Christian A. Camerota

The age-old Christmas carol, “Silent Night,” has been lying to us for years.

It is not a silent night, as the song suggests.

If that were true, then it would not be Christmas.

If you were to say it is a quiet night, then you’d be on a better track. But to say that it is silent would be to rob one of the most wonderful holidays of a good part of its essence. After all, Christmas is certainly about reflection and peace and calm. Yet, it is also about joy and jubilation and reveling in these things with the closest of family and friends.

For the first time in my moderately young life, I am spending Christmas alone. I am doing so out of a combination of choice and necessity, so I certainly don’t expect to be felt bad for. Sure, fire off a few extra presents my way to bolster my spirits if you must. Fine, give me license to have a few extra pieces of pie and a few extra slugs off the Christmasy bottle of gin in Grandma’s liquor cabinet that’s always at least 3/4s full. But, please don’t feel bad for me.

The truth is that I am enjoying my first Christmas alone. And, no, Scrooge is not holding Ralphie’s Red Ryder Model Air Rifle to my temple, threatening to shoot my eye out, to get me to say this.

I will openly and concertedly say that I’ve never taken Christmas for granted. It has always been my favorite holiday and I have always seen it as the greatest occasion
(or excuse) to express my thanks and love to everyone, whether it be through gifts (like the Barbie Dream Boat I saved up to give my sister when she was little) or sentiments (out-of-the-ordinary phone calls to relatives) or simple gestures (overtipping your cab driver and then screaming MERRY CHRISTMAS! at him before he has a chance to correct you into saying “happy holidays”). Christmas, for me, has always been sacred and will continue to be so…and I will celebrate it to the fullest and never be told to quell my good cheer, no matter how politically incorrect it may be for me to celebrate Lord Baby Jesus’ birth in the face of a fellow man straight kickin’ it Kwanzaa-style.

Despite all of this, however, I have never had the chance or the good fortune to be totally alone on Christmas. I say good fortune because being alone on a holiday that is meant to be shared engenders a profound sense of the importance of other people, whether you like it or not.

Often, I’m frustrated by the general populus. As Nietzsche says, “Hell is other people.” Other people are annoying. They sneeze on you on the bus, they cut in front of you in shopping lines, they give you the finger when you changes lanes in front of them on the highway, and they are all, at one point or another, unbearably rude to one another. We, as a whole, don’t deserve the freedom and the grace we’ve been blessed with.

But on Christmas, all this changes. Suddenly, a throat-wrenching, neck-soaking cough on the bus becomes a holiday frog in the throat. A middle finger waving at you in spite from the car behind you becomes a one-digited log of yuletide spirit pointing Santa Claus in your direction. Even the homeless guy that jumps out at you from a dark alley, screaming “SPARE SOME CHANGE!” is morphed into a cheery (albeit quite inebriated) and slightly overzealous Chris Cringle.

For me, Christmas makes all that is unbearable in the world just a little rosier in color. And I didn’t realize the full extent of this power until I experienced it all by myself this year.

When you’re in the midst of family and friends, the joy is tangible. It is felt in every laugh and hug and smile and piece of ribbon encircling your gifts. Of course, this is also because you’re doped up on so much rum-infused egg nog that just about anything seems cheerful and glorious. I mean, Santa could be crash-landing on your roof in a red El Camino with 12 rabid, stray dogs at the helm of his Mexican gas-guzzling, truck/car combination sleigh, and you’d still probably crap jelly beans at the excitement of it. But, this is beside the point.

The point is that when you’re with your family and friends, the joy is easy to see. But, when you’re alone on Christmas, the power of the holiday is really overwhelming. Your solitude shuts down all the holiday din that usually distracts you, and you’re left to see what a magnificent and transforming power Christmas really has. It compels strangers to smile at each other. It urges cabbies to let pedestrians and other drivers actually have the right of way at stop signs, for once. It makes it okay to whistle carols loudly right into someone else’s ear, especially if they’re being crabby, so that their head will ring for the rest of the night with your terribly joyous rendition of Jingle Bells.

Christmas takes the weirdness out of being nice and joyful, a reservation and a practice that we all harbor too much on a daily basis. In a way, Christmas is a free pass to display your happiness in any absurdly overdecorated, mind-numbingly bright way you wish. It encourages painfully ugly sweaters to be drawn from the mothballs and paraded around for everyone to see, eye-humping people into holiday submission. It commands you to eat extra calories. It requires that at least four times a day, starting on December 1st and lasting the rest of the month, some small part of you is secretly wishing it will snow, no matter where you are and no matter how sensitive your grandfather’s arthritic joints are to cold weather.

Yup. Christmas is the excuse we all need to lighten up a little bit and have some fun with life. It is, also, a very sacred holiday in the Christian faith, a fact that shouldn’t be completely ignored for its importance. But, for all those who don’t ascribe to Christianity and to Christmas in its Biblical importance, and even for those who do, Christmas is one of the greatest opportunities to ignore your inhibitions and laugh and smile and rejoice just for the heck of it.

So, please take time this year to thank whoever it is you pray to for the great blessing of life that we all enjoy. And, while you’re at it, thank Him/Her/It for Christmas, too. I know, I know…you’re not Christian. I get it. You don’t have to be.

Just thank Allah or Buddha or Elvis or whoever for coming up with a time of year when we’re actually allowed to love and love openly. Thank them for Christmas trees that look so beautiful lit up in the windows. Thank them for the little pyramids that spin in circles when you light candles on them, only to either crap out two minutes later or catch on fire and threaten the security of your entire house. Thank them for the real candy canes that are minty and delicious, and also thank them for the faux candy canes that taste like nutra-sweet and low quality taffy, with no minty sensibility to them whatsoever. Thank them for the hideousness that is reindeer-horned headbands, and over-priced Starbucks peppermint lattes (that I too willingly give up 5 bucks for “because it’s Christmas!”), and for the ability to raise credit limits on credit cards at a moment’s notice.

