Stupid work giving me stupid grief at this hour.

Bah.  Here's my face.

(I did it in time! Please see the intro here.  Yes, this is totally a work of fiction, aside from the neighborhood details.)

            Speaking of the memory of the dead, Ronald Reagan is a good example of the inverse-proportion rule.  Given his recent passing and its proximity to the writing of these words, fresh in the minds of my contemporaries is much nostalgia.  It’s a testament to the bleakness with which I regard our current President of the United States of America that I, a lifelong Reagan-hater, nonetheless would prefer a reanimated, Lovecraftian version of his corpse in the White House to our current bout of malaise who thinks of himself as “the Decider-in-Chief.”

            I live in San Francisco, a city in which this feeling is widely held, although by no means universally.  I was alive and came of age in the 1980’s, and can still remember him, his deeds and his words (“Mi casa es su casa” is one of my favorites given the anti-immigration sentiment on the Reagan-lionizing American right these days).  I was not, however, old enough to recall his time with the House of Un-American Activites (classic silver-age conservative paranoia), and I was not in California when, as governor of the state, he had a hand in de-funding public mental health services.

            Many people in San Francisco do, indeed, remember those days.  More to the point, many people in San Francisco are of the opinion that his actions were a root cause of The City’s homeless problem today.  It comes as something of a shock to visitors who didn’t realize that sometimes Third World countries live right under our noses inside the First World in a forgotten span of block or under an overpass.

             Golden Gate Park gets the bulk of the displaced.  The park, if you include the panhandle, easily takes up half the width of the city.  Among the scrub, thick but not prohibitive, there are places in which one can easily hole up.  I always liked the park and took much delight in “discovering” various features: follies, fly fishing pools, gardens, and the odd bison you run into.  You just have to be careful how far off the paths you walk, lest you discover someone’s living room or toilet.

            But that’s by no means the only place in The City the homeless can shelter.  A long stretch of wall by a highway, some tarpaulin and a shopping cart can make a passable, and portable, haven.  Sporadic police sweeps and random angry neighborhood denizens all occasion the need for expedition and hasty departures. 

For those with even less than this, the time-tested tradition of curling up in recessed doorways must suffice.  Neighborhoods accustomed to the presence of the “hardcore” homeless – those homeless who are resigned to life on the streets with no hope of improving their lot – long ago added shutters and wrought iron gates to dwelling entrances, even those barely a foot in depth.

Sometimes, there’s not even that.  For some, there is no home to be found in this world at all.

Divisadero Street is nearly at the geographic center of the city.  The span of street from where it curls into Castro northward to where it meets Pacific Heights is a boundary, and as such, no neighborhood can really claim it.  Regardless of that, it’s a lively stretch of town with much-used cafés, pizza joints, philly cheesesteak sandwich stands, mom’n’pop grocery stores, Ethiopian eateries, vegan restaurants, dollar stores, comic and hobby shops, yoga studios, and residences. 

Further up around Eddy street, there’s a communal urban garden spot adjacent a small church, and then, just past Eddy, is the San Francisco Hearing and Speech Center of Northern California.  It’s something of a jolt, architecturally.  The old Victorians that line Divisadero are mostly preserved, although occasional newer buildings dot the strip irregularly.  But the SFH&SC, the letters of which are etched in the gray concrete wall that faces the road, is something different altogether.  Much more of a bunker feel to it, and, despite the appeal of the trees in its courtyard on a sunny day, usually sits sullenly on the road, out of place, like a slab of blotchy, still-wet cement.

I used to pass this building every day before I moved a block east of my old place on Divisadero.  All up and down that side of Divisadero, there are wild lavender plants coming up in nearly all seasons.  I got into the habit of picking a flower stem of it every day and stuffing it into my jacket top button hole – very retro and silly, I thought, but I loved the scent of the stems.  I collected them at work in a small, empty honey jar and soon had a rather nice dried floral arrangement on my desk.  It was a way of counting the work days, after a while.

