This is Your Shirt

I collect t-shirts with logos on them. Not athletic team shirts. Not rock-band shirts. Just the everyday shirts that people print up for their business, their sports team, their fun run, their anniversary, their air force squadron whatever.

No art directors make the designs; no image specialist is around to whisper, "Hey, J.B., you don't really want to put THAT on a t-shirt, do you?" Just average folks doing what looks good to them. So I find some interesting things. Social documents, I call them. A window to your soul on eight ounces of combed cotton. Three for a buck at Goodwill Industries, such a deal.

The t-shirts divide into two groups: the ones I can figure out, and the ones I can only speculate on. The ones I can figure out -- their subject is obvious, or they're local, or they're something I can look up on the Internet.

Here's a fine example of a shirt I can figure out: Bustichi Construction, up in Scotts Valley. Click on the pic for more detail:


Now, I have actually dealt with Bustichi Construction; they did some work on the house, and they did it well. Dene Bustichi is a classic, boisterous Italian-Californian good old boy. And from the backside, he pretty much looks like the picture, or he did.

This is a classic tradesman's t-shirt, the kind I live for: the artwork by somebody's brother, the bathroom humor, the phallic humor ("our tools"), the bad puns ("We may be small, BUTT"), and most of all the idea that Bustichi and Company actually went around and did business dressed like this. You look at this shirt, you just know what life was like around the office.

This tee-shirt is quite old, probably from the company's start-up days. These days, funky Bustichi Construction is now BCI, a full-service contractor with a professional logo, a professional website and an impressive set of customers. Dene Bustichi is a well-respected two-term Scotts Valley city councilman and chairman of the county transit board. A responsible pillar of the community.

But I've got the shirt. Hee hee hee.

But now let's talk about the other group of t-shirts I collect: the ones I can't figure quite figure out, all the way. I mean, who is Nancy?


For reasons unknown to me, a lot of people print up t-shirts for their friends' fiftieth birthdays-- they give one to the birthday boy and maybe pass out a few more at the party. The shirts say things like "BRUCE HITS THE BIG FIVE-OH," or "Uncle Bob turns 50 in Acapulco!"

After the big day, nobody wears these shirts again, because they say "50" on them. And so the shirts end up at Goodwill, where nobody buys them unless they don't read English.

But Nancy's tee is the best fiftieth-birthday shirt I've ever seen, and that's why it came home with me:

I'll never know who Nancy is, really, but there it all is on the shirt: her life life in schematic form. The shirt is pretty new, so it's likely she was born in the mid to late '50s, grew up in a steel town in the rust belt and maybe got busted for smoking pot with the tough kids.

The rest I can only flesh out from my own head. But that's half the fun. For example:

Maybe Nancy was a tough kid herself, a proto-punk growing up in a hard-knocks steel town. Where all the boys were destined to go to work in the mills, and all the girls were supposed to stay home and make babies. But Nancy decided to go her own way.

So the popular Catholic girls at Industrial High spread rumors she was a "slut." Which means almost nothing but implies almost everything, and is a hard label to shake. And all the pimply-faced, smelly boys with big hands and noses went "hur,hur,hur," as she passed their lockers and secretly hoped she'd pop their cherries, too. Lotsa luck, creeps, it's just gossip.

But eventually she tottered out of high school on platform shoes and straight into the maw of the '70s. And hit the disco floor in Farrah Fawcett hair, a tube top, and glittery nail polish. Maybe she tended bar. There might have been some college in there, or not.

There was certainly a little coke -- maybe more than a little -- and eventually her Disco King in the form of a tall, dark, fast-talker with puka beads and and a porn-star mustache. And a bright future as manager of a discount vinyl-flooring outlet.

They moved in together, and the Catholic girls from the old neighborhood -- half of them already married and pregnant -- upped the gossip volume to Overload. Even though their brothers were aping John Travolta and trolling the disco floor for one-nighters. But, y'know, boys are different.

And so it was party party party for a while but Nancy got tired of taking a couple of general ed classes and hanging around the house all day. Disco King wasn't around so much -- he worked late nearly every day. She tried a little dealing -- I mean, why not sell what you like, and Disco King liked paying wholesale for his blow -- but called it off after the cops got a little too interested.