Because, friends, the truth REALLY is that Christmas only comes once a year and that isn’t nearly often enough. So, while it’s here, let’s take every opportunity we can to make it magical. Spend that extra fifty bucks on little Billy’s video game. Grit your teeth and bear it when Great Aunt Pattie feels compelled to give you a kiss on the lips and smear her 79 year old, poinsettia-colored lipstick all over your face.

And most of all? Don’t be afraid to say Merry Christmas! In fact, say it loudly. Shout it, if you want. Just don’t let the night pass in silence because you’re too scared of the political and social ramifications of wishing someone well in the name of a religion-specific holiday.

Oh, and one more thing…don’t go near Uncle Bill. He’s wearing the undies with the mistletoe hung right above the crotch and forcing people to comply with tradition.

Bring on the nog!

Not too many days ago, a very large barge named the Cosco Busan was expertly piloted into the Delta Span of the Bay Bridge here in the San Francisco Bay. The above picture is a quick glimpse of what the Bay looked like shortly afterwards. Fog and instrument malfunctions were blamed, along with a lack of dexterity on the ship’s part. And I’m sure the Bay’s waters and all the wildlife affected see that as an acceptable apology.

After all, it’s not like the pilot meant to spill 4,000…I mean, 58,000 gallons of some of the lowest grade oil imaginable into one of the hubs of wildlife in this area. It’s not like he lied about the severity of the crash or the amount of oil initially thought to have been spilled. It’s not like the subsequent investigations have a curious number of people remaining mum on the subject.

Oh…wait. Maybe he didn’t mean to spill that oil. But, certainly the rest of the things just mentioned actually happened or are in the midst of doing so.

Honestly, what the hell was this guy thinking? What the hell are we, as a species, thinking?

I know, I know. It’s really hippy and unrealistic of me to think that these sorts of tragedies can be avoided, or should not even have the potential of occurring in the first place. So, call me crunchy if you must. But, the fact that a tragedy of this magnitude can occur and people aren’t a little more outraged about it speaks to the general timidity and apathy of the population, I guess.

I would assume (maybe incorrectly) that most people would be violently angry upon hearing about this kind of thing. I know that I, for one, certainly was. I stood in front of the TV at 6:30 in the morning, listening to the news anchor sensationalize the story, and watching in horror as the helicopter’s cameraman zoomed in and out from the enormous oil slicks floating and spreading themselves like a plague over the Bay’s waters. As I watched, I could feel myself heating up and preparing to yell at the television (as I seem to find myself doing very often)…as if that would make any difference.

The weird thing was that I didn’t even realize how angry I was actually getting until I turned away from the TV and noticed that my fists were clenched. In fact, my entire body was clenched…even my brow was furrowed. And the visceral nature of my reaction surprised me.

This affront on nature and the majesty of the area in which we live, on our supposedly environmentally friendly Bay Area population, on our pocketbooks, and everything else, should damn well infuriate us. If nothing else, how come people aren’t pissed off about losing so much oil? With gas at 70 dollars a gallon or whatever it is now, what  are we doing allowing 58,000 gallons of oil to get away from us? Couldn’t we use that to fill up our Priuses?

Oh, right…we couldn’t use it in our fancy little Priuses because the oil quality is so amazingly poor. It’s basically like oil mixed with feces and woodchips, as I understand it. And, yet, this is the kind of oil that’s making its way across our oceans in gallons numbering in the millions…and doing so every single day.

So, really, we should be thankful that this is the first such event, at least in quite a while. Right?

Truth is, this kind of thing should never, ever happen. And I realize that that statement flies in the face of capitalism and the car I drive every day and the goods I purchase to eat and furnish my house with and the toys I play with and everything else. So what? I’d give up all those frivolities in a heartbeat if it meant that we’d never have another oil spill like this.

Maybe I’m just over-sensitive because this is my first oil spill. Maybe my sensibilities are too environmentally focused. Yeah…that’s it. I mean, this little guy looks pretty happy, doesn’t he? I think he’s smiling because it tickles when those nice rubber gloves pull on his feathers to get the oil off!

That picture makes me nauseous. And I reiterate that it makes me tangibly, violently angry. And that should be the case with anyone who hears about this, even if they don’t have to experience it first hand.

The tragedy demands an apology from everyone involved, including every single one of us that buy into commercialism so intensely that we make all this possible. And I’m not trying to be holier than thou, either. I’m just as much to blame, perhaps more so, because the only thing I’m doing is sitting in my insulated little bubble, blogging on my computer, and acting tough. But, I’ll tell you. Even writing about it is a lot more than most others are doing. It’s tons more than the pilot of the boat, or the company, or everyone else that’s closely involved is doing. Sure, the company is footing the massive bills for the cleanup efforts. Sure, the pilot is being investigated. Sure, there will be some stiff penalties levied.

OOOOOO!!!!!!!! I bet a worldwide shipping company like Cosco is really going to suffer from a few paltry little fines. It’s not like they’ve got billions of dollars at their disposal and insurance and stuff to make this into no more than a little ding on the hull of their barge of business.

At the very least, I would expect the pilot to come out and say “Man. I really screwed up. I’m horrifically sorry. And I know that apology doesn’t suffice, but I hope it at least lets everyone know that I understand the gravity of what happened and I’m going to do everything I can to make it right.”

