Saturday, February 10

Dear Jim,

My taxes are all done. I mailed them yesterday. I still do not do them online. I don’t trust android, and my PC is rebuilt. It was changed from Windows 7 to XP Pro then back to Windows 7, so I don’t know what might be in the computer looking for social security numbers to steal.

When my tablet finally wears out or my PC crashes, I will get a new PC to send my taxes electronically. It’s easier to type, then see what I entered on the screen, than to strain my eyes on a paper copy trying to read handwritten numbers. I’ve even thought of getting an accountant or hiring a tax preparing company so I don’t have to read the directions and strain my eyes.

Sis I has glaucoma. Dad got it a few years ago, but look how old he is. Our great uncle got it in his seventies. My eyes are beginning to get dry. I will go to the eye doctor in March or April. I will ask if I should be tested for glaucoma twice a year.

Oh our health! I really feel old. More people call me sir everyday. I wish I had dad’s body.

Last Sunday was the Super Bowl. I didn’t listen to it. I didn’t know the Eagles won until Wednesday. Sis II told me while she was driving home from dad’s. She said the announcers said that it was one of the best. But even so, I don’t want to read about it, look at photos of it, or watch the highlights. It’s too much hype.

I wonder if anyone is studying Super Bowl statistics and national trends to predict how long pro football and the Super Bowl will be as popular as they are. I think some year there will be a sudden drop in viewers.

The Super Bowl may be attracting more women and foreigners than thirty years ago, but today’s young people don’t follow football like we did. With concussions and x rays of the brain, fewer kids will play organized football. Ten years ago I think it was, before concussions were worried about, John Madden said high school football isn’t as popular as it used to be, so the NFL better do something to keep kids playing it.

I would love to see pro football go away. Don’t replace it with anything. Just have a peaceful Indian Summer, Fall, and early Winter. The stadiums could be turned into parks or housing or something.

Even though I think football is over-emphasized, it bothers me the smugness with which young people dismiss not just pro sports, but the game. It seems strange not to see boys and young men playing tackle football anymore.

Don’t young guys want to use their bodies? Don’t they like to get dirty, especially after the rain? Don’t they want to let off steam, pretend they are great, cuss up a storm? Don’t they want to swagger and be hot stuff when they win? Don’t they want to fantasize every Saturday afternoon, look down the field and up to the sky and dream?

These young guys I’m talking to you about are offended when I bring up football: “Did you see the game yesterday?” One guy said, “I could’t care less.” Another guy said, ”You mean the game with the dumb ball?” But none of them said ”No. Was it good?” or “No. But my cousin was really good in high school. He got a scholarship to an Ivy League school.”

There is a new consciousness in young people. They think they are morally superior for rejecting football, just like the hippies thought they were morally superior for rejecting the military.

But the young people who think football is bullshit think rectal intercourse and organ removals are on the cutting edge of morality and progressivism. Football is violent, but cruising and sex change operations are good ways for boys to express their manhood.

That’s really what I’m talking about. With football you don’t just express your manhood, you try to prove it. Don’t give up. Don’t complain about the ref. Don’t give cheap shots. Suck it up. Shake hands after the game. Be humble when you win. Don’t be bitter if you lose.

Cruising is an easy way to express your maleness, “the insatiable male lust” feminists never criticized gay guys for. The morally superior people of today who criticize the risk-taking of football players, placed plaques in parks for dead guys who died from countless indulgences in rectal intercorse.

The violence of football is better than the perversion of the bath house.

How heretical Jim!

Love,

Dave

Friday, February 2

Dear Jim,

It’s going to be 70° today. That’s too hot. I’m sitting at Starbucks under an umbrella. My head is covered, but the table and my arms are in the sun.

This Starbucks doesn’t seem as busy as it used to be. I don’t know if there is too much competition or what.

It must be a horrible company to work for because the staff turns over a lot. I would think the managers get tired of interviewing people.

The other day I was sitting in a window at a different Starbucks. I saw two freight trains within twenty minutes pass by Sac State. It was great to have a vista of them and the trees in the distance.

I could sit there all day gawking. It always amazes me how little curiosity or awe people have. Hardly anybody looks out the window.

While I was sitting, a college guy came over to ask me if I would watch his stuff while he went to his car. I didn’t want to, but I said yes. So I put my book down and my eyes on his laptop, drink, jacket, and bag.

After two songs he still was not back. I turned around a few times to see if he was coming.