So she got herself a part-time job humping paper for a real estate agencies. Where her adolescent 'tude translated into just the right phone manner for barking at appraisers and title companies to keep that paper moving.

One long weekend, in a fit of coke-induced optimism, Nancy and Disco King drove to Atlantic City and married up. But not long after Nancy caught him in the hot tub with a barmaid, and he told her that marriage didn't mean the same thing to him as it did to other guys." And he invited her in for a threesome. Wearing gold chains down past his nipples. On the spot, Nancy had an epiphany of disgust.

So she packed her stuff and moved out that night, but not before keying a pithy comment about penis size across the hood of Disco King's Camaro Z28. She never took coke again. Well, hardly ever.

Nancy upper her hours at the real estate office to full time, took night classes, bought a few dress-for-success business suits -- the kind that showed boob -- and before you knew it, she was leasing commercial space in the new office towers going up in the inner 'burbs. Nice bonuses, a sweet Volvo 240. And networking parties three nights a week; and yes, sometimes she brought home more than business cards.

One of them stayed around -- Thor, a tall, blond, residential agent with a good track record in high-end home sales and a water-polo body he picked up playing for Lutheran University. It was lust at first sight, and compatible interest afterward. In the afterglow of sex, they talked cap rates and depreciation and gross rent multipliers until the sun rose. A merger was soon negotiated and finalized.

The Eighties hit the Rust Belt hard, and real estate along with it. Nancy and Thor looked for greener pastures, and Thor fastened on California. People told them the business was hell in Calfornia, too; but as Nancy said, you don't fear hell when you've seen Pittsburgh.

They settled in Santa Cruz, because the competition was small-time and they could smell all that Silicon Valley money just waiting to pour over the hill. And in a few years, it did. And they sold beachfront homes to execs from Apple and Silicon Graphics and Tandem, all gravid with stock-option bucks. After a while Thor stayed mostly on the sales end and Nancy took over the business end, running the office, leasing vacation property, managing apartment buildings. Twin Mercedes, a sweet executive manse in Carbonero Heights, and then the dotcom boom; life was good.

Well, except that Thor spent more and more time hanging with the sales staff while Nancy minded the store alone. And it wasn't easy. Nancy kept their ever-larger staff pumping paper and moving money, whipping cohort after cohort of slack-jawed 22 year-old-girls and boys into hard-nosed cubicle warriors. Until the competition hired them away and she had to start over with the latest crop of community college grads. Were they really getting dumber every year? And what the hell was this tattoo business all about?

She belonged to about three clubs and started partying with the other self-made businesswomen and corporate ladder-climbers. They had great times down at the Crow's Nest on Wednesday night and then was the time -- or two -- when she woke up Thursday morning in some Seabright beach boy's bed not knowing how she got there. And there was a photo --or two -- of her dirty-dancing half-naked with Weevil, a 30-something local surf god with 37 endorsement contracts. She honestly didn't remember a thing.

Sadly, it was time to swear off the margaritas. She cooked a fine dinner for Thor one night and kind of apologized. Thor accepted the apology and told her he was moving in with their third-best salesperson -- a 26-year-old blonde Reiki practitioner and CrossFit instructor, Abs you could bounce a quarter off, he gloated.

"Then I've got a going-away present for you" Nancy said. She reached for the stungun she'd bought for protection -- she managed property in Watsonville -- and tazed him in the nuts. For a long time.

After he collapsed on the floor, she kicked in the door of his locked office and went through his papers. She found travel receipts for Mr. and Mrs. Thor to Vegas and Cabo and Mazatlan going back three years. She didn't remember any of those trips, and not because she'd been drinking.

So she gathered the papers up neatly and went back into the other room to taze the groaning Thor another time or two for good measure. But the battery died, so she settled for pouring dessert -- zabaglione -- evenly up and down his prone body. She thought about trying to light it, but restrained herself.

When Thor regained full consciousness, he found one of the Mercedes gone and a lawyer's business card propped against his nose.

The divorce wasn't pretty, and neither was splitting the business, but they got through it and agreed not to spit at each other when they met again -- Thor had it written into the settlement. Thor got the residential real estate business and the house; Nancy got property management and commercial real estate and a couple of apartment buildings.