Nope. We didn’t even get that. Instead, we’re getting silence. And when we’re not getting silence? We’re getting excuses that blame everything except the pilot’s own stupidity. “Well, it was REALLY foggy! The instruments were even confused! Totally NOT my fault!”

Oh, it was foggy? Really? IT’S SAN FRANCISCO!!! If it’s NOT foggy, THEN you worry. But, as a general rule, you should probably plan on dense fog 364 days a year. And as someone who’s only job is to know how to navigate massive ships through the bay, I assumed you’d know that.

But, that’s completely my fault. Sorry for assuming you’d know how to handle something like that. My bad.

Seriously. Can you imagine if other people applied the same logic that this guy is applying? Can you imagine if airplane pilots said this kind of thing? “Ohhhh. Yeah. It was really foggy when we were landing in San Francisco. Yeah, that’s why I forgot to land the plane on the runway and landed it in a neighborhood full of parents and children and covered them all in oil. And now they’re suffocating and slowly dying from the oil that’s covering their bodies and that they can’t get off. Yeah. Not my fault. I mean, it was FOGGY! What do you expect?”

Man alive.

The funny thing about all of this, too, is that this is like 9/11 for the wildlife population. Actually, it’s about 10 to 100 times worse than 9/11 was, comparatively speaking. But, we’re not going to split hairs here. And I’m sure if anyone reads those last few lines, they’ll get all up in arms over the 9/11 comparison.

Still, this really is like September 11th for the Bay Area’s ecology. Ornithologists everywhere can probably speak to that. Did you know that the first set of cleaned birds are set to be released back into nature today? Did you know that there are only 40 of them that are ready, out of a total of 900 that have been rescued? Did you know that the rest are either still recovering or are dead? Did you know that these 900 are probably not even 1/10th of the total number of birds affected? How about the seals and the fish and the crabs and the shrimp and the other aquatic animals that we CAN’T clean? How about the land animals that eat all of these other creatures and, so, will be adversely affected? Have you considered that even the cleaned birds will probably head right back to where they were before they were rescued, get recovered in oil, and either die or have to be rescued again? And this is even assuming they don’t die in trying to readjust to the wild?

I don’t know the specific numbers or processes or anything, and I probably should. But I do know, just from some very tangential research, that the cleaning process involves using DAWN dishwashing soap on the birds. And that after they’re rescued, they have to be force-fed a blended cocktail of Pedialyte and fish because they won’t eat after the trauma of being covered in oil. And that after they’re cleaned, they have to be put into incubators to get their body temperatures back up, or they’ll freeze to death. And that after this, they have to sit in holding pens for days or weeks so that they can further clean themselves and readjust to being social. And that after this, there is still a HUGE probability that they’ll die after being released back into their habitat?

So, yeah. The pilot and the huge international conglomerate and all of us have nothing to say sorry for. Those birds and seals and fish deserved this. They were asking for it.

My conclusion? We’re idiots. Plain and simple. I have no solution, other than that we need to start holding ourselves a lot more responsible for the collective dump we’ve been taking on this world that supports us.

So, one more story and then I’m done venting (at least for this installment, anyway).

I went for a run last night. I run from Russian Hill down along the water in Ghirardelli Square, across the peer, through Fort Mason, through the Marina, all the way along Crissy Field and the adjacent beach to the Golden Gate Bridge, and then back again. Usually, it’s one of the most beautiful runs you can possibly imagine. I get to look at the beautiful juxtaposition of nature and civilization (the Bay and San Francisco), I get to see the exact line where the two meet (the shore), and I get to notice every single detail of the contrast between the two. It is, bar none, one of the most resplendent places I’ve ever seen.

But, last night, it was not so beautiful. In fact, it was hideous. As I began my run by coming down off of Russian Hill, I was greeted by an interesting smell coming off the water. Now, I need to mention here, too, that I have one of the world’s worst sense of smells. Seriously, if you fart directly up my nostrils, I usually can’t tell. But, even I could smell the oil coming off the water last night. It hit me in the face like I had been closelined by an Exxon two-by-four.

I shrugged off the smell at first, assuming it would go away. But, it didn’t. It got stronger.

By the time I got to Crissy Field and was running no more than ten feet from the gently breaking waves, I almost couldn’t breathe from the stench. And as if one sensory overload wasn’t enough, I was gazing at the usually magnificent scenery and was appalled. The scenery was still beautiful, sure enough. Only, it was difficult to tell that because the beach was littered with clumps of oil that made the sand look like it had just been resurfaced with tar. There were about 20 or 30 volunteers in what looked like nuclear fallout suits, carefully combing the beach and shoveling the black sand into plastic bags that were stacked together in a pile about the size of three or four bales of hay pushed together.

God Bless these people for helping out. I think it’s marvelous they take time out of their busy days to do this and to try and make a difference.

But, in the end? Aren’t their efforts nothing more than just making the beaches pretty again so the tourists won’t get scared away? Where are those plastic bags full of oil going? Are they going to be loaded onto a barge just like the one that originally caused this mess, shipped out into the middle of the ocean, and dumped…just like most of the rest of our trash? Probably.

This, of course, is not the volunteers’ fault at all. Like I said, it’s awesome that they’re putting their efforts where their beliefs are and getting out there and helping. But, I’m afraid that their efforts are going to end up being for naught, anyway, because whoever is piloting the ship they’re on is probably just as negligent as the pilot of the Cosco Busan was.

Although, maybe it’s just the fog’s fault.

So, yeah. I guess there’s nothing to be done. These things are just bound to happen, whether we like it or not. Thankfully, it really doesn’t affect us much…well, outside of not being able to run by or sail on the water without being choked by the stench of crude oil, and eating fish and crabs for years to come that probably are poisoned, and admiring dead birds and blackened seashores around the bay. But, those are trivial things. It’s not like someone took our Hummers away!

