Angel Island

The fog-shrouded Golden Gate Bridge on the way to Angel Island

Having friends who were athletes in high school has its disadvantages: you are at constant risk of filling your weekends with physical activities that displace important priorities such as taking a nap or watching televised sports. The risk increases if such activity is proposed in the presence of one’s adolescent child, because guilt enters into the calculus. If the parent were to decline the invitation, there is guilt over passing up an opportunity to bond with the child and guilt over setting a poor example of physical (un)fitness. And so it was that I assented to the Angel Island bike trip last Saturday morning.

Four adults and four teenagers assembled in a Foster City parking lot at 8 o’clock. After loading up a truck and a van with bicycles and backpacks, we drove north to San Francisco’s Pier 41, where we boarded the ferry to Angel Island.

The ferry landing at Ayala Cove

Angel Island, like its Bay companions Alcatraz and Treasure Island, used to thrum with military, immigration, prisons, and other state-sponsored activity, but is now a park frequented by picnickers and bicyclists. Angel Island is accessible only by ferry (adult roundtrip-$13; under 13-$7.50), which in civilized fashion serves hot food and age-appropriate beverages. After we ventured topside to take in the view, blasts of cold air drove us below to warm ourselves with coffee, hot chocolate, and pretzels.

At the landing we trudged uphill with our bikes to the paved road that circles the island. We stopped at several of the State Park’s noteworthy historical attractions: Fort McDowell, through which thousands of draftees passed during World War II, and the immigration station, which became the point of enforcement for the Exclusion Acts that limited Chinese immigration. Newcomers from Asia may feel unwelcome in certain circles today, but their trials are nothing compared to the opprobrium visited over a century ago upon the Chinese laborers, many of whom died digging the railroad tunnels and inland California waterways. Reviewing their history in the Visitor’s Center, I felt gratitude both to them and to the GI’s who were shipped out to the killing fields of Bastogne and Gaudalcanal.

There wasn't much privacy in my father's Army.


The monument by the immigration station

Despite the steep hills, my poor stamina, and worn brakes that slipped on the gravel, we completed the trip without incident and boarded the return ferry just before 1 o'clock.

The ferry stopped at Alcatraz on the way back to San Francisco.

We were greeted by clear skies when we walked off the ferry; the wharf was teeming with tourists and the Giants were challenging the hated Dodgers in a late-season pennant race at nearby SBC Park. There were a couple of anxious moments when the truck wouldn’t start (loose battery cable) and a car door slammed the former high-school athlete’s finger (ice stabilized the swelling), and we wended our way through the traffic and arrived in Foster City by 4 p.m., all present and accounted for.

Last week I received a brochure from a real estate developer who is selling new condominiums by SBC Park. The price for a 1,200-1,400 square-foot condo, depending on the view of the Bay, costs between $1.1 million and $2.1 million. But his views aren’t as good as they are from Angel Island and are a trifle more expensive than the $13 ferry ticket, so I won’t be taking him up on his offer, even if it does include a parking space. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Priceless view

Pedagogical Peregrination

On Sunday we packed the van with his clothes, computer, and other Very Important Stuff and headed south. Destination: the campus apartments at UC-San Diego, where our sophomore will rest his weary head between the classes which he will attend, study hard for, and pass with flying colors.

Parenting, like second marriages, is the triumph of hope over experience. Disappointment is our constant companion, and we become more practiced than political spinmeisters in the weaving of fanciful tales to explain our offspring’s behaviors. When something good does happen, for example when they win a scholastic award or get accepted to a decent college, we thank our lucky stars and cross our fingers that the run will continue. For those who lament that their child isn’t old Ivy material, we know parents who would trade places in a heartbeat. These folks are watching carefully for the first signs of substance abuse, not the fat acceptance envelopes.

We averaged 75 mph on Interstate 5 and arrived in San Diego 7 ½ hours after we left, a record time. It was still daylight after we deposited our bags at the hotel, so we had time to survey his future digs. They were spacious: four sophomores share a furnished two-bedroom one-bath apartment, complete with living room, dining nook, and kitchen. At an average cost of under $900 per student per month, including the meal plan, the UCSD room-and-board is a good value.

