I have been to a number of weddings; as crasher, guest, friend, best man and even groom. I think there can be a certain level of expectation that drives these parties to be somewhat different than most gatherings. Like the roommate of mine who wore a see through, wide knit, fishnet body stocking for a wedding dress. I was not going to complain, she looked nice in it, but I felt she would have been more comfortable in something warmer up on that windy San Francisco hill in Bernal Heights. BTW, that wedding took place in a circle of salt, presided over by a (good) witch, who read something about tree roots.

On the other side of the coin, I went to a wedding many years ago that took place in the same church used in the movie Sideways. It included a full Catholic mass and in the middle of making her vows, the bride had to walk over and kneel before the statue of Mary to prey. I think her parents had a lot to do with all that, as in, it was their money. In truth, on any given weekend this girl was more likely to be preying to the porcelain god than the Christian one.

This latest wedding had its oddities as well. The room was cramped, to the point I was looking around for alternative exits. The event, which was a dinner, was supposed to start at 6pm, but we pretty much chewed on our chopsticks until around eight. At that point a pee-wee Herman looking character started giving a bit of oratory. Interestingly he gave it in three languages (Cantonese - groom, Vietnamese - bride, and English.) Even more interestingly, after finishing the speech, he broke out into a lounge act, wandering the tables with his wireless microphone, singing.

After that *of course* they fired up the power point presentation. I could not really see it that well from my seat, but they made sure to plug the sound system into the laptop and managed to pipe a distinct hum around the room during the entire presentation. Then a few more speeches and introductions of every relative on each side. At this point, in our hunger induced skepticism, we were wondering what motivates a man (like the groom) to wear a white tux, and laying odds that the bride was not just eating for one.

It was all in good fun, of course. Weddings by their serious nature invite comedy, or at least things that I find funny. Like the time a cousin of mine married a dark skinned (not white) surfer on the ocean cliffs (not church.) The relatively conservative parents were quite unhappy about all this and needed just one little straw to bring it to the surface. When the judge (not priest) used the wrong names in the wedding vow section (he was on the wrong page of his book) the mother yelled out "Noooo!", lurched forward and fell to the ground. Or the time two friends who are gay were getting married in Monterey. Dressed in matching tuxes, walking up the bike path to their cliff top, ocean view wedding, a little girl innocently yelled out "Where's the bride?"

One can only smile and say the answer is a little complex, like all good weddings.

The tomatoes are melted sunshine in your mouth, a bite of peach yields firm sweetness with the unmistakable follow on tart twist to the taste buds, apples have an aroma and sometimes a worm, and you have never tasted a sweet pepper until you have eaten one the of the colored varieties from Happy Quail Farms. I like watching the ebb and flow of the products, too. Early in the summer the cherries came on hard, then the peaches and nectarines. Right now the tomatoes have a lot of flavor. The apricots never tasted good, perhaps a victim of the late rains. It adds a certain realism to the food, having it mark the passage of time and changing seasons. Makes the food more a part of life.

I suppose the same could be said of fashion, in that symmetrical, yin/yang, opposite sides of the coin, kind of way. Fashion marks the time and seasons in a way that adds a certain unrealism to clothes. I should show pity for the poor tag line manager at Macy's; but ridicule is so much more entertaining. I imagine a creative type coming up with the slogan, "What inspires you?", then finishing the question strongly with some Macy’s clothing line like "...World Traveler, Urban Chic, Distressed Denim." The manager thinks that is great, but does not quite get the subtly needed in applying the tag line in general.

The ultimate result can be seen in the display board I snapped a picture of in the womens department of the San Rafael Macy's. What do you want to bet he likes the taste of the fruit at Safeway.

Most of the time, it went smoothly. Look out for dangerous animals, knock on the door and listen for movement, announce loudly that you were "Collecting for the Chronicle!" Give thanks for the money, thanks again for a tip, allow the lonely to chat it up a bit. Sometimes, it did not go smoothly.

