Jew Repellant

One restaurant in town obviously isn't interested in attracting or retaining a Jewish clientele.

Shrimp wrapped in prosciutto bacon??? What is less kosher than that? I guess it could be worse if it was all served on the Sabbath and people were made to cook it themselves (work).

Christmas 2008

By popular request! The NEW and IMPROVED family portrait!

Kelli and Buber and I on Christmas, down at Sunset Cliffs in Ocean Beach.

We also went to the Presidio in Old Town. Had the place to ourselves pretty much, on account of the pouring rain.

Wealth

This is one of the extremely rare instances of a forwarded email that isn't totally bound for the trash. A certain figure of my past always spoke of poverty being "between the ears." I contend true poverty is of the soul. But who am I anyway?

One day, the father of a very wealthy family took his son on a trip to the country with the express purpose of showing him how poor people live. They spent a couple of days and nights on the farm of what would be considered a very poor family. On their return from their trip, the father asked his son, "How was the trip?" "It was great, Dad." "Did you see how poor people live?" the father asked. "Oh yeah," said the son. "So, tell me, what did you learn from the trip?" asked the father. The son answered: "I saw that we have one dog and they had four. We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end. We have imported lanterns in our garden and they have the stars at night. Our patio reaches to the front yard and they have the whole horizon. We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight. We have servants who serve us, but they serve others. We buy our food, but they grow theirs. We have walls around our property to protect us, they have friends to protect them."

The boy's father was speechless.

Then his son added, "Thanks Dad for showing me how poor we are."

Story Of Stuff

Maybe this is a bit late to do any good this Christmas consumer-glutton season, but next year may be different. Be sure to watch the full version of the film at Story of Stuff dot com.

It's The (Real) Economy, Stupid

It is cold, even inside where the heater is here but does not work. The lights are on for the holidays but the cheer has to wait still. It is me and the dog, both waiting in anticipation not for Santa—it is almost a week too early for that and he isn't really what defines Christmas around here anyway. No, we are awaiting the centerpiece of our home, Kelli, who is making her final drive down from her school now upon completing her final work in seminary. Buber may not believe in Santa, but when Kelli enters, he will be as joyous and bouncy as any kid who might watch the jolly man arrive in the middle of the night in this cold season. The poor pup doesn't know what to make of her coming and going each week, but every time she comes home he is beside himself with doggy glee. As for myself, it's like getting the living part of me back.

Three and a half years ago was a lifetime ago. A nightmare of a summer preceded her beginning of school, but I was glad that she was doing it, even if it was to mean a lot of solitary time for me. It is interesting; the summer of 2005 was a time when the world outside was doing rather well—housing prices were still high (though I contend value was low), and our life was in crisis. And now, all this time later, the world outside is in shambles and we're holding our own, even better than we thought possible. As soon as she is done with school, she gets a whopping couple of days to come down and then has before her a nine month internship at a hospital, as chaplain resident. With that comes a worthwhile stipend that puts us in a rather satisfactory position while I still sling taters and onions daily. It defies logic that we're doing this well, but for this, I thank whatever power runs the universe at our local level.

But I like to think of it this way. Kelli's work will feed the souls of people, giving the medical profession some balance as it is quite clear to that profession now that a doctor alone can't simply fix people if their whole being isn't tended to. So Kelli will learn to fill that part of the healing profession. I presently actually am a link in the chain that feeds people actual caloric sustenance and gives people a reason to gather around a table. So maybe it isn't so far fetched that we are in the place we are in today. I won't go so far to say that our particular positions are recession proof, but both are more essential to human life, and reside closer to the base of the economy than do say, a bunch of Wall St. financial wizard-grifters who are now seen to be frauds who deal in greed, hype, and fear.

We didn't just wander into these positions. Kelli's path is longer and perhaps more substantial but she realized before she went to seminary that she had been doing ministry in the secular world as an advocate for youth and seniors, educator in schools and churches, poet and speaker. What she needed was to turn those efforts into something that could bring those circles of her interests into focus, and to get a degree to legitimate what has long seemed a calling for her. My interests in social dynamics, history, psychology, deep economics and political science helped lead me to a family owned business that deals in the thing that unites all humanity at a deep level—we all gotta eat. Yeah, I am a driver, but each work situation can teach something and this one has many small lessons as I drive. The actual work has a certain few things to teach, but moving through town where I see some of the richest people and the poorest people in town is instructive in its own profound way. There is something profound about contemplating the differences—and similarities—between the rich people of Rancho Santa Fe and La Jolla, and the desperate people on street corners and doorways in Downtown.

In many ways Kelli and I have pursued our own types of education in these few years, with much more to do. What I cherish about all that is that we trade notes on our experiences and deepen our understanding of our own realities with what the other has to say. Reflecting on the economic crashes of late, it is sad that it will cause anguish for so many. But really, a deeper look at the world's economy shows how despicable and destructive it is. What needs to happen is for a more human sized economy to emerge, and one that is more holistic in its practices. But people fear the change, and the coming of the new. But at what real price, the success of capitalism as we know it? When all is said and done, people still need to eat, and people will need the patient pastor or chaplain to hear their hearts as a lot of pain gets expressed—the disappointments and grieving for loss of all sorts of things big and small. Having known some loss individually and together, I'd like to think either of us might have been prepared to speak meaningfully to another person, even if it was against our wills to ever have the words to do the job!

But in this season of Advent, I am just joyous for Kelli and me not just surviving her schooling, but really thriving in it. Her own schooling at seminary swept me up in all sorts of new understandings. I have said many times I am glad she wasn't just a business student, else how would one really have the chance to develop and look at the world a whole new way such as has been put before me? Some professions are rather stiff and boring, but I think we've both benefited from her seminary experience and its enlivening effect. For now though, I will be happy to just enjoy her being back safely in a few hours, and Buber the Dog will be happy to get petted all of her waking hours, at least until she is off to the hospital in another big adventure.