The refrigerator, although filled, is bereft of nutritional substances.


After only a day the bedroom already has that lived-in
look. Note the study aid propped up on the left.

Although I saw opulence, the sophomore’s mother saw only hardship. The next day we stopped at Trader Joe’s, Sav-on Drugs, Linen n’Things, and Costco to load the larder for the annis arduous ahead. Our van groaned under its burden, foreshadowing the sounds we would emit as we sherpa’ed the provisions upstairs. Together we broke bread---more precisely, a pizza---for the last time, hugged, and bade him goodbye.



Our reluctance to leave delayed our departure to 4:30 p.m., which meant that we had to fight the traffic into and out of LA during the ironically named "rush hour". On the previous return trip to the Bay Area I hadn’t had much luck on Interstate 5, which cuts through the heart of Orange County, so I tried the western route, the 405, which goes past the airport and rejoins Highway 5 north of LA. We were able to use the carpool lane, which improved our time only slightly because it was filled with cheaters undeterred by the $271 fine.As we sat in the traffic I thought about how a lot of wrong choices in my life were more than compensated by the one big correct decision to point my old VW north after I was done with school nearly 30 years ago.


We ate dinner at this In-n-out Burger off Highway 5
around 9 p.m. The parking lot had only two cars--
the emptiest In-n-out I had ever seen.

We pulled into our driveway at 1 a.m. Summer was over. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Time, like an ever rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
--Isaac Watts

Get Back, Honky Cat

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day

Above are the lyrics to one of the most well-known and beloved Christian songs written in the second half of the 20th century. I have a difficult time comprehending that its composer is an Islamic terrorist sympathizer.

Cat Stevens wrote “Morning has Broken” before he became Yusuf Islam, supporter of Hamas and Khomeini’s death sentence against Salman Rushdie. The hymn isn’t the treacly pap found in much of today’s “spiritually uplifting” music, nor does it browbeat the listener with theology. In very few words it communicates the joy felt by the disciples on Easter morn and the promise of mankind's return to the garden. Allusions to Christ (“where his feet pass”, “fresh from the word”), the rebirth of spring, and, above all, praise to God, one of the most admirable and least controversial acts of worship, bespeak a gentle Christian sensibility that is not often present in the novitiate.

Yusuf Islam was sent back to the UK today after he boarded a flight to the United States. I hope that Cat Stevens can find his way home.

The Bay at mid-morning.

The 700 Club

After a busy week in the office I headed to SBC Park last night to watch the Giants beat the Padres. But the big event was Barry Bonds' 700th career home run. This one, unlike one of his typical blasts to right field into the water, narrowly cleared the fence in left field. The crowd hesitated briefly, then rose to its feet as realization of his deed crystallized. We applauded as the fireworks exploded.

I was there when it happened---another story with which to bore the boys at the nursing home a few years from now.

Thoughts on the Campaign

Why do military personnel overwhelmingly support Republicans? If the Democratic Party is less likely to involve the armed forces in actions that could get someone killed or injured, why don’t more servicemen and their families vote for Democrats? Another occasion to think about what “self-interest” means and whether it’s as important as economists say in determining people’s actions.

Some people say that the floundering Kerry campaign has been too nice, and that the “gloves are coming off” in September and October. (Calling President Bush a Nazi/Hitler/baby-killer/moron/coward is nice?) I don’t think being too nice has been Kerry’s problem, but if the fault lies with the candidate or his positions that would be too painful for some to contemplate.

If it looks like Bush is heading for a significant win, look out for:

Accommodating allies: other countries may step up their cooperation in the war on terror (more troops and aid to Afghanistan and Iraq) and initiate friendlier economic policies (lower oil prices, support for the dollar) to curry favor with a President who will be around for four more years.

