Spellcheck won't catch "Angles"

I've liked Ron Roenicke since he was with the Dodgers in the early 1980s, so I was pleased when he got the job as Brewers manager this season.

Still I was surprised when I saw the above graphic on CSN Bay Area tonight. I had no idea that there was a team called the "Angles," much less that Roenicke coached for them.

Osama, is that you?

Look, I know Rob Lowe has done some questionable things, but really SF Gate? Osama?

A letter to Charlotte

May 13, 2011

To Charlotte, on the day of her birth,

Hello, sweet girl. I write this as you are 10 hours old.

I have no idea what kind of woman you’ll be when you grew up, but I can guess. You are a calm baby and a friendly child who likes to be held. I am guessing you will be a loving person when you’re older.

You spent much of your first few hours looking around, taking it all in. You looked us in the eye when we talked to you. I suspect you’ll be an intelligent, inquisitive woman who likes to learn.

And I already love you, as I have from before the moment I saw you emerge (white and slimy!) from your mother.

Your mother and I are quite fatigued right now, as you might guess, so I can’t give you any magical platitudes about the person I hope you’ll be. But I do know that I never want you to lose that desire to learn new things. I do know I want you to continue showing the compassion and affection you already show. I also know I want you to try to do something for the good of the many, to be a person dedicated to moving the entire human race forward.

I’m almost 40 as I write this. By the time you’re the age I am now, I will be an old man (if I am around at all). But I am sure you’ll make me feel like my youth was well spent, even if it was all something that just led to my guiding you.

I’m hoping and trusting that I will be there to give you that guidance and that I will be around for all your important milestones. I know I will try. I also know that I will make mistakes. Whatever our relationship is like when you’re older, I want you to know that right here, right now, you and your brother are my crowning achievements.

Love, Dad

The birth of Charlotte Baker

My morning thus far:

5:32 a.m. — Wife nudges me. “No joke, I’m in labor.” Contractions about eight minutes apart.

5:50 a.m. — Calls to family. Had to decide what to do with our soon-to-be-eldest, as it’s “Super Sports Day” at his school.

6:15 a.m. — Claire calls Labor and Delivery at Kaiser San Francisco. “Sorry, we’re full up today.” Jaws drop. They call Kaiser in Redwood City, where space is reserved.

6:30 a.m. — More calls to family. Claire’s mom decides to drive down, sister-in-law will come to get Ian.

6:45 a.m. — Contractions getting hard and intense. Ian wakes up, come into our room and pretends he’s a cat. Claire humors him, then retreats into bathroom so he doesn’t see her in distress.

6:50 a.m. — “Where is everybody?” Claire asks. I help her downstairs. She has a hard contraction and makes me pull her around the corner so Ian can’t see.

6:55 a.m. — Auntie Vicki arrives to take Ian. She looks more worried that anyone else!

7 a.m. — Claire’s mom arrives. I yell down the hall, “Attention roommates, third time’s the charm! We’ll keep you updated!” (We had a pair of false alarms in the past couple weeks.)

7:05 a.m. — On road, southbound 280 to eastbound 380 to southbound 101. Claire wonders aloud, through gritted teeth, if we’ll make it. I make a quip about the cliché regarding police escorts.

7:25 a.m. — Blessed by easy traffic, we arrive at the hospital in Redwood City. Swell — there’s a lot of construction. I find the emergency entrance and pull up. I help Claire out of the car and, like a scene from a bad sitcom, her water breaks just as we step out. The upholstery thanks its lucky stars.

7:30 a.m. — Claire’s mom escorts her up while I park car. I wait at pedestrian light with a technician and we marvel at the number of jaywalkers in town.

7:45 a.m. — Claire is fully checked in. Nurse says, “This probably won’t take long.”

8:10 a.m. — The room is crowded. Nurses, student nurses, midwives, lab techs, anesthesiologists. It’s like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie.

8:35 a.m. — After nine months of pregnancy indicating she wanted to give birth au natural, Claire is hooked up to the epidural after a couple hours of actual pain. “Hey, I was in excruciating pain.”

8:40 a.m. — I get sweaty and light-headed thanks to a lot of stress, standing and no food. I need to sit down. Nurses temporarily turn their attention to me! (I'm fine.)

9:10 a.m. — Eight centimeters dilation. This is going faster than last time.

9:20 a.m. — Screaming, loud screaming (think Claire on "Lost") from room down hall. Not an auspicious sign. Then, like in movie, a baby's cries. "That was fast," we think. Nurse later comes in and says the woman down hall was so fast she was brought in by ambulance!

9:35 a.m. — I have time to blog. Next update will probably be after birth. Claire is doing fine.

