Je t'aime Paris -- My Friday

A photo I took during my most recent visit to Paris.

Yesterday I woke up and the two week long depression was lifted. I felt great. Not sure why it came or how it went but there you go. Things are always happening. Just gotta stick around for it.

Work was good. Had to say fare thee well to a co-worker I was quite fond of. People leave workplaces all the time. Sometimes they’re ones you’re glad to see go and sometimes they’re people you’ll miss and some of those you’ll even stay in contact with, at least for a bit or sporadically. I’m used to it but still hated having to do the hug goodbye and the exchanging of heartfelt thanks and well wishes.

For lunch I ate a sandwich.

Before my afternoon class I checked the news, which is my want to do, and saw the horrible news from Paris, my favorite city. There is for me the twin reactions of shock and so-what-else-is-new. It’s very difficult to go more than a few weeks without some mass slaughter devastating a community or a country or the world. Every time I checked for updates the death toll rose. It started at 10, then 20, then 35 then over 50, then 80 then over 100 then over 125. It was macabre.

We have a lot of French students in the school and in fact my morning class features about six students from France. But my afternoon class has but two and neither live in Paris. Still I had to decide whether to raise the topic with them. This I pondered while they took a vocabulary quiz. I could have consulted with someone else but realized that I have more experience in such matters than any of my colleagues. Ultimately I decided to just let it go, if someone brought it up then I would open the class for discussion. Certainly if I was with the other class I would invited discussion. Also the French dominated group is my upper intermediate class while the one I was with is my upper beginners. A discussion with them would have been far more difficult.

At the break there were somber French students throughout the school many huddled together listening to French newscasts. It was a sobering scene.

The second half of class was typical for a Friday afternoon, which is to say fun and light and breezy and over quickly. My weekend had begun.

The bus I take to the subway station is rare for this area in that it seems there is nearly always one coming, waits are usually no more a few minutes. But on this day the wait was over 12 minutes long. It's entitled to an off day too, I reckoned. The bus had just reached the North Beach area when the driver announced it was the last stop, she could go no further. Buses were not allowed to go past Union Square or near it as the area was closed off due to a shooting. A shooting here too? My first thought was that there were coordinated attacks throughout the Western world. The driver directed us to a stop up the street where an express bus could take us to downtown. When I got to the stop there were people waiting from a previous bus, our bus and another behind us. In other words there were far more people than could fit on the express plus there was no telling how long we’d have to wait. I decided to hoof it.

The walk was not impossibly long but it did take me through Chinatown at around 5:00 on a Friday. Not an ideal time for a stroll. Also, I was not the only one who had set out on foot. At one point the bus I would have gotten on passed me. But within a block or so I passed it. I then proceeded to pass another — and I do not exaggerate here — 30 buses. Some were chock full of passengers and others were empty. The tunnel one passes through en route to downtown was bumper to bumper stalled buses.

A photo I took of the accident scene.

I finally made it near Union Square which was roped off. Police and firemen were everywhere, the vast majority of whom were standing around. I overheard someone say that there’d been an accident. This contradicted the bus driver’s claim so I didn’t know what to believe. I finally got close to the area where I could see the effects of a bus crash including the offending tour bus. A police officer told me that a bus had been going too fast and hit some scaffolding at a construction site. When asked about injuries he said 50 people had been taken to the hospital and that there were deaths.

My reporter’s instincts had gotten the best of me and in addition to surveying the scene as best I could I snapped some photos. After sating my curiosity I made my way to the subway station and the remainder of my trip home.

I continued checking my twitter feed. There were many touching expressions of sympathy for Paris but there were also links to compilations of tweets from American conservatives who displayed incredible callousness in the face of a tragedy. Some blamed France for letting refugees into their country (never mind that the attacks were committed by the very people the refugees were fleeing) others blamed Obama because to the American right winger of today there is nothing he cannot be blamed for, others merely engaged in sabre rattling because the right’s answer to anything is always war. Former speaker of the house, the odious Newt Gingrich even blamed France’s gun control laws. At times it seems that conservatives in this country have no heart, no humanity no compassion no conscience. What a horrible lot they are.

I met the wife in downtown Berkeley, she was holding in her hands a pizza which we went home and laid waste to while enjoying the previous evening’s Late Show With Stephen Colbert. 


It’s now early Saturday afternoon. I’ve got a film and a football game on tap for the rest of the day.  Not bad.

Various Writings are Meshed Into One Post That I Hope You Find Palatable, Numerous Topics Are Explored

From 'Odd Man Out" directed by Carol Reed

There's nothing to compare with the feeling of coming down the escalator to the subway platform and seeing your train waiting and running to it and then for the door to close in your face before you can board. So for want of a few seconds you get to spend 15 minutes in the station. You feel life draining away from your being and a quarter hour of your life is gone. You further realize that it means 15 minutes less time at home.

This happened to me last week but it wasn't the worst part of my day. That came when three co workers, teachers mind you, discussed in depth their astrological signs and what moon or sun or asteroid was rising when they were born. Presumably the people speaking attended a university, though whether they learned anything is an open question. Maybe they also believe in reading tea leaves, tarot cards crystal balls and Ouija boards. I have a theory that anytime someone seriously discusses astrology a scientist somewhere sheds a tear.

