Our Son's Name's Domain Names

I have just registered our son-to-be's first name middle name dot com plus one alternate spelling dot com, as well as his first name last name dot com. (We are not telling anyone what we are thinking will be his name; about six more weeks to go, and we have to see whether he fits his name before we announce it. We think he will!)

We came up with a name for a daughter long before we got pregnant. Turns out we are having a boy, though, and so we thought long and hard about what to name him. One day, while talking to him through Maria's belly wall, his name came out of my mouth without my thinking about it, and that was that. We could not believe it. It just fit, and we knew it.

So, we are waiting to be introduced to the little kicker, and then we will announce his name. And then I can can publish his website as well, with maybe a baby photo or two plus endless stories of his first diaper, his first meal, his first curse word, etc.

A couple final details: common as his name will be, it does not appear anywhere in any book of baby names. Also, one friend came extremely close to guessing it correctly, but we did not let on, so they did not know.

My Happy Place

I am never happier than when I am sitting on Christmas Tree Point near the top of Twin Peaks in San Francisco with the city laid out at my feet. I could gaze upon this place forever!

I Don't Know You, So I Can't Talk to You

Early this evening, Maria and I went to a little soiree where the majority of attendees were San Anselmo Chamber of Commerce members. Our hosts were the fabulous Joann Hartley and Jennifer Hershon of Hershon Hartley Design (website by yours truly). Although we knew a couple of people there, and HH's landlord cordially introduced himself to us, the rest of the crowd failed to respond to my standing with an open posture, soft eyes and face, and even to nods and "Hello"s that I proffered to them.

This is a disappointing phenomenon I discovered when I arrived 21 years ago in California, which I call the "I Don't Know You, So I Can't Talk to You" syndrome. Or, put another way, the "We Have to Have Met Twice" game. Here is an example from tonight: Seeing us at a party, in this case an Open House, was not enough for Frank Goodyear of San Anselmo's WestAmerica Bank (a total stranger to me, he was still wearing his nametag). When I nodded to him in greeting -- twice! -- he did not even acknowledge me. But, if I were to run into him again tomorrow at the coffee shop, I am certain he would say, "Hi, didn't I see you last night at the Hershon Hartley thing?" and we would be off and running with our conversation. You see, it is not enough that we are both human beings, that we both have struggles and joys, that we live in the same small town, or even that we both were invited to the same party at the exact same time. No, all of that only counts as Encounter No. 1. Once we meet again, then at Encounter No. 2 we will then have a common experience to draw upon and thus will have a reason to talk.

To walk around a party, or any store or coffee shop, or even to just be on the planet and to avoid eye contact and conversation with people around you -- in a social situation -- beggars the mind. How else, when else, would one meet someone new???

Checkout Chat

It may be difficult to work and talk at the same time over at the local Safeway grocery store. I went through the line this afternoon and had this little conversation with Anne, the cashier:

- "Sir, would you like to make a donation for prostate cancer?" she asked.
- "Actually, I am against prostate cancer," I said.
- "You never know when it might sneak up on you," she said.
- "Have you had any takers?" I asked, thinking of her obligation to ask every single customer today for a donation.
- "Yes, my father had it a couple years ago," she replied.

A real head-scratcher, that one.

Jerry Falwell Dies

When I was at in school at Dartmouth, I once paid one dollar to attend a speech (in the hockey rink no less) in which Jerry Falwell quoted George Gallup from Readers Digest. That was one wasted dollar! Falwell was a blowhard; he was hostile, ignorant, disconnected, and intolerant. The perfect poster boy for the regressive human instinct to form a tribe and to call down God's wrathful and destructive vengeance on one's enemies. And I think he wanted to have sex with men, too, since he talked about it so much. I am only a little ashamed to say that when I saw the headline of his demise a few minutes ago, my immediate response was an emphatic 'yessssss!'

What a weak, predictable, afraid, and insipid man he was, unable to hold contrary ideas in his head, and unable to see other people except with the desire to preach to them or kill them. Unfortunately, I am afraid that others will rise up to take his place.

Happy hosting, satan!

The Water Will Hold You ... But Aron Will Not

Here is some advice that I will give you for free: be wary if you ever date a writer!