Ten minutes and he was still gone. I thought maybe he was part of an experiment by a Psychology or Sociology Department to see how long people would continue to watch someone else’s stuff. So I stopped watching and started reading. Finally he came back.

Then a staff member about my age came over to me. He was relaxed and could talk with anybody. He made me feel good and he made me aware that I don’t have that easy-going non-threatening manner that would be helpful to have in these crazy fear filled times.

He asked me what I was reading. I showed him the cover. It was in Spanish. He said the simple title perfectly. I was embarrassed that my accent is not as good as his, then he said he speaks Portuguese but not Spanish.

He was impressed I was reading Spanish. I told him I read it pretty well, but I usually need a dictionary. I said for this book though, I’m not using the dictionary because I pretty much understand it. I said at home I’m reading a story about contemporary Mexico, but there is so much slang a paper dictionary is not enough. I told him I use an online dictionary, but sometimes that does not work so I Google the word or phrase.

He impressed me. He wasn’t hurried or worried. When I work I usually hurry and worry. I’m trying to be calm and not worry, but the more improvement I make, the more overwhelmed I become because there is a lot of tightness inside that can’t wait to get out.

We are a tight society. Don’t you think? I was thinking of all the nice coffee shops there are. The companies try to make the shops fashionable. The staff tries to be cool. But everybody sits in tightness on their computer, never talking to the guy next to him or looking out the window at the sky or trees or the stranger passing. I’m tight too, but at least I look out the window and make eye contact.

There is always music on at the coffee shops I go to. But even though it’s supposed to make people feel good, it distracts them from what’s going on inside and it encourages people not to look at or talk to the people next to them.

If a woman came in with her kids and started dancing with them, or a young guy came in with his girlfriend and they started dancing, the manager would tell them to stop. That’s what I mean by a tight society. “We might get sued if you fall.” “We don’t have a dance permit.”

Last night was a full moon. I could see it through the blinds, but I was too agitated to open them or go outside to watch.

After noticing it a few more times I finally said, you’ve got to calm down and look at it. So I opened the blinds to look. It was incredible. I could see the face of the man in the moon. All the craters and mountains.

It was peaceful and beautiful. I realized how disconnected I am from what is important. I didn’t look two minutes, but it was important for my soul and my mind that I did.

I’ll never forget the time we were walking down the big street in your neighborhood. The moon was out and so were a lot of people. I said ”Look at the moon,” but you had already seen it. You said it always amazes you that when you walk when the moon is out, that you are the only one looking at it.

The other night I was going to my Spanish meet-up group. I hadn’t been in a long time. The full moon was up and the air was cool with no wind. It was incredible. I kept turning my head to look at it. I wanted to stop and watch. The weather was so good I could have sat in the park I was passing by for two hours. But I wanted to get to the group.

The meeting wasn’t so great. I understood more than I ever did, but I still have a hard time speaking, especially when I am tired like I usually am when I go.

I told dad I regretted not watching the moon. It was a Summer night in January. If this was thirty years ago, I would have raved about the moon to the group. But I didn’t even think of it.

One night when I lived in the South Area I got home from a dance. It was Summer and there was a full moon. It was incredibly beautiful. I was incredibly lonely. It was too beautiful to go to bed so I sat in the driveway watching it, wishing I had a woman.

It would have been great to sit on the lawn with a woman I loved and not say anything, then go inside later to fuck. It’s too bad our society does not have public service messages on the night of the full moon, telling men now’s the time to hammer your wife, and telling women it’s a great night to be pounded.

Well Jim, I wish I were married so I had someone to share my lunacy with. I wish you had had someone who saw God in the crescent moon like you did.

Love,

Dave

Sunday, January 28

Dear Jim,

Happy dad’s 96th birthday. He sounded good. When I called him they handed him the phone. I sang Happy Birthday. He liked it. Twice he said I have a good voice.

Other people have told me that, but I don’t sing in pitch. I tried to sing to dad in what I thought was tune, so I guess I succeeded.

Remember the singing class you took at S. F. State in the eighties? You liked it. I forget why you took it. I don’t think you joined a choir after.

I remember asking you if the teacher thought Bob Dylan was a great singer. He was diplomatic. He didn’t quite say no. He said that some singers try to sound like they are singing their hearts out for their audience.

When Bruce Springsteen’s mom heard Dylan sing, she said ”He can’t sing.” Springsteen said he sure as hell can.