Behind the door I could hear the yelling of a rabid man and a crying woman or two. After a hesitation I loudly knocked my introduction and quickly ran back to my bike on the sidewalk. I wanted to disrupt the scene but not become part of it. As luck would have it, he came to the door without a gun, but the large kitchen knife in his hand was still a bit unnerving. Returning another day the mother apologized and said she had called the police on her hot head son that day. On another occasion a weeping woman answered the door at my request. Her husband was "not waking up", she told me. I went with her to the back bed room and there was no pulse or even much warmth left in his arm. I had her dial up the fire department and told her I would come back another day for the money. I learned later he died from a burst artery.

It was not all hardship and drama. In fact, when I think back on delivering papers, the most memorable aspect of the job was the food. Oddly, my later food service jobs have no such associations. In the early summer mornings, it was easy to steal fruit from the trees around town. On the weekends I always made my way over to one of the donut shops. After school, with my new found riches, I could stuff myself with every kind of sugary treat imaginable. I broke free of the relatively healthy eating habits enforced by my parents and washed Hostess snacks down with Pepsi sucked through a red-vine straw, finally chased with a mix of caramels and fruit flavored chews.

Looking back I am not sure if working a paper route was the most healthy job to have, but at least it tasted good.

I was going to send in my post card, but since I posted it here, I guess it is no longer a secret. Saves me some postage, anyway.

POSTSECRET is a blog of scanned in post cards (maybe they use something like my cool hp scanjet 4600.) People mail their homemade post cards anonymously, each one with a secret written on it. Having people make their own cards avoids copyright problems (which I probably have here) and works as a natural deterrent to phonies. Avoiding fakes is important because the true attraction of the site is its high reality quotient.

Browsing the cards you come across a sprinkling of the humorous and the obvious, but most of the cards contain some fact that would really put a hole in the story the author has built around themselves in their everyday life. Such frailty of the human condition has an appeal that cannot be denied.

I think we like to see the struggles and failures of others. Whether watching a car wreck on the side of the freeway or seeing a celebrity get fat, pregnant, divorced and bankrupt in line at the super market. It might be a misguided side effect of Competitiveness, i.e. if someone is losing, we must be winning, but I have not seen any studies to support this. One thing I have seen is that reality shows prey on this condition like the mosquitoes in my backyard come after warm blood. Putting people in zero sum games and goading on the subsequent blood bath is formula in this genre.

Someone like Howard Stern might get a lot of heat for this sort of spectacle, but his shows seem at least somewhat organic and free flowing. Worse to my tastes are shows like Survivor in which the players are programmed (in the Jim Jones sense of the word) and manipulated into the desirously ugly behavior. On those shows we get a double dose, with the actors going at each other’s throats and the producers putting their thumb on everyone. POSTSECRET falls more in the emergent/raw side in its production, but I have to argue against its claim to being art.

At the risk of limiting by defining, I see art is an individual’s filter on the world. It is the expression of one interpreting the condition of the rest. Art can, even in its most raw and detailed form, provide an abstraction to a larger view. Each post card on its own can stand up as art, but taken together they are something different. Together, they are just too real.

Such conflict is a common theme in his films. The natural is as we are familiar with in our world; love, friendship, jealousy and betrayal. The technical also has much that is familiar, but adds a good dose of extra magic. After all, "any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." (Author C. Clark)

There are planes, trains and autos side by side with teleportation doors, crystal balls and winged beasts. There are guns and bombs, augmented with magic charms and spells. It is not a big leap to include what we might think of as mystical into our better understood technology. It actually fits the model of duality quite well. Putting magic in league with technology is a smooth transition, and it butts up against human nature as well as any VRU (phone tree) you are likely to try and get help from on the other end of a customer service 800 number.

This movie is less morally ambiguous than Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke (his best in my opinion), where the ratchet affect of technical progress is linked directly to its natural cost. That movie was like having to watch a innocent animal killed before your eyes, prior to it being served up as an embarrassingly appetizing entree. In Howl’s world the characters using love and loyalty behind their technology are able to achieve some personal goals and battle their larger foes to a draw. In the end, the natural is able to keep the technical at bay.

On the animation, one detail I particularly liked was the occasional mixing of realistically rendered artifacts - doors, plants, fixtures, clouds - with the more prevalent cartoon drawing. It is a small thing, but really adds to the depth and complexity of the environment. All the backgrounds are great, too. I think I could watch his mist swept, grassy mountains as a visualization to music for as long as he could draw them.

Go see it, and check out his other movies Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, My Neighbor Totoro, Castle in the Sky, Kiki's Delivery Service, Warriors of the Wind.

