Unidentified ASU student strikes UC Berkeley classrooms

UC Berkeley students don't notice because it's summer break.

A lesson in something (at the People's Park)

Late afternoon, patches of sunlight peering through the trees, in the distance ragged groups of people and scavenged goods scattered haphazardly in the sun, and I’m hanging out with a hobo.

It certainly was not the hobos that drew me to the “People’s Park,” where once protestors of war sought refuge from the National Guard and now economic objectors are free to defy the Dow Jones. It was the art: murals, brilliant colors, psychedelic images.

Then I saw the jazz guitar in his arms, the broad round hollow body, the wood stained orange and red, a distant mellow twang.

 “Mind if I join?” I had brought my harmonica for just an occasion as this.

“Oh, I don’t know chords or anything, I just play by the spirit.” I couldn’t tell if his tan skin came from being Hispanic, Native American, or long exposed to the sun. There were only a few long white strands at each temple contrasting starkly among black locks. Two of the strings of his guitar were missing and a third flailed uselessly from the neck.

“Perfect, I don’t know anything about harmonica so it works out,” and I sat beside him on the bench.

So we played our makeshift duet. He seemed to use the limitations of the instrument as an advantage, moving around shapes that would be much more difficult if all six strings had been present, and drawing textures that seemed not only viable but genuine. I sucked. Both literally and metaphorically. Awkwardly stumbling across my brand new chromatic harmonica, I only somewhat successfully managed to pick out melodies over his chords.

“Sorry,” I periodically apologized for my flubbed chirps. I didn’t know how long he'd put up with me, but I didn’t think I could hold out for long.

He didn’t seem the least concerned: “Trial and error. That’s how we learn.”

So we played on by trial and error as I struggled to surpass my inexperience just enough to find the spirit that led him. After a few improvisations he paused to open and close his fingers. “I can’t get my hands around some of these changes, I’ve got arthritis.”

“Arthritis?” I asked, but it was the word “changes” that caught my attention.

“I’m almost 50. But that’s no excuse.” And he’s back at it.

So now I’m officially hanging out with a hobo. But I can’t picture him lounging on a streetcorner with a sign or jangling a cardboard cup in the face of passers-by. No, no, this man belongs beside a campfire in the woods, or perhaps resting beside a river, strumming contentedly for the pleasure of the people or the birds or even just the trees.

As our session nears the end he turns, “Yeah man, thanks for that. I wouldn’tve thought of that on my own." Here I’m almost feeling guilty for subjecting him to my beginning harmonica and he’s thanking me as though somehow I’ve taught him something.

We stand, he now towering over me. He introduces himself as “Russel” and invites me back anytime (would’ve given me his phone number, he says, if he owned a phone). I thank him, and he wraps both of his massive arms around me in an enormous hug that forces every trace of air from my lungs until he finally lets go. Now he’s off to find a beer and I’m off to wander someplace else.

 (Russel with his guitar)

Long Day’s Journey into Night (And that’s not such a bad thing) Part 1: Day

Today I paid a visit to San Francisco’s Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, where the main exhibit explored the audience as a subject:

(photo courtesy of http://www.ybca.org/audience-subject-part-2-xl)

Photographs of swarms of bodies immersed in frenzy, films of soccer fanatics turning to riot, of masses pulsating in unison, of hordes jeering an empty ring from which the images of the boxers had been removed, of people all over the world expressing their religious (without understatement) devotion to a British punk band—and as I moved from piece to piece all I could think was I don’t like crowds. Taken from their context and put on display, it all seemed absurd and somewhat unsettling.

We all want to fit in, but we all want to be special:

For contrast, the other exhibit in the Center was a solo exhibit about the experience of an artist, which was likened to that of a lone traveler in the Arctic:

Pinned between the crushing anonymity of the audience and suffocating isolation of the artist, I decided it would be best to go outside to the Yerba Buena Garden and lie in the grass:

 

As I lazily enjoyed the afternoon, someone mentioned something about an eclipse. Of course, I had forgotten, I read in the paper the night before that there would be an eclipse today! I set right to work:

Three-ring notebook doubles as pinhole camera:

A view of the sun through protective glasses (thanks to a friendly and informative fellow lawn-occupier who works at the science center):

Obscured by the moon, the sun’s rays seemed devoid of warmth and contrast between light and shadow became harsh, creating a sense of artificiality. I felt as though I was in a movie studio lit by spotlights and at any moment a mob of stagehands would swarm in to rearrange everything at the cue of the rotund director’s “cut!"