Five years ago I dated Lindsey Crittenden, whom I knew to be a writer. She had had pieces published in mainstream magazines, taught creative writing at the local university extension, and was even working on a novel-length memoir about prayer and the deaths of her mother (cancer) and adopted brother (murder).

The beginning of our dating was very intense. I fell in love because -- I can say in retrospect -- I felt very seen and understood and held emotionally by her. After an initial month-long flush of infatuation, though, our relationship started promptly to fade away. I fell out of love with her because as I got to know her I did not like her as much as I originally imagined. I was not sufficiently interested in her for who she was, our sex was less than satisfying for me, and her family (father and nephew) were distant and discourteous (always a warning sign for me, a cold family). Also, I felt like a fifth wheel whenever I would hang out with her and her friends.

I was looking for a partner, I wanted to get married and start a family. So, I stopped seeing Lindsey sometime in April, and in May I met Maria, the love of my life who is now my wife of three years and who is four months pregnant!

When I first saw Lindsey's new book in the local bookstore, I turned to Maria and said, "I just hope I am not in here!" I leafed through it for about ten minutes, did not see my name or anything I recognized as being about myself, and put the book back on the shelf. I made a mental note that Lindsey would be reading and speaking at the bookstore in a couple weeks. I had always wondered how she was doing. And a part of me imagined that with enough water under the bridge we could once again recover the friendship that we had genuinely had when we first met; I have become friends over the years with several past partners.

The day of her reading, I showed up at the bookstore and sat in the back. Lindsey saw me but did not acknowledge me. During her talk and her reading, which was about her mother, her swimming in the ocean, and her experiences with her "love affair with prayer," she choked up a couple of times, but still did not smile or otherwise acknowledge me. I imagined that her reading glasses did not allow her to see me in the back of the room.

During the Q&A after the reading, the man to my right and the two women directly in front of me all asked questions, so Lindsey must have seen me there, but did not let on. "This is weird," I thought.

When the talk was over, quite a few people lined up to have their copies of her book autographed. I wandered back to the center of the store and purchased my own copy. Waiting for the line to dwindle down, I sat and leafed through the book again. Suddenly I stopped in my tracks: I saw this ex-boyfriend 'Aron' referred to toward the end of the book, and his story was not a good one. It was I, thinly veiled. Every detail she wrote about me I recognized. Uh-oh! Turns out, on my cursory reading, that Aron was something of a villain in the book!

Shocked, shaking inside, and very nervous, it was finally my turn to approach Lindsey at the signing table. "Hi, Joel," she said with very flat affect. "Hi, Lindsey. Congratulations!" "Do you want your book signed?" "Sure," I said as I set my copy in front of her. She wrote her name under the title on the title page. No dedication. She looked very angry, or maybe just irritated, as she handed the book back to me. She immediately turned to leave, without another word.

I was surprised to be treated so cooly. My only thought was that I wished I had not even come to see her at all. I took her signed book back to the counter and exchanged it for an unsigned one. Still somewhat shaky, I drove back home.

It is surprising five years later to learn that Lindsey had chonicled our times together in great detail and that she has turned them into a significant part of her new memoir. She never let me know she was writing about me, and I do not come off as a very respectable or good character. That is her view, and she has had five full years to stew over it and craft it into a story. I had not spent much of those five years thinking about her at all.

At the end of our relationship I treated her shabbily and I am sorry about that. She wrote that I manipulated her and broke a "promise" to have a life with her. The fact is, though, that as I grew disaffected with Lindsey, I had cheated on her with 'Suzie' from February on and had I lied to Lindsey's face about it. It was always difficult for me to break up with someone, and I failed miserably with Lindsey. I should have broken up with her in February instead of dragging things on for those extra eight weeks or so. Little did I know that in stumbling along the best I could manage at the time I had turned into somebody's villain.

I have been cheated on before and I know it sucks. But, in the immortal words of Garth from Wayne's World, I decided to "get over it, go out with with somebody else."

It is possible that since Lindsey was 40 and wanted children I was her last best hope for starting a family. I wanted that too, but not with her, I found out. Turns out that if I had stuck with her, then I would not have found my own wife and my own family and the happiness I have today.