Above, for example, is a history of the price of my hp scanner (which I really like, BTW.) Clicking through the price chart brings up some more detailed charts of high priced sellers vs. low priced sellers over time and a couple other data graphics. I paid $35 for my hp scanner, which is a pretty good deal compared to a year ago. As might be expected, all the price charts of technology items have a severe downward slope. Except for Apple products, which tend to be flat or slightly sloped. There is something to be said about proprietary products. What that something is depends on whether you want to own the stock or own the ipod.

It might not be the killer marketing gimmick, but I think small things like this make a site interesting, really drive traffic and build a brand. Google and Amazon both do that sort of thing successfully on occasion. For example, Amazon lets you search the full text of books. Google maps out the Thai restaurants you searched for overlaid on a map with text balloons. Both are examples of interesting features that attract people.

Maybe Nextag’s price histories are working, too. It seems they are growing in the opposite direction of the price of most of the stuff on their site.

Two by two they fly in and permeate the entire ecosystem. Everywhere, young couples are holding hands, snorkeling, paddling boats, eating shaved ice. All of them, slowed in pace, floating from activity to activity with smiles on their faces. I could see the plan of new love all around me, hear the island whisper its potency of relaxation, and I could just guess what was going on at night. (Although there is not much else to do at night on Kauai.) Luckily, I was able to escape their fate by keeping a couple of loud, demanding, slightly sleep deprived but constantly energized, pre-teens, always at my side. I knew the kids would someday save me from a fate most people only read about in expensive travel magazines. Oh well, I was right.

If you ever find yourself as part of a couple and in need of shedding some cash, I recommend a visit to the island. Be sure to go to Kipu Falls near Lihu’e, where you can jump off a ~30 foot cliff into a cold pool of fresh stream water. It is an interesting feeling to tell your body to jump, and have your body say NO. The body is probably right, but I jumped anyway, and it was fun, in retrospect.

The fun part was dealing with the "bosses". These men were no more skilled, intelligent or empathetic than any one else in the group, but through some mysterious means had been given a place above us in the hierarchy. Having no clue what it means to guide or motivate people, they relayed messages from the top without question and relied on fear to get things done. One look at me and they built an entire mental model, filed it away in their brain and treated me thereafter in a very predictable and stereotyped manner. With such a blind spot I imagined all sorts of tricks and manipulations that would open up, with no one ever suspecting. I know, a lot of people would categorize that as a nightmare.

For a long time I have felt the ability to categorize is important to getting things done and building mental models, but at the same time it is a weakness. Everything, everyone, is really different, and the more we unquestionably rely on things or people being the same, the more we are blinded to what is really happening. This blindness is not always a problem, but if someone sees you are blind and decides to use it to their advantage, it can be hard to defend against.

In a draconian sense, you can allow yourself to become a mind-slave. This is not so bad if the master is whispering "stop smoking" or "be nice", but those voices seems to fade out after the age of 10. Soon after it is "be cool and smoke" or "be mean" or "the cause of all your suffering and pain are those other people who a) have leprosy/aids/some other disease as punishment b) have dark skin c) are not male d) believe in a different god e) have a different sexual orientation."

I came across an interesting study about children’s naiveté, that also reveals the blindness of categorization. The article, quoting the authors of study of how children remember things differently than adults, had this to say:

Another route to arguing that we should be smarter about when to use categorization comes from philosophy. In reading Heidegger’s The Question Concerning Technology, he recreates the word Gestell (bookrack, skeleton) into a term which is usually translated as Enframing, but which I read as Categorization. In Gestell he sees the source, or essence, of why we have pursued and succeeded in technology. He also finds danger there. If we allow it to override all other aspects of our being, bad things will follow (I am paraphrasing here.) Not surprisingly for Heidegger, his solution to / protection from this danger refers back to the Greeks and their use of the poetic. He posits that art and technology for the Greeks was combined, or at least balanced, more than they are today. That art allows us to see more clearly.

