Yes, it's a cat post

I’d seen cats hunting birds with ferocious ineptitude. I’d seen one climb the curtains with kitten claws and an “I’ve made a terrible mistake” expression. And I’d seen a cat sitting with absolute dignity despite the toupee of cobweb stuck on its head. All very normal feline behavior. But I’d never seen a cat worn like a scarf before.

My new apartment was fine, good location and a Japanese maple right outside my window, but it was when I met the neighbors that I realized I’d won the housing lottery. (Again.) The entire building was chock full of people I’d like to talk to, with just this one last neighbor to meet.

His name is Sullivan.

I’ve never met a cat I didn’t like (and only one dog) but this rather corpulent kitty took neighborly likability to a whole new level. And left me with the question, how did I survive three decades without learning about Maine coon cats? (Apparently they’re common in the best houses?)

I’m used to feline independence with the flavor of aloofness, but Sully’s self-sufficient roamings seem more like what he does while he’s waiting to run into you. And whereas I learned that each cat has a very specific set of regulations on exactly how you may be permitted to pet their majesty, with Sullivander? Anything goes.

He’s the only cat I’ve ever seen that doesn’t have to land on his feet. You can hold him upside down, he’s happy, then just sort of lay him down like a sandbag and he just...cooperates. Looks up at you to see what’s next.

When my lady’s five-year old comes to visit, and has the chance to practice getting to know an animal (allergies and modern schedules keep them out of his homelife) I could think of no better animal for it than the Sull-tan of Oakland. Those two fell in love immediately. And watching the two of them, I feel like purring.

My reply to my neighbor's text: "Is Sully with you?"

The Sullimander wanders the hallway like a love ambush, and the second I open my door will lynx slink through to take up puma possession of the premises. It is a battle to remove him, and one from which I don’t mind abstaining, just shove a shoe in the door so he can get out whenever he likes, and perhaps the best procrastination sessions of my life have been petting him until his purrs rebound off the walls and his drool of delight spatters my floor. Totally worth it.

But all good things must come to an end, and Sullivander Hollifield’s owners are moving out this weekend. I’ll miss the furry bugger, but am damn glad I got to meet him.

Traveler medical condition: FDS

I noticed it in Nicaragua. After the long cold Northern European winter I was on the road again, no apartment to return to but a ripe teaching job five months down the Latin American road, so the world was my ostra.

To be clear, I loved (and still love) Nicaragua.
I do not miss traveling during that presidency.

Post red-eye delirium and euphoria in my blood, I circumvented the clusterfuck of cabbies (the technical term for the species), jumped in a weary informal taxi across the road and pulled closed the door. It didn’t actually latch, but no matter, I could hold it closed as we battled our way through the traffic melee of Managua. The humid air tasted like it looked, a brown smear of exhaust, dust, and decay, and I was ecstatic. I never though those three flavors could taste like freedom, sucked into my lungs and held in carcinogenic bliss.

Travel's not always pretty

But when a shared minivan dropped me off in Leon a few hours later, I got lost right away, and felt only anger. Damnit, how did I misread the map? And the dorm was empty of the kindred spirits I hoped to meet, so I ate tacos alone, wondering when the fun would start. And why they were playing The Backstreet Boys. And when I finally found a postcard, the lady behind the counter told me there was no post office in town, but the hostel staff pointed me to the one around the corner from where she’d lied to me. Was I not welcome here, lonely and awkward and fearing I’d forgotten how to travel?

That wasn’t it. It was just a case of FDS.

You’re going traveling! Think of all the legends you’re about to live, stories that will shine for years in an exotic haze of friendship, exploration, and exhilaration. The people you’ll meet, the food you’ll eat, the sights you’ll...I dunno...greet. It’s going to be so amazing!

And nobody loves a snatch thief

You’re here! Every calendar square of waiting was an interminable eternity, and linguistic redundancy be damned! Because now you’re here, checking into a hotel that’s...it’s okay. No, really, it’s fine. Nice even. Sure. You don’t mind the smell on the sheets or the breath of pipe funk that steams up out of the drain, and not every room can have a nice view. Look how overloaded that electrical pole is. Total fire hazard. How exotic! You’re intrepid! Let’s go eat!

Okay, so not everything on the menu is the same.
Who's hungry for baby pigeon!

Oh. Wow. That actually wasn’t as good as the version of it you get back home. Huh. But no, it was good. Interesting even. As long as it doesn’t make you sick. Now, the people! Let’s go meet!