But the SFH&SC building I passed as I picked the stems . . . well, it’s like this:  You get used to the city being a patchwork quilt of both people and architecture; around the city, you'll see all manner of styles from faux-Tudor, to ubiquitous Victorian, Edwardian, American Ranch-style, and various unsuccessful “modern."  The SFH&SC building is definitely in the “modern” category, and, to my eyes, not very successful.  You wouldn’t think a living, thriving, active building could seem abandoned, but it does.  Intellectually, you're aware of people going in and out of the front door.  You see the horrible, institutional fluorescent lighting, and occasionally you hear a couple of younger kids playing in the enclosed, but hidden, courtyard.  But there was always some sort of emptiness about it, as if it were craving something to fill it.

And I never did see any actual children, come to think of it.  I only heard their laughter.

While I would occasionally be able to see inside the front door to the reception area, there is, on the north end, a recessed emergency exit, which reminded me of a dank cave.  During the day, it merely looked unpleasant, smeared with lichens or humors of unknown origins, and the odor was redolent of unclean, newspaper-lined gerbil cages.  But at the end of the year, as now, when the darkness arrives earlier and earlier, my walks home from Mt. Zion were well after sunset, this exit hole turned into a void into which nothing was visible at all.

While lavender would accompany me to work, jasmine, typically stronger at night, was the scent of my trip home.  A few of the houses just above the SFH&SC had curly string vines of twisted confederate jasmine of a more subtle strength than the night-blooming jasmine I would catch wind of when I was growing up in Miami.

But the SFH&SC had no odor at night.  The emptiness hinted at as I passed by in the mornings became more fully realized at night.  The place didn’t just feel empty, but it genuinely was empty.  And passing by that emergency exit at night . . . well, I mostly never really noticed.  But occasionally I’d see movement, darker shades moving against the deep pitch of the alcove out of the corner of my eye.  When I looked at it, though, I couldn’t see anything.  I always assumed it was mice or rats.  I’d like to say that, when I’d stop and peer into the still gloom, it was almost as if the emptiness watched back, but that would be . . . silly.

I passed by one evening, long accustomed to ignoring the small tricks shadow would play on my eyes, but that night I was unable to ignore definite movement.  I was more surprised than nervous, but the hacking cough that issued from the darkness dispelled any otherworldly airs that might have otherwise collected.  It was most definitely human, and I could see meager possessions propped up against the black interior.  Ah, I realized, someone was making a home for the night.  This was not unusual for San Francisco, as I mentioned, but it did occur to me that we didn’t actually have a lot of homeless on our immediate neighborhood streets.  We were close enough to the Panhandle and parks that such rough accommodations weren’t really necessary.

The coughing stopped and a mostly-shaded face partially emerged from the gloom.  I was caught in my surprise and made eye contact before I realized it.  The face grinned at me.  “Spare change?” it said through a wiry, white-streaked beard.

“Sorry, no,” I said, on autopilot, and that was true.  I rarely carry change in San Francisco that I’m not going to use for busses or laundry.  And that night, I was picking up dry cleaning from a place across from the communal garden just on the next block, on the other side of Divisadero, and I had no change whatsoever on me.

“Well, if you don’t give to the homeless on the street, if it helps, I don’t consider myself homeless,” he said with a grin as I began to walk on, the spell broken.  But I stopped when he said that and turned around.  I felt an impending joke and thought it would be rude to turn my back on it.

I grinned back.  “No?”

“Nope.  I’m just misplaced!” He laughed and began to cough again.

“Heh,” I said, feeling that particular mix of emotions San Franciscans are accustomed to feeling in these situations.  “Good night,” I said, though it was only 7 o’clock.  He coughed good-bye.