Part of what gives an artist or designer their results is an ability to turn off categorization, to see things not in the usual context but to "awaken and found anew our look", and go forward from there. Not wholly unlike the path to innovation (but that is a different soap box.)

p.s. In case you are wondering why I would include Heidegger (philosophy) instead of, say, Jung (psychology), in a entry about a dream, I was a little surprised myself. You see, when I woke up that day last week, I figured the dream was metaphorical and this entry would end up as a bit of psychoanalysis. Until two days later, when I was laid off from my job due to cost cutting. Such literalness really demands a more philosophical approach. Although in truth I do hope the dream does not completely play itself out.

Doris works with one of the organizers, who finds a suitably sized club, gets some bands together and has a small number of arts & crafts people come out to sell their wares. The last one we attended, I felt I should have brought the kids along, as everyone else seemed to. Later I learned why, the opening band that night, Slot Machine, was made up of grade school kids. They sounded good. Not all of the bands do.

The music is decidedly loud-electric-guitar-centric, although the Everlasting Arms’ bass guitarist and the Nagg’s female lead singer were the notable performers Thursday night. There is always lots of fun stuff to buy; knitted hats, metal belt buckles, ornate baked goods, jewelry and shoes. I typically stick to buying the beer, but Doris is not above getting something. It is also nice to have some reference point as to what might be a good club to visit. God knows I do not have time figure it out anymore, and I have ended up at too many "Foreign Cinema" scenes to want to try.

This month’s venue, The 12 Galaxies, is a good case in point. A nice sized, roomy downstairs with bar and stage, plus a balcony ringed upstairs to allow viewing from above. A beer and cocktail was $9.50, plus the $14 to get us both in. One could not really talk while the bands were playing, but I did notice a familiar man in a dark blue polyester suit walking around with a sign of odd words.

Then I remembered reading about The 12 Galaxies when it opened and how it got its name from Frank Chiu, the man with the sign. He has been around for some time, ranting about how the presidents are from another galaxy and generally repress his civil rights (he says he learned this via ESP from prison guards that were really KGB.) I used to see him walking the streets of the financial district during the 90’s calling for Clinton’s impeachment (ahead of the curve there) and other less sane rants. It turns out the owners decided to use his now well recognized (at least in SF) brand and gave him a job. He even took a turn on the mic. that night, with some signature, unintelligible verse. I imagine he might have been talking about the mayors across the street, believing them to be from another Galaxy and trying to take advantage of him and others like him. Sadly, I think they may not bee from another Galaxy.

The Chorus is about 90% female and interesting to watch for the interaction between the girls. The light touch on the arm for acknowledging a good job, the almost jerky head movements to share eye contact and smiles within the smaller groups, the jockeying for position with obvious social/peer status overtones, the energy of being part of something. This, all before they even sing.

I sometimes wonder how difficult it is to be a child in middle school. My memories of the day to day life at that age seem to be fading, like the photos of my year books. Hopefully it is quite less harsh than the Boychoir School in Princeton, whose sordid path of power/child abuse I came across, coincidently, this same night. Not that her school is always a picnic to navigate. Some of the things I hear...

Lets see, there was the drug & alcohol survey that showed the school well above the state average for both regular and binge use, the 8th grade girl prostitution ring, the two boys expelled for the not-quite-rape of a girl, the student protest/walkout of class that carried threats of expulsions (but no explanation) in the school newsletter, a parade for one student’s 50th detention of the year during recess, dispersed when the assistant principle picked a few revelers at random for their own detention. I am probably just skimming here.

I remember the Principal, hired after an arduous summer talent search, giving an impassioned speech about the bright future at the beginning of the school year, and even sitting in with his guitar at the first Chorus concert. Last week, I could almost feel his despair while reading the politically correct notice to parents about his changing of life priorities, and (desperate?) need to no longer be a middle school principle.

I suppose it is all good preparation for high school’s real transition. On a brighter note, this time of their life is not so bad for us parents. We are starting to regain a little independence and free time, still have our kids’ respect and get a reward now and then for some of our work.

I was sitting next to a mom that I know, who has not had the easiest of time with her kids, and happens to be a big Beatles fan. Her daughter and another girl were the featured soloist and sang Hey Jude. The almost hidden tear in her eye was a wave of emotion I could feel pass through me. I smiled and, in my mind at least, gave her that light touch on the arm. No, not American Idol, but sometimes real life is worth watching too.

