signpost, dating back to 1860, when the bar was named "The Bell in Hand." Indeed, the signpost was in the form of a carved wooden arm and hand swinging a bell.

I was surprised, though, that in a city that dates back to the 1680s -- when William Penn first chartered the nascent town -- that oldest bar dates from just 1860. My own San Francisco, a comparatively new city, the original Presidio of which dates back only to 1776, boasts watering holes dating back to the Miner 49er days.

So we've got you beat on that one, Philly.

Though of venerable provenance, McGillin's today caters largely to a college "binge drinking" crowd. When we were there awaiting our dinner and enjoying our pre-prandial drinks, for example, a fellow at a raucous table near ours leaned back in his chair and promptly fell over like a drunken buffoon. (I may love drinking, but I do despise drunks.) The jukebox was too loud, making the overall noise level all but intolerable. But the pub fare wasn't bad for what it is (we had the cheese steaks, natch).

McGillin's Old Ale House
Philadelphia, PA

Pluses: It's the oldest bar in Philly
Minuses: College crowd; obnoxiously loud music and patrons; drunks requiring oversized bouncers to keep them in check

Overall Rating: ♠ ♠ 1/2

San Francisco's Most Venerable Watering Holes

2008-12-21T19:37:00.000-08:00

In which we provide an at-a-glance guide

One of the things I most enjoy about living in The City is the feeling that one is living in and among -- and being in some small way -- a part of, history. The bars and taverns listed below help that feeling greatly.

Tadich Grill
1849
Financial District: California between Front & Battery
The Tadich is not only the city's oldest restaurant and bar but is also one of the oldest businesses in California. Famous for its specialty dish, Hangtown Fry -- a fried oyster omelette -- and its seafood, the Tadich is the ultimate three-martini lunch spot for the city's old school power brokers.

Old Ship Saloon
1851
Jackson Square: Pacific at Battery
Run aground on Alcatraz Island in 1849, the three-masted sailing ship, Arkansas, was later beached on the north shore of Yerba Buena Cove. Then, in 1851, a businessman named Joe Anthony cut a door in the side of the hulk's hull and opened the Old Ship Ale House. Soon, landfill had locked the ship in place and a sailor's home was built on her deck. In 1859, part of the ship that still showed above ground was removed and a brick hotel built in its place. The structure underwent several incarnations, including a speakeasy and brothel. In 1999, the place underwent a complete overhaul -- which, the bar's website claims, included "nice, clean bathrooms." This is probably why a visit here can be a little disappointing. With such great history behind it, one would expect to feel history here. Yet, perhaps due to this scouring, all one really feels is that one has entered just another sports bar, despite the presence of a Clamper plaque out front.

Old Clam House
1858
The Bayview: Corner of Bayshore & Oak
A bit out of the way but worth the trip. The Old Clam House is real, Olde School, German-Irish San Francisco.

The Saloon
1861
North Beach: Corner of Grant & Fresno, near Columbus
This place is a right royal dive of epic provenance. It's a good place to hear live blues and cloyingly loud jazz. The bartenders are curt to the point of rudeness and if you're not careful you can get shivved by a Hell's Angel. Great place.

The Elixir
1863
The Mission: Corner of 16th & Guerrero
A saloon with a real Old West feel, the Elixir once used to sport a little cigar store up front. A good friend mine, Ed, works the bar there on many nights and is a veritable fountain of neighborhood gossip.

Jack's
1864
Financial District: Sacramento near Montgomery
Never been there. They tell me it's nice. Today it's a high-end restaurant under the queeny rubric "Jeanty at Jacks."

Sam's Grill
1867
Union Square: Bush between Kearny & Montgomery
Authentic 19th century San Francisco, though there's not much action at the little bar which is mostly used as a service bar.

Maxfield's
1875
The Palace Hotel (and if you don't know where that is you shouldn't live here)
Named after the painter Maxfield Parrish, whose "Pied Piper of Hamlin" mural adorns the back-bar, Maxfield's was originally called "The Pied Piper." The original Piper, along with the original Palace Hotel and most of The City, was destroyed in the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906. During Prohibition, Maxfield's pretended to be an ice cream parlor, while serving drinks to "gentlemen" in a secret room in the back. Today it's a good place to see in-town and out-of-town power brokers.

Fior d'Italia
1886
North Beach: Mason near Francisco
Billed as the West Coast's oldest Italian restaurant, Fior d'Italia did yeoman's work by serving meals in tents after the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 destroyed the building. Good, solid Italian fare though a little pricey.

The Little Shamrock
1893
Inner Sunset: Lincoln at 9th Ave.
While phony-baloney "Irish pubs" have multiplied like gerbils in the last several years all over The City, there are still a few legitimate blarney bars around where one can enjoy a little gift o' the gab with one's pint. The Little Shamrock is one of them, and one of the best.

Schroeder's Cafe
1893
Financial District: Front between Sacramento & California
San Francisco's original Bavarian Alps dining experience, Schroeder's is decorated with colorful murals that would make Heidi herself proud. The place boasts a lively bar which is packed at lunchtime with businessmen dying for a liquid escape from the office.

House of Shields
1908
Financial District, New Montgomery across the street from the Palace Hotel
One of the late great Charles McCabe's favorite watering holes -- though, admittedly, these were legion -- the House of Shields is all old smoke-stained wood, tile, and brass. It's now frequented by a bit of a downscale crowd that includes your bike messenger types. Also, the new owners have committed a capital sin by not being open at lunch. But go for the decor at least once.

The Hotel Utah
1908
South of Market: 4th St. at Bryant
This saloon was first opened by a family named Deninger who commissioned furniture makers in Belgium to design and build the ornate back-bar and has been the haunt of scallawags of all stripes -- "gamblers, thieves, ladies up to no good, politicians, hustlers, friends of opium, goldseekers, godseekers, charlatans, police, fancy miscreants," as the Hotel's website says. I used to go there for punk rock shows in the 1980s. In this place, authentic, eccentric San Francisco abides.

The Buena Vista
1916
The Wharf: Hyde at Beach, across from the Hyde St. Railroad terminus
Any saloon that holds claim to be the birthplace of the Irish Coffee is bound to be touristy. Never mind. Go for the Irish, and stay for the view. It's a nice respite when you're down at Aquatic Park, perhaps perusing model ships at the Maritime Museum, or after you've had a swim at the Dolphin Club.

Save Paul's Hat Works

2008-12-16T19:45:00.000-08:00

In which we take up a cause

Yes, it is very uncharacteristic of Travels West to take up a cause. But sometimes a blog's got to do what a blog's got to do.

It has come to our attention that the venerable hatter, 90-year-old Paul's Hat Works on Geary BLVD (that's GAH-ree; say it right!) is on the ropes and in danger of shutting its doors. Owner Michael Harris, who has been at Paul's for some 36 years, is in despair and fears his business is not long for this world.

It's not that hats aren't selling. They are. The Britney Spears / Kevin Federlein faux fedora axis has been responsible for selling many. The problem is, most of these hats, though stylish, are cheap knock-offs of real fur felt fedoras, trilbies, derbies and homburgs. Paul's, however, only sells top quality hat stock at prices to match. Paul's is also way out of the way -- way out in the Richmond -- not exactly a prime location for high-end, downtown haberdashery.

But listen, you can buy one hat every five or ten years that lasts a lifetime, or you can buy one hat every six months that falls apart in three. This season, give the gift of fine, well-made headgear from Paul's, and show your friends what a real lid is really about.

Beacon Beckons

2008-12-15T09:47:00.000-08:00

In which we shed a little light on the weather

If you want to start an argument, or perhaps even a fistfight, in San Francisco, sing the praises of the city's newest skyscraping condo, One Rincon Hill. This towering megalith, which looms over the western foot of the Bay Bridge, has been decried as the ruination of San Francisco's famous "skyline." They forget that San Francisco's famous skyline, as we know it today at least, really only dates back to the building boom of the 1970s and '80s, and that most of those then new skyscrapers -- especially the now iconic TransAmerica pyramid -- were considered the ruination of the city's previous famous skyline (or, rather, "hill line").

Never mind. At first I too was in the One Rincon hater's camp. But, just as the TransAmerica Pyramid grew on Herb Caen, One Rincon has been growing on me (if somewhat less famously). Now I find it hard to imagine looking out at the Bay without "the finger," as it is sometimes called, flipping me the bird. True, the thing does obscure views of the elegant and silvery Bay Bridge, but nevertheless I've grown accustomed to it.

