Kennedy

…is the younger of John and Kim’s two children. He turns nine this month. Like squirrels, Kennedy doesn’t walk. His natural pace is sprint. The rest of him has no trouble keeping up with the energy introduced by his legs.

The Weller Way family had stopped at Costco before a trip, planning to pick up lunch to eat on the road. The Sacramento Costco has kiosks out front for ordering. Kennedy asked to press the buttons to order the meals for the four of them, then pocketed the receipt. Next they joined a fifteen minute line along with other hungry shoppers, waiting for their $1.50 hot dog, drink (with free refills), their chicken bakes, slices of pepperoni pizza. Weller had a tight schedule, made tighter by the length of the line. When they appeared at the front the employee asked for the receipt. John said, “Kennedy, give it to her.” Kennedy turned and said, “I gave it back to you!” John said, “No, you didn’t. You have it.” Kennedy insisted that he had given it back. Kim asked the employee if they could have the food without the receipt, but she insisted that they had to give her the receipt before she could give them their order. “No receipt, no food,” she said. Embarrassed at holding up the line, John and Kim had to decide whether to go back to the kiosk, pay again, then stand in the line for an interminable length of time, time they didn’t have. They left hungry. They left angry.

TJ is in charge of customer relations at Costco. He learned about the commotion at the food court window and looked back at the video. He was able to track down John and Kim and called them on the phone, introducing himself and telling them this: “I looked at the store video. Your son picked up the receipt from the kiosk and threw it into the trash. If there’s anything else I can do for you, please let me know. I’m TJ.” Kim thanked him for the call.

They confronted Kennedy and told him that it was all on video. He stopped, took a deep breath, looked at them and said, “True, I did.” The focus wasn’t on why he threw it away. They focused on the lie, how doubling down made it so much worse.

We’ve all been there. We’ve tried to extricate ourselves from predicaments by making the hole we’re standing in deeper. And we’ve all been there as parents, too, hearing stories denying the justifiable suspicions we know to be true. Growing up takes a long time. More than nine years.

Donald J (Jail) Trump's Indictment

I mined Twitter and Facebook for appropriate memes. I think they tell a better story than I can. The memes begin in 1989 when five young black kids were seen in Central Park near where a 28 year old investment banker was brutally raped and left to die. The five were arrested for the crime, served between six and fourteen years in prison. Following their conviction Donald Trump paid for this ad in the NYTimes.

The Central Park 5 were exonerated in 2002, fourteen years after the attack. The real rapist, whose DNA matched, admitted to the crime. He is serving a 33 to life sentence for raping three women near Central Park and raping and killing a pregnant woman.

Trump never apologized. One of the boys, now men, posted this after the indictment yesterday.

Then came the headlines.

Trump’s rallies in 2016 always included the chant, “Lock Her Up,” directed at Hillary Clinton for made-up crimes that Trump created to diminish her. One can only imagine how she felt after the news came yesterday. And Ms. Cheney?

Time to open a bottle of champagne!

Then came the headlines.

The “Truth Social” post that revealed Trump’s unhappy response, once he learned that he was “indicated.”

And of course, his brilliant son Eric had this to say, echoing what Republican house members are squalling about in the press.

It’s imagined that not everyone in Trumpworld was as distraught as Eric.

A clarion cry from the right wing has focused on this unprecedented act, trying to frighten people with images like the one that follows. And no, Donnie, you’re mistaken. They are after you. But, as the ad says, these ne’er-do-wells are partly correct, too. They would come after us, that is, if we had committed the countless felonies you have.

Mr. Trump is, as the meme suggests, the one man crime wave. They’re only after criminals.

No shortage of pro-law, anti-perp memes. The arraignment is first, but stuff will follow.

And before it does there wil be the finger-printing, the mug shot, the humiliation, the “perp walk,” followed by countless delays and motions. Then a trial. If all goes well Mr. Trump will be assigned the following Monopoly card.

Is this indictment a good thing? Is Trump above the law? Highly unusual, yes, but American at its best.

I’m offering my own opinion, basing it on thje following cartoon appearing in The Washington Post today, April 1st, and no, it’s not an April Fools joke. Trump’s chances of being re-elected?

A Better Way To Kill Children

Tired of watching body parts fly everywhere? Medics are. “I couldn’t even find one of her legs! “ complained Nashville medic John Scally after arriving at Covenant School. “I looked all over the place!” he wailed, scooping up whatever brain splatter he could find.

An AR-15 is a classic case of overkill (pun intended), when a smaller gun, using smaller bullets, will do the job just as well. And a smaller bullet not only will kill but will leave the body intact, saving medics time and money when searching for remains before loading bodies into ambulances. Or hearses.

The much loved AR-15 is an adult gun, meant to be used by adults to kill adults. The Washington Post provides a graphic explanation about what a .223 bullet, one that can cross six football fields in under a second, does to the body. It’s silly to use such a thing on a child.

More Fun Ways To Kill Children

Introducing…

Killing Children For Fun Since 1776!

Medics will appreciate saving time searching for all that icky stuff. Taxpayers will, too, knowing that paramedics run on the taxpayer's dime. Ambulances will spend less time cleaning up after a school shooting. And multiple kindergartners and pre-schoolers can fit in the back of one ambulance, where adults have to go one at a time. Have you ever had to pay for an ambulance? Not cheap, I tell you.

Even the bullets are fun!

Shaped like Hello Kitty, the ammo is the cat’s meow! Hardly drawing any blood, the entrance and exit wounds are almost identical! Even the guns meow as they’re fired.

And hey, wait! You can get a Designer Gun, named after beloved gun lovers! Behold below

The handle is shaped in the form of Lauren Boebert’s body! For shooters of the Boebert Blaster you can

FONDLE WHILE FIRING!

And better, when you run out of Hello Kitty ammo, her empty body and brain doubles as a PEZ dispenser. (Candy Not Included )

New models are in production. The MTGreene Gotcha!, a special edition model. Silent when the ammo misses, but yells “Gotcha!” when it finds flesh. And of course, knowing our 2nd Amendment-Loving Gun-Worshipping GOPers, when your Boeberts and Greenes run empty, you know you GOTTA GETTA GAETZ!

One Hundred and Eighty

When I was teaching I would tell Jadyne about conflicts in my class with a student or two. No doubt the student came home and described the event in his own words to his parents. I was only privy to my own account, but I suspect that the student’s story differed from mine, perhaps so much so that the two accounts never intersected. We were 180° apart.

Currently, Gwyneth Paltrow is being sued and is counter-suing a retired Utah physician following a skiing accident in 2016. Here are some quotes from reports about the case:

“Gwyneth Paltrow says Terry Sanderson 'categorically' crashed into her”

“While on the stand, Paltrow said she "was not engaging in any risky behavior" the day she alleges Sanderson crashed into her from behind on a beginner ski slope.”

“Mr Sanderson insists that the movie star smashed into him after racing downhill in an “out-of-control” manner, according to CourtTV. He claims that she struck him in the back with such force that he was left with “permanent traumatic brain injury, four broken ribs, pain, suffering, loss of enjoyment of life, emotional distress and disfigurement”. In his complaint, the plaintiff argues that Paltrow “got up, turned and skied away” without summoning help, leaving him “stunned, lying in the snow, seriously injured”.