And, we’ll adjust. We’ll just have to get used to not having lifeguards at the beach anymore. No more tanned bodies and bright orange bathing suits. Instead? We’ll have this:

I’m sure our kids will love it.

It is more than coincidence that the sun illuminates and blinds at once. What the coincidence says is a matter of opinion.

That the sun makes the world visible is a warming fact. Our star is, in great part, who we are and why we’re here. It determines how long or short our days are, what we wear, what we’ll do, sometimes how we’ll feel. The sun grows our food, holds us in orbit, and goes to bed with us at night.

But, that orb is also destructive. It starts fire in our hills, burns our bodies, dries our lakes. It holds other planets at lifeless bay, scorching their surfaces and condemning them to fates of gaseousness.

At one point or another, we all yearn to be that holy.

I hold disdain for most pomposity because it’s ignorant. But, there is a difference between pomposity and bravado. It is the latter of these two I find myself consistently drawn to.

Pomposity can be dull-witted, usually is, and shows one who esteems him or herself more than one should. The result is a grating feeling, like a sandy finger stuffed and twisted in your ear.

Bravado, however, feels good. It inspires you as it humbles. There is more security in its touch, though the force of the gesture remains as it prevails upon your senses.

I wonder which of these two I am and emanate; the sandy finger in your ear? Or am I the smooth, hard pang in your gut?

If I notice bravado in another, I want to claim it. Somehow, I feel it necessary to show that person I have it too and that mine is as strong or more so. Because it is impressive, I am compelled to be. And I am compelled to inspire it in others.

But, everyone sees things differently. My blue could be your green, though we’ve learned to call it by the same name. And how could we ever tell the other that they’re wrong? Or even know they might be?

So, I am curious if this applies to bravado. Where I see valor, do you see blindness?

You cannot be everything for everyone. But you can be everything for some, and something for others, and this is my wish. Heard by many, swayed by few, seen by all.

Better to be seen than be invisible.

So, better the fire with the Light, than the cold of anonymity.

Windows are great, aren’t they? Underappreciated, really.

They allow you to see everything about them, into them, through them. They insulate you from elements; let your plants still get their tans, stay cool to the touch in the blazing sun. In all of their transparency, too, they still provide the chance for reflection. Only, what you see in them is slightly askew, ghastly, hovering, indefinite, maybe the way a reflection should always be-to remind us of its status as such.

I wish I were a window. Nothing to hide, always relied upon. I don’t think I would like to kill birds, but we all do our fair share of harm.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had a good, hard cry before. But today’s was just that. Life has been hitting me hard as of late. Money is miserly is misery. A world without friends is a tough one to confide in. And I was brought to my knees this afternoon with my face melting into a pillow and my cheeks swelling with shame. Your chest convulses as if bucking for air but you’re still breathing freely, so what with the sobs?

Blowing your nose feels good after crying and then throwing the tissue (or, in this case, a paper towel) away is like discarding the sadness. Your cheeks taste salty and your face looks like marshmallows have been stuffed into it. But, all in all, you feel tempered from the outburst, returned to normal, almost. The rest of life seems to have calmed in the interim and the silence that follows is pleasant. I like it when it’s like this.

The wind sliding leaves against a wall is soothing. I’m sure the bricks don’t mind the caress. Night sits atop the city and we thank it for relieving the pain of the visible. Sundials need their respites.

Steam rises up from a mug burning mischief and the scent of it makes one scrunch up their face to collect the perfume in between the eyes.

Scratch your scalp to see what falls onto the page in front of you…it will be your most brilliant work yet.

We stare so hard, sometimes. We really should be laughing.

“So if you wake up with the sunrise, and all your dreams are still as new,
And happiness is what you need so bad, girl, the answer lies with you.”

This song popped into my head the other day and I realized that for as long as I’ve loved Zeppelin and as much as I’ve listened to them over the years, I pretty much have no idea what any of the lyrics are to any of their songs. I think it’s largely due to the fact that Robert Plant has that weird, screaching way of singing things that distorts anything and everything he’s trying to say, but also is the essence of his awesomeness.

Anyway, this song is kick ass and has a great slide solo by Jimmy Page that I used to try to emulate back when I was learning how to play guitar at age 16. Fortunatley, I’ve grown up a little since then and have abandoned all hope of ever playing quite like Jimmy Page…probably much to the joy of my neighbors’ aural sensibilities.

But, the reason I feel compelled to write about this song is that only recently have I looked up and thought about the lyrics to it. “What is and What Should Never Be” I think is an allusion to imagination and the wide void between what exists in our minds and what actually happens in reality.

My explanation of it is much more trite and reductive than the eloquent way Plant has of putting it, but I think I’m at least close to the meaning.

The idea hits home with me because it expresses the discontinuity that’s been frustrating me lately. I can’t reconcile the opposites in my life: the love of things creative and the pull of monetary necessity, the need for companionship and the inevitable desire to be free, beer or whiskey, shit or get off the pot, etc.

It sucks to reduce everything to dualisms like that, but I think we do this so often because usually we’re forced to pick one thing or the other. We don’t have the luxury of picking neither, or all of the above.

Things get really shitty when we’re forced to make these kinds of choices as they relate to the direction of our lives. It’d be stupid of us to say that we didn’t all want to be wildly successful. It’d also be stupid to say that we didn’t all think we’re destined for greatness. I mean, let’s be honest: we all love ourselves a lot, even if we doubt ourselves a lot, too. I have yet to meet a person that doesn’t think they’re just the cat’s friggin pajamas.