And recently, One Rincon won a few more goodwill points with me with the introduction of a weather beacon atop its tower. The beacon shines different colored lights depending upon the weather forecast. One Rincon's designers thought up the following mnemonic device to help 'Fricans remember what prediction each color indicates (thoughtfully transcribed in the San Francisco Chronicle by the inimitable Carl Nolte):

Glowing red, warmer weather ahead

Shining blue, colder weather in view

Going green, rain foreseen

Amber light, no change in sight

If I have but one complaint it's the beacon is not quite bright enough. This may have to do with the fact that they are trying to be "green" by using low-energy LED lights. But that is but a peccadillo. It's a frivolous thing, the beacon. In reality it serves very little purpose. (No one will plan his day by the it.) But frivolity -- and a shining beacon -- is what's most needed in these dark and serious times.

Sutro Sunset

2008-12-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

In which we share some snaps

Sutro Tower, once considered an eyesore and now thought of as a landmark and a even as a navigational aid, snapped coming over the Bay from Jack London Square on the Ferry.

These "horses," as we like to call them, line the wharf of the Port of Oakland. Some say they look more like Imperial Walkers. In the sunset they reveal a rare but industrial beauty.

It's Bombay

2008-12-02T17:19:00.000-08:00

In which we sympathize with victims of terror in far-away places

As The Hitch points out, for some of us it will always be Bombay, never Mumbai, just as Mayanmar will be forever Burma.

For a chilling account of the recent unpleasantness in Bombay, India, read this piece on Forbes.com, and see how the brave and loyal die to preserve the pampered and meek. And for a moving account about how when the going gets tough, tough waiters pour champagne -- and in the proper glass, thank you -- read this piece in the London Daily Mail. I'm not often a fan of the often rabid right winger, Pat Buchanan, but today the old bastard came through with a solid analysis of the history of terror, from the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand on, in the context of the Bombay attacks, and offers some sound advice on not over-reacting.

Fly Like an Eagle

2008-12-02T13:40:00.000-08:00

In which we look back a bit

One of my boys from the United States Coast Guard Auxiliary took this snap during the Festival of Sail, upon which we reported some while back. It's just such an amazing photo that I had to share it.

Take a look at that flag: it's about 1 and 1/2 times the height of the ship's freeboard. In other words, it's enormous.

Green Girl

2008-11-22T15:10:00.001-08:00

In which we enjoy some local street art

The painting above adorns a side door on an Edwardian-era apartment building not far from my place North of the Pan Handle in San Francisco. I do not know who the artists is or what motivated him or her to create the painting. I just like it.

ZEPPELIN!

2008-11-15T17:11:00.000-08:00

Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a... zeppelin? You betcha! It's Airship Ventures' so far unnamed Zeppelin NT. Although she doesn't look it in the image above, Zeppelin NT is 249 feet in length. That's 13 feet longer than the Boeing 747 ,and some 60 feet longer than the famed Goodyear blimps.

Brought to America by the entrepreneurial couple, Brian an Alexandra Hall, the NT is the first zeppelin to fly over the United States since the LZ 129 Hindenburg -- the famed hydrogen-lift ship that burned over Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937. Seeing the NT over the Golden Gate is an awe-inspiring experience.

The NT is a rigid dirigible airship. That means it has a rigid skeleton around which the craft's hull, or "envelope," is stretched. Inside, gas cells are filled with helium and provide lift. The NT can accommodate 12 passengers and two crew. (By comparison the Hindenburg could accommodate 50 passengers and had a crew of 40, but then she was 800 feet long.)

I wish the Halls all the luck in the world in their venture. And maybe, someday, we'll begin seeing zeppelins that rival and exceed in size the great airships of the past -- the Acron, the Macon, the Los Angeles, the Graf Zeppelin, the R-100 and the R-101.

Never heard of them? Look them up for yourself.

Picture Perfect

2008-11-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

Getting Your Irish Up

2008-11-09T09:33:00.000-08:00

In which we booze it up, S.F style

Those who know San Francisco know it to be a city of epic boozers. My father recently sent me a beautifully preserved copy of a book of articles by the late San Francisco columnist, Charles McCabe, entitled "The Good Man's Weakness." McCabe haunted saloons from the old Barbary Coast to Yorkshire, writing affably if not exactly eloquently about their environs and inhabitants.

McCabe, were he alive today, would be celebrating, because Monday is the 56th anniversary of the day when the Buena Vista Cafe -- a venerable San Francisco watering hole opened in 1916 near the Wharf -- poured its first Irish Coffee. Fifty-six is not usually considered a banner anniversary, but it is a good excuse for the Buena Vista to go on a three-day bender in celebration.

Contrary to popular belief, the Irish Coffee was not exactly born at the Buena Vista, though it was there where it was perfected. It was another San Francisco author of column inches, Stanton Delaplane, who first brought the concoction from olde Eire to these shores. He brought it to the Buena Vista and, in an effort to improve upon the original, nearly drank himself to death one night, almost falling asleep on the Hyde Street Railroad's cable car tracks.

The secret to Delaplane's Irish? Its float of heavy cream on top. For purists, of which I count myself a member, sweetened whipped cream from a can won't do, and God have mercy on the soul of anyone who would use Cool Whip. No, an Irish Coffee can have but three perfect ingredients: Strong black drip coffee, a shot of Irish and a float of freshly whipped heavy cream on top.

An Open Letter to the President Elect

2008-11-05T11:17:00.000-08:00

In which we write to our Commander-in-Chief apparent

Dear President Elect Barack Obama;

Don't screw this up.

Sincerely,

America

Studs

2008-11-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

1912 - 2008

Need we say more?

That One '08

2008-11-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

In which we get political

Now, normally Travels West eschews politickin' but this time the stakes are just too damn high.

John McCain was once a great warrior. Like my uncle and grandfather, McCain served his country in uniform with valor, distinction and courage (a fact that his campaign never lets us forget). He was wounded in battle and tortured by the enemies of liberty. For his sacrifices during that time and in his early political career he deserves all the approbation he has received.

But over these latter years and during his long exposure in Washington, McCain's character has soured. In his quest for power, the great warrior has devolved into a hot-headed, cantankerous and curmudgeonly old shell of a man, one who will pander to the lowest instincts of the religious right and the alleged moral values of the so-called working class to get what he wants. As one of the Keating Five, he sold out his country to protect the fortunes of a few friends. That's not the man I want in the White House during a financial crisis. And by his choice of the ridiculous, loathsome, Sarah Palin, as his running mate, John McCain has shown that he has utterly lost his judgment.

The ill-conceived, tactless, and dehumanizing tactics that the McCain campaign has leveled at its opponent -- "that one," "socialist," "palling around with terrorists," "Hussein," "closet Muslim, " and so forth -- show that McCain is also completely out of touch with the national Zeitgeist, at least among literate Americans. They have tried and tried to play a gotcha game with Barack Obama and his family, throwing anything at them that they think will stick.

But there's no there, there.

By contrast, Barack Obama has shown himself to be a coolly elegant and calculating political operator who never once let the barbs flung his way sting. And, yes, style counts. He has shown himself to be what John McCain may once have been but has decidedly ceased to be: a gentleman. He is the kind of man I want facing the likes of Vladimir Putin, Hu Jintao, Hugo Chavez, and Bashar Al-Assad. If there is to be a finger on the button, then I want that finger to be guided by a mind coldly rational.

Vote for Barack Obama on Tuesday.

Roger (Moore) and Me

2008-10-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

In which we discourse on the dangers of being well dressed

Yesterday I went "on assignment" for Ivy Style, my friend's new website about classic men's apparel. I dressed for the ocassion: Navy Brooks Brothers blazer, white button-down open at the collar, buff-colored trousers with a light glen plaid pattern, new pair of tan-and-brown two-tone Florsheim Imperials -- which are still breaking my feet in, painfully -- and a large pair of aviator shades.

It was a nice day, so I walked through the park on my way to a cafe to get something to eat before proceeding to my rendezvous with a photographer downtown. At a bench in the park was a group of four ratty looking teens, one of whom was discoursing loudly to the others about the ills of the world. At 10am, he had a bottle of Bud in one hand and a Red Bull in the other. Mid-sentence he glances at me and says to his buddies, jerking his thumb my way, "And then there's world-class shits like this running the country... "

I guess he thought I was a banker. I passed on without comment.