And a few visits from the FBI in the middle of it all, because one of her clueless 22-year-olds had opened an email attachment "from a friend" and infected the entire office network . It was now under the control of a Russian hacker ring that was using Nancy's computers to flood the Western Hemisphere with weight-loss spam. ("Lose 30 pounds the RIGHT way!) The young worker was "reee-leee sorry." Nancy put her on landscape maintenance.

And suddenly she was 50 years old and the "client meeting" someone put on her calendar turned out to be a surprise birthday party with the girls over at El Palomar. And then her best friend Babs put this t-shirt in front her and led everybody in a gawdawful version of "Happy Birthday."

And Nancy just stared at the tee, virgin daiquiri at her side. The big 5-0, then and God, hadn't it just been the other day that she was 22 and dancing the Latin Hustle under an giant laser-lit disco ball? She shook her head. She was here and this was now, and she was a tough old broad and that was that. She led the table in a toast to tough old broads everywhere and they pelted her with coasters. And a good time was had by all.

....and that's why I collect tee shirts. Yeah, I'm weird.

Happy Fourth -- I Guess

The Fourth of July in Santa Cruz isn't just one day. The town just sort of gears up for it for a day or two before, and recovers for a day or two after. It's arguably the biggest tourist weekend of the summer, and the locals get kind of crazy, too.

Rhumba and I had yesterday off, and we wandered over in the afternoon to the West Side to buy some yarn off a woman who had posted some for sale on craigslist. Rhumba's a huge knitter, even teaches free classes, and she was looking for cheap yarn to pass on to some of the more low-budget knitters she knows. The lady wanted a little too much at first -- she was raising money to fix a dead truck parked in front of the house, $1500 for a fuel pump. But after Rhumba showed her how to cast on and do a project herself with some of her yarn, she came down.

So we're standing in the driveway dickering over all this stuff when there's a sudden WARRROOOOOM! from across the street. Like a bomb going off. And it was one -- somebody was warming up for the Fourth.

"They could get a thousand-dollar fine for that," the woman complained.

"But they won't," I said. "And tomorrow night there'll be ten thousand of them on the beach with stuff like that, and not enough cops to stop any of them."

She sighed. She knew I was right. On the evening of the fourth, 20 or 30,000 people head out to the beaches between Santa Cruz and Aptos with firecrackers, skyrockets, pyrotechnics of all varieties -- and shoot 'em off. Not the safe-and-sane variety, either. It's actually dangerous -- and all the beer and dope doesn't make it any safer.

This is not a scene Rhumba or I endorse, and we don't take part in it. Once I took a tour of Netcom, the local 911 center here, and the supervisor told me that July 4 was the worst night of the year for emergency calls -- injuries, fights, auto accidents, drunkenness, burns, fires. Every possible operator is on duty, every possible cop is on the street, every engine company and ambulance crew is at the ready. What's being celebrated? Well, I wouldn't call it freedom, exactly.

Last night we watched a couple of shows about American presidents on the History Channel, and they spent some time on James K. Polk. He's the guy who invented a phony provocation with Mexico to start a war and grab maybe half the land mass of Mexico for the United States. A war that Abraham Lincoln himself condemned as evil and immoral. (That part wasn't in the show of course: the History Channel is corporate media, and doesn't like to stir things up with too much perspective.)

The bit on Polk ended up with some bespectacled milquetoast from Nowhere University opining that Polk had to be considered one of the "great presidents" because of how he enlarged the country. Through an evil and immoral war, of course, but if you think the Iraq war was anything new, it wasn't -- just American imperialists trying to grab more, as they always have. The only difference between Polk and George W. Bush is that 1) Polk was a hard-working detail man, and so 2) he got away with it. And yes, I know where I live, and who used to own it; and no, that doesn't make it right.

This morning, we woke up early to go down to the water and have coffee under the fog. When everybody else in town is jamming the Buttery and Emily's and all the other morning coffee/bakery hangouts, they're ignoring the best one of all: the Kind Grind, down at the Yacht Harbor. It's right on Seabright Beach, the parking is free and easy before 10, and you can sit outside at tables along the promenade with coffee and a muffin (a damned good muffin) and watch the boats motor out into the bay.