A friend of mine took music lessons as a kid and got pretty good on the piano. His dad was a professional jazz player. But my friend doesn’t like Dylan.

When I took a singing class at Sac City College, most of the students were already good singers. They should not have been in a beginner’s class. One gal who I liked and who sang in her church choir didn’t think Dylan could sing. Classroom trained musicians and musicians who learn at church don’t appreciate Dylan.

Remember we saw him in 1974? He was okay. The Band was great.

I don’t know if I ever told the family, but I tried to learn how to sing in pitch. The first time, the teacher looked at me after we went through the scales. He said, ”I can’t help you. You do not have pitch.” I said, ”But that’s why I called you. So I could learn to sing in key.” He said ”I’m sorry.”

The second time a woman helped me, but I cannot remember why I stopped. It was only a few lessons.

The third time I went several months to a teacher. She helped me a lot, but the progress was slow and I frustrated the hell out of her. She dropped me.

Then I said, what the heck, I’ll try out for the community choir. I liked the way the leader conducted. But when he played the scales, I still couldn’t sing in pitch.

I remember the time you came to my apartment on 22nd Street. My guitar player friend was there and we played. He was a classically trained flute player who gave it up because he could not overcome a block that kept him from advancing to the next level of professionalism.

He told me that when he listens to the radio, he hears singers who go off key. I never asked him about Dylan, but he told me that when his mom was 65 and she saw John Lee Hooker, she said it was the most incredible performance she ever saw.

You know my real short lady friend? The woman who came to mom’s and dad’s with that great girlfriend I had when I graduated from college? She can really sing, but never pursued it. She didn’t even join her church choir. The only times she sings is when she is by herself or we’re driving and she sings a few lines for fun. She can’t remember the lyrics to an entire song.

Not being able to sing has been one of my biggest disappointments. I should use computer software to learn how, then I could join a choir and have a ball. I’d get revenge on the grade school teacher who laughed at me in front of the class telling me I couldn’t sing.

Those fucking cunt nuns.

Mom loved to sing. She loved her nuns. When mom died I printed out the lyrics to Red River Valley. I sang it for a couple of days and pictured her sadness. Now I have it in my Mom folder. I saw it the other day.

Love,

Dave

Friday, January 26

Dear Jim,

What a peaceful day. Everything has gone right.

I had an invigorating walk up the alley this morning. I wanted to go to the store before it got crowded and I wanted to erase something off of my to do list.

When I got back I called dad. We talked for twenty minutes. That’s the second time in a row we talked for that long. He didn’t disconnect the phone by accident like he did last week. Maybe the ladies who take care of him explained how to use it, or got an easier one to use.

The other day Sis I and II visited him for an early birthday celebration. Dad said it was great.

He’s going to be 96. That’s incredible. I wonder if you were here, if you would have let dad be put in a rest home, or if you would have taken care of him.

You should see the people on the street who need to be taken care of. Last night when I got home there was a crazy bastard screaming under the carport. He was still screaming when I went to bed.

Usually when I hear or see somebody under the carport, I look at them to scare them. I was afraid to look at that bastard. It’s incredible how much time and energy I put into thinking and complaining about these guys.

Dad sounded really good. He’s been sounding strong. I could tell he was low today, but he still sounded strong. He said he’s been feeling good.

He said the days drag by and that they must drag by for me too. I said my days go by fast, it’s just that I have a lot of bad days. He said yeah or something to acknowledge that he knew what I was talking about.

The other day I walked to the river. I knew it wouldn’t be high because there has not been a lot of rain. But I needed to see water, the movement of the river. I needed a destination. I needed to walk without carrying my crap.

It’s usually windier at the river. I wanted to stay a while to watch the current and patterns on the water, but I was sweating. The wind chilled me. I said, ”You better get outta here.” But at least I saw it.

On the way back my knees started to hurt. I was smart. I didn’t push it.

I waited for a bus and took it the rest of the long way home. Remember when your feet started to hurt from walking all those hills in The City?

Dad’s lucky. His legs held up until he was 89. I compliment him on his great body all the time.

On Wednesday he went for a haircut. I asked how it went. He said, “It’s a real good one.” I said, ”Do you look like you’re 70?” He laughed.

I feel 70.

I told the MD that I feel punchy a lot, that sometimes it’s hard for me to speak. I asked for a brain scan, then he sent me for a CT. There was nothing wrong. No tumors. No bleeding. No Alzheimer’s.