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I abet the knowing the lost people of my ever widening death defying land grab those who calculated their sin in dollars and wiped out a generation of innocents. My sins expand in my wake and I look to the circular logic of the irrational liar who stalks your night. Leaving be the moments of clarity to shudder at the driving force behind ending all nasty covert clandestine capers. The lot of your life and the crying careening whispers from an almighty force. That is the heaven you deserve my pickled friend. On to yesterday and all the potential it suggests with hope for a better last month. On to other days and better ways and Shakespeare plays. MacBeth Ado About a Tempest Henry the Richard the Titus and Juliet of Venice the Shrew Lear Dream.

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I gamboled around the classroom a bubbling cauldron of energy weaving a lesson and dazzling students. I was a dervish of fun and a font of knowledge and ever understanding and giving. I was amazing. Students were delighted and excited and it was a beautiful demonstration of teaching. I smiled broadly and joked and poked and explained patiently. Wow wow wow. Who would have known that I was depressed? When class ended and the adrenaline had worn off I was back to the blackness and despair. The wrenching mental pain through which I looked at a world without hope. The automatic pilot was off.

Sunday I ran seven miles in 55 minutes and ten seconds. Not my best but not bad. I felt fantastic and could have run another two or three miles but had a basketball game to go to. I sat with a friend at the game and chatted and shared and cheered and marveled at young athletes. Then I went home and the pain washed over me and I slumped — mentally and emotionally and spiritually — so I watched a movie. It was a film I’d never seen before and it was fantastic (Odd Man Out (1947) directed by Carol Reed). I'd like to write about the film, to convey my feelings to share the experience of having watched it. Oh to encourage you dear reader to see it and then find out you enjoyed it. But I seldom write about films anymore. And. I don't. Know. Why. Lost the feel for it, I suppose.

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I just read A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. Probably the third time. It get's better each. I love the film of the same name directed by Stanley Kubrick (1971). There is a sort of celebration of violence we participate in by enjoying the book and the movie but then we feel a shade of guilt for that enjoyment. That's one of the many levels upon which Burgess and Kubrick are so successful in their renderings. What I also love about both book and film is that the stories were clearly articulated by artists who reveled in what they were doing. The spirit and fun in the creativity of weaving this story are apparent. There can be a sort of joylessness in some stories that is strange, yet evident. When art feels like it was a chore to produce rather than an orgasmic expression of vision, well it suffers quite a bit doesn't it? (Note rhetorical question.)

Now I'm reading Notre Dame of Paris by Victor Hugo upon which the Hunchback of Notre Dame iterations are based. I'm given to understand that the book differs significantly in tone and events from the film versions, particularly the animated Disney version. I recently watched the 1939 film starring Maureen O"Hara (as it happened, a couple of days before she died), Edmond O"Brien, Thomas Mitchell and of course Charles Laughton. It inspired me to finally read the book. The film itself is perfectly okay I hope the book is even better.

Today is Veteran's Day, or as it was formally known, Armistice Day. It originally commemorated  the end of World War I (previously known as The Great War) which ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. The peace was actually signed well before then but the warring parties agreed to continue fighting until 11:00 local time for symmetry's sake. Thus many thousands died even more needlessly than millions before in what was one of the most ridiculously unnecessary wars  in human history. Indeed many officers, despite knowing that the war was over, ordered and led one last attack in an effort to make a name for themselves and to enjoy one last taste of battle. Many soldiers paid for this lunacy and arrogance with their lives or by leaving various body parts in battlefields.

Anyway, happy(?) Veteran's Day. Thanksgiving is nigh.

Commuter Hooter Tooter Rooter Scooter

Still don't know what I was waitin' for
And my time was runnin' wild
A million dead end streets and
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse of
How the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test"
-- From Changes by David Bowie

Ancient Japanese man talking animatedly to himself to my right. Then two young German couples sit either side of me with the females perched on the males’ laps. They are loud. I am on a San Francisco bus. A giant duck boards the bus and proceeds to lecture us on calendar reform. Jesus Christ appears in the middle of the bus and shouts at a teenager about smacking his gum. The bus hits a pothole and we fly upwards orbiting the Earth and nearly colliding with a space station. I get an angry email complaining about my alleged overuse of adverbs. I smirk — no — I happily smirk and throw the letter in the waste basket. I should have recycled it.

Back on the bus. I recoil at the sight of Theodore Roosevelt vomiting out a window. He is cheered by Richard Nixon and Joseph McCarthy. The latter boards the bus and claims to be holding a list containing the names of 23 communist bus drivers. He is heckled. The bus stops an extra minute in Chinatown so passengers can observe the 7th inning of 1953 World Series game. The space time continuum needs servicing -- "clearly" needs servicing if you like your adverbs.

I levitate while teaching my ESL class. Students don’t notice. (It seems the bus ride was yesterday and I am currently teaching class. Whatever.) Tempest in the hallway as broiling carousing rapturous minions of beauty twirl towards calypso. A ballet dancer gives me a five dollar bill.

There is a grinding numbing quality to commuting five days a week. It hardens you to life in surprising ways. It is a world of regimentation and unwritten rules and social norms that are rarely violated. Tempers are always one small incident from flaring but it takes an extraordinary event to spark anger. Many people are sullen, it is hard to be cheerful when you are edging your way here, waiting there and standing here and shoving there and smelling this and hearing that and touching those and processing a work day and anticipating home and hearth. And of course maybe the domestic pleasures do not await. There may be more unwanted necessary tasks ahead. Obligations, duties, responsibilities. You shuffle grimly. Your eyes are steely or droopy or closed and your body is tired from all the little steps. You remember to be polite.

