Author: Stagger Lee

“Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end.”

I.

First off, ave atque vale, Robbie Caldwell. You handled twenty pounds of shit in a ten pound sack, between the circumstances of taking the job and the injury nightmare all season, and you did it with class and grace. Best of luck going forward. You deserved better.

Now…

I don’t want to hear any more garbage about “Navy’s offensive coordinator” or some up-and-comer from East Roast Beef or anything like that. We were on the verge of turning a corner two years ago and instead we dropped off a cliff. Meanwhile, Stanford is on the verge of a BCS bowl. Northwestern is playing in bowls on or around January 1 lately. Everyone else somehow figures it out.

Now hear this: It’s 2010 and our athletic teams are respectable-to-competitive-to-fearsome pretty much across the board, with one exception. It’s time for the trustees and the big-money donors to get out the checkbook and put together the money to go out and get a KNOWN GOOD BCS-CONFERENCE HEAD COACH. Somebody with a track record and a winning history, and if it takes $5 million a year? Consider it an investment in the credibility of a program that just lost to the 110th-ranked team in Division I football. At home.

No rush hires, no longshots, no rolling the dice – take the time and spend the money and GET THE RIGHT GUY. I’m sick to death of being a laughingstock, of being the odd team out when TEN OTHER TEAMS in the conference are going to bowls, of beating our “rival” once every quarter-century, of sitting around on Saturdays wondering “how are we going to screw it up this week,” of being the cautionary tale for my wife and her other Cal alums of “it could be worse.”

I don’t want excuses. I want WINNERS. And it has to start at the top. Now.

II.

You couldn’t pick a more Cal scenario. The last day at Old Memorial Stadium, a winning season and bowl berth on the line, and the team manages to give up two huge plays and then the winning touchdown – just as the final gun sounds and the sun breaks through the clouds after hail – FUCKING HAIL OUT OF THE SKY – and as Washington celebrates in the corner, the “Chariots of Fire” theme is blaring over some sort of video presentation – and then the video screen conks out halfway through.

5-7. First losing record under Tedford. No bowl. Lost the Axe. Lost the last three games in a row, all at home, all to teams that had never won at Berkeley in the Tedford era until now. Six senior starters gone off a defense that carried the team. No prospect at quarterback. The running back almost certainly headed to the NFL, and his replacement a Smurf of a back with absolutely no business going up the middle on a modern Pac-12 defense. And a coaching staff that at the very least needs to replace an offensive coordinator and an offensive line coach tomorrow.

I’ve said it before under other circumstances, but this time it’s for real: Jeff Tedford and his staff are not currently fit for purpose as the on-field administration of California Golden Bear football. What happened from 2002-2009 is mostly positive, and deserves to be remembered fondly, but it is no longer germane in any way to the current situation. Jeff Tedford must be judged from now on based on 2010 and 2011. This team has struggled for three seasons ever since the ignominious collapse of 2007, and “look how far we’ve come” is no longer acceptable as an excuse.

III.

When you choke away a 24-point lead in the Iron Bowl, you deserve whatever you get. And if Auburn winds up parading a national championship (which itself will probably be vacated in a couple of years), it’s no less than Alabama deserves after shitting the bed in spectacular fashion in front of God and a national television audience. The Tide will have this loss hung around its neck for the next 12 months, and it’s no less than they deserve.

Boise State now falls into the big pile of one-loss teams. Are they better than LSU? Than Stanford? Than a slew of Big Ten teams?

Who cares?

One thing’s for sure: the new Mountain West will be the superior of the Big East, the way thing are looking. And the new WAC may as well be I-AA.

(Not the soap opera.)

For years I have been broadly intrigued by the whole virtual-world concept, as best exemplified by the Metaverse of Snow Crash. One big virtual sandbox, the kind of stuff that you’d expect from the future (of which more later). And yet, once you go for an actual graphical environment, it hasn’t quite worked out like that.