A less trashy campaign: the adults who run the Democratic Party will put a lid on the most extreme elements of the anti-Bush crowd. CBS’ attempt to raise questions about Bush’s service in the National Guard and Kitty Kelley’s claim that Bush used cocaine late in life have backfired against Kerry. There’s a negative halo effect as more and more people are tuning out all criticism of Bush by the mainstream media (MSM). If Bush’s coattails and overreaching by the opposition pull in the 60 Senators necessary to override filibusters on Bush’s judicial nominees, that outcome will be worse for liberal causes than losing the Presidency. My bet is that wiser heads will cool it, choosing to fight another day in 2006 and 2008.

How could Senator Kerry have better connected with people?

1) When you come from a privileged background, make fun of yourself. Self-deprecating humor creates empathy with the audience; it worked for the original JFK four decades ago and even smoothed the edges of Vice President [Darth] Cheney at the Republican convention.

2) If you want to communicate effectively with conservative Christians, you don’t necessarily have to preach chapter and verse. (Anyway, if it's done too blatantly that would rightly be viewed as pandering.) In order to show you are familiar with and respect the culture, you can sprinkle your speech with Biblical references, as in this old refrain that Senator Kerry may have sung in college and may be singing again on November 3rd:

We're poor little lambs who have lost our way
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We're little black sheep who have gone astray
Baa! Baa! Baa!

© 2004 Stephen Yuen

My Bowl Overfloweth

The cell phone rang as I was driving home last night.

“Dad, where’s the plunger for the toilet?” That’s a question I didn’t need to hear.

Just hang on. I’ll be home in five minutes.

I’m greeted in the driveway by the two boys, large wet spots on their clothing. “Dad, it’s worse than you think.” More words that I didn’t need to hear. I can think—and imagine—a lot.

Which toilet is it? “Upstairs”.

I grab the plumber’s helper from the garage and walk into the family room. Water is dripping through the ceiling fixture to a large circle on the carpet, where one of them had the presence of mind to place a garbage can. I hurry upstairs to the bathroom, where the water is an inch deep.

I’ll spare the gentle sensibilities of readers by refraining from a detailed description of what happened next. Suffice it to say that over the next two hours I wielded a mop, bucket, plumber’s helper, plumber’s snake, ladder, bathroom cleaner, sponges, and paper towels. Nevertheless, I was grateful for two things:

1) The spouse and mother had chosen last night to attend a play in San Francisco. Spouse and mother does not take kindly to dirt on the carpet, and this event was the equivalent of a mudslide. Fixing the immediate problem would have been exponentially more difficult if there were the usual “high-intensity interpersonal communications” occurring in the background.
2) The summer heat wave that had produced uncomfortable sleepless nights now was an ally. The water evaporated quickly on the bathroom linoleum, but the carpet was still moist this morning.

I could tell from the changed placement of the Clorox and other cleansers that additional work was performed after I went to bed at midnight (if you ask by whom, you don’t have teenaged boys). Everyone was sleeping peaceably when I left for work this morning, so all’s well.

Tonight’s lesson: the location and operation of water shut-off valves. © 2004 Stephen Yuen


P.S. to Mom and Dad: Happy Anniversary!

Memories of Hanauma Bay

After Rachel Carson awoke us to the wonders of the oceans and before Boeing passenger jets transformed the face of Hawaii, my grandfather would pack his fishing gear and my bamboo pole in the trunk of his black Plymouth and trundle off to Hanauma (ha-NOW-ma) Bay in southeastern Oahu.

Many thousands of years ago the sea broke through the walls of the extinct crater. The first to arrive were fish; later came the iridescent coral and tidewater denizens, the sea urchins, sea stars, and sea cucumbers; finally came man, who dredged the black volcanic rock and added sand. The bay became the favored vacation spot of kings and queens.

My grandfather parked in the dirt clearing at the top of the crater, and, laden with buckets and bait, we began the descent down the steep path to the white crescent below. Tourists were not plentiful then; the central Honolulu beaches, Waikiki and Ala Moana, wider and friendlier, were more convenient to the hotels. When we reached the bottom, I switched to my black-and-white Keds and gingerly walked along the slippery ledges to our favorite spot left of Hanauma’s mouth.

Grandfather helped me affix a piece of shrimp or cuttlefish to the hook. I always felt great anticipation when the baited hook first plunged into the cold, clear water; the previous outing’s disappointments were shunted aside in memory, and maybe today would bring success. It was rare that I caught anything, but hope springs eternal in the young angler’s breast.