Your commute is chock full of people. Tall, fat, skinny, ugly, beautiful, young, old, crazy, boringly normal, nattily attired, in veritable rags. Some are rude and thoughtless others are kind and friendly. Most are just there, just being, just filling up those spaces on buses and subway cars and platforms and escalators and sidewalks. Some walk in front of you too slowly, some brush hurriedly past you. Many get too close, but usually out of necessity. Conversations are generally reserved for acquaintances. Only rarely will strangers chat. Few people have the energy to make small talk. Some people impose conversations on others. They are outliers and usually fail to get satisfactory responses. There are wisecracks when things go amiss; the sarcastic are particularly welcome in such situations. Gallows humor reigns during particularly nasty commutes, as does the potential for commuter rage (a far milder condition than its nasty cousin, road rage).

Those commuting home take solace in the fact that their work day is over. Friday commutes are carnivals compared to Monday’s. People are joyously anticipating their weekend. Even Thursday commutes feel lighter. Monday and Tuesday commutes maintain a stoicism. Of course the morning commute is a different animal entirely. Folks are fresh or sleepy or even a bit of both plus the commute times are spread out a little more. There are generally less hiccups in the various systems in the morning and commuters are not weighed down by just having labored for eight hours.

Some commutes feel like the Bataan Death March. Connections are missed, there are delays, something smells awful, there are obnoxious high schoolers, it is too hot or is raining, police action, mechanical problems, health emergency, war declared.

The smooth and easy and incident-free commutes are quickly forgotten. They are like referees who don’t make any egregious calls. Expected, accepted, unrecognized.

This morning I had a 25 minute wait for a trolley that never came. Obstruction on the track. I had to catch a cab. This evening I breezed home without a care. So it goes.

I love my job. I hate my commute. The latter is not strong enough to ruin my days but it is a powerful force to be reckoned with that exacts its toll on me. I survive it principally because I am an avid reader and the hour and a quarter (two and half hours total, if math is not your thing) affords me ample reading time. Were it not for that, if I was someone who could not read on the bus or subway, I should imagine that I’d have gone starkers by now. But I am quite sane…no, that’s not right. I am less the lunatic than I could be. Still a strange case for psychologists to study but not yet a candidate for a straight jacket. I’m a tough nut.

Speaking of madness…That classroom scene finally resolved itself and I stopped levitating which finally drew comments from students. Not wanting to break the mood I performed gall bladder surgery on myself. The scalpel was handed to me by a Rastafarian Ulysses Grant.

Nude never noxious nouveau normative nomenclature nocturnal nonsensical notary nursing newfound naturalistic nebbish nectarine nacho Nicholas Nickleby napping.

Remembering A Long Ago False Accusation Inspires a Writing About My Favorite Topic -- Women

This is Gretchen (I'm totally kidding it's Jayne Mansfield).

I did not intentionally touch Gretchen’s breast at that party in 1975. The whole idea is ridiculous. Gretchen was not a girlfriend nor anyone I had a crush on. She was among the circle of friends I hung out with at the time. She was not unattractive but for whatever reason I wasn't "interested" in her. I remember clearly that it was a Saturday night and my roomies and I were having one of our parties complete with a keg of beer (when the keg ran out we would send someone on a beer run for cases of suds). I was standing just outside my front door — probably positioned near the aforesaid keg — among fellow partiers. At this point in the narrative I was telling a story or animatedly expressing an opinion or weaving some implausible yarn, as I was want to do then. Whatever I was saying required some gesticulating, during the course of which my right index finger came in contact with one of  Gretchen’s breasts. It was really just a grazing of the breast, no full contact at all and nothing that either party would find arousing in the best of circumstances. Pure accident.

Well damned if Gretchen didn’t express outrage at this supposed violation of her person. I professed innocence and apologized for the accidental touch. She did not except and insisted that the action was purposeful. Well I never. Why, I argued vehemently, would I publicly touch her breast (fully covered, mind you) and so lightly? Men love touching the female breast, but generally speaking we much prefer touching skin and we get nothing out of a veritable flick. To touch a clothed breast in full view of others would require a person to be good and drunk, a state which I had not yet attained that evening.

Never accepting my innocence, Gretchen went off and mingled with others. I avoided her the rest of the evening — as she did me — and indeed we never much talked thereafter, if at all. Gretchen’s circle spun out of my orbit within a few months anyway and I never saw her again. I wonder if she still thinks I touched her breast intentionally, if so she’s still way off base.

Speaking of breasts…Men are pretty naive in a lot of ways, some men more than others and some men about this thing and other men about that thing and other men about those things. We have some serious gaps in our knowledge about women. I grew up without a sister and with a mother who was mentally ill. I also grew up in an era in which boys and girls did not fraternize socially so much unless it was out and out dating. Sure we were friendly with classmates of the opposite sex, but not friends. I was classmates with Judy (last name redacted in case she wants no part of this discussion) from kindergarten through senior year of high school. She was the only human to hold that distinction (or to suffer that fate). Judy was as nice a person as ever walked the earth and we enjoyed many a chat, but friends? No. (I think it was in the second grade that our teacher had Judy give me lessons on how to properly erase as my erasing was pretty weak at that point of my life. She dutifully did and lightly criticized my efforts. I eventually became obsessive about erasing and refused to continue writing until every less hint of an unwanted pencil mark was gone. Today I am similarly compulsive about erasing white boards in my classroom and if the previous teacher to use that room has left so much as a quarter inch of a mark I am flung into paroxysms and scrub the board like it was a dinner plate. But I digress….)

