doubting thom

I’m not sure how I missed this back when it actually took place, and I was even still working at the State Department then (though it was during my last two weeks there, so I was somewhat distracted by the pending cross-country move). From an Essence Magazine interview with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, as transcribed on the State Department website, when asked if the decision to go to war in Iraq was the right thing to do:

Absolutely. Because it’s difficult, it doesn’t mean that, first of all, it won’t work out. I think it will. And secondly, that it wasn’t the right decision. Look at how many big historical changes that later on, it looked like it is inevitable, but they turned out right, were indeed very, very difficult in the process and looked like it was impossible. … I’m sure that there are people who thought that it was a mistake to fight the Civil War to its end and to insist that the emancipation of slaves would hold. I’m sure that there were people who said, why don’t we — I know that there were people who said why don’t we get out of this now, take a peace with the South, but leave the South with slaves. You — just because things are difficult, it doesn’t mean that they’re wrong or that you turn back.

I really think that might be the most offensive thing I’ve heard all year from this administration, and that’s saying a lot. I am stunned and appalled that anyone, and particularly an African American, would think to compare the debacle in Iraq with the U.S. Civil War and the emancipation of slaves. If a white person had made that comparison, it would be roundly–and rightly–criticized; where was the hue and cry over Secretary’s Rice’s attempt to portray her boss’s ill-advised, poorly conceived and worse-run war in Iraq as comparable to the Civil War struggle over slavery? How dare she!

I had once written in this blog that in person Secretary Rice had come across “as genuinely pleasant and witty, [and] sincerely interested [in our work].” I regret now that I was so obviously bamboozled. The thoughts she expressed to Essence were anything but pleasant or witty, and demonstrate at best only self-interest.

Ah, I just remembered something else I had meant to post about my experiences with license plate numbers. Writing the earlier post reminded me of the first time I took my Saab 9-3 convertible (the car I owned prior to the Prius) back to the dealer for service. I gave the keys to the mechanic and told him my car was the dark green 1999 9-3 convertible, with license plate ZCM576. He came back in a few minutes later and said that my keys didn’t work. I noted that if they didn’t work I wouldn’t have been able to drive the car there in the first place. So I went outside with him to see what was wrong. He walked right over to a dark green 1999 9-3 convertible with license place ZCM567. Another owner had brought his car in for service just a few minutes after me, and our license plates were partially dyslexic versions of one another.

Today at work we had the first three-hour session of our 20-hour mandatory NERT training (yes, that’s a “T”). The AVC (associate vice chancellor) for our division has arranged for in-house training by the San Francisco Fire Department in what is, essentially, disaster preparedness. NERT stands for “Neighborhood Emergency Response Team” and aims at creating citizens who can be self-sufficient during a major disaster and potentially even to help as supporting members of emergency response teams; San Francisco doesn’t have the number of emergency professionals that would be needed in the event of a major disaster, so this effort counts on the ability of trained citizens to pitch in as possible and as appropriate.

Although the mandatory nature provided an immediate “groan” factor, and 20 hours does seem like a lot of time to be away from our desks over the next six weeks, and the first session was much too generic and focused on background information (pictures and descriptions of previous earthquakes, the history of NERT, etc.), I’m actually quite interested in the program. Even though intellectually I know the risk of experiencing a major earthquake here in my lifetime is almost a certainty, I’ve not done any real preparation since moving here in June. But there were moments today that were extremely sobering, and I’ve been practicing my “earthquake eyes” throughout the rest of the day–casing rooms I enter to see what would be the falling hazards, and what I’d use for shelter and protection–and am paying serious attention to the need to put together an emergency kit with sufficient water and food for us and Alex, and to develop a plan for where Jeff and I would meet, and how we’d try to keep in touch in case of an earthquake or other disaster during a work day, when I’m ten miles away from home.

I just hope that adorable Fireman Dan, our second facilitator, comes back week after week. T. Kevin: You’d have particularly loved him.

When we finish the training we get issued a yellow hardhat and orange mesh safety vest. Just imagine the roleplay possibilities.