But, at the same time, many of us also suck at making ourselves happy. For as much as we love ourselves and are taught that individuality is important, and that we’re supposed to follow our dreams, and put ourselves first, and all that fecal nonsense…how many of us actually do that?

Few. Very, very few.

Instead, we subject ourselves to the invisible pull of what propriety dictates. We make ourselves need 2.3 kids and a BMW and Starbucks in the morning, even if we know we don’t really want these things. Some chalk it up to consumerism and advertising and cultural norms…I chalk it up to us being pussies and not listening to our hearts enough.

And the worst part is that I’m more guilty of it than anyone. When it comes down to it, I know what I want. I want to be outside a lot, skiing and hiking and running and rolling around in the grass and climbing trees and pissing into the wind. I want to drink really good wine and eat ripe avocados and go deep sea fishing off the California coast on an obscenely large and expensive sailboat, and scream loudly whenever I feel like it, and dance naked in broad daylight. I want to write brilliant books and read even more brilliant ones, and play guitar and sing inspiringly in front of people without inhibition, and put them in awe of me. I want to be happy all the time and not feel guilty about taking time off when I need it, and to sleep in some days, and wake up at the ass crack of dawn on others, and generally make the absolute most out of the one shot I get at living life properly.

And, in spite of knowing all of this, I don’t do any of it. Instead, I wake up at 6:15 every morning to an alarm that annoys me, stagger over to the toilet and piss stale, yellow urine from my dehydrated body into an ugly-colored toilet, splashing some carelessly on the seat. Then I boil water for coffee that doesn’t taste nearly as good as it should for the price I paid for it, I eat the world’s most unexciting bowl of cereal with skim milk (when I really want chocolate milk in it), and watch the morning news that runs the same maddening series of reports on the traffic Hotspots and Britney’s rehab every single day. I loaf into the shower that’s always just a little too hot or too cold, spend too much time washing my privates and not enough time washing my face, stand resting my head against the soap-scummy wall letting the hard-water run over me, and watch the soap, the water, and many of my dreams flow down the drain.

What’s funny is that that’s honestly how I feel and it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. I’m too ok with the fact that I’m not making life everything I want it to be. And I think the same’s true for many of us.

And, clearly, this is all “what is and what should never be.” Things are as they are, even if they shouldn’t be that way.

But, I think there’s hope…and I think it comes when we finally get fed up enough to get off our asses and make things the way they should be, just like Plant says: if you wake up with the sunrise, and your dreams are still as new, and happiness is what you need so bad- the answer lies with you.

When we want badly enough to be happy, we’ll make it so.

And I’m getting close.

There is a certain amount of grooming and pedigree that seems to go into rearing a star baseball player these days. The noble lineages of the Griffeys and Bonds of the league seem to predetermine stardom.

After all, growing up around a Ken Griffey Sr. or a Bobby Bonds cannot help but improve a young child’s affinity and sensibility for the game. Just being the son of one of these notable figures deeply immerses one in the game’s culture, whether it be as a bat boy, an ever-present fan, or simply while constantly surrounded by their parents’ colleagues (who just so happen to be baseball stars, themselves). When cocktail parties are hosted at your house and guys like Willie Mays (your godfather) or Reggie Jackson (your cousin) are in attendance, you’ve got to figure you might glean some valuable insight from them. Sadly, it seems you don’t necessarily glean class.

This is the kind of lineage that Barry Bonds comes from…privileged, affluent, baseball-centric. He never had to struggle to find a glove or shoes to play with. He always attended the best schools, Junipero High School in San Mateo, and Arizona State University. He consistently met and exceeded expectations, garnering countless awards along the way. He was a prep All-American his senior year of high school, a Sporting News All-American in 1985 at ASU, and was drafted in the 1st round (6th overall) by the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1985 draft. The man was groomed to be a star from a very young age. His only challenge was living up to the lofty expectations.

On the other side of the proverbial tracks, we have Henry Aaron. Born in Mobile, Alabama to two poor parents, Estella and Herbert Aaron, Hammerin’ Hank’s nickname was appropriate more for his layman’s pedigree than any bright, baseball future. He had seven siblings and little money, earning his hand-eye coordination through many hours of hitting bottle caps with sticks. He went to Central High School near his childhood stomping grounds of Toulminville and excelled there, helping his team to two Negro League Championships.

Despite showing some promise and resolve at a young age, though, he was nowhere near as fortunate as Bonds. Both were and are clearly blessed with innate talent, yet Barry’s was coddled and allowed to shine through to a much higher degree. While Barry was attracting scouts and major league teams during his tenure at a reputable university (and noted baseball breeding ground), Aaron spent his formative years playing for $10 a day in the Negro leagues.

We can’t fault Barry for his upbringing because, clearly, it was not his decision to lead a life of privilege. We can, however, applaud Aaron for enduring what must have been some very difficult years before making it to the majors, and appreciate his love of and dedication to the sport. We can also say that both upbringings were great factors in developing the men we have today.

Hank Aaron is a true champion, gracious with the media, elegant and humble in his responses, grateful for his gifts and his good fortune. Barry Bonds doesn’t display quite the same nobility when asked about his situation. He is curt, wary and critical of the media, seemingly unappreciative of the gifts and countless blessings he has received. Even when he accomplishes some great feat, his smile and words seem insincere, as if he’s putting on a show because he must, not because he wants to.

This was blatantly evident when Bonds moved past Aaron into sole possession of the All-Time Home Run Record last night in San Francisco. He hit the blast and stood at home plate to watch it. He rounded the bases with a swagger. He crossed home plate and stood on top of it, pointing to the sky, almost ignoring his son who embraced him with great admiration. The moment, as most Barry moments, seemed insincere…a formality more than an accomplishment. It smacked of pomposity.