Grandfather cast his line far into the ocean, reeling it in slowly. The shifting currents would push our lines under the rocks. The moment’s exhilaration when I felt the tug quickly turned to disappointment. I tried to work the hook free and often failed. The line would finally break, and I would thread the line through another hook, painstakingly tying a knot and pulling it tight with my teeth.

When we caught fish we would store them, still living, in a bucket of ocean water. After hours of baiting, casting, and losing hooks, I would put the pole down and watch the trapped creatures, which were much larger and more vigorous than my pet guppies. When we exhausted our bait, grandfather emptied the bucket on a large flat rock. If I was lucky enough to have caught a fish, we usually returned it to the ocean because it was too small to eat. After the larger fish gasped their last, grandfather gutted, cleaned, and scaled them, wrapping the remains in newspaper. We trudged back to the beach over the wet rocks; my weariness increased the odds of slipping. After a long day the climb with our gear to the car was the hardest part, and I would doze off during the ride home.

Since 1967 Hanauma Bay has been closed to fishing, and visitors are prohibited from walking onto the rocks where grandfather and I used to fish. Today it is a major tourist attraction, complete with paved parking, a five-dollar admission fee, and a visitor’s center.

Although my grandfather has been gone over 30 years, I could see him in my mind’s eye when I swam at Hanauma Bay two weeks ago. He grinned through his yellowing teeth, his panama hat jauntily askew, proudly holding the big gray fish that grandmother would steam that night. I miss him and the little boy who accompanied him, their images fading in the spray of the breaking waves. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

We used to fish where the waves break near the top of the photo.

To Sea Life Park

Turtle exhibit at Sea Life Park

About every four or five years I head Diamond Head (east) along the H-1 freeway to Sea Life Park, Hawaii’s small-scale version of Sea World. I first visited Sea Life Park on a school field trip back in the sixties. The cost then, if memory serves, was $2. Now the price of entry is $26 for adults, $13 for kids under 13 and adult “kamaaina’s” (residents of Hawaii). For those who compulsively perform financial calculations, that’s a 5% compound annual growth rate in the child ticket price over a 40-year period.

Unlike California aquatic parks such as Sea World, Marine World, and the Monterey Bay Aquarium, it is easy to take in all of Sea Life Park in an afternoon. When we went last week, I carefully clipped a 25%-off coupon from the back of a relative’s Hawaiian Telephone directory, thereby saving $22.75 on four tickets. At the net admissions cost of $68.25, Sea Life Park was a fair value.

Note to myself: I really must get a State ID card to capture the often-huge discounts available to Hawaii residents at hotels, restaurants, and tourist attractions. On my last trip three years ago I took the first step by waiting patiently for three hours to get a certified copy of my birth certificate, whose “Territory of Hawaii” designation betrayed me as a geezer, but I forgot to bring my original social security card from California.

Applicants are also required to supply “supplementary documents” such as marriage licenses, but I don’t see how the authorities can enforce this rule. How would they know that the documents exist? Many women do not change their surname when they are married; neither do they use the “Mrs.” prefix, preferring “Ms.” (or these days even “Dr.” and “Rev.”).

We turned on the air-conditioning to its maximum setting as we approached Hawaii Kai in our rented Pontiac. Hawaii Kai is now a prosperous community of million-dollar homes, but I remember when it was a dry, hot expanse of dirt roads, bushes, and tangled foliage, home to pigs and chickens.

The “pig man” would come to our home in central Honolulu and pick up a week’s supply of our table scraps, which had been ripening in a three-foot steel can, and take it to his hogs. He would show his gratitude by inviting us to an annual luau at his farm. The food was plentiful and tasty, but the powerful stench emanating from the pens and the large horseflies buzzing about the dishes weren’t esthetically pleasing. Then again an eight-year-old didn’t know what "esthetics" meant or that they were supposed to matter.