I had three female cousins who I was close to as a lad, the oldest of whom has always been like the big sister I never had. Her name is Helen and she was my early model for what a woman should be like and to this day I think she is an exemplary example of her gender. Anyway my close relationships with these cousins was great but not close enough for me to fully understand what the deal was with women. Like many young boys I used to believe that girls didn’t use the toilet. Boys are frickin’ idiots.

I’m embarrassed to say how old I was before it was confirmed for me (of course by a woman) that yes, women are well aware of how much cleavage they are displaying. (I told you we were getting back to breasts.) I’ve also been given to understand that a woman does indeed know if the skirt she is wearing is quite short. In other words women are self aware in ways that I didn’t understand as a young (younger) man. They further know the effect their appearance and behavior have on men, well maybe not always, but often enough.

I am unabashed in my love of women which is why I married one and sired two. Many women would be surprised to learn the extent to which a lot of men — and I refer here to straight men many of whom are in relationships including marriage — don’t like women. You can hear it in conversations with them and you learn about it from women. I’m not a student of either psychology or sociology so am unqualified to examine why so many men don't like women, perhaps mommy issues figure in, maybe daddy issues, maybe growing up in a macho environment, maybe its an untamed animal instinct, maybe these men often feel “threatened” by women but there are a lot of men who don’t like and don’t trust women as a whole and have deep seated hatred for even those women they purport to love. And I do not merely refer to those who strike or verbally abuse women. Obviously many of these men can be found in patriarchal religious sects or in politically right wing groups and of course both. Sadly there are even women who denigrate other women. Just check out Fox News some time, if your stomach can stand it.

Women are still in many ways a mystery to me and I actually think that’s how it should be. To any intelligent woman a man is an easy read. We are simple creatures with our brains in our penises. We like food, sex, various forms of entertainment and to occasionally be flattered. I don’t know how women put up with us but thankfully they do.

Anyway this all started because I was remembering the time Gretchen falsely accused me of touching her breast on purpose. Damn it, I’ve written all this and am still ticked off at her. Give me another forty years and maybe I’ll get over it.

The Wonderful, Terrible History of Cal Football Featuring 62 Years of Futility

I originally posted this on the California Golden Blogs website a few months ago.

The history of intercollegiate football at the University of California is replete with the pomp, pageantry and tradition that exemplifies college football in the United States. Cal has a particularly rich football past with many heroes and glorious football teams. But the hard truth is that, in general terms, the Golden Bears have, for over 50 years, pretty much sucked at football. True fans love them no less for this and hope springs eternal.

I am second to no one in my love of Cal football. I love the stadium, the band, the cannon, the fight songs, the card stunts, the colors and of course, Oski. I love the university and all it stands for. I am proud to bleed blue and gold.

I've been attending Cal football games since before I can remember. The first game I can recall going to was, of all things, a 22-22 tie with Duke in 1963. My love affair with Golden Bear football began when I was a mere lad during a time (one of many) when the Golden Bears were doing quite poorly on the football field. But I was hooked. It wasn't just football or college football it was Cal football that intoxicated me. Memorial Stadium was my favorite place in the world. If I went to a game and Cal lost I was forgiving and looked forward to better days ahead. I was happy just to have been there. If they won I was delirious with joy and anticipated more glory to come. In later years I took the losses a bit harder but I've learned — after far too much practice — to take defeats in stride and move on with my life. The wins I savor more and more with each passing year. I've come to realize how precious each is.

In the last half century Cal has boasted some excellent teams and great players and played in some legendary games including one that is generally acknowledged to be the greatest college football game of all time (the 1982 Big Game). In recent years Cal has featured such future NFL stars as Aaron Rogers, DeSean Jackson, Marshawn Lynch and Shane Vereen, to name but a few. But the truth of the matter is that in terms of the college football universe Cal football has been — for quite sometime now — pathetic. I do not here refer to the last few years or the last 20. The Bears have been bad for over six decades. Cal has had more than its fair share of crummy seasons and way way less than its share of great seasons.

But it didn't used to be this way. Not at all. (In discussing Cal football history I am beginning in 1915 when Cal made the permanent move back from rugby to American football.) From 1915 through 1938 The University of California was one of college football's powerhouses. In those 24 years there were 20 Bear teams that had winning records and only two with losing records, while two others finished at .500. Among those teams were Andy Smith's Wonder Teams which included five consecutive unbeaten seasons (1920-1924). Over those five years the Sturdy Golden Ones outscored their opponents 1,564 - 139.

Cal stumbled a bit in the aftermath of Smith's death following the 1925 season, but their 7-1-1 team of 1929 went to the Rose Bowl. Later under Coach Leonard "Stub" Allison the Bears hit dizzying heights again. In his first four seasons (1935-1938) the Bears were 35-7-1 featuring a 1937 squad that earned a 13-0 Rose Bowl victory over Alabama and a claim to the then mythical national championship.

The Bears did not suffer a prolonged spell of sub par seasons in football until World War II. From 1939-1946 Cal had no winning seasons and managed only one at .500. Allison's early magic wore off and his 10-year tenure was done at Cal after the 1944 campaign.* There were then three head coaches in three years but the last of the trio was Lynn Pappy Waldorf, under whom the Bears instantly returned to glory. In his first four seasons (1947-1950) Cal went 38-4-1** and appeared in three Rose Bowls where three of those losses occurred, in each case ruining unbeaten seasons.

