Quiet at This End

Except for the youngster who’s been getting up early to play computer games, the family was asleep when I left the house.

San Mateo station was deserted this week.

Hardly anyone was at the station this morning. The trains were on their regular schedules, but in my car only 10% of the seats were filled. The Financial District is always quiet during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, so the commute into the City is a snap, whether one drives, takes the bus, or rides the train.

Adding to the feeling of lassitude were the overcast skies and steady rain. At the office the energy level was noticeably lower. There were only a couple of tasks that had to be done this week, as opposed to the usual dozen, and it required extra concentration not to linger over the Wall Street Journal, the Times, and favorite Web sites. The rows of darkened offices didn’t brighten the mood; they reminded me that many colleagues had people to see and places to go. Thankfully, none of them had gone to South Asia.

As the events on the other side of the globe remind us, there are worse things, much worse, than having to go into the office during Christmas week. The devastation over such a large area and the number of lives lost in such a short span of time have not been seen since World War II. In the wink of an eye a wall of water appears and obliterates a village or submerges whole islands.

Not the Internet, not biotechnology, not the exploration of space,the elections or the Olympics, the big story of 2004 may just be the oldest story in the world.

And the Word Became Flesh

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth [John 1:14]”

Some believe this with their whole heart, others dismiss it as superstition; still others oscillate between faith and doubt. And it is not hard to doubt: How can we explain the death of a child? Why do sincere Christians perform despicable acts? Why are there so many successful, happy, bad people? What is the purpose, if any, behind cruel afflictions such as cancer and AIDS? Sorry to let you down, you won’t find answers here.

The one thing about life that you can count on, as my late preacher friend used to say, is that no one gets out alive. But he who came into the world 2,000 years ago overcame death and said that we can, too….no, not that we wouldn’t die, but that dying was not THE END and that the credits would roll on indefinitely (okay, He didn’t use those words exactly).

While his birth is important, it was his death and resurrection two days after he was laid to rest that is all-important, which is why Easter, not Christmas, is the most important date on the Christian calendar. If it weren’t for the resurrection he would just be another prophet who said some profound things---enough to put together a $4.99 compendium of sayings at Barnes & Noble, but not much more.

So, did the thing with the manger, the cross, and the empty tomb actually happen long ago in a land far away? Well, something transformed those poor, illiterate fishermen into articulate, confident philosophers and leaders. (Nowadays, of course, it wouldn’t seem that big a deal because we have Tony Robbins tapes to listen to while we’re sleeping.) Something happened to Saul, the vengeful persecutor of early Christians, on the road to Damascus so that he became Saint Paul, founder of Christian theology.

There are alternative explanations for all of these occurrences, including improbable events and weird coincidences, or maybe some of them just didn’t happen. But there is another explanation: Something that is separate from Nature as we know it--the Supernatural, as C.S. Lewis called it—may be at work. Based on what we’ve seen of how people behave and how the world works, we each must judge whether the Supernatural explains those long-ago events. And once you decide that, everything falls into place and your path becomes clear, little grasshopper.

Plane Landing

(Photo courtesy of R E George)

Christmas Party

Last Thursday I went to my 30th holiday (formerly known as Christmas) party-- not all with the same company, of course. Some were elaborate affairs at fancy hotels, others were little more than fruit punch and cookies set out on a picnic table, but they have all been occasions to visit with co-workers whom one doesn’t see too often.

Our long and liquid lunch was held at One Market, a nearby upscale restaurant. The men donned coats and ties, and the women wore evening dresses. Our employer, like others in the Financial District, has had a “business casual” dress code since the late Nineties. The holiday party has evolved into an occasion where employees voluntarily take their suits out of mothballs and dress up as a sign of respect for the season, for each other, and for the way we once were.

A couple of executives usually start the proceedings. If business has prospered, the mood is cheerful, and the jokes are lighthearted. If the company has had a “difficult” year---and who, if they’ve had a few seasons under their belt, hasn’t---the speakers thank the gathering for all their efforts, ladle out the sympathy, and encourage one and all to take a break from the grind and enjoy each other’s society.

My company invites retirees to the celebration. At my first party there was only one retired person; then, the median age of the attendees was 35, and collecting a pension was far from everyone’s mind. At the 2004 luncheon there were a dozen retirees present, and I knew them all. I hadn’t seen most since last year, so I spent more time talking to them than I did with my co-workers.