One time he said I know the lights at work drive you crazy and that the stress makes you think there is something wrong with your brain, but we have no studies or tests that we can point to and give you for your particular problem.

What would solve most of my problem would be to have the money to retire. I would go outside more. I would not be overstimulated by the shitty lights and stressful job.

It’s amazing dad and mom looked so good for so long, especially dad.

That’s it for now.

I hope we get a lot of rain so the rivers get high.

Love,

Dave

Friday, January 19

Dear Jim,

The pope’s in Peru. I turned on Radio Católica expecting to hear the regular programs, but instead there was coverage of his trip.

Today’s event was the right-to-life march. You should have heard how loud the marchers were. It sounded like a party. The announcers said that there was a very large amount of young people.

It’s nice to hear people celebrating rather than complaining. I wish I had something to celebrate. I am glad that these young people oppose abortion. One of the reasons Europe and America have degenerated is because of all the abortions women have had and still demand.

It’s amazing that I’ve never heard any boomers say how badly we screwed up, and how badly we screwed up the country and the West because of our successful demand for cheap legal abortions.

I remember the time you told me you were sitting in the cafeteria at S. F. State. A table of women were talking about their abortions. You were shocked how nonchalantly they talked about them. You were surprised that more than one woman at the table had more than one abortion. They had no sense of guilt or shame.

It’s funny that the Progressives and people who are not Christian demand that The Church apologize for it’s sins against Jews and other groups, that the United States apologize to blacks, Indians and Mexicans, that white people apologize to Indians, Mexicans and blacks; but nobody is saying that European governments, and the American government, should apologize for passing laws that allowed so many babies to be killed, and that the citizens of Europe and the United States should apologize for all the babies they flushed down the toilet and all the hosrseshit relationships that created the abortions.

Last Monday was MLK Day. I turned on the radio twice. I listened for a half an hour each time. Each time he wasn’t the focus.

I listened because I knew I should get out of my comfort zone. I enjoyed each show. I learned a lot.

But I get tired of black people never mentioning how badly they have screwed up themselves and the country. I get tired of white Progressives who are offended when I say I think 52 years is plenty of time to get it together.

I told dad the pope was in Peru. He already knew it. I said, ”Wasn’t one of the popes in San Francisco?” He said that he was at the cathedral when the pope said Mass there.

The poor pope. I wonder how many body guards he has. What if somebody killed him?

But I want to talk more about race. The other night when I got home from work I was exhausted. I couldn’t read or study, so I turned on YouTube. I typed Sacramento, then I think I typed something else. A boring list came up. Then I saw Sacramento Rappers.

I like rap. Sacramento was, and maybe still is, a famous rap city. So I clicked it.

There were several rappers listed but I kept scrolling. I saw some descriptions of videos saying that ”This is the video of the such-and-such gang.”

I clicked one from two years ago. There were at least 50 Mexican gang guys on the stage at Southside Park. They were milling around, each guy singing the song that a professional rapper was singing for the video. I could hear the singer but not the guys on the stage standing with Aztec murals behind them.

It was incredible. They were so pissed off. So filled with hate. The camera went from one small group of guys to another, focusing on one guy as he pulled up his shirt to show his tattoos, on another guy as he made angry faces at the same time he was making gang signs with his hands and fingers, on another guy as he pulled a pistol out of his pants. Every once in a while a couple of guys were taking a swig of liquor. And they were all singing.

It’s terrifying that there are so many pissed off young men with guns. Progressives laugh when somebody like me talks about proving one’s manhood, but these pissed off young guys show that there is a need to prove one’s manhood.

The argument usually is that white people are responsible for all the brown and black gangs. If only there were not these horrible white racists making all these black and brown guys join gangs to kill each other.

I think it’s a gender issue. There is nothing for young men to do. Black and brown guys join gangs. White guys camp under the freeway.

Nobody is doing anything to get these guys working so that whatever fears they have will not take such a violent terrifying turn. It’s a woman’s world, but everybody blames the young men for being pissed off and afraid.

It’s the playoffs. Last Sunday there were two incredible games.

I think about football all the time. My hero is Merlin Olsen. He played all 15 years of his career with the Rams.

I remembered when he retired. There was an article in the LAT one Sunday about him. It said that the guys he played against said that Olsen never cheated.

Isn’t that something!

It’s a bad time to be male bro. Those gang guys hate me and I hate them, but they don’t know we’re both pieces of shit.