Today, we watched the guys from the catamaran club tote a couple of big canoes down to the water and paddle out to sea. Sunburned women tightened up the nets on the beach volleyball courts and guys set up pop-ups and beach chairs nearby, obviously for a tourney. Early bird locals marched down the hill laden with folding furniture and ice chests to claim their bit of sand for a long day of partying in the sun. People and dogs ran back and forth along the water's edge. A nice beach-town vibe, all-in-all. Just like any other weekend on a locals beach, only a little more so.

Heading back home, we drove through the motel districts where VACANCY signs were very easy to find. Here in Santa Cruz on arguably the busiest tourist weekend of the year. Five years ago, even the worst dumps would be booked up two months in advance for the Fourth.

As we drove by the lumberyard, the usual crowd of illegal Mexican day laborers stood on the sidewalk out front waiting for work -- any work. On the Fourth of July. There's a saying that everybody dies quickly, but some people take a long time to pass away. One hundred and fifty years later, James K. Polk has not yet passed.

The United States is many things, many of them good. But for the powerful who run things for their own benefit, it has always been and will always be the United States of James K. Polk. And until we force their hand away from the controls of the nation, some day, the Fourth of July for me will be nothing much to celebrate.

Freedom from tyranny? More like, meet the new boss....

The Eye of Rhumba

Sarah sighed. She danced for kings and not for the likes of Captain Giles. He had a nice butt, though.

Recently, my wife Rhumba began drawing extremely tiny, ridiculously-detailed pictures with colored pencils. There's a whole back story here, but in short: sometimes Rhumba takes an interest in some art or craft or activity, works with it diligently for a good while, then gets discouraged with her progress and puts it all aside. Then, 10 or 20 years later, picks it up again and kicks ass.

Thus with the colored pencils. I want you to know that the drawings you see above and below -- somewhat degraded and softened by our poor scanner -- are pretty much actual size, in the 1.5 by 2-inch to 2.5 by 3-inch range.

Why? Apparently drawing with colored pencils is like painting a picture with a brush that has just one bristle -- maybe two. If you want to get a project done in under two hours, it had better be small. And more than a few hours is on one project is -- BORING, in the Rhumbaverse.

So each drawing consists two to six square inches of ridiculous detail and Rhumba's well-developed sense of humor. (Except for the drawings of plants -- Rhumba is serious about plants.) They say that every picture tells a story, and so do Rhumba's -- she actually writes the story on the back of the drawing in a few choice and biting words. They have to be choice; as I said, those drawings are small.

Anyway, I think her drawings are pretty cool. I've scanned a few -- not necessarily the best of them -- and here they are. With their stories, where they have them.

Lisa and Tony Together -- but not for long.

Snapdragons -- World's First Action Toy?

Dan was a sailor -- and that was just the way it was.

Of course the question, "Has someone been in the chocolate?", did have an answer.

My great-aunt's yard was covered by bird-of-paradise plants. She never went for restraint when excess would do, even tho' she was a Methodist.

Uncle Frankie wants you to obey your mother.

Only girl among six siblings, Mercy could do fine needlework plus hold her own in any fight.

The Last Gasp of the Tighty Whities

There is a basic divide in the ranks of the human male, and it is not between gay and straight, or strong and weak, or athletic and wimpy. It's much, much more fundamental than that:

Boxers versus briefs.

There are those who switch between the two casually. But mainly, a briefs man would be lost without the firm grip of his tight white underpants. And the boxer crowd wouldn't give up that airy roominess for anything.

I'm a briefs man. Was born a briefs man, have been one all my life, expected to die in briefs.

But y'know, bodies change as they age. I found myself getting kind of --- IRRRITATED -- down there. Regularly. I was in danger of becoming one of those thick-set older guys who don't shave very well and absent-mindedly scratch their balls at social occasions. And chew tobacco and dribble the juice down the front of their flannel shirts.

This would not be allowed to happen. It was time to cross the great divide to boxerdom.

Rhumba was all in favor. "Boxer shorts are sexy," she said. "Men look kind of stupid in the tighty whiteys." She wrinkled her nose.

Honestly. You live with a woman for twenty years, you think you know her.

So I went off in search of boxers. And in Santa Cruz, this is not easy. It's not easy to find men's underwear of any kind.

Santa Cruz is a hotbed of sustainable-living advocacy; you know, growing food locally, and making consumer items locally. Buying and selling nearby. Not having to hop in the car for every darned thing.