Maybe it was the pressure leading up to the achievement, all the various second-guessing and steroid accusations, all the nonsense with commissioner Bud Selig (will he watch Barry? won’t he? who cares?), all the mammoth swings-and-misses in the days before he set the record. Maybe it was his acceptance speech: a trite, somewhat unintelligent, self-aggrandizing allusion to his amazing accomplishment, spoken in a voice curiously high-pitched for a man his size. Whatever the case may be, the moment didn’t seem that special.

When Hank Aaron hit his record-setting home run, he was chased around the base paths by congratulatory fans. When Barry hit his, fans sat in their seats and flashed pictures. And those reactions speak volumes about these men.

Hank Aaron was a man to admire, but he was not untouchable. Fans could relate to him and wanted to do so. They wanted to run the bases with him because they felt as if they’d been running the bases with him every time he rounded them. He made baseball real for everyone.

Barry, on the other hand, is quite untouchable. His evasive presence in the media makes us feel guilty for liking him and wanting to be a part of his history making. His wealthy upbringing seems to diminish his talents. And, of course, the cloud of suspicion surrounding his physical attributes and enhancements makes many of us leery of heaping praise on him. All in all, the spectacle that Bonds has become distances us from the game. It makes many feel like we’re watching a soap opera voyeuristically…a soap opera we will never be a part of.

All in all, it’s difficult to say how we ought to feel about Bonds being our new home run king. In one sense, Barry’s talents and accomplishments are undeniable. He is the rarest of rare combinations of speed, power, baseball intellect, defense, and capacity for living up to the power of a moment. He deserves to be respected for all of this. In another, more dominant sense, this man is an example of everything that is wrong with our society. He is the Paris Hilton of baseball.

That’s right, Barry Bonds is the Paris Hilton of baseball.

It’s a bold statement, since Bonds has actually had to succeed in order to attain his level of fame, not just sit around and call things “hot” and make sexually explicit videos. Still, both are in the limelight and are successful because they have been given all the tools and support to get there…and both are woefully unappreciative of what they have.

Just as Paris says she’ll emerge from jail and devote her life to improving the world, Barry consistently says he doesn’t care about personal records and is more intent on being a part of a winning baseball team.

Really?

Because what everyone’s failed to mention is that although Barry hit his 756th home run last night, his last-place Giants lost to the even-worse Washington Nationals. But, you certainly didn’t hear Bonds talk about that.

You might also have expected Barry to choke up a bit when he started talking to the media about his accomplishments. If he were humbled by the game as he should be, he would have. Unfortunately, the only time he appeared to get choked up was in talking about his father…and even in that instance, the emotion seemed forced and unreal.

In fact, Barry Bonds’ entire career has seemed forced and unreal. And despite his vehement denials of using performance enhancing drugs, it’s impossible to fool the millions of baseball fans that follow the sport so passionately.

Let’s put it in some context. Hank Aaron started hitting home runs at age 20, when he hit 13 in his first year in the major leagues. From age 20 to age 30, Aaron hit 366 dingers. From 30 to 35, he hit 226. And from age 35 until he retired at 41, he hit 163 more. The trend is what you would expect from a star…excellent production in his youth, tremendous production in his prime, and a steady decline into his late 30s/early 40s.

Now, let’s take a look at Bonds. Barry began playing at age 22 in the majors. By age 30, he had hit 222 home runs. Granted, it took him 2 more years to reach the majors…but the fact still remains that Barry’s pace was much slower than Aaron’s at the beginning of his career. From 30 to 35, during what should have been the prime of his career, Barry hit 223 homers-remarkably similar production compared to Aaron’s. So, the argument could be made that Aaron’s power developed much earlier and, therefore, gave him the competitive edge in the race for the all-time home run record.

But, then something funny happened. While Aaron was busy hitting 163 in his last 6 years of baseball, Barry hit 312 homers in the last 8 years of his. His home run totals had never been so high, including a curious and almost incomprehensible jump from 49 to 73 between 2000 and 2001 (at ages 36 and 37). Say what you want about advances in conditioning and medicine and such accounting for some of those extras home runs. Nothing accounts for that kind of disparity at such a late age in baseball terms…nothing, that is, except certain topographical creams and syringes filled with magic. Instead of thanking God in his speech, perhaps Barry should have thanked Balco.

Hank Aaron’s numbers jumped from ages 36 to 37 as well…but they jumped only from 38 to 47. Sure, Aaron (like Bonds) had the highest total of his career at age 37. But, the difference was that Aaron didn’t almost double his previous best in one year. And Bonds did.

So, it’s no wonder that people take Barry’s “record” with a grain of salt. If they kept records of foot size and cranial circumference, I’m sure Bonds would have set those in 2001, as well. But, sadly, those records are classified.

Now, we have a man (if that’s what you will call him) in possession of not one, but TWO of the most hallowed records in baseball…and maybe in sports. One of those records (the single season home run mark) was already cloaked and clouded in suspicion, what with Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa both enjoying similar marked physical and statistical growth during that memorable season. But, you know what? Neither Sammy nor McGwire were as openly nasty to the media during their chase. Both made themselves readily available, put the game above their egos, and made sure to allude to the support of family and friends and fans as what kept them going. And neither openly denied using steroids, as Barry has.

Yes, it’s sad that McGwire and Sosa have not come out and cleared the air. But, at least they’re not lying to our faces. And this seems to be the difference. As a society, we can tolerate mistakes as long as we feel there they were made in a certain amount of innocence. In fact, one of the “banned” substances McGwire is accused of taking was even legal at the time. This is not to say that they may not have bent the rules a bit. But they weren’t trying to openly deceive anyone. They gave themselves selflessly to the fans and the media, they saved a troubled game, and were the centerpieces of one of the most exciting summers in the history of this great pastime.

