Grandpa with a Rifle

I told just a handful of people about this stalker. In part, I hoped the problems would go away. I hoped the man would stop harassing me. In fact, he would stop. But then he would start again. Then stop again. Then start again.

Last January, in a rambling and abusive email, he mentioned he was a trained Marine sniper. It was a warning. I went to the police for the first time. But because it wasn’t a direct threat, they couldn’t do anything.

One February night, when he called at 2:21am from a blocked phone, I knew it was his laughter. But what could be done?

After months of silence, he appeared again last week, texting and calling. He was especially nasty. He mentioned my recently deceased mother and sent me a screen grab from her obituary. He mentioned my wife by name.

When I went to the police, they called him and left a voicemail advising him to call them back at the police department, and warning him to stop contacting me. He immediately texted me and advised me “don’t cry to the police department.” He didn’t return their call.

That was six days ago. This morning he texted and warned that “you’ll hear a knock on your front door tomorrow.” I immediately went to the police. They reviewed the text. Again, there was no direct threat, so they couldn’t do anything except call him.

How did this happen? The man did a hauling job for me. He seemed normal. Plus, he’s older — probably mid-70s. White haired and grandfatherly. When I tried to hire him for a second hauling job and he didn’t show up, I was disappointed. But I had a pile of dirt on the street that had to be hauled away. The next day, I hired someone else to do it.

Then he started calling and texting and emailing. He demanded money for the job he didn’t show up to do. In his mind, he was owed that money.

And here we are today. I texted him with instructions to pick up a check at the police station for the money. I know this is extortion, and that I don’t owe him money, and that he’s delusional. But I am hopeful that he will pick up the check and go away.

This experience tests my belief in the good nature of people. I am lucky, because lots of my friends and family, perhaps most of them, stopped believing in the basic good nature of people a long time ago. I never did. I always think people are basically good.

I don’t know. I just want the man to pick up the check and go away. I don’t want to become a headline in the news; I don’t want to continue looking over my shoulder for a grandpa carrying a rifle.

More tomorrow.

I enjoy Miami, but I love San Francisco.

I enjoy Miami, but I love San Francisco. It’s amusing when hot weather in SF makes people dress like they are in Miami. The things you see.

A while back, I helped make this film ab

A while back, I helped make this film about #TeachersWithoutBorders. Cool people doing cool things with their lives. http://ow.ly/RTBOS

My Beginnings

My mother is 94 years old. She remains in good health. Her three brothers remain in good health. They are 91, 89, and 82.

I envy my mom. She talks to Frank (the 89-year-old) on the phone every week for an hour. Mostly they talk about today. Once in a while, they talk about yesterday. They also meet up with Louis and George (91 and 82) at least once a year. I’m confident that, together, they could paint a good portrait of their lives as children in the 1920s and 30s.

My childhood in the 1960s and 70s is more modern. I have lots of photos. I can refer to newspapers and magazines that are quite relevant to my childhood, and the TV show “Mad Men” offered a remarkably good vignette of my surroundings as a child.

Nonetheless my childhood is quite indistinct, like a photo of an object in the distance. The only person who knows what it was like, who was there day-to-day, who might be able to bring that distant object into focus, is… my mother.

Which is kinda cool. Not everyone my age has his mother around. But it’s also disconcerting, because my mother won’t be around forever. When she dies, the last witness to my childhood will be gone.

I still have friends who remain close to me and remember me as a child. I still have uncles and aunts and cousins who remain close and remember me vividly. But without brothers and sisters, and without my father (who died 36 years ago), it’s just me and mom telling the day-to-day stories of our 1960s.

My situation isn’t unique. Lots of people grow up with no one, or lose their families early on. But lately, perhaps because mom is growing closer to her own ending, I wonder about the lad who was me. There are fewer and fewer people to ask, “Who was that guy?” At some point, my beginnings will become shrouded in impenetrable mystery.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask her something about me as an only child, growing up with me as her housemate for 18 years or so. Perhaps I can pull that object closer and make that portrait a bit more vivid.

I’ve been building a fence. Literally.

I’ve been building a fence. Literally. None of that metaphorical stuff. http://ow.ly/i/6MstB

Please Consider Yourself Thanked

I am surrounded by smart and compassionate people. They are:

Strong women and men
Blessedly gay and straight
Sunburn-challenged and white.

Some are athletic and others not so much.
Some see the world plainly and others not so much.

All of them feel and think a lot about a lot of things. And they testify. Daily.

Which means I am super-lucky and extremely grateful to know all of them. I think most fear and unfairness comes from people who don’t know so many different kinds of other people.