Later, at the cafe, a woman sitting with her boyfriend looked at me and did a double take. Her beau swung his head around to look as well and, as I walked by, I heard him say "mumble, mumble, ROGER MOORE, mumble mumble... "

I sat down behind the woman -- I don't think that they knew I could hear them -- and they launched into a conversation about which Bond was the best Bond. Maybe they also saw the recent Roger Moore profile in the Telegraph as well. The woman gave me the ultimate compliment, though, and compared me to Daniel Craig. Thank God my abs were hidden.

In any case, from now on I'm making the Roger Moore look my signature look.

A Mighty Roar

2008-10-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

In which we get loud

Fleet Week '08. Little Man's first air show. We watched the ships go by and then saw the acrobatic planes.

But Little Man only wanted to know one thing: When are the Blue Angels coming? When are they coming? Are the Blue Angels here yet? Before the Angels came on, an F-16 fighter went through her stunt show. It was the first time that Little Man had experienced the glorious noise that is afterburner. He shrank down in his little seat and cringed.

"Whatsamatter, buddy," I asked, "is that scary?"

"Uh-huh," came his meek reply.

"It's okay," my sister said. "You'll get used to it."

"And," I added, "then you'll start liking it!"

In the end, he did. He wants nothing more than to come back next year.

Fat Albert, the Blue Angels' transport plane, flies in through the Golden Gate.

Four of the famous Angels fly in diamond formation -- 18 inches wing-tip to wing-tip -- low over the bay.

Little Man mans the guns at and gets the bad guys. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-taaah!!!

Heh-ppy Buh-thday

2008-10-16T18:01:00.000-07:00

In which we wish Wilde well

Today would have been the 154th birthday of Oscar Wilde. Tipple a glass of the old fée verte in honor of the dizzy old queen. Don't have absinthe? Champers will do.

P.J., We Hardly Knew Ya

2008-09-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

In which we say g'bye to a beloved character

From 2001 to 2006, the affable, Boston-born Irishman, P.J. Corkery, wrote a lively three-dot column for the San Francisco Examiner. In a way, Corkery had taken over where Herb Caen left off, to the point of even emulating the great man's turns of phrase. It wasn't in a bad way, but rather as an homage.

Corkery died last week of something called non-Hodgkins lymphoma, which sounds pretty awful.

I was never introduced to Corkery, but I did often see him making his man-about-town rounds. He was always smiling and dapper, sometimes jauntily swinging a cane. I read his column often.

Recently, Corkery helped write The Honorable Willie Brown's excellent memoir, "Basic Brown: My Life and Our Times."

Although Corkery was a relatively new part of the San Francisco scene -- only coming here in 1988 for health reasons but immediately falling in love with the place -- he nevertheless represents a bit of the old city, the one we loved before the legions of Silicon Carpet-baggers invaded and took over. There are few left who can carry on the torch. Bruce Bellingham is one. Jon Carrol (who just won a major award) may be another -- when he's not writing about kittens, anyway. (Besides, he lives in Oakland, where a gentleman never goes.) And poor Leah Garchik, bless her heart, tries but one always gets the feeling that she operates almost exclusively through email, and isn't really on The Inside, the way it always felt with chaps like Caen or McCabe.

Well, at least we've still got our Willie.

A Day-and-Half at the Air Races

2008-09-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

In which we get our speed on

Last weekend was all about the Reno Air Races with Pops. Took the train -- which by the way, is excellent -- up to Davis on Friday, where I met Pops. Next morning we were up and at 'em early for the quick sprint over the High Sierra and down into Reno, arriving at the Air Races just as the sun was beginning its sizzling ascent into the unbearable. The shot above shows the unlimited jet races, in which the planes zip around a "track" -- outlined by pylons -- some two score miles long. The sound is awesome.

We took a break and went into the pits, where the crew teams take care of their planes, making them ready for the next race.

Vintage cars were on display as well as planes. Here, a boat-tailed, 1930s-era Rolls Royce Silver Cloud has been covered in copper and brass and installed with mahogany accents.

P-51 Mustang! Cadillac of the Sky! This lovingly restored P-51 -- probably the best performing prop-engine fighter of the Second World War -- sports gorgeous nose art as well seven Nazi, indicated the original pilots kills during the war. Take that, you Nazi bastards. Oh, the plane's name is "Reluctant Virgin."

A U.S. Air Force C-17 "Shark." A cargo aircraft, beautiful and graceful for its size, soars low over the grandstands. When I was skydiving we used to call these planes "sharks" because of the way they looked from above. C-17s would fly out of Travis Air Force Base and pass beneath our jump plane, hence the instructors would warn, "Look out for sharks!"

Before the U.S. Airforce Thunderbirds show, skydivers unveiled the colors to the sounds of the Star Spangled Banner.

The Fabulous Thunderbirds. Not as good as the U.S. Navy Blue Angles, but pretty darn good. One of the things I did not like about their show was that it was accompanied by a heavy metal and rap soundtrack, along with a recruitment voice-over that hit every nationalistic cliche in the book. Listen, guys, I know this is a recruitment excersize after all, but there's just no need to lay it on that thick. It's insulting. Besides, the 'Birds make a music all their own that is ten times more moving and powerful than any corn-ball soundtrack.

The T-Birds move fast. Not easy to photograph, yo?

The highlight of the show. Above, the F-22 Raptor shows off its bombay doors with a low pass over the crowd. This aircraft moves like magic. It doesn't so much as turn as it simply changes direction. We kept hearing people in the crowd exclaiming, "But that's just impossible." Well, not anymore. The thing can, literally, start and stop on a dime and, using vectored thrust, shift direction, going from straight up to straight down in a split second. It can even fly backwards at 100 miles per hour.

I pity any airmen in a rival airforce who finds himself pitted against the F-22, because he simply does not stand a prayer in hell.

I have to say, the races themselves were not all that. Some, like the jet races and the stunt biplane races, were fun. But in general, they were a bit too much like NASCAR, and it was clear that whoever took the early lead was going to be the winner. Not much "jockeying" for position. It was the demostration flights that made the Reno Air Races worthwhile.

This pic says it all. In the foreground sits the mighty F-22. Flying behind is a standard Cessna, flown by an expert stunt pilot who flew it like it was a high-performance formula one aircraft, doing outside loops, barrel roles and other complex maneuvers.

What Every Man Wants: More Power

2008-09-06T09:01:00.000-07:00

In which we indulge our testosterone just a little

Recently, the United States Coast Guard took delivery of its new flagship cutter, the USCGC Berthof. Named for Commodore Ellsworth Price Bertholf, the Coast Guard's First Commandant, the Bertholf is a state-of-the-art military and law enforcement vessel that packs a punch.

Length: 418 feet
Beam: 54 feet
Displacement: 4,500 long tons
Navigational Draft: 30 feet
Speed: 28 knots
Range: 12,000 nautical miles
Complement: 113 (14 Officers)
Armament: 1 57mm Bofors Gun
1 Phalanx CIWS 1B 20mm
4 50 Caliber Machine Guns
2 7.62mm Light Machine Guns

The Berthof on San Francisco Bay.
She will be home-ported here at Coast Guard Island, in the estuary between the island of Alameda and the Oakland shore. Note her elegant, sweeping lines and steeply raked bow.

The Berthof's 57mm Bofors gun.
This computer-controlled canon, capable of firing up to 200 rounds per minute, can put a shell through a dope-running cigarette boat dead amidships from more than a five miles away.
The Berthof can travel half way around the globe without refueling.

Editorial Funnies

2008-08-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

In which we pretty much say it all

Those Darn Twins

2008-08-02T08:23:00.000-07:00

In which we picture a San Francisco institution

Legendary San Franciscans, Vivian A. Brown and Marian B. Brown have been roaming the streets of downtown San Francisco since they arrived from Los Angeles in 1969. Identical twins who always dress in matching ensembles, usually involving animal prints, the twins have become one of the The City's eccentric institutions.

After living in San Francisco most of my life and never once seeing them in person, I finally caught up with them on Market Street the other day, camera in hand.

Pirate Training

2008-07-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

In which we say yaar...

