Nobody Knows Anything

A little over a year ago I went to the Journalcon in San Francisco—a special request! How could I say no? I flew up with baby Simon. We spent the night at the St. Francis hotel, off Union Square, and in the morning we wandered over to Journalcon. Right after my session I had to dash off, missing what everyone said was a great luncheon, because I was having brunch with my parents at Sears’ Fine Foods. My mom had seen Simon when he was a month or so old, but my dad hadn’t met him yet.

During the brunch my father seemed strangely distracted. He kept checking his watch. At the end of brunch he said he wanted to go home to watch the Giants in the playoffs. We’d spent about an hour together. I knew how much he enjoyed baseball, so I kissed him goodbye and then set off to catch BART to Oakland Airport.

A month later my sister called me to tell me our dad had collapsed and was in the hospital. He seemed weirdly disoriented, saying very strange things. And he was checking his watch all the time. “That didn’t just start,” I told them.

Then a little while after that she called to tell me he’d had a stroke.

I flew back up to San Francisco, Simon in my arms, and I went to visit Dad in the hospital. He seemed to have no idea who my sister and I were. It was heartbreaking to see him looking so different than he had just a month earlier.

A month after that, at Christmastime, Darin and I drove up for the holidays as usual. My sister and I went to visit my father at the hospital, and I was astounded at how much better he seemed. He definitely seemed to recognize the two of us. He wasn’t trying to communicate, but he listened as we talked to him.

He came home a month or two after that. Much earlier than we thought he would, but there was nothing further for him in the hospital. He attended physical therapy. He slowly started doing things, like going for walks. He couldn’t use his right hand very well, but he was working on it.

I brought the kids up to San Francisco about every two weeks to visit Grandmom and Grandpop. My parents definitely seemed to enjoy seeing them, and the kids enjoyed the wonder that is their grandparents’ strange and unusual house.

Last month—it all runs together at this point—my Dad tried to talk to me. We didn’t get very far in the conversation, because he couldn’t aspirate very well. He’d had a laryngectomy about 12 or 15 years ago and used a prosthesis to talk afterward. After the stroke he couldn’t use the prosthesis any more, because it requires manual dexterity he didn’t have and patience to relearn the process, which he also didn’t have.

But he was trying to talk to me. Which was a big difference.

At Christmas last week my parents arrived with bags and bags of gifts. The ones from my father were wrapped clumsily—which meant he’d done it. And the tags were written in a jerky handwriting—which meant he’d done it. It’s impossible to imagine getting excited over gift tags, until you’ve done it, I guess. I told him how happy I was to see him writing. I said I’d be back up to San Francisco with the kids after New Year’s.

Yesterday my sister called me and told me he was in the hospital again, this time with pneumonia. Evidently in the morning things were very bad and “the doctor was ready to call in the priest,” but in the afternoon he’d rallied. Still sick, but doing much better. He was pretty out of it, though. I wondered if I should go up to visit him even though he was out of it.

This morning at 4am my mom called to let me know he’d passed away. This morning has been spent working out mortuary arrangements.

I keep telling Darin there’s something wrong with me because I just feel numb. He talked to his Dad (who recently lost his own father) and Steve said, Don’t worry, that feeling won’t last.

I’ve never had a close relative die before. Considering before Darin my family was pretty much just my parents and my sister, I guess that’s not too surprising. Despite the troubbles my father has had over the year (throat cancer, the laryngectomy, the stroke) this has still come as a surprise. An unwelcome completely expected surprise, if that makes any sense.

Anyhow. In case anyone out there knew Thomas Joseph Patterson, of Philadelphia, New York, and San Francisco, he passed away today.

I’ll probably not be posting for a little while until I sort things out.

Darin just got a phone call. A guy Darin used to work closely with at General Magic died. Just…died. (In case you used to work at Magic, his initials are PG.) His wife woke up and he was dead.

He was Darin’s age. My age. He was in fantastic shape physically. He was fabulously wealthy, had a wife and young child, a house the rest of us will pretty much only dream about.

And he’s dead.

We hadn’t been in touch with him for a little while—moving to LA (on our part) and a radically different career path (on his)—separated us. But there are all those similarities between him and Darin, and I cannot fathom losing Darin when the kids are tiny like this.

I’m still pretty flabbergasted by this news.

Update: Scott Knaster has more, complete with more details.

I came across this article in the Chronicle today:

The sight of a solo driver illegally zipping along in the carpool lane is enough to stir a desire for revenge in many a law-abiding motorist and conscientious carpooler.

Long-distance commuter Sean McIntyre said the last straw was an October day when he and his partner, David, were zipping along in the diamond lane. “We’re already doing 70 mph … and this guy comes whizzing up behind us, parks on my bumper and flashes his brights,” McIntyre said…

Suddenly, McIntyre thought of the perfect payback for carpool-lane scofflaws — more enduring and publicly humiliating than an angry hand gesture or a horn honk. He and David created www.CarPoolCheats.org — a Web site featuring photos of cheaters they have caught in the act on their digital camera.

Of course, I haven’t been able to get to their site today; it’s probably overloaded by visitors from the San Francisco Chronicle. But haven’t you always wanted to do something like this? Photograph the cars who barrel around corners, regardless of whether there are pedestrians there or not? The ones whose only handicap making them eligible for the handicapped space is a total lack of ethics?

The ones that always got me in LA were the ones who took the carpool-only lane (24/7, carpools only) and moved in and out over the double-yellow lines at will.