Emphasis on know. Not just meet or see or watch on TV. I know so many people (and so many kinds of people) that often I must step back, look around, and say “Thank you.”

Please consider yourself thanked.

Stay Fresh, Baseball!

Every sport is sweet.  The joys of competition and camaraderie are universal (although they can be tainted by excess).  If there is one thing I truly enjoy about the World Cup, it’s seeing so many people from so many cultures celebrating their love of football.

The sport I know best is baseball. I grew up playing it — I don’t remember existence without it — and some of my happiest childhood memories center on it.  Whether alone with my pitchback or on the field sharing the game with a thousand fans, baseball defined the peak experiences of my youth.

Like a lot of kids, I hoped to play professionally.  At 17, my skills were on the cusp of the elite, and my speed was exceptional. But I was often injured or otherwise compromised — pulled hamstrings, sprained thumbs, migraine headaches — and if there was one thing that differentiated a professional baseball player from a gifted amateur, it was the ability to play and play and play.  Then and now, the players you see on TV are nothing if not durable.

Many of my friends played a few seasons of minor league ball, and even as the years went by and I went to college and started a career, I thought somehow I would find a way to get there.  I don’t think I gave up on my baseball dreams until…  Until…  Oh, wait.  I haven’t given up.

Maybe that’s because baseball is still fresh for me.  It’s still inspiring.  Yesterday, I saw a 7-2-4 triple play with a double-review.  [BEGIN fan aside:  a rookie leftie named Kyle Crockett threw a good tailing fastball to the future Hall-of-Famer Adrian Gonzalez, who lofted a fly ball to left. Michael Brantley made a running catch and a strong throw to catcher Yan Gomes, who somehow caught the difficult in-between hop and tagged Dee Gordon, perhaps the fastest man in baseball, before throwing to second baseman Jason Kipnis, who tagged Yasiel Puig, who was called safe.  After a review of the out call at home and the safe call at second, the out call stood and the safe call was reversed.  Wow!  END fan aside.]

It’s unlikely I will ever see anything like that again, and that’s only part of the charm of baseball.  I could go on, and I will, but for now I’ll just say — stay fresh, baseball!  Because I’m comin’ for ya.  I’m managing the migraines and my legs are feeling good.  How about next year?  Only eight months till Spring Training…

Every Day is My First Day in LA

I was born in the Bay Area.  I’ve lived there all my life.  So here’s a weird thing most people don’t know about me:  I love LA.

I know, I know.  If you are a Bay Area partisan who can’t stomach LA it’s hard to handle this news about your boy Kevin.  Next thing you know, he’s going to tell you he loves… um… let’s see, wait, you can’t think of anything more disgusting.  Kevin has  gone to the dark side!

But driving down Sunset Boulevard on a sunny day (when you’ve got no particular place to go) and great LA radio is blasting and the fabulous LA pretty people are smiling and you’ve just been to your favorite bookstore (Samuel French) and you’re on your way to the best music store in the world (Amoeba) and the billboards are the size of skyscrapers (final season of True Blood!) and you’re looking forward to a game at Chavez Ravine tonight…  Yeah, LA is an awesome place.

I love New York.  Paris, Rome, London.  They are all great places.  San Francisco is amazing.  But today, right now, if you want to be in a place that reinvents itself every day (and you like that kind of energy)…  Every day is my first day in LA.

Five minutes, a while back

1979 was the year of my first grown-up relationship. Sort of.

I was not grown-up in any meaningful way. Although I was in college and able to vote, I was 12 years old emotionally and spiritually. My girlfriend at the time was patient. She was exceptionally grown-up, with a lively interest in the arts. She painted and sang and danced, all of which came in handy during the summer, when she worked at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire.

One day she was able to convince me to put on tights and work at the Ren. I was skeptical, but they needed an additional juggling teacher. I could juggle. I figured I’d see what all the Faire fuss was about.

As an unsophisticated boy, my main worry was obvious. I was faced with a great deal of cleavage and I was wearing tightie-whities under my see-through tights. I had to concentrate on my balls in order to keep from being distracted, and I did so with only mild success.

In the overall scheme of my life, the time I spent at the Ren was about five minutes.  But it was memorable, and I was reminded of that today, when I read Phyllis Patterson’s obituary.  RIP, co-creator of the Renaissance Pleasure Faire.  You and your life were amazing.

http://www.latimes.com/local/obituaries/la-me-phyllis-patterson-20140610-story.html

My mom complains that she is useless. Th

My mom complains that she is useless. This morning I arrived at her house and was greeted by the smell of cookies baking. USELESS?!