Took some of the fam to the Festival of Sail festivities on Saturday. I had them take the ferry over from Oakland, which was a smart move, as the waterfront was a bit of a madhouse. It was a pleasant enough madhouse, but a madhouse nevertheless. Taking the ferry gave my great nephew, Nate (aged 4 and 7/8's) a new experience -- he'd never been on a real boat before. "It went fast!" he said.

Nate mans the helm of the HMS Bounty -- a replica of the original used in the 196o film "Mutiny on the Bounty" (that's the not-so-classic color version with Marlon Brando as Mr. Christian). The rambunctious little tyke also manned the rigging several times and had to literally be pried off the halyards.

Nate makes friends with Medusa outside the Pirate Academy at Embercadero Center.

The Pyrate Queen gives the kids a lesson in how to bake "eye-cake"-- made with human eyes and entrails. Spooky! But Nate wasn't scared.

Miss Mermaid posses for the camera inside the Pirate Academy.

The scow, Gas Light, photographed from the deck of the Bounty. The original Gas Light was built in the 1870s, a flat-bottomed scooner designed to carry cargo in relatively shallow waters. (The average depth of San Francisco Bay -- it's actually an estuary -- is just 14 feet.) The Gas Light plied the waters of the Bay and the Delta fro many years. This replica was built in 1990 and carries chartered passengers on day cruises. I have sailed on her once before and would like to do so again soon.

Festival of Sail

2008-07-23T17:51:00.000-07:00

In which we yearn for the spray in our face and the wind at our back

San Francisco's Festival of Sail opened today with a parade of tall ships through the Golden Gate. I caught up with the procession near the Ferry Building.

The U.S. Coast Guard's Eagle with all three masts under full sail and pulling well on a broad reach, a sight so breathtaking I nearly wept.

U.S. Coast Guard Cutter, Eagle
Rig: Barque
Homeport city: New London, Connecticut
Year built: 1936
Shipyard: Hamburg, Germany
Tonnage: 1,800 tons
Power: Sail
Length Over All: 295'
Sail area: 21,000 sq. ft.
Crew complement: 54

Good back story on this ship. It was originally built in Germany, christened the Horst Wessel, in 1936, and comes to the U.S. Coast Guard as spoils of war.

The Californian fires her guns in salute, the report coming over the water like a thump on the chest.

One of San Francisco's fire boats -- the Phoenix -- salutes the parade of ships.

A replica of the Nina, one of the ships that sailed with Columbus on the Voyage of Discovery.

The Fly Trap

2008-07-16T08:53:00.001-07:00

In which personal history and City history collide

The Fly Trap restaurant, on Folsom Street near the corner of 2nd, has been in business in one form or another since 1898. It's a funny sort of name for such a venerable eatery. Louis' Restaurant, as it was once called, was originally on Market Street, where the patrons arrived in horse drawn carriages and by horse drawn omnibuses. With the horses came the flies, so Louis put a square bit of fly paper on each table to trap the pests. Appetizing, that. Legend has it that this prompted one of TR's Rough Riders to dub the place a "fly trap."

Louis was not pleased and, in a huff, quit the restaurant business and went back home to Italy.

Louis' cousin, Henry Besozzi, however, had a better sense of humor. After re-opening the restaurant after the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906, he called it "The Fly Trap."

Yesterday, The Fly Trap closed, but only temporarily. For the next fortnight, until August 1, the new owners will be refining the menu as well as doing a few refinements on the enterior.

Waitress Meg shows off the menu

I first went to The Fly Trap more than 15 years ago. Then, friends Eve, Victoria and David worked there, the girls as waitresses and Dave as bartender. We shared a lot of good times there. Eventually, we all went on to other things, and I only went back to the place on special occasions. Then, in January, I moved into an office down the street from the place. The Fly Trap became my second living room, a pleasant lunchtime and afternoon retreat from the hum drum of work. I got to know Chris and Church and the other fine souls who keep the place going, in front of the bar and behind it.

One of The Fly Trap's Chandeliers

So who are the news owners? Six or so weeks back I walked into the restaurant and Chris, the manager, informed me that the place had been sold. Later, on my way out I saw a man in a gray suit sitting with a big fellow in an open-collared, L.A.-style shirt, the kind you wear un-tucked. The man in the suit looked familiar. I did a double take and then went up and asked, "Excuse me, are you Mark Rennie?"

He looked a little surprised, but said "Yes." In addition to his role as a night-life attorney, Mark Rennie used to own a nightclub called Club 9, on the corner of 9th Street and Harrison, where The Stud is now. I got my first job in San Francisco in November of 1986 at Club 9, first working in the open kitchen and then behind the bar. Courtney Love was the coat check girl. That was 22 years ago. Except for an appearance on the Phil Donahue show, when he was pushing vitamin-filled "smart drinks" to ravers (no kidding), I hadn't seen Mark since my Club 9 days.

Mark is the new owner, along with his partner and chef, Hass, of The Fly Trap. Clearly, what goes around comes around.

Barn Storming and Firefighting

2008-07-13T16:35:00.000-07:00

In which we witness a little drama

Seems that the fires that bedelived southern California last year have followed me northward. I took this footage last week, on the 4th of July, at the aerodrome in Ukiah.

Pictures from a Long Weekend

2008-07-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

In which we relax with good friends & fine wine in an extraordinary landscape

Independence Day: Motored up North to Ukiah to spend a night in a cabin with friends.

On the way, I took this snap at Ukia's little aereodrome. This Black Hawk-type chopper was being used to fight one of the many fires still burning around the state. Piloted by men of steel.

Despite the low air quality from the lingering smoke, the view from our deck overlooking the vineyards was mighty fine indeed.

Hazel certainly seemed pleased with the view.

We trecked up the hill to get a view of the mountains around.

Evidence of fires long ago sometimes leave elegant traces today.

Motored on down to Glenn Ellen to visit the estate of Jack London, now Jack London State Historic Park. Above: A view of a neighboring vineyard through the ruins of the old winery that London converted into housing for his farmhands and guests.

Jack and Charmian's cottage through the trees and the ruins of some of the stone outbuildings.

Inside the cottage, a ewer and bowl in a hallway next to a window. Note the quintessentially arts and craft curtains. And nice light and shadow on that shot if I do say so myself.

The master's study. Here each morning he would write his one thousand words per day, no more, no less, seven days a week, including holidays. The rest of the day he would see to the affairs of the Beauty Ranch, as he called it, plus riding, hiking and swimming for excercise. London died when he was but 40 years old in a room adjacent to this one. But what a life: factory laborer, oyster pilot, seal hunter, sailor, drunk, Klondike gold miner, political activist, rail-riding hobo, and one of California's greatest and most prolific literary and intellectual treasures.

The ruins of the old distillery near the cottage.

Mission de Solano, Sonoma, California.

Just Dandy

2008-07-10T05:39:00.000-07:00

In which we examine a Bay Area boulevadier

Also took this snap at the Gay Pride festivities at Silly Hall weekend before last. Love this guy's outfit. Note how the chest tattoo compliments the ruffles on the shirt!

Faces in a Crowd

2008-07-07T21:42:00.000-07:00

In which we enjoy a striking profile

Snapped this at last week's Gay Pride festivities in front of City Hall. What a profile. That is all.

The Victorians Project: Alamo Square

2008-06-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

In which we find that, with Victorians, the devil's in the details -- and in the tales they tell

Built in 1889, the Westerfeld House, above, is a postively epic example of high San Francisco Gothic "stick" (i.e., made of wood) architecture. This house, which stands on the corner of Scott and Fulton Streets, across from Alamo Square Park, has been known as "The Czar's Consulate" since 1928. It served as a sort of landing pad for "White" -- that is, Czarist -- Russians fleeing Bolshevik oppression in their homeland. The White Russians who owned the house also turned the ground floor ballroom into a night club, called Dark Eyes, frequented by Russian emigres.

Later, as the neighborhood declined in the 1960s, it briefly became a hippie hangout, and was immortailized in Tom Wolfe's "The Electric Kook-Aid Acid Test." Recently, I've seen a film crew and actors in Victorian costumes coming and going from the place.