The outcome of the suits is yet to be determined. Their statements reveal either faulty memories (my late uncle called them “convenient memories”), or something worse, a fabrication, a lie, an untruth, deception, fib, a whopper. That we see events through our own unique lenses is hardly surprising, but that they can differ so dramatically, 180 degrees, is a source of wonder.

The Former Guy

Steve Schmidt had this to say about The Former Guy:

“Donald Trump has been the worst president this country has ever had. And I don’t say that hyperbollically. He is. But he is a consequential president. And he has brought this country in three short years to a place of weakness that is simply unimaginable if you were pondering where we are today from the day where Barack Obama left office. And there were a lot of us on that day who were deeply skeptical and very worried about what a Trump presidency would be. But this is a moment of unparalleled national humiliation, of weakness.

“When you listen to the President, these are the musings of an imbecile. An idiot. And I don’t use those words to name call. I use them because they are the precise words of the English language to describe his behavior. His comportment. His actions. We’ve never seen a level of incompetence, a level of ineptitude so staggering on a daily basis by anybody in the history of the country whose ever been charged with substantial responsibilities.

“It’s just astonishing that this man is president of the United States. The man, the con man, from New York City. Many bankruptcies, failed businesses, a reality show, that branded him as something that he never was. A successful businessman. Well, he’s the President of the United States now, and the man who said he would make the country great again. And he’s brought death, suffering, and economic collapse on truly an epic scale. And let’s be clear. This isn’t happening in every country around the world. This place. Our place. Our home. Our country. The United States. We are the epicenter. We are the place where you’re the most likely to die from this disease. We’re the ones with the most shattered economy. And we are because of the fool that sits in the Oval Office behind the Resolute Desk.”

Well, that’s one side.

Here’s another:

One hundred and eighty degrees…I’m leaning towards Steve’s version

The 180 degree difference can be broken down into at least three components—memory, perception, and fabrication.

Memory.

Elizabeth Loftus is a distinguished professor at UC Irvine. She has testified about memory at trials of OJ Simpson, Ted Bundy, Rodney King, Michael Jackson, Bill Cosby, and more recently Harvey Weinstein. She’s unpopular with prosecutors because of statements like this: “False memories, once created — either through misinformation or though these suggestive processes — can be experienced with a great deal of emotion, a great deal of confidence and a lot of detail, even though they’re false.” Rape accusers find themselves accused of having leaky memories.

In another case, Judge Kavanaugh denied Christine Ford’s claims that he raped her when they were teenagers. According to the New York Times, “Judge Kavanaugh has emphatically denied allegations from Dr. Blasey that he tried to rape her when they were teenagers or ever committed sexual assault against anyone. Dr. Blasey and another accuser, Deborah Ramirez, have recounted their alleged incidents with both precise detail and gaping holes.” 180°

Recollection is part reconstruction, The brain, especially after traumatic experiences, engages a selective process that is prone to error. When Jennifer was a little girl she was sitting in a red wagon. I tried to carry them both. She fell onto a gravel driveway, cut in several places. We picked her up, carried her inside, cleaned the cuts, applied band-aids. She was scratched but otherwise okay. Jason, her older brother, said last year that she was injured and covered with blood. His memory of the event was colored not only by time but by the way he saw the world as a little boy. Which brings me to…

Perception

We perceive events through our senses, yes, but also through past experiences. In Jason’s case, age played a role. So did the passing of more than forty years. The Marx brothers line, “Who ya gonna believe, me or your own eyes?” Concerning the blatant disregard of our senses Trump is a master. To veterans he said, “What you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening,” 180°

We think we’re all seeing the same thing. We regard it as fact, as truth. When called out for falsehoods Kellyanne Conway, one of Trump’s minions, said, “Our press secretary, Sean Spicer, gave alternative facts to that…” Chuck Todd, who was interviewing her replied, "Wait a minute. Alternative facts? ... Alternative facts are not facts. They're falsehoods." 180° All of this was regarding Trump’s claim that his inauguration crowd was greater than Obama’s, a fabrication easily disproved with aerial photographs. “What you’re seeing and what you’re reading is not what’s happening,”

Why then, do people believe them? IMHO, the deplorables have no interest in what is true, what is false. Truth falls by the wayside when it conflicts with what we want to believe, with what conforms to our own thinking, or what we want to be true, not what is true. Problems arise on the national stage when deplorables are elected to govern, Right MGT? Lauren? Andy? Tommy?

Fabrication

The last stop on the train. Trump knew he lost. He knew the election wasn’t stolen. He created “The Big Lie” out of the knowledge that the deplorables who love him, who follow him, have no interest in truth. Seventy million of them. They wanted him to win, so he simply gave them what they wanted. Sixty judges affirmed what the rest of us all knew. The judiciary told the truth. Deplorables paid no attention.

We fabricate stories for a multitude of reasons. A policeman follows a speeder. The driver pulls to the curb, climbs out of the car and denies that she was the driver. We lie to get out of trouble. We lie to get someone else in trouble. George Santos, the lying congressman from New York, lied on his resumé to get elected. We lie because sometimes the truth is too painful to hear. We lie to hide our fears or cover up our inadequacies.

There are degrees of lying. We use the expression “white lie” to prevent the truth from hurting someone else. If white lies are the bottom of the pyramid, then what the Republican Party, what Donald Trump is doing, represents the top. Trump asked his constituents, “Are you tired of winning?, believing that winning and truth were the same. Of all the insults that Trump can’t accept, losing wins. To lose is inconceivable. Denying loss by claiming it didn’t happen isn’t. Trump knew he lost, but in his mind the loss disappears if he doesn’t acknowledge it. He lied. He’s still a winner. 180°

The last 180° comes from a lady who lives in the Ozarks.


My To-Don't List

From an article in The Atlantic by Arthur Brooks, a “to-don’t” list focuses on what you know to be wrong. It’s the “via negativa”, a negative way of looking at things, then avoiding them, which, in effect, allows for more positivity to enter your life.

Here’s where I started. One, I’ve obsessed about the little bulge above my belt that extends, rises up and out, then curves back, before returning to meet up with the rest of my body. It surrounds five or six very active pounds, that’s all, pounds that go on frequent vacations for a few days, then come home. Then go away. Then return. I’ve spent too much time worrying about them, wondering if they’re safe, whether they’ve picked up any bad habits, knowing that they’ll return, and worse, whether they’ll bring friends with them. Ignoring them altogether makes me happier.

Two. I’ve also obsessed about my 401k. It was so much fun watching it play and grow over the past several years. Like putting a yardstick over your kid’s head and seeing how tall he was last month, now how tall he is today. Growth in some things brings pride and contentment. Not so for investments over the last fifteen months. By ignoring that all-knowing website over the past few weeks, the one that knows exactly how much money I have, I no longer wonder how far it’s tumbled. I don’t know much money I have. And here’s the thing. Whether it was rising or falling, its movement had nothing to do with what I did any day, how I lived my life. Only how I felt. I feel better not knowing.