In truth I identify more with the codgers than the callow. I listened attentively to one fellow’s description of his knee operation but only gave half an ear to a thirty-something’s enthusiastic recounting of her Kenya safari. Sans children and a significant other, and with plenty of disposable income, the world is her oyster.

By five o’clock I had had enough dessert, wine, and conversation and went back to the office for my briefcase. The energetic continued to bar-hop until the wee hours. For the young the night was still young, but I’m not and it wasn’t, so I went home.

Carpe Danish

Yesterday was my turn to buy the pastries. Most departments employ the same system: on a designated weekday --ours is Tuesday--one member of the breakfast club brings in the food.

About a decade ago, when the nutrition police were ascendant, the choices were uniformly bland and gastronomically correct: low fat, high fiber bagels were the most frequent offering. When asked, people said that this fare is what they preferred, and the listening purveyors complied. But there were always leftovers at the end of the day.

It sounds paradoxical, but it seems that during the roaring Nineties we were very strict about our food choices, but at decade’s end everyone became more relaxed. For the past several years I’ve been going to Copenhagen Bakery in Burlingame. Their hot, buttered, flaky croissants and Danish are not overly large---they’re slightly larger than a CD—so people don’t feel guilty about taking one. The disciplined grab a knife and only take half a piece, but most come back for the other half within ten minutes. I bought two dozen for 16 people, and everything was gone by 11 o’clock.


If you want healthier fare, mounds of fresh vegetables are available in Chinatown shops, much cheaper than the Farmer's Market outside the Ferry Building.

The Fog Clears

The fog rolled through the Golden Gate yesterday afternoon and covered Alcatraz.



The Zamboni machine prepares the rink this morning. Don't think we'll see many skaters today.

Update: obviously I'm not a meteorologist. By noon the fog had burnt off, and the rink was busy.



Later that day, the tree at Union Square.

Right Down the Hall

Every political season, in keeping with the postmodern insistence on developing a narrative to explain what just happened, political observers identify a voter group whose actions capture the essence of the election. “Reagan Democrats” were the key to Ronald Reagan’s victory, while Bill Clinton struck a chord with “soccer moms." Soccer moms transmogrified into the “security moms” who enabled the Republicans to increase their majorities in the off-year election of 2002. In 2004 the “values voters” are ascendant. The VVs are creatures who cluster in the mysterious Red States rarely visited by sensible, educated human beings.

Question: which state cast the most votes for President Bush? Answer: California, whose 5,500,000 votes for the President greatly outnumbered the 4,500,000 he received in his overwhelming victory in Texas, which is the second most populous state in the Union. San Francisco Chronicle reporters, you don’t have to travel to Wyoming or Nebraska to interview Republicans, they’re right down the hall.

Question for Karl Rove: the 527 groups whom you never talk to (because it’s illegal) spent hundreds of millions of dollars straining for an edge in the so-called “swing states”. It might be cheaper to try to move 700,000 California Democratic votes to the Republican column, thereby overcoming Kerry’s 1.24 million-vote margin. “A free-range chicken in every pot and a Prius in every garage”—we have our price!

Every Bush voter I know has been keeping quiet about his allegiances; we all want to decompress, carry on with the business of life, and avoid arguments with P.O.’ed Democrats. But the POD-people won’t stop: my political preference is known to a few in my office, and they insist on coming by every day to regale me with the latest example of the evil and stupid---but cunning--actions of the Administration.

I smile wanly and nod when in the rat-tat-tat of rants and accusations they come to a position, such as energy independence, that I can agree with. But when we get into specifics of how we solve this problem, whether it be coal (bad for the air), windmills (bad for the birds), or nuclear (bad in so many ways), the common ground shifts, and the chasm again opens wide. I refrain from questioning my visitor’s recent purchase of an SUV; the conversation is civil, and I have to work with the guy.

Home Repairs and Blog Entries

The forced-air furnace was installed when the house was built 25 years ago and its design probably wouldn’t pass contemporary safety standards. The flames sometimes lick the electrical wires that control the fan and gas intensity. Ten years ago I had to replace a couple of connectors after the wires melted.

On Thursday night the furnace stopped working. One wire had burnt through, and there were three more that had degraded substantially. I’ve had expensive, unsatisfactory experiences with furnace repairmen over the years, so as soon as I got home from work on Friday I headed over to Orchard Supply and picked up some 16-gauge wire, electric tape, and connectors for $10. I’m a rank amateur with regard to home repairs, but since we’re going to have to replace the unit soon---friends tell me it will cost $2,000—I didn’t feel like paying for a repair.