This gorgeously painted bit of detail decorates a house on Scott Street, not far from the Czar's Consulate. When these Victorians were built, in the 19th century, they were not as gaily painted as they are today, but were rather painted in solid and stately whites or grays with white trim. In the 1960s and '70s, hippies began painting them in bright, varied colors, though often to disastrous effect. (Drugs are bad, OK?) In the 1980s and '90s, color consultants began to ply their trade among Victorian house-holders, allowing them to display their individuality but with better taste. It is attractive yet costly. Our building, on Central Ave, which dates from the early 'oughts of the 20th century, and which was renovated in the Art Deco era, was repainted a year or so ago at a cost of some $30,000.

Red Sky in the Morning, Sailor Take Warning

2008-06-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

In which talk about the weather

Above is the classic San Francisco tourist snap -- with a twist.

It all started last Saturday, a very peculiar Saturday indeed. For one thing, I went to Alcatraz for the very first time. Twenty-two years -- more or less -- in The City and I finally get to The Rock. I had friends in from Southern California who I was showing around. One of them got sick the night before from some bad sea food from Chez Panisse, of all places (damn you, Alice Waters!), leaving them with an extra ticket.

But the real peculiarity was the weather. Saturday was hot -- in the 90s -- and humid like the Gulf Coast. The air was still without so much as a breath of wind. The steely sky was dappled with the sort of white clouds you see in Nebraska in July, just before a tornado.

Then there was the lightening -- thousands of strikes all across the Northern half of the state. Lightening with no rain. It was so strange that the Governator blamed global warming.

We didn't see or hear the lightening strikes from Alcatraz, but we saw the thick, ominous plumes of smoke as they began to rise away north, over the golden hills past the San Rafael bridge. Lightening had sparked the fire that still burns in Solano and Napa, and the tawny tendrils of smoke have been drifting over the bay and The City for some days now, staining the world a threatening orange.

Something like a thousand fires are now burning across the state, some from the lightening, others from the negligence of man.

People walk around the downtown streets, their faces tinctured orange, looking like they've just slathered themselves with a liberal amount of Fake-Bake sunless tanning cream.

The Seven Words You Can't Say on Television

2008-06-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

In which we celebrate the man who taught us that politics could be funny, and that accepting the status quo was simply not acceptable

May 12, 1937 – June 22, 2008

Warlords of the Air

2008-06-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

In which we get the up close & personal tour of Sheppard AFB, Wichita Falls, Texas

After the Mattis Hall Ribbon Cutting, LtCol. Ventriglia invited the family on a tour of his part of the 82nd training wing facility. Ventriglia is charged with an awesome responsibility: Training his airmen to handle the ordinance used by airforce planes, which include F-16 fighters, the B-52 bomber, the B-1 bomber, and the F-22 Raptor.

Now, I had supposed that on this tour we might look at a few aircraft, maybe through a glass, and that would be it. Oh, no! LtCol. Ventriglia was determined to give the family the royal treatment. First, he took us into the ante-room of one of the two vast hangers he is in charge of. Here was a decomissioned cruise missile. Thinking that this was about as close as we were going to get to the action, I had Pops take a snap.

Then he lead us into a room where bombs are assembled. "Surely," I asked, "we're not permitted to take photographs in here?" The LtCol laughed and said, "Take as many as you like, none of this is classified." Adding, "I would bring you into a classified area... " (The implication was clear: This might not be a classified area, but there were classified areas.)

Ventriglia explained each piece of ordinance in turn, what is was for, what it was capable of -- JDAMS, 500 pound bunker busters, even an atom bomb. Charming and enthusiastic, this guy was really into his work. He nearly lost some of the more squeamish in our party when he explained one of the bombs: "This precision-guided ordinance is capable of smashing through as many floors of a concrete building as you want and exploding on any floor you choose, killing everyone on that floor but leaving the rest of the building in tact... except for the hole in the roof."

The work of destruction is awesome and terrifying.

He quickly won his audience back, however, when he took us into the aircraft hangar. There, facing away from us was a line of F-16s, and, behind them, a B-52. "Well," the LtCol. smiled, "Who wants to sit in the F-16 cockpit?" Um, that would be all of us. So we took turns getting in and having our pictures taken like a bunch of tourists at a carnival. It was a gas. Pops sure liked it.

The whole time, airmen -- in the Air Force you are an "airman" whether you are a man or a woman -- were scurrying to and fro around us, going about the business of their training excersizes. I was surprised by how freindly the LtCol. was with the men and women and how often they had smiles for him. I mentioned this and he said, "I've been in the Air Force 20 years and I am still waiting for a bad day. I really like my guys and I think they like me... but they know who the boss is. You give respect you get respect."

I also noted that sometimes the airmen saluted him, sometimes they didn't. He explained that the general rule was that when an airman is inside with his cap off, or going about a task, he or she didn't have to salute. But outside, cap on, it's usually "ten hut!" Even then, though, the LtCol. explained, "It depends on the circumstance, you have to be reasonable." Walking through the parking lot, we came across an airmen just starting up his car. I noted then that a nod of the head from the airman was enough, answered with a "How's it going?" from the LtCol.

We also got the chance to climb up into the cockpit of the B-52. You climb in through the bottom and up a ladder through a dark, cramped passage. Inside, the cockpit is tiny, much smaller than that of a commercial airliner. I bumped my head on the ceiling. The pilot seat is narrow, surrounded by levers and controls, impossible to get into and out of without knocking some vital instrument out of kilter. It looked a lot roomier in Dr. Strangelove.

On the way out of the tour, we came across a sign noting, "Without weapons, we're just U.S. Air." True dat.

Thanks much to LtCol. Ventriglia and the officers and airmen of the 82nd Training Wing for their indulgence and hospitality.

Men of Valor, Men of Steel

2008-05-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

In which we remember

Monday last, I was honored to be a member of the family party at the dedication of Mattis Hall, at Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas. Mattis Hall, a dormitory for airmen in the 363rd training squadron, was named for Captain William C. Mattis, my uncle. I never met Bill, as he was known in my family. He was killed in Vietnam in 1965, shortly after I was born. But the shadow of his legacy is a long one. His presence in my family has always been deeply felt.

The dedication was a high military affair, the likes of which I have never witnessed. It began with ruffles and flourishes at the arrival of the official party, which included my cousin, Charles Mattis, William's son, Brigardier General Richard Devereaux, Lt. Colonel Thomas Ventriglia, and other dignitaries, and the colors were presented. After that, the national anthem was sung. Gloriously belted out by a young African American sergeant named Beneria Hall, it was the single most moving rendition of that song I have ever had the pleasure to hear.

Chaplain James Pitts gave a moving prayer and Master Sergeant Matthew Saganski gave opening remarks. Lt. Colonel Ventriglia and Brigadier General Deveraux also spoke, as did my cousin, Charles.

Captain William Mattis was a great warrior but also an artist, having studied music at USC and was, by all accounts, a more-than-competent violinist. He enlisted the Army Air Service near the end of the Second World War and served as an aircraft mechanic from 1944 to 1946. In 1952, he went back on active duty, this time in the newly minted United States Air Force. After two months he became an aviation cadet, signaling his yearn to fly. He was made an officer and trained to fly jet fighter aircraft, eventually flying F-100 Super Sabers in Korea. Later, while flying these jets for NATO in Europe, he was involved in an accident which broke his back. They said he would never fly again, but he did, eveentually flying B-57 Canberra bombers. During his time behind a desk he served as an Air Force comptroller.

It was the height of the Cold War, and Captain Mattis became increasingly concerned about the spread of communism and Soviet expansion. With conflict brewing between communist North Vietnam and the Republic of Vietnam in the south, Captain Mattis was sent to Clark Air Base in the Philippines.

On March 11, 1965, Captain Mattis was flying his B-57 in close air support for ground troops then taking a pounding by Viet Cong insurgents. The record states that:

Despite marginal weather conditions, and partially concealed positions in rugged mountain terrain, and with great risk to his personal safety, Captain Mattis pressed the attack and achieve accurate delivery of high explosive bombs and anti-personnel on hostile positions.

He was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Medal, the Purple Heart, the National Order, Fifth Class and, from the Republic of Viet Nam, the Gallantry Cross with Palm Uplifted.

In his remarks, cousin Charles also mentioned my grandfather, Colonel Michael C. Mattis. Like his son, Bill, The Colonel, as we always called him, began his military career as an enlisted man, eventually working his way up through the ranks during the Second World War and the Korean War. In World War II, The Colonel was the chief ordinance officer on the island of Tinian, from which the B-29 Stratofortress, Enola Gay, took off on it mission to end the war in the Pacific by destroying the city of Hiroshima with the atomic bomb, Little Boy, on August 6, 1945.

