And so the question naturally arises, how to go about fixing them?  Should we:

a.) try to be historically “accurate” as we possibly can be, attempting to re-create some lost and all-but-forgotten moment early in the house’s history — say, May 12th, 1922 or thereabouts, a day when Hermann (or was it Heinrich?) Kreiger, master baker and Consumnes River rancher, looked out from his porch with his soon-to-be-widowed wife and soon-to-be orphaned children (including Alvin, SHS class of 1926) to survey his prosperity.  To do so, we would replace the glass with reproduction “wavy” panes, fix the rope-and-pulley systems, and (if we’re truly going for “the look”) ordering custom-built half-screens to go on the inside for those hot summer afternoons. 

Or, should we

b.) sign up with SMUD’s get-with-it-’cause-global-warming-is-coming program, whereby you replace old, inefficient, drafty, single-pane, double-hung windows with new, no-fecking-pulleys dammit, double-paned, IV-ray preventing, keep out the cold and the heat, and oh by the way we’ll finance it so you can put it on your monthly utility bill, windows.  These would not precisely wood veneer over aluminum and vinyl, but they would have a handy snap-out feature so that one could (theoretically, if one were so inclined) clean the outside of each pane.  If we didn’t want wood, of course, we could always go with the “Montecito” look, which involves semiotic codes that simply don’t bear thinking upon.

Thoughts?  Votes?  For the record, each option will probably end up costing about the same amount of money.

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Not playing the “so where did you go to school?” game.

I don’t know if it’s a life-stage thing (I’m old enough that that doesn’t so much matter anymore), or a regional culture thing (we’re more egalitarian in California), but I’m glad to be done with that little cocktail-party kabuki action.

I say this because I attended a wine-tasting party with the partner’s work crowd, and never once did this subject come up.  Which was odd (to me), because in all other respects, this party was a perfect copy of every party I ever attended in graduate school.  Not only was the location as-close-as one can get to a Boston triple-decker (a shabby-genteel apartment in a stucco fourplex facing onto Winn Park*, complete with stained glass sideboard and the original sliding wood screens for the windows.  I covet those screens).  But we had a bourgie theme (everybody brought a bottle, which promptly went into a paper sack, labled 1W, 2R, etc.), potluck food (delicious Indian food cooked by Anglos, and tasty deviled eggs made by an Indian), both knowledge-poseurs (one of whom I eventually outed as a Canuck) and modesty-poseurs (that would be me), and the subtle kind of competition that was totally upended when it was revealed that one of the wines was not grape wine, but rather apple (it was yummy, if with a rather off-putting cheesy nose).

But at no point did anyone every do the whole “so where did you go to school” number.  It occurs to me now that the fact that most everyone there was a work colleague might have mitigated that particularly annoying conversational gambit.

*My one mis-step of the evening was when I turned to the partner and said “Ohmigawd, is this one of those railroad apartments that all those awful yuppies are renting?” The remark fell flat.  Apparently he and I were the only ones present who had seen Last Days of Disco.  Oh well.  I guess I’ll have to retire that little piece of cultural capital. 

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So, after pulling something like 3 cords of ivy trash to the curb, along with the chopped-up remains of two plum trees, plus depositing 4 weeks X (two trash bins plus two recycling bins) worth of junk from the basement, not to mention $800 worth of unused consumer durables donated to Goodwill, we come to the point at which we approach the real heart of the mess:

Looking my father in the eye and saying: “[Dad], this is going to the dump.  Are you okay with that?”

“This” being object X, Y, or Z from the basement. 

At which point my mother usually steps in and says something to the effect of: “Honey, either that goes out on to the curb, or your clothes go out on the curb.”

Never let it be said that my mother doesn’t get right to the point.

So far, we’ve put out on the curb:

- 2 lawnmowers

- 8 chairs (the kind of metal and plastic office/industrial piece of loveliness that was probably at some point meant to be used for a third-tier hotel conference center)

- 6 metal folding chairs (you know the kind I’m talking about, the kind that just screams “PTA meeting!” or “Methodist potluck supper!”)

- 2 shattered wooden chairs

- 2 dog hutches

- one removable seat from a Dodge minivan

- one bar chair (made of “bronzed” tin and leatherette, natch)

- one vacuum cleaner

- one wheel barrow

- one badminton net

- one portable tool chest (the kind on wheels that an actual, you know, electrician or carpenter might use).

- one home exercise machine (the cross-country ski type thingy, only missing the handles)

- several picture frames, plus assorted old pillows and glass jars.

Thankfully, only a portion of the above went to the transfer station (boy, if you want a reminder of how wasteful a society America is, take a load to the dump).  One of the lawnmowers, a dog hutch, and the picture frames, pillows, and jars were picked up within approx. a day of being put on the curb (one indicator that Sacramento is not just desperately poor: the fact that it took more than a day for people to “refucycle” our stuff.  In Fort Worth?  That shit would have been gone within two hours).  The other lawnmower we gave to the person that takes care of the grounds out at my dad’s office.  The metal folding chairs went to the Central Labor Council.  The conference center-type stackable chairs we’re giving to the son of one of the people up at the Ranch (he’s 19, and moving into his own place).   The car seat (plus the rear door) from the minivan will, at some undetermined point in the near future, go to a salvage yard (hopefully for cash, but I guess we’ll have to see about that).

