Deeds & Words

If there’s a choice between a local coffee place and a Starbucks, I will usually go the local place. I will even search out a local place before I go to Starbucks unless—rationalization alert!—I’m in the state of Washington where Starbuck’s got its start. (Or I’m starving. That’s another story). Seeing the Starbuck’s about one block up from the movie palace, I went looking for a more local place. I found one three or four blocks away, called the Wired Internet Café. In this world of wireless everything, this seemed charmingly retro. The coffee shop lives in space that looks like it was formerly retail—two large glass windows on each side of an inset door– and I could picture mannequins in clothes from the 1960’s, maybe a Mode-O’-Day or a Sprouse-Reitz. A young latina and another younger woman pulled a wheeled trash can up toward the door as I approached. The latina was talking, giving instructions to the other employee. I was about twelve steps, at least, behind them, but she saw me and held it open for me, smiling. I liked the initiative.

At a round table on the right side of the door sat six or seven men, gray-haired, with flannel shirts, some with billed caps, hands curled around cups. Their demeanor screamed “Regulars!” I imagined them meeting every there every Monday. Maybe every day.

The latina was directing the other employees, acknowledging a delivery that had just come in and sending it to the back, and making my coffee drink at the same time. I looked around for the tip jar and couldn’t find one, so I asked her about it. “We’re non-profit so we can’t display a tip jar,” she said precisely, graciously accepting the dollar bill I handed her as a tip. I asked what the program was, that they were non-profit.

This was part of Merced’s Regional Occupational Program—ROP. The shop works with young people, helping them learn work skills so that they can become self-sufficient. It isn’t just the quasi-technical skills like how to run an espresso machine, either, but the intangibles like how to show up on time, how to take direction, how to get along with other people.

As I was drinking my coffee drink at a table next to the round of PCs available for internet use, I heard her giving directions. Apparently, with the mid-week Veteran’s Day holiday, some routines were thrown off, and she explained that to her workers in a way that was patient and respectful, even when she was on her third time. They have the right person for the job there.

The coffee was good, not great. Maybe they should look for another name, since Wired is almost as dated as Sprouse-Reitz. The ambience needs a little bit of work, but the staff are great, and I’m glad I went in.

Nancy is out of onions. Her stall is full of winter fare; persimmons, pears and apples, leeks and shallots. Brock of Black Sheep Farms didn’t even show up, and neither did Laguna Farms, which is perfect proof that it’s the last day of the local farmers’ market.

Run Around Brew is still there, and the goat cheese vendor. He does not work the Santa Rosa market but he does go to the ferry building in San Francisco. I’ve been to that building once in my life, and it wasn’t a market day. I say, “See you in April,” to Javier.

What the market lacks today in produce it makes up for in crafts. Three wool vendors, spinners and weavers are present. There are dried wreaths and jewelry. A woman demonstrates weaving at a booth selling ikat cloth. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence have a table where they sell raffle tickets for a cord of firewood. The proceeds benefit Guerneville schools.

<

Nancy also goes to the Santa Rosa market. As she puts it, "It's not the pinnacle of beauty, out there in the parking lot, but it's a job." I will probably see her there a couple of times.

It's a glorious day, warm, clear, the plaza surrounded by orange-leaved trees. Despite the sense that the market is winding down, I still get halibut for dinner, fresh bread, and some fuji apples from Nancy. And a coffee drink from Neil. It's a good morning.

>Tom Dougherty, my docent at the Merced Courthouse Museum, had a toothbrush mustache the color of a chestnut and walked like he had a stiff knee. When I came up the steps he immediately put down his novel—a techno-thriller? Clive Cussler maybe?—and asked if I wanted a tour.

It was a tiny tour group, just me. He took me through the first floor. The courthouse was built in 1875, designed by Albert Bennett, one of the designers of the California Capital. Downstairs it looks like oak. In the upstairs municipal courtroom, he told me, it looks like mahogany. In fact, the entire building is built out of redwood, which was a cheap and plentiful wood at the time.