Well, it took me four hours on Friday night and two hours on Saturday morning (to undo the errors I made on Friday night), but the furnace is working again. I don’t know why I get satisfaction from completing tasks for which I have had no training or have displayed no aptitude. Kinda like writing this blog.....

Walking, Not Running

The overnight temperatures have fallen below freezing, providing an excuse for me not to go out for the morning jog. At my age, cold in the extremities (probably) can cause all kinds of problems, ranging from cardiovascular shock to facial dryness, so I’d better not risk it. This generation is too young to remember Jim Fixx, who wrote the Complete Book of Running and kicked off the jogging boom during the seventies. Jim Fixx didn’t want to suffer the fate of his relatives, who succumbed to heart disease at an early age, and he became an apostle for aerobic exercise. He ran marathons and was seemingly in excellent shape; Jim Fixx collapsed while running and died at the tender age of 52.

When I have a lot of work to do, I easily lose track of time and grind away through lunch. In high school I picked up the bad habit of working through the night cramming for exams and typing term papers. For the most part I got good grades, so this unhealthy behavior was not penalized; in fact, the adrenaline rush from the self-induced stress was probably addictive. But lately it’s been clear that the quality of my work suffers unless I take breaks. I make it a point to go for a walk every day around lunchtime. Whether it’s due to the fresh air, the mild exercise, or the sunlight, not only am I making fewer mistakes but the creative juices seem to be flowing better.

The ice rink is up again this winter. It costs $7 for adults, higher on weekends.

Yesterday the band from A.P. Giannini Middle School (named after the founder of the Bank of America) played at Embarcadero Center. Their holiday selections were advanced for middle school, and their intonation was surprisingly good.

More Pennies and Pounds

It was a successful weekend; I only put on three pounds after consuming gut-busting dinners four nights in a row.

Thursday: turkey with all the fixings.
Friday: prime rib, plus five vegetable and potato dishes and four different desserts.
Saturday: five courses at a Chinese restaurant.
Sunday: shrimp salad at Macaroni Grill, but I ate a lot of Italian bread.

I completed the loan restructuring project that was the only unfinished business from last week, and we took in the Incredibles on Saturday night.

It was tightly written, funny, and exciting. Continuing the trend begun by Disney’s Aladdin in 1992, animated films geared toward children have also included sophisticated repartee that parents identify with, and the Incredibles is no exception. The adult characters wear on their sleeves the regrets of the middle-aged and can’t always suppress the biting remarks to which long-married couples are prone. (Of course, I don’t have any first-hand experience in these matters, but I have observed these traits in other people.)

This morning I’ll take the sophomore to the airport and wish him luck on his finals. We’ll see him in less than two weeks, when I’ll pay the bill for the winter quarter’s tuition. A three-week hiatus, no financial worries for three months, and a fresh start—oh to be 20 again!

Plenty Left Over

After a busy three days I drove to the airport last night and picked up the returning student. The traffic halted at the lane to baggage claim, so I asked him to go upstairs to the departure terminal, which only had a few cars. Cell phones – a great time-saver and another innovation to be thankful for.

The past few days were as busy as I had foreseen. A couple of urgent requests from Chicago.were added to the pile. Time-honored work habits, such as decorating memos and tables with eye-catching fonts and graphs, and proofreading my work several times, were discarded—“good enough” became the operative standard. At least we didn’t have to plan Thanksgiving dinner since we’ll be going to someone’s house…or so I thought.

As the person who is never wrong corrected me, we’ve been invited to dinner on Friday, not Thursday. On to Albertson’s to buy a fresh turkey---no time to thaw a frozen one---and ingredients for the brine. Around Tuesday midnight we placed the turkey in a plastic bag and covered it with a brine solution of cold water, kosher salt, and spices.

Having wrapped up a half a dozen open items, I managed to leave the office by five o’clock; almost everyone else had left at three. A persistent colleague made me promise to send her an e-mail by Friday on a restructured loan, so I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow morning. Oh well, there are plenty of leftovers to keep up my flagging energy.

Temptation Removed

This morning it hit the forties, so I re-lit the pilot light and turned on the furnace. The whole family has allergies, either hay fever or asthma, and everyone tries to leave the house when I first turn on the blower in the fall. Expensive filters can’t keep the dust and stale air from collecting in the vents during the eight months since I switched off the pilot, but the annual inconvenience is the price you pay for heating the house. The smell does go away after 30 minutes and doesn’t recur because air circulates through the vents every day.

