It’s open!!!!!!
Phew!! All that stuff packed, moved, unpacked, sorted, arranged, laid out and dusted.
15 tables showed up for the first game. Things seemed tight because the tables are larger than we are accustomed to–the layout will change and there will be more room, not to worry.
Micky and Bob P. won the first game N/S, Lorin and Brad won E/W.
Here are the photos:
In with the new
So here’s the new club, everything is moved in but not quite put away:
Out with the old
The old Bridge Club is gone, long live the new one.
We’re all moved out; the new club opens Wednesday at noon.
Here are the last photos of the club in Pleasant Hill:
Seeing an artist in depth
Sandy Walker, artist and friend.
Gail and I collect art. One of the fringe benefits of this particular addiction is that we are also able to collect artists. The art is more meaningful when you know the artist and his motivations and personal style.
Yesterday, we visited the studio of Sandy Walker, one of whose pieces hangs in our office–a large woodcut print. The occasion was an opportunity to take an in-depth look at his work, and perhaps find something else to hang. With us were daughter Kate, grand-daughter Chloe and her friend Jackie, as well as Tom and Pat Bassett, friends from the Ruth Bancroft Garden
Sandy’s studio is in industrial West Oakland, a large space for both his art and his wife’s dance studio. He paints in the downstairs and draws in the upstairs part of his atelier.
Some artists are largely self-taught, some have classical educations–Sandy is in the latter group, with a Harvard BFA and a NYU MFA. He not only knows what he is doing, he can tell you why he is doing it.
Sandy’s focus is on the human form, often combined with motion. I mentioned his wife’s dance studio–Ellen Kent is a dancer originally with the Merce Cunningham company, and still teaches and performs. Many of the models are dancers, and he sketches them as they move. I’m going to stop talking now and just show you the work:
Dinner and bridge at Danny’s
A new decoration for the fireplace--so Dan remembers where he lives.
From the hugest regional in the nation to a 3 table home game, bridge is still fun. Last night was the three tables, at Dan and Linda Friedman’s establishment in Orinda.
A rather eclectic crowd, ranging from Dan’s old friend Shelly, coming back to the game after 25 years, to Pat and Jim Leary, also back from a 30 year layoff. Jean Barry, the Nagys, the Munsons, Gail and moi.
Have to start with dinner. Twelve players, plus Sarah (Shelly’s wife), Linda’s sister and b-i-l make 15 to seat and feed–it takes both the dining room and the kitchen. Rare tri-tip, green beans, rice and salad, simple yet excellent. Nancy Munson, a classic Indiana baker, whipped up pecan pie as well as banana cream. How can a person bake that well and stay so slim?
One table in the kitchen
Time for bridge–Bob has devised this movement which creates team out of pairs, but to do it properly would take 10 rounds and 60 boards. So we were to play half of that, but a revolt quickly broke out among those who had no intention of playing 30 boards and being there until 2 am. We ended up playing 8 three board rounds, which was fine except that the movement wasn’t very balanced and we played 9 boards against the Learys and no boards against Lind and Jean. Next time, the 3 table howell.
One table in the office
Sheryl and Gail exhausted by all the fun.
There was a winner, and a huge prize. Ed and Sheryl went home with a lovely wine decanter, carefully engraved “Village Realty, Salesperson of the month, October, 1997”. I’m sure they will treasure it always.
Proud possessors of fine crystal
So we can’t always be off at a glamorous regional, but we can have fun with our friends. Think about having a bridge game in your house–just don’t ask Bob for the movement. Ask me, I’ll help.
It’s art, but is it music?
Keelan Whitmore melds into the sculpture.
Alonzo King Lines Ballet in the city last night. We saw this troupe a few months ago and were stunned by their artistry and athleticism, so here we were again.
We still like the artistry and athleticism. The set, by Christopher Haas, is inventive and evocative. The lighting is dynamic and spectacular. The costumes are perfectly appropriate, merging the players with the set.
The music, there’s the rub. I like things avant garde, I’m all in favor of modernism. Nonetheless, I still think music is composed of rhythm, melody and harmony. What we heard last night had none of the above.
The score for the performance was written by Mickey Hart, the percussionist (too upscale to be a drummer) for the Grateful Dead. It’s sort of an interesting collection of sound, but that doesn’t make it music as far as I am concerned. What we ended up with was beautiful people moving in an interesting fashion around a unique space to the sound of, of, of, well, sound. Noise. Items banging on other items. Currents of air being blown through things. Nothing rhythmic, nothing melodious, nothing harmonic. I didn’t get it. Gail didn’t get it. Our friends didn’t get it. Can it be that we were simply the four least hip people in the room? Possibly, but not likely.
I’ll stay on their mailing list, but be looking very closely at the programs before I buy tickets in the future.
Chalet Village update
My cousin Nick writes from North Carolina:
Chris,
After reading your blog today I called our good friends Ricky and Sheila, residents of Chalet Village, to ask them to define “restricted” as it appears on the sign. Ricky and Sheila live in Asheville, NC and just recently completed their rental house in Chalet Village.
They told me “restricted” in that area of the country means “no trespassing” as we know it, and has no reference to race, religion, or age.. His words were, “the sign means,…if you don’t belong here, don’t come in”
So that’s the story, I guess. Seems like the sort of thing they might tell the staff at the front desk, no?
Getting home the hard way
The luggage goes in the wheelchair space, if possible
I should know better than to get a window seat. The body of the plane curves in and there is less space. Guys my size belong on the aisle. Yet, there I was, shoehorned into a seat 17A on the flight home from Dallas, with all three seats in the row full. This was not a fun ride.