Three. Real estate. We own two houses. We live in one. Jason, Hawthorn, and Hazel live in the other. A year ago their values were through the proverbial roof. Fifteen months later they’ve lost hundreds of thousands of dollars in value. We have no plans to sell, so we haven’t lost that money. Many years ago, when David Buchholz Photography was a thing, I said to Jadyne, “We lost Healdsburg’s Prom.” That was a big deal, a huge moneymaker for DBP. She replied, “We didn’t lose it. We never had it in the first place.” So, about that real estate thing. It don’t make much no never mind.

Four. There have been toxic people in my life—my former daughter-in-law, my ex neighbor Bob Frassetto, people whose memories conjure up bad feelings. Once these people were unavoidable. Now Jason is divorced, and I know nothing about my former daughter-in-law now, only that her presence, physically, emotionally, and psychically, are gone, and with that. the toxicity. Bob Frassetto, who once said, “You disgust me,” sold his house, married for the third time, and left Kensington and my life. Both absences have brought about presence.

Brooks adds that in trying to find out who you really are, how to bring about the feelings of positivity, “…is to eliminate the things that are not truly you—for example, your career, your money, your looks, your social-media following. Write down items on that list. Each day, recite all of the things you are not, such as “I am not my job title.” You might just find that this via negativa has introduced you to yourself.”

Calla Lily

Costco sells seasonal stuff before the season begins. A week or so ago, in the midst of the constant parade of wintry atmospheric rivers that have beset the Bay Area, I welcomed spring with a helleborus that I planted in the garden, then picked up a calla lily that caught my attention. Here it is on our front deck.

I’ve always loved photographing flowers. The calla lily in the natural light brought on by rainy skies gave me the opportunity to focus on just one. I’ve posted them all on my website, but in my blog I’m taking a few of them and describing the process I use to create these images. Here is the link to the images if you want to skip the blog, which, of course you shouldn’t.

I set the plant on a stool in front of a sliding glass panel, attached my Nikon D850 with a 105mm f2.8 macro lens to a tripod and just looked. And looked. I rotated the plant, raised and lowered the tripod, moved closer, moved farther away, changed focus, and tried to find images that might strike an emotional reaction. Some photographs were taken wide open, throwing the great part of the image out of focus. Here’s one.

The two white circles on the tip are water droplets.

In our garden that Tim and Lisa Goodman planted in 2008 there are no straight lines. The stone wall in the back of the yard was mistakenly constructed as a rectangle; Tim ordered it rebuilt as a curve. Curves create more than harmony. There’s a satisfying sense of peace and serenity in curves that can’t be matched in straight lines.

And even small depths of field, which bring little sharpness to the image, don’t distract.

Curves prevail

Another technique I use is called “focus stacking.” Several images, say between 10 and 20, are taken from the same position, but each with a slightly different focus. When the images are aligned and blended the combined focal sharpness is revealed. It’s a sandwich. In the next image I wanted most of the flower to be sharp. Ten images, aligned and blended, made that possible. I love the way the light hits just the one flower, the contrast between the colors in it and the green stems of its neighbors.

Same flower. Just misted it.

I added another flower, then in post-processing added a light glow to the flowers. Are we trying to create a two-dimensional exact replica of the thing, or are we creating an image that is meant to evoke a response, an emotion? It’s the latter in this case. I’m also struck by the way the flower at the bottom ties to the other two.

I photographed these over three wet days. This was one of the last. Focus stacking, perhaps close to 20 images. One of the points of attention is at the top, including the way the light on the darkest part of the curling end reflects the light. A second point is midway, the smaller flower. Again, all is curve.

This is the same flower as in the first image. Focus stacking and mist, I hoped the drop wouldn’t drop. I have six more images on my web site, but you get the picture. Get it? You get the picture? Oh, never mind.

Two hours

The kitchen at the Dorothy Day House in Berkeley is undergoing remodeling, so breakfast this morning was cold cereal, milk, a doughnut, packaged fruit slices, and coffee. We served it in the courtyard, where about seventy-five people queued up. Or most of them did.

  • Sandy didn’t. She lay off to the side, screaming almost all the time, removing most of her clothes in the 38 degree weather. Ara brought her donations from the shelter to keep her warm. She threw them off, continuing to scream.

  • The first client showed up, turned down the box and asked that we give her a part of a bagel. We couldn’t do that without tearing apart a box, but she insisted. So did we. She went downstairs to get a bagel A scuffle happened. Someone called 9-1-1. Two police arrived. She filed a report of some kind. The policemen followed her inside. She pointed to a man sleeping under a blue tarp.

  • The mute in the blue jacket stood before me. We gave him two boxes and two containers of milk. Joe gave him two extra doughnuts. Jadyne poured two cups of coffee for him. He wouldn’t move. He just pointed to the boxes, the doughnuts and the coffee. We shook our hands to indicate that he’d had enough.

  • Another man came in and sat down, and began to shoot heroin. Carlos shooed him out, down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. “You’re disrespecting these people who are trying to feed you!” he yelled. “Get out of here.” Sandy kept screaming.

  • The mute came back and stood before us, pointing to the boxes we’d prepared. We shooed him away again.

  • Sandy stopped screaming long enough to walk over to where we were serving breakfast and downloaded Screaming 2.0. She got close to the food carts. Carlos moved the carts away from her, protecting the food by insuring that the window between Sandy and the food was in front of her face. We had already brought her breakfast and coffee. Ara had brought her clothes. She was shooed away down the driveway. Screaming.

  • The Russian lady arrived. I had gone inside to bring back more milk. When I returned she was still there. “You have enough!” Jadyne said to her. She asked for boxes for her “friends.” “Tell your friends to come get their own boxes,” Jadyne said. “You have enough.” Instead of one cup of coffee she wanted us to pour fresh coffee into her thermos, which had a lid smaller than the coffee spout. “We can’t do that,” Jadyne said, “but you can have another cup of coffee.” She wouldn’t leave. She started yelling at me. I covered my ears with my hands and backed away. Once again Carlos came over. Finally, she, too was shooed down the driveway.

  • The Latino man on the bike who had already received several doughnuts returned, wanting more. I gave him three from the top bin, but he wanted one from the bottom bin, which was inaccessible. Angered, he left on his bike.

  • The mute came back.

Later that morning Jadyne, Joe, and I received an email: As follows,

“Hey you three,

This morning was nuts! Sorry I never made it up to the service area, I know the line was tough. Ara was having a hard time and needed support. Then a couple of participants got into a scuffle, and when I returned to my office one of them was on my phone calling 911. 

Then Patrick came in and lost his mind because someone had walked across the fresh epoxy kitchen floor that hadn't set yet. Then a lovely young new volunteer came in for her orientation in the middle of it all and at the end asked if she need to take a self defense class .... do y'laugh or cry??

Anyway, really needed to thank you for all you do. 

xoxo,

Tami”

Segue

Spotlight, a 2015 film, follows Boston Gobe’s “Spotlight” team, investigative journalists that reported on cases of widespread and systemic child sex abuse in the Boston area by numerous Roman Catholic priests. As the credits roll by other dioceses with known sexual predators were listed. Santa Rosa was one such diocese.