However, that’s only about a fifth of what’s down in the basement.  Who knows what treasures remain to be discovered?

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It occured to me yesterday that I’m not angry all the time. 

That sounds odd, perhaps, but it’s true.  When I think back to my state of mind oh, say, six months ago, or two years, or basically ever moment of every day I lived in Texas, I was angry and afraid.

And that’s just no way to live.   It leads to spontaneous invective, consumption of large quantities of alcohol, over-indulgence in food, and strain on the heart. 

Here’s to leaving all that shite behind.  Thank god for civilized California. 

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“So, what chapter are you on?”

I assume this was a drug reference (chapter X, chapter 420, etc.).  Can anyone else clarify?

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There are moments when Sacramento simply oudoes itself.  And not just itself, but frankly, a lot of other places as well.  Second Saturday is one of those moments.

I would venture to guess that there were quite in excess of 10,000 people out on the streets on Saturday night.  True, the weather was exceptionally fine that evening, and more than one person in the crowd was overheard to remark that this was the most they’d ever seen at this event.  But even so, a couple of things struck me about (a) the mood, (b) the composition of the crowd, and (c) comparable events I’ve been to in other places.

First, the mood: it was, more than anything, one of equal parts relaxation, freedom, and appreciation.  By which I mean, no one one was in a hurry, people were headed every which way (into galleries, out of restaurants, jaywalking), and lots of folks had opinions — about the art, about the evening, about the architecture, you name it.  I was reminded, more than anything else, of Geertz’s phrase “deep play.”  It was, quite simply, a great deal of fun.  Everyone was having a good time, everyone appeared to know the rules (one piece of evidence for which: I saw nary a cop, not even when we went up to Del Paso Blvd.), and everyone was out. 

Which brings me to the composition of the crowd.  I am continually reminded in Sacramento of how integrated public space here is.  To be fair, it’s not like the crowd was “representative,” in any statistical sense, of the city’s population (there were fewer Chicanos and Blacks than there might have been).  But it was integrated, far more than anything I was used to experiencing in Fort Worth or, for that matter, Boston.  Now I suspect that the crowd was also far more middle-class than the city as a whole.  But that is simply to press the point: there were literally thousands middle-class people, promenading the sidewalks of Midtown and North Sac, many of them not in the least bit Anglo, and all of them mingling with perfect aplomb. 

Are there other places where you find thousands of middle-class people, including some substantial number of minorities, out not just for an evening, but every four weeks?  There almost certainly are, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head.  The only time I’ve ever experienced something similar was the old K St. mall summer farmer’s markets.  Fort Worth had its gallery nights — twice a year, and they drew not nearly as large a crowd.  Nor, for the record, did they draw Latinos or African-Americans in more than purely token numbers.  Boston has its “Opera on the Common” moments — which drew in excess of 60,000 people — or its July 4th celebrations, but those occur annually.  

It speaks volumes, I think, about the character of a city when that many people can peacably assemble for something as high-toned as art.  Sacramento may have lost its small-town feel when people stopped caring about whether they would ever be invited to join the Sutter Club, it’s true.  But there is much to said for the city that the children of the aerospace engineers have managed to put together in its place.

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“It’s Sacramento.  They’re all our people.”

God’s own truth, that is.

Said by a gentleman leading his girlfriend and assorted posse to watch the fireworks from the levee at 28th and C.  He was referring, it appears, to the crowd around him, in response to his lady-friend’s assertion that they might lose “their people.”

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“I was very excited to learn of this opening at the DMV.”

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When President Bush says “I respect the jury’s verdict” in the trial of Scooter Libby, and then proceeds to vacate that jury’s sentence of 30 months in prison for the crimes of perjury and obstruction of justice, his statement that he “respect[s] the jury’s verdict” is, quite simply, untrue.  His actions vacate his statement of all truth and of all meaning; they reduce his statements to DaDa, nullity, pure and utter nonesense. 

Or, to put it more simply:

President Bush’s words: I respect the American judicial system.

President Bush’s actions: Bend over and grab your ankles, Lady Justice.  Now breath deep.  Yeah, that’s it, bitchez. 

I leave aside that President Bush has, by this action, condoned by his deeds criminal acts not just of lying, but lying for the express purpose of endangering our national security.  Whatever his unknowable thoughts, and whatever his fallacious, sophistic, and utterly nonsensical words, he has condoned criminal acts.

Another year and a half, ladies and gentleman, another year and a half.   Lord what damage can he do in that remaining time.

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Apropos of this site:

What have you learned today?

I learned that the plums from off my front-yard tree, which for nigh-on twenty years now I have thought were both mushy and tasted of, well, not much at all, make a delightful jam.

I also learned that I am, despite my own fears, perfectly competent at canning (this was my first solo effort). 

I also learned that, when a crazy person says that they are “a gourmet cook,” and then proceeds to confuse the difference between baking powder and baking soda, it is probably best to take a small portion of the cobbler they just cooked.

I also continue to learn, every day, that the spiritual joy that comes from having escaped Texas never goes away.  At least not after a month. 

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