As I stood inside the small dry cleaning business, I conjured the ticket for my long coat and shiny clothing, which the proprietress located and handed over.  I’d had some repair work done on the long coat lining, and it was nearly as good as new.  I counted out the bills, but lost count when I heard the most horrendous sound off in the distance, coming from heaven knows what direction outside.  I stopped dead and stared at the woman.  Her back was to me and she was on the business phone, talking away in Tagalog.  The cry I’d heard was fairly brief, but I had no idea what made it.  If it was a human sound, I’ve never heard people make a sound like that before.  Living in cities most of my life, I wondered if was an owl or nighthawk.  But they tended to be pretty quiet, especially when hunting.

And that was not a good thought.

The woman, however, was oblivious.  After she hung up the phone, I asked her if she’d heard that . . . sound, but of course she hadn’t.  I don’t think I’d have been as rattled as I was if she’d admitted she heard it, so as it was, I walked home very quickly the rest of the way up Divisadero. 

The event faded from awareness fairly quickly after I ascended the stairs to my flat.  By that time, I’d rationalized it into some cat catching a bird, or some other urban animal transaction.  Real life was tapping its foot, awaiting my attention.  My cat was hungry.  I had messages on the machine.  Dishes needing a cleaning were in the sink.  The particulars of unwinding after a day’s work were demanding their time.  I eventually slept, but not restlessly.

The next day, as I plucked some lavender and walked my route back to Mt. Zion to pick up the shuttle to take me to work, I passed by the SFH&SC.  Unusually, I saw an actual person on the premises with a garden hose in hand. Their were trying to unkink a length of it, but it was obvious that the hose hadn’t been used in a while.

Walking further north, I was about to pass by the alcove.  My nose caught its usual peculiar odor, slightly more organic and human than usual, which made sense since it had been occupied the night before.  The emergency exit alcove, however, was an absolute mess.

I caught a few recognizable items in the debris – the blue of a tarpaulin, some torn blanket.  The humid alcove was slightly more wet and blotchy than usual with other oddments stuck to the walls.  I found myself looking at the . . . bits stuck here and there, and at that point my brain cut in and insisted they were Ramen Noodles.  The poor guy must have been violently ill after a meal of Ramen Noodles.

At that point, the hose-straightener gushed a stream of water against the walls, washing away the definitely-noodles, sluicing them out into the gutter.  He saw me watching him and mistook my expression for curiosity.  “That’s the second one we got this year.”

I took a cab home that night.

The next day, there was a note pinned to the door of the alcove:

Dear Neighbor,

While we are very sympathetic to your situation, please don’t sleep here. You’re blocking an emergency exit and your belongings pose a hazard in case we need to exit in case of emergency.

It’s dangerous to both of us.

Sincerely,

San Francisco Hearing & Speech Center

Jeez, it's almost Halloween and the ghost story I was working on isn't done, dammit.

Well, fine.  Here, compliments Towleroad, are some dogs dressed up for Halloween.  Plenty scary.  Mazel Tov!

I am going to England for New Year's.  Rock.

Today is "officially" Scotchtoberfest! Have some scotch, wear a kilt, and celebrate your scotchness.  If you're not at all Scots, drink some more scotch until you think you are.

My first improv class this weekend was a hugely enjoyable experience. You know you're having a good time when three hours passes and you don't want to quit.  My overall impression is that I did very well, got quickly into the spirit of things, and I definitely got several laughs.  I am looking forward to this next Saturday's class.

From A.S.'s blog, pointing to this site, look at the following picture and tell me which way the dancer is spinning, clockwise or counter-clockwise?

Now, be honest, which way is she turning?

If you see her turning Clockwise, as I did, according to that website, you're "right-brain dominant."  If you saw her turning Counter-Clockwise, you're "left-brain dominant."  Check the site for a description of what those are thought to mean.

But here's the really messed up part:  however you're seeing her turn, you can reorient your focus to see her turn the other way.  It's not like those "magic eye" pictures where you have to cross your eyes and develop eye strain to "get" the image.  This is much easier.  It's more like that picture in which you can either see the old woman or the young woman, but not both at the same time (thank you Terry Pratchett).