Colonel Mattis was awarded the Bronze Star, the Army Soldier's Medal for Heroism (the highest honor that an U.S. Army serviceman can by awarded in peace time) and many others.

After the ceremony, Colonel Ventriglia took us on an extensive tour of the base (of which I will write more anon). Later that evening, the extended family went to dinner together. Here, we went through old photos. Among these was one of the dashing Pan Am clipper pilot, Captain John Mattis, The Colonel's brother and my great uncle, known the family as Jack. The old black and white photo, probably taken in the late 1930s, showed Jack in his smart uniform and white cap, his upper lip decorated with a pencil-thin mustache reminiscent of Clark Gable's.

Jack is a legend in the family, having for many years held the world's record for number of miles flown. By the 1950s, he had become one of the public faces of Pan Am and in 1956 was featured in the Life Magazine ad above, his portrait painted by Norman Rockwell. The legend reads:

"Master Pilot John Mattis, one of the Clipper Captains, who has logged over 500 transatlantic flights."

Attached to Jack's photo was a newspaper clipping about him. Turns out that Jack was not only a record-holding gentleman of the air, he was also a graduate of the University of Paris with a degree in French and a well known sculptor who created friezes in bronze which decorated airports in the middle of the last century.

It may be time for me to finally learn to fly.

And to all the veterans out there, Peace.

Indy Lives

2008-05-22T17:51:00.000-07:00

In which we're still a sucker for this kind of thing

OK. I admit it, I'm a nerd (as if you didn't already know).

When I was a kid I soaked up Raiders of the Lost Ark like a sponge. Even the corny, Old Testament God-to-the-rescue ending couldn't ruin it for me. I wanted to become an archaeologist, even though at the back of my teenage mind I knew that it probably wouldn't involve a whole lot of tomb raiding and Nazi fighting.

My dad and I even signed up for an archaeology class where we were supposed to dig up and catalog broken pottery and rusty doorknobs at a historic home in Woodland, California. The class was canceled due to lack of interest before I could discover just how dull cataloging pottery shards could be, however.

Still, I harbored the fantasy for years, until one day a real archaeologist came to our school and... talked me out of it, telling us what a bore it was to fight for funding all the time. Yikes. Talk about a wet blanket.

But the romance of adventure and discovery and treasure still holds its allure. I'm still inspired by the likes of Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, T.E.Lawrence (he of Arabia who was also an antiquarian), Ginger and Dana Lamb and Gene Savoy. Although my life in the last 20 years has been filled with considerable travel, it has not quite been so adventuresome. It's easier from an armchair.

So I look forward to the new Indy movie with anticipation.

Last week I came across an interesting piece in the San Francisco Chronicle. Evidently, the crystal skull, for which the new Indy movie is entitled, is no made-up Hollywood myth. According to legend there are many Maya crystal skulls hidden here and there, and dedicated skull seekers still hunt for them. Says the article:

Some believe the skulls can emit and focus light, project visions and even influence terrestrial forces. Today, these beliefs persist in the jungles of southern Mexico among the Lacandon, the last unassimilated Mayas, some of whom still worship the skulls.

In the shadow of the Palenque ruins, Lacandon priest K'in Garcia fans copal incense and holds a heavy crystal skull above his head during ceremonies for Hacha'kyum, the Mayan god of creation.

Garcia, son of the Lancandon's most respected elder, Chan Kin, believes the skull has special powers, including the ability to stave off sickness and deforestation in the rain forest where the last Lacandon still live.

"When I am alone at night, at about 2 a.m., it starts to glow, it emits light and it stays like that for about a minute," said Garcia.

Creepy fun, that. Of course, as the article notes, no life-size crystal skull has ever been found at a genuine archaeological dig at a Mayan temple (though many small ones have been) and most of the large skulls known are probably fakes.

But why let the truth get in the way of a good story?

Laments veteran skull hunter, Joshua "Illinois" Shapiro: "I was wearing the Indiana Jones hat for a very long time... far before they ever thought about putting a crystal skull in an Indiana Jones movie."

Don't you hate it when Hollywood finally catches up to you and steals your schtick?

Swish!

2008-05-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

In which we live vicariously

Snapped these on Sunday from the Presidio shore, just inside the Golden Gate as sailboarders skitted and leapt across the Bay -- the fastest sailing craft on water.

Honestly, this looks like a really fun game. Hard to learn, no doubt. But once you get the hang of it I'll bet it's about as much fun as you can have with your pants on.

Discover This

2008-05-11T12:55:00.000-07:00

In which we are amazed at the redoubtableness of our forefathers

I'd read in the paper that this "ship," supposed to the most historically accurate replica of Columbus's Nina, would be at the Port of San Francisco this weekend. I pedalled down there to check her out.

Seeing the Nina for the first time from The Embarcadero, my first thought was, "Columbus crossed the Atlantic in that?" The thing looks like an overstuffed canoe with a bad case of acne.

Needless to say, I'd imagined something a little bigger. Perhaps not on the scale of the HMS Victory, but something at least along the lines of the U.S.S Constitution. The Nina is devoid of anything resembling decoration or creature comforts. The captain's quarters, where Columbus stayed, was a tiny cabin below decks just four feet high. The rest of the crew stayed on deck, 24-hours a day. With cattle and pigs. The effluvia and the reek that went with it must have been almost unbearable.

It's fashionable today to denounce Columbus and his voyage of discovery. Columbus, it is said, was a racist and a coward and a fool who didn't know where he was going. He was the lead figure in a veritable holocaust brought by people with superior technology against those with inferior technology. Maybe so. Certainly, Columbus's voyage changed what are now known as the Americas forever.

But once you step aboard the Nina you realize that the purely technological explanation is dubious at best. This thing, patched together with wooden pins and pitch, hardly represents the acme of technology in any age. Rather, the fact that the voyage was undergone at all represents an extraordinary confluence of ideas, not the least of which included the realization that the earth could be known and therefore circumnavigated -- even if Columus himself thought the earth was shaped like a breast the nipple of which was the Garden of Eden.

No, the men who went aboard dinky little boats like the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria were men made after a fashion rarely seen today, men who put everything on the line on a roll of the bones. Some won, though Columbus lost.

Old Two-Two-Eight

2008-05-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

In which we wax nostalgiac

Who doesn't love trains? Even sophistocrat Lucius Beebe loved the rails. This beauty, No. 228, is the Jewel in the Crown of San Francisco's F-Market line. Two-two-eight is San Francisco's only topless historic streetcar. Built in 1934, she originally served the city of Blackpool, England, where she worked until 1984.

Two-two-eight is known as a "boat car," for obvious reasons. Not only does she look like a ship, she sounds like one, too. Where most streetcars "ding-ding," 228 has a horn that "toot-toots" like a happy tugboat.

I caught up with 228 on a little bike ride yesterday, a sunny Satruday.

The Victorians Project

2008-05-04T18:27:00.000-07:00

In which we celebrate our neighborhood in pictures

As if I needed another hobby. I've decided to begin photographing some of the most interesting architectural details of the Victorians in my neighborhhod. I'm doing this because (1) I like taking pictures and (2) because stick Victorians tend to burn down and, when they do, they are often lost forever. I can remember large and beautiful Victorians burning, but I can now barely remember what they looked like. I want to keep a record of some of my favorites.

Victorian vs. McTorian
Of course a Victorian is a house or other structure from the Victorian era, though many buildings labelled Victorian were actually built in the Edwardian era or even later. Many were built after the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906. In San Francisco, Victorians are predominantly "stick" -- that is, made of wood. The three main styles are Italianate, San Francisco Stick (sometimes called Stick Eastlake) and the turreted and gabled Queen Anne. The arabesque turret pictured above is a superb example of a detail from a finely restored Queen Anne apartment house.

A McTorian is my name for a modern house or building built to resemble, in some way, a genuine Victorian. This carbuncle, across the street from my garret, is a fine example of 1980s McTorian architecture, with its slapped-on gingerbread, flimsy-looking windows and violent paint job.