I was not always such a fan of Hamlet. I recall certain events that convince me I was actually a terror as a small child. I can remember my family moving into a new neighborhood when I was around 4. The first thing I did was take off down the street. Upon finding another boy of about the same age, I proceeded to fight him. It ended in a standoff (4 year olds are not terribly effective street fighters) and we decided to become friends. Today I could write a book about being passive/aggressive, but I sometimes wonder what went on in that little kid's head.

I am sure, slowly, I came more and more to rationalize my experiences. A metered self awareness. The same friend, when I was in Kindergarten, came one day to inform me that he had discovered a word much worse than the F-word, our chosen curse at the time. Curiosity aroused, after the appropriate amount of begging on my part, he informed me it was the F-word proceeded by Mother. Having no idea what the F-word meant, I was at a total loss as to how putting the word mother in front of it made it any worse. I even pressed him, "are you sure they didn't say double, or maybe put another swear word in there, somewhere?" I was obviously not as impressed or giddy as he expected. I tried to chalk it up to the whimsy of the faceless "they", but left somehow disappointed, silently questioning the anti-authority.

I never hear Conor swear, oddly enough, but his trips to the Principle's office have continually declined over the years, so he would seem to be a little like his father. Slowly placing himself in context with his environment, in a way other than aggressor or reactionary. I suppose I have a few years of this mellow march towards the teen years. During which I can observe and enjoy teen angst as a detached observer in the privacy of a DVD player. Whether I will have the same tastes in movies after being cast as the authority figure in my son and daughter's teen play, well, that depends on how many Tangent Universes I have to juggle.

Afterword. One interesting model I came across was of the teen years as detention camp.

It's important to realize that, no, the adults don't know what the kids are doing to one another. They know, in the abstract, that kids are monstrously cruel to one another, just as we know in the abstract that people get tortured in poorer countries. But, like us, they don't like to dwell on this depressing fact, and they don't see evidence of specific abuses unless they go looking for it.

Public school teachers are in much the same position as prison wardens. Wardens' main concern is to keep the prisoners on the premises. They also need to keep them fed, and as far as possible prevent them from killing one another. Beyond that, they want to have as little to do with the prisoners as possible, so they leave them to create whatever social organization they want. From what I've read, the society that the prisoners create is warped, savage, and pervasive, and it is no fun to be at the bottom of it.

I'll have to let Alison know she is going to prison next year.

Conor happy the rain has stopped.

Alison in character, as usual, wearing her hand made costume. Thanks, Doris.

Holloween is fun for kids of all ages. At USCB is was *the* big party, to say nothing of what goes on in the City these days. But for Alison and Conor, it really kicks their brains into high gear. The costumes and change of routine immediately starts them creating imaginary worlds and scenarios, into which they can place their new characters for play. I see the play activity jump at other times, too. If they get a new toy, or if they are put in a very rich environment. By rich I mean something with a lot of deformity and complexity. Like a bubble bath or wilderness (e.g. camping or visiting the creek.) It is almost like their minds are pushed to deal with the variety at hand, and in my quite unbiased opinion, they excel.

There is one other interesting aspect to their level of play. On a normal basis, when they hit the transition point of boredom and want to change their activity. If they have the opportunity to watch TV, they will do that and stop all visible play and interaction. If the TV is not there, they will reengage in active play. I cannot know what is going on in their heads, but all visible evidence indicates that TV does not provide even the same challenge and stimulus to the brain as, say, a tree.

Of course, I cannot restrict it in a normal sense, as that would make it a future target for rebellion, and complete isolation would likely put them at a social disadvantage. My strategy, instead, is a combination of inconvenience, role model and substitution. The inconvenience is that I do not have broadcast or cable TV available in the home, although their mother and every other place they might hang out, does have it. So it does not feel like a restriction, just an inconvenience. The role model is me. I might drink and swear and carouse in front of the kids, but watch TV, no way. For substitution there is movies or prerecorded shows (they love Star Trek: TNG, of course), limited by going out to the video store. Thankfully, where I live, they have thwarted Blockbuster's entry and you can actually rent movies other than those top ten box office hits that are no more than two weeks old. I am usually against such heavy-handedness, and I was in this case, until I actually visited a few Blockbusters. That was scary in a way quite different than Holloween.

p.s. in case you think your email at work is private, it is not.