After the last of those Rose Bowls the Bears had two more winning seasons under Waldorf, going 8-2 in 1951 and 7-3 in 1952. It is since that 1952 season that Cal football has been in college football's doldrums — at least where wins, losses and conference titles are concerned. In the next 15 years Cal had ten losing seasons, four .500 seasons and only one winning year, albeit the last Cal Rose Bowl team (1958). That last Cal squad to win an outright conference crown was preceded by three teams that won a combined six games and was followed by four teams that managed six victories between them. The 1958 squad was a true outlier in a particularly bleak period of Cal football.

From 1953 through last season Cal has had only 22 winning seasons with 32 losing seasons and seven at .500. On top of that, since 1937 Cal has managed a combined total of zero unbeaten seasons. Also, since 1952 Cal has accumulated a grand total of zero seasons with just one loss. Since that time the Bears have had only two teams go through a season with as few as two losses. One of those was the 1991 squad which suffered a regular season ending 17 point upset loss to the ‘Furd in the Big Game and the other was the 2004 team which ended its season the victims of stunning 14 point Holiday Bowl upset to Texas Tech. Thus Cal's two best teams of the last 60 years each were dealt a convincing upset beating at or near the end of their campaign.

The Bears have managed a share of the conference crown twice (1975 and 2006) but both those teams missed out on the Rose Bowl as a consequence of losses to the team with whom they shared the title.

Do you have any idea how many college teams have gone unbeaten since Cal last did? Do you have any idea how many college football teams have gone through a season with just one loss since the last time Cal did? I don't know either but anyone who has even a cursory knowledge of college football can tell you that there have been a lot. A helluva lot. Many of those teams are Cal's arch rivals (‘Furd, U$C and UCLA). Misery loves company and the best the Bears can do for company is the likes of Washington State. But even they have gone to the Rose Bowl twice in the last 16 years.

Speaking of Cal's rivals, if you are really a masochist check out the Bears' records against these three schools over the past 60 years. I didn't have the heart to do it because I know just anecdotally it is very bad versus each one. These woeful records include long losing streaks against all of them (From 1972 through 1989 against UCLA, 1959-1969 and 2004 to present against U$C and against the ‘Furd 1961-1966, 1996-2001 and from 2010 to date. The best winning streaks against each of the three has been five vs. UCLA, 1990-1994, five vs. ‘Furd, 2002-2006 and three vs. U$C, 1998-2000.) Here's how bad it is, Cal has not beaten all three in the same season since 1958, the school's last Rose Bowl year. Indeed the Golden Bears have only ever beaten all three in the same season in Rose Bowl years and in 1941 (which is a story for a different time).

Besides their three California based rivals, the Bears have a very long standing rivalry against the University of Washington and I guess it wouldn't surprise you to know that our record against them has been abysmal in the past 60 years and also includes a horrific losing streak (1977-2001) and one ongoing one that began in 2009. We've managed a five game winning streak against them from 2002-2006.

My intention here has not been to send anyone spiraling into depression nor make anyone ashamed of Cal football. (On the contrary I think Bear fans should be very proud of their team.) But I always think it's best to face the truth. I taught U.S. History for over 20 years and I believed it my responsibility to relate to students the horrors of slavery and the sufferings of so many Native American tribes. I did not sugar coat or embellish, I merely tried to present the facts as objectively as possible. Here to in presenting this most abbreviated version of Cal football history I have endeavored to relate facts. I have been a student of Cal football history all my life so I knew what was coming in starting my research, but even I was struck by the dimensions of Cal's football futility.

The beauty of this recitation of horrors is how wonderful we'll all feel when this turns around, as I believe it will beginning this very season. I predict that 60 years in the future someone will be writing about the glorious records of Cal football over the preceding six decades, with statistics revealing their dominance in the conference in general and over their arch rivals in particular.

The question of why Cal has failed to scale the heights this past half century plus requires a detailed answer which I've neither the time nor expertise to explore. I do know that teams in sports of all types at all levels, professional and amateur sometimes develop a winning or a losing culture and either is hard to break. When a game is on the line teams can sometimes expect to win or expect to lose as the case may be. (This goes for individual athletes as well.) It can also happen when two teams face one another. There have been far too many times in Big Game history when a close game did not go Cal's way. Meanwhile it was only in only in the early Tedford years that one felt certain that Cal would be the team that came through in the end, this feeling was epitomized by the 2009 Big Game.

Cal has certainly had bad luck with coaches and coaching hires. Pete Elliott left one season after leading the Bears to the Rose Bowl. His successor, Marv Levy went on to be a successful NFL head coach but had four horrible seasons at Cal (1960-1963). Mike White was running a fairly successful program (1972-1977) before running afoul of Athletic Director Dave Maggard and NCAA regulations. The hiring of former star player Joe Kapp (1982-1986) proved a big mistake. Bruce Snyder (1987-1991) had Cal in successive bowl games but the then AD Bob Bockrath drove him out as part of his torching of Cal athletics. The Bears hired Keith Gilbertson (1992-1995) to replace him and his tenure was short lived. Available at the same time as Gilbertson was Steve Mariucci. After Gilbertson was sacked Mariucci was brought in but left after one season (1996) to take the 49ers head job (things would have almost certainly been much different in Cal football if Mariucci had been hired in '92 instead). In the wake of Mariucci's sudden departure came the epically bad hiring of Tom Holmoe who is the only man to coach Cal for more than four seasons (1997-2001) without posting one winning record. So the whole business of hiring and keeping head coaches has played a major role in the Bears' recent woes.