Is that the left face profile of an old woman, or a young woman looking over her right shoulder? You have to "will" yourself to see it. 

Here's how I make the dancer spin in different directions:

Focus tightly on her left foot, the one that is sort of her axis on which she rotates and seems to periodically "hit" the ground.  When her foot is completely foreshortened (i.e. you're not seeing it from a perpendicular angle), and her toes appear to be pointing directly at you, or directly away from you, "expect" to see her toes reverse direction from the one they were heading. 

In that second where you can't see her toes, you can trick your brain into making them appear to change direction.

It's totally freaky, and I've been watching her change direction several times, in fact.  Oddly, when I'm typing, and I can see the bottom of the picture in the text edit window, I see them going counter-clockwise.  But when I look back at the picture, it goes clockwise again.

Weirder still, now, I'm watching her sweep her leg back and forth in front of me like a can-can dancer.  Fascinating.

People say that what happens when you die is one of the Mysteries of Life.  But I know the answer.  A couple of things can happen. 

            The usual eventuality -- the one that happens to most people who ever lived and who will ever be alive – is that they slowly fade from memory, until there’s nothing left other than a footnote on legal papers.  More dedicated, if worrisome, descendants might draft up a family tree during those few months where they “really got into that genealogy hobby.”  The departed can take comfort beyond the grave knowing that there may be documented low-hanging fruit with their name on it, thanks to the efforts of such forward-thinking relatives.

Both papers inevitably end up in a filing cabinet somewhere, to be lost later in a move or estate sale.  Make of that what you will.

            The reason this fate is shared by most people is because most people you know will also die, and with their deaths, a little more sand and water erode your footprints as the tide of time washes in.

            For the more well-known, of course, it gets a bit trickier.  But generally speaking, the posthumously recollected are remembered for their actions or their words.  Depending on the nature of those deeds, their memories are either reviled or celebrated.  In the special case of a lucky few, sometimes both.  However, the actual authenticity of recollections of who the person really was in life is inversely proportional to the magnitude of their deeds.  Does it really matter, after all, what Shakespeare liked for breakfast or what Hitler thought of baseball?

            The memories of the well-known are also relegated to storage, but a better class of cabinetry, like a bookshelf, library, or high-school locker.

            By now, I suspect my readers may feel somewhat abused by my answers.  That is less a product of the truth I’ve outlined and more revealing of their own sensitivity and/or gullibility.  The question, you may insist, isn’t what happens to the memory of the dead among the living, but what happens to one after death, the requisite talk of “souls,” “eternal reward/punishment,” “seventy-two virgins” or possibly (and with much foreshadowing of disappointment) “raisins,” etc.

            In fairness, say I, that would better be described as one of the Mysteries of Death. 

            There may be others.

It's October, the best month for ghost stories and morbid thoughts.  And check my "Now Reading," which will explain a lot.  Expect odd posts for the next few weeks.

A few of my readers have indicated that they've not been able to get into the blog in the last two days.  I haven't had any trouble getting in, and I just updated today.  How strange.

In any case, reports are coming in that you are once again free to peruse my rantage.  I've updated the sidebar video in celebration.

The Medical Center has been slowly working on squeezing the last vestiges of polite, civil courtesy out of its worker bees.  Actually? I'm completely behind this.  I've been on the giving and the receiving end of less-than-stellar phone manners.  Hospitals can be especially awful if you're transferred from person to person like some unfortunate bagatelle ball.  You might get some random shmo in a lab who can't help you with your bill and really can't be bothered to talk to an irate person right now.  That they might be clutching that test tube of pure ebola virus only reinforces the urgency of one's attention better spent elsewhere, and folks tend to get snippy at a time like that, both caller and listener.

Any large agency with a "silo mentality" -- I do my work here, you do yours there -- where you don't know all your co-workers can suffer from this kind of hurried, less-than-helpful phone behavior.  Unforunately, this has caused some of our patient customers to roundly complain, and justifiably so.  I work for the Information Technology department too, not typically staffed by those known for social decorum or politesse.