Victorians were lavish with decorative detail, and took great pleasure in riotously mixing styles. Many of these details were pre-fabricated and chosen by the buyer out of catalogs offered by the builders. Victorian house-holders could literally mix and match whatever details they wanted and could afford. Although they seem almost exquisite to modern eyes, these details were usually milled by machines and were thus a by product of the early industrial age. Many critical observers at the time considered this kind of machine-made ostentation a bit garish. And it's true, some details were certainly more elegant than others. Take, for example, this oval arch that decorates the front door of an apartment building on Grove Street.

This detail, which was certainly machine milled, decorates an enormous Queen Anne restoration on Fulton Street.

Boris Beats the Odds

2008-05-03T09:09:00.000-07:00

In which we say, wow

Now, as a general rule, I don't touch much on politics in this space. I'm too concerned with more important matters such learning to reef a sail in high winds and my latest road trip.

Boris Johnson was elected Mayor of London. Let me run that past you again: Boris Johnson, the colorful, witty, scruffy Tory outsider was elected mayor of what is arguably the greatest city on the planet. Londoners, as you probably know, are not known for their conservatism. So Johnson's overwhelming victory can be seen both as a rejection of the far-lefty anti-Americanism of Ken Livingston, who Boris has supplanted, but also a silmultaeneous refutation of Tony Blair's pro-Iraq War Labour party -- and a hope for some real political entertainment.

But, wow! Boris Johnson? An outspoken politician so un-PC he makes Lucius Beebe look like Ralph Nader.

We are impressed.

Irony Among Thieves

2008-04-27T21:17:00.000-07:00

In which we're a little miffed but enjoy a sail

Saturday dawned one of the clearest, brightest and balmiest days San Francisco has seen in a string if pretty nice, clear, bright, balmy days.

As is my wont on such days, I decided to go for a morning bike ride through the city before going to get some exercise at the gym. I lit out down the hill and decided on a cruise through the Mission District.

Down on Valencia, I noticed a new addition to the street -- new to me, anyway -- in the form of a large City College of San Francisco campus building, decorated with an enormous, full-color facsimile of a Mayan calendar, complete with a scowling sun god at its center. Interesting, thinks I. I guess the redoubtable intellectuals of CCSF have decided that the Mission must always have been, and will forever and always be, a Latino barrio. To celebrate that historical pride properly, it seems, one must adopt a fantisized and glorified version of pre-Columbian south-of-the-border history.

Never mind that until the 1960s at least, the Mission was a majority Irish and German-Irish neighborhood, though McCarthy's, on Mission St., is gone, replaced by a "Cha Cha Cha" Spanish tapas franchise. And never mind that its current dominant ethnic demographic will no doubt one day change again -- as it already is changing, and sweepingly, as gentrification, so called, sets in. Nevertheless, the powers that be have carved the 'hood's identity in stone. Or, in this case, some kind of polymer.

That's identity politics for you.

Whatever. It was getting late in the morning, so I wended my way toward my gym, intent on parking my bike at my office garage, which is across the street from the sweat factory. I realized, however, that I'd failed to pack my office security badge.

Now, I only have -- or rather, had -- a little spindly-ass little cable lock for my bike. This was good enough for Studio City, where the only things that ever get stolen are screenplays. But San Francisco is a veritable den of bike thieves. So rather than lock up my bike outside the gym with insufficient security, I pedaled up to the Walgreen's on Market to see if, perchance, they offered a stouter contraption -- I mean, they have just about everything else, right? I locked my bike to a tree and went inside.

A came out ten minutes later empty handed -- and my bike was gone, spindly-ass cable lock and all. I looked up the street and down the street. Nothing. I asked a little man selling craft jewelry on the sidewalk. Nothing. $350 plus a recent tune up ($75) down the tubes. There was nothing I could do but mope and catch the bus home.

I hate the bus.

Well, Sailing Takes Me Away, Anyway
Friday evening Jeff, who I work with, invited me to for a sunset sail on his 31-foot Catalina, Chumley. We prepped the boat at her slip in South Beach Harbor, in the shadow of the ball park (Giants vs. Reds), and set sail at about 7pm. The sun was still high above Mt. Tam so we were in good shape. Ebb tide; Wind: 15-20 knots out of the West.

We headed North under the Bay Bridge, hit a short dead patch and then found a lift and launched ourselves toward Alcatraz on a close haul, Chumley heeling a good 15 degrees, but no more. It was all pretty much perfect. Sailing toward the island, we caught sight of a Maersk container ship steaming in through the haze at the Gate. We altered course to avoid her tacking back toward Crissy Field for a while, then tacked again back toward Alcatraz, splashing crazily over the container's huge wake.

We weren't going to make it around the island and get back before dark, but we satisfied ourselves with a close drive-by. With the sun just sinking behind Tam we sailed close and got what was most magnificent view of the former prison island that I've ever seen, the dusk-stained ruins casting long shadows as sea birds swooped and screamed above. It was truly Gothic.

We gibed east-south-east and headed back toward the Bay Bridge, catching a big lift on the way. Now we were heeling 20 degrees and flying along between 6.9 and 7.1 knots -- and I was at the helm. Sailing a big boat is different than sailing a small one. In a small boat, like the ones I trained on, the boat can heel 20 or 25 degrees and you're still just a few feet out of the water. On a big boat, a 20-degree heel will bring you high into the air and give a much bigger sense of motion, like the boat's about to go over. I had a few moments there.

In addition, Chumley has a wheel. I'm used to a tiller. You point a tiller in the direction you want the stern of the boat to go. You turn a wheel in the direction you want the bow to go. I made a few rookie mistakes. (But then, I am a rookie, you know?)

We sailed back to the harbor, taking a turn around McCovey Cove to listen to the Giants lose for a while. Splendid evening in all.

Cool BNET Video

2008-04-24T14:34:00.001-07:00

In which we test some stuff. (Pay no attention to the blogger behind the curtain.)

Don't Make Me Buy This Car

2008-04-17T17:04:00.000-07:00

Or this one, either...

I hate cars. No, that ain't right. I love cars. Cars are cool. I just hate owning them and paying for them -- gas, maintenance, washing... all that crap.

But two cars have recently struck my fancy, one available now for a song, the other available a little later for a more of a duet.

Mercedes Smart ForTwo Pure

Base Price: $11.5k
Mileage: 40/45 mpg

Cute, functional, cheap, pretty efficient, really, really easy to park and from a quality brand -- available now.

The Aptera

Hybrid diesel-electric three-wheeler that started out as a kit aircraft. Expected to be on the market next year. The Aptera company is currently taking reservations.

Price: "Under $30k"
Mileage: 230 mpg (6oo mile range)

decisions, decisions...

Sloop Dreams

2008-03-22T09:42:00.000-07:00

In which sailing takes us away

I had been sailing on San Francisco Bay several times, managing to make myself useful to my skipper by trimming and easing sheets and serving as ballast in the informal Friday night yacht races. Since moving back to The City some weeks ago, I determined to formalize my knowledge and so entered a sailing program through Spinnaker, located at South Beach Marina, adjacent to Mays Field.

The two-weekend program included a little theory and a lot of practice on the water. The first Saturday we spent a little time in the classroom but were soon out on the Bay and making fools of ourselves: nearly running our 27-foot Santana sloop, “First Class” into the dock, other parked yachts, the sea wall and a pair of square-rigged pirate ships that were giving live sea-battle demonstrations to tourists.

One of my fellow students went overboard, helping us do the man-overboard drill in, as they say, “real time.” All very exciting.

One of the most interesting aspects of the theory portion of the class was learning that the sail of a boat operates on precisely the same principle as an airplane’s wing, which is why sailboats are able to make headway against the wind. When a boat is “beating to weather” – tacking back and forth into the wind – there is a Bernoulli affect, so that the boat is not so much being pushed from behind as sucked from the front. When the boat is running with the wind, however, it is being pushed from behind. A boat that’s running can only go as fast as the wind itself, but a boat beating to weather can actually go faster than the wind, due to the Bernoulli affect. An addition, the keel also acts as a wing beneath the water, helping move the boat along.

It's incredible to think that people have been sailing for 5,000 years but recently did we realize that a bird's wing and a sail are pretty much the same, and that the principles applied to sailing could be put to use in flying. Such is the power conventional thinking.

Talk about “learning the ropes.” And it’s amazing how fast I learned them. I was pretty twitter-pated at first but, by the third day, I had it down – tacking, gibing, the commands, the names of the different lines (a line is a rope cut to a specific length and sued for a specific purpose aboard) and sheets (sheets be being lines used to trim (pull-in) and ease (let out) the sails), how the boat should feel at heel (when is leaning) and so forth. I helped that they switched-up instructors the second weekend. The first fellow was a bit of a Bly, the second more of a Dr. Phil who was able to put us all more at ease.