For hours I would watch the hogs, who rolled around in a nameless mixture of mud, slop, and waste material. The new residents of Hawaii Kai roll around in BMW and Lexus SUVs and would be horrified to have the pig man as their neighbor. I hope he sold his land at a good price to Henry J. Kaiser, the visionary industrialist who developed the area.

Past Hawaii Kai the highway narrows to a single lane in each direction. We poked along at 35-40 mph behind sightseeing tourists, past rocky cliffs and golf courses, and entered the parking lot twenty minutes later.

The shows and exhibits may be more lavish on the Mainland, but the setting at Sea Life Park, with the mountains on one side and the ocean on the other, is unmatched.

The Park is nestled against the cliffs of Makapuu.

After each show we headed back to the store as respite from the heat. The sweat on the back of my hand erased my re-entry stamp twice during the afternoon, but my pallor and flat, accentless English, not to mention the befuddled expression that I have learned to evince without much effort, proclaimed that I was another confused tourist. My son bought a towel to take back to college in San Diego, and we headed back to town for dinner with my cousin. © 2004 Stephen Yuen


Rabbit Island is the backdrop for the dolphin show.

Unintentionally Revealing

The KRON (Channel 4) news this evening had a short piece on corporate psychopaths [Update-9/8/04: the original link went down, so a link to another news organization was substituted.]

A key characteristic of the psychopath is having no conscience, like Anthony Hopkins’ portrayal of Hannibal. And it’s similar in the office—a worker without conscience and with obsessive focus is quite likely to succeed in the short term and possibly land in a management role. Workers who show these psychopathic traits often thrive at the expense of others with a tendency to bully.

Experts say you’re more likely to find these social predators where there is power, prestige, or money, professions such as politics, law and the media [emphasis added]

The piece could have named farming, accountancy, pharmaceuticals, energy, banking, or any of a hundred other industries. Funny that psychopaths are particularly concentrated in professions from which the Democratic Party draws its strongest supporters. (I'm willing to lay odds that academia and entertainment would have ranked fourth and fifth.)

Oahu

When you ask my fashionable Mainland friends about their favorite Hawaiian island, many will champion Maui, others will name Kauai or Hawaii, and a few, seeking to impress with their eclecticism, will favor Molokai. They always seem a little disappointed when I tell them that my favorite island is crowded Oahu, where over three-fourths of Hawaii’s people live. I suppose that my opinion is colored by the fact that I spent the first seventeen years of my life as a resident of Honolulu and that many of my friends and most of my relatives live there. But distance, both temporal and physical, can confer a degree of objectivity.

Hawaii's most famous landmark is on Oahu.

On the plus side of the ledger Oahu has:

the most white-sand beaches, which is important unless you don't mind being dashed against the rocks. Every couple of miles on the drive around the island there’s a decent, occasionally outstanding beach with public restrooms and/or showers.

the best drinking water. Rainwater filters through the volcanic rock, where it is trapped below sea level under tremendous pressure. No other island produces sweet Artesian wellwater so abundantly.

the most varied restaurants, shopping, and nightlife, befitting the State’s capital city and most populous island.

The traffic, congestion, and pollution can be horrible. Twice in the past week I’ve had the misfortune of trying to make an appointment during the evening rush hour. On both occasions, once in Waikiki and the other near Honolulu International Airport, it took half an hour to travel less than a mile. If one can avoid the morning or evening commute, getting around is easy.

While the beautiful people go to Lahaina, this beach, in the heart of Honolulu, has sparse attendance on a weekday.

On this trip I’ve renewed acquaintance with two vigorous individuals who are in their nineties and many others who are over 80. The experiences of these friends and relatives bode well for a retirement life on Oahu, because longevity is one of my post-retirement goals (it’s better than the alternative). Arizona is attractive, Tahoe is tempting, but Oahu is probably where I’ll end up. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

[Update - 9/8/04: this perspective on Oahu is worth checking out.]

Improvements

The apartments next door to my parents’ house were built before the War. The two-story buildings experienced the fate that befalls all wooden structures in Hawaii and became a breeding ground for termites. The termites would swarm around the streetlights during warm, breezeless evenings, and a few would wriggle through the screens into our house. When I was a child I would stand on a three-legged stool and hold a bowl of water up to the light, where the termites would fall, flailing futilely in the liquid.