I hope it’s freezing in New England on Sunday.

Love,

Dave

Friday, January 12

Dear Jim,

It hasn´t been a rainy winter but it´s been a cloudy one. Last Sunday I went to Starbucks expecting the sun to come out like it did the week before. It never did. After an hour and a ten minutes I was too cold to keep sitting so I walked home in the gloom.

I felt like winter. Cold and lonely. When I got to the corner of the street I would normally turn home on, I decided not to turn. For the second Sunday in a row there were a lot of homeless guys with all their crap camped under the freeway.

It pisses me off and scares me at the same time. I don´t like seeing all the slobs in my neighborhood and I´m mad that the city doesn´t provide abandoned buildings for these guys to live in or abandoned parking lots with tents and porta potties for them to at least be put out of the way.

It scares me that so many of the homeless are young – in their twenties. I look at them sitting around and I shake, ¨Oh my God. They´re so young.¨

I worry a little about getting mugged. I worry a lot that I might become homeless if the rent goes up $100 each year. I don´t have the strength to work full time.

It must be horrible living on the street. There is nowhere to pee or poop. I wonder what kind of problems they will have with their bladder if they eventually get off the street and make it into their forties.

But still. They are slobs. The other day when I left for work I wanted to leave through the back gate and walk through the alley like I usually do. There was a homeless guy milling around under the carport. I thought, ¨This doesn´t look too good. You better go out the front.¨

So I did. When I left the building and turned up the street, the sidewalk underneath the freeway was blocked. I never saw it blocked before. The sidewalk is pretty wide – at least 12 feet. Normally 1/3 to half the sidewalk is filled with a few guys and all their crap. This time a tent blocked the rest of the sidewalk. You couldn´t see past to the street a block away. I was pissed.

I could not believe it. These are the new hobo jungles, only there is no train to catch to see the great American West and take the edge off your pain and give you hope.

At least in the old days tramps could feel solace that they got free rides through beautiful country on equipment of a system that symbolized the Industrial Revolution and the poverty or displacement it created. Theirs.

One time in Klamath Falls, when I was 21, I was walking through the rail yard. Under the overpass were three guys hanging around drinking. Two of them were in their forties. The third guy looked old, but the more I studied him the more I realized he was my age. Several of his teeth were missing.

That was the trip I took Southern Pacific up to Klamath Falls, then Western Pacific back along the Feather River. The way up was cool and cloudy. It was June. The way back was sunny and partly cloudy. Not warm.

The train I took out of Klamath Falls broke up in a little valley. I was walking around the outpost, inspired by the crisp cool air and the mountains, when right in the middle of the maintenance road was the hugest pile of human shit I had ever seen. It was fresh.

When I caught the next train it climbed into the mountains and it got cloudy and cooler. I tried moving to wherever the sun was, but that didn´t work out. Finally, the train started going downhill and along the Feather River.

It got warmer. I took off my coat and relaxed and was enjoying the scenery. Then a train passed coming from Oroville. All of a sudden I saw an empty flat car with two circles of four or five guys playing cards as the train wound up the mountain.

I was astounded. You´ve heard me tell this story. I love to tell it. I haven´t mentioned it to anybody in years. I probably never will. Who gives a shit about freight trains?

Who gives a shit about displaced people? There´s a controversy here in Sacto about homeless people sleeping along the river. The city and the county think the homeless create a health hazard with all their urine, poop, trash, and needles. So periodically the slobs are run out by the police or deputies.

The homeless advocates get mad and say the homeless need a place to stay. The river is the logical place. It is away from everything.

But people who live in the neighborhoods along the river, especially the people close to entrances to parking lots, don´t want a bunch of slobs with their shopping carts, bicycles, baby carriages, and dogs hanging around.

People who want to bicycle along the river do not feel safe. Parents don´t want to take their kids to the river to be around the druggies, boozers, and derelicts.

The progressives blame the government for everything. If we had a real wet winter and the homeless and all their junk were washed away, the progressives would blame the government for not rescuing them.

It bothers me. All the people who have empathy for the homeless look at me like I am a criminal or an evil privileged white man. The people who are wrapped up in appearing to be empathetic and socially conscious toward the disadvantaged or displaced cannot do a random act of kindness like smiling at me when I smile at them.

Remember a few letters ago when I wrote about the guy who was convicted in NYC for killing a cop? I mentioned the reaction of the cop´s mother, then compared it to the response mom and dad had to the guy who killed you.