So how did it come to pass that you have to drive five miles to the mall to find men's underwear? That's the only obvious place to buy men's underwear anymore. Oh, I used to buy my whities at Long's Drugs downtown. But Long's got taken over by the evil CVS drug chain, and the last time I went in they'd ditched men's underwear completely.

Anyway, I refuse to drive to the mall just to buy underwear. I find the idea obscene. Underwear should be -- everywhere. Whenever you need it. We're a town of 55,000 people, after all. So this evening I drove all over town trying to find a place that sold boxers, or even briefs. There had to be one. There just had to be.

I did find boxers and briefs at Ross Dress-for-Less last-chance-discount clothing store: in waist sizes under 34 and over 50 only. No thank you. Then on to Rite Aid Drugs, where a clerk with dead-white skin said, "If we have any, and I doubt it, they're on Aisle 6C." All I found was six lonely packs of men's briefs.

And Walgreen's? Women's undies only. What are men supposed to do, make their own out of paper towels?.

I finally found a pair of boxers of the right size at the West Side Long's on Mission. There were all of three packs left, and not many briefs, either. The clerk said, "No, I'm sure we'll continue carrying men's underwear." But I'm not so sure. Maybe I scored one of the last packs of boxers to ever be sold in a drugstore in Santa Cruz.

In the meantime, I've just tried on my new boxers. They're an appealing blue-and-white plaid and... I can feel the air circulating freely down there. Everything's happy and dry and non-itchy and... has plenty of room.

I approve. I'm just sorry it took 50 years. But you know... sometimes it's hard to change sides.

No Inspirations

Under its own power, a cardboard box lurched across the floor of the church narthex. It stopped; changed direction, and slid toward the nearest bystander.

"Don't be alarmed," cried Pastor Biff in his best Jolly Minister voice. "Well, I think he wants you to be alarmed. But it's just my son; we're trying something creative in the way of child-minding."

So begins another Sunday morning at St. Bob the Informal's Presbymethertarian Church on the low-rent side of Santa Cruz. A little creative chaos is par for the course at St. Bob's. That's just the way the place works.

So no one much minded the creeping box. We knew who was inside before Pastor Biff even told us; his young son is a wiry, quivering bundle of disorder with the primordial chaos gleaming in his eyes. When boredom sets in, he literally climbs the wall (they're bumpy). So, animated box in the narthex: who else?

We went in for service. I couldn't tell you a thing about it. I was bored out of my mind. Church has always bored me profoundly... since the very beginning. The same old hymns, the same old liturgy. Traditions from 100, 200, 500 years ago. Very little of it inspires me.

Oh, there's has been the occasional sermon by a pastor who really knows how to sling the lingo -- I once heard a Baptist minister preach a 35-minute sermon without a single wasted word.

And there has been the occasional memorable moment of meaning and emotion. I also remember the baptism of an adult friend: after the pastor stroked her hair with the holy water and said the words, she flung back her head and laughed and laughed and laughed. That's the real thing.

Church attempts to connect with the creative inspiration that was the origin of Christianity -- but with rote ritual, popular music, tame testimonials and pleas for money, and the occasional smell and bell. Christianity is at its heart a revolutionary religion -- practiced by tradition-bound, middle class congregations who are mostly over the age of 50. How good can that be? Pastor Biff gives it his all every Sunday, but he doesn't have that much to work with.

Frankly, the best part of church takes place outside of service. You make friends, get involved with group activities, do some good in the community. And every brand of Christianity attracts a somewhat different kind of person. Presbymethertarians are hearty people, and fun to be around: conservative in lifestyle but broad in mind. They're good talkers and good company.

So after church it was off to lunch with Edsel and DeeVine, a retired couple Rhumba and I have become friendly with. We went out to lunch a few weeks earlier and that sneaky Edsel had whipped out his credit card before I could get to mine, so we were one down.

Brunch on Sunday in Santa Cruz is something of a crapshoot -- you might wait five minutes, or an hour. So we decided to take them to ARRRRRGH! MATEY!, a boaty kind of breakfast joint down by the yacht harbor because a) there's the bare chance of getting a seat there and b) it's a different kind of place, even for Santa Cruz.