On our last day, the Bay was roughest, with winds approaching 20 knots. At times “First Class” seemed to fly over the choppy waves heeling to its full 20 degrees, her sails pulling beautifully. I felt like John F. Kennedy. I was flattered when our instructor called me “a natural” and said that I’d passed “with flying colors.”

Not so my hapless mates. Nice fellows, but they never seemed to grow comfortable with how the boat moved, and things like tacking and gibing never became instinctive. One them, a chap from Iran, would always tack when he was supposed to gibe and vice-versa. Now I know why the Persians lost the Battle of Salamis.

(America's Cup image courtesy terreaway via Flickr)

Arthur C. Clarke

2008-03-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

1917 - 2008

Erin Go Blog

2008-03-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

In which we post just because we made up the funny headline

To all of my token Irish Catholic friends, happy St. Patrick's Day (like you needed an excuse to enjoy a wee dram and get all misty-eyed over diddly-idle music.)

Slante!

Bay Day

2008-03-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

In which take the bike out for a little spin

Took the ol’ velocipede up to Sausalito early this afternoon to get a little R&R. You know, a little exercise mixed with a little sight-seeing – picture perfect pre-spring day by the bay.

As I rolled by green copper dome of the Columbarium, near Geary and Arguello streets, I noticed the gates were open. Owned by the Neptune Society, the Columbarium is a place where the ashes of deceased people are interred. Some of San Francisco’s most prominent citizens rest here. I had never been inside before and what I found delighted me no end. Beneath the neo-classical dome are four floors of glass-covered niches, most displaying an urn full of ashes along with some of the affects of the dead. Among these things I saw a pair of bifocals, a teddy bear, a gold wristwatch and, in one niche, an old-time dentist’s drill.

Beautiful statuary, stained glass and classical details adorn the place. I noticed also that there is still space. Now I know where my final resting place will be.

I pedaled on up through the Arguello Gate of the Presidio and an on through the old fort and across the Golden Gate Bridge. I crossed slowly enjoying the brisk breeze and amusing myself with my newly acquired sailing skills, spotting the heading and tack of the sail boats below – this one on a port beam reach, that one close hauled, another running, spinnaker billowing in the west wind.

I stopped for lunch in Sausalito, at the Sausalito Taco Shop, where the food is fresh and spicy.

Wine, Friends and Video Tape

2008-02-27T19:10:00.000-08:00

In which we share our first experience on camera

A while back, before I took up my glamorous new post at BNET, I wrote a freelance piece for them called "How to Survive Dinner with Your Wine Snob Boss." It was a fun but instructional piece that got rave reviews and garnered huge traffic.

After I was hired at BNET, the head of our video department asked if I wouldn't like to make a video version of it. Of course I said yes. We took a somewhat different tack than the written piece, tee-ing it up as an interview with a sommelier who offered tips of choosing wine and wine etiquette.

Our producer, who owns her own small vineyard in Napa, found a suitable sommelier at the tony watering hole Jardinierre, Eugenio Jardim.

When I arrived at the place one morning last month, I was met by Eugenio, an affable Brazilian -- who looked very familiar. The producers had us working so fast, though, that I didn't get a chance to chat him up until there was a break while the crew adjusted the lighting. At this point I pulled out one of my Vinapedia biz cards and explained that the site was a bit of a hobby and a way for me to learn more about wine. Then I asked if Ted Talley sold wine to Jardinierre (Ted is an old friend in the wine business).

Eugenio smiled and said “I’ve known Ted for 20 years…”

Of course we had met before at parties and such, but it had been a long time, since before I had moved to Southern California. So we chatted about our mutual friends, who seemed to grow more legion with every phrase. Talk about a small world.

Watch me with Eugenio in the video, Wine Know-How.

Willie and Me

2008-02-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

In which we chat up a San Francisco icon

Last week I went and listened to former California State Assembly speaker and San Francisco Mayor, Willie Brown, give a talk about his new memoir, Basic Brown: My Life and Our Times, at the Ferry Building.

I have always admired Willie for his style and aplomb and all he has done for this town. Sure, there are all sorts of shadowy allegations of back-door dealing and cronyism. Who cares? Willie has done more for the City and County of San Francisco than anyone. If it weren't for Willie:

There would be a massive freeway interchange in Golden Gate Park
There would be no Mays Field in China Basin, and the Giants would have skipped town
The Embarcadero (Herb Caen Way) would probably be just a noisy thoroughfare, even after the double-deck freeway was torn down, and not the sparkling, grand boulevard that it has become
The Ferry Building would still be a set of crumbling offices on the brink of being condemned
Union Square would still be a pigeon-and-bum-infested rat hole

And that's just for starters.

At 73, Willie still looks trim, dapper and spruce. His chat was full of energy and charm.

Next day I mentioned my encounter with a coworker. Turns out that another coworker's girlfriend is Willie's executive assistant, She was able to get me a half hour alone with the man a day later. You can bet I wore a tie for that meeting.

Look for more of my encounter with Willie on BNET in March.

Beebe

2008-02-14T17:27:00.000-08:00

In which we celebrate a San Francisco / Virginia City original

Been a fan of the cantankerous Lucius Beebe since I first discovered him while combing through old San Francisco Chronicle microfiche docs in the San Francisco State University library.

While searching for information on a topic quite unrelated, I stumbled upon Beebe's columns and was instantly enraptured by the man's skilled, erudite and cutting commentary on every subject of the day.

Eccentric, scathing, tempermental and louche beyond comparison -- he travelled his own, private pullman rail car -- Beebe epitomized elegant, upper-crust, anti-burgeois rage. He was a man's man, a bon vivant, a gourmand and a dandy extraordinnaire.

So my love of well dressed curmudgeons and stylish skpetics was born.

Web chum, Will, has recently discovered the Beebe anthology, The Provocative Pen of Lucius Beebe and groks that meme, too.

Snow Daze

2008-02-11T18:05:00.000-08:00

In which we rekindle and old flame

This weekend I went snowboarding for the first time in more than two years. I went with old friends, Ted and Kristen and their two younguns, Olivia (6) and Kevin (4). We stayed in their family’s cabin on the western shores of glittering Lake Tahoe. It was a picture perfect weekend of clear, crystalline skies and temperate weather.

I had determined to take it easy, for a change, and rode just a half day on Saturday and most of the day Sunday, stopping frequently for little breaks and long lunches. Ted, an expert skier, decided to try his hand at snowboarding after some seven years hiatus, and giving him pointers and keeping an eye him rather forced me to cool my jets.

This worked to my advantage. Had I gone up with some of my more practiced snowboarder pals – now two years more advanced than me – this first time I might have felt compelled to keep up, leading to frustration at the least or an injury at worst, bombing down every hill at top speed and taking dangerous jumps on wombly legs.

As it was I was able to just hang back, relax and get my snow legs. It made me realize what I really enjoy most about snowboarding, and it’s quite similar to what I enjoy about cycling. Where many cyclists are in it for power and speed, seeing how hard and fast they can do a 30-mile coffee-ride, I enjoy the scenery and the feeling of gliding over the road more than the strenuous challenge. The same goes for snowboarding: the feel of the soft, cold snow as you carve gently across the mountain; the cold wind across your cheeks, the splendid sky above and the shimmering lake below. It’s not about who can do the most dangerous jump or fly fastest through the densest trees. It’s about you and the mountain and the blue winter sky above – and about sharing your experience with your good friends.

Sure, I took a few jumps and had a few spills, but I could be hurting a lot more today.

Having Olivia and Kevin with us on the mountain was a treat. Being skiers since about the age of 2 ½ or 3, they are both probably already better skiers than I am a snowboarder. Little Kevin is the mad bomber, careening down the mountain as fast as he dared (and knocking little girls out of the way) and Olivia’s quite the little jumper. They were a joy to watch. They kept it light.

In the evening we played dominoes, drank superior wines, wrestled with the kids, showed them magic tricks – I am the louche uncle “who can pull his thumb off” – and told stories of the “snow ghost.” (I consider piquing the curiosity of small children and women through the twin vehicles of awe and terror to be a personal gift.)