It seems like things got a little out of control this last year, which is perhaps only fitting for one of those rare years that end in zero-zero-zero. As an example, consider the fact that I can barely lift one of my arms to type this message, thanks to the broken collarbone near my left shoulder. In a way, it has been an odd mixture of a year that was both cursed and blessed. Yes, I have a broken clavicle and a broken rib, but the good news is that the car mostly glanced off me rather than running me over. Yes, my beloved bicycle is damaged, but the frame doesn’t appear to be bent and the bike might even be fixable. That is, if I can bring myself to get on a bike again without remembering the feeling of two tons of cold steel knocking me down.
But I cope with this injury by either surfing through fifty four channels of cable, or by writing this message. While it is true that sitting at home during a weekday affords me the rare luxury of “Northern Exposure” reruns, it is also true that I can stand to watch only so many "M*A*S*H" reruns on the fX network (cable channel 36 here in San Francisco: their motto: “all-M*A*S*H, all the time”). So here I am, writing this end-of-year greeting instead.
It is indeed difficult to write a charming and entertaining holiday message at this moment, and not just because I am nursing broken bones, and not because I am haunted by replaying the scene of the car slamming into my body (an event that probably took only seconds but felt like minutes). No, there is bigger reason for sadness this holiday season: Aaben books is closing for good.
Aaben is a small, charming used bookstore just a few doors down from a movie theater called the Lumiere, which specializes in independent and foreign films. Aside from the usual charm that such small bookstores offer, this one has the added attraction of three resident cats. Whenever Cindi and I went to see a movie at the Lumiere, we always made a point of stopping by the bookstore to pet the cats, and oh yes, maybe to buy a book or two while we were at it. We were there last weekend (before the bike accident), and it was then that we discovered that all the merchandise in the store was 50% off because the store had lost its lease. This seems to be the prevailing story of San Francisco these days, but in this case it felt like a personal blow. It is yet another symptom of the crazy real estate market in San Francisco, and the fact that all those dotcoms are going belly up doesn’t seem to have slowed down the booming rents one bit.
I don’t work for a dotcom, but I do work for an Internet consulting company that develops web sites for other companies. And wouldn’t you know it; this week, while I am recuperating at home, I find out that my company has laid off 25% of its work force. But in the sort of typical blessing-curse fashion that seems to symbolize this bizarre year, I was spared the ax. For now, anyway.
While we were at that bookstore, by the way, we only saw two of the three cats. The third one was probably hiding in the back somewhere. We petted the two at our disposal for the last time, and we each bought some books. One of the books I bought was a collection of Fusco Brothers comic strips. For a long time, I had considered it to be the stupidest comic strip on the face of the earth. And yet, curiously, over the last few months, I was finding myself becoming amused by it. I finally had to admit to myself that I liked it, and here I was, at the end of the year 2000, buying a whole collection of it. Yes, indeed, this has been a wacky year of change.
To be quite honest, I think this year got off to a rocky start because of that whole fortieth birthday thing in January, which would have been quite a tragic occurrence, me turning forty and all, except for the fact that it was the best birthday I had ever had. From the surprise birthday cake during an improv class I was taking at the time, to the dinner in Berkeley with friends and the subsequent Christine Lavin concert sponsored by the Freight and Salvage Coffeehouse, it was all just amazingly and cheerfully wonderful.
I also had the best vacation of my life this year when Cindi and I toured Denmark on our bikes during the month of August. It was sponsored by a touring company called Blue Marble, and we both loved it so much that we want to do the same thing in France next year. Thus I have been dutifully teaching myself all the French I can muster, and now I can say things like “J’ai horreur de champignons” (I hate mushrooms), “Est-ce qu'il y a des champignons dans le plat principal?” (are there mushrooms in the main course?), and “Merde! Je viens de manger des champignons!” (S***! I’ve just eaten mushrooms!) These are probably the three most useful phrases I can think of, since, well, I really hate mushrooms.
This year I also found great satisfaction in doing weekly volunteer work with the San Francisco Lighthouse for the Blind, where I read from newspaper articles over a special broadcast channel. After my mother’s death this year, I did some reevaluating of my own life and asking myself what was really important, and one thing that came out of that was my involvement with the Lighthouse. It has been such a satisfying and enjoyable activity for me that I can only ask myself why I had to wait until I turned 40 before I started doing it.
Sometimes it takes personal tragedy to inspire a person out of their personal ennui, I suppose. As year zero-zero-zero comes to a close, I know that the one positive force in my life through all of this change and turmoil has been Cindi. Thank you, Cindi.
The year 2001 holds out hope for a better year. I’ve been assured by my physician that the severe pain in my shoulder will end soon. He had prescribed for me vicodin, the very same powerful narcotic-strength painkiller that Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre was once addicted to, but it wasn’t helping the pain, so I gave up on it and I’m back to just taking Motrin now. One side effect of cabin fever is that you find yourself trying to read books sitting around the house that you had never bothered to read before and that you had heretofore forgotten that you even had. In my case, the book in question was “Trout Fishing in America” by Richard Brautigan. I don’t know what drugs you have to be taking in order to enjoy reading anything by Richard Brautigan, but vicodin is definitely not it.
That’s okay, though. I have other books to read, and I can always practice my French verbs if I really get bored.
Happy holidays to all, and happy new year.