Barry, conversely, seems selfish in his pursuit of both records because he never made it about the game. It was always about him. And if this is the case, then what it seems he should have done is hang up the cleats after 2005. If memory serves, Barry hit only 5 home runs that year and was forced to hit the disabled list for the rest of the season thereafter. At that point, he had 707 homers…which would have put him in 3rd place, all time. It was a humbling time for him, a time when age was finally catching up. And if he were truly in it for himself, as it seemed, then he should have been true to himself…and given up.

If Barry had called it a career after that year, all would have been right with the world. We would still have remembered him as an amazing player and an incredible home run hitter. We would still have appreciated his efforts for the game, however selfish their intentions. His ego would have been appeased, and the game’s sanctity would have been spared.

But, that is not what happened. Instead, baseball was robbed of two of its greatest heroes and saw them replaced with one of its greatest villains. Considering that Barry’s collegiate degree is in criminology, maybe he can help us figure out who the culprit is. He has no further to look than the mirror.

This article is published on Matador Travel and can also be viewed, in its native environment, here:
The Bravado of the Avocado

I’m going to make a bold statement: avocados are the most masculine fruit.

I know, I know. That’s sort of an outdatedly misogynist statement. But, then again, I’m somewhat of an outdated, misogynistic guy, myself (just kidding, of course). So, that’s tough…just like avocado skin.

What I mean is, avocados are bad-ass and have a certain bravado about them.

Bravado? Of an Avocado?

I know this is what you’re asking.

And I say: YES. Bravado. And lots of it.

Consider this- if an avocado’s pit was a testicle, it would be considered enormous.

Why I’ve come up with this perverted, somewhat inappropriate thought is beyond me and probably the result of a few belligerent neurons firing randomly in my brain and getting caught in the synapses that happen to be clogged with stuffing, turkey, and gravy at this point. But I digress.

Avocados have a thick, hearty exterior and a soft, sensitive pulp inside (just like our conceptions of a “real” man). Their grizzled skin looks to be worn, wrinkled, and weathered by years of nature’s tough love.

But Christian, you ask again, what about the fact that avocados have only one pit, one testicle? Isn’t that an indication of only being half a man?

And I answer you:

Do you consider Lance Armstrong only half a man because he doesn’t have ANY testicles? Or how about John Kruk? Is he a sissy because he’s had testicular cancer and conquered it, down only one testicle, himself?

Of course not.

Those gentlemen are excellent examples of masculinity- brave in the face of danger, tough and chiseled on the outside (well, John Kruk is chiseled but it’s covered with a couple layers of fat- no one’s perfect, after all), and soft and sensitive on the inside.

Just like avocados.

Ok, so maybe the similie is being stretched here, a little.

But that doesn’t make it any less awesome.

Consider the avodaco’s history:

The “Persea Americana” (the scientific nomenclature of the avocado) originated sometime between 7,000 and 5,000 B.C. in south-central Mexico. This means that the avocado is from “south-central,” a locale popularized by many rappers and a notoriously very hardcore, brutal environment…establishing the avocado as one tough mother in fruit terms. It’s the Tupac of fruit.

Secondly, archaeologists in Peru have found domesticated avocado seeds buried with Incan mummies dating back to 750 B.C. Buried with Incan mummies? Clearly, that’s pretty bad-ass. And if the Incas revered avocados enough to bury them with mummies, that means that they are both iconic in status and provide enough sustenance to feed one throughout the afterlife. Further proof of their fortitude.

Thirdly, California is the leading producer of domestic avocados and home to about 90% of the nation’s crop. Most California avocados are harvested on 60,000 acres between San Luis Obispo and the Mexican border, by about 6,800 growers. San Diego County, which produces 60% of all California avocados, is the acknowledged avocado capital of the nation.

What does all this mean?

Well, I’d first point out the fact that the same area of the United States that is usually responsible for producing movie stars and rock stars and politicians and what have you, is also responsible for producing avocados. Coincidence? Of course not.

Also, keep in mind that avocados have Arnold Schwarzenegger as their governor. If that doesn’t say tough, I don’t know what does.

Finally, California avocados are grown year-round. A single California avocado tree can produce up to 200 pounds of fresh fruit each year, approximately 500 pieces, although most average around 60 pounds or 150 pieces of fruit.

Now, you find me a man that bulks up by 60 pounds a year, and I will dub him the toughest guy on the planet. Add to that the fact that an avocado tree is responsible for AT LEAST 150 offspring every year?

Well, at least now I know how to spell virility: A-V-O-C-A-D-O.

So, if you’re not convinced that avocados are the most masculine fruit now, you never will be. And it’s not because the case isn’t convincing- it’s because you’re dense.
Many thanks to “avocado.org” for their useful information.

This piece appears on Matador Travel and is also available for viewing, in its native environment, here:
The Tenderloin

The Tenderloin district in San Francisco is notorious for its poverty-stricken, aesthetically unappealing composition. Its name, at least so I am told, derives from the police officers of yesteryear being paid more to work its dangerous streets…so much more, in fact, that they could afford more expensive cuts of meat than the rest- namely, tenderloin.

Whether or not this is fact or folly seems unimportant because at least it provides a good conversation piece from your seat in a quaint restaurant in an affluent neighborhood like North Beach, or Russian Hill, or the Marina.

But, I feel that it is important for us all not to lose touch with the reality of this part of town, particularly as we gaze at it condescendingly from our ivory Coit towers.
In fact, the Tenderloin may be the most “real” part of the city that we have. Here, there is no sugar coating the sour apples. The truths and realities of contemporary society are laid bare for all to see.