The warm Hawaiian humidity provides an especially fecund environment for things that go squish. The owner of the apartments planted low-growing palms next to our fence. The thick foliage housed nests of cockroaches, which plagued the neighborhood for decades.

Some of the tenants weren’t conscientious about wrapping their garbage, which attracted rats. Dad complained, the tenants said they would be more careful, and the rats became less noticeable but never completely disappeared

This week, when I visited my parents, I was taken aback to see an empty space where the apartments had been. The buildings were bulldozed to rubble, and the entire lot had been cleared. None of the neighbors is sure what will rise in their place, but all are confident that it will be better than what had been there before. Dad said that he and the other adjacent property owners have been invaded with cockroaches and vermin, now that their nests have been destroyed. As long as we’re diligent about sanitation and prevent the pests from breeding elsewhere, these problems will not be long-lasting, and the neighborhood will end up much improved.

I thought of parallels with recent international affairs and realized that I think too much. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Going Home

The airlines, especially charter carriers who book extra flights during tourist season, love the 757-200. Airbus still doesn’t have a direct competitor to Boeing’s 21-year-old product, which seats 228 passengers and traverses 3,900 nautical miles. Other aircraft, such as the 777 and A340, can exceed the 757’s range, but they also have much larger seating capacity and are much more expensive. For missions that are “long and narrow”, such as hauling 200 price-conscious tourists from London to Orlando, the 757 is ideal.

Because of the cattle-car feeling, the carriers’ affection is not shared by passengers. The typical seating configuration is 38 rows with three on each side. Other single-aisle planes, such as the 737, used by Southwest, or the A320, flown by Jet Blue, have 150-170 seats. The 757’s lengthier routes and longer unloading time make for a less pleasant flying experience.

Last night our flight to Hawaii did not begin promisingly. The 757 departed a half an hour late on its originating flight from Indianapolis and was correspondingly late on arrival in San Francisco. We waited another half an hour to take on passengers from a tardy flight from Chicago. It’s hard to blame the airline’s penny-pinching orientation; they had the only sub-$400 round-trip fare to the Islands in August, while many competitors were charging over $600.

Nevertheless, there were pleasant aspects to the flight. There was plenty of legroom (“pitch”—the distance between rows of seats), the movie, Shrek 2,was enjoyable (headphones were included), and there was no surcharge for the hot meal. And the three of us could sit together on the fully loaded flight because we had selected our seats online one month earlier.

After an uneventful landing and wait at the baggage carousel, we proceeded to the car-rental agency. All of us were dragging as we hauled the suitcases up the stairs of our relative’s house after 11 p.m. (2 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time). I felt a twinge of exhilaration about coming home after three years and fell asleep as soon as my head touched down. © 2004 Stephen Yuen



The view that greeted me this morning: the Waikiki skyline and Diamond Head on the left.

Patches

I’ve hit one of those patches where things aren’t going as planned—nothing severe, mind, I can distinguish the trivial from the important—it’s just that I’m stymied wherever I turn.

I want to replace the carpet, but before I schedule an installation date, the walls and ceiling must be painted (I can do the walls myself, but the ceiling requires special equipment). I’ve called painters, who promise an estimate by a certain date but won’t put forward even that modest effort, even after several reminder calls. Of course I won’t make the mistake of engaging these people, but there’s no satisfaction as the ratty carpet continues to mock me.

I’ve called a gardener, whom two of my neighbors rave about, to estimate the cost of a small clean-up project. He seems like a nice, energetic fellow, but he’s broken a weekend appointment and ignored two of my follow-up phone calls. I intended to use him, but now...

The exterior of our house needs to be cleaned and sealed, and we’ve reached agreement with a reputable contractor to perform this job, but first we must repair a crack in our chimney. On the advice of a neighbor we’ve been trying to contact a man who would probably do good work but we’ve been unable to communicate with him (he did leave a message once, so we know he’s still in business.)

