May Thirty-First

Since Sophia was 18 months old or so, she could tell you her birth date. Quite distinctly, I might add. (Or maybe it's just that phenomenon where parents can understand what their children are saying while the rest of the world can't.) At the end of May this year, she turned 3 (as detailed somewhat in an earlier post).

Here are a couple of pictures taken at her preschool, where they celebrated with cupcakes and a personally decorated crown. (Thank-you Sheryl and Paola for providing the pics.)





And here are a couple of recent Sophia-isms:

• While waiting at a stoplight, I pointed to a pizza parlor and told Sophia that was the place that made the pizzas whenever we had that particular food item delivered to our house. Sophia replied, "Oh." After a four-second pause, she followed up with, "Daddy, you do realize that I don't like pizza."
  Busted me right up. It marked the first time I heard her use "realize" in a sentence.


• While trying to get her down for a nap one Saturday afternoon, Sophia made it clear that she wanted Mommy to do it (put her down). In her roundabout way of informing me, Sophia said, "I don't want you here, Daddy. You smell."


• Again, while trying to put her down for a nap, I read her a much-abbreviated rendition of the timeless classic "Snow White." When we got to the page that showed the seven dwarfs, Sophia said, "Let's say their names."
  With a devilish grin, she started to recite their names: "Poo-poo. Pee-pee. Booger. Earwax."
  Again, busted me right up. (Though it's doubtful that she could have provided more names in that vein. Then again, I could be wrong.)

The Caveman Speaketh

Apparently I live in a cave, so to speak.

While chit-chatting with a lady affiliated with the aforementioned Noe Valley garden tour, I learned about a mansion owned by Bob Pritikin (he of the protein-centric diet). He doesn't live there; he rents it out for weddings, parties, and events of that ilk.

I was so intrigued by this bit of news because the mansion is on a block I pass every day. And it's situated smack dab in the middle of the block, surrounded by a monstrous senior center, various family dwellings, and an elementary school. I never saw it before because it's visible from a couple of streets upon which I never travel.

When the lady told me about it, my initial reaction was "Well I'll be doggone."

Too cool.

Those are statues on the roof line.

Details about this hidden marvel can be had at http://cheneryhouse.com/. However, those nifty statues are missing from the pic on the site's home page.

3

Do you remember the prog-rock supergroup Emerson, Lake and Palmer? (If not, you should probably just jump to the third paragraph.) Then perhaps you remember an altered iteration of that band called 3, which featured Keith Emerson (keyboards), Carl Palmer (drums), and San Jose's Robert Berry (guitar and bass). I always thought 3 was a clever name for a band.

But this post isn't about not-so-legendary bands of yesteryear.

Monika and I are now proud parents of a three-year-old. And here's a pic from Sophia's birthday celebration at the West Portal Playground.

Garden Party

I totally dig that Ricky Nelson pop gem "Garden Party." Totally singable. Totally hummable. Killer chorus. And a few cheesy lines (Yoko brought her walrus/There was magic in the air). It's all good.

Our backyard was one of seven spots on the annual Noe Valley Garden tour. So we had quite a few people traipsing around our yard during a five-hour period. Not surprisingly, most of the visitors were avid gardeners. On the other hand, Monika and I are non-gardeners -- we do just enough to keep the yard looking decent. But since the backyard was finished, we have indeed been getting a fair amount of use out of it.

We managed to steal away from our place for an hour and half to check out the other gardens on the tour. They were all pretty darn impressive in their own way. However, I'd have to say that our backyard was the most practical (incorporating the fact that we've got a young 'un) and thought-out.

One of the neat things about San Francisco (and I imagine other densely populated cities) is that the front of a dwelling might appear completely unexceptional; but, unbeknownst to the general public, the backyard could be completely stunning. In the rough-and-tumble big city, there are hundreds if not thousands of secret worlds -- serene, peaceful, and calm.

Castaway

Yesterday I had lunch with a childhood friend. We go way, way, way back. Third grade, I think. It marked the first time we sat down together and shared a meal in something like twenty years. (Lunch was great. As a couple of dim sum neophytes, we did OK at Ming's in Palo Alto. No perceived social or gastronomic missteps.) We covered the full gamut of topics that you'd expect: career, family, current passions, his untimely and stunning death, and selected remembrances of our misguided youth. I had a great time. And he inspired me in a lot of ways.

Prior to our rendezvous, I had sent my buddy an .mp3 file of a song that we listened to back in the day. The song is "Miles Out to Sea" by the U.K. glam-rock band Slade. (Yeh. I know you've never heard of the song -- nor the band, for that matter. But if you have, give yourself a few bonus points. This band is more important in the annals of rock than you might expect.) Anyway... There's a line in that song that puzzled us back then. And it still baffles us now.

Here's the specific verse:

From the outside looking in
Was a stranger with a grin
Seeing bombhead on a rope
He was swinging high and low
High and low

So... What's a bombhead? Methinks I gotta know.

But maybe not.

You might be asking: What's with the "Castaway" title for this post? My buddy and I were in a band called Castaway. He sang; I played guitar. And the band name was taken from a Greg Kihn (remember him?) song.