I lived in San Francisco for nearly 16 years. During that time I dated a lot. My sister told me once, "I do not even want to meet your next girlfriend unless you are serious about her. I get tired of making friends and then having you break up with them!" But, my life in San Francisco was dedicated to becoming my true self and finding my true partner. Many times I was the 'Set Up King', being the last boyfriend of women before they met their one true love or husband or partner. This happened more than half a dozen times! I guess Lindsey was my Set Up Queen, and now there is a book that tells our story.

If you choose to date a writer, consider yourself warned!

What I Learned From Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)

In the spring of 1983, my freshman year at Dartmouth College, Kurt Vonnegut came to speak at my humanities class, a survey class on literature from Homer to Twain. He came at the invitation of Jim Cox, our slightly outrageous and flamboyant professor. (I seem to recall that Vonnegut may have been in town to visit his brother, but I am not sure about that.)

I had never read any of Vonnegut's books, but I am sure that I had at least heard of him and of his more famous works. In anticipation of his visit, I read one of his novels, I believe it was Slapstick; I would have to reread it to make sure. I know it was not one of his more famous titles.

At 10 in the morning the day of his visit, Vonnegut walked into our classroom drunk, his eyes red and watery, his step irregular, and his demeanor somewhat wild and unsteady. From the first row I could smell the whiskey on his breath. After a wandering half hour lecture about the writing process and the success of Slaughterhouse Five, he opened the room up for questions. I immediately raised my hand.

"In your novel [Slapstick], in the first part of the book the two main characters agree that it is impossible for two people to really love each other, but at the end they both say 'I love you' to each other. What changed? Did they learn something along the way? Or were they wrong to begin with? And do you think love is actually possible between two people?"

Vonnegut stopped and stared at me, shifted his weight from one side to the other, pressed his right hand against his forehead, squinted, and then said, "I don't know, I never read that one," and pointed to the next questioner.

My first reaction was a flash of anger at being dismissed so quickly. But after a moment I realized he had given me a deeper insight. During his lecture he had spoken of the feeling of being a channel through which the muses sing. If this is true, then he is not necessarily an authority on the intricacies of his plots and and details his characters. Instead, his novels had flowed through him, many never to be thought of again. Or, put another way, although he was the author of Slapstick, it was no longer his novel. The book has a life of its own, and he was out of the loop.

After this rough start, Kurt Vonnegut has grown on me immensely. I have watched several interviews with and read many essays by him since that day, and I have read two or three other books of his. My favorite so far is Bluebeard. I have read it over and over. I have come to deeply appreciate his humanity, his sense of humor, and his writing craft. At the same time, I have always known first hand that he was an imperfect person, and that he could share with me a deep truth about art and writing because of it.

Apples In Stereo

Tonight just before turning in, I clicked over to YouTube to see what was at the top of their recommended list, and imagine my surprise to find The Apples In Stereo's latest video being featured! Growing up in Ruston, LA, I knew Robert Schneider and his family through the little Ruston Church of God. They had recently arrived from South Africa, and Peter Schneider, Robert's dad, taught architecture at Louisiana Tech.

I am a little over six years older than Robert, and I remember hanging out at his house, my kid sister playing with his kid sister, and our moms visiting in the living room. He might have been about 10 or 11 and I was probably a senior in high school. He was learning to play the guitar, and I remember showing him a chord or two. Nothing fancy. Probably a barred minor (like F#minor) or something. I remember he was endlessly enthusiastic about learning a new thing, and we might have talked about Beatles too. John Lennon had died a year or two before, and I had started listening to everything of his I could get my hands on.

We knew even then that Robert was a little different. Off the charts brilliant, not the best behaved child in the church, and totally unconcerned with what other people thought of him. That is how you go far. Now I have several Apples In Stereo albums which I have worn out the grooves on (you can not really wear out the grooves on a CD that has been ripped to an iPod, but you get the idea). He writes a perfect pop tune. Catchy, under three minutes, and rockin'.

I did not know it at the time, but when Apples played (March 25, 1998) in San Francisco at the Great American Music Hall on the same bill as the High Llamas, two of my soon-to-be-favorite bands were in the same place at the same time!