I learned about it long after I left my teaching position in 1980. I wrote about it in my blog in 2017.

Last week Dan McNevin emailed me.

“I read a post on your blog from 2017. As you can see below, Fr. Finn has been named in a molestation lawsuit. About the time you were there. Perhaps he actually did harm someone? Hurley gets no pass from me, but things may have been more complicated for them both, and the victims were truth, transparency, and young boys and girls.
I think everybody who has knowledge of what went on, even if the knowledge came late, should speak out to support these victims who now have the strength to speak up. Corroborating stories and insights will help them heal and be believed. Whatever you know, whatever names you've heard, share them. Encourage others to. Not one bishop there cared. The place was, and is, a mess. Because you were there with the awareness of an adult, you might be able to help, just by working to connect the dots.

For what its worth, I'm not aware of one Catholic high school in Northern California that is free of sexual abuse by priests and brothers. Its staggering.”

When I wrote him back he replied,

“I think every believer in a just and moral church, as I was, was naïve. Some (but fewer) still are. The hardened core is in denial and like you say, a bit Trumpian. If we examine Finn's career, he left under some sort of a cloud, and went far away to Juneau, still a priest (I looked him up). That is classic "pass the trash" bishop playbook stuff. I kind of wonder if he even did what he said he did as it related to  reporting to Hurley. Hurley's brother, I think it was, wound up the Bishop in Anchorage. Coincidence? What you might consider is contacting the attorney who is representing the plaintiff in the Finn case and simply offer your memories. Something really small to you might be a corroborating fact that can support the survivor's case. 

I went to Bellarmine, and some classmates (unknown to me by identity) were molested. Their attorneys sent out letters to classmates asking for any memories at all. Some of those no doubt helped our classmates.  You have a unique view, having been at Cardinal Newman. You experienced Hurley's arrogance and you absorbed the clerical culture to some extent. You may know something an outsider doesn't. Plus, you are articulate with no particular axe to grind. That is just food for thought.”

I then wrote to a former student, an active liaison to the school community. At first reluctant to participate, he responded to my entreaty.

When he declined to help I wrote back to him. The following is my text to him: “You wrote, "I know or have come to know way more about the molestation stuff than I care to discuss right now." The statute of limitations on legal proceedings runs out this year. I have no axe to grind. I'm only involved in Dan's quest inasmuch as I can help those (and I don't know any by name) who have been scarred by what you call "hanky panky." If you have firsthand information that might be helpful I simply would provide you with Dan's email. I make no judgements. We do what we think is right. I only wrote to you for the single simple reason that no former student is closer to CN than you. I'm not reaching out to anyone else.”

To that he responded, "Hanky panky" is a poor choice of words but we both know I'm no wordsmith. Please forward Dan's email address I'll do what I can. It's complicated and I'd hate to open old wounds of friends who suffered so very much.”

Stay tuned. The spotlight is still on.

Stuff

A busy week. Had hoped to pick up the Tesla from the body shop on Tuesday, was told that it was ready, then told that someone in the body shop had damaged the rear bumper, so it was to be replaced. Picked it up Friday. Looks brand new. A welcome home coat of wax in order, but it’s too cold today.

Stuff One

Last July my optometrist told me that that the cataract in my left eye had grown to the point that surgery was possible. Met the opthalmologist in September who scheduled the surgery for early December. I couldn’t wait. Apparently Covid couldn’t wait, either. I was struck a week before the scheduled surgery. Postponed to Feb 15th, last Wednesday.

I wrote about it to a friend: “So I started Wednesday with a half banana, a half grapefruit, three slices of bacon, two scrambled eggs, leftover batard bread (toasted), two cups of coffee, and a glass of orange juice.  It was 6:15.  I knew I wouldn’t eat again until dinner.  Five mile hike, then The Brothers Karamazov, tea, and showed up at 2:30 for 3:00 surgery.  At 3:30 left the waiting room, had blood pressure checked (very high), then a check of oxygen, then an iv in my right forearm.  4:00 under the surgeon’s care, constant flow of water over the eye, no vision, just three moving bright lights.  By 4:30 I was out, with clear plastic mask over the eye.  Through the air holes in the mask I could see more clearly immediately than I could in my right eye.  It took two days for my iris, which had been dilated, to come back to earth.  I wear the mask at night now only.  During the day I protect my eye with my reading glasses.  Three weeks no swimming, easy on the exercise, walks okay.  The Brothers Karamazov are sharper than ever.  Reading is easier.  One month I see the optometrist and will no doubt have a new prescription.  So that’s the name of that tune.”

Sleeping with it is no big deal. Years ago I learned to sleep with a night guard in my mouth. After breaking my ankle last April I slept with a boot. A plastic eye patch is nothing. Just one week,.

I know that this is frightening, but the drops used to dilate my left eye left it as large as you see it as this photo revealed Wednesday night. Normal today, Saturday.

More Stuff

I received an email from Daniel McNevin. He wrote, “I read a post on your blog from 2017. As you can see below, Fr. Finn has been named in a molestation lawsuit. About the time you were there. Perhaps he actually did harm someone? Hurley gets no pass from me, but things may have been more complicated for them both, and the victims were truth, transparency, and young boys and girls. 

I think everybody who has knowledge of what went on, even if the knowledge came late, should speak out to support these victims who now have the strength to speak up. Corroborating stories and insights will help them heal and be believed. 

Whatever you know, whatever names you've heard, share them. Encourage others to. Not one bishop there cared. The place was, and is, a mess. Because you were there with the awareness of an adult, you might be able to help, just by working to connect the dots.

For what its worth, I'm not aware of one Catholic high school in Northern California that is free of sexual abuse by priests and brothers. Its staggering.”

He sent me a list of the priests who were under investigation.

I wrote back. “Dan, I didn’t respond to your last email because between then and today I had surgery.  I knew all of the priests.  For three I simply worked alongside of them. Stack was a friend.  I knew he was gay, but I had no knowledge of his being active with anyone, and most certainly not with boys.  I had hoped that his name wasn’t among those listed.  To quote Mr. Trump again, “sad.”

My friend Jerry Stack is one of the accused. I am, as I wrote, sad.

National Stuff

For years FOX news has dominated the TV airwaves. Some years ago they deleted their motto, which read “Fair and Balanced” because, well, they were neither. Millions of Americans believe in FOX news, lionize the broadcasters, lap up what they say, unapologetically embrace their political leanings. In the immediate aftermath of the 2020 election they were the first network to call Arizona for Joe Biden, and FOX promptly lost 25% of their viewers because people listened to them not for the truth, but for the made up “truths” that they espoused, “truths” that dovetailed nicely into viewers’ faux patriotism, racism, misogyny, love of guns, hatred of liberals, and disgust with real truth. Two new conservative newscasts appeared on the scene, willing to pick up the mantle of lies and fraud. As FOX news hosts witnessed the exodus, they panicked.