Of all the fan bases I've been associated with Cal football's is the best. We are knowledgable, passionate, and (relative to other fans) patient. The years of suffering have hardened us to defeat but not accepting of it. When glory comes we will savor it. And it will come. Sonny Dykes and company are about to break this current cycle. It has taken two difficult years but the Bears are on the verge of a major breakthrough that will bring a new era of Cal football. Not one of futility but one of glory. By Oski I know it.

*After Allison's fantastic start at Cal he never again had a winning season and only managed .500 once in his last six seasons at the helm.

**Like Allison, Waldorf roared in like a lion — or Bear — and went out like a lamb. After six straight winning seasons he had consecutive .500 teams and consecutive losing seasons. As most fans of today are no doubt aware Jeff Tedford also came on like gangbusters. With a 43-20 record in his first five seasons going to bowl games in all of those seasons save his first when Cal was on probation. In his last six years Tedford teams went 39-37 and missed going to a bowl game twice. The only Cal head coach who served for ten or more years who didn't fit the fast start slow finish trend was Andy Smith who built up for a few seasons before his Wonder Teams. But even he ended his career by slipping to 6-3. Of course he died after that and we'll never know if he would have righted the ship or continued to slide. I think most students of Smith and college football would assume the former would have happened.

Not Exactly a Sentimental Journey -- Another Commute Story, Short and Sweet, Er...Sour

I'm one of those poor saps standing at the back of a long line in a urine scented subway station waiting for my train and its god awful hot in the station which emphasizes the smell as if that's necessary. And my back aches and I had a long work day and it's only Monday and I'm living the life I'd so long been happy not to. A schmuck grinding from day to day with the shoves and the pushes and the waits and the delays and the frustrations and the wrenching feeling that there is so much better out there and so why am I racing rats? How long before I can begin the phase of my life in which I spend my days sitting in cafes and walking on beaches and going everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Question mark.

On the train at long blessed last and with a seat and can start to feel human though barely, then the train stops at a station and doesn’t leave. Stop thanking me for my patience of which I have none and after forever the train finally moves again.

Out of the station assaulted by cigarette smoke and obnoxious teens and aggressive panhandlers and more urine odors while my ears are assaulted by car horns and sirens and profanity and loud music blasting out of cars and where is that beach and where is that comfort of just being and not having to react and be on guard and disgusted.

And now I stand in another interminable line in a grocery store after dodging fellow shoppers in clogged narrow aisles. And the person behind me jostles my backpack and her and her partner joke about it and offer a weak apology, they laugh some more and make idiotic comments that they pretend are funny and I want to shoot them in their flapping mouths. They have matching dyed hair and nose rings and clothes bought in a thrift store designed not to match and they keep laughing at each others stupid comments and the line is taking forever because of a faulty register and finally I’m out and on my way home and the last part of my journey is pleasant enough except for how goddamned tired I am and desperate just to sit in a chair and recline.

Which is what I do. Blessed Mary and I’m not even Catholic far from it. But I am home.

A Few Observations About People and Films From the Past Three Days

Friday while sitting outside the library I saw an old man wearing a shirt with two breast pockets. In each one he had four pens. In one pocket there was a notebook and clipped to it was a pen. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s nine pens. I always carry a pen with me but should it ever run out of ink I’d be without a writing implement. This chap has no such worries, not by a long shot. For that matter he could lend someone in need a pen and still be knee deep in ball points.

He was met by a young African American man who was on a bike. They decided on a direction to go and were off. I then heard an older woman on a cell phone. She was complaining to someone about a friend being unable to go to the theater with her because the friend’s husband didn’t want her to be in San Francisco after dark. The woman on the phone expressed her incredulity pointing out that the theater was only a block from the subway station and she had made the trip to the theater at night numerous times without a hint of trouble. I couldn’t help but feel for the poor lady, even though she was having a loud cell phone conversation in a public place.

Then a woman walked by wearing those ridiculous spiked heels platform shoes or maybe platform shoes with spiked heels. In any case she was a woman of average height whose footwear made her appear seven feet tall. The shoes had to be terribly uncomfortable, hard to walk on and bad for her feet. What some people do to themselves….Now bicycle helmets are a good idea, I suppose, but jesus they look ridiculous. Marilyn Monroe would look like a dweeb wearing one. It is the least flattering headgear known to man or woman. When I was a kid riding bikes none of us wore the damn things — largely because they hadn’t been invented, I reckon — but we had the good sense not to fall on our heads. Knees we would scrape but we pretty much limited physical injury to that. If there’s anything less flattering than a bike helmet I don’t want to see it.

These sightings took place while eating a sandwich before going to a movie. Unlike many people I do not bring a full course meal with me into the cinema nor do I spend a month’s wages on artery clogging movie food. There are few things worse than sitting near someone loudly smacking on pop corn or being in the vicinity of a person who has brought a grocery bag full of vittles that they have to tear through and into. Why people find it impossible to go two hours without eating is beyond me nor why they can’t schedule a meal before or after a film.

The film I saw was The Experimenter and like most movies I’ve seen in theaters lately it was good. I’m careful about what I see and it is rare indeed for me to select a movie I end up not liking. That said it is also rare for me to see a movie anywhere near as good as what I have in my DVD collection. It’s hard to find a great new film but I keep trying. The Experimenter is indeed about a chap (Peter Sarsgaard) who conducts experiments. His are on human behavior and some, are famous, one in particular. My long time crush Winona Ryder played his wife. The film is based on the life of Stanley Milgram. It was a noble effort and had a nice style and gave me something to think about and as I said I liked it but that's is far as it goes and as much as I feel like writing about it.