The current California license plate standard is one number followed by three letters followed by three more numbers. So for each initial number-three letter combination there are 1,000 possible plates, from 000 to 999, for all of the millions of cars in the state. Granted, the plates aren’t distributed randomly across the state–when you register your car at the DMV, you get the plates right then, so they’re distributed in batches to the DMVs. This means that the other 999 cars with the plates in my particular set of 1,000–my last three digits are 893–probably registered their cars and got their plates at the same DMV office. Still, it amazes me that in the last two days I’ve been immediately behind two other cars with plates from that same set. On Tuesday I was behind a white car with the same first digit and three letters followed by 873 all the way from San Francisco up Skyline Drive and even on to Westmoor, though she continued down Eastmoor when I turned down our street. And on the way to work today, as I was driving through Golden Gate Park at 8:30–I still get a kick out of the fact that I actually drive through Golden Gate Park twice every day–I was behind a silver Saab 900SE that was number 935 from the same set.

Now I’ve become hyper-aware of other cars’ license plate numbers as I drive around, and I want to find more of the other 997 from my set.

We had intended to see the San Francisco Mime Troupe‘s new show, “Godfellas,” on Independence Day, but we ended up at the hospital with Jeff’s dad that day. Julie had been encouraging us to see it, and Peg and her family had really enjoyed it when she was visiting around that same time, but we hadn’t gotten our act in gear to go see it. This weekend was the troupe’s last performance in San Francisco (they’re still performing throughout Northern California this month, though, if you haven’t seen it), so we made plans to go today.

We took BART downtown from Daly City and stopped at Burger Joint (or, as the window proclaims, “bj”) for cheeseburgers and fries. Jeff had seen a segment on a local cooking show about the hamburgers there, and GQ had pegged their burgers as the 16th best in the country (and the best in San Francisco).

It was a good burger, to be sure, though I wouldn’t say it was the best I’ve had; it truly was nice, though, to be able to get a burger cooked a little on the rarer side, something not so easy to find these days. And the fries were fantastic (I think I care more about good fries than good burgers); I really love fresh, thick cut fries that still taste of the potato.

Afterwards, we walked the few remaining blocks to Mission Dolores Park, where we met Julie around 1:00–she had gotten there earlier in order to get a good place to put down her blanket–and we sat with her for the live music beforehand and the show itself. I’m so glad we went; it was a terrific piece of political satire (for those who aren’t familiar with them, the troupe’s name is something of a misnomer, as they’re not engaged in traditional mime; rather, they write and perform political satire musical theater).

The premise has Angela Franklin, an idealistic former social studies teacher–along with her smitten colleague, Todd, let go from his job as an art teacher in a Catholic school–lose the center she’s set up to give students exposure to subjects–art, civics–schools no longer are teaching, when a gospel preacher from New Orleans–the Rev. C.B. DeLove, the front man for a Catholic, Jewish and Evangelical “syndicate”–takes over the space as his San Francisco storefront for a campaign to get a “Mandatory National Day of Prayer” amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Ms. Franklin, a Thomas Paine afficionado, decides to take on the syndicate, to save the U.S. from a tyranny of religious leadership and the loss of the separation between church and, as the minister and his co-hort won’t say the word, “dat other ting.”

The satire is spot on, and the performances–a half-dozen actors create the illusion of a cast of two to three times that–first-class. I told Jeff and Julie that I left with a crush on both Angela and Todd. At one point in the show, the Thomases Paine and Jefferson show up and Jefferson also is quite smitten with the African-American Angela.

Making the day even better, the weather was glorious, at least in the Mission; when we crossed the San Francisco/San Mateo County border on the ride home, it was as though the fog had been stopped on the Daly City side, for lack of the proper papers, but had gathered reinforcements there in the meantime. It was still cold and gray at home, but at Mission Dolores Park it was beautifully sunny; our jackets went unneeded in our backpacks, and we soon were stripped down to our t-shirts. A few men took advantage of the nice weather to sunbathe shirtless; one particularly adorable guy who did so was sitting just to our right.