The big example everyone points to is Second Life, which has been around for quite some time now. I created an account on it a good six years ago, but did very little with it. There were times, working at my first job in California, when I’d have a powerful machine and a lot of spare time and would just log in and meander around exploring. It was a great way to get away from it all, because it was so sparsely populated that it was easy to stay away from other inhabitants. The problem, though, is that since everything is built, everything has to be rendered. It’s not like a MMORPG where the bulk of the content is stored locally at install and you don’t have to download new sprites for literally everything in your field of vision as it appears.

Like Epic Castle, for instance. This tech demo for the iPhone and iPad is basically just a setting you can walk around. There’s nothing to interface with – no objects or enemies or other players. All you can do is walk around on the set of the game. And not a huge set, for that matter – but so well rendered and visually appealing that it’s a great place to disappear into for five-space. And since it’s all local to the phone, there’s no networking to deal with.

In between, of course, is the MMORPG, exemplified by World of Warcrack. Er, Warcraft. It was HUGE when I worked at Apple, such that some of my co-workers were in on the original beta. I tried to get into it, I really did, but it lasted for about two weeks in 2005. A big part of that was down to the fact that it ran like crap on a 12″ PowerBook G4. A bigger part of it was the fact that it was, well…work. Run run run run run run run run run run run, kill two wolves, run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run, trade skins for mug of cider, run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run, get gold for cider…stupefyingly boring, and that’s before getting to levels where you basically have to coordinate with large groups of people to “raid” – look, the only thing I’m organizing a group of people for involves drankin’ and Irish rebel songs.

Problem is, I would like a wide-open sandbox-type environment, but it’s so bloody difficult to do – your options are basically fantasy game or sluggish as hell. Thing is, I am given to understand that the coming thing is Lego Universe, which adds some whimsy to what should theoretically be the kind of broad-spectrum experience I’d like to try out. I’m curious to see if they split the difference. Then again, I’m having a hard time thinking of the last video game that I played for more than 20 minutes before going on to something else…

“Twas founded by the Puritans to give thanks they were delivered from the Indians, and we keep it to give thanks we are delivered from the Puritans.”

Of course, I had to emigrate to be delivered, but whatever it takes. I am grateful for all those who stayed behind the kudzu curtain, holding down the few blue spots to be held, but I am thankful that I can repose here in Silly Con Valley, on the front edge of the future…

I don’t know exactly when it was that I first realized that the night before Thanksgiving is some sort of national high-school-reunion night. Not the kind with the punchbowl and the banners in the school gym and the awkward pictures, but the kind where you meet up at the dive bar with your old pals and enjoy having a few pops while you brace to deal with your family. It was the exact feeling I got from my one or two trips to the old Ugly’s in Mountain View.

And it didn’t really work out for me that well. I still knew some people from high school, but the ones I’d kept in touch with were all out of town regularly, and even if they weren’t, circumstances have conspired to put me forty miles from downtown when I’m in the old country – and most of the good stuff is on the far side of downtown. Not that I couldn’t use a few stiff drinks to deal with my family at the holidays, but it just wasn’t on the cards. And so I spent Thanksgiving 2007 in London, and 2008 in a state of steady tension until I could get back to Silly Con Valley and the green hills of December. I stayed here for Thanksgiving in ’09, but thanks to a crap-ton of football and my own laying down the law, Christmas in the old patch was broadly tolerable (and I have the efforts of Team Black Swan East to thank for that).

That Christmas is also when I met up with an old high school pal, a year ahead of me, who has been something of a linchpin for the alumni community both in town and in the general 2-hour driving radius. Which means that I was able to go to my 20-year reunion this summer and have an awesome time. Which means that if I were back in the old country, I’d have something to do Wednesday night – or more likely Friday night – for the first time. Which would be great, and also totally necessary, because…well, the drama is out of hand.

In a way, it’s fortunate that I’ve known since August that I won’t be traveling at the holidays this year, and I’m grateful for it, what with the assorted family meltdowns back home and the choice between the nudie cancer machine or the third base grope in the airports, not to mention the assorted trauma that usually goes along with flying during Amateur Week. But I won’t be where I can clink a glass with my fellow sons and daughters of the old mustard blockhouse, and for that I am truly regretful.