And the passing of the eclipse behind a building signaled my move indoors for a concert by the Brad Mehldau trio. Suddenly, here I was: the audience--the very anonymity I had scorned! Look at us self-righteous jazz fans, speaking in code, talking as though we were the chosen people paying homage to our little-known but all-powerful god:

“Oh yes, let me make as many references to obscure jazz musicians as possible.”

“Absolutely, not only do I own album on which the song you just mentioned appears, I’ve seen him in concert twice.”

And the worst part of it all was I knew these references too. Determined to have no part in this, I fought back the urge to respond with a comment to show that I belonged in this exclusive club as well and sought refuge in a book while we waited in front of the empty stage for the band to finish looking at the eclipse:

 

It was astounding watching him at the piano, his movements, contortions more like, so strained, so tense, so exaggerated, so forced, but yet the sound he drew from the instrument—at times so pure and light and delicate, and others complete exuberance and freedom. It was as though the sonic world of music was his deliberate rebuttal to the physical realm of objects and things and movement. After a few songs:

“Thank you. Thank you. We opened with “Hey Joe” made famous by Jimmy Hendrix [applause] and we followed with a Charlie Parker blues, an original composition, and a Sonny Rollins tune. I just looked at the sun. That was really stupid.”

To be continued. . . .

On the way

Happened to be walking down this street:

San Francisco is a city of juxtaposition. Here, the regal with the frantic:

Here, order vs chaos:

The following are my attempts at "artsy" photos:

 "Still Life with Trash Bin, Cone, and Parking Meter" 

 "1752A"

" 'Six' or 'Self Portrait with a Camera' "

 " 'Grooves' or 'Parked Bicycle' "

"Actually this is Just a Regular Picture and So was that Last One"

I see Berkeley, you see Berkeley

As an academic scholar at Arizona State University visiting the campus of another high-profile institution of higher learning, U. C. Berkeley, I feel an urgency to participate in and understand as deeply and profoundly as possible the architecture, academics, cuisine, and student culture here. This desire stems from, I believe, a deep-seated investigative need. My motivation for discovery really centers on one pressing question: Which is better, expensive and elite U. C. Berkeley or my own inclusive and affordable ASU?

In order to conduct impartial research, I did my best to blend into the crowed by dressing as a native Berkleyan.

Much to my surprise, I was the only person in sight wearing tie-dye. Apparently most Berkeley students are Asian and kind of nerdy.

Berkeley proudly boasts a grove of native Redwood trees plunging into the sky which began their lives hundreds of years before UC Berkeley was even conceived.

You heard correctly, UC Berkeley didn’t even plant them. In this sense, ASU’s patches of prickly-pear are every bit as impressive.

 Berkeley has a lot of hills. This means you have to climb a lot of stairs. ASU, on the other hand, is completely flat. So while Berkeley students may have better glutes, ASU students don’t have to work as hard.

This fruit salad is EXACTLY IDENTICAL to the fruit salad found at every market and dining hall at ASU. I cannot comment on price differences because my friend bought it for me.

I was shocked to discover that, unlike ASU, which plays recordings of bells from loudspeakers on top of the MU, Berkeley actually has a real bell tower with real bells. How utterly 15^th century. Get with the times, bro.

Berkeley does have a couple cool buildings:

As I wandered amongst these striking structures I couldn’t help imagine what it would be like to study among such splendor. No doubt, as you passed through each colonnade on your way to class, you would feel as though to learn, to study, to push the boundaries of human knowledge was something that was not only important, but valued. Every pediment and frieze would be an encouraging hand reaching out, beckoning you onward to the edge of the known, to the fullest extent of your intellectual capacity. Education would not seem like a means to a degree, but a glorious end in itself, something in which to take pride and place your passion. But of course, with the proliferation of online learning (one of ASU’s strong suits by the way), physical classrooms are pretty much obsolete.

Which is better? I’ve stated the facts, you draw a conclusion.