Our sister city across the bay has recently seen a crazy number of restaurant robberies. The sequence of events goes something like this: several masked individuals enter the place, pull out guns, and engage in some variation of stealing customers’ wallets, stealing employees’ wallets, and emptying the register. It’s scary as hell, and, much as I love Oakland, has me a teeny bit anxious about the idea of dining there.

What precipitated this phenomenon? My first reaction was to recall the “Pumpkin and Honeybunny” scene from Pulp Fiction. Does it suddenly have some sort of retro appeal? If so, please kill me now because nothing that came out when I was in high school should be considered “retro”.

That observation aside, what else could have caused this? Is it related to the fact that the FBI has moved in to investigate the shady dealings of one of the city’s top executives? Could it be that the economy is teetering on the brink of the r-word? Or I guess it could just be that a crew of loser punks decided that taking money at gunpoint from terrified diners and restaurant staff would be a killer (that’s not a pun, because thankfully no one has died) way to earn a living.

Regardless, these guys are losers. Losers, losers, losers. That’s what we do when we have nothing else to say and life feels scary: we call people names. Names that are childish, but nonetheless fitting. I mean, how mature is it to use violence to solve problems? Not very. Grow up, kiddos. The rest of us are just trying to have a civilized meal.

Oaklandish birds:

On the last day of the exercise in masochism challenge that has been NaBloPoMo, may I present one of the more popular photos from my Flickr photostream:

It’s a near-exact replica of the “Post No Bills” notice the City of Oakland sticks on light posts and other items in danger of defilement.

I live here:

I was raised on the Yankees. The baseball team, that is, not the general culture, though if my experience living in Georgia is any indication, the latter is true as well. Despite my complete inability to play any sport, the New York Yankees were a defining part of my childhood. After a very long sabbatical, my affinity for the team has resurfaced since my arrival in Oakland.

My dad has one of those tragic – and tragically common – stories in which a New York kid collects all the rookie baseball cards of all the superstar mid-century Yankees, only to leave for college and find that they’ve disappeared in a bout of spring cleaning. I grew up hearing that story (as well as my grandmother’s apologetic corollary version) along with astonishing quantities of trivial knowledge about the team and its players. My father, the historian, knows everything there is to know about everything on earth. When he’s passionate about something, there’s no stopping the deluge of facts, figures, and anecdotes. Curiously, though my brain usually maintains a death grip on trivial knowledge, I remember almost none of the Gospel According to Yankee. What I did retain is this: the Yankees are the best team ever, and baseball is the only real sport. Until the mid-1990s, everyone in my family knew that.

Enter 1994. The strike turned my father away from baseball. I won’t identify the sport he claimed as his new obsession, except to say that it requires dorky clothing and is ungodly boring to watch. He and my stepmother embraced the dorkiness, watched hundreds of hours of live coverage, and, worst of all, corrupted my innocent 10-year-old brother in their zeal for the anti-baseball. I was 16 at the time, heavily involved in the alterna-grunge-etc scene, and mortified. This was even worse than their purchase of the Ace of Base “I Saw the Sign” single. My athletic incompetence had always kept me on the periphery of the sports culture, but this change of allegiance to something so not punk rock pushed me right off the map.

Twelve years, a college education, a marriage, a career, and a blissfully athletic-free existence later, I live in Oakland. People here are crazy about their team in a way that is very reminiscent of my early childhood home. A’s paraphernalia is everywhere, and most people I know go to a game or two every season. My straight-from-the-gut reaction? I need a Yankees hat.

I was reading skate magazine Thrasher at my hair salon the other day, and came across an article about Oakland-based band the Saviors. I was highly impressed with their insight and wit. For example:

Question: Where do the band’s inspirations or influences come from?

I wonder if there’s any shit happening in whatever galaxy they were occupying during the interview.

Source: “I went on tour and had a vision quest,” Ryan Furtado, Thrasher, October 2006, 188-192.

Yup, you read that right. Claire and I happened upon this unlikely event at Mama Buzz the other day. Click the image for a Quicktime clip:

I assumed the occasion would involve mohawked, heavily pierced accordion-wielding individuals holding some sort of polka-ized Sex Pistols jam session. However, it turned out to be a lesson with Henri Ducharme, a music teacher so very hardcore that he is lifting his house off its foundation so he can build an accordion into his basement wall.

Claire and I didn’t have accordions, so we could only observe. However, what could have been a disadvantage became exotic and fun when we were designated “interlopers” during the introductions. My quasi-surreptitious filming added to the voyeur vibe as Henri taught the better equipped students a song called “Broken Cup” by Jason Webley. It was awesome to see them start with a simple melody, build on it, and end with beautiful 5-part harmony. I didn’t catch the final version on camera, but take my word for it: you’re sorry you missed it.