Okay, that one guy was just a douchebag. And sure, lots of these guys just want to take advantage of you, and seem rather unscrupulous, and you feel like a walking ATM. But that’s natural. This is fun. You think. Sorta. You fight it, but there’s just something missing. It’s just not what you had in mind. Maybe it’s jetlag?

It’s not jetlag. You have FDS. First Destination Syndrome.

Beautiful beaches! And the pollution that's killing them.

Side effects may include disappointment, unexpected boredom, and persistent self-questioning “What the hell am I doing here?”

But I have good news. You’re not alone. And it will pass. And even better: there’s a Second Destination Syndrome.

Flowers, happiness, and non-squished innards

The phrase “botanical garden” feels like my pants don’t fit. That probably needs explanation. When I was a wee lad, we took a summer vacation up to Victoria, British Columbia for a few days, and I remember three things: musicians down by the harbor, afternoon tea at the Empress, and the Butchart Gardens.

The musician was an Irish lad on his way to the international bagpipe championships in some exotic-sounding place. I believe it was Indiana. I was six. Tea at the empress was unnoticed beside the lesson that wearing the dress pants from your uncle’s wedding months prior is inadvisable when you’re a growing boy. I remember sitting at the table, unbuttoning my pleated prison, and taking the first full breath since we’d left the hotel.

Care for a crumpet?

No thank you, I’m busy letting my internal organs return to their customary habitat.

As for the Butchart Botanical Gardens? Well, the lymphatic system only remembers the strongest sensations, so whatever floral fracas they presented were swept away by the sensation of death by abdominal strangulation.

So when my lady suggested we swing by the Tilden botanical gardens after an unreasonably enjoyable Sunday afternoon stroll with her and her preposterously lovable five year old son, it was more their presence than the destination that made me jump at the offer.

But I gotta hand it to the East Bay Regional Park District, they sure know how to garden. Placed in a little dell where a ticklish tributary of Wildcat Creek sneaks through, you can wander among a magnificent array of native California wildflowers, cacti, trees and anything that cared to grow a leaf in this zone over the few thousand years before outsiders arrived.

We sat in the sun and finished the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches the world has ever known, and smiled with the benevolence of profoundly comfortable people at anyone who walked past.

Safe to say, when I hear the phrase “botanical garden” now, the sensation I get is not one of crushed kidneys.

Am I losing my mind? Or just a piece?

With the help of cold wind, science, and other people’s road rage, I freaked myself out pretty good last night.

Pretty normal Thursday, rock-climbing went well, great conversations with friends old and new, climbed a 5.11D, and finished with a dripping burger and fairly gourmet tater tots. What’s not to like?

Then I took the train back to Oakland, where the wind was sneaking down into the station, chivalrous warning of the chill upstairs, so I stopped, set my backpack on the bench, and dug out my spare shirt. Warmer, I left just ahead of a loud crowd of semi-drunk and fully-young revelers.

Singapore traffic races

That would have been an appropriate time to remember the study I heard about a few years back, about folks mired in that most pestilential of modern traditions: the traffic jam. Specifically, the road ragers. The “I’m gonna beat you” in the daily non-race, and the “Put down your damn phone and pay attention!” and the “How f’ing dare you change lanes in front of me!” etc.

Because rage is aggression is animal adrenaline, designed to aid the muscles in fight or flight, yes? Well, road ragers behind steering wheels have no muscular output (sorry, twitching your calf doesn’t count) so that adrenaline just sits in the blood in the brain, and this study found that it’s corrosive as battery acid in there. Scary thought, n’es pas?

Why you gotta take yourself so seriously, car?
Chicago gets it. (What do you expect,
parking in front of student housing?)

Well I’m not much of a road rager these days, blessed by the benevolence of not owning a car, and when I do, when another bloomin’ BMW/Prius/white car treats my physical well-being with the same respect your cat offers the newspaper you’re reading, I can burn it off with quadriceps femoris, iliopsoas, and sartorius. Feels good. (Especially if there are traffic lights, cuz then I beat them in our little non-race.)

The problem for me is my habit of waking up a couple times a night with a wee blossom of adrenaline accelerating my pulse. No muscular salvation at 3:17 AM, and I worry it’s rotting my brain.

Never said a biker can't enjoy a little speed.
Somebody in Chicago agrees.

Which is why, when I got home last night to discover that I had somehow, preposterously, just left my pack right there on the bench and walked off, I was kinda freaked out. Another bitty bloom of aggression chemicals.