ARRRRRGH! MATEY! is a tumbledown diner with an enclosed patio that's become part of the main building, and yet another patio outside decorated in a rundown mutant Tiki/Hawaiian/Jimmy Buffet style. With crusty picnic tables, driftwood, old ropes -- you get the idea.

ARRRRGH! MATEY! is unique around here because you can bring your dog, if you sit outside; and since nearly everything inside and out is made out of battered wood or concrete the place is also childproof. So some people bring their dogs, and some people bring their kids, and some people bring their dogs and their kids.

And some people bring their dogs and their kids and their alcoholic boyfriends, because ARRRGH! MATEY has a liquor license, and you can get a Bloody Mary or a vile rum drink to go with your Matey Omelet or Mexican Armada or Moco Loco.

It's, ah, quite a scene.

It's also hard to park around there on a busy day, because most of the street spaces are permit-only on the weekends, to keep beach-bound tourists from stashing their cars in the neighborhood. So while I found a space, Edsel couldn't. He dropped off DeeVine and vanished over the horizon in the family car.

"Oh, don't worry about him," DeeVine said blithely. "He's a power walker. He does at least four miles a day."

And Rhumba, DeeVine and I settled at at table and chatted while Edsel wandered around out there, somewhere.

DeeVine is a interesting person, one of those conventional and proper people who, late in life, found a channel for being unconventional. Her channel is Red Hats, that federation of ladies who gather together to carouse freely and boisterously.

DeeVine has gone beyond the standard Red Hat achievement level to create elaborate and bizarre costumes which she wears to the special events. So bizarre that the street kids on Pacific Avenue who dress in tatters and tats have approached her with compliments. ("They were so friendly and interested.")

The menu captured my attention for a moment, and when I got back to the conversation, Rhumba and DeeVine were discussing abortion.

"It's a difficult decision, but I'm in favor of it," DeeVine said. She looked down for a second and chuckled. "You know, in our old faith community I never could have said that."

Damned straight. For most of their lives DeeVine and Edsel were joined at the hip with God's Shouting Multitude, an evangelical sect that isn't into dissent.

For while the Presbymethertarians will happily kick around both sides of most issues not involving crime or sexual assault or tattoos for children under 12, the GSMers have no need for that. They know what you should believe and think on every issue; here's the list, read it.

But Edsel and DeeVine are thinking people -- Edsel is a retired academic, in fact -- and over the years they read and saw and did and thought and thought some more. And they came to some of their own conclusions.

And when they tried to discuss them with their fellow GSMers, they were told to stop it; or leave.

So they left. It's a hard thing when you outgrow your faith community. (It's also a scary thing, for me, to remember that all the rigid, closed-minded people in the world can find a church that will tell them God agrees with them completely.)

And DeeVine and Edsel found a place with the jolly Presbymethertarians -- who also have their problems, or there wouldn't be fewer of them every year.

Edsel finally showed up and we all had a good lunch and some fine conversation. Edsel and DeeVine are still thinking and growing. Into their eighth decade, they're using their computers and the Internet more each day, writing, Red-Hatting, engaging the world. As long as they're alive they'll be moving ahead. We're proud to know them.

It's just too bad that churches can't do the same thing, even the so-called "contemporary" ones.

And I have to ask, why not?

The Name of the Hour

We give names to the hours. I've always found that interesting.

Some hours have mundane, obvious names: lunch hour, rush hour, happy hour.Some hours have sinister names: the Hour of the Wolf, the last hour of the night before dawn. When, so say the Swedes and Ingmar Bergman, more people die or are born.

And there are hours with more back-handed names: Attitude Adjustment Hour, for example, the hour from 5 to 6 on Fridays when stressed-out workers head to the nearest bar and raise a glass or four with their comrades. I remember a programmer who could down three Long Island Ice Teas during Attitude Adjustment Hour. And then drive home.

Even the standard Happy Hour can morph into something odd. I walked by a holistic health center the other day and saw a big sign for "Acupuncture Happy Hour, 4-7 pm."
The mind boggles, doesn't it?

There's also the Hour of Power, which begins at 12:00 a.m. midnight on your 21st birthday -- the very first second that you're legal to drink. It's your solemn obligation to get as stinking drunk as you can by 1:00 am. Or it is if you live in a frat house anyway.