We were given a handbook on customer relations that we all went over with our managers, department by department, team by team.  But, knowing full well that if they left it at that there would be 0% improvement, upper management also told us that every department would be cold called by volunteer "ringers" within the Medical Center, pretending to be customers with problems.  They would be marking down whether or not people said "hello" and "can I help you?" and identified themselves upon picking up the phone.  Also, knowing how to use a directory for the Medical Center and transferring calls were also spot-checked.

Most of the time, when we didn't recognize a phone number, we just didn't answer.  Heh.

But actually, my department did well.  Once you have rules and protocol and possibly a script, the geeks can at least fall back on that.  I hear all around me much improved phone manners.  My own included.  I think they're done with the cold calling, but you never know.

That's why I can't be sure I didn't get such a call today.  I answered the phone with my standard long-form greeting, "GE Centricity Business Support.  This is Samael. Can I help you?"  (I'm still deciding whether or not to add the institution's name or shorten the department, because it's a mouthful; I feel so empowered).  It's almost a little ritual where I take a breath, make a conscious effort to speak slowly and clearly, and summon as much chipper as I can, um, chip up.

After my greeting, I received an earful of about thirty seconds of what I'm pretty sure was Tagalog.  Tagalog, like Dutch, can sometimes sound like it contains words you know, and sometimes it actually does.  Pinoy Boy and his friends would speak in Tagalog and periodically a cognate or English idiom would be spoken, so I'm used to hearing a Villa Alegre style mix of it (but, y'know, Tagalog instead of Spanish, obv).  Dutch, especially when you're high, sounds like slow English spoken by a pay-per-call phone dominatrix (hot!).  Anyway, both languages leave me with the impression that I should know what was just spoken, but unable to make head nor tail of it -- and further perplexed if it's just me or the accent that keeps me from understanding what was just spoken. 

So while I listened to the customer in those very few crowded seconds, I tried to decide if I did, in fact, understand a single word of what she said.  I didn't want to be one of those stupid gringos who never heard English spoken by a non-whitey.  When she finally paused unexpectedly, I stammered out, "I'm . . . sorry? Can I help you?" and sounded like a stupid gringo.

"Oh, sorry.  I think I have wrong number!"

"That's -- "

*click*

" --  okay?"

In my mind, I've already concocted the whole story behind this.  She was atually a very, very frustrated employee within the Medical Center, and her boss just gave her some bad news or rode her case pretty hard.  He's a white guy, middle-management, probably has a fussy moustache that looks like something out of a joke shop.  IT was the last department to piss her off, so she random dialed my number.

MIDDLE-MANAGER:  "And so, Dolores, if I don't see a sharp improvement in your attendance, it'll be a write up, okay? Great, well, if you need me my door is always open."*  [MM walks away, self-satisfied]

DOLORES:  [waits until he's in his office, dials the random IT number, gets me]

SAMAEL:  "GE Centricity Business support.  This is Samael.  Can I help you?"

DOLORES:  [in Tagalog] "YOU GODDAMN SONOFA BITCH, I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU! KILL YOU AND FEED YOU TO MY PUSSY CAT! YOU WHORESON MOTHERFUCKING PENCIL-DICKED ASS-LICKING GAY-'STACHED BOTTOM BOY CHEAP-ASS CASTRO QUEEN DONG-SUCKING KNEEPAD JERKOFF CUMRAG SQUEAKING SISSYFIED JIZZ-GUZZLING POOP-EATING EVIL GODDAMN LITTLE BASTARD OF A MAN! FUCK OFF AND DIE OF SALMONELLA AFTER YOUR FAMILY GETS ASS RAPED BY GEORGE BUSH!"

SAMAEL:  "I'm . . . sorry? Can I help you?"

DOLORES  [exhaling] "Oh, sorry.  I think I have wrong number!" [hangs up]

MIDDLE-MANAGER:  [pokes his head out of the office]  "What was that, Dolores?"