But I’d be less worried, less condemnatory and castigatory, if someone else were to tell me that story. After all, it seems like something people do. Just not, y’know, me. Other people can be fallible, but I should know better. Psh. I forgive myself, and there are worse things to be than a space cadet.

How you doin', Oakland?

Losing my pack wouldn’t have been devastating, since it held my climbing gear, book I’d almost finished, and bike lock, but I admit to a sentimental fondness for the harness and shoes that have given me so much joy over the years. But when I got to BART this morning and found my bag nestled under the attendant’s desk, I was overjoyed. Reunited, and it feels so good.

No one was in the booth at 11:00 last night, which means my bag lay there in plain view overnight. That no one would snoop through it was unlikely, and indeed, someone nicked the carabiner. But the fact that they didn’t throw the rest in the lake, or try to sell it under an overpass for $5, but left it to be returned to me feels like a rather splendid example of kindness.

I see yo over there, Oakland, looking all pretty

Maybe we’re not such a bad people after all, we denizens of a poorly-reputed parallel metropolis. Or maybe my shoes just stink.

Nah, I’m gonna go with a nice lack of greed and presence of kindness. I’m gonna go with gratitude and optimism. And who knows, maybe they’ll  repair some of the holes in my noggin. May you have a gratitudinous and optimistilicious day! (And take it easy in traffic.)

I can see why people want to live here, Chicago

Lots of glass, making sonic canyons for the honking of taxis. Perfect weather, enough snow flurries to keep it interesting but nothing sticking to seep in slushy slop through my silly shoes (I’m Californian, I don’t have the wardrobe for precipitation). The urban rumble of the L train making periodic passes through the air and the ear. All of it was beautiful, all of it was Chicago, but my main memory of the city doesn’t live in the eyes or the ears or the skin.

Just a typical intersection, but I dig the train.

You’d think it would be felt in the feet. My new phone has one of those pedometer things. Is 24,163 good for a day? Downtown Chicago is a walkable city, as long as you don’t mind cars slicing through the crosswalk closer and faster than we West Coasters prefer.

Cars and magic flying schoolbusses both

Walking all day was fine by me, but I had suggestions from some of y’all marvelous folk, so went looking for those. The Art Institute of Chicago was a lovely warren of rooms, where my lady and I found an attendant/guard who agreed with us, John Singer Sargent sure did know his business.

Outside the Art Institute, Chicago's
skyline fading into the morning mist

And I liked the Chicago Cultural Center just fine, with its interior walkways and Eschertastic stairwells, even before one of my lady’s coworkers told me its story. Apparently after the great fire of 1871 burned down the entire city, the French felt so bad about the loss of the great Chicago library that they sent money to rebuild it. The people of Chicago were so grateful that they neglected to tell ze French that they hadn’t had a library in the first place. Sssssh!

Walking incurred a rather windy hunger, which fed my main memory. I hear tales of American food deserts and feel compassionate despair for them and gratitude for living in the Bay Area, but lordy lordy, Chicago ain’t got nothing to complain about. Those folks know how to eat.

So many to choose from, Greek to pizza, barbeque to Bayless’s Mexican, but it was the crepes that snagged my top spot. Because what else would you expect to find under a train station than a French market complete with opulent truffles, Belgian fries, and bona fide French people making crepes at 9:00 in the morning? Merci!

So Chicago was tall buildings, varied art, aesthetic snow, and groaning metal. It was also ham, bacon, eggs, cheddar, cream cheese, and fresh blueberry jam for breakfast, followed hours later by slow-cooked apples, salted caramel, vanilla cream, and toffee chunks for dessert.

Yup, Chicago was pretty sweet.

I can see why people want to live here, Oakland

New phone, they say the camera's better, but out
the window of a moving bus is not optimal

This was no exception to my habit of beginning air-travel days in a state of maximal hygiene, fresh shirt and thorough shower, but arriving at the airport nice and sweat-soaked anyway. But given that it was 86° F in Oakland, that wasn’t all that surprising.

Healthy bodies and sunshine smiles were gathered around Lake Merritt, on blankets and in running shoes, and the frisbees didn’t care that it was a workday. In the bus, we stood and swayed, smiled vaguely and forgot that “sweater” can refer to clothing as well as identity. And when we disembarked the AC Transit steed of slightly stained seats, it was into a Frank Ogawa Plaza filled with food trucks, conversation, and sunglasses.