Congrats, Robert. Keep the great tunes coming. Nice showing on Colbert Report, too. Best wishes for continued success.

Trying to Get My Two Cents Back

This is a story about fairness and justice and a little bit of karma. And about getting even for those little rip-offs that occur every day.

My favorite burrito stand in Marin County is San Jose Taqueria under the freeway overpass on Fourth St. in San Rafael. It is a real dive, and the sanitation in the place leaves a lot to be desired. But the burritos are excellent! Huge and tasty, filling and delicious. And on the bright side, I suppose it builds up my immunity to a wider variety of bacteria than eating in a clean place would.

A 'super chicken' burrito (with sour cream and guacamole) costs $4.25, or $4.58 after tax. Each time I give the register clerk a $5 bill, however, he gives me only forty cents back instead of the forty-two I am owed. No big deal the first time, or the second, but after about 10 visits I realize that these little shortages add up over time.

San Jose Taqueria bustles with energy at lunch time. The line can stretch 15 deep at high noon. The clerks race as fast as they can to take and fill orders, and the register clerk is no exception. At first I understood that pennies can slow down a transaction, but when I noticed that the cumulative effect was always in the house's favor, I decided to 'fight back'. I was going to get my money back one way or another.

I thought of just asking for a twenty-cent refund, but that would have required evidence and an understanding and patient clerk. Not going to happen. So, I decided to play their game. Today I decided that instead of handing over a $5 bill, I would instead count out four dollar bills plus exactly 55 cents in change. That way, instead of paying two cents too much, I would short them three cents. I was very curious whether the clerk would ask me for the additional three pennies. If he did, that would give me the perfect opportunity to mention that I had been shorted ten times in a row and see how he would respond.

I counted out my money and stepped up to the register to order. "Super chicken burrito, for here," I said. "That will be five thirty-six," he told me. In the two days since my last visit, they had raised their prices! All flustered, I had to reach into my pocket for more change, and with a flash of inspiration, I counted out $5.35 (not $5.36) and handed it over. He did not bat an eye as he dropped my money into the cash drawer and gave me my order ticket.

So, I saved one penny instead of two. But I paid eighty cents more than I expected. From my point of view, though, I am now down about nineteen cents in total, and it will take only another three or four months before I break even again.

How is it possible that on the very day I finally figured out their system a little bit, San Jose Taqueria raised their prices for the first time in the five years I have eaten there? Felt like karma, but who knows. I laughed as I walked out the door.

Footnote: after finishing lunch, I stopped by Peet's coffee for a large (with room). Normally it costs $1.85, but for the first time ever, the barrista told me "We are out of coffee for a couple more moments, so if you can wait, we will give it to you no charge." Now that is karma, baby! That is how Peet's earns my loyalty, too.

SF Chronicle, Letters to the Editor

I have had two letters to the editor published in the San Francisco Chronicle. Here they are:

THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
Privacy and Terrorism
Should state monitor e-mail?

Sunday, January 13, 2002

Editor -- You ask whether local and state law enforcement agencies, as proposed by Gov. Gray Davis, should have authority to monitor our e-mail and Internet use, in furtherance of the war on terrorism.

My answer: Yes, to the same degree that the public can monitor law enforcement officers' telephone calls, interrogation rooms and private conversations as part of the war on abuse of civil rights.

JOEL RIGGS
San Francisco

--------------

June 5, 1995

CITY OF ANARCHY

Editor -- Two articles in your May 30 edition, taken together, remind me just why I love living in San Francisco, even though our town seems to be falling apart on every side: Margaret Chase Smith (obituary on page A3) once said that "if (the) choice (between anarchy and repression) has to be made, the (great center of the) American people . . . will choose repression."

However, as The Chronicle reports ("Assessor's Office Falters -- S. F. Losing Millions") on page 1, we San Franciscans elected Doris Ward to the office of assessor without opposition, where she has "loose controls," is "asleep at the switch," "has no experience whatsoever," and is "basically retired." I am reminded that I moved from Louisiana to the City by the Bay because this is one community that would rather choose anarchy.