In private conversations they laughed at, criticized, and complained about the hucksters who were loudly claiming fraud, claiming that the election was stolen, and other lies. They had a choice between preserving the FOX brand and telling the real truth. Money speaks. They chose the former, continuing to propagate the lies, rumors, and hucksters on their shows in a desperate attempt to regain their audience. And if what they knew to be false came out of their mouths, it was a sacrifice they chose to make to preserve their brand and their paychecks.

One of those maligned was Dominion Voting Systems, the company that manufactures voting machines. They are currently suing FOX news for 1.6 billion dollars, bolstering their case with emails, texts, and broadcasts by the FOX hosts who accused them of malfeasance, revealing that the FOX hosts gleefully pulled the wool over the camera lens, pandering to their ignorant audience when in fact, they knew better.

I have no idea how this will pan out, but if I were Rupert Murdoch, the owner of FOX news, I would be looking for my checkbook.





Dogs

Bobi (pictured below) has been certified by the Guinness Book of Records as the oldest dog. Ever. A record exists of Bobi’s birth, and Bobi is still active, living on a family farm in Portugal. Bobi bumps into things. So do I.

Long before Bobi was born, Rawlins, Wyoming made his appearance. Not the city, but the dog. Rawlins was our first dog, purchased in 1970, an AKC basset hound known in heady AKC circles as “Erf.” And why Rawlins? Shortly after Jadyne and I were married we rented a U-Haul van and drove from San Francisco to Cincinnati. Our first night was in Wendover, NV (or Wendover UT, depending on which part of Wendover you were staying.) The next day we headed East, beginning with a forty mile stretch of I-80 that doesn’t bend or curve, rise or fall. Forty miles. I was driving on the misty freeway when at 70 mph I found the van had hydroplaned on the wet surface, and we were now perpendicular to the road, going sideways at 70mph. I turned the wheel the opposite direction, then turned again, then again, not touching the brakes, not panicking, just slowing down. We found ourselves on the shoulder, stopped and facing the road, right side up and safe.

The van had an engine between the front seats and little weight in the back, so it was unsafe at any speed. We spent the night in Rawlins, Wyoming, giving thanks for our safety. We acknowledged our good fortune that day by naming our dog. And without further ado, here’s Rawlins, Wyoming.

Jadyne thought he should have a companion so we bought another basset. Dillon, Montana. And a third, Bosco, but that’s another story.

And here’s a photograph of Aspen, our golden retriever, born in 1988, the source of much joy and affection by us Buchholzes. We had never intended to get a dog, but in 1988 Jadyne’s beloved sister was killed in an avalanche, and our kids needed something to love.

We started with a rabbit. John named him/her “Snicker.” We went on vacation and left Snicker with the Jovells. When we returned Snicker wasn’t there to welcome us. We suspected that the Jovells ate him.

So then we bought a golden retriever. We wanted the kids to name her. Eight year old John suggested “Pancho Punch,” (not a favorite), then Jason came up with “Velcro” because my brother’s dog was “Buttons”, and they were sort of related. He then came up with Aspen, commemorating Teeny by naming the dog for the place where she died. Here’s Aspen as a puppy. P.S. Not to let John feel slighted we named our 1988 Land Cruiser “Punch.” It was with us longer than either Aspen or Bobi.

Older than Aspen was “Angie,” a toy poodle belonging to my brother Jack and my sister-in-law Barbara. As Angie aged she required medical attention to keep her going, as in $$$ medical attention. It’s tough to know when to pull the plug, when repairing the car costs more than the new one. When Aspen developed sores, open wounds actually, on her legs that the vet said wouldn’t heal, we reluctantly had her put to sleep.

Here’s Angie ca. 1967.

A friend of John and Kim was moving and had to leave Rocky behind. Rocky was a Bernese Mountain Dog without a mountain. An omnivore, he ate little girls’ underpants. I mean, that kind of an omnivore. I brought a bowl of cherries to their house. Rocky ate them all. The same night he ate my white socks. I found one in the yard the next day. A few days later Kim found the matching sock. It was red. We brought chicken for lunch when we were called on to babysit. He ate all the pieces, the bones, two apples, the paper bag, and some of the plastic wrap. Rocky developed a tumor on his leg. When he brushed up against you, he rubbed the tumor on your pant leg. It bled, not your leg, but the tumor. Here’s Rocky.

Totally loveable when he wasn’t bleeding on you.

John and Kim found Huey, a rescue dog. Here he is as a puppy. He’s at the end of his life now, incontinent, but still loved.

Kim comes from a family of dog lovers. In this image we are at her parents’ house. Rocky and Huey are at either end of the sofa. One of the four remaining dogs belonged to Kim’s mother, the others to her two sisters. Maybe one was a stray. It would have been welcomed. IDK.

Jadyne’s brother and sister-in-law have always owned dogs, like a zillion of them. Shorty was all by himself when Sean found him. Unafraid, adventurous, and funny as hell, Shorty was our favorite. Alas, Shorty is no longer with us, except in photographs.

Shorty looking out the window.

One more family dog, image to be added later. Shadow, a purebred mix of about forty-six different breeds was discovered in an ad on Craigslist, then picked up from a woman at a parking lot in Sacramento by Jennifer, Andrew, Isla, and Susanto. My initial dealings with a yet-to-be-included Shadow weren’t so favorable, as she twice destroyed our screen door, urinated freely, (submissive incontinence), jumped on everyone, chased cars, and frightened Hazel. She’s calmer now, loved by the Geens, and no longer frightens Hazel. She’s insane, though, getting her ya-ya’s out enthusiastically biting a steel pole in their backyard. For the record. Shadow can’t be overlooked.

Shadow, 2/17/23

Our friends Chris and Dave Anderson had two golden retrievers that died. They checked out breeders before settling on Brody, who had his own room. Brody was loving and affectionate, and prone to cancer, which left Chris and Dave dogless after a few short years.

Brody had his own room.

“The Boys”, Nick and Russ, lived across the street. They loved poodles and cats. They raised chickens in a coop designed by an architect. Here are Sassy and Marcel celebrating Christmas on our front deck. Nick and Russ went to a New Year’s Eve party one year and came home to discover that Marcel wasn’t going to see in the New Year. Not the New Year that they had hoped.

Our friends Tom and Andrea loved Bono, a chocolate lab. Marrying late, Tom and Andrea found Bono the substitute for the children they would never have. Andrea’s phone opens with a photo of Bono, and it isn’t the time he jumped onto Tom and bit his testicles.

The rest of these images are of unknown dogs that I have come across on hikes, in stores, or on the streets, all doing what it is that dogs do.

My all-time favorite. I had to lie down on a dirty Berkeley sidewalk to meet Haru head on.

Two dogs. Good.

Four dogs. Better.

Seven dogs. Best!

Cooling off dog. Or tired dog. Apple Store, Corte Madera

A wary dog. New York City.

A dog that can’t see. Sea Ranch.

Two dogs that can’t see. Briones Park

A dog in a homeless encampment.

The affection of the homeless for their dogs.

A free ride for two dogs.

A street dog, getting ready to celebrate something.

Many of my Facebook friends are devoted to their dogs. Here are two.

Amy’s best buddies and Ann Reuve’s beloved Chief. I’m Facebook friends with Chief.