Because more than anything else, that’s the thing I’m most grateful for this year that’s different from previous years. I’m thankful for my wife, my house, my car, my job, my iPhone 4, and for Vanderbilt Commodore basketball, of course – but for the first time in longer than I care to remember, I have a past. Not some black hole with no pictures and no friends to remind me, not a few dusty artifacts taking up closet space as tangible proof that something happened for me once, but actual human beings whose eyes bugged and jaws dropped as they shrieked my name, who knew the old stories and told them without so much as a prompt, who proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only were the old days as crazy as I make them sound, I may have undersold it in the retelling.

In 2010, I finally became a Tree again. And for that, I am truly, deeply thankful.

I was there, you know. September 11, 2001, running from the office to Foggy Bottom with my future best man to make sure his then-girlfriend was OK after reports of a car bomb at the State Department (which turned out to be false). I knew that things were going to change in air travel – that was obvious. And when I flew to Alabama on a one-way ticket the following month to collect my own girlfriend, I got pretty much what I expected, which was fine – I figured naturally it’s going to be pretty ragged at first, but they’ll figure it out pretty soon.

I never expected that we’d go nine years without anyone figuring it out.

The amazing thing is how reactive everything has been, and how permanent the reaction. The abortive shoe-bombing attempt led to all shoes on the belt. The alleged liquid-bomber plot led to the 3-ounce rule and everything in a baggie and don’t bring your Coke through. And years on, we’re still doing that, despite the fact nobody else in the world does this shit. And now we have the much-debated “nudity machine”, which is one of two mandatory options – the other being the kind of roughing-up somewhere between second and third base that some of us would have killed to grasp at on prom night. And nobody else does that shit. Not Britain, not Israel, not places with a lot more experience of terror.

I honestly expected we’d get a ground-up reorganization of the entire way we look at airline security. Instead, we got exactly what we had before, with an extra layer added every time somebody pulled something. So now we have the computer out of the bag, the shoes on the belt, the jacket off, the liquids in tiny little bottles in their own bag, and now a little pirouette and maybe a bump-and-grind for the wage-slave behind the screen…because when you get right down to it, it’s still September 12. Everyone has carried on in the full flush of panic, when we had no idea what we were up against and for how long, and nobody has rethought our circumstances to account for the fact that we are not, in fact, fighting a vast secret army of superhumans.

This year, something’s going to have to give. Too much of our security policy has been driven by the absolutist ravings of square-state plushbutt yahoos who insist that we have to do everything in our power to stop the terrorists because that’s what the guy on Fox said, and if we don’t, we’ll all be destroyed, so quit your whining because lives are at stake. You know…September 12. It was the right response on September 12, 2001, but things may have changed a little in nine years. And now, a lot of amateur travelers are really going to get up close and personal with what it means to encounter the full force of an absolutist approach to airline security – and even if they don’t flip out in rage that somebody would dare inspect them, a white person, they’re at least going to come away with the thought that “there’s got to be a better approach to this.”

And there is. It’s called starting with a clean sheet – if we were to design how security is done in a post-September-11 world, based on the kind of attacks and plots we’ve seen, how would we do things? Other than, you know, doing the same thing we did before and then just slapping on an extra step every time we hear of something scary. It’s going to involve a lot of analysis, a lot of consultation, a lot of talking to people who have done this sort of thing before. You know, a lot of rational thinking.

And if there’s one thing we as a nation have completely forgotten how to do in the last decade, it’s think rationally.

This is yet another test of the Bluetooth keyboard with the iPhone now that I’m on iOS 4.2.1. Not that it makes a huge difference one way or the other, but just proving again that the main obstacle to using the iPhone as a replacement for everything is carrying the Bluetooth keyboard around. No stuffing this thing in your pants and trying to slip through the security checkpoint. Actually I might have more to say on that later.

Come to think of it, an iPhone and iPad (the latter with Wi-Fi only) would pretty much give you what you need from a MacBook Air – the iPad does everything that needs the bigger display and a fuller browser, while the iPhone handles communications anywhere and video chat. An iPad would do for me anywhere I use the laptop now, since I only have Wi-Fi and no 3G card on the laptop, and even if you bundle a keyboard with it the iPad is still going to be lighter than the MacBook Air, even the 11″ model. And maybe an A4 processor is weaker than a Core2Duo, and 256 MB of RAM is definitely less than 2 GB, but iOS has to be a lighter load than OS X 10.6.5…something to think about. In fact, now I really have to start thinking: what is there that I have to have a laptop to do?