JOEL RIGGS
San Francisco

On Training Aikido

At the recommendation of a counselor of mine, I have been training in the martial art of aikido since the fall of 1993. Aikido is a relatively young martial art; it was developed in the 20th century in Japan by expert martial artist Morihei Ueshiba O Sensei. After mastering several arts in the traditional way, Ueshiba transformed the fighting and destruction of the older forms into the harmonizing and loving protection of aikido.

The word aikido is comprised of three words: Ai - blending or harmony, Ki - spirit or energy, and Do - path or way. So 'aikido' roughly translates as 'The way of the harmonious spirit." Aikido is not a collection of techniques or fighting moves; rather it is a way of being, a way in which all incoming attacks are met fully and openly and in which the attacker is either subdued or thrown without being harmed.

Training in this art has substantially boosted my confidence and my strength and flexibility, and it has allowed me to develop a more upfront and honest personality. Through training and diligent study, the body can learn to transform fear, conflict, and destructive tension into flowing and supportive cooperation, without the possibility for harm or injury. This transformation is ultimately spiritual, improving the connection between oneself and others and giving direction to all the attacker's energy so that no one is hurt, not even the attacker.

I have never used an aikido technique per se on the street. Late one evening when stepping down off a San Francisco Muni bus in the Haight Ashbury, a slightly inebriated, slightly overfriendly older man came staggering down the sidewalk directly toward me from 10 feet away with his arms outstretched and saying loudly "I love you." Instinctively, I stepped off the line of his motion, put one of my hands under one of his, and turned 180 degrees, passing his hand over my head. Instead of hugging me -- I suppose he wanted me to be his new best friend -- he staggered a couple steps past me and hugged another man unfortunate enough to be waiting for the bus in a spot directly in the drunk's path. He got a big and slightly disgusting bear hug.

I had followed the basic aikido principles: step off the line of attack, connect with the attacker, extend my own energy to include and join with the attacker, and safely redirect the attack to somewhere other than directly into my body, thus keeping me safe without hurting him at all. (I had not seen the man waiting for the bus, or else I would have steered the drunk away from him as well.)

Aikido applies to all manner of situations, not just to fighting. In aikido we practice with strikes, punches, grabs, and weapons; but the same principles apply to verbal attacks, to blending with the energy and direction of movement in traffic, or to performing effectively in any sort of business transaction or relationship interaction where there is a high level energy involved. Thus, training all the physical techniques provides a deeply rich metaphor for dealing with all the incoming energies in one's life.

I began my training in 1993 in San Francisco with Robert Nadeau sensei. In 2004, I and two others inherited Aikido of Marin (founded by Richard Moon sensei) in Fairfax, CA, where I currently teach children and adults for a total of about 10 hours a week.

Half My Grandfather's Lifetime

On February 1, 2007, I was exactly half as old as my maternal grandfather was on the day he died. He lived for 84 years, five months and 28 days. On that day I was 42 years, two months and 29 days, and I had lived through 10 leap days. Add it all up, and I was half done, were I to live exactly as long as he.

He was a very strong influence on me, but we have chosen very different paths. More about him soon.

"Happy Monday"

This is a story about the benefits of what I call intentional friendship.

In the fall of 1988, I met a woman who would soon become one of my fast friends. Susan, 31, was nine years older than I was, and married, so there was never any dating or thinking of dating. She was finishing grad school in painting, and looking forward to starting her own children's book illustration business. I was a fresh-out-of-college cartographer, and I wanted to start my own graphic design business.

We met at a temp job at a then-small real estate investment company. Chatting in the office, we discovered our common interests in art and design. Over lunch we shared about our ambitions and dreams and relationships, and we laughed more than usual for newfound acquaintances. Within three months, we had each struck out on our own and opened our own offices a block apart in downtown San Francisco.

So often, promising new friendships just drift away and wither and die. Susan and I would meet by accident on the street every few weeks and would rediscover how much we enjoyed spending time together. So, rather than let time and circumstance take its toll, I proposed to her that we check in with each other once a week by phone or in person. It could be short and sweet, or it could be a long lunch or phone call, but it had to be once a week.