Went to a grandnephew’s second birthday party yesterday. Lot of family there and I love each and everyone of them. I had the usual good time with them. But of course there were a lot of people there who I didn’t know or only know from seeing them at such occasions. I am disinclined to make small take with strangers. I’m happy to talk to friends, family, co-workers and former students and even acquaintances but I’m painfully shy around unfamiliar people. I realize that a lasting friendship might be formed or that I may learn something or impart some wisdom or share a laugh but it all feels such a struggle. I admire the ability that many people — like my lovely wife — have of sitting down and chatting with a stranger and quite enjoying it. I’m always afraid I’ll seem stupid or the person will prattle on and bore me to death. Nice meeting you indeed.

After the gathering the missus and I went grocery shopping then came home and watched a movie. This was another recent release just out on DVD that Netflix was kind enough to send. It's called Ex Machina. It was fine. I like the idea that a movie can explore artificial intelligence in a reasonable manner without wars between man and machine. But my goodness it tried way too hard. It was a film that was totally self conscious with references to the Bible, Greek Mythology, Robert Oppenheimer, Wittgenstein, Greek theater, Stanley Kubrick, Plato and Bluebeard. Talk about going overboard. Filmmakers should not try to seem clever they should just be clever. Don't try to make the audience think, allow them to think. Trust us.

Today I went to the gym and ran eight miles on the treadmill. Some people get on the treadmills and watch TV. There were a pair of gents walking very very slowly while watching and discussing an NFL game. I don’t get it. Afterwards I went to the sauna but someone was hanging wet clothes in it. As a person of Finnish heritage I find this insulting. I went to the steam room and someone was doing push ups. I thought that’s what the rest of the gym was for. I guess there’s a lot I don’t know.

Despite what you may have read in the preceding paragraphs I am fan of many many members of the human race. I suppose it can be said that I’m a bit of curmudgeon. A lot of things that people do baffle and annoy and irritate me. But not very much. I just like to point it out. Not sure why. Just do.

Autumn Evening 1969

There’s something utterly perfect about dusk on a cool autumn day. When the wind is soft and leaves are crinkling underfoot.

Before darkness envelops, there is time for one more pass. I have to go long, of course. The ball spirals above as I race to catch it before it hits the ground. My arms are outstretched and the ball smacks against them, bounces up, hits my chest and then cradles into my arms. I caress the ball while finishing my run as if crossing into the end zone. I pretend that the stadium is roaring in excitement in celebration of my touchdown. I hold the ball aloft.

Street lights are coming on. Houses are glowing and warm inside. Children race indoors. Mothers get out of cars and carry groceries to the front door while fumbling for keys. Fathers are met at other doors by happy children already shouting news about their day.

Winded from my last catch and, I shuffle over to my friend, Mark, who holds out my sweatshirt. The wind is picking up a little and as darkness takes over the temperature seems to have dropped ten degrees. Mark and I have been pals since first grade. We know each others dreams and personal preferences and parents and siblings and teachers and birthdays and quirky habits and goals. We have had crushes on some of the same girls. But never competed for one.

Smoke curls out of some chimneys. Everyone seems to be cooking. Dark houses look cold and empty and sad. There aren’t many. Rakes and piles of leaves are left on many front yards. TVs flicker. Windows are being closed.

We head home. Mark lives across the street from me. We talk about the weekend, about homework and of course about girls. Tanya is always a topic of discussion. We’ve known her since junior high. She’s well out of our league and no one knows that better than Tanya herself. She will sometimes flirt with guys like us in an almost cruel, teasing sort of way. But it is still irresistible. We discuss the shortness of the skirt Tanya was wearing today. Meanwhile we toss the football back and forth, even though we are just a few feet apart.

Through lighted windows with curtains open, one can see children scribbling in coloring books or yawning over math homework or glued to cartoons. Men are reading the evening paper and shouting news and questions to women in kitchens. Tables are being set. In some houses music is playing on a radio or record player. And in some houses men cook and in some couples are together in kitchens and in some cocktails are being mixed and in some food is already being served. More lights are going on.

A stray dog approaches and we regard it warily. It stops and sniffs in our direction then hurries along. There is a rustling in some bushes and we speculate whether it is a mouse. A police car speeds past with its siren blaring. We stop to watch it fade in the distance and then discuss what time we'll leave for the football game Saturday. A school chum speeds by on a bike and offers a salty salutation. His name is Schuyler and he’s always been a precocious cusser. We are neither of us averse to employing profanity, but aren’t yet comfortable with it proliferating our speech.

Cars drive anxiously as if  desperate to be somewhere else. There is a desperation to finally be at home or the store or whatever assignation one is heading to. This is not the hour for leisurely drives. But people drive carefully too. There is an urgency to safety as night takes over the city.

We are still a few blocks from home and I feel a longing to be in the house. Though several years into my teens there is still the child in me, one who is afraid of being out after dark on a weeknight when it is getting cold and others are at home. I felt left out not being in my house. Were I not with Mark I’d run home, but there is comfort to be taken in being with an old friend -- anyway I wouldn’t want to betray my fear. Stopping for a red light we speculate about what our mothers are preparing for dinner. Hunger is starting to gnaw at our bellies.

Many families are watching the national news broadcasts on their TVs. There are images of war from far away -- Americans are dying. There are images too from this country where many are protesting that war. Some watch the news in silence. Others comment or discuss or argue with the voices on TV. The president is shown, he looks particularly grim. There are commercials and many sing or hum along with jingles.