We had so many houseplants when we drove a U-Haul to California. I stuffed as many as I could in our refrigerator, knowing that I would have to leave them in Nevada if they were discovered at the Agricultural Inspection Station. Psychologists suggest that bringing the outdoors in connects us to the world of our ancestors, the great great great ones who lived outdoors, accompanied only by each other, nature, and animals. Insert “dogs” here. OK, insert dogs, cats, hamsters, iguanas, guinea pigs, etc., here, if you like.

What is it about dogs? The first ATM opened in 1969 in Rockville Center, New York, eliminating the need to visit a bank to conduct basic financial transactions. One fewer person to see, smile at, or to wish a good morning to. (I know I’m ending that sentence with a preposition. It’s ok.) With the pandemic, the last toll collectors disappeared, replaced by FasTrak lanes as a safety precaution. One more connection, however brief. gone. Going to the Post Office is so old school today. We bank electronically, pay bills online. We can order groceries online, too. They are left in lockers at the grocery store. We don’t have to see or talk to anyone when we pick up the Romaine. At Habit Hamburgers you no longer order from a person. A kiosk replaces the employee, accepts the credit card and sends the order directly to the kitchen, bypassing any human interaction. You enter your phone number and receive a text when the order is ready. We bought six boxes of Girl Scout Cookies without even seeing a single Girl Scout! Online ordering from a granddaughter who this year eschewed even a video seeking support, now reduced to a text. Or was it an email?

Janus, the ancient Roman god of duality, had two faces. The god of efficiency and accuracy is a plus; the absence of human connections is a minus. Psychologists acknowledge that companionship, especially among the elderly, is critical to feelings of well-being. And Amy’s best buddies, Ann’s blood donor doodle, Chief, and Ursula, my friend Gail’s boxer, fill that role.

Everyday People

“I am no better and neither are you
We're all the same, whatever we do..” Sly Stewart

I recently received an emailed collection of historical mages, This was one of them. I quoted the caption below.

“Some of our favorite old photographs are merely everyday people in everyday life.”

When we’re not taking selfies, landscapes, our families, or our kids performing in “Our Town,” or the events that fill our lives, we’re probably overlooking the random images of everyday life that are also woven into that fabric, inconsequntial, meaningless, so common that they don’t warrant a photograph, not even a second look. In truth they are none of those things. In this first image the meaning is derived from a historical perspective, showing a world that no longer exists, even such a common event as a woman in a drugstore shopping for postcards.

People text jpegs now from their phones.

Hoping their horse finishes in the money.

Reading the paper on the train.

The historical perspective again. The beatific expression of a marcher in Golden Gate Park at a Hare Krishna parade in 1968.

A man at work

Just a woman walking a dog. Yes, it’s an everyday occurrence, but this one is punctuated by the fashion of the dog walker herself.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Waiting, just waiting.

We see people taking photographs everyday. Fifteen years ago photographers took them with cameras, not phones. In this photo a Japanese tour guide was given cameras by students visiting The Alamo. Again, history provides the context. Besides his own camera, seven others are dangling from his wrist each one belonging to one of the students.

A woman navigating a map of exhibits at a photography convention in San Antonio.

More everyday stuff. On a trip through the South we found ourselves in Jackson, Mississippi, staying at a hotel across the street from the Mississippi State Fair. This young man raised the steer that he proudly displays.

Riding the St. Charles line in New Ørleans. It’s just a photo of a young lady and her boots. What we have are two pairs of legs, that’s all.

We left New Orleans and stopped at Natchez on the same day as the Homecoming Parade. Here are the Natchez High School JV Bulldogs, football players at the beginning of the parade. In the face of #51 is all the bluster, bravado and self-confidence that he will take when he dons his uniform. He’s ready today.

On the street. A homeless man is promised food, but first he must listen to a reading from the Bible.

Two conversations.

One, at a casino in Alabama.

…another in a Berkeley museum.

Two passengers on BART. Seeing these two seated together doesn’t qualify as an everyday event, I know, but because life throws oddball stuff like this at us everyday I love to acknowledge it.

What strikes this American as unique, worthy of a photograph, would be ignored by citizens of Neemrana, India, if they strolled into the local elementary school, seeing students diligently studying in class.

Something beyond the ordinariness often catches my eye—the two very different men sitting together on BART, the western clothes of the Santa Fe dog walker. the wall of postcards, the cheering women at the race track, a hand on the train. And through the lens of time ordinariness becomes extraordinary—the bliss on the face of the Hare Krishna marcher, the dangling cameras suspended by the tour guide, endless waiting.

“You’re always watching,” Jadyne said to me. “I know,” I answered, “I am.” What I’m seeing in these photographs mirrors the very common and totally revealing pieces of what it is that makes up the way I see the world.

A Forgettable Sunday

…that is, if you’re a football fan rooting for the hometown 49ers or the team you’ve followed since they were formed in the late sixties, the Cincinnati Bengals. Six hours, one extra-large, half-baked pepperoni sausage, and mushroom Zachary’s pizza, one bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a homemade salad, the delightful company of my high school friend Gail Stern, and at the end, two losses. The Niners and the Bengals are going home, and in both cases, wondering where and how it all went wrong.

For the Niners it was immediately obvious. They failed to challenge an incorrect call which led to an Eagles touchdown, and their storybook quarterback Brock Purdy’s first fumble, which caused him to leave the game. led to yet another touchdown. The Niners went through four quarterbacks this season, beginning with Trey Lance, who was injured in the first game, Jimmy Garoppolo, injured shortly after, and in the game yesterday, Brock Purdy. A 36 year old journeyman quarterback took his place in an ignominious performance, left with a concussion, and the show was over. Anger, frustration and penalties all played a part in the overwhelming defeat the 49ers suffered at the hands of the number one seeded team. Yes, they made mistakes, but those weren’t what caused the loss.

In Cincinnati’s loss to Kansas City, it was one mistake, one simple, totally avoidable mistake that ended their season.

Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but the severity of a mistake is magnified if it’s made at the worst possible moment. And Ossai’s was. Game tied at 20-20. Injured Mahomes ran out of bounds with eight seconds left on the clock. Though out of bounds Ossai pushed him down, giving KC another 15 yards, enough to give their kicker a good opportunity for a field goal. He made it. Three seconds left. Game over.

Losing is never easy. When John lost his first soccer game he cried. He had played for more than a year with teams that had never lost a game. He was more shocked than disappointed, thinking unconsciously that losing wasn’t even an option. Much later in his soccer journey he was angry that his high school soccer team lost by a score of 10-0. He said, “It wasn’t the score. My teammates gave up.” In eight years he had learned all that he needed about winning and losing.

Vince Lombardi, the late Green Bay Packers coach, is the source of inspirational quotes about winning and losing. I tried to find one that might apply to Donald John Trump, the former President, but nothing applies. In Lombardi’s quotes, winners are defined by the will to win, the effort, energy, and hard work required to succeed, the dedication to the job, determination, perseverance, self-denial, and sacrifice. “The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary,” he said.