We hit Starbucks on the way home, where they’ve just replaced their summer banana/coconut line of coffee drinks with their fall-only pumpkin spice drinks, a particular favorite of Jeff’s. After they initially got both my name–apparently, I’m now “Ton,” pronounced “tahn” rather than the 2,000-pound weight–and my order wrong, we eventually left with the correct pumpkin spice frappucinos–and the pumpkin spice iced latte they had first made instead. Yum. There’s another reason autumn is my favorite season.

I was just saying to Jeff about an hour ago, as he was musing over last Sunday’s New York Times (his aunt had picked it up at the airport on her way back to SFO from Manila, go figure), that I wished that New York were closer to San Francisco, and that it really belonged out here in California. We used to go there once a quarter or so, and I think I will miss the easy access to all the great theater and museums.

Lo and behold, I check my RSS feeds, and Kottke had pointed out his “Manhattan Elsewhere” project, which I’d missed back in June when he first published it, and in which he inserted a map of Manhattan into maps of other places at the same scale, using Google Maps and Google Earth. One of those places was San Francisco, where the island fits snugly between the City’s downtown and Alameda in the East Bay, taking the place of Treasure Island. Seeing Manhattan in scale to San Francisco really amazes me, especially when I think of how much of Manhattan I’ve walked at one time or another. Some of my wanderings there would be almost like walking from my office near the Presidio to our home here in Daly City.

My friend David Levine was awarded the Hugo for Best Short Story at Worldcon this past weekend. Way to go, David!

His winning story, “Tk’tk’tk,” can be read online.

The Hugo (which is a really gorgeous statue; the rocket is based on the hood ornament of an Oldsmobile 88, while a new design for the base is selected each year; the photo here is of the 2005 Hugo) is given to the best science fiction and fantasy works of the previous year.

The San Francico Chronicle reports that up to 14 pedestrians, including one child, have been injured, as many as half critically, in a “hit-and-run spree” in western San Francisco this afternoon. One person was hit across the street from my office, where the sidewalk now is cordoned off, a bicycle with its wheel and frame badly bent and a pile of rags–clothing? makeshift bandages?–lying inside. The suspect, who was driving a black SUV, has been arrested just two blocks from here, at California and Spruce; a reporter-colleague managed to get a picture of the SUV–its passenger-side windshield, hood and bumpers crumpled from the attacks it perpetrated–surrounded by police cars.

“It was like ‘Death Race 2000,'” firefighter Danny Bright said at California and Fillmore streets, with an ambulance nearby. “Guys were walking down the sidewalk and the guy just came up and ran them over. The guy went crazy.”

The SUV was finally stopped–it had to be surrounded and rammed by police cars–just outside the Starbucks at Laurel Village just up the block, where I normally walk at lunch, as my bank, several cafes and a bookstore are there. Today, fortunately, I was so busy at work that I didn’t get away for lunch until after 2:00, at which point the events already were over.

Update: CBS5 in San Francisco has a map online showing the hit-and-run locations. The three red blocks at the left side of the screen are all near my office, the longish building immediately to the southeast of the third red block from the left (although that red block, at least, isn’t quite in the right place, as the hit-and-run was a little bit to the east of the location they’ve marked). And, in a particularly tragic update, the media is now reporting that that particular location was the scene of a fatality–from what I’ve heard from one eyewitness, it appears that the pile of rags I saw, and noted above, actually were the blankets that had been used to cover the body.

Update 8/30: As Gene notes, there’s been no report of any fatalities in San Francisco (the first victim, in Fremont, was killed), so it appears that my co-workers were incorrect about a fatality occurring across the street, where two people were hit.

On the positive side, our house does seem to be reasonably secure, at least to the casual would-be burglar.

The negative side? The $185 bill for the locksmith’s services, pissing off the cat who was on the other side of the door, and the approximately hour-long wait in the garage–until about 11 pm–after I locked us out of the house last night. Oh yeah, and my embarrassing drama upon discovering that I’d locked us out of the house last night.