The Jackass Penalty

The Germans are all over San Francisco this summer. So are the English, the French and the Irish. I heard Russian (or was it Ukrainian?) and a language which sounded how I think Scandinavian languages should sound like. San Francisco, a world city, is never short of accents but this is the first time I've noticed so many Europeans.

It's the Germans I notice most, because they look so much like Americans. Almost; only they all smoke, even the young ones. Germans waiting in line for a cable car at Powell and Market -patient Germans. Germans wearing Gap and Old Navy -suburban Germans. Germans with their pants slung low over their boxers -gangsta Germans. Who are these Germans and what are they doing here?

Then it ocurred to me. They are here because our money is worth less than theirs. We are a cheap date. We are the new Canada without the universal healthcare, intelligent political debate or the good manners. San Francisco is expensive for me, but it is not for them (or the French, the English, the Spanish or the Danes..). How unfair! After all, wasn't it my Grandparents who paid to rebuild their Grandparent's country? Why should they get all the Ghirardelli chocolate? Ingrate Germans. The nerve.

But then I remembered. We live in a country that elected a jackass for president. Twice. A country so intellectually lazy, that it bought the fake Texas accent with all the fix'ns, so long as there was an implied promise there would be no sex with interns in the Oval Office. It's not like we endured, so much as we invited the perfect storm of ideology, incompetence and corruption that followed. It can't be a coincidence that the popularity of MTV's show and movie "Jackass" corresponds exactly with the ascendancy of George W. Bush from his nomination by the Republican Party for President, to his "Mission Accomplished" speech. From MTV to Fox News, CNN, ABC, NBC and CBS, it was all Jackass, all the time.

I did not vote for him. On the contrary, I voted against him, the absolute minimal amount of action I could take. It hardly lets me, or my millions of fellow minimalists off the hook. There is plenty of jackass to go around.

"Wall Street got drunk." is how our Bartender-in Chief explains what happened, this after presiding over a 24/7 happy hour for the Street from the moment he took office. Of course they got drunk. Who wouldn't? Now, convicted by the steely-eyed justice of the international currency markets, our money is worth less. We are being penalized for our collective judgment, or lack thereof.
The Jackass Penalty

Maybe it's not so bad.
If some financial turbulence is the only consequence we face for our collective lapses, we can consider ourselves lucky. It's not like its forever. Look at the Germans, they know all about the Jackass Penalty.
Now they have the run of San Francisco.

Charley Out

Frank Lloyd Wright had it right.
He knew the most interesting space is where outside and inside come together, mesh and meld. Where the wall is blurred, where one can drink coffee outside under a roof in a rainstorm, where one can drink beer in the heat, but out of the sun.

With that in mind, the Double Mountain brewpub in Hood River Oregon is a perfect place to spend a summer afternoon. Hoppy ales, a surprisingly stand-up pilsner and a great pizza (try the Jersey, you will not be disappointed) were served to us at our table, next to an open roll-up door inside a former garage space. A light breeze cut the heat as we looked up the Columbia River Gorge, framed by the red-gold grass on the Klickitat Hills.

And then there was Charley.

Charley, a tow-headed three-year old, the apple of his mother’s eye, had discovered the velvet rope in front of our table which separated the former garage space from the sidewalk. He would run up and push against it, letting it swing out, then back again towards our beers. It was cute the first time (once we realized our four dollar hop-filled confections were safe). Not so much the second, or fifth, or tenth.
Three tables back his parents kicked back with friends, enjoying their beers in a way that I wished I could enjoy mine. They were in their late thirties: salt and pepper hair, healthy, educated. The odds that they drove up in a Subaru Outback are astronomical. They had no idea what there kid was up to.

Jean-Paul Sartre had it only half right. Hell is not other people. Hell is other people’s children.

At last, the dad noticed that Charley was out of bounds. “Charley, Charley come back!”
Charley left, but soon he was back, swinging the velvet rope towards us and shrieking happily.

Minutes passed. Finally the parent’s awareness crept in. Perhaps Charley’s audience was a tad unwilling. The dad corralled Charley. I could relax with my Pilsner.

“Is he bothering you?” the dad asks.

I stopped mid swallow. What do you do?
Are you the guy that says: “Your little whelp is making himself a nuisance. Please exercise your responsibility as a parent and remove him from my field of vision.” and then deal with the pall your lack of patience casts on the inns good fellowship?
Or, are you the guy that fakes a smile, raises his glass and says “He’s good. No problem.”

In case you are wondering; I am the guy who fakes a smile.

And so Charley continued...
Push, swing, hoot, push. Push, swing, hoot, push.
It was only after Jill had to jog the pizza out of the way from one of Charley’s more enthusiastic swings that his mom finally honed in on him with her GPS and brought him back to their table, then took him for a walk around the block.
Farewell Charley.

Charley out.