Landing in SFO, I thought at first I had gotten on the wrong plane–I didn’t recognize the terminal. It finally got through my little brain that American Air now uses the renovated Terminal 2, so of course I hadn’t seen it before. It’s beautiful–and a shorter walk from the gate (which always seems to be the furthest one out) to baggage claim. I think I’m going to like it.
Nobody was picking us up, so Mike and I went home on BART. This is not my first choice. I rode BART too much to grad school, and don’t much care for it in general, and certainly not with a pile of luggage, but it’s cheap so there we were.
First, I had to commit a crime, although I didn’t realize it at the time. Mike buys the senior tickets, $24 worth of rides for $9, and he had two of them, so he gave me one thinking that I’m now a senior. Last night I looked at the back of the ticket and noticed that they define “senior” as over 65, so I guess I’m glad I’m not in jail for defrauding the system.
From SFO, you take a shuttle train to the BART station, then through the gates to wait for the train. As we got there, the station agents were announcing a system-wide slowdown to inspect because there had been an earthquake. I guess I should have expected that on the 105th anniversary of the Big Quake. It wasn’t bad, though, and in 15 or 20 minutes we were on our way home.
BART wants people to use the system to get to the airports, but they don’t make it easy. If you travel, you have luggage. If you ride BART, there is no place to put it. These facts don’t play well together.
These two just came from New York. That looks less comfortable than the plane.
I managed to stuff the bags into the space reserved for people in wheelchairs, but would have had to move it if necessary. The people on the other side of the door were just stuck with all their bags crowded around them–in a heavy traffic time it would have been a real mess.
BART is always exceedingly noisy, with the screeching of the wheels especially painful in the tunnels. Thankfully, I still had my ear plugs in my pocket, so I could mitigate the unpleasantness. I don’t see why you should have to endure long term hearing damage just to ride the subway.
We left the airport at 3:00, so we beat the rush hour. Micky got off at Walnut Creek, where Linda was waiting to whisk him home–last night was Passover and there was a seder to make for the family. I continued on the Pleasant Hill, and had to take a cab because the car large enough for our luggage has a flat tire. This added $12.00 to the cost of the trip. Such is life.
I got out of the cab at 5:00 on the dot, so it took exactly 2 hours to get home from SFO on BART. Regular fare is $9.90, the senior fare is much cheaper, if you stay out of the hoosegow.
It isn’t my favorite way to travel; too noisy, too crowded, no place for the bags. But the price is right, it’s ecologically sound and you get to see parts of West Oakland you would never visit. Try it, but bring ear plugs. Don’t cheat on your age.
Yes, Dallas
We’re done with Gatlinburg for this year and on our way home, passing through DFW for the fifth time in five weeks.
Our team played in the A/X Swiss yesterday, and placed 4th. That brings our masterpoint total up to about 67 for the week–a pretty good haul, if far from the team record.
Mike and I left after the first four matches and headed to Oak Ridge, where we wanted to see the Museum of Science and Energy, dedicated to the WW II project that produced the uranium for the atomic bomb.
The depth of my own ignorance constantly amazes me. I had no idea how large an effort the US made. On raw farmland hastily pre-emptied from its owners, an entire city employing and housing 75000 people was constructed, with a main building larger than the Pentagon. And all in secrecy– it showed up on no maps.
After our hour in the museum, it was just back to the airport hotel, a quiet dinner, bridgebase with Gail (not adding to the week’s success, sadly) and on the way home today. I’m looking forward to meeting my new chickens and sleeping in my own bed.
As the tournament winds down
Well, we almost won. This afternoon we were up 9 at the half, then in the second half the opponents pushed to a grand slam missing the Q of trump, while Mike and I settled happily in 6♠. That gave them 13 IMPS, and they won the match by 2. We all know about bidding aggressively when you are down in the match, and this time it worked for the other guys.
After we finished pouting and cursing fate, we went out to dinner. I was pleasantly surprised to have an excellent prime rib at the Park Grill. We don’t see much of the giant salad bars in California anymore, and this one was a real treat.
The sweet potato casserole is worth the trip to Tennessee.
My Prime Rib was just perfect, and I’m crazy about the accompanying Sweet Potato casserole–mashed sweets, plenty of brown sugar, butter and some coconut. For a guy with a sweet tooth, this is the perfect vegetable.
Micky and I had had enough bridge for the day, so we let the other guys go play the Loser Swiss 4 handed, and we headed off to sample the delights of beautiful downtown Gatlinburg on a Saturday night. Even though business is way down overall, Saturday nights are still busy here. Lots of families with lots of little kids are just strolling, looking in all the souvenir shops and pigging out on ice cream, candy, exotic jerky and corn dogs. Teenagers holding hands, cool cars cruising the strip.
Micky and I headed on down to an indoor miniature golf emporium. I don’t know how the subject came up, but we’ve been talking all week about playing mini-golf if we had a night of no bridge. We paid our $10 and went in, to find the most boring, un-inventive, uninspired, unexciting mini-golf course ever. No clown. No waterfall. No windmill. We played out 18 holes and were out of there in 25 minutes. The only good part is that I won.
It's all in the follow-through.
Walking back, we came upon a pair of serious, high-stakes mini golfers. The kind who come to G’burg to play the big course on the hill, and bring their own equipment.
You don't want to go canoeing with these two, I think.
I drove Mike up the hill to see our cabin, and beat him at a game of pool, too. He spent too much time studying in his youth, I think.
Tomorrow, we play the first half of the Swiss Teams and head out of town–we are going to the American Museum of Science and Energy, in Oak Ridge, to see the history of the atomic effort. Home on Monday. I’m ready.
Totally Unauthorized 