After washing out of grad school, my first job was a temp gig with SONAT – the parent of Southern Natural Gas, a huge energy concern throughout the South, headquartered in Birmingham. Very old, very traditional, very stodgy. Casual Fridays meant you could go without a tie. So there I was, May-June-July, hottest summer in years, wearing a shirt and tie and getting out of the car at 7:45 to go to work when it was already 78 degrees.

When I started at NG, we were still shirt-and-tie although Fridays were wide open – jeans, sneaks, whatever you had was fine. There was an abortive attempt at doing “wacky tie Thursday” but it never really took. I don’t know when the policy changed exactly – as late as spring 1998 there are pics of me at my desk, shirt and tie, no goatee – but by the end of the year we were pretty much down to Casual Monday, Casual Tuesday, Very Casual Wednesday, Extremely Casual Thursday and Just Don’t Come In Butt Naked Friday. Except for a couple of attempts to impress the girls in NG Channels International with suits on going-out nights, that was it for the ties.

The next big wardrobe shift came with the heat of summer in 2001. At some point, I quit wearing jeans between April and October, and largely switched to cords December through March. Summer meant khakis with a steady stream of black Hawaiian shirt, black mambo shirt, black bowling shirt, etc etc; winter meant an endless array of black polo shirts over the cords topped with the black leather car coat. You had to be kitted out for 95 degrees and Code Red conditions in August and 10 degrees and blizzard snow in February.

That’s not the case out here. Conditions in Silly Con Valley are best described as “DC in early April” for the winter months and “DC in late April” for everything else, and even the occasional high-90s heat wave doesn’t come with the caliber of humidity you get down South. And my first year and a half was spent basically dockwalloping, so everything was steel-toes, dirty jeans, and an endless array of T-shirts. Desk duty allowed me to clean up the jeans and find a slightly nicer shirt, but car commuting made outerwear less of a consideration. I somehow found myself buying a waterproof-suded jean jacket, which I almost never have cause to wear, and a couple of rain shells which are generally all you need unless the temps are dropping below 55 or so.

Having gone back to train commutes in the last two years has complicated matters. Now I definitely need waterproofing in some form. And since my office goes around with me in a Timbuk2 backpack, something like a leather coat of any kind is impractical as the pack is sure to ruin it. Jeans are damn near the only thing I wear ever, although apparently T-shirts are a no-no if there’s any chance at all you might get sent to a Dean’s office to fix something, so I’m back on an endless supply of solid-color sport shirts.

I still wear the Docs almost every day, obviously, but the steel-toes are too heavy to commute with unless you’re driving. =)

There was no point to all this. I just couldn’t come up with anything else today and I had to kill a few hundred words somehow.

They’re taking away my Redskins bar.

Two years after I discovered it, Dan Brown’s Lounge in Palo Alto is closing in a rent dispute with the owner of the building. This is distressing in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Setting aside the fact that the Skins have won every time but once or twice that I’ve been in attendance, this is a place made with me in mind. Half of it is a Redskins bar – framed Riggins and Grimm jerseys, oil prints of Jurgensen and Monk, signs and pennants – and the other half is a straight-up dive, complete with pics of the Rat Pack, and Sophia Loren giving Jayne Mansfield the side-eye, and a large nude of Marilyn Monroe over the curved bar. It’s not the most accessible place via public transit (though it’s doable), but in every other respect it’s just my kind of place.

And a week from tomorrow, it’s no more.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But there’s not consistent enough music at any Irish place, O’Neill’s is too far north and O’Flaherty’s too far south, Trials has no television and takes forever to get home from, BBC picks up too many douchebag mid-life crisis cases, Mervyn’s is just too hell-pray-we-don’t-get-shot, Iberia is way too expensive, Tied House has terrible food and the Saint is way too may-contain-Irish-substance, and the Ritz-Carlton in Half Moon Bay is way too far away.

How long O Lord will I search in vain for something to replace the 4P’s?