There is still one county operation on the courthouse, an office of County Parks. The rest is devoted to exhibits, some fixed and some that rotate. He showed me the two elaborate safes that were used in the county treasury, that even back in the 1920s were set electrically and had rows of spare batteries in case of a power failure. In one large room downstairs they have an old fire engine, the horse-drawn kind, donated from a muster group, and lots of artifacts from the turn of the twentieth century.

Tom grew up in the Merced area. I asked him how he felt about the new UC campus, thinking he’d be happy since it was bringing in jobs and so on. Not so much. He feels that the academic types look down on the townfolk. “It’s like, ‘oh, you’re white, you must be poorly educated and vote Republican,’” he said. “My wife and I both finished college and our children are getting advanced degrees.” (I noted that he didn’t deny the Republican thing).

Town and gown rivalry starts early, I guess.

Upstairs, he showed me the beautiful and imposing superior courtroom, with its large rectangular skylight and a decorative gold leaf frieze. The acoustics in the room are amazing. It’s like a tiny concert hall. He says locals who are married by the County Clerk sometimes get permission to have the ceremony in there.

<

Having only fit one foot into my mouth with the UC Merced question, I decided to go for a double. “Oh, look, grapes,” I said, commenting on the gold leaf work.

Ahem, said Tom. A-hem-hem-hem. Where was I from, Napa? More grapes are, or were, grown in the valley than anyplace north.

“Oh, right. Raisins. I forgot.”

“Raisins,” he said, looking at me somewhat sternly, “and wine grapes.”

“Oh, right! Ernest and Julio Gallo!”

So at least he didn’t have to kill me and hide by body behind the judge’s bench.

The most common grape grown in the valley was the Thompson seedless, for its versatility. It can be a wine grape, a table grape, or dried into raisins.

*
He said the three statues of Justice that perch on the domed roof were controversial in their day. Bennett believed strongly that justice should not be blind.

*
Upstairs, the rooms are devoted to various themes and periods. There is a complete blacksmith shop recreated, and a room with Chinese artifacts to commemorate Merced’s Chinatown. One room is dedicated to “mercantile,” including a beautifully wrapped box from Gottschalk’s, circa 1953. Gottschalk’s got its start in Merced.

Tom said, “Remember how, instead of putting your purchase in a bag, they’d box it and wrap it up in paper and string?”

I said, “No, I don’t remember that.”

“Fine,” he said, “just throw me under the bus.”

*
The next day I went out to Lake Yosemite, the town’s reservoir. Two county employees were working on the spillway. I asked if it was all right to walk across it and they said they thought it was, since they saw people doing it all the time. (The sign said no walkers between sunset and sunrise). I stood, fiddling with my camera, and the younger of the two said politely, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m changing the film in my camera.” After a moment, “You know about film, right?”

“Yeah, I think I remember my dad talking about it.”

I said, “Fine, just throw me under the bus.”

Dear Avril:

I’m very sorry but as of today you will no longer be in the book. Believe me, it’s nothing you did or failed to do. You were everything I’d imagined in your part, and even more. You were mercenary, sharp-edged and uncaring, but that was perfect. I couldn’t have found a better defrocked doctor than you.

This is a storyline dictated decision. Yes, I know we hear that all the time and we tend to have some skepticism, but in your case it’s true. Changes I made upstream to clarify the plot rendered your six-page scene less meaningful. Then I realized that the female lead had to show off some of her skills and knowledge, and, well, she can’t very well do that when you’re standing in her space. And I know you really wanted the necklace, but it’s just not going to happen.

To be fair, you should have had a clue when an earlier rewrite reduced your role from nine pages to six. Put yourself in my place and ask yourself; this is the last third of the book. The chase is supposed to be heating up. Do they really have time to have a long conversation with you? Ask yourself; is there anything you do that Sara can’t do herself, especially if the immuno-booster you gave her in a previous draft is now gone? Ask yourself, does their involvement with you add to the danger down the road in any way?

Sadly, the answer to each of those questions is “no.”

You have many fans in the book, notably Gavin, but frankly he’s just a minor character, and this decision has to be mine.