Mark reaches his house first. He flips the football to me one last time and we part. There are no cars coming so I dash across the street then walk the last few yards to my front door. Before I can produce my house key I am surprised by my brother opening the door. He has made a surprise visit from college. My dad asks gruffly why I’m so late but he clearly isn’t upset with me, there's affection in his voice as he calls me "sonny boy." My mom says “hidee ho.” I sat down on my favorite spot on the sofa. I finally drop the football.

Can You Believe This, I Finally Watched The Wire

I have gotten a lot of emails, texts, letters and telegrams of thanksgiving recently because of the paucity of posts on this blog. Readers from far and wide have expressed their gratitude that they've been forced to suffer less of the tedium associated with reading the nonsense I post here in cyberspace. I just want to send out a blanket "you're welcome!" to everyone. I'd also liked to let everyone know who deserves credit for keeping me from putting pen to paper, or more precisely finger to keyboard. All glory goes to The Wire (2002-2008) a  TV show that I have watched compulsively for almost two months. I was averaging watching an episode a day until this past week when I went -- you should excuse the expression -- buck ass wild, culminating with viewing the final three episodes today. In answer to your query: yes, I liked it. Hell, I loved it and rank it with The Sopranos and Breaking Bad as the best TV dramas I've ever watched.

I know your next question too: What took me? The show ended its run seven and half years ago. It's not like there was no one suggesting the show to me. Many people whose opinions I respect insisted I give it a whirl. And in fact I was reasonably sure that I would like it. But one has only so much time. I was late to the party with Breaking Bad and didn't start Orange is the New Black until its second season (I'm right on top of Fargo, folks, watched it from the beginning). I've got other things to do, you know. Specifically there are a lot of movies that I need to watch or re-watch and oh yeah work and family, blah, blah, blah. I was finally inspired to take the plunge with The Wire when the missus and I watched the six-part mini-series Show Me a Hero which aired on HBO last August. I thought the show was fantastic and wondered what else creator David Simon had done. When I found that he was the man behind The Wire I was in.

Nothing on TV has ever made me more intrigued by police work as The Wire. Nothing has seemed to more accurately portray the life of modern day inner city gangsters. Nothing has ever shown with more realism the travails of working in an inner city middle school. Nothing has ever depicted the realities of the politics. Nothing has ever made me regret more my idiotic decision to leave newspaper reporting. And very few shows are as well written and have such compelling yet realistic and well defined characters.

There was roughly 60 hours of The Wire and there was barely a few seconds worth that rang at all false where the story went even slightly in an unnatural or overly convenient direction. The show seemed damn near a documentary. If you've seen The Wire you don't need me to recite some of the more compelling characters. But I will anyway. Dominic West as James McNulty was as close to a main character as the show had. He was neither hero nor anti-hero. He was a brilliant cop whose methods put him at odds at one time or another with virtually anyone he worked under or with -- and himself. In the hands of lesser writers the tortures he suffered from inner demons would have fell into melodrama, but The Wire did not create cardboard cutout characters who had cliched experiences. Characters were allowed to breath and feel their way through the story and meet whatever fates were natural to their lives.

Cops seemed like real cops. Gangsters were not just bad guys they were people living the lives they chose and often honoring a particular code but always within the harsh realities of potential death or imprisonment. But yes, what they did was often bad, even awful. Teachers, students, administrators and situations at the middle school (a bit like the one I taught in and exactly like many of the ones I subbed in) were so natural and real that I practically suffered PTSD watching the episodes in which they were featured. I could not believe that the vice principal and the principal were actors and not actual administrators. The students must have been re-enacting their own lives to be so true to that reality. So many of the students reminded me of ones or types I had as students that it was downright eerie.

The politics, with all its sleaze and deal making and all its affect and manipulation made me despair even more than I already do that much of anything can come from our elected bodies except by accident. The politics, of course, reached right into the police department where cops seemed more pawns than anything else. No one was spared. Sure the gangsters were selling narcotics and killing one another at an alarming rate, but the police could be vicious, duplicitous and cruel. The politicians all seemed to be primarily concerned with furthering their own careers or lining their pockets at whatever the moral cost. And at the newspaper one reporter was fabricating quotes, incidents and characters to jump from his pond to a bigger one, never mind editorial integrity. The Wire was a show not so much about what people are but what they become when trapped in a corrupt system. We all struggle to survive, to make sense of our lives and use whatever it takes to prosper. The soul can get twisted but we can also find love and faith and humanity and reason and enlightenment. We also can make a difference. Usually not a big one but by doing what's in front of us to the best of our abilities we can progress. There are a lot of scenes in The Wire in which people are talking, planning, scheming but also sharing and reflecting and wondering. In other words, living.

The show succeeded  because all facets of the production worked. But I will remember the performers. Particular raves have to go to Wendell Pierce as homicide detective Bunk Moreland, Andre Royo as the addict Bubbles, Michel Kenneth Williams as Omar Little the gay stick up artist of dealers, Wood Harris as gang boss Avon Barksdale, Clark Johnson as the City Editor and Aidan Gillen as the mayor.
But while those were among the highlights this was truly an ensemble cast of amazing characters. Amazing because they were so damn believable. I don't think I've ever believed a TV show as much as I did this one. I felt as though life was being revealed to me and I was understanding and thus better appreciating the world I live in.

There's probably something else out there in TV world that I missed the first time or am currently missing that I would love. But for the love of god I don't want to know about right now, I've got things to do.

A shoutout to my esteemed oldest nephew who was one of the people who urged me to watch The Wire.