I said mom and dad forgave him, but I was glad he hung himself in jail. I said I didn´t have empathy for his daughters.

I was thinking today that since mom and dad forgave him, I should too. I was thinking that it is too bad he hung himself in jail. He might have apologized to mom and dad.

If he hadn´t killed himself, his daughters could have visited him in prison trying to make their dad less miserable. They would have had a living father.

I hope they are okay. I hope they hope that dad, the girls, and I are okay.

Life´s a bitch Jim.

I have a helluva long way to go.

Love,

Dave

Friday, January 5

Dear Jim,

Tomorrow is the Epiphany. Remember the parish with that name in the southeastern part of The City? The weather was just as bad as where we lived, but there was no view of the ocean.

We had it good, even though the hot shits in the sunny, cultured, and bad neighborhoods looked down upon the foggy avenues and their wimpy unenlightened residents. We were lucky to have Golden Gate Park and the beach to wander in and along as our oasis’s from the times that were difficult for us.

I´ve been thinking about San Francisco a lot since looking at that book at Sis II´s and standing on the Embarcadero for an hour looking to Oakland. I am torn between my desire to visit The City to walk along the bay, and my repulsion at the ugliness and soullessness of the most vibrant part of the city – South of Market. I will be doing most of my walking there.

Since I´ve been listening to You Tube a lot, I decided to see what famous San Franciscans were saying about today´s San Franisco. There were a few lectures by the grassroots lobbyist about your age. But they were about expensive rents. I wanted to hear about the arts and different cultures.

So I typed in the name of San Francisco´s businessman/poet to see if there were lectures by him. The one that caught my eye was not about San Francisco, but was a speech he gave at UCLA in 1969. It was over an hour. The problem was that it wasn´t a speech but a poetry reading.

It was dreadful. I thought he would read for five minutes then start lecturing. After ten minutes I said, ¨Oh my God,¨ then forwarded to the 20 minute point, but he was still reading his diatribe about Nixon.

He isn´t a natural reader. He did not practice his delivery or memorize his poem. It was juvenile. Everyone in the audience thought it was great.

After I zapped off his reading, I tried to find something current by him. There was an excerpt from a TV news broadcast which talked about one of his recent birthdays. He complained about the price of rent and how hard it is for creative people to afford to live in San Francisco.

But some people disagreed. They said he was just an old fart complaining about changes he did not like, just like old farts have always done. Someone else said that the techies who priced other people out of San Francisco have brought a new type of creativity to The City. The beatniks were then, the techies are now.

That got me thinking. Of course I am disgusted that San Francisco is so expensive. I cannot live there. I would love to live there for two years after I retire, but I won´t be able to.

I complain all the time about the ugly skyscrapers South of Market, just like I have complained all my life about the beatniks and hippies. The self-proclaimed enlightened ones who wrote poetry in North Beach usually wrote shitty poetry.

The self-proclaimed revitalizers of South of Market usually create incredibly ugly and dispiriting buildings. But it takes a lot of skill to get through architecture school, then pass the board. It does not take skill to say fuck the president and fuck Western Civilization. Even worse – it´s a lie to call it poetry.

I hated the beatniks and I hate the architects and engineers who created an architectural nightmare South of Market. I don´t hate techies. I would love to know code and networking. I love talking to techies about their work, but I´m not interested in talking to poets about theirs because it is not very good and any idiot could do it.

One time in the 70´s or early 80´s I was complaining about the new architecture in The City. A hippie said he could remember all the neat buildings from the 60´s that were torn down for ugly new stuff, but he did not understand that our great aunt and great uncle felt that the hippies had destroyed charming old San Francisco.

The famous poet and the people on The Left don´t understand that the lousy juvenile poetry in North Beach happened before the Bank of America building began the Manhattanization of San Francisco. One can argue that the beatniks set the precedent for horseshit, then the land developers jumped at the chance to create their own crap.

I´m all wound up as mom used to say. So I´ll keep going. The beatniks initiated the disrespect for authority and Western Civilization that became common with the hippies. Neither group believed in truth or beauty, just like the developers downtown do not believe in creating buildings that are magical.

I´ll use a word I used to use all the time – phony. The beatniks were phony.

Remember when I got back from Kansas and we went to the U. S. Cafe for dinner? It was crowded so we shared a table with a couple ten years younger than mom and dad. The perfect beatnik age.