I know you will have a great career somewhere in some story, perhaps even one of mine. Good luck, and have a good day. We’ll miss you (well, Sara won’t, but the rest of us will) and we wish you all the best.

Sincerely,

Marion

Wayne opened Holy Roast Coffee about three years ago. A lot of coffee places, including my sentimental favorite, Wolf Coffee, were closing at that time, so this seemed like a leap of faith. I think the leap has been rewarded.

Holy Roast is located on Mendocino and Seventh in Santa Rosa, directly behind the Subway sandwich place. The shop is very clean and at first I thought it looked too modern to be a true “coffee house.” I was wrong. In this clean corporate space beats the heart of a gathering place, a social center.

Two things endear Holy Roast to me; their mocha drinks, and their staff. I don’t know exactly why, but for me, they make the best mocha around. The proportion of chocolate to coffee is right, meaning you can taste coffee, not just chocolate, and they use a darker chocolate powder, so it’s not overly sweet—it’s got the smoky bite to match the coffee.

The staff is wonderful. Denise, the blond woman who worked mornings (and is now the owner) was always efficient and friendly. When, once in a great while, I’d go over in the afternoon, the young woman with the sleeve tattoo was always friendly and accurate. On the even rarer occasions when I head downtown during the weekend, the weekend staff are welcoming and friendly. I have never had my order go wrong at Holy Roast, something I can’t say for Peet’s.

Holy Roast is the only place I’ve been that posted written tips about ways to avoid leakage from your plastic lid, as if they cared that you might scald yourself or dribble coffee on your dry-clean-only blouse or suit.

The second holiday season Wayne was open, he brought a tray of pastries over to our office one day a few days before Christmas. They were free. He was going to have to throw them away before the holiday anyway, but rather than do that he batched them up and walked them over to an office that held a lot of his customers. Just a little initiative and neighborliness. Another time the block suffered one of its many power failures. I was coming across the street under the dead stoplights and there was Wayne, standing on the corner by his building, handing out free drink cards. Sure, he could have waited behind the counter and let people cling to their false hope that maybe there was power and coffee a few seconds longer, but again, he took some initiative. He knew his neighborhood.

The Santa Rosa motorcycle cops frequently stop there for coffee. Some mornings, Wednesdays, I think, a small bible-study group gets together there. Other mornings, three or four men my age, with flannel shirts and guitars, show up and practice James McMurtry tunes.

Just a few months ago, two weeks shy of her two-year anniversary as an employee, Denise bought the shop from Wayne. She has added more lunch-type foods. The cheerful, efficient service is unchanged. She has created some evening events—knit and crochet on Tuesdays (she’s the only crochetter, she says), and open mike on Fridays. Some friends are bugging her to start a book club night. That’s fine, she says, she’ll keep the place open as long as she’s not expected to choose the books. She’s just too busy.

Holy Roast looks like a fine place for a mini Write-In during Nanowrimo.

There’s a lesson here about location, and having a business plan, but also about heart. Holy Roast has a heart. It’s a place to get a good mocha, and feel welcomed.

I mean, he’s been in office nearly a year now and he hasn’t done anything except, like, be Hitler and take away Medicare and have death panels and bow to people and pick on Fox and stuff. Total slacker!

What’s this? A link? Oh, man! You mean I have to click on it and read it? I’m not going to read it! The only thing I’m going to read is Sarah’s book—or maybe I’ll wait for the audio version.

http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2009/11/19/805925/-90-Accomplishments-of-Pres.-Obama-Which-The-Media-Fails-to-Report….

While I’m waiting for AMC to refund me the 6 hours of my life I spent watching “The Prisoner” I thought I’d jot down a few of the things that confused/disappointed me about the remake. This is not a coherent critique . . . just questions and complaints. Oh, and a few positive remarks as well.

Beachball
The predatory beach ball that guards the boundaries of the village was perfect—irrational and scary, just as it should be.

Designations
How come they pronounce the boy’s designation of 1112 as “Eleven Twelve” but the little girl, 1100, as “One Thousand One Hundred?” Is this the Village’s version of cultural diversity?

