'Bred Crumbs

Hailoween

The first sign that this Halloween was doomed was that it hailed on the way to work – an unexpected mood blighter atop the chilly rains that gave us our first taste of winter, not four days after our last taste of summer.

Beyond that, Robbie got sandbagged by an energy-draining cold. After much consideration, we determined to tough it out and go through with our plans. But then came logistics issues, plan changes, and sudden cancellations, and the ordeal-to-enjoyment ratio started racing toward Xmas levels. We saw the pile of omens come crashing down and finally said screw it. We abandoned costumes (but hey, we're set for next year!), put on the sweats, gazed out at the standstill traffic, closed the windows to keep out the damp breeze and the helicopter noise, and hunkered down in front of prerecorded TV.

Based on early reports, it doesn't sound like things were all that great for anyone in or near the Castro, Halloween's former holy home. Last year, the party was dimmed by too many uncostumed suburban looky-loos, too many people who boozed badly, and too many, well, stabbings. The answer, as usual in our society, was overcorrection. This year, barriers were put up, people were searched, alcohol was forbidden, and staged "entertainment" was forced on Castro visitors. And, to the surprise of few, early reports are that it was all kind of dull.

So, this one goes down in San Francisco as The Halloween That Sucked, in spite of falling on a Friday. Next year, it's a Sunday. Maybe we can just TP some churches that morning and call it a day.

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One Summer Dream

It took its sweet time, but this weekend October finally delivered what October in these twisted climes is supposed to: summer, glorious summer. As a result, for the first time in memory, I actually enjoyed driving home from work.

Every summer, even the ones just three days long, summons every other summer. It certainly helped that what I happened to have in the stereo was ELO's Face the Music ("Evil Woman," "Strange Magic," and more), but the warmth, the light breeze and the sight of sprinklers gently misting lawns at dusk alone would have triggered every sense memory of child and teen summers. When, to the puzzlement of longtime San Franciscans, I rejoice in these brief, intense spurts of local heat, this is why: the boundless joy of warmth in the evening, and the teasing possibility it holds. Evenings like this I wish I could catch in a bottle. And then jump in with them.

It's not longing exactly, but something bigger, and it's not merely nostalgia, because the here and now only raises the bar. As I drove down I-80 for home, the setting sun perched itself perfectly between the spires of the Golden Gate across the bay. And as I closed in on The City and the sun fell farther away from the thinnest possible crescent of a moon, the low range of hills that bisects San Francisco, braced to try to hold back the fog that inevitably pours and tumbles over them, unleashed a whole new visual effect. The hills hid the sun so that it shone like stage lights, casting a dramatic gradient onto the clear sky, and throwing the rolling horizon into silhouette so sharply contrasted, so starkly beautiful, it almost hurt.

The bite in the beauty was no surprise, because summer comes with an edge. Summer doesn't just speak of possibility, it demands it. My belief in the power of summer is so strong that, no matter how good I have it, I find myself pining for more. The yearning falls short of torment because of that warmth and that breeze; the thorns of summer excrete their own balm. And as of this weekend, the yearning is a little less vague than it used to be. Saturday night, as I considered wandering the neighborhood aimlessly, feeling criminal to stay indoors, I heard jazz and laughter flowing from a window across the courtyard, and I defined what summer makes me want. It makes me want a garden party, or a pool party, with drinks and laughter flowing and cameraderie stretching the night to infinity, and all my friends there, even the ones – especially the ones – who are too damned far away.

A desire that golden will break you if you dwell on it. So instead, you think about all the gifts you do have or, better yet, let all thought go in that soft, warm breeze as you give yourself to its soft touch and immerse yourself in the glorious moment, and hope that this weather can hold out just one more day. Because the whisper of promise beats no promise at all, and even a hint of magic is a sweet, sweet spell.

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Crows in the Machine (For Dummies)

I fell into a corporate trap during a trip to Massive Book Chain Without an Ampersand. The cashier asked me my e-mail address, and I acquiesced without missing a beat. I'm used to being asked my zip code, and giving a false answer in hopes of wrecking the Mighty Marketing Machine, but this request surprised me. And instead of doing what I should have done, which was decline to reveal my e-mail address and ask why it's any of the store's damned business, I caved. I'm not sure why. I think it was because I didn't want to cause trouble for my clerk, a nice-enough lesbian who had already confessed that she is sometimes startled by children's toys. But I found soon enough I might have given her too much credit; I heard the next clerk down be a little more forthcoming to his customer, asking if she would like to sign up for the chain's e-mail newsletter. I guess my clerk was too lazy and just cut to the chase.

Thankfully, my paranoia is constantly intact, so I did have the presence of mind to give out one of my spam-catcher addresses instead of a real one. Still, I was barely outside the store before I started berating myself for succumbing to the machine, and wondering why I did. Maybe it was because I was still stunned from what I saw on a shelf on the way to the register:

*

Strangely enough, that wasn't the most mind-bogglingly insipid thing I encountered all weekend. The night before, the special features of the first disc of Six Feet Under on DVD taught me that it is illegal to photograph a common crow in the United States for commercial purposes. Really.

The government has its reasons, and the law is easy enough to get around (substitute other kinds of crows, or shoot in Canada). Still, the arbitrary, freedom-stomping stupidity of such a law blows my mind. Who enforces this? How is anyone supposed to know about crap laws like this? What other obscure, ridiculous rules might one accidentally violate with a camera? Is it OK to photograph all kinds of trees? Certain babies? Clouds? Peanut brittle?

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* Because you can't just go, oh, read the books. Granted, Tolkien's prose isn't to everyone's taste, but would anyone actually prefer the abrasive condescension of the Dummies series?

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Clean-up, Aisle 2

Since In Passing can't be everywhere, I'll do my part. This is what I heard a young woman at Safeway say, bitterly, to a male companion as they entered the aisle containing paper towels and ... other things:

"Oh, they put the cleaning supplies in the aisle with the girls' things. How convenient."

Along those lines, here's a fun grocery question: What actual Safeway aisle name could also be a Lifetime movie title? (Drag cursor through empty space below for answer.)

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Through the Desert on a Site with Two Names

Those readers who are very observant and so bored out of their minds that they're memorizing every small detail of this website may have noticed that in last week's redesign, the label TIMBLAND.COM disappeared. That's because timbland.com is no longer the king of this particular hill – key stockholder maybe, but not king. This site can now also be reached via bredcrumbs.com. This new address is preferred for your linking and bookmarking pleasure, but it's no big thang: timbland.com will continue to work just the way it does for the foreseeable future.

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