You said to them, ¨Dave just got back from Kansas.¨ The arrogant asshole said, ¨What´s in Kansas?¨ That hurt my feelings. I loved Kansas.

I´ll never forget that day. You loved being with me. You were proud of your kid brother who just got back from the adventure of his life.

Love,

Dave

New Year´s Eve

Dear Jim,

I´m writing to you on the patio at Starbucks. I´m looking south into gray and white clouds of this hazy day. It feels good – cool but not cold. I have my sunglasses and sun hat on for the glare and my tear-open hand warmers in my pack if I need them.

Sis II and our Irish brother-in-law gave me two $25 gift cards to Starbucks. I did not want to carry home presents.

So here I am. On the bus ride over, the driver had Christmas music blasting form a really good stereo. It made me laugh. At first I thought it was one of the riders.

It felt good, but you would not have liked it. It was jazz played to Christmas standards. I wonder if anyone will call in to complain. She could get in trouble. It was way too loud.

I got here at 11:30. I was expecting to read a NYT or a Bee that somebody left lying around, but there were none in the discard rack and none on the ´to buy´ rack. They must have been very busy.

That´s okay. I got my news last night.

I was listening to Mexican music on YouTube, then to songs I have had on my tablet since I got it. I was too tired to read, so I listened to an interview I heard before.

It was about feminism and the sexual revolution. A conservative host was interviewing a conservative writer.

The writer was criticizing old school conservatives who think that the sexual revolution caused men to be promiscuous and caused men to be deadbeat dads. The old school conservatives say that men need to man up and to stop taking advantage of women.

The writer said that prior to the sexual revolution, companies were forced to pay men enough money to raise a family. Business did not like the idea, but there was nothing it could do.

As traditional jobs for men disappeared and women went into the labor force, business benefited from lower wages due to job competition, and the government benefited from more people paying taxes.

Men started earning less money. They did not have the money to get married. They were not taken seriously by women who wanted to marry.

The writer was trying to answer the question raised by old school conservatives, ¨What is wrong with today´s men?¨ He mentioned all the men who don´t work or who work part time. He mentioned that men are not industrious like they were in dad´s generation and his dad´s generation.

He wasn´t talking about the deadbeat dads of our generation, but about the guys five to ten years younger than I am who grew up on low wages and could not expect a job geared toward men like dad and our grandfathers could. The new economy was hurting men while women adapted well to the service and tech economy.

These guys were laughed at by women. He said a lot of women didn´t want to stoop so low as to marry a poor man, but pursued the Alpha males who did not need or want them. While the average man was getting less sex than he he was when he was a married man 50 years ago, the Alpha males, the rich guys, were getting a lot of it.

The poor unwed man did not have kids. A lot of successful women did not want kids. But at 40 things changed. If a man had become successful, he was full of confidence at 40. Men are attractive in their forties.

But a woman at 40 isn´t attractive anymore. Men their age who had a job did not want anything to do with the stuck-up cunts who shined them on when they were young.

He talked about monogamy – how monogamy is central to Western Civilization. He said monogamy provides a husband for every woman and a wife for every man. He said monogamy is dead and we need to restore it.

He didn´t just speak theoretically. He said most men should be married. I agree. It gives men something valuable to do.

It´s funny. None of the presidential candidates talked about re-establishing monogamy or paying higher wages so couples could get married in their early twenties.

It´s a beautiful day. Still cloudy. A great day for wandering around town with your future spouse – holding hands, looking to the clouds and the specks of blue between them as your dream about your kids.

Love,

Dave

Friday, December 29

Dear Jim,

It was a great Christmas. I was surprised I stayed three nights at Sis II´s. They really are happy. I wish I was.

There was a lot of great food – lasagna, croissants, pork. I did not overeat and I did not get a headache. Usually when I go down, the intense Bay Area sun gives me a headache, but this time, even though it was sunny a lot, there were also clouds to give me a reprieve.

We took a great walk along the main drag – a mile in each direction. We started at 4:00 and stayed out until after sunset. You should see all the expensive yuppie restaurants. It made me ill and envious at the same time.

What do you do when you are rich? Go to a fancy place every night?

Sis and I went through a lot of family photos. What we don´t keep we´ll dump. I kept two. One of mom and gramps coming out of their flat. It wasn´t a pose. Somebody caught them as they were hurrying fretfully away.