None of Lombardi’s quotes deals with a person who denies that he lost. Even when the evidence is irrefutable. Trump lost the popular vote in 2016 and 2020; his favored candidates in 2022 lost; he was impeached twice, yet he has never accepted responsibility or blame for his mistakes, for having failed. “I am your favorite President,” he has said. He believes his face belongs on Mount Rushmore. He has made countless mistakes, the worst of which have cost lives. His latest Asian racist statements will alienate Asian votes as Trump tries to make himself relevant. He will fail. He will lose. He won’t admit it.

Joseph Ossai will learn from his mistake. His teammates have looked to mistakes they made that might have changed the result. The Niners, I have no idea, what they’ll look back on. Their loss wasn’t as much a case of lack of will, perseverance, or other Lombari-ish aphorisms, but circumstances over which they had no control.

And thinking that we’re in control is the biggest mistake of all.

Reminders

We boomers can’t get through a day without being reminded of how old we are. My friend Stephen Dixon posted this today on Facebook.

And images of teens flummoxed by the impenetrable mystery of a rotary telephone.

Given four minutes to make a call on a working telephone they failed.

Some reminders are gentle. Jadyne laughed when a young lady on a crowded BART train offered me her seat. A year or so later the tables turned. When we ask for senior discounts at movie theaters we aren’t ever “carded.” We’re dismayed, but not surprised, when our musical heroes die. The Killer, Jerry Lee Lewis recently passed. Last week it was Jeff Beck. A few days later it was David Crosby.

This list appeared this morning on Facebook.

24 are older than 76, my age. I was born in 1946, as were Linda Ronstadt and Barry Gibb. 16 are younger.

Paul Simon turns 82 in October. His former partner, Art Garfunkel, follows a month later. And of course, Tony Bennett will never die. Nor will the most famous ageless musician, Keith Richards.

Reminders show up in the difficulty we have in cutting toenails, putting on socks, things we forget, (not always a case of dementia), in the choice of putting up gutter guards so we don’t make the possibly fatal mistake of trying to clean our own gutters, the ladders we no longer use, the stairs we take one at a time, the banisters we hold when we go up and down stairs. We listen to NPR, we watch TV shows which advertise medicines for mesothelioma, COPD, high blood pressure, and watches with apps that will call the police if we can’t. We wear jackets in 70 degree weather, hats outside all the time. We leave both of them behind in restaurants. We post little notes on our glasses and phone cases because we know that we’ll leave them behind somewhere.

I would have hated this little girl.

We’re grateful that we don’t have any friends who would have done this, even if it was possible sixty years ago.

I’m a retired professional photographer. This question is from a currently employed photographer. I have no idea what this is all about.

We read books we’ve already read, sometimes without knowing it until we come across the part that we can recite from memory. Before we go on a trip we spend as much time parsing out our medications as we do packing our clothes. Our children can no longer fall asleep in the car when we’re driving. We’re reminded by the DMV that when our driver’s license expires we'll have to take the written test. And we panic, almost memorizing the pages, as we can’t bear the humiliation of our offspring finding out we failed. We read and ignore articles advising us not to drink. We’ve given up watching the Grammies because we don’t know any of the artists, any of their songs, and we can’t even pronounce their names or understand the words, if in fact, there are words in the songs. We think Tick-Tock has something to do with clocks. We’re reminded that New Year’s Eve really ends at 9pm. We’re aware that the actual passing of minutes and hours takes less time than it used to. When we’re asked, “What great thing happened to you today?” we answer truthfully, “I woke up.”

Marilyn and Griffin

Because we live in the East Bay hills we often have spectacular views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. I bookmark a camera view that changes every minute. When the light looks promising I take my camera to one such view two minutes away.

That’s where I took this image.

I often arrive fifteen minutes or so before the image I’m hoping to photograph appears, and more often than not, I return empty-handed. A bank of clouds blocks the sun. All is lost. Not really all, as I love being up there in the late afternoons in winter.

I met a couple there two or three years ago, Marilyn and Griffin. They were out for an evening walk, and we chatted briefly. When I saw them this winter they greeted me. I was pleased that they remembered my name, had visited my website. Marilyn showed me an image that she had taken with her phone from that same place. “That’s lovely,” I said, then offered to make an 8x10 print of it for her. When she picked it up she was pleased and planning to have it framed. I offered to make a 16x20, too. “If you’re going to have it framed, you should have something large enough,” I told her. Here is the original jpeg from her phone. It looks great, framed over her piano, and smaller, in the bedroom.

All with an iPhone

When she picked it up she offered to host Jadyne and me for dinner as a way of thanking me. After bouts of Covid, first us, then her, we managed to all be well last night and had a wonderful dinner with her and Griffin.

I had googled Marilyn and discovered that she had grown up in Cincinnati and had attended Walnut Hills High School. She would have been a senior when I was an eighth grader. An English major, Marilyn received her Ph.D, and taught film studies at Cal until she retired. Griffin is also retired. He, too, is a professor, an anthropologist, but an event happened in 1994 that changed the trajectory of his life.

His fifteen year old son, Kenzo, was visiting a friend who thought the gun was empty.

The boy had removed the clip and didn’t realize that one shell remained in the firing position. Griffin has written a soon-to-be published book titled, “Who Killed Kenzo?”, reminding us that the answer to that question lies far beyond the friend who pulled the trigger.

Griffin’s advocacy to prevent gun violence goes beyond lawsuits against Beretta, the manufacturer of the gun. The New York Times reports the results of the work he’s done himself, and with the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence.

“And lawmakers are listening.

Last week, for the fourth year in a row, the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence — the nation’s leading gun safety advocacy group — ranked California first among all 50 states for “laws that can prevent gun violence.” These include requiring background checks, permits and legislation curtailing illegal gun sales.

California received a score of 80 out of 100 points. Arizona, Alaska and Utah received no points in the rankings.”

Posting Griffin’s website below.

…and here’s a link to an Opinion piece Griffin wrote, published by The Progressive Magazine.

A poll conducted in Britain concluded that among the worst things to come out of America, Trump was first, then Americans’ obsession with guns. Trump will soon be gone, but guns won’t. Only through work by such advocates as Griffin Dix can we hope to achieve the small victories that make America a better place to live.

And to answer the question, “What would you serve to people you don’t know?” Marilyn prepared carrots and guacamole appetizer, delicious rice that we smothered with a lemon and olive chicken dish (I had seconds), Bogle white and red wines, finished with pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Only in Kensington.

There’s a sad P.S. to this story. We had dinner three nights ago. Since then a gunman executed eleven people at a ballroom in Monterey Park before killing himself. A few minutes ago a suspect was arrested following two mass shootings near Half Moon Bay, killing seven people. The PS will then be PSS, then PSSS…

Anna

The Anna's hummingbird is a common sight in California. A male and a female live in our neighborhood, and I change the water in our feeder (4 parts water to 1 part sugar) every week or so. The males and the females are about the same size (.1-.2 oz), but the females are most likely the only ones you'll see in a nest. They can be easily distinguished by color. The males have a rose-pink crown and gorget, or throat, which are strongly iridescent. Females have metallic green plumage on their backs and only a tiny red gorget on their throats.