Anyway, I've been thinking that we need more named hours. To commemorate those hours that serve a special purpose in our lives, whether they occur daily or once a decade. I give you:

• Antsy Hour. 4 p.m. or so, when the workday is almost over; when you can see the edge of it creeping up, and your ability to concentrate falls apart. Especially on Friday.

• The Hour of Make Believe. Every Saturday morning at 8 am. You swear you're going to jump out of bed early and get all your chores out of the way in two or three hours and then have the rest of the weekend for yourself, guilt-free. Yeah, right.

• Hour of the Fat Anchorman. Five a.m. every weekday morning, when local stations air their dawn newscasts. What kind of anchor gets stuck with the 5 a.m. shift? One who's a little past his prime. A little too bald, a little too old, but mainly... a little too chunky. In my media market, there's not a thin anchorman to be found at five in the morning. Thin weathermen, sure, but they're all otherwise too green or too geeky for prime time.

• Hour of the Mighty Burrito. The hour before closing time at the taqueria, when the staff makes dangerously overstuffed burritos to use up the dregs of the rice and beans and such.

• The Hour of Wasted Youth. Every school day at 8 a.m. High school and college students trudge off to early classes before they've actually woken up. They step off curbs with their eyes closed, and you'd better keep your foot near the brake. Somebody take pity on these poor wretches and move the school day back to 10 am.
  
  
• Brainfuzz Hour. For people over 35, the hour after 10 p.m. when you're too tired to think straight, but not tired enough to go to sleep. It's 9:59 p.m., and I'm just about there.
  

So many hours, so few names. Has anyone got any special hours of their own to add to the list? Operators are standing by.

I've Got Sunshine

I've not been writing much lately. Everything that comes to mind is grim; though anymore, grim is the new black.

Let's see: it's June in Santa Cruz, and the weather's mainly been cold, gloomy, and no fun at all. Frankly, it just started raining five minutes ago. Rain in June -- not supposed to happen in Paradise.

Rhumba and I have been sick for three weeks. Some sort of pneumonia-like thing that settles in the chest and then moves on to make a last stand in the nose or sinuses once you've got it on the run.

Work is hell. I don't much ask people "How are you" anymore because about half of them moan, "I've got so-o-o much work to do." Today I found one of my coworkers facing a blank wall, resting her forehead against the padded surface. "I thought this week might be better than last week," she sighed. "But it's not."

As promised by Mr. Bigboss after the first round of layoffs (we've had another, small one since), we're working ever harder to cover more and more work with fewer and fewer people. It won't end well. I can already tell which projects are going to crash.

But sometimes the sun breaks through. On Sunday evening I got in the car and headed off to Shopper's Corner for the weekly shop. The fog had rolled back and mellow evening sunlight put a warm glow on the trees, the buildings, even the people passing by.

Sunday evening has always been a time of finishing one thing and preparing for the next thing. It can be a time of dread, a time of hope, or a time of anticipation. Pretty sunset or not, I was leaning toward the "dread" option, when an old song came on the car radio:

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside I've got the month of May.
I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

And suddenly it was a golden Sunday evening in 1966: me and my evil older sister in the back of the family's huge green Buick as we motored home down the Silverado Trail from a penny-ante family resort we frequented up at the cheap end of the Napa Valley. As the vineyards and oak trees rolled past, and the Temptations and the Everly Brothers and Frankie Valli pulsed from the car radio.

I"ve come so far, and yet not so far at all: a Japanese hybrid, not a 10-mpg Detroit V8. Forty more years and triple the body weight, for good or ill. But a golden Sunday evening is still a magic time, and an old Temptations single brought it back to me with a vengeance. And I enjoyed the moment, more than I'd enjoyed anything in weeks.

My childhood was no bowl of cherries, and many Sunday evenings I spent thinking about how much I'd dislike the coming week at school. But even then there was nothing better than sunshine on a late Sunday afternoon -- that quiet golden time when you've done everything expected of you and had nothing more to do than -- whatever you felt like. Or let your stocking feet hang out the right rear window of a Buick Electra into that warm Napa breeze. Soundtrack courtesy of the Temptations.

Y'know, if I could find a '61 Buick and someone to drive it.... I might try that again. And in the meantime, for just the moment... I had sunshine on a cloudy day.