Nobody Can Change the World

A nobody can change the world
It has happened many times
But the best one so far was when a baby was born
On the fringes of the world
From folks no one knew
(With a bit of scandal to boot)
They were from a town of no consequence
Good only for their taxes and labor
Forgotten by the senators and priests
Except when it was time for taxes and ritual

A nobody can change the world
It isn't just for the big names in history
Those who wield the money and power
Or who sit at the right hand of the king
An itinerant preacher sets the world ablaze with love
In a way that few saw coming
Coming to a heart near you
That is, if it hasn't already rushed into you
Consuming with unquenchable fire helped by a gust of wind
But starting with the still small tired voice of Mary
Who sang her child to sleep
Amidst the very few who were more lowly than they that evening

Mary labored one night
But Heaven labored much longer with the question
How to penetrate the hearts of men
When the answer came it was quite unexpected
A marvel to be sure—
A baby who was born, lived, and died as a person of no consequence
Except for the magic he wrought when he dared show us how to love
First because he was innocent by the standards of the world
And later because he was guilty by the standards of the world

Where in the world tonight will that baby be born anew?
In that forgotten place?
Under the boot of an oppressor?
Slaves to the desires of the rich and well connected?
Nobody can change the world—
A thought that must itself be changed

Advent

Buberian Trifecta

Buber, my black and white beagle-bluetick coonhound dog, has been on a roll lately. Last year a Beagle won the dog show on Thanksgiving day and this year a Pointer won. Both of which are of course floppy eared and floppy jowled. And to take the cake—the real Best of Show—he is glad that Barack Obama has won too, clenching a victory for those who are black and white.

All is not well in floppy ear land, however. Buber spent a couple weeks with an ear infection that afflicts floppy eared doggies. I was treated to the sight and sound of him shaking his head every few minutes for a couple days. He had been given a medication for what seemed to be a sore paw, so I thought that the thing had a funny side effect. Finally after checking his ears and finding funk in them, we took him to the vet again and plopped down a couple hundred for meds and treatment. He's much better now.

Viva Floppy Ears!

The Milkwagon And The Milkman

My work "productivity" is measured in how many invoices are counted to my credit each week. Not a lot was said about desirable numbers when I was hired, but Bob the boss mentioned that he'd like to see 70 in a week, which is about 14-15 a day. I tackled that with no problem and was routinely coming in around 85 for a few months. Then, in the early summer, something clicked and I hit a stride that was around 100 each week and sometimes more. So he gave me a raise, and then somehow, I managed to pull even more out of my hat. There are about 20 people who are "just" drivers and many other people from the shop end up doing deliveries, so a list is tallied each week and usually the numbers span from one to 150 or more. During most of the summer, I was at about the fourth position where it looked I could not rise above the so-called trio of gods upon Olympus—three guys who have fixed routes that are not too far from the shop but also very dense ones at that, and who tended to work six day weeks and overtime each day. They had a lot of favorable conditions. But, since there has been a crackdown on overtime for a couple months now, I've nudged into their space. I got the third spot once and was all smiles, but this last week, I saw that I got the top spot with numbers to spare—131 deliveries over the next guy's 116. Some recent talk from Bob and his co-owner brother was about how I am the best driver there, but more so that no "short driver" (non-route) has been at the top slot before.

I got a hoe in my bed, and better still, it was on the company dime!The case for being a short driver—for me anyway—is that I don't have to wake up at 3 am in order to work at 4 am, and also don't have to do the same damned places every day, even though that might have its advantages. I have usually started at 9-10 am and work "straight eight" with no lunch break, and my shift is the last of the driver shifts that can be occupied doing driving only. The next later involves parking trucks and gassing them up, which is not really what they want me to do since they fancy me too worthy a guy to do that for 1/8th of a shift when I could be zipping around in the "Milkwagon" —the beat up and chronically troubled 249,000 mile old white F-150 that I drive, that even after having seized up the engine this summer, they still let me drive daily (while other guys are shifted around from one vehicle to another each day). I do anything I can to avoid having to drive a refrigerator truck, which just disrupts my flow and always feels out of scale for me. I cram that F-150 full if I need to—the bed, the Xtra cab, and the front seat if need be. It is often hard to get around in since it has a matching shell on it, so I requested a tool to help reach in and pull stuff. It is silly as fuck but they got me the hoe I asked for (resulting in many lewd jokes about how my hoe is good in bed, etc.) It turns out that it is quite a good thing to save my knees from climbing inside. Likewise, its good for my back to not be contorting within the covered bed space. Until I can grow arms like Inspector Gadget, it will have to do!

I don't really know what the milk joke is or how extensive it reaches, but the truck has been dubbed the Milkwagon, and I the Milkman. I didn't know that term till someone else got the title for a while before he left or was canned. This title goes to those who spill milk. For me it was about a gallon of heavy cream back in my first month. But for this other guy, it was totally losing some big share of a 24 gallon order as a stack of crates toppled. One day, I was in the shop as this made word and spread like wildfire, then before I know it, someone chimes in, remembering my heavy cream incident of months before, and says, "well, I guess you're not the milkman anymore!" Of all the things I've spilled repeatedly over the ten months I've been there, I wonder why the milk thing sticks like it does.

Buber's Two Cents

Buber the Dog wanted me to share with you the fact that he is quite happy that a fellow black-and-white has ascended to the rank of president. Even though he can't vote he is most pleased with those who read his little doggy mind and elected Obama this year. But, since Obama is a Rorschach test for everyone with an agenda, Buber is of the mind that he can expect more doggy bone handouts and extensive petting.