After making breakfast for the youngster, I left the house at 7:30 but missed the 7:44 train in San Mateo. (San Mateo is not where I usually board, but I have a doctor’s appointment tonight.) Since the next train wouldn’t come for 20 minutes, I walked over to the corner coffee shop, which is owned by a Vietnamese family. They have a large selection of pastries that are baked every morning, and the coffee is freshly brewed. Being cheaper than the large coffee franchises also helps, and the store is popular with the blue collar, predominantly Hispanic crowd.

Since the end of summer I’ve been making a special effort to reduce my intake of sugar, fat, and caffeine--three of the basic food groups—to prepare myself for the two-month eating season that began with Halloween. But this morning, with a chill in the air and time on my hands, I succumbed to the lure of hot coffee and doughnuts. So I strolled out of the shop with my guilty pleasure (only $2.40---cheap!) and saw a homeless man looking forlornly through a storefront window, his bedroll and worldly possessions at his feet. I approached him.

Hey, buddy!

He turned warily.

How about some doughnuts and coffee?

He had Asian or Hispanic features. His hair was grey and unkempt. At least he had a thick jacket. Just how did he get those prescription eyeglasses?

He paused; his hand, covered with grime, reached for the cup and paper bag. Handing them over, I turned and walked away, neither of us saying a word. I did him a favor, but he did me one, too.

Train Appreciation

The "baby bullet", which has only three stops between San Jose and San Francisco, has helped boost Cal Train's ridership by nearly 20%. The bullet runs once an hour and makes better time than single-passenger cars during the prime commute. Due to the improving economy, the higher cost of gas, the faster transit, or all of the above, it's now hard to find a seat when I get on at Hillsdale Station.

Riders who wear jeans often sit on the floor if the bike racks are empty.


Ladies who stand are rarely offered seats these days. (For the record,
I'm standing, too.)

Standing isn't so bad when it's only 22 minutes to San Francisco. And the cost, which is $140 for a monthly pass for the train, bus to the office, and parking at the station, works out to less than $7 per working day. And because 70% of the cost is paid with pre-tax dollars through our commute plan, it's a real bargain. Cal Train: another thing to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.

Nice to See

The three people whom I work with are all out Thanksgiving week. One’s on maternity leave, another’s on vacation in Las Vegas, and the third is going to the Bahamas. While they’re enjoying themselves (okay, probably not so true of the new mother), I have to cover for them.

My own plate is full because deal-making activity has picked up. Corporations with capital spending plans are trying to get them completed by the end of the year because of the expiration of “bonus depreciation”, which enable companies to deduct 50% of the asset’s cost on this year’s tax return. Some of the transactions are fairly complex, and it is easy to overlook important details in putting them together.

I had to leave the office late on Friday night because one of my fellow workers—the one who will depart for Las Vegas--was trying to explain the intricacies of four Canadian leases, just when my circadian rhythms were slowing. He was telling me how he handled capital, provincial, and withholding taxes and how he hedged the Canadian dollar, and it was a lot to absorb. I looked out the window and saw the festive crowds gathering as the Christmas lights were turned on below. “Get a life,” a little voice whispered.

Nevertheless, it had been a satisfying day. Two employees agreed to serve on our contributions committee, which organizes our company’s efforts to support charitable organizations in the Bay Area. We review about a hundred grant requests each year, and no one needs any more projects, especially those for which one doesn’t get any career credits. But it’s nice to see that there are at least a few people who are willing to volunteer their time to help others.

I walked out into the night, past the parents with their strollers, past the ballerinas dancing to the Nutcracker in the plaza, past the skaters on the ice rink, and descended the stairs to the subway.

Another cargo ship enters the Bay on Friday morning.

War is Hell

A U.S. Marine is being investigated for shooting a wounded terrorist in Fallujah. One World War II veteran confronted a similar situation:

Coming forward, we found two Germans dead, torn to shapeless hulks by the bazooka. A third, an ammo bearer, had been thrown across the room and lay sprawled against a wall, one leg shredded and twisted around. "Chambered," he whispered. "Chambered."

He reached into his tunic, and I thought he was going for a gun. It was war; you had only one chance to make the right decision. I pumped the last three shots in my rifle clip into his chest. As he toppled over, his hand sprang spasmodically from the tunic, and he held up a snapshot, clutching it in death. It was a picture of a pretty woman and two little children, and there was a handwritten inscription: "seine Dichliebende Frau, Hedi." So I had made a widow and two orphans.

Dan Inouye lost his right arm during the war, was awarded the Medal of Honor, and has been Hawaii's Senator for over 40 years.