You know that your vision of pop culture has moved on when you’re reading alt.gossip.celebrities (sigh—yes, I still read some posts in it, I’m ashamed), you read the headline, “Jackson Charges Will Be Difficult to Prove,” and your first thought (I kid you not) is: “What’s Peter Jackson supposed to have done?”

Took me a few seconds to think of another guy named Jackson.

Here’s what I’m getting him for his birthday next week: Barbie and Ken as Arwen and Aragorn He’ll love it!

Oh my God. Darin sent me a link to this review of Return of the King on Aint-It-Cool-News, and within two paragraphs I had tears streaming down my cheeks. Warning: the language is NOT work safe (is that an issue, anyone know?). Usually I don’t find things written with gutter language funny, but this is friggin’ hilarious.

(Related: am I the last person in Christendom to notice the relationship in titles between Return of the King and Return of the Jedi?)

Well, I haven’t meant not to be posting. Honest.

But while I’m enjoying the political blogs (see sidebar) immensely, I’m glad they can write about it; I’m just depressed. We’re so far through the looking glass here that I’m definitely in three-monkey mode. I mean, it’s nice that they captured Saddam and all, but let’s wait a little while before publishing sentiments like these:

For now, letç—´ say that while the Presidentç—´ opponents have made much sport of the idea that God called George Bush to the presidency, itç—´ becoming increasingy difficult to doubt that God wants President Bush re-elected.

(David Frum, in the National Review, via Pandagon.)

I mean, we might want a little more data first, okay?

And listening to the news every day mention Governor Schwarzenegger… I cannot begin to describe for you the way that slamming my head against my steering wheel does not relieve the pain. He signed away the vehicle licensing tax, but promised to restore the monies to cities and counties! But, in a continuation of the lesson you’d think Americans would have already learned from his Republican brethren elsewhere, the Gov said, Oops! No money. Leaving the cities and counties holding the bag for making deep, unpopular cuts. You know, like putting your fire stations on a rotating schedule because you can’t afford to keep them all open any more.

Nota bene: when dealing with Republicans, get your half of the bargain first. Otherwise, you ain’t going to see nuthin’.

§

Everyone here is fine. Sophia is completely hilarious: yesterday she picks up her toy phone, talks into it a little, and then tells me, “That was Daddy. He called from his car. He says it’s a dessert night.”

And today, at Sophia’s school, Simon led Sophia and three other girls in a mad dash around the schoolroom, everyone giggling madly as they went. Sophia’s teacher said, “He’s quite the ladies’ man, isn’t he?”

Oh yes. I was aware of that when he was six months old and every female at Starbucks would flock by to see his smile.

§

We’ve been watching HBO’s Angels in America. I have to admit that when I first started hearing about it I didn’t want to see it; not only is contemplation of the Reagan years depressing, but I’m also reluctant to watch dramas having to do with AIDS, because of a fear that I’m going to get preached at. Also, the prepublicity hype for this production was so intense that I thought it was definitely going to be a “good for me” movie, and therefore annoying in a “Master Thespian” sort of way.

Wow. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Angels in America” has been funny, scary, and hypnotic. Justin Kirk is fabulous as Prior Walter, who has AIDS, whose lover leaves him at the news, and who discovers he is the prophet. Mary Louise Parker, who I usually find to be full of annoying mannerisms, puts those mannerisms to work in a good way as the wife of a Republican Mormon lawyer who wants to be part of the Reagan Revolution. (The husband is too bland—I know he’s supposed to be bland, but he’s bland to the point of beige.) Emma Thompson does the world’s worst accent as Prior’s nurse, but she made up for it as the homeless woman. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around Al Pacino’s Roy Cohn, because Cohn seems to be a character for whom Pacino’s scenery chewing is too subtle. And, you know, Cohn was an asshole.

So if you don’t have HBO or you haven’t watched it, try to get a hold of a copy to watch. Or you can wait for the DVD and order it from Netflix. “Angels in America” has the kind of writing that makes me smile because it’s so good—it’s beyond, “I wish I had written that.” It’s more, “I’m glad someone did.”

Here’s a test for whether you’ve had enough coffee or not today: A Cup Of Joy.

(Does. Not. Work. With. Safari!!!!!)

Are you looking for just the right gift for a hard-to-please Mom or a finicky Uncle? Do you visit the malls and think, Nope, nope, nope—I need something special, tailored just for my loved one.

What if Greg Evigan called Uncle Sam and Aunt Sue? How would that be? Would that be cool enough? Or if John De Lancie (”Q” from “Star Trek”) called your cousin Bob, huh? Would that make his damn year?

Well, no prob, folks: you and I and anyone else can set up such a phone call! Only $19.95 to have the Barbi Twins wish you—I mean, your friend Rick—a Merry Christmas! Such a deal!

(Now, if they could get Angela Lansbury, I would totally be all over this, because my Mom would plotz to hear Angela Lansbury’s voice.)

Update: Oh hell, I just noticed that this is in Newsweek this week. That’s not where I got it, honest! (I got it from the Well, where else?)

One of the things I’ve always wanted to do is learn Latin. Yes, I know: Linguistics degree from Stanford and I’ve never studied Latin. What are universities coming to these days?

If, like me, you don’t have the time to take a Latin class at a nearby university (UCLA Extension, I miss you), you can join me in the online Group Latin Study, which is starting a newbie Latin group in January. You’ll need Wheelock’s Latin and 38 Latin Stories. Join the mailing list and then ignore all the groups that aren’t 2004-Lilac. (All the Latin groups use one channel, but thankfully it seems most people are good about having the appropriate headers on their messages!)

Ave, Caesar. Et cetera.