Location Shoots
The guy known as 6 believes he came from a city called “New York.” Couldn’t they have filmed a couple of scenes in the real New York? The city was so very not New York that even I could tell, and I kept thinking that the scenes in “New York” were actually part of the Village mind game. Geez, you couldn’t use file footage even?

Just Annoying
Why does 313 wear that silly headscarf?

How come the comatose woman doesn’t get to sit in a chair once in a while? She’s not that comatose.

Wait, there are bad motorcycle guys in the Village? How did that happen?

Commentary
No matter how many Oscar-nominee actors you pack into your cast, you won’t be successful if you don’t have characters people care about, and a real story.

How It Should Be Done
“Where am I?”
“In the Village.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Information.”
There’s a story!

Where’s Eric Roberts When You Need Him?
Jim Caveziel (for which I started substituting “Jim the Weasel”—no fault of his, I just liked the sound of it) looked so much like a younger Eric Roberts that I started wishing they had cast Eric Roberts and then used their digital magic to un-age him. I was actually pursuing a concept that convoluted while I was watching the second night. Perfect proof that I was not engaged.

More Annoying
What is 313’s purpose?

Is it supposed to mean something that many/most of the Village people (sorry!) wear vanilla and sherbet colored clothing and 6 wears stylish dark jeans and a dark T-shirt?

Perplexities
What’s with the hand grenade?

Disappointments
What’s with 1112? He makes about as much sense as the hand grenade. He could have been an interesting, powerful character—instead he’s a retread of the guy from Brideshead Revisited. Do better!

Good Stuff
I read that it was filmed in Africa. That’s a cool thing. That and the beach ball; two cool things.

But Why?
Somewhere in the second episode, 6 cracks. He looks at the guy who he thinks is his brother and says, “You’ve shown me nothing but kindness, I’m sorry I’ve doubted you,” blah blah blah. The guy then says, “Don’t tell anyone but I’m really not your brother.” Why would he say that?? The scam was working!

Do the numbers mean something? They’re not prime. Are they a Fibonocci sequence? Are they. . .oh, wait. I’m thinking of Lost.

Who Cares?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, if you rotate the story 180 degrees and understand that 2 is “the prisoner” then it makes more sense. Only, who cares? Two isn’t a character, he’s a collection of tics. Ian McKellen tries to make him real by dint of some diligent acting, but even he can’t quite do it.

Commentary
Good writing can almost save a pathetic story, but almost nothing can save bad writing. The scene with 2 advising 1112 to dance the night away with some sweet young thing is making me cringe again just thinking about it.

My favorite scene, which did nothing to advance the so-called plot, was the one with 2 and the store guy smoking cigarettes in the third episode. That’s good writing.

How does the comatose woman eat, in either reality? I never see an IV stand or a can of Ensure.

Most Annoying
I never cared for 313.

Lifestyle
I wish they’d named 415 420 instead. Some people will know why. Quentin Tarantino, for instance.

And
Why didn’t AMC just run the original show?

The City and the City
China Mieville
Ballentine Books, 2009

Tyador Borlu is a police inspector in Beszel, an Eastern European city-nation. Borlu is good at his job and two things that make him good at it are a dogged persistence and a willingness to bend—or break—certain rules. When he gets called to scene where the body of a woman has been dumped, he cannot know, at first, the impact this single case will have on his life.

The anonymous woman is no unlucky prostitute or party girl who fell victim to a predator. She is something more mysterious and pivotal. Borlu and his assistant Lizbyet Corwi soon draw the conclusion that their Fulana (what we would call a “Jane Doe”) was murdered in a completely different city, murdered and dumped in Beszel. This creates a bureaucratic and diplomatic incident of dramatic proportions, for their Fulana lived, and died, in Ul Qoma.