DOLORES:  "Oh, just talking to my sister.  Very tough time.  I tell her I talk to her later.  Busy busy!"

* If ever a manager says this to your face, just hang yourself right away.  It'll save you time and pain.

Back-to-back obits.  This blog is getting more goth.

So, mime gets, somewhat justifiably, a bad rap as being creepy and easily mocked.  I've indulged in a little verbal mime-bashing in my time.  They're an easy target for ridicule.  They're a kind of clown, but, from a certain perspective, they're the worst kind of clown, in that you're supposed to take them seriously.  Clowns pour whitewash down each others' pants.  They hit each other with ladders.  You're not supposed to watch them without schadenfreude.  A guy squirming in an invisible box doesn't make you laugh, it just makes you kind of . . . uncomfortable.

Nontheless, I kept an open mind that mime done well was a remarkable art form.  That, theoretically, somewhere, there was a whole medium of valid performance art that was Very Important and Worthwhile.  I certainly knew the name of Marcel Marceau from an early age and his occasional television appearance in the 1970s.  But I was very young, and he seemed to eschew the small screen in favor of the stage as I got older.  He made a few large screen appearances, but even his infamous Mel Brooks' Silent Movie appearance -- Marceau had the only speaking line in the whole movie -- was very post-modern in its self-awareness.

But a few years ago, during my consulting days in San Francisco, Marcel Marceau performed live on stage in the city.  Given that this was probably a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a master of the art -- the Master, really, -- perform (and, sadly, how right I was) I could hardly pass it up. Well, this was the occasion to give it a Chance.

Sometimes, kids, keeping an open mind actually is a good idea.

I am so glad I got that ticket -- even moreso today.  It was remarkable.  I . . . just had no idea.  It's a surprisingly active, particapatory art:  your brain is busy filling in the blanks of meaning, association, logic, interpretation.  It's not like it's a demanding or draining experience -- no more so than watching an improv show, in some ways -- but when it's just a man and his movement, his face and body, all telling a story, conveying either a narrative or a mood, and when that man is Marcel Marceau, you can't help but get caught up in what he's doing on the stage.  "Transporting" is the best word I can come up with.  Few performers I've watched can convey that sense of "being there," let alone doing this without the benefit of sets, costumes, and dialogue -- raw, naked theater.  One performer who does have this skill, though I wish he'd take the opportunity to use it more frequently, is David Bowie, and it's little wonder (you little wonder, you) that he studied movement under Marceau.

He performed his classics that night.  Despite the unecessary intellectual wankery some still feel the need to do regarding man's place in the universe, "Walking Against the Wind" is still remarkable to see.  It's more than just a guy with complete control over his body, his mind completely immersed in the moment.  But if I try and explain any more about how it conveys various emotions, how it really does give you the sense of something larger than you thought a stage could hold, I risk falling into said wankery, so I won't do it.  I will, however, spend a few words on his "Mask Maker," because it was this piece that completely annihilated my skepticism of the man and his art.  Feigning holding various masks, Marceau would "put them on" his face, and contort his face into what he envisioned the mask would look like.  Sounds reasonably easy, right? Try like ten different distinct masks, and try putting them on and off in rapid succession, remembering where you "put" each mask and which mask you had on, and when you had them off.  His frozen expressions really did seem to become detached from his face, and you had the sense that he was only wearing his skin -- a statement that if you dwell with any length upon will open up an interesting line of thought that, I'm afraid, leads to aforementioned wankery.  Wearing the masks of "Youth, Maturity, Old Age and Death" only reinforced this train of thought, as his performance sums up (in rather misleadingly concise terms) the whole of human existence.

Read the whole obituary if you didn't know much about him.  In it is mentioned his stint with the French Resistance (Marceau was Jewish) and the more apocryphal story of when the Muse of Mime first descended upon him.  It was my distinct great fortune to have gotten to see him on stage, and I'm sad that it will remain the only such time.