It worked! We stuck to it. For over seven years--from 1989 to 1996--we spoke together one way or another practically every Monday. The phone would ring, I would say "Hello," and she would say "Happy Monday!" Over the years her business grew and flourished, she moved to the Sierras, her marriage fell apart, and she started dating again. My business grew too, I had several relationships, and started training aikido. Through it all, we both continued to mature and deepen as individuals as we put ourselves out into the world. The support of our weekly phone calls meant the world to me as home, work, and love changed constantly around the both of us. Happy Mondays indeed!

But then, as we moved into more divergent phases of our lives, our contact dwindled ever so slightly, first becoming every other week, then perhaps once a month, and then even less frequent. Still, though, we could immediately drop back into our deep and comfortable place of contact when the phone would ring and I would hear that simple opening phrase, "Happy Monday!" An old friend was back again. All the worries of the world could drop away for a short while. Occasionally we would get together for a visit, usually involving me attending one of her book signings or public presentations in San Francisco, or her inviting me and my friends to visit at her funky but cozy Sierra lodge. In 2004, Maria and I celebrated our honeymoon in the newly-built apartment in her mountain home.

Now, after knowing each other almost 20 years, she has moved to New Mexico, and I have moved to Marin, gotten married, and focused on life here. We are now in touch once or twice a year, but still, every phone call starts with that reassuring phrase, "Happy Monday!"

The Amazing Kreskin

About 1980, when I was a junior in high school, The Amazing Kreskin -- a mentalist and illusionist -- came to the local university to perform. For the grand finale of his show, four people randomly selected from the audience would hide his paycheck (for that evening's performance) somewhere in the room. Then he would find his check with the 'mental' assistance of those four people. The four were selected by a respected member of the community, in this case the Dean of Students at the university.

Out of about 1,000 people in the audience that night, I was one of the four chosen. Since my mother was an organ student in the music department, I knew that there was a gap under the hood of the organ in the orchestra pit. We slipped the check under this hood and set it out of sight on the bottom keyboard. It seemed like the perfect place to hide the check. (By the way, the check was for $3,000; not bad for 90 minutes' work.)

Kreskin returned to the stage, and the audience buzzed with anticipation. In order to "read our minds" and find the check, he would hold one corner of a handkerchief and have a volunteer hold the other corner. I volunteered to go first and took hold of his handkerchief.

Rather than hold the kerchief loosely, he stretched it tight and clamped my fist securely between his elbow and his ribs. Although he asked me to "think hard about the place you hid the check," I quickly discovered that he responded to the very least movement of my hand. If I twitched to the left, he would immediately stride to the left several paces, nearly dragging me along behind him. After a couple of random movements, he reminded me once again to concentrate on the location of the check.

Naturally, I chose to concentrate on some other random place. I decide to focus on the shoe of a student sitting toward the back of the hall. Within 60 seconds, Kreskin had homed in on that shoe. As he got closer and closer, I noticed that the audience watched, but didn't rise out of their seats or show too much interest. (In retrospect, I'm certain Kreskin noticed this as well, but went along to look in the shoe to humor me.) Finally, he had the student take off his shoe. Empty, of course.

The next thing Kreskin said to me was the most startling of all. He still had my hand clasped under his arm, and he said "now you are thinking of nothing." It was true. I was busted. He knew he was being bullshitted, and he was done with me. He took back his handkerchief and asked for the next volunteer. (That must be the reason he has four and not just one.) Within two minutes the next person had led him right to the organ and to the check. And naturally, the closer he got to the check's actual location, the more the audience stood in their seats and hummed with curiosity and eager interest--a dead giveaway to him that he was on the right track.

That night I learned the same thing that Kreskin says about himself: that he has no magical powers. Instead, he depends on heightened sensitivity to motion and to involuntary cues. No doubt anyone could learn to 'read' the mind of another the same way. I left the hall that evening amazed that he could be so sensitive, and gratified that he was not privvy to powers that the rest of us did not have. In fact, I think his skills impressed me even more than his suposed magical powers would have.

That evening Kreskin announced that out of hundreds of shows, he had only failed to find his check twice before. He claimed that if it happened a third time, he would never perform this feat again. 27 years later, a quick check of his article on Wikipedia reports that he has failed to find his check nine times over the years. I guess the trick it is too profitable to pass up!