Ul Qoma, a city with a different language, culture and customs, occupies exactly the same space and time as Beszel, but a different dimension. Mostly the two cities are discrete, but in places they cross-hatch, or bleed through. Most cross-hatching is thoroughly mapped, and citizens of each municipality are trained from childhood to “unsee” the incursions of their neighbor. To make contact across dimensions—to breach—without authorization will bring down the instant action from the mysterious all-powerful entity also known as Breach.

Borlu, our first person narrator, never tells us all this straight out. He lets us discover it for ourselves as we ride along with him on his investigation. He speaks in the slightly world-weary tone of a good cop who, while disappointed by things he has seen in his work, is still not jaded. His stubbornness and his imagination, both of which he will need to solve the mystery of the murdered woman, have also made him a chronic cryto-criminal. Borlu frequently breaches, refusing to “unsee,” once even deliberately making eye contract with a woman on an elevated train on Ul Qoma.

The plot of the book is linear. Once the experienced reader knows that Borlu commits breach, he or she will know exactly where the book is headed. This does not lessen the enjoyment or the impact of the book in the least. Mieville constructs a convincing police procedural against the backdrop of these two cities. He uses tiny details to build up the mosaic of our understanding. To call someone in Ul Qoma from Beszel, even though the two cities are in the same place and the person you are calling might be standing right next to you (or right where you’re standing) it takes an international phone call. People in Beszel are banned from wearing certain colors, colors common in Ul Qoma, so that passers-by aren’t confused and don’t inadvertently breach.

Borlu’s investigation takes him into Ul Qoma legally, where he partners with a detective named Dhatt. Dhatt is a good investigator, if a very different kind of cop than Borlu; accepting the “cop discount” from local diners and having a fondness for what Borlu diplomatically calls “assertive interrogation techniques.” The case takes them to an archeological dig where the murdered woman, an American graduate student, worked. The artifacts, believed to be from a time deep in history or even pre-history when the cities were one, are intriguing and incomprehensible. Clues lead Borlu to nationalist terrorist groups in each city and the more elusive unificationists, who want to do away with Breach and unify the two cities. Along the way, more people are killed, but Borlu does not stop, confronting Breach itself to solve the mystery.

In some ways Mieville has returned to his literary roots, the sundered London of King Rat. His artistic triumph here is not the vision of two cities interlaced across dimensions, clever and thought-provoking as it is. It’s his exploration of how quickly humans adapt, how willingly we learn to “unsee” and “unknow.” Clearly this can be read as a metaphor for the things we choose not to see in our own cities or our own lives, but Mieville also celebrates the elasticity of the human mind. In the Ul Qoma section of the book, Borlu sits with Dhatt at a club. He looks across the street and sees, stuck on a wall, a poster of the murdered woman. He quickly tries to unsee it, in case it is one he posted in Beszel before he knew the woman’s identity. However, there is a chance, implied at least, that the poster he is not-seeing is in Ul Qoma, posted by the dead woman’s colleagues, and therefore no breach to observe. What do you unsee? What do you unknow? How do you know?

Borlu, inhabitant of the nested cities, is someone who rebels. He chooses to see. He always chooses to see. This lets him solve the mystery, and seals his fate.

Chris Bingham is our county’s Veterans’ Service Officer. On November 11, he gave a speech. His boss sent the text of it out to some of us at work because it was so touching.

I won’t reproduce the whole thing, but here are the paragraphs that reached out to me, in the wake of the Fort Hood killings and the whole uncertainty of Afghanistan:

“We pause today to honor our Veterans… Veterans and their families who have paid the ultimate price for their service… Veterans who paid a great price and walk among us visibly disabled… Veterans who paid a great price and walk among us with invisible disabilities which haunt their daily existence… we honor those who served but are unscathed by their service. We honor those who served during times of peace; who were awake, on watch throughout the world, so the rest of us could sleep in peace.

Our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines put their lives and career aspirations on hold. They gave us a part of their life as an insurance policy to protect our nation. They signed a blank check… payable to the United States of America… for an amount up to and including their life.

Our debt to these men and women is care for their wounds, a few meager Veterans benefits, and most importantly the thanks of a grateful nation. I ask that you to influence your family, friends and local community to continue to honor this special day.”