Not even hungry, I wanted to stop and eat anyway.

Smelling carne asada and grass, blinking at sun and skin, I felt the paired desires of my feet, the push to stop to sit meshing in sympathetic opposition with the pull to keep going. A mighty fine place, I can see why people want to live here, Oakland.

But I had a ticket, somewhere in the electric cloud, for a metal bird to carry me, up among the vapor clouds, to Chicago, the Land of Wild Garlic. (Probably should have said more overtly last time that that’s the translation for the indigenous word shikaakwa from which the city derives its name.)

First impression outside the hotel

Upon arrival, there was only room in my mental carry-on for food and sleep, but yesterday I got up and out into the city. Looking through the window of my memory I saw California sunshine, but the window of the hotel showed swirling white flakes.

My coat may have been closed up tight, but my heart and mind were open, looking to see why people would want to live here, Chicago. What waited on these streets?

(And thank you to everyone who gave me suggestions for what to see here. I've already checked a couple things off the list...)

Panama papered with money

Panama is a transitory sort of place, a door of sand and rebar where Pacific pressures seek Atlantic relief, South American impetus touches North American markets, and the West Indies just want to finally find the Orient. And my first time there, it was a clanging casino where women with little clothing looked for men who wanted to see them with even less.

The woman I was with had substantially more clothing on, and was just looking to withdraw some cash. (I assure you, we were entirely platonic.) We hoped to be co-passengers on a boat to Colombia, and finding a place for a cash advance in Panama City was harder than you’d think. Our local friend’s advice was to try the casino.

Where do people want money more urgently than in a casino? And where else is there the kind of security that ensures they’ll have money on hand, and that you’ll get to keep it when they give it to you?

While she concentrated on paper forms, I peered at the lifeforms.

In the main room sprawled a crowd of retired, wealthy, and vaguely confused men who looked like they were having fun. But for the withdrawal, we had to go into a higher roller’s room, where the few specimens were quiet, young, and determined to look like movie tough guys. (The lights aren’t that bright, bro, you probably don’t need to wear those thousand-dollar sunglasses. And not much need for a poker face when you’re playing blackjack.) They didn’t look like they were having fun. Too Jason Statham-faced.

“This town is so full of crooks” sighed our local friend. “None of these boys pays taxes. Well, none of these boys work, but their papi’s don’t pay taxes.”

I thought of all the Cayman Island flags I’d seen brazenly displayed on luxury yachts over the years, taunting the taxpayers, and was unsurprised.

“Panama City has long been where corrupt politicians come after they get kicked out of their countries, and they bring their treasuries with them. We’ve got lots of first-class pendejos here.” She added. “But now we get all sorts of shady businessmen too. Okay, ready to go?”

I was, and we did (and the days on the boat were magnificent). But that image, glittering rich people who refuse to pay back to the societies that made them wealthy, came to mind this week when I read about the Panama Papers.

Are they surprising? Not remotely. Are they important, as an opportunity to change this system? Absolutely. I for one am hoping to see something come about from this, beyond forcing the Icelandic Prime Minister to resign.

AFD: A candidate we can believe in

There are times to be pragmatic. We call these General Elections. And there are times to be idealistic, hopeful, and optimistic. We call these primaries.

So this primary season, I am supporting, profoundly rooting for, the candidate who most deeply inspires me, who represents the kind of future in which I want to live and watch my loved ones raise children.

This means, of course, that I am joining the AFD movement:

Americans For David.

Family values

It’s time The Hoff brought dignity back to the Oval Office, where it’s lived in unparalleled consistency for a mere eight years.

These are challenging times, a world that seems infected with villains, and we need a hero. Or at least, heroic chest hair.

This man. This man can face Putin on equal footing.

This is why I am specifically supporting Mr Hoff circa 1985. Because the kind of man who can drive a car like that, with a bosom-pelt like that, can drive our nation back to greatness. On the kind of road we’ve been following for a mere eight years.

And man, look at those big hands and biologically-colored hair.

And look at the fact that he has both a spine and other mammalian traits (that’s a jab at Ted Cruz, who appears to be some form of annelid).

The only way The Hoff could be better would be if he were an intelligent, soulful, experienced professional public policy expert with a truly impressive record of standing up for what’s right and denying the corporate sponsorship that afflicts our nation. And was from Vermont.

But where are you going to find a candidate like that?

So today, March 32, 2016, I formally declare my Allegiance For David. Don’t forget to vote, my friends.

Let's Make America Great Again