My bus, the 27 Bryant, happens to skirt the ‘Loin on its track leading me from the ever-elegant Financial District back home to my apartment in Russian Hill. During the trip, it is commonplace for some of the more raucous and mentally unstable inhabitants of its streets to board the bus (for free, of course, because what bus driver with any sanity at all is actually going to try to collect a fare from someone that smells like they’ve just been vomitted from a urinal). Inevitably, some sort of trouble is caused by these individuals, ranging from the lecturing of all the other bus patrons on how they are “stupid crackers” and ought to “shut their loud mouths” to picking fights with disabled people in the front of the bus for “taking up all the goddamn seats,” and threatening to beat them with their own canes.

While most of these events are wildly inappropriate and even scary, at times, we must also keep in mind the source of the incidents. These people, which is what they are after all, have probably endured circumstances not anywhere near what the wildest reaches of our imaginations can fathom. They have suffered physical abuse, drug addiction, fights, jail time, broken homes, broken bones, bloodshed, heartache, and complete and utter poverty, and these might all come on what one of them refers to as a “good day.”

The unfortunate truth that emanates from all of this is that the world is a cruel and difficult place to live. Some people are not equipped to handle it on their own, some do not ever receive the chance or the guidance to do so, and many end up living where others spit and surviving the only way they know how…through aggression.

And, so, it is not wonder that some of the ‘Loin’s inhabitants lash out and vent their frustration on occasion. They are literally dying for their voices to be heard.

It is also a reality that many of us are ill-equipped to make any sort of a difference. We cannot feed all the hungry, nor house all the homeless. It would be ignorant for us to believe we could and to think that giving one man a dollar, which he will probably use to buy crack, is going to make a difference and should make us feel good about ourselves.

However, it is a good idea not to lose touch with the harsh realities that others face. Yes, it is no crime for us to work hard and enjoy the fruits of our labors and our good fortunes. It is no crime to be educated and well-dressed and ambitious. But it is a crime to hate other people because they have not enjoyed the same luxuries as you.

And this is the point that I am garrulously trying to make.

We should not avoid the Tenderloin. In fact, we should even seek it out from time to time. This is not to say that we should go looking for trouble and complain when we get it. Heading into the area at 12 o’clock on a Friday night would probably not be the wisest idea. But, we should drive through it now and again, if only to remind ourselves just how fortunate we are and just how unfortunate others are, as well. It would only take a few twists of fate to bring us to our knees as these people have fallen.

More importantly, we should do everything we can to help…but that means intelligently helping. Give to your local charities. Help at soup kitchens and with food drives. Volunteer at inner-city schools and boys and girls clubs. Because the real truth is that you can make a difference if you know who to lend your helping hand to.

And appreciate what you’ve got. We all don’t do it enough, and it is the greatest testament and tribute to our good fortune.

This article appears exclusively on Associated Content and is available here:
MTV’s Virulent Spread

I am convinced that metastasis is at fault for the demise of the quality of our culture.

To explain, let me refer to the source of all evil, MTV.

While I am the first to admit that my guilty pleasures include RealWorld/RoadRules challenges and the occasional Video Music Awards ceremony, I am also the first to say that I think this network is about as banal as rubbish gets.

It promotes the sort of loosey-goosey, laissez-faire, I hate my parents, check out my six pack, I’m a twelve-year-old girl and I give blowjobs lifestyle that is degrading our culture by the minute.

It also instills a jaded sense of values within kids at very impressionable and formative stages of their development (which is, incidentally, a great part of its genius). MTV (speaking of it collectively is weird, and also sort of generalizes it and pigeonholes it as some mean-spirited entity, but nevertheless…) has figured out that its audience consists primarily of younger teenagers and that by telling these kids what to watch, it can reify its own status as a sort of pop-culture authority. In so doing, it solidifies its stance as the voice of the generation and empowers itself over and over and over again, in fact, every single time a teenager tunes into the station as is subjected to its advertisements and inane shows.

To its credit, the whole plan is genius. You show kids what they should be aspiring to by establishing these icons of pop culture (icons with erudite and meaningful names like “50-Cent” and “Chingy”) and demonstrate to them what they must have (iPods, clothes, etc.), thereby single-handedly generating an entire consumer movement around your own will.

What saddens and disturbs me, however, is that the power MTV wields could be used for incredible good. If it were telling kids to be moral and upstanding, if it provided examples and reinforcement of credible role models, people with humility and excellent values, perhaps we could teach an entire generation that being a good, humble, God-fearing citizen is the cool thing to do.

Unfortunately, this would probably all but kill the consumer bug that is infecting their young market right now. And that just wouldn’t be economically beneficial to a company that is generating benjamins by the billions.

My ultimate thesis is that MTV’s metastasis within our culture is at fault for the ruinous state we are in. The corrupt, abhorrent value system which the network operates upon and promotes has hit the bloodstream of society running, and is multiplying and corroding each and every upstanding citizen and each and every noble value that is left.

As a result, we have an infection that has run rampant and that may be irreversible. There is no penicilin injection that we can fire into the butt-cheek of our nation or world that will erradicate the damage that has been done. There is no moral antibiotic that will provide a quick heal.

The only thing we can hope for is that the infection kills off every host unable to handle the stress of the disease, and a sort of Social Darwinism takes root and leaves us (well down the road, mind you) with a new, morally resilient and value-strong society.

But this is a pipe dream, I’m afraid, and in the meantime, those of us that have yet to be infected probably already have, and just don’t know it.

After all, why do I even know who Beavis and Butthead, Puck, and K-Fed are, if I’m so resistant to the trends?

Because my morbid curiosity gets the better of me, that’s why.