The other was of our uncle with our Ecuadorean aunt. I never thought of him or her as handsome or pretty, but they were in that picture. Their cigarettes made them look glamorous. The grain in the photo was incredible, like something Ansel Adams did.

There were a lot of good photos of you. You were the most photogenic of us. The one I want Sis to make a copy of is of you sitting at your desk at work smiling, with the entire empty corridor behind you. You look confident and happy. I thought you hated the place?

For Christmas, Sis received a book about walks you can take in San Francisco. There are old and new photos to go along with each walk, as well as historical blurbs.

The blurb which caught my attention said that prior to the earthquake, San Francisco was the palm tree capitol of California. The earthquake destroyed most of them,
then L. A. became the palm tree capitol.

I love palm trees. They are a great thing about living in Sacramento. They also make the Embarcadero a lot prettier than it was when the incompleted freeway was there. They tore the freeway down after the ´89 earthquake, but I don´t think they could have gotten the palm trees planted before you died.

Anyway, the Embarcadero looks great. After I got off Cal Trains from Sis´, I took one of the 1948 tourist streetcars up to Harrison, then stood for almost an hour looking at the bay towards Oakland. All the huge multi-colored freight ship containers looked neat sitting on the docks there.

Remember when we went to see the Christmas Revels at the old theater in Oakland near Lake Merritt – ¨Dance, dance, wherever you may be, for I am the Lord of the Dance said he…¨?

It was resounding. It made us tremble. The chorus went on and on.

Have you looked down to see how the 49ers are doing? They were 0-8, now they are 5-10. Last week they upset a division champion. Sunday they play the Rams in L. A. The Rams have won the division. If the Niners win, it will be five in a row. Their new quarterback is good.

That´s if for now.

Happy New Year.

Love,

Dave

Friday, December 22

Dear Jim,

The days are getting longer.

I am trying to get in the Christmas spirit. On Wednesday I finally took out the battery-operated Christmas tree that mom gave me. I love it. She received it from two swingers at church who bought it at Gumps.

I remember you bought somebody a present at Gumps, but I can´t remember what it was. The old lady across the street from us when I graduated from high school had a friend twenty years younger than her who had a great position there. I still know his name but never met him.

It´s a struggle this year. I took out the tree, but left the Silent Night chimes in the closet. I definitely do not feel the peace of Christmas.

On Sunday I´m going to Sis II´s. I don´t think there will be a lot of people. I want to relax, so I hope not. I really want and need to talk with Sis II. Dad´s mind is shot, so she is all I have in the family.

Speaking of family, I was reading the New York Times the other day and thought of you. Two years ago a 25 year old New York City cop was murdered on duty. The other day after the trial but before the verdict:

¨the officer´s mother addressed the courtroom in an emotional plea for the maximum
sentence for her son´s killer, whom she refused to look at. She spoke of Mr. ____´s
lovable personality and living with the knowledge that she would never dance with
him at his wedding or see him become a father. ´This is my life sentence, without
parole,´ she said.¨

A totally different perspective than what mom and dad had toward your murderer. Mom and dad forgave him and prayed for him. If you had read the article you would have said the family of the murderer suffered too.

When the guy who killed you hung himself in jail, I wonder if his kids were happy for us because either he evened the score, or because we were spared the trial and all the questions people would have asked us, ¨Do you hope he gets the death penalty man?¨ I wonder if they were relieved for themselves for not having to go through the stress of the trial or having to visit their father in San Quentin.

I was glad he hung himself. I didn´t give the slightest shit about his kids.

One time when dad was driving you, mom, and I somewhere, you were talking about something that happened in the Bay Area in the 1950´s. A guy was sent to prison for arson. He claimed that he did not do it. He told the prosecutor something like, ¨You´ll pay for this.¨ When the guy got out of prison, he looked up the prosecutor then killed him.

My reaction was ¨Good!¨ ¨What balls!¨ ¨Serves the career-building attorney right!¨ Your comment was that the guy in jail could have tried to make peace with himself in jail, to learn forgiveness, to not waste all those years cultivating vengeance.

I wonder what the two families thought. Did the prosecutor´s family say, ¨Yes. Well even though that was 15 years ago, our dad/brother did ruin someone´s life. We don´t like what happened, but we cannot complain.¨? Did the family of the murderer say, ¨If he had broken out of jail the first week and killed him, that would have been OK, but now we lose our father/brother a second time. We wanted him back.¨?

Well Jim, Merry Christmas.

Thanks for praying for me.

Love,

Dave