I've been watching our pair for several days. The female frequents the feeder much more than the male, but in photographs, it's no contest. Since it's been raining for the past couple of weeks getting a good image of the male with the iridescent color has been next to impossible.

The sun came out today. They were both hungry.

Phones

From 103 years ago, titled “When we all have pocket telephones.”

A 103 year old cartoon depicted the world as it might be if telephones were everywhere.

Chester Gould, the artist who created the comic book detective Dick Tracy, envisioned the watch/phone/computer decades ago.

In the mid 1980s I was riding with Terry Lindley, a friend who had a car phone, when I asked to use it to call Jadyne. “Jay,” I said, “I’m calling you from Terry Lindley’s car. He has a phone in it!” Amazing stuff. Now this, quality family time.

At first it was a generation thing—the young text, the older ones read newspapers. Now the Boomers probably use them more than Millennials.

If they’re both listening to music in stereo, then who gets just the drums, who gets the lead???

Without our phones how could we get through the day? What would we do while we’re waiting by ourselves, or in line to buy groceries?

Phones help us escape the annoyances of daily life…

…and calm our busy minds.

Cell phones are merely a step along the way. The future will be made up of portable, connected wearable devices. Earrings that double as phones and sunglasses that allow you to surf the web are in the pipeline. The disruption that this kind of immersion will make into the techno-bubble may be unknown now, but not impossible to predict. Boomers like me, who feel lost without our phones, nevertheless look with some trepidation to the future. Airlines are considering allowing passengers to make calls in flight. Thank-you notes are old school. Text is how we communicate. Even emails are so over.

Such a thing as cell phone etiquette falls by the wayside. Mothers walking with their children, checking texts, people engaged in real life person-to-person conversations pause just to check their phones. Couples waiting for food to be served at restaurants prefer their phones to each other, often send a “really important text” before picking up chopsticks, while their Pho steams away.

A psychiatrist, Jon Goldin, had this to say five years ago about children and cell phones. “I’ve used this analogy before, but if I don’t have a pool in my backyard, no one can drown in it. In the same way, if my son doesn’t have social media, he cannot be bullied, humiliated, and belittled on social media. He can’t be obsessed with likes, comments, etc. He can’t feel less than because everyone else’s highlight reels look so fantastic.”

I don’t envy parents who are facing these issues. When presented with such questions, my father, a technophobe, always asked the same question, “How does it bring people together?” That was his bottom line. And should be ours, too.

And a warning embedded in an email. The teacher asked the students to list a wish. This was from the teacher’s child.

The Atmospheric River(s)

After a promising start to the rainy season last year January started and ended in sunshine. As did February. And March. California has been in an exceptional drought for three years, and the usually reliable Farmers Almanac predicted more of the same this year. Something changed. We’ve just emerged from three weeks of wet weather, brought along on the jet stream, which took dead aim at San Francisco sometime in late December. Today it’s dry.

The weather has caused billions of dollars in damage and caused more than twenty deaths. It has also brought ski resorts enough snow, too much snow. Kirkwood has measured 368” of snow this season, more than thirty feet. Of snow. Enough.

For 330 Rugby, rain and hail.

…and wet newspapers…

that focus on the damage. Below is the creek that runs through our property, then through my neighbor’s, then down through Kensington where it dives beneath the Ace Hardware, never to be seen again

Green waste is picked up every week. We have eleven cans. We fill all eleven with redwood branches.

Reservoirs are filling. The snow pack is deep. The extraordinarily dry year we experienced last year isn’t forgotten, but Californians—at least those who weren’t flooded—are breathing a sigh of relief…and flushing their toilets again.

The Evolution of an Image

Some believe that the image their camera records is an unalterable truth. The camera, though, is only a means to an end, which is the final image, living in the mind of the photographer. It’s the hammer for the carpenter, a tool needed to do the work to finish the job.

The camera is compromised by reality, prevented from telling the truth because first, it reduces a three-dimensional world to two. Second, it arrests motion, freezes time. Third, neither film nor flash cards can capture all that the eye sees. A photograph is an abbreviation, the Cliff Notes of reality, a truncated version of what’s actually out there.

For film photographers the darkroom brings out more of what they want to say. Anyone seeing Ansel Adams’ “Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico,” would be amazed at the transformation between what Adams saw, what his camera recorded, and what he was able to say in the final print. For digital photographers, software mimics the work in the darkroom.

I’ve using a photo that I took almost five years ago to show how I use software to create a “final print.”

We went to a Pow-Wow in Stockton in 2019. This little girl caught my attention. I liked the image straightaway, as she looked right back at me when I pushed the shutter button. Unedited . Auto exposure, auto focus.

Cropped. No other changes applied.

The Adobe app Lightroom has a feature called “masking,” allowing me to select just the girl and make changes in her. I brightened her without changing any other part of the image.

Lightening her face, her eyes and darkening her outfit on her right arm. These changes are subtle and aren’t easily revealed on a computer screen, but they show up in a print.

I began making changes to her face. (The black mark shows just where I began. Masking isolated the background. I darkened it and threw it softly out of focus.

I darkened the bright hand of the person to the girl’s left. Bright areas take your eye away from the subject. I lightened the sclera (the whites of the eyes), added a little vignette to the edges, then put a black frame around it. The frame changes nothing. Lightroom saves all the “rough drafts” of an image. The frame signifies my satisfaction with the image. As software improves so do final images. I often revisit images and see if I can make them just a little better.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*UCK

After four days and fifteen roll call votes, the newly elected members of the House of Representatives have—and not without drama—elected Kevin McCarthy of Bakersfield as the new speaker of the House of Representatives. The Democrats were present and united for all fifteen votes, selecting Hakeem Jeffries as their choice. While the madness that defines the Republican Party was on display, Katie Porter, a Democrat was reading.

During the final vote Republicans only refrained from physical fights because more sane members restrained less sane members.

Dana Milbank, a contributor to the Washington Post had this to say, “This is what happens when a political party, year after year, systematically destroys the norms and institutions of democracy. This is what happens when those expert at tearing things down are put in charge of governing. The dysfunction has been building over years of government shutdowns, debt-default showdowns and other fabricated crises, and now anti-government Republicans used their new majority to bring the House itself to a halt.”

In no way was this a victory for the Republicans, for the House, for Democracy, or for America. The far-rght members of Congress, more than half of whom were election deniers, who represent only about fifteen percent of all Republicans, have forced the rest of the House to bow to their insanity. Who was one of their most vocal members? None other than Lauren Boebert of Colorado, who failed her high school GED three times, was formerly an escort, and who had multiple abortions in Glenwood Springs. These are the people in charge.

The bomber and the liar.

Hakeem Jeffries, the leader of the Democrats, the man who received 212 votes fifteen times, spoke as the minority speaker. He had this to say, quoted by my friend Anna-Marie Booth.

Ironically, when did all this take place? On January 6th, the second anniversary of the insurrection authored by former president donald j trump, who was present last night on Marjorie Greene’s phone, trying to persuade members to vote for McCarthy, none of whom would take his calls or give a f*uck that he was on the phone.