9:50 a.m. — Things are calm. Claire has some minor objections to the text above, but a good journalist doesn't budge!

10:20 a.m. — Contractions picking back up. Not quite pushing time, but Claire thinks it'll be soon. Might have to sign off for a while. While update when able.

10:50 a.m. — Pushing for last 15 mins. All well, won't be long. Forgot how messy this was. Think I blocked it out of my memory.

11:08 a.m. — Claire nearly breaks my wrist during a contraction. Woman has a grip.

11:20 a.m. — Delivery Doctor finally arrives. Her name is "Rumble." Sadly, she wasn't introduced by Michael Buffer.

11:54 a.m. — Charlotte Kathleen Baker was born, 9/9 on the APGAR (no doubt a hint as to her future SAT scores), 20 inches even and 3840 grams (8 lbs, 7 oz). Everyone's good!

Below: Pics of Me and "Charlie" and a family photo.

Below: Charlie's first movie. Caution, she is a tad immodest in parts.

New addition/edition soon!

It just occurred to me that I haven't yet mentioned on this blog that Claire is pregnant and due May 14! Claire, big brother-to-be Ian, and I are all very excited.

Of course, it's no surprise to anyone who follows me on Twitter! We're expecting a girl (provided the lady with the ultrasound was competent), and her name will be Charlotte Kathleen Baker ("Charlie" as a nickname). Of course, if you followed me a Twitter, it wouldn't be a surprise.

Claire, as seen above, is already full term and ready. We had a false alarm last week, trip to the hospital and all, but it wasn't time. Claire's nurse practitioner predicts sometime over the next week.

When it happens, time permitting, I'll summarize it all in the blog, just like last time.

SFSU students and opinions on mass transit

(The following is a repost from a class blog.)

Gas prices are near all-time highs, parking near campus has been horrible for decades, and bridge tolls have risen for those who must cross the bay.

All negatives for those who want to drive to San Francisco State.

More than 1.1 million trips are taken on BART or Muni each weekday, according to the Federal Transit Database. Advocates say it’s better for the environment and you don’t have to worry about parking.

Still there are SF State students who prefer the freedom of driving, as well as many who think parking at SFSU isn't worth the hassle. This audio "man on the street" story talks to both sides: Direct Link: Transit Man on the Street by John Baker

'You're terrible, Muriel'

I watched "Muriel's Wedding" earlier this morning for the umpteenth time (but for the first time all the way through since my visit to Australia) and just noticed some peculiar anachronisms.

(Spoiler space for a 17-year-old film:)









The most glaring anachronism is at the beginning of the film, when Muriel receives a blank check (or cheque, since we're talking about Australia) from her mom with a date in January 1994. When she pays back her father, however, near the end, the cheque (below) is dated from November 1992!

The second "when the heck did this happen?" moment involves a key plot point -- when Muriel marries a South African swimmer who can't compete for his home country because of international sanctions. The swimmer needs to marry an Australian so he can gain citizenship and can compete internationally. Yet Apartheid was effectively over, however, when the film was released (in September 1994). In fact, South Africa had already had free and fair elections, resulting in Nelson Mandela's presidency. To top it off, the movie mentions a South African "civil war" that never happened.

Fact of the matter, South Africa had already been reinstated in international sporting, as seen in "Invictus," and had competed at the 1992 Olympics. You might say that "maybe the film is supposed to be set earlier," with the cheque dates as inconsequential, but the movie does mention the 1992 Olympic gold medal won by Aussie Kieren Perkins.

Despite its time-travel foibles, I still enjoy Muriel's Wedding It's a fun, musical and ultimately uplifting flick -- albeit one apparently set in a parallel universe.

"Goodbye Porpoise Spit!"

No such thing as too much ice cream

Ian and I went to McDonalds in Pacifica today, and I ordered a burger and he ordered a sundae. The sundae was ready before the burger and a worker put it on our tray. I handed it to Ian and asked him to find a seat.

Another McDonalds worker helping the first, not seeing that we had already received it, looked at our receipt and helpfully went to get us our sundae. When he brought the sweet back, I pointed out we had already gotten our sundae.

I was told I can keep it, as it would just be thrown away. My lucky day!

Time to pay it forward -- I saw a homeless guy in front of the restaurant who looks as if he could use a couple bucks.

Those crazy Masons!

Reading a bit about anti-Freemason movements today in Wikipedia, I found this gem:

"Historically, complaints have been made that the Masons have secretly plotted to create a society based on the revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality, fraternity, separation of church and state and (in Nazi Germany) a Jewish plot for religious tolerance."

My God! Hide your children from these devils!