A generation ago the epitome of futility (has a certain ring to it, nicht wahr?) was the maiden who sat by her silent phone on Saturday night. Today it’s the frustrated suburbanite who waits...and waits...for his contractor to call, fax, or e-mail. An in-person visit would trigger the vapors.

At work there are several tasks that are on hold because of crucial information that other people have to prepare and send. Because these people are colleagues and customers, I can’t be too obnoxious and so am limited to offering gentle reminders through the usual channels.

My Hawaiian vacation starts tomorrow and no progress will be made on any of the above for two weeks. Feeling beset and bewildered, and occasionally angry, by the (in)action of others, I bestirred myself from my usual torpor in the pew on Sunday to listen to the words of a long-ago Sermon:

Every one who is angry with his brother shall be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother shall be liable to the council, and whoever says, “You fool!” shall be liable to the hell of fire. [Matt 5: 22]

Message noted. Let it go. Let it all go. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Palm trees thrive in Hawaii. In cool San Francisco these palms along the Embarcadero were imported and have to be carefully nurtured. But they don't have coconuts that can hit you on the head.

Miscellaneous Musings

Vietnam Vets Can Celebrate
Side benefit of John Kerry’s nomination: at least until the election Hollywood won’t green-light more movies where the villain is a crazed, drug-addled Vietnam veteran. If John Kerry wins, these scripts will be deep-sixed for at least four years.

Celebrity Politics
One of the cable news channels ran a viewer survey that asked whether the political views of celebrities influence the vote of the general public. Well, duh. Not true of everyone, of course, but some people will be swayed. Celebrities sell drinks, cars, diet plans, cell phones, cosmetics, clothes, and everything under the sun because advertisers believe there are enough of us who believe that we will be like our heroes if we buy the product they are touting. Celebrities ask for our help in fighting a disease, and many of us respond with cold cash. It asks little of an admirer to pull the voting lever that Sam Superstar recommends.

Remain True to Your Principles Without Making Your Friends Angry
I’ve been reading how some wealthy individuals feel that they should be taxed more because they feel a mixture of guilt and gratitude to the society in which they have achieved their success. Someone should tell them that, instead of supporting laws that will increase taxes on themselves and others—many of whom will disagree with that point of view, they can achieve their personal objective simply by writing a check to the government for the additional amount they think they ought to be paying. Such donations are deductible contributions under Section 170(c) of the Internal Revenue Code:

For purposes of this section, the term ''charitable contribution'' means a contribution or gift to or for the use of (1) A State, a possession of the United States, or any political subdivision of any of the foregoing, or the United States or the District of Columbia, but only if the contribution or gift is made for exclusively public purposes.

Any individual who makes a donation to the government deserves to be doubly admired because 1) he is making a gift for “public purposes”, and 2) he is not attempting through tax legislation to force others to emulate his otherwise noble act. The journey to enlightenment should be taken alone. © 2004 Stephen Yuen

Barry Bonds Home Run #685
Last Friday I saw Barry Bonds hit home run number 685 at SBC Park. I finally have seen something that will impress the grandchildren (when they come along).

Barry Bonds rounds second base after hitting the ball into the Bay.

Vaillancourt Fountain

The Vaillancourt fountain in Justin Herman Plaza is hard to love. After the 1989 earthquake destroyed the freeway off-ramp, the fountain’s complementary big brother, some said it lost its raison d’etre.

Because it was expensive to power the pumps, the water had been turned off since 2000. Vaillancourt fountain became a silent, concrete jumble in the midst of a waterfront that is growing greener and softer. Depending on the way one is facing, the harsh angles overwhelm the view of the renovated Ferry Building, the nearby park, or the beauteous Bay beyond. The fountain became a grimy sculpture, a favorite resting spot for the ubiquitous pigeons, who further despoiled its surface and walkways. It became such an eyesore that some called for its demolition.

Last month the pumps were turned on, and the area was transformed. The sight and sounds of the rushing water bring life to a dead corner of Justin Herman plaza. Children skip along the walkway beneath the waterfalls, the tourists take their pictures, and the pale tower denizens leave their cubicles to munch on their sandwiches in the sun. © 2004 Stephen Yuen