The Handshake

THE UBER DRIVER’S HAND was warm and calloused, but its electric charge was unexpected.

It shouldn’t have been, though, since for the past forty-five minutes we had free-associated on topics that don’t lend themselves to easy or uncomplicated conversation: God, mind, the uselessness of AI, Self-realization (not a typo) and ego-death, gurus, the constancy of change, the Indian fashion-industry, meditation, capitalism, health and healing, life’s unpredictability, Hindu holyman Ramana Maharshi.

His car was a late-model Tesla – ironically, since we also agreed we shouldn’t colonize Mars – enroute to a faraway hospital, where my copilot was undergoing heart surgery. I told him this toward the end of the ride, and he reached back a ringed and metal-braceleted hand to take one of mine.

“Aw, man,” he said. “Blessings come from God.”

That was when something unexpected passed between us.

“For her,” he said with earnest intensity.

We conversed a bit more before pulling up to the hospital.

“Thank you,” I told him as I got out. “And thank you for your blessing.”

“Aw, man,” he said. “Blessings come from God.”

“Yes,” I replied. “But thank you for being the conduit.”

A few minutes later I stood next to my copilot’s bed. She had just come out of surgery, pale and weak-voiced and pained of expression. Her escape from the Beyond had been a close one, but her doctors were skilled. With a why-not-it-couldn’t-hurt shrug, I touched her leg with the hand the driver had grasped. Nothing unexpected this time, just a loving gesture of comfort.

Mind you, I am a skeptic in the original sense of the word: an open-minded soul who doesn’t chase after explanations of the inexplicable. And really, earnest handshakes are common enough. But over the next few hours, as she went from colorless and tentative to walking with me about the cardio unit, beaming a delighted smile at everything we passed, I wondered.

Perhaps that’s the way her sort of surgery is supposed to work. I like to think it does.

But on the other hand, every little bit helps.

Come Dance With Me

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Confessions of a Sidewalk Astronomer

THERE ARE TWO TELESCOPES IN my living room, a third in a backpack in my bedroom closet, and a pair of astronomical binoculars on the bookcase near the front door.

“Why so many?” you may ask.

Easy answer: I am … obsessed. Continue reading “Confessions of a Sidewalk Astronomer”

Me and Mr. Jones

OUR TALE BEGINS SOME YEARS ago at my then-girlfriend’s folks’ house, specifically at their “hutch” — a giant, glass-shelved cabinet filled with such sentimental knickknacks and keepsakes as a commemorative Shirley Temple mug, souvenir spoons, porcelain bells, and the “good china.”

One item in particular caught my eye; a four-and-a-half-inch angular statuette, injection-molded of some heavy material superficially resembling carved wood: a pedestal-mounted figure in black boots and cabbie cap, brown trousers, blue coat, red shirt. And its face — dear God, its face. Continue reading “Me and Mr. Jones”

Why I Love: KSVY

IT’S SONOMA VALLEY’S HIDDEN JEWEL. It’s Bill Stallings’ “Tasty Nuggets,” a decades-spanning flashback every Friday morning. (It’s also his prog-rock “Rocks Files Radio” on Saturday nights and every-hourly :20 weather forecast.) It’s Tuesday night’s “Big Fish,” surveying and promoting the Valley’s eclectic music scene. Speaking of eclectic, it’s “Kitchen Sink,” Sooth Slinger’s weekday wakeup at 7 a.m., followed by “The Morning Show” from 8-10. It’s Mike Ryan’s never-miss two Thursday-evening hours of punk, New Wave, and assorted indie rock. It’s the “K-Pop Hour” (I mean, who else brings you an hour of synthesizer-rich Korean popular music?) It’s the hyperlocal focus. It’s “Jeff’s Joint,” a lively 1920s-40s Monday retrospective. It’s Thursday afternoon’s “Sonoma Valley Interfaith Radio Hour” (full disclosure: I engineer and cohost). It’s the Latinx, French, and Sinatra programming. It’s community-sponsored and -supported. It’s the passion and dedication of mad wunderkind, blazing electric guitarist, and chief-cook-and-bottle-feeder Bob Taylor as well as the kind attentions of Ronny Jo Grooms. It’s forces-of-nature George Webber’s and Butch Engle’s “Radio Theater of the Wild West.” It’s the coffeehouse sounds of “Coyote Road,” “Nowsville Junction,” and “Uncle Dirtbag.” It’s Chef Marco’s, Sheana Davis’, and Kathleen Thompson Hill’s culinary insights. It’s the varied weekday tuneful and topical offerings of “Guys at Five.” It’s the breaking disaster-news of fires and floods. (It’s also the endless calendars of events.) It’s having to forego in this brief synopsis many, many other important and diverse musical, cultural, community, sports, business, personal, and political shows. And it’s literally the only radio station I listen to — at 91.3 FM or streaming live at ksvy.org.

Tradesman’s Throwback

This is a Print Shop
Crossroads of civilization. Refuge of all the arts against the ravages of time. Armory of fearless truth against whispering rumor. Incessant trumpet of trade. From this place words may fly abroad not to perish as waves of sound, but fixed in time. Not corrupted by hurrying hand but verified in proof.
Friend, you stand on sacred ground: This is a print shop.”
— Beatrice Warde

5 Thoughts: Toward a Relational Taxonomy

0. THAT’S MY $5-WORDS WAY TO describe a long-held observation regarding how and why people get along together — and sometimes don’t.

1. Here it is: I believe we can interact with each other in one of three ways: Click, Anti-Click, and Clickless. Continue reading “5 Thoughts: Toward a Relational Taxonomy”

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