Yes, I CAN take pictures here ...

A racist jerk in my neighborhood, right as he rushed me.

I live in a nice neighborhood, Winston Manor in South San Francisco. It's clean, well-maintained, ethnically heterogeneous, and -- other than having to suffer the occasional annoyance of lazy neighbors parking on the opposite side of the street (i.e., facing the wrong direction) -- it's never bugged me in the eight-plus years I've lived here. Until today.

We have a friend renting out our "library" for a few months as he's just re-located to the Bay Area and needs to get settled. He's enjoyed the town thus far, and has taken walks to the nearby park the last several days. He came back this evening and showed me the following entry he had just put on his Facebook page:



Say what? My friend just wanted to shoot some snaps of our neighborhood for out-of-town friends on the Internet when some idjit tried to shut him down, called him an "Ay-rab" and warned that he could get "shot" if he continued (you know, the "threat that's not an outright threat" game). I was a bit irritated as you can imagine. So what did I do? See if it could happen to me, of course.

Having both a journalism degree (which included courses in media law) and three years dispatching for the police, I know I can take pictures in public with hardly any restrictions. Even a quick Google search will show multiple websites that say taking pictures of houses from the sidewalk is permissible. While it is courteous to ask permission, it is not required for personal, non-commercial purposes like those of my friend.

After asking my friend to stay behind (in order to see if a white person would get the same reception), I began walking down Arlington Drive, in the direction where my friend said the confrontation happened. I occasionally pointed my camera at houses as I walked down the sidewalk at a steady, brisk pace. I rarely actually took a picture. To be perfectly clear, not once did I take any pictures of people or through open windows. And just to prove my point, that we were doing no more than what is already on the Internet, here's a link to the Google Streetview of the area.

About a third of the way down the block, someone on the opposite side of the street stepped out on their porch, yelled "Turn around!" then "Smile!" as they took my picture. I complied -- hey, I was in public and fair game. I thought, "OK, that was probably where (my friend) had his problem," and figured they weren't giving me as many problems because I was white. I kept walking, to finish my loop of the neighborhood.

But about 200 feet down the street, at about the point on the Streetview map above, a burly white man in his late 30s/early 40s, wearing an unflattering sweatsuit combo, approached me and asked what I was doing. I flipped on voice memo on my iPhone and recorded the following:

John (J): "I'm just taking pictures."
Burly Racist Ass (BRA): "Why?"
J: "Frankly my friend, that's not your business."
BRA: "You can't take pictures of houses, that's violating people's privacy."
J: "No sir, it's not. I'm on public property."

At this point I began walking away, in the same direction I was originally heading. All of a sudden, the man gently swiped my foot with his foot and then did it again when I kept walking. It was after that second time that I warned him that I was recording the whole conversation and that was the second time he had kicked me.

BRA (realizing his situation): "I didn't kick you. You need to ask people if you can take pictures."
J: "May I take your picture, my friend?"
BRA: "Yes."

As soon as I pulled out my camera and pointed it, the man pounced. He rushed me, tried to grab my camera (which I protected in my hand) and managed to break the strap (right). I was a bit surprised at how well I kept my temper, and our conversation continued.

J: "You just assaulted me."
BRA: "I didn't assault you."
J: "I've got it on tape." (Actually on flash memory.)
BRA: "All you have is us talking."

I asked his name (to which he offered a colorful non-sequitor), asked him to pay $10 for the broken camera strap (he refused) then told him I didn't appreciate him calling my friend an "Ay-rab," (double wrong because my friend isn't of Middle-Eastern descent). "We don't have room for racists in this neighborhood," I said, then walked off.

The man then mumbled something about talking to another neighbor, who he said was a cop, and stormed off. "Whatever," I said, knowing I was in the right, and continued on my walk. I got to the bottom of the hill, then walked back up to my house on the other side of the street. All my interactions with people on the other side of the street were congenial.

I never saw the burly guy again, and my friend later confirmed (via description and blurry picture) that my confrontation was with the same person as was his.

What it comes down to is this: I have the right to take pictures on a public street. If you want to be suspicious of some otherwise nondescript people taking pictures in a public place, fine -- call the cops. Let them make sure the person isn't up to no good. Don't come roaring out of your house calling people racist names and try to grab their camera. I've half a mind to make this a weekly project, or organize a flash mob to go up and down the street taking pictures.

Oh, and if anyone still thinks I was violating privacy by taking pictures, here's a sample of the (now all-deleted) pictures I did take. It's my own house, and you can see the resolution was quite low.

Oh, really? Nuts!

Allergen warnings are getting out of hand when they're telling you that your bag of peanuts may have been produced in a factory that processes peanuts.